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helioooss · 1 month ago

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vi. i need to want something more (the end)

synopsis: after a rare drunken night, y/n wakes up in bed next to the most untouchable girl at yonsei: karina. she’s immediately thrown into a mess she never wanted, torn between her own moral compass and the undeniable pull of something she doesn’t understand. some lines, once crossed, can never be undone.

w/c: 10k+

warnings: heavy cheating, implied sex, alcohol, smoking, just normal uni stuff, swearingggg, slow burn

a/n: so here it is…was a long time coming; i appreciate all of you who stuck around long enough to see the end it. there will be no fics for awhile as i work on editing my older stuff — figured i need to show those a bit of love and polishing too. this series has so much potential to become more, i’ll keep my ears open in the future. always enjoy reading your takes on this chapter, so please let me know how you feel about it :)

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

the light wakes you first. not the usual pale grey cast of a seoul morning, but something softer, whiter. your breath is visible in the sliver of air between your duvet and your face.

the heater’s still warming up — typical. you stay curled beneath the covers a few seconds longer, blinking toward the window, where the light presses through the glass differently now.

you already know.

when you sit up, you’re met with the season’s first snowfall. it’s not heavy yet, still a delicate sheet of white layered over the pavement and trees outside.

the world is slower; even the wind is holding its breath.

you get up barefoot, stepping around the pile of laundry near your desk, your laptop still open from last night. giselle flew back to japan last week and yunjin left a post-it note on your side table saying she was grabbing coffee with ryujin. they’ll probably be out for hours.

you should make coffee, maybe start reading that case brief you’ve avoided all week. instead, you stare out the window a while.

the trees outside are really bare now, snow clinging to every branch like a second skin. you reach for your phone and snap a quick photo.

your fingers hover for a moment before sending it to your parents.

first snow of the season! ❄️

they had invited you to join them in switzerland for the holidays; some rental cabin overlooking a frozen lake, something out of a postcard. you told them you had too much to finish here; that much was true.

the reply comes quickly.

from: dad 👨

beautiful! mum says bundle up. she’s already trying to book you a plane ticket despite your answer still being a firm no. 😂

you smile, a little and your screen dims again.

and then it buzzes.

from: sana 🩵

you still like watching the snow fall from windows?

something shifts in your chest as you stare at her name for a moment — warm and uncertain. before you can think about it too hard, you hit call.

she answers before the second ring.

“hi,” you greet, still watching the snowfall.

“hi,” she replies, voice soft and all. she sounds like she’s speaking from under a warm blanket. “you’re up early.”

“snow woke me.”

“hmm,” she hums. “me too, actually.”

you don’t say anything for a second, just listen to her breathing through the speaker because there’s something grounding about it.

“do you want to come over?”

she pauses, then says: “only if we get breakfast first.”

you smile, small and real. “our usual?”

“of course.”

you end the call and move slowly through your morning — brushing your teeth, pulling on layers, rubbing moisturiser into your face with hands that still feel half asleep. you stare at your reflection for a beat too long; there’s colour in your cheeks from the cold and your hair’s a little flat, but you look more like yourself lately.

or someone you recognise, anyway.

as you zip up your coat, you think of sana. how she’s never asked you to call this anything…or make you feel like you owe her certainty you don’t have.

and still — she shows up.

you think about how easy it would be to keep building this quiet version of love, one morning at a time. back then, you thought maybe the whole world would bend if you just stayed still beside her long enough.

you could get used to whatever this is again.

eventually, a car horn honks twice. when you step outside, the snow crunches beneath your boots. she’s already out of the car, walking toward you with a knit beanie pulled low over her ears. her breath clouds in the air.

the first thing she does is reach for your scarf.

“you still don’t know how to do this properly?” she mutters, unwrapping it halfway to re-loop it snug around your neck. “every year, it’s the same issue.”

“you’re just controlling,” you mumble, lips chapped and numb.

“you would freeze to death without me,” she shakes her head, focusing on the knot. her fingers are cold when it brushes against your neck.

there’s snow caught in her lashes and her cheeks are pink from the cold.

her hair is pulled back loosely, a few strands stuck to her collar. and she’s not looking at you. she’s still focused on that damn scarf. you study her face up close; how her brows knit together in concentration and how beautiful she is when she doesn’t know you’re looking.

“you’re pretty.”

she blinks and looks up; the corners of her mouth twitching. “don’t.”

you grin. “just saying.”

“you’re annoying.” she tugs your scarf tighter and gently shoves your shoulder before turning to the car. you follow, heart warmer than your gloves. “come on.”

the drive to itaewon is short and mostly quiet. the windows fog slightly and she draws a little heart in the glass with her knuckle at a red light. she doesn’t look at you when she does it.

“so,” you begin, glancing at her, “you could be in australia right now; drinking cocktails by a pool. why are you here in seoul?”

she glances over with a smile. “i could be.”

“so why aren’t you?”

she exhales through her nose, barely smiling. “because you’re here.”

“right,” you answer, cheeks flushing with warmth. and it’s enough.

that silences you, looking out the window as the snow settles along rooftops. your chest aches a little and it’s not in the way it used to; not with longing, but just with how much space she still takes up, even now.

grazia is tucked between two boutiques, all brick and wood and fogged-up windows. it’s warm and smells like cardamom and coffee inside. the waiter leads you to a quiet table near the back; you end up ordering pancakes and sana gets eggs on toast with extra mushrooms.

you talk about books — what you’ve been reading, what you haven’t had time to. she tells you about a ridiculous rumour she overheard at a party last week: something about taehyung and a chaebol heir (not jennie this time) who may or may not be fake.

it’s ridiculous.

after a pause, she stirs sugar into her coffee and asks. “so…have you decided?”

you look up at her, then down at your plate. “about the job?”

she nods.

“i think i’m gonna take it,” you answer, running your fingers through your hair. “taehyung’s dad offered me a contract starting next month. i’d be handling mid-scale portfolios. nothing glamorous, but…”

“it’s a start,” she finishes.

“yeah…a really good one.”

she smiles. “i’m glad — you’ll do so well.”

she stirs her drink once more, something milky and sweet. she’s dressed down today; soft turtleneck, old jeans, hair tied back with a velvet scrunchie that doesn’t match.

you rest your cheek on your hand and watch her; she looks comfortable.

“you’re staring again,” she chuckles without looking up and the sound makes your head all warm and fuzzy.

you clear your throat. “you’re always stirring your drink for no reason.

she grins. “i’m thinking.”

“about what?”

“you.”

you scoff into your coffee. “try something harder.”

she reaches across the table to steal a piece of your banana bread, doesn’t bother asking. you let her. then, more softly, she adds: “i’m really proud of you.”

“what for?”

“the job,” she mumbles. “with taehyung’s dad. that’s huge…everyone knows the kim family doesn’t let anyone in so easily.”

“it’s honestly just an entry contract.”

“it’s still a big deal,” she insists. “don’t downplay it. you worked hard and earned it.”

you press your hands around your mug and let the silence linger before asking: “and what about you?”

she lifts her gaze as you watch her carefully.

“when are you taking over your empire?”

sana snorts. “don’t call it that.”

“it is that…your family owns half of tokyo and most of osaka.”

“i mean when you put it like that,” she mutters. “it is…a lot.”

you raise a brow. “so? what’s the plan?”

she laughs, soft and brief — but you keep note of how her shoulders tense.

you don’t press, not yet. you just keep your voice even. “you know it’s coming.”

she leans back slightly, her fingers tracing the edge of her cup. “i know. my dad’s been…bringing it up more often lately. the board’s already making decisions ten years from now.”

her eyes lift to meet yours.

you try to sound gentle; encouraging. “so why not?”

she shrugs, looking away now. “because i’d have to be in japan…full-time.”

she hasn’t said it so plainly before.

you let the silence sit long enough, watching the way she presses her lips together, like she’s already prepared herself for this to hurt.

perhaps the part of you that’s been too afraid to name this…whatever this is — has been waiting for this conversation all along.

“it’s not that i don’t want to,” she adds, quieter now. “but i can’t leave you. not like this. not when we just…started again.”

she meets your gaze once more. there’s something in her expression that makes your chest ache. it’s not doubt.

it’s love, stretched thin by time and distance and the inevitability of her life pulling her somewhere you can’t follow — not yet.

and maybe this is what it means to be grown. to sit across from someone you love, knowing love might not be enough to keep things from changing.

“i’d never ask you to stay just because of me.”

“i know you wouldn’t.”

“but i also wouldn’t hold it against you if you needed to go.”

she exhales, blinking down at her hands. “i don’t want to go if it means leaving this.”

“we’re not a place,” you tell her gently. “we’re not a time either. we’re just…us. maybe we’ll always be.”

you reach for her hand across the table and she lets you take it. her fingers are cold but steady, thumb rubbing against the inside of your wrist like she’s trying to remember how to hold on without gripping too tightly.

you think: if this is all we have right now, i’ll take it. and across the table, she looks at you like she’s thinking the same thing.

as you walk back to the car, she slips her hand into your coat pocket; not your hand. just your pocket.

you laugh at her, feeling a bit lighter now. “what are you doing?”

she shrugs, looking forward. “just making sure you’re warm.”

you don’t reply, sliding your hand over hers, not lacing your fingers, just covering them because her palm is cold. you press your thumb into the space between her knuckles and feel her lean a little closer as you walk.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

the sound of your door clicking open feels louder than it should. your body aches from sitting too long in the same position, neck stiff, legs heavy and your brain mush after hours of reading case law. you drag yourself into the main living area where the scent of cheap popcorn lingers and twilight is somehow playing again — muted blue and green tones flickering across the television screen.

bella is mid-monologue; the sky is always grey in that fuckass town.

yunjin and ryujin are curled up on opposite ends of the couch, each with a throw blanket and a half-empty bowl of snacks between them. yunjin’s legs are draped over ryujin’s lap and they’re blth eating crispy m&ms (because they’re the best) like it’s the end of the world.

you drop onto the armchair beside them.

“how many times do you guys need to watch this a year?” you ask, voice still rough from not speaking all afternoon.

ryujin doesn’t look away from the screen. “you’re uncultured.”

“she just doesn’t get it,” yunjin agrees, nudging you with her socked foot. “she never got the team jacob to team edward pipeline.”

“i was studying contract law while you two watched vampire melodrama,” you grumble.

“that was your mistake,” ryujin shrugs, refusing to look away from the screen. “and so the lion fell in love with the lamb.”

you sit with them a while, with bits of and pieces of them mimicking lines and a type of silence that only happens when people know each other too well to need to fill it. it’s almost dinner time, you realise. you probably haven’t had a proper meal since breakfast.

yunjin turns to you like she’s reading your thoughts. “so, what do you want to do for dinner?”

you hesitate. “uhh, i’m actually going to sana’s soon.”

ryujin raises her brows without comment. yunjin shifts slightly, pulling her knees to her chest.

“movie night?” she asks, a little teasing, but gentle.

you nod, reaching down to adjust your sock. “yeah, she said she found this old japanese film she wants me to watch.”

“what’s going on with you two anyway?” ryujin looks at you. “it’s been a while now.”

you pause because putting it into words makes it feel more solid.

“we’re…good,” you say slowly. “we don’t talk about what it is. but it’s been really good.”

yunjin hums softly. “and…have you heard from karina?”

her name hits like a stone through still water, your shoulders tensing without meaning to. you haven’t thought about her in ages.

not really, anyway. not since early winter, when snow was just beginning to settle and you were still getting used to the way sana folded your blankets and made you tea before you even asked.

after that dinner scene, jimin just simply vanished. no texts or awkward sightings. not even a whisper from giselle, who always managed to mention her in passing before.

and you didn’t chase it. perhaps you were too tired…or maybe you were finally learning how to let silence be what it was.

still, the name makes something flicker inside your chest. it’s no longer pain, not anymore…just something dull and hasn’t fully left.

“no,” you finally answer. “i haven’t heard anything.”

yunjin fiddles with a popcorn kernel. “well, she’s in seoul, i saw her on ningning’s story last week. she was in the background.”

ryujin says nothing for once, she just reaches for the remote and lowers the volume a bit.

your stomach twists. “really?”

“looked like a rooftop thing. not much though, was just a glimpse.”

you nod, mouth dry. “guess she didn’t end up going to europe with jaewook after all.”

“yeah, guess so,” yunjin smiles at you, the way she always does when she wants to comfort you but doesn’t know the words to say.

you push yourself off the chair and stand. “i should get going though.”

ryujin gives you a slight wave. “tell sana we said hi. and look after yourself. and your heart.”

you pull on your coat, scarf still a mess from how it was folded. your bag’s got a change of clothes stuffed at the bottom and a book you haven’t opened. as you walk out into the cold, your breath clouds in the air and the sky has that faint blue cast of early evening.

sana’s apartment is warm, smells faintly of citrus and something boiling on the stove. she answers the door in a navy jumper and fuzzy socks, her hair damp like she just stepped out of the shower. you blink once and feel your chest ease.

“hi,” she grins, already reaching for your scarf, unravelling it to untie it properly now.

you laugh. “seriously?”

“you’ll thank me later.”

you follow her inside, boots off, bag dropped near the shoe rack. she’s already set up her bedroom —blankets stacked and mismatched pyjamas folded on the edge. you change slowly, the clothes a little big on you, the sleeves brushing your knuckles. she doesn’t say anything when she sees you wearing her shirt, but she smiles like something in her has softened.

you settle into the blankets while she brings over miso ramen and sushi on two trays; simple, warm, comforting.

she really insists on playing an old japanese film she watched once with her mum. it’s black and white and slow-moving, all long glances and quiet music. halfway through, your head finds her shoulder and eventually, her chest.

and somewhere near the end, your eyes start to slip closed. you don’t mean to fall asleep. but sana’s warmth is steady, her breathing’s a weird kind of comfort and her hand has found yours under the blanket.

when you stir awake again, the room is darker. the credits are rolling in soft kanji across the screen. she hasn’t moved.

you lift your head slightly and find her staring at you. “were you watching me?”

she smiles, lazy and unbothered. “a little.”

“creep.”

“you’re peaceful when you sleep.”

you groan and bury your face in her arm. “don’t look at me like that.”

she laughs quietly. “and you’re warm, i didn’t want to move.”

you stay there a while longer, the silence easier now. then something tugs at you. “i’m sorry.”

she doesn’t respond right away. “about what?”

“about how we’re still…like this,” your voice is small. “no labels, no real plan — i really need to fix myself.”

she lifts a hand to push your hair back, thumb brushing your temple. “you don’t need fixing, y/n. not for me. i love you the way you are now. and i’ll still love you when that changes.”

you exhale shakily, not sure if it’s relief or fear that floods your chest.

she squeezes your hand to ground you.

“you know when i was a kid,” she adds after a moment, her fingers gently playing with your hair. “i used to imagine running away.

you look up at her. “why?”

“not because i wanted to disappear,” she says softly. “i just wanted to choose who i came back for.”

you don’t say anything.

you just press your face into her neck, grip tightening around her waist while listening to the rhythm of her breathing until you fall asleep again…because maybe that’s what this is. not the end, not even the beginning.

it’s her coming back. and this time, you’re here to open the door for her.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

the suit bag hangs on the edge of your wardrobe, unzipped and half-open, like it’s waiting to be taken seriously. inside are five options. none of which you picked. sana’s stylist had dropped them off earlier that morning, her usual chirpy self making you try on half of them while sana watched from the bed, cup of coffee balanced on her knee.

now it’s dusk and you’ve been through three shirts, three full outfit changes and a minor crisis about the perfect sock colour. the room smells like sandalwood and setting lotion. your window’s open just slightly, letting in the bite of the air, that particular cold that only ever feels sharp in late december.

sana’s standing behind you, hair already done —glossy, parted perfectly with the ends curling. she’s wearing a black suit, white shirt buttoned down enough to make you look twice. or three times. the fabric clings at her waist and loosens again at her hips.

it’s unfair. criminal, even…to look that good.

you’re standing in front of the mirror, adjusting the cuff of a white shirt that isn’t yours.

“this one’s too tight,” you complain, tugging at the collar. “i look like i’m going to cry at prom.”

“you always look like that,” she replies, flicking through jackets on hangers. “it’s part of your charm.”

you glare at her through the mirror and she laughs at your own expense without bothering to look up.

you’re staring.

of course you are.

“you’re staring at me again,” she says, not even looking up.

“you look ridiculous,” you reply.

“that’s not what your face is saying.” she lifts the black lapel of a suit jacket and gives you a side glance, smug. “should we match, bub?”

you cross the room before you even decide to. she’s still smiling when you reach her, but it drops slightly — just enough to tell you she knows.

you don’t think.

you’re already up before she can finish her sentence. your hand finds her waist, and then her back, and then her mouth. the kiss lands hard and sure, pulling her in until her spine meets the wall beside your wardrobe. she lets out a surprised sound that turns into a low laugh against your lips when your hands grip her tighter than you mean to.

she tastes like spearmint and skin warmed by sunlight. everything else fades — your open window, the hum of the street below, the muted rustle of ryujin and yunjin bickering in the hallway.

your entire world narrows to the sound of her breathing, quick and uneven, her hands slipping beneath your shirt; not greedy, never, just holding you in place.

when you finally pull away, you’re still gently cupping her face as she blinks slowly, breath catching.

“you’re such an ass,” she starts, voice rough. “you’re really going to do that an hour before i introduce you to my entire bloodline?”

“hmm,” you murmur, forehead pressed to hers. “seemed like the right time.”

she exhales a laugh and shoves your shoulder lightly, but she doesn’t move away. her lips are redder now, eyes much darker. you like how she looks like this — just a little undone.

“you’re the one in a suit,” you continue, a shit-eating grin plastered on your face. “this is your fault.”

she kisses you again — just once, before tapping your chest. “grey suit. last one on the rack. wear the white shirt with the pearl buttons.”

you raise an eyebrow. “you sure?”

“you’ll make everyone nervous,” she confirms, unbuttoning the shirt you just complained about. “it’s perfect.”

when you finally walk out of your room — now dressed, hair styled and tie slightly crooked on purpose, ryujin and yunjin are waiting in the living room in matching red dresses that clearly weren’t planned but still managed to look coordinated.

yunjin looks up from her phone. “are you two done making out?”

sana’s behind you, still adjusting your collar from the back. “oh,” she says lightly. “what gave it away?”

they groan in unison, ryujin grabbing a cushion to half-heartedly throw at you. “disgusting.”

“embarrassing,” yunjin adds.

you just roll your eyes, cheeks still warm.

the minatozaki family meet every year in seoul a few days before christmas, no matter how scattered they are across time zones or industries. they are old money, after all, operating like a boardroom with laughter; polite, but rarely without genuine warmth.

it’s all carefully curated holiday cards, biannual art acquisitions and a shared family lawyer who’s probably been with them longer than most cousins have been alive. and they’re big on tradition, binding them like a woven thread across generations.

sana once told you that missing the family holiday party would be a bigger scandal than missing a wedding of the year. no one has ever dared skip it — not even the cousin who got stranded in switzerland one year; he video called in wearing a tux.

the venue this year is a five-star hotel in gangnam; just one of those buildings with glass facades and understated signage. as soon as you walk inside, the ballroom is glowing with golden lights and crystal fixtures, the chandeliers dimmed to a soft glitter. waiters move between clusters of people with trays of champagne and tiny canapés.

she walks beside you, hand in yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world. you hear ryujin swear while yunjin nervously fidgets around. her other hand rests lightly on your lower back as she steers you through the room, the guests are all family, more or less: great-uncles and cousins and elders you can’t quite place.

everyone already knows. there’s no guessing involved. they all smile at you politely, a few with surprise but no one dares to question your presence.

her mother hugs you as soon as she sees you, still smelling faintly of lavender and expensive tea.

“finally,” she sighs in relief, smiling. “we were starting to think you were imaginary.”

her father smiles approvingly while eyeing your blazer. “you look very sharp, you wear the colour well.”

you thank him, a little awkwardly, and sana leans in to whisper, “he only says that to people he really likes.”

you laugh, brushing her fingers with yours.

throughout the evening, relatives come and go in waves. they ask what you’re doing after graduation, if you’ve thought about law firms abroad, if you would consider working in japan. you answer each one as politely as you can and they nod like they’re taking mental notes.

sana’s grip never wavers. this is the difference.

with her, there’s no hesitation. she doesn’t shrink you and make you feel like something to be hidden. she says: this is y/n like that means something…it has to.

you think about that as the night goes on. how strange and comforting it is, not to be the shadow in someone else’s story. she’s proud. of you. and the whole room knows it.

then, somewhere between dessert and after-dinner drinks, an uncle announces the annual family photo. the photographer’s already setting up near the grand staircase, light stands flaring against the high ceilings.

you start to step back, figuring this part isn’t for you, when she tugs you gently by the wrist.

“and where do you think you’re going?” she asks, an eyebrow raised in that demanding tone too.

you glance at her. “i figured i’d stay out of the frame.”

“don’t be stupid,” she shakes her head, tone now soft, not scolding.

she brings you forward, weaving through her cousins and uncles, until her mother sees you both and waves you in closer. the photographer arranges everyone once again, gesturing toward the centre of the front row.

sana takes your hand and leads you there — right beside her, between her and her mother like you’ve always belonged.

“this okay?” she murmurs.

you nod slowly.

“good,” she fixes your collar, smooths your jacket, then slips her hand into yours again.

her father smiles at you two and her mother wraps an arm around your waist like it’s second nature.

when the photo is taken, sana’s thumb gently brushes against your knuckles. you’ve never felt more seen in your life.

later on, sana excuses herself to the bathroom and you’re suddenly cornered by ryujin and yunjin near the dessert table. they both have shit-eating grins on their faces like they’ve been here before.

“so,” ryujin begins, popping up beside you with a glass of wine, “you’re marrying another heir of a billion-dollar company? what’s this obsession with rich people? when i said ‘eat the rich’, i didn’t mean in a literal sense.”

you nearly choke on a piece of almond tart. “what the hell are you on about this time?”

“we didn’t realise,” yunjin perches in from the other side. “like, you know, she had this vibe of maxed-out platinum card and four overdue bills she refuses to open.”

“i thought that girl was dangerously living beyond her meanest,” ryujin mutters. “like…’it’s crippling, i’m gonna run away eventually’ kind of debt.”

“and giselle used to pray you never had to cover any of her bills,” yunjin laughs. “she was scared for you.”

“you’re all idiots,” you say, but your cheeks are warm. you sip your wine and glance around the room — gold, velvet, soft laughter under chandeliers.

“seriously,” yunjin continues, nudging you. “how does it feel?”

you pause, thinking about it. “honestly? it feels…nice. to belong in the room, be held like this isn’t something anyone’s ashamed of.”

they go quiet.

and then ryujin offers you a mini tart she already bit once. “you earned it.”

you roll your eyes and take it anyway. you’re halfway through your first glass of champagne when nayeon somehow ends up in front of you. ryujin and yunjin shyly greet her before running away to the bar.

“well, well,” she says, appearing at your elbow like a headline. “if it isn’t little top-of-her-class.”

you nearly choke. “hello to you too, nayeon.”

“you didn’t think you’d escape me, did you?” she laughs, pulling you into a hug. she still smells like endless paperwork. “look at you — looking all grown.”

“you’re not still in that securities firm, are you?”

“worse: corporate advisory. mina’s still keeping me sane.”

as if summoned, mina appears beside her, dressed in an ivory pantsuit and the kind of earrings that could probably pay your rent.

“hey,” she smiles, eyes warm. “it’s really good to see you.”

“you too,” you say honestly. “both of you.”

nayeon leans in. “we always knew you and sana were going to find your way back to each other. she was such a mess about you in undergrad.”

they were two of sana’s closest friends at yonsei. both a few years older than you and practically royalty in their own right; effortlessly composed and always surrounded by people who wanted to be close to them — or be them.

you used to see them around often when you and sana were first getting close. they never treated you unkindly…in fact, nayeon always greeted you with a loud “oh, you again?” and mina would smile quietly, handing you a drink like you already belonged. they were your seniors in every way: in age; in experience; in the kinds of heartbreaks and head starts that come with growing up too fast in worlds you barely feel like you belong in.

even now, years later, the sight of them still pulls something warm and nostalgic from your chest. they remind you of a different time — the nights you stood by sana’s side…feeling small but safe, never knowing just how much she would come to mean to you years down the line.

“i was not,” sana says, appearing behind you with two plates of dessert.

“please,” nayeon rolls her eyes. “she used to leave dinners just to call you and then cry about how complicated everything was.”

“used to?” mina murmurs, eyebrow raised. “i think the streak ended, what — last year?”

you give sana a look. “so i’ve heard.”

she hands you a plate and shrugs. “they’re exaggerating.”

“you used to leave parties to sit in stairwells and call her.”

“i was dramatic.”

“you cried.”

she waves them off, then glances at you with a crooked grin. “they’re jealous.”

“of what?”

“that you’re the first person i’ve ever brought here.”

“what?” you blink in disbelief, mouth already full of something sweet and expensive. “no dates before me?”

“not here,” she repeats. “this place is family.”

“so i’m special.”

she rolls her eyes, a teasing smile appearing in the corners of her mouth. “you literally dumped me and i’m still here, so yeah.”

you nudge her, she bumps your shoulder back.

mina watches you both with a quiet smile. “i’m glad you’re here, y/n. you’re both good for each other.”

it takes you a second to absorb that because you do. for the first time in years, maybe ever, you’re in a room full of people who know each other’s names, whose approval isn’t cautious or polite but warm and unconditional — and you’re not being hidden.

it’s late by the time the car rolls through empty streets. the city lights pass like slow waves against the windows. you’re both a little buzzed from wine, shoes kicked off, blazers draped in your laps.

sana’s fingers are still laced with yours, she looks softer now. her voice quieter as she talks to you, like the world is shrinking back to just the two of you.

your hand rests lightly on her thigh, thumb tracing slow circles through the fabric of her trousers.

“can i ask you something?” you murmur.

“you’re allowed,” she replies, tilting her head toward you.

“so why have you not brought anyone to this party?”

her brow lifts, leaning her head back against the seat. “honestly?”

you nod.

“you’re the first,” she begins to explain. “because you scare me a little, you never asked to be here — you just…showed up and made space without needing to take any.”

you stare at her, a little breathless.

she turns to look at you fully, her expression is open. “it’s always been you, even when it wasn’t.”

you swallow hard.

the car still moves quietly through the city, lights passing over the windows in slow, golden waves. and you think, for the first time in a long time, that you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

it’s christmas day and sana’s family home is lit like something from an old winter painting. the snow clings to the trees and lines the edges of the roof like icing. and there’s warmth in every room inside; everything made out of oak in that traditional japanese sense.

you’ve never had a christmas like this.

there are matching slippers at the door, monogrammed napkins and the kind of table setting that makes you hesitate before sitting down. the candles flicker low between you all, flames catching on the wine glasses as her father lifts his to inspect the pour.

he sits at the head of the table, sleeves rolled, wine glass already half full. “not too much,” he chuckles, topping yours off. “don’t want you falling asleep before dessert.”

“no promises,” you reply, and he laughs louder; shoulders shaking and all

it’s just the four of you. no cousins, no extended family or staff pacing in the background. sana sits beside you, ankles crossed under the table, her hand brushing your thigh every now and then like she’s checking that you’re still here.

“your parents must miss you,” her mum says, spooning rice into her own bowl. “have you called them yet?”

you shake your head. “not yet, i was waiting until things quieted down.”

“call them now,” sana says softly, nudging your foot under the table. “you can put it on speaker.”

you hesitate, but her mum is already nodding. “that would be great, we would love to say hello.”

your phone is in your pocket so you fish it out, glancing at the time — still early evening in switzerland. you press call. the dial tone hums once, then twice and then your mum picks up.

“merry christmas, darling!”

“hi, mum,” you greet, smiling. “you’re on speaker.”

“oh?”

“i’m with sana’s parents,” you explain. “they wanted to say hi.”

sana’s dad leans forward. “merry christmas, hope you’re both having the best time,” he waves, warm and clear.

you can hear the delight in your mother’s voice. “oh, how lovely! thank you for hosting our daughter this year. we were sorry she couldn’t come with us.”

“she’s very welcome here,” her mum adds. “we’re happy to have her.”

sana chimes in next, her voice light. “hi, mr and mrs y/l/n. thanks for raising the most stubborn woman alive.”

your father’s voice comes through faintly in the background. “you’ve got your hands full, then.”

they all laugh and you feel your face warm. it feels good.

“we’ll let you go enjoy dinner,” your mum adds after a minute more of cheerful noise and small talk. “we’ll talk properly tomorrow.”

you hang up and sana squeezes your knee gently beneath the table.

her father’s already mid-sip of his wine when he says, “so, this firm you’re joining — under the kim family?”

“yes, taehyung’s dad offered me a placement earlier in the year.”

he snorts. “sounds about right; that man’s sharp. got his claws into you before the others could.”

you laugh, shaking your head. “he was persuasive.”

“a good sign,” he nods, raising his glass. “people chase talent, it means you’re doing something right if you’ve got one of south korea’s richest men to persuade you.”

you hum and it settles over you: the warmth, the acceptance, the easy rhythm of it all. there’s no tension in your shoulders and you don’t feel the need to read between words or brace yourself for correction — it’s a slow meal with people who see you as someone worth being proud of.

not tolerated nor excused, but welcomed with open arms.

dinner finishes with tea and fruits. sana’s mum brings out small velvet boxes and pushes one toward you. you hesitate, glance at sana, who’s smiling gently.

“we said no gifts.”

“and we ignored it,” her mum replies.

you open it carefully.

inside is a watch; silver and elegant, the weight of it immediately grounding as you glance at the name richard mille.

jesus christ, you thought.

beside it, wrapped in a velvet slip, is a gold pen with your initials carved at the top of it.

you’ve seen something like this pen before. on sana’s desk, in her hand, tucked into her notebook. she mentioned she got it at eighteen.

you look up, words forming slowly. “this is too much.”

“nonsense,” her father groans. “you’re part of our lives now; get used to it.”

you don’t trust your voice enough to speak, so you nod, fingers curling around the velvet like it’ll anchor you.

they don’t need thanks drawn out and scripted; you know their kindness doesn’t ask for anything in return and that’s the part that stings the most. you never knew you could be carried like this without having to earn it.

and when the table’s been cleared and the kitchen grows quiet and her parents disappear up the stairs with soft goodnights and kind glances, it’s just you and sana again — on the living room floor, legs stretched toward the fireplace, two glasses of wine resting on the table between you.

the fire crackles quietly, the only real sound in the room. you can still hear music faintly from the kitchen; jazz, maybe, but the rest of the world has dimmed.

your head leans slightly against her shoulder. she doesn’t move.

you’re full in every sense of the word. full of food, of warmth, of something else you haven’t named yet. and then your phone buzzes.

you feel the vibration in your pocket before the ring even begins.

it’s faint, easily ignorable, except something in your body registers it before your mind does. you shift slightly, ease your hand into your pocket, still curled up beside her in front of the fire.

the screen lights up and her name flashes once.

karina.

the air feels colder all of a sudden. your stomach twists, a quiet clench that catches you off guard. beside you, sana stirs slightly but she doesn’t say anything, she doesn’t need to. she sees the screen.

you stand up, too quickly.

“i’ll just — be a minute,” you murmur.

you stand without a word and she doesn’t look up.

you step out onto the balcony, sliding the door closed behind you. the air is cold against your neck, your breath blooming white in the dark.

and you answer before you can talk yourself out of it. “hello?”

her voice is exactly how you remember it — low, careful, like it’s measuring the silence between your words before they’re even spoken.

“hi, merry christmas, y/n.”

you close your eyes for a moment, let the wind bite at your face. “merry christmas, jimin.”

there’s a pause. you hear the hum of something in the background and neither of you speak for a second.

“i wasn’t sure if i should call, but you crossed my mind. i guess…you still do,” she continues, her voice is so small it barely carries on top of the breeze. “but i didn’t want to let the day pass without…saying it. i know you were excited for christmas.”

your hand curls around the edge of the railing, feeling the ache before it even takes shape. it’s not a painful, but more like the kind that’s been dulled by time but not erased.

“how are you?” you ask, unsure what to say next.

jimin exhales a shaky breath. “i’ve been better, but my parents are still asking if i’ve managed to win you back,” she lets out something close to a laugh, but it doesn’t reach her chest. “they say it like it’s a job — think they really wanted to know you more.”

you let the silence settle for a moment. it’s familiar, but it doesn’t hurt the same way anymore. you didn’t need to know any of that; no longer have the right to.

“how’s…jaewook?”

she’s quiet for a second too long. “umm, yeah, we broke up the day after that night i saw you. i think i knew i couldn’t keep lying to him and myself after that.”

you chew the inside of your cheek, the words settling slowly, heavy but unsurprising.

“i’m sorry,” you croak out.

“don’t be,” she replies. “i should’ve ended it a long time ago.”

the wind whistles faintly between the railing bars. you adjust your weight, heart beating a little harder than you would like.

“are you happy?” she asks; it’s barely more than a whisper. “with her?”

your breath catches with how much weight the questoon carries. you look through the frosted glass, into the house where sana still sits, curled into the couch, waiting patiently — warm and steady.

“yeah,” you reply after a second. “we’re…taking things slow. but it’s real; she’s real.”

she doesn’t reply right away either. when she does, her voice is rougher than before. “good.”

you believe her, mostly, or at least you want to.

“i’m glad,” she continues, though there’s something behind it…like she’s letting go of something without knowing if it’s the last time.

the silence comes back, thicker this time.

“thank you for calling,” you tell her, meaning it. “it’s really good to hear from you.”

you hear her exhale, something like a smile buried in it. “take care of yourself.”

“you too.”

the call ends.

you watch the snow fall for a few more seconds, then slide the phone back into your pocket, letting the cold seep into your skin just to feel everything clearly.

it was kind, that call. necessary, maybe. but you don’t feel unsteady and you don’t feel torn.

it feels…finished.

sana looks up as you return. she doesn’t move, but her face has changed, ever so slightly — like something pulled rigidly just beneath her eyes.

you feel it settle between you like a window left open just a little too long.

“if you ever want to go back to her,” she suddenly voices out, tone sorrowful: “i won’t hold it against you, i knew what i was getting myself into. and you don’t owe me anything at all.”

your heart drops as you stare at the fire for a second longer before you speak. “sana, baby, i want to keep moving with you.”

the words sit between you, unfurling slowly. she nods. once. but you can see how tightly she’s holding herself together.

under the couch, you pull out the small box you had been keeping for her. it’s not wrapped well and the corners are uneven and you had to tape the bottom twice because you suck at wrapping gifts — but you place it on her lap anyway.

“this is for you.”

she looks at you, something unreadable flickering in her eyes. she doesn’t reach for the gift right away. instead, she unwraps it slowly, fingers catching at the tape.

inside is a square canvas — the edges still a little rough where the paint dried too fast. it’s the two of you, sitting on a bench in that quiet park from that night. backs facing the viewer, just two figures with shoulders leaning in, hair caught in a breeze. nothing fancy, but it’s unmistakably you and her.

you wait while she stares at it.

then: “you painted this?”

you nod. your voice shakes a little. “a few weeks ago.”

her eyes flicker up. they’re glossy now and it breaks something open in your chest. she doesn’t speak for a long time, just holding the frame in both hands like she’s afraid it’ll slip.

you shift a little closer.

“i know we didn’t take a photo that day, we were both too drunk,” you explain, a smile on your face. “but i remember it. i remember thinking that if anything in my life ever felt like home again, it would be that moment — us under the stars, quietly figuring ourselves out.”

her breath hitches.

“i’m still scared,” you admit. “i still think i might mess this up. i still wake up sometimes not sure if i deserve any of it. but i want to try. you’re so, so, so important to me, sana, i never want to lose you again.”

the tears spill slowly, she doesn’t even bother hiding them.

“you’re such a jerk,” she mumbles through a soft laugh. “you couldn’t have said all that before the wine?”

you smile, a little helpless. “sorry.”

she puts the painting down carefully and reaches for your hand. “you won’t lose me, not this time.”

you pull her in gently and she lets you, arms wrapping tight around your waist, the painting resting carefully against her side.

“you matter to me,” you whisper. “always.”

“i know,” she says. “i just needed to hear you say it.”

and so you do. again and again.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

you wake to the dull hum of your phone vibrating on the nightstand. you don’t reach for it straight away — your eyes are still adjusting. and sana’s breath is warm against your neck, she shifts slightly, murmuring something in her sleep and her arm curls tighter around your waist.

the screen glows again. this time you blink fully awake and glance over.

but the sound doesn’t stop. it pulses again —persistent. you shift, groggy, reaching toward the nightstand where your phone is lighting up.

karina is calling…

“the fuck?” you let out a quiet sigh through your nose, staring at the screen like maybe, if you’re still enough, it’ll stop ringing.

it doesn’t. the digits blur slightly — 2:31 a.m.

sana stirs behind you. “who is it?” her voice is still caught in sleep, soft and heavy.

“it’s…jimin,” you mumble out in slight disbelief. “she’s calling, should i answer?”

you half expect her to roll away, to go quiet like last time. but instead, she rests her hand against your shoulder and says, gently: “answer it.”

you turn to her. “are you sure?”

she nods; her hair’s messy against the pillow, eyes barely open, but she still offers you a small, understanding smile. “i know what it’s like…to be the one who never gets the call back.”

your heart aches at that, but you nod and slide off the bed quietly, grabbing your hoodie from the chair as you step out into the lounge room.

you swipe to answer. “hello, jimin?”

you’re already halfway down the hallway, bare feet padding softly against the hardwood, heart thumping as you shut the bedroom door behind you.

her voice cracks instantly through the speaker. “you answered…i wasn’t sure.”

it’s messy — slurred, uneven, like her tongue’s too slow to keep up with her mouth. there’s noise in the background. a car maybe, or the wind, it’s nothing solid.

“are you okay?” you ask. “where are you?”

“i don’t know,” she breathes. you can hear her sniffle. “i didn’t want to call, i just — i couldn’t not. fuck, i sound so stupid.”

your brows furrow, concern rising. you drop onto the couch, pressing the phone harder to your ear.

“jimin, what’s going on? are you out?”

“i wanted to see you,” she answers, voice trembling. “i keep wanting to see you. i keep seeing you. it’s like — everything i do reminds me of you and i don’t even know if you care anymore. do you still care?”

you sit down on the couch, rubbing at your temple. “what more do you want from me?”

“you,” she says it so fast like it’s always been waiting behind her teeth. “i want you back.”

you close your eyes. “karina…”

“don’t, don’t say it like that, don’t say it in that tone like you pity me.”

you run a hand through your hair, staring at the dark screen of the tv in front of you. “you’re drunk, can you please send me your location?”

“you still care?” she asks, voice wobbling. “you still care about me, don’t you?”

you don’t answer that. instead, you repeat, firmer this time, “send me your location. please.”

she sniffs, quiet for a moment. then the familiar ping of a map drops into your phone. “you didn’t answer me…”

“stay on the line,” you demand. and she doesn’t argue.

you get up from the couch, walking back toward the bedroom. sana’s sitting up now, pulling her hair back into a bun. the bedside lamp is on, casting soft yellow against the walls. she looks tired, but she’s already pointing at her bag.

“keys are in the front pocket,” she gestures you over with a sleepy, understanding smile.

you lean in, press your mouth to her temple, then her cheek, her skin warm and soft against your lips. “i’m sorry.”

“don’t be,” she cups your jaw gently. “all i want is for you to bring her home safe.”

“i’ll be back soon,” you whisper.

“i know.”

you slip your shoes on at the door, phone still pressed to your ear as you speak quietly to jimin, who’s gone quiet but hasn’t hung up.

“hey,” you say. “i’m coming to get you, okay?”

there’s no response at first. then: “okay.”

the street is cold and quiet, light snow from the previous night still melting in uneven patches along the curb. you get in the car, engine humming to life with your hand tight on the wheel. you glance once at the rearview mirror and try not to think too hard about where this night is headed.

because even now — even with sana asleep in your bed, with your life finally steady, with love that doesn’t hurt — you’re still driving out into the dark when jimin calls and a part of you hates that you always will.

the streets are empty this late. seoul feels softer somehow, the edges dulled by the chill and the quiet. traffic lights flicker through amber and red, casting slow glows against the frost on your windscreen. the heater hums low.

while jimin’s still on the line, she’s quiet now, only the sound of her sniffling breaking through. you don’t say anything. there’s nothing left to say in the silence and yet you stay on the call.

you drive with one hand on the wheel, the other holding the phone to your ear, her breath moving in and out like waves.

the location leads you to a quiet side street near a convenience store. a line of taxis sits idle nearby, lights off, drivers probably asleep. you see her before she sees you — curled up on a bench, knees pulled tight to her chest, hair tousled and damp. her coat’s buttoned wrong and she looks smaller than you remember.

the sight of her like this does something strange to your chest — splits it, gently, like an old wound reopening along its scar line. you hadn’t realised how deeply the memory of her lived in your body.

but you get out anyway.

each step toward her feels like walking underwater. heavy and unreal. it’s not like the movies; there’s no music, no chatter, not even the buzz of the neon bar sign — just the sound of your boots crunching over ice and her small, wracked breaths in the distance.

she looks up; mascara smudged under both eyes, blinking like she’s not sure if you’re really here.

“you came,” she speaks, voice shaking. “you actually came.”

you crouch down beside her. “of course i did.”

it’s not even a sentence, really. her lips part like she wants to speak, but nothing comes out except a new wave of tears. she breaks immediately — no hesitation, no pride left to cling to. she just folds into you like muscle memory, like all those months apart didn’t stretch the distance between your bodies.

her arms lock around your neck, shoulders shaking violently, the kind of crying that comes from somewhere deeper than sadness.

grief, maybe. or realisation.

“you look so much happier now,” she mumbles into your sleeve, voice muffled in between breaths. “with sana. i see it in your face…you never looked at me like that.”

“that’s not true,” you reassure her. “

she puts a slight distance between you two, wiping her face with the sleeve of her coat instead. her eyes are swollen, cheeks red from the cold. “i ruined it. i ruined everything.

you look at her, really take a good look at her. the way her lips are chapped, she looks so tired. you wonder if she’s eaten today.

if she’s still trying to pretend she’s okay to everyone but you.

“maybe,” you say gently. “but that doesn’t mean i hate you.”

she laughs bitterly through her tears. “you should.”

“i don’t,” you say again. “you loved me in the way you could…it just wasn’t enough.”

the words feel cruel even as you say them, but they’re honest. and maybe she needs that more than kindness right now.

you guide her to the car with gentle hands, barely saying a word. she’s compliant but stumbling, half-apologising through her sobs. her coat slips off one shoulder, and you pull it up, fasten the belt for her. the seatbelt clicks into place and you pass her the water bottle from the centre console.

“drink some of this, you need it.”

she obeys. she always does with you, even now. she’s still crying — softly, into the crook of her elbow. you start the car and pull into the road without asking where to go.

you already know.

the han river’s quiet this time of night. empty car park, the kind of silence you used to share like a secret. back then, it felt like the only place in the city where you could breathe together.

no lights except the scattered halos of streetlamps catching on the water. you pull into the spot she used to love — far left corner, facing the ripples.neither of you speak right away.

the engine hums low on the background.

“i used to take you here every time i ran out of things to say,” she whispers. her voice is hoarse. “and somehow you always found more.”

you turn to her. she’s staring out at the river like it holds every answer she was too scared to look for back then. her hands tremble as she sets the water down to her lap.

“why did i do that?” she asks, voice small. “why did i lie to you every time i told you i was choosing you? why did i make you believe that?”

you don’t know how to answer. you’ve asked yourself the same thing, over and over. back then it felt like she was always reaching for you with one hand and holding something else in the other.

you wanted her to choose, you waited for it. but she never did.

“i was so scared,” she admits, eyes glistening again. “not of you. of what it meant to love you that much and the expectations already set out for me in stone.”

you remain quiet because your throat aches with too much of everything. she reaches for your hand, like she’s checking to see if it’s still real.

you watch the water shimmer through the windshield, her reflection blurring next to yours in the glass. “i tried so hard to let you go, but i think i just…folded you into every part of me instead.”

“i hated myself for how i treated you,” jimin continued, her voice cracking again. “i still do.”

“don’t,” you finally look at her. “you were scared. people make stupid choices when they’re scared.”

“you weren’t,” she lets out a pained sob. “you never were. you always chose me, even when it hurt. even when i couldn’t say your name out loud.”

“and you’re punishing yourself for not being ready, but that’s not love, jimin. it’s guilt. and it’s going to eat you alive if you let it.”

you both sit there for a long time, her head resting against the window and her hand still holding yours.

she folds over again, body racked with sobs, and you do what you’ve always done — you hold her. her head lands onto your shoulder this time and she grips your sleeve like it’s the only solid thing left in the world.

at some point, you find tears slipping out of your eyes too. not because you still want her, not in that way. but because once, you really did. and that kind of loss never leaves quietly.

you stroke her hair slowly, the silence stretching around you like a blanket pulled tight. it’s not cold anymore, but you’re both shivering from everything else.

then, your phone buzzes. sana. asking if you’re still there…but it feels like a different question, like it holds another meaning than just there.

“we should go,” you heave out a sigh. “sana’s waiting for me.”

“okay,” she nods quietly. “okay, we can do that.”

she’s quiet when you drive her home. her hand stays in yours the whole ride, resting on the centre console, thumb brushing over your knuckles.

nothing needs to be said now.

when you pull up outside her building, she doesn’t move at first. she just turns to you, eyes full and steady. she hesitates. and then, barely above a whisper: “will you stay with me tonight?”

you pause, heart twisting, then stills. “no,” you say, as gently as you can. “i can’t.”

she nods, like she expected that answer but it still wounds her. “this is goodbye, isn’t it?”

you look over at her. “i…yeah. i think so.”

she reaches out, touches your cheek gently, her fingers cold but still familiar. you shake your head, but she leans in, presses her forehead against yours and keeps going. “if i ever get another chance…i’ll do it right.”

your eyes sting and having her this close again makes your chest ache. “jimin —“

her voice is barely a whisper now, her tears falling on your lap. “if i have to wait a lifetime, i will. if not this one, then the next.”

you don’t promise anything, but you press your forehead to hers for a moment longer and then pull away.

“please go inside,” you whisper, closing your eyes. “goodnight, jimin.”

she nods and steps out of the car — doesn’t look back but you can see the way her shoulders shake. you watch her walk away until she disappears into the building, and only then do you let the tears fall freely.

it’s not love anymore, not quite. but it’s still something. maybe it always will be.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

you don’t mean to make a big deal of it. not really.

the sky’s that bright blue that means late spring is almost over and it’s warm enough that the breeze coming off the han river barely makes a difference.

sana’s leaning back on her elbows, the grass soft beneath the blanket she insisted on bringing. it’s the same one from the last time — the one you two fell asleep under after sneaking snacks into a campus lawn movie night months ago. you’re both stretched out at yeouido park, iced coffee mostly melted between you, the soft hum of people around blending with the low strum of an acoustic busker in the distance.

you should be focused on your book but you’re not. you’ve been reading the same paragraph three times; she keeps tapping your ankle with hers. she’s got sunglasses on, head tilted back like she’s soaking in the last of the coldness before summer pulls it away.

“you’re staring,” she says, not looking at you, her mouth tugged up into the smallest smirk. “i can feel it.”

“i’m not,” you lie, flipping the page like that’ll save you.

she doesn’t push, just keeps tapping your ankle lazily, her foot warm against yours. you want to tell her to stop because it’s driving you mad, the affection of it.

the way she still treats you like someone precious, even when you’ve made her wait all this time.

you glance sideways at her. her lips are soft and she’s wearing your hoodie. she smells like the inside of your pillow. and when she turns her head to face you — sunglasses sliding down a little — you feel it all at once.

every slow moment you’ve spent together since winter. the little things. the movie nights, the long drives, the way she remembers how you take your coffee. how she’s never made you feel like loving her is a countdown to goodbye.

and god, you love her.

you set your book down. “hey, sana.”

she hums.

“can we —” you falter. clear your throat. “can we make this official?”

that gets her. she pushes her sunglasses up onto her head, blinks at you like she didn’t hear you right. “what?”

you sit up straighter, stomach twisting. “i mean…i want to be with you. like, actually with you. if you still want that.”

she’s silent for a second too long, in the way you know she’s replaying your words, making sure they’re real. her smile starts in her eyes before it reaches her lips.

“you’re asking me to be your girlfriend,” she repeats slowly, softly, like she wants to savour it.

you nod, heart thudding. “yeah.”

“finally,” she lets out a breath, practically laughs, and then leans forward, pulling you in by the front of your hoodie and kissing you, full and slow and warm like sunlight. it’s like she’s known it would happen, eventually, and now it has. her hands cradle your face as she pulls away. “took you long enough.”

you smile against her lips, relief blooming in your chest. “sorry.”

“i forgive you,” she grins. “but only because you’re cute.”

you groan, bury your face in her shoulder. “i should’ve asked you when you brought me coffee every morning for a week. or when you stayed up all night helping me with my thesis draft.”

“or when my parents bought you that fancy watch for christmas.”

“okay, yes, that too.”

she plays with the hem of your sleeve. “i would’ve said yes every time.”

you look down at her fingers brushing yours. “i know.”

and you do. you really do…because that’s the difference with sana. with her, there’s no guessing. just quiet loyalty, kindness that doesn’t make you feel small.

you both lie back again, the moment settling into your bones. she squeezes your hand once and doesn’t let go and the grass rustles beside you.

you don’t say anything more. you don’t need to. she knows.

and somewhere, maybe not too far off, you think of jimin — how some things burn out before they ever have the chance to be steady. how sometimes, it’s not about who makes your heart race, but who makes it feel safe to stay.

today, you chose safety. and maybe that’s what love is now. not the ache of almost, but the warmth of finally.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

fuck, you didn’t plan on seeing her.

not today of all days — when you’re feeling light, even content, walking along the street with a brown paper bag in hand, the apricot pastry tucked neatly inside.

sana had texted you earlier, something about being stuck in a last-minute campaign, promising to make it up to you with takeout and terrible reality tv.

but campus is small, specially after graduation. the cafés are familiar and the corners shared.

jimin.

she’s sitting alone outside, cup of americano going cold in front of her, a book she isn’t reading open on her lap. her hair’s even shorter now, blunt around her jaw and she’s dressed in black again, like she’s always bracing for winter, even in the middle of summer.

you think of walking past or turning around, but your feet don’t move fast enough and she looks up like clockwork — and there it is. the recognition and the pause. her eyes soften the second they land on you and she lifts a hand in a small wave.

your feet begin walk over. there’s no ache in your chest now. it’s something softer; nostalgic.

“hey y/n,” she smiles, a bit brighter now.

“jimin!” you sit across from her, slipping the bag onto your lap. your heart isn’t racing like before, now it’s a steady thrum, a quiet reminder of everything you used to feel.

“hey,” she repeats, voice low.

still familiar. still jimin.

“hi, how are you doing?”

“i’m well,” her lips twitch into something like a smile. “you look good.”

you shrug. “so do you. different…i like the short hair, it’s good.”

it’s awkward in a way it always is with exes…or whatever you two were.

she nods slowly, as if she knows. “i feel different.”

you glance at the book on her table — something classic, spine cracked, pages annotated in the way she always used to do when she was trying to understand something deeply. you used to love watching her read like that, as if the words meant everything and they were a map.

“i heard about you and sana,” she adds after a beat. not bitter, just factual. “and graduating top of your class isn’t an easy feat; i’m so proud of you.”

you nod again, it means a lot coming from her. “we’re doing well.”

there’s a pause. then she says: “she’s good to you.”

“she always has been.”

and jimin looks down, eyes on her coffee. her voice is steady when she speaks; “i’ve been thinking a lot. about everything. about how i was with you. with jaewook, with…myself.”

you don’t say anything. just listen.

“after you,” she continues, “i tried to fill the space with noise. with him. with plans that didn’t belong to me. i thought maybe if i pretended hard enough, it’d go away. the guilt and the wanting.”

you watch her hands as she speaks. they’re calmer now. no shaking, no nervous twitching. just open palms, resting on her lap.

“i broke up with jaewook a few weeks after that night at the restaurant. i didn’t tell anyone. i think part of me was still waiting for you to come back.”

your chest tightens — not painfully, but enough to remind you that the past isn’t as far away as you sometimes pretend.

“but you didn’t,” she adds. “and i’m glad you didn’t because it forced me to stop waiting and start…choosing.”

you tilt your head slightly. “choosing?”

“myself. finally,” she lets out a breath. “i’m taking over the family business.”

that makes you blink. “really?”

she nods, chuckling. “yeah, i always thought it was a sentence. something i’d be trapped in. but now it’s…mine. i want to do it right. make something out of it that means something. not because they told me to — but because i want to.”

you can’t help it; you smile. for her; with her, because you can recognise how far she’s come.

“i’m proud of you for deciding on that; jimin, the ceo of yu group — can’t believe i get to say i knew her.”

jimin looks up then, really stares at you. and for a second, you see her as she was when you first fell in love — messy-haired, sharp-tongued, eyes always searching for something to hold onto.

“thank you for loving me the way you did. i was too young to understand it at the time, too scared and stupid.”

you nod slowly, the words settling somewhere deep inside. “i used to wish you’d been braver.”

“i know,” she smiles, a little sad. “i wish i had been too.”

you both sit there for a while, letting the silence do what words can’t. there’s nothing sharp in the air anymore. no what-ifs or if-onlys; just two people who survived each other.

“i miss you,” she admits, finally.

you meet her gaze. “i miss you too, but i don’t miss us.”

it’s gentle, the way you say it, but you can see it hit her — the truth of it. she doesn’t cry and doesn’t reach for you. instead, breathes in then out.

“and thank you for loving me when i didn’t know how to love you back properly.”

you smile, soft at the edges. “you taught me a lot. even in the mess of it.”

she laughs, a little broken, a little healed. “that’s the nicest way anyone’s ever told me i was a total disaster.”

you smile shyly too, brushing imaginary dust off your jeans. “take care of yourself, jimin.”

“you too,” she says. “and y/n?”

you pause.

“if you ever need someone to have your back — even if it’s from far away — it’ll always be me. what i said that night…i meant it. in every lifetime.”

your throat tightens, offering her a small smile. “i know.”

you walk away, heart strangely light. there’s no heaviness, but you carry the knowledge that some people are lessons. and some are homes.

sana’s probably waiting for you back at the apartment now, with her soft playlists and too-large jumpers and the smell of peppermint tea she always forgets to finish, wondering if you remembered the name of the pastry this time.

you did; and this time, you’re bringing it home.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

the end.

#heliooosss #kpop x reader #kpop gg #kpop imagines #aespa x reader #aespa imagines #aespa #angst #karina #karina imagines #sana imagines #sana x reader #minatozaki sana

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fayerie · 1 month ago

Text

You’re sick, your weekend plans with your boyfriend are ruined, and now Gojo Satoru is on a mission to “take care” of you.

You didn’t know what to expect after telling Gojo Satoru — your boyfriend of almost a year — that you couldn’t hang out this weekend.

"But whhyyyyyy—"

His voice rang out loud and dramatic through the phone, making you grimace as you quickly pulled it away from your ear. God, he could really whine when he wanted to.

“Satoru, calm down,” you said, your voice stuffy as you tugged at the edge of your blanket, curled up miserably in bed. “I’m sick. I think I caught a cold or something.”

Just your luck. You’d been looking forward to this date for weeks — one of the few weekends where you were both free. Now here you were, nose red and raw from all the wiping, stuck sneezing under layers of blankets.

“I’ll probably scare off everyone with my coughing fits,” you added with a weak chuckle. “Can we postpone it?”

There was a pause on the other end.

And then... he hung up.

You stared at your phone, confused. That wasn’t the reaction you were expecting. Was he really that upset?

Sure, it was sudden, but it’s not like you were lying. You would never cancel a date with him unless you absolutely had to—

Ding dong.

The doorbell rang, interrupting your spiral of thoughts.

You blinked, groaning as you dragged yourself out of bed. It was still early, and you couldn’t imagine who’d be at the door right now. Wrapped tightly in your blanket like a sad little burrito, you sniffled and shuffled to the door, already tired from just standing up.

When you opened it, you barely had a moment to register who it was before two strong arms wrapped around you.

"Satoru?" you croaked, voice hoarse and thick with congestion.

“Yep,” he said, nuzzling the top of your head like a cat. “In the flesh. The very kissable, very charming, very—”

“Very loud,” you mumbled into his chest, too tired to push him away. “What are you doing here?”

“Emergency boyfriend duties,” he replied, pulling back just enough to hold up the plastic bag in his hand. “I've brought medicine, three different flavors of soup, two types of juice, tissues with aloe, and—” he reached into his pocket and proudly held up a tiny frog plushie, “a new emotional support animal.”

You blinked. “...You bought me a frog?”

“I didn’t buy it. I rescued it. From the depths of the convenience store toy rack.”

Despite how miserable you felt, a laugh bubbled up in your chest. “You’re such an idiot.”

“An idiot in love,” he corrected with a wink, brushing a thumb under your nose to clean off a smudge. “You looked like Rudolph just now.”

You groaned, hiding your face in his shirt. “Don’t look at me, I’m gross.”

“You’re adorable,” he said without missing a beat, gently scooping you up bridal-style.

You let out a small squeak. “Satoru!”

“Shhh. Sick people don’t get to protest,” he said, already walking you back toward your bed like it was a royal carriage. “You’re officially banned from standing. Your legs? Useless. I’m your chauffeur now.”

“I just walked to the door five minutes ago—”

“Too much. I’ve seen enough. Sit down, shut up, drink soup.”

“You are so dramatic.”

He grinned as he gently lowered you onto the bed and tucked the blanket around you like he was swaddling a baby. “You knew what you signed up for when you started dating me.”

You snorted. “I didn’t think I’d be dating a personal nurse.”

“Excuse you, I’m the hottest nurse you’ll ever see.”

You coughed into your sleeve, already giggling through it. “Okay, Nurse Gojo. Just don’t mess up the soup.”

He looked offended. “I was going to microwave it with love.”

You shot him a look.

“...Fine. I’ll follow the instructions this time. Happy?”

You leaned back into your pillows, watching him shuffle off to your kitchen, already causing a racket as he dramatically opened drawers he didn’t need to open.

He returned quickly with your soup. Sure, a homemade one might’ve worked better for the healing effect, but you’d long since learned that Gojo Satoru should never be trusted in the kitchen — a lesson burned into your memory along with the image of your kitchen looking like it had survived a food based war.

You grimaced at the memory.

The soup tasted vaguely like instant ramen, and you were pretty sure he couldn’t tell the difference between a nutrient-packed, cold fighting remedy and a comfort soup meant purely for vibes. Still… the effort? Very much appreciated.

Especially when he was sitting at your bedside, carefully watching you sip each spoonful like it was a sacred ritual.

He took pictures of you in your miserable state, snapping away from every angle. Of course, he zoomed in on your red nose, making sure to capture the full reindeer effect.

"Satoru..." You tried to say sternly, but it came out more like a half-hearted whine when you saw his cute grin, clearly enjoying the pictures he was taking way too much.

"What! You look adorable. I couldn't resist," he said, glancing down at his phone with a proud grin before looking up at you again.

"Hey," he began, clearly oblivious to the fact that you were too tired to scold him, "which do you think is better for an Instagram caption—'Get well soon, babe' with a sick emoji, or 'Get well soon, babe' with a heart emoji?"

You blinked, momentarily stunned by his absolute lack of shame. “You’re really going to post about this?”

Despite the pounding in your head and the tissues shoved under your pillow, a smile tugged at your lips.

You still felt awful but with Satoru around, maybe being sick wasn’t so bad.

"With the heart emoji one is better..." You mumbled under your breath, sinking further into the blanket.

mlist. -> here

#jjk x reader #jjk x you #gojo satoru #gojo x reader #jjk gojo #fluff #jjk fluff #jjk drabbles #jjk imagines #jjk drabble #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x reader #faye!writes

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egophiliac · 3 months ago

Note

How do you draw your high contrast, shape-y pieces? I’ve tried something similar but it always end up off, any recommendations on brushes or exercises that could help with improvement?

(I wasn't sure what part was giving you trouble, so this is sorta an all-over smattering 😅 hopefully some of it helps!)

• the kind of brushes don't really matter, just what you're comfortable with using! more chisel-shaped or calligraphy-style brushes might be harder to control strokes with though. I do personally like using brushes that are like...Mostly Round But With a Little Grit to 'Em!

• work at a higher size and/or resolution than your final size (I usually work at ~3x final size). scaling down will smooth out little imperfections and some of the little aliasing weirdness that comes from raster transformations (scale/rotate/etc.)

• drawing with your arm, as in moving from your elbow while keeping your wrist pretty still, makes big smooth curves much easier (you can also go from the shoulder for BIG movements)

• most drawing programs will let you rotate the canvas -- drawing downward strokes tend to be easier to control (extra cheat: if a stroke is proving troublesome, I'll sometimes draw it as best I can on a new layer, move/rotate it into the exact position I want, and then merge it down again)

• instead of trying to draw a super precise shape and fill it in, I usually draw a bigger, shittier shape, and then use an eraser or layer mask to kinda chisel it into the shape I want:

• Always Check Your Values -- especially if you're finding your colors feel kinda muddy or not contrast-y enough, it's a good idea to make sure there's contrast in the light/dark as well as the hue/saturation! I usually have an adjustment layer set to 0 saturation that I keep on top of my document, and just periodically toggle on and off to check. (there's some debate about the most accurate way to check values, but this works well enough for high-contrast solid blocks of color.)

• on the same note, instead of using pure grayscale colors, particularly full black (#000000) and white (#FFFFFF), adding a little bit of color into them can give you a richer, more interesting and more cohesive result.

(and even when using pure grays, using slightly "off" from full black and white can be more interesting! and it's not to say DON'T use black and white and gray, more just...use them thoughtfully, instead of by default?)

• color thumbs/sketches/roughs, whatever you want to call them. people get SO weird at me about these for some reason, but they're literally just...a little sketch of figuring out colors before you start painting. they don't have to be final or detailed or any good or whatever, it's just to get a starting idea! working super fast and loose especially helps to get out of the mindset of Doing A Good Drawing and more into messing around with shapes and negative space and all that fun stuff. :> then later you can focus on the Doing A Good Drawing part, without having to also think too hard about the other stuff.

• Keep It Simple -- 100% the hardest part. I have absolutely not mastered this in any way. 💀 it's SO easy to overwork this style and end up too detailed/too unfocused/just too much going on -- half the time I spend on these things is just adding details -> squinting at it for a couple of minutes -> erasing all the details again. you gotta keep in mind that it's about getting an idea across more than anything else, and when it comes to that, less is almost always more!

(this is one of the reasons I sometimes make myself use SUPER restricted palettes; when you only have three colors, it forces you to really think about what's important to show and how to leave things implied. ✌️)

#how do art #twisted wonderland spoilers #twisted wonderland episode 7 spoilers #twisted wonderland book 7 spoilers #twisted wonderland episode 7 part 13 spoilers #twisted wonderland book 7 part 13 spoilers #i didn't think about the spoilers until i was about to post this. shit. sorry :')#th-they were just the easiest examples to pull up #anyway hope there's something helpful in here somewhere #we have established that i am supremely unqualified to give out art advice so...if you can pull anything out of this then more power to you

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seospicybin · 3 months ago

Text

CAM.

CHAPTER II

Hyunjin x reader. (s,a)

CAM MASTERLIST

Synopsis: Struggling to make ends meet as an art student, Hyunjin never expected his quiet neighbor to change everything. Rumored to be an adult content creator, you offer him a deal—help you with your content, and you’ll help with his financial troubles. What starts as a simple arrangement soon blurs into something more, pulling Hyunjin into a world he never imagined. (23,4k words)

Author's note: Forgot to mention this was a late bday fic for Hyunjin. Hope you enjoy it and pls leave a feedback ♡

The past week has been a blur of paint-stained hands and sleepless nights. Hyunjin barely has time to think about anything else, buried in preparations for his school's upcoming exhibition. His apartment is a mess—canvases stacked against the walls, discarded sketches littering the floor, and his camera resting untouched on his desk. For once, his world isn’t revolving around late-night shoots and Lustre content. At least, that’s what he tells himself.

His brush glides across the canvas, layering deep strokes of blue over the rough outline of a figure. He’s been obsessed with movement lately, trying to capture fleeting emotions in abstract shapes and colors. His professors say his work has soul—that it feels raw, intimate. But he wonders if they’d still say the same if they knew where his inspiration truly came from.

Hyunjin sighs and sets his brush down, rolling the stiffness out of his shoulders. His eyes wander around his cluttered space, landing on an unfinished canvas propped up against the wall.

Your painting.

It’s a portrait, though he never intended it to be one. It started as a simple study—your figure bathed in warm light, the way your eyes softened when you were deep in thought. But then he kept coming back to it, adding layer after layer, unable to stop himself from trying to capture the quiet allure that had him tangled in knots.

Now, it’s only half-done. The outline of your face remains, delicate but unrefined. Your lips are sketched in, parted just slightly, as if caught mid-breath. Hyunjin swallows, gripping the brush tighter. He should be working on his exhibition piece, but his fingers itch to reach for this one instead.

It’s been days since he last saw you, yet here you are, lingering in the space between his thoughts.

The next day bleeds into the afternoon before Hyunjin even stirs awake. The weight of exhaustion still lingers in his limbs, his body aching from hours spent hunched over canvases and standing in front of easels. He barely remembers crashing onto his bed sometime in the early morning, the remnants of dried paint still on his fingers.

A sharp knock at the door pulls him from the haze of sleep. Hyunjin groans, pushing himself up with effort. The room is dim, sunlight seeping through the closed blinds, casting soft shadows over his cluttered space. Another knock follows, more insistent this time.

Dragging himself out of bed, he shuffles to the door, rubbing the sleep from his eyes before swinging it open. You're standing there, a warm smile curving your lips. The sight of you in the soft glow of the afternoon sun makes him blink twice, as if he isn’t sure whether he’s still dreaming.

“Wow, you look awful,” you tease, eyes flicking over his disheveled hair and the oversized shirt hanging off his frame. Before he can respond, you lift the paper bag in your hand. “Brought food. And coffee. Thought you might need it.”

Hyunjin stares at you for a moment, words catching in his throat. He wasn't expecting you—not today, not like this. But the scent of coffee and something delicious wafts toward him, grounding him in the moment. “…You didn’t have to,” he mumbles, voice still rough with sleep.

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Are you gonna let me in, or should I just eat this myself?”

The two of you sitting cross legged on his worn-out couch with take-out containers in hands. Hyunjin eats in slow bites, his body still shaking off the remnants of sleep. Next to him, you sit with your coffee in hand, fingers curled around the cup as you sip at it leisurely. He doesn’t think much of it at first—just you, keeping him company like you have before. But after a while, he notices it. The way your gaze lingers on him, thoughtful, as if you’re weighing something in your mind. You barely touch your food, just sipping at your coffee, lost in thought.

Hyunjin stops chewing, setting his chopsticks down. His brows furrow slightly as he studies you. “Do you have something to say to me?” he asks, tilting his head.

You blink, as if caught off guard, and glance down at your coffee. “No, not really,” you answer quickly, but there’s something in your tone—hesitation, uncertainty.

He doesn’t buy it. He puts down his chopsticks and looks at you. “Come on,” he presses gently. “You obviously have something to say. Just say it.”

You hesitate again, biting your lip as you lower your cup. For a moment, you seem to debate whether to speak at all. He watches you closely, his heart picking up its pace as you finally part your lips to speak.

“I was going to wait until after the exhibition to ask you this,” you begin, your fingers nervously tracing the rim of your coffee cup. “But… the thought of waiting has been making me uneasy.”

He stays quiet, letting you gather your words, his anticipation growing.

You take a deep breath and meet his gaze. “Now that you’ve paid off your debt… I was wondering if you still want to work with me. You know, help me with my content.”

Hyunjin gets a little taken aback. He expected something different, something more final—but this? He studies your face, the way your expression tightens with genuine worry, as if you’re afraid of what he might say. Instead of answering right away, he asks, “Why are you so worried that I’d stop?”

Your lips press together before you sigh. “Because it’s hard to find someone I can trust to do this with.” Your voice is softer now, more vulnerable. “And I trust you, Hyunjin.”

A strange fluttering feeling stirs in his chest at those words. Trust. You trust him.

You continue before he can respond, your words spilling faster as if you’re scared of what his answer might be. “I mean, obviously, you don’t have to say yes just because I asked, and if you want, we can negotiate the numbers—”

Hyunjin chuckles, shaking his head as he leans back against his chair. “Hey, slow down,” he says, amusement laced in his tone.

You shut your mouth quickly, looking embarrassed, aware that you were a second away from rambling on and on. Then, without hesitation, he gives you his answer. “Yes. I’ll continue working with you.”

The tension in your shoulders melts instantly. A smile blooms across your face, bright and relieved, and Hyunjin can’t help but stare for a moment, thinking to himself how effortlessly you light up a room.

The mood in the room shifts into something lighter, something comfortable after that talk. He sees that you can finally pick up your chopsticks and start eating, the sound of utensils clinking against the takeout containers filling the space between easy conversation.

“You really need to eat more proper meals,” you chide playfully as you watch him practically inhale the food.

He chuckles between bites. “I do eat properly,” he argues, though the evidence says otherwise.

Once the food is finished, Hyunjin gathers the trash and tosses it away, wiping his hands on a napkin. Meanwhile, you stand and wander around the room, eyes roaming over the canvases scattered throughout his workspace. Some lean against the walls, others rest on the floor, each one carrying a story in its strokes.

“These are for the exhibition?” you ask, tilting your head at one particular piece.

He nods, stepping beside you. “Yeah, I’m almost done with them. Just a few more details here and there.”

You take your time admiring each one, letting your fingers hover just above the dried paint as if you could feel the emotion embedded in them. Then, your gaze lands on a canvas tucked away in the corner, covered by a white cloth. Your curiosity sparks instantly. “What about that one?”

Hyunjin stiffens. His reaction is subtle, but you catch it.

“It’s nothing,” he says too quickly, stepping forward as if to block your view. “Just a failed one.”

You raise an eyebrow. “A failed one?”

“Yeah,” he lies smoothly, though his voice is just a little too even. “Didn’t turn out the way I wanted, so I scrapped it.”

You don’t push, but you do glance at the covered painting again, wondering what could possibly be underneath. Unbeknownst to you, Hyunjin swallows hard, keeping his expression neutral as he prays you don’t try to unveil it. Because hidden beneath that cloth is something he isn’t ready for you to see.

He shifts his focus back to you, watching your gaze lingers on the paintings, your fingers tracing the air just above the dried brushstrokes. The way you look at them—at his work—makes something warm settle in his chest.

“So,” he starts, hands tucking into the pockets of his sweatpants, “are you going to come to the exhibition?”

You turn to him, a playful glint in your eyes. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Hyunjin scoffs, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips. “So that’s a yes?”

You nod and with a soft smile, you say, “I’d be more than happy to come.”

Somehow, in the pause that follows, your eyes find his, and for a moment, neither of you look away. There’s something lingering in the air between you, something unspoken. Hyunjin wonders if you feel it too.

Then, after what feels like a beat too long, you break into a smile and glance toward the door. “I should probably go so you can work on your paintings.”

He barely manages to hide his disappointment. He wants you to stay. He likes having you here, in his space, talking to him like this. But he doesn’t say that. Instead, he nods, forcing himself to play it cool. “Yeah,” he says. “I’ll see you later.”

You give him one last smile before heading for the door, and when it finally clicks shut behind you, Hyunjin exhales, running a hand through his hair. The room feels quieter now, a little emptier and he hates how much he wishes you had stayed.

As you step into your apartment, the air-conditioning greets your skin, a cool relief after your morning run. You set your phone down on the counter, make yourself a smoothie, and settle into your usual spot by the window. The city hums faintly outside, but inside, it’s quiet—just the way you like it in the mornings.

You take a sip of your smoothie and open Lustre, scrolling through notifications. A few messages from subscribers—some predictable, explicit ones—but one stands out.

mag.shawn

The profile picture is simple: a bunch of purple tulips. No face, no suggestive username. Curiosity piqued, you tap on the message.

"The more I see your pictures, the more convinced I am that you're not just beautiful from the outside, but on the inside too. I hope you have a lovely day, beautiful."

You take another second to reread the words. You’re used to messages from men, but they usually come with crude compliments, detailed fantasies, or straight-up requests. This, however, is just… sweet. A small smile tugs at your lips. You type a reply.

"Thank you, that’s really sweet of you. I hope you have a lovely day too."

After sending it, you lean back, taking another sip of your smoothie. It’s such a small thing—a simple message—but somehow, it lifts your mood. As you're about to have a sip of your smoothie, another notification comes and catches your eye.

Felix [Lustre]: Hey, do you want to meet up today?

Your fingers hover over the screen, hesitating. You knew this was coming—he had already reached out about a collaboration and texted you a few times talking about it—but something about it makes you pause. Maybe it's the uncertainty of working with someone new, or maybe it's the fact that Hyunjin's face flashed in your mind the second you read Felix’s message. You chew on your lip, tapping your nails against the glass of your smoothie. What should you say? Your screen stays lit, Felix’s message waiting for an answer.

You pull your car out of the parking lot, the engine humming softly as you ease onto the road. Just as you’re about to turn the corner, you spot Hyunjin walking along the sidewalk, hands shoved into his pockets, his hair is tied into a loose ponytail, his bag slung over his shoulder.

You slow down, rolling down the passenger-side window. “Hyunjin!” He looks up, surprised. “Need a lift?”

He stops on his track and then slightly bends down to look at you as he kindly refuses your offer. “It’s fine, I can take the bus.”

“At least let me drop you off at the bus stop.” You insist, offering him a look that says you won’t take no for an answer.

With a sigh, he caves in, pulling the door open and settling into the passenger seat. “Thanks.”

As you start driving, you glance at him. “So, where are you going?”

He nods, gazing out the window. “I’m heading to school to help set up the exhibition.”

You hum in response, but before you can say anything else, he shifts slightly in his seat and looks at you, noticing the way you're dressed. “How about you?”

Your grip tightens on the steering wheel for a second. You don’t know why you hesitate, but you do. Then, after a pause, you ask, “Do you remember Felix?”

Hyunjin’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “The creator who wants to collab with you?”

You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Yeah, I’m meeting him today.”

His gaze flickers to you before returning to the road ahead. “Does that means you’re doing the collab?”

Another hesitation. You wonder if it's a good idea to share when nothing is decided yet. Then, you exhale. “I’m still considering. I just want to meet him first, get to know him a little before deciding.”

He nods, but he doesn’t say anything. The silence stretches between you, heavy and suffocating. As you focus on the road ahead, you don’t know why, but you feel like you told him something you shouldn't have shared.

When you finally pull up at the bus stop, Hyunjin unbuckles his seatbelt and reaches for the door. Before stepping out, he turns to you with a small, polite smile. “Thanks for the ride.”

You nod, watching as he shuts the door behind him. As you drive away, you steal one last glance at the rearview mirror, catching sight of him standing there, hands back in his pockets, staring off at nothing in particular.

The scent of freshly brewed coffee and baked goods lingering in the air as you step inside the café. You scan the room, searching for him, and it doesn’t take long before your eyes land on the person you're looking for.

Felix. He’s already there, sitting by the window with a cup of coffee in hand. The afternoon sun casts a glow over him, highlighting the soft waves of his long, bleached blonde hair. You knew he was good-looking from his pictures, but in person, he’s even more striking—sharp jawline, deep brown eyes, freckles dusted his cheeks and a natural pout to his lips. You get it now. You understand why he’s one of the most popular creators on Lustre.

But when he looks up and spots you, a smile breaks across his face—warm, inviting, nothing like the sultry, smoldering persona he portrays online. “Hey, glad you made it,” he greets, standing up to shake your hand. His voice is deep, laced with a natural rasp that takes you by surprise.

You nod, shaking his hand. “I hope I didn't make you wait too long.”

“Nah. Not at all,” he grins before gesturing to the seat across from him. “Please, have a seat. I already ordered for you—hope you don’t mind. I just figured a vanilla latte suits you.”

You blink at him, caught off guard by how effortlessly charming he is—not in an overbearing way, but in a way that makes you feel at ease. Sitting down, you take a glance at the drink he ordered for you, a small smile tugging at your lips. “That’s actually my go-to order.”

Felix chuckles, resting his chin on his palm. “Lucky guess. Or maybe I’m just good at reading people.”

The conversation flows easily between you and Felix as you sip on your coffee, talking about Lustre, content creation, and the experiences that come with it. He’s easy to talk to—engaging, charming without trying too hard, and surprisingly down-to-earth despite his popularity.

Eventually, curiosity gets the best of you, and you tilt your head slightly. “May I ask why you suddenly want to do a collab with me?”

Felix hums, stirring the remnants of his coffee with his straw. “Honestly? I’ve never done a collab before. I always worked solo, but then I saw the one you did with Sienna.” He leans back against his chair, a small grin tugging at his lips. “And I just thought… that looks fun.”

A smile tugging at your lips, slightly flustered. “Fun?”

He nods. “Yeah. The way you two work together, the chemistry—it felt natural, not forced. And I could tell you put a lot of effort into it, not just in front of the camera, but in the way everything was presented. It wasn’t just content; it was… artistic.”

His words catch you off guard, and you find yourself lowering your gaze, a hint of warmth creeping up your neck. Still, another question lingers in your mind. You glance at him again, hesitating only for a second before asking, “But why me? There are so many other creators on Lustre—some even more popular than I am. Why choose me?”

He doesn’t hesitate for a second to answer. “Because I like you.”

Your breath catches slightly, eyes widening at his direct answer. He seems to realize the weight of his words, quickly raising his hands with a sheepish chuckle. “I mean, I like your content—your artistry, your aesthetic. It’s different from the rest.”

But then, after a short pause, he tilts his head, a playful glint in his eyes. “Though… yeah, I guess I also just like you. You’re beautiful—it’s impossible not to like you.”

You feel your heart skip, caught between surprise and something else you can’t quite place. And from the way Felix watches you, as if amused by your reaction, you know he notices it too. As if you weren't flustered enough, he leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table as he watches you with quiet curiosity. “So, what do you think? About collabing with me?”

You let out a small breath, fingers idly tracing the rim of your coffee cup as you think of how to answer. Before you can, Felix speaks again.

“I honestly think this would work,” he says, his voice light but certain. “One, because I like your style—it’s different, and I think our aesthetics could blend well. Two, because I know how to bring out the best in my content partners.” He pauses for a second, a smirk playing on his lips. “And three… because I can already tell you and I have chemistry.”

His confidence is disarming, and you can’t help but smile at his words. He says it so naturally, like it’s a fact rather than a guess.

Still, you take a moment before answering, meeting his gaze. “I only collaborate with people I trust.”

He studies you for a moment, then nods in understanding, his expression softening. “I get that,” he says. “Trust is important in this line of work. I’d probably be the same way if I were you.”

You expect him to push further, but instead, he leans back, completely relaxed. “I just hope you’re not completely closed off to the idea.” His eyes meet yours again, sincere and patient. “Take as much time as you need. And when you’re ready, give me a call.”

The weight in his words lingers between you, an unspoken promise that he won’t rush you into anything and for some reason, that makes it harder to look away.

Being a gentleman that he is, Felix insists on walking you toward your car, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans, his steps unhurried like he has all the time in the world. The late afternoon sun casts a soft glow on his blond hair, making him look even more ethereal than he already does.

When you reach your car, he turns to you with an easy smile. “I really hope we get to do this collab,” he says, his voice gentle but firm.

You raise a brow at him, smirking. “No pressure, huh?”

He chuckles, tilting his head slightly. “None at all. Just putting it out there.”

There’s something about the way he looks at you—warm, expectant, and just a little mischievous—that makes your chest feel light. You unlock your car, and before you can reach for the door, Felix beats you to it, pulling it open like a perfect gentleman. “Here,” he gestures, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Allow me.”

You laugh softly but step inside, settling into the driver’s seat. As you adjust your grip on the wheel, Felix leans down, resting his arm on the top of your car, his gaze meeting yours through the open window. His usual playful demeanor is gone, replaced by something more serious—more intense.

“Whether there'll be a collab or not, please give me a call.” His voice is deeper and lower now, smoother, and for a brief second, it feels like he’s asking for something much more than just a call.

Your fingers tighten on the steering wheel as your heart does a tiny, unexpected flip. And then, just like that, he steps back, flashing you one last, heart-melting smile.

You drive away, glancing once in the rearview mirror to see him standing there, hands in his pockets, watching you leave. By the time you turn the corner, you realize that you’re smiling too.

The gallery is alive with murmurs of appreciation, soft footsteps against polished floors, and the occasional clinking of glasses from the refreshment table. Hyunjin should be basking in the compliments, engaging in conversations with professors and fellow artists, but his mind is elsewhere. He glances toward the entrance again, pretending to survey the crowd, but really, he’s just looking for you.

The anticipation coils tight in his chest. He’s not even sure why. Maybe because you promised you’d come. Maybe because you looked at him that way—the way that made him feel like he was someone worth looking at. He shifts his weight, nodding along to a professor’s comment about his brushwork, but his thoughts are elsewhere. You’ll come. You said you would.

Hyunjin excuses himself, turning around on his feet and about to check his phone when he hears your voice.

"Hey."

He turns to the side, and there you are, standing by the entrance, holding a bouquet of flowers. His breath catches for a second—maybe from surprise, maybe from something else—but he quickly recovers, walking toward you.

"You're here," he says, relief evident in his voice.

You flash him a grin and hold out the bouquet. "These are from Sienna. She wanted to congratulate you but couldn’t make it."

Still smiling, he gestures toward the gallery. "Come on, let me give you the grand tour."

As the two of you walk through the exhibition, Hyunjin explains his paintings to you, his voice softer than usual. He doesn’t even realize how closely you’re listening, how intently you’re watching him as he talks. But when he finally meets your gaze, something about the way you’re looking at him makes his heart race.

Just as Hyunjin is about to say something else, a voice cuts in.

"Hyunjin, I didn't know you have a girlfriend."

Hyunjin turns to see Edgar approaching, one of his classmates and a fellow artist in the exhibition. Edgar's gaze flickers between the two of you, curiosity evident in his expression.

"This is not my—" Hyunjin clears his throat and then gestures toward you. "She’s my neighbor and a... friend of mine."

You briefly glance at Hyunjin before offer a polite smile and extend your hand at Edgar. "Nice to meet you."

Edgar takes your hand with an easy grin. "Nice to meet you too. You a fan of Hyunjin’s work?"

You glance at Hyunjin playfully before nodding. "Yeah, you could say that."

Before Edgar can respond, Hyunjin hears his name being called from across the room. His professor waves him over, motioning for him to come quickly. He exhales sharply, hating the timing.

"I have to take care of something," he tells you, regret in his tone. He looks at Edgar. "Hey, can you take over for me? Show her the rest of the exhibition?"

Edgar nods easily. "Yeah, with pleasure."

He looks at you one last time with a gentle smile on his face. "I’ll be back soon, okay?"

You nod with a reassuring smile. "Go, do your thing. I’ll be fine."

Still, as he walks away, Hyunjin can't shake the feeling of guilt for leaving you behind.

His professor had kept him occupied longer than expected, and now that he’s free, his first instinct is to find you. He immediately scans the room, searching for you amidst the crowd.

When his eyes land on you, he stops in his tracks. You’re still with Edgar, standing near one of the paintings, laughing at something he just said. There’s an easygoing warmth in your expression, the kind that makes it obvious you’re enjoying the conversation. Edgar, on the other hand, is leaning slightly toward you, a smug grin on his face like he’s proud of making you laugh.

Hyunjin doesn’t know why it bothers him, but it does. It’s not like you’re his. He has no right to feel like this. And yet, the longer he watches, the stronger the irrational urge becomes—to interrupt, to pull you away, to remind you that you came here for him, not Edgar. Before he can talk himself out of it, he makes his way over.

“Hey,” he says, slipping into the conversation as casually as he can manage. His eyes flicker between you and Edgar, but his focus lingers on you. “Having fun?”

You turn to him with a bright smile. “Yeah, Edgar’s been telling me all kinds of stories about you.”

Hyunjin narrows his eyes at Edgar, who only smirks in response. “Oh yeah?” Hyunjin crosses his arms. “What exactly have you been saying?”

Edgar chuckles. “Just a few fun facts.” He glances at you with a teasing look. “Your friend here thinks you’re impressive.”

Hyunjin feels his heartbeat pick up at that, but he masks it with a scoff. “Yeah, well, I hope you weren’t exaggerating.”

Edgar waves him off and then turns to you with a grin. "So, what do you say? A drink after this? A little celebration for Hyunjin’s big night?"

You blink in surprise, then glance at Hyunjin, who suddenly looks like he wasn’t expecting this either. A smirk tugs at your lips as you tease, “Oh? Hyunjin never mentioned anything about drinks.”

Edgar crosses his arms together and chuckles. “That’s because I just came up with it. But come on, it’ll be fun.”

You shake your head, smiling politely. "I appreciate the invite, but I think I’ll have to pass this time."

Hyunjin doesn’t say anything, but you notice the way his posture subtly shifts, like he’s relieved. Taking the opportunity, you turn to him. “Speaking of leaving, I should probably get going.”

His expression falters slightly, just for a second, but he quickly recovers. “Oh… already?”

You nod, offering him a warm smile. “Yeah, but congratulations again. The exhibition is amazing, and I’m really proud of you.”

Something flickers in Hyunjin’s eyes at your words, but before he can say anything, you take a small step back. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

He nods, and just as you turn to leave, Edgar playfully nudges Hyunjin. “Damn, man. You didn’t even try to convince her to stay.”

Hyunjin ignores him, watching as you disappear into the crowd. And as much as he wishes you had stayed just a little longer, he holds on to your words—letting them replay in his head, over and over again.

You take a sip of your iced coffee as you scroll through your Lustre notifications. Most of them are the usual—likes, tips, and messages ranging from sweet to outright explicit but one message catches your attention. The one user with the purple tulips picture on his profile. You open it, your curiosity piqued.

mag.shawn: “I really liked your new photos. The silk dress suits you beautifully, but what suits you best is the smile on your face.”

You pause for a moment, rereading the message. It’s simple, kind, and—like before—different from the usual messages you receive. There’s something almost personal about it, like he actually sees you beyond just the photos. You type out a quick reply.

"Thank you! That’s really sweet of you to say. I’m glad you liked the photos. Hope you’re having a good day, sweet baby!"

Hearing the knocking on your door, you set your phone down and walk to the door to open it. You don't have to check to know that it's Hyunjin. You step aside to let him into your apartment, he walks in without hesitation, setting his bag down near the couch.

“Want to have a drink first?” you offer because he seems like he's just ran from his art school in a rush.

He uses the hair tie he carries around in his wrist to tie his hair into a low ponytail. “Maybe later. We have a lot to do now.”

The two of you don’t waste time, moving around in quiet understanding as you begin rearranging one of the spare rooms to turn it into a proper photo studio. You adjust the lighting, shift furniture, and clear out unnecessary clutter while Hyunjin sets up his camera equipment, occasionally checking the angles and backdrop.

The silence is comfortable, but after a while, you feel the weight of something unsaid pressing on your chest. You take a deep breath and break it.

“Hey…” You glance at Hyunjin, who is adjusting his camera settings. He hums in response, looking up.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t stay long at your exhibition,” you say softly, fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve.

He straightens up and calmly responds. “It’s alright.” But then, after a beat, he tilts his head and asks, “Why, though?”

You hesitate, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “It’s just… safer that way,” you finally say, your voice quieter. “I don’t want to risk getting recognized by people.” You lower your gaze, feeling oddly vulnerable. “I don’t want to embarrass you.”

Hyunjin frowns slightly. “Embarrass me how?”

You let out a small, breathy chuckle, but there’s no humor in it. “For being... with me. For being associated with what I do.”

He shakes his head, almost scoffing. “I don’t care about all that stuff.”

“Yeah,” You lift your gaze to him and, without thinking, murmur, “But other people do.”

Hyunjin falls silent at that. His expression shifts—like he wants to argue, to tell you that it doesn’t matter what others think. But deep down, you both know that’s not entirely true.

The room stays quiet for a moment before you clear your throat, forcing a smile. “Anyway, I'll get the cake.”

He watches you as you get up from the floor and walk out of the room but the weight of your words lingers between you both.

The concept for today is simple—just you against the clean, white backdrop, playing with food as a prop. The first choice is a small, frosted cake, one that you picked up specifically for this shoot. You sit on the floor with the cake in front of you, dressed in a soft, pastel-colored outfit that contrasts nicely against the backdrop.

Hyunjin lifts his camera, adjusting the focus. “Are you ready?”

You give him a thumbs-up. “I'm ready.”

The second he aims the camera at you, you dip a finger into the frosting, bringing it to your lips with a playful smirk. The camera clicks. You swipe a bit of frosting onto your cheek, pouting dramatically, and Hyunjin chuckles before snapping another shot.

"Try smearing some on your lips,” he suggests, his voice more focused now.

You do as he says, dabbing frosting on your bottom lip before licking it off slowly. The camera clicks again.

“Perfect,” he mutters while keeping his focus on getting good shots.

The shoot continues like this—innocent yet teasing, fun but undeniably intimate. You pretend to feed an imaginary person, tilt your head back with a bite of cake on your tongue, even press a bit of frosting onto your collarbone. Each time, Hyunjin captures the moment with an artist’s precision, his eyes trained on you through the lens.

But at some point, you glance up at him, and for the briefest moment, your eyes meet—not through the camera, but directly. There’s something unreadable in his gaze, something that makes your stomach flutter. You quickly look away, dipping your fingers back into the frosting, pretending you didn’t notice the way Hyunjin swallowed hard before lifting the camera again.

As the shoot winds down, you stretch your arms above your head and let out a content sigh. “That was fun,” you say, glancing at the mess you made. There’s frosting smeared on your fingers, your face, on your chest and you’re sure there’s some in your hair too.

He lowers his camera and looks at you, his lips pressing together as if he’s holding back a smile. “Yeah, fun for you,” he mutters. “I have to clean all this up.”

You grin, swiping a bit more frosting onto your cheek just to be annoying. “Well, you’re the photographer. That’s part of your job, isn’t it?”

Hyunjin sighs, shaking his head, but he grabs a cloth and steps closer. “You’re impossible.”

The warmth of his fingers ghosts over your skin as he wipes the icing from your cheek first, his touch careful and lingering longer than necessary. You stay still, watching him through your lashes as he works his way down—your jaw, the curve of your neck, the dip of your collarbone. His movements are slow, deliberate, and you can’t help but tease him.

“You sure this isn’t part of your job description too?” you murmur, tilting your head slightly.

He briefly stops moving, his eyes flicking to yours. There’s something in his gaze—something warm, something restrained. But then he scoffs, rolling his eyes as he moves to clean the frosting from your hair. “And you have to pay me extra for it.”

You laugh softly, letting him continue. But there’s no denying the shift in the air, the tension settling between you both as his fingers linger just a little too long. Even after he wipes most of the frosting with wet wipes, you feel the remnants of sugar still clinging to your skin. "I need a shower," you announce, already heading toward the bathroom. "Order dinner while I'm in there. Get whatever you want."

Hyunjin, now cleaning the mess on the floor, nods absentmindedly. "Got it."

The sound of running water fills the bathroom as you step inside, letting the warmth wash away the sticky remnants of the shoot. The sweet scent of frosting lingers on your skin, but soon it’s replaced by the familiar comfort of your body wash. You’re halfway through rinsing your hair when you faintly hear Hyunjin’s voice outside the door.

"Hey—what do you want to drink?"

You blink through the water running down your face, unable to make out his words clearly. "What?"

"I said—" His voice comes again, a little louder this time, but still muffled by the sound of the shower.

Sighing, you shake your head. "Just come inside, I can't hear you!"

There’s a pause. A long one. Then, the door creaks open hesitantly. "I'm—uh—I'm coming in," He mumbles, clearly uncomfortable.

You smirk to yourself, picturing the way he must be avoiding looking anywhere but straight ahead. "Relax, it's not like you haven't seen me naked before."

He scoffs but doesn't comment. "I was asking what you want to drink," he says stiffly, keeping his gaze locked on the tiled floor as he stands awkwardly by the sink.

Still grinning to yourself, you peek your head out from behind the shower curtain, water dripping down your face. "Just get me iced tea or something," you say casually.

He glances at you for only a second—before his eyes go wide, and he quickly looks away, his ears turning pink. "Okay—iced tea. Got it."

Before you can tease him further, he spins on his heel and nearly stumbles out of the bathroom, shutting the door a little too quickly behind him. Laughing to yourself, you shake your head and return to your shower, amused at how flustered he still gets around you.

Steam clings to your skin as you step out of the bathroom, your hair damp and dripping onto the collar of your bathrobe. The scent of warm food fills your apartment, making your stomach growl. You pad barefoot toward the kitchen, finding Hyunjin setting out containers of takeout, his sleeves pushed up as he arranges everything neatly. Without hesitation, you reach over and snatch a crispy fry from the plate.

"Hey!" He glares at you, swatting at your hand too late. "At least get dressed first!"

You grin as you pop the fry into your mouth. "Why? Does it bother you?" you tease, clutching your robe loosely around you.

He huffs, narrowing his eyes. "No. It’s just basic hygiene. Also, your hair is dripping everywhere."

You glance down, noticing a few stray droplets landing on the table. Shrugging, you steal another fry. "Guess I'll have to eat fast before I make a mess, then."

He groans, grabbing a napkin and pressing it into your hand. "Go. Dry off, get dressed, and then you can eat like a normal person."

You roll your eyes but turn on your heel, waving a hand as you walk away. "Ugh, okay, fine. But don't eat all the fries before I get back."

The two of you sit across from each other at the small dining table, the scent of fried food and warm rice filling the space between you. With your hair still wrapped in towel, you twirl your chopsticks absentmindedly, picking at your food while Hyunjin quietly eats. The atmosphere is comfortable, a peaceful kind of quiet settling between you both—until he suddenly speaks up.

"So…" He pauses, looking down at his plate before glancing up at you. "How did your meeting with Felix go?"

You stop mid-bite, not expecting him to bring it up. "It went fine," you answer, chewing slowly.

He nods, as if contemplating your answer, before continuing, "And what do you think of the guy?"

You shrug, poking at a piece of chicken. "He's nice."

He raises an eyebrow, waiting for you to say more. When you don’t, he asks, "So, have you decided? Are you going to collab with him?"

You let out a small sigh, setting your chopsticks down. "I don’t know. I mean, he’s great—charming, professional, all that. But…" You hesitate, searching for the right words. "I’m not fully sure about it yet."

He stays quiet, nodding slowly but a while later, his gaze flickers to you. "Why not?"

You purse your lips, unsure of how to explain it. "I guess… I just don’t jump into things like this. I like to trust the person I work with, and trust takes time, you know?"

He hums in response, stabbing a piece of food with his chopsticks. "Yeah. Makes sense."

As you and Hyunjin clean up after dinner, the rhythmic clinking of dishes and running water fills the room. You pass him a plate to dry, your fingers brushing for a fleeting second before you turn back to the sink. You thought that Hyunjin has dropped the conversation until, out of nowhere, he speaks up. "If you're still considering," he starts, voice casual but careful, "then maybe you should do a test shoot with him."

You glance at him, surprised. "A test shoot?"

Hyunjin nods, keeping his eyes on the dish he’s drying. "Yeah. Just to see if you really have the chemistry. That way, you don’t have to commit right away, and it’ll help you decide."

You lean against the counter, thinking. "I never thought about that…"

"It makes sense, right?" He finally looks at you, his expression neutral, but there’s something in his eyes—something unreadable. "If it works, great. If not, then you won’t waste your time."

You chew on the inside of your cheek, mulling over his words. He has a point. And yet, something about him bringing it up makes you hesitate. "You think I should do it?"

He nonchalantly shrugs. "It’s just a suggestion."

You study him for a moment, trying to gauge what he's really thinking. But his face gives nothing away. Instead of pressing, you nod slowly, wiping your damp hands on a dish towel. "Maybe I will."

The night continues with the two of you settling onto the couch with cans of drinks in hands, checking the result of today's photoshoot. Your laptop balanced between you, the soft glow of the screen lights up your faces as you scroll through the photos. Some shots capture the playful chaos—the smears of icing on your skin, the mischievous glint in your eyes—while others are more poised, effortlessly seductive in a way that even surprises you.

"You did a great job," you say, nudging Hyunjin lightly with your elbow. "They all look amazing."

He hums in acknowledgment, his gaze fixed on the screen. "You made it easy."

A pleased smile tugs at your lips, and as you keep scrolling, a random thought pops into your head. "The cake was delicious by the way. Should stick to that bakery shop." You glance at him. "Which reminds me—what kind do you want for your birthday?"

He freezes for half a second before slowly turning his head to look at you, eyes narrowing. "How do you know when my birthday is?"

You grin sheepishly, caught red-handed. "Uh… I may have accidentally found out when I was at your apartment. Your mail was just sitting there, and I—"

"You went through my mail?" He squints at you, but there’s no real anger in his voice.

"Not on purpose!" you defend yourself, hands up in surrender. "It was just there, and I happened to see it. That’s how I know your birthday is next Friday."

He leans back against the couch, his legs parting apart. "Well, don’t get any ideas. There will be no cake."

You nod dramatically, pressing your lips together in mock seriousness. "No cake. Got it."

But then he narrows his eyes at you again, like he knows exactly what’s going on in your head. "And no gift either."

You gasp and then frown. "No gift? At all?"

"None," he confirms.

You pout, crossing your arms. "How come you don't want anything for your birthday?"

"Because I just don’t," he replies simply, as if that’s enough explanation. "And before you ask, no party either. No surprises, no celebrations, nothing."

You lean back against the couch, tilting your head as you study Hyunjin’s expression. He’s still watching the laptop screen, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes—curiosity, maybe, or hesitation.

With a playful smirk, you decide to test him. "Okay, no cake, no gift, no party," you repeat. "But what if…" You pause, letting the anticipation build before continuing, "what if I was the gift?"

Hyunjin’s entire body stiffens. His eyes widen slightly, and he finally looks at you, clearly caught off guard. "Huh? What?"

You bite back a laugh at how flustered he looks, his ears already turning red. "I mean, if you won’t accept a present, maybe I could be the present," you tease, tilting your head. "Would you accept that?"

Hyunjin blinks rapidly, his mouth opening and closing like he’s trying to come up with a logical response, but failing miserably.

You scoot a little closer, watching his reaction with amusement. "What’s wrong? You look nervous."

"I’m not," he mutters, but his voice betrays him.

You chuckle. "You’re totally flustered right now."

"I—" Hyunjin abruptly stands up from the couch, nearly knocking over the laptop in his rush. "It’s, uh—getting late. I should go."

You laugh, watching as he practically scrambles to gather his things. "So that’s a no on accepting me as your gift?"

He shoots you a glare, but it’s weak at best, his face still slightly pink. "Goodnight."

With that, he heads straight for the door, leaving you grinning to yourself as you hear it click shut behind him.

You sit in your parked car, drumming your fingers lightly on the steering wheel as you wait for Hyunjin to be done with his class. With nothing else to do, you pull out your phone and open Lustre, skimming through notifications until a new message catches your eye.

mag.shawn: "I’m a little nervous today. I’m meeting someone, and I don’t know how it’ll go. But anyway, I just wanted to say I hope you’re having a lovely day."

You smile softly, touched by his honesty. Without thinking too much, you type out a response.

"I’m sure it’ll go well! Just be yourself, and everything will fall into place. Wishing you the best of luck, and hope you have a lovely day too!"

Just as you send the message, a sudden knock on your window makes you jump. You turn to see Edgar grinning at you through the glass. With a sigh, you roll down the window. "Please don't sneak up on people like that."

Edgar chuckles, resting his arms on the top of your car door. "Sorry, couldn't help myself." He tilts his head. "Waiting for Hyunjin?"

"Yeah," you reply, glancing past him as if you might spot Hyunjin approaching.

"Perfect timing, then," Edgar says, leaning in slightly. "Did you know it's his birthday this Friday?"

You nod. "I do, actually."

His eyebrows raise in mild surprise. "Oh? He told you?"

"Not exactly," you admit. "I found out by accident."

Edgar laughs. "Figures. He’s not the type to bring it up." Then, as if suddenly remembering, he adds, "A few of us are taking him out for drinks that night. Just something chill, nothing crazy. You should come."

You blink at the unexpected invitation. "I—"

"It’s at The Blue Moon, around nine," he continues, not giving you a chance to refuse. "No pressure, but I think he’d be happy if you showed up."

You hesitate for a moment before nodding. "I can’t promise anything, but I’ll try."

"That’s good enough for me," Edgar says, pushing away from your car just as you spot Hyunjin walking toward you.

Edgar gives you one last wink before stepping away, leaving you with a strange feeling as Hyunjin approaches and slides into the passenger seat.

Hyunjin glances toward Edgar, then at you. "What did he want?"

You start the engine, glancing at him with a small smile. "Nothing much."

Hyunjin tosses his backpack to the backseat of the car before putting the safety belt on. “So, where are we meeting him?”

You turn the car engine on and it roars to life. “It’s at this hotel not far from here,” you answer, showing him the route on the GPS.

The elevator dings as you and Hyunjin step into the dimly lit hallway of the hotel, the plush carpet muffling your footsteps. Room 716—you stop in front of the door and knock twice.

Within seconds, the door swings open, revealing Felix on the other side. His warm smile is the first thing you notice, followed by the familiar brightness in his honey-brown eyes. His long bleached-blond hair is tied back loosely, a few strands framing his sharp yet inviting features.

"Hey, you made it," he greets, pulling you into a brief but firm hug that smells like vanilla and something subtly musky.

"Of course," you reply, pulling back with a small smile. You turn slightly to gesture to Hyunjin. "And this is Hyunjin—my photographer. He’s the man behind all those amazing photos."

Felix’s eyes flicker to Hyunjin, and he extends a hand. "Nice to finally meet you. Your work is incredible."

Hyunjin shakes his hand but remains quiet, only offering a polite nod. You can tell he’s reserved, but you’re not sure if it’s because he’s just naturally like that or because of the situation.

You clear your throat and turn back to Felix. "So, I just want to make it clear—this is a test shoot. Just to see how well we work together, how the chemistry flows. No pressure."

Felix’s lips curve into a confident smile, his gaze holding yours as he playfully responds, "Oh, I don't feel pressured at all."

His words hang in the air for a second longer than necessary, and you glance at Hyunjin, who remains expressionless, his camera bag slung over his shoulder. Something about this moment makes your stomach flutter—but whether it’s excitement or nerves, you can’t quite tell.

The soft click of Hyunjin’s camera echoes through the hotel room as you and Felix stand near the edge of the bed, facing each other under the warm glow of the studio light he set up.

Felix shifts beside you, then pauses, tilting his head. “Is it okay if I touch you?” His voice is gentle, respectful, his dark eyes searching yours for permission.

You nod, offering a small smile. “Yeah, it’s okay.”

With that, Felix lifts his hand, fingertips grazing your wrist before sliding up to your elbow, guiding you subtly closer. The two of you hold the pose, looking into each other’s eyes and he looks at you in a way that makes you feel nervous that you can’t help the way your lips twitch, and after a few seconds, you burst into laughter, flustered.

“Sorry, sorry!” you gasp, covering your mouth as you glance at Hyunjin, who lowers his camera slightly, his expression unreadable.

Felix chuckles, shaking his head. “You’re cute when you get flustered.”

The photoshoot continues, Felix adjusting his stance, letting his touches remain light and respectful—a hand on your waist, fingers grazing your jaw as if to brush imaginary strands of hair away. Hyunjin keeps clicking, staying quiet as he captures each moment.

Between shots, Felix leans in, his voice just above a whisper. “You have the prettiest smile,” he murmurs.

You blush, biting your lip as you try to hold your pose.

Another click of the camera. “Your skin is so soft.”

You giggle, shaking your head slightly as the warmth in your cheeks deepens. Felix just grins, enjoying your reaction. The camera keeps clicking, capturing every moment—but you can’t help but wonder what’s going through Hyunjin’s mind right now.

“That’s enough for now,” Hyunjin suddenly announces, lowering the camera from his face. His voice is steady, but something in his chest feels tight, like he’s been holding his breath for too long.

You turn to look at him, blinking as if pulled from a daze, while Felix exhales a soft hum, tilting his head in thought.

“Actually,” Felix says, still holding onto your waist, “Can we try one more thing?”

Before you can ask, Felix glances down at you, his eyes glinting with mischief. “How about a kiss?”

The camera in his hands acts as a barrier, separating him from the scene unfolding in front of him. But it doesn't stop him from seeing everything—the way Felix holds you so effortlessly, the way you laugh when Felix murmurs something in your ear, the way your body relaxes against his touch.

Hyunjin isn’t sure why he’s noticing these things. He shouldn’t be. But as he adjusts the focus, framing the next shot, he can’t shake the feeling that he doesn’t belong here—like he’s intruding on something intimate, something that doesn’t need a spectator.

It’s ridiculous. He’s here for work. Nothing else. Still, he feels like a third wheel.

Felix and you—you make sense together. Felix is confident, charming, a natural in front of the camera. He knows how to play up the chemistry, how to draw reactions from you that look effortlessly beautiful through the lens.

Hyunjin, on the other hand—he’s just behind the camera. A quiet observer.

And when Felix suddenly suggests a kiss, the thought cements itself deep in his stomach.

Hyunjin stills and you freeze, eyes widening as you pull back slightly. “What?”

“A kiss,” Felix repeats, like he’s merely suggesting a new camera angle. “Just a light one. I think it would look great in the photos. Plus—” he smirks now, “—it's how we know for sure if we have that chemistry.”

Hyunjin swallows hard, fingers twitching over the shutter button on the camera. He doesn’t know why it bothers him so much—the way Felix is looking at you, the casual way he suggests kissing you, as if it’s nothing more than another pose to try.

You, on the other hand, look completely flustered. “I—” You glance at Hyunjin for a fraction of a second before looking back at Felix, hesitating.

Hyunjin doesn’t say anything. He just waits. And after a moment of silence, you crack a sheepish laugh and nod.

You and Felix are now sitting on the end of the bed and Hyunjin presses record. The camera’s screen frames the moment perfectly—too perfectly. Felix starts slow, his fingers tucking every stray strand of hair away from your face with a tenderness that makes Hyunjin’s stomach knot. Then, Felix’s hands cradle your jaw, his thumbs brushing lightly over your cheekbones.

“You’re comfortable, right?” Felix murmurs, his voice so soft that the mic barely picks it up. He doesn’t move forward just yet, just holds you like he has all the time in the world. “You can stop me whenever, yeah?”

You nod, swallowing.

Felix smiles—gentle, reassuring. “You have such beautiful eyes.” Then, he tilts forward—but not toward your lips. Instead, he kisses the corner of your eye.

Hyunjin remains calm but his grip tightens on the camera. The way you suck in a sharp breath, your lashes fluttering at the unexpected touch—it’s too much to watch through the lens. But before you can react, Felix does it again, placing a kiss on the other eye.

The moment is intimate, more than Hyunjin expected. And yet, his hands don’t lower the camera. And then—before you can process it—Felix finally presses his lips to your slightly parted mouth. It’s gentle at first. Barely there. Just the soft press of his lips against yours, his hands steady on your face as if holding something delicate. Hyunjin feels something crawl up his throat as he keeps his hands steady.

Felix pulls back, searching your gaze. “Can I continue?” he asks, voice quieter now.

You blink up at him, wide-eyed, lips slightly parted. And then—you nod.

Hyunjin swears he sees the exact moment Felix’s expression changes—from gentle to something else entirely. Because this time, when Felix kisses you again, it’s deeper. More insistent. He watches—forced to watch—as the kiss grows, slow and unhurried, but still more intense with every second.

Felix tilts his head, his fingers slipping down to your neck, pressing you closer. Your hands finally move, fingers clutching at his sleeves.

Hyunjin doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until the burning in his chest forces him to exhale and for the first time since picking up a camera, he wishes he wasn’t here. He clears his throat. Loud enough. Sharp enough. Enough to cut through whatever moment was unfolding between you and Felix.

“That’s enough,” he says, his voice flat, carefully void of emotion. He lowers the camera, stopping the recording. “I got what we needed.”

But Felix—he doesn’t let go. Instead, he keeps his hands steady on you, his thumbs absently brushing the skin of your jaw. His gaze lingers on your lips, like he’s not ready to pull away just yet. Then, finally, a slow grin spreads across his face.

“You’re a good kisser,” he muses, his voice low, filled with something teasing but also… something else.

It takes you a second to react, like you’re only just registering what happened. Your eyes widen and warmth spreads across your face.

Felix chuckles at your flustered expression, his hands finally releasing you. “You okay?” he asks, amusement lacing his tone.

Despite still dazed, still feeling the ghost of his lips on yours, you nod. You scoot to the edge of the bed, walking toward Hyunjin.

“Can I take a quick look on the photos?”

The three of you sit together on the sofa, scrolling through the shots and the video, the room quiet except for the occasional click of Hyunjin’s camera as he reviews the footage.

Felix leans in slightly, his shoulder brushing against yours. Then, softly, just for you to hear, he mutters, “Told you. We have chemistry.”

You glance at him, catching the smirk playing on his lips. It’s confident—almost knowing. You exhale a small laugh, shaking your head, but you don’t deny it.

Felix leans back, stretching. “So, how about I treat you both dinner? My way of saying thanks.”

You smile but shake your head. “I appreciate it, but we should get going.”

Felix pouts dramatically. “Not even a quick bite?”

“I’ll take a rain check,” you say. “Besides, you have another shoot, right?”

Felix sighs, pretending to be put out, but there’s an amused glint in his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Work never stops.”

You stand, and Felix follows suit. Before you leave, he pulls you into a quick, warm hug, his arms squeezing lightly around your shoulders.

“I’ll be waiting for your call,” he murmurs.

You smile. “I’ll think about it.”

Felix tugs at your elbow and says, “Any kind of call.”

You smile as you step back, and as you turn toward the door, Hyunjin—who had remained noticeably quiet—only gives Felix a brief, wordless nod before heading out.

During the car ride home, Hyunjin keeps his eyes on the road ahead, but his mind is elsewhere. He glances at you briefly before saying, “I have to admit, I was a little surprised you turned down the dinner.”

You smirk, keeping your eyes on the road. “Oh? Are you disappointed?”

He scoffs, shaking his head. “No. Just… surprised.”

“Well, if you want, I can buy you dinner instead,” you offer, sparing him a quick glance. “But I can’t tonight. I have somewhere to be.”

That piques his curiosity. He tilts his head slightly. “Where?”

You only smile mysteriously. “That’s a secret.”

Hyunjin narrows his eyes at you, watching as you pull up in front of the apartment building. Before he can ask again, you unlock the doors, silently telling him to get out. He hesitates for a second, still wondering where you’re going, but he knows you won’t tell him even if he asks. With a sigh, he steps out of the car and carries his backpack in hand.

“See you later,” you playfully say to him just before he shuts the car door

As you drive away, Hyunjin stands there, hands in his pockets, watching your car disappear down the street and he can’t help but wonder.

Hyunjin has never liked celebrating his birthday. It’s not that he hates it—it’s just another day to him, one that he doesn’t see the need to make a big deal out of. Growing up, birthdays were quiet affairs, just a simple meal with his family, sometimes a cake if his mom had the time. Now that he’s older, he prefers to let the day pass without much attention. No parties, no gifts, no unnecessary fuss.

So when his class ends and he slings his bag over his shoulder, he’s already planning a quiet evening—maybe sketching, maybe watching something mindless until he falls asleep.

But as soon as he turns the corner, Edgar is waiting for him, grinning like he’s up to something. “There you are! Come on, we’re heading out.”

Hyunjin tightens his grip on the strap of his backpack. “Heading where?”

Before he can take a step back, Edgar throws an arm around his shoulders, steering him toward the exit. Two more of their friends appear, flanking him on either side like bodyguards.

“The bar, of course!” one of them chimes in.

Hyunjin groans, knowing well what Edgar planned for him. “I didn’t say I was going—”

“Too bad,” Edgar cuts him off. “We’re celebrating your birthday, and you don’t get a say in it.”

Hyunjin sighs, already regretting not taking a different route out of the building. “You guys planned this?”

“Obviously,” Edgar says, rolling his eyes. “Did you really think we’d let your birthday pass without doing anything?”

That’s exactly what Hyunjin had hoped for. But seeing the determined looks on his friends’ faces, he knows there’s no escaping this. “Fine,” he mutters. “One drink.”

Edgar smirks. “Yeah, yeah. That’s what they all say.”

With that, they drag him out of the building, and Hyunjin resigns himself to the fact that his quiet night is officially ruined.

The second you step into the bar, you weave through the crowd, scanning the room until your eyes land on Hyunjin. He’s standing by the bar, drinks in both hands, his expression neutral as he waits for the bartender to return with the rest of the order.

A smile tugs at your lips as an idea forms. Without a second thought, you close the distance between you and, just as he turns slightly, you throw your arms around him from behind. “Got you!”

Hyunjin tenses for half a second, startled, and nearly spills the drinks in his hands. You hear a sharp inhale, a quiet grunt of protest, but before he can say anything, you take full advantage of the fact that his hands are full. Leaning in, you press a quick, sweet kiss to his cheek.

“Happy birthday!” You cheerfully whisper into his ear and you can feel his whole body stiffens in reaction.

You pull back just enough to look at him, grinning as you meet his eyes. He stares at you, his lips slightly parted, clearly caught off guard. The dim lighting of the bar does nothing to hide the way his ears redden.

Hyunjin shifts the drinks in his hands and glances at you, still looking slightly flustered from the surprise hug and kiss. “Why are you here?” he asks, his tone more curious than accusatory.

Before you can answer, he exhales sharply and mutters, “Wait. Let me guess—Edgar?”

You grin and nod, confirming his guess. Right on cue, Edgar appears beside the two of you, a wide smile on his face as he claps Hyunjin on the back before turning his attention to you. “You made it! I knew you wouldn’t miss it.”

You chuckle. “I wouldn't miss a little fun.”

“Now, what are you drinking?” Edgar gestures towards the bar. “First round’s on me.”

Before you can reply, you shoot Hyunjin a playful look. “See? Edgar’s offering me a drink. Meanwhile, the birthday boy didn’t even ask.”

Hyunjin scoffs, rolling his eyes as he finally sets the drinks down on the table nearby. “You showed unannounced and ambushed me. You barely gave me a chance.”

You scoff and dramatically roll your eyes at Hyunjin. “Excuses.”

Edgar laughs. “Alright, alright, let me get you something. What’s your poison?”

The bar is alive with laughter and clinking glasses, everyone in high spirits as they celebrate Hyunjin’s birthday. The moment someone starts singing the birthday song, the rest of the group drunkenly joins in, their voices off-key and words slurred from all the alcohol.

Hyunjin groans, lifting a hand. “God! Please, shut up already.” His protest only makes them sing louder, and you laugh as you watch him shake his head in defeat.

Once the song ends with a chaotic cheer, the night continues with games, and somehow, you and Hyunjin end up locked in an intense match of darts. The two of you stand side by side, taking turns as the others watch and place bets on who will win.

“You’re going down,” you tease, lining up your shot before releasing the dart. It lands close to the bullseye, and you turn to Hyunjin with a smug smile.

Hyunjin clicks his tongue, picking up his dart. “We’ll see about that.”

He lines up his shot, eyes locked on the dartboard with unwavering focus. His fingers grip the dart, his stance firm as he calculates the perfect angle.

Smirking to yourself, you step closer, just enough to lean in near his ear. Then, with a mischievous glint in your eyes, you blow a soft puff of air against his skin.

Hyunjin instantly flinches, his body jerking as a shudder runs through him. “What the—?!” His grip on the dart slips, and it flies off-course, landing embarrassingly far from the bullseye.

You burst into laughter, covering your mouth as you watch him slowly turn to glare at you.

“That was sabotage,” he mutters, jaw tightening as he runs a hand through his hair.

Before he can even think about payback, your phone buzzes in your pocket, pulling your attention away. You look at it to check caller ID. “I need to take this,” you say, stepping back.

Hyunjin watches you go, still looking slightly flustered, a dart in hand, but his eyes linger on you for a moment before he finally turns back to the game.

Stepping out of the bar, you take a deep breath of the cool night air. The muffled sounds of laughter and music fade as you slip into the quieter back alley, away from the chaos inside. You glance at your phone screen before swiping to answer.

"Finally," Felix sighs dramatically on the other end. "I was starting to think you were avoiding me."

You smirk, leaning against the brick wall. "And what if I was?"

"Then I'd have no choice but to call you every hour until you gave in," he teases, his voice warm and playful.

You roll your eyes. "You sound desperate."

"Of course, I’m desperate," he admits easily. "You still haven’t called me back. A lesser man would take the hint, but not me."

"You’re persistent," you muse.

"And charming," he adds smoothly. "And funny. And—"

"Annoying?" you finish for him.

Felix gasps in mock offense. "I was going to say irresistible, but sure, let’s go with annoying."

You chuckle. "Did you even call to talk about the collab at all?"

Felix hums. "Nope. I called because I wanted to."

Your stomach flutters slightly at his honesty, but you keep your voice light. "How bold of you."

"Always." He pauses, then asks, "So, when can I see you again?"

"As a good girl, I have to refuse the first time," you say teasingly. "You have to ask me again in two days."

Felix groans. "Two days? That’s cruel."

"You’ll live," you reply with a smirk.

"Fine," he grumbles. "But can I at least call you tomorrow?"

You pretend to consider. "You can… but I can’t promise you that I’ll pick it up."

Felix lets out a dramatic sigh. "Playing hard to get. I see how it is."

You grin. "Goodnight, Felix."

"Sweet dreams, beautiful," he replies smoothly before the call ends.

Your heart is still racing as you turn back toward the bar’s entrance, shaking off the uneasy feeling that Felix’s call had left behind.

Just as you’re about to step inside, you nearly bump into Edgar. The smell of alcohol clings to him, and his smile is loose, his movements sluggish. "There you are," he says, his voice slightly slurred. "I was looking for you."

You force a small smile. "I just stepped out to take a phone call." You move to walk past him, but before you can, he grabs your wrist.

"Stay with me for a bit," he says.

Your shoulders stiffen. He’s drunk—you can see it in his unfocused eyes. Keeping your distance, you shake your head. "I'd better go back inside."

Edgar frowns. "Hey, come on, just stay with me for a minute."

You let out a nervous laugh, trying to play it off. "I don’t want to make Hyunjin waits."

But then, before you can step back, Edgar’s grip tightens, and he pulls you closer. You freeze. "Edgar, please let go," you say firmly, trying to pull away.

Instead, he pulls you in even tighter, his face dangerously close to yours. "Come on, why are you so shy?" he chuckles.

You twist in his grip, but he only holds you tighter. Your stomach churns with unease. "You’re drunk," you tell him, keeping your voice as calm as possible. "Please, let me go."

Edgar only smirks. "Just one kiss."

You shove him—hard. He stumbles back, his back hitting the stacked crates of empty beer bottles. For a second, you think it’s over, but then he looks at you, his expression darkening. "How much?"

Your brows knotted. "What?"

Edgar tilts his head. "How much should I pay you for a kiss?"

Disgust and disbelief surge through you. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

He scoffs. "Don’t play dumb. I know who you are." His voice drops lower, more sinister. "So how much to fuck you?"

Your body goes rigid, the word alone making your skin crawl. "You're disgusting."

Before you can move, Edgar lunges toward you. Your back slams against the brick wall as he pins you there, his hands gripping your arms. Panic flares in your chest. You struggle, trying to push him off, but he’s stronger than you expected. "Get off me!"

And then, suddenly—The back door flies open with a loud bang.

"Get the fuck off her!"

Hyunjin’s voice is sharp, furious. He’s standing in the doorway, his whole body tense, his fists clenched at his sides. His eyes burn with anger as he takes in the scene before him—Edgar pinning you against the wall, your expression twisted in fear.

Edgar only scoffs, barely glancing at Hyunjin. "Relax, man—"

Before he can finish, Hyunjin strides forward and roughly grabs him by the shoulders, yanking him away from you and shoving him backward. Edgar stumbles, cursing.

Hyunjin doesn’t hesitate—he turns to you, his expression shifting. He reaches out, his hand grasping yours, pulling you up and steadying you. His touch is gentle despite the rage in his eyes.

Then Edgar laughs, low and taunting. "Why are you friends with a whore like her?"

The words hit like a slap and it makes something in Hyunjin snaps. He lunges at Edgar, landing a hard punch straight to his face. Edgar barely has time to process it before Hyunjin punches him again—once, twice. Edgar collapses onto the ground, but Hyunjin doesn’t stop. He gets down, grabbing Edgar by the collar, and raises his fist again.

"Hyunjin!" you cry, rushing forward.

Hyunjin is still breathing hard, his chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven movements. His fists remain clenched, his knuckles already turning red from the force of his punches. Edgar groans on the ground, a hand pressed to his bleeding nose, but Hyunjin doesn’t seem satisfied yet. His body is still tense, ready to throw another punch.

Without thinking, you step forward and wrap your arms around him, holding him back. "Hyunjin," you plead, your voice quiet but urgent. "Please stop."

His whole body is trembling, heat radiating off him, but at your touch, his breathing hitches. He doesn’t move right away, as if still caught in the grip of his anger.

You tighten your hold, pressing your cheek against his back. "Let’s just go," you murmur.

Hyunjin’s fists slowly loosen. His breath is still uneven, but the tension in his body begins to ease. For a moment, neither of you move. The only sound is Edgar’s groaning and the distant noise of the bar inside. Then, finally, Hyunjin lets out a slow, shaky breath and nods.

You release him, stepping back just enough to see his face. His jaw is tight, his eyes still burning with anger, but he’s calming down. He turns away from Edgar without another glance. You take his hand—gently, reassuringly—and lead him away.

Hyunjin sits on the couch, his hand resting in yours as you carefully dab at his bruised knuckles with a damp cloth. His skin is raw, swollen, and angry-looking, but he barely flinches. Instead, he watches you. The way your brows knit together in concentration, the way your lips press into a tight line, the way your hands—gentle yet firm—move with such care.

“You shouldn’t have fought him,” you murmur, your voice laced with both scolding and concern. “What if you seriously hurt your hand? What if you couldn’t paint anymore?”

Hyunjin has been trying to hold himself together, trying to push down the emotions still swirling inside him, but hearing you go on and on about him—worrying about him instead of yourself—something inside him snaps.

"Why do you keep worrying about me?" he suddenly bursts out, his voice sharp. “You should worry about yourself!”

He immediately regrets it the moment the words leave his mouth. He watches as your lips part slightly, your breath hitching, and then—your eyes get red. His heart clenches.

Shit.

He inhales, forcing himself to calm down before his voice softens. "Are you okay?"

Your gaze wavers as you stare at him. For a second, it seems like you’re trying to hold it together, but then, barely above a whisper, you shake your head. "Honestly, no," you admit as tears spill from your eyes, "I'm not okay."

He reaches for you, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into his chest. You don’t resist—instead, you bury yourself against him, your shoulders shaking as you finally let yourself break. He holds you tight. "It’s okay," he murmurs. "I’ve got you."

The two of you stay like that with Hyunjin holding you close as if he tries to absorb part of you sadness. He doesn’t let go even as your sobs quiet, even as your breathing evens out, he keeps holding you, his arms wrapped securely around you like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he loosens his grip. His hand moves gently over your hair, smoothing it down, while his other rubs slow circles against your back. He doesn’t say anything—he just lets you cry, lets you release everything you’ve been holding in.

Minutes pass like this, the silence filled only by your uneven breaths. Then, finally, you stir against him. You pull back just enough to look at him, your face still wet with tears, eyes glassy and tired. Hyunjin meets your gaze, his heart aching at the vulnerability written all over your face.

"Can you stay with me tonight?" you ask, your voice small, fragile.

Hyunjin doesn’t hesitate as he nods. "Of course," he says softly.

Your lips tremble, but you manage a tiny, grateful smile.

He brushes his thumb over your cheek, wiping away a stray tear. "Come on," he murmurs, guiding you gently toward your bedroom. "Let’s get you to bed."

You and Hyunjin lie side by side on your bed, neither of you saying anything at first. Just breathing, just existing in the same space. Then, after a while, you break the silence.

"I'm sorry," you whisper.

He turns his head slightly, though he can barely make out your face in the dim light. "For what?"

"For… causing what happened."

At that, Hyunjin tenses. He doesn’t answer right away, and for a moment, all you can hear is the faint hum of the city outside. Then, finally, he exhales.

"Why are you apologizing for getting assaulted?" His voice is quiet, but there’s a sharp edge to it, like he’s trying to hold back his frustration. "That wasn’t your fault."

You don’t say anything, just stare up at the ceiling.

"If anything, what happened only showed me what kind of person Edgar really is," he continues. "And I don’t want to be friends with someone like that."

Silence settles between you again. Then, after a long pause, you shift closer to him. He feels the mattress dip under your weight, feels the warmth of your body inching toward him. When he looks over, he catches the faint gleam of your eyes in the dark, watching him.

Then, softly, you whisper his name. "Hyunjin."

He hums in acknowledgment. "Yeah?"

"Thank you," you say, your voice barely more than a breath.

Hyunjin swallows. He doesn’t know what to say to that, so he just nods, even though you probably can’t see it. Another stretch of silence follows, before you whisper again, "Goodnight."

He watches as your breathing evens out, your body relaxing as sleep slowly takes over. He tells himself he’ll leave once you’re asleep. He should go. He should get up, go back to his own apartment, and try to put everything that happened tonight behind him. But he doesn’t move. He stays.

Hyunjin wakes up to the unfamiliar weight of a blanket draped over him and the soft glow of morning light kissing his skin. His mind is slow to catch up, disoriented by the unfamiliar scent of the sheets and the way the bed feels different from his own. Then it hits him—he’s in your apartment. His eyes snap open fully, and he turns his head toward the space beside him, only to find it empty. The warmth lingering on the sheets tells him you must have been there not too long ago.

Hyunjin sits up, running a hand through his messy hair as he blinks away the remnants of sleep. His body feels heavy, weighed down by exhaustion and the events of last night. Still, he forces himself to get up, his movements sluggish as he fumbles out of bed.

The apartment is quiet. Too quiet. He steps out of your bedroom, his bare feet padding against the floor as he looks around. His gaze sweeps over the small living space, searching for you. For a second, a strange unease creeps up his spine—until he finally spots you.

You’re perched on the window sill, one knee pulled up to your chest, a steaming mug of coffee resting in your hands. You look lost in thought, your gaze fixed outside, watching the world slowly wake up.

He lingers in the doorway, unsure if he should say something or if he should just leave quietly. But then, as if sensing his presence, you slowly turn your head to the side.

Your eyes meet his, and then, just like that, you smile—soft and warm, like the morning itself. "Good morning," you greet, your voice still laced with sleep.

Hyunjin debating whether he should stay or make up an excuse to leave. But before he can make a decision, you tilt your head toward the kitchen.

“Are you hungry?” you ask, taking another sip of your coffee.

He shakes his head almost immediately. “I should probably go—”

Before he can finish, you slide off the window sill, setting your mug down on the counter. “At least have some breakfast first.”

Hyunjin hesitates. He’s not really in the mood to eat, but before he can refuse, you’re already walking toward him, placing a gentle but firm hand on his shoulder as you steer him toward the dining table.

“Sit,” you say, your tone leaving no room for argument.

He exhales through his nose but doesn’t fight it, dropping himself onto the chair. His fingers drum idly against the tabletop as he watches you move around the kitchen.

A few moments later, you place a steaming cup of coffee in front of him. “Here. This should help wake you up.”

He glances at you, then at the cup. He hesitates for a second before finally wrapping his fingers around it, letting the warmth seep into his palms. He takes a slow sip, the bitterness grounding him a little.

You smile in satisfaction. “Good. Now sit tight while I make breakfast.”

Hyunjin hadn’t planned to stay, but now, with a warm meal in front of him and the air feeling oddly peaceful, he finds himself grateful that you insisted. As he takes the last bite of his toast, he feels your gaze on him. He glances up and catches you staring, your expression unreadable. His brow lifts slightly.

“What?” he asks, setting his fork down.

You hesitate, like you’re debating something internally, before finally reaching for something on the chair next to you. Hyunjin watches as you pick up a small, neatly wrapped package and place it on the table between you. His eyes flicker to the gift, then back to you.

“I didn’t get the chance to give this to you last night,” you explain, sliding it toward him.

“You got me a gift?” His voice comes out more hesitant than he intended.

Before he can say anything else, you quickly add, “I didn’t spend much money on it or anything. I made it myself.”

That catches his attention. His fingers twitch against his coffee cup as he stares at the package. He hesitates to reach for it, unsure if he deserves something so thoughtful. Seeing his reluctance, you gently nudge it closer. “Go on. Open it.”

He swallows, then carefully picks it up and begins unwrapping it. His fingers move slowly, peeling back the wrapping until he uncovers a leather-bound case. He unfolds it, his curiosity piqued when he sees the compartments inside. It takes him a moment to process—until realization dawns on him. It’s a paintbrush case. He runs his fingers over the stitching, taking in the effort that went into it.

Before he can say anything, you quickly interject, “I know it’s not perfect—”

“I like it,” He cuts you off, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument. His eyes meet yours, sincere and unguarded. “Thank you.”

Hyunjin barely has any words left to say after that. He just sits there, running his fingers over the smooth leather of the paintbrush case, admiring the craftsmanship and the effort you put into it. Every stitch, every fold—it’s clear that you made this with him in mind. He doesn’t know how to express what he’s feeling, so instead, he keeps his gaze on the gift, hoping you understand his silence for what it is: gratitude.

A smile slowly blooms on your face at his words, and something warm unfurls in his chest at the sight. Then, you break the quiet, your voice gentle but casual. “And don’t forget that we have that shoot tomorrow.”

He looks up at you, your expression easy and composed, as if nothing had happened the night before. His brows furrow slightly. “Shouldn’t you be… slowing down and maybe take a break?”

You shake your head and absentmindedly stabbing pieces of scrambled egg with your fork. “Nah. Making content takes my mind off things.”

Hyunjin watches you for a moment, studying the way you say it so lightly, like you’re brushing everything off as if last night didn’t shake you to your core. He wants to say something—maybe push you to take a break, to take care of yourself—but he can tell you don’t want to talk about it. He still doesn’t think it’s a good idea, but if this is what you want, he won’t argue. So instead, he just nods. “Alright.”

The air still humming with the energy of the shoot as you lie on your stomach on the thin mattress, your bare legs lazily swinging behind you as you scroll through Lustre notifications. The sheets beneath you are slightly rumpled from all the movement earlier.

Hyunjin is across the room, busy checking the result of the shoot. You let yourself get lost in your notifications, tapping through comments and messages until one catches your eye.

mag.shawn: I really liked your new set. You look beautiful as always. But I think what I love the most is your smile. Whenever I see it, it makes me wish for you to always be happy. That way, I get to see you smile every day.

There's something about his message feels different from the usual compliments you receive—more genuine, maybe. Less about desire and more about… you.

You: That’s really sweet. Thank you for your message. I appreciate it.

You hit send and glance up, only to find Hyunjin standing by the tripod, watching you with an unreadable expression. You don’t know how long he’s been looking.

“What?” you ask, propping your chin on your hand.

He shakes his head, turning away to grab his jacket. “Nothing.”

You prop yourself up on your elbows, tilting your head at him, “Dinner?”

“Sure, I'll order,” he calmly responds, taking his phone out of the pocket of his jeans and begins tapping on it.

“And how about we watch a movie after?” you ask out of a whim.

Hyunjin looks up from his phone to look at you and casually says, “Sure.”

The soft glow of the living room lamps mixes with the flickering light from the movie playing on the screen, creating a cozy atmosphere. Hyunjin sits on the sofa, his plate resting on his lap as he absentmindedly takes small bites of his cake. His plan had been simple—stay a little longer to keep you company, maybe distract you for a while. But somewhere between the hearty dinner, and now, sitting here in the warmth of your apartment with you beside him, he realizes something he hadn’t expected. He’s enjoying himself.

It’s not just the food or the movie, though both are nice. It’s the easy, unspoken comfort of the moment. The way you’re curled up next to him, completely immersed in the film, your spoon slowly scraping against the plate as you savor each bite. The occasional hum of satisfaction you make. The way he feels… at ease. He had meant to leave. He always does after the shoots. But now, he isn’t in a hurry.

You suddenly nudge him with your elbow, breaking him out of his thoughts. “It's good, right?” you motion toward his plate.

He glances down at the half-eaten slice of cake before looking back at you. A small smirk tugs at his lips. “Yeah. It’s good.”

Then your phone rings, shattering the comfortable silence. You don’t hesitate to pick it up, casually bringing it to your ear as if you’ve been expecting the call. At first, he doesn’t think much of it, keeping his focus on the movie, but then he can't help but catches glimpses of the conversation.

Your voice, soft and teasing, the slight lilt in your tone as you speak. A light chuckle here, a playful hum there. It doesn’t take much for him to piece together the kind of conversation you’re having.

He doesn’t want to care. He really doesn’t. So he keeps his eyes on the screen. By the time you finally hang up and set your phone aside, he barely lasts a second before blurting out, “Who was that?”

You glance at him, completely unbothered. “Felix.”

He keeps his expression neutral as he asks, “What did he want?”

“He asked if I’ve decided about the collab yet,” you say, stretching your arms above your head before settling back against the pillows.

Hyunjin hesitates before asking, “And… do you want to do it?”

“I think it’s a good opportunity to start something new.”

He frowns. “After what happened?”

You sigh, knowing exactly what he’s referring to. “I know,” you meekly admit.

“Then do you have to do it?”

“Not necessarily,” you say, meeting his gaze. “But I can’t just keep doing the same content and expect a different result.”

He exhales through his nose, still uneasy. “Do you trust him enough to do this with him?”

A small smile plays on your lips as you tilt your head. “The only man I trust to do this with is you.”

And then, before he can even process that, you add, “But since you obviously don’t want to, that means I don't exactly have any options.”

“Let’s do it.” The words slip out of him before he can stop them.

You freeze for a second. “What?”

He swallows, his grip tightening around his plate. “Do it with me.”

You stare at him for a second before laughing, shaking your head as if he just told the funniest joke. "Yeah, right," you scoff, waving a hand dismissively.

But Hyunjin doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even crack a smile. His expression remains serious, eyes fixed on you with an intensity that makes your laughter waver. “I mean it,” he says, setting his plate down. “I want to do it.”

You arch a brow, still unconvinced. “You? Hyunjin, are you actually serious?”

“Yes,” he insists. “If you want, we can do it now.”

That only makes you laugh harder. “Oh my God, stop,” you say, pressing a hand against your forehead. “This is funny, okay, you've got me.”

His expression shifts slightly, a flicker of offense crossing his features. His brows pull together as he watches you laugh at him. “What’s so funny?”

“You,” you chuckle, wiping at your eyes. “You saying all that with a straight face.”

He exhales sharply. “I don’t see what’s so funny about it.”

You sigh, finally regaining your composure, and shake your head with a small smile. “Even if you want to do it, we can’t just jump into it immediately.”

“Why not?” he challenges, tilting his head.

You lean forward slightly, resting your elbow on your knee. “Because,” you say, meeting his gaze, “there’s something else you have to do first.”

You remember, almost absentmindedly, that your friend’s wedding is this weekend. The realization comes as you sip your morning coffee, scrolling through your phone. A few mutual friends have posted about their excitement—outfit choices, travel plans, well wishes.

That’s when you glance toward the kitchen counter and spot the wedding invitation, half-buried beneath a pile of unopened mail. You set your mug down and pick it up, running your fingers over the elegant gold lettering. The date is clear. It’s happening in just a few days.

But instead of excitement, a heavy feeling settles in your chest. The memory of their engagement party resurfaces, uninvited. The way the night had ended for you. The way you had driven home with a lump in your throat, gripping the wheel too tightly. The way you had collapsed onto your bed, drowning in emotions you couldn’t quite name. You exhale sharply and set the invitation down. You already know your answer. You’re not going.

Turning away, you head toward your closet, pulling out the dress you had bought specifically for the occasion. It’s still in its garment bag, tags still attached—a waste, really. You take it out, letting the fabric slip between your fingers, admiring it for a moment before shaking your head. There’s no point in keeping it now.

Grabbing your phone, you check the return policy. Still eligible. Good. You drape the dress over your arm, grab your keys, and head for the door.

The store is far from crowded when you arrive. You step inside, the dress slung over your shoulder, and make your way straight to the customer service counter. A staff member greets you with a polite smile, and you return it as you place the garment bag onto the counter. “I’d like to return this,” you say, unzipping the bag to reveal the dress inside.

She nods and begins the process, asking for your receipt. As you dig through your bag, you hear footsteps approaching the counter beside you. Then, a familiar voice. “Uh—same here, actually.”

You freeze for a second before turning your head to the side. And there he is—Felix, standing next to you, looking just as surprised to see you. He’s holding a neatly folded tie, still in its box. His brows raise. “What are you doing here?”

You gesture toward the dress on the counter. “Returning this. You?”

A small laugh escapes him. “Returning this,” he says, lifting the tie slightly.

Before you can say anything else, the staff member turns her attention back to you. “May I know what’s the reason for the return?”

You hesitate, not exactly in the mood to explain the real reason behind it. Instead, you go for the easy answer. “I... don’t really like the cut.”

The staff nods, then looks at Felix. “And how about you?”

Felix grins, eyes glinting with mischief as he shrugs. “Yeah, same. Don’t really like the cut.”

It takes a second for the words to settle in before you both burst into laughter. The staff watches, clearly amused but keeping professional as she processes the returns. You shake your head, still chuckling, as Felix leans slightly against the counter. “Guess we both had second thoughts,” he muses, still grinning.

You and Felix found a cozy café not far from the store, the two of you sit by the window, your drinks in hand, watching people pass by outside.

Felix stirs his iced coffee lazily, a teasing smirk playing on his lips. “You know,” he starts, “I’ve been holding myself back from calling you again.”

You raise an eyebrow, sipping your drink. “Oh? Now I can't help but think that maybe returning your tie was just an excuse to see me.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Damn, you caught me.” Then, with a small sigh, he leans back in his chair, fingers tapping against the side of his cup. “But for real, my mom’s been pushing me to go to these job interviews. That’s actually why she got me the tie.”

You tilt your head. “Job interviews? For what?”

“Office jobs. Boring ones,” he says, rolling his eyes. “The kind where you sit at a desk all day and pretend to care about spreadsheets and meetings.” He takes a sip of his coffee before continuing. “I know she means well, but it’s just not for me.”

You nod in understanding. “So, you didn’t even go?”

“Nah,” he admits, grinning unapologetically before adorablg scrunches his nose. “I told her I’d think about it, but I don’t really want to. I like what I do. I don’t care what people think about it. It makes me money, I enjoy it, and that’s enough for me.”

Hearing that, you feel a flicker of understanding settle in your chest. You know exactly what he means. “Yeah,” you murmur, tapping your fingers against your cup. “I get that.”

Felix props his elbow on the table, resting his chin on his hand as he watches you. "And how about you? Why’d you really return the dress?" he asks casually before taking another sip of his coffee.

You shrug, keeping your tone light. "Didn’t like the color."

He hums, unconvinced. "All colors suit you. Please find a better answer. "

You roll your eyes at him but let out a small laugh. He sees right through you. There’s no point in dodging the question, so you sigh, setting your cup down. "Fine," you admit. "It’s for a wedding this weekend… my friend's wedding."

Felix nods slowly, waiting for you to continue.

"I was supposed to go," you say, fingers tracing the rim of your cup. "But I think I'd better not."

His expression shifts slightly, more attentive now. "Why?"

You exhale, looking out the café window for a moment. "I went to their engagement part and it wasn’t exactly a fun experience for me," you say with a wry smile. "People whispering, looking at me like I don’t belong there, some even making comments loud enough for me to hear. I just…" You shake your head. "I don’t want to deal with that again. I don’t want to cause any inconvenience at their wedding."

Felix frowns as he absentmindedly stirring his iced coffee with the straw. "Inconvenience?"

You nod, finger fiddling with the handle of your coffee mug. "It’s their special day. The last thing they need is people gossiping about me in the background."

He clicks his tongue in disapproval, leaning back in his chair. "That’s bullshit," he says, blunt as ever. "If your friend invited you, it means they want you there. You shouldn’t have to miss out on something just because some people don’t know how to mind their own business."

A part of you knows he’s right, but another part still hesitates. You give him a small smile, but it doesn't quite reach your eyes. "It’s easier this way."

Felix studies you for a moment before sighing and shaking his head. "Easier, maybe. But is it what you really want?"

Hearing no answers from you, he leans forward, resting his arms on the table, his warm brown eyes locked onto yours with an almost mischievous glint. "I think you should go," he says firmly. "Screw those people. It’s your friend’s wedding, not theirs."

You exhale, shaking your head. "Felix—"

"I’m serious," he cuts in. "And if you don’t want to go alone, then I’ll go with you."

That makes you pause and then snort in disbelief. "You’d do that?"

"Of course. I’ll be your date. Your supporter. Your personal hype man. Whatever you need." He gestures at himself dramatically. "I’ll make sure no one says a damn thing to you. And if they do, I’ll just blind them with my dazzling presence."

You let out a soft laugh, but something about the way he’s looking at you—so eager to help, so understanding—makes your chest feel warm. Felix is just that kind of person. Confident, carefree, and unapologetic about who he is. And that confidence? It’s infectious.

You find yourself nodding before you even realize it. "Okay," you say, a small smile tugging at your lips. "I’ll take you as my date."

Felix beams at that until you add, "But," you tilt your head playfully, "I get to pick the tie."

His grin only widens. "Fine. But in that case, I get to help you pick the dress."

You laugh, shaking your head. "Deal."

He raises his coffee cup. "To proving people wrong and looking damn good while doing it."

You clink your cup against his with a quiet chuckle, a strange but pleasant feeling settling in your chest. Maybe this wedding won’t be so bad after all.

Lately, there’s been one message you always expect—one you’ve started looking forward to more than you’d admit. You take a slow sip of your smoothie, the cool sweetness spreading across your tongue as you scroll through your Lustre notifications. And, as expected, there it is.

mag.shawn: I can’t wait for your new post. But what I look forward to the most is seeing your beautiful face—it always brightens up my days.

A small smile tugs at your lips as you read it. You type out a quick reply, letting the warmth of his words settle over you.

You: That’s so sweet of you to say. I’ll do my best to keep brightening your days then ❤️

Just as you’re about to take another sip of your smoothie, a sudden knock echoes through your apartment. You stare at the door for a second longer before unlocking it and pulling it open.

Hyunjin stands there, his long dark hair slightly disheveled as if he had run his fingers through it too many times. One hand grips the strap of his bag, the other tucked into the pocket of his hoodie. His gaze flickers to yours, then away, before he clears his throat. "Hey," he says. "Can I come in?"

You don’t say anything, just step aside and open the door wider. He takes it as an invitation and walks in, dropping his bag near the couch. Without a word, you walk to the fridge, grab a can of drink, and hand it to him. He takes it with a quiet thanks, cracking it open but not taking a sip yet. Instead, he glances at you, a flicker of hesitation crossing his face.

"Can I use your laptop?" he asks. "I need to check something."

You raise a brow but nod, grabbing your laptop from the coffee table and passing it to him. As he opens it and starts typing, you settle beside him on the couch, bringing your smoothie to your lips.

For a while, the only sounds in the room are the soft clicks of the keyboard and the occasional sip of your drink. You don’t press him for details, simply letting him do whatever he needs to do. Then, after a few minutes, he exhales through his nose and turns the screen toward you.

You glance at him before looking down at the laptop. The moment your eyes land on the screen, your breath catches. Displayed in clear text is the result of his STIs test. Negative.

The confirmation settles something deep in your chest. You had asked him to do this before the two of you could make content together, and now here it is—the proof that he actually went through with it. Your gaze lifts back to his, and for the first time since he arrived, Hyunjin looks directly at you. His expression is unreadable, but his fingers drum against the side of the can in his hand, a telltale sign of his nerves.

“Well?” he asks, voice quiet.

“Well,” you echo, taking another sip of your smoothie, swallowing slowly before answering.

A while later, you set your smoothie down on the table, eyes still locked on Hyunjin as you tilt your head slightly. "I just have to ask you one more time. Are you sure you really want to do this?"

"Yeah," he answers without a beat.

His answer is immediate, but you don’t let it slide that easily. You lean back against the couch, crossing one leg over the other as you study him. "You know there’s no turning back once you do, right?"

He huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "You keep saying that like I haven’t already thought about it."

"Have you, though?" You arch a brow, unconvinced. "Because I’m not just talking about the content itself. I’m talking about everything that comes with it. The comments, the assumptions people will make about you, the way this could change things—"

"I don’t really care." His voice is steady, but there’s an edge to it. A certainty that makes your stomach twist.

You watch him for a moment, searching for any hint of doubt in his expression, but there’s none. He holds your gaze, unwavering, and it’s only then that you realize—he’s already made up his mind. Still, you hesitate. "...Why?"

Hyunjin exhales, running a hand through his hair before leaning back against the couch. "Because I want to help you." He pauses, looking away for a second before glancing back at you. "And maybe I just want to do it with you."

That last part makes your heart skip a beat, but you push past it, keeping your voice light. "You say that like you don’t have better options."

Hyunjin scoffs as he rubs his lower lip with his finger. "You say that like I care about other options."

You stare at him, lips pressing together. He stares back, waiting. Then, finally, you sigh and shake your head, a small smile pulling at your lips. "Okay, let's do it then."

At this point, Hyunjin treats your apartment like his own, he moves around with practiced ease, pulling the sheer curtains open just enough to let the afternoon light spill into the room. The soft glow is exactly what he wants for today’s shoot—natural, warm, and intimate. He glances over his setup, adjusting the white cloth draped over the couch, smoothing out any wrinkles. The space is nearly ready.

The sound of your footsteps draws his attention, and when he looks up, you’re walking toward him with two cans of drinks in hand. Your hair is slightly tousled, and there’s a relaxed air about you as you offer him one of the cans.

Hyunjin steps forward, wiping his hands on his jeans before taking the drink from you. His fingers brush against yours for a split second, and he wonders if you notice. "Perfect timing," he murmurs, bringing the can to his lips for a quick sip. The warmth seeps into his fingers, and he exhales softly. "Thanks."

You nod, taking a sip of your own before glancing around the setup. "So... everything ready?"

"Almost," he says, rolling his shoulders. "I want to play with the light a little, see how it looks on camera." He steps back, scanning the room, his mind already piecing together the angles and shots. The sunlight highlights the shapes of the couch, creating soft shadows. It’s exactly what he envisioned.

You lower your can of drink and glance at Hyunjin, who is still surveying the setup with a focused look on his face. “So, what’s the plan for today?” you ask, shifting your weight onto one leg.

He turns to you, his dark eyes settling on yours. “I want to use the light as much as possible. It’ll create a really soft effect, like…” He gestures vaguely with his free hand, trying to find the right words. “Like something dreamlike, almost natural. I’ll direct you, but I also want you to move how you feel comfortable.”

You hum, tilting your head as you process his vision. “So, more candid, less posed?”

He nods, sipping his coffee. “Exactly.”

You shift closer, peering at him over the rim of your cup. “And… Do I have your consent for the part after?”

Hyunjin blinks, then a slow smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “You have my consent,” he says smoothly, his voice steady, but there’s a flicker of something in his expression—anticipation, maybe.

You let out a short laugh, arching a brow as you tease him, “You sound so eager for today’s shoot.”

He rolls his eyes, but the way his fingers tap against his can of drink betrays him. “I’m just committed to making this look good,” he says, feigning nonchalance.

You grin, stepping past him toward the couch. “Sure. Let’s call it that.”

Hyunjin adjusts the camera in his hands, his fingers instinctively finding the right settings as he looks through the lens. The natural light floods the room, casting soft shadows across your skin. You’re draped across the couch in nothing but a loose white sweater and matching underwear, your body relaxed, effortlessly beautiful.

He’s done this before—countless times now—but there’s something about this moment that makes him pause. Maybe it’s the way the light caresses the curves of your body, or how the sweater slips just enough off your shoulder to reveal more of your skin. Or maybe it’s just you. No matter how many times he’s taken your pictures, Hyunjin realizes he never gets tired of looking at you. Admiring you.

You shift slightly, pulling one knee up and resting your head against the back of the couch. The motion is so natural, so effortlessly alluring, that Hyunjin forgets to press the shutter button for a second. When he finally does, he exhales a quiet breath.

"You’re staring," you tease, your voice light but knowing.

He lowers the camera slightly, meeting your gaze. There’s amusement in your eyes, but also something else—something softer. He swallows, rolling his shoulders like he can shake off whatever this feeling is. "Why? Are you shy now?" he teases, bringing the camera up again.

Done taking your pictures, Hyunjin moves around the room for the second time to set the cameras to their tripods at different angles, making sure everything is set up just right. He’s meticulous about it, double-checking each frame, making small tweaks to the lighting. When he’s finally satisfied, he steps away and joins you on the couch.

As soon as he sits down next to you, you turn to him, your gaze soft but playful. Without a word, you reach up and tug the hair tie from his dark locks, setting them free. His long hair falls around his face, a few strands brushing against his cheek.

You hum in approval, lifting your hand to run your fingers through his hair, smoothing it back before letting it slip through your fingers. There’s something intimate in the way you touch him, something gentle that makes his breath catch for just a second. A smile tugs at your lips as you look at him. “Are you ready?”

Hyunjin swallows, his dark eyes locked onto yours. He doesn’t answer right away, just watches you for a moment before exhaling through his nose, a small, knowing smile appearing on his lips.

"Yeah," he finally says, his voice lower than before.

You lift your hand and rest it on Hyunjin’s stomach, feeling the subtle rise and fall of his breath beneath your fingertips. His muscles tense for just a second before he consciously relaxes, his dark eyes still locked onto yours, watching, waiting.

Slowly, you lean in, closing the small space between you until your lips are just beside his ear. You can feel the warmth of his skin, hear the soft hitch in his breath. "Get comfortable," you murmur, your voice soft yet firm, your lips nearly brushing against the shell of his ear. "And follow my lead."

Hyunjin exhales, a quiet, shuddering breath. His hands press into the couch beside him, fingers twitching slightly as if resisting the urge to touch you. His jaw clenches for a moment before he gives you a small, almost amused smile. "Alright," he breathes out, his voice barely above a whisper.

You move with unhurried confidence, shifting onto his lap and settling yourself comfortably as you straddle him. His hands instinctively find purchase on your hips, but he doesn’t grip—just rests them there, warm and solid. Your hands trail down his chest, fingers grazing over the fabric of his shirt. You take your time, carefully unbuttoning each button one by one, your touch light and deliberate. He doesn’t rush you—he simply watches, his lips parting slightly when you finally part the fabric open and slip the shirt off his shoulders, exposing the lean definition of his torso.

Laying your palm flat against his chest, you let your fingertips trace over his skin, feeling the warmth radiating from him, the subtle twitch of his muscles under your touch. Hyunjin exhales sharply, his breath hitching just slightly, and you feel him shiver beneath your fingertips. His hands on your hips flex subtly, his gaze flickering between your face and the way your hands explore his skin. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, voice lower than before when he finally speaks.

“You’re really taking your time with this,” he murmurs, a teasing edge to his tone, but there’s something else underneath.

You simply smile, letting your fingers trace a slow, featherlight path over his collarbone. “Of course,” you say softly. “What’s the rush?”

You tilt your head, watching the way his gaze lingers on your face before dropping lower, his hands still resting on your hips as if he's trying to ground himself. Then, with a soft smile, you murmur, "Aren't you going to help me too?"

His hands tightening slightly before he reaches for the hem of your sweater. His fingers brush against your skin as he gathers the fabric, and he hesitates just for a moment, his dark eyes flickering up to yours as if silently asking for permission one last time.

You give him a small nod, and with that, he slowly lifts the sweater up, savoring the moment as he peels the soft fabric from your skin. His touch is gentle, careful, as he pulls it over your head and lets it slip from his fingers, tossing it aside.

Now bare before him, you feel the cool air graze your skin, a stark contrast to the warmth radiating between you. Hyunjin’s eyes trace over you, his gaze slow and reverent, like he's taking in a painting he's never seen before, committing every detail to memory. His breath is unsteady when he finally meets your gaze again. His hands remain on your waist, but this time, they grip just a little tighter, like he's afraid to move too fast.

For a moment, neither of you say anything. The only sound is the soft hum of the camera in the background, recording every fleeting touch, every unspoken exchange.

You take Hyunjin’s hands in yours, guiding them up your body, over the curve of your waist, the dip of your ribs, and then higher, letting him feel the warmth of your skin beneath his fingertips. His hands are warm, his touch hesitant but eager, and you can feel the way his fingers tremble slightly as you place them exactly where you want them, cupping the underside of your breasts. Then, slowly, you let go.

His hands remain where you left them for a moment, his gaze flickering between your eyes and the expanse of skin beneath his palms. When he finally moves, it's deliberate—his hands tracing over you, reveling in the way you feel. He drags his fingertips lightly over your skin, tracing lines only he can see, and the way he does it, so careful, so in awe, makes your breath shallow.

You rest your arms on his shoulders, letting your fingers trail along the nape of his neck, playing with the strands of his dark hair. Hyunjin tilts his head back slightly, his long hair falling away from his face as he looks up at you. His expression is unreadable at first, but then—he smiles. Not a smirk, not a teasing grin, but something softer, something real.

His eyes drink you in, as if seeing you this close, this bare, makes you even more breathtaking to him. And for a moment, he just lets himself admire you, his hands still exploring, mapping out every curve, every line, like he’s afraid he’ll forget how you feel beneath him.

He continues his exploration. His fingers trail up from your shoulders, over the curve of your neck, his touch featherlight. He maps out your skin with delicate strokes, tracing along the slope of your throat, the line of your jaw. His fingertips glide over your cheekbone, then dip lower, ghosting over the bridge of your nose before finally brushing against your lips.

Then, gently, he tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear, smoothing it away from your face. But instead of letting go, he keeps his hand there, holding your hair in place as his thumb idly caresses the side of your neck.

You watch him closely, your own hands moving to explore him in return. Your fingers drift up, brushing through his soft dark hair before trailing down to his face. You trace the arch of his brow, the sharp yet delicate bridge of his nose, the curve of his cheekbone. Then, without thinking, your thumb sweeps across his lips.

His lips are soft beneath your touch, plush and warm, and they part just slightly as your thumb glides over them. You meet his gaze, your own fingers lingering against his mouth as you softly ask, “Do you want to kiss?”

Without answering, Hyunjin leans in, his dark eyes locked onto yours, but just as his lips are about to brush against yours, you pull back ever so slightly. A teasing smile tugs at the corner of your lips as he instinctively follows, chasing after the kiss you’ve withheld. He exhales sharply through his nose, catching on to your game. His head falls back against the couch, and he lets out a dramatic sigh, his bottom lip jutting out in a soft pout. His hands rest on your waist, fingers idly pressing into your skin as he looks up at you with mock betrayal.

Despite his sulking, you giggle. There’s something so endearing about seeing Hyunjin—usually confident, effortlessly charming—reduced to a pouting mess just because of you.

Still smiling, you cup his jaw, your thumbs tracing the shape of his cheekbones. You can feel the tension in his muscles, the way he holds himself still, waiting. Then, slowly, you lean in and press your lips to his.

Hyunjin kisses you back like he’s been waiting for this, like he’s thought about it more than he’d ever admit. His lips move against yours, soft at first but it doesn’t take long before his desire seeps through. He sucks on your lower lip, teasingly slow, before tugging it between his teeth, just enough to make you shiver. Despite the bite, you sigh into his mouth, the sensation sending warmth through your body.

Hyunjin swallows the sound, his grip on you firm but never forceful. His lips move against yours with a growing hunger, hungry for the taste of you. He pulls you closer, his arms wrapping around you as if he’s afraid you’ll slip away. His warmth engulfs you, and the way he holds you—tight yet careful—makes your heart pound just as much as his kisses do. His lips move against yours with more urgency now, deepening the kiss, his breath mixing with yours. Then, without warning, he drags his lips away, trailing a path down your jaw to your neck. The first press of his mouth against your skin is soft, almost teasing, but then he sucks lightly on the spot just below your ear, making your breath hitch.

A gasp escapes you as he continues, alternating between kisses and gentle bites, marking you in ways that feel both dangerous and thrilling. His hands explore your body, fingertips tracing the curve of your spine, skimming over your sides, pressing into the small of your back. His touch is everywhere—palms smoothing over your bare skin, thumbs brushing over sensitive spots, sending shivers coursing through you.

The room feels smaller, hotter, as the two of you stay tangled together, lips and hands lost in each other. Hyunjin has his hands splayed across your back as his lips continue their path down your neck. His breath is warm against your skin, sending a shiver through you as he lingers just above your collarbone. You shift slightly in his lap, adjusting your position, but the movement draws a quiet, unbidden sound from deep within him.

Your hands tangle in his dark hair, threading through the soft strands as he buries his face against you while you decide to continue to tease him, rubbing yourself against his growing erection. His lips brush lower, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your skin. The warmth of his mouth makes you exhale shakily, your fingers instinctively gripping his shoulders. As you continue slowly grinding on him, the friction between you both grows, drawing an almost involuntary reaction from him. His breath hitches, his fingers flex against your sides, and when you roll your hips just a little more, a quiet curse slips past his lips.

Hyunjin's hands slide down, gripping you gently but firmly, guiding you as though he wants you closer—if that were even possible. His lips part against your skin, and you feel the soft pull of his mouth, a teasing scrape of his teeth that has you gasping.

For a moment, the two of you simply move together, unhurried yet undeniably in sync. It’s intoxicating—the way he holds you, the way his body reacts to yours, the way the warmth between you seems to build with each slow grind against his swollen bulge.

You kiss him again, capturing his lips in a slow, lingering kiss that deepens with every second. Hyunjin responds just as eagerly, his hands roaming your body, his grip tightening when you roll your hips against him again. His breath stutters when you pull away, but before he can protest, you tilt your head and press your lips to his jawline, then lower—to the sensitive spot beneath his ear, to the column of his throat where you can feel his pulse quicken.

His fingers dig into your flesh as you trail your lips down his neck, your mouth leaving a warm path over his collarbone, his chest. His skin is hot beneath your lips, his breath uneven as you continue your slow descent. You can feel the way his body tenses, anticipating your next move. And then you shift, slipping off his lap with deliberate slowness, your hands skimming down his sides as you lower yourself to the floor. Standing in front of him, you press your palms to his thighs, feeling the subtle tremor in his muscles before you gently part his legs, making space for yourself between them.

Hyunjin looks down at you, his dark eyes clouded with something heavy and overpowering, his lips slightly parted as if he wants to say something—but he doesn’t. Instead, he swallows hard, watching you intently as you kneel between his legs, your hands still resting on his thighs. A quiet beat passes between you, charged with tension. Then, you lift your gaze to meet his, your fingers trailing slowly along the denim of his jeans.

"Still comfortable?" you ask, your voice light, teasing.

Hyunjin exhales a soft, breathy laugh, though his voice is rough when he responds. "Yeah," he murmurs. "Very."

Your fingers begin to move, tracing the waistband of his jeans before dipping lower. Hyunjin's breath hitches as you work the button open, then the zipper, the sound cutting through the silence in the room. His hands, which had been resting on his thighs, twitch—like he wants to touch you, to stop you, or maybe to urge you on. But he doesn’t move. He just watches, his chest rising and falling a little too quickly, his lips slightly parted as if he’s forgotten how to breathe.

You take your time, easing the fabric down just enough, and when you finally free his member out of its confine, his head falls back against the couch, a quiet groan slipping past his lips. "Are we good?" you ask softly, fingers teasing, barely touching his erection.

Hyunjin exhales a shuddery breath, his lips curving into a crooked, breathless smile. "Yeah," he murmurs, voice rough.

For a moment, you do nothing—just let your fingers ghost along his hardening length, featherlight, teasing. You hear the sharp inhale he takes, see the way his stomach tenses as you rub your thumb around the crest of his cock. He’s beautiful like this—vulnerable in a way that makes warmth curl in your stomach, his dark hair tousled, his lips red and kiss-swollen.

"You're so hard, so big..." you sigh, slightly tightening your fingers around him.

You glance up at him through your lashes, meeting his gaze as you begin giving his cock slow, deliberate strokes. His eyes are dark, half-lidded, filled with something heady and unspoken. You take your time, watching him, waiting until he meets your gaze before lowering yourself, you press a kiss to his hip, then another, trailing lower, savoring the way his body reacts to your touch. He lets out a quiet groan when your lips finally brush over the tip of his cock.

The first sound he makes when you take his cock into your mouth is something between a sigh and a moan, his head tipping back against the couch. His hand finds your hair, not pushing, just resting, as if he needs something to hold onto. You hollow out your cheeks and give him a good suck before slowly pulling away. You quickly replace your mouth with your hand to keep the stimulation going.

With your lips wet from saliva, you ask, "Does it feel good?"

"Yeah," he breathlessly answer before letting out a shaky exhale.

You lick your lips before taking him in again, little by little until half of his length disappeared into you. Then, you beging moving, moving your mouth to testing, to tease while watching the way his stomach tenses and his lips part with every careful motion.

"Fuck..." he breathes out, voice wrecked.

His breaths grow uneven, his grip tightening slightly, and when you flick your gaze upward, the sight of him—eyes heavy-lidded, mouth parted, completely undone—sends a wave of satisfaction through you.

You hum against him, reveling in the way he shudders beneath you, completely at your mercy. You give him a second to gather some senses and using your hand to pump his cock.

"Don't tell me you're going to come just from this," you tease, dragging your lips down the underside of his length before putting him into your mouth again.

Hyunjin’s breath stutters, his fingers tightening in your hair as you continue your slow, teasing pace. His body is completely at your mercy, and he knows it—you can feel it in the way he trembles beneath you, in the soft, choked sounds that slip past his parted lips. His other hand moves to the back of the couch, gripping it like he needs to anchor himself, his head tilting back as he exhales a shaky breath. "You're—" He cuts himself off with a groan, his body tensing for a moment before melting back into the cushions.

You glance up at him through your lashes, taking in the way his chest rises and falls with each unsteady breath, the way his brows knit together as he fights for control. There's something intoxicating about watching him like this, unraveling under your touch, his usual confidence slipping away little by little.

"What do you think? Am I doing good?" Your lips graze the tip of his cock as you speak.

"You're too good at this," he finally manages to answer, his voice breathless, rough.

You smile, dragging your hands up his thighs as you pull back just enough to whisper, "Just let it go when you feel like it. Swallowing is not a big deal to me "

His eyes snap open, dark and hazy as he looks down at you. There's a pause, his lips parting slightly, and for a moment, you think he might actually hesitate. But then his fingers tighten in your hair, his gaze burning into yours as he rasps, "I–I can't do that."

A thrill rushes through you at his words, at the sheer need in his voice. You hum in satisfaction, pressing a slow, lingering kiss against his hip before resuming your pace, taking your time, savoring every reaction he gives you.

Hyunjin curses under his breath, his hand slipping from your hair to cradle the side of your face instead, his thumb brushing over your cheek. His gaze never wavers, never strays from you, even as his breaths turn ragged, even as his body tenses beneath your touch.

"I'm about to come" he murmurs, his voice strained, almost desperate.

You glance up at him again, meeting his gaze with a knowing smile before pushing him just a little further, just enough to make him lose himself completely.

And when he does—when his body stiffens and his lips part in a silent gasp, his head tipping back as pleasure overtakes him—you know you've won.

You feel his release floods your tongue, hot and distinctly salty, filling your mouth. Then, silence. The only sounds left in the room are your steady breathing and his own ragged exhales.

When he finally dares to look at you, his eyes widen in horror as he sees you sticking your tongue out just enough to show him the white sheen of his seed before you swallow it all down your throat.

The sight stirs something deep within him that he reaches for you and roughly presses a kiss on your lips, his tongue pries open your mouth until you let him taste the remnants of himself on your tongue. Once he pulled away from the kiss, reality dawns on him. His flushed face deepens in color, and he quickly brings a hand to his face, covering his eyes as if that would make the situation disappear.

“Oh my God—” he mutters, voice filled with mortification as he sees a drop of his release landed on your chin. “I— I didn’t mean to—”

You blink at him before breaking into a soft laugh, reaching for a tissue nearby. “Hey, it’s fine.”

But he groans, shaking his head, clearly struggling with embarrassment. “No, it’s not! That was— I should have warned you—”

You smile, dabbing at your skin, before tilting your head at him. “You were a little too lost in the moment. I get it.”

Hyunjin groans again, this time burying his face in his hands. “I can’t believe this…”

Shifting closer, you gently pull his hands away from his face, meeting his flustered gaze with warmth. “Relax. It’s not a big deal.”

He exhales slowly, still clearly embarrassed, but your reassurance eases him slightly. He watches as you clean up without a hint of discomfort, and for some reason, that makes his heart squeeze a little.

You nudge his knee playfully. “If anything, I’ll take it as a compliment.”

You simply grin, standing up and holding your hand out at him. “Come on, let's shower before you start overthinking this to death.”

With a sigh, he follows, shaking his head as if he can’t believe what just happened—but there’s something else in his eyes too. A flicker of something deeper, something more than just physical attraction. And as he watches you head toward the bathroom, he realizes just how dangerous it is to let himself feel that way.

It's a successful first shoot with Hyunjin.

Even though he handled the camera like a pro, guiding you through poses and capturing you in the most flattering ways, the moment things shifted—when you turned the tables on him—he completely fell apart. And now, despite how smooth he usually tries to be, he can't stop being embarrassed about how he lost control, especially about how he came in your mouth and your face.

You think about it as warm water cascades down your body, the memory playing in your mind like a highlight reel. The way his breath hitched, the way his hands trembled against your skin, and especially the way his face turned crimson afterward, looking utterly wrecked yet so, so cute. You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head.

Hyunjin—always composed, always confident—reduced to a flustered mess because of you. You’ll never let him live this down.

After finishing your shower, you throw on something comfortable and head out to the dining area, where Hyunjin is already setting the table. His hair escaping the loose ponytail, and he's deliberately avoiding your gaze, focusing too hard on arranging the plates.

You slide into your seat, watching him for a moment before smirking. "You know… technically, I already had an appetizer before dinner."

He freezes mid-motion, his shoulders tensing. He slowly looks up, eyes wary. "Huh?"

You take a sip of your drink, feigning innocence. "I mean, I had a little taste of you before we sat down to eat."

His entire face turns red. He immediately drops his chopsticks, groaning as he buries his face in his hands. "Oh my God."

You burst into laughter, unable to help yourself. "Why are you acting so shy now? You weren’t shy earlier."

Hyunjin peeks at you between his fingers, shooting you a look of pure suffering. "I hate you."

"No, you don’t," you tease, grinning. "If anything, you loved it."

He groans again, leaning back in his chair dramatically. "You're not going to let me live this down, aren’t you?"

Despite himself, Hyunjin breaks into a helpless smile, shaking his head. As you both settle into comfortable conversation, the teasing lingers in the air—a reminder of just how much the dynamic between you is shifting, whether either of you is ready to admit it or not.

As you finish cleaning up after dinner, you grab an envelope from the counter and hand it to Hyunjin. "Your pay for this month," you say with a smile.

Hyunjin takes it, grinning as he flips it between his fingers. "Ah, my hard-earned money," he jokes, tucking it into his pocket. Then, with a playful glint in his eyes, he leans forward slightly. "Since I’m less broke now, how about I treat you to a movie tomorrow? There’s this screening I wanted to check out."

You chuckle at his enthusiasm but shake your head. "I’d love to, but I already have plans for tomorrow."

He tilts his head, curious. "Oh? Where are you going?"

You set your chopsticks down, wiping your lips before answering, "I'm going to my friend’s wedding."

His expression shifts slightly, curiosity flickering in his eyes. "Is it the one friend you were avoiding back at the restaurant?"

You nod. "Yep. That one."

He blinks, clearly surprised. "I thought you weren’t going."

You shrug. "At first, yeah. But then I thought… why not?"

Hyunjin nods slowly, as if processing your words. But you don’t miss the way his shoulders drop slightly, or how he suddenly seems more focused on the remaining food in his bowl. He’s disappointed. You don’t point it out, but you notice it.

"Sounds fun," he says, his voice light, but there’s something subdued in it.

You watch him for a moment, then smirk. "You sound like you’re sulking."

He scoffs, sitting up straighter. "Me? Sulking? Never."

You arch an eyebrow, amused. "You’re literally stabbing your rice right now."

He looks down at his bowl, realizing how aggressively he’s been poking at the food. Clearing his throat, he sets his chopsticks down and leans back in his chair. "I just think my plans sounded cooler, that’s all."

You laugh, shaking your head. "I’ll make it up to you, okay?"

Hyunjin pouts slightly, but the teasing glint in his eyes gives him away. "You better," he mutters, stealing one of your dumplings as revenge.

The morning sun shines through the high windows of the apartment building as Hyunjin walks back from the farmer's market, a bag of fresh produce in one arm and a bouquet of flowers in the other. The scent of them—sweet and delicate—lingers in the air, and he glances down at them, suddenly second-guessing himself.

Was this a bad idea?

He doesn’t know what compelled him to pick them up. Maybe it was the way they reminded him of you. Maybe it was just a habit—bringing home something nice, something that adds a little warmth to a space. Either way, he now stands in front of your door, unsure if you've already left for the wedding. A part of him hopes you have, just so he doesn’t have to go through the embarrassment of handing you flowers like some lovestruck fool.

Before he can turn around and retreat to his apartment, the door swings open. You're standing there, already dressed for the wedding, a bright smile greeting him.

"Oh, morning, Hyunjin!" you say, sounding rushed yet cheerful as you step aside to let him in.

He planned to just hand you the flowers and go. But now, with the door wide open and you ushering him in without a second thought, he finds himself stepping inside, still holding the bouquet a little awkwardly.

You move back toward your vanity, where your makeup is halfway done, brushes and compacts scattered across the table. "Sorry, I’m running a little late," you say, adjusting your earrings in the mirror. "What’s up?"

Clearing his throat, Hyunjin lifts the flowers. "I, uh… brought these for you."

You turn, eyes widening in surprise before a teasing smile tugs at your lips. "Flowers? For me? What’s the occasion?"

He shrugs, suddenly self-conscious. "No occasion. Just thought you’d like them."

You take them from his hands, inhaling their fresh scent before flashing him a soft, genuine smile. "They're beautiful. Thank you, Hyunjin."

Seeing you flustered for once makes him feel a little less embarrassed. "I'll put them in a vase for you," he offers, not wanting to stand there while you get ready.

"That’d be great," you say, turning back to the mirror to finish up.

As Hyunjin moves around your kitchen, filling a vase with water, he sneaks glances at you. The way you carefully apply the last touches to your hair, the way the dress hugs your figure just right—it all captivates him. Then, you turn around, smiling brightly at him.

"How do I look?" you ask.

Hyunjin quickly averts his gaze, setting the vase down on the counter as if that requires all his attention. He swallows. "You look… beautiful."

Your smile softens. "Thank you."

Before the moment lingers too long, your phone rings, breaking the air of quiet admiration. You pick it up quickly, saying, "Yeah, I’ll be there in a minute," before ending the call.

Hyunjin assumes someone is picking you up and he also takes that as his cue to leave.

As you both step out of your apartment, he lingers for a moment before saying, "Have fun at the wedding."

You flash him one last grateful smile. "I will. Thanks again for the flowers, Hyunjin."

Hyunjin steps into his apartment, closing the door behind him with a quiet sigh. He toes off his shoes and runs a hand through his hair, shaking off the lingering feeling of something he can't quite name.

But as he walks toward the window, curiosity tugs at him. He tells himself he's only looking to see what kind of car picks you up—maybe a fancy one, maybe not. But when he spots the vehicle pulling up in front of the building, what catches his attention isn't the car at all.

It's the person stepping out of it. Felix.

Hyunjin hadn’t expected that. You’re going to the wedding with Felix?

The thought alone stirs something uneasy inside him, but he pushes it aside, watching as you step out of the building. He tells himself that’s the end of it, that he should look away, go about his day. But then—

You walk straight into Felix’s arms, slipping into his embrace like it’s second nature. Despite the tightening feeling in his chest, Hyunjin watches as Felix leans in, pressing a kiss to your cheek before opening the passenger door for you. You slip inside easily, smiling up at him before he shuts the door and rounds the car to the driver’s side.

Hyunjin lets out a sharp breath, rubbing his hand over his face as if to wipe away the thoughts creeping into his mind. What was he even expecting?

A part of him wants to shake it off, to go about his day like this means nothing. But another part of him—one he’s not quite ready to acknowledge—already knows that today, for the first time, he’s feeling something he shouldn’t.

Jealousy.

He scoffs under his breath, shaking his head at himself. Then, without another glance at the window, he turns on his heel and walks away, leaving the room in silence.

✨ Chapter III of Cam is available on my Patreon page ✨

Please support my writings by kindly reblog, comment or consider tipping me on my ko-fi!

@svintsandghosts @abiaswreck @drhsthl @biribarabiribbaem @skz-streamer @biancaness @hanniebunch @elizalabs3 @laylasbunbunny @kpopformylife @caitlyn98s @hann1bee @mamieishere @is2cb97 @marvelous-llama @bluenights1899 @sherryblossom @toplinehyunjin @hanjisbeloved @sunnyseungup @skz4lifer @stellasays45 @severeanxietyissues @imseungminsgf @silentreadersthings @army-stay-noel @rylea08 @simeonswhore @yubinism @devilsmatches @septicrebel @rairacha @ven-fic-recs @hyunjiinnnn @schniti-is-in-the-house @jisunglyricist @minh0scat @simplymoo @inlovewithstraykids @seochangbinnnnnnnnnnn @angstraykids @lenfilms @inniesfanblog @multi-fandommaniac @tirena1 @nightmarenyxx @nebugalaxy @akindaflora @jinniejjam @iknow-uknow-leeknow

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fastandcarlos · 9 months ago

Text

When He Carries An Item Specifically For You : ̗̀➛ F1 Reaction

» Max Verstappen

If there was one thing that Max loved, it was your hair, and when he loved playing with it as much as he did, it meant that he absolutely hated when it got ruined. To save that from happening, he always carried a hairband around his wrist so that he could offer it to you when you needed to move your hair out of your face and tie it back. As soon as he saw that it was annoying you, Max would hold the band out, or sometimes even decide that he was going to be the one to tie your hair up instead.

» Lando Norris

There were often times during the long race weekends when you found yourself getting pretty bored, using your phone to keep you entertained. The one thing you often forgot to pack with you though was a charger to keep your phone going throughout the day leaving you feeling a little lost as the screen went black. After one too many groans that your phone was dead, Lando decided that he was going to make sure that he kept a phone charger in his driver’s room at all times so that you always had easy access to one and could keep you happy whilst he raced.

» Charles LeClerc

When you were in the paddock, Charles loved to make sure that everyone knew which family you were a part of, and so usually had an item of Ferrari merch on him somewhere to pass onto you. Whether it was a top, a bracelet, a cap or a scarf, Charles loved to dress you in red. Even if it was a piece of merch that wasn’t realised to the fans, if he had access to it then he made sure that you did too so that everyone knew exactly who you were cheering on whilst at the back of the garage.

» George Russell

With all the travelling that you did, your bag was often filled with different things to keep yourself entertained, one of your favourite things being your latest read, the story usually gripping you. However, one thing you weren’t quite so good at remembering to take with you was a bookmark. After watching you fold pages for many weeks, George ended up going out and buying a bookmark on a day off and slipping it into his bag so he always had one that he could hand to you to use when you wanted to make sure that you didn’t lose your page.

» Oscar Piastri

To say you were clumsy was an absolute understatement, and so simply to survive, Oscar was always the one to carry your passport. After one too many near misses at airports, he decided that he would take it instead so you both knew exactly where it was. He had a safe space in his bag where yours and his sat, unlike you who tended to just hold it in your hand. You tried to protest that you were capable of carrying it, but after being responsible for several missed flights you knew that it was probably for the best that Oscar looked after such an important item.

» Carlos Sainz

Although he tried his best to convince you that the hairbrush that he usually carried in his bag was for you, you weren’t entirely convinced, and neither was the rest of Carlos’ team either. When you watched Carlos pull the brush out, quite often you’d catch him brushing quickly through his hair to fix his messy locks before handing it across to you to use. He was far too proud to ever confess to carrying a brush for himself, but you knew that he loved having it on him just as much for his benefit as it was for your benefit.

» Daniel Ricciardo

Just like Daniel, the cold was not your friend, especially during the tricky winters at some of the races. You were like holding onto an ice block sometimes with how cold you were, which Daniel was not particularly a fan of when he wanted so often to hold your hand. To counteract this, Daniel often kept a pair of gloves in the bottom of his bag when the two of you went out into the chilly air, making sure that you had a nice thick layer on to keep you warm, and make holding your hand much more comfortable for him too.

» Lewis Hamilton

It was a nervous habit of yours to mess with your lips, you often picked at the skin whenever you began to get worried which Lewis usually picked up on. Luckily for you, Lewis was always on hand to make sure that your lips were well taken care of though, with a lip balm safe in his pocket most of the time when you were out of the house. Every so often he would remind you to put some on so that your lips were nice and smooth and make sure there wasn’t any skin for you to tug at and risk making your lips sore.

˗ˏˋ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ! ´ˎ˗

841 notes · View notes

naffeclipse · 11 days ago

Text

A Photo

Reader x Mob Bosses!Sun & Moon

Commission Info

I am so excited to show off another commission from @vixenfoxpup involving the mob boss brothers in a continuation from the previous fic! They left you with a promise and they have returned to fulfill it. The mob bosses pay a visit to your humble apartment, looking for answers, and you diligently try to keep them far from the truth.

Content Warning for suggestive themes, implied abuse, and bruises.

———

The streets are beginning to darken as you make your way home. Your clothes are wrinkled and begin to touch your skin like a layer of dead skin needing to be shed, and your hair is starting to fall out of the careful hairdo you had tied it up in this morning. The thought of looking at your reflection in windows as you hurry past is a less than appealing thought: your make-up might be smeared and the dark circles underneath your eyes could be especially ghoulish in the dying light of day.

It’s best to not confirm the worst case scenario in your head.

A sigh falls from your lips. Another shift of chasing after a scoop that ended in brick walls and sealed lips. Who would want to discuss the most notorious gang members? Who wants to throw their life away for saying just a little too much? Your notebook is a mess of scattered notes and circles of hopeful leads that you’ve had to cross off, one by one.

No one is willing to whisper about the Celestial Gang, much less blab. They have an iron-tight grasp on the city, and they’ve found you in all of the mess. It doesn’t make sense. Maybe they thought you had some important information or lead. But why not kill you then?

It wouldn’t be hard. They’ve disposed of far grander people than yourself for getting half as close as you have.

So why promise to return? To torment you? The drive still sits heavy in the back of your mind. Reflections trigger a soft warmth in your face when you recall how they held you tight, and how they seem to grow cold and furious when they touch the bruises on your wrist and neck.

They brushed too close against the truth. All you can do is wait and hold your breath, and hope they find a new mouse to toy with.

You tug at your collar. It’s hard to see directly, but this morning, in the mirror, the yellow splotches looked far less noticeable than the purple and blue blossoms that once wrapped around your neck. Your wrist is healing steadily as well, practically gone save for the sallow hues of what remains. The reminders fade but the lessons do not.

You will not let that person back into your life again.

Pushing your sleeve back into place, you find your apartment building. The bricks are rough and worn on the corners, and the doorway creaks like a banshee as you push it open. A resident knocks shoulders with you and doesn’t even bother to look up before they scurry out into the darkness. You look back only once with a grimace before rushing up the stairs.

Home’s within reach. You need a shower and something to eat. What are you even going to give your boss tomorrow? A few scant quotes from scared people? You bite back a groan as you pull out your keys.

Food first. An article later.

The key scrapes against the lock before it catches, and you twist the doorknob. Faint light from the hallway spills into the midnight blue darkness of your apartment. Entering inside, your eyes catch on a glint of metal, then priceless, glossy dark shoes.

Your flesh prickles.

A figure stands in the darkness, red optics burning like hellfire. A hand rests on a gun holstered to his waistband under the jacket of his suit. Before you can throw yourself out of your apartment and scream, the door shuts behind you. A hand clamps over your mouth from behind. The notebook drops from your hands.

“Easy, turtle dove,” a voice slips into your ear, and you pick up his grinning without looking to see what’s on his faceplate, “It’s just your darlings.”

Through the hammer of your heart as it nails adrenaline through your veins, you grasp onto the arm wrapped around you. The second intruder holds you in place. You find the sleeves of his pure white shirt, and feel the rumble from his chassis as he bows over you. How easily he contains you in his grasp. It’s no different than when he snatched you off of the street and stuffed you into their car.

It’s not the one you thought was waiting for you in the dark, but that doesn’t improve the situation by much.

Your muffled question gives the mob boss Sun pause. He chuckles and removes his hand.

“Be good,” he warns playfully. His fingertips slip from the corner of your mouth and to your ear. The crime lord gently tucks a wayward strand of hair away from your face. “And don’t speak too loudly. We wouldn’t want to disturb the neighbors, would we?”

“What are you doing here?” you whisper harshly.

Darting your eyes across your apartment, you watch Moon’s jacket fall back over his waist, hiding the gun with practiced ease. He tilts his head. The shadow of his fedora falls over his expression, and gives the glow of his optics an even sharper crimson hue as he grins.

“Welcoming you home, doll face.” Moon steps through the darkness of your apartment, attaching himself to the shadows. His gaze skims away from you and falls over your things. “Such a quaint dwelling.”

You make a face at his tone, as if he’s talking about an animal’s pen and not your home. No, it’s not glamorous, but it’s a lot better than most people have. They’ve probably only ever had the most ritzy of accommodations. With the money they handle and pass around, it would be impossible for the mob bosses to have less than the best.

Your heart thunders quietly in your chest, not so horrified as it once once, but you feel the closeness of Sun at your back. He has yet to free you. His arm falls around your waist. A soft squeeze from his hand on your hip makes you squeak softly, and Sun chuckles in delight.

“We missed you,” he coos. “We couldn’t let you forget about us, could we, Moon?”

“Never,” Moon agrees with a cheshire-like grin.

“Are you going to kidnap me again?” You flick your wided-eye stare between the two. This is the calmest hostage takedown you’ve yet to attend, and you’ve only done so twice including this instance.

Moon chuckles darkly. His hands find a small table you usually set small vases and plants on for decorations, along with your keys. He rummages through a drawer.

Sun clicks his tongue. “I think you know, my dove, that if that were the case, you would already be gone from here.”

His scent brushes against your senses. The rich amber taste of bourbon as well as the crisp cleanliness of his suit, topped with a tang of metal as if blood or broken bones. You swallow roughly. He smells so harsh and intense, you couldn’t ignore him anymore than you could the blinding effects of looking directly at the sun.

Moon pulls out a small, unopened gift box. Your stomach clenches. That was supposed to be thrown away—all you wanted to do was get rid of it. Instead, you left it to rot in a drawer you never intended to open again.

The tautness of Moon’s fingers nearly crush the box before he gently places it back and slides the drawer close. His head turns, catching you watching him. You shudder until the pinpricks of his nearly obsidian gaze. He roams further, taking in the meekness of your kitchen, and you wish to step out of Sun’s arms just to stop the mob boss from unfurling more secrets of your life that are better left forgotten.

Why are they doing this? And to what end? To know how to personally turn your life upside down? Maybe they’re hoping to find weaknesses or evidence that you’ve gathered against them. If that were the case, they would have plucked your notebook off of the ground by now.

“What do you want?” you ask carefully.

You try to tug yourself free from Sun’s grasp, but his arms only twist around you. The apartment spins and you find yourself dipped slightly in the mob boss’s arms. His pale eyes are wide and hungry, raking over you as if looking for the best place to sink his teeth.

“Have we not made ourselves clear?” Sun tilts his crown of sun rays, sharp and golden even in the lightless space.

“I’m afraid we haven’t,” Moon sighs deeply, regretfully, before he wipes his fingers along the dust on your counter.

In the corner, there used to rest a mug before it was shattered against the floor by a violent hand. You were glad to have it gone, but you watch as Moon lifts his fingertips together and rubs them thoughtfully before he prowls further. He turns back to you, resting against the counter with a terrible sense of ease—like he wasn’t just snooping through your things.

“Your affections, doll face.” His smile sharpens. “We’ve been very polite.”

You pinch your lips into a thin line. You don’t consider pulling you into a dark vehicle against your will, and now breaking into your apartment in the darkness, as polite, but you mind your tongue.

“There’s nothing here—” You’re cut off by a sudden turn from Sun.

Whisked around your apartment, you can hardly keep up with his intricate moves as he all but carries you across the floor to the window. The faint light of a blooming city under darkness cuts through the window pane. His hands clench yours, and you breathlessly try to find your balance. He presses you against him. Your middle roils with heat as you look up into his looming face.

You don’t notice Moon slipping down the hallway towards your bedroom, your head still dizzy from the forced dance.

“We keep meeting like this,” Sun simpers.

His hands keep you tightly in place, making you small in his presence. You can’t turn your blushing face away.

Sun leans closer, as consuming as sunlight in summer. “It’s unbecoming. A proper date is in order, turtle dove.”

“A date?” you sputter. You try to straighten, and step back. “I find it difficult to imagine you and your brother growing concerned about doing things the right way, considering the illegal business you’ve built your empire on.”

Sun steps in time with you, and he pulls you into a move that must be part of a waltz. You’re not sure. You’ve never danced like this with someone like him, and Sun takes care to force your concentration lest you find yourself falling right into his arms.

He spins you around once, nearly pinning you against the window. The city beyond glows and the shadows deepen. His expression shifts, unreadable for a moment, before the smile returns with vigor.

“It’s a matter of principle in this case.” He chuckles. “The rest requires far less sophisticated efforts.”

A cold chill wraps around you, and you shudder underneath it.

“Enough about me,” he declares, “I need to know about your friends. Is anyone coming to your apartment often? Anyone we need to worry about?”

You freeze. Guilt creeps over your features like fresh bruising.

“No, but why would you need to know—”

He spins you around, and you gasp before clutching close at Sun’s shoulders for stability.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head,” he says, and sets you upright back on your feet. “I believe Moon and I must be on our way.”

You turn your head and find Moon exiting the hallway. His hand slips something into his pocket. Were you not aghast that the mob boss was in your bedroom, you might have noticed the small nod he gives his brother.

“You were so good for us, dove,” Sun coos. He talks hold of your chin and admires you for a moment in the distant light of the city.

Your mouth opens but not a sound comes out when he gives you a peck on the cheek. Stuck fast in place, you are dumbfounded as Moon glides to your side. In the dark, his hand slips underneath your sleeve. His cool touch soothes the tenderness of the healing bruises as he circles your wrist.

“We’ll be seeing you soon, doll,” Moon rasps.

As quickly as they appear, they are gone into the night. The mob bosses disappear out your door, and you are left standing alone.

Your hand leaps to your heart. Did they find what they were looking for?

You dart down the hallway and throw yourself into your bedroom. It looks the same in the darkness. Not bothering to flip on a light, you kneel beside your bed and blindly grope underneath it until you hit a wooden box. Pulling it out, you set it on your lap. It seems undisturbed, but how can you trust that?

There are only bad memories left in it.

You push open the lid. Tasting acid in your mouth, you stare at the emptiness within. There was a photo. One last photo, and it’s gone. The one frame of time in which you were happy with your ex.

And now the mob bosses know who gave you those bruises.

#naff's writing commissions #syzygy in dedication #mob boss!sun #mob boss!moon #it's like a house warming party but nothing is warm and they scare you out of your wits #they just gotta keep coming back for more of you hehe #naff writing

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ohimsummer · 1 year ago

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"fuck that fleshlight!" satoru and "??? okay, sit down" reader who proceeds to use it to jerk him off and make him cum over and over while he whines and begs for her hands or cunny instead 😋

— minors dni, whiny (and kind of bratty?) + subby! satoru :33, f! reader, overstim, handjob at the end, kinda proofread

“aww, don’t you just look sooo cute like this, ‘toru <3”

satoru doesn’t feel cute. what he feels is tired, exhausted, on the brink of insanity, all from the mercy—or lack of it—of your hands.

“hmm, how many orgasms is that?”, you tap a finger on your chin and ponder to pretty much no one, as satoru’s mind has long since begun melting out of his ears. “5? 6? can’t believe you’re still going, you must be obsessed with this thing!”

“i—i’m—“. the words sizzle up and die on his tongue, and satoru opts for a weak shake of the head to deny your claim.

“still no? oh, baby, that’s not what he’s saying…” you give your boyfriend a faux pout, unsheathing his length which still stands high and proud, and all prettied up in creamy layers of cum.

you place an index finger right on the tip, dousing your finger in precum and playfully swaying his cock back-and-forth. a giggle at his blue eyes following the motion, before satoru gives a weak thrust against your finger and whines at your touch.

“please.”, he bats pretty white lashes at you, a gesture that usually has you bending to his will in seconds. but not today. that’s no fun.

“i told you no already.”, you huff, and satoru tries hard to return your pout, but it’s not effective when he keeps having to suck in heaving, raspy breaths of air.

“don’t look at me like that.”, you scold him again. “you wouldn’t be in this mess if you used this—“ you waggle the abused fleshlight in the air “—like i so kindly requested.”

“don’t want it.”, satoru whines and he rolls his hips again to brush his sensitive tip along your hovering finger, wrists straining against the restraints behind his back. “it sucks. i want you, instead.”

“you can’t have your way all the time, ‘toru.” you can see the shattering of his heart reflected in his eyes.

he tries again. “please.”

“no.”

“please.”

“satoru—“

“pleaseeeeeee!!”

you must admit, satoru when he is desperate is quite the sight to behold. perhaps you’ll toy with him a bit longer, even if you’re over his whole “anti-fleshlight” business.

satoru senses your hesitation, and blinks lashes again at you in another pitiful plea. “just once, pretty please? then you can do whatever you want, i swear.”

how funny. as if you need his permission to do anything, but it’s cute anyway that satoru thinks so.

“okay then, fine.” the fleshlight is tossed to the side, forgotten for the time being. “i’ll let you use my hand because i don’t think you’re deserving of my pussy, yet. sound fair?”

with newfound energy, satoru gives frantic nods of his head, quick and eager to accept your deal. “f—fuck, yes, that’s fair, very fair!”

“good.” and you watch his eyes glued to your hand, which forms a ring around his twitching cock. “ready, set…go!”

😽: @anthoosies @staryukis @risuola @luvvmae @bubblez-blop @deepenthevoid d @domainexpansionmypants @starlightanyaaa @angelina7890 @rosso-seta @satoruxsc @lxnarphase @hellkaiserinphoenix @neptuneblue e @biscuitsngravie @babytoshiii @kissesfrombelle @v0ctin @purplegemadventures @luvvforliaa @apatauaia @sataraxia @leilalilox @sugu-love @manyno @the-monster-under-the-bed

#.𖥔 summy answerz .ᐟ ๋࣭ ⭑#anon! ‎♡‧₊˚#gojo satoru smut #satoru gojo smut #satoru gojo x reader smut #gojo x reader smut #satoru x reader smut #satoru gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #satoru x reader

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onismdaydream · 1 year ago

Text

⋅˚₊‧ PEACHES AND CREAM !

ASS OR TITS — everyone's got a preference and they make it known whenever they fuck you.

ft..!: t. fushiguro, y. itadori, i. takuma, n. zen'in, m. zen'in | s. gojo, s. ieiri, y. okkotsu, s. kong | r. sukuna, s. geto, k. nanami | m. fushiguro, h. higuruma | c. kamo

warnings..!: MDNI. fem/afab reader. aged up characters. penetrative sex. no protection. dry humping. rough sex. titjob. double penetration. thigh fucking. oral (m and f rec.) pet names. not proofread.

TOJI FUSHIGURO

it's an easy answer for him, what with the way his large hands always end up kneading and grabbing the fat of your ass. the soft flesh raw and red, the print of his palm practically branded on you.

“fuck, angel,” he grunts, voice gravelly and making you flutter around his length. “she’s gripping me like a vice.”

“tojiii,” you whine, drool dribbling from your mouth and soaking the sheet beneath you. it's hard to do anything other than follow his pace, your ass moving back to meet his thrusts, punching out more lewd sounds from your lips. his cock makes you dumb —something he likes to tease you about — but who could blame you when he fucks you so good?

“i know, baby. can't think straight, huh?” he squeezes your cheeks roughly, spreading them to watch the way your pussy sucks him in. his thumb brushes against your rim, pushing slightly but not yet breaching. “gonna fuck this tight hole next.”

YUJI ITADORI

he groans softly next to your ear, his broad chest against your back and strong arms holding you close. soft lips press sloppy and wet kisses along your neck, drawing out sighs from your beautiful mouth. yuji’s hips thrust forward, his thick bulge twitching even underneath the layers of clothes.

“you feel so good,” his voice is breathy, shaky almost, like he's fighting to stay in control. “fuck, ‘m not even inside you and ‘m gonna cum.”

your ass feels amazing against him, soft and firm as he grinds, his cock trapped between your bodies. his hands move along your skin, one of them slipping under the band of your shorts, his warm fingers rubbing along your slit. he gathers the slick leaking from you and massages your throbbing clit.

the moans you make are music to his ears.

“wan’ you to cum, baby. wanna cum with you.” yuji urges, the pressure of his touch on your bud increases when he feels you tense. you shudder against him and he spills his load in his underwear.

INO TAKUMA

“fuck,” he hisses, fingers gripping your hips so tightly it's bound to leave bruises. “just like that, baby. keep ridin’ me like that.”

you lean forward, placing your hands next to his legs for better leverage as you bounce up and down on his cock. unfortunately, you couldn't see ino’s expressions, but his words and responses were plenty to assure you that you're doing a perfectly fine job. he encourages you, each breath he takes followed by praise that makes your walls clamp around him.

“shit, gotta—”

you can feel him twitch inside you, the warning dying on his lips as he hurriedly pulls his length out. the wet schlick sounds of a half dozen strokes fill the room before he groans, his cum splattering against the top of your ass.“so pretty.” you hear him mumble, still catching his breath. he runs a thumb through the mess, rubbing the sticky cum into your skin. he likes the idea of you being covered in him.

NAOYA ZEN'IN

“this is how whores should be fucked,” the heel of his shoe digs uncomfortably into your skull, face squishing into the cool tile of the floor, his voice dripping with venom. “like a fuckin’ bitch.”

a sob rips from your throat, but naoya doesn't care. you misbehaved, made a fool of him in front of his clansmen, and this was your punishment. your pussy leaks slick despite your embarrassment and discomfort, forming a puddle underneath you as he thrusts into your tight ass.

“n-naoy—aah!” your lower lip trembles, tears falling freely as a loud smack rings throughout the room, your flesh burning at the sensation.

“i didn't give you permission to speak, bitch.” another spank, this one harder than the last, and you choke out a pathetic cry. he tugs on your wrists, one hand easily keeping a bruising grip behind your back. “i should gag you — wouldn't cause any more trouble for me then.”

MAKI ZEN'IN

fucking you into the mattress was something maki excelled at, one hand on your spine to force you into a perfect arch and make you melt into the bed. the fat of your ass ripples with each snap of her hips, her pace rough and brutal — the perfect way to expend the adrenaline pumping through her veins.

“maki,” your fingers curl around the sheets underneath you, grip tight and turning your knuckles white. “s-slow down, ‘s too much.”

tears stain your cheeks when you turn your head, trying to catch a glimpse of maki behind you, but her eyes are focused elsewhere. her lips are parted, her breathing shallow and short, scarred chest rising and falling quickly. you call out her name again, though it's more of a whine at this point.

dark eyes meet yours, a deep desire swallowing the usual brightness.

“sorry, got distracted.” her pace slows, a more calculated grinding taking its place, weapon calloused hands massaging your ass. that hunger drips into her voice, smooth and predatory. “let me make it up to you.”

SATORU GOJO

his snowy lashes flutter against his flushed cheeks, his mouth slightly open as he pants, a beautiful sight that you never tire of.

“shit,” satoru breathes out, his hips stuttering as he kneels over your chest. “perfect fuckin’ tits. god, it's like they were made f’r me.”

you smile up at him, bottom lip pulled between your teeth as you push your breasts together, creating a tight channel for him to rut into. it was no secret that satoru loved your boobs, his hands constantly groping at them no matter where you were. and it was no secret that you loved to make satoru feel good.

his cock slides out, just the tip remaining in the space between your tits, and he spits down on his shaft, making it even more slippery. a shuddering gasp leaves his lips, the muscles in his stomach tightening as he continues his pace.

“yeahhh, that's it. hold it tight for me, angel. w’nna cum on your gorgeous tits.”

SHOKO IEIRI

“look at you, baby.” the sickly sweet smell of nicotine hangs off shoko’s breath, her lips close to your ear as she stands behind you. “you wear all this just for me?”

you catch her gaze in the mirror, your cheeks warming as her eyes keep drifting down the reflection to take all of you in. her fingers itch to touch you, but she keeps them on your shoulders, prompting you with a hum when you don't answer.

you nod, then, guiding one of her hands to the lacy fabric covering your breasts. a smile quirks at shoko’s lips as she feels the warmth radiating off your skin. her palm engulfs your tit, squeezing it just hard enough to get a soft cry to fall from your mouth.

“you look so beautiful,” her voice is gentle and she pulls you flush against her body, both of her hands holding your chest now. you relax, your head falling back onto her shoulder as her lips press along your neck.

YUTA OKKOTSU

your fingers card through yuta’s silky hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp and eliciting a low groan from him. the vibrations spread through your body, his mouth never leaving your tits for more than a second. his tongue is hot against your skin, licking and messily kissing every inch he can reach.

his cock is throbbing — nearing the verge of painful — as it's trapped beneath him, his hips humping into the mattress in slow rolls. he can feel the precum soaking into his pants, making everything sticky and even more uncomfortable, but he's far too engrossed in the quiet moans and soft sighs leaving your lips to care.

“yuta,” you cry out when his teeth scrape against your sensitive nipple. your own hips buck up into his body and your fingers tighten their hold in his hair, pulling on his dark locks.

thick precum blurts from his cock, dirtying himself even more, and making his body tremble.

SHUI KONG

“that’s it, doll,” an easy smile pulls at the corner of his lips, eyes half lidded as he watches you grind on his lap. “keep moving just like this.”

shui’s hands rest on your body, one of them covering the fat of your tit, thumb brushing over your stiffening nipple. you roll your hips slowly, sensually, his thick tip dragging against that spongy spot inside you. his gaze flickers between your face and your chest, wanting to see the fucked out expression that he quickly became addicted to, but also craving the sight of your tits moving so beautifully. it should be criminal, really, just how flawless those tits of yours are.

“think you can bounce for me, baby? ride my cock and show me your perfect tits?”

fingers drifting down to grip your hips, shui groans softly when you start to move, the walls of your cunt squeezing him tight and your breasts following your motions.

RYOMEN SUKUNA

your nails claw at every part of him you can reach, leaving trails of red in their wake, marking his skin as you cry out. it's so much — too much — for you to handle, but sukuna grinds his hips forward regardless. you feel like you are being ripped apart, his thick cockheads breaching your dripping hole.

“s’kuna,” you hiccup, tears freely flowing down your cheeks as he sinks another inch in. it hurt. “‘s too much.”

“quiet, brat,” his large figure looms over you and you feel even smaller than before. “you asked for this, so take it.”

a harsh smack to your clit makes your body jolt, slick dribbling from your pussy as it's stretched to its limits. your cunt feels impossibly tighter around sukuna, squeezing and fighting against the intrusions of his cocks, your walls twitching with every rough thrust.

sukuna isn't going to stop until he fills you to the brim, both with his cocks and his cum.

SUGURU GETO

suguru has the patience of a man that you've never witnessed, willing to draw out your own pleasure to ensure you see stars before he even thinks about himself. he takes pride in the way he can make you fall apart with just his mouth and he will spend hours in between your legs if you let him, tongue lapping at your dripping slit.

a broken moan of his name spills from your mouth as he pushes you over the edge for the second time, his large hands on your thighs to keep you from squirming away. your essence coats the bottom half of his face, his pretty lips shining with slick and cum.

“did so good for me, baby.” your legs are shaking still, but suguru finds his place again, teasing your sensitive skin with featherlight kisses. “gimme one more and then i’ll give you a break.”

you want to protest — want to push his head away before you pass out — but your hips still cant towards his mouth and you feel him smile against you.

KENTO NANAMI

his breath is hot against your skin, forehead pressing to yours as you both pant and moan into each other's mouth. you're folded in half, your legs being pushed by kento’s chest as he fucks you deep and hard. you swear you could feel him in your throat, his cockhead practically bruising your cervix — but you're not one to complain.

“kento,” you mewl, voice going high as he grinds his hips, his body weight resting on top of you to keep you still. every breath is punched out of your lungs and all you can suck in is him.

nanami couldn't pull out even if he wanted to, your pussy wrapping around his length so tightly. and you're so warm and wet, too, making the sound of your cunt getting fucked echo around the bedroom.

“you feel amazing, angel,” a whisper of praise that he kisses into your mouth, pulling a sweet whine from you. “so perfect for me.”

MEGUMI FUSHIGURO

“oh, fuck,” he pants, squeezing his eyes shut as his hips stutter, trying to keep himself from orgasming too soon. your thighs are sticky with a mix of his precum and the overly generous amount of lube used, making his thrusts between your legs an easy glide. megumi’s fingers flex on top of your knees, your calves resting over his shoulders.

a shudder works through his body as your fingers brush against his leaking tip, eyebrows pinching together, climax threatening to wash over him.

“‘m gonna cum if you keep doing that.” it's meant to be a warning, but you take it as an invitation.

with a bitten back smile, you flex your thighs, tightening around him just as he starts to slowly grind his hips forward.

“yeah? gonna cum all over my thighs, megumi?” you tease and feel his grip on you increase to the point where there's no doubt you'll have bruises later. he groans in response, humping into you as he chases the feeling.

HIROMI HIGURUMA

hiromi’s nose brushes across your wet lips, settling into the space where your thigh meets your mound. his teeth graze against the sensitive skin and you close your legs on instinct, momentarily trapping your lover’s head. he doesn't mind, though — far from it. he’d happily suffocate in between your plush thighs.

his fingers grab onto your flesh, forcing your legs open once again. your chest heaves, clit throbbing and swollen as hiromi neglects where you need him most.

a quiet whine leaves your lips, brows pinching together as you struggle to stay still, the urge to hump his face growing stronger and stronger.

“patience, darling,” his voice is smooth, lips placing sweet kisses along the expanse of your thighs. “let me worship you.”

he takes his time, thoroughly covering every inch of your skin with his love. gentle nips and harsh sucks and soothing licks, leading to blooming bruises and love bites. a reminder to himself that you are his as he is yours.

CHOSO KAMO

his hand covers his mouth, muffling the sounds that threaten to fill the room and get the two of you caught. choso promised he would be quiet, begged you so sweetly to help him with his erection, and he doesn't plan on going back on his word. but it proves to be nearly impossible with the way your tongue slides along his length, your cheeks hollowing to provide the suction that makes his knees weak.

tears prick at your lash line as you take him as far as you can, his thick tip nudging against the back of your throat. a mixture of drool and precum spills from your spread lips, mouth aching from the stretch of his cock.

choso whines softly, biting his lower lip to stifle the noise as he moves his hands to brace himself on the wall behind you. you could feel his cock twitch, taste the salty precum that slides down your throat, see his abdomen flex — he's close.

and you love watching him fall apart above you.

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sai-int · 5 months ago

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LOW COUNTRY | HARD LUCK

johnny mactavish x reader

[PREV] [NEXT] [AO3] [MLIST]

pining—but nothing ever comes easy

Ever since the fence checks some three weeks ago, you and Johnny have been inseparable.

Always near each other. Always finding excuses to linger. The small things are driving you insane—fingers brushing when you pass tools to each other, stolen glances when you think the other isn’t looking. Thick, suffocating tension that's replaced most of the humidity since summer’s left.

A few days after the fences while walking back home from the stables, he bumped into you—a harmless accident, at first. You had nudged him back, bumping your shoulder against his bicep. Then he nudged you back. So you nudged him again. And then, without warning, he full-on shoved you, sending you both stumbling into a pit of mud, arms flailing, laughter bursting from your lungs as he landed on top of you, splashing each other in the process.

You had both ended up completely covered, caked in thick, cool mud, layers of it sticking to your clothes, your skin, your hair. There was no saving anything now. The mud clung to every inch of you, heavy and wet, the kind that made your boots feel like they weighed a hundred pounds each. You had looked like a couple of disasters, and there was no point in trying to salvage the mess.

Which meant there was only one solution: the hose.

You both had trekked the rest of the way to the house, mud squelching with every step, straight to where the hose lay coiled by the back door. The second you grabbed it, you turned the nozzle on Johnny, blasting him with a sharp, cold stream of water. He had let out a yelp before bursting into laughter, standing there with his hands on his hips like this was the funniest thing in the world. You had aimed right for his chest, soaking him instantly, the fabric of his shirt clinging to his skin as the mud slid off.

Then he had snatched the nozzle from you, cranking it on full blast.

You barely had time to react before he drenched you. The icy water sent a shiver straight through your spine, soaking you completely. You had shrieked, sputtering as you tried to swat at him, but he kept spraying, grinning like a devil as you both ended up more soaked than you were in the first place. Mud slid off in chunks, the water mixing with the dirt until you were both just a dripping, shivering mess.

Eventually, you had both trudged inside, still dripping all over the hardwood floor, still grinning. The evening had passed in a haze of warmth—hot showers, dry clothes, the comforting scent of the farmhouse wrapping around you like a well-worn quilt. It was one of those moments that stuck with you, one of those memories you’d look back on during the rougher days.

But the world keeps spinning, and the last remnants of August are scattered and blown away with the leaves as September rolls in. September cools the lingering summer heat, but with it comes the rain.

A lot of rain.

The crop fields eventually flood. They barely ever have time to dry despite the tile lines, weeds take root faster than you can pull them, and harvesting is next to impossible. Every step outside is a battle against the sinking earth.

The animals are restless and need even more attention, the barns reek of damp hay, and everything feels like it takes twice the effort. The mud is relentless, coating their coats and clinging to their hooves, and Johnny’s right there with them, hosing them down, cleaning their hooves before hoof rot can take hold. The mud pits are the worst, constantly growing, threatening to swallow everything in their path.

It’s a never-ending cycle that chews through your patience like rust on metal.

Even the simplest tasks feel like a battle. The dampness seeps into your clothes, cold against your skin, making it impossible to feel dry for more than a few minutes. The weight of the work drags on, each chore stretching longer than the last, and there’s no break in sight. It’s exhausting, the kind of tiredness that sticks to your bones and makes you wonder if you should just sleep in and forget about the farm for one day of your damned life.

You used to dread this time of year, but now, there’s Johnny.

Every time frustration threatened to settle in, he was there, breaking the tension with some terrible joke that was so stupid you couldn’t help but laugh, the sound ringing out through the fields, cutting through the dreary days like sunbeams cascading through the cracks in the clouds.

September 8th was the start of it all— the first serious downpour since the Spring. It didn’t bring hurricane levels of devastation, per se, but it definitely gave Johnny a run for his money. After watching him scramble to fill muddy pits in the pastures with gravel, the next day you decided to teach Johnny how to do it with the tractor, for efficiency’s sake. But first, you had to teach him how to actually drive a tractor.

The midday sky was surprisingly clear, blue skies with a couple clouds, the sun shining but hardly doing enough to dry up the ground. The air still carried the fresh scent of wet grass from the previous night’s downpour. You were both already filthy—mud smeared up your jeans, damp hay clinging to your shirts, the sticky kind of sweat settling beneath your collars from the morning’s labor.

It was the kind of day that stretched long, the kind where there was too much to do and not enough hands to do it. The both of you had spent most of the day patching up the farm from whatever damage the rain did.

Johnny had leaned against the rusting side of the machine as you gave him a general rundown of how the tractor worked—its parts, what to use it for, what not to use it for. His baby blues were locked on you, arms crossed with his faded flannel rolled up to his elbows, forearms streaked with dirt. His hair was all grown out, a mess, tousled from the wind with just a few strands curling against his forehead where sweat had dampened them.

After—you realized a slight predicament.

There was, in fact, only one seat.

Which, you obviously knew. You had just… Forgotten. It’s not like you had anyone else to share it with until a month ago, and it wasn’t exactly built for more than one person, and lord knew this old ‘72 hunk of junk wasn’t equipped with any fancy modifications.

Still, you and Johnny stood on either side of it, both perched on the step bars, staring at the problem in front of you.

“So,” Johnny had said, running a hand through his hair. “How’re we doin’ this?”

You had frowned, scanning the interior like the answer was hidden somewhere in the cracked leather or dusty floorboards. “Uh…”

“Ye gonna balance on the fender?”

You snort, “That’s a terrible idea.”

“Alright,” he said easily, grinning as he cocked his head. “Guess tha’ leaves my lap.”

Your eyes had snapped to his, narrowing as heat prickled at your neck. “Yeah, I’m sure you’d enjoy that.”

He chuckled, far too pleased with himself. “No one’s stoppin’ ye from enjoyin’ it too.”

“So, you’re saying you would enjoy it?”

He lifted one shoulder in a lazy shrug, palms slightly upturned as if the answer was obvious, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You had opened your mouth to argue, but before you could even think of another alternative, he had already climbed up, settling into the seat like it was the most natural thing in the world. Then, without missing a beat, he had turned toward you, eyebrows raised expectantly.

You had just stared at him. Incredulously.

He had stared right back, completely unbothered. Then, he slung one arm over the back of the seat, stretching out like he had all the time in the world, and patted his thigh.

“Can wait all day, Hen.”

You had huffed, crossing your arms. “You’re insufferable. Genuinely.”

“Ye love it.”

Fuck him and that stupid little grin.

You had climbed up, settling onto his lap with as much dignity as you could muster, ignoring the way your pulse jumped at the warmth of him beneath you.

You stuttered through a more detailed explanation while ignoring the heat in your cheeks. You told him about the throttle, the gears, how to ease the clutch off when he lets go of the parking gear. You hoped he would gently ease the thing forward instead of throwing it into motion like a lunatic.

You looked back at him occasionally from where you were perched atop his thick thigh and he would nod along, serious, focused, like he was actually going to listen. You should have known better.

The second he stretched his arms around you and on the wheel, gripping it like he was about to tame a wild beast, Johnny just had to be Johnny.

The engine had growled as he threw it into gear, and before you could shout at him to slowly let off the clutch , the tractor lurched forward like it had been shot out of a cannon.

The wheels had spun up mud, slinging it in every direction. You had barely had time to curse before—CRACK, the tractor had slammed dead-on into the fence ahead. The sound of splintering wood had been so loud it echoed, the entire structure shaking as the impact sent a fresh spray of wood pieces flying. The whole thing had happened so fast, leaving nothing but the dull hum of the idling engine and the unmistakable sight of a fence massacre.

Johnny had frozen in the seat, hands still gripping the wheel like it might try to escape. His eyes had been locked on the wreckage, mouth slightly parted in dumbfounded horror. You had been the same way, staring at the fresh hole in the fence, at the broken post dangling pathetically from its base.

Then laughter erupted out of you.

It had punched through the silence, doubling you over, your arms wrapping around your stomach as you absolutely lost it.It had been the kind of laughter that stole your breath, that shook your shoulders and left you gasping, because of course this would happen. Of course.

Johnny had groaned, dragging a hand down his face, mud smeared across his cheek from where he had touched it earlier.

“Fan-tastic,” he muttered.

You had barely gotten the words out through your laughter. “If your goal was destruction, then great job.”

You felt his glare on the back of your head, but there had been no real heat behind it—just pure, exhausted exasperation. He had known, just as well as you did, that this was never something you were ever going to let him forget.

“Oh, ha-ha. Real funny,” he had deadpanned, finally releasing the steering wheel, resting one arm loosely around your waist and the other on his thigh.

“I’m sorry, I swear,” you had wheezed, still bent over, hands on your knees as you tried to pull yourself together. But the second you looked back at the fence, at the carnage he had caused, another burst of laughter had escaped. You had clamped a hand over your mouth, shaking your head. “Okay—okay, I’m done.”

Johnny had squinted at you, clearly not buying it.

“Uh-huh,” he had drawn, “Think tha’ was funny, do ye?”

You had snorted, wiping at your eyes, still breathless. “I mean—yeah, kind of.”

“Yeah? How funny’s this then?”

Before you could react, his hands had shot out, fingers digging into your ribs. You had yelped, instinctively jerking away, but he had been faster. His arms had wrapped around you, keeping you against him as he attacked your sides, relentless, grinning like the menace he was.

“Oh, god—Johnny, please!” you had shrieked, laughter spilling from you in uncontrollable waves as you twisted in his grasp, trying to escape.

“What was that abou’ ‘destruction’? Hmm?” he teased, chuckling as you squirmed, his grip strong enough to keep you trapped but gentle enough not to actually hurt you.

Through your breathless giggles, you had tried to shove at his shoulders, but your strength was useless in the face of your own traitorous laughter. “This— This can’t get worse than the fence!”

“Oh, but can’t it?” His fingers had found a spot just above your waistband, and you had nearly fell off the tractor right then and there.

“Johnny!” you had gasped between fits of laughter, trying desperately to push him off.

Eventually, either out of mercy or just the need to breathe himself, he had finally stopped, still grinning as you staggered back, hands on your knees, panting.

“Oh God—” Your breaths came in gasps, “You’re the worst,” you had huffed, face flushed, chest heaving.

He had just smirked, all smug and self-satisfied. “I know.”

Even though you had wanted to glare at him, to scowl and tell him off, you just… couldn’t.

Instead, you had rolled your eyes, shoving him lightly before turning your attention back to the fence. Another thing to add to the never-ending list of work to be done. The thought should’ve frustrated you, but instead, a quiet warmth settled in your chest—the kind that came from the easy company, the laughter, the way he made even the worst days feel lighter.

Speaking of things piling up, just two days later, you found out Shimmer was pregnant.

At first, you weren’t sure. Maybe she was just putting on weight, despite the diet you had her on. But then you started noticing the little things—how her middle grew rounder, how she moved slower, more deliberate, only bothering to graze when necessary. She’d nuzzle into your shoulder more often, leaning her weight against you in a way that felt almost… maternal. And when she missed her heat cycle, that sealed it.

You had your answer.

Pregnant mares don’t always get special treatment from their stallions, but Scout’s different. He’s a gentle giant, and he’s still sticking by her, lingering behind her. When they graze, he just hovers by, protecting her, ears flicking attentively, like he knows she’s carrying something precious. A bond like that’s a rare thing, but you can’t say you’re surprised.

It just meant more work, more things to keep an eye on. She’d need extra care in the coming months—better feed, closer monitoring, maybe even a vet visit just to be sure. And yet, despite the added responsibility, you couldn’t help but feel a small flicker of excitement. A foal.

Something new. Something good.

Maybe that was what you needed—a reminder that not everything about this time of year had to be miserable. That there were still things worth looking forward to.

Little things had a way of breaking through the routine, slipping into the cracks of everyday life in a way that softened the edges. Like the prospect of a foal. Or Johnny’s absolutely horrible jokes. Or—Dixie.

Johnny had been trying—really trying—to befriend the old girl, but there was hesitation in him, something careful and cautious. He had mentioned once that he wasn’t too fond of dogs. You hadn’t pushed to know why. Instead, on one particularly easy day, you had found yourselves in the sheep barn, sitting cross-legged on the dusty floor. Dixie was curled up in your lap, her graying fur warm against your skin, her breathing slow and steady.

Johnny had watched from a short distance, his arms resting loosely on his knees, his expression unreadable. You had patted the empty space beside you, wordlessly inviting him closer.

Johnny had sat next to you, his gaze soft as he watched Dixie—how her chest had risen and fallen in a peaceful rhythm, her graying muzzle tucked under her paws, the faintest snores escaping her every so often. He hadn’t spoken, hadn’t moved—just watched her for a while, his eyes following every slow rise and fall of her chest, like he was memorizing the simple, quiet moment.

The silence had stretched between you, comfortable, not needing words. There had been something in the way Johnny had focused on the old dog, something unexpectedly tender in his expression. He had reached out, tentatively at first, his fingers hovering just above her fur, unsure if he should touch or leave her undisturbed. Dixie hadn’t stirred, the slow rhythm of her breathing a quiet invitation for him to try.

His fingers had grazed the top of her head, gentle, testing. She hadn’t reacted, just let him. After a moment, he had stroked his hand down her back, a slow, uncertain motion that had turned steady as he realized—she wasn’t a threat. She had leaned into the touch, and Johnny's hand had moved with more confidence, his gaze softening as he continued.

You hadn’t interrupted. You had just watched, silently, as something had shifted in his expression—a flicker of adoration, quiet affection, the kind you had seen in moments that had come and gone without fanfare. And yet, each time, those moments had burrowed deeper under your skin, nestling into places you didn’t quite know how to name.

There had been an undeniable warmth that had settled in your chest, something that didn’t quite belong but had fit all the same.

You never used to care for small things like this—like the way Johnny cares for something as simple as Dixie, the way he tackles you into the mud or makes you laugh until you cry.

Everything he does—everything he is—steadily takes root in you in ways that leave you confused but increasingly and indubiously tethered to him.

And then Pa notices.

Of course he does.

He’s been around long enough to hear the way you and Johnny laugh—really laugh, not just the surface-level chuckles, but the deep, real laughter that comes from inside, the kind that makes you forget about the world for a while. He hears the little jabs, the teasing, the way Johnny’s softened around you, the subtle changes in the way you interact, the way you both speak your own language without realizing it.

Pa sees it all—the way you and Johnny are starting to slip into a rhythm, a shared dynamic that no one else quite understands. He sees the little looks that pass between you two when the other isn’t looking, how your smiles have grown more weighted, less guarded.

He’s not blind, not deaf, and he’s certainly not stupid. It’s in the way you speak to each other, the way your shoulders brush when you’re close, the quiet moments that pass between you and Johnny that tell a story he doesn’t need words to understand.

As dinner wrapped up one evening, the silence stretched just a little too long as you cleaned up. Pa leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing just a little as he watched you and Johnny exchange a look and small, pinched smiles, an inside joke that only the two of you understand.

When Johnny headed upstairs to shower for the night, Pa spoke. His voice was calm. Too calm. Eerily casual, but laced with weight, like a loaded gun aimed under the table, safety off.

“There better not be anything happenin’ between you two.”

Your hands froze in the sink. The words hit all at once, but they sank in slowly, like a thresher cutting through a field, one pass at a time. You turned your back to the sink, swallowing hard against the bile rising in your mouth. Pa’s eyes are already on you, steady, unyielding.

“That boy’s here to work—” he paused, his gaze sharpened, “and that’s that.”

Heat crept up your neck, a slow burn of embarrassment, irritation, something else you couldn’t name if you tried. Half of you wanted to snap—ask him why the hell it would matter anyway. Tell him he should mind his own damn business. But you knew he was right.

Because technically, nothing is happening—but simultaneously, everything is. The glances. The touches, how the tension between you both feels like a wire pulled too tight, on the verge of snapping.

You scoff, shaking your head. “Nothing’s happening.”

Because what the hell else are you supposed to say? That you’re aching for something to happen? That you can always feel Johnny looking at you like he’s fighting a battle with himself—like he’s on the edge of breaking, one heartbeat away from pulling you into him and kissing you senseless, but he won’t. He’s just staring, and you’re both drowning in it. And it’s driving you insane, gnawing at you, every nerve screaming for him to make a move, but he won’t.

Yes, things are happening. But if he never actually does anything, does it even count? If you load the shells and pump the forearm, but don’t plan on pulling the trigger, what’s the fuck’s point of even bringing out the shotgun?

You clenched your jaw, exhaled slowly through your nose, and turned back to the sink, shoving plates into the drying rack with more force than necessary.

Behind you, Pa didn’t say another word. He didn’t have to.

It’s September 14th, a lazy Sunday evening, and the world has slowed to a quiet hum as the sun dips below the horizon. The air is growing crisper by the day, the subtle whispers of fall creeping in, carrying the chill that promises the change of seasons.

And then, the crack of the bat.

Cecil Fielder, the Detroit Tigers' powerhouse, smashes a home run clean out of Milwaukee Stadium. From the kitchen radio, Ernie Harwell’s voice cuts through the hum of the evening, crackling with excitement, his call booming through the house—“That one’s looooong gone!”

You can’t help but smile at the familiar sound, the way Harwell’s voice seems to carry more energy than the whole room. Even Pa stirs in his chair, the game catching his attention for a moment, though his eyes are still fixed on the TV.

You’re standing side by side with Johnny at the sink, cleaning up after dinner. Plates clink, the dish sponge flicks lazily in your hands, and you both nudge each other, sharing some silent joke only the two of you get. His whispers and half-laughs make you giggle like a teenager, the kind of stupid, effortless laughter that catches you by surprise and escapes before you even know it. It’s easy—too easy—like it’s always been this way, like you’ve been doing this for years.

Johnny’s leaning on the counter next to you, drying a plate as he cracks another joke, his voice low enough that Pa can’t hear. Across the room, Pa’s planted in his armchair, eyes locked on the TV, his face stone still as the news anchor drones on about the hurricane coming Thursday. The rain’s been on and off for days, and the weatherman’s only making it sound worse.

The news perks your ears and you put down the sponge. You wander through the kitchen doorway, leaning against the stairwell banister as you watch the screen, arms crossed, brows slightly furrowed as you listen to the predicted wind speeds for Hurricane… Bob? They were just running out of names these days.

Johnny silently follows, pausing just behind you. You feel him before you see him, solid and steady, a quiet heat at your back. He’s gentle, reliable like the weight of a heavy coat in winter. Always lingering, steadily hovering.

Like he’s protecting you. Whether he means to or not.

Today’s just one of those fucking days.

The 18th starts with a crack of thunder rattling the house, jerking you awake from a restless sleep. The sound is too loud, like it’s coming from inside your own room. You pull the blanket tighter around your shoulders, but it doesn’t block the noise, doesn’t drown out the howl of the wind through your windows or the draft that accompanies it. You groan, sinking back into the pillow, praying for a few more minutes of sleep. You glance at the clock—7:03 AM. Shit, you should’ve been up 30 minutes ago.

Oh right—it’s Thursday.

With a grunt, you push the covers off and swing your legs over the side of the bed. Your feet hit the cool floor with a soft thud, your socks slipping slightly as you stand. You push your bedroom door open and make your way across the hall, steps muffled by the runner. The faint sound of running water comes from the bathroom, steady and constant, and you frown.

You hesitate for a moment, then knock lightly on the door, only to hear the water stop, a muffled grunt from inside. He’s not done yet. You wait a few minutes longer, but the sound of the water running again makes your patience snap.

“Johnny,” you say, your voice rough from sleep, “I need to get in there.”

No answer. There’s no time for this bullshit, you were supposed to be up at 6:30. You twist the knob slowly, and when you crack open the door, he’s shirtless, muscles rippling as he hunches over the sink, mouth covered with white toothpaste-foam. You don’t bother with pleasantries, you just fling the door open, stepping into the space and reaching around him to grab your toothbrush.

He lifts his head, blinking at you through the mirror with a lazy, half-awake look. “Cah i no’ ha fi minuhts?”

Between the accent, the toothbrush wedged in his mouth, and your foggy mind, you don’t even try to decipher what he just said. You stare at him for a beat longer than necessary before turning away with your toothbrush in hand, mumbling something under your breath about him always hogging the bathroom. Guess you’ll have to brush your teeth in the kitchen sink. How cleanly.

The moment you step downstairs, the kitchen feels heavy, almost suffocating like it’s been holding its breath all night. You inhale deeply, trying to shake off the tired haze still hanging on to your thoughts.

You set to work on breakfast, but from the start, everything goes wrong. The eggs burn, the bacon curls into crispy charred strips, the toast miraculously gets stuck in the toaster causing it to burn, and when you finally start to scramble the eggs again, they spill over the edge of the pan, landing in a sizzling mess.

You curse under your breath as you glance at the clock. 7:34—already too late. You should’ve been out in the fields by now, getting everything locked down before the storm rolls in. Apparently the Universe has other plans today, but everyone’s gotta eat, right?

You try to salvage what you can from the mess you made, but it’s like everything’s working against you. Nothing cooperates. The more you try to fix it, the worse it gets, and soon, you're moving in circles, rushing, frantic. You can feel the little voice in your head nagging you—telling you you're already behind, that you’re fucking everything up.

Just when you're ready to scream, the sound of footsteps on the stairs interrupts your spiraling. You barely look up, but when you do, you see Johnny—looking like a goddamn daydream. His work jeans fit just right, hugging his thighs and ass in a way that makes your chest tighten. And that shirt—tight, the kind that shows off the muscles you know are hiding underneath. He looks like he just stepped out of a catalog, and it makes your stomach flip in ways you're really not in the mood for.

Meanwhile, you're still in your pajamas, frizzy hair sticking up like you’ve been wrestling a tornado, and in the middle of World War III (smacking the toaster to get it to just spit up the damn bread). You narrow your eyes as he strolls into the kitchen, fresh as a daisy, not a hair out of place.

He glances at you with a grin that’s too soft for how much it’s getting on your nerves. “Mornin’,” he says casually, like he didn’t just hog the bathroom for 45 fucking minutes.

“We, uh... gonna eat breakfast?” he asks casually, as if you’re not struggling to get anything on the table before Pa’s complaints come flying in from the living room via pigeon.

Your nerves tighten as you slam the spatula a little too harshly, the sound of it smacking against the pan filling the otherwise still air. Johnny could tell something was eating at you, but he doesn’t push, doesn’t say anything more. You can feel the weight of his gaze, feel the way it lingers on you. Normally it’d be enough to make you weak in the knees—but today—it’s enough to make you want to slam the pans on the stove and walk away.

“I’m working on it.”

Gloves are off, now, Bob.

Once you finally get something halfway edible on the plates, you sit down at the table, hands tight around your coffee mug, just trying to breathe for a moment. Johnny’s sitting next to you and Pa’s already in his usual chair. He’s half-hidden behind a wrinkled newspaper, but you can feel his eyes flicking up to you and Johnny, that same sharp, assessing gaze you felt your whole childhood. It makes your skin crawl. It’s that look that says he knows more than he’s letting on, but purposefully keeping his trap shut.

You shove a forkful of food into your mouth, chewing with a dull, rhythmic motion, as if each bite might somehow lessen the mounting tension in the air, like you were trying to swallow the storm before it hit the farm.

Pa’s voice breaks through the stillness, “Those animals need to be locked up before the rain hits. Don’t want ‘em out there when it starts comin’ down hard.”

Your throat tightens. The Nobel Committee is waiting for your next profound revelation, Pa. You exhale through your nose, but your frustration continues to rise in a slow, steady burn. Everything about this day is stacking against you, one thing after another.

And to make it worse, there’s Johnny. Just… being Johnny.

He’s sitting there, relaxed as ever, like there’s nothing wrong. He’s just eating, like everything’s normal. Like you’re not both staring down Hurricane Bob as he’s about to nearly ransack the farm. Johnny’s untouchable, the stress glides off his back like water on duck feathers and it fucking grates on you. The calmness he exudes feels like it’s directly mocking the chaos you’re already drowning in.

You and Johnny don’t get to the fields anywhere near as early as you should’ve. The rain’s already started. It’s light at first, just a steady drizzle, but it doesn’t take long before it picks up, turning the soil beneath your boots into mush. The crop field is nearing the point where you can’t even walk through it without your boots sinking with every step, and harvesting is absolutely out of the question. The ground’s too wet, the crops and weeds too soft to even think about pulling.

On Johnny’s end, the animals, already edgy from the rain, get startled by the noise, their nerves running wild. They don’t want to cooperate, moving erratically and making every damn task harder than it needs to be. The usual rhythm of the work feels completely out of sync.

It’s a mess. The kind of mess that makes you wonder if it’s even worth trying today. But you keep going. Because what else is there to do?

By midday, the sky grows heavier, the wind picks up, biting at your skin as it stirs the trees, carrying the unmistakable scent of rain and earth. The pressure builds in every gust, every shift in the atmosphere. It’s only a matter of time until the storm breaks.

You finish up what you can with the crops, but it feels futile. Every movement feels wasted, undone by the breeze and the moisture in the air. You let out a heavy sigh, frustration building all on top of your shitty morning.

With a groan, you turn away from the field. The cool air creeps in through the holes of your clothes, but you press forward, boots squelching in the mud as you walk the path toward the stables. You don’t need to look at the sky to know it’s about to break wide open.

The stable door creaks as you tug it open, the familiar smells of hay and leather greeting you like a small comfort in the growing chaos outside. You make your way down the line of stalls, pulling your jacket tighter against the chill creeping in. You spot Shimmer, her dark eyes following you as you approach her stall.

You run a hand over her sleek coat, the gentle stroke grounding you for a moment. Her soft nicker brings a small smile to your face. You grab her tack, moving through the motions without thinking, attaching the bridle and girth with a practiced ease. It’s familiar—her, the routine, the comforting weight of the leather in your hands.

When you take the lead and step to walk her out of the stall, you freeze.

Scout’s stall is directly across from Shimmer’s, usually home to the large, chestnut stallion. But now—there’s no Scout. The stall is empty, the gate shut, the hay undisturbed.

For a moment, you just stand there, staring at the empty stall, the air thick with the growing tension of the storm outside. Your mind races for an explanation. Johnny must have taken Scout out already, right? He wouldn’t leave the horse unattended, especially not with the weather about to turn. You glance outside toward the livestock pastures, but the view’s obstructed by some hills.

A knot tightens in your stomach, but you shake it off, telling yourself he’s probably already on it, handling the animals, preparing them for what’s to come. Still, the unease gnaws at you, but you push it down, forcing your focus onto Shimmer.

You settle the saddle on her back and then move to the stirrups, lifting yourself onto her back with ease.

The wind outside howls, rattling the stable doors. The storm is nearing its worst, and if you don’t get a move on, the animals are screwed. You glance down at Shimmer, her steady, calm presence offering a small comfort amidst the shitshow that’s been your day so far.

You click your tongue to the roof of your mouth, urging her forward, but as you move toward the stable door you can’t shake the nagging feeling that something’s still off, but there’s no time to dwell on it now. Johnny’s out there, already dealing with the rest of the animals, and you figure you might as well give him a hand.

You ride over to the livestock pastures, gripping the reins as the wind picks up, circling around you like a pack of wolves, pulling at your jacket and tugging at your hair loose from where it’s tied up. The storm is worsening, the skies darkening overhead. The last thing you need is for the livestock to be caught out in it, panicking and running wild.

You approach the pastures, you tug on the reins, leaning back in the saddle to halt Shimmer’s forward momentum. You scan the fields, squinting through the rain, and your heart skips a beat when you realize—Johnny’s nowhere to be seen.

Instead, you’re met with chaos. Half the cows are scattered across their respective fields, their bodies jerking with erratic movements, as if the very air itself has made them nervous, spooked. Their eyes are wide, and their bodies huff short, panicked breaths as the storm bears down on them.

Your heart drops to your ass as the panic rises in your chest. You swallow hard, trying to force the anxiety down, but the knot only tightens. You can feel it in the pit of your stomach, that sickening sense of urgency. If you don’t get these animals into the barn soon, They're already testing the fences, straining against them, and you know it’s only a matter of time before they break through and bolt. That’s the last thing you need.

You urge Shimmer forward, kicking her into a trot as you take her into the pastures, trying to herd at least the cows in the right direction and toward the barn. But they’re not cooperating. Their anxiety is spreading like wildfire, and it’s only getting harder to keep them together. Your heart pounds in your chest as you try to make sense of it all.

The rain begins to fall in a steady trickle, but you know it’s only the beginning.

Where the fuck is Johnny?

After about 45 grueling minutes, you and Shimmer manage to get the cows into their barn. You see Johnny’s already fed them and cleaned their water troughs, but why were they all just out? Once you know for a fact all the cows are secure, you lock up the barn and kick Shimmer into a gallop, riding toward the rest of the pastures with your heart beating a mile a minute. Thunder crackles overhead and lightning strikes across the sky like a claw. The storm’s not waiting for you, and neither are the animals. Each raindrop that hits your face feels like a reminder of how much time is slipping away.

Your gaze darts from barn to barn, every corner, every shelter—hell, even the wells where you know Johnny sometimes checks for strays—your mind a tangled mess of questions, frustration, and fear.

You can’t help but think something’s happened to him. Something must’ve, right? Your stomach tightens with each passing second, every minute that ticks by.

You call for him, your voice lost in the howling wind. You can barely hear yourself over the storm, but you shout anyway, hoping, praying that he'll answer, that he'll show up and make everything make sense again.

But the rain is coming down harder now, turning the earth beneath Shimmer's hooves into a slippery mess, and the more you search, the more it feels like you’re chasing shadows. The storm is swallowing the land, the mist of it clouding your thoughts, and everything is slipping through your fingers like water. The harder you try to hold on, the more it seems to break apart.

"Johnny!" you shout again, but the wind swallows the sound before it can even reach the next field. Your heart beats harder, faster—every second feeling like a threat as you urge Shimmer on, desperation creeping into your veins. You can’t afford to lose him.

And then, finally, you spot Scout.

You pull Shimmer to a halt outside the sheep barn, your legs burning from the frantic ride, your chest tight with the effort of trying to keep your head above water. You dismount quickly, tying her next to Scout, who is securely tied up outside. Most of the sheep are already safely inside, and for a brief second, relief floods through you.

But it’s short-lived.

You push open the rattling barn door, the sound of it scraping against the floor unnervingly loud in the tense silence, and you call for him, “Joh-”

The sight of him hits you like a slap in the face.

He’s sitting there, propped up against one of the pillars, Dixie curled up in his lap, her body trembling with anxiety. His fingers stroke the top of her head in slow, calming motions, completely unaware of your presence.

You stare, your heart still thudding in your chest. You don't know what to think. You don’t know what to feel—frustration and worry all swirling together in a tight knot in your stomach. You were pissed, thinking he’d skipped out on you, or worse, that something had happened to him. That maybe he was hurt, and you weren’t there to help him, somehow riding in all the wrong directions like an idiot. You’ve been stressed and anxious, and now here he is, sitting in the dim barn with Dixie, like the skies are blue and the birds are chirping.

You almost want to hate it— to hate him for looking so comfortable when everything about this day has been shit from the second it started. The sight of him, so quietly gentle with Dixie, should be endearing. Hell, if this weren’t happening, you might’ve thought it was sweet.

But just like that, the moment of softness is swallowed up by a loud crash of thunder. A harsh crack that shakes the barn, pulling you back to reality, and the air thickens with the weight of the impending chaos outside. You grit your teeth and march over to him, your boots thudding against the wet floor. Each step feels like it echoes in the chaos of the storm.

You glare at him sitting there, his hands gently petting Dixie, so unbothered, so utterly calm .

“You—” your voice cracks, thick with anger, “you couldn’t be bothered to get the fuckin’ cows in, could you? Left me to deal with all that shit by myself. They were about to break through the fucking fence—”

“Love, listen—” He starts, but you don’t let him speak. You’re already too fired up, the frustration spilling out, impossible to stop.

“No! You don’t get to say anything right now! You’re supposed to be helping! We were supposed to be trying to get everything locked down as soon as possible, and you—” your breath hitches as you cut yourself off, “you were just—just here! Doing—” you wave your hands around in the air, gesturing to the barn, “nothing!”

The rain pelts against the tin roof, but it's still not enough to drown out your voice.

“I’ve had a shit day, Johnny! A shit day. First breakfast—then I had to rush through everything—did you know my shirt’s on backwards?—couldn’t catch a damn break, the fucking crops all mushy, and then—then this shit!” You pant, trying to catch your breath between the ranting and the way your heart is still palpitating.

“I’ve been riding around, looking for you, calling for you, freaking out... I thought something happened to you! I thought—God, I thought you were hurt, or worse—” Your voice breaks and you just turn away from him.

His face flickers with something. Guilt? Confusion? You aren’t sure, but the way his eyebrows are furrowed and his jaw is slack tells you it’s both.

You take a deep breath, rubbing your temples for a moment, trying to clear your head, but it’s no use. You exhale slowly, the weight of everything is too much, and you finally stop.

You face him, but you don’t meet his eyes. “Just lock up the barn,” you say tersely. “Dixie will be fine.”

Without waiting for him to respond, you turn on your heel and storm back outside, shoving the barn door open. You climb back onto Shimmer without a word, the tension between your shoulders still tight, your anger still seething beneath the surface. You urge her into a trot, the barn shrinking behind you as you make your way back to the stables

The rain feels like a waterfall now, soaking through your jacket in an instant, and it’s hard to see past the sheets of water pouring down. The wind has picked up, slapping each raindrop against your skin with a force that’s starting to sting, making the trees around you bend with it, their branches groaning under the pressure. Your boots slide in the stirrups as you urge her forward. The rain’s deafening, drowning everything but the sound of your own pulse in your ears.

You hear frantic whinnies, high-pitched and panicked in the distance, echoing from the stables. Your stomach drops. If I had just finished breakfast sooner, if I hadn’t wasted time, none of this would be happening. The thought eats at you. You grit your teeth as you push forward.

You can just barely hear Scout as Johnny follows you, his figure a blur in the rain as he rides behind you. He’s trying to catch up, but that doesn’t matter right now. You’ve got to get to the horses.

You hold the reins tighter, kicking her into a gallop, desperation mixing with anger. The wind’s so fierce it nearly knocks you sideways. The air feels thick with it, heavy and suffocating, making every breath harder to catch as you push Shimmer faster, your heart hammering, just as frantic as the animals inside.

When you finally reach the stables, Shimmer’s front is caked with mud, but you make it inside with a breath of relief. You dismount, heart still racing from the ride, and immediately lead Shimmer to her stall. She’s jittery, her sides heaving from the sprint, but she’s calm enough now that you can quickly unbuckle her tack and guide her into the hay. You slip the halter off, and she nuzzles your arm, her warm breath a small comfort.

Once she’s settled, you hurry to the other stalls trying to calm the other horses. The barn’s echoing with frantic hooves and anxious whinnies, the air thick with their panic. You work your way down the row, talking softly to each one, doing your best to calm them with gentle strokes and soft whispers, though your own nerves are barely holding it together.

You hear the heavy thud of boots on the floor just as the last horse settles down—no thanks to him. You turn to see Johnny slide in through the door, Scout at his side. His clothes are drenched, hair sticking to his forehead. He leads Scout to an empty stall, whispering softly to him as he removes his tack.

Once all the horses are okay, you find yourself standing near Shimmer, absently running your hand along her coat, trying to calm your racing thoughts, Your back is to Johnny.. He’s on the other side of the barn, taking some pieces of hay out of Scout’s hair. His back is to you.

A bright flash of lightning, then thunder booms across the sky like a gunshot. The weight of it all crashes down like a ton of bricks, the pressure in your chest suddenly unbearable. It’s not just the rain, not just the howling wind—it’s just fucking everything.

Johnny and all the weeks of what-ifs and wondering what you two are, and the hours—the fucking hours—you spent racing against time today, trying to keep everything together, Pa’s words from the other night echoing in your mind like a warning. The ever-present ache in your muscles from the long hours in the fields, the weight of your sopping wet jacket.

Everything about this day has been a fight—against the rain, against the animals, against your own fucking emotions. It feels like you’ve been battling the whole world since you shucked off your blankets this morning, and now the weight of everything else comes crashing down with it,

You’re fucking done.

You push off the stall with a violent jerk, your fists clenched tight at your sides. Without thinking, you storm off, every stride taking you further from whatever the hell this is, whatever the hell he’s making you feel.

The adrenaline still pumps through your veins, a sharp edge that slices through the fog of your thoughts, and the anger, the rage—it explodes with each furious step, each squelch of mud beneath your foot. You can feel it all spilling out of you—every ounce of pent-up frustration, every silent scream, every moment you’ve tried so hard to hold it all together, and every goddamn moment he’s reeled you in so close you could feel the heat of his skin.

You’re sick of the rain. Sick of the way it makes everything feel like it’s flooding, drowning you in everything you can’t control. Sick of him. Sick of waiting for something to happen when all you ever get are vacillating gestures of affection and unsung words.

And most of all, you’re sick of yearning for something you shouldn’t, something that can’t happen no matter how much you crave it.

You don’t look back as you storm out. You can’t. Not when everything feels like it’s slipping through your fingers like water, drowning you in all the things you’ll never have.

The rain pelts you as you move through it, but it doesn't stop you. You head toward the old barn by the crop fields, the one long abandoned and filled with dry hay, broken machinery, and bags of bad fertilizer. It’s empty. Quiet. And that’s exactly what you need.

Johnny’s so lost in his own thoughts, in the quiet rhythm of his movements with Scout, that he doesn’t notice you leave at first. His hands are steady, methodical, as he dries the horse’s muzzle, brushing away the dampness with the cloth. The soft strokes against the horse’s coat are the only sounds in the barn, other than the wind and the distant thunder.

For a moment, it feels like time has stopped, just him and Scout as he replays your words in his mind. But then, as if pulled out of a trance, Johnny glances up, his brow furrowing with guilt when the silence lingers a little too long.

He clears his throat, the words hanging between them before he speaks, breaking the tension, “Can we talk, Hen?” His voice is low, careful—a gentle prod into the quiet.

His gaze flicks over to you, but you’re long gone.

It takes a moment for it to click. When he turns around, that’s when he sees it—the stable door is swinging wide in the wind, the hinges creaking, but it’s the wet trail of your footprints on the floor that really catches his attention.

His stomach drops. Without another thought, he’s after you before he even knows what he’s doing.

Of course, he’s right there, trailing behind you. Because Johnny can never let things be easy, and he won’t let you push him away even when you need him most.

You hear his footsteps behind you in the distance as he calls your name, the soft squelch of his boots in the mud, but you don’t stop. You don’t turn around. You just keep walking, your legs moving on their own as you trudge through the hurricane .

The fury in your chest surges with every step you take, mixing with the rain that’s pouring down harder, as if the heavens themselves are pissed off too. It feels like everything is pushing you forward, pushing you away from him, away from all of it. Away from the guilt, the confusion, the frustration, the ache of wanting something that just isn’t happening.

But Johnny doesn’t stop. His heavy footsteps continue, relentless, just like him. You can feel him getting closer, like he’s not going to let you fall apart alone. And it only makes you angrier, because goddamn it, why can’t he just let you have this? Let you be angry without trying to fix it? Let the rain wash it away like you need it to?

The storm roars, drowning out most of what Johnny’s trying to say, but you hear your name through the flashes of lightning and the deafening booms of thunder. His voice is laced with agonizing concern, and it only makes the frustration claw at you harder. You keep your head down, not slowing your pace, not giving him the satisfaction of a response. You just need to escape, to have some silence—some space to breathe.

His voice keeps calling, cutting through the storm. You can feel his presence nearing, until his hand wraps around your forearm. The sudden pressure shocks you, making you spin around, hair plastered to your face, eyes wide, breath coming out in quick bursts from the cold and the adrenaline.

"Leave me the fuck alone," you snap, but he doesn’t let go. His grip is firm, but not forceful—steady, like he’s not letting you walk away from this.

His face is right there, close enough that you can see the tension laced in his jaw, the distress etched deep in his eyes. He doesn’t speak at first, just stares at you, lips parted like he’s about to say something. His chest rises and falls with his breath, like he’s trying to steady himself, trying to figure out how to fix this.

"I-I’m sorry," he stutters, his voice soft, but still thick with urgency. "I didn’t mean tae leave ye hanging like that earlier. But damn it, just tell me what’s happenin’. Please."

You stare him down, your heart still racing, pulse in your ears. You’re shaking—not from the cold, not from the rain—but from the tension that’s built up between you two. It’s like everything’s been pulling tighter and tighter, and now it’s ready to snap.

“It’s nothing,” you shout over the barrage of rain. You know it’s a lie the second it leaves your mouth. You can’t even convince yourself, and you doubt you convinced him.

He gives you a look, and for a split second, his frustration mirrors yours. “Bullshit,” he yells insistently. “I know ye better than that. Ye wouldn’t be out ‘ere in this weather, shuttin’ me out like this unless something’s up. So stop actin’ like it’s nothin’.”

You stare at him, chest heaving. Your fingers flex into fists at your sides, but they’re trembling. “What do you want me to say, Johnny? That I’m pissed? That I’m beyond frustrated?”

He steps toward you, ignoring the way the rain is soaking him through. His eyes are searching yours, his face inches from yours, and the intensity in them just makes everything worse.

“I want ye tae tell me what’s goin’ on! This isn’t you,” he says, his words sharp but laced with concern. “The you I know wouldn’t react like this. Talk tae me, Hen.”

For a second, you freeze, your heart pounding in your ears. The storm seems to roar even louder, as though it’s trying to drown out everything, but all you can hear is your own pulse in your head. You don’t know how to say it—don’t know how to say what’s been building inside you for weeks.

It feels like you've been holding your breath too long, choking on something sharp and acrid, unfit for human lungs. The longer it sits in your chest, the more it festers, burning like acid searing down your throat.

Hold it in any longer, and you might come undone, as if the rain pouring around you could melt you down and wash you away with the rest of the puddles on the earth.

“I'm tired of waiting, Johnny,” you say, your voice unsteady but resolute. “Tired of holding my breath for something that’s never gonna happen.”

Johnny’s expression shifts, confusion washing over him like a wave.

“What the hell are ye talkin’ abou’?” He steps even closer, his brows furrowed, his voice low but filled with something close to desperation. “What’s never gonna happen?”

You let out a breath, angry and sad all at once, “This!” you shout, throwing your hands up, motioning to both of you, the rain, the storm, everything. “Us! All of it! I’m tired of waiting for... I don’t know, for things to change, for it to finally make sense! You... you act like you want this but then never make a move. And— And I’m sick of trying to figure out what you want when you won’t even fuckin’ say it.”

The words hang in the air between you, and for a second, you regret them. You wish you could take them back, shove them back down your throat and stitch up your lips, but it’s too late now. The truth is out, and you only hope it doesn’t ruin everything.

Johnny looks like someone just hit him with two shots to the liver. His face softens—guilt, regret, maybe even hurt flash across his features—but it’s quickly replaced with something else. His lips part, but he doesn’t speak right away. He’s too busy processing everything you just threw at him.

After a second, he steps forward, his hair plastered to his forehead, wet with rain and falling into his eyes, his shirt sticking to his muscles in ways that you can’t help but notice. He lifts a hand, shaky but determined as he gently cups your cheek. His touch is like a bonfire against your frozen skin, grounding you despite the roar of the hurricane around you.

“Don’t say that,” he mutters, his voice gravelly, the storm pushing his words into your chest like a physical force. His gaze locks onto yours, a fire behind it that refuses to be put out.

“I’m no’ tryin' to make ye wait. I just... I don’t know how to say it without messing it all up. I never did.” His lips twist, and you can tell he's trying to keep it together, like everything inside him wants to explode but he’s holding it in just to communicate to you.

The rain hits like bullets against his face, but his eyes stay fixed on yours. It’s hard to breathe with him so close, with the weight of everything heavy in the air between you two. He’s holding something back, and you can see it—he’s trying not to let it slip.

You want to say something, but the words feel lost in your throat, swallowed by the storm. He steps forward, closing the space between you until there’s nothing but rain and your ragged breaths separating you.

“God,” he sighs your name, “ye think I don’t see how ye look at me? I’m no’ fuckin’ blind.”

His hands are warm when they find your shoulders, gripping like he’s afraid you might slip away, like you might get washed away in the flood. “Ye’re scared ‘cause I’ve never made this real—’cause I’ve never said it. I’ve been scared too. Scared to let ye see how much I need you—”

One hand slides from your shoulders to cup both your cheek once more, the roughness of his fingertips tender against your damp skin as the other snakes around your waist.

“Love, I’m no’ asking ye tae wait around for me,” he says, voice breaking just enough that it shakes you. “I’m asking you to stop wondering if you matter to me, because you do. I’m just... tryin’ tae figure out how tae make it real for the both o’ us.”

His thumb brushes your cheek, and your breath hitches. For a moment, there is no storm, no farm, no Pa, just his hand on your face and the weight of his words hanging between you. You don’t even realize you’re crying until you feel the hot tears mix with the rain as they slip down your face.

His thumb brushes over your cheek again, this time slower, lingering, as if committing the curve of your face to memory. He looks at you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted, the only thing that has ever mattered.

You let out a sharp breath, something between a laugh and a sob, your chest heaving with the weight of everything that’s led to this moment. The frustration, the waiting, the wondering. The days and hours spent circling each other like the Earth and the Moon—locked in orbit, never quite colliding. Until now.

He tilts his head, breath warm against your lips. His fingers tighten at your waist, and the space between you disappears. His lips meet yours, soft and searching, hesitant like he’s afraid he might break you if he's not careful. But you don’t want careful. You don’t need careful. You need real.

You need him.

You want him.

So you kiss him back, pushing up against him, pressing into every solid inch of him, hands fisting the sodden fabric of his shirt like you’re afraid he’ll vanish if you let go.

And that’s all it takes for his restraint to snap.

He groans against your mouth, the sound low and desperate, and then suddenly, it’s no longer a kiss—it’s a claiming, a long-overdue confession written in the way his hands pull you closer, in the way his lips part against yours, deepening, consuming, drinking you in like you’re something he’s been dying for. His hands slide up, one cradling the back of your head, the other gripping your waist so tight you think you might just melt into him.

The storm rages on, but it’s nothing compared to what’s building between you. The air crackles, electric, charged with the heat of something unstoppable. Your fingers tangle in his wet hair, pressing him impossibly closer, and he shudders against you, a quiet, needy sound slipping past his lips that has your heart threatening to beat out of your chest.

You can taste the rain on his lips, feel the fevered heat of him searing into your skin, even through the cold. And it’s intoxicating. Maddening. Because this—this is everything you’ve been waiting for.

When you finally break apart, it’s not because you want to. It’s because you have to breathe. Foreheads pressed together, breath mingling, his nose nudges yours in the softest, most aching touch. His hand cradles your face so gently, the other hand still splayed across your back like he can’t bring himself to let go.

The world goes quiet. The thunder rumbles overhead, but it sounds distant now, like it belongs to another world entirely.

“You’re it,” he says, voice hoarse, the rain still beating down.

“Fuck, you’ve been it since the second you opened your door.”

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