#there were years and years of memories there

[seosracha]

⸻ SAINT MATTHEW'S ACADEMY II

SYNOPSIS ⸻ heeseung feels helpless as you continue to deny him love, and give it to the one person he can't come to accept- park sunghoon.

PAIRING ⸻ sunghoon x fem!reader x heeseung

GENRE ⸻ rich kids au, smut, fluff, angst

TAGS ⸻ love triangle, cursing, foul language, underage drinking, degrading names, smoking, mentions of doing c0ke, partying, gaslighting, religious themes, obsessive behavior/thoughts, unrequited love, fighting (verbally), mention of physical abuse and blood, desperate sunghoon :D, making out, penetration, unprotected sex,

WORDCOUNT ⸻ 15.2k

PART ONE

MDNI. This is a work is meant for entertainment purposes only. References to products and brands are imaginary and not meant to deprecate their image.

You close your eyes, repeating the words, painting the scene and your back in that room. Those words spoken with so much collapsed indifference by a person that didn’t care to see or talk to you again. There was no point in burdening your memory with the idea of him, the idea of a Lee Heeseung that in this universe, didn’t quite exist. 

Yes- he carried his father’s surname, his name Heeseung- meaning bright and successful. Those were the things that would never change, the things he could never replace or hide. He would always and forever be remembered as Lee Heeseung, son of the hotel giants, and brother of Lee Haejun, the family heir. 

For all his miserable and lonely life he struggled to create a name for himself. For all the 19 years he managed to wrestle with life, the fate stayed the same. He wanted his parents to think of him in any way, even if it was bad, even if it meant he’d be a failure in their eyes. He craved to be something more, something beyond the body he was born in. 

Winter wasn’t his favourite season. He hated wearing a puffer jacket, long socks and heavy boots. He hated the additional weight of all these things with the already pre existing heaviness of his being itself.  

You liked winter- he knew that. He knew how happy it made you to catch a snowflake that’d melt away within seconds of meeting your warm hand. Heeseung also knew he probably ruined it for you on that night- 22 of December, the day that welcomed winter. 

He hasn’t really spoken to his friends since that night- his phone’s been on silent mode and his house, abandoned by him for now. Usually he’d enjoy this, maybe even have a friend join him, but this winter break, the vacation felt insufferable. 

Warm Sydney, Australia, the colour of the inside of his hand almost as light and soft as the skin of his neck and the underside of his forearms, which were rarely exposed to the sun. He remembers how 2 years ago, just a month or two later he was here with Sunghoon, lounging around and sleeping off the scorching heat until one of them finally suggested they should go to the rocks to swim. 

Well this year, he couldn’t quite find himself leaving the white sheets. Heeseung had left so many things unsolved back home, and he feared that by the time he’s back- it’d be too late. He’d leave the air conditioner blasting all day and night, his thoughts running off to all the things he did wrong. 

Maybe he shouldn’t have told you, maybe he shouldn’t have asked his friend for help, maybe he should’ve just left you alone. But how could he- it was stronger than him. 

While the summer in Australia left an unquenchable thirst for more, winter in his hometown was as quiet as ever. 

The inexplicable  animosity hung heavy in the air as you, and everyone else went about their life, trying to forget yesterday, and live with the thought of tomorrow. 

You spent most of your days alone. Sometimes, Jake would drop by. Or Jay. It depended on who made an excuse that day. 

In the midst of a fiery conflict, you found comfort in them. The same people who encouraged behaviour that led you here. It was all broken anyway, so was there really a point in finding the lesser evil? 

Neither of them have spoken to the two boys. Maybe they didn’t want to take sides or maybe, just maybe all of them were waiting for the right moment to end this. This wasn’t friendship, not in the slightest. It was jealousy and competition. 

Trying not to think about it came out to be much easier. Only the countless texts reminded you. The unanswered calls, disconnected lines and unspoken words. 

No more words, you said no more words after his confession. You stayed silent, and that pain flooded you today. The silence stayed with you. Every night you’d spend on a phone call with him, laughing because no matter how hard you begged him, he wouldn’t hang up first, was now filled with heavy breaths and drowning darkness. 

Sunghoon hadn’t gone anywhere this winter. He was supposed to- the first class tickets to Sri Lanka already booked by his mother. When she knocked on his door, 12 hours before they were supposed to leave, he told her he'd fallen ill. Very ill. 

Before Heeseung blocked his number, he sent him a short message. Sunghoon sat in a cold corner on the white bathroom tiles, reading the message. It was enough to let him know that it was over. And even though the unyielding pain in his stomach grew stronger, a small smile twitched at the corner of his bloody lips. He tried to reply, but the text went green. 

When Heeseung first asked him for that favour, he assumed it was just another sick way for him to assert his dominance over you. Another way to make sure you knew Heeseung created what you are today, and no matter what, you’ll always have a piece of him. Sunghoon never thought the boy would tell you the truth in the end. 

Two days before New Years Eve, Jake texted you. 

“Is your brother home?” 

He also attached a photo, indicating that he was already in the area. 

“No” 

The simple reply quickly sent through, and without even checking for another response you flip the phone over. 

Each sound, each notification, you hoped it was from one of them. Heeseung never turned off his location sharing, so you already knew he wasn't around. Sunghoon, well, you had no idea. 

You didn't really know anything about him. How he went about his day, before and after school or on vacation or just on a simple Saturday. You didn't know his favorite color, his favorite food or his favorite song. 

It was never easy to talk to him- he didn't share much or make space for new people in his life. You rarely saw him enjoy things or even crack a smile at the jokes his friends made. That’s exactly what made it hard to figure out if he really meant the things he said and did. 

Your doorbell rings. You turn your phone and see another message from Jake, indicating he’s here. It didn't take him longer than 5 minutes to get here. 

“Hey” you scratch the back of your head, welcoming him in. He’s not awkward in the slightest, kissing your cheek as he enters. 

Jake hasn't been the same since. You can’t quite remember if he’s always been like this or did his friendship with the boys actually influence him that badly. 

Something you always noticed about Jake is how easily influenced he really was. It took one word, one word and he’d be at Heeseung’s feet just waiting to do whatever the boy wanted. He tried so hard to impress them, he fell through with everything in his life- his grades faltered, his relationship with his parents started to rot, and his self respect declined with every passing day. He ruined himself for them. 

Jay wasn’t like that. He never really listened to Heeseung in the first place. And Heeseung realized that pretty quickly. They weren’t particularly close either. Jay had legions of friends outside of school. He didn’t need Heeseung, Sunghoon or Jake but in a way, they needed him. He stuck around because loneliness wasn’t a good look on him, and his peers at school, well, they weren’t quite fond of him. 

“I brought wine” he announces and hands you the bottle of red wine that’s gotten quite cold by now. 

“You know I don’t drink” you look away from the label, now focusing on the boy who’s fixing his hair in the mirror. He doesn’t seem to register what you said as a piece of his brown hair keeps falling onto his forehead. 

He wiggles out of his leather jacket, hanging it on the clothing rack before taking the wine back into his hands “It’s only 12%. You won’t feel it” he ultimately replies. 

He wanders off into the kitchen while you sit down on the grey couch. Jake doesn’t really ask, he never does. It doesn’t bother you, not as much as it used to at least. He searches your cabinets looking for wine glasses which after a short moment, can’t be found in any of them. He settles down for something less extravagant. 

You wouldn’t even dare inviting any of them just a couple months back. You were embarrassed, their houses the size of your whole street. A lot of things have changed since then. 

"Jungwon is hosting for New Years” he started, handing the glass to you. He sat down, his body facing you “Do you want to come?” 

Yang Jungwon was in your grade. His father was a software engineer who developed his own app but also helped countless companies start theirs. Jungwon was the one who helped Jay start his long abandoned website. He always watched his father doing big things, he wanted that too. His mother was a divorce attorney, specializing in family law, charging around $500  per hour. She was the go-to of every miserable wife and all the tired husbands. Jungwon was a pretty normal boy- he grew up with two loving parents that got lucky enough in life to spoil him from the moment he was born. 

“Who else is coming?” you ask, and he shrugs, gulping down almost half  of his glass. 

You look down at yours, uninterested. But before he manages to reply, you copy his action. It doesn't taste good. 

“Probably the same people as always” he leans his head on his hand looking over at you “But from the people you’ll know, uh, Niki and Wonyoung are going to be there for sure. Sunoo probably has nothing better to do and Jay already told me he’s coming” Jake added after a moment and you nodded understandingly. 

“Niki and Wonyoung, huh?” you laugh mockingly, downing the other half of your drink. You wonder how in the world this could be a pleasure to middle aged women “Sunoo told me she went over to Sunghoon’s house two days ago” 

“Jealous?” Jake laughs and you raise your eyebrows. 

“No” he repeats your action and you can tell that he doesn't really buy it. Neither do you. “I’m not jealous, Jake. They can do whatever they want” 

His lips turn into a downwards smile “Sure, sure” he nods, and you playfully kick his leg. He winces at the action in a joking manner, before continuing “Heeseung and Sunghoon might be there too. So if you don't feel comfortable with that, you don't have to go. But me and Jay want you to be there” his tone softens. 

How would it end up this time? Which one of them would say something this time? Do something this time? Or would they ignore you, just like they are now. 

All you wanted was an answer. Nothing more, nothing less. You could even go by without a ‘sorry’. 

“I don’t care. I’d have to face them at school anyways” you answer with a straight smile. 

“Didn’t you hear?” he asks, painting your face with confusion at the statement. You shake your head, and he sits up straight “Karina’s parents are close with Heeseung’s, and she’s been saying some about him changing school’s mid February” 

You are even more confused now. It didn’t make sense. Where would he go? It’s probably just a rumor. 

“But you guys are graduating this year. That can’t be right” he shrugs, just as curious and confused as you. 

“Yeah, I doubt it” you nod with a small sigh, looking outside the window. 

The sun set so much quicker in winter. You barely got to enjoy the day before darkness settled. It  was setting pink today. 

“I’ll go with you guys. On New Years. Just, pick me up if you can” you say and he nods with a small smile. 

______

On that same day, Heeseung landed back in town. His father  asked him to come back in time for the New Years event he was hosting, once again. 

“What a fabulous suit, truly!” a middle aged woman comments, amused. She has a wide, bright smile on her face as she eyes Haejun “Let me guess, Canali?” she coos, a smirk creeping at the corner of her lips. 

Heeseung’s brother chuckles, the forced elegance lacing his  fake smile “Both the suit and overcoat. It’s nothing special though” he smiles, and soothes down the cashmere mantle. 

Lee Haejun runs a hand through his dark, silky hair, his posture relaxed in a ‘cool’ way.

Heeseung thinks it’s pretty humorous, the way Haejun is flirting with a 40 year old woman, whose hair is visibly turning gray. Her husband is probably somewhere in this crowd, trying to get closer to his father, just like all the other men who were lucky enough to even be invited. 

The lady has been ogling his brother for the past 5 minutes, not even noticing Heeseung who stood right next to him. 

He scoffs. 

“Oh, Heeseung. I didn’t notice you” she smiles faintly, but her eyes don’t even linger on him for a second longer, already back in conversation with Haejun “Oh and this scarf! Haejun, you have such phenomenal taste!” she celebrates him again, and he just chuckles at her excitement. 

Heeseung doesn't feel like standing there, looking like a fucking idiot that’s just waiting to get complimented on his Saint Laurent overcoat that quite frankly, was more expensive than Haejun’s. 

He doesn’t feel like being here at all. 

He thinks about everything; how these annual New Year’s dinners have ruined the holiday for him all together, how the man at the table in front of him has a giant bald spot on his head, how the hardbody on his right has pretty fuckable tits even though she’s probably in her mid 40s, how his mother is obviously having an affair with the hotels revenue manager, and most importantly, about you. 

He hasn’t felt anything since that unlucky Sunday night. It was suffocating, to be so conscious of his own decisions. But just like he’d been a coward that time, he still was too afraid to reach out and apologize. 

Maybe soon enough he’d find himself at your front porch, knocking on the door softly, a nice gift in hand, the smile you adore plastered all over his condescending face. 

That’s how it usually worked in his life; even the worst of heartbreaks and fights could be resolved with a pretty bag, new sports car or nice jewelry. That’d work on you too, wouldn’t it? He’d ask one of the maids that looked after his home to pick out something she’d like to recieve, and you’d probably be satisfied with that, maybe even suck him off later. 

Seeing you with Sunghoon enlightened something deep in his soul, something he’d never admit to himself. Heeseung didn't know if it was Sunghoon he was jealous of or you. 

Sunghoon had experienced love in many forms throughout his life. A gentle  and mannerly boy cherished by the women in his life. His kind, youthful energy seemed effortless—something completely out of reach for someone as weathered and unsteady as Lee Heeseung.

You loved him, he already knew that much. So why was it so hard for him to give that back to you, show you that he feels the same? 

He was such a selfish person-he didn't want to see you surviving on your own, or not needing him just as much as he needs you.  

Heeseung understood he could never give you the love you deserved. Yet, the idea of being replaced by Sunghoon was something he refused to accept. 

His eyes wander across the dimly lit space, desperately looking for someone who could give him a reason to leave his table. But he couldn’t stand any of them. He hated their fake pleasantries, their overblown gestures, and the emptiness behind their eyes.

They weren’t here to celebrate the passing year, spread joy and excitement for the coming days. 

All these lost, desperate people were here, hoping, praying to God that maybe this is the day his father notices them, gives them a chance to become as wealthy and glorious as him. 

“I was thinking about Oxford, possibly this upcoming September” he picks up on Haejun’s words and if not for the people and photographers that seemed to be on every possible side, he would’ve punched the shit out of his brother. 

Oxford, Harvard, Princeton, who gave a fuck? 

He sighs again but this time neither Haejun or the lady in front of him pick up on his mannerisms. 

He feels a sudden tap on his shoulder, the feeling making him jump back a bit.He groans under his breath, the sound inaudible for the one behind him, and turns around slowly. 

He didn't expect to see Park Sunghoon here. 

… 

“They don’t have a nice bathroom to do coke in” Heeseung shrugs, nibbling at his bottom lip as Sunghoon breathes out a laugh at his inquiry. 

He looks around the tiled, black bathroom, which is surprisingly empty. The light above the sink flickers in a weird way, and Heeseung wonders if it’s supposed to be like that. 

“We don’t do that anymore” Sunghoon mutters, leaning against the cold, slippery surface of the wall, his head slightly slumped. 

He looks up at Heeseung, his reflection much more familiar in the mirror. They are much closer than he thinks, the same worn out expression all over their faces.  

“Yeah… Guess those days are over” he smiles weakly, although the growing pit in his stomach makes him feel uneasy. 

He’s avoiding the topic, throwing random words in the air as his heart speeds up. Sunghoon’s avoiding it too. The words linger on their tongues but it feels like they're stuck. He can’t stomach starting a serious topic with his friend who's never been there for him in an emotional way. 

“I remember that party so vividly” Heeseung chuckles lightly, watching Sunghoon intently through the mirror. The boy is avoiding eye contact. 

“When Jay took a line and we thought we’d lost him, huh? I remember, yeah” he forces a smile although the memory is definitely not a sweet one.

Heeseung chuckles softly, his thoughts drifting to when they were actually good friends to each other. It wasn’t even that long ago, but so much has happened since that Heeseung almost forgot those times.  

He felt it with you again. In a way you brought that comfort back to him with your soft spoken voice and tender smile. But with you, he was on the brink of inescapable change. Heeseung knew that everyday he was teetering closer to the end. 

He looks back up at Sunghoon, and although his vision is slightly blurred, he notices that the wounds are completely healed now. The only tangible evidence of that night is now gone. 

“Did it leave a scar?” he asks, his voice cracking. He clears his throat, turning to face Sunghoon, who touches the corner of his lip softly. 

He shakes his head “No”. His tone is stony. He suddenly reminds himself to garbage the white button up in his wardrobe. 

“That’s good” Heeseung hums and the silence overcomes them again. It’s uncomfortable and the awkwardness between them bears so much unfamiliarity. It’s such a foreign experience. 

The tension grows thicker as Sunghoon speaks up “You know we can’t avoid it, right?” 

Heeseung feels a bead of sweat trickle down his spine as he ponders the suggestion. What could he possibly say to make it better, to make it disappear? He nods and meets Sunghoon’s unrelenting expression. 

“I don’t really think we could ever be friends again” Sunghoon says, his lip twitching slightly as the words finally roll off his tongue, the admission much more painful than he thought it’d be “Not when we both want the same thing” 

“What?” The words sink into his bones, his flesh shivering as he searches for at least an ounce of discomfort on Sunghoon’s face. 

“No matter what you told me that night, no matter how much you begged me to tell her because you didn't want to know how she’ll react, I know you feel it too. You said you didn't care, but you do, Heeseung. I care too” he explains, his voice stable. It’s almost as if he’s rehearsed this. 

It came to him during that long awaited shower. As the water came over him, so did the realization. 

“If you like it or not, I will keep on trying even if it doesn't work out. But either way, I think this is where it ends between us. I don’t want to be stuck on the idea that it could ever be the same” the air felt heavier with the tension that separated them. 

The weight of his words hung heavy in the air. Heeseung never thought it’d come to this. 

“You like her, right? It wasn't something to make her feel better..?” he asked, glossing over the fact that this exact spot set the end of their friendship. 

Glossing over the fact that the relationship between you and him complicated his whole life. Yet a part of him still yearned for you. 

“I’m not like you, Heeseung. I don’t tell girls I like them to make them feel better” he chuckled lowly as Heeseung's expression darkened, taking offense to his words. 

Heeseung scoffed, not quite enjoying the cutting reminder of his bad habits. 

“Do as you please, I don’t give a fuck. But I also don’t plan on making it easy for you. I don't give up what’s mine just like that” Heeseung’s words carry a playful edge, but there’s an undercurrent of expectation, a reminder of the shared history and intimacy. 

Sunghoon turns his head to the side, a stubby chuckle slipping past his parted lips. His gaze falls onto Heeseung after a moment, the boy leaning against the counter with an indifferent expression. 

“What, do you think she forgot? You think a couple racks can erase what you did? Bet you're not the one she calls everyday” a smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, as he looks at Heeseung’s changing face. 

“You think that just because I wasn't here I don’t know what goes on? She couldn't give two fucks about you. You don’t intimidate me, Sunghoon” he retorts, his eyes dark as he pushes himself off the sink and shortens the distance between him and Sunghoon “Couldn’t even get past her underwear, fucking pussy” he whispers. 

He nudges Sunghoon’s shoulder during his exit, scoffing angrily as he slams the door shut, leaving his once best-friend alone with the afterthought of his words. 

Sunghoon doesn't regret it. He feels good. He feels the weight drop from his heart, his blood flowing calmly as his eyebrows don’t furrow in annoyance anymore. 

He watches the door for a moment before turning to the mirror, adjusting his jacket and hair, smiling as he takes in his reflection. 

_____ 

On New Year's Eve a car parks in your driveway. Your brother wasn’t home, and by the looks of it, he wasn't going to be any time soon. 

You don’t really remember the last time you sat down for a meal with Eunseok. You couldn't blame him though. Your parents always repeated that saving another human's life will always be more important than spending time with family. Your brother would always stay your brother even if you started to forget the sound of his voice. 

Jay enters your house first. You can notice Jake sinking his head into the trunk, looking for something. 

The last time Jay was here his hair was still blond. He seems to have gotten a new haircut and dyed it back to black. He looked much softer now. 

“Back to black?” you smile and reach out to grab his coat. It feels illegal to hold and hang his black Prada corduroy jacket. It looked so out of place next to your own coats that were all bought at basic chain stores at the mall. 

“You like it?” he asks, quickly turning his head to check on Jake. Jay’s gaze falls back onto you, a soft glimmer in his eyes. 

He changed. He wasn't the same misogynistic narcissist that you were initially introduced to. He became much kinder- a person you actually found yourself getting along with. 

Jay came home extremely drunk on the 22nd of December. Screw walking a straight line when the boy couldn't even walk at all. Just like it had been unlucky for his friends, he too was met with his demise as his father sat in the living room with a girl Jay didn't recognize. 

Probably his new girlfriend. 

He was furious. He went through Jay’s phone that night- every photo of his son with girls in more or less intimate situations, every message between Jay and his dealers, every single bank transaction at the liquor store. He saw it all that night. 

One word too much on Jay’s behalf, and suddenly, there’s a stinging pain on his left cheek. And before he can react, his father slaps him again. And again, harder than the last. 

He saw himself in his son for the first time. He realized what he had done to his own, precious child. The look in his eyes, pure fear and disgust. They weren't much different after all. 

“Yeah, it’s nice. You look good” you nod with a straight smile, and he looks a bit embarrassed at the compliment. 

Jake finally runs into the home, a smile on his face. Without saying a word, you nod your head towards the now closed trunk. 

“We thought the bottles shattered” he explained and you looked over at Jay, confused. 

“I thought you were done with drinking” you asked, and he grinned sheepishly. 

“Today is the last time, I promise. New year, new me, let’s say” 

They walked around your home, visiting every room, every bathroom, checking every picture. You couldn't care less, focusing on getting yourself ready. 

“You used to be emo?” Jake laughs, walking back to your room. You roll your eyes at him, knowing exactly what picture he was talking about. 

“Your brother is really hot,” Jay says, leaning his hands against the backrest of your chair. He looks at himself and you through the mirror “You look hot too” he adds with a sly smirk. 

Your only reply is a smile, not being the best at receiving compliments. His eyes stay on you for a little longer than they should. 

“Jungwon just texted me,” Jake announces, his body turning in your fresh sheets. His dirty shoes have left marks on the white fabric, but he doesn't seem to notice. “Heeseung just arrived. He’s with fuckass Seora” he laughs along with Jay, while you try to process his statement.

It didn’t take him long to find your replacement. You remember the girl, having been paired up with her for a science project at the beginning of the semester. She was so beautiful. 

“That fucking nerd? What’s wrong with him” Jay comments, and you realize how you too were once like Seora. Heeseung hasn't changed, not at all. 

Jake’s phone rings, his eyes darting to the screen. He excuses himself, the call seemingly important as he leaves the room swiftly. 

You are left alone with Jay who mindlessly scrolls through his Instagram homepage, liking and commenting on his friends posts. 

“Can you help me?” you ask, and his reaction to your voice is almost immediate. He sets his phone aside, his full attention once again falling onto you. A hint of concern flashes over his eyes as your expression seems troubled. 

“Mhm?” he hums, walking over to your figure. 

“Can you zip this up for me?” you ask, turning around. 

He stays silent for a moment, before brushing his fingers against the bare skin of your back, grasping at the slippery zipper. He carefully brings the fabric together, taking care not to pull too tight or snag the delicate material. 

He steps back, looking at you, smiling warmly “There” 

Whenever his sister would ask him, he’d flip her off and tell her to leave his room. 

Jay’s eyes take in your figure, the way he’s never really gotten to see your nice body under all the baggy clothes you’d wear. It feels wrong to think about you like this, but it’s not like this is the first time either. 

He may have changed, even in the slightest, but there was always that one person who was too late. 

…

Shot after shot of vodka find themselves appearing in your hand as you down each one with a twisted expression. The people around you seem much more cheerful than you, and you wonder how long it’ll take for this alcohol to finally start doing its thing. 

You turn to Jake, who’s been gripping your hand tightly, at least that’s what you thought. Instead of a smiley Jake, it’s Kim Sunoo who has been apparently keeping you safe. That would be all for ‘we want you to be there’. 

“Going already?” Sunoo perks up, loosening his grip on you as he sees you trying to squeeze through the crowd. 

“I just need some fresh air” you offer him a small smile “I’ll be back” 

It’s 10:37. Only an hour and 23 minutes until midnight. By that time, half the guests won’t even be awake to witness it. You wonder what fireworks look like on this side of town. 

Jungwon’s house isn’t that hard to navigate. It was big, but you imagined bigger. It’s mid-sized, maybe. You note how his parents have good taste- the mediterranean estate very much to your liking. 

You find yourself on one of his acacia armchairs in the backyard terrace. Most people are inside. It  wasn’t the warmest day.   

There’s no wind today, not even snow. The temperature hasn't dropped below zero celsius this season. You really wanted the snow to fall soon. 

You can tell from the corner of your eye that someone has accompanied you on the chair next to yours. You assume it’s someone just as tired as you, someone who's just counting down the minutes  until midnight so they can get out of here. 

Maybe it’s Jake. But you swore you saw him hitting up some girls on your way out. 

“Want one?” you almost don’t recognize the voice. It’s been so long. 

The person extends a pack of cigarettes in your direction, and that’s when you decide to face them. 

You haven't spoken to Nishimura Riki in a long time. He doesn't even look the same. But it’s only been 4 months? 

“I don’t smoke” you reply, and he nods, lighting the stick in his mouth, protecting the flame with the palm of his hand. 

He hisses, exhaling the smoke. It blows in your direction, and you scrunch your nose at the smell. 

“Where’s your sweet boy, Heeseung?” he asks, his tone mocking. You roll your eyes, exhaling deeply. 

He laughs at your silence, but still waits for you to respond, taking another puff. 

“We don’t talk anymore” you could lie but honestly, it seemed meaningless now. It didn't matter what you’d say, things wouldn't change. 

“Lasted the longest. Can’t say I’m not impressed” he replied with a chuckle. Only God knew how much you wanted to slap the boy next to you right now. 

“Fuck off, Niki” you groan, and he puts up his hands, laughing. He’s slightly taken aback by your candidness- he didn't meet this version of you. 

Niki remembers you as the sweet, innocent and most certainly lost girl that had no idea what she was getting herself into. Now it seemed as if Heeseung had drained all that life out of you. 

“I’m not here to make fun of you” there’s a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes as he still gauge's your reaction to his jab. 

You hum, unamused “Sure” 

He sighs, trying to hide the annoyance caused by your stubbornness. Niki throws what's left of his cigarette on the ground, crushing it with his shoe. Rick Owens, you note. 

“I know you and Wony aren’t on the best terms but she cares about you. I do to” his tone softens “I just want you to live on your own now. Don’t let him take over your life again” 

Niki follows all the patterns the stars are forming with his eyes, while you notice the sincerity in his face. Today the moon is barely visible. There was a New Moon yesterday, so tonight, not  even 3% of the orb is visible. 

“Why are you telling me this?” you ask, and he shrugs. 

The air seems to vibrate with unspoken tension. Niki stays silent for a moment, because he doesn't really know if he has an answer. 

He shouldn't care. He doesn't know you, and you don't know anything about him either. Jesus, if Wonyoung saw him here, he’d be on probation until February. But he saw this happen countless times and every single one stung just as bad. 

“I don’t know. I guess I wanted you to know” he finally answers, a genuine glimmer in his eyes as they fall on yours for just a second. 

You can’t muster up a smile. It’d be too forced anyway. You hope that the nod is enough for him to understand that you do in fact appreciate his words. 

He doesn't say anything and neither do you. It’s mostly noiseless, apart from the faintest melody that flows through the cracks in the window. The only people out here with you are either smoking themselves or talking to someone on the phone. 

You hadn't really told anyone what happened. Of course, you could probably tell Niki, he wouldn't forward it to Wonyoung or anyone else. You could call the boy many names, some better than others, but you knew you couldn't call him untrustworthy. He always kept his word, no matter what. 

But you bite back your tongue. 

“Nice chat, huh? Can I steal her for a moment?” 

Lee Heeseung. 

You’d be lying if you said you didn't want to see him tonight. You weren't wondering if you’d see him, rather when and how. He couldn't run away from talking to you, and well, it appears that he didn't want to anyway.  

With what feeling would you look back on this moment? With sadness? With shame? Indifference, you hoped. 

Would you regret it? Because maybe some things are better left unsolved, right? Sometimes it’s okay to not have an answer. You’ve already learned that firsthand. 

It was too late, Niki already letting the older boy replace him on the armchair, his face filled with remorse, maybe even guilt as he walked back into the house. He only hoped that you were smarter this time. 

You turned your gaze away, because he was looking at you, and it obviously flustered you. He saw your expression, and even though your face twisted in annoyance, you still wanted him to look at you. 

It wasn’t him you hated, but what the two of you did. 

The secret was forever meant to stay between the two of you. And as long as that’s true, it's always casting a shadow over everything good in you. 

“How was Australia? Did you have fun?” you sounded unimpressed, and he noticed. 

Heeseung felt oddly embarrassed to be here with you. He left you with no explanation, and yet you're still asking how his vacation was. Honest or not, he feels like half the man he was before. 

“How did you know?” he asks, a glint of playfulness in his voice. 

“You still share your location with me” you stated, and he nodded. He knew. You were the only person he shared it with in the first place. 

“You check my location?” he chuckles, trying to alleviate the charged atmosphere. His attempts brought no fruit as your expression stayed the same- cold and uninterested. 

“No” he can’t figure out what to say next. It used to be so easy to talk to you. 

But you were the same when he first met you- stand-offish and unwilling. It won’t take him long to figure the right words out, he’s sure of it. 

Heeseung doesn't know why he’s trying this hard. Maybe it’s because now he knows his friend wants it just as much. In what universe did Park Sunghoon have something Heeseung didn’t? Not in this one, and the latter was continuously making sure of it. 

“Can we talk about us?” he finally speaks up after the prolonged moment of uncomfortable silence. He doesn't really know what ‘us’ was. Definitely not a relationship. He doesn't do that, never has. He just prays that you actually had something smart to say. 

“Us?” you bark back a laugh, and he leans against the beige pillow with a sigh. 

Heeseung had been willingly ignoring the messages he saw you sending. He could always disguise that as not wanting to talk about it over text. But in reality, he didn't want to talk about it at all. He just hoped that a ‘sorry’ would be enough. 

“You know what I mean. Don’t be stupid” his voice is laced with a twinge of irritation. He didn't expect it to take this long for you to break. 

“What the fuck are you even talking about, Heeseung?” you turn to face him fully now. 

His hair is no longer dark red. It’s brown, almost black. And he has a completely different haircut. It compliments his tan skin. He’s also dressed differently. You can’t quite recall seeing him like this. 

“Seriously, what do you want to talk about? It wasn’t real, not to you at least. So please, tell me what exactly it is that you want to talk about” his expression is a mix of annoyance and anger now. His jaw clenches as his eyes narrow. You surely allowed yourself to say too much, didn’t you? 

“Careful, Y/n. Watch your tone” he laughs menacingly, standing up from his seat. His hands grip the sides of your chair, as he stares down at you, his face too close for comfort. 

“Downplay what we had, and what’s still between us all you want. But you know it’s real. You might be wiser now, but you haven’t really changed. You still want it just as much” his expression darkens, a defensiveness to his voice. 

All he did was see the potential in you, the spark hidden beneath your innocent surface. He fed that fire, helped it grow until it burned through them both. Heeseung taught you to be a woman. He didn't wrong you, he helped you. 

Leaning in, he nuzzles your neck, his breath hot on your skin “So how about you quit acting all tough and just let me have you again, yeah?” 

He no longer knew how to control himself. No one did. 

When he was younger he believed in God. Even when he started at Saint Matthew’s, he considered himself religious. Maybe he liked it because it made his nights just a little less lonely, or maybe because it filled him with a sense of identity. He knew that no matter what, there’s always that one person, an otherworldly figure that will love him endlessly, have control over him. 

And when he felt himself drift away from his faith, it became a saga of bad decisions after bad decisions. Not because he stopped believing, but because there was no longer anyone to control him. 

“You must be out of your fucking mind if you think I’d do that” your lips are parted as he continues to brush his past your neck, jawline and mouth. 

“Keep talking to me like that and you’ll regret it” he whispers with a sinful grin, his fingers reaching up to caress your cheek “Let’s just forget about what happened. You know I meant what I said” 

“That you love me?” you laugh, and you can notice him bite down on the inside of his cheek. “Just leave me alone, Heeseung. Go find someone else and I’ll do the same” you try to be as calm as possible. He can’t know it’s affecting you. 

Someone else? No, that can’t be possible. You are the only one who listens to him, you are the only one that’s there for every one of his requests. He can’t just let you go like that. It wouldn't be that easy to replace you. 

“Sunghoon, right? That fucking prick, seriously?” he straightens his figure, letting out a frustrated sigh. 

“I never brought him up” you mutter, and he scoffs. 

Heeseung’s  eyes slightly narrow, while his lips press into a thin line. 

The silence that follows is heavy, filled only by the quiet chatter of other people that were out here with you. 

“Please, Y/n. You can’t do this” his tone becomes softer as a pleading look decorates his features. 

You don’t really know what else there is to say. 

His words- louder and longer, were given a physical form and longevity as if they had a life of their own now. 

It almost made you think you forgive him. 

____ 

During morning prayer you saw him again. 

He still had that lifeless look on his face, as if nothing had really changed at all. As if nothing ever happened in the first place. He was two rows in front of you, next to Niki and Sunoo. 

You wanted to catch him looking at you, to have his eyes on you. 

All the students gathered in the chapel next to the school at 7:30. Punctuality was key. Under no circumstances was tardiness allowed- those who dared to come in a minute late were not allowed to participate and got punished with after-school detention. 

Heeseung knelt down next to you. You hoped Sunghoon wouldn't see it. 

‘In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen’

He signs the cross and so do you. “I missed you” Heeseung whispers, his hand softly brushing against your thigh. 

“Don’t” you mutter back, swatting his hand away. 

One of the students was leading today's Morning Offering. 

You tried to focus on Sunghoon. Maybe his hair changed, or maybe his skin got tanner. He got a little skinnier, you note. Sunoo whispers something to him but he doesn't seem to listen. 

“Stop,” Heeseung whispers into your ear, his breath hot on your skin. You move away from him, watching how amusing this is for him. 

“What?” His presence is strong, the pull almost working involuntarily. 

‘...Or does so much bad feeling accumulate within us that we learn to mold it into a big lump of emotions, with amnesties and pardons? Or does the presence of the other, who yesterday morning was almost like an intruder to us, become more and more necessary, because it protects us from our own hell?’ 

You can’t listen, you can’t comprehend. No matter where, there's something pulling your attention. 

“Don’t look at him” Heeseung’s voice is firm, his eyes on you. He’s always watching. 

After a short reflection is spoken, a brief moment of silence follows. You close your eyes, leaning forward. 

"We pray for our community, that we may learn and grow together in love and wisdom,"  the intention is spoken, and after reciting a prayer together, the students start rising from their spots slowly. 

Sunghoon’s gaze doesn't even wander in your direction. He doesn't look at anyone, speeding out of the chapel as soon as the prayer commences. You want to go after him, but Heeseung stops you before you could even fully decide on it. 

“Don’t go” 

You turn around, watching his eyes that are full of amusement. 

Is he enjoying himself this much? Does this entertain him? 

“Heeseung, stop it. It’s over between us, remember? Leave me alone, seriously” you don’t sound heated or outraged. Not even resentful. Simply tired. 

He doesn't react to your words. He knows you don't mean it. 

You knew he wouldn't stop. You knew that as long as he was here, it’d never stop. He was obsessed and giving up wasn't really an option. 

There were exceptions though. During study break, or lunch you wouldn't see him much. Maybe because the repugnance towards Jay and Jake was stronger than his willingness to see you. It didn't really matter though. 

The part of you that liked the attention made you sick. It was hard to admit, and you most definitely wouldn't tell anyone. After everything, you still couldn't resent him. The hate continued to only bring you closer. 

“When is New York?” Jake asked, his fingers tapping away on his laptop. 

Jake was failing in most of his classes and he was slowly running out of time. What he had already learned stayed with him, but now, he had to catch up on a whole semester worth of material. 

“Next week? I think” you reply and he mutters something under his breath. You don't catch it. 

“Such a boring destination” Jay comments and you breathe out a chuckle in response. What an out of touch thing to say. 

“We know, Jongseong. You’ve been there, have an apartment in SoHo and plan on going to NYU” he knows it’s a joke, he’s learned to not take offense to such silly things by now. But no one really calls him Jongseong. 

Only his mother does. He hates it just as much as he hates her. But this time- he savors the sound, how easily it slips past your lips and how satisfyingly it rings in his ears. 

A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips. 

“I’ve never been” Jake piques, and you murmur a ‘Me too’ in response. He doesn't lift his eyes from the screen- it’s almost like he’s glued in place. It’s only the occasional loud sound or cramp in his leg that makes him move. 

The trip was only for juniors and seniors. It wasn't the cheapest, but Eunseok didn't comment when you asked him for the money. His worn-out figure just scribbled out a check and handed it to you. 

The main point was supposed to be St. Patrick’s Cathedral. You didn't really care for the building. Jake didn't either. You two had already planned to sneak out for dinner and shopping while the tour went on. 

“I’m rooming with Heeseung” Jake sighed, taking off his glasses to wipe them with his blazer “That fucking dickhead signed us up last week. Didn't even know until Mrs. Kim told me” 

Jay laughed. He passed Jake wet wipes, noticing how the boy can’t get his glasses clean. 

“I’m rooming with Sunghoon. Haven't really talked to him, though” Jay says, and you both nod. 

A small smile creeps onto your lips “I’m alone” 

You didn't mind at all. You could do whatever you wished without an annoying bitch telling you to go to sleep because ‘your phone screen is keeping her awake’. 

“Can I stay with you? Please” Jake pleads and you shake your head almost instantly. The boy frowns upon seeing your reaction. 

______ 

New York felt oddly familiar. 

These faces- they didn't carry that sense of foreignness. Everyone went about their day without interest in what the person next to them is up to. You felt a good kind of loneliness even though you were never truly alone. 

Little Italy and Chinatown were fun.  

You, Jay and Jake managed to slip out for a second, sharing a meal at a Cantonese restaurant. The food was quite enjoyable and the ambience was great. Jay did complain a bit though. 

That same night you went out for drinks. When all the guardians fell asleep, on cue,  everyone sneaked out of their rooms. Heeseung, rooming with Jake, found out about the plans that he wasn't included in. Of course he still tagged along. 

Jay mentioned that Sunghoon has been so quiet, it almost feels like suicide everytime they are in the room together. 

“I ask him if he wants to shower first, right? And you know what this decadent bum does? Nothing. He won’t even reply to me” 

He wanted to complain more, but Heeseung’s angered and ostentatious sigh forced him to stop. He only looked over at Jake confused before switching to a different topic. 

The next day you saw almost all the museums in Manhattan. 

Your feet were in so much pain by the time you reached The Museum of Modern Art. While Jay and Jungwon walked around pretending to care for the artwork, you and Jake sat in a corner talking and recording dumb vlogs. 

“Say hello to Jake’s vlog” he laughed, shoving the camera into your face. Jake’s stupid smile could be heard from behind the screen, his amusement making the video much more adorable. 

With an annoyed grimace, you shoved the camera away from your face. Jake was unrelenting and it made napping nearly impossible. 

“We’re in some shitty museum” he said sadly, the tone complimenting his mock expression of misery “You know what boggles me? That my dear friend Jay is pretending he likes this. No one likes this. It’s all just ugly paintings that have a forced meaning attached to them” 

“Boggles me? What are you, fucking 50?” you laugh, looking over to him. “What else am I supposed to say” his lips twist in a downwards smile.

“Just say ‘Hello’ to my vlog” he pleads again. 

Rubbing your temples, a sigh escapes your lips again. You looked up at Jake before staring right into his phone camera. 

“Hello” your unenthusiastic tone was menacing to Jake. 

He gave you a playful shove “Happier” Jake commanded. 

You look over at  him wide eyed. After a moment of his unchanging stare, you plaster a forced smile on your face that doesn't quite reach your eyes. 

“Hi” you even attempt a wave. 

Jake laughed, and turned the camera to face him again. “That’s my stripper friend Y/n. Call me to book a lap dance. It’s real” he whispered, the camera too close to his face. 

He turned the camera back to you. You shook your head as a  lighthearted laugh slipped past your parted lips “Turn this off, Jake. You’re wasting storage, you fucking idiot” 

Later that day the two of them offered to go out again since Jay had actually brought the keys to his fathers apartment. You declined. 

Maybe you’d try to call your brother, share some photos with him. It surprised you to actually get an answer. It didn't last long though- 5 minutes in he had to hang up because of an emergency surgery. 

You think about Heeseung. You think about everything, really. In the evening waiting for him becomes much more annoying. The thought of him becomes unbearable, because you’re not supposed to think about him. 

Rejecting him was almost an immediate reaction. The idea of him was much nicer than having him there, so raw and real in front of you. 

It was strange to him too- fearing the days where you were away and he had no idea where you’d gone. 

Thinking about Sunghoon was much more grounding. Much more humanly and justified. His blank stare and cold demeanor, unchanging. Nothing brought you the answer you needed. You wished he’d look at you long enough to see that same thirst for life he noticed back in December. 

A knock at the door sounds through your hotel room. It’s soft, barely audible. 

It’s probably Jake, or Jay. You look down at the time and note that it’s a reasonable time for them to be back. They’ve been out for a good 3 hours now. 

You open the door, and it doesn't really hit you at first. Sunghoon must've gotten the wrong room. 

Your attempts to look calm are futile as your voice cracks “What are you doing here..?” he stands there for a moment, his lips parted. It’s almost like he doesn't really know either.

As you step back to let him enter, he hesitates briefly “You’re alone?” His voice is mellow. The dim light in the room casts a shadow on his face making him appear much more gloomy than usual. 

You nod reluctantly. Your gaze is on him, searching, as if asking for permission to speak, continue. 

There's a moment of deep silence. It isn't uncomfortable or awkward. He's in your presence and you're in his. That seems to be enough to console the immediate tranquility. 

“Do you like it here?” he asks and it seems to strike you as unusual. He never really bothered to converse with others unless they initiated it. 

The scene is oddly familiar. He sits next to you on the bed, propping his body up on his hands. Just like you were immensely aware of each other's closeness that night, it's the same today. 

This time though it seems like it's Sunghoon's turn to find excuses to avoid the topic. And you let it happen.

“Yeah. It’s fun” you nod, and so does he. Against your will you ask a question that in different circumstances, wouldn't even make it past your throat- “Are you hiding from me?” 

Sunghoon’s heart skips a beat as he looks down at your hand. It’s dangerously close to his thigh “No, not from you” his answer is hesitant. 

“It feels like it” he bites the inside of his cheek at your words. 

His fingers play with the fabric of your white sheets “Maybe in a way I was” his voice softens, his eyes scared to look at you.  

“In what way?” you mutter. The air feels ominous, as if you're both threatening the unchangeable. 

“You know” he starts, his hand reaching closer “I was afraid to be denied” 

Sunghoon saw you call, his finger hovering over the answer button many times as he wondered what he’d even tell you. There were so many things he wanted to say. So he’d just flip the phone over. 

Today he was braver. Or at least that’s what he thought. Because being eye to eye with you again, stripped him of it all. 

“I thought you knew I wouldn't. I called you. And texted, a lot” you answered, and his lips pressed into a straight line. 

His touch is tentative. Eventually,  he reaches out towards you, his warm hand takes yours, interlacing your fingers “And I should’ve answered. I’m sorry. For not being more” he looks at you again, the warmth in his eyes genuine “Because I know you wanted me to be more” 

Tears prick at the corner of your eyes. You laugh “This is so stupid” 

You halt the tears from spilling down your cheeks. Sunghoon’s lips form into a small smile “It’s not” 

You look down at your fingers intertwined. He’s looking too. 

You can hear some girls stumble their way into the room next to yours. Judging by the voice, you think  it’s Minjeong. She says something about a 45 year old man coming to see her soon. She also seems to be begging her friend for one more drink ‘Last one, promise! I’m not drunk enough, Ning!’ 

Sunghoon doesn't say anything until the commotion dies down. Neither do you. 

“Sloshed at 11. Crazy work” he chuckles, and so do you. You nod, thinking that Jake is probably somewhere in a corner, throwing up. He was definitely not the drinker everyone made him out to be. 

He leans in closer, his eyes just for a moment searching yours for acceptance. His head falls down on your shoulder. 

“Hoon?” your voice is just above a whisper. 

He hears it again. It’s just as nice as it was back then. The sound is almost natural. He thinks you were made to call out to him. In contrast to last time, he’s much more optimistic. 

He hums, ushering you to continue “Did you mean it?” He doesn't need you to explain, because he knows exactly what you're referring to. 

A small laugh slips past his lips “I think me being here right now answers that one for you” he rises from the softness of your shoulder slowly, savoring the intimacy. A small smile forms on your lips at his words. 

Pulling back, your eyes fall onto him again. Being with Sunghoon was so easy. 

He pats his lap gently. His eyes are soft, almost begging “Come here” he whispers. The words are heavy with longing. They mingle in the air for just a second longer.

You nod after a moment of hesitation. As you settle onto him, his arms weave around your waist. He draws you into his warmth with his delicate touch. His face nestles into the hollow of your neck as he breathes softly, melting into the comfort of your presence. 

Something seemed to have removed the distance between you and Sunghoon, and for a moment you had the impression that there was absolutely no difference in wealth, age or anything else between you. It was a wonderfully free and unleashing moment where you weren’t really expected to be anything.   

“I’m sorry” he sounds shy, almost embarrassed. 

Sunghoon was never the type to apologize. He’d rather let the conflict simmer down on its own without any further interference. Yet here he was- being vulnerable and honest. 

“You already apologized” you smile, your fingers tangled in his hair. 

He chuckles lightly “Once is not enough” he mutters into your skin, the sound muffled. You feel his wet lips move against your neck. 

He raises his head, looking down at you again. “Can I kiss you?”

A sense of contentment washes over you. You nod, lips parted, waiting for him.

He gently tilts your chin up, his gaze flickering between your eyes and your lips. A soft breath escapes you before he finally captures your lips in a deep, consuming kiss. It quickly grows messy, his hand sliding to the back of your neck. You grasp the neckline of his shirt as his tongue teases the seam of your mouth—seeking, almost begging for entrance.

Sunghoon pulls back, his breathing heavy, his lovesick eyes locked onto you. His lips glisten, slick with your desire.

He presses a trail of open-mouthed kisses along your neck, working his way down to your chest. You watch him through heavy lids, a teasing smile playing on his lips.

“So pretty,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough. His hands slide beneath your shirt, fingers caressing your smooth skin. “Undress for me, please.” There’s a hint of desperation in his words as he tugs at the fabric.

You smile, cupping his cheek. Your thumb glides over his lips, gently parting them. “I don’t know…”

He whimpers quietly, grinding his clothed erection against you. “Don’t tease me. I need to see you.” His movements grow more frantic, his hands grasping at you like he’s desperate to feel every inch.

His face flushes with excitement as you hook your fingers under the hem of your shirt. “Want me to take this off?”

“Fuck, yes.” He nods eagerly, eyes devouring your every movement. One hand drifts down, palming himself through his pants as he watches, entranced.

With slow, deliberate motions, you peel the fabric from your body and toss it onto a nearby chair. His eyes widen with each inch of skin revealed.

“You’re desperate,” you tease, replacing his hand with your own. A feathery moan slips from his lips.

He throws his head back. “Is it obvious?” he breathes, and you confirm with a hum.

“I don’t care,” he admits, his eyes slipping shut as he pushes into your palm, eager for more.

Sunghoon thought about this all the time. He felt like such a pervert, but God, it was finally happening—and it was so much better than he ever imagined.

Last time, he was so close. Ten more minutes and a locked door, and he would’ve had you. Heeseung might have been the first to have you, but Sunghoon planned to be the one who had you best. He’d make you come over and over again until you forgot all about Lee Heeseung.

And judging by the way you were looking at him, it was already starting to work.

“I really need to fuck you,” he groans, biting his lower lip. His breathing is uneven. “So bad.” His fingers trail up your thigh, his touch light, pleading.

“Yeah?” You let out a small laugh, climbing off his lap. Your hands find the soft material of his pants.

He lifts his hips immediately, watching intently as your fingers slide the fabric down his legs.

Sunghoon can feel his heartbeat quickening, his whole body trembling with anticipation. You didn’t know he could get like this. You also didn’t know you’d like it so much.

His breath hitches when you toy with the waistband of his boxers, his legs spreading involuntarily. “Take them off, pretty,” he rasps, his voice cracking. “See how hard I am for you.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, slipping his underwear down. He groans as the fabric slides along his length, his cock springing free.

You prop yourself up on one hand, the other lingering around his thick, leaking length. “Want me to touch you?”

He exhales sharply, his cock twitching against his lower abdomen. “Mhm.” He props himself up on his elbows, eyes dark with need. “Please.”

You press your palm against his tip, moving in slow, circular motions. His breath turns ragged as he throws his head back, surrendering to the feeling.

As your confidence grows, so does your pace. Your hand strokes him, faster, firmer. He pants lightly, looking down at you through half-lidded eyes. “Ride me.”

You smirk and nod, slipping out of your shorts, fingers teasing the waistband of your underwear. He bites his lip, eyes smoldering with lust as his legs spread wider in invitation.

“Take them off me,” you whisper.

He looks up at you, almost as if seeking permission, before ripping the material away.

He’s so desperate to feel you, to touch you, that he wastes no time pulling you back onto his lap.

Sunghoon is mesmerized. He’s been with other girls before, but this is the first time he’s had to work for it. He usually just got what he wanted, no effort required. But now, with you, it feels like a reward. And he plans to cherish every second.

You’ve waited for this moment, savoring every touch, every lingering glance. Each look from him feels like a compliment and promise of something more.

He grips his throbbing length, aligning himself with your entrance. His other hand rests on your hip, steadying you. You can feel his tip pressing against you, and a low moan slips from your lips. He gazes up at you one more time, and you nod.

Slowly, you sink down onto him, your walls stretching to accommodate his thick length. A sharp gasp escapes you as you adjust, his fingers digging into your skin.

“Fuck, Hoon…” He keeps his hold firm, guiding you. “Like this? Is this what you wanted?”

“So fucking good,” he groans. His cock throbs inside you, hitting all the right spots with each downward roll of your hips. “Don’t stop.” His voice is raw with need.

He thrusts up to meet you, his whole body trembling as the wet heat of your cunt envelopes him completely. His self-control is slipping fast. If he had known it would feel this good, he never would have let Heeseung have you first. He would have taken you from the beginning.

You start to move faster, rocking your hips, pleasure building between you both. The sounds of your moans mix with the rhythmic slap of skin against skin.

“So perfect,” he mutters through heavy breaths. “You’re so perfect.”

Your head falls back as Sunghoon presses a hand against your stomach, feeling himself inside you. He grits his teeth, trying to hold back, trying to make it last. But he can already feel it—the tightening coil deep in his core.

“I can’t,” you pant, your walls fluttering around him. The need for release is overwhelming.

With those words, he loses it. He pulls you flush against his chest, thrusting up into you at a frantic pace. “Fuck—gonna cum so deep inside you.”

His teeth sink into your shoulder, leaving red marks in their wake.

“So close, Hoon,” you whimper, and it pushes him to the edge.

He buries himself to the hilt, a guttural moan tearing from his throat as he spills inside you, thick and hot, filling you completely. His eyes roll back as he comes, shuddering beneath you.

You’re right behind him, your climax crashing over you in waves. Your body quivers, collapsing onto his sweaty chest. His cum seeps from your still-clenching walls as he slowly slips out, savoring every second of your tight heat around him.

He watches his seed leak from your fucked-out hole, a satisfied smile tugging at his lips. “So pretty,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse.

With a sigh, he falls onto his back, pulling you down with him.

Sunghoon feels completely content, his fingers lazily tracing patterns along your spine. He can feel your breath against his neck, warm and steady, making him smile.

Today feels like the first day of his life.

….

The rest of the trip was unparalleled. For you and Sunghoon at least. Others could wish to say the same thing. 

Everyday he'd attempt to sneak into your room at night. He even created a special sequence of knocks just so you'd be sure it's him. Jay didn't seem to suspect anything. 

On Wednesday night while using the bathroom he said he wants to film a Get Ready With Me. Just like the ones he'd seen on social media. You laughed, and agreed. This was so unlike him. In a good way though. 

You think about the unrecorded parts- how he stood in between your legs, his face twisted in discomfort as you clear his skin. 

 “Your lipstick choice is fucking terrible. Coral is not your color, Hoon” you smile widely. 

His lips were terribly overlined. The brown pigment reached high beyond his actual mouth. Sunghoon looked so stupid, but to you, it was adorable. 

“Do it for me next time” a fond smile spreads across his face. He holds your hand, his thumb tenderly rubbing your soft skin. 

You look at him with a raised eyebrow “Next time? Didn’t know my princess liked getting her makeup done” he playfully rolls his eyes at you. 

“Too far” he tries to hold back a smile, but his twitching lip gives it away “Keep going” he looks at the cotton pad in your other hand. 

You nod, scooting just a little closer to him. 

Sunghoon stood there silently, eyes closed. His body twitches involuntarily as your fingers graze against his skin. He feels your soft breathing against his neck. The warmth mixed with the soothing swipe of the cotton pad against his face, sends a shiver down his spine, as his body naturally relaxes against you. 

“Gone” you smile and his eyes flush open. His reflection stares back at him in the mirror. 

His skin is irritated, he can tell. And usually he’d freak out. But now, he doesn't seem to really care. 

The doting look in his eyes searched your expression, his hands sliding up and down your bare thighs. 

“You’re so hot,” he says. A small smirk creeps up on his lips as he keeps inching closer. 

“Sunghoon” you glare at him, attempting to look serious. His soft laughter breaks the facade pretty quickly. 

Without another word he presses his slightly stained lips against yours. He smiles against you, his mouth opening faintly. He reaches up to hold your cheek, chest pressing against yours. A moan escapes your mouth as he deepens the kiss. His tongue swipes your bottom lip before slipping past it. 

During field trips he’d find himself drifting closer to you. And when free time came around, he'd run off with you to different parts of the city he once fell in love with. 

With his arm around your shoulders, he’d point to cafes, restaurants,  street art and even benches. He was truly happy. And even if you weren't paying attention to his stories, the genuine smile on his face was enough. 

“No way” you gasp, the amusement evident on your face as you peel away his sleeve slightly “I swear Jake and Jay have the same one” 

Sunghoon laughs, watching you analyze the ‘4’ tattoo on his wrist. 

“They do,” he smiles weakly. “Heeseung has it too” you never noticed. 

You always knew about Jay’s- it was on his right palm. Just recently you saw Jake had it too, hidden on the back of his neck. 

“He does?” Sunghoon nods and points to his ankle. 

It's almost been a year since they got it, but the ink has already started fading away. In a way, Sunghoon was relieved. 

“We were so fucking out of it that night” he starts, and you turn to face him. “It was in Tokyo, I think? This girl we met, she was a tattoo artist” he looks down at it too and his eyes seem to light up “We thought it'd be funny “ 

You grab onto his wrist as he speaks again “My mom was so mad when she found out. She wanted it removed but I was such a fucking asshole to her back then, so I didn't listen” you don’t let go, moving your fingers upwards to hold onto his hand. He smiles. 

“You look badass. Sort of” he chuckles, shaking his head. 

“It looks bad and ass. And I swear her ink was from Aliexpress” he pulls you into his chest. 

It was getting dark outside, but the city was only becoming livelier. Everyone was in a rush, but their ambition and passion was almost tangible. 

“I’m jealous then. Matching tattoos, that's serious dedication” you smile and he laughs at the comment. 

His chin rests on the top of your head, his breathing slow and steady. He watches the orange haze that falls onto the landscape. 

“I’ll get your name tattooed” you hum and it almost sounds like you're judging him. He chuckles “Swear to God” 

“You’re insane” 

The next day he’d find a new spot to take you to. He was a better tour guide than your English teacher, you’d tell him. 

And Heeseung knew about it all. To say he was angry would be an understatement. 

He passed by St. Marks Place with Karina. The girl told him something about her sister being interested in him. He didn't really listen to her though.

 So many people passed by him- maybe 40 in the span of 5 seconds. A lot of them looked similar. New York fashion is diverse, but it really just comes down to the same thing, he notes. 

Yet he pays attention to them all, especially the two oddly familiar faces that stand in front of him, playing with a passerbys dog. 

Until now, Heeseung was pretty sure he had the situation under control. He was giving you the distance he deemed necessary. Still, his eyes never left you. And when they did, once, but for a period longer than ever, you manage to find yourself in the arms of Park Sunghoon again. 

Karina notices it too. He told her all about it, the whole story. She knew he was short-tempered so she never really told him that this wasn't healthy. It’d be on the tip of her tongue every time, lingering far too long for comfort. By the time she was ready, he’d change the topic. 

“She’s being unreasonable, right? Tell me I’m not insane” he asked. His eyes focused on the last sip of whiskey in his glass. 

You are, she thinks. 

“You can’t just expect her to move on because you said so” she wants to laugh, but judging by his worn-out expression, he’s not in the mood for humor. 

He scoffs. Why not? You never had an issue listening to him.

“I didn’t say so” he replies, and she looks at him with her eyebrow raised “I said sorry, Rina. What the fuck else is there to say?” 

“Nothing” Karina’s reply is almost automatic “That’s really the thing, you know? Sometimes sorry isn’t enough” her attempts at ‘comfort’ are fruitless- his head falls on the table after he finishes whatever was left of his drink. 

“Does this haircut make my face look weird?” 

Karina would laugh it off. She’d just let him go on about his haircut, the shoes he bought today, Jake’s glasses that he accidentally stepped on and the stray cat that almost bit him. 

She knew that it was a matter of time until he’d bring you up again. It was a cycle that never ended. 

While you deny him love, you give it to the same person he’s been trying to erase. And in a way it’s his fault- he left the cage open and you walked out. 

____

“Are you fucking serious right now? Two parents but still can’t slice up a tomato” Jay scolds the younger boy that was forced to help him in the kitchen. 

“What does that have to do with anything?” Jake retorts, his expression tired as he gives up on the job completely. The massacred tomato lies on the cutting board which Jay swiftly takes over. 

“Everything, Jake. Literally everything” he sighs, sending Jake away with his hand. 

Dinners, hangouts, parties and suddenly everything fell into place. There no longer was the inexplicable animosity hanging in the air. It felt strange at first- the conversations and acts of kindness turned into something a lot more authentic and domestic. This is what you missed the most, it seems. 

“You’re not getting into Harvard, fucking dumbass” Sunghoon laughed, digging his fork into the food prepared by Jay (and as he himself argued, Jake, who waited for the water to boil before dumping in the pasta). 

“My grades are better now” Jake asserted “You’ll see, I’ll have the last laugh. Just wait” the threat and seriousness in his expression makes you chuckle. 

“I’m gonna stay here” Sunghoon smiles. You look at him confused. You well remember him mentioning Princeton. 

“What about Princeton?” Jay brings it up before you manage to do so. Sunghoon shakes his head, setting down his utensils. 

“My step-mom is sick,” he reveals. You grab his hand under the table, and he squeezes hard “She’ll be fine, don’t worry. I just want to be with my family for now. Maybe in the future I’ll transfer” he adds with a smile. 

Sunghoon has never been particularly close to his mother or his step-mother. It was a choice for him. 

Jeongja, his mothers girlfriend, came into his life when he was 5 years old. She took care of him like he was her own. “Blood is not a requirement when it comes to family. I’ll always love you like a son, Sunghoon. Will you remember that?” she told him one day. He always thinks about that time. Sunghoon has always been so loved and he wishes he gave it back sooner, not when he was on the brink of losing her. 

Jay feels a pang of guilt in his chest at his words. Maybe one day he could learn to love his mother again. Not today, not tomorrow but one day. He wants that, more than anything. 

The day comes to a close soon enough, leaving you and Sunghoon to bask in each other's embrace. 

His head is on your stomach, as you play with his hair. It’s grown quite long, especially in the back. 

“Two days before New Year's I was at the event hosted by Heeseung’s father” he starts. You don’t say anything, allowing him to continue “I talked to Heeseung then. That was the last time, actually” he chuckles lightly. There’s a hint of sadness in his tone, but he can't quite tell why. 

“You know he actually likes you?” it doesn't shock you like he expected it to. He doesn't comment on it though, letting you find the right words in reply. 

“I know” you say, and he sits up abruptly, looking at you. 

“You do?” He seems puzzled. It has been so long since he’s seen or even talked to Heeseung. He wouldn't know. 

Maybe there is a part of him that misses the boy. He was his first friend at Saint Matthew’s Academy. He welcomed him like they’d been friends since forever. Heeseung put up with his initial shyness even when it seemed like everyone else couldn't anymore. 

Sunghoon always smiles when he thinks about his first day. Lee Heeseung spotted him in the crowd, and without an introduction, swung his arm around his shoulder, talking to him like an old friend. 

He introduced him to Wonyoung, his first actual girlfriend. Even though he wasn't on the best terms with her right now, even though he was with her out of convenience, the memory of their time shared together makes his heart just a little warmer. 

Heeseung was the one who gave him a life. And he loved him, which made leaving 10 times harder. 

Even so, he doesn't regret the decision. He knew it was pointless to live with the idea of his once best friend that wasn't really accurate anymore. They both deserved better than each other. 

“He’s made it pretty clear” your lips form into a downwards smile.

Sunghoon looks away from you for a brief moment as he speaks up “And it doesn't change anything?” 

“What do you mean?” you tilt your head in question. 

Sunghoon exhales sharply. Even though he knows what answer to expect, there’s still that ounce of fear in him. Fear that stems from being second, being the ‘afterparty’. 

“You still choose this? Even if you know it wasn't necessarily fake after all?” he asks even though he knows he shouldn't. 

You smile, and pull him back into your chest “I should've chosen this from the beginning” he feels his heart grow bigger, a heat rising to his face “It doesn't matter what it was, not really. Didn’t you know I’d come back to you?” he chuckles and shakes his head. 

“I’m happy you did” he murmurs, his eyes shutting. Your hand slips under his shirt, caressing the soft skin on his back “You know, if he ever made you feel worse than us, I hope you know it’s not true. You’re a good girl, and I always knew it. You deserve more, and I’ll make sure you get it, okay?” 

You smile lightly, and nod. 

You look over at the dirty dishes in the sink, messy dinner table, and sigh softly as you think about all the work that’ll have to be conquered soon. 

But you let him fall asleep on your chest, and it feels good. Even if there's things left undone. 

____

 It was Jungwon’s birthday dinner today. 

After the school trip you two have grown much closer. He would visit you during breaks or sometimes join you in the study hall. He’d even given up his seat next to Jay (who was surprisingly really good at the subject) in French class to sit with you. 

Jungwon would talk a lot about his girlfriend, Binna. She went to a public school not far from here and met Jungwon during a student exchange program to Sweden. She’d always tell him what people at her school thought about the well renowned, enclosed community of St. Matthew’s. It wasn’t entirely positive, and since Binna was dating one of the ‘stuck-up dickheads that probably wipes his ass with $100 bills’, they wouldn’t really include her in the conversations anymore. 

But you enjoyed hearing about her. Jungwon would ask for advice regarding gifts, places he should take her and things he could do to make her feel loved. And you’d always give it to him. 

He showed you countless pictures of her,  always struggling with choosing one  “She looks pretty in all of these, I swear!” 

Her  brown hair covered her face slightly but you could still see her beautiful face. Big, doe eyes, plump lips that were rosewood pink. She had a scar under her right eye. You thought it made her look so stunning. Jungwon did too. 

During his birthday dinner, you saw them together for the first time. It was almost like he forgot what he was here for in the first place, his attention on her only. 

You sat next to Sunghoon and Jake. Jay sat next to Jake with Niki on his right. Heeseung sat across from you, Karina next to him on the left, Sunoo on his other side. The other people there you didn’t really recognize. 

The relationship between you and Jungwon wasn’t the only thing that changed. A lot of things did. 

“Let’s go back to my house after this” he leaned in closer to you. He didn’t have to even whisper, the conversations that surrounded you ringing in your ears. The music was loud too. You think Sade is playing, but you're not sure. 

Jake, although currently arguing with Jay about baseball clubs, notices. He caught on pretty early. During a walk after school, he brought it up. “Back in the game, huh? How did you even get him to talk?”. He knew you wouldn’t admit to anything, but it was funny to watch you get flustered at his comments. 

“Won’t you be tired?” you ask, and he laughs softly. Tired after eating a free dinner, and cracking a few fake smiles? This was like a day job for him. Countless dinners with his biological father, whom he truly despised, or CEO’s of other successful companies, or with Wonyoung and her parents (he hated those one’s the most). He’s used to it by now. 

He shakes his head ‘no’ which causes you to smile. His hand lingers next to your thigh. He’s tempted to touch you, but Heeseung’s piercing gaze prevents him. He doesn’t know why. It’ll end soon, surely. 

You look over at Jay who's now in conversation with Niki. It’s a little shocking to see them like this. 

Niki never liked Jay, and Jay didn’t like him either. Even if he was meant to marry his sister one day (which he saw maybe four times in his life, but truly wasn’t opposed to- she was so beautiful), Niki just couldn’t care less about Park Jongseong. They seem to be laughing at something now and it doesn't look forced, not at all. It’s a rare view and you almost take a photo. You could tease him with it later. 

Jake turns to you and Sunghoon, noting how the boy is much more talkative when he’s with you. 

“I’ll be back” you say, and Sunghoon nods, watching you stand up. He wants to say ‘I’ll miss you’, but thinks it’s incredibly corny. 

The restaurant is crowded tonight. You seem to be the only big group of people there. You smile while passing an older couple that’s celebrating the wife’s birthday, a small cake  and a big bouquet in a glass vase on the table. 

Warm water slides down your fingers, drips down your wrist as you watch your reflection in the mirror.

January seeped into February while you became better. That's what you want to believe at least. While the hair dye keeps fading away, you think about how Heeseung suggested the color. When you touch what's left of your lip piercing (only a healed  scar), you remember how he picked it out for you. It’s not inherently bad to change yourself for someone, but you wish you hadn't become everything you never wanted to be. 

The door opens, the creak sounding through the bathroom. You don't look up, instead shaking the wetness off your hands. 

“Still scared of the hand-dryer?” he leans against the wall. His tone is almost mocking, and usually you’d laugh with him. But today, just like yesterday and the day before that too, you don't feel like talking to Lee Heeseung. 

“Heeseung, I’m not in the mood” Your tone is flat and his expression- unchanging. “I already told you everything I had to say” 

“Do I make you feel sick? Do you think about what happened between us and feel sick?” You're taken aback by his sudden question. 

There's a moment of painful silence as he gauges your reaction. You look at him with utter confusion, but his expression doesn't seem to falter- he's calm, almost too calm. 

For the weeks after New York, Heeseung went back to ignoring you. You wouldn't see him much either, as he spent most of his time with Karina or a group of guys from your grade. Sometimes, he’d look at you for a moment longer than intended. His lips would part, as if he wanted to say something, but he never did. 

Heeseung started ignoring you, and for the first time since you met him, it was okay. 

“What?” you choke out, and he doesn't repeat. You heard him the first time, didn't you? “N- No. What are you even talking about?” 

He scoffs, his eyes on the floor. Your back is pressed against the sink as you wait for him to continue. 

“Then why him? We were good together” he doesn't sound sad, or resentful. It's almost like the question comes out automatically, like it's standard procedure. 

You want to laugh. He sounds robotic, his ‘apology’ most likely rehearsed. No matter how much time passes, no matter what happens and what doesn't, Heeseung doesn't quite get it. Not at all. 

“I want someone who doesn't see me as a game” you speak and he doesn't fire back- instead he nods. “And honestly, I really don't give a fuck what changed in the middle. You should've told me then, not after we had sex” he cringes at the reminder. 

Was sorry really not enough? He needs a breakthrough, but nothing seems to work. 

The last time he felt like this was when his first real girlfriend broke up with him to be with his brother. They're still together- a stinging reminder of what Heeseung couldn't be. 

He remembers begging her to stay, standing in front of her, a desperate look on his face “I’ll be better” . She just laughed in his face. He felt like such an idiot. 

And it happens yet again- it's just never enough. He's never enough. 

He sighs, his expression changing “Do I have to kill him to get my fucking life back?” 

You look at him confused “I- I don't understand” he shakes his head. His body peels off the wall, as he comes closer to you. 

“That dickhead has it. He stole my life” his voice is just above a whisper, his eyes darkening. You don’t reply, a look of hesitancy on your features. 

His friends, his almost girlfriend, his social status- Sunghoon took it away. He stole his identity, everything he's ever worked for. Heeseung had nothing left. 

His hand lands on your shoulder, his touch tentative at first “I’ll be better” 

He watches you sigh, a twinge of sadness in your eyes that can't look at him. A flash of hope crosses his face, but Heeseung knows it's pointless- he already lost. A long time ago. 

“It doesn't matter anymore, really” you finally speak “And I don't think I’ll ever be over the person you were before, Heeseung” 

Heeseung looked like he knew this was coming. Probably because he did. 

He could say some cliche shit like “You know I’ll always love you?” or “Can you kiss me for the last time?”, but he doesn't. He nods. Maybe because he knew this far longer than he'd like to admit. 

Heeseung recalls the moment he first saw you like it was yesterday. He was being a douche, wasn't he? It always went the same- he showers you with compliments, makes you think he’s emotionally intelligent, and eventually he’d have some fun with you. He never knew it’d go this far, no. 

Now, he hates himself for being so fucking stupid, so reckless. But again, he wouldn't be able to keep it a secret long. They knew, they all did. And time already showed him that they wouldn't wait with the truth. They just would, they all would. 

He’s glad to be leaving soon. Changing schools was never his plan- but it no longer made sense for him to be here. He’s sure there’s nicer things waiting for him in Kyoto. 

He’s sure there’s a better version of him there.

Heeseung wants to tell you that this stupid birthday dinner for silly, little Yang Jungwon is most likely the last time he’ll see you. He wants to tell you that those rumors about him moving are true, but he bites his tongue. You probably knew anyway, and you probably didn't care. 

He hugs you, and you let him. You let him hold you, and you pretend not to hear his quiet sniffles. He wouldn't want you to see him like this. Deep down he hopes that maybe eternal return is real, and he’ll get to have you in the exact same way again at one time. 

Heeseung moves away from you, his glossy eyes glazing over your figure. He moves for the door handle, opening the door. The world becomes much louder again, as the line of tables spreads out in the distance.

“After you” he smiles weakly, his eyes avoiding you. 

You reciprocate the same weak, apologetic smile. Stepping out of the bathroom you don't look back, heading straight for the table you came from. 

You could've kept avoiding it, ignoring the growing pain in your chest whenever he crossed you. But you owed it to him. 

There's a flash of guilt on your features as you approach everyone. But seeing Sunghoon laughing so effortlessly and purely with Jake and Jay again makes your lips curve into a small, genuine smile again. 

“Are you okay?” his wide smile doesn't falter as Sunghoon turns to look at you. There’s a bit of concern in his tone as speaks, though. You nod. 

“Where’s Karina?” you ask, noticing the two empty seats. 

They think it’s weird- you asking about Karina of all people. But no one bothers to really make a comment about it. 

“She left with Heeseung like 10 minutes ago. Didn't you see them leaving?” Jake questions. 

“No” your gaze falls onto Sunghoon again. He looks so happy, and free. It didn't use to be like this. “Let’s get out of here” you lean down, your face at level with his. 

He nods, moving swiftly as he collects his belongings “Yeah. Let’s go. If you’re not tired” he grins. You roll your eyes playfully, shoving him softly. 

He holds your hand, his skin so delicate and smooth against yours. His grip is tight, as if he’s scared something might take you away from him. 

“Let’s go be tired together, yeah?” he nods with a smile, looking down at you. 

And the bittersweetness of February 9th stains you like the blood of a plump cherry on a summer day. But it was always meant to be this way, you think. 

[astraystayyh]

Bleeding heart dove

pairing: idol!chan x lawyer!reader. youngerbrother!seungmin.

genre: f2l. slow burn. angst (lots of it). fluff. (un)requited love. forced proximity. law/corruption sub-plot.

warnings: parental loss. grief. self-depreciating thoughts. suicidal thoughts. reader has she/her pronouns. this is a work of fiction. the actions and timeline depicted in the story don’t represent the idols in real life.

word count: 25.7k.

You are ashamed, even in the privacy of your thoughts, of this longing, of this sharp ache. For even thinking, daring to dream of a world where you could behold his warm hands into your butchered ones. Where he’d let you. Where you’d let yourself.

It feels like death to think of Chan, it feels like living too.

a.n: she’s finally here!!!! i haven’t written for chris in such a long time and i’m so grateful to @kayleefriedchicken for commissioning this fic :,) it spiraled and i took some creative liberties that’s why it’s so long now LMAO but i hope you’ll enjoy reading!!!! i challenged myself writing this, it is a bit different from my other fics. much heavier too. but i’m slowly finding a writing structure i truly enjoy. i love you all 🤍 thank you for waiting for me

They say that smells are little vessels of memories, wrapping themselves around moments in time. When a certain scent floats by you, it doesn’t graze your shoulder like a stranger in the streets, never to be seen again.

No, smells seize you by the wrist, their nails sinking deep into the softness of your skin. Scents do not pass. They pull. They lead you into the locked corridors of your mind, to places you thought had crumbled into dust, memories buried seven feet under by the weight of years.

You smell rust.

Many may not recognize it, most might not even notice it. But you do. The scent of rust is etched into your nostrils, carved along your nerve endings, again and again. It smells earthy, metallic, sharp—like blood smeared on your tongue against your will.

As everything in your life has ever been.

Every orphanage you lived in reeked of rust. It seeped into the walls, staining them beneath layers of pale, lifeless paint. It curled into the battered beds and damp linens. You tried to pinch your nose shut at night, suffocating against the foul scent. But rust was patient. Rust had time. And so, naturally, rust always won.

It was a cruel smell at that— the scent of things stolen— childhood, innocence, soft mornings, your very ability to dream.

You were ten years old when both your parents died in a tragic accident. A drunk driver slammed into their car and made it combust into flames. He was quickly caught and cast into prison. But what did that serve you? Your parents were gone. What respite would this semblance of justice bring you?

That part of your life remains hazy since there was no room to mourn, only movement, hands ushering you from one orphanage to another. Each time the walls could no longer contain any more children. Any more grief.

And you were only ten.

But Seungmin was only six.

Your brother didn’t understand what was happening. Why did he have to leave his shiny toys and Pochacco-themed bed behind? He cried at night for your parents, his wails cresting and receding like waves against a fragile shore.

Sometimes, he cried so fiercely that no one could calm him—not even you. You would leave him to sob until exhaustion claimed him. You envied him, in a way. Sleep refused to visit you. You were sentenced to lay awake instead, burdened by responsibilities too heavy for your small hands. Yet, when you glanced at Seungmin’s resting form, the ache in your chest eased, just slightly. If he could rest, that was enough.

You didn’t know it then, but this thought would become the basis of your entire life. You’d give and give, tear at your own flesh if it meant Seungmin would remain intact and safe.

The first orphanage was small. Twenty beds crammed together in a single room. It was a temporary holding place while the city council decided your fate. Orphans, you realized, were like misplaced luggage—tagged and eagerly discarded, waiting for someone, anyone, to claim them.

The second orphanage was somewhat worse. There were a hundred beds this time, a larger playground, warmer food. But the older kids were cruel. That’s what you remember. Rust and cruelty, entwined.

They shoved you hard against the ground on your first night there. And then, they turned to Seungmin. The moment their hands reached for him, something primal surged within you—a burning, blistering rage as if your very being was dipped into scalding water. You lashed out, punching the nose of one of the older boys. Blood. Yours, his, theirs. It all blurred together.

Then, punishment quickly followed: no more dinner for three days.

Seungmin didn’t understand. He tugged at your sleeve, crying that he was hungry late at night. That’s when you decided it was better to endure in silence. To take the blows, as long as your brother could eat.

By thirteen, you arrived at Promise Orphanage. Your hand trembled in Seungmin’s grip as Miss Jeeho introduced you both. Forty-four pairs of eyes bore into you, gliding over the faint bruises that painted your arms like ink stains.

You braced yourself for the worst. But then, a girl stepped forward, her hair a messy halo around her face. Her smile was wide, her eyes bright despite the dust coating her skin. She held out her hand, and you noticed how rough and calloused it was for her age. How warm it was too.

“I’m Winter,” she said, her voice soft.

You blinked at the odd name, then nodded. Later, you would learn she had been abandoned as a newborn, left nameless at the orphanage’s doorstep. It was a cold night when the workers found her, with heavy snow. It was surprising she didn’t pass from pneumonia.

Winter chose her name after the season she was born, since her parents didn’t bother to do so for her.

You came to realize that in these walls, even something as mundane as a name was a privilege, something the world could simply not grant you at birth.

“I’m Y/n, and this is Seungmin,” you replied, gripping your brother’s clammy hand. There was steel in your voice as you said his name, ensuring everyone knew he wasn’t to be touched.

But the other children simply smiled at you, and you tried to smile back. Though it came out much more like a grimace. Smiling felt foreign to you, like a muscle long unused.

Promise Orphanage then became your home for five long years. The children were kinder, their grins did not sharpen into unkind hands. Your bed was slightly bigger. You got gifts for your birthday and cake on New Year’s. You always gave yours to Seungmin— the better toys, the bigger slices, the softest pillows. You hoped it would make him feel better, even for a second.

But rust remained.

It followed you when you turned eighteen, into your first apartment. A single room, smaller than your childhood kitchen. But it was enough. Enough to build a life for Seungmin, to earn his custody, to gift him the privilege of dreaming.

Though even then, when Seungmin laughed, when he sang with Winter, when you had enough warm showers to forget the cold of the orphanage, you wondered if other people could still smell the rust like you did.

Perhaps it was your mind’s way of reminding you that, even if you shut your eyes so tightly that colors bloomed behind your eyelids— even if you thought hard enough of your summer home and salt-kissed winds, if you strained to hear your parents’ airy laughter calling you to dinner— this was not home.

It never could be.

“Y/n?”

Han’s voice slips through the fog of your memories, bright and familiar. You blink, the haze receding like chimney smoke to find him leaning casually against the doorframe.

He’s the first one out of the stylist’s room, his hair falls in soft waves over his forehead, and silver dust coats his eyes, catching the overhead lights like scattered stars.

“Hey, Han,” you greet, pulling him into a brief hug.

His grin is as easy as ever—warm and full of mischief. “Like the makeup?”

“It’s perfect,” you reply, poking his rosy cheeks.

“The boys are still getting ready,” he says, falling in step beside you as you walk toward the waiting room. Shelves stacked with instant noodles, water bottles, chips, and candy stare back at you.

“Figured.”

Your gaze flickers to the jelly candies, and you smile. You can already picture Hyunjin diving for them first and Seungmin scolding him for his sugar intake.

Jiho, the manager, greets you with a nod, and you return the gesture.

“You seemed far away just now,” Han notes, twisting the cap off a water bottle.

You exhale slowly. “The vents smell like rust. This whole place can quickly turn into a safety hazard. That’s a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

Han gasps in mock horror, clutching his chest. “Why is it that every time you talk about law, I feel like I’m about to be sued?”

You swat his arm, giggling at his theatrics, before pinching his forearm lightly.

“Hey—“ he yelps and you narrow your eyes at him.

“I should actually sue you for not visiting my new office though,” you point out, doing a neck-slicing motion with your hand.

“Okay, creepy. AND, for my defense, I sent you that fruit basket, didn’t I? Been busy writing songs. You know how it is when inspiration strikes me.”

You do.

It tugs at a distant summer, long days spent on the coast of Jeju Island alongside the boys, to celebrate your first successful case. Han locked away with his notebook while the sea breeze knocked at his window. He only joined you once he had finished writing the lyrics of two new songs. Some of your favorites too, at that.

“There she is! You’re smiling,” Han says, poking your cheek.

“Just remembering our trip.”

He sighs dreamily, before slinging his arm around your shoulders. “Best summer ever. Next time, the vacation’s on me. Pinky promise.”

Your smile softens, warmth pooling within the cracks of your heart.

Han was angry once, when you had first met him. Just like you. But where his anger burned bright, yours hid beneath the surface, smoldering slowly. But time softened his edges. You wonder if the same could ever be said for you.

“You’re here,” Seungmin appears suddenly, peeling Han’s arm away from your shoulder with a scowl. Han retaliates by blowing you an overly exaggerated kiss before wandering toward the vending machine.

“I finished up the case early,” you explain.

Seungmin’s gaze narrows slightly, scanning the lines of your outfit.

“And why are you so dressed up?”

“Can’t a sister look nice for her favorite brother’s first sold-out concert at the Kyocera Dome?” you tease, clasping your hands.

Jiho snorts from his seat. Traitor.

“I’m your only brother, and we both know you’re lying,” Seungmin deadpans.

It’s endearing—the way he shields you from heartbreak as if he hasn’t spent his whole life beneath the cover of your arms.

It’s foolish too— as if you still have a heart that beats hard enough to love, then to break.

“Fine. I have a date after the show.”

“With who?” Hyunjin’s voice drifts in as he steps into the hallway, Changbin trailing closely behind.

You smile. “Jaehyun.”

Seungmin pinches the bridge of his nose. “You know I don’t love him.”

“And who said I do?” you ask, a sly smile tugging at your lips.

“Then why do you still meet up with him?”

“Because he’s fun. And I like spending my time with fun people.”

Changbin leans in, grinning wide. “I’m fun too. Why not date me?”

He drapes his arm over your shoulder, and Seungmin groans, pretending to smash his head against the wall repeatedly.

“Alright, alright, stop the flirting,” you laugh, shaking your head. “I fear you’ll end up killing my brother.”

Seungmin pouts, and you laugh softly, pulling him in for a tight embrace. “Look at you, performing in such a big arena,” the words suddenly catch in your throat, a silky rope tightly binding the syllables together. “You know that I’m proud of you, right?”

You smile, and Seungmin holds you a little closer.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Thank you for coming. I really wanted you here.”

You clear your throat, stepping back with a playful flick to his arm. “I’ll see you after the show. Say hi to the rest of the boys for me.”

“You’ll do great,” you add, and his smile softens like sunlight melting across the sea.

His voice follows you down the hall. “We’re still talking about this date later, though!”

“Seungmin loves acting as if she isn’t older than him—” Swat.

—

There is one peculiar emotion that always beats within your heart at your brother’s concert halls. It is warm, like beholding a glowing sun within the empty hollows of your ribcage. It swells and swells, spreading within your being like paint spilled on canvas— soaking your heart in wildflower hues.

You feel relieved to see your brother and his friends so loved. You sense it in the cacophony of cheers, in the misty eyes of all the fans surrounding you. You know that the boys can feel it too. In the shaking of their voices as they take turns saying their ending ments. It is a monumental moment for them, something they only dared dream of back when they were still trainees and you had to sneak snacks into their dorm.

It is Seungmin’s turn to speak. His shaking hand barely manages to hold the mic. Seungmin doesn’t cry as often as before. Never in front of you anymore. He suddenly stopped once he turned fifteen, as if he had made a vow to himself, to lift off some of his worries off your burdened spine.

But tonight, unmistakable tears gather at the edges of his eyes, glinting like faraway constellations.

He tilts his head toward the sky, and you wonder who these words are really addressed to.

Deep down you already know the answer to this.

“My sister is here tonight,” he starts and tears glisten in your eyes, all of the sudden. “If I’m here today it’s all thanks to her, so I– I hope you’re proud of me,” he says, voice tight, breaking. But he still speaks. “You know, I… I don’t believe in forever—” his lips tremble like leaves at the mercy of autumn winds. A faint ringing surges through your ears, muffling the sound of everything until only his sharp words remain. “But just at this moment, being with the members and everyone who stood by our side, I— I want to believe in eternity with you.”

The crowd roars at his words. Cameras flash everywhere. The boys quickly move forward to wrap Seungmin in their arms.

But you’re not here anymore.

You’re somewhere quieter. Smaller. Somewhere dimly lit by flickering hallway lights and hushed whispers past curfew.

Your hands shake, pressing into your thighs as if their weight might ground you. But the cold creeps in anyway, walking alongside your veins, settling into your heart like an old companion.

—

He was eight.

His hair stuck to his forehead in damp curls, and the faint glow of the moon reflected onto his eyes like a gleaming water surface.

You remember smoothing his bangs away, tucking him beneath a worn blanket that didn’t quite reach his toes. He didn’t mind. Seungmin never minded the small things.

“Did you make a wish?” you whispered. It was his birthday. Birthdays never got easier for Seungmin, nor for you. Most days you were just pretending— that you knew what you were doing, that your knees were strong enough to hold you upright. Pretending that you had what it takes to protect your brother when you, yourself, were in desperate need of protection.

How do you salvage innocence in halls that spell out loss and grief at every turn? How do you make a birthday a happy memory in such a terrible place ?

Seungmin blinked up at you as his small hand curled around your fingers.

“I said that I want to see mommy and daddy again.”

The air had thickened then, and the knot in your throat twisted so tight it left no room for you to breathe.

You forced on a smile anyway. “You will,” you promised, voice soft but unsteady. “Soon.”

He paused, blinking slowly.

“What’s forever?”

The question felt like a swinging pendulum suddenly came to a halt— Seungmin’s innocence slipping away from your shaky grasp.

“Why do you ask?”

“I told Gyuvin I’ll see our parents soon. But he said that you lied, and it will take forever until then.”

Your chest tightened. You knew Gyuvin had a mean streak—sharp edges chiseled by loneliness and unspoken grief. You never held it against him. He was only eight too.

Still.

“He’s joking, Seungminnie,” you murmured, brushing your thumb over his knuckles. “Forever just means something that doesn’t end. Like numbers. Numbers don’t end, right?”

He thought for a moment, lips pressing into a pout.

“Would you like to believe in forever?” you asked, teasing gently.

“No,” he said quietly, “Because then I’ll be sad for a very long time. I want the time to pass quickly.”

Oh.

Seungmin drifted off not long after, his breaths soft and even. But you stayed awake—long enough for the world outside to fall silent. Long enough to bury your face in the pillow, stifling the sobs that trembled past your chapped lips.

Seungmin was only nine.

But you were only thirteen.

And you missed your parents, so terribly so. You wished your mom was there, combing your hair with fingers that seemed to be made up of silk. You wished you could press your ear to her chest and listen to her heartbeat, breathe it in, soak in the love that the sound seemed to spell out for you.

You wished your dad was here, holding your hand in his much larger, weathered down one— rivulets of age running between his knuckles. You wished he’d carry you once more on his shoulders, tall enough for you to reach out to the stars, to foolishly believe you’d be able to graze them with your fingertips. You wished they were still here. You hated them for being gone. You hated yourself for hating them, even for a millisecond. For allowing the thought to filter through the endless void that constitutes your mind.

You thought of what it’d be like to float atop the sea near your home. Of letting the waves carry you deep into the darkness of the water. Of sinking deep enough that you wouldn’t feel anything anymore. You couldn’t bear it. You couldn’t bear having a heart that kept demanding you to live. It felt like a curse, like every heartbeat spelled out horrible truths for you. You wished for it to stop. All of it. All of you.

—

“Yah, Y/n why aren’t you smiling?” Changbin nearly shouts in your face and you and Jeongin scurry away on cue, cradling your ears at his loud voice.

You plaster a smile on your face, force the corners of your mouth to tug forward— “Because! You’re all sweaty and pressing onto me,” you say, and a cacophony of protests erupts all at once— “this is the sweat of hard work”, “but our sweat smells nice though!”, a groan, “that’s just you Hyunjin.”

Your yelp as a hand suddenly wraps around your wrist, Felix’s, pulling into the middle for a group hug.

“Stop, your sweat will rub off of me!” Your high-pitched shriek causes all of them to back off on cue, giggling loudly.

You don’t give yourself a second to breathe, afraid that your mask will slip away quicker than you can stop it. You take advantage of the commotion to kiss Seungmin’s cheek quickly, avoiding his gaze as you run off to the entrance. “You all did well! I’ll have to go now! My date is waiting!”

You don’t leave him time to respond as you scurry away, leaving the backstage. You can feel the oxygen settle like stones into the pit of your heart, weighing the rushing of your blood down. It takes you excruciatingly long to breathe. Being here suffocates you all of a sudden.

You remember your wish, for the waves to carry you away into whichever place they rest in. What a violent thing for a thirteen-year-old to wish for. What a violent thing to still seek now deep into your twenties. You felt guilty. To be surrounded by many people who love you and yet to not feel loved.

You’re almost outside when a warm hand curls around your wrist.

“Seungmin, I told you I’m—” you turn around expecting to see your little brother’s gaze, full of mischief, full of affection, only to be met with Chan’s worried one. Your retort dies on the tip of your tongue, like a deflating balloon. You try your hardest to plaster a smile on your face but it comes off like a grimace. Chan’s frown only deepens further.

“I—” you think of something quick to say, to get his scrutinizing gaze off of you. You can predict the question forming, swirling his mind, you already know which way this conversation will head. But all your thoughts seem to melt, your mind unable to conjure something to save your facade.

Your phone suddenly rings, Jaehyun’s name lighting up the screen. You go to reply when Chan grabs the phone away from your hands, silencing the call.

“What’s wrong?” he finally asks and it feels as if the walls are closing on you once more. You can hear the waves thrashing around, calling. “And don’t say you’re just feeling emotional because we made it so far.”

You chuckle faintly. You know it’s no use lying to Chan, of all people. “Jaehyun is calling again,” you point to your lit-up screen, and his lips press into a flat line, rejecting the call.

“Cancel your date,” he cocks a perfectly shaped eyebrow at you, “you know you have the most fun hanging out with me”.

“Alright, Mr. Cocky,” your heart is heavy as you attempt to smile at him, as if you’re forcing it to perform something it does not wish to, to pump blood for an action as meaningless as smiling. What purpose does it really serve if you are not happy? “I'm not in the mood for you to psychoanalyze me, though.”

“I won't,” his eyes soften as he takes one step closer to you. “We'll go on a drive okay, like old times?”

What is the point of pressing ice to a third-degree burn? Nothing, if not a fleeting respite, to close your eyes and pretend as if the burn would come undone, to soothe the fire only for it to barge in again. With a vengeance. Stronger. Harsher.

That is what being next to Chan is like to you.

“Fine,” you concede, though. Because you despise worrying people. You despise worrying Chan mostly. “I don’t want Seungmin to know though.”

“Don’t worry,” he smiles as he hands you back your phone, his thumb brushing your wrist for a second before he walks back. “I’ll come to your car, alright? Wait for me.”

—

It was a late summer night when Chan first discovered his love for music. He was only five, the air fragrant with the sweetness of strawberries and the tang of lemon zest. His curls were damp, clinging to his forehead from how hard he played with the neighborhood kids. The glass of water his mother handed him felt like the sweetest reprieve against his parched throat. Because Chan was happy, a joy so vivid it seemed to have taken roots within his veins, blooming into gleaming eyes and a smile so vast it could mend every crack in the universe.

He didn’t know it then, but there was a beautiful carelessness in the way he dashed outside, barefoot and giggling to order ice cream from the vendor near his house. Vanilla and bubblegum. In the way he did not use a spoon, instead licking the ice cream directly from the cone, as the sun melted it into rivers of sweetness that coated his fingers, leaving them sticky and fragrant. In the way he paid no mind to the earth clinging to his shorts, the sweat glistening on his face, or the syrupy mess on his hands. Because his happiness was so full he was bursting at the seams with it.

Because he was still a child, and children did not care for perfection. Children did not see the world through a lens that sought out every flaw— Chan did not learn yet how to turn that lens inward, harsher as he aimed it at himself.

His dad had brought him a ukulele, gently placing it into Chan’s small hands. The notes stumbled out, clumsy and wrong at first, as if their melody were caught in the strings, hesitant to be set free. It took a few tries for Chan to untangle them, but he didn’t mind. Because within these notes he found a new kind of joy—one that seemed to amplify his racing heartbeat, spilling into the room and filling it with the decadent taste of happiness.

It was a late autumn night when Chan first hated himself.

It was a particularly exhausting training day, the kind that left Chan barely upright as he walked down the stairs, his legs shaking with every step. He couldn’t bring himself to head back to the cramped dorms just yet, nor did he want to speak to anyone. Or rather, he no longer knew how to talk to anyone anymore. How could he make futile small talk when his soul was seized by a terrible longing, one that lingered bitterly on his tongue like the cough syrup he used to drink as a child?

See, how could he explain to anyone that he even missed that—the syrup, the warmth of his home, the pieces of a life that now felt as if they belonged to somebody other than him. He felt as if the wound only grew larger each day, spreading farther into his ribcage, infesting every part of his heart—every vein, every molecule—tainting them with the blueish colors of sorrow and ache.

Chan had found a quiet spot by the Han River, tucked far from prying eyes, his shoulders slouched under the weight of nostalgia, not the sweet one, rather, the one that felt like pine needles digging into his skin, at once. He liked it here—if he closed his eyes long enough he’d pretend the salty air was Australia’s breeze. He missed the wind there and how it ruffled his hair like an old friend. He missed his father’s grilled meat, his mother’s lemonade, his sister’s shenanigans. He missed his dog.

Would Berry even remember him now? Has it been too long?

It had.

The thought stung sharper than he expected. Was it all for nothing then? Does Berry not remember him for nothing?

Sometimes, it only takes one second for the world to shift off its axis, for the seconds to march forward but for you to remain stranded in the past. It took Chan this single question to break apart. It was as if someone had driven their fist into his chest, their claws digging deep, twisting around his heart until it felt on the brink of bursting— an ugly eruption of crimson, staining the blissful river with its bloodied ache.

What is wrong with me? He’s been asking himself the same question ever since.

It was a late winter night when Chan saw you for the very first time.

He was seventeen, shackles of self-doubt and insecurity wrapped around his ankles, digging deeper into his flesh with each year spent farther from his dream. Chan hated looking at his reflection in the mirror. He hated thinking of home. He avoided thinking of the future, of who he was, of who he hoped to become. Sometimes, he wished his mind could just go quiet. The voices were very loud and very mean.

Yet, unbeknownst to him, there were fragile blossoms of hope that fought to flourish in his chest, tentative, frail, since they grew in barren soil that didn’t quite believe in meeting the sun once more. But they were there.

Because Chan wasn’t alone anymore. Jisung joined him first, a kid with a passion that burns so fiercely it scathes his own heart at times. Then Jeongin, a voice singing of a reverence that shook Chan to his core. Hyunjin, who saw in dancing a form of salvation. Changbin, the missing golden piece to complete the infamous 3RACHA.

And then Seungmin.

It was through Seungmin that Chan saw you.

You had just dropped off Seungmin at the trainee dorms, bags full of homemade food in his hands. You hugged him tightly as he waved you off before disappearing into the building. And then, as soon as Seungmin was out of sight, Chan saw you collapse against the wall, your body wracked by cruel sobs. Cruel, because it was winter, and he knew that crying during the cold was somewhat harsher on the soul. You can’t cling to blooming flowers, to warm sun rays, to anything beautiful to ease your pain.

Cruel, because he recognized himself in you. In the way you rushed to hide your tears, wiping them away with your sleeves so that no one would see you. As if you were not deserving of this moment of weakness. As if you were not deserving of being human too.

“Do you still pick at your nails?” Chan asks, glancing at your figure as the light turns red. “Can’t give up bad habits?”

“You’re the last one to talk about bad habits, Mr. Never Sleeps.”

“Touché,” he chuckles, and you shake your head, the faintest smile lingering on your lips.

The seasons passed, and Chan’s fragmented heart had somehow found itself pieced together again—not to its original form. That would be a fool’s hope. People noticed the external changes—the different hues of his hair, how his muscles grew more chiseled with time—but they couldn’t see how pain and self-doubt had altered him, down to the very molecules of his being.

Because pain doesn’t pass like an angry cloud, casting a dark shadow only to drift away. That would be too kind, too merciful for emotions forged to drain you dry. No, it breaks you, reshapes you, molds you with the thorns in its calloused hands. It forces you to relearn who you are, how to breathe, where to stand, how to cling to the fragile thread that keeps you from stumbling back into the darkness.

The heart Chan carries isn’t his own anymore. It belongs mostly to sorrow now. But it still beats.

And so it did. And that winter passed, and so did spring. Then summer came, and fall returned once more.

And the years went by, and Chan blinked, and suddenly it had been ten years since he first saw you. And yet, it felt as though you remained stuck in winter. Because you did not have anyone’s hand to hold, warm enough to make you believe that summer would come again.

“Is this about Seungmin?” Chan asks softly, his fingernails drumming absentmindedly against the steering wheel.

“No, yes—I… I don’t know,” you sigh in exasperation, and he nods, turning his head to glance at you.

You first went on a night walk with Chan when you were still a law student, and his group had just debuted. Your apartment was under renovation, so you had to stay in the boys’ dorm for a few days. It was late into the night, with both of you the only ones still awake, working through your respective tasks in silence. He had offered to go for a walk, and you had accepted.

Neither of you spoke. Chan pretended not to see the stray tears that silently slipped down your cheeks, with no previous warning. He wondered what had weighed on your heart so heavily that it searched desperately for any moment of solitude to escape.

Your eyes are distant now, glazed over as if your mind has carried you to a place where the sun never rises. You bring your hand to your mouth once more, but Chan gently pushes it away, cradling your fingers in his palm.

He has to pretend that the sensation of your hand in his doesn’t feel like a thunderbolt—a surge of electricity that shoots up from the tips of his toes, swirling deep into his chest and settling into warmth in his stomach.

“It will bleed, and then you’ll come whining because it hurts,” he jokes, though his heart pounds in his throat, threatening to choke him.

“When did I do that?” you exclaim, but you don’t pull your hand away.

Your hand is in his.

Your hand is in his.

Your hand is in his.

“Besides,” you say, your fingers slipping from his grasp to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, “You know I’m the last person to ever whine.”

Was it normal to still feel your hand on his? For his hand to memorize the warmth of yours so quickly? As if it had been thirsty, like a man astray in the desert, longing for what a drop of water would feel against his parched throat.

“Yeah, you should do that more often, actually,” he chastises softly. You exhale a shuddered breath in response.

It feels like a lifetime before you speak again. “You heard Seungmin’s speech,” you say quietly, like a wounded animal, hesitant and wary of what approaching another human might bring, of what baring your heart might cost.

Chan wants to say: It is safe with me, I would shred my own heart if it meant keeping yours intact.

“Hard to miss, since I was on stage next to him,” he jokes, and you finally giggle—a real laugh, not the artificial ones you’ve been giving him. It feels like Australia’s breeze ruffling his hair, like he can finally breathe again.

“You know,” you say, your voice shifting to something gentler, “It reminded me of Seungmin when he was still young, discovering the concept of forever.” A bittersweet smile tugs at your lips. “Seungmin was short, pale, and so fragile that I was afraid the faintest wind would break him. You should’ve seen him. When he looked up at me, his eyes were wide, his irises pitch black, and they looked so trusting. He was an easy target for the kids who needed someone to blame, someone to pour their anger into, to soothe their bruised hearts. There was no one else to punish. Too much injustice, and no respite.”

Chan’s hands tighten around the steering wheel. To think of such sad times for both you and him. Should he rewrite the march of time, he would have forced the universe to make him your friend, to entwine your hand in his, to stop the cold from making a home within the pathways of your heart.

“I remember when I first saw him. He was very shy. Like he didn’t quite know how to carry himself yet. But he ranked second in the open audition.”

“He did,” you smile. It’s a bit different from all your grins. You’re always different when it comes to Seungmin—softer, bursting with pride.

“And…” Chan trails off, glancing at you from the corner of his eye, a wide smile tugging at his lips. “I remember you.”

“Oh, please, no,” you hide your face in your palms. “That’s so embarrassing.”

Chan chuckles softly, but in his heart, he remembers your first encounter with such clarity. He had found you many things—beautiful, brave, human. ‘Embarrassing’ had never been an adjective that crossed his mind when it came to you.

He remembers.

“Here,” Chan handed you a handkerchief, and you looked up at him, a frown deepening in your eyes. Time had somehow stilled then. The seconds felt like years passing on Chan. The cold seemed to dissipate, his heart emanating a warmth he hadn’t known before. Everywhere. Consuming him.

You blinked, and time resumed, and yet Chan was changed.

“Thank you,” you said tentatively. “Something got into my eye.” You attempted to explain, and he simply nodded, humoring you.

“I figured. There’s a lot of dust around here. From the trees and all,” He cringed internally, realizing how silly that sounded. So, he fell into silence, as did you, both of you just looking at each other. Chan had never felt this way before. He ached to ask you what was wrong, if he could do anything to alleviate your pain. If you too would like to break near Han River with him.

“I’m Chan. Bang Chan. Christopher, actually. But you can call me Chan.”

You had giggled then, and his ears burned so fiercely he was sure they were a shade of fuchsia, bright and loud. The sound was melodious, like notes strung along a flute just right. Soothing and warm. He loved your laugh. He wished his piano could recreate it. He wished he could save it so he could dance to it later.

“Alright, Christopher Actually Chan,” you smiled, and his cheeks flared a shade brighter. He silently prayed you’d account for the harsh winds that wrapped around you both.

“And I know you, actually,” you continued.

His eyes widened in surprise, and you chuckled softly at his reaction. He liked making you laugh. He liked it so much he’d make a fool out of himself if he needed to. “I’m not a stalker, Kim Seungmin told me about you. He’s my brother.”

“Right,” Chan responded, his usual confidence slipping for just a moment. He was never awkward—social prowess was one of his greatest strengths. Still, with you, all semblance of normal interaction vanished. There was something in your gaze, something so beautifully haunting, like the sight of tree branches in autumn. Something that once was whole, now stripped bare, yet still captivating in its vulnerability. It made him wonder if beauty like this could ever be captured in music.

“I’m Y/n, by the way,” you bowed slightly, before quickly turning and walking away. Chan watched, breath hitched in his throat, as you paused, and then as if pulled by some invisible thread, you turned back to him.

Without a word, you grabbed his hand, gently placing something within his palm.

A cherry lollipop.

“As a thank you,” you said, a bit sheepishly, eyes still puffy from the sobs that kept you prisoner just a few moments ago. “Ah, and, you better debut with my brother!”

You pointed at him, and in that moment, a grin broke through your face—one so radiant, so full of life, he wondered if this was what witnessing the first sunset felt like to humans. A beauty so grand, so overwhelming, he didn’t quite know what to do with it.

Chan’s fate was sealed right then and there—he would spend the next ten years chasing after your smile, no matter how foolish it seemed.

For one would ask, what’s a drop of white against a sea of black? What use are cherries’ scent before the stench of sorrow? And the answer would always be everything. Everything, if it’s you.

Chan clears his throat, settling on the least incriminating adjective of the bunch. “You were brave, Cherry. You still are.”

“You think too highly of me,” you snort.

“I think of you just right, actually.”

You are nearly home when, out of nowhere, you speak. “What if I told you I’m terrified?” The words rush out, as though you are afraid they’d die in your throat before they could reach him.

Chan’s heart tightens in worry. He parks hastily in front of your place, the engine still humming as he turns to face you, you who’s like a Russian doll—layer upon layer of your soul wrapped carefully, each one guarding the other.

“Why?” he asks, his voice barely a whisper, thick with concern.

“I didn’t want to tell Seungmin,” you begin, pausing to bite your lower lip. “He’d be heartbroken... I know him, I—” you falter, your voice cracking just slightly. “My new case... It's about Promise Orphanage. They want to tear it down to build a luxury apartment complex. A fucking billionaire’s investment, with pools and golf courses.”

“Sun Corporation,” you explain, “it’s owned by the son of Gyeongdo Holdings’ CEO. They’ve been harassing Miss Jeeho for two months now because she refuses to desert the orphanage. It’s a mess, Chan.” you’re angry, he can feel it, the rage burning bright right beneath your skin.

“The city council caved in and granted them a permit because the land belongs to the state and this project apparently serves public interest, but that’s bullshit. Who would benefit from this other than billionaires?” you bite your lower lip, sucking in a deep breath. “I told you Winter became the vice director of the orphanage, right? She just learned about this and told me. They’re offering compensation but I’ve dealt with those kinds of people. They’re greedy. They’re corrupt.”

“I couldn’t turn my back on it,” you whisper. “I had to take the case. Those kids… they’ll have nowhere to go. And I know how cold it feels, how brutal it is when you lose your family and still have to look for someplace to call home.”

Your eyes glisten, tears clinging to the edge like dew on a leaf, only to be blinked away before they fall. How much does it cost your soul to bear this weight? How much longer until you fracture—like a pomegranate violently split open, bits of your soul scattering out in splatters of raw scarlet.

Chan’s palm finds your knee, squeezing it gently. “You’re worried they’ll end up forgetting about the orphanage and not building a new one?”

“Yeah. They did this before. I checked the civil files. They built over a nursing home and never gave them proper compensation, paid hush money to the owner to keep them from suing. What if I can’t stop them? This is all those kids have. This is all Winter has. Miss Jeeho too.”

“They won’t. you’ll stop them. I know you will, Cherry, alright?” he says with all the sincerity he can muster. You seem dubitative and he sighs, reaching out to hold your cold hands. Please warm up.

“You will, okay? I have no doubt you will,” he repeats with a fire that seems to light you up. A sudden light reflects off the broken shards of your heart.

“I will.”

—

Chan: you up?

Your phone lights up, distracting you from the mountain of paperwork scattered across your desk.

Y/n: What a fuck boyish text

Chan: akldkdkd so you’re definitely up

Y/n: I’m working on the case :(

Chan: open up!! i have snacks

You blink at the message, confused, before padding to the door. When you open it, Chan stands there, a wide grin stretching across his face. He’s wearing a grey varsity jacket that drapes across his broad shoulders perfectly, and a blue navy cap. You still don’t understand why he rarely allows his curls to see the light.

“What are you doing here?” you ask, crossing your arms.

“I got bored alone in the studio,” he shrugs casually. “So I thought I’d drop by.”

“Drop by?” you repeat, laughing softly. “Your studio is on the other side of town.”

“Okay, I guess you don’t want fish cake and tteokbokki—”

“Come back,” you interrupt, wrapping your hand around his forearm and tugging him inside. His body is warm, and it is only then do you realize just how cold your apartment truly is.

“It’s a mess, I’m sorry,” you apologize, glancing at the dirty plates in the sink and the papers all over the desk, and the floor, and the couch too.

“Need me to tidy up again?” he teases, grinning as he steps inside.

You swat his arm, rolling your eyes. “You did it once because I was bedridden, and Seungmin was in Japan for a schedule.”

“I don’t mind, Cherry,” he says softly, setting the food down on your coffee table. His gaze flickers to yours. “I’d do it even if you weren’t sick, you know.”

Chan has a habit of saying things that send your heart into a slow, painful thrum—one long pulse that stretches endlessly, forcing you to acknowledge its existence. But, as always, you avoid it. You never allow yourself to question the warmth that only blooms when he’s near.

You both sit cross-legged on the living room floor, the spicy scent of tteokbokki wafting between you. For a while, the only sound heard in the apartment is the soft clink of chopsticks against takeout containers.

“Any updates on the case?” he asks.

You nod, running a hand through your hair. “I filed for an injunction,” you say, sighing deeply. “Trying to stop the demolition for now, at least until I figure out what to do next. The city council is ridiculous.They keep saying this is for the public benefit, but how is that true? Who benefits from luxury penthouses except rich assholes? And because the orphanage is on state land, they think they can just sell it off like it’s nothing.”

Chan’s eyes have been tracking each one of your words intently, drinking in every syllable that drips from your mouth. He has long thought your calling was law, there is a certain logic in you, a peculiar fire that burns in your core that seems inherent to this job. Though oftentimes he wonders if this is truly what you’ve always wanted. Had you been raised in your home would you have turned out differently? Would you like to pursue something else? Would you sing like Seungmin too?

“I’m trying to figure out who’s behind those apartment deals. Jaehyun’s helping me track it down.”

Chan’s eyes darken, like a storm has gathered within his irises. He doesn’t realize his jaw is ticking. You do. You pretend as if you don’t notice.

“Jaehyun… are you guys together yet?” Chan asks, and your heart pauses at the change in conversation. You shake your head. “Hm? No. We’re just friends.” you say between bites.

“You go on dates with your friends?” he chuckles, but there is nothing funny in the sound. His eyes don’t morph into crescents, his dimples refuse to show.

“You know, we’re just messing around, or whatever,” you quickly say.

“Right.”

Chan remembers the moment with striking clarity—when you first mentioned Jaehyun. You were both at a hotpot restaurant, the steam from the bubbling broth curling around you.

You had said his name casually, A journalist you’d met at one of the court hearings, someone with the same fiery passion for justice that you had. He was annoying, you’d said, always bothering you with his questions, his relentless pursuit of truth. But there was something else in your voice when you spoke of him—something new, something soft and fond that made Chan’s chest tighten.

“Anyways, he’s friends with one of the junior employees in the city council,” you continue, voice tinged with frustration. “So he’s been trying to convince him to help us out.”

“An insider,” Chan says absently, his voice flat, like the surface of a pond long undisturbed by pebbles. He’s thinking, how long is it acceptable to harbor a crush on someone? Three months? Six? A year? What if Chan’s been carrying this weight for ten years? 3650 days spent thinking of you, chasing the shadow of your image away from his eyelids at night, yet always yearning for a dream where all he’d glimpse is you.

What if bile rises in his throat at the thought of Jaehyun so close to you, his fingers tracing the lines of your lips, memorizing the shape of your body, the rise and fall of your chest as you sleep? What if he cannot bear it, cannot stand the thought of anyone else knowing you in ways he never will?

You sigh, fingers digging into your temple as the weight of your exhaustion becomes tangible. “It’s tiring, Chan,” you admit as your forehead rests against your knees. Chan feels something shift inside him—a peculiar ache that only surfaces when you are in pain.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his hand hovering above your back before it settles there. He slowly pats your back, dragging his nails along your spine. It’s very quiet all of the sudden, a calm that only manifests when two souls, not bodies, are sitting by one another. You lean into his touch, your body angling towards him like a sunflower tilting towards the sun.

“Do you remember when the possibility of us debuting became very high?” he says and you nod, resting your cheek against your knee to look up at him. His hand doesn’t stop caressing your back. You don’t wish for it to.

“What is it with you and my most embarrassing memories?” you giggle quietly only to sober up at the sincerity you gather in his eyes. They are like pools of amber, the color of decadent chocolate, like the rich bark of trees kissed by sunlight.

“Everyone was out and I was the only one in the dorm.” He recounts the memory as if you weren’t there; as if he needed you to hear this, not as a participant but as an outsider. “And then you came knocking on my door, disheveled, looking like you hadn’t slept in days. You asked me, ‘Is it true? Are you debuting soon?’”

You close your eyes, the weight of that moment flooding you—how raw and real it was. You remember it vividly: the way his eyes met yours, like he had seen you for the first time right there and then.

“You were petrified. Because yes, you worked overtime to pay off Seungmin’s vocal lessons, you supported him so much his confidence never wavered, and yet, you were scared,” his words soften, and the pit in your throat tightens. You can’t speak even if you wish to.

“I said yes and you started crying. and I hadn’t seen you cry in three years. Not since the night we first met.” You remember his worried gaze, how he sank to the ground with you when your knees crumbled beneath you. He called you Cherry for the first time then, as if he had kept the nickname a secret, wishing to speak it outloud but never daring to. He did it because he thought back to your first meeting, and the cherry lollipop in your hand. You thought of it too.

“Seungmin,” you heaved, “please protect him, Chan, I— please, you have to protect him, please.”

“What’s wrong?” He panicked. “Talk to me Cherry, hm?”

“What if they are unkind to him? What if they somehow find out he’s an orphan and use that against him? He doesn’t like telling me anymore when it hurts. What if he’s hurt and he can’t tell me?”

His thumb swipes at the lone tear slipping from your eyes, gentle and warm. What if Chan is too kind to you? What if your heart wasn’t crafted to handle it?

“Then when all the boys came back ten minutes later you smiled as if nothing happened. I had seen you break down on the floor a few moments prior, and yet, you found the strength to smile, so as to not worry anyone, especially Seungmin.”

Chan’s heart throbs in his chest, the rhythm uneven and insistent. His voice wavers as his gaze locks with yours. Your eyes glimmer, like a river kissed by the summer sun, like stained glass basked in the light of a centuries old cathedral.

His palms cup your cheeks, tentative and gentle, akin to a flower breaking through the soil for the first time. “You are the strongest person I know,” he says, his voice soft, “The most hardworking, too. You care, so much, even when you try to hide it. It’s that passion that makes you the best at what you do. You’ll win this case, and every case after it, because you’re the one handling them.”

His thumb brushes against your skin. “And you believed in me when I said I’d protect Seungmin. So I believe in you, Cherry. Please believe in yourself too.”

You nod, over and over, like a broken record stuck on a single note. Before he can process it, your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him close. Your head finds its place in the crook of his neck, and for a fleeting second, he’s frozen, the world tilting off its axis. Then, slowly, his hands slide to your waist as he breathes you in—your shampoo, your favorite laundry detergent, the faint trace of cherry lingering on your skin like a memory of a distant summer.

“Thank you, Channie,” you whisper against his shoulder.

He nods, his voice muffled by the turmoil caging his heart. “You’re welcome, Cherry.”

For how long is it acceptable to love someone who doesn’t love you? Chan doesn’t know. He doesn’t really want an answer. Even a lifetime wouldn’t be a waste if it’s spent loving you.

—

“Three penthouses are already registered under different names,” Jaehyun tells you, handing over a couple of lease contracts. You’re seated in a small café near Promise Orphanage, waiting for Winter to join you. The junior employee in Sun Corp. has finally caved and handed over the registrants to Jaehyun—names of the people who have already secured luxury apartments, long before the project even saw light.

“Park Yuna, Lee Seo-Jun, and Choi Joon-Ho,” you read aloud, glancing up at Jaehyun, who’s already smirking.

“Park Yuna…” you pause, “isn’t she the wife of the city council president?”

“Bingo!” he exclaims, his arms wide open, head tipped back as a sinister giggle rips out of his throat.

“Oh gosh,” you cover your face as some customers turn to look at you. “This isn’t an action movie stop it.”

Jaehyun pouts as you swat his arm and you laugh despite yourself.

“Anyway, you’re right. She’s his wife. I also found out Seo-Jun and Joon-Ho are tied to prominent council members. Second cousin and son-in-law. They had their penthouses promised before the project was ever public.”

“They didn’t even register them under their names. Subtle,” you mutter, shaking your head.

“Yeah, I bet they weren’t even expecting Miss Jeeho to resist the compensation.”

You sigh, leaning back in your chair. “They think those kids are just pawns, something they can move around for their benefit. They don’t get that those children have nothing but each other and the comfort of a familiar bed.”

The conversation lulls. Jaehyun grows quiet as you stare holes into your coffee, swirling the caramel syrup into the dark liquid. But no amount of sweetness can mask the bitterness on your tongue—the bitter taste of injustice, of watching people prioritize their greed over others’ lives.

“We’ll gather more evidence of their corruption,” Jaehyun says eventually, his tone firm. “And when we do, we’ll confront them. They won’t risk this becoming public with so many global investors involved.”

You nod. “You’re right.”

He leans back in his chair, a teasing glint in his eyes. “By the way, why did you cancel on me two nights in a row?”

The question catches you off guard, and your mind drifts to last night: Chan showing up at your home, his comforting words, the warmth of his hand on your back, the scent of pinewood and cinnamon lingering in the air, the clean apartment you woke up to. Something stirs in your chest, warm and soft.

“Chan came over,” you admit.

Jaehyun whistles, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.

“Chan,” he says, drawing out the name.

“Mhm,” you reply, suddenly shy under his gaze.

“The man who calls you Cherry.”

“Yeah. Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because you’re so oblivious.”

“Agreed,” a familiar voice chimes in as Winter slides into the seat next to you. She presses a quick kiss to your cheek before sitting back with a knowing smile.

You groan, burying your face in your hands. “This isn’t the subject of discussion,” you say pointedly, glaring at both of them.

You’re momentarily distracted by Winter’s appearance. Her cheeks are hollow, her eyes shadowed with exhaustion. She’s poured so much love back into the orphanage she grew up in. Losing it would destroy you both.

“That man likes her,” Winter says casually, sipping from your drink.

You glare at her. “No, he doesn’t. He’s my friend.”

Winter raises an eyebrow at you. “He always looks at you differently. His tone is softer when he talks to you.”

Your eyes drift away, thoughts pulling you back to last night—to how Chan stayed with you until dawn, watching awful dramas with you despite his packed schedule, simply because he was worried.

“What’s the point of him liking me if I can’t like him back?” you murmur, voice barely audible. “My heart isn’t made for this.”

“Have you ever given yourself a chance?” Jaehyun asks and you scoff.

“A chance for what? To hurt someone?” you reply, shaking your head. “I don’t know how to love. I never had the time to learn. I was too busy surviving. We were,” you say glancing at Winter who averts her gaze.

This suddenly felt like a conversation too grim to have in the open. To speak of how your heart has been morphed into a cowardly being, shrinking at the simple thought of being looked at. What would anyone behold anyways? If not an organ that’s too battered, too bloody, unworthy of being seen, let alone to be loved.

“Anyway,” you say, forcing your voice to steady, “Can you set me up a meeting with that employee? We need more insider evidence and he’s the only one who can help us. I’d like to talk to him alone.”

“Yeah, I’ll try to convince him,” Jaehyun reassures you. The three of you nod and dive back into the stacks of paperwork, but the words blur in front of your eyes, forming an incoherent mass.

There are things you’ve always wished to escape—dark truths you thought you'd one day outrun. You still haven’t. Perhaps, you will never.

Perhaps, had you not been shaped by the cruelty of others, had you not been born beneath a star soaked in grief. Perhaps, if you never had to carve pieces of yourself out to survive, if you had the time, the strength to sit quietly with your own heart, to listen to who it wanted you to be, then, maybe, just maybe, you would have known the warmth of another’s touch.

You would have allowed yourself to melt into the softness of their gaze, you would have let your cheeks flush freely with the sweetness of their words, with no restraints, no shame. But the world is not kind. It will not offer you such a path. And so, this is your curse: to be one of grief’s favorite beholders, for you to wear it like a second flesh. To cling to it, as it clings to you because it is all you’ve ever known.

—

Your mother’s fingers were always warm as they entwined with yours, no matter the season. You remember the feel of them particularly when you went on walks by the ocean, her hand tugging you close to her frame. She was like an angel, walking softly on earth, coaxing the waves to slow down their feverish run as she brushed against their milky foam.

You can’t see her clearly in your memories anymore. Your temples ache each time you try to picture the fine details of her features. But you remember her humming along with the waves, as if singing a song to the sea, thanking them for the salty breeze they carry within their tides and swells. You remember closing your eyes to soak it in, as if you had known, even back then, that you’d forget the map of moles drawn upon her face, and the specific hue of her hair against the sun, and yet you wouldn’t forget her voice filling up your heart to the brim.

You remember coming home and trying to replicate her humming, through broken whistles at first, then, adding words where you saw fit. You remember singing to your mother in your living room. You remember feeling as if the sea was lodged right within your heart.

You loved singing, for the three years before your parents’ deaths. You sang in chorals, you sang to the birds and to the flowers blooming in your garden. You sang to the sun and to the moon. You sang to your reflection in the mirror. You sang, because it made you feel like your mother talking to the waves. And then, your parents died, and the music within you did too. The flowers, the sun, the birds… They were all an unworthy audience all of the sudden; since they all turned blind to your voice, allowing for your entire world to be stripped away from you. Leaving you bare, rootless.

You were then forced to learn that there isn’t just one big death in a lifetime. That the heart can perish multiple times before it finally stops beating completely. It felt like a little death when you began to loathe the ocean. It felt like a little death when Seungmin told you that he wished to become a singer.

You too, had wanted to, once. Maybe. If you had been given enough time to think.

It felt like a little death when you stepped into a recording booth for the first time.

You’d told Winter you were desperate for money. She mentioned agencies looking for anonymous artists to record backing vocals for prominent groups. It paid well, she said.

Your voice was well-liked. Not overpowering, but subtle, like a floral perfume—soft, seamless, blending effortlessly with whoever you sang alongside. It paid well to sing lifeless songs, to let your name dissolve into the footnotes of prominent groups, 2PM, Twice… Even your brother’s group when he debuted.

You knew that fans liked to speculate on who you were. You knew that the songs in which you sang were popular. And yet, it did not matter.

It felt like death, to kill your voice and for the sun to keep rising regardless.

“You were brave, you still are, Cherry.” Chris had told you. You wanted to believe him so badly. You wanted for the world to split open and atone for what it did to you. You wanted for the world to mend the cracks in your soul. You wanted for the world to disappear with you in it.

Your legs are growing weary of driving for so long with no destination in mind. Your eyes burn from how long you’ve stared at the road, unblinking. Somehow, you find yourself outside of Chan’s and Jeongin’s place.

It would feel like death too for you to head back to your empty apartment.

You grab your phone, sending Chan a message before you can second-guess yourself.

Y/n: Are you home?

You wait, fingers hovering over the delete button. His reply comes three seconds later.

Chan: yeah, innie is sleeping over at seungmin’s

A heartbeat.

Chan: why? are you here? are you alright?

You sigh, resting your forehead against the steering wheel. What the fuck are you doing? But still, you unbuckle your seatbelt and walk hurriedly to his door.

You knock. He opens immediately, eyebrows furrowed.

“I’m okay,” you say quickly, expecting the deluge of questions swarming in his mind.

“It’s 1 a.m.,” he replies, concern etched into his features.

“I can read the clock,” you joke, and his pout deepens as he steps closer. He’s beautiful in a way that makes your soul wish to split open to escape it. It overwhelms you.

“I’m just anxious about the next few days,” you admit.

“What’s happening?” he asks, already taking your coat and leading you to the kitchen. He pours you a glass of cold water, just the way you like it.

“I’m meeting a junior employee at Sun Corp. He’s called San. I need to convince him to give me materials proving the corporation’s corruption for our case.”

Chan’s worried gaze meets yours, and you shake your head quickly.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you murmur. “I didn’t come here to worry you. I just… I wanted your company.”

Chan’s demeanor softens at your words, like white foam finally resting against the warm sand.

“I think I feel less anxious around you,” you add, the warmth in your cheeks suddenly betraying you. Winter’s words echo in your mind: That man likes you. What a foolish thought to engrain in your mind.

“Oh, I…” His words stumble, and his fingers flex as if they’re debating reaching for you. Instead, he lowers them and smiles softly.

“So do I, Cherry,” he admits. His voice is gentle, his ears tinting red. “And I could come with you to meet San, if you’d like.”

“Really, you’d do that for me?” his being slacks off, his shoulders sinking low. If you were in a battle, this would be him dropping his sword, kneeling.

“Of course, you don’t even need to ask.”

You see it then—visions of yourself wrapping your arms around Chan’s neck in his kitchen, holding him long enough for his warmth to seep into your soul, shielding it from the many winters to come. You imagine, for a fleeting moment, putting down your defenses and letting one human in.

Perhaps this is the most violent act of all—to have visceral fantasies of something as innocent as a hug.

“Were you working?” you ask, and Chan clears his throat, nodding. “Yeah, working on some new songs. But I’ll take a break now.”

“The mighty producer CB97, taking a break for little old me. How wonderful,” you tease, a giggle escaping your lips. He rolls his eyes, his tongue pressing against his cheek in mock exasperation.

“Should we have a drink?” he offers, and you clap your hands excitedly. “Yes, I’d like that.”

It’s easy to recall with Chan—to relive the memories alive in your shared history. The summer vacation in Jeju, grilling meat for the boys, playing video games till dawn. Chan face-planting into the snow, the times you hid backstage to surprise them. You remember him accidentally body-slamming you onto the floor, the way you nearly drowned in the pool from laughing too hard.

The clock creeps toward four a.m., but you don’t feel tired. You’re tipsy, the wine warming your stomach—a bright, crisp taste, like biting into a ripe apricot. And you are happy. Your soul feels satiated, as though this laughter could sustain you for a lifetime.

Your giggles fade, leaving a comforting silence between you. You’re close to all the boys—you care for them deeply. But Chan is different. Because he dropped by only because he was worried. Because he calls you Cherry. So he remembers, and not alot of people remember you.

“I was thinking on my drive home of this… melody my mom used to sing,” you whisper, staring ahead. Your shoulder brushes against Chan’s. You rarely speak about your parents. Never this openly. Chan knows this well.

“She used to hum it to the ocean, to me when I’m about to sleep, when I was sick, when she was cooking,” you smile softly, bringing the drink to your lips. “I’ve been trying to replicate it on the piano but I’ve never managed to.”

You turn to look at him, only to find his gaze already fixed on you. His eyes are wide, vulnerable, twinkling like stars witnessing the birth of a galaxy. He licks his lips, hesitant, and your eyes linger on them. They are glossy, red, and impossibly inviting.

“Can I hear it?”

You start humming, singing what you remember off of your fragmented memory. Chan listens intently, his eyebrows tightly knit in concentration. You hear the waves, you taste the salt in the breeze. You miss the sea.

You finish, resting your cheek against his shoulder. “Thank you for sharing,” he says.

“Thank you for listening,” you whisper, and your eyes are closed, but you feel it, his lips pressing to your temple, soft as a petal. It quakes through you, unmaking you, as though your soul has been cleaved wide open. You are a supernova, unraveling, scattering light in a beautiful, dying burst.

You wake up to a note on the bedside, and a pink plaid blanket draped over you. It hits you then: you’re in Chan’s room. A blush spreads across your cheeks, igniting your skin. When did you fall asleep? Did he carry you here? Of course he did. Did he press another kiss to your temple? Why would you think of that? Still, you can’t help but wonder if he too felt it— the way your soul trembled under the weight of his touch.

You imagine him writing the note, his figure hunched near you, glancing at your peaceful form, his eyes fleeting to yours as if making sure you were still there.

‘I’ve made you breakfast, it’s in the kitchen. I have an early morning schedule, but I’ll see you tomorrow, Cherry. Thank you for coming to see me :)’

You close your eyes, burying your head deeper into the pillows surrounding you. You can’t help but inhale their scent—traces of Chan lingering in the fabric, pinewood and cinnamon, intoxicating, as though they were made for you alone to breathe in. Your skin tingles with the thought, as you imagine him beside you, what it would be like to press your face into the soft curve of his neck, to take in that scent and to fill all the hollow spaces inside you with it.

You are ashamed, even in the privacy of your thoughts, of this longing, of this sharp ache. For even thinking, daring to dream of a world where you could behold his warm hands into your butchered ones. Where he’d let you. Where you’d let yourself.

It feels like death to think of Chan, it feels like living too.

—

You find Chan leaning casually against his car, arms crossed over his chest. With his Chrome Hearts beanie nearly swallowing his eyes and a mask covering the rest of his face, he looks almost intimidating. Almost—because you can’t help but giggle at his over-the-top efforts to stay incognito.

“I think we’ll scare the poor boy away,” you tease in greeting, and he huffs, reaching out to lightly punch your arm.

“Do you want me gone? It’s fine, I can leave,” he mumbles, his pout clear even behind the mask. “It’s not like I made all this effort to come here—”

“Oh my god, you’re still a whiny baby at your big age,” you cut him off, laughing as you both step into the café.

You choose a table by the large windows, the sunlight streaming in and bathing the space in golden light. As Chan sits across from you, his grin spreads wide, making his eyes crinkle and nearly disappear. You miss the sight of his dimples, all of the sudden.

San arrives ten minutes later, sliding into the seat across from you. His eyes dart to the door every few seconds, as though someone might burst through at any moment. He fidgets in his chair, tugging at his slightly askew tie, beads of sweat gathering on his brow despite the cool air conditioning.

Your fingers curl loosely around a lukewarm cup of coffee you’ve yet to sip. “Thank you for meeting me, San. I really appreciate it,” you begin softly, and he barely nods. He reaches for his iced Americano but pulls his hand back.

“Look, Miss Kim,” he stammers, voice barely above a whisper. “I gave Jaehyun the names of the apartment holders, but what you’re asking of me now... it’s dangerous.” He avoids your gaze, eyes fixed on the floor, as if it might open up and swallow him whole. “They’re not the kind of people you cross. You have no idea how high this goes.”

“I do,” you say firmly, leaning forward. “I know exactly how high it goes. That’s why I’m here. And that’s why I need your help.”

San hesitates, his lips pressing into a thin line. His gaze flickers to Chan before meeting yours again.

You take a deep breath, knowing how delicate this conversation is, how crucial it is too. “Look, I’m not asking you to go public,” you murmur, lowering your voice. “I just need the truth. Documents, emails… anything that proves there’s a corrupt force behind this decision. I’ll keep your name out of it. I promise. Whistleblowers are common in our lines of work. No one has to know where it came from.”

“I want to help you, I do,” he says, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. “But they will find out, and I’ll lose everything,” he pauses, shoulders slumping, “I’m the sole caregiver for my mom… She’s in the hospital, and I still have bills to pay. You understand, right?”

Your eyes soften as you watch his anxious form. He’s still young, shouldering a burden you know all too well. You think he will understand, only if you bare a part of your heart to him.

“San,” you start gently, “I once lived in Promise Orphanage too.” you admit and his eyes slightly widen. “Before that, I was in two other orphanages in the city…” You pause, looking for the right words. “I still have nightmares about those places. About how cruel some of the people there were.” Your voice cracks, and Chan’s warm hand finds your knee.

“It’s hard to be happy in a place like that, but Promise Orphanage was the only place I ever thought of as home. It felt like family. I still visit to play with the kids. They’re happy, I see it, as best as they can, anyways. But they’re well taken care of. I know Miss Jeeho, I know Winter. They love those children. They allow them to dream. They don’t deserve to have their only familiarity stripped away from them.”

San swallows hard. "And what happens when Sun Corp. finds out anyway?”

“You’re here,” you reply, “you’re afraid, but you also believe in what we’re fighting for. Otherwise, you would’ve rejected this meeting.” You sigh, your voice softening. “You’re a good person, San. Don’t let them corrupt you too. You know this is wrong.”

“I do,” he admits, voice shaky. His resolve is unraveling.

“Look, I know they gifted the city council members penthouses to sway them in their favor. But no judge would consider this hard evidence since I can’t prove intent. What we need is what’s inside your office. You know, emails, memos, contracts, whatever. I can’t do this without you, San. I mean it.”

San stares at you for a long moment. Finally, he sighs, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “There are emails,” he admits quietly. “Some from the CEO, discussing how to ‘incentivize’ council members. And I’ve seen the transaction logs... Large deposits to personal accounts, listed as ‘consulting fees.’ It’s not hard to connect the dots.”

Your heart leaps in your throat. “That’s exactly what we need. Can you get copies?”

“I think so,” he says reluctantly. Then, in a quieter tone he adds, “I lost my father too, you know.” There’s a rawness in his voice that only those who’ve been burdened by grief can understand. “I’ll find a way. For those kids.”

You reach out, briefly covering his hand with yours. “Thank you,” you whisper, and he nods, a miniscule smile finally stretching across his lips.

-

“Should we celebrate?” Chan asks, his voice light, once you’re settled in his car. For a moment, you hesitate. Celebration feels foreign to you. You’ve been the prosecutor and the wrongfully accused, you tie the noose and gasp when it tightens. But now, it seems like you’ve closed this case without needing a trial. That’s something worth celebrating.

“You know what? Hell yeah,” you giggle, and Chan’s face lights up like the sun cresting the horizon. “Great! Because I already planned for us to!” His laughter bubbles over, and you yelp as the car suddenly accelerates.

“Cherry! you’re free tomorrow, right?” he shouts over the music, and you recognize the song—No. 1 Party Anthem.

So you’re on the prowl, wondering whether she left already or not…

“Hmmm, let me check if my schedule is clear for being kidnapped…” you tease, pretending to swipe through an imaginary calendar. He chuckles, his dimple deepening, and the sound makes you feel giddy, like champagne fizzing in your veins. “Looks like I am!”

“Perfect! Let’s go on a trip, then!”

Sunglasses in doors are par for the course…

“Where to?” you laugh, and he simply winks in response, “You’ll see.”

“Fine, you be mysterious, and I’ll…” You grab his Fendi sunglasses from the console, perching them on your head, “I’ll be your passenger princess.”

It doesn’t escape him— how readily you’ve let go, how much you’ve placed in his hands without hesitation. It makes him want to drive further, faster, to a place where your bruised hearts won’t catch up with the two of you.

Her eyes invite you to approach…

You stop along the way at a small, unassuming seafood stand nestled along the coast—one Chan seems to know well. The air is alive with the sizzle of grills and the briny scent of the ocean. The ahjumma behind the counter greets Chan warmly, her hands deftly working as she prepares your meal.

You’re served grilled crab, its shell glistening in a marinade of soy sauce, chili, and honey. The flavors burst on your tongue—savory and spicy with a delicate sweetness that reminds you of the sea itself. Chan insists on feeding you the oysters, gently placing each one on your plate. They’re buttery and tangy, kissed with lemon and sea salt and the warmth of Chan’s gaze.

Your heart softens as you watch Chan chatting easily with the older woman, a laugh bubbling out of him as she teases him for eating too fast, as he fist-bumps her grandson as he clears the plates. How tragic it would have been for him to remain closed off, a flower enclosed in itself, never sharing the vibrant beauty of his petals with the world.

And it seems as though those lumps in your throat that you’ve just swallowed have got you going…

You pause again at a roadside shop, picking out heart-shaped sunglasses and trading the ugliest souvenir T-shirts you can find, laughing until your sides ache. Chan drapes an obnoxious orange scarf over his shoulder, striking a runway pose that makes you topple over from how hard you’re laughing. But then, in the mirror’s reflection, you catch his gaze—soft, unguarded, and filled with something you don’t dare name. Your breath falters. You’ve never been looked at like this before, as if someone could unravel you completely and still leave you whole.

Come on, come on, come on…

The road stretches endlessly ahead, the horizon blurring as you feed Chan fresh strawberries from a farmer’s market along the road. You don’t question why your pulse skips each time his lips brush your thumb. You don’t question why you’re suddenly sure the fruit would taste sweeter off of his mouth. You simply let the wind whip past, wondering if his cheeks are flushed from the cold or from you. You pray it’s the latter.

Number one party anthem…

“Welcome to Gangneung,” he announces as the car rolls into the small coastal town. The sea glimmers outside your window, and the houses—painted in pastel blues and greens—climb the hills like a living postcard. A group of high schoolers are biking down a narrow street, their laughter reaching you even as you drive away. While three women walk uphill, groceries in hand, their wide-brimmed hats bobbing as they chatter energetically. They seem to be gossiping. They seem happy.

“You remembered,” you say softly, your gaze flickering to him.

“I’d like to go to Gangneung one day,” you had once told him during a late-night walk. “I heard it’s a small town, and the locals agreed to all paint their houses blue. Isn’t that sweet? I’d love to escape there one day, without telling anyone.”

“I didn’t tell anyone,” he says, giggling. “Well, except Winter—so she could pack a bag for you. And Jisung, so the kids wouldn’t worry. But I didn’t tell them where we’re—”

You don’t let him finish. Stopping yourself would feel unnatural, like damming a river mid-flow. You lean over and press a kiss to his cheek, right where his dimple is hidden.

The look of love, the rush of blood…

“Thank you, Channie,” you whisper. He simply nods, a bit dazed, so are you.

Come on, come on, come on…

Both your cheeks are still burning as you pull up by the sea. You’re the first to step out, stretching your arms to shake off the nerves while Chan rummages through the car. A sudden chill creeps over you, and you instinctively wrap your arms around yourself.

Number one party anthem…

“Here,” he says, draping a hoodie over your shoulders. He’s got a towel slung casually over one shoulder, and a basket balanced in his hands. “Come on,” he beckons softly, leading you to the shoreline.

He spreads the blanket atop the golden sand and you both lay on it, admiring the sea. You’re lost in your thoughts as you silently nibble at the cheese and crackers Chan brought with him. You haven’t sat before the waves in so long. For all your bravery in courtrooms, you were a coward in real life, scared that the mere sight of the overlapping water would make your buried wish resurface— to be adrift amidst waves, to sink with the peaceful certainty that you won’t resurface again.

But you haven’t felt this serene in a long time. Like you could draw in a deep breath and not dread the one that will follow it.

“I made you something.” Chan blurts suddenly, and you twist your neck to look at him. You’ve seen Chan in many states— happy, angry, weeping. But you haven’t seen him this nervous before.

“What is it?” you ask, your curiosity tinged with caution as you sit up.

He hesitates, his words tumbling over one another. “I’m sorry if this is too much, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the melody you hummed. I... I turned it into a piano piece. I recorded it. Do you want to hear it?”

He offers an earphone with trembling hands. Your own shake as you tuck it in, and then—oh god.

“Chan, I—” you choke, clutching his arm as the music flows into you. It’s her. It’s your mother, her voice resurrected in the notes. It’s as though he’s handed you a forgotten fragment of time, lighting it up, brushing away the dust of years. The memories flood back—her hand in yours, the melody she sang to you like a lullaby for your soul. Because she loved you, so much. You were once very loved.

You close your eyes as silent tears slip down your face. It’s a short recording, just fifty-five seconds, so you replay it, again and again, until the night falls gently around you. You want to live, you want to live if only to keep her voice alive.

“Should we go swim, Chan? I feel like swimming.” You suddenly say, a smile breaking through your face. This is the easiest it has been for you to grin in a long time.

“We’ll get sick,” he says, though a grin tugs at his lips.

“We haven’t been kids in so long”, you say and something shifts in his gaze. He understands, so he nods, suddenly picking you up and throwing you over his shoulder.

“Wait, not like this!” you shout, flailing as Chan hoists you up with ease. But it’s no use—he’s already running and the next thing you know, you’re plunging into the cold water.

He dives in after you, surfacing with a loud laugh that echoes across the shoreline. The water is freezing, but it doesn’t matter. He feels weightless, unburdened, like a child again, like he could do anything he wishes for in this world, like he could get on his knees and confess to you right there and then.

You’re both trembling still by the time you reach the hotel. You linger by the entrance, your gaze tracing the cracked wallpaper and worn-out carpets. Chan is at the desk, talking to the receptionist. Snippets of their conversation float your way—“only one room... unfortunately a pipe broke... an old hotel.”

Oh.

When he returns, his ears are tinged with pink. “There’s only one room left,” he stammers. “The other one has a water leak. But it’s okay! We can find another hotel. I understand you might be—”

“Christopher, I’m fucking freezing,” you interrupt, teeth chattering. He giggles softly, boyish. “I’ll let you shower first, then.”

The room is sparse, reminiscent of a hanok. There are no beds, only two padded mats that side by side on the heated floor, and a small desk in one corner. It feels intimate, ten times smaller as Chan stands behind you.

“Go ahead,” he says, “I’ll wait.”

You quickly grab your bag and retreat to the bathroom. With trembling hands, you unlock your phone.

Y/n: Winter!!!!!!!!!! Are you here?

Winter: OMG are you still with cherry man?

Y/n: Yes, and we’re sharing one room 🫣

Winter: Wooooooo my ship is sailing

Y/n: I hate you. Did you pack me cute pajamas at least?

Winter: Of course i foresaw this

You giggle slightly, gusts of powdery air materializing before you.

Y/n: I’ll kill you once I’m back!!!

Winter: you love me 😘 you’ll have to tell me everything when you come back

Y/n: I will ❤️ He’s very sweet… and confusing

Winter: Just trust your gut

Trust your gut? You’re quite unsure what your gut is trying to spell out for you. You sigh, before quickly heading into the shower. You know Chan must be freezing too even if he tries not to show it.

You hear the water cascade down when he goes in after you, still avoiding your gaze. It feels almost forbidden to imagine him standing there, steam curling in clouds scented with your cherry shower gel. He’ll carry it with him, you think—a faint trace of you on his skin. That thought seems to send goosebumps rippling down your spine.

Later, the two of you lay atop your mats in a quiet darkness. You can hear the hum of the heater, and the splashing of the waves far away. You don’t remember falling asleep, but the cold wakes you, sharp and biting.

“Chan?” you whisper into the quiet.

He hums instantly. He hasn’t slept.

“Aren’t you cold?”

“I am.”

“Should we move closer? Body heat and all,” you suggest, your voice barely audible. You hear him swallow in the dark.

Slowly, cautiously, he inches closer until your shoulders brush. You wrap a tentative arm around his waist, and he draws you in, his palm resting on your back. The embrace feels intimate, terrifyingly so, but you stay. He is warm. He smells like pinewood and cherry. He smells like you and him.

“Good?” he asks, voice rough, and you nod. “Yeah, good.”

You hear his heartbeat, frantic at first, mirroring yours, then slowing down as the minutes pass by. It feels familiar to lay so close to him, it feels natural, ordinary.

“Channie?” you whisper.

“Yes, Cherry?”

“How different do you think we’d be, if we hadn’t gone through the things we did?”

You don’t know why you ask, except that today, for the first time in forever, you feel like blank paper—uncrumpled, untainted, left to be.

He thinks for a while, his hand threading gently through your hair, lulling you back toward sleep.

“I think I would open my heart more,” he finally says, voice soft. “I’d be myself without fearing judgment or abandonment. I’d stop chasing perfection. I’d just... exist.”

You nod against him. “You should stop apologizing for wanting the things you do.”

It feels hypocritical coming from you, but you mean it.

“Yeah, Cherry,” he murmurs, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. “And you?”

“I’d allow myself to love. Without fear. I’d be someone worthy of being loved.”

A pause stretches between you, heavy and sharp. You inhale deeply.

“I’ve dated people,” you say quietly, “it drives Seungmin’s crazy because I know he wants to protect me from heartbreak,” you giggle softly, memories of the long talks Seungmin had dealt you flooding your mind.

“He’s a good brother.”

“He is,” you smile, before sighing. “But I don’t know how to tell him that it has always been for fun. They know what they’re getting into, which is, nothing beyond a few dates because... that’s all I have to give. I’m afraid someone might waste their time peeling away my layers, only to find nothing worthwhile. I’m hollow inside, Chan. A hollow chest can’t beat for another. Not in the way they deserve.”

His hand stills, his grip falters on your back. You hope he has heard your plea, unspoken, that he can read between the lines of your words. Please, you beg. Don’t love me. Don’t hurt yourself.

—

Chan sees it then, as evident as the rising of the sun. The truth of you, the truth of himself. Chan is loved by many, yet he doesn’t feel loved. You do not love Chan, perhaps you will never allow yourself to love another, and yet—he still loves you. Despite your warnings, he does. Even if you paint the image of the most violent of heartbreaks, he still will.

—

You judge heels by two criterias: one, how easy they are to stand long hours in, and two, how satisfying they sound when you walk. The powdery pink Jimmy Choos Seungmin gifted you hit both marks perfectly, sounding particularly delicious as you stride through the halls of Sun Corporation’s headquarters.

From the corner of your eye, you catch employees glancing up from their desks, whispers rising as you breeze past the secretary’s protests, her voice growing increasingly frantic. But you already know where you are headed: straight for the conference room, where you know an important meeting is currently unfolding.

Fun!

The secretary, a petite brunette, jogs after you, her heels barely keeping up with her urgency. She plants herself in front of the double doors, blocking your path, literally, with her arms outstretched.

“Miss, you can’t go in there,” she says, chest slightly heaving. “This is a private meeting.”

You flash her a thin smile, the kind that looks anything but kind. “Private? How convenient! It seems like they’ve kept their corruption private too!”

Her face pales, and she stammers. “I… I’m sorry, but I’ll need you to wait. Mr. Choi is—”

“Expecting me,” you cut her off, brushing past her without a second glance.

With a forceful push, you throw open the conference room doors. The chatter inside ceases instantly, replaced by stunned silence as ten executives turn to face you. At the head of the table sits Choi Min-soo, the CEO. His expression remains calm as his gaze locks with yours. He’s young, roughly in his thirties, surrounded only by men, of course. Perhaps that's why he keeps accumulating one bad decision after the other.

Choi leans back in his chair, his eyes narrowing in irritation. “Who let you in here?”

“Apologies for the interruption,” you say, though there’s not a shred of remorse in your voice. “I’m here about the demolition permit for Promise Orphanage.”

Choi leans back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. “I don’t recall scheduling a meeting with you.”

“No, you didn’t,” you reply coolly. “But I thought I’d save your secretary the trouble. Some things simply can’t wait. Surely you understand.”

An executive to Choi’s right clears his throat, tapping his fingers against the table in a measured rhythm. “This is a private meeting. You can’t just barge in—”

“Oh, but I can,” you curtly cut him off, “And I have. Now, if you’d prefer, we can do this in front of the press, but I thought you’d appreciate the courtesy of keeping this internal.”

Choi’s mask of indifference falters ever so slightly, his lips pressing into a thin line.

“Sit,” he says curtly.

You ignore him, instead leaning forward, your palms pressing into the polished surface of the table. “No need for pleasantries. Let’s cut to the chase. I have evidence that the city’s approval for your demolition project didn’t come through lawful means. Bribery, to be precise.”

A heavy silence blankets the room. The executives exchange uneasy glances, but Choi’s smirk betrays no concern. Though you know it is all rehearsed. Every expression is part of the masquerade that is their lives.

“I could sue you for defamation, you know,” he says, leaning forward. He’s beautiful, but in a sinister way. Like staring into the core of a bubbling volcano knowing it could swallow you whole.

“Is it defamation if it’s supported by your own emails?”

From your bag, you retrieve a thick stack of documents and toss them onto the table. One of the younger executives fumbles to pick them up, his face paling as he scans the contents.

“These emails detail discussions between your company and key city council members about how to tip their votes in your favor. Then there are the transaction logs. Substantial sums of money deposited into personal accounts, labeled as ‘consulting fees.’ Oddly enough, these transactions occurred right after a cozy dinner at that hotpot spot downtown. Convenient timing, wouldn’t you agree?”

Your grin widens as you add, “All of it obtained lawfully, of course.” You know they’re infuriated by you. You’ve learned over the years that men like these don’t fear consequences as much as they despise being brought down by a woman.

“There is nothing illegal about consulting fees,”a voice quips from your right, “it’s standard practice.”

“Standard practice,” you repeat, tilting your head. “How fascinating that these fees always seem to align perfectly with approvals for morally bankrupt projects. This isn’t your first rodeo, Choi, is it? Remember the nursing home? Your big debut? The one that earned you Daddy’s approval?”

Choi’s fist slams onto the table. The sound echoes sharply through the room. You don’t flinch.

“How dare you speak to me like this?”

“And how dare YOU prioritize greed over the lives of children?!” you fire back, your voice rising. “YOU are the one bulldozing an orphanage to fatten your pockets. Not me.”

The room shifts uneasily. The executives glancing at one another, avoiding your gaze.

“You have two choices,” you say, straightening. “Withdraw the permit and take responsibility for the lives you’re willing to destroy, or I’ll take this to the media. Every email, every transaction log, it’ll all be public knowledge. Let’s see how long you keep your title when the truth comes out.”

Choi chuckles, a sinister sound that sends shivers down your spine. Spoiled assholes are always somewhat deranged. “So let me get this straight. You barge in here, threatening ME in my OWN office? Do you have any idea what this project is worth? FUCKING BILLIONS! And powerful people back it, people who won’t tolerate interference.”

You pick up your bag, winking. “Then I suggest you start figuring out how to explain this mess to them. You have five days to withdraw the permit. Good luck!”

Without waiting for a response, you turn and stride out, the sharp clicks of your heels like music to your ears. You wave at the secretary who looks at you as if she’s just seen a ghost. And so do the rest of the employees. Your voice must have been loud enough then.

Now that was fun.

Winter launches herself at you as soon as you open the door to her car. “Fuck you were so badass!” she laughs, hugging you tightly and you giggle, the sound light and airy, as you take out your phone from your back pocket, silencing the call with her.

“I can and I have,” she repeats your words, voice dipping lower as you high-five excitedly, your palms almost ricocheting off one another.

“God winter you should’ve seen his face,” you laugh, cheeks almost splitting open, “he looked like a big baby throwing a tantrum!”

“Ah I think this is over, right?” she asks excitedly, as she gets out of the parking lot, “they’ll yield or else you’ll drag their reputation through the mud.”

“I think so,” you sigh, resting your head against the seat cushion. “If they’re any smart they’ll know that the general public will always empathize with children. We’ll wait and see,” you grin, pinching her cheeks. “Either way, I’m not letting them take away the orphanage from us.”

“Never doubted you will,” she smiles widely, before elbowing your side, “girls night then? It’s been so long.”

“Yeah, let’s do it!”

You glance at her as she drives, the sun threading between her blonde strands like molten gold. You’ve always found it ironic that she chose the name Winter for herself when she’s the warmest person you know— she’s the saccharine taste of honey, she’s the colors of the sun and the sounds of a joyous summer. She cannot possibly be a mere human. She’s too kind, too patient for the confines of such a flawed label. You suddenly remember her supporting you as you undertake your law classes, working long hours at the bakery near your home to pay for Seungmin’s lessons. You feel her move for you when your body was too weary to even stir.

“I love you,” you suddenly say, your voice a raspy whisper, and she turns to look at you, her eyes softening. “Yah save this for the sleepover.”

The sun has long slipped beneath the horizon, as you talked the night away with Winter, stomachs full of sweetened Soju and laughter on the living room floor. You rest your head on her stomach as she idly runs her fingers through your hair, reminiscing. It doesn’t hurt as much to remember these days.

“So, will you tell me about Chan?” she whispers, and you groan, hiding your face in your hands.

She giggles at your reaction, gently scratching your scalp. “Come on. How was your getaway?”

It takes you a few moments to admit it. Out of joy. Out of fear. “It was the happiest I’ve been in a long while, Winter.”

“You don’t sound happy about it,” she observes, and you nod.

“I’m terrified, because he’s confusing me.”

She’s silent, and you gather your memories—the ones that have kept you afloat for the past week, the ones that have mended some hidden part of your heart, though you can’t say which one. It is too scarred to keep count, but you can feel it, something inside you has healed, something caged within you can breathe again.

“He remembered which coastal city I wanted to visit, something I said on a whim during one of our walks, years ago, Winter” you say softly, as though speaking of his memory would make the universe take him away from you.

“He took me to eat oysters; You know how much I love oysters. He wore every ugly souvenir I gave him,” you giggle faintly before quieting down. You choose to skip over your mother’s piano piece secret. You feel as if you’d desecrate it by speaking of it, like it’s a memory that belongs only to Chan, you, and the sea. “And then… since we had to share a room, we cuddled because it was cold.”

You expect her to tease you, but her voice is gentle as she asks.

“How did you feel?”

You think hard of how you felt. How easy it was to fall asleep near him. How beautiful he looked as dreams wrote themselves behind his eyelids.

“I felt safe. Like I could let go, and he’d be there to catch me.”

“I don’t think he would hurt you. I don’t think he could, even if you hurt him.”

You sigh, straightening up to meet her gaze.

“I don’t want to hurt him, Winter. That’s my issue. And I know I will.”

“Why would you—”

“I’m a bundle of issues, grief, and sorrow,” you cut her off, resigned. “You know that. I didn’t choose to be this way, but I am. I will taint him.”

“What I know,” she says, taking your hands in her own, “is that you are a good person. Your heart is warm and full of goodness, despite everything that happened to you. Grief changes a person, injustice changes them even more. But your heart still overflows with love. That’s something not everyone can say.”

You shake your head, tears welling in your eyes.

“Winter, have you ever found a flower so beautiful? You see it, and its petals are the brightest colors, almost calling to your soul. Would it be right to cut it and take it home? Yes, it might bring you joy for a while. You’d change its water, add vinegar and sugar cubes. But then what? It’ll falter and die early. Because I was selfish. Because I hurt the flower, even though I loved it so much.”

Your voice cracks, and the tears you’ve been holding back are now dangerously close to spilling. She’s quiet for a long moment, and you begin to believe you’ve imagined this whole conversation. But then—

“What if that flower’s only wish is to be loved?”

Sometimes, words feel like a soothing balm coating your wounds. Sometimes, they feel like a dagger suddenly protruding what’s left of your heart. Sometimes they feel like both.

Your phone pings, and you reach for it through a hazy view, grateful for the small distraction.

Except it isn’t.

Jaehyun: Your cherry man just paid for San’s hospital bills.

You frown, and Winter leans over to peek at your screen.

Y/n: What???

Jaehyun: Yeah, he just called me. An anonymous (beautiful) man (with dimples ;) per the nurse’s description) paid for all his mother’s expenses.

Winter stares at you knowingly as your heart does somersaults—throbbing in your chest, in your throat, in your stomach. You feel him everywhere, Chan, like he’s made a home inside you and is now setting you ablaze.

Does he have to be so kind? Does he have to make it so hard for you not to love him?

Somehow, it’s 4 a.m. before you notice, Winter sleeps soundly beside you while you lie wide awake. You can’t stop thinking about Chan. His desire to be seen, his fear of it too. His voice. His warm hands. His soft lips. His heart. His soul.

You slip away from Winter and head to the balcony, a shawl wrapped around your arms. You hesitate for a moment, then press ‘Call’.

“Cherry?” Chan answers instantly, and your shoulders relax despite yourself. Is this what it feels like to be a flower plucked from millions? Cherished. Loved.

“Hi, Channie,” you whisper, and you hear him rustling in bed.

“Are you okay? Where are you? Do you need me to pick you up?” His questions come fast, and you stop him before he can leap out of bed.

“No, no. I just… I wanted to thank you. For what you did for San.”

“Oh, who told you?” he sounds sheepish, timid. “I thought I told the nurse to keep it anonymous.”

“Well, not many men have dimples as pretty as yours.” The words slip out before you can stop them. You don’t hate yourself when you hear Chan chuckling softly, the bed covers rustling with his movements. Does he too chase remnants of your perfume on his pillows? Does he too imagine you laying on his bed once more?

“Well, it’s the least I could do.”

“No, you didn’t have to do that. You didn’t have to take me on that trip, or rearrange your whole schedule to spend a night watching shitty dramas with me. You didn’t have to do any of it. So why? Why do you do these things, Chan?” you ask, breathless.

He sighs softly. “Does it make you happy, Cherry? When I do these things?”

“Yes.”

“Then you have your answer.”

Oh.

The silence stretches, long and endless. Your shoulders hurt from always being cowered, tense. You wish you could ease them down.

“Thank you for making me happy. Sleep well, Channie.” You hang up before he can reply, before he can call you Cherry again. Because it makes you feel like dying. To love Chan in a world where you won’t let him love you feels like the biggest of deaths.

—

Seungmin’s earliest memories have always been of you.

There was a hollow space in his small heart, carved with the dullest of knives, something that pulsed even though he didn’t know who was it far. He knew his parents existed, he remembers his old home, but only faintly. They’d been taken too soon, he didn’t have much to hold on to.

So it was always you and him.

He remembers being a whiny child, crying endlessly because he didn’t understand why the world was so cruel—to him, but mostly to you. It confused him deeply, the way people overlooked your kindness. You were his older sister, his light. Why, then, couldn’t everyone else see you the way he did?

By the time he grew more into his body, into his heart, the tears stopped coming as often. He noticed the way a light dimmed in your eyes every time you tried to console him, and it frightened him. He didn’t know how many lights you had to give, or how many were left. So, he stopped crying.

Seungmin started piecing together truths he didn’t yet know how to speak. He began to understand the sharpness in your voice when prospective parents visited the orphanage, the urgency in your words when you told him to hide in the bathroom. You were protecting him. You didn’t want to be separated from him. It was almost impossible for two children to be adopted at once.

He began to understand why you always came back a bit breathless from talking to the older kids, the ones you strictly forbade him from playing with. Why would blue marks always appear on your arms after those conversations. Why he often heard you crying at night when you believed him long asleep.

And it killed him. There was no other way to describe it, because Seungmin had scraped his knee and lost his parents, and yet it did not hurt as much as it did when you were hurt. So, he tried to be as small as possible, as quiet, he tried to not get sick, to get good grades, to do his bed and yours. He tried to be perfect, so you wouldn’t be burned by him. So you wouldn’t cry when looking at him asleep.

Joy was scarce in Seungmin’s life. And it was all tied back to you. He was practical, even as a child, understanding early that he’d have to work harder than most to make something of himself. But not for personal gain, it was all to repay you for everything you gave him.

Then, one day, he stumbled onto something unexpected—a gift. A cheat code. “You’ve got a beautiful singing voice,” Miss Jeeho told him on his second night at Promise Orphanage. She had caught him singing in the garden. He didn’t like singing in front of other people. He feared you’d be punished for it too. “Have you ever thought of becoming a singer?”

The idea felt like cracking open a window in a suffocating room, a breath of air sweeping through the dust and decay of a crushed life. For the first time, he saw a semblance of dream take shape. He felt hope settle below his ribs, softening the thorns in his chest.

So he researched in the library of his school obsessively on this topic. How to be a singer, how to audition, how to win. He kept it hidden from you in all the years you spent in Promise Orphanage. Only Miss Jeeho knew, and she was kind, he didn’t feel scared sharing his hope with her. He was fifteen when he told you, after a year of relentlesses fighting to gain his custody. “I want to be a singer.”

You froze for a second, and Seungmin hasn’t stopped wondering where your mind went in that moment.

“Will you help me?” he asked, voice burning with resolve. “It pays well. I promise I’ll debut, and I’ll make you proud. And I’ll repay you, for all of it, I swear.”

“What’s this talk of you repaying me?” you said softly, your eyes so kind it made him want to weep. “All of me is for you, Seungminnie.”

Seungmin felt a sharp, throbbing ache in his chest at that moment. There she was, his greatest supporter, promising to back his dream. And yet, he felt hideously worthless, as though merely looking at the mirror would make it shatter.

It was then he named it—the poison coursing through his veins, the thorn lodged deep in his throat—the guilt. He wore that guilt like a second skin, its barbed wires sinking deeper into his soul with each passing year. Did you have a dream, too? Did you abandon your own to make room for him? He should’ve asked what your dream was. He should’ve begged you to keep your heart for yourself.

Seungmin could not rewrite the past, could not save his parents, could not undo his own birth so that you would not carry the weight of him. So, he sought to make up for it. He never spoke of his weariness during practice, nor of the pain, the fear, or the anger that gnawed at him. He only shared the triumphs—him ranking second on the entry competition, his voice praised by the vocal coaches at the company, finding friends that turned into family who genuinely cared for him, and you with time, that he would debut soon, that he has made it.

He spent his first paycheck on you, buying you the heels you’ve been eyeing for a long time, the ones you wore to your first courtroom. He spent the next on you too, and the one after it. He overcompensated for the guilt– gifts, flowers, a luxurious coffee machine, a two weeks retreat fully paid. He grew overbearing too, when it came to your heart, when it came to protecting it, disapproving of every person you chose to date.

He understood after a while that you weren’t looking for anything serious, at least not for now. Your dates seemed to understand this too. But he was afraid that one day you’d fall for someone who’s still looking for fun, who wouldn’t care for your heart like it was your own.

His hyungs would always poke fun at him for his protective nature, but he couldn’t help it. He was terrified for you, terrified that a heartbreak would be the thing to take you away from him.

He still remembers the look on your face when you caught him sitting in the same restaurant as your date. You’d laughed, and he’d felt sheepish under your gaze. “I told him it was a bad idea,” Jeongin giggled, throwing his hands up.

“I don’t like him,” he grumbled and you had chuckled, ruffling his hair, “when do you ever?”

You had then spent the night with him at the dorms watching movies with all his members. It was a normal occurrence for you to hang out with them, his found family, because they too had been touched with your kindness, back when they were all still trainees and you insisted on making them homemade food.

Seungmin knew it was your way of clinging to a normal home, that too killed him a little.

He knew that the members loved you, that they too cared for you deeply. Though they liked to annoy Seungmin by flirting with you. Which made you giggle, so, although he despises it, he still lets it slide.

Which brings him to today.

Seungmin hasn’t seen you since the concert at Kyocera Dome. So, he spammed you long enough for you to finally agree to have dinner in his dorm. Except 3RACHA was there too since they were all working on a song. It wasn’t their presence that weirded out Seungmin. Nor the fact that Han and Changbin took turns flirting with you, turning more obnoxious and loud and making Seungmin wish he could hit them with the plates on the table. Not that.

It was Chan. Who looked tense, jaw tight, his fingers flexing each time they sent a flirty remark your way.

Was he… Jealous?

“Thank you honey,” Han says, blowing you a kiss when you hand him his chopsticks. You giggle and Seungmin buries his face in his hands when Changbin grabs your plate, declaring that he will cut the steak for you.

“She doesn’t like meat cut that way,” Chan suddenly says, taking away the knife and plate from Changbin. Your cheeks blush as if a dahlia blossomed there. Han and Changbin exchange knowing looks.

Okay. What?

“Is there something—” he asks when your phone suddenly rings and he quiets down, swallowing the question with the rest of his beer. That would have been a stupid question, anyways.

“Winter!” you pick up, tone cheerful. Though all the color drains from your face as she speaks, the flower withering and turning into ash.

“W-what…?” you ask, slightly dazed, your hand gripping the table.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. “Cherry, what’s wrong?” so does Chan.

Cherry?

“The orphanage…” you say, Chan seems to understand what you’re talking about perfectly. You don’t finish, getting up and running out of his dorm. Everyone gets up on cue following you. “We’ll take my car,” Changbin says.

—

Is it possible to have sinned right before birth? To have done something so terrible you cannot atone for it no matter how much time passes. You accept it, you accept that your star is an unlucky one. You accept that even the most restless waters will always drown you, not carry you. Still, for how long do you have to pay the price, over and over again? Till how long is it no longer justice? Till how long does it become the universe toying with you? Does it think you can’t break? Does it think there is no limit to how much you can take?

Because there is.

You think you’ve reached it now.

Time seems to have slowed down, so much you’re sure five lifetimes have passed between each of your breaths. You know that there must be people screaming, a loud shatter, the sirens of ambulances and firefighters. Still, it’s quiet in your head. Save for a faint ringing, a buzzing, like a swarm of bees has lodged itself within your ear.

The earth is moving beneath your feet, it threatens to split open and swallow you. And you’d let it. You don’t have the nails to dig yourself out. You don’t have the will. You don’t have the hope.

You almost feel like laughing. You’re cursed. Every bit of happiness comes back to haunt you down the line.

It’s hot, extremely hot, and ashy. And you’re before the orphanage but you don’t smell rust. You smell smoke, pungent and bitter. You smell loss. You smell your last hope dying.

The orphanage is burning.

The kids are outside, covered in blankets and hugged turn by turn by the staff— Miss Jeeho, Mister Seonghwa, the cook, the gardener, the teachers, the psychologist, Winter.

The firefighters are trying to control the fire, but it’s spreading rapidly before your eyes, emboldened by the wooden floors and squeaky doors. You are losing your home again. The fire is eating the room you slept in, the kitchen where you learned how to cook, the garden where you caught Seungmin singing to Miss Jeeho. It’s eating the stairs where you sat with Winter laughing, the attic where you hid when existing became too rough.

It’s eating your memories, it’s eating you.

“What’s— what’s happening?” Seungmin stammers, his hand on your shoulder. You feel like kids again, back when the policeman came to your home and found only you and a toddler inside. A kid caring for a kid.

Winter sees you from afar, rushing to wrap you in her arms. You don’t feel her warmth. You don’t feel anything, now that you’re thinking of it. Has your heart bled dry? Finally?

“Cherry,” you hear but you brush the hand away, walking towards two firefighters once only smoke remains. “Who started it? The fire?” you ask breathlessly.

“Why?” they ask, cautious, “do you have reason to believe it was intentional?”

“Who started it?” you repeat.

“It’s too early to tell,” he says, eyes fixed on his coworker, sweat dripping from his brow, his forehead smeared with ash. “Preliminary findings suggest it began in the garden, which is odd, since there’s no apparent cause and no sign of a cigarette. The owner claims no one smokes. We did find what looks like traces of gasoline, but more investigation is needed. It spread quickly towards to the utility room, where there are electric wires. Something, or someone must’ve sparked it, and now it’s out of control.” He sighs, “We’ll call the police.”

You feel it then, a stone that sinks deep within your gut: they burned it. Sun Corporation burned the orphanage because if there is no orphanage then there is no case. They burned the orphanage and you with it.

—

“Would someone tell me what’s going on?” Seungmin grows more agitated the more you remain silent in your apartment. You can tell everyone is looking at you, waiting for you to snap out of your daze. But you don’t know where to begin. You don’t know how this will end.

“Miss Jeeho called,” Winter says softly, reappearing from the balcony. “There’s enough suspicion to begin an investigation. They need my testimony.” Changbin, without a word, stands and grabs his car keys. “I’ll drive you,” he says. She nods in reply.

“Do the kids have a place to go tonight?” Han asks, his voice laced with concern. Winter shakes her head. “No, Miss Jeeho is still trying to figure that out.”

“Alright,” Han says, pulling out his phone. “Let me call the others for help.”

“You have my card,” Chan says, pressing a sleek, cold card into Winter’s hand.

“Text me,” you tell Han, and he nods, following Changbin and Winter out the door.

And then there were three.

“Would you please tell me?” Seungmin asks again, kneeling before you. His voice is quieter now, laced with something you hadn’t anticipated—hurt, confusion. A part of you stirs alive and you sigh, beginning to recount everything— the apartment, the corruption, San, the meeting, the fire— but your voice feels like someone else’s, void, unfamiliar.

“And why didn’t you tell me any of this?” he asks once you finish. There’s raw pain coating his gaze, Seungmin has always been an open book to you.

“I was going to tell you,” you murmur, “once the permit was withdrawn. I didn’t want to burden you with this.”

“But I want you to burden me!” his voice rises slightly, as he stands up, pacing before you. “I could have helped you. I would have stood by you!”

“Seungmin, please,” you breathe, the weight of it all pressing against your chest.

“You don’t always have to carry everything alone. It doesn’t make you stronger, it only makes the pain ten times worse,” he presses his eyes shut, “I wouldn’t have hid something like this from you.”

“Well, you’re not me!” You snap, and he flinches, recoiling like you’ve struck him. You’ve never raised your voice at Seungmin before.

There she is, the person who pushes those who love her away, the person who deserves to be punished.

“I’ll go help the boys,” he softly says, walking out, shoulders slumped. He looks smaller now, like you’ve just hurt the child within him mourning his only home.

“Cherry…” Chan’s voice cuts through the tense silence, and you rise to your feet, instinctively covering your face. “Not you too, Chan.”

“Would you talk to me?” His voice is gentle. “You haven’t said a word in over an hour. This isn’t healthy, I know this must hurt so you shouldn’t keep it all inside.”

“I don’t have anything to say,” you reply, your voice colder than you intended. Please go, you beg. Please, before I snap at you too.

“Just talk, okay? Say whatever comes to your mind. I’ll listen to you. It’ll feel better if you let it all out.”

“Except it won’t!” The words come out harsher than you meant, and you feel yourself spiraling. You’re throwing up thorns, and you can’t stop it. “You don’t always know what’s best for people, alright? You can’t always fix people, Chan! And I can’t be fixed! Talking about it won’t help, keeping it in won’t help, because this is who I fucking am. This is all I’ve known.”

“Cherry, please. You know that’s not what I meant.” His voice is soft, still tender, still trying to reach you.

He still calls you Cherry. He’s still here. You can feel the desperation creeping inside, a bitter realization that they should all run before you curse them too.

“Oh, come on,” you laugh, the sound hollow. It feels like daggers slicing through your throat as you speak. “Don’t you see me as a project to fix? Something to make you feel in control for all the years you’ve lost it?”

“Is this how low you think of me?” he asks, taking a step back, his face a mix of hurt and disbelief. “I never thought you needed fixing.”

“Well, it’s how I felt around you,” you say, the words spilling out like venom. Liar. Liar. Liar. “Like I’m the poor orphan and you’re the knight in shining armor, coming to save me.” He looks like you’ve just slapped him in the face.

Does he hate you now? Does he hate you as much as you hate yourself?

“You know, you should stop punishing yourself, Yn.” He says your name, not Cherry, but your name, plain and flat. It feels like all your little deaths combined in one. “You only have one sin and it’s that you wish to be loved.”

He pauses. You feel as if the world was cracked wide open. You feel as if your soul just splattered before his feet, naked, trembling.

“And I love you. God, I’ve loved you for the past ten years, and I wish you could open your heart just a little bit to see it.”

“What?” you ask, breathless, the words barely leaving your mouth before he turns away, silent. He doesn’t answer. He leaves.

He left.

Your feet move before your mind can catch up, and suddenly you’re running after him. “What do you mean you love me?” you shout, the words raw, desperate. Your chest is heaving, breaths coming in ragged gasps. You’re sure your neighbors are peeking from their windows, watching, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters now except him, nothing has in a long time. “What do you mean, Chan?!”

“Forget it,” he mutters.

“You can’t say that and ask me to forget it!” you shout and he chuckles, hand tightly gripping his hair in frustration.

“Has it not been clear? That you’d ask me to get you the moon and I'd fucking die trying. Can’t you see that I’d sacrifice the sun if it means making you happy?”

You back away, tears streaming down your cheeks in an unstoppable flow. No. Yes. No. How?

“N–no, you… You shouldn’t love me.”

“Do you think I haven’t tried?” His voice rises, raw and hoarse. “I’m human too, it kills me to love someone who I know won’t ever love me. But tell me, please, teach me how to pause the throbbing of my heart. Teach me how to silence it when it calls out your name, when it aches because it misses you so much I feel like I’m dying. When there is a void in my soul shaped after your laugh, your smell, your words, how do I—“ his hands land on your shoulders, his forehead resting on the crook of your neck. You can feel the shaking of his hands, you can feel his being unraveling before you.

Your hands curl in tight fists, you are broken, shattered, there is no glue that could piece you back together. Even if gold travels between your shards, it will not make you into something beautiful. You’ll remain a disaster. You’ll ruin him too.

“Look at me.” You shake your head, unwilling, unable to face him. “Please, Cherry, look at me. Even if you’ll leave me right now, please, I— I’d rather you leave while looking at me.”

You bite your lip, choking on the sob rising in your throat.

“Tell me you don’t love me,” he pleads, taking your palm and placing it atop his chest.You can feel the erratic thrum of his pulse, alive and desperate beneath your hand. “Say it. Say you never will. Make me believe it, so this thing inside me will die. Please.”

“I can’t say that,” you whisper. The world offers itself at your feet. “I can’t say that because I won’t mean it.” Your eyes finally meet his, you wonder what he sees in yours. You wonder how someone like him could ever love you.

You lick your lips tentatively, tasting the saltiness of your tears and the cherry of your chapstick.

“Do you know what a bleeding heart dove is? It’s a small pigeon, with a plumage so white and pristine it resembles the first snow. But right in the middle of it, there is a patch of crimson, it looks like a bullet wound Chan, it looks like his little heart is always bleeding.” Your voice cracks like glass, Chan’s eyes soften more than you’ve ever thought was possible. “That’s how I feel, like I always always carry this wound that won’t ever heal. It bleeds and it bleeds and the blood oozes so much at times that I choke with it. I don’t want to taint you with it too.”

“What if I want you to taint me?” His warm palms cradle your cheeks, threads of sunlight brushing against your skin. “What if I want you to change me? What if I want everyone who has looked at me to know that I’m loved by you?”

You smile softly, shaking your head. “That would be selfish of me.”

“Then love me selfishly, love me with greed. Just love me, Cherry. Please, love me,” he begs, his eyes boring into yours. You peer into him, his soul, the sincerity in his offering to you— his heart, so fragile, yet so resolute in loving you.

“You’re so beautiful, Channie,” you gently say, as your palms tenderly cup his cheeks. His eyes flutter closed, tears staining your hands as he leans into your touch, placing his heart right in your hands. “I’d like some time to think of myself as beautiful, too. Would you wait for me? Until I figure it out.”

He softens. “I waited for you for ten years. I’d wait for you for an eternity if I have to.”

A knot forms in your throat. “You’re so sweet, God, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I know you don’t pity me, I shouldn’t have said that. I’m just so overwhelmed and everything spiraled down and I don’t know where to even begin now,” you ramble, and he cuts you off by placing a tender kiss atop your wrist.

“Would you breathe now?” he smiles and your world somehow brightens despite it all. “I'm not mad, alright? And we’ll figure it out together, Cherry. You have us. You always did.”

Your voice is small as you mumble– “Seungmin is mad at me.”

“He’s not. He always wants to protect you so he feels bad when you don’t let him in. You know that.”

You did, of course you do.

You feel a little less ashamed of plucking a beautiful flower out of its soil. You’ll insuflate your own soul in it to keep it blooming.

“Will you stay with me, Chan?”

“Always.”

—

“So, they burned down the orphanage?” Jeongin asks, disbelief thick in his voice as you finish recounting the horrors of the past month.

Your small apartment is packed the day after the fire—Winter, Jaehyun, Miss Jeeho, San, and the boys. Some sit huddled on couches, others sprawl across the floor, leaning into one another. You’ve never known that warmth could become a tangible thing, that it could weave itself around your heart like silk, drip sweetness down your ribcage like rivers of honey. You feel it, despite how harrowing the situation is, because all your friends care. They care for the orphanage like it’s their own.

“Yeah, I’m sure of it,” you reply. “We got a report of a suspicious van speeding off right after the fire started.”

“And remnants of gasoline were found at the scene,” Jaehyun adds, taking a leisurely sip out of his beer. “The police are tracing it now.”

You nod, thinking back to the police chief who happened to be one of your high school classmates. He got promoted and he promised he’d tell you first, if anything happened. “Yeah, the firefighters confirmed that it was arson. Once the police officer gets back at us I’ll file a lawsuit against them.”

“But can you believe the fucking nerve?” Felix scoffs, “I just read their statement: ‘We are extremely saddened by the news of the burning of Promise Orphanage due to faulty wiring. We promise to work side by side with the community to ensure the children are safe and living in better conditions’. Do they think we are stupid?”

“They’re lying,” Miss Jeeho says bitterly. “Trying to save face while they can.”

Hyunjin’s face pales. “This makes me sick,” he whispers. “The fact that they’d endanger those kids just for their agenda…” He trails off, shaking his head, and the room falls into a heavy silence.

“They stopped communicating through emails after you confronted Choi,” San says, his voice tight. “They must’ve realized someone was leaking information. Now everything’s confidential.”

He slumps, defeated, and you reach over to pat his back gently. “It’s okay. I don’t think they’d be dumb enough to discuss arson in emails anyways. We’ll find another way.”

“What about the kids? Are they okay?” Jeongin asks, his brows furrowed in concern.

“They’re doing fine, considering,” Minho answers, nodding toward Han. “Yeah,” Han adds with a soft laugh. “We visited this morning. They’re warm, well-fed, like michelin chef well-fed, we made sure of it, and maybe a little spoiled, we might’ve gone overboard with the toys.” The group chuckles briefly, Minho throwing a pillow at Han’s face before smiling fondly at him.

“But this is all just temporary,” Winter whispers, her eyes suddenly brimming with tears. “We can’t keep them in a rented house forever. They’ll need to be sent to different locations, scattered across the country.”

“Is there really no other way?” Changbin asks, as he squeezes Winter’s shoulder gently.

“Unless we can rebuild the orphanage in record time, then no. It’s all gone,” Miss Jeeho sighs, and you feel the knot in your throat tighten. You’ve avoided looking at her ever since the fire, you can’t bear the sight of raw grief in her eyes, specifically.

“What if we rebuild the orphanage?” Seungmin suddenly asks. It’s the first time you’ve heard his voice during the night.

“We don’t have the funds for that, Seungminnie” you say softly.

“We do,” Chan interjects firmly, “If we all donate, we can raise the money. Start a fundraiser, maybe?”

You see it then, a fickle of hope blossoming in the air.

“You know, it’s not a bad idea,” Jaehyun says, leaning forward. “Media coverage of the case is really strong and it has garnered a lot of public sympathy. I also told friends in media to keep up intense coverage since something big is simmering beneath the case.”

“I can hold a press conference then,” you say, your voice quipping up. “Expose everything, from the beginning and ask for public support.”

“And me,” Seungmin says suddenly, looking up to meet your gaze at last. His voice is steady, but his eyes are tinged with vulnerability. “I want to stand by your side. It’ll help us garner more attention too.”

“Are you sure?” you ask gently. “Are you ready to reveal where you grew up?”

“I’m not ashamed of it,” he replies softly. “It’s because of that place that I’m here today.”

Your heart swells, and tears sting your eyes as you nod. “Alright. Sounds like a solid plan.”

—

You’ve known loneliness long enough to recognize that it doesn’t wear a singular face.

“Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen. My name is Y/n Kim, and I am the lead attorney representing Promise Orphanage.”

You’ve known the loneliness that slices your bones. That cuts so deep within your marrow you’re unsure whether the sun will rise tomorrow, whether you’ll be even there to witness it. You knew it when you were ten and your parents simply never came back home.

“You are aware that Promise Orphanage has been burnt down last week. A tragedy for our community as this orphanage housed forty children who only have that place to call a home.”

You’ve known the loneliness that doesn’t stab, its sharp tip always remaining at the edges of your soul, as if threatening you, reminding you that it could sink within you at any given moment. You knew it when you were fourteen and Winter shook your hand for the first time.

“I am here to explain that this isn’t due to uncontrollable circumstances. But a crime. The fire did not start hazardously but was intentionally caused. By Sun Corporation, the subsidiary of Gyeongdo Holdings.”

You’ve known the loneliness that doesn’t fill you, but rather sits beside you on a bench. Loneliness that only manifests when you’re surrounded by people who love you, and who you love. And yet, you feel as if you are enclosed in transparent glass, always keeping you at arm’s length from them. Because your heart is different. Because you grieved a lifetime before you were old enough to understand it.

But for the first time in years, you don’t feel lonely.

Not when the people in your life have worked tirelessly with you for the orphanage, for justice, for the children. Not when a room full of journalists hang onto your every word, cameras flashing, questions flying. Your eyes scan the crowd, landing on your loved ones in the back. They nod.

The legal case is airtight. You’ve worked tirelessly with your team to gather the proof—police reports, financial records, surveillance footage. You exhale, steadying yourself, and nod toward the screen.

“We have obtained documentation, in collaboration with the authorities, confirming that a van was seen fleeing the scene moments after the fire started getting out of control. That van was rented by a company in which Sun Corporation holds 45% of the shares. The individual who rented it is also an employee at Sun Corporation, whose identity we’ll keep anonymous. For now.”

Your eyes meet San’s, and he winks—he’s the one who verified the identity, right after depositing his resignation letter at Sun Corporation.

A journalist raises his hand. “Are you saying Sun Corporation committed arson?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. But don’t take my word for it, of course.”

You press a button on the laptop connected to the speakers.

The room falls silent.

Then, the recording crackles to life.

“Are you insane?! I said a warning, not a damn inferno!”

Murmurs ripple through the crowd, cameras shifting toward the speakers as the voice, angry, panicked, continues.

“You idiots lost control of it! The fire department is involved, you know that bitch is going to the police too. Do you have any idea what’s at stake? BILLIONS! I wanted to sue them for neglect and now we are the ones who will lose EVERYTHING! Fix it, or so help me—”

The recording cuts out. The silence that follows is deafening.

Journalists erupt all at once.

“Who is that speaking?”

“Was this obtained legally?”

“Is Sun Corporation under criminal investigation?”

You raise a hand, and a hush falls upon the room.

“The voice belongs to Choi Sungho, CEO of Sun Corporation,” you confirm. “This recording was obtained from a whistleblower inside the company and has been turned over to the authorities. The police are actively investigating Sun Corporation for arson, conspiracy, and fraud.”

You think back to the brunette secretary. You now know her name—Jia. She once dreamed of becoming a lawyer too, but she needed money for her sister’s medical bills, so she had to give up her aspirations. She heard snippets of the conversations authorizing the fire and recorded the aftermath. You know she’s watching this at home too.

“This is not just a case of reckless endangerment. This is a coordinated criminal act, executed for financial gain. Sun Corporation had previously filed for a demolition permit for the orphanage, but the permit was granted under questionable circumstances.”

You gesture toward the documents on every table.

“There is evidence that Sun Corporation bribed city officials to fast-track the permit process. However, because of our legal scrutiny, the project was delayed. Burning a part of the orphanage to argue neglect was their alternative. But as you can see, it backfired.”

More whispers, more frantic typing. A journalist from the back calls out, “Are you pursuing legal action?”

“Yes. We are also working closely with law enforcement to hold all responsible parties accountable, including those within the city council who enabled this corruption.”

You suck in a deep breath, nodding towards Seungmin who was standing behind the curtains, veiled from everyone’s view.

“There is someone I’d like you to meet now.”

He steps forward, taking the mic from your hand.

The camera flashes become incessant as the interrogations ripple from everywhere.

“Is that…?”

“Wait, Kim Seungmin?”

“What is going on?”

“Hello,” he says, voice reverberating around the room. “My name is Kim Seungmin. Some of you may be familiar with who I am, but today, I do not speak to you as an Idol.” A pause. “I am here as one of the children who once lived at Promise Orphanage.”

The cameras shift, zooming in on his face. Jaehyun excitedly signals that the viewer’s count is rising up rapidly.

“I’ve never spoken about this publicly before, but I am an orphan. My sister,” he nods at you, “raised me. My fans may recognize her voice from some of our songs,” he smiles softly, before sobering up. “We moved from place to place, but Promise Orphanage was the only orphanage that felt like home. The only place where we were truly taken care of, where I was allowed to dream, thanks to Miss Jeeho, the director. She’s the one who helped me become a singer. She’s also the one who helped my sister in her fight for my custody.”

He swallows hard, steadying himself.

“This crime is not just about corporate greed. It’s about children who lost their home overnight. And now, they face being scattered across different locations, losing the only family they have left.”

His gaze fixes every camera, every journalist in place. You feel pride swell in your heart, loud and bright and all encompassing.

“We are not just seeking justice. We are seeking solutions. We are launching a legal fund to rebuild Promise Orphanage. We ask for your steady support in holding Sun Corporation accountable and in ensuring that these children are not left behind.”

“Please don’t let this injustice go unanswered.”

He bows deeply. You follow. Cameras flash, a deluge of light and sound.

It’s done, now. The end of the beginning is finally over.

—

Sometimes a month is just a month. Sometimes a month stretches like ten lifetimes crafted solely to hurt you. Sometimes a month slips through your fingers like running water, not yours to keep.

The past six months have been both, somehow.

You spent sleepless nights building the most solid case against Sun Corporation. Exhausting weeks passed before the judge finally struck his gavel against the wood, charging them with arson, criminal activity, bribery, and interference with civilian law. It took the sweat and tears of many to rebuild the orphanage from the charred ground. It took a lot of love to fill its multicolor walls with children’s laughter again— yours, your brother’s, your friends’, the fans’, the general public’s too.

And yet, when it was all over, when you could finally exhale without fearing the consequences of letting go, you were left with a gaping hole in your chest. Void was an insatiable creature gnawing at your heart, void was a creature that sought something you could not name.

That is until Seungmin talked to you.

“Can I sit?” he asks, pointing to the patch of shade near you. You nod, scooting over as you both lean your backs against the freshly planted pine tree. For a while, it’s quiet as you watch Han and Felix, dressed as clowns, playing hide and seek with a group of children at the orphanage’s reopening party.

“They look happy,” he whispers and you smile softly, letting their giggles waft to your ears.

“They do.”

“I never apologized for that night,” he suddenly says, turning to look at you. “When I got mad because you didn’t tell me about the orphanage.”

“I’m the one who’s sorry,” you sigh. “I knew how much this place means to you. I knew this was where you figured out what your dream was. I just… didn’t want to burden you, not when you already have so much atop your plate” you explain, gently smoothing down his bangs. “I guess a part of me still sees you as the little kid I have to protect.”

“You were a child too, protecting me,” he whispers, voice hoarse as he places his warm palm over yours. “You don’t have to protect me anymore. I promise. I’d rather you look after your own heart. Listen to what it really wants.”

Your eyes drift toward Chan. He’s playing guitar for a group of older kids, their small hands clapping to the upbeat melody. His smile is the sun. His smile tastes like the ocean breeze.

“Do you like him?” Seungmin asks softly.

Your breath catches. “What?”

“Chan. I’m not blind. I see the way you look at him. The way he looks at you, mostly.”

“Does it bother you?”

“Why would your happiness ever bother me?” He smiles, and you feel a weight dissolve in your chest. The creature within you perks up at his words.

“Then yes,” you admit, breath hitching. “I like him. So much it terrifies me.”

You speak your feelings for the first time, and yet, the sky does not collapse, the earth does not tremble beneath your feet. It feels almost miraculous— to voice what you long for and not be punished for it.

“Sometimes the things that scare us the most are the ones that make us happiest,” he says. “Because we’re scared of allowing ourselves to feel joy. Because we’ve conditioned ourselves to think we don’t deserve it.”

Tears prick your eyes, and you crack a soft smile. “Look at you, saying such wise things.”

“I’m literally twenty-four,” he deadpans and you laugh, ruffling his hair. “But you’ll always be a baby in my eyes, Seungminnie.”

“All right, all right.” He laughs, pulling you into a side hug. “But would you do it? I know you’ve sacrificed a lot for me, it must have hurt to do so,” you go to interject but he stops you, “Please. Would you listen to your heart for once?”

It takes a week away from everyone to do just that. You return to Gangneung, you walk past the blue houses, you talk to the locals and play chess with the grandpas and drink tea with the kind women at the local market. You twirl barefoot by the waves until salt clings to your skin, you lay on the sand and trace constellations with your fingertips. You sit in stillness. And you listen, truly listen, to the silence between each of your breaths. And then slowly, the melody emerges. Faint at first, like a distant lullaby. Then clearer, insistent, unwavering—stuck on a single note.

Chan.

You’ve never quite known who you were. When personality quizzes asked how your friends would describe you, you hesitated. Funny? Sweet? Practical? What about nothing—an emptiness that expands to swallow you whole? You never knew what to say when interviewees asked about your strengths and weaknesses, the things you’d like to change in your being, the ones you’d like to keep. You felt like a water lily floating aimlessly atop the still water, untethered, with no roots to return to.

But you knew you were a coward when it came to your heart. That you craved love so violently you could cleave the earth open with your ache. You knew that your mind had convinced you that you were cursed, flawed, undeserving.

But for the first time, you allow yourself to simply feel human.

You sit by the waves once more, the endless sea stretching before you. The sun disps slowly beneath the horizon, the clouds are dusted pink. Are they blushing too, at the thought of what you are about to do?

You had asked Chan to meet you on the beach at Gangneung whenever he could free himself, and he did—without hesitation. Seungmin texted you that he left the mid-writing session and jumped into his car with no second thought. He seemed happy, he said. That made you happy too.

“You look different,” Chan observes, and you turn away from the sea. His eyes are kind and you don’t shy away from his gaze, for once.

“Different?” you echo.

“At peace.”

You nod, curling your knees to your chest, resting your cheek against them. He follows suit, his legs grazing yours now and then, grounding you in his presence.

“I’ve thought a lot about what it means to be human,” you murmur. “To soften my heart, to open doors I thought were long sealed. I don’t have all the answers. But I found something.”

“What is it?”

“I found you,” you confess, so softly like you are speaking of a prayer. His eyes widen but you press on. “I weighed in the pros and cons, of what I want, of what losing what I want would cost me. And yet, in all my most horrible twisted scenarios, where you’d leave me heartbroken and bleeding, it still feels worth it. It feels worth it if it means you’d love me for a while, and that I’d love you too.”

He gently tucks a stray lock of hair behind your ear, the gesture tender, as all his touches are.

“A while? The only way for me to stop loving you is if my heart stops beating, Cherry.”

“So you still love me?” you ask, a bit shyly, too hopeful.

Chan blinks, then deadpans, “Are we sitting by the sea?”

You burst into laughter, the sound rolling out of you freely. As it fades, you see him—your beautiful Chan—the faint smile lines etching themselves around his lips, the kind warmth in his eyes, the remnants of dimples on his cheeks. He is so achingly beautiful it feels like an axe splitting your chest open. It feels like being born once more.

“I haven’t listened to my heart in so long,” you confess, brushing your thumb against his cheek, letting it trail softly over the corner of his mouth, a whisper against his lips. “But right now, it only wants one thing.”

“I’m yours,” he breathes, lips slightly parted.

There is no one around but the two of you and the sea. Who is there left to pretend for? The play is over. You bow to the sadness. You bow to the grief.

You take a deep breath. You dive into the water. You finally kiss Chan.

You knew that his lips would be as soft as silk, that pressing your mouth to his would be akin to breathing in oxygen for the first time, and yet, you did not imagine it to be this soul-shattering. You did not foresee the fireworks going off behind your eyelids, the bees and the bleeding heart doves singing in your chest, the garden buzzing in your stomach, telling you that you are alive, and that you are loved, at last, and that that is all that matters.

You did not imagine that he would taste like salvation, like honey and cherries and everything beautiful in between. You did not imagine that his tongue dancing along yours would feel like floating atop the sea, warm as sun, carnal like surrendering to your heart’s rawest desires.

You did not foresee that his warm palms would cradle your cheeks, that he would kiss you with the urgency of a starved man. That he would not tire of you, never ceasing, never faltering. That he would lay you on the sand and kiss you till night fell above you both, till your lips are both swollen, tender, and bleeding cherries.

“I love you,” you finally breathe, your heart throbbing all over your body, “I’m sorry it took me so long to see it.”

“Nonsense,” He smiles against your lips. “Even if you only loved my last dying breath, it would still be enough for me.”

—

“So, does this mean I can officially no longer flirt with you?” Han asks, eyes wide with mock horror. Seungmin flicks his forehead in response, and Chan tosses a napkin at him, an amused smile playing at his lips.

“Wait, pause, I can’t believe I lost to Chan,” Changbin pretends to weep, earning a laugh from the others.

“She’s mine,” Chan cocks his eyebrows at them, leaning back on his chair. “Go find yourselves your own partners.”

You are tucked away in a remote town of Japan, a hard-earned vacation after the turmoil you’ve went through the past months. You figured it was the best time to tell the boys that you are dating, only for wave of questions (and indignation, mostly) to immediately crash over you, followed by a group hug that lasted two full minutes, courtesy of Felix.

“Wait, but we liked you first!” Han protests once more, and Seungmin groans, his face contorting in annoyance that borders on anguish. “God, I thought I would be free of this torture.”

“I literally liked her before you guys even saw her,” Chan chimes in with a satisfied grin.

“So you’ve loved her for ten years now?” Hyunjin shouts, raising from his seat dramatically. “Wait this is so romantic.”

“I’m sorry, Jisungie, Binnie,” you tease as you press a lingering kiss to Chan’s cheek.

“Oh my god guys he’s BLUSHING!” Minho shouts, pointing excitedly at Chan. “This is too funny! Channie hyung is so flustered,” Jeongin laughs, whipping out his phone to capture the moment. “Wait, Innie pan over to Seungmin’s face!” Felix claps in pure delight, and you turn to see your brother sulking.

“What? I’m still not used to… this,” Seungmin grumbles, wiggling his fingers in front of you both in exaggerated disgust, but there’s a soft gleam in his eyes. He’s happy for you, only after threatening Chan five hundred times to treat you right, but he’s happy.

“Who wants ice cream?” Chan suddenly asks, not waiting for an answer before he grabs your hand and pulls you away.

“What was that?” you ask once you are out of the house.

“Nothing, I just wanted you all to myself for a bit,” he smiles bashfully, and you giggle, wrapping your arm around his waist. “You’re making it a habit to kidnap me,” you tease.

“Do you mind?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“Good,” he grins, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “Also, it’s Changbin and Jisung for you,” he chastises, a big pout tugging at his lips.

“Does Mr. Bang feel jealous when I call them Binnie and Jisungie?”

“Yes, I am. Sue me, I worked day and night to be yours. Day and night and for ten years at that too,” he sighs dramatically and you tip your head back in laughter. Your giggles lull when you see it.

“Are we standing underneath…” you draw out.

“A cherry blossom,” Chan whispers, his gaze soft and full of warmth. His smile is so wide, so radiant, it feels like your soul is buzzing, melting underneath his light.

“This reminds me… Did you fall for me because I gave you a cherry lollipop?” you tease, wrapping your arms around the nape of his neck, his hands instinctively finding your waist.

“Yeah, you must have laced that lollipop with something,” he chuckles, eyes twinkling with mischief.

“What if I hadn’t given it to you? What if we hadn’t met at all?”

He softens, his palms cupping your cheeks gently. “I would’ve found you,” he murmurs, brushing his lips against yours. He can almost taste it, vanilla and bubblegum. “In the streets of Gangneung. As you swam in the sea. In one of your courtrooms… I would’ve found you, my Cherry, and I would’ve loved you just the same.”

What does it mean to soften your heart? What does it mean to open the doors of what you thought was long sealed? The answers didn’t come to you all at once, you found them serendipitously, as you rounded up corners of paths you never thought you’d walk in.

You learned that softness is the greatest act of courage. You learned that to tear down your defenses is the greatest act of rebellion. You learned that love is a patient being, that it is all encompassing, that it heals, but only if you allow it to, only if you let it make a home out of your ribcage.

You learned that being human, unapologetically so, in all of its sorrowful and joyous shades, is to forgive, first and most. To forgive the world, for being sharp at times, for being cruel. To forgive yourself, for depriving your soul of happiness, for doing what you had to do to survive the cold.

To forgive the rust, for walking by your side for a long time. To let cinnamon and pinewood and cherries invade your senses instead, settle upon your sheets and waft into your home. To let the fire within you simmer, to let the anger go, even if it had kept you warm for a while.

For you have the sun now.

You have Chan, and he has you too, at last.

[amfstargirl]

Yandere batfam x neglected reader

Standing in the yard, dressed like a kid, the house is white and the lawn is dead ⋆·˚ ༘ *

You stood firm on the ground, eyes stern and unwavering. In front of you was a place all too familiar—the "shelter" where you grew up, the house that had been your home for five years of your childhood. As you stood there, memories flooded your mind, both the happy ones and the melancholy ones. Your eyes roamed around the place, taking in every detail before you finally decided to enter, lest anyone mistake you for some kind of lunatic loitering outside someone's house.

As your feet mindlessly carried you into the room, a heavy, shaky sigh escaped your quivering lips. It hadn't even been five seconds since you entered, yet you already felt the urge to cry. Oh well, that's what memories do to you. You gently caressed the dirty white wall adorned with your old, fading doodles. Most of them were pink—your favorite color then and even now as an adult. You smiled sadly as the memories of your time in the house flooded back, making you nostalgic. You scoffed sarcastically at the irony that you missed this place more than the manor where you'd spent a longer time.

Perhaps it was because the old you—the innocent, sweet, and pure one—was still within these thin walls that had sheltered them through all the bad times. You could feel their giggles and laughter lingering in the air. Tears streamed down your face as you stared at every sticker, doodle, and writing spread across the walls. Somehow, you cried out of joy, relishing the fact that the child you left behind in this house was still here in some way. Still innocent, still unaware of the harm the world could do.

In the manor, all the love you ever knew came from the man who introduced himself as the family butler but whom you soon came to know as your father. He was the love you craved and begged for at Bruce's feet. He fed you, took care of you, and taught you the things you needed to know. He attended family days, PTA meetings, and other events that your biological father should have been at. Under Alfred's shelter, you did everything you could to try to level with your siblings' talents—learning acrobatics, martial arts, drawing, baking, and more.

Yet it was Alfred who, in the dead of night, under the whispers of the cold wind whipping past your teary face, assured you that you would never need any of those skills to truly earn your family's love. All you needed was to be yourself. You allowed yourself to believe his words and lived them as your truth for a short time, but soon gave up on the idea, accepting that they wouldn't truly see you.

Now, dwelling on your lingering past and memories outside the manor, you remembered those you knew before coming to live with them. You reminisced on the thought of your mother. You remembered her.

You remembered how poverty ate your mother away and that she couldn't provide necessary needs for you but you, sweet, beautiful, angel you never complained.

You remembered how much you loved those barbie shows and movies but couldn't afford the dvds and even a proper functioning television so you sometimes watched it from your window across your neighbors, and while watching you saw a glimpse of their life. Their happy, perfect family life. How they cuddled their daughter and watched those silly barbie movies together. Your eyes softened as you thought "I wanted that" the little you hoped that maybe one day momma will get better and finally love me. Your tears poured from your eyes at the thought.

You remembered while you were doing your homework alone, you heard a whimper outside your window near the alley. As you peeked your tiny head outside, your braids flowing with the cold, harsh wind, your eyes searching for the source of noise. As you let your gaze travel through every corner of the alley, you saw a dirty, poor puppy whimpering, alone, calling out for its mother, its father, anyone. You ran hastily outside and collected its tiny and fragile form gently in your arms. "I'm here, I'm okay, you're safe," you whispered softly to the creature. And from. That very day you fed it and kept it sheltered secretly from your mother. You named her Amara. It suited her. You didn't have much play mates so you sometimes play with her by the yard where you and her would either run together or lay down. You never really got to say goodbye to her. From "that" moment on, you never got to go back to your house. You wondered how she was. Was she well fed? Did she think you abandoned her? Does she miss you? The guilt of living her ate you up the longer you dwelt on the past. You shook your head and sighed, trying to forget about all of it. You mourned every version of you. And this was your most treasured one. Thinking back on all the memories you had of the old you, of her. You thanked them for being so forgiving, for being so brave, for being so content with what she had, and for never trading anything for it.

They Were such a kind soul. And you're glad that they gets to stay where they were the happiest despite the nightmare they endured those days. You will always look up to them. They were and will always be a part of you. You took one last look at the house, the drawings, the dirty corners of the room, and released a breath as you closed your eyes. This was it. You'll finally get to say goodbye-

Whimper

You froze as you heard a familiar whimper. You turned around and slowly walked towards the opened door, and you saw her. Amara, your friend. You can't help but let the tears fall as her once brown fluffy appearance is now old and grey. You wondered how even in the light of old age she somehow still seems so youthful. She was still your baby. With a shaky voice, you tested the name. "Amara...?" she wags her tail in delight as a response to the familiar name she's been waiting to be called for so many years. You kneeled down and gently caressed her. "Oh, baby. You've been waiting for me, haven't you?" she whimpered as if answering you. You noticed her trying to catch her breath and her body growing weaker. You glance at her tail and see its wagging has become more frail and slow. You glance at your eyes, and you know. You smiled at her and whispered, "It's okay, baby. You can rest now." Her face weakly lit up, and she slowly closed her eyes, calm and loved, finally in your embrace.

After some time, you tenderly wrapped her body in a blanket. You carried her to the yard where you both used to play together as kids, a place where you ran freely without a care in the world. Borrowing a shovel from a tenant in the apartment, you buried her there, in the spot where you both were the happiest.

You whispered silent prayers for your companion and left with the memories. This was it. You've made your peace with the old you. Almost. There was one more thing you have to do.

You used believed that your mother could have been so much more. She was a beautiful woman. Smart, even if other would beg to disagree. But, you knew that she knew how to play her cards right to get what she desired for. She would have been so powerful if she used her sharp mind to something much more.. Productive. Yet she chose to sleep with men, abandon her daughter, and let herself be eaten by poverty and lust. Well, you didn't really mind if she abandoned you. You've always felt like you were the burden, the barrier to her way of succeeding and the chain locked onto her feet, keeping her from truly running away to what she has become. You've seen it in her eyes, the thought of running away and living a new life, but when she looks at you.. She saw a mistake she could never be freed of. A mistake. If only you weren't born, she would have been so happy.

Blink.

Blink.

Blink.

Blink. "Ma'am?" the nurse asked. Suddenly, you were back to reality. You blinked again, processing her words. You glanced at her expectant expression and blurted out, "Y-yes, yes, uhm. Yeah. I'm ready." She smiled and said, "Great. Let's go this way, ma'am." You followed her hurriedly, not wanting to test her patience. As you walked, dissociating and thinking of all the possible outcomes, the nurse suddenly stopped in front of a room and said, "We're here. You can enter now." You nodded and thanked her silently.

Facing the door, you chanted in your mind, "You can do this," with a mix of determination and uncertainty. Taking a deep breath, you exhaled and opened the door. There she was—your mother, in all her glory. Bare-faced and vulnerable in her comfy hospital gown. You almost choked on your saliva, seeing her this... bare. You had always seen her so filtered, her face adorned with colors, her clothes tight and bright. Awkwardly, you shifted in your place and slowly sat beside her bed as her gaze followed your every move. You cleared your throat, preparing to speak, but she beat you to it.

“I know you.” you widen your eyes at her as she continues “you're my child.” you weren't shocked at the fact that she acknowledged you but the fact that she called you Her child, and the softness in her eyes. You were starting to think that maybe this isn't your mother, because she never looked at you like that. Never in years of living together has she even glance at you.

She chuckled at the sight of your confused and shocked state, bringing you out of your thoughts. "What? Shocked? Of course, I still remember you, Y/n," she weakly said, her voice small and quite different from the harsh tone she used to yell at you with. You inhaled sharply, trying to stop your tears from falling. What the heck? Were you about to cry again?

"I thought with how much resentment you harbor for me, you would have forgotten about me by now," you smiled sadly at her, watching her face drop slightly but still smiling weakly.

"Oh, Y/n," you almost crumbled right then and there. Oh, how much you had longed to be called so sweetly by your mother's voice. "I never hated you... that much," she said bitterly, and you stayed quiet, waiting for her to continue. "I just wasn't born to be a mother, no—at least not in this life. I'm a mess and I always will be. And I'm sorry I couldn't change for you because nothing can and nothing will change me anymore."

Your lips frowned at her words. "I always thought that maybe you could have been better without me," you said. You miss her, and you will always miss her. She was your whole world, but now seeing her and talking to her made you realize her world was clearly much different from yours. Her world was something one could not escape. You knew you couldn't live like that, and it seems that she cannot live any other way. They said that a mother and children exist as wretched mirrors of each other. You were all she could have been and she was all you might have been.

She closed the distance between you and embraced you for the first time. "You never were. It was me. I was the problem. You were just a child. In another life, I would've been able to care for you." You didn't question her on why she couldn't do it in this life because you knew. You knew she didn't have the capability to be a good mother and a morally good person now, and that was okay. You couldn't live with The fact that she will never truly care for you and will always hold secret animosity towards you if you force her to be a mother to you. You closed your eyes for a minute and silently took in the feeling of a mother's embrace for the first and last time.

"This is the last time you're ever gonna see me again," you said. Your mother chuckled bitterly and replied, "I know. Good for you, kid. Leave everything behind and start anew. You deserve it."

You soon moved out of her arms and held her hands tightly, looking into her eyes. With a deep exhale, you walked out of the hospital. This was it—you were finally free from your past. You had made your peace with it, and now it was time for you to move forward. You knew that if you didn't confront the horrors of your past, they would haunt you for the rest of your life. You had made a good choice.

As you stepped outside, the cool breeze greeted you, and you felt a sense of liberation wash over you. The sun was beginning to set, casting a warm, golden glow over everything. It was as if the universe itself was acknowledging your newfound freedom. You took a moment to breathe in the fresh air, savoring the feeling of lightness that now enveloped you. Walking down the street, you felt a renewed sense of purpose. The city seemed different somehow—brighter, more alive. You noticed the little things that you had overlooked before: the vibrant colors of the flowers in the park, the laughter of children playing, the distant hum of traffic. It was as if you were seeing the world with fresh eyes, unburdened by the weight of your past.

For the first time in a long time, you felt at peace. The past no longer held you captive. You were free to live your life, to pursue your passions, and to surround yourself with people who truly cared for you. It was the beginning of a new chapter. You get home to your apartment and sit at your couch grabbing some blankets and making hot cocoa. You thought to yourself that this is what you exactly needed. Watching barbie movies in your new cozy apartment without any burden past onto your shoulders, the little you would have been so proud, making you smile at the thought. This was it. Nothing was going to stop you now.

That's what you thought.

It has been 2 weeks since you've moved in your apartment and you're getting ready for your ballet rehearsal. You were especially excited about this as you were going to perform swan lake when you got to enact one of the most important and famous characters, how cool was that? As you were about to grab your pink bowed pointe shoes a sudden “ping!” notification was heard from your phone. You turned your head and went to grab it expecting a message from one of your close friends or even your ballet mates but all you were met with was a message from a person you least wanted a one from.

Dick. Your supposed older brother is asking you to hang out with him. At this very moment. You dropped your phone and stared at nothing while breathing heavily. You feel your heartbeat rapidly breathing, the knot in your stomach growing more tighter and tighter each minute you let the thought sink into your brain. You almost tripped at your foot as a result of your vision disfigured, as if you were looking through a fish-eye lens. This wasn't right, this wasn't supposed to happen. When-how?-why?! Why was this happening now? You were only starting to feel like everything in your life was finally starting to go your way. Why did this have to happen? It was as if the universe was mocking you. You bit your lips until it bled but you couldn't care less. You were numb. You hadn't even realized that you were nowate for today's rehearsals. With trembling hands you reached for your phone and shakily pressed the button “block” as you silently prayed that he-they would never come in contact with you ever again.

Of Course that wouldn't happen though. The universe was never really on your side.

Dick? What's happening here?

A sudden deep voice spoke, bringing Dick out of his deep trance. He turned around and saw his father standing outside the door, looking suspiciously at him. He stared at his father and saw the look on his face—full of confusion and unfamiliarity, not towards him but the room he was in. "I-it's Y/n," he stuttered, the name tasting so sweet on his tongue. He wanted to roll around in the scent of you. Was that weird? No—he just missed you, that's all.

"What about them?" Bruce's voice carried a nonchalance that almost made Dick angry. How could he be so indifferent about his precious sibling? With a hard voice, Dick replied, "They're gone." Bruce's eyes widened slightly at the response. What did he mean you were gone? You were just here when... Wait, when? He worriedly glanced at Dick, and as if understanding, Dick answered, "I know."

Bruce inhaled sharply and stepped inside the room, your lingering scent greeting him. Your trophies adorned the walls. This was your room? No, it couldn't be. This was too little. This was just... not it. The difference between his other childrens bedrooms and yours was so noticeable. You didn't have any fancy chandelier decorating yours. You didn't have your own bathroom.

Bruce's eyes scanned the room, taking in every detail. The neatly arranged trophies, the faded posters on the walls, and the small bed that seemed too empty now. He walked over to the desk and picked up a framed photo of you, when was this? You look so.. Grown? How old were you? Were you old enough to live alone? How come he didn't know? Did you have a job-were you even allowed to have one? he clenches his fist as he stares at the sight of your image and sees your bright smile. His heart ached at the sight. How had he missed this? How had he not noticed the signs?

Dick watched his father, a mix of emotions swirling within him. He wanted to scream, to demand why Bruce hadn't paid more attention, why he hadn't been there for you. But he knew he wasn't any better than his adoptive father was. Besides, it wouldn't change anything. The damage was done.

Bruce set the photo back down and turned to Dick, his expression a mix of regret and determination. He saw the tiny diary and other papers scattered across the floor and picked them up, reading them one by one as he slowly spiraled into regret and guilt. Dick watched as he knew this was going to make him understand. Today made it all clear to him. Why there was a nagging feeling inside of him saying that there was something missing in the manor. It was why the sweet muffled music of the orchestra haunted the manor, the same kind of music haunting their bedroom. Like it was a reminder, a warning. That something special was lost. The soothing sound of humming, light footsteps around the manor now gone. The pink bows tied around the handles of the stairs, the love that the plants receive now nowhere to be found. It was because you took that love with you.

"We need to find them," Bruce spoke, his voice steady but filled with urgency. His knees bounce as his Jaws tighten anxiously.

Dick nodded, his resolve matching his father's. "We'll find them," he replied, his voice firm. "And we'll make things right."

As they left the room, Bruce carrying the framed image of you tightly, almost as if he was paranoid that something would take it from him, and dick gently running his thumb through the texture of your pink, bowed, bright diary, the weight of their mission settled on their shoulders. They knew it wouldn't be easy, but they were determined to bring you back. The silence of the manor was a stark reminder of what they had lost, and they were ready to do whatever it took to make amends.

Bruce was anxious. He didn't have a plan. Ironic, because Batman always had a plan. It was an unspoken rule—Batman was always prepared. But now, he found himself at a loss, his mind racing with uncertainty. Perhaps it was because he knew every single person in Gotham. As the guardian of Lady Gotham, he prided himself on understanding the intricate web of connections and motives that defined the city's inhabitants. He calculated every person's actions, paid attention to every detail, and watched from the heart of Gotham.

He paid extensive attention to everyone... except you.

It wasn't intentional. He had always been consumed by the weight of his responsibilities, the never-ending battle against crime, and the need to protect the city. But now, standing in your room, surrounded by the remnants of your presence, he realized his failure. The irony of it all struck him—Batman, the meticulous planner, had overlooked the most important person in his life.

Now he was desperate, he may not have a plan but he was desperate. He'll do anything to get you back. Any possible way to get back all the times he failed you, when he failed to be a father to you. He swore to protect you and never let you out of his sight ever again.

Dick wasn't any better. As he walked, his thoughts played tricks on him, but in a way he almost relished. His mind insisted that you must be so scared without him, without your older brother to protect you. He didn't even consider the possibility that you could be an independent, fully functioning individual on your own, or the fact that you had grown and most likely abandoned the thought of "bonding" with him. In this moment, his mind was consumed by the image of you and the curiosity of what more you had within yourself that he had neglected. His anxiousness grew, causing him to bite his nails and run his hands through his hair in frustration. His breathing became ragged, and his heart pounded in his chest. It was as if he had turned feral, his bloodshot blue eyes itching to be blessed with a vision of your face.

The more he thought about it, the more his mind played tricks on him. He imagined you scared and alone, wondering why your older brother wasn't there to protect you. He couldn't bear the thought of you suffering because of his neglect. His thoughts raced, each one more frantic than the last. What if you were hurt? What if you were in danger? What if you had given up on ever reconnecting with him?

The guilt gnawed at him, making it hard to focus on anything else. He couldn't shake the feeling that he had failed you, that he had missed so many opportunities to be there for you. His heart ached at the thought of all the moments you had spent alone, craving the attention and love that he hadn't given.

As he continued to walk, his thoughts became more erratic. He imagined you thriving without him, having found your own path and your own sense of independence. The possibility that you no longer needed him stung, but it also filled him with a strange sense of pride. You had grown, despite everything, and that was something to be admired.

Still, his mind couldn't rest. He needed to see you, to know that you were okay. The uncertainty was driving him to the brink of madness. His hands trembled as he clenched them into fists, determined to find you and make amends.

he wouldn't rest until he saw you again.

Both Bruce and Dick disregarded everything around them, unaware of the curious look Tim gave them. He followed quietly behind their backs, raising an eyebrow as he wondered why they hadn't noticed his presence yet. Normally, these two were incredibly guarded, so Tim was shocked by their lack of awareness. What could have made them so unfocused?

Bruce—the Batman—and Dick—the first Robin and now Nightwing—were both engrossed in a particular object. They seemed to be completely absorbed, their usual vigilance overshadowed by their intense fixation. Tim watched as Bruce's eyes remained glued to a framed photo on the desk, his expression a mix of regret and determination. Meanwhile, Dick's gaze was fixed on the pink notebook in his hands, his fingers gently tracing the glittery cover.

Tim couldn't help but wonder what was so important about these items that it made two of the most vigilant people he knew drop their guard. The framed photo of you, smiling brightly, seemed to hold Bruce in a trance, while the pink notebook, adorned with bows and glitters, seemed to capture all of Dick's attention. They were so consumed by these objects that they had let down the walls they had built through years of vigilantism.

It had to be something incredibly significant—something better yet, special.

“What are you two doing?” asked Tim, suddenly breaking the silence between the three of them as he watched the father and son duo flinch, obviously flabbergasted at his sudden interruption at their deep trance. He observed as their face turned from shock to going back to their frowning faces making him mirror the same expression. Dick clenches his jaw and exhales sharply preparing himself to speak when he is suddenly interrupted by a familiar voice he would always recognize.

"What is going on here?" a figure with deep forest-green eyes asked, standing tall in the shadows, his cold demeanor unwavering. Dick's eyes met his, and he said his name. "Damian. Wha—"

"You have deliberately abandoned your promise to train with me today. Why?" Damian's voice was sharp, full of accusation. Shoot. That was right. Dick had forgotten to train with his younger brother today. But it didn't matter now; his other sibling needed him, and it was about time they knew about them too. He glanced at Bruce's unfocused state, feral and restless.

"It's about Y/n," Dick said firmly.

Tim stood still for a moment, trying to figure out who "Y/n" was, while Damian immediately sneered at the mention of his "rival." He couldn't pinpoint why your presence angered him so much. Maybe it was because he had to share the title of being the Wayne heir with someone so... normal, someone so far below his level. You both were so different. Perhaps he was jealous of you for being so normal, for not having to worry about tainting your hands with blood and painting others black and blue. What did you even do? He didn't know, but he bet it was something a normal civilian would.

Meanwhile, his peripheral vision caught Tim standing still, deep in thought. Damian saw him processing quickly, his mind running fast as he tried to figure out who you were and why you were so relevant at the moment. Then suddenly—aha! Tim remembered now! You were the kid who had pestered him non-stop about some game.

Tim's eyes widened as he recalled the memory. The realization hit him like a wave. He had been so dismissive back then, but now he understood the significance. Guilt washed over him, mixing with curiosity and concern. What had happened to you? Why were you so important now?

Damian's sneer softened slightly, replaced with a look of contemplation. “What about them?” asked damian. While Tim wondered the same. Suddenly Bruce's cold and deep voice said “they're gone.” Damian raising an eyebrow of his response, and Tim answering “gone? Gone how?” switching his gaze from dick and Bruce's form awaiting for one of them to answer his question as the tension in the room thickens. “I mean that they're gone. All their things not found in their room, no trace of them not in the mansion, and not even a goodbye.” Tim and Damian frowned at the same time. Damian scoffed and thought you were probably just making a big scene so the attention would be on you. Bruce said “we need to find them. Now.” his voice left no choice for them to abide by his command.

Now alone in the CCTV room, Tim let his bored gaze wander over the footage from a long time ago, his palm supporting his head. Suddenly, something caught his attention. He watched as you sat, his fingers tapping the keyboard to increase the volume. You hummed lightly at the footage, a simple gesture but not to him. Your voice was so familiar to him. His eyes dilated as you continued humming, your voice sweet as honey, as light as a mother's touch trying to lull her baby to sleep.

He zoomed the footage closer and closer, almost as if he wanted to go through the screen just to hear your sweet, angelic, melancholic voice. Your voice was like a soft fur blanket to him. He didn't know if he was hallucinating from sleep deprivation, but he swore you were covered by a soft light, hugging your form and kissing your skin gently.

Tim sat in your "presence" for a bit, soaking in your voice. As he listened, memories flooded back. He recalled distant muffled sounds within the thin walls, lulling him to sleep, chasing away the demons that kept him awake at night. He had so desperately wanted to close his eyes and rest, and he remembered thinking maybe it was just a voice in his head, or maybe a real-life angel offering him salvation from suffering and the sweet pleasure of sleep. Now he knew, the angel was called "Y/n."

His fingers tightened around the edge of the desk as he leaned in closer, his breathing steadying as he watched the footage. The realization hit him hard. How had he missed this before? How had he not recognized that comforting voice? The gentle humming, the presence that had brought him solace on sleepless nights—it was all you.

Tears welled up in his eyes as he continued to watch, his heart aching with a mix of regret and longing. He remembered the nights he had spent tormented by nightmares, the countless times he had struggled to find peace. Your voice had been his lifeline, a beacon of hope in the darkness.

He couldn't shake the feeling of guilt. How had he been so blind? How had he not seen the importance of your presence in the manor? Tim's thoughts spiraled as he recalled the moments he had dismissed you, the times he had been too wrapped up in his own world to notice you reaching out. He needed to see you. To hear your voice, to take you back, to get on his knees and beg for forgiveness as his forehead kisses the cold, dirty floor, or to maybe steal you back without a word. He didn't know, he just had to see you.

The footage continued to play, your voice a soothing balm to his troubled mind. He sat there, never unwavering, always in awe of your voice and never taking his attention off you. He sat there,Unaware that he had been playing the same footage for hours and hours. His dilated eyes worshipping you as if you were a god.

He felt a deep sense of loss, realizing that you were gone, and he hadn't even had the chance to thank you for all the nights you had unknowingly saved him. Determined, he knew he had to find you. He had to make things right.

After some time, finally. Tim's resolve hardened as he stood up, his eyes never leaving the screen. He would find you, and he would make sure you knew how much you meant to him. With renewed purpose, he left the CCTV room, ready to join Bruce and Dick in their search. Together, they would bring you back and rebuild the bond that had been neglected for far too long.

With much focus on the object of his obsession attention, he failed to notice a tall figure in the shadows, watchin. Thinking after all these years they have finally come to their senses, realizing the greatest gift of all was right under their noses.

Damian was a dangerous person. To be fair, he was raised to be an assassin and an heir to the throne from the moment he was born. Not even a moment out of the womb did he catch a glimpse of the normal life he so desperately wanted. He trained day and night, month after month, year after year, to become the perfect product of the world's greatest detective and the daughter of the king of assassins. Imagine the inner turmoil within him when he didn't meet the expectations set upon his shoulders. All his life, all he knew was to fight. In any situation, his first instinct was to fight and guard himself for his life.

Sometimes, he wondered how they expected a child to lead thousands of assassins to create a bloodbath. Behind his pride and arrogance was a deep-seated anger towards those in charge of his fate. He was furious that his innocence had been stripped away, clawing its way back to him, but ultimately, they succeeded in giving him a future burdened with the weight of guilt for painting the young and innocent red.

Damian's upbringing left him with a constant battle within himself. The expectations placed upon him were immense, and he often felt like he was suffocating under the pressure. The relentless training, the unyielding discipline, and the need to prove himself consumed his every waking moment. The anger he felt was not just directed at those who shaped his fate but also at himself for not being able to escape it. Many didn't know of it but he found it hard to be Robin. The conflict between leaning to your instincts or “your- now- morals” was hard. To kill and to save was wrong and somehow to save and to forgive was right.

Despite his impressive skills and abilities, there was a part of him that longed for something more—something normal. He envied those who lived ordinary lives, free from the burden of bloodshed and violence. He wondered what it would have been like to have a childhood filled with laughter and innocence rather than combat and survival. As to why he wonders what more could you possibly want? He was so sure that you had so much wonderful time living such a luxurious life in the manor and never having to prove yourself to be worthy of something in being able to get the object of your desire. How could you run away from this life? From your life? You were so unfair, so selfish.

As he continued to grapple with these conflicting emotions, Damian's exterior remained cold and guarded. He rarely allowed anyone to see the vulnerable side of him, the side that yearned for a different life. But deep down, the scars of his past lingered, a constant reminder of the life he was forced into and the innocence that was stolen from him.

He shut his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, and released a heavy sigh. What a bother. Making his way to every corner of the manor to "inspect" and see if you had left any trace of yourself there. As he walked down the path, letting his bored state guide him, he glanced at the thick walls and noticed some unfamiliar works of art. His gaze roamed around the room, settling on various paintings he had never noticed before. It was as if the paintings spoke for themselves, screaming out for anyone to notice and appreciate them. The different textures, colors, shapes, and stories behind the art captivated him.

Damian liked to think that he noticed everything and had the ability to be highly aware of his surroundings, whether he was familiar with them or not. But at this moment, he paused, questioning himself. If he was truly aware, how had he managed to overlook these breathtaking canvases filled with bright colors that made him... feel things? He took a step forward and saw a tiny signature on the left side of one of the canvases. He brought his hand up to softly caress the painting, gently and carefully, as if he were afraid that a mere touch could destroy it.

Engrossed in admiring the paintings, he failed to notice the tall figure beside him. It was only when the man spoke, "Master Damian," addressing him, that he flinched slightly.

"Ah, Alfred. My apologies, I was a bit distracted by the art adorning the walls, which seems to be... unfamiliar to me. Would you mind telling me where my father keeps buying these paintings? I must say I'm quite... impressed."

Alfred frowned and smiled sadly at the youngest Wayne. "Well, Master Damian, these paintings are actually not your father's doing. Rather, they are Master Y/n's work of art."

Damian's eyes widened in surprise. He turned back to the paintings and said "Y/n did these?" he asked, almost incredulous. The realization that you had created such beautiful and meaningful art struck him deeply. He didn't even know that you could draw much less create such.. Beautiful art. While he was thinking about it he realize that he had complimented you, you!

"Indeed, Master Damian," Alfred confirmed. "Y/n spent countless hours creating these pieces. Each one holds a story, a piece of their heart."

Damian felt a pang of emotion through his chest, he couldn't pinpoint what it was but it was somehow nagging him about something, or rather someone. His fingers traced the brushstrokes with a newfound reverence, as if trying to understand the emotions you had captured on canvas.

"I never knew..." Damian whispered, more to himself than to Alfred. The layers of vibrant colors, the delicate details, and the raw emotions conveyed through your art were all a testament to the depth of your soul. He felt a connection to you that he hadn't realized before, a sense of camaraderie and understanding. And he was totally not dissing you just minutes ago.

Alfred placed a comforting hand on Damian's shoulder. "Art has a way of speaking to us, Master Damian. It reveals truths that words often cannot. Y/n's art is a reflection of their experiences, their joys, and their sorrows. It is a part of them that they have shared with the world."

Damian nodded, taking a step back to fully appreciate the entirety of your work. Your art had opened a door to a deeper connection, and he was willing to walk through it. He didn't know why but in a way this was proof that you had always had some kind of connection to him.

As Damian and Alfred stood there, surrounded by the masterpieces you had created, a sense of resolve settled over Damian. He frowns and takes a look around all the work of your art. His style doesn't differ much from yours. the caress of brush ever so slightly seen, and the emotions behind the soul of your paintings, like his. What made you so similar to him? And that, he will not know until he finds you.

He knew that finding you and bringing you back was not just about making amends—it was about recognizing and celebrating the unique and irreplaceable person you were.

Y/n considered themselves a keen observer, attuned to the delicate nuances of the world around them. They noticed the gentle yet sometimes harsh swaying of the wind as it danced with the leaves, creating a symphony of nature's whispers. They noticed the lady sitting on the park bench, quietly absorbing the view of the home she once grew up in, her memories interwoven with the present. They noticed the ducks by the pond, gracefully gliding through the water alongside their mother, a portrait of serene tranquility.

Y/n noticed everything, yet no one noticed them. And it was fine. They had long accepted this reality, enduring the loneliness of being invisible in a world where they saw so much. The weight of being unnoticed had become a familiar companion, a constant presence that shaped their existence. In the silent spaces between moments, Y/n found solace in their observations, finding beauty in the overlooked and meaning in the mundane.

So why were they just noticing you just now? Why? When you have just started to accept and move on. Why must they bring the horrors of the past when your current life is filled with hope arraying a new journey, now destroyed.

Why couldn’t Dick just let you be, drifting away in the silence you’d crafted? Why couldn’t he leave you to fade quietly, just as you had promised yourself you would, a ghost of your former self, untouched and unbothered? Yet there he was, an ever-present weight, his hands—rough, calloused, scarred by years of untold burdens—forcing your face into the past, as if his touch could rewrite history. His fingers dug into your skin, twisted into the soft contours of your face, tearing through the years of numbness, of denial, dragging you back to a place you had sworn you’d never return.

And then, Tim. Oh, Tim. The boy who once didn’t even see you, who barely even remembered your name when it lingered in the air of the manor. Now, he’s relentless, his fingers tapping into your phone with the same quiet insistence that his presence once had in the dark halls of that place you used to call home. You want to scream, to rip the silence apart, to do anything but feel what you’re feeling now—this suffocating pull to return to them, to face them, even when you know you never should have to again.

The ache swells, the lump in your throat is a tangible thing now, a choking presence you can’t swallow down. It’s the same searing pain that’s lingered, festering, hidden beneath layers of what you pretended was healing. How cruel it is, to have spent so much time trying to break free, only to find that some things, some people, are never quite done with you.

The ghost of them lingers, burrows deeper, with every unanswered message. They still haunt you, even from afar. You hate them for it, for still holding the power to break you open, to make you bleed from places you thought had long scarred over. It feels like a thousand wounds opening up again—slow, deliberate, bleeding you dry in a way you don’t know how to stop.

You stared blankly into the emptiness, feeling numb, when suddenly a hand rested on your shoulder. You flinched instinctively and turned to see who it was. Your eyes widened as you recognized your ballet teacher standing behind you. "Miss Kavinsky! I-I... Hi! I’m—" you stammered, but she quickly cut you off with a smile.

"Y/N L/N-Wayne, I know," she said with a warm tone. "It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you."

You winced slightly, the sound barely audible, but Miss Kavinsky didn’t seem to notice. "Come on, let’s meet the other dancers. I’m sure they’re eager to meet you."

The surprise hit you hard, and you stuttered, "M-me?" You couldn’t help but feel like an idiot.

She grinned, a playful mix of amusement and mild disbelief on her face. "Yes, you. You're kind of a celebrity here, Wayne. Not surprised with a talent like yours."

Her words lingered in the air, but you went quiet, caught off guard by the compliment. You couldn’t fully process it, the idea of anyone looking up to you seemed so foreign, so distant. And somewhere in the haze, you barely registered the way she had called you "Wayne.”

As you and the other dancers gathered at the stage, a wave of anxiety washed over you. The weight of thoughts about Tim and Dick pressed heavily on your mind, and the pressure of the moment only made it worse. Just as your mind started to spiral, a voice cut through the chaos.

"Hey! You're Y/N, right? I'm Desiree, but you can just call me Des."

You forced a smile, barely hearing Miss Kavinsky as her voice faded into the background, announcing something about attendance. Your attention was now solely focused on Des, who had just broken the ice. You shook her hand and smiled more genuinely, the tension in your body loosening up a bit.

"Hi, Des. Yeah, you already know who I am. Nice to meet you."

You both exchanged a quiet laugh, and the chatter around you faded as you continued talking. For a moment, you felt like you could breathe again. You asked the usual questions: "How old are you?" "What's your favorite ballet?" The conversation flowed easily, but when your name was suddenly called for attendance, you were snapped back to reality.

"Here!" you called out, your voice getting lost in the sea of dancers.

But then Des said something that made you freeze.

"So, are you excited that both of you are here?" she asked with a playful giggle, her smile sweet and innocent.

You blinked, confused, but smiled through it. "Both of us...?" you repeated, trying to follow along.

Des chuckled softly at your puzzled expression. "You and your sister, silly! It must be so nice to perform together. My brother wouldn't even try to get into ballet, you know?"

Her words, lighthearted as they were, suddenly made your world feel like it was crashing down around you. You felt a cold panic begin to rise. Your fingers instinctively dug into your palms, almost drawing blood. Your smile wavered, barely holding on, while your eyes fluttered, teetering on the edge of tears. Des’s voice became distant, her words fading into a muffled blur as your thoughts spiraled out of control, bloodshot eyes starting to sting with unshed tears. Your heart raced, and the chaos inside you was too much to contain.

In that very moment, her name echoed through the air, sharp and clear. Without thinking, your gaze shifted, and you locked eyes with her. Her wide, unblinking stare pierced through the noise, anchoring you in place. For a fleeting second, you wondered if she had been watching you all along—since the instant your name was called, or perhaps even before. You couldn't be sure.

What you did know, however, was that the weight of her gaze felt like a force, pulling you into a quiet abyss. It made you feel small, fragile—as if you were prey beneath the steady, unyielding gaze of a predator. A shiver ran through you, and suddenly, all you wanted was to escape, to flee from the suffocating intensity of her eyes, which seemed to strip away every layer of protection you had left.

The fates were clearly playing with you now.

Cassandra was an exceptionally gifted individual, much like her siblings, each of whom possessed their own unique abilities. From the moment she first pursued ballet, her family showered her with unwavering love and support. She had access to training that most could only dream of—privileges afforded to her not because of her wealth, but because she was no ordinary person. She was Batgirl, the daughter of Batman by choice, a mantle she wore with pride. So, when an invitation arrived for her to join the prestigious Swan Lake performance alongside other top-tier dancers, it hardly came as a surprise. After all, excellence was something she had always embraced, both on the stage and off.

As she gets ready for her first rehearsal she can't help but notice that some of her siblings are missing. She shook it off and ate her food but also not abandoning the thought of asking about the absence of her siblings and father, to a familiar companion of their family:Alfred. As where Alfred only replies with them being busy about.. Something, yet said to her to fret not and just worry her mind about her ballet play, quickly chasing away her concerns for her family with a smile that made her feel lighthearted. With a chuckle she got up and made her way to the location of where the dancers were told to meet.

Cass had always believed she was the only one in her family who truly appreciated the delicate artistry of ballet. Her passion for the graceful movements, the precision of each step, and the beauty of the performances had always felt like a private world to her, a world she inhabited alone. She couldn’t recall a single moment where anyone in her family shared even the slightest interest in it. So, when she entered the crowded theater that evening, expecting to be surrounded only by fellow ballet enthusiasts, she was taken aback by something unexpected.

Amidst the sea of unfamiliar faces, she spotted you. For a fleeting moment, her heart skipped a beat, not from the rush of seeing someone in the crowd, but from an overwhelming sense of familiarity that washed over her. There you were, standing like a ghost from a forgotten past, an unexplainable connection sparking between you both. Cass couldn’t place it, but it was as though she had known you forever, even though your paths had never crossed before.

Her mind wandered, replaying the memories that had been buried deep within her. A distant image flashed across her thoughts: she was standing in a room filled with soft, pastel-colored fabrics, the scent of leather and polish hanging in the air. Two pairs of pointe shoes rested beside one another on the floor—one was familiar, worn and well-loved, the other brand new, the laces still fresh and untangled. The second pair, the one that felt entirely foreign, immediately piqued her curiosity. She was certain it wasn’t hers, yet the connection to it lingered, something so subtle but undeniable.

The realization hit her like a wave. She didn’t know you, not consciously, but somehow she felt bound to you, as if fate had woven your lives together in some strange, invisible thread long before either of you had even been aware of it.

The entire day she watched and observed you. She paid extra attention to every detail of your expressions, body language, and posture. She didn't know why but you seemed to be very clear–in her case, in distress, like you were panicking over something. And she didn't know why she somehow hated seeing you that way. As the minutes passed, she found herself simply just staring at you. Not even for a fleeting moment had she taken her gaze of you. She watched and observed tensely at every person who looks at you, who talks to you, who breathes near you. Almost as if she was guarding you. As they were told to gather she followed silently after the crowd and placed herself purposely in front of the other side from you. She scoffs in amusement as you barely notice her, too focused on your own little world. As minutes continued to pass, suddenly a girl broke you out of her thoughts with her voice making you flinch. Her breath hitched as irritation started to crawl their way through her chest. Why couldn't the girl be more gentle with you? Can't she see that you were clearly stressed? She frowns slightly at the girl, surprising herself by the sudden change of mood. She holds her breath and watches you like a hawk would at its prey. Her vision was filled with your now loosen frame, giggling with the girl who approached you earlier. A new feeling started to claw its way through her chest, now bigger and stronger. The green monster eating her up when suddenly the call of her voice brought her out of her thoughts as she, for a moment took her eyes off of you to answer quietly to her name and as she bring back her gaze to you, quickly to not miss anything she might take the pleasure in seeing, suddenly your eyes are on her too. Her eyes couldn't leave the sight of your gaze who held such horror in them, as if seeing her was too much for you. As she was your living nightmare sitting right in front of you.

The remaining time the dancers practiced, you avoided her gaze and her presence. The more you avoided her, the more she itched to be in your presence alone, to be near you. The whole time at the practice she was, for the first time, distracted. Her thoughts are consumed by you. Her thoughts came up with every question she could ask about her and your current situation. What were you doing here? Why didn't she know? Were you at the manor? No, if you were she would've known.. Right? Okay if you weren't, then why weren't you? Those questions alone made her uneasy and frustrated. As it was time to go home, she watched as you hurriedly got out and quickly went home to wherever your home was. The nagging feeling screamed at her to follow you but decided against it and thought that going home and bringing the news to her family might help more. After all, they were stronger together.

She stormed into the manor, urgency in her every step, and sought out Alfred with a single, breathless demand: "Boys. Where?" Without hesitation, he led her to them. Her gaze fell upon them, intense and unyielding, her pupils trembling with an unspoken storm. She whispered a single name, a breathless, haunting utterance: "Y/N." The boys, in unison, responded, "We know."

A deep breath escaped her, the weight of their actions—venturing after you without so much as a word—forgotten for the moment. She snatched a laptop, her fingers flying over the keys in a frantic dance of their own. The screen flickered to life, revealing a video that stole the breath from the room. There you were, dancing—each movement a testament to grace, each step more captivating than the last.

The world had already fallen under your spell. The internet buzzed with adoration, praising the way your every turn, every leap, every pause held the audience in thrall. Under the stage lights, you seemed more than human—a celestial being, your form bathed in soft light, glowing like an ethereal angel, kissed by the very air around you. The boys stood frozen, their gaze fixed upon you, entranced.

Your presence was no illusion. You were a goddess of their own making, and in that moment, they knew: they were already devoted, bound by the silent understanding that they would worship you, body and soul.

As the video played, the room fell into a hushed reverence. The boys, once brimming with urgency and tension, now stood motionless, their eyes locked onto the screen, as if spellbound. Every fluid movement you made seemed to breathe life into the very air around them. They couldn’t look away; they didn’t want to. Your every step, every pirouette, was poetry in motion, a delicate balance of strength and grace that made their hearts race.

The way you arched your back mid-spin, the soft brush of your fingertips against your skin, the quiet breath you took before every leap—it all drew them in, slowly, methodically, as though they were witnessing something far beyond the ordinary. Each turn of your body mirrored the very rhythm of their own hearts, synchronized with the ethereal pulse of the music, and they couldn’t help but feel as if the entire world had narrowed down to this one sacred moment.

Your eyes, though focused on the stage, seemed to flicker with a spark of something far deeper, something they couldn't quite place but could almost taste. It was like watching a dream unfold, where every movement became a metaphor—each glide across the stage spoke to something eternal, something untouchable. They found themselves lost in the elegance of your form, the way your body seemed to move with a natural fluidity that defied the laws of physics.

The lights above you softened, caressing your silhouette, painting you in a divine glow. And in that moment, they felt small, insignificant even, as if you had been carved out of stardust itself, too perfect to comprehend, yet impossible to ignore. It wasn’t just the skill of your dance—it was your presence, your essence that held them captive.

They felt an almost primal pull, as though your every movement was speaking directly to their souls. The way your body spoke without words—your elegance and power blending seamlessly—rendered them speechless. They were entranced by the aura you carried, intoxicated by your beauty and the mystery you exuded, a beauty that wasn’t merely skin-deep but radiated from within, a force of nature.

For a fleeting moment, they could almost believe that you were more than human, that you were something higher, something divine. They stood there, wide-eyed and breathless, as if they had been granted a glimpse of something sacred—something that no one else could understand. And in that moment, they knew that they would follow you, worship you, in a devotion that transcended mere admiration. You weren’t just captivating; you were everything. They couldn't believe that someone like you had been overlooked by then.

Bruce now understands that with no plan in mind he would still follow you till the end of the earth. Oh his little baby. He would do anything to earn your love and affection for him. To see you and to bask under the ray of sunshine your smile brings. To feel your presence alone.

Dick now understands that he owes you more than a few dinners or dates as siblings. No. He owes you the world. As guilt eats his flesh up one by one, mourning all the versions of you that he could have witnessed right before his eyes are now long gone. But that's okay, he'll make it up to you.

Tim now understands that you were surely his angel. His savior. His form of salvation. He could watch you all day and never get bored. He could listen to you all day until his ears bled but never say a word.

Damian now understands that the disbelief he felt when looking at your paintings full of emotions overflowing with a sense of overwhelming feel, was now long gone because he knew that only such being like you, almost like a supernatural being, could be the only one who has the ability to capture such deep emotions in one painting, to be able to create such beautiful, breathtaking object.

Cassandra now understands why she felt like she somehow had a connection to you and that was because she was your sister. And as she was a daughter to batman by choice, that she will also be a sister by choice to you. She was an observer, someone who guards-and she will guard you with her life for all eternity.

As the overwhelming tension fills the room Alfred stands at the corner with a small smile. “apologies master y/n had I done this sooner, you would have not slipped through my grasp dear child. Do not fret for your family is coming to get you.”

Ah, Alfred, the mastermind. He knew this would happen. He just needed to intertwine a little. He did not worry because he knew. He knew that leaving your bedroom door open the moment he knew Dick was coming over to the manor while the others were busy, and knowing Dick's tendency to wander off in the vast expanse of Wayne Manor, the chances of him finding your room were high. He knew that rearranging your trophies inside your room (which you had told him to get rid of) would pique the interest of your family even more. He knew that decorating your hidden paintings around the minimalist and empty walls of the house would catch the attention of the youngest Wayne. He knew that playing those soft melodies of your voice through the small TV in the kitchen would enchant a certain sleep-deprived boy, making him miss the sweet sound of your voice.

Alfred knew that when Cassandra was called for the big ballet play, you would be at the same play too, as you had told him over the phone, giggling and excited with a high-pitched voice. He didn't bother to tell you about your sister's similar invitation, nor did he inform your sister about yours. He knew every single detail, every thread that needed to be woven together to create this intricate tapestry of reconnection.

Alfred's wisdom was like a silent symphony, orchestrating events with a delicate touch. He understood the nuances of each family member, their strengths, their weaknesses, and their desires. He knew that Dick's curiosity would lead him to your room, where the trophies would spark memories and questions. He knew that Damian's keen eye for detail would be drawn to the vibrant paintings, each brushstroke a testament to your hidden talents. He knew that Tim, in his sleep-deprived state, would be captivated by the melodies of your voice, a soothing balm to his restless mind.

Alfred's heart ached with the knowledge of your absence, but he also held hope. Hope that these carefully placed breadcrumbs would lead your family back to you, to the realization of what they had lost and the determination to make amends. He knew that the path to reconciliation was not an easy one, but it was a journey worth taking.

As the days passed, Alfred watched with a knowing smile as the pieces began to fall into place. He saw the flicker of recognition in Dick's eyes, the softening of Damian's demeanor, and the spark of determination in Tim's gaze. He knew that the seeds he had planted were beginning to grow, and soon, the family would be whole again.

Alfred was getting old and he couldn't bare the vision of his children Bruce and you, drifting away from each other, and you from him. Maybe it was his own selfish reason but he couldn't help it. He raised you from the moment you got to the manor. Teached you everything he knew and gave you all the love he could. He watched you grew up and maybe it was a moment of rush that he allowed himself to be selfish and turn the tables around.

In the quiet moments, Alfred allowed himself a moment of reflection. He thought of you, the child who had brought so much light into his life. He knew that you deserved to be seen, to be cherished, and to be loved. And he would do everything in his power to ensure that you found your way back to the family that needed you just as much as you needed them.

Authors note: I'm sorry I took so long in writing this! I hope yall enjoy the 10k+ words I wrote. One tip tho is to read and observe the details very carefully! Dw I'm gonna explain it soon tho. Hope yall enjoy this cuz imma take a break after this.

[vettelsvee]

letting oscar take your virginity to celebrate his win

(if this makes you uncomfortable please to deny or only write fluffy before/after!) love ur work sm

V CARDS GOODBYES | Oscar Piastri

Oscar Piastri x Girlfriend!Reader

SUMMARY: Oscar arrives home after winning his first ever Formula 1 race, so you think it’s the perfect time for you to celebrate and, also, to say goodbye to your v card ↳ REQUESTED BY ANON: Hope you like it anon! And sorry it's taken me almost a year I'm a mess 😭

WORD COUNT: 3958

WARNINGS: Smut (virginity loss, female receiving oral sex, fingering, p in v, protected sex, little bit of praising kink), curse words

VEE'S NOTES: Came to the conclusion after the latests Oscar fics I’ve posted that he's the most popular driver on my Tumblr page, so this is for all my Osc people out there! I'm always ashamed of posting smut (but still want to keep writing it) so I hope this is good enough for you to enjoy! Remember that your comments and reblogs are truly appreciated! Thanks for reading <3 (Also, thoughts on the new layout?) ↳ MAKE YOUR REQUESTS | TALK TO ME! | FORMULA 1 MASTERLIST

© VETTELSVEE (2025). please, do not steal, copy or translate my works. thanks for reading!

The door of the apartment you shared in Monaco opened, and before Oscar could step inside, he heard excited screams that made it clear someone was more than happy about his arrival.  

Not only did your cat start rubbing against his leg while purring, but also you, his girlfriend, were hopping towards him, barefoot and wrapped in one of his McLaren hoodies, which turned out to be even bigger on you than you had expected when you decided it would be a great idea to steal it from your boyfriend.  

"You did it, Osc!” you squealed as you threw your arms around his neck. "Osc, oh my God, you won a race! Do you know what that means?"  

Oscar felt his cheeks turn red. Of course, he knew exactly what winning a Grand Prix meant, especially during his second season in Formula 1. However, all he did was shrug, as if his achievement wasn’t that important.  

"Yeah," was all he could say.  

"I’m so, so proud of you," you said in a trembling voice, standing on your tiptoes to cup his face in your hands.  

"I couldn’t have done it without you, even though you were here," Oscar replied sincerely, a hint of regret in his tone. If there was one thing he regretted, it was that you hadn’t been there with him throughout the whole process of stepping onto the podium.  

"I know you would have liked me to be there, and I would’ve loved that too," you replied, making a sad but funny face. "But it’s okay! I screamed at the TV a lot, so I guess I helped in some way… And I’m sure you’ll win more races and I’ll be there to see them all, so it’s not the end of the world!"

Oscar chuckled and pulled you close until there was no space between you. He allowed himself a few moments to hold onto you, gently running his fingers through your hair while you clung tightly to his shirt, pressing your face into his chest as if he might disappear at any second.  

"Hey… I have something for you."

Even though you whispered it, Oscar heard you perfectly. You bit your lip,. a telltale sign of nervousness he knew well, as you pulled away from him. Then, you quickly headed towards the living room, with the Australian following you, and grabbed a small book he had never seen before.  

Carefully, as if it were fragile, you handed it to your boyfriend.  

"Open it… I hope you like it!"

Oscar did as you asked. Gently, he opened what he soon realized was a photo album. It wasn’t just a collection of pictures of you from the past two years since you started dating. It was beautifully decorated. There were messages, and even reflections from your perspective about each memory you had built together.  

"I know it’s not a big deal, but since I was so bored with studying, I have to admit I procrastinated a bit and felt like doing some crafts, so… well, this was the result," you said hesitantly, as if you were confessing a crime, though a small smile crept onto your lips. "Maybe you were expecting something else, I don’t know, but I hope you like it. You could even take it with you whenever you have to travel, so you remember me and also add something else if you feel in the mood," you added softly.  

Oscar felt a lump in his throat, unsure of what to say. Although he was used to you being thoughtful, and he always tried to reciprocate, you somehow kept outdoing yourself.  

"Y/N, this is…" he trailed off, struggling to find the right words. More accurately, he didn’t know how to express them. "It’s incredible. Thank you so much."

You smiled and gave him a gentle kiss on the lips, which, as you both expected, quickly turned into something more desperate, fueled by your hunger for each other.  

Oscar’s hands found your waist beneath the hoodie, his fingers tracing invisible lines along your skin, moving up and down, even toying with the clasp of your bra. The only thing you could do was keep kissing him, tugging at his hair lightly and pressing yourself against his thigh, seeking friction to ease the growing ache within you.  

Then, you suddenly pulled away, more abruptly than Oscar had expected. Your pupils were completely dilated, your lips swollen, and your hair a complete mess.  

"Oscar…" 

"Y/N…"

"I want to do it."

Your voice was barely a whisper. Oscar’s eyes widened, surprised because, even though he perfectly understood what you meant, hearing you say it out loud was an entirely different feeling.  

"Bebe…" 

"I really, really want to do it, Osc," you repeated, more as a confirmation to yourself than to him. "Yesterday, you lost your v-card in Formula 1 with your victory, so… I was thinking maybe I could lose mine too."  

Oscar had known from the very beginning of your relationship that you had never been physically involved with anyone beyond a couple of kisses and teasing. At first, you had been insecure about telling him, worried about feeling ashamed, but Oscar had always made sure you felt safe and comfortable, promising you would only take steps forward when you were truly ready.  

Today, your words made clear that you finally felt like that moment arrived, and that filled Oscar with happiness not because you were about to have sex, but because it meant you were finally comfortable enough with yourself to take that step.  

"Are you… sure?" he asked, even though he already knew the answer. "You know we don’t have to rush anything… I don’t want you to feel like we have to do this just because, you know…" 

"I know, Osc, and I promise I wouldn’t be bringing this up if I weren’t sure," you reassured him, looking into his eyes as you ran your fingers over his hands. "I love you, and most importantly, I trust you. I’ve thought about this for a long time, and well… yeah."

"It’s just… I don’t want to mess anything up, Y/N. This is really important, and it should be perfect,” he confessed with a nervous chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck.  

You smiled, cupping his face and bringing him closer for a kiss.  

"It doesn’t have to be perfect as long as it’s with you, Osc.”

"Okay, but… if you change your mind at any point, you tell me," Oscar insisted. You laughed, rolling your eyes.  

"I promise, really."

Your lips met again, but this time much slower. Oscar took his time kissing you carefully, wanting to do everything right. He cradled your cheek with one hand to deepen the kiss, while the other wrapped around your back, guiding you gently toward the bedroom you shared.  

Once inside, he forced himself to stop and take a deep breath to avoid panicking, even though there was no reason to.  

You stood in front of him, looking at him with a mix of shyness and adoration that reminded him of your early days, when you just used to go out for coffee or to the movies back in high school.  

Oscar couldn’t help but look at you with an equally shy, yet utterly endearing, expression.  

"Tell me if you want me to stop, alright?"

"I will, yeah."  

You didn’t need to say anything else since kissing spoke for you. You took your time, enough for Oscar to make sure you felt completely comfortable, enough for you to overthink just a little more before deciding if you really wanted to continue…  

*"I love you, Oscar…" you murmured between kisses. You tugged at his shirt, helping him pull it off, running your hands over his bare chest as if you were seeing him for the first time.  

"I love you too, Y/N…" 

With nerves and hands shakier than he would have liked, almost as if he were the inexperienced one, he took hold of the hem of your hoodie and slowly lifted it over your head, leaving you in just your underwear.  

Oscar was surprised to see you in black lace lingerie instead of the usual shorts you wore around the house. He was about to say something, but you didn’t give him the chance. You closed the distance between you, pressing your foreheads together before kissing him once again.  

Neither knew how long you were like this, but you both agreed that it had been long enough to discover that you needed more of each other.

Oscar ended up forcing himself to pull away from you and take a breath. A smile curved between his lips, which caused you, somewhat nervously, to giggle at the situation and hug him around the waist, pulling him closer to you while trying not to shove him away.

“Really, we don't have to do it if you don't want to, Y/N,” the McLaren driver insisted once again.

“I've been looking forward to doing this for a long time, and I've been mentally preparing for it for a while,” she told him, trying not to sound uneasy. “I trust you, Osc, and there's nothing for you to worry about.”

“So...?”

“I want you to make me yours, Oscar. Today, tomorrow or whenever and wherever you want,” you whispered in his ear as sensually as you could.

“Y/N…”

“Oscar: I just want you to fuck me.”

You felt your boyfriend tense up after those words that had caught even you off guard. Instinctively, you brought your hand to the noticeable bulge under Oscar's pants, but when you tried to reach for the button to unbutton them, he pushed your hands away lovingly.

“No, honey, none of that for now. Today is your day, so let me do the work and just enjoy yourself.”

Oscar, without another word, took you by the chin and kissed you again for the umpteenth time that day. Now, your lips moved at a slower speed. You guessed it was because you noticed how one of Oscar's hands began to massage one of your breasts, giving special attention to the nipple. With the other, he lightly brushed your pussy, making you gasp when he decided to play with your clit.

“Do you like it, babe?” he asked in a tone of voice that showed too much excitement.

His fingers now delved a little deeper into your intimacy, those enveloping movements becoming a little faster.

“Yes, Osc...” you barely managed to answer.

That answer was enough for the Australian to stop immediately. You didn't even look him in the face. Oscar pulled away from you, leaving a quick kiss on your lips and starting a trail of kisses all over your body, stopping once he reached your lower stomach area.

“Y/N…”

His hands stood delicately on your thighs, which he was now kissing, closer and closer to your pussy. Your hair stood on end. Your breath was completely held, unable to breathe in case that put an end to it all, as if that would be enough for Oscar to finish whatever he was doing with you. 

“If anything we do tonight makes you uncomfortable and you want to stop, just tell me please,” the Australian declared. “And, before your little head starts thinking nonsense: no, I'm not going to get mad at you because you don't want to have sex, okay? If you don't want to…”

“Oscar, look at me,” you cut him off, and the boy immediately listened to you: “it's you, and I'm not going to feel uncomfortable with you and with anything you do to me.”

“Do you promise me, love?”

“I swear.”

Oscar nodded, grabbing your thighs again and dragging you to the edge of the bed so that his face was in front of your pussy, perfectly aligned with your entrance.

Without warning, he slid his tongue, flat, all over it with a slowness that was completely unbearable and that seemed that, rather than pleasing you, he wanted to kill you little by little. His movements were frantic; constant changes of speed, from faster to slower, and vice versa, that made his nose rub against your clit while his tongue seemed to do wonders with that dance.

When Oscar's tongue began to explore inside you, and his index finger, the one he used to show on camera every time he got a first position just like Sebastian Vettel did in his golden age, started a tortuous tour of your labia majora, you curled up shyly but instinctively. Your hands ended up tangled in his hair, forcing him closer to you at the same time your hips did the same.

“I think you're liking it, aren't you my little girl?” Piastri said, ending his oral contact with you and replacing it with his finger. His gaze was fixed on her, and you thought about why he hadn't done this to you before.

“Don't stop, Osc. For the sake of God, don't even think about stopping...” you gasped, becoming increasingly unable to articulate a word.

He didn't have to say anything else. After those words, Oscar slipped a second finger inside you. You let out a small gasp of surprise and he, without taking his eyes off you, laughed, your cheeks turning red almost instantly. Despite this, he kissed your thighs as he continued the back and forth with his index finger, adding his heart almost soon after while increasing even more the speed.

You felt that everything was going too fast, and the waves of pleasure that were flooding you were making you lose, more and more, the notion of time. You didn't know at what point, but when he decided to add his tongue back into the equation, without leaving the movements of his fingers inside you going straight to that spot that gave you the most pleasure, a strange sensation gripped the lower part of your stomach.

It was getting harder and harder for you to hold back your orgasm. You felt how your eyes were closing little by little, and your leg, too, to which Oscar put a little pressure on them to prevent them from closing.

“Come for me, love,” Oscar let you know. “Come on, Y/N, you've got it babe. Come on…”

And so you did.

Your back curved in such a way that your body, completely sweaty, could hardly keep on writhing as it was doing. You were moaning like you had never moaned before, and your boyfriend seemed to notice. A smirk of satisfaction and success began to break from his lips as he licked at your fluids, his mouth moving slowly now, over-stimulating your clit and making you incessantly.

The Australian rose and carefully positioned himself on top of you.

“I love you, Y/N, you don't know how much,” he said between kisses, making you taste yourself for the first time, but hopefully not the last one. “You are the most beautiful girl in the world... And the best girl in the world. Don't ever doubt it.”

“Oscar, don't…”

“Yes you are, Y/N, and I will not allow you to speak so negatively about yourself.”

After those last words, the driver pulled away from you slightly, trying yo give you some time to recover. Then, you looked at him taking what seemed to be a condom from the bedside table, which he carefully put on and immediately positioned at your entrance. 

You swallowed, while Oscar tried not to think about whether he was really going too fast.

·I don't want to sound weird, but... please, if you want me to stop, just tell me,” Oscar spoke as best he could, trying not to succumb to the nerves he felt about taking this important step with you. “I want you to be pretty sure about this since… Well, since there’s not going back…”

You said nothing. Instead, you gave him a slight nod with your head, still looking at him, which was enough for Oscar to enter you carefully, but without a previous warning.

He decided to stand for a while so you could get used to his length. You felt a little pain. You held back a scream, bit your lips and closed your eyes to do your best to make that feeling go away as soon as possible.

“Y/N…”

“Go on, Oscar. It's all right…”

The boy nodded, and finished entering you with the same care. Little by little, his movements gained speed. You arched your back, moaning incessantly as she started feeling more comfortable with the depth of penetration, and Oscar hitting her in a spot that made her feel a pleasure that you feel in a way you didn’t know how to describe, but that felt good enough to make you never want that sex session to end.

“Does it feel good, honey? Are you enjoying my... cock... for the first time?” Oscar moaned, biting her neck. “Look at you… so desperate for me to keep fucking you…”

“Fuck, Oscar... this is a fantasy,” you gasped. “And you talking so... like… like this... God... Don't stop, please…”

“Never for you, sweetheart.”

Your moans became one, a melody that your neighbors were probably listening to but you didnt give a fuck. Your gazes could hardly be averted, and your words, getting dirtier and dirtier as much as your were embarrassed at first, were sounding louder and louder, as were your pleas.

“Oscar!” you shrieked as you felt Oscar's fingers press against you nervous bundle.”

“Love...” he moaned through his teeth. ”Don't stop moaning my name, please. You don't know how you're making me feel right now.

·And of course I'm going to make you feel so much better when we do this again,” you replied, choking with pleasure. As best you could, you sat up a little and wrapped you arms around you boyfriend's neck. “I want to do it again, Osc,” you made it clear. “I want us to do this every time we get the chance....”

You kept moaning his name, giving him promises you knew he would never break. He kept reassuring you and how good you were doing, speeding up his movements as he couldn’t stop playing with your clit, all of that while he kept telling you that you were his.

You couldn't contain it anymore for the second time that day.

“Fuck, Osc,” he stammered. “I think I'm gonna…”

“Let yourself go, honey,” the brown-haired said. “You can do it, love. Cum for me.”

Your orgasm came before you could say anything else. Oscar came within seconds of you, and as soon as he did he ended, he gave you a short kiss on the lips as he carefully pulled out of heyour and collapsed beside you. 

Oscar's gaze remained fixed on the ceiling. You rested your head on his shoulder, trying to regain your composure with increasingly slower breaths. 

“You ok babe?” Oscar murmured after a few minutes.

“Yes,” you whispered, nodding your head with a smile peeking out. “Better than ever, actually.”

It was then that it dawned on Oscar. Quickly, he sat up a little and saw what was under where you were still positioned. His heart began to race, and a pressure settled in his chest as he realized the light blue bed sheets were stained slightly with blood as was his condom, still on him and which he hadn't paid attention to because he just wanted to be with you cuddling after he'd made you lose your virginity.

“Hey, listen, love…” he started to say in a calm, but concerned tone.

You followed his gaze, and couldn't help but blush and die of embarrassment inside.

“Oh...” you spoke quietly, instinctively covering yourself with the sheets. “This... is normal. Well, I guess so…”

“Does it hurt? Are you hurt?”

You shook your head, denying it, though the look on your face seemed to say otherwise.

“Well… It's just a little... just a little sore. But it's fine, really. It happens when you have sex for the first time with someone.”

Oscar studied your face, and he knew you wanted to stop this conversation. You wanted to let it go and pretend everything was fine so you wouldn't give him any sign that you hadn't liked it, even though your moans and pleas seemed to say otherwise.

“Still, you shouldn't let it go.”

The Australian approached you and gave you a shy kiss on the forehead. Then he got out of bed, still naked.

·Where are you going?” you asked in a voice mixed with curiosity and nervousness.

“I'm going to get a towel with hot water to clean you up.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he was already heading towards the bathroom while taking off his condom. As you heard the faucet turn on, and your boyfriend getting everything ready, you couldn't help but feel bad because, maybe, Oscar deserved better, and your behavior, what was happening to you now, was not what he deserved.

You forced yourself to stop overthinking because if there’s one thing you knew for sure is that Oscar loved you, more than sometimes you were conscious of.

Your boyfriend came back a few minutes later, and found you sitting on the bed, curled up on yourself and clinging to the sheets while still covering with them, as if you were afraid.

“You don't have to…”

“I know,” Oscar cut you off, offering you a small smile, “but I want to. So, please, just let me take care of you.”

Your eyes softened at his proposal, and you forced yourself to calm down as Oscar, with his gaze and his hands coyly on your thighs, asked your permission to spread your legs. You nodded, and he carefully ran the wet towel and hot water over your pussy, giving it little touches because he didn't want to risk it stinging or hurting any more because he really didn't know exactly how the female body worked after losing your virginity.

When he finished, he kissed her knee and sat down next to her again, also covering himself with the sheets so he could hug her and, more than anything else, try to reassure her and make her feel as good as possible.

“There, that's it, all settled. Now, let's stay here and rest.”

“Was it good?”

Oscar let out a small laugh from his mouth at your sudden question as he leaned over to you and snuggled into your shoulder. 

”You've been amazing, love,” he replied, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you closer to him. Now you were both lying on your bed, looking at each other. “Are you okay now that… Did I hurt you? I need you to be honest with me... I should have asked you if you liked the pace I decided to take because, well, I’m not going to lie to you, I think I could have gone a little slower...”

You shook your head and didn't give him a chance to keep talking. Instead, you grabbed his face and pressed your lips to his.

“You don't have to worry about anything, Osc. It was far from perfect. So, from now on, I hope you win more races because from today on, winning sex has become a tradition that I hope we keep for a long time.”

Oscar laughed, knowing you were completely serious.

“We can make a tradition of this and anything else you want, love,” he buried his face in yours, and began to tickle your waist gently. “We can even have several rounds if you want, so… thoughts on that? Should we keep ready for a second round today?”

[trevorendeavors]

As someone who's experienced chronic memory loss, let me say this is far more realistic as well. You forget the memory, but not the emotion behind it and it does indeed malinger.

Consider, even more hauntingly, forgetting that there's supposed to be an emotion behind it entirely. I've briefly forgotten friends, family, my home address, etc. and when people seemed disturbed that I couldn't retrieve those memories, I thought they were the odd ones.

It was like grieving over the fact I can't remember my second grade teacher's first name. I thought everyone was making a big deal over nothing when I couldn't remember the curly haired boy living with me (my brother) or my address of ten years. They were just words and a number to me. I didn't know until I knew, and then the sheer morbid overwhelm overtook me.

Dw tho now I got decent meds and an awesome therapist :)

Enough of the trope where memory loss undoes the damage or the corruption or whatever. More content where removing memories just removes the context.

The tragedy of needing to grieve and not knowing what or who you lost or why. The angst of having trauma and being denied the awareness that it's trauma. The suspense of being different somehow and left to wonder how and when. The tension of knowing that something is off and you can't find where it hurts. The Adventure Zone gets it. Kingdom Hearts gets it.

There is an aching inside you and you don't know how it got there.

[indie05]

About You

Reader x Ex! Paige WC: 4.2K Warnings: Angst, mentions of depression, mentions of sex.

January 2020

"Have you figured out where you’re going yet?" Paige’s fingers trail lightly over your forearm and her eyes remain locked on the TV screen as an Illinois tourism ad plays, a montage of the state’s biggest tourist attractions flashing in soft, cinematic cuts when Northwestern’s campus appears with a tree-lined shot of the university’s archway—and your stomach twists.

"You know I haven't decided, P."

Upstairs, two acceptance letters sit untouched on your desk. Northwestern or UConn. The decision should’ve been easy. When Northwestern’s email had arrived, it felt like the pieces had finally fallen into place, it’s what you had always planned, always wanted.

It would have been a no-brainer if UConn hadn’t responded with an email of their own just minutes later, accompanied by a scholarship too good to ignore. And if that weren’t enough to tempt you, a package had shown up on Paige’s front porch that night—a stark white Huskies jersey with her last name and new number stitched on the back. A tangible, undeniable tie to her future, a future that at that point - didn’t include you.

Paige sighs, shifting beside you, she’s thinking. You can tell by the way her brow furrows just slightly, by the way she presses her lips together like she’s weighing her words carefully. "I know, I know," she murmurs, voice quiet. "I just…" She hesitates, searching for the right words. "I just wish you'd talk to me about it. Northwestern is great, and I don’t want to hold you back, but UConn is good too. And it’d be even better with you there."

She’s right. UConn is a great school, and getting to watch her finally dominate on the UConn court, seeing her in that jersey, hearing her name chanted through the packed arena—that would be incredible. But Northwestern… Northwestern is Northwestern. A top-tier school in a city that has been the backdrop of your dreams for as long as you can remember. The idea of turning them down feels impossible.

But Paige is here, with her arm slung protectively around your waist, molded into your side so perfectly that it makes you wonder if you two were born to be attached like this. Her blue eyes are locked onto yours, saying everything she’s too selfless to voice, but pleading regardless. She’s consumed you, and maybe that’s why the words leave your mouth before you even fully process them— “I’ve been thinking about UConn a lot."

You weren’t lying, but the weight of the admission feels heavier than you expected. Paige’s face mirrors your surprise, her expression flickering between disbelief and something else—something dangerously close to hope, a hope you’re not sure you have the guts to diminish, no matter the cost to you.

When she finally speaks, her voice is barely above a whisper. "You really think you might go to UConn?" Willing your voice to be steady, to believe what you're about to say even as uncertainty claws at you.  "Yeah," you finally muster up, "I've been thinking about it. A lot."

For a moment, Paige just stares at you. Then, slowly, a small, shaky smile pulls at her lips. Her grip around your waist tightens. "You better not be messing with me."

A hesitant smile crosses your face, ignoring the way your heart hammers against your ribs. "I'm not," you say, glancing back at the TV. The ad is over now, the Chicago skyline fading to black. In its place, the dark screen reflects the two of you curled up together, limbs tangled, bodies pressed close. This—being with Paige—this is your future. Or at least you pray to God that it is.

September 2020

It had only taken one summer and trip to the city when you were seven years old for you to decide—Chicago was where you were meant to be. The memory is vivid: the skyline stretched high above you, the streets alive and practically humming. You had clutched your aunt’s hand and declared, with all the certainty of a child, that one day, you would live there.

Since then, every dream, every goal, every plan has centered around that promise. You've fantasized about it for years: attending college in the city or suburbs, staying in your aunt’s guest house in Evanston, spending your hard earned- but surely measly- paychecks on fancy dinners with your friends downtown that you’d get all dressed up for, and summers by the lake, with the warm pavement beneath your bare feet.

A postcard from that first trip, bought on a State Street tourist trap gift shop, had been taped over your bed at home for years. Now, it sits in a frame on your dorm room desk in Storrs, Connecticut—right beside a polaroid of you and Paige.

You’ve grown up, and the fantasy has changed. But it happened all too fast, which you assume is why your mother’s voice is echoing so mercilessly in your head as Paige dribbles down the court, her sharp movements effortless, and seeing her so in her element, so happy, so in control when you feel anything but almost makes you want to scream. 

"A person can love you back. A place can’t. Everyone wants to be loved, but don’t let the satisfaction of feeling loved take you out of a place you feel love for. Because at the end of the day, where you are can be permanent. And you’re so young—the people you’re with might not be." 

When you had first announced your decision to commit to UConn that had been her only argument against it before she kissed you goodnight, and never spoke against it again.

Regardless, the words pressed themselves permanently into your chest,  lingering through every minute of Paige’s first game of the season. You’re so distracted that you almost forget that it’s probably only the fourth time you’ve actually seen her for more than an hour since move-in day. She’d been so busy with practice and you with school, plus living on different sides of campus your time together has been almost non existent.

She calls you every night, sends a good morning text when she’s up at 6 A.M. for practice, but even with the lack of physical distance between you, thanks to the effort you had put into making that happen - you’re beginning to feel like you’re in a long distance relationship. 

But this is your future. Making Connecticut work. Following Paige wherever she gets drafted. Maybe even getting engaged, someday. It’s the realistic choice. The right choice. You remind yourself of that nearly every day.

And yet, no matter how many times you repeat it, the thrill of being here, of experiencing college together, has started to wane. And in its place, all you have is the harsh reality of your own dissatisfaction. 

November 2020

Your first Connecticut fall is not like fall back home. The leaves don’t change into bright reds, oranges, and yellows. The sun doesn’t shine through them and glimmer down on you making you feel a joy that up until that point, only Paige had been able to give you; instead it is wet, cold, and it just doesn’t seem to have an end. The sky is gray more often than not. The rain and wind storms come in fits and bursts, soaking the campus, making everything feel damp and heavy. And Paige—Paige is gone more than she’s present.

Basketball has always kept her busy, but college basketball is a different beast, one that devours her time, her attention, her energy. Even on the rare nights she sneaks into your dorm, curling around you, pressing a soft kiss to your hair, the chill remains, seeping deep into your bones, so deep that you’re not sure Paige could draw it out if she tried.

She hasn’t said anything about your change in mood. You don’t expect her to. You tell yourself this is normal. That you knew what you were signing up for. But the guilt is unbearable. Paige should be enough to make you happy. She is enough to make you happy. So why are you regretting your decision to follow her here so much?

It’s this thought—this horrible, gnawing thought—that leads you to where you are now: tucked away in a private study room, hunched over your laptop, the screen’s blue light burning into your tired eyes.

It’s a Saturday night, and instead of being at Paige’s game, instead of being anywhere near her, you are here, drowning yourself in schoolwork that needs to get done. Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself. Because the truth is that your grades need to stay high. And if you'd let yourself admit it… You’d realize the only reason you’re working this hard is to give yourself a chance to leave. So this distraction works, until Paige finds you.

The door creaks open and, at first, you barely register it. Your fingers stay frozen over the keyboard, vision blurring from a mix of exhaustion and unshed tears. The only sound is your breathing as you attempt to calm yourself down before turning to face the intruder when a familiar voice breaks through the silence before you can. 

"Hey."

You don’t look up right away. Instead, you blink rapidly, hoping she won’t notice how red your eyes are, how puffy your face must be. "Hi P," you manage, willing your voice not to break. 

Paige steps inside, closing the door softly behind her. She’s still in her sneakers, navy joggers and a UConn hoodie pulled over her game jersey. The damp chill of the fall air clings to her, but she radiates warmth, like she always does. She lingers by the door for a second, studying you. "You weren’t at the game." Her voice is careful—casual, almost. But you know her too well. You hear the layers of hurt beneath it, she never was a good liar. 

You swallow, you weren’t at the game. It’s not an accusation, she’s just stating a fact. But the way she says it makes it feel an awful lot like one.  "Yeah." You clear your throat, staring hard at your laptop screen. "I had a lot of work to do."

Silence.

Then Paige exhales, slow and measured. You don’t have to look at her to know she’s pressing her lips together, thinking through what to say next. "I get it," she says finally. "I just… I dunno, I thought maybe you'd at least come for a little bit."

She’s right, of course. You could have gone for part of the game. You could have shown up, even if only for her. "I was just really behind on this paper," you say instead, forcing a small, tight smile. "I’ll be at the next one, promise.”

Another silence stretches between you.

Paige shifts her weight from one foot to the other, like she’s debating whether to push or let it go. Finally, she sighs and moves closer, slipping into the seat across from you. She leans forward, resting her forearms on the table, studying you.

"Babe."

You freeze. She doesn’t say anything else right away—just that. Just babe. Slowly, you lift your eyes to hers. She doesn’t look angry. She doesn’t even look disappointed. She looks worried. "What’s going on?" she asks, voice quieter now, and your stomach twists. "Nothing," you say quickly. Too quickly. Paige tilts her head, eyebrows drawing together. "Come on."

You press your lips together, grip tightening on your laptop. Say something. Say anything. But your mind is blank, scrambled, a mess of words and feelings that you don’t even know how to begin to untangle yourself, let alone explain.

Paige exhales through her nose, leaning back slightly. "You’ve been… off," she begins slowly, carefully. "I figured it was just school stress, but…" She hesitates, searching your face. "Is there something else going on?” 

Your pulse pounds in your ears. You could tell her. You should tell her that some days, you feel like you’re suffocating here. That you miss the idea of Chicago so much it aches. That you feel like you’ve lost something, like a piece of yourself got left behind when you chose to come to UConn. That sometimes, when she’s not around, you feel so alone you can barely breathe. You need to tell her that you’ve thought about transferring. You need to tell her that your mom has already filled out the application for you and all you need to do is press send. But you don’t. Instead, you force a laugh—too light, too casual. "It’s just school, P. Seriously."

She studies you for another moment, like she knows there’s more, like she’s waiting for you to crack. But you refuse to let her see it. So finally, she sighs and nods, accepting your answer, even if she doesn’t quite believe it. "Okay." She reaches across the table, wrapping her fingers around yours, warm and solid. You try to focus on that, on the comfort and familiarity of her touch. "Just… don’t shut me out, okay?" she murmurs. You nod, not willing to admit to her or yourself that you already have.

Paige squeezes your hand again, then stands, stretching her arms above her head. "Come back to my place? We can watch a movie or something." For a split second, you almost say no. But then you see the way she’s looking at you—hopeful, tired, and a little too worried for your liking, and you can’t bring yourself to say deny her. "Yeah," you murmur. "Okay." She smiles, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of your head before reaching for your bag. "Let’s go." You follow her out of the study room, letting the door click shut behind you.

January 2021

The apartment is quiet except for the obnoxious hum of the janky old heater and the distant sound of laughter coming from the dorm upstairs. It’s late—so late that even the digital clock on your nightstand seems to blink tiredly, the numbers glowing 1:42 AM. Really, you should be asleep. Paige should be asleep. But instead, you’re both lying in the dark, staring at the ceiling, caught in a silence thick enough to suffocate you. You close your eyes, and inhale deeply. You know what you need to do. But the words form a knot in your throat. 

"You're thinking too loud," Paige murmurs against your shoulder, her voice raspy, and unfairly attractive, which is not what you need at this moment.  You let out a soft, breathy laugh, but it feels forced. "Sorry." 

She shifts, propping herself up on one elbow. Her bright blue eyes cut through the darkness and bore into you. "What’s wrong?"  You swallow, keeping your gaze fixed on the ceiling. Your fingers tighten around the edge of the blanket.  She’s given you the opening, now is the time to say it. "I got into Northwestern." A weight lifts off your chest, and you almost want to cry at how relieved you are to have told her even though you don’t know what’s about to happen.

Paige doesn’t respond at first, and for a moment, you think maybe she didn’t hear you. But then, she pulls away, sitting up completely.  "What?" You finally turn to face her. Her expression is perhaps for the first time in all the years you’ve known her, completely unreadable, but her blue eyes are wide, searching.  "I applied to transfer," you say quietly, your chest tightening all over again. "And I got in." 

Paige blinks, like she’s trying to process it, like maybe she misheard you. "Since when have you been thinking about transferring?" You hesitate. Since September. Since the second I stepped onto this campus and felt like I’ve been slowly losing myself while you barely noticed. But saying that feels cruel, so you settle for—  "A while." Paige scoffs, running a hand through her hair. "A while? And you’re just now telling me?" Your stomach twists. "I didn’t know how."   

"Jesus”, She exhales sharply, shaking her head. "So what, you just decided you were leaving without even talking to me about it?" "No—Paige, I—"You sit up too, swinging your legs over the side of the bed, planting your feet on the floor. Your hands press against your temples, trying to steady yourself. "I haven't decided anything yet. I just… I needed to know if I had the option."

"And now you do." Her voice is clipped, sharp in a way you rarely hear from her.   You glance at her, at the way her jaw is clenched, at the way she’s gripping the blanket so tightly her knuckles have turned white. You’ve seen Paige frustrated before—on the court, after a bad game, after a bad call—but this is different. This isn’t just frustration. This is hurt.  

"Paige, please," you say, softer now. "I wasn’t trying to hide it from you,  I just never knew how to bring it up." She just lets out a bitter laugh, running a hand over her face, hiding her eyes which have pooled with unshed tears. "Could’ve fooled me."

"I just—" Your voice catches. You exhale, trying again. "I didn’t want to hurt you." 

"Oh, so now you care about that?" It would have been less painful if she’d punched you, and Paige knows it, she wanted it to hurt. She shakes her head, her expression twisting. "Do you even want to be here with me?” 

The question hangs in the air, and your hesitation—just a split second too long—is all the answer she needs.  Paige lets out a hollow laugh and looks away, wiping her eyes. "Wow." 

"It’s not that simple Paige,” you begin. "But isn’t it?" Her voice cracks slightly, and you decide that it might be the worst sound you’ve ever heard. "Because it seems pretty simple to me. You regret coming here with me. You wish you had just gone to Northwestern in the first place. And now you’re trying to undo it all.” 

"That’s not fair."  You try to argue. "Then tell me what this is” she almost screams, meeting your gaze head-on. Her blue eyes, usually so warm, are hard now, guarded. "Because that’s exactly what this feels like to me." You open your mouth, then close it, because—what can you even say? She’s not wrong.  

From her perch on the bed you hear her exhale, running a hand through her hair. "So what are you gonna do?"   

This time, you don’t lie "I don’t know." And that’s the worst part, isn’t it? Not knowing. The feeling of being split in two, trapped between the love you have for her and the love you have for the life you thought you’d have. 

Paige studies you for a long moment, then nods once—sharp, decisive. She swings her legs over the bed and stands, crossing the room to grab her hoodie off the back of her desk chair.   "Where are you going?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. "I don’t know." She doesn’t look at you as she pulls the hoodie over her head, grabbing her keys off the dresser. 

"Paige—"  

"I just need some air."

And then she’s gone.  

You sit there, frozen, staring at the spot where she stood just moments ago. Your whole body feels numb, the reality of what just happened hasn’t fully settled in yet.   The room is quieter now, emptier. You glance at the clock again—2:04 AM—then at the acceptance letter still sitting in the drawer of your desk, folded neatly in its envelope, just waiting for your decision, but deep down you know it was made years ago. 

April 2025

You didn’t hear from her after that night, not when you called her a million times the next morning, not when you texted to let her know that you were leaving, not even to say goodbye.

She never replied when you texted her after she tore her ACL, not even when you congratulated her after she won the national championship just last month, she was completely silent. 

Everything you knew about her now was gathered from news articles, gossip on social media, and the few mutual friends you had left from high school. You knew she never actually started dating anyone again but with the number of stories you’d heard about the beds she was spending her nights in, the roster of girls she had on speed dial at UConn, you almost wish she was dating someone else instead. 

The two of you had graduated now, separately. And while your life continued in Chicago, building your career and putting down roots. Paige had stayed another year at UConn and now was just waiting on the draft to start her career in the WNBA, just like she’d always dreamed of. 

And that leads you to where you are now. Scarlet, the small bar in East Lakeview, your weekend spot. The bass rattles the walls, a steady, pulsing rhythm that reverberates through your ribs as you swirl the last bit of whiskey in your glass. It is packed—some exclusive afterparty in the VIP section that had bled out onto the dance floor, bodies pressed together, laughter and conversations blending into an indistinct hum. 

You don’t even know why you came. Maybe to find someone to go home with, maybe because your friends dragged you here, maybe because it was easier than being alone.

You lean against the bar, facing away from the crowd, checking your phone even though there’s nothing to check. That’s when you hear it—low, smooth, slightly slurred from the amount of alcohol she had clearly had. "Looks like you’ll need a refill soon"

You barely react, letting out a quiet scoff, eyes still on your drink. "I’m okay, thank you." Silence. Then— "Damn. Won’t even look at me?" Something in your chest tightens. A pulse of recognition. You don’t want to turn around. You don’t want to, but you do.

And there she is. 

Paige. Fucking. Bueckers.

It’s been four years. Four years since the last time you spoke, since the night she walked away from you and never looked back. And now she’s leaning against the bar like she owns it, a half-empty beer in her hand, the other stuffed into her pocket. Her blonde hair is damp at the edges, curling slightly from the humidity of the packed club. She looks good, too good. 

The room is dim, but not enough to hide the way her eyes widen—just for a fraction of a second—before she schools her expression back into something unreadable. "Shit," she mutters, mostly to herself. "I didn’t even recognize you."

You let out a breathy, humorless laugh, turning fully toward her now. "Makes sense, it’s not like you’ve made any effort to see me in the past four years."

She raises a brow but says nothing.

"What are you even doing here, Paige?" you ask, your voice sharper than you intended it to be. Paige exhales through her nose, dragging a hand through her hair. She looks like she’s still processing, she wasn’t prepared for this, for you. "Right," she mutters, half to herself. "You’re in Chicago."

You cross your arms, studying her. "What? Did you forget?" She meets your gaze then, something flashing behind her eyes—something that looks too much like guilt. "No," she says after a beat. "I didn’t forget." The words hang between you, heavy and unspoken.

Four years. Four years of not forgetting.

You should walk away. You should. You owe her nothing. But there’s something about the way she’s looking at you now—like she wasn’t expecting to see you, like she wasn’t ready to remember—that makes you curious, so you stay.

Paige lets out a dry laugh, shaking her head. "This is so fucking stupid" she scoffs out shakily, beginning to turn away but something about her makes you revert right back to your 17 year old self, bold and absolutely unwilling to let her go until you've gotten your fix. Grabbing at her forearm, you look down pointedly at her drink “don’t go yet, looks you’ll need a refill soon too.”

Everything afterwards is rushed. Messy. Desperate in a way that feels a little too dangerous for your liking.

Paige’s back slams against your front door the second it closes behind you, and her mouth is on yours before you can think. She tastes exactly how you remember, her hands gripping your waist, fingers pressing, pulling, taking. It’s like she’s trying to prove something—to herself, to you, to the four years of distance between then and now.

Clothes hit the floor before you can realize what’s happening. The bed creaks beneath you as she pushes you down on it. Her lips drag over your throat, her breath hot against your skin. "You’re still so fucking hot," she mutters against your collarbone.

You bite back a groan. "Shut up."

She grins against your skin, teasing. "Make me."

So you do, in the way only you know how.

[sirenpearldust]

Found you 2

Baby Daddy Azriel!

Series masterlist ⋆ Part one ⋆ Part three

Pair: Azriel x Spring Court! Reader

Word count: 3.050

Warning: fluff

Summary: conditions are set

Azriel sat up straighter in his seat, he cleaned up, looked more put together. He wanted to make a better impression on his son than last time. The memory of his terrified face hasn’t left him, it has been haunting his dreams. Just the reminder unsettled him. 

A hint of nervousness crept in, what if one misstep meant he wouldn’t be allowed to see his son again?

Meanwhile, you watched him as he sat across from you, dressed in black pants and a blouse that accentuated every defined muscle he had honed through years of training in the illyrian camps.

His piercing hazel eyes wandered intensely as he surveyed the room. Until they locked onto you, sharp and unyielding. His knuckles repeatedly tightened until they turned white before he forced himself to let go. Black massive wings folded tightly against his back, his shadows swirling around him, still inspecting the unfamiliar space. 

Instead of his usual cold, detached demeanor, irritation flickered across his features. 

That’s a first, you thought. 

For once, he wasn’t emotionless.

For once, he was unraveling and it was because of you.

You had to hand it to his genes, you had basically birthed his twin. Amias was the spitting image of him, inheriting the same elegant planes of his face, a beauty that was almost otherworldly. He had his hair, his wings and even his skin tone.  The only feature that set him apart were his eyes. Those were yours, a striking reminder of your Spring Court legacy shining through.

You still remembered the sadness, the ache in your chest as you watched your son grow into the features of his father. 

The same scowl, the same smile, the same dimples. 

It felt like a cruel twist of fate that your son had to look so much like the man who had caused you so much pain.

Sipping your tea, you deliberately avoided his gaze, focusing instead on the view outside.               He didn’t deserve an ounce of your attention, not anymore. 

You two were here for one reason and one reason only; to discuss Amias.                                        You had to push your feelings aside, no matter how difficult it was.

It hadn’t been part of your plan for Amias to get to know Azriel. He wasn’t supposed to find out about him, he was meant to be raised by you, away from any danger.

Azriel’s presence now posed a threat to your role as a parent and as a noble in Spring. His work was dangerous enough and his ties to the Inner Circle only added more risks. The already volatile situation in Spring was bad enough already. You didn’t need to be accused of treason or colluding with the enemy, you’ve already had enough problems.

“Are you going to sit there silent again and not say anything?” Azriel asked, his shadows darkening around him.

Your lip curled in a faint smile. It was almost amusing, holding something over him, having a semblance of power for once. You might have felt guilty for using your son in this way, but Amias didn’t even know his father, not really, not the way you did.

He had no idea of the darkness and cruelty Azriel was capable of.

“You’re too loud,” you said softly, setting your tea cup down. His wings bristled, and you could tell it had pissed him off.

“I’ll lay the conditions out for you,” you continued, calm and unwavering. 

“Be against even one of them and you’ll have no right to see my son.”

“Our son,” Azriel corrected, his jaw tightening as his knuckles turned white again. He knew, he knew you had set traps, and he wasn’t sure if he was prepared to navigate them.

“He’s my son too, Y/N,” Azriel said, frustration lacing his voice as his hand ran through his hair roughly.

“I only want what’s best for him.”

You ignored him. 

Without a glance in his direction, you opened the folder and slid the sheet in front of him, wordlessly demanding his attention to what truly mattered now.

The conditions were clear and non-negotiable. They were there to protect Amias and you.

1. You are not allowed to take Amias without my permission.

2. Wherever you go with him, you must inform me first.

3. He’s my heir and will receive his education in Spring.

4. He will not train in the Illyrian camps unless he is of age and wishes to do so.

5. You will have no authority over me as his mother.

6. You will be a present father unless he chooses not to see you.

7. Your highest priority is to protect him, cherish him and ensure his safety.

8. You will treat him with respect, kindness and love.

9. You will not arrange or force any marriage upon him.

10. You will not harm me, kill me, or order anyone else to do so in order to have Amias.

11. You will not inform your family of his existence without my permission.

12. You will protect Amias before anyone else, this includes you protecting and serving your High Lord or your mate.

13. You will protect what is mine and what is automatically our son’s legacy.

14. In the event of my death, you will safeguard his wealth, inheritance and well-being. No one shall touch it.

15. You will not take Amias out of Spring unless he is in grave danger, or I am dead.

16. If you choose to have any other children, you are to treat them the same as Amias.

17. Any woman you decide to stay in a relationship with and who is to get to know our son, you will introduce to me first.

18. In the case of a mating bond between us, you will not force it upon me and will let it go if I do not want it.

19. You will not disturb my private life, you will treat me with respect and courtesy.

Azriel rubbed his temples, clearly irritated. 

Most of the conditions were reasonable, but the restrictions on when and how he could see Amias gnawed at him. 

Why did you have to control every aspect? Why did you have to approve when and if he could spend time alone with his son, or when his family could know about his existence?

“Can I introduce him to my family?” Azriel asked, his voice tight with frustration.

“No,” you replied coldly, your gaze unwavering. You hated the Night Court, they were the reason for Spring’s ruin and had caused multiple issues in Prythian across almost every court.

“He has a cousin,” Azriel pressed.

“You and I have no living siblings,” you shot back.

Azriel’s temper flared. 

“Rhys has a son.”

“He’s your High Lord,” you responded flatly.

“He’s my brother.”

You sighed rolling your eyes. “Sure.”

“So can he see his cousin?”

“No!”

Azriel groaned in frustration, his patience running thin. 

“Will you ever allow any of this to be permissible?”

You shrugged, taking another sip of that damned tea, that Azriel now seemed to take a dislike to.

“You either accept the conditions and make this bargain, or you can say goodbye to the future you’ve imagined,” you said, your voice steady but firm.

Azriel sighed, knowing full well you were serious. 

“These conditions are set to protect Amias. He doesn’t know you and I won’t thrust him into your world directly.”

“What about condition 18?” Azriel asked, his voice tight,.

“What about it?” you responded, your gaze unwavering. 

“Will you reject it?”

“There is no bond,” you replied, your tone cold.

Azriel’s jaw clenched again, the tension rising in his chest. “If there is one, will you reject it?”

“Most likely.”

His heart twinged painfully and an uncomfortable feeling settled in his stomach, like a bad omen. He hoped he wasn’t your mate because if he was, you would let him suffer. He was sure of it especially after what had happened.

“You know I’ll go insane from a rejected mating bond.” 

You hummed in response, uncaring of the worry in his voice. 

“Let’s then hope it doesn’t happen,” you said, a sharp smile playing on your lips as you met his eyes.

Azriel’s wings shuddered as the weight of the situation settled in. He didn’t feel good about this, not one bit.

“Fine,” he said, his voice resigned, “I accept all 19 conditions.”

You smiled and extended your hand. He took it without hesitation, his rough, scarred hand engulfing yours. The touch brought a flood of memories, both beautiful and painful.

Azriel couldn’t help but notice the softness of your skin, a stark contrast to the calluses and scars that marked his own. 

In that brief moment, you both felt something, an electric jolt, a slight burning sensation. You felt the tattoo spreading under your chest, across your ribs. You were glad that you could hide it, no one had to know about what was happening.

Azriel’s breath caught. He opened his top, revealing the tattoo spreading underneath his pectorals. Tracing the lines with his fingers. You almost choked on your spit. What was he doing?

You quickly turned your face away, not wanting to see the sudden state of undress. It was nothing you hadn’t seen before, nothing you wanted to revisit, either.

In the brief glance you noticed something else, new scars. Some were fresh, still pink against his skin, while others had faded to white, stark against his tan.

“Roses,” Azriel murmured to himself.

“Now that we have a bargain, you can see him.”

You stood up, the white floral dress a stark contrast to Azriel’s dark attire.

Azriel was just a step behind you, he was eager to see his son. 

He wanted to teach Amias how to fly, how to fight, to show him the things a father should. He wasn't going to abandon him the way he had been. No, he would be present. He would be the father his son deserved, a steady presence in his life.

For the first time in his life he had hope for a bright future, he wants to build something better, to give Amias a future full of care, love and guidance. 

⋆ ♡ ⋆

Amias had been full of questions ever since he first met Azriel. His curiosity was boundless, he would comment on Azriel’s wings, marveling at how similar they were to his own. He spoke of the shadows, how they moved like his did.

Azriel’s shadows mingled with his own, twisting and swirling in a gentle dance and Amias couldn’t help but laugh whenever they played with him. They were soft and cool against his skin.

Azriel’s gaze softened when he heard his giggling. He felt this immense feeling seeing his son’s joy, feeling his happiness, hearing it, being a part of it.

He had come with presents - toys, books, sweets.  He bought him books, child stories from the night court, stories of Illyrian legends, a little teddy bear and a bag filled with small cherry candies, you know Azriel enjoyed. 

“Amias,” you called softly, lowering yourself to his level with open arms. He ran toward you, his little face lighting up as he kissed you on the cheek. You smiled, warmth flooding your chest as you gave him small kisses back, holding him close for a moment. You breathed him in, he smelled like a baby, you didn’t want him to grow up. He was already bigger than the other children his age. 

Azriel watched the scene from a few steps behind, it stirred up memories he had long forgotten, pushed away. It reminded him of his own rare moments of excitement as a child, the joy he’d felt in those fleeting times he was allowed to see his mother, when he was out of the cell.

He observed how animatedly Amias spoke to you, his small hands gesturing wildly as he recounted his latest “battle” with his plushies. Azriel couldn’t help but let out a chuckle, he was in awe as he took in the pure, unrestrained joy of your son, their son.

Amias’s eyes wandered up to him. He immediately recognized Azriel, but this time, instead of looking scared like before, he smiled at him.

He was taken aback by his reaction. His eyes immediately searched yours, knowing you had something to do with it, but you ignored him, focused on brushing Amias’s hair. 

It had grown long, already reaching his shoulders, he was in need of a new haircut.

Amias slowly slipped from your arms and stood in front of Azriel, his clothes a soft baby blue. His wings pressed tightly against his back and a shadow lingered at his feet. He stood there in awe, his eyes wide and round, smiling and giggling up at Azriel.

Azriel slowly lowered himself to Amias’s level. Even kneeling, his towering figure still loomed larger than both you and Amias. His sheer size stirred something hot inside you, something you’d buried long ago.

“Hello,” Azriel said softly.

Amias took a step back, looking at you for reassurance, as if searching for confirmation.

You smiled brightly, nodding and giving him the encouragement to go ahead. Amias turned toward Azriel again, his hands nervously fiddling. “Are you my daddy?”

Azriel’s breath hitched. There, standing in front of him, was his son, real and alive.

 “Yeah, I am.”

Amias took a step toward him, wrapping his small arms around Azriel and pressing his tiny head into his chest, sniffling. You and Azriel watched as Amias’s small hands clung to him. Without hesitation, Azriel held him close as he cried silently, his heart pounding in his chest. He sat on the floor, embracing him tightly, gently caressing his head, whispering apologies for not being there all this time.

That’s how the three of you spent the afternoon into the evening, watching Amias play, him eagerly dragging both of you into his games.

Yet, he was always a little nervous, always turning toward Azriel, as if he feared his father might disappear again.

You both sat on the floor next to each other.

“Thank you,” he said, watching you. Your eyes never leaving Amias.

“For what?” 

“For birthing, raising and loving him.”

“He’s my son. That’s a given.”

Azriel searched your eyes and this time, you didn’t look away. His gaze was soft and you hated the vulnerability in it.

“You know how they treat bastards.”

“We’re in spring,” you replied softly, making sure Amias wouldn’t overhear. 

“Bastards are a given. What do you think happens after Calanmai?”

He nodded, relieved that his son wouldn’t be ignored or left alone.

“Even if he is Illyrian?”

You laughed softly, a touch of amusement in your voice.

“Yes, even then.”

“They don’t care about that,” you said, your tone steady. “You’d know that if you picked up a book once in a while.”

Azriel winced at the jab, his eyes narrowing slightly. Here he thought you were finally opening up to him, but your words made it clear how you felt about him.

“Spring is inherently open,” you continued, “We accept everyone and everything. That’s why festivals like Calanmai exist and the land prospered with children, happy, healthy children. At least, before Amarantha came and your Lords, or shall I say your “brother” and his runaway whore”

Azriel’s jaw clenched, the urge to retort rising in him. He wanted to tell you that Tamlin had been warned, that he had continued despite it all, but he couldn’t. Your son was here and he shouldn’t witness his parents fighting. But god, the way your eyes burned with hatred whenever you looked at him or spoke about the Night Court, it stung.

“Daddy are you angry?”

Azriel noticed the worry in Amias’s face and immediately smiled, shaking his head. “Just tired.”

“Mama tired too,” Amias added.

You chuckled softly at his cuteness. 

You felt Azriels rage just a few seconds ago, you were thankful that he was still good at lying. You only cared about your son, Azriel’s feelings couldn’t interest you in the slightest.

“Amias, full sentences, please.”

“Mama, I am tired too.”

“You wanna go sleep with Daddy?” Azriel asked gently.

Amias nodded, his tiny arms stretching out toward Azriel. In his fathers arms, he stopped you from going to the office, where you usually spent your time.

You looked at him, noticing the expectant look in his eyes. “Can you both come?”

You nodded, glancing at Azriel. “You’ve got time, or do you need to go to work?”

Azriel smirked, scaring you. “I’m on vacation.”

The surprise was evident in your eyes as Azriel caught you off guard for the first time. Before you could respond, he scooped up Amias, who giggled in delight.

“Where is your room, little prince?” Azriel asked, holding his son up in the air with a grin.

Azriel’s smile was radiant and Amias looked so happy, it made your heart swell. Even if the reason behind it all was the sperm donor, the sight of your son so content made everything feel right.

“Let’s go,” Azriel said, his voice warm as he began to walk.

⋆ ♡ ⋆

There you three laid, Amias down in the middle, nestled safely between you both. 

Azriel had woken up, his internal clock honed over centuries stirring him from sleep. But as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, the sight before him felt almost unreal, like a dream he wasn’t ready to wake from.

His son was here and you.                                                                                                                 There you were, lying beside Amias, your long hair fanned out behind you, arms wrapped protectively around the small boy as he cuddled into you. It was endearing, the way you both slept so peacefully next to him. 

For the first time in what felt like forever, Azriel had slept through the night, no nightmares, no restlessness, just quiet, steady breaths filling the space around him.

His eyelids grew heavy again and he let himself sink back into the warmth of the mattress. Just as he was drifting off, Amias stirred, sleepily turning toward him. Tiny hands reached for him as he snuggled into Azriel’s chest, his breath soft and steady.

Azriel let out a slow breath, wrapping an arm around his son. 

And for the first time in a long, long time, he let himself rest again.

Main Taglist: @bubybubsters @lilah-asteria

Found you - Taglist: @bravo-delta-eccho @katherine-2007 @saltedcoffeescotch @the-onlyy-angie @sidthedollface2 @daughterofthemoons-stuff @asahinasstuff @azriels-human @ashjade19 @booksnwriting @starryhiraeth @anon1227 @1enas-12 @alittlelostalittlefound @queenoffeysand

[just1cefor4ll]

Wolf in sheep’s clothing

Hwang In-ho x pregnant!wife reader warning. not proof read, might be OOC

genre. fluff

You knew what In-ho’s job was. You knew what the games were about. You knew your husband was a monster—yet you stayed with him through thick and thin.

The two of you had met in the games when he was just a mere participant, fighting for survival just as you were. Against all odds, you both won and from that moment on, In-ho climbed his way up to the title of Frontman. And through it all, he kept you by his side, hidden away from the eyes of the guards. None of them knew what you looked like—only whispers of the Frontman’s “mistress” passed between them. A ghost of a woman, unseen yet ever-present.

Eight years into your relationship and four years into your marriage, you were blessed with a child. Your stomach grew with each passing day, and morning sickness became an unwanted but familiar routine—one you learned to accept. In-ho, despite the cold exterior he showed to the world, was elated at the news. He did everything in his power to provide for you, to make you as comfortable as possible. It was in those moments of tenderness that you loved him most.

But something changed.

As the next games approached, he grew distant. At first, it was subtle—longer hours, quiet contemplation when he thought you weren’t watching. But then the late nights turned into entire days without a word, and the warmth he once reserved for you felt strained, overshadowed by something you couldn’t quite name. It was unusual. In all the years he had organized the games, none had ever seemed this important. And that raised a question you weren’t sure you wanted the answer to.

The unease settled deep in your bones, an unshakable feeling that something was wrong. In-ho had always been methodical, always in control, but this time.. this time, he seemed almost troubled.

At first, you told yourself it was just the stress of preparation—after all, the games demanded perfection. A single misstep could expose everything. But as the days passed, his silence became heavier, his touch less frequent. He was still gentle, still doting in small ways—bringing you tea for your nausea, making sure you had everything you needed—but his mind was elsewhere.

One night, you finally confronted him.

“In-ho.” Your voice was firm, cutting through the quiet of your shared bedroom. “What’s going on?” He barely looked up as he pulled off his gloves, his dark eyes distant. “It’s nothing. The games are just.. complicated this year.” You studied him, searching for the truth beneath his carefully chosen words. “Complicated how?” He hesitated for a fraction of a second—just enough for you to catch it. That was all you needed to confirm what you already suspected. “You’re lying,” you murmured, your fingers curling against the fabric of your dress. “You’ve never acted like this before, no matter how difficult the games were.” His jaw tightened. For the first time in a long while, you saw something raw in his expression—something dangerously close to guilt. “In-ho.” You reached out, your hand resting against his arm. “Please. Just tell me.” He exhaled sharply, as if debating whether to tell you at all. And when he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than you’d ever heard it.

“Jun-ho is alive.”

Your breath caught. The name alone sent a jolt through you. His brother. The man he thought he had lost once he shot him a few years ago— regret spiralling up in him. Your mind reeled, memories flashing in fragmented pieces. In-ho had mourned Jun-ho in his own way—coldly, silently, refusing to speak of him. He had convinced himself that Jun-ho was gone, that there was no other possibility.

But now…

“He’s coming for me,” In-ho said, his voice unreadable. “For the games. For everything.” He stared bluntly, walking into your bedroom to change into a black tank to and sweatpants.

Your breath hitched, but In-ho wasn’t done.

“There’s someone else,” he murmured, his gaze shadowed with something you couldn’t quite place. “A former winner. They’re coming, too—trying to stop the games.”

A former winner?

It was rare enough for anyone to survive the games, let alone come back willingly. You knew how broken survivors could be, how winning didn’t mean escaping unscathed. The games weren’t just a fight for survival—they were a death sentence, one way or another. And yet, someone who had already endured that hell was now trying to bring it all down?

Your stomach twisted.

“They know who you are?” you asked. In-ho shook his head. “Not yet. But he knows enough.”

You swallowed hard, your hand instinctively moving to your stomach. You had lived in the shadows of these games for years, hidden from the guards, protected by the distance In-ho put between his work and your life. But now that protection felt fragile, like it could shatter at any moment.

“What are you going to do?” you asked, dreading the answer.

“I have to stop them.” His voice was calm, resolute. It was the voice of the man who had climbed his way up from the pit of the games, who had learned to do whatever it took to survive.

Your heart clenched. “And if you can’t?”

He turned to you then, his dark eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your chest tighten. For the first time in weeks, he touched your face, his fingers gentle against your cheek. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about that, okay? I’ll figure it out like I’ve always had.”

You exhaled shakily, searching his expression for any hint of hesitation. You found none. The games were his world. His prison. And now, it seemed, his war.

“I’ll be joining the games as a player, the first game is taking place tommorow so right now I just want to spend time with you before I leave.” He said, pulling you closer by the waist with kisses trailing down your jaw to your neck. “I’ll miss you.” He said, picking you up and walking to the couch with you, laying you in his lap.

A heavy silence settled between you, your expression unreadable but you’ve set your mind to what you were about to say, and you were going no matter what he said.

“I’ll join you.”

His fingers tensed around your waist as his brows furrowed in immediate disapproval.“No,” he said firmly. You straightened, your resolve hardening. “Yes.” His jaw clenched, his grip on you tightening ever so slightly before he pulled away. He turned his back to you, exhaling sharply as if trying to rein in his emotions. “You don’t understand—” “I understand perfectly,” you interrupted, stepping closer. “You think I don’t know what’s at stake? You think I haven’t spent years by your side, watching, listening, learning?” You spat, standing up front his lap as you looked down at him with your hands on your hips. “For god’s sake In-ho I’ve played the games with you before and guess what?! Rumour has it; I survived.”

His silence was answer enough.

You took another step, your voice unwavering. “This isn’t just about you anymore, In-ho. We’re in this together. If someone’s coming to tear down everything you’ve built, that means they’re coming for me too. For our child.” Your hand rested over your stomach. “And I won’t just sit here, waiting for that to happen.” In-ho turned to face you again, his expression unreadable, but his eyes—his eyes—held something raw. Something that made your heart ache.

“I swore I’d keep you safe,” he murmured. “That’s why I kept you hidden. Why I—” He stopped himself, inhaling sharply. “I won’t let you put yourself in danger.”

You shook your head. “Keeping me hidden won’t protect me forever. If they find out about me, about the baby… I won’t be some untouchable secret anymore, In-ho. I’ll be a target no matter if I join the games with you or not.”

His hands twitched at his sides. You could see the war raging in his mind, the conflicting desires—his instinct to shield you from harm, clashing with the reality that danger was already creeping in.

“You need me,” you pressed. “I’ve been by your side for years. I know how the games work. I know how you operate.”

In-ho’s breathing was slow, measured.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, he finally spoke.

“If you do this,” he said quietly, “there’s no turning back.” You met his gaze without hesitation. “I know.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed. And then, for the first time in weeks, In-ho really looked at you—not as someone fragile, not as someone to be sheltered, but as someone who had always been standing beside him.

A slow exhale. A decision made. “Alright,” he said at last. “Then we do this together.”

And just like that, you were in the games. In-ho decided to wait out red light, green light to see what who you now knew as “Gi-hun” or player 456 was going to do.

And to your surprise many people actually survived because of him which you were kind of happy about because they were still people. People who you thought deserved a chance at life but In-ho thought otherwise which is why this topic was immensely avoided.

When the votes came in, you immediately noticed how much the games had changed. Players were given the choice to stay or leave—a cruel shift that put everyone at a greater disadvantage. Now, their fates were practically sealed the moment they arrived. The glaring Xs and Os on the jackets made it even worse, marking people like targets under a streetlight. There was no hiding, no blending in. You pressed O for the first round, curiosity flickering in your mind as you wondered what the next game would be.

Of course, the O team won. In-ho cast the final vote, sealing the outcome.

The moment victory was confirmed, players rushed toward Gi-hun, yourself and In-ho included. It was clear what they all wanted—to get on his good side. You knew the O on your jacket wouldn’t help much in that effort, but it was worth a try.

“You’ve played before, right? That means you can tell us what the next games are,” you said, offering him a soft smile as you leaned against one of the beds for support. Several players echoed your words, pressing him for answers. With lights out only minutes away, they were desperate for any information that could give them an edge.

“The—wait, I’m not exactly sure if the games will be the same,” Gi-hun admitted, his expression uneasy. “But.. the next one should be dalgona.”

That one key word should was quickly ignored. The second it left his mouth, people erupted into cheers, already discussing which shape to pick. Triangle. That was the safest bet, according to Gi-hun.

You turned to In-ho, catching the subtle smirk forming on his face. He knew better. “I’m guessing it’s not dalgona,” you murmured, amusement lacing your voice as you followed him back to your beds. “How could you ever guess?” he teased, sitting beside you and gently guiding your head onto his shoulder. You sighed, letting yourself relax against him despite the ever-present danger lurking in every corner of this place. Sleep wasn’t an option here—not for you. “So, what are we playing?” you asked, voice low. “Six-legged pentathlon,” he answered smoothly. “Each group will have six players—” He explained the rest of the game, his voice a steady murmur against the hum of the dormitory. Time slipped by faster than you realized, and before long, the blaring morning alarm signaled the start of another day.

You sat up, adjusting your jacket as you glanced around at the other players, their faces twisted with a mix of hope and fear. None of them knew the full truth—who you were, what you had endured, or the secret you carried.

As far as they knew, you were just another competitor. And In-ho? He wasn’t the Front Man. He was just Young-il. And you? You were nothing more than a name you had made up.

A false identity for a very real nightmare.

As the alarm blared, signaling the start of the next game, you took a deep breath, steadying yourself. Players groaned and stretched, some rubbing the exhaustion from their faces, while others whispered about Gi-hun’s supposed insider knowledge. You could already hear people strategizing, debating who to team up with. It was ironic, really—how quickly people latched onto an idea when they were desperate to survive.

You glanced at In-ho— Young-il, as far as anyone else knew. His face was unreadable, as always, but the faint amusement in his eyes told you he was enjoying the chaos.

“Come on,” he said, standing up and offering you his hand. “Let’s go.” His voice was rough, a mask that he put himself behind to shield himself from any kind of signs of weakness or letting people know of his true colours.

You took his hand and let him pull you to your feet, already scanning the room. Some groups had already started forming, huddled together in nervous whispers. Stronger players were being snatched up quickly, their value determined by nothing more than their size or athletic build.

“Hey! Join our team!” A man you barely recognized waved you over. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and the others beside him looked just as physically capable.

Your hand instinctively rested on your stomach for a brief second, a reminder of the life growing inside you. It wasn’t just your survival at stake anymore. With a deep breath you look over at In-ho who’s hand was on your waist, looking back at the men with a glare. “Go join Gi-hun, I’ll be okay on this team, yeah?” You gave In-ho a reassuring smile

In-ho studied you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. He wasn’t one to argue in front of others, especially not in a setting like this, but you knew him well enough to see the hesitation in his eyes. “Fine,” he finally said, voice quiet but firm. “Don’t do anything reckless.” You rolled your eyes with a small laugh and pushed playfully towards Gi-hun’s already forming team. “Go.”

With one last glance, In-ho turned and made his way toward Gi-hun, effortlessly slipping into their group. You watched as he exchanged a few words with the others before settling in, blending in as if he had nothing to hide.

Meanwhile, your new teammates regarded you with curiosity. The broad-shouldered man who had called you over grinned. “Didn’t think you’d actually say yes. Thought you’d stick with your guy.”

You shrugged, offering a nonchalant smile. “I figured it’d be better to spread our chances. Besides, I can hold my own.” The others murmured in agreement, seeming satisfied for now. But you could still feel their eyes lingering on you, gauging your worth.

The speakers crackled overhead, silencing the scattered conversations.

“All players, prepare for the second game.”

Your team was picked for the second round along with a mother and a son you saw in the dormitories a few hours ago. It went by pretty fast, you decided on playing gongi since you loved that game as a child and used to make fun of In-ho whenever he tried to best you.

You waited impatiently for their team to come, but as all teams piled up you couldn’t help but be terrified— ‘His own guards wouldn’t kill him, would they? That’s laughable..’ You think to yourself.

“[Fake Name]!”

In-ho’s voice rang out over the noise of the dorm, his smile unmistakable as he waved you over. He stood with his newly formed team—one woman and three other men, only one of whom you recognized: Gi-hun. The others remained unfamiliar. “Who’s this?” Player 390 asked, eyeing you with curiosity. Gi-hun, on the other hand, watched you like a predator sizing up a threat. You figured your last comment before the previous game must have thrown him off. Before you could answer, In-ho spoke. “This is my w—friend. She’s my friend.” His quick correction made you frown, but you nodded with a polite, albeit forced, smile. “I’m [Fake Name] [Fake Last Name]. It’s great to meet you all.”

Introductions went around, and soon you learned that another pregnant woman had joined the team. Unlike you—at six and a half months—she was far closer to giving birth, her belly much more pronounced.

Just as you began gathering blankets and pillows to arrange a small sleeping area, a tap on your shoulder made you roll your eyes. Of course. In-ho. You turned to him with a sarcastic smile. “Hey, friend! What can I help you with?” He sighed, shaking his head before gently taking your hand. Without another word, he led you away from the group, past the bathroom doors, and into an unfamiliar room. It was different from the dorms—more refined, with a plush chair in front of a screen, a miniature jazz bar, and an air of quiet luxury.

Before you could take in your surroundings, In-ho pulled you onto his lap, his arms wrapping securely around you. His hand found its way to your stomach, fingers tracing soft, comforting circles.

“I’m sorry, okay?” he murmured, his touch gentle as he brushed your cheek. His gaze softened, filled with something only you ever got to see. A true look of love. Your frustration lingered, but before you could say anything, he continued, voice gentle but firm. “I shouldn’t have called you my friend. You’re my wife. You always will be.” He pressed a kiss to your forehead, lingering as if trying to say what words couldn’t. “But in a place like this.. relationships are a weakness. If they knew what you meant to me, you’d be a target. I can’t let that happen.”

You swallowed hard, the weight of his words settling deep in your chest.

“I know it hurt,” he whispered. “But everything I do is to protect you and our baby.” His hand moved over your belly, warmth radiating through his palm. “Our little girl… she’s going to have the best life. I’ll make sure of it. No matter what it takes.”

Your fingers curled into his player uniform, the tension in your body slowly easing.

“So, what now?” you asked, your voice quieter now. In-ho exhaled, his grip on you tightening slightly. “That’s why I brought you here. You’ll stay with me tonight. Away from the others. No fighting for a hiding spot, no fear of what happens when the lights go out.” He cupped your face gently, thumb stroking along your cheek. “I won’t let anything happen to you. To either of you.”

For the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself believe him. The world outside was a nightmare, but in his arms, just for tonight, you were safe.

© just1cefor4all— I don’t consent to my writing being reposted to other platforms or fed into AI. Translating it is also strictly prohibited. 🚫

taglist: @hansharfi @skibidirizzzlerrrr

[martinsharmony]

it's funny because my ex boyfriend and I used to argue about this. It's partly the reason we broke up. He was kind of a WWII buff which was weird because at the time he was in his early 30's and I dunno I figure it's usually only old guys who are into WWII.

Anyway, I went on a trip to Germany to go to a concert and visit family. When I came back I told him how my relative so graciously showed me around and we went to the holocaust memorial etc. It's been like 12 years so I don't remember much but he was basically saying that the Germans themselves were "to blame" for Hitler's rise, and that they had no right to escape via tunnels etc because they voted for him. They put him into power. They supported him. I mean yes technically I knew this but it's so much more complicated than that. He tends to think in black and white.

I was like but what about those who did not vote for him? They get blamed too? He basically said yes because they did not move away to another country or ferociously resist. I thought this was entirely unworkable. people have families. lives. jobs. responsibilities. They love their home land. etc. I mean yeah sure some probably did that but many were probably not able to.

Right now, said ex boyfriend married a trans-male. He and spouse are ferociously anti-Trump. They are considering moving to Massachusetts because guess what? Spouse has a son and an ex husband they share custody with that they can't just pick up and go to another country. They can't even move to Mass now because of the child. And we live in Texas.

We are good friends after the break up, but I really wonder if he ever thinks about our argument that day.

Unthinkable that 12 years later, we would be experiencing that same exact thing here in the US.

Yo, correct me if I am wrong please, but didn't Hitler rise to power because he promised to fix the German economy and people really liked that so they looked past everything else he was doing??? Like exactly what's happening in America right now???

So many people said they voted for Trump, put a truly evil person in power, because he said he'd fix the economy, and a little voice in my head is going, "Isn't that what happened with fucking Hitler??"

But I've seen no one point that out so maybe I'm miss remembering???????

[sugucide]

Satoru Gojo has made it out of the grave.

In another life, he sits under the sun in the evenings and lazes for the hell of it, not for a ten minute break from the chaos. He enjoys the silence, unlittered by curses and fighting and white burning static. He smiles now and then, when he wants to and never to prove himself to be okay when he isn't.

In another life, there are still dark days. And when the nights are cold and memories of friends never forgotten become haunting, he is free to cry. He finds comfort in his peers, never judgement, and lets himself be sad until the sun rises and his slate is once again clean.

In another life, Satoru Gojo doesn’t have to learn to love his name and the weight it holds. He learns to love his body, his scars, his memories both good and bad. He learns that it’s okay to love, and its okay to fear loss- he learns how to share his meal time with others and accept compliments with one in return rather than a faux over-confidence.

In another life he finds a soulmate. You’re kind and strong and not with him for his name or glory. He doesn’t have to worry himself over protecting you because in another life there is nothing out to get him. You have loving sex each night and can’t keep your hands off each other the morning after either. He learns your body like it’s his own and treats it with the reverence that so many have given the Gojo name—though without the gory weight of responsibility.

Maybe, in another life, he has kids. Probably girls, but maybe a boy or two as well. He isn't a perfect dad, never will be, but he's one that stays and loves and leads by example, not by empty threat and misplaced anger and the expectation of power and greatness. He teaches his daughters what love a man should show his spouse through his affections towards to you. Teaches his son how to love himself before trying to lean on another for love. He raises a family, not a clan.

In another life, he buys a house with a garden. He commits to watching his garden grow, tends to the weeds when they become unruly after he's put it off a little too long. He stays in one place, doesn't feel an urge to move around and stay on edge. He builds a shed and turns it into his space: teaches his kids a secret knock to let him know they're in trouble with you for abandoning their chores and want to hide from the gentle wrath of your loving discipline.

In another life, Suguru comes to visit every weekend. He’s Uncle Suguru to his kids and they sit on the porch and talk over a drink as the sun sets. He doesn’t have to worry about his friend because they speak rather than act. Satoru isn’t so focused on himself. Suguru isn’t so reluctant to ask for help.

In another life, he enjoys the quiet of domesticity. He’s not facing death each day—not shaping students up to kill and exorcise. He eats good, and lots, and thanks you for every meal by doing the dishes wrong and growing confused when you take over yourself to do it right.

In another life, he keeps photo albums. They're off in some box in the attic he has to strain his back to find, and they're worn out and dusty and some of the faces he used to see every day are seen for the first time in years when he pulls them out to show the grandkids. They show interest in his stories, albeit half-feigned and more interested in giggling at how cute his friends were back in the day. He laughs along with them.

In another life, he’s old and gray and still makes the effort to dance with you in the living room to the old music he loves. He kisses you goodnight before bed and good morning when you wake him for breakfast. You go on date nights, because he’s never too busy fighting curses to be with his one love. He feels like a teenager in love every day, even well into his senior years.

In another life, all is well: he lays down in his grave with a smile, having lived a hard life, but one worth reliving over and over and over again. He does first, because he couldn’t bear to lose you, and he dies happy.

But thats in another life—one where he wasn’t doomed from the day he was born. Maybe his next life, if he’s so lucky.

[ravens-bird]

Yours to Keep - Sylus.

Pairing: Sylus x F!Reader.

Tags: Boyfriend Sylus, fluff, smut, kissing, fingering. this was supposed to be like soft sex (and it is) but I almost got carried away. Blame the man not me. Not Beta'd we die like Caleb. MDNI‼️

Nicknames used: Sweetie, Kitten, Sweetheart.

Note: Based on the prompt "Making love, except it’s on the bedroom floor" (link)

wc: 3.6k.

Sylus had long since stopped being surprised by your tendency to do random things on a whim. By now, he knew better than anyone to not question the little things that you did just because they felt right.

Like when you decide that having a whole block of cheese as a midnight snack was completely normal, or when you apply random products and make questionable concoctions in the name of skincare and then drag him into it while calling it a ‘spa day’.  

Sure, watching you Do Your Thing was quite amusing to him, but sometimes he wished he could take a look inside your head and Understand.

Case in point, he wasn’t sure why you were sprawled out on the plush carpet beside the bed, akin to a cat that curled up and napped anywhere it deemed a worthy spot. His red eyes flicker with quiet amusement as he stood in the doorway of the bedroom, watching you.

“You do know we have a bed and a desk in this room right, Sweetie?”

You don’t bother looking up, shrugging in response as you spread out your haul from the gift shop — a thick leather-bound scrapbook, three different types of decorative tape, a set of colourful markers — and Sylus stopped counting.

His eyes furrow. “What are you doing?”

You finally glance up at him, blinking at him as if he was being silly. “Scrapbooking? Duh.”

His lips twitch at the corners, though the sigh he lets out is equal parts amused and exasperated.

“I can see that,” his tone is dry. He straightens up, pushing off the doorframe as he saunters towards you, a little curious. When you pat the space next to you, urging him to join you, he doesn’t hesitate.

He lowers himself onto the floor beside you, stretching his long legs out in front of him as he leans his back against the bedframe, taking in the mess— ahem, the arrangement of art supplies. The carpet is warm, and the faint evening light streaming in through the window paints the room a warm gold.

You scoot closer to him, nudging the scrapbook towards him. “Wanna help?”

He hums in thought, reaching for one of the photos from the pile you'd set aside — probably to include in the scrapbook, he assumed.

It was from one of your first public dates together, taken at Café Destiny — with you striking a peace sign, half out of the frame, while the camera had caught him mid-sip, eyes on you instead of his drink.

He smiles, picking up another one.

This one was from the new year celebration, taken by the twins — you were beaming, while Mephisto perched on your hand, with a tiny white ruff around his neck — an imitation of the Grumpy Crow plushie, looking thoroughly affronted and a touch betrayed, with his head turned towards Sylus who was standing out of frame.

Sylus hummed in amusement, flipping through a few more photos. His sharp eyes softened as he took in the little snapshots of your time together — laughing over coffee, wandering through night markets, you dozing off on his shoulder in the back of a car after an auction. Most were candids.

He briefly ponders how much you might have bribed Luke and Keiran for these.

“You’re really into this, huh?” His voice is softer now, more curious than teasing.

You smile, turning back to the task at hand. “Of course. It’s our memories.”

There’s a warmth spreading through him that he doesn’t quite know how to react to. So instead of trying, he just picks up the Polaroid camera beside him, aims it at you, and snaps a picture.

The flash makes you startle. “Hey!”

His crimson eyes gleam with mirth as he shakes the developing photo in front of you like one would dangle a feather-toy in front of a curious cat.

Once it clears, he holds it up for the both of you to see. For a quick picture, it had come out rather well, but it looked a little silly - because he had snapped it right as you closed your eyes.

Your pout lasts all of three seconds before you’re giggling, reaching for the camera yourself. Sylus doesn’t resist when you take it from him, instead hooking an arm around your middle and pulling you to him.

You squeak at the sudden movement, instinctively grabbing onto his arms as he settles you into his lap with ease, resting his chin on your shoulder as he keeps a lazy hold on your waist. Trying to ignore the way your heart flutters, you lift the camera, angling it so both of you fit in the frame. “Alright, smile.”

Sylus huffs but obliges, a half-smile tugging at his lips.

You press the button, the camera clicks, and as the photo develops, you glance down at it with satisfaction.

“See?” you say, turning the picture toward him. “We look cute.”

You glance up at him, still in his arms, expecting him to study the image but instead he leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. You let out a small, surprised noise before melting into it, reaching up to touch his cheek softly.

When he pulls back, your smile is dazzling.

Sylus has always wondered how it would feel like for his heart to race — either out of fear or excitement. Lately, he’s been experiencing it often, thanks to you — though, oddly enough, it seemed to be due to a secret third thing.

Which was not much of a secret, anyway.

Everyone around him — at least, those he considered relevant — knew he was smitten with you. But still. His chest feels full.

So full that, when you giggle again, he doesn’t think — just shifts the scrapbook and the photos aside, guiding you gently down onto the carpet with him as the camera slides out of your grip, falling into the carpet with a muffled thud.

You let out a small gasp, eyes wide, as he flops you down, one arm bracing the back of your head as he mindlessly shoves the camera aside.

His name barely leaves your mouth before he’s pressing his lips to yours, fingers grazing your waist with his free hand. He kisses you slowly, deeply, and you lose yourself in his kiss, his touch, the scent and feel of him, that you forget entirely about what you were doing.

He pulls back a little and your breath is shaky as he nips at your bottom lip, before he swipes his tongue over it, soothing the sting. His hand slides up, cradling your jaw with a tenderness that makes your heart stutter. His thumb traces just below your eye, slow and deliberate, as if memorizing the shape of you.

His face is so unguarded, so open, that words fail you.

Sylus despised vulnerability.

The mere thought of giving someone that kind of power over him had always been unbearable. Not that it was a common occurrence or anything — but with you, it was different. You made it feel less like a weakness and more like something he could surrender to — something safe.

He may not always find the right words to tell you how he feels, but in moments like this, his touch speaks for him.

Desire sings in his veins as you tug lightly on his collar, kissing him again. When his tongue teases the seam of your lips again, you open your mouth, and the noise of satisfaction that escapes your lips has his ego soaring.

He was determined to drag out more such sounds from you.

He goes easily when you flip him over, relaxing under you as you straddle his waist, feeling the press of his hardening erection against your heat. He watches you with a quiet intensity as you settle yourself over him, taking the lead, and his sharp intake of breath when you roll your hips gives you immense satisfaction.

His hands trail up your thighs to rest on your hips. “I’d rather take the initiative,” he speaks, red eyes sparking. “But I must admit. It is quite nice seeing you on top like this sometimes, kitten.”

You roll your eyes playfully, tipping forward to kiss again. He sighs against your lips, squeezing your side in response, before his fingers begin fidgeting with the material of your shirt.

You splay your palm against his chest, right above his heart, while resting the other on his shoulder, letting him hold you up and his hand sneaks beneath your clothes, caressing the skin underneath. 

Before long, he starts moving his hips too, jerking upward to grind against you and you gasp into his mouth, and his responding groan sends a spark of desire straight down to your cunt, and suddenly, there’s just too many layers of clothing separating the two of you.

Sylus seems to be thinking the same, because when he tugs at the hem of your shirt, you pull back, pulling it off immediately so that the only thing covering your upper half is your bra. When you reach for the buttons of his shirt immediately, he chuckles lightly.

“You’re rather impatient today, Sweetie.” 

You ignore his comment, unbuttoning his shirt and pushing them off his shoulders, and the amusement vanishes from his eyes when you run your hands down his front, all the way down to the waistband of his pants. 

He sits up then, pulling you into him as he presses hot, wet kisses against your lips, your cheek, your jaw, and your neck, trailing down to the swell of your chest before he unclasps your bra in one quick movement, baring your breasts.

You feel a wave of heat wash over you, tinging your cheeks red — not in embarrassment, but because of the way he looks at you. His eyes rake over you slowly, and the quirk of his mouth tells you that he's enjoying it immensely.

That, and the way his cock hardens further underneath you.

His voice is a quiet rumble as he cups one breast and gives it a little squeeze, “You’re so beautiful, sweetheart.”

“Sylus—” His name is barely out of your mouth before he rolls a pert nipple between his fingers, and you whine. “Stop teasing.”

He chuckles again, “Your wish is my command, kitten.”

And when he takes your other breast in his mouth, his wet, hot tongue pressing against your nipple, your nails dig into the smooth, pale skin of his shoulder. His shirt was shoved off one shoulder, resting at the crook of his elbow and the sight of him like this, with his mouth on your chest, a faint blush on his face, is truly one to behold.

Your fingers get lost in the strands of his hair, tugging at them as he worries the sensitive flesh with his teeth, when his right hand trails down to the waistband of your shorts. You lift your hips readily when he tugs, and he pulls back to slide your shorts off you with ease.

“So eager,” he murmurs teasingly, as if he wasn't the one who started all of this. You don’t get to retort, because his hand is on you again, rubbing you against the fabric of your damp panties.

Sylus's fingers ghost over the material, teasing the sensitive skin beneath, before applying just the right amount of pressure that sends a surge of warmth pooling low in your belly, and your breath catches in a soft whimper as he finally pushes your underwear aside, dragging his fingers up to circle over your clit.

When you buck your hips against his hand instinctively, craving more friction, impatient and a little desperate for him to just touch you properly, god damn it all, he gathers some slickness in his fingers, slowly pressing into you.

A delicious mix of relief and tension flooding over you.

He thrusts his fingers in and out slowly at first, and you moan at the sensation, clenching around him. when he curls his fingers ever so slightly, and finds that one spot that has you crying out and grinding into his hand, he picks up his pace. Soon, you start to feel the waves of pleasure heighten, and you wrap both arms around him, holding on.

When Sylus gently presses the pad of his thumb against your clit, keeping his pace steady as he breathes against your mouth, you could do little except cling to him, and you come hard, drenching his hand, lap and your panties as well as your thighs.

He flips you over gently, letting you rest on the carpet on your back and you immediately try to stop him. 

“We’re going to ruin the carpet—!”

“I don’t care about the carpet, Sweetie.” He presses a kiss to the tip of your nose, pushing you back down gently. “Not when I'm on top of you.” 

He pulls your panties off easily, and you help him take his shirt off, running your hands down the swell of his muscles appreciatively, and gasp in pleasure when he presses his clothed erection against your core.

You reach down, palming him through the material of his pants, as he kisses you again, and with great patience, he kneads the softness of your body, running his hands up and down teasingly yet carefully, as if he was trying to etch the memory into his mind.

“Sylus, please.” You whimper, empty and needy, already starting to feel aroused again, and he caves, letting you unzip his pants and take them off along with his underwear. 

He reaches for the nightstand and takes a condom out. You bite down on your lip in anticipation as you watch him roll it onto his fully erect cock. Despite the number of times you’ve done it before, the Moment Before was always a little intimidating. 

He lines himself up at your entrance, breath quickening as he looks down at you, gaze soft yet burning with anticipation.

"Are you ready, Sweetie?" His voice is low, laced with desire and affection.

You nod, heart racing as he presses a gentle kiss to your brow as he begins to slide inside. Your breath hitches as he sinks deeper, burying himself to the hilt.

"Tell me if it's too much," he murmurs as he stills for a moment, letting you adjust.

You nod quickly, urging him to move. "Mmm, you feel so good."

"You're so tight," he breathes against your lips as he kisses you sloppily.

When he starts to move, your toes curl with the sensation and you wrap your legs around his waist. His breath shudders as he picks up the pace, and the wet squelching sounds of his dick sliding in and out of your cunt, paired with the sounds escaping you both, adds a layer of lewdness to the whole ordeal.

“Shit, you feel so good, Kitten,” Sylus’s praise unleashes a swarm of butterflies in your tummy, and you grip his shoulders harder, your head falling back. 

Just as you feel your climax start to build, Sylus slows down, making you whine but he merely hushes, uncurling your legs from around him and shifts.

“Patience, sweetheart.” Despite the commanding tone of his voice, his eyes and touch are gentle. But what you wanted was not gentle. Not right now. 

However, your protests are once again thwarted as he lifts your right leg up, pulling you closer by the hips, still inside you. 

You’re about to ask him what the hell was he trying to do — though you have an inkling as to what it is, when he slinging your leg over his shoulder and moves again, thrusting inside you. Deep. 

Your garbled moan gets a devious smirk in response, as he tilts his hips just enough, angling himself to hit your G-spot, his cheeks splotched red to match his eyes. Strands of light hair stick to his forehead, while beads of sweat dot his brow and temple. 

There are four red half-moons on each shoulder, from when your nails dug into him, and the half faded hickeys on his collarbone begs for attention.

He looks so sexy like this.

Your breath stutters as you catch his eyes, and the way he’s looking at you — the intensity of it, makes you wonder what you must look like to him. Naked and flushed, panting as your breasts bounced with the momentum of his thrusts, the sight of him moving in and out of your wet cunt… 

“Lost in your head again, Kitten?” The huskiness of his voice carries a hint of warning in it — something dangerous. “When I’m still inside you?” 

You quickly shake your head, but he’s unconvinced as his pace slows down yet again. 

“Sylus—” You gasp as he presses his thumb against your pussy again, rubbing your clit with just enough pressure for you to whimper. You try again. “Please.”

Sylus chuckles, low and dark, the sound vibrating against your skin. He watches you with sharp eyes, drinking in every little reaction as he drags his thumb in slow, torturous circles.

“Please, what?” His voice is a whisper of sin, teasing, coaxing. His hips barely move now, keeping you right on the edge, just out of reach.

You squirm beneath him, fingers digging into his arms, nails biting into his skin in frustration. He loves that—loves how desperate you get for him. But he’s not done playing.

“You get lost in that pretty head of yours so often,” he murmurs against the side of your calf, pressing a lingering kiss to the bend of your knee. “Maybe I should fuck you hard enough to remind you exactly where you are.”

His crass words send a shiver down your spine, anticipation crackling through your veins. Your breath catches when he pulls out nearly all the way—only to slam back in with a force that steals what little air you had left.

“Is this what you wanted?” he growls as he turns his head to bite your leg slung over his shoulder, leaving an imprint on the skin, setting a brutal rhythm that has your body arching off the carpet, your moans spilling freely now. His fingers don’t stop either, overstimulating you and pushing you closer and closer to the ledge.

And this time, there’s no room for wandering thoughts—only him, only this.

Not that your thoughts ever strayed far from him to begin with.

But now, your mind is blissfully blank, lost in the waves of pleasure as your body tenses and trembles beneath him.

Your release crashes over you just as he continues his pace, dragging out every sensation, every spark, until he follows soon after — burying himself deep inside you with a low, shuddering groan as he too chases his high.

You sigh a little as he pulls out, feeling the sudden emptiness in you as he rolls off of you, laying next to you, breathing a little heavily. You both lay there for a moment, with you being drowsy after coming twice. 

You’re only half aware when he gets up to dispose of the used condom, and don’t protest much as he scoops you into his arms, holding you to his sweaty torso. 

He breathes you in, his lips ghosting over your ear as he whispers softly, "I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of you."

And in the silence that follows, you feel your heart swell. The words come out before you can rethink them, breathless and full of warmth. "I’m all yours to keep."

Which is true. You don't think anyone else could quite make you feel the way he does, and anything else couldn't compare.

So when you smile, holding onto him like he’s your whole world, he finally understands why people compare love to the sun, the moon, and stars.

Because here, right now, having you in his arms—he has them all.

“Have you caught your breath yet, Sweetie?” His fingers rub lazy circles on your back as you nuzzle into his side. You hum sleepily in response. 

Then he chuckles, voice dark with intent. “Good. Because I’m not done with you yet.”

Your eyes snap open. “Sylus, are you serious?”

He tilts his head, amused. “What? You look so pretty all wrecked like that. How could I resist?”

“No way! First, you interrupt my scrapbooking, and now you want to continue?” You scoff. 

“That’s not a no,” he drawls in response, before sneaking his hand down and giving your ass a quick, teasing squeeze. You yelp, swatting at him as he grins against your temple. 

“It is,” you wag a finger in front of his face playfully. “Let’s just clean up and get dinner already!”

Sylus sighs, clearly reluctant to let the... session end, but after a moment, he gives in. “Fine, fine.” He pushes himself up, then effortlessly scoops you into his arms, making you squeak, before he carries you to the attached bathroom. 

But as the warm water starts to stream down your bodies, his hands find your hips, his lips find your neck, and well…

Who’s to say that you both will only shower, though?

The night is still young.

Note: found the Praying Mantis position quite hot, despite its name being very... yeah. I think it's Sylus for me (get it??? 🤣)

Masterlist.

[httpswritings]

Lost On You

alexia putellas x realmadrid!reader and misa rodriguez x realmadrid!reader (as friends)

This story contains unrealistic plots (you'll know which ones I'm referring to as you read throughout the story) and it doesn't have a closed happy ending for ale/reader but it does have a cute ending for misa and reader's friendship.

It’s still a blur how it all happened, but somehow, you caught the attention of a Real Madrid scout. The memory feels hazy, like a dream you can’t quite piece together.

Almost three years ago, you walked Misa, your lifelong friend, to one of her training sessions. You were always early—your fear of being late to anything saw to that—and that day was no exception. With time to kill, Misa insisted you join her for a bit until her session started. She grabbed a ball and nudged you to take a few shots, claiming it would help her warm up.

“This isn’t fair. You know I’m terrible at this, Mimi,” you protested, shaking your head.

“So what? You’re here with me. We’ve got, like, forty-five minutes to kill,” she replied, grinning.

“No, you have forty-five minutes until training. This isn’t exactly my thing,” you shot back, though your resolve was already crumbling.

You could never say no to her, especially when she looked at you with those dark brown eyes. Misa was three years older than you, but she’d always been your rock. She was your protector—through school, through high school, through everything. No one dared mess with you because they knew Misa and her friends would have your back.

There were only two times anyone tried to tease you, both involving girls who thought they were bold enough. Both times, it took just one of your tears for Misa to lose her temper. She got expelled twice—once for each girl—and she never once regretted it. That’s just who she was: fiercely loyal, always protective, and endlessly caring, like the big sister you never had.

So, of course, you gave in. You took the ball from her hands, laughing as she bounced on her toes with excitement. Her Canarian accent always thickened when she got worked up, and you couldn’t help but think it sounded even more beautiful than usual.

In the background, unbeknownst to you, a Real Madrid agent had been watching.

You’d never played football before. Growing up, you were too afraid of being judged, of people labeling you as something you weren’t. The fear of being seen as "too masculine" or "lesbian" kept you on the sidelines, even though you secretly loved the sport. You only ever allowed yourself to enjoy it from a distance, never daring to join in, even during playground games. And even if you had wanted to, you knew your parents couldn’t afford to pay for football lessons.

It was Misa’s passion for the game, along with your own journey towards the acceptance of your lesbianism, that slowly helped you feel more comfortable with yourself. But by then, it was too late to learn—you had no idea how to play.

That’s why, when you took the ball and Misa urged you to take a few shots, you missed all three attempts. Both of you burst into laughter, treating it as nothing more than a silly game to pass the time. But just as you were about to leave, a woman approached you.

She introduced herself as Sara and began asking questions—your name, where you played, what position you were in. At first, you and Misa thought it was a joke. After all, Sara had just witnessed your disastrous technique. You played along, teasingly telling her you were Misa’s biggest rival, both of you laughing at the absurdity of it.

But then Sara started asking more specific questions, and it dawned on you that she was serious. You quickly apologized for joking and admitted the truth: you’d never played football before.

To your surprise, Sara didn’t seem fazed. She insisted on scheduling an appointment to see more of you. You had no idea why she was so interested, but Misa’s piercing stare made it clear that refusing wasn’t an option. Denying the request would’ve driven her crazy, so for the sake of your friend, you reluctantly agreed.

At the appointment, Sara closely analyzed your movements. You felt completely out of place, convinced this had to be some kind of elaborate joke you weren’t in on. You struggled to keep up—missing the ball, running out of breath quickly, and looking utterly lost most of the time. It was embarrassing, to say the least.

A few days later, Sara asked you to come back. That’s when she dropped the bombshell: she wanted to sign you to Real Madrid. She made it clear that you’d be starting from scratch, and it would take years of hard work to even dream of making it to the first team. But she believed in you—enough to set an ambitious goal: she wanted you to debut by the age of twenty-two. Surprisingly, you managed to do it a year earlier.

Your playing time was limited, especially in high-stakes matches. Sara was cautious about putting you under too much pressure too soon. Real Madrid’s women’s team wasn’t a powerhouse, and she wanted to shield you from the weight of failure. That’s why you didn’t play in the Copa de la Reina final, where Real Madrid came agonizingly close to winning their first title, only to lose to Atletico de Madrid. You also sat out the matches against FC Barcelona, and honestly, you were grateful for it. You watched Barça evolve, seeing the names of players who came and went: Lieke Martens, Jenni Hermoso, Asisat Oshoala, Aitana, Patri, Graham, Pinà… and Alexia.

Since entering the world of women’s football, you’d studied Alexia closely. She was the epitome of perfection—a relentless winner with an insatiable hunger for success. Her passion for the game was unmatched, and it drove everything she did.

To your astonishment, you were called up for a few friendly matches ahead of the World Cup. It was your chance to prove how far you’d come. Your improved physique and growing understanding of the game shone through, and after a standout performance, you earned your spot on the World Cup roster.

Your inclusion raised eyebrows. You’d only played two matches with the National team and had limited experience with Real Madrid’s first team, mostly featuring in their youth categories. But you were determined to make the most of the opportunity.

During the first training session, you stuck to Misa’s side like glue. You’d already met Jenni and Laia during the friendly matches, and they’d been incredibly supportive. But Alexia was a different story. She arrived late, still recovering from a long-term injury, but she was ready for the World Cup.

The first time you saw her, it felt like witnessing a celestial being. Her bright pink hair framed her face, and her eyes seemed to light up the room. She was warm and approachable as she introduced herself.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” she said, glancing at her teammates with a smile.

Your cheeks burned red. Misa, standing beside you, bit her lip to keep from laughing out loud. She knew all about your crush on Alexia, and she wasn’t about to let you live it down.

Alexia was an absolute sweetheart, always going out of her way to help you. She became so invested in you that she couldn’t help the feelings that began to grow. The tournament ended with your victory over England, and you scored the most crucial goal of the match. Over time, you and Alexia grew so close that the thought of returning to your separate lives filled you both with anxiety. Fortunately, you had one last chance to spend time together—the trip to Ibiza—and you made the most of every moment.

Afterward, you returned to your routine: striving to improve at Real Madrid B, focusing on your studies, and catching glimpses of Alexia whenever your paths crossed during national team camps.

You watched FC Barcelona thrive, and a pang of envy crept in, wishing you could one day celebrate such victories with your own team.

As time passed, you turned twenty-two, sitting on the bench as your team suffered yet another defeat in El Clásico. What hurt the most was seeing Misa’s disappointment. Your body ached to step onto the pitch, but your mind held you back..

It wasn’t until Spain’s Supercopa final, with your team trailing by three goals and forty-five minutes still on the clock, that something inside you snapped. You didn’t know what came over you, but you stood up, driven by an unshakable determination. You practically begged your coach to let you on the pitch, to at least try to lessen the blow, even if it meant losing by just one goal.

Alexia watched as you prepared to step in, and her heart ached. She thrived on Real Madrid’s defeats, but the hatred she held for the team paled in comparison to the love she felt for you. Her mind was set on scoring, even if it was just once, but her heart wanted to pull you off the field. She wanted to humiliate Real Madrid, not you. To her, you were different—you always had been.

When you were subbed in, you delivered a stunning performance, scoring and assisting to help your team clinch their first title. It was a wild, unforgettable display, fueled by your desire to see Misa succeed. It was an unusual philosophy, but Misa was everything to you in football. Even as you wore the Real Madrid badge on your chest, right on top of the area of your heart, where Alexia belonged, Misa was the one who dominated your thoughts. You had stood by her side through every defeat, every heartbreak, every moment when the weight of the game seemed too heavy to bear. Each loss had carved a little piece out of you, not because you were the one on the field, but because you felt her pain as if it were your own. She was more than just your best friend—she was your closest friend.

But this time was different. This time, you weren’t just watching her fight—you were watching her soar. The cup gleamed in her hands, a symbol of everything she had worked for, everything she had sacrificed. The smile on her face wasn’t just one of victory; it was one of triumph over every doubt, every setback, every moment when the world had tried to tell her she wasn’t enough. And as you stood there, watching her bask in the glory of her hard-earned success, you felt a surge of pride so overwhelming it brought tears to your eyes.

This was everything. This was the moment you had been waiting for, not for yourself, but for her. You had seen the sleepless nights, the endless training sessions, the quiet moments when she questioned if it was all worth it. And now, as she lifted the cup high, her laughter ringing out like music, you knew it was. Every drop of sweat, every tear, every ounce of pain had led her here, to this pinnacle of joy.

You caught sight of Alexia’s sad expression, and it weighed heavily on you. You moved closer, but she stopped you, forcing a small, fake smile and telling you to celebrate your victory and enjoy the moment.

In that moment, as she lost and you won, she felt like she had lost you too. She had lost herself in you, and now, in defeat, she was determined to find herself again. But rediscovering herself meant letting you go. She had to lose you to find who she was.

[burichu]

My memory is fuzzy at this point cause I graduated high school in 2006, but:

I loved Lord of the Flies.

I loved The Joy Luck Club.

I loved Where the Red Fern Grows.

I loved Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry and as a child (starting around 8 years old, I’m hyperlexic) I read as many books about post-civil war era black families as I could, to the point my step-dad started questioning me cause he thought it was weird; I think that was the start of my radicalization cause even as a child I recognized how fucked it was that people were treated poorly (and worse) for simply having darker skin.

I loved the various satire novellas by Voltaire and Jonathan Swift (especially A Modest Proposal jfc).

The Old Man and the Sea is the most boring book I’ve ever been forced to read.

I also hated reading The Great Gatsby, everyone was insufferable in that book.

I straight up do not trust you if you did not enjoy a single book you had to read for English class. I know they assigned some real stuffy stinkers and the curriculum varies across districts but not one? Not The Outsiders? Not The Picture of Dorian Gray? Not Fahrenheit 451? Not even Frankenstein? Damn. That’s crazy.

[joemama-2]

"are you the fairy?"

pairing: gojo x fem reader

synopsis: You meet Gojo Satoru in a place untouched by time, where his laughter rings through empty streets and his hands chase yours like a promise he fully intends to keep. He is younger, reckless with his love, blind to the weight of the years that separate you—years that have taught you that love is not always meant to be kept. You let yourself have him anyway, knowing all the while that his future is stretching toward a horizon you cannot follow. When the time comes, you do what must be done—let him free.

wc: 7.3k

tags/warnings: angst, eventual comfort, suggestive content, older! reader, dividers by @/cafekitsune, HOPEFULLY PROOFREAD ENOUGH :(

Aging. A fear most people have. The fear of growing old, growing weaker, needing others to rely on for simple tasks, no longer being in your ‘prime’, and of course—the grey hairs. While it can be argued that aging is a natural, human process; it can also be argued that no one ever really wants to grow old. No one wants to see everything they knew and loved vanish before their own two deteriorating eyes, no one wants to become just a distant memory. But no one wants to be immortal either. It’s a weird push and pull, leaving humans with only one choice: enjoy it while it lasts, and make the most of your life.

And so, that’s what you have been doing.

Graduating, getting a nice paying job, having a good place, traveling the world, making a name for yourself, being…happy. Sure, you’ve made friends and connections, but none of those amount to being in the peaceful solitude of your lonesome. You’ve faced adversaries in your life, and you’ve overcome them—that’s what making the most out of your life means. But you know what doesn’t fall under that category?

Allowing yourself to fall in love with a man almost two decades younger than you. 

But with life comes spontaneous events, debating the pros and cons and wondering the ‘what ifs’. 

And what if—against all logic, against every carefully laid plan—you let yourself have him? What if you ignore the whispers in your mind that warn of fleeting youth, of inevitable goodbyes, of the cruel march of time that will leave you grasping at something you were never meant to keep? Gojo Satoru is reckless in his affection, undeterred by the years between you, pressing himself into your life with an audacity that makes it impossible to push him away. He tells you that love doesn’t care for numbers, that age is nothing more than an arbitrary construct, and when he looks at you with that unwavering gaze, you almost believe him.

Almost.

You’re forty-five when you meet him, he’s nothing but a young and adventurous thirty-year-old. You remember being thirty. 

“Are you from here?” you asked, resting your palm against your cheek. The coldness of the bar’s countertop sits underneath your elbow—you regard him with a curious gaze. The first thing you noticed was the pretty eyes he had. The next was his smile—that handsome smile that was doing weird things to your heart. You remember your late husband smiling at you like that every day, every chance he got. Your lip quirks up. 

“No, I’m from Japan,” he replies smoothly, jutting his chin in your direction. “And you?”

You tell him. 

“Oh, that’s nice. So, what are you doing all the way here?”

“Vacation.”

“And how’s that going?”

“Pretty well. Italy is beautiful.”

“Almost as beautiful as you.”

A cheesy pick-up line you’re more than accustomed to. You save his awkwardness with a small laugh, eyebrow raising. “Thank you,” you glance down at the dark liquid in your cup, swirling its contents. “Though you aren’t the first to tell me that.”

The words hang in the air between you, thick with the weight of history you’ve long since buried. It’s a strange thing, isn’t it? To be flattered but not fooled, to hear compliments that once would have made your heart race but now only bring a faint ache, like a ghost brushing past your skin. You didn’t expect to be here, sitting in this foreign bar, in this foreign city, drinking away the remnants of a life you thought you’d left behind—no more waiting for a man to come home, no more running on borrowed time. And yet, here he is, his smile still holding the weight of something undeniably fresh, something he hasn’t yet had time to tarnish with the passing years.

He chuckles, and it’s sincere. Like he knows how to handle this situation and like he’s done it a hundred times before—charming the older woman, never realizing the danger he’s flirting with. You can’t help but notice how easily he fits into this moment, how the energy between you feels almost too comfortable for something so unexpected. His youth, his vitality—it’s intoxicating, and yet, you know it’s only a matter of time before you have to draw the line, to remind yourself that he’s playing with something far more fragile than he understands.

You meet his eyes again, and for a second, you let yourself indulge. He’s not just handsome; he’s magnetic. And though you’ve seen his type before—young, reckless, full of life—there’s something different about him. It’s that smile, that easy confidence as if the world is nothing but a playground for him to conquer. Your heart stirs involuntarily, the edges of something you thought was long gone starting to flutter back to life.

"So, do you always travel alone?" you ask, your voice a little softer now, more curious than before.

His grin widens, pleased by the shift in your tone. “Not usually, but this time I decided to take some time for myself. I needed a change of scenery.” He leans in a little, dropping his voice to something almost conspiratorial. "It's nice to get away from it all, you know? To meet people who don't know your story."

The irony of his words doesn’t escape you. Here you are, a stranger in a new city, with a lifetime of stories you no longer tell, and yet, his openness makes you feel like you’re both speaking the same unspoken language. You could tell him everything, share the years of love and loss, of heartache and healing, but you don’t. You keep it hidden, tucked away where only time and memory can touch it.

“That sounds familiar,” you say quietly, glancing down at your glass again. Your fingers trace the rim absently. “Sometimes it's the only way to find peace." You don’t know why you’re telling him this. It’s not as though you’ve shared your soul with a stranger in a bar before. But there’s something about the way he looks at you, something open and unafraid, that makes you think—just for a moment—that maybe this conversation, this meeting, isn’t entirely by chance. Something you haven’t felt in…a long time.

“Do you usually travel alone?”

You hum. “I do now.”

“Why now?”

“Because my husband doesn’t come along with me anymore.”

“Oh, yeah? And why’s that?” He sips from his own cup, but when he puts it back down, its fizziness tells you it’s just coke. 

You take a moment to reply, unsure if you should trauma dump on a stranger. But he did ask. “Because he’s dead,” you simply comment, leaning back in your stool and gauging his reaction. 

But he doesn’t show a face of surprise or a face of regret. He doesn’t offer his unwanted apology. He nods, humming softly in thought. But his eyes change—and you think for a second that it looks like a silent sense of understanding—like he’s lost someone too before. “And what was his name?”

Your cheeks pinch up, smile widening in fondness. Looking down at your left hand that once housed a beautiful, golden ring. “Masamichi.” 

There’s a stillness in the air for a second, the kind that doesn’t feel heavy but rather reverent, as if time itself paused to acknowledge the weight of your words. You look at him through the corner of your eye, seeing how his gaze softens—not with pity, but with something deeper, something far more intimate. It’s the kind of understanding that doesn’t come from words, but from shared experiences, and you’re struck by the thought that perhaps, in some quiet corner of his heart, he knows what it’s like to lose the love of your life.

He doesn’t speak for a while, but there’s something in the way he leans forward that tells you he’s listening in a way that feels different than the usual casual conversations you’ve had with strangers. His eyes are fixed on you, almost as though he’s waiting for you to continue, to say something more, but he doesn’t push. He waits—patiently, and respectfully. "Masamichi," he repeats the name softly, as if he’s testing it on his tongue as if it’s a secret he’s now been entrusted with. “That’s a really cool name, sounds like he was a hardass.”

You chuckle lightly and nod, not trusting yourself to speak again for a moment, swallowing the lump in your throat. “He was, but he had his moments.”

“When were those?”

“When he’d call me pretty names.”

“Like?”

You bite your lip, smile wavering a bit as you recount ever beautiful name he used to call you. One always stuck out. “Well, he used to call me a fairy.”

He chuffs. “Why a fairy?” 

"He told me I was delicate, elusive, like something too beautiful to be real. He used to say I’d flown in from some distant place, where the sky was always clear and the air was always fresh." The words feel like they’ve drifted in from a different lifetime, a time when love was a constant companion, not a faint, distant echo. You tilt your head, the corners of your mouth turning up. "I think he liked that idea, that I wasn’t tied down to anything—just... floating through life, free. He said I made him believe in things he never thought possible."

His gaze softens as he watches you, leaning a little closer now as if drawn into the quiet weight of your story. "That’s beautiful," he says, his voice low, almost reverent. "It sounds like he saw you in a way no one else could."

You nod, the memory of his warm words filling the space between you. "He did. And sometimes... sometimes I felt like I was a fairy, too. Like I didn’t really belong to this world. But when he called me that, it made me feel like I was meant to be somewhere, meant to be his." A quiet moment hangs between you, the air heavy with the soft intimacy of shared vulnerability. You meet his eyes, feeling an unexpected connection—the kind of unspoken understanding that can only exist between people who have known the depths of love and loss.

Then, just as you’re about to pull back, he asks, with a gentle curiosity, “Do you still believe in fairies?”

You blink at him, a little taken aback. The question seems simple enough. You shrug, half in amusement, half in disbelief. "I don't know if I believe in them, but... I like to think that maybe they’re real, in some way. In the things we can’t see, in the moments that take our breath away."

His eyes seem to light up, almost as if he’s surprised by your answer. There’s a long beat of silence before his lips curl into a smile that reaches his eyes. "Maybe you’re still a fairy, then," he says, voice warm with something like wonder.

You shake your head. "Yeah, maybe."

The words hang between you, filled with something gentle, something fleeting but real. You feel the stirrings of a connection, fragile and unexpected, like the wingbeats of a fairy. There’s a hollow space in your chest where his memory used to sit, and it takes everything in you not to let it show, not to let the quiet ache spill over. The ring on your finger is long gone, but the phantom of it lingers—an unspoken promise that can never be fulfilled, a history you no longer share with anyone. “What about you?” You shift the conversation, trying to keep the tears at bay, trying to pull yourself back from the edge of vulnerability you’re teetering on. “Do you have someone, someone you’ve loved the way you were loved?”

His smile falters a tad, a flash of something—pain, perhaps, or nostalgia—passing through his eyes. It’s gone as quickly as it came, replaced by the easy grin you’ve already grown accustomed to—the one that doesn’t let anyone get too close. But the silence that follows speaks volumes, and you almost feel like you’ve crossed some invisible line. Fearing that you’ve peeked into a part of him he didn’t mean nor want to reveal. "I did," he says quietly, almost to himself, the words hanging between you both like a secret. “But sometimes, we love people in ways they can’t love us back.”

The weight of his words sits heavily in the space between you. It’s raw, vulnerable in a way that contradicts his earlier bravado, and you find yourself wondering how much more of him there is behind that smile, behind the charming facade. In that moment, you see something that mirrors your own grief, your own loneliness, and it’s unsettling. “Is she still around?”

“He’s not,” he shakes his head.

You take a sip from your glass, the sharp bitterness of the alcohol grounding you, and give him a small, knowing smile. “Well, I suppose we all have our stories.”

His eyes lock onto yours for a long, unspoken moment. You wonder if this is one of those rare moments in life where people truly see each other—not just for the faces they wear, but for what’s buried beneath. What they carry in the silence. “I think you’re right,” he finally says, his voice soft, but there’s an edge to it now, a quiet tenderness that wasn’t there before. "But not everyone’s story is meant to be told in one night."

Your heart flutters for a reason you can’t quite place, and for the first time in a long while, you wonder if maybe, just maybe, fate isn’t as cruel as it’s always seemed. Maybe, in this strange twist of events, you weren’t meant to run away from the past after all—but to face it, alongside someone who understands what it’s like to love and lose.

“I’m too old for you,” you laugh off his subtle suggestion, looking over to the opposite corner of the small, dim-lit bar. There are two girls sitting at the booth with obviously wandering eyes toward your new, unexpected companion. “Maybe them.”

He follows your gaze, his eyes flickering briefly to the two girls in the corner, before turning back to you with that signature, easy grin—unchanged, unaffected. The playfulness in his smile doesn’t reach the depths of his eyes, though. You wonder if he’s seeing something entirely different than the charming stranger you’ve made him out to be. You can feel the shift, subtle but undeniable, as if he’s testing the waters of your words, gauging how much of this is just casual banter and how much of it has an undercurrent you aren’t ready to acknowledge.

"Maybe," he replies, leaning back slightly, but there’s a glint of something else in his expression now, something that makes the air between you feel heavier. "But you know, I’m kind of having some fun with you right now." His voice drops, a playful edge softening into something more serious, and it makes you wonder if he’s teasing or if there’s something deeper in his intentions that hasn’t fully revealed itself yet.

“I don’t think we’re having fun.”

“Then what are we having.”

“A simple conversation, nothing more, nothing less.”

He chuckles, leaning closer and tilting his head towards you. “Just how old do you think I am?”

You meet his gaze, noticing a small twinkle. Your eyes move down, analyzing his features. He lets you do so in an untimely manner and when he sees that you’re looking lower at his arms, he playfully flexes. An amused snort that almost sounds like a scoff leaves your lips. “Young enough to be my son.”

“Do you have children?”

“And if I do?”

“Then that’s even better because I love MILFS.”

You scoff for real this time, eyes narrowing at him. “I don’t, but what you just said further proves my point.”

The air between you both shifts, like a quiet storm brewing, though neither of you is quite ready to acknowledge it. His words hang there, an almost careless suggestion laced with mischief, but they are impossible to ignore. You try to brush it off, laugh it off, but something about the way he leans in—his proximity, the way his gaze never wavers from yours—makes it harder than it should be. There’s something in his demeanor that says he’s not just playing, not just following the familiar rhythm of flirty banter. It feels like he’s pushing against the boundaries you’ve set, testing them in a way that catches you off guard.

He watches your every reaction carefully, his smile just a little too knowing, a little too calculated for someone so young. You can feel the heat of his gaze as it lingers, catching you off guard in a way that leaves your words hanging in your throat. His comment about MILFs—joking or not—makes your skin prickle uncomfortably, and for a second, you wonder if he’s being more sincere than you care to admit. But you can’t show it, not when you’ve already drawn the line, already told yourself this was just a fleeting moment in an unfamiliar place.

You clear your throat, trying to bring the conversation back to familiar ground, but the awkwardness lingers. “I’m sure you have better things to do than sit here with a woman who could be your mother.”

“Maybe I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be,” he says, the playful edge in his voice softened by something deeper. There’s a sudden, subtle weight to his words, as though he’s no longer speaking just to entertain or to flirt, but to convey something more. It’s fleeting, but it’s there, and it catches you off guard. His eyes meet yours, steady and unwavering. The playful front cracks, revealing a hint of something you can’t quite name.

You shift uncomfortably, your thoughts creeping in again. "Well, you’ll find plenty of people who can keep you entertained around here." You gesture vaguely to the bar, the people milling about, the noise, the chatter. "I’m not the one you’re looking for."

His expression dampens. “Maybe you’re right. But maybe I’m just looking for someone who sees me, you know?”

The words hit you harder than they should, a soft pressure in your chest that you quickly try to dismiss. What is he saying? He doesn’t know you, yet he’s almost acting like he does. "I see you," you respond, your voice quieter than before, the weight of the statement hanging between you both like a truth neither of you is willing to face.

He doesn’t say anything right away, but his eyes darken, the smile fading into something more thoughtful, more introspective. You begin to think he might say something that cuts through all the barriers you’ve put up, something that challenges the notion that this is just a casual encounter between strangers. But instead, he shifts in his seat, taking another long sip of his drink. “I don’t know if you do,” he finally says, his voice lower now, the playful lilt gone. 

When he puts his drink down, you blame it on the alcohol from the way your skin flushes in a girlish way as he leans in—his breath fanning your ear. You also blame it on the alcohol when you’re reciprocating his advances, meeting his stare with an equally heated one of your own. And finally, you blame it on the alcohol when you tilt your head to whisper something in his ear. 

“Do you want me to look harder?”

That was the first night you went home with him—the first night you indulged in the warmth and pleasure a man—Satoru—can bring you. And even after sharing your ages, that never stopped. It somehow…never stopped you either. You found yourself giving in—almost craving the way his hands grip your hips, the way his slim and long fingers dance along your ribs in a soft manner. 

You didn’t expect yourself to be falling over the edge, finishing on just the tongue of a man younger than you. You always prided yourself on wanting—needing—an older man. And god, you were really missing out, weren’t you?

But it wasn’t just the way he touched you, the way his mouth knew exactly how to undo you piece by piece—it was the way he looked at you. Like you were something untouchable, yet here he was, holding you, ruining you, worshipping you in ways you hadn’t let anyone do in years.

It was intoxicating.

You told yourself it was just a fling, something fleeting, something fun. A vacation romance, a secret indulgence that you’d tuck away once you boarded your plane back home. But Satoru wasn’t the kind of man you could forget easily. His touch lingered, his voice echoed, and before you even realized it, you were answering his calls. Responding to his texts. Finding yourself in his arms again, even when you swore it would be the last time. You found yourself smiling at him when you believed he wasn’t looking, stifling a peal of laughter at his stupid jokes that he only said so he could see the way your eyes crinkle at the edges—you were finding comfort in him. 

A warm, tentative comfort that only one other man had brought you before. 

There were times you felt guilty, believing you were still bound to your late husband even in death, and at times—you almost compared the two. However, you know Masamichi would’ve wanted you to move on and care for yourself in ways he couldn’t do anymore. He would’ve smiled and encouraged you to find pleasure in your life. 

And you did. 

Because somewhere between those nights tangled in silk sheets and the hushed laughter over shared meals, you forgot to remind yourself of the one thing that mattered most: this was never meant to last.

But at the same time, you almost didn’t want it to end. You enjoyed the way he kissed your knuckles, moved strands of hair out your face, and complimented you when you felt at your lowest. He was seeing every part of you—the good and the bad, the pretty and the ugly. You were letting him. 

One night, after a particularly passionate session, he’s running his fingers along the curve of your spine. Naked bodies huddled next to one another, and the sheets offer a nice little coverup. The moonlight peeks through his blinds, the plush mattress sinking further underneath your weights. He kisses the top of your head softly before moving to your temple. Once again, you’re smiling. Tracing mindless circles on his bare chest, your foot rubbing up and down his calf. No words are spoken, there usually aren’t. But the silence doesn’t feel deafening; it feels comfortable. You found yourself snuggling closer to him.  “Satoru?”

“Mhm?” he hummed back, sighing lightly, his smile never wavering. 

“Where do you…see yourself in ten years?”

He hums again, this time in thought, his fingers never ceasing their lazy tracing along your spine. You feel the way his chest rises and falls beneath your palm, steady and unhurried. You wonder if he’s really thinking about your question, or if he’s simply enjoying the feel of you against him. “In ten years?” he finally repeats, voice hushed, as if speaking too loudly might break the fragile moment. “I don’t know…Happy, I guess. Settled down; I’d like to have kids by then.”

Your fingers pause against his chest. You don’t know why, but his answer catches you off guard. Not because it’s shocking—he’s young, full of life, full of potential—but because it’s something you’ve stopped thinking about for yourself. “Kids?” you echo, tilting your head up to look at him. His pale lashes flutter slightly as he meets your gaze, and there’s something soft in his expression, something almost wistful.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, a small chuckle escaping him. “A couple of ‘em, maybe. A little girl who’s just as stubborn as me, a boy who’s just as curious. Someone to pass everything down to, y’know?” His hand moves from your back, up to your hair, fingers threading through the strands as he exhales. “I think I’d be a good dad.”

You don’t doubt that. Satoru is many things—annoying, arrogant, childish at times—but he’s also deeply caring. He loves with his whole heart, even when he pretends he doesn’t. You can see him being the kind of father who carries his child on his shoulders, who spoils them with sweets, who makes bad dad jokes just to hear their laughter.

And yet, you can’t bring yourself to say that out loud. Instead, you settle for a noncommittal hum, lowering your head back onto his chest, letting the weight of his words settle between you. Ten years from now, he’ll have a family. He’ll have everything he wants. And you won’t be part of it.

That’s when reality hit for you. You’re holding him back. You can’t give him what he wants, what he longs for. It’s a bittersweet, brutal reminder that this little world you’ve built was only meant to be temporary. That the laughs, touches, kisses, the sex, it’s fickle. You’ve blinded yourself and let yourself sink too far deep to understand that what Satoru wants…he can’t experience with you. 

And so, it started small. Days spent out with him, your eyes would flicker around, moving from one woman to the next. Pointing them out to him in an encouraging way. 

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” “Maybe you should go ask for her number.”

“You’re both tall, you would go well together.”

It honestly hurt to push him away—to open his eyes to the other fish in the sea while a small part of you wished he could only be yours. But you’d never ask him to stop following his dreams of becoming a family man for your own selfish desires. 

At the start, he humors you. Rolls his eyes, scoffs, plays along like it’s just another one of your little jokes. “She’s alright, I guess,” he shrugs when you point out a woman at the café, her long legs crossed elegantly as she sips on a cappuccino. “But I prefer my women a little more…experienced.” He flashes you that cocky grin, the one that always makes your stomach flutter.

You laugh, but it’s forced. You ignore the way your chest tightens, the way your fingers twitch with the urge to reach for him. But then you do it again. And again. And again.

It doesn’t take him long to catch on.

One evening, when you offhandedly comment on the cute waitress who just served your drinks, something shifts in his expression. His smile dims, his fingers drum idly against the table. “Y’know,” he says, tone too casual, too light. “You’ve been doing this a lot lately.” 

You feign ignorance, sipping your wine. “Doing what?”

“Trying to set me up like some kind of matchmaking service.” He leans forward, elbows on the table, gaze sharp. “You got tired of me already?”

You force back a sigh. The way he says it—half-joking, half-serious—makes your stomach twist. “Satoru—”

“No, really,” he cuts in smoothly, tilting his head. “Is that what this is? You pushing me away? Guilt-tripping me into realizing you’re too old for me or whatever bullshit you’ve been telling yourself?”

Your fingers clench around the stem of your glass. He sees right through you. You swallow, trying to keep your voice even. “I’m just trying to look out for you.”

His laugh is sharp, humorless. “Looking out for me?” He leans back, stretching his arms along the booth. “Or making decisions for me?”

You hate how much that stings. You hate how right he is.

“I just…” You exhale, setting your glass down. “I just don’t want to hold you back, Satoru.”

His jaw tightens. His eyes search yours, and for a moment, you think he’s going to argue. You think he’s going to tell you you’re being ridiculous, that he wants you, that he doesn’t care about the future you keep running from.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he exhales sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re really that convinced this can’t work, huh?”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

His lips press into a thin line. He nods once, slow and deliberate. “Alright,” he mutters, reaching for his drink. “Message received.”

And just like that, the air between you shifts.

Colder.

More distant.

Like the beginning of the end.

Your heart drops, looking back down at your wine. For a second, you felt like you ruined things. But it’s better to nip things in the bud than let them bloom, is it not?

Even after that, he was still adamant about seeing you. You let him, deciding to relish in these last few tender moments you may have with him. The sun was shining and beaming down on you two as you ate your brunch. It was a pleasant day. She was beautiful—the kind of beautiful that made you wonder how someone like her could even exist in this world. The type of beautiful that turned heads and left impressions. The type that had Satoru slowly following her with his eyes. You tell yourself this is a good thing. That this is what you wanted. That you should feel relieved that, finally, he’s looking at someone else the way he shouldn’t be looking at you.

But it doesn’t feel like a relief. It feels like a knife twisting in your gut.

You lift your mimosa to your lips, taking a slow sip, pretending you don’t notice the way his gaze lingers on her. She’s stunning—long legs, flawless skin, a radiant smile that could stop anyone in their tracks, and long black hair. She looks like she belongs in a magazine, not in a small café, laughing at something her friend just said.

You force yourself to smile. “She’s exactly your type.”

Satoru’s attention snaps back to you, and there’s something unreadable in his expression. He blinks, then exhales a laugh, shaking his head. “You really don’t quit, do you?”

You tilt your head, feigning confusion. “I’m just saying, you should talk to her.”

He scoffs, pushing his fork around his plate. “Yeah? And then what?”

You frown. “What do you mean?”

Satoru sets his silverware down with a quiet clink, resting his arms on the table. “Let’s say I go up to her. Get her number. Take her on a date.” He shrugs, giving you a half-smile. “Then what? I sleep with her? Take her on more dates? Marry her?”

You stare at him, not sure where this is going.

“And then we have kids,” he continues, his tone light, but his eyes—his eyes are sharp, cutting right through you. “That’s what you want, right? For me to find someone younger, someone who can give me the future I want.”

Your throat tightens.

He leans forward, resting his chin on his palm. “So, tell me something.” His voice drops, softer now, almost vulnerable. “If I wanted all of that with someone else, don’t you think I’d already be doing it?”

Your breath catches.

He waits.

But you don’t have an answer.

All you can do is encourage him to go up to her.

And he did.

He was reluctant, of course. Only doing it to shut you up. 

But you saw the way his expression softened, the way his dimples poked out when he’d talk about her. You were there on the side, watching what he once thought would be a simple meeting, to finding a woman he’d started to fall for. 

It was like watching a slow-moving car crash—one you orchestrated with your own hands. You had done this. You had led him to her, pushed him in her direction, knowing full well what it would mean. And yet, knowing didn’t make it hurt any less.

The texts started. Little mentions of her here and there. You caught the way his face lit up in a way you hadn’t seen before, the way he spoke about her with that quiet sort of wonder like he was trying to piece together a puzzle he never expected to solve. You were still a part of his life, still, someone he made time for, but something between you had shifted irreversibly. The stolen moments, the lingering touches, the whispered confessions under moonlit sheets—they grew fewer and further between, replaced by something… distant.

She was such a kind and lovely woman, her voice made of butter when she spoke to you about him. And when you caught him smiling at his phone one evening, thumb idly tapping out a message to her, you knew.

He had found what you wanted for him. What he deserved. What you couldn’t give him.

So why did it feel like you were the one being left behind?

“Are you happy?” you had whispered, holding him tight in a hug, eyes beginning to water.

He held you back, arms secure around your waist. His icy hair tickled your skin, and he planted a soft, reverent kiss on your cheek. Pulling back to look at you, he didn’t have that fiery, teasing sparkle in his eyes like usual. No, this time, all that was there was just…him. Just Satoru. 

“I am,” he had said with a genuine finality. 

The trickle of warm tears slid down your cheeks, his thumbs swiping softly at the skin. “Good, I’m…I’m happy too.”

Truthfully, you were. Because if you had to let Satoru go, if you had to let him be the man he should be, you knew he was doing it beside a woman that was worth it. She was worth it. And you were beginning to be okay with the fact of being a memory to him, as long as it meant his wishes came true.

You left him, never once looking back, answering his texts or his calls. 

You don’t know how you had the strength to do it, how you managed to pull yourself away from the man you’d poured so much of yourself into. There was a time when you thought you’d never be able to let go—when you believed you’d somehow convince him that the life he envisioned with someone else wasn’t worth pursuing. But the truth was, you couldn’t keep holding onto him, not when the weight of your love was slowly suffocating him, not when you knew that he needed to step into a future that wasn’t tied to a past that could never fully be his. You didn’t want to be the one who held him back, no matter how much it hurt.

The hardest part was the silence that came after. You told yourself it was for the best, that you were doing him a favor, letting him breathe, letting him live without your shadow hanging over him. But the quiet was unbearable. Slowly, the hole he left inside you grew wider, the void left by his absence swallowing you whole. It felt like a slow, silent death—a death that had to happen for him to thrive, even if you weren’t ready for it.

Days turned into weeks, weeks into months.

But somehow, that was for the best. He was with her now—his beautiful, young, hopeful future. And you? You were learning to accept the peace that came with being the past. The bittersweet relief of knowing that you had let him go, even when it felt like a piece of you was missing forever. You were learning to find happiness and acceptance with that. But you knew deep down, a part of you would always love him. And that part would remain tucked away, hidden, safe in the quiet recesses of your heart where no one could touch it. Because, no matter how much time passed, no matter how much life moved on, Satoru would always be the one who made you believe in the fleeting beauty of something that could never truly last.

Seven years had passed, and time had etched its marks on both of you. You were different now—wiser, perhaps. Life had moved on, as it always did, carrying you forward in unexpected ways. You found a home in Japan, a little place tucked away in a quiet neighborhood, a perfect reflection of the peace you had slowly cultivated within yourself. It was the kind of home you never thought you'd need after him, but somehow, it filled the emptiness that had lingered for so long.

When you saw him again, it felt like a thousand memories rushed back to you in a single moment. His shock was palpable—eyes wide with disbelief, brows furrowed as if trying to make sense of the woman standing before him. The same Satoru, yet different in small, subtle ways. His features had softened, a few lines around his eyes that spoke of time passing, of laughter shared, of a life fully lived. He was healthy, vibrant, the man you’d once known and the one who had continued his journey without you. "Y/N?" His voice was quiet at first, unsure if this was real or just a figment of his mind. His gaze swept over you as if trying to understand how you could still exist in his life after everything.

And then, he smiled. It wasn’t the same playful grin that had always been there, the one that had once made your heart race. This one was softer, warmer—gentler. It carried the weight of the years apart, but also the familiarity of someone who had once been an integral part of your soul.

And you smiled back again.

Without hesitation, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you, the embrace as natural as it was unexpected. It wasn’t just a hug; it was a reunion, a silent acknowledgment of everything that had passed between you both. For a moment, you let yourself lean into him, feeling the comforting strength of his hold, the warmth of his body that you once thought you'd never feel again. There was no awkwardness, no hesitation, just the undeniable connection that had never truly disappeared. It was as though time had been kind to you both, erasing the pain and replacing it with something softer, something more peaceful.

“Satoru,” you muttered softly, almost in relief. 

"You look good," he said softly, pulling away just enough to look at you, his hands lingering on your arms as if testing the reality of this moment. 

You feel something cold pressed against your arm, looking down…there’s a golden ring on his left ring finger. Your lips parted with mild surprise before looking up at him with a sense of blitheness. You couldn’t help but chuckle, eyes crinkling in the way he loved—loves. “...is it her?”

He nods, glancing down at your own hand. And look at that; he’s not the only one with a gold ring. “And what about you?’ he asked, a softness in his voice.

Your cheeks flushed slightly, bringing your hand up and admiring the band around your finger, the diamond saying hello once more. Memories of your husband’s gruff voice, his frown that he tried so hard to keep etched on his face, the spiky black hair you loved to comb your fingers through, the scar on the corner of his mouth that you loved to kiss. “His name is Toji.”

He nodded with a wave of approval. “How long?”

“Three years. And you?”

“Four.”

You guys laughed simultaneously.  The sound of your shared laughter fills the quiet space between you two, and for a moment, it feels like no time has passed at all. There’s an ease to it, an old familiarity that you never quite lost, even with the years between you. The weight of everything that had happened—your separation, his journey, your own—seems to melt away, leaving only the lightness of the present moment. It feels almost surreal, standing there with him, both of you changed yet still the same in many ways.

You glance down at your left hand again, the ring catching the sunlight that spills through the window. The cool metal seems to hum with its own kind of quiet significance. Toji. 

But now, standing here with Satoru, there’s a strange sense of nostalgia mixed with contentment. You never imagined this—standing side by side with him, sharing your worlds as they are now. When you look up at Satoru, you see the same softness in his eyes that’s always been there, but now it carries with it the weight of time. He has a family, a future that doesn’t include you, and that’s okay. There’s peace in that. He’s found what he was always meant to have, the thing that once felt like an impossibility between you two.

“Four years,” you repeat, your voice soft, taking in the new ring on his finger. “That’s beautiful, Satoru. I’m…I’m so happy for you.”

He grins, that same playful glint in his eyes, but this time it feels like it’s tempered by something deeper, something more sincere. “Yeah,” he says, voice quiet but firm. “She’s incredible. I’m really lucky.”

The warmth that spreads through you isn’t jealousy, or bitterness, or anything like that. It’s something else entirely—pride, maybe. Or relief. You always knew that Satoru was meant for something bigger than what you two could have together, but seeing him happy now, seeing him settled with someone who makes his eyes light up the way they used to with you, it’s the closure you never thought you needed. 

“You?” he asks again, as though sensing the unspoken question between you two. His gaze shifts to your hand again, then back up to your face. 

The words come out easily now. “He’s my rock,” you say simply, the affection in your voice unguarded. “He makes me better, makes me whole.”

Satoru’s expression softens, and you see the flicker of that old tenderness—the way he used to look at you before everything got complicated. But it’s not painful, this time. It’s not heavy. It’s just… understanding. Like he’s happy that you’ve found that kind of peace. The kind of peace he’s found with her. “You both deserve it,” he says with a nod, as though sealing the quiet approval between you two. “You deserve everything good that comes your way.”

It’s a simple statement, but it carries so much weight. The unspoken acknowledgment that the two of you, after all this time, have moved on, and have created lives for yourselves that reflect who you’ve become. And for all that has happened, all the loss and the love that came and went, there’s something beautiful in knowing that this chapter—this shared history—is now something you both cherish without needing to hold on to.

He invited you over that day and you accepted. 

His wife runs up to you, hugging you like you’re an old friend. “Oh my god!” she exclaims in a gasp, her red-tinted lips curved up into a wide smile. You hugged her back, mirroring his reactions. “It’s so great to see you again, Miss. Satoru and I have never forgotten you.”

“Utahime…” he mutters with slight embarrassment. 

You chortled and patted her back. “I haven’t forgotten about you too either.”

She pulls back, removing her arms from you. Satoru places a warm arm around her waist and brings her to his side. The display of affection has you melting on the inside, head tilting in fondness. Satoru looks at you. “So, there’s someone we want you to—”

The sound of little pitter-patter against the hardwood cuts him off, all of your attention being dragged to the little girl with white hair and auburn eyes like her moth bounding up to you in excited familiarity. Her tiny gasp as she looks up at you with wide, innocent, twinkling eyes. She looked up at you as if she had known you her whole life, bubbling with a sense of jitteriness, cheeks glowing with a youthful flush. You couldn’t help but crouch down to her height, head tilting. Your eyes glazed over with tears, holding a hand to your mouth to hold back the broken laugh you almost let out at the question she asked you. 

“Are you the fairy?”

a/n: this story is inspired by "a love not made for me" by aryana rose. please go hear her speak it, she tells it so beautifully :(((. anywho, thank u guys for 2k really. i love u all and I'm incredibly grateful for all the support and love and patience :))

i couldn't do it without yall. <3

[bunabi]

Whoever sent me that ask saying the devs contributed nothing but 'abysmal dogshit':

As someone who didn't enjoy her time with DAV for the most part I'm just gonna drop all these here and leave you to ask yourself who was responsible for Veilguard being a major departure from past games and where Bioware would be without people who genuinely care:

It helped that the Dragon Age team was full of veterans, and that over the years they’d developed a fair amount of chemistry as a team. “Muscle memory is incredibly influential at this point,” said Cameron Lee. “Through the hellfire which is game development, [we’re] forged into a unit, in that we know what [everyone’s] thinking and we understand everyone’s expectations and we know what needs to get done and just do it.”

From around the time of Trespasser’s release in 2015 to late 2017, the fourth Dragon Age was developed within an atmosphere that was apparently one of the most positive that some at BioWare had experienced.

“(...) some of the big changes included: 1) laying down a clear vision as early as possible, 2) maintaining regular on-boarding documents and procedures so new team members could get up to speed fast; and 3) a decision-making mentality where “we acknowledged that making the second-best choice was far, far better than not deciding and letting ambiguity stick around while people waited for a decision.

While BioWare’s publisher and parent company, Electronic Arts, tends to give its studios a fair amount of autonomy, there are still mandates to follow. By 2017, EA had not been secret about its desire to make all of its major products into “games as a service,” best defined as games that can be played—and monetized—for months and years after their release. Traditional Dragon Age games did not fit into that category.

By the latter half of 2017, Anthem was in real trouble, and there was concern that it might never be finished unless the studio did something drastic. In October of 2017, not long after veteran Mass Effect director Casey Hudson returned to the studio to take over as general manager, EA and BioWare took that drastic action, canceling Joplin and moving the bulk of its staff, including executive producer Mark Darrah, onto Anthem.

“I actually cannot count the amount of ‘stress casualties’ we had on Mass Effect: Andromeda or Anthem."

How did they manage to ship it in 15 months? The dev mentions working about 90 hours a week for 15 months. Many other devs on the team were also doing so and they think that others were doing 90 hours a week prior to the 15 month mark.

[goldfades]

ICE QUEEN & HER HOCKEY PLAYER──CROSBY⁸⁷

for this request!

─ summary | long awaited: crosby x figure skater where they both meet early in their careers and are not impressed by each other, so kinda enemies, they end up at the 2010 olympics and they still dont like each other but they both carry great pressure and basically just them falling in love over the years and of course the media would be highly involved in two generational talents

─ pairing | sidney crosby x fem!reader

─ word count | 19k

─ warnings | slooooow burn, angsty but gets very fluffy toward the end, lmk if yall want a part 2!!

─ ev's notes | thank you my babies cassie & amber for beta reading, yall are the best!!!!!! go give them some love<3 @v6quewrlds @sc0tters

ok love u bye!!! pls send me requests!!!!!!

⇨ missing out on updates? check out my masterlist!

You first saw him across the rink, his focus sharp as he moved effortlessly through drills, like he was born on ice. It wasn’t admiration that struck you, though—more like irritation. Sidney Crosby. The “next one,” they called him. All this talent, all this praise, and yet here he was, gliding around like he had something to prove.

Not that you cared.

You had your own path, your own climb. Figure skating was different, but the pressure was just as suffocating. Every jump, every spin felt like the world was watching, expecting perfection. So why did it bother you, seeing him here, looking so... untouchable?

Your coach nudged you, urging you to focus, but you couldn’t help the flicker of competition that lit in your chest. He was just another athlete. Another story. And you, well, you were writing your own.

But something in the way his eyes met yours—cool, unreadable—told you that this wasn’t the last time you’d cross paths with Sidney Crosby.

You try to brush it off, turn your focus back to the ice beneath your feet, but that small moment lingers. His presence sticks with you, even as you push through your routine, every movement precise, practiced. It’s all muscle memory at this point, but somehow, your mind keeps drifting back to him. The way he didn’t seem phased by anything, not even you.

You lace your skates with a quiet determination, the cold air of the rink biting at your skin even though you’ve grown used to it. Every day, same routine. You’ve always found a strange comfort in that—the familiar rhythm of blade on ice, the tension before takeoff, the brief moment when you’re airborne, weightless, before gravity pulls you back. It’s your world, your escape. Everything else fades away here.

Except today, something lingers. Or rather, someone.

Sidney Crosby.

The name alone carries an echo in every corner of the sports world, like he’s already a legend and not just some kid skating circles with his team. You’re not immune to the whispers that float around the rink whenever he’s nearby—the excited murmurs from your teammates, the starry-eyed awe in the younger skaters who dream of meeting him, as if proximity to greatness might somehow rub off on them.

But that’s not you.

You’ve worked too hard to be impressed by anyone anymore. You’ve scraped your way to this point, each pirouette and double axel carved out of relentless practice, not natural-born talent. Sure, you’ve got skill, but it was earned—honed through hours of falling and getting back up again. Nobody handed you anything.

And him?

You glance toward the far end of the rink where he’s going through drills with the same cool precision you’d expect from someone nicknamed “The Next One.” It’s not that you don’t respect his ability—no, that’s not it at all. The guy moves like he was built for this. But there’s something infuriating about the way he carries himself, as if being good—no, great—comes so effortlessly to him, like it’s just a given.

You bend down, adjusting the tightness on your skates. You're focusing on the details, making sure everything is just right, because that’s what you do. That’s who you are. Everything has to be perfect, controlled. Sidney Crosby, meanwhile, looks like he doesn’t have a care in the world, and for some reason, that grates at you.

Your coach claps his hands, snapping you out of your thoughts, and you move into your routine. Instinct takes over as you push off from the boards and glide onto the ice, the familiar sting of cold rushing against your cheeks. Your legs pump rhythmically, each motion deliberate and precise. You lose yourself in the movement—the stretch of your arms, the swing of your leg as you enter a jump. For a moment, it’s just you and the ice, the world falling away in the face of the one thing that still makes sense.

But not for long.

Because when you land, your gaze drifts again—over to where Crosby’s skating, his sharp turns cutting into the ice with a sound that digs under your skin. He doesn’t even look like he’s trying. It’s infuriating.

You’re coming down from a series of spins when you hear a voice—your teammate. “You’re really in the zone today,” she says, breathless and smiling as she skates up beside you.

“Yeah, trying to be,” you reply, breathing heavily, trying to focus on anything but him.

Your teammate leans in a little, lowering her voice like she’s about to share some big secret. “Did you hear the news? Crosby’s making waves already. Some scouts are saying he’s the real deal—like, generational talent.”

You roll your eyes before you can stop yourself. “Aren’t they all?”

She grins, nudging you playfully. “Come on, don’t pretend like you’re not a little curious. Everyone’s talking about him.”

“That’s the problem,” you mutter under your breath.

Your teammate skates off, oblivious, leaving you standing there with the weight of that name hanging over your head. Sidney Crosby. It’s like the universe just wants to shove him in your face.

Fine, you think. Let him have his spotlight. Let him be the guy everyone’s fawning over. But you? You’re not here for that. You’ve got your own goals, your own pressures, and the last thing you need is to get wrapped up in some star athlete’s orbit.

You push off again, forcing yourself back into your routine, ignoring the nagging itch that comes with every glance toward his side of the ice. But it’s impossible to drown out completely. You can feel his presence like a shadow, always there, always in the corner of your eye.

When you finally step off the ice, muscles aching in that satisfying way that comes after a hard session, you tell yourself you’re done with him. Done with thinking about the golden boy who’s probably coasting on talent alone.

Yet, as you untie your skates, his image still clings to the edges of your mind—the sharpness in his movements, the quiet intensity in his face, the way he seemed so utterly... unbothered. Like nothing, not even you, could break his focus.

In the locker room, the conversation drifts back to him, as it always seems to. The chatter is almost relentless—"Did you see how fast Crosby is? The way he handles the puck?"—and it takes everything in you not to roll your eyes again. You try to tune it out, focusing instead on the methodical task of packing your gear.

But as you sling your bag over your shoulder and head for the exit, the door swings open. And of course, there he is. Crosby, walking in with that same laser focus, gear in hand, barely acknowledging anyone around him.

He doesn’t look at you. Not even a flicker of recognition as he passes by. It’s almost laughable, how oblivious he is. You half expect him to at least give you a nod or a half-smile, something—anything—to show he knows you exist.

But no. Nothing.

You let out a huff, brushing past him as you walk out. There’s no reason for this to bother you, really. You don’t need his approval, and you definitely don’t need him to notice you.

Still, as the door swings shut behind you, you can’t shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, this won’t be the last time you cross paths with Sidney Crosby.

Not by a long shot.

───

“Again!” Your coach’s voice cuts through the air like a whip, sharp and biting, echoing across the empty rink. You’ve been at this for hours, it feels like—your muscles are screaming, every part of your body aching, but none of that matters. Not to him.

You swallow the frustration that bubbles in your throat, biting back the urge to snap. Instead, you skate back to the center of the ice, forcing your legs to cooperate, the burn in your calves a constant reminder of how long you’ve been doing this. It’s not good enough, though. Not for him. And, if you’re honest with yourself, not for you either.

You’re trying to perfect your triple Lutz, but every time you attempt the jump, something feels off—your rotation, your timing, maybe even your mindset. Your blade scrapes the ice as you reset, steadying your breath, forcing yourself to focus.

“Go again!” he shouts, his voice almost hoarse now, and you push off, gathering speed. The rink blurs around you as you build up momentum, arms tight, posture straight, the way you’ve been drilled to do since you were a kid. You hit the jump—lift off—but somewhere in the second rotation, it happens again. You come down wrong, your ankle buckling as you land too heavily on your right skate.

Your coach swears under his breath. “What was that? You’re rushing! Slow down, get your rotation tighter—again!”

You don’t say anything. You just grit your teeth and skate back into position. It’s not like you’re unfamiliar with this kind of pressure—no, this is your life. Perfection or nothing. You’ve heard the speeches, felt the disappointment every time you come up short. You know it’s about pushing yourself past your limits.

But right now, with every muscle in your body screaming at you to stop, you’re beginning to wonder if there’s anything left to push through.

“Let’s go, again!”

You roll your eyes but quickly hide it. He’s watching, waiting for you to slip, and he’ll never let you hear the end of it if you show any sign of weakness. So, you breathe in deeply, shake out your arms, and steel yourself. Just one more. One more and you’ll nail it.

You skate hard, the familiar whoosh of ice beneath your blades almost comforting, like the calm before the storm. As you go into the jump, everything seems to click—your body feels lighter, your rotation sharper, and you think, for a second, that you’ve got it.

Then the ice meets you like a slap to the face. Your blade catches, and you fall, hard, knees scraping the cold surface as the impact sends a sharp shock through your legs. You feel the familiar sting of embarrassment heating your cheeks before the pain even registers.

“Are you kidding me?” Your coach’s voice booms across the ice, frustration crackling in every word. “You’re better than this! Do it again, and this time, stop messing around!”

Your breath comes in ragged gasps as you haul yourself up, limbs heavy and protesting. You can feel the sharp eyes of your coach drilling into you, his disappointment palpable even from a distance. And as you push yourself upright, swallowing down the lump of frustration lodged in your throat, something shifts at the edge of your vision.

Sidney Crosby.

Of course.

He’s on the ice now, on the other side of the rink, going through his own drills with an almost inhuman precision. His strides are powerful, fluid, each movement perfectly controlled. He makes it look easy. Like he always does.

You hate that it bothers you, but it does. Watching him now, so effortlessly skating through his practice, it only sharpens the contrast between his ease and your exhaustion. It’s like the universe has decided to throw him in your face every chance it gets.

You force your gaze away, back to the task at hand. You’ve got bigger things to worry about than whatever golden-boy magic Crosby is working over there. Your coach is waiting for you to try again, arms crossed, his face a storm of impatience.

“Are you going to stand there all day or are you going to land this?” he snaps.

You nod, swallowing down the irritation that’s rising in your chest. He’s right. You can’t let this beat you. You won’t.

You take a deep breath, center yourself, and push off, the sound of your blades cutting through the ice grounding you. This time, you focus harder, your mind narrowing in on each detail of the jump. Speed, lift, rotation, land. One step at a time. You block out everything—your coach, the ache in your legs, and definitely Sidney Crosby.

You launch yourself into the air, feeling the smooth power of the jump. For a moment, you’re weightless, and it feels right—until, once again, you come down a hair too early, your blade skidding out from under you. You stumble but don’t fall this time, catching yourself just in time.

“Better,” your coach mutters. “But not good enough.”

You barely hear him, though, because when you glance up, you catch Crosby watching you out of the corner of his eye. It’s subtle, just a flicker of attention, but it’s there. His face is unreadable, but you don’t need to see his expression to know what he’s thinking.

She’s struggling.

And for some reason, that thought sets your nerves on fire.

I’m not gonna let Crosby win.

The thought flares in your mind, sudden and irrational, but you grab onto it like a lifeline. It’s ridiculous—you know that. He’s not even competing with you. Hell, he probably doesn’t even care about you right now, but it’s too late. The idea’s already wormed its way in, digging deep into that part of your brain that refuses to back down from a challenge. Even if it’s one you made up.

You grit your teeth, fists tightening as you push off for another go. The anger fuels you, hot and biting, spreading through your limbs like wildfire. Suddenly, the exhaustion that’s been weighing you down all practice disappears, replaced by a sharp, laser-focused determination.

This time, when you skate, it’s different. Every movement is smoother, sharper. The ice feels like it’s bending to your will instead of working against you. As you approach the jump, you don’t hesitate. There’s no second-guessing, no nagging voice in the back of your mind telling you what could go wrong.

You launch yourself into the air, and everything falls into place. The height, the speed, the rotation—it’s all perfect. You land with a crisp, sharp sound, your blades slicing through the ice as if they were always meant to. No stumble, no misstep. Just perfection.

The rink is silent.

You glance over at your coach, and he’s standing there, mouth slightly open, completely stunned. His arms drop to his sides, the frustration and irritation from earlier replaced with disbelief. For a split second, even he can’t believe what just happened.

“That…” he starts, still catching up to what he’s seen. “That was perfect.”

You feel the rush of satisfaction, a grin tugging at the corners of your lips, but before you can fully relish the moment, your gaze slides across the ice—right back to Sidney Crosby.

And there it is.

A smirk.

Small, barely noticeable, but unmistakably there, tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watches you. It’s infuriating. The heat of your anger that had just started to cool flares up again, boiling over. You know it’s ridiculous. You know you shouldn’t care. But there’s something about the way he’s looking at you—like he knew exactly what just happened, like he’s somehow responsible for flipping that switch in you.

It’s smug. Too smug.

You feel your fingers curl into fists at your sides, the triumph of your flawless landing fading as quickly as it came. It’s not enough. Not when he thinks he had something to do with it. The thought of him thinking that he was the reason you nailed that jump makes you grit your teeth all over again.

Your coach calls out, voice still tinged with amazement. “Take a break—you earned it. That was the best I’ve seen all season.”

You nod, skating off toward the edge of the rink, but your eyes never leave Crosby’s. He’s back to his drills now, that infuriating little smirk gone, replaced by that same focused intensity he always has. Like you don’t even exist. Like he’s already moved on.

But you haven’t.

I’m not gonna let Crosby win. You repeat the mantra to yourself, feeling that fire spark inside you once more.

This is only the beginning.

───

“I’m telling you, he’s got it out for me,” you say, waving your glass in the air as you slump back in your seat. “It's like, every time I look up, there he is, judging me with those stupid, intense eyes. Like he’s some kind of skating god who knows better than the rest of us.”

Your teammates snicker around the table, but you can tell they’re more amused by your dramatics than actually concerned. Abby, sitting across from you, rolls her eyes, sipping her drink with an amused smirk.

“Uh-huh, sure,” she says. “Because Sidney Crosby is totally obsessed with you, out of all people. That’s what he does with his free time.”

“I’m serious!” You huff, propping your elbows on the table. “Every time I mess up, he’s there. Just... lurking in the background. Like some smug, perfectly-groomed shadow, judging me. I swear he enjoys it.”

Tasha, who’s been quietly sipping her beer next to you, finally chimes in. “Are you sure he’s not just, you know, existing and you’re projecting all your frustrations onto him?”

You glare at her, but she only grins, nudging your arm. “I’m just saying, maybe he’s just trying to live his life and it’s not all about you.”

“I don’t project,” you grumble. “I’m very rational. This is just... observation.”

Abby nearly spits out her drink, laughing. “You’re so full of it. Admit it, you just don’t like that he’s good at literally everything. It messes with your perfectionist brain.”

“You’d hate him less if you stopped watching him all the time,” Tasha adds, teasing.

You groan, dropping your head onto the table with a thud. “I don’t watch him. He’s just always there. Like a bad omen with a hockey stick.”

“Yeah, well,” Abby shrugs, “I’d be there too if I were as good as him. Honestly, if you weren’t so busy hating him, you’d probably respect him a little. Maybe you two would even be—”

“Don’t.” You cut her off, lifting your head with a glare. “Don’t even suggest we could be friends. Or worse—something else. That’s the last thing I need right now.”

Tasha grins mischievously. “Well, considering how much you’re talking about him, it sounds like he might be the only thing you need right now.”

You swat at her playfully, but before you can respond, the loud crash of a door opening interrupts your rant. The energy in the bar shifts immediately as a group of loud, rowdy voices enters the room. You don’t even have to turn around to know who it is. You can feel it—the sudden frat-boy energy that seems to follow them wherever they go.

“Speak of the devil,” Abby mutters under her breath, clearly amused.

Sure enough, you glance toward the entrance, and there they are. Sidney Crosby and his teammates, rolling into the bar like they own the place. They’re loud, obnoxious, the exact opposite of what you wanted for this low-key evening. You watch as they laugh, shove each other, and call out to the bartender as if they’ve been best friends for years.

Sidney, of course, is in the center of it all—looking as effortlessly cool as ever in a black jacket and backward baseball cap. His laugh booms across the bar, and you can’t help but roll your eyes.

“Unbelievable,” you mutter. “Why are they always like this? Who gave them permission to act like frat boys in public?”

“Relax,” Abby says, still laughing at your expense. “It’s not like they’re doing anything wrong.”

“They’re just breathing, and it’s bothering you,” Tasha adds with a smirk.

“I can’t help it!” You say, throwing your hands up in exasperation. “They walk in here like they own the place. No one’s even looking at them, and somehow they just... demand attention.”

As if on cue, Sidney’s voice rises above the noise, calling out to one of his teammates with a laugh that carries through the entire bar. His presence is magnetic, drawing attention even when he’s not trying, and you hate how aware of him you are.

“I’m telling you,” you say, turning back to your friends. “This is a sign. The universe is trying to ruin my peace.”

“You’re such a drama queen,” Abby teases. “The universe doesn’t revolve around you and Sidney Crosby. Just let it go.”

“I don’t want to talk about him anymore,” you declare, crossing your arms stubbornly. “He’s not worth my energy.”

But as soon as the words leave your mouth, you feel a pair of eyes land on you. You glance up—and of course, it’s him. Sidney freaking Crosby. He’s looking right at you, that familiar smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, almost as if he knows exactly what you were just complaining about.

Your stomach flips, and suddenly, the heat rushes to your face. Great, just what you needed. You quickly look away, trying to pretend like you hadn’t been caught mid-rant about him for the umpteenth time.

Abby leans in, her voice low and teasing. “So... what’s that about not caring?”

“Shut up,” you mutter, grabbing your drink and downing the rest in one go.

Tasha bursts out laughing. “You’re so done for.”

“Am not,” you grumble, avoiding Sidney’s gaze. But you can still feel his eyes on you, that stupid smirk lingering in your mind, and you can’t shake the thought that, maybe, just maybe, he does enjoy messing with you.

Or worse—maybe you enjoy it too.

Later, you found yourself alone. You lean against the bar, the cool wood pressing into your forearms as you wait for the bartender to notice you. The noise of the bar hums around you—laughter, clinking glasses, some bad country song playing in the background. But for the first time since Sidney Crosby and his squad of obnoxious teammates showed up, you’ve managed to relax a little. Maybe it’s the alcohol kicking in or maybe it’s because you’ve successfully avoided looking in his direction for the past half hour. Either way, you feel lighter.

You tap your fingers against the counter impatiently, scanning the crowd for the bartender, trying not to let your mind wander back to Sidney. You promised yourself you weren’t going to let him ruin your night, and you’re doing a decent job of it so far. No reason to let him take up more space in your head than he already does.

"Hey, can I get another drink over here?" you call out to the bartender, who finally catches your eye and nods.

Just as you start to relax, though, you feel it—that presence. It’s like your body knows he’s there before you even see him, a tingle that runs up your spine, making your muscles tense involuntarily.

You don’t even have to turn around to know who it is.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Sidney’s voice is smooth, low, and far too casual, like he’s not already driving you insane.

You grit your teeth, rolling your eyes before you even face him. Great. Of course, he’d pick now to show up. When you’re alone. Just your luck.

Sidney leans against the bar beside you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from him, but not so close that it feels like he’s crowding you. He’s got this irritatingly effortless way of taking up space without trying. It’s like the universe bends around him, making sure everyone notices when he’s around.

“What do you want?” you ask, not bothering to hide the irritation in your voice as you finally turn to face him. You don’t have the patience for his smug attitude tonight.

He’s leaning casually with one elbow on the bar, looking at you with that infuriating half-smirk, like he finds the whole situation amusing. His backward cap is still in place, strands of hair peeking out messily, and his eyes glint with something that feels way too much like a challenge.

“What makes you think I want something?” he asks, his voice almost teasing.

You raise an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Because you don’t come over here for no reason.”

Sidney chuckles softly, and the sound grates on your nerves. “Maybe I just wanted to say hi. You know, be friendly.”

“Since when are we friendly?” you shoot back, crossing your arms over your chest. “Pretty sure we’ve never been that.”

He shrugs, still smiling, as if your hostility only makes this more fun for him. “There’s a first time for everything.”

You narrow your eyes at him, trying to gauge his angle. It’s impossible to tell if he’s genuinely trying to make conversation or if he’s just here to mess with you. Either way, you’re not having it.

“Look, Crosby,” you say, your voice sharp, “if you’re here to annoy me, you’re wasting your time. I’m not in the mood.”

His smirk widens, and for some reason, it makes your stomach flip in a way you don’t like. “Who said anything about annoying you?”

You let out a huff of frustration, leaning back against the bar and glaring at him. “You always do. Every time you show up, it’s like you can’t help but get under my skin.”

Sidney tilts his head slightly, like he’s considering your words, but the smirk never leaves his face. “Maybe that’s because you make it so easy.”

The nerve of this guy. You open your mouth to fire back, but the bartender finally appears with your drink, placing it in front of you. You grab it with a quick thanks, eager for a distraction. Anything to avoid looking at Sidney and that stupid grin of his.

“Why do you even care?” you ask, taking a sip of your drink. “You don’t know me. We’re in completely different worlds.”

Sidney doesn’t respond right away, just watches you with those annoyingly intense eyes, like he’s trying to figure something out about you. It’s unsettling, but you refuse to let him see that he’s getting to you. You’ve already let him mess with your head enough tonight.

“Maybe I don’t know you,” he says after a moment, his voice lower now, more thoughtful. “But you’re interesting. More interesting than half the people I’ve met in this sport.”

You blink at him, caught off guard by the shift in his tone. “Interesting?”

He nods, that playful glint still in his eyes. “Yeah. You’re not like everyone else. Most people just... try to stay out of the way, keep their heads down, play nice. But you? You don’t take shit from anyone. I like that.”

You snort, unable to help yourself. “So what, you’re saying you like me because I don’t like you?”

Sidney laughs, and the sound is so warm, so genuine, that it throws you off for a second. It’s not the cocky laugh you’re used to hearing from him on the ice. This one feels... real.

“I’m saying I like a challenge,” he says, his eyes gleaming with something that makes your heart race even though you really don’t want it to. “And you’re definitely a challenge.”

A challenge. That word lingers in the air between you, heavy and charged, and you’re not sure if it’s because of the way he said it or because of how it makes you feel. Because on some level, you know he’s right. You are a challenge. You’ve always been a challenge. And maybe that’s part of why he gets under your skin so easily—because he’s not backing down.

But you’re not backing down either.

“Well, if you think you can just waltz in here and... what? Win me over?” you scoff, taking another sip of your drink. “Good luck with that, Crosby. I don’t go down that easy.”

Sidney leans in just a fraction, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “I never said I wanted you to go down easy.”

The words hang between you, thick with tension, and you feel your pulse quicken, the heat rising in your chest despite your best efforts to stay calm. His eyes stay locked on yours, and for a split second, you forget where you are, forget everything except the way his gaze makes you feel like he’s seeing through every layer of defense you’ve built up.

It takes everything in you not to let him see how much he’s affecting you. You keep your expression neutral, lips pressed into a tight line as you lean back, forcing some distance between you.

“You really think you can get to me with a few smooth lines?” you ask, your voice sharper than you intended.

Sidney shrugs again, but this time there’s a hint of something more serious behind his smile. “I don’t know. Guess I’ll find out.”

You glare at him, feeling that familiar frustration bubbling up again, but there’s something else there now too—something you don’t want to acknowledge. Something that feels dangerous and thrilling all at once.

“Well, don’t get too comfortable,” you say, standing up from the bar and giving him one last, pointed look. “I’m not as easy to figure out as you think.”

Sidney just smiles, leaning back against the bar as he watches you walk away, and you can feel his eyes on you the whole time.

“Good,” he calls after you. “I like a good mystery.”

You don’t look back, but damn it, his voice follows you all the way out of the bar, and it’s all you can think about for the rest of the night.

───

The rink is nearly deserted when you stayed that night, after practice. The cold air bites at your exposed skin, but it feels like a relief after the stuffiness of the bar. You needed this—the wide-open space, the sound of your skates carving into the ice, the familiar rhythm of movement that helps drown out all the noise in your head.

You plug in your phone to the speaker system, scrolling through your playlists until you settle on something fitting for the mood—dramatic, sweeping classical music, the kind that builds and builds until it feels like it’s going to break something wide open. It’s exactly what you need right now.

As the first notes fill the rink, you skate to the center, closing your eyes for just a moment, letting the music wash over you. The stress, the frustration, the lingering burn from your interaction with Sidney—it all simmers beneath the surface, but here, on the ice, you know how to channel it. You’ve always been able to let the pressure fuel you, turning frustration into focus.

Opening your eyes, you push off, gliding across the ice with an easy grace that comes from years of muscle memory. The music builds, and you pick up speed, letting the intensity of the sound guide your movements. Each jump, each spin, feels sharper than before, more deliberate. There’s no audience, no competition, just you and the ice and the echo of the music in the empty arena.

You land a triple axel cleanly, but it’s not enough. Not tonight. You need more.

I’m not going to let Crosby win. The thought flashes in your mind, unbidden, but once it’s there, you can’t shake it. It’s ridiculous—Sidney’s not even here, not even part of this—but somehow, he’s still under your skin, pushing you to go harder, to be better.

The frustration builds, a knot tightening in your chest, and with a surge of anger, you launch into another jump, pushing yourself to the limit. You flip in the air, body twisting with precision, and when your skates hit the ice again, the landing is so clean, so perfect, that even you’re stunned for a moment.

Your coach isn’t here to shout or correct you, but if he were, you know he’d be speechless. You nailed it.

You stop in the center of the rink, breathing heavily, staring down at the ice beneath your feet. How did you flip that switch so quickly? One second, you were spiraling, frustration threatening to spill over, and the next, you’re here—executing moves with a sharpness you didn’t think you had tonight.

It’s almost like—

“Nice landing.”

Your heart leaps into your throat, and you spin around, your skates squeaking on the ice as you search for the source of the voice.

Of course.

Sidney Crosby is standing in the entrance to the rink, leaning casually against the boards with his arms crossed over his chest, watching you with that same infuriating half-smirk. His dark hoodie is pulled over his head, casting shadows over his face, but you’d recognize that voice anywhere. You’d thought you were alone, but apparently, Sidney had other plans.

“Jesus—what the hell are you doing here?” you snap, pulse still racing from both the exertion and the shock of seeing him.

Sidney shrugs, as if he hasn’t just interrupted your entire night. “Could ask you the same thing.”

You narrow your eyes at him, pushing down the urge to scream. “I’m here because I’m training. What’s your excuse?”

He lifts an eyebrow, pushing off the boards and stepping onto the ice with ease, his skates gliding smoothly over the surface. “Didn’t realize you had the rink reserved.”

You cross your arms, glaring as he skates a slow circle around you, as if he’s sizing you up. The way he moves is so infuriatingly confident, like he knows exactly how to get under your skin.

“Sidney, I swear, if you’re here just to mess with me—”

He stops right in front of you, cutting you off with a grin that makes your stomach twist. “I’m not here to mess with you.” His voice drops a little, that playful edge still there but softer now. “Not unless you want me to.”

You take a step back, suddenly feeling a little too close to him. The music still plays in the background, dramatic strings swelling through the speakers, matching the tension that’s building between you two.

“Why are you really here?” you ask, trying to sound more composed than you feel. You’re not sure if it’s the adrenaline from skating or the fact that Sidney’s presence always seems to set you off, but your pulse is racing, and not just from the workout.

Sidney tilts his head slightly, watching you with those annoyingly intense eyes. “I could ask you the same thing,” he says, echoing your earlier words. “You’ve been skating for hours. What’s got you so wound up?”

Your mouth opens to snap back, but you stop yourself, unsure how to answer. It’s not like you can tell him he’s part of the problem, that every time he shows up, he stirs something inside you that’s equal parts frustration and... something else you refuse to acknowledge.

“I’m fine,” you finally say, your voice tight. “Just working on a few things.”

Sidney steps closer again, his eyes not leaving yours, and you can feel your defenses rising instinctively. He has this way of making you feel exposed, like he sees through every layer you put up.

“You don’t look fine,” he says quietly, the teasing edge fading from his voice. “You look like you’re trying to prove something.”

“I don’t have anything to prove to you,” you snap, more harshly than you intended.

Sidney doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even react to your tone. Instead, he just watches you, like he’s waiting for you to let your guard down.

“You don’t have anything to prove to me,” he agrees, his voice low, almost gentle now. “But it seems like you’re trying to prove something to yourself.”

The words hit you harder than you want to admit, and for a second, you feel the weight of the pressure you’ve been carrying—the constant need to be perfect, to land every jump, to be better than you were yesterday. And maybe, just maybe, part of that pressure comes from knowing that Sidney Crosby, of all people, has seen you falter.

Your hands tighten into fists, frustration bubbling up again, but this time it’s not aimed at Sidney—it’s aimed at yourself.

“What do you know about it?” you mutter, looking away from him, focusing on the ice instead of the way his presence is making you feel.

Sidney doesn’t respond right away, and when he does, his voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it. “More than you think.”

Something in his tone makes you glance up, and for the first time, you see something different in his eyes—not the usual cocky smirk, not the playful teasing. It’s something deeper, something you recognize.

Pressure. Expectation. The weight of the world on his shoulders, just like you carry on yours.

For a moment, the air between you shifts, and you’re not sure if it’s because of the music still playing softly in the background or because of the way Sidney is looking at you. There’s something unspoken hanging in the space between you, something fragile and real.

“I get it,” he says, his voice quiet. “The pressure. The feeling like you have to be perfect every time you step on the ice. I know what that’s like.”

You swallow hard, the walls you’ve built around yourself trembling slightly. You’re not used to Sidney Crosby being... this. Open. Vulnerable. It throws you off balance, makes you feel like you’re standing on shaky ground.

But before you can say anything, he steps back, giving you space, and the moment passes as quickly as it came.

“Anyway,” he says, his usual smirk slipping back into place, “just wanted to check in. See if you needed anything.”

You narrow your eyes at him, trying to regain your composure. “Yeah, I’m good.”

Sidney grins, his playful edge back in full force. “Good. I like seeing you fired up.”

And just like that, the tension is back, simmering under the surface, and you’re left standing there, wondering how Sidney Crosby has managed to flip your world upside down in a matter of minutes.

As he skates away, you’re left with the echo of his words in your mind—and the realization that maybe, just maybe, he’s not the only one who likes a challenge.

───

A few weeks later, the cold of early winter is biting harder, a constant reminder of what’s looming: the Olympics. The most important competition of your life. Every jump, every spin, every session on the ice has been building to this moment, and now, the pressure is so thick, it feels like it's settled in your bones.

You’re sitting in the locker room, your gear strewn across the bench beside you. The atmosphere is tense but electric. Today is the day they announce the official Olympic figure skating team, and though you know you've earned your spot, the nerves are impossible to shake. Even after years of preparation, the thought of representing your country on the world’s biggest stage makes your heart pound.

Your coach comes in first, a rare smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He claps you on the back, and you can feel the energy shift in the room.

“They’ve posted the roster,” he says, barely containing his pride. “You’re on the team.”

The words hang in the air for a moment, and then the weight of them crashes down on you. You’re on the team. You’re going to the Olympics.

You let out a breath you didn’t even realize you were holding, your chest tight with a mix of relief and exhilaration. All the hours on the ice, the grueling practices, the mental battles—it’s all been worth it. You’re going to be part of something bigger than yourself, and for a moment, you let yourself revel in the feeling of accomplishment.

But then, like a storm cloud gathering on the horizon, another thought creeps in: Sidney Crosby.

You haven't seen him since that night at the rink, but his presence has lingered, a constant shadow in your mind. He’s been picked too—you know it without even needing to check the roster. Of course he has. He's Sidney Crosby. A generational talent, just like they call you, only... more somehow. More polished, more famous, more everything. And now, the media will eat this up, won’t they? Two stars, both at the top of their games, both chasing Olympic glory, both—

You shake your head, pushing the thought away. You’re not going to let Sidney Crosby get into your head. Not when you’ve worked so hard to get here.

Your teammates rush into the room, their excitement contagious as they celebrate together. You laugh with them, letting the energy lift you for a moment, but in the back of your mind, that quiet tension still lingers. You can’t shake the feeling that this is just the beginning of something bigger—and that Sidney is somehow going to be a part of it, whether you like it or not.

───

The night before the team heads out for the final round of pre-Olympic training, you find yourself back at the rink, once again pushing through a late-night session. The music is quieter this time, more contemplative, as you work on fine-tuning your routine. It’s just you and the ice, and for a little while, that’s enough.

Until the door creaks open again.

You stop mid-spin, your breath catching in your throat. You don’t need to turn around to know who it is—somehow, you can always tell when Sidney’s around. It’s like your body is wired to notice him, even when you don’t want to.

“What are you doing here?” you call out, not bothering to mask the annoyance in your voice.

Sidney doesn’t answer right away, but you hear the sound of his skates as he steps onto the ice, gliding easily toward you.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he says, his voice calm, almost too calm, like he knows exactly how to get under your skin. “Training late again?”

You grit your teeth, refusing to let him get to you. “Yeah, well, some of us still have work to do.”

Sidney chuckles softly, skating closer until he’s just a few feet away. “You really think you’ve got that much left to prove?”

You glance at him, narrowing your eyes. “Don’t you?”

For a second, he doesn’t answer, his eyes searching yours. There’s something unreadable in his expression, something almost… curious. Then he shrugs, that familiar smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Maybe,” he says, his voice low. “But I’m not the one staying up all night to try and be perfect.”

His words hit a little too close to home, and you feel the flare of anger rise again. But before you can respond, Sidney’s already moving, skating around you with that effortless grace that somehow makes everything seem easy for him.

“You know,” he says, his tone light, “the media’s having a field day with this whole thing. Two Canadian stars, same Olympics, both at the top of their game. They love a good story.”

You roll your eyes, spinning around to face him. “Yeah, I noticed.”

Sidney’s grin widens, and for a moment, you wonder if he’s enjoying this more than he should. “You think they’ll keep us apart, or you think they’ll try to milk this for everything it’s worth?”

You cross your arms, refusing to play into whatever game he’s trying to start. “I don’t really care what the media does.”

Sidney stops in front of you, his eyes locking onto yours with that same intensity you’ve come to know all too well. “You sure about that?”

The question hangs in the air between you, and for a second, you’re not sure if he’s talking about the media… or something else entirely.

You stare at him for a moment, the weight of his gaze making the rink feel smaller, more intimate than it has any right to be. The soft hum of your music in the background seems distant now, a faraway echo compared to the silence between you. You want to say something cutting, to brush him off like you always do, but there's something different about this moment. It's not just annoyance. There's a challenge here—a tension, thick and electric, hovering just out of reach.

Sidney's eyebrow quirks up, and you feel your stomach twist in frustration. He's baiting you, but you don't know what game you're even playing anymore. And the worst part? He’s winning. Again.

"I'm sure," you finally manage to say, but your voice doesn’t carry the sharpness you intended. It's a little softer, almost uncertain, and you hate it. His smirk widens ever so slightly, like he's noticed it too.

"Good." Sidney pushes off the ice and skates a lazy circle around you, his movements fluid and deliberate, like he's taking his time to think about his next words. "Because it doesn't matter what they say. We're both here for the same reason—to win."

You scoff, rolling your eyes, but there's a part of you that knows he's right. You didn’t get this far by letting other people’s opinions get in your head. You worked for this. Hard. Late nights, endless drills, pushing yourself past your limits just to prove to everyone—and maybe to yourself—that you deserved to be here. That you belonged.

But somehow, Sidney Crosby always finds a way to make you feel like you're still fighting for that validation. Like there's always something left to prove.

"And here I thought you were just here for the cameras," you say, your words sharper now, biting back with the edge you'd been missing earlier. "They do love a good Sidney Crosby story, don't they?"

Sidney doesn't react the way you expect. He doesn’t bristle or fire back. Instead, he just smiles, a slow, knowing grin that almost—almost—looks genuine. "Maybe. But they’re not the ones I’m trying to impress."

Your heart skips, just for a second, caught off guard by his sudden sincerity. You blink, trying to keep your composure, to ignore the way your body betrays you under his gaze.

"Right." You scoff again, trying to laugh it off. "You don’t have to impress anyone, do you?"

Sidney stops, coming to a smooth halt just in front of you. He's close enough now that you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the way his breath fogs in the cold air between you. He tilts his head, that smirk fading into something else. Something more serious.

"Everyone's got something to prove," he says quietly. His voice is low, almost a whisper, like it's a confession meant for you and only you. "Even me."

For a second, you don’t know what to say. His words catch you off guard, and you feel the weight of them sink in, wrapping around you like the cold air of the rink. You've always seen Sidney as untouchable, a star so far beyond reach that nothing could ever shake him. But now, standing here, staring at him, you realize he’s just as human as you. Maybe even just as scared.

Your throat tightens, and for a moment, the walls you’ve built around yourself start to crack. But before you can respond—before you can even process what’s happening—Sidney’s already pushing away, skating back toward the other end of the rink, like the moment never happened.

"Good luck with the routine," he calls over his shoulder, his voice light again, casual. "See you in Vancouver."

You stand there for a long time after he’s gone, the rink feeling empty without him. Your mind is racing, filled with thoughts you don’t want to acknowledge. You tell yourself it doesn’t matter—that he doesn’t matter. You’ll go to the Olympics, skate your heart out, and that’s all that matters.

But deep down, you know things have changed. And no matter how hard you try, Sidney Crosby is already under your skin.

The weeks leading up to the Olympics pass in a blur of training, media appearances, and endless speculation. The pressure builds with every day, every practice, every headline that pits you and Sidney against each other. It’s exhausting, and yet, part of you thrives on it. The stakes, the attention, the challenge. It's what you’ve always worked for.

But it’s also terrifying. Because every time you step on the ice, you know there are a million eyes watching, waiting for you to slip. And every time Sidney’s name comes up—whether it’s in an interview or in passing—it’s like a spark of irritation flares up inside you, reminding you that he’s still there, always lingering in the background of your mind.

The final week before the Olympics, you find yourself at a press conference, surrounded by reporters. You’ve done a thousand of these before, but this one feels different. The energy in the room is palpable, buzzing with anticipation as everyone prepares for the biggest event of the year.

And of course, the first question they ask isn’t about your routine or your preparation. It’s about Sidney.

“So, Y/N, you and Sidney Crosby have both been named as Canada’s biggest medal hopes this year. How do you feel about that?”

You force a smile, even though you want to roll your eyes. “I feel great about it. Sidney’s an incredible athlete, and it’s an honor to be mentioned alongside him.”

The reporter doesn’t stop there. “Do you think the rivalry between the two of you has helped push you both to new heights?”

You want to laugh. Rivalry? Is that what they’re calling it now?

“I think we’re both just focused on doing our best for our country,” you say diplomatically, but the answer feels hollow even to you. Because if you’re being honest with yourself, the rivalry is there. It’s always been there, even before the media latched onto it.

It’s not just about skating or hockey or who wins the most medals. It’s about something deeper—something neither of you has been willing to admit yet.

After the press conference, you slip out of the room as quickly as possible, your mind still buzzing with thoughts of Sidney. You’ve seen him a few times in passing since that night at the rink, but neither of you has said much. There’s been no need. The tension is there, lingering between you, always simmering just below the surface.

And now, with the Olympics just days away, it feels like everything is coming to a head.

You don’t know what’s going to happen in Vancouver, but one thing’s for sure: Sidney Crosby isn’t going to be easy to forget.

───

The sun barely peeks over the Vancouver skyline as you step into the bustling arena, the energy already electric despite the early hour. It’s the first day of the Winter Olympics, and the anticipation in the air is palpable. Athletes mill around, warming up and going through their routines, while coaches and officials rush to prepare the rink and finalize schedules.

The ice skating events are divided by discipline, with singles, pairs, and ice dance categories each occupying different time slots throughout the day. You’re scheduled for the women’s short program later this afternoon, but you arrive early to settle your nerves and observe the competition. It’s been a long time coming—years of training, countless sacrifices, and now, it’s finally here.

As you watch the men’s short program unfold, you catch glimpses of familiar faces—skaters you’ve competed against on the international circuit. The stands fill with excited spectators, flags waving, the hum of different languages mingling in the air. You take it all in, your gaze flitting from one skater to the next, mentally noting their performances.

And then, you see him.

Sidney is seated with a group of Team Canada athletes near the edge of the rink, his attention fixed on the ice. He’s wearing the official red and white tracksuit, his posture relaxed, and his expression serious. You know he’s here to support his teammates, but it doesn’t stop your heart from fluttering. You haven’t spoken since the night at the rink, and the tension still lingers, unspoken but ever-present.

You try to focus on the skaters on the ice, but your gaze keeps drifting back to Sidney. He’s surrounded by people, but his eyes seem distant, as if his mind is somewhere else. A part of you wants to approach him, to say something, anything, to break the silence that’s grown between you. But there’s no time for that now. Not when everything you’ve worked for is at stake.

A sudden cheer erupts from the crowd as one of the Canadian skaters finishes his routine with a flawless quad jump. Sidney stands, applauding along with the rest of the crowd, and for a moment, his eyes meet yours across the arena. It’s a fleeting connection—one that sends a jolt through you—before you quickly look away, your pulse quickening.

You remind yourself why you’re here. It’s not for Sidney. It’s for the chance to compete on the world’s biggest stage, to prove to yourself—and to everyone else—that you belong.

Hours later, as the women’s short program draws near, you’re in the locker room, lacing up your skates and taking deep breaths. You can hear the muffled sounds of the arena through the walls—cheers, announcements, and the faint strains of music from other performances. Your coach is by your side, offering words of encouragement and going over last-minute details of your routine.

When your name is called, you make your way to the ice, nerves and adrenaline surging in equal measure. The arena is packed now, the crowd buzzing with excitement. You take your position at the center of the rink, the bright lights shining down on you, and as the music begins, you shut out everything else—Sidney, the pressure, the noise—focusing solely on the routine you’ve practiced countless times.

As you step onto the ice, the chill bites at your exposed skin, the cold seeping into your muscles despite the hours of warming up backstage. You close your eyes, inhaling deeply, the familiar scent of the rink—a mix of ice, metal, and adrenaline—filling your lungs.

The bright lights of the arena are almost blinding, but you’ve grown used to the glare. It’s everything else that’s harder to ignore: the noise of the crowd, the anticipation hanging in the air, and the weight of every expectation you’ve ever placed on yourself.

Your name echoes through the arena, and you take your starting position at the center of the rink, feeling the world close in around you. It’s just you and the ice. You’ve done this routine a thousand times—maybe more—in practice. You know every step, every jump, every nuance of the music. But the stakes are different now, and doubt has a way of creeping in when you need confidence most.

The music begins, a soft piano melody that rises and falls like a tide. You push off, gliding into your opening spin, your body rotating effortlessly as your arms sweep out to the sides. For a moment, you feel a flicker of hope—this part, at least, feels right. But as you transition into the next sequence, the familiar pattern you’ve rehearsed starts to fray at the edges.

Your first jump, the triple flip, is where the anxiety tightens its grip. You approach the takeoff, heart racing, and launch yourself into the air. For a split second, you feel weightless, suspended above the ice, but then something feels off. Your body twists at the wrong angle, your balance shifts too soon. You land, but the landing is sloppy—your skate scrapes the ice, and you wobble, arms flailing to steady yourself.

Panic surges through you, hot and electric. It’s only the beginning of the program, and already you’ve stumbled. You try to shake it off, but the rhythm is broken, and your mind spirals into self-criticism.

You practiced this a thousand times. Why didn’t you get it right?

The next element is a step sequence, a chance to regain your composure, but the nagging voice in your head won’t let up. You force a smile, hoping to mask the growing frustration and fear. As you weave through the steps, your feet move, but your mind is still stuck on the failed jump. You feel disconnected from the music, from the ice, from the performance that’s slipping through your fingers.

You approach the triple Lutz—one of the most challenging elements in your routine. You breathe deeply, telling yourself you can still save this, but the seed of doubt has taken root. You accelerate into the jump, feeling the power build in your legs, and then you launch into the air. This time, you feel the rotation, the speed, the familiar rush of adrenaline, but it’s too fast, too uncontrolled. When you come down, you feel your left skate catch, and before you know it, you’re pitching forward. You barely manage to stay upright, catching yourself with a hand on the ice.

The gasp from the crowd feels like a punch to the gut.

I can’t believe I just did that. This is a disaster.

You’re only halfway through the program, but every second feels like an eternity. Each movement feels heavier, each step more labored. Your body moves through the motions, but your mind is stuck on replaying your mistakes. The music swells, urging you to keep going, but all you can think about is how much you’ve already ruined.

The spins that follow are supposed to be your strength, your signature—a moment when you can let go and show your artistry. But you’re too distracted, your mind racing with self-doubt. You rush into the first spin, and it feels off—your center of gravity isn’t where it should be. You struggle to maintain speed, and by the time you come out of it, your legs feel shaky. You curse yourself under your breath, frustration bubbling up. You’ve never felt this out of control in a competition before.

You’ve blown it. Everyone’s watching you fall apart.

The final jump, a double Axel, should be simple compared to the others, but the fear of messing up again overwhelms you. You take off, and for a second, you think it might be fine—until you under-rotate. The landing feels heavy, and you stumble. This time, you can’t save it. You fall, hitting the ice with a thud, the sound echoing in the silent arena.

You want to stay down, to disappear, to let the ice swallow you whole. But the music pulls you back up, and you force yourself to your feet, biting back the tears threatening to spill. Your legs feel like lead as you move through the final moments of the routine, each movement mechanical and empty.

As the music fades and you hold your ending pose, all you can think about is the silence. It’s deafening. The applause comes a few seconds later, polite but subdued, and it feels like salt in the wound. You know what the crowd saw. You know what you felt. It wasn’t the performance you’d spent years dreaming of; it was the kind that haunts you.

You skate off the ice, head down, feeling the heat of embarrassment burn through you. Your coach approaches, a hand on your shoulder, whispering words of encouragement you can barely hear over the sound of your own self-recrimination.

You blew it. You had one chance, and you blew it.

In the kiss-and-cry area, the scores flash on the screen, but you don’t need to see them to know what they’ll be—low, lower than you’ve ever had in an international competition. You feel tears prick at your eyes, and you clench your fists, willing yourself not to cry in front of the cameras.

When you finally look up, you see Sidney standing near the boards, watching. His face is unreadable, but you know he saw everything. The thought makes your stomach twist. You wanted him to see you at your best, to show him the skater you’ve worked so hard to become. But instead, he saw you at your worst.

You tear your eyes eyes away, feeling your throat forming that familiar lump. “God fucking damn it,” you mumble as you shut your eyes. You rush off to the bathroom, shutting it behind you swiftly.

It feels like your world was upside down.

You can't control the sobs that come next as you slid down the door, as your legs give out beneath you. The sobs rip through you, harsh and unrelenting, and you press a hand over your mouth, desperate to stifle the sound. The last thing you need is for anyone else to hear you breaking down. But the tears keep coming, hot and uncontrollable, and your chest tightens with the weight of your own disappointment.

You curl up on the cold tile floor, knees pulled to your chest, feeling the ache spread through your entire body. Every mistake from the routine replays in your mind on an endless loop—the missed jumps, the stumble, the fall. Each one feels like a punch, and you can’t help but berate yourself for every single one.

Why couldn’t you get it right? Why did you choke?

You lean your head back against the door, the cool wood grounding you for a moment. But then the wave hits again. You’ve worked for years—years—for this moment, and you blew it in front of everyone. All those hours of practice, all those sacrifices, and for what? For a performance that feels like it’s ruined everything you’ve worked so hard for.

The tears blur your vision, and you rub at your eyes, only to feel the sting of makeup smearing across your cheeks. It’s a mess—everything feels like a mess. You dig your fingers into your hair, pulling slightly as if the pain might drown out the thoughts that won’t stop tormenting you.

You were supposed to be better than this. You were supposed to prove you belonged here.

The worst part is knowing that Sidney saw it all. You tried so hard to ignore the tension, to push past the uncertainty of what’s between you two. But in that moment on the ice, with the lights bright and the stakes high, all you could think about was wanting to impress him, to show him the best version of yourself. And now he’s seen you fail, seen you fall apart, and you can’t bear the thought of what he must think.

The thought twists in your gut, making the sobs come harder. You bury your face in your hands, shoulders shaking. You feel like a little kid again, like all the progress you’ve made, all the strength you’ve built up, has crumbled in an instant.

After a few minutes, the sobs finally start to subside, leaving you feeling drained and empty. You breathe in, ragged and shallow, trying to calm the storm inside your head. But the silence only makes the thoughts louder. You can still hear the crowd’s disappointed murmur, see the faces of the judges as they wrote down your scores.

You’re not sure how long you stay there, slumped against the door, before the sound of footsteps approaching makes you freeze. You quickly wipe at your face, scrubbing away the tears and trying to pull yourself together. The last thing you need is for anyone to find you like this, crumpled up and broken.

There’s a knock on the door, soft at first, and you hold your breath, hoping whoever it is will go away. But then the knock comes again, a little more insistent.

“Hey,” a voice says quietly, and your heart sinks. You’d recognize that voice anywhere—Sidney.

You bite your lip, trying to steady your breath, but it’s no use. You know you can’t face him like this, not when you feel so raw and exposed. “Go away, Sid,” you manage to choke out, but it comes out weaker than you intended.

“Please, just… let me in.” His voice is gentle, and that makes it worse. You don’t want his pity, don’t want to be reminded of how badly you’ve messed up in front of him.

You wipe at your face again, even though you know you look like a mess. “I don’t want to talk right now,” you say, your voice breaking on the last word. You feel pathetic, and all you want to do is disappear.

There’s a long pause, and for a moment, you think he might leave. But then he speaks again, softer this time. “It’s okay to be upset. You don’t have to hide.”

The words are kind, and they cut through you. You hate that he knows, that he sees you like this. You hate that part of you wants to open the door, to let him in and just collapse into his arms. But you can’t. You can’t let him see how much you’re falling apart.

“I’m fine,” you lie, voice cracking again. “Just… go.”

But he doesn’t move. “Look, I know you’re upset. I saw what happened out there, but it doesn’t change anything. You’re still one of the best skaters I’ve ever seen.”

You press your lips together, shaking your head even though he can’t see. “I don’t need a pep talk, Sid.”

There’s another silence, and then, softer still, “I just want to be here for you.”

The vulnerability in his voice makes your chest tighten. You want to believe him, want to open the door and let yourself lean on someone for once. But the fear is too strong—the fear of being seen, of being judged, of letting someone close enough to hurt you.

“I can’t do this right now,” you whisper, tears streaming down your face again.

“Okay,” he says quietly, and you can hear the hurt in his voice. “But if you need me, I’m here.”

You don’t respond, biting down on your lip as the tears fall harder. You wait until his footsteps fade away, leaving you alone in the silence once more. Then, finally, you let out a sob, sinking back against the door, feeling the weight of everything crash down on you again.

───

The hotel room feels suffocating, the walls closing in as you sit cross-legged on the bed, staring blankly at the TV screen. The Olympics news channel is on, and you can’t help but watch, even though every fiber of your being screams to turn it off. They’re showing highlights of the day’s performances, and you know it’s only a matter of time before they replay yours.

The phone is pressed to your ear, and your coach’s voice crackles through the line, rough and familiar. He’s the one who’s seen you at your best and your worst, the one who’s pushed you to reach your full potential. But tonight, his words sting more than they usually do.

“You know, that wasn’t the skater I’ve been training for the past ten years,” he says, his voice firm, the edge of disappointment unmistakable. “What happened out there? You choked, plain and simple.”

You swallow hard, clutching the phone tighter. You know he’s trying to push you, trying to get a reaction—he always thinks tough love will get you back on track. But right now, every word feels like another weight pressing down on your already heavy chest. “I know, okay? I messed up,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady, but you hear the waver at the end.

He sighs, and you can picture him running a hand over his face. “Messing up is one thing, but letting it get to you out there? That’s not you. You looked like a deer in headlights after that first fall. Where’s your fight? Where’s the girl who pushes through, no matter what?”

The criticism feels like salt in an open wound, and you bite your lip, willing yourself not to cry again. You’ve already spent most of the evening crying in the bathroom, and you refuse to do it now, not when he’s on the other end of the line. “I tried, but—” you start, but he cuts you off.

“But nothing,” he snaps. “Trying isn’t good enough at this level. You either do it, or you don’t. And today, you didn’t.”

You pull the phone away from your ear for a second, taking a deep breath as you try to keep your emotions in check. You know he’s right—of course, he’s right. This isn’t the first time he’s laid it out like this, and usually, it works. Usually, it fires you up, makes you want to prove him wrong, to prove to yourself that you’re capable of more. But tonight, all it does is make you feel small.

“I get it,” you say quietly, struggling to keep your voice even. “I let everyone down.”

He’s silent for a moment, and then his tone softens, just a little. “It’s not about letting anyone down. It’s about you. You know what you’re capable of, and today, that wasn’t it. You’re better than this.”

You glance up at the TV, and your stomach drops. They’re showing footage of your routine, the slow-motion replay of your first stumble, the way you clutched your ankle like it was the end of the world. The announcers are discussing it with hushed tones, one of them saying, “A disappointing performance from someone who’s been touted as a medal contender. You can see the hesitation after that initial fall—she never fully recovered.”

It feels like someone’s twisting a knife in your gut, and you have to look away, turning your attention to the wall instead. “They’re showing it on the news,” you mutter, voice barely above a whisper. “They’re saying I looked scared.”

“Well, they’re not wrong,” your coach says, and the bluntness hits you like a slap. “You did look scared. You were scared.”

You clench your jaw, fighting back the tears threatening to spill over again. “I know that,” you snap, more harshly than you intended. “I know I messed up, and I don’t need you or the whole world reminding me.”

There’s a long silence on the other end, and for a moment, you worry he’s going to hang up. But then he sighs, and you hear the weariness in his voice. “Look, I’m not saying this to make you feel worse. I’m saying it because you’ve got two options now: you let this break you, or you use it. You’ve got another routine, and if you want any shot at the podium, you’ve got to be perfect.”

The words hang in the air between you, and you stare down at your lap, the weight of everything crushing you. “I don’t know if I can,” you admit, the vulnerability slipping out before you can stop it. “I feel like… I don’t know, like I’ve lost it.”

“You haven’t lost anything,” he says, his voice sharp again, like he’s trying to pull you back from the edge. “One bad routine doesn’t erase everything you’ve worked for. You’ve been down before, and you’ve come back stronger every time. This is no different.”

The TV cuts to the end of your routine, the moment where you bowed your head and skated off the ice, and the announcers are speculating about whether the pressure of the Olympics got to you. You grit your teeth, feeling the shame creeping back in.

“I just— I don’t know how to fix it,” you say, your voice cracking. “I felt like everything was slipping away out there, like no matter what I did, I couldn’t get it right.”

“That’s your head talking,” he replies. “You need to get out of your own way. It’s not about being perfect; it’s about finding that zone where you stop thinking and just skate. You know how to do that. You’ve done it a thousand times.”

You want to believe him, but the doubt clings to you like a shadow. “What if I can’t? What if I mess up again?”

“Then you get up again,” he says simply. “That’s the only way forward.”

You lean back against the pillows, closing your eyes and trying to steady your breath. You know he’s right, deep down. But right now, it feels impossible to shake the disappointment and the fear. “Okay,” you say, even though it doesn’t feel okay. “I’ll try.”

“That’s all I’m asking,” he says, and for a moment, his tone is almost gentle. “Get some rest tonight, clear your head. Tomorrow’s another day.”

You nod, even though he can’t see it. “Yeah. Thanks, coach.”

“Hang in there, kid,” he says before hanging up.

You set the phone down on the bed, feeling the quiet of the room settle around you. The screen still shows highlights of the other skaters, and you watch as they soar effortlessly through their routines, their movements flawless, their expressions confident. You envy them—the way they make it look so easy, so natural.

But you know it isn’t. You know the hours, the pain, the sacrifices that go into making it look that way. You’ve lived it, day in and day out. And as much as you want to curl up and shut the world out, there’s a part of you that refuses to give up. A part that knows you have another chance, another routine.

The channel shifts from figure skating highlights to coverage of the hockey events. You immediately recognize the familiar red and white jerseys of Team Canada as the highlights reel begins, showing clips of their opening game. There’s Sidney, in perfect form, weaving around defenders with effortless grace. The crowd roars as he shoots and scores, the puck finding the back of the net like it was meant to be there all along.

The announcers are gushing, their voices rising with excitement. “And there’s Crosby with yet another goal—what an incredible start for Team Canada. Their chemistry on the ice is flawless, and they’re looking unstoppable.”

The camera zooms in on Sidney’s face, beaming as he’s mobbed by his teammates. There’s that calm, confident look you’ve seen so many times before, the look of someone who’s exactly where they belong, doing exactly what they were meant to do. The arena explodes in cheers, and you can almost feel the energy from the screen, the way the city has rallied behind their hockey hero.

You grit your teeth, feeling your hands ball into fists on your lap. Of course, he’s perfect. Of course, everything falls into place for him. While you’re stuck in this hotel room, replaying every mistake you made, Sidney’s out there doing what he always does—winning. Being flawless. Making it look easy.

The replay shifts to another play, this one showing Sidney setting up a teammate for a goal with a precise, lightning-fast pass. The announcers’ voices swell again. “Crosby’s vision is unmatched—he makes it look effortless. The chemistry and connection he has with his teammates are just on another level.”

You feel the knot in your stomach twist tighter. It’s not that you begrudge him his success; he’s worked hard for it, and you know how much pressure he’s under. But right now, it’s like every moment of his triumph is rubbing salt in your wounds. It feels personal, like the universe is reminding you of how far you’ve fallen, how badly you’ve failed.

And the worst part is, you can’t get his face out of your head. The way he looked at you after your routine—his expression soft, the same reassuring look he’s always given you when things went wrong. At the time, it felt comforting, like he was there for you when you needed someone the most. But now, seeing him bask in the glory of his victory while you’re drowning in your own defeat, it only makes the ache worse.

The camera zooms in again, catching Sidney in a post-game interview. He’s all smiles, his helmet still perched on his head, hair damp with sweat but eyes bright and full of that competitive fire you’ve always admired. “It’s great to start the tournament off strong,” he says, his voice full of confidence. “The guys have been working hard, and it’s awesome to see it pay off on the ice. We’re just taking it one game at a time, but we’re feeling good.”

The reporters laugh, clearly enamored with him, and you can’t help but scowl. It’s so easy for him to stand there and say that, to talk about feeling good when everything is going right. When he hasn’t been the one to crash and burn on the world’s biggest stage.

Your fingers dig into the comforter as the segment continues, showing highlights from the locker room—Sidney laughing with his teammates, high-fiving, all smiles and celebration. They look relaxed, like they’re already sure of their place in the finals. And why wouldn’t they be? They’ve got Sidney Crosby, and when you have someone like him, everything else falls into place.

You mute the TV, unable to watch anymore. The image lingers, though, and you can feel the anger building in your chest, tightening like a vice. It’s not fair. You’ve worked just as hard as he has, put in the same hours, made the same sacrifices. And yet, here you are, hiding in a hotel room, while he gets to be the golden boy, the hero.

You know you’re being unfair. Sidney was nothing but kind to you earlier. But you can’t help it—the jealousy and frustration bubble up, making it impossible to think straight. You want to scream, to throw something, to lash out at the injustice of it all.

Instead, you bury your face in your hands, trying to take deep breaths, but all you feel is the heat of your tears building again. “Why can’t I just be better?” you whisper to the empty room, the words cracking in your throat. “Why can’t I be like him?”

You know there’s no answer, and that’s the hardest part. You know that no amount of hard work or preparation can guarantee perfection. You’ve been told your whole life that you have to fight for what you want, that success doesn’t come without failure. But in this moment, it all feels so hopeless, like you’re swimming against an unstoppable current and no matter how hard you kick, you’re just sinking deeper.

You hear your phone buzz on the nightstand, and you almost ignore it, but a part of you hopes it might be a message from home—maybe your mom or your sister, someone who’ll tell you that it’s okay, that one bad skate doesn’t define you.

But when you check, it’s a notification from one of those sports apps, and your heart sinks again as you read the headline: Sidney Crosby and Team Canada Dominate in Opening Game. It’s everywhere, inescapable. Another reminder of how easily the world seems to fall in love with him, and how quickly they move on from the skaters who stumble.

You drop the phone back on the bed, shoving it away as you curl up against the pillows. You shut your eyes, trying to block out the noise, the pressure, the image of Sidney’s perfect smile and the sound of the crowd chanting his name. But it doesn’t help.

No matter what you do, it feels like you’re stuck in a loop, replaying your mistakes and wondering why, for once, you couldn’t have been the one with the perfect routine, the one who had everything fall into place.

Then, that familiar mantra repeats in your mind. I’m not gonna let Crosby win.

“Damn right,” you whisper to yourself as you lay back in the hotel bed.

───

The alarm blares, pulling you out of a restless sleep. You groggily reach over and shut it off, squinting at the clock—4:00 a.m. The room is dark, and the cold air bites at your skin as you push yourself out of bed. You’ve always been an early riser, but today is different. It’s not just about getting ahead of the competition; it’s about making up for yesterday, about proving to yourself that you can still pull it together.

You slip into your warm-up clothes, tying your hair back tightly, and grab your skates and jacket. You move quietly through the hallways of the hotel, the only sound being the soft hum of the lights and the shuffle of your footsteps against the carpet. The entire place feels eerily quiet, as if the world hasn’t woken up yet. And maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe that’s what you need—a chance to reset, to work without anyone watching or judging.

When you arrive at the rink, the lights are dim, and the ice is a blank canvas, untouched. You breathe in deeply, letting the chill fill your lungs, feeling the weight of your skates as you lace them up methodically. The rink is your sanctuary, your space to figure things out. Today, it feels even more important to reclaim it. You stand and step onto the ice, the familiar glide grounding you, and take a deep breath before you start.

You begin your warm-up routine—edges, spins, quick footwork. The movements feel stiff at first, but you push through, repeating them until your body remembers how it’s supposed to move. Every turn is sharper, every spin faster than the last. You skate hard, pushing your muscles to the limit, sweat starting to bead on your forehead despite the cold.

As you go through your jumps, you land a clean triple toe loop, and for a moment, it feels like progress. But then you try again, and your skate catches the ice wrong, sending you stumbling. You curse under your breath and reset, gritting your teeth as you go for it again. Over and over, you repeat the jump, and each time, it feels like it’s getting worse.

Your frustration builds, and before you know it, you’re skating full speed into your program. You launch into the combination sequence that tripped you up yesterday, determination burning in your veins. It’s messy—your timing’s off, your landings shaky—but you keep going, pretending that if you just push hard enough, you can force it to be perfect.

You don’t even realize how hard you’re pushing yourself until you skid to a stop, panting, your legs burning. The sound of your ragged breaths echoes in the empty rink, and you slam your hands on your thighs, hunching over. “What’s wrong with me?” you whisper to yourself, your voice echoing in the silence.

Just as you’re about to push off for another round, you hear a voice that makes you freeze. “Up early, huh?”

You whip around, and there he is—Sidney Crosby, leaning against the boards, still in his sweats. His hair is messy, and there’s a slight grin on his face like he knows he’s interrupting something private. You feel your stomach drop, the annoyance already bubbling up. Of all the people to show up at this hour.

“Yeah, well, some of us need the extra practice,” you snap, more harshly than you mean to. The last thing you want is to let him see how much this is getting to you, how much yesterday is still hanging over your head.

Sidney raises an eyebrow, his expression still annoyingly calm. “I figured as much,” he says, his voice annoyingly relaxed. “Saw the lights on and thought I’d come check it out.”

You glare at him, your grip tightening on the edge of the rink. “Well, you’ve checked it out. Congratulations. You can leave now.”

But he doesn’t move. Instead, he pushes off the boards and steps closer, resting his arms casually. “You know, beating yourself up like this isn’t going to help.”

“Oh, thanks for the tip, Coach.” You can’t help the sarcasm that drips from your words, your fists clenching at your sides. “I’m sure you’ve had so many moments where you just sucked and needed to figure out how to get it back together.”

He tilts his head, and you see a flicker of something in his eyes, but it only makes your annoyance grow. “Actually, yeah,” he says, his tone softer now. “I’ve had plenty of bad games. Plenty of times where I felt like I was completely off. It happens to everyone.”

You roll your eyes, looking away. “Not like this. You don’t know what it’s like to feel like everything you’ve worked for is slipping through your fingers.”

“Maybe not exactly like this,” he admits, and for a moment, you hear genuine understanding in his voice. “But I get it. The pressure, the expectations—everyone watching, waiting for you to mess up or be perfect. It’s not easy.”

You want to tell him to stop, that his sympathy isn’t what you need right now. But the more he talks, the more it feels like he’s seeing right through you, and that makes you feel exposed, vulnerable. “I don’t need a pep talk, Sidney. I just need to work.”

“Yeah? And how’s that going?” he challenges, gesturing to the rink. “You think pushing yourself like this is going to fix everything?”

“I don’t know,” you snap. “But what else am I supposed to do? Sit around and watch the highlights of you and your perfect team?”

His face darkens, and he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I’m not here to rub anything in. I just—I saw you, and I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Well, I’m not,” you admit, the words coming out harsher than you intend. “I’m not okay, and I don’t need you pretending to care. I just—” You cut yourself off, the lump in your throat making it hard to speak.

He looks at you for a long moment, the frustration still in his eyes but mixed with something else—maybe concern, maybe understanding. “You don’t have to do this alone, you know,” he says quietly. “You’re not the only one who struggles.”

But you don’t want to hear it. Not from him. Not right now. “Just leave me alone, Sidney. Please.”

For a moment, it looks like he might argue, but then he nods, the disappointment clear on his face. “Fine,” he says, stepping back. “But if you ever need someone to talk to, you know where to find me.”

He turns and walks away, and you watch as he disappears down the hallway, leaving you alone in the cold, empty rink. The silence feels heavier now, and the frustration sits like a weight in your chest. You push off again, skating into another spin, determined to work through it, but all you can think about is the look in Sidney’s eyes and the feeling that, for once, maybe you’ve pushed the wrong person away.

───

The next day, you walk into the rink with a heavy sense of dread. The weight of your previous performances and the mounting pressure of the competition is starting to feel like an unbearable burden. You arrive a bit later than usual, joining your teammates as they warm up. The mood feels different today—everyone is on edge, focused. No one says much; they just nod in acknowledgment as you step onto the ice.

You take a deep breath, the familiar chill of the rink grounding you as you skate a few laps to loosen up. The routine you’ve been working on still feels rough around the edges, and the more you practice it, the more you feel the lingering frustration. You can’t afford to fall apart again, not this close to competition.

As you glide toward the boards, planning to get some advice from your team’s coach, you notice a familiar figure standing there, arms crossed and a stern expression on his face. For a moment, you think your eyes are playing tricks on you, but then he steps forward, and you recognize the familiar build and the gray streaks in his hair.

“Coach?” you blurt out, stopping in your tracks. The surprise in your voice is evident, and your teammates glance over, curious.

He nods, his eyes sharp as ever. “Heard you were having some trouble,” he says, not wasting a second. “Figured I’d come see it for myself.”

You feel a mix of relief and irritation. Relief because there’s no one who knows your skating as well as he does. Irritation because, of all times, why now? “I didn’t ask you to come,” you say, trying to sound tough, but it comes out weaker than you want.

“I know you didn’t.” He steps onto the ice, his skates making that satisfying scratch against the surface. “But you clearly need it.” He gestures for you to come over, and despite everything, you find yourself obeying, gliding toward him like you’re fifteen again and still trying to impress him.

“You’re skating like you’ve got bricks tied to your feet,” he says bluntly, and you bristle. “I watched the tape, and honestly, it’s like you’re holding back. Why?”

“I’m not holding back,” you argue, feeling the defensive flare rise in your chest. “I just—” You pause, swallowing hard. “It’s the pressure. Everything feels off.”

He gives you a knowing look, one that makes you feel seen and called out all at once. “Pressure isn’t new for you, kid. You’ve handled it before. The only difference now is you’re letting it get in your head.”

You want to argue, to tell him that it’s not that simple, that the stakes are higher now, that you feel like the world is watching your every move. But then, as he stands there waiting, you realize he already knows all of that. “Okay, fine. Maybe I am in my head,” you admit.

He nods, satisfied with your honesty. “Good. Now let’s get you out of it.” He claps his hands together. “Start from the top. Show me the routine.”

You go through the motions, running through your routine as he watches with that critical eye he’s always had. He doesn’t say anything at first, just lets you move through the steps, and you try to shut out the noise in your head, focusing on the feel of the ice beneath your blades, the muscle memory kicking in as you twist into the jumps and glide into the spins.

But when you finish, you can already tell it wasn’t your best. You land off balance, your arms not quite in the right position, and the frustration hits you like a wave. “I can’t—” you start, but Ramirez cuts you off.

“Stop,” he says, holding up a hand. “You’re hesitating. Every time you go for a jump, you’re thinking too hard about sticking the landing. You can’t think. You just have to trust your training.”

He skates up to you, his eyes meeting yours. “We’re going to break it down. One section at a time. And when you hit that jump, you commit to it like it’s the last thing you’re ever going to do.”

You nod, taking a deep breath. It’s been so long since you’ve had someone push you like this, and even though it’s tough love, there’s something comforting about it. You start again, working through the steps slowly. He stops you, corrects your positioning, and has you repeat until it feels right. Then you move to the next part, and the next, until you’re sweating and your legs are burning from the repetition.

“Now, the jump,” he instructs, standing back a few feet. “No hesitation.”

You push off, feeling the adrenaline rush through your veins as you pick up speed. This time, when you go for the triple toe loop, you don’t think about the landing—you just let your body move. And for the first time, it feels right. You nail the landing, your arms pulling into the perfect position as you finish the rotation.

“That’s it!” Coach shouts, and you feel a surge of triumph. “That’s the skater I know.”

You repeat the jump a few more times, and each time it feels smoother, more controlled. The confidence builds, and by the time you finish, you’re panting but smiling for the first time in days.

Coach skates over, nodding in approval. “There you go. You’ve still got it. Just had to get out of your own way.”

You nod, feeling the weight lift off your shoulders. “Thanks, Coach,” you say, and you mean it.

He grins, clapping you on the shoulder. “Don’t mention it. Just go out there and show them what you’re made of. You know you’re better than what you showed the other day.”

As he leaves, you stand in the center of the ice, feeling the energy buzzing in your limbs. You go through your routine again, and this time, everything clicks. It feels natural, like you’re finally skating the way you know you can. The nerves are still there, but they’re manageable, and you feel like you’re reclaiming your rhythm.

Maybe you’re not back completely, but for the first time in days, you feel like you’re heading in the right direction. And that, more than anything, gives you hope.

───

The sun barely peeks through the thin curtains of your hotel room when your alarm breaks the quiet, a sharp reminder of the day that lies ahead. Today is the day, the one you've trained for endlessly. Months of repetition, muscle memory, and strategy all leading to this. You’ve imagined it countless times in your head, playing out the routine step-by-step in your mind, visualizing every move, every spin, every landing. Today, none of that changes—except the stakes.

You sit up in bed, the cool air of the room biting against your skin as you throw the blankets aside. The nerves should be overwhelming, but instead, a sense of clarity washes over you. Today, you’re ready. This is your stage, your time to shine, and no one can take that from you.

After getting dressed in your warm-up gear, you take a moment to glance at yourself in the mirror. There's something different about you today—your eyes are sharp, focused, determined. You’ve been through the pressures before, the tightrope walk between fear and success, but today, something just feels right. It has to be.

By the time you make it to the rink, the buzz of competition fills the air. The sound of skates slicing through the ice, the murmurs of coaches, and the faint cheers of early spectators start to build the intensity in your chest. But you push it aside. You’ve been in big competitions before; this is no different. It’s just another routine. You’ll hit it like you always do.

As you’re stretching in the corner, lacing up your skates, a familiar voice calls out from behind you.

“Looking sharp.”

You glance over your shoulder, finding Sidney standing there, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. He always knows when you need a bit of reassurance. His presence is steadying, calming. You offer a small smile in return.

“Of course,” you reply, your voice low and even. “I’m ready for this.”

Sidney steps closer, leaning down slightly to meet your gaze. “You’ve got this. Don’t let anyone get into your head today, okay?”

You nod, feeling the confidence surge in your veins. “I won’t.”

But as you finish tying your laces and stand up, something—someone—catches your attention.

A skater from Russia, one of the top competitors, is gliding effortlessly across the ice, her movements so fluid and smooth they almost mock gravity. You've seen her before, heard the whispers about how she's one of the favorites. You wouldn't mind, except she locks eyes with you as she spins to a stop, her lips curling into a smirk that drips with arrogance.

“Aw, look who’s here,” she says, her accent heavy as she steps off the ice, making her way toward you. “I thought you’d be smarter than to show up here. You must love embarrassing yourself on the world stage.”

Your heart skips a beat as you register her words, your jaw clenching. For a second, it’s like a hot flame flickers in your chest, spreading through your veins. You know better than to engage—this is a mental game, and she’s trying to get into your head, to throw you off. But your temper simmers beneath the surface, threatening to bubble over.

You take a step forward, your fists balling at your sides as the blood rushes to your face. You're ready to fire something back, something sharp enough to cut through her smugness. Your pulse pounds in your ears, and the ice beneath your feet feels like it's shifting, unsteady, as your emotions rise.

“Excuse me?” you snap, your voice low and dangerous, but before you can take another step, a firm hand grips your arm.

It’s Sidney. He pulls you back, his expression calm but stern, as if he’s reading every thought running through your mind. “Let it go,” he mutters quietly, his voice steady, almost like a tether anchoring you to the moment.

You hesitate, your body still tense, the adrenaline begging for release. But when you meet his eyes, the storm in your chest calms just enough to bring you back to your senses. Sidney’s grip on your arm doesn’t loosen until you take a slow breath.

“She’s not worth it,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, his gaze flicking over to the other skater who watches with amusement, a mock pout on her lips. He’s right. She’s baiting you. And as much as you want to prove a point, this isn’t the time. Not now.

You let out a sharp breath, forcing yourself to relax. “Fine,” you say, your voice cold as ice, but you turn away from the smirking skater, following Sidney’s lead.

As you walk toward the locker room, the adrenaline still courses through your veins, but Sidney's presence beside you keeps you grounded. His hand never leaves your arm until you’re far from the other skater’s gaze, and only then does he finally let go.

“You alright?” he asks, his voice softer now, his eyes searching yours for any sign of lingering anger.

You nod, but the fire in your chest hasn’t fully burned out. “I almost lost it back there.”

“I know.” Sidney sighs, running a hand through his hair. “She’s just trying to get in your head. Don’t give her that power.”

You nod again, taking in a deep breath and forcing your mind to focus. Sidney’s right, and you know it. You can’t let anyone throw you off your game today, especially not someone who’s already threatened by you. She’s scared—that’s why she said what she did. You can sense it now.

“I’ll be fine,” you say, finally feeling the confidence return. “Thanks for stopping me.”

Sidney smiles softly, his eyes filled with a quiet understanding. “Anytime. Now go out there and show them why you belong here.”

You feel the weight lift slightly from your shoulders, and as you head back toward the rink, you feel that calm determination return. The fire’s still there, but this time, it’s focused. You’re ready to skate, and nothing is going to stop you.

Not her. Not anyone.

And finally, the time has come.

You stand in the tunnel just before stepping onto the ice, your heart pounding steadily in your chest. Everything about the rink feels different now—the lights seem brighter, the air colder, the buzz of the crowd more intense. You close your eyes, centering yourself, taking in the familiar sounds of blades cutting into the ice and the faint murmur of the audience above.

This is it. This is your moment.

Your name is called, and a roar from the crowd erupts in response. You take a deep breath, feeling the chill of the ice underneath your skates as you glide onto the rink, your body moving with precision. Every inch of you is alive with purpose. It’s as if the weight of months of preparation, of early mornings and late nights, presses down on your shoulders. But you’re not buckling under it. You’re thriving. You can feel the tension in your muscles, that sharp edge of nervous energy, but you channel it into determination.

Before you take your starting position, your gaze drifts—just for a second—across the rink, landing on her. The skater from Russia, poised against the barrier with a smug expression painted across her face, her arms crossed as she watches you. She’s one of the best—hell, you know that. But it’s the way she’s staring at you, like she’s already counted you out, that makes something snap inside you.

You meet her eyes, and for a heartbeat, neither of you look away. There’s a flicker of judgment there, a cruel glint in her eyes that says she doesn’t believe in you. But instead of breaking you, it ignites something fierce in your chest. The fire from earlier flares up, but this time, it’s controlled, burning with a steady, focused heat. If she thinks you're going to falter under her scrutiny, she’s dead wrong.

You shift your focus back to the ice, feeling your breathing steady. You let her condescending expression fuel you. Today, you’ll give her a performance so perfect, she’ll have no choice but to remember your name.

As the opening notes of your music fill the arena, you take off, your blades biting into the ice as you begin your routine. The crowd falls silent, all eyes on you. Every step, every turn, feels deliberate. It’s not just muscle memory—it’s instinct now. Your body knows this choreography so well it feels like second nature, and you trust it. You trust yourself.

The first jump comes quickly—a triple lutz, one of the hardest in your routine. You feel the familiar rush of adrenaline as you gather speed, launching yourself into the air. For a brief second, you feel weightless, suspended in time as your body rotates. Then, the satisfying click of your blades hitting the ice. Perfect. The crowd erupts in applause, but you barely hear it. You're already moving on, focusing on what comes next.

Your mind is sharp, clear, hyper-focused on the moment. You move through your footwork sequence with precision, your blades carving intricate patterns into the ice as you twist and turn, your arms fluid and graceful. Every muscle in your body works in perfect synchronization, and for once, the nerves don’t feel like a burden—they feel like power, like fuel that’s pushing you faster, sharper.

As you glide into your next combination jump, a triple toe loop-double axel, you catch a glimpse of her again—the Russian skater, still watching you, her expression unreadable now. You wonder if she’s realizing that you’re not the pushover she thought you were. The thought brings a smug satisfaction to your lips as you execute the combination flawlessly, the landings soft and controlled.

You're in the zone now, riding the high of perfecting every element, your body responding to every beat of the music, every shift in the ice beneath your skates. There’s nothing but you and the performance, the world beyond the rink fading away.

As the music swells to its climax, you launch into your final spin. You feel the wind rush past your face as you whip through the rotations, faster and faster, your arms outstretched in perfect balance. The crowd is on its feet, the roar of applause echoing in your ears, but you don’t stop until the very last note. You strike your final pose, your chest heaving, every nerve in your body alive with the energy of the moment.

For a beat, there’s silence. Then, the arena explodes into cheers, a standing ovation. You breathe hard, your chest rising and falling as you take it all in, a rush of pride swelling in your chest. You did it. You nailed it. Every move, every jump, every spin was flawless, and you know it.

As you glide off the ice, that familiar sense of calm washes over you, but there’s something else too—a spark of mischief. You pass by her—the Russian skater—standing near the boards, her gaze still locked on you. You can see the flicker of something behind her eyes now. Is it irritation? Jealousy? You don’t care. You savor the moment, letting it fuel your next move.

With a cheeky grin, you blow her a kiss as you skate past, your lips curling in satisfaction. It’s not subtle, and you make sure it’s clear who it’s for. The boldness of the gesture sends a jolt of thrill through you. It’s petty, it’s catty, but damn, it feels good. You don’t even have to look to know the smugness has drained from her face.

By the time you reach the kiss-and-cry area, Sidney is there, waiting, his grin wide and proud. “That was incredible,” he says, his voice low with admiration as you slip off your skates.

“I know,” you reply, your breath still catching up to the adrenaline coursing through your veins. You can’t help but throw another glance toward the Russian skater, who’s still staring after you, no longer smirking.

Sidney chuckles when he catches your look. “Did you really blow her a kiss?”

“Of course,” you say with a laugh, unbothered. “I mean, someone had to put her in her place.”

You sit down next to Sidney in the kiss-and-cry area, letting the coolness of the seat and the reality of the moment settle over you. Your chest is still heaving from the effort, but a euphoric calm is taking its place. The roar of the crowd lingers in your ears, a distant hum compared to the electric rush that’s been running through your veins since the moment your blades touched the ice.

You sit down next to Sidney in the kiss-and-cry area, letting the coolness of the seat and the reality of the moment settle over you. Your chest is still heaving from the effort, but a euphoric calm is taking its place. The roar of the crowd lingers in your ears, a distant hum compared to the electric rush that’s been running through your veins since the moment your blades touched the ice.

Sidney leans closer, his arm resting casually on the back of your seat, his familiar presence comforting. “You were incredible out there,” he repeats, his eyes bright with pride. His grin, that cocky confidence that’s so quintessentially him, makes you feel a surge of warmth. There’s something grounding about having him here with you, someone who understands what it means to perform under pressure, to feel the weight of expectations, and to still rise above it.

“Thanks,” you manage, your voice breathless but light, and you meet his gaze, feeling a smile tug at your lips. “I felt it. Everything just… clicked.”

Sidney nods, his hand gently squeezing your shoulder. “It showed. That last jump? Nailed it. And that spin? Pure magic.” His grin widens. “And the kiss at the end? Bold move. But hey, if anyone deserves to be a little petty, it’s you after that performance.”

You laugh, the tension from the performance finally starting to melt away. “You know, it wasn’t planned, but she just…” You glance back toward the other skater, who’s now talking to her coach with a tight expression on her face. The same smugness she wore earlier has evaporated. “…she pissed me off,” you finish, shaking your head. “I wasn’t gonna let her get in my head.”

Sidney gives you a knowing look, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “That’s the spirit. You didn’t just show her up—you owned the ice. She’ll be thinking about that kiss for a long time.”

You lean back in your seat, still riding the high of the moment. The judges are deliberating now, your scores coming up on the board any minute, but you’re not stressed about it. Not like you usually are. You already know you gave the performance of a lifetime, and no number they flash on the screen will take that away from you.

Still, as the numbers begin to appear, you hold your breath, your fingers nervously drumming on the armrest. Sidney glances up at the screen, his brows furrowed in concentration.

“Here we go,” he murmurs.

The scores start rolling in—technical, artistic, execution—and they’re good. Really good. The kind of scores that make your heart skip a beat, that tell you everything you need to know.

You’ve done it. You’ve not only secured a personal best, but you’ve set yourself up as a true contender for the top spot.

The arena erupts in applause once more as your final score flashes on the screen, and you can’t help the laugh that escapes you, a mix of relief and joy. It’s overwhelming in the best way possible, the weight of all your hard work crashing down on you. You feel Sidney’s hand slip into yours, a squeeze of congratulations, and you turn to him with a beaming smile.

“See?” he says, his voice thick with pride. “Told you.”

You shake your head in disbelief, glancing back at the ice, as if you need to see it again to believe it. “I knew I could do it, but… seeing it up there, hearing them cheer like that…” You trail off, emotions swirling in your chest.

Sidney doesn’t let you stay in that awe-struck moment for too long, though. He smirks and nudges your shoulder playfully. “So, what’s next? Gonna blow more kisses at the competition?”

You roll your eyes, but the grin stays plastered on your face. “Maybe I’ll save that for when I win gold.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “You’ll have to up your game for that.”

“You think?” you tease, arching a brow.

He leans in, his voice low and teasing, “Maybe save a kiss for me when you do.”

His words send a warm flush up your neck, but you manage to keep your composure, glancing sideways at him. “Oh, you think you deserve one, huh?”

Sidney flashes you a grin, leaning back with that easy confidence. “If anyone’s getting a victory kiss, it should be me. I did keep you from tearing someone’s head off this morning.”

You laugh, unable to argue with him on that one. “You’ve got a point.”

Before you can say more, your coach approaches, eyes gleaming with pride, and you’re pulled into a round of congratulations. The victory, the adrenaline, the applause—it’s all so surreal. You’ve done it, and as you sit there, surrounded by your team, Sidney’s presence grounding you amidst the whirlwind of excitement, you realize just how far you’ve come.

But there’s something else. Something that lingers in your chest, stronger now than it’s ever been. This wasn’t just about proving yourself to the judges or the audience or that snide Russian skater who thought she could rattle you. No, this was about you. About finding the strength within yourself to push through, to rise above the doubts, the pressure, and the competition.

As the celebration continues around you, you find Sidney’s gaze once more. There’s a look in his eyes—something deeper, something that tells you he’s proud of more than just your performance. He’s proud of you.

And in that moment, with the weight of your accomplishment settling in, you know that this is only the beginning. There’s more to come—more competitions, more challenges—but right now, you’re ready for all of it.

You stand, pulling Sidney up with you, and before the moment can pass, you do something bold, something just for you. You lean in, pressing a soft, quick kiss to his cheek, the kind of kiss that says more than words ever could.

Sidney’s eyes widen in surprise, but his smile is immediate, warm. “Told you I’d get one,” he teases, though there’s a touch of tenderness in his tone.

You laugh, shaking your head. “Don’t get used to it.”

But as the two of you walk away from the rink, the roar of the crowd still echoing in the background, you know deep down—this is only the beginning of something even bigger.

───

The energy in the locker room is a mix of exhaustion and adrenaline. Your teammates are sprawled out on benches, some still cooling down from their routines, while others are glued to their phones, checking social media and results. You’re still riding the high from your performance, your mind replaying every step, every leap, and that perfect kiss at the end—both of them, in fact.

"Hey, turn that up!" someone yells from the other side of the room.

The television, mounted high on the wall, is blaring Olympic coverage, and everyone’s heads swivel toward it. You don’t pay much attention at first, too busy lacing up your shoes and chugging water, but the buzz of your name from the TV catches your attention.

"And in a stunning turn of events, it seems like all eyes are on Y/N L/N today!" the announcer’s voice booms, and your head snaps up.

“Wait, is that about—”

“Yup,” your teammate grins, elbowing you in the ribs. "They’re talking about you."

The screen shows a slow-motion replay of your final move on the ice, your body twisted into that perfect final pose, followed by the triumphant blow of the kiss aimed squarely at that other skater. The commentators’ voices narrate over the footage, practically salivating over the drama of it all.

“It wasn’t just her skill that had the crowd roaring,” one of them says with a chuckle. “That was a statement, folks. The kiss at the end was dripping with attitude. It’s all anyone’s talking about. People are calling it the ‘kiss seen ’round the world’ already!”

“Not to mention, did you see who she was aiming that at?” the other commentator adds with a laugh. “That wasn’t just a kiss for the audience—that was personal. Our sources are buzzing with rumors about the tension between her and the Russian favorite, and this just confirmed it.”

“Definitely adding some heat to the competition. This is shaping up to be a rivalry for the ages.”

The camera cuts to the Russian skater, her expression still cool and composed, though there’s an undeniable tightness to her posture, a simmering frustration just below the surface. It’s clear to anyone watching that your little display got to her.

“Whooo! She’s probably seething,” one of your teammates laughs, tossing her head back. “You really got under her skin with that one.”

The room fills with laughter and playful jabs, your teammates leaning into the cattiness of the moment. You’re not one to shy away from a little drama when it’s warranted, but you can’t help but roll your eyes, pretending to be above it all—even though a small part of you secretly loves it.

"Yeah, yeah, it was a moment,” you say, waving them off with a smirk. “It’s not that serious.”

“Oh, come on,” another teammate pipes up, sitting across from you. “You know that was the most iconic thing to happen all day. The commentators are practically obsessed with you now.”

You grin, unable to help yourself, but then you hear it—the kiss. The real kiss.

"And speaking of kisses…" the commentator’s voice lowers conspiratorially, as if he’s about to deliver some juicy gossip. “We’ve got some footage from after the routine that’s definitely got people talking."

Your heart skips a beat. They couldn’t be talking about that kiss. The one you shared with Sidney, could they?

The camera cuts to footage of you walking off the ice and into the kiss-and-cry area, and sure enough, there it is, caught on film—the quick, playful peck you gave Sidney on the cheek. The kiss that felt so impulsive but so right, in the moment.

Your teammates erupt into laughter, their eyes wide with delight. “Ohhh, no way!” someone shouts. “They caught that!”

The commentator’s voice returns, sly and teasing. “Looks like our gold-medal hopeful isn’t just a fierce competitor on the ice—there’s clearly something going on off it as well. A little victory kiss for someone special?”

“Is that Sidney Crosby?” the other commentator jumps in, clearly trying to contain his excitement. “It is! I’m calling it now: the hottest couple of the Olympics.”

Your face flushes red, and your teammates lose it. The locker room turns into a frenzy of laughter, teasing, and playful shouts.

“Oh my God, you’re in the tabloids now!” one of them cackles, clutching her sides. “They’re going to eat this up!”

"Seriously, we should be charging people for front-row seats to this drama," another teammate jokes, tossing a water bottle at you.

You cover your face with your hands, trying not to let the embarrassment take over, but you can’t help the smile creeping across your lips. You knew this was coming—Sidney is a massive deal, and your relationship was bound to catch the media’s eye at some point—but having it aired like this, right after one of the most important performances of your life? It feels like a lot.

“That was a cheek kiss, people,” you say, voice muffled as you shake your head. “It’s not a big deal.”

"Sure, not a big deal at all," your teammate mimics in a high-pitched voice. “Just a cheek kiss with Sidney Crosby, no biggie.” She winks. "But seriously, you two are adorable."

You groan, sitting back and letting the playful teasing wash over you. It's all in good fun, but your mind can’t help but wander back to Sidney. The way his cheek had felt warm against your lips, the way he’d smiled at you like you were the only person in the room. The commentators could speculate all they wanted—only you and Sidney knew what was really going on.

“Well,” one of your teammates says, pointing at the screen, “whether you like it or not, the world’s got its new favorite Olympic couple. You’re officially a thing.”

You raise an eyebrow, your lips quirking into a smirk. "Guess that means I’ll have to win gold now, doesn’t it?"

The room bursts into cheers and whoops, and even though you’re still a little embarrassed, you can't deny the spark of pride warming your chest. You may not have asked for the attention, but if people were talking about you, it was because of your performance. The kiss—both kisses—were just the icing on the cake.

As the chatter dies down and your teammates go back to their phones and conversations, you glance at the screen one more time. Your face is still up there, smiling, skating, kissing. The cameras are still following you, and now the world is watching your every move.

And somewhere in the crowd, watching all of this unfold, is Sidney. You can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking, whether he’s amused by all the media buzz or quietly rooting for you to rise above the chaos, like he always does.

───

A couple of weeks have flown by, and life feels like a whirlwind. The days blur into each other, each one filled with intense training, interviews, and media attention, but you’re thriving in it. You’ve hit your stride—the moment where everything just clicks. The routines you’ve practiced for years feel effortless, like second nature, and every time you step on the ice, the crowd roars just a little louder.

You’ve gone from being an underdog to the one everyone’s talking about—the name on every commentator's lips. They’re calling you a "generational talent" now, comparing you to the legends of the sport. It’s surreal.

At every competition, you push yourself further. Your performances are more than just technical mastery—they’re performances, filled with personality, elegance, and a certain kind of fire that no one else has. The crowd can feel it. So can the judges. Your scores reflect that, each one higher than the last, inching closer to the perfect mark.

But the real magic is in how you’ve taken control of the narrative. It’s not just about your skating anymore; it’s about you. The girl who sent shockwaves through the arena with a playful kiss, the figure skater who got her get back. You're unstoppable right now.

The media follows your every move, dissecting each routine, each interview, each glimpse of you with Sidney. They’ve dubbed you "The Queen of Ice"—a title that feels daunting but fitting. You’re skating with a newfound confidence, and your momentum is undeniable. It’s almost like you’re skating for something bigger now, fueled by the pressure and expectation, but instead of letting it weigh you down, you thrive under it.

On top of that, the Canadian hockey team is doing just as well, if not better. Sidney and his teammates are on a tear through the tournament, steamrolling the competition with a precision and intensity that’s impossible to ignore. The headlines are full of glowing reports about how the team is clicking, playing like a well-oiled machine, and Sidney’s name is front and center. Every game, he’s putting on a clinic, and just like you, people are starting to use the word legendary.

It’s crazy to think about how things have shifted so quickly. Not long ago, you were just hoping to make an impact, and now you and Sidney are always in the headlines, dominating in your respective fields. The media plays it up, of course—every now and then you catch an article about "Olympic royalty" or some speculative piece about your friendship-relationship-rivalry (you're not sure what it is, anymore), but you’ve learned to tune it out.

Still, it’s hard not to feel proud when you see your name in another headline. It’s not just about the gossip or the hype—it’s about what you’re doing. You’re succeeding at the highest levels of your sport and you’ve worked your whole lives for this moment, and now, you’re in it. Living it.

You’re in the Olympic Village after practice, sitting with your teammates in the common area, watching the latest round of highlights on TV. The hockey team had just demolished their last opponent, and the commentators are practically swooning over the way Sidney’s been playing.

"Another incredible game from Crosby," one announcer says, his voice full of admiration. "The guy is playing out of his mind. He’s always been good, but this? This is something else."

“Yeah,” another commentator adds, shaking his head in disbelief. “If he keeps this up, there’s no doubt they’ll be in the finals. And honestly? I don’t see anyone beating them.”

One of your teammates nudges you, grinning. “You hear that? Your boy is killing it out there.”

You laugh, shaking your head as you felt a flush rise in your cheeks. “He's not my boy, shut up.”

Your teammate just laughs and shrugs, looking back up at the TV.

The screen cuts to a highlight reel of you from the most recent competition, and the room quiets as everyone watches. The slow-motion shots of you mid-jump, your spins and edges so crisp and precise, make it look almost effortless.

“Look at that,” the commentator gushes. “She’s redefining what’s possible on the ice. It’s not just about her technical skill—it’s the way she connects with the audience. She’s performing at a level we haven’t seen in years. You can see it in the way she moves—the confidence, the passion. She knows she’s the best right now, and she’s skating like it.”

Your teammates break out into cheers, some of them even clapping. You hide your face in your hands, half-embarrassed, half-proud.

“Okay, okay, calm down,” you say, laughing. “It’s just one performance.”

One of your teammates smirks. “Nah, sweetheart, you’ve had like ten of those just one performances. Own it.”

You lean back, still smiling, but your mind wanders for a second. All the attention, all the pressure—it’s a lot. But then you think about Sidney, how he handles everything with such grace and focus. You’ve watched him lead his team to victory after victory, never letting the noise get to him. It’s inspiring. And it makes you want to keep pushing yourself, to live up to that same standard.

As the hockey highlights come to an end, your phone buzzes in your pocket. You glance at it, and your heart skips a beat when you see Sidney’s name.

Sidney: Saw the kiss thing on TV again. Apparently we’re the new "it couple."

You can’t help but smile. You ignore the weird butterflies that begin forming in your stomach—it's just Sidney.

You: Oh, so now you’re famous because of me, huh?

Sidney: Obviously. Also, everyone’s calling you the GOAT now. When are you going to start teaching me how to skate?

You: I’m already teaching you how to win.

There’s a pause before his next text, and you can practically hear him laughing through the screen.

Sidney: Touché. But seriously—you’re killing it. Proud of you.

You stare at the screen, his words sinking in. It’s such a simple message, but coming from him, it means the world.

You: Right back at you.

You tuck your phone away, feeling a quiet surge of giddiness. You glance at your teammates, looking at you almost expectantly—you immediately regret it.

“Oh, shut up!”