#this was one of the drafts i was talking about

[mylovesstuffs]

The Admirer Was Right in Front of You — Kim Mingyu

Mingyu’s been in love with you forever but you’ve never seen him that way, or so he thinks. So he writes you anonymous letters, sends gifts, leaves clues—seven days of hope that you’ll catch on without him spelling it out for you. But every time you get close, you guess everyone but him. 

Genre: Non-idol au, college au, romance (?), comedy, modern au (no specific setting, but contemporary vibe), slice of life and light-hearted mystery 

Pairing: Mingyu × fem!reader

Content: Secret admirer, friends-to-lovers, slow burn (?), miscommunication, amnesia (in terms of realization—reader doesn’t realize Mingyu’s feelings), investigative humor, gift-giving (anonymous), letters (anonymous), silly investigation, mingyu’s subtle hints, light drama (misunderstandings and comedy), emotionally constipated Mingyu, orange juice, lavender, hidden camera, fake love ringtone trauma, laughter and fun with friends (Jeonghan, Soonyoung, Woozi, Seungkwan, Vernon and Dino), dramatic!seungkwan, over-invested! soonyoung, smug!jeonghan, unspoken yearning, heart-thumping hugs,  romantic confession.

Warnings: None for explicit content, just mild comedic frustration and tension related to the investigation. potential light anxiety (reader overanalyzes and stresses about figuring out the admirer), occasional bout of existential romantic confusion.

Word count: 20,620 words

A/N: HIT TEXT BLOCK LIMIT SO EXCUSE ME. this was my rushed valentine’s day fic; written in a fog of sleep deprivation and caffeine, desperately trying to meet the deadline [14th Feb] before tumblr decided to glitch its entire draft-saving system into oblivion. to this day, it still won’t let me fix it [dear tumblr devs: once i get my degree, i’m coming for your job. and then i’m resigning on the spot after fixing my own problem ☺️] if wanted to post this,, life, exhaustion, and tumblr’s war crimes said no because to post it, i would've had to sit down and format it from scratch for HOURS because drafts wouldn't worl. it took me until few weeks into the issue [Feb] to realize i could cheat the system with scheduled posts [which is still a cursed gamble when you're handling 3k+ words]. i reread this recently and cringed so hard i nearly vaporized. this is so metallic and roboticthis… it truly contains all the side effects of first-draft. but at the time, i gave this thing my everything. sleep was sacrificed. blood, sweat, and tears [real] were involved. i was running on loneliness too. this may be posting now, but like I said earlier, it was written a long time ago. the fics that will come after this are recent. so, they’re better and you’ll see the difference. i’m not the same writer anymore, and that’s something i’m low-key proud of bc i see improvements lolllll. massive, massive thanks to K @cheers-to-you-th Calli @hhaechansmoless and Tiya @gyubakeries for resurrecting this from the grave; you three deserve hazard pay for beta-reading this without losing braincells. also to Kae @studioeisa, who was quite literally the only person i spoke to while writing this. thank you for letting me talk  about this fic’s summary

inspired by the golden age of secret admirer tropes and that one friend who’s always been right in front of you, but you were too blind to believe it could be him. much love to GoSe for fueling Seungkwan and Soonyoung’s idiocy. also, Jeonghan’s smirk deserves a credits roll

to the readers: you deserve better than this first draft. but thank you for reading it anyway ఇ ◝‿◜ ఇ

You’re not expecting a package when you step outside your apartment door.

You're not expecting an online order—maybe the overpriced serum you panic-bought at 2 a.m. last week because TikTok convinced you your skincare routine was trash, but instead, there’s a neatly wrapped gift box on your doormat, and right on top of it, an envelope with your name on it.

Your first mistake is thinking this is a normal day. Your second mistake is opening the letter in front of your friends.

-

It was a normal afternoon at the café in your usual spot, where the group had gathered to do absolutely nothing productive as per tradition. You had just settled into your seat, wedging yourself between Mingyu and Soonyoung, when Seungkwan gasped.

"Oh my God, is that a love letter?"

Seungkwan’s voice was loud enough to startle the students at the next table. The café, previously humming with the background noise of clinking cups and conversations, now suddenly goes dead silent, at least, in your world, because now everyone is looking at you.

"It could be anything," you say, though the neatly written name on the envelope suggests otherwise.

"No, no, no," Soonyoung cuts in, already reaching for the letter. "We have to open this together. For the sake of the investigation."

"What investigation?"

"The one where we figure out who is in love with you, obviously."

Before you can argue, Jeonghan, sitting across from you, gestures toward the envelope. "Just open it. If you drop dead from embarrassment, at least we’ll have entertainment."

That’s all the permission Seungkwan needs before he grabs it, clearing his throat before reading aloud. "Dear Y/N," he read aloud in an exaggerated, sappy voice. " It feels a little cliché to start with Dear, but here we are. I don’t know if this is the best way to do this, but I guess I’m doing it anyway. The first time I met you, I thought the world had shifted just a little. You probably don’t remember, but I do. And I think… I always will. I see you. I see the way you get that little crease between your brows when you’re focused. The way you fight back a smile when you think something’s funny but pretend it isn’t. The way you give your things to people without thinking twice – your food, your jacket, your time. I see you, and I hope just this once you see me too.

P.S. You’re really bad at locking your phone screen. I already know your new favorite flower.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

"WHAT?!"

"NO WAY."

"Wait, wait, WAIT—who sent this?!"

Mingyu chokes on his drink. "Huh?"

You yanked the letter back, heart hammering. 

Jeonghan, lounging across from you, smirked. "Looks like you’ve got a secret admirer."

Seungkwan is already on his feet, "You have a secret admirer?! I—this is—what—WHO?!" And adds, "How come I don’t get secret admirers?!"

"Maybe because you announce every five minutes that you’re single and desperate." Jihoon deadpans.

"That is NOT—okay, but that’s beside the point!" Seungkwan huffed before rounding on you. "Who do you think it is?"

That was the question, wasn’t it? Your fingers traced the ink absently, brow furrowing. You wonder: Who, among them, is listening just a little too carefully? You steal a glance at your friends, Jeonghan is still smirking. Vernon and Chan are whispering to each other. Jihoon looks entirely uninterested, already focusing on his phone. Mingyu stays relaxed with that big smile in place. Soonyoung, who already struggles to sit still on a normal day, is practically vibrating in his seat.

"It has to be someone we know," you mutter, narrowing your eyes. "Someone who knows me really well."

Soonyoung gasped. "Wait. What if it’s Jihoon?"

Jihoon doesn’t even look up. "Do I look like the type to write love letters?"

Fair point.

Seungkwan ignores him. "No, no, no, think about it. The handwriting, it’s too neat, too precise. And look at this phrasing—'I see you'? That’s some poetic, brooding nonsense right there."

"That’s definitely not Jihoon," Vernon mutters, taking a spoonful of rice into his mouth.

"Okay, but who else could it be?" Chan muses.

"It has to be someone we know," you murmur, rereading the letter. The words are too personal. This isn’t some random admirer. This is someone who knows your habits, your quirks and stays with you a lot of the time.

"Maybe… Jeonghan?" Chan suggests.

Jeonghan raises an eyebrow. "Me? That’s cute, but if I were her admirer, she'd know. I’m not subtle."

Okay. Not him either. Your mind whirls, piecing together possibilities. "So then who?" you ask, exasperated.

Soonyoung slams a fist on the table. "We investigate."

Seungkwan nods, solemn. "Operation: Who’s In Love With Y/N begins now."

Mingyu exhales, but no one notices. No one sees the way his shoulders drop, the barely-there shift in his posture, releasing something he was holding onto too tightly. No one catches the way Jeonghan glances at him from the side, a smirk playing on his lips like this is the most entertainment he’s had all week, and you obviously don't notice him either. Because you—sweet, oblivious, you have already ruled him out. Because of course Mingyu couldn’t be the one. The thought is too absurd, too ridiculous. How could he ever be into you? You don't even have the confidence to suspect him aloud. Mingyu, who walks into every room like he owns it, who grins too easily and makes everyone feel like they belong. Mingyu, who could have anyone if he wanted. And you’re just… you. It makes no sense. It has to be someone else, someone who wouldn't make your heart stutter in your chest just by standing too close. But if you really looked at him, you’d see it. His ears are pink, fingers drum against his knee, the way he looks at you when you’re not looking at him; but you don’t.

You’re too busy strategizing.

One thing that’s as clear as day now is that, you're suspecting your own friend group. While he wanted to stay anonymous with the letters, he had deliberately altered his handwriting hoping to throw you off but ironically in doing so, he somehow ended up mimicking Jihoon’s handwriting accidentally. And now, Jihoon is your prime suspect.

-

You, Soonyoung, Seungkwan, Jeonghan, and Mingyu are lounging in the library, passing time when Seungkwan starts scribbling something on a piece of paper, lips pressed together in deep concentration as he taps the pen twice against the table before declaring, “Soonyoung is out.”

“Hey!”

“And Seungkwan,” you add.

“Excuse me?”

“Be honest,” you deadpan, tilting your head slightly. “You can’t keep a secret for five minutes, let alone one day.”

Seungkwan opens his mouth to argue, but then stops, visibly deflating. Soonyoung, still grumbling about the injustice of it all, leans over to peer at the list Seungkwan has been working on. After a lot of back-and-forth (and Seungkwan rejecting some of Soonyoung’s wilder theories, like what if it’s a ghost?), the three of you narrow down the list of suspects. Jihoon, Vernon, and Chan remain, with Jihoon being the prime suspect because, as Seungkwan pointed out, his handwriting is suspiciously similar to the letter.

Across the table, Jeonghan and Mingyu stay silent throughout the discussion. Jeonghan watches, bemused, while Mingyu leans back in his chair, arms crossed loosely over his chest. Neither of them bother to chime in, letting the three of you spin as you, Soonyoung and Seungkwan plot to set a trap when the time is right. 

Now, Chan and Vernon, for some reason, being one of the suspects… Mingyu absolutely cannot wrap his head around it. Why those two? What about anything in that letter screamed them? Why is it so easy for you to entertain the idea that either of them could be your secret admirer, but not him when he’s right here breathing the same air as you? When the admirer is right in front of you? He can literally just straight up confess, but no, he has to wait. He has to hold himself back. After all, it hasn't even been a day since you received his first letter. He can be patient. He’s more calculated than people give him credit for. Sure, he might not seem like the type to plan things out, but when it comes to you, he’s meticulous. His friends know it, even you know it, but you’re too caught up in the role of being his friend to acknowledge that he’s more than just a guy who trips over thin air, that his intelligence is just as attractive as everything else about him.

Mingyu’s original plan was simple—he wanted you to figure it out. He thought that by leaving letters and gifts, you’d naturally start paying closer attention to the people around you. He assumed it would be obvious, that you’d pick up on the little details: how he knows things about you that only someone truly paying attention would, how each gift is something he’s seen you admire before. He expected you to connect the dots, to turn around, to look at him, and to realize. But instead, you’re sitting there, hunched over a notebook with Seungkwan and Soonyoung, listing off suspects like this is some kind of whodunnit mystery game.

Two

February 8th.

Walking up to your locker with Vernon, you sip the orange juice that Mingyu handed you just a few minutes ago. As you reach your locker, you pass the juice to Vernon and dig into your jacket pocket, searching for your keys. Your fingers brush against something unexpected, a small, rectangular object. You pull it out and take a closer look. It’s a bookmark, delicately pressed with a lavender flower—your favorite. Attached to it is a tiny note:

“It reminded me of you.”

Your eyebrows lift in surprise. Turning to Vernon, you hold up the bookmark, but before you can say anything, you catch him sipping from your juice.

“Yah! That’s mine!” you exclaim, narrowing your eyes.

Vernon simply shrugs. “Right…” he says, unfazed, taking another sip.

Rolling your eyes, you shove the bookmark in his direction. “Are you sure you didn’t slip this into my pocket when I wasn’t looking?”

Vernon scoffs, shaking his head. “I swear, Y/N, it's not me. I mean, I like you, but not enough to be your secret admirer.”

You huff but decide to let it go. Shaking your head, you turn back to your locker and start gathering your things, your books, a notebook, and a pen before shutting the door with a soft click.

Slipping your bag over your shoulder, you glance at Vernon, who still is sipping your juice. Letting out a sigh, you wave him off. “See you later, thief.”

“Enjoy finding your secret admirer.”

Rolling your eyes, you turn on your heel and make your way toward the park near the college library. The crisp breeze brushes against your face as you walk, the bookmark still tucked safely in your grasp. As you reach the park, you spot Seungkwan and Soonyoung sitting on the swings, chatting animatedly. A smile tugs at your lips as you pick up your pace, ready to execute your usual routine, which is pushing Seungkwan off his swing and claiming it for yourself.

Just as you lunge forward to shove him away, Seungkwan, having caught sight of you from the corner of his eye, expertly stands up and moves aside at the last second. Caught off guard, your hands swipe through thin air instead of meeting his shoulder and the momentum sends you tumbling forward. Instead of landing smoothly on the swing, your foot catches on the ground, and you face-plant onto the seat before slipping off and landing in the most ungraceful heap.

Soonyoung bursts into laughter, clutching his stomach as he doubles over, his giggles echoing through the park. The scene now resembles a group of drunk boys fumbling around with a soccer ball, except the only thing truly injured is your pride.

Groaning, you lift your head just enough to mutter, “The earth is full of selfish people.”

Seungkwan scoffs, arms crossed. “As if.”

Soonyoung is still wheezing. Like, fully doubled over, hands on his knees as Seungkwan rolls his eyes before sighing. Eventually after much suffering, he and Soonyoung each grab an arm and help you back to your feet. Dusting yourself off, you all make your way toward the bench in front of the swings, settling down.

Seungkwan disappears for a bit with a, “I’ll go get us something to drink,” and comes back with three drinks and, bless him, some ice wrapped in a napkin for your mishap from earlier. “Here,” he says, plopping down next to you, “for your bruised dignity.”

You roll your eyes but accept the ice anyway, pressing it against your arm where you had landed a little too hard. It’s a little embarrassing how much it helps. “Anyway,” you say, setting down your drink and pulling something out of your pocket. “I got another gift from the admirer today. Vernon was with me when I found it in my jacket’s pocket.” You hold up the bookmark along with the note.

Seungkwan squints at it. “You sure it’s not Vernon?”

“He denies it,” you say, taking a sip of your drink. “But he’s still sus.”

At that, the two of them launch into a theorizing session, their ideas getting more ridiculous by the second. You’re pretty sure they're just saying words now. Seungkwan adds fuel to the fire, and before you know it, they’ve spun a whole conspiracy web involving secret codes. It’s a little concerning how quickly they came up with all this. “You guys are so stupid.”

“But seriously,” Seungkwan says, “how many gifts or letters have you gotten so far?”

“Yesterday, I got a letter which you both saw, and a small plant so in total, one letter and two gifts including today's bookmark.”

Last night, when you got back to your dorm, there was a box sitting neatly in front of your door. No note on the outside, no sign of who left it. You glanced up and down the hallway but nope, no secret admirer lurked in the shadows, just the usual dorm silence. So you brought the box inside, set it on your desk, and opened it. Inside was a small, neatly potted plant with a tiny note tucked beside it. The note read:

“Take care of it well.”

That’s it. No name, no signature, just that.

Soonyoung immediately decides it’s finally the time for drastic measures. “It’s time to set a trap.”

Seungkwan, already tired, sighs. “No, it's not.”

“Yes, it is,” Soonyoung insists. “We need cameras, motion sensors, maybe even a decoy package—”

Seungkwan holds up a hand. “Okay, first of all, you’re not rich enough to have motion sensors.”

“Fine, but we can record the next delivery,” Soonyoung counters. “We set up a camera, catch them in the act.”

Seungkwan hums, considering. “Actually… that could work.”

And so the plan is set. The three of you head to Soonyoung’s place, which is always a good idea. Not just because he always somehow manages to convince his sister to lend him something after only minimal begging (or a taekwondo match), but because his mom recently visited, which means homemade food. And if there’s one universal truth, it’s that Soonyoung’s mom’s cooking has the power to make you forget all your problems. So while Soonyoung is off on his mission to beg or fight, you and Seungkwan shamelessly take advantage of the situation by helping yourselves to an absolutely unnecessary amount of food. Every bite is warm and ridiculously comforting, enough to make you forget you’re literally in the middle of an undercover investigation.

By the time Soonyoung returns, looking victorious with the tiny camera in hand, you’re full, satisfied and only mildly guilty about eating half his mom’s cooking. He doesn’t seem to notice, though, too focused on phase two of Operation: Who’s In Love With Y/N. Soon, you all make your way back to your dorm, and upon arrival, you scout for the perfect spot to set up the device, ultimately deciding on a corner of the corridor wall just out of plain sight but with a clear view of your door. Now comes the tricky part: actually installing the camera.

With no ladder, no proper tools, and absolutely no sense of self-preservation, you’re left to your own devices, meaning an unsteady, completely improvised method of reaching the higher spot. This is how you end up watching one of the most questionable stunts in history unfold.

Seungkwan, grumbling under his breath about always being dragged into Soonyoung’s ridiculous ideas, crouches on a chair to add some height. “I swear, I don’t get paid enough for this.”

“You don’t get paid at all,” you remind him helpfully.

“Exactly! That’s the problem!”

Then, after a brief, heated argument over whether this was a terrible idea (which Seungkwan insists it was), Soonyoung climbs onto Seungkwan’s back, steadying himself by pressing a hand against the wall.

Soonyoung stretches up, muttering instructions that Seungkwan has absolutely zero patience for. “Hold still,” Soonyoung hisses, wobbling slightly as he raises the camera in one hand and secures it in place.

“I am holding still!” Seungkwan retorts, voice strained from supporting Soonyoung’s weight.

“Then why do I feel like I’m on a boat in the middle of a storm?”

"Maybe because you're as heavy as a sack of rice!"

You, being entirely unhelpful, are doubled over in silent laughter, barely holding back tears.

Despite the constant bickering, Soonyoung manages to attach the camera securely without knocking anything over or causing a disaster which is an impressive feat in itself, given the circumstances. Once he's satisfied with the placement, he carefully climbs down, having only one near-death slip, but he catches himself just in time.

With the camera now rolling, the three of you retreat into your dorm, hoping that today might bring another letter. You settle in, playing a few rounds of UNO to pass the time while keeping an ear out for any sounds outside. However, as the hours tick by, no new delivery arrives. Eventually, as the clock edges past 8 PM, Soonyoung and Seungkwan decide to call it a day.

“Well,” Soonyoung sighs, stretching his arms above his head, “I guess we check the footage tomorrow.”

“Or,” Seungkwan grumbles, rubbing his sore shoulders, “this was all just an excuse for Soonyoung to climb on my back.”

You laugh, walking them to the door. “Thanks for helping out, though. See you guys tomorrow.”

With a final wave, they head off leaving you alone in the dorm. But as you glance at the door one last time before heading to your bedroom, a thought scratches at the back of your mind relentlessly: What if the admirer knows they’re being watched?

You shake your head, trying to push the thought away. Now’s not the time to get paranoid. You have other things to focus on, like your studies. After spending most of your day fooling around, it’s about time you catch up. With a sigh, you open your books and begin to study. Your eyes scan the page, absorbing formulas and theorems—polynomials, integrals, trigonometric identities, limits. It’s pure maths which always seems to make sense when you’re in the right mindset. You scribble through some practice problems, your pen moving quickly across the paper as you tackle linear algebra and calculus, but your focus doesn’t last long. After an hour of studying, the temptation to check your phone becomes unbearable. Just a quick break, you think. So you open Instagram and start mindlessly scrolling through reels, watching endless edits of SEVENTEEN. As the adrenaline from watching them starts to course through your veins, you stand up, feeling a little too hot and giddy from the rush. You need to walk it off so you head to the kitchen and grab a glass of water trying to cool down and calm your racing thoughts. But as you’re pouring the water, your eyes naturally drift toward the front door. And that’s when you see it.

A letter. Slipped under the crack of the door.

Your heart skips a beat, and afraid to move. It’s from the secret admirer. The thought sends a shockwave through you. The thought that the hidden camera set up by you, Seungkwan, and Soonyoung might have actually caught the admirer in the act fills your mind, making your pulse quicken. Your hands are slightly trembling as you set the cold glass down, then without thinking twice, you rush over, bending down to pick it up. The envelope is unmarked, your fingers linger on it for a moment as a weird mix of excitement and nerves bubble in your chest. Slowly, you rip the top open and pull the letter out, unfolding it carefully.

“I saw you laughing today, and it made me stop for a second. You’ve been on my mind for a while now and if I’m being honest, I don’t think a single day passes without me thinking of you at least once. It’s strange, isn’t it? How someone can become a part of your thoughts without even trying. Anyway, I hope you liked the bookmark, thought you might like the lavender on that. It's nothing too fancy, but I hope it makes you smile. And before you ask – no, I won’t tell you who I am yet. You’ll figure it out when the time is right. Or maybe I’ll have to be the one to tell you. See you later.”

You place the letter on your desk and take a deep breath. Part of you just feels this strange comfort from the letter, but another part of you is still buzzing with excitement, wondering who the camera caught.

You decide against checking the camera right now, knowing full well that if you watch the footage without Seungkwan and Soonyoung, they’ll throw a fit and sulk for days. And dealing with their pouts and sighs isn’t worth it. They’d probably demand some sort of grand apology, maybe treating them to a big buffet or approving one of Soonyoung’s ridiculous ideas as compensation. Yeah, no thanks. With that in mind, you push aside your curiosity and decide to wait until tomorrow to watch it together.

Three

February 9th.

“Hey, have you been sleeping well? You always pretend you’re fine, but I know you haven’t been getting enough rest. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you rubbing your eyes or you zoning out when you’re supposed to be paying attention. I know you have a lot on your mind. Maybe even too much. If I could take some of that weight off your shoulders, I would. But for now, all I can do is remind you to please, take care of yourself.

Also, I know you’re probably looking everywhere for answers, but sometimes you’re too focused on finding them that you miss the simple ones. Take a breath. Relax. Not everything is a mystery – sometimes, the answer is right in front of you, waiting for you to notice.

Anyway, I saw you trip earlier. That was funny.”

-

You stand, dumbfounded, gripping both last night’s and today’s letters while Seungkwan struggles to restrain himself from launching a punch at Soonyoung. The excitement of finally discovering your secret admirer had kept you patient, waiting for the two boys so you could watch the footage together. Now, the three of you stand in a loose circle in your dorm room, Seungkwan holding the mini camera in one hand, his grip tight enough to crack plastic.

Soonyoung, your beloved and apparently utterly incompetent partner in crime, forgot to check the camera battery. Which meant that after a measly thirty minutes of recording, the camera died. Which meant it captured absolutely nothing. Which meant your admirer had narrowly avoided being caught, not because of their own cunning but because Soonyoung was an idiot.

A heavy collective sigh fills the room, a habit the three of you have apparently perfected at this point. There’s no point in dwelling on it now. Shoulders slumping in defeat, you all grab your bags and head toward the stairs, making your way to campus.

Seungkwan, however, is not letting it go. He insists that this is a catastrophe, that you’ve all officially lost your credibility as investigators, that Soonyoung should be banned from handling equipment ever again. “This is ridiculous. This is a disaster. This is an embarrassment.” He’s been nagging nonstop, words tumbling out at breakneck speed as he waves his hands. “How did we mess up something this simple? How does anyone forget to check the battery? We are so unserious—”

You groan, throwing a hand in front of his face, forcing him to stop mid-rant. “Seungkwan, shut the fuck up and watch where you’re walking before you trip over your own ego.” Although he’s not wrong, he was just as invested in this as you and Soonyoung were, so he really has no right to act this self-righteous.

He gasps, but to his credit, he actually shuts up, though you can feel the pout radiating off of him.

Soonyoung meanwhile, has already moved on. By the time you reach campus, he’s concocting another plan, mumbling under his breath about an official interrogation session. “Café,” he decides. “We’ll question the suspects in the café.”

It’s not the worst idea. After all, you, Seungkwan, and Soonyoung did come up with a list of potential admirers. And since Jihoon, Vernon, and Chan were still blissfully unaware of their suspect status on the list, it wouldn’t hurt to gather more intel.

Soonyoung claps his hands together, grinning. “Alright! We meet up at the café later with the others, and then—”

“Then we go to class before you actually flunk out of college,” you interrupt, already dragging Seungkwan toward the lecture hall.

“Pfft. Rude.” Soonyoung huffs but waves you off. “I’ll see you later!”

As you and Seungkwan slip into your usual seats, you let your eyes drift over the letters once more, fingers tracing the words. If Soonyoung hadn’t messed up, would you have already known the answer? Probably, but still…

Instead of paying attention to whatever your lecturer is droning on about—something about algorithms, efficiency, and real-world applications—you and Seungkwan huddle together whispering over your list of suspects one last time. Jihoon, Vernon, and Chan. The same three names.

“We need a proper plan,” Seungkwan mutters, tapping his pen against his notebook.

You nod in agreement. “We can’t just corner them randomly without knowing what to ask.”

So, while the rest of the class focuses on things that actually matter like, say, the lecture that’s apparently worth half of your grade, you and Seungkwan draft an interrogation script. Questions, strategies, ways to subtly (or not-so-subtly) catch the culprit slipping. Once it's done, Seungkwan sends the script to Soonyoung and without hesitation, drops a message in the group chat:

Seungkwan: Everyone. Café. After class. No exceptions.

Just as he hits send, "Seungkwan," your lecturer calls, voice heavy with disapproval.

You barely suppress a wince as Seungkwan slowly looks up, caught red-handed with his phone still in his grip. The lecturer pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, unimpressed. "Would you like to share what’s so important that you’d rather text in the middle of my very crucial, very grade-determining lecture?" (He says that every lecture. At this point, you’re convinced it’s just a scare tactic.)

Seungkwan, without missing a beat, gives the lecturer the most withering, unimpressed side-eye you’ve ever seen, one that he definitely doesn’t notice, too busy shifting his focus onto another poor student. With a sigh, Seungkwan stands up, gathers his things, and exits the room like a man facing exile.

After the lecture ends, you gather your things and step out of the hall, immediately spotting Seungkwan and Soonyoung waiting for you near the stairway landing. Seungkwan leans against the railing, arms crossed, tapping his foot impatiently and Soonyoung, on the other hand, is half-sitting on the lower step, scrolling through his phone, probably looking at some absurd meme he’s about to show you the moment you get close. The second you approach, Seungkwan spots you and gestures for your water bottle, giving you an expectant look. Without a word, you hand it over and he takes a long gulp like he’s been trekking through the desert. Meanwhile, you grab Soonyoung’s wrist to pull him up from his seat, and just like that, the three of you set off toward the café.

On the way, you pass by Chan’s lecture hall. He’s just stepping out when Soonyoung with no warning or whatsoever, hooks an arm around his neck and steers him in your direction. “Where are we going?” Dino asks, confused but not resisting.

“To the café,” Seungkwan answers. “We have an important interrogation.”

Chan raises an eyebrow. “Do I even have a choice?”

“Nope,” you and Soonyoung say at the same time.

“As expected…” Chan says sadly (fake).

When the four of you reach the café, you slide into your seat right between Seungkwan and Soonyoung, with Chan sitting beside Soonyoung. The moment you’re settled, the others start trickling in, each arriving on their own. That means they actually checked the group chat. If they hadn’t, well, you three would’ve just stormed into their respective halls and dragged them here by the ear. You weren’t about to wait around forever. Once everyone had gathered, Seungkwan takes charge.

“We’re here to interrogate Jihoon, Vernon, and Chan,” he announces, placing the list in the center of the table. “No questions about why they’re on the list. No complaints. We have our reasons.”

Mingyu watches all of this unfold, barely holding back a sigh. They’re never going to figure it out at this rate. He was never worried about Seungkwan and Soonyoung actually catching him. Those two could be geniuses in their own fields but when it came to deduction, they were absolute fools. It’s amusing how confident Seungkwan and Soonyoung are in their so-called investigation. He wants to scoff, wants to roll his eyes, but he keeps himself in check. You, on the other hand… you’re smart, but Mingyu is starting to think that your partnership with Seungkwan and Soonyoung might be lowering your IQ. Still, he lets it play out, keeping quiet as the interrogations begin.

Suspect Interrogations

✔ Jihoon goes first. He looks downright offended that his name is even on the list, crossing his arms over his chest as he scowls at you and Seungkwan. "Why would I do something so cheesy?" he demands. "I've told you already, it's not me!"

Seungkwan doesn’t miss a beat. He leans forward squinting at Jihoon, "That’s exactly what a guilty person would say!"

Jihoon visibly clenches his jaw, looking like he’s one second away from launching his drink at Seungkwan’s head. You almost want to stop him but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t want to see it happen.

✔ Vernon is next. He stares at you, eyes blinking slowly, looking about as confused as a man who’s been woken up mid-dream. "I don’t even write notes for myself, why would I write one for you?" he asks. "And I think I've told you many times, it's not me!"

You and Soonyoung exchange looks, still very suspicious of him for some reason.

✔ Chan goes last. He doesn’t even pretend to take this seriously, instead, he just laughs, "If I liked you, I’d just tell you," he says.

It’s a fair point. A good point. But then… he keeps talking. He starts adding unnecessary details, rambling about hypotheticals—the ‘what-ifs’ and ‘maybes’ that no innocent person would feel the need to explain. He’s digging a deeper hole with every word, and you can practically see Seungkwan’s brain short-circuiting beside you.

Then, all at once, Seungkwan slams a hand on the table and leans forward, "That sounds like something the real admirer would say to throw us off."

Chan looks so betrayed.

Jeonghan crosses his arms as he observes the mess of notes and theories sprawled out before him. "You're not going to get them to confess, you know," he says. "They want to stay anonymous. No amount of begging or interrogation is going to change that."

You narrow your eyes at him. "Then what do you suggest, Sherlock?"

Jeonghan smirks. "Simple. If you can’t catch them in the act, make them come to you."

He lays out his ideas: each one realistic, logical, and frustratingly effective. He insists that if the admirer is really in your friend group, they'll never slip up under pressure. They've already been careful and their goal isn't to get caught. It's to wait until they're ready.

But for the first time, Jeonghan is wrong.

Mingyu doesn’t want to stay anonymous because he isn’t ready. He’s been ready for as long as he can remember. He’s been in love with you since forever. The only thing stopping him from confessing outright is that he wants you to see it first. To realize, without anyone spelling it out for you that your admirer has been right in front of you this entire time. That it’s him.

Jeonghan keeps talking, giving you, Seungkwan, and Soonyoung ideas on how to lure out the admirer. You nod along, jotting down notes with Seungkwan, completely oblivious to the way Mingyu shifts in his seat, playing idly with the rings on his fingers, memorizing all of your plans. Jeonghan’s part is done, and now he just leans back, chatting lazily with Mingyu, who barely hears a word. Mingyu knows you’re not getting anywhere with this approach, not as long as you keep treating this like some detective novel. So, he decides to leave some hints of his own. Letting you catch him staring. Letting his fingers brush against yours just a second too long. 

A waiter approaches the table, setting down a glass of orange juice in front of you, along with a small hand warmer wrapped in soft fabric. A tiny note is attached, folded neatly under the band.

You blink, frowning. "I didn’t order this."

The waiter only smiles. "It was ordered anonymously. For you."

Before you can even process what that means, Seungkwan moves at the speed of 3×10⁸ m/s, snatching the orange juice off the table. "We are not letting her drink something from an unknown sender," he announces before he downs it in one go.

"You mean my secret admirer," you correct, deadpan, reaching for the note instead.

"So you say," he mutters.

Mingyu leans back in his seat, watching your reaction carefully as you unfold the tiny slip of paper. The words are simple yet enough to make your stomach flip:

“Keep your hands warm. I’ll take care of the rest.”

Seungkwan doesn’t even notice your momentary daze because he’s too busy sulking over his lack of a second drink. "That was good," he mutters, smacking his lips. "Would be nice if someone ordered one for me, though.”

Mingyu, cool, calm, and completely unbothered, raises a hand and calls the waiter over again. "Seven more orange juices, please," he says and then throws a pointed look at Seungkwan. "For everyone except him."

Seungkwan gasps. "What! Why not me?"

Mingyu smirks, propping his chin on his hand. "You already stole hers. No take-backs."

Seungkwan glares at him, indignant. “Oh, so now we’re playing favorites? Unbelievable.”

Mingyu only pokes his tongue out teasingly before leaning back in his chair, satisfied with the laughter echoing around the table. Soonyoung bursts into laughter first, quickly followed by the others. Mingyu just smiles to himself, but soon enough, you clear your throat, drawing everyone's attention. "So," you start, your voice slightly exasperated, "I was this close to catching the admirer in the act." You proceed to recount the series of events from yesterday and today, explaining how Soonyoung and Seungkwan had set up a hidden camera in your dorm’s corridor, only for the idiotic Soonyoung to forget to check the battery, causing it to die before it could record anything.

Mingyu who had been listening intently, releases a relieved breath, knowing how close he came to being discovered. The thought of you catching him in the act sends a shiver down his spine. He silently makes a mental note to be more careful with these anonymous deliveries. After all, he wants you to discover the admirer is him, but on your own time. Mingyu doesn’t want it to be forced.

Before he leaves, Mingyu stands up, making his way toward you. He gives you a hug and in that moment, it feels different unlike other times. His arms wrap around you with purpose, his chest pressing lightly against yours. The warmth of his body and the familiar scent of him, fresh and lightly musky with a hint of wood, lingers in your senses. You can feel the gentle pressure of his arms around you, and to not exaggerate, it feels like time had slowed down. Your heart stumbles over itself, a foolish, reckless thing, drunk on the way he feels against you. It’s ridiculous how a simple hug can make your head spin, how the warmth of his arms feels like something you shouldn’t crave, but do anyway. You press your lips together, willing yourself to breathe normally, to not let it show just how much this moment is unraveling you from the inside out. But it’s stupid. So, so stupid. Because this isn’t how you’re supposed to feel when your heart should be occupied with the mystery of your secret admirer—the person leaving you letters, the person who sees you in a way no one else does. You shouldn’t be aching for more, shouldn’t be selfishly lingering in Mingyu’s embrace, wishing he’d never let go. You shouldn’t want him to hold you like this again, and again, and again. But you do. And it feels wrong, because Mingyu isn’t the one writing you those letters…

He pulls back slightly, still holding you for a moment longer than usual as if trying to convey something without words. You notice how his touch lingers; the light yet deliberate way he lets you feel his presence though you don't fully catch onto his intentions. Meanwhile, Jeonghan raises an eyebrow at the hug. The others don’t really notice, as it’s not uncommon for the eight of you to hug, but something about this seems different even if they don't quite pinpoint it.

Mingyu pulls away, his smile still staying as he bids everyone goodbye, claiming he has another class in the afternoon that he can’t afford to miss.

However, as soon as he steps out of the café, he changes direction, heading not toward the classroom, but to a candle-making workshop he’d booked an appointment for a few days ago. Inside the workshop, Mingyu walks around with the instructor who guides him through the candle-making process. The space smells like warm wax and a cocktail of fragrances. The place is dancing with creativity but Mingyu already has a vision in mind.

His first idea is a rotating heart-shaped candle made of light pink wax, its design featuring ribbed layers that spiral upward giving it a unique 3D sort of effect. The second candle will be more playful, a rubik's cube made of hearts. It's a square candle and each side is covered in a grid of tiny hearts, all in varying shades of pink. The design is neat and the colors blend really well which makes the candle appear soft but striking at the same time.

Mingyu carefully selects the wax, something soft yet durable, perfect for the designs he has in mind and the colors, choosing soft shades of pink, each one different but complementing the others. He picks out the scents: a lavender with hints of vanilla. The instructor walks him through the remaining details, ensuring everything is perfect for the candles he’s about to create. Mingyu’s thoughts briefly drift back to you, wondering how you’ll react once you see the candles. But he has no time to waste anymore, so Mingyu rolls up his sleeves as the instructor prepares the workspace, laying out all the necessary materials. He’s focused, the idea of creating something special for you igniting a sense of excitement and purpose within him. The sound of the instructor’s instructions makes Mingyu feel like he’s entering a different world, one where he can focus solely on his vision.

Step 1: Preparing the Wax

The instructor starts by showing Mingyu how to melt the wax to the perfect consistency. Mingyu, fully engaged, watches carefully as the wax turns from solid to a glassy liquid. He chooses a light pink wax, the base for both candles, and pours it into a large mixing container, ready to be heated. The wax glows softly under the warm light and Mingyu smiles at how it resembles the color he envisions for the heart-shaped candle.

Step 2: Crafting the Heart Candle

Mingyu takes a special mold, shaped like a heart, and begins carefully pouring the melted wax into the mold. He does this slowly, ensuring there are no air bubbles and that the wax is evenly spread. As it fills the mold, he adds layers, letting each one cool slightly before pouring the next to create the ribbed, spiraled effect he wanted. With each layer, the heart shape begins to come to life, the design slowly becoming more intricate, giving it that soft, rotating effect he’d envisioned.

Once the mold is filled, Mingyu lets it cool. He then checks the temperature of the wax again, then chooses a faint vanilla scent to add, mixing it in thoroughly. He waits patiently, allowing the wax to solidify into the form of a delicate rotating heart.

Step 3: Crafting the Rubik's Cube Candle

Next, Mingyu turns his attention to the Rubik’s cube candle. He chooses a square mold, knowing it’ll be a bit trickier to get all the sides even but he’s determined. He melts a darker shade of pink wax, then carefully pours it into the mold, covering each side evenly. As the wax cools slightly, Mingyu presses tiny heart-shaped stamps into each side, ensuring each one is uniform but with slight variations in the shade of pink. Some hearts are light, some darker, creating a neat grid-like pattern.

Before he finishes, he adds the scent, a hint of lavender to the candle for a calming, refreshing scent that contrasts but compliments the soft vanilla in the heart-shaped candle. He doesn’t know why, but something about it feels just right.

Step 4: Setting Them to Cool

Mingyu carefully places both candles on the cooling racks, watching as they begin to set. He’s exhausted but satisfied, a small smile playing on his lips as he imagines you receiving them. He doesn’t need to say it but these candles are more than just gifts, they are symbols. Symbols of his feelings, wrapped up in a soft pink glow waiting for you to figure out that the admirer was always right in front of you.

As the wax cools and the candles solidify, Mingyu’s heart races just a little faster. He’s ready, he’s more than ready. He just needs you to realize it too.

Four

February 10th.

You carefully lift the velvet black box, a silk material cradling the delicate necklace inside. Your fingers brush against the golden chain as the lavender gemstone catches the light. The oval shape of the gemstone adds a timeless quality to it, and the way the facets reflect the light gives it an ethereal, almost magical quality. The chain is fine and delicate, emphasizing the dainty, feminine look of the necklace, which, in all its understated elegance, somehow feels like it was meant only for you. You can feel your heart race, knowing that someone took the time to pick out something that you also had your eyes on. 

Then your eyes fall on the note attached to the box, and you carefully read the words:

“I remember you mentioning this the other day. Couldn’t resist.”

Your heart skips a beat as the memory floods back. You remember the moment so clearly now. It was maybe an offhand comment but you had mentioned how much you adored that lavender gemstone necklace you saw during window-shopping. You had daydreamed about having it in your hands, imagining how beautiful it would be to wear and how it would make you feel. You'd been chatting with the others, and as you recall, the only ones who were around that day were Jeonghan, Jihoon, Mingyu, Seungkwan, and Chan. Your mind races as you quickly start to piece things together. It was one of them, wasn’t it? Vernon is out now but one of them had been paying attention and had remembered that fleeting wish. 

You set the necklace aside for a moment, turning your attention to the next gift. As you open the small package, your eyes widen in surprise. It's a keychain—a cute, round Doraemon keychain, the little blue robot cat you used to love watching as a kid. You can actually hear the theme song in your mind as you hold it in your hand.

You step into your room, carefully setting both gifts on your desk. It’s officially the fourth day since you found out about your secret admirer. Each day without fail you've received a gift along with a letter. But today, there’s been no letter yet. Which means it could arrive any moment. And that means this is your another chance. If you time things right, if you plan well enough, you might just catch them in the act. Your mind immediately goes to Seungkwan and Soonyoung. You need to meet up with them as soon as possible to strategize. Jeonghan’s advice had logic behind it, if there’s any hope of luring out the admirer, you’ll have to be smart about this.

With a deep breath, you check your phone to see the time and—Holy shit. You're late. Like, really late.

Your eyes widen as you scramble to grab your things. Soonyoung and Seungkwan are definitely going to scold you for making them wait. You don’t even have time to dwell on the gifts anymore, your priority is getting out of here now.

You rush to your closet, throwing on a gray oversized hoodie. It’s comfortable, and most importantly, easy to move in. You quickly pair it with high-waisted black wide-leg pants that you found hanging right in front of you. Slipping into your sneakers, you grab your black quilted tote bag, sliding it over your shoulder in one swift motion. Before heading out, you catch one last glimpse of yourself in the mirror, quickly applying a soft burgundy lipstick just enough to add some color to your face. Your Sony headphones settle around your neck as you practically bolt for the door. 

You can already imagine Seungkwan’s sigh and Soonyoung’s exaggerated disappointment. You are so not ready for this.

You burst into the library slightly out of breath, scanning the room until your eyes land on them sitting at one of the corner tables. Soonyoung is slouched over, lazily flipping through a book while Seungkwan looks far too unimpressed, arms crossed and foot tapping impatiently.

The second you reach them, Seungkwan wastes no time. "You’re so late," he huffs, grabbing your wrist before you can even attempt an apology.

“Wait, I—” you start, but it’s useless.

Before you can even process what's happening, Seungkwan bolts out of the library with you in tow, dragging you behind him. You barely manage to throw Soonyoung an apologetic look but he just waves lazily, muttering something about meeting up later.

Seungkwan doesn’t stop until you’re both speed-walking through the hallway toward your class. “You seriously need to start checking the time,” he scolds though his grip on your wrist loosens once he sees you struggling to keep up.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” you say between breaths, deciding to distract him before he starts a full-on lecture. “Anyway—oh my god, you won’t believe how noisy my neighbors have been lately.”

That catches his attention. “How noisy?”

“Loud loud,” you emphasize, lowering your voice as you both slip into the classroom and find your seats. “Like, I swear they’re either throwing a party every other night or filming some very questionable action scenes.”

Seungkwan gasps, already invested. “That’s insane. You have to spill everything later. But wait…” he pauses, turning to you, “...did you get anything from your secret admirer today?”

You nod, pulling your tote bag closer. “Yeah, actually. A keychain and a necklace.”

Seungkwan raises an eyebrow, intrigued. “Necklace? Okay, that’s new.”

“Yeah, yeah, but focus,” you whisper, nudging him as the professor enters. “We’ll talk about it later when Soonyoung’s here too.”

Seungkwan sighs but leans back in his seat, finally quieting down as class begins. You let out a relieved breath, glad you managed to avoid more nagging.

-

The plan was supposed to be foolproof. Simple, yet effective. You, Seungkwan, and Soonyoung had spent nearly an hour or two in the library piecing together the perfect strategy. Since the admirer delivered gifts and letters at completely random times, catching them in the act had been next to impossible. But then, Seungkwan had a moment of genius enlightenment or at least, that’s what he called it.

“You pretend to leave,” he had explained. “Turn off the lights, make some noise like you're walking away… but in reality, you're just hiding somewhere nearby, waiting to see who sneaks in.”

“I think it’s perfect!” Soonyoung grinned, clapping his hands together.

You weren’t as sure. On one hand, you wanted to catch him. On the other, you secretly hoped he’d be smart enough to avoid the trap. You didn’t want a dumb admirer, but you also desperately wanted to know who it was. 

And so it was set, you pretended to leave your dorm, deliberately shutting the door a little louder than necessary. The lights were turned off, and your footsteps echoed down the hallway only for you to quickly slip into a hiding spot right around the corner, out of direct sight but close enough to see anyone who entered.

Seungkwan and Soonyoung were stationed at different vantage points: Soonyoung crouched behind a vending machine down the hall, and Seungkwan, well… he was supposed to be hiding behind the stairwell.

Except he was the one who completely blew the mission.

You were barely five minutes into waiting when your phone suddenly blasted at full volume—

I'M SO SICK OF THIS FAKE LOVE~ FAKE LOVE~ FAKE LOVE~

Your heart stopped. Seungkwan was calling you.

You fumbled with your phone, fingers scrambling to hit decline as fast as humanly possible, but the damage was already done. From the dim light of the hallway, you saw a figure, tall, broad-shouldered frozen in place. There was a brief pause, and then… an unmistakable snort. Your admirer had just laughed at you.

Your mortification reached new heights as you caught a glimpse of movement just as Mingyu took a step back, blending into the shadows with alarming ease. But before he disappeared entirely, he let something slip from his fingers. A single envelope fluttered down to the floor. Then, just like that, he was gone. Mission failed.

The timing had been perfect. You had expected to wait for at least an hour, maybe two, or even five before the admirer would finally make a move. But no, he had shown up almost immediately after you hid. It should have been a victory. You had been so, so close, and yet…it still ended up failing. Your disappointment is immeasurable.

The one time you had a chance to catch him and Seungkwan of all people had to blow it. You don’t even want to look in his direction right now. Instead, you stare down at the envelope on the floor, left behind in his quick escape. You take a shaky breath before stepping forward, crouching down to pick it up. Your fingers brush against the smooth paper. It’s slightly warm, maybe from being held just moments ago. He was right in front of you and you missed him.

-

Mingyu sighs, his arm draped around your shoulders, patting you just below your shoulder blade. You lean into him, still fuming while Seungkwan sits stiffly across from you, avoiding eye contact. Soonyoung is usually the loudest one in the group but remains eerily quiet, the guilt probably eating him alive too.

You groan, burying your face against Mingyu’s chest. “I was so close! Like, insanely close. But no, of course, the universe had to humiliate me instead. The admirer didn’t just escape—he snorted at me. Snorted! He found it funny that I got caught!” You lift your head, eyes blazing with frustration. “You guys don’t understand. We had one job. One job! And we failed.”

Mingyu’s lips twitch, a mix of amusement and fondness. He’s enjoying this even as he strokes your arm absentmindedly, pretending to be the supportive friend. Jeonghan, on the other hand, actually smirks. “To be fair, I did tell you to be discreet.”

You shoot him a glare. “Don’t. Even. Start.”

Mingyu watches you closely and expectantly. Maybe you’ll finally piece it together now, maybe you’ll notice the way he’s been around you, the way the gifts are so him, the way his words always hold an extra layer of meaning. But no. Instead, you start throwing out the most ridiculous theories. “What if he’s not from our group? What if it’s some random stranger who’s been stalking me this entire time?”

Mingyu sighs deeply.

“What if it’s a professor?”

Mingyu groans.

“What if it’s—”

“Stop.”

You blink as he turns you toward him, his hands suddenly cupping your face. His palms are warm against your cheeks, thumbs brushing over your skin. Your eyes widen at the sudden closeness, at the way his gaze locks onto yours. For just a second he wonders if you’ll finally see it. If you’ll notice the way his eyes soften when he looks at you. If you’ll catch onto the warmth in his voice when he speaks. If you’ll recognize the way his hands feel so familiar, because he’s been by your side all along. But instead, you just stare at him puzzled.

Mingyu exhales sharply, pressing his forehead against yours for a moment before pulling back. “Don’t overthink it,” he says. “The admirer will still admire you even after knowing you were spying on him without his consent. He has no reason not to.”

You blink at him. “That’s… oddly reassuring?”

Jeonghan watches the entire thing unfold, his smirk deepening. Of course, he picked it up. Mingyu releases you by shaking his head. He’s this close to just spelling it out for you, but no, you have to figure it out yourself. His fingers twitch slightly as he slips two candies into the pocket of your hoodie. You’re sharp and he knows that better than anyone. Always observing, always analyzing but right now, you seem lost in thought, your brows furrowed just slightly, lips pressed together as if deep in contemplation and he wonders who are you thinking about? Who are you suspecting? Because he's right here. He's always been right here but do you see him?

He leans back slightly, now one arm slung over the back of your chair, watching the way your fingers idly trace patterns on the wooden table. He wonders if you realize how much of yourself you give away. The way your shoulders relax ever so slightly when you’re comfortable. The way your fingers tense when you’re overthinking. The way your lips part just the tiniest bit when a thought clicks into place. And right now… you’re thinking hard. 

Meanwhile, his mind flashes back to earlier.

When your ringtone screamed Fake Love, he didn't panic but his body reacted on instinct, stepping back into the shadows, keeping his composure. And honestly, he had expected you to pull a stunt like this. Ever since he heard you setting up the hidden camera last time, he knew you’d try something even bolder next. That’s why he had prepared for it, why he was ten times more careful now especially since you’d taken Jeonghan’s advice. But the real problem was that you were so cute.

The way you hunched down, scrambling to decline the call, eyes darting around like a guilty child caught sneaking snacks before dinner. From the corner of his eye, he had watched you, heart clenching in the most endearing way. He wanted to stay longer just to see you try harder, to watch the determination in your eyes. But he had slipped the letter onto the floor and disappeared before you could catch him. 

-

At night, when you can’t get the gifts out of your head, the theories keep spinning, running faster than your thoughts. You pull out your phone, without even thinking about it. You tap his contact in your phone reflexively. He is the only person you can call for this, the only one who doesn’t mind when you ramble, who lets you spill every ridiculous and half-formed thought without ever making you feel like you’re too much. He’s the only one you trust to catch your words when they come tumbling out. But does he ever do the same? Does he ever pick up his phone in the middle of the night, scroll past contacts, and land on your name? When things get too loud in his head, when he feels too much, does he think about calling you the way you think about calling him?

The sound of the dial tone fills the silence in your room, your pulse quickening as you wait for him to pick up. It rings once, twice—until finally, he answers.

"Hello?" His voice is deep and groggy like you’ve just pulled him out of deep sleep.

"Hey," you say, your words spilling out all at once. "I think it’s Jihoon. His handwriting, I swear, it's obvious. And about that keychain, it could be Chan too, maybe he remembered that necklace…."

There's a moment of silence on the other end, and you’re too wrapped up in your thoughts to hear the shift in his voice. It’s a bit of a sigh like he’s holding back something. "Hmm," Mingyu murmurs, dragging the word out. "You think it’s Jihoon or Chan? I mean, I guess it could be them." But you don’t hear the tension in his tone.

You launch into another theory, oblivious to his discomfort. "Or it could be Jeonghan? I know he's blunt all the time but I only talked about the necklace with him, Chan, you, Jihoon and Seungkwan…so it has to be one of them, right?"

He chuckles softly though the sound feels strained, and you can almost picture him running a hand through his hair. "I don’t know. Maybe you should just… let it be for a little while. Think about it in the morning, yeah?"

"I’m not letting it go, Mingyu. I need to figure this out. It’s driving me crazy!"

You hear his deep exhale on the other end. He’s not chuckling anymore. "Okay, okay," he says, voice slightly more clipped. "But get some sleep, alright?"

You roll your eyes, but you’re not listening. You’re too focused on unraveling it. "I’ll sleep when I have answers. Thanks anyway, Mingyu."

By the time you glance at the clock, it’s already 2 a.m., and you’re still awake, thinking about everything.

-

“You seemed deep in thought today. I wonder what you were thinking about. Or rather… who. You’re sharp, you know. Always paying attention, always observing. I wonder if you realize how much of yourself you give away when you’re lost in your own head. You’re looking for answers right now, aren’t you? That’s okay. Just don’t get so caught up in looking that you forget to see what’s right in front of you.

I hope you liked today’s gift. I thought it suited you.”

Five

February 11th.

Another day, another failure. You, Soonyoung, and Seungkwan are officially verified stupid.

The three of you sit slumped against the dorm room wall staring at the ceiling in sheer defeat. The plan was foolproof but you didn't account for one crucial factor. You live in a building with other students. You guys decided to install a motion alarm. Too many false alarms. A passing student, a delivery guy, a gust of wind. Each time the alarm went off, you three sprang into action only to find a confused neighbor or an empty hallway. By the third false alarm, Seungkwan was done.

"I'm quitting." He declared, standing up immediately. "I can't do this anymore. I might commit a crime."

"But you want to find out, right?" Soonyoung asked.

"I do. But not like this..." Seungkwan rubbed his temples, looking at you for support.

You didn't understand him. At all. "We were so close this time, though!" you argued, but even you were starting to doubt that.

Soonyoung groaned, flopping onto the floor. "I thought this would be the one…"

"Well, it wasn't. And I need a break before I actually start throwing hands." Seungkwan warns.

You sighed, sinking deeper into the floor. The admirer was winning. Again. And you were running out of ideas.

Somewhere out there, Mingyu was definitely laughing.

A knock echoed through the room. Your heart jumped. Reaching for the door, you find another letter. Your stomach twisted. The admirer had already delivered it. He knew, he must have waited until you were distracted, until you were busy sulking over another failed plan before sneaking in and leaving this behind. You clenched your jaw. He was taunting you.

Seungkwan sighed, flopping onto the couch. "We lost again."

But you weren’t ready to admit defeat. You slowly opened the letter, your fingers brushing over the familiar handwriting.

“It’s interesting watching you try to figure this out. I wonder if you’ll ever catch on or if I’ll have to spell it out for you one day. You looked frustrated earlier. I know you hate it when things don’t make sense, but sometimes, not knowing is part of the fun. Not everything has to be a puzzle to solve, maybe I'm right in front of you. Still, I’m curious—how’s the investigation going? I guess I already know.”

-

The note says:

"Your favourite, hope you aren't mad anymore. Oh and to remind you, don’t finish this in one go. I know how much you love it but eating it all in one day might just lead to a cold! I won't be able to bear to see you sniffle with a red nose, especially when you're already so adorable. Take care of yourself, okay? I’m sure you don’t want to be caught with a runny nose.”

There you stand holding the tub of half baked Ben & Jerry’s ice-cream. The combination of chocolate and vanilla ice cream with cookie dough and brownie chunks, your absolute favorite. You take a deep breath, a little smile tugging at your lips, but the mystery of the admirer still weighs heavy on your chest.

You stride over to the kitchen, grabbing a spoon from the drawer and making your way to the couch. You plop down, the tub in your lap and start digging in. The cold ice cream melts quickly on your tongue, soothing some of your earlier frustration. You scoop up another generous bite and let the flavors settle as you think.

Then, you grab your phone, typing away in the group chat. You snap a quick selfie, spoon still in your mouth, with the ice cream tub beside you. With a smirk, you send it out to the group chat:

Y/N: "Whoever got me this, thanks! But I'm still angry. If you don’t reveal yourself soon… you might just regret it."

Six

February 12th.

"You’ve been looking everywhere, hahah. Searching, questioning, analyzing... but sometimes, the answer is closer than you think. It’s easy to overlook the obvious when you’re searching too hard. But I don’t mind, I like watching you figure things out even if you’re terribly off track. Don’t forget to rest, okay? Also, I know you skip meals when you’re too busy, don’t do that. Take care of yourself, because someone out there cares enough to remind you every day."

-

"It's been six days!" he groans. "And still no clue who this admirer is?"

Seungkwan sighs, peering over his shoulder. "At this point, I’m starting to consider Soonyoung's idea that we’re dealing with a ghost."

Mingyu and Chan lean in, trying to catch a glimpse of the note. Mingyu’s heart beats faster not just from curiosity but from something else entirely.

Then, something clicks in your mind. Without a word, you dive into your bag shuffling through its contents in a frenzy. The others watch with curiosity as you pull out all six letters, carefully laying them side by side across the table.

Mingyu watches as your eyes scan each letter, analyzing every word, every phrase. His pulse quickens. Are you finally piecing it together? Are you about to turn to him, grab his collar and pull him in and kiss? Will you tell him you’ve known all along, that you’ve felt the same way, that he’s been in your heart just as you’ve been in his? He inches closer slowly, hoping to make it easier for you to reach for him when you want to pull him in. And then you gasp loudly.

Soonyoung jumps forward. “What? What is it?”

Your eyes widen, mouth agape in disbelief. “I—I think I know who it is.”

The room goes silent. Mingyu barely breathes.

You turn to the group, your expression resolute. “It’s Jeonghan.”

Mingyu’s heart stops. A crushing weight settles in his chest as his two-minute fantasy shatters in an instant. The imagined confession, the kiss, the overwhelming relief of finally being known is now gone.

"Jeonghan?" Seungkwan echoes, stunned.

You nod, “Think about it! The letters keep hinting that the answer is closer than I think, that I’m overlooking something obvious. And I completely dismissed Jeonghan before because I figured he’d be too lazy to go through all this effort.”

Soonyoung frowns. “That still seems like a stretch.”

“No, listen! Jeonghan was the one who told us the admirer isn’t ready to reveal himself yet, which means he knows who it is, because it's him! He was also there when I talked about the necklace. The admirer sent me one a few days later. That’s not a coincidence!” The group exchanges glances, mulling over your logic. “And,” you continue, “the letters keep saying I’m terribly off track. Who else could it be but the one person I never seriously considered?”

Mingyu stays quiet, watching as you piece together a puzzle with the wrong pieces. He clenches his jaw as you match all the clues to Jeonghan, not realizing that in your eagerness to connect the dots, you missed the most obvious thing of all. It's HIM that you never considered. Not even once.

He was the one listening when you spoke about the necklace. He was the one who spent hours writing each letter. He was the one who paid attention to every detail. He was the one who knew you so well he could predict your reactions before you even had them. He was the one who had been right in front of you all along. He was the one watching you search, waiting for the moment your eyes would finally land on him, but instead, you’ve drawn the wrong conclusion. Was he that unimportant? That invisible to you?

His heart sinks lower and lower as you present your case, completely unaware of the storm raging inside him. What will you do when you realize the truth? When you finally see what’s been in front of you this entire time? Will it be too late?

Seungkwan and Soonyoung looked at each other before nodding in agreement. “You know what? That actually makes sense,” Seungkwan says, arms crossed. “It has to be Jeonghan.”

Soonyoung says, “Honestly, the more I think about it, the more obvious it seems. He’s been here the whole time, just messing with us like always.”

Chan, who had been nervously eyeing the letters earlier, exhales in relief. “Well, at least that means it’s not me.” He mutters, sinking into his seat, visibly relaxed now that he’s off the suspect list.

Everyone’s looking at you, and in their eyes, you see the same thing. Certainty. You’ve convinced them. The mystery is nearly solved.

“You’re 100% sure?” Mingyu finally speaks, his voice light.

“No. 99. I just need to be 1% more sure.”

But for a moment you feel a strange hesitation, a small voice in the back of your mind reminding you that you haven’t even considered how you feel about Jeonghan being your admirer. You were too caught up in the thrill of the mystery, in chasing after the truth that you forgot it involved real emotions. That someone out there has been writing to you with real feelings, with intention. Do you even want to know? What if the truth doesn’t match the version of the story you’ve built in your head? What if it’s not who you expect, not who you secretly hoped for? What if it’s not Jeonghan? Or what if it is? And what does it say about you that the thought makes your stomach twist? That, deep down, some foolish part of you already knows whose name you wish to see at the end of those letters? Not Jeonghan. Not Jihoon. Not Vernon. Not Chan. Not anyone you’ve guessed so far. What if the one person you want it to be is the same person you’ve already ruled out? The one who’s always felt just a little out of reach. The one you’ve spent years convincing yourself is too much, too good, too impossible, because the thought of him being your secret admirer is too absurd. Too ridiculous. Right? But you shake the thought away and turn to Mingyu, your most trusted ally in this.

“You’re close with Jeonghan,” you say, eyes locking onto his. “Out of everyone, he’ll lower his guard around you the most. Can you help me fish him out?”

Mingyu stiffens for a fraction of a second, but no one notices. His heart sinks at how easily you place your trust in him, at how confidently you believe in something so wrong. But he doesn’t know how to say no to you. He never has. So he forces a small smile, nodding even as his chest tightens. “Yeah… sure. I’ll help.”

He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to fish out of Jeonghan when the admirer you’re searching for is him.

He forces himself to keep a neutral expression as Seungkwan and Soonyoung excitedly discuss possible ways to corner Jeonghan into confessing. Chan listens with mild amusement, occasionally throwing in a comment but Mingyu barely hears any of it. His thoughts are drowning in the bitter irony of the situation.

This was supposed to be his moment. A dull ache settles in his chest, an uncomfortable tightness that won’t go away. Had he been so careful, so subtle, that you never even considered him? He swallows down the lump in his throat, gripping the edge of the table as he grounds himself. 

“Mingyu?”

He blinks, snapping out of his thoughts only to find you looking at him expectantly. “You okay?” you ask, brows slightly furrowed.

He should say something. Laugh, tease, pretend everything is fine, but all he can manage is a weak nod. “Yeah,” he lies. “Just… thinking.”

Seungkwan snorts. “Thinking too hard. Come on, we need you on this. You know Jeonghan best.”

Mingyu forces a smile. Yeah, he knows Jeonghan well but more than that, he knows you and right now, he knows that you’re chasing the wrong person. And worst of all, he has to help you do it.

-

The air carries a faint warmth of the afternoon sun, but it does nothing to ease the cold ache settling in Mingyu’s chest. He nudges Chan and looks at you, “It’s getting late. We should head home.”

You nod, stretching slightly before gathering your things. “Yeah, let’s go.”

As you, Mingyu, and Soonyoung step out onto the streets, the golden light catches in your hair, turning it into something almost ethereal. Mingyu sees it but his heart feels heavy, weighed down by the thoughts swirling in his mind. The moment you confidently said Jeonghan’s name, the moment you smiled as if you had solved the puzzle, it had been like a dull knife sinking into his chest. A slow, dragging pain that refused to go away. It hurts. Really, really hurts. But he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t let it show. Instead, he walks beside you, nodding and responding when necessary, pretending everything is fine.

By the time he drops you off at your dorm, his emotions are stretched thin, barely holding together. You wrap an arm around him, pressing yourself into his side in a casual hug. His breath hitches, but he forces himself to stay still. The warmth of your body against his should be comforting but it only reminds him of how far away you actually are.

“Don’t forget to talk to Jeonghan, okay?” you remind him, looking up at him with those bright, expectant eyes. “Let me know what he says.”

“I will.”

You disappear behind your door, and just like that, you’re gone.

Mingyu bids Soonyoung bye and stands there for a moment before turning on his heel and walking away. But he doesn’t go home.

Instead, he finds himself by the river, the city hums softly in the distance but here, it’s quieter, just the occasional ripple of water, the faint rustling of leaves. The soju bottle in his hand is already half-empty but the bitterness of it barely registers on his tongue.

He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to tell you when you inevitably ask about Jeonghan. He doesn’t know how to fake a conversation that never happened. He doesn’t know how to face you, knowing that you had every clue and still, still didn’t see him. He had waited; waited patiently, watched you go through your theories, your excitement, your endless blabbering about clues. He never snapped, never broke character, because he truly believed you would figure it out. That at the end of this little fun, you would finally turn to him and say his name with certainty. But you never did, and that’s what hurts the most. Not that Jeonghan, who was completely uninvolved, was about to be wrongfully accused. But that when you looked for the one who adored you, the one who knew you inside and out, the one who had spent every day thinking of ways to make you smile—you didn’t recognize him.

Still, if nothing else, at least he gave you something exciting. At least, for a few days, he gave you a mystery to solve, a thrill to chase. Even if in the end, he was the one left behind.

-

The almost-emptied bottle is plucked from Mingyu’s loose grip. He blinks, sluggish from both the alcohol and the weight pressing down on his heart and looks up to find Jeonghan standing over him. The older man wears his usual smile, one that could mean a hundred different things but his eyes tell another story, one that sees right through Mingyu’s poor attempt at pretending he’s fine.

Mingyu doesn’t say anything. He just turns his gaze back to the river, watching the water ripple under the dim glow of streetlights. Jeonghan exhales softly, before sitting down beside him. He doesn’t speak, or pry. He simply stays, settling Mingyu in a way that only a longtime friend can.

For a while, the only sound between them was the distant buzz of the city, and the lapping of the river against the banks.

Then, Mingyu finally breaks the silence. “She thinks it’s you,” his voice hoarse, the weight of the evening settling deeper into his bones. “She really, really thinks it’s you.” He lets out a hollow laugh, shaking his head. “When the answer was right in front of her the whole time.” 

Jeonghan remains quiet, just listening.

“I’m not mad,” Mingyu continues, “I shouldn’t be mad. I’m just… a little hurt.” He pauses, gripping his knees. “No, actually… I am hurt.” His throat tightens. “I don’t even know why it hurts this much, but…”

He trails off, exhaling sharply before looking down at his hands.

“I thought she’d get there eventually. I really thought she would.” His voice drops to hissed tone “I waited. I watched her figure out her little theories, set up her stupid traps, get all excited over the mystery… and I was patient. I thought, ‘Any day now, she’ll turn around, she’ll realize, she’ll see me.’” Mingyu swallows, “But she never did.”

He doesn’t know why it’s so easy to say these things to Jeonghan, maybe because Jeonghan is good at keeping secrets, at holding things close without judgment. Maybe because Jeonghan doesn’t rush to give meaningless comfort but just stays.

Mingyu drags a hand down his face, exhaling bitterly. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do tomorrow. She wants me to ask you about the admirer—to ‘fish’ something out of you.” He lets out a dry laugh. “What the hell am I supposed to fish out of you, Jeonghan?”

Jeonghan finally speaks, his voice calm but softer, something that understands. “Well, I could always confess to being her secret admirer. She's not bad.”

Despite himself, Mingyu snorts, shaking his head. “Not funny.”

Jeonghan leans back on his palms, looking up at the night sky. “You’re hurting because you care. Because you love her and you wanted her to see you without you having to say it outright.” He tilts his head toward Mingyu. “But love doesn’t always work like that, you know?” Mingyu doesn’t answer. Jeonghan sighs. "If it's hurting this much, then maybe you should ask yourself why you're still holding on."

Mingyu stays silent for a long moment before finally admitting, “I wanted to make it exciting. I wanted it to be something she’d remember.” He clenches his fists. “But it all just went wrong.”

“She’ll figure it out eventually,” Jeonghan says a little too knowingly.

Mingyu huffs, unconvinced. “What if she doesn’t?”

Jeonghan shrugs. “Then maybe it’s time you stop waiting for her to find you and let her see you instead.”

Mingyu doesn’t respond. He just looks out at the river again, letting Jeonghan’s words sink in. 

He simply lets the silence stretch out and finally after what feels like hours, Jeonghan stands up, brushing off his pants, “If you need to talk, you know where to find me.” His voice is soft, the teasing edge absent for the moment.

Mingyu nods, not trusting himself to speak. He watches Jeonghan walk away, the older man’s figure swallowed by the night, before his gaze drifts back to the river. He takes a deep breath trying to clear his mind but nothing seems to work. His heart still aches for you, for the way you’ll probably look at him tomorrow, expecting him to just play along, asking questions he has no answers to.

Seven

February 13th

“I wonder if you’ll figure it out or if I’ll have to spell it out for you. You looked happy yesterday. I hope it stays that way. I hope whoever I am to you, whoever I will be, gets to see that happiness every day. Maybe this whole thing was ridiculous. Maybe I should’ve just told you from the start. But I guess I wanted to see. To know if you’d ever look my way without me having to say it first.

See you soon.”

-

The elevator doors slide open and you step in, jabbing the button for the sixth floor with more force than necessary. The doors close, but your mind is still racing, still stuck on the morning’s events.

Jeonghan had shown up at your dorm today, standing at your door with his usual lazy smile, but soft eyes. “I heard you think it’s me,” he had said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.

You had opened your mouth to defend yourself, to explain the logic, to lay out all the pieces that led you to him, the way all the clues lined up in your head but before you could get a word out, he had sighed, shaking his head saying it's not him and just like that, everything crumbled. Because he wasn’t lying. You could hear it in his voice, see it in the way he looked at you, not with amusement, not with mischief, but with something almost like pity.

“You’re hurting him, you know,” he had added, too softly, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

You had stiffened at that. “What?”

Jeonghan had just sighed again, then pulled you into a quick hug, arms warm around you, like he knew you needed the comfort. Then he had sat you down, looked you in the eye and said, “You’re misdirected, miserably so.”

You had thought you were getting closer, thought you were connecting the dots but you were connecting the wrong ones. Seven days. Seven days of chasing a ghost and you were nowhere.

It felt like you had been running in circles, grasping at shadows, only to be led astray at every turn. It wasn’t that you were upset Jeonghan wasn’t the secret admirer. No, that wasn’t what frustrated you. It was the fact that despite everything, you still couldn’t figure it out. You had failed. And then failed again.

After hearing Jeonghan out, you should have let it go, let your mind rest but something wouldn’t let you. Mingyu. You needed to hear what he had to say too. Jeonghan had been honest with you, and you believed him, but you still wanted to hear it from Mingyu’s mouth. What had he talked about with Jeonghan yesterday? Did he come to the same conclusion? Did he know Jeonghan wasn’t the admirer?

You weren’t sure why it mattered. Maybe it was because you trusted them both, maybe it was because you were still desperately searching for a lead, even if it meant going over the same conversation twice.

So now, here you are, frustrated and restless, storming into Mingyu’s apartment without so much as a knock, letting the door swing shut behind you. Mingyu, who had been standing by the kitchen counter, blinks in surprise as you march past him and collapse onto his couch.

“I can’t figure it out,” you groan, covering your face with your hands. “Seven days, and I’ve gotten nothing.”

Mingyu doesn’t say anything at first, just watches you as he grabs a glass, pouring you some orange juice before walking over and setting it in front of you. You peek at him through your fingers. He's too quiet. Still, you sit up, grabbing the glass but barely paying attention to it. “Jeonghan came over this morning,” you start, swirling the juice in your hands. “He told me it’s not him.”

Mingyu hums, lowering himself onto the couch beside you but not too close like before; after what happened yesterday.

You exhale sharply, shaking your head. “I mean, it makes sense now. My whole theory was just coincidence. But if it’s not him, then who?” You run a hand through your hair. “It’s like I’m playing Mafia game but worse—no real clues, no real strategy, just me failing over and over again.”

Mingyu swallows, looking away. Failing? No. Just blind. You don’t notice the way his fingers tighten around his knees, his shoulders curling in just slightly. You don’t notice him. “You trust Jeonghan, right?” he asks finally, his voice careful, controlled.

You nod. “Yeah, of course.”

“Then why are you here?” His voice is steady but there’s something just barely restrained underneath. “What do you need from me?”

You hesitate, tilting your head. “I just… I wanted to hear what you talked about with Jeonghan yesterday.” You let out a breath. “I trust you both, but I wanted to see if you came to the same conclusion.”

Mingyu’s heart sinks after knowing you’re here for that. He nods slowly, fingers curling into fists against his legs. “Right.”

You don’t notice his jaw tightening, his expression flickering for half a second before smoothing over. You don’t see how the very person you’ve been searching for is sitting right beside you, falling apart. And Mingyu just listens because what else can he do?

The deeper hurt comes from the fact that he still loves you, and he's been waiting for you to realize it, but instead, you’ve been focused on other possibilities. He’s trying his best to stay supportive and patient, but it’s hard for him to keep his distance while you’re upset and trying to figure things out. There's a sense of loneliness in how he’s been handling everything on his own, even though he’s surrounded by people who care about him. He feels like he's been the quiet one in the background hoping you’d see him, but you haven’t. Now, hearing you rant about your failed attempts and frustrations, he feels both comforted and hurt—comforted that you trust him enough to vent to him, but hurt that, despite his feelings, you’re still unsure of him as the person who’s been giving you all those gifts and letters. He’s torn between wanting to confess his feelings, but knowing how much it would hurt to be rejected or overlooked again. He wants to be the one you turn to, the one you lean on when things get hard so in this moment, he's just there for you, listening, because that's what friends do, even when their heart is breaking.

-

Your voice is sharp with frustration as you pace around Mingyu’s apartment, fists clenched at your sides.“I just don’t get it,” you say, shaking your head. “Who would go through all this effort?”

Mingyu, watching you from where he sits on the couch, his heart aching, simply mutters, “I would.”

But it slips past you. You’re too caught up in your thoughts, too wrapped up in your own confusion to hear the weight behind his words. He watches as you continue to storm around, biting the inside of his cheek to keep himself from saying anything more.

Then something shifts. Maybe it’s the way he remains so still while you’re falling apart or maybe it’s the way his presence has always felt steady. But whatever it is, it pushes something inside you to snap.

"Why aren’t you saying anything?" You turn on him suddenly, as you throw another jab that Mingyu doesn’t deserve. He sits there, the heart inside him breaking. "You always have something to say, Mingyu. Always. But now, when I actually need someone to help me figure this out, you’re just sitting there looking at me like I’m missing something obvious!"

Mingyu exhales sharply, his jaw tightening. He’s been patient. So patient. But this is agony, watching you fight for an answer when he’s been in front of you the whole time. Watching you tear yourself apart over this, over something that was meant to be a confession of love. "Maybe because you are missing something obvious," he finally says, voice measured, but there’s an edge to it now.

Your brows furrow as you take a step toward him, your heart pounding for a reason you don’t understand. "Then tell me, Mingyu! What am I missing?"

His gaze hardens, but beneath the frustration, it's more vulnerable than ever. "You really want me to spell it out for you?"

"Yes!"

And suddenly, it hits you like a freight train crashing into your chest. Mingyu.

It’s always been him. You love him. Not in the way you love your friends. Not in the way you once thought love was supposed to feel. But in the way that makes your chest ache, in the way that makes your heart race even when you’re angry. You don’t care who the secret admirer is. You don’t need to figure it out anymore. Because it doesn’t matter. It never did. Because you love Mingyu. And you always have. It’s not that you never considered him, it’s that you forced yourself not to. Mingyu was too kind, too good, too perfect. He was the type of person every girl wanted, and you were just lucky enough to call him one of your closest friends. It was easier to pretend, easier to ignore your feelings than to face the possibility of rejection. Because the truth was, if you had acknowledged your feelings, it would have hurt too much to know he didn’t feel the same way. But now, as you really look at him, you realize just how foolish you’ve been. You love him.

Even now, as you lash out at him unfairly, he stays patient. Even though your words are cutting, he doesn’t push you away. He listens, endures, and understands, and that’s what hurts the most. "Wait…" Your voice comes out quieter now, your anger dissipating into something raw. "Do you… do you know something?"

Mingyu stares at you, disbelieving. His patience, his restraint, it all crumbles in an instant. "…Seriously?"

He grabs a piece of paper from the table, scrawls something quickly, and thrusts it into your hands. You look down.

“It’s me, dummy.”

The world stills.

Your breath catches as you read the words over and over again, the realization crashes into you like a wave, sweeping away every doubt, every misdirection, every foolish assumption you’ve made in the past week. It was always Mingyu. Your fingers tighten around the paper as your heart pounds against your ribs. You lift your gaze, meeting his, and suddenly everything makes sense; the lingering stares, the way he was always there, how he looked at you like you hung the stars in his sky. The sadness in his eyes earlier wasn’t just frustration; it was heartbreak. And you had been the one breaking him all along.

Mingyu watches you, his eyes holding everything. The years of waiting, the longing, the pain of standing so close yet feeling miles away. His confession wasn’t grand, wasn’t how he planned. It was raw, impulsive, torn from him in a moment of breaking. And now, he waits. For you to understand, for you to say something, for anything.

Your lips part but no words come because how do you speak when your heart is in your throat, when the very foundation of what you thought you knew has shifted beneath your feet? It was always Mingyu. The notes. The gifts. The presence. And you had spent all this time searching for someone who had never been lost.

“Mingyu…” Your voice is barely above a whisper, but he hears it. He always hears you.

His hands clench at his sides, bracing himself for whatever comes next. You can see it in the tension coiling just below his cheekbone, his breathing is just a little unsteady. He’s terrified, because now that you know, you could break him all over again.

But you don't want to break him this time. You've already broken him enough.

You simply step closer, so close he can feel the warmth radiating from you. His body stiffens when you reach for a piece of paper behind him, taking it from the table. Without a word, you flip it over, your fingers moving as you scribble something down. The tension of the past week melting into something softer, and new.

Then, before he can process it, you step in even closer reaching toward him, slipping the folded paper into the pocket of his hoodie. Your fingers brush against the fabric, barely grazing him but it’s enough to send a shiver down his spine. Mingyu blinks, startled, his hand instinctively reaching into his pocket as you take a step back. His fingers find the note, unfolding it with a mix of hesitation and urgency. His eyes scan the words, and his breath hitches.

"Tomorrow, dinner at 7? My treat, Secret Admirer."

For the first time in what feels like forever, a slow stunned smile tugs at the corners of his lips. He looks up at you, hope flickering in his eyes, searching for confirmation. And when you finally meet his gaze, your own lips curling into the softest, most knowing smile Mingyu knows.

A disbelieving laugh escapes him as he runs a hand through his hair, his shoulders sagging with relief. The tension that had been weighing on him for weeks, even years, unravels all at once, “you’re serious?” 

You tilt your head, your smile growing just a little. “Would I offer to pay if I wasn’t?”

Mingyu lets out a full, genuine laugh this time, shaking his head as he folds the note carefully, tucking it back into his pocket. “Tomorrow at seven,” he repeats, savoring the words.

But as soon as the weight of everything settles in, what just happened and what it means, you suddenly feel the overwhelming urge to run. Your heart is racing, your palms are clammy, and you don’t trust yourself to speak without making a fool of yourself. So, without thinking, you turn on your heel, ready to flee. But you don’t get far.

Mingyu’s hand wraps around your wrist in an instant, stopping you mid-step and before you can process it, you’re spun around, your momentum pulling you straight into him. You gasp as your body collides with his chest, the warmth of him, the solidness of him, momentarily knocking the breath out of you. His other hand finds its way to your waist instinctively, and your brain short-circuits.

His fingers glide up, brushing against your cheek, his touch so gentle it sends a shiver down your spine. You force yourself to look up at him, only to be met with the most breathtaking sight; Mingyu gazing down at you with that smile. Not just any smile, a smile that steals your breath, that makes the whole world blur at the edges. His slightly tousled hair falls over his forehead, the soft strands brushing against his brows making him look effortlessly perfect in a way that shouldn’t be fair. Your heart slams against your ribs.

Mingyu tilts his head slightly as he murmurs, “Now you can run away.” His lips curl into that signature mixture of a smile and smirk, teasing yet affectionate, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. “Oh, and don’t forget—you have a class to attend.” 

Your eyes widen slightly as the reminder crashes into you but Mingyu simply chuckles, finally letting go of your waist but not before leaning in just slightly, just enough to fluster you even more. The absence of his touch is almost immediate, leaving behind a warmth that lingers.

Mingyu now steps back, grinning as he watches your flustered expression unfold and as you stumble over your words, scrambling for any semblance of composure, he just stands there looking entirely too pleased with himself. He's already looking forward to tomorrow.

-

The sight in front of you is nothing short of chaos.

Seungkwan's grip on his iced Americano slips as he processes the revelation, and without thinking, you reach out, catching the cup just before it crashes to the floor. A few drops spill onto your hand, the cold seeping into your skin, but you're too preoccupied to see it.

Seungkwan looks utterly defeated. Soonyoung, however, isn't faring any better. His mouth hangs open, his entire body frozen and his brain is still buffering.

"You mean to tell me—" Seungkwan starts, his voice high-pitched, "Mingyu?! Clumsy-ass, can’t-lie-to-save-his-life, trips-over-air Mingyu?!"

You nod.

They had too dismissed the possibility at first, thinking there was no way he could pull off something so sly. Not when his entire history was filled with clumsy mistakes and awkward cover-ups. The Mingyu they knew was many things, but a master of deception? Not a chance. And yet, here you three were, blindsided.

They had spent the entire morning preparing themselves to comfort you, fully expecting you to be in shambles after your 99% certainty that Jeonghan was your secret admirer turned out to be 100% wrong. When Jeonghan had told you in the morning that he wasn't the one, they thought you'd either be breaking down in devastation or burning something down in frustration (which, technically, you were). But they definitely hadn’t expected you to walk in with the revelation of your secret admirer.

Eight

February 14th

The moment you step out of your apartment, Mingyu’s breath catches in his throat.

He was supposed to have dinner with you at night for your first Valentine’s Day date, but he insisted on spending the day together before dinner. And now, here you are, standing in front of him with your hair down, looking confident and stylish in your new boots and skirt.

The delicate lavender gemstone around your neck catches the morning sunlight, its golden chain resting just above your collarbone on top of your sweater. You’re wearing the necklace—the one he gave you. And now, seeing it on you, knowing you chose to wear it today of all days, something warm and undeniable unfurls in his chest.

He clears his throat, trying to focus as he hands you a bouquet of lavender flowers nestled between soft pink roses. “For you,” he murmurs, watching closely for your reaction.

Your lips part as your fingers gently trace the petals. “Lavender…” you whisper, your gaze lifting to meet his.

Mingyu grins, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. And roses, because…well, it’s Valentine’s Day.”

Something tugs at your heart but before you can dwell on it, he’s taking your hand, leading you toward the day he’s planned just for you.  Mingyu decides to take you everywhere.

-

The smell of warm pastries fills the air as you both settle into a booth. Mingyu insists you try his favorite pancakes. They’re stacked high, topped with whipped cream, and drizzled with syrup. You raise an eyebrow, skeptically eyeing the enormous portion.

“Okay, you have to try these,” he insists, pushing a plate of pancakes toward you. 

“Are you sure these are as good as you say?”

“Trust me, they’re life-changing,” Mingyu says practically bouncing in his seat, eager for you to try them.

You take a bite, and the fluffiness, the sweetness, the perfect amount of syrup, all of it hits your taste buds in a rush. You pause, eyes wide in surprise. “Okay, okay, I admit it. They’re that good.”

“See? I told you!” Mingyu grins. “Now, pass me the last bite.” You hold your fork up, about to take the last piece of pancake for yourself, when Mingyu leans across the table, “I’m not letting you have it that easily.”

“Oh, it’s on,” you smirk, holding the bite just out of reach. You raise an eyebrow, giving him a challenging look. “You want this last bite? You’re gonna have to work for it.”

He laughs, his voice full of amusement. “You’re really gonna make me fight for it?”

“Absolutely,” you say, digging in your heels and preparing for the battle.

And so begins the great pancake fight. You both fall into an exaggerated tug-of-war with the last piece of pancake. Mingyu’s laughter rings out, the sound infectious. Finally, you make a show of pretending to ‘fight’ for the last bite, your fork and his clashing in the air, until you grab it and pop it in your mouth. He glares at you mockingly, then laughs again, shrugging good-naturedly.

“I’ll get you next time,” he promises, and you roll your eyes.

After wiping syrup off your chin with a napkin, Mingyu stands up with a contented sigh, stretching his arms above his head. He looks down at you with a grin. "Alright, time to burn off all that sugar," he says, picking up the check and tossing a few bills onto the table. "Next stop—arcade!"

"An arcade? Really?"

"Oh, you have no idea what you’re in for."

You grab your bag, following him out of the café and into the crisp air. As you both walk down the street, Mingyu leads the way basically bouncing as you head toward the neon-lit arcade a few blocks away. The sound of clinking coins and cheerful music grows louder the closer you get, and you can feel the excitement building.

When you reach the entrance, Mingyu holds the door open for you with a flourish. "After you," he says with a grin.

You step inside, greeted by the flashing lights and the vibrant sounds of the arcade. It’s a bit overwhelming at first but then you hear Mingyu’s voice over the noise, full of enthusiasm.

“Let’s see if you can keep up!” Mingyu’s eyes light up the moment he sees a game he’s good at. You follow him, amused, and find yourself standing in front of a claw machine. The giant stuffed animals inside stare down at you, their big eyes unblinking. “I’m warning you now,” Mingyu says, his tone smug. “I’ve got a 100% success rate with these things.”

You roll your eyes. "Is that so? Well, I’m about to prove you wrong."

He grins and hands you some coins. “Sure, but don’t get too upset when I win.”

You laugh, stepping up to the claw machine and starting your attempt. The claw moves clumsily, completely missing the prize.

“See? Told you,” Mingyu teases, already stepping up to take his turn. His fingers hover over the controls, his focus making his brow furrow in concentration. "Watch and learn," he says, as he carefully maneuvers the claw. You can see the way he’s calculating every move, adjusting his grip with precision. With one smooth motion, the claw sinks perfectly into the plush bear's fur, and with a satisfying click, it hoists the stuffed animal up.

You’re left speechless for a moment as Mingyu snatches it from the prize chute, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. He holds it out to you, the oversized bear almost comically larger than his own chest.

“Here,” he says, clearly too pleased with himself. “Told you I’d win.”

You take the bear, grinning in defeat. “Fine, you win this round. But I’m getting you back.”

“I’m not worried. Let’s see how you do in the next game.”

The competition continues, the two of you moving from machine to machine. Every game brings another round of teasing, laughter, and playful banter. Mingyu gets so competitive that his voice rises in exaggerated frustration when he loses and you can't help but giggle at how seriously he takes everything. At one point you're both doubled over in laughter, unable to breathe as Mingyu pretends to ‘fall’ into a virtual race car, his arms flailing as he crashes into the walls of the game.

By the end of it, you’re both out of breath and giggling uncontrollably, each sporting a ridiculous grin. You look at the stuffed animal still tucked under your arm and then back at Mingyu. “Guess it’s mine after all,” you say with a sigh, not bothering to hide the smile on your face.

Mingyu just laughs, his arm slipping around your shoulders. “Of course it is. You should know better by now.”

The sun is now setting as you both arrive at the park, the golden hour light casting everything in a warm, soft glow. Mingyu's carrying  a wicker basket in one hand, the other brushing through his hair as he looks for the perfect spot and you just follow, taking in the peaceful scenery.

He drops the basket beside a large, checkered blanket he’s already laid out, smoothing it down with care. There’s something so domestic about the whole setup, so surprisingly perfect. He places a few cushions on the blanket, pulling everything into place as if he’s done this a thousand times before.

As you sit down beside him, he smiles, a little shy. “Okay, here’s the moment of truth.” He opens the basket, revealing containers filled with food like homemade sandwiches, fresh fruit, a small salad, and a few pastries wrapped up neatly. It all looks perfectly arranged, the kind of meal you’d expect from someone who knows what they’re doing.

"You made all this?"

Mingyu nods proudly though there's a trace of nervousness in his expression. “Yep. Every single thing. I might not be a professional, but I can follow a recipe.”

You chuckle, “Well, we’ll see if it’s as good as they look.”

Without hesitation, you grab one of the sandwiches taking a big bite. The flavors hit you immediately—fresh, savory, and not so surprisingly, delicious. Your eyes widen as you chew, momentarily lost in the taste.

Mingyu watches you with a grin, anticipating your reaction. He bites his lip nervously, fingers drumming against the basket as he waits for your verdict.

The bread is perfectly toasted, the filling is perfectly seasoned, and it’s just... good. No surprise there. You’ve had his cooking many, many times by now and every time he manages to make even the simplest things taste like a five-star meal.

You glance up at him as you chew. “Not bad,” you say with a teasing smile though it’s a compliment disguised as a joke. “I’m actually kind of impressed. This is, what, your fiftieth time making me lunch?”

He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Well, I’ve got to keep you on your toes, right?” He looks at you with a mix of pride and that shy smile that’s too endearing. “I mean, it’s not that surprising, is it? I’ve been cooking for years.”

A small smile tugging at your lips. "True. You've always been the one to get way too competitive in the kitchen. But really, it's good. It's… annoyingly good, as usual."

He beams pleased by your reaction, “I’m glad you think so,” he says, his voice low and warm. He watches you take another bite before reaching for a small container of fruit. You can see the glint in his eyes like he’s genuinely happy to share something he’s put effort into with you.

Time melts away, the day slipping through your fingers like golden sunlight filtering through the trees. And then, as the sky deepens into hues of pink and orange, Mingyu, reaches into his bag, pulling out a box. He hands it to you, eyes soft but filled. “One more gift,” he says, his voice lower now, savoring this moment just as much as you are.

You carefully lift the lid of the box, your curiosity piqued. Inside are two candles, one shaped like a rotating heart, the other a Rubik’s cube, but with tiny hearts as the pieces. You look at them then up at him, your heart suddenly skipping a beat. 

“I made these,” his fingers fidgeting with the edge of the box. “The heart one… it reminded me of you. And the cube, well…” He lets out a soft chuckle, rubbing his thumb nervously over the box’s edge. “It felt like something I could make, something fun.”

You’re silent for a moment, taking in everything. There’s something about the care he’s put into every detail, the choices he made, the way he looked at you all day, it all makes your heart ache in the best way possible. “You made these?” you ask, your fingers brushing over the smooth surface of the candles, studying the intricate designs. There’s so much attention to detail, so much of him in every inch of them.

Mingyu nods, the corners of his lips curling upward as he watches your reaction. “Yeah. Picked the scents, the colors… everything.” You notice how his fingers twitch at his side, a nervous habit he doesn’t even realize he’s doing. “Do you like them?”

You don’t answer with words instead, you step closer, the soft rustling of the grass beneath barely registering as you close the distance between the two of you. Without a second thought, you wrap your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek softly against his chest.

There’s a brief stillness. You feel his breath catch, his heartbeat thumping in the space between you. His arms hesitate for a fraction of a second but, he pulls you closer. His hands find your back, his embrace steady, warm, like it was meant for this moment. He exhales slowly, the tension that had built throughout the day is finally melting away. “Thank you,” you say.

“You’re welcome,” he whispers into your hair, his voice barely a murmur, but full of all the unsaid things between you. His arms tighten around you, and you let yourself sink deeper into his embrace, savoring the quiet, the stillness, and the feeling of being exactly where you’re meant to be.

As the evening unfolds, the last stop of your day is quickly approaching: dinner. But before you can indulge in a fancy meal, Mingyu takes a slight detour.

He glances at you as you both drive toward your dorm. "Let’s stop by your place first. You need to drop off those stuffed animals," he says with a grin, glancing over at the pile of plush toys filling the backseat.

You chuckle, nodding. "Good idea. I’m not sure how much more my arms can handle."

When you arrive, you grab the stuffed animals one by one, making your way into the dorm. Mingyu follows, standing by the door as you carefully place each one in its spot. There’s a chuckle in the air as you look at the growing collection. "You know," you say with a smile, "I’m going to need a bigger bed at this point."

"I'll help you make room," Mingyu says easily, his voice light as he stands in the doorway, watching you. 

Once the stuffed animals are safely tucked away, you both head back to the car, driving to the destination. Arriving at the restaurant, Mingyu opens the door for you, his presence is as attentive as ever. The place is just as elegant as you remembered when you booked it, soft candlelight, a cozy ambiance, and the murmur of other patrons creating the perfect atmosphere for an unforgettable night.

Dinner is everything you could’ve hoped for. The food is exquisite, the conversation flowing naturally between the two of you as if this was just another evening together. There’s no need for pretension, no need to try too hard. Everything feels easy, comfortable, and perfect.

When the check arrives, you reach for your wallet instinctively but Mingyu is already one step ahead. "Nope," he says firmly, his smile still warm and gentle as he pushes your hand away. "I insist. I’m treating you tonight."

You give him a mock pout, raising an eyebrow. "But I was supposed to pay! Remember our deal?"

"I know," he says, his voice a little playful, a little serious. "But you’ve already made this day so special. Let me do this, okay?" His smile grows as he sees the look in your eyes that says, You’re not getting out of this one.

Sighing dramatically but with a fond smile, you relent. "Fine. But next time, it’s on me."

He nods, a satisfied smile tugging at his lips as he settles the bill. As the two of you leave the restaurant, the night feels like it’s already wrapped in a perfect little bow.

By the time you arrive to his place, it feels as if the day has come full circle, every moment leading to this one, this next step, whatever it may be.

Mingyu pulls into the parking spot and without a word, he opens the door for you, his hand brushing yours as you both step out. There’s something about the way he’s looking at you that makes your heart flutter.

As the door closes behind you both, Mingyu sets his suit jacket down, now left only in his black button-down shirt. You, on the other hand, sink into the couch, not sure what to do or say next. It’s 9 p.m., and you’ve got an hour left before you have to return to your dorm. The day has been filled with so much laughter and moments that have made your heart race and now here you are, in his cozy apartment, not quite ready for it to end.

As you sit there lost in your thoughts, you don’t expect what happens next. Mingyu extends his hand toward you, his fingers beckoning in the soft glow of the room inviting you into his space, into his arms. You don’t hesitate for a second, your hand finding his without a second thought, letting him pull you up to your feet. And then he naturally begins to guide you into a slow dance. The music in the background is soft, almost a whisper, but it doesn’t matter as it’s the rhythm of your hearts that sets the pace now.

You take a step forward, your chest brushing gently against his. Mingyu stays perfectly still, like he’s holding his breath, as if afraid to break the spell. There’s a delicate tension between you, a space between your lips that’s filled only with the moment.

Your fingers glide along the collar of his shirt, drawn to him by some unseen force and you lean in just slightly, “You never really told me why you chose lavender.”

Mingyu’s eyes flicker to yours, his gaze soft, intense and filled with a sincerity that makes your heart race a little faster. His hands find their place on your waist but he hesitates for a fraction of a second before pulling you even closer, the heat from his palms burning through the fabric of your sweater, leaving a trace of his warmth on your skin.

His breath is warm against your ear as he speaks, his voice low, almost a whisper. “Because,” he says, his lips grazing your ear, “it reminds me of you… and it's your favourite”

Your breath catches in your throat, your heart stuttering in your chest. You didn’t expect him to say something like this, leaving you speechless for a moment. You can feel the room closing in around you, the mood lights casting soft shadows that only make the space between you two feel even more intimate. The world outside feels distant now, irrelevant. All that matters is the way Mingyu holds you, the way he makes everything feel right.

Then in a surprising and tender move, Mingyu slowly sinks to one knee, his gaze never leaving yours. His hands still linger on your waist, steadying himself as he looks up at you with a soft, genuine smile. “I’ve had the best day with you, and I can’t imagine my days without you anymore,” he says, his voice filled, his heart in his eyes. “So... I need to ask you, officially… will you be my girlfriend?”

The room feels even smaller now, the moment so heavy with emotion that it’s almost suffocating in the best way possible. Your breath catches in your throat, your pulse quickening as his words settle in your mind. Your heart swells with joy as you look down at him, knowing that you’ve both come this far, knowing that this is more than just a question. 

“Yes.” The word escapes your lips and as soon as it’s out, Mingyu’s smile stretches wide, that same smile that makes everything around you fade into the background. His eyes sparkle with joy, and you swear it’s like he’s glowing. You can feel a warmth fill your chest, overwhelming.

He stands up, his grin still never faltering and leans in, resting his forehead against yours. There’s no need for words now; the silence between you is thick with meaning, with a thousand unspoken things that only the two of you understand. 

But as the joy of the moment settles in, a sudden realization makes your heart tighten and it feels heavy in your chest. A thought flashes through your mind that makes your throat close up and your chest ache.

You think about how you never really noticed Mingyu. How you were blind to him, how you failed to see him for what he was to you. How, all along, he was there, patient and constant, while you kept pushing him away, thinking he was just a friend. He was the secret admirer you never even considered and he had carried all that weight on his own. He never lashed out. He never got angry. Instead, he waited. He never gave up on you, never turned away, even when you hurt him again and again with your obliviousness. A rush of guilt floods through you. The thought of how much you put him through, how you always doubted yourself thinking he was too good for you, never giving him the chance to show you how much he cared, it makes your heart ache in a way you can’t explain.

“Mingyu,” you murmur, pulling back just slightly so you can look into his eyes, searching for the words to say, what’s been buried inside you for so long. “I need to tell you something.”

He tilts his head, his smile softening as he waits, already knowing something heavy is coming.

“I always liked you,” you admit, the words trembling on your lips, finally finding their way into the open air. “But I never came to terms with it, because I was scared. I was scared that if I let myself believe it, it would only end in disappointment. You’re… you’re so out of my league, Mingyu. You’re the kind of person every woman dreams of. And me? I’m just lucky to be one of your closest friends. I didn’t want to push my luck, to ask for more.” You take a breath, “I never thought you’d choose me. I never thought I could be more than just your friend. But then you were always so kind, so patient with me even when I didn’t see it. You carried all of that on your own and I’m sorry for that. I should’ve seen it. I should’ve known what was right in front of me. And if you never confessed, I might’ve never been able to say this to you… but I like you, Mingyu. I like you more than I’ve ever liked anyone.”

The moment you finish, everything feels still. His eyes widen, his lips part slightly but he doesn’t speak and neither do you. It’s like time has frozen and all you can do is stand there, your heart racing, waiting for him to process what you’ve said. The silence is deafening and yet it’s comforting, because it feels like this is the most real thing you’ve ever said.

Mingyu stands still for a moment, his hand still resting lightly on your waist and then slowly, his expression changes. “I don’t want you to ever doubt yourself,” he finally says. “You’re everything I could ever want, and more. I didn’t care about being the man of every woman’s dreams, because all I ever wanted was you.” He lifts his hand to cup your face, his thumb brushing softly over your cheek. “I waited because I knew it would be worth it,” he adds, his eyes never leaving yours. “And now, I’m just… so glad I did.”

Tears prick at your eyes as the full weight of his words hits you, and before you can stop them, a tear slips down your cheek. Mingyu wipes it away kindly, his smile full of so much love that it nearly breaks you.

“You never hurt me, you know,” he says lovingly, “because I knew we’d get here eventually. And now, all I want is for you to know that I’m here. Always here for you no matter what happens.”

Mingyu doesn't like you, but loves you, more than you ever thought possible. He'd never needed anyone else because all along, you were enough. No one else could compare to you in his eyes. The thought of being with anyone else never crossed his mind, because it was always you.

You tiptoe and press a soft kiss on his lips, an apology for the past misunderstandings, a rush of emotions fills your chest. You pull away but before you can even fully pull back, his hands are already on your waist, drawing you back to him. His lips find yours again, this time with a hunger that makes your stomach flip, a desperation that feels almost uncontainable. His kiss is deep, slow, and deliberate and the weight of it is enough to knock the breath out of you. "Mingyu..." you murmur against his lips, your body melting into his warmth. His grip tightens ever so slightly, his body stiffening in worry. He pulls away, chest heaving with shallow breaths. His voice is laced with uncertainty though it trembles with desire.

"Tell me to stop," he says, low and unsteady, "And I will."

For a moment you just look at him, searching his eyes for any sign of doubt. But there's nothing. His love for you is written in every inch of him, in the way his fingers gently graze your cheek, in the way his breath catches when you shift closer.

You lean in again, closing the space between you. The moment your lips meet, he kisses you slow, deep and it makes your heart race. His hand moves from your cheek to your back, pulling you flush against him and you can feel every beat of his heart against yours. There's nothing hurried about it, just slow, careful movements that send sparks flying in your veins making you feel like you're floating. Everything is perfectly, wonderfully right.

He knows that this time, you see him. This time you see the admirer is right in front of you.

-

“To the one who has always been right in front of me,

I used to write these letters with the hope that one day, you’d realize it was me. That somehow, my words would reach you before I had to say them out loud. But today, I don’t need to hide behind words anymore.

You know me now—not just as the admirer, but as Mingyu. And I know you, not as someone I can only love from afar, but as someone who chose me back. Still, I wanted to write this—one last letter, not as a confession, but as a promise. A promise that I’ll keep looking at you the way I always have. That I’ll love you not just in grand gestures, but in the small moments too, the ones where love isn’t loud, but it’s there, steady and certain.

So here. This time, I’m not slipping it into a locker or leaving it on a table. I’m giving it to you with my own hands, looking right at you, so you know—this has always been real.

Yours, always.

— Mingyu”

Lee Y/N @y/nisnot_sleeping · 1h  

Been mine for a while now…

♡ 4        🔁 -      🗨️ 4

Boo @americano_.boo · 57m

Replying to @y/nisnot_sleeping  

Did you just ditch us for THIS ?¡?%&!? 

♡ 2        🔁 -      🗨️ 1

yoon ★ @yjh1004 · 49m  

Replying to @y/nisnot_sleeping  

Finally!!!!

♡ 3        🔁 -      🗨️ -

Chan @dinonaras.ltd · 45m  

Replying to @y/nisnot_sleeping  

🫢🫢🫢

♡ 2        🔁 -      🗨️ -

Chan @dinonaras.ltd · 44m  

Replying to @americano_.boo  

where is @horang_m_a_n ?? crying in the corner because the investigation flopped?

♡ -        🔁 -      🗨️ -

⌦ 💌 © mylovesstuffs | est. 2025. thank you for reading—your reblog means everything. until we meet again, stay cozy and keep dreaming! ◜ᴗ◝

[monstersholygrail]

i have been concerningly curious how would fucking a shape shifter feels...maybe he can manipulate one body part...maybe make it feels too big when he goes inside your cunt...maybe he'll fuck you in the body of a person you stared too long earlier... maybe he won't stop until you've tried every skin he can change into...maybe even your favorite idol...

sigh...i told you, it's concerning

Ffffuuuuck, it’s been concerning for me too. Ive been thinking about shapeshifter bf so often for so many things. I have like three draft ideas I wanna write. And now you’re giving me even more 🫵🏻!! It’s an infection!!

It’s ok gimme more hehe.

But seriously you inspired me to write an entire fic with these rambles. So give me all you got, you’re my muse babyyyy.

Think of the possibilities with role play with Shapeshifter bf. Any scenario you can think of and he can fulfill it. AHHH WAIT!!! You’re inspiring me too much dammit, I love you!!

Imagine being with Shapeshifter bf when you finally admit to him that you’re actually a huge monster fucker. Your bf blushes and pouts at you, asking if you don’t consider him technically a monster.

And of course you comfort him and hold him close. But you have to admit to him that what really gets you going is the idea of a huge giant monster chasing you down and pinning you beneath his weight as he fucks load after load into your fertile cunt.

He’s shocked for a moment before something passes over his eye. You can see the bulge forming in his pants and it has to wriggling in place, desperate for him after just talking about the fantasy. When all he says is,

“Run.”

You’re briefly a bit confused before you see your bf start to shift and your eyes widen.

And that’s how you find yourself suddenly being chased by a raging orc, a feral werewolf, or a probing alien. In his excitement your bf can’t seem to lock down a shape.

Then when he finally catches you, his claws sinking into your plump waist as he pins you to the ground with his hips and slams his cock as deep inside your weeping pussy as he can, he still can’t land on a monster.

The overstimulation is pure torture and you fucking love it. One minute he’s pounding you with his giant orc cock and then the next he’s slipping his werewolf knot inside your cunt with every snap of his hips. The tentacles of his alien cock slip even deeper inside you, curling into your wombs like they plan to shoot his eggs right in there.

You’re afraid by now your eyes are permanently glued to the back of your head, your body shaking like your possessed by his demon form. Each pump of his different cocks sending you higher and higher till you swear you’re about to lose your mind.

And when you finally cum you see stars, your being transcended to the next plane of existence. Your screams reach such a pitch that only dogs and hybrids can hear. Your bf feels like his cock is about to explode from how hard you’re clenching down on him as you milk him for all he’s worth.

He doesn’t last long with you squeezing him so right and he pumps you full with buckets of his warm yummy cum.

When you’ve both calmed down he shifts back into his original form and sags down on top of you, both of panting like you might not ever breathe again.

“And that’s why Im the best monster for you. Not any of those quacks,” your bf grumbles possessively in your ear.

You can’t say you disagree with him.

[thepencilnerd]

A Lesson In Fear Extinction | part I

pairing: professor!Jack Abbot x f!psych phd student reader summary: You’re a senior doctoral student in the clinical department, burned out and emotionally barricaded, just trying to finish your final few years when Jack Abbot—trauma researcher, new committee member, and unexpectedly perceptive—starts seeing through you in ways you didn’t anticipate wc: 11.9k content/warnings: academic!AU, slow burn (takes places over 3 years lbffr), frat boys being gross + depictions of unwanted male attention/verbal harassment, academic power dynamics, emotional repression, discussions of mental health, mutual pining, hurt/comfort, angst, so much yearning, canon divergence, no explicit smut (yet/tbd but still 18+ MDNI, i will fight u) a/n: this started as a slow-burn AU and spiraled into a study in mutual repression, avoidant-attachment, and me trying to resolve my personal baggage through writing ~yet again~ p.s. indubitably inspired by @hotelraleigh and their incredible mohan x abbot fic (and all of their fics that live in my head rent free, tyvm) i hope you stay tuned for part II (coming soon, pinky promise) ^-^

The first thing you learn about Dr. Jack Abbot is that he hates small talk. That, and that he has a death glare potent enough to silence even the most self-important faculty members in the psych department.

The second thing you learn is that he runs his office like a bunker—door usually half-shut, always a little too cold, shelves lined with books no one's touched in decades. You step inside for your first meeting, and it feels like entering a war room.

"You’re early," he says, without looking up from the annotated manuscript he’s scribbling on.

"It's the first day of the school year."

"Same difference."

You take a seat, balancing your laptop on your knees. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, unsure if you should even bother.

Dr. Abbot finally glances up. Hazel eyes, sharp behind silver-framed glasses. "Let’s make this easy. Tell me what you’re working on and what you want from me."

You hesitate. Not because you don’t know. You’ve been rehearsing this on the walk over. You just hadn’t planned on him cutting through the pleasantries quite so fast.

"I’m running a mixed methods study on affective forecasting errors in anxiety and depression. Lab-based mood induction, longitudinal survey follow-up, and semi-structured interviews. I'm trying to map discrepancies between predicted and experienced affect and how that mismatch contributes to maladaptive emotion regulation patterns over time."

A beat.

"So you're testing whether people with anxiety and depression are bad at predicting their own feelings."

You blink. "Yes."

"Good. Start with that next time."

You bite the tip of your tongue. Roll the flesh between your teeth to ground yourself. There is no next time, you want to say. You’re only meeting with him once, to get sign-off on your committee. He wasn’t your first choice. Wasn't even your second. But your advisor's on sabbatical, and the other quantitative faculty are already overbooked.

Dr. Abbot leans back in his chair, examining you. "You’re primary is Robby, right?"

"Technically, yes."

He hums, not bothering to hide the skepticism. "And you want me on your committee because...?"

"Because you published that meta-analysis on PTSD and chronic stress. Your work on cumulative trauma exposure and dysregulated affect dovetails with mine on stress-related trajectories for internalizing disorders and comorbidity. I thought you might actually get what I’m trying to do."

His brow lifts, just slightly. "You did your homework."

"Well, I’m asking you for feedback on a dissertation that will probably make me break down countless times before it's done. Figured I should know what I was getting into."

Dr. Abbot's mouth twitches. You wouldn’t call it a smile, exactly. But it’s something.

"Alright," he says, flipping open a calendar. "Let’s see if we can find a time next week to go over your proposal draft."

You arch a brow. "You’ll do it?"

"You came in prepared. And you didn’t waste my time—as much as the other fourth years. That gets you further than you’d think around here."

You nod, heart thudding. Not because you’re nervous.

Because you have the weirdest feeling that Jack Abbot just became your biggest academic problem—and your most unexpected ally.

You see him again the next day. Robby was enjoying his last remaining few weeks of paternity leave and graciously asked Jack to sub for his foundations of clinical psychology course. Jack preferred the word coerced but was silenced by a text message with a photo of a child attached. The baby was cute enough to warrant blackmail. 

He barely got through the door intact: balancing a coffee cup between his teeth, cradling a half-closed laptop under one arm, and wrangling the straps of a clearly ancient backpack. His limp is more pronounced today. The small cohort watches him with a mix of curiosity and vague alarm.

You’re in the front row, laptop open before he even gets to the podium.

Jack drops everything onto the lectern with a heavy exhale, then glances around. His eyes catch on you and pause—not recognition yet, just flicker. Then he turns back to plug in his laptop.

You don’t expect to see him again two days later, striding into the 200-level general psych class you TA. The room’s already three-quarters of the way full when he walks in, and it takes him a moment before he does a brief double-take in your direction.

You return your attention to your notes. Jack stares.

"Small world."

"Nice to see you too, Dr. Abbot."

He sighs. "Why am I not surprised."

"Because the annual stipend increase doesn't adjust for inflation, I'm desperate, and there aren't enough grants given the current state of events?"

Jack mutters something under his breath about cosmic punishment and unfolds the syllabus from his coat pocket like it personally betrayed him.

When he finally settles at the front—coffee in one hand, laptop balancing precariously on the desk—you catch him bending and straightening his knee just under the edge of the table, jaw set tight. It’s subtle. Anyone else might miss it. But you’ve been watching.

You say nothing. 

A few students linger with questions—mostly undergrads eager to impress, notebooks clutched to their chests, rattling off textbook jargon in shaky voices. Jack humors them, mostly. Nods here, clarification there. But his eyes flick to you more than once.

You take your time with the stack of late enrollment passes. He’s still watching when you sling your tote over one shoulder and head for the door.

Probably off to the lab. Or your cubicle in the main psych building. Wherever fourth years disappear to when they aren’t shadowing faculty or training underqualified and overzealous research assistants on data collection procedures.

Jack shifts his weight onto his good leg and half-listens to the sophomore with the over-highlighted textbook.

His eyes stay on you when you walk out.

You make it three steps past the stairwell before the sound of your name stops you. It’s not loud—more like a clipped murmur through the general noise of backpacks zipping and chairs scraping—but it cuts straight through.

You turn back.

Jack’s still at the front, the stragglers now filtering out behind him. He doesn’t wave. Doesn’t beckon. Just meets your gaze like he already knows you’ll wait. You do.

He makes his way toward you slowly, favoring one leg. The closer he gets, the more you notice—the way his hand tightens on the strap of his backpack, the exhausted pull at his brow. He’s not masking as well today.

"Thanks for not saying anything," he says when he stops beside you.

You shrug. "Didn’t seem like you needed an audience."

Jack huffs a laugh, dry and faintly surprised. "Most people mean well, but—"

"They hover," you finish. "Or overcompensate. Or say something weird and then try to walk it back."

"Exactly."

You both stand there for a beat too long, campus noise shifting around you like a slow tide.

"I was heading to the coffee shop," you say finally. "Did you want anything?"

Jack tilts his head. "Bribery?"

"Positive reinforcement." The words trail behind a small grin. 

He shakes his head, mouth twitching. "Probably had enough caffeine for the day."

The corner of your lip curls higher. "As if there's such a thing."

That earns you a half-huff, half-scoff—just enough to let you believe you might have amused him.

"Well," you say, taking a step backward, "I’ve got three more RAs to train and one very stubborn loop to fix. See you around, Dr. Abbot."

"Good luck," he says, voice low but steady. "Don’t let the building eat you alive."

The next time he sees you, it’s after 10 p.m. on a Thursday.

You hadn’t planned on staying that late. But the dinosaur of a computer kept crashing, two of your participants no-showed, and by the time you’d salvaged the afternoon’s data to pull, it was easier to crash on the grad lounge couch than face the lone commute back to your apartment.

You must’ve fallen asleep halfway through reading feedback from your committee—curled up with your legs splayed over the edge of the couch and laptop perched on the cheap coffee table. The hall is mostly dark when Jack walks past. He’s heading toward the parking lot when he stops, mid-step.

For a moment, he just stands there, taking in the sight of you tucked awkwardly into yourself. You look comfortable in your oversized hoodie, if not for the highlighter cap still tucked between your fingers and mouth parted in a silent snore. 

He doesn’t say anything. Just watches you breathe for a few seconds longer than necessary.

Then, maybe with more curiosity than concern, he raps his knuckles gently against the doorframe. Once. Twice. Three times for good measure. 

No response.

Jack steps inside and calls out, voice pitched low but insistent. "This is not a sustainable sleep schedule, you know."

You stir—just barely. A vague groan escapes your lips as you shift and swat clumsily in the direction of the noise. "Just five more minutes... need to run reliability analyses..."

Jack chuckles, genuine and surprised.

He leans against the wall, watching you with no urgency to leave. "Dreaming about data cleaning. Impressive."

You make a small, unintelligible noise and swat again, this time with a little more conviction. Jack snorts.

After a moment, he sighs. Then carefully crosses the room, picks up the crumpled throw blanket from the floor, and drapes it over you without ceremony.

He flicks off the overheads and closes the door behind him with a quiet click. The hallway hums with fluorescent buzz as he limps toward the parking lot, shoulders tucked in against the chill.

A few weeks into the semester, the rhythm settles—lecture, discussion, grading, rinse and repeat. But today, something shifts.

You’re stacking quizzes at the front of the general psych lecture hall when Jack catches movement out of the corner of his eye. Two male students—frat-adjacent, all oversized hoodies and entitled swagger—approach your desk.

Jack looks up from his laptop. His expression doesn’t shift, but something in his posture does—a subtle, perceptible freeze. He watches from where he’s still packing up—hand paused on his laptop case, jaw tight, eyes narrowing just slightly as he takes in the dynamic. There’s a flicker of tension behind his glasses, a pause that says: if you needed him, he’d step in.

They swagger up with the kind of smirks you’ve seen too many times before—overconfident, under-read, and powered by too many YouTube clips of alpha male podcasts.

"Yo, TA—what’s up?" one says, leaning far too close to your desk. "Was gonna ask something about the exam, but figured I’d shoot my shot first. You free later? Coffee on me."

His friend elbows him like he’s a comedic genius. "Yeah, like maybe we could pick your brain about, like, how to get into grad school. You probably have all the insider tricks, right?"

You don’t even blink.

"Sure," you say sweetly. "I’d love to review your application materials. Bring your CV, your transcript, three letters of rec, and proof that you’ve read the Title IX policy in full. Bonus points if you can make it through a meeting without quoting Andrew Tate—or I’ll assume you’re trying to get yourself suspended." 

They stare. You smile.

One laughs uncertainly. The other mutters something about how "damn, okay," and both slink away.

Jack’s jaw works once. Then relaxes.

You glance up, like you knew he’d been watching.

"Well handled," he says, voice low as he steps beside you.

You offer a nonchalant shrug. "First years are getting bolder."

"Bold is one word for it."

You hand him a stack of leftover forms. "Relax, Dr. Abbot. I’ve survived undergrads before. I’ll survive again."

Jack gives a small, amused grunt. Then, after a beat: "You can call me Jack."

You glance up, brow raised. 

"Feels a little formal to keep pretending we’re strangers.

You don’t say anything right away. Just nod once, almost imperceptibly, then go back to gathering your things.

He doesn’t push it.

It’s raining hard enough to rattle the windows.

You’re having what your cohort half-jokingly calls a "good brain day"—sentences coming easy, theory clicking into place, citations at your fingertips. You barely notice the weather.

Jack glances up from your chapter draft as you launch into a point about predictive error and affective flattening. He doesn't interrupt. His eyes follow how you pace—one hand gesturing, the other holding your annotated copy, words sharp and certain.

Eventually, you pause mid-thought and glance at him.

He's already looking at you. 

Your hand flies up to cover your mouth. "Shit. I'm sorry—"

Jack shakes his head, lips twitching at the corners. "Don’t apologize. That was… brilliant."

You blink at him, the compliment stalling your momentum. The automatic response bubbles up fast—some joke to deflect, to downplay. You don't say it. Not this time.

Still, your fingers tighten slightly on the edge of the desk. "I don't know about brilliant..."

Jack doesn’t look away. "I do."

The silence stretches—not awkward, exactly, but thick. His gaze doesn’t waver, and it holds something steady and burning behind it.

You glance down at your annotated draft. The silence stays between you like a taut wire.

Jack doesn’t fill it. Just waits—gaze unwavering, as if giving you time to come to your own conclusion. No pressure, no indulgent smile. Just a quiet, grounded certainty that settles between you like weight.

Eventually, you exhale. The tension loosens—not completely, but enough to keep going.

"Okay," you murmur, almost to yourself.

Jack nods once, slowly. Then gestures at your printed draft. "Let’s talk about your integration of mindfulness in the discussion section. I’ve got a few thoughts."

Ethics is the last class of the week. The room's heating is inconsistent, the lights too bright, and Jack doesn’t know how the hell he ended up covering for Frank Langdon. Probably the same way he got stuck with Foundations and General Psych: Robby. The department’s too damn small and apparently everyone with a baby gets to vanish into thin air.

He steps into the room ten minutes early, coffee already lukewarm, and makes a half-hearted attempt to adjust the podium screen. The first few students trickle in, then more. He flips through the lecture slides, barely registering them.

And then he sees you.

You’re near the back, chatting with someone Jack doesn’t recognize. Another grad student by the look of him—slouched posture, soft jaw, navy sweater. The guy’s grinning like he thinks he’s charming. He leans in a little too close to your chair. Says something Jack can’t hear.

Jack tells himself he’s only looking because the guy seems familiar. Maybe someone from Walsh’s lab. Or Garcia’s. 

You laugh at something—light, genuine.

Jack tries not to react.

Navy Sweater says something else, more animated now. He gestures to your laptop. Points to something. You nudge his hand away with a grin and say something back that makes him blush.

Jack flips the page on his lecture notes without reading a word.

You’re still smiling when you finally glance up toward the podium.

Your eyes meet.

Jack doesn’t look away. But he doesn’t smile either.

The guy beside you says something else. You nod politely.

But you’re not looking at him anymore.

The next time you're in Jack’s office, the air feels different—autumn sharp outside, but warm in here.

He notices things. Not all at once, but cumulatively.

Your hair’s longer now. It’s subtle, but the ends graze your jaw in a way they hadn’t before. You’ve started wearing darker shades—amber, forest green, burgundy—instead of the lighter neutrals from early fall. Small changes. Seasonal shifts.

He doesn’t say anything about any of that.

But then he sees it.

A faint smudge of something high on your neck, near the curve of your jaw.

"Rough night?" he asks, lightly. The tone’s casual, but his eyes stay there a second too long.

You look up, blinking. Then seem to realize. "Oh. No, it’s—nothing."

He raises an eyebrow, just once. Doesn’t press.

What you don’t say: you went on a date last night. Your first real date since your second year. Navy Sweater—Isaac—had been sweet. Patient. Social psych, so he talked about group dynamics and interdependence theory instead of clinical cases. A refreshing change from your usual context. He’d been pining for you since orientation. You finally gave him a chance.

You’re not sure yet if it was a mistake.

Jack doesn’t ask again. He just shifts his attention back to your printed draft, flipping a page without comment.

But you can feel it—that subtle change in the room. Like something under the surface has started to stir.

Jack doesn’t speak again for the rest of the meeting, at least not about anything that isn’t your manuscript. But the temperature between you has shifted, unmistakable even in silence.

His feedback is sharp, incisive, and you take it all in—but your focus tugs sideways more than once.

You start to notice little things. The way his hands move when he talks—precise, economical, almost always with a pen twirling between his fingers. The way he reads with his whole posture—leaned in slightly, brows furrowed, lips moving just barely like he’s tasting the cadence of each sentence. How he always wears button-downs, sleeves pushed up to the elbows, like he’s never quite comfortable in them.

You catch the faint scruff at his jawline, the flecks of gray you hadn’t seen before in the fluorescent classroom light. The quiet groan of his office chair as he shifts to get more comfortable—though he never quite does. The occasional tap of his fingers against the desk when he’s thinking. The way his eyes track you when you pace, like he’s cataloging your rhythm.

When he leans in to gesture at a line in your text, you’re aware of his proximity in a way you hadn’t been before. The warmth that radiates off him. The way his breath hitches just slightly before he speaks.

When you ask a clarifying question, he meets your eyes and holds the gaze a fraction too long.

It shouldn’t mean anything. It probably doesn’t.

Still, when you pack up to leave, you don’t rush. Neither does he.

He walks you to the door, stops just short of it.

"Good luck with the coding," he says.

You nod. "Thanks. See you next week."

He hesitates, then nods once more. "Yeah. Next week."

And when you leave his office, the echo of that pause follows you down the hall.

At home, Jack goes through the same routine he always does. He hangs up his coat. Places his keys in the ceramic dish by the door. Fills the kettle. Rinses a clean mug from the rack without thinking—habit, even if it’s just for himself.

Then he sits down on the edge of the couch and unbuckles the prosthetic from his leg with practiced efficiency. He leans forward, slow and deliberate, and cleans the area with a soft cloth, checking the skin for signs of irritation before applying a thin layer of ointment. Only then does he begin to massage the tender spot where his leg ends, pressing the heel of his palm just enough to release tension. The ache is dull tonight, but persistent. It always is when the weather shifts.

He doesn’t turn on the TV. When he buckles it back on and gets up again, he moves around his apartment quietly, the limp less noticeable this time around.

While the water heats, he scrolls through emails on his phone—most from admin, flagged with false urgency. A few unread messages from students, one from a journal editor asking for another reviewer on a manuscript that costs too much to publish open access. He deletes half, archives another third. Wonders when it became so easy to ignore what used to feel so important.

The kettle whistles. He pours the water over the tea bag and sets it down, not bothering with the stack of essays he meant to look at hours ago.

He doesn’t touch them.

Not yet.

Tonight, his rhythm is off.

Instead, he looks over your latest draft after dinner, meaning only to skim. He finds himself rereading the same paragraph three times, mind somewhere else entirely. Your words, your phrasing, your comments in the margins—he's memorizing them. Not intentionally. It just happens.

Later, brushing his teeth, Jack thinks of how you’d looked that afternoon: eyes sharp, expression animated, tucked into a wool sweater the color of cinnamon. Hair falling forward when you tilted your head to listen, then swept back with one distracted hand. A little ink smudged on your finger. The edge of a smile you didn’t know you were wearing.

He wonders if you know how often you pace when you’re deep in thought. How your whole posture changes when something clicks—like your bones remember before your voice does. How you gesture with the same hand you write with, sometimes forgetting you’re holding a pen at all.

He tells himself it’s just professional attentiveness. That he’s tuned into all his students this way. That noticing you in detail is part of his job.

But it’s a lie. And the truth has started to settle into his bones.

He closes his laptop, shuts off the light.

He dreams in fragments—lecture notes and old conference halls, the scent of rain-soaked leaves, the sound of your voice mid-sentence. The ghost of a laugh.

He doesn’t remember the shape of the dream when he wakes.

Only the warmth that lingers in its place.

Across town, you’re on another date with Isaac.

He’s funny tonight—quick with dry quips, gentler than you'd expected. He walks you to a small café far from campus, one you’ve driven by a dozen times but never tried. He orders chai with oat milk. You get the pumpkin spice out of spite.

"Pumpkin spice, really?" he teases. "Living the stereotype."

"It’s autumn," you shoot back. "Let me have one basic pleasure."

You talk about everything but your dissertation—TV shows, childhood pets, the worst advice you’ve ever received from an advisor. Inevitably, you steer the conversation into something about work. It's a habit you seem to remember having since your earliest academic days, and one you don't see yourself breaking free from anytime soon.

"My undergrad advisor once told me I’d never get into grad school unless I stopped sounding ‘so West Coast.’ Still not sure what that means."

Isaac laughs. "Mine told me to pick a research topic ‘I wouldn’t mind reading about for the rest of my life.’ As if anyone wants to read their own lit review twice."

You laugh—genuine, belly-deep. Isaac flushes with pride and takes a long sip of his chai, eyes bright.

It's easy with him, you think. Talking, breathing, being. You lean back in your chair, cup warm between your palms, and realize you should feel more present than you do.

He’s exactly what you thought you needed. Different. Outside your orbit. Not tangled up in diagnoses or a department that feels more like a pressure cooker every day.

But still, your mind drifts. Not far. Just enough.

Back to the way Jack had looked at you earlier that day. The pause before he spoke. The silence that wasn’t quite silence.

You can’t put your finger on it. You don’t want to.

Isaac reaches across the table to brush his fingers against yours. You let him.

And yet.

You catch yourself glancing toward the door as he brushes your fingers. Just once. Barely perceptible. A flicker of something unformed tugging at the edge of your attention.

Not for any reason you can name. Not because anything happened. But because something did—quiet and slow and not easily undone.

You remember the way his brow furrowed as he read your chapter, the steadiness in his voice when he called your argument brilliant, the way he looked at you like the room had narrowed down to a single point.

Isaac is sweet. Funny. Steady. You should be here.

But your mind keeps slipping sideways.

And Jack Abbot—stubborn, sharp, unreadable Jack—is suddenly everywhere. In the cadence of a sentence you revise, where you hear his voice in your head asking, 'Why this framework? Why now?' In the questions you don’t ask Isaac because you already know how Jack would answer them—precise, cutting, but never unkind. In the sudden, irritating way you want someone to challenge you just a little more. To push back, to poke holes, to see if your argument still stands.

You find yourself wondering what he’s doing tonight. If he’s at home, pacing through a quiet, single-family home too large for his own company. If he’s reading someone else’s manuscript with the same intensity. If he ever thinks about the way you looked that afternoon, how you paced his office with fire in your voice and a red pen tucked behind your ear.

You think about the hitch in his breath when you leaned in. The way he’d watched you leave, that pause at the door.

And then Isaac says something—soft, thoughtful—and it takes you a second too long to register it. You nod, distracted, and reach for your drink again.

But your mind is already elsewhere.

Still with someone else.

You take another sip of your drink. Smile at Isaac. Let the moment pass.

But even then, even here—Jack is in the room.

You don’t see Jack again until the following Thursday. It’s raining hard again—something about mid-semester always seems to come with the weather—and the psych building smells like wet paper and overworked radiators.

You’re in the hallway, hunched over a Tupperware of leftover lentils and trying to catch up on grading, when his door creaks open across the hall. You glance up reflexively.

He’s standing there, brow furrowed, papers in hand. He spots you. Freezes.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. The hallway is quiet, just the hum of fluorescents and the distant murmur of a class in session. Then:

"Grading?" he asks, voice lower than usual—quiet, but unmistakably curious.

You lift your fork, deadpan. "Don’t sound so jealous."

Jack’s mouth twitches—almost a smile. A pause, then: "You’re in Langdon’s office hours slot, right?"

"Only if I bring snacks," you quip, referring to the way Frank Langdon always lets the TA with snacks cut the line—a running joke in the department.

Jack raises his coffee like a toast. "Then I’ll keep walking." A dry little truce. An unspoken I’ll stay out of your way—unless you want me to stay.

You watch him disappear down the hallway, his limp slightly more pronounced than usual. And you find yourself thinking—about how many times you’ve noticed that, and how many times he’s never once drawn attention to it.

Your spoon scrapes the bottom of the container. You try to return to grading.

You don’t get much done.

Later that afternoon, you’re back in the general psych lecture hall, perched on the side of the desk with your TA notes while Jack clicks through the day’s slides. It’s the second time he’s teaching this unit and he’s not even pretending to follow the script. You know him well enough now to catch the subtle shifts—when he goes off-book, lets the theory breathe.

He doesn’t look at you while he lectures, but you can tell when he’s aware of you. The slight change in cadence, the way his eyes flick toward the front row where you sometimes sit, sometimes stand.

Today’s lecture is on conditioning. Classical, operant, extinction.

At one point, Jack pauses at the podium. He’s talking about fear responses—conditioned reactions, the body’s anticipatory wiring, what it takes to unlearn a threat. You’ve heard this part a dozen times in college and a dozen more in grad school. You’ve written about it. You've published on it. 

But when he says, "Fear isn’t erased. It’s overwritten," his eyes flick toward you—just for a second.

And your heart trips a little. Not in a dramatic, cinematic way—more like a misstep in rhythm, a skipped beat in a song you thought you knew by heart. Your breath catches for half a second, and you feel the heat rush to the tips of your ears.

It’s absurd, maybe. Definitely. But the tone of his voice when he said it—that measured, worn certainty—lands somewhere deep inside you. Not clinical. Not abstract. It feels like he’s speaking to something unspoken, to a part of you you've tried to keep quiet.

You shift your weight, pretending to re-stack a paper that doesn’t need re-stacking, pulse louder than it should be in your ears.

From your seat on the edge of the desk, you can see the way he gestures with his hand, slow and spare, like every movement costs something. The way he leans on his good leg. The way the muscles in his forearm flex as he flips to the next slide, still speaking, still teaching—none of this showing on his face.

Your eyes keep drifting back.

And he doesn’t look at you again. Not for the rest of the lecture.

But you feel the weight of that glance long after the class ends.

You stay after class, mostly to gather the quiz sheets and handouts. A few students linger, asking Jack questions about the exam. You hear him shift into that firm-but-generous tone he uses with undergrads, the kind that makes them think he’s colder than he is. Efficient. Clear.

When the last student finally packs up and leaves the room, Jack straightens. His eyes find you, soft but unreadable.

"Good lecture," you say.

He hums. "Not bad for a recycled deck."

You hand him the stack of forms. "You made it your own."

His thumb brushes over the edge of the papers. "So did you."

You don’t ask what he means. But the quiet between you feels different than it did at the start of the semester.

The room is mostly empty. Just the two of you. You're caught somewhere between impulse and caution. Approach and avoidance. There's a pull in your chest, low and slow, that makes you want to linger a second longer. To say something else. To ask about the lecture, or the line he looked at you during, or the kind of day he's had. But your voice sticks.

Instead, you shift again, adjust your grip on the papers in your hands, and let it all stay unsaid. But Jack’s already turned back toward the podium, gathering his things.

He doesn’t look up right away. Just slides his laptop into its case with more force than necessary, his jaw set tight. He’s annoyed with himself. The kind of annoyance that comes from knowing he missed something—not a moment, exactly, but the shadow of one. An opening. And he let it pass.

There was a question in your eyes. Or maybe not a question—maybe a dare. Maybe just the start of one. And he didn’t rise to meet it.

He tells himself that’s good. That’s safe. That’s professional.

But it doesn’t feel like a win.

His hand pauses on the zipper. He breathes out through his nose, not quite a sigh. Then glances toward the door.

You’re already gone.

You let the moment pass.

But you feel it. Like something just under the surface, waiting for another breach in the routine.

It happens late one evening, entirely by accident.

You’re in your office, door mostly closed, light still on. You meant to leave hours ago—meant to finish your email and call it—but the combination of caffeine and a dataset that refused to make sense kept you tethered to your desk.

Jack’s on his way out of the building when he hears it: a muffled sound from behind a half-open door just across the hallway from his own. He pauses, backtracks, and realizes for the first time exactly where your office is.

He hears it again—a quiet sniffle, then a low, barely-there laugh like you’re trying to brush it off.

He knocks.

You don’t answer.

"Hey," he says, voice just loud enough to carry but still gentle. "You alright?"

The sound of your chair creaking. A breath caught in your throat.

"Shit—Jack." You swipe at your face automatically, the name out before you think about it.

He steps just inside, not crossing the threshold. "Didn’t mean to scare you."

You shake your head, still blinking fast. "No, I just—burned out. Hit a wall. It’s fine. Nothing serious. Just… one of those days." You try for a joke.

Jack’s eyes sweep the room. The state of your desk. The way your sweater sleeves are pulled down over your hands. He shifts his weight.

There’s a long pause. Then he says, softer, "Can I—?"

You furrow your brows for a moment before nodding.

He steps in and leaves the door slightly cracked open behind him. He remains by the edge of your desk, a respectful distance between you. His presence is quiet but steady, and he doesn't pry with questions.

You exhale slowly, suddenly aware of the sting behind your eyes and how tight your shoulders have been all day. You look down, embarrassed, and when you reach for a tissue, your hand grazes his by accident.

You both freeze.

It’s nothing, really. A brush of skin. But it lands like something else. Not unwelcome. Not forgotten.

Jack doesn’t pull away. But he doesn’t linger, either.

Jack doesn’t move at first. He watches you for a moment longer, the quiet in the room settling unevenly.

"You sure you’re alright?" he asks, voice low, unreadable.

You nod, quick. "Yeah. I’m fine."

It comes too fast. Reflexive. But it lands the way you want it to—firm, closed.

Jack nods slowly. He doesn’t push. "Okay."

He steps back, finally. "Just—don’t stay too late, alright?"

You offer a smaller nod.

He hesitates again. Then turns and slips out without another word.

Your office feels warmer once he’s gone.

And your breath feels just a little easier.

Jack makes his way down the hallway toward the faculty lounge with the intention of grabbing a fresh coffee before his office hours. He passes a few students loitering in the corridor—chatter, laughter, the usual.

But then he hears your voice. Quiet, edged. Just outside the lecture hall.

"Isaac, I’m not having this conversation again. Not here."

Jack slows. Doesn’t stop, but slows and finds a small nook just shy of the corner. 

"I just don’t get why you won’t answer a simple question," Isaac says. "Are you seeing someone else or not?"

There’s a pause. Jack glances down at the coffee in his hand and debates turning around.

But then he hears your exhale—sharp, frustrated. "No. I’m not."

Isaac huffs. "Then what is this? You’re always somewhere else—even when we’re out, even on weekends. It’s like your head’s in another fucking dimension."

Jack feels the hairs on his neck stand up. He sees you standing with your back half-turned to Isaac, arms crossed tightly over your chest. Isaac’s face is flushed, his voice a little too loud for the setting. Your posture is still—too still.

Jack doesn’t step in. Not yet. He stays just out of sight, near the hallway alcove. Close enough to hear. Close enough to watch.

You draw in a long breath. When you speak, your voice is level, cold. "I just don’t think I’m in the right place to be in a relationship right now."

Isaac’s expression shifts—confused, hurt.

Jack watches the edge of your profile. How your shoulders lock into place. How your eyes go distant, like you’re powering down every soft part of yourself.

He doesn’t breathe.

Then someone laughs down the hallway, and the moment breaks. Isaac looks over his shoulder, distracted for half a beat, then turns back to you with something sharp in his eyes.

"You’re not even trying," he says, voice low but biting. "I’m giving you everything I’ve got, and you’re... somewhere else. Always."

You stiffen. Jack stays hidden, tension rippling down his spine.

"I know..." you say, voice tight. "I'm sorry. I really am. But this isn’t working."

Isaac’s face contorts. "Seriously? That’s it?"

You shake your head. "You deserve someone who’s fully here. Who wants the same things you do. I’m not that person right now."

He opens his mouth to say something, but your eyes have already gone cold. Guarded. Clinical.

"I don't want to whip out the 'it's not you it's me bullshit'," you continue, each word deliberate. "But this isn’t about you doing something wrong. It’s me. I can’t give more than I’ve already given."

Jack watches the shift in your posture—how you shut it all down, protect the last open pieces of yourself. He recognizes it because he’s done the same.

"I'm sorry." The words are genuine. "You deserve better." Your eyes don't betray you. For a moment, though, your expression softens. You look at Isaac like a kicked dog, like you wish you could offer something kinder. But then it’s gone. Your eyes go cold again, your voice a blade dulled only by exhaustion.

Then someone laughs again down the hallway, closer this time, and the moment scatters. Jack moves past without a word. Doesn’t look at you directly.

But he sees you.

And he doesn’t forget what he saw.

As he passes, you glance up. Your eyes meet.

Only for a second.

Then he’s gone.

Isaac doesn’t notice.

Time passes. You're back in Jack's office for your regular one-on-one—but something is different.

You sit a little straighter. Speak a little quieter. The bright curiosity you usually carry in your voice has hardened, now precise ,restrained. Not icy, but guarded. Pulled taut.

You’re not trying to be unreadable, but you can feel yourself defaulting. Drawing the boundaries back up.

Jack notices.

He doesn’t say anything, but you catch the slight narrowing of his gaze as he listens.

You’d gone all in on this program, this career—your research, your ambitions, your carefully calculated goals. Isaac was the first time you'd tried letting something else in. A possibility. A softness.

And it crashed. Of course it did.

Because that’s what you do. That’s the pattern. You’re excellent at control, planning, systems, at hypothesis testing and case management. But when it comes to anything outside the academic orbit—connection, trust, letting someone see the jagged pieces under the polish—you flinch. You fail.

And you’ve learned not to let that show. Not anymore.

At one point, you trail off mid-sentence. Jack doesn’t fill the silence.

You clear your throat. Try again.

There’s something steadier in his quiet today. You finally finish your point and glance up. His expression is neutral, but his gaze is… undivided.

"Are you okay?"

It catches you off guard. You blink once, not expecting the question, not from him, not here.

You start to nod. Then pause. Your throat feels tight for a second.

"Yeah," you say. "I’m fine."

Jack doesn’t look away. He holds your gaze a moment longer. Not pressing. Not interrogating. Just there.

"You should know better than to lie to a psychologist."

It’s almost a joke. Almost. Just enough curve at the corner of your mouth to soften it. You let out a breath—half a laugh, half a sigh. "Guess I need to reassess my baseline."

Jack leans forward slightly. Then, without saying anything, reaches over and closes your laptop. Slides it just out of reach on the desk.

You open your mouth to protest.

Jack cuts in, quiet but firm. "You need to turn your brain off before it short circuits."

You blink. He continues, gentler this time. "Just for a few minutes. You don’t have to push through every wall. Sometimes it’s okay to sit still. Breathe. Be a human being."

You look down at your hands, fingers curled around a pen you hadn’t realized you were still holding. There’s a long pause before you speak.

"I don’t know how to do that," you admit, voice barely above a whisper.

Jack doesn’t say anything at first. He lets the silence settle. "Start small," he says. "We’re not built to stay in fight-or-flight forever."

The words land heavier than you expect. You stare down at your hands, your knuckles paling against the pressure of your grip. Your breath stutters on the way out.

Jack doesn’t move, but his presence feels closer somehow—like the room has contracted around the two of you, warm and steady.

You set the pen down slowly. Swallow. Your eyes burn, but nothing falls.

Your jaw shifts. Just a fraction.

You don’t say anything at first.

Jack doesn’t either. But he doesn’t look away.

After a beat, he says—careful, quiet—"You want to talk about it?"

You hesitate, eyes fixed on a crease in your jeans. "No."

He waits. "I think you do."

You laugh under your breath. It’s not funny. "This how you talk to all of your clients?"

He doesn't bite.

"You don’t let up, do you?" You're only half-serious.

"I do," he pauses. "When it matters. Just not when my mentee is sitting in front of me looking like the world’s pressing down on their ribcage."

That makes you flinch. Not visibly, not to most. But he sees it. Of course he does. He’s trained to.

You look at your hands. He's not going to let this go so you might as well bite the bullet. "I'm not great at the whole... letting people in thing."

Jack doesn’t respond. Just shifts his weight slightly in his chair—almost imperceptibly. A silent invitation.

Your voice stays quiet. Measured. "I usually just throw myself into work. It’s easier. It’s something I can control."

Still, he says nothing.

You pick at the seam of your sleeve. "Other stuff... it gets messy. Too unpredictable. People are unpredictable."

Jack’s gaze never wavers. He doesn’t push. But the absence of interruption is its own kind of presence—steady, open.

Your lips twitch in a faint, humorless smile. "I know that’s ironic coming from someone studying emotion regulation."

He finally says, softly, "Sometimes the people who study it hardest are the ones trying to figure it out for themselves."

That makes your eyes flick up. His expression is calm. Receptive. No judgment. No smile, either. Just… presence.

You look down again. Your voice even softer now. "I don’t know how to do it. Not really."

Jack doesn’t interrupt. Just shifts, barely, like bracing.

And somehow, that makes you keep going.

"Grad school’s easier. Career’s easier. I can plan. I can control. Everything else just…" You trail off. Shrug, a flicker of helplessness.

He’s still watching you. The way he does when he’s listening hard, like there’s a string between you and he’s waiting to see if you’ll keep tugging it.

"I thought maybe..." You press your lips together. "I thought I could do it. Let someone in. Be a person. A twenty-nine year old, for fuck's sake." Your hands come up to your face. "But it just reminded me why I don’t."

You draw a slow breath. Something in your chest cracks. Not a collapse—just a fault line giving way.

Jack just stares.

Then, slowly, he leans back—not away, but into the quiet. He folds his hands in his lap, thumb tracing a familiar line over his knuckle. A practitioner’s stillness. A kind of careful permission.

"You know," he says, voice low, "when I first started in trauma research, I thought if I understood it well enough, I could outsmart it. Like if I had the right frameworks, if I mapped the pathways right, it wouldn’t touch me."

You glance up.

He exhales through his nose—dry, but not bitter. "Turns out, knowing the symptoms doesn’t stop you from living them. Doesn’t stop the body from remembering."

He doesn’t specify. Doesn’t have to.

His eyes flick to yours. "But you don’t have to be fluent in trust to start learning it. You don’t have to be good at it yet. You just have to let someone sit with you in the silence."

You study him. The sharpness of his jaw, the quiet behind his glasses, the wear in his voice that doesn’t make it weaker.

Your throat tightens, but you don’t speak.

He doesn’t need you to.

He just stays there—anchored. Steady. Unmoving.

Like he's not waiting for you to come undone.

He's waiting for you to believe you don’t have to.

It's Friday night. You’re walking a participant through the start of a lab assessment—part of the longitudinal stress and memory protocol you’ve spent the last year fine-tuning. The task itself is simple enough: a series of conditioned images, paired with soft tones. But you watch the participant's pulse rise on the screen. Notice the minute shift in posture, the tension in their jaw.

You pause. Slow things down.

"Remember," you say gently, "we’re looking at how your body responds when it doesn’t need to anymore. The point isn’t to trick you—it’s to see what happens when the threat isn’t real. When it’s safe."

The participant nods, still uneasy.

You don’t blame them.

Later, the metaphor clings to you like static from laundry fresh out of the dryer. Fear extinction: the process of unlearning what once kept you alive. Or something close to it.

You think of what Jack said. What he didn’t say. The silence he offered like a landing strip.

It replays in your head more than you'd like to admit—the dim warmth of his office, the soft click of your laptop closing, the unexpected steadiness in his voice. No clinical jargon. No agenda. Just space. Permission.

You remember the way he folded his hands. The faint scuff on the corner of his desk. The way he didn’t fill the air with reassurances or advice. Just stayed quiet until the quiet felt less like drowning and more like floating.

And it had made something in your chest stutter—because you'd spent years studying fear responses, coding reactivity curves and salience windows, mapping out prediction error pathways and understanding affect labeling.

But none of your models accounted for the way someone simply sitting with you could ease the grip of it.

Maybe, you think now, as you log the participant's final response, this is what fear extinction looks like outside of a lab setting. Not just reducing reactivity to a blue square or a sharp tone.

But learning—relearning—how it feels to let another person in and survive it.

Maybe Jack wasn’t offering a solution.

Maybe he was offering proof.

Is this what it looked like in practice? Not just in a scanner or a skin conductance chart—but in the quiet, everyday choice of showing up? Staying? 

Perhaps the data is secondary and this is the experiment.

And maybe, just maybe, you’re already in the middle of it.

The new semester begins in a blur of syllabi updates and shuffled office assignments. It's your final year before internship—a fact that looms and hums in the background like a lamp you can't turn off. You’re no longer the quiet, watchful second-year—you’ve published, you've taught, you've survived.

But you’re also exhausted. You’ve become adept at wearing competence like armor.

Jack is teaching an elective course this semester—Epigenetics of Trauma. You're enrolled in it—a course you didn’t technically need, but couldn’t resist for reasons you cared not to admit. 

When you pass him in the hallway—coffee in one hand, a paper balanced on his clipboard—he stops.

"Did you hear the department finally updated the HVAC?" he asks, and it’s not really about the HVAC.

You nod, a wry smile tugging at your mouth. "Barely. Still feels like a sauna most days."

Jack gestures to your cardigan. "And yet you persist."

You grin. It’s a tiny thing. But it stays.

Later that week, he pokes his head into your office between student meetings.

"You’re on the panel for the trauma symposium, right?"

The one you were flying to at the end of October—thanks to Robby, who had playfully threatened to submit your name himself if you didn’t volunteer. He’d needed someone to piggyback off of, he’d said, and who better than his best grad student—who was also swamped with grant deadlines, dissertation chapters, and a growing list of internship applications. You’d rolled your eyes and said yes, of course, because that’s what you did. And maybe because a part of you liked the challenge, academic mascochism and validation and all. 

You nod. "Talk and discussion."

He steps farther in. "If you’re open to it—I’d like to sit in."

You glance up. "You’ve already read the draft."

Jack smiles. "Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like to hear it out loud."

You lean back slightly, watching him. "You going to grill me from the audience and be that one guy?"

Jack raises an eyebrow, amused. "Wouldn’t dream of it."

You hum. "Mmhm."

But you’re smiling now. Just a little.

It’s not quite vulnerability. Not yet. But it’s a beginning. A reset. The next slow iteration in a long series of exposures. New responses. New learning. Acceptance in the face of uncertainty.

The only way fear ever learns to quiet down.

Robby’s already three beers in and trying to argue that Good Will Hunting is actually a terrible representation of therapy while Mel King—your cohort-mate in the developmental area, always mindful and reserved—defends its emotional core like it’s a thesis chapter she’s still revising in her head.

Mentored by John Shen, Mel studies peer rejection and emotional socialization in early childhood, and she talks about toddlers with the same reverence some people reserve for philosophers. Her dissertation focuses on how early experiences of exclusion and inclusion shape later prosocial behavior, and she can recite every milestone in the Denver Developmental Screening Test like scripture.

She’s known for respectful debates, non-caffeinated bursts of energy, and an uncanny ability to babysit and code data at the same time. The kind of person who shows up with a snack bag labeled for every child at a study visit—and still finds time to coordinate the department's annual "bring your child to work" day. She even makes time to join you and Samira on your Sunday morning farmers market walks, reusable tote slung over one shoulder, ready to talk about plum varieties and which stand has the best sourdough.

Samira Mohan, meanwhile, sits with her signature whiskey sour and a stack of color-coded notecards she pretends not to be working on. She’s in the clinical area too—mentored by Collins—and her work focuses on how minority stress intersects with emotion regulation in underserved populations. Her analyses are razor sharp and sometimes terrifying. Samira rarely speaks unless she knows her words will land precisely—measured, deliberate, the kind of sharp that cuts clean.

Although still in her early prospectus phase, choosing to propose in her fifth year rather than fourth, her dissertation is shaping into a cross-sectional and mixed-methods exploration of how racial and gender minority stressors compound across contexts—academic, familial, and romantic—and the specific emotion regulation repertoires that emerge as survival strategies.

Samira doesn’t stir the pot for fun; she does it when she sees complacency and feels compelled to light a fire under it. That’s the Samira everyone knows and you love—the one who will quietly dismantle your entire line of argument with one clinical observation and a deadpan stare. She does exactly that now, throwing in a quote from bell hooks with the sly smile of someone who knows she’s lit a fuse just to watch it burn. 

It’s a blur of overlapping conversations, familiar inside jokes, cheap spirits, and the particular cadence of a group that knows each other’s pressure points and proposal deadlines down to the day. For a moment you let yourself exist in it—in the din, in the messy affection of your academic family, in the safety you didn’t know you’d built, much less deserved. Samira’s halfway through a story about a disastrous clinical interview when she turns to you, parts her mouth to speak, and looks up behind you—

"So is this where all the cool kids hang out?"

You feel him before you see him—Jack’s presence like a low hum behind you, the soft waft of his cologne cutting through the ambient chatter. The light buzz of conversation has your senses dialed up, awareness prickling at the back of your neck. You don’t turn. You don’t have to.

Robby lets out a loud "whoohoo" as Jack joins the table, hauling him into a bro hug with the miraculously coordinated enthusiasm of someone riding high off departmental gossip. Jack rolls his eyes but doesn’t resist, letting Robby thump his back twice before extracting himself but instead of settling there, he leans down slightly, voice pitched just for you. “Is this seat taken?”

Robby at 12 o'clock, Heather to his left, then Samira, Mel, you, and John. The large circular table meant for twelve suddenly feels exponentially smaller. The tablecloth brushes your knees, heavy and starchy against your lap. You feel warmth creep up your cheeks—probably from the alcohol (definitely not from anything else)—and scoot over slightly closer to Mel, giving him room to squeeze in between you and John. You can feel the shift in the air, the proximity of his sleeve against yours, the silent knowledge that he's there now—anchored in your orbit.

He slides in beside you with a quiet murmur of thanks, the space between your arms barely more than a breath. The conversation continues, but the air feels a little different now.

He nods politely to Shen on his left, mutters something about being tricked into another committee, then glances your way—dry, amused, measured.

Always measured.

You feel Jack beside you—not just his sleeve brushing yours, but his presence, calm and dense as gravity. His knee bumps yours beneath the table once, lightly, maybe unintentional. Maybe not. The cologne still lingers faintly and you try to focus on what Samira is saying about peer-reviewed journals versus reviewer roulette, but it’s impossible to ignore the warmth radiating from his side, the way your skin registers it before your brain does. He's like a human crucible. You keep your gaze trained forward, sipping your drink a little too casually, pretending you don’t notice the way your heartbeat’s caught in your throat.

The charged air gives you a spike of bravery—fleeting, foolish, and just enough. Before you let the doubt creep into your veins, you nudge your knee toward Jack’s beneath the table, thankful for the tablecloth concealing the movement. You feel him exhale beside you—quiet, but unmistakable—and something inside you hums in response.

You feel Jack’s thigh tense against yours. The contact lingers, neither of you moving. Moments pass. Nothing happens.

So you cross your legs slowly, right over left, deliberately, letting the heel of your shoe graze his calf.

He stills.

The conversation around the table doesn’t pause, but you’re aware of every breath, every shift in weight beside you. The air between you tightens, stretched across the tension of everything unsaid.

Everyone else is occupied—Robby and Shen deep in conversation about conference logistics, Heather and Samira bickering over which of them was the worse TA, Mel nodding along and adding commentary between sips of cider. Jack sees the opening and seizes it.

He leans in, just slightly, until his shoulder brushes yours again—barely perceptible. "Subtle," he murmurs, voice pitched low, teasing.

You arch a brow, still facing forward. “I have no idea what you're talking.”

"Of course not," he says, dry. "Just sudden interest in the hem of the tablecloth, is it?"

You swirl your drink, letting the glass tilt in your fingers. "I’m a tactile learner. You know this."

He huffs a quiet breath—could almost be a laugh. "Must make data cleaning a thrilling experience."

"Only when R crashes mid-run." You angle your knee back toward his under the table, a soft bump like punctuation.

Jack tilts his head slightly, eyes flicking to yours. "Dangerous territory."

"Afraid of a little ambiguity, professor?"

His mouth twitches at the title. 

You sip slowly, buying time, letting the quiet between you stretch like a drawn breath. His thigh is still pressed against yours. Still unmoving. Still deliberate.

"You always like to push your luck this much?" you murmur, keeping your eyes trained on your drink.

Jack hums low. "Only when the risk feels... calculated."

You glance at him, the corner of your mouth twitching. "Bit of a reward sensitivity bias tonight, Dr. Abbot?"

He shrugs. "You’ve been unintentionally reinforcing bad behavior."

You smirk, but say nothing, letting the conversation around you swell again. Robby starts ranting about departmental politics, Heather counters with a story about a grant mix-up that almost ended in flames. You sip your drink, Samira taps her notecards absently against her palm.

The rest of the evening hums on, warm and loose around the edges. When it finally winds down—people slowly gathering coats, hugging their goodbyes—you rise with the group, still a little buzzed, still aware of Jack’s presence beside you like heat that never quite left your side.

Under the soft yellow glow of the dim lobby chandelier, everyone says their goodnights—laughing, tipsy, hugging, good vibes all around. Jack is the last to leave the circle, and as you turn toward the elevator, you glance over your shoulder at him. "See you tomorrow," you say. "Last day of the conference—only the most boring panels left."

Jack lifts a brow. "You wound me."

You grin. "I’m just saying—if you show up in sweats and a baseball cap for your presentation, I’ll pretend not to know you."

The elevator dings. The doors slide open. You step inside, leaning against the railing. Jack stays behind. 

"Goodnight," he says, eyes lingering. You nod, then turn, pressing the button for your floor. Just as the doors begin to glide shut, a hand slides into the narrow threshold—the border between hesitation and something else.

Palm flat against the seam. That sliver of metal and air.

He steps in slowly. Quiet. And presses the button for the same floor.

The doors slide shut behind him with a soft hiss.

Silence hums between you.

You don’t speak. Neither does he. But your awareness of each other sharpens—your breath shallow, his jaw tense. The elevator jolts into motion.

Jack shifts slightly, turning his body just enough to lean back against the railing—mirroring you. His arm grazes yours. Then the back of his hand brushes against your knuckles.

A spark—not metaphorical, not imagined—zips down your arm.

Neither of you pulls away.

You glance sideways.

He’s already looking at you.

Your eyes meet—held, quiet.

Not a word is exchanged. But something breaks—clean and sharp, like a snapped circuit. Long-simmering, unvoiced tension rising to the surface, clinging to the pause between heartbeats and motion-sensor lighting.

Jack leans in—not tentative, not teasing. Just close enough that his breath grazes your cheek. Your breath catches. His proximity feels like a fuse. He’s watching you—steady, unreadable. But you feel the pressure in the air shift, charged and thick.

"I don’t know what this is," you finally whisper. Your throat feels incredibly dry. A sharp juxtaposition to the state of your undergarments. 

Jack’s voice dips low. "I think we’ve both been trying not to look too closely."

Your chest tightens. His hand twitches by his side. Flexing. Gripping. Restraint unraveling. His breath shallows, matching yours—fast, hungry, starved of oxygen and logic. And then, like a spark to dry kindling, you thread your fingers through his.

Heat erupts between your palms, a jolt that hits your spine. You don’t flinch. You don’t pull away. You tighten your grip.

He exhales—shaky, like it’s cost him everything not to close the distance between your mouths. The electricity is unbearable, like a dam on the edge of collapse.

And still, neither of you move. Not quite yet.

But the air is thick with the promise: the next breach will not be small.

The elevator dings.

You both flinch—just barely.

The doors slide open.

You release his hand slowly, fingers slipping apart like sand through mesh, reluctant and slow but inevitable. Jack's hands stay in a slightly open grip. 

"I should..." you begin, breath catching. You clear your throat. "Goodnight, Jack."

Your voice is soft. Almost too soft.

Jack nods once. Doesn’t reach again. Doesn’t follow.

"Goodnight," he says. Low, warm. Weighted.

You step out. Don’t look back.

The doors begin to close.

You glance over your shoulder, once—just once.

Your eyes meet through the narrowing gap.

Then the doors seal shut, quiet as breath.

For now.

Contrary to Samira's reappraisal of you joining her for Friday night drinks, you begrudgingly allow her to drag you out of your cave. Just the two of you—girls’ night, no work talk allowed, and no saying "I need to work on my script" more than once. She makes you wear lip gloss and a top that could almost be considered reckless, and you down two tequila sodas before you even start to loosen your shoulders.

You’re halfway through your third drink when a pair of guys approaches—normal-looking, vaguely grad-school adjacent, maybe from public health or law school. Samira gives you a look that says seems safe enough, and you need this, and so you nod. You dance.

The one paired off with you is tall, not unpleasant. He asks before he touches you—his hand at your waist, then your hip, then lightly over your ribs. You nod, give consent. He smells like good cologne and something sugary, and he’s saying all the right things.

But something feels wrong.

You realize it halfway through the song, when his hand brushes the curve of your waist again, gentle and careful and... wrong. Too polite. Too other.

You think of the way Jack’s fingers had curled between yours. The heat of his palm against yours for a single minute in the elevator. The way he hadn’t touched you anywhere else—but it had felt like everything.

You close your eyes, trying to ground yourself. But you can’t stop comparing.

You’ve danced with this stranger for five whole minutes, and it hasn’t come close to the electricity of the sixty seconds you spent not speaking, not kissing, not touching anything else in the elevator with Jack.

It shouldn’t mean anything but it means everything. 

You step back, thanking the guy politely, claiming a bathroom break. He nods, not pushy, already scanning the room.

Samira follows a song change later. "You okay?"

You nod. Then shake your head. Then say, "I think I might be fucked."

Samira just hands you a tissue, already knowing. She looks understanding. Like she sees it, too—and she's not going to mock you for it.

"Yep," she says gently while fixing a stray baby hair by your ear. "Saw it the second Jack joined us for drinks that night." 

The night air feels cooler after the club, like the city is exhaling with you. You and Samira walk back toward the rideshare pickup, her arm looped loosely through yours.

You don’t say anything for a long moment. She doesn’t push.

"I don’t even know what it is," you murmur eventually. "I just know when that guy touched me, it felt like wearing someone else’s coat. Warm, sure, but not mine."

Samira hums in agreement. "Jack feels like your coat?"

"No," you sigh. Then, after a beat, quieter, "He feels like the one thing I forgot I was cold without."

She doesn’t say anything. Not right away. Just squeezes your hand. "So what’re you gonna do about it?"

"Scream. Cry. Have a pre-doctoral crisis," you say flatly.

Samira snorts. "So… Tuesday." You bite back a smile, shoving her shoulder lightly but appreciating the comedic diffusion nonetheless.

She exhales through her nose, gentler now. "If it’s any consolation, I see the way he looks at you."

Your eyes flick toward her. She continues, tone still soft, sincere. "Not just that night during drinks, but during your flash talk. I’ve never seen him that… emotive. It was like he was mesmerized. And even back during seminar last year, when he was filling in for Robby? Same thing. I remember thinking, damn, he listens to her like she’s rewriting gravity."

You should feel elated. Giddy. Instead, you bury your face in your hands and emit a sound that can only be described as a dying pterodactyl emitting its final screech. "I hate my fucking life." 

"It's going to be okay!" Samira tries to hide her laughter but it comes through anyway, making you laugh through teary eyes. "You will be okay." 

You shake your head back and forth, trying to make yourself dizzy in hopes that this was all a dream. 

"Who was it that said 'boys are temporary, education is forever?'" Samira all-but-sang. 

"Do not quote me right now, Mira," you groan, dragging the syllables like they physically pain you. "I am but a husk with a degree-in-progress."

The week that follows is both everything and nothing. You go to class. You show up to lab meetings. You present clean analyses and nod through questions from the new cohort of freshmen. You even draft two paragraphs of your discussion section. One of three discussion sections. It looks like functioning.

Since submitting the last batch of internship applications, your dissertation committee meetings have gone from once a week with each member to once every three. You'd already run all of your main studies, had all the data cleaned and collated, and even coded all of the analyses you intended on running. Now all that was left was the actual writing and compiling of it all for a neat, hundred-or-so-page manuscript that no one would read. 

It’s your first meeting with Jack since flying back from the conference.

In all honesty, you hadn’t given it much thought. Compartmentalization had become a survival strategy, not a skill. It helped you meet deadlines, finish your talk, submit your final batch of internship applications—all while pretending nothing in that elevator happened. At least not in any way that mattered.

Now, seated outside his office with your laptop open and your third coffee in hand, you realize too late: you never really prepared for this part. The after.

You hear the door open behind you. A familiar cadence of steps—steady but slightly uneven. You know that gait.

"Hey," Jack says, as calm and neutral as ever. Like you didn’t almost combust into each other two weeks ago.

You glance up. Smile tight. "Hey."

"Come in?"

You nod. Stand. Follow him inside.

The office is the same as it’s always been—overcrowded with books, one stack threatening to collapse near the filing cabinet. You sit in your usual chair. He sits in his. The silence is comfortable. Professional.

It shouldn’t feel like a loss.

Jack taps a few keys on his laptop. "You sent your methods revisions?"

"Yesterday," you say. "Just a few small clarifications."

He hums. Nods. Clicks something open.

You sip your coffee. Pretend the sting behind your ribs is just caffeine.

The moment stretches.

He finally speaks. "You look… tired."

You smile, faint and crooked. “It’s November.”

Jack lets out a quiet laugh. Then scrolls through the document, silent again.

But the air between you feels thinner now. Like something’s missing. Or maybe like something’s waiting.

He reads.

You watch him.

Not just glance. Not just notice. Watch.

Your coffee cools in your hands, untouched.

He doesn't ask why you weren't at the symposium he moderated. Or if you were running on caffeine and nerves from recent deadlines. And definitely not why you booked an earlier flight home from the conference.

You search his face like it might hold an answer—though you’re not entirely sure what the question is. Something about the last two weeks. The way he hasn’t said anything. The way you haven’t either. The way both of you pretended, remarkably well, that everything was the same.

But Jack’s expression doesn’t change. Not noticeably. He just skims the screen, fingers occasionally tapping his trackpad. The glow from his monitor traces the line of his jaw.

Still, you keep looking. Like maybe if you study him hard enough, you’ll find a hint of something there.

A crack. A tell. A memory.

But he stays unreadable.

Professional.

And you hate that it hurts.

It eats at you.

Why does it hurt?

You knew better than to let this happen. To let it get this far. This was never supposed to be anything other than professional, clinical, tidy. But somewhere between all the late-night edits and long silences, the boundaries started to blur like ink in water. 

You tell yourself to turn it off. That part in your brain responsible for—this—whatever it was. Romantic projection, limerence, foolishness. You’d diagnose it in a heartbeat if it weren’t your own.

You just need to get through this meeting. This last academic year. Then you'd be somewhere far away for internship, and then graduated. That’s all.

Then you could go back to pretending you’re fine. That everything was okay.

The entire time you’d been staring—not at Jack, not directly—but just past his shoulder, toward the bookshelves. Not really seeing them. Just trying to breathe.

Jack had already finished reading through your edits. He read them last night, actually—when your email came through far too late. He’d learned to stay up past his usual bedtime about two weeks into joining your committee.

But he wasn’t just reading. Not now.

He was watching. Noticing the subtle shifts in your brow, the tension at the corners of your mouth. You didn’t look at him, but he didn’t need you to.

Jack studied people for a living. He’d made a career out of it.

And right now, he was studying you.

You snap yourself out of it. A light head bobble. A few quick blinks. A swallow. "All done?" you ask, voice dry. Almost nonchalant, like you hadn’t been staring through him trying to excavate meaning.

Jack lifts an eyebrow, subtle, but nods. "Yeah. Looks solid."

You nod back. Like it’s just another meeting. Like that’s all it ever was.

Then you close your laptop a little too quickly. "I think I’m gonna head out early, I don’t feel great," you offer, keeping your tone breezy, eyes still somewhere over his shoulder.

Jack doesn’t call you on it. Not outright.

But he watches you too long. Like he’s flipping through every frame of this scene in real time, and none of it quite adds up.

"Alright," he says finally. Even. Quiet. "Feel better."

You nod again, already halfway to the door.

You don’t look back.

"Hey—" Jack’s voice catches, right as the door swings shut.

Your hand freezes on the handle.

You hesitate.

But you don’t turn around.

Just one breath.

Then you keep walking.

You make it halfway down the hall before you realize your hands are shaking.

Not much. Barely. Just enough that when you fish your phone out of your coat pocket to check the time, your thumb slips twice before you unlock the screen.

He’d called your name.

And maybe that wouldn’t mean anything—shouldn’t mean anything—except Jack Abbot isn’t the type to call out without a reason. You’ve worked with him long enough to know that. Observed him enough in clinical and classroom settings. Hell, you’ve studied men like him—hyper-controlled, slow to show their hand. You’d written an entire paper on the paradox of behavioral inhibition in high-functioning trauma survivors and then realized, two weeks into seminar, that the paragraph on defensive withdrawal could’ve been subtitled See: Jack Abbot, Case Study #1.

You’d meant to file that away and forget it.

You haven’t forgotten it.

And now you're walking fast, maybe too fast, through the undergrad psych wing like the answer might be waiting for you in your lab inbox or the fluorescence of your office.

You don’t stop until you’re behind a locked door with your laptop powered off and your hands braced on either side of your desk.

You breathe.

In through your nose. Out through your mouth.

Again.

Again.

Still—when you close your eyes, you see the look on his face.

That same unreadable stillness.

Like he wanted to say something else.

Like he knew something else. And maybe—maybe—you did too.

[billieswh0r3]

✩︎ 𝐟𝐚𝐧 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐬

𝐬𝐲𝐩𝐧𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐬 : just two music stars fan girling over each other.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 : billie x fem!reader, just fluff, maybe a few nicknames and curses but other than that just fluff :p face claim is gracie abrams so if you dont like her then..this isnt a fic for you.

𝐚/𝐧 : this draft has been sitting for a long time and i just re-read it and i fell in love with it again so here it is, also its a bit small but— something is better than nothing.

𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠.. 𝐟𝐚𝐧 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐬

✩︎✩︎✩︎✩︎✩︎✩︎✩︎✩︎✩︎✩︎✩︎✩︎✩︎✩︎✩︎✩︎✩︎✩︎✩︎✩︎✩︎✩︎✩︎✩︎✩︎✩︎✩︎

‘so miss eilish, we saw that you attended a ___ concert recently. we didn’t know you were a fan of hers.’ the interviewer smiles at billie the sentence falling from her lips her eyes glistening with curiosity.

‘uhh— yeah i did, i’ve been a fan of hers since her debuting ep and you know going to her concert was such a surreal thing because i take a lot of— not inspiration but yeah inspiration’ billie lets her head drop as she stumbles over her words letting her giggles slip past her lips before looking up fixing her glasses.

‘she’s just an angel— shes so pure and everything she does is too its fullest and she deserves everything that comes to her’ billie smiles genuinely at the interviewer feeling her cheeks heat up slightly.

‘have you ever met her? seems like your very fond of her.’ billie immediately looks around the venue nervously her lips parting slightly. ‘she’s not here right..?’ billie mumbles softly into the microphone— the crowd lets out more laughs and more giggles spill from the interviewers lips as she shakes her head.

‘okay good— i would like shrink into myself.’ she brings a hand up over her nose to semi hide her face as she feels the heat leave her cheeks.

‘she’s actually been on the show and she actually brought you up’ the interviewer smiles pointing to the screen signaling to give the attention to the screen.

𝐚 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐡 𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐫

‘who’s someone you’ve always taken inspiration from musically wise’ the camera then pans to you. your dressed in a stripped dress shirt which is only buttoned on the second button, a pair of loose low rise jeans hanging from your hips, and simple black and white vans.

you gasp a smile immediately finding your lips as you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear sitting up straighter in your seat. ‘billie’ you say without hesitation smiling sheepily at the camera.

‘eilish?’ you nod eagerly your legs beginning to kick at the thought of her being a topic you get to talk about. ‘yeah i love her so much— shes was actually my number one artist this year’ you nod before your eyes widen grabbing at your necklaces showing an original blohsh hanging from your neck.

‘i mean i’ve been a fan of hers since i was 14— i remember hostage being my shit when i was in like 8th grade, like that woman possesses a power over me that she doesn’t even know about’ you gush smiling widely your cheeks hurting from how hard you are smiling.

‘i actually went to her concert like the beginning of this month’ the video then fades you looking at the camera screaming ‘the greatest’ lyrics before turning back to the stage holding your arms out acting like billie is singing to you.

when the video fades back into the interview theres you with a huge smile playing on your lips. ‘best fucking night of my life, i cried the entire time’ you say feeling your cheeks and ears heat up shying a bit.

‘so to say your a fan of hers would be an understatement.’ you nod soft laughs slipping past your lips your legs still kicking.

‘i mean— she was my gay awakening, me and my friends have an inside joke cause all the girls i date, look like billie’ the crown laughs a bit as you look at the interviewer clearly sensing her wanting to ask another question.

‘billie does follow you on instagram though correct’ again you smile widely nodding eagerly bringing the mic up to your mouth. ‘yeah she does— the day i found out she followed me was through my friends’ you nod tucking hair behind your ear. ‘and you know me being a small artist at the time didn’t believe it and when i did finally see it i almost passed out— i mean like for me the girl ive been looking up to and admiring for ages…noticed me i was star struck’ you finish off with a soft smile letting your hands fall into your lap.

𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞

as the video fades away the crowd is cheering as billie is softly clapping as she looks at her lap with a grin eating at her face.

‘so seems like you aren’t the only fan girl in this situation.’ the interviewer teases as billie finally looks back up adjusting her hair and glasses before bringing the microphone to her lips.

‘um— no words..i mean she’s perfect— she’s truly angelic and seeing someone like her look up to someone like me is beyond me when all i ever did was look up to her’ she looks sheepishly at the camera giving it one of her looks knowing the the interview was almost over.

'so it seems that you wish to meet her one day.' billie looks at the interviewer a soft smile playing on her lips and she sends a soft nod towards her.

'yeah hopefully one day— and hey, ___ if your watching hit me up mama' she says sending a playful wink towards the camera before she erupts into giggles hiding her face behind her hands.

'your heard it here first folks— now we'll be back after this commercial break'

𝐚 𝐟𝐞𝐰 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐡𝐬 𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫

yourname.offical

❤︎7.M ❏︎ 16.8. ⌲︎397K

yourname.official - so pretty girl just won iheart radio album of the year literally sobbing im so fucking proud 😭😭❤️ this album changed me in ways that i could not even put into words. congratufuckinglations @billieeilish you deserve this more than anyone i know, i guess you could say im a proud girlfriend.

comments limited

billieeilish - crying thank you precious girl

billieeilish - kisses mamas, your not supposed to be making me cry

↳︎ yourname.offical - oops ☹️

sabrinacarpenter - 👏

yournamelover - soft launch??

[midnightquips]

Chaos

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: You and Bucky are involved in a friends with benefits situation. But when feelings start to creep in, you’re not quite sure if this situation is the best for you anymore.

Themes: Mutual Pining, Damaged lead TRIGGER WARNING: Mentions of Suicide,Mentions of alcoholism, Mentions of Sex,Slight Smut, Friends With Benefits, Sexual Content, LanguageSmut Author Note: This is one of my works from AO3 from 6 years ago. I've always loved this and have only posted it as a one shot. I've had the other chapters in the drafts but have never proceeded to post them. Sharing it here maybe to pick up inspiration on it again to continue it and maybe flesh it out.

___________________________________

Chaos

"Happy Birthday, Y/N."

You look at the small box Bucky handed to you, unsure of how you would react. Your other hand tightens the grip on the blanket wrapped across your chest as he looks at you pensively. This was not normal post-coital procedure for you and Bucky.

Although you have been sleeping together the past few months, you had made sure to keep things casual. Bucky never shared too much about his past, and you thought this was preferable because it didn’t require you to do so as well.

Gifts were definitely a no-no. Sentiments were dangerous. Suddenly, you were worried. Was it only you who had been keeping the illusion of casual?

"How did you know?" your eyebrows furrow in confusion.

"You mentioned it last time when you were drunk."

You blush at the memory from two weeks ago when you had accidentally called him after drinking too much at the local bar.

"You didn't have to."

"I wanted to."

You stare at the box again. You hadn't received a gift in years and had already forgotten what it felt like to be given one. Being an orphan since you were 17 and living alone half your life meant that there was no more reason for you to celebrate birthdays. You usually worked on that day anyway, rarely falling on a weekend like today.

"I'm happy you called me today. Might be for a totally different reason... but I’m here." He gives you a soft smile.

You almost felt shitty. Tonight, your only goal was a good distraction from what sometimes lingered on this day. Usually, getting shit-faced drunk was your solution, but since Bucky had come around, you were more than happy to use him to occupy your mind.

"I haven’t gotten a gift in years," you reply softly.

He gives you a confused look. "Weren’t you married? Your husband never gave you a gift?"

You fidget with the ribbon on the box. It was a pretty box, and you almost laughed at the image of Bucky trying to wrap it himself.

"It... it wasn’t a love marriage. It was a relief when he left me."

He takes your hand in his. It felt... intimate. More than when he fucked you. Yet, you didn’t pull away and let his hand linger on yours.

He already knew you had a shitty marriage. You didn’t have to say it—the way you refused to ever talk about it was already an indication. It’s also why he never asked. He wanted to know, of course, but he understood about not pushing. He had numerous experiences he didn’t want to talk about either.

"I’m sorry for asking," he whispers.

"No, it’s okay." It really was.

"Open it," he urges with a soft smile.

You do as you're told, and inside you find a silver necklace with a snowflake pendant.

"It’s beautiful, Bucky."

"It’s just... snow reminds me of you," he explains, as if it was needed.

You understood. Snow reminded you of him too. How he ended up in your small café during a particularly snowy day and continued to come back every day after.

How you had slipped in the back alley on black ice, and thankfully the snow had caught your fall, or else the accident would have been much worse. He was there to carry you inside the café and help you with your broken ankle, snow everywhere on his jacket.

How he first fucked you by the windowsill of your apartment after he rushed to you during a blizzard, worried because the café had been closed for days while you were wallowing/celebrating after your divorce finally went through. You hadn’t really been thinking straight, and you jumped at him the moment you saw him on your doorstep.

God, you didn’t even realize how much Bucky was there for you and felt incredibly ashamed of how you treated him. A body to keep your bed warm.

Of course, you also considered him a friend. Perhaps the only one, and you were afraid of how it had happened unconsciously. You didn’t like getting attached to people, and the more you thought about it, maybe... Bucky was really more than just a friend to you.

Nervousness started to take over Bucky as your silence continued.

"Y/N?"

"I think... we should stop sleeping together." You look away from him.

His face fell. "I’m... I’m sorry. I can take the gift back. I didn’t mean—"

You turn to him to interrupt. "It’s not the gift, Bucky. The gift is wonderful. You are wonderful. But... I just don’t think what we have is something that I want anymore."

You didn’t want him, he thought. Of course, who could? The self-pity party had started inside him, berating himself on how he was a broken shell of a man. How he had nightmares that could drive a regular man insane. A history one man cannot burden. Now, even a job that no woman could bear to stand in the long run.

You deserved something better. He understood.

You observe his reaction, trying to figure out what was going through his head.

Attachments have never brought any good to your life. Everyone you let in hurt you. Everyone you loved left.

His expression was empty. Then and there, you discovered why Bucky was the one attachment you should never have. You cannot read him, and that was a fact you cannot ignore.

"I understand," he says calmly as he turns around slowly, sitting at the edge of the bed.

You see his shoulders slump as his back faces you before he moves to get up. You had a feeling he misunderstood what you meant, but you didn’t think there would be a point to rectify it. He was better off away from you anyway.

Bucky deserves someone better. Someone that could love him the way he should be loved. Someone warm, kind, and nurturing. He needed someone that could help him heal. He did not need another damaged person like you. He has had a hard life as it is.

You decide to get dressed as well, the awkwardness starting to perpetuate between you. The silence is deafening.

Bucky turns to you after he is fully dressed. He looked so handsome in his grey Henley and jeans, you thought.

You proceed to put on a loose shirt that fell high on your thigh, your hair disheveled and lips plump from your recent lovemaking. His hands itched to drag you back into his arms again, wrap your legs around his waist, and just bury himself deep within you once more. Keep you under him all night.

You were so beautiful to him, and he felt a sharp pain in his chest knowing he could never bask in your presence again.

"I..." he starts.

'I love you,' his mind screams, but the words are stuck in his throat.

"...care about you," he instead says.

A lump in your throat is forming. Oh God, why was this suddenly becoming so hard? Your throat feels tight, and for a moment, you almost believed your breathing would just stop.

"I care about you too," you admit.

You didn’t understand yourself why you said this, but it was too late now. It was a touch move.

This was the only thing Bucky needed to hear before he strides up to you in three steps, hands gently grabbing you by the neck as he presses his forehead against yours.

"Don’t push me away. Please," he begs.

Bucky was not above it. He had begged so many times in his life. FOR his life. As the Winter Soldier. As himself. It had never been effective with Hydra, but he would not hesitate to beg you over and over because you were as important as his life.

You bite your lip. Tears were rising up within you, a sob rising from your throat, so you close your eyes as a last defensive measure. "I can’t. You have to go."

Bucky trembles at your voice. A weak command, but a command all the same.

You push at his chest, shaking yourself away from his hold. He has to leave while you are still holding on by a thread. He has to before the dam within you breaks. No one has seen you weak for years, and this would not be the day.

"Go, Bucky. Leave," you say one more time, a bit firmer.

Swallowing hard, you look at him, and somehow deep inside you, there is this small part that hopes he’ll continue fighting for you, continue fighting for whatever this was.

When he finally nods at you, it takes all your will not to stop him. Not to tell him you made a mistake and that you’re only scared. You keep your mouth pressed in a tight line, afraid of the words that might spill, of the sob that might slip.

You watch him take his jacket and head out of the bedroom. Unable to control your feet, you find yourself rushing and standing in the living room to see him continue walking away.

'Don’t look back. Don’t look back,' you think.

He pauses as his hand reaches the doorknob and, because he was Bucky, of course he looks back at you one last time.

"You were my safe place. With you, I felt like me again. I’m sorry I couldn’t be the same for you."

At this, your walls crumble, but by the time the tears fall, Bucky had already closed the door behind him.

[amarriageoftrueminds]

Hope you don't mind but I've also got some thoughts on this!

(under cut for length)

Sarah:

This idea of Sarah's awareness/acceptance of queerness, doesn't necessarily have to be a function of her living in NYC: If we go with the idea that Steve's parents were Irish immigrants, and Steve was born in 1918... Well that gives Sarah time to have been living in Ireland during the Easter Uprising.

Steve Rogers's mother is obviously going to be involved with that, probably a member of the Irish womens' paramilitary group Cumann na mBan. (Would've also brought her into contact with Suffragists, Socialists, and Trade Unionists to pass that onto Steve, if she wasn't into all that already.)

And y'know who else were involved? A fucktonne of lesbians, that's who (including more than one female doctor and even one butch sniper!)

(My personal headcanon is that she was a nurse on the front lines in 1916, and actually left Ireland because she was in danger of getting arrested if she stayed. She met post-WWI-injury naturalised-American Joseph, either in 1916 while he was visiting Ireland (his home country) and they fought together, or in NYC, after he had been invalided home in 1917, then they married and had Steve in 1918.)

So if Sarah was a part of the Easter Uprising, she could've come into contact with/been accepting of lesbians, at least, long before she set foot in NYC.

You could so easily have her attitude as being like 'ah so there are men like that too, are there??'

.

Gay-Community Steve:

It is hard for me to reconcile 'bloody-mindedly honest, terrible liar' Steve with being gay and knowing he's gay, and not being open about it, in a self-destructive-for-the-period way.

So either he was so deeply in the closet that he himself didn't know yet, and so hadn't been a part of a gay community with gay friends because he literally didn't know to look for one.

(Like, he and Bucky are a couple and sleeping together for years, but Steve is so naive or in denial he thinks it's just a thing all bachelors do in the absence of a girl they're going to marry.)

OR...

CATFA's view is the propagandised version of events, and Steve actually did know he was gay, and was out to his friends, and the real reason Captain America kept getting rejected for active service is not because of his disabilities but because... he kept admitting to being gay?

And it was only after he got serum (and got in the news), that his public records were expunged to cover up the fact that their darling supersoldier (good and pure and Therefore straight! or perhaps asexual!) ...had broken the law; both by being gay and by falsifying his enlistment forms multiple times.

(Kind of like how how celebrities get a suspect 4F or dodge the draft, and their PR team makes up a more-palatable lie to feed to the public. Like how Frank Sinatra got rejected for active service on psychiatric grounds, but pretended it was because of an inner-ear problem.)

.

Totally on board with Steve and Bucky double-dating beards / playing mirkin to lesbian couples.

(Sidenote: also hc Bucky as having a gay sister, so maybe she could've been Steve's plus one, or they'd take out all Bucky's sisters to act as chaperones?)

Shit, why not turn it into a business? Bucky the Escort who gives his lesbian client a cover date, a great night of dancing, and a second cover-escort guaranteed to not steal her girl!

(Service comes complete with beautiful handwritten love letters (dictated by Bucky, penned by artist!Steve) and a messy public 'see if I ever let you take me out again, Bucky Barnes!' Break Up Scene on her stoop.😉)

RE: them moving in together: everyone talks about how queer Brooklyn was, but what if the boys went above and beyond for their own safety -- February House style -- and lived in a building exclusively populated by queer people? Maybe by queer members of the forces, or people who occupied humble positions in creative industries?

If Steve has lesbian friends from BK, and lesbian friends in the chorus line... why not both at the same time? Why not have some of those lesbian friends be Brooklyn girls who sign up to be chorus girls because- y'know -chorus girls, and are then like 'Steve?! Wtf are you doing here?!'

(Why not kill three birds with one stone: one of those chorus girls is Bucky's sister? Cue Spidermenpointing_meme and mutual assured blackmail -- whereby she promises not to tell Bucky what Steve did if Steve promises not to tell Bucky that one of his sisters has run away from home to become a showgirl.)

Bucky as the social butterfly of the two, more likely to be out and about, especially in risky places (ie. he worked on the docks; he could actually get and keep jobs in those places), and/or the safer one (given his size) when it comes to going to risky places, and given their later pattern of Bucky's friends becoming Steve's (ie. the Howlies)... I think Bucky would be more likely to be the one making introductions to Steve rather than the other way around. Which could have interesting knock on effects...

Maybe he got Steve a lucrative job illustrating queer 8-pagers (maybe there's an underground queer magazine out of BK, a la The Circle, and he illustrates for that, using Bucky as a model? Cue hilarious 'what were you doing at the Devil's Sacrament' moments in real life, when random men come up to Bucky in the street like 'where do I know your face from??' 😱)

.

So, on the flip side, if Steve did have rainbow connections, where are they?

Possible reasons (beyond the aforementioned hate crimes, imprisonment and conversion therapy), why it looks like Steve only has the one friend:

Steve could also have had friends in the disabled community and lost them to illness?

Lost friends to the Depression, when they have to move away from NYC for economic reasons?

Lost friends to lavender marriages? internment or deportation?

had queer friends but they're all enlisted by the time CATFA rolls around, and/or already died in the Spanish Civil War?

friends who are not enlisted but we just don't see them, because when we first meet Steve it's the middle of the day and they're all busy working?

he does socialise among LGBTQ+ people but: they're all in the Navy now and keep getting in fights with Steve about the Army being superior.

he had queer 'friends' ....but they were introduced to him by Bucky, and 9/10 were actually friendzoned guys harbouring secret hopes, and weren't exactly ecstatic to find out Bucky was taken -- or even worse, didn't see Steve as competition at all! -- and therefore never formed a good relationship with Steve. ('Jeez Steve why can't you n' these guys ever seem to get along? He was always so nice to me!' 'I don't know Buck, it's a mystery.' 😏)

he does socialise among LGBTQ+ people but: every time he goes to a gay bar the men he could've befriended are avoiding him to hit on Bucky, or avoiding him because he's hitting on Bucky, or avoiding him because Bucky's hitting on him and giving them the stink eye, or both of them are avoided because they are frankly too distracted to pay attention to anyone else.

(And/or the lesbians that talk to Steve all sidle up thinking he's a beautiful butch woman and then panic once he opens his mouth... or are only there to ask if that friend of his is 'the double-date guy.')

cops running Steve down outside a gay bar to arrest him for being… a woman wearing pants… (Bucky would not let him hear the end of it.) And then the cops are like 'oh! uhh sorry sir…' (two second pause before they suddenly clock that Steve and Bucky are a gay couple) 'Wait a second-' (Steve and Bucky already running.)

Maybe Steve would even become reluctant to go to the clubs, out of a fear of losing Bucky to someone else? Or Bucky reluctant to go for the same reason, and because Steve just attracts bad luck? (See: mob-related stuff below) Both of them just sick of having run-ins with the cops?

Steve does socialise among LGBTQ+ people but: his views are so ahead of his time that even they find him too much.

(IE. barred from the gay bath house for protesting ableist body standards, the lack of POC, fighting the police too hard during a raid, and/or criticising the mob owners... Maybe Steve eventually can't go to any gay club, because he's in shit with the mob? Maybe the police actually think he's straight, because they've seen his photo up behind the bar as a persona non grata in gay clubs?! Future idiots will say this is 'proof' he stands for 'Traditional American Values.')

Banned from politics club for criticising Stalin's regime; barred from the jazz club for fighting a white dude there; banned from the radical womens group for bringing a trans friend; banned from the trade union for attacking the mob / wanting to fix mob-led union and police corruption. Has he been excommunicated yet? It's probably only a matter of time.

Picture hapless social-secretary Bucky helping Steve limp home from yet another Club that Bucky got him into, and having to listen to Steve's rant about why 'they're all a bunch of hypocrites, Buck!' Perhaps homebody introvert Steve secretly wanting to stay in, while extrovert Bucky keeps trying to help him get out more, and every time Bucky thinks he's found Steve the perfect place this time, Steve's all like 'we'll see.'

he does socialise among LGBTQ+ people but: he's so open that he is alienated by potential friends who want to remain on the DL and consider him dangerous. (Perhaps especially so, if they're currently or about to be enlisted and don't want to risk a blue discharge, and cannot sanction the way he blatantly proclaims his orientation at recruitment stations? 🤔 Whereas Bucky is so invested, and has cultivated such a lady killer rep, so that he can not-worry about being seen with Steve.) Or alienated by potential friends who are even more open than Steve and look down on him for passing?

estranged from gay friends who do the same thing he does (declare their orientation during recruitment) but because they actually want to dodge the draft by getting a blue discharge, etc. etc.

Also consider: gay Steve and gay Bucky, both aware of their sexuality but not out to each other yet... independently going to any of the numerous gay hot spots in Brooklyn, seeing each other there, and fleeing in horror before they can make any friends, thinking 'omg why was he there? did he follow me?? does he know?!' And not figuring it out... because they are just genuinely that dumb.

Likewise, both of them in the pre-out phase, thinking 'well I can't risk having gay friends because they'd have to be a part of my life and then Bucky/Steve will find out!!' ...because they are just genuinely that dumb.

There are actually loads of options!

You could definitely do a have-your-cake-and-eat-it version of events where Steve has been part of a wider queer community, made friends, and yet still wound up having only one who stood by him. (There has to be reason why 'even when I had nothing, I had Bucky' would be true).

.

ps. Also headcanon that Bucky had a gay Uncle Jim (maybe a tailor?) who was institutionalized for being gay, and received harrowing medical treatments like electroshock therapy that eventually resulted in his death. So by the time Bucky -- named after his dead uncle -- started showing signs of being bi, Bucky's parents had already had their eyes opened. Or maybe, like Sarah, they had already emigrated from more open-minded places so queer Brooklyn wasn't a revelation.

.

Sidenote: In Stucky fic, people often seem to think as far as 'Brooklyn was queer!' but no farther. But why not?

Why does their queer education have to have started in queer Brooklyn?

Why not have Bucky's or Steve's (or both's!) parents be engaged in Lavender Marriages, and open about it? One gay parent, or both!

(This might be another reason why Steve appears to not have friends outside Bucky; he might have all the queer community he needs from his own family unit! Imagine it! Not just connected to 1940s Brooklyn queers but to Edwardian queers, darling! The Herstory!!)

What if Steve's mother wasn't single but simply... 'never married?' 👀 Or maybe she was straight, but in love with her late lavender husband?

.

And during/after the war:

Re: the Howlies.

(Have brought this ficbunny up elsewhere)

The Howlies knew and were fine about it, because... maybe there was an official investigation during the war to establish whether or not Steve or any of the other Howlies were gay.

So, being a bunch of professional mischief-makers, and acting completely independently, the Howlies all pulled an 'I am Spartacus!' and claimed to be gay under interrogation.

Steve also admitted to being gay, because he is terrible at lying and had to stand by them when he was told all his men admitted they were gay.

(Except for Bucky. He kept his head during interrogation -- sadly, not his first rodeo.)

So Bucky went down in hastily-redacted Army Record as somehow the only straight Howling Commando.

(The interrogators couldn't tell if they were being made fun of or not, and in any case the scandal was considered absolutely monstrous and a terrible blow for morale, so it was immediately covered up and no further steps were taken.)

Ironically enough, Steve & Bucky weren't even the only queer ones!

.

The Future:

Seeing gay marriage legalised, the Stonewall riots, openly queer films and celebrities and tv shows, queer pride parades etc. etc. would be heart-breaking for Steve... because of course by this point he has become Captain America, deluded women he barely knows have spent decades claiming to have been his true love, and the people that did know him have been loyally covering up for him claiming he's straight. He'd feel like a hypocrite for not being what they said; or like he's letting them down by unmasking all their hard work.

And of course his real beloved isn't here any more, when he's finding all this out he's totally alone, no one to share it with, (doesn't know if any of his other friends are still alive, yet). And he doesn't want to have to relive that pain over Bucky by being interrogated on his love life...

Plus, after a century of being mythologised, he associates coming out with even wider public furore and a violation of the privacy that Steve Rogers never gets to have.

Until Bucky comes back, and isn't in a prudent enough mental state to realise all this. So for him, finding all this out about queer rights is a simple source of joy, and that's what gets Steve out of his negative headspace and into the light.

(And then, yeah, out and married. Try to stop Bucky getting his citizenship back when he's literally married to Captain America, assholes! Nowadays, the only women that hit on Steve are lunatics who think they can turn him, and Steve's only other problem is all the gay men who either want in on that threesome or think they can steal him away from Bucky!)

Let's imagine Steve and Bucky who were well established in their local queer community. Because they lived in one of the few underground queer cities at the time, and it seems damn near impossible that they *wouldn't* know other queer people

Actually, for that, we probably should talk about Sarah first:

as a nurse she saw it as her duty to help anyone and everyone, no question asked and no matter where they come from, and soon developed a reputation for just that

so she had all sorts of people come to her for help

including queer folks in gender and/or sexuality, what we'd nowadays call drag queens and kings, disabled folks, people of colour, jews and so on

little Stevie grows up around a very diverse group of people

when he was only a couple of years old, he asked Sarah ie why that woman had a beard, and she'd explained to him that there are all kinds of people and there was nothing wrong with being "transsexual" or with men liking other men or women liking other women

and that if he ever found out he was like them, she wouldn't care and love him all the same

and that was one of the lessons that stayed with him, along with always getting back up, always protecting those in need of protection, and later from his own experiences, that he didn't like bullies

the community Sarah builds around herself ends up protecting Steve more than once, no matter how much he hates accepting help

So at some point Steve and Bucky meet and befriend each other and become inseparable. And of course the older they get the more people talk. That they're too close, that that sickly Rogers boy is a fairy (or that he's a waste of oxygen and should be dead, let alone ever reproduce), that there are so many pretty girls for Bucky to choose from. You get the idea

Sarah of course figures out they're dating pretty much immediately. she knows her son, she loves Bucky like her own like she knows the Barnes family does in turn for Steve

To me the Barnes family is supportive but it took them some time because they're the "ideal" middle class family and their oldest son being a fairy wasn't quite ideal but they love Steve and Bucky too much to give a rat's ass about it later on

and with all the people Steve grew up knowing and introduced Bucky to, they have plenty of friends, even if they'd choose each other over the world on any given day

society as a whole wasn't kind to them, would never be kind to them, they knew as much, but they weren't alone

sapphic couples to go on double dates with as a cover (though Bucky goes out of his way to find more women to date as a cover, lest people ask too many questions)

underground bars to meet at, in the "bad" parts of town, to drink and kiss and be a normal couple for once

meet artists of all flavours, punks (our modern definition, relative to the time), go to protests and rallies for women's rights and workers' rights

Bucky meets other jewish queer folks, too, to his delight

they run from cops more than once

lose more than one friend in that time too, who got found out and sent to "conversion therapy" at best, but more than once was found beaten to a pulp in the street

Sarah passes away and Steve is distraught, but he's not alone in mourning, her funeral has so so many of the people she'd helped in her life, and there's some solace in that, despite feeling more alone than ever

Bucky moves in with him and they get those few happy years with a lot of the same they'd done since becoming a couple, before the war comes

not only is Steve upset he can't join the war effort, he's now seeing his friends joining, getting drafted, or denied for the same reasons he is. queer women join en mass and he knows he'd find his people there too, but they just won't let him

then Bucky gets drafted and TFA plays (mostly) as we know it

their friends freak the fuck out when Steve's suddenly gone, then shows up as "Captain America"

some of the chorus girls pick up on Steve being queer, and suddenly the whole group feels a lot more comfortable around him, and he actually ends up enjoying their company a lot

the Howlies don't care, Howard doesn't care, Peggy is a Nazi so her view doesn't matter, no one really does, and they get to be pretty open about their relationship, with everyone covering for them

Bucky falls

the Barnes family gets a letter on what happened to Bucky, from Steve, and suddenly they know that they'll lose both their sons/brothers in that war, because there's no Steve without Bucky and no Bucky without Steve

they've always known it would end like that, but just like Steve, they'd never expected Bucky to be the one to die first

Steve puts the plane down

When he's confirmed alive in the 21st century, not only do the families of the Howlies reach out to him, who'd spread far by then

not only the Barnes family, Bucky's niblings and, hell, grand niblings (who all also insist on calling Steve their uncle, because that's who he is to them, and Steve cries at that)

but also all the children and grandchildren of the community he and Bucky had been part of

that had seen so much loss, he gets told, in the 80s and 90s, and before that, but still stands strong as ever and he's welcomed back with open arms

because those people, too, were his family

he's also told how after his death, some asshole wanted to discredit him for being queer, and all the people he'd ever known jumped to help him

his and Bucky's relationship was their families' best kept secret

that loss still weighs heavy on him, so he doesn't have the energy for pride, but there's something about queer rights having advanced enough that people like him can get married, that fills him with both overwhelming joy and longing

then Bucky is alive, and after everything is said and done, they come out to the world and get married, for real, not the fake wedding their community had thrown for them, or the one the Howlies did

and the rest is history

[katemoneymartinsgf]

could you do one where paige and azzi are on a camping trip and have to share a tent or somthing and realize they like eachother

Camping |pazzi|

a/n: Finals week, sorry i’ve been lacking😔

“Don’t freak out,” Ice says, pulling another sleeping bag out of a duffel. “But we may have overestimated the tent-to-human ratio.”

Paige glances over. “What does that mean?”

“It means y’all are cozy tonight,” Ice grins, tossing a sleeping bag toward her. “It’s a two-person tent. And you’re with Azzi.”

Paige catches the bag mid-air and throws a look at Azzi, who just shrugs like, not my fault, before adjusting her ponytail.

“It’s fine,” Paige says, a little too quickly. “Totally chill.”

Azzi grins. “Sure, P.”

They set up the tent just before sunset — Paige fumbling with the poles, Azzi making fun of her under her breath, both of them pretending this isn’t a mildly life-changing situation.

By the time everyone’s had dinner, messed around with a cheap card game, and roasted enough marshmallows to count as a meal, it’s dark.

The two of them crawl into the tent, take off their shoes, and immediately run into problem number one.

“There’s only one sleeping bag,” Paige says, holding it up like it might multiply if she stares hard enough.

Azzi stretches out on the tent floor, hoodie riding up slightly over her stomach. “We can unzip it. Make it a blanket.”

Paige blinks. “Right. Smart. Blanket.”

She unzips it and tosses it over them, trying not to look like she’s panicking. Azzi lays back next to her — shoulder to shoulder, close enough to feel every tiny movement.

“Camp vibes,” Azzi mumbles, tugging the blanket tighter around her.

“You look too comfortable right now,” Paige says, arms crossed. “I think you might be built for this.”

“I am comfortable,” Azzi says, grinning. “You good?”

“Fine,” Paige says. “You just take up a lot of space.”

Azzi turns her head. “It’s a tent, not a twin bed. Chill.”

“You’re literally a space heater.”

“Wow. That’s actually the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Paige laughs. Quietly. “You’re ridiculous.”

Azzi shifts a little closer, her arm brushing Paige’s. “You’re warm though.”

“Don’t start,” Paige says, already pulling the blanket tighter around herself like a shield. “We’ve got all night in this tent and I’m barely holding it together.”

Azzi raises an eyebrow. “You holding it together?”

“No.”

Azzi laughs — not loud, not teasing, just low and honest and kind. And Paige feels it in her chest.

—

They talk for a while. About nothing and everything.

Azzi tells a story about how Ice once got lost in a corn maze and blamed “midwest energy” for an hour. Paige tells her about the one time she tried camping in eighth grade, cried when her phone died, and made her dad come pick her up at midnight.

“I brought extra chargers this time,” Paige says.

“Oh, so we’re growing.”

“Character development.”

Azzi’s head tips back when she laughs again, and Paige doesn’t realize she’s staring until the silence hits and Azzi catches her.

“What?” Azzi asks softly.

Paige swallows. “You’re just…”

She trails off. Doesn’t finish the sentence.

Azzi lets it sit there before Paige changes the subject.

“This blanket is way to small and you keep stealing ,” Paige says, tugging at one side. “Now there’s, like, draft zones.”

Azzi snorts. “It’s called sharing.”

“You took, like, 70 percent of it.”

“You’re the one with cold feet.”

“You say that like it’s my fault.”

“It is your fault,” Azzi says, tugging it closer to her shoulder. “Poor circulation.”

“You made that up.”

Azzi grins. “Maybe.”

Paige mutters something under her breath and shifts, pulling the bag higher around her chest. Their arms brush. Neither of them move away.

The flashlight dims in the corner.

They go quiet for a minute.

Azzi’s voice is soft when she speaks again. “So is this better than the your first camping?”

Paige blinks up at the ceiling. “Sure, but it’s because i’ve never done it like this.”

Azzi turns her head slightly. “Like how?”

Paige hesitates. “With someone I actually want to be around.”

Azzi doesn’t respond right away.

But she smiles.

“I like it,” she says quietly. “Even if you steal all the space.”

Paige laughs, too softly to sound real. “You’re literally the one with your elbow in my ribs.”

Azzi doesn’t move it.

Paige doesn’t ask her to.

They lie still for a while. The sleeping bag rustles every time someone adjusts. Paige keeps her hands tucked under her hoodie sleeves like she’s nervous to let them sit still.

“Can I ask something dumb?” she says finally.

Azzi glances over. “Always.”

“Were you hoping we’d get the same tent?”

Azzi doesn’t answer right away. Her voice, when it comes, is barely above a whisper.

“Yeah.”

Paige lets that settle. Lets it wrap around her like warmth.

“Me too,” she says.

Azzi breathes in slow. Then out. “I kept thinking… if I was near you long enough, I’d get over it.”

Paige’s stomach flips. “Over what?”

Azzi looks at her — really looks.

“This….you.”

And Paige… gets it.

She’s not sure when it started, or when it stopped being just a dumb crush that she could joke about in locker rooms. But now, Azzi’s knee is pressed against hers, and their fingers are two inches apart on the sleeping bag, and it feels like something they’ve both been dancing around for too long.

“You don’t have to get over it,” Paige says quietly.

Azzi’s voice cracks just a little. “No?”

Paige shakes her head. “Kinda hoping you won’t.”

And then she reaches over — slow, careful — and links their pinkies.

Azzi doesn’t look away.

Paige leans in.

The kiss is small, soft, something that’s been waiting its turn for months.

And when they pull back, Azzi’s forehead touches hers.

“Just so you know,” she murmurs, “you still hog the blanket.”

Paige smiles.

“You can have it,” she says. “You already have everything else.”

-

The morning creeps in slow — gray light seeping through the tent fabric, birds being unnecessarily loud, and the chill settling in around the sleeping bag like it’s got a grudge.

Azzi wakes up first.

Not because of the cold — definitely not because of the birds — but because her face is smushed against Paige’s collarbone, and Paige is breathing steady beneath her, still dead asleep.

And Azzi… is on top of her.

Like fully wrapped around Paige. Arm draped over her stomach. Knee tucked up against her thigh. Face hidden in her hoodie. The sleeping bag a mess around them.

She blinks. Doesn’t move.

Paige shifts slightly in her sleep, murmurs something under her breath, and tightens her arm around Azzi’s back like it’s instinct.

Azzi exhales into her chest.

Okay.

Okay.

This is fine.

Totally normal for two friends who maybe kissed last night and then curled into each other like puzzle pieces. Totally normal.

Azzi doesn’t move.

Because… warmth. Obviously.

Ten minutes pass. Maybe fifteen.

Then Paige mumbles, voice still gravelly from sleep: “You awake?”

Azzi nods against her. “You?”

Paige smiles. “No.”

Azzi huffs a laugh, and Paige opens one eye, looking down at her.

“Are we pretending this is still about warmth?”

“I was.” Azzi shrugs.

“You’re not even cold.”

“You’re warm,” Azzi says simply.

And that’s apparently enough.

Paige shifts under her, eyes still half-closed. “We should probably get up.”

Azzi makes no move.

Paige grins. “Right. In five?”

“Ten.”

They’re quiet for another moment, just breathing.

Then—

The tent zipper yanks open from the outside.

“Y’ALL UP—”

It’s Ice.

And she’s screaming.

“NAH. NAHHH. SARAH, COME LOOK AT THIS. THEY’RE CUDDLING FOR REAL.”

Paige groans, immediately throwing the sleeping bag over both their heads like it’s armor. Azzi’s laughing into her hoodie.

“Tell them to zip it back up,” Paige mutters.

“They’re already taking pictures,” Azzi says, grinning.

“This is why I don’t camp.”

Azzi kisses her cheek through the hoodie.

“You love it.”

“I like you. That’s different.”

Azzi just hums, smug and close and still not moving.

And honestly?

They’re not getting up for a while.

[irradiatedsnakes]

realized i had this in my drafts and planned to post it a month or two after the wheel dropped and then forgot about it. oops! here you go

"why does it feel like i just got scammed", my contribution to the wheel of wow, a small dialtown fic collection comprised of randomly-generated ships written and illustrated by our group of friends! we released it this past valentine's day, and i'm unbearably proud to be a part of it. please take a gander if you haven't!

the ship generated for this one was, uh, milton r. wallace/milton r. wallace. well i hope you like it (please check under the cut for the feelings/concepts behind the comic and my ramblings on the dialup!)

ive been thinking a lot about the dialup lately and like. okay. milton was opposed from day 1, he never Stopped being opposed, but- obviously the dialup is Unfathomably Unethical, i agree with this. a violation of bodily autonomy on a high-incomprehensible scale. but there is that little nagging doubt, what IF it all went exactly according to how callum said it would, if it accomplished all the improvements to people's lives that it was meant to? (given everything we know it seems unlikely it ever WOULD.)

but damn if me, i, griffin, were posed with the choice to press a button where "quality of life improves significantly for like everyone on earth, and also phone heads happen" i would probably definitely press the button. now, i dont think milt would, but like, this comic is meant to explore that bit of doubt, that little voice of callum's in his head going on about changing the world, helping people. what IF it was possible, what IF it worked.

which is also why, in this, hypothetical post-dialup-milton talks more like callum than he does milton (hence why he specifically calls him "milt" and not "milton" on the last page). that little needling voice of doubt speaking up, that after consideration (ie, this conversation) just solidifies his conviction- that the dialup is something horrible, but also not something he feels like he has the power to stop, anymore.

also phone head notes!

it's an ericsson n2200 wooden wall phone, as mentioned in the first page

i wanted an ericsson model specifically since that's the same company that made callum's model (an ericsson dbh of some kind)- playing on the "made in his image"/callum-as-god theme.

unlike callum's model, this is a wooden phone specifically- it's primarily made of organic materials.

the front is completely blank. there's lots of bits and bobs on rotary phones that can read as facial features- dials, bells- i wanted him to be as blank and faceless as possible, removal of expression and individuality. he's not as much a person anymore, he's a vehicle for callum's ideas and ambitions.

[tokyo-daaaamn-ji-gang]

even if it's late, I gotta request: Shinichiro as your boyfriend headcanons?? 🥹 any aspects you want, but I'd LOVE to see how his family and friends react and interact <33 have a great night/day!!

Here are some (Shinichiro definitely deserves to be a boyfriend)!

Both his friends and his family actually thinks he's joking or trying to trick them when he announces he's seeing someone. They've teased him about being rejected for so long that they're pretty surprised someone accepted his confession this time. Shinichiro has a hard time trying to convince them this is real (Mikey even suggests you're imaginary at first before meeting you). 

Begs his friends (and Manjiro) to not embarass him before he introduces you to them (of course they all ignore this and tell a bunch of embarrassing stories about him instead).

They're all pretty friendly towards you though they have a tonne of questions. Emma, Izana and Mikey (Mikey asks the most random ones like if you like taiyaki? and can you fight?)  They want to know everything about you (this has never happened before so they're pretty excited) and Shinichiro's friends want to know the details of him asking you out (they're still pretty surprised). 

Shinichiro can't stop saying my girlfriend/ my boyfriend. He just loves saying that he finally has a partner. 

And definitely brags about you to his friends a lot, he just loves talking about you, especially in this early stage. Everyone get's a bit sick of him going on and on about you eventually lmao. 

Shinichiro also get's a lot of random advice about you and how to be a good boyfriend in the early stages. 

Shinichiro makes sure he does basically every romantic gesture he can think of (especially seems to love bringing you flowers). He likes how happy it seems to make you.

He is a bit shy when it comes to getting physical, he badly wants to hold your hand, hug you, kiss you etc but get's a bit nervous to (he overthinks it a lot) ends up nervously laughing while asking you to. And yes this get's him teased by his friends.

He automatically grins everytime he sees you, he doesn't even seem to notice it but he get's so much happier when he spots you. 

His siblings love you and unfortunately for Shinichiro like to have your attention anytime you're altogether. You've been stolen away from Shinichiro a few times by his siblings when he planned to hang out with you.

Shinichiro offers to drive you around everywhere, likes the feeling of you being so close to him and wants you to see how much fun being on a bike is (or how much fun his bike is).

He's a very good listener, you can say you like something just once and he'll remember it.

Whenever you hug him, he always murmurs that being in your embrace is the best place in the world

He's a lot happier overall with you around too, not that he was exactly sad before but he has an extra spring in his step and smiles even more then before.

Also refuses to work late anymore, he used to stay late with the bikes if something needed doing but now wants to get back to you as soon as possible. Shinichiro actually doesn't even realise this though, it's Inui who points out that he's started doing this.

Has so many pet names for you, seems to use a different one every time. (He keeps a sort of draft list of them where he writes down new possible ideas)

Secretly plans to marry you (his friends already know because they were teasing him about it and he started blushing and not meeting their eyes)

He also daydreams a lot about you while away from you and apparently makes a certain face while doing it, the others call it his "boyfriend face".

And finally, even after the hardest days for him, coming home and seeing you and the way you look at him/ treat him always makes him smile.

[skruttet]

The Mymbles' Everyday Life Specially desgined for learning schools by Tove Jansson

Mymble in cross-section (natural size)

From top to bottom: topknot/bun, antenna, brain, the Mymble's upper rational self, the Mymble's aesthetic hedonist self, the Mymble's intuitive self, the Mymble's active jubilant self, heart, the Mymble's emotional self, the Mymble's vagabond self.

Newborn Mymbles (the antennae will not grow until nine days later)

Place for upcoming Mymble acts.

Sun-worshipping Mymble

Mymble in sleeping position

Macaroni.

Moon-worshipping Mymbles

Typical Mymble house (eastern Uusimaa)

Symbolic representation of Mymble's mentality

My, Mymble's smallest daughter (50x magnification)

Place for upcoming Mymble acts.

Mymble smoking hashish

Mymble Ditty [it's a slightly modified All Small Beasts] All small beasts have bows in their tails, All Hemulens wear crowns and wreaths Joxter plays when the moon goes down, Play and dance - but don't drink more! Red tulips in the morning light Wave and shine around the Mumrik's house- Slowly a brilliant night fades away... Mymble goes alone looking for her hat.

[seeingsooey]

Jackieshauna in the script will kill me

??!!!?!…!!!!

I’m going to rewrite my jackieshauna paper cause I have more to consider than I did originally writing it. I’ll also do a mistynat one, it’s sitting in my drafts lmaooo

And after the events of season 3, I think it’s obvious now that they were NOT talking about Jeff☠️😭

[badslittlemuffin]

I see you wanted requests 8)

A bakugo x reader where reader was his friend in elementary/middle school but didn’t go to UA but after the whole war he sees her for the first time when he’s in the hospital and she like, gently scolds him for getting hurt and the other 1A students are just like :0

Anyways I hope you have a great day and enjoy this request!

THANK YOU FOR THE REQUEST!!<333

ive been trying to speed through my requests just to get to this one bc I LOVE ITT I love you anon<333 also once again I don't have full knowledge on what happens in the manga past chapter 398, and everything I know comes from spoilers so if this is inaccurate I'm rlly srry!! ENJOY!!

postwar!katsuki x reader, childhood friends, mutual pining, katsuki is WHIPPED, little angst, mention of death

wc: 557

Katsuki had been lying in his hospital bed—y'know, as you do when you've just been revived—when the door to his room suddenly slammed open.

His eyes snapped up from where Kirishima sat at his bedside to see the frantic figure standing in the doorway. His eyes widened as he recognized the girl who walked in, concern dripping from her face. "Katsuki! Oh my god—what the hell?" She speaks, her voice scratchy with worry. She steps beside him, completely ignoring the wide-eyed teens behind her. Her hands move immediately to him, as she looks him over.

"You're without me for one year, and this is what happens?" You say, voice exasperated. He snorts, a small smirk crawling onto his face. "Y/N, I'm fine–" you cut him off, hitting his arm lightly, to which he winces. "No, you aren't! You literally died!" Your voice turns from scolding to something a bit more tentative. "I thought I lost you."

His expression softens, his hand holding yours gently. He shoves himself to sit up, wincing at the pain in his chest, but ignores it, pulling you into a hug. You held him tight, your head resting in the crook of his neck.

Behind you, however, was a completely different story. Kirishima, Kaminari, Sero, and Ashido had all come to visit with Bakugo, chatting about whatever, when suddenly, a random girl they had never seen, nor heard about, bursts in, and starts scolding Bakugo, all while he sits with a stupid grin on his face. Did he also get a concussion, or was this just a side effect of him dying and being revived?

They sat dumbfounded as he brought her into a hug. Okay, maybe they were seeing things! Yeah, no, this was happening.

You pull back from the hug, your eyes flickering over his body in a silent examination. Once you deemed he had passed, you sighed. "Don't do stupid shit like that again or I swear I will–" He laughs, nodding. "Yeah, yeah, I get it, I get it... I've already heard this lecture around 50 times from the old hag." "Well, as she should!" You say, crossing your arms to feign annoyance.

He chuckles, leaning back on his pillow. His gaze moves back to where his friends sit, open-mouthed. He shoots them a glare, mouthing 'out'. His vermilion gaze turns back to you, a small smile tugging at his lips.

Kirishima stands quickly, grinning like he has just found new blackmail material. He grabs the rest of the group and tugs them out. You look back at them, face reading slightly in embarrassment. Katsuki weakly grabs your hand, his grip loose, a lazy grin on his lips as he mumbles, "Missed ya'..."

Your smile is hesitant. Squeezing his hand lightly, you whisper back, like it's a secret, "I missed you, too..."

Maybe it's the morphine, or maybe it's just your presence, but he finds the words, "You'll never lose me... you're stuck with me," slipping past his lips. That pulls a quiet laugh from your throat, the first one you had let come naturally since you sat staring at your TV in horror as the news played.

You sat with him for hours after, talking with him. Maybe it was more to reassure yourself that he was alive than anything—but you weren't going to tell him that.

im sorry anon that this was so short😭 this has lowkey been sitting in my drafts for a few days cuz I didn't know how to really continue it💔 but I hope you liked it!!!

[muffinsin]

Greetings! Ya like that?😋 kidding gaha. Hiiii! Lemme just *slides right into your inbox and drafts* can we pretty pretty please get a dommy Bela with a cute female reader and bunny petplay?🐰

-I had an anon name but I want a cuter one hehe

-bunny anon🐇

Hey, hon 👋! Haha, absolutely! ;P We’re all in for some dom! Bela here🙌 A bit of a shorter drabble today XP

Masterlists

Bela hums as she works, her leg occasionally bouncing lightly. The office is quiet save for this, the gentle scratch of her pen against parchment and- your small, quiet little noises that just sometimes manage to slip through the white gag placed in your mouth.

You look up at her, your eyes wide with love and wonder as you take in her form. The candlelight in the room flickers over her, casting golden shadows across her sharp jawline and full, dark painted lips. Dressed in her usual attire, her black dress, her tight corset, her scent rich and powerful this close up, you find yourself feeling intimidated as well as aroused. Even as she does something simple as work, every inch of her radiates a cool, commanding grace capable of making you feel as though you're about to melt on the spot.

And then, there is you- her bunny.

Naked on top of her lap, save for the plush white ears atop your head, the white gag sitting snuggly in your mouth and muffling all you might have to say- there is no need for a talkative pet, she had reassured you with a gentle smile- a white collar with a deep red "B" engraved in it hugging your throat, the leash hanging off it, and the white, fluffy tail snug inside of you where she'd put it earlier, now pressing just right inside of you whenever you do as much as shift.

She shifts a little, and you follow obediently, releasing a quiet, muffled little noise as she briefly tightens her hold on the leash, firmly wrapped around her gloved hand. You watch as she stretches subtly, your eyes immediately finding her rising chest as she takes a heavy breath before moving back in her usual position. Her grip on the leash is firm, but relaxed- like she owns you.

She does, and both of you know it.

Still, the thought makes your heart pitter-patter a little faster and has her chuckle lowly to herself, hearing it beat so fast.

You move a little closer to her, sat obediently in her lap and straddling one of her strong, thick thighs, your own trembling from earlier teasing. Your arms are around her neck and shoulders, head nuzzled beneath her chin like a sleepy pet. Ah, but your body tells. Your heart beats faster and your eyes flutter every time her gloved fingers idly skim over your thigh...or dip even lower.

A cruel, teasing game Bela loves to indulge in.

She insists, usually by the time her fingers are deep inside of you and you're stuffed to the brim, you're just too cute to pass up and resist.

You feel your pussy ache at the thought and immediately move a little closer to her, your hard nipples brushing against her dress.

"Good girl", she hums, her voice a purr in your ear. She looks down at you, her golden eyes meeting your wide ones and easily recognizing the need and want pooling within them. You make a small noise when she lifts your chin with her index and middle finger, and again your heart beats a little faster seeing her smirk down at you.

"So quiet now, pet. That little mouth of yours is finally behaving, hmm? Did you just need some of Mommy's help to be good?", she teases, setting down her pen at last to give you her full attention.

You whimper softly at her praise, your hips twitching involuntarily as she slides her palm closer and cups under your jaw, tilting your face up more. Your cheeks burn and clit aches when she coos, spotting the drool sticking to your lips, undoubtedly caused by the large gag she had put in you.

Her golden eyes scan over you and you feel as though pinned in place. Many at the castle might grant Cassandra Dimitrescu the rank of the fearsome huntress and predator. Others might be foolish enough to believe Bela to be tame, almost, due to her put-together nature. You know better. With her eyes piercing you- sharp and hungry, but calm, like a lioness with her clawed paw gently on her prey's throat, you feel just like that. Prey.

Her little bunny.

Your core throbs at the thought and your hips jerk up again, desperately looking for friction against her thigh.

She only laughs softly, as though pitying you. You know better. You know she loves seeing you like this, loves to strip from you until you act like nothing but what you are- her pet, her property, cute and helpless, needy and entirely pliant, submissive and reliant on her.

Hers, in every way.

"My sweet little bunny...", she coos, stroking along your jaw before playfully tapping the gag stretching your mouth open and muffling nearly all of your sounds. "That's right. You are right where you belong, little one", she hums, leaning in as though to kiss you, but when you lean up, desperate, she only pulls away and giggles, tapping the gag again as though to remind you of it.

You feel her gloved fingers trail down, down your spine, enough to make you shiver and lean closer to her. You make a little sound when she moves her hand back to your front and cups your breast, her fingers sliding across your perky, hard nipple. You feel her shift beneath you, her thigh flexing, and the subtle pressure between your legs is enough for you to moan into the gag and lean against her throat, whining pitifully to make up for your inability to beg verbally. Bela chuckles, low, but warm, and you whine again as she squeezes your breast, never quite giving you enough, but always enough to keep your body on the edge and your mind in a hazy, needy state she finds so very adoring.

"Hush now", the whispers, trailing her other hand through your hair before you feel her gently tug on one of the white bunny ears sat on top of your head. She fixes them back into place for you, and you feel a hot, fierce blush spread across your cheeks when her other hand dips lower and she forces the tail plug back deep in you, as though readjusting this, too. You moan hotly against the gag again, your face bright pink and hot as you try to hide it in her neck, greedily inhaling her rich scent as you do so.

But again, she only chuckles, grabbing your hips and tugging you closer to her. You're sure, there's already a wet stain on her from where you were sat before, your drooling pussy smearing against her as you're yanked closer.

You can feel the bulge of the strap sitting snug around her hips press up against you now, taunting, patient, a cruel tease right between your legs, large and intimidating against your tight pussy. She hasn't filled you with something large in a while, insisting her little one will be stretched and stuffed again soon enough. You moan in anticipation, feeling the large bulge against you.

But she doesn't move to take you yet, and you whine instead as she picks up the pen again to finish her report.

She works silently, humming as she feels you palm the bulge in her dress hungrily. You know better than to take, know better than to attempt to regain control, and have no desire to. Ah, but you squirm and whine, grope at the bulge and roll your hips, squeaking quietly into the gag whenever you manage to drag yourself against it enough for a little bit of pleasure, only to feel her yank the white leash and make you settle again, your cheeks pink and hot, your thighs warm and trembling around hers.

Occasionally, she shushes you by tugging the leash again or delivering a harsh, firm slap to your exposed ass when you get too loud for her to concentrate, swiftly prompting you to be quieter and nuzzle back close to her, as though a disobedient pet asking for forgiveness. With a kiss to your forehead and a tap to your nose and the gag, forgiveness usually comes, and you're left holding yourself close to her again.

You watch as her pen scratches against the paper, your body warm on top of her. Your pussy feels tauntingly empty, drooling and soaked, whereas your ass feels overly full from the tail plug she has you wear nearly 24/7, taking it only out when it's time to clean you up or you need to use the bathroom, and only allowing you to take it out when it's her doing it.

You whine, feeling yourself tighten around it again, the weight and fullness it brings by now a familiar one.

Feeling her free hand explore again, your eyes slip shut and your legs spread a little, feeling strong, but tender fingers tease, toy, and test you. Every brush of leather, every hum of approval, every little strain of the leash has your little bunny heart flutter for her.

And she knows.

Ah, of course she knows.

And before you know it, she at last sets the pen down again and moves the paper, seemingly done with her work, or at least taking a break from it for the time being, knowing her. She gives the leash a gentle tug, forcing you to look up at her, and smiles when her face has your heart beat faster and hips thrust against her thigh briefly.

"My precious little bunny...", she coos, voice low and smooth as silk. You watch with wide, eager eyes as her hand slides down to your inner thigh with precise, unhurried grace. You moan into the gag as she leans in, her thick lips pressing against your hot cheek. "You're been sitting here so patiently for Mommy while she worked. But I suppose...", she whispers, moving her hand closer between your spread legs. She growls lowly at the warmth she feels even through her glove, before she adds; "...you have waited long enough, pet"

You moan and whine softly as her fingertips brush just beneath the curve of your pussy, heat blooming between your legs. You lift your hips a little, hoping to help her, and hold onto her a little tighter as you feel her gloved index fingertip tap against your pearly clit, soaked and smeared with your own wetness from your humping of her thigh over the past half an hour.

"You're so wet, little bunny", she coos, smiling knowingly. "Do you like sitting on Mommy's lap this much?", she coos, a note of mock sympathy in her tone as she rubs your clit slowly, her finger circling it and making you squirm effortlessly. "Needy little thing, aren't you?", she teases, holding you in place by your leash with her other hand when you begin squirming a little too much for her liking. Still, she's gentle. "Good little thing. So good for me", she praises.

When certain you're well behaved enough to stay still without the help of the leash, she rewards you by moving her other hand up your body with deliberate elegance, her palm sliding over your stomach and back up to your chest. You gasp into the white gag as her fingers graze your breast, then circle your nipple in the same slow, practiced motions as the finger circling your sensitive clit. The contrast of leather and warmth has you arch into her, helpless under her touch, needy for more.

"Be still, pet", Bela commands, her voice suddenly firmer, just enough to make you freeze and whimper. You spread your legs as much as your positions allows it and arch into her, but stay still otherwise, much to her satisfaction.

"That's it, good girl. Let Mommy enjoy you properly, little one", she coos, leaning in and allowing her lips to brush the shell of your ear as her gloved hand cups your breast, her thumb rolling lazily over your sensitive nipple.

You feel her kiss her way to your throat, feel her hot breath on you and the marks still lingering on your skin. She always marks you, always makes you wear her claim. You're hers, and between having to share nearly all she owns with her younger sisters, you are the exception. You are hers, and hers alone, untouched by others, not even her sisters, leashed to her and kept in the large, admittedly rather luxurious cage in her room when she's too busy to bring you with her.

You're brought back to the present with a gasp as her finger slides into your warm, wet heat, a single one enough for you to moan and roll your hips, so utterly used to how tight your pussy has gotten again recently. It has your heart beat with anticipation and a healthy amount of respect for the strap sat between her legs, knowing the painful stretch it will cause, and knowing the sadistic, hungry smile the blonde will sport.

Again, you can't help but think playfully to yourself: only you get this view of her. Again, you think; most would not think Bela as sadistic as her sisters. But the glint in her eyes when she spanks you and stretches you out is telling, even as she coos and dries your tears, even as she kisses and holds you, you know her core throbs. She always holds you, but rarely stops her thrusts when you squeal in pain, only ever getting used to her large strap filling you up after a few more thrusts.

You moan at your own filthy thoughts, pushing against her hungrily.

Mommy knows best, you think, and spread your legs wider for her still.

You feel her curl her finger within you, feel her prod at your insides. Not to bring you pleasure, no, she isn't fucking you. She prods, she inspects. She wants to see just how tight you are for her, wants to feel how big of a stretch your pussy will endure from the strap. The answer seems to please her, for she slides her finger back out and rewards you by circling your clit again, almost hypersensitive after having been the main way she has allowed you to get off lately.

She leans in, her lips brushing against your throat, her tone velvet and steel at the same time; "My good little bunny...every inch of you is mine. This soft chest...", you moan, feeling her tug your nipple, "...these shaking little thighs and that warm, wet pussy. Even that sweet, twitching bunny tail... I see everything. I feel everything, and I own everything".

You tremble by now, your clit pulsing and aching at her words, instantly bringing you closer to your orgasm. Your eyes flutter shut and you once again attempt to whine or plead, but the gag successfully muffles it all, allowing only cute, pathetic little noises to come through. Removing her hands and gripping your hips instead she grinds you down on her thigh as she grabs onto the bunny tail to make you move with her. You whine as she almost drags it out of you, quickly chasing her with your hips in favor of keeping it in. You think, after weeks of training to get you utterly used to it, you couldn't stand the emptiness that you feel whenever she removes it from you.

Bela chuckles lowly, at this.

Beautiful.

Sweet.

Submissive.

Adorably hers.

"You make such good little sounds, little one", she purrs, making you grind against her thigh a little harder, your sensitive clit pink and hot and slick against her. "But you know, good bunnies don't talk", she coos. You feel lightheaded, your entire body on fire and mind a needy haze. You're sure that in no time you'll have forgotten how to talk entirely, made only to be hers. Briefly, you wonder whether this could be her goal, before another thrust of your hips has the thought slip from you again.

It doesn't matter, not really.

All that matters is being hers.

At last, you feel her teeth sink into your skin. Already your eyes tear up and you moan and cry out into the gag, feeling the sharp, dagger- and fang-like teeth push inside and draw blood from you. She drinks hungrily, toying with your breast and helping you thrust your hips against her thigh effortlessly. You're sure you remember her saying you taste even sweeter when right on the edge, or right after.

Her fingers move in rhythm now, one hand kneading your breast while the other grinds you back and forth by your tail, coaxing you toward the edge with the same elegant strength she carries in everything she does. Your clit is warm and your thighs shake. You feel your ass tighten around the plug each time she pushes forward with it, then whine and chase after her every time she tugs it back, until you barely even notice that you're humping her faster and faster, desperately trying to cum. You don't notice the pain at your throat anymore, don't notice the blood dripping to your white collar. She would never hurt you.

"Show Mommy how bad you want it, little one", she breathes out against your skin, voice silken and commanding. "Show Mommy what her little bunny needs"

You understand instantly, your hands blindly moving down to the bulge in her dress again. You whine against the gag, make little noises that just barely come through.

She moves, and you squeal as she suddenly lifts you onto her desk, her eyes holding a familiar, predatory gleam...

[hmhas-00]

Ch. 39

Hit Me Hard & Soft

A/N- Sorry I didn’t post Tuesday, guys! I’ve been struggling but I finally got some more in the drafts for y’all! 🤍 I hope you enjoy!

Billie’s POV

The shower ran and sweet melodies snuck in from under the bathroom door as Remy washed off for the night.

As she serenaded the next door guests, I talked Finneas’ ear off on the phone.

I told him all about today and the bee sting from earlier. Especially about the bee sting. I told him about the moment right before the sting. How Remy’s demeanor changed when I asked her what her next move was.

“Maybe she doesn’t want it to end, just as much as you do. Maybe she doesn’t want a next move. Maybe she’s trying really hard to live in the moment. Which is something you should try, actually.”

“Maybe. Or maybe she doesn’t want me to know she’s leaving soon.” I swallow hard, the thought of her leaving me making the hairs on my skin stand up.

“Woah. Why would—“

I interrupt, “Maybe she already has a job, and she starts in a couple weeks. Maybe she doesn’t want to ruin right now.”

“Okay, Remy isn’t known to hide things from you. That sounds more like someone else I know!” His voice is sarcastic in nature, making my eyes roll into my skull.

“You see my point though, right?” I sigh.

“I see that you’re really anxious about it…”

“Yeah.” I purse my lips, licking them from the inside.

“Okay, let’s say she does go home next week. What do you think is going to happen? What are you worried about?” His voice is calm and introspective, soothing my goosebumps.

“That maybe she’ll work for someone just like her last boss. That she’ll lose sight of what’s important again and never make time for herself.”

“That she won’t make time for herself, or for you?”

“Both, I guess?” I shift in the bed, throwing one leg over the covers, keeping the other underneath.

“Okay. That’s fair.” He clears his throat, “Have you guys talked about that?”

“Sort of. Right after we made up. She said it would never be like that again. I don’t know if I believe that, Finneas.”

“Do you trust her?”

“With my life.” I say, naively. I know I trust her, but last time I said that, she proved me wrong.

“Then you have to give her a chance to show you it’ll be different this time.” He says, all knowing and proud of it.

“Or, you could just let me, like, sit here and complain.” I let out a soft laugh, knowing he’s smiling because he knows he’s right.

“That too.” He laughs, but then for a second there is a pause for silence. I wait for him to break it.

“Billie, you’re right for being worried. It already happened once. But if you wanna stay in it, you have to move on. It feels like you don’t want to move on.”

“I want to… Be in a different reality than this one.”

“I like this reality.” He says. “In another reality maybe we aren’t the same people.”

“That’s the point.” I say.

“Maybe we don’t have the same people around us either.”

I stay quiet. I realize the shower hasn’t been running for a while now, and her singing has stopped. I made a mental note to keep my voice down and change the subject when I need to.

“That’s true.” I sigh. “I just mean, I wish we wanted the same things, that’s all.”

“Do you even know that she doesn’t?”

“Not even a chance that she does, dude.” I roll my eyes.

“I guess we’ll never know, Billiard.” He says, softly laughing into the phone. I know he thinks everything would be so much better if I confessed, but to be honest, if she told me to my face she didn’t feel the same, I don’t think I’d be brave enough to face her again.

She’s so kind and so sweet that she’d feel bad, and try to convince me nothing has to change. She’d act like it never happened. But, in the back of my mind, I’d always know that deep down she feels awkward. Gross even. Romanticized and objectified, being looked at with lustful eyes. I’d kill anyone looking at her with the same eyes.

As if on purpose, the bathroom door opens, and in walks Remy. She comes out wrapped in a towel, wet, wavy hair bouncing, and no socks, just her white painted toenails.

“I guess so.” I shift in bed, clearing my throat, and changing the subject. “I miss you, Fin.”

“I miss you too, I miss touring with you guys.”

“Well, I’ll catch you another time. Thanks for talking to me.”

“Anytime brother!” Finneas says, goodbyes and all. I leave my phone on the nightstand, plugging it in for the night.

“Was that Finneas?” She looks through her luggage for fresh pajamas, which usually consisted of a thin tank top and a pair of soffe shorts.

“Yeah, he says hi.” I grab the remote and turn the tv on, flipping through channels.

She sheds the towel off, putting underwear on first, then taking her time to spread lotion all over her body. I want to divert my eyes, but I can’t help but notice her healing, red, sunburnt back, or the way her tattoos glisten in shea butter.

I tried to focus on finding something to watch, but nothing seems more interesting than what’s right in front of me.

“Can you get my back again with this stuff?” She asks, walking over to me with the bottle of aloe, not bothering to cover up.

“Sure.” I sit up, taking my rings off so I don’t scratch her. I grab the bottle from her and squirt a generous amount on my hand. She sits on the edge of the bed next to me and I begin to spread it all over her shoulders.

“Is it peeling yet?” She asks, sitting patiently as I cover her back in the cooling gel.

“Nope. I think it’ll turn into a nice tan in a few days.” I say as I work my way down her spine. I work my way around as gentle as I can, so I don’t inflame her burns.

She grabs the room service menu off my nightstand and reads through it. “I need a snack.”

“What are you feeling?” I put another dollop of aloe on my hands and make sure to get her sides. She shivers and bumps form on her skin, as she gives into the icy sensation.

“Hmm… Perhaps some fries with a side of salad?”

She lifts both arms slightly, like a winged angel, while I briefly coat the sides of her breasts with gel. I try not to think about the fact that I’m tracing her figure with my hands, the way my eyes liked to do. I quickly move on to her lower back, noticing the dimples peeking out from her underwear.

“That sounds good. Maybe some of those veggie spring rolls? They were pretty good.” I suggest, dissimulating my lack of interest in food at the moment. How could I think about eating anything else?

“Ooh! Yes.” She picks up the phone, untangling the cord as she pulled it to her cheek, dialing the room service number. She orders as I struggle to finish the task at hand.

Suddenly, I notice a dainty bird on the right side of her lower back, partly hidden by the fabric of her underwear. This was a new one. I’d never seen this tattoo. Without thought, I pull the fabric down a bit, seeing it was not one, but two birds, flying towards each other. I don’t know how I missed it. I’ve always been so observant when it comes to her, but she has so many tattoos that I guess I overlooked it.

She hangs up the phone after completing her order and looks over her shoulder. “You like it? It’s us.” She says, casually.

We’ve had matching tattoos for a while already. It shouldn’t be shocking. I think what shocked me the most is that she got a tattoo for me, without me knowing. All on her own, she permanently inked her body with a symbol of me.

“It’s so pretty!” I struggle to keep the drool in my mouth, as I gush over the sentiment.

She stands up, showcasing it properly, looking over her shoulder at my reaction. “It’s for Birds of a Feather. When I hear the song it makes me think of you. Of us.” She smiles.

My heart grows three sizes when those words come out of her mouth. I don’t think she understands what that means to me. I don’t think she understands what it does to me.

“When did you get that?” I gaze intently, grazing my finger over it.

“Right around Christmas.” She says, her voice trailing off. “I wasn’t sure I’d ever get to show you… So I guess my mind just kinda forgot.”

“That’s so sweet, Rem. It’s so cool.” I failed to say the words I actually wanted to say.

She walks over to grab her shirt, pulling it over her head, standing at the foot of the bed.

“I was kinda nervous you’d think it’s dumb. At that time I just missed you. I thought about you every day…”

My eyes began to water as I sat at the edge of the bed, my palms still coated in aloe vera. I know her words will sit with me, on a never ending spin cycle in my head. Although, I know she’ll never feel the way I’m taking it.

“I just wanted my person back. And, every time I heard Birds of a Feather on the radio, wherever I went, it felt like you were still there talking to me, you know? Like, you didn’t hate me.”

I shake my head, crawling on the bed towards her. “I never hated you. Okay? I’ve never in my life hated you, Rem. I could never.” My tone serious, my hands emphasizing my words as they spill.

She nods, keeping silent.

I sit at the edge, pulling her into my arms. I hold her tight, knowing I wrote that song specifically for her, knowing she has no idea, knowing it’s about us.

All of the pain and agony that comes with loving someone. The push and pull, the suffering that it is to love, to adore, to long for. The suffering that is wanting her so badly, and not being able to have her. I’d spent so many summers yearning for her, obsessing and torturing myself over her, being tossed around at times, and never stopped wanting more.

“I wish I never tore us apart.” She says.

“I tore us apart, Remy, not you.”

My face is buried in her stomach, and her body stands still between my legs. Her arms wrapped around my neck so softly, I can barely feel them. All I feel is her finger twirling my hair around it.

I open my mouth to confess. To tell her everything in heart and let her into my soul. For once, my lips don’t feel like stopping me, and my brain doesn’t scare me enough to change my mind.

“Remy, I love you.” I say, wholeheartedly, meaning it in every sense of the word.

She said she thought about me every day. She called me her person…

“I love you too, Billie.” She says, matter-of-factly, perhaps not understanding what I mean.

I lift up my head to look up at her, “Like, I—“

Remy jumps a bit at the sudden sound of knocking on our door. She quickly turns to the vanity, grabbing her shorts and pulling them on.

“Room service!” A man announces from outside our room.

She laughs, grabbing her hair brush and running it through her loose, damp, waves.

I stand up and open the door, taking the service cart from him with our food under covered plates. I thank the hotel worker, giving him some cash as tip, then shutting the door.

“Our food is here.” I say, realizing what I almost did.

I almost ruined everything. Our friendship, our dynamic, our time together, everything.

I have her in my life now. I rather keep her, the amount of her that I have, than risk losing her all together. It’s not worth it. How could I be so stupid? My mind starts spiraling and I feel myself beginning to stonewall.

“What were you saying?” She walks over and lifts the covers off our plates, grabbing a french fry and taking a bite.

I somehow manage not to stutter, immediately making an excuse, “That I’m really glad we’re friends again. I’m glad we’re here together.” I smile, grabbing a spring roll.

She pauses for a few seconds, but then grabs one too and holds it up to mine. “Cheers to that.”

I’m in the clear. For now.

[foreverisntenough]

An Update — Heavy-Hearted, Still Writing

There’s a lot I could say right now. A lot of emotions I haven’t quite sorted through yet. There's too many. The recent news, Trent’s departure from my club, no longer his, has hit me in a way I wasn’t ready for. Nothing could've prepared me for the actual announcement. It’s left me feeling untethered, detached, disappointed. Maybe not hateful, but angry and even more so deeply hurt, in ways I’m still unpacking because I didn’t expect it to feel like grief.

Right now, I don’t feel ready to share everything I’m feeling. Maybe in time, if people want to hear my thoughts on it all. I've written countless drafts spilling emotional rants; the anger, the hurt, the heartbreak, the disappointment, irrational and rational, and everything in between. But right now it’s too fresh. Too heavy. This has fractured something I never realised was so fragile.

So for the moment, if you're here, I want to talk about 'Aperture' because ultimately Forever Isn't Enough has been a place of fiction. I know I've written messages like this in the past but nothing has felt quite like this before.

I always said this story would be my swan song. I knew that this moment was coming. It was always imminent. And in a way I feel like the person I created this story about disappeared a long time before this announcement even arrived. So Aperture was never just another fic, it was my goodbye. Not to him exactly, but to this romanticized version I’d held onto. A character I created, shaped, and wrote love into. A feeling, a world I built around something that once meant a lot to me especially when I knew the ending was so near.

I’m not sure what to do now. I know engagement already has faded, will likely diminish even more so now and I completely understand why. A part of me wants to delete this whole blog, that's how wounded I feel. But equally, a part of me still wants to finish this one last thing. For myself who's worked tirelessly on this fic and for anyone that has been reading it.

If you’ve followed along, I’d genuinely love to hear your thoughts. Please not on his decision, but on where I go from here with this story.

Thanks for being here. Even now.

Fie ❤️‍🩹

[toasttt11]

colorado

April 8, 2024

Allison walked through the hotel hallways in Colorado looking for the room number, she found the door and knocked softly.

It took a few minutes before the door opened and Jack was standing his bad arm rested on his stomach and he froze in shock looking at Allison in surprise, “What are you doing here?” Jack quickly sputtered out in surprise.

“You’re here silly.” Allison teased with a soft grin as she stepped into the room closing the door behind her as she let go of her suitcase handle right as Jack pulled her into a one armed hug.

“You came all the way here for me?” Jack asked softly against her hair.

“Duh.” Allison mumbled back, “I’ll have to leave tomorrow night but i’ll be here for the whole surgery.” Allison told him as she had to head to Minnesota for the Frozen four.

“Thank you.”

Ellen walked out of the bathroom and smiled seeing her daughter and walked over hugging Allison. Ellen and Allison had planned for Allison to come and to surprise Jack.

“Now what do you want for your last meal.” Allison grinned mischievously at her brother as she pushed her large suitcase and duffle bag onto the other bed.

“Steak.” Jack quickly decided making Allison shake her head and sigh.

“Why did i even ask.” Allison muttered making Ellen laugh, she will never understand what is the thing with hockey boys and their steak but it’s always gonna be weird to her.

Jack just gave her a one arm shrug as she grabbed her purse and the three of them walked out of the hotel room.

Ellen was content to just listen to her two kids talk to each other mostly it was about hockey with Allison’s upcoming Frozen four, which could also gonna be the last time Allison plays for BC depending on what she does next season after the draft.

Ellen smiled fondly as Jack and Allison yapped, she always loves seeing her kids relationships but especially their relationships one on one with each other too.

“Are you gonna be the first Hughes to win a Hobey Baker?” Jack teased her knowing they would find out in a couple days. Jack knew Allison was the best choice from the other two and he doesn’t see her not winning.

Allison fondly rolled her eyes at his teasing as she took a bite of her side salad.

Allison got Jack’s mind off the surgery for the rest of the night.

April 9, 2024

Allison stood in the bathroom next to Jack after he took a really early shower and now she was helping his take off all his bracelets.

Allison grabbed Jack’s hand seeing his hang shaking a bit, “It’s gonna be okay, your surgery will go great, your recovery will be great and you’ll be all good to go for next season.” Allison said firmly but gently at the same time looking at her brother seriously. She knew why he was nervous about the surgery besides the obvious that’s it’s a surgery.

Jack let out a heavy breath and slowly nodded at her words, he gently squeezed her hand back. He was so glad he got her here today and that one of his siblings were able to be here.

“Now let’s go before Mom gets mad.” Allison teased as Jack took a longer shower and they are running behind a little late to their Mom’s standards but they aren’t even late.

Jack managed a weak smile as she squeezed his hand once more before dropping his hand as they walked out of the bathroom seeing Ellen waiting for them.

Allison grabbed her bags as they walked out of their hotel room as she was heading straight to the airport from the hospital.

Allison put her bags in rental car and got into the backseat as Ellen drove them to the hospital.

Jack gave Allison a soft pleading look and Allison understood and started telling Jack about a story from practice the other day.

Allison fully kept Jack’s mind off his surgery as they drove to the hospital.

Allison didn’t even squirm away or grumble as Jack immediately latched onto her hand as they sat down together in the surgery center lobby room and waited for Jack to get called back to his room.

Jack sighed standing up with Allison and Ellen as his name was called and they walked back to his room.

Jack got into a gown and got an IV and would be heading back to surgery soon.

The nurse came in and let them know it was time for Jack to come back.

Ellen leaned down and hugged Jack softly and kissing his forehead saying a few words to her son.

“You’ll be fine.” Allison said certainly knowing it is what Jack needs to hear as she bent down and softly hugged her over brother.

“Thanks Bud.” Jack mumbled softly thankful for more than just her words but for her coming and completely talking his mind off worrying about the surgery and for being such a great sister.

Allison hummed in response and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek beside she stood all the way back up and backed up letting the nurse start to push Jack’s bed of the room.

Allison could tell her Mom was worried for Jack as they waited for him to he finished with his surgery so she grabbed the tiny stools and put it in front of where her Mom was sitting and held out two hair ties and Ellen knew what Allison was doing.

Ellen smiled slightly and started brushing her fingers through Allison’s hair parting her hair into two and Ellen started braiding Allison’s hair into two french braids.

Ellen tied the braid off and softly patted Allison’s shoulder making her stand up and sit back down next to Ellen.

Jack came out a few minutes later still completely asleep and the surgery went great with no complications.

Ellen updated the boys after Jack’s surgery as Jack was still dead asleep.

It took Jack a while to start waking up but was very drowsy and definitely a bit out of it.

Allison stayed sitting by Jack’s bedside until she had to eventually leave.

Ellen had gotten Allison’s bags out of the car abs she called a uber for Allison when it was time for Allison to leave.

“See you soon.” Allison mumbled softly to her brother reaching down and hugging him very gently, Jack was still half asleep and just mumbled something unknown back.

Allison just smiled a bit amused as she stood back up and she hugged her Mom before grabbing her bags and walking out of the room.

She shifted feeling a small pinch on the right side of her stomach but brushed it off as she walked out of the hospital.