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writesvani · 3 days ago

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down low | 02

boxer! jungkook x collegestudent! reader

SUMMARY: There's no love, there are no fights with Jungkook—just a twisted addiction that keeps you crawling back. You tell yourselves it’s not toxic. After all, you never argue, never get jealous. Just fuck, lie, and slip back into the arms of the people who will never know.

It’s not love.

But it sure as hell isn’t nothing.

friends with benefits au, situationship au

TRIGGER WARNINGS: cheating, drug use (weed), smoking, explicit sexual content, emotionally toxic relationship, manipulation, infidelity (jk and y/n are cheating on their partners with each other), unhealthy coping mechanisms, morally gray behavior, emotional detachment

comment here for the Down Low taglist;

SERIES M. LIST;

— previous chapter // next chapter (pending...)

wc: 4k // date: 25th of April 2025

CHAPTER TWO — Inhaling You, Exhaling Guilt; happy reading my gummies...

AN: hey besties. new “down low” chapter is here and it’s unwell, just like me. this was supposed to be a 15k word monster but i said absolutely not and chopped it into 3 parts—so yeah, this ends on a cliffhanger. no sex yet. i’m sorry. (i’m not.)

BUT the tension? the dynamic? it’s sizzling. they’re one touch away from absolute disaster and i love that for them.

left some easter eggs in there too, so if you catch ‘em, scream at me in the comments or my asks. i’m lurking.

note goal is 600 bc you’re all feral and i believe in peer pressure. hit it and you’ll get part 2 real fast.

read. suffer. tell me your thoughts. love u forever, even while emotionally tormenting you.

The shift is... just another day. The usual crowd of regulars is here, sipping their espressos and making small talk that you would rather skip entirely. The day has been routine too—classes, a quick lunch with Taehyung, then straight into work. It’s all repetitive. It’s boring. And the worst part? You’re counting down the minutes until you can sprint to Jungkook’s apartment the second your shift ends at 10pm. You hate it. You crave it. And Jungkook’s not making it any easier.

Because right now, you're standing there, phone in your clammy hands, staring at a picture he just had to send you. Jungkook, in the middle of his boxing practice, hair messy, tattoos peeking out from his oversized black shirt, a cigarette hanging from his lips like he owns the damn world. He’s standing outside—because Namjoon doesn’t let him smoke inside (honestly, who’s the athlete here?)—but Jungkook looks so fucking good you almost forget where you are.

He knows it too. He knows exactly what he’s doing. That picture isn’t just a tease; it’s a reminder. A reminder that you should be thinking about being in his bed, not focusing on perfecting lattes. But here you are, trying to breathe through the urge to drop everything and run to him.

You can’t focus anymore. Your brain is mush, your hands are clumsy, and the espresso machine might as well be a spaceship for how little you're processing. You accidentally make an espresso instead of a double one for Mark—the sweet old man who comes in daily and tips in coins like it’s 1993. He stares at you like you just insulted his entire bloodline. You apologize, mutter something about being tired, and shuffle back to your station.

But your hands are twitchy. Your eyes dart to your phone every two seconds. Still nothing. Jungkook hasn’t sent anything else—no texts, no pics, no emojis. Just that one, cursed, sinfully sexy picture of him looking like every wrong decision you’ve ever made and wanted to make again.

And now? Now you’re stuck. One hour left of your shift and your brain is spiraling. You’re mentally unwell. Not in a tragic, poetic way. In a feral, "why isn't he texting me back when I clearly need to ride his face into next week" kind of way. You're restless. Desperate. Left alone with your thoughts and an absolutely unhinged amount of need clawing its way through your body like a caffeine-craving demon.

Only your message stares back at you, mocking, lingering, and gnawing at the edges of your sanity. It’s there, like a cruel joke, one that you can’t stop laughing at even though it’s slowly driving you insane.

you: stop teasing me kook

And then, nothing. Not a single reply. Left on read. Just like always.

Jungkook has this game down to a science, doesn't he? The art of push and pull—never fails to leave you dangling on the edge of your patience, teetering on the line between wanting to strangle him and wanting him to do the same to you. You’re on the verge of losing it, fingertips hovering over your phone, waiting for the next message that might never come. He knows exactly what he’s doing. It’s like a power play, a twisted form of control that drives you crazy in ways you can’t even put into words.

Every time you’re about to meet up with him, just when you think you’re close, he disappears. Doesn’t answer. Doesn’t care. Leaves you with nothing but your own burning desire and a game you never agreed to play. It makes you want to scream.

And it makes you want him more.

But despite the shrill, maddening thrill of his little game, there's one thing you're sure of—Jungkook wants it. Wants you. And that’s what makes him predictable. Comfortably so. It’s the only thread of stability in this whole mess. Because no matter how long he leaves you on read, no matter how quiet he goes, as soon as the clock strikes 10PM and your shift ends, like clockwork, your phone pings.

JK: when will u be here?

You smirk, your fingers moving fast.

you: 20 minutes

He waits. Not long. Just enough to keep the suspense alive. Just enough to remind you that he’s still in control.

JK: kk, see u baby

And that’s all it takes. You're spiraling again—but this time, you're sprinting into it willingly.

Jungkook smirks as he opens the door, like he’s been waiting his whole life just to make you roll your eyes. He leans against the frame with that infuriating ease, one hand—the tattooed one—tucked into the pocket of his grey sweats. His hair’s still damp, messy in that way that makes you suspicious he’s doing it on purpose. He smells like wood, citrus, and a hundred bad decisions. His black oversized shirt hangs just right on his frame, clinging to his shoulders, draping like it has no idea it's breaking rules just by existing.

And fuck him. Fuck him for looking that good.

“You’re late,” he drawls, head tilted, eyes dragging down your body like he has all the time in the world.

You raise a brow. “Didn’t you say I should be here until 11pm? It’s only like, half past ten.”

He shrugs, lips curling. “I did say that. But you always come earlier. I know you wanna see me as soon as you can.”

You scoff, pushing past him. “Jesus, Jungkook. Knock it off and let me in.”

He laughs behind you. Slow. Knowing. Dangerous.

You flop down onto his sofa like it’s your own personal throne. There are new pink pillows you don’t recognize. With a lazy smile, you say, “Cute pillows.”

“Thanks, baby. Eunji got them from IKEA the other day.”

You nod, lips curling. “Noted. I should tell Tae—these would totally match his softboy vibes.”

Jungkook drops down beside you, digging into his pocket like he’s searching for treasure. You already know what’s coming. Sure enough, a small greenish bud peeks out from a crumpled tissue.

“Didn’t know we were smoking tonight,” you murmur, eyeing him.

He shrugs, effortlessly picking the bud apart with skilled fingers. The way he moves is distracting. Methodical. Confident. Hot.

You shift in your seat, trying to ignore the tightening in your core.

“When are we not smoking?” he says with a smirk, not looking up.

“True,” you mumble, sinking back into the soft fluff of Eunji’s precious IKEA pillows. Silly girl. She has no idea the kind of things they’re about to witness.

You glance up—and Jungkook is watching you. Of course he is. Eyes hooded, a smirk ghosting his lips, like he’s waiting. Like he’s daring you to say or do something.

Then, slowly—so slowly—his tongue drags across the rolling paper.

He knows what he’s doing. And he does it anyway. On purpose.

You watch, helpless, skin prickling, heat curling low in your stomach. It’s obscene the way he licks it—like it’s not even about the joint anymore, like it’s about you. About this.

And the worst part? You’re not strong enough to look away.

You’ve never been strong when it comes to Jeon Jungkook.

“What?” Jungkook asks, one brow raised as he brings the freshly rolled joint to his lips like it’s second nature.

“Nothing,” you mutter, eyes tracking the flame as it flickers, kissing the end of the joint. He inhales deep, the ember glowing bright red before he exhales slowly, like it’s an artform. Smoke curls out of his mouth in slow, lazy tendrils, and you’re already annoyed at how sexy he looks doing the bare minimum.

He grins — cocky, annoying, knowing — and pats the cushion beside him like he owns the place. Like he owns you. You don’t even hesitate. You shift closer, tucking your legs beneath you, pretending you don’t care that your thigh brushes his.

Jungkook takes another drag, then coughs lightly, voice raspy as he waves off the moment with a half-laugh. “Okay, don’t clown me. This shit’s stronger than I thought.” His eyes squint just slightly, like he’s studying you. “So… uh, how’re your friends? Lena and Bob, right?”

You stare at him flatly. “It’s Lara and Rob. Do you seriously not remember their names after all this time?”

He shrugs like it’s not a big deal, but the smirk playing on his lips tells you he’s doing it on purpose. Just to get a rise out of you. “Close enough. They doing okay?”

You sigh. This is the worst part. The awkward five minutes of half-assed small talk before the inevitable. Before the high kicks in and his hands are on your skin. The two of you always dance around it — pretend like this isn’t transactional, like this isn’t just desire dressed up as casual banter.

“Lara just broke up with her boyfriend,” you say, grabbing the joint from him and taking a slow hit.

Jungkook leans back into the couch, one arm draped along the back of it, watching you. “Oh, the dude who studies Econ?”

You blink at him. “What? No. That was like… two years ago. This one studies Law.”

His mouth drops slightly. “Wait, hold up. Are you telling me we’ve been doing this for two years?”

You don’t say anything at first. Just pass the joint back and exhale a laugh, soft and a little bitter. “Yeah. Way before Taehyung and me.”

He tilts his head. “Shit. I forgot you even dated Kai.”

You chuckle. “Jungkook, we started hooking up way before Kai. Don’t act like you don’t remember.”

He stares at you for a beat, the room quiet except for the faint buzz of the overhead light and the sound of the joint crackling in his hand.

“So,” he says slowly, lips quirking, “what I’m hearing is — you’ve basically cheated on everyone with me.”

There’s something infuriating about how pleased he looks with himself. You raise an eyebrow, snatch the joint from his fingers again and hold it between yours like a crown jewel.

“Wouldn’t you like that,” you say, lips curling into a lazy smile. Smoke drifts out from between your lips. You don’t break eye contact.

His smirk deepens. “I do like it.”

You roll your eyes, but your stomach twists anyway. Because God help you, so do you.

“So, what’s up with you?” you ask, tilting your head as you hold the joint between two fingers, eyes flickering toward his. The smoke rolls from your lips like a sigh, curling into the space between you like a secret.

Jungkook shrugs, leaning back deeper into the couch, his arm brushing yours just barely. “Nothing much. Just chilling. Boxing and all that.”

You hum, eyebrows raising with mild amusement. “Wow. Riveting stuff.”

He shoots you a lazy grin. “You asked.”

“Yeah, and I keep forgetting that you’re emotionally unavailable until at least two joints in.”

He laughs, soft and warm, and it does something to you that you don’t want to look too closely at. You pass the joint back to him and try not to stare at the veins on his hand or the ink decorating his fingers like poetry you were never meant to read.

For someone whose body you know so intimately—every line, every scar, every sound he makes when you kiss the right places—you know next to nothing about his life. And that’s part of the deal. Or maybe the whole deal.

Jungkook takes a drag and blows it out slowly. “What about you?” he asks. “How’s the glamorous life of overworked and underpaid?”

You snort. “The usual. College, work, crying in coffee-scented bathrooms.”

He chuckles again, eyes crinkling, and it hits you how rare it is to see him smile like that when you're not on top of him.

You glance down at your nails, picking at a chipped corner of polish. “Tae and I are going on a small trip next weekend.”

That gets his attention. “Yeah? Where to?”

“Dunno yet. Probably something basic. Mountains or a lake house. Just wanna get out of the city for a bit.”

Jungkook nods slowly, lips parting like he wants to say something more, but he doesn’t. Just lets silence settle between you again.

You don’t push him. You never do.

“This reminds me…” Jungkook says, plucking the joint from your fingers like he owns it—and in moments like these, he kind of does. He leans back, smoke curling around his face like it knows he’s trouble. “Eunji wants me to meet her mom next weekend.”

You scoff, tilting your head. “Damn, dude. How are you gonna survive that?”

He grins around the joint. “Bruh. I’m perfect meet-the-mother material.”

You snort. “Right. Because mothers love tattooed boxers who smell like weed and moral ambiguity.”

“Whatever,” he says, exhaling smoke like it offends him. “You’re such a hater.”

“Not a hater. Just realistic.”

He glances at you, amusement twitching at the corners of his lips. “You think I’m not charming enough?”

You deadpan, “I think you’re more lie-to-your-daughter’s-face material.”

He bursts out laughing, tipping his head back. “Shit, that’s fair.”

You smile, watching him. He’s still hot when he laughs. Annoying, infuriatingly hot.

“But yeah,” he adds, voice dropping a little, “that probably won’t be happening. I’ll have to lie my way out of that one.”

You give him a dry look. “Thank god you’re a good liar.”

He smirks, eyes flickering to yours. “You’d know.”

“God,” you say, eyes fixed on the ceiling, “can you imagine if Eunji actually found out?”

Jungkook exhales a puff of smoke, slow and smug. “She’d kill me. And probably come for you too.”

“She wouldn’t even get the chance. Tae would commit murder first.”

He hums, passing you the joint. “Tae’s scary when he’s mad.”

You take it, inhale deep. “He is indeed. Have you seen his stare? That’s not normal. That’s serial killer energy.”

Jungkook laughs. “Yeah, and yet you still cozy up to him like he’s a weighted blanket.”

“You’re just jealous he takes me on cute brunch dates and actually remembers my birthday.”

“Wow,” he gasps dramatically. “Are you implying I’m not boyfriend material?”

You look him up and down, slow and deliberate. “I’m saying you’re situationship in denial material.”

He bites his lip to hide his grin. “That’s rich coming from you. Miss I’m loyal to my boyfriend except for every time I text you at 2 a.m.”

You groan. “Don’t act like you don’t eat it up.”

“Oh, I do,” he smirks, shifting closer, “especially when you come over all pouty, pretending this isn’t your favorite part of the week.”

You narrow your eyes. “You talk too much.”

“You like it.”

“Unfortunately,” you mutter, flicking ash into the tray.

He leans in, voice soft and cocky, “Bet Tae doesn’t make you squirm with just words.”

You look at him, a smirk tugging at your lips. “Bet Eunji doesn’t know you like being choked a little.”

He raises a brow, but doesn’t deny it. “Touché.”

“And for the record,” you whisper, fingers brushing his thigh, “you’re not boyfriend material. You’re just my favorite craving.”

He grins, low and dangerous. “That’s the sexiest compliment I’ve ever gotten.”

“You know,” Jungkook starts, tapping the ash off the joint, “sometimes I think Eunji likes the idea of me more than she likes me.”

You snort. “Well, you do post thirst traps and quote Nietzsche in your captions. Anyone would fall for the illusion.”

He gasps, mock-offended. “Are you saying I’m a fraud?”

“I’m saying you’re a curated experience.”

“Damn,” he laughs, nudging your thigh with his knee. “And yet here you are, front row, backstage pass, meet and greet.”

You shoot him a look, amused. “I never said I wasn’t a fan.”

He smirks. “You’re more than a fan. You’re the president of the Jungkook is a Bad Idea But God He’s Good in Bed club.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you say, even though your grin is impossible to hide. “I’m vice president, at best.”

“Oh really? Who’s president then?”

You take a long drag, pretending to think. “My vibrator. That one never leaves me on read.”

He laughs so hard he coughs, waving smoke out of his face. “Okay, okay.”

You lean in, eyes gleaming. “Bet Eunji doesn’t make you laugh like this.”

He quiets, a lazy smile tugging at his lips. “She doesn’t make me laugh like this. Or moan like you do.”

You blink, caught off guard. “That was dangerously close to being sweet.”

“Don’t worry,” he teases, eyes dragging down your body, “I’ll say something trashy in two seconds.”

You chuckle. “You always do.”

“Maybe it’s a defense mechanism.”

“Maybe you’re emotionally constipated.”

“Maybe,” he murmurs, watching you, “but you like me better that way, don’t you?”

You don’t answer, but your silence is loud enough. And Jungkook hears every part of it.

He shifts closer. The joint is forgotten now, burning down between his fingers. His eyes drop to your mouth for a second too long, like he’s deciding if it’s worth it. Like kissing you is both a gamble and a given.

“You didn’t answer,” he says, voice lower, teasing, but almost careful.

You tilt your head. “About what?”

“Me being emotionally constipated. You liking me better that way.”

You smirk, but there’s a beat of honesty in your next words. “I don’t like you better that way. I just… like you.”

His gaze flickers—like the words hit somewhere deeper than you meant them to. And for a second, neither of you says anything. The tension isn’t new, but this feels… heavier. Messier.

“You’re dangerous when you say shit like that,” he murmurs.

You smile. “And you’re dangerous when you don’t.”

He drops the joint into the ashtray and leans in like gravity's pulling him toward you. His nose brushes yours. His breath smells like weed and cinnamon gum and something distinctly him.

“Last chance to stop me,” he says, voice so low it vibrates in your chest.

You blink slowly. “Last chance to kiss me before I change my mind.”

He chuckles—just a breath—and then closes the distance. His lips press to yours, soft but certain. There’s no hesitation this time. No teasing. Just warmth and the kind of familiarity that should scare you but doesn’t.

You kiss him back, one hand curling into the front of his shirt, the other finding his jaw. He tilts his head, deepens the kiss, sighs into your mouth like he’s been waiting all day for this exact moment.

And maybe he has.

When you pull back, slightly breathless, his eyes are still on yours. “So…” he whispers, “was that emotionally constipated, or…?”

You grin. “Still very much constipated. But in, like, a hot way.”

He groans. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet,” you say, tugging him back down, “you’re still kissing me.”

And he is. Again and again.

He kisses you again, but this time it’s messier. His hand slips to the back of your neck, pulling you in like he can’t stand the space between you, like it’s a personal offense. Your mouths crash together, lips sliding, breath hitching. It’s not soft anymore—it’s hungry. The kind of kiss that bruises, that says everything neither of you will ever admit out loud.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, still damp, pulling just hard enough to make him groan into your mouth. He kisses like he fights—like he needs to win, like he needs to ruin you a little just to feel okay again. His tongue grazes your bottom lip and you open for him without thinking, without hesitating.

“Fuck,” he mutters into your mouth, “you taste so good.”

You don’t even respond—you’re too busy climbing into his lap, straddling him like it’s muscle memory. His hands find your hips, gripping hard. Like he’s grounding himself. Like he needs the pressure of your body against his or he’ll fall apart completely.

Your lips are swollen already, your breathing ragged, but neither of you stops. Teeth clash a little, tongues fighting, his hand sliding up under your shirt to find skin. It’s clumsy, intense, addictive. You break the kiss just to catch your breath, only to dive back in like you’re starving for him. Like you’ll die if he’s not kissing you.

“Fuck, baby,” Jungkook groans, lips trailing down to your jaw, your throat. “What are we even doing?”

You pant against his skin, fingers clawing at his shirt. “Being so bad.”

He laughs, breathless, mouth still on your neck. “The best kind.”

And then he kisses you again—hard, deep, messy like a confession neither of you dares to say out loud.

He kisses you like he needs it to breathe. Like it’s not just a kiss—it’s survival.

Your mouths crash again, sloppy and desperate. It’s the kind of kiss that makes your teeth bump and your lips burn, the kind that leaves your head spinning. Jungkook’s hand is cradling your jaw now, thumb brushing your cheek as if that could balance out the chaos happening between your mouths. Spoiler: it can’t.

Your hands are roaming—up his chest, into his hair, pulling him closer when he’s already close enough to melt into. He shifts under you, groaning low in his throat when your hips accidentally roll forward. His fingers dig into your thighs like he’s trying not to lose it.

“Fuck,” he hisses, breaking the kiss just long enough to catch your eyes. His pupils are blown wide, lips red and shiny, jaw clenched like he's trying to get a grip. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Good,” you whisper, yanking him back in.

This time, the kiss is slower—but not softer. It’s a drag of tongues, a teasing nip to his bottom lip, a moan you try to swallow when he licks into your mouth just right. Your nails scrape his neck and he shudders, pulling you tighter against him. Your chest presses flush with his and neither of you can tell where one ends and the other begins.

You don’t know how long it goes on. Minutes? Hours? A lifetime? You’re half in his lap, legs tangled, hair a mess, and breath coming in short, needy gasps. And yet he’s still kissing you like he doesn’t care about oxygen. Like nothing else matters.

And maybe right now, in this twisted little moment where everything is all heat and tongue and hands that won’t stop wandering—you believe him.

He kisses you between sentences—like the conversation is an afterthought, like talking about other people while kissing you is normal. Maybe for you two, it is.

"Does Eunji ever kiss you like this?" you mumble against his lips, barely giving him space to breathe.

He lets out a breathless laugh, teeth grazing your bottom lip before he tugs it. "No. She kisses like she's saying goodbye all the time."

You pause at that, then kiss him again—harder. His hands settle on your waist, dragging you closer.

"And Taehyung?" he whispers into your mouth. "He still hold your hand when you sleep?"

"Sometimes," you pant, mouth brushing the corner of his. "Only when he's not too tired."

Jungkook hums against your skin, mouth trailing down to your jaw, then your neck. "Do you miss it?"

You tilt your head, let him kiss down to your collarbone. "No," you whisper honestly, then pull him back up by the chin to kiss him again. It’s messier now. Hungrier. Your lips glide against each other like you’re both trying to erase the names you just said.

"She makes me breakfast, you know," he murmurs between kisses, "Packs fruit in little containers like a mom."

You lick into his mouth, teeth grazing his tongue just slightly. “You ever think about her when we do this?”

“Only when you’re being mean,” he teases, nipping at your lip. “You?”

"Only when I feel guilty," you admit, then kiss him deeper—because guilt can wait.

His hands are tracing foreign paths under your shirt, his mouth never leaving yours, like he’s punishing you for every moment you spend talking about anyone that isn’t him.

"Fuck," he groans, pressing his forehead to yours, lips still brushing yours with every word. “We’re the worst.”

You kiss him again. “I know.”

But neither of you stop.

taglist part 1: @mochi13 @wobblewobble822 @jkvamp @sunnikthv @kimyishin @asyr97 @pjmname @shesscorpio7 @daarla07 @jeontids @bellefaerie @kissyfacekoo @lily-lilacsky @bammbi-jeon127 @httpjeonlicious @belleilichil @minghaosimp @marrtyaa @septemberskies @yok00k @ioanatodorova @rokshi @b2407 @boommoom @kookienooki @avawants2havefun @bhonbhon @taekritimin123 @oraiseok @thenamesathy @superchamchi88 @lenamercedesworld @candygalx @notsevenwithyou @heesuvk @ahgasegotarmy116 @jeonsinsatiablekitten @saki-gojo @piratekingateez2001 @0-0rot @bangatanily @justbelljust @plusultra0 @softhaes @bangtanily @justbelljust @gguk-lvr @gukkie7 @beomluvrr @iamworldwidehandsome

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wcnderlnds · 2 days ago

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knowing me, knowing you ★ choi seung-hyun (t.o.p)

BIGBANG APRIL CHALLENGE - APRIL 25TH

・❥・ summary: a surprise visit to seunghyun goes wrong cutting the time you had together short so you have to make the most of it. ・❥・word count: 2.1k ・❥・warnings: alcohol mentions, swearing, angst. ・❥・authors note: this is part two to this fic because i've been inspired to turn it into a series. enjoy <3

Incheon International Airport was one of the busiest places on the planet. People were rushing all over the place to get to their flight, not caring who they ran into on the way. No mumbled apologies, nothing. Children screaming pierced your eardrums, their parents chasing after them or yelling at them to be quiet. It was enough to give anyone a headache and your head was pounding. You had your hand firmly grasping the handle of your luggage as you pulled it along with you, trying to figure your way out of the airport. Thankfully, some of the signs had English translations so you followed the directions to the revolving doors. The warm breeze of the Seoul afternoon air hit you, a much needed relief from the stuffy, suffocating air inside the airport. You inhaled deeply, filling your lungs with fresh air. It was needed after the flight. With your awful luck, you had been sitting in front of a kid who had kicked the back of your chair the whole flight. Between that and the chaos of navigating the busy airport, it was no wonder you had the worst headache. It would all be worth it to see Seunghyun.

Most people said that holiday romances were fleeting, the romantic atmosphere of being away from everyone you knew in a new place making things seem new, interesting even. You had been one of those people until you had met Seunghyun in Bali. He had changed your whole perspective. The feelings you’d felt for him hadn’t been fleeting – you hadn’t been able to get him off your mind. That final day when you parted in Bali, you had made promises to stay in touch, exchanging information (even addresses so you could send each other things like you’d discussed one night) and promising that it wouldn’t be the end.

And, it wasn’t. You had stayed in touch. There had been many text threads, flirty facetime calls; it had been that way for the last two months. Neither of you had decided to pursue an official relationship with each other; long distance relationships weren’t for either of you so you remained friends. But, there was always that underlying tension, something more always bubbling to the surface. And, yeah, maybe there had been a few phone sex conversations but who could blame you? Seunghyun had not left your thoughts one bit, especially that night on the beach. It was seared into your memory.

That was why you’d decided to surprise him. You had his address and some free time so why not take a little trip to Korea to see your new favourite person? The excitement bubbled in the pit of your stomach as you sat in the taxi that was taking you to the hotel. You were sure he’d be excited to see you, too. First, though, you needed a shower and a change of clothes before you even considered showing up on his doorstep.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Two hours and a freshen up later, you were standing outside his door. Nerves coursed through your veins, your mind screaming at you that this was a bad idea, that you should run away right now. Your heart, though, was telling you to knock on that door and kiss the man who had swept you off your feet two months ago in Bali.

Taking a deep breath, you raised your fist, knocking on his penthouse door. The minutes seemed to stretch before the door was pulled open to reveal… a girl?

Your heart pounded, eyebrows knitting together in confusion. “...hi?”

“What do you want?” The girl asked impatiently, her foot tapping against the hardwood floor.

“Uh… is Seunghyun here?”

“He’s busy.”

“O-okay.”

Just as you were about to turn and leave, you heard that familiar voice that made your heart skip a beat. “Brandi, who’s at the do-”

Seunghyun froze, his eyes widening as he finally came face to face with you after all these weeks. He swallowed hard, words escaping him. The last thing he’d expected today was to see you at his door. It was almost comical how he opened his mouth to talk then instantly shut it, looking like a fish out of water.

“Do you know her?” Brandi nodded in your direction. The disdain in her voice made the little bit of self esteem you had vanish.

“Nevermind,” you mumbled. Now, you did turn away, ignoring Seunghyun’s call of your name. All you wanted to do was get out of there. You’d already made a fool of yourself by showing up on his doorstep only to find he had obviously moved on from you. The mere thought of that made your heart ache, almost stopping you in your tracks. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as the realisation hit you – you hadn’t meant as much to him as he did to you. It really had just been some fling on vacation for him, a little bit of fun to occupy himself. That’s what you thought anyway.

Yeah, you were changing your flight and going back home as soon as you could.

Meanwhile, Seunghyun groaned in frustration, his heart pounding in his chest. He had royally messed up. The heartbroken look on your face was etched into his memory, haunting him. Everytime he closed his eyes he could see it, hating himself for being the one to make you feel like that. Seunghyun cared about you. God, he cared about you so much but he figured he’d never see you again so he’d indulged himself in going on a few dates. That’s how he’d met Brandi. It wasn’t anything serious, just two people having fun. If anything she was a way to distract his mind from you which he knew was wrong but he couldn’t have you. Or so he thought anyway.

“Who even was that?” Brandi huffed, hands on her hips as she glared at Seunghyun.

“Did you have to be so rude to her?” Seunghyun finally pulled his hands away from his face to look at the woman in front of him.

“Whatever,” she rolled her eyes. “Can you give me your card to get that bag you said I could have?”

“No,” he was firm, his eyes blazing with a calm anger. “In fact, I want you to leave.”

It took a meltdown from Brandi before she finally left. Seunghyun leaned back against the door after closing it, pulling his phone from his pocket. He had half expected there to be a text from you but there was nothing. His finger hovered over the call button but he couldn’t bring himself to press it. The selfish part of him didn’t want to hear the hurt in your voice. The thought alone made his heart clench. He was already beating himself up at the fact he’d hurt you. That you had flown all this way and he’d gone and messed it up like he messed everything else up.

So, he left it. Throwing his phone onto the couch, he made his way into the kitchen, pulling open the fridge. His hands went to grab his favourite bottle of TSpot wine but he hesitated. It was the wine you’d drunk that night on the beach, everytime he drank it, he thought of you. No, he didn’t deserve that right now. Instead, he pulled out a basic bottle of white wine from some other brand, pouring himself a drink to quiet his thoughts.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The next day, deciding to make the most of it before you left for home in the morning, you headed out to explore a little of Seoul. You’d found a quaint little coffee shop, treating yourself to one of your favourite lattes. As you pulled the door open to leave, someone stepped inside. Your eyes met familiar brown ones. What were the chances?

“Y/N?” He asked in disbelief. You ignored him and brushed past him to step onto the busy streets of Seoul. Seunghyun had long forgotten about the coffee he was going to get to help ease his hangover, instead jogging to catch up with you. His long fingers gently wrapped around your wrist, turning you to face him. “Please talk to me.”

“What if I don’t want to?” You narrowed your eyes at him. It was hard not to melt when you saw the hurt, puppy dog look in his eyes. His hair was covered by a snapback, the bags under his eyes signalling that he hadn’t slept a bit last night.

“I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I… messed up. I know I did and I hate myself for it. All I can see is that look on your face at my door yesterday and it’s eating me up inside.” Words spilled from his lips in a rushed mess, too scared that you’d run away from him if he didn’t hurry up. This was his chance and he wasn’t going to mess up again.

“Who was she?”

“Brandi… a girl I was seeing. It wasn’t anything serious. She showed her true colours yesterday. She’s gone. I promise, I don’t ever want to see her again.”

You sighed. “You should’ve told me you were seeing someone. I wouldn’t have come all this way to surprise you if I knew.”

“You came to surprise me?” That made him feel even worse. “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you but I was selfish and thought if I told you, you’d want to stop talking to me.”

The silence lingered between you for a few moments before you spoke again, unable to meet his eyes, too scared to see the truth. “Do you still feel it? What we had in Bali?”

“Yes,” his reply was instant. “I never stopped feeling it.”

Finally, you caved and took a step towards him. “Don’t make me regret this.”

Your arms wrapped around him and instantaneously he pulled you against him, holding you tight. His chin rested on the top of your head. It felt like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders knowing you were giving him another chance. Seunghyun would never feel worthy of it but he’d try his best to make sure you didn’t regret it. What he wasn’t prepared for was your next words.

“I leave in the morning. I changed my flight yesterday after, y’know…” You pulled back slightly to gaze up at him.

His hand cupped your cheek, a sad smile on his face. “Then we have to make the most of the time we have.”

Seunghyun definitely did just that. He showed you all his favourite places in Seoul, took you for dinner, even bought you a stupid plushie you couldn’t stop talking about. It was exactly like it was in Bali; full of laughter and easy conversation. You had missed this, you’d missed him. The last stop on his tour was the Hangang Bridge. He’d told you back in Bali that this is where he went to clear his mind especially when he was younger. He used to come with his manager, not wanting to bother his younger bandmates with all his problems. Seunghyun was a lot of things but most importantly he was the kindest, most thoughtful man. Sure, he made stupid decisions but who didn’t.

After a shared kiss in the moonlight on the bridge, you found yourselves tangled in the sheets of your hotel room. Seunghyun pressing kisses along your neck, panting as you both came down from your passionate lovemaking. He rolled off you, pulling you to lay your head on his chest, his arm wrapping around you. “I missed you.”

“Not as much as I missed you,” you said softly as you traced patterns on his chest.

Seunghyun’s fingers trailed up and down your arm, an intimate gesture that made your heart flutter but you both knew there was a conversation to be had. One you were both dreading. The silence was thick, like it was pressing down on you. Just as you were about to speak, he beat you to it, his deep voice sounding the most defeated you’d ever heard it.

“...we still can’t do this. The distance…”

“I know.”

“I want to but it’s just… it wouldn’t work,” his voice was barely above a whisper to hide how he was about to crumble.

“Yeah,” your reply was thick with emotion. “...but at least we have tonight.”

“We have tonight,” he echoed.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Saying goodbye to you at the airport the next day was one of the hardest things Seunghyun had ever had to do knowing that this time he really did have to let you go. You had to let each other go because it just simply couldn’t work with the distance between you both.

It couldn’t, could it?

challenge taglist: @ldydeath @infinetlyforgotten @berfgrimm @loveesiren @sevendaysummer @gdinthehouseee @eru-vande @bluesunss @emmiesoverthemoon @petersasteria @currentloser @makeitworse @aizshallnotbefound @sherxoo

normal taglist (ask to be added): @sherrayyyyy @justsisse @fleabagspurplewife @gemzyy @bettelaboure @breakmeoff @flymetothexmoon

#choi seunghyun x reader #t.o.p x reader #choi seunghyun #bigbang x reader #t.o.p #bigbangaprilchallenge

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leashybebes · 24 hours ago

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sentences saturday

tagged by @beanarie, thank you pal. passing on the tag to @hyperfocusthusly, @setmeatopthepyre, @ambernotember, @trombonechurchill and @rcmclachlan

here's a first look at what i think is going to be my main summer project. fair warning, this section is fully go girl give us nothing, but i am very excited

fic manifesto: There was no universe, anywhere, where an Evan Buckley would give in on this, because if he did he wouldn't be Evan Buckley anymore.

Buck loves the silicone ring he has to wear at work.

He didn't think he would, at first. Thought he'd resent taking his real ring off so often, being apart from it, going a single minute without the engraving on the inside pressed against his skin. Turns out, he loves it. He could just go without any ring for the duration of his shifts - Hen usually does, Bobby sometimes did - but he likes how deliberate it is.

He takes his ring off at the start of his shift, stashes it in his locker and replaces it with the black silicone band. At the end of the shift he switches them over again, every time without fail. He never wants to look at his left hand and not see Tommy's ring. He never wants someone to see his hands and not know he's married. That someone chose him and he chose them right back.

He slides the silicone ring onto his finger, swings his locker door shut and looks over at where Eddie is scrolling on his phone. He looks a little squirrely about it, but he'd turned down the offered plus one to the wedding. They all have their suspicions about it though and Buck stretches, angles his head to try to sneak a look at the screen. He thinks he's fairly subtle, but the screen goes dark almost immediately and Eddie flips him the bird.

"Aw, c'mon," Buck says. "Let me be a gossipy old man."

"You've been married five minutes - "

Five weeks, two days, four hours, give or take, Buck thinks.

" - do you really already need something to talk about that bad?"

"Sure," Buck says. "You're our number one topic of conversation."

Eddie rolls his eyes and stands up.

"Mind your business," he says, hip checking Buck on his way towards the stairs. He has to side step where Ravi is talking earnestly with the new probie, and again where Chim is talking on the phone.

Buck rolls his eyes, sends Tommy a good morning text, and heads out to start the day.

#bucktommy #my writing #wip games #tag for now:#cherry blossoms

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honeyncherry · 6 hours ago

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we never tell - joe burrow

summary whatever’s happening between you and Joe was always a bad idea—too tempting, too reckless, too addictive to stop. tahoe just made it impossible to hide.

content 18+, smut, angst, fluff, alcohol, language, all of the warnings

DAY ONE

Well… even if something did go catastrophically wrong this week, at least no parents would be around to witness the fallout.

Your dad got pulled into covering a partner’s trial at the last minute, and your mom had used it as an excuse to spend the week with her friends in the city. The only reason that worked out so conveniently was because Jimmy and Robin had somehow scored a Hawaii trip—Robin’s sister bailed and handed off the all-inclusive package like some benevolent tropical fairy godmother.

Whose bright idea it was to leave a cabin full of twenty-somethings alone with a liquor cabinet older than all of you… unclear. But they insisted you’d be fine. Dan and Carrie were technically around to “supervise,” and you’d promised your parents no injuries, no disappearances, and definitely no tequila-fueled hospital visits—before boarding your flight to Reno.

After landing, Dominic made a beeline for the rental lot and immediately picked out the most expensive SUV available, high off the thrill of having full credit card access for the first time in years. He hadn’t been trusted with it since the infamous boy’s trip to the Keys, an event so chaotic you still get silenced anytime you try to bring it up.

So, in a shiny new Rover (probably not the smartest pick for mountain roads, but at least it had all-wheel drive), you shared a gas station breakfast and made fun of each other’s playlists the entire drive. He made sure to grab a pack of powdered donuts (stale, of course, but sacred tradition), and some hot chocolate (lukewarm, but still a must), before you started the final stretch.

The drive was calm. Almost idyllic in that blurry, half-sweet way that made you feel fourteen again. Your knees ached from being curled up too long, your stomach from the processed sugar crash—but still, it felt familiar. So much so in the way that made you feel like something good might happen if you let it.

And then you pulled into the driveway and the feeling started to fade.

The house looked the same as ever with its vaulted peaks framed in snow and warm golden windows flickering behind tall pine trees, all seeming a little too much like a frozen memory waiting for you to step back in.

You hadn’t been here the past two winters. First it was a senior trip to Europe—bouncing between hostels, starting in Rome and ending in Paris. Then Arizona with your new college friends, chasing desert sunsets and overpriced concert tickets. You didn’t regret either trip. But pulling up now, in the cold breath of early evening, you realized just how much had changed. Or maybe it was just you.

And the Joe thing didn’t help. Whatever it was. Whatever you two were.

You’d kept in touch… sort of. A few texts, scattered across the month. Some flirtier than others. A couple photos exchanged during finals week. One very late FaceTime you both quietly ignored the next morning. You weren’t dating. You weren’t a thing. But something lived in the quiet between those conversations.

And now, you were about to spend a full week under the same roof.

Dominic cut the engine, glancing over as you stare at the house like it might swallow you whole.

“You good?” he asks with a lopsided grin. “C’mon, it’s gonna be a good time.”

You nod, fixing a smile on your face like it might just hold everything together. The last thing you needed—what no one needed—was for you to get tangled up in your feelings. He pats your arm in that same brotherly way he always does, trying to play it cool even though you know he clocks every shift in your mood.

Shoving the last of your nerves down deep, you step out into the cold, zipping your coat up to your chin as the mountain air sinks its teeth in.

“Cincy?” a voice calls out from somewhere near the garage. “That really you?”

With a Busch Light already in hand and that same boyish swagger in his step you remembered a little too well, Connor strolls toward the car like it hasn’t been years. He looked good—windswept and red-cheeked from the cold, hair messily tucked under a backwards hat, ski jacket half-zipped like the cold didn’t bother him. He stops long enough to dap up your brother, slipping easily into small talk.

While they caught up, you move around to the backseat and pop open the door, reaching for your weekender bag. “Thought you ditched us for good,” the voice came again, closer this time, just behind your shoulder.

You nearly jumped out of your skin, and by the time you turn, Connor is already reaching past and grabbing your bag with one arm like it weighed nothing. His fingers brush yours in the process but he doesn’t pull away instantly. His gaze flicks across you, lingering just a second too long before his grin is tugged back into place.

“Still pack like you're running away,” he teases, hoisting the bag easily onto his shoulder. “What do you have in here, bricks?”

You roll your eyes but felt the heat creep up your neck anyway. Some things never change.

Connor has been a fixture in Tahoe since you were kids—his parents owned one of the ski resorts up the road, and he’d practically grown up on the slopes. Your brother met him at a little skiing workshop when they were both eight and declared him his best friend within twenty-four hours. From that moment on, Connor was everywhere. Sitting across from you at pizza nights, rigging up makeshift ski jumps in the backyard while you made snowmen, tagging along for movie nights and always calling dibs on the beanbag chair you liked first.

He was also the one who used to chuck snowballs at you during your ski lessons, making dumb faces from the lift while you wobbled your way down the bunny hill. And when you were younger—maybe eleven or twelve—that teasing turned into something else. Something you couldn’t name at the time, but you felt it every time he ruffled your hair or called you “kid.” Something fluttery and stupid and way too intense for someone who barely looked at you twice once the older girls from his school showed up.

You zip your coat a little higher and try to ignore the way he still makes your stomach flip.

“You coming in,” he asks while glancing back at you with a grin, “or just gonna freeze out here?”

Then, with a playful edge, “Unless you still do plan on running away.”

At that exact moment, Dominic passes by, rolling his eyes as he hoists a duffel over one shoulder. “Don’t encourage her,” he mutters to Connor, loud enough for both of you to hear. “She’s been one minor inconvenience away from bailing since we landed.”

Connor barks out a laugh, looking over his shoulder at you with a grin that only widened. “Noted,” he said, then winked. “Guess I better behave.”

You shook your head but your face was already warm and you hated that he could probably tell. Connor holds the door open and you mumble a quick thanks. The second you step inside, you’re instantly met with a flood of familiar faces.

Jamie and his fiancé, Emily, are curled up on the loveseat, waving with cheerful smiles. The last time you’d seen them was at the Fourth of July barbecue—one of those chaotic afternoons where you barely got more than a hug in before they were pulled away by someone bombarding them with questions about wedding plans.

By the fireplace sits Nate, another Tahoe local, and Caleb, whose family rents the place just down the mountain. Nate had become part of the group years ago after overhearing one of Dom, Joe, and Connor’s brilliant plans to sneak out and meet a group of out-of-towners. He tagged along, and somewhere in the chaos of the teens getting lost, they met Caleb—brother to one of the girls they were trying to find.

Now, the five of them—Nate, Caleb, Dom, Connor, and Joe—are practically a package deal. Wherever one went, the others followed. Most of the time, anyway.

There’s always been a weird thing between Joe and Connor. Not outright fighting, but something just under the surface. A quiet competitiveness. Clipped comments. The occasional sideways glance that made everyone else fall awkwardly silent. No one ever explained it and no one dared ask—but the tension was always there.

You’d gotten used to it over the years, but that didn’t make it any less noticeable.

“We’re here! Nobody cry.” Dom shouts the moment you’re able to gather yourself.

“Speak for yourself. I’m already regretting this.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, waving you off as he kicks snow off his boots. “You say that now, but give it two drinks and you’ll be sobbing about how much you missed me.”

“I never said I missed you.”

“That’s rude, considering I brought you here.”

“You brought me here because Mom made you.”

Dom gasps, “wow. Throw me under the bus in front of the boys.”

“Don’t worry,” Nate says from his spot. “She’s already doing great.”

“Shut up,” you mutter, cheeks warming as you shrug off your coat. The room was way too quiet with too many eyes looking your way.

“Okay but seriously,” Caleb adds, eyes flicking over you. “When did Dom’s little sister become an actual person?”

Dom turned so fast, you thought he might throw his bag at him. “Nope. Stop. Don’t even finish that sentence.”

Connor passes by then, beer still in hand, his mouth twitching like he was trying not to smile. “You’re already losing control, bro.”

“Already regretting everything,” Dom sighs then jabs a finger at you. “Don’t even think about joining their side.”

You grin. “No promises.”

The group laughs, all descending into chaos as you reach to grab your bag from Connor, lugging it up the stairs.

Your room was exactly the same. Same patchy quilt. Same old Polaroids pinned to the corkboard, some faded beyond recognition, others showing unmistakable evidence of braces, bad bangs, and someone (likely one of the guys) photobombing in every other one.

You didn’t unpack so much as toss your things across the bed and pretend you felt fine. Voices could be heard faintly rising from below, laughs layered over old stories, the low thrum of a speaker someone connected to, the dull creak of floorboards that never stopped giving everyone away. For a moment, it felt like you’ve slipped back into something you’d aged out of. Like the walls were waiting to see who you were now, to figure out if you still fit.

Right as you were considering whether anyone would notice if you just stayed up here for the rest of the night, you heard the front door open. And even from upstairs, even without seeing her, you knew.

By the time you (begrudgingly) made it halfway down the stairs, you could already feel the energy shift. Conversations hadn’t stopped, but they’d slowed—tilted in her direction. You see her first from the back, brushing snow from her coat sleeves with that same effortless grace that always made her seem way older than the rest of you even when she wasn’t.

Bridget moved like she had somewhere more important to be and had just chosen to show up here anyway. Her dark hair was tucked into a sleek braid that rested against one shoulder and her gloves were shoved neatly into her pockets instead of tossed carelessly to the side like the others.

“Hey,” she says, gaze moving around the room like she was cataloging who made it this year and who didn’t. “Sorry I’m late. I came straight from practice.”

Of course she did.

Dom let out a low whistle from across the room. “Damn, look who finally decided we’re worth her time.”

Bridget rolls her eyes but her smirk gives her away. “I’m not the one who missed two years in a row.”

You step the rest of the way down, fighting the urge to bite back. Not that she said anything cruel—Bridget didn’t do cruel. She didn’t need to. Her silence said plenty.

She’d never been unfriendly but there was something in the way she looked at you that always made you feel like she was waiting for you to grow into something you hadn’t quite become. She was all mountain air and early mornings and first-place medals.

You huff an exaggerated laugh, “nice to see you too, Bridget.”

She doesn’t take the bait, instead giving a small, practiced smile alongside a nod that somehow still feels condescending even though it wasn’t. She wasn’t being cold. She wasn’t being anything, really. That was the thing about Bridget—she never needed to try hard to make her presence known. She was gracious, polite, perfectly warm in the right places, but always seemed to exist just slightly above the rest of the group. Not on purpose. Just naturally out of reach.

You use the moment to make your quiet exit from the edge of the living room, slipping past the group and heading towards the kitchen. You cross the floor to the counter, reaching for one of the unopened seltzers and cracking it open as you stand with your back to the chaos just beyond. The hum of the fridge kicks on. Someone laughs in the other room. You take a slow sip, breathing in through your nose, letting your shoulders drop for the first time all evening.

“Didn’t think you’d actually show.”

The voice comes from just behind your shoulder, low and close enough that you jump—hard enough to almost spill your drink. You turn fast, already teetering between a laugh and a scowl.

“Jesus. People have got to stop doing that to me.”

Joe stands there, looking slightly amused, arms crossed like he’s been leaning there the whole time. And even though you’ve seen his name light up your phone more times than you could count, something about seeing him in person now made your heart stutter in your chest.

It’s stupid how quickly it hits you.

He smiles, a little crooked. “Doing what?”

“Sneaking up on me,” you say, turning back toward the counter, fingers picking at the tab on your can. “Connor did it earlier and I nearly fell on my ass.”

You glance over your shoulder, expecting a laugh from him. Maybe a grin. What you don’t expect is the way his smile falters. It doesn’t come back. His jaw is tight, eyes a little harder than they were a second ago. Your gaze lingers longer than it should, then you turn away again, suddenly too aware of how exposed your back feels.

His footsteps don’t echo but you feel every one of them—the soft shift of the floorboards, the presence behind you pulling closer. You stay rooted where you are, frozen somewhere between wanting to say something and knowing better.

He stops behind you and you feel it before you process it. The shift in air. The slow pull of warmth at your back. The way your breath stutters like your body remembers this before your mind can catch up. His arm lifts above you, smooth and unhurried, and it’s not until it lowers again that you realize what he was reaching for.

A bottle of bourbon. Probably stashed from a past trip, maybe even the last one you skipped. His fingers curl around the neck, knuckles white against the dark glass, grip tight enough to draw your eyes without meaning to. The bottle hangs at his side as he lingers there, shoulders loose, weight tipped into one hip like he’s in no rush to go anywhere.

You feel him watching you.

His tongue clicks softly, the sound sharp in the quiet.

“Old habits die hard, huh.”

The words land behind you dryly. Almost bored. Like he’s amused with himself, or maybe with you. You turn your head again, slower, but just in time to catch the flick of his eyes as he rolls them.

And then he walks out, leaving you in the kitchen with the sting of all the things you didn’t get to say.

DAY TWO

If there’s such a thing as peace after tequila and half a bag of marshmallows, you’re pretty sure it looks something like this.

You’re not sure when the night started to blur. Maybe right after Dom and Caleb came barreling in from the garage, triumphantly holding up a dusty box of leftover fireworks like they’d just unearthed buried treasure. That part was actually kind of impressive. The problem, of course, was that no one could find a single lighter in the entire house. Dan (supposed chaperone) was storming through the kitchen like a man possessed, opening drawers, tossing aside old candles, muttering something like, “In a house that’s hosted teenagers and middle-aged moms for fifteen years, how the hell is there not a single lighter?”

You’d finished your drink, still holding the empty can because it felt easier than figuring out how to escape unnoticed. Everyone was talking over each other, laughing too loud, spinning off into side quests about flammable household objects. You remember leaning against the wall, half-listening, half-hoping no one would pay attention when you finally slipped up the stairs silently.

Apparently, no one did.

It wasn’t the plan to end up skiing alongside Bridget. The group had naturally split on the last run and the two of you had found yourselves carving lazy paths through powdery snow.

She could actually be kind of easy to talk to—when she was like this, anyway. You’d never had a problem with her. It was just that being around Bridget for too long felt like trying to keep up with someone who was always three steps ahead without ever looking back to see if you were still there.

Bridget coasts ahead a little, then drifts back to match your speed. She tilts her head like she’s considering something, and then says, “You’d like this guy I’ve been training with.”

You blink over at her. “Training?”

“Yeah, out in Utah. He’s been helping me with form drills. Super technical but like... laid-back about it. Kind of annoyingly perfect, honestly.”

“Wait. Who is this?”

“This guy Max. Works up at Copper full time. He’s kind of a freak athlete.”

“Sounds like a nightmare.”

Bridget smiles. “He kind of is.” She slows and adds, “I almost wiped out last week trying to impress him. Took a jump I had no business touching.”

You laugh under your breath. The idea of Bridget trying to impress anyone didn’t quite compute. She was the one people chased after, not the other way around.

“So is that a thing, or...?”

“What, me and Max?” She lets out a breath that was more of a laugh. “No. Definitely not. He’s, like, wildly older. And has a mullet.”

You grin. “That’s not necessarily a dealbreaker.”

“Maybe in the summer when I lose my standards.”

There was a second of quiet, just long enough for you to register the fact that she hadn’t mentioned Joe at all. Not that it was weird she hadn’t. But still. You’d spent the better part of your teenage years watching them share this unspoken bond. Joe and her always talked like they shared some secret competitive sport language that none of you quite understood. And even though neither of them were flirting, you’d spent years pretending not to notice how easily she made him laugh. How his shoulders relaxed around her in ways they didn’t around anyone else.

It had driven you a little insane.

You coast a bit further alongside her, snow brushing softly beneath your skis. It was impossible to not feel the question forming before she asked it.

“What about you? You seeing anyone?”

Your answer comes too fast.

“No.”

She raises an eyebrow. “That was definitive.”

“There’s just… not anyone. Not really.” You fix your gaze down as you say it. “No one important.”

Looking back down the slope, the others were already halfway into taking their skis off. It looks as if they’ve been waiting a minute or two, milling around near the trees, voices carrying faintly over the wind. You hadn’t realized how close you'd gotten.

The two of you glid the rest of the way down in silence, but right before you reach them, she nudges you with her elbow.

“No one important, huh?”

You don’t get the chance to answer—Dom turns toward you both with a smirk already forming.

“What’s that? Bridget talking about a boy?” He pops one ski off with the edge of the other and leans in like he’s ready to stir the pot. Caleb jumps in before you can deflect.

“Multiple boys,” he adds, eyebrows bouncing.

“I heard training with a guy and no one special,” Nate shares, which was absolutely not what had been said.

Bridget groans, stepping past them to unclip her bindings. “Jesus. You children are exhausting.”

“Max, was it?” Dom asks, twisting to look at her. “Can he come visit?”

“He has a mullet,” you say, deadpan, pulling your goggles off and resting them on your helmet.

That earns a full wave of groans and fake gags.

“Oh, so you are talking about guys,” Nate beams, pointing at you like he’s cracked a code.

Bridget doesn’t even blink as she peels off one glove. “I was talking about drills.”

“Same thing,” Nate mutters under his breath, just loud enough for Caleb to elbow him.

You’re unbuckling your helmet when Connor slides in beside you, catching just enough of the exchange to grin like he’d been listening the whole time.

“Wait, wait,” Connor says with a smirk. “You talking about guys too, Cincy?”

“Absolutely not,” you say, already starting toward the lodge with skis in hand. “Bridget was talking. I was listening.”

“Mmhmm,” Dom calls out. “That’s why your face is all red.”

“It’s the wind,” you sigh.

“Sure,” Joe says from in front, not looking at you. It’s the first thing he’s said since you got down the mountain, like he’s been waiting for the perfect moment to make a dig.

You shake your head, not sure when everything started feeling off. Racking your skis next to Dom’s, you’re the first one inside the lodge. The windows are fogged over with steam, coats hung heavy on every hook, air thick with the scent of chili and burnt coffee. Someone’s boots squeak on the tile behind you.

There’s already a short line at the café counter, but no one seems stressed. Connor waves to the girl behind the register like he’s here every weekend. Which, you guess, he kind of is.

“Put it on the family tab,” he grins, throwing an arm around Dom’s shoulders.

Dom grins, overjoyed. “Must be nice to be ski royalty.”

Caleb clutches his chest dramatically. “God, the burden of generational wealth.”

“All that inherited trauma,” Nate adds with a grin.

“Shut up,” Connor laughs, nudging you forward in line. “You want anything, Cincy?”

You grab a water and something light. You know you won’t finish it but that doesn’t really matter to you right now.

The group shuffles toward a long table in the middle of the room, benches lining either side. You’re just settling into a seat between Dom and Bridget when Connor slides in beside you, nudging Bridget over without a word. He leans forward, grinning at something Dan’s saying from down the line.

But it’s not Dan you’re looking at.

Your eyes flick up, maybe out of habit. Maybe instinct.

Joe’s the one sitting across from you—elbows planted lightly on the table, fingers brushing the edge of a napkin he hasn’t touched. His food sits untouched too. Forgotten, possibly. Or never wanted in the first place.

And he doesn’t flinch when your gaze catches his. Doesn’t look away or pretend he wasn’t already watching. He just stays there, fixed and silent in that nerving way that makes it hard to tell if he’s calm or coiled tight beneath it all.

Like a shadow cast too cleanly. Too perfectly still to be natural.

You try to hold it, but it’s too much. There’s something about the way he tilts his head at you that makes your stomach turn.

Your fingers twitch around the edge of your water bottle, and you drop your gaze before he can see the heat climbing up your neck. Pretend you’re focused on the plastic, on the food, on anything other than the feeling of being seen and measured and maybe a little bit punished.

You pick up your fork with jerky fingers, trying not to look obvious about how your throat’s too tight to even swallow.

“So,” Connor starts, nudging your elbow gently with his own. “How’s Cincy?”

You blink at him, still caught up in your own mind. “Cincy?”

He grins. “School. You still call it that, right? Or have you sold out and started calling it UC?”

A smile tugs at your mouth before you can stop it. “Still Cincy.”

Dom’s already halfway through his sandwich, talking with his mouth full. “Only person I know who’s ever actually wanted to go to Cincinnati.”

“Since she was, like, ten,” Connor adds in, looking oddly proud he remembers.

“Because she’s a psycho,” Dom adds.

“That’s not news,” Bridget mutters.

“Hey,” you say, pointing your finger at her. “You’re the one trying to impress a guy with a mullet.”

“Oh my God, we’re still on this?” Bridget drops her head into her hands dramatically.

“You’re the one who brought him up,” Caleb points out, reaching across the table to steal a fry from Dan’s plate.

If this were a few years ago, you would’ve been a mess.

Connor sitting next to you, talking to you like this? It would’ve short-circuited your teenage brain. You would’ve been red in the face, barely able to breathe, too caught up in every shift of his eyes, every word.

He was golden back then. Untouchable. Everything.

Now you barely register the way his knee bumps yours beneath the table.

Because across the table, Joe is watching you like he sees everything. And no matter how hard you try not to, that’s where your attention keeps drifting.

Connor leans a little closer, voice low. “I’m serious though. You still like it?”

You nod. “Yeah. I do.”

“And classes are good? Professors not ruining your life yet?”

“Only two of them.”

He grins. “Name names. I’ll handle it.”

You shake your head with a soft laugh, about to say something back when Dan’s voice cuts in from further down the table.

“Hey,” he says, loud enough to pull everyone’s attention. “Do we wanna try to hit the far ridge after this? Or are we too lazy?”

“Too lazy,” Bridget answers immediately.

“I’m in,” Dom says, licking mayo off his thumb. “We’ve got like two hours of sun left.”

“I’m not hiking back,” Emily says, frowning. “Y’all can meet me at the lodge bar after.”

Carrie, from beside her, hums in agreement.

“Some team spirit,” Nate mutters. “What happened to unity?”

“It died with my motivation,” Emily shoots back, popping a fry in her mouth. “Bridget, you down?”

Bridget raises an eyebrow, considers. “If someone carries my poles.”

“I’ll carry your skis if you promise not to pass me next time,” Caleb says through a mouthful of sandwich. “My ego still hasn’t recovered.”

“You need to let that go,” Jamie chimes in. “It was one run.”

“One run too many,” Caleb mutters.

Connor’s shoulder brushes yours when he turns toward you again. His thigh presses against yours under the table, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he does and just doesn’t care. He nods toward the others. “So, team far ridge?”

You give a soft shake of your head, fingers curling tighter around your water bottle as you lean back slightly. “I think I’m gonna skip it,” you say, voice just loud enough to carry across the table. “Got a bit of a headache.”

A few heads turn, mild concern flickering across their faces. “Probably from hanging out with us,” Nate says, tapping his temple like he’s discovered something. “We’re loud as hell.”

“That or altitude,” Jamie adds helpfully.

“Or the mullet talk,” Bridget mutters, and Connor snorts beside you.

You smile politely, already reaching for your stuff. “I might just head back to the house for a bit.”

“You want a ride?” Connor asks, already shifting like he might stand.

“I have to head back anyway.”

Your head snaps up so fast it actually makes your vision blur for a second.

Joe’s voice cuts through the noise of the table so cleanly it leaves an echo.

Oh God.

You pale instantly. You know it. Feel it. That slow, heavy drop in your stomach is like a missed step in the dark. Heat claws at your neck and then recedes just as fast, replaced by a tight, uncomfortable chill.

“Team call,” he adds, not looking at anyone in particular.

Bullshit.

You don’t know how you know, but you know.

Dom jumps in to say, “Oh, that’s right. They moved it up for East Coast time.”

Joe stands, his chair scraping just slightly as he pushes it back. His eyes catch yours but he doesn’t say anything as he waits expectantly.

Your heart thuds once, too loud. You hesitate for a breath, then slowly stand too, ignoring the way your legs feel a little like water.

Dan looks up, already sliding his tray aside. “We’ll grab your skis for you guys.”

Jamie nods, wiping his hands on a napkin. “Yeah, don’t worry about it.”

Joe doesn’t say anything as he leads the way out.

The snow crunches beneath your boots in that slow, late-afternoon kind of hush, the parking lot half-shaded, frost settling heavier now that the sun’s started to dip. Dom’s Rover is exactly where they left it this morning, next to Connor’s Bronco—windows streaked with melt lines, black paint dulled under a fine dusting of powder.

Joe tosses the keys in one hand, catches them in the other, then climbs into the driver’s seat without a word. You follow, tugging the passenger door shut with more force than necessary, the thunk of it feeling louder than it should.

The engine turns over. The heat kicks on. But neither of you speak.

You stare out the window, counting fence posts or pine trees or whatever flashes by fast enough to keep your thoughts from spiraling.

You're thankful the drive is short. And quiet.

By the time he pulls into the driveway, you’re already reaching for the door handle. He hasn’t even shifted the car into park before you’re out, feet hitting the ground in one sharp step. Your hand fumbles with the passcode at the front door, thumb too cold and a little too shaky to press the numbers right on the first try. The keypad blinks red. You curse under your breath and try again.

You can hear his door close behind you.

God. You’d just wanted a few seconds of space with a clean escape. A quiet slip into the room, maybe the illusion of stillness long enough to breathe without the memory of his eyes on you. Watching. Unrelenting. Like he wanted you to choke on your silence.

The door beeps green. You grab the handle.

But then his hand wraps around your arm.

Low and close behind you, almost gentle: “Nuh uh.” The sound of it is soft, but it stops everything. Your pulse stutters. You freeze in place, body angled toward the stairs, one foot forward like you could still outrun this.

“I thought you had a call,” you say flatly, not bothering to mask the bitterness clinging to your throat.

Joe shakes his head once. “I lied.”

You turn slowly, chest tight. “Well, I have a hea—”

“No you don’t.” There’s a flicker in his jaw. He looks... tired. And tense. Like he’s been holding something back all day and it’s finally cracking through. “You were fine ten minutes ago,” he says. “And if it really was about a headache, you’d have gone with Connor.”

You blink. Heart picking up again. “That’s not—” He steps in before you can finish. Not touching, but close enough that the distance shrinks and your folded arms suddenly feel childish. Defensive. You drop them, and regret it instantly.

“I’m not trying to fight,” he murmurs, like it’s a line he’s rehearsed but still isn’t sure will work. “But I can’t do this fake shit.”

Your teeth find the inside of your cheek, holding down the rest. “Then what do you want, Joe?”

His eyes flash. There’s something angry there, but it’s not really at you. “I want to know what’s going on. With you. With Connor.”

You stare at him. “There’s nothing going on.”

“Then why does it feel like there is?”

You open your mouth. Close it. Shake your head once and look down. “There never has been. Never will be.”

His hand twitches at his side like he wants to reach for you but thinks better of it. “Okay,” he says, after a long pause. “Okay.”

“Why?” You finally glance up at him. “Are you seeing someone else?” The question barely makes it out. It’s too thin, too careful, like it’s not supposed to be heard. But it is. And worse, it’s understood.

Joe doesn’t flinch, but you can see the answer in his eyes before he speaks. “No.”

It knocks something loose in your chest. “Oh.”

Small. Stupid. And way too late to hide the disappointment layered in it.

Joe exhales hard, like he’s been bracing for that exact reaction. “You don’t believe me.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Your jaw tightens. “I just—I don’t know what you want me to say.”

He moves again. Two steps this time. Barely a breath between you. “Say what you’re thinking,” he says. “Because I’m standing here trying not to lose my fucking mind, and you’re looking at me like I’m a stranger.”

“You’re not a stranger,” you say too fast. It sounds like a correction, doesn’t come out the way you meant it.

“I just don’t get it,” you say finally. “We were fine the other week. Texting. Talking. And then last night in the kitchen... it felt like a switch flipped.”

“You were talking about Connor.”

You blink. “What?”

He looks down, then back at you, almost sheepish. “You’ve always liked him.”

Your mouth parts in disbelief. “Joe. That was years ago.”

He doesn’t answer.

You stare at him, stunned. And then, slowly, you blink again. A breath catches in your throat—and for the first time in hours, it isn’t from tension. “Oh my God,” you whisper, realization blooming too fast to contain. “You were jealous.”

Joe’s eyes snap to yours. “No—”

“Yes,” you laugh, breathy and stunned, almost too surprised to stop it. “You were.” He steps back like the sound stings, shaking his head, but it’s too late—you already see it. The crack in the armor. The flustered look. “You were jealous of Connor.”

“I wasn’t—” he starts, but the sentence crumbles before it’s finished, and the silence that follows says everything.

You watch him now with something softer beneath your expression, lips curving despite yourself. “That’s what this has been about?”

He doesn’t say yes. But he doesn’t say no, either. Just looks at you with that restless kind of guilt behind his eyes like maybe this whole time he thought you knew. And it’s worse somehow, that you didn’t.

His hand lets go of your arm for the first time since it was placed there and he runs it down his face. “Look,” he sighs, “can we just forget about this. Move on?”

You don’t say anything. Not because you’re angry—not anymore, but because you’re too tired to pretend it didn’t land a little sideways. The words are easy, clean, wrapped in that kind of practiced detachment people use when they’re trying to keep the water from rising any higher.

Can we just move on.

You know what he means. You know he’s not asking you to forget the last hour, or the way he treated you, or how much weight actions carried. He’s asking for a truce. For the part where this doesn’t spin out into something bigger than either of you can hold.

So you nod, almost imperceptibly. Just enough to let the tension drain without needing more than it already took.

“I’m gonna go lie down,” you say finally, softer now, your voice falling back into your chest where it feels safest. Your eyes flick up to his one last time, catching a shift in his stance like maybe he thought you’d say something else—invite him in, maybe.

But he doesn’t speak. He just nods once, and lets you go.

You head upstairs slowly, legs sore from the slope runs and muscles humming with a kind of tired that has nothing to do with skiing and everything to do with restraint. The stairs creak faintly under your weight, and when you get to your room, you close the door behind you without turning the light on.

The air inside is still, touched by the faint scent of the vanilla apricot lotion you’d used the night before and the eucalyptus from someone’s shampoo. You tug your base layers off one at a time—your fleece top, the long-sleeve thermal you’d worn beneath it, both damp around the cuffs and collar. The sports bra peels away last, cold against your skin from where it’s clung too long to your spine. You strip everything until you’re bare in the quiet, toes curling briefly against the wood floor as your body adjusts to the sudden chill.

You think, for a second, about the shower. You should rinse the sweat off your chest, the faint the smell of snow and fabric and old pine lodge air. But your legs ache, and the thought of standing makes your shoulders fold in on themselves.

So you don’t.

You pull on the first t-shirt you find at the top of your drawer, soft from too many washes, long enough to hang past the tops of your thighs—and crawl into bed without another thought. Your limbs fall limp against the mattress as you stretch out sideways, not even bothering to pull the comforter over you, the weight of the day collapsing all at once into your spine. Your cheek sinks into the pillow, the fabric still faintly cool from the draft near the window. You exhale through your nose, slow, and for the first time in hours, it doesn’t feel like something is sitting on your chest.

You’re just starting to drift, eyes still half-open, when you hear the soft creak of your door. No knock, just the low groan of the hinges and the sound of someone shifting their weight through the threshold. You don’t move or lift your head, you stay in that stillness like, maybe, if you breathe slow enough, the moment will tell you what it wants.

Then the bed dips behind you.

A hand, light and tentative, skims the curve of your thigh, just above the knee where your skin is bare. His fingers trail up slightly, barely there, before settling in place. You can feel the heat of his palm through the cotton of your shirt.

“Is this okay?” Joe asks, low. Not careful in a nervous way, but in a way that sounds like he means it. Like he knows you could still say no.

Your body reacts before your mouth does. You shift back slightly, enough for the warmth of him to press against the backs of your legs, for the weight of his hand to settle more firmly into your skin.

“Yeah,” you breathe, eyes fluttering shut. “It’s okay.”

You feel him nod against your shoulder, feel the way his breath fans against the back of your neck when he exhales. His hand doesn’t move again. It stays there, a quiet, steady anchor while the room fills with the hush of something finally letting go.

DAY THREE

At some point in the night, long after the air in your room had gone still, after the shadows had stretched across your walls and settled—something stirred you from sleep. You weren’t sure what pulled you from that heavy sleep. Maybe it was the way the temperature had dipped slightly, the faintest chill creeping beneath your blanket. Or maybe it was him.

You barely had time to register the warmth pressed into your side before you felt the first soft kiss pressed to the inside of your arm, just above the bend of your elbow. Another followed it, barely there, grazing the edge of your bicep, then trailing up toward your shoulder like he was mapping his way across skin he already knew by heart.

A third kiss landed just beneath the slope of your neck, lips brushing against your collarbone, then higher—along the side of your throat, against the curve of your jaw, right up to the corner of your mouth where he paused, hovering. You could feel the ghost of a smile on his lips, the quiet hesitation. “They’re pulling in now,” Joe murmured, the words warm against your skin.

You froze for half a second, piecing it together—headlights flashing against the walls, the distant crunch of tires over fresh snow. “Oh. You should probably go then,” you whispered so low the words almost got lost between you.

Joe exhaled a heavy breath against your skin like he hated the thought. His hand squeezed lightly at your thigh, and he stayed there just long enough to press one final kiss to the side of your mouth. Then the weight shifted, the bed lifted, and the room grew quiet again.

You didn’t fall back asleep right away.

You laid there, tucked into the same tangle of sheets, tracing the warmth he left behind. Eventually, sleep crept back in, heavier this time.

By the time you wake up again, the kitchen smells like cinnamon and coffee—warm and alive in that way only Tahoe mornings ever feel. You pad in quietly, still in socks and a fleece you pulled off the floor, sleeves shoved to your elbows, hair a mess. Your eyes sting from sleep, but the house is already wide awake. Chairs scrape. Music hums low from a speaker by the window. Half a stack of pancakes sits on a plate that’s definitely cooling, but no one’s claimed it yet.

Connor is the first to notice you. He glances up from the stove, spatula in hand, grinning like he hasn’t just cooked enough food for a small army. “There she is,” he says, raising his voice just enough to turn a few heads. “Thought we were gonna have to send search and rescue.”

You blink against the brightness of the kitchen and open the cabinet slowly. “For what, pancakes?”

“Rescuing you from your beauty sleep,” he fires back, somehow flipping a pancake with difficulty. “Though clearly you didn’t need it.”

That earns a chorus of “ooohs” from somewhere near the island. You smile against it, tucking your chin slightly as you reach for a mug, trying not to let your eyes flick too obviously toward Joe. Your fingers brush the handle of the coffee pot but Dom beats you to it, appearing out of nowhere to pour you a cup without asking.

“You’ve got like three minutes before Connor burns the last pancake out of spite,” he warns, handing you the mug.

“I’m letting them get crispy,” Connor calls defensively, already plating another with too much confidence. “Some of us have taste.”

“Or just ego problems,” Bridget murmurs, walking past with a plate and the world’s most casual eye-roll.

You slide into the stool beside Joe without even thinking, your leg brushing his beneath the table as you sit. He’s still in the same hoodie and sweats from last night, curls faintly dented from sleep. But he looks more present today. He works on peeling his clementine, knee not moving away from yours.

He’s not quite smiling, but close. His shoulders are more relaxed than they were yesterday, his eyes softer at the corners. You’re not the only one who notices.

“Okay, not to be weird,” Jamie says from across the counter, tilting his head like he’s squinting at a strange animal in a cage, “but you’ve been, like… shockingly normal today.”

Dom snorts. “That’s just cause no one’s brought up his fantasy team yet.”

Jamie keeps going, undeterred. “No, I mean mood-wise. You’re not giving cryptic rage goblin. It’s… unsettling. Like, should we be worried?”

Joe, still peeling a clementine with slow precision, doesn’t even glance up. “Guess I’m more in the vacation mood.”

Bridget lifts an eyebrow. “Since when?”

“Since the call.”

You sip your coffee to hide the way your lips want to tug into a smile.

Connor slides a pancake onto a plate with unnecessary ceremony. “This one’s yours. It’s shaped like a heart.”

You glance at the lopsided blob, head tilted. “Because you made it with love?”

“No,” he says, flashing a grin. “I just flipped it too soon.”

You smirk into your plate. “Sounds like a personal problem.”

“I’m starting to think you’re ungrateful,” Connor says, mock wounded. “That’s fine. I’ll just save my next masterpiece for someone who appreciates culinary excellence.”

“Oh my God,” Bridget mutters. “It’s literally a pancake.”

Nate raises his hand. “Connor, I love your work. Got one that’s, you know… anatomically bold?”

“Already spoken for,” Connor says solemnly. “Joe called it first thing this morning.”

Joe just shakes his head, smiling into his clementine like he’s above it all—like his free hand isn’t slipping beneath the table to curl around your upper thigh, palm warm as it settles high, dangerously high, just shy of where you’d really feel it. His thumb strokes once, barely-there pressure against the soft skin inside your leg.

That he’s still able to touch you like this.

Still able to make you feel like this.

Still the one who does.

And he doesn’t need to look over to know you’ve gotten the message—clear as day, deep as the ache he already knows how to leave behind.

But of course he does.

That’s the whole point.

DAY FOUR

“Missed this,” Joe mumbles against your mouth, the words low and husky, nearly lost in the soft slide of his lips over yours. His hands are already on your waist, pulling you in close, his body warm and solid beneath the thin cotton of his t-shirt. You don’t even remember reaching for him—just the sleepy shock of waking up to the weight of his palm dragging slowly up your body, the dip of the mattress under his knee, his mouth on yours before your brain could even register the time.

It’s still dark outside. The kind of deep, pre-dawn quiet that blankets the entire house, where even the floorboards seem hesitant to creak. No one else is awake yet—not Dom, not Jamie, not any of the couples still tangled up in shared beds across the hall. The only sounds are the faint rustling of blankets and the rhythmic hush of your breath catching every time Joe kisses you a little deeper, a little more certain. He must’ve snuck in through the hallway door while the others were still sleeping. You think you heard it open once, maybe twenty minutes ago, but you’d rolled over, assuming it was the wind or someone heading to the bathroom. Not him. Not like this.

His hands are firmer now, sliding up beneath your oversized tee—his, left at the cabin from a few winters ago, worn and soft, the hem rising with every graze of his knuckles. He shifts closer, one leg wedging between yours as he guides you back into the pillows, his mouth trailing from your lips to your jaw. Then lower. Hot breath brushing your collarbone. The tip of his nose nudging against your neck like he’s trying to remember how it all felt last time.

“Couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he murmurs, voice just rough enough to make you shiver. You feel the words more than you hear them—right at your throat, where his tongue darts out to taste the spot just under your ear.

Your fingers twist in the back of his shirt. You should say something—ask what time it is, ask what he’s doing, ask if someone might hear—but your body reacts before your mind can form the words. Your hips arch into his, your leg wrapping around his waist to hold him there, to feel the heaviness of him pressing down. He groans softly at that, the sound barely contained, buried into the crook of your neck like he’s trying not to lose too much control this early.

“Locked the door,” he mutters, as if reading your mind, lips brushing your skin between each syllable.

His fingers drift lower, teasing the waistband of your sleep shorts as he kisses his way down your chest—just soft grazes at first, until he pushes the shirt up high enough to find bare skin. His eyes flick up to meet yours then, even in the darkness, and you swear he can see everything. Every thought you’re trying to suppress, every ache that’s already started to bloom low in your stomach.

“Still so fuckin’ pretty like this,” Joe whispers, voice thick with that same need you remember from before—the kind that made you reckless last time. The kind that makes you reckless now.

And then his mouth is on you again, lower, slower, no space between his lips and your skin. And you don’t even care what time it is anymore.

His tongue moves in lazy, open-mouthed kisses along your ribs, pausing to suck lightly at the soft skin beneath your breast. He hums against you like he’s tasting something forbidden, something he’s missed dearly. Your breath stutters when his teeth graze your skin, enough to make you clench beneath him. His hand slides under the waistband of your sleep shorts, knuckles dragging up the inside of your thigh so slowly you feel it everywhere.

You gasp, hips twitching toward him, already too warm and too wound up to pretend this isn’t exactly what you wanted the second he walked in.

He glances up at you, fingers stilled just shy of your center. “You wet for me baby?” The question comes low but it’s not him teasing. He’s not smirking. He’s watching you like he’s starved.

“Yes,” you whisper, hand curling in the sheets beside you. “Joe—please.”

His mouth drops to your stomach, teeth skimming along the soft curve of it as his fingers finally touch where you need him. You suck in a breath when he brushes over your clit, gentle at first, like he’s reminding your body how to respond to him. But you remember. God, you remember. And your hips lift into his hand almost instinctively, thighs starting to tremble.

“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath, slipping his hand lower. “It’s like you’ve just been waiting for me.”

You have.

Before you can say it, he’s tugging your shorts and panties down your legs in one motion, discarding them somewhere behind him. Then his hands are on your thighs, spreading you open like he has every right to, like it’s muscle memory. He settles between them with that low, grounding exhale that lets you know he’s not in any rush.

When his mouth finally meets you, you almost cry out. His tongue is slow and deliberate, licking up the length of your folds before flattening against your clit. He hums again, content, and the vibrations make you whimper. Every flick is purposeful like he’s worshipping something. You try to stay still, try not to lose it so quickly—but he knows exactly what he’s doing.

One arm hooks under your thigh, holding you open as the other snakes up beneath you, palm lifting your hips off the bed so he can keep you right where he wants you. When your head tips back, mouth open in a silent moan, Joe groans into you and tightens his grip.

“Let me hear it,” he says, voice rough and muffled. “Let me hear what I do to you.”

“I missed you,” you whisper, breathless. “Missed this.”

That’s when he loses what little patience he was holding onto. His grip tightens. His mouth moves faster, more intense. And it only takes seconds before you’re unraveling for him, thighs clamping around his head as a sharp, staggering orgasm rips through you. You don’t even try to be quiet. He didn’t tell you to.

When it finally fades, you’re twitching against the mattress, breathing like you’ve just run a mile. Joe licks you once more, slow and possessive, before he pulls back, chin slick, eyes blown dark as he pushes himself up onto his knees.

But he doesn’t reach for you right away. Instead, he presses one large hand flat on your lower belly, right above where he was just inside you.

“Right here,” he mutters, almost to himself. His thumb strokes lazily over your skin. “Fuck, I’ve thought about this every night. Every time you sent some picture, every time you fucking called me like nothing was happening—this was what I wanted.”

“Joe…” you breathe, not sure what you’re asking for.

His hand stays there, firm against your belly. His other tugs his sweats low enough to free himself, cock already hard, flushed, aching. You look down at where he’s touching you like he’s imagining himself inside you already, feeling the outline of it before he’s even entered.

“You’re mine like this,” he murmurs. “You’ve always been. You just don’t wanna admit it.”

Your heart stumbles in your chest.

“I don’t wanna share you,” he whispers, leaning down to kiss your shoulder, your collarbone, your jaw. “Don’t want anyone else to even think they’ve seen you like this.”

Your mouth falls open but no words come out. You can’t think. Not when his cock slides through your folds, teasing the entrance, already soaking in your release.

“I wanna feel myself right here,” he breathes, pressing down on your stomach again, just above your pelvis. “Wanna watch you take every inch, feel how deep I am while you fall apart for me.”

Finding it hard to form any words, you tilt your hips up into him, eyes half-lidded as you slide a hand to the back of his neck and pull him down to you.

And he takes it. All of it.

The first thrust is slow, agonizing, his hand never leaving your belly. He watches you the whole time, eyes dark and locked on the place he’s disappearing into you, his breath catching when he feels your walls flutter tight around him. You let out a choked moan, back arching helplessly as he pushes deeper, deeper, until there’s nowhere left to go.

“God damn,” he groans, forehead falling to yours. “This pussy’s mine.”

You whimper at the filth of it, at the claim in his voice, at the way you know—deep down—it might actually be true.

He stills for a beat, thick and pulsing inside you, letting you feel the weight of him. The stretch. The heat. Your mouth falls open around a gasp, hips twitching involuntarily as your body tries to adjust. You’re full to the point of ache, dizzy from how careful he’s being. How much he’s giving you just by holding still.

But it’s when he leans back on his knees, still fully inside you, and plants one broad palm flat against your lower stomach—right over where he’s buried deep—that your whole body jolts.

“Right there,” he murmurs, pressing just a little, just enough to make you feel it. “Feel me, baby?”

You choke on a breath.

“Joe—oh my god.”

Your hands scramble to hold onto something—his wrist, the sheets, your own thighs—because the sensation is unlike anything else. It’s too much. His cock thick and throbbing inside you, his palm heavy on your belly, eyes dark as they watch the way your face falls apart under him.

He groans when he sees it. Like the sight alone might ruin him.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he mutters, breathless and wrecked. “You feel that? That’s how deep I am.”

Your thighs try to close around him instinctively, too overwhelmed, too full, but he slides his hand down to your hips and pins you open again, shaking his head like he’s not done showing you.

“No, lemme have it. Been thinking about this every night, don’t get to run now,” the way his voice dips on the word now nearly makes you cry out again. “You let that stupid fuck talk to you like I’m not the one that gets to have you like this.”

He thrusts once, slow but hard, his hand never leaving your stomach, his thumb grazing across your skin again like he’s trying to brand you there. You cry out, hips twitching, back arching up off the bed.

“I can feel you—”

“I know you can.” He leans forward then, catching your face in his free hand, brushing his nose against yours. “No one else gets this.”

Another thrust—deeper, meaner, sending you gasping into his mouth.

“You feel so good,” you pant, barely able to form the words.

His lips part over yours, but he doesn’t kiss you. Mouth hovering over yours, breathing with you, losing it with you.

“You were made for me,” he whispers, drunk on it now. “Your body fuckin’ knows me. Look at you.”

Your eyes flutter open just in time to catch him looking down between you both, still pressing into your stomach while his cock rocks slow, devastating circles inside you.

And that’s what breaks you.

The orgasm rushes in without warning—hot and overwhelming and pulsing through every part of you. Your body locks down around him, helpless under the weight of his touch and his words and the filthy possessiveness still dripping off his voice.

“Jesus—there you go. Let me feel it, baby. That’s my girl.”

You cry out, clutching at him, every muscle tight and trembling as he fucks you through it. He drops his head to your shoulder, groaning against your neck as your release milks him, his rhythm stuttering.

“Fuck—” he chokes out. You wrap your legs around him tighter, nails digging into his back. He shudders, thrusts a final time, and then you feel it. His whole body tense above you as he spills inside with a low, broken groan.

When it’s over, he collapses half on top of you, chest heaving, skin damp. But his hand doesn’t leave your stomach. If anything, he presses a little harder, still circling with his thumb as if trying to feel it all settle.

“You should see how you look like this,” he murmurs into your neck. “Might lose my mind.”

You don’t answer because you’re still floating. Body limp, your legs spread open and shaking, your mouth parted like you forgot how to close it.

And he’s still inside you, holding you like the whole fucking house doesn’t exist beyond this bed.

The memory lingers longer than it should. Even after he’s gone you’re still floating somewhere between sleep and whatever this is.

When you finally peel yourself out of bed, the world outside your window is already blinding white, heavy with fresh snow. Just from one look you already know what the plan is for today.

It’s always been the same, ever since you were little—after a big storm, nobody needed to say anything. You’d all spill outside, wrapped in lumpy coats and mismatched mittens, throwing yourselves into the snow like it was your only job. Even the parents used to join in back then, when you were all still toddlers, chasing each other through the drifts, laughing like they didn’t have a care in the world.

Somewhere downstairs, the familiar thud of boots and shouts of laughter echo through the walls, pulling you back into the day whether you’re ready for it or not. You layer up slowly, thick socks and leggings and your warmest jacket, hiding Joe’s hoodie from this morning underneath because it's a secret you can’t quite part with yet.

The cold hits you the second you step outside, biting at your nose and cheeks as you stumble down the front steps into chaos. Old toboggans scatter across the slope like wreckage from a lost battle. Shouts and laughter tear through the freezing air, ricocheting off the trees.

Dom’s halfway down the hill already, somehow managing to sled backward while pumping his fists in the air like an idiot. Emily wipes out spectacularly near the bottom, her body flipping into the powder with a high-pitched scream, and Caleb’s patrolling the top with an armful of snowballs, throwing them indiscriminately at anyone who looks too happy.

You barely have a second to take it all in before a snowball whizzes past your head.

"Incoming!" Nate hollers, already loading up another.

You duck instinctively, laughing, and when you straighten up again, Joe’s there.

He’s tugging his gloves on tighter, cheeks red from the cold, a ridiculous wool hat jammed over his messy hair. He steps up beside you and nudges your shoulder with his own, "you're late."

You barely have a second to take it all in before one of Caleb’s missiles whizzes past your head, startling you into a squeaky laugh.

"Incoming!" Nate hollers, already loading up another.

You duck instinctively, heart pounding from the surprise and the cold, and when you straighten up again, Joe’s there. Tugging his gloves on tighter, cheeks flushed deep pink from the cold, a ridiculous wool hat jammed low over his messy hair. He steps up beside you without a word, bumping your shoulder with his like you’re already mid-conversation.

"You're late," he says, voice thick with that gravelly sleep-laced tone that makes your stomach flutter.

You roll your eyes, burying your smile in your scarf. "Slept in."

Joe just huffs a small laugh under his breath and starts down the hill. You watch him for half a second too long before forcing yourself to follow.

By the time you’re flying down the hill for the third—or maybe fourth—time, your gloves are soaked straight through, your cheeks are numb, and your ribs ache from laughing so hard you can barely breathe. The air feels even more frigid every time you trek back uphill, boots slipping on slick patches of churned-up snow, but nobody’s slowing down. Everyone's too busy throwing themselves onto sleds like kids, shrieking and tumbling and crashing with reckless abandon. Somewhere behind you, Dom’s yelling about how he “beat the course record," even though there’s absolutely no course. Emily and Carrie are rolling around in the snow near the bottom, cackling so hard you can hear them from halfway up.

You’re halfway through adjusting your scarf when Joe’s hand brushes yours, fingers grazing yours through the gloves in a touch that could be called an accident—if he wasn’t looking at you like that. Like the world could crash and burn around you, and he still wouldn’t look away. You blink hard, dragging your gaze down to your boots, pretending to kick the packed snow off, pretending your heart isn’t trying to beat a hole through your ribs.

You barely catch your breath before Connor jogs up beside you, cocky grin flashing bright as ever, “We’re going doubles," he announces. "Me and you, Cincy. Let’s show these amateurs how it’s done."

You open your mouth to object, something about not wanting to end up concussed, but he’s already grabbing your hand and dragging you up toward the ridge, laughing like this is all so easy. Like nothing’s changed.

You go along, heart pounding, casting one quick look over your shoulder where Joe still stands a few steps back. His face gives away nothing, but the way his gloved hands flex once at his sides says enough.

Connor shouts something about steering as you settle awkwardly behind him, barely managing to hook your arms around his waist before he kicks off.

The sled shoots forward with a violent lurch, snow spraying up around you as you barrel down the hill at a reckless speed. Your laughter bubbles out of you unrestrained, half-pure joy, half-desperate adrenaline as you cling to the sides and try not to tip into the nearest drift.

When you finally crash into a snowbank at the bottom, you can barely breathe, your lungs burning from the laughter and the cold. Connor flops onto his back beside you, both of you wheezing and shaking snow out of your sleeves. You push yourself up, brushing powder from your leggings, your fingers still tingling from the ride.

You dust the snow off your leggings, still catching your breath, and when you glance toward the slope, Joe’s still there, standing a little ways up, watching you with a look you can’t quite read. Before you can even think deeper into it, Nate tackles him from behind, knocking him into the snow with a triumphant yell that has the whole hill erupting into laughter.

You force yourself to laugh with them, letting Connor haul you to your feet, heart still hammering painfully against your ribs.

The afternoon drifts in slower after that, like the mountain itself is exhaling.

The sun dips lower behind the peaks, bleeding gold and pink into the snow-covered world. The cold sharpens, biting harder at exposed skin, and boots start dragging heavier across the churned-up slope. You huddle into your jacket, arms wrapped tight across your chest, but you don’t think it’s the temperature making you shiver anymore.

Someone starts another half-assed snowball war, shrieks and shouts fill the air as bodies dive behind sleds and trees and piles of snow, everyone too exhausted to aim properly, too happy to care.

You’re mid-sprint, trying to dodge a flying iceball from Dominic, when a hand closes around your wrist and yanks you down behind a flipped sled. You land in a heap, boots tangling, Joe’s chest bumping against yours with a solid thud.

You gasp a breathless laugh, and so does he, both of you frozen there in the shadow of the sled, breath fogging between you. His hand lingers at your wrist, thumb brushing absently against the curve of your hand. You don’t pull away. You don’t even think about it.

"Told you," he murmurs, voice low and warm in your ear, "you’d be better off staying with me." Your mouth opens automatically, some sarcastic reply ready to fly—but the words die somewhere in your throat, because just over his shoulder, you see Bridget.

Sitting cross-legged on a snowbank, arms looped around her knees, watching. Not the hill, not at the chaos—at you.

At you and Joe.

Your stomach plunges so fast it makes you dizzy.

Joe must feel it, the way your body stiffens, feels the sudden snap of the moment because moves without hesitating, his body angling slightly to shield you from view, his hand squeezing yours once before standing.

You let him, not daring to look back at Bridget again.

Joe’s tugging you gently to your feet just a second later. You dust the snow from your jacket, trying to gather yourself, heart still rattling somewhere too high in your chest. "You good?" he asks, voice low enough that it doesn’t carry. His eyes skim your face, reading it way too easily.

You force a small laugh, tucking your chin into your scarf like it’ll hide anything he might see. "Yeah," you lie, slipping into the smile you’ve worn a thousand times before. "Just cold."

Joe watches you for another second like he doesn’t quite buy it, but then his mouth tilts into a lazy smile. He leans in, crowding your space just enough that his shoulder brushes yours, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear when he whispers, "Keep your door unlocked tonight, yeah?"

DAY FIVE

The next morning passes in a kind of lazy sort of cozy haze, the whole house moving slower after the endless chaos of the last few days. Even Bridget decided to spend the day recovering at her own home. When you finally drag yourself out of bed, the kitchen’s a mess of platters of cinnamon rolls, mugs of coffee, and people slumped in chairs still wearing pajama pants.

Nobody seems in a rush to do anything, which honestly feels kind of perfect.

By late morning, a few of you pile into cars and head down to the frozen lake to skate, bundled up and carrying thermoses of hot chocolate and clunky old rental skates. It’s nothing like sledding yesterday—more scerne and less tumultuous. You skate in crooked loops with Emily and Carrie for a while, occasionally glancing across the rink to catch Joe tripping over his own skates and laughing like a little kid. He catches your eye once or twice and your stomach does that stupid swoop it’s been doing more and more lately.

Connor sticks close too, always finding ways to drift near you. It should feel simple. It should feel normal. But you catch Joe watching again once or twice, that same unreadable look flashing across his face before he turns away. Each time it happens, it leaves you feeling strange and unsettled in ways you can’t quite explain.

The rest of the afternoon is spent back at the cabin, sprawled out in front of the fire (because someone did eventually find a lighter), half the group napping, the others playing old board games someone found buried in a closet.

You let yourself get pulled into a game of Monopoly, losing spectacularly to Dan within the first hour, and you spend the rest of the time curled into the corner of the couch, pretending not to notice the way Joe’s socked foot occasionally bumps yours under the blanket.

Further into the night you end up retreating to your room not long after Dan and Carrie disappear upstairs, Emily and Jamie trailing close behind them with lazy goodnights. The house is quieter now, the only real noise coming from the living room where Dom, Caleb, Nate, and Connor have planted themselves on the couches, arguing loudly over which video game to start next.

Joe stays downstairs with them, slouched low in one of the armchairs, a half-empty beer bottle dangling lazily from his fingers. You try not to pay too much attention as you pass through the kitchen, stacking a few stray mugs from this morning into the sink, pretending not to notice the way his eyes follow you across the room.

It’s only when you reach the bottom of the stairs, turning to glance back over your shoulder one last time, that you catch him sinking lower into his hoodie, tugging it up to hide the stupid, suggestive grin threatening to give him away completely. You bite down on a smile of your own, heat sparking low in your stomach as you turn quickly and slip upstairs before you can make it any worse.

You end up lying across your bed, room dimly lit, with a book in hand, trying to read like you promised yourself you would over break. Your legs are tucked under the blanket, your hair still a little damp from your quick shower, the air cool and crisp against your skin. You’re just starting to sink into the quiet, starting to believe you might actually get a few pages in, when you hear the faintest creak of the floorboard just outside your door.

Joe slips inside your room earlier than expected, earlier than he promised. He closes the door behind him, ensuring to lock it before he turns back to you with his hair sticking up in messy, reckless tufts. The second your eyes meet, the little smile you tried so hard to bury earlier comes rushing back to the surface.

"Hi," you whisper, voice barely a breath.

Joe smiles back and reaches for the hem of his hoodie, dragging it up and over his head in one smooth pull. His hair sticks up in staticy tufts afterward, cheeks flushed, eyes already darkening in that way that makes your stomach flip.

You barely have time to react before he’s on you, closing the space between you in two long strides. His hands find your hips easily, and his mouth is slanting over yours, tasting, teasing, like he’s got all the time in the world.

Your fingers find his t-shirt instinctively, clutching at the soft fabric just to have something to anchor yourself to, and when he deepens the kiss, you barely notice yourself shifting closer until he’s pulling you straight into his lap.

His thighs bracket yours, wide beneath you, and his hands slip under the hem of your cami to find your waist, splaying wide like he wants to touch as much of you as he can at once. You kiss him harder, your chest brushing his with every ragged breath. When you try to pull back to catch your breath, Joe chases you, one hand sliding up your back, the other cradling your jaw, keeping you right where he wants you.

"Uh-uh," he murmurs against your mouth, the sound rough, almost pleading. His fingers press a little firmer, dragging you closer again. "Come back."

You laugh, breathless against him, a little overwhelmed in the best way—and then you push lightly at his chest, guiding him back until he lets you tip him onto the mattress without resistance. Joe falls back with a low grunt, head hitting your pillow, one arm lazily splayed out above his head, the other reaching for you without hesitation. His shirt rides up slightly with the movement, exposing a sliver of warm, toned skin that makes your mouth go dry.

There’s no hesitation as you swing your leg over him, straddling his hips, the look on his face enough to steal the last bit of air from your lungs. "Where you goin', huh?" he teases, voice low and lazy, but there’s a heat in his eyes that sharpens when you start crawling down the length of his body.

You settle between his knees, palms dragging up the strong lines of his thighs, your breath catching at the way he’s looking at you. Joe’s chest rises sharply, his jaw clenching once as your fingers find the waistband of his sweatpants, and slowly, start to work them down. "You sure about this, baby?"

You just look up at him, feeling your cheeks heat, feeling the nervous excitement ripple through you in a way that somehow only makes you braver. And when you nod Joe lets out a broken, desperate noise that makes you feel like you could set the whole goddamn cabin on fire.

Joe’s hips lift slightly, almost like he can’t help it when you tug his sweatpants and boxers down, freeing him with a soft hiss of breath. His cock slaps up against his stomach, thick and flushed and already leaking precum, and you swear you feel yourself clench just at the sight of him.

Still perched on his lap, you lean back just enough to drag your fingers lightly down the center of his chest, feeling the way his muscles jump under your touch. Joe watches you like he’s starving, blue eyes nearly black with how blown out his pupils are.

He props himself up on his elbows, breath catching audibly when you press your mouth against the sensitive head of his cock, licking a slow, deliberate stripe up the underside. "Jesus—fuck," he groans, hips twitching forward before he catches himself.

You hum softly, pleased, and wrap your hand around the base, stroking him lazily as you lick and tease and explore. You don’t rush, wanting him to feel every second of it. Joe lets out a wrecked sound and sinks back onto the bed completely, one hand dragging through his hair, the other blindly reaching for your shoulder, gripping lightly like he needs the contact to stay grounded.

When you finally sink your mouth properly down on him, taking as much as you can in one slow glide, Joe’s hand tightens. "Fuck, baby," he pants, his voice so raw it sends a fresh jolt of arousal straight through you. "Just like that. Don’t stop."

You don’t plan to. You build a rhythm, steady and deep, hollowing your cheeks and working your hand where your mouth can’t reach. Joe’s hips start to move without thinking, small, helpless thrusts you know he’s trying to control but can’t, not when you swirl your tongue on the way back up and suck gently at the tip.

"God, you’re gonna kill me," he rasps, the words punching out of him in a broken laugh.

You pull off for half a second, smirking against his skin. "Maybe."

Joe groans like you’ve physically hurt him, a laugh breaking through, but it dissolves quickly into a shudder when you take him deep again, until you feel the head of his cock brush the back of your throat. He bucks once, hard enough that you gag slightly, but you don't pull away, steadying yourself to let him feel it, let him hear the desperate, slick sounds filling the room.

"Shit—oh my god—fuck, baby, you’re—" Joe cuts himself off with a sharp gasp, hand fisting the sheets now, his thighs shaking under your palms. "You’re gonna make me—" You hum again, needy, encouraging, and that’s all it takes. Joe falls apart with a choked groan, thick ropes of cum spilling into your mouth, his hips jerking once, twice, before he forces himself still. You keep stroking him through it until he finally slumps back against the mattress, panting like he just ran a marathon.

You wipe at the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand, cheeks flushed, chest still rising and falling with the effort of everything you just did for him, and when you glance up—he’s already watching you like he’s starving all over again.

His tongue darts out to lick his lips and before you can process it, he’s sitting up, reaching for you. His hands find your waist easily, lifting you like you weigh nothing, and before you can even think about protesting, he’s placing you back into his lap, settling you so you’re straddling him.

You let out a soft, surprised sound, laughing under your breath as your hands come up to his shoulders. "Joe," you murmur, pressing your forehead lightly to his. "This was supposed to be about you."

Joe shakes his head, the corner of his mouth tilting up as he slides one big hand up the length of your thigh, over your hip, settling dangerously close to where you’re already soaking through your panties. "This is about me," he says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You’re only wearing your little cami and panties yet the heat radiating off of him makes you feel practically bare. Your heart’s racing so fast you can barely hear yourself think, but none of it matters because Joe’s pulling you into another kiss—deep, possessive, and so full of something heavier that it nearly knocks you breathless.

You feel it immediately—the way he’s already hardening against you again, the warmth and thickness of himself insistent under the thin material separating you. Joe groans into your mouth when your hips rock down against his, the friction shooting straight through both of you. His hands drag down your back, gripping your ass firmly, pulling you tighter against him until you can’t move without feeling him everywhere.

And then, with almost no warning, you feel him tug the crotch of your panties to the side, rough and desperate, exposing you just enough—and before you can even gasp properly, he’s sliding into you in one slow, searing thrust.

Your breath catches violently in your chest.

The stretch is deep and overwhelming, the sudden fullness making your whole body tighten, but Joe’s there—his hands steady on your hips, his forehead pressing to yours, his mouth brushing your cheekbone like he’s trying to tether you through it.

"Fuck," he pants against your skin, voice cracked open with feeling. "God, you feel—"

You can’t answer. You can’t even breathe. You just move with him, rocking your hips slowly, clumsily at first, finding the rhythm together.

It’s soft. And rough.

Messy and urgent.

Kisses at the edge of bruising, hands everywhere at once, Joe’s mouth finding your throat, your collarbone, your jaw, like he can’t decide which part of you he needs more. And then, when your nails rake lightly up the back of his neck and his hips stutter hard into yours, he presses his face deeper into the crook of your neck, voice ragged against your skin. "I’ve always thought about this," he confesses hoarsely, like the words rip themselves free before he can catch them. "Always."

You barely manage a nod, your fingers tangling tighter in the hair at the base of his neck. "Me too," you whisper, so quietly it feels like a secret.

But Joe shakes his head slightly, the movement brushing his mouth against the side of your throat. "No, baby," he breathes. "Since before Thanksgiving."

You choke on a gasp, the sound swallowed by the overwhelming grind of his hips into yours, the drag of his cock hitting places inside you that make the whole world go fuzzy at the edges.

The words hang between you—too big, too fragile to touch again right now—and neither of you tries to. Instead, Joe kisses you again like he’s trying to apologize for all the time you wasted, like he’s trying to promise something without saying it out loud.

You cling to him, rocking into each other harder now, faster, chasing the high you both know is coming. Your forehead presses to his, your breathing tangled, the filthy, wet sounds of your bodies filling the room.

It hits you first—your orgasm sweeping up out of nowhere, sharp and searing, making your thighs clamp around his hips, your nails dig into his skin. Joe follows right after, a grunt ripping from his throat as he thrusts deep one last time, pulsing hot and thick inside you, his whole body going rigid underneath yours.

Slowly, carefully, Joe shifts his hands, still moving like he doesn’t quite want to let go yet. He glances down, and you feel the way his body tenses slightly when he sees his release already starting to slip out of you, slick and glistening between your thighs.

Joe mutters something low under his breath and then he reaches down, gently tugging your panties back into place. He covers you carefully, dragging the soft fabric up and over your sensitive skin—and then his palm presses firm against you, right over where you’re already soaked through, holding you there like he needs to feel it.

You jolt slightly at the pressure, hips twitching instinctively into his touch, and a shaky little sound slips out of you before you can catch it. Joe just hushes you softly, brushing his nose along your jaw, his hand staying there for a long, heavy moment like he’s trying to sear the memory into both your bodies.

When he finally moves it away he does it by pulling you tighter into his lap, wrapping both arms around you and burying his face against your neck, breathing you in like it’s the only thing keeping him together.

The room is warm and quiet, the only sound the slow, even drag of your breathing against each other. Joe’s fingers trace lazy, absentminded patterns on the small of your back, and you let your eyes flutter closed, soaking in the grounding weight of him under you, around you.

You don’t know how much time passes—minutes, maybe more—before Joe finally speaks, asking, "What were you reading?"

You lift your head slightly, blinking down at him. It takes a second to remember, and then you glance over at the rumpled comforter where your book lies half-buried. "Pride and Prejudice," you say, your voice soft from how close you are.

Joe hums, tilting his head back to look at the ceiling like he’s trying to remember. "That’s the one where... they fall in love but like, hate each other the whole time, right?"

You snort, laughing into his chest. "Kind of," you grin, pulling back just enough to see his face. "They misunderstand each other a lot. Prejudice and pride getting in the way and all that. It’s actually a lot sweeter than it sounds."

Joe smiles too, "I dunno," he says, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. "Sounds like our group trips."

You laugh again, curling further into his embrace. "You remember that one snow day when we were kids?" he says after a while, sounding almost like he’s thinking out loud. "The year it snowed like, two feet overnight?"

You smile against his chest, the memory surfacing easily. "Yeah. Dom tried to build that giant igloo and it almost collapsed on him."

Joe chuckles, his hand smoothing up your spine. "Not that. Before that. You—" He pulls back a little to look at you, a soft grin tugging at his mouth. "You got nailed right in the face with a snowball."

You groan, dropping your head dramatically against his shoulder. "Oh my god, yes. Right in the nose. I thought I was dying."

"You were," Joe laughs, the sound low and fond. "You looked like a horror movie. Blood everywhere. Dom freaked out, Jamie made it worse somehow—and me and Dan ended up carrying you back up to the house."

You lift your head just enough to give him a skeptical look. "You were laughing the whole time," you accuse.

Joe’s smile tilts crookedly again, but then he shrugs, and something flickers behind his eyes—something quieter. "I was," he admits. "But I was actually scared shitless."

"You were?"

He nods, his thumb tracing lazy circles against your waist . “Yeah," he says, voice softer now. "You were so little. And you were just... lying there, crying, not even fighting Dom about it. I didn’t know if you broke something. I don’t know." He laughs under his breath, like he’s laughing at himself now. "I just remember thinking, like... I couldn’t fix it. And I hated that."

You stare at him, the warmth blooming in your chest almost too much to hold.

"I didn’t know that," you say, your voice thinner than you mean for it to be.

Joe just shrugs again, looking a little sheepish now. "I didn’t want you to."

You nuzzle into his neck instinctively, breathing him in, and for a little while, neither of you says anything else. You stay there, talking about nothing and everything—the worst injuries you ever had, the dumbest dares Dominic ever made you do, the time you tried to snowboard and nearly dislocated your shoulder.

Joe laughs so hard he almost falls backward when you remind him about it, his head tilting back, his whole body shaking under you. You think you could stay like this forever. You know you can’t.

The moment’s too good, too easy. It can’t last.

And sure enough, a few minutes later, after your second yawn (one you can’t even pretend to hide), Joe catches it, a soft laugh rumbling low in his chest.

You shift a little on his lap, snuggling closer, but mumble against his shoulder, "M’getting tired."

It’s not even a suggestion but Joe hears it for what it is anyway. He squeezes your thigh gently like he’s reluctant to let go. "Alright," he says quietly, "I’ll let you get some sleep."

You press your forehead against his for a second longer, breathing him in, trying not to make it a big deal even though it feels like one. Joe shifts carefully beneath you, helping you settle back onto the bed. His hands linger at your waist for a moment longer before he finally pushes up.

You stay curled up against the pillows, watching through heavy-lidded eyes as he crouches to grab his clothes, tugging them back on.

Then he crosses back to the bed, leaning in, one knee pressing into the mattress. He kisses your forehead so light and careful it barely even counts as a kiss at all. "Goodnight, baby," he whispers against your skin.

You whisper it back without even thinking. "Night, Joey."

You let him go, having no idea that the second Joe eases your door closed behind him—hoodie rumpled, hair a mess, that wide, dorky smile still lingering at the corners of his mouth—he turns.

He turns and locks eyes with Connor, fresh out of the bathroom. Frozen, stunned, eyes narrowed slightly. Was it out of confusion? Jealousy?

Joe doesn’t stay long enough to find out. He just turns down the hall, disappearing into his own room without a word.

And you, tucked safe in oblivion inside your room, don’t see any of it.

DAY SIX

By the time you all pile into the hot tub this evening—drinks in hand, cheeks already pink from the cold and the cocktails—the whole day feels like one long, lazy laugh. Someone’s set up the same trusty speaker on the porch, muffled music carrying over the snow. Steam curls off the surface of the water into the night air, stars barely visible through the haze.

You wedge yourself between Dom and the edge of the tub, tucking your knees in close as you nurse your drink and try not to slide too much on the slick plastic seats. Joe’s stretched out across from you, arms slung wide along the back ledge of the tub like he owns the damn thing, his shoulders loose, head tipped lazily toward the sky, a tipsy smirk tugging at his mouth.

Bridget, next to him, bumps her leg against his accidentally, though he barely seems to notice. You, however, notice everything—including the way Bridget’s gaze slides briefly to you when it happens, something unreadable flickering across her face.

You drag your drink to your mouth and smile into it, playing dumb.

Dom’s mid-story about Caleb eating shit on the hill earlier, hamming it up with wild hand gestures and half-wrong details, and you’re laughing too hard to care when Connor practically spills his beer trying to one-up the chaos. His arm bumps yours with every exaggerated point he makes, and you just grin and shake your head.

It’s sloppy, harmless fun. Caleb's shouting half-formed jokes over the music, Bridget’s laughing into the rim of her drink, Dom’s slapping the surface of the water dramatically every time he gets worked up. At one point, Connor, still ragging it on, tries to reenact Caleb’s crash by standing half out of the tub to mimic the tumble. The drunk boy nearly busts his ass slipping on the slick plastic, sending another tidal wave of water over the edge. Everyone roars laughing, even Joe, who tips his head back against the ledge and watches it all unfold.

Your drink is sliding dangerously in your hand from laughing so hard, and when you look back across the tub to find your balance, your gaze catches Joe’s.

The second your eyes meet, something inside you stumbles; because without a word, without even a twitch of effort, Joe shifts spreading his legs a little wider beneath the surface, tilting his head slightly, his smirk curving into something darker. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. Like he’s been waiting for you to pay closer attention.

Heat rushes up your neck before you can stop it, your drink stalling halfway to your mouth. You should look away—someone could see—but your body forgets how to listen. You’re caught, helpless, your lips parting slightly in reflex when his gaze dips lower, the lazy weight of it making your skin prickle.

Time sort of thins around you for a second, the outside noise fading into nothing except for the low churn of water between. You swear he’s about to smirk wider, about to pull you under completely, when his eyes flick past you.

You blink out of the trance, following his glance over your shoulder—and feel the pit drop straight out of your stomach. Connor’s still next to you, but he’s not paying attention to the chaos Caleb’s causing across the tub, not even half-listening to Dom’s drunken rapport. His focus is pinned on you. On Joe. His face is loose with alcohol but his eyes are sharp, mouth set in a way that feels wrong, almost territorial, like he’s just realizing something he can’t figure out how to name yet.

You don’t know what to do, pinned there awkwardly between the weight of Connor’s staring and the buzz still ringing in your chest from Joe’s. You flick your eyes back on instinct—and find Joe looking at you again, already smirking, already dragging his tongue lazily over his bottom lip before rolling his eyes, all dry, unimpressed, like the whole thing isn’t even worth acknowledging.

You don’t get a chance to wonder what it all means before Dom slaps a hand over his mouth and lets out a strangled groan. "Ohhh no. No no no—bad—"

You jolt forward instinctively, half-rising out of the water, your drink sloshing dangerously onto the deck.

"I’ve got it, Dom, come on—"

"No," he croaks out desperately, waving you off with both hands. "No, stay—you do not wanna see this."

Bridget’s already climbing after him, shaking her head with a grin as she loops an arm through his and hauls him toward the house. "You’re disgusting," she chirps, steadying him as they stumble toward the door.

Connor, suddenly snapped out of his own trance, drunkenly slaps Caleb’s shoulder as they go crashing in after them, shouting something about needing to "witness the carnage."

You barely have time to catch your breath before the water stirs behind you. You glance forward just in time to see Joe rising from where he’d been lounging, the movement languid, water dripping down the ridges of his chest and arms as steam curls up around him like smoke. His hair is damp and wild, sticking to his forehead, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth like he’s already decided exactly how this is going to go.

Your heart kicks hard in your chest as he prowls toward you, his body cutting through the steam, casual but predatory, like he’s stalking something he knows already belongs to him. Without a word, he reaches out and plucks the drink from your hand, his fingers grazing yours briefly, then sets it carefully on the ledge behind you. His touch, his gaze, his entire presence pins you to where you sit, and even though you know you should say something, should break the spell, you can’t seem to make yourself move.

Joe’s hand slides easily under the water, fingers tracing a slow path up your shin, your knee, the sensitive inside of your thigh, leaving a trail of heat in his wake. You squirm instinctively, breath catching in your throat, but you don't pull away—you can’t—and that’s all the encouragement he needs. His other hand finds your waist, steadying you, guiding you closer to where he wants you, his touch firm and possessive in a way that makes your blood simmer.

"Joe, someone could—" you whisper, the words barely making it out, half a warning, half a plea. Joe doesn’t pay much mind as he leans in closer, brushing his mouth against your ear in a way that makes your whole body tense with anticipation.

"I’ll be the lookout," he murmurs, like it’s the simplest solution in the world.

You barely have time to react before he’s kissing you like he’s got nowhere else in the world he needs to be. His lips press against yours with an intensity that steals every rational thought from your head, pulling you deeper, drawing you into him like gravity. His hand slips up your back under the water, dragging you closer until you’re practically molded against his chest, heat and need swirling dizzyingly between you.

You can feel the smirk tugging at his mouth when you gasp against him, feel the low hum of satisfaction rumbling through his chest when his other hand slips beneath the band of your bikini top, teasing, kneading, driving you out of your mind. His mouth trails down the line of your jaw to your throat, open-mouthed kisses marking a slow, devastating path along your skin. You tilt your head back instinctively, granting him better access, your body arching into every brush, every scrape, every insistent pull of his hands.

It’s almost too easy to lose yourself in it. In him. In the way every part of you seems to fit against him like you were made for this. You can feel him hard and heavy against your hip, the water sloshing quietly around you, the world narrowing to nothing but the desperate beat of your own heart.

So caught up in it all, you barely notice the moment he goes still.

At first, it’s just a pause, hesitation so small you could almost miss it, but the sudden tightness in the way his hands grip your hips gives him away. His mouth freezes against your throat. His whole body tenses.

And as quick as it happened, he continues on his path, except this time he’s rougher. Hungrier. His teeth scrape harsher against your throat, his hands dragging you into him like he's staking a claim, like he doesn't care who sees. His mouth finds yours again, rougher now, desperate in a way that makes your mind fuzzy.

Something’s wrong.

Breathless, you force your eyes open and turn your head blinking against the steam—and that’s when you see it. Through the glass door, barely visible through the fog, Connor stands frozen, his expression hollow, his eyes locked on you.

Panic invades your mind and you jerk instinctively, but Joe’s hand tightens around your waist, holding you against him like he doesn’t care, like it doesn’t matter who’s watching.

"Joe," you whisper, your voice cracking on his name as your hands press lightly against his chest.

"It’s fine," he drags his mouth back to your jaw. You freeze for a second, overwhelmed by the heat of him, the pull of him, the way your body almost believes him even when your head is screaming otherwise.

But then the brutal reality of it all comes rushing back in.

"No—Joe," you breathe, quieter this time, shaking your head as your hands push against his chest again, firmer now but still not enough to move him—just enough to make him realize you're serious. "Stop."

Joe finally pulls back, his hands falling stiffly to his sides, but not before a laugh slips out of him. A sharp, bitter sound that slices through the heavy air between you.

It stings worse than anything else could have.

You blink hard against the burn rising in your throat and shove at him again, water sloshing up against the edges of the hot tub. It’s a desperate attempt to ease the unbearable pressure between you, a push you know won’t move him—he’s a solid wall of heat and muscle and frustration.

When you meet his eyes, you nearly flinch. There’s something simmering there, a little hard and angry. A little hurt. Something that makes you shrink back as the cold night air gnaws at your wet skin.

"What the fuck were you thinking?" you hiss. Even though there’s no one around anymore, it still feels like if you talk too loud, the whole house will hear.

Joe scoffs immediately and drags a wet hand through his already messy hair, stepping back from you like he can’t believe you’re the one asking. "What do you mean, what was I thinking?"

You stare at him, chest tight. "Joe, you can’t just—" You break off, throwing your hand toward the house, toward the dark shape of the sliding door. Toward the invisible imprint of Connor’s stunned face, still burned behind your eyelids. "He saw us. Connor saw us."

Joe snorts like he can’t even entertain your panic. "So what?" he fires back, voice growing louder, harsher. "What, you scared he’s gonna tell someone?"

You gape at him, stunned. "Are you serious right now? He’s drunk, Joe. You’re lucky if he’s not already running around telling everyone!"

Joe laughs another harsh sound that you feel all the way down your spine, and something twists so violently in your gut you have to physically brace your hand against the side of the hot tub to stay upright. "Yeah," he mutters under his breath, "you’re real mad it was him, huh?"

Your heart stutters like it’s tripping over itself. "What?"

"You heard me," Joe says, stepping closer again, chest rising and falling fast. "You’re mad it was him that saw. Not anyone else. Connor."

The accusation hits you like a slap, and you blink hard. Not from sadness, but fury. "That’s not—it’s not about him," you snap, forcing the words out before they get stuck. "It’s about you almost blowing everything. For what, Joe?"

Joe tips his head back with yet another disbelieving laugh. His hands brace on his hips like he’s physically trying to hold himself together. "Yeah. Sure," he bites out, sarcasm dripping from every word. "I’m the selfish one. Meanwhile you’ve been sitting here the whole fucking trip—acting like he doesn’t fucking matter to you."

You open your mouth to fire back, but nothing comes out. You’re rattled by the way he says it as if it’s been rotting inside him all week. "What are you even talking about?"

"You know exactly what I’m talking about. You treat this like it’s some dirty fucking secret."

"Joe, that's not—" But he cuts you off, his voice sharp, words tumbling out like he can't stop them anymore.

"You’re so worried about what everyone else thinks. What, you just settling for me? Next best thing?"

The world tilts, his insult cutting deeper than you want to admit. "Joe," you emphasize, fighting for calm even though you can feel yourself unraveling, "where the hell is this coming from?"

But he’s already spiraled, far past rationalizing. "I mean, fuck. I see the way you still look at him."

"I don’t," you fight back immediately, stepping toward him. "I told you before—there’s nothing there. Nothing!"

Joe lets out a short, cold sound that sounds like it physically hurts him. "Yeah? You sure about that?" His mouth pulls into a twisted smirk, like he’s daring you to lie to his face again.

Exhausted, you throw your hands up. "Why are you twisting this into something it’s not? You’re mad because someone saw us—and you're blaming me for it."

Joe shakes his head like he pities you. "Mad? Blaming you?" he echoes.

But then his voice sharpens even more, the real crack slipping through. "Y’know, actually, who even said this was a secret anyways?" Joe snaps. "Cause it sure as hell wasn’t me. Never once remember saying that. In fact—" he laughs, steel eyes pinning you in place, "you’re the one who ran off the first time. Remember?"

The air leaves your lungs so fast it feels like whiplash. You just stare at him, furious and wounded and so goddamn tired, the heat behind your eyes blurring your vision. "You’re so full of shit," you whisper, the words splintering in your throat.

For a long moment, neither of you moves, the air crackling between you, so thick you could drown in it. Joe's chest heaves, and you can see the stubborn set of his jaw, the way his fists clench and unclench at his sides.

"You think I’m settling?" you snap suddenly, emotion boiling over. "You think this has been some second choice bullshit for me?"

Joe doesn’t answer you. "You’re the one who never asked me to stay," you pause, needing to catch your breath. "That night—you let me walk away like it didn’t mean anything. Like I didn’t mean shit beyond a quick fuck to you."

Something new crosses Joe’s face then but it’s gone almost as fast as it comes. He scoffs harshly, backing up a step like he needs the distance.

"You think I didn’t want you to stay?" he mutters sourly. "Maybe I was too busy fucking reeling over the fact that I finally got you."

The words hit harder than anything else could have. You freeze, the cold forgotten, the sting of biting wind on your skin meaningless compared to the ache splitting open somewhere inside your chest. Your hands tremble at your sides, the air burning in your lungs, but you can’t move, you can’t even think past the way he said it.

Finally got you.

Joe turns without another word, shoulders tight with something new you can't decipher, and makes his way to the house. His footsteps leave heavy, wet imprints across the slick deck, each one louder than it should be like they’re hammering into your skull.

You barely register the way he grabs the handle, yanks the sliding door open so violently it rattles on its track. The door slams shut behind him with a sharp, brutal crack that cuts through the night like a gunshot. It echoes once, then fades into the deafening silence.

DAY SEVEN

The kitchen is packed wall-to-wall, the music loud enough to rattle the floorboards, and you’re already some drinks deep, still painfully aware of yourself. You linger near the island with a couple of local girls you know well enough, but mostly, your attention keeps drifting—scanning the room before you even realize you’re doing it.

The house had felt heavier this morning, like even the walls knew something was brewing.

Jamie and Emily, Dan and Carrie, had been the smart ones—ducking out early, treating themselves to a night at Connor’s family’s resort hotel down the road. You couldn't even blame them. If you could’ve rented a new life for the night, you would have.

The rest of the group spent the day nursing hangovers in various stages of death. Caleb hadn’t moved from the couch. Nate kept pestering him however he could. Connor vanished upstairs with a Gatorade and a hood pulled over his head. You took the opportunity to vanish too, holed up in your room under too many blankets, replaying last night in your head until the edges blurred.

At some point you must have dozed off, because the next thing you knew, Dom was kicking your door open, proudly announcing he'd invited “some friends” over. Which, translated from Dominic-speak, meant a full-blown rager by ten o’clock.

You hadn’t wanted to come down but somewhere deep inside you, you’d convinced yourself that if you looked better, felt put together, maybe the rest would follow. So you pulled on your best jeans, a black top that hugged just enough without trying too hard, tamed your hair, and put on just enough makeup to feel like a disguise for the night.

About an hour ago you caught sight of Joe for the first time since last night hovering around the beer pong table, a little tispy already. His sleeves were shoved up to his elbows, his drink tucked lazily in one hand, the other tossing a ping-pong ball back and forth between his fingers. He looked good. Too good.

The kind of good that made you painfully overthink for reasons you didn’t want to examine.

His cheeks were pink from the alcohol or maybe the cold, his hair a little messy, that cocky smile flashing every time Dom missed a shot. He looked...happy. Relaxed in a way that made your stomach twist up because you weren’t sure if you felt relief or jealousy.

Relief that he seemed okay, jealousy that he seemed okay without you.

You almost went to him, almost closed the distance without thinking, driven by some desperate, aching need to fix it, to fix everything. The words were already clawing their way up, the apology you hadn't even figured out yet ready to spill out. But before you could take a single step Leah spotted you from across the room. Her face lit up and within seconds her hand was wrapping around your arm, tugging you into a conversation you weren’t ready for.

She was so excited to see you, so eager to catch up, that it caught you completely off guard. By the time you glanced back over your shoulder—

Joe was gone.

And just like that, you’re stuck with the last people you intend to be around. You try your best to stay engaged as Leah and a few other girls from town chatter around you, but it’s a losing battle. You sip your drink idly, your eyes slipping over the crowd without any real direction, drifting through clusters of bodies and bursts of laughter, searching for a head of messy blonde

You pretend to be present, but your mind’s already wandered too far. You barely register the music thumping low from the speakers, the sharp scent of jungle juice pungent in the air—because that’s when you see him.

Not Joe.

Connor.

He’s across the room near the fireplace, sitting on the arm of the couch and nursing a drink while laughing at something the girl next to him says. You don’t mean to stare, but your eyes catch on to him anyway. Maybe out of old habit.

Connor glances up, mid-laugh, and his gaze snags immediately on yours. You look down fast, heart thudding and heat rushing to your cheeks. You stare hard at your drink like it holds the secrets to life itself, willing yourself to act normal.

After a few seconds, you peek up again—just a quick, cowardly glance to see if he’s still looking. He is. Of course he is.

He’s not just looking, he’s already pushing off the chair and patting one of his friends lightly on the back, flashing some easy excuse you can’t hear but can imagine. His drink dangles from his hand as he starts making his way through the crowd toward you.

Every instinct screams at you to move, to slip deeper into the crowd and pretend you didn't notice—but it’s like your feet are cemented to the spot, the noise of the party dulling around the edges as you watch him weave closer. You force yourself to look normal, to laugh at something one of the girls beside you says even though you don’t hear a word of it.

Your stomach flips sickly when you catch him closing the distance, the crowd parting naturally for him because he belongs here.

When he finally reaches you, he tips his head slightly, a silent suggestion you feel before you even register it. His mouth lifts at the corners, a ghost of a smile that might’ve fooled you once, back when you were younger and still thought you knew him inside and out.

You hesitate long enough for the cool condensation of your drink to seep against your tightened knuckles, long enough for the pounding of the music and the rush of your own pulse to blur together in your ears. Still, somehow, you manage to nod, forcing your body to move even as every part of you braces for whatever comes next. He leads you away from the music and the crowd down a dim, narrow hallway where the air feels colder and thinner and the noise from the party fades into something faint and far away.

You don’t realize you’ve been holding your breath until he stops a few feet ahead of you, framed in the soft spill of light from the main room and blocking half the hallway. Connor’s figure cuts sharp against the dimness, all restless tension and unsettled energy, the kind of posture that makes it impossible to tell if he’s about to laugh or pick a fight.

His fingers tap an uneven, distracted rhythm against the side of his plastic cup, and your eyes catch on the movement without meaning to, tracing the jittery beat like it might give you some clue about what he’s thinking. You force yourself to meet his gaze, lifting your chin even though it feels heavy, your shoulders stiff, the knot in your stomach pulling tighter until it feels like you can barely stand upright against it.

Connor’s the one who breaks first, his gaze dropping to your cup, a half-smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth like he can’t help himself. "You're a brave soldier for drinking that.”

You huff under your breath, tilting the drink between your fingers just to have something to look at besides him. "Needed something strong," you mutter.

You feel him watching you like he's waiting for you to say more, like he’s measuring every second of hesitation that passes between your words. The weight of it prickles at the back of your neck but you keep your eyes down until his voice cuts through again, quieter now, less certain. "I haven’t said anything.”

You blink, caught off guard for a second longer than you should be, before lifting your gaze and giving a quick, sharp nod. The movement is jerky with all the words you don’t trust yourself to say.

"I know," you tell him, keeping your voice as even as you can even though you can feel your throat tightening. "I’d already know if you had."

His mouth presses into a tighter line, something complicated flickering in his expression. "I'm not going to, either.” Somehow that simple promise cuts even deeper, lodging inside you as something between gratitude and guilt.

You nod again, the tension bleeding out of your shoulders just enough to breathe. "Thank you.”

For a moment it feels like maybe that’s it. Like maybe you can walk away from this with the fragile threads of your dignity still intact. But then Connor moves, just a fraction closer, enough that you feel a warning bell ringing low and dull in your gut.

"Look," his voice is firm, no more hesitations softening the edges. "I'm not telling you what to do. It’s none of my business." You can hear the ‘but’ coming before he even says it, can feel the way his body tightens with the effort of holding it back, and still, you stand there, bracing for impact like a fool.

"But your brother is gonna lose his shit," Connor says, and the words land exactly where they’re meant to, digging in deep.

You straighten your spine, meeting his eyes without flinching this time. Anger sparks under your skin, not because he's wrong, but because you are so fucking tired of everyone acting like your life is some delicate thing they have to protect from yourself. "Sure. But, my brother does not dictate my life," you hope to God your voice cold and clear, canceling out room for any questions. "And neither do you, Connor."

Connor’s mouth tightens, his expression shifting into something colder, something that almost dares you to take it back. For a second you think he might. That he might just shrug and let it drop, let you keep whatever scraps of pride you have left. But then he says it, aimed right where he knows it will hurt the most. "So what, Joe does?"

Your stomach twists sharply, a sickening coil that makes your knees threaten to give out. Heat flashes behind your eyes, anger and embarrassment tangling so tightly you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. "Go screw yourself," you snap before you can think better of it. Your hand tightens so hard around your cup you’re amazed the plastic doesn’t splinter in your grip.

Before you can shove past him, before you can storm away and leave the wreckage in your wake, a sharp click cuts through the hallway.

Your head turns instinctively toward the sound, your heart stuttering in your chest as the guest suite door swings open. Joe stumbles out into the hallway, eyes heavy-lidded and dazed, and for a moment, you forget everything. You forget Connor still standing there, forget the words you just flung like knives, forget how cold the house feels away from the party. You see him, and he sees you.

His gaze locks onto yours across the hallway, and it’s like a tether snaps taut between you, pulling something urgent inside your chest. There’s a flash in his expression—something that looks dangerously close to regret, or guilt, or maybe something worse—and it roots you to the floor more effectively than any conversation with Connor previously could.

You’ve been looking for him all night. Not for some confrontation, not for some dramatic outburst, just for a chance. A singular conversation to fix what had frayed without either of you wanting it to. And standing there, staring at him, you let yourself believe for the briefest, stupidest moment that this is what that could be. That maybe he’s been looking too. That maybe he’s just as lost as you are.

You hold onto it like a fool, that tiny, stubborn flicker of hope, even when every logical part of you knows better. You let it bloom reckless and bright and a little bit desperate in your chest, let it wrap around your heart and pull you up onto your toes like maybe if you just reached far enough, you'd find your way back to him.

But then Bridget stumbles out after him, her fingers fumbling clumsily. She mutters something under her breath, a slurred curse you barely catch, too busy with the button on her pants to notice the way everything just fell apart. She doesn't see you. She doesn't see Connor. She doesn’t see anything except her own drunken struggle, and somehow, that’s what makes it worse. That’s what drives the knife in clean.

#joe burrow #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow fanfic #joe burrow smut #joe burrow angst #joe burrow fluff #joe burrow x you

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seaborgium-dazies · 1 day ago

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Are requests open? I can’t tell cause it says love letter, so if not you can ignore this! Buttttt if they are…

May I have Kirishima, Iida, Todoroki and Midoriya (you can add all them if you want I just like those 4 the best lol) with a reader who was gone for a bit, maybe they were in another country due to family drama or someone died so they’ve been gone for a couple months, and reader surprises them one day without telling them they’re back???

I love you’re writing by the way, so beautiful

Waiting here for you to come back around

Aweeee thank you so much!!! I hope you enjoy this anon! <3 Seeing mha boys after being apart for a while because of family stuff cw: mutual pining; fluff; no established relationship but something better (mutual crushes ayeee) 🌊: deku, iida, kirishima, shoto

Deku:

Deku was deep in thought, analyzing a quirk he saw earlier when he heard a familiar knocking pattern. As soon as he recognized it he bolted to the door. You would've expected the door to be ripped out of it's hinges with the force deku put into his swing.

"Y/N!"

Deku was beaming and upon seeing you standing in front of his door with a sheepish grin he embraced you in an enthusiastic hug.

"Izuku!"

You couldn't help but laugh at the adorable display of just how much he had missed you. That hug of his nearly knocked the air out of your lungs. He seemed to realize the gravity of his actions only after he pulled away.

He scratched his neck as he bashfully explained.

"Sorry ... I've just been a little worried about you, come right in".

So you took him up on his invitation, spending the rest of the evening talking about any and everything. Satiating Izukus curiosity and getting anything heavy off of your chest.

Mid sentence you noticed a tall stack of papers on his desk and you couldn't help but give izuku a questioning look.

"Ah, yes I almost forgot! These are for you; the notes from the classes you missed! I even color coded it after your system to make it easier to catch up-"

In that moment you really had no idea what you had done to deserve such a beautiful and kind soul. Thinking about you even when you were so far away. And going as far as inconveniencing himself every day while not knowing when you would come back. It brought tears to your eyes and a strange warmth to your chest.

Iida:

Iida sighed in frustration as another one of his text messages went through. No answer from you. How irresponsible can one even be?! He massaged his temples before writing out another stern text.

He was so fired up that he was already hearing things. Iida rolled his eyes at himself for imagining the characteristic ping of your phone when it receives a text message. And just as he was about to put his phone down to collect himself he heard another one... Did that come from the hallway?

He swiftly opened the door to his dorm to reveal you standing there with your hand already in a knocking motion. Instead of going through with the knock you reverted to small jazz hands and a meek

"Surprise?"

Iida called out your name and immediately embraced you in a bear hug. But he pulled away after a couple of moments to give you a piece of his mind.

"What are you doing here y/n? And why haven't you been responding to my messages? What were you thinking?! It's extremely reckless and unsafe to do such things!-"

And even though iida went on a detailed lecture about not keeping him in the loop you could see in the pink of his cheeks and the way his hands were gesturing more wildly than usual, that he really just wanted to reprimand you because he missed you so much.

But you knew just how to make it up to him. Mid sentence you pulled one of iidas favorite snacks out of your backpack, this time in a limited edition flavor which was unavailable in japan. That got him to abandon his scolding to marvel at the package you were holding out to him.

He grabbed you by the wrist as he dragged you into his room for you to try the new candy together. You knew that iida would let go of any petty words now since your temporary absence had one upside.

And even though iida blamed his forgiveness on the joy about his favorite candy of all time, in reality he couldn't handle the fact that even when you were in such a difficult situation you remembered what his favorite candy was and even went out of your way just to make him a little happier. His rosy cheeks betrayed him though.

You still weren't in the clear after that because iida demanded that you talk about the situation with him for your own good; so your mental health and school performance won't suffer.

Todoroki:

"It's open"

Shoto's neutral voice made you grin, but opening his dorm door while holding something heavy was kind of a challenge. So mid struggle the door was opened by shoto himself, revealing you with a giant bag of fruit in your arms.

"Y/n?" Shoto's voice betrayed him, the positive surprise apparent. But Shoto took you down a couple pegs as he observed

"You look rough".

Without waiting for an answer he took the heavy bag out of your arms and before you could tell him that they were for him he asked you

"How was travel? When did you get back?"

"Hello to you too Shoto"

You walked into his dorm room before continuing

"Everything was fine, the whole experience was just rather exhausting"

You had been a little anxious because shoto hadn't been messaging you that much while you were away although you knew that it just wasn't his style to text lots. The truth was that he wanted to give you space because he was sure that if you wanted to talk about it you would reach out.

He was more than glad that you were here now and although he enjoyed the souvenir you brought him, it didn't measure up to the joy he felt to see you again. He practically had to restrain himself because his hands were drifting towards yours all the time. So even if he didn't explicitly tell you how much he missed you, it was clear as day.

Kirishima:

Kirishima was biting the inside of his cheek while staring at the message he last sent you. It was left on delivered and he couldn't help but be worried sick. The whole situation you were in worried him to hell and back.

Leaving in a hurry seemed terrible enough but bad cell service and cryptic sad messages? He felt as if he was trapped in the ninth circle of overthinking hell. Did you eat enough? Drink enough? Did you family give you a hard time?

Speaking- or rather thinking- of the devil he heard you calling out his name from outside of his dorm room.

Kirishima opened his door in record time and upon seeing you he opened his arms which such élan it made you wince. You braced yourself for impact but were met with the most gentle bear hug imaginable instead.

As if Kirishima had sensed exactly what you needed you melted into his warm embrace like butter on top of pancakes. He released you out of his grip after what felt like ages, both of you grinning from ear to ear.

He invited you in and after catching up you spotted a little figurine on his desk that you never saw before.

"Oooh who got you this?"

You took the small figurine into your hands. It was a baby chick with a cute pink ribbon and a blue flower on its head - the craftsmanship was insane and it must've been expensive. The thought of some girl gifting this to him made jealousy well up in your chest. But before you could get the wrong ideas he explained,

"Uhm.. It's actually for you... I saw it and it reminded me of you so I just thought I'd get it in case you were feeling bummed after returning."

"Awww wait, really?"

And as Kirishima saw a hot pink blush spreading from your shoulders to the tips of your ears he thanked the heavens that you safely returned to him.

Buy me a coffee? <3

leave some love! Reblogs and comments are dearly appreciated<3

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dazaih · 21 hours ago

Text

wingman - luke skywalker x reader

you can find the previous chapters here

chapter ten -> unexpected encounters

your university roommate han solo finds a rival (and love interest) in student council president leia skywalker, but both of them are too stubborn to admit that they have feelings for each other. luckily, you and her twin brother, luke, devise a plan to get the two of them to spend more time together. challenges arise, however, when you start to develop a crush on him.

chapter warnings: discussion of past violence, making out in public, slight nipple stuff, drinking and smoking, little bit of jealousy, luke has gross friends

a/n: sorry for glazing lando but i do fully believe that luke would think he’s hot asf. also i’m excited for the next chapter—but we r making it closer to the end!

Communication with Luke had been sparse lately, as soccer was picking up quite a bit. He still texted you every few days though. He had started taking photos of food he was having and sharing them with you, often with little captions detailing what it was and how he ranked it. You began looking forward to his food reviews, as you loved entertaining his interests. He would also often ask you for movie recommendations when he was traveling on the bus for games, which were farther and farther away as playoffs grew closer. Despite your busy schedules, you were keeping in touch. That made you happy.

When you arrived home on Friday evening, you were surprised to see Leia sitting at your kitchen table. Han was wearing glasses—something he refused to do in front of anyone other than you and Chewie—and a book sat open before him, but he wasn’t reading it. Rather, he was pinching the bridge of his nose, looking downright upset.

“Hello,” Leia greeted you, giving you a forced smile.

“Hey,” you replied, trying to assess the tension in the room, “Are you guys okay?”

“They arrested him,” she said simply. It took you a couple of seconds to realize that she was talking about Fett. She didn’t deliver it like it was good news. Han said nothing, staring down at the table.

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

“Han isn’t going to press charges.”

You whipped your head around to face him, surprised by his decision.

“What?” you exclaimed, but he avoided your eyes, “He tried to kill you, Han.”

“I am not pressing charges against Boba Fett,” he replied slowly, with a sense of finality that made your nerves spike.

“Han, your testimony could put him away for a long, long time—“ Leia tried, but he cut her off.

“You guys don’t get it. You don’t get what they’re like. He’s just the messenger.”

“Then what will you do?” you asked, hands on your hips as you stared him down.

“Repay my debt,” he answered, sighing, “And I’ll probably have to add in a little more since Lando’s eyewitness account is what got him thrown in jail. I’m already in deep enough shit as it is. I am not pressing charges, and I sure as hell ain’t gonna testify in court. Are you guys fucking crazy?”

“You can’t repay your debt. You’re taking an additional semester. It’s gonna be a long time before you’re making enough money to even pay a fraction of it,” you argued, growing increasingly desperate by the second, “Let me chip in, at least. Or I can cover your rent for the rest of the year.”

He said nothing. You felt bile rise in your throat as another realization began to set in.

“You are not going to work for them again,” you asserted, sitting down in the chair across from him, “Han, you said yourself that you can’t—“

“I don’t have any other choice.”

“That’s not true,” Leia said, avoiding his gaze, “We can press charges against Fett, and then prosecution could offer him a plea deal in exchange for giving them information about the Hutts, which we could use to get their entire operation shut down—“

“There is no we, Leia,” he snapped, “Just stop. Both of you. It’s my shit, and I’ll figure it out. It’s not anyone else’s business.”

“He attacked my brother, Han.”

“And he’s not gonna do it again if you guys just stay out of it from now on.”

“What if I press charges then?” you asked.

His head snapped up then, and he gave you a desperate look that you’d never seen on him before. It made you uneasy.

“Do not. Please.”

The edge to his voice shattered any of your prior audacity, and you stared at him for a moment, bewildered by the level of emotion radiating from him. He almost looked like he might cry, but you’d never seen him do that, so such a thought was unfathomable to you.

“Okay,” you conceded, reaching out and grabbing his hands to try to comfort him, “I won’t. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s gonna be okay,” he said, whether it was to himself or to you, you weren’t quite sure, and then he sharply turned to Leia, “And please don’t tell me what I think you’re gonna tell me.”

“I’m sorry,” she replied, pursing her lips and staring at her folded hands, “Even if Luke doesn’t testify, I don’t think the state will drop it. He’s a high profile victim.”

“Why’d you have to go and fuck the senator’s kid?” he asked you, his head hanging low, “Fuck. Fuck.”

“Han—“

“Call him. Call him right now and tell him not to press charges.”

“You can’t ask me to do that,” she protested, though she seemed apologetic about it, “Look, Han. We can get this straightened out, okay?”

“Stop saying we,” he pleaded, and then, with a final sigh, he stood and threw his glasses down onto the table, “I’m going for a drive.”

“Don’t shut us out,” Leia told him, standing to match his stature.

“Stay out of it, Leia,” he said, pointing a finger in her face.

With that, he grabbed his keys and slammed the door shut behind him.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

A few days had passed since you’d learned of Boba Fett’s arrest. Han had tried to pretend like nothing had changed since then, but you were now constantly regarding each other with an air of suspicion. He was worried that you would follow through on your previous threat to testify, and you were afraid that he would resume contact with the Hutts. It was an uncomfortable situation, you and Chewie walking on eggshells around him at every turn.

Adding to your stress was the fact that you didn’t know whether or not Luke would testify. You didn’t think you could just ask him that, but the question loomed over you.

One evening, things came to a head. You and Chewie were sitting on the couch eating ice cream and watching reality television when Han stormed inside and threw his stuff down, staring at you both pointedly.

“We’re going out tonight,” he stated, arms crossed in front of his chest.

“Okay?” you replied, unsure of where this was coming from.

“We’re gonna have a good time. And we’re not gonna talk about any of that bullshit. And you’re both gonna stop looking at me like you feel sorry for me.”

You shared a nervous glance with Chewie, who offered you a reassuring nod. Alright, then.

“This feels irresponsible,” you noted, anxiously chewing your bottom lip, “But okay. Where do you want to go?”

“Wherever the music is,” he answered, grinning, “Be ready in an hour.”

You entertained his request. Your cooperation was due in part to being genuinely worried about him and wanting him to be able to have a nice night, but also because you were excited to spend time with him again in a way that didn’t feel tense or awkward. You didn’t bother dressing up tonight; something casual paired with Han’s leather jacket would suit you just fine. He was ready right when he said he would be, and the three of you headed downtown to scout out some live music.

Fortunately, you were successful pretty early on. You hadn’t really wanted to bar hop tonight, so this worked out well. Less fortunately, however, was that this was a quite a popular venue, and the band was doing cheesy pop covers to appeal to your peers. You would need to have at least one drink to enjoy it, you realized, so you headed off towards the bar.

When you arrived, however, you were surprised to find that none other than Lando was sitting there, in deep discussion with one of his friends.

“Well, look who we have here!” he cheered when he caught sight of you, standing to hug you in that uniquely charismatic way of his.

“Hey,” you greeted him tiredly, not bothering to be polite, “Han’s here, and I think he’s kind of pissed at you for handing over an eyewitness report without consulting him first. Just a heads up.”

“Can’t I want to talk to you for a bit before facing his wrath?” he asked cheekily, gesturing for you to take the seat next to him, “Vodka cran, right?”

Before you could reply, he waved over the bartender and ordered you a double, flashing you a perfect smile.

“Thanks,” you said slowly, narrowing your eyes at him.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

“Yeah, not to be a dick or anything, but you were kind of complacent in someone I love being beaten within an inch of his life. And now you’re buying me a drink like the last time I saw you wasn’t horribly traumatic. I’m not really feeling up to exchanging pleasantries right now. Sorry.”

He studied you for a moment, his eyes so serious that you thought he might start berating you. You jumped in your seat a little when he burst out into laughter, shaking his head at you like you were an old friend.

“No wonder Han is so fond of you,” he mused, smiling at you again, “I am sincerely sorry about what happened that night, but you should know that he and I have been in touch since. He understands that I legally have to report incidents like that as an employee.”

“Begrudgingly,” a voice behind you snapped.

You let out a sigh of relief when Han and Chewie appeared next to you, providing some respite in such an uncomfortable situation. Chewie placed a comforting hand on your shoulder, and you offered him a sip of your drink.

“Chewie! And Han, dear friend,” Lando said happily, standing and embracing the other man, “To whom I owe many favors.”

“We’ll see if you make good on your part,” he grumbled, “Seems like you’re wasting money on flattery right now.”

“Not flattery,” he denied, something smug about him, “Just being friendly.”

“A little too friendly.”

“Han,” he reprimanded, clicking his tongue before turning to you, “How do you stand him being so protective of you? He’s acting like your mother.”

In spite of yourself, you smiled a little at the absurdity of Han being called motherly in any sense of the word.

“I manage,” you replied a little less coldly than before.

You relaxed further when Han just rolled his eyes and slapped Lando on the back hard enough to hurt, leaning down so that the other man could mumble something in his ear. Han looked at you curiously before nodding at something Lando said, and then he stood, messed up your hair, and walked away with Chewie at his side.

“I’ve been given a task,” Lando explained, leaning a bit closer to you, “One that I’m happy to oblige, if you’re willing.”

“Excuse me?”

He leaned forward to whisper in your ear, but made no move to touch you or invade your space.

“Don’t look now, but Skywalker is watching.”

There was no way Luke could be here. You supposed it was quite crowded and you’d only just arrived, but how had you not seen him? And why would he be staring at you? Had Lando not warned you against it, you would’ve immediately turned to find Luke in the crowd, unbelieving of the idea that he’d be looking at you.

“And?” you dared to press, suddenly feeling his eyes on you and knowing that it had to be true.

“You’re tangled up in some sort of mess with him, aren’t you?”

You chewed the inside of your cheek for a second, mulling over his question. Your shoulders slumped as you forced yourself to admit it out loud for the first time.

“Yeah, I guess I am,” you confessed, chasing the words down with your drink.

“I think it’s mutual, if you don’t mind me saying as much,” he told you, taking a sip of his own beverage, “He comes to Cloud City a lot. I haven’t seen him with anyone else since the night he came to your defense. It’s unusual for him.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Then why’s he glaring at me?”

The prospect seemed so outright ridiculous to you that you couldn’t help but laugh, the sound bitter and frustrated.

“It’s probably just because he thinks you’re a dick for taking Fett’s bribe at first.”

“Ouch,” he winced, but he didn’t stay down for long, “But I don’t think so. He’s not that confrontational. Only when you’re involved.”

“Cut it out,” you warned, not wanting to get your hopes up.

“So what you two have is more complicated than it seems, I suppose,” he noted coolly, looking over your shoulder, “His drink is empty, but he hasn’t come over to the bar since you’ve been here. He probably can’t stomach the idea that I’m showing you a good time—doesn’t wanna deal with it up close. If only he knew you were actually laughing at me rather than with me.”

“You deserve it,” you murmured, though a sheepish smile tugged at your lips.

“I won’t argue with that.”

You giggled at that, unable to fully fend off Lando’s charm, and felt some of the tension drain from your limbs. You weren’t sure what kind of truce they’d arranged yet, but you knew that if Han had any doubts about Lando’s intentions, he would’ve never left you alone with him—even if he was in the same room, likely observing you like a hawk from afar.

“I should tell you that Han was comfortable enlisting help from me,” he said seriously, “I’ll make sure the trouble stops here, okay? He’s not gonna get hurt again. You have my word.”

The admission surprised you, and you couldn’t help the widening of your eyes, your disbelief unable to be concealed.

“His debt will be paid. It might take a while, but we’ll ensure that the Hutts are confident in his ability to give them their money.”

“You’re gonna help him smuggle drugs,” you realized bitterly, once again feeling betrayed by Lando, “He can’t—“

“This is better than him going alone, which was his initial plan. This way, he’ll at least have protection.”

You moved to get up from your seat, but Lando placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, urging you to sit back down. You obliged him for reasons you didn’t fully understand, and he offered you a glass of water out of gratitude.

“You should also know that Leia Skywalker approached me before he did.”

That intrigued you. You settled back into your seat fully then, picking your vodka cran back up and taking a dignified sip of it, a silent demand for him to continue.

“You can’t tell him about any of this,” he warned, leaning forward and whispering to you once more, “We’re gonna have him work under the Hutts for a little while to clear him of suspicion, show that he’s a loyal underling and all once he’s been scared straight. He won’t be doing this for long.”

“And then what?”

He pursed his lips together at that and shook his head, giving you an apologetic look.

“You’re not gonna tell me?” you asked, irritated.

“I’m sorry. It’s better that you don’t feel like you’re keeping secrets from him, isn’t it?”

“It’s better that I know he’s safe.”

“You’ll just have to trust me.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“Do you trust Leia?”

You fell silent. Fine.

“You’re a good friend,” he told you before looking over your shoulder again, musing, “Ah. Shouldn’t have touched you, I suppose. I’ve poked the bear.”

Before you could figure out what he was talking about, you heard someone call your name excitedly, and suddenly a pair of strong arms looped around your neck, a kiss being placed on top of your head. You looked up to see Luke standing above you, leaning over your chair to keep you in a half hug without forcing you to stand.

“Hi,” he said, smiling brightly at you. There was an edge to him, though, and when you looked over your shoulder you could see Han smirking.

He must’ve said something to Lando about your infatuation with Luke, you realized. He was conspiring with the other man to make Luke jealous. It was so stupid, and so ridiculously Han that you wanted to laugh. Even more absurd was that it appeared to be working.

“Luke Skywalker,” Lando greeted, “Heard you all had a pretty nice game today.”

You couldn’t see Luke’s expression very well from this angle, but you thought he might’ve been annoyed.

“It was a lot of fun,” he replied politely, arms still wrapped around you.

“It seemed like fun. I don’t usually watch college sports on television, but I figured I’d tune in to see one of my favorite customers. You were fantastic.”

“Thank you,” he said, sounding somewhat thrown off by Lando’s sudden interest in his sport, “They were an aggressive team, so we needed a drink after that.”

“I’m sure. Seemed like they were giving you in particular quite a bit of trouble. I’m glad to see you’re doing well.”

Luke narrowed his eyes at him, but didn’t react further.

“Right,” he replied, sounding skeptical, “Well, if you don’t mind, I might have to steal your company for a bit. We haven’t seen each other in a while.”

You were surprised by that. You didn’t think he’d be so bothered by Lando that he’d want to pull you away from him, and you had to pretend not to be as amused as you were.

“That’s a shame, but I understand,” Lando said, before turning to you and smugly adding, “Well, if you’re able to make time for me later tonight, I’d love to continue our conversation.”

He threw in a wink, and your cheeks flushed in spite of yourself.

“Maybe. Thanks for the drink, Lando,” you murmured, standing.

“Bye, Lando!” Luke cheered, feigning innocence but looking proud of himself. He put his hand on your lower back then and guided you into the crowd, successfully getting you alone and near the wall. He was becoming skilled at dragging you away to locations that fulfilled those two requirements in particular.

Rather than interrogate you about Lando, however, the first thing he did was pull you into a hug. He pulled away to pepper kisses across your forehead, behaving as if the two of you were lovers who hadn’t seen each other in forever. The latter was true, but Han’s presence was likely responsible for the theatrics.

“It’s been too long,” he sighed, finally looking you in the eye, “Sorry. I’m not trying to be possessive or anything, I just—I needed to see you. And I don’t particularly like Lando, especially when he’s trying to embarrass me.”

“I don’t know how to feel about him. He bought me a drink, though.”

“I noticed.”

His tone made you giggle.

“How was he trying to embarrass you? Seemed like he was kissing your ass.”

“And that’s embarrassing,” he clarified, “But actually, he was about to bring up how some guys on the other team were being kind of rough with me. I could tell.“

“If you say so,” you hummed, tucking a blond curl behind his ear, as you often did these days, “Why were they being rough with you?”

“Because I’m good,” he replied, grinning.

“Right, right. Sorry, Captain.”

“I forgive you,” he told you, hands making their way down to gently grab your hips, “Couldn’t stay mad at you. Especially not when you look like this.”

“I look like shit,” you laughed, recalling that you hadn’t put much effort into your outfit tonight, “You’re just wound up because those guys were being ‘rough’ with you earlier, right?”

“Hey!” he gasped, giggling in the way that always made your head spin, “That’s crazy to say. I haven’t seen you in over a week and you’re making fun of me already.”

“It’s how I express affection,” you teased, leaning into him and placing a hand on his chest, “It’s okay, Luke. I know how easy you are to rile up. It’s only natural that a bunch of men in tight clothes getting handsy would—“

He cut you off by planting a kiss on your lips. He was likely only trying to shut you up, but you responded by biting his bottom lip, causing his grip on you to tighten. He sighed into the kiss, melting into you.

“Luke!”

There was a slim possibility that he just didn’t hear him, but Luke most likely deepened the kiss out of spite, hand coming up to your neck as he forced your lips apart even wider. He usually relented to your control at some point, but perhaps having an audience emboldened him, because he fully took the lead as he guided you backwards into the wall. You matched his fervor, looping your arms around his neck to give him more access to your body. He responded by slotting a knee between your thighs, his free hand near the hem of your shirt, practically begging to slip beneath the fabric and feel your skin.

“All good?” he pulled back to ask as you panted, the speed at which the encounter had escalated making you a little dizzy. You nodded, but he chastised you by clicking his tongue, lips close to your ear as he whispered, “I need to hear you say it, baby. We’re in public, it’s crowded, and I don’t wanna push you.”

“Yes,” you told him, nodding again, “I mean, I don’t wanna fuck in front of everybody or anything, but I wouldn’t be opposed to you touching me.”

“Wouldn’t be opposed to it?” he teased, gently nipping the skin by your jaw, “What exactly are you unopposed to?”

“You were about to put your hands under my shirt. Can’t you just do that?” you griped, squirming a little as his fingertips ghosted your ribs.

“Why did you just ask?”

You rolled your eyes, but your attitude dissolved when he finally complied, hand inching closer and closer to your chest. When he gently pressed the pad of his thumb against your nipple, you sighed, tilting your head and letting it rest against the wall. He attached his lips to your neck then, kissing down the side as he fondled your chest with the perfect amount of pressure, making you feel a little dizzy. Compiled with the fact that he didn’t mind if anyone saw him take you apart like this made your heart swell, and you felt a tinge of pride at the realization that you looked like you were his in this moment.

“Luke!” someone hollered again, and he reacted by softly biting the sensitive spot above your collarbone, causing you to quietly moan. You felt him smile against your skin, and you knew then that he definitely heard the calls of his friends.

“They’re trying to get your attention,” you managed to say, gasping a little as he continued to suck bruises into your skin, “Luke, they’re yelling for you—“

“They need to learn how to take a hint,” he mumbled, lightly pinching your nipple between his fingertips, “Do you want me to stop?”

“I mean, I don’t mind,” you replied quietly. He had the audacity to giggle.

“I can see that,” he whispered, lips now dangerously close to your ear, “Haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. About your mouth. I’ve missed you.”

His words set your cheeks ablaze, and you responded by holding him closer to you. He laughed again and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, looking at you with an emotion that seemed like something much more than lust.

“I missed you too,” you told him, feeling a little shy from your confession, “I’m glad to see you here.”

“I didn’t wanna go out tonight, but they always drag me somewhere after a win. I’m feeling a lot better about being here now though.”

You couldn’t help the grin that you were sporting, far too happy to hear that he was this excited to see you.

“Is that why you’re so eager tonight?” you teased.

“I also didn’t really like seeing Lando flirt with you,” he mumbled, looking down at his shoes for a moment, “I’m sorry. I know I’m not your boyfriend, but—I don’t know, actually. I’m not entitled to your time more than anyone else, I realize that, but I just really hated watching that.”

“He was trying to make you jealous,” you confessed, feeling embarrassed, “I think Han may have told him to.”

Luke cocked his head a little at you then, and subsequently burst into a fit of giggles. He looked around the room for Han, but due to the crowd he was unable to find him. Still, he shook his head fondly, surprising you with his reaction.

“Of course he did,” he mused, grinning, “He must have seen me before you did, then. But Lando was still a little too happy to indulge him.”

“Uh oh,” you frowned, perhaps a bit mockingly, “Am I banned from talking to Lando now? That’s a shame. He’s kind of cute.”

“Hey,” he pouted, pinching your nipple again to remind you of what you were supposed to be in the middle of, “No, you’re not banned from talking to Lando. That’s stupid as fuck. I don’t consider myself particularly possessive.”

“How noble,” you snorted, but you smiled nonetheless, because of course he wasn’t. Luke was just too nice, too good at emotionally regulating to ever actually instigate anything just because he was feeling jealous. His ability to think through situations like that was part of the reason why you adored him so much.

“But I’d be lying if I said I’d be happy for you,” he admitted, pressing a kiss to your jaw, “Well, like, objectively speaking I might be a little happy for you. Lando’s really hot, and he’s a smooth talker. He’s like a much more polite version of Han. I don’t even know how mad I could be if you guys got together. Like, I would be disappointed, because I’d want it to be me, but—“

“Woah,” you interjected, “You’d want it to be you? As in you’d want to be the one dating Lando? Because that’s what it sounds like.”

You both laughed at that, Luke’s eyes bright even in the dim lighting of the bar.

“I’d be jealous of both of you, sure,” he teased, hands falling to grab your waist, “But I’d be especially jealous of him. I won’t stop you from pursuing Lando, if that’s what you wanna do, but I’d love it if you pursued me instead.”

His honesty was amusing and disarming, and you once again couldn’t conceal your laughter. You lightly shoved him, which he replied to with a grin, assuring you that this was all in good fun. You loved that the two of you could go from making out against the wall to making fun of each other on the flip of a dime. Everything with Luke felt natural, and everything was so incredibly fun.

“Are you sure? It sounds like you might have a crush on Lando.”

“I’d be stupid to refuse Lando, but he doesn’t flirt with me,” he replied, grinning, “And no. The only person I have a crush on is you.”

You wouldn’t have let yourself believe that he really meant that if it weren’t for the way his expression fell as soon as the words left his mouth. His eyes widened and his face paled, and he almost looked like he was panicking.

“I’m sorry. Listen, I’m—“

Before he could explain, Elias was behind him, grabbing his shoulders. Luke’s stress didn’t fully disappear, but now he looked more irritated than anything else.

“Luke!” Elias shouted, even though the other man was standing right next to him, “We’ve been looking everywhere for you. Come on, man. We’re supposed to be celebrating you.”

He had no chance to protest before Elias was shoving him towards the bar. In a moment of apparent desperation, Luke reached out and grabbed your hand, effectively tacking you onto their group for the night. He shook Elias off by agreeing to follow him, and immediately entangled your fingers.

He mouthed an I’m sorry to you, but he didn’t let go of your hand. Something about it was strangely sweet, so you decided to put up with his friends for the time being. When you arrived at the bar, however, you saw Lando in the company of Han and Chewie. Han had never actually interacted with Luke’s friends before, and anxiety twisted in your gut.

“Fuck,” Luke hissed under his breath, and you looked around to see that quite a large crowd had gathered around the corner of the bar, anticipating his arrival. Most of the soccer team appeared to be there, and a considerable number of other people you assumed were in their friend group stood there as well. Of course, Marie and her friends were present too, and you tried to channel some of Luke’s overall good intentions despite his apparent jealousy.

“Luke!” a girl you didn’t recognize greeted him, pulling him into a hug. He politely returned it and told her hello, as he did with the people to follow in her footsteps for the next few minutes. Finally, one of his teammates presented him with a rather large mug of beer, thrusting it into his hands and spilling some of it onto his shirt.

“To Luke and his nomination for the Hermann Trophy. Way to go, man. Cheers.”

The group applauded and yelled some explicative words that were supposed to be praise, tilting their glasses to the ceiling in a toast. You had no idea what the Hermann Trophy was supposed to be, but it sounded like a positive thing, so you joined them in their applause. He smiled and took a sip of his beer, but the teammate from earlier then shoved it closer to his face, spilling some of it onto his neck in the process.

“Chug it!” someone hollered, and you saw Luke grimace.

“This is huge,” he remarked in a weak attempt to defend himself. As expected, no one cared. They all looked at him, waiting. He sighed and relented, forcing the liquid down his throat. It took him over a minute to chug the entirety of the mug’s contents, and he looked like he was trying not to gag afterwards. The boys cheered him on again, a few of them slapping him on the back rather harshly in congratulations. Marie ran over to him next, throwing her arms around him and talking right in his ear.

Chewie appeared behind you then, gently guiding you towards Han and Lando on the other side of the bar.

“What’s all that shit about?” Han asked, raising his eyebrow at you.

“He got nominated for some award, I guess. I think they just want an excuse to drink, and he’s their poster child. So.”

“You don’t know about the Hermann Trophy?” Lando asked. You shook your head.

“It goes to the best soccer player in the country. It’s the most prestigious award you can get in the sport,” he explained, looking at Luke, who was having another drink shoved in his face.

“Oh,” you replied quietly. You felt guilty and weirdly ashamed to not have known. Luke also never told you, which was a little hurtful.

“He’s been scouted a for it a few times, but people would’ve been pissed if he won over an upperclassman. It looks like he might actually get it this year.”

“You sure know a lot about our soccer team to not even go to school here,” Han snorted, “You a big fan of Luke, Lando?”

“I’m a local,” he shrugged, smiling, “And of course. He’s my favorite patron.”

“Well, good thing this ain’t your bar, because they’re making a mess over there.”

“And they’re being annoying,” you added, watching as Marie offered him a shot. You noticed that he didn’t try to pour it into her mouth, and you felt a little smug.

“You gonna rescue him?” Han asked.

“I’m supposed to be hanging out with you tonight,” you argued quietly, still staring at Luke.

“Uh huh,” he said, slinging an arm around your shoulders, “Didn’t seem to be a concern to you when he was shovin’ his tongue down your throat a few minutes ago, sweetheart.”

“You saw that?” you squawked, mouth agape. Lando chuckled.

“Sure I did. Had to keep an eye on Lando to make sure he didn’t take any drastic artistic liberties, but I wasn’t expecting the kid to react that strongly. Almost sent Chewie over to set him straight.”

Chewie shook his head, as if to say I wouldn’t have done that. You giggled at his reaction in spite of yourself.

“If you had done that, I would’ve been really pissed,” you told them both, pointing your finger in Han’s face, “You can’t try to wingman for me and then get mad about the results. Those are the consequences of your actions.”

“I wasn’t expecting him to be so forward,” Han argued, “But maybe if you had been honest with me about the two of you fucking, I would’ve had a better idea of how far he was willing to go.”

“First of all, we’re not fucking. Second of all, that’s really bold coming from you, Han, because I’m pretty sure Leia wore your shirt home the other night. But whatever.”

Han looked affronted for a moment before scoffing and taking a drink of his whiskey. Lando laughed and shook his head, regarding Han with something akin to fondness.

“The twins have done a number on you both, huh? Glad you’re staying out of this mess, Chewie.”

Chewie grunted and held his hands up, making it very clear that he had no interest in getting involved with a Skywalker.

“I’m surprised Leia puts up with you though, Han. She doesn’t want anything to do with me,” Lando added, likely trying to get a reaction out of the other man. You laughed.

“Careful, Lando. Han’s the jealous type. Much worse than Luke.”

“I know. I’ve seen it in person before. He’s a menace.”

“Alright, alright. I don’t know how this turned into everyone shitting on me, but that’s enough,” he snapped, though he squeezed your shoulder affectionately and ordered you a light drink anyway.

“Speaking of Luke, he sure is popular tonight,” Han mused, only catching glimpses of the other man as he was bombarded by the crowd around him.

“He always is,” Lando replied, “And this is just for the watchlist. Imagine what will happen if he actually wins it.”

“Doesn’t look too happy though, huh?”

“He doesn’t like beer,” you added quietly, taking a sip of your own drink, “And he doesn’t like a lot of those people either.”

“Are you really gonna leave him to the wolves?” Han asked, sounding a little worried. You liked it when he fretted over Luke; it was sweet.

“He’s a grown man. And I don’t wanna make any assumptions.”

“You’d hardly be making assumptions. That boy is enamored by you,” Lando stated. Like it was some sort of fact.

“It’s really not like that.”

The only person I have a crush on is you. Could he have really meant that? Letting yourself get your hopes up would only hurt more in the end, but you couldn’t help but wonder.

“All four of you are dim. How do you stand it, Chewie?”

“Four of us?” Han asked, offended.

“The twins and you two. You need to get yourselves sorted out, because it’s getting painful to watch. And I’m only around every once in a while. I can’t image how poor Chewie feels.”

Chewie nodded in agreement, but a small smile played at his lips. Han rolled his eyes.

“Hey.”

You turned sharply at the voice you didn’t immediately recognize, only to see Biggs standing there.

“Hi,” you replied awkwardly, not quite sure what he could want. Han, apparently, took that as a sign that you were uncomfortable, because he took it upon himself to then intervene.

“Can we help you?” he asked, glaring at the other man. Biggs looked a little put off by that.

“Um, yeah. Sorry to bother you, but they’re about to try to haul Luke off to a bar crawl.”

“Okay?” you replied, eyebrow raised.

“And then they want him to go to this after party at Marie’s. And they’re gonna try to get them together.”

“Thanks for letting me know,” you snorted, turning back around to face Han and the others.

“I think he’d rather hang out with you.”

Your heart clenched at his words, but you didn’t bother acknowledging him.

“Look,” he tried again, and you sighed when you relented and met his eyes again, “I just don’t think this is a good idea for him to be doing right now. He’s not very good at putting his foot down about this stuff, and I’m a little worried about how many drinks they’re handing him, and they’re being really insistent on him dating Marie because they want an in to fuck her friends. There are a lot of ways that this could go wrong.“

You weren’t exactly sure of what he was suggesting, but you felt uneasy.

“Why can’t you do something about it? They’re your friends. Tell them to fuck off.”

“It’s not that easy. They’ll get pissed at me. And at him. This only works if someone on the outside gives him an out. This is usually when Leia steps in with a dumb excuse and drags him home, but she’s at band practice.”

“‘This only works if someone on the outside gives him an out,’” Han sneered, mocking him, “You sound stupid, and you guys all have a fucked up perception of friendship.”

With that, he stood abruptly and shoved past Biggs, leaving the other man wide eyed. You watched as Han pushed his way through the crowd, apparently on a mission to get to Luke. Lando chuckled.

“Is that guy your boyfriend?” Biggs asked, staring at Han from across the bar.

“No,” you answered quickly, “My roommate.”

“He’s seeing Leia,” Lando added, smirking, “That’s probably why he decided to intervene. He’s doing it on her behalf.”

That made sense.

“I’m sorry,” Biggs said then, turning to you, “I know you don’t really like us. I understand why you wouldn’t. Some of us really do have his best interest at heart, though.”

“Maybe,” you mumbled, distracted by Han dragging a grinning Luke out of the crowd, “Seems like most of you are just interested in him because of who his parents are.”

“I’ve known Luke for a long time,” he said, somewhat ominously, “And I know you think that he should stand up for himself more, but just try to understand that he really doesn’t wanna piss off the people who are defending him on the field. His career and his likability are pretty tangled up.”

“Alright, Biggs,” you murmured, growing a little uncomfortable with talking about Luke behind his back like this, “I’m not thinking about you guys as much as you think I am. It’s fine.”

“Chewie!”

You turned to see Luke hanging off of Han’s arm, his cheerfulness a dichotomy with Han’s disgruntled expression. You wished Leia could’ve seen it. Luke then let go of Han and focused his attention on your other roommate, pulling the tall man into a hug like they were old friends. Chewie awkwardly indulged him, looking to Han for help, who only shrugged.

“I’ve missed you guys. We should hang out,” he said, smiling widely. You wondered how many drinks he’d been given, because he was already in a much different state than the one you’d left him in.

“Thank you,” Biggs said to Han. Han only nodded, still regarding the other man with suspicion, but said nothing to him as he turned to leave.

“Are you leaving, Biggs?” Luke asked as he reached for him, “Did I ever tell you how we met? I had to live with my aunt and uncle for a little while, and—“

“Luke,” Biggs interjected, cutting him off, “Stop.”

“It’s fine. They’re like, really normal. They don’t care about that stuff—“

“You’re in public,” Biggs reminded him, grabbing his shoulder, “And you’re drunk. You can tell them tomorrow if you still want to, okay?”

“Oh,” Luke replied, looking around, “Okay. I’ll tell you guys tomorrow, then.”

“Get him home,” Biggs said, pointing at you, “I’m gonna tell them that Leia called and he has to leave, okay?”

With that, Biggs departed, Luke waving at him as he left. Han scowled.

“Pawning him off onto us when he gets too drunk. That’s fucked,” he complained, hands on his hips.

“I can get home by myself,” Luke replied, and you tried not to let the hurt in his voice overwhelm you, “I’m not that fucked up. I just probably shouldn’t hang out with them right now. But I can just go home, and you guys can stay and enjoy the rest of your night. It’s really okay.”

You watched as Han battled some sort of internal struggle, the conflict showing on his face.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he finally said, softening his tone a little, “Chewie, you and Lando can hang out here if you want. We can smoke when I get back.”

“You sure? We can walk with you guys,” Lando offered.

“It’s fine. I wanted a cigarette anyway. Have fun.”

With that, Han made his way to the door, staring at you and Luke expectantly. You supposed you were walking him home, then.

“I really don’t want to be a burden,” Luke protested. Han rolled his eyes and continued walking, making it clear that he was leaving the bar either way. Reluctantly, Luke followed, and you walked behind him.

Han was, in fact, lighting a cigarette as soon as you got outside.

“Your sister will kill me if your dickhead friends get you into trouble while I’m around,” Han explained, taking a drag, “So stop moping and lead the way.”

Luke sighed and began walking, hands shoved in his pockets as he started down the route to his apartment complex.

“I wasn’t trying to be an ass. I feel bad,” Han told you quietly, cigarette hanging out of his mouth.

“I think it’s alright. He’s probably just overwhelmed. Getting shit faced in twenty minutes will do that to a person.”

Han nodded, and you ran to catch up with Luke. Even drunk, he was still much faster than you on account of being in shape.

“Hey,” you said, making it to his side, “You didn’t tell me about your award.”

“Hey,” he replied, a little sheepishly, “Because it’s not my award. I’m only a nominee.”

“A nominee for the best player in the country. That’s fucking crazy, Luke.”

“Don’t get your hopes up,” he said, dismissing you, “Is Han mad at me?”

“What?” you asked, a little surprised, “No, Luke. He feels bad that he snapped at you a few minutes ago, so he’s giving you some space. That’s just how he is.”

“I meant about the Fett stuff.”

You faltered, caught off guard by that.

“Oh,” you mumbled, “Um, I don’t think so? He hasn’t said much else about it.”

“I’m not testifying or anything,” he clarified.

“He wouldn’t ask you not to testify. You should if you feel like you need to.”

“I don’t want to. I hate court. It fucking sucks,” he said, trailing off a little. You weren’t sure what he meant by that, but you weren’t about to press him for information when he was obviously inebriated.

“Okay,” you replied awkwardly, “That’s fine, then. Do what you want.”

“He’ll be okay,” he continued, “She’s making me stay out of it, but Leia’s really trying to pull some strings right now.”

You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t really know what he was talking about, save for the vague information Lando had given you earlier.

“I’m impressed that you managed to choke down that beer,” you said instead, changing the topic.

“Oh, god,” he winced, scrunching up his nose in that adorable way of his, “You’re telling me. That was horrible.”

You continued to make small talk all the way to his apartment complex, one of you having tangled your fingers together at some point. Han put out his cigarette when you arrived at the doors, the man working the front desk in the lobby recognizing Luke and pressing the elevator button for him. You couldn’t get over how fancy this place was.

“You reek,” you told Han when he followed you into the elevator. Luke had wrapped himself around your good arm, leaning to be able to rest his head on your shoulder. He must’ve been tired.

Han just grunted, arms crossed. When the elevator dinged and the doors opened, Luke dragged you out and into the hallway, holding you as close to him as he possibly could. He dropped his keys twice when he tried to open the door, and Han eventually grew frustrated and snatched them from his hands.

At last, he pushed the door open, and you finally completed your mission of returning Luke Skywalker to his home.

What came as a surprise, however, was the fact that Padme and Anakin Skywalker were sitting on the couch.