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scarletwinterxx · 22 hours ago

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how long before we fall in love - choi seungcheol imagine

the way i was smiling, throwing air punches when i wrote this. pure 100% fluff coming your way!!!🥺😭🤭 (my head screaming SANA GETS NYO KO as i write this)

you can follow me on x, my un there niniramyeonie 😊🌻

for my other svt fics, check them here

All works are copyrighted ©scarletwinterxx 2025 . Do not repost, re-write without the permission of author.

(photos not mine, credits to rightful owner)

You’re nursing the last of your drink, ice clinking against the glass as you swirl it with deliberate disinterest, hoping the guy beside you gets the hint. He doesn't. His hand lingers too close to your elbow, and every laugh he exhales smells like beer and desperation.

You've already tried subtle. You even lied about having a boyfriend — twice. Still, he leans in with that rehearsed smirk like he's the one doing you a favor.

You scan the room, fast. Desperation breeds boldness, and tonight, you’re emboldened.

Then you see him.

He’s impossible to miss. Seated at the far end of the bar, broad shoulders framed in black, head dipped low as he nurses something amber in a short glass. He looks like he belongs somewhere darker, quieter. Maybe someplace where men don’t smile, only nod.

You’re not even sure how your legs carry you there, but in three long strides, you’re beside him, heart skittering in your chest like it knows you’ve made a gamble. He glances up, and for a second, you're sure this was a mistake but there's no time for second-guessing.

“Hey, babe,” you say, and your voice barely wavers. “Sorry I took so long.”

His eyes narrow a fraction, and for one charged second, silence stretches between you like a fuse waiting to be lit.

Then his expression shifts. It's subtle, the faintest curl of his mouth, a spark of recognition in his eyes that wasn’t there before.

“There you are,” he says, low and even, like the words were always meant for you. He slips an arm around your waist with a kind of confidence that feels too natural, too smooth.

You think you’ve pulled it off — until a voice slices through the act.

“Seungcheol,” she purrs. She’s suddenly there, close enough that you feel the static of her presence before you even see her. “You weren’t gonna introduce me to your little friend?”

You tense, barely hiding the wince. The stranger, Seungcheol, doesn’t move his arm.

His voice is calm, even, as if this happens all the time. “Not now, Jiwon”

“But babe—”

He doesn’t even look at her. “And how many times do I have to tell you to not call me that”

Something in his tone makes her falter. She huffs, audibly, but walks away with a forced flick of her hair.

You glance up at him, parting your lips to apologize, but he cuts you off before you can speak.

“You okay?” he murmurs, just for you and you don’t know why but you believe him. You nod.

He leans in just a little, just enough that the warmth of him slips past your skin. “You want me to make sure he stays away?”

And god help you, you say yes.

Seungcheol shifts in his seat, gaze sharp now, trained somewhere over your shoulder. You don’t even have to turn to know the persistent guy’s still hovering. You can feel the weight of him, orbiting.

“Stay close,” Seungcheol says, barely more than a breath against your ear. It shouldn’t send a chill down your spine, but it does.

He stands in one smooth motion, hand still warm against your lower back as he guides you forwar. You catch the guy’s expression the moment he sees who you’re with now. The faux confidence drains from his face in real-time, replaced by something caught between confusion and an almost primal, involuntary instinct to back off.

“Problem?” Seungcheol asks him. He’s not loud. Doesn’t need to be. There’s something in the way he holds himself, loose and deadly, like a predator who doesn’t have to growl to be heard.

The guy lifts his hands in weak surrender. “Nah, man. Just talking.”

“You were done talking when she walked away.”

It’s not a threat. It’s a statement. Inevitable. Irrefutable.

The guy backs off, muttering something that doesn’t sound like an apology, but it doesn’t matter. He’s gone. You exhale for the first time in what feels like minutes.

Seungcheol turns to you again, and just like that, the sharpness in him softens—no less intense, but different now. He looks at you like he’s cataloging something he doesn’t quite understand yet.

“You okay?” he asks again, but this time the question feels more layered. Not just are you safe, but what made you need someone like me?

You nod, slower this time. “Yeah. Thanks. That was… I didn’t expect you to actually go along with it.”

He shrugs. “You looked like you needed out.”

There’s a beat of silence, then—

“You wanna sit?” he asks, gesturing to his now-vacant seat. “I won’t bite. Unless that’s what you’re into.”

It’s deadpan. Almost. You glance at him and find the smallest glint of mischief tucked in the dark of his eyes.

You sit. Maybe it’s the adrenaline, or maybe it’s something else entirely but you get the distinct feeling your night just shifted on an axis you didn’t see coming.

You’ve barely settled into the seat beside him when you feel the disturbance before you see it. She’s back. Jiwon. Her heels click soft and calculated across the floor, posture loose but eyes laser-focused on Seungcheol. She doesn't bother with you, not really.

She stops at his other side, voice syrupy. “Thought I’d grab you that drink you like,” she says, holding it out like a peace offering. Like she’s done this before and won.

But Seungcheol doesn’t even glance at the glass. He doesn’t blink.

“I’m good here,” he says, calm as still water. “With my girl.”

It hits with the kind of weight that lands sharp but quiet. No performance, no dramatic pause. Just absolute certainty, smooth as silk and impossible to argue with.

You blink. My girl?

Then, as if on cue, he leans in—closer than he’s been all night. His hand brushes against your thigh under the bar, casual but unmistakable. The space between you disappears, and suddenly, all you can see is him.

The edge of his mouth tilts just slightly, a private smirk made only for you.

“I help you,” he murmurs, voice pitched low, just for your ears. “You help me.”

Like a switch, you slip into the role. No hesitation. No breath to second-guess.

You lean in until you’re practically folded into his side, your shoulder brushing his chest, the scent of him filling your senses like a hit of something you’re not supposed to want.

Your fingers find his thigh beneath the bar, light but deliberate, and when you turn your head to face her, your expression is sugar-laced steel.

“Thanks for keeping my boyfriend company,” you say, voice sweet enough to rot, “but we’re good now.”

Jiwon stiffens. You see it in the tight pull of her jaw, the way her hand curls around the untouched glass like she might throw it but she doesn’t say anything. Not really. Just a scoff, quiet and bitter, before she turns on her heel and disappears into the crowd again.

The moment she’s gone, Seungcheol exhales a laugh. Low. Quiet. Almost impressed.

“Well damn,” he says, tilting his head to look at you properly. “Didn’t think you had that in you.”

You arch a brow. “What, the spine or the spite?”

His grin widens, lazy and wolfish. “Both.”

You should pull away. You should return to your drink, your solitude, the night you had before this turned into something else entirely.

But you don’t.

Because now, you’re curious—and curiosity is a dangerous thing when someone like Seungcheol is involved. He smirks again, but there’s something different behind it then he leans down, slow enough to feel deliberate, and you feel it:

The brush of his lips against your bare shoulder.

Barely there. Barely anything. But it sets off a fire low in your belly, a spark you weren’t expecting and definitely weren’t prepared for. Your breath catches, and you turn your head to say something but you’re interrupted.

“Yo, Choi!” a voice calls out, casual and easy, and you look up just as two guys approach the table.

They’re both tall, well-dressed, and annoyingly attractive in that infuriating way that only works because they know it. The one with the long and cat-like grin lifts his brows as he takes in the scene. Your hand still on Seungcheol’s thigh, your body tucked into his side, his lips a breath away from your skin.

“Are we interrupting?” the long haired one asks

Seungcheol doesn’t move away. If anything, his arm tightens slightly around you. “If I say yes, will you go away”

The other one—gentler-looking, nudges his friend. “Jeonghan, stop being an ass. Hi,” he says, this time to you. “I’m Joshua. You?”

You give your name, and Jeonghan grins like you just told him a secret. “Cute. She’s cute.”

Seungcheol doesn’t say anything. He just takes a sip from his drink but there’s something in the way his thumb traces idle circles against your hip that says plenty.

“You’re not usually the type to play house, Seungcheol,” Jeonghan adds, sliding into the seat across from you both. “What’s this, new leaf?”

“Maybe I like what I’m playing with,” Seungcheol says, and his voice is so calm, so unapologetic, that for a second, even you forget this started as pretend.

Joshua raises a brow but doesn’t push it. He just smiles a little, as if he already sees where this is going before either of you do. And when you feel Seungcheol’s hand settle more firmly against your thigh, like he’s staking a claim in front of his friends.

A few drinks later, your head’s pleasantly light, the warmth of alcohol and laughter still lingering in your chest. Jeonghan and Joshua had finally wandered off to harass someone else, leaving you and Seungcheol alone again, though somehow the silence between you isn’t awkward—it’s alive.

You glance at your phone, blinking at the time. Late.

You push your glass away and sigh, “Alright, I should probably call it. Before I start thinking karaoke’s a good idea.”

Seungcheol chuckles, low and easy. “You’d make a great bad decision at karaoke.”

You shoot him a look, but you’re smiling. “I’m not drunk enough to embarrass myself like that.”

“Pity. I’d pay good money to hear you scream-sing something tragic.”

You snort. “You’re not even pretending to be nice.”

He tilts his head, mock thoughtful. “Did I ever pretend?”

You open your mouth to fire back something snarky, but the moment shifts. Just slightly. Just enough.

You glance toward the exit, suddenly uneasy. The weight of earlier brushes the edge of your thoughts, and now that the buzz is wearing down, the memory of that guy—the lingering stare, the way he didn’t get the hint—sticks.

Seungcheol notices. Of course he does. His eyes sharpen, but his voice stays light.

“Want me to walk you out?”

You hesitate then nod. “Actually… would it be weird if I asked you to drive me home?”

His brows rise just a touch but he doesn’t hesitate. “Not weird,” he says. “I was hoping you'd ask.”

You raise a brow, teasing. “You were hoping?”

“I mean, you’re kind of glued to me tonight,” he says, smirking as he stands, grabbing his jacket. “Thought I’d return the favor.”

You follow him out, the air outside cooler than expected. He opens the passenger door like it’s instinct—like he’s done this for you a hundred times already—and when you slide in, he leans down just enough that your eyes meet.

“You trust me to drive you home?” he asks, voice lower now, a touch more serious, but still laced with that lazy confidence.

You look up at him through your lashes, lips quirking. “I don’t know. Should I?”

And just like that, the door shuts with a soft click and your pulse doesn’t quite settle the whole ride home. When he slides into the driver’s seat, the engine purring to life beneath his hands, you glance sideways at him, half-joking, half-not, voice just a little too casual.

“I’m not gonna end up in a true crime documentary, right?”

He smirks without looking at you, eyes on the road as he pulls out of the lot. “Nah. Too much paperwork.”

You laugh, but he doesn’t stop there.

“If I was gonna murder you, I wouldn’t have bought you drinks first. That’s just inefficient.”

You raise a brow. “Wow. Comforting.”

He glances over at you, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift, his voice a bit softer now

“I mean, you approached me. Technically, this is your villain origin story.”

You feign scandal. “So I lured you in.”

“Exactly. Innocent-looking girl at a bar, bold enough to lie her way into my lap? Yeah, you’re the dangerous one here.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a grin tugging at your lips. “You think I’m innocent-looking?”

He cuts his eyes toward you, a slow once-over that makes the air between you crackle.

“I think you’re a lot of things,” he says. “But innocent? Not buying it.”

And just like that, the car gets a little quieter. Not uncomfortable. Just… charged.

And you wonder, as the streetlights blur past the windows, what you’ve really gotten yourself into tonight.

“Oh,” you say, feigning surprise, a slow smirk curling at your lips. “So you’ve got me all figured out already?”

He glances over, and this time he doesn’t hide the smile.

“Didn’t say that,” he replies smoothly. “I said I’m not buying the innocent act. Big difference.”

You hum, dragging your gaze out the window like you're not grinning.

“Maybe I’m just mysterious,” you tease. “Hard to read. Dangerous, even.”

He snorts. “You’re definitely dangerous.”

“Yeah?” you ask, turning back to him, playful but edged with something more. “Afraid I’ll break your heart?”

He laughs once but then his eyes flick over to you, and it’s different now. He’s not smiling anymore, not quite. His voice drops, soft but steady.

“Nah,” he murmurs, “I’m enjoying this too much.”

You don’t answer right away, and neither does he. The quiet stretches, dense with something neither of you name. But when his hand brushes yours over the center console—barely there, just a question—you don’t pull away.

“And you?” he says, voice quiet, like he’s easing into something he actually wants the answer to. “How come, out of everyone there… you suddenly let yourself strut my way?”

“I don’t know,” you say at first, then pause. “You just looked like the kind of guy who wouldn’t ask questions.”

He huffs a laugh, amused. “You were banking on me being cooperative?”

“I was banking on you being scary enough to make the other guy piss himself.”

“And I was.”

You grin despite yourself. “So humble.”

He finally turns to look at you fully, eyes dark but curious, a faint crease in his brow like he’s studying you a little deeper now.

“But that’s not it,” he says. “Not really.”

You tilt your head. “No?”

“No. You could’ve gone to the bartender. The bouncer. Your friends, if you had any there. But you came to me.”

You’re quiet for a beat too long, because—yeah. He’s right.

So you shrug, pretending it’s simple when it’s not. “Guess I like walking toward the fire sometimes.”

He laughs again, deeper this time, but there’s something thoughtful behind it.

“Then lucky for you,” he murmurs, eyes still on you, “I don’t burn easy.”

And your heart? Yeah. It skips. Hard.

The next morning, Seungcheol walks into the office ten minutes late with zero regrets and exactly one iced Americano in hand, looking irritatingly composed for someone who got maybe four hours of sleep.

He’s barely set his cup down when Jeonghan’s voice sings from across the room.

“Well, well, well—if it isn’t Mr. I-Don’t-Do-Relationships strolling in like a man who definitely didn’t go straight home last night.”

Joshua looks up from his laptop, raising a brow with a barely contained smirk. “So… who was she?”

Seungcheol doesn’t answer. Just pulls off his jacket and hangs it up with surgical precision, like he’s trying not to indulge them.

Which, of course, only makes them hungrier.

“C’mon, Cheol,” Jeonghan pushes, trailing him to his desk like a cat stalking something shiny. “You had her in your lap half the night. You don’t cuddle in public. I didn’t even know you could cuddle.”

“Technically,” Joshua adds, “I think she was in the driver’s seat.”

“Literally and figuratively,” Jeonghan nods. “She had you wrapped. It was… inspiring.”

Seungcheol exhales through his nose and finally turns around, arms folded, leaning against the edge of his desk like he’s humoring children.

“She was someone who needed help,” he says evenly. “That’s it.”

Jeonghan’s eyes glint. “So you just happened to keep your hand on her thigh all night out of… community service?”

Joshua’s tone is gentler, but no less pointed. “You looked comfortable. Not pretending-comfortable. Just… real.”

Seungcheol hesitates. He hates that they’re good at this. That they know how to read the cracks in his tone.

“She was easy to talk to,” he admits. “Didn’t play games. No agenda.”

Jeonghan fake gasps. “Wait. You liked her.”

He rolls his eyes. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t not say it,” Joshua counters.

Jeonghan grins like he just won something. “What’s her name?”

Seungcheol smirks now, because this is the part he won’t give them. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

And when he turns back to his desk, his phone buzzes once.

A message from you.

You: So… if I walk into your office right now, am I gonna ruin your mysterious, emotionally unavailable persona?

He stares at it for a second, then smiles—small and private. Maybe he is in trouble. He stares at your text for a beat longer, thumb hovering over the keyboard like he’s weighing something heavier than the words.

Seungcheol: Only if you walk in looking like last night. My reputation wouldn’t survive it.

Seungcheol: Free for lunch? I’ll come to you.

He hits send before he can think better of it.

Across the room, Jeonghan is still dramatically theorizing about your identity, now halfway into a ridiculous monologue about you being an international art thief who seduced Seungcheol for corporate secrets.

He ignores it because right now, he’s more interested in seeing you again and if that means sneaking in an hour between meetings and pretending he’s not the kind of guy who clears his calendar for a woman he just met, then so be it.

A little past noon, your phone buzzes again. You’re mid-email, squinting at your screen, when the notification pops up.

Seungcheol: Outside. Come down. I brought bribes.

You blink. Bribes? What does that even mean? Curiosity wins out fast. You grab your phone, smooth your outfit and head down.

The moment you step out, you see him leaning against a sleek black car that absolutely screams expensive and unnecessary, sunglasses pushed up in his hair, holding a paper bag and two drinks.

Your brows lift. “So this is you not trying?”

He grins, looking annoyingly perfect for someone who probably woke up late and still somehow managed to make the pavement feel like a runway. “Told you. Bribes.”

You walk up slowly, eyeing the bag. “What is it?”

“Sandwiches. From that overpriced place near here. Hope you’re not one of those 'just salad' people.”

You narrow your eyes. “I contain multitudes.”

He chuckles, hands you your drink. “Good. You’ll need them to keep up.”

You gesture toward the car. “So, this your day job? Picking up women and showing off your mysterious wealth?”

He laughs genuinely, this time. “Would you believe me if I said I’m just a humble middle manager?”

You give him a long, skeptical once-over. “Not a chance.”

He opens the passenger door for you again like it's a habit. Like he already knows you’ll get in and you do. Because lunch with Choi Seungcheol? Yeah. That sounds like danger worth walking toward twice.

You slide into the passenger seat, you glance at him as he rounds the front of the car and settles into the driver’s seat again, placing the food carefully between you.

“Okay, so what is it that you actually do?” you ask, peeling open the sandwich wrapper, the scent already unfairly good.

He shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “Management. Mostly.”

“That’s vague as hell.”

“Intentionally,” he says, shooting you a sideways glance. “You’ll find I’m very good at withholding.”

You snort. “Is that your way of saying you’re emotionally constipated?”

“No, that’s me saying I like keeping some cards close.” He takes a bite of his sandwich, chews, swallows. “Makes things interesting.”

You hum, eyes narrowing just a touch. “So you’re not gonna tell me what your job actually is?”

He shakes his head slowly. “Not yet. I kind of like that you don’t know.”

You blink. “Why?”

He turns toward you fully now, one arm draped over the back of your seat, eyes lazy and unreadable but focused—very focused—on you.

“Because if you knew,” he says slowly, “you might treat me differently.”

Something flickers behind his tone. Not arrogance. Something quieter. Something worn and for a second, you forget you're supposed to be teasing him.

You hold his gaze. “Then maybe I’d rather not know.”

He searches your face for a beat, like he’s waiting for you to flinch, waiting for that inevitable shift he’s used to seeing in people when they do find out. But you don’t.

You just take another bite of your sandwich and speak through your smirk.

“So, Mr. Vague Middle Manager, are all your dates catered and chauffeured?”

That draws a full laugh out of him—deep and unguarded.

“This a date now?” he throws back.

You shrug with exaggerated innocence. “You did bring food. And bribes. And you’re staring at me like you wanna ruin my whole week.”

He hums, low and amused, eyes dropping to your lips and staying there just a little too long.

“Trust me,” he murmurs, “if I wanted to ruin your week… you’d know.”

And just like that, your heart forgets how to beat steady.

Again.

The place he takes you to is tucked away on a quiet side street. nothing flashy, no fancy valet, no five-star pretensions. Just the warm, familiar smell of grilled meat and the faint sizzle of something delicious already hitting a hot pan.

You recognize it immediately. The kind of Korean spot that’s half comfort, half chaos. Worn wooden tables, metal chopsticks in tin cups, steam clouding the windows from hot broth and soju-fueled laughter. A place where people don’t come to impress, they come because it feels like home.

He pulls the door open for you, and the ahjumma behind the counter beams when she sees him.

“Seungcheol-ah!” she calls, already bustling toward the kitchen. “Same table?”

He nods, bowing slightly in greeting.

You look at him sideways. “Regular, huh?”

He shrugs, the edge of his mouth twitching. “Told you. I like places where people don’t ask too many questions.”

She’s already setting the table as you both slide into the booth. The tabletop grill is already heating, meat—samgyeopsal, thick-cut and glistening—lands in the center with a satisfying thud.

He picks up the tongs like he’s done this a hundred times, which he probably has, and starts placing the pork belly on the grill, the sizzle instant and loud.

“Wow,” you say, smirking. “So this is how you impress women.”

“I’m feeding you, aren’t I?” he says, eyes focused on flipping the meat with practiced ease. “It’s a love language.”

“You do seem suspiciously fluent in this.”

“You gonna psychoanalyze me now?”

You lean your chin into your hand, watching him with lazy interest. “Maybe. Or maybe I just like watching you cook.”

He glances up, brow raised, but there’s a flicker of something else in his gaze now. That slow burn again.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “Flirting with me at a restaurant I come to every week? You’re treading into girlfriend territory.”

You pop a piece of kimchi into your mouth and smile like it’s nothing. “Wouldn’t want to ruin your reputation.”

“Too late.”

There’s something light about this but underneath, there's a current neither of you are pretending to ignore anymore.

He wraps a piece of grilled meat in lettuce, adds a bit of ssamjang and garlic, then holds it out across the table.

“For you,” he says, voice soft, hand steady.

You pause. Then lean forward, take it straight from his fingers, lips brushing his skin on the way.

And the look in his eyes?

Yeah, lunch just got a lot more complicated.

You're mid-chew when the ahjumma comes back over, wiping her hands on her apron, eyes sharp and curious as she sets another bowl of pickled radish down on the table.

She turns to Seungcheol with a knowing grin. “You’re not with the usual troublemakers today. Who’s this lovely girl? You got married and didn’t tell us?”

You almost choke. Seungcheol freezes for a secondbut then, smooth as ever, he swallows, glances at you, and smiles like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Not married yet,” he says casually, sliding his chopsticks into the rice like punctuation. “But I’m working on it.”

Your eyes snap to him. Excuse me?

The ahjumma gasps, clearly delighted. “Aigoo! She’s pretty and patient—finally, a girl who can handle you! Yah, I prayed for this!”

You blink at her. Then at Seungcheol. He’s not even flinching. The man has the audacity to look pleased.

“Ah, he’s exaggerating,” you say quickly, giving the auntie a smile and trying not to combust. “We just—”

“—Make a good team,” Seungcheol finishes for you, eyes flicking to yours with a glint of mischief. “She keeps me in line.”

The ahjumma sighs dreamily, clearly buying the whole act. “Don’t let him go, sweet girl. He might act cool, but he needs someone who’ll yell at him when he forgets to eat. This one’s stubborn.”

You nod solemnly. “He does give off that energy.”

“Exactly!” she points at you like you’re a genius. “You understand already! Just marry him.”

Seungcheol coughs into his drink, but he’s grinning now, and you can’t help it—you’re laughing, eyes narrowed at him across the table.

The auntie bustles off, muttering about bringing more side dishes for the happy couple.

You lean in, tone low and pointed. “Married? Really?”

He shrugs, unabashed. “What? You handled it like a pro. I’m impressed.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he says, sliding another wrap your way, “you’re still here.”

You hate how easy it is to smile at him. Hate it even more that he’s smiling too—like he likes whatever this is just as much as you do.

The ride back to your office is quieter, he pulls up in front of your building, shifts the car into park, and glances over at you.

You unbuckle your seatbelt slowly. “Thanks for lunch.”

“You make it sound like I’m not planning on doing it again.”

You grin, leaning just a little closer. “Oh? Planning on making a habit out of me?”

His smirk is there, but softer now. “Thinking about it.”

You hop out before you say something stupid. Before he says something worse. But before you can shut the door, he leans across the console and says, quieter:

“Text me when you get up there. Just so I know you made it.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile betrays you. “Yes, Dad.”

He raises a brow. “You really want to test that boundary this early?”

You shut the door before your brain melts and give him a mock salute through the window.

By the time Seungcheol pulls into the garage under his own office building, he’s five minutes behind schedule and vaguely irritated at how fast traffic moved now that he was in a rush.

He checks his phone in the elevator: one message from you.

You: Alive. Fed. Still thinking about that ssam you made. 8/10.

He grins to himself just as the elevator dings open on his floor. Unfortunately, his mood immediately sours when he sees who’s already in the conference room, arms folded, feet on the table like he owns the place.

Jeonghan.

The second Seungcheol steps through the door, Jeonghan looks at his watch dramatically.

“Five minutes late. How domestic of you.”

“Save it,” Seungcheol mutters, dropping into the seat across from him.

Jeonghan smirks like he’s been waiting for this moment. “So? Was it worth it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Uh-huh. You’re flushed, your hair’s a little messy, and for once, you didn’t glare at anyone” Jeonghan taps his fingers against the table. “You’re basically glowing.”

Seungcheol sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “Can we just get through this meeting?”

“Oh, we will,” Jeonghan says brightly. “But not before you tell me if she’s single, if she has friends, and if your sudden boyfriend energy is gonna affect this quarter’s performance.”

Seungcheol narrows his eyes. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Absolutely.”

The days blur together. You two still talk, in between meetings and his hectic schedule he would always find some time for you. When he’s free he’ll go drive to you and grab lunch, wherever you want or sometimes a surprise.

It’s just past six when Seungcheol finally leans back in his chair, eyes dragging away from the spreadsheet he’s barely processed for the last fifteen minutes.

His fingers hover over his phone for a second before he gives in to the impulse—simple and direct.

Seungcheol: You free for dinner?

You:Yes. Come rescue me.

He smirks, already pushing back from his desk. Jacket on. Sleeves rolled. A very quiet kind of urgency in his steps.

On your end, the timing couldn’t be more perfect. Your coworkers have been hovering at your desk all afternoon, buzzing about Friday drinks like it’s the social event of the year. They’re already lining up shots in their heads, plotting karaoke and potential chaos.

“You coming, right?” one of them asks, nudging your elbow. “C’mon, you always dip. Just one night.”

You smile politely, already trying to edge away. “I actually have plans—”

“With who?” another cuts in, eyebrows raised. “You’ve been glowing all week.”

You blink. “What is it with people and this glowing thing?”

They groan. “So you do have a date. Who is he?”

Before you can lie—or dodge, or disappear into thin air—your phone buzzes again.

Seungcheol: Be there in twenty. What kind of rescue we talking? Fire escape or just dramatic entrance?

You bite your lip to suppress the grin that tries to surface.

“Just someone picking me up,” you say vaguely, grabbing your bag and ignoring the chorus of curious oohs that follow.

“You’re no fun,” one of them whines as you make your escape. “At least send us a picture! We won’t believe he exists!”

You wave behind you. “Exactly why I’m not sending one.”

They groan louder, but you’re already walking toward the elevator, pulse picking up just a little. You don’t know what this is with him yet—not really. But it’s enough to have you hoping the next twenty minutes pass just fast enough.

You make it out of the building just as the sun is dipping behind the city skyline, casting everything in that dusky golden glow that feels almost too cinematic for real life. As if on cue, his car pulls up.

The passenger window rolls down, and there he is, arm resting on the wheel, watching you with that lazy, low-key amused smile that somehow makes your heart skip like it’s late for something.

“You always look like you just walked out of a movie,” you say as you slide in, tossing your bag at your feet.

He glances over, that grin growing as he shifts the car into drive. “Funny. I was just thinking the same about you.”

You shake your head, suppressing a smile. “Flattery before food? Risky move.”

“Not flattery,” he says, glancing at you as he pulls into traffic. “Observation. You look like you needed a getaway.”

You sigh dramatically, letting your head thud against the seat. “You have no idea. They were trying to hold me hostage for soju and noraebang.”

He chuckles, tapping the wheel. “I’d pay to see that.”

“You would,” you mutter. “Anyway, thanks for the timely rescue.”

“Anytime,” he says, tone quiet but sincere.

For a moment, you both fall into comfortable silence, the hum of the road filling the space. It’s not awkward. If anything, it’s the kind of quiet that only settles when someone’s presence feels... easy.

“Where are we going?” you ask after a while, glancing at him.

He tilts his head, lips tugging upward. “Somewhere that serves food hot, drinks cold, and lets me look at you across the table without interruption.”

You arch a brow. “Is that your version of romantic?”

“No,” he says. “That’s my version of honest.”

Your stomach does that annoying little flutter again. He doesn’t look at you when he says it, but his hand briefly brushes your knee in a turn—accidental, maybe—but he doesn’t pull away too quickly.

The drive takes longer this time, farther out from the noise of downtown, the streets growing quieter, narrower.

You glance over at him. “You’ve got a thing for hidden spots, huh?”

“I don’t like crowds,” he says simply. “And I like places that let me hear you when you talk.”

You pause, caught off guard by the casual weight of it. “You’re smooth.”

“I’m observant,” he corrects, pulling into a tiny gravel lot tucked away

You step out and take in the place. No line. No obvious branding. Just the kind of restaurant people guard like a secret.

“This place looks like it has stories,” you murmur, tucking your hands into your coat.

“It does,” he says, rounding the car to walk beside you. “Mostly about good food. And about the owner being mildly terrifying if you show up drunk and disrespectful.”

You laugh, and he pulls the door open for you, holding it until you step inside.

It’s warm. Cozy. The scent of doenjang jjigae and grilled mackerel hangs in the air. The lights are soft, yellow, casting everything in that old-kitchen comfort glow. You’re seated in the farthest corner, a little nook with floor cushions and a small table already set with water, chopsticks, and folded linen napkins. The privacy of it feels intentional.

The owner, a silver-haired woman in a worn apron, comes over with barely a word, just a sharp eye and a small smile when she sees Seungcheol.

“You brought someone,” she says, voice raspy but kind. “She’s pretty. And awake, unlike the last idiot your friend brought.”

Seungcheol winces. “That was Mingyu.”

She waves him off, already handing you both menus like she’s decided you’re staying regardless.

You stifle a laugh. “Do all your regular spots come with built-in character witnesses?”

“Only the good ones,” he replies, flipping open the menu. “What’re you in the mood for?”

You pretend to study the list, but really, you’re watching the way he sits here—comfortable, known, but still somehow wrapped in mystery. Like there’s more under the surface that he only lets people see in pieces.

“You choose,” you say, passing your menu across the table. “You haven’t steered me wrong yet.”

He takes it with a slow smile. “Dangerous trust.”

“You like that about me,” you say without missing a beat.

His eyes meet yours, steady and sure.

“I do.”

And the way he says it?

It isn’t playful. Isn’t light. It lands somewhere between a promise and a warning.

And suddenly, the quiet between you feels like something else entirely.

He closes the menu without looking at it for too long, then says something casual to the owner, his tone respectful but familiar. She gives you one last look (a little assessing, a little approving) before disappearing toward the kitchen with a short nod.

You raise an eyebrow. “You didn’t even ask what I wanted.”

He leans back, completely unbothered. “I did.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah. You said, ‘you choose.’ That’s verbal consent. Witnessed and documented.”

You snort. “Okay, lawyer.”

He grins. “You’ll thank me in a few minutes.”

And you do. Because when the food comes, it’s thin wheat noodles in a light broth, topped with julienned vegetables, sliced egg, seaweed, and just a hint of sesame oil. The aroma alone makes your eyes widen.

Your inner monologue might as well be standing on a table, screaming. He ordered noodles. My weakness. My love language. My eternal home.

“Are you a mind reader?” you ask, unable to hide your excitement as you pick up your chopsticks.

“I had a hunch,” he says, watching you with mild amusement as you practically dive in. “You look like someone who’d fight for the last noodle in a pot.”

You pause with your chopsticks halfway to your mouth. “Is that a compliment or a psychological profile?”

“Depends.” He’s smiling, elbow propped lazily on the table, eyes fixed on you. “Are you the type to share your noodles, or hoard them?”

You pretend to consider it, chewing thoughtfully. “Depends on who’s asking.”

He laughs, low and full. The kind that catches in your chest.

The food is simple, warm, deeply comforting. Not because of the food, exactly. But because of who’s sitting across from you. And how easy he makes all of this feel.

And when he steals one of your noodles just to prove a point? You let him.

As you both finish the last of the broth, the warm glow of the restaurant wrapping around you like a lazy blanket, you lean back on your cushion and stretch your legs under the table, nudging his knee with your foot.

You glance at the time on your phone and raise a brow. “It’s not even eight,” you say, mock-disbelief in your voice. “Don’t tell me you’re the type to go to bed right after dinner. Old-man hours already?”

“What, you think I’m boring?”

You shrug. “I mean… I don’t know. The cozy dinner. The secret spot. The soft lighting. This has bedtime-by-nine written all over it.”

“You’re lucky I like you,” he mutters, grabbing the check before you can even reach for your wallet.

You blink. “Wait. What was that?”

“I said,” he repeats, standing smoothly and ignoring your faux-innocent stare, “you’re lucky I like you.”

“Bold assumption,” you say, following him toward the door. “You don’t know me like that.”

He holds the door open, leaning into the frame as you step past him. “You say that, but you’re not running away.”

You pause outside, cold air kissing your skin as you glance up at him.

“I’d say that depends,” you murmur, lifting your chin slightly. “Are you planning to make the night more interesting or tuck me in with warm milk and a bedtime story?”

“I was thinking…” he steps a little closer, voice dipping, “maybe something in between.”

Your pulse flickers fast. Intrigued.

“So,” you say, eyes narrowing. “What now?”

He glances toward the car, then back at you. “Let’s drive.”

“That’s it? Just a drive?”

He shrugs. “You scared I’m secretly boring?”

You smile, teeth catching your bottom lip as you shake your head. “No. I’m scared you’re not.”

The city peels away behind you, all neon and noise in the rearview, replaced by wider roads and quieter corners. You glance over at him as he drives, one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily on the gearshift.

"You always drive like this?" you ask, the wind catching in your voice just slightly.

He glances over, curious. “Like what?”

“Like you're in a movie. Slow, steady. No destination, just vibes.”

His mouth tugs into that crooked half-smile. “Wouldn’t be the worst scene to be in.”

You roll your eyes, but your grin gives you away. “You're really running with this leading-man energy, huh?”

“You’re the one who asked me to rescue you. I’m just sticking to the role.”

"Right. So where's the dramatic monologue about how you're secretly emotionally unavailable but somehow willing to change only for me?"

“That’s coming in act three,” he says smoothly. “Right after the almost-kiss and right before I mess it all up.”

You’re laughing now, really laughing, and when you glance at him again, he’s not even pretending not to stare.

He clears his throat. “There’s a lookout just up ahead. View’s nice this time of night.”

“Another hidden spot?”

“You doubting my taste now?”

“Never. Just making sure you’re not lulling me into a false sense of security before you reveal you are, in fact, a very charming serial killer.”

He chuckles under his breath. “If I was, you wouldn’t’ve made it past the noodles.”

You hum. “Fair point. Still. You are dangerously smooth.”

“I could say the same about you.”

That brings a new kind of quiet. One with heat underneath it.

By the time he pulls up to the lookout you’re not sure whether you’re more captivated by the view outside, or the one inside the car.

He kills the engine but makes no move to get out. Neither do you.

“So,” he says after a beat, voice a little lower. “Still think I’m putting you to bed before nine?”

You smirk, turning just slightly toward him. “We’re well past bedtime, Cheol.”

And somehow, that feels like the most dangerous thing you’ve said all night. He huffs a short laugh through his nose, eyes narrowing slightly with amusement as he shifts to face you more fully in the dim glow of the dashboard lights.

You tilt your head, feigning casual. “Just doing my due diligence,” you say, poking at the corner of the console with your nail. “Before this gets… you know. Interesting. You don’t have kids right? Or a wife waiting at home something like that”

He raises a brow, resting his arm against the back of your seat. “Interesting, huh?”

He doesn’t deny it. Just lets that lazy grin spread as he lets his gaze settle on you—like he’s trying to read between your words and the space between your knees brushing his.

“No wife,” he says finally. “No kids. No secrets.”

You blink. “Wow. A full set.”

He leans in just a little, voice lower now. “Disappointed?”

You laugh, the sound soft, breathless. “Relieved, actually. I’d hate to be a plot twist in someone else’s drama.”

“No,” he murmurs. “If anything, you feel like the beginning of something.”

You freeze just for a second.

“Are you always like this? Charming, smooth-talking, devastatingly good at timing?”

His fingers brush a strand of hair behind your ear, slow and deliberate. “I don’t know. You tell me.”

“Guess I’ll need more data.”

He laughs again—quiet, warm—and lets the moment linger in that hazy space between restraint and intent. Outside, the city glows. But in here, it’s just the two of you, suspended in that delicious kind of silence where everything feels possible.

You swallow lightly. “So… how much data are we talking? One night? Two? A whole series?”

His smile curves, lazy and full of mischief. “Are you asking how many dates it takes before I kiss you?”

“Maybe,” you say, voice just above a whisper.

“Depends how good the data is.” He leans in a little, not touching you yet but close enough. His voice dips, rough around the edges in that way that sends a shiver up your spine.

Your breath catches, pulse ticking a little faster, but you don’t lean away. If anything, you meet him halfway.

You exhale slowly, watching his eyes flick down to your mouth.

“You’re really not going to kiss me, are you?” you ask, a little breathless now.

He smirks, gaze lifting back to yours.

“I will,” he says. “But not because it’s expected.”

You blink, pulse stuttering.

“Then why?”

He tilts his head, thumb brushing the curve of your cheekbone.

“Because the second I do… it stops being light and easy. And I think we both know it.”

You sit there for a second, stunned into silence—because he’s not wrong. There’s a weight to this that neither of you are quite ready to name, but it’s there. Unspoken, humming like the low thrum of electricity before a storm.

So instead, you nod—slow, almost amused.

“You’re dangerous, Choi Seungcheol.”

He leans back just slightly, watching you with that infuriatingly unreadable expression.

“And you’re trouble.”

You smile.

“So what now?”

He reaches for the gear shift, gaze still lingering on you.

“Now,” he says, “I drive you home before we both make very bad, very good decisions.”

And you don’t argue.

But as he pulls away from the lookout, your fingers resting dangerously close to his on the center console, you get the feeling this isn’t the end of the night.

It’s just the prelude.

The sky is painfully clear, bright blue with not a cloud in sight and the sun has no business being this aggressive before noon.

Jeonghan’s halfway through lining up his swing when he notices it. The stillness. The quiet hum of something off.

He looks over and nearly misses his shot entirely.

“Okay,” he mutters, club dangling from one hand as he turns toward Joshua. “Am I hallucinating or is Seungcheol smiling at his phone?”

Joshua, already sipping on an iced americano and way too comfortable in his obnoxiously pastel golf attire, raises an eyebrow and glances over at their friend, who’s sitting on the edge of the golf cart with his phone in hand, thumb tapping out something quick.

And yeah. He's definitely smiling. Not smirking. Not plotting someone’s downfall.

Actually, smiling.

Joshua leans closer, squinting dramatically. “Are we about to die? Should I call my mom?”

“Maybe he’s reading memes,” Jeonghan says, though his voice lacks conviction.

“Right,” Joshua snorts. “Because Seungcheol totally wakes up and chooses cat videos.”

They both watch him a beat longer.

Seungcheol finally glances up, catching their stares. “What?”

Joshua holds his drink up like it’s a toast. “Just wondering if we need to evacuate Seoul. You good, buddy?”

Jeonghan crosses his arms. “You’re smiling, Cheol. Like… full teeth. Sunshine smile. Are you in pain? Blink twice if it’s a hostage situation.”

Seungcheol rolls his eyes, but the corners of his mouth don’t drop. If anything, they twitch higher when his phone buzzes again and he types out a quick reply before tucking it away in his pocket.

“Y’all are dramatic.”

“Oh no no,” Jeonghan says, hopping into the cart. “You don’t get to be mysterious. Who is she?”

“There’s no she.”

“Liar. You haven’t looked this happy since Mingyu fell into that koi pond.”

Joshua hums, thoughtful. “It’s the girl from the bar, isn’t it?”

Seungcheol doesn't answer which is an answer in itself.

Jeonghan squints. “Wait, you’re still talking to her? Damn. I thought that was just a one-night distraction.”

Seungcheol shrugs, grabbing his club and walking toward the next hole. “Maybe I like being distracted.”

Joshua raises his brows. “He’s whipped.”

“Absolutely whipped,” Jeonghan echoes, grinning like he’s already plotting how to make this his new favorite topic of conversation.

The reason for that rare, suspiciously soft smile on Seungcheol’s face? Easy.

It’s sitting in his phone, timestamped at 8:02 a.m.

A photo of your desk, where a bouquet of creamy white ranunculus and pale blush roses now sits in the center, like it owns the place. A handwritten note tucked between the blooms simply reads:

Thanks for keeping me up past my bedtime. - CSC

Your caption underneath the photo had been equally unfair.

You: You smooth bastard. You knew I liked flowers, didn’t you?

He hadn’t, actually but he guessed. Just like the noodles. And the way your voice lit up over the phone when he mentioned he had a surprise coming.

It was a hunch, like everything else about you so far, a series of guesses that kept turning out more right than he probably deserved.

You: Do I have to say thank you over lunch or dinner? Because I can clear my schedule.

Hence: the smile.

The same one he’s fighting right now, out on the golf course, while Jeonghan interrogates him like a nosy mother with a magnifying glass.

“She thanked me,” Seungcheol says finally, smirking to himself as he adjusts his grip on the club.

Joshua frowns. “For what?”

He doesn’t even look up as he swings. “For the flowers I sent this morning.”

There’s a pause.

“Flowers?” Jeonghan yells from the cart. “Oh, we’re officially in rom-com territory now.”

Joshua leans on his driver. “You used to make fun of me for that. Remember back then when I got my girlfriend flowers after two weeks and you called me a simp with no spine?”

“I was right. You were insufferable,” Seungcheol replies easily. “I, on the other hand, am charming.”

Jeonghan snorts. “You sent ranunculus, didn’t you?”

That actually gets Seungcheol to glance over, brow raised. “How the hell do you know that?”

“Because you’re dramatic,” Jeonghan deadpans. “And because you’re literally the only person I know who flirts with florals like it’s a love letter.”

He shrugs, but the smug look doesn’t leave his face.

“She liked them.”

And really, that’s all he needs today. Not the perfect swing, not a quiet weekend, not even an answer to whatever it is that's slowly, surely happening between you and him.

You’re barefoot, hair up in a loose bun, sleeves shoved past your elbows, and a cleaning rag hanging off your shoulder like a badge of honor. There's a half-folded pile of laundry on the couch, your favorite playlist echoing from the kitchen speaker, and the scent of lemon cleaner still lingers in the air.

You weren’t thinking about him. Not exactly. Okay, maybe a little.

But still, when the doorbell rings, you freeze mid-wipe, glancing toward the door like it might be another delivery.

Flowers again?

You make your way over, still patting your hands dry on your pajama shorts, and swing the door open without much thought.

And your heart absolutely stutters.

Because standing there isn’t a courier. Or a stranger.

It’s him.

Choi Seungcheol, dressed down in jeans, a dark tee, and that unfairly calm expression that somehow looks even better in daylight. One hand casually stuffed in his pocket, the other holding up a familiar-looking takeout bag.

“You said lunch or dinner,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Thought I’d split the difference.”

You blink, stunned and slightly underdressed for this plot twist. “You—wait, you’re here?”

He lifts the bag slightly. “Samgyeopsal dosirak. And something sweet because I thought you might need dessert after all that dusting.”

You let out a soft, surprised laugh, stepping back instinctively to let him in. “You could’ve texted.”

“I could’ve,” he agrees, stepping past the threshold, eyes flicking to the mess of throw pillows and laundry and general weekend chaos. “But I figured showing up gets me bonus points.”

“Bold move,” you say, shutting the door behind him.

He shrugs, setting the bag down on your kitchen counter. “You already called me smooth this morning. Might as well live up to it.”

You watch him for a moment, slightly in awe—and slightly mortified you’re wearing an old t-shirt and fuzzy socks while he looks like that.

“Sorry for the mess,” you mutter, grabbing a few stray pieces of laundry and shoving them toward a basket.

Seungcheol just leans against your counter, watching you with that amused, unreadable expression.

“Relax,” he says. “I kind of like seeing you like this.”

You pause mid-fold. “Like what? Disheveled and unprepared?”

“Comfortable,” he corrects. “Like yourself.”

You clear your throat and gesture to the bag. “Well�� you coming all this way with food means you’re definitely staying to eat, right?”

He grins. “Only if you sit next to me this time.”

“Scandalous,” you murmur, already pulling out plates. “We’ll have to keep the blinds shut. Can’t let the neighbors catch me fraternizing with the flower guy.”

He lets out a low laugh as he moves to help, and just like that, the space between you feels smaller again.

You slide the plates across the counter toward him, eyes flicking up briefly to meet his as you settle into the rhythm of unpacking the food. The scent of grilled meat, garlic, and rice fills the space, and for a moment, you let yourself enjoy the easy comfort of it.

“How was your morning?”

He leans back a little against your counter, breaking apart his chopsticks slowly, like he has time—like he’s in no rush at all.

“Golf,” he says. “Jeonghan roped me into it. He and Joshua have this bet going about who’ll finally beat me. Spoiler: they didn’t.”

You snort softly. “Let me guess. You smiled once and they thought something was wrong?”

He looks up at you, surprised, then chuckles. “Actually, yeah. Jeonghan thought the world was ending.”

“Because you were texting me?”

His gaze lingers on you for just a beat too long.

“Maybe.”

You look away then, biting back the way your heart trips at the casual weight of his honesty.

You try to keep your voice light. “You like golf?”

“I like the quiet,” he says. “And the way it slows everything down. Plus, it's one of the few times the guys don't expect me to be in CEO mode.”

You blink. “Wait—CEO mode?”

His smile turns crooked, caught between smug and sheepish. “You didn’t know?”

Your mouth opens, then closes. “You told me you work in management!”

“I do,” he says innocently. “Technically.”

You gape at him. “You're ridiculous.”

“And you're adorable when you're annoyed,” he replies, grinning as he sets the table with casual precision.

You shake your head, still reeling, still smiling despite yourself.

“Fine,” you say, settling down beside him. “You can be mysterious and charming and maddening later. Right now, just tell me more about your morning. What else happened?”

And he does. He tells you about the way Joshua nearly ran over Jeonghan’s foot with the golf cart. How the coffee at the clubhouse was abysmal. How the sun was too bright but the breeze made up for it. And you listen like it’s the most interesting story you’ve ever heard.

You finish the last few bites of your meal, chopsticks tapping against the empty container as you sit back with a satisfied sigh.

“So,” you say, stretching slightly, “since you’re already here, Mr. CEO—”

His brow arches, amused. “Oh, we’re using titles now?”

You ignore that smug little curve of his mouth. “Since you're already so generously spending time with a commoner like me, mind helping with a few things?”

He eyes you, mock suspicion in his gaze. “Define few.”

You push off the counter and gesture for him to follow you down the short hallway.

“It’s really just one thing. I’ve been putting it off because I like having a functional spine.”

You stop in front of your bedroom door, already bracing yourself for the impending chaos he’s about to witness. With a deep breath, you push it open and point to the far corner of the room.

“That,” you say flatly, “has not moved since I moved in. It’s heavier than it looks and it hates me.”

Seungcheol steps in behind you, eyes landing on the wide, solid wood dresser wedged awkwardly against the wall. He whistles low.

“Yeah, okay. That thing looks like it weighs more than I do.”

You cross your arms, already grinning. “Don’t be dramatic. I just need it shifted a little to the left so I can finally plug in the lamp I’ve had sitting on the floor”

“And you were just gonna… try to do this alone?”

“I tried. Got maybe an inch before I considered calling emergency services.”

He laughs, shaking his head, already flexing his fingers like he’s warming up. “Alright, move aside. Let me show you what those gym memberships are actually good for.”

You step back, arms folded, watching as he tests the weight, then—with alarming ease—shifts the dresser a few inches left, then a bit more, until it’s perfectly centered beneath the window.

“That’s it? That was like, two seconds.”

He turns, feigning a wipe of imaginary sweat from his brow. “You’re welcome, peasant.”

You scoff. “Okay, that’s the last time I compliment your arms.”

The sunlight hits him just right, painting golden streaks across his face and forearms, and for a second, the whole room feels brighter. Lighter.

“You’re trouble,” you murmur, half to yourself.

He catches it anyway, walking back over until he’s standing in front of you again, too close in that now-familiar, deliberate way.

“And you keep inviting me over,” he says, voice low and warm. “What does that make you?”

“Worse than I thought, apparently.”

He grins. “Good.”

And just like that—helping you move a dresser somehow becomes its own kind of intimacy. Domestic. Quiet. Dangerous in all the best, slow-burning ways.

Then something catches his eyes on something behind your desk. He drifts toward it, more curious than anything, his gaze pulled by the small burst of color on the wall.

It’s a collage of sorts, not perfectly arranged, but it has that personal, lived-in charm. Polaroids with slightly smudged ink dates along the bottom, movie tickets curled at the corners, scribbled notes, travel stubs, even a pressed flower or two.

A few things are clearly sentimental, a few probably meaningless to anyone but you.

But it’s the tiny folded receipt pinned neatly in the corner that catches his eye. Barely noticeable, until he sees the logo.

The bar.

He steps closer, mouth quirking slightly. “You kept this?”

You glance over from where you're fluffing the pillow he nearly flattened earlier. “Hm?”

He taps the pinned slip, and your eyes flick toward it.

“Oh.” You laugh softly, walking over to stand beside him. “Yeah. It felt... significant, I guess. A good story.”

“You keep a lot of stories, huh?” he asks, gesturing to the wall.

You shrug, suddenly shy. “I like remembering things. Even the dumb ones. Even the weird little in-between moments. They make everything feel more real.”

“Where’s the part where you almost got kissed by a stranger pretending to be your boyfriend?”

You narrow your eyes at him playfully. “You’re lucky I didn’t choose someone taller.”

“I’m lucky you chose me at all,” he says, quiet but clear, not teasing.

The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s full—warm. Like the pause after a really good line in a movie, one that doesn’t need music or movement to make it matter.

You glance back at the wall, at the receipt, the night that started all of this.

“Guess that night’s part of the wall now,” you murmur. “Part of the story.”

His eyes flick back to you, amused. “So you’re the sentimental type.”

You raise a brow, lips twitching. “Why? That not fit into your little criteria?”

Seungcheol tilts his head slightly, eyes scanning you in that quietly intense way that always makes you feel like you’re being read instead of looked at. His voice drops, warm and smooth.

“I don’t think I ever had a real list.”

You scoff lightly. “Please. Everyone has a list.”

He grins. “Fine. Maybe I thought I’d go for someone less likely to keep bar receipts and concert stubs like museum exhibits.”

You feign offense. “Wow. So judgmental for someone who literally sent me florals with emotional implications.”

“That was strategic,” he deadpans.

“Mm-hmm. And I’m sure flirting with me in front of your friends was all part of some master CEO plan too.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just studies you for a long moment, something unreadable behind that steady gaze.

From then on, the flowers keep coming. Not every day but often enough that it’s clear there’s a pattern. An intention.

Sometimes it’s a soft arrangement of lilies and baby’s breath that arrives late in the morning with a note scrawled in that clean, all-too-neat handwriting: Don’t skip lunch today.

Other days it’s bold peonies or deep red ranunculus, tucked into a glass vase that seems to match your desk without trying.

One morning it’s a single sunflower with a post-it: Because you were complaining about deadlines. Sun’s out now.

And in between the deliveries, there are lunches—casual, spontaneous. A text at 11:32 a.m.: You free? I’m craving something spicy.

Or dinner on the way home from work, when you say you’re too tired to cook and he offers takeout. He picks you up like it’s routine, like the two of you have been doing this for years.

He holds doors open, lets you steal bites off his plate, keeps track of which side of the booth you like to sit on. He remembers you hate soggy fries and that you get cranky when you skip breakfast. And when your wrist started aching from too much typing, a small ergonomic mouse showed up at your office two days later. No note. No message. Just Seungcheol, a few hours later at dinner, asking casually, You get that thing I sent? Like he hadn’t just studied your habits like they were blueprints.

One night, you tease him. “You always feed people this well when you’re trying to win them over?”

He glances at you across the table, eyes warm, steady.

“No,” he says. “Just you.”

And it’s not a confession. Not really but your heart answers like it is. He grins at that—slow and lazy, like he’s been waiting for you to say it.

“Careful now,” you say, voice light, but your eyes don’t leave his, “I might get used to being spoiled.”

He leans back in his seat, one arm draped over the back of the booth, and he gives you that look

“And what exactly would be the downside of that?”

You hum, pretending to consider it, swirling the last of your drink with your straw. “Mm, I don’t know. Expectations. Disappointment. Sudden withdrawal of dumpling privileges.”

He chuckles, low and smooth. “I don’t take things back once I give them.”

You glance at him sideways, the corner of your mouth lifting. “Sounds like a threat.”

He tilts his head, his smile softening. “Sounds like a promise.”

For a second, the noise of the restaurant fades behind the weight of those words—like the hum of conversation, the clink of plates, even the music playing overhead all quiet just enough to make space for the way he’s looking at you.

You feel it, the shift. Again.

And you could say something sarcastic, you could push it away with another joke—but you don’t. Instead, you let the moment hang there, rich and charged.

“You keep this up,” you murmur, “and I might start thinking you actually like me.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink.

“Good,” he says. “That’s the idea.”

You swirl your drink once more, watching the ice clink softly against the glass before glancing up at him with a sly tilt to your head.

“So…” you start, casual—too casual. “How many more dinners like this before the kiss?”

Seungcheol’s fingers pause mid-reach for his glass, his eyes lifting to yours, slow and deliberate. There’s that smirk again—just a shade more dangerous now, edged with the kind of tension you’ve both been dancing around for days.

He leans in a little, arms resting on the table, and his voice drops low. “You keeping count?”

You shrug, the corner of your mouth twitching. “I’m just saying… that first night? You played the part really well. Had me thinking you were the type to go in for the dramatic, sweep-her-off-her-feet, movie-scene kiss.”

“I remember,” he says. “You were looking at me like you were waiting for it.”

Your laugh is soft, quiet. “Maybe I was.”

“So what number is this then? Dinner four? Five? Let’s call it four and a half. One of those was technically just noodles and complaining about work.”

“So what you’re saying is… I’m close.” You lift your glass to your lips, hiding your grin behind the rim.

“Closer than you think. Don’t worry, I’ll make it worth the wait.”

And you believe him. God help you, you really do.

“You’re really making me wait for this kiss, huh?”

Seungcheol’s lips part, not in surprise exactly, but like he wasn’t expecting you to say it so directly. His gaze drops to your mouth for the briefest second, and it’s subtlebut enough that your heart skips once, hard.

He exhales, and the corner of his mouth lifts like he’s trying not to let it turn into a full smile. “I told you,” he murmurs, “I make things worth it.”

“Yeah, but now I’m starting to think you like the anticipation too much.”

“I do,” he says without missing a beat. “But I like your reaction more.”

Your brows lift. “My reaction?”

“The way you look at me,” he says, quietly now, eyes not wavering. “The way you lean in just a little closer when you think I might—” He doesn’t finish the sentence. Just lets it hang there between you, heavy and electric.

“You’re dangerous,” you whisper. Your heart’s hammering now, a rhythm too loud to ignore, and still he doesn’t close the distance.

“You’re really not going to kiss me,” you say, half a laugh, half a dare.

He tilts his head slightly, like he’s deciding something. Then—

“I will,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “But not here.”

Your breath catches. “Why not?”

His eyes flick to the restaurant around you. “Because when I finally do, I’m not sharing it with a room full of strangers.”

And just like that, your skin is flushed, your chest tight, and you’re no longer thinking about how long it’s been—but how close you are now. How much more you want.

The moment you step out into the night, the cool air brushing against your skin like a sigh, his hand finds yours. No hesitation. No theatrics. Just warm fingers threading through yours like they’ve done it a thousand times.

You glance at him, heart kicking once against your ribs.

He doesn’t look over. Doesn’t need to. His grip is steady, his stride unhurried, and there’s something about the way he holds you—like it’s not even a decision anymore. Just instinct.

When you reach the car, he lets go only to open the door for you. Still without a word. Still with that same quiet, unrushed certainty. He waits until you’re seated, until the seatbelt clicks, before he rounds the front and slides into the driver’s seat beside you.

No questions.

No where to?

He starts the engine and pulls out into the street like he already knows. Because he does. He’s memorized your route home—left turns, shortcut alleys, that one spot where traffic always sucks near the crosswalk.

And for a moment, you sit in the silence of the ride, his hand resting on the gearshift, the lights of the city playing soft across his profile.

You lean your head against the seat, watching him through the slow hum of passing streetlights. “You’re a little scary when you’re this confident.”

“I’m always this confident,” he murmurs, eyes forward, that same grin pulling at the corner of his mouth.

You laugh under your breath. “Cocky.”

He doesn’t deny it. But when he reaches over at the next red light, brushing his thumb across the back of your hand, there’s a softness in it—something that betrays the calm exterior. Something that says: I’m not rushing. But I’m sure.

And it steals your breath more than any kiss might’ve.

Seungcheol’s already at his desk when Jeonghan strolls into his office unannounced, like he owns the place. He’s got that look on his face too. mischief bubbling just beneath the surface, like he’s been waiting for this all morning.

Seungcheol doesn’t look up from his laptop. “No.”

“I didn’t even say anything yet,” Jeonghan counters, already dropping into one of the chairs across from the desk, far too comfortable for someone who doesn’t technically work in this building.

“You’re thinking very loudly.”

Jeonghan grins. “Fine. If you insist, I’ll start. One: she completely held her own last night. Didn’t flinch once when Mingyu started rapid-ordering food like he was feeding an army.”

Recalling last night when Seungcheol took you with him for drinks out with the guys. Surprising everyone.

“She’s impressive,” Seungcheol says simply, and this time he does glance up, barely trying to hide the small, proud smile tugging at his mouth.

Jeonghan points. “That. That smile. That’s what I came here for. I knew you were gone the moment she toasted Soonyoung under the table.”

Seungcheol just leans back in his chair, lacing his fingers together. “He challenged her. It’s on him.”

“And she won. You know what that means? She’s one of us now. And more importantly…” Jeonghan leans in dramatically. “You’re so in it, man.”

“I drove her home,” Seungcheol says casually, but the softness in his voice betrays him.

Jeonghan narrows his eyes. “And?”

“And nothing.”

Jeonghan groans. “You’re seriously dragging this out? You're the most controlled man I know, and even I was rooting for a kiss.”

Seungcheol just smirks. “Told her I’d kiss her when she’s sober.”

Jeonghan stares. Then throws his head back with a groan. “You’re hopeless. Ridiculously swoony and hopeless.”

“I like her,” Seungcheol says, tone low and honest.

And that—that—makes Jeonghan pause. His teasing drops, just for a second. Because when Seungcheol says it like that, not as a joke or a half-guarded confession, but as a fact... it’s real.

He leans back, quieter now. “Yeah. I know you do.”

There’s a beat of silence between them before Jeonghan can’t help himself. “Still. If this ends in wedding bells, I’m officiating. Or, at the very least, giving the toast.”

Seungcheol sighs, already regretting letting him in.

Jeonghan grins again. “Don’t worry. I’ll start writing my speech.”

The city blurs past the windows in a soft hum of motion, headlights washing warm streaks of gold across your skin as you talk—casually, openly, like you always do now.

You’re curled in the passenger seat with your legs tucked under you, your shoes kicked off and your fingers fidgeting absently with the soft edge of the blanket draped over your lap. His blanket. The one he insisted on leaving in the car after you shivered just once during a late drive home.

Seungcheol doesn’t say much as you talk, but he glances over often—tiny flickers of attention between the road and you, like he’s memorizing pieces of the moment to revisit later. His left hand rests on the steering wheel, right one easy on the gear shift, the movement of his thumb mirroring the rhythm of your voice. Calm. Comforting.

You’re halfway through rambling about a disaster of a meeting you had that morning when your train of thought stutters.

“Oh,” you say, almost too quickly. “I—actually. Meant to ask you something.”

He hums, a lazy sound that rumbles in his chest. “Yeah?”

You hesitate. Just a second too long. He picks up on it immediately, his gaze flickering your way.

You’re looking down now, fiddling with the corner of the blanket, suddenly hyperaware of the lip gloss you left in his cup holder and the extra hair tie wrapped around his rearview mirror. There are little bits of you all over his car now. Just like there are little bits of him scattered across your days.

“So…” you start, trying for casual, but it comes out a little breathy. “There’s this wedding. In a couple weeks. One of my friends from college.”

You chance a glance at him. He’s still driving, still calm, but his head tilts slightly. Listening.

“I kind of... need a plus one,” you go on. “Well, I don’t need one, technically, but everyone’s bringing someone, and—” You bite your lip, nerves buzzing. “I just thought maybe… if you’re free, you could come? With me.”

“You want me to go with you?” he asks, voice low, like he’s checking—really checking—that he heard right.

You nod, trying to keep your voice light, even as your heart feels like it’s doing cartwheels. “Yeah. I mean, you’d probably hate it. Lots of mingling. Dancing. Champagne. Small talk with strangers.”

He smiles a little. “And you want me to be your date.”

You blink at him. “Well… yeah.”

The light turns green. He doesn’t move. Not yet. His eyes are on you, steady and searching, and the longer he looks, the more you feel exposed—in a good way. In a real way.

“I’ll go,” he says finally, with that soft certainty that always makes your chest ache. “Of course I’ll go.”

Your breath whooshes out of you. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he repeats, eyes on the road now as the car starts moving again. “But only if I get to keep pretending I’m your boyfriend.”

You laugh, startled by how easy he makes it feel, how warm your chest goes at his words. “Is that what you’ve been doing all this time? Pretending?”

His grip on the steering wheel shifts. “You tell me.”

And you don’t answer right away, not because you don’t know but because the answer sits somewhere in the middle of your ribs, nestled against every glance, every ride home, every shoulder kiss and every moment he’s chosen to stay.

When you reach your building, he parks without asking for directions. Of course he does. He knows the way by heart now.

As you’re getting out, he catches your wrist gently. “Text me the details,” he says, voice lower now, more serious. “What time. What to wear.”

You nod, and your throat’s a little tight. “Okay.”

It’s one of those perfect afternoons. the kind that hangs suspended between spring and summer, warm without being too hot, a breeze just light enough to make your dress flutter as you wait outside your building.

You’re not waiting long.

His car pulls up exactly on time, and you catch sight of him behind the wheel through the windshield—dark suit, crisp white shirt, and a tie that looks suspiciously like it was chosen to match the color of your dress.

Your heart kicks up, stupid and traitorous in your chest, because he looks good. Too good. Like the kind of man who belongs on magazine covers, not in your driveway.

And then he steps out.

He smooths a hand down the front of his suit jacket, one brow lifting the moment he sees you. “Wow,” he says, low and honest, eyes sweeping over you with a slow, appreciative gaze that makes heat crawl up your neck. “I knew you’d look beautiful, but... I wasn’t ready.”

You try for casual, but your grin gives you away. “You clean up alright yourself, Mr. CEO.”

He holds the car door open for you without a word, and when you slide in, you spot the little extra things right away. Your favorite mints in the cup holder. A spare hair tie looped on the gearshift. He doesn’t say anything about them, but the details are there—always there.

“You nervous?” he asks at one point, tone light.

You shake your head. “About the wedding? No. They’re the ones getting married. I’m just there to eat cake.”

He smiles. “About me being your date, then?”

You pause, then look over at him with a soft grin. “Not even a little.”

When you get to the venue, it’s like the entire world slows for a second. The moment you both step out of the car and walk in together—side by side, his hand hovering at the small of your back, your arms brushing as you walk—you feel it. The glances. The looks.

You were right. Everyone did bring someone. And yet somehow, you’re the one that people can’t stop staring at.

Because of him.

Because of the way Seungcheol exists in a room like he’s always been meant to be there—quietly powerful, quietly yours.

Introductions start slow. your friends immediately curious, trying to figure him out. But Seungcheol handles them all with the kind of smooth charm that makes you want to simultaneously laugh and melt.

He’s polite. Warm. Slightly reserved. But he doesn’t leave your side once, and when your hand accidentally brushes his under the table during dinner, he doesn’t pull away.

It’s only when you're both standing off to the side during a slow song, sipping champagne and laughing at the clumsy first-dance attempts on the floor, that he leans down, voice brushing your ear.

“You know,” he says, “I don’t think I’ve seen you stop smiling since we got here.”

You glance up at him, heart thudding. “Yeah? Is that a bad thing?”

He meets your eyes. “No. I think I’d like to be the reason behind it more often.”

He holds out his hand. “Come dance with me?”

And with your fingers in his, his suit pressed lightly to your side, his palm warm at your back, you finally stop waiting. Because this, him, was worth every slow, drawn-out second.

You don’t realize how naturally it happens. How easily you lean into him, how right it feels to have your hand resting lightly on his shoulder while his other hand holds your waist, not too tight, but firm.

“You’re not a bad dancer,” you murmur, the tease threading through your voice.

Seungcheol lets out a low laugh, eyes twinkling as he looks down at you. “I had to learn. It was either that or embarrass myself at corporate galas.”

You tilt your head, smirking. “So I’m your rehearsal?”

He leans in, just enough that you feel his breath along your cheek. “No,” he says softly. “You’re the reason I’m glad I learned.”

That shuts you up for a second—not because you don’t have a comeback, but because the way he says it—earnest, grounded—makes your heart stumble in your chest.

“I still haven’t kissed you,” he says quietly, almost like he’s reminding himself. “And you’ve been very patient.”

“Painfully patient,” you whisper back. He smiles, but it’s different this time. Not teasing. Just full of something so genuine it makes your stomach twist.

“But this moment,” he says, pulling you in just a little closer, “this right here… I didn’t want to rush it. You deserve the good kind of build-up.”

You swallow. “So… this is a build-up?”

“Isn’t it?” he murmurs. “Every time I pick you up. Every dinner. Every time you leave your things in my car on purpose.”

“I don’t—” You try to defend yourself, but he grins, cutting you off.

“I like it,” he admits. “I like all of it. Even the fact that your lip gloss has now permanently scented my dashboard.”

You laugh, cheeks warm. “You’re very sentimental for someone who pretends not to be.”

“And you’re very brave for someone who said they weren’t looking for anything serious,” he counters.

That gives you pause. Because he’s not wrong.

You didn’t plan for any of this. But then again, you didn’t plan on walking up to a stranger at a bar just to escape a persistent creep either. And now… now you’re dancing with that stranger at your friend’s wedding while the night curls around the two of you like it knew.

“I still don’t know what we are,” you say finally, your voice lower, honest.

Seungcheol’s thumb brushes your waist gently, like he feels the shift.

“You don’t have to name it,” he says. “Not yet.”

“But you already have,” you murmur, meeting his gaze.

He looks at you for a long second. “Only in my head.”

You smile. “What is it, then?”

His grip on you tightens ever so slightly.

“Mine.” he says.

Just like that the music slows to an end, but he doesn't let go. And when the moment feels just too full, too warm, too close. His hand lifts gently to your jaw. His thumb grazes your cheek. And this time, finally, he doesn’t kiss your shoulder.

He kisses you.

It’s soft at first. A gentle brush of lips that speaks less of fireworks and more of certainty like he’s been waiting for just the right moment.

You don’t even realize your hands have slipped up to his chest, anchoring yourself as his other arm wraps around your waist to keep you close. There’s no rush, no urgency. Just the quiet, unspoken truth of it sinking into your bones—that this kiss was a long time coming. T

When you part, barely an inch between you, your forehead lingers against his. Your heart beats like it’s trying to memorize the rhythm of his.

“Finally,” you whisper.

Seungcheol chuckles, low and husky, still close enough that his breath grazes your lips. “Was it worth the wait?”

You tilt your head just enough to press another soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I’ll let you know after the second one.”

He smiles like he can’t help it, like something warm is cracking open in his chest. “Greedy.”

“Very,” you reply without missing a beat.

You don’t even care that you’re standing in the middle of a wedding reception, that people are milling around behind you with cake and champagne and whispered guesses about who you are. None of that matters.

Because he’s still looking at you like you’re the only thing that does.

When you got to your building he offered to walk you up. Standing outside your door, your fingers are curled into the lapel of Seungcheol’s suit jacket, your mouth barely a breath away from his when the sound of someone clearing their throat slices right through the moment.

You both flinch, pulling apart like guilty teenagers caught sneaking out after curfew.

Your eyes widen. “Oh my god.”

Your mom stands there in front of your apartment door, arms crossed and one brow raised with terrifying precision, the classic mom look of I have questions and you better answer them properly.

She blinks slowly, then turns to Seungcheol with the kind of pointed interest that has your soul trying to escape your body.

“And who,” she says, sweetly, “might this be?”

You swallow. “Uh. Hi, Mom. What are you doing here?”

“I texted. You didn’t answer. So I thought I’d drop off some side dishes I made.” She holds up the container bag like evidence. “Good thing I came, it seems.”

You’re nearly sweating. Seungcheol, on the other hand, somehow still looks calm. Like he didn’t just almost get caught mid-doorstep make-out by your mother.

He straightens, then offers your mom a polite bow. “Good evening, ma’am. I’m Choi Seungcheol. I was just dropping her off after a wedding.”

Your mom gives him a long once-over, then side-eyes you. “A wedding? Interesting. And how long has this Choi Seungcheol been around?”

“Mom,” you groan, but Seungcheol beats you to it.

“Not very long,” he replies easily. “But I’m hoping to stick around a while.”

You gape at him.

Your mom narrows her eyes. “Is that right?”

“If she’ll let me.”

Your mom stares at him another beat. Then to your utter disbelief, she… smiles. “Hmm. Well. At least you’re polite.”

You’re still recovering when she presses the container into your hands. “These are for you. You too, I suppose, since you’re clearly being fed well.”

Seungcheol accepts them with a small bow and a quiet “thank you.”

Your mom gives him one last look, then leans in to whisper (not quietly at all), “She likes flowers. And she talks in her sleep.”

“Mom!”

She pats your cheek and strolls away like she didn’t just commit emotional homicide.

You turn to Seungcheol, mortified. “I’m so sorry. I can’t believe—”

But he’s already smiling. Like really smiling. “That was the best first ‘meet the parent’ ambush I’ve ever had.”

Seungcheol’s in his office early the next morning, already settled in behind his desk. His sleeves are rolled up, fingers tapping out a light rhythm on the edge of his desk as he hums a low, tuneless melody to himself.

He’s got that look on his face, the rare kind his staff sees maybe three times a year, a glint in his eyes like he just won the lottery and the stock market. Every so often, he pauses to check his phone, then smiles like someone just whispered a joke in his ear.

That’s exactly the energy Joshua and Jeonghan walk in on.

“Okay,” Jeonghan says slowly, not even trying to hide the suspicion in his voice. “Who are you and what have you done with our very serious, emotionally constipated CEO?”

Seungcheol doesn’t look up. “Good morning to you too.”

Joshua squints. “Is that... whistling? Are you—tapping your foot?”

Jeonghan drops into the seat across from him and kicks his legs up on the coffee table like he owns the place. “You’re smiling. Like smiling smiling. The last time you were this chipper was when we landed the Tokyo account and you got to yell at someone in perfect Japanese.”

Joshua leans against the wall. “No offense, man, but it’s kind of weirding me out. Is this like… a blood sugar thing? Are you okay?”

Seungcheol leans back in his chair, stretching with a soft groan and a big, satisfied sigh. “I’m great.”

“Yeah. We can tell.” Jeonghan raises a brow. “So go on. Tell the class. What happened”

Seungcheol doesn’t answer right away, just glances at his phone again with that same soft smile playing at his lips.

Jeonghan and Joshua exchange looks.

“Oh my god,” Jeonghan breathes, sitting up straighter. “It’s her, isn’t it? The bar girl. Your girl.”

Joshua’s eyes widen. “The one who literally drank Soonyoung under the table?”

“She’s not my girl, yet” Seungcheol says quickly—but his voice betrays him with the slightest upward lilt at the end, like even he doesn’t believe himself.

Jeonghan leans forward, both elbows on his knees. “So what happened last night? Because whatever it was, you’re acting like a man in love.”

“I am not in—” Seungcheol stops himself, mutters something under his breath, then groans as he runs a hand over his face. “You two are insufferable.”

“Did she finally kiss you?”

“Technically,” Seungcheol replies slowly, “I kissed her. But only after she asked for the third time.”

Jeonghan lets out a bark of laughter. “Took you long enough, Romeo.”

“It wasn’t about taking my time,” Seungcheol mumbles, and then lowers his voice, more to himself than to them. “I just… didn’t want to screw it up.”

There’s a beat of quiet.

Joshua softens. “You like her.”

Seungcheol doesn’t look up. “Yeah.”

Jeonghan’s watching him, a little differently now. Less teasing, more thoughtful. “It’s serious, isn’t it?”

“She asked me to be her plus-one to a wedding,” Seungcheol replies, then glances at them, almost shy. “And I met her mom.”

Joshua and Jeonghan practically explode.

“You what?”

Seungcheol winces. “It wasn’t planned—her mom showed up at her apartment with side dishes and caught us on the doorstep. Thought I was her boyfriend or something.”

Jeonghan is beside himself. “And you survived? No wounds? No emotional damage?”

“She liked me.”

“Okay, that’s it,” Joshua says. “We’re done for. He’s in too deep.”

“Send help,” Jeonghan deadpans, placing a hand over his heart. “Our friend is gone. Replaced by this domestic, well-fed, love-struck clone.”

“I’m not love-struck.”

“You’re literally glowing.”

Seungcheol shakes his head with a small chuckle. “Shut up.”

But he’s still smiling.

Seungcheol’s phone buzzes once, then again—your contact lighting up on the screen. His hand darts for the phone almost too eagerly, thumb swiping before the second ring finishes.

“Hey,” he answers, voice dropping into something soft and familiar, like the two of you are already alone in a room and not with Jeonghan and Joshua both watching like hawks from a few feet away.

You laugh softly on the other end. “Hi. Sorry, are you busy?”

“No,” he says without hesitation. “I’ve got time.”

Jeonghan mouths liar and Joshua smirks.

“So, I was gonna text, but my mom insisted I call. She’s making dinner tonight and… well, she asked if you’d like to come?”

His heart skips in a way he’s not used to—it’s not nerves exactly, more like… something warm curling in his chest. He stands slowly, pacing to the side of the office, back turned as if it’ll make the conversation any more private.

“You sure?” he asks, lowering his voice. “I don’t want to intrude.”

“You’re not,” you assure him. “She literally made enough for an army and said, and I quote, ‘tell that polite boy to come hungry.’”

He chuckles, unable to help himself. “Guess I can’t say no to that.”

“Seven okay?”

“Perfect.” He smiles again, stupid and wide and absolutely forgetting that he is not alone.

“I’ll see you tonight then.”

“Yeah,” he says, still in that soft tone only reserved for you. “Looking forward to it.”

The call ends. He stares at the screen for a second longer before pocketing his phone, already mentally rearranging the rest of his day.

Then he turns around.

Joshua is grinning like a fox. Jeonghan has both hands folded like he’s praying. “Okay. Let’s try that again. You’re not love-struck?”

Seungcheol sighs, running a hand through his hair, the soft grin on his lips refusing to fade. “She invited me to dinner. Her mom’s cooking.”

“Oh my god,” Jeonghan groans dramatically. “That’s domesticity. That’s serious.”

“You’re doomed,” Joshua chimes in cheerfully. “Next thing we know, you’ll be asking us to be groomsmen.”

“Shut up,”

You’re halfway through setting the table when the doorbell rings, and your mom, already at the stove with her sleeves rolled up, waves you off with a knowing smile. “He’s early. That one’s got good manners. Go let him in.”

You smooth down your shirt, trying not to look too eager, but your feet are already hurrying toward the door.

When you open it, Seungcheol is there dressed in that casually polished way that makes it look like he stepped off the cover of a weekend magazine. Button-up sleeves rolled just once, watch peeking out, hair slightly tousled like he ran his fingers through it before he knocked.

And in his hands?

Two bouquets.

You blink. “Are you trying to start a flower shop?”

He grins, lifting both arrangements slightly. “One’s for you.” He holds out the first—soft colors, delicate petals, your favorites, of course. “And the other’s for your mom.”

You take the bouquet, inhaling the sweet scent with a tiny smile before stepping aside. “She’s going to love that. You just earned, like, ten extra points.”

“I’m trying to rack them up,” he says lightly, stepping in and revealing the dessert box in his other hand. “Also, I may or may not have picked up your favorite. You know… just in case.”

You glance down and immediately light up. “You remembered?”

“Please,” he scoffs playfully. “You’ve only ranted about it, what, three times? Of course I remembered.”

You laugh as you lead him inside, his shoulder brushing yours in that easy, now-familiar way. Your mom peeks out from the kitchen, and her smile grows when she sees the extra bouquet.

“Oh, you charmer,” she says warmly, walking over to greet him. “Flowers again? You’re going to make all the other boys look bad.”

Seungcheol offers her the bouquet with both hands and a small bow. “I figured last time I came empty-handed, so I had to make up for it.”

Dinner’s warm and loud, your mom doing most of the talking while Seungcheol listens, chimes in with small jokes, and praises her cooking so sincerely she beams every time he opens his mouth. He’s relaxed here, blending in like he’s done it a hundred times, and somehow that’s the part that gets you.

Later, after helping clean up and exchanging stories with your mom, the two of you step out into the cool night air.

He walks beside you in silence for a moment, then glances over. “So... still thinking about replacing me with someone from a crime documentary?”

You laugh. “I don’t know. That guy probably wouldn’t have brought dessert and flowers.”

He nudges you gently. “Damn right.”

You turn to him, slowing a little on the steps outside your building. “Thanks for coming tonight.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it.”

And there’s that pause again—that loaded, quiet moment. You can feel it, humming between you. All the things unsaid but understood. No labels, no big declarations. Just gestures and quiet moments and the space he fills beside you like he’s always belonged there.

You lean in and kiss his cheek. He’s already smiling before your lips brush his skin.

“Don’t make me wait forever, Mr. CEO.”

He grins, eyes flicking to yours. “Patience, pretty girl. I’ve got a plan.”

And somehow, you believe him.

The moment you step back inside, your mom's perched on the couch like she never moved. She's got a cup of tea in hand and a look on her face that immediately makes you nervous—too calm, too unreadable, which only ever means she’s up to something.

Seungcheol follows behind you, quietly helping carry the dessert box into the kitchen, but before either of you can pretend the evening is winding down smoothly, your mom speaks up—tone light, but very deliberate.

“So…” she starts, gaze sliding over to Seungcheol like she’s just making small talk, “are you gonna marry my girl, or what?”

You nearly choke on air. “Mom!”

“What?” she shrugs, totally unbothered. “You’re both at the right age. You like each other. He’s handsome, polite, he brings flowers and dessert. I don’t want to wait another five years for grandchildren.”

“Oh my god—” you groan, half-burying your face in your hands.

But Seungcheol? Not flustered. Not even close. In fact, the traitorous man has the audacity to smile. A slow, confident one that only makes your embarrassment worse.

“Well,” he says, glancing at you before looking back at your mom, “if she keeps letting me stick around, who knows?”

Your mom raises a brow, then nods approvingly. “Good answer. You’re growing on me more and more, you know that?”

Seungcheol laughs, and you’re halfway to combusting. “Okay! Time to say goodnight, this interrogation is over,” you declare, grabbing his wrist and tugging him toward the door.

“Bye, Mom,” you grumble over your shoulder.

Your mom just waves, clearly pleased with herself. “Bye, future son-in-law!”

Seungcheol chuckles under his breath all the way down the hall. When the elevator doors close, he glances at you, amused. “So… how long do I have before she starts dress shopping?”

You glare up at him, still pink in the face. “Don’t you dare encourage her.”

“Too late.” He leans a little closer. “But if it helps…” His voice dips, teasing. “I am starting to like the sound of it.”

The elevator hums quietly as it takes you both downstairs, your hand tucked into Seungcheol’s without thinking. You walk him out to his car, the evening air crisp and still, soft with city quiet. He unlocks the door, but neither of you moves just yet.

“I’m just warning you,” you say, voice teasing, glancing up at him through your lashes. “Next time you come over, she’s not going to be asking if you’re marrying me.”

“No?”

You shake your head, grinning. “Nope. She’s skipping right ahead to asking when you’re giving her a grandchild.”

He chuckles low in his throat, eyes twinkling. “That so?”

“I can see it already,” you continue dramatically, “She’ll be standing in the kitchen, apron on, casually stirring soup while dropping 'So when’s the baby due?' like it’s small talk.”

Seungcheol leans against the car, folding his arms, that amused smile never leaving his face. “Well… we have kissed now,” he says, playful but soft. “I guess that means I should be prepared for her to start knitting booties.”

You swat his arm, trying not to laugh. “You’re too comfortable with this.”

“I’m comfortable with you,” he replies easily, gaze settling on you in that way that makes your heart skip and stumble all at once.

Seungcheol shifts closer, one hand brushing your hip before resting there, gentle but sure. “And hey,” he says, voice low, “about that kiss…”

Your breath hitches, and before you can even answer, he dips his head and brushes his lips against yours—slow and deliberate, nothing rushed, like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth all over again.

He pulls back only slightly, close enough that his nose still brushes yours. “Still got more where that came from.”

You manage a breathless laugh, fingers curling in the front of his shirt. “Dangerous man.”

He grins. “Only for you.”

When he finally slides into the driver’s seat, you linger by the open door. “Text me when you get home.”

He reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Of course I will.”

You step back, watching as he pulls out of the lot, his hand lifting briefly in a lazy wave. And as you head back to your apartment, you already know: your mom’s going to be impossible next time.

You barely make it three steps into your apartment before your mom, still lounging in the living room like she owns the place (she kind of does, considering she brought over food and stayed uninvited), looks up from her tea and levels you with that look.

Not smug. Not surprised. Just deeply, motherly knowing.

“Oh,” she says, setting her cup down with an audible clink. “I see what this is.”

“What’s what?” you ask, walking past her, pretending to be busy as you head toward the kitchen.

But she doesn’t let you off that easy. She turns in her seat and calls out—voice just a touch singsongy.

“You love the guy.”

“What?” You laugh, unconvincing. “I don’t—what? That’s a lot, don’t you think?”

She stands, follows you to the kitchen like a shark who smells blood—or in this case, feelings.

“I’ve been watching you all day. You were smiling at your phone like a teenager,” she says, opening the fridge like she owns that too. “And when he came over? You lit up like someone plugged you in.”

You open a cabinet just to have something to do with your hands. “He’s just… nice.”

“Oh, no. Not just nice. He’s thoughtful. Respectful. Tall. Brings flowers. Carries dessert. Helped you move furniture. That man looked at you like you’re the only person on the planet.” She shuts the fridge.

“And you my sweet girl, you looked right back like he hung the moon.”

You groan, leaning against the counter. “You really don’t pull punches, huh?”

She smiles, proud. “I’m your mother. It’s my job to see through the nonsense.”

The smile that crept onto your face when Seungcheol kissed you tonight is still there. You feel it even now, this warmth that’s settled behind your ribs. It’s soft and terrifying and real.

And when you look back up, your mom’s just watching you with that soft expression, the one that says she’s been waiting for this kind of happiness to find you.

You sigh, eyes rolling, voice barely above a murmur. “Fine. I like him.”

She raises a brow.

“Okay,” you grumble. “I really like him.”

Her smile widens as she turns back toward the living room. “Took you long enough.”

The phone barely rings once before he picks up, voice warm and low like honey over gravel.

“Hey, baby.”

You swear your brain short-circuits for a second. The word hits you with a quiet thud right in the chest, catching you off guard even though you should be used to it by now.

“Hi,” you say, a beat late, already smiling into the receiver. “Okay, I forgot what I was gonna say for a second.”

There’s a soft laugh on his end, the kind that rumbles just under his breath. “That’s a good sign.”

You roll your eyes, cheeks warm. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Too late.”

You lean against the kitchen counter, heart still doing that embarrassing little flutter. “I was just calling to see if you were gonna be busy later… I was planning to cook dinner.”

He goes quiet for half a second. Not because he’s hesitating—just because you know he’s already rearranging his whole evening in his head.

“Do I get to watch you cook?” he asks, voice lighter now, teasing.

You smirk. “That depends. Are you just gonna stand there looking pretty and touching nothing?”

“Depends. Can I taste-test?”

You scoff. “You’re just in it for the food.”

“Not true,” he says, soft again now, “but it is a very nice bonus.”

You pretend to sigh. “So… does that mean you’re coming?”

“I’ll be there,” he says without skipping a beat. “Tell me what time and I’ll bring wine.”

The ease of it makes your chest feel full, like the kind of full that wraps around your ribs and stays there.

The knock on your door is right on time—because of course it is. You’re still smoothing down your shirt when you open it, and there he is.

Wine in one hand. Flowers in the other. And that stupid smile on his face that already has you forgetting whatever it was you were about to say.

“Hi,” you breathe, just a little breathless at the sight of him. He’s in a casual button-down, sleeves rolled, hair a little messy like he ran his hands through it on the drive over. He looks good. Too good.

“For you,” he says, lifting the bouquet

“You really don’t have to keep bringing these every time, you know.”

“I know,” he says easily, already slipping out of his shoes and placing the wine on your counter. “But I like watching you smile when I do.”

You open your mouth to come up with a witty response, but it never makes it out. Because he’s suddenly in your space arms curling around your waist as he presses a kiss to the side of your head.

Clingy. He’s so clingy tonight. And you love it.

“You okay?” you murmur, hugging him back.

“Just missed you,” he replies against your hair, like it’s that simple.

“You’re really not gonna let me cook, are you?” you ask, laughing as you try to wiggle out of his grasp.

“Nope.” He grins, chin resting on your shoulder. “This is a hostage situation now.”

“You’re clingy.”

“You love it.”

You glance at him over your shoulder. “I do.”

That earns you a kiss to the cheek. Then the temple. Then your neck. He’s shameless tonight. Unapologetically soft.

You try to cut up onions, but his arms stay wrapped around you the entire time, body warm at your back, like he can’t stand to be even an inch away. By the time dinner’s ready, he’s seated too close at the table, knees brushing yours under it, foot tapping against your ankle.

And when you pass him a bowl, he doesn’t let go of your hand right away. Just holds it for a second longer, thumb brushing your wrist.

“I could get used to this,” he says softly.

You smile, eyes locked with his.

He’s standing at your sink, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, strong hands buried in soapy water. Your purple apron is tied securely around his waist. your apron, the one with little hearts embroidered along the hem and a faint stain from that time you spilled sauce and never quite got it out.

You’re halfway through wiping down the counter when you glance up and pause, arms frozen mid-motion. Because this scene in front of you is almost too much.

Choi Seungcheol, your moody, broody, suit-wearing, don’t-mess-with-me CEO, is currently humming under his breath while washing your dinner plates in a heart-covered apron like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You wrap your arms around his middle from behind, chin pressed against the back of his shoulder. He pauses.

Then smiles, water still running as he leans back just slightly into your hold. “You done cleaning?”

“Mostly,” you hum. “I just needed a break to admire this sight.”

He chuckles, voice low, the sound vibrating through his back and into your chest. “What sight?”

“You. Domestic. In my kitchen. In my apron.”

“You mean your very fashionable, extremely purple apron?” he says, glancing down at it with mock seriousness.

“Mhm. It suits you.”

“Does it?”

“Yeah,” you say, drawing out the tease. “You look like the type of man who says things like ‘dinner’s ready, honey’ and then washes the dishes without being asked.”

“If you wanted to brag to someone, you could’ve just taken a picture.”

It’s a little surreal, stepping into the bar again after all these months.

The lighting’s still dim, the music low and pulsing in the background, familiar laughter echoing from the same corner booth the guys always seem to claim. Only this time, there’s no desperate escape from a stranger’s attention, no half-baked plan to use the intimidating guy in the corner to save yourself.

This time, you’re walking in hand-in-hand with him.

Seungcheol is dressed down, a fitted black tee and jeans that still somehow manage to make him look unfairly good. His hand is warm in yours, thumb drawing absent little circles on the back of your palm as he greets the guys already mid-round of drinks.

Jeonghan spots you first, grinning like he’s been waiting. “There they are! The king and queen have arrived.”

You roll your eyes. Seungcheol just chuckles, guiding you into the booth beside him. His arm slides across the back of your seat, casual and easy, but his fingers find your shoulder and rest there, grounding you like always.

It’s comfortable—normal, now.

You catch Joshua glancing between you two, a little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Kind of wild to think it all started here, huh?”

You raise a brow. “What, the bar?”

“The act,” he teases, nodding toward Seungcheol. “Captain Broody pretending to be your boyfriend.”

“Oh,” you laugh, nudging Seungcheol playfully. “Right. That little performance.”

“Wasn’t much of an act,” he mutters, just quiet enough for only you to hear.

You turn your head, surprised—and he’s already looking at you, eyes dark and soft under the warm glow of the bar lights. You swear you feel it in your stomach, that little flutter you still haven’t quite gotten used to.

He leans in closer, voice a little rougher. “What? Don’t tell me you forgot.”

You arch a brow, teasing. “Forgot what?”

“That you strut your way right up to me. All wide-eyed and bold like I wasn’t five seconds from leaving.”

“Oh please,” you grin. “You loved it.”

His smile widens. “Still do.”

The music dips into something slower, something smoother. Around you, the bar hums with noise, glasses clinking, someone laughing too loudly near the bar. But in this moment it’s just you and him.

He tugs you gently, pulling you into his side until you’re almost in his lap. You go easily, leaning into him, resting a hand on his chest.

“So,” you say with a smile, tilting your head up, “is this the part where you tell me you’re no longer my pretend boyfriend?”

He pauses like he’s considering it, then leans in until his lips are barely a breath away from yours. “Mm... maybe.”

You lift a brow. “Maybe?”

He kisses you then, slow and sure, like there’s nothing pretend about it.

Like there never was.

His hand comes up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as he pulls away just slightly, lips still grazing yours.

“I’m not your pretend anything,” he whispers. “Haven’t been for a long time.”

You smile, cheeks warm, fingers curling into the front of his shirt.

“Well good,” you say, heart fluttering, “because I’m pretty sure my mom already considers you family.”

He laughs, the sound low and unguarded, and kisses you again—just because he can. And you kiss him back—because it’s him.

And because this time, there’s no act, no games.

Just the two of you—right where it all began.

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khyrrn-v2 · 15 hours ago

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Was doing fractions in second or third and we had to do that greater than less than shit. In first grade my teacher taught me to just multiply the bottom number of one with the top number of the other. Whichever had the larger number was the greater sum.

Fast forward to third grade and im breezing through the problems. I have my handy dandy equation and am using it like theres no tomorrow.

I turn my work in and the teacher tells me I did it wrong. I’m confused bc I double checked my work and everything. She tells me I didn’t set the bottom numbers to the same value, so I couldn’t possibly know the solution. I tell her this is what my old teacher taught me, and it has never failed. She says it’s not a verifiable equation.

It hasn’t been proven, so I have to use the workbook equation with four extra steps. I’m still pissed at that, because it was a mathematical equation that was factually proven correct because… it’s an equation. It only had one right answer. And if you get the same results every single time, that’s proof that the equation is correct.

I still get pissy when I think about it.

when i was a kid i got a 90% on my kindergarten "what are your favorite things?" test because for the question "what is your favorite animal?" i wrote down "puma" and it got marked wrong because my teacher said a puma isnt even an animal its a kind of shoe

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rebelfell · 3 days ago

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Enjoy your appointment with Steve, @keeryhours We hope it’s all you want it to be and more…

18+, MDNI┃1k

cw: penetrative sex, light possessiveness, reader implied to be of lower social status, king steve reigns supreme

The sound of skin slapping on skin rapidly filled the tight space, bouncing off of the piled up patio furniture and loungers that had been moved into the Harrington’s pool house a few weeks prior as the season changed and temperatures dropped. Blazing summer heat replaced by a frigid fall.

It made your ongoing dalliances with Steve more cluttered, but no less frequent.

His hands dug hard into your soft hips, pulling you back to meet each of his thrusts and push himself deeper inside of you with every relentless stroke. Your breath punched out of your chest in gasps, hands curling tighter around the back of the rattan couch he had you bent over.

Everything was dark and shadowy with only scant traces of moonlight to illuminate the edges of your sweat-slicked bodies, and it hit you that you’d never seen this place with the lights on.

“Oh, fuck, you feel so good,” he groans over you, raspy and ragged. “You’re close aren’t you? I feel you squeezin’ me—y’ gonna cum for me?”

“Ye-essss,” you moan. Wishing it wasn’t so true, that it wasn’t so easy for him to get you like this.

He hauls you up abruptly, wrapping an arm around your front and pinning you against him. The dense patch of hair in the middle of his chest rubs against your shoulder blades as he slows his thrusts, making you feel every inch of him. You choke and sputter, like he’s in your throat.

He tucks his chin over your shoulder and presses his face into your neck, his hot breath rushing over the sensitive skin behind your ear and making you shudder in his tight grasp.

The second—the moment, the instant—he feels you starting to unravel, he grins into your hairline and thrusts up into you one final time. Buried to the hilt, he stills his hips to feel every convulsion of your body. Tightening and pulsing, squeezing and spasming—your limbs literally shaking from the effort it takes not to go limp in his arms. And you’re only half-sure you haven’t already.

“That’s it, you did so good,” he murmurs as you come down, your brain too mushy to reply.

As abruptly as he hauled you up, he lets you fall forward. You hang there, draped over the back of the couch and try to crane your head around to look at Steve. His length slides out of you and it takes only a few pumps of his fist over his cock before he’s erupting, painting the pair of round globes before him with shiny streaks of milky spend that glint as they catch the moonlight.

He groans long and low as he comes, his eyes scrunching shut and his head falling back as his face contorts into a twisted grimace of pleasure. His head lolls and his chest heaves as he catches his breath, now gazing down in awed silence.

“What if I sent you out there just like this,” he hums as he grips one side of your ass, spreads his fingers as wide as he can to hold as much of you as possible, smears his own cum over your skin. “Show ‘em all who you belong to…”

Nerves ripple down your spine, your shoulders tightening at the thought he’s put into your head:

You walking through the party currently raging inside his house with him splattered all over your backside; every pair of eyes in the room following you, whispering and wondering how you could have managed to snag the Steve Harrington—even if only for a single night.

It would probably be only a fraction of the shock they’d feel finding out that this had been going on for months now; that he had painted your ass and stomach and tits and face like a Jackson Pollock too many times to count; that the stray mottled marks on his neck everyone assumed were put there by some cheerleader or a similar such admirer had been made by you.

Then again, they would more than likely assume something closer to the truth—that you were an anomaly. An outlier. A temporary lapse in judgement, soon to be forgotten.

“Can you, um,” you swallowed dryly, “is there a towel in here?”

If Steve notices the shift in your demeanor, he doesn’t vocalize it. He jerks up his jeans, tucking himself back into his briefs before grabbing a roll of paper towels. He tears one off and swipes away his spend, crumpling it up in his fist when he finishes. You stand and let your skirt drop.

The room feels especially quiet now, the distant sounds of the real world slowly leaking in.

“So, I’ll…I’ll see you out there?” he asks, head tipping to the side trying to get you to look at him.

By now your eyes have adjusted enough that you can make out his expression. His brow raised, his eyes rounded slightly with concern, his plush lips parted like he wants to say more.

You glance out the french doors, up at the brightly lit house and the shapeless mass of people inside. The party is really picking up, but you won’t be staying long enough to see.

It was strange enough for someone of your lowly status to even attend one of King Steve’s parties, let alone to overstay your welcome. The more the keg drained, the more people like Tommy and Carol would zero in on you like heat-seeking missiles, growing less tolerant of undesirables encroaching on their space with every drink.

“Sure,” you say, barely believing your own lie. “You go first, I’ll wait a few minutes.”

Steve nods once, raking his long fingers through roughly tousled hair. He goes to leave, his hand wrapping around the doorknob but not pulling it. With a quiet huff, he whirls around and strides back over to you. The way his hands cradle your face is oddly tender for how decidedly he kisses you, for how hard he presses his lips to yours.

And it’s a good kiss, much like it always is—but this time it feels like a little something more.

It feels like he’s saying sorry.

Thank you so much for visiting the spa, we hope your services were satisfactory 🌿

#steve harrington #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington smut #steve harrington angst #steve harrington blurb #steve stranger things #stranger things steve

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wosospacegirl · 2 days ago

Text

And they were roommates - part 13

Summary: Y/n gets injured and has to stay in recovery for 8 months. It's a good thing her friend and teammate, Kyra, is more than willing to move in with her. wink wink

Warnings: (+18) SMUT. face sitting, scissoring, fingering (r giving everything)– the holy trinity. Plus Y/n's first step and run, ugly matching socks, and Leah being annoying as usual.

Word count: 8k

a/n: this is a scheduled post, I'm working.

Masterlis

It took Y/n a few days to open up about her fear.

It was a sunny afternoon, and Kyra had come back from training. Y/n didn’t go that day, no reason to go to physio if your exercise involved walking and you were too scared to walk.

Kyra opened the door, took off her shoes and threw her keys onto the counter and went to the sofa, where Y/n was lying. Kyra joined her, sitting close enough that their shoulders brushed.

For a long while, neither spoke. Y/n stared straight ahead at the TV, just like the past few days, her gaze unfocused, lost in a world of her own thoughts.

Finally, almost too quietly to be heard, Y/n muttered, “I’m scared it’ll break again.”

Kyra turned her head slowly, at first surprised to hear Y/n’s voice, but then her heart ached at the vulnerability in Y/n’s voice.

She didn’t say anything right away; she didn’t need to. Instead, she reached out, resting her hand gently on Y/n’s leg, offering silent comfort.

Y/n’s jaw clenched, and she blinked rapidly, her breath catching in her throat. She didn’t cry–at least not in the way most people would expect–but there was something raw in her voice when she added.

“I know it’s dumb. I just... I keep thinking if I try to walk and something goes wrong…that’s it.”

Kyra’s voice was gentle when she spoke, her hand still resting on Y/n’s leg.

“It’s not dumb.” She nudged a little closer, her knee brushing against Y/n’s, her voice was soothing.

“You’ve been through a lot, but you’ve done everything right, you had surgery, physio, medication–there’s no reason for it to break again.

Y/n nodded, the weight on her shoulders lightening just a fraction.

She stayed still, letting Kyra’s touch and words sink in. The tension wasn’t gone, but it felt easier to breathe, to lean into the warmth Kyra offered.

Kyra exhaled through her nose and gave her a gentle squeeze, her voice firm but filled with warmth.

“But when you’re ready, really ready, you’ll take that step. No rush, okay?”

Y/n nodded once, feeling more at ease, but not completely.

It would take time. And that was okay. They didn’t have to rush at this moment.

Kyra could tell that something had shifted, just the smallest bit.

Y/n wasn’t the scared cat she used to be when it came to these moments. She wasn’t pushing away or retreating.

She was leaning in, allowing Kyra to be a place of comfort.

The silence between them stretched on, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It felt like a quiet space for healing.

They just leaned into the sofa, the proximity between them a silent reminder that they were in this together.

Kyra rested her head on Y/n’s shoulder, rubbing small, soothing circles on her arm. The weight of Y/n’s confession hung in the air, fragile and real.

After a moment, Kyra pressed a soft kiss to Y/n’s temple, her lips lingering there for just a second longer than necessary.

Y/n shifted a little, pressing her cheek into Kyra’s shoulder. “You know what would make me feel better?”

Kyra perked up, a playful glint entering her eyes. “Oh my god. Pizza?”

Y/n blinked, looking at her with an almost shocked expression. “No?”

“Okay, okay...tacos?” Kyra tried again.

“No,” Y/n answered slowly, fighting the small smile creeping onto her lips. “Stop guessing. I’m trying to be sexy right now.”

Kyra blinked, then let out a breathless laugh. “Oh,” she said, her voice soft and amused.

Y/n grinned and shifted, crawling into Kyra’s lap. Her hands found their way to Kyra’s waist, fingers brushing across the fabric of her shirt.

“Yeah,” she murmured, her lips brushing just barely against Kyra’s as she leaned in closer. “Unless you would prefer pizza…”

Kyra smirked, already pulling her closer, their mouths meeting in a slow, heated kiss.

It was soft at first, exploring, but something flickered in the air, a shift that made the kiss deepen, more urgent, as Y/n’s hands slid beneath Kyra’s shirt.

Y/n took her time, no rush, savouring the sensation of Kyra’s body beneath her hands, enjoying the way Kyra responded to her touch.

Her hands quickly were on Kyra’s tits, cupping them as her thumb caressed the skin just below her breasts.

Her mouth moved from Kyra’s lips to her jaw, then lower, tracing a path down her throat.

Every little touch was intentional, drawing out the moment, making Kyra gasp, her hands tangling in Y/n’s hair, nails scraping gently against her scalp.

“Love,” Kyra breathed, voice trembling, “you’re teasing”

Y/n smiled against her skin, the teasing tone in her voice never faltering. “Just…let me enjoy you.”

And Kyra didn’t need to answer.

She didn’t have to, because the way her body responded told Y/n everything she needed to know.

When Y/n finally pulled back, her breath shallow and her cheeks flushed, she gave Kyra a wicked grin, her eyes dark with desire.

She moved back onto the sofa, sitting up, and then lying down on top of a cushion.

“Sit on my face,” Y/n says casually, as if she were asking for a glass of water.

Kyra blinked.

“Excuse me?”

“I said, sit–” Y/n licked her lips, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “--on my face.”

Kyra’s mouth opened and then closed, her breath catching in her throat. “You’re still technically recovering–”

“My mouth works fine”. Y/n raised an eyebrow, her voice low, dripping with confidence. “I thought you would know that by now.”

The weight of the request made Kyra’s legs feel like jelly, but her body was already reacting to the heat between them.

She wasn’t exactly shy with Y/n, no, they were past that point, but this felt different.

This was vulnerable in a way she hadn’t expected. It wasn’t just physical. It was intimate in a way that made her feel exposed. Especially because she didn’t have much experience with it.

Kyra hesitated, her face flushing slightly as she glanced down at Y/n.

“I’ve, um… never done this before,” she admitted, voice quiet. “You know… sat on someone’s face.”

Y/n smiled softly. “I know, baby,” she said, voice low and tender, her hands smoothing over Kyra’s thighs.

“You’ve told me. But I’m here, okay? We’ll take it slow.” She gave her a reassuring squeeze.

Kyra was silent, looking down.

She wanted to. Bloody hell, she needed it, but it was like the fear of messing it up, of not doing it right, was stronger.

“Kyra,” she murmured, her voice soft, “it’s okay. I’ve got you. You can trust me. Just… come here.”

Y/n held onto Kyra’s hips, making the girl hover over them. Y/n kissed her, very lazily, trying to show her she could relax, let go.

Y/n stopped the kiss, her hands were on Kyra's jaw, holding her in place so she could look at her.

“It’s just me and you–we can experience things together, yeah?”

That simple reassurance, warm and grounding, made Kyra’s heart flutter.

She nodded slowly.

“Good, baby,” Y/n said gently. Her voice didn’t have an ounce of teasing, just patience, tenderness. “Why don’t you take your clothes off for me?”

Kyra blushed, but nodded again. “My underwear too?”

“Yes, love.”

Kyra tried to ignore Y/n’s lingering gaze as she undressed completely.

She stood in front of Y/n, hands playing with her own fingers.

“Now, you sit,” Y/n said, putting her head straight.

“O-okay.”

Kyra took one step closer to Y/n, and then she placed both her legs on either side of Y/n’s body. Y/n held her hips and helped Kyra lower herself, so she was straddling Y/n’s head.

Kyra hovered for a moment, uncertainty still lingering in her mind, but something in the way Y/n looked up at her, so sure, made it all feel right.

Y/n grinned. “You can sit.”

“What if I crush you?”

“I promise you won’t crush me.”

Kyra’s breath hitched, a nervous laugh slipping from her lips. “You sure?”

Y/n’s gaze was intense, but her voice was steady and soft. “I’m so sure.”

And with that, Kyra finally gave in, lowering herself fully onto Y/n.

The shift in weight was subtle, her breath hitching as Y/n’s warm hands immediately found her thighs, fingers gripping firmly, grounding her.

Y/n’s mouth hovered over Kyra’s cunt, kissing it gently, her breath hot against her sensitive skin.

The moment felt like a delicate dance, a mix of vulnerability and desire. Slow, steady, and maddening, as Y/n pressed her lips to the soft skin of Kyra’s inner thigh, the touch was light but still deliberate.

Kyra’s breath faltered, her body trembling just slightly, her legs instinctively tightening around Y/n as the girl finally found her clit, sucking it slowly, teasing.

“T-this is so good–” Kyra whispered, voice thick with surprise and need as she moved her hips against Y/n’s mouth, rubbing her cunt against her face. “Baby–”

Y/n smiled against her skin, a slow, teasing grin, her mouth tracing a tender path up Kyra’s leg. But she didn’t say anything.

She could’t, she had a whole meal right in front of her face.

Her hands moved in lazy, intricate patterns, tracing the curve of Kyra’s thigh, fingertips brushing the soft, warm skin as she licked at Kyra’s hole.

“Yeah? Feels nice?” Y/n murmured, voice low, her breath mingling with the heat of the moment.

The question hung in the air, full of both challenge and tenderness, as she waited for Kyra’s response. She didn’t do anything until she got a reaction from Kyra.

The girl finally nodded, her breath catching in her throat as Y/n’s mouth continued its slow, deliberate journey.

Every movement was careful, teasing, and Kyra felt herself melting under the pressure of it. The heat of Y/n’s lips, the gentle pressure of her hands guiding her.

As Y/n’s mouth moved higher, then lower again, she could feel her body reacting, every sensitive spot igniting under Y/n’s touch. Her clit, her hole–everywhere.

Y/n knew how to touch her, how to please her in any position possible.

Kyra found herself gasping, her legs trembling beneath the steady rhythm.

“Baby,” Kyra breathed, her voice thick with desire, as Y/n’s lips brushed against her again. “You’re really–fuck–good at this.”

Y/n’s answer was only in the continued pressure of her mouth, slowly, in a way that made Kyra’s head spin.

There was no rush, just the steady building tension as Y/n expertly navigated every inch of her, knowing just how to push her, how to pull her in deeper with each touch.

Her hands, firm but gentle.

Kyra felt herself surrendering completely, her body trembling with anticipation, with need, and Y/n was right there, never once faltering, her tongue was warm and wet, working in and out of Kyra’s cunt.

And then, when Kyra couldn’t take it any longer, her body shook with the release, a broken sound escaping her lips before she could stop it.

The waves of sensation hit her all at once, a rush of heat and pressure, and she let herself go, her hands gripping the back of the sofa, her whole body trembling beneath Y/n’s touch.

Y/n didn’t stop. She didn’t pull away. She held her, guiding her through it with soft, steady kisses.

Her mouth was gentle, slow, her hands never leaving Kyra’s skin as the tension slowly melted away.

Kyra’s chest heaved with every breath, her body still shuddering, but Y/n was there, right there with her, making sure she felt every moment, every breath, as she settled back into the softness of the moment.

Y/n helped Kyra’s body off of when the girl went limp, bringing her head to her chest as Kyra lay on top of Y/n’s body.

Y/n’s kisses were like a balm, soothing, comforting, as she let Kyra’s body relax into the post-orgasmic haze.

She kissed her temple, her cheek, her lips, slow and easy, just letting her breathe.

The silence that followed was filled with only the sound of their breathing.

Kyra’s body finally stilled, and Y/n gave her a little more time, never rushing, just holding her close, letting her come back to herself.

As Kyra slumped forward, breathless and spent, Y/n ran her fingers gently up and down her thighs, her touch soothing and slow.

Her lips pressed soft kisses to Kyra’s shoulder, a lingering, affectionate gesture that spoke volumes more than words could.

Kyra melted further into her, her breath coming in short, staggered gasps, and Y/n couldn’t help but smile, savouring the feeling of having her so completely.

“So,” Y/n said after a long stretch of comfortable silence, her voice thick with satisfaction, low and warm, “first-time thoughts?”

Kyra let out a stunned, breathless laugh, her whole body still trying to come down from the rush.

“Why the fuck did I wait so long to do that?” she asked, her voice shaking with both disbelief and a lingering haze of pleasure.

Y/n grinned, her lips curling into a smug smile.

“I’ve been wondering the same thing,” she teased, her tone playful but undeniably proud.

She didn’t move from where she had her hands resting on Kyra, keeping her close, not wanting to break the moment just yet.

Kyra, still wrapped in the haze of the experience, shifted slightly to press her face against Y/n’s chest, her arms winding around Y/n’s waist as if holding on to the aftereffects.

The warmth between them was suffocatingly perfect, the quiet comfort of the room surrounding them like a soft cocoon.

Footy, blissfully unaware of the intensity of the moment, walked into the room and curled up on the couch in his usual spot, his soft purring filling the space like the calm rhythm of a lullaby.

Y/n looked down at Kyra, her smile softening as she ran a hand gently through Kyra’s tangled hair.

They stayed like that for a while, just existing in the shared silence, both of them feeling the slow return of normality after the rush.

After a while, Y/n broke the silence, letting out a dramatic, exaggerated sigh.

“Okay,” she said with a pout. “I’ve earned pizza now.”

Kyra snorted against her, not lifting her head from Y/n’s chest, still too comfortable to make any effort to move.

“You earned a trophy,” she teased, her voice muffled but light-hearted.

Y/n let out a fake gasp of indignation, pulling Kyra a little closer into her embrace, her voice sweet but playful.

“I’d like both,” she said, her tone feigning sweetness as she ran her hands gently up Kyra’s back, her fingertips grazing the skin there.

“Pizza and a trophy. Please. I’ve been working hard, you know.”

Kyra shifted slightly, looking up at Y/n with a playful smile of her own.

“I’m sure the pizza will do just fine,” she replied, but there was a glint in her eyes, a teasing spark that matched Y/n’s.

Kyra groaned but reached for her phone. “Do you want the same order, or are you going to ruin everything with pineapple?”

“I want the same,” Y/n said with a mischievous smile. “And maybe another round later. You know, for recovery.”

Kyra’s eyes narrowed with feigned suspicion, but the playful glint in them betrayed her.

“For recovery, huh? Are you sure you’re not just a little greedy?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

Y/n’s grin turned wicked, and she leaned down to brush her lips across Kyra’s again, just a fleeting touch that sent a jolt through her.

“Maybe,” she murmured, “but I’m definitely worth it.”

Kyra let out a soft laugh, her head falling back against the couch as she closed her eyes, savouring the peace of the moment.

“You’re ridiculous,” she said, her voice muffled but affectionate.

The quiet hum of the physio room was almost suffocating as Y/n stared down at her braced leg, the weight of it all pressing against her chest.

She had promised herself she would take just one step. It didn’t have to be a full stride, didn’t have to be graceful.

Just one.

But her heart pounded, anxiety gnawing at the edges of her resolve. If she could take that one step, maybe–just maybe–she could silence the fear that had been plaguing her since the injury.

Her body was screaming for her not to try, and her mind kept telling her it was too soon.

It wasn’t even about walking. It was about the fear–the fear of breaking something, of falling, of losing control again. To have to restart her recovery all over again.

She had told herself she wouldn’t cry, but the rawness of it all felt too much. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t.

“Come on, Y/n!” Leah’s voice broke through the silence, chipper as ever. “Go on! I’ve pressed record like five times already!”

Y/n’s head snapped up to glare at her, eyebrows knitted in frustration.

“Leah, I didn’t ask you to record it,” she said, her voice low, tinged with irritation.

Leah didn’t seem fazed by her tone.

Instead, she was standing there, phone in hand, ready to capture the moment.

She wiggled her eyebrows playfully. “Yeah, but I'm gonna do it anyway. This is important.”

Kyra, who was sitting beside Leah, shot her a look before turning her attention to Y/n.

“I asked her to,” she said, rolling her eyes dramatically. “And I told her to record it because it was important.”

Y/n couldn’t help but let out a frustrated sigh, her hands tightening around the edge of the physio table.

“This is ridiculous,” she muttered under her breath, but before she could say anything else, a familiar, calming presence appeared in the room.

Alessia casually draped her arms around Leah’s shoulders, her lips curling into a soft, reassuring smile.

“It’s okay, Y/n,” she said gently, her voice a steady comfort, “You can take one step. Just one. Go on.”

Y/n hesitated, her heart thudding in her chest. The room felt like it was closing in around her, the weight of everyone’s eyes on her.

But Alessia’s words, her warmth, made something shift inside Y/n. Slowly, she lifted her foot, taking a small, tentative step forward.

It was shaky, but it was a step.

She looked up at the others, eyes wide, a small, almost invisible smile forming on her lips.

“Okay”, Y/n breathed. “One step.”

Leah, still holding her phone, looked genuinely impressed. “See? Told you. You’re gonna crush it, Y/n.”

Alessia, standing just behind her, leaned in and whispered with a mischievous grin, “Baby, maybe don’t say the word crush next to her right now.”

Y/n shot Alessia a quick, deadpan look. “I swear, if any of you bring up that word one more time…”

Kyra couldn’t help but laugh. “It’s okay, love, your bones are still safe.”

Y/n let out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding, feeling a mix of exhaustion and pride wash over her.

“Yeah,” she muttered. “I guess they are.”

Alessia gave her a gentle nudge, still keeping her arm around Leah.

“You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for,” Alessia said with a wink. “One step at a time. Just like that.”

Y/n didn’t answer right away. Instead, she glanced down at her leg, a quiet determination settling in her chest.

But then, sat back down immediately after taking three more steps–her face dead serious now.

“Okay, someone needs to check my leg. I think the bone might be shattered.”

One of the physios blinked at her. “Are you in any pain?”

“No,” Y/n replied, completely monotone.

Another physio crouched beside her, eyeing her leg. “Swelling? Bruising?”

Y/n shook her head. “Looks fine.”

The two physios exchanged a look.

“Then I don’t think we need to examine your leg,” one of them said gently, with that polite but slightly exasperated tone they reserved for dramatic athletes.

Y/n opened her mouth to argue, but didn’t even get the chance.

“Please just look at it,” Kyra cut in, her voice firm but tired, raising a hand like she was in court. “For my peace of mind. She thinks her tibia’s going to shatter every time she blinks too hard.”

The physio gave a slow nod like they finally understood the assignment. “Ah. Emotional support bone check. Got it.”

Leah, behind the camera, snorted.

Y/n glared at all of them. “You’re all the worst support group I have ever seen.”

“Correct,” Alessia chirped, stretching her arms. “But we love you, so it’s okay.”

With a theatrical sigh, the physio knelt down to examine Y/n’s leg, poking around with exaggerated care. “Mmhmm. Yes, very… leg-like.”

Y/n remained dead silent, staring ahead like this was the most crucial medical evaluation of her life.

The physio finally tapped the brace and smiled. “Y/n, I’m happy to inform you that your bone is completely fine. Fully intact. Not even slightly broken.”

Y/n stared at her, eyebrows raised. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“How sure?”

“A hundred per cent sure.”

Y/n leaned forward slightly, the dramatic tension rising. “Would you trust this tibia over your mom’s life?”

Kyra quickly stepped in, wrapping her arms around Y/n from behind, pressing a soft kiss to her ear to quiet her. “Okay, that’s enough.”

“I just want to be–”

Kyra kissed her again, quick and soft. “You have very strong bones, okay? The best bones.”

Leah gagged dramatically. “Ew. Alright, this recording just turned into porn. Please, delete it. It’s disgusting.”

Alessia chimed in, still filming. “I’m editing this with soft music and sending it to your mum. She’ll love it.”

Y/n rolled her eyes, but the smallest smile tugged at her lips.

Kyra pulled her in a little tighter, grinning. “But you do have the best bones.”

As the days passed, Y/n and Kyra slowly settled into a rhythm, finding balance between their training, personal time, and quiet moments together.

The mornings felt routine–early wake-ups, breakfast, and getting ready for the day.

Training was intense for Kyra, while Y/n spent most of her time on the sidelines, cheering on her teammates. Kyra always made sure to glance over at her between drills, flashing her a grin whenever she could.

Y/n had become more invested in physiotherapy, eager to push herself further with each session and be back on the pitch in no time since she was allowed to walk fully now.

She had already gotten rid of the crutches, though she knew it wasn’t quite as simple as throwing them aside and going back to full strength.

The physiotherapists kept reminding her that rest was as important as effort in the healing process, but Y/n didn’t exactly see it that way.

“Resting is overrated,” Y/n had said to Kyra one evening, flopping back on the sofa with a dramatic sigh.

“But I’m not the one with the fancy degree, so I guess I have to listen to them.”

Kyra had laughed. “Maybe they know a thing or two about bone recovery.”

But today, as Y/n stood in front of the mirror in the physio room, her leg finally free of the brace, she couldn’t help but feel a sense of accomplishment.

The muscles were still tight, her foot dragging a little as she placed weight on it, but there was something about the solid ground beneath her that felt like freedom.

The physio had already cleared her to run again–nothing intense, just a short distance to gauge how she felt.

As she did a few quick stretches, Kyra was right there beside her, a quiet encouragement in her eyes.

“It’s okay, you're gonna do great,” Kyra said, rubbing her back lightly.

Y/n shot her a half-smile, still feeling the weight of the moment.

She took a deep breath and pushed herself off, slowly at first, then picking up speed as she ran a small lap around the gym.

The first few steps were very careful, tentative, but by the time she finished, she was almost jogging, her heart pounding in her chest with exhilaration.

She slowed to a stop, breathing a little heavier, but the grin on her face was unmistakable. She’d done it.

She was running again.

The physio clapped their hands together.

“Looks good, Y/n! But remember, don’t push it too hard too soon.”

Y/n nodded, wiping her forehead, her heart still racing.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll take it slow,” she said, though she was already planning her next run.

As she turned to Kyra, who was standing at the sidelines with a proud smile, Y/n felt a spark of realisation ignite in her chest.

She didn’t have to be as careful anymore.

Sure, the muscle needed work, but the freedom to move, to run, to feel normal again–it was all coming back. And suddenly, it wasn’t just her legs that were feeling liberated.

Her thoughts briefly wandered, and for a moment, she couldn't help but smile to herself.

The next time she and Kyra were alone–in the privacy of their room, maybe she wouldn’t hold back so much. Sex was about to get much, much better.

And what’s the best way to commemorate the first light–run after an injury? Sex.

Later that night, as the moonlight split across their bed, Kyra was stretched out, looking utterly at peace.

Sweat glistened on her neck, her hair tousled from their earlier moments together. Y/n hovered over her, still caught up in the slow burn of the day’s victory–her first run, the first step towards being back on the pitch.

Their skin touched, and Y/n found herself deep in the rhythm of their shared breaths.

She lowered herself, grinding her hips into Kyra’s, the movements slow at first, almost tentative as she felt for the right rhythm.

Their cunt grinding against each other, their clit each throbbing with need.

Kyra’s lips parted in a soft gasp, her hands coming up to hold Y/n’s hips, pulling her down with a strong, desperate motion, moving her rawling against herself.

Y/n froze for a split second, surprised by the sudden shift. Y/n was the one who set the pace, not Kyra.

Kyra’s grip was unrelenting, and for the first time, it was Kyra in control, guiding the pace, setting the rhythm.

It felt different this time, a change, a balance shifting between them that hadn’t been there before. Kyra’s breath hitched, her chest rising and falling sharply with every gasp.

“There... fuck, right there,” she breathed out, her grip on Y/n’s hips tightening with urgency.

Kyra pulled Y/n closer, their bodies coming together.

In that instant, Y/n’s grip on control slipped. She let go, surrendering herself to Kyra’s commanding presence, letting Kyra guide her body freely.

“God,” Kyra murmured, her fingers digging into Y/n's hips as she dictated the movement of Y/n’s hips against her own, pulling Y/n down against her with a strength Y/n had never expected.

“You feel so good.” Her voice was low, almost desperate, but there was something comforting in her tone, a warmth.

There was something about the way Kyra’s body moved under hers, the way she held onto her so tightly.

Kyra’s breath caught again, and her voice dropped to a near whisper.

“I fucking love you so much,” Kyra said, her hands slid down, tracing the curve of Y/n’s back, before gripping her hips again, guiding their movements with perfect syncrony, hitting just the right spot on their clit to have both girls moaning at the same time.

Y/n’s mind spun with the intensity of their connection.

Her body moved with Kyra effortlessly, like they had always been meant to move together this way.

The tension between them was palpable, thick in the air, but there was also a softness to it.

“Kyra...” Y/n breathed, her voice trembling, a mix of awe and desire filling her chest. She was so caught up in the moment, her body reacting without thought, just letting go. “Please, more–”

Kyra’s lips curled into a satisfied smile, her eyes dark with desire but soft with affection.

Y/n didn’t say please during sex that much, so it was good to hear it.

“Fuck–” Kyra shifted her hips slightly, forcing a new angle, a new depth that had Y/n gasping in response.

“You feel so good,” Y/n murmured, her voice low, laced with both affection and raw passion.

Y/n’s entire body seemed to hum with energy, the tension in the air thickening with every breath.

It wasn’t just about the physical connection–they were communicating in ways words couldn’t express. It was overwhelming, and Y/n couldn’t help but let out a soft, breathy laugh.

“You’ve got me... so wrapped around you,” Y/n whispered, her voice thick with both amusement and a hint of awe. “I wouldn’t let anyone else hold my hips down like that.”

She could feel the moment shifting between them, an undeniable bond growing with each touch.

Kyra smiled at the admission, her lips brushing against Y/n’s jawline as she leaned up, pressing soft, lingering kisses along the side of her neck.

“I like the sound of that,” she murmured, her voice husky. “I don’t plan on letting you go anytime soon.”

The pace between them picked up, the movements synchronised with a fluidity that felt natural.

And in that moment, as their bodies moved together, there was nothing but the overwhelming sense of being completely present with one another.

It took only one more movement of Y/n’s hips for Kyra and Y/n to cum together, their hearts beating fast as they caught their breath.

“Fuck,” Y/n said, laying down on top of Kyra, feeling her breathing on her shoulder.

“Yeah,” Kyra said, almost in a whisper. “That was good.”

“You can never leave this bed–my bed– again,” Y/n said teasingly, smiling.

Kyra’s lips met hers in a kiss. “I would never.”.

“I guess that’s one way to celebrate a first run,” Y/n murmured, her voice soft with contentment.

Kyra chuckled, pressing a kiss to Y/n’s forehead. “You’ve earned it.”

Y/n smiled against her chest, the weight of the day’s victory and the intimacy of the moment settling in.

She didn’t have to hold back anymore.

Not in her recovery, not in love. Not with Kyra.

Y/n didn’t move right away.

She stayed right there, stretched over Kyra’s body, their skin still slick with heat and closeness, her forehead resting gently against Kyra’s.

Their breaths mingled in the quiet, back to a slower rhythm.

Kyra’s eyes fluttered open, lashes damp, her gaze soft as it met Y/n’s. She reached up, caressing Y/n’s cheek tenderly.

Y/n leaned down, slow and deliberate, brushing her lips against Kyra’s in the gentlest kiss imaginable.

No urgency. No heat. Just feelings. Just her, Kyra, and the safe space they had carved.

She kissed her again, longer this time. Pressing her body close like she couldn’t get close enough–like she could sink into her and never come back up.

Kyra’s hands slid from Y/n’s hips to her back, fingertips tracing soft circles along her spine.

“You okay?” she whispered into Y/n’s mouth.

Y/n nodded, eyes still closed, lips brushing against Kyra’s as she murmured, “More than okay.”

“How’s your leg?”

Y/n huffed a laugh, eyes opening just enough to look at her. “Kyra, you can’t ask about my leg every time we have an orgasm. It ruins the mood.”

Kyra smiled and kissed her again, soft and sure. “No, it doesn’t. I just care about you.”

“I know,” Y/n said, kissing her back before moving down to Kyra’s neck, right behind her ear–her favourite spot.

“Can I give you a hickey? Please?”

The politeness in her voice surprised them both.

Kyra laughed under her breath, cheeks flushing. “No. The girls will see and make fun of me.”

“Please?” Y/n whispered again, her hand sliding lower until she found Kyra’s cunt, still wet. Her fingers moved gently at first, teasing, circling her clit with maddening patience.

Kyra’s breath caught, her fingers tightening on Y/n’s hip.

“Please?” Y/n said again, voice lower now, more coaxing, her movements growing more deliberate.

Kyra whimpered, eyes fluttering shut. “Ju-just one–I mean it.”

A slow, satisfied grin spread across Y/n’s face. “Good girl,” she whispered, lowering her head.

“I knew you would cave.”

Her lips found the spot just below Kyra’s jaw, and she sucked gently at first, then deeper, watching the skin bloom purple beneath her mouth.

Y/n didn’t move from Kyra’s neck right away.

She kept kissing softly around the fresh mark, tongue flicking lazily over it as her fingers continued to move in slow circles that had Kyra’s breath hitching with every stroke.

“You’re so sensitive,” Y/n murmured against her skin, her voice a low tease. “I barely touch you and you’re already shaking.”

“I’m not–” Kyra gasped as Y/n pressed just a little harder, dragging two fingers exactly where she needed them. “–shut up.”

Y/n grinned, lips brushing along her jaw. “You love it when I talk to you like this.”

Kyra tried to glare, but her eyes were fluttering closed again, her back arching ever so slightly off the bed as her hips rolled into Y/n’s hand.

“Don’t–” Kyra breathed, voice cracking. “Don’t stop.”

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

Y/n shifted slightly, her body still straddling Kyra’s, keeping her steady as her fingers slid lower, finding just the right rhythm, the one she knew would push Kyra over the edge. “Fuck, you’re so wet.”

Kyra whimpered, her hands gripping at Y/n’s thighs now, grounding herself, chasing the high that was building with every stroke, every brush of Y/n’s lips against her skin.

“You’re close,” Y/n whispered, and Kyra nodded helplessly, too far gone to speak.

Y/n leaned in again, kissing her–deep, slow, possessive.

Her fingers didn’t let up, circling faster now, slick and steady, the tension in Kyra’s body winding tight beneath her.

“Let go of me,” Y/n whispered into her mouth. “Come on, baby. I’ve got you.”

And Kyra did.

Her body tensed, then trembled as her orgasm hit hard, waves crashing through her as she gasped into Y/n’s mouth.

Her nails dug into Y/n’s thighs, her breath coming in short, broken bursts as she clung to her, head tipped back against the pillow.

Y/n slowed her movements, coaxing her down from the high with gentle, loving touches. She kissed the corner of her mouth, then her jaw, then the mark she’d left on her neck.

Kyra blinked up at her, cheeks flushed, still catching her breath. “I hate how smug you look right now.”

Y/n just smirked, brushing a strand of hair from Kyra’s face. “You love it.”

Kyra didn’t even argue–just pulled her down into another kiss, lazy and full of warmth.

“Okay,” she whispered after a beat. “Maybe just a little.”

“I’m tired,” Kyra murmured, voice a little hoarse, a little dazed.

Y/n smiled and leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.

“I know, baby,” she whispered, brushing her fingers gently down Kyra’s side. “Come here.”

Kyra didn’t move. “No,” she said quietly, her hand trailing up Y/n’s bare back. “I want you to feel good, too. Let me take care of you.”

Y/n kissed her again, softer this time, just lips against lips. “It’s okay,” she murmured. “Seeing you like that was enough.”

Kyra gave her a look–half sceptical, half touched.

Y/n cupped her cheek and smiled. “Now come here. Don’t fight it, baby. Just let me hold you.”

She lay back slowly, pulling Kyra with her until they were chest to chest, skin to skin.

Kyra hesitated for a beat, propping herself up on her elbows, looking down at Y/n.

“Go on,” Y/n said, voice low and breathy. Her hand traced a lazy path up Kyra’s spine. “I’m all yours, you can lie down.”

Kyra dipped her head slowly, lips brushing along Y/n’s collarbone. She paused, then lowered her mouth to Y/n’s breast, her tongue circling the soft peak before pulling it gently into her mouth.

Y/n inhaled sharply, her hand threading through Kyra’s hair.

Kyra took her time–slow, wet kisses, gentle sucks, the kind of attention that made Y/n’s relax.

“Just like that,” Y/n whispered. “You’re so good to me.”

Kyra looked up, her lips parted, her breath warm against Y/n’s skin. “You deserve it,” she said, and then kissed her again, like it was the only truth that mattered.

Kyra’s mouth lingered at Y/n’s breast, kisses growing slower, softer, until she was just nuzzling there, breathing warm against skin.

Y/n’s fingers combed through her hair gently, scratching her scalp the way she knew Kyra loved.

The room was quiet, save for the steady rhythm of their breathing and the soft rustle of sheets when they shifted closer.

Y/n pressed a kiss to the top of Kyra’s head. “You’re gonna fall asleep on me like this, huh?” she whispered, teasing but fond.

Kyra mumbled something unintelligible into her skin–something that might’ve been ‘don’t care,’ or maybe just a contented sigh.

Her arms were wrapped around Y/n’s waist now, holding her close like a blanket she didn’t want to let go of.

Y/n smiled, her free hand pulling the duvet over them. “You’re such a baby when you’re tired,” she murmured, voice already heavier with sleep, too.

Kyra shifted just enough to bury her face into Y/n’s chest. “Warm,” she mumbled, lips brushing over her skin. “Smells good.”

Y/n chuckled, low and sleepy, her hand slowing in Kyra’s hair until it just rested there, fingers curled gently. “I love you,” she breathed, almost like a secret.

Kyra didn’t answer right away–but then she shifted, just enough to tilt her head up and press the softest kiss to Y/n’s jaw.

“Love you too,” she whispered, already halfway asleep.

And that was enough.

They stayed like that, tangled and warm, hearts calm. Until sleep took them both.

Y/n woke slowly, blinking against the early light slipping through the curtains. The room was quiet, the air still, warm under the covers.

She could feel the weight of Kyra draped across her chest, soft breaths ghosting over her skin.

It took her a second to register the exact position.

Kyra was still curled into her, cheek pressed to Y/n’s breast, very clingy, one arm wrapped around her waist.

Her lips were parted slightly, still resting exactly where they’d fallen asleep.

Y/n blinked, then smiled, tilting her head slightly to look down at her.

“You’re literally still on my boob,” she whispered, voice raspy with sleep.

Kyra didn’t move. Not even a twitch.

Y/n snorted quietly. “You can’t use it as a pillow forever, babe.”

A soft groan came from Kyra, muffled into skin. “Don’t care. Comfortable.”

Y/n rolled her eyes affectionately, running her fingers through Kyra’s messy hair. “You’re such a menace.”

“Your fault for being perfect,” Kyra mumbled, tightening her grip slightly. “I’m tired. Let me stay.”

Y/n let her head fall back onto the pillow with a quiet laugh. “God, you’re spoiled.”

Kyra shifted just enough to nuzzle her a little closer. “Only with you.”

Y/n’s heart melted a little at that–okay, a lot. She exhaled slowly, her arm curling around Kyra’s back, holding her close.

“Fine,” she whispered, kissing the crown of Kyra’s head. “Five more minutes.”

Kyra’s only response was a contented sigh, and Y/n smiled to herself, eyes closing again.

It started with a video.

Y/n was lying flat on her back in bed, one leg bent awkwardly, her fingers pressing into her tibia in odd, circular patterns that made absolutely no medical sense.

Kyra walked in with a cup of juice and froze in the doorway, staring.

“...What are you doing?”

Y/n didn’t even glance up.

“I saw this physio guy on YouTube doing a deep tissue activation massage for tibial recovery. Said it boosts blood flow by 13.2%.”

Kyra slowly approached the bed, suspicious. “Okay. And why are you poking your leg like that”

“I’m following the video!” Y/n gestured to her phone, which was propped up against her water bottle on the nightstand. The audio played softly–an unfamiliar language Kyra didn’t recognise.

She frowned, tilting her head. “Wait…is that Mandarin?”

“No,” Y/n said, totally serious. “It’s Cantonese, Kyra.”

Kyra squinted at her like she was insane, which, in this moment, might not have been far off.

“Y/n. Babe. You're not fluent in Cantonese.”

“No, he is,” Y/n said, like that solved the entire logic gap. “I turned on the subtitles.”

“You can’t even read it–your neck is turned to your back!” Kyra set down the glass and sat on the edge of the bed, watching her partner try to knead her own leg like bread dough.

“But I can sense what he means,” Y/n said, defending herself.

“Okay. You're clearly spiralling. And I love that you want to heal fast. But we are not about to follow mysterious tibia tutorials in a language you don’t speak just because some guy online promised…magic blood flow.”

Y/n pouted. “I just want to feel useful.”

“I know,” Kyra said gently, brushing her hand over Y/n’s calf. “But healing isn’t a competition. You’re allowed to rest. You need to rest.”

Y/n deflated a little, muscles relaxing. “So what, I just... do nothing?”

Kyra smiled and shook her head. “No. You’re coming with me.”

“To where?”

“A walk. Just around the block. Nothing fancy. No magic tibia guy. Just me, you, and maybe Footy if he decides not to chase every pigeon in the city.”

Y/n raised a brow. “You’re giving me exercise as a distraction from my obsessive exercising.”

Kyra kissed the inside of her knee. “Exactly. But mine comes with trees and sunshine. And snacks after.”

And from then on, it became a thing.

Every afternoon, once Kyra got home from training and Y/n had finished her physio session, she would help her tie her shoes, leash up Footy, and they would head out for a walk.

At first, it was just the block. Then it was the park. Eventually, they were walking for a long time.

It was the one time of day Y/n didn’t think about reps or protocols or ankle stability.

She just walked, and Kyra stayed beside her, quiet, steady, hand brushing hers like a reminder that this, too, was part of healing.

It wasn’t just about the tibia anymore. It was about breathing. Moving. Laughing. Watching Footy eat a random leaf and then sprint in regret. It was about slowing down, not falling behind.

It was a Wednesday, and one of the physios had called in sick.

Y/n had immediately offered to go to the training centre on her own and do her session solo.

She was a professional, after all. But the staff had just smiled politely on the phone and told her to “take the day off” and “enjoy the unexpected break.”

Which was code for: no, you overachieving injured girl, go sit down.

So now she was lying on the living room floor, grumpy and betrayed, with a foam roller under her back and YouTube queued up again, this time with an English-speaking physio who somehow still managed to sound condescending.

The doorbell rang.

Y/n dragged herself upright, shuffled to the front door, and opened it to find a package on the mat.

It had her name on it, which was confusing because she hadn’t ordered anything–she would know if she’d ordered anything.

Carefully, she brought it inside, sliced it open with her thumbnail, and immediately recoiled.

Inside was a six-pack of the ugliest socks she’d ever seen.

Frogs. Bananas. Some kind of space-themed unicorn. She blinked at them. “What the fuck…”

She left the box half-open on the table by the door, too disturbed to process, and went back to her foam roller.

Ten minutes later, the door opened–Kyra.

Y/n rolled halfway onto her side to look at her. “Great. You’re home. What is this?”

Kyra’s face lit up the second she saw the box. “Yayyy it’s here!”

“Don’t yay me. What the hell is this box of… abominations?”

Kyra clapped her hands like it was Christmas morning. “Matching socks!! For us!!”

Y/n stared at her, expression flat. “Why do they have… prints?”

Kyra pulled out a pair and held them up proudly. “This one has a turtle with sunglasses!”

Y/n squinted. “It’s horrifying. You have ruined socks. Socks are meant to be white. Or black. Maybe grey on special occasions.”

Kyra gasped, clutching her chest. “You are no fun. The whole point is that they're ridiculous.”

“They look like something a kindergartener would wear.”

“Exactly!”

Y/n groaned. “I’m not even supposed to be walking today. They won’t let me come in. I offered to go do my session by myself, and they told me no, like I’m untrustworthy.”

“You are untrustworthy,” Kyra replied sweetly, already digging through drawers for scissors.

“What are you doing?”

“Modifying.”

“Kyra, please. You don’t have to destroy them, I don’t hate them that much!”

Kyra was already snipping little holes into the top of the socks. “Not destroying. Adapting. Innovation. I’m making them pet-friendly.”

Y/n raised an eyebrow. “No. No. Don’t you dare—”

Too late. Footy, who had been sleeping peacefully on the back of the sofa, was now being gently scooped into Kyra’s arms, looking half-asleep and 100% not onboard.

“You’re going to look so beautiful,” Kyra cooed as she slipped a sock over one of his front legs like it was a designer sleeve.

“Kyra, he looks like he’s wearing a tiny sweater! Cats aren’t meant to wear clothes!”

“He looks happy,” Kyra said.

Footy, now fully awake, stared directly at Y/n like he was mentally preparing to assassinate one of them in their sleep.

His paw lifted and flopped against the floor in slow, dramatic protest.

“He looks like he wants to die,” Y/n said monotone.

Kyra grinned. “That’s just his face.”

Y/n shook her head. “Okay. I do hate them. But if it makes you happy, I’ll wear the stupid frog ones.”

Kyra beamed, victorious. “I knew you loved me.”

Y/n sighed. “I don’t, but I do love you so…”

Footy meowed in quiet, tortured resignation, still wearing his one sad sock.

Later, after Footy had escaped his sock prison and retreated under the bed to plot his vengeance, Kyra flopped onto the sofa beside Y/n with her legs in her lap.

Y/n stared at the socks now on her own feet, defeated. The frogs stared back.

“I look like a children’s TV presenter,” she muttered.

Kyra grinned, smug as hell. “You look adorable.”

“I want you to know I’m suffering.”

Kyra leaned in, kissed her cheek, and whispered, “Suffer prettier.”

Y/n groaned again, but didn’t kick her off.

And sure enough, two days later, when Kyra tugged her out for one of their now-daily walks, she made good on her promise: matching socks.

Y/n tried to hide hers under her sweatpants, but Kyra made them roll them up halfway through, just to ‘let the frogs breathe.’

Y/n wanted to die.

But Kyra was happy, smiling so wide the whole walk, swinging their hands like they were in a teen rom-com.

And yeah, Kyra wasn’t the only one in the relationship who did things they didn’t want to do.

Y/n wore the frog socks. She wore them in public.

Because Kyra was happy.

And sometimes, that made it worth it.

Feedback is very important!!! <3

#woso fanfic #woso x reader #kyra cooney cross fanfic #kyra cooney cross smut #kyra cooney cross x reader

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ditzyrafe · 2 days ago

Note

any plot but pleaaaase sub!rafe😼😼

— deepthroating bsf!rafe while watching a movie

warnings — sub!rafe x dom!reader dynamic, oral (male!rec), deepthroating, petnames (rafe calls reader ‘mommy’), lewd language

a/n — was gonna post this originally, but this ask is quite similar. enjoy <3

the flickering light of the tv casts long, dancing shadows across the living room. there's background noise playing from it, but it's all completely irrelevant to the tension coiling low in your belly. you're curled up beside rafe on the couch, his familiar warmth a comfort that's rapidly twisting into something else entirely. his jeans are slightly unbuttoned, a decision made moments ago under the guise of getting comfortable, but you both knew better.

"you're quiet," rafe murmurs, his voice low, eyes fixed on the screen, though you doubt he's really watching either. his hand rests on the cushion between you, fingers drumming nervously.

"just… distracted," you whisper back, your gaze dropping pointedly to the obvious bulge in his pants. he's been staring at you the entire night, and you've noticed. he's hard for you.

taking a breath, you shift, leaning down further, your hair cascading over his thigh like a curtain. his muscles tense beneath the denim, his hard-on totally noticable. he doesn't stop you. you brush your lips against the straining fabric first, a feather-light kiss, before unzipping his jeans. carefully, you guide his cock into the cool air. he's already thick, hard and leaking, pulsing with anticipation.

you hesitate only for a fraction of a second before taking the tip of him into your mouth. the initial taste is faint, clean saltiness. he draws a sharp breath, his hands gripping relentlessly into the couch beneath him. you close your lips around him, slicking him with your tongue, working slowly at first, getting used to his size. after a while, you take more of him in your mouth, feeling his thick girth at the back of your throat.

ignoring the slight burn, you push past the initial resistance, taking him deeper. the sensation is intense, borderline uncomfortable, that slight gag reflex kicking in before you swallow hard and push through it. you want all of him. you slide down his full length, the smooth head bumping against the back of your throat. your eyes water slightly from the pressure, but you hold him there, letting the sheer fullness of him fill you.

a low groan escapes rafe, muffled but undeniable. his fingers unconsciously find themselves gripping your hair, not pulling, but just there, anchoring himself. "jesus," he weakly groans, his head tipping back against the couch cushions, eyes squeezing shut as he feels you take him deeply.

you begin to move, a slow, deliberate slide up and down his shaft. it's not frantic, not yet. it's a deep, wet pressure, the friction slick and intimate. you focus on the sensation, the feeling of him against your tongue, the way his pulse hammers where your lips enclose the base. the sounds of the movie — a sudden gunshot, then hushed dialogue — feel utterly irrelevant compared to the sound of rafe's ragged breathing and the wet noises your mouth makes around his cock.

"shittt- right there, mommy," he manages to say, his hips giving a slight lift off the cushion, urging you on, his hands now gripping too tight. but he just can't help himself when your mouth feels this good.

"you gonna cum on my tongue, pretty boy...?"

if you have any kinky ideas for me to write, PLEASE request them……. (here)

taglist ; @13hischiers @rafesprecious @mayanqueenxx @dreewsepj @zoenighshade555 @feverg1rl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @onxlyemery @yncoded @millie--billie @laniirackssss @slut4you @g3t2kn0w @kravitzwhore (join here) | divider creds ; @/anitalenia @/fairytopea

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internetdaddy98 · 2 days ago

Text

Knight to E5

Previous | Next [Series Masterlist]

Pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x F!SeniorResident!Reader Summary: Robby has spent weeks resisting Sheridan’s subtle temptation, maintaining professional boundaries with ironclad restraint. But today, something shifts. The quiet burn she’s ignited finally pushes him past the edge, and he begins to push back.

Word Count: 1.1 K Content Warning: Medical procedures, will most likely be medically inaccurate at times, unresolved tension.

It started subtle, the way these things always do.

He’d never been the type to play games. Not at this stage of life. Not in the ER, where seconds mattered and outcomes lived or died on precision. But the shift began with that same hum beneath his skin, that low-frequency awareness of her. Dr. Y/N Sheridan, moving through the space beside him like a tide inching higher with every passing hour.

He’d spent weeks being pushed. Weeks biting down on restraint like it was a habit. Weeks pretending not to notice the way she murmured praise meant for his ears alone, how her hands lingered half a breath too long, how her eyes caught his when no one else was looking.

But today, something in him had shifted. Maybe it was the way she walked in wearing that quiet confidence that she thought could undo him. Maybe it was the way she said his name under her breath “Robby” when no one else was around.

Maybe he was tired of pretending he didn’t want to see her come undone.

So he pushed.

Just once, at first.

In the exam room, he leaned in a little too close when they reviewed an ultrasound. His arm brushed hers, and he didn’t pull away. She stilled like a wire pulled tight. He didn’t look at her, not at first. But when he finally did, her lips were parted ever so slightly. A breath caught. Her lashes fluttered just once.

That was all it took.

He’d found the edge.

And now he wanted to see what happened when he leaned over it.

The shift moved around them like synchronized dancing, crashing into codes, dislocated shoulders, lab results flagged red and urgent. But he didn’t miss a beat. Not with his patients. Not with his team.

And not with her.

She passed him a chart. He let his fingers brush hers, slow, deliberate, warm. She blinked, fast and shallow, and her grip tightened just slightly on the tablet, she didn’t look at him right away. But when she did, her expression had lost that cool detachment she always carried like armor.

It was cracking.

He wondered what it would sound like when it broke.

During rounds, he stood behind her, just close enough that his breath ghosted the back of her neck. She stiffened. Her notes faltered. He murmured, “You missed the third rib fracture,” too softly for anyone else to hear. She corrected herself. Didn’t speak. But he saw the flush rise up her neck like a flame.

He wanted to touch it. Trace the heat with his fingers. With his mouth.

But not yet.

Not yet.

In radiology, reviewing a pelvic CT, she leaned in beside him. Her body was a fraction too close, as it always was when she tried to fluster him. He let her linger there, let her think she had the upper hand for a moment.

But then he had turned his head suddenly, close enough that their noses nearly brushed and said arrogantly, “Careful, Sher. You’re starting to look like you need something.”

She swallowed. The motion of her throat was visible, sharp, betraying more than her eyes did.

“You’re projecting,” she whispered back, but her voice lacked the bite she usually wielded so effortlessly.

He didn’t reply. Just watched her eyes darken. Watched the tremor in her hand as she picked up the chart.

He found himself addicted to her reactions. To the way she tried so hard to hide the way her pulse fluttered at the base of her throat. The way her lips pressed together when he leaned in. The way her breath stuttered when he brushed his fingers across the small of her back under the pretense of moving past her.

And the best part?

No one else noticed.

No one else knew the war she was starting to lose right in front of them.

But he saw it. Every detail. Every crack in her composure.

Every tell.

By late afternoon, she was fidgeting. Only slightly. Only enough that someone like him, someone who’d spent years learning how to read microexpressions in trauma patients would see it.

The way she stood with her arms folded a little too tightly across her chest. The way she avoided eye contact after he praised her charting in that low voice he knew settled somewhere beneath her ribs.

“You’re sharp today,” he’d said after she rattled off a flawless differential. “Almost dangerous.”

She’d looked up at him then, eyes glassy with something she was trying like hell to smother. Her lips parted. Then closed again.

She said nothing.

It was the silence that told him the most.

In the supply room, he cornered her.

No one else was there. The lights buzzed overhead, and the smell of antiseptic filled the space between them. He didn’t touch her. Not quite. Just stepped into her space.

She froze.

“You’ve been slipping,” he murmured, eyes searching her face. “You okay, Dr. Sheridan?”

She looked up at him, jaw tight. “I’m fine.”

“No,” he said, voice dropping, “you’re not.”

She didn’t reply.

He reached past her, slow, his arm brushing hers again, and grabbed a roll of gauze from the shelf behind her. But he didn’t step back.

Didn’t give her room to breathe.

“You’ve been playing this game for weeks,” he said quietly. “Did you think I wouldn’t learn the rules?”

She blinked once. Twice. Her throat bobbed with a swallow. “I didn’t think you’d care.”

He leaned in, breath just touching her ear. “That was your first mistake.”

Then he stepped back. Left the gauze on the counter. Walked out without another word. And behind him, he could feel her unraveling.

By the time their shift ended, she was glass stretched thin, humming with static, lit from within and close to shattering.

She didn’t speak to him again. Not with words.

But she watched him.

Watched him with those wide, furious, hungry eyes.

When she finally passed him in the hallway outside the locker rooms, she didn’t say goodnight. Didn’t offer her usual soft sarcasm.

She just brushed her fingers against his wrist as she passed.

A soft, silent promise.

And Robby?

He didn’t move. Didn’t follow.

Just stood there, watching her go, breath shallow and skin tight with restraint.

She’d pushed him for weeks with careful hands and invisible strings. Now he was unraveling her one slow thread at a time. He hadn’t broken her yer, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to stop now.

And God help them both, he loved the way she was coming undone.

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leriexoxo · 3 days ago

Text

SKZ HEADCANONS

Bestfriend! Stray kids vs You in a heated staring match (OT8)

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

AN: I did a poll a few days ago for new content and everyone chose head canons so here we are! I’ll be creating a separate master list for these but it will be attached to the main ML. Requests for Head canons are open!

Disclaimer: I will not take ABO requests! (Or any sorta weird stuff)

⸻

Bang Chan

• Laughs when it starts. All dimples and cocky smirks. But the second your eyes lock and you don’t flinch, his smile fades.

• His jaw tics. You see it—see the way his eyes drop to your lips for a fraction of a second, like instinct.

• “You sure you wanna keep looking at me like that, sweetheart?” he murmurs, low and teasing—but it sounds like a threat.

• Doesn’t look away. Not because of the game—because he can’t. He’s too busy thinking about how good you’d look underneath him, making that same intense eye contact while he wrecks you.

Lee Know

• He’s cocky from the jump. Tilts his head, folds his arms, leans in just enough to make it feel intimate.

• The tension builds so quietly. His eyes are sharp but soft around the edges. You feel stripped bare, like he’s undressing you with his gaze.

• When he sees your throat bob? He smirks.

• “Getting nervous?” he whispers, and it feels like he’s right next to your ear even though he hasn’t moved an inch.

• The moment your gaze flickers down—just once—he wins. And he knows it.

Changbin

• Gets flustered immediately. Tries to act tough, but you see the way his ears go pink.

• He starts with that goofy grin, but the longer it goes on, the more serious his expression gets. His brows draw together. His jaw sets.

• He licks his lips. That’s his downfall. That unconscious little habit that suddenly makes it feel too real.

• “Why’s it so hot in here?” he mumbles—and you both laugh, but neither of you look away.

Hyunjin

• Deadly. Absolutely lethal. He stares like it’s art. Like you’re art. His eyes are dreamy and half-lidded and burning.

• Leans forward just enough that you can smell his cologne, his breath, and you realize this game? Yeah. It’s not a game anymore.

• His tongue swipes across his lower lip so slowly and he watches your eyes drop to follow it.

• “You blinked,” he says, voice like velvet. And then smirks. “Or maybe you just got distracted.”

Han

• Tries to make jokes to break the tension. “What do I win if I beat you?” “Can I use my puppy eyes as a weapon?”

• But the silence creeps in. Your gaze stays steady. And he changes.

• He starts squirming in place, biting his lip, suddenly too aware of how close you’re sitting, how pretty your eyes are.

• “This doesn’t feel friendly anymore,” he blurts. Then goes beet red. “Not in a bad way—! I mean, not that I don’t—fuck.”

Felix

• So sweet at first. Giggling, winking at you, doing little fake attempts to distract you.

• But when you don’t react, when you just stare? His expression shifts. His voice drops. His freckles seem to glow under the heat of it.

• “You’re really not gonna look away, huh?” he says softly. And then—whispers it again. Closer.

• Your faces are inches apart and the air is thick. And when neither of you move, he just smiles. “Kinda like this…”

Seungmin

• Immediately calls it childish. “This is stupid.” Says he’s not playing. Then plays anyway.

• You match his stare, eyebrow raised. And for once, he breaks. His face twists—caught between annoyed and aroused.

• “Why are you looking at me like that?” he mumbles. But he doesn’t look away. If anything, he leans closer.

• Suddenly it’s quiet. The kind of quiet that makes your skin buzz. You swallow. He watches your throat.

• “Don’t start something you can’t finish,” he says under his breath.

Jeongin

• Tries to win by pure stubbornness. “I’ve got this. I’m unbeatable.”

• But his eyes soften the longer he looks at you. His breathing changes. His lips part just a little.

• He gets so self-conscious, but doesn’t back down. You see him glance at your mouth and immediately regret it.

• “I swear if you move any closer I’m gonna—” he mutters, then cuts himself off.

• Neither of you knows how to stop it now.

#skz imagines #bang chan #bang chan smut #leeknow x reader #leeknow fluff #changbin x you #hyunjin smut #skz headcanons #headcanon #seungmin stray kids #bang chan skz #stray kids smau #stray kids minho #han jisung smut #jeongin x you #felix fluff

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calliopewrites · 2 days ago

Text

Cass leans back slightly, hands lifted in mock surrender as he grins. "Oh, it's absolutely a thing. There's an art to it — pacing, timing, delivery." He taps the side of his temple like he's sharing some great secret. "And I'm a professional, thank you very much."

He nudges Flynn's foot right back, the rhythm of it easy now — familiar. "Fine, fine. Date two on you, date one on me. I'm still calling that a win, by the way. You're getting a full meal and the pleasure of my company. Practically a two-for-one deal."

But when Flynn tosses that darling back at him, Cass stills for a fraction of a second — just long enough for it to register, for something softer to flicker behind the usual teasing. Then he smirks, that glint back in his eye, and leans forward on his elbows.

"Oh, I love when you talk sweet to me," he murmurs, voice low and threaded with mischief. "Keep that up Saturday night and you'll have people thinking you're actually into me."

And then, with a tilt to his head: "Which, honestly, wouldn't be the worst thing in the world, would it?"

"Peak flirting form?" Flynn repeats with a laugh. "Is that a thing?" It probably is, and if anyone was going to be, it would be Cassian. Certainly not Flynn - or, sometimes, but only if he was surer that his target wanted him back.

Flynn's foot nudges back this time. "Um, date two is all on me, remember?" Well, the company dime. Mostly. It's kind of the same. And don't think about the way Cass just said he was cute. "So it tracks that date one should be you."

See - Cass being a terribly convincing fake boyfriend is what Flynn is starting to be afraid of. He's beginning to think that maybe this is a bad idea - that he'll get to a point where he won't be able to distinguish fiction from reality, and it'll be all his fault, and it'll probably kill him.

But he's in this situation now, so he's going to have to worry about that later.

"All right, darling, you know I'm always up for a challenge.

#୧ ও thread: cassian ଓ ৴ #ft. flynn

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enticingmelanin · 15 hours ago

Text

Royal Blood Pt. 1: Savior - An Aaron Pierre Vampire Series

Royal Blood Series {Pt. 1- Savior} || Aaron Pierre OC x Black OC

Starring Aaron Pierre as Stone Delverne and Jayme Lawson as Akira Monroe.

Rating: E for Erotic.

Word Count: 12k+

Warnings: TRIGGER WARNING! Mentions of sexual assault, domestic violence, blood, death, stalking, smut, and explicit language. NSFW. 18+ Only.

Summary: Men… they were nothing more than fleeting distractions—occasional moments of pleasure, if they even knew how to deliver. But beneath their touch, there was always a shadow of pain, fear, and loss in Akira’s life. One man, in particular, nearly brought her to the brink of death, but a twist of fate intervened. With a second chance at life, Akira took matters into her own hands, determined to bury her past and her demons. She was skilled at it, or so she thought. But when the past resurfaces with a vengeance, will she succumb to the pressure, or will fate step in to tip the scale once more?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The rhythmic clack of Akira Monroe’s red bottoms echoed through the lobby of her Manhattan high-rise, each step a sharp contrast to the late-night silence. The night had started off beautifully—champagne, laughter, a rooftop full of music and city lights—but it ended as abruptly as the storm that rolled in. Thunder cracked through the sky, sending guests scattering in sleek heels and expensive shoes as cold rain poured without warning.

She was still damp, her hair frizzing slightly despite the coat she’d thrown over her head. She promised her friends she would partake in a night of fun again another time. Her mind, always overthinking, had already returned to work. Monday’s market open was only a few days away and her mind ticked with numbers. Life as a day trader was risky but rewarding. Numbers had always come easily to her.

At her door, she slipped the key in and paused. A twinge—small, subtle—curled in her stomach. Something was off. Not loud or obvious. Just… off.

The lock clicked as she turned the key. She pushed the door open and stepped into the darkness of her entryway.

Before she could reach for the light switch, her chest tightened with alarm. A silhouette sat calmly in the corner of her living room, almost absorbed into the darkness. Her breath hitched—not from need, but instinct—as her keys and clutch slipped from her hand and hit the floor with a soft thud.

Then came a voice. Deep. Calm. Unmistakably Caribbean. Each syllable poured like warm molasses and lava.

“Shhh… Relax. Relax. I’m not here to hurt you. Lock the door, now.”

Akira hesitated, every muscle on edge. But something about the voice, so steady and calm, cut through the panic.

Her hand reached back, locking the door behind her. With the flick of a switch light flooded the space a moment later.

There he was.

He sat with the patience of a man who had nothing to fear. His bronze-caramel skin gleamed subtly beneath the apartment’s warm lighting. Sharp cheekbones framed a face sculpted with timeless precision, and a neatly trimmed beard added to the air of danger that clung to him. His hair is dark and cropped close, but curly. His full lips curled ever so slightly at the corners, as though he knew secrets the world had forgotten. But it was his eyes— light, stormy, and unnervingly clear —that pinned her where she stood.

He wore a sharp, tailored black suit beneath a long overcoat that draped from his broad shoulders like a river of ink. Every line of him was precise. Composed. He looked like he belonged in another century... or another world entirely. He appeared youthful, but his presence was heavy with time and power.

Akira didn’t speak. She didn’t move a fraction.

“Sit,” he said gently, gesturing to her plush gray couch across from him. “Please.”

She moved slowly, tension in every step, stopping just before the edge of the cushion.

She sat, but her eyes never left him.

What the fuck...

Her voice was quiet, controlled. “You’re not human,” she said as she searched the air for the sound of a heartbeat.

The frighteningly handsome man tilted his head, a faint, knowing smile tugging at his lips.

“Not anymore.” He paused. “Neither are you,” he said, matter-of-fact.

Akira’s body stiffened, spine locking in place like a steel pole. Her breath caught in her chest as a sudden surge of heat rushed through her, not from fear—but from something far more primal, protective, and lethal. Her light brown eyes, usually warm with flickers of gold and kindness, ignited in a blaze of bloody crimson, glowing with fury. Her lips parted, exposing her elongated, sharp canines—and for a breathless moment, the only sound in the room was the electric silence of instincts awakening.

But the man didn’t move. He didn’t flinch, didn’t falter, didn’t so much as blink. He simply watched her—his own irises glowing with that same blood-red fire, his features shifting subtly into something no longer bound by human softness. His cheekbones sharpened like sculpted clay. His presence grew until the walls of her apartment felt smaller, swallowed by the gravity of him. Ancient power radiated from him, slow and steady like a beating drum.

Akira’s jaw clenched. Her hands curled into fists at her sides, sharp stiletto nails pressing at her palms. She didn’t understand what he was, if he was like her or something else entirely. But she knew what he wasn’t—he wasn’t human. Not anymore.

And then it hit her like a second wave.

Not anymore... Neither are you...

The words fell in her mind like a whisper from someplace familiar but long forgotten.

How would he know that...

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

Stone tilted his head slightly, his tone velvet-smooth and weighted with something inevitable.

“Saving you.”

Akira stared at him, unmoving. “From what?”

“The FBI,” he said plainly, as if he knew what was to come. “They’re preparing to raid your apartment as we speak. They’ve had their eyes on you for years… but now they’re acting.”

Her brow furrowed, confusion and disbelief warring on her face. “That can't be...”

Stone uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, the light from the hallway catching the outline of his frame.

“Your ex-fiancé… and your former boss. Both found within the same stretch of land. You were careful. Smart. You buried them deep in a stretch of Pine Barrens out in Jersey—far from surveillance, far from curiosity. But five years later, that land’s being gutted for development. Subdivisions. A shiny new neighborhood for people with golden retrievers and baby strollers. The machines dug deep… and found bones.”

Akira’s heart dropped.

“No…” she whispered, her voice thinner than breath.

“Teeth. Rib fragments. Bits of fabric. Dental records told the rest of the story. You’re back on their radar.”

Her legs went stiff, her mind trying to sprint in a dozen directions, but her body refused to follow.

She forced the words out, her voice breaking slightly. “Why would you care? Who are you?”

He looked at her then—into the depths of her—with eyes that saw more than who she presented to be now.

“Think,” he murmured. “You remember me.”

She blinked. Her lips parted, but no words came. Yet something inside her shifted—like a long-closed door slowly creaking open. His eyes. That voice. That impossible calm.

And suddenly...

She was back in her abusive relationship five years ago.

She was twenty-seven, living with Donte, a man whose charm had long since dissolved into cruelty. It had started with slaps masked as jokes, possessiveness parading as love, manipulation draped in diamond promises. But that night… that night he stopped pretending.

He came home drunk... again. The smell of liquor thick on his breath, his eyes already glassy and mean. They argued. Again. But this time it escalated into something darker, something that slipped past the edges of even her worst fears. She was preparing t leave, but it seems it was too late.

“How dare you ignore my calls,” he slurred, grabbing her arm, pulling her close enough for her to smell the sourness on his breath. “You forget who takes care of you?”

“I don’t need you,” she snapped, yanking her arm free.

His hand struck her cheek hard enough to split her lip.

She staggered back, dazed, the pain spreading hot across her face. But she didn’t cry. Not yet.

Then he reached for her again—rough, desperate, drunk with power and rage—and this time it wasn’t to hit her. He tried to shove her toward the couch, muttering about “making her remember who she belonged to.” She fought, screamed, kicked, scratched, but he overpowered her, dragging her back by her hair.

His hands fumbled at the waist of her jeans.

“Don’t! Stop, D! Please!” she screamed.

He didn’t.

Terror exploded in her chest. She twisted, landed a punch to his throat, enough to make him choke and stumble. She bolted toward the front door and he followed. Her foot caught on the rumpled rug. She fell backward, slamming her head into the sharp corner of the glass coffee table.

Pain. Cracking. Then...nothing.

She lay there, bleeding out, her skull fractured, the room spinning sideways. Her breaths grew shallower, each one harder to find. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t scream anymore. Her light brown eyes stared up at the ceiling, blinking through the tears and blood clouding her vision.

Donte stood above her, horror etched into his face.

“Baby? Baby, I didn’t mean—” he muttered. He backed away, pacing, cursing. “I didn’t mean—shit!”

He fled. Left her bleeding out on the floor.

The air grew cold. The edges of the room faded.

And then—

A figure immerged. Eyes glowing red in the dim light.

He knelt beside her, his face both terrible and beautiful, foreign and yet familiar. His hand brushed against her cheek, his voice low and mythic, speaking words in a language her soul understood even if her ears did not.

His mouth hovered over her neck.

And then—pain—quick, electric, and piercing.

It felt like every fiber of her being was lit on fire.

Her last breath was not a gasp, but a surrender.

She had died and been born again.

Changed...

Akira’s back pressed against her couch, hands over her mouth, trembling. Tears welled in her eyes—thick, hot, red with old blood and newly awakened memory. They slipped silently down her cheeks, one after another, staining the edges of her face with grief.

And then he was there.

He moved so quickly the air barely shifted, but he was suddenly kneeling before her, his large, cool hands cradling her face. His thumbs brushed away her tears with tenderness, as though afraid she might break.

She couldn’t stop crying. The sobs came from someplace deeper than pain. A place only he could reach.

“You…” she whimpered, voice small and shaking. “It was you…”

He nodded, his forehead resting gently against hers.

“Yes. And I’m here to save you again.”

Her voice cracked open, hollow and trembling.

“But you left me. I was confused. Broken… alone.”

His hands shifted, brushing her hair away from her damp face, and his gaze softened.

“I thought it was best,” he said. “I didn’t want to take anything more from you. I didn’t want to be another man who left you scarred. I wanted you to choose justice on your own terms. And you did. You survived. You thrived.”

He looked at her, something dark and proud burning behind his eyes.

“But outside forces… they’ve caught up.”

Her voice dropped, barely above a whisper.

“So… you’ve been watching me?”

A faint smile touched his lips.

“Always. Even when your boss tried to cross the line… I was there. Had you not beaten me to it, I would’ve torn him apart, piece by piece.” His smile turned wicked, tinged with something feral. “You’ve always had a gift for vengeance, Akira Monroe.”

And though her tears hadn’t stopped, something fierce lit behind them. He had saved her once. And now, when the world threatened to take everything again... he was back.

Had her heart still pumped, Akira was certain it would’ve swelled against her ribs with a strange, overpowering warmth—a warmth she didn’t expect to feel for someone so terrifying, so mysterious, so... surreal. Yet somehow, in his presence, the fear dulled.

She could still feel the imprint of his hands on her face. The truth in his voice lingered, coiling through her like a spell.

Her gaze searched his with a quiet intensity. “But you still haven’t told me who you are.”

The corners of his mouth lifted—not quite a smile, not quite a smirk.

“My name is Stone Delverne,” he said, voice dipped in gravel and silk. “Some know me as king. Others once knew me as vengeance.”

Akira’s brows rose slowly. “So… you’re some ancient vampire king?”

“Yes,” he said simply, as though it was no more strange than calling himself a man.

A beat of silence passed, heavy with what that meant.

She shifted her weight, eyes still locked to his. “But how’d you find me to begin with?”

That smile grew a fraction deeper.

“We have eternity to get to know one another,” he said gently. “I’ll answer every question your mind can conjure, but I can hear them coming. They’re seconds away from reaching this floor.”

His voice sharpened with urgency. “We have to go.”

Akira’s body tensed. The gravity of his words crashing down as everything around her—the lights, the window, the chilled air on her skin—suddenly felt like a world she no longer belonged to.

“What about my things?” she asked, startled by how quickly her life was unraveling. “Where are we even going?”

Stone turned toward the window, his form outlined by the city’s golden haze.

“I’ll send my people to retrieve anything you desire,” he promised, casting her a reassuring glance. “Where we’re going, you will want for nothing. But I’ll explain once we’re safe.”

He stepped toward her and took her hand in his. His fingers—long, strong, elegant—seemed both a promise and a challenge.

“Do you know how to surge?”

Akira blinked in confusion. “What?”

A low, rich chuckle spilled from his lips, warm enough to make her chest tighten.

“I have much to teach you,” he murmured as he scooped her into his arms with startling ease. “Hold on to me. I’m going to get us out of here.”

She barely had time to react before instinct took over. Her arms looped tightly around his neck. Her black mini dress slid up her thighs as her legs clutched his waist for balance, her chest clenching at the firm strength of his body pressed against hers. He went to the entryway, gathering her clutch in his hand while keeping her balanced in his arms. He turns off her phone, making sure it can’t possibly ping any towers.

Then—

BANG! BANG! BANG!

“AKIRA MONROE! FBI! OPEN THE DOOR!”

The voice outside was sharp, commanding. Boots shuffled on the other side of the wall.

And in a single, fluid motion, Stone turned, went to her balcony, and leapt.

They fell.

Akira stifled a cry as the world dipped and tilted, but before she could process it, he landed with the elegance of a dove—knees bent, shoes silent against the asphalt below. Then they soared faster than thought.

The city around them blurred. Lights melted into streaks. Time fractured into flashes. Akira clung to him, stunned, exhilarated, terrified and thrilled as they weaved between buildings, surged through alleyways, past stunned pigeons and flickering neon signs. No one saw them. Not truly. To human eyes, they were nothing more than a breeze and a shadow.

All the while, she stared at his face. Unmoving. Focused. Handsome. Otherworldly.

They raced north. The chaos of Manhattan faded into the whisper of suburbs, into the hush of rural backroads, and finally... into trees.

The Adirondack Mountains rose like sleeping giants, cloaked in the darkness of night. The forest closed around them—tall, proud evergreens with thick trunks, branches whispering secrets only the wild knew. The air changed. Sharpened. Damp ground and moss filled her nose. Moonlight filtered through the trees, making patterns across Stone’s skin as he finally slowed to a stop.

Then silence.

A silence so complete it rang in her ears.

He set her down gently in a thick bed of pine needles, her body running against his sculpted torso. The forest dim and haunting around them, illuminated only by strands of moonlight. Leaves rustled overhead.

Stone stepped forward, lips parting as he spoke words she didn’t recognize—low, ancient, and powerful. The sound curled in the air like smoke. It wasn’t French, not exactly… something like Creole, only older. Something deeper.

The last word left his tongue like a kiss to the wind.

And then—

With a sudden shimmer, space cracked open before her eyes, revealing something that should not have existed. Akira took a step back, voice caught in her throat.

Stone turned to her, his silhouette sharp against the moonlight.

“Welcome to your new life,” he said, extending his hand once more.

Akira blinked hard, her hand clutching Stone’s once again as a mysterious aircraft—no, vessel—came into full view. Sleek, black, with a sheen that shimmered like obsidian under the forest moonlight, it didn't play by human design. It had no seams, no visible engines, only a gleaming door that seemed to anticipate their arrival, opening slowly before them.

She stepped forward slowly, looking from the smooth landing legs to the warm amber light glowing from within. “What the fuck is this thing?” she muttered, disbelief dripping from every word.

Stone snickered, the sound low and gravelly, as he guided her up the short ramp. “This,” he said smoothly, “is our way home.”

Her brows scrunched and her eyes widened, scanning every inch of the luxurious interior as her heels clicked against the black marble floor. “And where is home exactly?” she asked, her voice still laced with doubt and wonder.

“You’ll see, love. Trust me, it will be worth the wait.”

Inside, the aircraft was bathed in a soft amber glow that accented the warm caramel leather seats, sleek black marble table, and bronze accents lining the walls and ceiling. The forest shown through the panoramic windows at the front, stars sparkling across the night sky. Akira slid onto one of the cozy seats, which hugged her frame like it had been made for her.

Stone stepped forward and spoke to the pilot seated in the cockpit, a lean young man with umber skin, short platinum locs tied back neatly, and a cool, relaxed energy about him.

“Lyle,” Stone called, “we’re set.”

The pilot turned his head slightly, revealing crimson-tinted eyes behind gold-framed glasses. “Aye, we’ll be off in five. Winds are perfect tonight.” He paused, eyes flicking to Akira with a smirk. “So this is the infamous Akira? Pleasure to meet you. The king here can’t stop talking about you.”

Akira raised a brow and slowly turned her head to Stone, suspicion playing on her face.

Stone let out a dry chuckle. “You’re two seconds from being out of a job.”

Lyle put his hands up in surrender, laughing. “My bad, boss.”

Stone took the seat beside her, long legs stretched out, his coat folding around him like a cloak. The aircraft hummed softly, and within seconds, they began to ascend smoothly into the starry sky. The forest and mountains blurred beneath them as they slipped past the atmosphere with the grace of a bird.

Akira’s eyes wandered—along the smooth leather, the ambient strip lighting glowing beneath her heels.

She didn’t breathe—not because she was holding it in shock or awe, but because she simply didn’t need to. None of them did. Vampires had evolved beyond the need for oxygen, and any hint of inhalation or exhalation was for the comfort of mortals and expression. A performance. A lingering habit of humanity meant to soothe the humans around them. Even now, as she sat beside Stone in utter silence, not a single rise or fall of her chest gave her away.

Stone tilted his head, watching her quietly. He could feel the racing storm of thoughts unfolding inside her like dark ribbon, stretching across her mind.

“I know you have many questions,” he said gently, voice velvet over steel. “Understandably so. I just want you to absorb the moment. I know all of this is overwhelming.”

Akira didn’t speak. She simply nodded slowly, eyes fixed on the impossible vessel soaring soundlessly through the clouds, as her world unraveled and reshaped itself all at once.

As they flew farther from the life she used to know, the skyline of Manhattan becoming a glittering memory beneath them, something in Akira's chest ached—tight and unfamiliar, like an echo of a past heartbeat. Her gaze drifted to the sleek glass windows curving around them, watching the city lights stretch into nothingness.

Her throat tightened. That was the thing about being what she was now—vampire or not, pain didn’t vanish with the mortality. It lived in the bones, the memory, the blood. If anything, immortality made it harder to outrun.

She blinked slowly, lashes trembling as crimson tears welled and traced silent lines down her flawless skin. Her eyes didn’t burn, but her soul did.

“I fought,” she whispered, her voice barely above the soft hum of the aircraft. “So damn hard. I fought to survive, to be free, to never be a victim again. And still... I’m running.”

Stone, who had been quietly watching her from his seat beside her, turned his body slightly to face her more fully. His expression was unreadable at first—serious, calm—but as her words sank in, his gaze softened, lips parting to speak before thinking better of it. Instead, he let her keep going.

“I buried them,” she continued, her voice trembling but steady. “Buried my past—literally. I covered my tracks. I endured, I healed—or I thought I did. I built a life. I made myself powerful in my own way. And now all of it’s gone in one night.”

She ran her fingers over her thighs, smoothing down the fabric of her dress that had crept up during their flight. “It’s like no matter what I do… I’m still that scared girl trying to claw her way out.”

Stone exhaled softly out of habit. A gesture for her sake, a mirror of human empathy. He reached for her hand gently, his fingers cool and steady.

“You didn’t fail,” he said, voice like velvet with an edge of iron. “Akira… you endured the kind of pain that should have broken you in half. And not only did you survive, you transformed. You took back your story.”

She looked at him, her eyes filled with centuries’ worth of questions, though she had only lived this second life for a fraction of the time. “Then why do I still feel like I’m falling apart?”

He let the silence stretch before answering.

“Because even steel bends under pressure. Even the strongest need to fall before they rise. And rise, you will.”

She didn’t pull her hand away, even when the blood tears dripped onto her lap. He didn’t flinch. Instead, he reached up and brushed one away with his thumb.

“This weight,” he said, “this guilt, this pain—it was never meant to be yours forever. You held it long enough. Let me carry some of it.”

Her lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. Instead, she nodded slowly, pressing her lips together to stop the sob from escaping her throat. Stone leaned in, his forehead resting gently against hers, and for the first time since that night five years ago, the storm inside her began to calm.

Their flight continued in silence, but this time, it wasn’t the silence of fear.

It was the silence of something new beginning.

The craft moved swiftly and effortlessly through the sky, humming with a low, almost musical frequency that seemed to hum through Akira’s bones. Whatever this vessel was made of, it wasn't of this world—or at least not of the modern human one. It danced between clouds, past the hush of commercial airways and satellites, cloaked in something archaic and unseen.

They soared over the Atlantic Ocean now, the stars shimmering faintly above them, the dark expanse of water rippling. Time felt suspended, warped even, until Lyle’s voice came through the cabin with an easy, almost lazy drawl.

“We’re here,” he said, a grin in his voice. “Welcome home.”

Akira’s brows furrowed. She leaned toward the window, peering down and around, searching. All she could see was water—endless, undisturbed ocean as far as the eye could see. “What do you mean, ‘here’?” she asked, voice skeptical, almost sharp. “There’s nothing here but sea.”

Stone didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he turned his head and watched her, eyes shining faintly crimson in the golden glow of the aircraft’s ambient lighting. That slow, knowing smirk of his curved across his mouth, as if he were savoring this moment. Like he had waited a very long time to show her something secret and exclusive.

“Patience, love,” he murmured.

Akira turned her gaze back to the sea, chest tightening, instinct rising even in her immortal stillness. Her throat tightened as the sea below began to shift.

She sat upright, eyes wide now, glued to the scene before her.

A massive square—so perfect, so exact it didn’t seem natural—opened silently in the ocean’s surface like a door parting through liquid velvet. The water itself rolled away as if obeying command, revealing not a void, not a trench, but light. Glowing lines traced ancient runes across the revealed entryway, golden and pulsing, like veins carrying energy through the earth itself.

Beneath the opening, a sprawling city glittered in impossible beauty. Towers carved from black stone and glinting crystal pierced upward. Bridges arched high over flowing rivers, and open courtyards sparkled with violet trees under a false, twilight sky. The architecture was unlike anything she'd seen before—otherworldly, regal, eternal.

Akira’s lips parted in stunned silence, her chest rising.

“Welcome to Kutha’Mara,” Stone said, his voice laced with pride, reverence, and love. “The City of Second Breath. My kingdom.”

She turned to him slowly, her voice barely a whisper. “It’s beautiful.”

Stone's expression softened, the smirk fading into something gentler. “It is sanctuary. A place where those like us can exist beyond the laws of men and monsters. A haven for those reborn… and those who still carry their scars.”

Akira sat back in awe as the aircraft began its descent, the entryway sealing silently behind them like the sea had never parted.

Kutha’Mara awaited.

The aircraft dipped beneath the ocean’s surface, yet the transition was seamless—no rush of water, no pressure shift. It was like they had passed through a veil, a secret layer of reality tucked beneath the chaos of the human world.

Inside, the craft glided smoothly between the sprawling towers and glowing pathways of Kutha’Mara. Akira pressed her palm to the window, eyes wide as they flew past an immense temple of obsidian wrapped in silver lining. Below, people moved along illuminated paths, some pausing to look up as though sensing the ship’s arrival.

She turned toward Stone, her voice hushed, awed. “How is this even possible?”

Stone’s gaze lingered out the window, as if he were seeing the city through her wonder-struck eyes. “The city’s bones are older than time itself,” he said softly. “But the sanctuary? That part I built for us. For those the world tried to erase. Those who were hunted. Forgotten.”

Akira studied him—his sharp profile lit by soft amber light, the tension in his jaw when he spoke of the broken. He hadn’t simply endured immortality; he had shaped it into something defiant and sacred.

“You built all this?” she asked.

He nodded once. “With others. But yes. It was born from the promise I made to my mother, Nyanda.”

Akira leaned back, absorbing the cabin’s warmth. “I don’t know how to feel,” she murmured. “Part of me wants to cry. Part of me doesn’t even believe any of this is real. And part of me…”

Stone looked at her now, quietly waiting.

“…part of me feels like I’ve already been here before. Like I knew you before tonight.”

He inclined his head. “You did. In a way. When I saved you, I gave you more than immortality. I gave you a part of me. The kind that marks and binds.”

The aircraft banked slightly, revealing a waterfall of violet light cascading down from the side of a crystalline spire. Akira watched it glimmer, but her thoughts stayed wrapped around his words.

“Why me?” she asked, voice low. “Why did you choose me?”

Stone didn’t answer right away. He reached over, brushing a stray curl from her face, his fingers lingering at her temple. His touch carried no chill—only certainty and depth.

“Because when I found you—broken, bloodied, still fighting even as your life slipped—I saw a reflection,” he said. “And because your pain called to mine.”

Akira’s body stilled from something deeper than fear or awe. She wasn’t sure what name to give it, but it was a positive feeling.

They sat in silence, the space between them thick with what hadn’t yet been said. Two souls who had died, who had risen, and finally shared space.

As the vessel slowed over a wide obsidian platform, the glow of Kutha’Mara surrounded them like twilight. From this height, she could see the entire city.

Gleaming towers of onyx and midnight blue rose like sculptures into the sky, their balconies edged with gold and draped in flowering vines. The soft hum of magic pulsed through the cobblestone streets below, lit by warm, golden lamps that flickered like fireflies. Domed halls of crystal and carved iron shimmered beneath the full moon.

Manicured gardens burst with color—lavender, crimson, pink, deep jade. The pathways wound seamlessly through glowing parks, quiet alcoves, and grand plazas where statues told history to those who listened. Everything moved with purpose, but nothing rushed. This city was not built for survival.

It was built for living.

Akira whispered, “I think I want to know everything.”

Stone’s gaze locked with hers. “You will, love. In time. Tonight is only the beginning.”

The craft descended in a gentle arc, gliding over the spired skyline of Kutha’Mara before veering toward the northern cliffs. There, perched on a rise that overlooked the entire city, stood Stone’s home.

Akira leaned forward, eyes catching the dark silhouette of the estate against the moonlit clouds. It was vast and regal, carved in black stone that gleamed under the ambient light of the city below. Every window glowed warm gold, as if the house itself pulsed with life. Twin waterfalls flanked the lower gardens, feeding into pools that mirrored the stars. Steps climbed toward grand double doors framed by arches, ivy clinging to the columns.

The aircraft settled on a circular platform nearby, soundless in its descent. When the hatch hissed open, a cool breeze met them, tinged with the faint scent of wet stone and jasmine.

Akira stepped out first, her red-bottom black stilettos clicking against the polished stone path. She paused, taking it all in—the way the house towered over the hillside like a cathedral of shadows and light. Behind her, Stone emerged without a word, his black overcoat tailored and commanding, catching the breeze. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. He stood beside her as the wind played with her curls and the silence folded gently around them.

From here, the city below shimmered like a dream—its lantern-lit streets winding like golden veins through the dark.

“This is your home?” Akira asked, her voice hushed in awe as she took in the estate’s beauty.

“Yes,” Stone replied, his gaze not on the house but on her. “And now it’s your home, too. That is, if you accept. Or I can always arrange for you your own place in the city.”

Akira turned to him, touched by the offer and the softness in his tone. A smile curved her lips. “This is more than enough, Stone… I don’t want distance between us again.”

His expression shifted, touched by her words. He reached out, took her hand in his, and brought it to his lips, pressing a tender kiss to the back of it.

“Neither do I,” he murmured. “Come on, there’s some people I want you to meet… and then I’ll give you a tour.”

They walked up the wide marble steps side by side. As they reached the top landing, the grand double doors swung open in perfect synchrony, held by two attendants dressed in deep charcoal uniforms with subtle silver embroidery.

Warm golden light spilled from the entryway, casting a soft glow across the polished floors and up the vast staircase. The foyer was breathtaking—expansive yet elegant, with pristine white columns, gleaming marble floors, and a chandelier like starlight hanging above. Black carpet ran the length of the stairs, flanked by wrought-iron railings and stone urns at their base.

Stone gave a small nod to the staff, his voice calm but full of quiet regard. “Thank you.”

They bowed with a kind of reverence that spoke to more than just duty—it was loyalty. Akira could hear the thrum of heartbeats and the smell of blood... Some of them were human.

Interesting...

“This,” he said, turning to Akira as their footsteps echoed softly in the foyer, “is Akira Monroe.”

A few of the staff smiled, their eyes kind as they acknowledged her.

“She is under my protection, and now, yours. Treat her as you would treat me.”

The room seemed to shift subtly at his words, as though the space itself recognized her arrival. A gentle warmth settled in Akira’s chest at his words—at the way he anchored her, claimed her without confinement.

One of the attendants stepped forward, a woman of Asian descent with silver-streaked hair and knowing eyes. “Welcome, Akira,” she said softly. “I’m Aiko, the estate manager. If there’s anything you need, just let me know. It’s an honor to have you here.”

Akira offered a quiet smile, still in awe of it all. “Thank you. It’s nice t meet you, too. It’s… more than I imagined.”

Stone glanced at her, that ever-present restraint in his expression softening once more. He led her deeper into the heart of the house, their footsteps quiet against the gleaming marble as the double doors closed behind them. The golden chandelier above faded into the distance as they turned down a softly lit corridor, the air rich with the scent of white sandalwood and something darker—older.

A pair of grand doors opened ahead, and Akira felt a shift in energy, like something alert had stirred.

In the spacious lounge that opened before them, four figures turned from quiet conversation. Each exuded their own commanding presence, and yet there was a comfortable ease between them—like family forged in fire.

“Akira,” Stone said, his voice smooth but proud, “these are my people.”

The first to step forward was Nathaniel—Nate—broad-shouldered and alert, with warm brown skin and a trimmed beard that framed a smile both charming and protective. His eyes flicked over Akira, not in suspicion, but in silent assessment. Like a soldier sizing up someone worth protecting.

“Welcome,” Nate said, his voice low and grounded, offering her his hand. “Any friend of Stone’s is already in my circle. I’m head of security around here… which means if you need anything, I’m the guy.”

As she took his hand, he tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing with faint amusement. “Ah, Akira...” he repeated thoughtfully. “That’s real close to Akasha… the Queen Mother.”

Akira raised a curious brow. “Queen Mother?”

Nate grinned, his sharp teeth glistening. “Old vampire lore. Powerful, revered, dangerous when she had to be. Just sayin’, might be a name to live up to.”

She chuckled lightly, and Nate winked before stepping aside, letting the others have their turn.

Next was Claire—lithe and poised, with expressive dark brows and a quiet fire behind her eyes. She tucked a piece of wavy brunette hair behind one ear, stepping forward in tailored black.

“Hi, I’m Claire,” she said with a warm smile. “I keep this place from flipping upside down. Also, I’m your new go-to if you want someone to shop with, or rant to when the boys get too unbearable.”

Akira laughed, the tension in her shoulders easing. “I might take you up on both.”

Then came Manuel—lean and angular, with a magnetic energy that drew you in. He grinned as he walked up, a bit of mischief dancing in his eyes.

“Manuel,” he said, giving a half-bow that somehow still felt suave. “Resident tech and mischief-maker. If anything breaks, it’s probably my fault—but I’ll fix it better than before.”

“And last but never least,” Stone said, turning as the final figure stepped closer.

"Tajé. "

Statuesque, with dark, smooth skin that glowed under the soft lighting, and eyes like molten gold. Her locs were pulled back in an elegant knot, and her entire presence was commanding.

“It’s good to finally meet you,” she said, voice like velvet and steel. “Stone speaks highly of you.”

Akira found herself stunned by the woman’s grace but managed a genuine smile. “You all live here?”

Tajé nodded. “We have places in the city, but Stone lets us come and go as we please... until we annoy him.”

They exchanged a few more warm words before Stone placed a hand lightly at the small of Akira’s back. “Come,” he said, “let me show you the rest.”

The tour carried them through rooms bathed in whites, creams, and soft golds—always accented with elegant blacks. It was a balance of power and peace, much like Stone himself.

First was the kitchen. It was a masterpiece of dark elegance—floor-to-ceiling black cabinetry accented with gold, decorated with ornate carvings and a grand chandelier that glittered beneath a vaulted ceiling. Marble countertops gleamed under the moonlight pouring through towering arched windows and glass doors that opened to a courtyard.

Then he led her past an indoor pool with still, clear water that shimmered with underlit glass tiles, and then beyond to the outdoor infinity pool carved into the side of the cliff, overlooking the twinkle of the city.

The gym was unlike anything Akira had seen—equipment forged from reinforced steel, heavy columns for climbing, and gravity-defying platforms that tested vampiric speed and strength.

A private movie theater followed, with velvet seating and walls that absorbed every sound. Then a game room—sleek, polished, with an old billiards table, arcade games, and high-tech simulators that buzzed quietly in the corners.

He showed her the study next—lined with towering shelves of ancient tomes and newer novels, golden sconces casting a warm glow on polished blackwood desks.

“Reading is the one vice I’ll never grow out of,” Stone said quietly as she ran her fingers over a leather-bound spine.

Finally, they passed guest rooms—each uniquely styled, yet united by the mansion’s color scheme. When they reached a particular door, he paused.

“This one’s yours, if you want it,” he said.

Akira turned to him. “And yours?”

“End of the hall,” he said. “Close enough, if you ever need me.”

Stone opened the door with a gentle push, stepping aside so Akira could take it all in.

Her bedroom was elegance and drama mixed—soft grays, black, and white, white orchids blooming from crystal vases, and a bed fit for royalty. The chandelier above glimmered with a thousand tiny lights, reflecting on the molding that lined the ceiling like lace. Thick, plush carpet cushioned her steps and large windows drew the light in. Soft silver shadows casted across the room as evening settled.

Akira let out a soft breath. “Wow... this is—beautiful.”

Stone’s lips curled, pleased by her reaction. “Come,” he said gently, guiding her to the open doors of the ensuite bathroom.

If her bedroom was an invitation, the bathroom was a seduction. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city, moonlight bathing the black and white marble in a dreamy glow. The large tub sat beneath the arched windows, filled with warm milk and scattered with rose petals, their delicate scent mixing with honey and vanilla. Candles flickered from every ledge and corner, casting a golden shimmer across the polished floor and glass shower.

She turned to him, eyes wide, chest stirring with something she didn’t want to name just yet. “You did this?”

He nodded once, his expression soft. “I thought you could use something comforting.”

Without hesitation, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him. It was a quick, instinctual motion—but sincere. Her cheek pressed to his chest. Caught off guard, Stone froze for just a beat before his arms came around her, protective and solid. He pressed a kiss to her head.

After a quiet moment, he eased back, brushing his thumb along her shoulder. “I’m going to check in with everyone downstairs—make a few calls. Take your time. Enjoy this. And if you feel like exploring more… the house is yours.”

She watched him go, closing the door gently behind him. Alone now, Akira let the silence wash over her. She undressed slowly, leaving her clothes folded on a nearby bench, and sank into the waiting bath. The warmth enveloped her instantly. She exhaled deeply, letting the tension in her shoulders dissolve. The scent in the air—soft, sweet, sensual—wrapped around her like a second skin.

Her mind wandered as she soaked. So much had changed in so little time.

Would she ever see her friends again? Would she have to build a new life from scratch? She didn’t feel unsafe. But the unknown stretched out before her like the dark Atlantic they'd flown over.

She thought of Stone. His presence, his calm, the way he looked at her like he already knew her. She felt drawn to him, magnetized, but she didn’t know why. Not yet. She needed to know more bout him and this place.

Rising from the tub, she dried off slowly. The room had grown even softer in tone, the moonlight more prominent, dancing against the milk on her skin. When she stepped into the bedroom again, she paused. A black silk nightgown and matching panties were laid neatly across the bed.

She smiled. It was unexpected but thoughtful.

She slipped them on—the silk gliding across her skin—then padded barefoot into the hallway. Most of the lights were off now, the mansion quiet and still, except for the subtle glow of foyer sconces downstairs. Shadows stretched long across the wood floors as she made her way to the study.

When she stepped inside, it was like entering another world.

Cathedral ceilings arched above her, painted like the night sky. Shelves of books reached two stories high, kissed by warm, golden lamplight. The room breathed history, magic, and mystery. She let her fingers drift along the spines of old and new books and the curves of the ornate furniture.

Then—something caught her eye. A single document encased in glass, mounted elegantly on the wall like a relic.

She stepped closer.

It was handwritten. Dark ink on parchment, elegant but unpretentious. It didn’t announce itself with a title—only a date that had long since faded into the page.

She leaned in, eyes scanning the delicate strokes, and began to read.

They say I was the first of my kind, but that's untrue. There were vampires before me. Cruel ones. Ravenous. Blood-crazed kings who saw mortals as cattle, slaves, sport. I was not the first. But I was the first to ask, why must it be this way? I was born Stone Delverne, son of Nyanda—a healer whose spirit was stronger than any god I’ve met since. In Sierra Leone, in a village carved between rivers and stars, she raised me to respect life. To protect the broken. To feed the hungry. To speak only when silence failed. But even the strongest mothers fall ill. Nyanda withered before my eyes. Her breath grew shallow. Her skin, once warm as morning soil, turned cold. The sickness laughed at my prayers. I watched her life slip through my fingers—and I was helpless. Until I wasn’t. The spirits called to me on the night the moon bled. I followed their voice to the cliffs above Bureh Beach, where no man returned the same. There, cloaked in the scent of rain and blood, she came to me. Asayo—the silent loa, mistress of dusk, watcher of the veil. She said nothing, but I understood. Your mother will live, she promised, not in words, but in thunder. But you will not. I gave her my name. My life. My soul. She marked me with her darkness... and gave me one gift in return. The Sun. While the others of my kind hide in shadow, I walk beneath the sky. But there was a price. As long as you carry this light, Asayo warned, you will walk alone. No love will last, unless they too can face the sun. And so I have lived… centuries without a lasting love. My mother, Nyanda, awoke the next morning. Whole. Alive. But when she looked at me, her eyes filled with fear. “You are not my son,” she whispered. And perhaps she was right. I did not age. I did not hunger for food or water. Only blood. But not just any blood. I hunted the wicked. The slavers. The killers. The defilers. I took from those who took too much. And when I found the broken—the hunted, the harmed—I gave them a choice. Death… or eternity. In time, I built a city for them. Kutha’Mara. The City of Second Breath. Hidden deep in a wound of the earth no map dares name. There, the lost find shelter. The hunted become hunters. And I sit upon a throne made of silence and bone. They call me merciful. But mercy is not weakness. Mercy is a blade sharper than vengeance. I am Stone Delverne. Vampire King. Chosen of Asayo. Walker in the Sun. I did not choose this throne. But I was forged for it in blood and love. And somewhere out there beneath the same sun that kisses my skin… She waits for me. The one whose soul does not burn in daylight. The one who will make me whole again.

Akira’s fingers lingered on the edge of the frame, frozen. She didn’t blink.

Her eyes traced the last lines again. She waits for me… The one whose soul does not burn in daylight. She swallowed, her throat tight. Not from sadness—but from admiration. He had given everything for his mother. His name. His life. His soul. There was no glory in it—only grief and devotion. A kind of love that transcended human understanding.

She imagined his hands, once calloused from tending to crops or carrying water for Nyanda. She imagined his silence—not stoic, but sacred. And she wondered what it had cost him… to lose her like that. To be seen and not recognized. To walk centuries alone, just figuring things out. And still, he chose to protect. To build. To offer mercy when the world only gave him pain.

The sound was so soft, she barely heard it. Just the whisper of a door. She turned—startled but composed.

Stone stood in the doorway, framed by the soft amber glow spilling from the hall behind him. He hadn’t said a word, but she could feel the change in the air. That dense, quiet gravity he carried wherever he went. His eyes met hers, then flicked to the glass-encased document. A muscle in his jaw twitched.

“You found it,” he said simply.

Akira stepped back, giving space, though her gaze never left his. “I didn’t mean to snoop.”

“You weren’t snooping,” he said gently, entering the room. “It’s meant to be read.”

His voice was lower than usual, softer, but there was something raw beneath it. A shadow of memory, of loss that hadn’t dulled with time. She hesitated, then asked, “Is it true? All of it?”

Stone’s eyes moved to the parchment. “Every word.”

Akira looked back at the document, then to him again. “You gave up everything for her.”

“She was my world.” It wasn’t boastful. It wasn’t tragic. It was simply the truth.

Akira’s chest ached from empathy and understanding. Because somewhere deep inside, she knew what it was to love someone so fiercely, you’d tear yourself apart to keep them breathing.

“I’ve never read anything like it,” she whispered.

Stone studied her for a moment, something unreadable flickering across his expression. Then he stepped closer, slow, measured, until they stood only a few feet apart.

“I didn’t expect you to find that tonight,” he said softly.

“I’m glad I did,” she said, voice quiet but steady.

His eyes lingered on her face, tracing the contours as if memorizing a map he’d searched lifetimes for. “So am I.”

The chandelier light caught in her thick hair. Her eyes gleamed—not with pity, but something sharper. He recognized it. Reflection. Recognition. A soul not unfamiliar with sacrifice.

They stood in the study like that for a long moment—two immortals surrounded by history and stories.

“When were you turned?” Akira’s voice rose softly in the stillness, cutting through the silence like a careful blade.

Stone tilted his head, arms crossed loosely. The corners of his mouth tugged in a slow, knowing smirk.

“1692.”

Akira’s head snapped toward him, eyes wide in disbelief. “Come again?”

He chuckled under his breath, the sound rich and quiet, like velvet dragging over stone. “You heard me.”

“Sixteen ninety-two?” she repeated, incredulous, as if saying it again might make it more plausible. “That’s… centuries ago.”

Stone walked forward, his steps soundless across the polished floor. “Three hundred and thirty-three years, to be exact.”

Akira blinked, trying to picture it—him, alive in a world of muskets and monarchies, of powder and conquest. He wore the centuries well, like a custom-made suit.

“You don’t look a day over… thirty,” she muttered, her tone laced with awe.

“Charmer,” he murmured with a wink, then added, “I was twenty-eight when I died. Give or take. Time was softer back then.”

She took a step toward him, her gaze still locked on his. “And your mother?”

He nodded once. “Lived well into her nineties. Happy. Married again. Had stepchildren.” He paused. “I never let her see me again, but I watched over her and let that be enough.”

Akira’s heart—or whatever filled the space where it used to beat—tightened. She didn’t press. She didn’t need to. His eyes had already answered everything.

Stone glanced at the encased letter behind her. “You really read it all?”

She nodded, her voice hushed. “Every word.”

He looked away for a moment, as if the act of being known, truly known, was still something he hadn’t quite learned how to sit with.

“What you did for her…” Akira’s voice dropped into something reverent. “That kind of love... it’s rare. Even in life.”

Stone met her gaze again. This time, there was no smirk. Only stillness. “She was everything. Still is.”

Akira nodded, the gravity of his story settling deep within her. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “For sharing that with me and for saving me when you didn’t have to.”

Stone offered a soft, half-smile. “You didn’t need saving, you needed a soft place to land.”

She wanted to ask more—to delve into the centuries of stories he carried behind his eyes—but the weight of the day was catching up to her. Everything she’d seen, everything she’d felt, sat heavy in her bones.

“I think I should get some sleep,” she admitted.

“Of course,” Stone said. He walked with her in comfortable silence, escorting her back to her bedroom.

When they reached the doorway, he turned to her with a soft smile. “Goodnight, Akira.”

“Goodnight, Stone.”

She stepped inside, the quiet click of the door behind her marking a soft end to the evening. Crawling into bed, she tucked herself beneath the covers, but as time progressed sleep refused to come. She tossed and turned, not from discomfort—the bed was like a cloud—but from the restlessness clawing at her mind.

She couldn’t stop thinking about him.

Stone, with his centuries of solitude. Stone, who had given up his life for love. Stone, whose very soul seemed carved out of devotion and silence.

He was doomed, she realized, to walk alone until someone could share the sun with him.

And deep down, she wanted to be that someone. But that was wishful thinking.

She wouldn’t call it love. Not yet. There was still so much to learn, but the ache she felt—to be near him, to feel his presence again—was undeniable. It ignited inside her like a secret flame, and when she shifted beneath the sheets, the damp heat between her thighs betrayed just how deeply her body ached too.

She let out a soft, frustrated huff, sitting up in bed. The room was still, painted in shadows and moonlight.

Quietly, she crept from the bed, careful not to make a sound. Her bare feet padded softly along the cool floor, leading her down the hallway toward the double doors she knew hid his room.

She paused before them, her fingers hovering just above the handle.

Then, slowly, she pushed one open…

Akira slipped through the door, careful to close it without a sound. The room greeted her like a secret—lavish and dark, wrapped in black and gold opulence. The elaborate chandelier above hung from the glossy tiled ceiling. Every glint shimmered like a star pulled from the night sky, burning and bright.

Stone lay on the bed, still and regal, his face half-turned into a pillow, chest still. Asleep, or simply pretending. Either way, he didn’t move.

She hovered near the door for a moment, uncertain, then padded deeper into the room. Her eyes drank in the space.

The black-on-black damask wallpaper caught the light in intricate patterns, like hidden language. The massive headboard, with its dark tufted velvet, indicated a bed fit for a king. Two gold-trimmed nightstands flanked the king bed, each topped with matching lamps.

A fur throw lay draped over the bed, decadent and soft. She reached out and ran her fingers along the edge. Luxurious like everything here.

The mirrored floor beneath her feet reflected not only the room, but her—small, unsure, drawn like a moth to the flame of him.

She turned toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. Beyond them, a private balcony stretched wide, overseeing the lavish backyard.

This wasn’t just a bedroom. It was a story. Every choice was intentional. Power, control, mystery, seduction… and solitude. For all its opulence, the room felt lived in only by one. No signs of shared space. No softness meant for another. Until now.

She let her gaze return to him, still unmoving, and whispered, “This is beautiful… like you.”

And though he didn’t stir, she swore the corner of his mouth lifted—just barely.

Akira moved past the edge of the bed, still quiet in her steps, drawn by the curiosity clawing at her chest. To know someone like Stone—legendary, unreadable, endlessly composed—meant reading between the lines of what he didn’t say. So, she wandered deeper into the suite, letting her curiosity lead.

The door to his bathroom was slightly ajar. She eased it open and stepped into a space that made her pause at it's beauty. Deep black marble covered the floor and walls, traced with silver and gold veins that shimmered beneath soft lighting. A grand, oval soaking tub sat atop a raised platform rimmed in gold, its surface gleaming. A modern chandelier hung from the intricately designed ceiling, and a row of arched, glass-doored showers stood at the far end. Everything was rich, decadent, and flawlessly arranged—another extension of the vampire himself.

Everything was immaculate. Towels folded with precision. A razor resting atop a glass tray. Even his cologne bottles—dark, heavy, expensive—sat in an organized row, like soldiers. She brushed her fingers across one and let herself breathe him in, eyes fluttering shut. Dark. Spicy. Addictive.

She turned from the bathroom and crossed into his walk-in closet—and immediately stopped short.

It was like entering the wardrobe of a man who’d lived many lives. Suits in rich shades—midnight, charcoal, wine—hung neatly in rows. Each piece tailored, handcrafted, a symphony of textures and timeless cuts. Polished shoes lined the bottom shelves in a gradient of shadows. Along one wall, his collection of watches gleamed like quiet trophies, time suspended in every ticking one.

But it wasn’t cold, not here. It felt curated, yes, but not untouchable. She ran her hand along the edge of a jacket sleeve, fingers trailing the fabric. It was like touching part of him—strong, refined, unyielding.

She let out a soft, wistful sigh.

“You’re quite the little trespasser.”

Akira jumped.

Stone’s voice, low and velvet-smooth, slid down her spine before she even turned. He was right behind her, so close she could feel the air shift. Her chest rose as she slowly turned to meet his gaze.

"We'll have to work on your environmental awareness," he teased.

He had on loose brown silk pajama pants that clung low on his hips. His chest was bare, muscular, with light chest hair catching the chandelier’s glow. A faint trail of hair led down from his navel, disappearing into the waistband of his pants. His arms were crossed, and there was that smirk again—lazy, knowing, and far too pleased.

“I—I couldn’t sleep.”

He tilted his head slightly, amusement dancing in those stormy eyes. “So you decided to investigate?”

She swallowed, suddenly aware of how intimate the moment had become. “I wanted to understand you better.”

His smirk deepened. “And?” he asked, voice barely a whisper now. “Do you?”

Akira held his gaze, her voice softer now. “A little,” she admitted. “Enough to know you're… you're a bit guarded, detail-oriented, stylish, sexy, and mysterious. Most of all, you're caring.”

Stone’s smirk faltered, just slightly. The word caring always struck something in him. He stepped closer, slow and deliberate, until there was barely a breath between them. “You see all that from a few suits and cologne bottles?” he murmured, eyes flicking down to her lips before returning to her eyes.

She tilted her head, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “No,” she whispered. “I see it in the way you looked at me when you saved me. In the bath you had drawn. The room you gave me. The way you tell your story... like it's a burden and an oath at the same time.”

His chest rose, slowly. That quiet intensity in her voice—like she saw right through him—unsettled him in a way nothing had in centuries. He reached up, brushing a stray curl from her cheek, letting his knuckles linger against her skin.

“You're dangerous,” he said softly.

She blinked. “Me?”

He nodded once. “You make me forget I was ever cursed,” he said softly.

Their silence pulsed with electricity—restrained yearning.

Then, almost imperceptibly, she leaned forward.

“Wait, Akira,” Stone said suddenly.

She stopped, lips inches from his, her movement stilling.

“I... want you. I do,” he said, voice low and laced with conflict. “But... you read my testament. I haven’t had anything more than short ‘situationships,’ as you youngins say.”

A soft snicker bubbled up between them, breaking the tension like a flicker of light.

But Stone’s expression soon sobered again.

“Anytime I’ve felt for someone, the feelings were short-lived. And there’s nothing I can do to stop it. And if I’m being honest...” He exhaled deeply. “Another reason I left you alone was because I could feel the stir of those feelings inside me. I didn’t want to be another man who disappointed you. So... I can’t give you more than this... more than who Asayo made me to be,” he said, eyes locking with hers.

“What I can promise you is that I will never abandon you again. I can promise you’ll always have a place in Kutha’Mara… and a friend in me—no matter if this love lasts or not.”

Love...

Akira’s eyes widened, soft and startled.

“You... you love me?” she whispered.

Stone nodded slowly, his chest visibly tightening with the weight of confession. “I’ve loved you since you made the move to New York and blossomed into the woman I knew you could be. Since the first time I heard you singing freely in your apartment. Since the first time a smile graced your lips after all the hell he put you thro—”

He didn’t get to finish. Akira surged forward, catching his lips in a deep, hungry kiss, rising onto her toes as if needing to close every last inch between them. Stone met her with the same hunger, one hand cradling her neck, the other wrapping around her waist like a promise.

They paused, lips only centimeters apart.

“I know there’s only so much you can give me, but you gave me something even better than love. You gave me safety. However long your love lasts... I’ll cherish it and our connection forever. Already I feel deeply for you... and I don’t want to fight it.”

Stone’s thumb gently traced her jawline. “I just don’t want to hurt you.”

She smiled, eyes soft but sure. “I’m a big girl, Stone. I understand the risk. But the reward outweighs it. I’d rather be loved properly, even if it’s for a short time, than never experience it at all.”

A slow, pleased smile curved across Stone’s lips. Then, without warning, he turned her around, pressing close until his lips brushed her ear.

“Well in that case,” he murmured, “you wanna show me just how much of a big girl you can be?”

Akira’s body responded instantly, her core pulsing with need as she pushed back against the thick erection pressing into her.

“I do,” she breathed. “But the real question is… can you keep up, old man?”

Stone let out a low, seductive chuckle, a mischievous gleam lighting his stormy eyes.

“Once I’m done with you, you’re going to forget your name,” he growled, before licking slowly up her neck and sucking gently on her ear.

The feel of Stone’s hand trailing up to her left breast sent tingles across her skin. He rubbed and pinched her nipple through the silk of her nightgown, teasing her until it stiffened beneath his touch. A cool draft kissed her thighs as his other hand lifted the hem of her nightgown, baring her ass to the air.

His lips kissed down her neck, past her shoulders, and over the curve of her back until he knelt behind her, face level with her ass.

“These were a great choice, if I do say so myself,” he purred, admiring the way the silk panties hugged her skin. “But they’re in my way.”

He hooked his fingers beneath the delicate fabric and slowly slid them down her toned legs. Akira bit her lip and swayed her hips with deliberate seduction as she stepped out of the garment. She moaned, startled by the light scrape of his teeth across her ass, the gentle nibbles sending sparks through her. His smooth, cool hands kneaded her thighs, lips pressing soft kisses to the fullness of her cheeks.

“Bend over the island,” he murmured.

She obeyed, letting the cold marble press against her front, her nipples tightening at the contact. His hands eased her legs farther apart, granting him a perfect view. She felt bare, wide open, exposed—but she didn’t care. She wanted this. Needed it. And there was no time for hesitation.

Stone’s thumbs spread her slick folds, revealing all of her. His dick twitched behind his pajama pants at the sight. She was stunning—glossy, soft, glistening. Like the most decadent treat he'd ever laid eyes on. Like a juicy chocolate-covered strawberry.

Akira gasped, jolting forward at the sudden swipe of his tongue. A deep, wicked chuckle rumbled behind her just before he dove in again, tongue slow and deliberate as he licked into her sweet center.

He pressed in closer, taking long, slow swipes over her clit with his tongue. Akira whimpered against the back of her hand, resting her head on her crossed forearms. His full lips gave delicate sucks to each fold before latching onto her clit, drawing it into his mouth.

"Uunh!" she moaned loudly.

Her moans were a symphony to Stone’s ears. Every sensual pull of his mouth sent throbbing waves of pleasure through her core. His tongue swirled against her clit before dipping into her clenching entrance, bobbing in and out of her like he was savoring the sweetest fruit. Her back arched as he reached her flooding depth, each stroke dragging her closer to the edge.

"Ooh, that feels s-so good," she stammered, her voice trembling under the weight of her nearing climax. Stone quickened his pace, bringing his fingers to her clit and rubbing in tight, deliberate circles. Akira’s knees buckled as she neared the finish, her pulsing core gripping his tongue with every surge.

Stone groaned into her, savoring the feel of her about to cum. He slipped his tongue from her soaked entrance and licked a firm trail over her puckered rim and up the curve of her ass. Akira whimpered in desperate need, but he soothed her with a low whisper.

“Patience, baby girl.”

He rose and pressed his body flush to hers, lifting her upright against him. One hand slipped down, and he slid his long middle and ring fingers deep inside her, curling them as his palm stroked her clit in rhythmic pulses.

“Now... cum all over these fingers,” he commanded—right as his canines elongated and sank into the very spot of her neck he had sunk into 5 years prior.

A scream tore from Akira’s throat, pleasure-filled and wild, almost melodic. The bite sent her spiraling into the most intense orgasm she’d ever had. Her head fell back against him, eyes wide and fixed on the starry sky visible through the ceiling window. Her light brown irises shifted to glowing red—sex, as she knew it, forever changed. They were connected in ways beyond the physical.

Stone held her trembling form, his fingers still coaxing her through the last waves of her climax. He licked at the blood seeping from her neck, sealing it with soft kisses along her jaw.

Her head turned, their crimson eyes locking—hers alight with something new and powerful.

Then, their lips met in a hungry, breathless kiss.

Tongues danced, lips sucked, and her essence was savored. Once her body stilled from the waves of pleasure, Stone withdrew his fingers and slipped the rest of her nightgown off. His wet fingers trailed slow circles around her right chocolate nipple before he bent down and drew it into his mouth. Every nerve ending he touched was hypersensitive, and Akira couldn’t help but moan.

Her hand reached behind her, rubbing at the monster restrained in his pants. He groaned, his tongue swirling over her nipple before giving it one final suck and stepping back to remove his silk pajamas. His thick length dropped heavily against her backside. She wiggled teasingly against him, earning a sharp smack to her left ass cheek. She bit her bottom lip, a soft whimper escaping her.

“So needy... You want this dick, baby?” he murmured, sliding the tip along her dripping slit.

“Mmm, please give it to me,” she purred.

Stone smirked as he slid into her slowly, feeding her inch by deliberate inch. Her gasp echoed through the closet as she rose onto her toes in a futile attempt to escape the stretch. His large hand wrapped firmly around her neck while the other gripped her waist, angling her body just right.

“Uh uh, I thought you were a big girl, Kira baby,” he teased, thrusting into her with slow, deep strokes.

Akira whimpered, her body shivering at both his rhythm and the way he said her name. “I—mmm... I am,” she moaned.

“Then,” he growled, turning her face toward his, eyes smoldering, “take it like a big girl.”

And with that, he sank deeper inside her, sucking on her bottom lip as she moaned in pleasure. Her hand gripped the one at her waist, her sharp stiletto nails scratching at the glossy island surface for something to hold onto.

Their moans mingled as they shared a rough, hungry kiss. The head of his dick felt like it was buried in her stomach as his strokes grew deeper, harder.

“Oh shiiit, you're so deep,” she moaned against his lips.

Stone groaned low. “And you take me so well… mmm, perfectly.”

Akira’s hand slid from his to his thigh, gripping tightly as he fucked her faster. He was pounding at the gates of ecstasy, and she was ready to enter with him. Her walls clenched around him, wetness coating the base of his thick length. A guttural moan escaped him as he savored the feel—and the look—of her arousal.

“Fuck, there you go. That’s it, love,” he panted into her ear.

Akira tried to keep her squeals buried in her chest, but she failed the moment he angled his hips just right and his dick curved perfectly against her spot. Her nails raked his thigh, her stomach tightening as her climax approached. Moonlight disappeared behind her fluttering eyelids.

Stone’s grip on her neck tightened slightly as he studied every reaction. “Hmm... that it, baby? That’s the spot?”

“Y-yesssss, ple-ease don’t sto-op,” she stammered.

His groans in her ear, the rhythm of his strokes, his towering presence, and the lingering pulse of his bite—it was the perfect storm. And just when she thought she couldn’t take anymore, his fingers tapped at her clit and began rubbing up and down, summoning her release.

“Stone! Fuuuck!” she cried out as the pearly gates flew open. Her body trembled, pussy pulsing around him, milking his own release. He grunted deeply into her shoulder as he spilled thick, hot cum inside her. His thrusts slowed, guiding them both gently through the high.

When he stilled and her senses returned to Earth, a breathless giggle slipped from her lips. Stone smiled against her shoulder at the sound.

“I think... I just saw God,” she murmured, and he chuckled softly.

His plush lips trailed slow kisses along her neck as he let her go from his gentle hold. “Glad to hear it,” he murmured.

“I haven’t had any partners since turning,” she confessed quietly. “I’ve pleasured myself, of course... but it never felt quite like this.”

Stone smirked at her honesty. He eased out of her, their mixed release dripping from her onto the dark wood floor. He turned her gently by the waist to face him.

“Sex as a vampire is... more heightened,” he said, studying her features as if seeing her for the first time. “But with you... it’s almost overstimulating. I think when I turned you and gave you my blood, it threaded something deeper between us.”

His thumb rubbed along her cheek while his arm remained hooked around her waist, holding her close.

She looked up at him, brows knitting in curiosity, still dazed from the intensity of it all. “You’ve never done that before?” she asked.

He shook his head slowly, brushing her hair from her face. “No. I’ve never felt the urge to. But that night... it felt necessary. Maybe it was the blood loss, maybe it was something more. Whatever it was... I don’t regret it,” he said, his gaze warm. “This? This is a beautiful bonus.”

Akira's eyes twinkled as she stared up at him, biting her lower lip. Knowing she was the only one to ever receive his blood in all his vampire existence did something to her. It was as if he had claimed her once with the turning, then again with the bite. She knew whatever this was might be temporary, but for now, she would savor every moment.

Stone's thumb brushed over her bottom lip as he stared into her eyes. “Keep looking at me like that... and watch what happens,” he teased, voice low and threatening in the most delicious way.

Akira’s lips curved into a sly smile as she parted them and sucked on his thumb.

Don’t threaten me with a good time...

His dick twitched against her stomach, and in the next breath—faster than she could react—he lifted her into the air, her thighs hooking instinctively into the crook of his arms. She squealed in surprise, laughing breathlessly as she looped her arms around his neck while he carried her toward the bedroom.

The silver light pouring in from his balcony washed over the sharp lines of his handsome face, casting him in a celestial glow. She couldn't help but drink him in—the striking beauty of him, the hungry, possessive look he gave her.

Her trance shattered the moment he lowered her onto his dick and plunged deep inside her soaked pussy.

“Shit...” she gasped, eyes rolling back as her back arched and her head lolled.

Stone groaned low in his throat, pressing his mouth to her sensitive nipple. He demonstrated his inhuman strength easily, bouncing her on his thick length with powerful arms. The sound of their bodies meeting filled the room, raw and intense.

"Fuck, you look so pretty taking this dick," Stone growled, his eyes drinking in her every reaction. Her breasts bounced with every thrust, nipples stiff and needy, her lips parted in moans aimed toward the ceiling. He had fantasized about this moment countless times—but nothing compared to the real thing.

Akira felt like she might break from the relentless pleasure he was driving into her. Her hands slid down to grip his biceps tightly, nails digging into his skin as her whines and cries filled the room. Wet, squelching sounds echoed between them, her pussy drenching and gripping his thick shaft with every thrust. Tears welled in her eyes from the overwhelming sensation.

"Stone... pl-please," she whimpered.

He groaned, easing her up until only the swollen tip of him teased her entrance, making her whine in frustration. "Please what, baby?"

She whimpered again, trying to grind herself onto him for more. "Please let me cum... please," she moaned desperately.

"Look at me," he commanded, keeping his shallow thrusts maddeningly slow.

Akira struggled, but managed to open her eyes, meeting the intensity of his gaze. A shiver bolted down her body straight to her clit and deep into her core. This man was ruining her in the most glorious way.

"I want to see you cum. Keep those pretty eyes open. Understand?" he groaned.

She nodded urgently.

"Words, baby," he demanded, plunging deep enough to make her squeal.

"Yes, Daddy! Fuck!" she cried out.

Their grunts and needy moans mixed in the air as he filled her again and again, each deep thrust brushing her swollen g-spot, pushing her closer to the edge. Her eyes fluttered, struggling to stay open.

"S-Stone," she stuttered breathlessly.

"Cum for me, Akira," he ordered as her walls clamped down around him. "Give it to me."

He drew her tighter against him, delivering short, powerful thrusts. The friction against her clit with every movement was the final push she needed.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck, shit!" she sobbed as her brow furrowed and a gush of warm release squirted against his pelvis and abs. Tears slid down her cheeks as her orgasm ripped through her like a force of nature.

"That's a good girl," Stone murmured between grunts.

As he released his heavy load inside her, sealing their connection with a deep, hungry kiss, neither noticed the pair of envious eyes watching them from the shadows of the balcony.

To be continued...

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Welp! Who do y'all think was being a peeping Tom, hm? I am so excited to go down this journey. I'm not sure how many parts there will be by the end of this... I wanted to do four, but the way my mind is coming up with ideas, I don't think four will do. I'll make a post with the face claims and all the things—just stay tuned.

Just got back from Sinners and it's put a battery in my back. I really hope you enjoyed the first part of my vampire romance. Let me know what you think, and if you'd like to be in my taglist for all my work.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Taglist:

@slvt4her @wanderingreigns @avoidthings @xjjawsomex @that-one-anxious-mango @wabi-sabi1090 @nubiawrites @prettyisasprettydoes1306 @kianaleani @slutsareteacherstoo @slyy-foxx @dxddykenn @moujg @naughtynolly @wildcardmelaninfreak @pocketsizedpanther @wabi-sabi1090 @styleismyaddiction @novahreign @transparentphantomface @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @babymelaninn @jasmynn05 @notapradagurl7 @starcrossedxwriter

#aaron pierre #aaron pierre smut #terry richmond #terry richmond smut #jayme lawson #fanfic #aaron pierre fic #black writers #fanfiction #vampire smut #vampire oc #vampire fanfiction #aaron pierre x black reader #aaron pierre fanfic #aaron pierre x black!oc #aaron pierre x oc

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dazaih · 1 day ago

Text

wingman - luke skywalker x reader

you can find the previous chapters here

chapter ten -> unexpected encounters

your university roommate han solo finds a rival (and love interest) in student council president leia skywalker, but both of them are too stubborn to admit that they have feelings for each other. luckily, you and her twin brother, luke, devise a plan to get the two of them to spend more time together. challenges arise, however, when you start to develop a crush on him.

chapter warnings: discussion of past violence, making out in public, slight nipple stuff, drinking and smoking, little bit of jealousy, luke has gross friends

a/n: sorry for glazing lando but i do fully believe that luke would think he’s hot asf. also i’m excited for the next chapter—but we r making it closer to the end!

Communication with Luke had been sparse lately, as soccer was picking up quite a bit. He still texted you every few days though. He had started taking photos of food he was having and sharing them with you, often with little captions detailing what it was and how he ranked it. You began looking forward to his food reviews, as you loved entertaining his interests. He would also often ask you for movie recommendations when he was traveling on the bus for games, which were farther and farther away as playoffs grew closer. Despite your busy schedules, you were keeping in touch. That made you happy.

When you arrived home on Friday evening, you were surprised to see Leia sitting at your kitchen table. Han was wearing glasses—something he refused to do in front of anyone other than you and Chewie—and a book sat open before him, but he wasn’t reading it. Rather, he was pinching the bridge of his nose, looking downright upset.

“Hello,” Leia greeted you, giving you a forced smile.

“Hey,” you replied, trying to assess the tension in the room, “Are you guys okay?”

“They arrested him,” she said simply. It took you a couple of seconds to realize that she was talking about Fett. She didn’t deliver it like it was good news. Han said nothing, staring down at the table.

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

“Han isn’t going to press charges.”

You whipped your head around to face him, surprised by his decision.

“What?” you exclaimed, but he avoided your eyes, “He tried to kill you, Han.”

“I am not pressing charges against Boba Fett,” he replied slowly, with a sense of finality that made your nerves spike.

“Han, your testimony could put him away for a long, long time—“ Leia tried, but he cut her off.

“You guys don’t get it. You don’t get what they’re like. He’s just the messenger.”

“Then what will you do?” you asked, hands on your hips as you stared him down.

“Repay my debt,” he answered, sighing, “And I’ll probably have to add in a little more since Lando’s eyewitness account is what got him thrown in jail. I’m already in deep enough shit as it is. I am not pressing charges, and I sure as hell ain’t gonna testify in court. Are you guys fucking crazy?”

“You can’t repay your debt. You’re taking an additional semester. It’s gonna be a long time before you’re making enough money to even pay a fraction of it,” you argued, growing increasingly desperate by the second, “Let me chip in, at least. Or I can cover your rent for the rest of the year.”

He said nothing. You felt bile rise in your throat as another realization began to set in.

“You are not going to work for them again,” you asserted, sitting down in the chair across from him, “Han, you said yourself that you can’t—“

“I don’t have any other choice.”

“That’s not true,” Leia said, avoiding his gaze, “We can press charges against Fett, and then prosecution could offer him a plea deal in exchange for giving them information about the Hutts, which we could use to get their entire operation shut down—“

“There is no we, Leia,” he snapped, “Just stop. Both of you. It’s my shit, and I’ll figure it out. It’s not anyone else’s business.”

“He attacked my brother, Han.”

“And he’s not gonna do it again if you guys just stay out of it from now on.”

“What if I press charges then?” you asked.

His head snapped up then, and he gave you a desperate look that you’d never seen on him before. It made you uneasy.

“Do not. Please.”

The edge to his voice shattered any of your prior audacity, and you stared at him for a moment, bewildered by the level of emotion radiating from him. He almost looked like he might cry, but you’d never seen him do that, so such a thought was unfathomable to you.

“Okay,” you conceded, reaching out and grabbing his hands to try to comfort him, “I won’t. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s gonna be okay,” he said, whether it was to himself or to you, you weren’t quite sure, and then he sharply turned to Leia, “And please don’t tell me what I think you’re gonna tell me.”

“I’m sorry,” she replied, pursing her lips and staring at her folded hands, “Even if Luke doesn’t testify, I don’t think the state will drop it. He’s a high profile victim.”

“Why’d you have to go and fuck the senator’s kid?” he asked you, his head hanging low, “Fuck. Fuck.”

“Han—“

“Call him. Call him right now and tell him not to press charges.”

“You can’t ask me to do that,” she protested, though she seemed apologetic about it, “Look, Han. We can get this straightened out, okay?”

“Stop saying we,” he pleaded, and then, with a final sigh, he stood and threw his glasses down onto the table, “I’m going for a drive.”

“Don’t shut us out,” Leia told him, standing to match his stature.

“Stay out of it, Leia,” he said, pointing a finger in her face.

With that, he grabbed his keys and slammed the door shut behind him.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

A few days had passed since you’d learned of Boba Fett’s arrest. Han had tried to pretend like nothing had changed since then, but you were now constantly regarding each other with an air of suspicion. He was worried that you would follow through on your previous threat to testify, and you were afraid that he would resume contact with the Hutts. It was an uncomfortable situation, you and Chewie walking on eggshells around him at every turn.

Adding to your stress was the fact that you didn’t know whether or not Luke would testify. You didn’t think you could just ask him that, but the question loomed over you.

One evening, things came to a head. You and Chewie were sitting on the couch eating ice cream and watching reality television when Han stormed inside and threw his stuff down, staring at you both pointedly.

“We’re going out tonight,” he stated, arms crossed in front of his chest.

“Okay?” you replied, unsure of where this was coming from.

“We’re gonna have a good time. And we’re not gonna talk about any of that bullshit. And you’re both gonna stop looking at me like you feel sorry for me.”

You shared a nervous glance with Chewie, who offered you a reassuring nod. Alright, then.

“This feels irresponsible,” you noted, anxiously chewing your bottom lip, “But okay. Where do you want to go?”

“Wherever the music is,” he answered, grinning, “Be ready in an hour.”

You entertained his request. Your cooperation was due in part to being genuinely worried about him and wanting him to be able to have a nice night, but also because you were excited to spend time with him again in a way that didn’t feel tense or awkward. You didn’t bother dressing up tonight; something casual paired with Han’s leather jacket would suit you just fine. He was ready right when he said he would be, and the three of you headed downtown to scout out some live music.

Fortunately, you were successful pretty early on. You hadn’t really wanted to bar hop tonight, so this worked out well. Less fortunately, however, was that this was a quite a popular venue, and the band was doing cheesy pop covers to appeal to your peers. You would need to have at least one drink to enjoy it, you realized, so you headed off towards the bar.

When you arrived, however, you were surprised to find that none other than Lando was sitting there, in deep discussion with one of his friends.

“Well, look who we have here!” he cheered when he caught sight of you, standing to hug you in that uniquely charismatic way of his.

“Hey,” you greeted him tiredly, not bothering to be polite, “Han’s here, and I think he’s kind of pissed at you for handing over an eyewitness report without consulting him first. Just a heads up.”

“Can’t I want to talk to you for a bit before facing his wrath?” he asked cheekily, gesturing for you to take the seat next to him, “Vodka cran, right?”

Before you could reply, he waved over the bartender and ordered you a double, flashing you a perfect smile.

“Thanks,” you said slowly, narrowing your eyes at him.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

“Yeah, not to be a dick or anything, but you were kind of complacent in someone I love being beaten within an inch of his life. And now you’re buying me a drink like the last time I saw you wasn’t horribly traumatic. I’m not really feeling up to exchanging pleasantries right now. Sorry.”

He studied you for a moment, his eyes so serious that you thought he might start berating you. You jumped in your seat a little when he burst out into laughter, shaking his head at you like you were an old friend.

“No wonder Han is so fond of you,” he mused, smiling at you again, “I am sincerely sorry about what happened that night, but you should know that he and I have been in touch since. He understands that I legally have to report incidents like that as an employee.”

“Begrudgingly,” a voice behind you snapped.

You let out a sigh of relief when Han and Chewie appeared next to you, providing some respite in such an uncomfortable situation. Chewie placed a comforting hand on your shoulder, and you offered him a sip of your drink.

“Chewie! And Han, dear friend,” Lando said happily, standing and embracing the other man, “To whom I owe many favors.”

“We’ll see if you make good on your part,” he grumbled, “Seems like you’re wasting money on flattery right now.”

“Not flattery,” he denied, something smug about him, “Just being friendly.”

“A little too friendly.”

“Han,” he reprimanded, clicking his tongue before turning to you, “How do you stand him being so protective of you? He’s acting like your mother.”

In spite of yourself, you smiled a little at the absurdity of Han being called motherly in any sense of the word.

“I manage,” you replied a little less coldly than before.

You relaxed further when Han just rolled his eyes and slapped Lando on the back hard enough to hurt, leaning down so that the other man could mumble something in his ear. Han looked at you curiously before nodding at something Lando said, and then he stood, messed up your hair, and walked away with Chewie at his side.

“I’ve been given a task,” Lando explained, leaning a bit closer to you, “One that I’m happy to oblige, if you’re willing.”

“Excuse me?”

He leaned forward to whisper in your ear, but made no move to touch you or invade your space.

“Don’t look now, but Skywalker is watching.”

There was no way Luke could be here. You supposed it was quite crowded and you’d only just arrived, but how had you not seen him? And why would he be staring at you? Had Lando not warned you against it, you would’ve immediately turned to find Luke in the crowd, unbelieving of the idea that he’d be looking at you.

“And?” you dared to press, suddenly feeling his eyes on you and knowing that it had to be true.

“You’re tangled up in some sort of mess with him, aren’t you?”

You chewed the inside of your cheek for a second, mulling over his question. Your shoulders slumped as you forced yourself to admit it out loud for the first time.

“Yeah, I guess I am,” you confessed, chasing the words down with your drink.

“I think it’s mutual, if you don’t mind me saying as much,” he told you, taking a sip of his own beverage, “He comes to Cloud City a lot. I haven’t seen him with anyone else since the night he came to your defense. It’s unusual for him.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Then why’s he glaring at me?”

The prospect seemed so outright ridiculous to you that you couldn’t help but laugh, the sound bitter and frustrated.

“It’s probably just because he thinks you’re a dick for taking Fett’s bribe at first.”

“Ouch,” he winced, but he didn’t stay down for long, “But I don’t think so. He’s not that confrontational. Only when you’re involved.”

“Cut it out,” you warned, not wanting to get your hopes up.

“So what you two have is more complicated than it seems, I suppose,” he noted coolly, looking over your shoulder, “His drink is empty, but he hasn’t come over to the bar since you’ve been here. He probably can’t stomach the idea that I’m showing you a good time—doesn’t wanna deal with it up close. If only he knew you were actually laughing at me rather than with me.”

“You deserve it,” you murmured, though a sheepish smile tugged at your lips.

“I won’t argue with that.”

You giggled at that, unable to fully fend off Lando’s charm, and felt some of the tension drain from your limbs. You weren’t sure what kind of truce they’d arranged yet, but you knew that if Han had any doubts about Lando’s intentions, he would’ve never left you alone with him—even if he was in the same room, likely observing you like a hawk from afar.

“I should tell you that Han was comfortable enlisting help from me,” he said seriously, “I’ll make sure the trouble stops here, okay? He’s not gonna get hurt again. You have my word.”

The admission surprised you, and you couldn’t help the widening of your eyes, your disbelief unable to be concealed.

“His debt will be paid. It might take a while, but we’ll ensure that the Hutts are confident in his ability to give them their money.”

“You’re gonna help him smuggle drugs,” you realized bitterly, once again feeling betrayed by Lando, “He can’t—“

“This is better than him going alone, which was his initial plan. This way, he’ll at least have protection.”

You moved to get up from your seat, but Lando placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, urging you to sit back down. You obliged him for reasons you didn’t fully understand, and he offered you a glass of water out of gratitude.

“You should also know that Leia Skywalker approached me before he did.”

That intrigued you. You settled back into your seat fully then, picking your vodka cran back up and taking a dignified sip of it, a silent demand for him to continue.

“You can’t tell him about any of this,” he warned, leaning forward and whispering to you once more, “We’re gonna have him work under the Hutts for a little while to clear him of suspicion, show that he’s a loyal underling and all once he’s been scared straight. He won’t be doing this for long.”

“And then what?”

He pursed his lips together at that and shook his head, giving you an apologetic look.

“You’re not gonna tell me?” you asked, irritated.

“I’m sorry. It’s better that you don’t feel like you’re keeping secrets from him, isn’t it?”

“It’s better that I know he’s safe.”

“You’ll just have to trust me.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“Do you trust Leia?”

You fell silent. Fine.

“You’re a good friend,” he told you before looking over your shoulder again, musing, “Ah. Shouldn’t have touched you, I suppose. I’ve poked the bear.”

Before you could figure out what he was talking about, you heard someone call your name excitedly, and suddenly a pair of strong arms looped around your neck, a kiss being placed on top of your head. You looked up to see Luke standing above you, leaning over your chair to keep you in a half hug without forcing you to stand.

“Hi,” he said, smiling brightly at you. There was an edge to him, though, and when you looked over your shoulder you could see Han smirking.

He must’ve said something to Lando about your infatuation with Luke, you realized. He was conspiring with the other man to make Luke jealous. It was so stupid, and so ridiculously Han that you wanted to laugh. Even more absurd was that it appeared to be working.

“Luke Skywalker,” Lando greeted, “Heard you all had a pretty nice game today.”

You couldn’t see Luke’s expression very well from this angle, but you thought he might’ve been annoyed.

“It was a lot of fun,” he replied politely, arms still wrapped around you.

“It seemed like fun. I don’t usually watch college sports on television, but I figured I’d tune in to see one of my favorite customers. You were fantastic.”

“Thank you,” he said, sounding somewhat thrown off by Lando’s sudden interest in his sport, “They were an aggressive team, so we needed a drink after that.”

“I’m sure. Seemed like they were giving you in particular quite a bit of trouble. I’m glad to see you’re doing well.”

Luke narrowed his eyes at him, but didn’t react further.

“Right,” he replied, sounding skeptical, “Well, if you don’t mind, I might have to steal your company for a bit. We haven’t seen each other in a while.”

You were surprised by that. You didn’t think he’d be so bothered by Lando that he’d want to pull you away from him, and you had to pretend not to be as amused as you were.

“That’s a shame, but I understand,” Lando said, before turning to you and smugly adding, “Well, if you’re able to make time for me later tonight, I’d love to continue our conversation.”

He threw in a wink, and your cheeks flushed in spite of yourself.

“Maybe. Thanks for the drink, Lando,” you murmured, standing.

“Bye, Lando!” Luke cheered, feigning innocence but looking proud of himself. He put his hand on your lower back then and guided you into the crowd, successfully getting you alone and near the wall. He was becoming skilled at dragging you away to locations that fulfilled those two requirements in particular.

Rather than interrogate you about Lando, however, the first thing he did was pull you into a hug. He pulled away to pepper kisses across your forehead, behaving as if the two of you were lovers who hadn’t seen each other in forever. The latter was true, but Han’s presence was likely responsible for the theatrics.

“It’s been too long,” he sighed, finally looking you in the eye, “Sorry. I’m not trying to be possessive or anything, I just—I needed to see you. And I don’t particularly like Lando, especially when he’s trying to embarrass me.”

“I don’t know how to feel about him. He bought me a drink, though.”

“I noticed.”

His tone made you giggle.

“How was he trying to embarrass you? Seemed like he was kissing your ass.”

“And that’s embarrassing,” he clarified, “But actually, he was about to bring up how some guys on the other team were being kind of rough with me. I could tell.“

“If you say so,” you hummed, tucking a blond curl behind his ear, as you often did these days, “Why were they being rough with you?”

“Because I’m good,” he replied, grinning.

“Right, right. Sorry, Captain.”

“I forgive you,” he told you, hands making their way down to gently grab your hips, “Couldn’t stay mad at you. Especially not when you look like this.”

“I look like shit,” you laughed, recalling that you hadn’t put much effort into your outfit tonight, “You’re just wound up because those guys were being ‘rough’ with you earlier, right?”

“Hey!” he gasped, giggling in the way that always made your head spin, “That’s crazy to say. I haven’t seen you in over a week and you’re making fun of me already.”

“It’s how I express affection,” you teased, leaning into him and placing a hand on his chest, “It’s okay, Luke. I know how easy you are to rile up. It’s only natural that a bunch of men in tight clothes getting handsy would—“

He cut you off by planting a kiss on your lips. He was likely only trying to shut you up, but you responded by biting his bottom lip, causing his grip on you to tighten. He sighed into the kiss, melting into you.

“Luke!”

There was a slim possibility that he just didn’t hear him, but Luke most likely deepened the kiss out of spite, hand coming up to your neck as he forced your lips apart even wider. He usually relented to your control at some point, but perhaps having an audience emboldened him, because he fully took the lead as he guided you backwards into the wall. You matched his fervor, looping your arms around his neck to give him more access to your body. He responded by slotting a knee between your thighs, his free hand near the hem of your shirt, practically begging to slip beneath the fabric and feel your skin.

“All good?” he pulled back to ask as you panted, the speed at which the encounter had escalated making you a little dizzy. You nodded, but he chastised you by clicking his tongue, lips close to your ear as he whispered, “I need to hear you say it, baby. We’re in public, it’s crowded, and I don’t wanna push you.”

“Yes,” you told him, nodding again, “I mean, I don’t wanna fuck in front of everybody or anything, but I wouldn’t be opposed to you touching me.”

“Wouldn’t be opposed to it?” he teased, gently nipping the skin by your jaw, “What exactly are you unopposed to?”

“You were about to put your hands under my shirt. Can’t you just do that?” you griped, squirming a little as his fingertips ghosted your ribs.

“Why did you just ask?”

You rolled your eyes, but your attitude dissolved when he finally complied, hand inching closer and closer to your chest. When he gently pressed the pad of his thumb against your nipple, you sighed, tilting your head and letting it rest against the wall. He attached his lips to your neck then, kissing down the side as he fondled your chest with the perfect amount of pressure, making you feel a little dizzy. Compiled with the fact that he didn’t mind if anyone saw him take you apart like this made your heart swell, and you felt a tinge of pride at the realization that you looked like you were his in this moment.

“Luke!” someone hollered again, and he reacted by softly biting the sensitive spot above your collarbone, causing you to quietly moan. You felt him smile against your skin, and you knew then that he definitely heard the calls of his friends.

“They’re trying to get your attention,” you managed to say, gasping a little as he continued to suck bruises into your skin, “Luke, they’re yelling for you—“

“They need to learn how to take a hint,” he mumbled, lightly pinching your nipple between his fingertips, “Do you want me to stop?”

“I mean, I don’t mind,” you replied quietly. He had the audacity to giggle.

“I can see that,” he whispered, lips now dangerously close to your ear, “Haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. About your mouth. I’ve missed you.”

His words set your cheeks ablaze, and you responded by holding him closer to you. He laughed again and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, looking at you with an emotion that seemed like something much more than lust.

“I missed you too,” you told him, feeling a little shy from your confession, “I’m glad to see you here.”

“I didn’t wanna go out tonight, but they always drag me somewhere after a win. I’m feeling a lot better about being here now though.”

You couldn’t help the grin that you were sporting, far too happy to hear that he was this excited to see you.

“Is that why you’re so eager tonight?” you teased.

“I also didn’t really like seeing Lando flirt with you,” he mumbled, looking down at his shoes for a moment, “I’m sorry. I know I’m not your boyfriend, but—I don’t know, actually. I’m not entitled to your time more than anyone else, I realize that, but I just really hated watching that.”

“He was trying to make you jealous,” you confessed, feeling embarrassed, “I think Han may have told him to.”

Luke cocked his head a little at you then, and subsequently burst into a fit of giggles. He looked around the room for Han, but due to the crowd he was unable to find him. Still, he shook his head fondly, surprising you with his reaction.

“Of course he did,” he mused, grinning, “He must have seen me before you did, then. But Lando was still a little too happy to indulge him.”

“Uh oh,” you frowned, perhaps a bit mockingly, “Am I banned from talking to Lando now? That’s a shame. He’s kind of cute.”

“Hey,” he pouted, pinching your nipple again to remind you of what you were supposed to be in the middle of, “No, you’re not banned from talking to Lando. That’s stupid as fuck. I don’t consider myself particularly possessive.”

“How noble,” you snorted, but you smiled nonetheless, because of course he wasn’t. Luke was just too nice, too good at emotionally regulating to ever actually instigate anything just because he was feeling jealous. His ability to think through situations like that was part of the reason why you adored him so much.

“But I’d be lying if I said I’d be happy for you,” he admitted, pressing a kiss to your jaw, “Well, like, objectively speaking I might be a little happy for you. Lando’s really hot, and he’s a smooth talker. He’s like a much more polite version of Han. I don’t even know how mad I could be if you guys got together. Like, I would be disappointed, because I’d want it to be me, but—“

“Woah,” you interjected, “You’d want it to be you? As in you’d want to be the one dating Lando? Because that’s what it sounds like.”

You both laughed at that, Luke’s eyes bright even in the dim lighting of the bar.

“I’d be jealous of both of you, sure,” he teased, hands falling to grab your waist, “But I’d be especially jealous of him. I won’t stop you from pursuing Lando, if that’s what you wanna do, but I’d love it if you pursued me instead.”

His honesty was amusing and disarming, and you once again couldn’t conceal your laughter. You lightly shoved him, which he replied to with a grin, assuring you that this was all in good fun. You loved that the two of you could go from making out against the wall to making fun of each other on the flip of a dime. Everything with Luke felt natural, and everything was so incredibly fun.

“Are you sure? It sounds like you might have a crush on Lando.”

“I’d be stupid to refuse Lando, but he doesn’t flirt with me,” he replied, grinning, “And no. The only person I have a crush on is you.”

You wouldn’t have let yourself believe that he really meant that if it weren’t for the way his expression fell as soon as the words left his mouth. His eyes widened and his face paled, and he almost looked like he was panicking.

“I’m sorry. Listen, I’m—“

Before he could explain, Elias was behind him, grabbing his shoulders. Luke’s stress didn’t fully disappear, but now he looked more irritated than anything else.

“Luke!” Elias shouted, even though the other man was standing right next to him, “We’ve been looking everywhere for you. Come on, man. We’re supposed to be celebrating you.”

He had no chance to protest before Elias was shoving him towards the bar. In a moment of apparent desperation, Luke reached out and grabbed your hand, effectively tacking you onto their group for the night. He shook Elias off by agreeing to follow him, and immediately entangled your fingers.

He mouthed an I’m sorry to you, but he didn’t let go of your hand. Something about it was strangely sweet, so you decided to put up with his friends for the time being. When you arrived at the bar, however, you saw Lando in the company of Han and Chewie. Han had never actually interacted with Luke’s friends before, and anxiety twisted in your gut.

“Fuck,” Luke hissed under his breath, and you looked around to see that quite a large crowd had gathered around the corner of the bar, anticipating his arrival. Most of the soccer team appeared to be there, and a considerable number of other people you assumed were in their friend group stood there as well. Of course, Marie and her friends were present too, and you tried to channel some of Luke’s overall good intentions despite his apparent jealousy.

“Luke!” a girl you didn’t recognize greeted him, pulling him into a hug. He politely returned it and told her hello, as he did with the people to follow in her footsteps for the next few minutes. Finally, one of his teammates presented him with a rather large mug of beer, thrusting it into his hands and spilling some of it onto his shirt.

“To Luke and his nomination for the Hermann Trophy. Way to go, man. Cheers.”

The group applauded and yelled some explicative words that were supposed to be praise, tilting their glasses to the ceiling in a toast. You had no idea what the Hermann Trophy was supposed to be, but it sounded like a positive thing, so you joined them in their applause. He smiled and took a sip of his beer, but the teammate from earlier then shoved it closer to his face, spilling some of it onto his neck in the process.

“Chug it!” someone hollered, and you saw Luke grimace.

“This is huge,” he remarked in a weak attempt to defend himself. As expected, no one cared. They all looked at him, waiting. He sighed and relented, forcing the liquid down his throat. It took him over a minute to chug the entirety of the mug’s contents, and he looked like he was trying not to gag afterwards. The boys cheered him on again, a few of them slapping him on the back rather harshly in congratulations. Marie ran over to him next, throwing her arms around him and talking right in his ear.

Chewie appeared behind you then, gently guiding you towards Han and Lando on the other side of the bar.

“What’s all that shit about?” Han asked, raising his eyebrow at you.

“He got nominated for some award, I guess. I think they just want an excuse to drink, and he’s their poster child. So.”

“You don’t know about the Hermann Trophy?” Lando asked. You shook your head.

“It goes to the best soccer player in the country. It’s the most prestigious award you can get in the sport,” he explained, looking at Luke, who was having another drink shoved in his face.

“Oh,” you replied quietly. You felt guilty and weirdly ashamed to not have known. Luke also never told you, which was a little hurtful.

“He’s been scouted a for it a few times, but people would’ve been pissed if he won over an upperclassman. It looks like he might actually get it this year.”

“You sure know a lot about our soccer team to not even go to school here,” Han snorted, “You a big fan of Luke, Lando?”

“I’m a local,” he shrugged, smiling, “And of course. He’s my favorite patron.”

“Well, good thing this ain’t your bar, because they’re making a mess over there.”

“And they’re being annoying,” you added, watching as Marie offered him a shot. You noticed that he didn’t try to pour it into her mouth, and you felt a little smug.

“You gonna rescue him?” Han asked.

“I’m supposed to be hanging out with you tonight,” you argued quietly, still staring at Luke.

“Uh huh,” he said, slinging an arm around your shoulders, “Didn’t seem to be a concern to you when he was shovin’ his tongue down your throat a few minutes ago, sweetheart.”

“You saw that?” you squawked, mouth agape. Lando chuckled.

“Sure I did. Had to keep an eye on Lando to make sure he didn’t take any drastic artistic liberties, but I wasn’t expecting the kid to react that strongly. Almost sent Chewie over to set him straight.”

Chewie shook his head, as if to say I wouldn’t have done that. You giggled at his reaction in spite of yourself.

“If you had done that, I would’ve been really pissed,” you told them both, pointing your finger in Han’s face, “You can’t try to wingman for me and then get mad about the results. Those are the consequences of your actions.”

“I wasn’t expecting him to be so forward,” Han argued, “But maybe if you had been honest with me about the two of you fucking, I would’ve had a better idea of how far he was willing to go.”

“First of all, we’re not fucking. Second of all, that’s really bold coming from you, Han, because I’m pretty sure Leia wore your shirt home the other night. But whatever.”

Han looked affronted for a moment before scoffing and taking a drink of his whiskey. Lando laughed and shook his head, regarding Han with something akin to fondness.

“The twins have done a number on you both, huh? Glad you’re staying out of this mess, Chewie.”

Chewie grunted and held his hands up, making it very clear that he had no interest in getting involved with a Skywalker.

“I’m surprised Leia puts up with you though, Han. She doesn’t want anything to do with me,” Lando added, likely trying to get a reaction out of the other man. You laughed.

“Careful, Lando. Han’s the jealous type. Much worse than Luke.”

“I know. I’ve seen it in person before. He’s a menace.”

“Alright, alright. I don’t know how this turned into everyone shitting on me, but that’s enough,” he snapped, though he squeezed your shoulder affectionately and ordered you a light drink anyway.

“Speaking of Luke, he sure is popular tonight,” Han mused, only catching glimpses of the other man as he was bombarded by the crowd around him.

“He always is,” Lando replied, “And this is just for the watchlist. Imagine what will happen if he actually wins it.”

“Doesn’t look too happy though, huh?”

“He doesn’t like beer,” you added quietly, taking a sip of your own drink, “And he doesn’t like a lot of those people either.”

“Are you really gonna leave him to the wolves?” Han asked, sounding a little worried. You liked it when he fretted over Luke; it was sweet.

“He’s a grown man. And I don’t wanna make any assumptions.”

“You’d hardly be making assumptions. That boy is enamored by you,” Lando stated. Like it was some sort of fact.

“It’s really not like that.”

The only person I have a crush on is you. Could he have really meant that? Letting yourself get your hopes up would only hurt more in the end, but you couldn’t help but wonder.

“All four of you are dim. How do you stand it, Chewie?”

“Four of us?” Han asked, offended.

“The twins and you two. You need to get yourselves sorted out, because it’s getting painful to watch. And I’m only around every once in a while. I can’t image how poor Chewie feels.”

Chewie nodded in agreement, but a small smile played at his lips. Han rolled his eyes.

“Hey.”

You turned sharply at the voice you didn’t immediately recognize, only to see Biggs standing there.

“Hi,” you replied awkwardly, not quite sure what he could want. Han, apparently, took that as a sign that you were uncomfortable, because he took it upon himself to then intervene.

“Can we help you?” he asked, glaring at the other man. Biggs looked a little put off by that.

“Um, yeah. Sorry to bother you, but they’re about to try to haul Luke off to a bar crawl.”

“Okay?” you replied, eyebrow raised.

“And then they want him to go to this after party at Marie��s. And they’re gonna try to get them together.”

“Thanks for letting me know,” you snorted, turning back around to face Han and the others.

“I think he’d rather hang out with you.”

Your heart clenched at his words, but you didn’t bother acknowledging him.

“Look,” he tried again, and you sighed when you relented and met his eyes again, “I just don’t think this is a good idea for him to be doing right now. He’s not very good at putting his foot down about this stuff, and I’m a little worried about how many drinks they’re handing him, and they’re being really insistent on him dating Marie because they want an in to fuck her friends. There are a lot of ways that this could go wrong.“

You weren’t exactly sure of what he was suggesting, but you felt uneasy.

“Why can’t you do something about it? They’re your friends. Tell them to fuck off.”

“It’s not that easy. They’ll get pissed at me. And at him. This only works if someone on the outside gives him an out. This is usually when Leia steps in with a dumb excuse and drags him home, but she’s at band practice.”

“‘This only works if someone on the outside gives him an out,’” Han sneered, mocking him, “You sound stupid, and you guys all have a fucked up perception of friendship.”

With that, he stood abruptly and shoved past Biggs, leaving the other man wide eyed. You watched as Han pushed his way through the crowd, apparently on a mission to get to Luke. Lando chuckled.

“Is that guy your boyfriend?” Biggs asked, staring at Han from across the bar.

“No,” you answered quickly, “My roommate.”

“He’s seeing Leia,” Lando added, smirking, “That’s probably why he decided to intervene. He’s doing it on her behalf.”

That made sense.

“I’m sorry,” Biggs said then, turning to you, “I know you don’t really like us. I understand why you wouldn’t. Some of us really do have his best interest at heart, though.”

“Maybe,” you mumbled, distracted by Han dragging a grinning Luke out of the crowd, “Seems like most of you are just interested in him because of who his parents are.”

“I’ve known Luke for a long time,” he said, somewhat ominously, “And I know you think that he should stand up for himself more, but just try to understand that he really doesn’t wanna piss off the people who are defending him on the field. His career and his likability are pretty tangled up.”

“Alright, Biggs,” you murmured, growing a little uncomfortable with talking about Luke behind his back like this, “I’m not thinking about you guys as much as you think I am. It’s fine.”

“Chewie!”

You turned to see Luke hanging off of Han’s arm, his cheerfulness a dichotomy with Han’s disgruntled expression. You wished Leia could’ve seen it. Luke then let go of Han and focused his attention on your other roommate, pulling the tall man into a hug like they were old friends. Chewie awkwardly indulged him, looking to Han for help, who only shrugged.

“I’ve missed you guys. We should hang out,” he said, smiling widely. You wondered how many drinks he’d been given, because he was already in a much different state than the one you’d left him in.

“Thank you,” Biggs said to Han. Han only nodded, still regarding the other man with suspicion, but said nothing to him as he turned to leave.

“Are you leaving, Biggs?” Luke asked as he reached for him, “Did I ever tell you how we met? I had to live with my aunt and uncle for a little while, and—“

“Luke,” Biggs interjected, cutting him off, “Stop.”

“It’s fine. They’re like, really normal. They don’t care about that stuff—“

“You’re in public,” Biggs reminded him, grabbing his shoulder, “And you’re drunk. You can tell them tomorrow if you still want to, okay?”

“Oh,” Luke replied, looking around, “Okay. I’ll tell you guys tomorrow, then.”

“Get him home,” Biggs said, pointing at you, “I’m gonna tell them that Leia called and he has to leave, okay?”

With that, Biggs departed, Luke waving at him as he left. Han scowled.

“Pawning him off onto us when he gets too drunk. That’s fucked,” he complained, hands on his hips.

“I can get home by myself,” Luke replied, and you tried not to let the hurt in his voice overwhelm you, “I’m not that fucked up. I just probably shouldn’t hang out with them right now. But I can just go home, and you guys can stay and enjoy the rest of your night. It’s really okay.”

You watched as Han battled some sort of internal struggle, the conflict showing on his face.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he finally said, softening his tone a little, “Chewie, you and Lando can hang out here if you want. We can smoke when I get back.”

“You sure? We can walk with you guys,” Lando offered.

“It’s fine. I wanted a cigarette anyway. Have fun.”

With that, Han made his way to the door, staring at you and Luke expectantly. You supposed you were walking him home, then.

“I really don’t want to be a burden,” Luke protested. Han rolled his eyes and continued walking, making it clear that he was leaving the bar either way. Reluctantly, Luke followed, and you walked behind him.

Han was, in fact, lighting a cigarette as soon as you got outside.

“Your sister will kill me if your dickhead friends get you into trouble while I’m around,” Han explained, taking a drag, “So stop moping and lead the way.”

Luke sighed and began walking, hands shoved in his pockets as he started down the route to his apartment complex.

“I wasn’t trying to be an ass. I feel bad,” Han told you quietly, cigarette hanging out of his mouth.

“I think it’s alright. He’s probably just overwhelmed. Getting shit faced in twenty minutes will do that to a person.”

Han nodded, and you ran to catch up with Luke. Even drunk, he was still much faster than you on account of being in shape.

“Hey,” you said, making it to his side, “You didn’t tell me about your award.”

“Hey,” he replied, a little sheepishly, “Because it’s not my award. I’m only a nominee.”

“A nominee for the best player in the country. That’s fucking crazy, Luke.”

“Don’t get your hopes up,” he said, dismissing you, “Is Han mad at me?”

“What?” you asked, a little surprised, “No, Luke. He feels bad that he snapped at you a few minutes ago, so he’s giving you some space. That’s just how he is.”

“I meant about the Fett stuff.”

You faltered, caught off guard by that.

“Oh,” you mumbled, “Um, I don’t think so? He hasn’t said much else about it.”

“I’m not testifying or anything,” he clarified.

“He wouldn’t ask you not to testify. You should if you feel like you need to.”

“I don’t want to. I hate court. It fucking sucks,” he said, trailing off a little. You weren’t sure what he meant by that, but you weren’t about to press him for information when he was obviously inebriated.

“Okay,” you replied awkwardly, “That’s fine, then. Do what you want.”

“He’ll be okay,” he continued, “She’s making me stay out of it, but Leia’s really trying to pull some strings right now.”

You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t really know what he was talking about, save for the vague information Lando had given you earlier.

“I’m impressed that you managed to choke down that beer,” you said instead, changing the topic.

“Oh, god,” he winced, scrunching up his nose in that adorable way of his, “You’re telling me. That was horrible.”

You continued to make small talk all the way to his apartment complex, one of you having tangled your fingers together at some point. Han put out his cigarette when you arrived at the doors, the man working the front desk in the lobby recognizing Luke and pressing the elevator button for him. You couldn’t get over how fancy this place was.

“You reek,” you told Han when he followed you into the elevator. Luke had wrapped himself around your good arm, leaning to be able to rest his head on your shoulder. He must’ve been tired.

Han just grunted, arms crossed. When the elevator dinged and the doors opened, Luke dragged you out and into the hallway, holding you as close to him as he possibly could. He dropped his keys twice when he tried to open the door, and Han eventually grew frustrated and snatched them from his hands.

At last, he pushed the door open, and you finally completed your mission of returning Luke Skywalker to his home.

What came as a surprise, however, was the fact that Padme and Anakin Skywalker were sitting on the couch.

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