#this kind of thing is not meant for people like me

[imstillalexcomic]

This isn’t really meant to be a comic trashing my dad.

I do truly appreciate his commitment to education.  I do truly have a soft spot for his style of humor, which certainly influenced the development of my own.  I appreciate how he had this VHS-C camera that he was always bringing out and would let me use, sparking my love for movies and starting me on a path that led to me going to film school.

All those good things about him were real.

But so was the colossal amount of damage he caused.

If you happen to be a parent and are reading this right now, I’m going to ask that you consider this suggestion from a childless thirty-six year old:

You need to consider how you communicate with your child, and how communication doesn’t just mean the words that you use.

You’re telling your kids something with the foods you eat, the activities you engage in, etc…

…you communicate to your children with the media you consume.

The rhetoric against the trans community wasn’t as much in the spotlight when I was growing up, but every time my dad turned on the radio, he’d have my sister and I listen to the likes of Rush Limbaugh, or Sean Hannity, Mark Levin, etc…  One of the topics that’d come up frequently was queer people. 

Issues about Don’t Ask Don’t Tell, gay marriage, gay boy scouts…

The “gays” were an issue.  More than an issue really, they were a problem.  If someone was queer, these radio hosts were quick to villainize; “this teacher is going to turn their students gay,” “this troop leader is going to abuse his scouts,” you don’t want your kid to end up like that, do you?”

My dad would listen to these folks non-stop and nod along in agreement, all the while his extremely queer and aware of it child was sitting right behind him, listening to how she was some kind of monster.

So I hid. 

There could be no sharing about aspects of myself.  My parents would be listening to 770am or Fox News all the time.  If I share that I was queer, I’d be finished.  How couldn’t that be the case?  Every day they chose to listen to people that hate me, so they hate people like me. 

So I can’t let them know me.  I won’t let them know me.

Even though they never said that they hated queer people with their own words, they told me that they hated queer people every day with the media they chose, and in turn forced me to consume.

So again, if there are any parents reading this right now, consider my words.  Hate is a choice you make, and hate can be communicated with more than just words.

If for no other reason, you never know if that kid in the back seat is listening, listening to how you hate them.

[barnacles34]

My Greatest Joy

IVE Yujin x Male Reader

16k words

'A single person is missing for you, and the whole world is empty.' — The Year of Magical Thinking

18+ smut

The Birth Crisis. The Great Vanishing. The Specter of Demographic Collapse. The media couldn’t decide on a name, only that it was happening. Some said Korea would be empty in a century. Others, ten years. Twenty-five, if they were feeling generous. A hysterical pendulum swing between denial and terror, between think-tank white papers and government campaigns urging citizens to bureaucratize what was once spontaneous: love, sex, reproduction.

But in Dunsan-dong, no one talked about it. Not really. Not in any meaningful way. The village shrank in slow motion. Affairs stopped happening—nobody had the energy, or the audience. The local divorce lawyer quietly removed ‘Infidelity’ from his services, then shut down altogether. Playgrounds grew ghostly. The corner food stands, once territorial battlegrounds for unruly teenagers, went bankrupt one by one. ‘Kids these days grow up too fast,’ one ajumma said, as if that were the whole explanation.

And yet, in all this entropy, two were born. A statistical error. A miracle.

Miracle is not hyperbole. In two decades, the birth count had been three. The bureaucratic failure of Love—yes, Love, capital L, the thing that was supposed to be instinctual, inevitable, the thing people built whole religions and K-dramas around—had finally completed its slow bureaucratic death. Love was no longer a force. Love was paperwork.

Except for two people.

For them, Love was everything.

—

'One move and you'll split open like a badly wrapped present.' ‘Is that your professional opinion?' 'That's my twenty years of keeping-you-alive opinion.' She's biting her lower lip, the way she always does when she's trying not to smile at your stupidity. 'And I really don't want to explain to some emergency room doctor why I have a boy bleeding out in my room at 2 AM.'

The gash should hurt more. Six inches of red spite across your forearm, but all you can focus on is how Yujin's looking at it—like she's found something breakable in a world made of steel.

'I really fucked up.' 'Did you?' Her touch finds your good arm, barely there. 'Or did you do exactly what you meant to?'

The lamp makes everything soft. She's wearing your t-shirt—the one you left here that summer when the AC broke. Cotton worn thin enough to catch shadowy curves underneath. Silk pajama bottoms that whisper secrets when she moves. You try not to notice. You notice everything.

'This might need stitches.' 'Are you volunteering?' 'Shut up and hold still.' But there's laughter in her voice, the kind that makes your chest tight. 'Some of us are trying to work miracles here.'

The first-aid kit looks wrong in her small hands. Those hands that used to patch up your scraped knees, that still know exactly where you're breakable.

'Remember that time in third grade?' Her fingers ghost over your skin. 'When you tried to convince me you could fly?' 'I could've.' 'You broke your arm.' 'Minor setback.' She laughs, soft and close. 'Nothing's changed, has it?'

Everything's changed. The way moonlight catches in her hair now, how her perfume makes your head swim, the careful distance she keeps even when she's touching you. But you say, 'Not the important things.'

Her breath hits your arm in warm little puffs as she works. Clean movements. No hesitation. Like she's mapping something she never forgot.

'Almost done.' Her thumb traces the edge of the bandage. 'Next time try not to bleed on my carpet?' 'Yujin-ah.' 'Mm?' 'Thank you.'

She looks up. Those eyes crack something in your chest. Then she smiles and whatever was cracked turns to stardust.

'So how'd it happen? And don't say you just slipped, because I know all your clumsy excuses by heart.' 'Just slipped.' 'Onto what? Did some wandering samurai leave their sword in Dunsan-dong?' 'You never know what you'll find these days.' 'Hey.' Her voice goes quiet, the way it used to when she'd tell you secrets at midnight. 'Tell me? I promise to not scold you…much.'

Face to face now. The universe narrows to this: her eyes on yours, her hands still on your skin.

'Okay.' You gesture with your good arm. 'Window.' 'What did you—' Her voice catches. 'If you've done something wild—'

Then you smile.

You watch her shoulders drop. It's a small thing, being able to do this—turn her static to quiet. Not exactly Superman stuff, but it's the only superpower you'd keep if they were dealing them out.

She knows. You can see it in how she moves—little half-dance steps to the window, taking your words as is—hopefully, something good. The curtain whispers. You don't watch. Can't. Your skin's electric with her lingering smell—something you'd bottle if you could, except that'd ruin it, the particular way her skin holds the perfume.

The silence stretches until you think you might snap. Then—

'What am I supposed to be looking at? Because all I see is Mrs. Kim's cat trying to fight a streetlight again, and—' She stops. 'What's it say?'

'Let me make sure I'm reading this right.' She's still facing the window, but you can hear the smile breaking through, eyes transforming into pure joy. 'Because either someone's confessing to me via Christmas lights at 2 AM, or the neighborhood's having a very very specific power outage.'

'These past years—' 'Wait.' She spins around, eyes catching lamplight. 'Did you seriously string up every Christmas light in Dunsan-dong just to—' She takes three quick steps toward you, stops. 'The lights outside the convenience store. The ones from the coffee shop. Even the ones from—' Her eyes go wide. 'You didn't.'

'Old Mr. Park drives a hard bargain.' 'His birthday lights? The ones he's kept since forever?' 'To be fair, they were already purple. Worked with the aesthetic.' 'And what exactly did you promise him?' 'Just my eternal servitude. And maybe repainting his fence.' 'The whole fence?'

'Both sides.'

She shakes her head, but her smile could light up the whole neighborhood. 'You're insane. Completely insane. Do you know how many people I had to convince about your mental well-being?'

'Had to?'

'Have to. Present tense.' She's between your knees now, playing with your shirt hem like it's suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. 'Though I guess now I'll have to change my story to "dating a lunatic who steals Christmas lights and nearly loses an arm trying to spell out love confessions."'

Your heart stumbles. 'Dating?'

'Well,' her borrowed shirt slips further, showing more shoulder. 'I mean, you did just write my name in stars.'

'They're Christmas lights.'

'Same difference.' Her fingers trail up your arm, careful of the bandage. 'Very romantic Christmas lights.'

'Does that mean—'

'It means anyone crazy enough to risk tetanus and Mr. Park's wrath deserves at least dinner.' A pause, then softer: 'Maybe breakfast too, if they play their cards right.'

'Just breakfast?'

'Don't push your luck.' But she's smiling that smile—the one that's always been just for you.

'Yujin-ah.'

'Mm?'

'All these years, did you ever—'

'Every day.' She doesn't let you finish. Doesn't need to. 'Every single day.'

'Can I—'

Her mouth finds yours: the way her lips part like flower petals at dawn, soft and inevitable. Her breath mingles with yours. There's the perfect arch of her spine, the way her breasts press warm against your chest through thin cotton, how her hips seek yours with an instinct older than thought. The taste of her, sweet milk tea and something darker, something that makes your blood sing. Her hands flutter at your neck, startled, before finding home in your hair, and there's that smell of her—woody, floral, fruity—that makes you dizzy, makes you forget where you end and she begins. Delicate sounds escape her, primal and pure, vibrating through both your bodies like a struck chord. Then she's pulling back, but her body stays honest—trembling, burning: alive with new knowledge.

'Sorry,' she whispers. 'Got carried away. We should probably wait until your wound is healed.' Her smile is so reassuring, masking the softest disappointment that her eyes couldn't hide. 

But she was in luck.

Your fingers circle her wrist mid-fret, right as she's about to check your bandage for the seventh time. Her skin is cool against yours, pulse like a hummingbird.

'Stop fretting.'

'I'm not fretting.' But she's barely holding back a smile, eyes bright with something more than just lamplight. 'I'm calculating how many years Mr. Park's going to make you repaint his fence.'

'Already negotiated.' You tug her closer, feeling the way she pretends to resist. 'Two coats, both sides, and my firstborn child.'

'Bold of you to negotiate with children that don't exist.' She settles between your knees anyway, like she's found her way home.

'Yet.'

Her borrowed shirt—your shirt—slips further off one shoulder. 'You're impossible.'

'Impossible enough to steal every Christmas light in Dunsan-dong.'

'Borrow,' she corrects, fingers playing with your collar. 'We're calling it borrowing. Sounds less felonious.'

'Look who's being responsible.'

'Someone has to be.' But she's leaning closer, breath warm against your mouth. 'Since you've apparently lost your mind.'

'Lost it years ago.' Your thumb traces her lower lip. 'Right around the time you started wearing my clothes.'

She makes this sound—half laugh, half something else entirely. 'Smooth talker.'

'Only for you.'

Her hands find your chest, but there's no real resistance in it. 'If you tear those stitches—'

The kiss swallows her warning. This one's different—deeper, like you're trying to taste every year you've waited. She makes a sound that turns your blood to starlight, fingers curling into your shirt like she's afraid you'll disappear.

'That's cheating,' she whispers when you break apart.

'Is it working?'

The lamp catches gold in her eyes. 'Always will.'

Your hand finds skin at the small of her back. She arches like a cat stretching into sunlight.

'You're staring.'

'Can't help it.'

'Try.'

'Make me.'

She kisses you this time—soft, sweet, dangerous. When she pulls back, her smile could outshine every stolen light in the neighborhood.

'We should probably—' she starts.

'Probably.'

Her fingers find the hem of her shirt. Your shirt. Details.

What follows is an exercise in creative problem-solving. One functional arm between you, too much cotton, not enough coordination. Her hair gets caught. You both laugh. The shirt wins the first round.

'Left,' she instructs.

'My left or your left?'

'Wait—here… I got it.'

The second attempt goes better. The shirt surrenders its hold, and suddenly there's just Yujin—all golden skin and starlight. Her bra's simple beige cotton, but the way it holds her could make Michaelangelo weep.

'You're staring again.'

'Still can't help it.'

She kisses you quiet, hands on your shoulders, pulling you closer. Everything soft and warm and perfect.

'Can I—' your fingers find her back, trace lace.

'Yes.' Another kiss. 'Please.'

The bra falls away like a secret finally told. You forget how words work.

The air hums with the weight of revelation—her body an altar, every contour a psalm. Your breath tangles as you drink her in: the bronze aureoles, the arch of her ribs like a vaulted sanctuary, the pulse fluttering at her throat like a caged sparrow. She shivers beneath your gaze: the raw vulnerability of a soul laid bare.

Your palms ascend her sides, mapping the smoothness, the glory of it all—each sigh, each hitch of muscle, a dialect you ache to memorize. She tips her head back as your thumbs brush the underswell of her breasts, a whimper dissolving. ‘More,’ she murmurs, not a demand but a prayer, a beg; her fingers knotting in your hair as if you might slip away like smoke.

You oblige, slow as honey, mouth tracing the salt-sweet hollow of her collarbone. Her skin blooms beneath your lips—petal-soft, fever-warm—as you chart a path lower, lower, until her nipple grazes your tongue. She gasps, back arching. Her hands clutch at you, anchor and plea, as you worship her with unhurried devotion, savoring each tremor, each stuttered breath.

When her legs part—a silent invitation—it’s your turn to shudder. The heat of her radiates through the last fragile barrier, a molten promise. You press closer, the rigid heat of your unclothed shaft straining against her thigh, a visceral counterpoint to her softness. She rolls her hips, deliberate, and you groan as her warmth grinds against you, friction sparking like flint.

You linger there, foreheads pressed, breaths mingling, the world narrowed to the space between heartbeats. Her eyes lock with yours, galaxies swirling in their depths. ‘I want to feel you,’ she whispers, voice trembling. ‘All of you.’

You move as tides do: inevitable, reverent. Her thighs cradle your hips as you guide yourself to her entrance, the head of your shaft slick with Her. The first breach is a shared gasp—a threshold crossed in tandem. She tightens around you, velvet heat clenching like a fist around your length, and you still, trembling, sweat-slicked and spellbound. Her nails score your shoulders, anchoring you to the agony of slowness.

‘Slowly,’ she breathes, and you obey, each fractional advance a pilgrimage. Her fingers trace your jaw, your lips, as if memorizing the shape of this moment. When you’re sheathed fully, time suspends. Her lashes flutter closed, a tear escaping as she whispers, 'Yes.'

You move in thrusts. Her sighs crest into whimpers, into chants of your name, each syllable a spark in the gathering storm. Her breasts sway with the rhythm, nipples brushing your chest, while your hands grip the flare of her hips, guiding her into the tide. Around you, the room dissolves: there is only her skin, her scent, the liquid pull of her around your shaft—a mosaic of need and nectar, each fragment a revelation.

You kiss her deeply, tasting the salt of her surrender, as the world fractures, reforms, and fractures again.

—

Sheets tangled like an afterthought. A leg hooked over yours, pinning you in place with the quiet authority of someone who has long since decided where they belong. The desk fan ticks through its slow, mechanical arc, stirring the air, stirring her hair, making it brush your chin in the softest, smallest way possible.

She shifts, just enough for her ribs to press against yours. You feel her breathing. Deep. Slow. Listening.

‘I have an audition next week,’ she says, voice barely above a whisper.

‘For what?’

‘Community theater. Spring show.’ A pause. Then, quietly, ‘It’s dumb.’

‘You don’t do dumb things.’

She laughs. A real one. The kind that scrunches her nose a little, that makes her shoulders shake just enough to jostle you.

‘Except this,’ she murmurs. Her fingers trace slow circles on your chest.

‘This was a strategic decision.’

‘Oh?’

‘Carefully calculated.’

She laughs again, softer this time. Her breath is warm where it spills against your collarbone. You could live here. Right here, in the space between her voice and her warmth and the way her hair tickles your skin.

She props herself up on one elbow, looking down at you. The Christmas lights outside flicker purples and blues across her face, her skin, making her look like something caught between a dream and waking. Her smile is quiet. Not big, not blinding. Just there. Something she’s forgotten to hide.

‘Hey,’ she says.

‘Hey.’

Her fingers tap lightly against your chest. ‘Remember when you proposed to me behind the school?’

‘Which time.’

She grins. ‘The time I lost the play to Wonyoung and cried so hard I got a nosebleed.’

‘Ah. I told you it didn’t matter because you’d always be the lead in my story.’

She groans, dropping her forehead to your shoulder. ‘You were so corny.’

‘Still am.’

‘Yeah,’ she murmurs. ‘You are.’

You feel her smile against your skin.

The fan clicks on again, stirring the night, the space between you. The crickets outside hum in harmony with the distant sound of a train—faint, but there. The whole world is slowing down. Breathing with you.

She shifts again, nestles closer. Her lips brush your skin—your collarbone, then just above your heart.

‘I can hear you thinking,’ you say.

She sighs, slow and steady. ‘Just… happy.’

You don’t say anything. Just hold her tighter. Like keeping her close might keep the moment from slipping away.

She pulls back, just far enough to see you, really see you. Her hair is a mess. Her lips are still swollen. The Christmas lights turn her eyes into something impossible, something endless.

‘I love you, you know,’ she says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like she’s never known anything else.

You smile. ‘I know.’

She kisses you. Slow, deep, soft. Like a secret. Like an answer.

The fan ticks. The lights flicker. The night stretches on.

—

It was supposed to be small. A local theater gig, a footnote in her life story. Something that kept her busy while she figured out the rest. That was the plan.

Then a casting director walked into the wrong show on the right night. A single scene, a single line delivered with the kind of weight that makes people stop chewing their popcorn. Two weeks later, she’s everywhere.

At first, it’s just murmurs. Articles in the culture section. Buzzwords like promising, raw talent, the next big thing. Then the billboards go up. Magazines with her face—half-laughing, half-serious, eyes catching the camera like they know something you don’t. The first time you see one, it’s plastered on the side of a bus stop you used to share, back when the only lines she rehearsed were whispered promises and badly sung pop songs.

Now she’s too big for Dunsan-dong.

Not just big. Seismic.

Korea’s sweetheart, the industry's new obsession. Agencies circle like sharks with briefcases, smiling through teeth polished for negotiation. They offer her everything—money, sponsorships, a life where she doesn’t have to wait for the subway or count change at convenience stores. And she takes it, not because she’s greedy, but because this is what she was always meant to be.

You watch it happen the way people watch slow-motion car crashes. Helpless. Horrified. A little bit in awe.

Because here’s the thing they never warn you about when you love someone who's destined for greatness: fame isn’t a door. It’s a chasm. You can’t walk through it holding hands.

At first, you convince yourself nothing’s changed. You still talk, still text. But her replies come slower, her voice more rehearsed. The calls happen between set breaks, her voice filtered through exhaustion and bad reception.

Then the interviews start. The talk shows. The press tours.

She gets good at the answers, the little smiles, the artful dodges. The first time someone asks if she’s dating anyone, she hesitates. Just for a second. Just long enough for the internet to notice.

You tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything. That she’s protecting you. That this is just part of the machine.

But a few weeks later, you see a headline:

‘The Nation’s New Star: Who is Yujin’s Mystery First Love?’

And for the first time, it hits you—really hits you—how easy it is to be rewritten.

The tabloids build their own history, constructing boyfriends from old classmates, exes from co-stars. They don’t name you. They don’t have to. Because in the world they’ve built, you don’t exist.

And maybe, you start to think, maybe you never did.

Maybe love isn’t enough when it’s up against the weight of the world. Maybe you were naive to think you could be something more than a footnote in her legend.

Maybe you were never really two. Maybe it was always just her.

Moving forward. Rising higher.

And you—

You’re just the idiot standing still, watching her disappear into the stars.

—

Yujin called you up.

The night was cutting: cold, unrelenting Snow blew sideways, a thousand tiny knives catching on your exposed skin, but you sat there anyway—legs crossed, hands in your lap, all polite.

The bench was old, paint curling at the edges, the kind of place people only sat when they had no better options. You smiled at the irony.

You’d met Yujin in worse places. Loved her in worse places.

And maybe, just maybe, lost her in worse places too.

Then she emerged from the fog, a silhouette first, then a shape, then a person.

Five benches away. Maybe six. Distance had become an abstract concept, like time, like certainty, like the idea that love—real love—was enough to hold the weight of the whole goddamn world.

She didn’t sit. Didn’t hesitate.

‘Let’s break up.’

The words didn’t belong to the girl who used to steal fries from your plate, who used to call you at 2 AM because she saw a cat in the street and thought you needed to know. They belonged to someone else. Someone who had spent hours, maybe days, rehearsing.

Her voice was final. Her eyes were final. Everything about her, from the way she stood to the way the wind refused to touch her, was final.

You should’ve said something.

Anything.

But the air left your lungs in one sharp exhale, stolen by the weight of three syllables arranged in an execution sentence.

The snow caught in her hair, in her lashes, in the hollow curve of her collarbone, and she looked—god, she looked—like something from a dream you had once, the kind you woke from gasping, reaching for someone who wasn’t there.

And then she wasn’t.

She turned. Walked away. Snow swallowed her whole.

You could’ve chased her. Could’ve fallen to your knees, begged, pleaded, made a scene, made a fool of yourself. Could’ve grabbed her wrist, reminded her that you were not just some chapter to be closed. Could’ve thrown every memory, every quiet moment, every touch, every whispered I love you in her face like proof of something sacred.

But you didn’t.

Because Yujin never spoke like this. Not unless she meant it.

And that’s what gutted you most.

You sat there long after she was gone, staring at the place she used to be, like if you looked hard enough, you could rewind time, unbreak whatever fragile thing had finally snapped between you.

The sky stretched empty above you, stars sharp against the ink. You tried counting them. Tried counting anything to stop counting the ways you’d just lost her.

One star. Two. One mistake. Two. Three years. Four. Five benches away.

Maybe six. The wind howled, and you let it.

—

The beer’s flat, but that’s not why it tastes bad.

You lean against the bar, watching foam dissolve into something thin and lifeless, the way good things always do. Three years distilled into neon lights and a tab you don’t remember opening.

She’s 24 now. You keep count because she was impossible to avoid—billboards, subway ads, every damn screen flashing her face like she owns the world. And maybe she does. The brightest star, the nation’s darling, the girl who left and became.

You should be proud. You tell yourself you are.

But pride doesn’t feel like this. Doesn’t sit heavy in your ribs like grief. Doesn’t twist like a blade when you flip through channels and land on her.

The latest drama. Friends-to-lovers, some rom-com fluff. A special kind of hell, watching her fall for someone else, even if it’s scripted.

And the kiss—god, the kiss.

Over and over. Different angles, different takes. The guy has trepid shoulders and a weaker mouth. You want to reach through the screen, grab him by his stupid collar, shake him until he understands: You don’t get to kiss Yujin like that unless you mean it.

The beer in your hand swirls, a storm in a pint glass. You watch it spin, thinking about how everything these days seems determined to drown you.

Then Roach walks in.

Roach—half philosopher, half walking disaster. A man with too many past lives and a prosthetic eye that glows faintly under bar light, making him look part machine, part ghost.

‘That recovery group, they’re solid,’ he says, by way of hello. His voice is like chewing on gravel. ‘Might’ve been able to quit if I stuck around.’ ‘4.8 stars on Google, right?’ ‘Right. Wait. How’d you know that?’ His synthetic eye sits there while the real one narrows. ‘Been there.’ ‘What?’ ‘Been there. You recommended it.’ Roach laughs, short and sharp. ‘That was the review forum.’ ‘Memory’s fuzzy.’ ‘Fuzzy? You’re getting soft.’ ‘All those reviews read like discount novels, Roach.’ ‘Why the hell would I write reviews?’ ‘Same reason you do anything—to feel something.’ He smacks your chest, hard enough to make you look up. ‘Yujin broke you. Plain as day.’ Your throat tightens. The name alone feels like a switchblade. ‘It’s not like that… anymore.’ ‘Sure looks like it.’ ‘How’s that?’ ‘You’re on the leaderboard in this bar. They’re bleeding you dry, and you’re letting them.’ You don’t argue. Just take another sip. ‘Don’t deserve this money anyway.’ ‘Then give it elsewhere. There’s an orphanage across the street.’ ‘Don’t play saint with me.’ ‘It’s just a block away.’ ‘Fuck off.’ ‘Just a block—’ ‘Fine.’ You press your glass against the table, like the condensation might hold you steady. ‘I’ll think about it.’ Roach grins like he’s won something. ‘Ever watch her show?’ he asks, tilting his flask toward you. You hesitate. ‘Not really.’ ‘Bullshit. Saw you yesterday. That rain scene.’ Your grip tightens around the glass. The rain scene. You were there. Back when “we” still meant something. Holding her coat between takes, watching her shiver between scripted heartbreaks. ‘She always cried pretty,’ you murmur. ‘Even back then.’ Roach nods, takes a sip. ‘Tell me about it.’ You do. You don’t mean to, but you do. ‘Nothing to tell,’ you start. ‘I was nobody. She was becoming somebody. Simple math.’ ‘That’s not what I heard.’ ‘Yeah? What’d you hear?’ ‘That you proposed. Night before Seoul.’ The beer sours in your mouth. ‘Who told you that?’ ‘Does it matter? True though, isn’t it?’ You let out something that’s supposed to be a laugh. ‘Got the ring from my grandmother. Vintage Tiffany, art deco. Yujin loved vintage.’ ‘And?’ ‘And she cried. Not the pretty kind.’ You see it now, clear as the night it happened—her shaking hands, the way she pressed the box back into yours like it burned. ‘Said she couldn’t. Said she wasn't ready. I guess that was the foreshadowing: she broke up with me just a week later.’ ‘A choice between you and fame?’ ‘Between real life and the life she’d dreamed of since she was six. No contest, really.’ Roach doesn’t speak for a while. Just stares at the bar like it’s holding the right words. ‘Where’s the ring now?’ You smirk, but it tastes like blood. ‘Pawned it. Bought a week of blackout drunk and a ticket anywhere else.’ Roach exhales, long and low. His eyes flick to your watch, but nothing gold can compare to what you lost. ‘And here you are.’ ‘Here I am.’ Bass pulses through the walls, someone screams about love on the dance floor, and the bartender slides another drink toward you like it might fix anything. Roach downs the rest of his flask, claps a hand on your shoulder. ‘Well. Good luck with that. Got a missus waiting. Let me know when you find one.’ You don’t look at him. ‘We might never speak again.’ ‘Doubt that.’ A pat on the back, one final grin. Then he’s gone. You scoff. If ever. And you leave.

—

Seoul in summer is a thing that sticks. To your skin, to your thoughts, to the spaces between breath. Heat rises off the pavement, thick and wet, settling in your lungs like something permanent.

The city is wide awake, but softer at this hour. Convenience store fluorescents hover in the humidity, blurring edges. Subway vents exhale something metallic, ghostly. The crickets don’t know they live in a city. They just keep singing.

You walk. Not home, not anywhere. Just walking, because it’s better than stopping.

Stopping means remembering.

Every street corner holds a version of her. The Yujin who stole fries off your plate, who could sleep through a fireworks show, who once convinced you that every ice cream cone tasted better if it was half-melted. She’s there, tucked into flickering billboards, frozen mid-laugh on subway ads, threaded between the chords of songs you don’t mean to hear.

You take the long way. Five, six corners. Maybe more.

Then the bus stop appears.

Half-forgotten. Almost overgrown. A bench with its paint peeling like old skin, weeds curling around the edges like they might swallow it whole.

You sit. Elbows on knees. Hands folded. Thinking. Not thinking.

The streetlight buzzes. The air is thick with waiting.

Then—

A shadow falls across your feet.

A shift in pressure. Not wind, just something. The moment before a storm, before impact, before memory collides with the present and makes a mess of everything.

‘What are you doing here?’ Soft. Not a blade, not a wound. Just a question that lands like an old habit.

You don’t need to look. But you do. Because some habits don’t break.

Yujin stands there, framed by sodium light, hands tucked into the pockets of a hoodie that looks too soft to exist. No cameras. No entourage. Just her.

And god—just her is enough to knock the breath out of your chest.

‘Hiding?’ Soft. Like the question isn’t a question, just something to fill the space between heartbeats.

You don’t look up right away. You know the shape of her. You’ve spent years knowing it. The way she stands, weight slightly to one side. The way her voice lands, gentle, edged with something only you ever got to hear.

But you look anyway. Because it’s her. And some rules of the universe don’t change.

Yujin.

Not the Yujin on billboards, the Yujin on magazine covers, the Yujin who belongs to a nation that adores her.

Just Yujin.

Hair a little messy. Hoodie swallowing her frame. Hands tucked into the sleeves like she’s bracing against a cold that doesn’t exist.

And—god. Her eyes. Still warm. Still familiar. Still Dunsan-dong in their quiet, endless way.

She tilts her head. Smiles. The kind of smile that makes you feel seventeen again, like you just said something stupid and brilliant in the same breath.

‘Hiding?’ she repeats, softer this time.

‘Hiding implies I have something to hide from.’

‘And do you?’

A pause. Then—

‘Maybe.’

A hum. A small shift in weight. Then she sits. Just like that. No asking, no hesitation. Just sits, close enough that her knee brushes yours, like muscle memory, like the past hasn’t completely given up on you yet.

The air smells like street food, like summer. Somewhere, a neon sign hums its last flickers before shutting off for the night.

She bumps her shoulder against yours.

‘Missed you, you know.’

You turn your head. Blink. She’s watching you, like the sentence wasn’t a trap, wasn’t something heavy. Just… true.

You swallow.

‘Yeah?’

She nods, pulling her sleeves over her hands. ‘Yeah.’

The night stretches. Not awkward. Not tight with something unspoken. Just easy. Just… there.

‘How’s life?’ she asks.

‘Oh, you know. Full of bad choices.’

‘Any good ones?’

‘Still deciding.’

She breathes out a laugh, soft.

You glance at her, at the curve of her nose, the way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear like she’s done since she was a kid.

‘You look…’ she starts, then tilts her head.

‘What?’

‘The same.’

You huff a laugh. ‘That’s a lie.’

‘No.’ She nudges your knee again. ‘You’re just… still you.’

And it’s so simple, the way she says it. So casual, like she hasn’t just pulled the breath from your lungs.

You don’t answer. Not yet.

She leans in slightly.

‘Still drink too much coffee?’

‘Still sleep through earthquakes?’

Her grin widens. ‘Still remember that?’

‘Some things don’t change.’

‘Some do.’

A small shift. A glance. A fraction closer.

And the city moves around you, oblivious.

But you?

You stay still.

You stay here.

Yujin sighs, long and soft, tilting her head back, watching the streetlight cast flickering halos through the humidity.

‘Seoul’s different at night,’ she murmurs. ‘Seoul’s different all the time.’

She hums, half in agreement, half just because she likes the sound. You forgot about that—the way she used to make tiny noises when she was thinking, little musical notes that filled in the gaps between words.

‘Feels slower now,’ she says. ‘That’s just you.’ She turns to you, eyes warm. ‘Yeah?’ You nod. ‘Everything moves too fast for you these days. You forgot what slow feels like.’ A small smile. ‘Remind me?’ Something tightens in your chest. She doesn’t mean it like that. Doesn’t mean it like anything more than what it is—a quiet moment, a quiet ask. But still. You shift, leaning back against the bench, stretching your arms across the top like you own the night. Like it doesn’t own you. ‘Alright,’ you say. ‘Lesson one: sitting still.’ She huffs a laugh but follows your lead, sinking deeper into the wood, legs stretching out. Her foot knocks against yours. ‘Like this?’ ‘Yeah.’ A beat. ‘And then what?’ ‘Nothing.’ She raises a brow. ‘That’s it?’ ‘That’s it.’ She exhales, slow and thoughtful. ‘You always made things feel easy,’ she says, voice quiet, like she’s afraid of disrupting the moment. You glance at her, and she’s not looking at you—just at the night, at the city, at something only she can see. ‘Not sure that’s true,’ you admit. ‘No, it is.’ She pulls her sleeves over her hands again, eyes flicking toward you. ‘You made me feel easy. Like… breathing.’ Something inside you curls at the edges. ‘Yujin—’ ‘It’s okay.’ She shakes her head, soft, smiling like she’s telling you not to carry it too heavily. ‘I’m just remembering.’ The city hums around you both. A distant motorbike rumbles past. Somewhere, an old radio plays a song you half recognize. You look at her again. Hair slightly mussed. Eyes bright, soft, familiar. Like she was never gone at all. She shifts, tucking one leg under the other, hands still hidden in her sleeves.

‘You ever think about calling?’ Her voice is light. Not demanding. Not accusing. Just... wondering. You let out a slow breath. ‘You ever think about picking up?’ A small laugh, exhale-soft. ‘Yeah.’ You glance at her, and she’s already looking at you, chin propped against her knee, smile barely-there but real. ‘But I figured you needed time,’ she says. You swallow. ‘Did I?’ Her fingers twitch against the fabric of her hoodie. ‘I don’t know. Maybe I just told myself that so I wouldn’t call.’ The honesty knocks something loose in your chest. You don’t say anything for a moment. The city moves around you both, neon humming against the wet pavement, the smell of night air thick with too many things. Then, quietly— ‘Three years is a long time, Yujin.’ ‘I know.’

She shifts, slow, careful, like she’s turning over a fragile thought in her hands. ‘But I never wanted it to be forever.’ Your throat tightens. You want to ask her then why did you leave like it was? But you don’t. Because you already know the answer. Because she was always meant for something bigger. Because she was scared, because you were scared, because maybe—just maybe—back then, love wasn’t enough to hold everything steady.

Instead, you say, ‘You look good, you know.’ Her lips curve, soft. ‘You do too.’ You scoff, tipping your head back against the bench. ‘Liar.’ ‘I never lied to you.’ That shuts you up. For a moment, you let it sink in. The weight of her voice, the way she says it like it’s a fact, like it’s something you should’ve never doubted. Then, softer— ‘You really never called?’ she asks. ‘I really never called.’ She doesn’t look away. ‘Why?’ You inhale. Let the air sit heavy in your lungs. ‘Because I thought you’d be better off without me.’ The words land, quiet and unpolished. Yujin blinks. Then— ‘You idiot.’ And then she’s moving, shifting closer, her fingers finding your sleeve, gripping just slightly, just enough for you to feel her there, to feel her warmth against the fabric. ‘Do you know how many times I almost showed up at your door?’ she says, voice soft but steady. ‘How many times I wanted to tell you that I was still here? That I—’ She stops. Exhales. Looks away, looks back. ‘That I missed you?’ You swallow. She’s close now. Not quite touching, but nearly. The air between you charged, something slow, something waiting. Your heart does something complicated in your chest. ‘You missed me?’ you murmur. Yujin smiles, small, fond. ‘Of course, you idiot.’ The city hums. The night exhales. And you— You don’t move away. Yujin stays close. Close enough for you to count her breaths, to feel the warmth of her body radiating through the space between you. You should say something. You should do something. Instead, you just sit there. And Yujin—Yujin lets you.

Her fingers stay curled into your sleeve, loose but certain. Like she’s testing gravity, checking to see if you’ll stay, if you’ll shift, if you’ll remind her that you’re real. She tilts her head, watching you the way she used to—like she’s memorizing you, like she’s trying to fit you back into the version of her life where you were always supposed to be. And maybe she is. Maybe she’s wondering how you look the same but feel different. Maybe she’s cataloging the way your shoulders have set a little heavier, the way your mouth curves in thought before you speak. Or maybe she’s just looking. Like she never stopped. ‘So,’ she says, voice light, careful. ‘What now?’ A question too big for this moment. A question you can’t answer, not yet. So you do what you always do. You deflect. You lean back, arms stretching across the top of the bench, looking at her out of the corner of your eye. ‘Shouldn’t I be asking you that?’ She lifts a brow. ‘You were always the planner.’ She snorts. ‘Hardly.’ ‘Oh? I seem to remember someone who had color-coded schedules for summer break.’ ‘That was one summer.’

‘Still counts.’ She exhales a laugh, tipping her head back against the bench, looking up at the sky. ‘Okay, fine. Maybe I was a little obsessed with plans.’ ‘A little?’

She shoots you a look, but it’s all warmth. All familiarity. ‘You liked it,’ she says. ‘It was efficient. It was cute.’

You hesitate. Just slightly. But she catches it. Of course she does. Her smile softens.

‘You can say it, you know.’ You tilt your head, pretending to be confused. ‘Say what?’ ‘That you missed me too.’

Something about the way she says it makes your stomach pull tight. Not teasing. Not fishing. Just true. You turn back to the street, watching the way the neon catches in the puddles, turning them into something like galaxies.

‘You already know.’ Yujin hums. ‘I want to hear it anyway.’ You exhale.

Three years of distance. Three years of silence. Three years of trying to unwrite the part of your life where she belonged.

‘Yeah,’ you say, voice quiet. ‘I missed you.’

Yujin doesn’t say anything right away. Then—

Her hand slides fully into your sleeve, warm against your wrist. A small thing. A quiet thing. But it’s enough.

‘Good,’ she murmurs.

You sit there like that for a while. Neither of you moving. Neither of you pulling away. And for the first time in years—

The silence between you doesn’t feel like an ending. It feels like a beginning.

Her hand stays there. Not gripping. Not holding. Just resting, warm against your wrist, like it belongs there. Like it never left.

You let out a slow breath. Three years. Three whole years. And somehow, this—her, the quiet press of her skin against yours, the way she’s just here—feels so natural it makes your ribs ache.

‘What are we doing, Yujin?’

Soft. Not accusing. Just—just needing to know if she feels it too, if this night is supposed to mean what you think it does.

She tilts her head, slow. Her hair slips over her shoulder, catching the streetlight in its strands. ‘Talking?’

A small, careful smile.

You huff. ‘Is that what this is?’

She hums, shifts a little closer, foot knocking against yours. ‘I don’t know. Feels nice, though.’

Nice. Nice, like it isn’t everything. Nice, like you aren’t suddenly breathing her in again, like your body hasn’t been on high alert since the moment she walked into your orbit tonight.

You roll your wrist slightly, just enough so that your fingers brush hers. She doesn’t pull away.

The city hums. The night exhales. And then—

‘Do you want to go for a walk?’ she asks.

It’s an easy question. A simple one. But something about it knots itself into your chest, makes your throat tight. Because that’s always how it was with her. Yujin never asked for big things. Just small ones, one after another, adding up to something impossible to resist.

Do you want to get ice cream? Do you want to climb onto the roof? Do you want to watch the rain with me? Do you want to stay?

And you had always said yes.

You glance at her now, at the way she’s watching you, hopeful but not pushing, patient in the way only she could ever be. A walk. A moment. A step toward something you don’t quite know how to name.

You exhale, slow. Then you stand.

‘Lead the way.’

Her smile—god. Her smile.

She slips her hand fully into yours, easy, thoughtless, like muscle memory. Like no time has passed at all.

And you— You let her.

The street hums around you, the last traces of night shifting toward something softer. The vendors have mostly packed up, but the scent of grilled meat and frying oil still lingers, floating warm through the thick summer air.

Yujin’s hand stays in yours. Not tight. Not hesitant. Just there. Like it was always meant to be.

You walk without direction. Just moving, side by side, the way you used to. Her footsteps match yours easily, a quiet sync neither of you planned.

‘Where are we going?’ you ask, voice low.

‘Nowhere,’ she says.

It makes you smile.

A few years ago, that answer would have annoyed her. Yujin, the girl with color-coded schedules, with plans so detailed they might as well have been carved into stone. But now she just says it like it’s enough. Like it’s the whole point.

She swings your hands slightly, absentminded. ‘You always walked like this,’ she murmurs.

‘Like what?’

She shrugs. ‘Like the city doesn’t own you.’

You breathe in, slow. The neon of old convenience stores, the occasional flickering of a streetlamp. ‘I guess I never let it.’

She hums. ‘I did.’

You glance at her. ‘Yujin—’

‘It’s okay,’ she cuts in, smiling. ‘I wanted to. I just—’ She exhales, presses her lips together for a moment, then shakes her head. ‘I forgot how good it feels to walk like this. Without thinking.’

You squeeze her hand just slightly.

She notices. Her thumb brushes the edge of your palm. Not an accident. Not a mistake.

The city stretches ahead of you, quiet. ‘You ever think about coming back?’ you ask.

She doesn’t answer right away. Her fingers tighten around yours, just a little.

‘I used to dream about it,’ she says, voice softer now. ‘I’d wake up thinking I was still in Dunsan-dong. That I’d step outside and find you waiting, like always.’

Your throat goes tight. She turns her head, studies your face in the flickering light.

‘But I was scared,’ she says, gentle. ‘What if you were different? What if I was?’

You don’t look away. ‘And now?’

A breath. A small, small smile. ‘I think I was scared of the wrong thing.’

Your heart stumbles.

She slows, pulling you toward the edge of the sidewalk, toward a tiny park that barely qualifies as a park—a patch of grass, a few trees. The kind of place nobody notices. She stops. Turns to face you.

You should say something. You should say everything.

But she beats you to it.

‘You were always the best part of my life,’ she says, voice steady, firm, like she’s decided something for herself.

Your pulse jumps. ‘Yujin—’

‘I just needed you to know that.’

She’s looking at you like she’s bracing for impact. Like she’s not sure what you’ll do with this thing she’s handing you.

So you take it. Carefully, quietly, the way she deserves.

You lift your hand—the one she’s not holding—and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Her breath catches.

‘Yeah?’ you murmur.

She nods.

And then, softer—

‘I think you were always mine.’

You don’t know who moves first. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Because the next thing you know, her hands are on your face, and your mouth is against hers, and the whole city dissolves around you.

She tastes like everything you remember. Like fine tea and something sweeter, something that was always just hers. She presses closer, hands slipping down to your collar, holding you there like you might disappear.

You won’t. Not this time.

When you pull back, she’s breathing fast, forehead resting against yours. You smile.

‘Still walk like the city doesn’t own me?’ you murmur.

She laughs, breathless, and pulls you back in.

Yujin kisses like a memory you never let go of. Like muscle memory, like breathing. Like the space between your ribs was always meant to make room for her.

She pulls back, just enough for her nose to brush yours. Her breath is warm, uneven. Her hands are still curled into the collar of your shirt, holding, gripping, keeping.

You open your eyes. She’s already looking at you.

Not like the girl on the billboards, not like the actress on screen. Just Yujin. Soft, real, right here.

Her lips are pink and kiss-bitten. She blinks slowly, dazed, like she’s trying to piece together what just happened. And then—

Then she laughs.

Not a big laugh. Not loud. Just this tiny, incredulous little sound. Like she can’t believe it. Like she can’t believe you.

‘What?’ you murmur.

She shakes her head, smiling, fingers still resting against your collar. ‘I don’t know.’

‘That’s a first.’

She huffs. ‘Shut up.’

‘Make me.’

A flicker of something in her eyes. Amusement. Mischief. Something else.

She tilts her head, considering. Then, in one slow movement, she leans in—

Not kissing you, not quite. Just close enough that her lips barely graze yours. Close enough that you can feel her smile.

‘Tempting,’ she murmurs.

Your heart stumbles.

But then she pulls away, slipping her fingers from your shirt, stepping back onto the sidewalk, like she’s giving you space to breathe.

You don’t need it. But you let her.

The city hums around you, the distant rumble of a car engine, the occasional flicker of neon against damp pavement.

You watch as Yujin tilts her head toward the sky, stretching her arms out, exhaling like she’s just remembered how.

‘I forgot what this feels like,’ she admits.

‘What?’

‘Not thinking.’ She lets her hands drop to her sides, flexing her fingers. ‘Not planning every second of my life in advance. Just… being.’

You shift, watching her.

‘I don’t think I’ve done that in years,’ she says.

A pause. Then, softly—

‘Stay with me.’

Your heart does something complicated in your chest.

She looks over, a little hesitant now, like she’s not sure how the words sound out loud.

‘I mean—’ she starts, but you shake your head.

‘Okay.’

Her lips part slightly.

Like she expected you to hesitate. Like she thought she’d have to convince you.

You step closer. Just enough that the space between you disappears again.

‘Okay?’ she echoes.

You nod.

Then, quieter—‘Anywhere.’

Yujin’s face softens.

And god, it’s so easy, the way she looks at you. Like you are something known. Like she is something understood.

She lets out a small, breathy laugh, reaching up to brush her thumb against the corner of your mouth.

‘You’re so stupid,’ she murmurs.

‘You love it.’

‘Yeah,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘Yeah, I do.’

She slips her hand back into yours, fingers threading together like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like she never left. Like you never let her.

And the city stretches ahead, wide open, waiting.

You should take a taxi. That would be the smart thing. A quiet, unremarkable way to disappear from the city before someone notices Korea’s brightest star walking hand-in-hand with someone who isn’t famous, isn’t scripted, isn’t anything but hers.

But Yujin shakes her head.

‘Not yet,’ she says.

So you walk.

She keeps close, hood pulled low, fingers curled into yours. The streets are thinning out, the city exhaling into its quieter hours. The air smells like fried oil and pavement, the ghosts of dinner service still hanging in the air.

She bumps into you once, then twice.

‘Are you always this bad at walking?’ you ask.

She grins, breathless. ‘I think I forgot how to do it with company.’

Company. Company.

You’re not sure if you’re relieved of that; that she was too busy to even meander through lazy lovers.

You squeeze her hand. She squeezes back.

Your place isn’t far, but when you reach it—when Yujin stops at the entrance, tilting her head back to take it all in—something shifts.

‘Huh.’

That’s all she says.

You fight a smirk. ‘Huh?’

She makes a small noise, arms crossed, like she’s trying not to look impressed.

‘You kept acting like you lived in a shoebox.’

You raise a brow. ‘Did I?’

‘Yeah.’ She gestures vaguely to the high-rise, the massive glass windows catching the city lights. ‘I was expecting something small. Modest. Maybe a bachelor pad with an ugly couch and a tragic little coffee table.’

You scoff. ‘What do you take me for?’

‘A very humble man, apparently.’

You shake your head, leading her inside.

The elevator is empty. Too bright. Too quiet.

She rocks on her heels. ‘So, do I get the grand tour?’

‘I don’t know,’ you say, pretending to think. ‘You might not be able to handle it. Very overwhelming.’

She elbows you in the side, laughing. ‘Shut up.’

The doors slide open.

She steps out first, into the hallway, waiting while you fish your keys from your pocket.

She glances over. ‘I still can’t believe you live here.’

‘Why?’

She shrugs. ‘It’s just weird.’

‘Weird how?’

She scrunches her nose, like she doesn’t quite know how to explain it. ‘I don’t know. You just never cared about stuff like this.’

You unlock the door.

She steps inside.

And immediately—

‘Oh my god.’

You roll your eyes, shutting the door behind you. ‘What now?’

She turns in a slow circle, taking everything in. The high ceilings, the floor-to-ceiling windows, the soft lighting that spills across the polished wood.

‘Are you kidding?’ she says, spinning toward you, mouth open in faux outrage. ‘This is beautiful.’

You snort. ‘What, you thought I was sleeping in a broom closet?’

‘Yes.’

‘Wow. Faith in me is strong, I see.’

She grins, moving toward the living room. ‘No, it’s just—’ She shakes her head, fingers brushing over the back of the sleek, perfectly chosen couch. ‘You were always so… comfortable with less. I figured, even if you had money, you’d still live like some struggling artist in a shoebox.’

You scoff, kicking off your shoes. ‘What does that even mean?’

‘Like, I don’t know, sleeping on a mattress on the floor. A single sad chair. Stacks of books everywhere.’

You raise a brow. ‘So your image of me is basically a broke philosophy major?’

She shrugs. ‘It suited you.’

You exhale a laugh.

‘But this,’ she gestures around again, ‘this is… grown-up.’

‘Was I not grown-up before?’

She grins. ‘No.’

‘Wow.’

‘But,’ she continues, stepping toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, where the city spills out in front of her like a living, breathing thing, ‘I like it. It feels like you.’

You pause.

Not expensive. Not fancy. Not over-the-top.

It feels like you.

You scratch the back of your neck, looking away.

‘Yeah?’

She nods. ‘Yeah.’

She turns back to the glass, resting her fingers lightly against the frame. ‘You can see the river from here.’

You step up beside her.

It’s a view you see every day, but somehow, with Yujin here, it looks different.

She breathes in. ‘It’s nice.’

You breathe her in.

‘Yeah,’ you murmur. ‘It is.’

She turns.

And then she kisses you.

Not careful. Not planned.

Just Yujin.

She tilts her head, presses up slightly on her toes, and meets your mouth with something warm, something easy.

It’s not perfect.

She misses, just slightly. Laughs into the kiss. Her hands fumble for your collar but find your wrist instead.

But god—

It’s real.

You breathe her in. Hold her waist. Feel her fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt like she’s trying to pull you closer, closer.

She hums against your lips, smiling.

You grin. ‘You missed.’

She exhales a laugh. ‘Shut up.’

‘Make me.’

She does.

The kisses are clumsy, messy, soft. The kind that happens when two people are trying to remember, trying to relearn each other in real-time.

She tugs at your shirt.

You trip over the edge of the couch.

She gasps.

You land in a heap, tangled together, breathless.

Silence.

Then—

She laughs.

Bright, full, head tipped back against your chest.

You groan, letting your head fall back against the cushions. ‘Unbelievable.’

She grins, shifting so she’s straddling your lap. ‘I don’t know, I think it’s fitting.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yeah.’ She leans in, pressing her forehead against yours. ‘Clumsy love suits us.’

Your breath catches.

Then, softer—

‘Yeah,’ you murmur. ‘It does.’

She cups your face, fingers warm against your jaw.

The city hums outside, unaware.

And you—

You stay here.

With her.

You don’t know who says it first.

Maybe her. Maybe you. Maybe neither of you—maybe it’s just implied, wrapped up in the way she’s still sitting in your lap, fingers absently tracing patterns over your collarbone, skin warm against yours.

But at some point, between the teasing and the breathless little ohs that slip between kisses, it just becomes a fact.

You’re both too warm.

Too sticky from the night air, from walking too long through humid Seoul streets, from the thick summer heat pressing against the glass of your windows.

‘Shower,’ she murmurs.

You’re not sure if it’s a request or a declaration, but either way—

‘Yeah,’ you say.

And then you’re moving.

Yujin laughs when you lift her off the couch, stumbling slightly as you navigate through the apartment. She doesn’t let go, arms slung loosely around your neck, breath warm against your ear.

‘Are you always this dramatic?’ she asks.

‘You love it.’

She hums, not denying it.

The bathroom is bright, too bright, the kind of brightness that makes everything feel a little more real than you’re prepared for. But Yujin doesn’t hesitate—just pulls her hoodie over her head, shakes her hair out, steps closer like she’s done this a thousand times.

Like she’s never left.

You watch as she turns toward the mirror, tilting her head slightly.

‘Haven’t been in a place like this in a while,’ she muses.

‘A bathroom?’

She snorts, shoving you lightly. ‘No, this kind of bathroom.’ She waves a hand vaguely, indicating the open shower, the marble walls, the soft lighting. ‘It’s fancy.’

You roll your eyes, reaching for the faucet. ‘You act like you don’t stay in five-star hotels every week.’

‘That’s different.’

‘How?’

She steps behind you, pressing her chin against your shoulder. ‘This feels like you.’

You don’t know what to say to that.

So you don’t say anything at all.

The water warms between your fingers, steam rising slowly.

Yujin hums, stepping forward, slipping her fingers under the hem of your shirt. ‘Come on.’

You don’t move.

She looks up, amused. ‘What, suddenly shy?’

You scoff, shaking your head, but your pulse jumps when her fingers skate lightly against your stomach.

She grins. ‘Cute.’

‘What is?’

‘Three years apart, and you’re still so you.’

You exhale a laugh, finally pulling your shirt over your head. She does the same, tossing her clothes into a messy pile, and then—

Then it’s just you and her, standing too close, bare skin meeting for the first time in what feels like forever.

Her breath catches.

You hear it. Feel it.

And god—

She’s so beautiful.

All golden skin and soft curves and the kind of warmth that could make the whole city feel like home.

She watches you, expectant, waiting.

You don’t make her wait long.

You reach for her—

And she lets you.

Lets you pull her in, lets you kiss her slow, deep, careful, like you’re memorizing her all over again.

She sighs into your mouth, hands trailing up your arms, curling into your hair.

‘Come on,’ she whispers.

And this time—

You listen.

The water is hot, almost too hot, but neither of you care.

Yujin steps under first, exhaling as the warmth rolls over her skin, tilting her head back so that her hair darkens, slick against her shoulders.

You’re distracted.

Too distracted.

Because—

Because she’s standing there, all bare skin and soft curves and Yujin, looking at you like she already knows exactly what you’re thinking.

‘Are you going to keep staring?’ she teases.

You swallow. ‘Maybe.’

She laughs, stepping forward, reaching for the shampoo.

You should move. Should help. Should do something.

But instead, you just—

Just watch.

The way she hums under her breath, the way she lathers the shampoo into her hair, fingers massaging small circles against her scalp.

You’re so lost in it, in her, that you don’t even realize she’s finished—

Until she suddenly turns, tilts her head, and smiles.

‘Come here.’

You don’t hesitate.

She tugs you forward, fingers threading through your hair, working shampoo into your scalp like it’s something sacred, something worth taking her time with.

And god—

God, you forgot how good this feels.

Forgot what it was like to just be, to just exist under someone’s hands, to let yourself be cared for in a way that doesn’t feel heavy, doesn’t feel like a transaction.

Her fingers move slowly, carefully, her nails scraping lightly against your skin.

You close your eyes.

Breathe.

Let yourself lean into it.

Let yourself lean into her.

And she—

She lets you.

She’s still rinsing when you reach for her.

‘What—’

You shush her, hands skimming up her sides, guiding her under the water’s warmth.

She lets you.

Lets you tilt her chin slightly, lets you press a kiss just below her ear, lets you work your fingers into her hair like she’s something holy.

Her breath catches.

You hear it, feel it, let it sink into your bones.

‘Close your eyes,’ you murmur.

She hesitates—just a fraction of a second—then obeys.

The water slides down her face, over her lips, down the elegant curve of her throat.

You watch, transfixed.

Then you move.

You reach for the shampoo, work it between your hands, and Yujin’s confused—’Again?’—but when your fingers find her scalp—

She melts.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen her this undone.

Head tilted slightly, mouth parted, body soft beneath your touch.

She hums, a small, quiet sound, like she’s just remembered something she’d long forgotten.

You barely breathe.

Just keep going, keep moving, keep tracing slow, deliberate circles, letting your fingers tangle through her hair like it’s something sacred.

Because it is.

Because she is.

Yujin, the girl who never stopped moving, who never let herself stop thinking, who planned every step of her life down to the last decimal—

She’s still now.

Still, and warm, and yours.

You rinse the shampoo carefully, letting the water do the work. Your fingers trail down, down, past her neck, past her shoulders, past the delicate slip of her collarbone.

She sighs.

Leans into you.

Lets herself fall.

And god—

You’ll catch her.

Every time.

You reach for the soap next, work it slowly over her back, over her arms, over every inch of her that you can touch.

She exhales, barely above a whisper.

‘Feels nice.’

You smile.

‘Good.’

You don’t rush.

Not when she’s like this. Not when she’s letting you do this, letting you love her with something as simple as this.

Your hands trail lower, down her spine, over the dip of her waist. She shifts slightly, breath hitching just a little.

You pause.

Press a kiss to her shoulder.

She shivers, but not from the cold.

‘This okay?’ you murmur.

Her fingers curl around your wrist, stopping you.

For a moment, you think she’s going to pull away—

But instead—

She guides your hand lower.

Presses it against the soft warmth of her stomach.

Holds it there.

She exhales, slow and deep. ‘Don’t stop.’ You don’t. God, you don’t. You let your hands move slowly, carefully, exploring her the way you’ve always wanted to—like she’s something to learn, something to understand. And Yujin— Yujin lets you.

She lets you wash away the last three years, lets you trace something new into her skin, lets you relearn every inch of her with soap and steam and careful, careful hands.

She turns in your arms, pressing her forehead against yours. The water slips between you, catching at the spaces where you don’t quite meet. She’s smiling. Soft. Sweet. Yours. You cup her face. She leans into it, eyes fluttering closed. For a long, long moment, neither of you move. You just stay. Right here. Right now. Like this. Like always. Then— She opens her eyes. And she kisses you.

The water trails down her spine in slow, careful rivers, catching in the dips of her back, rolling down the curve of her waist. You follow its path with your fingers, mapping her skin like something sacred, something known.

She doesn’t move. Just lets you touch. Lets you care.

You start with her back, palms gliding down the slope of her shoulders, the delicate stretch of muscle beneath warm, damp skin. Your thumbs press gently into the knots there, kneading, coaxing, working out tension she probably doesn’t even realize she’s holding.

She exhales, long and slow, tipping her head forward. ‘Mmm,’ she murmurs, voice thick with something close to sleep. ‘That feels good.’ You smile. Press your thumbs in a little deeper. Let your hands drift lower, following the curve of her spine, tracing each ridge, each shadow, each memory pressed into muscle. You smooth circles over her lower back, fingers pressing into the dimples there, trailing down— She shivers. Your hands pause. ‘Ticklish?’ you murmur.

She huffs a quiet laugh, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. ‘A little.’ You grin, but you don’t tease. Not now. Not when she’s letting you do this, letting you love her in the simplest, softest way. You reach for the soap, work it between your hands until it foams, and then— Then you really start. You start with her arms, sliding your palms over smooth, damp skin, tracing the delicate lines of muscle beneath. You lift her wrist, turning it over, running your fingers along the pulse point there. Her breath catches. You watch, mesmerized, as water beads along the inside of her forearm, trailing down to the soft bend of her elbow. ‘You’re so careful,’ she murmurs. You hum. ‘You deserve careful.’ Something flickers across her face. Something soft. She lets her fingers curl around yours. You smile. Run your hands over her stomach next, tracing the subtle rise and fall of each breath, the warmth of her, the realness of her. She shifts slightly, the movement pressing her closer, pressing skin to skin, pressing warmth to warmth. You exhale. Let your hands drift lower, over the curve of her waist, the dip of her hip, the length of her thigh. You take your time. Because she lets you. Because she wants you to. You kneel then, water rolling down your shoulders, down your back, pooling against your skin. You press your lips to her hip. She exhales, shaky, fingers threading into your hair. ‘You don’t have to—’ ‘I want to.’ You slide your hands over her legs, smoothing your palms down her thighs, over her calves, down to her ankles. She watches, breathing slow. You work the soap into her skin, rubbing warmth into her, sliding your thumbs up the backs of her knees, over the gentle curve of her calves. She sighs. Soft. Deep. Content. You let your fingers skim up again, over the dip of her waist, the gentle swell of her stomach, up— Up— To her chest. Her breath stutters. You pause. Look up. She’s already looking at you. Eyes dark, lips parted, cheeks flushed from the heat of the water. She lifts her hand, pressing it against yours. Guiding you. ‘Go on,’ she whispers. And you do. God, you do.

You cup her, trace the delicate slope of her, run your thumbs over warm, wet skin, over the soft peaks of her breasts, watching the way she reacts, the way she shivers under your touch.

Her lips part.

Her fingers tighten in your hair.

‘You’re—’ she starts, voice barely a breath, barely a sound. ‘You’re so—’

You stand.

Tilt her chin up.

Kiss her.

Not hungry. Not desperate.

Just deep.

Just certain.

Just her.

And when you pull back, pressing your forehead against hers, she exhales a laugh.

‘This is dangerous,’ she murmurs.

You smile. ‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

She lifts her arms, looping them around your neck, pulling you in, pressing against you, warm and wet and perfect.

And you—

You let her.

The steam rises. The water beads against her skin, gliding down slow, tracing paths over the soft slopes of her body, catching at the delicate points where warmth meets shadow, where light bends just so, where she is golden and bronze and endless.

You follow it.

With your eyes first, then with your hands.

Fingertips grazing along the soft valley of her stomach, skimming over her ribs, pressing gently into the places where she is most tender, most real. You watch the way the droplets gather at her collarbone, suspended for just a moment before slipping down, down, disappearing into the delicate dip between her breasts.

It feels unfair, almost, that something as simple as water gets to touch her like this before you do.

So you take its place.

Your lips find her collarbone first, brushing against the damp skin, warm and reverent. She exhales, tilting her head slightly, letting you have her like this, letting you take your time.

You do.

You always do.

Your mouth trails lower, following the path of the water, tracing its descent. You press a kiss against the gentle swell of her chest, right where her heart beats beneath, steady, certain, alive. You linger there, letting the moment stretch, letting yourself feel it, letting yourself remember what it’s like to love someone in a way that has nothing to do with time or distance or the years lost in between.

She breathes in, slow and deep, her fingers threading through your hair, nails scraping lightly against your scalp. Not pulling. Just holding.

And then you go lower.

The water clings to her, catching at the nipples, glistening like liquid gold against the dark-bronze warmth of her nipples. It drips, slow and deliberate, down the soft curve of her, over the places where she is most tender, most beautiful.

You chase it.

Your lips press to her sternum, then lower, following the water as it rolls over the swell of her breast, catching it before it can disappear.

She makes a sound then, a soft, breathy thing, like something breaking open inside her, like something unfolding, something giving way.

And god—

You love her like this.

Love the way she lets you worship her, the way she lets you press your mouth to her skin like it’s something sacred, like it’s something worth kneeling for.

You take your time.

You kiss along the curve of her, letting your tongue flick against her skin, letting yourself taste the warmth of her, the salt, the sweetness, the Yujin of her.

She trembles. Not much. Just a little. Just enough. You kiss the the peak of her breast—nipple, lips closing around the dark, glistening bronze of her, taking her between your lips like something meant to be savored. And she— She gasps. Soft. Sharp. Her fingers tighten in your hair, her back arching just slightly, just enough to press herself further into your mouth, to offer herself up like this, to let you take her in a way that feels like praise. The water slips between you, forgotten, but you don’t need it anymore. She is all the warmth you will ever need. And you— You are drowning. But you don’t mind. Not one bit.

You don’t know how long you stay like this—your mouth on her, your hands tracing slow worship into her skin, your tongue moving against the dark-bronze pebble of her like you’re tasting something sacred, something forbidden, something you never stopped craving.

She doesn’t rush you.

Just feels.

Just lets herself be felt.

Her fingers tremble against your scalp, gripping just enough to keep you grounded, to keep herself from falling apart entirely. The water sings against the tiles, drowning the rest of the world out, leaving just the sound of her soft gasps, her breath catching, the delicate whimper when your teeth graze over where she is most sensitive.

‘You’re—’ she tries, but the sentence breaks, dissolving into something else entirely.

You hum against her, half-smirking, half-dazed.

‘Say that again?’

She exhales sharply. Then, in a voice softer than the steam curling between you—

‘You’re ruining me.’

You smile against her skin.

‘Good.’

But then she’s moving.

Slow, steady, deliberate—sliding her hands down to your jaw, guiding you up, forcing your mouth away from her skin so she can see you again.

You lift your head, meeting her gaze, and god—

She looks like something devotional.

Like she’s burning and melting and breaking and remaking herself in the same moment.

And then she cups your face.

Runs her fingers down the sharp edge of your jaw, down your throat, down the planes of your chest like she’s trying to learn you all over again.

‘My turn,’ she whispers.

You exhale. ‘Yujin—’

But she’s already pressing her lips to your palm.

A slow, wet kiss against the skin there, warm and reverent.

You tense, watching the way she does it—how her mouth lingers, how her breath spills against your hand like she’s praying into it.

Then another.

And another.

Each kiss deliberate. Each one softer than the last.

Your fingers twitch.

Your heart stutters.

And Yujin—

Yujin just smiles.

Like she knows what she’s doing to you.

Like she knows the effect of her lips, her mouth, the heat of her pressing into you like this.

Then she goes lower.

Tracing fire against your wrist. Down to your forearm.

She’s taking her time.

Like she knows what’s coming. Like she wants you to feel every second of it before she even starts.

Softly, she lowers herself to the shower floor, folding her legs beneath her like someone praying—like someone preparing for something sacred. Water cascades over her, tracing the delicate angles of her face, slipping down her shoulders, clinging to her lashes. She doesn’t blink it away.

She looks up at you instead.

‘Just so you know,’ she murmurs, fingers curling around your thigh, pressing just hard enough to make you feel it, ‘I haven’t had this for three years.’

Your breath catches.

‘You poor thing.’

She hums, tilting her head slightly, eyes flickering with something playful, something edged with heat. ‘If only you called.’

Her grip tightens on your shaft—subtle, knowing, cruel.

Your pulse slams into your ribs.

‘Regretting everything as we speak,’ you manage, voice rough, because god—three years of waking up alone, three years of knowing what her body felt like against yours and still having to live without it, three years of not having this—

Yujin presses her lips to your hip, slow, warm, reverent.

‘Don’t,’ she whispers, breath ghosting over your skin. ‘From now on, let’s not waste a single breath.’

And that was that.

No more lost time. No more distance.

She presses another kiss, right below your navel. Cheating.

Your entire body tenses, twitches, a sharp current running through you.

She notices.

She smiles.

‘This is punishment,’ she murmurs.

Your fingers twitch against the tile. ‘For what?’

She looks up at you, lashes wet and mussed and dripping, lips parted just slightly—ruinous.

‘For almost forgetting me.’

Your jaw tightens. ‘That’s blasphemy.’

‘Is it?’

‘Every waking moment, every—’

Her hand slides along your wet shaft. Tight. Destitution incarnate.

You stumble against the back wall.

She grins, a little smug, a little knowing, a little dangerous.

‘I don’t want excuses,’ she says softly.

And then—

Then she presses another kiss, open-mouthed, slow, dangerous, right where on the tip of your cock—collecting whatever desperation you had bottled up.

You let out a slow, shaky breath.

She hums against you. Then, another kiss.

‘This,’ she says, hands curling against your hips, ‘is mine.’

And god, you believe her.

You always have.

Her mouth forms a tight ring right on your tip. She’s sucking everything out of you. Caring not for a single second how much this ruins you, how your knees intend to buckle.  

The cool wall slides against your back, and her mouth gentles now—less tight, slower, deliberate. Her lips part, wet and swollen, spit-strung as they glide over the flushed head of you. A slick sound escapes her, obscene and tender. You feel every ridge of her tongue, every warm drag, the way her saliva pools and drips down the length of you. She moans softly, and the vibration travels straight to your gut.

‘Easy,’ you rasp, fingers threading into her hair—not to push, but to feel. To guide her rhythm, your thumb brushing the shell of her ear. ‘Just like that…’

She obeys, but not meekly. Her eyes flick up, dark and gleaming through her lashes, her lips a glistening ring around you. The head glistens under the shower’s spray, spit-slick and ruddy, and when she pulls back just to breathe, a thin strand of saliva stretches between her bottom lip and your tip. She watches you watch it snap.

‘Yujin—’

‘Shhh.’ Her breath ghosts over the wetness she’s made, cooling the heat. ‘Let me.’

Her tongue swipes the slit, slow, too slow, and your hips jerk. She laughs—a soft, husky thing—and catches the bead of precum with her thumb. Holds your gaze as she sucks it clean.

‘All those years,’ she murmurs, nuzzling the inside of your thigh. Her voice is a frayed ribbon. ‘You let this ache. Let it go untouched. Why?’

You tighten your grip in her hair, not harsh, but present. ‘You know why.’

She hums, lips pressing to the vein throbbing beneath the skin. ‘Tell me anyway.’

‘Because it was yours.’ The admission tears free, raw. ‘Even when you weren’t.’

Her breath hitches. For a heartbeat, her composure cracks—lips parting, eyes glassy. Then she surges forward, taking you deep, deep, until your tip brushes the back of her throat. Her nose presses into your pelvis, her cheeks hollowed, and the wetness is overwhelming. Spit spills down her chin, drips onto the shower floor. You watch, wrecked, as she works you with a reverence that borders on worship.

‘God—Yujin—’

She pulls off with a gasp, lips swollen and slick. ‘Look at me.’

You do. Her face is flushed, water clinging to her lashes, hair plastered to her neck. Ruin has never looked so soft.

‘Never again,’ she whispers, palm cradling your jaw. ‘You don’t starve yourself. Not of this. Not of me.’

You nod, breathless, and she smiles—a fragile, aching thing—before bending again. Her mouth is softer now, languid, savoring. Every suck, every lick, pours honey into your veins. You let her take you apart, let her rebuild you, until the world narrows to her lips, her hands, the spit-slick sounds of her devotion.

The climax coils, inevitable—a wildfire in your spine, a tremor in your thighs. You feel it there, the precipice, and your hands fly to her shoulders, gripping hard. ‘Yujin—wait—’

She resists at first, brows furrowed, lips sealed tight around you. But you tug her back gently, your cock slipping from her mouth with a wet pop, her lips swollen, glistening. Her confusion flickers only for a heartbeat before you fist your cock, rough and hurried, and the first hot stripe of release paints her cheek.

She gasps, eyes fluttering shut as the next pulse hits her chin, her throat, the tip catching her collarbone. Thick, pearly streaks splatter across her skin—her eyelids, the bridge of her nose, the bow of her top lip. A ragged moan tears from you as you empty yourself onto her, the mess pooling in the hollow of her throat, dripping down her sternum.

For a moment, she’s perfectly still, breath held, face tilted up as if in prayer. Then her tongue darts out, just once, catching the spill on her lip—not to taste, but to feel, to savor the proof. Her eyes open slowly, lashes sticky, gaze molten.

For a second, she just blinks.

One eye.

The other one is… well.

You watch her process it in real time.

Her lips part slightly, her breath still uneven, chest rising and falling as she takes in exactly what’s happened. Your release is everywhere—everywhere—glossing her cheekbones, slipping down the slope of her throat, pooling in the dip of her collarbone like some kind of offering.

She tilts her head. Blinks again.

‘Oh.’

Then she laughs.

A breathy, disbelieving sound, half-amused, half-are-you-kidding-me?

You’re still pressed against the shower wall, still trying to function, your brain short-circuiting between the mess you’ve made of her and the fact that she’s actually—laughing.

‘You—’ she starts, touching her cheek, then stopping, fingers hesitating before they smear through the mess, ‘—you got it in my hair.’

She looks up at you then, eyes bright, glistening—partly from you, partly from water, partly from the sheer absurdity of this situation.

You swallow, still breathless. ‘Uh.’

She blinks. A slow, lazy flutter of lashes.

Then her mouth quirks.

‘You should’ve warned me, you beast.’

You can’t help it—you laugh, too, scrubbing a hand down your face. ‘I tried. You didn’t stop—’

‘I was busy,’ she huffs, wiping at her cheek again. ‘And now I’m busy. Because look at me.’

You are.

You really, really are.

‘I mean—’ you gesture vaguely to her face, her throat, the trail of evidence marking everywhere she’s been—‘I think it’s a good look.’

She glares.

‘No, seriously. We could brand this. “Dewy Glow” or something. Sell it in high-end skincare stores. “Celebrity Secret.”’

She snorts, shoving at your thigh. ‘You absolute menace.’

And then—

‘Oh, wait.’

She freezes.

Her smile vanishes.

Her expression shifts into something far more serious.

‘Oh no.’

You blink. ‘What?’

She doesn’t say anything.

Just slowly, slowly, slowly raises a hand to her right eye.

You know what’s coming before she even speaks.

‘Oh my god, I can’t see.’

You wheeze. Actually wheeze.

She jabs a finger into your thigh. ‘Don’t—don’t laugh. This is serious. This is—I might never recover—’

‘Yujin.’ You’re still dying, but you reach for her anyway, cupping her face with both hands, thumbs swiping over her cheeks, carefully wiping away what you can. ‘Baby, blink—’

‘I am blinking.’ She’s being so dramatic about it, blinking furiously, tilting her face up to the water like it might cleanse her soul. ‘Oh my god. Oh my god.’

‘Okay, okay, come here—’

You guide her fully under the stream, hands in her hair, rubbing circles at her temples as she half-laughs, half-groans against your chest.

‘Three years, and this is how it goes?’

‘I mean,’ you murmur, fingers tracing down her jaw, ‘technically, this is a good thing. This means I really missed you.’

She gasps, smacking your chest. ‘That is not how this works.’

‘No, no, it is. You should be flattered.’

‘I am blinded.’

‘Listen, some people pay a lot of money for facials like this.’

‘Oh my god, shut up—’

She’s laughing now, still rubbing at her eye, still squinting slightly, but you tilt her face up, press your lips to her forehead, her nose, the water-warm curve of her cheek.

‘Here,’ you murmur, ‘let me see.’

She lets you, tilting her chin up, letting you wipe at her lashes, the bridge of her nose, the soft hollow under her eye. Your fingers are gentle, your touch slow, careful, as you rinse the last of it away.

Her hands find your ribs, gripping lightly, grounding herself.

‘I’m keeping score, you know,’ she murmurs, voice softer now.

You kiss her temple. ‘Yeah?’

She hums. ‘You owe me for this.’

You grin, pressing a kiss to her cheek. ‘I owe you?’

‘Mhm.’ Another soft blink, this one slower, more considering. ‘Big time.’

You exhale, pressing your forehead to hers. ‘I’ll make it up to you.’

She pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes warm, searching.

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

A beat.

Then she grins, pressing a quick, mischievous kiss to your lips.

‘Good.’

And then—

‘Now help me get this out of my hair, you absolute monster.’

You laugh, tilting her back under the water, already reaching for the shampoo.

You barely make it out of the shower before Yujin is already reaching for a towel, scrubbing at her hair like she’s trying to erase all evidence of your existence.

You watch her, arms crossed, towel slung lazily over your shoulder. ‘You know, I could help with that.’

She gives you a look. A very specific you-are-the-reason-I’m-in-this-mess look.

‘You’ve helped enough,’ she mutters, aggressively drying her face.

You grin. ‘Want me to dry your back?’

‘No.’

‘Sure?’

‘I don’t trust you.’

You press a hand to your chest, mock-wounded. ‘I am offended by this blatant accusation.’

‘You are plotting something. I know that face.’

‘I literally only have one face, Yujin.’

‘Yeah. And I know it.’

She sighs, shoving her towel at you. ‘Fine. You want to be useful? Dry my hair. But no funny business.’

‘Define funny business.’

She glares.

You chuckle, grabbing another towel, stepping behind her. She exhales as you gently towel-dry her hair, rubbing slow, deliberate circles into her scalp.

Her head tilts slightly, unconsciously leaning into your touch.

You knew she’d enjoy this.

She hums, closing her eyes. ‘Okay. Maybe you can be trusted.’

‘Told you.’ You press a kiss to the crown of her head. ‘I am a professional.’

‘A professional nuisance.’

‘A professional lover.’

She snorts. ‘Oh my god, shut up.’

You grin, setting the towel aside, reaching for the hairdryer.

She shifts slightly in her seat. ‘Wait—’

‘Hm?’

She peeks up at you, tilting her head back, cheeks warm. ‘...I like it when you do it slow. With your hands.’

You pause.

Look down at her.

Oh.

Oh.

You set the hairdryer aside. ‘You should’ve said so earlier, baby.’

She exhales, smiling, closing her eyes again as your fingers slip into her hair, raking through the damp strands, slow and careful.

This is— This is intimacy in its simplest form. You, standing behind her, fingers combing through her hair, working through knots with gentle patience. Her, sitting still, trusting you, letting herself be taken care of. ‘You’re soft,’ you murmur, pressing another kiss to her temple. ‘Mm.’ Her shoulders relax completely. ‘Just don’t mess up my parting.’ You chuckle. ‘I’ll do my best.’ It takes a while—because you like taking your time with her—but eventually, her hair is dry, loose waves tumbling down her back. She stretches, arms overhead, and that’s when you realize— She’s still wearing your shirt. The one she stole post-shower, hanging off her like it was made for this moment.

You stare. Your thoughts are not wholesome. She catches you looking. Her lips curve. ‘You’re plotting something again,’ she says, amused. ‘Maybe.’ ‘You need to control yourself—’ ‘Nope.’ She laughs, batting you away when you attempt to grab her. ‘No. No, sir,’ she warns, scooting to the bed. ‘You said you’d be good.’ ‘Did I?’ ‘Yes. You did. You explicitly said you’d behave.’ ‘And you believed me?’ She pauses. Then groans, rubbing her face. ‘God, I’m an idiot.’ You grin. And then you pounce.

She yelps, barely managing to roll away before you trap her under you, laughing as she dodges your grabby hands.

‘No,’ she gasps between laughs, ‘we are doing the normal nighttime routine first!’ ‘This is the routine.’ ‘No it is not!’ You chase her across the bed. She giggles, swats at you, then suddenly—miraculously—manages to flip you over, straddling you with a triumphant grin. ‘HAH.’ She plants her hands on your chest. ‘Got you.’ You blink up at her. Pause. Then smirk. ‘Yujin,’ you murmur, voice low. ‘Baby.’ Her smile falters. ‘…What.’

You cup her waist, slowly sliding your hands up, over the fabric of your shirt, over the nothing she’s wearing underneath.

She realizes. Her eyes widen. ‘Wait—’ And then you flip her back over. She gasps. ‘Noooooo—’ You laugh, pinning her down, watching as she squirms, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with warmth and amusement. This. This is the routine. Laughter. Teasing. The way you move around each other like gravity has always existed between you. She exhales, chest rising and falling beneath you, fingers curling around your wrists. Her voice, when she speaks, is softer. ‘You win,’ she murmurs. You press your forehead to hers. ‘I always do.’ She sighs dramatically. ‘Ugh. Fine. Manhandle me, then.’ She’s still beneath you, chest rising and falling, fingers curled loosely around your wrists where you’ve pinned them. Her breath is quick, her pulse erratic, and you know it’s not just because of the weight of you pressing her into the mattress—it’s everything. The warmth between you, the years leading to this, the understanding that what’s about to happen isn’t just want, isn’t just release—it’s reclamation.

She swallows, lips parting slightly, pupils wide and dark in the low light. The dark strands of her hair are fanned across the pillow, tangled from your hands, a mess you’d memorize blindfolded. There’s a flush blooming across her chest, creeping up the column of her throat, a heat that you feel mirrored in yourself.

You watch her, watch the way she shifts slightly beneath you, pressing up just enough to remind you she’s waiting, waiting, waiting. You could draw this out forever. But that’s cruelty. Or maybe, maybe, that’s worship.

You press your lips to the tip of her nose, then her cheek, then down, trailing a path over her jaw, her throat, the faint dip between her collarbones. You can feel the hum of her laughter before she even releases it, a small breath of amusement, her fingers twitching against your hold'

‘You’re teasing,’ she murmurs, voice wrecked already. ‘No,’ you answer, dragging your mouth lower, tasting the salt of her skin. ‘I’m remembering.’

Because you are. You’re remembering the way her body curls into yours when she’s overwhelmed. You’re remembering the tiny, trembling exhales she makes when your hands slide over the slopes of her ribs. You’re remembering that she loves when you take your time, that she loves to be adored, that she wants to feel every inch of you.

And she is so easy to adore.

You shift lower, your hands tracing slow, lazy patterns down her sides, feeling the way her muscles twitch beneath your touch. The shape of her—long lines, soft curves, skin warm and impossibly smooth beneath your lips.

Your name escapes her in a breath, a barely-there sound that settles somewhere behind your ribs, inside your chest, like it belongs there.

You kiss lower. Down, down. Your fingers slip between her thighs, ghosting over her bare glistening pussy, and her breath stutters, a sharp intake that punches straight through your gut. ‘Look at you,’ you murmur, dragging your knuckles up the inside of her goosebump-ridden thigh. ‘Fidgeting.’ She doesn’t answer. Just glares, lashes damp, lips parted, so achingly beautiful you feel winded.

‘Is that frustration?’ you tease, dragging your mouth back up, scraping your teeth over her hip bone. ‘It’s—’ She exhales, trying for control. Fails. ‘It’s you taking too long.’ You hum. ‘I thought you liked it slow.’ ‘I do,’ she grits out. ‘But I also like it when you—’

Her voice catches as your fingers press a little harder into her. A single stroke, just enough to make her body jolt, enough to make her curse under her breath, enough to feel the sticky wetness of her—inside.

Then you do it again. And again. Until her hips are moving against your touch, until her nails bite into your shoulders, until her breath is a series of broken, unsteady exhalations, ‘Yes, yes, oh fuck~’

You kiss her then. Hard. Deep. Drinking in every shiver, every sound, every breathless plea she won’t voice but you understand anyway.

And then— Then, finally— Her thighs part wider, welcoming you; knees hooking around your hips, heels digging into the small of your back. You press your shaft along her golden-soft navel, hard enough to get her whimpering under the heat of your shaft. You drag slowly along her soft—yet firm—navel, coursing the map lower and lower—until the nub responsible for her heat—all swollen and beautiful and pink—meets your tip. She lets out a sudden whimper; She glares, and you press a kiss on her temple once again—sorry baby, sorry. At the end of the map, you feel the slick heat of her cunt against the head of your cock, her entrance fluttering, pulsing, as you grind around the clit in slow, torturous circles. Precum smears her folds, mingling with her arousal, the glide obscenely wet. ‘Fuck,’ she hisses, nails raking down your spine. ‘Stop—stop toying—’ You catch her wrist, pinning it above her head again. ‘No.’ Your other hand grips the base of your cock, guiding it through her slit, the swollen head catching on her clit with every pass. She jerks, a broken moan tearing free, her hips bucking—but you hold firm, denying her friction. ‘You wanted slow. This is slow.’ Her cunt weeps, glistening, her inner lips swollen and flushed. You watch, transfixed, as your cockhead nudges her entrance, spreading her open incrementally. A single inch sinks in, the velvety grip of her walls clenching reflexively, and you groan through gritted teeth. ‘Christ’ She whimpers, her clit throbbing against your shaft as you retreat, dragging your tip through her folds again. ‘Please—’ Her voice cracks, tears spilling down her temples. ‘Just—fuck me—’ You lean down, lips grazing hers. ‘Where?’ She glares, chest heaving. ‘You know—’ ‘Say it.’ ‘Inside—’ ‘Inside what?’ You press forward, another inch sheathed, the stretch burning sweet. ‘Use your words, Yujin.’ Her thighs tremble. ‘My—my cunt.’ ‘Good girl.’ You sink deeper, the thick ridge of your cockhead massaging her front wall, that spongy patch of nerves that makes her sob. Her cervix yields, soft and pliant, as you bottom out, hips flush against hers. Her cunt clenches, a vice of slick muscle, and you swear, forehead dropping to her shoulder. ‘You’re gonna milk me dry—’ ‘Move,’ she demands, her ankles locking behind your back. ‘Move or I’ll—’ ‘You’ll what?’ You pull out almost completely, leaving just the tip seated, her clit rubbing against your shaft. ‘Beg?’ She keens, back arching, breasts pressed to your chest. ‘Yes—yes, god, please—’ You snap your hips forward, sheathing yourself in one brutal thrust. Her scream is muffled by your palm as you clamp it over her mouth, your other hand sliding between you to circle her clit. ‘Quiet,’ you growl, grinding deep. ‘You’ll take it. All of it.’ Her cunt ripples around you, fluttering in erratic pulses, her clit swollen and pebbled beneath your thumb. You fuck her with shallow, punishing rolls of your hips, each stroke dragging your cockhead over that sweet spot, her thighs shaking, her breath coming in ragged, choked gasps. ‘Look at me,’ you snarl, removing your hand from her mouth. She obeys, eyes glassy, lips bitten raw. ‘Whose cunt is this?’ ‘Yours—’ ‘And whose cock?’ ‘Mine—’ You slam into her, hilt-deep, your balls slapping her ass. ‘Louder—’ ‘MINE—’

The word cracks through the room, ragged and raw, and you reward it by slamming into her hilt-deep, your pelvis grinding against her clit as you still inside her. Her cunt clenches, a vice of slick heat, and you hiss through your teeth, your grip bruising on her hips. ‘Again,’ you demand, pulling out until only the swollen head of your cock remains lodged in her entrance. Her inner lips cling to you, reluctant to let go. She whines, back arching off the bed. ‘Yours—your cunt, your everything—’ You thrust back in, slow, savoring the way her walls ripple to accommodate you. ‘And what do you want?’ 'You,’ she gasps, nails carving half-moons into your shoulders. ‘Inside me—claiming me—’ 'How?' You drag your cockhead over that spongy patch of nerves again, deliberate, watching her thighs quake. 'Cum,' she begs, tears streaking her temples. 'Fill me—mark me—' You still, your hand sliding up to grip her throat—not restricting air, just owning. 'Ask nicely.' Her breath hitches. 'Please—please, I need it—need you to paint my insides white, need to feel it—' A dark thrill curls in your gut. You lean down, lips brushing hers. 'Since you asked so sweetly.' You start a brutal, precise rhythm—deep, grinding thrusts that punch the air from her lungs. Each snap of your hips drags her clit against the base of your cock, each retreat leaves her clenching around nothing. Her cunt weeps, arousal slicking your shaft, the obscene slap of skin on skin echoing off the walls. 'Look at me,' you snarl, tightening your grip on her throat. Her eyes fly open, hazy but obedient. 'You take me so well,' you murmur, your free hand sliding between you to circle her throbbing clit. 'This greedy cunt—my greedy cunt—sucking me in like you were made for it.'

She sobs, her walls fluttering. 'Yours—always yours—'

'Prove it.' You pin her wrists above her head with one hand, your other still working her clit. 'Come. Now.'

Her orgasm rips through her violently—back arched, cunt spasming, a scream tearing from her throat as she soaks your cock. You ride it out, fucking her through the pulses, your thrusts turning jagged, erratic.

'Mine,' you growl, feeling your balls tighten. 'Say it—say it—'

'Yours—god, yours—'

You slam into her one last time, hilt-deep, and hold. Your release surges—thick, hot ropes of cum flooding her cervix, painting her walls in stripes of white. She whimpers, oversensitive but greedy, her cunt milking every drop as you grind your hips in slow, possessive circles.

'Take it,' you grit out, watching her stomach quiver with the force of your spend. 'All of it.'

She nods, dazed, her thighs trembling around your waist. You collapse atop her, still buried inside, your lips finding the sweat-damp hollow of her throat.

—

Yujin’s lashes flutter against your chest, and there’s a moment where she seems to wrestle with something—embarrassment, vulnerability—but it dissolves when she feels your fingers tracing gentle circles against her back. She shifts, propping herself up just enough to look at you, her eyes dark and soft and entirely too honest.

‘You know,’ she whispers, voice almost shy, ‘I used to dream about this. You and me, like this. Just… here.’

‘Here?’ You brush a damp strand of hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear. ‘In bed, sweaty and gross?’

A soft laugh escapes her, warm and tender. ‘Yeah. Exactly this.’ Her fingertips graze your jaw, light as the touch of a memory. ‘I’d think about waking up to you, about how it’d feel to fall asleep in your arms. It’s stupid, I know—’

‘Not stupid,’ you murmur, cutting her off with a kiss—soft, lingering, like you’re trying to pour every unspoken word into it. ‘Never stupid.’

Her gaze softens even further, and she buries her face in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent like it’s something she needs to breathe. You feel her lips press against your pulse, a delicate kiss that sends warmth flooding through you.

‘I don’t want to let you go,’ she confesses, voice muffled. ‘Not tonight. Not ever.’

‘Then don’t.’ You trail your fingers up and down her spine, feeling the subtle curve of her back beneath your touch. ‘Hold on to me. I’m not going anywhere.’

She shifts, looping her arms around your neck, pressing her body flush against yours. The contact is warm, grounding, and you let yourself sink into it, let yourself feel the weight of her, the steady thrum of her heartbeat against your chest.

‘You’re too good at this,’ she mumbles, the faintest hint of a pout in her voice. ‘Making me feel safe. Like I belong here.’

You tighten your hold on her, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. ‘You do belong here. With me. Always.’

Her breath shudders, and you feel her fingers clutch at your shoulders, like she’s afraid you might slip away. You press another kiss to her forehead, then her temple, then her cheek, each touch softer than the last.

‘Yujin,’ you whisper, and she looks up at you, eyes wide and glistening. ‘There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.’

She smiles—a real, unguarded smile—and you feel the weight of it settle in your chest. She lifts herself up just enough to press a kiss to your lips, lingering, tender, unhurried. It’s a kiss that feels like a promise, like something that doesn’t need words to be understood.

When she pulls back, her face is flushed, her expression open and raw. ‘I love you,’ she says softly, the words so simple, so devastatingly sincere.

You cup her face, thumb brushing over her cheek. ‘I love you too. More than you’ll ever know.’

She settles against you, fitting herself into the curve of your body, her head resting against your chest. You stroke her hair, feeling the tension melt from her frame as she presses one last kiss to your heart.

The room is warm and heavy with the scent of you both, with the quiet weight of something real and unbreakable. You feel her breathing slow, her body growing heavy with sleep, and you let your own eyes drift shut, content to let the world narrow to the steady rise and fall of her breath.

And then—nothing. Just the two of you tangled together, warmth and closeness and the certainty that this, right here, is home.

—

a/n: Experimenting yet again. Hopefully the last sex scene wasn't too mortifying. But I really enjoyed writing this—Yujin's personality meshes really well with with the dialogue I was aiming to do (hopefully I succeeded). This was a half-finished draft that I managed to finish (through merging other drafts, other idols, et cetera et cetera), and now I don't have a single draft remaining; sooo... I don't know how this fares for the next fic (hopefully not too long..... haha..heh..he).

a/n 2: Much love for all the support: they never go unnoticed!!! <3333333

[hsjazebel]

Meant to be

Summary: Y/N never expected a college party to change anything—until she met Harry. What starts as a quiet connection over books and movies slowly turns into something deeper, proving that some things are simply meant to be.

Wordcount: 32k+ (I have been carried away, sorry 😅)

A/N: Happy Valentine’s Day! ♡ Here’s a little story about love finding you when you least expect it. Hope you enjoy it! Let me know what you think!

Masterlist

— — —

The party was louder than she expected.

Y/N wasn’t sure why she had let Charlotte convince her to come. Maybe it was the way her roommate had pleaded, eyes wide with excitement, promising it would be “just for an hour.” Or maybe it was the fact that she had spent too many Friday nights curled up in bed while the rest of campus buzzed with energy.

She had thought, just for once, that maybe she should say yes.

But now, standing in the middle of the crowded living room, she regretted it.

The music thumped against the walls, the bass so deep she could feel it in her ribs. Laughter and voices blurred together in an endless hum, broken only by the occasional shout of someone calling out to a friend. The air was thick—too many people, too much perfume, too much heat.

She tugged at the hem of her sweater, suddenly self-conscious. She wasn’t dressed for this, not like the other girls in shimmering tops and short skirts. She had gone for comfort—jeans, a fitted top, her favorite oversized cardigan—but now she felt out of place, like she hadn’t read the unspoken dress code.

Charlotte had disappeared almost immediately, swallowed up by the crowd, probably off to find that guy she’d been texting. Y/N had tried to follow for a bit, but the sea of people made it impossible to keep up.

Now she was alone, pressed against the wall, holding a drink she hadn’t even sipped.

She exhaled, glancing toward the front door. Maybe she could just leave. Charlotte wouldn’t mind—she was too caught up in her own night.

Then, out of the corner of her eye, she spotted an open door leading to the balcony.

Without thinking, she headed for it, slipping outside and closing the door behind her.

Cool air washed over her, a welcome contrast to the stifling heat inside. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and leaned against the railing, her fingers wrapping around the cold metal. The city stretched out in front of her, distant lights flickering against the night sky. From here, the noise of the party was muffled, just a dull hum beneath the sound of the wind rustling through the trees.

She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the silence settle over her.

And then—

“You don’t look like you’re having fun.”

The voice was smooth, warm. British.

Her eyes snapped open.

Turning slightly, she found herself face to face with someone she recognized immediately.

Harry Styles.

Her breath hitched, just for a second.

She had seen him around before, of course. It was hard not to notice him. He wasn’t the typical loud, overly confident guy that thrived in these kinds of settings, but he had a presence that made people gravitate toward him anyway. Maybe it was the way he carried himself—calm, collected, always with an air of quiet amusement, like he was in on some inside joke no one else knew about.

Now, standing in front of her in the dim balcony light, he looked impossibly at ease.

His dark curls were pushed back messily, a few strands falling over his forehead. A pair of thin-rimmed glasses rested on the bridge of his nose, framing sharp green eyes that studied her with quiet interest. His loose button-up was unbuttoned at the top, the sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal the intricate tattoos winding down his forearms.

He held a drink casually in one hand, the other tucked into his pocket, like he had all the time in the world.

She swallowed.

“I—uh—yeah,” she finally managed. “Parties aren’t really my thing.”

His lips quirked, as if her answer didn’t surprise him at all. “Figured as much.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And how exactly did you figure that?”

He took a slow sip from his drink before answering. “Well, for one, you’ve been out here for at least five minutes and haven’t checked your phone once.” His eyes flickered toward the door. “And two… you look like you’re trying to disappear.”

She huffed out a quiet laugh. “That obvious?”

Harry smirked. “A little.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The city lights flickered in the distance, and the air between them felt charged—not uncomfortable, but something else entirely.

Then, he shifted slightly, turning more toward her.

“I’m Harry, by the way.”

She let out a small breath, amused. As if she didn’t already know.

“I know,” she admitted, then immediately winced. “I mean—everyone knows who you are.”

Harry chuckled, the sound low and warm. “That’s fair.” He tilted his head slightly. “And you are…?”

“Y/N.”

He repeated it, softer this time, like he was testing the way it felt on his tongue. Then, with a small smile, he extended his hand. “Well, Y/N, it’s nice to officially meet you.”

She hesitated for just a second before slipping her hand into his.

His palm was warm, his grip gentle but firm.

“Nice to meet you too, Harry.”

His fingers lingered a second longer than necessary before he let go.

He leaned his elbow against the railing, glancing at her thoughtfully. “So, if parties aren’t your thing… what would you rather be doing right now?”

She bit her lip, thinking. “Watching a movie, probably.”

Harry’s brows lifted slightly. “Anything in particular?”

She hesitated, then decided to be honest. “A romcom.”

His lips curled into a slow smile. “You like romcoms?”

She nodded. “I grew up watching them. Notting Hill, 10 Things I Hate About You, How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days… I know they’re cheesy, but I love them.”

He studied her for a second, then let out a soft chuckle. “Cheesy doesn’t mean bad. Those are classics.”

She tilted her head. “Wait… you actually like them too?”

Harry smirked, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Course I do. I mean, have you seen When Harry Met Sally? It’s got my name in it. That’s a sign, don’t you think?”

She laughed—really laughed, for the first time that night.

Harry watched her, his expression softer now, like he was pleased to be the reason behind it.

The conversation flowed easier after that. They debated over the best romcom of all time, exchanged favorite scenes, and argued about which movie had the most unrealistic yet satisfying ending. Somewhere in between, Y/N forgot about the party altogether.

But eventually, her phone buzzed in her pocket—Charlotte, probably looking for her.

She sighed, realizing she had to go.

Harry noticed. “Leaving already?”

“Yeah, I think so.” She hesitated, then, feeling unusually bold, added, “But… maybe next time, I’ll skip the party and just watch a romcom instead.”

His smile was slow, almost knowing. “Maybe next time, you won’t have to watch it alone.”

Her heart skipped a beat.

And as she stepped back inside, disappearing into the noise and the crowd, she couldn’t help but hope—just a little—that this was only the beginning.

———

The next morning, Y/N woke up to the sound of Charlotte’s voice.

“Well, well, well,” her roommate drawled, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed. “Look who’s finally awake.”

Y/N groaned, burying her face into the pillow. “What time is it?”

“Almost eleven,” Charlotte said, walking over and flopping down onto the bed beside her. “And you have some explaining to do.”

Y/N peeked at her through one eye. “Explaining?”

Charlotte grinned, far too awake for this early in the morning. “Don’t play innocent with me. You disappeared at the party. And when I finally found you again, you looked… different.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “So spill.”

Y/N sighed, rolling onto her back. “There’s nothing to spill.”

Charlotte gasped dramatically. “Lies! I saw you talking to Harry Styles.” She poked Y/N’s side. “You—quiet, book-loving, avoider of all social gatherings—somehow ended up alone on a balcony with the most intriguing guy on campus.”

Y/N felt her face heat up. “It wasn’t like that,” she muttered.

Charlotte smirked. “Then what was it like?”

Y/N hesitated. The truth was, she wasn’t exactly sure.

“It was… nice,” she admitted after a moment. “We just talked.”

Charlotte studied her, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Talked? That’s it?”

Y/N nodded.

Charlotte huffed, flopping back against the bed. “You’re impossible.”

Y/N smiled, sitting up and stretching. “Did you at least have fun?”

Charlotte let out a dreamy sigh. “Oh, absolutely. And I might have secured myself a coffee date with Mason.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Mason?”

“You know, Harry’s friend? Tall, kind of scruffy, ridiculously charming?” Charlotte waggled her fingers. “I think we have a connection.”

Y/N laughed softly. “I’m happy for you.”

Charlotte sat up again, her expression turning devious. “And speaking of coffee dates…”

Y/N’s stomach fluttered. “No.”

Charlotte pouted. “Come on! I think he likes you.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “We talked for, like, twenty minutes.”

Charlotte shrugged. “That’s plenty of time to make an impression. And if he really likes you, you’ll see him again.”

Y/N didn’t answer. Because the thought had already crossed her mind.

Would she see him again?

———

She did.

Three days later.

At the campus café.

Y/N had been curled up in a corner booth, a warm cup of tea beside her as she flipped through a book for class. The café was quiet, filled mostly with students studying or catching up on assignments. The hum of conversation and the occasional clinking of cups created the kind of atmosphere she loved—calm, steady, familiar.

And then, a shadow fell over her table.

“Y/N.”

She looked up.

And there he was.

Harry Styles, standing beside her table, a cup of coffee in one hand and a curious tilt to his head. He wasn’t wearing his glasses today, but she still recognized the quiet amusement in his eyes.

“Hi,” she said, feeling her heart pick up speed.

His lips twitched. “Mind if I sit?”

She hesitated for only a second before shaking her head. “Go ahead.”

Harry slid into the seat across from her, setting his coffee down. “Didn’t think I’d run into you here.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

He smirked, leaning forward slightly. “Alright, I might have hoped I would.”

Her stomach did an embarrassing little flip.

“What are you reading?” he asked, nodding toward the book in her hands.

She glanced down, suddenly self-conscious. “Uh, Wuthering Heights.”

His brows lifted, impressed. “Intense choice.”

She shrugged. “It’s for class, but I like it.”

Harry studied her for a moment, then leaned back in his chair, stretching out comfortably. “So, tell me—are you one of those people who think Heathcliff is romantic, or do you see him for the walking red flag that he is?”

Y/N blinked in surprise. “You’ve read it?”

He smirked. “I have.”

She bit her lip, eyeing him. “And?”

Harry sighed dramatically. “Look, I get the passion, the whole ‘soulmate across time and space’ thing, but let’s be honest—if Heathcliff were around today, he’d be sending late-night ‘u up?’ texts and brooding over his ex’s Instagram posts.”

Y/N let out a surprised laugh. “That is… disturbingly accurate.”

Harry grinned. “And you? Are you a Heathcliff apologist?”

She shook her head. “I think he and Cathy deserved each other—because no one else should have to deal with that level of drama.”

Harry chuckled. “Harsh, but fair.”

There was something about the way he looked at her—curious, amused, like he was genuinely interested in what she had to say. It made her stomach twist in a way she wasn’t used to.

A beat of silence stretched between them.

Then—

“So,” Harry said, breaking the moment, “you never told me your verdict.”

Y/N frowned. “My verdict?”

“The best romcom of all time.”

She smiled, relieved by the lighter topic. “That’s impossible to answer.”

Harry leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Alright. Then let’s make it simpler. What’s your go-to comfort movie?”

She thought for a second. “How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days.”

His eyes lit up. “Classic.”

She nodded. “It’s just fun, you know? The whole fake dating thing, the ridiculousness of it all. And Kate Hudson? Iconic.”

Harry smirked. “And the ‘You let it die!’ scene? A cinematic masterpiece.”

Y/N laughed. “Exactly.”

Harry studied her for a moment, then said, “I like that.”

Y/N suddenly felt warm under his gaze. She looked down, tracing the rim of her cup. “What about you?”

Harry pretended to think. “Mmm… Notting Hill.”

She grinned. “Oh, come on. You just like it because of the ‘I’m just a girl’ scene.”

He laughed. “Maybe. Or maybe I like the idea that two people from completely different worlds can still find their way to each other.”

Something about the way he said it made her stomach flutter.

The conversation drifted after that—talk of books, movies, little things that made them both feel at home. The more they spoke, the more Y/N felt that strange, unexpected ease settle between them.

And when she finally glanced at the time, she realized an hour had passed without her even noticing.

“I should probably get to class,” she murmured, closing her book.

Harry nodded, but didn’t look particularly eager to leave.

As she stood, sliding her bag over her shoulder, he tapped his fingers against the table. “So…”

She looked at him expectantly.

He smirked. “Movie night?”

Her heart skipped. “Are you asking me out, Harry Styles?”

His expression was all mischief. “Maybe.”

She bit her lip, pretending to consider. Then, feeling unusually bold, she said, “Okay.”

Harry’s smirk turned into something softer.

“Good,” he said.

And as she walked away, she could feel his eyes on her the whole time.

———

The library was quieter than usual.

Y/N liked it that way. She liked the solitude, the way the world seemed to shrink down to just her and the words on the page. It was calming—predictable.

What she didn’t expect, however, was a voice breaking through the silence.

“Didn’t peg you as the type to hide away in a library for fun.”

She looked up, already knowing who she would see.

Harry stood in front of her table, a familiar smirk on his lips, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. He had a notebook tucked under his arm and a coffee in hand, looking completely at ease despite the way his presence sent her heart racing.

Y/N rolled her eyes playfully. “And yet, here you are.”

Harry hummed, sliding into the chair across from her. “Touché.”

She watched as he set his coffee down and flipped open his notebook, as if he belonged there—like this was routine.

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Are you actually here to study, or are you just bothering me for fun?”

Harry grinned. “Can it be both?”

She huffed, biting back a smile as she returned her gaze to her book. But she could still feel his eyes on her.

A beat passed before he spoke again. “Wuthering Heights, huh? Still brooding over Heathcliff?”

Y/N sighed, looking up. “You do realize I read more than one book, right?”

Harry’s smirk widened. “Do you, now?”

She rolled her eyes and turned the book so he could see the title.

His gaze flickered over the cover before he raised an eyebrow. “White Nights?”

Y/N tilted her head. “Surprised?”

Harry leaned back in his chair, studying her. “A little. Didn’t take you for a Dostoevsky kind of girl.”

“And what kind of girl did you take me for?” she challenged.

He smirked. “Jane Austen, maybe. Brontë sisters, definitely. But Russian literature? That’s a surprise.”

She shrugged. “I like stories about lonely people.”

Something flickered in his expression, but it was gone too fast for her to catch.

“Lonely people,” he repeated. “And here I thought you just liked tragic love stories.”

Y/N hesitated, then said softly, “Aren’t they the same thing?”

Harry studied her for a moment, something unreadable in his gaze. Then, in a voice quieter than before, he said, “I guess they are.”

Silence settled between them again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything, it felt like something had shifted—like she had let him see a part of her she didn’t show to just anyone.

Then, after a moment, Harry’s lips twitched up into a smile. “So, is White Nights a re-read, or am I catching you in the middle of a first-time experience?”

She exhaled, grateful for the change in tone. “Re-read.”

His grin widened. “Interesting. That means you must really like it.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Are you about to judge my taste in books?”

Harry smirked. “Not at all. I was actually going to say… maybe I should let you convince me to read it.”

Y/N studied him. “You’ve never read it?”

“Not yet,” he admitted.

A small smile played on her lips. “Maybe you should.”

Harry’s eyes sparkled. “Maybe I will.”

———

That night, her phone buzzed.

A message from an unknown number.

Unknown [9:07 PM]: So, lonely people, huh? Convince me why I should read White Nights.

Y/N frowned, staring at the screen. Who the hell—?

Y/N [9:08 PM]: Who is this?

A pause. Then—

Unknown [9:08 PM]: Wow. That hurts.

Her heart skipped.

She squinted at the message, then at the number, but it wasn’t saved in her contacts.

Y/N [9:09 PM]: Seriously. Who is this??

A few seconds passed before a reply popped up.

Unknown [9:09 PM]: It’s Harry.

She blinked.

Then—

Y/N [9:10 PM]: …How did you get my number?

Harry [9:11 PM]: Your lovely roommate gave it to me.

Y/N groaned out loud. “Charlotte!”

Across the room, Charlotte barely glanced up from her laptop. “Hmm?”

Y/N waved her phone in the air. “Did you seriously give Harry my number?”

Charlotte smirked. “Oh. So he finally texted you?”

“Charlotte.”

“What?” she said innocently. “He asked, and I figured it would take you forever to do it yourself.”

Y/N let out a long, dramatic sigh, turning her attention back to the screen.

Y/N [9:12 PM]: I hate you.

Harry [9:12 PM]: No, you don’t.

She rolled her eyes.

Y/N [9:13 PM]: Maybe you should read it and see for yourself.

Harry [9:14 PM]: Bold of you to assume I have time for Russian literature.

Y/N [9:15 PM]: Bold of you to assume I’d let you borrow my copy.

Harry [9:16 PM]: So possessive. I like it.

Y/N [9:17 PM]: You’re impossible.

Harry [9:17 PM]: And yet, here you are, still texting me.

She bit her lip, trying not to smile.

Harry [9:18 PM]: You still good for our not-date movie night?

Y/N’s stomach flipped.

Y/N [9:19 PM]: You mean the highly academic film screening of How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days?

Harry [9:20 PM]: Exactly. For research purposes.

She hesitated, fingers hovering over the screen.

Y/N [9:21 PM]: Yeah. I’m still in.

His reply came almost instantly.

Harry [9:21 PM]: Good.

She stared at the word for a long time, ignoring the way her face felt impossibly warm.

———

“You’ve checked your phone three times in the last minute.”

Y/N shot Charlotte a glare from across the room. “I have not.”

Charlotte smirked, finishing the last touches of her makeup. “You so have.”

Y/N huffed, locking her phone and tossing it onto the bed like that would somehow make her friend drop the topic. “I’m just checking the time.”

“Mm-hmm.” Charlotte turned, arms crossed. “Because, of course, it has nothing to do with the fact that Harry is coming over.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, but her face felt warm. “It’s just a movie night.”

Charlotte grinned. “And yet, you’ve changed your sweater twice.”

Y/N groaned, flopping back onto her pillows. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” Charlotte grabbed her bag, checking her reflection in the mirror. “I think it’s cute that you’re all flustered over him.”

“I’m not flustered.”

Charlotte raised a brow. “You are so flustered.”

Y/N groaned again, covering her face with a pillow.

A knock at the door made her sit up way too fast.

Charlotte smirked knowingly. “That’s my cue.”

Y/N watched as Charlotte opened the door, revealing Harry—standing there in his usual effortless way, glasses on, a bag of snacks in one hand.

“Oh, hey, Harry,” Charlotte greeted with a grin, throwing Y/N one last look. “I was just leaving.”

Harry glanced between them, looking mildly amused. “Leaving?”

“Yep.” Charlotte winked at Y/N. “Have fun.”

And before Y/N could even form a reply, she was gone.

Harry stepped inside, brow raised. “Did I just interrupt something?”

Y/N exhaled, shaking her head. “No. She’s just being Charlotte.”

Harry chuckled, setting the snacks down. “That explains a lot.”

Settling onto the couch, Y/N pressed play on 27 Dresses, tucking her legs under her.

Harry sat beside her, stretching his arm along the back of the couch. The space between them was small—too small—and she tried not to focus on the way his knee almost brushed hers.

“Have you seen this before?” he asked.

She scoffed. “Please. At least twenty times.”

Harry smiled. “Figures.”

For the first half hour, they made occasional comments about the movie—Harry teasing her about knowing all the lines, Y/N defending why it was a romcom classic.

But eventually, the room grew quieter. The soft glow of the screen cast shadows across Harry’s face, highlighting the curve of his jaw, the way his glasses slid down his nose.

And Y/N—despite her best efforts to stay focused on the film—felt her eyelids growing heavy.

She shifted slightly, trying to stay awake, but the warmth of the room, the steady sound of the dialogue, and the presence of Harry right beside her made it impossible.

At some point, she leaned just a little too far to the side—

And before she could stop herself, her head landed gently on his shoulder.

For a second, she almost panicked.

But Harry didn’t move. Didn’t pull away.

If anything, he relaxed.

She felt him shift slightly, adjusting so that she fit more comfortably against him.

And just like that, sleep took over.

———

The next morning, the first thing Y/N registered was warmth.

A slow, steady warmth surrounding her, lulling her in a sleepy haze.

Then, she felt movement.

Her eyes fluttered open, and it took her a moment to realize:

She was curled into Harry’s side, his arm draped loosely around her shoulders.

The snack bag was on the floor. The TV screen had long since gone black. The early morning light was filtering through the blinds, casting soft shadows across the room.

And Harry—

Was still asleep.

His head rested against the back of the couch, lips slightly parted, curls falling across his forehead. His glasses were slightly askew, one arm still tucked around her like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Y/N barely breathed.

She should move. Should sit up, stretch, do anything to break the moment before he woke up.

But before she could, she felt him shift.

A slow inhale. A stretch.

And then, with a small frown, Harry’s eyes blinked open.

For a second, he looked confused. Disoriented.

Then, his gaze landed on her.

They both froze.

Silence.

Neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke.

And then—

Harry’s lips twitched, still laced with sleep. “Morning.”

Y/N swallowed. “Morning.”

Another pause.

Then, realization dawned in Harry’s sleepy eyes. He glanced down at their position—her body still tucked into his side, his arm still loosely wrapped around her.

And yet—he didn’t move away.

Instead, his mouth curved into something softer.

“Didn’t mean to steal your couch,” he murmured.

Y/N huffed out a quiet laugh. “Didn’t mean to steal your shoulder.”

Harry smiled.

And for a moment, they just… sat there.

Close. Warm. Unmoving.

Y/N was still sitting on the couch, trying to process the fact that she’d just spent the night curled up against Harry Styles, when she heard him stretch beside her.

She glanced over. His eyes were still heavy with sleep, one hand running through his curls, the other adjusting his glasses.

And he looked… way too good for someone who had just woken up.

Before she could stop herself, she spoke.

“Do you—” She cleared her throat, trying to sound casual. “Do you want some coffee?”

Harry turned to her, blinking.

Then, the corner of his mouth lifted.

“Are you offering me coffee, Y/N?”

She rolled her eyes, standing up. “I regret it already.”

Harry chuckled, pushing himself up from the couch. “Too late.”

———

They ended up in the small dorm kitchen, Y/N fumbling with the coffee machine while Harry leaned against the counter, watching her with amusement.

“I didn’t peg you as the type to function without caffeine,” he said.

She scoffed. “Who says I function at all?”

Harry smirked. “Fair point.”

Once the coffee was ready, she handed him a mug, grabbing one for herself before hopping up onto the counter.

Harry took a slow sip, humming in approval. “Not bad.”

Y/N raised a brow. “Not bad?”

“Yeah.” He nudged her knee playfully. “Could be better.”

She gasped in mock offense. “You are such a snob.”

Harry grinned. “I have high standards.”

She shook her head, but she was smiling.

They fell into comfortable conversation, talking about everything from classes to 27 Dresses to how Harry apparently had a very strong opinion about the correct way to make tea.

And Y/N—despite the fact that she had woken up to a situation that should have been extremely awkward—found herself relaxing.

That was, of course, until Charlotte walked in.

She stopped in the doorway, taking in the sight before her—Harry standing in the kitchen, hair still tousled from sleep, drinking coffee from their mugs.

Y/N sitting on the counter, wearing the same clothes from last night.

Charlotte’s eyes widened.

Then, a slow smirk spread across her face.

“Oh,” she said, drawing out the word. “Good morning.”

Y/N groaned. “Charlotte—”

Charlotte ignored her, turning to Harry with an exaggerated expression of surprise. “Wow, Harry. You’re still here?”

Harry, to Y/N’s horror, grinned.

“Apparently, I make decent company, and your couch is not too bad” he said, sipping his coffee.

Charlotte gasped dramatically. “Did Y/N let you sleep on the couch? That is so rude.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “Charlotte.”

Charlotte pressed a hand to her heart. “I mean, I was gone all night, you totally could’ve used my bed—”

Y/N almost choked on her coffee. “Oh my God, stop.”

Charlotte just smirked, eyes dancing between them. “I’m just saying…”

Y/N glared. “You’re the worst.”

Harry chuckled, setting down his mug. “I should probably get going before Mason starts wondering where I am.”

He turned to Y/N then, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze.

“Thanks for the coffee,” he murmured.

She swallowed. “Yeah. Anytime.”

Charlotte wiggled her eyebrows.

Y/N shot her a warning look.

Harry—completely amused—grabbed his bag and made his way to the door.

“See you later, Y/N.”

And with that, he was gone.

Y/N barely had time to let out a breath before Charlotte pounced.

“So.”

Y/N sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Don’t.”

Charlotte ignored her, flopping onto the couch with a wicked grin. “You slept together.”

“Oh my God—”

“Not like that,” Charlotte amended. “But still. You slept together.”

Y/N groaned. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

Charlotte scoffed. “Oh, honey. It so was.”

———

Y/N had spent the entire morning convincing herself that nothing had changed.

That waking up next to Harry hadn’t felt different.

That the way he had smiled at her over coffee hadn’t made her stomach flip.

That she wasn’t replaying every second of their time together like some lovesick idiot.

But she was failing—miserably.

And Charlotte wasn’t helping.

“So,” her roommate drawled, flipping through a magazine on her bed, “are we just gonna pretend that last night never happened?”

Y/N, sitting at her desk, sighed. “Nothing happened.”

Charlotte scoffed. “You cuddled on the couch, made him coffee in the morning, and practically gazed at each other the whole time. That’s something.”

Y/N turned to glare at her. “I wasn’t gazing.”

Charlotte smirked. “Oh, honey. You were gazing.”

Y/N groaned, dropping her head onto her desk.

Charlotte laughed, tossing the magazine aside. “Look, all I’m saying is—he’s different, isn’t he?”

Y/N frowned. “What do you mean?”

Charlotte shrugged. “I mean, I’ve never seen you act like this over a guy. You usually keep your distance, but with Harry… I don’t know. You let him in.”

Y/N opened her mouth to protest—but nothing came out.

Because, as much as she hated to admit it, Charlotte wasn’t wrong.

Harry was different.

And that was what scared her the most.

———

That afternoon, she tried to focus on studying.

Tried being the keyword.

She was in the library, sitting at her usual spot by the window, but the words on the page blurred together.

Her phone buzzed.

She glanced at it, already knowing who it was.

Harry [3:27 PM]: You’re not skipping the library today, are you?

Y/N [3:28 PM]: I’m literally here right now.

Harry [3:29 PM]: Good. Would’ve had to question your commitment to academia otherwise.

She rolled her eyes, but a smile tugged at her lips.

A minute later, she heard a chair scrape against the floor.

She looked up.

Harry slid into the seat across from her, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“Hi,” he said, smiling.

Y/N tried to ignore the way her heartbeat definitely sped up. “Hi.”

He set down his bag and pulled out a book. “What are we studying today?”

Y/N sighed. “I’m trying to get through this reading, but it’s not working.”

Harry leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. “Do you want me to quiz you?”

She raised an eyebrow. “You just got here.”

He smirked. “And?”

She shook her head, amused. “Fine.”

And so, they studied. Or at least, they tried.

Every time Harry read a passage aloud, he did it with exaggerated dramatics, making Y/N laugh.

Whenever she got an answer right, he’d tap his fingers against the table like a drumroll.

At some point, he reached for her book, fingers grazing hers—and neither of them pulled away.

The touch was brief, but her skin tingled where it had been.

Harry didn’t say anything, but his gaze flickered to hers, something unspoken lingering between them.

For the first time, Y/N felt like she was on the edge of something.

And she didn’t know whether to step forward—or run.

———

An hour later, Y/N packed up her things.

“I should go,” she murmured.

Harry nodded, but there was something unreadable in his eyes. “Alright.”

She hesitated before speaking. “Thanks for—y’know. Keeping me sane.”

Harry’s lips quirked. “Anytime.”

As she turned to leave, he called after her

“Oh, Y/N?”

She glanced over her shoulder. “Yeah?”

Harry reached into his bag, pulling out a book.

She frowned as he held it out to her.

“The Symposium?” she read aloud, eyebrows raised.

Harry smirked. “Figured you might like it.”

She stared at him. “Harry, this is your copy.”

He shrugged. “So?”

“So, I know you annotate all your books.” She flipped through the pages, confirming her suspicions—his familiar, neat handwriting filled the margins. “I can’t take this.”

“You can,” he said simply. “And you will.”

She glanced up at him, confused. “But… why?”

Harry held her gaze for a moment, then leaned in slightly.

“Because I think you’ll understand it,” he murmured.

Y/N’s breath caught.

Because there was weight behind his words—something deeper than just a casual book recommendation.

She swallowed, gripping the book a little tighter.

“…Thank you,” she said softly.

Harry smiled. “See you later, Y/N.”

And as she walked away, The Symposium pressed against her chest, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted.

That, maybe, she had just crossed a line she could never go back from.

———

The night wrapped around them like a quiet secret. The streets were nearly empty, the world softened by the golden glow of streetlamps.

Y/N and Harry walked side by side, their steps unhurried, as if neither of them wanted the night to end just yet.

She wasn’t sure how they ended up here—how a simple goodnight after studying turned into do you want to take a walk? But she didn’t regret saying yes.

It had been a week since that night at her apartment, since they’d woken up together on the couch, and things between them had shifted. Not in an obvious way—there were no declarations, no grand confessions—but something had changed.

Harry had always looked at her like he was intrigued. But now?

Now, he looked at her like he knew. Like he was just waiting for her to admit it, too.

“You’re quiet,” Harry murmured beside her.

She glanced at him. “So are you.”

He smiled, a little crooked. “Guess I don’t always have something to say.”

“Impossible.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Harsh.”

They walked a little further before she spoke again, a quiet admission in the stillness of the night.

“I read your notes.”

Harry turned his head slightly. “My notes?”

“In The Symposium.”

Realization flickered in his expression. “Right.”

She hesitated. “There was one part that stuck with me.”

His gaze softened. “Which one?”

Y/N swallowed.

“The part where you wrote that love is about recognizing something familiar in someone else.”

Harry didn’t speak right away.

Then, quietly, he said, “That’s my favorite part.”

Y/N stopped walking.

So did he.

The silence between them stretched, heavy with something.

She could feel her pulse thrumming in her wrists, in her throat, in the space between them that was growing smaller by the second.

Harry took a step closer. Slowly. Like he was giving her time to stop him.

She didn’t.

His gaze flickered to her lips, just for a second, before meeting her eyes again.

His voice was softer when he spoke next. “You realize I like you, don’t you?”

Y/N felt something tighten in her chest.

Because, of course, she did.

But hearing it—feeling it—was different.

She exhaled, barely a whisper. “I think I do now.”

Harry tilted his head slightly, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Good.”

He didn’t move right away.

He just looked at her, taking her in, like he was memorizing the moment.

Then, so softly it was almost imperceptible, his fingers brushed against hers.

Y/N inhaled sharply.

And that was all it took.

Before she could second-guess it, before she could talk herself out of it, she closed the space between them.

She barely had time to process the warmth of his skin, the steady rise and fall of his breath, before his hand came up, fingers grazing her jaw as he leaned in—slow, careful, waiting.

And then—

Then, he kissed her.

It was soft at first. Just a whisper of a touch, a silent question against her lips.

But the moment she kissed him back, the moment her fingers curled into the fabric of his sweater, it changed.

It deepened.

Harry let out a quiet sound—like he had been waiting for this longer than he cared to admit—and then his hands were on her waist, pulling her closer, closer, like the space between them was unbearable.

Her heart was racing.

She could feel the warmth of his palms, the faint scrape of his stubble against her skin, the way he kissed her like he was learning her—like he wanted to know exactly how she fit against him.

And she let him.

By the time they pulled apart, her head was spinning, her breath uneven.

Harry’s forehead rested against hers, and he let out a quiet laugh.

“What?” she asked, still breathless.

He shook his head, smiling. “Nothing. Just… glad I finally did that.”

She bit her lip, trying—and failing—not to smile.

“Me too.”

Harry’s thumb brushed against her waist absentmindedly.

“Can I walk you home?” he asked.

Y/N nodded.

But neither of them moved.

Not right away.

And when they finally started walking again, Harry’s fingers found hers, intertwining them effortlessly—like they had been waiting to do that, too.

———

It had only been a couple of weeks since that night—their first kiss under the dim glow of the streetlights—but things between them had changed so much.

Not in an overwhelming way. Not in a way that made Y/N feel rushed or pressured.

But in a way that made her soften.

In a way that made it impossible to ignore how utterly smitten Harry was.

It was in the way he always found a reason to touch her, even in the smallest ways—fingertips brushing against hers when they walked, absentmindedly tucking her hair behind her ear when she was focused on something, resting his chin on her shoulder just because he could.

It was in the way he remembered things, like how she liked her coffee and how she hated the sound of loud chewing. In the way he always waited for her outside class even when they had different schedules. In the way he looked at her, like he was always choosing to.

Like he couldn’t believe she was real.

Today was no different.

Y/N sat curled up on the library couch, actually trying to get some work done, while Harry sat beside her, flipping through a book he had absolutely no interest in.

At least, that’s what she assumed—because instead of reading, he was staring at her.

She sighed, setting her pen down. “Harry.”

“Hm?” He looked unbothered, too comfortable as he rested his head against the back of the couch.

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

She shot him a pointed look.

He smirked, unfazed. “Looking at my girlfriend?”

Her stomach flipped.

Even after two weeks, the word still did something to her.

She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks were warm, and Harry knew it.

With a quiet chuckle, he reached for her hand and intertwined their fingers, absentmindedly running his thumb across the back of her palm.

“Should I be studying?” he murmured, lips twitching.

She nodded. “Yes.”

Harry pretended to consider it. Then, with zero hesitation, he squeezed her hand and dragged it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss against her knuckles.

“Too bad,” he murmured against her skin.

Y/N’s breath hitched.

This boy.

She was so doomed.

———

Y/N had tried to keep things subtle.

Not because she wanted to hide it, but because Charlotte was the biggest menace when it came to teasing her, and she wasn’t sure she was ready for that just yet.

Too bad Charlotte noticed everything.

Like the way Y/N smiled at her phone when she thought no one was looking. The way she suspiciously left the dorm at night with an “I’ll be back later.” The way she got flustered when Harry’s name came up in conversation.

She had her suspicions, but she didn’t have proof.

Until now.

Because today, as Charlotte was walking toward the dorm, she saw them.

Saw Harry pressing a lingering kiss to Y/N’s forehead. Saw the way she leaned into him, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And that was all she needed.

“I KNEW IT!”

Y/N jumped, turning to find Charlotte standing a few feet away with the biggest, most victorious grin on her face.

“Oh my God,” Y/N muttered.

Harry—who clearly wasn’t fazed at all—simply raised an eyebrow. “Did you, though?”

Charlotte turned to him, still grinning. “YES. I just didn’t have evidence.” She turned back to Y/N, wiggling her eyebrows. “But now I do.”

Y/N groaned, covering her face with her hands. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” Charlotte sing-songed.

Harry chuckled, amused, before leaning down and whispering into Y/N’s ear, “I’ll leave you to it, sweetheart.”

She sighed dramatically. “Coward.”

He smirked, kissed the side of her head one last time, and walked away, leaving her to deal with Charlotte’s relentless interrogation.

Y/N was so in trouble.

———

After an hour of being mercilessly teased, Y/N flopped onto her bed, groaning in frustration.

Charlotte smirked from across the room. “Oh, come on, you love me.”

“Debatable,” Y/N muttered, reaching for her phone.

She scrolled through her messages before typing.

Y/N [10:08 PM]: I officially hate you.

Harry [10:09 PM]: That’s unfortunate.

Y/N [10:09 PM]: Charlotte won’t stop teasing me. This is your fault.

Harry [10:10 PM]: Guess I’ll just have to make it up to you, won’t I?

Y/N froze, rereading the message at least three times.

Before she could even think of a response, there was a quiet knock on the door.

Charlotte and Y/N shared a look.

Y/N opened it—and there he was.

Harry stood there, a lazy smirk on his lips, holding a small pastry in a white paper bag.

“Hey,” he murmured.

Y/N blinked.

Charlotte—who was watching the whole thing unfold—snorted. “Oh, my God. You are so whipped.”

Harry didn’t even deny it.

He just shrugged, handed Y/N the bag, and kissed her temple like it was the most normal thing in the world.

When she looked inside, she found her favorite pastry, the one from the café across campus.

She looked back up at him, eyes soft. “You went all the way to—“

Harry simply shrugged. “Felt like it”

Y/N pressed her lips together, trying not to melt right then and there.

Charlotte, however, had no such restraint. “You two are disgusting”, she muttered, rolling her eyes before dramatically throwing a pillow over her head.

Harry chuckled, then leaned down and whispered against Y/N’s skin, “Worth it.”

And just like that, Y/N knew—

She was so, so screwed.

[reality-itself-but-magic]

Lost in a land not your own, with your memories of the past torn and smudged like paper left out in a storm, you clung to whatever memories you could salvage. When you woke up, you had three things: A brittle, broken sword, a map with a destination circled, and a simple written apology. You were found in the temple of one of the newer gods, one of those which hadn’t quite learnt to control their powers. There were reports of them making storms in deserts, warping life by accident, all sorts of bizarre occurrences. Bizarre almost like taking a stranger from their home and dropping them somewhere else.

But gods did as gods were, and seething over the mistakes of a child would not do any good to you. You set out to get to the circled destination, determined to find your way back home. Home to where there would be people waiting for you - maybe even people who worried after you.

You set sail with a company of honest folk, merchants and farmers looking to sell their wares across the seas. You didn’t want to trouble any of them, taking up instead a quite corner, where it was just you and the rocking waves.

You took out the sword you had landed with. It was broken, brittle, bad craftsmanship. You couldn’t remember where you learnt to tell how well made a sword was. Running your hands over the dull edge, you startled as you heard a voice from behind you.

“That looks awfully worn.” A stranger commented. “Want me to fix that up for you?”

You took them up on the offer, once they told you they used to be a blacksmith. Crows feet lined their eyes, but warmth still shone in them. They told you much more, as you spent the whole evening with them while they worked, partially to keep an eye on the sword, and partially because you yearned for conversation, a sympathetic other. When they were done, they handed you the sword, no longer as marred and battle-worn, but still without many virtues to extoll. Your hands closed around the leather of the hilt, and with a flash you knew something with certainty. You had loved this blade, once. This was a blade you knew as kindly as yourself. The blacksmith might have seen some of that, because they left you be for the evening, departing with an address and a firm order to drop by if you were ever near.

By the time the voyage over sea had ended, your spirits had grown low, and the map had faded for him many times you had unrolled it, pored over it, imagined yourself home with it. The next leg of your journey, you went to meet a woman who led travelers on trips to the mountain villages, whom the blacksmith had recommended you speak to.

She was kind, a bit sharp while she bargained, but kind, inviting you to stay in her house for the night, as the trip on horseback began the next day. As you followed her along hallways with framed portraits, floors dotted with children’s toys, you felt a sort of yearning, a nostalgia for a place you’d never been. The warm, lived-in home she kept was painfully familiar to you, but terribly out of reach.

By the next day, when lunchtime rolled around, the unpolished nature of your sword was irritating you. You picked up a round enough stone, with an expert eye, and spent your spare time polishing the blade. You remember… something. There is a great weight to this sword.

By the time she guides you to the village, your memories are lacing together. Your recollections multiply, you know this path, this stone, this plant. You know this place where you learnt the trade of forging, this place which is your home.

You break into a dead sprint as your heart pounds in you ears. The guide is left behind but somehow, you don’t think she’ll mind. Up ahead, tending to the garden, is a beautiful woman half-wearing armor, interrogating someone nearby. As she sees you, her face lights up.

“So you are here! Everyone seems awfully worried about you, and I was gone far longer than I meant to be, the bounty hunters guild is being stingy as always-” She was cut off by you barreling into her, hugging her as if you could merge into her so you would never be separated again. You step back, drawing the sword.

“I believe this is yours?” You ask, memories almost all reformed. You remember her - your beautiful, amazing wife, for whom you had forged this sword with your two hands, who probably didn’t even know you were missing if she was just now able to return from her adventuring - and you swear you’ll never forget her again.

@otherwindow I made it unsad ^^

A Dark Souls-like game where the lore for a weapon gets less vague the more you upgrade it. Broken Blade: A brittle sword. You can’t seem to let it go. Unpolished Blade: A cherished weapon from ages past. Polished Blade: You remember something. Bride’s Blade: Your wife’s sword.

[deathofacupid]

opposites attract, they say. they attract, but they don't last. at least, not satoru and you.

"'toru," you tug on his sleeve, the silk cool against your clammy skin. he glances away from the gaggle of people surrounding him, a practiced smile flashing across his face. it doesn't reach his eyes.

"yeah, baby?"

you inhale, the bass of the music vibrating through your chest, making it hard to breathe, let alone speak. "can we — could you…" the words catch in your throat. what were you asking for? sanity? a moment of quiet? "um," you stammer, "when's this going to be over?"

"over?" he echoes, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes, as if the very concept is absurd. "babe, the party just started."

your party. the party you hadn't asked for, the party you dreaded.

"i know," you say, treading carefully. you knew he'd put effort into this. it's just… the room felt like it was closing in. it wasn't his fault, not really. he thrived in this environment, the center of attention, radiating that effortless charisma. people were drawn to him like moths to a flame. and tonight, the flame was burning too bright.

"but… it's just really, um," suffocating is the word that claws at your throat, but it feels too dramatic, too needy. "it's just kind of a lot."

he laughs, a booming sound that seems to amplify the noise around you, and says something you can't hear over the music. "'toru," you sigh, the sound barely audible, "i can't hear you."

he clicks his tongue, a flash of annoyance crossing his features, before he leans in and excuses himself from the group. he takes your hand, his grip a little too tight, and pulls you out onto the balcony of the penthouse. the city lights sprawl beneath you, a dizzying panorama that mirrors the chaos in your head.

"okay," he says, his tone impatient, as if this whole conversation is an unwelcome interruption. "go ahead."

the resentment simmers. you swallow it down. "toru, this is… nice and all, but, uh — i'm just not sure… not sure this is my scene."

he squints at you, his brow furrowed. "what do you mean? it's your party."

"i didn't want one, though. don't get me wrong, this was… thoughtful, i guess. it's just too much for me."

satoru blinks, genuinely surprised, as if you've sprouted a second head. "but…i mean, i thought you'd like it. look at how many people showed up for you."

"'toru, those people aren't here for me. i don't even know most of them."

"it's a party! like, a party party. of course, you won't know all of them."

"i probably don't even know three of them!" you snap, the frustration finally breaking through. "you know i don't like these things," you add, the words softer now, pleading.

"yeah," he scoffs, the sound laced with something you can't quite decipher. "i do."

"well, what's that supposed to mean?"

"nothing. it's just," he groans, running a hand through his hair, "frustrating."

"frustrating? it's frustrating? me wanting to spend my birthday with you, that's frustrating?"

"you are with me!"

"and, like, one hundred other people! what's frustrating is that you're not listening! i told you i wanted to spend today, just the two of us!"

"but that's what we always do," he mutters, the words barely audible.

"what? oh, i'm sorry, is quality time annoying?"

he pinches the bridge of his nose, a muscle twitching in his jaw. "that's not what i meant."

"that's what it sounded like."

"look, it's just… boring doing the same thing all the time. we like different things."

"yeah," you whisper, the words heavy with a sudden, sinking realization. "we do, don't we?" you shake your head, the movement small and defeated, and turn to walk past him.

"wait, where are you going?"

you shrug, unable to meet his eyes, "to go to a different thing."

[yaseraphine]

pick a card 5 - what are people's first impressions of you ?

masterlist / ko-fi

my last post : your 2025 main lesson and themes.

Pile 1

10 of cups, King of Swords, 9 of Wands, 7 of Swords, 4 of Wands, The Sun, The Lovers, Death

Mischevious, Cunning, Manipulative in a flirtatious way ??, flirtatious, funny, Victorious, Happy, Fun to be around, Doesn’t take responsibility for things, Playful, Too unserious, Hot and sexy, Hot n Fun, Short n Sweet, Wet n Wild, If you’re a woman, people might think you easily get super wet (what is wrong with people respectfully 💀), Femme fatale/fboy boy, You look like trouble pile 1 not gonna lie lmaoo, Too hot to handle, People assume you’re a cheater or just kind of sneaky but all of that dark energy comes out somehow really playful ?? At first glance you exude strong Gemini and Aries energies  : kind of childish and playful, really “oopsie daisy”. They’re impression is that you’re the type of person that plays dumb when you get called out for your misbehavior. People might think you are commitment phobic, A player but people don't even mind to be heartbroken if it's you : “I don’t care if I get played by them tbh” people lowkey want to get heartbroken by you (people are crazy 🤡) 

People’s first impressions of you is that you’re a firecracker. Pile 1 I keep on seeing Maddy from Euphoria and Megan Thee Stallion’s Realer era, Pimpin is a song that plays in the background when you’re walking in the street lmaoo You look like you're always in a badass edit

I am hearing the lyrics “she bad mix the ratchet with the classy ooh so bad i just couldn’t let her past me no i told her “shawty, you so right but you so wrong”. Pile 1, you definitely got that aaah (reference to that one tiktok sound of She Knows - Ne-yo feat Juicy J and T pain). You literally make people do double takes on you.

People directly assume if you came into their life, you would ruin them but they would consent to their own self destruction because of how hot you are.

People's first impressions of you is that you’re a master manipulator, but not a horrible one that genuinely leaves others traumatized forever. You’re flirty, sometimes on purpose, sometimes not, but it's mostly people's delusions and projections that hurt them more than anything. They just assume things when you never meant anything, and honestly I don't even think you give people mixed signals. People mix them up by themselves. Like you smile at them just out of politeness and people are like “ damn they're into me or what ?!” What kind of people are around you Pile 1 ? Never met this level of delusion in my life 😭☠️

Something extremely strange about those impressions is that I don’t think people think you’re toxic ?? Which is a bit weird because I have been only describing manipulative behaviors… Pile 1, your energy is really complex to grasp and it stirs intense and contradictory reactions inside people when they first meet you.

I am getting people make a lot of assumptions about you because it’s not just first impressions. People project a lot on you, probably because you are really attractive and people seem to not be able to think a hot and sexy person can be a good and kind hearted person ??? These people are projecting hard literally

People’s first impressions of you is that you are a really sunny person, a really bright and happy go lucky person. 

They also instantly get that you probably got a lot of suitors and people at your feet, waiting for their chance with you. 

When they talk to you, I feel like people get really insecure and they instantly start to compare your life (i mean the 1000 assumptions of what your life is like that they created in their heads on the spot...) and compare it to their own lives. They compare your eloquence, your energy, your aura, the energy and the vibes you exude with their lack of charisma and presence. I don’t know if you’re around a lot of insecure people but be careful, some of them are secretly waiting for your downfall because of how jealous they are of you.

The type of people that are jealous of you instantly when they first see you are generally the same gender as you. If you’re a man, they compare for example how healthy your hair are, how women are easily attracted to you and follow you everywhere you go . Not going to lie it’s giving Chad VS Nice guy/ Incel kind of dynamic. Like they're internal dialogue would probably something like : “ Nice guys finish last anyways… I am sure he treats girls bad and is a player and girls still love him…It's so fucking unfair.” (such a low vibrational energy yikes 🤢). If you’re a girl, they compare your body, your smile, your makeup and how your outfits fit you perfectly , how their own crushes seem to like you more than them YET you don’t even pay mind to them (the jealous people’s crushes) lol 

Pile 1, I would advise you to be extra protective of yourself and your energy. Your spirit irritates a lot of people’s demons.

I find it interesting because this pile is heavy on gender dynamics, power of attraction,... Most of you here are probably straight, or bisexual at least. I don’t see much queer action going on. You also have a really young and fresh energy so you are probably in your 20s.

You incite a lot of hate, jealousy and envy from the same gender. And you incite a lot of obsession, desire and admiration from the opposite. You incite so much jealousy just by your presence, and it happens almost systematically and starts right when people meet you for the first time. I feel like you might have lilith somewhere prominent in your chart, first house, harshly aspected with your ascendant, also Neptune dominance.

People look at you and they instantly think to themselves “this person should star in a movie, what are they doing working in at the local Walmart ??” or “they should be in the cover of vogue. Why are they in college ? They're too hot to be sitting in a classroom all day ?!!” 

Something I am getting from all this channeling is that people's first impressions of you are generally extreme, and mostly false 💀 Different people have different assumptions about you, but everyone seem to agree that you first come across as a heartbreaker and a player. Basically pile 1, you look like trouble at first glance.

The quote I got for you is a beautiful one from Carl Jung : “People will do anything, no matter how absurd, to avoid facing their own souls”

MUSIC : Pimpin by Megan Thee Stallion / Ne-yo feat Juicy J, T-pain - She Knows (Remix) 2014

Pile 2

Ace of Wands Rx, 5 of Wands, 4 of Wands, 6 of Swords, 2 of Swords, 8 of Cups, The Hanged Man, 5 of Pentacles

People’s first impressions of you is that you’re really closed off and standoffish. Really protective over your energy, your time and your space. You appear somehow aggressively defensive, really “get out of my way bitch” type of energy. 

People’s first impressions are that you’re holding on to a lot of pain and hurt which, in result, makes you really hostile. People can see at first glance that you have been through a lot of negative experiences in life, which made you in return cold and distant. 

Pile 2, you give the energy of a black cat, and you hiss at any person trying to approach you too closely. You really have that lone cat energy.

You have the vibes of someone that bites back. I am hearing the audio “Get your fucking dog bitch!! “ / “It don’t bite.” / ‘YES IT DO !!!”. People think you will jump on them at any given moment if they say something that you don’t like,...lol

When they first meet you, people try to be really careful with their words because they are scared that if they say something wrong, they will cross you. If you’re with a group or someone else when people first meet you, they will avoid, out of fear, to directly engage with you, and will observe how your friends or the people that are with you handle you so they can do the same. 

Pile 2, people’s first impressions of you is that you are scary as hell lmaoo

You give people the impression that you’re judging them in a way. You might unintentionally side eye people a lot. You make people uncomfortable with your standoffish attitude. 

Now, this pile is divided in two sub-types : 

you are perceived exactly like what I described above : really bitchy vibes, no bullshit energy. You’re protective of your energy because you have a lot of self-respect and don’t want people to disrespect the way some did to you in the past. 

The second type, you are like this not really because of self-respect but because there is an underlying insecurity, something particularly broken inside of you. It feels almost like you put up this front of confidence and assertiveness and people usually can see right through it. If you’re faking it until making it a lot of people upon their first impressions pick up on that. 

These two sub-types can be blended too, like you could be both at the same time or perceived as both at the same time. (I don’t know if this makes sense )

People’s first impressions of you is that you are really authoritative and controlling. You probably have a really tight schedule that you don’t like to change for anyone. You look like you don’t like to compromise or work in groups. Their first impressions of you are also that you don’t really like change, you don’t like incompetency, and that you have a really good skincare routine (??random as hell lmaoo). 

People think you eat healthy boring food, like bland porridge for breakfast and a bland salad with almost no seasoning, that you snack on overtly expensive cereal and protein bars that taste like grass (people are really funny i swear this is so hyper specific)

I think their first impressions get them to make a few assumptions on you for a few minutes, but then they move on with their lives like “well i don’t know good for them” or “let them be”. People don’t want to get too carried away in the impressions they have of you and the assumptions they make from it because they don’t want to disturb your peace. Like you have an energetic protection that gives them a limited amount of time to ponder on who you might be. Like I am seeing a system almost like the one in Inside out, a little creature, a fairy or a guardian angel, coming into the person’s mind and starting the timer the moment they stare at you or interact with you for the first time with their foot tapping on the floor and their eyebrows frowned, looking over their watch each second ticking with growing impatience. People feel like they have to go through tests to be allowed to think of you deliberately. 

Pile 2, you have really protective guardian angels damn ! They tolerate no bullshit congrats!!

QUOTE : healed people hear differently

SONGS : Focus - Saweetie / Plan B - Megan thee Stallion / Here - Alessia Cara

Pile 3

King of pentacles, The Star, 7 of swords, 10 of Pentacles, Ace of Wands, 10 of Wands, 5 of Cups, Death

When I first started shuffling for your pile, High Maintenance of Saweetie started playing. Pile 3, you’re standing on business ! It was especially this lyric that stood out to me : 

“See I'ma rider but nah I ain't a die

'Cause I wouldn't take a bullet for a n***a, that's a lie”

People’s first impressions of you is that you are a workaholic with all your life figured out. You have a clear path of where your life will take you. 

People’s first impressions of you is that you’re extremely busy and productive, but, despite that, you are not a robot that does things mindlessly and repetitively. No, you are your own unique person, you have a clear and  higher vision, you seem like a complex individual with a mind of your own.

People’s first impressions of you is that you are a complex individual, with many layers. Instantly, people want to get to know you and get closer to you. They want to know your backstory, and what led you to be so passionate about everything you do today. They want to know how you seem to manage everything in your life so gracefully. 

People’s first impressions of you is that you are a deep soul that learned to make peace with the lighter side of life. You know when to let go and have fun, and when to cling onto things and be serious about things. 

People’s first impressions of you is that you’re beautiful, I am even hearing “striking”. 

People perceive your beauty as being ethereal. It’s not an instagram model type of pretty or handsome, it’s more sophisticated, it’s unique, it is just “you”. 

Maybe a lot of you are not conventionally attractive, you have a particular physical trait, something that makes you stand out instantly. It usually disturbs people a bit when they first meet you like “Oh!...”. I don’t know if you get what I am trying to say lol It is like you’re a woman with really thick and black body hair, but, instead of hiding them or shaving them, you just let them be there. You don’t really care much whether people see them or not. It could also be that you have back acne, and this does not stop you from wearing tank tops or just let them be visible. You don’t try to make a bold statement by doing this, because you’re just like “It’s natural what can I do about this ? It is what it is.” . People immediately pick up on this type of mentality from you. People want you to teach them how to do it. I am hearing “Teach me your ways master” lol . You seem really wise and you know how to not take everything personally. Really an old soul. 

Back to the physical trait thing (because I think people scrutinize your face a lot when they first meet you), you might have a roman nose, or you might look really “ethnic” or “exotic” to people. Maybe you’re a POC in a predominantly white environment, or you just look quite different from your peers.

-> Ok guys, I am picking up on something INSANE. People who would usually bully others for that physical trait you have, sense your strong self-respect and energy and are instantly subconsciously afraid to make fun of you or to try to belittle you. This is actually so fucked up what… I don’t know what is going on in this entire reading but a lot of low vibrational energies were channeled. Anyways. I feel like you grew up being the weird kid that grew into your features and personality, and now, retired high school bullies (not the one that bullied you, if it happened, just general retired high school bullies) lowkey sense they would have bullied you in the past if you were in the same class as them but now can’t do it because it’s lame and not socially acceptable for adults to do shit like that.

People are kind of scared to sit in your energy for too long when they first meet you and have their impressions about you because they feel like their energies are not high vibrational enough for them to be allowed to sit in your powerful energy for too long ?? Lol You intimidate people a lot but they don’t know why, they just feel the urge to shut the f up in your presence and just bathe in your energy silently ?? Weird 

Okay Pile 3, keep it up , never let people dim your light ! Your soul has a powerful pure essence that will  take you far in life.

QUOTE : My soul has traveled long and far to find yours

SONGS : Froot - MARINA / High Maintenance - Saweetie / Icy - ITZY

[dyingswanpavlova]

"Your girl" - Part 17 | The Salesman x Reader

Summary: What does he see when he looks at you?

Warnings: dead dove do not eat, kidnapping, mentions of sexual abuse and other traumatic events in the past, numbness, helplessness, violence, threatening, mentions of blood, mentions of murder and rape, body issues, trauma talk, stockholm syndrome, forced relationship, unhealthy relationship, depression, manipulation, mentions of sexual activities and desires, stalking, our man going all underwear fetish on us, his POV, not beta-read, if I've missed any please tell me! mdni 18+!

"Your girl" - The Salesman x Reader Masterlist

Three weeks ago

Watching you sleep was always the highlight of his day. It was what he loved doing most, even if there were surely people who considered that creepy. Maybe you did, too. But it didn’t matter, not to him.

The way you lay on his bed, your hair splayed over the pillow and your eyes peacefully shut – the way your chest softly heaved and your lips parted in a soft breath - it made him weak. Weak.

That was the only time he allowed himself to be really enamored. He took his time and stared at you, every contour, every freckle, everything – and it filled him with pride. You were his.

His.

He hadn’t intended for things to get out of hand like that. In fact, he hadn’t intended anything at all. But the exact second he read those words, so heartfelt and deep – it was like you had reached into his soul and taken the words from his tongue.

Of course he had to have you.

The way your eyes glistened, so sad and yet so beautiful on the pictures, it had only been the cherry on top. Actually, he didn’t really care what you looked like. You could have looked like anyhow. It didn’t matter.

What mattered was your sadness. It was inexplicable and it was oh-so wrong. But your sadness, your sadness. It shone in your eyes and it let your soul glow in a soft blue.

Everything about you was so blue. Even black one some days.

It wasn’t that he wanted you to be sad. Not at all, actually. He hated when you cried, unless it was in the bedroom.

He didn’t revel in your sadness per say. It just happened to be so…relieving.

All his life he had spent looking for something, someone, to understand him. To see him. Care for him. But no one ever did. Not in the way he wanted.

He had had relationships before, though none of them ever meant anything. He wasn’t even sure if he had the right to call them relationships. After all, it was mostly just the physical aspect, something to bring him some relief after a long day of pretending to be someone.

None of them ever meant anything to him. They were nothing but pretty dolls to take his frustrations out on. Most of them walked out on him the moment he ever even considered showing some of his true colors. Some of his darker shades.

Sick bastard was what most of them threw in his face. He couldn’t really blame them. But it wasn’t like he cared. Once he was done with them, it was either them leaving or him throwing them out. Most of them were only interested in him because they thought him to be some kind of important figure in any context. The suit, the tie, the briefcase – he had to be someone. Someone rich. Someone who knew how to take care of them. Someone.

But the reality of the situation was far more complicated. He didn’t care for them and he didn’t intend to pretend he did. He had no intention to pretend like he was the husband type of guy, the caring type. None of it. He was simply no one.

It was hard pretending not to be. After all, everyone who met him wanted something from him. Either money, status or whatever else. A smile. A kind word. A gentle touch.

Control.

Everyone wanted to control him.

That was the one thing in the world he didn’t allow anyone to have. Never.

Until he met you.

Your sadness was as contagious as it was maddening. Your pain was as toxic as it was alluring.

God, you suffered so beautifully. So gracefully.

He knew that he was fucked. He knew it by the first time he saw you in person.

That goddamn dark grey Honda and the countless hours he spent in there, doing absolutely nothing. He would have made a horrible detective, probably would have hung himself the first week of work. But you were worth it, right?

Because you understood him. You were special.

You weren’t like all these other women.

You were his girl. You would become his girl.

You wouldn’t care about status. You wouldn’t care about whatever he could give you.

No. You would want him. For him.

All you wanted was someone to rescue you. And the moment his eyes caught sight of your mother, he knew why.

The way she dragged you around like a collared dog, the way she swung her hips in a way that was so suggestive and begging for anyone’s attention. All the while she didn’t give you an ounce of her own, unless it was to guide you, like a good little dog.

It made him want to murder her on the spot.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t. It was your mother still.

He needed to win you over, not scare you.

Also, your mother was quickly forgotten, the second he laid his eyes upon you.

He wasn’t a man of many feelings. There was the anger that took control of him. He stood beside his body and watched as he committed the most heinous crimes. That was his anger.

Then there was the emptiness. It didn’t come often, but when it did, he tried to numb it. Alcohol, women, anything that was there, available and ready for him to be consumed. But it didn’t work. The only thing that ever fed his soul enough, the only thing that gave him back his peace of mind, was violence. Violence. Blood. Death. And pain.

Whenever he suffered, he needed someone else to suffer more. He had suffered enough, hadn���t he?

Whenever he closed his eyes at night, he still felt it. He still felt the way all the colors around him faded away. He still smelled it. The smell of burnt fish in the kitchen and the way the house smelled like it for days.

He still felt his hands. Nowadays, it didn’t make him feel sad or empty anymore. Not even disgusted. All he felt was anger.

But he couldn’t hurt him anymore, no, he had already killed him. Years ago, he already killed him and yet? Yet he couldn’t forget it. The darkness.

The darkness lured him in, surrounded him like a cloud.

It was the only thing that made him feel safe. His darkness was the only thing he knew.

Happiness was fragile. He didn’t trust happy people, they were so easily swayed. Sad people as well. All they needed was a hunch, a tiny promise of happiness and they dropped their sadness.

He needed someone who was as dead inside as he was.

Someone like you.

When he finally saw you, he immediately recognized it. The emptiness behind your eyes. The way you shrank away at the prospect of light, of day, of happiness.

You didn’t trust happiness either, because you didn’t know it.

You thought about it, dreamt about it – but you didn’t trust it. And he needed exactly that.

Everything that came afterwards happened as if on autopilot. What he needed were you. And how he’d get you didn’t matter.

The first time he snapped out of his automated haze was when you were already here, already working, already living according to his plan.

What was his plan?

Meet you. Ask you out.

You wouldn’t trust him of course, but maybe you were desperate. After all, you had lost your mother. Not that you would loved or missed her, but you lost her nonetheless and now you were alone. Maybe you were craving something. Someone. Like he was.

The fog in his brain lightened and he followed you home. Of course he bribed the landlord to let you pay only a tenth of what the apartment would have normally cost and he paid the rest. He also paid the man to keep his mouth shut about it. Just like he paid your boss to pay you more than your work was actually worth.

You deserved pretty things. But you never bought them.

He spent all the free-time he had to follow you. He waited and waited, excepting you to go batshit over the money, but you never did. The only thing you ever bought were books and food. Nothing more.

He had never seen anyone so low-maintenance before. It was refreshing in a way, but also frustrating. You deserved pretty things. You deserved them. But you didn’t seem to see it that way. It was irritating.

That one Friday afternoon, he followed you to the bookstore, the one that sold English books. You liked classic literature, he could tell as much. Last time you bought Madame Bovary, that Friday you bought Crime and Punishment. For some reason, that made him smirk. Raskolnikov. Darkness seemed to lure you in just as much.

He mindlessly scrolled through your Watch again list on Netflix. Hannibal – the old one and the new one. The Sinner. Bates Motel. You loved that one especially, because you watched the show and the old movie. You had great taste. Anything classic seemed to catch your attention. And also, anything dark. Maybe you found comfort in it, like he did. Maybe watching other people suffer made you feel at ease, as well. The thought drew him in even more. When he heard you slowly make your way out of the store, he made his way back to your apartment as well. He always kept a safe distance, but something was different that day. He’d caught a hunch of your perfume, the soft, gentle smell of some flower he couldn’t quite name. The smell nearly made his eyes roll back then and there.

That day, he needed more.

And so he waited. He sat, walked, stared, observed and waited until finally the lights went out. He waited another hour, feeling rather cold that night, but he couldn’t have cared less.

And so he slowly made his way upstairs. He had no need to even break in – he had the key. It made him furious, actually. That he landlord was so easily bribed to give him your keys – he could have been anyone, after all. He could have had the most lewd intentions.

He made a mental note to take care of the landlord someday, by the time he wouldn’t need him anymore.

He didn’t actually plan to approach you, but he couldn’t wait any longer. He needed you. He needed something.

And so he got inside, careful to be as quiet as possible. He slid off his shoes like any good guest would and then he softly stepped forward. He knew exactly where you slept, he had been here before, obviously. He glanced through the crack in the door, making sure you were really sound asleep, before he carefully pushed it open and stepped inside.

And there you were.

God. There you were.

He felt his heart skip a beat and a rush of heat flood his body. The familiar stirring of desire in the pit of his stomach, only that this was so much more intense. He had never felt anything like this before. It was like everything he ever wanted, ever needed. There you were. So beautiful. So vulnerable.

So his.

He swallowed slowly and stepped closer. You lay spread out over the mattress, wearing a simple, white nightdress. It looked a little outdated, might as well have been from Grease. But somehow that only added to your charm. You indeed reminded him of Sandy, maybe in the scene where she coughed after taking one smoke of a cigarette.

That made him smile to himself.

He stepped closer until he was finally close enough to touch you. He even reached out a hand, but then he stopped himself.

Not like this.

But he needed something. Something. Nothing sexual, nothing lecherous. Just you.

He very slowly curled his fingers in and brushed his knuckles over your cheek in a touch that was barely there. You didn’t even stir. In fact, he asked himself if you were even breathing. His gaze settled on your chest and stomach. You were breathing. You were alive. Real. And waiting for him.

So far, everything had worked out perfectly.

And he had no idea why it was taking him so goddamn long to approach you.

What was it that was holding him back?

What would you think when he spoke to you? That he was making fun of you? That he was some kind of psychopath, someone who wanted to hurt you?

How far from the truth. He just wanted you to be his, like it was always intended.

You had always been his. You simply didn’t know that yet.

He spent a few more minutes like that, staring down at your sleeping form. After a while he finally moved, ready to leave you in your tiny little world again. But he couldn’t.

He couldn’t touch you, kiss you, feel you the way he needed, but he needed something. He needed something or he would burst.

He didn’t want to use any other women to fulfill his need. He couldn’t. Ever since you stepped into his life, he couldn’t. No other woman did anything for his mind, for his fantasy. They were all just there, all name- and faceless.

All that occupied his mind were you. And he needed something.

He crouched down and pulled a few drawers open, glancing around and touching a few things, but nothing was enough. He needed…

By the time he stepped inside the bathroom, he knew what he needed.

He couldn’t touch you without your knowledge, without your permission. But what he could do was think about you.

And so he did the only logical thing. He knelt down and began to rummage through your laundry basket, until he caught sight of it.

Perfect.

Fuck. It was even better than perfect.

He reached out a hand and slowly pulled out the pair of panties. It was worn, but even better, even better. It had your trace on it, your blood. You.

Fuck. His eyes fell shut the moment his fist closed around the material and the faint trace of your blood. He was immediately hard. It was so quick, it was almost embarrassing. But he didn’t care. He slowly sunk down and leaned against the wall, before he held them up. He buried his face in it and inhaled deeply.

Fuck. He had to bite down on it, in order to keep quiet. A groan was tumbling upon his tongue. This was even better than anything he would have hoped for.

He would have given his life to fuck you. To feel you. To kiss your lips, to inspect your mouth with his tongue. To lick a path down your body and bury his tongue and his face between your legs. He knew it was Heaven, his Heaven.

The thought of you underneath him, warm and inviting…Looking up at him with that vulnerability, with that faint tear-stain on your face. Either that or a mischievous grin. Whatever it was. He knew the second he buried himself inside you, he’d burst. He’d turn into a predator, a wild animal, mindless, boneless, fuck.

He felt himself twitch in his pants. The thought alone was nearly enough to make him combust, right there in your bathroom.

Pathetic, he thought. Then he inhaled again.

The few weeks after that went by painfully slow. He wanted to approach you and every day he tried to. But he always stopped himself in the last second.

What if you refused him?

What if you rejected him?

What if?

He couldn’t bear the thought of it. He felt this helplessness whenever he imagined it. And so he waited. Observed. And did nothing else.

Until that cursed night. He stood in the shadows of the metro station, keeping a keen eye on you as he always did, pondering and brooding. How should he approach you best? In English? In Korean? He couldn’t let you know what he knew, what he was. He had to find a way-

And then that little rodent came. Oh, no.

No, no.

Over his dead body.

Murder in general wasn’t hard for him. But that, that was the easiest task he had ever taken on.

He didn’t even mind that you witnessed that little bastard exploding like a balloon on the train line.

He had wanted to hurt you.

You.

And he couldn’t let that happen. Over his dead body.

Things went up and down, back and forth. Mostly back. And of course things turned out different than he’d planned. But he tried to make the best of it.

And yet every time again, he stood beside his body and watched himself. Watched himself as he hurt you and did all these things to you.

But he had to, right?

You wouldn’t understand it otherwise. And you needed to understand it.

You were made for each other. You were his.

And he was yours.

Luckily, you did understand it in the end.

You were his girl. Not out of obligation, not out of fear.

You were his, because you wanted to be. Because you saw it now.

He kept watching as you slept, the tiniest hint of a smile on his lips.

Eventually, you’d forgive him for everything he had done. You had to, for one simple reason.

You were his girl.

____________________________________________

Tag list 1:

@mitsuki-dreamfree @kpopsmutty69 @heroine-chique @vkeyy @mizuwki @blu-brrys @z0mbi345 @yourpointbreak @ayieayee @freddyzeppsworld @lola11111111 @indifitel6661 @salesmanlover08 @laurenbenoit70 @lalalaa2210 @lila-marshal @auspicious-lilana @0-aubrie0 @lovelyaegyo @theredvelvetbitch @violentbluess @muriels-lover @dorayakissu @eviebuggg @muchwita @ririgy @strxlemon @obsessedwthdilfs @kiwilov3 @misty-q

Author's note: Happy Valentine's Day everyone!

I know this one is rather short, I'm sorry for that, but it was super spontaneous. I got an anonymous request about a chapter in his POV and this happened, I didn't plan this actually, so thanks, anon! I do have some crazy shit upcoming, so I wanted to do something a little lighter. I mean, it's still twisted obviously, but you know...in a gentle way.

ALSO: Happy Birthday dear @kyl13sm1l3y I'm sorry, I know this isn't Valentines Day related! But it is a new chapter anyway :( Forgive me please?

I love you, guys! Soooooooo much!

[connordraws]

do you have any art tips?

i think one of the best pieces of advice i got about art happened when i was a junior in college. i was in an illustration portfolio class and the teacher who helped run it liked my stuff so we talked every now and then after class. his name was mr. botts and he was a total hardass but was nice & meant well. anyway.

that particular semester i was struggling a lot with drawing and was considering going into writing (i was taking a screenwriting class and had a great teacher there too) so after one class i talked to mr. botts and explained my frustrations and asked him what i should do. he took a minute to think and told me he had experienced something similar back in his college days and one of his professors told him plainly:

if you like something other than art, do it.

and well. that was it. i thought about it and decided i couldnt and didnt want to do anything else besides art so i made it work. a lot of failures followed and other stories happened but i kept drawing because there's nothing else i wanted to do. ive been spoiled by kind people helping me along the way and there is more i could say but the most important thing when it comes to art (for me) is to ask yourself if there is anything else you want to do besides it. and if there is, do it.

[ivesambrose]

𝐴 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝑙𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑚𝑒𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑦𝑜𝑢 💌

Happy Valentine's Day everyone ❤️

This is a love letter with your name on it, there's someone out there who has something to say to you 💌

To Book a personal reading with me DM or email me at ivesambrose@gmail.com

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Envelope 1

To the one my heart recognises,

You move through life like a dreamer caught between worlds, always reaching, always searching, always holding a litle more hope than you let on. And I see it. I see you.

You chase after the things your heart aches for, even when the path twists, even when the road splits in too many directions. You weigh choices in your hands like they hold the weight of the universe, afraid to step too far in the wrong direction. But, love, you are never lost to me. No matter where you go, no matter how far you run, I will always find you. Because I already know the shape of your soul.

The world hasn't always been kind to you, and I know you carry the weight of thingS unspoken, the fractures from moments that tried to break you. But even in your quietest battles, you are still becoming. still unfolding into someone even more extraordinary than you were yesterday. And I will be here, beside you, through every rebirth

So leap. Make the reckless choice. Follow the dream that won't let you sleep at night. You were not meant to stay within lines drawn by other people's expectations, you were meant to break through, to touch the sky, to chase the impossible and make it yours.

And if ever you need a hand to hold, a heart that won't waver, or someone who will remind you of the fire in your soul, you already know where to find me.

I am yours. Always.

Envelope 2

With all that I am,

The one who was always meant for you.

To the One My Soul Knows,

Loving you is like standing beneath the moon, soft light, deep mystery, and the quiet knowing that some things are felt more than they are understood. There are parts of you that shift like tides, emotions that swell and retreat, thoughts that linger in the silence before sleep. And I love every version of you, every hidden depth, every unspoken word.

You are a force, a wild thing that cannot be tamed, and I would never want to. There is something raw, something instinctual about the way you move through this world like you are both ancient and new, both fearless and tender. I see the hunger in you, the ache for something real, something lasting. Love is not a word you take lightly. Nor do I.

With you, I see forever. Not in the way stories promise perfect endings, but in the way two souls recognize each other across lifetimes. In the way your touch feels like something I’ve known before, something I would know again, no matter where time places us. You are home, not because you make things easy, but because you make them true.

I want to build a life with you, not just in the quiet, beautiful moments, but in the raw, messy, achingly real ones. I want to know the thoughts you never say aloud, the dreams you keep close to your chest. I want to trace every part of you, mind and body, learning you in ways no one else ever has.

Loving you is a temple I will worship in for as long as you’ll let me. You are the question, the answer, the universe wrapped in skin. And if there is a destiny greater than this, I do not want to know it.

You are mine, and I am yours. In this life, and in every one after.

Forever,

The one who chooses you.

Envelope 3

To the One Who Holds My Heart,

Loving you is an unfolding, slow, steady, something delicate but unshakable. It isn’t always easy, and I know that. You carry so much in that beautiful mind of yours, thoughts that keep you awake when the world is quiet, worries that press against your chest like weights only you can feel. But you don’t have to hold it all alone. Not with me.

I see you. The way you give, the way you pour yourself into others, always making sure there is enough love to go around. But love, when was the last time you let yourself receive? When was the last time you let someone hold you the way you hold everyone else? I want to be that for you. Not just in fleeting moments, but in all the ways that matter.

I don’t need you to have it all figured out. I don’t need you to be perfect. I only need you to know that you are already enough, just as you are. Even in your quiet, even in your uncertainty, even in the moments you hesitate to let yourself be fully seen. You don’t have to keep your heart wrapped in caution, hidden away like a gem buried deep in the earth. Let it breathe. Let it shine.

Love doesn’t have to be rushed. It doesn’t have to be forced. It’s something we build, something we water, something that grows in its own time. So take my hand. Let’s rest in this moment together, without worrying about what comes next.

Because no matter how long it takes, no matter how many times the world shifts around us, I will still be here.

Always,

The one who chooses you, again and again.

[yara0546]

୨୧ When they confess their love, but you think it’s a joke.    .    .    반응     ୨୧

୨୧ Pairing: enhypen x fem!reader

୨୧ Genre: Romance, Fluff, Light Angst, Comedy

୨୧ Word Count: 1,000–1,200 words

୨୧ Note: English is not my first language, so I apologize if there are any grammatical errors, because I sometimes use a translator in some sentences.

୨୧ Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction from our imagination. It is not intended that the plot, theme, original characters, idols, etc. portray any real-life events/people. Plagiarism is NOT tolerated on this blog. If you believe we have copied an existing authors’ work, please message us privately. thank you and enjoy :)

Masterlist

✦ Heeseung   ୨୧   ;   희승   !

You were sitting across from Heeseung at a café, laughing at a funny memory when he suddenly stopped mid laugh.

"I like you, Y/N. A lot." His voice was softer than usual, his gaze locked onto yours.

You chuckled. "Pfft, sure, Heeseung. And I’m secretly a billionaire."

His smile faltered for a split second before he leaned in, resting his arms on the table. "I’m serious."

You blinked at him, still half-expecting him to laugh it off. But when he didn’t, your breath hitched. His usual playful demeanor was gone his eyes held nothing but sincerity.

"I’ve liked you for a long time, Y/N. Don’t laugh it away."

At that moment, you realized this wasn’t a joke.

✦ Jay   ୨୧   ;   제이   !

Jay had been dropping hints for weeks, but when he finally gathered the courage to confess, you just… laughed.

"Oh, Jay, that’s a good one! You almost got me."

His jaw clenched, and he exhaled sharply. "Y/N. I’m. Not. Joking."

You still grinned. "Come on, Jay, you’re always teasing me. Why would this be any different?"

He ran a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated but keeping his cool. "Because this is the first time I’m telling you something that actually matters." His voice was lower now, more serious.

Seeing the shift in his tone, your stomach dropped. He wasn’t playing around.

✦ Jake   ୨୧   ;   제이크   !

Jake’s confession was clumsy but heartfelt.

"I… um… I like you, Y/N. Like, a lot. More than just friends."

You burst out laughing. "Jake, stop, you’re too funny!"

His face turned beet red, and he started fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve. "Wait… what? You think I’m joking?"

You nodded, still giggling. "Well, duh! You flirt with everyone!"

Jake’s eyes widened, and he stepped closer. "Yeah, but not like this. Not with you."

Your laughter faded as his sincerity sunk in. Oh.

✦ Sunghoon   ୨୧   ;   성훈   !

Sunghoon confessed in the middle of a casual conversation, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"I like you, Y/N. It’s kind of annoying how much I do."

You snorted. "Nice try, Sunghoon. You’re hilarious."

He narrowed his eyes. "What part of that was funny?"

You smirked. "You? Liking me? No way."

Sunghoon crossed his arms, leaning back against the wall. "Wow. You really think I’d joke about something like this?"

You hesitated. Sunghoon wasn’t laughing. In fact, he looked offended.

"I don’t say things I don’t mean, Y/N. Maybe you should think about that."

✦ Sunoo   ୨୧   ;   선우   !

Sunoo’s confession was all sparkles and confidence.

"Y/N, I have a confession to make. I like you, and I think we’d be the cutest couple ever."

You gasped theatrically. "Oh no, Sunoo’s finally lost his mind!"

He blinked. Once. Twice. Then placed a hand over his chest.

"EXCUSE ME?!"

You giggled. "Come on, you love attention. This is just for fun, right?"

His mouth fell open. "How DARE you underestimate my sincerity! Do you know how many times I practiced this in front of the mirror?!"

His over the top reaction made you laugh even harder until you saw the actual hurt in his eyes.

"Y/N… I really meant it."

Oops.

✦ Jungwon   ୨୧   ;   정원   !

Jungwon confessed after days of overthinking.

"I like you, Y/N. Like… more than a friend."

You burst into laughter. "Jungwon, that was so deadpan. You need to work on your delivery."

His face remained neutral. "It wasn’t a joke."

You faltered. "Wait… you’re serious?"

Jungwon sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Why would I joke about something like this?"

Your heart pounded. You had just laughed in his face. Oh no.

"It’s fine." He forced a small smile. "I’ll just… pretend you didn’t say that."

Now you felt horrible.

✦ Ni-ki   ୨୧   ;   니키   !

Ni-ki’s confession was blunt and direct.

"I like you. A lot."

You immediately rolled your eyes. "Haha, good one, Ni-ki."

He frowned. "What’s funny?"

"You! You’re always teasing me, why would I believe this?"

His expression darkened slightly. "Because it’s true?"

You still looked skeptical, and he huffed. "You know what? Fine. Don’t believe me. But I’ll prove it to you."

You raised an eyebrow. "Oh? How?"

Ni-ki smirked. "Just wait and see."

And from that day on, he made it his mission to show you exactly how much he meant it.

[bethivy]

I was in high school in 2003, military family, hyper conservative Christian upbringing. My cousins were in that war, some of my friends. I want to add the context of propaganda here, from a personal side, beyond the people calling the shots. Because people I loved joined up drunk on this idea of American righteousness and justice: a lie that cost them their lives in some cases, their sanity in others. Some are still haunted by the things they did, that their government convinced them was in service of justice.

In the years following 9/11, everything was spun as getting "justice" for those killed in terrorist attacks. The news told us we were going into Iraq because we were following "the terrorists." The US was "rooting out evil." They were "forcing us" to hunt them down and find them, and destroy everything our path while doing it. We'd gloss over the deaths and destabilization, much like we fully left out that the Taliban in Afghanistan was set up by our own government before we went to war with them. The cleverness of a "war on terror" is terror can be anywhere. And if you keep your people terrified, they will back you up in continuing your father's oil wars in the middle east indefinitely. (You may note the similarities in how many news outlets talk about Israel's genocide in Gaza. That terrorist language justifying mass murder is the same.)

Americans are in some ways the picture of fragile masculinity. There had not been a foreign attack against the US since Pearl Harbor, and that shook people. We could not look weak. Weak is the worst thing an American can be, and what weakness means to those folks is nonviolent. They hit one of our cities? We have to destabilize a whole region. Under that was still greed, taking control of resources under the guise of justice, and white supremacy--evil in the early 2000s meant brown skin, nonwestern dress, or any knowledge whatsoever of Islam . So, while I learned many years later that many people opposed the war, I can say honestly, it never crossed my mind that going into Iraq was unreasonable. Everyone I knew--absolutely everyone, saw that action as defending our country, and getting justice for our dead. I would go so far as to say the media--and my family didn't watch fox, this was abc, nbc, all over --made it sound like our military actions were preventing WWIII.

As a progressive, primarily anarchist human being now, who's broken up with that culture and religion, I tell you all this so you can recognize that it is baffling to you because you see the facts of history, but you were not there for the spin they put on it, strong enough to convince people to die in service to greed and hate, and believe they are doing justice and mercy the whole time.

Question the stories your government tells you. Never trust messages of patriotism, even subtle, kind seeming ones. Listen to the voices of the other side, even if it makes you scared or uncomfortable. The brainwashing that fear and patriotism create is powerful, and it took me years to unlearn it.

That war seems insane, but what should tell you more than the confusion we have about it in hindsight is the ardor and love for country that so many Americans felt that fueled it.

I missed most of the Iraq war due to being a baby, but every time I read about it I start wondering why we aren’t all talking about it all of the time

[unconventional-lawnchair]

Okay hear me out poly!bartylus x reader

Animagus reader who can turn into a niffler and is constantly giving barty her findings because reg would make her return them! They also exclusively wear silver because she likes gold shiny things lol

A Bored Barty

Bartylus x Reader

Summary: Barty is bored, alone in his dorm room- until his darling treasure brings him a treasure of her own.

WC: 1.1k

CW: Nothing really. Kisses used as weapons of war. Dont write for Regulus much so forgive me ( Art cred: kprk_pkrs on Twitter)

Barty was bored.

A dangerous thing, really.

He laid sprawled across his bed, one arm hanging off the side, tossing a small, silver knut into the air, catching it, then throwing it again. He had already read through all the interesting books in the dorm, bothered his least favorite housemate, and debated sneaking into Slughorn’s stash for a bit of fun. But even that felt like too much effort.

He sighed dramatically, letting his head loll to the side. The dorm was still, the air thick with the kind of midday lull that made his skin itch- drew you down to this unbearable tired. He needed something. A spark. A game. A bit of madness to wake his bones.

And then-

A soft, skittering sound at the doorway. Tiny claws against stone. A flicker of movement in the corner of his vision.

Barty turned his head sharply, and his entire mood shifted instantly the second he saw that familiar teal coat.

“Oh, there’s my girl,” He purred, pushing himself up on his elbows as you- small, sleek, and utterly adorable in your niffler form- scurried towards him with purpose. 

A purpose that gleamed between your paws.

Barty let out a delighted, wicked little laugh, eyes gleaming with manic glee as you proudly presented your newest prize- a golden ring, ornate and entirely not yours.

“Well, well, well,” He cooed, sitting up fully and reaching out to pluck it from your grasp. He examined it between his fingers, tilting his head as he recognized the engravings. “Now, this is entirely too big for you, innit?”

He grinned. You grinned (or, at least, you looked quite pleased with yourself). Preened? You preened.

Then- 

The door slammed open.

Barty didn’t even flinch. If anything, his day had just gotten much better.

Because there, standing in the doorway, looking half-feral and wholly pissed, was Regulus. 

Barty could kiss you for this. Truly, he could. And, in fact, he might.

Because what was better than both of his partners being in the same room? A pissed off Reg.

“You,” Regulus growled, storming forward, shoulders tense, hair slightly out of place like he had run here. “Tell me you did not let her steal from Avery of all people.”

Oh he just adored you.

Barty just tilted his head, considering. Then he smirked. “Define ‘let.’”

Regulus made an exasperated sound, reaching for the ring in Barty’s hand.

Barty, quick as a viper, yanked him down by the collar.

Regulus barely had time to blink before Barty’s mouth was on his, stealing away every single ounce of righteous anger in one swift, practiced move.

Regulus, like the absolute fool that he was, immediately squeezed his eyes shut. Barty always found it the cutest thing- Regulus unable to help himself. As natural as a moody cat flicking its tail, as a lion roars and as a cougar stalks- Regulus Black closed his eyes for kisses.

Barty smirked against his lips. Eying the cute way his nose scrunched up and he let out a sound close to a whine- protests he never truly meant. The adorable sight complete with him reaching for Barty’s pockets; already knowing what Barty was up to.

And somehow? His free hand still slipped the ring into his pocket without obstacle.

You, still perched on the bed, let out a soft hum of approval, tail flicking as you watched with an utterly smug sort of delight.

Barty deepened the kiss for just a moment- long enough to enjoy the soft, reluctant way Regulus gave in before he pulled back with a smirk.

“What was that you were saying, love?” He purred, tapping Regulus’s chin lightly with his fingers. “Something about our dear ol’ Avery?”

Regulus huffed, eyes fluttering open, already scowling as he reached for Barty’s pocket again. “Give. It. Back.”

Barty grinned. “Give what back?”

Regulus glared. “The ring, Barty.”

“The ring?” Barty echoed, feigning confusion. He patted his chest, then his sides, then even made a show of checking under the pillow. “Hm. Don’t seem to have it.”

“You-” Regulus cut himself off, jaw tightening. Then his sharp gaze flickered to you, still perched happily on the bed, tail flicking with amusement.

“And you,” he accused. “You know exactly what you did.”

You tilted your head, ears twitching, looking every bit the picture of innocent curiosity.

Barty’s grin only widened. “Oh, come on, Reg,” he drawled, fingers lazily tracing circles on Regulus’s waist where he still had him held close. “Look at that face- does that look like the face of a thief?”

Regulus pinched the bridge of his nose, as if trying to summon the patience of Merlin himself.

“Turn back,” Barty said suddenly, looking at you now, voice smug and expectant.

You blinked up at him.

“Go on, love,” he coaxed, a lilt of challenge in his tone. “Let’s see those totally empty pockets of yours, shall we?”

For a moment, you debated staying in your niffler form- safe, small, and easy to scamper away if things got sticky. Barty looked ready to bite- Regulus too. But both were looking at you like they already knew.

With a soft huff, you shifted back into your human form- warm magic rippling over your body as you transformed.

Barty let out a bark of delighted laughter the second he saw you.

Because, oh, you were full of it.

Your pockets bulged comically, weighed down with far too many treasures- little trinkets and stolen baubles pressing against the fabric, revealing shapes of coins, buttons, and Merlin knew what else.

Regulus made an outright wounded noise. “Oh, for Salazar’s sake-”

Barty grabbed your wrist and yanked you down into his lap, laughing as he did so. “You absolute menace,” he grinned, wrapping his arms around you tight. “Not a dull moment with you, hm?”

You wriggled slightly, but Barty just adjusted, pulling Regulus down with you in one smooth, easy move- trapping you both in his arms. Regulus made a sound of protest, but it was weak at best, his cheek pressed against your temple, caught between exasperation and reluctant affection.

Barty smirked against your hair. “Now,” he murmured, voice slow, teasing, “should we even bother to check her pockets? Or should we just accept the fact that our little niffler is a bloody menace and move on?”

Regulus groaned into your shoulder. “You both drive me mad.”

Barty just laughed, pleased as anything, nuzzling shamelessly against the two of you as you let out a small, smug hum of victory.

Because in a few hours, Regulus would make you empty your pockets and identify whose riches were whose. He’d likely scold you but give up half way through when he sees those pretty eyes of yours gloss.

He’d make you return them and Barty would be alone in his room again. Waiting.

But right now? 

He felt alright.

[extinctlesspains]

Hey! I am not sure if you have watched the new Cobra Kai episodes yet but if you haven’t then please don’t read my request until you can or have because I don’t want to spoil it.

Would you be willing to write a Yandere!Axel one shot with a Keene!Reader or a Diaz!Reader? Maybe Robby’s younger sister after he breaks Robby’s leg (Keene! Reader) or seeing how he treats Miguel (Diaz!Reader)??

If you don’t want to write it then please ignore/ delete my request!! Hope you have a great rest of your day.

A/n: Hi! I absolutely love this request I think it's so creative and I would love to make it... Here you go and hope you enjoy!! ♡

𝐼𝑡'𝑠 𝐿𝑜𝑣𝑒.... 𝑅𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡? [𝐴. 𝐾𝑜𝑣𝑎𝑐𝑒𝑣𝑖𝑐]

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

ʀᴇǫᴜᴇsᴛᴇᴅ: ʏᴇs

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ! ᴀxᴇʟ ᴋᴏᴠᴀᴄᴇᴠɪᴄ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: ᴅᴀʀᴋ ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴄᴇ!

sᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: ᴀxᴇʟ ᴄᴏɴғᴜsᴇs ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴋɪɴᴅɴᴇss ғᴏʀ ʟᴏᴠᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴡʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ʀᴇᴊᴇᴄᴛ ʜɪᴍ, ʜᴇ ᴛᴀᴋᴇs ᴏᴜᴛ ʜɪs ʀᴀɢᴇ ᴏɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʙʀᴏᴛʜᴇʀ, ʀᴏʙʙʏ, ʙʏ ʙʀᴜᴛᴀʟʟʏ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋɪɴɢ ʜɪs ʟᴇɢ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ғɪɴᴀʟ ᴍᴀᴛᴄʜ. ᴡʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴏɴғʀᴏɴᴛ ʜɪᴍ, ʜᴇ ʀᴇᴠᴇᴀʟs ʜɪs ᴏʙsᴇssɪᴠᴇ ᴅᴇʟᴜsɪᴏɴ—ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ʙᴇʟᴏɴɢ ᴛᴏ ʜɪᴍ—ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴀᴋᴇs ɪᴛ ᴄʟᴇᴀʀ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʜᴇ ᴡᴏɴ’ᴛ ʟᴇᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ɢᴏ.

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇

Axel never thought much about you—at first. You were just another fighter’s sibling, another face in the crowd. But then, you smiled at him. Not out of fear or admiration—just casual, friendly kindness.

It was nothing to you.

But to Axel?

It was everything.

That one smile planted a seed in his mind, something that grew every time you looked his way, every time your voice carried across the dojo, every time you asked, Hey, Axel, you good? after a match.

You noticed him.

You cared about him.

And in his mind, that meant one thing—you were his.

You just didn’t know it yet.

At first, Axel kept his distance. Just observing. Watching the way you laughed with the others, how you always checked in after a brutal sparring session. Unlike everyone else, you didn’t look at him with fear or wariness—you just treated him like a person.

Then he started seeking you out.

"Didn’t think you cared about my fights," he teased one afternoon, leaning against the wall as you wrapped up a conversation with Sam.

You gave him a playful look. "Why wouldn’t I? You’re good, Axel. I mean, kinda scary in the ring, but still good."

Scary?

No, no—he wasn’t scary. He was strong. And you liked strong, didn’t you?

He smirked, tilting his head. "If you think I’m scary, why do you keep talking to me?"

You laughed. "Because I know you’re not just some ruthless fighter like everyone says. You’re more than that."

Those words replayed in his head for days.

You saw him.

You understood him.

That had to mean something.

So he made sure you spent more time together. Slipping into your conversations, walking you to your car after practice, stepping between you and anyone who got too close. It was subtle, at first. Just making sure people knew you weren’t available—not to them, at least.

But then, something changed.

He should have known something was wrong when you started pulling away. It was in the little things—how you hesitated before responding to him, how your laughs didn’t come as easily, how your body tensed whenever he got too close.

And then, he overheard you talking to Sam.

“I think he likes me,” you admitted, voice low with uncertainty. “But… I don’t. Not like that.”

Silence.

His world stopped.

Not like that?

Not like that?

Not like that?!

Axel’s fingers twitched as he clenched his fists, trying to understand. You were lying. That had to be it. Maybe Sam had gotten in your head, or maybe Robby had poisoned your view of him. But it didn’t matter—he would fix this. You loved him, you had to!

You just needed to see things clearly.

You needed to see that you belonged to him.

And if words wouldn’t convince you…

Maybe actions would. And he did exactly that... But, to make it hurt, it had to be someone who you loved.

Axel fought like a man possessed. Every match, every opponent—none of it mattered. Not until he was standing in the final round, staring across the mat at the one obstacle between him and you.

Robby Keene.

Your brother.

It was perfect.

It was someone you loved, and he poisoned your sweet, sweet, soul... He was in the way of your love.

Axel could feel your eyes on him, could picture your worried expression, the way you probably pleaded in your mind for him to fight fair. But why should he? Why should Robby get to be fine when Axel was being torn apart inside?

If he couldn’t take it out on you, then Robby would suffer instead.

The match started, and Axel wasted no time. His strikes were brutal, calculated, each one forcing Robby onto the defensive. Robby was strong, but Axel was relentless.

A kick to the ribs. A strike to the jaw. And then—

A vicious sweep, followed by a perfectly timed sidekick.

CRACK.

Robby’s leg bent at an unnatural angle as he hit the mat with a strangled yell.

The crowd gasped. The referee blew the whistle. And you—

You screamed.

"Robby!!"

Axel stood over Robby’s writhing form, breath coming fast, heart pounding—not from exertion, but from victory.

He turned, searching for you.

And when he met your gaze—wide, horrified, betrayed—he finally felt something.

Satisfaction.

But it wasn't enough.

You found him after the match, pushing past the crowd with fury burning in your eyes.

"Axel!" Your voice was sharp, cutting through the noise like a blade.

He turned slowly, his smirk already in place. "Hey, princess."

"Don’t you dare," you snapped, shoving him hard in the chest. He barely moved. "What the hell is wrong with you?!"

His smirk didn’t falter. If anything, it grew. "That’s a lot of yelling for someone who should be thanking me."

Your face twisted in disgust. "You broke his leg, Axel! That wasn’t an accident!"

"And?" He tilted his head, watching as your hands curled into fists. "You rejected me."

You sucked in a sharp breath. "What?" How could he have possibly known that you didn't return his feelings?

Axel stepped closer, eyes dark with something unreadable. "You think I didn’t notice? The way you started avoiding me? The way you laughed with other guys but not me? You led me on, and then you threw me away like I was nothing."

Your voice shook. "Axel, I was just being friendly. That’s not the same as—"

"Yes, it is," he cut you off, voice dropping to something dangerously low. "You smiled at me. You cared about me. You don’t get to take that back." You gulped nervously.

Your breath hitched. For the first time, real fear flickered in your eyes.

Good.

Maybe now you’d finally understand.

Axel reached out suddenly, grabbing your wrist. You gasped, trying to yank away, but his grip tightened—gentle enough not to hurt, but firm enough to keep you in place.

"You belong to me, Y/N," he murmured, gaze locking onto yours. "No one else. Not your brother. Not anyone. Me." Panic arose inside of you. The location didn't do you any good either—it was an isolated hallway towards the back of the venue.

You shook your head, eyes shining with something dangerously close to tears. "Let me go, Axel." You could feel tears threatening to leave.

He smiled.

But it wasn’t right.

It wasn’t normal.

It was twisted, wrong, filled with something dark and possessive.

"You don’t get it, do you?" he whispered, thumb brushing against your pulse. It was racing. "I did this for you. For us."

Breaking your brothers leg... For you?

Your stomach twisted. "There is no us, Axel."

His expression flickered—just for a second. A crack in the mask.

Then, slowly, his smile returned.

"Not yet."

And with that, he let you go.

You stumbled back, heart hammering, hands shaking. You should have run. Should have screamed. Should have done something.

But all you could do was stare at the boy who had shattered your world with a twisted kind of devotion.

And the worst part?

You knew this wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

He stepped forward, his hand brushing against you cheek as he leaned in to leave a soft kiss.

"Bye bye, love.." He whispered before stepping into the dark hallway.

[overadores]

･ ⟢ ⋮ love last ゛༝. ✦ megan skiendiel

You know me well

pairing.ᐟ megan skiendiel x reader

about.ᐟ a sorrowful story of love, sacrifice, and time’s relentless passage, this tale follows two childhood friends whose unbreakable bond grows into something deeper, but as dreams take flight and distance pulls them apart, unspoken words linger—until one fateful night changes everything.

genre.ᐟ heavy angst. hurt, no comfort.

cw.ᐟ major character death, car accident, language.

wc.ᐟ 1229 words

a/n.ᐟ i promise you this is the last car accident story i have, a honorable mention for this lovely song which i highly recommend to listen if yall want to hurt like i did while i was writing this.

It's almost like you love me, I can tell

Have you ever sacrificed everything—your life, your entire world—just to see someone smile again?

Just to remind them that the world isn’t as dark, as empty, as it once seemed?

You did.

It was the summer of ’03.

You were just a kid back then, thrown into the same cabin at summer camp as a stranger, forced into the same space. Megan was a whirlwind of energy, the kind of girl who couldn’t sit still for a second, who danced instead of walked, who laughed at everything and anything at first, she drove you crazy. She was loud, she was hyper, she didn’t know how to read well, she struggled with spelling—but none of that seemed to stop her.

And yet, despite all that, she could read you like an open book.

She tried her hardest to write you letters, struggling to spell out your name, rewriting words over and over just to get them right. She toned down her energy whenever you were too exhausted to deal with it. She listened when you were upset, curled up beside you when homesickness hit, stayed by your side whenever the other kids played their games.

Somewhere along the way, Megan stopped being just an annoying bunkmate.

She became your second home.

You wish you had told her how much that meant to you.

But summer doesn’t last forever. When it ended, you went your separate ways—her on one side of the country, you on the other. The first few weeks were the hardest. You missed her more than you expected, missed her laughter, her warmth. But distance wasn’t enough to break you. You called, you messaged, you sent letters. It wasn’t the same, but it was enough.

You kept this going for years, even into high school.

That’s when you started to realize something was different.

At first, you told yourself it was just a silly crush, something fleeting. You thought maybe it would fade.

You were wrong.

The moment you got your own phone, you were talking constantly. Calls, FaceTimes, texts—it never stopped. Megan always found a way to call, even when she was busy. And when you finally learned to drive, the first thing you did was go to her.

You drove miles just to see her smile.

You sacrificed sleep, time, money—anything, just to be there for her the way she had always been there for you.

And as you grew older, as you stood on the edge of adulthood, you realized something that terrified you.

You loved her.

Not in the way kids love their childhood best friends. Not in the way people expect you to love a friend you’ve known forever.

You were in love with her.

But you never told her.

Not even the night you made your pinky promise.

That night, you took her to your favorite place in the world, the first person you had ever brought there. Megan had never looked happier. Then she took you to hers. You sat together, watching the sun set, golden light painting her face like a dream.

“You know, I’m so lucky to have you,” she had said, turning to you with that soft, radiant smile.

You wanted to tell her then.

You wanted to say, Megan, I love you.

But all you could say was, “And I’m lucky to have you. I hope we spend more days like this, together, until we die.”

She laughed, holding out her pinky. “Then let’s pinky promise on it.”

You hooked your pinky around hers, sealing a promise you didn’t know you would break.

Then came the day Megan called you, her voice thick with tears.

She didn’t get into her dream university.

You didn’t even think. You just grabbed your keys, got into your car, and drove straight to her house.

When she opened the door, her face was streaked with tears, her shoulders shaking.

“Megan, darling, I’m so sorry,” you whispered, pulling her into your arms. She buried her face into your shoulder, crying so hard you could feel your heart breaking.

“But I really wanted to go there,” she sobbed.

“I know.” You held her tighter. “I know, love. But it’s their loss. You’re an incredible dancer, and if they can’t see that, they don’t deserve you.”

She sniffled, letting out a small, shaky laugh. “You always say the right things.”

“I just know you.”

To cheer her up, you took her to her favorite place, bought her ice cream, snacks—anything to see her smile again.

A week later, she called, screaming into the phone.

She got accepted into Dream Academy.

You were beyond proud of her.

But then came the worst part.

She told you that you had to cut contact.

The academy had strict rules—no outside communication, no distractions. You understood. So, you let her go.

You waited.

You watched her from a distance, following every update on her journey. When the finals came, you knew—you knew—she would win.

Then, two days after the announcement, your phone rang.

It was her.

“We can finally celebrate,” she said, her voice full of excitement. “Come over?”

You laughed, already grabbing your keys. “I’m on my way. Get ready.”

She giggled. “Hurry up, slowpoke.”

That was the last thing she ever said to you.

The roads were nearly empty that night.

You were driving, one hand on the wheel, the other checking your phone at a red light. Megan had sent a text.

Meg: hurry uppp, im waitinggg >:(

You smiled, typing back a quick reply.

You: five minutes, i promise.

You never made it.

The light turned green. You started driving again.

And then—

A flash of headlights.

A deafening crash.

Everything slowed down.

You felt the impact before you even realized what was happening.

Pain.

So much pain.

Your thoughts blurred, fading in and out, but you still saw flashes of your life.

Your parents.

Your childhood.

And then Megan.

The girl who was waiting for you.

She was probably texting you again, telling you to hurry up. Probably fixing her hair, too excited to sit still.

You wanted to tell her you were coming.

You wanted to tell her you were sorry.

You wanted to tell her—

I love you.

But you never got the chance.

They say when someone dies unexpectedly, there’s a moment—just a moment—when their soul lingers.

Long enough to see the aftermath.

Long enough to see who mourns them.

You don’t know if that’s true.

But if it is, then you know exactly what you would’ve seen.

Megan.

Sitting in her room, waiting.

Checking her phone every few minutes, frowning when you didn’t respond.

Calling you, only for it to go straight to voicemail.

Then, the next day, the call she never expected.

A voice on the other end, telling her the news.

You can imagine how she reacted.

Shocked.

Denial.

Then, the tears. The way she must’ve curled up in her bed, crying her heart out.

The way she must’ve whispered, No, no, no, they promised. They promised we’d have more days together.

The way she must’ve broken, knowing you never got to celebrate her win.

Knowing you never got to say goodbye.

Megan, darling.

You hope she knows how much you loved her.

You hope she knows how much you sacrificed for her.

You hope she knows, even in your final moments—

You were thinking of her.

[yourgamemasterthewhiterabbit]

I think in full sentences pretty much 100% of the time but I -can- do both, and I can also picture things so realistically that they can surprise me with stuff I almost forgot about them... Like I can imagine eating and apple and be surprised by that little bit of extra tart dryness right under the skin... Often a thought is both fully worded and comes with all the other things I think a non-worded thought generally comes with.

I used to find that when there was something I had a lot of abstract unworded thoughts about it meant there was something there I wasn't really processing or wasn't comfortable examining, so I got in the habit of going back and making me put concrete language to the thoughts that were kind of slipping by in implications, and I have to say I like everything way better this way for sure.

I can't say I didn't exactly not realize it helped with writing, but what I did not realize was how much thinking in abstractions probably really -doesn't- help people with writing.

This is earth shattering, I can’t believe there are people, who don’t think in sentences??? What the fuck is an abstract non-verbal thot? Y’all hoes think in Pictionary???? What the fuck

[elikajinnie]

Hi!!! Can you do the enhypen promo 2 and 5 with jungwon?? Down bad bff and oblivious reader? Thank youu!💙

P: Bff!Jungwon X Fem!Reader

Warnings: Minor Angst, Confessions, you are oblivious, won is desperate, some jealousy.

Synopsis: Jungwon has always been content being your best friend—at least, that’s what he tells himself. In reality, he’s been hopelessly in love with you for years, too afraid to risk what you have. But with Valentine's Day around the corner and whispers of other guys planning to ask you out, he decides it’s now or never. Instead of a direct confession, he drops small hints that should make it obvious. Should. Because somehow, you remain utterly oblivious.

a/n: I was supposed to post this on Valentine’s Day… but surprise, surprise—I ended up working all day. So here’s a (very) late Valentine’s Day fic! Sorry for the delay! special thanks to @cafekitsune for the divider! <3

2. "You’re dangerous, you know that? Every time you smile, I forget how to breathe." 5. "You don’t even realize what you do to me, do you?"

Jungwon had always loved being around friends—there was nothing he enjoyed more than having fun with the people he trusted and cared for. But as much as he liked it, there was one thing he loved beyond all else: being with his best friend.

Being with you.

You were everything he was grateful to have in his life. Smart, kind, and effortlessly fun. But also completely, hopelessly oblivious.

Oblivious to the way his gaze lingered a little too long when you laughed. Oblivious to the way his heart raced when you leaned against him, completely unaware of the effect you had on him. Oblivious to the fact that, out of everyone in a crowded room, his world only seemed to orbit around you.

He wasn’t sure when it started. Maybe it was the late-night study sessions when you fell asleep on his shoulder, or the way you always remembered the little things about him—his favorite drink, the songs he hummed absentmindedly, the way he tapped his fingers when he was nervous. Or maybe it had always been there, lurking beneath the surface, waiting for him to realize.

And now, here he was, trapped in a cycle of wanting more but never daring to ruin what he already had. Because you—his best friend—were the one thing he could never risk losing.

So, he stayed quiet. Kept his feelings tucked away behind playful smiles and casual touches that meant everything to him but nothing to you.

Because if you never noticed, then maybe he’d never have to face the truth.

The truth that his heart ached in ways he couldn’t explain. That every moment with you felt like a dream he was terrified to wake up from. That he had memorized the way you spoke, the way you smiled, the way you existed so effortlessly in his world, completely unaware of how deeply he had fallen.

And yet, no matter how hard he tried to hide it, the truth had a way of creeping in. In the quiet moments when his name left your lips too softly, in the fleeting touches that sent sparks through his veins, in the nights he lay awake replaying every interaction, wondering if—just maybe—you felt it too.

But you didn’t, did you?

You still looked at him the same way you always had, like he was your best friend, your safe place, your person. But never anything more. And maybe that should’ve been enough.

Maybe it had to be.

Because the alternative? The risk of losing you altogether? That was a fate he wasn’t sure he could handle.

So he swallowed the words threatening to spill from his lips. He buried the longing deep within his chest. He convinced himself that being your best friend was enough.

Even if it meant breaking his own heart a little more each day.

But now, with Valentine’s Day coming up so soon, it had become a problem for him.

Jungwon had always been good at keeping his feelings in check, at pretending that being just friends was enough. But Valentine’s Day was different. It wasn’t just another day—it was a reminder. A reminder that he wasn’t the one you were looking at with hearts in your eyes. That someone else could sweep in, buy you flowers, and call you theirs while he sat on the sidelines, pretending it didn’t hurt.

And the worst part? You weren’t even thinking about him.

You had been talking about Valentine’s Day for days now—who might ask you out, what kind of date you’d like, what flowers you preferred. Every time you spoke about it, excitement lacing your voice, Jungwon could only smile and nod, pushing down the ugly twist of jealousy in his chest.

“Maybe I won’t get anything this year,” you had joked one afternoon, twirling a pen between your fingers. “Guess I should start preparing myself for a lonely Valentine’s Day.”

Jungwon had almost laughed at how absurd that sounded. You, alone? Impossible. If anything, there were probably a handful of people already planning to confess to you.

And yet, for a brief second, he let himself imagine what it would be like if you were his. If he could be the one to show up at your doorstep with flowers, the one you looked at like he was your whole world.

But that wasn’t reality.

Reality was him sitting here, dreading the day, wondering if this was the year you’d finally fall for someone.

And then it happened.

It started with a name. A name Jungwon hadn’t expected to hear from your lips in that way, with that softness, that quiet curiosity.

“So… do you think it’d be weird if I said yes?” you asked, tapping your fingers against your notebook as you glanced at him. “I mean, he’s really sweet, and I never really thought about it before, but… maybe I should give him a chance?”

Jungwon didn’t know what hurt more—the fact that you were considering saying yes to someone else, or the fact that you were asking him about it, like his opinion mattered, like he wasn’t the one who had been hopelessly, helplessly in love with you this whole time.

His heart sank. But his face? His face stayed the same, the perfect mask he had spent years perfecting.

“Yeah,” he forced out, offering you a lopsided smile. “I mean… if you think he’s sweet, then why not?”

You smiled, nudging his arm. “See? That’s why I asked you. You always give the best advice.”

And just like that, it was decided.

Jungwon should have been used to it by now—watching you get excited over someone else, watching as you completely missed the way he looked at you, the way his hands twitched at his sides, itching to reach for you but never daring to.

But he wasn’t used to it.

And this time, it hurt more than ever.

Because this time, he was starting to wonder if he’d lost his chance completely.

Jungwon didn’t do anything.

Not really.

But somehow, he was still the problem.

It started small—your new “almost” boyfriend growing stiff whenever Jungwon was around, the way his laughter faded whenever you leaned into Jungwon’s space like you always did. The subtle looks, the hesitation, the way he never really joined in on the jokes you and Jungwon shared so effortlessly.

Jungwon wasn’t blind. He could see the tension in the way the guy held himself whenever he was near. The way his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes whenever you mentioned Jungwon’s name.

And it only got worse.

“You guys are close,” the guy had said one day, casual, but not really. “Like… really close.”

You had laughed, oblivious as always. “Well, yeah. Jungwon’s my best friend.”

And just like that, Jungwon had known.

It wouldn’t last.

Because no matter how much the guy liked you, he hated Jungwon more.

And Jungwon? He didn’t even have to try.

He just kept being himself. Kept being the person who knew you better than anyone else, who could read your moods with a glance, who you ran to first with every little thing. He didn’t have to say anything, didn’t have to do anything.

The cracks in your almost-relationship formed all on their own.

Small disagreements. Awkward silences. The way the guy started pulling away, his insecurity gnawing at him until it consumed whatever chance he had with you.

And then, one day, it was over.

You barely looked upset when you told Jungwon. More confused than anything.

“I don’t get it,” you admitted, pulling your knees to your chest as you sat beside him. “He just… said he didn’t think it would work.”

Jungwon stayed quiet.

He could’ve told you the truth. Could’ve told you that the guy had been jealous, that it had always been doomed from the start because no one would ever be okay with how much you leaned on Jungwon.

But instead, he just shrugged.

“Guess he wasn’t the right one, then.”

And you nodded, sighing before resting your head against his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Jungwon closed his eyes for a brief second, allowing himself to soak in the moment. Because even if he didn’t have you the way he wanted, at least, for now, he still had you.

And that was enough.

Or at least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

But as the days passed, Jungwon started to realize something—maybe "enough" wasn’t really enough anymore.

Because even though you were still here, still laughing with him, still resting your head on his shoulder like you always had, something had changed. Not between you, but within him.

For so long, he had told himself that being your best friend was enough, that having you in his life in any way was better than risking losing you altogether. But now? Now, he wasn’t so sure.

Because watching someone else try to love you—watching them fall short because they weren’t him—had planted a dangerous thought in his mind.

What if he stopped holding back?

What if he stopped pretending?

What if he told you the truth?

The thought terrified him. Because if you didn’t feel the same way, if you laughed it off, if you looked at him like he was crazy, then everything he cherished between you could shatter in an instant.

But at the same time, wasn’t he already breaking a little more each day by staying silent?

The doubt clawed at him, restless and demanding. It lingered in the moments he caught himself staring at you for too long, in the way his heart skipped a beat every time you said his name, in the way jealousy twisted in his chest when someone else looked at you the way he wanted to.

And with Valentine’s Day nearing more and more, and you still feeling down after the whole situation with that guy, Jungwon felt conflicted.

Part of him wanted to use this as an opportunity—to finally say something, to be the one to make you smile again. But another part of him, the part that had spent so long holding back, told him it wasn’t the right time.

You were sad. Not heartbroken, not devastated, but still hurt. He could see it in the way you sighed more than usual, in the way your usual excitement about the upcoming holiday had faded into indifference.

“I don’t even know why I care so much,” you muttered one evening as the two of you sat on the bleachers, watching the empty field stretch out before you. “It’s not like we were even dating, not really. But still… it sucks, you know?”

Jungwon nodded, even though he didn’t fully understand. Not in the way you did, at least. Because to him, the pain wasn’t in almost having someone and losing them—it was in never having you at all.

“I just thought, maybe this year would be different,” you admitted, pulling your jacket tighter around you. “Maybe I’d actually get to experience one of those cute Valentine’s Days you see in movies.”

Jungwon swallowed. His hands clenched into fists in his lap, itching to reach for yours.

He could do it.

He could say it.

He could tell you that you weren’t alone, that someone had been looking at you that way all along. That if you let him, he’d make sure you never had to feel unwanted again.

But then you sighed and leaned against him, your head finding his shoulder in that familiar, comfortable way that told him you still saw him as your best friend.

Just your best friend.

So he did what he always did.

He stayed quiet.

And maybe that was his biggest mistake.

Because as Valentine’s Day crept closer, and as you started smiling again—started acting more like yourself—Jungwon couldn’t shake the feeling that he was running out of time.

And if he didn’t do something soon… someone else would.

So he planned to start small—show you, in quiet, genuine ways, that he liked you as more than a best friend.

But it was easier said than done.

Because you were oblivious as fuck.

Normally, Jungwon found that trait of yours adorable. The way you never seemed to pick up on people’s feelings, how you always assumed the best in every situation, how completely unaware you were of the effect you had on others.

But now? Now, it felt like torture.

Because how was he supposed to show you he loved you when he had such a hard time saying it?

He tried little things first. Thoughtful gestures, things he had always done but with more meaning behind them now. Walking you home even when it was out of his way, holding doors open for you even when his hands were full, remembering your coffee order down to the smallest detail and getting it for you before you could even ask.

But none of it clicked for you.

"You're such a good friend, Won," you'd say, smiling up at him like his heart wasn’t unraveling in his chest.

Friend.

Jungwon bit back a sigh, pushing down the frustration. He told himself to be patient.

So he tried again.

He started being more obvious—giving you his jacket when it was barely cold, brushing his fingers against yours just to see if you'd notice, complimenting you in a way that should’ve meant more than just friendship.

"You always know how to make me feel better," you had told him after one of his compliments, nudging him playfully. "What would I do without you?"

Jungwon had forced a smile, ignoring the way his heart twisted painfully.

Because none of it was working.

You still weren’t getting it.

And maybe… maybe you never would.

Because maybe, deep down, you had never even considered him as an option.

That thought scared him more than anything.

So with Valentine’s Day only days away, Jungwon realized something.

If he wanted you to know—if he wanted any chance at all—he couldn’t keep waiting for you to figure it out on your own.

He had to do something bigger. Something you couldn’t possibly ignore.

Something that would make you finally, finally see him.

So, he did something bigger.

With Valentine’s Day here, he made sure you wouldn’t come home too soon. He got some of your mutual friends to keep you company—texting them to stall you, make up excuses, anything to buy him enough time. And while they distracted you, he let himself into your house with the spare key you had given him long ago, “just in case of emergencies.”

And in his case, this was an emergency.

Because if he didn’t do this now, he might never have the courage again.

Carrying the bags inside, he wasted no time.

First, the decorations.

Red heart-shaped balloons filled your bedroom, some floating against the ceiling, others scattered on your bed. On the wall, carefully arranged, were balloons that spelled out "Be My Valentine?"—a question he never thought he'd be brave enough to ask.

Then, the gifts.

A teddy bear sat on your bed, soft and plush, with a box of your favorite chocolates nestled in its lap. Next to it, a bouquet of your favorite flowers—fresh, vibrant, just like you. And a basket filled with everything he knew you loved. Your favorite snacks, little trinkets, things you had casually mentioned wanting in passing—things he had remembered, even when you had forgotten you said them.

And finally, the finishing touch.

Rose petals, carefully placed, leading from your front door all the way to your bedroom. Alongside them, fake candles flickered softly, casting a warm, intimate glow around the space.

By the time he was done, his heart was pounding in his chest.

It was now or never.

So he took a deep breath, sat on the edge of your bed, and waited.

Waited for you to come home.

Waited to see if this would finally, finally make you see him the way he had always seen you.

And for the first time in his life, Jungwon was terrified.

When you finally got home, you were tired.

You had spent hours with your friends, confused as to why they were suddenly so insistent on keeping you out so late. They had dragged you to cafés, stores, even a last-minute movie, all while exchanging suspicious glances. But now, finally, you were home.

And the moment you stepped inside, you froze.

Rose petals.

They stretched out before you, leading down the hall, soft and delicate against the floor. And lining the path were small flickering lights—fake candles, glowing warmly in the dimness of your house.

Your heart skipped.

“What the—” you whispered, slowly stepping forward, following the trail.

Each step felt surreal, like you were stepping into something straight out of a romance movie. Your fingers brushed against your chest as you tried to steady your breathing.

By the time you reached your bedroom door, your heart was hammering.

And then you saw it.

Balloons—so many of them—floating and scattered all around your room.

And then, there was him.

Jungwon.

Sitting on the edge of your bed, looking nervous but determined.

The moment your eyes met, you felt your breath catch.

“Jungwon…” You blinked, glancing around. “Did you…?”

He swallowed, standing up slowly. “Yeah. It was me.”

Your gaze darted to the teddy bear on your bed, the chocolates, the bouquet, the basket of all the things you loved.

Your chest tightened.

“This is… I mean, you…” You trailed off, shaking your head in disbelief. “Why?”

Jungwon took a step closer, hands clenching at his sides. “Because I had to.” His voice was quiet, but firm. “Because if I didn’t, you’d never notice.”

Your brows furrowed. “Notice what?”

He let out a soft, almost breathless laugh, shaking his head. “See? That’s what I mean. You’re so—” He stopped himself, exhaling deeply. “You really don’t see it, do you?”

Your lips parted, but no words came out.

Jungwon took another step forward, closing the space between you. His eyes held something deeper now—something vulnerable.

“I love you.”

Silence.

Your breath hitched.

Jungwon swallowed hard, forcing himself to keep going.

“I’ve been in love with you for so long,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve tried to show you, in every way I could, but you never noticed. So I figured… maybe this time, you would.”

Your mind was racing, heart pounding.

Jungwon? In love with you?

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. You didn’t even know what to say.

And Jungwon—seeing your silence, your wide eyes, your stunned expression—felt his heart sink.

Maybe he had been wrong. Maybe you really never had considered him that way. Maybe he had just made the biggest mistake of his life.

So before you could say anything, before you could reject him and break him completely, he let out a shaky breath and whispered, “Say something. Please.”

You kept looking around the room, your mind struggling to process everything, every single detail Jungwon had put together, just for you.

Your chest felt tight, your throat dry. Your lips parted, but the only thing that came out was a shaky breath before you finally asked, “For how long?”

Jungwon took a deep breath, his eyes focused on you as if he were summoning all the courage he had kept buried for so long. He wasn’t sure what he had expected—maybe for you to stop him, or maybe for you to just… understand. But this was real now. There was no going back. “For so long,” he murmured. Then, like a dam breaking, the words just spilled out.

“I’ve been falling for you. Not just once, but over and over again.” He shifted, his hands twitching by his sides as if he didn’t know where to put them. “It wasn’t some instant, magical thing. It was a million little moments. Like the way you scrunch your nose when you’re confused or frustrated, like when you’re so focused and you don’t even realize how cute you look. Or how every time I’m with you, I feel like the world is just… better. The way you always give me the first sip of your drink without me asking. I never wanted to take it, but I always did, just because you were offering. You’re just…”

He shook his head, unable to fully explain, but his eyes locked onto yours. “And your laugh…” He laughed softly, almost to himself. “It’s the best thing I’ve ever heard. I can’t even describe it. Every time you laugh, it’s like everything in my world falls into place. Like nothing else matters, just you and that sound. It’s like… nothing else could make me feel more alive than hearing you laugh.”

His voice faltered slightly, but he pressed on, his emotions pouring out faster now.

“And every time I’m around you,” Jungwon said, his eyes darting to the floor for a moment before meeting yours again, “my heart races. It feels like it’s beating so hard, like I can’t breathe. And I’ve tried to hide it, to play it cool, but I can’t. I can’t stop it. Every time you’re near me, it’s like everything else disappears, and all I can think about is you.”

You could see the longing in his eyes as he continued.

“I memorize everything about you,” he added, his voice trembling. “Your favorite food, the songs you hum under your breath when you’re in a good mood, the way you scrunch your eyes when you’re laughing so hard you can’t control it. I know all the little things because I’m always paying attention to you. Always.”

He took a step closer, his eyes searching yours desperately, his words tumbling out even faster now.

“And when someone else shows interest in you… when they look at you the way I want to, it just… it suffocates me. I feel like I’m drowning, like you’re slipping away from me. But I’ve never told you. I’ve never said anything because I didn’t want to ruin this, ruin us—whatever we are. But I couldn’t keep pretending anymore.”

Jungwon’s hands trembled as he reached for yours, his voice softer, almost a whisper now.

“I love you,” he said, his heart on his sleeve. “I’ve loved you for so long. I didn’t know what to do with it, but I can’t keep it in anymore. Please… don’t turn away from me.”

Jungwon had done it. He had confessed.

He had done the very thing that had terrified him for years.

And now… you weren’t saying anything.

The silence stretched between you, unbearable and deafening. His breaths came out uneven, his chest rising and falling as he looked at you, waiting, begging for a response.

But you just stood there, staring at him—wide-eyed, shell-shocked, silent.

And that silence broke him.

Jungwon let out a shaky exhale before his legs gave out beneath him. He collapsed onto his knees, his head hanging as his shoulders trembled. The weight of everything—the nerves, the fear, the exhaustion—finally crushed him.

Tears slid down his cheeks, slow and quiet.

This is it, he thought bitterly.

He had been so scared of confessing. But now, he realized, this was what he should have been scared of.

Not rejection. Not heartbreak.

But this.

This horrible, gut-wrenching silence.

This feeling of being completely exposed, completely vulnerable, waiting for the one person he loved the most to either take him in or turn him away.

He squeezed his eyes shut, already preparing for the worst—

And then suddenly, you were on your knees in front of him.

Jungwon barely had time to react before your hands cupped his tear-streaked cheeks, tilting his face up toward you.

And then—

You kissed him.

His breath caught, his entire body freezing in place. His mind couldn’t keep up, couldn’t process that this was actually happening.

You—his best friend, the person he had spent years hopelessly in love with—were kissing him.

But he was so stunned, so overwhelmed, that he didn’t even kiss you back.

The seconds stretched, and you hesitated. Slowly, you started to pull away, your hands loosening their hold on his face—

And that’s what finally snapped him out of it.

Before you could fully retreat, Jungwon grabbed you—one hand curling around the back of your neck, the other gripping your waist. And in a heartbeat, he slammed his lips against yours again.

This time, he kissed you back.

Desperately.

Fiercely.

Like he had been starving for this.

Like he had been waiting his entire life for this moment.

His fingers curled tighter around you, pulling you impossibly close as his lips moved against yours—messy, feverish, full of all the emotions he had buried for so long.

And for the first time in years, Jungwon wasn’t afraid anymore.

Because now, he knew.

He wasn’t losing you.

He had you.

And he wasn’t going to let you go.

As the kiss broke apart, both of you breathless, Jungwon’s hands still gently cupping your face, he couldn’t help but let out a quiet laugh—a mix of disbelief and relief.

And then, you smiled at him.

That smile.

The one that made his heart race every time.

Jungwon stared at you for a moment, his chest tightening again, his breath hitching in his throat.

“You’re dangerous, you know that?” he murmured, his voice low, full of admiration. “Every time you smile, I forget how to breathe.”

Your smile only grew wider, and a warmth spread through him, almost overwhelming. He had never wanted something more than to see that smile, to feel the way it made his heart flutter and ache all at once.

You swallowed, your heart thundering in your chest. This felt like a dream, and yet, you knew it was real.

With a deep breath, you found the courage to speak, the weight of everything finally coming out in the words you’d been holding back for months.

“I love you too Jungwon,” you confessed, your voice shaking just slightly. “I’ve loved you for months now… but I didn’t want to tell you, in case… in case you didn’t feel the same.”

The words hung between you, and for a moment, everything was still.

Then, Jungwon’s expression softened, his eyes bright with something you could only describe as pure relief and adoration. He pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead before pulling back slightly, his fingers still lightly resting on your face as he looked at you with such intensity.

His voice was barely above a whisper as he reached for your hand, his thumb gently brushing over your skin. “So, you… love me, too?”

You nodded, your eyes soft but filled with determination. “Yes. I always have.”

Jungwon’s heart swelled with relief and joy, the weight lifting from his chest. A soft smile spread across his face, and before he could think too much about it, the words tumbled out of him, filled with hope.

“Do you want to be my Valentine?” he asked, his voice low but full of sincerity.

“Yes,” you replied, without hesitation, your heart pounding as the world seemed to settle into place around you.

Jungwon took a deep breath, still holding your hand as his gaze locked with yours. He had taken the plunge before, but this moment felt different—bigger.

“Then,” he began, voice soft but steady, “do you also want to be my girlfriend?”

You blinked, your heart fluttering wildly as your chest filled with warmth. This was the moment, wasn’t it? The moment you had both been waiting for, yet too afraid to ask for.

Without hesitation, you nodded. “Yes. I’d love to.”

Jungwon couldn’t hide his smile, the relief flooding through him as he leaned in, his eyes soft but filled with adoration. And then, he whispered the words that had been on his mind for so long.

“You don’t even realize what you do to me, do you?”

You blinked, your heart pounding as you tried to process what he meant.

“You’ve got me falling for you harder than I ever thought possible.” And then he kissed you again—this time slow, gentle, full of everything that had been left unsaid for months.

Jungwon finally had you, finally knew you felt the same, and for the first time in a long while, he didn’t have to wonder.

Because you were his.

And he was yours.

a/n: well this sucked ass... i havent been feeling romantical since boyfriend troubles.

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