#this is the best thing I have been told for a while

[foldingfittedsheets]

Today at work a little crow fledgling was just having the worst damn day. The little goober kept trying to shove its way into the door and screaming at its reflection while I was helping a lady look at a bed.

I pointed it out to her and together we regarded the infant screaming.

After she left my coworker came up and informed me there was a bird on her car. I went out to look and lo, the fledgling had scrambled up onto her windshield and was pecking forlornly at its reflection.

It stayed perched there in the hot sun, trying to move higher up the car with no success but too scared to fly down. She was agitated that it was on her car since she didn’t know if it would leave on its own.

“It’s a baby,” I told her, “It’s still learning how to fly.”

“That’s a baby?! It’s so big!”

“Yeah, it’s just a little guy.”

I went out to investigate. The parents began screaming and swooping. I placated them with crackers which they accepted without relenting their screaming. My coworker said she could now see that the creature on her car was indeed a baby with the sleek black parents swooshing angrily around in the air.

We regarded the baby together. After a while I started noticing it was showing signs of fatigue and distress. Mouth gaping but not begging for food, wings drooping. I went back out to check on it.

I was debating moving the baby; the day kept getting hotter and it didn’t have the energy or skill to relocate itself. My coworker also wanted the bird to stop pooping on her car. So eventually I announced, “I’m gonna move the bird.”

“Your gonna grab it? Aren’t you scared?”

I looked at her in bafflement. I grew up around every imaginable kind of fowl. The only bird I’d be scared of would be some of the big flightless ones. Even geese/swans are manageable if you just grab their necks before they really get flapping. The parents were not gonna go for my eyes like magpies and in general crows tend to recognize when you’re trying to help. “It’s just a little baby guy. It’s fine.”

I approached the baby amidst its parents shrieking crow obscenities down upon me. I scooped it gently like the burger.

I cannot begin to convey how soft that baby crow felt. It was the downiest most pleasant tactile thing that I’ve maybe ever held and the experience was only slightly marred by the goober trying ineffectually to bite me. It was stymied by the fact that it ain’t my first rodeo.

I brought it ten feet away to a nice shady tree. I held the baby gently so it could get its feet under it on the branch. It seemed a bit confused at this point but eventually gripped the branch and I stepped back and threw peanuts in self defense while the angry parents swooped showily around at me.

It stayed there pretty much the rest of the day. Its parents both checked in to make sure I hadn’t murdered it then flew back to where we could see a nest. So best theory is that this dingus was the first to start fledging and couldn’t actually return to the nest after launching.

I told my wife afterward and they went, “You. You touched the bird?!” My coworkers husband was also flabbergasted that I’d been brave enough to grab it. My coworker said she was just gonna shove it off her car with a broom.

As if they didn’t know who they married. As if I am not someone who would confidently help a stray cat or wrangle a chicken.

I informed them that barring gloves I had thoroughly washed my hands twice and it was worth it to get the silly infant off a slippery car and into the shade.

[wbbfannnnnn13]

Motion Sick // Chapter 13

A/N: So this was crazy, didn't realize i wrote this much, but here we are... so enjoy!! i did a quick read through and didn't see any errors, but i did write this over like 3 days, some of which was written very deliriously so idk let me know if you see anything. appreciate you reading and reacting 💕

WC: 12K+

Warnings: explicit sexy things, Minors DNI

**** Chapter 13 ****

The second week of waiting didn’t feel easier. Just… managed.

Lexi was still in Hawaii, posting golden hour sunsets and snapchats of poolside smoothies like it was the best week of her life. Smiles in every photo. Inside jokes in every caption. The kind of trip where everyone comes back with matching anklets and a stronger group chat.

Azzi double-tapped a few out of instinct, but even that was starting to feel performative. She wasn’t waiting on texts anymore. Didn’t really notice the gaps between them until they were pointed out by the timestamp. And when Lexi did send something—some blurry selfie or beach emoji—Azzi would stare at it for a few seconds too long before swiping it away without answering.

It wasn’t just distance. She was pulling back. Slowly. Quietly. Letting the space stretch a little further every day. And Lexi didn’t seem to notice—or maybe she just wasn’t reaching to close it.

Different time zone. Different team. Different rhythm.

A different life.

Maybe that was unfair. Maybe not.

They hadn’t really defined anything. Not officially. Not out loud. It was still new. Still loose. But Azzi couldn’t help noticing the way she’d started hesitating before answering Lexi’s texts. How her stomach didn’t flip anymore when her name lit up the screen. How easy it was to let hours—sometimes days—go by before she responded to a simple “miss u.”

And the truth was—she didn’t miss her. Not even a little. Not in the way she knew she should. Not in the way that counted.

She felt a little guilty about that. Like she was failing some unspoken test of what it meant to be good at relationships. Lexi had been kind. Supportive. Safe. She deserved more than silence on the other end of a text thread. More than someone who felt herself slipping away and didn’t try all that hard to stop it.

But Azzi couldn’t fake missing someone she didn’t think about when they weren’t right in front of her.

Azzi could go hours without thinking about Lexi. Maybe even days—if Lexi didn’t keep snap-streaking her smoothies like it was a contractual obligation.

She couldn’t make it through a single minute without Paige slipping into the corners of her mind, soft and stubborn, like a song she never meant to memorize.

So she stayed busy instead. Tried to keep her head down and her hands full. Morning lifts. Rehab. Practice. Film. Sleep.

Repeat.

She told herself if she could just keep moving, she wouldn’t have time to unravel.

Azzi was cleared for full practice, which helped. She had a schedule again. A rhythm. Early lifts, afternoon film, full-contact reps. Enough to sweat out some of the chaos still simmering beneath her skin. Enough to keep her from crawling out of hers every time Paige looked at her like that.

The season hadn’t exactly been smooth. Her injury had come at the worst time—just as conference play was heating up. They’d managed a couple solid wins without her, sure. Pulled it together when it counted. But the rhythm was off. The energy. Everyone felt it.

The other girls had stepped up in ways that made Azzi’s chest ache. But the truth was, they needed more than that. They needed Azzi.

And Azzi—God—she needed to be needed. To get back on the court and do something other than watch. Other than feel.

The structure gave her something to grip—like handrails on a staircase that still felt too steep. Something to hold onto while everything underneath stayed unstable. But the second she wasn’t actively busy, the second her body stilled and her mind had room to wander, it always drifted back to the same place.

To Paige. Because Paige was everywhere.

In the locker room, Paige kept stealing her Biofreeze like it was a bit they were both in on. Like she didn’t already have her own. Like using Azzi’s somehow made it hotter.

It started innocently enough. Paige would uncap the tube and squeeze some into her palm, rolling up the leg of her shorts to rub it into her knee, slow and deliberate. Head tilted. Eyes locked on Azzi like she was waiting to be caught.

She never rushed it. Always the same rhythm—long, slow circles, thumbs pressing into the muscle like she was trying to prove something. Like she knew Azzi was watching and wanted to make it worse. Paige would sit on the bench across from her, legs spread, smirking, smug, and infuriatingly pretty. Hair half-damp. Skin flushed from practice. Biting her lip like it was a reflex.

And then—of course—she’d turn the attention to Azzi.

"You want some?" she’d ask, already walking over.

Already behind her.

No room to say no.

Azzi would feel the cool weight of Paige’s hands on her shoulders before she could brace for it. Paige would rub the Biofreeze in like it was foreplay—palms broad, strokes slow. Her knuckles would graze just below Azzi’s collarbone, dangerously close to everything off-limits. Fingers drifting, pressing, dragging like she was sculpting tension out of skin.

Azzi would stiffen. Every time. Breathe through her nose and focus on a scuff mark on the floor like it might anchor her to reality.

This was a training room. With people. Coaches. Consequences. And yet.

She’d feel Paige’s breath at her ear—warm, barely there—and she’d want to lean back into it. Just for a second. Just to see what would happen.

Paige would always finish it the same way: a quick squeeze at the base of her neck and a murmured, “You good?”

And Azzi—still recovering, still furious, still not breathing right—would mutter something like “Fine,” when what she meant was I hate you or please do that again.

She never said it out loud. But Paige always walked away smiling like she’d heard it anyway.

In the gym, she was even worse.

Injured and bored was apparently Paige’s personal brand of menace, because instead of focusing on her own rehab, she hovered. Circled Azzi like it was a game. A routine. A ritual they weren’t allowed to talk about.

Spotting her during lifts even when she didn’t need one. Pretending to check her form, fingers slipping just under the hem of Azzi’s shorts to “adjust” the resistance bands on her hips. Dropping to her knees like it was normal—like it didn’t make Azzi forget how to stand upright.

The mirrors made it worse. Unforgiving. Honest.

Paige, kneeling behind her. Hands on her thighs. Looking up like she was about to pray.

Azzi had to fake a quad cramp once just to walk it off.

And Paige would just hand her a water bottle after like none of it had happened. All casual. All composed.

“Here you go, princess,” she’d say with a smirk that should’ve been illegal. “Don’t say I never take care of you.”

Azzi would shove her, weakly. Or blush. Usually both. And Paige would walk away with her towel slung over one shoulder, already biting back a laugh.

She was so annoying.

So smug. So obvious. So goddamn hot.

And the worst part?

Azzi liked it.

She liked the attention. The teasing. The way Paige was flirting without ever technically crossing a line. Like she was daring Azzi to be the one who broke first.

And every time, Azzi got a little closer to doing it. To crossing that line. To turning around mid-lift and grabbing Paige by the collar just to see what would happen.

She didn’t, of course.

But she thought about it. More than she wanted to admit. Enough that ignoring it started to feel like lying.

And Azzi—fully aware that she was spiraling—started pushing back.

She wore shorter shorts. Took her time stretching, especially when Paige was around—slow, deliberate movements that made eye contact feel dangerous. Sat next to her at team dinners and let her leg rest against Paige’s under the table, warm and unmoving. Started sending her texts that didn’t even try to play innocent anymore.

Sometimes it was just a photo.

A mirror selfie from the locker room, chest gleaming, eyes half-lidded. A snap of her legs stretched out on the recovery table, skin flushed and glistening. Once, a post-shower shot—towel tucked just high enough to stay legal, water dripping from her hair, lips parted like she didn’t mean to look that good.

No context. No warning.

Just vibes.

Paige would open it. Leave her on read for five whole minutes. Then send back the same emoji every time: 😇

And Azzi would stare at her phone like, you are so full of shit.

Eventually, the photos turned into texts. Hotter. Filthier. The kind of things that made her want to throw her phone across the room the second she hit send.

Once, late at night, Azzi texted: if you’re gonna eye fuck me all practice, the least you could do is help me finish.

No selfie. No punctuation. Just chaos.

Paige left her on read again.

And then—two nights later—got her revenge.

Azzi was laying in bed when it happened. Barely paying attention to her screen, hoodie pulled over her face like she was trying to hide from her own decisions.

Her phone buzzed.

It was a selfie.

Just Paige—head tilted, lips parted, eyes low and dangerous. A full smirk pulled across her mouth like she was daring Azzi to react. No makeup. No shirt in frame. Just collarbone. Jawline. Sin.

A text followed: you miss your seat or should I bring it to you?

Azzi audibly choked. Dropped her phone. Had to lie there for a full minute and just breathe.

Because she knew what it meant. There was no room for misinterpretation. Paige had sent that smirking selfie like she wasn’t about to ruin Azzi’s whole life from several floors away. Like she hadn’t just planted the mental image of Azzi on her face and dared her to react.

Azzi stared at the ceiling like it might offer her divine intervention. Or at least temporary amnesia.

She didn’t sleep that night. Didn’t even try.

How could she, when her brain was now running a 24/7 highlight reel titled Things Paige Bueckers Has Done To Emotionally Terrorize Me (And That I Would Absolutely Let Her Do Again)?

Paige 

Paige had been enjoying the game. More than she should’ve. More than she admitted to herself most days. It had started out harmless—teasing, pushing buttons, seeing how close she could get without touching flame.

But her mind played dirtier than she meant it to. Filthier by the minute.

What Azzi saw as flirting, Paige was already rewriting in her head into scenes that shouldn’t be happening in a public gym. Or ever, really. And it was getting harder—literally, sometimes—to keep that energy locked behind her teeth and not act on any of it.

She was hanging on by, like, two threads of physical restraint and one very overworked sense of self-control.

So she tested it.

The next day, she “accidentally” brushed her fingers against Azzi’s hip while adjusting her warm-up band, and Azzi jolted like Paige had whispered something filthy instead of just touched her.

Which—fair. Paige probably had that look in her eyes again. The one Azzi pretended not to see. The one Paige didn’t even bother hiding anymore.

They flirted in gym mirrors and whispered in hallways like they weren’t two seconds from getting caught. Stole food off each other’s plates like it was foreplay. Azzi started handing her the Gatorade bottle without a word, just a slow pass, fingers brushing, gaze locked. Paige always drank from it a little too slow. A little too smug. Because she knew.

They both did.

Outside of basketball, it was somehow worse. There were fewer rules. Less structure. Just impulse.

They’d been dumb enough to try spending the night together once. Just to sleep. That was the rule.

It had been a long day—Paige was sore from treatment, mentally fried from sitting through two hours of film with the freshmen who still didn’t know how to defend a stagger screen, and Azzi hadn’t wanted to walk back to her dorm after sticking around late from a movie. They were both tired. Delirious. 

So when Paige said, “You can just crash here if you want,” it felt harmless. Practical, even. They were adults.

They could handle a twin XL and one shared blanket.

Obviously.

They set rules. Boundaries. Two feet apart. No funny business. No breathing weird. No “accidental” touching. And absolutely no mid-sleep spooning.

For a while, it worked.

Sort of.

Azzi lay on her side, back to Paige, motionless but not asleep. Paige mirrored her—flat on her back, eyes wide open, tracking every sound in the room like it might save her from herself. The hum of the mini fridge. The rustle of sheets. The shallow rise and fall of Azzi’s breath.

They weren’t touching. But they were close. Too close.

Every inch of Paige’s body felt aware of her. Like Azzi had become a gravitational field Paige couldn’t fully step out of. And the worst part? She didn’t want to.

Azzi shifted slightly. Paige felt the blanket tug. One of Azzi’s knees brushed her calf—barely—but Paige’s brain short-circuited anyway. Everything went very still. Very quiet. The kind of quiet that buzzed in your chest.

And then—breathing. Not loud. Not sharp. Just... different.

Slower. Thicker. Like Azzi felt it too.

Paige’s hand twitched in the dark. She thought about reaching out. Just once. Just to see.

Not to start anything. Not really. But maybe a little.

She wanted to touch her. Wanted to trace the curve of Azzi’s spine just to feel it, to prove she still could. She wanted to press her fingers into the soft place behind her knee, the one she used to kiss for no reason at all. She wanted to hear the sound Azzi made when she lost her breath—not just because of her body, but because of her.

It wasn’t just about wanting her. It was about missing her. It was about still knowing her in ways that made her hands ache with the need to remember.

She didn’t move. She didn’t reach.

Because as much as she wanted to—God, she wanted to—this wasn’t the moment. Not yet. Not when there was still mess hanging in the air that didn’t belong to them. Not when Azzi still had someone else’s name on her texts. 

They’d waited this long. They could wait a little longer.

Because when it happened—when they let it happen—she wanted it clean. Honest. Theirs.

And right now, it wasn’t.

Not yet.

And then—just a little—Azzi shifted her hips.

Nothing major. Just a small shift—enough to get comfortable. But Paige’s brain short-circuited anyway. She let out the softest, stupidest breath against the back of Azzi’s neck. A dead giveaway.

Azzi didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But then—so quiet it barely counted as sound:

“I miss you.”

Paige went still. Every breath caught halfway. Every muscle braced like she'd been hit in the chest. The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was everything.

Then, barely a whisper, like it hurt to say it:

“I miss you too.”

The space between them felt full. Like maybe they could stay there forever if they didn’t say anything else. If they just let the wanting settle and stayed very, very still.

But Paige knew better.

Instead, she sat up too fast. Her heart was pounding. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes like that would make it stop. Like it would undo what was already happening.

Azzi didn’t speak at first. Didn’t move. Just watched her with that unreadable expression Paige could barely look at.

Paige shifted awkwardly. “I’m gonna—” Her voice caught, too rough. “I’ll be back.”

Azzi’s brows pulled together, just slightly. “You don’t have to.”

Paige hesitated. “I know.”

Azzi nodded, like that answer was enough. Like she already knew why Paige needed to leave.

So Paige grabbed her hoodie off the chair and left before she could change her mind.

The hallway was cold. The stairwell was worse. She took them two at a time.

Because the truth was? Azzi had been in her room. But Paige needed the distance. Needed to breathe.

So she went to Azzi’s instead.

Same building. Just one floor down. Completely empty. Still smelled like her lotion and her shampoo and everything that made Paige feel unsteady.

She curled up on Azzi’s bed, pulled the extra blanket over her head, and stared at the ceiling in the dark.

She didn’t sleep.

Not even close.

****

She woke up to someone poking her in the forehead.

“Paige.”

Poke.

“Paige.”

Poke.

“Why are you in Azzi’s bed without Azzi?”

Paige groaned and rolled onto her side, face half-smushed into the pillow. “Go away.”

Caroline did not go away.

She stood at the foot of the bed, staring like Paige was a science experiment gone mildly wrong. “No, seriously. You’re in Azzi’s bed. And Azzi is... not. So unless she sleep-parachuted out the window, I’m gonna need answers.”

Paige blinked. Sat up slowly. Her hair was a disaster. Her hoodie was on backwards. One of her socks had somehow migrated to the floor.

“She’s not here,” Paige said, voice flat and hoarse. “Because she’s in my bed.”

Caroline raised both eyebrows. “Well, that raises exactly a million more questions.”

Paige sighed and held up a hand. “We were watching a movie. It got late. She didn’t want to walk back to her room, so I said she could crash.”

“Okay, sure. Still not explaining why you’re the one playing Goldilocks in her bed.”

Paige groaned. “We tried to sleep. Like, actually sleep. But then it got all quiet and weird and... tense. Like the kind of tense where breathing starts to feel like a crime? And I just— I didn’t trust myself not to do something reckless, so I bailed. Came here to cool off.”

Caroline blinked. “So your grand solution was to flee your own bed and emotionally pace in hers.”

“I didn’t pace.”

“You are mentally pacing, Bueckers.”

Paige flopped back dramatically onto the mattress. “When the hell does Lexi get back?”

“Not soon enough. I’m getting sick watching you two eye-fuck each other in public like it’s a team bonding activity.”

“I’m hanging on by a thread,” Paige mumbled into the pillow.

“A fraying thread. On fire. Wrapped around a bomb.”

****

The hallway was still quiet when Paige made it back upstairs, hoodie sleeves pulled down over her hands, her heart pacing at the dumbest speed for someone who technically hadn’t done anything last night.

She pushed open the door to her room—their room, for the night—and felt the breath knock out of her.

Azzi was still there.

Curled up on Paige’s bed like she’d been planted there on purpose. Hair sprawled across the pillow, one arm tucked under her cheek, the other resting on her stomach like she’d drifted off mid-thought. Her hoodie had slipped slightly off one shoulder. The same shoulder Paige had kissed once in the dark when things were simpler. Or maybe just more confusing.

Paige stood in the doorway for too long.

She wasn’t even trying to be subtle anymore.

Because this? It wasn’t fair. But God, it was beautiful. It was Azzi. Soft in a way that didn’t show up on game tape. Quiet in a way that made Paige ache.

She crossed the room slowly, like one wrong move might wake her or ruin the moment.

God, she looked peaceful.

And Paige wanted to be that peace. For her. She wanted to be the thing Azzi reached for when everything else felt too loud. Not the complication. Not the mess.

Just… hers.

She crouched down next to the bed and reached out—gentle, like she didn’t want to disturb whatever dream Azzi was lost in. She brushed a strand of hair from her forehead, let her thumb ghost along the side of her face, down to the sharp line of her jaw, lingering just a second longer than she probably should have.

Azzi stirred. Eyes blinking open, soft and unfocused at first.

Then—Paige.

And that smile.

Sleepy. Real. Like she was happy Paige was the first thing she saw.

“You came back,” Azzi whispered.

Paige smiled too, something tight and fluttery pressing against her ribs. “Of course I came back.”

Azzi shifted a little, making space for her. Paige sat on the edge of the bed, their knees brushing. Azzi’s blanket slipped slightly, and Paige didn’t know if it was the morning light or her own brain short-circuiting, but she swore she could feel the warmth radiating off her skin like gravity.

“I’m sorry I left,” Paige said, voice lower now, softer. “I just… I didn’t trust myself.”

Azzi gave a tiny shake of her head. “Thank you for leaving.” Her voice was still thick from sleep, but her eyes were clear. Honest. “Because if you hadn’t... I wouldn’t have stopped you. There’s no way.”

Paige let that sit between them for a second. Let herself believe it. Because she’d known—felt—how close they were to the edge. One shift. One sigh. One hand in the wrong place.

And it would’ve been over.

Or worse—it wouldn’t have been enough.

Azzi reached under the blanket and laced their fingers together, casual like it was muscle memory. Paige let her.

God, she wanted to be reckless. She wanted to lie down next to her and press her mouth to that dimple on Azzi’s left cheek—the one that only showed up when she was really smiling, the one Paige could never look at without wanting more. 

But she also wanted to do right. For once. For both of them.

Azzi’s thumb moved over Paige’s knuckles under the blanket, slow and thoughtful. Neither of them said anything for a moment, like speaking might shatter the delicate calm they'd built between them.

Then Azzi exhaled. “This week is going to suck.”

Paige let out a soft, dry laugh. “Understatement of the century.”

Azzi looked up at her, a tired half-smile tugging at her lips. “We made it this far, though.”

“Barely.”

“Your fault,” Azzi said, nudging her knee against Paige’s. “With your smug little water bottle stunt and your gym mirror thirst traps.”

Paige gasped—dramatically. “My fault? You were the one sending post-shower selfies and stretching like a menace in spandex.”

Azzi grinned. “Allegedly.”

They both laughed—quiet, breathless, the kind of laugh that felt like relief.

Then silence again. But this time, not heavy.

Paige’s eyes drifted toward her desk.

And there it was.

The bracelet.

Still sitting where she left it. Unworn. Untouched.

Pink and purple beads. The word purpose spelled out in white block letters. Azzi had made it herself. Not a replacement for the one Paige had given her last year—but something new. Something that came out of the silence. Something chosen.

Paige nodded toward it. “That bracelet… I think I need to start wearing it.”

Azzi followed her gaze, then back at Paige, her voice soft but slightly teasing. “Why now? I was starting to think you didn’t even like it.”

Paige let out a quiet laugh, almost sheepish. “I liked it too much, maybe. I wasn’t ready to wear something that actually meant something.”

She looked down, then back at Azzi, her voice quieter now. “But I think I am. I think I need it. Just to remind me to hold on a little longer.”

Azzi didn’t say anything right away. But the shift in her face was instant—gentler, steadier. Like something in her had finally unclenched.

“I want this,” Paige said, voice barely above a whisper. “Like—really want this. But if we’re gonna do it… I want to do it right. No guilt. No mess. No baggage hanging on us like a shadow.”

Azzi nodded, eyes shining just a little. “I want that too.”

“Then we wait,” Paige said, her fingers tightening slightly around Azzi’s. “Even if it’s hell.”

Azzi smiled—small and sweet and real. “Purpose,” she repeated, like the word itself could steady her heartbeat.

Paige reached forward and picked up the bracelet. She slid it over her wrist slowly—it caught slightly on her knuckles, the elastic tugging before settling snug against her skin. Pink and purple beads pressed gently into her pulse, warm from the light and the moment. Like armor. Like hope.

Azzi

The trip to Omaha was cursed. That was the only logical explanation.

Creighton was no joke. Easily one of their hardest conference games. They were tough. Disciplined. Sharp from the perimeter. And the gym always had that weird haunted-church energy—like even the bleachers wanted them to lose.

Azzi wasn’t dreading the game, though. She liked games like this. High stakes. Real strategy. A good excuse to hit the reset button and drown her feelings in defense. And more than anything, she was playing. Not fully cleared, not a full workload—but she was back in the rotation. Back in the warmups, back in the pregame huddles, back on the scout report. Even if it was just restricted minutes, it meant something. Her name would be called again. She could feel the itch in her chest—that wired, buzzing anticipation that only came from knowing she’d get to make an impact, even if it was only a handful of possessions.

No, what she was dreading was the rest of it.

The travel. The hotel. The Paige of it all.

They’d cleared the air—well, as much as two people could while still pretending they weren’t seconds away from combusting. Set some rules. Drew the line in something thicker than sand.

She’d meant it.

She wanted to mean it.

Because the truth was, she liked what they were building. The slow, careful stitching of something real. Not just heat and habit, but trust. She’d seen the bracelet on Paige’s wrist that morning—Purpose, snug against her pulse like a promise—and something had settled in her chest. Like maybe they could actually hold on long enough to make it count.

But that didn’t mean this trip wasn’t going to suck.

Because wanting the right thing didn’t make the wrong thing stop pulsing under her skin every time Paige so much as looked at her.

And Nebraska.

God, Nebraska.

Omaha at least had a few redeeming qualities—like that steakhouse the team always went to. The one with the cowboy-themed menus and the baked potatoes the size of her face. She still remembered her first trip freshman year, sitting across from Nika and Caroline, trying not to moan over a bone-in ribeye. Seriously. Some of the best steak she’d ever had. Nebraska knew how to do cows. That was probably it, though.

This time, nothing had gone right.

Flight delay. Broken kiosk. Paige’s carry-on got pulled for extra screening because of an “unidentified cylindrical object” that turned out to be her foam roller.

Caroline nearly had a meltdown when she realized that she forgot her neck pillow back in her room.

“I need to lean on something or I’ll spiral,” she declared, completely straight-faced.

“You could lean on Jesus,” Aubrey deadpanned.

Caroline just flipped her off and stole Aubrey’s Sour Patch Kids as punishment.

By the time they landed, everyone was cranky. And then Coach handed out the rooming list.

Azzi glanced down at the paper in her hand.

Room 314: Paige Bueckers & Azzi Fudd

Her stomach dropped.

“Oh my God,” Caroline said instantly, too loudly.

Aubrey peered over her shoulder and broke into a grin. “Coach really said slow burn roommates trope.”

“What?” Ines asked, looking up from her phone.

“Nothing,” Caroline chirped, way too quickly. “Inside joke. Super boring. You wouldn’t get it.”

Paige didn’t say a word. Just stared at the list like it might self-destruct. Azzi could feel her vibrating next to her—tight shoulders, clenched jaw, the barest flicker of panic behind her eyes.

Azzi didn’t trust herself to speak. Her pulse was spiking, and the air felt thinner than it should.

Caroline leaned in just close enough, lowering her voice: “Try not to moan her name so loud this time, okay?”

Azzi didn’t flinch. Just grabbed the handle of her suitcase, muttering under her breath, “Oh, fuck off.”

Caroline grinned like she’d won something.

They all shuffled toward the elevator. Paige was quiet, walking just behind her, wheeling her bag like it weighed more than it should.

Azzi didn’t look back. She couldn’t. Because this was already a disaster. And they hadn’t even opened the door yet.

The hotel room door creaked open like something out of a horror movie.

And honestly? It felt that way.

One bed.

One.

Paige’s mouth fell open. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Azzi stepped in behind her, paused, and stared like she could manifest a second bed just by glaring hard enough.

“Who in the actual…” Paige didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t have to. The sexual tension was already unpacking its suitcase in the corner.

It wasn’t even a queen. It was barely a full.

This was a cosmic joke.

The room felt like a trap. Like the second the door clicked shut, the oxygen changed.

They didn’t say anything.

Paige tossed her phone on the nightstand, but didn’t move otherwise. Azzi stood near the dresser, arms folded tightly across her chest, like she could hold herself back with just the pressure of her own grip.

She didn’t know how it happened. Honestly. One second, they were a room’s length apart. The next, she was on top of Paige, knees straddling her thighs, their foreheads pressed together, the kind of silence between them that wasn’t quiet at all.

They weren’t kissing. Not yet. But their breath was shared, erratic. Azzi could feel Paige’s hands already under her shirt, fingertips grazing skin like they’d never stopped touching. Paige’s eyes were dark, lips parted, her voice gone—completely swallowed by the moment.

Then—

“Shit,” Paige whispered.

Her fingers had caught on something—Azzi’s hair twisted into the pink-and-purple bracelet she had finally put on. 

Azzi stilled.

The soft elastic of the bracelet tugged just enough to snap her back into her body.

That stupid little piece of string, sitting between them like a truth they couldn’t pretend didn’t exist.

Purpose.

They had made a promise. To wait. To mean it.

Azzi closed her eyes. Rested her forehead against Paige’s for one more beat.

Then pulled back.

“I’ll shower first,” she said, quiet, not looking at her.

She climbed off the bed before she changed her mind and didn’t let herself check Paige’s face on the way to the bathroom. Didn’t want to see the regret. Or the ache. Or worse—agreement.

The door shut behind her. Loud. Final.

But nothing felt finished.

She stripped fast—almost frantically—trying not to see herself in the mirror, not like this. Not flushed and flustered and shaking like someone had lit a fire in her bloodstream and dared her not to burn.

The water turned on with a screech, too hot on her skin, scalding on purpose. She needed to feel something else. Anything else. The bathroom filled with steam so quickly she couldn’t see the tiles in front of her.

But she wasn’t thinking about the water.

She was thinking about Paige. On the other side of that paper-thin wall. Sitting on that bed they weren’t going to talk about. Shirt probably tugged up just a little. Head tilted back, mouth parted, brows drawn like they always did when she was close.

The image came uninvited and landed hard—heavy and visceral and real.

Azzi’s hand moved lower before she even realized it, like muscle memory. Like instinct.

Slow. Careful. Testing the edge of her own restraint.

She squeezed her eyes shut, let her head fall back against the wall. The tile was slick against her spine. Her other hand found the edge of the shower, bracing. Her fingers moved, slow and steady, but her breathing wasn’t.

She wasn’t just imagining it. She felt Paige. The tension. The pull. The heat that had built between them since the moment that damn door closed.

Then— God. Then she heard it.

Barely at first—a breath. Maybe nothing.

But then again. Louder. A stifled moan. A caught inhale. The kind that rattled in your chest and broke apart as it left you.

Azzi’s hand stilled, her eyes flying open.

No way.

She leaned into the sound. Listened.

And there it was—Paige’s voice, soft and low, her name ghosting through the wall like a secret.

Azzi’s knees nearly buckled.

Because Paige was doing it too.

Paige was touching herself, alone in that bed, just feet away. No shame. No hesitation. Like the promise they made had already unraveled between her fingers. Like Azzi’s hands were still on her, even when they weren’t.

Something inside her cracked clean open.

She exhaled hard and let go—fingers picking up rhythm, her body jerking forward into the heat of the spray. She didn’t hold back. Couldn’t. Not when she knew Paige could hear her too. Not when this—this—was the only thing that could quiet the ache lodged in her chest.

She pressed her forehead to the tile, her breath coming faster now, hips grinding into her hand like she was chasing something she couldn’t name. Her other hand slammed against the wall for leverage, water cascading down her spine, everything in her tight and trembling and dangerously close.

And then—

“Azzi—”

Her name. Again. Clearer this time. Desperate.

Azzi whimpered. Loud. Messy.

The sound bounced off the tile.

She moved faster, chasing the high she hadn’t let herself feel in weeks. Her thighs shook. Her jaw clenched. Her body clenched tighter. The sound of Paige’s voice—ragged, hoarse, broken—pushed her right over the edge.

“Fuck, Paige—”

It tore out of her as she came—body arching, lips parted, a sob catching in her throat. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was too much. It felt like grief and fire and hunger and home, all at once.

When it finally passed, she sagged against the wall, breathless. The water had gone lukewarm. Her legs barely held her upright.

Silence followed.

But it wasn’t comfortable. It wasn’t closure.

It was the kind of silence that screamed.

She stepped out ten minutes later, wrapped in a towel, hair wet and curling at the ends. She didn’t look directly at the bed.

“Shower’s free,” she said, voice hoarse, barely there.

Paige didn’t answer. Didn’t look at her either. She was curled under the blanket, screen glowing too bright against her face.

But Azzi could feel her watching.

And even in the dark, she knew—Paige had heard her.

Knew it. Felt it.

Azzi got into bed and rolled over, facing the wall. Her heart wouldn’t slow down. She could still feel Paige’s name on her tongue.

And worse—she could still feel the pulse in her core, low and stubborn, the phantom ache of release still echoing through her body. Her skin was too warm. Her limbs too heavy. The adrenaline hadn’t worn off, not fully. It left her breathless in a way that wasn’t just physical.

She wasn’t sure what kind of silence this was—if it meant too much, or not enough.

But that had happened.

And it meant something.

Even with a wall of steam and restraint and distance between them—it still felt like the most intimate thing they’d shared in months. Maybe longer.

It wasn’t just about getting off. It was about being known. Felt. Heard.

Azzi closed her eyes and let the burn settle in her chest.

No one had ever made her feel like this. And the worst part?

Paige didn’t even touch her.

Not really. And still—Azzi didn’t want to take it back.

She stared into the dark, muscles tense beneath the scratchy hotel blanket, every nerve wired like she was waiting for something else to happen.

But nothing did.

No movement. No words.

Just the quiet.

The room felt thick with it—whatever that had just been. Not just lust. Not just crossing a line. Something deeper. Mutual. Volcanic. Like they’d shared a secret without saying a word.

The mattress shifted.

A quiet rustle of sheets.

Paige got up, wordless. The soft pad of bare feet on carpet. Then the bathroom door opened with a soft click and closed behind her.

Azzi didn’t move.

But she listened to the sound of the fan whirring to life behind the door.

And she knew—Paige was just as wrecked as she was.

Paige 

The second she closed the bathroom door behind her, Paige leaned against it like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

Her pulse was still slamming.

She could hear the fan buzzing overhead, the fluorescent light buzzing harder. Everything was too bright, too loud, too real.

She hadn’t meant for it to happen like that.

No—scratch that. She hadn’t meant for it to happen at all.

Paige braced her palms on the sink, eyes fixed on the mirror. She looked flushed, hair a mess, lips bitten raw. Like someone who’d lost a fight.

Her reflection didn’t lie.

Because the truth was, the second Azzi shut that bathroom door and turned the lock, Paige knew.

She felt it. In her chest. In her stomach. Between her legs.

She tried not to listen. Tried not to picture Azzi under the spray of that shitty hotel shower, forehead pressed to the tile, breath going ragged. But the walls were too thin, and Paige’s imagination was too fast.

And once she heard her—really heard her—it was over.

Azzi’s voice, breathless and broken. Saying her name like it still meant something.

Paige had never undressed faster in her life.

And it was pathetic, honestly—how fast she’d come, how badly she wanted it, how her fingers didn’t feel like her own. Like her whole body had been holding it in for weeks.

Paige exhaled and splashed cold water on her face, as if that would help. It didn’t. It just made her flinch.

She looked down at her wrist. The bracelet was still there—pink and purple, snug against her skin, a reminder of everything they were trying to build.

Or protect. Or maybe just survive.

She ran a hand through her hair and stared at her reflection one more time.

There was nothing left to say. Not tonight.

She shut the light off before slipping back into the dark.

****

The Creighton game had gone about as well as it could’ve.

UConn won—tight but controlled, the kind of game that looked better in the box score than it felt in the moment. Azzi hit a step-back three in the second quarter that lit up the bench. It was business. Professional. Locked-in.

The rest of the trip passed in a blur of team meals, ice baths, film sessions, and forced small talk. The hotel room had remained Switzerland—neutral territory, boundaries intact.

They didn’t touch. Not really.

But that didn’t stop the long glances. The slow exhales. The moments when Paige’s hand would brush Azzi’s back while sliding past her in the hallway. Or when Azzi would sit on the edge of the bed to lace her shoes and Paige’s gaze would flick down, just once, and linger too long.

It was a silent understanding.

They were waiting.

And it was torture.

Now they were back on campus.

The cold hit like a slap—sharp and sudden, the kind that made your eyes water even if you weren’t crying. Everyone peeled off the bus in a blur of headphones, oversized hoodies, and half-zipped duffels, rushing toward dorms and off-campus apartments like they’d been gone for years instead of three days.

Paige was halfway across the quad, head down, earbuds in, when she nearly collided with someone rounding the path.

Lexi.

“Oh—hey,” she said, blinking like she hadn’t expected to see anyone. “Didn’t think you guys were back yet.”

Paige yanked one earbud out, her breath catching. “Yeah. Early flight.”

Lexi smiled, easy. Familiar. Like she hadn’t been the shadow at the edge of every thought Paige had tried to ignore for the past two weeks. Her hair was still damp—fresh from a shower or the gym—and her sweatshirt was slipping off one shoulder in that effortless, unbothered way that made Paige’s stomach twist.

“I haven’t seen Azzi,” Lexi said, adjusting the strap of her bag. “I texted her when I saw the flight info online, but she hasn’t answered. She’s been kinda... distant lately? I don’t know. Have you noticed that?”

Paige’s mouth went dry. Her heart did something weird in her chest—like it skipped and then panicked to catch up.

“Oh.” She tried to keep her voice light, casual. “Maybe? We’ve all been kind of swamped.”

Lexi nodded slowly. “Yeah. Totally. I just thought—I don’t know. I figured she’d say something if something was wrong.”

Paige nodded too. Too fast. Too much.

“Yeah,” she said again. “I’m sure she will.”

But the guilt was already there, thick and low in her stomach. Hot under her skin.

Because Azzi hadn’t told her yet.

And now Paige had walked straight into it—into her—like the universe was daring her to lie again.

She stood there, blinking against the wind, while Lexi gave a little wave and started walking the opposite direction.

Paige stayed rooted in place. Cold. Quiet. Drowning a little in the knowing.

Paige waited until Lexi was out of sight before pulling out her phone, her heart still beating in that uneven, guilty rhythm.

She didn’t overthink it.

Paige: just saw lex she asked about you

The reply came almost instantly.

Azzi: planning to talk to her this afternoon

Paige stared at the screen, thumb frozen above the keyboard. She didn’t know why she suddenly felt like she could breathe again. Maybe because Azzi had a plan. Maybe because they were so close now—just one conversation away from finally stepping into whatever this was between them.

It made her chest ache in the best and worst way.

She typed slowly.

Paige: okay just wanted you to know

She watched the three dots appear.

Azzi: i know thanks for telling me

Another pause.

Then:

Azzi: we’re almost there

Paige’s breath caught.

Paige: yeah

She hesitated, then added:

Paige: i can’t stop thinking about you

Azzi: same

Paige smiled—quiet, a little wrecked. Her thumb hovered over the screen.

She didn’t say I love you. But God, it lived in the space between the words.

Paige: see you later?

Azzi: of course

And just like that, Paige tucked her phone back in her pocket and started walking again, the cold biting less than it had before.

Azzi 

Azzi got there first.

She picked a small table near the window—tucked far enough away from foot traffic, but close enough to the exit in case she needed to make a fast escape. The student center café was its usual hum of espresso machines, laptop keys, and group projects being half-heartedly argued over at the next table. It was busy, but not loud. Perfect for pretending to be relaxed. Perfect for quietly breaking someone’s heart.

Her coffee sat untouched in front of her, steam curling upward in ghost-thin ribbons. She’d wrapped her hands around the cup for warmth, but her palms were already sweating.

Lexi showed up two minutes later, all sunshine and post-vacation glow. Hair up in a loose bun, tank top tucked into joggers, a hibiscus scrunchie on her wrist like a final souvenir. Her cheeks were pink, like she’d just walked from the gym—or maybe from being somewhere happy.

“Hey!” she said, sliding into the chair across from her. “Sorry if I smell like sunscreen. I swear it’s permanent now.”

Azzi smiled—small, tight. “Hey, it’s good to see you.”

“Yeah you too,” Lexi said, setting her iced drink down and pulling her chair closer. “You look tired.”

Azzi huffed a soft laugh. “That’s because I am.”

“I don’t miss road games,” Lexi said, sipping her drink through a bright green straw. “Hawaii ruined me. I forgot what alarms felt like.”

Azzi nodded, eyes flicking to the condensation dripping down the side of Lexi’s cup. “Trip was good?”

“Honestly? Yeah.” Lexi leaned back, smile still easy. “We went on this insane sunrise hike—like, full 4 a.m. wakeup call, pitch black trail, almost died twice, but the view was worth it. And the food? Unreal. I ate poke like four times a day. Might turn into raw tuna.”

Azzi smiled again, this one more real. “That sounds amazing.”

“It was.” Lexi shrugged, glanced down into her drink. “I kept thinking how much you would’ve loved it.”

Azzi looked down.

“I even brought you something,” Lexi added, reaching into her bag.

Azzi’s stomach turned. Her fingers curled tighter around her coffee cup, already knowing.

Lexi pulled out a small white box with a gold ribbon, holding it out across the table. “Saw it in this little shop on the North Shore. It felt like you.”

Azzi stared at it for a second too long before reaching for it—carefully, like it might explode.

She opened it.

Inside was a delicate gold chain. A tiny wave charm in brushed silver, barely bigger than her fingernail. It shimmered under the overhead lights.

“It’s beautiful,” Azzi said softly. “But I can’t accept it.”

Lexi blinked. “What?”

Azzi looked up, eyes searching. “I mean it. I shouldn’t.”

Lexi froze, her face flickering—confused first, then quiet.

“Why not?” she asked, even though Azzi could tell she already knew.

Azzi exhaled. “Because I didn’t come here to catch up.”

Azzi looked down at her hands, then back up.

“I’ve been trying to figure out how to say this. I didn’t want to do it over text. You deserve more than that.”

Lexi didn’t move. Her face stayed soft, but her shoulders tensed just slightly.

Azzi kept going.

“I care about you. I really do. But I can’t keep pretending like I’m fully in this. It’s not fair to you. Or me.”

Lexi was quiet. Waiting.

Azzi forced the words out, even though they tasted like guilt.

“I have feelings for someone else.”

There. It was out.

The words hung between them like smoke—visible, choking, impossible to pull back.

Lexi didn’t react at first. She just stared, lips slightly parted, like she was still waiting for the punchline.

Then she exhaled. Slow. Her jaw flexed, and her mouth pulled into a tight, practiced line. She nodded once, mechanical. Like she’d rehearsed this exact scenario a dozen times in her head and now that it was happening, she had to stick to the script.

“Okay,” she said, voice even but clipped. “Thanks for being honest.”

Azzi felt her throat close. Her hands were clenched in her lap now, gripping the edge of her sweatshirt like it might keep her from unraveling.

“I never meant to hurt you,” she said, quiet.

Lexi gave a small, breathy laugh. Not kind. Not cruel. Just… exhausted.

“Right,” she said. One word, razor-thin.

Azzi flinched.

But something about the way she said it made her freeze.

Lexi reached for her cup. Her fingers wrapped around it slowly, deliberately. She didn’t sip it. Just held it. Staring down at the lid like she was waiting for permission.

“You know,” she said finally, “I was really hoping I was wrong.”

Azzi blinked. “What do you mean?”

Lexi stood up. Smooth. Graceful. The kind of calm that only meant one thing: something had cracked and she was holding it together with sheer will.

“That it wasn’t her,” she said. Her eyes flicked down, then back up to Azzi’s face. “But it is, isn’t it?”

Azzi opened her mouth. Closed it.

“Lex—”

Too late.

Lexi tossed the drink.

Not violently. Not in a flurry of rage. Just a single, fluid motion, like she was handing off a baton in a relay.

The cup arced forward and the lid popped off mid-air. Iced caramel cold brew splashed across Azzi’s chest and down her front—sharp and sticky, soaking into the gray cotton of her sweatshirt before she could even react.

The cold hit first. Then the sound.

The ice slid down her stomach. She gasped.

A beat of silence dropped over the café like a curtain. Conversations halted. Chairs scraped. Someone sucked in a sharp breath.

But Lexi didn’t flinch...

 She didn’t apologize. Didn’t rush out in embarrassment or try to play it off.

She just stepped back and leaned in, voice low, razor-sharp.

“Tell her congratulations.”

Then she turned on her heel and walked out—shoulders back, head high, not looking back even once.

Azzi sat frozen, dripping coffee and disbelief. Her breath caught in her throat. Her hands trembled, still half-raised like she could catch the moment before it shattered.

She stared at the door long after Lexi was gone.

And then—quietly, bitterly—she laughed. Just once. Because of course this was how it ended.

Sticky, cold, and completely unforgettable.

Paige

She was lying sideways on her bed, half-scrolling, half-dozing, still in her hoodie from the flight, when the door creaked open.

“P?” came the voice. Soft. Familiar. Weirdly casual.

Paige looked up and immediately bolted upright.

Azzi was standing in the doorway. Soaked. Fully drenched. Coffee-streaked across her sweatshirt, jeans clinging to her legs, one sneaker making a gross squelch sound with every step. There was literally an ice cube stuck to her shoelace.

And she was smiling.

“What the fuck happened to you?” Paige said, staring like she'd just seen someone crawl out of a flood.

Azzi shut the door behind her and shrugged, somehow both smug and exhausted. “Lexi happened.”

“She did this to you?”

“Technically, yeah.”

Paige launched off the bed, her voice already rising. “Are you serious right now?! I will beat her ass. I’m not even kidding. I’ll walk to the student center right now—”

Azzi reached out, grabbing her wrist before she could make it past the desk. “Paige.”

“No, because what kind of psycho throws a drink on someone during a breakup—”

“Paige.” Azzi said again, this time firmer. Still smiling. “It’s fine.”

Paige blinked at her. “You’re smiling.”

“Because it’s over. Like, actually over.”

Paige opened her mouth. Closed it again. Her pulse hadn’t slowed down yet.

“She brought me a gift,” Azzi continued, like they were debriefing after a particularly chaotic group project. “A necklace. Very sweet. Very ironic. I told her I couldn’t accept it. Told her I had feelings for someone else.”

Paige’s stomach flipped.

Azzi didn’t let go of her wrist.

“She figured out it was you,” she said gently. “Threw her cold brew on me. Called it a day.”

Paige stared at her for a second longer—taking in the damp clothes, the little flecks of caramel syrup on her collarbone, the proud look in her eyes that made her chest ache in a way that wasn’t scary anymore.

Azzi leaned forward slightly, voice softer now.

“So yeah. I think I need a shower.”

Paige raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, no kidding.”

Azzi smirked. “Wanna supervise?”

Paige pretended to think about it for half a second. “Only to make sure you don’t slip and die.”

“Wow. So chivalrous.”

They didn’t break eye contact.

Paige let her lips twitch into a grin, finally. “You’re really sure about this?”

Azzi’s thumb brushed over the inside of her wrist. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

And that was all it took.

Paige followed her into the bathroom without another word.

The second the door closed behind them, Paige leaned back against it, watching as Azzi peeled off her soaked sweatshirt with one slow, squelching motion. Coffee had soaked clean through the front—staining the fabric, her sports bra, the waistband of her jeans.

It should’ve looked gross.

But somehow it didn’t.

Somehow it made Paige’s throat go dry.

“Jesus,” Paige murmured, stepping closer. “You really took a whole venti to the chest, huh?”

Azzi laughed, eyes soft. “Battle scars.”

Paige reached out slowly, her fingertip dragging along the edge of a sticky trail just beneath Azzi’s collarbone. The caramel had dried slightly—tacky against her skin, warm from body heat. It shimmered under the overhead light, catching in the hollow just above her chest like something sacred.

Paige followed the line with her eyes, then leaned in without thinking.

Her tongue met skin—hot, sweet, a little salty from the residue of sweat and coffee. She flattened it against the spot and licked a slow, deliberate stripe, pausing to press her lips there like punctuation.

Azzi inhaled sharply, breath catching as Paige’s tongue dragged slowly across her collarbone.

Paige smiled against her skin. “Yup. Definitely a little oat milk in there.”

Azzi laughed—short, breathy, slightly dazed. “You’re disgusting.”

But her fingers slid into Paige’s hair anyway, anchoring her there like maybe she didn’t actually want her to stop.

Paige tilted her head up, lips brushing just under Azzi’s jaw. “Tell that to your pulse.”

And she felt it—wild and reckless beneath her mouth.

Azzi’s breath hitched again.

Paige pulled back just enough to look up at her, smirking. “Caramel. Notes of regret. Bold finish.”

Azzi grinned, eyes dark with want. “You’re such an asshole.”

“Mm,” Paige hummed, licking another line, just below her neck. “Guess I’m lucky you’re into assholes.”

Azzi’s hands were already on her hips, tugging at her jeans. “Help me out of the rest?”

Paige didn’t need to be asked twice.

The clothes came off in slow, deliberate layers—like neither of them wanted to rush, like the undressing itself was its own kind of worship.

Azzi’s long sleeve t-shirt peeled off first, sticky and stubborn, catching at her wrists before Paige tugged it free and tossed it somewhere near the sink. Her sports bra followed, damp from both coffee and heat, and Paige paused—just for a moment—to breathe her in.

Then she started kissing.

The curve of Azzi’s shoulder. The dip just beneath her collarbone. The swell of her breast, soft and warm and rising unevenly with every breath. Paige kissed her there, then lower, dragging her lips down the center of her chest, her stomach, leaving a slow trail of heat in her wake.

Azzi didn’t say anything, just watched with parted lips, her fingers grazing the hem of her own jeans like she wasn’t sure if she should help or wait.

Paige knelt and unbuttoned them herself. Slid the denim down Azzi’s hips, slow and smooth, until they pooled around her ankles. Her socks were peeled off next—gentle, almost laughably tender—until Azzi stood fully bare in front of her, flushed and shining under the bathroom lights.

Paige looked up at her like she’d just been handed something sacred.

The steam from the shower started to fog the mirror, and still, Paige hadn’t looked away.

“You’re really gonna stand there fully dressed while I get in?” Azzi asked, stepping into the tub.

“I’m savoring the view,” Paige said. “And also considering how mad I’d be if you slipped and cracked your head open before I get to kiss you properly.”

Azzi reached back, tugged at her hand. “Then come do something about it.”

Paige was out of her clothes in seconds, tossing them somewhere behind her without looking. The moment she stepped into the shower, steam curled around her like breath, the hot water hitting her spine in sharp, rhythmic bursts—and Azzi was already there. Wet and flushed and waiting.

They didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. Their bodies collided like tension finally snapping—urgent, electric, mouths crashing together as hands grabbed, pulled, clutched. Azzi’s fingers slid down Paige’s back, digging in, pulling her impossibly close. Paige groaned into the kiss, opening her mouth to let Azzi in—tongues tangling, breaths coming fast.

Azzi’s thigh pressed up between Paige’s legs, deliberate this time, and Paige gasped, her body arching forward like it had been waiting for that exact pressure. She ground down instinctively, chasing it, hands roaming Azzi’s slick skin—shoulders, spine, hips. Her grip landed on Azzi’s ass, squeezing hard enough to draw a hiss from her throat.

Water beat down around them, but it didn’t matter. Paige kissed along Azzi’s jaw, then lower, teeth scraping over the pulse in her neck, and Azzi whimpered—soft and helpless.

“I’ve wanted this,” Paige rasped, dragging her mouth back up to kiss her, slow and filthy, “so fucking bad.”

Azzi leaned in until their foreheads touched, voice barely audible over the water. “Then take me.”

She wrapped a leg around Paige’s waist, guiding her, breath hot and shaky. Paige pinned her gently against the tile, one hand gripping Azzi’s thigh, the other sliding between them, slipping lower until Azzi’s breath hitched and her whole body jolted.

“You’re already mine,” Paige breathed, fingers finding her heat but skimming just shy of where Azzi needed her most—drawing out the want until it was unbearable. 

Azzi nodded, trembling. “Then don’t stop.”

And Paige didn’t stop.

The water poured down around them in steady sheets, soaking their hair, cascading over skin already flushed and trembling. Steam curled around their tangled limbs like silk, cloaking them in heat and want. Paige didn’t rush—she took her time, kissing along Azzi’s jaw with slow intent, letting her lips linger against each pulse point, feeling the way Azzi’s breath stuttered against her cheek.

She trailed lower, tongue sweeping down the graceful line of Azzi’s throat, tasting sweat and water and something sweeter—something undeniably hers. Azzi tilted her head back, offering more, a breathy moan escaping as Paige kissed down the curve of her neck, her collarbone, each dip and hollow mapped out like a secret trail she was hellbent on memorizing.

Paige’s hands skimmed along Azzi’s waist, gripping her just above the hips to anchor her in place as her mouth moved to her chest. She kissed the swell of her breast first—soft and slow—then opened her mouth wider, tongue circling a nipple already peaked from the heat and anticipation.

When her teeth grazed over it—just a little scrape, just enough—Azzi gasped, her knees threatening to buckle. Paige sucked her in, mouth hot and open, letting her lips drag, tongue flicking and teasing in gentle, maddening patterns until Azzi was panting, her fingers curled tight in Paige’s hair.

Then Paige latched on harder, sucking until she felt Azzi shudder, her breath hitching with every pull. She wanted to leave a mark—something tender and bruised and unmistakably hers. A soft bruise blooming under her mouth, proof of this moment. Of how much she wanted her.

She switched sides with a low groan, worshipful in the way she kissed the other breast—twin trails of fire left in her wake, tongue and teeth working until another deep, purpling mark surfaced beneath her lips. Azzi trembled, head falling back against the tile with a thud, thighs tightening around Paige’s hips as the warmth from her mouth melted straight through her.

Every nerve in her body felt raw and awake, like she’d been lit from the inside out—claimed, adored, marked.

Paige looked up, smirking through the wreckage. “You’re so desperate for me, huh?” she murmured, lips brushing warm against her skin. “All that just from taking my time?”

Azzi nodded, dazed, eyes heavy-lidded. “I—yeah. God, yes.”

Paige smirked, lowering her mouth again. “Then hold on, baby. I’m not even close to done.”

She kissed her way down again, slower this time, savoring the way Azzi’s breath hitched with every inch she moved. Her tongue traced along the curve of Azzi’s waist, then lower, teeth grazing the soft skin of her inner thigh until Azzi whimpered and shifted, trying to get her where she needed her most.

Paige didn’t budge.

Instead, she pressed a kiss just beside her center—close enough to tease, not enough to satisfy. Then another. And another. Lazy, open-mouthed kisses that made Azzi writhe, her hands threading tighter in Paige’s hair.

“Paige,” she whispered, voice cracking, “please.”

“Please what?” Paige asked, her tone maddeningly calm, eyes flicking up to meet hers. “You gotta tell me.”

Azzi looked wrecked—flushed, panting, her thighs trembling where they bracketed Paige’s shoulders. “Touch me. Please, I—need you.”

That earned her a groan, low and wrecked, like Paige had been waiting to hear it.

“Good girl,” she whispered, and finally gave in.

She dragged her tongue up once—slow, flat, indulgent—then eased two fingers inside, deep and unhurried. The stretch was instant, perfect, Azzi’s head falling back against the tile with a gasp as Paige filled her.

Her hand moved with confident rhythm, curling just enough to brush that spot that made Azzi jolt, hips twitching involuntarily. Paige kept the pressure steady, her palm grinding against Azzi’s clit in tight, deliberate circles, coaxing out every stuttered gasp and choked moan like it was her favorite song.

Azzi’s back hit the tile again with a hard thud this time, the coolness of it a shocking contrast to the heat building low and fast inside her. But she didn’t flinch. Didn’t care. She was too far gone—too caught in the thick, pulsing wave of sensation to register anything except the way Paige’s fingers filled her, moved inside her, fucked her with a rhythm that felt like possession.

Her breath hitched, hands flying down to tangle in Paige’s hair, gripping tight, like she needed her closer—like she couldn’t take how close she already was. “Fuck,” she gasped, voice cracking. “Paige—”

Paige didn’t stop. She had one hand wrapped firmly around Azzi’s thigh, keeping her steady, while the other slid up to press against her lower stomach, holding her in place as her mouth worked her open—slick, steady, relentless. Azzi clung to her through it, fingers threading deeper into Paige’s soaked hair, her thighs trembling on either side of her head as she tried to ground herself, to survive the slow undoing of her body coming apart, one stroke at a time.

“You gonna come for me just like this?” she murmured, breath brushing sensitive skin. “On my mouth, like you were made for it?”

Azzi whimpered, hips jerking forward. Paige licked her again, slower this time, deliberately messy, before adding, “You taste so fucking good, baby. I could stay down here all night.”

She kissed her clit gently, then sucked—just hard enough to make Azzi cry out again. “Come on,” Paige whispered, voice low and rough. “Give it to me. Let me hear how good I make you feel.”

And then her tongue was back—deeper, firmer, devastating—all wicked precision and praise.

Azzi’s head dropped back against the wall with a soft thud, a strangled moan escaping her lips. “Don’t stop,” she begged, the words breaking apart on her tongue.

Paige didn’t answer with words. She just hummed low against her—deep, satisfied, possessive—and the vibration shot straight through Azzi’s core like a lightning strike.

That was it.

Azzi cried out—sharp and breathless—and her whole body arched, legs tightening around Paige’s hips. She was so close, the pressure building too fast, her thighs shaking. Every thrust of Paige’s fingers sent another wave crashing through her, her body rocking between the hard tile and the relentless pleasure of Paige’s touch. Her stomach clenched, breath coming in short, desperate gasps, and her nails raked down Paige’s back, needing something to hold onto—anything to tether her to the moment.

Her vision blurred at the edges, heat coiling tighter with every stroke. “I can’t—Paige, I—” she tried, but the words fell apart as her hips jerked forward again, chasing the inevitable.

Paige gave one last slow lick, then pulled back, her breath hot against Azzi’s inner thigh. She kissed her way upward—soft, lingering trails of heat along her stomach, her ribs, her chest—until they were face to face again, both of them flushed, breathing hard.

She pressed their foreheads together, breath ragged, fingers still deep—but no longer slow. Her pace quickened, thrusts sharper now, more insistent. Each movement hit harder, deeper, sending jolts through Azzi’s entire body. Paige shifted her weight, grounding herself, grinding her palm against Azzi’s clit in tight, deliberate circles that made Azzi gasp and jolt forward.

Her other hand slid around Azzi’s waist, anchoring her against the wall as her fingers curled just right—over and over—relentless now, chasing the tremble in Azzi’s thighs.

“I’ve got you, baby,” Paige whispered, voice low and gutted, her mouth brushing the edge of Azzi’s lips. “Feel how close you are? Don’t fight it.”

Azzi whimpered, breath catching, hips rolling forward into Paige’s hand like she couldn’t help it—like her body had already decided. Paige moved faster, grinding harder, her rhythm precise and punishing in the best way. Their foreheads stayed pressed together, both of them panting, bodies slick and shaking under the spray.

“Just let go for me,” Paige breathed, her thumb flicking against Azzi’s clit with a little more pressure, a little less mercy. “I want to feel you fall apart.”

And Azzi did—hips bucking, mouth falling open as a loud moan tore from her throat, her orgasm crashing through her so hard she nearly slipped. Paige caught her, arm around her waist, holding her upright as she rode it out, crying her name against her mouth. Her entire body shook, legs trembling, nails digging into Paige’s shoulders as wave after wave pulsed through her, blinding and hot and overwhelming. She clung to her like a lifeline, forehead pressed to Paige’s, breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts between broken whimpers.

Paige murmured softly against her skin—nonsense words, tender praise, her voice rough with awe—until Azzi finally went limp in her arms, spent and shivering, completely undone.

Azzi was still shaking when she finally looked up, dazed and flushed, lips swollen from kissing. Her cheeks were flushed with heat, her breath still unsteady, but there was a flicker behind her eyes—something hungry, something certain.

“What about you?” she asked, voice low, fingers drifting down the slick lines of Paige’s stomach, tracing her abs with reverence. She paused just above where Paige was already aching, already soaked for her, her touch featherlight—teasing.

Paige’s breath stuttered. “Azzi—”

“Let me,” Azzi said, voice hoarse, raw, and full of want. “I want to taste you.”

There was no resistance.

Paige let herself be guided gently against the tile, the water cascading over her shoulders and down her back. Azzi dropped to her knees in front of her without hesitation, hands sliding along Paige’s thighs, urging them apart as she leaned in. The sight alone stole Paige’s breath—Azzi, bare and dripping, eyes dark with focus, mouth parted like she was starving.

Azzi kissed up the inside of one thigh, slow and open-mouthed, then the other, letting her tongue drag lightly against damp skin. Paige’s head fell back against the wall, a soft moan escaping her as her legs shifted wider, heart pounding with anticipation.

When Azzi finally licked up the center of her—long and slow—Paige gasped, one hand flying to her hair, gripping tight as her hips jolted forward. Azzi groaned low against her, the vibration sending sparks through her core, and then she was fully there—mouth open, tongue working in slow, devastating circles, savoring every sound Paige made.

“Jesus—Azzi,” Paige choked out, her voice dissolving into a moan as Azzi’s tongue slipped lower, deeper, licking into her with intention.

Azzi didn’t rush. She took her time, alternating between slow, languid strokes and sharper flicks that made Paige tremble. She sucked gently at her clit, then flattened her tongue against it, licking steady and sure until Paige’s thighs began to shake and her grip in Azzi’s hair tightened.

“You taste so good,” Azzi murmured between strokes, her voice thick with need, lips brushing sensitive skin as she spoke. The heat of her breath, the rasp in her voice—it sent a fresh shiver straight through Paige’s core.

Then Azzi dove back in, relentless now—mouth open, tongue dragging firm and slow, savoring her like she couldn’t get enough. She moved with purpose, focused and hungry, alternating between deep strokes and sharp, devastating flicks that made Paige’s knees buckle.

Paige was falling apart.

Her legs trembled violently, muscles locking and unlocking as she fought to stay upright. She tried to brace herself, one hand scrambling against the tile behind her, the other buried in Azzi’s soaked curls, anchoring her there like she was afraid she’d float away. Her hips rolled forward helplessly, chasing the rhythm of Azzi’s mouth, unable to stop herself.

Her moans grew louder, raw and unfiltered, each one tumbling from her lips like it had nowhere else to go. The wet sounds of Azzi’s mouth working between her thighs—slick, greedy, obscene—only pushed her closer to the edge, made her pulse pound harder in her throat.

“Fuck—Azzi—” she gasped, voice breaking, high and breathless. Her whole body was coiled so tight it almost hurt. “I’m gonna—Jesus, I’m—”

Azzi didn’t let up. Her hands slid beneath Paige’s thighs, lifting one leg over her shoulder, opening her even more, giving her tongue better access as she pushed in deeper, licked harder. The pressure was unbearable—in the best way. Paige could barely breathe. Her head fell back against the wall with a dull thud as her vision blurred, stars blooming behind her eyelids.

The sound she made when she finally came wasn’t a word—it was a cry, wrecked and involuntary, ripped from somewhere deep. Her body jolted forward, hips grinding into Azzi’s mouth as the orgasm tore through her like fire—hot, pulsing, wave after wave until she was shaking so hard she had to be held up.

And Azzi did. One arm locked around Paige’s thigh, the other steadying her lower back, keeping her from sliding down the wall. Her mouth softened but didn’t pull away, coaxing her through it with slow, tender strokes until Paige finally gasped, “Too much—fuck, baby—too much.”

Azzi let her go with one last kiss, lips slick and swollen, chin shining. She rose slowly, eyes locked on Paige’s, and that look—God. It nearly unraveled her all over again.

Dark, intense, reverent.

Paige was still panting, chest heaving, hand braced against the wall, the other falling to Azzi’s waist to pull her in. Their foreheads touched first, then noses, breath shared between them.

Neither spoke at first.

Then Paige tipped her chin up, eyes searching Azzi’s face. “You’re gonna be the death of me,” she whispered, voice low, ruined.

Azzi smiled, slow and wicked. “That’s the idea.”

She dragged her fingers lightly down Paige’s spine, stopping just above the curve of her ass, and leaned in again, lips brushing Paige’s ear. “You should’ve heard yourself,” she murmured, voice like smoke. “So fucking pretty when you fall apart for me.”

Paige’s breath hitched. Her eyes fluttered closed for a second, trying to catch herself. “Yeah?” she rasped, teeth sinking into her bottom lip as her body pulsed in aftershock.

Azzi nodded, voice darkening. “The way you begged? The way you rode my mouth like you were made for it?” She kissed just under Paige’s jaw. “You were dripping for me before I even touched you.”

Paige barely managed to open her eyes. “You’re unreal,” she whispered, wrapping shaky arms around her and pulling her close.

Azzi kissed her—slow and deep, like she hadn’t just brought her to her knees. Like she’d do it again.

“I missed you,” Azzi whispered into her mouth.

Paige nodded, breath still catching. “Me too.”

They stood there for a while, wrapped in each other, letting the water cool and the silence settle. Paige pressed a kiss to Azzi’s temple, slow and reverent, then looked down at her wrist.

The bracelet was still there. Pink and purple. A little loose from the water.

“Purpose,” she murmured. Azzi smiled, eyes still closed. “Guess we found it.” Paige nodded, her lips brushing Azzi’s jaw. “And I’m not letting go.”

[cheers-to-you-th]

Winner Takes it All

Pairing: Mingyu x Reader Genre: Friends to lovers, angst, humor, fluff Warnings: very suggestive (MDNI), seft-doubt, idiocy, self indulgent nerdiness Word count: 17k

Part Two will be fluff and smut :3

Summary: It's no secret that Kim Mingyu is a whore. The question is, why won't he fuck you?!

or

Your journey of attempting to seduce your friend, Kim Mingyu

ty my pookies @supi-wupi and @gyubakeries for betaing ilysm y'all are literally the best

It's no secret that Kim Mingyu is a whore.

Okay, maybe that’s a little harsh, but if there's one thing everyone on campus knows, it's that he’s a good fuck. It's not like he has no standards, he just isn’t shy about his life, and with his looks, you wouldn’t be either. He wears the title like a badge of honor, girls practically tripping over themselves to sleep with him at every chance. So yeah, it's no secret that Kim Mingyu appreciates and indulges in one night stands, random hookups, and having an all around good time. The question is, why on earth won’t he sleep with you?

You first brought it up one night during a study session at his apartment that had turned into beer and complaining about life. He was your friend, you consider yourself to be pretty close. You figured, he’s so open about his sex life, why can’t you be? (and you were maybe a few cans too deep) He was talking about how one of the girls he’d hooked up with recently wouldn’t leave him alone even though he’d clearly told her it was a one time thing.

“God, I haven’t been fucked good in so long” You groan dramatically as he chokes on his beer. “Like, seriously, I feel like a fucking celibate. No shame on celibates, just not my thing.”

At that he snorts, “I’m sure I know plenty of people who wouldn’t mind taking you home.”

You roll your eyes, stretching your legs across his lap like you always do when you're a little tipsy and annoyed. “Yeah, but I’m not trying to settle for just anyone. I want to be fucked well, not just… you know, awkward thrusts and two minutes of missionary while some dude tries to make me come with, like, hope and vibes.”

Mingyu laughs—big and loud, the kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes your chest feel tight for no reason you’ll admit out loud. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m serious,” you say, nudging his thigh with your foot. “You’ve got this reputation, right? Campus Casanova, professional heartbreaker, dick of the year—”

“Thank you,” he says with a flourish.

“—so why haven’t I benefited from that? I have a declaration.” You raise your hand dramatically and point at him, “You are the chosen one. This is my most desperate hour. Fuck me, Kim Mingyu, you’re my only hope.”

Mingyu snorts so hard he actually wheezes, pressing a hand to his chest like your words physically knocked the wind out of him. “Did you just—did you Star Wars me into asking for sex?”

You grin, a little smug, a little unhinged, and blame the alcohol and the way he’s looking at you now—eyes wide but amused, lips parted around the beginning of a smile that doesn’t reach his usual cocky level. He’s… surprised. And not laughing at you. Just surprised.

“I’m being resourceful,” you say, lifting your beer in a mock toast. “Besides, who wouldn’t want to fuck their hot friend?”

“So you think I’m hot?” he teases, and you blame the alcohol for how you think you see something deeper in his eyes.

You snort. “Mingyu, that’s the least controversial opinion I’ve ever had.”

Mingyu throws his head back, groaning like you’ve just inflicted pain instead of flattery. “God, don’t say stuff like that.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What, you can dish it out but you can’t take it?”

“No, it’s not that,” he says, brushing your leg off his lap playfully and standing to grab another beer. “It’s that I like being friends with you, and hearing you say shit like that makes it dangerous.”

You blink. “Dangerous how?”

He shrugs, cracking open the can and avoiding your gaze in a way that’s suspiciously casual. “You’re cute when you’re drunk, but your drunk brain has terrible ideas. I like us the way we are.”

You narrow your eyes. “So you won’t sleep with me?”

“Nope,” he says, popping the ‘p’.

“Even if I say please?” You say, looking up at him innocently.

“You look like a tarsier.” He deadpans.

You scoff. “Wow. I’m offended. Rejected and mocked?”

He leans against the kitchen counter and grins, annoyingly charming and smug. “Consider it a compliment. You're one of the few people I don't want to ruin with my ‘dick of the year’.”

You toss a pillow at him. “I’ll have you know I only asked because I was trying to solve a very real personal crisis.”

“Well, this crisis,” he says, catching the pillow and throwing it back, “will not be solved with me. I’m flattered. Really. But nah.”

You sit there for a beat, squinting at him like you’re trying to find the crack in his logic. “Is this, like, a challenge? Are you saying I’m not good enough for your stupid dick?”

He snorts. “I’m saying you’re too good. Too funny. Too smart. And my friend whom I greatly value.”

“Oh my god, stop trying to reject me nicely” you groan, flopping dramatically back onto the couch.

“I’m not trying,” he says with a wink. “It’s just my natural charm.”

You pout, staring at the ceiling, a wicked little idea already forming. “Fine. Reject me. I see how it is.” You sigh dramatically then look at him. “But don’t think this is over.”

“Oh really?” he says, amused.

You glance at him sideways, eyes sharp. “You’ll break eventually. Everyone does.”

He barks out a laugh. “You’re impossible.”

“Just patient,” you sing, reaching for your beer.

He shakes his head, chuckling as he walks back over. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

If he thinks you’re going to drop it, he clearly doesn’t know you as well as he thought.

Because the war has begun.

Let the games begin.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯❀⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

You’ve never put this much thought into what hoodie to wear.

It’s not like you’re trying to look good, exactly. That would be obvious. But you’re also not trying to look bad. There’s a difference between “I woke up like this” and “I look like I’ve been dragged backward through laundry day.” It’s a delicate balance. Especially when you’re hiding very expensive, very pretty lingerie under said hoodie.

Tonight is movie night—your usual Friday plan. Mingyu had texted you earlier:

«giant (dick [allegedly])» u better not bring any weird artsy film again

«giant (dick [allegedly])» we’re watching something where things explode

«giant (dick [allegedly])» also i have snacks this time. good ones. not like your off-brand cheetos

You’d sent back a very dignified “rude” and a middle finger emoji. Now you’re standing in front of your mirror, trying to figure out if this hoodie makes you look effortlessly hot or just… like you’re trying too hard to be effortless.

“Jesus,” you mutter, adjusting the zipper just low enough to maybe give him a hint. A taste. Not enough to look desperate, but enough to make him wonder.

For the record, this isn’t about sleeping with him anymore (although it’s not off the table). It’s about principle. About honor. You’re great. You’re hot. You’re smart and funny and flexible—both emotionally and physically. You’ve done yoga three times this week just in case. He should be begging.

You show up with popcorn, a smug smile, and your hoodie unzipped just enough to showcase a tasteful amount of lace.

He opens the door with a soda in hand, already grinning. “Took you long enough—are you seriously wearing that?”

You glance down. “This is a perfectly acceptable outfit for movie night.”

Mingyu narrows his eyes at you, suspicious. “You hate that hoodie. You said it made you look like a sad librarian.”

“I’ve had a change of heart,” you say breezily, pushing past him into the apartment. He follows, still watching you like you just switched exam answers last minute. “Okay, but like… are you trying to seduce me with snack food? Because if so, it’s working.”

You toss the popcorn onto the coffee table. “Mingyu, please. If I wanted to seduce you, you’d already be in my bed.”

He chokes on his soda. “What—excuse me—how’d that work out for you last time?”

You plop onto the couch, flipping him off. He’s still staring at you as he joins you, only this time there’s a tiny crease in his brow. Like he’s thinking about it.

Excellent.

The movie starts. Some kind of loud, poorly lit action flick that you pretend to watch. Mostly, you’re watching him. He’s in his usual hoodie and sweatpants, one hand in the popcorn, the other resting on the back of the couch like he owns the place (which, I mean, he does, since it is his apartment). When he leans back and stretches out his legs, you mirror him, thigh brushing his intentionally. Five minutes later, you rest your head on his shoulder.

“Comfy?” he asks, not looking at you.

“Mmm,” you hum. “Your shoulder’s surprisingly sturdy for someone with the maturity of a middle school boy.”

“That’s rich, coming from someone who once cried during Shrek 2.”

“That scene with the giant gingerbread man is emotional, okay?”

He snorts, and you feel the vibration in your cheek against his hoodie. His arm shifts a little. Not around you. But closer.

Now is the time.

You lift your head, just slightly, just enough to meet his eyes and just enough that your hoodie slides down a tiny bit, giving him the wonderful view of the pretty lace set. Not enough that you’re exposed, but not too little that he doesn’t know what it is. Perfect.

He glances down.

Pauses.

Then promptly throws a piece of popcorn at your face.

“Nice try,” he says, grinning wide.

You gasp. “Excuse me?”

“I know what you’re doing,” he says smugly. “And I’m flattered, really. But I’m not falling for the push-up bra and smolder look.”

You cross your arms. “How do you know it’s a push-up bra?”

“Because you told me last month that lace makes you itchy and underwire is the devil. You’ve only ever suffered for fashion when you’re trying to make a point.”

“…damn it.”

Mingyu laughs again, genuinely delighted, and tosses another popcorn piece at your hoodie. “Good effort, though. Strong opening move.”

You sigh, dramatically. “Fuck you. This is going to be harder than I thought.”

“Oh, much harder,” he says, winking.

There’s a beat of silence.

“Not that way, don’t even—” “I didn’t say anything!” You defend yourself. “You were thinking it!” You flop back against the couch. “This is war.” He just grins, stretching his arm casually across the couch again—so close, almost around you, but not quite. “Bring it on.”

You do not, in fact, bring it on. Not immediately.

Because for the next forty-five minutes, you're watching a bunch of buff guys with buzzcuts yell at each other over a glowing briefcase. It's not your genre. It's barely anyone’s genre, but Mingyu’s watching with the concentration of someone trying to defuse a bomb.

You glance at him.

Then at your hoodie.

Then back at him.

Okay, maybe not war. Not yet. Maybe… espionage. Quiet. Tactical. Strategic use of cleavage. You shift in your seat slightly, just enough that your leg presses into his a little more. Not obnoxiously. Just… available. You exhale slowly and lean back, stretching your arms overhead in a motion that’s meant to look natural and only slightly like a lingerie commercial.

Mingyu doesn’t react.

You risk a glance. He’s got popcorn in his mouth and a blank, blissed-out expression like he’s communing with the gods of artificial cheese dust. He doesn’t even notice your stretch. You could probably flash him outright and he’d still be thinking about Bruce Willis. You glare at him. He senses it, somehow, because without looking away from the screen, he mutters, “If you’re still trying to seduce me, your timing’s shit. This is the best part.” “This is the part where they blow up another building.” “Exactly.” You’re going to kill him.

Fine. So he’s immune to passive cleavage and casual stretching. You can work with that. You’ve got depth. Range. A highly specific collection of lingerie, and at least three more strategies.

Phase two begins approximately five minutes after his third “this is the best part” comment, when one of the action guys says something stupid enough that even he winces. You seize the moment.

“You know,” you say, “I could write better dialogue in my sleep.”

Mingyu hums. “Mmhm.”

“I’m serious. Give me a gun and a reason to be angry and I’m unstoppable.”

“You literally cried when you hit your knee on my coffee table last week.”

“I thought it broke my patella!”

“It’s not even sharp!”

“It bruised like a bitch!”

He glances at your legs. “So fragile. So elegant.” You ignore the fact that your legs are currently draped half across his lap.

“That’s my point,” you say. “I’m deceptively dangerous. Like a swan.”

He looks at you skeptically. “Pardon?”

“Swan,” you repeat. “All grace and feathers up top, but with murderous feet underneath. You ever see a swan fight? Terrifying.”

“I have literally never thought about swans that way.”

“Well, now you will. I’m a swan. I could absolutely take out a bad guy.”

“You couldn’t even take out the spider in my bathroom.” He says with a raised brow.

“That spider leapt! I wasn’t expecting aerial combat!”

Mingyu breaks, laughing so hard he nearly spills the popcorn. His head drops back on the couch and he grins at the ceiling like he’s never been more amused. You let yourself look at him for a second too long—his dimples, the way his throat moves when he swallows his laugh, the tiny crinkle at the corner of his eyes that only shows up when he’s actually, genuinely happy.

You look at him, laughing like that, and you briefly forget your entire mission. Because really, how is anyone supposed to function with that kind of face beaming at them? It should be illegal. At least mildly regulated. But then he shifts, still grinning, and pops a handful of popcorn into his mouth like he didn’t just survive a verbal swan-based assassination attempt—and you remember. This is war. And the enemy is smug.

“If you want me, you’re gonna have to compete with explosives and daddy issues.” He says with an annoying smirk.

You make a strangled noise of disbelief. “Are you seriously picking emotionally stunted action men over me?”

“Right now?” he says, finally turning to you with the kind of grin that makes you want to punch him and kiss him simultaneously. “Yeah. They’ve got car chases. You’ve got passive-aggressive lingerie.”

You clutch a couch pillow to your chest and groan into it. “You are the worst.”

“And yet,” he says smugly, “you keep coming back.”

“Because I’m determined,” you mumble into the cushion. “Because this is important. Because—”

“You want me to fuck you,” he supplies, chipper.

You scowl, crossing your arms. “God, you make it sound so crass. I was gonna say ‘make sweet, passionate love.’”

He snorts. “No, you weren’t.”

“I might’ve,” you mutter. “If you’d given me a chance.”

He finally glances at you, one eyebrow raised in that infuriatingly amused way of his. “And what part of this movie made you horny? The car explosion or the guy bleeding out in a warehouse?”

“Neither,” you say, leaning in, “You. You’re the problem.”

Mingyu doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t shift. Just stares you down with that maddening calm. “You know it’s not happening.”

You grin, wicked. “Yet.”

“Ever.”

You click your tongue. “You say that like I’m not currently wearing lingerie under this hoodie.”

He raises his eyebrow, no reaction again—just calm, smug, frustratingly unbothered Mingyu.

You narrow your eyes. “God, you’re annoying.”

“And yet here you are, trying to seduce me with popcorn and cleavage.”

“Bold of you to assume I wouldn’t escalate.”

He leans back, stretches his arm along the back of the couch—close, but not touching you. “You can escalate all you want, babe. Doesn’t mean I’m gonna break.”

You inhale. Slow. Calculating.

Then, deadpan: “Would it help if I said I’ve been told my head game is life-changing?”

Mingyu barks out a laugh. “Jesus.”

You rest your chin on your hand, watching him with faux-innocence. “I’m just saying. Could be a cultural experience.”

“I’m not a tourist,” he says, tone lazy. “And you’re not a destination.”

“Ooh, poetic,” you say. “I’ll quote that in my memoir. Right after the chapter titled How I Sucked Off My Hot Friend.”

He shakes his head, laughing now, that deep, quiet kind that makes your stomach twist. “You’re so dramatic.”

You groan, flopping sideways against the couch like a wilted plant. “How are you immune to this? Are you secretly a monk?”

“I just have restraint,” he says with a smug little smile. “Unlike some people.”

“You didn’t seem very restrained when Jiwon from your stats class was crawling into your lap at that party last week.”

He shrugs, finally glancing at you, eyes gleaming. “She’s not my friend.”

The implication hits you like a pillow to the face. “Oh my god, is this like a ‘you can’t touch this’ thing?”

Mingyu’s grin stretches wider. “Exactly. I don’t mix friendship and… that.”

You roll your eyes, but inwardly, something twists—a little sting, a little hope. “Fine. So I’m your friend. The one you don’t want to ruin.”

“Yup.”

“Is that your nice way of saying I’m off-limits?”

“Maybe,” he says, voice softening just a bit.

You stare at him, the TV noise fading into the background as your mind races. The war you thought you started suddenly feels a lot less like a game.

“You know,” you say slowly, “this friend zone is starting to look more like a fortress.”

Mingyu laughs, shaking his head. “Yeah, well… good luck storming the castle.”

You lean back, eyes locked on his, the challenge clear. “Watch me.”

“One day,” he says, hands behind his head now, “you’re gonna look back and realize all these attempts just made me stronger.”

“Oh, is that what you think this is?” you say, poking his shin. “A training montage?”

He grins. “Every hero has one.”

“Hero?” You scoff again. “I’m the hero. You’re the idiot refusing to sleep with me.”

“I’m the wise guardian mentor figure,” he says seriously. “Keeping you from making a mistake you’d regret.”

“Okay Obi-Wan,” you mutter.

He snorts. You’re not sure if you want to strangle him or crawl into his lap and see if the ‘not falling for it’ act cracks when you’re straddling him. Probably both.

Instead, you smirk. “Fine,” you say, brushing popcorn crumbs off your lap and standing with an exaggerated stretch. “I guess I’ll just have to find someone else to help me with my desperate need for intimacy.”

Mingyu doesn’t move, but his eyes follow you as you walk toward the kitchen.

“Make sure he knows how to deal with aerial spiders,” he calls lazily.

“I’ll add it to the checklist,” you shoot back.

You open the fridge. Your reflection in the glass looks like someone who could get laid tonight if only the object of their desire wasn't annoyingly principled and hot about it.

Mingyu’s voice cuts through your thoughts, still from the couch.

“Don’t think I’m letting you win.”

You smile to yourself.

“Who said I was playing fair?”

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯❀⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Third time’s the charm. Or, at least, that’s what you tell yourself as you lean over Kim Mingyu’s kitchen counter with your chin propped on your palm, legs crossed just so, pretending you’re not hyper-aware of how the hem of your skirt is riding up. It’s Thursday, and he’s cooking. Cooking. Like the audacity of this man, to be hot, funny, emotionally intelligent and able to make dinner from scratch with forearms flexing every time he stirs something. It’s a casual thing. He’d invited you over because you “looked like you hadn’t eaten a real meal in days” after you mentioned surviving on instant noodles and Red Bull. Apparently, that meant he’d take it upon himself to feed you. Like some kind of boyfriend.

Which he is not.

Because he still won’t fuck you (amongst other things).

So tonight, you’ve decided to bring out the big guns: flirting in domesticity. The sacred land of couples and casual touches. If movie night was a game of checkers, this is chess. Strategic. Psychological. Wearing an innocent skirt and a soft sweater because you could be the kind of girl he brings home for the night—or for life. Who’s to say?

He moves around the kitchen like he belongs there, wooden spoon in hand, hair falling into his eyes. He pushes it back absently with his wrist, and you have to resist the urge to sigh like a romcom extra watching her crush.

“You know,” you say, lightly kicking your heel against the cabinet beneath you. “You’re dangerously close to wife material right now.”

Mingyu doesn’t look up, just chuckles as he stirs the sauce. “Is that a compliment or a threat?”

“Depends. You planning on making dessert too?”

He does look up then—eyes gleaming with amusement, the curve of his mouth smug. “What, you trying to lock me down with a ring already?”

You hum, twisting a strand of hair around your finger. “I’m just saying, most guys don’t cook for their friends. At least not the ones who claim they’re ‘dangerous’ to sleep with.”

Mingyu rolls his eyes. “Are we back on this again?”

“We never left,” you say sweetly, hopping off the counter and sauntering over to where he’s plating pasta like some Food Network god. You lean against the island, arms folded, watching him with interest. “So what’s the deal? You’re clearly into me.”

“Am I?”

“Don’t play dumb. You keep inviting me over. You call me cute. You literally offered to drive me across town last week just so I wouldn’t have to take the bus.”

“I’m a good friend,” he says, placing the plates on the counter with an infuriating smile. “Ever think of that?”

“Nope. I don’t buy it.” You take a step closer, close enough to brush his arm with yours. “You’re too good a friend. Suspiciously good. Like you’re overcompensating for wanting to see me naked.”

He huffs a laugh, but you see the way his ears go pink. Just a little. Just enough.

You lean in slightly, lowering your voice like you’re telling a secret. “You ever think maybe we’d be better unclothed friends?”

“Bold of you to say while I’m feeding you,” he mutters, half amused, half exasperated.

You grin. “It’s not like I’m asking you to marry me. Just… expand our friendship. Horizontally.”

He snorts, nearly drops a fork. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

There’s a beat. You both go still. He turns to face you fully now, arms crossed, leaning back against the counter. He studies you for a moment—really studies you. It’s the kind of look that might’ve made you flinch a month ago, but now? Now it just makes your blood buzz.

Then he says, very calmly, “I’m not sleeping with you.”

You blink. “Still?”

“Still.”

“Why not?”

“Because I like you.”

“That’s why people usually fuck.”

“Correction: that’s why other people fuck. I like us. I like this. I don’t want this to change.”

You tilt your head, stepping even closer so your bodies nearly touch. “Come on, just one time!”

He breathes out a soft laugh, and god, he looks tired. Like fighting this off is actual work.

Then he raises a hand and gently flicks your forehead.

You reel back. “Ow! What the hell?”

“Bad,” he says, like you’re a misbehaving cat. “No seducing me while I’m cooking.”

You gape at him, one hand still protectively covering your forehead. “You flicked me?”

“It was a gentle rebuke.”

“You flicked me!”

He walks past you, grabbing utensils and dramatically setting the table like you haven’t just offered him your entire body on a very emotional platter.

“You’re lucky this food is good,” you grumble, slinking over to your chair.

“You’re lucky I haven’t banned you from my kitchen.”

“Oh, you’d miss me too much.”

He smiles and doesn’t argue.

And when you sit down across from him, he places a full glass of wine in front of you with a wink.

“Eat up,” he says. “Gotta keep you strong for all that plotting.”

You take a sip, narrowing your eyes. “You’re going down, Kim Mingyu.”

He toasts his own glass. “Bring it.”

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯❀⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Fourth time’s not just the charm—it’s the full fucking spellbook. You're done playing fair. Sweet? Gone. Subtle? Never heard of her. Strategic? Please. It’s time for full-on seduction sorcery (as if you’d been any of those things before). Tonight, you're bringing the heat.

And you know exactly how to do it: co-op gaming night.

The plan is simple. Mingyu invited you over to try some co-op zombie survival game he swears by, the kind that involves “teamwork and trust,” which you immediately translated as “an excuse to flirt while fake-dying in his lap.” He doesn’t know it yet, but this is your boss level. The moment you either break him… or break yourself trying.

You show up with takeout, lip gloss, and your tiniest pair of shorts, the kind that should be illegal by public decency standards. You pair it with a t-shirt that says “Save a Horse, Ride a Homie” and pretend like you totally forgot how it looked when you got dressed.

He stares at you. Opens his mouth. Closes it. Then snorts, voice a little rough, “That shirt is… something.”

You grin, pushing past him. “It’s educational.”

Mingyu groans behind you. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

“That’s the goal, sweetheart.”

You settle in on the couch, already syncing up controllers. He hands you yours with a suspicious glance.

“You’re unusually quiet,” he says, eyes narrowing. “That means you’re up to something.”

“Wrong,” you say, batting your lashes. “I’m just here to kill zombies and look cute.”

“You’re doing great at one of those.”

You smirk. “Wait ‘til you see my aim.”

The game starts. It’s fast-paced, messy, full of chaotic yelling and pixelated blood. You scream when a zombie jumps out, grabbing his arm without thinking—and then don’t let go. He’s warm. Solid. Way too close to not be touched.

“Jesus,” he mutters, glancing down at where you’re gripping his bicep. “You okay there?”

“I need moral support,” you say, innocently. “This game is stressful. I’m fragile.”

“You’re the least fragile person I’ve ever met.”

“You say the sweetest things.”

You squeeze his arm a little harder and he doesn't shake you off. In fact, he seems very… still. Eyes on the screen. Jaw tight. Perfect.

You lean your head against his shoulder. “You smell really nice,” you murmur.

Mingyu coughs. “I—what?”

“You smell like laundry and testosterone. It’s comforting.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You love it.”

He doesn’t answer, but his shoulder shifts beneath your cheek—tense, like you’re a particularly tricky level of self-control he’s struggling to beat. The match ends. You survive. Barely. You celebrate by dramatically flopping across his lap, legs hanging off the couch, head tilted back against his thigh.

“I need a reward,” you say, eyes fluttering closed.

“For what? Dying twice and screaming every time something moved?”

“For being adorable under pressure.”

“You’re insufferable.”

You crack one eye open. “And yet you haven’t moved me.”

“I don’t want to throw out my back.”

You roll over just enough to look up at him from his lap, your cheek pressed against his thigh, hair fanned out over his legs. “Do I make you nervous, Mingyu?”

He meets your gaze. Doesn’t flinch. Just raises a single, challenging brow.

“No,” he says. “You make me tired.”

You laugh, breathless and fond. “Liar.”

He sighs, not quite annoyed. More like… resigned. His hand hovers, then lands lightly on your head—just a little pat, soft and careful. You close your eyes, heart thudding a little too loud.

“Still not fucking you,” he says after a beat, fingers curling once in your hair before pulling away.

You groan, rolling dramatically off his lap. “You’re really gonna make me work for this, huh?”

He shrugs, smug as hell. “I’m just helping build your character.”

You sit up, shoving a controller into his hands. “Boring. But if I win the next round, you owe me a kiss.”

Mingyu barks a laugh. “A kiss? What happened to subtlety?”

“It died,” you say cheerfully, “like my character did last round.”

He stares at you. And then—God help you—he nods.

“Fine,” he says. “One kiss. If you win.”

You freeze. “Wait, really?”

“Don’t look so surprised.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re letting me think I have a chance.”

“No,” he says, already choosing his loadout, “I’m just confident you’ll choke.”

Your heart stumbles. Your fingers tighten on the controller. “Jokes on you, I have very good control over my gag reflex.” You say with a smirk, prompting an eye roll.

He doesn’t get it yet.

He’s already lost.

Because even if you lose the game—you’re still getting that kiss.

One way or another.

Let the real final boss fight begin.

You lose.

Of course you do.

You die seven times, run directly into a trap once, and at one point, accidentally shoot Mingyu in the back with your pixelated shotgun.

“I told you to watch your six,” he says, tossing his controller onto the table with a grin that is far too pleased with itself.

“I don’t even know what that means!” you cry, slumping sideways on the couch in defeat. “Do I have a six?”

Mingyu stretches, flexing his arms like a smug asshole who just conquered a small country. “It means behind you, rookie.”

“I hate military slang. And you. Mostly you.”

“You love me,” he says, nudging your knee with his own. “Even if I’m a sore winner.”

You scowl. “You're the smuggest winner. Obnoxious. The worst.”

“You’re stalling,” he says, leaning back against the cushions. “You lost. You know what that means.”

“Yeah, yeah, no kiss for me.” You say with a pout, throwing a pillow at him.

“Better luck next time,” he says with a wink, catching the pillow and chucking it right back.

It hits you in the stomach, and you collapse in defeat again. “I don’t know how someone so hot can also be so emotionally bankrupt.”

He laughs—loud and free and unfairly handsome. “Don’t act like I haven’t given you things.”

You give him a look. “Name one.”

“Entertainment. Dinner. Valuable zombie combat skills. My lap.”

“That last one was mine.”

“You invaded, actually. Like a feral cat.”

You stick your tongue out at him as he stretches out across the couch, laughing.

You let him win this time because you know in the end, you’ll end up on top (or under, really).

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯❀⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Seungcheol, like always, is hosting a party in honor of who-knows-what doing something or another. You don’t care, all you care about is that this means proximity. Opportunity. A chance to look like you belong in someone else’s fantasy. Preferably Mingyu’s. You stand in the middle of your room, surrounded by the wreckage of indecision: clothing draped over every surface, shoes like fallen soldiers at your feet. Your bed is a graveyard of rejects—too casual, too clingy, too try-hard. You’ve already put on three different outfits and hated them all in the time it took to blink, making your room smell faintly of perfume and self-doubt.

You finally find a dress, hot but not desperate, showing just enough skin to tease but not too much. You twist, checking every angle. It works. It works so well you almost feel sorry for him. You sit at your vanity to do your makeup, something soft around the eyes, shimmer at the inner corners, lip gloss just on the verge of sticky. You want to look glowy. So touchable yet untouchable. Expensive.

Your earrings are simple but deliberate, the kind that draws just enough attention when you tuck your hair behind your ear. And you will. At least twice. Especially if he’s looking. Your perfume is the last step. It’s warm—vanilla and skin and something that lingers. You spritz your wrists, the back of your knees. You’ve read that trick somewhere and it’s never failed you.

You glance at your phone. You’re late.

Of course, that’s part of the plan.

You take one last look in the mirror. You look like someone who doesn’t get ignored. You look like someone who knows exactly what kind of power she’s playing with. You smooth your dress, grab your bag, and smile.

“Let’s see how long he lasts.”

The party is already loud when you get there. Not in the chaotic, packed-club way. It’s a loft space that smells like prosecco and floor polish, all open brick and fairy lights strung across beams. The music is low enough to talk over, the people pretty enough to pretend they don’t notice how much they’re being watched.

You arrive just late enough to make an entrance. It’s deliberate, the way you step in. The way you give yourself a second to adjust your dress, smooth your hair, tilt your chin like you’ve just been complimented. Someone—probably Soonyoung, the agent of all poor decisions—suggests drinking games which have already snowballed into over ten people crammed into a too-small living room playing a game that’s half charades, half yelling, and all drinking.

You’re winning. Not the game—just in general.

Because you’ve got Mingyu sandwiched between you and the arm of the couch, his thigh warm against yours, a drink in your hand, and an entire audience to witness the masterpiece that is your ongoing campaign to ruin him.

You lean over, breath brushing his ear. “If you make me guess ‘Shrek’ one more time, I swear I’ll crawl into your lap.”

He doesn’t flinch. Just sips his beer. “You say that like it’s a threat.”

“It is,” you whisper. “I’ve been told I run hot.”

“I’ve been told you run your mouth.”

You grin. “Still not a no.”

“Still not a yes.”

From across the room, Seungkwan yells, “Your team is losing. Stop trying to molest Mingyu.”

You wave him off. “I’m multitasking.”

Mingyu takes another sip, casual. “You’re losing both tasks.”

You gasp. “Oh, wow. Now you’re trash-talking?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“You wound me.” You clutch your chest dramatically, sliding a little closer until your legs are nearly tangled with his. “I’m just a girl. Sitting next to a boy. Asking him to blow my back out.”

He tilts his head lazily, looking entirely unbothered. “And I’m just a boy. Sitting next to a walking HR violation.”

You burst out laughing. “That’s rich coming from a man whose thighs are currently weaponized.”

He doesn’t dignify that with a response, just shifts slightly away, like he’s drawing some imaginary line you’ll absolutely ignore. A new round starts. Someone yells, someone else starts gesturing wildly. You lean into Mingyu again, voice low and mischievous.

“Hey,” you say. “If I guessed your safe word, would you tell me?”

“No,” he says immediately.

“Is it something embarrassing?” you tease. “Like… ‘Bubbles?’ ‘Chick-fil-A?’”

He looks at you. “It’s ‘Stop flirting with me in front of our friends.’”

You place a hand on his knee, entirely unrepentant. “That’s a terrible safe word. No one would ever say that in a sexy context, and it's way too long.”

“I’m saying it now.”

“And I’m ignoring it,” you say brightly.

“You always do.”

“Don’t act like you don’t like the attention.”

He doesn’t answer. Just looks at you, slow and deliberate, and sips his beer like it’s a middle finger. You wink. He rolls his eyes. Somewhere across the room, someone starts fake-gagging at the tension.

And maybe you’re not winning the game. And maybe you’re not getting laid. But you are exactly where you want to be. Still in the game. Still in the chase. Still driving Mingyu absolutely insane—one flirt at a time.

You're halfway through another drink when you notice her.

She’s pretty. Not intimidatingly so, just that easy kind of pretty that laughs with her whole face and touches Mingyu’s arm a little too often. And he doesn’t move it. Doesn’t lean away. You keep sipping, smile still in place.

It’s not like you’re jealous. You don’t do jealous. That would imply something serious. That would imply you’re losing something you ever had. It’s common knowledge that Mingyu takes a new girl home every time there's a get-together. You know that.

You lean over to Jeonghan, who’s beside you on the floor. “Hey,” you whisper. “Think I should start licking Mingyu’s neck or would that be overkill?”

He blinks at you. “Overkill for what?”

“Winning.”

He glances at Mingyu, then at the girl with the hand on Mingyu’s knee. Then at you again. “You’re losing.”

“Temporarily.”

Jeonghan snorts. “I don’t think you understand how the game works.”

You shoot him a glare and turn back just in time to catch Mingyu laughing at something she said. His hand brushes hers. Casual. Effortless. The kind of thing you’ve been trying to get out of him for weeks just handed to some girl in a backless top.

God, you hate it here.

Your stomach does something stupid. You pretend it’s indigestion and down the rest of your drink like it’s armor.

Somewhere around 1 a.m., the group starts thinning. Jackets come on, Ubers get called. Mingyu stands, casual, easy, and holds out a hand to the girl. You’re on the couch, legs curled up, an empty solo cup in hand like a sad little trophy. He meets your eyes for half a second.

Door clicks shut.

The room feels a little quieter. You sit there, watching the screen even though no one’s playing anymore. Popcorn underfoot. Bottles on the table. Someone else’s jacket on your lap. You’re not upset. Not really. The screensaver flickers across the TV—someone’s dog, maybe. Or a stock image of a beach. Either way, it’s mocking you.

You sink further into the couch, solo cup still dangling from your fingers like it's got something to say about your life choices. You ignore it. You ignore the silence too.

This is fine.

You’re fine.

You weren’t trying to win anything. Not really. Not in any real, capital-letter way. This was a game, remember? All jokes and eye contact and the occasional threat to climb into his lap. It wasn’t supposed to matter. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

Someone turns off the lights in the kitchen. You flinch a little at the sudden dark, even though you’re still glowing, apparently—your phone lighting up on the table with some meme from Seungkwan and a text from Jeonghan that just says:

«Devil on my shoulder»: you good?

You stare at it for a second too long. Then type back:

«Me»: always

Then you set your phone face-down and pretend that means something.

You don’t know why it stings. It’s not like he owes you anything. You’re not dating. You’re not even flirting, technically, if you ask him. Just… joking. Just friends. Friends who touch too much, maybe. Friends who play chicken with boundaries and never break. Friends who—

Yeah, okay.

You stand up. A little too fast. The room tilts like it wants to challenge you. You wave goodbye to whoever’s still left, say something flippant and breezy, and duck out before anyone can notice that your voice sounds a little too bright.

Outside, the air is cool and sharp and real. You take a breath like it’ll fix you. It doesn’t.

You go home and go to sleep. Alone, like always. No texts. No calls. Just the creak of your door, the whisper of your sheets, and the dull ache of your pride bruising in real time. You tell yourself it’s whatever. You’re not sad. You’re just… tired. Emotionally. Dramatically. Cosmetically.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯❀⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

You ditch class.

Not for any noble reason like catching up on sleep or mental health or whatever excuse you normally feed yourself. You just… don’t feel like seeing people. Don’t feel like making small talk or pretending you’re not reeling over something that shouldn't even count as a loss. Because it’s not a loss. You were never in the running.

Still, you wake up to a blank phone screen and an even blanker apartment. It’s too quiet. You check Instagram. Mingyu's not posted anything, obviously. He never does. But one of the other girls from last night has—there’s a blurry video of a round of drinks, a flash of Mingyu’s grin in the background, a corner of her thigh in the foreground. Nothing explicit. Nothing confirmable. But it doesn’t have to be.

You toss your phone aside and groan into your pillow. Dramatic? Maybe. Deserved? You pretend it is.

By noon, you’ve migrated to the couch in the same hoodie you went to bed in, a tub of ice cream in your lap and a terrible reality show playing in the background. You consider texting Jeonghan something petty, maybe even making a joke about neck-licking again, but you know exactly what he’d say.

“You lost.”

You hate that he’d be right.

It’s not about the sex (Well, not just the sex). It’s the principle. The chase. The fact that you’ve been climbing this flirty little hill like it’s Everest, only to watch Mingyu pitch a damn tent with someone else on a whim. Sure, Mingyu’s your friend, but that should have made it easier, if anything! You know him, you know things none of those other girls do. The doubts start creeping in your mind before you can stop them.

You lean your head back, eyes closing.

“I’m an idiot,” you mutter to the ceiling.

The ceiling does not respond. Rude.

You wake up again around noon, your head a little foggy, your phone face-down on the nightstand like it betrayed you.

Which, in a way, it did.

You scroll through a few texts — mostly memes, some blurry pictures from last night, and Jeonghan’s very helpful “Mingyu’s girl looked like a yoga instructor. Your move.”

You don’t respond.

Instead, you drag yourself out of bed, slap some concealer under your eyes, and show up at the group’s usual late brunch spot like you’re not currently losing the dumbest, pettiest war in history.

He’s already there, of course. Hair still damp from a shower, sunglasses perched on his head, acting like he didn’t absolutely obliterate your ego less than 12 hours ago. You slide into the seat across from him, toss your bag down, and reach for the mimosa pitcher.

“Rough night?” he asks, because of course he does.

You raise your eyebrows. “Oh, did something happen? I wouldn’t know. I was too busy not getting laid.”

He snorts. “Tragic.”

“I know,” you sigh, pouring dramatically. “I almost had a sure thing. Tall guy, stupidly good-looking, terrible taste in women.”

“Sounds like a loser.”

“Total menace,” you agree. “Wears hoodies like a slut.”

Mingyu smirks, leaning back in his seat. “You say that like it’s an insult.”

“It was meant to be foreplay,” you joke into your drink like always, hiding the way your stomach sinks at the sight of him.

The waitress interrupts before he can fire back, and the conversation shifts to food, hangovers, and Seungkwan’s latest dating horror story. You slide back into the group like nothing’s wrong, even though there’s a weird little space inside you that feels vaguely bruised.

But you’re fine. Really.

Brunch drags on in that lazy, post-night-out kind of way — plates half-empty, drinks refilled without question, everyone talking over each other about things no one will remember tomorrow. You fake-laugh at Hoshi’s story about getting kicked out of a club for “enthusiastic dancing” and sip your third mimosa like it’s a coping mechanism. It kind of is.

Mingyu’s across from you still, legs sprawled like he owns the whole sidewalk café. He’s mostly quiet, nodding along, occasionally chiming in, occasionally looking at you. Just enough to make you insane. Not enough to call him out for it.

You lean toward Jeonghan when the conversation shifts again. “Hey,” you whisper, low and conspiratorial. “Be honest. On a scale of one to ten, how good do you think my odds are if I fake faint in Mingyu’s lap?”

He doesn’t even blink. “Like, in general? Or while he’s still got yoga girl’s perfume on his hoodie?”

You pause. Grimace. “Okay, one: rude. Two: you’re enjoying this too much.”

“I really am,” he says, sipping his iced coffee like it’s tea. “You’re fun when you’re losing.”

“I’m not losing,” you hiss.

“You’re not winning.”

You open your mouth to retort, but Mingyu’s voice cuts across the table.

“You two whispering about me again?”

“Always,” you say brightly, switching gears without missing a beat. “We’re discussing how you peaked in 2019.”

He smiles around the rim of his glass. “That the year you first tried to get in my pants?”

“No,” you say with a shrug. “That was more recent. I didn’t know what I was missing back then.”

“Still don’t,” he replies, maddeningly calm.

You narrow your eyes. “Yet.”

“Ever.”

You flash a grin, syrup-sweet. “Careful, Kim. I’m like a raccoon in the walls. You ignore me long enough and I start chewing through the wiring.”

“Jesus,” he mutters, but he’s smiling. A little. Just at the corner of his mouth.

You hold his gaze for a second longer than necessary, then look away like it meant nothing. Like you’re not keeping score. Like you didn’t notice the bruise-colored shadow under his eyes or how his voice was a little hoarse when he first said hi.

He’s not gloating.

That should make it easier. But it doesn’t. Because somehow, that makes it worse.

Somehow, him being normal, relaxed, unbothered — like taking another girl home wasn’t a big deal — hurts more than if he’d rubbed it in your face. Because you know it shouldn’t be a big deal.

You take another sip, push a smile onto your lips, and lean over to Jeonghan again.

“New plan,” you whisper. “I sleep with someone hotter.”

He glances at Mingyu. Then at you. “You’re gonna need a bracket system.”

“I’ll make a spreadsheet.”

“God help us all.”

You clink your glass against his in solemn agreement and stab at your pancake like it personally offended you. Jeonghan’s scrolling on his phone like he’s not in the presence of your emotional collapse, which is rude, frankly.

“So,” you say casually, “wanna fuck?”

Jeonghan doesn’t even blink. “No.”

You pout. “Why not?”

He glances up. “Because I enjoy my life? And my sanity?”

“Rude.”

“I’ve seen what you’ve done to Mingyu.”

You scoff. “Mingyu did that to himself.”

“You are the one trying to seduce him like it’s your full-time job.”

“I’m freelance,” you say brightly. “Flexible hours, great benefits. Or they would be, if someone would just let me ride—”

“God,” Jeonghan mutters, holding up a hand. “Don’t finish that sentence in daylight.”

You lean your chin on your hand, smiling at him. “You sure? We could make Mingyu jealous. Really commit to the bit. Tongue in my mouth, hand on my ass, your name in my—”

“Please.” He waves his fork like a white flag. “There are families within a one-mile radius.”

You laugh, but there’s a tiny part of you—just under the humor, under the tequila still fizzing in your veins from the drink—that means it. Just a little.

You just want to feel wanted. Desired. Chosen.

Even if it’s fake.

Even if it’s stupid.

Even if it’s Jeonghan.

But Jeonghan sees it, of course. He always sees too much. His voice softens. “You don’t actually want me.”

You sigh, deflating. “I don’t know. Maybe I just want someone to look at me like I’m not a joke.”

“You’re not a joke.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You literally said I ruined Mingyu.”

“I said you ruined his brain, which—honestly, fair. But you’re not a joke.”

You don’t answer. You just go back to stabbing your pancake, chewing on silence and syrup and the feeling of almost being enough.

Almost.

You clear your throat, sit up a little straighter, and flash Jeonghan a grin like nothing’s wrong at all.

“Well,” you say lightly, “if you’re not going to help me fulfill my slutty revenge arc, I guess I’ll have to outsource.”

Jeonghan eyes you. “You’re deflecting.”

You widen your smile. “I’m recruiting.”

He snorts. “Don’t recruit me. I’m unionized.”

You laugh, tossing a piece of fruit at his face. He dodges it easily, still watching you with that quiet scrutiny that always makes you want to squirm. You don’t. You stay collected. Cool. Unbothered.

Because it’s not a big deal. Not really. So what if Mingyu left with some girl last night? That’s just who he is. It’s been who he is since before you started this ridiculous game. You were the one who walked in knowing the rules. You just… hoped you’d break them.

Stupid.

“Anyway,” you say, breezy, like you're not holding your smile together with metaphorical duct tape, “I’ve decided to turn over a new leaf.”

“You’re spiraling.”

“I’m improvising.”

“You’re losing.”

You sigh, dragging your gaze back to Mingyu—still relaxed, still maddening, still wearing that same damn hoodie. “God, he’s so annoying.”

“Sure,” Jeonghan says, “but you’re in love with the attention.”

You snort into your drink. “I am not in love.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“I’m not!” you insist. “I’m in… open conflict. With my dignity.”

Jeonghan chuckles, tipping his sunglasses down to look you in the eye. “Then maybe start treating it like a war. Regroup. Change tactics.”

You glance at Mingyu again. He’s listening to something Seungkwan is saying, a lazy smile on his face, like the last twenty-four hours were nothing. Like none of it meant anything. You hate how much you still want to reach out, to rewind to the couch, to the teasing, to the slow thrill of being almost something. Of feeling like you mattered more than the rest.

“Fine,” you murmur, straightening up. “New strategy.”

Jeonghan raises an eyebrow. “Which is?”

You smile, all teeth and intent. “Play the long game.”

He snorts. “Is that code for ‘text a situationship to make Mingyu jealous?’”

“No,” you say, pulling your phone out anyway. “It’s code for ‘remind myself I’m the main character.’”

Jeonghan lifts his mimosa in salute. “Amen.”

You all head out, someone, Seungkwan probably, suggesting thrifting, and who are you to deny yourself from some retail therapy. Not that you need it. Not that it hurts when you’re rejected over and over. Not that anyone was thinking that at all. Haha.

“If I find an outfit sexy enough will you change your mind?” You say, clinging to Mingyu’s arm and batting your eyelashes, prompting an eye roll from the man.

“I rejected you in lingerie, no.” He laughs, making Jeonghan choke.

“PARDON?!”

You shrug, “It was a strategic move at the time.” You lie, not letting it bother you.

You all walk into the thrift store and you immediately take off, dragging Jeonghan with you to be the reason for your poor spending decisions. You browse the racks, grabbing different things to try on. It goes by quickly, you (not-so) subtly avoid Mingyu, using the clothes as an excuse. You need to focus on budgeting. Obviously.

You’re browsing through the dresses when you feel him behind you. You don’t look, don’t need to. You know that presence, tall and annoyingly warm. You pretend to be invested in a vaguely sparkly green slip dress, holding it up to the light like you're testing it for authenticity. As if that matters.

“Whatcha looking at?” Mingyu asks, voice low and closer than you’d like.

You hum noncommittally, turning just enough to side-eye him. “Does this say ‘fuck me’ or ‘fuck off?” You wonder out loud.

His mouth quirks, amused, “Neither, it says you’re trying to get to me again. I’m not sleeping with you, dress or not.”

You roll your eyes, “Cool, not what I asked.”

He snorts, the way always does when you're trying to act unbothered. “You literally asked, like, ten minutes ago.”

“That was a bit, Kim,” you say, flipping through a few more hangers. “An act. I’m a performer, get with the program.”

He laughs again, and it makes your chest feel tight. You want to be mad, want to have the right to feel mad. Instead you hold up a red mesh dress and make a show of holding it against yourself.

“This one says heartbreaker, doesn’t it?”

Mingyu lifts an eyebrow. “It says cover charge required.”

Jeonghan snorts from somewhere behind a rack. “He’s not wrong.”

You sigh dramatically, turning to Jeonghan with a pout. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I am,” Jeonghan says, already holding three things you didn’t ask him to, “but I also support truth in fashion.”

You roll your eyes and stomp toward the dressing rooms, tossing the dress over your arm. Inside the dressing room, it’s just you and the mirror — which is never as forgiving as it should be. You pull the red mesh dress over your head and immediately regret it. It clings, not in a flattering way, not in a sexy, dangerous way — no, it clings like a bad idea. A transparent, slightly itchy bad idea.

You stare at yourself for a beat too long, imagining what Mingyu would say if he saw you like this. Probably something smug. Probably something that would make you want to claw the smirk right off his face.

But the worst part? He wouldn’t say nothing.

You sigh, tugging the dress back off with a grumble and trying on the next thing — a black velvet number with off-the-shoulder sleeves. Better. Safer. Something you might actually wear if your life wasn’t a constant performance. If it weren’t for all the stupid looks you steal, the dumb comments you toss like confetti just to see if he’ll catch one and throw it back. You shake the thoughts away, it's just shopping, why are you thinking so hard?

Outside, you can hear the others chatting, footsteps, laughter. You can feel Mingyu still somewhere nearby. Of course he didn’t leave.

You try on one last outfit, something ridiculous and shiny and absolutely not within budget, and you know Jeonghan’s going to encourage it anyway. You exit the stall dramatically, hand on your hip.

“Well?” you say, spinning once. “Do I look heartbreakingly unattainable or tragically desperate?”

“Why choose?” Seungkwan offers, sipping an iced americano he absolutely didn’t have five minutes ago.

“Iconic,” Jeonghan nods approvingly. “That outfit is the personality now. You’re welcome.”

Mingyu glances up from his phone. His gaze lingers a second too long — you catch it, of course you do — and then he says, “You’re gonna make someone very confused in that.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Not you, though?”

“Nope,” he says easily, looking back at his screen. “I’ve already accepted my fate.”

“What fate is that?” you ask, stepping closer, tone teasing.

He doesn’t look up. “Doomed to be hit on in public by someone who refuses to take a hint.”

Jeonghan whistles. “Harsh.”

You just smile, tilting your head. “And yet, here you are. Still following me around thrift stores like a sad golden retriever.”

Mingyu finally meets your eyes, and there’s something unreadable in his expression. “Don’t flatter yourself,” he says, but it’s softer than it should be.

You wish it stung more. Maybe then you could stop hoping he’d change his mind.

You step back into the dressing room, looking at the last dress for you to try on. Not something you’d normally wear: a cute sundress, flowy, innocent, something you’d have dreamed of wearing when you were a child. You slip it on, looking in the mirror with a soft smile. It's moments like these that you let yourself breath a second, let that little kid be happy. Back when things had been simpler, at least in your little world. You don’t step out yet, letting yourself enjoy the moment before changing back into your regular clothes.

You finally walk back out, dress under the others on your arm as you hang them back up. You hesitate as you hang the sundress and decide, fuck it.

“Alright, let's check out.” You say brightly.

Jeonghan raises an eyebrow as he watches you march toward the front. “Wait, you’re buying something cute? Are you okay? Blink twice if Mingyu broke you emotionally.”

You shoot him a look over your shoulder. “He wishes he had that kind of power, shut the fuck up.”

Seungkwan hums thoughtfully, trailing behind you with the solemnity of a fashion consultant in a Paris showroom. “No, no, this is giving… character development. Like a girlboss in her soft era. A post-Mingyu arc.”

“I’m not in a Mingyu arc,” you mutter as you reach the checkout counter.

“Sure you aren’t,” Seungkwan and Jeonghan say at the same time, which feels both rude and accurate.

You ignore them, placing the sundress gently on the counter like it’s fragile. The cashier gives you a polite smile, ringing it up with a soft beep. You hand over your card, pretending not to notice how Mingyu is suddenly next to you again, close enough that you can smell the damn detergent he uses. Clean. Familiar.

“You’re buying that?” he asks, not mocking, just wondering.

You shrug without looking at him. “Yup.”

He glances at the dress, then at you. “It’s… different.”

“I guess,” you say, too quickly. “It's pretty though, thought I might branch out from slutty college student to country whore.”

Mingyu’s chuckles. You don’t look, don’t dare to. Just sign your name on the little screen and slide your card back into your wallet like this is any other day and not a minor shift in your emotional tectonic plates.

“You’ll look good in it,” he says honestly, the same compliments he always gives.

But something about it feels different, deeper, almost. You turn then, just enough to meet his gaze. There’s something in his eyes you can’t place. It’s not the usual teasing glint, not that sharp-edged challenge he usually throws at you like a dare, nor the friendly compliments and support he gives just as often.

It’s something softer. Careful, almost.

You swallow. “Thanks.”

He nods once, then looks away like he didn’t mean to say it out loud. Like it slipped. You want to say something else — anything, really — but Seungkwan saves you both the trouble by clapping his hands like a preschool teacher at snack time.

“Alright, emotional tension break’s over, everyone back in the car before I dissolve into my own feelings.”

“I’m not riding with her,” Mingyu says, jerking a thumb in your direction. “She’s dangerous when she’s self-actualizing.”

You grin at him and tease. “Scared you might give in?”

He just shakes his head, smiling to himself as he walks out, “You wish.”

Jeonghan loops an arm through yours as you step outside, his sunglasses back on like he’s shielding himself from your emotional UV rays. “You gonna explain the new style?” he says, voice amused but not unkind. You shake your head and his voice softens slightly. “You gonna be okay?”

You shrug, leaning into him a little. “Eventually.”

“Soon?”

You grin. “Long game, remember?”

He sighs, dragging you toward the car. “God, I miss when you were just drunk and emotionally irresponsible. This whole personal growth thing is exhausting.”

You laugh, letting him pull you along. Mingyu’s already in the passenger seat, legs sprawled like always, phone in hand. He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t need to.

You still feel the pull anyway. But you’ve got your new dress in a bag, your chin a little higher than before and a half-smile tucked into your cheek like a secret. Maybe he’ll notice eventually. Maybe he won’t. But this time, you’re not dressing up for him. You’re dressing up for the version of yourself that knew she deserved the world. Even if she still kind of wants him anyway.

And maybe that’s the point. Maybe, just for a little, it’s not about whether Mingyu looks at you and finally, finally sees what he’s been too comfortable to name. Maybe it’s about choosing to see yourself instead—clearly, kindly, without a punchline waiting in the wings.

The ride back is half-loud, half-sleepy, Seungkwan yelling about bad aux and Jeonghan threatening to start a podcast just to cancel him publicly. You laugh when you’re supposed to, play your part like you always do. But this time, it feels less like acting and more like remembering. Like brushing off old habits and trying something different. Like letting your heart catch its breath for a moment.

You catch Mingyu watching you once in the rearview mirror—just a flicker, a second too long before he looks away. You don’t react. You don’t rise to it. And when he cracks a joke meant to bait you, you smile, slow and warm, and say nothing at all.

Let him wonder.

Because for just a moment you’re pausing the chase and enjoying the moment with friends. Because you’ve got something better now—something quieter, steadier.

A little hope. A little growth.

A little dress in a bag that says: You’re allowed to change.

And maybe, just maybe, this time it’s not about ruining him.

Maybe it’s about saving yourself.

Just for a moment.

And then you snap out of it, going back to smart remarks and flirty comments, because change is hard, habits difficult to break. But you know that it’s possible. And for now, that’s enough.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯❀⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Four days later, you arrive at Mingyu’s door wearing sweatpants and no bra.

Not in a sexy way. In an “I’ve had enough of your righteous self-control and I’m playing the long game now” way. Strategic vulnerability. The sexiest mind game of all. More than that, you need to rant to your best friend.

You knock with your elbow, a bag of takeout in one hand and a pint of ice cream balanced on top.

He opens the door and freezes.

“Wow,” he says, blinking. “You okay?”

“No,” you say, breezing past him. “I’m emotionally fragile and I need dumplings.”

Mingyu closes the door behind you. “You look emotionally fragile. Did someone die? Do I need to bury a body?”

You flop dramatically onto the couch, stretching like a cat who’s absolutely not here for seduction purposes. “Only my faith in modern romance.”

He snorts. “Was it the TikTok guy who said he wouldn’t date a girl who owns more than one pillow?”

You glare at him. “No. But honestly? Same energy.”

He joins you on the couch, reaching for the takeout bag. “Tell me everything.”

And you do. In great detail. About the guy in your seminar who asked if your “whole personality is just being a woman,” about your professor who made a joke about menopause while grading your essay, and about your period arriving early like an emotionally manipulative ex.

Through it all, Mingyu listens. Really listens. His thigh brushes yours occasionally, and you absolutely don’t notice the way he keeps glancing at your collarbone, which is scandalously bare thanks to your hoodie’s slouchy neckline.

He feeds you dumplings, presses the ice cream into your hands when you need it, and tells you he once cried at a car commercial, just to make you laugh.

And somewhere in the middle of watching reruns of Criminal Minds and trading increasingly unhinged opinions about Spencer Reid’s emotional maturity, you realize just how fucked you may be. Because Mingyu is your best friend. He’s your kind, funny, smart, unfairly sexy best friend. How are you supposed to stop yourself from falling for him?

Jeonghan was right, you realize. You're way deeper than you thought, so deep that you don’t think you can ever swim back to the surface of friendship. Shit. You continue watching, ignoring the feelings, knowing damn well they won’t go away. You fight the realization, convincing yourself to wait until you’re alone to break.

You aren’t even sure when you fell asleep, just that you woke up wrapped in a blanket, sprawled out on Mingyu’s couch.

He’s at the kitchen counter now, back to you, sleeves rolled up, hair still damp from a shower. You stay still for a second longer, watching the curve of his shoulders shift as he pours himself a glass of water. You have the absurd thought that you could walk over and press your face between his shoulder blades and he might let you.

“You let me hog your couch,” you murmur, voice still scratchy.

“You drooled on it too,” he replies without turning, deadpan.

You smile faintly and sit up, the blanket slipping down. “Guess I owe you something.”

That gets him to glance over his shoulder. “You’re not cleaning it.”

You stand and stretch slowly, deliberately, feigning casualness. “Nah, I was thinking something more fun.” You walk over, letting your hand brush against the side of his as you reach for the same glass. “Maybe you should consider accepting one of my offers for once?”

“You’re really gonna try that before brushing your teeth?” he jokes lightly, but there's a quiet firmness beneath the joke.

You laugh—too loud, too fast. “Wow. Harsh.” You lean back, arms crossing over your chest to hide the sting. “I’m beginning to think you’re scared of me, Gyu.”

“I’m not scared of you,” he says. He turns to look at you then, really look, and the joke falls flat between you.

There's a pause.

“Then what is it?” you ask, keeping your voice even, your smile like armor. “Am I just not your type? I didn’t think you had one from the… variety of girls I’ve seen you take home.”

Mingyu looks away, running a hand through his hair. “You’re tired. Go back to sleep.”

You don’t move. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I’ve got for you.”

You let the silence settle in like dust. Then you nod, once, and turn away before he can see the disappointment tightening your face.

“Fine,” you say, the humor gone now even though you try to keep your voice light. “I’ll brush my teeth first next time.” You attempt, dropping back onto the couch and pulling the blanket over your shoulders like it might shield you from how hollow it suddenly feels.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯❀⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Once you get home you let yourself fully realize. You sink into your bed, all of the moments that made you fall for him crashing into you like a tidal wave you hadn’t realized was coming until it was drowning you. His smile, his laugh, how he helps people when they need it, even when they don’t. How you use stupid jokes and flirting to pretend you don’t feel the way you do. How every time he’d take a new girl home a small part of you would twinge. How you’ve been so incredibly stupid. You wipe your tears, taking a shaky breath.

It’s fine.

You’re fine.

The next wave crashes when you remember just how much he doesn’t want you. How much he turns you down, how much you try. You’d never had to try so hard with anyone else, you’d been able to bat your eyelashes and end up in someone's bed if you so wanted. But not the one person who matters.

But even that—even that—you try to twist into something survivable.

Maybe he’s just being careful. Maybe you’re too important to risk. Maybe he’s a coward.

Maybe you are.

You tell yourself he was tired too. That he didn’t mean it like that. That timing is everything and yours has always sucked.

Still, the thought circles like a vulture:

He doesn’t want you. Not like that.

And it doesn’t matter how many times you run the memories back through your head, searching for proof that he did. Because no matter how hard you look, you don’t find anything except friendly banter and a hint of genuine annoyance. Your flirting annoys him, you realize. You think back to the set of his jaw, then slight tension in his shoulders. The boundaries you’d been constantly pushing.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯❀⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

You don’t text him for two days.

He doesn’t text either.

On the third day, Jeonghan shows up at your door with his usual lack of warning and a bag of pastries that you’re too sad to pretend you don’t immediately want.

“I bring carbs and judgment,” he says cheerfully, pushing inside. “How’s the unrequited love pit treating you?”

You groan and faceplant into your pillow.

“Oh good,” Jeonghan says, “you’ve upgraded from denial to despair. Next stop, emotional rock bottom. We’ll get you a punch card.”

You muffle into the pillow, “I thought you were going to pretend to be supportive.”

“I am being supportive,” he says, tugging the blanket off you just enough to shove a croissant into your hand. “You’re not crying alone. You’re crying with me. And a chocolate pastry.”

You take a bite. Then another. Jeonghan waits.

After a minute, you speak. “He looked me in the eyes and told me to go back to sleep. Like I was just tired. Like that explained everything.”

Jeonghan doesn’t say anything, just watches you with that knowing look that makes you want to throw the croissant at him.

“I was half-joking,” you continue, bitterly. “The flirting. The offers. The lingerie. All of it — it was funny. It was supposed to be funny.”

“It was never just funny,” Jeonghan says gently.

You sit up, brushing crumbs off your hoodie. “Well, it wasn’t serious, either. Not at first. It was a bit, Han. A way to keep things easy. A way to be close to him without, you know—actually saying it.”

Jeonghan raises an eyebrow. “But then it stopped being a bit.”

You press your palms into your eyes, letting the heel of your hand dig into your sockets. “Yeah. And the worst part? He probably still thinks it is. He probably thinks I’m just messing with him for fun. That I never meant any of it.”

Jeonghan leans back in your desk chair, spinning slightly as he crosses one leg over the other. “Well, to be fair… you’ve kind of trained everyone around you to think you’re never serious.”

You shoot him a look.

“I’m not judging!” he says, holding up a hand. “Just saying. You’re always ‘fine.’ Always laughing first. You’ve got more walls than a medieval castle, and all of them are covered in sarcasm and slutty little jokes.”

You give a half-hearted snort. “You say that like it’s a bad strategy.”

“It’s a safe strategy,” he corrects. “Until you actually start feeling something and suddenly no one knows when you’re telling the truth — including him.”

You go quiet. Because he’s right. You’ve been dancing that line for so long, even you stopped knowing when it was real and when it was for the bit. Until now. Until the silence stretched too long and the jokes stopped landing and all you wanted was for him to want you back — not as a punchline, not as part of the game, but really, actually, you.

And he didn’t.

Or maybe he did — but if he did, he’s never going to say it. Never going to risk what you have. You’re always the one pushing. Always the one cracking a joke that skirts too close to the truth. You made it a game so you wouldn’t have to face how much it would hurt to lose.

Now it hurts anyway.

“I feel stupid,” you say softly.

“You’re not,” Jeonghan replies. “You just fell for someone who’s too scared to catch you. That’s not on you.”

You look down at the pastry in your hands, crumbling around the edges. “Then why do I feel like the punchline?”

“Because you’ve been delivering the setup for months,” he says, gently. “And now the joke’s on you.”

You laugh, dry and humorless. “Great. Love that for me.”

Jeonghan reaches over and squeezes your hand. “Hey. You’re not done. You’re just heartbruised.”

“Heartbruised?” you echo.

He shrugs. “It’s like heartbroken, but softer. More recoverable. You’ll bounce back. You always do.” You nod slowly, letting the silence settle for a second.

And then you say, “I’m done flirting with him.”

Jeonghan lifts a brow. “Sure you are.”

“No, seriously. No more jokes. No more lingerie. No more pretending I don’t mean it.”

“Does that mean you're going to tell him you mean it?”

You stare at him. “Absolutely not. Are you insane?”

Jeonghan grins, wide and wicked. “So brave. So emotionally evolved.”

You throw a pillow at him.

But in the quiet that follows, you know it’s true — you’ve been chasing him with jokes and soft threats and wide eyes for months, always giving him the out. Always letting it be just a game. But it was never really one. Not for you.

And maybe now the game’s over. Maybe now you stop playing.

Let him wonder.

Let him miss you.

You’ll be okay. You have to be.

Because at the end of the day, if he never wanted you — not really — then he never deserved the version of you that did.

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand. You ignore it for a second, pretending it’s some promotional email or a text from Jeonghan even though he’s sitting right next to you, elbow-deep in your snack drawer like he lives here. But it buzzes again.

Jeonghan glances over. “That him?”

You don’t answer, just reach for it with a knot already forming in your chest.

«Mingyu»: what’s going on with you?

You stare at the screen. Another buzz.

«Mingyu»: you’ve been weird lately

«Mingyu»: did i do something?

Jeonghan watches you read it. “You gonna respond?”

“I don’t know,” you mutter, locking the screen.

“Interesting,” he says, drawing out the word. “Old you would’ve replied with something like ‘what, you miss me?’ or ‘guess you’ll have to come over and find out.’”

You shoot him a look. “Well, old me was an idiot.”

“She was funny, though,” he grins. “And so brave.”

“Shut up.”

You unlock your phone again, read the messages once more. Your fingers hover over the keyboard.

You could say nothing. You could leave it on read, let him stew in it. Let him wonder why the energy shifted and whether or not you’re finally over it. Over him.

Or you could say something real for once.

Something careful. Controlled.

So you type:

«You»: nothing’s going on «You»: just tired

You hit send, then immediately regret it. It’s too vague. Too obvious. Another message pops up almost instantly.

«Mingyu»: you sure?

And then, a beat later:

«Mingyu»: did i fuck something up?

You sigh and set the phone down face-down. Jeonghan’s still watching you, chewing on some expired gummy bears like this is a drama he’s bingeing with snacks.

“You can’t avoid him forever,” he offers, gently.

You roll your eyes. “And say what? ‘Hey, remember all those times I begged you to sleep with me as a joke? Surprise! I wasn’t kidding!’”

“You don’t have to say it like that,” Jeonghan says, amused. “Although that would be on-brand.”

You shake your head. “I don’t know. I need time to think.”

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯❀⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

A week passes with you avoiding Mingyu like the plague. He still texts, still worries. At one point you’d almost gone up to him, but then you saw him walking into his dorm with another one-night and realized you couldn’t do this any more. Because seeing him hurt, and you know he’ll never like you back. Not the way you do. So the next time he texts, you don’t ignore him.

«Mingyu»: seriously, you’re worrying me

You stare at the screen, thumb hovering, but you don’t answer. Not yet. Not when everything feels like it’s balancing on the edge of a knife. Not when his name flashing on your screen makes your heart twist. Another text follows.

«Mingyu»: did i do something? «Mingyu»: just tell me, please

You bite the inside of your cheek. The truth is tangled up in too many months of jokes that weren’t really jokes, of sidelong glances and lingering touches passed off as nothing. And now you don’t know how to say it without setting the whole thing on fire. It’s stupid. You were the one who started it. The teasing. The innuendos. The half-drunken dares to “just do it already.” You made it a game. One he never played seriously. And now you’re the one losing. The one hurting. And you look at that cute little sundress hanging in your closet, seeing that little girl you used to be and know you can’t do this any more. For her. For you. You finally respond with a clipped:

«you»: can we talk?

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯❀⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Mingyu opens the door the second you knock, like he was waiting behind it.

His brows are furrowed. “What’s going on? You’ve been weird for days.”

You step inside without answering, your arms folded across your chest like a shield, as if it’ll protect you from what you know is to come.

He closes the door behind you slowly. “Okay… seriously. Talk to me.”

You stare at the floor, the speech you’d planned slipping from your mind the second you open your mouth. “I don’t think we should be friends anymore.”

The words leave your lips quietly, but they echo, soft and brutal.

He freezes. “What?”

You lift your gaze, force yourself to hold his. “I think we should stop being friends.”

Your voice is firmer this time, although there’s a slight waver you can’t shake. But you know you have to do this. For yourself.

His brow furrows deeper. “Where the hell is this coming from?”

“It doesn’t matter—”

“Yes, it does,” he snaps. “You don’t just say something like that and act like it’s nothing.”

“I’ve been thinking about it for a while.”

“Then why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

“Because I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“You think this isn’t?” he practically scoffs, voice rising.

You wince. “I just—this isn’t good for me anymore, okay? I can’t keep doing this.”

“What does this even mean? What are we doing that’s so bad?”

You hesitate. You know exactly what you mean. But you can’t say it—not the real thing. So instead you deflect. You say something stupid. Something you don’t really mean, not in the way you know it sounds.

“I guess I just got tired of being the only girl you won’t sleep with.”

He stares at you like he’s been slapped.

“…What?” His voice is quiet, stunned.

You look away. “Forget it.”

“No. No, you don’t get to say that and then back out.” He steps forward. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“I told you to forget it,” you mutter, panic clawing up your throat.

“So that’s what this is about?” he says, disbelief giving way to anger. “That I haven’t fucked you?”

You don’t answer.

His voice grows louder. “You’re throwing away years of friendship because I didn’t want to have sex with you?”

“Don’t twist it like that—”

“I’m not twisting anything. Those were your words.” He gestures at you, furious. “Is that all I am to you? Just someone to chase until you can check me off your list?”

You flinch. “That’s not fair.”

He scoffs. “No, what’s not fair is acting like I did something wrong by treating you with respect. Like me not jumping into bed with you is some personal insult.”

You snap. “You don’t get it!”

“Then explain it! Because right now, all I see is my best friend suddenly treating me like I’m the villain for not screwing her!”

“I never said you were a villain!”

“You didn’t have to! You’re acting like I’ve been stringing you along, like I owe you something I never fucking promised.”

“I didn’t want a promise!” Your voice is shaking. “I just wanted— I just wanted to feel like I wasn’t invisible!”

That stops him. His face falls, just for a second. But it’s too late now. The dam is cracking.

He runs a hand through his hair, agitated. “So what? Sleeping together would’ve fixed that?”

“No. I don’t know. Maybe?”

“Unbelievable,” he mutters, turning away.

You see the hurt on his face even as he hides it.

“You’re ruining our friendship because I won’t fuck you? Is that all I am? Just someone to get close to and sleep with just so you can say you did?” His voice is tight now—not just angry, but betrayed.

You flinch. “Of course you aren’t, I…” You trail off.

He stares. “Say it.” His tone is venomous.

Your mouth won’t move. You look at him, and all the things you never wanted him to see are staring back at you through your silence.

His lips press into a line. “That’s what I thought.”

He turns away again—and that’s when the words leap out of you, desperate and raw:

“I’m in love with you!”

The world freezes, silence extending. His shoulders tense as he slowly turns back, eyes full of so many emotions you can’t tell what he’s thinking. His breath is labored and the dam inside you finally breaks.

“I didn’t know,” you say, voice cracking, barely holding together. “Not at first. It was just flirting, right? Dumb jokes about hooking up, just to see you roll your eyes or laugh. That was all it was. Just teasing.”

You laugh, but it’s hollow and bitter and it hurts.

“Then you hooked up with that girl from the party, and I told myself it was fine. What right did I have to be jealous when you were never even mine? But I went home that night and I couldn’t breathe, even though I knew I shouldn’t be upset, laid in bed and just kept asking myself. Why not me? What’s wrong with me?”

You suck in a breath, but it doesn’t help, “That’s when it started. That voice. It wouldn’t shut up. It told me I must be disgusting. Unappealing. Something you’d never even consider. Not even drunk. Not even if there’s no one else. I got so desperate to feel wanted I even asked Jeonghan to sleep with me, and you know what he said? He said he wasn’t what I wanted. Because he knew. Before I did, he knew.”

Your hands shake.

You press them against your sides like you’re holding yourself together. “And I kept making the jokes, brushing off what he’d said. Kept acting like I didn’t care. Because if I stopped laughing, you’d see the truth—and I was so scared of what you’d do with it. Would you pity me? Would you leave?”

Your voice breaks entirely. “I didn’t realize I loved you until I was already drowning in it. And by then, I couldn’t look at myself without hearing all the things I’m not. Not pretty enough. Not desirable. Not lovable. Just the friend you joked with, because that’s all I’d ever be. A joke.”

You let out a breath that sounds like a sob. “Because you said no. Every time. And I know you weren’t trying to hurt me—god, I know you’d never. You were being nice. Gentle. That’s what made it worse. You cared. Just not like that. So I twisted it around in my head. Tried to tell myself you were being noble. Or cautious. Or waiting. But deep down, I started to believe the truth. That I could never be enough for you.” Your eyes sting, but you don’t wipe them. “And now… now I finally admitted all that to myself, and it’s breaking me every time I see you. ”

You finally meet his eyes, and it feels like standing naked in the cold. “I’m not mad at you. I don’t think I could ever be mad at you, you didn’t do anything wrong. I’m just so tired of feeling so… worthless. I’m not saying this to make you feel guilty. I just… I couldn’t carry it anymore. Pretending I was okay. Pretending I didn’t only ever feel whole when I’m near you. I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t say anything. Not at first.

His eyes search yours, and for a moment you think maybe—maybe—he’s going to close the space between you. Say something, anything, that will make it hurt less.

But instead, his jaw clenches. His voice comes out low. Controlled. Too controlled.

“You should’ve told me.”

You look away, feeling the guilt crawl up your throat. “I’m telling you now.”

“No.” He shakes his head, bitter. “Not now. Not after all this. Not after you turned it into a fight.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“But you did.” He takes a step back like he needs distance. “You came in here ready to cut me out. Not because I hurt you. Not because I did anything wrong. But because I didn’t love you back fast enough.”

“That’s not what I meant—”

“Isn’t it?” His voice cracks around the edges. “You could’ve said something. Anything. But instead, you turned it into some fucked-up test and waited for me to fail.”

You freeze. “It wasn’t a test.”

“No?” He laughs bitterly. “You knew how I was. You know what I’m like with girls. You joked about it every chance you got. But the second I didn’t want to be that with you—suddenly I’m the asshole?”

“You’re not an asshole,” you whisper.

“But I’m still the guy you can’t even be friends with. That’s what you said.”

“I didn’t mean it like that—”

“Yes, you did.” His voice sharpens. “You meant it exactly like that. You wanted me to hurt the way you were hurting. You wanted me to feel guilty.”

Tears prick at your eyes again. “No, I just… I don’t know what else to do.”

“You could’ve trusted me.” His hands drop to his sides. “You could’ve just… been honest.”

“I was scared,” you admit, and your voice shakes with the weight of it, “I am scared.”

He looks at you for a long moment. “Of me?”

“No.” You swallow. “Of me. Of not being enough. Of finding out that even if I tried… even if I gave you everything, you still wouldn’t want me.”

Silence stretches between you, sharp and heavy.

Then, quietly, “You don’t get to decide what I would’ve wanted,” he says, barely more than a whisper. “You never gave me the chance.”

He looks like he wants to say more—needs to say more—but he doesn’t. He just stands there, staring at you like he doesn’t even recognize you anymore. Mingyu runs a hand through his hair again, but this time it trembles slightly, like the adrenaline's wearing off and all that's left is the raw aftermath.

“I don’t even know what to say to you right now,” he murmurs.

You nod slowly, tears welling up again. “You don’t have to say anything. I didn’t come here expecting—”

“Don’t,” he interrupts, his voice thick. “Don’t act like this was some noble confession. You didn’t come here to just tell me. You came here to end it.”

You flinch because you know he’s not wrong.

He steps back again, arms folding like he's trying to hold himself together now. “You said you wanted to stop being friends. That was the decision you made before I even knew what was happening.”

“I thought it’d be easier,” you say, and you hate how broken it sounds.

“Easier for who?” he snaps. “You think it’s easy for me to watch you walk away? To hear you say all this and know there’s nothing I can do to make it better?”

Your lip trembles. “I just couldn’t take it any more and I didn’t want to make it your problem.”

He looks at you, incredulous. “I’m your best friend. I thought I was, anyway. Of course it’s my problem.”

You say nothing, because what is there to say?

“And for the record,” he adds, quieter now, “you were never invisible to me. Not once.”

You finally look up. “Then why…”

“Because you matter too much!” he says, his voice splintering. “Because I didn’t want to mess it up. I’ve messed up every relationship I’ve ever had, and I didn’t want to ruin you too. You’re the only thing I’ve ever cared about enough to not touch.”

Your breath catches as you look at him, heart clawing up your throat.

“And maybe I was stupid for thinking I could keep you close without eventually losing you.” His voice is bitter now, but more toward himself than you. “Maybe I should’ve known it’d end like this.”

You take a hesitant step forward. “Mingyu…”

But he steps back. “Don’t.”

The word is soft, but final.

“I don’t hate you,” he says after a long beat, eyes red-rimmed. “I don’t think I could. But I’m angry. And I’m hurt. And I don’t know what the hell to do with any of this right now.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I never meant for it to happen like this.”

He gives you a broken, sad smile. “Yeah. Me neither.”

There’s another silence. One that feels different than all the others. Colder. Empty.

Finally, he walks past you, opens the door.

You don’t move.

“I think you should go,” he says, not looking at you.

And even though your heart is screaming, you nod. Because you knew this was coming. Hell, this is what you came here to do. But not like this. Nothing like this.

You walk out the door, and he doesn’t stop you.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯❀⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

You don’t remember how you got home.

One minute, you were in Mingyu’s apartment, heart in pieces at your feet. The next, you were on the street—walking, stumbling, maybe running. You’re not sure. The rain had started somewhere in between, soaking through your clothes, making it easier to hide your tears. Not that you tried.

You don’t remember texting Jeonghan, either.

But you must’ve, because he’s standing in your doorway by the time you get there, already holding your spare key. His brows are drawn tight with worry. “Jesus,” he breathes. “You look like hell.”

You try to speak, but your voice breaks. He doesn’t ask anything else. Just pulls you inside with a hand on your back and shuts the door gently behind you.

Ten minutes later, you’re in dry clothes—his hoodie, your sweats—and he’s sitting beside you on the couch, watching you like you might shatter if he blinks too hard.

“Okay,” he says eventually, “tell me what happened.”

You bury your face in your hands. “I told him.”

His voice softens. “Mingyu?”

You nod. “Everything. I told him I loved him.”

There’s a pause. Jeonghan leans back, breath whistling between his teeth. “And?”

You look at him, eyes red and raw. “He got mad.”

Jeonghan blinks. “Mad?”

You nod again, harder this time, like it’ll make it make more sense. “I told him I didn’t think we should be friends anymore. And he kept asking why, and I… I panicked. I said something awful. I told him I was tired of being the only girl he wouldn’t sleep with.”

Jeonghan winces. “Yikes.”

“Yeah,” you mutter, repeating what he’d told you after. You bite your lip hard, the echo of those words still fresh, like they’re etched on your skin.

Jeonghan runs a hand down his face, listening worried but obviously frustrated.

“I told him that wasn’t what I meant, but it was too late. He was so hurt. He was furious. And I just… I couldn’t stop. The words just kept coming. Then I told him I was in love with him.”

Jeonghan’s face softens, but not with pity—more like heartbreak on your behalf.

“And then he told me to leave,” you continue. “That I never gave him a chance and that he needed time. That he didn’t know what to do. So I left and now we’re here.”

Jeonghan is quiet for a long moment.

“Okay, yeah. That’s a fucking mess.”

You laugh bitterly. “Thanks.”

“I mean it kindly.” He shifts, turning to face you. “You didn’t hold back, huh?”

You shake your head. “Couldn’t.”

He sighs. “Look. I get it. Emotions are hard. But imagine from his perspective. You said something that sounded like a slap, and then you dropped a love confession on top of it. What did you think he was gonna do?”

“I didn’t think.” You stare down at your hands. “I was so scared he’d say he didn’t feel the same that I tried to end it before he could reject me. And when he got mad, I told myself it was what I deserved.”

Jeonghan swears under his breath. “Jesus.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” He gives you a sharp look. “Because from where I’m sitting, it sounds like you nuked a bridge because you were too scared to walk across it.”

You flinch. “That’s not fair.”

“No, it’s not,” he agrees. “But neither was what you did to him.”

You bury your face in your knees.

After a moment, Jeonghan’s voice softens. “You really love him, huh?”

You nod without looking up. “So much it makes me hate myself.”

He’s quiet. Then, almost too gently, “Then you’re gonna have to clean this up.”

“How?” you whisper.

“Hell if I know, but start by being honest. Stop trying to protect your pride. You already burned it down. Go back and tell him everything again. But this time, don’t lead with guilt or anger. Just tell the truth.”

You look up at him, voice small. “What if he doesn’t want to hear it?”

Jeonghan meets your eyes. “Then at least you’ll know. But don’t let the last thing he remembers be that fight. Don’t let that be the last thing you remember.”

Your heart aches. You nod slowly.

He pulls you into a hug, and you let yourself fall into it. His hand rubs slow circles on your back.

“And next time,” he murmurs, “maybe don’t start the conversation by implying your best friend’s dick was the missing puzzle piece in your emotional breakdown.”

You groan into his chest. “I know.”

He chuckles into your hair. “God, you’re a disaster.”

You fall asleep on the couch, your face puffy and tight from crying, but your chest just a little looser—like the grief finally has somewhere to go.

When you wake, the sky is gray through the window, soft and overcast. Jeonghan’s draped a blanket over you, left a glass of water and some aspirin on the table beside you, and disappeared into the kitchen, humming faintly to himself.

You sit up slowly, the events of the night before crashing back into your head like a wave you barely brace for.

“I should text him,” you say aloud.

Jeonghan appears in the doorway with a mug in his hand, one brow lifted. “And say what? ‘Hey, sorry I imploded all over you, wanna circle back?’”

You throw a pillow at him, a habit you realize you do way too much. He dodges, smug.

You sigh. “I don’t even know what to say, but I can’t just leave it here.”

Jeonghan walks over and hands you the mug—it’s tea, still warm. “Then don’t text yet. Think about what you actually want. Do you want to apologize? Explain? Ask for something?”

“I want him to know the truth.”

“He already does.”

“Then I want him to understand it.”

Jeonghan settles into the chair across from you, crossing one leg over the other. “Then don’t text. Talk to him. In person.”

You shrink. “I don’t think I can face him yet.”

“I’m not saying today.” He pauses. “But eventually, you’ll have to. Because if you don’t, all this?” He gestures vaguely. “It just becomes the story you never got to finish.”

You stare into your tea. “What if he never wants to talk to me again?”

“Then that’s on him,” Jeonghan says gently. “You can’t control that. But you can make sure the version he remembers isn’t the worst one.”

You nod slowly, his words settling like stones in your gut.

Jeonghan gently rests a hand on your shoulder. “You didn’t ruin everything. Not yet.”

You clutch the mug tighter. “I want to believe that.”

“Then believe me.” He leans forward. “You said something shitty. He got hurt. But that’s not the end. It only stays broken if you leave it there.”

You bite your lip. “Do you think he’ll ever look at me the same again?”

Jeonghan tilts his head. “No.”

Your heart twists.

But then he adds, “He’ll either look at you and see the one who broke his heart… or the one who was brave enough to hand hers to him.”

You sit on the couch long after the tea goes cold, phone in your lap, your thumbs hovering above the screen. Every version of the message you think of sounds wrong. Too heavy. Too light. Too desperate. Too detached.

But eventually, you settle on the truth.

You type slowly, carefully. No overthinking this time. No jokes to soften the blow. Just your heart, finally laid bare.

«you»: I know you said you need time, and I’ll respect that. I won’t push, but when you’re ready, if you’re ready, I’ll be here.

You read it over once, then again. It still makes your stomach twist, but this time, not from fear. From finality. You press send.

The message delivers.

You stare at the screen for a long minute, hoping it’ll light up with a reply. It doesn’t. You didn’t expect it to.

Jeonghan comes back in with a slice of toast in his mouth and a second plate in his hand. “You do it?”

You nod, eyes still on your phone. “Yeah.”

“Good.” He sits beside you, offering you half of his toast. “Now you wait. And we eat carbs.”

You take the toast. You don’t feel better. But you don’t feel worse, either.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯❀⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

It’s been weeks.

You’ve replayed every second of that fight in your mind more times than you can count. Sometimes you wonder if he’s forgotten you completely. Sometimes you wish you could forget him.

But tonight, curled up in bed with a movie playing quietly in the background, your phone lights up.

«Mingyu»: Café del Sol

«Mingyu»: Tomorrow 3pm

You panic. Your heart is loud in your ears as you try to form a response, eventually settling on a thumbs up reaction, not knowing what else to put.

The next day arrives like a held breath.

You barely sleep the night before. Your stomach is in knots, your hands shaking every time you think about what might happen. What he’ll say. If he’ll even show up.

But when you push open the door to Café del Sol at 2:58 p.m., he’s already there.

He’s sitting at a table by the window, two drinks in front of him—one of them your usual. His fingers drum anxiously on the cup, and he looks up the second the door opens, like he’s been watching for you.

Your heart stutters.

You walk over slowly, like one wrong step might send the whole moment crashing down. He stands as you approach, uncertain, like he doesn’t know if he should hug you or just nod.

You don’t hug. You don’t do anything. Just sit.

There’s a long pause, thick with all the things still unspoken.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he says eventually.

“I didn’t think you’d ask,” you answer.

He nods slowly. “I wasn’t going to. At first.”

You look down, then up again. “Thank you. For asking.”

“I didn’t do it to be nice,” he says. “I did it because I don’t want this hanging between us forever.”

You nod. “Neither do I.”

He watches you for a long moment, searching your face like he’s still figuring out how he feels. Then he breaks the silence, voice small.

“You really meant it?”

You blink. “Which part?”

“That you’re in love with me.”

Your breath catches. “Oh. That. Yeah. I meant it.”

He nods, eyes flicking down to his hands. “And everything else?”

You hesitate. “I wish I’d said it better. But yeah, that too.”

He leans back in his chair. Runs a hand through his hair. You notice the faint dark circles under his eyes—like you’re not the only one who’s been losing sleep.

“I’ve been trying to figure out how I feel,” he says finally. “Because everything happened so fast. One second you’re my best friend, and the next… it felt like I didn’t even know you.”

“I know.”

“I liked you before you even figured it out,” he says suddenly. His eyes are steady, serious. “I’ve liked you for a long time.”

You look up, startled. “What do you mean?”

He exhales. “I told myself I didn’t want to ruin what we had. That I didn’t want to cross any lines. But the truth? I didn’t want to let myself want you because the second I did, I knew I’d fall.”

Your heart stumbles.

“Mingyu—”

He keeps going, like he needs to get it out. “You make everything brighter. Easier. And I told myself that was enough. Just being near you. But then it got harder. Because I’d catch myself staring too long. Laughing too much. Wondering what your lips would feel like against mine. Wondering what would happen if I gave in. If I give in now.”

Your breath hitches as silence falls again. But this one feels warmer. Like the tide has shifted.

You whisper, “Are you saying you—”

“I’m saying I don’t want to lose you.” He swallows. “And I think… I know I love you too. I just didn’t want to admit it until you were walking out my door.”

You blink hard. “Mingyu…”

He gives a small, broken laugh. “God, we’re such idiots.”

You smile, watery. “We really are.”

A long moment passes, and then—carefully, slowly—he reaches across the table and takes your hand. His thumb brushes your knuckles, and it feels like the first real breath you’ve taken in days.

“I’m still mad,” he says gently. “Still hurt.”

“I know.”

“But I’m willing to try,” he says, “if you are.”

You nod, tears in your eyes again—but this time they feel different. “I want to.”

He squeezes your hand. “Then we start there.”

The two of you sit there, hands clasped between coffee cups and apologies, hearts still bruised but beating in sync again. And for the first time in weeks, the silence feels like peace.

[anonmousegosqueak]

I'm gonna give out my secrets because I think I'm pretty cool and funny and I like talking about myself>:)

Feel free to skip this one, just consider it... A 124 follower special!

Speaking of which-

I have 124 followers!

My last date was.. too long ago :/

450 posts!

Ugly ahh sports shoes (they have holes in them)

White and yellow! They honestly look pretty musty but I didn't paint my walls so whatever

48°52.6′ South, 123°23.6′ West

Well the mean part of me says I'm bad at art, but the mean part of me is an asshole so I don't listen to it

SKIP

Well obviously! I'm not a baby after all... I've got this cat/body pillow I call Long Cat and I cuddle it every night <3

I've got this lightweight maroon shirt and I love it SO MUCH

Urban

I don't *like* to shop? I do it because I have to because stuff isn't free, I especially don't have a favorite place to shop

Funny! 🤡

I collected lipbalm for a while

A singular Cheeto

I did (I don't anymore). She was... Fine? I liked her but also she was pretty sure I wasn't autistic despite, well, every about me? I dunno, I didn't mind her too much

Twitter.

John Doe

Funny story! My parents never told me santa was real? I actually argued with them about it for some reason?? I was a weird kid...

Owl House ig? It didn't get the ending it deserved, I wish it did

Don't think so? Uh- basic?

I didn't actually have one, I just sorta listened to all of nerd culture or repeat until I died

Mp3 players

Every time they release a new sandwich

I mean, I don't have *one* best friend, I got a bunch and I love them all very much <3

DOUBLE SKIP OH GOODNESS

Fudge, I dunno. Him from The Powerpuff Girls? I can't decide tbh, I like a lot of kids cartoons.

Music that matches the mood, I like my emo music when I'm very sad >:)

Maroon shirt, black pants, rainbow socks. The same thing I wear every day, obviously~

Hehehehe

Crocks/open toed shoes. Protect your feet y'all!

Once a week, sheets get washed as well

Silver jewelry

Well... I have this one rap battle song that I *know* is cringe and edgy and dumb, but I just love it so much...

I've been working on growing out my hair to be longer and it SUUUCKKSS. I wish it could just be magically longer...

Occasionally! Always red too, I have several shades to pick from every time

Clowns <3 (NOT CREEPY)

Filbo was actually my first pet! I mean technically my parents had a cat when I was born but I hardly remember her. She was a sweetheart, yes, but Filbo was the first pet that I actually interacted with.

Ughh- I wanna like with different accounts SO BAD. Or at least let me change what my main account is?

I actually have one of those hyper realistic baby dolls! Her name is Christy and she's a work of art.

Pleeeeeeesseee take me to a museum, let me hold your hand and laugh at the funny paintings...

SKIP SKIP SKIP. NO THANK YOU. I DONT WANNA THINK ABOUT MY REGRETS.

42 personal questions ask game

how many followers do you have?

when’s the last time you went on a date

how many posts have you made?

What type of shoes do you wear?

what colour are the walls of your room

where are you right now? (not exact location. ex: at a park)

would you consider yourself good at art?

who was your first kiss?

do you still sleep with stuffed animals?

what’s your favourite piece of clothing you own?

do you live in an urban, suburban, or rural area?

what’s your favourite store to shop at? (online or irl)

if you had to choose one POSITIVE word to describe yourself, what would it be?

do you collect anything?

what’s the last thing you ate?

if you go to therapy, do you like your therapist?

what’s one thing you want to buy, but don’t have the money or resources to get?

Who’s the first person you can think of?

how old were you when you found out santa wasn’t real?

If you could revive one tv show that has been cancelled, what show would it be?

do you consider yourself a part of any alternative subculture? if so, which one(s)?

who was your childhood favourite music artist?

CDs or record players?

Do you believe in any conspiracy theories?

would you get back together with an ex if given the opportunity?

favourite kid’s show character?

is the person you call your best friend actually your best friend?

when you’re sad, do you prefer to listen to music to match your mood, or listen to happy music?

what’s the last outfit you wore?

do you have any online friends?

least favourite clothing style that is currently popular

how often do you do your laundry?

do you prefer silver or gold jewelry?

what’s your book/movie/tv guilty pleasure?

if you could change your hair however you want, how would you change it?

do you paint your nails?

what’s an uncommon/specific /obscure topic you’re interested in?

what’s the name of your first pet/what would you name your first pet if you had one?

what’s one feature you would change on tumblr?

what’s the most interesting item you own?

would you rather go on a date at a museum or a concert?

what’s one regret you have?

[dog-bimbo]

explicit sexual content, unprotected sex, threesome (shiu x you x toji), objectification, degradation, overstimulation, submissive reader. eighteen and above only. minors do not interact.

toji's done a good job this time as usual. a bit hard to work with? sure, but no one rakes in as much money as him. shiu didn't have a dinner in mind, it's pricy and the guy eats a lot, doesn't pick up the check nor does he have good dinner talk.

shiu's got something even better than a measly dinner—you. he’s already got you dressed pretty, soft little thing in lingerie that barely covers you.

toji kicks off his shoes like he owns the place, cracks his neck and eyes you like he’s hungry.

shiu’s sitting on the couch already, flicking ash into a tray, nodding toward you with a lazy smirk. “dinner’s served.” toji snorts as he settles down next to shiu. “thought you were jokin’. fuck- she’s real cute.”

you look up at them, already on your knees like you were told, hands folded in your lap. “she’s obedient too,” shiu adds, stroking your cheek with the back of his fingers, “go on, baby. show him how you say hello.”

you crawl forward, pulling toji’s pants down with shaky fingers, and he lets out a low chuckle, hand heavy on your head.“she trained or just desperate?” “bit of both,” shiu says, voice ringing with pride.

your mouth opens, lips stretching slow around toji’s cock as he exhales sharp, gripping your hair like it’s instinct.

“fuckin’ hell,” he groans, “she’s got a good throat.” shiu watches with lidded eyes, palming himself through his slacks, unbothered. he takes his time, undoing his zip, letting the heat build slow.

"don’t be greedy,” he mutters to toji, “save room. i didn’t skip dinner for you to hog everything."

they trade you off like a blunt—wet, wrecked, pliant.

you're on your back on the couch now. shiu positions his cock while tilting your head back with both of his hands on your cheeks. toji lines his cock up your cunt, thumbs bruising into your hips as he adjusts you.

“no condom?” toji grunts. “nah. she’s clean. on the pill.” “you don’t mind if i finish in her then?” shiu just laughs, smoke curling from his lips. “fill her up. she likes that.”

toji grins, sharp and wolfish. “what a fuckin’ gift, man.” shiu nods, gripping your jaw, making you look up at him through tears.

“yeah,” he says, voice low, possessive. “she’s the best thing i own.”

you're tearing up but neither of them seems to care. shiu’s still got a hand on your cheek, not guiding—but thrusting into your hot wet mouth. his other hand goes down to your throat to squeeze it.

toji starts by pushing it slow but once his dick's snug between your velvet walls, he doesn't seem to stop the pounding.

“tight little thing,” he mutters, holding your legs up by your thighs like you're some inflatable sex doll he's been fucking. “she always like this?”

“better when she’s scared,” shiu says while fucking deep into your throat with a lazy pace. “but don’t worry. she breaks in fast.”

your eyes roll up your skull, too far gone to be shy as the first orgasm hits you. everything’s warm and dizzy, your limbs heavy, your body pulled between them like you're just fuckmeat. toji sets a faster pace—rough and greedy as he's about to cum. your cervix can't take it no more, you're already on your second orgasm. you moan around shiu's cock.

"you makin' those sounds for him?" shiu asks, amused, almost sweet as he pants a bit. he's loving the vibration "or just that dumb and full already?"

toji laughs under his breath, voice gravelly as he finally breaks in. hot cum paints your walls white. just seconds later, shiu cums too, sticky and salty. the kind that drives you insane.

and you are. nothing pretty about it—your lashes wet, lips swollen, body trembling as they let you go at the same time. “you done?” toji asks, not even looking at you—he’s watching shiu, waiting for the nod.

shiu leans down, presses a kiss to your cheek, mock-gentle as you drool out cum. “nah,” he murmurs. “not yet.”

he straightens his tie, lights another cigarette.

“i'll get her cleaned up. then we go again.”toji grins, low and mean. “you spoil me, man.”

shiu smiles back, smoke curling from his lips. “nah. she does.”

[tobesolnelyx]

— i miss you, im sorry || fratboy!shauna shipman x fem!reader

a/n: THANK YOU FOR ALL YOUR IDEAS!!! especially 🥄anon and 🪆anon!! ended up with something like that. that could be a smut, but as we know, i love writing gut wrenching angst <3 also, in my head it adds so much to daddy!shauna lore

summary: you two broke up few weeks ago. she’ll do everything to get your attention back. ex!shauna. g!p character. angst.

warnings: toxic parensts. drugs. alcohol. mentions of sex.

word count: around 2k

Shauna wondered how everything had fallen apart in the span of a month. Because it had to be impossible for everything to just break down all at once like that. Once again, Shauna was convinced that she attracted bad luck like a human magnet. Or maybe she was simply sinking deeper into her own misery with each passing day.

Your relationship was never perfect, but it definitely wasn’t the worst. She wouldn’t even call it toxic. A simple conversation could’ve solved all your problems... except that that was the problem. Shauna had no intention whatsoever of discussing her feelings. And although there had never been cheating or other serious issues beyond arguments, one day everything just exploded.

At a party. In the middle of the frat house.

Months of frustration reached their peak and turned into pure pandemonium. All it took was one look, one misjudged situation. Some girl had just latched onto Shauna. You, tired of the fact that while Shauna might not have flirted with others, she also never made any effort to get rid of her admirers, decided to step in.

And that’s how you ended up in the middle of the living room, arguing with your girlfriend about everything. That moment was just the spark. You accused her of not loving you because she never showed affection, and she called you an oversensitive. You told her you could never talk to her because she acted like an immature asshole, who didn’t take anything seriously, and she responded that you were clinging to this stupid shit and if it bothered you so much, maybe you should break up with her.

This time, you went too far. You knew perfectly well that Shauna had recently seen her father, who after years had finally reached out to her. And yet you brought it up — in front of everyone — ensuring the entire campus would be talking about it for the next two weeks.

“I’m not surprised your father fucking left you,” you snapped, throwing your drink in her face.

Everything went silent. It wasn’t just a stupid fight anymore — it was emotional betrayal. Because maybe you weren’t the perfect girlfriend, but Shauna never, not even once, would’ve thought you’d say something like that. Her girlfriend, her loving and supportive partner despite all your fights, would never throw that at her.

She just stood there, feeling like she was nine years old again, not understanding what was happening. Her shirt, soaked with your drink, clung to her chest, which now heaved twice as fast. Her eyes burned, and she clenched her fists tightly.

You regretted those words the moment they left your mouth. And maybe the calmer version of yourself would’ve immediately reached out to her, apologized and tried to fix everything. Shauna would’ve forgiven you. She knew you were the best thing in her life.

But you, overwhelmed with emotion, months of frustration, and anger, chose to finish her off. Not entirely on purpose. It just happened, in the heat of the moment.

“I’m breaking up with you,” you said. Your voice trembled with emotion, your heart pounded in your chest, and the blood rushed in your ears so loudly that you couldn’t even hear the music anymore. People crowded around, watching the drama unfold.

For a moment, you both stood frozen. Shauna looked at you like she hoped you’d take it back — that it was just a fight and everything would go back to normal. Like always.

But you didn’t say another word. Shauna felt like someone had tied a rope around her throat, cutting off her oxygen. The alcohol only intensified everything she was feeling, and maybe she would’ve cried like a kid in front of everyone if it weren’t for Lottie, who stepped out of the crowd. She gave you a look so sharp it made you feel horribly guilty. You could literally feel the guilt start to eat you alive.

Lottie gripped Shauna’s shoulder gently, pulling her back, trying to spare her further humiliation. Even though Shauna never cared about shame. Maybe it had never even been about reputation.

She let herself be pulled away. And it felt like the rest of the evening turned into white noise, quietly buzzing in her head. She could only think about one thing, about you, and barely registered what Lottie was saying.

In the days that followed, Shauna tried to prove something. At least that’s what she thought, though to anyone paying attention, it just looked like a desperate cry for attention. She slept with different girls, crashed every party she could find. Flirting wasn’t hard. She’d always had plenty of admirers, so finding a new girl every day to fuck with wasn’t exactly a challenge. Lighting another joint or knocking back another drink was easy.

All of it so Shauna could keep whispering your name against another girl’s skin, only to wake up with a splitting headache in sheets soaked with unfamiliar perfume. With a girl who, even with her eyes closed, was never you.

Shauna could kiss dozens of girls just to end the day clutching the shirt you gave her back a week after the breakup.

She made sure you noticed her. She flirted when you were near. She drank twice as much, laughed twice as loud if she knew you were watching. That you were listening. Your eyes always met across the crowd, but Shauna’s hands were on someone else’s hips, and you weren’t alone either.

Shauna felt like she was seventeen again, doing everything she could to get the attention of a mother who was always too busy. Like she was seventeen again, watching other girls with their dads, wondering why she didn’t deserve the same.

Shauna looked at you and felt like she was seventeen again, wondering why she couldn’t keep a single person in her life. Terrified of the fact that she even wanted someone to stay, because what if they left too?

And now you were gone too. And Shauna had never felt more alone.

Sex didn’t help, smoking weed in the corners with Nat only made it worse, and alcohol just led to fucking hangovers. Her plan wasn’t working, because even though you were watching, you never came over. And Shauna didn’t even need your damn apology. She just wanted you to come back.

Trailing after you like a dog, step by step, and those stupid sarcastic comments didn’t help either. Not when she met your pained gaze — and it made her sick to her stomach.

Shauna would foam at the mouth every time someone tried to flirt with you. Not just flirt — Shauna simply couldn’t stand the sight, or even the thought, of you with someone else. And when the pain became unbearable, she turned it all into anger.

Anger at you, at her father, at the whole world around her. At everything, just to avoid drowning in some irrational guilt.

In the frat house, fights would erupt over the dumbest shit. Lottie would often find Shauna in her wrecked room, sitting in the middle of the chaos with her head buried between her knees. For a moment, the only sound in the room was Shauna’s ragged breathing.

“Shauna,” Lottie murmured, taking a single step.

“You talked to her,” Shauna said immediately, her fingers tightening in her hair. “How could you talk to her?” Words that sounded almost like an accusation.

“I tried to tell her to talk to you…” Lottie began, still standing in the doorway.

Shauna shook her head and finally looked up at Lottie, clenching her jaw so tightly a wrinkle formed on her forehead. Her anger was mixed with a deep sense of betrayal.

“Bullshit,” she said, but her voice trembled. Neither of them seemed sure whether it was from rage or something buried far deeper inside Shauna.

You didn’t quite remember how you ended up at the frat house again. You told yourself your friend dragged you there and it was her fault — but really, you could’ve said no. Maybe, subconsciously, you wanted to be closer to Shauna. Like in those mornings when you turned over in your bed expecting to feel a warm body next to you, only to find a cold, empty space. Maybe it was just that awful guilt. Or maybe, deep down, you were convinced you’d never really get over Shauna.

You thought you knew what you'd find there. Or at least, you thought you did. Shauna, drunk. Maybe a little high. Probably with a cigarette in one hand and her other hand on some girl’s hip. Shauna dragging her to her room, the same room where you used to spend endless hours. And you’d leave the party, like always, because that sight hurt more than you’d ever admit.

What you didn’t expect was your ex passed out in an armchair in the frat house living room. Her face already flushed red, barely able to sit upright. Not because she was tired, but because she was disgustingly drunk. She was swinging a bottle around like she was about to smack someone with it. Things were so bad that even Jackie sat next to her, trying to get her to drink some water.

You stood in the middle of the room, people shoving past you in blissful ignorance. Music pounded in your ears. For a moment, you tried to convince yourself it was nothing. That Shauna had been this drunk before.

The next second, your legs moved toward her on their own. You kept telling yourself it wasn’t concern, you just didn’t want Shauna causing trouble. Surely, that was it. Especially if Nat, Jackie, and Lottie were all trying to keep her in check. This wasn’t about caring. You wouldn’t let it be...right

“Get the fuck...off me...” Shauna mumbled, barely forming the words. Her hair was stuck to her forehead. She looked like she might faint any second. She reeked of alcohol, weed, and God-knows-what-else. Lottie looked like she’d seen Jesus himself when you walked up.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been so glad to see you,” she said and reached for your arm, but her hand dropped again when she looked back at Shauna.

A grunt came from your throat in response, but you barely registered anything else. Your eyes were glued to Shauna. For a moment, you wanted to ask what exactly was in her system but figured it wasn’t the right time. You placed your hand on Jackie’s shoulder and she understood immediately, stepping aside.

“Hey, Shipman,” you murmured, kneeling in front of her. Shauna stopped her rant, something that dangerously resembled a drunken monologue about her family issues. You winced. Things had to be really bad if she was talking about that stuff in public.

Finally, she looked at you and frowned, as if she couldn’t believe it was you of all people kneeling in front of her. Her fingers trembled, reaching for you, but either she didn’t have the strength or something else stopped her.

“Baby...” she whispered, trying to sit up, but nearly toppled over. Lottie held her in place and you winced at the sight. Your hands instinctively landed on her knees.

You exchanged a look with Lottie. She just nodded and sighed.

“Up you go, Shauna. Move your damn ass,” she grunted, and before Shauna’s drunk brain could register what was happening, Lottie was already lifting her upright. Nat jumped in to help, but you stopped her with a simple wave of your hand. You wrapped one arm around Shauna, Lottie held her from the other side, and still, the weight of her body leaned on you. Of course it did.

The stench of alcohol hit your nose, and with her barely able to stand, she was heavier than usual. Suddenly, the fact that Shauna had slept with other girls during those weeks didn’t matter at all. Not when you felt that familiar warmth pressed against you.

After a rough climb up the stairs to Shauna’s room, Lottie dropped her onto the bed. Shauna groaned in protest, but didn’t manage to get back up. Lottie expertly covered her with a blanket, and Shauna instantly burrowed under it. She went still, and you had an overwhelming urge to crawl in right behind her.

“She’ll be fine,” Lottie sighed, straightening up. “Come on.” She motioned for you to follow her and walked out, leaving you completely alone.

You stood there for a moment, listening to the quiet sound of her breathing. And just as you were about to walk away, heart aching, Shauna stirred like it was on cue. Her fingers clamped around your wrist. With surprising strength for someone so drunk, she pulled you onto the bed, and before you knew it, her weight was on top of you in that familiar, comforting way.

“Don’t go,” she mumbled. Her arm wrapped around you, her nose tucked into the crook of your neck. “Don’t leave me again.” It sounded almost like a broken, drunken plea.

And who were you to refuse, when her body completely relaxed under your touch? You sighed deeply, but for the first time in weeks, it felt like a weight had been lifted off your shoulders.

“Don’t go,” she repeated, softer now, her lips finding your shoulder. Your fingers tangled in her hair, and Shauna let out a soft hum.

“Don’t…” she began, then furrowed her brow and fell silent.

“I miss you.”

[clairewritesfanfics]

do you like those fics where the premise is "all the variants are here for y/n but main mark hasnt even dated her"

i like them the most when its a right person wrong time situation on main marks part because im mean

like since highschool theyve never managed to be single at the same time and then he finds out the evil versions of him destroying shit have had her when hes never even got to try asking her out

nobody has written this specific type of thing i want to read yet, but like, the variants getting stuck in main marks dimension and he and y/n keep finding out things about the variants loves with their version of y/n thats excruciating to hear for two people whove been in love their whole lives but have never been in a place to act on it

the only variant who hasnt done anything with her is maskless who was in a very similar situation with his william. like three of the older marks were actually married to her, at least one out of those 3 had been about to have a kid with her before losing her. literally none of them have ever broken up with her of their own free will. at least one of the younger marks had only just managed to start a relationship with her before he lost her.

main mark watching these versions of himself practically swarming someone he also loves and has probably loved before he even understood it but with no right to do anything about it because hes with eve. who he does like. but he asked out after a version of her from the future told him she loved him apparently her entire life and he was her biggest regret.

main mark experiencing never before seen types of emotional pain wondering if he should have read into the eve thing as the universe telling him you were about to break up with your at the time partner just as he was getting into things with eve, or if waiting to see if youd leave them would have prolonged your relationship with them because the universe fucking hates him for reasons beyond his understanding

i would write this myself but im already stuck trying to write like 3 other long projects already. but if i did write it id probably end it as happy as possible because even though i like angst i can only stand so much.

It is truly the writer's blurse to be struck with so many fascinating concepts while juggling already existing WIPs.

( ꩜ ᯅ ꩜;) 

It's an amazing idea with a lot of angst potential. I have encountered a similar but not exact premise a few times, maybe not as fully realized fics but as propositional posts.

I've always loved the idea of the Marks being so obsessed and devoted that they will stop the violence in order to reminisce about their respective Readers aka Y/Ns. (Oh, and this is more of my personal preference as an Invincible fanfic writer: the Reader-sexual crew includes Maskless because, as I have once discussed in gruesome detail, when it comes to Mark it is all or nothing for me. I can't tolerate him being in love with Eve or Amber in my verses, so I can't handle him being in love with William either. I am an equal opportunity "homewrecker." VCS readers, please don't ask me more about this because I might end up spoiling some things about my future plans.)

Honestly, if you have the energy to spare, you should give it a go, it doesn't have to be multi-chaptered. It can just be a short story or a bunch of "reactions" strung together. Heck, just write dialogue for it. Pure dialogue. Maybe you can use this idea as a writing exercise, like trying a different style or POV. Something to come back to and appreciate when you want to take a breather from your long fics.

Tbh, you've given me an excuse to stop delaying and start practicing first person POV again, and I was reminded why it's so hard penning reader insert stories:

I was surrounded. I could take on one or two of them, but twelve of these murderous assholes? My best bet would be to retreat while they were distracted, but there’s one problem: you.

You were the ball in this screwed up game of catch. All eyes were on you and I doubt there was anything that would take everyone's attention off of you at the same time. Even if I did manage to steal you away in a split second of distraction, I wouldn’t be able to go very far, not with that girl version of me here.

I watched as she pulled the pink scrunchie from her hair, black Rapunzel braid falling apart as she placed the hair tie gingerly on your hands. 

You gave her a shaky smile but she didn’t seem to care.

I clenched my fists.

She was fast, faster than the rest, and faster than me. 

“Cute, aren’t they?” The me dressed in my father’s colors watched you with arms crossed. “Don’t even think about trying to take her away, Marcy will rip you apart before you get the chance to take off.”

“Marcy?”

“Long story.”

It was hilarious. Not too long ago, this guy sent my girlfriend to the ER and here we were, talking like old pals. I wanted to punch him in the face but–

“You want to kill me,” he said, not bothering to look at me. “But we both know you won’t do that in front of her.”

“You don’t know anything about me or her.”

“I know that every version of you that came here is because of her.” He finally turned to me. “We all wanted a reunion.”

“I won’t let you take her.”

He scoffed. “We’re not interested in ‘taking’ her anywhere, we just wanted a chance to see her. To talk to her again.”

My fingers twitched. I already had my suspicions but I needed to know. 

“What exactly is she to you?” I asked.

The faintest smile melted all the coldness from his face as he answered, “She was my dove.”

Time slowed to a snail’s pace as my voice betrayed me, “What?”

He met my gaze. “She was my wife.”

“Was?”

The ice returned as he turned away. “She died.” That was all. He continued staring at you, his longing obvious under that veil of composure.

I watched as more versions of me crowded you. Each one had something to show or say to you, each one looking like they have waited a thousand years for this.

The fear seemed to have dissipated from you somewhat, because you were now laughing at the words of my maskless self. He was smiling softly at you, but I could see the cracks in his expression. He looked at you like you were the world, but it was clear to me that he was searching for something.

I didn’t know what it was but I couldn’t help but release my fists, wondering if Eve ever caught me wearing the same expression.

#

I kept accidentally bouncing from third person to first to second. 😭

But it was a fun exercise!

I hope you do write about this someday because it is a great concept. Thank you for sharing it with me and our fellow fans.

PS

I must ask for clarification what you mean by "the Eve thing." Is this a reference to a specific plot point? Or just his relationship with Eve in general?

[croquettish]

A Hans Capon Character Analysis

Part 2: Hans and Hanush

Continued from Part 1.

Hans' relationship with Hanush plays a considerable role in both games where Hans consistently tries to impress his uncle, but it isn't until KCD2 that this relationship (and the attempts to please) lead to a pretty blatant disillusionment with the nobility. Everything he learned, everything he ever thought he knew with complete and total certainty, ends up challenged in the face of the tremendous growth he experiences over the course of KCD2.

We'll start by talking about who Hans is as a person and where his personality and behaviors are coming from both before and after Henry meets him.

There's something to be said here about how growing up as part of the nobility is inherently dehumanizing and uniquely traumatizing, but I think for Hans in particular this is true. Even he realizes that his life had the potential of being just that little bit better had they been in the picture:

And let's be honest, even if it wouldn't have been better or different at all (let alone in any significant way), the fact is that Hans knows that something better could have been. It's even possible that he could have ended up with siblings to play with at some point! The idea of potential denied or just out of grasp for him is a theme that comes up quite frequently for him!

We know that Hans grew up under Hanush's tutelage if not in his love and affection. For Hans, that meant learning about how to govern a territory and learning to read and write, Latin and other languages included… but little else. I can say this with some amount of confidence because Hans wasn't taught social skills. At all. One of the most tragic visual examples of this comes from the meeting(s) at Raborsch. While Jobst makes his announcements, Hans is busy watching the other adults around him to see how they act and doing his best to mirror their behavior. This is heartbreaking.

@codeword-art made an amazing post recently about how incredibly lonely Hans is, and by god, they are correct. There are so many good points made in that post, many of which point to the fact that Hans has a LOT of learned behaviors. I've touched on this before in my Hanush meta, but @georgecostanzaatemysoup brought up the very good point that Hans most likely learned that negative behavior got him attention. But that's far from the only thing he's learned. As @codeword-art pointed out, Hans has learned that people treat him either like a "troublesome child" or like something precious to be protected. And when people default to treating him that way, even people who don't know him (!), he falls back into old habits. This is how life is, how life has always been, and how life will always be. The way Hans is treated has pretty directly affected and even shaped his personality.

This goes hand-in-hand with one of my all-time favorite meta posts in this entire fandom, which is this one by @antivanwine14. They make the incredible point that boar hunts were very social activities for nobles at the time. And that as soon as Hans finds his first actual friend in Henry he immediately goes to take him boar hunting. Hans has spent his entire life learning by watching and doing his best to echo what he sees.

You want to know where Hans got his personality from? I would bet good money that he saw the kind of commanding presence that his uncle bore and did his best to learn. Hanush is, in many ways, quite bratty himself. He's loud, boisterous, and gets what he wants. Hans got used to being called useless and did his best to be better. To be more like his uncle. Here's what Henry is told by the innkeep right before the boys start fighting:

Does that... remind you of anyone? Because it reminds me of Hanush!

Of course, that didn't get his uncle's approval either. So when that didn't work, he turned into a self-fulfilling prophecy. A kid can only be told he's a useless little waste of space so often before he starts to not only believe it in earnest but also leans into the suggestion.

@codeword-art made this point absolutely beautifully here as well where they talk about how people view him throughout Rattay and what sort of effect that would also have on him. In Hans' eyes, no one aside from Captain Bernard and Oats think he's worth anything. Yet that isn't even entirely true. When Henry is given the tour of Rattay by Nightingale, he ends up learning the following:

But there's no doubt in my mind that Hans isn't hearing "Hanush should hand over the fiefdom to you, my lord" but rather Nightingale's comment about how these people are fools. It's not surprising then that this fake persona that Hans projects is just a protective facade that he puts in place when he has to interact with the outside world.

Hanush shouldn't be part of that category, and yet he inevitably is because he pushes his nephew away emotionally at all times.

Need I remind you that when Henry goes to check on Hans at the beginning of Next to Godliness... this is how Hans responds:

Okay. Reread that.

Hanush. wouldn't. let. anyone. near him????????????

Like…… why?????? Hanush wouldn't let anyone near him except the priest who treated him like he was already dead???????? No doubt growing up in the castle must have felt a bit like being dead too! He cared about the friends he was drinking with the night he got in that fight with Henry so much that they literally never came up ever again. This boy was never socialized! He is so lonely he has no one to even spend time with, if Hanush would even let him! So whom does he even have to impress?

Hanush. Just Hanush.

And this comes up quite a lot.

Because he wants so badly to be loved by his uncle.

This is what really gets me in terms of his relationship to Hanush. Hanush is an objectively terrible parent. And even in spite of this Hans very clearly wants to categorize him as his uncle instead of just as his guardian, this far more personal thing, but still feels compelled to restrain himself from that in everyday conversation. Even if that conversation happens to be with the guy who is rapidly sliding into the position of Hans' best friend.

Moreover, we know that Hans calls him uncle when that isn't actually his role in Hans' life:

I've noticed that Henry does a lot of code-switching depending on whom he's speaking to. In a lot of ways, even despite the irreverence he exhibits at times he treats Hans much nicer than he does most people. The annoyance that comes up with others does not generally show up with Hans.

And there is a lot of variance in how Henry treats the people around him outside of that. He knows how to juggle the different worlds he traverses in his myriad social roles that he occupies simultaneously.

Meanwhile, Hans only has two settings: deep and vulnerable and personal... and everyone else.

Hanush sits pretty solidly in the latter category. In fact, I would go so far as to say that Henry's existence alone created the first category to begin with. Without him, it would not exist. Hans doesn't let down his walls until he meets Henry because he doesn't even know he has them.

Only at his most emotionally vulnerable, usually with the people he cares about most (and vice versa), does Hans open up. At the end of KCD2, while he's drinking with Godwin and lamenting the fact that his soulmate might die out there, we learn the truth of why he decided to take the message to Trosky to begin with:

I mentioned in part 1 of my analysis that he's talking about nobles as a whole here. If only he took the message to von Bergow, everyone would finally take him seriously and stop treating him like a child.

As he puts it when he meets Henry in front of his room at Suchdol:

But Hanush is at the heart of all of this.

Let's rewind a bit to KCD1 again.

I know we joke a fair amount about Clothes Make the Man and how quickly Hans starts throwing his gifting love language at Henry and latches onto him plus playing dress-up with Henry but there's a lot more going here.

The opening already gets me. It takes him 0.2 seconds to turn Henry into his emotional rock.

It's pretty transparent that this is at least in part about wanting to throw presents at Henry to make sure that he stays around (consider also the timing: he does this right before he knows they're both going to get a talking-to from his uncle... it's like he's trying to butter Henry up in advance of that meeting to make sure it doesn't freak him out. He didn't have to put Henry into his own clothes!!), but the fear of looking bad in front of Hanush isn't an excuse. That is a real fear here.

And we know these sorts of lectures are far from rare; if anything, they're a common occurrence!

So much so that it even comes up again in KCD2 where Brabant drops this line post-Maleshov:

Implying that Hans talked to Brabant quite a bit about his concerns regarding precisely this while they were both in captivity. This was clearly something that weighed on him heavily, so much so that Brabant remembered it well enough to bring up here!

This isn't particularly surprising. From the very beginning, he's genuinely invested in his uncle's opinion of him (not that that comes as much of a surprise) and ends up viewing the trip as a sort of test that he can either pass or fail:

If you look at his growth through that lens it is quite frankly heartbreaking to watch him go through all that he suffers.

At the tavern in Troskowitz, Henry suggests going back to Rattay, and Hans immediately shoots that down because they'd be a laughing stock and Hanush would never let him forget about his failure:

The fear here is net negative approval.

By the time the lads are riding out to deal with Nebakov, he's come to terms with the fact that this will right the initial wrongs and things will return to normal!

I think this is very telling. The best he's hoping for at this point is a net zero approval gain.

The prospect of Hanush having to pay a ransom for him briefly pops up while they're locked up at Nebakov. And then Godwin shows up, reminding him that he can't even deliver a letter. We're back to net negative approval.

Henry reminds him that it's fine! At least they're alive!

And then we're treated to a strangely somber look from Hans and silence, one that Henry also notices and responds to by trying to inject a spot of good news (their return to Rattay):

Hans knows how his uncle reacts to failure. Not just here, but in general. He's generally not given the chance to plead his case. Case in point? After Next to Godliness, he tries to explain the situation to his uncle:

And... Hanush doesn't believe him:

He knows that optics are everything here. If it looks like he fucked up, that's how it'll be taken. To that point, the night before Nebakov Hans points out to Henry that he suffered all of those situations just because he was "trying to do the responsible thing."

Okay, now we're getting somewhere! He's honestly been trying here, all for the benefit of his uncle. Henry can even ask if he isn't worried about Hanush will say, given that it's pretty obvious that that is precisely what he's worried about:

With that, we're back to net zero gain in approval. Which is quickly turned into a net negative again the day after when he's taken hostage. Again.

And then gets to spend at least a week (possibly several) thinking about how badly he fucked up and how much Hanush might have to pay in ransom to get him back. As we noted earlier, it's fairly obvious just how much Hans cares about that as per his conversation with Henry and Brabant after the escape from Maleshov:

At this point he tells his uncle that he fucked everything up (which just isn't fucking true, Hans, you are way too hard on yourself) and Hanush is quick to reassure him that it's fine:

Even he recognizes that Hans has grown at this point! Or... at least he says as much. I think this gave Hans a sliver of hope that he could actually earn his uncle's approval.

Of course, later on Hanush reveals how he really feels about the matter and this is, of course, what leads to the Devil's recommendation to just marry him off. My beloved mutual @audentesfortunaiuvattwrote an excellent post about how infuriating this whole conversation is, and I agree 100% with her argument and the follow-up.

Hans' real feelings on the matter are revealed after the announcement, only while he's absolutely sloshed:

Henry tries to point out to him later on after von Bergow's interrogation that he would have gotten Hanush's approval after his work at Maleshov, and it just...

... doesn't land. A part of me wonders if the announcement of the betrothal swept the rug so solidly out from under his feet that he lost any hope that he could have ever gotten his uncle's approval by his own merit. Which is also why he ends up sounding so resigned when he ends up talking to him later. Like he expected it to turn into an argument.

It's kind of heartbreaking to watch honestly. Because every time that Hanush is in the picture, you get to play witness to Hans grasping for his approval again with just that tiniest sliver of hope reawakening. While they're at Suchdol, that doesn't factor in at all. In this timeframe, Hans and Henry both exist in a space outside of society. As I stated in part 1, nobility and social stratification are meaningless in the face of, uh, hunger and despair. But as soon as Hanush returns, with him come the demands of the society around them.

All I see here is someone who desperately wants to impress his uncle. This is the sliver of hope.

Only for it to be promptly shattered into pieces.

And by the time of their end conversations, there's no repairing it anymore. Which is fucking tragic, because if you pay attention to Hanush, he clearly has no idea how to parent Hans. After giving Hans and Henry that lecture following Next to Godliness, this is his expression when Hans leaves:

These are two people that have spent their whole lives misunderstanding each other. Like, I truly believe that Hanush is doing what he thinks is best here (and, as I've said before, in many ways he's right! he's a great guardian, but he's a terrible parent; I go into that in more detail at the bottom of this post). In terms of being a good parent to Hans it just happens to be a sad miscalculation.

Part 3

[julia4today]

y'all want a fic?

is simon really trying to do better for his bird? or his he still the same deadbeat husband he portrayed himself to be?

(simon riley x exwife!reader)

"drop it, mactavish." a firm order. an edge of warning to his sergeant. his sergeant, who was always a curious one. interested in whatever simon riley was doing, or where he was. and unfortunately john "soap" mactavish did not drop it. he kept pawing at the inners of ghost. extracting what little information he could find and compiling it until he had his pièce de résistance.

"you got a family, lieutenant?" the room went quiet. no more grunting of men lifting weights, no more slamming bodies on mats, just the dead silence. johnny wasn't one to shy away from the attention given to him, especially if that attention was from his lieutenant, but right now...

simon's face was red, you could feel the heat radiating off of him. johnny of course couldn't see this, but the pure blind rage that wafted towards john from simon was palpable.

"no." simon stands up to his full height. the slight bend to his posture gone. if you were close enough, you could hear the creak in his joint and the pained groan he exhaled as his back stretched to it's full potential.

an audible thud is heard as simon takes the back of johnnys neck in his large hand. "and i told you to drop it, didn't i, lieutenant?"

the squeeze placed on johnny's neck was a sight to see, you could tell it was painful. the rest of the gym tried their best to continue on with their workouts, but the sight of the rambunctious sergeant being in a near death situation was something they couldn't pry their eyes away from. "yes, sir." johnny's words interrupted by his labored breathing. all he could do was hold eye contact with the angry blue eyes staring at him.

with one last scrutinizing stare from the lieutenant, simon brushed past him. his hulking figure stalked through the gym, cutting his workout short. small whispers were heard throughout the gym. after a minute everybody returned, all slightly more on edge than originally.

anybody in that locker room before simon walked in scattered before he even stepped foot inside. "my bird." a pained voice sounded from him. one he hadn't heard in a while. he pulls out his phone. almost 7am. maybe she's awake.

"what."

"hi baby..."

"i'm not your baby anymore simon. leave us be, please. i don't need to hear your begging."

he didn't talk for a while. 'she hates me' he used to think. but he doesn't think so anymore. he knows so.

"hellooo? going to answer? you know i'll hang up on you. honestly i don't even know why i haven't blocked you-"

"just calling to ask about the kids."

"oh..." his bird breathes out. almost confused. for a moment she was surprised. he rarely asks about them anymore, at least since the court hearing. the court case where you had won full custody since his job was so dangerous and required him to be away from home so often. "well, amelia is fine. she recently got glasses. seems she's got my mothers vision aswell."

"bloody brilliant. and charlie?"

"he's... he's having some trouble at school. at home too." you laugh, although nothing is really funny. your son, charlie, has been getting into it. fights, smoking, drugs. certainly reminds you of simon. of when you two met for the first time.

"just like his old man." simon replied, a distant smugness with an air of melancholy surrounding the call.

"i'm not exactly pleased about your two similarities. let's just hope he doesn't become a deadbeat like his father." a wrong thing to say, but you knew that the second it came out of your mouth. and in a way you both knew this. so you sat, in silence. until eventually you couldn't take it.

"you could. you know, if you have time off soon you could-" you interrupt yourself, almost hard to get the words to leave your throat. "you could come see them. maybe talk some sense into charlie's head. have him see where he'll end up if he doesn't get his act together."

his coarse breath comes through the receiver. you can practically hear the disbelief. he hadn't seen his kids more than 6 times since the trial. and that was years ago. "really?" the response is almost practiced. he had been through this before with you. you'd offer, then back out. because seeing him again may trigger something in you, that you're not ready to face yet.

"yes, that is what i said isn't it?"

a giggle can be heard in the background. he can't hear the television program but he can guess amelia has got some drama on. if that is what 8 year olds like nowadays. god he doesn't even know anymore.

when you were still together he knew everything about amelia. and amelia would just cling to him for hours. she would use him as monkey bars, have him throw her in the air, or push her on the swing sets.

"when? when can i see my kids?"

"you tell me."

beep. beep. beep.

he stares down at his reflection in his now dark phone screen. all he can feel is relief. relief that you didn't cuss him out this time for even suggesting the thought of him seeing his kids. he knows why you do it though. and it was his fault. he just hopes you don't change your mind this time.

i kind of want to write a fic where he has to earn her love back. and i slowly give backstory to like how they met and what he did. would y'all read? cause i'd write it

[marauder-misprint]

Sentient shadow

Theodore Nott x fem!reader

5.4k words

cw: fluff, no y/n, stranger to friends to lovers

Theo had never been to his grandfather’s house. The old man always went to Nott Manor when Theo’s mother was still alive and he was barely seen after her death. So Theo was surprised when he arrived with his things that his grandfather truly lived in the middle of nowhere. Nott Manor was secluded by the acres of land on the estate, the closest neighbor was kilometers away. This, wherever he was now, was a small town with what looked like the necessities on a main street that was surrounded by a few rows of houses. The next nearest town was over a day’s walk, ensuring that any travel would be done via broom, floo or apparition. 

This was his new home. At least until he graduated from Hogwarts and could be allowed some money from his family’s fortune to rent a flat near whatever job he ended up getting. 

His grandfather tried to keep Theo active, assigning him chores for in and outside the house. They sometimes got done. Theo often opted to lock himself in the dingey guest room that was his “for as long as you need it,” as his grandfather said. Theo was grateful that he was allowed to stay with family and said family lived in a wizarding town, but it wasn’t home. 

Still, his grandfather persisted. After a few days of allowing Theo to “unpack and get settled,” he sent his grandson out of the house and told him to get some fresh air. 

“You can come back in for dinner. Get lunch from Mr. Lester, tell ‘im I sent you. Meet people. Get to know the area.” 

Theo wanted to say that there wasn’t anything to get to know. He bit his tongue and nodded. He left the house and strolled down the stone street with his hands shoved in his pockets. 

That’s when he saw you exiting the bakery with a muffin in hand. He recognized your face. Sort of. You looked around his age and he was fairly certain he’d seen you around Hogwarts, but no name came to mind. When you saw him walking in your direction, confusion flashed across your face. 

“Theodore,” you said when he got close enough. 

“Ah, you know who I am,” he said casually. 

You rolled your eyes. “Who doesn’t know Malfoy and his friends?” 

It was clear you didn’t like Draco with how you said his name. Not that Theo could blame you; not many people outside of his immediate friend group liked him. 

You gave Theo a curt nod and started to walk away, but he went with you. He didn’t say anything more and neither did you. You ended up leading him to the small park-ish area of the town. There was a small play structure for children, a few trees in the grassy area and picnic tables. You gave Theo an odd look when he sat across from you at the picnic table. You just wanted to eat your muffin in peace. 

“What are you doing?” you asked, not even attempting to mask the rudeness in your voice. 

“Sitting.”

“And why are you doing it at this table?”

“From what I can see, you’re the only one around here who isn’t five or fifty, Dolcezza.”

“The Watsons live here,” you stated dryly.

Watsons? Theo didn’t recognize the surname.

“You can get to know Parker.”

Parker Watson. Right. He was a Slytherin a few years younger than Theo. 

“I’m not wasting my summer with a thirteen year old.” 

You sighed. It seemed as if you weren’t getting rid of Theo anytime soon. At least he wasn’t staring directly at you while you ate. He was obviously taking in the area. You tried to be fine with the silence, but your curiosity was getting the better of you. 

“Why are you here?” 

“I told you. You’re the-”

“Not at this table. Why are you in my town?” 

“It’s our town now. I have to stay with my grandfather since Father’s been shipped off to Azkaban and my mum’s eight feet in the ground.”

“Oh,” you said quietly, looking away from Theo. “I didn’t…”

“Yeah.” 

You sat in silence with Theo for a few minutes. Eventually, he stopped looking around and just stared at you. You did your best not to shrink into yourself under his dark eyes, but you did shift in your seat. A few more minutes passed and you got up. Theo mirrored you. He walked with you as you headed to the corner store. 

He follows you around the small shop. You don’t buy anything. You rarely do. It’s really just something to do. Neither of you spoke to each other as you went down aisle after aisle. Theo even went with you as you walked home, but as soon as he continued all the way to your front door, you stuck your arm out to block him from entering the house.

“If you’re going to be my shadow, stay out here. I’ll be back.” 

He nodded. Then he leaned against the wall of your house to wait for you to return. You don’t hurry to gather the few things you need. You took your sweet time. 

“Who were you talking to?” your mother asked when you went into the kitchen to grab a water bottle. 

You hummed, not looking at her. “Uh, someone from school. They’re staying here… for the summer.” 

You knew Theo was staying for longer than the summer, but you didn’t need to be having this conversation with your mother about someone you really barely knew. 

“Someone from school? One of your friends?” your mother pressed. 

“No.”

“Who is it?” 

“No one,” you said before turning to leave. 

You didn’t let her ask another question. You knew that she was about to start asking questions that you didn’t have the answers to. Theo was waiting for you when you walked out of the house. You didn’t look at him or greet him in any way. Like before, he followed you. You went back to the park and sat at the picnic table again. Theo retook his spot across from you. You read for the rest of the morning. 

“Can you point me in the direction of Mr… uh, Leprechaun? Leprosy? Lemon?”

You raised your eyebrows, not looking up from your book. “Lester.” 

“Yeah. Him.”

“Butcher shop’s next to the store we were in,” you said lazily. 

Theo wordlessly got up and left you. You rolled your eyes. You were glad to be truly alone for the first time since you left the bakery. But it didn’t last too long. Theo got lunch from Mr. Lester and ate it outside his shop. Then he went back to you and sat back down.

That’s how the two of you sat for a while. Silence. The wind rustled the leaves and you turned the pages of your book, but you didn’t talk. Eventually, Theo laid down on the bench with his hands behind his head. It was better than him watching you. 

When the sun started to set, you got up, ready to go home again. As soon as you stood up, Theo sat up. 

“Where are you going, Dolcezza?” he asked.

“Home.” 

Theo got up and walked with you in the direction of your house. At first you think he’s walking you home, like the shadow he’s been. But then he turned down the pathway to Mr. Faust’s house. You stopped walking.

“Your grandfather… He’s Mr. Faust?” you called when Theo was halfway down the path.

Theo looked over his shoulder at you, barely pausing to say, “Yes.” 

You were distracted for the rest of the evening. You’d talked to Mr. Faust before. Spent a little bit of time with him. Such happens when you live in a smaller, remote town. You know the residents. And Mr. Faust told you that you reminded him of his daughter. You knew he only had one daughter – who apparently was Theo’s mother. 

Once inside, Theo’s grandfather calls for him from the kitchen. He was working on dinner for the two of them. 

“I hear you’ve met Y/N. Lovely girl, isn’t she?” 

“She goes to Hogwarts, Grandfather. Of course, I know her.” 

Once his grandfather said your name, Theo could place you in his year, your house, the classes you’ve shared over the years. He hadn’t spoken to you much, only when he had to. He isn’t sure how his grandfather knows he spent practically all day with you. Maybe one of the other residents of the town is a gossip. 

“Well, I wasn’t sure if you were friends. I’ve never heard her talk about you.” 

“How much time do you spend with her?” Theo asked.

“Oh, not too much. She does some mending for me and some others, and she tells stories about Hogwarts to the littler ones when she works. Sometimes I listen for a little bit after dropping off or picking up my things. She’s never mentioned you.” 

“Well, I do know her. We’re just not close.” 

“Maybe that will change.”

“Maybe.” 

Theo’s grandfather considered telling him that you are like his mother. For now, that would be something he kept to himself. A little reminder of her lived on in you. He’d tell Theo about it if he got to know you better.

---

Theo waited for you at the end of the pathway of his grandfather’s house. He assumed you would walk by again. If not, he probably would have stood there all day, casually leaning against the stone wall. When you passed him, you didn’t greet him. You didn’t even acknowledge him. But he still pushed himself off the wall and quickly matched your stride.

“Reading again today?” he asked as you sat down at the same table as yesterday. 

You placed your bag on the table and pulled out some clothing that you were working on mending. 

“I see, telling stories instead,” he said with a smirk. “Entertain me.” 

“I tell stories to children,” you clarified as you quickly got to work. “You aren’t a child.” 

“I can act like one if it gets me a story.”

“Once upon a time, there was a new person in my town and he decided to follow me around like a sentient shadow. His reasoning for doing so is unknown. The end,” you said dryly, not looking up from your work. 

“A sentient shadow?” 

“Mine doesn’t talk to me. Does yours?” 

He shrugged, which you were just able to see in your peripheral vision. Your lips twitched as you stifled a laugh. Theo saw it. You kept working. He watched you for a while, admiring how your fingers pushed the needle and thread through pants and shirts and a stuffed animal. Eventually, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one. He held the pack out to you.

“Want one?” 

“No,” you said flatly. “And I’d rather you didn’t around me.” 

“Alright.” 

Theo stood up and walked away from you. You didn’t think he’d actually listen. He stood at a distance until he finished his lit cigarette. Once it was finished, he came back to the table, but he didn’t sit down.

“You’ll show me around sometime, Dolcezza?” Although his voice said it as a question, it felt like a statement. A prediction, even. 

He stood at the end of the table, waiting for a response. He could wait. Your hands stopped, setting down your needle. 

“If you wait, I can. These won’t take all day.” 

He nodded before laying down on the bench like he had done yesterday. You got back to work. Your thoughts drifted to every time you interacted with Theo at school. They were all brief interactions. The occasional partnered spellwork. Him asking you to pass some ingredients in Potions. You saying ‘excuse me’ as you moved past him in the library. It really was strange to be spending time with him. But he stuck around until you finished what you needed to.

“Ready?” you asked, standing up and slinging your bag over your shoulder.

He was silent as he got up. You started down the main street with him at your side. You pointed out each building and who ran the shop.

“You’ll learn their names soon enough. Only so many people live here.” 

Then you started around the neighborhood. You listed off the names of who lived in each house, making sure to note the Watson house in case Theo decided that he did want to spend his summer with Parker rather than you. Every few houses, you told him to wait in the street while you dropped off what you had mended. Everyone looked past you at Theo. Word of his arrival hadn’t fully made its rounds through the town.

“Is that your boyfriend?” an older lady, Mrs. Thomas, asked.

“No. Mr. Faust’s grandson is living with him this summer.”

“Shame… He’s a handsome one.” 

You gave her a tight-lipped smile and wished her a good afternoon. You knew she was watching you as you walked back to Theo. She would more definitely be spreading the rumor that you were dating him, being the gossip that she was. 

The next day Theo was waiting for you again at the end of his grandfather’s property. 

“What’s the plan for today, Dolcezza?” he asked. 

You weren’t headed in the direction of the park, rather you were walking out of the town’s perimeter. Theo wasn’t complaining. He was looking forward to doing something new.

“If you’re following me around again, you’ll have to wait and see.”

He nodded and shoved his hands in his pockets. You walked in silence on the path that would eventually take you to the next town. Your town wasn’t even out of sight when you turned off the designated path and onto one that appeared to be made from being walked on so many times. Theo hesitated slightly before following you. You moved quicker on this trail. It wasn’t on purpose; it was simply a habit. You were the one who made the trail so you knew every step and every turn like the back of your hand. And you knew it would lead to a clearing.

You had planted some flowers around the edge of the clearing, and by their own pollination, they expanded inward. You sat down against a large tree and sighed. This was your spot. You had debated telling Theo to not follow you today, but he had been tolerable enough the last two days. It was really to get away from the people in town when you needed a break. You didn’t see him as someone from town. Plus, he would probably need this space as well as the summer went on. You were being thoughtful. 

You didn’t bring anything to do. You were going to sit and do nothing. That’s usually what you did out here. All you needed was fresh air and your imagination to keep you entertained. And sometimes you fell asleep. It was connecting with nature. 

Theo brought a book with him, because he was expecting to end up at the park again. He stood at the edge of the clearing, taking it in, as you sat down. He didn’t enter it right away. He seemed to sense that this place was special to you. When he did sit down, he leaned against a tree on the other side of the clearing, giving you your space. 

He read for a while. You watched him for a while. You had to agree with Mrs. Thomas, he was handsome. But he was also friends with Malfoy and all of his friends. They weren’t people you normally associated with. Theo himself didn’t seem too bad. Maybe he was okay. At least he could be okay for the summer and you could go back to not talking to each other when the school year started. 

After a while, you assumed when he finished a chapter or two, Theo put down his book and took something out of his pocket. It was too small to be his wand. He flicked his wrist and a shiny, silver blade appeared. Your eyes widened with the sudden fear that maybe you had led him to a secluded area and now he could kill you and no one would ever know. Then he flicked his wrist the other direction, and  the blade disappeared. He did this a few times before he reached for a small branch. He started one of the ends into a point. Once one end was sufficiently sharpened, he flipped it and did the same to the other side. When that was done, he stabbed the ground next to his leg. And he reached for another stick. 

You watched him do this a few more times before you laid down and stared up at the branches high above you with their green leaves. His repetitive scraping was oddly soothing. You didn’t realize you had fallen asleep until Theo was prodding your shoulder. 

“It’s about dinner time. I don’t know how to get back.”

You sat up and stretched. “Yeah. Right. Just give me one sec.”

He backed up, giving you space to get up and gather yourself. It wasn’t like you had brought anything with you. You walked in silence back to town. Theo hesitated before heading down the path to his grandfather’s. 

“I like that place. Thanks, Dolcezza,” he said monotonously. He nodded and then walked toward the door.

You waited until he was inside. You hadn’t expected that. You and Theo, despite having spent three days together now, didn’t talk. But the sentiment behind those five words left a warm feeling in your chest. You thought it was possibly the beginning of friendship. 

“Where’d you take Faust’s grandson today?” your mother asked as you entered your house. 

She stood in the doorway of the kitchen, watching you kick off your shoes. 

“Nowhere,” you lied. 

She chuckled. “Was he who you were talking to the other day?”

“Yes.”

“I see… I hear he’s handsome.” 

“Can we not talk about Theodore?”

“Is that his name? Mrs. Thomas didn’t know.”

“What’s for dinner?” You tried to change the topic and your mother smiled knowingly. 

You were avoiding. You didn’t want to talk about it so why wouldn’t you? You knew that you’d be dodging her questions all through dinner anyways, and probably the rest of the week. And if Theo kept following you around, it would be all summer. 

The next few days, you stayed around town. You couldn’t shake Theo. Wherever you went, he went, except for your house. You didn’t let him in. If you had to go back to your house during the day, he wanted on the front porch until you came out again. He watched you do more mending. He read when you read. You actually started working on your summer assignments. He had muttered something about doing the assignments the week before school. Then he laid down on the bench and fell asleep. A few times you went back to the clearing and Theo added more sticks to his collection. 

Throughout all of this, you started talking more and more. You were actually getting to know him. He was still pretty quiet though, letting you talk. But if you asked him a question, he answered, although his answers were consistently shorter than yours. 

During July, your mother asked if you could get some fish. You said you’d try. You grabbed your pole and went out. Like always, Theo was waiting for you outside his grandfather’s. He eyed your pole warily but didn’t say anything. You walked out of town side by side. He gave you a confused look when you didn’t turn off on the trail to the clearing. You kept walking. If he wasn’t going to ask, you weren’t going to tell him. 

After a little bit, you turned down another trail. This one was even less worn than the clearing. You didn’t have as much speed on this one and Theo was able to keep right behind you. He let out a ‘huh’ when you came upon a pond. It was tiny compared to the Black Lake, but it was big enough to have fish. There wasn’t a dock or anything so you stood on the edge of the grass to fish.

Theo stood off to the side as you cast your line into the water. He had a strange look in his eyes that you can’t quite place as he watched you. You realize it’s some kind of mix of wonder and amazement once you reel in a fish. If anyone asked, you’d say the fish in the pond were dumb. They were easy to catch. 

“Can you teach me?” he asked all of a sudden. 

You jumped, having been standing in silence for over an hour. You looked over your shoulder at him. 

“You’ve never fished before?”

He shook his head. You sighed and motioned for him to come closer. You explained the button that allowed the line to slack and how to flick the rod so that the hook and lure went flying. 

“Some people use live bait, but my lure has done me good so far. And after you cast, you spin this handle to reel it back in. The lure mimics a smaller fish swimming. And if you feel a bite, you jerk the rod to catch the hook in the fish’s mouth.” You paused and held out your rod for Theo. “Give it a try.”

He exhaled through his nose as he took it. “Swish and flick, right, Dolcezza? Just like what Flitwick taught us.”

You laughed. Theo smiled at that and then he attempted to cast. It didn’t go nearly as far as when you did it. 

“That’s okay. It takes practice. … You’ll want to go a little faster than that. The fish is swimming, not lollygagging.” 

“Right…” 

“And it’s all in the wrist,” you said when he was about to cast again. 

This cast was better than the first, but it still needed work. For a first time fisherman, Theo wasn’t doing too horribly, but you knew all the fish you’d be bringing home would be yours unless Theo got a stroke of luck. You stepped back to observe him. He looked happy, peaceful. There was a lightness to his features that you hadn’t seen at Hogwarts. 

After a decent amount of casting and a few bites from fish that got away, Theo gave you your rod back. You fished until you had enough to bring home to your mother. You hung them up on a tree, leaned your rod against the same tree and took your shoes off to wade in the water. Theo watched you in silence.

“It feels nice,” you called to him. “If you want to…” 

He slid his shoes off and tentatively walked into the water, wincing slightly at the coldness and squishy feeling beneath his feet. 

“No ponds on the Nott property?” you asked as he walked toward you.

“No.” He took a startled step to the left. “What the fuck touched my leg?”

You laughed at his expression. “Either a fish or seaweed. You know, algae and underwater plants.”

“Gross.”

“You know what’s gross?” You leaned down and slashed water at his face. “Tasting this water.”

He swore again before splashing you back. You were both thoroughly soaked by the time you were done splashing each other. He had turned his back to you to head back to shore when you gave his back a gentle shove. It took him by surprise. He stumbled. It happened in slow motion: him somehow turning around, grabbing you and pulling you down into the fall as he completely lost his balance. You practically landed on top of him. You could feel your face burning as you rolled away from him in the shallow water. 

“That was evil,” you said, earning a laugh from Theo.

“Says the girl who pushed me.”

“Touché.”

Once out of the water, you put your shoes back down. You grabbed the fish and your pole, but then Theo reached for the fish to take them from you. 

“I know I didn’t catch any, but I can carry them. You got the rod.”

You let him take them. The walk back to town is quiet but comfortable. You occasionally look at him through your periphery. He appeared to be so content with whatever this friendship was, even if it had led to him walking a distance in drenched clothing. You’d be lying if you said your clothing was comfortable right now. 

He walked with you the entire way back to your house. He stood on the porch as you put away your rod and then he held out the fish when you came back to get them. 

“You can-” The words couldn’t come out of your mouth fast enough.

“Is this Theodore Faust?” your mother asked, appearing behind you. Your face burned more than it had when you fell on him earlier.

“Nott, ma’am,” he corrected her. 

“How lovely to meet you,” she said with a smile. “Oh, you went fishing too? Would you like to have dinner with us? We’ll be cooking some of those up.” 

Could your face turn any redder? 

To your relief, Theo shook his head. “I’d love to, but I should be getting back to Grandfather. I appreciate the offer, ma’am.”

“Another time, then. I’ll invite your grandfather as well.”

You offered Theo a pained smile, which he returned as he handed you the fish. You knew that your mother was going to talk about this all through the evening and possibly the week.

“Mrs. Thomas was not doing that young man justice,” your mother murmured as she turned back into the house. 

You rotated what you did over the next few days. Going to the clearing, sitting in the park, just going for walks, working on homework. And whatever you did, Theo did too. You told yourself that he just didn’t want to be alone, whether that was his choice or if his grandfather was forcing him to leave the house. You wouldn’t’ve been surprised if it was the latter. Still, he seemed to be enjoying your company at least. He wasn’t complaining. 

“Can we do fish tonight?” your mother asked. 

You nodded as you drank your morning tea. 

“If that Theodore is going with you, bring your father’s rod. I’m sure Mr. Faust wouldn’t mind some.”

You nodded again. Your father hadn’t used his rod in years. You grabbed it and headed toward Mr. Faust’s house, where Theo was waiting. He tilted his head slightly when he saw the second rod, but his face lit up when you handed it to him.

“Don’t break it,” you warned, despite knowing that Theo wouldn’t do that on purpose. But for good measure, you added, “It’s my father’s. I don’t think he’d forgive me if I only came back with one rod.”

“Two rods leave, two rods will come back,” Theo said solemnly. 

There was a spring in Theo’s step as you headed for the pond. You couldn’t help but smile at how excited he was. He really took a liking to fishing. A wide grin took over his face as he cast his line into the pond next to you. You didn’t talk much. You just cast, reeled, recast, reeled, removed a fish, and repeat. It was a comfortable quiet, only broken by the occasional comment. 

When you were done fishing, you didn’t go back into town right away. You turned down the trail to your clearing. You leaned your rod against a tree and hung up the fish; Theo leaned his rod up against yours. You went to sit down where you usually sat. You expected Theo to sit by his ever-growing stick spikes, but that’s not where he sat. He sat right by your side, close enough that your shoulders were touching. 

After a few minutes of peaceful silence, you said, “You’re not too bad, Theodore.”

He hummed. “You expected I would be?”

“Take a look at your friends. They’d hate living here.”

“I think Draco’d combust,” he said with a snorted laugh. 

“But you seem to be doing alright.”

“Thanks to you.” 

It’s quieter. It hung in the air between you. You don’t know what to do with that.

“You’re welcome.” There was silence. “You like fishing, huh?” 

“It’s… nice.” 

And that was it. Short answers were Theo’s forte. 

July came to an end. Despite what your mother said, Theo and his grandfather had yet to come over for dinner. You figured it would’ve been an awkward night if it had happened. You weren’t complaining that it wasn’t looking like it was going to happen. 

But you kept spending time with Theo. It got to the point where you would say you were friends. You were accustomed to his presence. Your sentient shadow really wasn’t as bad as you had expected, especially with the conversations you had in the clearing. During one of your days out there, he said that you could call him Theo if you wanted to.

“It’s what my friends call me,” he said as he stared up at the sky. You were both lying on your backs. “Well, except Draco. He’s a surname kind of bloke.”

“Theo…” you said, trying it out. “No offense but it’s weird. I mean, you’re Theodore Nott. Not Theo Nott.”

“I said if you wanted to. You don’t have to.” The words had a bit of bite to them. It felt like he wanted you to call him Theo, like that confirmed that you were friends and he wanted that.

“We are friends. I just don’t know…”

“Don’t worry about it. Really.”

More days passed. More sitting in the park. More walking around the corner shop and through the other shops. More mending. A few more fishing trips. And more afternoons in the clearing. 

You were both leaning against your usual tree. Theo had started sitting closer and closer to you each time you did this. His collection of spikes had stopped growing, with a few even falling over after a storm. He didn’t bother standing them back up. 

You sighed.

“This is all going to change when we go back to school, isn’t it?” you asked quietly as you stared up at the leaves from the trees across from you.

“Hm?”

“Whatever this… friendship is. It’s going to change once we’re back at Hogwarts. You know, when you’re back with Malfoy, Parkinson, Berkshire, Zabini.”

Silence fell between you. It was thick with something. You couldn’t put your finger on it. Theo was thinking about what you said; he didn’t necessarily want it to change. He had decided that he liked you. Whatever this was between you two, it was nice. 

“Do you want it to?” he asked slowly, his voice low like he didn’t want the trees to overhear his question.

“I mean, I like this Theo. He’s nice to be around. Funny. Good company.” 

Theo sat up a little straighter. You called him Theo. You noticed his adjustment and what you said. You could feel heat beginning to creep up your neck, which only got worse as he looked at you. You didn’t meet his eye, not knowing that if you had, you’ve been met with a soft look. 

He took a deep breath. Slytherin ambition, right? He got what he wanted, and you were what he wanted. He reached over, gently using your chin to turn your head. He leaned in and pressed his lips on yours. You froze. You wanted to gasp, maybe pull away in surprise, but you were completely frozen. 

When he pulled away, he whispered, “I would like it to change, but not in the way you’re implying.”

“Oh,” you breathed. It’s all you could do. 

Theodore Nott had just kissed you. In your clearing. Someone, who before this summer, you never would’ve imagined being in your clearing. Someone, who before this summer, you never would’ve imagined kissing, let alone not hating it. 

“So… erm, what do you say?” he asked after you hadn’t said anything more, nor had you moved. 

“Um, one sec…” You leaned in and pressed a kiss to his lips.

Soft. Sweet. Gentle. His hand moved to hold your cheek until you pulled back.

“I think I’d like that.”

You and Theo wore matching smiles. You were going to have a lot of explaining to do when you got to school. 

tags: @navs-bhat

[doctormohansamira]

Samira and Robby have just such a ridiculously compelling dynamic. She’s his younger self, she’s the AU version of him, she’s the outlet for all his self loathing, he’s her idol, he’s her mentor, he’s her pseudo-parental figure that she latches onto because she doesn’t know how her own father would feel about her.

He holds her to higher standards than he does anyone else and wants her to be better than him because he knows better than anyone else where she’ll end up in twenty years the way she’s going and resents her for being better than him. She desperately wants his approval while constantly on edge when he’s looking over her shoulder and she has so little idea of what she’d do with his approval, she stares after him in shock when he gives her a direct compliment. He behaves as if she's supposed to be able to singlehandedly solve their staffing problem by moving faster. She's trying to solve different institutional problems by herself by setting an example for how they should be treating sickle cell, by not allowing Whitaker to get away with treating their patient poorly, by refusing to dismiss patients with symptoms that aren't easy to diagnose. He tells her that she's shortchanging her education. She's constantly working and learning not just from her own cases – she's doing research on the side and reading multiple case reports that she winds up applying in practical contexts.

He’s harsher with her for the same sort of things he lets slide in other people and doesn’t praise her when her methodical approach is vindicated. She’s tiptoeing around his feelings at multiple different points in the day.

He's fighting to keep from private management being brought in, and told that the only thing he can do to stop it is bring up the patient satisfaction scores. Samira's approach leads to her having the best satisfaction scores out of everyone. He recognizes immediately that these combination of things means that what he needs more than anything is ten more Samiras, but he tells that to Dana and doesn't say a word to Samira herself to concede she has a point or tell the other residents that they should in any way follow Samira's example when everything he's telling them to do is fundamentally about mimicking her results.

She wastes time and money on unnecessary tests, except we never see her do that – the time she's "wasting" is almost always her just talking to patients to help them feel safe and seen, and the one time we see her run additional tests, it turns out to have been valuable. He spends hours running unnecessary tests on a braindead teenager after Samira was the one to point out the blown pupils and immediately move on to patients she could help.

There's no one doing it like them. Most interesting relationship in the show, it's beautiful and I adore it.

[sydwritess]

The Scare Queen

Max Verstappen x fem!reader

Summary: As much as Max takes his job seriously, he is also quite a jokester on the circuit. One week, Max is stressing out at the Miami GP, yelling, telling workers off, etc. Reader thinks it would be a fun idea to prank Max. And it works.

First Person POV

Miami GP was a lot. The race, the people, and the heat alone can make it stressful. Which is exactly what is happening to Max. Right now, we are both in the garage, I was off in the corner while Max was talking to Christian.

"Well, I don't understand. Why are we going this route when we can use the original strategy from last weekend?" Max asked, pointing at the screen.

"Because this new strategy will give us a faster pace. Which will make you come into the lead, maybe around turn three." Christian said.

"Okay. What about Yuki?" Max asked.

"Well, Yuki. No offense, he's new. He's not going to get much." Christian said.

"Okay. Well, no offense." Max said, holding up a hand. "But Yuki is with me now. I don't care if he's new or not! He needs a fair chance!" Max said.

"Verstappen, you know that's not how this goes." Christian argued back.

"I know how it goes. I've been in this sport for years. I don't care if you call me the best. Yuki needs a fair shot. So I don't care if you have to build a whole new fucking strategy tonight, but fix it!" Max said. I walk over to him just then, putting my hand gently on his shoulder.

"Hey, why don't we take a break. Let him figure his shit out." I said gently. He looked at me and nodded, walking out of the garage.

"I don't fucking get it! He's being ridiculous." He said, rubbing a hand on his face.

"I know. I know. Maybe both of you just need a break." I said. We end up walking to his driver's room, sitting in there silently.

I went to go open my mouth, to say something. I'm unsure if I should say anything at all.

"What's been going on?" I ask.

"Nothing. He's being fucking ridiculous! I mean, I'm pretty sure we both know that if you are going to be CEO then he should have some common fucking sense on things." He said, the words pouring out.

"I get that. It's hard, but the best you can do is tell him to fix things. And if he doesn't... then that's on him." I said.

"Yeah, but then everybody sees me as the bad driver because he always hides behind the camera." He said.

"So maybe it's time to get him in he frame." I said.

"What?"

"Exactly what I said." I told him. He thought about it for a moment until it clicked, and he smirked. Suddenly, there was a knock at his door. He slowly gets up and walks over there and opens it. Yuki is standing right in the middle.

"Hey, what's up, Yuki?" Max asks.

"Do you mind if I come in?" He asks. Max nods and opens the door, Yuki slips through and sits on the couch near the door.

"Oh, hi y/n." Yuki smiles.

"Hi." I said, smiling back.

"What's up?" Max asks again, now sitting on the couch.

Yuki looks at both me and Max silently before speaking.

"I uh... I heard what you said in the garage." Yuki said, leaning back into the couch. "Thanks for saying that." He said.

"It's no problem. I just said what I had to say." Max said.

"Yeah. I never knew he wasn't giving me a fair shot." Yuki said, looking down at the ground.

"It's just because he's a total dumbass." I said, crossing my arms. "He thinks because you're new, that you don't know much." I said.

"Yeah. I've been in this for way too long. I know when people are being cheated." Max says.

"Thank you. Still, it means a lot." Yuki said, standing up.

"Anytime." Max said. Yuki waved and nodded, slowly walking out of the room and shutting the door behind him.

"Awe, he's to sweet." I said.

"Christian needs to stop being a fucking devil." Max said, putting his head in his hands.

"Yeah, but he's okay now. Yuki, I mean."

"But still. The fact that he doesn't know how to stick up for himself is sad." He said. I nodded.

"Look, why don't you go back to work. Maybe if you go back, you can get this day done quicker." I said quietly. He nodded, standing up.

"Do you want to wait here? Or..."

"No, I'll go. Might wander around." I said, standing up and going to the door. He closed the door behind us and grabbed my hand, walking down the hallway to the garages together.

"Good luck. Please don't let me find out that you punched your boss." I said, smiling.

"I won't." He said, wrapping his arms around me. I hug him back slowly, standing there for a couple of minutes.

"Right, I will see you later shcat." He said.

"See you later." I said, smiling. I go inside the building, further exploring the paddock. It was filled with artificial grass, little shops around, and the interview station's setup.

I continued exploring the paddock when I heard a voice beside me. I turn to see a young girl standing there, looking up at me.

"Hi y/n." She said in a small tone.

"Hi! How are you today?" I ask.

"I'm good." She said, smiling and giggling.

"I- I was wondering if you could sign this for me?" She asked, holding out a Red Bull t-shirt.

"Oh, are you sure? Shouldn't you be asking Max that?" I ask the girl.

"I'm sure. I really want you to sign it. My mommy and I watch your videos together on Instagram all the time." She says.

"Well, that's really sweet. Thank you so much." I said, taking the marker from her gently.

"Where would you like this signed?" I ask.

"Hmm. Right here." She says, pointing on the back.

"You got it." I say. I sign my name along with a little message for her.

"There you go." I smile. She giggles and looks back at her mom.

"Thank you." She says, hugging me quickly before running back to her mom. I stand up, getting a look at her mom before they walk away.

"Hey y/n. Everything okay?" A voice says behind me. Oscar, Lando, George, and Lewis show's up next to me.

"Yeah... yeah, that girl was super young." I said.

"The little one?"

"The mom." I said, turning to look at him. "Whatever, anyway, what's up?" I ask.

"Okay. So you know how Max has been super stressed this week?" Oscar asks.

"Yeah... Why, what did he do now?" I ask.

"Nothing bad. We were just thinking... maybe playing a prank on him." Lewis suggested.

"Okay... like what?" I ask.

"Well, like we know, Max hates George." Lewis says, George rolls his eyes.

"So basically, Max and I will be walking together down a dark hallway. George is covered in fake blood, lying in the middle of the floor. Max and I go to investigate, and that is when Lando and Oscar will run out from a side hall, screaming, 'Help me.' Max gets super confused, and then you go after Lando and Oscar." Lewis said with a big smile

"Jesus Christ. That is... a lot." I said.

"It will be awesome!" Oscar said.

"I don't know. We'd have to make sure everyone is out if here." I said.

"Already sent a team email." Lando smirked.

"Oh my god. I'm not going to get out of this, am I." I said.

"Nope." George smirked.

"Fine, I'll do it." I said

"And to top it off. When you start coming up to Max, you take off the mask, and blood pours out for your mouth." Lewis said, holding up fake, edible blood.

"Oh my god." I said slightly, laughing. "Okay, okay, fine. But where do we even get the stuff?" I ask. Next thing I know, Lando holds up a bag, containing the costume, blood, and everything.

It was a good couple of hours until the circuit finally closed down. No fans or workers in sight. Max was still in the Red Bull garage, finishing up some last-minute things, and that's when we got to work.

"Okay, you lay here." I said to George, he laid in the middle of the floor. Lewis was pouring some fake blood on and around him. Lando and Oscar go to the end of the hallway and balance the light switches just right so the lights start to flicker.

"I'm going to Max, remember you are dead." Lewis said to George, and then he walked away to the garages.

Me, Lando, and Oscar all go to the end of the hallway, which leads into another one, I had the costume on, and we were all hiding behind the wall.

Just then, we heard a faint murmur.

"Yeah, so then he -" The voice stopped suddenly.

"What is that?" Max asked Lewis.

"I don't know." Lewis said, I heard them walk closer down the hall.

"Oh my god. Is that George?" Lewis asked.

"Oh shit! We need to get someone!" Max said. Lando looked at me, and I nodded, and he ran out into the hallway with Oscar.

"Help!" Lando shouted out

"Max, you need to help us! Some psycho broke in here!" Oscar said.

"Wai what -" That was my queue. I slowly walk out from behind the wall, the mask perfectly covering my face.

"Oh my god!" Lando shouted, running away with Oscar.

"Who the hell is that?" Max asks. I start moving towards them. Max and Lewis slowly start to back up, taking George with them as fast as they could. I walk to them quickly when Max starts to scream loudly.

Max has his back turned to me, but he turned around when he noticed anything didn't happen to him.

Suddenly, Lewis and George start laughing. Lando and Oscar come out from around the corner and start laughing, too.

"What?" Max asks.

"Mate, you should have seen your face." George said, laughing hysterically.

"Oh my god! That was awesome!" Lando said, walking up behind Max.

"Who is this then?" He said, pointing to me. I take off the mask and put the hood from the costume down.

"Oh my god." Max said.

"Mate. You were so scared you actually wanted to help George." Lewis said while laughing.

"No. It's called respect." Max said.

"I can't believe you would do such a thing." Max said dramatically, turning to me.

"You love me, though." I said, hugging him. "Plus, it was pretty funny to see you scream like a girl." I said.

"I did not scream like a girl." Max said with a smirk.

"It was still good, though, yeah?" Lewis asked him.

"Okay, I will admit, it was pretty... realistic." Max said, his smirk breaking into a full smile.

"You were scared." I said smiling.

"Maybe. Maybe not. How are you going to clean this up?" He asks pointing to the floor.

"We are going to." Lewis said.

"Just go home and try not to send death threats to Christian." Oscar said, patting Max on the back.

"Alright, alright. Let's go." Max said, grabbing my hand and walking down the hall.

"I will admit, that was pretty good." He said.

"Thank you." I smiled, kissing him slightly on the cheek.

Hey loves! Another Max imagine! Hope you like it! Comment to be added to the tag list!

[thevoidstaredback]

Part 6

Danny hates it here. There's pollution from almost everything that creates pollution blocking out the sky at all times, the buildings that aren't condemned are only feeding the rich while stealing from the poor, an entire twenty-four block are has been given up on by mostly everyone, the local vigilantes won't kill the recurring problems like the cockroaches they are, and it's so overly gloomy that you'd think no one could ever be happy here.

He's said it all before, and he will plant his unmarked grave on this hill.

The words Jason had used to describe the burger place he'd (he asked his pronouns on the way into town via car stolen from Bruce Wayne) taken him to was exactly how he described it. The building was straight outta the early 80's, heath code violations and all, the parking lot gave off Denny's vibes, and the uniforms were literally Halloween costumes.

Also, 'Bat Burger'? What a stupid name.

"Don't diss the Bat Burger," Jason scolded out of nowhere, "It's the best worst burger in the country."

"How the hell did you know what I was thinking?" Danny demanded.

"It's a Gothamite thing."

Danny looked at his food. "Uh huh." There must be something in the food.

"C'mon, kid," Jason pushed the newly arrived tray of two Bat Burgers with Jokerized fries and large drinks, "Eat up!"

Danny looked down at the food that'd been pushed to him. It didn't look like it'd been tampered with, but it rarely does. Well, other than the fries. The salt on those things were purple and green, making look like they'd covered the potato strips in ugly glitter.

Jason grabbed one of the fries from Danny's box, ripping off a piece of lettuce from his burger, too, and ate them quickly. "It's not gonna hurt you, kid. Eat up."

He was still skeptical, but he can appreciate him showing him the food's okay. He picked up the burger and took a bite.

It tasted somehow both worse and better than a McDonald's cheese burger with nothing on it.

"How the hell did they manage that?" Jason laughed at him. "I'm serious! How have they managed to make it taste like that!"

It took a few minutes before Jason's laughter died down. When he finally calmed himself, whipping a tear from his eye, he motioned to the fries. "You gotta try those next."

Danny glared at him as he picked up and ate one of the fries. After a moment he said, "That is one of the best fries I've ever had, and I've had Nasty Burger food."

Chuckling, Jason asked, "What kind of name is 'Nasty Burger'?"

"It's only the best burger place in the whole Midwest!"

"The name says otherwise,"

Danny shrugged, eating a few more fries. "It used to be called 'Tasty Burger', but someone painted over the 'T' and no one though to fix it, so,"

Jason picked up his burger. "That's fair."

They finished their lunch with sporadic conversation shared between them. Comparing burger places, joking about their lives after dying, even throwing in mentions of what powers they did or didn't gain after coming back.

"Anger issues?" Danny scoffed, "Loser."

"Watch it, ghost boy," Jason smirked, "I got some magic swords, too."

Danny raised an eyebrow. "So? I have the icy winds of the underworld at my disposal."

"That isn't just normal ice?"

"Nope. Normal ice can melt and be melted by an outside source. My ice instills the fear of death in people as it slowly creeps up on them, freezing them to death from the inside out."

The building grew cold suddenly, making both Danny's and Jason's breath visible. Ice crept up the window panes, frosting them over and blocking their sight.

"Neat trick," Jason whistled, sitting up straighter. "Please tell me this is your doing."

Danny shook his head. "My ice has green in it. Like mint."

They both tried to stand, spurred into action. However, they found themselves frozen to their seats. Everyone else in the building having been frozen completely, though Danny could tell they were all still alive. For however long, he wasn't entirely sure. Optimistically, they had ninety minutes. But something told Danny they'd have barely twenty.

"What an interesting power you have," Mr. Freeze said was he walked from behind the counter. The Riddler was with him. "Mind if I borrow it for a while?"

Danny looked at Jason, panicking a bit. How could he have let his guard down?! Then, without feeling the cold that could never compare to the temperatures of the Far Frozen at it's warmest, his world went blue.

Part 8

[shortbcofkoffee]

Okay so let's say Bruce met Damian when he was like four or six, right? Damian who's never had a father figure is confused because why is there a man in a full klevar suit looking at him like a mother would be with her cub? Anyway so Bruce is around the League of Assassin's for the next few weeks and everything is just so futile.. he doesn't want to interact. Not out of curiosity, but out *fear*.

So, let's say after some pestering from his mother he finally winds up asking. Bruce is at a computer, some report or whatever of importance and all the sudden he hears, "Baba?" In the soft, almost timid voice if Damian could help it.

And he's immediately dropping anything and everything for his babyboy. Because that's his *baby*. His baby who wouldn't come out from behind his mother leg, who's well-spoken and definitely a hell of a fighter but still his baby nontheless and finally getting a solid conversation and potential bonding experience? Hell yeah.

Oogh you're fuckin cooking

--

Bruce can barely stand it when he hears that. Because Damian is so small, impossibly small, and so big at the same time. He's five already, and Bruce has missed every milestone up until this point. He's so perfect, too; he looks just like his mother with his sharp, intelligent eyes and his small, curious frown.

Bruce's breath hitches as he looks down at the boy. There's no doubt in his mind that Talia is nearby. Damian is too attached to her for that. He's a little- no very jealous of that. But now, here Damian was, asking him for something. And it must be important because Damian's voice was usually the strongest in the room. Bruce smiled, the softest, most genuine smile he thinks has ever graced his face.

"Yes, Damian?"

Damian stood rigid, something Bruce had noticed he'd done when stopping himself from fidgeting. "So you are my father."

Bruce was a little taken aback by that. He assumed someone, or at least Talia would've told Damian that by now. He was a little hurt. Was that why the boy was so cautious around him? Because from that perspective, a strange man just showed up one day with clear tension with his mother, and wouldn't leave.

Well, in the boy's defense, it wasn't as if Bruce had been giving it his best effort either. Dick was older than Damian when Bruce took him in, and Bruce was already terrible with interacting with a kid that age. Also, he didn't know how Damian had felt about him. Part of him assumed the boy hated him for abandoning him.

"I am," Bruce answered.

Damian's frown deepend. He hesitated, then walked closer, his voice back to it's usual state. "How come I never met you before? Is it because of Mama?"

Bruce looked away. It was probably not a good idea to tell his son he didn't know he existed. "Somewhat. It's a little more complicated than that."

Damian stood in front of his chair, looking up at him. "Is it because of Grandfather?"

"Also somewhat," Bruce answered. "But why do you ask?"

Damian went rigid again. "They talk about you a lot. Grandfather thinks you're very important and would be a great help to our cause."

Bruce hummed. "I've always wondered why he thought that. I'm only a detective, Damian, and while I have a lot of money, it's nowhere close to what your grandfather has."

"So you investigate things?" Damian's eyes widened. That beautiful green that reminded Bruce so much of the boy's mother. "You stop crimes?"

Bruce chuckled. "Yes, I stop crime."

"Well, Grandfather said what humans are doing to the Earth is a crime. Maybe he wants you to help stop it."

"That's a very good deduction, Damian. You're very smart."

Damian preened. "Is that what you're working on now? Are you stopping crime?" He asked, pointing to the computer screen.

Bruce glanced at the pages of notes he was currently working on. Ra's had put him onto a case where a man had his company illegally dumping waste too close to a wildlife reserve. Thankfully, he was letting Bruce do it his way instead of sending assassins to take care of the Guy.

"Yes. Do you want to see?"

Damian nodded and stood on his tippy toes, trying to get a better look. Bruce noted he was a little small for five. It wasn't really a problem, Bruce himself had been short until he hit puberty.

"Would you rather sit in my chair?" He offered.

Damian nodded. Before Bruce could stand, like he was fully planning to do, Damian was pulling himself into his father's lap. Bruce's heart squeezed. Damian was so perfect, so adorable. Bruce would certainly be sent to hell if he missed out on anymore of his son. Once settled, with Bruce's help, Damian looked at the screen.

When he got here, Bruce had demanded to know everything about Damian's education, among other things. He knew English was Damian's third language, and even if the boy excelled in it, he was still only six. He had trouble with the bigger words.

"Robert Green, in asso... asso-shi-a-shun with Lex Luthor," Damian read.

"Very good," Bruce praised. "But I can translate the pages if you want."

Damian shook his head. "I'm fine, I can read." He pointed to the picture of Robert Green. "What did he do?"

"He's dumping trash by a wildlife reserve. It's hurting all the plants and animals." Bruce frowned. "And Lex Luthor is funding his company."

Damian bristled. "Then he should be dead! Grandfather can get assassins to kill him."

Bruce ran a hand through Damian's hair. He'd make an effort to dispel Damian's beliefes, but it may take a while. Especially if he can't get them both back to Gotham, which he will. "It's not that simple, sweetheart. Do you know what the word systematic means?"

"It has to do with systems?"

"Very good. Yes, the dumping of waste into the wildlife reserve is systematic. That means it's not just him and Lex Luthor, there are probably dozens of people making this decision, all with different jobs and roles. Some of them might not even know what they're doing because they're too deep in the system. And as much as your grandfather wants to, even he knows killing that many people at once is a bad idea."

Damian pouted and Bruce fought the urge to pinch his cheeks red. "So we can't kill them?"

"No, sweetie. But that's why I'm helping. I'm going to take down the system from the inside so he can't hurt the wildlife anymore. And if it all goes according to plan, then it will be much harder for companies to hurt wildlife in the future."

Damian nodded hesitantly. "Okay, Baba. That sounds smart." Baba! Bruce wanted to explode. Damian started to climb out of his lap. "I have to go take care of my horses."

Bruce frowned as he helped Damian back on the ground. "Alone? Do you want help?"

Damian shook his head. "It's alright, Baba, you're busy."

"No I'm not." Bruce quickly saved his files and closed his tabs. "I have pleanty of time."

"But that was important," Damian frowned.

"Nothing is more important than you, sweetheart," Bruce said, standing from his chair. "And I haven't met any of your animals yet. I want to meet them."

"Oh." Damian smiled. "Promise?"

"I swear it. Now will you show me where the stables are?"

Damian nodded and grabbed Bruce's hand, tugging him out of the room. "They're this way!"

[nightplvmes]

you again (fluff)

zayne one shot (love and deepspace) — probably part 1 an arranged marriage was never in your plans. you'd always imagined yourself marrying your best friend zayne, until he left…⋆｡° | pairing : prince!zayne x princess!reader ⋆｡° | word count : 2.4k (2,400) ⋆｡° | fluff with slightly angst, happy ending, teenagers au likes and reblogs are appreciated!! :) ★ masterlist here

you sighed, your gaze fixed on the way your dog squirmed in your lap. a small smile formed on your lips as you watched him try to take off the ugly sweater that Alisa had forced him to wear.

"hey, hey, hey!" Alisa walked quickly towards them and forced the dog away from you. "what did I tell you about letting him dirty your dress?" she said in that usual annoyed tone.

"he can poop on my dress if he wants." Alisa rolled her eyes. you were impossible to talk to, always making her angry or refusing to follow orders. how hard was it to follow a simple order?

"let's get back to the plan." Alisa turned to point to the whiteboard where she had written a small list of what you needed to do. "you're going to talk to each of them for at least fifteen minutes. they'll talk to you about themselves or about the benefits of uniting the two kingdoms. you have to listen to everything they say and memorize it."

you narrowed your eyes in confusion. you have to memorize things that princes say, things that don't even interest you. you don't even memorize the things that really interest you.

at some point your mind began to wander, and you stopped listening to Alisa. you hated sitting there, you hated that your fate was sealed and that you were going to get married but not for love. your mother had been lucky to have truly fallen in love, but that was not the case with you. and for a second you thought that this wouldn't be happening if…

"you're going to fall!" Zayne spoke loudly and in that tone he used when he wanted to scold you. you giggled, stretching your hand out further, if you didn't have that silly dress on you would be more mobile. "you already have one, you don't need another!" Zayne spoke again but you didn't seem to hear him.

"no! this one's for you," you repeated and reached out your hand again but your fingers barely touched the apple.

your foot slipped from the trunk and you let out a scream as you felt part of your weight slide off. you were holding on to the tree trunk but was close to falling.

"get down from there!" Zayne motioned for you to come back to his side. he just hated the thought of putting yourself in danger for something as silly as an apple.

you sighed and finally obeyed him. feeling defeated, you stood under the tree, landing next to Zayne seconds later. sometimes you got the feeling that Zayne's mother hate you for getting him into trouble. Zayne was a pretty calm boy compared to you, he never got into trouble but he always followed you and when you got into trouble he was by your side. he had never left you alone, he accepted the blame for both of them even if he had done nothing.

"I'm sorry. I only got one apple." you grimaced and held out the fruit to him, you had told him that apple was for him anyway. you didn't even care that you didn't have one.

"It's okay, we can share it," he said, shrugged and took your arm to take a seat under their favorite tree.

they both sat under the tree, you straightened your dress while you searched for something in the small bags you had sewn yourself on your dress. the seams were bad and looked like pieces of fabric glued together, but you had done it yourself and that made you feel proud. your mother hadn't said anything when you found out and she promised to put little pockets in all your dresses.

"can you do that thing you do with apples?" you asked. Zayne had a knack for peeling apples, sometimes he got it wrong but he had learned to improve his technique.

"I don't have a knife," his words hung in the air as you pulled out one of the small knives the cooks used. "where did you get it?"

"I stole it from the kitchen." you smiled excitedly as Zayne took the knife.

you looked at him intently without saying a word, you didn't want to interrupt him but you loved watching anything Zayne did, it was… mesmerizing.

"my sister is getting ready for her wedding. I heard her talking to mom today," you finally broke the silence. Zayne kept his gaze fixed on the apple but you knew he was listening. you didn't need confirmation from him, Zayne always listened to you.

"if we were to get married, what dress would you wear?" he asked. he wasn't looking at you but you could almost swear he was smiling.

"I always wanted to wear one of those fluffy dresses like the princesses" you replied without hesitation. you would never inherit the throne, that was your sister's job, you didn't need to find a husband… but if you had to marry someone you had always wanted it to be Zayne, he was your best friend and he could be a candidate like your mother had said.

"I would wear a blue suit," Zayne replied. you smiled, thinking it was his attempt to be different from the boring suits they always saw on the princes in the palace.

of course you didn't understand how those things worked, for you, in your little world it was just making a deal with your best friend. you knew your sister would have to marry a stranger and you didn't want that.

now you and Zayne had this little joke where they talked about their imaginary wedding. even if you never had to take the throne, you could marry whoever you wanted! and Zayne would be there because he was your best friend.

"and what flowers would we have at our wedding?" you asked as you took the piece of apple Zayne had given you.

"Jasmines" he answered without hesitation.

“are you listening?” coming back to reality had felt like the biggest shock of all. you had to blink repeatedly as Alisa was practically screaming in your face.

"Alisa I…" you fought back the lump in your throat. "I need air, I'm sorry."

you left the room as quickly as you could. you hated thinking about Zayne because you always ended up crying, you hated thinking about one of the last times together.

Zayne had disappeared from your life shortly after you turned 12, almost at the same time your mother and sister had died in an accident. it was a strange feeling all of that had left in your chest. you felt guilty that what happened to Zayne had affected you more. you'd had time to heal, had had time to process that your mother and sister had died in an accident. an accident that wasn't anyone's fault. you'd had help and support from other people, but Zayne…

Zayne had vanished like the steam that came out of their mouths when they played in the snow. you didn't know what had happened to him; your dad never gave you an answer, and eventually you grew tired of asking. your father told you you had more important things to attend to now that your sister wasn't around to assume the throne.

you had tried to sneak into the palace to Zayne's room, hoping to find clues about what had happened, but you were always caught. he hadn't called or even sent letters. it was really silly because letters weren't even a method of communication anymore, but for some reason, you always expected it.

there were people all over the place, walking back and forth, and it made you feel overwhelmed. you tried to walk quickly to one of the gardens without being seen, but you felt like you were attracting too much attention. your lungs filled with air as the cold hit your face. winter had finally begun, and you hated it. snow used to make you homesick, but right now, you were so lost in your own world that you didn't even care when your arms started to freeze.

you kept your eyes fixed on the way your feet left imprints in the thin layer of snow on the ground. if Zayne were there, would everything be different? maybe the death of your mother and sister would have been easier for you. you'd had her father's support, but it wasn't the same. you wanted Zayne.

would they get married? that was the question that was on your mind the most. when you were a child, you didn't understand the importance of marriage, even if it was forced. for you and Zayne, getting married was nothing more than a kind of agreement between best friends, but after so many years, you couldn't help but wonder what would have happened.

sometimes you thought Zayne would have encouraged you to find a partner, someone who would even remotely spark your interest enough to keep you from having a miserable marriage for the rest of your life. another part of you thought Zayne would have agreed to marry you to save you from a bad marriage and would have done everything possible to keep you calm when you assumed the throne.

"you're going to catch a cold." you frowned when a stranger interrupted your thoughts. you really liked getting lost in your imagination lately.

you looked up, ready to fight whoever had interrupted you, probably one of the princes who had been wandering the halls lately, claiming to need to talk to your father but actually trying to make progress with you. however, it wasn't even close to what you had imagined.

it wasn't one of the servants, not Alisa, not your father, not even one of the princes. well, it was certainly a prince, not the one you'd expected.

you felt like she was seeing a ghost, felt like you were seeing things wrong because of the snowflakes now practically covering your hair. you started to shiver, but not because of the cold; it was as if you couldn't move or even speak because it was practically impossible for Zayne to be in front of you.

he had obviously changed too much. it had been almost ten years since you'd last seen him. his sharp jaw and how broad his shoulders had become, but he still had that calm gaze you remembered. you were dreaming, you had to be dreaming.

Zayne knew it hadn't been the best idea to appear out of nowhere when he noticed you weren't going to move. you was too frozen to say anything, and he felt somewhat guilty for causing that reaction in you. he had a plan in mind: he had gone to the palace in search of Alisa. from what he had discovered, she was the girl who helped you with everything related to maintaining a good image. he hadn't thought he would find you right there, of all the places in the palace where you could be.

finally, he approached you to put his jacket over your shoulders to ward off the cold. you knew you weren't dreaming, or if you were, it was the most realistic dream you'd ever had.

"you…"

"I know," he interrupted you. he felt guilty for leaving, and he felt guilty for abandoning you right after your mother and sister died. "I'm sorry."

you felt tears blur your vision. it had been so long that you were almost sure something had happened to Zayne, almost sure he was gone and you'd never see him again.

you wanted to be angry, you wanted to yell at him for leaving like that, but for some reason you felt you didn't have the right. you wanted to walk away from him and take off his jacket, telling him you didn't need anything from him, but you couldn't. you couldn't do it when you'd missed him so much.

Zayne was taken by surprise when you leaned in to hug him and held on so tightly that he almost felt his breath hitch. you wanted to sob, you wanted to ask him where he'd been all this time, but no more words came out of your mouth; it was like if you mind was blocked.

words weren't necessary for several minutes. Zayne didn't move and simply held you against his chest, letting you cling to him as tightly as you wanted.

"where were you?" was the first thing that came out of your lips when you lifted your face to look at him. your fingers ran over his cheeks, caressing his cold skin to make sure he was real.

"problems…" he admitted softly. how was he going to explain what had really happened?

you nodded, not wanting to ask for explanations he clearly wasn't going to give. not right now, at least. you remained silent; there were too many things on your mind, and the worst of them came flooding back when you heard Alisa's voice. the reminder that you had to choose a new husband had hit you in the worst possible way; it was like a bucket of cold water.

you cleared her throat and took a step back, suddenly feeling ashamed. Zayne forced himself to let you go. you were nervous; he could tell by the way your entire expression had changed, and it didn't take long for him to figure out that her nerves weren't because of him.

"I…" he interrupted you.

"it's okay, you can go. I'll still be here when you get back." you narrowed your eyes, searching for any hint that what he was saying was a lie.

you nodded before turning around and walking in Alisa's direction. you needed to have a serious talk with her about stopping interrupting you. she was the organizer, she also helped you when you were a little lost, but lately Alisa was taking the liberty of controlling your life.

you still felt like you were floating in some kind of bubble. Zayne was there; he had hugged you, and you had felt his cold hands on the small of your back. it hadn't been a dream like the ones you'd had so many times in the past. however, your life went on. you still had to choose a husband, you still had to prepare for the dance where you would meet the prospects.

did Zayne still remember the promise they had made? maybe the dance wasn't necessary after all.

[arc-misadventures]

A Fashionable Spider

Jaune: Okay Coco...

Coco: Y-Yes?

Jaune: Thank you for saving me from that... thing...?

Coco: Anything for my best guy friend. Because I can't... can't...

Jaune: Can't what?

Coco: Nothing! Ahem... n-nothing...

Jaune: Well... as your best guy friend... I have several questions I need to ask you?

Coco: Ask away.

Jaune: Since when have you been the the Fashionista Spider~?

Coco: Oh... It all started during my last year of middle school when a spider bit me. I didn't really make a name of myself until the middle of my first year of high school.

Jaune: Okay... Am I the first one you told that you're the Fashionista Spider, or did you tell Velvet before me?

Coco: You're the first person I've told. Velvet doesn't know anything.

Jaune: Well... being the first one to know makes me feel a little better... But, why didn't you tell me sooner?

Coco: Well I didn't know what to do! I suddenly get super powers, become a super hero vigilante! And, I have to deal with Velvet's constant photo ops while I'm trying to save the day! I was too busy trying to do heroine stuff to tell you.

Jaune: Okay, first off; Velvet's photo's of you in your Fashionista Spider outfit are fantastic!

Coco: Absolutely perfect~!

Jaune: But, why didn't you tell me sooner that you are the Fashionista Spider?!

Coco: I just told you why I couldn...?!

Jaune: Do you realize how many heroine outfits for you we could have made together?!

Coco: H-Heroine outfits?

Jaune: I mean good gods! Look at your outfit woman!

Jaune: The charcoal, and the auburn gold make you look like perfection personified!

Coco: Oh uhh... Thanks.

Jaune: If you told me sooner we could have come up with so many fashionable outfits together! We could have designed you a hood to frame your face in auburn gold! A charcoal shawl with gold to give you an elegant look! High heels to make you look like a goddess among the living!

Coco: Oh gods... What have I done...?!

Jaune: We could have created something to rival the gods! And, yet you cast me aside to make this fashionable assembled on your own! Why Coco... why did you do this to me...? Why did you deny your partner in fashion, and your best guy friend...?

Coco: Listen Jaune.. I know I made a mistake a huge mistake! I mean... gods what was I thinking?! Not including you in designing my super hero suit?! Have I gone mad.

Jaune: Evidently!

Coco: But... we can still do it... we can make a new! A new fashionable outfit!

Jaune: With the hood?

Coco: And, the shawl.

Jaune: With the high heels too?

Coco: I'm not sure if I can do it in high heels, but I really want to try~1

Jaune: Then... Then let's do this!

Coco: Hell yeah! Let's do this! Oh, wait one more thing...

Jaune: What is it?

Coco: You have to make sure that the new outfit shows off my ass~!

Jaune: Oh, butt of course~!

(Snap!)

Coco: Nice~!

///

I did @lar-mx! I did the Spider Coco!