#they should change the whole cast to do it again

[neodiekido]

would maki harukawa fw red guy dhmis

[keeps-ache]

HEY

[blorbosexterminator]

In the newest interview, alvaro said that big chances that professor wouldn't be in the spin off because it's berlin's project and focusing on his new cast or crew. He said this one (Berlin) is separated from LCDP. Does that mean that we wont get Palermo too? 😢 I mean, if the whole 8 eps are just about berlin having fun with strangers he pretends to be friends with, whats the point of watching? The only thing we can hope, maybe the plot would be good, but from the teaser, I too have a doubt about it.

I haven't seen that interview (if those are his exact words, "big chance" is a weird way to phrase it since shooting is done, he's either in it or he's not lol.) Anyway, I wouldn’t take too much away from his words. They are pretty much a rephrasing of what Pina has been saying. They might mean Sergio won't show up at all, or that Sergio will only show up through a cameo, not in as a central way as LCDP. And that makes sense to me either way. I would personally love a cameo but generally regarding Sergio, it makes sense that he wouldn't be present through all his brother's heists and gangs and day to day life (which was already established in canon).

So I wouldn't compare Sergio's situation with Martín. At least on a textual level. Once established that Andrés had met Martín, it would make zero sense that Martín wouldn't be there since we know from canon Martín has been on his side for ten years prior to the monastery flashbacks. And generally speaking, there is not a single character from LCDP that belongs more in Berlin the show than actual lcdp lmfao. Martín's entire construction in canon was in the framework of Berlin.

That's not to say the show won't be about Berlin having fun with strangers for 8 episodes lmfao. That will probably be it. But I'm still in the belief that Palermo will guest-star or cameo in the last episode, as a form of Berlermo's first meeting. And I think if Rodrigo agrees and Netflix grants Pina a second season, he might be a main character going forward. I don't think there is a lot to hope for from the spin-off but I still believe it will be better and more surprising than we imagine now.

[insertdisc5]

sincerest apologies if you've been asked and said something about this before, but i'm curious what your process for coming up with your characters is! the way the isat cast are written is so good and well rounded, they each really feel like a person. how do you develop them to that point! for that matter, was there any interesting Character behind the scenes development between comic!siffrin and game siffrin as their story changed and became more fleshed out? thank you so much if you decide to answer, and if you don't that's ok too and i hope you have a good day!

ok i feel like i have answered this before, but it's not in my #reference tag so you get a whole new answer!!!!!!

-figure out a Trope. a Fella full of Tropes. like omg thats a Fella who Likes Puns. take your Trope Fella thats your basis.

-give them a secret. or more. the secrets will drive their actions. this Fella has amnesia and also has abandonment issues. do not reveal the secrets until the Right Moment, but you should often allude to it

-with those two things you will get Rules. this is a Fella who likes Puns. they use puns to deflect. so if someone asks a question that is a little too close to home, they will ALWAYS DEFLECT.

-write them in so many situations. how would they react to this? what would they say here? how would they answer when someone asks about their favorite hobby? would they be honest about it? or are they lying about it? why?

-every situation theyre into should go back to the rules. even if you're the only one who knows it. just a sprinkle to make people go "huh that was a weird reaction...."

-that way, people experiencing the story again will be able to go "OH MY GOD... THAT WASNT A PUN OUT OF NOWHERE... THAT WAS A /DEFLECTION/" and they will love it.

-rules are here to be broken. but only for the best moments ever

-lastly, give them a hobby or two to make them seem like real people. be REAL specific about it. this girl doesnt just like romance books she likes MONSTER ROMANCE

[nikovraskol]

crack baby ; four

wc ; 2114 masterlist after dying, you expected to be greeted with the open arms of the void swallowing your body, mind and soul. what you didn't anticipate is waking up sixteen once more with a chance to change your fate -- but something strange is happening, why are the locks changing and why are all eyes suddenly on you ?

tw ; brief mention of death, cursing, neglect, panic attacks

prologue, one, two, three, four, tbc..

The rain outside casted a shadow of gloom over the morose city, the rhythmic pat-pat-pat on the windows creating an uncomfortable backdrop to your inner thoughts. Your head was resting in your hands, fingers scrunching at the edge of your scalp, tangling your hair with such force it felt like your mind was being split in two.

The pain was nothing compared to the pounding of your heart, ricocheting so loud that you felt it in your shoulders, in your fingertips – in each cell of your body.

What the fuck? What the fuck? What the fuck? What the fuck? Those three words echoed in your mind like a beat rebounding off a drum, what is going on? This is–..

When you miraculously turned back in time, you naively believed it would be easy – you’d silently leave without fuss, everything would progress as it should and you’d live life away from the looming Manor they called home. 

So why, why does it feel like every time you try to leave, someone’s there holding their hand on your neck. Why? Why can’t you just leave? It was so easy before, you could leave the Manor, disappear for days on end and nobody would notice, now it feels like someone is always hovering around.

Every time you leave your room, every time you try – they’re there! Why? What caused this sudden shift? You didn’t do anything drastic. So why? What changed? You’d spent years of your pathetic life scrambling for any sort of attention. For them. What secret trick have you pulled to put yourself in their spotlight? And why now?!

“Fuck.” You grumble, crumpling into yourself pitifully. There is absolutely no light at the end of this stupid tunnel. One of those stupid circus clowns is always there to stand before the small glimmers of hopes that shine through, much like the sun through a window. They curtain the light, under the pretense of protecting you from the sun’s burns, but how can you live without the sun’s warmth?

The rain outside grew more intense as you spiral, a testimony to the raging shit-show inside you. There is– one option. An option you loathe to think about. Bothering her would be.. It’s not something you’d like. You’d promised yourself – all that time ago, that you would never look her in the eyes, that you’d never speak a word to her. For her sake, not your own.

It’d be selfish, you really, really shouldn’t. But still, as a precaution, you open up your night stand, reaching to the very, very bottom to pick out a letter. A letter with an address and a phone number. Just in case.

The rain doesn’t seem to be stopping, which is a shame – you’ve always hated the rain.

“What is wrong with you?” A voice calls out, and you just narrowly avoid screaming. You tilt your head with much effort, your eyes zeroing in on Damian. Of course, it’s like a fucking roster. You’re not even safe in your own room.

“I don’t know what you mean.” You respond curtly, resting your head in your hands once more. You can’t stand looking at him. You can’t stand him. You can’t stand his stupid expression, always so prideful. Always so above you. You hate him.

“Why are you acting like this? You’re a Wayne, stop being so… pathetic.” You let out a sharp laugh at his words. Again, a few years ago, those words would’ve filled you with immense joy – enough to power yourself through the loneliness that plagued your whole being. But you’re not that pathetic waste of space, ghosting through the Manor. You’re just [Name],

“I don’t know what you mean.” You repeat, not picking up your head as you sigh. The rain is heavy, you really hate rain. “I’ve always been pathetic, right?”

You can’t see Damian, but you feel the air in the room shift. It’s strange, everything feels surreal. You almost have half a nerve to–

“Why are you trying to leave?”

His voice sounds weird, he sounds concerned. That’s impossible, you’re speaking to Damian. The boy who’s refused to acknowledge you as his sibling, the one who made it very clear what he thought of you. You raise your head once more to meet his eyes. 

He looks young. Younger than you’ve ever seen him look. 

“Why does it matter to you, this is what you’ve always wanted right?” Your hands begin to tremble, why are you trembling? You’re not scared. You’re– You’re angry. The fearful knot in your stomach frays, anger burning the rope until it tightens around your organs like a springtrap. “You’ve made it very clear what you think of me, don’t try to take the high road now.” “[Name]--”

“I’ve spent my whole life, chasing like a fucking stray for something – anything. Now you wanna act concerned? I’m fucking sick of this. I’m sick of you– I’m sick of everything!” Words were spilling out before you could catch them, the raindrops on the window fueling your anger. The patting making your head fucking pound, you wanted to rip your filthy mind out – everything was loud, too loud.

“Calm down, you’re acting–” 

“Out of everyone in this house, I hate you the most.”

“Huh?” Damian’s voice was soft, quiet – barely audible over the relentless pounding of the rain.

“However much you might hate me, I hate you a hundred, no, a thousand times more.” 

You pushed past him, your anger exploding inside your very core. Your blood was rushing through your veins, squeezing until it threatened to blow. If you had half the mind to look back, you’d see the expression on his face.

The walls in the Manor had never felt so looming, so large. It felt like each painting was looking at you, mocking you. The eyes of the soulless characters locked on your form as you marched down the halls.

You had no destination, no goal, but you needed to get out. Each wall was closing in, the roof threatening to collapse – to swallow you whole, to crush you under it’s unforgiving weight. Would that be better? Would you be happier under the sweet mercy of death?

Well, you’re not willing to find out. You’re not that gone, yet.

You could barely register anything as you stormed out the Manor, you heard nothing but the ringing in your ears as you walked. 

The moment the cold rain hit your skin, you ran. Your legs moving before your brain could process it. The downpour soaked you. Your hair and clothes sticking to your body. You weren’t wearing a coat, you had some shitty shoes that you had on from earlier, your whole body felt like it was aflame.

And then you stopped. Your frustration wore off leaving only the ache in your body behind. Your lungs were being squeezed against your ribs, air clawing against the sensitive flesh leaving you breathless. Your legs were shaking, your bones too weak to hold you as you slump against a tree.

Your body hit the cold, wet ground below you. Your head falls on your knees as you cradle yourself. Curse Bruce for living in some fancy ass Manor, away from the rest of Gotham like some fancy jackass. Curse him for being a billionaire. From behind the tree you had slumped yourself on, you could hear some lingering paparazzi – eager for some sort of scoop.

It’d be funny if you jumped out and gave them a real scoop. But you’re too caught up in your own shit for any scandals.

“I really hate the rain.” You mumble, a warm raindrop falling from your eyes. Strange, isn’t rain supposed to be wet? Whatever. 

You felt pathetic. So, truly pathetic. You’d ran away like some brat having a tantrum. Whatever, it’s not like anyone would notice. Nobody ever noticed, that was how life was, how it’d always be. You were destined to be sidelined forever, and you’d finally grown fine with that. So why? 

Your ass was muddy, you were wet, cold, sad – this scenario felt oddly reminiscent, reminiscent of a time before all the neglect, before loneliness was your only companion.

“Your name is [Name]?” A deep voice asked, his tone kind, patient as he looked at you.

Rain stuck to your small form as you looked up at him, your supposed father. The man you’d seen on TV everyday, he was looking at you – his eyes full of kindness that felt unfamiliar. But–

“Where is my mom?” Your voice was hoarse, quiet – afraid. The blooming pain in your head seemed to dull under the rain’s touch, blood seeping down your forehead, dripping down your nose – mingling with the heavy precipitation. The lights from the blaring sirens were shadowed by the man before you, the man who was looking down at you with something akin to pity. 

The teddy bear in your hands was unsalvageable. Between the missing eye, limbs, and now the rain that had drenched it. It was a hard thrust away from falling apart, but it rested in your palms nonetheless. Your fingers curling into the flat, synthetic fur as though it were your only tether to reality.

He slowly kneeled down before you, reaching eye-to-eye before extending his hand. “My name is Bruce, I’ll take care of you and your mother, I promise.” He smiled, he looked so much more human now, he was no longer an untouchable figure, no longer would you have to touch the warm screen of your TV, quietly pleading for him to save you. He was looking at you now, and he’d never look away.

You took his hand.

“Fuck this.” You huff, standing up with way too much effort, your joints still aching because of your little escapade. You weren’t going to sit around and wait for him to hold your hand again, you weren’t going to have him sign anything or give you anything – why should you rely on him? He’s given you nothing. You owe him nothing.

Your wet hand instinctively goes to your pocket, taking out the card with the address. The heavy downpour immediately enveloped the laminated card. Your throat felt heavy immediately as you reread the words on it, soaking in each letter. Swallowing back your nausea, you begin running again – this time, with a purpose.

It was rare for Bruce to lose his composure, but as he stared into your empty room – he felt his control fraying. 

“You’re sure they’re not hiding somewhere else?” He managed to keep his voice calm, despite the pounding of his heart. His eyes scanned your room. So small, he really needs to upgrade it.

“No, Master Bruce, they.. can’t be found anywhere else.” Alfred said, his expression uncharacteristically tense as he stared at the black curls at the back of Bruce’s head. 

Bruce was beginning to feel a sense of dread come upon him.

When Damian came into his study, looking strangely panicked – that was strike one, the moment your name left the young boy’s mouth, Bruce was up and practically sprinting to your room. Strike two.

And strike three was the lack of you in your space. The lack of you in the Manor. He had everyone look around, check every nook and cranny, but you were nowhere to be found. He had told you not to go out without telling him. 

But it’s fine, he is the world’s greatest detective. No need to panic.

Taking a tentative step forward, Bruce took a moment to absorb your space, your personality. The posters on the walls, the trinkets littering your shelves, the small imperfections that discerned you.

And then his eyes fell upon it, your teddy bear. “I thought they threw this out.” Bruce mumbled, his eyes flashing to that rainy day when he had met your cold eyes, eyes too haunted to belong to a child. How could he let that child leave when he had promised to take care of you? You and your mother.

Alarm bells rang in his mind, distantly, he could hear Tim and Cass theorise your where-a-bouts. But–

“Alfred, do you remember where we sent her?” Bruce asked slowly, picking up the teddy bear gently – taking in the ruined toy, a testament to the child you were. To the child you are, his thumb running over the messy stitch marks, no doubt done by you. You had the money of Bruce Wayne at your disposal yet you insisted on keeping this trash? The reminder of your impoverished days? He couldn’t understand it, but then again, he’d never be able to understand you.

Not unless he had an actual conversation, as father and child.

“..Yes, I shall send you the details.” Alfred asked after a pause, his eyes strangely distant as he looked at the window, at the rain droplets racing down. “Please, Master Bruce, be swift.”

sorry for neglecting yall i was tryna make the book immersive ;3

dookie chapter because i am simultaniously studying for my health and social exam

tags; (asked to be added thru dms)

@estreiiuh @beyondblissxoxo @jjsmeowthie @vanessa-boo @delias-stuff @d3nnji @wizzerreblogs @lilyalone @strawbrysapphic @regulus-things @iimichie @meepmoopbadabeepboop @buckturd @eloriis @xoxossam @verypersonaldazzel @froggy-voidd @shycreatorreview @wassupbroski55555 @eyeless-kun @anakilusmos @devotedlyshamelessdetective @peehall @bigeyedbaby @chaeugwi

@estreiiuh @beyondblissxoxo @jjsmeowthie @vanessa-boo @delias-stuff @d3nnji @wizzerreblogs @lilyalone @strawbrysapphic @regulus-things @iimichie @buckturd @eloriis @wassupbroski55555 @eyeless-kun @anakilusmos @peehall @bigeyedbaby @chaeugwi

ill get around to adding everyone to the taglist .

[pankowcrumbs]

Blurred Lines X Pedro Pascal

MasterList

Word count: 6.8K

Sex implied in a movie scene but no actual smut.

Plot: You and Pedro are romantic love interests in a new movie but there is a 25 year aged gap and it gets complicated when the feelings are becoming real underneath the characters.

There’s always a strange rhythm to film sets. Long stretches of waiting around, interspersed with bursts of concentrated magic. I’d learnt that quickly, although this set Falling Slow was different. Maybe it was the subject matter, maybe it was the man I was working opposite. Or maybe it was both.

The film was a sweeping, slow-burn romance between a young academic and her older, world-weary professor. Forbidden, scandalous, but written with nuance and aching tenderness. And, yes, it was about a large age gap. Just like us.

I was twenty-five. Pedro was fifty.

On paper, it should’ve been awkward. But Pedro had this way about him all warm smiles, self-deprecating humour, and inappropriate dad jokes that made the whole cast and crew instantly at ease. He was like the sun on set. Infectious. Easy. Except when it came to scenes with me. Because when the cameras rolled, he changed. He became something else entirely. Something... intense. Something that curled low in my belly.

And today, we were filming that scene. The one everyone had been whispering about for weeks. The sex scene.

It was a closed set. Just Pedro, me, the director, the sound guy, and Elodie, our lovely but terrifyingly precise intimacy coordinator. We’d choreographed it all beforehand where my hands would go, when to kiss, how long to linger down to the second. Every move mapped like a dance. Modesty garments in place. No actual sex. All smoke and mirrors.

But even with all the prep, I could feel the tension humming under my skin the moment I stepped onto the set a dimly lit bedroom dressed with crumpled linen sheets, soft golden light, and a half-empty bottle of red wine on the nightstand.

Pedro was already there, shirt unbuttoned, lounging against the headboard, eyes flicking up when he saw me. He smiled warm and reassuring but there was something unreadable beneath it. Like he knew the weight of what we were about to do. Like he felt it too.

"You good, cariño?" he asked softly as I sat on the edge of the bed.

I nodded, smiling back. “Just thinking I might’ve had one less coffee if I’d known I’d be straddling you today.”

He chuckled, low and warm. “I’m flattered. I didn’t even have to buy you dinner first.”

Elodie raised a brow. “Alright, Pascal. Save the charm for the camera.”

We all laughed, and the tension eased just a little.

After a final rundown of the choreography, we got into position. I climbed onto the bed, straddling Pedro, knees on either side of his hips. He was warm beneath me. Solid. I could feel the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing under my palms as I pressed them lightly to his chest.

“Scene twenty-two, take one,” came the director’s voice.

The clapper snapped.

And then the world narrowed.

In the scene, my character was supposed to kiss him first shy at first, then hungry. So I did. I leaned in, my lips brushing his gently, then deeper, letting it linger. Pedro kissed me back not as himself, but as Henry, his mouth soft but full of restraint, like he was holding back years of want.

Our movements followed the choreography: my hands sliding up his chest, his fingers trailing down my sides, my hips rolling ever so slightly.

But somewhere, somewhere between the scripted kisses and the unspoken glances, something shifted.

His hands gripped my waist a little firmer. My fingers tangled in his hair, not because the script said so, but because I wanted to. And then just barely I felt it.

The faintest shift beneath me.

A subtle, growing pressure against my inner thigh.

Pedro stilled for the briefest second. A breath caught in his throat. And then he kissed me again slower this time, deeper. Less scripted. More real.

I should’ve pulled back. I knew I should. But I didn’t.

The lines blurred.

Heat rose in my cheeks, pooling low in my stomach as I rocked against him again, instinctively, almost imperceptibly. And this time, the pressure was unmistakable. He was getting hard.

I didn’t look away. Neither did he.

His pupils were blown, lips parted, chest rising faster than it had a minute ago. I could feel his fingers flexing where they held me not guiding me, not moving me, just feeling me.

“Cut,” the director called, his voice slicing through the air like a blade.

I jumped slightly, pulling back, blinking as if I’d just surfaced from underwater.

Pedro cleared his throat, giving me a small, apologetic smile. “Sorry. Got a bit... carried away.”

The intimacy coordinator stepped in immediately, her voice gentle. “That was great work. Let’s just take five. Everyone okay?”

I nodded quickly, slipping off Pedro’s lap and wrapping the robe around myself, suddenly hyperaware of every inch of skin.

Pedro stayed sitting on the bed, running a hand through his hair, then glancing at me with a crooked grin. “If I say I’m too old for this shit, do I sound appropriately flustered or just creepy?”

I laughed, breathless, still flushed. “Bit of both, honestly.”

He chuckled, then sobered, his eyes searching mine. “Hey. You alright?”

I met his gaze. There was no sleaze in it. No arrogance. Just genuine concern. And maybe a flicker of something else.

“I’m fine,” I said softly. “It was... intense. But I’m okay.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, rubbing the back of his neck. “You were incredible, by the way. I mean that. Professional. Committed. Very distracting.”

I raised a brow. “Distracting?”

He smirked, that familiar playful spark back in his eyes. “In the best possible way.”

We stood there for a beat, just looking at each other, and I wondered if he felt it too that slow pull. That blurred edge between fiction and something else entirely.

Then Elodie called us back.

The rest of the takes went by in a haze. We stuck to the choreography, reined it in, kept it clean. But the charge lingered. Like the air after lightning.

When we finally wrapped for the day, Pedro caught me just as I was leaving the trailer.

“Hey,” he said, voice low. “Walk with me?”

I nodded, tugging my coat tighter around me as we stepped into the cool evening air. The sky was bruised with twilight, the last of the crew packing up around us.

We walked in silence for a while, side by side, shoulders brushing. Then he stopped.

“Today was...” He trailed off, frowning at the gravel beneath his boots. “I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t,” I said quickly. “Not at all. If anything... I don’t know. I felt safe. Even when it got a bit... blurry.”

He looked up, meeting my eyes. “Yeah. Blurry’s a good word.”

Another pause.

Then: “You’re not just good at this, Y/N. You’re magnetic. I’ve worked with so many people, and you” he broke off, exhaling. “You’re dangerous.”

I smiled, unsure whether to laugh or cry. “So are you.”

He chuckled, the sound warm but laced with something heavier. “We’ve got more scenes like that coming up.”

“I know.”

“And we’ll keep it professional. Of course.”

“Of course.”

But neither of us moved. Neither of us turned away.

The next morning, set felt quieter than usual.

Not in the literal sense there were still cables being dragged across floors, PAs shouting about coffee orders, the wardrobe trailer buzzing with life. But there was a hush in the way people looked at us. Or maybe I was imagining that.

Maybe it was just the way he looked at me.

Pedro had always been good at eye contact playful, expressive, sincere. But today? He barely held mine for longer than a second. A quick glance. A smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. A soft “morning, cariño” that sounded more distant than usual.

And I understood. God, I understood.

Because the moment I’d gotten back to my flat last night, I’d played the scene over and over in my head the way his hands had felt on my waist, how his breathing had changed beneath me, the weight of his body and the way our kisses had slowed, deepened, blurred.

It had been just a scene. Technically. But we both knew it wasn’t just a scene.

Today’s call sheet had us shooting a quieter moment our characters sharing wine in the kitchen, stealing kisses in between bites of takeout. Innocent. Sweet. No sex. No straddling. Still, my heart had already begun its steady, traitorous drumbeat the moment I saw his name next to mine.

I was perched on the counter, wrapped in a faded jumper that wardrobe insisted made me look “young and lovesick”, when Pedro walked onto set.

He looked... tired. Not in the usual way actors did. This was something heavier. Like sleep hadn’t come easy. Like he’d been wrestling with something all night. His jaw was tight, his eyes shadowed.

But still, he smiled. Softly.

“You alright?” I asked, voice barely above a whisper as the crew adjusted lights around us.

He nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Just... head’s full. Long night.”

Before I could ask more, the director called for quiet, and we rolled straight into the scene.

We were mid-take when Pedro, in character, leaned against the counter beside me, close but not touching. I offered him a chip from our fake takeout box, and his fingers brushed mine when he took it. He didn’t pull away right away. Neither did I.

Our eyes met. The silence stretched.

It wasn’t scripted.

“Cut,” the director called gently. “That was nice. Really natural. Let’s reset and go again.”

Pedro stepped away immediately, exhaling through his nose, like he’d just run a mile. I could feel the shift in him something coiled and tense, barely held together.

After the take, he hovered near me, hands shoved in his pockets. Then finally as the crew fiddled with lights and lens changes he stepped closer, voice low.

“Can I talk to you?” he murmured, eyes still not quite meeting mine.

I nodded, following him off-set to a quiet corner behind a lighting rig. The hum of activity faded, and suddenly it was just us. And the air between us felt impossibly thick.

He ran a hand through his hair, took a breath, and finally looked at me really looked at me.

“Listen,” he started, voice rough. “I need to say something, and I hope to God I don’t make this weird, but I can’t keep pretending nothing’s happening.”

My pulse spiked. “Pedro”

“I’m not going to cross a line,” he said quickly, firmly. “That’s not what this is. But yesterday… you felt it too, didn’t you?”

I swallowed. “Yeah. I did.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, like hearing it out loud confirmed some terrible truth. When he opened them again, they were filled with guilt and ache and something so tender it made my throat tighten.

“You’re twenty-five,” he said softly. “You’re brilliant and talented and beautiful and kind. And I am exactly double your age. I’ve been doing this for twenty years longer than you. I’m more famous. I have more power. That’s... that’s not a dynamic I want to mess with.”

I nodded slowly, my heart cracking open. “I know. I’ve thought about all of that too. People would talk. They’d assume the worst. I’ve already seen what they say when any young actress is seen next to an older man. They’d crucify you.”

His jaw flexed. “It’s not about them. It’s about you. I don’t ever want you to wonder if I respected you. If I saw you as just a... a pretty face or a fantasy. Because I don’t. You’re so much more than that.”

I blinked back sudden tears, overwhelmed by the gentleness in his voice.

“I don’t think you’re creepy,” I whispered. “Not even for a second. You’re not that guy.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I’m not crossing internal lines,” he murmured, looking down. “Because I wake up thinking about you. And then I come to set and try to be professional, and then we’re kissing, and suddenly it’s not acting anymore, and I hate how easy it is to forget where the fiction ends.”

A silence fell between us. Neither of us moved. Neither of us breathed.

Finally, I said, “So what do we do?”

He looked up, eyes heavy. “We be smart. We finish this film. We keep it clean. We don’t give anyone a reason to whisper.”

“And after that?” I asked, my voice barely audible.

He hesitated.

“If you still feel the same when the dust settles... I’ll ask you to dinner. Properly. Not as a co-star. Just as me.”

My heart flipped, twisted, bloomed.

“I think I’d say yes,” I whispered.

He smiled small, tired, but real. “That scares the shit out of me.”

I laughed quietly, because it did the same to me.

We stayed there for a minute longer just two people suspended in that blurry space between right and wrong, between reality and longing. Then someone called for us, and the moment shattered.

Back to work. Back to the act.

The set is quiet, save for the sound of the camera rolling and the soft direction from the crew. The kitchen set is warmly lit, almost intimate, and it’s just the two of us in the frame. My heart races, and I can’t tell if it’s because of the scene we’re about to film or the electric tension between us. The weight of our confessions earlier still hangs in the air, unacknowledged yet palpable.

The director calls for a pause as the crew resets a light. I catch my breath, watching Pedro lean against the counter, his expression unreadable. He looks good in this scene his dark hair a little tousled, his shirt slightly undone at the collar. But there’s something deeper in his eyes, something I’ve never seen before. I know he’s feeling it too the same heat, the same unrelenting pull.

"Ready when you are," he says, his voice low, warm, almost inviting.

I swallow hard, nodding as the director signals for us to reset. My body feels light and heavy all at once. This scene it’s supposed to be a simple kiss. Nothing more. But the way Pedro looks at me makes it feel like everything else has faded away. The crew, the cameras, the world outside of this kitchen they don’t exist. It’s just him, and it’s just me.

We’re called into position, and my stomach flutters as Pedro moves closer. His hand brushes against my waist as he adjusts his position, and I feel it all the way down to my toes. It’s a light touch, but it carries an electricity I can’t ignore. This is the moment where everything we’ve been dancing around comes to a head.

The director calls out, “Action,” and I look up at Pedro, my breath catching in my throat. His eyes soften, his lips curling into a faint smile that doesn’t reach his eyes not completely. I feel my chest tighten, my heartbeat accelerating.

Then, we kiss. It’s slow at first, tender, like we’re still testing the waters. But there’s something else now, something different that wasn’t there before. The kiss deepens, and I can feel his hands on my back, pulling me closer. He’s no longer just my co-star he’s the man I’ve been trying to keep my distance from, and now he’s here, wrapped up in my arms, his lips on mine.

And for a moment, everything blurs. The scene, the cameras, even the crew they’re all nothing compared to the heat I feel building between us. It’s as if we can’t stop ourselves anymore, as if the line between acting and reality is fading.

“Cut,” the director calls. But it’s not a relief. It feels like a premature end to something we both want to continue. I pull back slightly, our lips just a breath apart, and I see it in his eyes desire, conflict, the same storm I feel swirling inside me.

“Sorry,” I murmur, stepping back to give us both space. I’m not sorry for the kiss, not exactly. But I am sorry for the mess this is going to cause. “That was…”

“I know,” Pedro interrupts softly. His voice is low, almost a whisper. “It’s getting harder to pretend, isn’t it?”

I nod, unable to speak. I’ve been trying to ignore it, trying to convince myself it’s just the job, that the attraction is all part of the performance. But this? This is something different. Something real. And that makes everything so much more complicated.

The director seems to notice the shift, and he smiles approvingly. “That was perfect. We got what we needed. Let’s take a break, everyone.” The crew begins to pack up, but I can’t shake the tension in the air. It lingers, thick and palpable.

Pedro stays where he is, watching me carefully. I don’t know what he’s thinking, but I can see the internal battle on his face. He knows this is all so wrong so forbidden but the chemistry between us doesn’t lie. He’s feeling it too.

The lights are blinding, and the cameras flash relentlessly as we make our way down the red carpet. The press tour for our film is in full swing, and I can feel the tension building inside me. Pedro walks beside me, as always with that calm, collected presence of his, but I know he’s feeling the weight of the questions just as much as I am.

“Y/N, Pedro! Over here!” A reporter calls out. They wave their hands, trying to catch our attention. We both smile, the practiced, polished smiles we’ve been wearing all day.

“Your on-screen chemistry has everyone talking,” another reporter chimes in. “What’s the secret to that incredible dynamic?”

Pedro chuckles lightly beside me, his arm casually brushing against mine as we pose for a photo. "I guess we just have a lot of fun with it," he says with his usual charm. "But, honestly, the whole thing is a team effort. It’s about trust, right?”

I nod, glancing over at him. There’s something almost too knowing in his eyes, but the smile on his face says it all. “Exactly. It’s all about trust and respect. We’re both in it together, and that’s what makes everything flow so naturally.”

Another reporter jumps in with a question that makes my heart skip a beat. “So, there’s been a lot of talk about the age gap between you two. How did that affect your dynamic, both on and off screen?”

I feel Pedro’s hand subtly brush against the small of my back as I step forward to answer. It’s almost imperceptible, but the touch still sends a wave of heat rushing through me.

“Well, I’ll say this,” I begin, keeping my voice steady, even though I’m aware of the weight of every word. “Pedro was always incredibly respectful, both in the work and outside of it. He’s very aware of the power he holds in this situation, and he made sure that I never felt pressured or uncomfortable in any way. It’s something that’s really important to me, especially with the age difference.”

Pedro turns toward me then, his smile warm, but there’s a flicker in his eyes that tells me he’s not quite as unaffected by all this as he’s trying to seem. “Yeah, it’s not lost on me that I have a certain... position, you know?” His gaze shifts, and I see the sincerity in his eyes. “But it’s all about making sure that everyone feels safe and respected. That’s the priority.”

The reporters are eating this up, their cameras clicking nonstop as we both speak. They want more, but they’re not going to get anything out of us that feels too revealing.

“I think we’ve both been really aware of the situation,” I continue, glancing back at Pedro to make sure we’re on the same page. He gives me a small nod, clearly in agreement. “We’ve worked together as equals, and that’s what makes the chemistry on screen feel so natural. It’s a partnership.”

Another reporter presses further. “So, with that in mind, do you think the age gap affected the way you approached the romantic scenes?”

Pedro gives a soft laugh, his hand running through his hair. “I don’t think it’s something we dwelled on. We’ve been doing this for a long time, both of us, and we know how to keep things professional. Of course, there’s always a certain level of vulnerability in those scenes, but you can’t let the circumstances get in the way of what you’re trying to achieve artistically.”

“Exactly,” I agree, trying to keep things light but feeling the tension in my chest as the press continues to ask about the dynamics between us. “We had an amazing team around us, especially the intimacy coordinator. Everything was choreographed with such care. So, honestly, it just made the process feel safe. And that’s key to making the chemistry believable.”

One reporter, seemingly a little more daring, steps forward and lowers their voice. “There’s obviously so much palpable chemistry between you two are you ever worried about people reading into it too much? I mean, you’re clearly very comfortable with each other. And let’s face it, the age gap is something that has a lot of people talking.”

I see Pedro stiffen beside me, his jaw tightening just slightly. He’s trying to keep his composure, but I can feel his internal conflict. I know what he’s thinking: This is a line we’re toeing, and if we’re not careful, it could all unravel.

“Well,” I say quickly, trying to steer the conversation, “Pedro and I have worked incredibly hard to develop this connection. It’s all been about creating a space where we both felt comfortable, respected, and safe. And yes, the chemistry is definitely there, but we’re also very aware of how people can interpret things. We have a responsibility to each other, as actors, to make sure we’re always in sync.”

Pedro’s eyes flick to mine then, something unspoken passing between us. He smiles again, but this time there’s a sadness in it, like he knows that the truth is always just beneath the surface, and yet we can’t allow ourselves to fully acknowledge it.

“Y/N is an amazing actress,” he says, turning to me. “She makes it so easy to get lost in the scene. But the most important thing is that we always communicate. Always make sure the other person is comfortable. And I think that’s what made the whole process work.”

I smile at him, feeling my heart swell a little. I’ve praised him countless times today, and I know he’s doing the same for me. The interviews, the questions they’re all just a front, a way to avoid saying what’s really on our minds.

But the truth is, we’re both terrified. Not of the chemistry or the age gap but of what it means if we were to ever let this connection spill over into something real. It’s not just the press, or the fans, or anyone else watching us that’s the problem. It’s that neither of us wants to cross that line. Not yet, at least. Not in a way that can’t be undone.

As we move on to the next round of questions, we’re both exhausted, but the answers keep coming, just as rehearsed, just as careful. Every word a mask for the real truth, the one we can’t say aloud.

I think Pedro feels it too the tension, the pull. But he’s always been good at keeping a straight face, keeping his emotions close. And for now, that’s what I’ll do too.

Because as much as we might want to, we can’t allow ourselves to fall too far into this. Not yet. Not when the consequences would be so much greater than the fleeting thrill of what we feel in this moment.

One month after the movie’s release the buzz still hasn’t died down.

Even with the press tour wrapped and the red carpets rolled away, the film has taken on a life of its own living, breathing, and growing in whispers and headlines, most of them no longer about the movie itself.

They're about us.

Pedro and I have been texting constantly. At first, it was innocent. A few “saw this meme, made me think of you” or “did you see that fan edit?” But slowly quietly it shifted. The texts got longer, deeper. Little confessions snuck in. “I couldn’t sleep, so I was thinking about that night we wrapped filming...” or “Do you ever replay our kitchen scene in your head?”

Now it’s every day. Every night. Sometimes I fall asleep with my phone in my hand, mid-conversation with him, and wake up to a sleepy reply at 3 a.m.

We’re not dating. We haven’t said that out loud. But we’re something.

Something complicated.

Something neither of us can define, because we’re both too scared to say the words.

So we start small.

A coffee run. Somewhere tucked away in a quiet part of the city. We wear sunglasses and hats and keep our heads down. But people notice. Of course they do. The blurry photos hit Twitter before we even finish our cappuccinos.

The headlines follow within the hour:

“Pedro Pascal & Y/N Seen Grabbing Coffee Post-Press Tour: Just Friends or Something More?”

Our publicists are fast. The statement goes out before the afternoon:

“Pedro and Y/N have remained close friends since working on the film. They’re simply catching up and celebrating the success of their project.”

And maybe that’s true. Maybe we are just catching up.

But then it happens again. Another coffee. Then brunch. Then dinner with a group, but we still leave together.

The press might be playing along, but the fans?

They know better.

And they’re relentless.

It’s a rainy Thursday night when we finally cave and just let ourselves be still for once. Pedro’s place is warm and quiet, a world away from the noise. We’re on his couch, legs tangled beneath a throw blanket, my head on his chest. He smells like cedarwood and clean laundry, and his heartbeat is soft beneath my cheek.

He’s reading a book. I’m scrolling.

Bad combo.

“Oh my god,” I say, half-laughing, half-horrified. “Listen to this one: ‘Y’all, they’re not just friends. Look at the way he looks at her during interviews. That’s a man down BAD.’”

Pedro lets out a low chuckle, still not looking up from his book. “They’re observant, I’ll give them that.”

I keep scrolling, barely blinking. “This one says: ‘They think they’re being subtle, but the tension is screaming. Pedro blinked eleven times when she said his name.’”

That gets a real laugh from him. “Okay, that’s impressive. Eleven?”

“I’m serious! I think there’s a spreadsheet. These people are invested.”

I scroll again, my stomach sinking a little now. “Here we go... ‘Let’s not forget the age gap. I don’t care how good the chemistry is it’s inappropriate.’”

I feel Pedro tense slightly beneath me, just for a second.

I try to laugh it off. “Some people are really loud on the internet.”

He doesn’t respond right away. Then, gently, he reaches down and takes the phone from my hand, placing it on the coffee table.

“Hey,” he says softly. I glance up at him. “You don’t need to read that stuff.”

I bite my lip. “I know. I just... it’s hard to ignore. It’s like they’re waiting for us to mess up. Like we’re already doing something wrong, even though we’re not even...”

“Even though we’re not even saying what this is?” he finishes for me.

I nod.

He sighs, his hand finding mine under the blanket. His fingers are warm, steady. “People are always going to find a reason to tear something down. Especially something that doesn’t fit their version of what’s acceptable or normal.”

He pauses, then adds, “But this you and me this is real. Whatever it is, however it started... I’m not playing pretend anymore.”

My breath catches.

“I think about you constantly,” he continues, voice low and sure. “Even when I’m trying not to. And I’ve tried, believe me. I’ve run every reason through my head for why this shouldn’t happen. The age gap. The public eye. The press. But none of it matters when I’m with you.”

I blink, tears suddenly pricking the corners of my eyes. “Pedro...”

He reaches up, brushing his thumb along my cheek. “You’re smart, and kind, and brilliant at what you do. You don’t owe anyone an explanation. And I’m here. I’m real. And I’m... I’m falling in love with you.”

The words hang between us, so soft and certain, I swear the world goes still.

I sit up slightly, just enough to look at him properly. He’s nervous I can see it in the way he swallows hard, waiting for me to respond.

So I kiss him.

It’s slow, sweet, careful like we’re finally stepping into something we’ve both wanted for months. His hand cradles the back of my neck, anchoring me. When we pull apart, his forehead rests against mine.

“I’m scared,” I whisper.

“Me too,” he admits. “But I’m more scared of not trying.”

We don’t say anything after that. We just settle back onto the couch, wrapped in each other, the rain still tapping gently against the windows.

And for once, there’s no press. No fans. No judgment.

Just us.

Three Months Post-Release we went on a holiday together to Amalfi Coast, Italy

What started as a “casual friends getaway” to Italy Pedro’s idea, after months of carefully planned dinners and movie nights behind drawn blinds turns into the headline of every entertainment outlet before our second gelato cone has even started to melt.

The pictures hit the internet first.

Pedro and I on a yacht, sun spilling across our skin, his hand around my waist as I laugh at something he whispered against my shoulder.

Then one of him pressing a kiss to my temple, his sunglasses pushed up into his curls, his fingers twined with mine.

Another of us walking along a cobblestone street in Positano, clearly mid-conversation, clearly not aware of the lens trained on us from a balcony above.

And the one that makes every news outlet spiral: us in a quiet candlelit restaurant, sitting side by side instead of across the table, my head tipped against his shoulder, his hand resting gently on my thigh, both of us smiling like there’s no one else in the world.

By the time we’re back in the hotel that night, our phones are buzzing nonstop.

Pedro scrolls through a few headlines and hands me his phone, half-laughing, half-terrified.

“Pedro Pascal, 50, and Co-Star Y/N, 25, Spark Romance Rumors With Intimate Italian Getaway”

“Too Close to Call It Platonic: Inside the Blossoming Off-Screen Relationship Fans Saw Coming”

“From On-Screen Chemistry to Real-Life Romance? Internet Reacts to Viral Yacht Kiss”

I let out a shaky breath. “Well. Subtle isn’t our strong suit, is it?”

He laughs, wrapping an arm around my waist and pulling me into his chest. “We weren’t doing anything wrong.”

“No,” I say softly. “We weren’t. But they’re going to have opinions.”

Pedro is quiet for a moment, then presses a kiss to my forehead. “Let them. As long as we’re clear, and respectful, and... honest.”

We are. So we act fast.

The joint statement goes out the next morning:

“After the completion of our recent project together, we found ourselves growing close in a way neither of us anticipated. With mutual respect, open communication, and the support of those closest to us, we are exploring this relationship with full awareness of the scrutiny that may come with it. We want to be transparent in saying that our dynamic developed after the film wrapped and was not present during production. The age difference has been part of many conversations between us privately, and we’ve approached this connection with care, mutual consent, and a shared understanding of the power dynamics involved. Thank you for allowing us the space to navigate this thoughtfully and respectfully.”

It’s careful. It's honest. It’s us.

Still, the world explodes.

Some are skeptical. Some are cruel. But the overwhelming majority especially fans support it. The same people who tracked every blink in press interviews now stitch together fan edits of our vacation photos, pairing them with dreamy music and captions like “this wasn’t acting, it was real all along.”

There are comment threads filled with speculation:

“You can tell how much care Pedro has for her. Look at the way he moves with her protective, not possessive.”

“Y/N always looks so comfortable around him. Like she knows he’s a safe place.”

And others more direct:

“I don’t care about the age gap, I care about how happy they look. Let them live.”

We do our best to stay grounded. For every sweet photo that gets posted, there are five blurry ones taken through restaurant windows or behind shrubs. I learn to ignore the flash of phones in the corners of cafés. Pedro tightens his hold on my hand when the paparazzi try to corner us leaving a small museum.

There’s one day hot, bright, filled with salt air and sun where we walk through a market in Ravello and split an ice cream cone because mine melted too fast. A fan catches it on video and uploads it with the caption: “They’re so in love it’s ridiculous.”

I want to argue. I want to say “we’re just figuring it out.” That we haven’t put a label on it, that we still talk more than we kiss, that some nights I stay up wondering if we’re really allowed to feel this way.

But then I look at Pedro.

The way he always lets me answer first in interviews, never interrupting. The way he sits just a little closer in photos, but never too close. The way he constantly checks in with soft glances and quiet, whispered questions: Are you okay? Are you overwhelmed? Do you want to go home?

And I know.

I’m allowed to feel this way. We both are.

The car door opens.

And for a split second, I hesitate. Not because I’m nervous about the flashing lights or the ocean of voices waiting to shout my name but because this time, I’m not walking this carpet alone.

I step out anyway, smoothing my hand over the satin of my dress as the warm Los Angeles evening hits my skin. The moment I reach back, his fingers find mine. No searching. No fumbling.

Just instinct.

Pedro’s hand is warm and steady as he steps out beside me, his other hand gently brushing the inside of my wrist in a quiet, grounding gesture. I glance at him, just for a moment. He’s smiling already soft, familiar, like this is just any other day between us. Not the moment the entire world has been waiting for.

Click. Flash. Clickclickclick.

The sound is deafening. But I keep my shoulders back and my chin high, hand wrapped in his.

We walk together down the carpet. Not arm-in-arm. Not anything too deliberate. Just two people... tethered.

And when the reporters catch on really catch on it becomes a blur. Questions shouted. Cameras flashing faster. One voice yells, “Is this official now?” and Pedro just lets out that low, breathy laugh of his. The one that says I’m not telling you everything, but I’m definitely not denying it either.

I feel his hand give mine a squeeze. I don’t look at him. If I do, I’ll melt into this feeling too much. And I need to stay composed professional. It’s what we agreed on. Even if we’re both failing miserably at hiding how giddy this feels.

We’re ushered toward one of the bigger outlets. I recognise the host. We’ve talked to her before back when all of this was just about the movie.

Now? She’s grinning like she’s sitting on a goldmine.

“Y/N, Pedro so good to see you together tonight!” she beams, and I can’t help it I smile too. Because despite the nerves and the constant beat of my heart trying to break through my ribs… I am happy.

“Lovely to see you again,” I say, my voice steady even though my hand is still clutching Pedro’s like a lifeline.

She dives right in. Of course she does. The Italy photos, the yacht kiss, the “mysterious gelato date.” I nearly roll my eyes but Pedro’s already laughing beside me, and it makes me laugh too.

He leans over, mutters, “Told you the yacht would haunt us,” and I elbow him gently.

Then the interviewer shifts. Her smile softens. Her tone goes from playful to genuinely curious.

“In all seriousness… you’ve both released such a thoughtful statement about your relationship. But people want to know what’s it really been like navigating something so personal, so publicly?”

Pedro lets me speak first. He always does.

I take a breath.

“It’s been… a process. But one we’ve been really intentional about,” I say slowly, making sure I mean every word. “We care about each other deeply, and we knew that if we were going to share any of this with the world, it had to be on our terms. Carefully. Gently. With respect.”

I feel Pedro’s hand brush the small of my back, and it steadies me.

“There were so many conversations,” I continue. “About power, about timing, about agency. Pedro’s been incredibly aware of his position throughout all of this. He’s never once made me feel pressured. He’s always made sure I felt safe and heard.”

She turns to him then, and he smiles at me before answering.

“She said everything I wanted to say,” he replies. “But I’ll just add that… being older, I was conscious from the start that I didn’t want to create any imbalance. I didn’t want to cross a line or risk anything we’ve built, professionally or personally. I just… wanted to honour her. And this.”

God. The way he says that.

Honour me.

I think it’s that moment that hits the crowd. Because the interviewer visibly softens. The air around us shifts. And suddenly, it’s not a story anymore. Not a scandal or a headline or a photo op.

It’s love.

Raw and warm and kind.

When the interview ends, we walk the rest of the carpet like it’s nothing. Like we haven’t just publicly opened a door we’ve been peeking through for months.

But I know what’s waiting online already. The screen grabs. The tweets. The shipping hashtags.

And for once, I don’t care. Because when we’re finally alone in the car again Pedro lacing his fingers through mine with a breathless little, “Well, that went alright” I don’t feel scared.

I feel seen. And protected. And quietly, fully adored.

The moment the hotel room door clicks shut behind us, I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath since the car ride over.

Pedro doesn’t say anything at first. He just slips off his jacket and tosses it gently over the back of the armchair, his fingers already moving to unbutton his shirt, just the top few buttons. Casual. Comfortable.

Safe.

I kick off my heels with a quiet groan and lean against the wall for a second, still in my dress, makeup still flawless under the dim golden light of the suite. It’s quiet here. No flashing lights, no crowd. Just muted city sounds through the window and the soft hum of air conditioning.

“Do you want to take it off?” Pedro asks gently, nodding toward my dress.

I smirk. “Smooth.”

He laughs and holds up both hands. “I meant the dress, because you’ve been yanking at the zipper all night.”

I sigh dramatically and spin around. “Then help me, smooth talker.”

His fingers are warm and steady as he finds the zipper and drags it down, slow and careful. It’s nothing we haven’t done before, on set or off but tonight, it feels different. Not charged. Just… soft. Unspoken.

When I step out of the dress, I leave it draped over the back of the couch and tug one of his oversized T-shirts from the open suitcase on the chair. He watches me pull it over my head with the tiniest smile.

“Was that mine?”

“Possession is nine-tenths of the law,” I mutter, sinking onto the bed.

Pedro walks over, tugging the throw blanket from the foot of the bed, and wraps it around us both as he sinks down beside me. His arm slips easily around my shoulders, and I tuck into his side like muscle memory.

Everything feels quieter here. Like the world left us alone, just for tonight.

“You were amazing,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to my hair.

“You said that already.”

“I’ll say it again tomorrow too.”

I turn to face him slightly, my cheek pressed to his chest. “Do you think it was okay? What we said? How it came across?”

He hums thoughtfully, fingers tracing lazy shapes on my arm. “I think it was honest. And that’s the best we can do.”

I nod, letting the silence settle again.

For a few minutes, we just lie there. The weight of the evening slowly peeling away from our shoulders. The heels. The suits. The expectation.

“You know what I keep thinking about?” I whisper eventually.

Pedro tilts his head, brushing his lips against my forehead. “Tell me.”

“That first day we met. The chemistry test. When I walked in and you were so calm. And I was shaking so hard I couldn’t hold my water bottle.”

He smiles into my hair. “You hid it well.”

I pull back just enough to see his face, the tired lines near his eyes, the softness there now that he doesn’t have to perform. “And now here we are. Sharing a hotel bed, still kind of pretending it’s all professional.”

He chuckles. “I think we’re way past professional.”

His hand comes up, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear, and he looks at me like I’m the only person on the planet.

“I meant what I said earlier,” he murmurs. “About falling. About being here, being real.”

My chest tightens. In a good way. In a how-is-this-my-life kind of way.

“I know,” I whisper. “I believe you.”

We kiss then. Soft and slow. No cameras. No stage directions. Just his lips and mine and the quiet hum of something real threading between us.

And when we fall asleep tangled up in each other, wrapped in the blanket and the safety of everything we’ve built, I let myself believe this might just be the beginning of something that finally, beautifully, isn’t pretending at all.

[heliosunny]

Omg your writings are so scrumptiously delicious 😋 I always come back to read them again And again especially the phainon ones! Agh they are soo good! Also been wondering since you wrote Yan! Phainon× vamp! reader... how about Yan! vamp!phainon×reader..if that's okay... Have a great day/evening/night!

Yandere!Vampire Phainon x Reader

[artist]

The sun dipped low over the village, casting golden light across the cobbled streets. Laughter echoed between stone walls as a group of children ran through the narrow alleys, their feet kicking up dust. You were among them, breathless and grinning, trying to keep up with the boy ahead of you.

“You’re too slow, Y/N!” Phainon teased, turning back with a wide grin. His silver-white hair gleamed under the fading light, and his bright blue eyes sparkled with mischief.

“I’m not slow! You’re just unfairly fast!” you huffed, trying to catch him.

Phainon only laughed, effortlessly dodging your outstretched hands. Behind you, the others—Mydei, Anaxa, and a handful of others called out, egging you both on.

“Give Y/N a chance, Phainon!” one of them yelled.

“Yeah, don’t be mean.” Anaxa added, though his voice was laced with amusement.

Phainon slowed just enough for you to reach him, letting you tug on the sleeve of his tunic. “Caught you!” you declared triumphantly.

Instead of pulling away, Phainon tilted his head, smiling. “Guess that means I belong to you now” he said lightly.

“You’re weird.” you muttered, but you didn’t let go of his sleeve.

The warmth of the evening settled over you all as you made your way to the village outskirts. Beyond the fields, a small grove of trees offered a quiet retreat from the watchful eyes of adults. It was your group’s favorite place, a hidden world where you could be anything you wanted.

Mydei flopped onto the grass with a dramatic sigh. “I’m tired. Someone should carry me home.”

“You have legs” Anaxa scoffed, sitting down beside him. “Use them.”

You chuckled and sat next to Phainon, who stretched out lazily. The golden hour made his pale skin glow, and for a moment, he seemed almost otherworldly. You’d always thought he looked a little different, but then again, all of them did. The village women sometimes whispered about it, about their unnaturally striking features, their strange presence—but you never paid much attention. They were your friends. That was all that mattered.

Phainon leaned close, resting his chin on his palm as he watched you. “You’re staring” he teased.

You blinked, startled. “I was not.”

“You were” he insisted, grinning. “Do I look that handsome to you?”

“You’re annoying” you muttered, lightly shoving his shoulder.

He only laughed.

The conversation shifted to plans for tomorrow, with Mydei complaining about chores and Anaxa suggesting another race through the village. You listened, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that Phainon’s eyes were still on you.

You didn’t know then that Phainon had already decided.

Years Later

The group was no longer whole.

Time had worn down the bonds of childhood, and the innocence of those golden days had long since faded. Some had drifted apart, others had changed in ways you could barely recognize. The carefree days of running through the village had been replaced with whispers in the dark—secrets you weren’t privy to.

And yet, Phainon remained.

“You’re quiet tonight” he remarked, setting down a goblet as he leaned back in his chair.

You looked up from your seat across from him, the dim candlelight flickering between you. “Just thinking.”

Phainon studied you, his blue eyes sharp despite his ever-present smile. “About what?”

You hesitated. Should you say it? That you had noticed the strange way the others carried themselves, the way they whispered behind closed doors? That some of them had started keeping odd company—company that left them with faint red marks on their throats?

That the people you once knew felt like strangers?

Instead, you sighed. “I don’t know. Things just feel… different.”

Phainon tapped his fingers against the table. “People change” he said simply. “But I haven’t, have I?”

You glanced at him. No—Phainon hadn’t changed. He was still the same bright, teasing boy from your childhood. Always smiling, always close.

“You haven’t” you admitted, but the words felt strange on your tongue.

Phainon tilted his head, his gaze unreadable. Then, he smiled.

Outside, the night stretched on, and somewhere in the darkness, something shifted.

Something you weren’t meant to see.

The place was hidden, tucked away in the shadows of the city’s underbelly. It wasn’t a tavern, nor a brothel, but something worse—a gathering ground for those who lurked in the dark, where morality had long been forgotten.

Phainon moved through the dimly lit corridors like a specter, his presence drawing wary glances. They knew him here. Knew his name, his strength. Even among vampires, he was a force to be feared.

A low murmur caught his ear.

In the far corner, a vampire, one who owed him a great deal, had cornered a trembling girl. Her breath hitched as the man leaned in, fingers curling around her throat.

Phainon barely spared them a glance.

It wasn’t his problem. It wasn’t his concern. The weak suffered, the strong took what they wanted. That was the way of things.

He stepped forward to leave. And then, without warning, the image shifted. For a brief, horrifying second, it wasn’t some nameless girl in that man’s grip. It was you.

His body went rigid.

Would he still walk away? Would he still ignore it?

The thought sent something ugly curling in his chest.

A slow inhale. A measured exhale. He forced his body to relax. It wasn’t you. It would never be you. You weren’t meant for places like this.

Still, the unease lingered.

With a final glance at the struggling girl, Phainon turned and walked away, the thirst in his throat demanding attention. He needed something to quiet his thoughts, someone to satisfy his hunger.

As he stepped deeper into the night, a realization settled within him.

If it had been you, if anyone had dared to touch you, he wouldn’t have hesitated.

The morning sun filtered through the trees as you went about your daily routine. It was rare, almost strange, not to have Phainon lingering nearby, flashing that easy smile of his or teasing you about something trivial.

Maybe he was busy.

It wasn’t unusual for him to disappear at times, though he always returned like nothing had happened. You never asked where he went, and he never told you.

Today, the village was as lively as ever. You made your way through the familiar paths, exchanging greetings with the townsfolk and stopping briefly to chat with Anaxa, who seemed preoccupied with something.

“You seen Phainon?” you asked casually.

Anaxa snorted. “No, and I don’t plan on looking for him either.”

You frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” he muttered, crossing his arms. “Just… sometimes, it’s better not to know where he goes.”

The words sat uneasily with you, but before you could press further, someone called your name from across the street.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of small errands, idle conversations, and the comforting normalcy of routine. Yet, beneath it all, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing.

By the time evening rolled around, the absence felt heavier.

Phainon always found you before the day ended. Always.

So why wasn’t he here?

The next morning, Phainon appeared as if he had never been gone.

He leaned against the doorway of your home, arms crossed, a lazy grin on his face. “Miss me?”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the small, relieved breath you let out. “You wish.”

He only chuckled, falling into step beside you as if no time had passed. And just like that, things returned to normal. You didn’t ask where he had been, and he didn’t offer an explanation. That was how it always was.

That evening, your mother handed you a small parcel wrapped in cloth. “Take this to your grandmother, will you? But be careful, don’t linger too long. It’ll be dark soon.”

You reassured her with a smile before setting off. The road was familiar, winding through the outskirts of the village, lined with tall trees that cast long shadows as the sun dipped below the horizon.

By the time you started heading back, the last traces of daylight had faded. The path home felt different at night—quieter, colder. The wind whispered through the trees, and somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted.

Then, the silence broke.

A rustle.

You stopped, heart thudding in your chest. The trees swayed, their branches casting twisted shadows across the path. It was probably just an animal.

Then you heard it—breathing.

Before you could turn, something slammed into you, knocking you to the ground. A weight pinned you down, cold fingers gripping your shoulders.

“Smells good...” a voice rasped above you.

Your breath caught as you looked up, meeting the hungry, gleaming eyes of a man. No—a vampire. His lips curled, revealing sharp fangs.

“Let go of me!” You struggled, panic surging through your veins.

He chuckled, amused by your resistance. “I haven’t fed in days. Just a little taste—”

Then, in an instant, he was gone- ripped away.

The weight lifted, and before you could process what had happened, a sickening crack echoed through the air. A strangled cry followed, cut short as something heavy hit the ground.

Shaken, you pushed yourself up.

And then you saw Phainon who stood a few feet away, his back turned to you. At his feet, the vampire lay crumpled, twitching weakly. One of his arms bent at an unnatural angle.

“You picked the wrong person” Phainon murmured.

The injured vampire let out a choked whimper. “I— I didn’t know—”

“You didn’t know?” Phainon repeated, tilting his head. “Didn’t know they were mine?”

“Please—”

Phainon sighed. Then, without hesitation, he stepped forward and crushed the man’s throat beneath his heel.

Your heart pounded as you watched him. He turned to you, his usual warmth still present—but now laced with something darker.

“You’re trembling” he said softly, stepping closer.

You couldn’t move.

Then, ever so gently, he reached out and brushed a stray lock of hair from your face.

“You should be more careful, Y/N.”

His fingers lingered.

“I’d hate to lose you.”

Your vision blurred. Your breath came in shallow gasps, but it wasn’t enough—your chest tightened, the world tilting as cold sweat slicked your skin.

Phainon. The vampire’s broken body. The blood pooling beneath him.

“Ah—” Phainon exhaled, amused yet concerned. “I suppose that was a bit much for you.”

The last thing you saw before the darkness swallowed you whole was the serene, almost affectionate smile on his face.

You stirred, eyes fluttering open. You weren’t outside anymore. Dim candlelight flickered against wooden walls���your room.

“You’re awake” Phainon murmured.

He was sitting at your bedside, one arm draped lazily over the chair, watching you with a quiet intensity.

Your body tensed. The memory rushed back all at once—the attack, the vampire, the way Phainon had crushed his throat like it was nothing.

Your fingers clenched the sheets. “You—”

“I carried you home”

Silence stretched between you.

“I took care of it. No one will ever touch you again.”

“You… killed him.”

Phainon didn’t flinch. If anything, he seemed almost puzzled by your reaction. “Of course.”

The boy you had grown up with, the one who had laughed with you, teased you, stayed by your side—had crushed a man’s throat without hesitation.

Phainon leaned closer, reaching out slowly, as if not to startle you. His fingers brushed your wrist, light and careful. “You’re safe with me” he murmured.

Days passed.

Phainon left you alone, giving you space to recover, though he never strayed too far. You could feel his presence even when he wasn’t visible—watching, waiting.

But the fear that had once taken root inside you began to shift.

Curiosity gnawed at your thoughts.

Where did he go at night? What kind of life did he lead beyond the smile he showed you?

And more importantly—how much had he hidden from you?

So, when the sun dipped below the horizon, you made your choice.

You pulled on a cloak, wrapping it tightly around yourself before slipping into the night.

Phainon was easy to track. He moved with a confidence that came from knowing no one could touch him, his form barely more than a whisper in the darkness.

You followed carefully, staying just out of sight.

The path led away from the village, past old roads and tangled trees, into the underbelly of a world you had never seen before.

And then—you found it. The Hidden Den.

The place was alive with a dark, pulsing energy. Torches flickered against stone walls, casting long shadows over the twisted gathering.

Vampires lounged on crimson-draped couches, fangs sinking into willing throats as girls draped themselves over their laps. Others inhaled thick, perfumed smoke from ornate pipes, their pupils blown wide with pleasure.

On one side, blood was being poured into goblets like fine wine, passed between hands in hushed trades. In another corner, a vampire licked fresh crimson from his fingers while a dazed-looking woman trembled beside him, her pulse sluggish.

This was what he was part of?

A sick fascination mingled with your horror. You wanted to turn away—but you couldn’t.

A presence loomed behind you.

Before you could react, a hand gripped your shoulder and yanked you back into the shadows. Your back hit a cold wall. A figure loomed over you, silver hair catching the dim light.

Phainon.

But this wasn’t the version of him you knew.

“Didn’t anyone ever teach you not to wander where you don’t belong?”

You looked up at Phainon, at the way the dim torchlight cast shadows over his face—sharpening his features, making him seem even more untouchable. His grip on your shoulder was firm, grounding.

But you weren’t afraid.

You were angry.

"Is this what you're into?" you demanded, voice sharp, cutting through the low hum of sinful indulgence around you. "Is this the kind of place you belong to?"

Phainon's expression didn’t waver, but his fingers twitched slightly against your shoulder.

You continued, ignoring the cold air brushing against your skin. "I don’t want you here. You’re better than this."

His lips parted slightly in surprise. Then, amusement flickered in his gaze. "Better than this?" he echoed. "And what makes you think that?"

"Because I know you" you said without hesitation.

A moment of silence stretched between you, taut with unspoken things. Then Phainon exhaled softly, shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe you. His grip finally loosened, but he didn’t step away. Instead, his eyes drifted downward—toward your exposed wrist, where your pulse beat strong beneath your skin.

"You followed me all this way" he murmured. "Was it just to scold me?"

You hesitated for only a second before speaking.

"If you’re that thirsty, drink from me instead."

Phainon blinked.

And then he laughed.

"You’re unbelievable." he said, voice hushed.

But he didn’t refuse.

Phainon leaned in slowly, watching you carefully, as if waiting for hesitation. But you didn’t flinch. His fingers brushed against your wrist, tilting it slightly. His lips ghosted over your skin.

And then—

A sharp sting, followed by warmth.

Your breath caught as his fangs pierced your skin, precise and careful. It wasn’t painful, not really. A strange, tingling sensation spread through you, your body growing light, unsteady.

Phainon made a quiet sound against your skin, like a sigh of relief, like he had been waiting for this. His grip was gentle, his touch reverent. And just as quickly as it started, it was over.

He pulled back, licking the last drops of crimson from his lips. "You taste too good for your own good" he murmured, almost to himself.

You barely heard him.

Because suddenly, the heavy perfume in the air—the scent of blood, of incense, of whatever drugged haze lingered in this place crashed down on you all at once.

Your knees buckled.

Phainon's arms were around you before you could hit the ground.

"Ah," he breathed, catching you easily. "Didn’t think that one through, did you?"

Your body felt weightless as he lifted you effortlessly into his arms.

By the time you woke, you were home.

The scent of that place was gone, replaced by the familiar warmth of your own room. Your body felt drained, sluggish, but safe.

And sitting beside you, as if he had never left, was Phainon.

"You’re reckless," he murmured, breaking the silence. "But I like that about you."

His fingers brushed against your wrist again, where his mark remained.

"You should rest," he said softly. "I’ll be here when you wake up."

And for some reason, despite everything—you believed him.

You barely remembered falling asleep.

After Phainon carried you home from that wretched place, exhaustion claimed you faster than you could think. Your body was too weak, too drained from everything that happened.

But when you woke up—something was wrong.

A hand clamped over your mouth before you could make a sound.

Your eyes shot open, heart slamming against your ribs. The room was dark, but you could make out a figure looming over you—a vampire, his breath heavy with the scent of old blood.

"You shouldn’t have been there, little thing." the man sneered.

The one who owed Phainon saw what you both did. So he thought he could take advantage of the situation.

Panic surged through you. You struggled, but his grip tightened.

"You cost me" he hissed, voice low and venomous. "But don’t worry. You’ll be useful in another way."

He yanked you up from your bed, arms locking around you like iron.

The moment Phainon stepped into your house, he knew something was wrong. The air reeked of an unfamiliar scent—bitter, old blood mixed with the distinct stench of someone who didn’t belong.

Your room was a mess. The blankets were thrown aside, your belongings knocked over, and worst of all—

You were gone.

Phainon’s entire expression darkened.

The scent was fresh. They couldn’t have gone far.

His fingers twitched, sharp nails lengthening slightly as he inhaled deeply, locking onto the trail like a predator.

He found you in an abandoned alley, pressed against the cold stone as the vampire loomed over you, fangs bared.

"Don’t struggle" the man sneered. "I just need a little taste—"

Crack.

The vampire was on the ground before he could register what happened, Phainon’s boot pressing down against his throat.

The man choked, clawing at Phainon’s leg, but the weight didn’t budge.

"You made a mistake" Phainon murmured, voice eerily calm.

His foot pressed down harder. The vampire’s struggles weakened.

"Phainon" you rasped, voice hoarse, barely able to move.

That was the only thing that stopped him.

Phainon’s gaze flicked toward you. His eyes softened—just a fraction.

With one last sharp glare at the trembling man beneath him, Phainon finally stepped back.

The vampire gasped, wheezing as he scrambled away.

Phainon didn’t bother watching him flee.

He was already kneeling beside you, fingers brushing over your face, checking for injuries.

"Tch." His voice was light, but you could hear the underlying tension. "I leave you alone for one moment, and this is what happens?"

"Not my fault."

A chuckle. "I guess not."

And before you could protest, he scooped you up again, cradling you against his chest.

Phainon’s home was nothing like yours.

The moment he brought you inside, he didn’t let you out of his sight. You were still rattled, too exhausted to argue as he led you to a bath, forcing you to sit and soak in the warm water while he leaned against the doorway, arms crossed.

"You don’t have to watch me" you muttered, sinking into the heat.

"I do" he replied smoothly.

You scowled but didn’t push further.

After you finished, you dressed in the spare clothes he handed you, soft and unfamiliar, but comfortable.

But even then, something was off.

Phainon’s expression was unreadable as he stood in front of you, arms still crossed, eyes sharp.

"What?" you asked, frowning.

He exhaled, then leaned in slightly, inhaling.

Your entire body tensed.

"That scent" he murmured.

It took you a second to realize what he meant.

Even after bathing, the vampire’s scent still clung to you.

Phainon didn’t like that.

You barely had time to react before Phainon closed the distance between you.

One hand reached for your wrist, the other sliding up to your jaw, tilting your face toward him.

"Phainon—?"

"You smell like him," he said, almost absentmindedly. "I hate it."

Your breath hitched as he leaned in further, his nose brushing lightly against the side of your neck.

A slow inhale.

"Phainon—!"

His hands slid down, trailing over your shoulders, gripping your arms just enough to keep you still. He wasn’t rough—no, his touch was slow, intentional.

"You don’t want to reek of someone else, do you?" he murmured against your skin. "Let me fix it."

His lips brushed over the curve of your throat, not quite kissing, not quite biting—just enough to make your pulse spike.

"Stop squirming" he chuckled when you shifted, his voice warm, teasing. "You wanted me to drink from you before. Did you change your mind?"

"That’s not—this is different—!"

Phainon hummed, a soft, knowing sound. "Not really."

His arms wrapped around you fully, pulling you flush against him, his warmth seeping into your skin.

This wasn’t about feeding.

This was about marking.

"Better" Phainon murmured, finally leaning back to meet your gaze. His blue eyes gleamed, satisfied.

"You smell like me now."

[luvleyshif4]

rafe x reader.... she's touchstarved. Maybe size/height difference. Just the wonderful feeling of him being the protector (and 'provider'). They've only been dating for a little while but he figures out that her love language is physical touch. And she's so surprised bc she isn't used to receiving love. Prob a bad family setting... thanks, love <33

JUST HOLD ME

Rafe Cameron x Reader

Warnings: Mention of family issues, emotional vulnerability, emotional repression, medium angst turned into fluff, reader is touch starved, implied toxic family dynamics, reader might have body dysmorphia (N/A).

Word count: 1.22k words

Authors note: heyy bb!! Tysmmm for requesting this!!! I already had something like that sitting in my drafts so I thought I’d just add some changes to suit your idea🤞🏽🤞🏽🤞🏽honestly your idea made it sooo soo much better!! HOPE YOU LIKE IT CAUSE I KNOW I DO💗💗 (also I didn’t proof read this so let me know if there’s any grammar mistakes😝😝)

The night was quiet, the kind of stillness that felt heavy yet comforting. Rafe’s truck hummed softly beneath you, the glow of the dashboard lights casting faint shadows across his face.

He had picked you up an hour ago, like he always did when your texts grew short and vague, as though he could sense the things you didn’t say. The roads were empty, a blur of dim streetlights and the occasional flicker of passing headlights.

You sat in the passenger seat, curled slightly toward the door, your oversized hoodie swallowing you whole. Rafe’s hand rested on the gear shift, his fingers drumming a slow rhythm as the faint hum of music played in the background.

He wasn’t saying much tonight, giving you space like he always did, but you could feel his eyes flick toward you now and then, studying you.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he finally asked, his voice breaking the silence but staying soft.

You didn’t answer right away, your fingers playing with the strings of your hoodie. The truth was, you didn’t know how to talk about it—the way your chest felt tight every time you thought about home, the way your family’s sharp words had a way of cutting deeper than they should. It wasn’t new, but it felt heavier lately, like you were dragging something you couldn’t shake off.

“I’m fine,” you said, the words automatic and hollow.

Rafe glanced at you again, his jaw tightening slightly. He didn’t press, though. He never did. Instead, his hand shifted, brushing lightly against your knee before returning to the gear shift. It was such a small gesture, but it made your throat tighten. You turned your head, staring out the window, hoping he wouldn’t notice the way your hands were trembling slightly.

The silence stretched on, comfortable for him, suffocating for you. It wasn’t that you didn’t trust Rafe—you did, more than you’d ever thought possible for someone you’d only been with for a few months. It was just that you didn’t know how to let someone in like this. You didn’t know how to let yourself be seen, not when you’d spent so long trying to shrink yourself down, to take up less space.

Rafe, of course, noticed everything.

He didn’t say anything at first, but you felt the shift when he slowed the truck down, pulling over to the side of the road. The engine idled softly as he put the truck in park, turning to face you fully. His brows were drawn together, his blue eyes searching yours in the dim light.

“Talk to me,” he said, his voice low but steady.

Your chest tightened again, and you shook your head, biting the inside of your cheek. “It’s nothing,” you muttered, barely meeting his gaze. “Just a long day.”

Rafe let out a soft, disbelieving huff, leaning back slightly. He didn’t look frustrated, just… concerned. And that concern was somehow worse, more overwhelming than if he’d been annoyed.

“Come on,” he said, his tone lighter but still holding that edge of care. “You don’t get this quiet unless something’s really messing with you. I’m not going anywhere, so you might as well tell me.”

The weight of his words hit you harder than you expected. You glanced at him, your lips parting as if to say something, but the words stuck in your throat. Rafe’s gaze softened even further, and without thinking, he reached over, his hand hesitating for a moment before he grazed the back of his fingers against your cheek. The touch was featherlight, and yet it sent a shiver through you. You didn’t pull away. Instead, you leaned into it, your eyes fluttering shut for a moment as if savoring the warmth.

Rafe stilled, watching you as though you were the only thing in the world that mattered. His hand lingered there, his knuckles brushing over your skin softly, reverently. “You’re allowed to let me in,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your breath hitched at his words, but you didn’t pull back. Instead, you let yourself lean into his hand fully, your head tilting slightly as though you didn’t want him to stop. His thumb shifted, lightly grazing your chin, and your eyes opened just in time to catch the way his gaze flicked down to your lips.

It wasn’t rushed or sudden. His movements were deliberate, careful, giving you every chance to stop him. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. When his lips finally met yours, it was soft and slow, like a promise. He kissed you with a tenderness that made your chest ache, his hand still cradling your face as though he couldn’t bear to let go.

Your body melted into his touch, your fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt to steady yourself. The kiss deepened slightly, but it stayed unhurried, every movement of his lips against yours making you feel like you were coming undone in the best possible way.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his thumb brushing gently over your chin. He didn’t say anything at first, just looked at you, his blue eyes filled with something you couldn’t quite name but felt down to your core.

“You don’t have to tell me everything right now,” he said, his voice low and steady. “But I need you to know that you’re not alone. Not with me.”

Your chest ached at his words, and you opened your eyes, meeting his. There was no judgment there, no expectation. Just him, just Rafe, offering you something you didn’t know how to accept but desperately wanted to.

Your lips parted like you might say something, but no words came. Instead, you let out a shaky breath and leaned into him again, resting your head on his shoulder this time. His arms wrapped around you without hesitation, holding you tightly, protectively, as though shielding you from all the things you couldn’t put into words.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself be held. Safe, warm, and, for once, not alone.

[emmg]

At nineteen, Emmrich proposed to a fellow student, a boy with hair so dark it drank the light. The age itself was incidental; a number, an illusion, a neat division imposed upon a life that did not yet know how to divide itself. But still, nineteen was good. Good because it allowed for certainty, for decisions made with the heedless bravado of someone who has not yet learned how time can warp them.  

He remembered family in the way one remembers the texture of a childhood blanket: warmth not as an abstraction but as a sensation, something real enough to be retrieved at will, kneaded, reshaped, pressed into new forms. It was this warmth, this phantom of closeness, that he sought to recreate in the tender spaces of early love. No one stopped him. Nineteen was the age of indulgence, of watching without intervening, of murmured allowances. Let him. He will learn. He will unlearn. The world granted him this folly.

"Let’s wait until we’re no longer apprentices," the lovely boy said, and so they did. 

Then Minrathous for one, Ferelden for the other. Cities that, on maps, seemed no more distant than the span of a hand but, in practice, required whole journeys to cross. The change was slow. Small gaps in the correspondence, a hesitation in the ink, an unfamiliar concision where once there had been excess. 

The letters continued. At first, swollen with sentiment, words pressing against the margins, impatient, tumbling over themselves in their need to be read. Then, the same flourishes, the same intricate loops, but now with the care of one writing an alibi. The words became beautiful in a way that beauty becomes a substitute for feeling. Then, in the end, not at all. 

At thirty, he tried again, though this time without the formalities of a question. A gesture here, a remark left to linger, an invitation just vague enough to be ignored or accepted without consequence. The art was in the waiting: nets cast, lines slack, the delicate balance between reeling in and letting the current decide.

Gifts, unobtrusive at first, then a shade too particular, too attuned. Plans, not for next week but for some fogged-over point just far enough ahead to suggest permanence. A quiet test, a way of observing whether the word we would slip into conversation naturally or require a pause, a conscious effort.

Some entanglements stretched across years, some unraveled in mere months, some never took shape at all. But the process remained the same, a practiced routine, less an act of pursuit than a habit of expectancy, of waiting to see who would mistake the drift for direction. 

With Johanna, it had almost seemed possible. They were young, clever, bright enough to blind themselves. Where she rushed forward, he held back; where she burned bridges, he traced blueprints for new ones. They fit together, he thought. She chose him to fight with, to kiss, to mock, to fuck, to abandon, to retrieve, to champion when it suited her and dismiss when it did not. Out of all the others—so many others, so many better ones—it was him she turned to, and that was beyond exhilarating.

"You're a fucking idiot," she would tell him. 

"Perhaps," he would agree, adjusting his sleeves, "but you still should not do this, Johanna." Or that. Or the next thing. 

They did not balance each other. Balance suggested symmetry, some reciprocal give-and-take. Johanna was a force of nature; he, at best, a gust of wind. But in those days, he let himself believe they came close enough. 

"I could stay with you forever," he confessed to her once, drunk on sentiment, on whatever else had been in his glass. 

"Love. Romance," Johanna muttered, barely looking up from her notes. "Convenient, isn’t it? Always there when it suits you. Always such a lovely little supplement to whatever grand, important thing you’re doing. We could go anywhere, you and I. Climb every ladder, scale every rung. Publish together, argue in print, scandalize conferences, carve our names so deep into the spine of academia they’d have to chisel us out. For a while, it could even be fun." 

Tap-tap-tap. Her cigarette met its end against his desk. 

"And then, of-fucking-course, you'll be wanting more. Because you're a sentimental twat. It'll start with something small. A home, maybe. A study with matching desks. How adorable. Before I know it, I’ll be spending more time with you than without, and suddenly ‘we’ have ‘traditions.’ ‘We’ have ‘a life together.’ And the next thing out of your mouth will be that cursed, saccharine stupid word: family."

A wave of the hand, cutting off whatever nonsense he had been about to say. 

"Tell me, Volkarin, when that moment comes, when the great balancing act begins, who do you think will tip the scales? Who will step back? Who will compromise, just a bit, just a fraction, just enough that it becomes a habit? It certainly won’t be you." 

In the aftermath, he stopped collecting people—they had a way of slipping through, of vanishing between seasons—and turned to objects instead. Objects had the decency to remain where they were placed. Objects, too, could be tender. A frayed ribbon, a cufflink left behind in a hurry, the curve of a wine glass still faintly smudged. If flowers could be pressed between pages, why not the remnants of former closeness?  

For a while, it sufficed. Once-beens do not grow cold. They do not tire of a familiar voice. They do not wake to discover that passion has gone. 

Then, one day, sudden as a fairytale, a little thing followed. A little thing made entirely of curiosity, of unguarded wonder. It assembled itself from air and light, slipped into its chosen shape, donned a backpack, adjusted its goggles, and, most importantly, selected him. It let itself be named. It let itself become. First an it, then a he, then a wisp no longer but This is Manfred. And once again, he thought: this is enough. More than enough. Did he really need more? Did he really dare ask for it? To ask was to tempt, and he had lived long enough to know that nothing is punished more swiftly than wanting.

It is a graveyard, he thinks now, standing in the Lighthouse, frowning at the accumulated debris of a life, at the weight of what he has chosen to drag with him. The artifacts of his years; the trifles, the curiosities gathered not for use but for the fact of their gathering. Books he cherishes and books he detests, bought because, once, someone he desired mentioned them in passing. His grave gold has been carefully curated. Each piece first chosen for its shape and luster, its particular delight, but also bright enough, costly enough, to be seen. Gold so pure it warps under a careless grip, so soft that teeth would leave crescent-shaped wounds in its surface if one were to bite. 

He wonders if Rook—whom he loves, though he will not tell her, not yet, not when love, spoken too soon, has the peculiar effect of making things disappear—might find some use for them. If she would accept one without knowing it was an offering. If she would take a second. If she would take them all. Books she cannot read, books she can set alight. If the gesture would amuse her, if it would tilt her just a hair closer, if, in some small, unnoticed way, it would make her stay after all is said and done and the gods are dead. 

He is vain, naturally. If the wind disarranges his hair, he will pause before a reflective surface to smooth it down. He will scent the pulse points of his throat, darken his lashes, adjust the folds of his collar. But vanity, like intelligence, like charm, is an instrument. He has wielded it since youth, when prettiness earned him gifts, indulgences, the interest of those old enough to give what he could not take. In his prime, handsomeness made students linger too long at his desk, made colleagues tilt their heads toward his in the candlelit hush of evening. And now, past fifty, he is something else altogether. 

Now he looks like a man who can provide. It is a new sort of attention, neither unpleasant nor pleasurable, merely a shift in expectation. He can no longer offer the prettiness of youth—fine, let it go. But there are other currencies. Stability, for one. A steady hand, a still point, a place to land when Rook, inevitably, falls. Because she will fall. It is in her nature to leap, just as it is in his to remain still, just as it was in Johanna’s to trespass. 

He is tired. Not old, not yet, though the distinction is beginning to blur. A little past his prime, a few paces beyond what once felt limitless. Still, the weight of it settles; a fatigue not of the body but of anticipation, of wanting, of that feverish, grasping giddiness that used to propel him forward and now only leaves him breathless. He isn’t sure when it happened, when the thrill sharpened into something sweeter, something he dared to call love. 

All he knows is that the Lighthouse has no hours, no division between night and day, only the endless lull of the in-between. And that in this strange, untethered time, he would very much like to kiss Rook for every second of it. 

"You look very good there," she says, watching him rearrange his books. 

Another night, when a tome slips, edges itself beneath his desk, and he is forced onto hands and knees to fish it out, she remarks, "I don’t like reading, but I like it when you read to me." 

"I like this, and I like that, and I like this even more." Her voice is drowsy as she traces the lines of his face in the dark. He doesn’t know what this or that are, only that she is saying it, only that it undoes something in him. He turns his face slightly, breathes in, and without meaning to, without even noticing at first, he cries.

"Oh," she says, and then, "Hm." A pause. A brief assessment. Finally, a careless shrug. "It’s fine. That’s fine. I like this too." 

Rook, Rook, Rook, he wants to say, you don’t need Rivain, you don’t need the sun. The sun burns you, always has, always will; your skin is too pale for it, you freckle, you scald. But Nevarra— 

Nevarra is softer. Nevarra has clouds, long grey stretches of them, merciful and cool. Nevarra has catacombs and tombs, stone corridors humming with history, names carved so deep they outlast memory. And everywhere—flowers. Tangled over crypts, spilling down staircases, curling at the hinges of forgotten doors. He has seen them all. He's collected them, commissioned their likeness in ink, dried them between pages so they would keep, so he could say: look, here, this one, still perfect, still intact. You don’t need the sun because they don't either. 

He feels selfish, but after all this time, surely, he is allowed. He is not certain if this is the love, grand and operatic, but it has the right proportions, the right density.

Then let him be selfish. Because one way or another, he will go before her. She is young; he is not. He will leave her everything—what he has made, what they will make together—let her wade through the excess of it, scatter it, burn it, gild herself in its remnants. Or perhaps it will be the other way around. Perhaps she will die first, and he will remain, the eternal, patient custodian of the Necropolis, throat slit in the name of lichdom. 

He will visit her bones, speak to her as he speaks to his parents, his voice flattening against stone, words meant for no one but himself. He will not whisper. Not to her. Not the way he does to the others, not in the hush reserved for the dead. Because what if she does not answer? Worse—what if she cannot? What if there is nothing at all on the other side, just a severance so complete that every Rook-shaped, Rook-possessed, Rook-claimed thing is erased, like a hand wiping chalk from a slate? And he, undying, would remain to witness it. So no, he will not whisper. But he will talk. 

He wants it, but he doesn’t want it, because he wants too much, all at once, all overlapping, all pulling in different directions. He wants to live, but he does not want to die. He wants to live with Rook, wants to kiss her, undress her, drag her down onto the floor of the Lighthouse, press her against familiar sheets in Nevarra, in Rivain, in places they have never been, in places that do not yet exist. He wants to pull her so close that the seam between them dissolves. 

More than that, he wants to buy her grave gold, not just because she would relish it—because she is a dragon, a creature drawn to glittering things—but because when she wears it, when her wrists flash with bangles, when her ears are burdened with gold, when her fingers are swallowed in rings, people will see. They will see and know. Know that every piece was placed there, deliberately, by someone who cares for her in the way that gold cares for fire—devotedly, completely, until it melts.

"I love you so much," he tells her one night, after a sip of whiskey too many, after something in his chest has tipped over and spilled. "I love you so, so much, and perhaps, oh, just perhaps, we do not need to die." 

She kisses his cheek, absently. She looks tired. "Not now?" she asks. 

"Not ever," he insists, giddy again, grasping her hands, pressing his lips against her knuckles. 

She exhales, leans back, undoes her braid, fingers brushing through. Inquires again, "How?" Not with disbelief, but with that particular indulgence she reserves for him. She humors, but she listens. She likes to listen. And so he will talk. 

"Me, in lichdom. You... I do not know. Not yet. Not entirely. But I will. Through artifice, perhaps." 

"Artifice?"

"You like gold, do you not?" 

"I suppose."

"Then gold it shall be," he concedes. "Fed into your veins, threaded through capillaries, chaperoned along the corridors of your body. A patient infusion, drop by drop, until the filigree of your arteries is lined with metal, until the marrow of your bones drinks it in like water. When your heart beats—" he presses his fingers to the pulse at her wrist, measuring it, counting. "It will push gold through you, coil it around your sinew, stain your blood the color of amber. It will settle in the soft places, the hidden ones. Behind your ribs, along your spine, between the cords of your throat. You will be a reliquary, a thing preserved, untouchable." His grip tightens slightly, just for a moment, before he releases her, watching the light catch at the faint blue of her veins. "And if your skin were ever cut," he murmurs, "nothing would spill. No ruin, no red, no proof of mortality. Only the gleam of permanence seeping through." 

Rook watches him for a long time, long enough that she seems older, the angles of her face sharpened by something he cannot name. Then he blinks, and suddenly she is younger; too young, younger than memory allows, younger than she has ever been. Paler, too. 

She takes his glass, finishes it without hesitation, grimaces slightly. Still wordless, she cradles his face in her hands, presses a kiss to one cheek, then the other. Her lips brush his eyelids, and he closes them for her, yielding. She lingers there, warm and silent, mouth against the thin skin, long enough that the room begins to shift, long enough that he thinks, drowsily, that he might simply drift into sleep. 

"I love you too," she murmurs, very quietly. Then, softer still, her lips moving against his temple, "But don’t speak like that again." Another kiss, this time to his jaw. "I will come to the Necropolis with you, if you like. In the next few days. You are not doomed, nor transcendent, nor anything half so tragic. You are homesick. That is all. You are simply homesick." 

He knows himself to be a man of excess: of reaching too far, of wanting beyond reason, of pressing his hands too deeply into whatever is offered. That was why the others left, wasn’t it? But Rook, Rook is different. Rook takes. Rook wants. Rook gives, recklessly, and he, in turn, cannot help but take. 

Bad jests, confessions that start careful and end careless. A first time beneath the covers, blood on the sheets, a kiss, the way her mouth moves against his, the way she lets herself be known in increments, in silences, in the cool of her palm against his cheek. Her favorite spot behind the waterfall. Because love, if it is anything at all, is the act of giving. Not just anything, not just for the sake of it, but precisely what the other cannot reach for themselves. 

And so, he wants to give her gold. 

In the morning, he will apologize. Will run a hand over his face, will mutter something about whiskey, about tiredness, about speaking without thinking. He will dismiss himself before she can. Will say that he does not know what possessed him. 

But tonight, he will think of her throat gleaming with gold. He will dream, as he always does, in metal. 

[fuckyeahgoodomens]

Oooh! A great Gavin Finney (Good Omens Director of Photography) interview with Helen Parkinson for the British Cinematographer! :)

HEAVEN SENT

Gifted a vast creative landscape from two of fantasy’s foremost authors to play with, Gavin Finney BSC reveals how he crafted the otherworldly visuals for Good Omens 2.  

It started with a letter from beyond the grave. Following fantasy maestro Sir Terry Pratchett’s untimely death in 2015, Neil Gaiman decided he wouldn’t adapt their co-authored 1990 novel, Good Omens, without his collaborator. That was, until he was presented with a posthumous missive from Pratchett asking him to do just that.  

For Gaiman, it was a request that proved impossible to decline: he brought Good Omens season one to the screen in 2019, a careful homage to its source material. His writing, complemented by some inspired casting – David Tennant plays the irrepressible demon Crowley, alongside Michael Sheen as angel-slash-bookseller Aziraphale – and award-nominated visuals from Gavin Finney BSC, proved a potent combination for Prime Video viewers.  

Aziraphale’s bookshop was a set design triumph.

Season two departs from the faithful literary adaptation of its predecessor, instead imagining what comes next for Crowley and Aziraphale. Its storyline is built off a conversation that Pratchett and Gaiman shared during a jetlagged stay in Seattle for the 1989 World Fantasy Convention. Gaiman remembers: “The idea was always that we would tell the story that Terry and I came up with in 1989 in Seattle, but that we would do that in our own time and in our own way. So, once Good Omens (S1) was done, all I knew was that I really, really wanted to tell the rest of the story.” 

Telling that story visually may sound daunting, but cinematographer Finney is no stranger to the wonderfully idiosyncratic world of Pratchett and co. As well as lensing Good Omens’ first outing, he’s also shot three other Pratchett stories – TV mini series  Hogfather  (2006), and TV mini-series The Colour of Magic (2008) and Going Postal (2010). 

He relishes how the authors provide a vast creative landscape for him to riff off. “The great thing about Pratchett and Gaiman is that there’s no limit to what you can do creatively – everything is up for grabs,” he muses. “When we did the first Pratchett films and the first Good Omens, you couldn’t start by saying, ‘Okay, what should this look like?’, because nothing looks like Pratchett’s world. So, you’re starting from scratch, with no references, and that starting point can be anything you want it to be.”  

Season two saw the introduction of inside-outside sets for key locations including Aziraphale’s bookshop. 

From start to finish 

The sole DP on the six-episode season, Finney was pleased to team up again with returning director Douglas Mackinnon for the “immensely complicated” shoot, and the pair began eight weeks of prep in summer 2021. A big change was the production shifting the main soho set from Bovington airfield, near London, up to Edinburgh’s Pyramids Studio. Much of the action in Good Omens takes place on the Soho street that’s home to Aziraphale’s bookshop, which was built as an exterior set on the former airfield for season one. Season two, however, saw the introduction of inside-outside sets for key locations including the bookshop, record store and pub, to minimise reliance on green screen.  

Finney brought over many elements of his season one lensing, especially Mackinnon’s emphasis on keeping the camera moving, which involved lots of prep and testing. “We had a full-time Scorpio 45’ for the whole shoot (run by key grip Tim Critchell and his team), two Steadicam operators (A camera – Ed Clark and B camera Martin Newstead) all the way through, and in any one day we’d often go from Steadicam, to crane, to dolly and back again,” he says. “The camera is moving all the time, but it’s always driven by the story.” 

One key difference for season two, however, was the move to large-format visuals. Finney tested three large-format cameras and the winner was the Alexa LF (assisted by the Mini LF where conditions required), thanks to its look and flexibility.  

The minisodes were shot on Cooke anamorphics, giving Finney the ideal balance of anamorphic-style glares and characteristics without too much veiling flare.

A more complex decision was finding the right lenses for the job. “You hear about all these whizzy new lenses that are re-barrelled ancient Russian glass, but I needed at least two full sets for the main unit, then another set for the second unit, then maybe another set again for the VFX unit,” Finney explains. “If you only have one set of this exotic glass, it’s no good for the show.” 

He tested a vast array of lenses before settling on Zeiss Supremes, supplied by rental house Media Dog. These ticked all the boxes for the project: “They had a really nice look – they’re a modern design but not over sharp, which can look a bit electronic and a bit much, especially with faces. When you’re dealing with a lot of wigs and prosthetics, we didn’t want to go that sharp. The Supremes had a very nice colour palette and nice roll-off. They’re also much smaller than a lot of large-format glass, so that made it easy for Steadicam and remote cranes. They also provided additional metadata, which was very useful for the VFX department (VFX services were provided by Milk VFX).” 

The Supremes were paired with a selection of filters to characterise the show’s varied locations and characters. For example, Tiffen Bronze Glimmerglass were paired with bookshop scenes; Black Pro-Mist was used for Hell; and Black Diffusion FX for Crowley’s present-day storyline.  

Finney worked closely with the show’s DIT, Donald MacSween, and colourist, Gareth Spensley, to develop the look for the minisode.

Maximising minisodes 

Episodes two, three and four of season two each contain a ‘minisode’ – an extended flashback set in Biblical times, 1820s Edinburgh and wartime London respectively. “Douglas wanted the minisodes to have very strong identities and look as different from the present day as possible, so we’d instantly know we were in a minisode and not the present day,” Finney explains.  

One way to shape their distinctive look was through using Cooke anamorphic lenses. As Finney notes: “The Cookes had the right balance of controllable, anamorphic-style flares and characteristics without having so much veiling flare that they would be hard to use on green screens. They just struck the right balance of aesthetics, VFX requirements and availability.” The show adopted the anamorphic aspect ratio (2:39.1), an unusual move for a comedy, but one which offered them more interesting framing opportunities. 

Good Omens 2 was shot on the Alexa LF, paired with Zeiss Supremes for the present-day scenes.

The minisodes were also given various levels of film grain to set them apart from the present-day scenes. Finney first experimented with this with the show’s DIT Donald MacSween using the DaVinci Resolve plugin FilmConvert. Taking that as a starting point, the show’s colourist, Company 3’s Gareth Spensley, then crafted his own film emulation inspired by two-strip Technicolor. “There was a lot of testing in the grade to find the look for these minisodes, with different amounts of grain and different types of either Technicolor three-strip or two-strip,” Finney recalls. “Then we’d add grain and film weave on that, then on top we added film flares. In the Biblical scenes we added more dust and motes in the air.”  

Establishing the show’s lighting was a key part of Finney’s testing process, working closely with gaffer Scott Napier and drawing upon PKE Lighting’s inventory. Good Omens’ new Scottish location posed an initial challenge: as the studio was in an old warehouse rather than being purpose-built for filming, its ceilings weren’t as high as one would normally expect. This meant Finney and Napier had to work out a low-profile way of putting in a lot of fixtures. 

Inside Crowley’s treasured Bentley.

Their first task was to test various textiles, LED wash lights and different weight loadings, to establish what they were working with for the street exteriors. “We worked out that what was needed were 12 SkyPanels per 20’x20’ silk, so each one was a block of 20’x20’, then we scaled that up,” Finney recalls. “I wanted a very seamless sky, so I used full grid cloth which made it very, very smooth. That was important because we’ve got lots of cars constantly driving around the set and the sloped windscreens reflect the ceiling. So we had to have seamless textiles – PKE had to source around 12,000 feet of textiles so that we could put them together, so the reflections in the windscreens of the cars just showed white gridcloth rather than lots of stage lights. We then drove the car around the set to test it from different angles.”  

On the floor, they mostly worked with LEDs, providing huge energy and cost savings for the production. Astera’s Titan Tubes came in handy for a fun flashback scene with John Hamm’s character Gabriel. The DP remembers: “[Gabriel] was travelling down a 30-foot feather tunnel. We built a feather tunnel on the stage and wrapped it in a ring of Astera tubes, which were then programmed by dimmer op Jon Towler to animate, pulse and change different colours. Each part of Gabriel’s journey through his consciousness has a different colour to it.” 

Among the rigs built was a 20-strong Creamsource Vortex setup for the graveyard scene in the “Body Snatchers” minisode, shot in Stirling. “We took all the yokes off each light then put them on a custom-made aluminium rig so we could have them very close. We put them up on a big telehandler on a hill that gave me a soft mood light, which was very adjustable, windproof and rainproof.” 

Shooting on the VP stage for the birth of the universe scenes in episode one.

Sky’s the limit 

A lot of weather effects were done in camera – including lightning effects pulsed in that allowed both direct fork lightning and sheet lightning to spread down the streets. In the grade, colourist Spensley was also able to work his creative magic on the show’s skies. “Gareth is a very artistic colourist – he’s a genius at changing skies,” Finney says. “Often in the UK you get these very boring, flat skies, but he’s got a library of dramatic skies that you can drop in. That would usually be done by VFX, but he’s got the ability to do it in Baselight, so a flat sky suddenly becomes a glorious sunset.” 

Finney emphasises that the grade is a very involved process for a series like Good Omens, especially with its VFX-heavy nature. “This means VFX sequences often need extra work when it comes back into the timeline,” says the DP. “So, we often add camera movement or camera shake to crank the image up a bit. Having a colourist like Gareth is central to a big show like Good Omens, to bring all the different visual elements together and to make it seamless. It’s quite a long grade process but it’s worth its weight in gold.” 

Shooting in the VR cube for the blitz scenes .

Finney took advantage of virtual production (VP) technology for the driving scenes in Crowley’s classic Bentley. The volume was built on their Scottish set: a 4x7m cube with a roof that could go up and down on motorised winches as needed. “We pulled the cars in and out on skates – they went up on little jacks, which you could then rotate and move the car around within the volume,” he explains. “We had two floating screens that we could move around to fill in and use as additional source lighting. Then we had generated plates – either CGI or real location plates –projected 360º around the car. Sometimes we used the volume in-camera but if we needed to do more work downstream; we’d use a green screen frustum.” Universal Pixels collaborated with Finney to supply in-camera VFX expertise, crew and technical equipment for the in-vehicle driving sequences and rear projection for the crucial car shots. 

John Hamm was suspended in the middle of this lighting rig and superimposed into the feather tunnel.

Interestingly, while shooting at a VP stage in Leith, the team also used the volume as a huge, animated light source in its own right – a new technique for Finney. “We had the camera pointing away from [the volume] so the screen provided this massive, IMAX-sized light effect for the actors. We had a simple animation of the expanding universe projected onto the screen so the actors could actually see it, and it gave me the animated light back on the actors.”  

Bringing such esteemed authors’ imaginations to the screen is no small task, but Finney was proud to helped bring Crowley and Aziraphale’s adventures to life once again. He adds: “What’s nice about Good Omens, especially when there’s so much bad news in the world, is that it’s a good news show. It’s a very funny show. It’s also about good and evil, love and doing the right thing, people getting together irrespective of backgrounds. It’s a hopeful message, and I think that that’s what we all need.” 

Finney is no stranger to the idiosyncratic world of Sir Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman.

[thrillered]

Could you do a fic where spencer reacts to edits of reader or of them together💖

Reacts | Spencer Agnew x Reader Oneshots

I had a few requests like this so I hope everyone who had a similar request likes it! Just something cute and fluffy.

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

“I love you Angela, this is incredible!” You laughed, watching a compilation of Angela moments titled ‘Angela being a feral guinea pig AGAIN for 8 minutes and 22 seconds’. 

“Feral guinea pig is crazy.” Angela sighed. 

The small group finished watching the video, making comments here and there about Angela’s antics. 

“The next compilation requires a slight change in cast,” Ian explained. “Tommy, get out of here! Spencer! Come on over!” 

“Awe Spencey!” You cooed, as he walked onto set, the sound of applause echoing. 

“Now that both Y/N and Spencer are here it’s time for our next video: ‘Spencer and Y/N being the cutest (not 🤨) couple at Smosh’. Let’s get into it.” 

You and Spencer looked at each other, curious as to what would constitute an 18 minute video. You knocked your shoulder into his teasingly, an easy smile gracing his features at your touch. 

“Oh my god! I’m so nervous! Why am I nervous?” You gripped Spencer’s arm tightly, his hand coming to rest on top of yours reassuringly as Shayne began to read an update to the reddit story. Spencer whispered something in your ear, so quiet the mic didn’t even pick it up, making you laugh. 

You paused the video, laughing at the memory. “Oh my god, what did you whisper again?” You asked Spencer. 

“I quoted Will Farrell.” He clarified. 

“Shut up, I’m so fucking scared right now, shut up!” You and Spencer quoted in unison, knocking together in your laughter. 

“That’s definitely gonna be in the next compilation of you two.” Angela teased. 

“Y/N Stop! Holy Shit! Get off of me!” Spencer shriek-laughed, attempting to put his controller out of your reach. 

“No! Fuck! Spencer!” You yelled, basically climbing on top of him trying to mess him up. 

The minigame ended quickly. Hearing it was over you gave up your pursuit of his controller, collapsing on top of him, slightly out of breath. “Good god.” You huffed, resting your head on his shoulder. 

“No way we’re still tied for 4th after all that!” Spencer said, exasperated. He placed his free hand– the one not being pinned down by your body– on your head, ruffling your hair slightly before you sat back up. Looking over to Shayne and Chanse they were both out of breath from laughing at your attack on Spencer.

“I still demand a rematch.” Spencer said, bitter about your success in that ‘don’t Win’ video. 

“Only if you’re ready to get your ass handed to you again.” 

“I feel like there’s gonna be a comp of me and Ian third wheeling you two this whole segment.” Angela interjected, earning a playful glare from the two of you. 

It was just clip after clip of you and Spencer being cute. You two were best friends so you were incredibly comfortable around each other. However, watching the compilation made it a little harder to deny both yours and Spencer’s feelings. You couldn’t help but notice the way he looked at you in each of the clips. He watched you with rapture when you spoke, he looked at you like your voice was the sweetest song he’d ever heard. 

You wanted to deny it but you recognized that look. You recognized it because it was the same way you looked at him. It made your heart swell. 

“I bet if we did an eye-tracker on Spencer and just played a smosh video with Y/N in it, he would always be looking at her.” Ian teased. 

“I mean, as he should.” You laughed. 

“Yeah yeah, whatever. God forbid a man cares about his friend.”

“Oh hush, it's equal caring. I’d be honored for you to stare at me in a video.” You defended. You unpaused for the final clip of the video. 

“Can I phone a friend?” You asked, having no clue what the answer was. 

How you ended up in a video game beapordy, you had no clue. You were doing alright but didn’t know the current question so you didn’t even buzz in. Both Trevor and Chanse had gotten it wrong, leaving it to you. 

“Go ahead.” Shayne allowed.

You called Spencer. You knew he would know the answer. He was currently at his apartment since he had the day off work. 

He picked up after the first ring, which wasn’t unusual for him. “I was just thinking about you.” Spencer remarked, a blush creeping up your neck. “What’s up?” 

“I have a really important question.” You told him, pausing for dramatic effect before reciting the question from Shayne. 

“Oh! This is easy.” Spencer laughed, rattling off the answer and some. 

“I hate to cut you off,” You interjected. “But I gotta finish this game. You can tell me all about it later though.” You promised with a laugh. 

“Okay okay. I’ll see you later then.” 

“Okay, Love you Spence.” 

“I love you more.” 

You hung up, Chanse giving you a playful and knowing smirk. 

“Oh Spencer I love you so dearly.” he mocked, pitching his voice up and adding kissy noises. 

You lightly slapped his arm, allowing the game to continue. 

“Let’s look at some comments, shall we?” Ian asked, scrolling down. 

“ ‘not dating’ my ass, they are too perfect together to not be” 

“Can Spencer fight? I’m so serious.” 

You laughed at this one, looking to Spencer to see his head hanging and shaking no. Beneath that comment was another that mirrored it, only switching your names. 

“Unlike Spencer I can fight so back off my best friend.” You intimated, squaring up to the camera. “Don’t worry babe, I’ll protect you.” You said to Spencer, doing your best douche-bag voice. 

Spencer left the video after this, Tommy reentering to watch the rest of the compilations. 

Spencer sat to the side, watching you, smiling when you did and laughing at all of your jokes. He already knew the comments on this video would be wild. You two had been getting edits and shipping content since your very first video together years ago. He didn’t mind it though.  He knew your friendship was secure and that’s all he cared about. 

Would it make him the happiest man on Earth to be with you? Yes. But that didn’t matter unless you wanted it. He was perfectly content being your best friend, it was a title he wore with great honor. 

He would try one day, he had to. But for now he didn’t need to be your boyfriend to know you loved him. You made it apparent every day with each interaction you shared. He hoped he did the same, because loving you was always the easiest part of his days, and the one that made him the happiest.

[northboreas]

Highlights from the TGWDLM watch party on RanbooLive's twitch for those who couldn't make it:

- Ranboo, a well known Twitch Streamer and longtime Starkid fan got some of the cast of TGWDLM together to rewatch the show & promote the kickstarter!

- It was a side collab, there will still be the main "Divining the future" and DnD Finale streams happening in the next weeks

- Joey Richter got ahold of the soundboard and he abused it wholeheartedly. Crickets, Buzzer sounds, Fart sound effects, ect.

- (Who gave him that power btw. Which one of you did it.)

- Everyone on the discord call had pictures next to their names instead of having their cameras on, most notably Lauren Lopez had a stock photo of a doctor, Jon Matteson had a picture of Jeff Blim, and Jeff had a picture of Jon

- The whole cast introduced themselves and basically said what they had gotten diagnosed with since they did the show

- "This is a HIPPA compliant stream" --Jamie Lyn Beatty out of context

- Lauren Lopez PHD confirmed that after TGWDLM she went to medical school and was the one who diagnosed all of her friends

- Most of the starkids hadn't rewatched the show at ALL until this stream

- Train Choreography mentioned!!!! the cast said James Tolbert is considering bringing it back for the reprise

- Lauren said shes going to be using all of the kickstarter funds to pay for med school

- "It took an apocalypse for him to get closer to his crush" - Jon talking about Paul Matthews

- Jamie made one of the "Tip for a song" sign props for TGWDLM!

- Jamie and Mariah said Alice and Deb are an OTP

- They also said they might make fake instagrams for them to promote the reprise. This is great news for potseed shippers

- There used to be a cut song before La Dee Da Da Day that had Peanuts the Hachetfield Pocket squirrel SINGING

- Lauren said that she would love to have peanuts actually make an appearance, "That squirrel budget is enormous"

- The "Should I take this chair?" "I'll take the piano!" bit was an ad lib

- All the "Okay"s from Paul were also ad libs, meant to give the actors more time to quick change, but now its a genuine part of his character

- They mentioned the homeless man so much, they said that they wanted cocaine to be under his nose for the reprise

- Lauren chimed in with "He doesnt have enough money for coke. He became homeless BECAUSE he spent all his money on coke."

- Lauren confirrmed that she specifically told James Tolbert to keep the "Cup of Roasted Coffee" choreo exactly the same for the remount

- The "Show Stopping Number" choreo will also be the same

- Jeff mentioned that hes planning on making Mariah's songs higher and his songs lower for the show too

- Lauren said she wanted to get a big dumpster for the "Paul, get in the trash can!" scene so the cast could actually be hiding in the trashcan (Probably a joke, but it'd be cool lmao)

- Mariah Rose Faith called TGWDLM a "Sexy Show"

- Lauren joked that shes going to add a line referencing "Janes a Car" from NMT to the scene where Emma talks about her sister's death

- They pitched Smoke Club / Perky's Buds branded joints, and Blue Goo edibles, all being sold at the TGWDLMR merch store

- Jon had to leave the stream right after Act 1 and the second he did the cast was like "Okay, so what do we really think of Jon?"

- "Actually, we're gonna be recasting Paul as this brand new actor named Aaron Tevit" -- Joey Richter

- Joey and Jeff had a headcanon that the army guy Joey plays in TGWDLM calls John MacNamara "Dad"

- During the show Jeff Blim once forgot to wear the watch while playing MacNamara

- "It was the most embarrassed I've ever been in my life"-- Jeff blim

- Ranboo told the cast that they once recorded a shot for shot remake of Show Stopping Number with all the choreo for his school

- America Is Great Again was actually a backup song, the original song that got cut was "goofy" according to Jeff Blim

- When Emma asked people for their phones at curtain call some people would actually give her theirs, and Lauren + The cast would go backstage and take photos with the phones for their fans

- We reached 475k (The Witches Budget) during this livestream, and we still have 14 days left for the kickstarter!

[cheeseboi420]

Of A Feather - Chapter 1

Preview: And then the shoe drops; he says your name. Your full name. Not your fake name, that you use at work, and on envelopes, and in hypothetical coffee shops. Your real name.

It takes every bit of emotional regulation you can muster not to spiral into a full blown panic right then and there because good God, did He send a child to finish you off? The cruel irony is not lost on you. Come to think of it, this boy on your doorstep does bear an uncanny resemblance to-

“My name is Jason Todd,” the boy continues. “And uh… well, I might be your son?”

You expect this evening to play out like the one before it. And the one before that. And the one before that. Your routine hasn't changed in the last 13 years. Why should it? It serves you well enough, keeps you alive and… Well that's about all it does for you. Not that you're looking for more! For the most part you are… content, maybe isn't the correct word. Complacent fits a little better, but still isn't wholly accurate. You're content in the knowledge that your boy is safe and loved, somewhere far away from the trouble that chases you. You're complacent in your own quiet misery. The longing and loneliness had been a bitter pill to swallow those first few years of running, but after this long you've learned not to complain. God knows no one would listen if you did.

You've got a shitty frozen pizza in the oven, this will be your dinner, tomorrow's breakfast, and tomorrow's dinner. You won't particularly enjoy any of the meals, but they'll sustain you well enough. These days food brings you little if any joy. Meal times are a chore to slog through before the distraction that work brings or the sweet embrace of sleep. You look forward to, more than anything, going to bed. Not because you're tired (though there is a bone deep weariness that permeates- that no amount of rest could ever fix) but because bed means sleep, and sleep means dreams, and dreams mean a chance to hold your baby again.

You don't dream of Jason every night, but every morning you wake thinking of him. Is he still asleep right now? Having breakfast? Is he eating well? Is he happy? Is he happy? Is he happy?

By the time you push your way through breakfast most mornings the cacophony of thoughts revolving around your son quiets to a dull roar in the back of your mind. It's better that way, you think. If you thought about him as much as your mind seemed to want you to, you'd never get anything done.

Life carries on, you suppose. However dreary and dull that life may be.

At one time you'd found the whole thing very exciting- though not in a particularly enjoyable way. The adrenaline rush has worn off over the years, no longer do you feel as though death is nipping at your heels. The paranoia never fades though. Even if your doom does not cast a shadow over you, you're always looking over your shoulder, always ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble.

You keep a bag packed and ready in the closet by the front door for when you have to leave this place too. Though, you think it's buried under a winter jacket and your work uniform. You really ought to dig it out, keep it easily accessible. You should do that but… it's been a long day. You want to eat your shitty pizza, lay down on your futon, and let the sound of TV static fill your studio apartment, lulling you to sleep.

You're getting too comfortable here, you think. You've lived in Michigan for nearly a year now. It is simultaneously entirely too close to and entirely too far from Gotham. The apartment itself was a godsend after spending most of your time sleeping in cars, tents, whatever unfortunate business was willing to employ you, anywhere you could, really- sure it has bugs, and the windows don't close all the way, and you're fairly certain it'll only take one more bad winter storm for the place to come crumbling down, but rent is dirt cheap, and the slumlord you rent from didn't ask for any ID when you signed your ‘lease.’ You're fairly certain that thing's not legally binding anyways- it was written on a cocktail napkin for Christ's sake. That didn't stop you from using a fake name when signing it. You can never be too careful.

You haven't seen your landlord since you moved in anyways. You don't ask for maintenance when things break, you fix them yourself or just learn to live with them broken. You deliver your rent by slipping a cash stuffed envelope with your name (your fake name, the one you signed your lease with, the one you use at work, the one you'd use at coffee shops if you ever went to any) on it through the slot in the office door. You do your best to be invisible. You don't cause problems, and you don't go out of your way to fix them for others. You make no friends or enemies. You've left no impact on the many places you've been, the cities you've drifted through.

The only evidence you've gone anywhere at all in your life is a stack of postcards, held together with a worn rubber band, sitting at the bottom of your go-bag. The only evidence of a life lived before that is in a similarly bound stack of polaroids, held together with a too-small paperclip. Every now and then you'll buy a bottle of cheap wine to chug as you pour over the old photographs. Only when you leave for a new city do you touch the stack of unsent postcards.

You can't bear to look at the photos too often, a painful reminder of your own failings. A reminder of the stupid, reckless little girl you'd been, and the shell of a woman you'd become in the aftermath.

It's all your own fault, really.

At least that's what you keep telling yourself.

It's easier to swallow than the alternative: that you were a vulnerable and unloved thing, eating from any hand that would feed you, until the hand that feeds decides to beat.

This, you think, is why you shouldn't think too hard about the past. It doesn't do you any good to dwell on it.

You force yourself to focus on the present, on the here and now. The scratchy polyester blend of the futon cushions, the scent of cheap cheese melting in the oven, the distant sound of sirens and howling wind outside your apartment. There's no sense in thinking about Gotham now, not when you're so far from it.

You sit up on the futon, no longer content to lounge and let your mind wander. Instead you task yourself with flipping through channels on TV, seeking something mind numbing enough to distract you from your unusually strong urge to reminisce.

The Wonder Years? No, you don't want to watch anything about a family.

Alf? No, that puppet creeps you out.

Cops? Fuck that.

You're about to resign yourself to another night of murmuring the (mostly incorrect) answers to Jeopardy questions at your TV, when you're startled by a knock at your door.

A… knock… at your door.

No one ever knocks on your door. You don't get mail, you don't have friends, if your landlord wanted something, you're willing to bet the greasy bastard wouldn't be willing to haul himself all the way up to the fifth floor at nearly 10 PM.

Oh God… Did… Did he find you? Is this it? Are you going to die in the upper peninsula of Michigan, of all fucking places?!

No, no. You have to stay calm. This could be anything. It's just a knock at the door. It could be anyone!

Oh lord, it could be anyone.

You keep the TV on, hoping that the sound of Alex Trebek grilling folks on useless trivia will cover your footsteps as you creep towards your front door. You hold your breath as you press yourself against it, double checking that all three of your locks are secure before you risk a glance out the peephole.

When you look out into the hall you're surprised, and frankly a bit confused by the sight before you. Standing at your door is a boy, dark haired and bright eyed. He stands straight but not particularly tall- he can't be more than five feet, if that. He's glancing around the hall, rocking back and forth on his heels. He's wearing a red sweatshirt and jeans, with a backpack slung over one shoulder. Despite his small stature he holds an air of determination that makes you think he must feel quite old for his age- you get that, you were the same way in your own youth. A chip too big for your shoulder.

You're so focused on studying him that it startles you when he leans forward to knock again. You jolt, accidentally kicking the door (with your bare feet too, damn does that hurt your poor toes) and responding to his knock-knock-knock with a solid knock of your own.

“Hello?” The boy calls. “Anybody home?”

“I don't have any money!” You call back, cursing yourself for the shake in your voice. You should not be this rattled by a random adolescent on your doorstep. “So, if you're selling popcorn, or cookies, or whatever, you should try next door.”

The boy rolls his eyes.

“I'm not a boy scout!” He says. “I'm looking for-”

And then the shoe drops; he says your name. Your full name. Not your fake name, that you use at work, and on envelopes, and in hypothetical coffee shops. Your real name.

It takes every bit of emotional regulation you can muster not to spiral into a full blown panic right then and there because good God, did He send a child to finish you off? The cruel irony is not lost on you. Come to think of it, this boy on your doorstep does bear an uncanny resemblance to-

“My name is Jason Todd,” the boy continues. “And uh… well, I might be your son?”

He could be lying, the logical part of your brain insists. This could be a ploy to get you to open the door, don't open the door! But your hands are moving on their own, shaky as they may be. The first lock twists unlocked with ease, the second takes a fair bit more of your fine motor function, and by the time your shaking hands reach up to unhook the chain on the door, you're struggling to see through unshed tears. You attempt once, twice, three fucking times to get your hands to cooperate and unlatch the damn chain.

Fuck it.

You open the door, yanking it inwards, towards yourself as hard as you can. It should probably unnerve you that the flimsy chain breaks at the first sign of real resistance, but that's not what's important right now.

What's important is the boy standing before you- your boy. Your Jason.

He looks as surprised as you feel, his eyes flitting between the broken chain, and you.

For a long moment the only thing you can do is look at him, reacquaint yourself with the sight of him. Of course, you know that he did not stay frozen in time, the way your memory of him did. It's been many years since you've held that babbling toddler. But knowing and seeing are two different things.

He's small for his age, is your first thought. Your own fault, you're certain. Between a premature delivery and your own malnourishment during both your pregnancy and his infancy, it's a miracle he'd survived in the first place. Small, but well fed. His cheeks are full and flushed, despite his size he seems healthy. Good. That means Will's been feeding him. Hopefully, it means they got the hell out of The Alley, into a nicer neighborhood.

His hair isn't as curly as you'd pictured it- too short in most places to hold a curl, save for his bangs, which seem to almost curl into the shape of a heart over his forehead.

“Jason?” You can barely manage to say his name through the lump in your throat. You find yourself suddenly struggling to focus your gaze on him, the haze of tears welling up in your eyes makes it difficult to see. You try to blink them away but instead they roll down your cheeks.

God, when's the last time you cried?

You reach out to him, cupping one of his cheeks in the palm of your shaking hand. He leans into the affectionate touch, and you're reminded of puppies, overeager and seeking love at every opportunity.

“Mom,” he says back to you, his tone just as reverent as your own. “Mom,” he says again, voice cracking. And then in unison, the both of you have pulled each other into a crushing hug. You can't tell if the sound you make is a sob or a laugh. You hold onto Jason like he'll vanish into the ether if you loosen your hold for even a second, one hand clutching at the back of his sweatshirt, the other at the back of his head, petting his hair as he buries his face in your neck.

Finally, at long last, your heart is home.

Tears roll freely down your cheeks and land in Jason's hair. You sniffle, extra hard to keep from getting snot on him too. It's one thing to cry on the poor boy, the last thing you want is to use him as a human tissue.

“My baby,” you sob, and your sons hold on you tightens. You think (hope, selfishly) that he has missed you as much as you've missed him.

He's crying too, you realize- not as hard as you are (which is a little embarrassing, get it together girl, you're the adult here) but with his face tucked into your neck you can feel every tear. When you begin to pull back he's quick to wipe the tears away, scrubbing at his flushed cheeks with the heel of his palm. You remove your hand from his hair to gently thumb away an errant tear, and he sniffles before giving you a wobbly smile.

“Hi,” you say softly, your hand lingering on his face. “Hi, baby.”

“Hi, mom.” He parrots, closed-lip smile melting into the sweetest toothy grin you've ever seen. You try to sear the image of him into your memory, imprint this moment into the front of your mind. You're half convinced you'll wake up any moment, TV still playing Jeopardy, pizza burning in the oven.

“How did you- I mean, what are… I just-” you cut yourself off with a breathless laugh. “I don't even know where to start. How… How did you find me?” Why did you come? Do you have any idea how much danger you've put yourself in just by being here?

Jason pulls back from you fully, stepping back out into the hallway. The feeling of loss is immediate and gut wrenching. He's only a foot away from you and already you feel like you're losing him all over again. You're tempted to just pull him back in, to refuse to let go. But you refrain.

Jason reaches into his pocket and pulls out a postcard.

Oh shit.

“I went back to our old neighborhood,” Jason starts, and your stomach sinks. You hope to God he means the neighborhood you left him in and not the one you'd lived in together. You loathe to imagine him running into- no, you refuse to even entertain the idea. Clearly he meant Willis’ neighborhood and not your own. You don't know that he'd be here at all if he'd found the folks you ran with all those years ago. The same people you've spent the last decade running from.

“I got a bunch of old stuff- Mrs. Walker saved it all, and I found, well I found a lot of stuff, but y'know the important stuff was all-”

“Jason, honey, breathe.” He’s talking a mile a minute, where your brain seems to have stalled completely, his is working overtime. He pauses and takes a deep, purposeful breath. It's dramatic, childish almost, how his whole body tenses on the inhale and releases on the exhale. Tentatively, you reach out to take his wrist.

“Why don't you come sit down and we can… we can talk about everything, okay?” You keep your voice soft and low, as if trying to coax a frightened animal. You're afraid he might bolt at the first hint of danger. You wouldn't blame him in the slightest if he did.

Jason doesn't run nor does he shy away from the hold you have on his wrist. He allows you to lead him inside, setting his backpack on the floor next to the door.

Before you close it, you glance around the hall. No one is out there, no one has bore witness to your little reunion. You're not sure what you'd do if anyone had. You shut the door, locking your remaining two locks. You're aware of the concept of ‘mom strength,’ that adrenaline spike that mothers get when their children are in danger, that allows them the ability to do insane shit like lift up whole cars. You don't think snapping the chain off a cheap door lock is quite comparable, but shit. If that's what you can do just seeing him alive and well, you can't help wondering what you'd be capable of if he were in danger.

You know. You know full well what you're capable of doing when you think it will keep him safe. You know. You know. You know.

Jason's presence in your apartment makes you suddenly very aware of how… lacking your home is. Traveling often meant taking no more than what you could carry on your back. All of the furniture in your apartment is second-hand. The TV had been left behind by the previous tenant (whom you're fairly certain is still being billed for the cable- God knows you haven't been the one paying it), the futon and recliner picked up off street corners, the single TV tray you use as a dinner table and matching pair of folding chairs had been an impulse purchase at a thrift store when you first started working again.

You've passed through dozens of cities, only taking jobs that pay in cash. You'd never had a bank account, even before you started running. Too young and too female to open one on your own, and by the time you were old enough you couldn't get one anyway. Too traceable, too much risk attached to putting your name into the world like that. So you worked for cash, which meant your options were limited and often unpleasant. You've been a waitress, a hairdresser, a bartender (though you weren't exceptionally good at that- you learned the hard way that an aching heart and easy access to alcohol do not mix well), a housekeeper, and a- well, you won't list every occupation you've taken up. Some of them you'd really rather not recall.

The transient nature of your lifestyle makes it hard for you to see your living conditions for what they really are: fucking bad. You've got no decor, the whole apartment reeks of cigarettes and it's freezing cold to boot. You've got a space heater to remedy that last issue, but if you run it while the TV is on then you'll lose power in the whole unit and have to walk all five floors (your building has elevators, but they've been broken the entire time you've lived here. The slip on the doors that says ‘out of order - management’ is yellowed with age and tattered around the edges) just to get to the circuit breaker.

It's certainly not fit for hosting guests of any kind, let alone your long lost son.

“Sorry it's uh… like this,” you gesture broadly to the apartment. “I wasn't exactly expecting company.”

“‘S fine,” Jason says, leaning against your wall. You take care to study his expression as he looks around what you're sure must be the most depressing studio apartment this side of the Mississippi. To his credit (and your great relief) he genuinely doesn't seem perturbed by your place.

He's been with you in worse places, you think. Though you doubt he recalls even a moment of your time together. Less than two years you had him. Nowhere near enough time.

There's time now. He's here. He's here, he's here, he's here. The Greek chorus in your head continues to remind you. He's here, and he's real, and you still don't know what the hell he's here for. It can't be just for you, you'd left Willis with very strong instructions to not ever let Jason search for you. Though you suppose it probably would have helped drive home the message if you'd actually said it to him instead of leaving it in a letter, like a coward.

Coward is one of the words you associate most with yourself. Coward, idiot, whore, failed matriarch- that's what it'll say on your tombstone. You shake the thoughts from your head. Now is not the time to spiral into self loathing.

“Here, let's sit.” You guide him to your makeshift dinner table. At the time, you'd thought buying two folding chairs instead of one was a waste of money- who the hell were you expecting to have over? Now though, you're glad you did.

Jason's still got the postcard clutched in one hand. You can almost make out your own handwriting from this angle, but most of what you can see of it is just the scenic wintery landscape and the ‘Seasons Greetings From Michigan!’ printed in red cursive on the other side.

The postcards were, admittedly, an unwise decision. The one that Jason holds now was never supposed to reach him in the first place. It should be gathering dust in your bag with the rest of them. But you're as sentimental as you are stupid.

For the last 13 years, every city you've stopped in you've picked up a postcard. You've written the date and a note to Jason on it, filled out the addresses of Willis’ apartment, and (on the rare occasion when you've had a physical address of your own to write down) wherever it was that you were staying. Some part of you has to have anticipated this- that someday, somehow, one of these cards would find its way to its intended recipient. Maybe that's why you always wrote in the addresses, in spite of how completely and utterly stupid it was of you.

The both of you take your seats at the table.

“Can I…?” You point at the card in Jason's hand.

“Huh? Oh! Yeah, of course,” he hands the card to you. It's frayed in the corners, the edges of the cardstock now softer than the middle. Like he's been holding onto it constantly, like he's been running his fingers along the outline of it. Like he's been rereading it.

Dec. 25th, 1989

My sweet Jason,

I hope your having a good christmas. I hope you get a thousand presents and all the cookies you can eat (without getting sick!)

Im thinking of you, always.

I miss you more than words can say.

All of my love, all of the time

-Mom

Short and sweet, full of grammatical errors and hardly legible due to how absolutely shitfaced you were when writing it. You don't drink often, not anymore anyways. The first couple of years after you'd had to leave Jason were… tough, to say the least. You found yourself drawn to anything you could use to make yourself stop thinking about it, about him. These days you've learned how to just shut your brain off completely, how to operate on autopilot, how to not think about anything at all. You only drink on holidays now. And birthdays. Times when you can't help but think I should be with my baby. Thanksgiving, Christmas, your own birthday, mother's day, and especially Jason's birthday.

This was actually the second Michigan card you'd written him. The first one you'd written to him last May, when you first settled into the new state. That card is no doubt still buried in your bag with the others.

You had picked this card up on your way home from work, Christmas day. Why the pub you work in is open on Christmas is beyond you- the place had gotten maybe two patrons the entire day, and one of them was you. The bartender poured drinks for you your entire shift, topping you off every time your glass reached the halfway point. At the end of your shift he offered you a ride home, to which you declined. In retrospect you think he was coming onto you. Which would certainly explain why he's been so curt with you ever since. Oh well, it's no loss for you. In fact, maybe you ought to thank him.

Because if you had taken him up on his offer, you never would have stumbled home drunk, trudging your way through a foot of snow in your work uniform. You never would have stopped to rest at a closed news stand. Never would have picked up that stray postcard. Never would have taken the pen from your apron and scrawled out a quick message to your son, uninhibited and loving. Never would have drunkenly failed to slip it into your pocket as intended, instead letting it fall to the ground, where the next day some good Samaritan will slap a stamp on it and drop it in the post box. Never would have found yourself sitting across the table from your son.

You try to push down the lingering anxiety of it all, force yourself to feel hope. Maybe this can be good. Maybe no one will bother you two. Maybe you don't have to be afraid anymore. Maybe it's over.

“I'm sorry,” Jason is the one to break the silence. You set the card back down on the table.

“What for?” You've never done anything wrong, not once in your life, you think. What could you ever have to apologize for?

“I would have come sooner, but this went to our old place, and I don't live there anymore, so I didn't get it until a few days ago.” Jason gestures to the postcard. So they did make it out of the alley. Good. Your baby deserves to live someplace where people don't piss on your stoop every night and threaten you with violence every morning.

“Oh Jason,” you sigh. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I never expected you to come anyways.”

This is obviously not the correct thing to say, because he visibly deflates at your words. Your heart breaks a little bit- God, you're a terrible mother.

“Not that I'm not happy you're here now!” You correct yourself quickly. “I am happy, Jason. I'm so, so happy you're here.” You reach across the TV tray, palms up and open. Jason doesn't hesitate to place his hands in yours. They're calloused, which you didn't expect. It's not bothersome, you'd hold his hands even if they were too mangled to hold yours back. But it does make you wonder what he's done to make them like that. What kind of a life must he have led without you?

He smiles a little at that, soft and sweet and warmed by your affection. This is how he should always look, you think. Content and cared for.

“I'm a little concerned that you came all the way from Gotham by yourself though…” You say, squeezing his hands. You may have gotten up to some pretty crazy things at his age, but even you didn't start traveling cross country until you were nearly 22. At 15 your son shouldn't even be driving yet, let alone journeying from New Jersey to Michigan on his own.

“Aw, don't worry about that, ma!” Jason grins, looking awfully proud of himself. There's another expression you'd like to see on him more. And that word- ‘ma,’ he calls you. A much more casual title than you would have given yourself. Not that you’d expect him to call you ‘mother,’ or God forbid ‘ma’am’ like your mother had insisted you’d called her. No, you were prepared for ‘mom’, or maybe even just your name. You wouldn’t have been particularly pleased to have your only child call you by name, but you’d have understood if he felt more comfortable calling you that. There’s a certain familiarity in ‘ma,’ though. A kind of casual affection that you think would have taken years to develop, that in spite of your absence in his life, Jason gives freely.

“I'm your mother, it's my job to worry about you.” You say softly, and Jason's proud smile melts into something a little softer and more pensive.

“Going from Gotham to here was nothin'!” He insists. “I went to Lebanon first- here, hold on a sec.” He rises from his seat, pulling his hands from yours. Though you desperately want to keep your hold on him and shout ‘Lebanon?! By yourself?! You went to fucking Lebanon?!’ You refrain from that as well. He dashes to where he’s left his backpack at the door, picking it up and rushing back to his seat. He throws himself into the folding chair with such force that it rocks to the side, nearly tipping over with him in it. Without thinking you stick your leg out under the table, catching his chair and slamming your knee against the TV tray simultaneously.

“Sorry,” Jason says sheepishly.

“Don't worry about it birdie.”

The nickname makes Jason freeze in place, eyes wide and body tense.

“Birdie?” He asks.

“Sorry, it's- old habits die hard, y'know? That's what I called you when you were a baby.”

Jason's wide eyes relax a little, but his posture is still rigid.

“Why?”

“There was… you had this mobile, with doves on it. Until you were about a year old it was the only thing that would get you to sleep.” That and the sound of you singing, more often than not it had to be both. You force away the memory of that mobile, tangled and broken, lying in your bed many years ago. You force away the memory of how it was broken in the first place. It's not a night you'd like to recall.

This answer seems to placate Jason, but only momentarily.

“Wait, a year old? I thought… I mean, I figured you gave me up right away.”

And oh, oh, if that doesn’t break your heart, what will? It's by design that he doesn't know much about you- an intentional but unfortunate side effect of your leaving. It's safer for him this way. Or at least it was safer for him… or maybe it was never safe at all, considering he's found his way to you regardless of your attempts to shield him from the horrors you carry.

“You were about a year and nine months when I had to,” you pause to take a shuddering breath, lump in your throat threatening to choke the words right out of you. “When I had to leave you with Will.”

Neither of you says anything for a torturously long moment. You scrape at your cuticles, and Jason plays with a loose string on his sweatshirt. Jason looks like he wants to say something, his brow furrowed in concentration or perhaps concern- you struggle to read people sometimes. In the silence you recall an overlooked detail from earlier in the conversation.

“I'm sorry, just- just to circle back real quick, you went to Lebanon?”

“Oh, right!” The sullen expression leaves Jason's face, replaced instead by boyish pride. He reaches into his bag and digs around, procuring a few sheets of paper of varying sizes. The first one he presents to you is his birth certificate.

Your eyes follow the familiar text, the ink long dried though you could almost swear you've still got smudges of it on the side of your hand. It feels so terribly long ago and so recent at the same time.

Your eyes follow his name, written in sloppy print, Jason Peter Todd.

Along the line for the father’s name is your handwriting, spelling out in all lowercase letters ‘willis todd.’ You had been a little delirious still when they’d asked you to sign the certificate- frankly it’s a miracle you managed to even spell the names right- Jason’s, Willis’, and your own. The box for the mother's name however is almost entirely whited out, save for a single letter. That was not your doing.

“I went back to the old place,” Jason says, picking up his story from where he'd left off in the hall. “Mrs. Walker, I dunno if you knew her,” (you didn't) “but she was our neighbor. She saved a bunch of our old stuff for me after I left, including this.” He taps on the certificate.

“Which is how I found out that mom- my… my other mom wasn't my real mom.”

The thought of Jason calling another woman mom makes you sick to your stomach. But you suppose you forfeited the right to be his only mother when you left. That must be why he’d defaulted to ‘ma’ after your initial embrace- to distinguish you from the mother who raised him. The mother whom you are certainly not jealous of, no, not one bit. A blatant lie, you must admit to yourself. You are terribly jealous of the woman who got to watch your son grow up. You’re sure she’s lovely, and you’re infinitely grateful to her for watching over your boy, for loving him as if he were her own child, but you kind of hate her.

“So I looked in dads address book to try and match up the names in there to the letter on my birth certificate!” He presents you with the other two slips of paper, no doubt torn straight from Will's address book. Sharmin Rosen and Sandra Woosan. You don't recognize either name, but that doesn't surprise you. For all his faults, you've always known Willis to be popular, and awfully charming when he wants to be.

You examine both slips of paper, not sure what you hope to achieve by reading the names and addresses of these unfamiliar women.

“I didn't find the postcard until I was on the plane back to Gotham. Kinda jumped the gun on that one.” He says, a little sheepishly.

“You went all the way to Lebanon just to look for me…” You whisper, reverently. God, what an incredible kid. He's brilliant. You never would have thought to match the names in Will's address book to the singular uncovered letter on his birth certificate, had you been in his place. He's a clever kid- he gets it from you, you’re certain. And boy oh boy, isn’t that quite the thought? In your youth you had an ego the size of Texas, though a series of failures and hardships had tamed it somewhat, it appears as though some of that confidence remained, lying dormant, waiting to be impressed upon your greatest creation to date.

“And, Will was just fine with this?” You ask, suddenly realizing what Jason's solo presence means. “He just let you go to fucking Lebanon by yourself?”

Jason's proud expression fades fast and your stomach sinks.

“Dad's not…” he clenches and unclenches his fist, the loose thread he'd been twirling between his fingers snaps. “Dad is dead.”

“Oh,” is all you can think to say. Because really, what else is there to be said? You were never in love with Willis Todd- you liked him plenty, thought he was funny, and charming, and handsome in his own way. But you were not in love with him, and your mourning of him extends only so far as to mourn the loss of something that means a great deal to someone you love.

Despite a lack of love for Will, you do hold a deep affection for the man. After all, he gave you a son and a handful of very memorable evenings. When your eyes begin to water, you think you’re sad more for Jason than for yourself. To lose a lover is one thing, to lose a father is another beast entirely.

“I'm sorry, ma,” Jason says, and this time he's the one reaching across the tray to hold your hands, to comfort you.

“I told you earlier, you have nothing to apologize for, baby.” You say. With his hands in yours you can't wipe away your tears. “I’m sorry, honey.”

Jason sniffles and shrugs, trying very hard to seem unaffected.

“It was a while ago,” he tells you.

“How long ago is ‘a while ago?’” You ask. You wonder who has taken care of him in Willis’ absence. Though you have no doubt your boy could hold his own, you certainly hope he hasn’t had to. You hope he’s always had a warm bed to crawl into at the end of the day. A hot meal waiting for him, prepared by loving hands.

“Dunno when exactly but, I only found out he was dead a couple years ago.” Jason answers. “I thought he was just in jail but…” His face hardens, turns serious in a way that makes him look much older and (though it shouldn’t surprise you as much as it does) quite a bit like his father.

“Two-Face killed him.” Jason says, his hands tightening around yours.

Christ almighty, what is wrong with you two?! Poor Jason, never stood a chance, both his parents victims of Gotham’s famed rogues. You force those thoughts out of your head, push them deep, deep, deep down. You’ll have to tell him eventually, you owe him the full truth of his childhood. But for the moment, you don’t think he needs honesty, he needs empathy.

“Oh, birdie, I’m so sorry.” You squeeze his hands, which are still holding yours perhaps a little too tightly for comfort. You make no mention of your discomfort to Jason though- if he needs to have a vice grip on your hands to feel better then you’ll let him crush every bone in them. Not that you think he would- he’s a good kid, you’re certain of it.

“Can I ask…” you start and then hesitate, thinking for a moment that maybe it’s a little callous to interrogate him on the matter only moments after he revealed to you that his father had died. You soldier on anyway. “Who’s been taking care of you, honey?”

Finally Jason’s grip on your hands loosens, until he’s pulling his hands away entirely to return to playing with the loose thread on his sleeve.

“It was just me and mom- my… my stepmom,” he hesitates on the word, as if he’s not sure he said it right. Really, he’s just unused to referring to her as such. It makes sense of course, that he’d assumed the woman who raised him to be his true mother- no one had ever suggested anything to the contrary. “For a while there. But she got sick and…” He sniffles hard- he does that when he’s trying not to cry, you note. “She’s gone too.”

You presume by ‘gone’ he means deceased as well, not well, performing the same disappearing act you had.

“And now…? Oh, God, have you been all on your own?” It makes you absolutely nauseated to think of him alone, frightened and cold in the cruel streets of Gotham. If that were the case you’d never forgive yourself for abandoning him. That’s what it was, wasn’t it? An abandonment. You can dress it up however you like, insist to yourself that he was better off far, far away from you but… In comes the nagging thought that you fucked up. You made the wrong choice and your son has suffered for it. The only person on this earth that you care about has suffered for the choices you made.

“Not anymore!” Jason exclaims, some of his enthusiasm returning to him. You’re grateful for it, and you think he is too- relieved to find a small reprieve from the heavy conversation. Though you note that ‘not anymore’ is technically an answer in the affirmative. He had at some point or another, for a duration of time he didn’t seem too keen on sharing, been left entirely to his own devices. Your stomach turns.

“Bet you’ll never guess who adopted me,” he says, regaining some of the youthful energy that he’d displayed upon first arrival.

“I bet I won’t,” you confirm. “I’m no good at guessing games.”

He leans forward over the makeshift table, head swiveling as if checking to ensure that no one else is in your apartment. It’s supposed to be a playful motion, a commitment to the bit that normally you would find quite endearing, but you’re paranoid. His joking reminds you that there are in fact, people or a singular person, commanding those beneath him who would like to see you dead, or worse. You’re so distracted by the sudden onset of anxiety that you almost miss when Jason tells you who his mysterious benefactor is.

“Bruce Wayne,” Jason whispers conspiratorially, as if it were some grand secret.

“Bruce Wayne?!” Jason was correct, you would not have guessed that. “No shit?”

“No shit,” he confirms, satisfied by your surprise.

“That’s gotta be one Hell of a story,” you are honestly a little thrown by the revelation. You kept up as well as you could with the goings on of Gotham, though admittedly you paid much less attention to the kinds of gossip columns that Bruce Wayne was a frequent feature in. Your focus was much more… villainous, in nature. Waiting and watching and hoping and praying for when He gets put away for good. Not just stuffed into Arkham for a brief stay before the inevitable breakouts that plague the storied institution, but well and truly gone. Then and only then would it have been safe to return to your hometown, and to the baby you’d left behind in it. Not that he’s much of a baby anymore.

“It’s kind of a long one,” Jason warns.

“I’ve got time,” you reply.

“Actually, could I ask you some stuff first?” It’s a blatant redirect, but you won’t press him. Not yet anyway, you’ll get that particular story out of him sooner or later. But you’ve never had the heart to deny him anything, and as you thought earlier, he deserves honesty.

“I’m an open book, hon,” you tell him, though it comes out sounding unconfident. You hope he doesn’t pick up on it, but if he’s half as perceptive as he is clever, you’re certain he does. Regardless, he doesn’t call you on your bluff, opting instead to begin asking his own questions.

“Why Michigan?” It surprises you that that’s the first question he asks, and not ‘why did you abandon me?’ God knows that’s what you would have asked, and in much less kind words.

“Why not?” Is your answer. “I’ve actually only been here for, hm, I think it’ll be a year next month. I ah, I’ve traveled a lot since…” You trail off and let him assume the rest.

“Where else?”

“Oh, lots of places- I never stay anywhere for very long. I’ve been all over the place.Chicago for a few weeks, Austin for a month or two, a very poorly timed trip to Metropolis kind of turned me off to big cities for a while. Until now I never stayed anywhere for more than a couple months.”

You can practically see the gears turning in his head as he begins to piece together an idea of the life you’ve led in his absence.

“Why stop here?” He asks.

“I guess I just… got tired of running.” You answer honestly. You’re not as young as you used to be, and living by your charms is less and less viable every day.

“What are you running from, ma?” To his credit, he seems to have put together the pieces quite quickly. Rapidly coming to the understanding that you aren’t traveling just for the fun of it, but that you are traveling to escape. He’s a smart kid, brilliant even. You couldn’t be prouder.

Unfortunately, his cleverness is to your detriment. You’d hoped not to reveal this aspect of your history (your shared history) for a little while longer- long enough to establish a rapport with him. Long enough that he won’t immediately turn his nose up at you in disgust when he sees your true nature.

“I've done a lot of stuff I regret, Jason.” You say softly, instead of offering a real explanation. Just a moment longer, you think. Please let me keep this from him, let him continue to love me for just one more moment. You see the unasked question written all over his face.

‘Am I something you regret?’

“But please, please know that I wanted you. From the second I knew you existed I wanted nothing more than to be your mom, okay?”

“Why'd you leave?” Jason finally asks, his voice just above a whisper, and your heart seizes in your chest. He sounds so sad. You're a monster, a terrible mother, and a despicable human being.

“Oh, Jason…” That lump in your throat hasn't gotten any smaller. Your eyes sting with unshed tears. You want to hold him, but honestly you don't think you have the right.

“I didn't- I was just trying to- fuck, I'm sorry.” You sniffle, struggling to find the words.

For a second Jason looks like he's going to say something, and your stomach twists in knots as you try to predict what exactly is going to come out of his mouth. I hate you? You're a terrible mom? I wish I'd stayed in Gotham? All strong contenders, all things you wouldn't blame him in the slightest for feeling.

Instead, he pauses, face twisting up in confusion before he sniffs the air.

“Is something burning?”

It's only after he mentions it that you too begin to smell the smoke.

“Son of a bitch, my pizza!” You scramble from your seat, releasing Jason's hands to go open the oven. Jason follows you up, hovering only two steps behind you the whole time.

As soon as you open the oven a cloud of thick black smoke wafts into your face, making you cough.

“Shit, shit, shit, motherfucker!” You curse. And of course, to make an already wretched situation worse, your fire alarm begins to blare. Almost instantaneously one of your neighbors begins to pound on the wall, calling out a muffled ‘shut the fuck up!’

“Open the window for me, please!” You call to Jason as you rush to drag a folding chair up to the wall so you can reach the fire alarm. Jason does as he's told, quickly unlatching and opening the kitchen window, cool spring air rushing in. He even goes the extra mile and grabs the cardboard pizza box off the counter to fan the smoke outside. For some reason that makes your heart ache.

He's a good kid, you think. In spite of everything, he's a good kid.

You clamber up onto the chair and shut off the alarm, quickly hopping down to grab your singular oven mitt and precariously pull your burnt pizza from the oven. You plop it right down on the counter, uncaring of any mess or burns on the vinyl that you might be leaving. You slam the oven door shut, and finally the billowing smoke seems to dissipate. Jason's fanning slows to a stop and you reach around him to close the window.

What should have been your dinner is now a pitch black disk of inedible garbage.

For a minute you just stand there, with your hands clutching the window sill, adrenaline still flowing through you. You're shaking again- or maybe you never stopped. You try to steady your breathing, repeating to yourself over and over again don't cry, don't cry, don't cry.

Beside you, Jason gingerly sets the cardboard box back on the counter.

“You okay, ma?” He asks softly, and the dam bursts.

You let out a sob, pitching forward against the counter before sliding down to your knees, collapsing to the floor. Jason follows you down, kneeling next to you.

“It's okay! It's just a pizza! We can- I could get you another one!” He attempts to soothe you, but you can hear a nervous edge to his voice. You'd be nervous too if your mom started wailing over burnt pepperonis. But it's not about the food, not really.

“I'm sorry!” You sob, burying your face in your hands. It's humiliating enough for him to hear you cry, you don’t want him to see it too.

“It's fine, really mom, I wasn't even hungry, I ate on the way here,” Jason insists, and his hands find your wrists to gently pry them away from your face. You don't want him to see you like this, but you don't have the heart to deny him anything.

“I don't mean about the pizza, Jason!” You cry. “I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I left, I never wanted to leave you birdie, please believe me!” It takes all of your strength to lift your head and meet his gaze. “I'm sorry for everything. I'm so, so sorry. I'm an awful mother, please forgive-” you're cut off by Jason pulling you into another crushing hug.

This isn't fair, you think. He shouldn't be the one comforting you. But you just can't seem to push him away, instead clinging to him with renewed vigor and sobbing apologies into his shoulder.

You’re pathetic, weeping like a child, in front of your actual child. Have some dignity, woman. Your internal dialogue has taken a particularly cruel tone. Your mind does this sometimes- turns on you in the worst way. It didn’t used to do that. Once upon a time you’d been so certain of yourself, so confident in every action you took that even your enemies struggled to doubt you. But now, after many years of continued misery, spurned by His interference in your life and your mind, you’re reduced to a sniveling self conscious mess of a woman with nothing to her name.

After a long moment you manage to sort of collect yourself, at least enough to stop blubbering and making a fool of yourself.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat for at least the tenth time. “I shouldn’t have- I’m just- I’m sorry, Jason.”

You pull away from him and he lets you, releasing you from his grasp. But his hands hover next to your arms, as if he’s waiting to catch you again.

“It’s okay, ma.” He says, though you know he doesn’t understand what you’re apologizing for, not really.

“It’s not,” you tell him. “But thank you. I’m… I’m sorry you had to see me like that. It’s just been…”

“A long day?” Jason finishes for you, and you can’t help the manic little laugh that bubbles out of you.

“Try a long life.” You say, and though your smile is rueful and bitter, all that seems to matter to Jason is that he’s gotten you smiling again. Which in turn makes him smile too, and really that’s the perfect balm to all your aching wounds. You’d do anything to keep that smile on his face, anything at all. “But yes, a long day too. What time is it?”

Jason pulls up his sleeve to check his watch- it’s a nice one, one of the fancy digital ones. A gift from Bruce Wayne, if you had to guess. That still perplexes you a little bit, but you’re in no state to be asking anything more of Jason, certainly not the emotional labor required to continue that particular conversation.

“Half past midnight,” Jason answers.

“Shit, it’s past my bedtime,” you mumble, realizing suddenly how utterly exhausted you are. You worked a double today, that alone is enough to tire you out. Combined with the whirlwind of emotions that the last hour has brought you, you’re absolutely drained. Slowly, you rise once more, joints cracking as you do. Damn, getting old sucks. Jason springs to his feet in less than half the time it took for you to stand up.

“What do you say we put a pin in this and continue in the morning, yeah?” You ask, though it’s really more of a plea than a suggestion. “I think this will be a much more productive conversation when we’ve had a full eight hours.”

Jason nods, though you can see it on his face that he’s disappointed.

You’ll tell him everything tomorrow, you swear you will. You owe him that much.

You shuffle your way back into the living room (which is also your bedroom, because you live in the world's grimiest studio apartment), and get to work fully laying the futon down. Rarely do you ever bother to do so for yourself, but you’re not about to make a growing boy scrunch up on a couch to sleep. Jason may be small for his age but he’s not that small, it would still be an awfully cramped place for him to sleep.

You’ve only got the one blanket, currently thrown over the back of your ratty old recliner, a ‘gift’ from the previous tenant. You unfold it and lay it down on the futon. You have no pillow for him, but you think he’ll manage. Just for good measure, you turn the TV off and turn your space heater on, aiming it at the futon.

“Do you need to borrow pajamas, or did you bring your own?” You ask, turning back to Jason who has been quietly observing as you prepare his bed.

“I can sleep in this!” He says. That simply won’t do- you know from experience that sleeping in jeans is uncomfortable. You put your hands on your hips, doing your best to appear stern but not angry- motherly instead of… whatever it is that you really are.

“That’s not what I asked. Do you need pajamas, or did you bring your own?” You repeat, and bite back a laugh when Jason huffs indignantly. It’s cute that he thinks he can get away with avoiding your doting! You’ve missed out on so much, now that he’s here you are going to mother the crap out of this kid.

“Ma, it’s fine, really, don’t worry about it.”

“Y’know, I hate to pull this card, but I didn’t spend nineteen hours giving birth to you just to be told not to worry about you.” You say. “Now, I’m gonna ask one more time, do you need pajamas, or did you bring your own?”

“I didn’t bring any,” Jason replies, crossing his arms across his chest. Though his brow furrows like he’s annoyed, you can see how he’s fighting against a smile. You suspect that secretly, he’s going to enjoy being loved as much as you are going to enjoy loving him.

“Thank you,” you say, turning to go dig through your closet and your sparse collection of clothing. You don’t have much to wear, even less that will fit him, but eventually you settle on a pair of well worn sweatpants and your only surviving possession from before Jason’s birth: a ratty old GSU t-shirt. You fold them, stack them one on top of the other, and hand them off to Jason. “Bathroom’s right there. Did you bring a toothbrush, or do you-”

“Ma, please,” Jason cuts you off, putting on a show of being much more exasperated than he really is.

“Okay, okay, I’m done, I swear. Go get dressed.” You ruffle his hair as he passes by you, mussing up the loose curls.

As soon as the door shuts behind him, you’re digging through your purse for a cigarette. A bad habit, you know, but one that you’ve never quite been able to kick. You open up the living room window, grabbing your lighter from where you keep it on the kitchen counter. You do your best to smoke fast, you want to finish it before Jason returns. You’re a bad enough influence on him already without the added issue of secondhand smoke. Unfortunately for you, Jason is quick and you’ve only smoked half your cig by the time he’s exiting the bathroom, holding the hem of your t-shirt, examining the faded lettering.

“You went to GSU?” He asks, not looking up. You take a final quick drag, before stubbing the cigarette out on the window sill. You’re definitely not getting your meager security deposit back.

“Mhm,” you hum, exhaling through your nose. The smoke burns your nasal cavity, stinging even as you inhale fresh air.

“What did you study?”

“I majored in mechanical engineering and minored in biochemical engineering. Never finished my degree though,” you shut the window. Your college days aren’t something you think of often anymore. God, you’d had so much potential. You still had that potential, even after getting pregnant and dropping out. Even as a struggling single mother you know you’d been brilliant. It’s what you did with that brilliance that really fucked you over.

“Why not?”

“I got pregnant,” that’s the simple answer. Though, now that you’ve said it, it sort of sounds like you’re blaming him for your own failure to thrive. You’re quick to amend your statement. “I don’t like to half-ass things, especially not important things. I wanted to be able to focus on you.”

“You wanted to whole-ass it,” Jason nods sagely. You snort.

“Yes, exactly. I wanted to whole-ass motherhood.” You chuckle and look out the window at the quiet street below. “I did a pretty piss poor job though. Put my whole ass into it and still couldn’t see it through.” A street light flickers down below. You can see Jason’s reflection in the glass, the details of him warped and blurred by your view of the road down below- not willing to turn around and face him directly. You don’t want to subject him to your shame, your regret. He will see it eventually, most likely sooner rather than later. You steel yourself, school your expression, and turn.

“Time for bed now.” You say, and cross the room to put the recliner in position for you to sleep in. You’ll have no pillow or blanket, and the heater will be hitting Jason more than you, but it’s fine, you’ll manage, you’ve slept in much worse conditions. With the sleeping arrangements all settled, you turn back to Jason.

“All yours hon,” you nod in the direction of your rickety futon. Jason nods and rubs his eyes. Poor thing, he must be exhausted too. You can only imagine the kind of whirlwind day (week, month, year, life) he’s had. As he slips into bed you’re tempted to tuck him in, kiss his forehead, hell, you’d read him a story or sing him to sleep if he wanted you to. But no, you push this motherly instinct deep down inside of yourself. Jason’s 15, you doubt he wants to be treated like a child. But still, as you watch him relax, settling into your bed, your home, your life, you can’t help but to-

“I love you,” it comes out in a harsh whisper, your voice threatening to break. Your eyes are suddenly misty with tears that you swear weren’t there a second ago. You sniffle hard and blink them back. Despite visibly fighting sleep just moments before, now Jason is looking up at you with wide eyes.

“You don’t have to say it back,” you tell him. “I just needed to say it.”

You can’t bear to face him for his reply (or lack thereof) so you turn away from him to shut off the lamp, bathing you both in darkness.

“I’m gonna-” you pause to clear your throat of any lingering emotion. “I’m gonna go brush my teeth. Goodnight, birdie.”

And just before the bathroom door shuts behind you, you think you hear, “goodnight, ma.”

The second you feel the latch click, you’re turning the tap on to full blast.You sink down to the floor, bury your face in your hands, and do your very best to cry quietly. Hopefully the running water will muffle the sounds of your sobbing. The last thing you want is for Jason to hear you having a meltdown again. Once was one time too many.

Tomorrow you will do better. Tomorrow you and Jason will sit down and have a real conversation. Tomorrow you will tell him the truth.

AN: well howdy strangers!! it took me entirely too long to finish chapter one, and even longer to actually post it on Tumblr proper. For those of y'all who have been tagged this is just chapter one again but posted directly to Tumblr instead of being linked to ao3! Chapter two hopefully won't take as long but don't hold your breath lol. I plan on posting a preview of it in the next week or two! Anyways, thanks so much for reading! Taglist:@leirobles @qardasngan @amphiroxx

[pazzispizookies]

— — Guarded — —

Hey Guys! I hope you all enjoyed chapter 6! I wouldn’t freaking know because no one gives me feedback expect for my dedicated pookies. Also go check out @izzih22 new series if you haven’t! Along with @hereforuconnwbb new series!! but I would like to hear y’all’s feedback more, post a comment, send inbox or Dm with what u like/dislike abt the chapters so I know what yall want to see better! I’d appreciate it so very much pookies. Have fun reading… ;)

Pairing: Hopkins transfer Azzi x Hopkins Paige

The quiet vibration of the car engine filled the space.

Thoughts swirling in both girls heads about what had happened at the diner.

“So, are you gonna tell me where your driving? or am I just being kidnapped?” Azzi asked, glancing over at Paige.

Paige was resting on hand on the steering wheel, spread out lazily but still maneuvering the car with persision, “I figured you’d want something sweet, you have a disgusting sweet tooth Az,”

Azzi felt her heart tighten a little at Paige knowing what she wanted, then it struck her. How did she know? “How do you know I have a sweet tooth? are you really a stalker P, its getting kinda scary.” She teased, a small smile tugging at her lips.

Something had definitely changed. It was unspoken but still, their flirting had gone from having an underlying sense of rivalry, to now having a heat behind it. Azzi had realized the day she met Paige their relationship was going to be different. Like a cosmic pull was stringing them closer. And now, she thought that it might not have been a ‘cosmic pull’ but just pure attraction. Something that scared her in the best way.

Paige had the same idea, less intense, but she knew she wanted Azzi. She wanted her bad. But she was the reason their relationship started off rocky, but she didn’t regret it. If anything she was glad she could flirt with Azzi and blame it on her hating her. Even though that reason wasn’t the truth. She felt herself looking at Azzi, from in class, to stealing glances of her during practice, to when she was alone in bed at night and found herself on her Instagram page, admiring the small details of her from her modeling posts. It was all something she knew was apart of something larger, something was going to happen between them. She knew Azzi was different already.

Paige looked over at Azzi, the moonlight and streets casting a warm glow into her deep brown eyes, “I’m not a stalker, just observant.”

Just as Paige said that, she started to pull into a Ice cream store parking lot,

“Ice cream?” Azzi asked, trying to hide her pure child-like excitement.

Paige saw the way her eyes lit up, it tugging at her heart a little, “Yes, are you five years old by any chance?”

Azzi scoffed, clicking off her seatbelt and grabbing her phone, “is it a crime to like ice cream as a 16 year old? Last time I checked it wasn’t.”

Paige rolled her eyes, still trying to pretend she wasn’t falling for every little thing Azzi said. She had always been the type to fall quickly, more often then not getting hurt by it. But it was something about herself she couldn’t change. she feared that it would hurt her again, but there’s no stopping whats in motion.

Paige got out of the car, making sure to grab her wallet and phone.

Azzi did the same, already have started to walk towards the building.

Paige caught up with her, hands in pockets and decided to verbalize wat she had been thinking about. “So..we should probably talk about the whole ‘Ash’ thing.”

Paige opened the door for Azzi, letting her in first. To which Azzi returned a small smile, not one of her normal cocky ones toward Paige, but one from her heart.

They walked in and noticed it was pretty packed,

“Yeah we can talk…after ice cream. Also, maybe we should sit outside, it’s pretty busy in here, yknow get some quiet. If it doesn’t make you too nervous.”

Paige leaned her head back a little, narrowing her eyes on Azzi, “I wont be nervous, already have you wrapped around my finger.”

Azzi shook her head foundly, letting out an exhale, “You’ve got that all wrong Bueckers. Cmon, I want ice creammmm!”

Azzi grabbed Paiges forearm and pulled her towards the counter, speaking up to the worker immediately.

She didn’t need to look at the menu, already knowing what to order. “Hi, could I get a medium cup of Rocky road, with sprinkles and hot fudge?”

The worker nodded and looked at Paige,

Paige added in, “Uh yeah can I just get a small cup of vanilla? That’s all.”

Azzi glared at her, “Boring.”

Paige scoffed, “Not boring, just an aware athlete trying not to poison herself.”

The worker who was watching the teasing, amused, spoke up. “It’ll be 7.98, and can I just say you guys are such a cute couple. You can tap on the screen by the way.”

Azzis face felt a rush of heat at the awkward moment, but Paige not wanting to let the moment to be bad for all of them spoke, “Thanks,” While she tapped her phone to the screen to pay.

Azzi was a little taken a back by her answer, making a mental note to ask her about it later. But greatful that it shut down the conversation.

The worker smiled while she handed the ice cream cups to each of them along with spoons. “Have a good night you guys.”

Paige simply nodded at her, and Azzi replied, “You too.”

They started to walk towards the door, the silence between them deafening.

Paige open the door for Azzi once again, to which Azzi didn’t have the same reaction before, a little lost in her thoughts.

They walked in awkward silence to a bench at the back of the building, it was surrounded by green grass and overlooking a quiet park in the still of the night. Only illuminated by a street light and the moon, the warm night air sweeping through.

Azzi sat down on the same side as Paige, positioned foward looking out at the park.

But as it hit Azzi, her brain simply fried from everything, she blurted out, “ugh, why do you always smell like that.”

Paige startled out of her thoughts grew a little concerned at the sudden sentence. “Uh…like what?”

Azzi became aware of what it sounded like she was implying, quickly corrected herself. “No, not like that yknow. like every time we have class or after running miles at practice you still smell really good, it’s annoying.”

Paige felt herself heat up at the silly compliment, “You obsessed with me, huh?”

Azzi rolled her eyes, taking a bite of her ice cream while looking at the park across the field from them. Paige looked over at her profile, noting the soft curves in her nose and the way her eyelashes caught the moonlight.

“I’m not obsessed with you, just… observant as well.”

Paige shook her head, the awkwardness from emailer seemingly dissipating into the night air.

“So, Ash. Whats our plan for that?” Paige redirected.

Azzi crossed her legs and met Paiges eyes, which were strickingy blue still. “You mean my plan to get us out of the issue you created? Haven’t thought much about it yet.”

Paige sighed, taking a bite of her ice cream and thinking.

Azzi spoke first, also running it through her mind, “well, I mean, I guess I’ll text her tonight. Maybe like a few of her highlights, see if she leads.”

Paige nodded, “Yeah, she’ll lead. She always does.”

Azzi was quiet for a beat, but then she cleared her throat and met Paiges gaze again. “How come you didn’t correct the worker in here when she called us a couple.”

The truth was, Paige didn’t hate hearing someone mistake them for a couple. “I just didn’t want it to be awkward, correcting her would just make us all feel a little weird.”

Azzi hummed, taking in what she said, even though not believing it to an extent.

Then just in that moment of silence, her phone buzzed.

Paige grabbed Azzis phone hearing the buzz, like she had the right too.

“Hey!” Azzi protested at the blonde

Paige looked at her phone seeing a notification.

Instagram:

Ash: hey pretty, you invite your team yet? just trying to get a head count lol.

Azzi raised an eyebrow at Paige’s face, it contorting into one of confusion and some relief.

“What is it?” She asked,

Paige turned the phone around to reveal the message, which she quickly scanned.

“Maybe you were right. That’s pretty friendly.” Paige said, fully handing the phone to her. But something in her tone was off….almost upset.

“You good?” Azzi asked having noticed the underlying tone,

Paiges jaw clenched slightly, avoiding eye contact with her, “yeah I’m good. You should respond.”

Azzi took a second to study Paige, wonder what she was thinking before opening the phone.

She went to instagram, reading it through again. Then turned back to Paige, “sooo..what do I say?”

Paige wanted her to say nothing, she was almost blinded by the thought of Azzi flirting with her Ex because of her stupidity. But she had to push those feelings down, knowing that this was the only way to get Ash to not leak anything.

“Well..you flirt.” Paige responded. Also looking at the phone

Azzi let out a huff, “I know that big head, but I mean, like how?”

Paige looked up, “how? You don’t know how to flirt?”

Azzi narrowed her eyes, but then looked away quickly. Because truthfully, she didn’t. Paige was the only one she had ever really flirted with, and that was only because it was a challenge….well at least at first.

“I don’t go around flirting with everyone, unlike you.” She replied,

Paige rolled her eyes, focusing back on her ice cream in hand, taking a slow bite, lingering the plastic spoon in her mouth. “I don’t flirt with everyone, Azzi.” She said, her voice nearing a dangerous level of honesty.

Those words kicked her back into focus, knowing they had a double meaning, and knowing the meaning behind it wasn’t one to explore tonight. “Well, looks like it to me. Yknow you do that thing.” Azzi said, gesturing towards Paige’s face.

Paige looked over amused, dropping her voice to a smooth teasing one. “What thing? Look pretty?”

Azzi scoffed at her, the only worse about Paige being pretty is that she knew it. “Not that.”

“So you admit I’m pretty?” Paige quickly replied, leaning in.

“I never said that”

“But you never denied it.”

Azzi took the challenge,

She leaned in even closer to Paige, inches away, and whispered, “yeah, you’re pretty. Happy?”

Paige felt heat pool at the words, mixed with the limited space between them, she’d do anything to close the gap.

“That. Right there,”

Azzi looked at her confused, “huh?”

Paige leaned back, creating some much needed space, ”that was flirting, even if it wasn’t as good as mine, you do know what to do, Princess.” She said as she took another bite of ice cream.

“Okay 1. Your not much better at flirting them me. 2. I have to do this over text, to a stranger.” Azzi answered, glancing back down at her open phone,

“Psh, we both know I can flirt better, that’s okay to admit. And yknow just like, use what you have to your advantage.”

“What I have? What do you mean?” Azzi said looking into her blue eyes,

Paige let her gaze drift off again, thinking about if she was gonna be honest. But with a breath, she decided it was easier to just suck it up and say it. “Post yourself. A good photo of yourself. She’ll reply to it. I’ll bet on that,”

Azzi looked at her, confused because she thinks Paige may have just given her a compliment, a complicated one nevertheless. “Okay, I will. Is my face just that alluring? She’ll come running at the sight of it.”

“Anyone with a brain would come running to you if they had the chance,” Paige said, leaning in.

Azzi breath caught for a split second, caught off guard by Paige’s words.

Paige caught the reaction. A grin spreading across her face. “See? I’m better at flirting.”

Azzi shoved her. Which drew a dramatic groan from Paige.

“Shut up, I’ll post something tonight. Even if I look like a desperate slut because of it.”

Paige nodded, still slightly smiling. “Lookin foward to it.”

A comfortable silence feel over them for a minute, neither one complaining about it, because there was just something nice about being in each others presence.

“You done?” Azzi asked, looking at Paige’s and her own empty cups.

“Yea,” she said standing up, offering out a hand for Azzi.

Her heart warmed at the small gesture, it just seemed to be something Paige did without thinking, showing that she wasn’t all that bad.

Azzi grabbed her hand, lingering on it for a second before pulling away.

Paige felt the touch stretch, but really she didn’t want it to end. It seemed like their hands fit perfectly together.

“You’re driving.”

Paige caught the keys Azzi just threw at her with a groan,

*****

They walked back to the car,

as both of them sat down in their chairs, Azzi speaks up. “Yknow, we don’t really have anything tomorrow until practice.”

“Yeah…and?” Paige asked.

Azzi hesitated for a second, “my parents and bothers aren’t home, maybe you wanna come over? If you don’t that’s totally fine too.”

Paige was a little shocked at the invitation, especially since she didn’t know if Azzi felt the same pull to be around her, “Yeah, sure -um yeah.” Paige replied, smile tugging at her mouth.

“Cool,” Azzi replied as nonchalant as she could (which wasn’t very much)

Paige started to drive in the direction of Azzis house, silently freaking out, because hanging out alone with her in an empty house was a little more than she could handle.

After 6 mintues of music filled silence between them, Paige pulled into her driveway.

Azzi got out of the car, waiting for Paige to follow,

They made their way up the stairs and she started fumbling with her key at the door before pausing for a moment and looking at Paige, “Oh - but the way. I have a kid.”

“A what?” Paige said shocked.

Azzi chuckled. “Yeah, she’s only a year old. But don’t be too loud, I think she’s asleep.”

“You have a kid? Since when?” Paige asked, racking her mind.

Azzi played into it more, “yeah, she’s the love of my life. We tried to keep it hidden from the public as much as we could.”

“uhh—Okay?” Paige replied, completely baffled at this new information.

Azzi pushed the door open, making her way inside as Paige followed suit.

“Wait right here, I’ll go get her.” Azzi said looking back, trying to hide her lying.

Paige threw her hands up, with a shrug. “Okay I guess?”

Azzi wandered off into the house, opening her bedroom door to find Stewie, her dog and baby. Asleep on her bed.

“Hey stew, I have someone to meet.” She said carefully picking up the tired dog.

stewie started wagging her tail at the sound of Azzi voice, gleefully letting herself be picked up.

Azzi tried to stay as quiet as she could while walking back to Paige, making her way to the living room.

Paige stood there on her phone, racking socials for information on Azzi apparent pregnancy.

She didn’t even hear Azzi creep up until she spoke, “Paige this is Stewie, my baby. and Stewie this is Paige.”

Stewie started barking in Azzis arms at the sight of the blonde.

“Really?”

“What?” Azzi said placing Stewie down, “She’s my baby.”

“You so annoying Az,” Paige said, putting her phone away, slightly relieved to see Azzi didn’t have a whole child.

She bent down to pet Stewie who was already at her legs, “Hey there Stewie, You have a stupid mom. Sorry about that.”

Azzi crossed her arms and scoffed, taking offense“She does not!”

Paige stood back up and chucked, “Sureeeee”

Azzi rolled her eyes and started walking towards her room, motioning for Paige to follow.

Once they entered her room Azzi plopped down on her bed, As for Paige, she stood awkwardly in the door way.

“Uhhh, what’re you doing?”

Paige shrugged, “standing.”

“Well stop it, it’s weird, sit down.” She said patting a spot next to her on the bed.

Paige pushed off the wall and sat down next to Azzi on her pink bed.

she looked around the room, it was everything Azzi times 100.

Light pink walls, books stacked with vines hanging off of it, Icecream stickers on her laptop with a neatly organized desk. Even to her pink queen sized bed, having being perfectly made and adorned with Unicorn pillows, only the soft glow from fairly lights illuminating the space.

“Wow, your rooms so ‘5 year old girl’ meets ‘clean freak’ “

Azzi scoffed and leaned back on her pillows, “Shut up, it’s probably better then yours.”

Paige looked down at her, slightly taken back by her beauty. Her curls sprawled out over the light pink pillow, she relaxed completely from being in a comfortable area. “It’s not. Mines much more ‘13 year old boy with a Lebron James obsession’ “

“I’d bet.” Azzi responded, looking into Paiges eyes, only now aware of the fact Paige was on her bed. In her house. Looking this good.

“Uh so anyways, you dated Ash, so you know what she likes right?”

Paige nodded, “to an extent”

“so I need you to help me with the post, the one to lure her in.”

Paige shook her head “I told you, I don’t know how to do girl things.”

Azzi sighed then threw a pillow at her, causing her to yelp.

“Well you better learn.”

“Abuse, Azzi. Abuse.” Paige said pretending to be hurt

Azzi stuck her tounge out at her, “Yeah, yeah. Now lay down, your being oddly uncomfortable, I don’t bite.” She said now getting up and moving for her closet.

Paige laid down, feeling a lot less uncomfortable by her words, sighing at the feeling of being relaxed after a long day. “Where’re you going?”

Azzi had disappeared into her closet for a moment, returning holding a few shirts. “Gettting options.”

“Options for what?” Paige asked, fully sprawled out on Azzi bed.

“For my shirt for the photos stupid, I can’t take them in this.”

“You could. You still look good to me.” Paige replied, sweeping her gaze over Azzi’s body

Azzi rolled her eyes even thought the compliment and attention felt nice. “Hush, Now help me pick.” She said thorwing three shirts at Paige.

Page picked the rudely thrown clothes up, the first one being a white cop top, nothing special. “No,”

The second one being a green top, half off the shoulder, “No.”

and the third being a tight black top, the v neck dangerously low with long sleeves. “this.” She said throwing the shirt back at Azzi.

“Really?” She asked, shocked by the choice.

Paige nodded, “Mhm, most slut like, she likes that.”

“Ew, but okay.” Azzi replied, moving towards the closet, shirt in hand.

She took a second to change, having to switch from a sports bra to a normal one, then came out of her closet to show Paige.

“Good?”

“Hot.” Paige replied simply, starring straight at Azzi cleavage.

“pervert.” Azzi said making her way to her desk.

She threw her speaker to the bed, “Play something, its too quiet I can hear you starring at me”

Paige grabbed the speaker, “Okay, no complaining though.”

Azzi nodded.

Paige unlocked her phone, knowing exactly what to play. She went to Bluetooth and connected the speaker, and stared playing “Crybaby” by Sza softly.

The sounds filled the air as Azzi applied some Mascara and highlighter, curling her eyelashes along with it.

after 5 mintues Paige groaned, “what are you doinggggg, I’m bored.”

Azzi didn’t even turn around, not entertaining Paige. “Go on your phone, stupid.”

Paige did just that, looking at her feed for about 2 seconds before turning a pillow into a weapon, launching it at Azzi.

Azzi scoffed and turned around, “what did you just do.”

Paige didn’t respond, instead grabbing another pillow and throwing it at her “Nothin”

Azzi practiacally launched herself out of her chair, immediately grabbing a pillow and smacking Paige.

Paige did the same, grabbing a pillow and smacking her dead in the chest to which Azzi fought back hard, grabbing another and smacking her face,

“Oh your dead” Paige said sitting up and grabbing Azzis waist to pull her foward,

Azzi felt the touch on her, but then felt another blow straight to her face, she stumbled onto her bed, reaching over to hit Paige.

But the way she ended up on Paige, was a little….different than she’d hoped, realizing after a few more hits she was fully straddling Paige.

Paige also stopped fighting feeling the weight of Azzi on top of her.

a silence feel over the room.

Both of them just looking at each other.

Azzi looked more gorgeous then Paige had ever seen, the soft lighting, the flattering color from her shirt, her hair slightly tussled and sprawled out on her shoulders, but her eyes were the best thing. Because they were staring intensely at her.

“Um. Well this is awkward.” Azzi said, stating to get up from her spot.

Paige found herself moving instinctively, wanting Azzi to stay exactly where she was.

Her hand found her waist, firmly holding her down. “Don’t move.”

“What?” Azzi asked, even though she needed to move because an unwelcomed throbbing began in her.

“Don’t move.” Paige repeated now leaning over to grab her phone.

“What’re you doing Paige?” Azzi asked, completely not okay with the amount of turned on she was right now.

Paige felt the same, even if she didn’t know Azzi was relating. But as she turned back to her, phone in hand and one still firmly on her waist. She spoke “This is perfect for the photo, just saying.”

Azzi glanced at her, the realized she was probably right. The light was hitting her softly and she was in a pretty questionable position, one that Ash would surely comment on.

“Uh okay.” She responded.

Paige kept a hand on her waist, pretending like it was the most natural thing in the world, which to some extent, it felt like it was.

She unlocked her phone and got on the camera app, pointing the phone up at Azzi.

On the screen she looked even better, the angle was working for her and her brown eyes seemed to glow brighter than the moon. She looked stunning. Unreal.

“What do I do? Just smile?” Azzi asked, feeling a little awkward.

“You’re literally a model bro, how do you not know how to pose.” Paige replied.

“Because most of the time i’m not straddling someone’s lap.” Azzi said, reminding Paige of the position.

Paige thought for a moment about what she could do, then she dug her fingers deeper into Azzis hips. Earning a slew of laughter to come from her.

“Paige! Stop!!” Azzi said completely losing it while being tickled.

Paige smiled up at her, taking a bunch of pictures of Azzi laughing on top of her, “I’ll stop in a second, pretty girl”

Azzi looked down at her, the nickname sending a shock through her,

Paige glanced up, the name just slipping from her mouth before she could stop it.

“What did you call me?” Azzi asked, her focus now only on Paige.

Paige couldn’t respond, her finger still holding down on the phone taking pictures. What had she just done. It’s like her brain forgot that she wasn’t supposed to feel anything towards Azzi. Sweet, beautiful Azzi. Who was staring down waiting for a response.

“Sorry….Got caught up,” Paige mumbled out. Avoiding eye contact at all costs with her face burning.

Azzi looked down at the blonde, normally the face of confidence. Who was now flustered under her, clearly embarrassed. But the thing was, Azzi would die to hear her say it again, her heart was nearing bursting.

She grabbed Paiges jaw gently, guiding it to look at her, watching the way her breath hitched at the contact.

“I don’t mind. It’s okay,” Azzi said smoothly, reassuring. Because that was the truth. She didn’t mind.

Paiges face only got more red, quickly realizing she wasn’t gonna be able to control her feelings much longer she redirected the heated moment. “Uh—I think I got the photos,”

“Oh yeah, right.” Azzi said getting off her lap, noticing the shift in the air going back to where it was before.

As she laid down next to Paige it got more apparent that she had some….issues happening. Being clearly turned on from her earlier position.

Ignoring this she gabbed the phone, “lets see,”

She opened up the photos app, seeing nearly 100 photos of her. “Paige! Did you just hold down on the button? Now we have to go through all 14 billion of them.”

Paige shrugged, feeling way too comfortable next to Azzi in bed. “I just held it, thought that’s what I supposed to do! I’m no photographer.”

Azzi shoved her shoulder, touch lingering for a second to long and clicked on the first photo.

She looked unreal. The warm glow of the soft yellow-white fairy lights reflecting in her eyes, the dark room, the black shirt a contrast on her paler skin from the fall months, her hair looser from being tussled. Even to her face, the smile whole and bright, all real, thanks to Paige. And the best thing about the photo is that you can see the pale hand on her waist, clear as day. Along with the outline of her sitting on a lap, not to much, but just enough.

“Wow” Paige said, a little breathless at the captured photo.

“Is that one good?” Azzi asked, already knowing the answer.

Paige nodded her head, still a little speechless, “yeah, um- yea.”

Azzi took the phone from the middle of them and opened up instagram.

She selected the photo and put a soft filter over it, it only improving the photo.

She captioned it simply, “Guess who?” And hit post.

She threw her phone down. Turning over and looking at Paige, “now we wait.”

*****

[kyunghwannie]

"Second Chances" (Part:1)

Yoo Jeongyeon x M!Reader

➤Genre: Romance, Smut, Second Chances in Love, Slight and minor little angst(?)

➤Tags: It's just fluffy lovemaking (Still a smut though)

➤Teaser: Losing the one you loved doesn’t mean you can't find that love in someone else. Because you certainly changed her mind about that. (A/n: Small rant: I hate the 1000 Block limit)

Chapter 1: A Night to Remember

Scene: Jeongyeon’s House – Late Afternoon

The sun peeked through the half-drawn curtains, casting a soft orange hue across the modest living room. Toys were scattered here and there—plastic dinosaurs, crayons without caps, a half-built LEGO tower leaning like it was exhausted too.

Jeongyeon stood in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, a pot simmering quietly on the stove. She stirred out of habit more than need, her eyes drifting toward the living room where her five-year-old son was sprawled out on the carpet, deeply engrossed in a cartoon.

There was peace in this routine. And a quiet loneliness she didn’t talk about.

"You should really get a dishwasher," came Nayeon’s voice from behind as she leaned against the kitchen counter, munching on a baby carrot she’d stolen from the fridge.

Jeongyeon didn’t even flinch. "You should really stop showing up uninvited."

"Please. You’d miss me if I didn’t." Nayeon smirked, tossing a piece of carrot toward Jeongyeon, who dodged it with the grace of someone who’d been friends with her too long.

"Don’t encourage her," Jihyo chimed in as she stepped through the front door, holding a bag of groceries. "You know how she gets when she's bored."

Jeongyeon shot both women a tired look but smiled anyway. "You two act like you don’t have lives of your own."

"We do," Jihyo said cheerfully, placing the bag on the kitchen counter. "But this is more fun."

"Intervention, actually," Nayeon added, brushing imaginary lint from her jeans. "We came for a mission."

Jeongyeon raised an eyebrow. "A mission."

"Operation: You-Need-To-Get-Laid," Nayeon said with zero shame and both hands in the air like she was announcing a game show prize.

Jeongyeon blinked slowly. "You’re unbelievable."

"No, she’s just observant," Jihyo defended, lifting out a bottle of wine and setting it aside like a prop. "And she’s right. When was the last time you went out just for yourself? No kid. No work. Just... Jeongyeon."

There was a pause. Jeongyeon stirred the soup again, slower this time.

"It’s been five years, hasn’t it?" Nayeon asked, her tone softening. "Since he passed."

Jeongyeon didn’t answer, but the shift in her posture said enough.

"You’re still young, Jeong," Jihyo said gently. "You deserve more than just bedtime stories and reheated soup."

From the living room, her son let out a laugh—small, pure, and full of joy. Jeongyeon’s lips curled into a faint smile.

"He’s enough."

"He’s your whole world, we know," Nayeon replied, stepping closer. "But you’re still part of that world too. You can’t forget yourself forever."

Jeongyeon met her eyes, and for the first time in a long time, she didn’t push the thought away instantly.

Jeongyeon leaned against the counter, arms crossed now, as if trying to shield herself from the invisible pull of their words.

"I'm serious, guys," she said, though her voice was softer. "I’m not ready for... anything like that."

"No one's asking you to marry a stranger," Nayeon replied, leaning her hip on the counter, voice smooth. "We just want you to remember what it feels like to be noticed. To laugh with someone new. To look at a man and know he’s looking right back at you—not because you're a mom, or a widow... but because you're you."

Jeongyeon’s throat tightened. She looked away, but Jihyo stepped into her line of sight, eyes shining—not with pity, but with affection.

"You're still beautiful, Jeong," Jihyo whispered. "You still deserve to feel adored."

"You act like I’ve turned into a ghost," Jeongyeon mumbled with a light chuckle, trying to defuse the weight in the air.

"You act like you’re not the most effortlessly stunning person in any room you walk into," Nayeon shot back, flashing her a look. "Do you know what it’s like watching men glance your way when we go shopping? Or that barista last week who practically melted handing you that latte?"

"He spilled milk on his own shoe," Jeongyeon said dryly.

"Exactly," Nayeon grinned. "You're still magnetic. But you’ve locked all that charm away like it’s a sin."

Jihyo stepped closer, voice softer now—more persuasive than pushy.

"We’re not trying to push you into anything," she said, gently taking Jeongyeon's hand. "But tonight... let yourself just exist. No titles. No expectations. Just Jeongyeon. Let her breathe a little."

"Let her dance," Nayeon added, her eyes twinkling. "Let her flirt. Hell, let her be kissed."

Jeongyeon held back a smile, but it flickered at the corner of her lips. The warmth in the room shifted, like the wind had changed direction.

"And if something... or someone... catches your eye," Jihyo said, squeezing her hand, "you don’t have to run from it. You’re allowed to want more."

"More what?" Jeongyeon asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Nayeon stepped beside her and whispered with a teasing smile, "More smiles. More sparks. Maybe... more hands in your hair and whispers in your ear. You know. The good kind."

Jeongyeon rolled her eyes, but she was laughing now—and the laugh sounded like a piece of her long buried under grief had peeked out again.

"You two are dangerous."

"No," Jihyo said, tugging her toward the hallway. "We’re your best friends."

"And tonight," Nayeon added, already flinging open Jeongyeon’s closet, "we're your fairy godmothers. Now go shower. You're not wearing those mom jeans to meet your destiny."

As Nayeon tore through outfit after outfit, tossing half of Jeongyeon’s closet onto the bed with theatrical grunts, Jihyo remained quiet—just watching her best friend with that knowing, grounded look only she ever truly mastered.

Jeongyeon sat on the edge of her bed, arms limp at her sides, her smile from earlier fading into something more solemn. She stared out the window, watching the sun dip lower, as if uncertain whether she should let the night arrive.

"You know what this feels like?" she said softly. "Like I’m betraying him."

The room stilled. Even Nayeon froze mid-blouse toss, her arms half-raised.

"Jeong..." Jihyo said carefully, stepping forward.

"I know you two mean well," Jeongyeon continued, not looking at them. "But every time I think about putting on a dress, or letting someone flirt with me, I see his face. And it hurts. It makes me feel like I’m choosing someone else over him."

Her voice trembled on the last word.

And that’s when Jihyo stepped in—slowly, purposefully—and knelt in front of her.

"You’re not choosing someone else over him," she said, taking Jeongyeon’s hand. "You’d be choosing someone because of him."

Jeongyeon blinked, eyes glossing.

"You remember that letter he wrote?" Jihyo asked gently. "The one you let us read that night after the funeral... when the baby was just a few months old?"

Jeongyeon swallowed hard.

"I remember."

"Then you remember what he said in the last paragraph," Jihyo pressed, squeezing her hand. "That he didn’t want to be the reason you stopped living. That if you ever found someone who made your heart skip again... someone who could hold your hand when things get quiet and the grief comes creeping back... he wanted you to take it. Take the chance."

Jeongyeon’s lips parted like she might speak—but no words came.

"That’s not betrayal, Jeong," Jihyo said softly. "That’s honoring him. He gave you permission to keep loving. Because he knew you’d have so much of it left after he was gone."

Nayeon slowly walked over, holding a soft navy dress in her hands—simple, elegant, understated.

"You’re not forgetting him," she said, her voice quiet for once. "You’re just remembering yourself."

A silence settled, deep and meaningful. Then finally—after what felt like a century—Jeongyeon exhaled.

Long. Shaky.

And nodded.

"Okay."

Nayeon’s eyes widened. "Okay?!"

Jeongyeon smiled, this time with something lighter in her chest. "Okay. I’ll go."

"Girl, you better—!" Nayeon squealed, rushing forward and throwing the dress into Jeongyeon’s lap.

"But if I end up in the news for kicking some sleazy guy’s shin," Jeongyeon warned, pointing at them, "I’m blaming both of you."

"Please. With that face, that voice, and those legs? They’ll be the ones crawling to you," Nayeon grinned.

Jihyo chuckled. "Let’s just get her ready before she changes her mind."

The navy dress was gently set aside as Nayeon sprang to her feet with a dramatic gasp.

"No, no—wait! I just remembered something better."

Jeongyeon blinked. "Better than that?"

Nayeon darted out of the room like a storm on heels, yelling from the hallway,

"Jihyo, remember that vintage dress we got on that impulse shopping trip last year? The one we said Jeong would never agree to wear?"

Jihyo's eyes lit up. "The polka dot one with the pleats and the bow?!"

"Yes!! Get the steamer ready!"

Jeongyeon raised an eyebrow, skeptical but too exhausted to argue.

"You two are acting like I’m about to walk a red carpet."

Jihyo shot her a look. "You’re walking into a bar with us. That’s our red carpet."

Moments later, Nayeon returned, dress draped over her arms like she was presenting a priceless treasure.

"Tada!" she beamed.

Jeongyeon’s eyes widened. It was beautiful—more than she expected. The fabric shimmered subtly under the light, the light beige and dark green tones catching her breath. Black polka dots danced across it with just enough flair to be playful. Ruffles framed the front and sleeves, not in an overpowering way, but enough to make a statement. The bowtie neckline sat just beneath the striped high collar, all wrapped up in vintage sophistication.

"You seriously expect me to wear that?" Jeongyeon asked, eyeing the sheer sleeves and dark green pleated panels along the sides.

"I expect you to wear it and make men cry," Nayeon replied proudly.

After a few playful protests and a whole lot of laughter, Jeongyeon found herself standing in front of the full-length mirror, now dressed—unrecognizably so.

Nayeon was behind her, carefully working on her hair. A few elegant twists, pinned and tucked, turned her soft brown strands into a messy updo, with a couple wispy tendrils curling by her cheeks and ears. A faint spritz of floral mist hung in the air.

"I look..."

Jeongyeon didn’t finish the sentence. She couldn’t.

Jihyo, sitting on the edge of the bed, gave her a soft, satisfied smile. "Like a woman who deserves to be loved again."

"You’re not just a mom," Nayeon added, tying the bow around Jeongyeon’s collar. "You’re still you. And tonight, we want the world to remember that too."

Jeongyeon looked at herself in the mirror. The dress, the hair, the gentle blush of makeup across her cheeks—it was like seeing a memory of someone she used to be, but now stronger, wiser... ready to feel again.

And in her chest, something fluttered. Not fear. Not guilt.

Something closer to hope.

The sound of the front door creaking open was followed by a sudden thud and a loud:

"AUNTY CHAEYOUNG!"

A flurry of small footsteps galloped across the hallway tiles before Jeongyeon’s son, Minjae, launched himself toward the door like a mini cannonball. The boy’s squeal of excitement echoed through the house.

"I’m here! I’m here! I brought snacks, I brought games, and—yes—I brought slime!" Chaeyoung’s voice rang out with chaotic energy, right before Minjae practically tackled her knees.

"SLIME?!" he gasped in awe, his voice bouncing with uncontainable joy.

"Shhh! Indoor voices, tiny human," Chaeyoung teased, ruffling his hair before tossing her oversized tote bag onto the couch.

She crouched down to his level, holding up two fists like she was unveiling treasure.

"Okay, tonight’s options: galaxy slime, or... glow-in-the-dark dinosaur goo. Choose wisely, young warrior."

Minjae’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. "BOTH!"

"Wrong answer," Chaeyoung grinned, scooping him up and spinning him once. "But I like your spirit!"

From the hallway, Nayeon called out,

"Don’t spoil him too much or he’s going to start thinking you’re the fun mom!"

Chaeyoung peeked around the corner with Minjae clinging to her like a backpack.

"I am the fun mom. Just ask him."

Minjae stuck his tongue out at his actual mother. "She lets me eat ice cream before dinner!"

Jeongyeon stepped into the living room, her arms crossed—but a smile tugging at her lips.

"And that’s why I said no sugar tonight, Son Chae."

"Relax, I brought sugar-free fruit snacks. I’m not trying to turn him into a raccoon," Chaeyoung said with faux offense, setting Minjae down gently. The boy immediately ran toward the kitchen, yelling something about showing her his new toy spaceship.

As soon as he disappeared, Chaeyoung walked over to Jeongyeon, her eyes traveling up and down with impressed delight.

"Whoa."

"What?" Jeongyeon asked, fidgeting with the sleeve of her dress.

Chaeyoung gave a slow whistle. "I didn’t know we were sending royalty to the bar. Who are you and what did you do with Minjae’s mom?"

Jeongyeon flushed. "I feel ridiculous."

"You look beautiful," Chaeyoung said sincerely, placing a hand on Jeongyeon’s shoulder. "Like... vintage Chanel magazine-cover beautiful."

"I told you!" Nayeon shouted from the kitchen, grabbing a juice box for Minjae.

Jihyo appeared behind her, holding Jeongyeon's coat like a fashion stylist on standby.

"Honestly, if you don’t get hit on at least twice tonight, I’m filing a complaint with the universe."

Jeongyeon rolled her eyes, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"You three are too much."

"You’ve been ‘too little’ for too long," Nayeon murmured, her voice softening.

Chaeyoung caught the tone and stepped back, giving them their moment. "Don’t worry. I’ll make sure this little whirlwind is fed, washed, and not jumping off furniture. Go be hot, have fun, and come back with a mysterious story I can pretend to believe."

Jeongyeon turned to her, gaze grateful. "Thank you, really. I don’t think I’d feel comfortable leaving him with anyone else."

Chaeyoung smiled. "Hey, he’s my favorite human under four feet. You deserve one night where your name isn’t ‘Mommy.’"

Minjae came running back, clutching his spaceship in one hand and a crayon in the other. "Aunty Chae! Look, I made him a jetpack! Wanna help me draw fire?"

Chaeyoung dropped to the floor like it was her natural habitat. "Let’s make it explode!"

As Minjae giggled and dove onto the living room rug with her, Jeongyeon stood watching for a moment. The sound of her son's laughter, the softness in the air, the gentle tug of her ruffled dress—it all swirled into a moment of stillness in her heart.

Maybe... just maybe... tonight could be a good thing.

Maybe she was ready to feel something new.

The car engine purred to life as Jihyo pulled out of Jeongyeon's driveway, the city lights starting to flicker in the distance like they were winking at them.

Jeongyeon sat in the passenger seat, her hands clutched around her purse like it was a lifeline. In the backseat, Nayeon had already kicked off her heels and was cranking up the volume on the car stereo.

“Okay, I need to set the tone for tonight,” Nayeon announced. “We’re not going out with the ghost of Jeongyeon’s past clinging to her ruffles. We’re going out with her future sitting on her neckline like a damn diamond.”

Jihyo laughed. “Preach, Sister Pastor.”

Jeongyeon turned with a sigh. “I didn’t even want to come out in the first place, you maniacs.”

“And yet,” Nayeon drawled, sliding forward to point at Jeongyeon’s legs, “those silky stockings say otherwise. Don’t lie to us with your mouth when your calves are giving single-but-open-to-fun.”

“She’s right,” Jihyo added, grinning as she switched lanes. “Your dress says Downtown Abbey, but your eyes say Downtown Daddy.”

Jeongyeon groaned, covering her face. “Why did I let you two do this to me?”

Nayeon reached forward and gently tugged at the bowtie at Jeongyeon’s neck. “Because deep down, under all that ‘Mom Mode,’ there’s still a woman who misses feeling wanted. Touched. Adored. You don’t have to marry someone tonight, Jeong. Just remember what it feels like to be the center of someone’s attention.”

Jihyo nodded, voice softening. “You were always the quiet beauty. The kind people don’t forget. You didn’t stop being that just because life got hard.”

Jeongyeon didn’t reply for a moment, staring out the window as streetlights brushed across her face in a golden rhythm.

“He really wanted this for me,” she murmured.

“Who?” Jihyo asked gently.

“My husband.” Jeongyeon smiled faintly. “He left me a letter. Said he knew I’d bury myself in motherhood and grief. Told me I deserved to smile again. Even if that smile came from someone else.”

The car fell into a still silence.

Even Nayeon, who was rarely quiet, simply leaned forward and rested a hand on Jeongyeon’s shoulder. “Then tonight... we honor him by letting you feel alive again.”

Jeongyeon swallowed hard, blinking away the unexpected sting behind her lashes. “God. Why do you two have to make me cry right before I walk into a bar?”

“Don’t worry,” Nayeon smirked. “If your mascara runs, just cry on some hot guy’s shirt. Works every time.”

“I’m not you.”

“No one is.” Nayeon leaned back smugly. “But tonight? You’re my protégé. Mama Bunny’s teaching you how to flirt again.”

“I don’t need flirting lessons.”

“You haven’t flirted in five years, Jeongyeon. That’s like... 35 in Flirt Years. You're practically a fossil.”

“Then you’re my fossil friends dragging me into extinction.”

Jihyo cracked up, slapping the steering wheel. “Shut up, that was actually good.”

“See?” Nayeon grinned, reaching over the seat to nudge Jeongyeon’s arm. “The sass is returning. She’s back, baby.”

“Halfway back,” Jeongyeon muttered. “Still feel like vomiting.”

“Totally normal,” Jihyo replied. “That’s just your body rebooting its hot-girl system. Happens to all of us after a dry spell.”

Nayeon tapped on her phone and held it up as a familiar beat filled the car.

“Okay. Final prep song. Cue confidence.”

The unmistakable bass of Doja Cat’s “Woman” flooded the car, and Nayeon howled.

“JEONGYEON, CLAIM YOUR INNER GODDESS!”

As the beat picked up, Jeongyeon couldn’t help but laugh, covering her mouth as her two best friends screamed lyrics and danced like lunatics in a moving vehicle. It was wild. Ridiculous. Loud.

But it was also warm.

It was home.

And somewhere between the thumping bass and the city lights growing brighter, Jeongyeon realized...

Maybe she was ready.

Meanwhile…

You tug your jacket over your shoulders and slide into the driver’s seat of your modest but clean car, the scent of worn leather and fresh air settling into your lungs like a balm.

The key turns. The engine hums awake.

It’s been a good day. A quietly fulfilling one.

Not loud. Not thrilling. But the kind that leaves a gentle smile tugging at the corner of your lips—like something inside you has finally exhaled.

“Alright,” you mumble to no one in particular, eyes on the soft orange hues bleeding into the horizon. “Just a drink. A soft seat. And a little music.”

It wasn’t about meeting someone. It never was.

You weren’t dressed like a man on the hunt—no cologne, no sharp-cut blazer, no coldblooded swagger. Just a loose button-up rolled to the elbows, slightly tousled hair from the breeze, and a book still sitting in the passenger seat like your most loyal companion.

The city moved around you like a lazy river. Headlights flickered past. Some couple laughed on a sidewalk. A dog barked in the distance.

You tapped your fingers against the steering wheel in rhythm with the faint hum of jazz spilling from the radio.

You weren’t rugged. Or overpowering. There was nothing loud in your presence.

But people noticed you.

The way your eyes lingered just a second longer on a moment. How your words seemed like they were chosen from a shelf of poetry instead of a bin of clichés. How you smiled like you’d seen heartbreak... and forgiven it.

You were the type that women remembered long after forgetting the names of men who shouted for their attention.

“Peace and a pint,” you muttered, parking outside a small tucked-away bar you’d passed a dozen times but never entered.

It didn’t look wild.

It looked... right.

Dim lights. Soft music. A little warmth spilling from its windows like it knew you needed it.

You stepped out, closed the door gently behind you, and with one hand tucked into your pocket, walked in like a breeze—not a storm.

There was no story waiting for you inside.

Or at least, that’s what you thought.

But the universe doesn’t always ask your permission before writing the next chapter.

The car rolled to a smooth stop in the dimly lit parking lot behind the bar, the neon glow from the front sign casting flickers of amber light across the windshield. Inside, the music was muffled, more like a heartbeat than a song.

Jihyo popped the door open first, stepping out in sleek heels with a casual grace. She took a moment to stretch, arms overhead, as if preparing for battle.

“Alright, ladies,” she announced like a general. “Tonight, the mission is clear: make Jeongyeon remember that she is hot, wanted, and not a ghost living in a Victorian novel.”

“Says the woman who brought two backup dancers to a low-key bar,” Jeongyeon muttered, but her lips were already twitching upward as Nayeon rounded the car.

“Backup dancers?” Nayeon scoffed, flicking her hair dramatically as she shut the passenger door. “Please. We’re the main act. You’re the special guest star. Mystery. Vintage. Forbidden fruit. You're like... emotional Dior.”

Jeongyeon laughed, trying to suppress it, but Nayeon knew that tone was a win. She circled her arm around Jeong’s and looked her up and down.

“No but seriously, this dress is insane on you.”

“It's... weird. I haven’t dressed up like this in years,” Jeongyeon admitted, smoothing the pleats near her hip, feeling the way the silky fabric clung and flowed. “I look like a time traveler who got stuck in the wrong decade.”

“Yeah, the decade where she was the heartbreaker every poet cried over,” Jihyo added, meeting them at the back of the car. “The messy updo? The ruffles? The bow? Jeong, you’re walking cinematic tension. Men will write songs after this.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Jeongyeon’s voice was quieter now. The nerves were creeping back in, her thumb grazing her ring finger out of habit. “I don’t want to be anyone’s song. I just... want to have a night where I’m not ‘Mom’ or ‘Mrs. Yoo.’”

The air turned softer. Nayeon’s grip on her arm loosened but didn’t let go.

“Then that’s all this night has to be.”

“And if something more comes along,” Jihyo added, nudging her side with a wink, “that’s just... dessert.”

Jeongyeon glanced at the warm glow leaking from the bar windows. Inside, she could hear laughter. Glasses clinking. A low hum of music and life.

She hadn’t felt part of something like that in... years.

Not since her world became smaller. Quieter. Not since everything good she had felt like it belonged to someone else first—her son, her job, her memories.

Tonight, maybe she’d belong to herself again.

“Okay,” she said softly, squaring her shoulders. “Let’s go inside before I change my mind.”

“Too late.” Nayeon grinned. “Operation: Jeongyeon Glows begins now.”

And just like that, the door to the bar opened with a low chime.

Unaware, just a few feet away, someone else had walked in not long ago—quietly, gently, without expectation.

The door swung open with the soft chime of a bell overhead, spilling warm golden light into the cool evening air. The three women stepped inside, and immediately, the world outside melted away.

It wasn’t what Jeongyeon expected.

No pounding bass. No crowds grinding against each other. No headache-inducing neon. Instead, there was soft jazz laced with the occasional acoustic cover floating through the air. Amber pendant lights hung low over dark wooden tables. Shelves lined with books and vintage record covers adorned the walls. And in the far corner, a modest bar glowed with the gentle flicker of candlelight and a smiling bartender polishing glasses like a movie character who probably had sage advice.

Jeongyeon slowed her steps, eyes scanning the space with open surprise.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” she whispered, a low whistle slipping from her lips. “You two really didn’t bring me to a hookup factory.”

Nayeon gave a knowing smirk. “You thought we’d dump you in some club with twenty-year-olds doing body shots?”

“Yes,” Jeongyeon deadpanned. “That’s exactly what I thought.”

Jihyo giggled beside her, slipping off her coat as she surveyed the scene like she owned it. “This place has an energy. Like... slow-burning romance. Or whispered secrets.”

“Or freshly-divorced writers meeting strangers who buy them tea,” Nayeon added, pointing to a pair in the corner, laughing quietly over what looked like a plate of shared fries.

“That’s oddly specific,” Jeongyeon muttered as they approached an empty table near the window, tucked just enough into the shadows to feel cozy.

“Point is,” Jihyo said, sliding into her seat, “we picked this place because it felt like... you. Not some version of you we think should exist. The actual you. The real Jeongyeon.”

Jeongyeon paused before sitting, fingers brushing over the back of the chair. That simple statement... it settled deep. Like honey stirred into tea.

She looked around again. The quiet laughter. The clinking of soft drinks and wines. The music drifting through the space like it had nowhere else to be.

It didn’t feel like a bar.

It felt like possibility.

She sat down slowly, exhaling in a way she hadn’t done in months.

“I like it here,” she admitted.

Nayeon reached across the table and took her hand for a second, squeezing it. “We knew you would.”

Jeongyeon sat in the soft velvet seat, letting herself settle into the unfamiliar comfort. The place still wrapped around her like a new coat—foreign, but warming fast.

The low hum of conversation, the clinking of glasses, the flickering candlelight on the table—it all created an atmosphere that felt suspended in time. She watched the way people leaned in a little closer here, spoke a little softer, smiled a little slower.

It was…intimate. Not in the way that begged for rushed romance or one-night blurs. It was the kind of intimacy built from noticing—the small details, the pauses between sentences, the second glances.

“You good?” Nayeon asked, chin propped on her palm.

“Mm-hmm,” Jeongyeon replied absently, eyes drifting across the bar. “It’s... peaceful. Not what I expected. But in a good way.”

“You look like you’re actually thinking of relaxing,” Jihyo teased with a smile. “Careful, or we’ll think you're enjoying this.”

Jeongyeon chuckled, rolling her eyes before standing. “I’ll grab us some drinks. My treat.”

“Ooh, responsible and generous,” Nayeon smirked. “You really are a catch, Jeongie.”

“Shut up,” Jeongyeon muttered, brushing her fingers through her loosely styled updo as she made her way toward the bar.

The floors creaked softly beneath her boots, the scent of old wood and citrusy cocktails mingling in the air. She wasn’t in a hurry—just letting herself drift between thoughts and the ambiance.

And then—

Thump.

She bumped into something—or someone—solid yet warm.

Her balance tilted, just slightly. Enough to send a quick flutter of panic through her chest, until—

A hand caught her arm. Gentle. Firm.

Steadying.

You.

You looked down at her, brows lifted in gentle surprise, the corners of your lips pulled into the beginnings of a smile.

"Oh—careful," you murmured, your voice a soft lilt, calm and melodic. "You alright?"

Her breath caught.

Not because she was hurt. But because—god—who the hell did she just bump into?

And across the room, Nayeon’s elbow met Jihyo’s ribs.

“Holy shit,” she whispered, her eyes laser-focused on the scene.

“Did Jeongyeon just bump into some novel protagonist level man?”

Jihyo blinked once, then again.

“Is he glowing?”

“He might be glowing.”

They both leaned slightly forward, drinks forgotten, curiosity taking full control.

Jeongyeon, meanwhile, blinked up at you, stunned into silence for a beat too long.

"I—uh, I’m okay. Sorry," she finally managed, her voice laced with that involuntary softness that came from being caught off guard.

Your hand lingered just a second longer on her arm, not presumptuous—just enough to make sure she was stable.

"No harm done," you smiled again. "You’ve got the kind of entrance people write about, though."

And that was it.

Something shifted. In the air. In her chest. In the quiet way her fingers curled inward when you let go.

She didn’t even notice Nayeon and Jihyo staring like they were watching the start of a drama they didn’t know they’d been waiting for.

You didn’t move just yet.

Your fingers slid away from her arm slowly, respectfully, and your head tilted just a little as your eyes met hers—curious, but warm. There wasn’t a trace of urgency in your gaze, nor anything predatory. Just... wonder. The kind of wonder reserved for art you didn’t expect to find hanging quietly in a forgotten hallway.

And then you said it.

Soft. Clear.

"You’re... stunning."

Jeongyeon blinked.

There was no smirk behind your words. No suggestive lean-in. No glance downward or over her shoulder. Your compliment wasn’t aimed at the shape of her or the dress she wore. It was aimed at her.

The energy she gave. The quiet grace. The way she stood there, framed in polka dots and soft light, still a little dazed from the bump, still grounded by your presence.

"There’s something about your aura," you added, voice as smooth as old vinyl on a rainy night. "It’s peaceful… like you’ve lived through a lot, but it didn’t break you. It just made you glow differently."

Her lips parted. Nothing came out.

What the hell do you even say to that?

Across the room, Nayeon nearly spilled her cocktail as she leaned into Jihyo’s shoulder with a giddy squeal.

“Jeongie’s blushing.”

“That’s not a blush, that’s a slow emotional meltdown,” Jihyo whispered, her eyes wide with delight.

“He’s like a soft-spoken Miyazaki character—with a jawline."

Jeongyeon felt the heat on her cheeks rise. This wasn’t a line. She knew lines. She could sniff them from ten feet away. But this? This was… disarming.

“Thank you,” she said, quieter than she meant to, eyes searching yours as if trying to find where the strings were hidden.

There were none.

Your smile remained, gentle and easy.

You didn’t reach for her again. You didn’t push. You simply looked at her like someone who’d bumped into beauty and couldn’t help but say so.

Back at the table, Nayeon elbowed Jihyo again.

“This is it. Push her. Go.”

“Push her where?” Jihyo whispered, still entranced.

“To the bar. To him. Push her into fate!”

“You’re insane.”

“You love it.”

Jihyo gave her a look—and then stood.

She approached with all the grace of a seasoned general in stilettos, catching Jeongyeon’s eye and mouthing something quick and quiet:

“Get drinks. With him. We’re watching.”

Jeongyeon’s brows shot up in panic, but her mouth betrayed her with a small, flustered smile.

She opened her mouth like she had something to say… then closed it. Then opened it again.

“W-Would you… maybe—want to sit? A drink? With me, I mean? Just—if you’re not busy.”

Her fingers fidgeted with the bowtie near her collar as she said it. Her voice wasn’t the smooth, commanding tone she used when managing a house, calming a child, or brushing off small talk. This voice… was shy, unsure, yet blooming with something that hadn’t stirred in years.

You let out a warm, air-soft chuckle—not at her, but in gentle amusement. She was adorable in the way a spring bloom is after a long frost—uncertain, but undeniably vibrant.

“I’d love that,” you said with a small nod.

Then, you made no move to lead. You let her take the lead.

Her hand gestured toward a more secluded two-seater table, half-tucked near the warm golden light of a wall lamp. The bar buzzed with a calm hum of conversations and clinking glass, but this little corner? It might as well have been its own world.

She sat first, a little stiff. You took the other seat slowly, giving her time to adjust to this unfamiliar gravity between you both.

You smiled again—this time introducing yourself, voice gentle like you were speaking not just to her ears, but to the hesitation in her chest.

“I’m L/N Y/N.”

You didn’t add more. No title. No job. No posturing. Just… a name. Like it was an offering.

She nodded, her fingers still lightly fidgeting with the edge of her sleeve.

“Jeongyeon.”

Then, like realizing how dry that sounded, she added quickly,

“Sorry, that was—Just. Jeongyeon.”

You smiled deeper, folding your hands on the table as you leaned in just enough to show you were fully present, fully listening.

“That’s a beautiful name.”

She looked down at her hands for a second… then smiled. That rare smile—the one people wear when something inside them dares to believe they’re still allowed to be noticed. Desired. Human.

Meanwhile, Nayeon and Jihyo, a few tables down and half-hidden behind a tall potted plant, were peeking like teenagers watching the first episode of a drama they instantly knew they’d binge.

“He said her name like it meant something,” Jihyo whispered, stunned.

“If she doesn’t marry him by winter, I’ll do it myself,” Nayeon muttered, sipping dramatically from her drink.

You didn’t rush anything. The moment had a rhythm of its own, and you let it breathe.

Jeongyeon sat across from you with a polite posture, one hand resting on the stem of her drink, the other slightly curled in her lap. But her eyes—they searched yours like they couldn’t decide whether to retreat or lean in.

You leaned forward slightly, just enough to make your voice feel closer.

“You know… you carry a kind of stillness with you.”

Her brows arched.

“Stillness?”

“Yeah,” you said, with a soft smile. “Not silence. Not distance. Just… something quiet and strong. Like you’ve been through storms, but never let them take away your sun.”

Her lips parted, the compliment slipping into her like warmth after a cold breeze.

“That’s… oddly poetic.”

You tilted your head with a small grin.

“I like finding poetry in people. Especially ones who don’t realize how much of it they carry.”

Jeongyeon chuckled—really chuckled—and something about it loosened the stiffness in her shoulders.

“That’s new,” she said, brushing a wisp of hair behind her ear. “Usually when I get approached, it’s a ‘You look like you’ve got secrets’ or ‘Are you a model from the 80s?’”

“Oh no, definitely not from the 80s,” you teased, your eyes gleaming. “Maybe timeless. Or someone who looks like they stepped out of an old French film, wearing ruffles and stealing hearts with one uncertain smile.”

Her hand flew to cover her mouth, half from laughing, half from surprise at how easily your words slipped under her skin.

“Are you like this with every woman you meet?” she asked playfully, narrowing her eyes with a tiny smirk.

“Only when they make me forget I came here alone,” you answered, sincere, no pause in your tone.

Her fingers tightened slightly on her glass, but her gaze didn’t turn away. She wasn’t used to this—being looked at like she was more than just a pretty face, more than a passing interest.

You gently asked, “So… Jeongyeon. What makes you laugh when the world’s heavy?”

That question. It surprised her. She looked away briefly, then back, and something in her shifted. The part that had been locked behind grief, behind duty, behind years of putting herself last.

“My kid,” she said quietly. “He’s… five. And wild. Like a spark that just never dies out.”

You leaned in slightly.

“He sounds like someone who inherited that spark from you.”

She smiled—this time without hesitation.

And she continued. Talking about her son's obsession with dinosaurs, his habit of making up bedtime stories, how he once dressed as a ‘superhero doctor chef’ because he couldn’t pick just one career. You listened with real curiosity, eyes steady, head tilted occasionally, a soft smile gracing your face like you were learning the story of your new favorite book.

Her guard melted more with each passing minute.

And somewhere between her laughing about her son drawing on the walls with jam, and you sharing a story about how you once tried to "fix" your microwave with YouTube tutorials and nearly blew the kitchen up—Jeongyeon… relaxed.

She leaned her elbows on the table. She played with her straw absentmindedly. She met your gaze without flinching.

The soft hum of conversation and mellow jazz threaded through the bar like silk, gentle and soothing. The lights above cast a golden warmth on the table between you two, but Jeongyeon hadn’t spoken for a moment.

Not since she noticed it.

You hadn’t flinched when she said “my kid.”

You hadn’t leaned back, blinked rapidly, asked, “Wait, you have a child?”

You hadn’t done what every other man she’d met over the years had done—turn that curious sparkle into retreat.

She turned her glass slowly in her hands, watching the condensation bead down its side. And then, after a quiet beat, her voice came out gentle but testing.

“You didn’t react.”

You glanced at her.

“To what?”

“When I said I have a kid.”

You tilted your head, a small, curious smile playing on your lips.

“Was I supposed to?”

She hesitated. Then offered a dry, self-aware shrug. “Most do. Some ask how old. Most don’t ask anything. They just politely excuse themselves. Or they stay… but you can see it in their eyes. That they already checked out.”

You leaned back slightly, folding your arms loosely on the table. Not defensively. But comfortably. Like you were settling in to listen to something important.

“A woman like you,” you said softly, “doesn’t walk into a bar like this alone unless something’s changed. A woman with a child wouldn’t come here on a whim—not unless there was someone to trust the child with. And not unless… maybe she needed to breathe again.”

You paused. Met her eyes fully.

“So I figured. Either you’ve parted ways with the man you had him with… or…”

You trailed off—not out of fear, but respect. Leaving space. Letting her choose.

Jeongyeon exhaled slowly. Something flickered across her face—recognition… and permission. She didn’t even realize how tightly she’d been gripping the ruffles of her sleeve until she let go.

“He passed.” Her voice didn’t break. Just softened. “Five years ago. Illness.”

Your expression didn’t shift into pity. Not the patronizing kind, anyway. Just a stillness. Reverence.

“I’m sorry,” you said gently. “That must’ve been a cruel weight. Especially right after bringing life into the world.”

She looked at you with a mixture of surprise and reflection.

“He knew.” She smiled faintly, not bitterly. “We didn’t talk about it much, but he knew he didn’t have long. He was sick before I even got pregnant, but we hoped… we tried anyway. And when the baby came, he said it was worth it. That even if he couldn’t stay, he wanted to leave part of us behind.”

You didn’t say anything. Just listened. Her eyes glossed over slightly as her words tumbled out, careful but unfiltered now.

“After he passed, I didn’t try again. Not dating, not intimacy, not… being wanted. That part of me just shut off. I had a baby. I had grief. I didn’t have space for anything else.”

A silence sat between you both. Not awkward—just… honest. She wasn’t someone who aired her heart often. And you? You treated it like something sacred.

Your fingers brushed against your glass absently before you leaned in just enough.

“You know…” you said, voice a low murmur, “you don’t wear sadness the way people think grief should look. You wear it like armor. Beautiful. Silent. But heavy.”

Jeongyeon blinked. Slowly.

“You don’t see me as… broken?”

You smiled, the kind that curved with warmth but didn’t lighten the gravity of her question.

“No. I see you as… someone who’s been full of love. Enough to carry two hearts. And maybe now, your own heart wants to feel something for itself again. Not out of guilt. Not out of need. But because you’re still here.”

Her hand trembled slightly as she reached for her drink again.

Your voice lowered even more.

“If love came once… it can come again. And I don’t mean to replace anything. Some things aren’t meant to be replaced. Just… honored, as we allow more in.”

Jeongyeon swallowed thickly. She had been strong for so long. Smiling for others. Crying in quiet corners. Rebuilding herself piece by piece after the storm.

And now, here was someone… offering to see her. Not save her. Not fix her. Just see her.

“You’re kind,” she whispered, her eyes soft now. Exposed. “Maybe too kind for someone like me.”

You tilted your head with a soft laugh.

“I’m not sure you get to decide who you’re worthy of, Jeongyeon.” You met her gaze. “Not tonight, at least.”

And for a moment… she smiled. A real one. Not the polite smile she offered in passing or the practiced one for her son. But a smile from her.

And somewhere near the bar’s far corner, two pairs of eyes—Nayeon and Jihyo—watched with glimmering awe and matching grins.

Jeongyeon didn’t even notice how close she’d leaned in.

Maybe it was the warmth of the booth light catching on the curve of your jaw, or the calm way your fingers played with your drink as if nothing in the world could startle you. Or maybe it was the way you didn’t press too hard, didn’t try to perform.

Whatever it was… she liked it.

And she was liking you.

She straightened slightly, brushing a finger over the ruffles of her sleeve with a smirk tugging on her lips. Her voice came with a familiar lilt—cool, teasing, a bit challenging.

“So…” she started, eyes narrowing playfully, “are you always this smooth, or do you just turn it up when you see a hot single mom in a vintage ruffle dress?”

You blinked, then let out an easy, low laugh.

“Only when the dress comes with a woman who could silence a room just by raising her eyebrow.”

She scoffed. “Okay, that was smooth.”

“I practice in the mirror,” you quipped. “Sometimes I imagine I’ll bump into someone who looks like she walked out of an old film reel.” You gestured to her whole ensemble with a nod of appreciation. “Guess I manifested it.”

Jeongyeon chuckled and rolled her eyes, but it came with the kind of blush she didn’t even try to hide.

“Manifested a woman with a kid, emotional trauma, and sarcasm issues?”

You leaned in slightly, gaze steady.

“No, I manifested a woman who knows who she is. And looks like she could flirt and win a bar fight in the same breath.”

That made her laugh—head tilting back, one hand instinctively reaching for your wrist for support as she wheezed.

From their spot at the bar, Nayeon let out a small squeal and practically slapped Jihyo’s arm.

“Look at her, Jihyo! She's touching him. She's literally touching him.”

Jihyo, biting back her grin, sipped her drink and said, “They’re matching energies already. We should leave before it turns into a drama series.”

Back at the booth, Jeongyeon finally composed herself and gave you a mock squint.

“Alright, Mr. Novel Character. You’ve clearly been trained by romantic comedies. What’s your tragic flaw?”

You blinked like you had to think seriously about it. Then leaned in and said solemnly,

“I snack on cereal at midnight like it’s a drug.”

She bit her lip to suppress another laugh.

“Okay, fair. But if it's cornflakes, I might walk out.”

“Only the sugary kinds,” you said with mock offense. “I’m a man of decadence, Jeongyeon.”

She smirked, her elbow propped on the table now, fingers resting under her chin.

“That so?” she asked, eyes gleaming. “Then tell me, decadent man—what made you come here tonight?”

You paused for a second. Not for dramatic effect—but to be real.

“Good day. Clear sky. Thought I’d end it quietly. Something about mellow bars and soft jazz just makes the soul… hum, y’know?”

She hummed softly, mirroring your answer.

“Maybe we both came for quiet… but found something that made the hum turn into music.”

You smiled at her. Genuinely.

“Maybe.”

And that was when the tension shifted. Still playful. Still dancing on the edge of something flirtatious.

But now it pulsed with something warmer, more magnetic—an energy not born out of want, but mutual curiosity. The kind that builds not from fast-paced sparks but from slowly lit candles.

Jeongyeon tilted her head at you, eyes unreadable but glowing softly.

“I don’t know if I want to kiss you or roast you for being this poetic.”

“Why not both?” you teased, resting your chin on your hand.

“Dangerous man.” She smirked, but her fingers—delicate and slow—tapped twice on the table, her subtle sign of wanting the conversation to keep going.

And so, it did.

Jeongyeon swirled her glass lightly, the ice clinking as her gaze floated from the amber liquid to your face. Her tone stayed casual, but there was a softness behind her next question—curious, not prying.

“So… have you ever had anyone?”

You didn’t pretend to misunderstand. You leaned back a bit, resting one arm on the edge of the booth, your lips quirking up.

“Only once. After high school.”

Jeongyeon blinked. “Wait—just once?”

You nodded. “One. Singular. Dramatic. Cringeworthy. Absolute first love type.” You let out a soft laugh, not bitter, just reflective. “The kind where you think you’d give up everything and leap off rooftops for them if they asked.”

“Yikes,” Jeongyeon muttered, amused. “So what happened?”

You offered a soft shrug, your fingers now lazily tracing the rim of your glass.

“Got two-timed. The guy was older, richer, and apparently knew how to talk like a movie character. And I was just... me.”

Jeongyeon winced, tilting her head. “Ouch.”

“Yeah,” you smiled faintly. “Cried over her for two whole years. Proper main character arc. Even wrote bad poetry and drank instant coffee like it was whiskey.”

That made her laugh—loud and unfiltered. “You’re not serious.”

“I am,” you chuckled, raising a hand in mock surrender. “Dead serious. Like tragic-boy-in-a-hoodie serious. It was my full-time job, grieving that heartbreak. Nine years ago, though. And no regrets.”

Jeongyeon blinked at you for a moment, mouth parted just slightly. Not just from amusement—but intrigue. You didn’t tell the story like it was a badge of honor or a dramatic wound to show off. You told it honestly. Easily. With enough distance to show you healed, but not so much that you forgot the weight of it.

“That’s…” she started, voice a little lower, “...honestly kind of beautiful.”

“The heartbreak?” you raised a brow.

She smiled softly. “No. The fact that you grieved it, and then grew from it instead of pretending you didn’t care. Most people fake it. You sat with it.”

You met her eyes, and this time you didn’t speak right away. Just smiled.

“Yeah. I think pain’s only useful if it becomes fertilizer.”

Jeongyeon stared at you for a beat longer than necessary. Her lips were still curved in a half-smile, but her throat worked in a subtle swallow. Something warm spread along her spine.

It wasn’t just your words—it was the way you said them. Like they had been marinated in years of lived experience, then served up gently without expectation.

And suddenly, she was aware of how close your knees were under the table. Of how the booth light caught the slight gloss of your lips, the graceful tilt of your neck, the calm way your body existed without trying to command attention.

She crossed one leg over the other, maybe just to ease the tension. Or maybe to release it.

“So you’ve been single for… a while then.”

You grinned at her teasing tone. “A long while. Nothing’s stuck since. I don’t chase. If someone stays, they stay. I’ve learned people leave no matter how tightly you hold.”

Jeongyeon’s smirk flickered—there was heat behind it now, tucked beneath her cool exterior. Your honesty had drawn her in. But it was your patience and lack of motive that made her feel safe... and uncomfortably curious.

And you? You hadn’t noticed. You were too busy admiring how expressive her eyes were when she listened. How she sometimes bit her lip to keep from smiling too much.

But the sexual tension? The way her body subtly shifted toward you, her breath slowing when your hand brushed the edge of the table near hers? You were still clueless. She wasn't.

Jeongyeon’s next words came a little quieter, her head tilted.

“You talk like someone who’s had a lot of time alone.”

You smiled faintly. “Alone’s not bad. It makes you more aware of how lovely company can be.” You looked at her with a little tilt of your own. “Present company, especially.”

Her breath hitched just slightly. She covered it with a smirk. “Careful. I’ve got a weakness for poetic men who don’t realize they’re flirting.”

“Ah,” you grinned, playing along, “then I must be a danger to your type.”

“You really are.” Her tone came almost under her breath.

A brief silence passed. Not awkward. Just thick with something. Something warming between the two of you like a low flame.

From across the bar, Nayeon whispered to Jihyo:

“She’s doomed. She’s totally doomed. Look at her! Her legs are crossed, her head’s tilted, she’s—God, she’s in trouble.”

“He doesn’t even know,” Jihyo murmured, sipping. “That’s the worst part. He’s just existing and she’s two inches from falling for him.”

Back at the booth, Jeongyeon was still watching you, her fingers now idly brushing a strand of hair from her neck.

And for a brief second, she wondered what your voice would sound like in the dark. Not just the flirting, not just the clever lines… but the voice that came when lips were close and breaths were shared. And that thought made her shift in her seat. Just barely. But enough to feel her own pulse.

Your booth was dimly lit, with the warmth of golden lights painting her skin like candlelight. Jeongyeon leaned her elbow on the table now, chin cradled in her palm as her eyes fixed on you like a cat sizing up a very interesting beam of sunlight. You weren’t trying. That’s what killed her the most.

You weren’t leaning in too close, weren’t dropping cheesy lines or overly-present hands. You were just you. Calm. Curious. That unbothered charm with no strings dangling behind your words.

And it was working better than any rehearsed move she’d ever known.

She caught herself laughing again—hand over her mouth this time, her head thrown slightly back as you told her the story about trying to cook dinner for your date once and nearly setting your curtains on fire. The way you reenacted it, flailing like an idiot with a flaming towel and a fire extinguisher that wouldn't work, had her wheezing.

But then she looked at you again, and realized something even more dangerous than your sense of humor.

You were handsome, yes. But it wasn’t that. It was how present you were. How your eyes didn’t wander. How you noticed the way she twisted her ring and asked about it. How you smiled like she wasn’t one woman in a sea of options—but like she was the most interesting story you'd found that night.

Her chest tightened. She shifted again—closer without meaning to. Your knees brushed lightly. You didn’t flinch away. You just smiled, and asked her what kind of music she listened to when she couldn't sleep. And that did it. Jeongyeon exhaled, subtly pressing her thighs together under the table.

Across the bar, Jihyo leaned back against the counter, sipping her drink with a raised brow.

“She’s on a roll.”

Nayeon turned, her cheeks already pink from the wine. “Mmhmm. It’s getting warm in here or is that just her sexual tension?”

Jihyo didn’t look away from the booth. “Girl’s vibrating like she’s sitting on a speaker. But she won’t pull the trigger unless we give her a little nudge.”

Nayeon’s lips twisted into a devious smirk. “You want me to go save her with a bathroom break?”

“Save her? No. Coach her.” Jihyo turned, holding her glass lazily. “Tell her to go for it. Just for tonight. Feel it out. Doesn’t have to be a forever-thing. Just a moment.”

Nayeon chuckled. “You’re a menace.”

“I’m a realist,” Jihyo said, swishing her drink. “She deserves something that doesn’t come with baby bottles and snack crumbs. Tell her—impulses can be good. Sometimes they lead to the best decisions.”

A minute later, Jeongyeon blinked as Nayeon slid into the booth beside her, gently tapping her on the knee.

“Bathroom. C’mon.”

“Huh—what, why?” Jeongyeon glanced at you, then at her, confused.

“You need air,” Nayeon whispered with a knowing smirk. “And also, I need to talk to you.”

You politely smiled and gestured. “Take your time.”

As they disappeared into the hallway, Nayeon tugged Jeongyeon into the women’s bathroom and locked the door behind them.

“Alright,” she whispered, leaning back against the sink, “here’s the thing. I’ve seen you flirt. I’ve seen you date. But I’ve never seen you like this.”

Jeongyeon scoffed, brushing her hair out of her face. “Like what?”

“Like you’re two seconds from crawling into his lap and whispering Shakespearean sonnets.”

Jeongyeon tried to laugh it off, but the fluster in her face betrayed her.

“I’m not—look, it’s just... he’s different, okay? He’s not pushy. He’s not weirdly smooth. He’s just... nice. And thoughtful. And hot, like a dark academia dream without the pretentiousness.”

“So?” Nayeon stepped forward, arms crossed. **“You’re here. You’re single. He’s clearly into talking to you. If you feel it... go for the moment.”

Jeongyeon blinked. “You mean... like—”

“Yes,” Nayeon said flatly, “I mean sex. One night. Test the waters. See what it turns into. Maybe nothing. Or maybe something. But don’t overthink it.”

Jeongyeon laughed breathlessly. “You make it sound so casual.”

“It is casual,” Nayeon said, tilting her head. “If you want it to be. But here’s the thing, Jeong.”

She stepped closer, gripping her friend’s shoulders gently.

“You’ve been everything for everyone lately. A mom. A sister. A provider. A protector. But tonight... maybe just be a woman.”

Jeongyeon swallowed. The words hit her harder than she expected.

“If it doesn’t feel right, walk away,” Nayeon added, softening her voice. “But if it does… then don’t. Don’t rob yourself of a good moment just because you’re afraid of how it might end.”

Silence hung for a few seconds. Then Jeongyeon exhaled. Looked at her reflection in the mirror. And for once… she didn’t see just a mother. Or a tired woman trying to hold everything together. She saw someone a man like you looked at like a warm story.

Back at the booth, your fingers were tracing a ring of condensation on your glass. You glanced toward the hallway, smiling softly to yourself—no rush, no expectations.

Just hoping she’d come back. And she would. But when she did… something in her eyes would be different. And maybe the night wasn’t going to end as quietly as you thought.

The women’s bathroom wasn’t silent anymore.

The moment Jeongyeon turned from the mirror, still processing what Nayeon had just whispered into her soul, the door creaked open—and in stepped Jihyo, heels clicking, lips curled in that “don’t-worry-I’m-already-caught-up” kind of smirk.

“You look like someone who’s about to back out,” she teased, closing the door behind her.

Jeongyeon groaned and leaned her head against the tiled wall, both palms braced on the sink. “This isn’t just ‘hook up and go,’ Jihyo. He’s different. I know it. What if I mess it up?”

“Or what if you don’t?” Jihyo replied simply. “What if this time… you get to be the one who wins?”

Jeongyeon turned to say something, but Nayeon cut in with a grin so smug it could start a fight.

“Well, if you’re not going to make a move,” she began, sliding her lipstick back into her clutch, “I might go take your place.”

Jeongyeon blinked. “What?”

Nayeon shrugged casually. “I’m single too. Divorced. Been through hell. That man outside? Looks like someone who could make me forget my ex and probably massage my back after I collapse from joy.”

She grinned and added slyly, “And you know… my daughter does deserve a good male role model someday.”

Jeongyeon’s jaw dropped.

“Yah—Nayeon!”

But the way her hands immediately gripped the edge of the sink… the way her eyes flared with something protective, possessive, primal—didn’t go unnoticed.

Jihyo raised both eyebrows and crossed her arms. “Ohhh. That’s new. You jealous?”

“I’m not jealous.”

“You’re jealous.”

“I’m not—!”

“Jeong,” Nayeon cut in, chuckling now. “If you don’t want to act on it, then don’t. But don’t expect me to just sit here when I’m watching someone give you exactly the kind of attention you haven’t had in years.”

“He’s mine,” Jeongyeon muttered without thinking, her voice low, like it belonged to someone more confident than she’d felt in ages.

There it was. Jihyo gasped dramatically. “Okay, ma’am.”

“Didn’t know we were doing declarations tonight,” Nayeon added with a grin. “Go then. Take your seat back. Before I do.”

Jeongyeon rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide the tiny smirk tugging at her lips. She fixed her hair in the mirror one last time. Her cheeks still had that warm flush—not from the wine—but from you. When she walked out, she didn’t hesitate.

You were sitting exactly where she left you. Elbow resting on the table, chin on your hand, slowly rotating your glass by the rim like you were passing time with your thoughts. But the moment your eyes caught hers across the room, something happened.

They widened. Not dramatically—but just enough to be noticeable. You tilted your head slightly. A subtle furrow creased between your brows. There wasn’t a trace of suspicion or discomfort—just simple, gentle concern.

Like: "You okay?" “Did I do something?” “Was it something I said?” And for some reason, that tiny, honest reaction knocked the breath out of her. God, he’s so—adorable. Not even trying. And here she was burning up inside.

She slid back into her seat, fingers lightly trailing over the edge of the table before resting neatly in her lap. She tried to say something casual. Didn’t work.

“Sorry, bathroom break turned into girl gang therapy.”

You chuckled softly. “I figured. I was close to sending the bartender with a search party.”

That made her giggle—husky, warm, from deep in her chest. She tilted her head as she looked at you, feeling herself slip right back into that easy current you seemed to create around you.

You smiled at her, eyes still holding that soft glow.

“You okay?” you asked gently. “You seemed a bit… out of it for a second.”

Jeongyeon leaned her cheek against her knuckles now, eyes narrowing playfully.

“You always this observant?”

“Only when I care,” you replied with a playful wink. “Which apparently is… now.”

She laughed again—fully this time. “You’re dangerous.”

“I’m honest.” You sipped your drink, then added with a tilt of your brow: “Big difference.”

The air between you thickened again, but now it was warmer. Heavier. Like something shared and unspoken was starting to wrap around you both.

Jeongyeon ran her thumb along the base of her glass.

“You really wouldn’t have blinked if I said I had five kids, huh?”

You leaned back and grinned. “I’d probably ask if they’re all carbon copies of you or if the world got lucky and mixed in some chaos.”

She blushed—again. And it hit her again: this… whatever this was? It was starting to feel dangerously good.

So when her knee brushed yours again, she didn’t pull away. When your elbow grazed hers while reaching for your glass, she let it linger. And when she caught your gaze lingering on her lips—just for a split second—she didn’t look away.

Maybe Nayeon was right. Maybe it was just a moment. But maybe… just maybe, it was her moment.

The glasses between you both were nearly empty, the clink of melting ice cubes in yours the only sound between the playful laughter and the occasional brush of arms.

Jeongyeon’s eyes had grown a shade softer, lashes fluttering a little slower, gaze lingering longer with each sentence you said. There wasn’t much left of her mask—the cool sarcasm, the effortless hot girl energy. It was still there, sure—but softened now. Not because she was hiding anything. But because, for the first time in what felt like years, she didn’t feel like she had to pretend anything.

She looked up from her drink, resting her cheek in her palm again, but this time her fingers swept lightly across her jaw, showing more of that easy, quiet flirtation.

“You know…” she began, voice slower now, lower, “you’re kind of annoying.”

You blinked, half-laughing as you tilted your head.

“That so?” you grinned. “Didn’t realize I was causing you such distress.”

She leaned forward just a little, elbows on the table, her chin now resting on the back of her hand. “Mmhmm. You’re all… kind, and real, and charming in that annoyingly comforting way.”

“Annoyingly comforting?”

She smiled, shoulders swaying just slightly with that husky chuckle of hers. “Yeah. Like, you say the right thing without even trying. You’re gentle, but not boring. Funny, but not trying too hard.”

You rested your forearms on the table now, mimicking her posture without realizing it. Your smile softened as you replied:

“That’s a lot of overthinking for someone who called me dangerous a few minutes ago.”

She smirked. “You are. That hasn’t changed.”

The music from the bar's speakers shifted to something smoother, more sensual—but not overtly romantic. Just enough to make the space feel closer. More personal.

You didn’t notice it at first, but Jeongyeon’s knee had moved again. This time not brushing—but resting lightly against yours under the table. Her body slightly turned toward you. Like she had stopped debating with herself and simply decided to be there with you. Fully. No hesitations.

You hadn’t pulled away either. Maybe it was the slight warmth from the whiskey. Maybe it was the way she tilted her head when she laughed. Or how your name sounded softer in her voice every time she said it.

But your voice dipped slightly now, your words a little more careful. A little deeper.

“You’re fascinating, Jeongyeon.”

She blinked at that. Not pretty. Not hot. Not fine as hell. But fascinating.

She swallowed once, and that shift? That invisible line between playful flirting and something smoldering underneath? It flickered into place.

“No one’s called me that before,” she admitted, letting her fingers lightly trace the condensation ring from her glass. “It’s always something skin-deep. Sexy. Gorgeous. Fun.”

You tilted your head, voice softer now.

“Well, you’re all that too. But you also got layers. Hidden storms. Quiet confidence that doesn’t beg to be noticed.”

Jeongyeon was suddenly very aware of how warm her chest felt. How the alcohol wasn’t making her dizzy—it was you.

Her lips curled into a softer smile than any before, a hint of shyness breaking through her usual confidence. Then she said:

“What about you? Feeling brave yet?”

You raised a brow, amused. “Brave?”

“To say something about me that’s not poetic,” she challenged gently. “Something bold. If you dare.”

You chuckled lowly. “You sure?”

“Mmhm.”

You leaned in a little closer—nothing dramatic. Just enough so she had to breathe you in a little more.

“I think you’re dangerous too,” you murmured. “But in a slow-burn kind of way. The kind that sneaks into people’s heads at night when they’re alone. And keeps them warm without asking for permission.”

Jeongyeon laughed again, but this one was breathy. Flushed. That laugh that happens when a woman hears something she didn’t expect to love so much. She reached out this time. Fingertips grazing your wrist where your hand rested near your drink.

You looked down, then back at her. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t move. Just let her touch linger. She was quiet for a moment. Then:

“If I kissed you right now… would you stop me?”

That made your throat tighten. You blinked once, expression unreadable for half a beat. Then, your voice—low, calm, honest—spoke:

“I’d ask why you waited so long.”

And her smile—slow, dangerous, magnetic—curled at the corner like the start of a fuse being lit.

But she didn’t kiss you. Not yet. Instead, she let her fingers trail back to her lap, let the tension thrum between your locked eyes, and said with a whisper:

“Good answer… L/N Y/N.”

The game had shifted. And neither of you were playing anymore.

The song shifted again.

A slower groove now—a rhythm with soul, laced with light percussion and that kind of bass that could make your chest thrum if you stood close enough to the speakers. The bar’s lighting dimmed just enough to cast soft golden hues on the scattered dancers by the wooden floor near the back.

You had just taken another small sip when Jeongyeon suddenly stood, smoothing her shirt down casually and reaching for your hand.

“C’mon,” she said.

You looked up, one brow rising with a laugh already building in your chest. “What?”

“Let’s dance.”

“Jeongyeon,” you chuckled, keeping your voice low, a little teasing, “I’m warning you. I dance like Mr. Bean. Real floppy arms. Wrists everywhere. A national tragedy.”

She didn’t even blink. She leaned down slightly, grabbed your wrist, and tugged.

“Good. I need a partner who isn’t afraid to embarrass himself with me.” Her grin was pure fire, teasing and electric. “Besides, camaraderie, remember? Shared humiliation builds stronger bonds.”

“That’s not in any psychology book.”

“Yeah? Sue me.”

You let yourself be pulled, half-laughing, letting her lead you out of the booth like a dare you never intended to take. But here you were, feet moving across the cozy wooden flooring toward the not-so-crowded dance floor.

The first few steps were awkward—on your part.

You did try. It was maybe one part shoulder shimmy, two parts foot shuffle, and ten parts ‘what the hell am I doing with my limbs?’ Jeongyeon, however, was swaying like it was muscle memory. The bass carried her hips, her shoulders relaxed, her body confident.

She turned her head, grinning as she caught your effort.

“You’re not that bad,” she said, laughing.

“You’re lying.”

“Of course I am. But you look hot doing it.”

You gave her a look—mock offended, mildly stunned, and deeply amused. She laughed again, that husky giggle echoing as she moved in closer now, until her hands found your sides, fingertips brushing the hem of your shirt.

You froze slightly at the contact—not because you were uncomfortable. But because it was the first time she touched you with intent. Not teasing. Not playful. But guided. Sure.

Her fingers gripped gently and guided your hips just a little. “Follow the beat. Let your body loosen. Just… feel it.”

You weren’t great—but you let go. You didn’t care anymore. You let the beat thump in your chest. You let your hands lightly hover near her waist, careful not to assume anything. She noticed that too. The respect.

She rewarded it.

Jeongyeon stepped in again—this time much closer. Her body pressed just enough to your front to feel the low warmth between your ribs. And her arms, snake-like, slipped around your neck as she whispered:

“There… better already.”

Her eyes were on you again. Those mischievous, unreadable eyes—burning under dim amber light.

You were about to say something, maybe tease her back—

—but then she tilted her head.

And kissed you.

There was no pause. No hesitation.

She leaned in slow, lips brushing yours like a soft question, then answering it herself with a kiss full of ease and quiet fire. Her fingers curled slightly against your nape as her mouth moved against yours—testing, savoring, not rushing anything.

You froze for half a second.

Then your hands found her waist, light and respectful but steady. You kissed back—slowly, honestly. Letting her lead. Letting her decide where this moment would go.

But you met her there. With warmth. With intent. She pulled back just an inch, breath brushing your lips.

“You kiss like you speak,” she whispered.

“How’s that?”

“Like you mean every fucking word.”

She kissed you again—hungrier this time.

And something in your chest opened like a floodgate. All the warmth, all the tension, all the soft affection now rushing toward heat. Toward something that went beyond playful drinks and dancing.

Jeongyeon pressed closer, her body flush with yours now, her lips moving in sync with yours as the music wrapped around you both like a cocoon.

You didn’t notice the others. The other dancers, the bar chatter, even the world outside. Just the smell of Jeongyeon’s perfume—earthy and elegant—and the feel of her body leaning into yours like gravity had finally found its way.

She murmured against your lips between kisses:

“Still think you’re embarrassing me?”

“Not unless this is a public punishment.”

She chuckled, breathy, one hand sliding behind your neck to tangle softly in your hair. And somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew where this night was going. But neither of you said it. You didn’t need to.

Jeongyeon had barely broken the kiss when something over your shoulder caught her eye.

She blinked, a little dazed but still sharp enough to spot the two culprits near the bar—Nayeon and Jihyo watching like a live drama audience.

Nayeon’s smirk could be seen from a mile away, glass in hand like a toast to Jeongyeon’s success. Jihyo winked, subtly mouthing, “Get him out of here.”

Then Nayeon raised her brows and pointed to the door like some sexy, smug Cupid.

Jeongyeon bit back a laugh, shook her head slightly, but gave the smallest, most evil smirk in their direction. She tilted her head like, “Yeah yeah, I got it.”

The girls made no effort to stick around. They waved off any sign of goodbye and subtly slipped out the side exit—grinning like they’d just passed a romantic baton into Jeongyeon’s hands.

You were still breath-warm and dazed when Jeongyeon turned her head back toward you, biting her lower lip, debating something silently.

But instead of asking… she just acted. Her fingers slid down from your nape and slipped into your hand—intertwining with a grip that left no room for questions.

“Let’s go.”

“Go?” you echoed, amused.

“Somewhere private,” she said with that same low, husky edge you were growing more addicted to by the second.

And then—without waiting for your nod—Jeongyeon tugged you by the hand, threading through the low-lit bar, through the blurred dancing bodies, and out into the cool evening air.

You didn’t resist. Not once. Your heart was thudding behind your ribs, not out of nerves—but anticipation. A calm, assured pull toward something magnetic and raw.

The two of you reached the curb, breaths fogging lightly in the cool spring night. She stopped, realizing the pause.

“I can’t go home,” she said, almost apologetically. “My son’s with Chaeyoung tonight. I don’t… want to explain why I’m bringing a man home at 1AM.”

You nodded. “Makes sense.”

“There’s a hotel I know. Cozy. Clean. Not a hookup spot. Just…” She paused, eyes locked with yours. “Nice. And quiet.”

You pulled your car keys from your pocket and held them up between two fingers.

“Lucky for us—I drove.”

Jeongyeon blinked at the keys, then looked at you.

Then she smiled. Not a cheeky smirk. Not a flirty grin. A real one.

Like for the first time all night, she was letting herself be present in the idea of this. Of you. No more nudges, no more jokes. Just something that felt right. Spontaneous, but not stupid. Impulsive, but safe.

She led the way to your car, still holding your hand like a quiet lifeline. Neither of you rushed—but there was a tension, a hum beneath the silence.

And when she slid into the passenger seat, she looked over as you settled behind the wheel.

“Is this okay?” she asked softly, even though she had been the one to drag you outside.

You turned your head slowly, meeting her gaze, voice steady.

“It’s okay if you want it.”

That made her inhale. Sharp. Soft. Honest. She nodded, her voice nearly a whisper:

“I do.”

You pulled onto the quiet road, the world around dim and hushed. Only the occasional passing car or night breeze filling the gaps in conversation. Jeongyeon rested her elbow on the edge of the window, her other hand still linked with yours over the gearshift.

Nothing more needed to be said.

The hotel wasn’t far. It wasn’t grand or flashy—but when she led you through the lobby and up the elevator, you saw it was exactly like she said. Quiet. Warm lighting. Comfortable.

You entered the room behind her. She didn’t speak, didn’t joke. She just turned to you once the door closed.

The silence in the room wasn’t awkward. It was full. Loaded with all the unspoken things you both wanted to explore.

She stepped closer again. Hands finding your collar. Eyes scanning your features like she was trying to memorize how you looked before things changed.

And her voice was a soft hush when she said:

“Still not regretting letting me pull you to the floor like that?”

Your smirk was gentle, your tone even more so.

“I think you’ve got a talent for making good decisions.”

She leaned in, forehead pressing to yours. And kissed you again. And this time… it wasn’t just fire. It was home.

The moment the hotel door clicked shut behind you, the air thickened—charged with something slow, deliberate, and intoxicating. Jeongyeon’s hands were still tangled in your collar, her breath warm against your lips as she kissed you again, deeper this time. There was no rush, no frantic urgency—just the quiet, aching need to savor every second of this.

Her fingers slid down your chest, tracing the outline of your muscles through your shirt before settling at your waist. She pulled back just enough to look at you, her dark eyes searching yours.

"You’re sure?" she murmured, her thumb brushing over your hipbone.

You answered by cupping her face, tilting her chin up to kiss her again—softer this time, lingering against her lips. "I’ve never been more sure of anything."

A small, breathless laugh escaped her as she leaned into your touch, her body pressing flush against yours. The heat between you was undeniable, but neither of you moved to undress just yet. Instead, Jeongyeon’s hands roamed over your back, fingers kneading into the fabric of your shirt as if memorizing the shape of you.

Her lips trailed from your mouth to your jaw, then down the column of your throat, her teeth grazing lightly over your pulse. "Mmm… you smell good," she hummed, her voice low and husky.

You shivered as her hands slipped beneath your shirt, her palms warm against your skin. She took her time exploring—tracing the ridges of your abs, the dip of your waist—before sliding back up to push the fabric up your chest. You helped her pull it off, tossing it aside, and Jeongyeon exhaled sharply at the sight of you.

"Fuck…" she whispered, her fingers ghosting over your collarbones. "You’re—"

You didn’t let her finish. Catching her wrist, you tugged her closer, your mouth finding hers again in a slow, deep kiss. One of your hands slid up her side, thumb brushing just beneath the curve of her breast through her blouse. She gasped into your mouth, arching into the touch.

"Jeongyeon…" you murmured against her lips, your other hand slipping to the small of her back, pressing her even closer.

She let out a soft, shaky breath, her fingers tightening in your hair. "Yeah…?"

"Tell me what you want."

She pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, her cheeks flushed, lips slightly parted. For a moment, she just looked at you—like she was deciding how much of herself to give. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, she took your hand and guided it to the first button of her blouse.

"This," she said quietly. "But… slow."

You nodded, your fingers working the first button free, then the next, revealing smooth, pale skin inch by inch. Jeongyeon watched you, her breath hitching as your knuckles brushed against her stomach. By the time the last button came undone, her blouse hung open, the lace of her bra just barely concealing the swell of her breasts.

Your hands settled on her waist, thumbs stroking over her ribs as you leaned in to press a kiss to the hollow of her throat. She tipped her head back with a quiet sigh, her fingers threading through your hair.

"God…" she breathed, her voice trembling. "You have no idea how long it’s been since someone touched me like this."

You kissed lower, your lips brushing the curve of her breast just above the lace. "Then let me remind you," you murmured against her skin.

Jeongyeon shuddered, her grip tightening in your hair as you continued your slow descent, worshipping every inch of her with your mouth and hands. The air between you was thick with want, but neither of you rushed—content to let the moment stretch, to savor the way her body responded to every touch, every kiss.

This wasn’t just about pleasure.

It was about rediscovery.

And Jeongyeon was letting herself feel it—all of it—for the first time in years.

The bed dipped beneath you as Jeongyeon guided you both backward, her fingers still tangled in your hair as you continued to trail slow, open-mouthed kisses down her throat. The vintage fabric of her dress whispered against the sheets, the high collar and ruffled sleeves framing her like something out of a dream.

You pulled back just enough to take her in—really take her in. The way the soft lamplight caught on the sheer panels of her sleeves, the way the dark green pleats contrasted against her smooth skin, the way the bow at her neck trembled slightly with each unsteady breath.

"God, you're beautiful," you murmured, your fingers tracing the edge of her collar.

Jeongyeon’s cheeks flushed darker, but she didn’t look away. Instead, she reached up, slowly undoing the bow at her neck with deliberate fingers. The high collar loosened, revealing more of her throat, the delicate hollows of her collarbones.

"This thing…" she said, voice husky, "is a pain to get out of."

You smirked, catching her wrist and pressing a kiss to her palm. "Then let me help."

With painstaking slowness, you worked your way down the tiny buttons at the back of her dress, each one giving way beneath your fingers like a small victory. The fabric parted gradually, revealing the smooth slope of her back, the delicate straps of her bra, the faintest hint of lace at her waist.

Jeongyeon shivered as the cool air hit her skin, but she didn’t rush you. She just watched—felt—as you pushed the dress from her shoulders, letting it pool around her hips.

"Fuck…" you breathed, your hands skimming up her sides, over the dip of her waist, the gentle swell of her ribs. Her body was a masterpiece—soft yet toned, curves that begged to be touched, skin so smooth it felt like silk beneath your fingertips.

You leaned down, pressing a kiss to the inside of her wrist, then the crook of her elbow, then the slope of her shoulder. Every inch of her deserved reverence.

Jeongyeon’s breath hitched as your lips found the curve of her breast just above her bra, your tongue flicking over the lace. "Ah—" Her fingers tightened in your hair, not pushing, just holding, like she needed something to ground her.

You took your time, lavishing attention on every exposed inch of her—the dip of her navel, the subtle arch of her hipbones, the sensitive skin just beneath her ribs. When your fingers finally brushed the waistband of her panties, she tensed for a fraction of a second before melting into your touch.

"Okay?" you asked against her skin.

She nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. "More than okay."

You hooked your fingers into the lace, dragging it down her legs with agonizing slowness, kissing every new patch of skin as it was revealed. By the time the last scrap of fabric fell away, Jeongyeon was trembling, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.

You settled between her thighs, hands sliding up her legs, thumbs brushing the inside of her knees. "Look at you…" you murmured, your voice thick with awe.

Jeongyeon bit her lip, her messy updo coming undone in soft waves around her face. "I—I haven’t let anyone see me like this in…" She trailed off, her throat working.

You leaned up, catching her mouth in a slow, deep kiss. "Then I’m honored," you whispered against her lips.

And with that, you began your worship in earnest—hands, lips, tongue mapping every curve, every dip, every shuddering breath she gave you.

Because tonight wasn’t about taking.

It was about remembering.

And you intended to make sure she never forgot.

The air between you was thick with warmth, with want, but neither of you rushed. Jeongyeon’s hands cradled your face as she kissed you deeply, her tongue sliding against yours in slow, intoxicating strokes. Every movement was deliberate—every sigh, every shift of her body against yours spoke of years of pent-up longing finally being set free.

You let her lead, your hands resting lightly on her waist as she explored your mouth with hers. When she finally pulled back, her lips were swollen, her eyes dark with something tender yet commanding.

"Tell me what you want," you murmured, brushing a stray lock of hair from her forehead.

Jeongyeon exhaled shakily, her fingers trailing down your chest. "I want…" She paused, considering, then guided your hand to her thigh, pressing your palm firmly against her soft skin. "I want you to touch me. But how I say. When I say."

There was no harshness in her voice—only quiet certainty. A request, not a demand.

You nodded, your thumb stroking absent circles against her inner thigh. "However you want me."

A slow, pleased smile curved her lips before she leaned in to kiss you again, this time with more insistence. Her hands slid down your arms, guiding your touch where she wanted it—first to the curve of her hip, then higher, skimming the dip of her waist.

"Here," she whispered against your mouth, pressing your fingers into her skin. "Just… like that."

You obeyed, kneading gently, relishing the way her breath hitched when you found a particularly sensitive spot. She arched into your touch, her nails scraping lightly over your shoulders.

"Good," she breathed, her voice low and honeyed. "Now… slower."

You slowed your movements, letting your hands roam her body with agonizing patience—tracing the swell of her breasts over her bra, the flutter of her ribs, the softness of her stomach. Every touch was deliberate, every caress designed to draw out another quiet gasp, another shiver.

Jeongyeon’s control never wavered, but her breaths grew uneven, her kisses more desperate. When your fingers finally brushed the lace of her panties, she stilled your wrist with a firm grip.

"Not yet," she murmured, her lips grazing your jaw. "I want to feel you more first."

You let her guide your hands back up her body, let her set the pace, her quiet commands leaving no room for disobedience—not that you’d ever want to disobey.

This was her night.

And you were more than happy to let her take what she needed.

The room hummed with quiet breaths and the soft rustle of fabric as Jeongyeon arched beneath you, her fingers threading through your hair to guide your mouth lower. You obeyed without hesitation, lips brushing the delicate column of her throat, savoring the way her pulse jumped against your tongue.

"Mmm… right there," she sighed, tilting her head to give you better access.

You nipped lightly at the sensitive skin beneath her ear, smiling when she shivered. Her bra straps had slipped down her shoulders, the lace barely clinging to her curves, but neither of you moved to take it off—not yet. This was about the almost, the not quite, the torturous pleasure of feeling but not taking.

Jeongyeon’s hips rolled up against yours in a slow, deliberate grind, the thin barrier of your boxers and her panties doing little to dull the heat between you. She let out a shaky exhale, her nails scraping down your back.

"Touch me," she murmured, guiding your hand to her waist. "But don’t—ah—don’t move yet."

You stilled, palm pressed to the warm skin just above her hipbone, letting her set the rhythm. She rocked against you again, her breath hitching when your cock strained against the fabric separating you.

"Fuck…" she whispered, her forehead dropping to yours. "You feel so good."

You kissed her deeply, swallowing her moans as she ground down again, her thighs trembling with the effort to keep the pace slow. Her hands slid down your arms, fingers intertwining with yours as she pinned them to the mattress beside her head—not to restrain, but to share the moment.

"Like this," she breathed against your lips. "Just like this."

And so you let her lead, let her take what she needed—your bodies moving together in a haze of want and restraint, every touch, every kiss, every whispered plea building the tension higher.

The air between you was thick with reverence, every touch a whispered prayer against her skin. Jeongyeon lay beneath you, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths as your lips traced the slope of her shoulder, the delicate hollow of her collarbone. The straps of her bra had long since slipped down her arms, the lace clinging to her curves like a final, flimsy barrier between you and heaven itself.

You took your time.

Your mouth followed the path of your hands—kissing the inside of her wrist, the soft skin of her inner elbow, the gentle swell of her breast just above the lace. Jeongyeon shuddered, her fingers tangling in your hair, not pushing, just feeling.

"God…" she breathed, her voice trembling. "You’re killing me."

You smirked against her skin, nipping lightly at the curve of her breast before soothing it with your tongue. "Good."

Her bra was a work of art—black lace, delicate straps, the kind of thing meant to be seen but not worn for long. Your fingers traced the edge of it, teasing, toying with the clasp at the front.

Jeongyeon’s breath hitched.

"You gonna take it off?" she asked, her voice low and husky.

You hummed, pressing a kiss to the lace-covered peak of her breast, feeling it harden beneath your lips. "Not yet."

She groaned, her head falling back against the pillows as you continued your torment—kissing, licking, worshipping every inch of her through the fabric. The lace grew damp with your saliva, her nipples pebbled and desperate for more.

Finally, when her hips were rolling restlessly against yours and her breaths came in ragged gasps, you unhooked the clasp with a single, practiced flick of your fingers.

The bra fell away.

And fuck—

Jeongyeon was gorgeous.

Her breasts were full, perfectly shaped, her nipples flushed and begging for attention. You didn’t rush. You just looked, drinking in the sight of her like a man starved.

"You’re staring," she murmured, her cheeks pink.

"Yeah," you admitted, your voice rough. "Because you’re fucking perfect."

Then you leaned down and took her into your mouth—slow, deliberate, savoring the way she arched off the bed with a broken moan. Your tongue swirled around her nipple, your teeth grazing just enough to make her gasp.

"Ah! Fuck—" Her hands fisted in the sheets, her thighs squeezing around your hips. "Don’t stop, don’t stop—"

You didn’t.

You worshipped her like this for what felt like hours—sucking, licking, switching between her breasts until she was writhing beneath you, her skin flushed, her body trembling with need.

And when you finally pulled back, her chest glistening with your saliva, her nipples red and swollen from your attention, she looked at you with hazy, desperate eyes.

"You—" Her voice cracked. "You’re mean."

You grinned, kissing your way back up her body. "You love it."

She did.

And you were far from done.

The moment your palms cupped her bare breasts, you felt the difference—the way her flesh yielded more generously under your touch, the weight of them heavier in your hands, the faintest stretch marks like silver threads against her skin. Motherhood had reshaped her body, and god, it was perfect.

Jeongyeon let out a shaky breath as your thumbs brushed over her nipples, already stiff and flushed. "They're... softer now," she murmured, a hint of self-consciousness in her voice.

You answered by leaning down and taking one into your mouth, sucking deep—not rough, but with enough pressure to make her back arch off the sheets. "Mmmf—fuck," she gasped, her hands flying to your hair.

The taste of her skin, the way her breast molded against your tongue—it was intoxicating. You lavished attention on one while your hand kneaded the other, your fingers sinking into the impossibly soft flesh. Every gentle pull of your lips drew another broken sound from her throat, her hips rolling helplessly against the air.

"S-sensitive—" she choked out as you switched sides, your tongue flicking over her nipple before drawing it back into the wet heat of your mouth. Her back arched beautifully, pressing more of herself against you. "Oh god, right there—"

You worshipped her like this—sucking gently, then harder, then easing off to lap at the stiff peaks until they glistened. Your free hand roamed the fuller curves of her stomach, her hips, committing every new slope and swell to memory.

When you finally released her with a wet pop, Jeongyeon was panting, her chest heaving, her skin flushed pink from collarbones to cheeks. A thin string of saliva still connected your lips to her nipple for a second before breaking.

"Look at you," you murmured, thumbing over her slick, swollen nipple. "So fucking beautiful like this."

Jeongyeon whimpered, her thighs pressing together. "You—ah—you really love them, huh?"

You answered by sealing your mouth over her again, sucking hard just to hear her cry out, your hand squeezing the other breast possessively. The way her body gave under your touch, so soft yet so responsive—

It was enough to make you dizzy.

A quiet moment settled between you as you pulled back, your lips leaving her flushed skin. Jeongyeon’s chest rose and fell with unsteady breaths, her eyes half-lidded but searching yours—not with hunger now, but something softer. Something vulnerable.

Her fingers brushed your cheek, hesitant. "You’re... not what I expected," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

You tilted your head, thumb stroking the curve of her hip. "What did you expect?"

She exhaled a laugh, though it trembled at the edges. "Someone in a hurry."

The honesty in her words made your chest tighten. You leaned down, pressing a kiss to her forehead—slow, lingering, letting your lips linger against her skin like a promise. "I didn’t come here for expectations," you murmured. "I came for you."

Jeongyeon’s breath hitched. For a heartbeat, she just looked at you, her dark eyes shimmering with something unreadable. Then, with a quiet sigh, she pulled you down into a kiss—not heated, not desperate, but deep, her fingers curling into your hair like she was anchoring herself to you.

When she finally broke away, her voice was steadier. "Then show me more."

And so you did.

Your mouth returned to her breasts, but slower now, savoring. Each flick of your tongue, each gentle suckle drew a sigh from her lips, her body melting further into the sheets. Her hands roamed your shoulders, your back, not guiding, just feeling—relearning the pleasure of being touched without urgency.

The room filled with quiet sounds: the rustle of fabric, the soft wetness of your lips against her skin, her breathy murmurs of encouragement.

No rush.

No demands.

Just her, and you, and the slow, aching pleasure of rediscovery.

Your lips left a trail of slow, worshipful kisses down the soft plane of her stomach—each one a silent question, each pause a chance for her to breathe. When you reached the delicate lace of her panties, you hovered there, your breath warm against the damp fabric.

"Jeongyeon," you murmured, lifting your gaze to meet hers. Her eyes were dark, her lips slightly parted. "Can I keep going?"

A shiver ran through her. For a moment, she just looked at you—really looked—as if weighing the years of absence against the heat of now. Then, with a slow exhale, she nodded.

"Yes," she whispered. "But... go slow. It's been—" Her voice caught. —"a long time."

You pressed a kiss to the inside of her thigh, feeling the tremor that raced through her. "However you need," you promised.

And then, with aching slowness, you hooked your fingers into the lace and drew them down her legs, revealing her fully.

She was beautiful—flushed and glistening, her thighs pressing together instinctively before she forced them to relax. You didn’t rush. You just kissed the crease of her hip, the softness of her inner thigh, letting her adjust to the vulnerability.

"Okay?" you asked against her skin.

Her fingers tangled in your hair—not pushing, just holding on. "Yeah," she breathed. "Just... gentle."

You obeyed.

Your first touch was featherlight—a slow, reverent stroke that made her gasp. Your name spilled from her lips like a prayer as you leaned in, your mouth following where your fingers had been.

And when you finally tasted her, she arched off the bed with a broken cry, her hands clutching the sheets.

"Oh—god—"

You held her hips steady, your touch as tender as your kiss had been. This wasn’t about claiming.

It was about remembering.

And you’d take all the time she needed.

The first slow drag of your tongue through her folds drew a sound from Jeongyeon that was half gasp, half sob—her hips jerking instinctively before she forced them still. You could feel the tension in her thighs where your hands rested, the way her body trembled with each careful stroke.

"Breathe," you murmured against her, your lips brushing her sensitive skin. "Just feel it."

She let out a shaky exhale, her fingers flexing in the sheets. You took your time, mapping her with unhurried laps of your tongue—learning what made her shiver, what made her whimper, what made her thighs tighten around your shoulders. Every flick, every slow circle was a question, and her body answered in trembling sighs and hitched breaths.

When you finally closed your lips around her clit and sucked gently, her back arched off the bed with a broken cry.

"Oh—oh—" Her voice was raw, unfamiliar with this kind of pleasure after so long. "That’s... different, it’s—"

You hummed against her, the vibration wringing another gasp from her lips. Her hands flew to your hair, not pushing, just holding on, as if she might float away otherwise.

And you didn’t rush.

You licked into her like you had all night, savoring the way her taste bloomed on your tongue, the way her body clenched around nothing, desperate for more. Every soft noise she made, every twitch of her hips, was a gift—a reminder that she was here, with you, relearning what pleasure could be.

When her thighs began to shake, her breaths coming in ragged pants, you eased back just enough to meet her dazed gaze.

"Good?" you asked, your thumb brushing her inner thigh.

Jeongyeon stared at you, her chest heaving, her lips parted around unspoken words. Then, with a helpless laugh, she covered her face with one hand.

"I... forgot," she admitted, her voice muffled. "I forgot it could feel like this."

You kissed her hip, smiling against her skin. "Then let me remind you."

And as you lowered your mouth to her again, her fingers tangled in your hair, her body opening to you like a flower to the sun—slow, aching, and so damn beautiful.

The moment your lips returned to her, Jeongyeon made a sound like shattered glass—high, fragile, beautiful. Her thighs quivered where they bracketed your shoulders, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, her fingers wove through your hair, not guiding, just anchoring herself to the sensation as your tongue traced slow, worshipful circles around her clit.

"That’s it," you murmured against her, your voice honey-warm between her thighs. "Just like that. Let me take care of you."

She whimpered, her hips lifting in tiny, involuntary rolls against your mouth. You rewarded her with a long, luxurious lick from her entrance to her aching peak, savoring the way her taste bloomed sweeter with every passing second. Her breath came in staggered sighs, her stomach fluttering like a trapped butterfly as you teased her—alternating between broad, flat strokes and pinpoint flicks that made her jolt.

When you finally sealed your lips around her clit and sucked—gentle but insistent—her back arched clean off the mattress.

"Ohgod—ah! AH!—" Her voice cracked, her thighs clamping around your ears as she trembled. You didn’t relent. You hollowed your cheeks, drawing her deeper into the heat of your mouth, your tongue swirling in relentless, perfect circles.

Jeongyeon dissolved.

Her orgasm crashed through her with a sob, her body bowing tight as a drawn bowstring before collapsing back into the sheets. But you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. Not when she was this radiant—her skin dew-kissed, her lips parted around silent cries, her cunt fluttering around nothing as you gentled your touch but never ceased.

"T-too much—" she gasped, her hips twitching away instinctively, but you caught her waist with careful hands, holding her still without force.

"Shh, I’ve got you," you soothed, pressing a kiss to her inner thigh before returning to her with a slow, savoring lick. "Just a little more. You’re doing so well."

And Jeongyeon, oversensitive and shuddering, let you.

Her thighs fell open wider, her fingers tightening in your hair as you laved at her with unhurried devotion, coaxing out every last ripple of pleasure until she was writhing again—not away, but into you, her breathy moans rising in pitch like a hymn.

"I—I can’t, I can’t—oh!"

Her second climax was slower, deeper, a tidal wave rather than a crash. You drank her in, your name spilling from her lips like a prayer as she trembled through it, her body pliant and boneless when you finally lifted your head.

Jeongyeon blinked dazedly down at you, her chest heaving, her lips kiss-swollen and parted. For a long moment, she just stared, her expression caught between awe and something dangerously close to reverence.

Then, with a shaky laugh, she covered her face with both hands.

"You’re…" Her voice cracked. "That was filthy."

You grinned, pressing a kiss to her hip. "And you loved every second."

She peeked at you between her fingers, her blush deepening.

She couldn’t deny it.

Her stomach quivered beneath your lips as you traced idle patterns across the soft expanse—kissing the faint silver lines left by motherhood, the gentle curve of her waist, the warmth of her skin as it rose and fell with each shuddering breath. Jeongyeon exhaled a laugh, half-dazed, her fingers combing through your hair with lazy affection.

"Mmm… what’re you doing down there?" she murmured, her voice still thick with pleasure.

You smiled against her skin, pressing another kiss just below her navel. "Admiring you."

She huffed, but you felt the way her body arched subtly into your touch, seeking more. "Flatterer."

"Truth-teller," you corrected gently, smoothing your palms up her sides in a slow, worshipful glide. "Look at you. All unraveled and glowing. Like something out of a dream."

Jeongyeon’s breath hitched—not from overstimulation this time, but something quieter, more vulnerable. Her hands stilled in your hair, her thumbs brushing your temples as she watched you through heavy-lidded eyes.

"Been a while since someone looked at me like this," she admitted softly.

You lifted your head just enough to meet her gaze, your lips grazing the dip of her waist. "Then they were blind."

The sound she made was barely a whisper—half a laugh, half a sigh—before she tugged you up by your hair, her mouth finding yours in a kiss that tasted like shared warmth and something dangerously close to tenderness.

When she pulled back, her cheeks were pink, her lips swollen, her eyes brighter than you’d ever seen them.

"Keep talking like that," she murmured, nipping at your lower lip, "and I might just believe you."

You grinned against her mouth. "Good."

The kiss lingered—soft, unhurried, her lips moving against yours with a sweetness that made your chest ache. When you finally pulled back, Jeongyeon’s eyes fluttered open, her lashes casting delicate shadows on her flushed cheeks. You brushed your thumb along her jaw, marveling at the way the dim light caught the faint sheen of sweat on her skin.

"You’re staring again," she whispered, but there was no teasing in her voice now—just quiet wonder.

"Can’t help it," you admitted, tracing the curve of her bottom lip with your fingertip. "You’re…" Words failed you for a moment. How could you describe the way her laughter lines crinkled at the corners of her eyes when she smiled? The way her breath hitched when you touched her just so? The way she looked at you—like you’d hung the moon and stars just for her?

Jeongyeon tilted her head, waiting, her fingers playing with the hair at the nape of your neck.

"You’re alive," you finally murmured, kissing the corner of her mouth. "Like… sunlight through leaves. Or that first sip of coffee in the morning."

She let out a breathless laugh, her nose scrunching adorably. "That’s the cheesiest thing anyone’s ever said to me."

"And yet," you teased, nipping lightly at her lower lip, "you’re still blushing."

She was. A pretty pink flush spread from her cheeks down to her chest, her pulse fluttering beneath your lips as you kissed your way along her throat. Her fingers tightened in your hair, tugging just enough to make you groan—and god, the way her breath caught at the sound, like she was filing it away somewhere precious.

"Say it again," she breathed, arching into you.

"What? That you’re beautiful?" You grinned against her skin, relishing the way her stomach muscles tensed at the words. "That you taste like honey?" Another kiss, this time to the hollow of her throat. "That I could spend forever learning every way to make you sigh like that—?"

Jeongyeon cut you off with a searing kiss, her hips rolling up against yours in a slow, deliberate grind that stole the air from your lungs. When she pulled back, her eyes were dark, her lips swollen, her voice a husky whisper:

"Keep talking. Please."

And so you did—between kisses, between touches, between every shared breath—until the room spun with nothing but her name and the honeyed weight of your admiration.

Her hands were gentle but insistent as she guided you onto your back, her lips trailing fire along your collarbone as she settled between your thighs. You could feel her smile against your skin when her fingers brushed the waistband of your pants—the way she paused, just for a heartbeat, to savor the way your breath hitched.

"Let me," she murmured, her voice thick with promise.

And then, with agonizing slowness, she peeled the fabric down your hips, freeing your aching cock into the cool air. Her breath caught—a soft, reverent sound—as she took you in, her fingers hovering just above your length like she was afraid to touch something so sacred.

"God, you're beautiful," she whispered, her thumb brushing the swollen head, smearing the bead of precum that had gathered there.

You shuddered, your hips lifting instinctively, but Jeongyeon pressed a firm hand to your stomach, holding you down with a smirk.

"Patience," she chided, her eyes flicking up to yours. "I want to savor this."

And then she leaned in, her lips parting, and took just the tip of you into her mouth.

The heat of her tongue was electric—a slow, swirling caress that made your toes curl into the sheets. She hummed around you, the vibration shooting straight to your core as her fingers stroked the base of your shaft in lazy counterpoint.

"J-Jeongyeon—" you gasped, your hands fisting in the sheets.

She pulled off with a wet pop, her lips glistening. "Mm? Too much?"

You shook your head frantically, your cock twitching against your stomach. "Not enough."

Jeongyeon laughed—a low, throaty sound that went straight to your already throbbing length—before diving back in, her tongue lapping at your slit like she was tasting the finest wine.

And as she worshipped you—with her lips, her hands, her words—you realized:

This wasn’t just about pleasure.

It was about belonging.

Her lips were softer than you remembered—or maybe you'd just never noticed before how tenderly they could worship. Jeongyeon took her time, her mouth a slow, searing brand against your length as she kissed her way down your shaft, pausing to nuzzle the sensitive skin of your inner thigh before returning with deliberate care.

"You taste like sunlight," she murmured against your heated flesh, her breath ghosting over your tip. "Warm. Sweet."

The words alone made you throb, but it was the way she looked at you—eyes dark with affection rather than hunger—that unraveled you completely. When she finally took you into her mouth again, it wasn't with the frantic pace you'd expected. Instead, she lavished attention on every inch, her tongue tracing the veins along your length as if memorizing them, her lips sealing around you in slow, sucking pulls that drew moans from your chest rather than your groin.

"Jeongyeon—" Your voice cracked as her thumb brushed the base of your cock, her other hand cradling your balls with a gentleness that bordered on sacred.

She hummed in response, the vibration traveling straight to your spine. When her eyes flicked up to meet yours—holding your gaze as she swallowed you deeper—it felt less like a blowjob and more like a confession.

Every movement was a whispered I see you.

Every suckle a silent I adore you.

And when your hips jerked involuntarily, she didn't pull away. She simply pressed a soothing hand to your stomach, her rhythm never faltering, her devotion never wavering—

Until the pleasure crested like dawn breaking, spilling into her waiting mouth with a gasp of her name that sounded more like a prayer than a curse.

Jeongyeon swallowed every drop, her lips lingering at your tip to kiss away the aftershocks before resting her cheek against your thigh with a sigh.

"Beautiful," she whispered, her fingers tracing idle patterns on your hip. "You're so beautiful like this."

And for the first time in your life—

You believed it.

The moment your lips brushed her temple, Jeongyeon stilled beneath you—her breath catching in that fragile way that had nothing to do with pleasure. You paused, your hand hovering over her hip, waiting.

"We don’t have to—"

"I know," she interrupted softly, her fingers tracing the line of your jaw. A single tear slipped free before she could stop it, glinting in the low light. "It’s just… he used to say that. ‘Be happy.’ Like it was that simple."

Your chest ached. You caught her tear with your thumb, cradling her face as if she might dissolve under your touch. "And are you?"

Jeongyeon closed her eyes, her lashes fluttering against damp cheeks. For a long moment, the only sound was her unsteady breath. Then, with a shuddering exhale, she pressed her forehead to yours.

"I think," she whispered, "I could be."

The kiss that followed was salt-edged and slow, her lips trembling against yours before steadying—choosing, with every brush of her tongue, every sigh into your mouth, to stay here, in this moment, with you.

When she finally guided your hips between her thighs, it wasn’t with desperation, but something far more vulnerable: trust.

"Show me," she breathed against your lips. "Show me how you love."

And as you slid into her—slow, reverent, achingly careful—Jeongyeon didn’t cry. She bloomed.

The first push inside her was met with a gasp that had nothing to do with pain—her body arched like a bowstring, her nails scoring lightly down your back as she adjusted to the stretch. You stilled, forehead pressed to hers, your breath mingling in the scant space between your lips.

"Okay?" you murmured, your voice rough with restraint.

Jeongyeon nodded, her hips canting up in silent demand. "Mmm… more."

You gave it to her—not with a snap of your hips, but with a slow, rolling thrust that drew a moan from her throat. Her legs wrapped around your waist, her heels pressing into the small of your back as if to keep you there, deep, where the heat of her threatened to unravel you.

The way her body clung to yours was obscene—every inch of her fluttering around you, her inner walls pulsing as if trying to memorize the shape of you. You groaned, your fingers tangling in her hair as you angled your hips just so, watching her eyes flutter shut at the new pressure.

"There?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Jeongyeon bit her lip, her thighs trembling where they bracketed yours. "Y-yes—god, yes—"

You set a rhythm then—not fast, not frantic, but deep, each thrust a deliberate stroke designed to wring every ounce of pleasure from her. Her breasts swayed with the movement, her nipples pebbled and begging for attention, but you resisted. This wasn’t about chasing an end.

This was about savoring.

Her fingers traced the sweat-slick planes of your back, her breath coming in ragged pants against your ear. "You feel—ah—so good—"

You swallowed her words with a kiss, your tongues tangling as you moved inside her, the slide of your bodies slick and sinful. The bed creaked beneath you, the sheets tangled around your ankles, but neither of you cared.

Not when she was looking at you like that—like you’d hung the moon and stars just for her.

The room filled with the slick, sinful sounds of your bodies moving together—each thrust drawing Jeongyeon higher up the sheets, her breasts bouncing slightly with every deep stroke until her head nearly touched the headboard. You caught her hips, pulling her back down your length with a groan, the muscles in your arms straining as you angled yourself just right to watch her face crumple in pleasure.

Her thighs trembled where they hugged your waist, her slick folds clinging to every inch of you as you withdrew only to sink back in with deliberate, aching precision. A pearl of sweat rolled down between her breasts, catching on her peaked nipple before disappearing into the valley of her chest. You followed its path with your tongue, laving over the stiff peak until she gasped, her back arching off the mattress.

"Mmm... sensitive?" you murmured against her skin, your lips brushing the flushed swell of her breast.

Jeongyeon whimpered, her fingers scrambling against your shoulders. "Y-you know I am," she panted, her voice honey-sweet even as her hips rolled up to meet your next thrust with a wet slap. "A-ah! Right there—"

You obliged, your pace never faltering as you drove into her again and again, the heat between her legs bordering on scalding. Her inner walls fluttered around you, her body trying desperately to pull you deeper even as you kept the rhythm slow, maddening.

Her hands found your face, her thumbs brushing your cheekbones as she pulled you down for a kiss—deep and messy, her tongue sliding against yours between breathy moans. When you broke apart, her lips were swollen, her gaze hazy with need.

"You're beautiful like this," you breathed, your voice thick with awe as you watched her body take you—her stomach quivering with each thrust, her thighs squeezing your hips in silent plea.

Jeongyeon whined, her nails digging half-moons into your biceps. "T-talk too much," she managed, though the grin tugging at her lips betrayed her.

You chuckled, rolling your hips in a slow, circular grind that had her seeing stars. "You love it."

She did.

And as the room filled with the sounds of your lovemaking—skin against skin, breathless laughter, whispered praise—neither of you cared about anything but this moment.

This feeling.

This love.

The moment your hands found her waist, rolling her hips against yours in a slow, filthy grind, Jeongyeon shattered—not with an orgasm, but with something deeper. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her nails biting into your shoulders as she clung to you like you were the only solid thing in a spinning world.

"F-feels like—" Her voice broke as you angled your hips just so, the head of your cock brushing that sweet spot inside her that made her thighs quake. "Like I'm waking up—"

You understood.

Every drag of your length inside her was a reminder—of heat, of sensation, of the way her body could still sing beneath someone's touch. Her back arched off the mattress, her breasts flushed and heaving as you set a pace that was less about friction and more about feeling—deep, rolling thrusts that had her seeing stars with every slow withdrawal, every aching push back in.

Her legs locked around your waist, her heels digging into the small of your back as if to keep you there, buried to the hilt where the heat of her threatened to undo you. The way her walls fluttered around you—clenching rhythmically like a heartbeat—was obscene, the slick sounds of your joining filling the room alongside her breathy whimpers.

"Look at me," you murmured, your voice rough with restraint as your thumbs brushed the damp hollows of her collarbones.

Jeongyeon's eyes fluttered open, glassy with unshed tears—not from pain, but from the sheer overwhelm of it all. The way you moved inside her, the way your breath hitched when she clenched around you, the way your hips stuttered when she rolled her own to meet you.

"I see you," you whispered, your forehead dropping to hers as you pressed in deep, holding there as her body trembled beneath you. "God, Jeongyeon—alive, so alive—"

Her answering sob was muffled against your lips as she kissed you—desperate, messy, her teeth catching your lower lip as her hips lifted to take you even deeper. The stretch burned, her inner muscles fluttering wildly as if trying to memorize every ridge, every pulse of your cock as you moved within her.

And when your hand slid between you, your thumb finding her swollen clit in slow, deliberate circles, she broke—her back bowing off the bed as her thighs shook, her walls clamping down on you in rhythmic waves that had you seeing stars.

But you didn't stop.

Couldn't stop.

Not when every gasp, every twitch, every tremor was proof that she was here—Alive, Loved, Maybe...yours

Her orgasm hit like a slow-moving storm—building in the tremors of her thighs first, the way her toes curled against your calves, the desperate clutch of her fingers in the sheets. You felt it everywhere: in the way her breath stuttered against your neck, in the sudden flutter of her walls around your cock, in the choked-off whimper that escaped her lips as the first wave crested.

"Oh—oh god—"

Jeongyeon's back arched beautifully off the mattress, her head tipping back as pleasure rolled through her in relentless waves. Her breasts heaved with each ragged gasp, her nipples pebbled and flushed, her stomach quivering as the sensations wracked her body. You held her through it—your thrusts gentling but never stopping, your lips pressed to the frantic pulse at her throat as she trembled beneath you.

"That's it," you murmured, your voice thick with awe as you watched her come undone. "Let go. Just feel it."

And she did.

Her climax was a living thing—rippling through her in slow, syrupy pulses that had her clenching around you rhythmically, her inner muscles milking your length as if trying to draw you deeper. Her thighs shook where they bracketed your hips, her heels digging into the small of your back as if to anchor herself.

"T-too much—" she sobbed, her hands flying to your shoulders, her nails biting into your skin. But even as she said it, her hips rolled up to meet your next thrust, her body demanding more even as it threatened to overwhelm her.

You obliged, your pace never faltering as you guided her through the aftershocks—each slow, deep stroke prolonging her pleasure until she was gasping, her eyes screwed shut, her lips parted around silent cries.

When the last tremor finally subsided, Jeongyeon went boneless beneath you, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her skin glistening with sweat. Her fingers traced lazy patterns on your back, her touch feather-light as she floated back to earth.

"Alive?" you teased, brushing a damp lock of hair from her forehead.

She cracked one eye open, her lips curving into a drowsy, sated smile. "Mmm... very."

The room was quiet save for the sound of your mingled breaths, the sheets tangled around your legs like afterthoughts. Jeongyeon lay sprawled beneath you, her skin still flushed, her chest rising and falling in slow, contented waves. You traced idle patterns along her hip, smiling when she shivered at the touch.

"Tickles," she murmured, her voice drowsy and thick.

You hummed, leaning down to press a kiss to the curve of her shoulder. "Good tickles or bad tickles?"

She cracked one eye open, her lips quirking. "Annoying tickles."

You laughed, your fingers dancing higher, skimming the dip of her waist. "What about here?"

Jeongyeon squirmed, her breath hitching when your thumb brushed the underside of her breast. "You," she accused, though there was no heat in it—just a fond exasperation that made your chest warm.

You grinned, nuzzling into the crook of her neck. "Me."

She huffed, but her arms wound around your shoulders anyway, her fingers carding through your hair in a way that was more affectionate than teasing. "You’re insufferable."

"And yet," you murmured, kissing the spot just below her ear that always made her gasp, "you haven’t pushed me away yet."

Jeongyeon sighed—a long, exaggerated sound—before rolling you onto your back with surprising strength, her thighs straddling your hips with practiced ease. Her hair was a mess, her lips still swollen from earlier, her eyes bright with mischief.

"Who said anything about pushing you away?"

And then she leaned down, her lips brushing yours in a kiss that was less about heat and more about promise—slow, sweet, and entirely too confident for someone who’d just come undone beneath you minutes ago.

You groaned, your hands settling on her waist. "You’re gonna be the death of me."

She smirked, her teeth nipping at your lower lip. "Good."

The words left her lips in a breathless rush, her fingers tracing idle patterns on your chest. "I love how you love me," she murmured, her voice still hazy from her first climax. "But... I need you to ruin me now."

A shiver ran down your spine at the quiet plea in her tone. You cupped her face, kissing her with a reverence that bordered on worship—slow, deep, your tongue sliding against hers in a silent promise. When you pulled back, her lips were parted, her eyes dark with anticipation.

"How bendy are you, baby?" you asked, your thumb brushing her swollen lower lip.

Jeongyeon blinked, her brows knitting together in adorable confusion. "I—what?"

"Yoga. Stretches. That kind of thing," you clarified, your voice dropping to a husky murmur as your hand trailed down her body, skimming the curve of her waist, the dip of her hip.

A slow, dawning realization lit her features, followed by a smirk that was all mischief. "Oh, please. I could out-stretch a pretzel."

You grinned, pressing one last kiss to her lips before shifting your weight. "Prove it."

With careful hands, you guided her legs up, folding them toward her chest until her knees brushed her shoulders. The position arched her back beautifully, her body open and achingly vulnerable beneath you. Jeongyeon gasped as you settled between her thighs, the new angle allowing you to sink into her with a single, devastating thrust.

"F-fuck—!" Her voice cracked, her nails scrabbling at the sheets as you bottomed out inside her, the stretch bordering on too much.

You stilled, your forehead dropping to hers as she adjusted, her inner walls fluttering wildly around your cock. "Okay?" you breathed, your voice rough with restraint.

Jeongyeon nodded frantically, her hips canting up in silent demand. "More—"

You obliged.

The first pullout was slow, deliberate, your cock dragging against her walls in a way that had her seeing stars. The second thrust was harder, deeper, the head of your length brushing that sweet spot inside her that made her scream.

"There—right there—!" she sobbed, her thighs trembling where they bracketed your shoulders.

You set a brutal pace then—each snap of your hips driving into her with pinpoint precision, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room alongside her broken moans. The angle was obscene, allowing you to watch every inch of your cock disappear into her, her slick folds stretched taut around your girth.

Jeongyeon unraveled beneath you, her back arching off the bed, her breasts bouncing with every thrust. Her hands flew to her own nipples, pinching and tugging at the stiff peaks as if chasing even more sensation.

"Look at you," you groaned, your fingers digging into her hips as you pistoned into her. "—god, you feel unreal—"

She could only whimper in response, her body alight with pleasure, her walls clenching around you in rhythmic pulses as if trying to pull you even deeper.

And as the room filled with the sounds of your joining—her choked-off cries, your ragged breaths, the lewd squelch of your cock moving inside her—neither of you cared about anything but this.

[itneverendshere]

you said i have to trust more freely - r.c series (three)

requested here; (one); (two)

pairing: rafe x pogue!reader (the duff inspired) word count: 5.4k

You hadn’t planned for that kiss to happen the other day.

It was supposed to be all part of the game, of the plan.

You just wanted to learn things properly. Right? But you knew, you had wanted it, and worse, you had liked it.

God, what the hell were you doing?

He was Rafe Cameron. Cocky, rich, your nightmare with a reputation that should have sent you running in the opposite direction. And yet, here you were, feeling the ghost of his lips against yours, wondering what would’ve happened if he hadn’t pulled back. If you hadn’t let the spell break.

"Focus," you muttered to yourself, shaking your head like you could shake him off too. You had bigger things to worry about—like Nate.

Remember Nate? The whole point of this was to get him to notice you, to finally realize that you were more than just the girl he studied with. You weren’t supposed to be getting caught up with Rafe Cameron’s sudden vulnerability or, God forbid, catching feelings for him.

You groaned, running a hand through your hair as you turned down the street toward your apartment. But no matter how hard you tried to ignore it, the thought of Rafe stayed with you for hours, sneaking its way back in every time you thought you’d pushed it out for good.

What was it about him, anyway? He was hot, sure. But it wasn’t just that. It was the way he looked at you sometimes, like he was seeing something deeper. Like there was more to this than either of you were willing to admit. And maybe that was the problem. Maybe you were starting to want him to see more.

By the time you reached your door, you had spiraled enough to know you needed a distraction. So you did what any girl in your situation would do: you grabbed your phone and texted Harper back.

You: Movie night better include wine. Lots of wine.

Her reply came almost immediately.

Harper <3:  “Already taken care of, babe. See you soon.”

You smiled to yourself, feeling a little better. It was exactly what you needed. Maybe after a few glasses of wine and some cheesy rom-coms, you’d finally stop thinking about that stupid kiss.

As you closed the door behind you and flopped onto your bed, your phone buzzed again. Expecting it to be Harper, you lazily reached for it, but your heart nearly stopped when you saw Rafe’s name instead.

Rafe: got your notes ready for tomorrow? or should i just show up and charm my way through it?

You stared at the screen for a second, unsure whether to laugh or throw your phone across the room. Why did he always have to do this? Act like nothing had changed when everything felt different?

Not that you were any better.

Finally, you typed back.

You: “depends. can ur charm get you through an entire chapter on portuguese colonization?”

His reply came almost instantly. Like he’d been waiting for yours.

Rafe: “we both know my charm can get me through anything.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the stupid smile tugging at your lips.

You: “let’s not test that theory. see you tomorrow.”

You tossed your phone aside, willing yourself not to overthink the fact that just seeing his name pop up on your screen made your heart race.

You were going to get through this. Nate was your goal. This thing with Rafe was just a detour. A very distracting, very complicated detour that you’d handle... eventually.

But tonight? Tonight was for your girls, your movies, and drowning out the chaos in your head with as much wine as it took to stop thinking about blue eyes and stupid smirks.

Later that night, you found yourself sprawled out on Ava’s couch, surrounded by blankets and popcorn, watching some cheesy rom-com that Harper had picked out. The glow of the TV cast a soft light over the room, but your mind was still elsewhere. Even with your best friends beside you, laughing and making snide comments about the movie, your thoughts kept drifting back to him.

It wasn’t just the kiss—although that had definitely been messing with your head lately—it was everything. The way he’d been acting, the things he’d said, the stupid nickname that you couldn’t seem to shake. Harper and Ava had a point, but they didn’t know Rafe like you did. Not anymore, at least. You’d seen sides of him recently that no one else had, and while you weren’t exactly sure what to make of it, there was something there. Something more than just the cocky rich boy everyone saw.

You sighed, reaching for another handful of popcorn, but Harper, ever the perceptive one, caught the look on your face before you could hide it.

“You’ve been quiet,” she said, nudging your leg with her foot. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

“Yeah, you’ve barely roasted this movie,” Ava added, throwing a piece of popcorn at you. “That’s not like you.”

You didn't want to get into it, “Just tired, I guess. Long day.”

Harper wasn’t buying it, though. She turned the volume on the TV down and sat up, crossing her legs underneath her. “Okay, spill. This is about Rafe, isn’t it?”

You groaned, covering your face with a pillow. “Can we not talk about him ?”

“Nope,” Harper said, yanking the pillow away. “Not until you tell us what’s going on. I know a liar when I see one."

Busted.

“Did something happen?”

You hesitated, glancing between the two of them. They were your best friends, and you knew they only wanted what was best for you. But the whole thing with Rafe felt complicated, like more than just a stupid crush. Still, you couldn’t keep it all bottled up forever.

“Fine,” you sighed, running a hand through your hair. “There was... a kiss.”

Harper’s jaw practically dropped. “A kiss? With Rafe?”

“When did this happen?” Ava demanded, practically bouncing in her seat. “Why didn’t you tell us earlier?”

“I was scared!” You bit your lip, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks again as you thought back to that moment in the library, “He knew I never kissed anyone and offered.”

“Wait, what? Your first kiss was with Rafe freaking Cameron?”

Ava gasped, covering her mouth in shock. “He offered? What the hell does that even mean? Did he just, like, present his lips to you like some weirdo?”

You groaned, wishing you could shrink into the couch and disappear.

“It wasn’t like that, okay? We were talking, and it came up. I told him I hadn’t kissed anyone, and then he was all, ‘I can fix that,’ or something. It just... happened a few days later.”

“So, what was it like? Was it good? Did he use tongue? I need details, girl.”

Harper elbowed her. “Ava! Let her breathe, she’s clearly still processing.”

You felt your cheeks heat up even more as you fidgeted with a loose string on your sweater. “I don’t know. I mean, yeah, it was good, okay? Really good. But it’s Rafe, and now everything’s weird, and I don’t know what to do.”

Harper’s expression softened,  “Okay, I’m trying to wrap my head around this. You’ve hated Rafe for, like, ever, right? And now, all of a sudden, you’re kissing him? What about Nate?”

“I know!” you groaned again, throwing your head back against the couch.

Ava looked like she was about to explode. “So... do you like him? Because it sounds like you’re starting to like him.”

“No! Maybe? I don’t know.” You buried your face in your hands. “I wasn’t supposed to like him. It wasn’t part of the plan. But then he had to go and be all... different. Like, he’s still Rafe, but sometimes he’s—I don’t know, sweet? Ugh, that sounds ridiculous.”

Harper sighed, shaking her head slowly. “Babe, if you’re getting all messed up over a guy like Rafe, this could be a problem.”

“Tell me about it,” you muttered. You didn’t want to like Rafe. He was the last person you should be catching feelings for. 

“Guys like him? They’ll pull you in, mess with your head, and leave you confused as hell.”

“I know,” you said, hating how true that sounded. “But it’s not just that. There’s something else. Like, when we’re alone, he’s— I don’t know. He lets his guard down, and I see a side of him that I don’t think anyone else does. He's weirdly honest."

Harper raised an eyebrow. “You sure you’re not catching feelings?”

You let out a frustrated sigh, flopping back against the couch. “I don’t even know anymore. I thought this was just a stupid kiss, but now it feels like everything’s different. And it’s so dumb because I should be focused on Nate!"

Ava and Harper exchanged a glance, both of them looking concerned. Harper was the first to speak.

“Okay, maybe this is a sign you need to figure out what you really want. Do you want to keep chasing Nate, or... do you want to see where things go with Rafe?”

You blinked, the question hitting you harder than you expected. What did you want? Nate had always been the plan—nice, safe, uncomplicated Nate. 

It wasn’t just the kiss. It was how you couldn’t stop thinking about him. His stupid grin, the way he’d tease you but also get serious for like, two seconds, just long enough to make you question everything.

You sighed, pushing your hair out of your face, “This was a terrible mistake.”

Harper crossed her arms, studying you. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. Call him.”

“What?!” You sat up, heart racing. “No way. I can’t just call him out of nowhere.”

“Yes, you can,” Ava chimed in, nodding like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Here’s the test—if he picks up right away, it means he’s been thinking about you too. If he doesn’t? Then maybe he’s just playing games.”

You stared at them like they’d just suggested jumping off a cliff. “Are you guys serious? There’s no way I’m doing that. You're not serious."

Harper smirked, grabbing your phone off the table and holding it out to you. “Do it. Right now. Trust me, if he cares, he’ll pick up.”

What kind of fucked up science was that? Rafe? Liking you? It was ridiculous. There was no way. Not when he'd been with so many girls, kissed even more, and never gave you a second glance. You were just...there.

Your stomach twisted in knots. “What if he doesn’t answer? What if he thinks I’m weird for calling at night? What if I just— explode from embarrassment?”

Ava waved her hand dismissively. “If he doesn’t answer, then you know where you stand. But if he does... well, that’s another story. And I highly doubt you’ll explode. Just call him and see.”

You took a deep breath, staring at your phone like it was about to bite you. It felt reckless, terrifying even. But you were curious too—what would happen if you actually did it? Would he care? Would he answer?

“Fine,” you muttered, grabbing the phone from Harper and quickly finding Rafe’s name in your contacts before you could change your mind.

Ava grinned, leaning in. “Ooh, this is gonna be good.”

“I thought you hated him—"

“Call him!”

You hit call, holding your breath as the phone rang once, twice—

And then, to your absolute horror, it stopped. He picked up.

“Hey,” Rafe’s voice came through, “Everything okay?”

Your heart jumped into your throat.

You glanced at Harper and Ava, who were both staring at you like this was the most exciting thing to ever happen. You cleared your throat, trying to sound normal, like you hadn’t just spent the last ten minutes freaking out about calling him.

“Uh, yeah, everything’s fine,” you said, cringing at how awkward you sounded. “I just... wanted to see if you were ready for tomorrow’s study session.”

Lame. So, so lame.

Rafe chuckled softly. “You called me at night to ask about studying? I didn’t know I was that irresistible.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart was pounding. “Don’t flatter yourself, Cameron.”

He laughed again, and you could practically hear the smirk in his voice. “Too late. Anyway, I’m ready for tomorrow. Was studying really the reason you called?”

You glanced at Harper and Ava, who were both nodding furiously, encouraging you to say something—anything that wasn’t study-related.

“Well... maybe not just that,” you admitted, feeling your cheeks heat up again.

There was a pause on the other end, and when he spoke again, his tone was softer, more serious. “I’m glad you called.”

Your heart skipped a beat. You weren’t sure what to say, so you just muttered, “Yeah, me too.”

There was another moment of silence, like you were both trying to figure out what to say next.

“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow then,” Rafe said, his voice a little lower, almost... warmer? “Night.”

“Night,” you replied, and then the call ended.

You dropped your phone onto the couch, staring at it like it had just turned into a bomb.

Harper squealed. “He picked up right away! And he was flirty! Oh my God, he likes you!”

Ava clapped her hands, bouncing on the couch. “I knew it! He’s totally into you. Nevermind what we said earlier. Rafe Cameron is into you. We were wrong. Scratch the whole 'he’s just messing with your head' thing. He’s definitely catching feelings.”

You scowled, “Where’s your backbone? Five minutes ago, you were all, ‘Rafe’s trouble, don’t fall for it,’ and now you’re practically shipping us?”

Harper shrugged, unapologetic. “Yeah, but that was before he picked up right away and sounded all soft. That’s different, babe.”

“Exactly!” Ava chimed in. “Nate who?”

You rolled your eyes. “I don’t know. He’s... safe. And uncomplicated. Why am I even entertaining this idea of Rafe?”

Harper raised an eyebrow. “Because safe doesn’t make your heart race. And it sure as hell doesn’t make you stay up all night overthinking. If you were so into Nate, you wouldn’t be calling Rafe at night. Or letting him kiss you!”

You opened your mouth to argue, but nothing came out. They had a point, as annoying as it was. Nate might’ve been the goal, but Rafe was what had your head spinning. You groaned again, flopping back against the couch.

Sure, maybe he’d been acting a little off lately. Like, sometimes he’d actually ask you how your day was or show up when he knew you’d be around. You didn’t think much of it, though. That’s just how it was with guys like Rafe—he probably wanted something, or maybe he was just bored.

You huffed, feeling your cheeks heat up. “It’s just so stupid. He’s Rafe. He’s... ugh, he’s complicated, and I don’t even know if he’s serious, or if he’s just bored, or what. And now I’ve kissed him, and I can’t stop thinking about it, and—”

“And now you’re realizing that maybe Nate isn’t what you really want after all,” Harper finished.

You sighed, hugging a pillow to your chest. “What am I supposed to do now?”

He’d flirt, he’d flash that stupid grin, and then he’d move on like nothing ever happened. Why would you be different? 

“Easy. You figure out what you want. Not what Nate wants, not what Rafe wants. You. And until then, just... enjoy. No one said you had to decide everything right now.”

Harper nodded in agreement, giving your arm a reassuring squeeze.

“Yeah. Take it slow. And for tonight, let’s just not overthinking every little thing, okay?”

Yet, you thought about him all night. You’d seen the way he treated other girls. He’d throw them those lazy smiles, the ones that practically screamed I’ll forget your name by tomorrow, and it always seemed to work.

They all fell for it—why wouldn’t they? Rafe was good at getting what he wanted, and he never stuck around long enough for things to get messy. You? You were invisible up until recently. He only paid attention when he felt like pissing you off. Your friends had to be reading too much into things.

This was Rafe. The same Rafe who was impossible to figure out, who never took anything seriously—least of all you. There was no way he liked you. 

But the next day came way too fast, and you were paying for it. Hard.

You groaned as you dragged yourself into the library, sunglasses on like they were going to somehow shield you from the pounding headache.

Harper and Ava had insisted on one more glass of wine, which of course, turned into two. And now, you were here, praying Rafe wouldn’t notice that you felt like death.

As you slumped into the chair across from him, he immediately raised an eyebrow, “Rough night?”

You gave him a look, your head already throbbing too much for his sarcasm. “Don’t even start, Cameron.”

He leaned back in his chair, eyes twinkling with amusement as he took in your state. “Wow, I can smell the regret from here. You look like you partied with a bottle of tequila and lost.”

You groaned, rubbing your temples. “It was wine, thank you very much. And yeah, it was a little too much.”

He chuckled softly, flipping open his notebook. “A little? You look like you just survived a war zone. Was the study session that boring to look forward to?”

“Ha ha, so funny,” you muttered, wincing as you reached for your bag. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Barely.” He tilted his head, clearly enjoying every second of it. “I’m impressed you made it at all. Should I have brought a bucket? You know, just in case?”

You glared at him from behind your sunglasses. “I hate you so much right now.”

Rafe just grinned, unfazed. “Trust me, it’s mutual. But seriously, you need water or something? You’re about two seconds away from face-planting on that table.”

You bit your lip, knowing he was right but not wanting to give him the satisfaction. Still, your mouth felt like a desert, and the thought of anything cold and hydrating sounded like heaven.

“Maybe… a coffee?”

“Have you eaten?”

“Huh? No?”

“You’re not drinking coffee before you eat.”

You squinted at him, thoroughly annoyed. “Rafe, I’m hungover, not five years old.”

He just raised an eyebrow, clearly not swayed.

“Hungover means your brain’s working even worse than normal, so yeah, I’m pulling the adult card here. You need food before coffee.”

You rolled your eyes, regretting it instantly as your head throbbed harder. “Fine. I’ll get food after the coffee.”

He shook his head, already getting up. “Nope. I’m grabbing you a bagel or something.”

“Rafe, seriously—” you started, but he was already walking away, not even bothering to let you finish.

You slumped back in your chair, groaning under your breath. As much as you hated to admit it, he was right. You hadn’t eaten anything since last night, and your stomach was twisting in a way that wasn’t just from the hangover. But it was so typical of him to boss you around, like he knew what was best for you. He seemed almost too serious about all this, like it wasn’t just about breakfast or caffeine. Was he actually… worried?              

He was being so over-the-top about something so simple. Maybe he noticed things you didn’t even realize were slipping—how little you’d been eating, how tired you always seemed. You didn’t want him to worry, to get so wrapped up in how you were doing. But the fact that he did… 

Rafe returned, dropping a bagel in front of you. “Eat. Then you can have your coffee.”

You blinked at the bagel, caught off guard. “You actually got me food?”

He gave you a look. “You really thought I wouldn’t? What kind of person do you think I am?”

“A pain in my ass?” you muttered, but there was no real bite to it. You unwrapped the bagel, taking a cautious bite, and, annoyingly, it actually helped. “Thanks, I guess.”

“You’re welcome. Now, once you finish that, we’ll get started on actual studying. You might wanna take those sunglasses off too. It’s not that bright in here.”

“Stop being so smug about it,” you grumbled, but you took another bite of the bagel, your headache easing just a little.

He leaned back in his chair, stretching out like he owned the place.

“Hey, if you’re gonna drink like that, you should at least have someone who can take care of you after.”

There was something about the way he said it that made your heart skip a beat. “Is this your way of saying you care?”

“Eat your bagel.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was no denying the flutter in your chest. Why was he always like this? One minute he was the biggest pain, and the next, he was sweet? You took another bite of the bagel, trying to ignore the way his comment made your stomach do a weird little flip.

Rafe just watched you, arms crossed, looking smug as ever. "I'm not saying anything," he teased, leaning forward slightly. "But you did call me last night."

You nearly choked on your bagel. "That was for studying!"

He raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth pulling into a grin. "Oh, right. You totally call guys at night to talk about history."

You threw a balled-up napkin at him, feeling your cheeks heat up again. "Don't start with me, Cameron. You texted me first!"

"Fair enough," He caught the napkin effortlessly, still grinning, like teasing you was the highlight of his day. He was holding his hands up in surrender, but there was no hiding the amusement in his eyes. "Don’t know if it’s the kiss or maybe you’re just starting to realize I'm not all bad."

You scoffed, trying to brush off how much that actually hit home.

"Please. You're still an entitled jerk, Rafe. One kiss doesn’t change that."

But the truth was, maybe it did change something. You hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him since. And now, sitting here with him being all unexpectedly considerate, it was getting harder to pretend like there wasn’t something going on.

“So it hasn’t been keeping you up at night?”

“Why would it? It was just a kiss. Happens all the time, right?”

His smirk widen, “So I didn’t get your panties in a twist?”

You were going to throw a book at his face.

"You’re so full of yourself," you muttered, trying to act unbothered, but your pulse quickened.

Rafe leaned in a little closer, that stupid smirk still plastered on his face. “I’m just saying, it seemed like more than ‘just a kiss’ with the way you keep getting flustered. You sure it didn’t mean anything?”

You narrowed your eyes, determined not to give him the satisfaction.

“What do you want me to say, Rafe? That I’m totally falling for you? That I can’t stop thinking about the kiss? Because that’s not happening.”

He chuckled softly, leaning back again, but something shifted in his expression. He was still teasing, but there was an edge of curiosity now, almost like he was testing the waters.

“Good to know. Guess I’ll just keep doing my thing then.”

“Your thing? What, being an annoying, arrogant jerk?” you shot back, though there was less bite in your tone than usual.

Rafe’s lips twitched, “I’d hate to think I’m keeping you up at night.”

Ugh. Why was he like this? Why was this working on you?

You rolled your eyes, trying to stay focused on the whole reason you were here in the first place: studying, Nate, anything but this. But the way Rafe was looking at you right now, like he could see through all the walls you put up... yeah, it was messing with your head again.

"Can we just study now?" you grumbled, flipping open your textbook, praying the conversation would shift before your cheeks got any redder. "I didn’t drag myself here to talk about your ridiculous fantasies."

His grin softened into something more genuine, and he shook his head, finally relenting. “Alright, alright. I’ll be good. Let’s get started before your brain melts from that hangover.”

But as you pulled out your notes, you couldn’t help but notice the way his gaze lingered just a little too long. And worse, you knew your heart was doing the same—stupid fluttering and all.

There was something about this back-and-forth with him that was starting to feel... different. And maybe, just maybe, that scared you more than you were willing to admit.

As the two of you dove into the study session, you tried—really tried—to focus on the material in front of you. But every time he leaned in a little closer or cracked a joke that made you roll your eyes, your mind wandered back to that kiss. To the way he looked at you when no one else was around. To the fact that, as much as you hated to admit it, Rafe Cameron was making you feel something you hadn’t expected.

“Do you remember that bonfire when we were sixteen?” he asked all of a sudden.

You raised an eyebrow, confused for a moment. “Which one? There were like, a million bonfires.”

“The one where you dumped your drink in my face.”

Your hand froze halfway to your mouth. Oh. That bonfire. It felt like a lifetime ago, but the memory came rushing back, clear as day.

“I can’t believe you remember that.”

Rafe chuckled, shaking his head. “Yeah, it’s not exactly something you forget. One minute I was talking to you, and the next, I was soaking wet with a face full of—what was it? Lemonade?”

“Spiked lemonade,” you corrected, biting your lip to keep from laughing. “You deserved it.”

“Deserved it?” he echoed, leaning forward, clearly enjoying this trip down memory lane. “I asked if you wanted to hang out by the water. How’s that deserving a drink to the face?”

You rolled your eyes, feeling the old annoyance bubble up again. “You asked me to hang out after you and your friends had spent the whole night making fun of me."

He raised his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay, maybe we were a little rough back then. But I swear, I wasn’t trying to be a dick that night.”

“You were always a dick,” you muttered, but there was no real heat behind your words. Sixteen-year-old you had despised him and his cocky attitude. 

He smirked, “You were so pissed off. Your face was all red, and you were shaking with anger, like you couldn’t believe I’d even dared to speak to you.”

“You had it coming.”

“I probably did,” he agreed, a softer look crossing his face. “But I remember thinking, even back then, you were different. You didn’t take shit from anyone.”

You blinked, taken aback by the sincerity in his voice. “Wait, are you actually complimenting me right now? What is happening?”

Rafe just grinned, leaning back again, but his eyes stayed locked on yours. “I’m just saying, you’ve always had more fight in you.”

Your stomach did that weird little flip again, and you quickly looked away, focusing on the crumbs left on the table. “Well, maybe if you hadn’t been such an ass, I wouldn’t have had to.”

“I think that’s why I liked messing with you so much.” His voice was quieter now, more thoughtful. “You always pushed back.”

You bit your lip, not sure how to respond to that. The Rafe you remembered from back then was all arrogance and teasing, but this... this was different. It was like he was admitting that he’d seen you in a way no one else had back then. 

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps approaching cut your conversation short. You glanced up, thinking it might just be another student passing by, but your heart nearly stopped when you saw Nate walking toward you and Rafe.

Rafe’s smirk faded instantly when he spotted him approaching.

“Hey,” Nate greeted with a casual smile, though his eyes flicked quickly between you and Rafe, “Didn’t know you guys studied here too.”

You cleared your throat, trying to sound normal even though your brain was racing. “Yeah, uh, just catching up on some work.”

Nate’s smile wavered slightly as his gaze lingered on Rafe, then back to you. “Mind if I join? I was just gonna find a spot to get some work done, but...” His voice trailed off, leaving the question hanging in the air.

For a second, you were torn. Nate was here, right in front of you—the guy you’d been chasing for months, the one who was supposed to be the plan. But Rafe was sitting across from you.

He leaned back further in his chair, crossing his arms with that signature smirk creeping back onto his face. “Yeah, sure, the more, the merrier.”

You shot him a look, silently pleading with him not to make this worse, but he just raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the situation.

Nate pulled out a chair, setting his bag down, “What’re you working on?” he asked, glancing between you and Rafe.

Before you could answer, Rafe spoke up, again, “Just a little review. Nothing too complicated, right?” His eyes flicked to you, daring you to answer.

You swallowed hard, feeling both their gazes on you. “Yeah, just going over some notes. We’re almost done, actually.”

Nate’s eyes lingered on Rafe for a beat longer than necessary, like he was sizing him up. “Right. Cool. I guess I’ll just... grab a spot over there.” 

“You do that.”

“Rafe.” you grumbled under your breath, kicking him under the table.

"You wanna grab lunch after? I was gonna head to that new sandwich place, and figured you might want to come."

For a split second, you hesitated. Lunch with Nate was the safe, easy option—exactly what you’d been trying to hold onto. But the way Rafe was watching you now... Nate’s invitation wasn’t just about lunch. It was a claim, a reminder that he was the one you were supposed to be into.

"I, um—” you started, but the words were stuck in your throat.

You’d just spent the last half hour trying to convince yourself that Rafe didn’t matter. That this whole thing with him wasn’t a big deal. But now, with Nate standing right here, it felt like your brain was short-circuiting.

Rafe stood up suddenly, his chair scraping against the floor. "Well, looks like you’ve got plans," he said, his voice flat. He glanced at you, before grabbing his notebook. "Catch you later, I guess."

Before you could say anything, he walked away, his footsteps heavy as he left the library. You stared after him, your heart doing this weird thing where it felt like it was both racing and sinking at the same time.

Nate raised an eyebrow, watching Rafe go. "That guy’s... intense," he said, his tone light, but you could tell he was fishing for something.

You forced a smile, "Yeah, that’s Rafe for you."

But even as you said it, your mind wasn’t on Nate. It was still stuck on Rafe—on the way he’d looked at you before he left, like maybe he’d been hoping you wouldn’t just go along with Nate’s plan. Like maybe he’d wanted you to choose something different.

"So, lunch?" Nate asked again, his smile back in place, but it didn’t feel the same. Not anymore.

You swallowed hard, nodding automatically. “Sure, lunch sounds good.”

But as you followed him out of the library, you couldn’t ignore the feeling that you’d just walked away from something important.