#with extra bug juice

[liqu3d]

Funny thing I draw for a conversation I have with my moot on twitter

[krikidilly]

Even borrowers need transport!!

[jakesimfromstatefarm]

fine line ── l. hs

↳ summary ── heesung's got two problems: (1) he can't sleep, and (2) he's addicted to the 1AM combo of instant ramyeon and coffee milk from his favorite convenience store around the corner. the only thing more consistent than his insomnia? his nightly visits for his beloved snacks (and maybe to glare at the new night shift employee, too). & pstt, spoiler alert: you're the said new night shift employee. and you don't know what's worse: his weird food choices or his apparent superiority complex. either way, if you have to watch him inhale another bowl like it's his last meal ever, you might lose it. but hey, you know what they say��there’s a fine line between love and hate...

↳ pairing ── heeseung x f!reader

↳ genre ── idol!heeseung, e2l!au, strangers to lovers!au, convenience store worker!reader || angst hehe, crack, eventual fluff

↳ ✎ᝰ 15.4k (gasp, she kept it under 20k????)

↳ contains ── so much bickering and banter, reader is kinda sassy and a lil crazy, heeseung is a lil weirdo at first, CRACK (this entire fic revolves around EXTRA HELL FIRE RAMEN PLS), angst, both heeseung & reader can't communicate their feelings & are stubborn as hell, tension tension tension! , deep conversations about life choices lol, cursing

↳ addie's ✉ .ᐟ ── IM ALIVE (barely) ! i survived a global expedition (one 12 hr flight) just to come back and face an apocalypse (i got a bug infection and a cold) but dragged myself out of my deathbed (my comfy bed) to finish editing this because i told yall i would and bc i felt bad ghosting everyone for a week LOL apologies (if anyone cares,,,pls tell me u do or i'll cry rn) anyways i hope yall enjoy this one,,,this one was fun to write, it felt very sitcom-y and was lowkey based off of backstreet rookie vibes (only bc it's set in a convenience store). i hope you all enjoy & pls let me know what you think :') thank u for the support & love always <3

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・

It’s simple, really. 

Customer service voice on, a smile plastered on your face, greet the customer, scan the item, take their money, bag said item, throw in a half-hearted ‘Have a good night!’

And repeat. 

Well, most of the time. 

Occasionally, there’s the fun of kicking out a few drunk teenagers looking for a bathroom that you definitely don’t have (yes you do). But otherwise, this graveyard shift at your local corner convenience store? 

Total dream job. 

You get paid—as in actual, legit money—to sit behind a counter, scan snacks, and feast on your personal holy trinity of microwavable cheesy ramen, peach juice, and potato chips. What could possibly go wrong? 

At least, that’s how the manager sold it during your interview. And by interview, you mean the three-minute conversation that went something like: 

“Can you work nights?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Cool, you’re hired.” 

No background check, no follow-up questions, not even a glance at your resume. A broke college student with insomnia and schedule flexibility? You were the perfect candidate. 

And it’s not like you’re picky. You needed cash, and this seemed like a pretty solid deal. What can you say? College is expensive, and someone’s gotta fund your caffeine addiction and deeply specific (and yet completely necessary, you would argue) habit of playing at every single claw machine game you stumble across. 

So yeah. Easy work.

At least, that's what you thought.

Because on the night of your first shift, exactly at 1:09AM, the doorbell gives its friendly little ding, and in walks...something.

Someone?

Whatever it is, it's a walking shadow. Oversized hoodie. Baggy pants. A baseball cap shoved under the hood. A black face mask covering whatever’s left of his identity. You think it’s either a ninja, a celebrity in disguise, or—more likely—a vampire who hasn’t seen sunlight since the Joseon era (you’re leaning more towards vampire).

But more than the wild theories running around in your head, something else piques your curiosity.

Because unlike the other weirdos that usually shuffle in at these ungodly hours, this one moves with true purpose. He beelines straight to the ramen aisle, snags something off the top shelf (most likely the ultra-spicy soup one because, of course, you already have the shelves memorized), and then grabs a bottle of coffee milk from the cold drinks section without even so much as glancing at it.

No hesitation. No second-guessing. Like he’s done this a thousand times before and is now on autopilot mode.

You watch, intrigued. And then—horrified.

Because who in the right mind pairs volcanic spicy ramen with coffee milk? Is that even legal?

You’re barely recovering from your own appalled thoughts before he’s already at the counter, placing his borderline apocalyptic snack combination on the counter in front of you with the same eerie precision he has.

You fail to keep your poker face on when you scan his items, your face scrunching up in disgust.

“Uh,” you shake it off, forcing yourself back to reality, “That’ll be—”

But before you can even finish your sentence, he’s already fishing out the exact amount—three crisp bills—out his back pocket and holds it out for you.

There’s a beat of silence.

You stare down at the money in his hand for a second too long, suddenly convinced this guy practices his convenience store interactions in the mirror or something.

When you don’t show any further signs of moving, he eventually gives up, placing the money on the counter with a quiet sigh, grabbing his ramen and coffee milk, and striding off to the self-service corner like he personally owns the place.

All of this. Without. A single. Thank you.

Wow. Okay. So tonight’s customer is potentially a vampire with a side gig as a professional jerk. Good to know.

You internally scoff at the entire interaction, but—unfortunately for you—you can’t look away. Because this guy? This walking shadow?

You’re weirdly intrigued. Like when you accidentally click on a pimple-popping video and immediately regret it, but still end up watching five more.

It’s a curse.

Out of the corner of your eye (because obviously you’re not staring, you’re just…hyper-aware of your surroundings), you watch him execute his ramen-and-coffee-milk routine with the precision of a man possessed.

Step one: Hot water in the ramen cup.

Step two: Ramen into the microwave.

Step three: Wait for exactly one beep before yanking the microwave door open with alarming speed, as if he's scared to even give the second beep the chance to ring.

Step four: Peel the lid back in slowly—so painfully slow you're about to march over there and do it yourself.

Step five: Insert the straw into the coffee milk—of course, perfectly right in the center. Bullseye.

Honestly? It's all kind of impressive. Horrifying, but impressive.

And, of course, just when you think you might finally look away, because out of sight, out of mind—he slides onto one of the bar stools by the window, right in your direct line of vision. The perfect spot for you to get a pristine view of his back, which, spoiler alert, is completely unhelpful in your personal mission in trying to see even a glimpse of what this guy looks like.

Maybe if you squint hard enough, you can make out his face in the reflection of the store window. Maybe. Just maybe—

Nope.

All you catch is a brief glimpse of his eyes—barely visible beneath his excessive hoodie and hat combination. Even his mask stays glued to his face and you wonder how he even plans on eating his outrageous meal.

But even so, you still can’t look away. What even is that color? And why can’t you look away?

Whatever. It’s just eyes. Totally normal. Everyone has them. Not noteworthy at all.

Except it is.

Because you catch yourself still squinting, hoping the glare of the fluorescent lighting against the window hides your not so subtle mission from him. You’re probably risking retinal damage at this point with how hard you’re trying to decode this guy’s entire identity from literally just his eyes.

You catch another short glimpse of his eyes as he shuffles in his seat and just as you’re trying to piece together why his eyes look oddly familiar—

He looks up.

His eyes catch yours in the glaring reflection of the store's windows, and you freeze.

Abort mission. Now.

You cough—loudly, dramatically—and your eyes immediately dart elsewhere, your hands shuffling on the discounted candy bars displayed on the counter top, pretending to look busy and silently praying he didn't catch you looking for too long.

When enough time passes by, you risk another quick glance back at him, to see he’s now digging into his ramen, head tucked so low you can’t even see his eyes anymore. He’s gone full turtle mode.

You lift a brow.

Weirdo.

A weirdo with an ego. Slurping and sipping away at his crime-against-humanity meal as if he owns the building.

Maybe he's mute. Or a people-hater. Or a cryptid who thrives on ramen and coffee milk instead of human interaction. Maybe I'm being pranked?

You shrug it off, because no matter how hard you try to figure him out, one thing is glaringly obvious: he does not want to be bothered.

And you're not sure if that makes him more intriguing or more annoying.

You’re in the clear. At least, you think you’re in the clear. 

After your first weird encounter with Mr. No-Name-No-Face—spicy ramen enthusiast and potential vampire—you’ve begrudgingly adjusted to his nightly visits. 

He shows up at 1:09AM like clockwork, grabs his neon red Extra Spicy Hellfire Ramen (yes, that’s the real brand name, and yes, your soul dies a little every time you even have to think about it), and parks himself in the window seat across from your counter like it’s a Michelin-star ramen bar—and not your humble convenience store with a health inspection rating of B+ (don’t ask). 

By night three, you’ve downgraded him from potential murderer to mildly annoying ramen connoisseur. 

By night four, you’ve decided he’s your own personal karma sent by the universe. 

It starts off with the door chime. You don’t even flinch. 1:09AM. Right on schedule. 

You don’t look up from the colorful juice pouches you’re restocking. You’re halfway through creating a perfectly symmetrical pyramid display—color-coded, of course—because, clearly, you’ve peaked as a human being. 

Behind you, footsteps head straight to the ramen aisle. And sure enough, you peek over your shoulder, and there he is: drowning in black hoodie layers, hood up, mask on, the patron saint of please don’t perceive me. Same old routine, same old—

Wait. 

He freezes, mid-reach for his usual ramen on the top shelf, his hand hovering in the air. And then, horrifyingly, he turns. 

And looks directly at you. 

Your face heats up—probably not as red as the hellfire ramen he was about to grab, but it’s close, you imagine. You find yourself clutching onto the random juice pouch in your hand as if it’s your lifeline before you clear your throat, “Uh—is something wrong?” 

He glances from you and back to the shelf in front of him, and for the first time in…ever, he speaks. 

Gasp. 

So we can cross mute off the list. 

“They’re out of my flavor,” he says. His voice is deep, which isn’t surprising to you, given he’s the literal human embodiment of the color black, but it’s also serious. So unnecessarily serious that you almost laugh. 

Almost. 

Because his tone isn’t just serious—it’s accusatory. As if you personally raided the ramen aisle and hid his favorite flavor for entertainment. 

Excuse me? 

Your mouth opens then closes, flopping like a fish that now deeply regrets every life choice. The fire rising in your chest is about two seconds away from erupting into a full-blown lecture on how supply chains work, but you keep it in, deciding getting fired on the fourth day probably doesn’t look good on your resume. 

Instead, you plaster on a flat, unimpressed look. 

“Uh..yeah, it looks like it,” you deadpan, inching closer to where he’s standing to investigate the shelf. 

Leaning up on your toes, you scan the shelf for any hidden Hellfire cups, hoping some miracle will save you from continuing this interaction. 

Nope. It’s empty alright. Emptier than your will to entertain his dramatics. 

“Tragic,” you glance back at him, strategically avoiding eye contact, and settle on offering a shrug. “There are plenty of other flavors. Maybe try…the regular spicy?” 

You grab the flavor below his usual one and hold it up as an olive branch, but he cuts you off with a tone that even convinces you that you’re deranged. 

“No.” 

You blink. 

“No?” 

“It has to be Extra Spicy Hellfire.” 

You blink again. 

You wait for the punchline.

It never comes. 

This man is dead serious. 

You’re standing in the middle of a fluorescent-lit ramen aisle, at your minimal wage night-shift job, at 1:12AM on a random Tuesday, and this guy is dead serious. 

And he’s staring at you like this is a life-or-death situation. And judging from the look in his eyes, it’s looking like you’re facing death. 

But then, you really notice his eyes. And for a split second—just a split second—you’re derailed from your rising anger. 

They’re brown. But not just any brown—the kind of brown that makes poets write bad metaphors. Cinnamon swirls. Autumn leaves. Possibly falling in love in a Hallmark Christmas movie. 

But then you blink again, hard, snapping yourself out of whatever ridiculous moment your sleep-deprived brain just conjured. This is not the time. You’re literally staring at, like, three inches of this guy’s face. 

And he’s a jerk. Get a grip, Y/N. 

“Uh, yeah,” you clear your throat, trying your best to sound professional through your disbelief. “Sorry. We probably put in our shipment request late. But I’m sure you won’t implode by going one night without it?” 

You tack on a small laugh and smile at the end of your sentence, hoping to lighten the mood. 

He does not smile back. 

Not even a flicker. 

Instead, he continues to stare at you like you just suggested he eat plain, untoasted bread for the rest of his life. 

You want to bury yourself into a hole. Maybe getting fired on the fourth day won’t be so bad afterall. 

“I’m sure the regular spicy one is just as good. What’s the worst that could happen?” you offer weakly when he makes no sign of saying anything, and you really hope this guy doesn’t explode in front of you—mainly because you’re not confident in your own ability to explain that situation to your manager. 

“I’m not risking it,” he finally deadpans. 

Your jaw drops slightly. 

“You’re not ris—” you hesitate, debating whether you want to ruin your night further. But you’ve come this far. “You’re being…serious?” 

The question lined with your clear judgement hangs in the air between you two, and no amount of fake customer service can mask the expression of disapproval on your face. 

His eyes narrow at you as he scoffs, “You wouldn’t understand.” 

“Oh, I understand,” you tilt your head, your annoyance slowly reaching a boiling point, throwing all professionalism out the window. All you wanted was to enjoy your juice-sorting in peace, not babysit this walking ramen manifesto. “I understand that you’re just picky.” 

At that, his eyes flash—sharp, unreadable. “I’m not picky.” 

“You won’t eat a perfectly fine ramen just because it’s not named after the ninth circle of hell.” 

Silence. 

He stares at you with the intensity of someone about to write a strongly worded online review. 

Finally, with an exaggerated sigh, he finally mutters, “Fine. I’ll take the mild one.” 

You blink at the flavor in your hand—the one that’s clearly labeled in giant, blazing-red, font: Regular Spicy. Then you look back at him. 

“You mean regular spicy.” 

“Right. Whatever. Same thing.” 

He grabs the ramen cup from your hand and stalks off to grab his usual coffee milk, leaving you stranded in the middle of the ramen aisle, questioning every life choice that brought you here. 

Before you’re about to mentally spiral, his voice cuts through the store. 

“Hello?” 

Oh. Right. Your job. 

You scramble back to behind the register, quickly moving your hands to ring him up and get him out of here as soon as possible. 

He hands you his three crisp bills, and before you hand him his glorified ramen and godforsaken coffee milk, you hesitate, pulling them back slightly. He freezes, his hands hanging in the air between you two. 

“You know,” you narrow your eyes as you look up at him, “some people would say thank you for the recommendation.” 

His brow arches—or at least, you think it does. It’s hard to completely tell under his stupid hat. Then he fires back—

“And some people wouldn’t forget to restock the ramen.” 

Your mouth falls open, your words failing you as he grabs his goods from your hands, heading to the self-serve station to continue his nightly noodle worship as if he didn’t just verbally body-slam you. 

Yeah. It’s going to be a long night. 

Life is unpredictable, uncontrollable, and chaotic. 

Lee Heeseung’s life? Heeseung’s life is that times ten, with an extra sprinkle of what-is-even-happening-anymore? 

Between back-to-back choreo sessions, recording tracks at hours that shouldn’t legally exist, and navigating the emotional and physical minefield of constant shows, interviews, photoshoots—you name it—nothing about his life is consistent. 

However—

There are two things—two sacred constants—that keep Heeseung from spiraling into total madness. 

The first? 

Insomnia. 

Not by choice, of course. He doesn’t love being awake at 3AM, staring at his ceiling and waiting for sleep to take over. But it’s a loyal companion, like a stray cat that keeps showing up at your house no matter how hard you try to shoo it away. Heeeseung’s insomnia is always there for him, night after night, ensuring he gets exactly only four hours of sleep—with a side of existential dread. 

And the second? 

Extra Spicy Hellfire ramen and coffee milk. 

Yes, it’s a weird combo. 

No, he doesn’t care. 

This unlikely pairing is Heeseung’s personal slice of heaven he can actually control and choose in a life otherwise ruled by the rest of the world. 

Every night, he drags himself to his favorite corner store, grabs his fiery ramen and sweet, creamy coffee milk, and plants himself in the window seat to enjoy his culinary masterpiece in peace. 

Then—and only then—can Heeseung catch a few hours of sleep, the spice-induced euphoria lulling himself into a temporary state of calm. 

Does he have a problem? Absolutely. 

Is he addicted? Without a doubt. 

Does he care? Not in the slightest. 

Because in a world that demands he change at the drop of a hat, this little routine of his is the one thing that stays consistent. 

Well, except for last night. 

Because last night, someone dared to disrupt the cosmic balance of his existence. Someone failed to restock his precious Extra Spicy Hellfire ramen. 

He had stared at the empty spot on the shelf, the betrayal hitting him like a personal attack. He went home last night only a quarter satisfied from the mild spicy ramen he had settled with. 

And the worst part? 

He couldn’t stop thinking about the someone responsible. 

Now here he is, stepping into the corner store at 1:09AM, ready to make up for last night’s disappointment of an outcome. 

Heeseung steps into the brightly lit store, the familiar ding ringing behind him as he enters right on time. He continues his familiar route to the ramen aisle, but not before shooting a quick glance from below his hat toward the counter. 

Yup, there she is. 

You. 

The new graveyard shift employee. The one who dared to challenge his sacred ramen ritual and stared at him like he was a walking poor life choice. 

You’re here again. This is five nights in a row. Heeseung wonders if you 1) are insane, 2) have no life, or 3) are purely here just to spite him. 

But tonight, he’s prepared. His focus is razor-sharp, his mission clear: Extra Spicy Hellfire and coffee milk. Nothing will get in the way tonight. 

Heeseung looks up, exhaling in relief when he spots the fiery red packaging of the Extra Spicy Hellfire sitting innocently on the shelf. There you are. 

He grabs the cup (with too much excitement that it should honestly embarrass him), cradling it like a long-lost love, before he makes his way to snag his coffee milk. 

Perfect combo. Perfect routine. Perfect night. 

Except—

Except, of course, you’re watching him. Again. 

He doesn’t even need to look up to know it. He can feel your judging eyes burning into the back of his head like you did the other night—like you’re seconds away from filing a report against his own taste buds. 

He doesn’t get it—what’s so strange about ramen and coffee milk? It’s not like he’s dipping the noodles in it. Why you’ve made it your personal mission to antagonize him, he has no idea, but it’s really throwing him off his ramen zen. 

Heeseung sighs to himself as he steps up to the counter, making sure you hear the sheer misery in this voice—because, of course, fate has cursed him with yet another encounter with you.

“So…do you actually enjoy these together, or are you just trying to destroy your stomach lining?” 

He freezes. Great, you’re talking. So much for a perfect night. 

He adjusts his cap to peer at you and that same unimpressed, judgmental look sitting on your face as you lean against the counter behind you. “What’s wrong with my choices?” 

Your eyebrows shoot up, “What's right with them? This combo screams, ‘I have unresolved issues I’m trying to boil away with spicy and sugar.’” 

Okay, ouch. 

Heeseung narrows his eyes, trying to ignore the weird pinch in his chest at how quickly you read him, whether he likes to admit it or not. 

“I like them. That’s all that matters,” his voice drips with a certain sharpness, hoping the edge in his tone is enough to make you back off. 

You, however, seem entirely unfazed.

“Just trying to help,” you shrug as you scan his items, “looking out for your poor taste buds.” 

For a moment, Heeseung considers firing back, but then his gaze catches yours for a millisecond too long as you take his cash and, immediately, he’s wondering—for the hundredth time—if you know. 

Do you recognize him? 

The thought has been gnawing at him since the first time he stepped into this store and saw you sitting there five days ago. Sure, he’s got his identity pretty much concealed under his borderline clinically insane hat-mask-hoodie combo, but still—most people at least give him a double take, a lingering glance. Something. 

But you? Nothing. No flash of recognition. No curiosity. Nothing to indicate you know you’re talking to Lee Heeseung—part idol, part insomniac, 100% ramen enthusiast. 

And for some reason, that both annoys and intrigues him. 

“Thanks for your concern,” Heeseung mumbles dryly, quickly grabbing the ramen cup and cold drink from your hands. 

“No problem,” you chirp just as sarcastically, an annoying smile on your face. “Enjoy your…uh, gourmet meal.”

Heeseung throws you one last glare before shaking his head and stalking off to the self-serve station. He puts the cup down on the counter with a little more force than necessary and pours boiling water over the noodles, glaring into the steam as your voice rings in his head. 

What’s wrong with ramen and coffee milk? He scowls. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. And I definitely don’t have unresolved issues. 

But as he steals a glance back at the check-out counter and catches you sorting bills like nothing happened, a weird unease settles in his chest. 

He looks down at this ramen, then at the coffee milk. 

For the first time ever, he feels…self-conscious. 

And now you’re in his head. 

Great. 

By night six, you don’t know whether to pity the guy or stage an intervention.

The ding of the automatic doors announces his arrival, as usual, at exactly 1:09AM. You know it’s him—Ramen Guy. The guy who you’re convinced single-handedly continues to keep the Extra Spicy Hellfire ramen business float. 

You lean against the counter and subtly watch him make his usual pilgrimage to the ramen aisle, internally scoffing to yourself at the weird moment he picks up his ramen like it’s his newborn child.

He’s so weird. 

You wonder what kind of person he is outside this convenience store. Does he always make such objectively strange choices? Like, does he wear socks with sandals? Does he mix his cereal with orange juice instead of milk? 

Your haunting thoughts are interrupted by the sound of his usual unholy pair of snacks hitting the counter in front of you with a soft thunk. You look down at the items before glancing back up at him with a skeptical look on your face, “You ever think about switching it up?”

Ramen Guy, clearly expecting the snark, doesn’t miss a beat, “You ever think about minding your business?” 

“Not really. Boredom makes me nosy,” you shrug. “And at this point, you’re the only thing keeping me entertained at this hour.” 

He rolls his eyes so dramatically you’re mildly concerned he might sprain something. 

“And I’m starting to think you like judging me a little too much.” 

“Wrong. I like judging everyone equally,” you scan his items, then tilt your head. “But maybe you’re a special case. With issues.” 

To your surprise, he snorts. Like, an actual, out-loud laugh. 

“Says the girl who voluntarily works the night shift.”

Your smirk falters for half a second. He catches it.

Ramen Guy raises an eyebrow, leaning casually against the counter. “What? Too close to home?”

You shift in your spot, “Bold of you to assume I have issues.”

He shrugs, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

You shift the attention back to him. “What about you, then? Why do you keep showing up here, huh?”

At that, something changes. The words in the air, and for the first time, you notice a slight shift in his demeanor—the slight awkwardness in the way he shifts his weight. 

Then, after a brief pause, he meets your gaze and throws the question right back at you.

“Why do you keep working the night shift?”

You freeze, putting his items back down on the counter, caught off guard by the reversal. "Touché. But I asked first."

There's hesitation again for a moment, his fingers tapping the edge of the counter impatiently—nervously?

"I like the peace and quiet,” he finally says, and for the first time tonight, he meets your eyes.

For a split second, you’re startled by the sincerity in his gaze and sudden shift in tone—it’s almost distracting. But you shake yourself out of it just as quickly.

"Nothing about Extra Spicy Hellfire and coffee milk sounds peaceful or quiet," your voice softer now but still teasing.

"Okay, Miss Graveyard Shift," he fires back, leaning a little closer over the counter. "Why are you here every night? Do you have a thing for fluorescent lighting and cleaning up after drunk customers or something?"

You don't miss the faint challenge in his voice as you narrow your eyes at him.

Then, you settle for a shrug and take a breath, answering honestly.

"It's flexible. Pays well enough," you start, before looking back at him, and add, almost as an afterthought, "...and I like the quiet too."

It’s an honest answer, one that seems to hang in the air between you two for a beat too long. His gaze softens ever so slightly, and you swear you see something shift underneath that stupid cap of his, but before you can dwell on it, he straightens up.

He places his three bills on the counter, grabs his items, and pauses.

“So,” he starts, his lighter tone breaking the silence, “do you have a name, or should I just keep calling you Graveyard Shift Girl?”

You raise a brow, amused, as you start putting his bills away, “Do you have a name, or should I just keep calling you Ramen Guy?”

For a split second, you think you see something flicker in his eyes—something smug, something entertained. And you don’t know it, but under his mask, his lips twitch, fighting back a faint smile.

“Touché,” he murmurs, echoing your earlier words before stepping back from the counter, items in hand, but lingers just a moment longer than necessary—like he wants to say something else.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he turns towards the self-serve station, falling back into his regular routine.

And you should do the same.

You try to do the same. But as you go back to your usual tasks—wiping down the counter, restocking shelves, pretending to be productive—you find yourself sneaking glances out of the corner of your eye toward his window seat.

He just sits there, just like he always does, stirring his ramen absentmindedly as he stares out into the empty street. And yet, tonight, something feels…different.

It’s nothing. You tell yourself it’s nothing.

Just curiosity. Natural, given how he keeps showing up every night, breaking up the monotony of your shift with his weird food choices and even weirder personality.

And yet—

No matter how hard you try, you can’t seem to stop thinking about him—the way he looked at you earlier, the way his demeanor shifted even slightly.

It’s nothing.

Still, your gaze flickers back at him, catching the way his fingers tap lightly against the table, lost in thought. You wonder what kind of things keep a guy like him up at night.

And maybe—just maybe—you’re starting to find his weird little habits endearing, too.

The faint sound of the store’s music plays in the background, the clock ticks, and eventually, he finishes his ramen, tosses his trash, and makes his way toward the door.

And then—he hesitates.

Just for a second. A small pause, a barely-there moment where he stops, glances over his shoulder just slightly—just enough to look at you.

“See you tomorrow, Graveyard Shift Girl.”

You blink, caught off guard, and for a moment, all you can manage is to stare at him. Then, as you fail to ignore the weird blooming feeling in your chest, your words slip out almost on instinct:

"Goodnight, Ramen Guy."

The next night, you do something completely out of character, entirely unprovoked, and maybe just a little bit unhinged—you take your cheesy ramen, peace juice pouch, and bag of potato chips and plop yourself down right next to Ramen Guy and his usual window seat. 

He pauses mid-slurp. Keeping his head low, he turns to you slowly. Suspiciously.

“What…are you doing?” 

“Having dinner,” you say matter-of-factly, popping open your bag of chips. 

His gaze drops to your meal, and then back to you. “It’s almost 1:30AM.” 

“Okay? Dinner, early breakfast, midnight snack, call it whatever you want,” you shrug, unbothered as you continue unwrapping your meal. 

Ramen Guy exhales through his nose, shaking his head to himself like he’s just accepted his fate. Without another word, he turns back to his own meal and resumes eating. 

A surprisingly comfortable silence follows—the only sounds filling the empty store the quiet hum of the store’s playlist, the buzz of the lights above you, and the synchronized slurp of two insomniacs with poor diet choices. 

Then, without thinking, you tilt your bag of potato chips, holding it out between you two, “Want one?”

He stops mid-motion, as if he’d almost forgotten you were still here.

Almost.

A glance into your bag, a small shrug, and then, just like that, he grabs a chip and pops it into his mouth, moving so fast you barely catch a glimpse of his face without the mask.

“Thanks,” he mutters before taking a sip of his coffee milk, still keeping his head low.

You hum in response, your fingers drumming against the counter before your curiosity wins the best of you, “So…what kind of life leads you to seek peace and quiet in a convenience store?”

It’s a question that’s been on your mind since last night’s conversation. What can you say? You’re a creature of curiosity.

Ramen Guy shrugs next to you, “What do you mean?”

“Like…you’re here every night. Why at night? Why not during the day?”

He lets out a short chuckle. “You want me to leave?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Sure sounded like it.”

You exhale sharply, your fingers now absentmindedly swirling the noodles in your bowl. “Look, I’m just saying—most people are asleep at this hour.”

He smirks. You can hear it in his voice without even looking. “You’re here too, aren’t you?”

“That’s different, this is my job,” you scoff, amused, before pointedly gesturing at this meal before him, “Unless you want to call your weird habits a job. Which, honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone was paying you to subject your tastebuds to that every night.”

And he laughs. It’s small, barely there, but you catch it. Then, with a quiet exhale, he finally answers, “It’s like I told you before, I like the quiet at this hour…I don’t get a lot of that.”

You stop twirling your noodles, the air shifting into that same unspoken understanding from last night. Faint, but unmistakable.

Something unsaid hanging between the two of you, something that tells you this guy is more than just an insomniac with questionable food choices.

You tilt your head. “So, what, you got a bunch of loud roommates or something?”

A small, almost knowing smile tugs at his lips. “Something like that.”

You raise a brow at his vague answer but don’t press. Instead, you nod towards his food. “And your criminal meals? That part of the quiet too?”

He huffs, “Maybe I just have superior taste.”

“Right, totally,” you laugh, the tone in your voice almost testing him. 

Ramen Guy finishes up his meal, wiping his mouth quickly with a napkin before putting his mask back on and finally turning to face you fully.

He narrows his eyes at you, “You think you have me all figured out?”

You mirror his actions, facing him fully for the first time tonight, folding your arms, “Oh, I do have you all figured out, Ramen Guy.”

“Oh yeah?” He leans forward slightly. “Alright, go on. Tell me who I am, Graveyard Psychic Girl.”

You roll your eyes but accept the challenge, leaning back in your seat.

“You’re a creature of habit, clearly. You like consistency. Probably because your life is very inconsistent otherwise.”

Ramen Guy doesn’t react, so you continue.

“You’re a night owl, but not by choice. You want to sleep, but your brain won’t let you.” Your eyes flick down to the coffee milk. “So, instead, you drink this, even though it probably makes it worse.”

Still no response.

“So now, you just keep showing up here because it’s predictable,” you finish with a small shrug. “And maybe…‘cause you’re kinda lonely.”

That makes him pause.

You immediately regret saying it. Because…what was that?

That was too much. Too deep. Too intrusive.

But to your surprise, he doesn’t deflect. He doesn’t scoff, or roll his eyes, or peer them at you the way he does a million times a night.

Instead, he tilts his head slightly, eyes glinting with something you can’t quite place.

“…Not bad,” he says finally, reaching for another chip from the bag in your hands.

You blink. “Wait, really?”

“I mean, kinda harsh, but…mostly true.”

“Oh,” you don’t know what you expected, but it wasn’t that.

A beat of silence passes before Ramen Guy speaks up again, “So basically, you’re saying we’re the same.”

You let out a snort, “Not even close.”

“We both work weird hours. We both like the quiet. We both eat the same convenience store junk food.” He holds up the bag of potato chips before eating another one.

“You just started eating those,” you deadpan. 

“Yeah, but I’m still eating them, which means my taste is obviously elite.”

“You literally eat coffee milk with nuclear ramen.”

“Okay, you’re the one who made it weird.”

A mischievous smile starts forming on your face as you snatch your bag of chips back from him, “So you agree your food choices are weird?” 

His smirk falters as a small giggle rises out of you. 

“Whatever you say, Graveyard Shift Girl.” 

The next night, Heeseung does something completely out of character, entirely unprovoked, and maybe just a little bit unhinged—he’s late. It’s 1:30AM, well past his usual 1:09AM show-up time, and the store is Heeseung-less.

He blames late-night dance practice. He also blames Ni-ki for stealing his usual black hoodie—forcing him to spend an extra thirty minutes looking for another one. Not that the hoodie matters, he would argue (yes, it does).

When he finally steps through the door at 1:32AM, the familiar ding barely finishes echoing before—

“Wow,” you drawl from behind the counter, arms crossed. “Tragic. Unbelievable. I was starting to think you found a new place to bother.”

Heeseung snorts, making a beeline for the ramen aisle, “You wish. Wouldn’t want you to get bored without me.”

You let out a dramatic gasp, “Wow. Thoughtful and self-aware. Who knew you had layers?”

Heeseung tries to ignore you, moving to grab his coffee milk. But his lips twitch under his mask, and he’s glad it’s hiding the way he’s failing to fight the smile growing on his face.

When he finally reaches the counter, you push off from where you were leaning against the counter, hands settling on your hips. “Okay, be honest. Outside of this, do you have anything else going on in your life?” 

Heeseung raises a brow, completely caught off guard. If there’s one thing he’s learned over the past few nights, it’s that you’re incredibly nosy. And for someone who claims to like working the night shift because of the quiet, you’re absolutely terrible at keeping things that way. 

“Excuse me?”

“You mentioned that you work weird hours yesterday,” you gesture vaguely at him. “So, spill.”

His stare remains blank, debating if he can distract you by handing you his three bills of cash (he can’t).

“I do…stuff.”

“Stuff,” you repeat, “Quite riveting.”

Heeseung exhales, “Why do you care?”

You shrug, taking his cash and putting it away. “You must do something interesting. You’re too weirdly confident for a guy who just bums around convenience stores at night.”

Heeseung scoffs. "Weirdly confident?"

"Yeah, like—" You wave around you. "You walk around like you have some big, mysterious purpose. But all I ever see you do is glare at instant noodles and sip milk like a sad Victorian child."

Heeseung shakes his head, letting out a breathy laugh. "Maybe that is my purpose."

Then, he simply shrugs. But there’s something in his gaze—something unreadable, like he’s deciding exactly how much he wants to say.

"It’s hard to explain,” he finally says. “I just…have a weird work schedule.”

"Weird how?"

"Weird as in, I don’t really get normal hours. Always moving, always working. Makes sleep kinda impossible."

You pause, taking in his words. Then, you shift slightly, crossing your arms. "Sounds exhausting."

Heeseung exhales a laugh, leaning against the counter. "You have no idea."

For a moment, a familiar and warm quiet fills the air as the two of you linger, as if waiting for the other to say something more.

And he doesn’t know why, but his chest feels a little too tight—like he’s let you stumble into a part of him you weren’t supposed to see yet.

“Well,” you say quietly, your lips curving into a soft smile that sends a weird jolt through his body that he chooses to ignore. “I’m honored you’ve chosen this fine establishment as your official sanctuary.”

He scoffs, reaching for his items. "Don’t let it go to your head, Graveyard Shift Girl.”

He then turns to head to his usual corner when—

“Y/N.”

Heeseung pauses, turning back at you like an awkward child lost in the middle of a store.

“My name,” you clarify, casually returning to sorting the register’s bills. “A lot easier to say than Graveyard Shift Girl.”

Heeseung gives you a slow nod, something unfamiliar and unplaceable twisting in his stomach as he turns back around.

And when he finishes his meal and leaves that night, he calls out—

“See you tomorrow, Y/N.”

And, this time, he doesn’t fight the smile under his mask when he hears your voice, a little softer, call back out:

“Goodnight, Ramen Guy."

It happens the moment he steps inside.

Heeseung doesn’t even make it past the threshold before a familiar melody drifts through the weak convenience store speakers and to his ears.

Familiar because he’s heard it a thousand times.

Familiar because it’s literally his voice singing the line.

His stomach drops.

Instead of his usual beeline to the ramen aisle, Heeseung turns towards the counter where you’re idly tapping on your phone, oblivious.

The hum of the melody continues, and Heeseung is suddenly too hyper-aware of how loud his own voice sounds in the otherwise dead-silent store.

Panic creeps up his spine.

He moves fast, crossing the store in a few long strides, slamming his hands down onto the counter that divides the two of you.

You jump in your seat.

“Geez—” you clutch your chest, wide-eyed as you take in his very sudden, very urgent presence. “What the hell?”

Heeseung ignores you, pointing above him, “Did you put this on?”

Your brows furrow as you put your phone down, glance up at him, then at the speakers he’s pointing at. You barely register the song before recognition flickers across your face.

“Oh—this? Nah, it’s the store’s playlist,” you gesture towards the iPad behind the counter, currently playing a Current Hits playlist on shuffle. “It’s some group’s new song. Pretty catchy.”

Heeseung just stares at you, mind racing.

You don’t recognize it.

You don’t recognize his voice.

The realization sends relief crashing over him, but he quickly snaps out of it with a brand-new problem—because now he has to decide what the hell to do with this information.

Does he tell you? Drop the act and lay it all out? Would you believe him? Would you even care?

“You okay?” Now you’re staring at him, suspicious. “Why do you look like you’ve just seen a ghost?”

Heeseung clears his throat, realizing his stance is way too conspicuous, and slowly removes his hands from the counter to stand up straight, attempting to sound normal, “No reason.” 

You squint at him.

Then—

“Oh my god,” you gasp, eyes suddenly lighting up. “Wait.”

His heart stops. Oh, shit. She figured it out. This is it.

“Are you a fan?” you blurt, leaning forward in your seat eagerly.

Heeseung blinks.

…What.

“Oh, you totally are,” you continue, completely missing the way his soul is currently leaving his body. “You came straight to the counter like a man on a mission. Oh my god. Are they, like, your favorite group or something?”

Heeseung has never wanted to laugh and cry at the same time more than he does in this moment.

“Something like that,” he mutters, bringing a hand to rub this temple, because no way this is happening right now.

You beam brightly from your seat, “That’s cute. Who’s your bias?”

At that, Heeseung does laugh—because this is now officially the most ridiculous thing that’s ever happened to him.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

There’s a long pause.

And then—after a deep breath, a long and heated internal debate, and one last glance at your innocent, completely oblivious face—he finally exhales, looking you straight in the eye.

“This guy,” he says as he hears his own voice ring out through the store. “Because that’s me. That’s my voice.”

Silence.

You stare at him.

You blink. Once. Twice.

Then, after what feels like an eternity—

“…Huh?”

Then you tilt your head. "I'm sorry—what?"

Heeseung watches as your expression cycles from confusion to skepticism to outright disbelief. He braces himself.

"My name is Lee Heeseung," he repeats slowly. "From Enhypen."

Another beat of silence.

Then—because you’re you—

You burst out laughing.

"Okay, Ramen Guy," you snort, crossing your arms. "Very funny.”

Heeseung sighs, "I knew this would happen."

"Because you’re delusional?"

"Because you don’t pay attention."

You roll your eyes, "Oh, I’m sorry, but when in our thriving relationship have you ever given me a reason to believe that you’re actually a famous idol and not just some guy who has concerning dietary habits?"

Heeseung groans.

He regrets everything. He regrets this entire conversation. He could have lied. He could have said literally anything else. But no—he had to be honest. And look where that got him.

"I’m serious," he insists, leveling you with a look.

You stare back at him.

Then, something seems to click in your brain, because you suddenly lunge for your phone.

"Oh, we’re doing this," you mutter, fingers flying across the screen as you type in his name. "Let’s see if—"

You stop.

Heeseung watches as your eyes widen, scanning the images in front of you. Then you look up at him. Then back down at the phone.

Then back at him.

“Take the mask off,” you mutter quietly, slowly holding your phone up next to his face.

With an exhausted sigh, Heeseung does what he’s told and pulls it down for the first time in front of you.

You scan him. Then the phone. Then him.

"You've gotta be shitting me," you breathe.

Heeseung shrugs, "Told you."

You gape at him, your mouth opening and closing.

You don’t know what shocks you more—the fact that a literal celebrity has been standing in front of you this whole time, or the realization that the once-random stranger you used to relentlessly tease has, somehow, always been this ridiculously good-looking all along. 

"So…you’re famous?"

"Something like that."

"Something like that?" You shove your phone toward him, your screen now displaying the group’s Instagram page. "You literally have fans. Like, millions of them."

Heeseung cringes, "Okay, you don’t have to say it like that."

"Like what? Like you’re a superstar and I’ve been treating you like a regular guy who can't cook for himself?"

"Because that’s exactly what I am?"

“Unbelievable,” you scoff, shaking your head. “So you sing. You perform. You—commit crimes against humanity with your ramen choices each night.”

Heeseung groans. “Oh my god.”

“Oh my god,” you echo, standing up from your seat behind the counter. “So you’re telling me that every night, an actual, real-life idol has been showing up here, inhaling a week’s worth of sodium, and I—” You pause, eyes narrowing. “Wait. Are you even allowed to be eating this garbage?”

“And are you ever able to mind your own business?” Heeseung counters, now fully regretting this entire conversation.

“Absolutely not, Lee Heeseung, because this is literally the plot of a drama,” you wave your hands in disbelief. “Mystery insomniac convenience store guy turns out to be a world famous pop star—”

“Okay, let’s not get carried away.”

“—and I, the unsuspecting cashier, unknowingly roast him every night like he’s just some sleep-deprived college student instead of a millionaire with talent. Wait—” you then pause again, placing your hands on your hips, staring at him with a newfound judgment. “—you’re loaded, aren’t you?”

Heeseung pinches the bridge of your nose, exasperated, “Why is that your takeaway from this?”

“You are!” you exclaim, your smile widening as you ignore his suffering. “You’re rich and you’re out here eating instant ramen every night!”

Heeseung groans again, dropping his head onto the counter in front of you, “Oh my god.”

Grinning, you bend down to this level. “So this whole time, you’ve been lying to me?”

He lifts his head just enough to glare at you. "It’s not lying. It’s…selective honesty.”

You scoff, straightening up just as Heeseung does, meeting his gaze with an accusatory squint. “That’s literally the definition of lying.”

“Look, it’s not like I planned to make a habit out of this,” he gestures to the store around him. “I came in one night, and then I came back, and suddenly, I had a thing going. Then you showed up and started running your mouth, and—”

“And you kept coming back anyways,” you finish, crossing your arms, a slow, amused smile tugging at your lips.

Heeseung freezes. His mouth opens. Then closes.

“…Yeah.”

A silence stretches between you—charged, almost personal—until you decide to cut through the tension with a smirk.

“What if I play your group’s music over the speakers every night?”

The look on his face is deadly. “You wouldn’t.”

Your grin grows, “Wouldn’t I, though?”

“This is the worst night of my life,” Heeseung drags a hand down his face and turns towards the ramen aisle. “I’m leaving.”

“Aww, c’mon,” you tease, calling out after him and delighting in his suffering. “Also can we talk about how you literally just said you’re your own bias?”

“Shut up.”

You’re still laughing when he returns to the counter thirty seconds later—Extra Spicy Hellfire and coffee milk in hand, cheeks tinged pink.

“Alright, serious question,” you say, leaning in slightly from your seat at the window barstools. “If you had to give up either Extra Spicy Hellfire or coffee milk for the rest of your life, which would you choose?”

Heeseung immediately stops chewing, his chopsticks frozen midair as he turns to you with a look that says you just personally offended him.

“That’s straight evil.”

“You must choose, Ramen Guy.”

Heeseung groans, throwing his head back dramatically. “You can’t just throw life-altering hypotheticals at me like that.”

“Choose.”

He stares at his ramen. Then at this coffee milk. Then back at you.

Then back at his ramen.

Then back at you.

“I hate you, you know that?”

“Aw,” you flash him your sweetest, most infuriating smile. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me. Like, ever.”

Heeseung shoots a glare at you, “I hope your regular spicy ramen tastes like disappointment.”

“Oh, it totally does,” you look down at your own ramen in front of you and take an exaggerated slurp, “It’s just so awful.”

Heeseung’s lips perk up into a smile at your weirdly endearing antics before shaking his head, “You’re a lost cause.”

You giggle to yourself, taking a sip of your own juice when you hear Heeseung, barely audible, suddenly mutter:

“…I’d give up coffee milk.”

It’s quiet. It’s barely there.

Your jaw drops.

“I know, okay?” He rubs his temples as if the decision is actually hurting him. “It’s like choosing between two children. But at the end of the day, ramen is ramen.”

You nod along, pretending you understand the gravity of his heavy decision (you don’t). But still, you smile—because you were the one who got him to betray his beloved coffee milk.

Heeseung takes a sip of it anyway, groaning as he swirls the bottle in his hand. “I hate that you made me think about this.”

“You should be thanking me. Y’know, character growth and all that.”

“More like character damage.”

You grin, victorious, and he just rolls his eyes before pausing for a second to think, then—he nudges his ramen cup toward you.

“Here. Try some.”

You recoil immediately and look up at him with a look that tells him he’s absolutely psychotic.

“Absolutely not.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Why? You scared?”

“No, Heeseung, I just have these things called taste buds.”

He scoffs, shoving the bowl between you two closer. “Just one bite. C’mon, Graveyard Shift Girl, live a little. For me.”

You hold his gaze, suspicious but faltering, because—damn it—he’s looking at you like that. All smug and teasing, head tilted slightly, and it affects you.

And then he moves. 

He picks up his chopsticks, twirls them in the bowl, and catches a perfect bundle of noodles before leaning forward, holding them up between you two. He waits.

Your breath hitches. Your eyes flicker to the steam curling from the noodles, twisting in the air between your faces, fragile and fleeting.

Heeseung doesn’t move.

Neither do you.

It’s ridiculous, really. I mean, it’s ramen. But the way the space between you suddenly feels thin, the way his grip on the chopsticks stays steady, his fingers just inches from your lips, the way his dark eyes stay locked onto yours, watching you with something unreadable flickering beneath the usual teasing glint—it feels like time slows down.

You blink rapidly, clearing your throat. It’s fine. It’s cool. You’re overthinking.

Heeseung tilts his head slightly, watching. Waiting.

You let out an exaggerated sigh and slowly lean in to take the bite.

Your lips brush the chopsticks as you close your mouth around the noodles, and for a split second—one charged, unspoken, split second—neither of you move.

Heeseung is so close.

So close.

You can see the soft curve of his mouth, the way his gaze flickers over your face, the way his breath catches slightly like he just realized something.

You’re suddenly painfully aware of the close proximity and it sends a rush of heat to your cheeks. Panicked, you pull back quickly and settle into your seat like nothing happened.

But then you start chewing.

And that’s when you realize—

No, wait. Wait. That heat in your cheeks?

Oh.

Oh no.

Yeah. It’s definitely not because of Heeseung (well, maybe a part of it is). 

Because the second you swallow down the bundle of noodles—the embodiment of heat, pain, and suffering all slams into your mouth instantly.

You freeze.

Your brain short-circuits.

And then—

“Oh my GOD—” you choke, slamming your hands onto the counter, your body shaking as the spice courses through your veins.

Your throat ignites, your sinuses clear, and you swear you can hear colors.

Heeseung? Heeseung loses it.

His laugh bursts out of him—loud, unguarded, and completely delightful. He clutches his stomach, nearly hiccuping from how hard he’s laughing, his eyes crinkling at the corners, dimples deep in his cheeks.

If you weren’t literally physically dying in this current moment, you’d probably be absolutely too flustered to function at the sight.

“No way—” he wheezes through his laughter,“—are you actually struggling right now?”

“WHAT DOES IT LOOK LIKE, HEESEUNG?!” you glare at him through the tears forming in your eyes as you desperately flail your arms around, searching for your juice pouch. “You eat this voluntarily?!”

“Every night, baby.”

“You’re sick.”

“And you’re dramatic.”

Your hands finally find your drink and you gulp it down as if it’s your lifeline, eyes still watery, throat still burning, lungs barely breathing. But somewhere in the middle of your suffering, you catch yourself staring.

At Heeseung.

At the way he’s still smiling, like he just had the best meal of his life. At the way his eyes sparkle when he laughs, his dimples peeking out like his own hidden secrets, the way his nose scrunches slightly when he’s amused—

Weird.

You blink the thoughts (and your tears) away, shaking it off, and blame the spice, the delirium, and sheer trauma of what just happened.

You clear your throat, sitting back with a desperate huff.

“I hope,” you catch your breath, gesturing to his bowl, “that when you come in tomorrow, we’re all out of this horrid flavor.”

Heeseung smirks, leaning back in his chair as he gives you a knowing look.

“You’d still restock it for me, though.”

Damn it.

Your shoulders slump, and both of you know you’re defeated.

He knows you know you’re defeated. 

Heeseung just grins, then, without a word, slides his coffee milk toward you in a silent truce.

You stare at it. Then at him.

His smile grows.

And you accept it.

Begrudgingly.

It’s 1:20AM when you find yourself behind the counter, surrounded by half-unpacked boxes of instant noodles and bottled drinks. The store hums with its usual white noise—lights buzzing above, soft music humming overhead, the low whirr of the coolers. 

And Heeseung? 

Heeseung is across the counter, perched on a barstool he dragged from across the store, doing absolutely nothing to help. 

For the nth time tonight, he flips a soda bottle into the air. 

And for the nth time tonight, he fails to land it upright, the bottle clattering onto the counter.

“You’re supposed to be helping me restock,” you remind him, tossing a pack of chips at him. 

“I am helping,” he argues, dodging the bag in time and letting it fall flat onto the ground. Great. 

You cross your arms, scoffing, “Oh yeah? What category does sitting there and flipping Diet Coke fall under?” 

Heeseung finally puts the bottle down on the counter and hums, tapping his fingers against the counter like he’s deep in thought. Then, he flashes you a meek smile, “Moral support?” 

You roll your eyes playfully, turning back to unbox another package from the pile stacked in front of you. 

Another silence falls between you and Heeseung watches as you go back to your job before he breaks it—

“How do you do this every night? Does it not get…I don’t know, tedious? Boring?” 

You freeze in your spot, caught by surprise at the question.

“Hm,” you turn to him, head tilted as you think.

Heeseung glances up at you, intrigued. The way your lips purse slightly, how your fingers fidget absentmindedly with the torn edge of a cardboard box. 

You exhale, leaning back against the counter, “Yeah, the hours suck, pay is…alright. And—” 

You hesitate. Your gaze drifts toward the floor, fixating on a dent near the register, “—and I think, at some point, I thought I felt stuck.” 

Something in Heeseung’s expression shifts. 

“I mean, I’m a college student, for god’s sake,” you continue, a small, humorless laugh escaping you. “And I spend my nights serving cigarettes to barely legal teens and cleaning up after ramen spills. It kind of felt like I was just…watching life pass me by, you know?”

Your voice quiets and it’s just the soft hum of the store again. You pick at the box without thinking, fingers grazing over the worn edges, and Heeseung watches you.

Because he gets it. 

He gets it in a way that makes his chest ache a little.

Because despite the differences in your lives—despite how he’s constantly moving while you feel stuck—you both know the feeling of watching life slip between your fingers, of wondering if you’re ever going to feel like you belong in it.

Heeseung holds the soda bottle between his hands, rolling it back and forth, murmuring, “Yeah, I get that.” 

You glance up at him, making eye contact, but you don’t push. 

“But then,” you say quietly, “I started seeing this place differently. Instead of somewhere I was stuck, it became more of a…break. An escape from everything. A breath of fresh air from expectations and routine.” 

And that—that makes Heeseung look up. 

Because deep down, that’s exactly what all of this has become for him too. 

He doesn’t know when it happened—if maybe it was the first night he found the store, maybe whenever you showed up, maybe all the sarcastic exchanges, or somewhere in between all of that—but these late-night visits, these stolen moments in a world that demands from him, have become something steady. Something his. 

And he wonders if maybe…maybe you’re the reason for that. 

Maybe you’ve been keeping him grounded in a life that never stops moving. 

And maybe he’s been keeping you from feeling stuck. 

Just maybe.

It’s late. Way later than usual. And Heeseung is still here. 

And you don’t know how, but you’ve both abandoned your usual spots—his self-proclaimed window seat and your stool behind the register.

Instead, you’re both sitting cross-legged on the floor behind the register counter, backs pressed against the shelf of over-the-counter medications that you just re-organized, with a laptop and plenty of empty snack wrappers sitting between the two of you.

“See this is exactly my problem with this movie,” you point at your laptop screen, your voice slightly muffled by the gummy bears in your mouth. “One idiot makes one bad decision, and suddenly everyone’s dead! Like, be so for real.”

Heeseung scoffs, leaning back on his hands, “It’s a movie, Y/N. It doesn’t have to be realistic.”

“And I don’t have to pretend this isn’t garbage,” you shoot back as the credits roll, unimpressed. “This is objectively the worst thing I’ve seen.”

“I think I just have an acquired superior taste,” Heeseung quips, his eyes teasing. “Just like with my food choices.” 

“Right,” your voice drags out. “Superior delusion, maybe.”

Heeseung shoves your shoulder with his own, and you laugh, the sound natural, unfiltered, and totally at his expense.

As you shut your laptop and start gathering the remains of your late-night snack feast, the conversation quiets for a moment into an easy, warm silence. It’s the kind of quiet that feels good, the kind that’s been happening more lately—something you never would’ve expected that first night you ever saw him enter the store. 

Then, Heeseung exhales, stretching his legs out in front of him as he leans back against the shelf, “You know, this might be the longest I’ve sat and relaxed in months.” 

You glance up at him, brows raised, “What, you don’t get to laze around on the floor surrounded by junk food with your favorite convenience store worker on a regular basis?”

“Unfortunately, no,” he huffs a laugh. “But I thought a lot about what you said the other night. And sometimes it’s like…”

He pauses and tilts his head back, his eyes following the way the light fixture above him flickers in and out, “Like I’m moving so fast I forget what it’s like to just…be.”

Something in his voice makes you pause in your actions, your hands putting down the miscellaneous wrappers between you.

“Is it hard?” you ask quietly.

He lets out a breathy chuckle from beside you, “It’s…a lot. You’re always being watched, always expected to be on. And even during breaks I’m already thinking about the next thing. The next schedule, next performance, next practice.”

You watch him for a moment, watch the way his fingers tap absentmindedly against his knee, something you’ve started to notice over time whenever he’s lost in thought. 

“But there are moments that make it worth it,” he continues, a small smile playing on his lips. “The music, how fun it is to be on stage, the fans. The feeling of performing and knowing people are there because they love what you do. It’s unreal.”

Your own smile unconsciously appears as you listen to him reflect, taking in his words. You never stopped to really think about his life in-depth before—and it does sound like a lot. Like something people dream of but don’t realize the weight of until they’re carrying it themselves. 

You nudge his knee lightly with yours, “For what it’s worth, I think you deserve to just exist sometimes, too.” 

Heeseung turns to look at you, and for a moment, his expression is unreadable.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, reaching into the closest bag of gummy bears to you and tossing one to him. He catches it easily, popping it into his mouth with a grin.

“See, this is why I keep coming back,” he says, chewing. “Gourmet snacks and free therapy.”

You roll your eyes. “Unbelievable. I take it back. Suffer.”

Heeseung laughs, popping another gummy bear into his mouth, before his fingers start tapping his knee again. Then, after a beat—

“You know, I’ve been thinking.”

When you look up at him, he’s already looking at you with a new…something. A newfound sincerity, maybe. Or uncertainty. Or both.

Your eyes meet, and suddenly, he visibly hesitates—shifting almost awkwardly in his spot, as if he both rehearsed what he’s about to say and yet has absolutely no idea what he’s doing. He clears his throat, breaking eye contact.

“I—um,” he swallows hard. “I’m sorry? For, y’know, being kind of a jerk when we first met. I think I was pretty…” He trails off awkwardly. “Jerk-ish.” 

You don’t move for a second. Slowly, one brow arches.

Heeseung thinks he regrets everything.

Then, a smile—slow and sweet—curls at your lips.

And suddenly, Heeseung realizes he doesn’t regret a damn thing.

“Oh, absolutely,” you say, nodding along dramatically. “You were a menace. Like, an insufferable, grumpy, little menace.”

Heeseung lets out a noise that lands somewhere between a groan and a laugh. “Okay, I get it.”

“But,” you continue, locking eyes with him again, “I guess I should apologize too.”

Heeseung perks up, now his brow lifting, “For what? Finally admitting I was right about—”

“For judging you and your still…very questionable choices.”

“Ah, there it is.”

You giggle, nudging him with your elbow before pausing. 

“But seriously…you’re, like…” you dramatically draw out the moment as if the words physically pain you to say.

Heeseung smirks, leaning in slightly, waiting for you.

“…pretty cool, I guess.”

A slow, satisfied smile spreads across his face, “I’ll take it.”

“Don’t let it get to your head,” you scoff. “You’re still a ramen-addicted jerk.”

Heeseung hums, still smiling, “Might be too late.”

Then, he tacks on, without thinking twice, “You’re pretty cool, too, I guess.”

You laugh at the hesitancy in his voice, “Okay, that sounded almost sincere.”

He rolls his eyes, but his smile softens, “No, but seriously, it’s…nice. Having someone I could talk to outside of…you know, my whole chaotic life.”

The sudden shift in the air quiets you for a moment as you look at Heeseung, noticing the slight drop in his shoulders, the way his fingers continue to drum against his leg. When you don’t say anything, he continues.

“I don’t…really talk to people like this,” he quietly says, as if admitting something to himself more so to you. Then, after a pause, he glances back up, eyes searching your own. “Now like how I do with you. Like…I could tell you anything and everything, really.”

Your breath catches, but you keep your expression neutral, “Oh?”

Heeseung shifts, looking down at his hands before exhaling a quiet laugh, “Sorry. Too serious?”

You find yourself quickly shaking your head. Because although, yes, most of your interactions with Heeseung are filled with jokes and teasing, the serious conversations or shared warm silences in between recently—have started to mean something more. They’ve become an outlet, a quiet escape from reality. It’s like the moment he steps through the store’s doors, the door rings, the outside world fades, and for a few hours, it’s just the two of you in this shared space.

A space that feels safe, untouched by expectations, where both of you can just be.

“No,” you say, softer this time. “Not at all.”

You hesitate for a beat before adding, “I…really like talking to you too. It’s—” you let out a small laugh, “almost unnaturally easy, actually.”

Heeseung doesn’t respond right away. He just nods, and then looks up at you from the ground and his eyes are serious—no teasing, no usual smugness, just something…real. Vulnerable.

Something that makes your heart beat a little too fast.

You should say something. Something light, or something sarcastic, or something normal.

But you don’t.

Because you’re too busy looking at his face.

Then, without thinking, his lips.

And he’s looking at yours.

You don’t know who leans in first, but suddenly, you’re close. He’s close. Too close. Close enough to hear his quiet inhale. To see the way his lashes flutter. To feel the space between you two thinning into something dangerously nonexistent.

You should move. You should break the moment before it turns into something neither of you can take back.

But you don’t.

And he doesn’t.

And then—

Ding.

The sound of the automatic doors sliding open shatters the moment.

You both jolt apart like a pair of teenagers caught guilty, and your heart is practically breaking out of your ribcage as you scramble to your feet, wiping your sweaty palms on your pants, your face burning as you appear from behind the counter to greet the customer that was blissfully unaware of whatever was definitely not about to happen behind the counter. 

You clear your throat as you look down at Heeseung, who’s still frozen in his spot and trying his very best not to lose his mind, “I should—um. Go back to work.”

Then, suddenly, Heeseung stands too, nodding quickly as he runs a hand through his hair, his face slightly pink, very much not looking at you, “Right. Yeah. Work.”

Right when you turn back to the counter, the customer is there, waiting for you to ring them up. You plaster the most normal smile you can muster, scan their snack, take their cash, and hand them their change—all while pretending you don’t feel Heeseung’s presence still lingering behind you.

You don’t turn around, and he doesn’t move.

And despite the complete lack of physical contact, you still feel his warmth. The same amount of warmth as when he was only mere inches away from your own face.

The door chimes as the customer leaves.

Then, finally—Heeseung clears his throat.

Hesitantly, you turn around, bracing yourself.

Rubbing the back of his neck, he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, avoiding your gaze before forcing out, in the most casual voice he can manage—

“So, uh—same time tomorrow?”

You blink.

Then, finally, you let out a small laugh, “You’re so weird.”

The tension in the air cracks just enough, and Heeseung exhales a quiet laugh, “And yet, you’d miss me if I didn’t show up, wouldn’t you?”

You open your mouth, ready to argue, except—nothing comes out.

Because, unfortunately, you know he’s right.

And he knows he’s right.

So, naturally, instead of admitting defeat, you suddenly grab a rag from behind the counter and start aggressively scrubbing at a perfectly clean surface.

“Go home, Ramen Guy.”

Heeseung just grins, shoving his hands into his pockets as steps out from behind the counter and backs away. “Night, Graveyard Shift Girl.”

When he’s finally gone, you’re left standing there, staring at where he just was before you.

And finally, when the reality of what just happened fully settles in—

You groan, dropping your head against the counter.

Because now he's in your head.

Great.

The clock above you ticks, a sound that usually fades into the background and becomes a part of the store’s white noise. But tonight? 

Tonight, it’s your biggest freaking nuisance. 

You think if you have to hear it tick one more time, you’re taking the ladder from the backroom, climbing up there, yanking that thing off the wall, and tossing it right into the dumpster. 

Why? 

Because, it’s 2:21AM. 

2:21AM, and you’re alone. Stuck in this sad, empty convenience store with nothing but your own annoying thoughts and the snacks laid out in front of you with no one to share them with. 

Same time tomorrow, my ass, you think bitterly, aggressively straightening a stack of receipts near the register that don’t even need straightening. 

Heeseung’s voice from a few days ago still rings in your head—completely, and unfortunately, uninvited.

You don’t even know why they’re stuck in there, his words looping around, constantly taunting you.

The worst part?

His words had been entirely untrue.

Because it’s been three days.

Three full days since Heeseung has walked through those automatic doors, plopped down in his usual seat, and proceeded to either a) annoy you, b) argue with you over his food-related crimes, or c) make you laugh against your will.

And you don’t know why it’s bothering you so much.

Frustrated? Yeah, you’re frustrated. But the real question is—at what, exactly?

Frustrated that he just disappeared without so much as a heads-up? No warning?

Or maybe you’re frustrated at the very fact that you’re even thinking about this at all.

It’s not like he owes you an explanation. It’s not like he belongs to this store…or to you.

So why does it feel like something’s missing every time you glance at the entrance, half-expecting to hear the ding of the doors and see him stroll in with his stupid hoodie and even stupider smirk?

You shake your head, trying your best to snap yourself out of it.

It’s fine. You’re fine.

You don’t care.

You don’t care so much that, for some reason unbeknownst to you, your brain—your traitorous, overthinking, hardworking brain—itches with a thought.

A stupid, ridiculous, subconscious thought.

And before you can fully even process what you’re doing, your fingers are already unlocking your phone, your thumbs moving on autopilot as you do something you swore you wouldn’t.

You search up his name.

It’s pathetic. It’s sad. Even you’re disappointed in yourself. 

You told yourself you wouldn’t associate Heeseung with his job, with the persona that everyone else sees. Because to you, Heeseung is just…Heeseung—the insomniac who bickers with you every night, who somehow turns every conversation into an argument he has to win, who sits cross-legged with you behind the register eating spicy noodles and giving objectively bad movie recommendations.

And to him? 

Well. You thought that to him, you were just you. Just some convenience store worker he happened to befriend. Someone outside of his world, outside of the blinding lights. Someone he didn’t have to be anyone around. 

His words echo in your mind as you think—just a person he could tell anything and everything to. 

You push the thought along with their feelings down as you continue scrolling—quick, desperate, your fingers flying over your screen, swiping through posts, comments, anything that could explain his sudden absence—

And then. 

You see it.

A tweet. 

Tagging his group, followed by a message. It’s short. Sweet. Simple. 

Yet entirely soul-crushing. 

“Can’t believe they’re leaving for tour already tomorrow! So excited to see them in a few days!!” 

Your breath catches. 

Your eyes flicker over the words again.

And again.

Leaving. For tour.

Tomorrow.

Your stomach twists violently as you scan for more confirmation, your hands gripping your phone with a newfound frustration as you tap through articles, fan accounts—anything to tell you this isn’t real. That there’s some mistake. That you didn’t just foolishly spend three days waiting for someone who was never going to show up.

But there it is. Everywhere. Right in front of you.

Confirmed dates. Cities. Posters.

Heeseung is leaving. Tomorrow.

And he didn’t say a word.

You don’t know how long you sit there, staring at your screen. The words all blur together, but the sinking feeling in your chest is sharp, clear, and undeniable.

And you hate it.

You hate that you feel like this. You hate that your first instinct wasn’t to be happy for him, or proud, or even remotely understanding.

Instead, you’re angry. Upset. Hurt.

And what you hate the most?

You know exactly why you feel this way.

And just as that realization settles in—just as the blur of your feelings finally sharpens into something unmistakable, something you can no longer ignore—the familiar ding of the automatic doors cuts through the quiet store and the screaming thoughts in your head.

You almost don’t look up.

Almost.

But then you do, and your stomach drops.

Because there he is.

You blink, because at first you think maybe you’ve been drowning in your thoughts for so long that you’ve started hallucinating him—manifesting his presence out of sheer frustration towards him.

But, no.

Heeseung stands there, at the entrance, hands shoved into his hoodie pockets, looking at you like nothing’s changed.

Like he hasn’t been gone for days, like he hasn’t left you suffering with your own emotions—like he hasn’t been the only thing on your mind even when you really, really, didn’t want him to be.

“Hey,” Heeseung nods at you casually, walking over to his usual stupid aisle, grabbing his usual stupid Extra Spicy Hellfire, then reaching for his usual stupid coffee milk—all like clockwork, all like he never left.

You don’t respond.

Instead, you busy yourself—wiping the spotless corner of your counter, smoothing out a crumpled receipt, pretending you’re looking for something in the shelves beneath you.

Anything to keep yourself from looking at him.

And you might actually lose it.

Because if you have to stand here and pretend like you’re fine, that these past few days haven’t felt like an eternity for you—you might actually lose it.

Heeseung finally walks up to the counter, places his things between you, then pauses before repeating, tilting his head, “Hey?” 

He shifts slightly, waiting for you to acknowledge him.

You don’t.

A beat passes. Then another.

“You mad at me or something?” he asks, his head still tilted, his voice light, hesitant.

You inhale, your fingers subconsciously tightening around the edge of the counter.

Then, you let out a quiet laugh—an empty, humorless scoff.

“Should I be?”

Heeseung frowns, clearly confused, “What?”

You finally look at him. And you think it was a mistake. Because the second you meet his gaze—uncertain, searching, so annoyingly familiar—you feel your throat close up.

He looks the same. Same stupid hoodie. Same messy hair. Same tired eyes that you’ve somehow come to find comfort in.

And that makes you hate this even more.

“Is this because I haven’t been showing up?” Heeseung tries again, a small, teasing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Damn, I didn’t realize you’d miss me that much. Sorry, Graveyard Shift Gi—”

“When were you going to tell me?”

Your voice is quiet, but he doesn’t miss it.

And he stills.

There it is.

He shifts in his spot again, his eyes now darting down to where his fingers are tapping against the counter.

“What?” he says again, but this time, it’s different. Careful.

You swallow, forcing down the lump forming in your throat, forcing yourself to look at him.

“When were you going to tell me you were leaving?”

It’s soft. Barely above a whisper. But lined with something raw, something vulnerable, something hurting.

And Heeseung hears all of it. He feels all of it.

He doesn’t answer. He just stares at you, lips pressing into a thin line.

Somewhere in the background, the clock continues ticking, the lights overhead buzzing, a song from the speakers humming.

And Heeseung stays silent.

“You weren’t,” you murmur, the words caught in your throat. “Were you?”

Heeseung exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair, “I—” 

He stops. Starts again. 

“It’s not—it wasn’t—”

You cross your arms tightly, more so to ground yourself more than anything.

He lets out a quiet, frustrated laugh, shaking his head.

“Look,” he gestures vaguely, between you, at the store, at the shelves, at the space you’ve unknowingly carved out for him here. “This—this is the only thing that’s felt normal for me in a long time.”

Your stomach twists.

“Everything else—my whole life, it’s all…chaos. But this?” He swallows, his eyes finally looking up to meet your gaze, his voice quieter now. “You?”

His eyes flash with something new, something softer, something that lingers in the way he looks at you. The same way he has over late-night snack feasts, whispered movie nights, conversations that blended into the early mornings. 

“You’re the closest thing to normal I’ve had.”

And somehow, that makes it worse.

Because you get it. You know him, so you understand.

But it doesn’t change the fact that he was going to leave without telling you.

You inhale slowly, your heavy gaze holding his.

“So what?” your voice is still quiet, but now edged with a new sharpness. “You thought if you didn’t say anything, it wouldn’t have to be real?”

Heeseung presses his lips together. “I thought maybe if I didn’t say it, I wouldn’t have to lose this yet.”

Your breath catches.

You want to laugh. You want to cry.

Heeseung didn’t tell you because he didn’t want to ruin this.

Whatever this is.

Whatever the two of you had built over the weeks between instant noodles and snacks, between arguments over food choices, between all the unspoken moments that made you feel like maybe, maybe, this was something more.

You let out a wavering breath, shaking your head, “That’s not fair, Heeseung.”

“I know,” his voice is rough now, like he’s tired of saying it. Like he’s already told himself a million times and accepted it. Like he wants you to just accept it and move on.

But you can’t.

“Then why didn’t you just tell me?”

“Because I didn’t know how!” His voice rises in frustration, an exasperated sigh slipping out. “Because you—this—whatever this is, it started feeling real. Too real. And I just didn’t want to fuck it up, alright?”

The words knock the air out of your lungs.

Because suddenly, everything you’ve been trying so hard to ignore, every feeling you’ve been trying to convince yourself wasn’t there, is suddenly painfully undeniable.

And worse than realizing how real this is?

Knowing that Heeseung knows it, feels it, too. 

But heavier than that realization is the anger.

Not just at the situation.

Now, at Heeseung.

“So you thought it’d be better to just disappear instead?” Your voice shakes, biting down on the thick emotion rising in your throat. “You didn’t even think to tell me.”

Heeseung steps closer, and for the first time tonight, you see it—his own frustration bubbling beneath his surface, the barely restrained emotion.

“What does it matter, Y/N?” his sharp voice cuts through the heavy air lingering between you. “What difference would it—would you—have made? It’s not like this was ever going to change anything.”

Your heart stops.

At that, you falter, and Heeseung sees it.

He sees the way your eyes move away from his. He sees the way your posture suddenly deflates, as if his words physically hurt you.

Because they do.

Because you know what he’s saying.

He’s leaving. And you’re staying.

And no matter what, no matter the amount of realness, no matter what either of you feel—that was always going to be the reality.

“Right,” you finally say, your voice dangerously close to giving out. “Because it’s not like any of this really meant anything, right? At least not enough for you to acknowledge.”

Now your words hurt.

Heeseung winces. His jaw tightens. His fists clench.

Then finally—

“…I don’t know,” he mutters.

The final crack.

You let in a sharp inhale, nodding once, your lips pressed into a straight line. “Got it.”

Heeseung clenches his jaw, like he wants to take the words back, like he wants to fix whatever just broke between you.

Instead, he exhales, stepping back from the counter, “I should go.”

This time, you don’t stop him.

You don’t say anything at all.

Heeseung hesitates for a half second, like maybe—just maybe—he’s waiting for you to say something.

But you don’t. 

Not when you feel so utterly lost in everything you’re feeling that you can’t even begin to put into words. 

So he nods once, shoving his hands back into his pockets, turning away.

The automatic doors slide open.

The ding rings, taunting you.

Cold air rushes in.

And then—he’s gone.

And you?

You’re left at the counter, staring at his abandoned cup of ramen, untouched coffee milk, and the ghost of something that never got the chance to be.

Heeseung doesn’t think. 

He wasn’t thinking four days ago, when the space between you two had grown impossibly small—when he was this close to you, when the air felt thick with something unspoken, yet undeniable, something that made his pulse race and his breath hitch. 

He wasn’t thinking when he let fear creep in, when the weight of him realizing his own feelings sent him running, keeping him from stepping foot into the store at all. For three days. 

He wasn’t thinking when he looked you in the eye last night and told you this didn’t matter. That none of it ever did. 

He wasn’t thinking when he walked out of the store, leaving you to think that you didn’t matter to him. That you never did. 

And he definitely isn’t thinking now, when he’s supposed to be leaving for the airport in an hour, but instead—his feet pound against the pavement, tearing through the empty, quiet streets like a man possessed, like maybe if he runs fast enough, he can outrun the regret clawing in his chest. 

The cold air stings against his face, streetlights flicker overhead, and the city hums all around him—but none of it matters. None of it even registers. 

Because all Heeseung knows, all he cares about, is getting to you.

Because Heeseung?

He can go months on tour without his Extra Spicy Hellfire ramen.

He can go months on tour without his coffee milk.

He can go months on tour without those, even if it means braving his insomnia.

But what he can’t go without?

Heeseung can’t—he won’t—go months on tour knowing you think you meant nothing to him. That you didn’t bring him relief after the longest days, laughter when he forgot how to find it, comfort in a world that never slowed down for him.

That you weren’t the one thing that felt real in a life that so often didn’t.

And if there’s even the smallest chance to fix this—to make sure you know—then nothing else matters.

The neon glow of the convenience store sign comes into view, and Heeseung’s heart lurches in his chest as he approaches, his staggered breathing visible in the cold air in front of him, his hands clammy.

He stumbles through the sliding doors, the familiar ding barely registering in his mind as his eyes dart around—only for his stomach to drop.

The counter is empty. The soft sound of your absentminded humming, the teasing lilt of your voice, the annoyed glare in your eyes—it’s all missing.

And all wrong. Too quiet, too empty, too…not you.

Instead, some guy he’s never seen before glances up from behind the register, staring at the way Heeseung just lingers frozen near the entrance.

“Uh,” Heeseung swallows thickly, his voice strained from his sprint. “The girl who usually works nights. Is she here?”

“Oh, Y/N?” the worker raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, she called off tonight.”

Heeseung stills.

You’re not here.

You’re not here.

And it’s his fault.

Because last night, you were here—waiting, hoping, and he walked out on you.

“Oh,” is all Heeseung can manage before he feels the words getting caught in his throat.

His jaw clenches, his stomach twists. The weight of regret settles deep, heavy and unrelenting.

“Right. Okay. Thanks,” he mutters, nodding absently, then turns towards the door.

The automatic doors slide open.

The ding rings, taunting him.

Cold air rushes in.

And just as Heeseung steps out—

He sees you.

You.

Right there, walking towards the store, hands shoved into the pockets of your coat, face buried into your scarf.

You stop.

He stops.

For a moment, neither of you move. Neither of you breathe.

The neon glow of the store’s sign reflects off your face, casting a shadow over your widened eyes. A car honks in the distance. A gust of wind blows past.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Heeseung says without thinking, almost breathless.

A small laugh escapes your lips, airy and uncertain, “Yeah, well…neither are you.”

You’re right.

He should be on his way to the airport. Bags packed, schedule set, moving on.

But instead? Instead, he’s here, standing in front of the only person who has ever made him hesitate.

Heeseung takes one step forward, “I was looking for you.”

You tilt your head, your lips pressed together like you’re weighing something in your mind.

Then you take a small step forward.

“And now you’ve found me.”

Silence.

“I’m sorry.”

It comes out all at once and rushed, but utterly honest. Honest and heavy, the way it’s been aching in his chest—and he can’t hold it in anymore.

You blink, unmoving.

“I’m so sorry,” Heeseung says again, stepping closer. His voice is steady, gentle, but nervous, scared you won’t believe him. “For everything. For not telling you. For leaving like that. For being a completely fucking idiot about—”

He stops. The look in his eyes is vulnerable, genuine. Longing.

“About this. Us.”

You don’t say anything right away, just watching him carefully.

Heeseung runs a hand through his hair, letting out a dry laugh as he realizes he’s about to lay everything out bare.

“I think I was scared,” he admits. “Of what it all meant. Of what you meant to me. I kept telling myself none of it was real, that it didn’t matter. But then I walked out yesterday and, I realized—”

He swallows hard, looking at you and the way your eyes soften with something unreadable.

“It does. You do. So, so much, Y/N.”

Another pause.

Then, you let out a soft exhale, shaking your head, as if something’s finally clicking into place, “I’m sorry too.”

Heeseung’s eyebrows burrow in confusion.

“For not—,” you sigh, your hands now fidgeting with the ends of your scarf. “For not saying something sooner. Because the truth is, I’ve been denying it too. I didn’t even realize how much I—how much you meant to me until I saw you last night and…”

You trail off, your cheeks warming. Then, with a deep inhale, you take another step closer, meeting his gaze from an arm’s length away.

“I was just so angry and upset, but I think…I realized it’s only because I like you, Heeseung. So much.”

Heeseung swears his heart stops. It feels like his whole world has just shifted, and all his thoughts are tangled up in the way you’re looking up at him now.

“And…I should’ve been more understanding,” you add softly. “I shouldn’t have held it against you like you owed me something. I was just hurt, and I didn’t know how to handle it, honestly.”

Heeseung doesn’t say anything right away, not when his thoughts are running wild and his heart is beating like it’s about to fully grow legs and escape.

Then, he exhales a breath of relief.

And lets out a quiet laugh to himself.

You blink at him.

“We’re both idiots,” he says finally, shaking his head softly. 

A small, knowing smile dances on your lips, your eyes locking onto his, “Yeah. Looks like it.”

The tension eases. Just a little.

Heeseung takes a small step closer, close enough that he can feel the warmth radiating off of you, despite the cold air surrounding you both. 

“So now what?”

You tilt your head as you look up at him, eyes searching his, “Aren’t you supposed to be catching a flight soon?”

Heeseung’s breath hitches.

Because he knows he should say yes.

That’s what’s been planned all along. That’s the reality.

But, for the first time—

He hesitates.

“Maybe."

Your eyes narrow slightly, a playful glare sparking in them, "Maybe?"

Heeseung exhales a quiet laugh, running a hand through his hair, his fingers lingering at the nape of his neck. "Yeah. Maybe."

The warmth in his chest spreads when he sees the way you bite back a smile, the way your weight shifts just the tiniest bit closer—like you're testing the space between you.

Then, you reach into the tote bag slung around your shoulder and pull something out. 

“Here.”

You press a small bottle of coffee milk into his hands.

Heeseung stares at it in his hands.

Then at you.

And you’re looking at him with something gentle—something that makes his chest tighten in the best way possible, something that makes the world feel just a tiny bit warmer.

“Just in case you need a reminder,” you say, your voice light and grounding. “Of what’s normal.”

Heeseung stares at you for a moment, and suddenly—everything makes sense. 

The missing piece clicks into place as the static in his mind all fades away, leaving only this—only you. 

You, standing here in front of him, looking at him with that small, steady smile, and Heeseung knows. 

He's never been more sure of anything in his life.

A laugh escapes him before he even realizes it, soft and breathless, bubbling up from somewhere deep in his chest, where warmth curls all around it, wrapping around his own heart like a quiet, undeniable truth. His heart races and his fingers tighten around the bottle in his hands—slightly trembling, not from nerves, but from the realization of something so much bigger. Something so much realer. 

And then, without even thinking, he steps forward like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and closes the small space between you before wrapping his arms around you. He pulls you in, slow but certain, with a gentleness that catches you by surprise. 

You freeze, breath catching, but only for a second. Because then—like a reflex, you melt into him, your own arms tightening around him.

Holding onto him just as much as he’s holding onto you.

Neither of you say anything.

There’s a quiet calm between you two—no need for words, just the rhythm of your heart beating against his own. Steady, calming, like it’s syncing with his, like they’ve always known each other’s pace.

Like they’ve been moving in tandem all along, even when neither of you realized it. 

And in a way, maybe that’s just how it’s always been with you two—balancing on the fine line between pushing and pulling, between sharp words and lingering glances, between pretending you didn’t care, yet feeling everything all at once. 

So easy to cross, so easy to blur, so easy to mistake for something else. 

Maybe you spent all this time thinking you were standing on opposite sides, only to realize you were always moving toward the same place.

And now, as one of his arms moves across your back, the other threading gently through your hair, holding the back of your head against his chest like he never wants to let you go, his heartbeat still steady against yours, you know for certain—

You were never meant to stay on one side. 

You were always meant to cross it. 

Life is unpredictable, uncontrollable, and chaotic.

Lee Heeseung’s life? Heeseung’s life is that times ten, with an extra sprinkle of what-is-even-happening-anymore?

However—

There are three things—three sacred constants—that keep Heeseung from spiraling into total madness.

The first?

Insomnia.

Not by choice, of course.

The second?

Extra Spicy Hellfire ramen and coffee milk.

Yes, it’s a weird combo. And no, he still doesn’t care.

And the third?

You.

And honestly?

You’re the only one he really needs.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・

the end! if you made it to the end, i'll ship u some extra spicy hellfire ramen & coffee milk rn ! <3 luv u mwahmwahmwah !

<3, addie

m.list here!

tag list pt.1 (luv u all):

@xylatox @vivimura @leehsngs @puma-riki @lezzleeferguson-120 @enhaprettystars @laurradoesloveu @sievenderz @somuchdard @kristynaaah @heejamas @jiyeons-closet @sagegreenhairclip @betda @ineedsomezzz @motherscrustytoenailclippings @bussolares @soobnuuy @deluluscenarios @chrrific @vvenusoncasual @rairaiblog @mwahvvis @lveegsoi @desssss-0 @hoonkishoe @sunhyeswife @ilovbeshotaro @dearestdreamies @starry-eyed-bimbo @planetmarlowe @lovialy @ambi01 @elairah @therealmrsbahng @lov4hoon @hollxe1 @lovenha7 @ilovhoonie @coqhee @i03jae @letwiiparkjay @manuosorioh @mintysunoo @amiraazzz @renaishun @enhadd @ikeulove @starniras @heartheejake @zaycie

(bolded didn't let me tag, sorry :( )

[cameronsbabydoll]

tagging along to sexist!rafe and your sons boys trip ♡

warnings: misogyny, emotional neglect, subtle sexism, dismissiveness toward female-coded labor, maternal isolation, gender role conflict

wc: 1,000 — a/n: this is pretty sad guys :(((

the car hums along the mountain road, tires crunching gravel, and you’re tucked in the passenger seat, hands folded neatly in your lap. rafe’s gripping the wheel, jaw tight, eyes hidden behind sunglasses. your two boys, jake and noah, are in the back, giggling over some game on their tablets. you’d packed their bags with care—snacks, extra socks, bug spray, the works. you’d even slipped in a few of your own things, hopeful, when rafe grudgingly agreed you could come on their “daddy-son trip.”

“didn’t think you’d actually wanna come,” rafe muttered that morning, tossing the cooler in the trunk. “this is a guy thing, y’know.” his tone wasn’t mean, just dismissive, like you were a kid begging for a seat at the grown-up table. but you’d smiled, bright and sweet, and said, “i just wanna be with my boys!” he’d rolled his eyes but didn’t say no, so here you are, trying to fit into their world.

you glance at rafe, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. “the lake looks so pretty,” you say, voice soft, pointing out the window at the sparkling water. “maybe we could all swim later?”

he grunts. “boys don’t wanna splash around with their mom. they’re here to fish, maybe hike. man stuff.” his words sting, but you keep your smile, nodding like you get it. you don’t want to push too hard. you’re here, that’s what matters.

at the campsite, rafe’s all business, barking orders. “jake, grab the rods. noah, help with the tent.” you hop out of the car, smoothing your sundress, and start unloading the cooler. “i can help with the tent, too,” you offer, voice bubbly, grabbing a pole.

rafe snorts, not looking up. “nah, we got it. why don’t you… i dunno, set up the food or something?” his tone says stay in your lane, and your cheeks flush. you nod, retreating to the picnic table, arranging sandwiches and fruit with shaky hands. jake runs over, all freckles and energy. “mom, can i have a juice?”

“course, sweetheart,” you say, handing him one, ruffling his hair. he grins, and for a second, you feel like you belong. then rafe calls, “jake, quit messing around, c’mere!” and your son scampers off.

the day drags. rafe and the boys fish at the lake’s edge, laughing, bonding. you watch from a blanket, book in hand, but you can’t focus. you want to be in there, part of their world. so you try. you walk over, barefoot, skirt swishing. “can i try fishing?” you ask, voice small but hopeful.

rafe raises an eyebrow, lips twitching. “you? fish?” he chuckles, and the boys giggle, like it’s the funniest thing. “baby, you’d probably scream if you caught something. just… go make yourself useful, yeah? maybe start the campfire.”

your stomach twists, but you laugh it off, tucking hair behind your ear. “okay, sure.” you head back, fumbling with the firewood. you’ve never started a fire before—rafe always does it at home—but you try, stacking logs, stuffing newspaper underneath. it takes forever, and the matches keep going out. you’re kneeling there, smudged with soot, when rafe and the boys come back.

“jesus,” rafe mutters, seeing the sad pile of unlit wood. “gimme that.” he takes over, and the fire’s roaring in minutes. you bite your lip, feeling useless, but you try again. “i made s’mores though!” you say, holding up graham crackers and marshmallows, voice bright. noah cheers, but rafe just says, “hope you didn’t burn the chocolate, too.”

dinner’s quiet. you eat your hot dog, listening to rafe tell the boys about his fishing days, all bravado and big catches. you want to share something, anything, but when you open your mouth—“i used to camp with my dad, we’d—” rafe cuts you off. “yeah, well, this is about us now. pass the mustard.”

you do, silently. the boys are happy, though, and that keeps you going. later, under the stars, you try one last time. you grab a flashlight and the camp’s trail map. “there’s a little path to a lookout,” you say, eyes shining. “we could all go, see the stars from up high?”

rafe sighs, rubbing his neck. “sweetheart, it’s late. boys need sleep, not some midnight hike. why don’t you just… clean up the dishes or something?” his voice is softer now, like he’s trying to be patient, but it still lands like a slap. you nod, swallowing hard, and start gathering plates.

as you scrub the dishes by the campfire’s glow, you hear jake whisper to noah, “mom’s trying really hard, huh?” noah nods, and your heart lifts, just a little. you might not fit into rafe’s idea of this trip, but your boys see you. and maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.

[puck-luck]

ask: happy 1st birthday!!!! may i request a cappuccino with cinnamon & peppermint & cold foam for luke (praise kink & friends to lovers & mutual masturbation)

answer: here you go! it's... more plot than porn, i guess.

Luke is somewhere upstairs and he’s been there long enough that the boys have voted to send you out looking for him. You climb the stairs loudly, stomping your feet so that Luke can hear you coming.

Yet, when you knock on his bedroom door and push it open, Luke scrambles on the bed like he never heard a thing. You freeze with your hand on the doorknob, eyes bugging out of your head at the sight before you.

He’s since pulled his bedsheets over his lap, but you caught a glimpse of his throbbing cock and his long bare body before he could cover up. The image of it is printed in your brain.

“I’m so sorry,” you rush out. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“Oh my God, get out!” Luke hisses, pulling the covers all the way over his chest, face burning red. 

You leave and he doesn’t make eye contact with you for the next three days.

Normally you and Luke are as thick as thieves. Everyone notices the tension between you following this incident, but no one says anything. It just drifts above you like a heavy cloud.

Until day four.

When Luke walks in on you.

You’re two fingers deep in your pussy and your other palm is flat on your chest, fingers inching up to apply pressure to the base of your neck for that extra kick. 

He opens the door and freezes just like you did four days prior, both making you jump and embarrassing you. 

“Luke, oh my God, close the door!” you demand, clutching at the duvet and hiding your body from his sight.

“Right,” Luke agrees absentmindedly, turning around and shutting the door. He’s still in the room.

“What the fuck are you doing? Why are you still in here?” you ask, raising your voice. This is distinctly humiliating, probably the worst experience of your life, and Luke is still there.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” Luke tells you, reaching into his pants and cupping himself.

Your eyes go lower and your face gets hot. You’re covered up, hand still wet from your own juices, but Luke is very obviously touching himself with his hand down his pants. “What the fuck are you doing?” you repeat.

“The universe clearly wants us to see each other getting off,” Luke says with a shrug. You can hear his slick tugs clicking in time with his motions. “So I’m just getting it out of the way now.”

The comment seems backhanded. He’s standing there, jerking himself off, making you uncomfortable, and making this situation worse because it’s just something Luke needs to “get out of the way.” 

“Luke, this is weird,” you complain, feeling your skin crawl.

“Super weird,” Luke agrees. “But it’s not like I haven’t imagined having you here when I come. Having you here isn’t different.”

You furrow your brow. “What? You’ve imagined me?”

“Yeah,” Luke says. “It’s not like you haven’t imagined me that way. Jack told me.”

Now you’re seeing red. “Jack told you?” You were drunk when you admitted it, drunk after a night out with the Devils, and Luke had left his suit jacket on your shoulders because you felt cold. His scent surrounded you and you admitted that you would fuck Luke if given the chance. Clearly, Jack thinks that’s something worth revealing.

“Is that why you invited me to the lake house?” you ask, the pieces clicking together in your mind. “What the hell, Luke?”

“I invited you here because I wanted you here,” Luke replies. He’s sufficiently hard now, drawing his hand from his pants. The tent there is mouth-watering, even though you’re confused and humiliated. “Well, that and I wanted to see you in a bikini. You looked so good the other day, that’s why I disappeared upstairs. It’s probably why the boys sent you to find me.”

“You were jacking off to me?”

“I had moaned your name about two seconds before you entered the room,” Luke says. “I thought I summoned you.” His eyes rake over the lumpy bedsheets, trying to decipher your form beneath it. “Are you wet?”

“Not since you walked through the door,” you reply. “You scared me.”

“Let me make it up to you,” Luke says. “Let me see that beautiful body of yours. I’ll even beg if you want me to.”

[fairykitten]

Hideaway Heart

Daddy!Rafe x Mama!Sofia x Little!Reader

Genre: Fluff, comfort, angst/resolution, age regression

Summary: Reader throws a tantrum for Sofia and Rafe yells at her which scares her.

*not proof read*

It was one of those days.

You didn’t know why you felt cranky. Your tummy was fine, your stuffies were all accounted for, and Rafe and Sofia had even let you have extra syrup on your waffles. But your chest felt tight and your skin felt itchy from the inside out — not from clothes or anything, but from feelings. Big ones.

Sofia was trying her best. “Sweetheart, no, you can’t pour juice on your cereal,” she said softly, guiding the cup out of your tiny hands.

“Wanna do it m’self!” you snapped, tears prickling your eyes.

“I know, baby,” she said patiently. “But juice and cereal don’t go together.”

You slapped the table.

She flinched slightly. “Okay, that’s enough. Let’s calm down—”

“NO!” you shouted. “I don’t wanna calm down!”

From across the room, Rafe’s chair scraped loudly against the floor.

You froze.

“Are you serious right now?” he said, voice sharper than usual. “You do not get to scream at your mama like that. What did we say about being respectful, huh?”

You shrank back instantly. Your breathing got shallow.

“I’m talking to you!” he barked, frustrated, stepping forward. “You’ve been a brat all morning and I’m sick of it.”

And that was it.

Your little body trembled, and without another word, you turned and ran—small feet pattering quickly down the hallway, tears blurring your vision. You pushed open the hall closet door, climbed inside, and slammed it shut, squeezing yourself behind a stack of towels and hanging coats.

You cried.

You screamed.

“Daaaaddy!” you wailed, not knowing what you wanted, only that your chest hurt and your head was loud and nothing made sense and you were scared.

Sofia’s voice came not long after.

“Baby? Sweetheart, it’s Mama. Can you open the door for me?”

You didn’t answer. You sobbed harder, hiccupping, fists pressed to your eyes.

“I know Daddy scared you, little love. He shouldn’t have yelled, okay? I’m so sorry. You didn’t deserve that.”

More crying. It hurt. Everything hurt.

Sofia sat outside the closet. For a long time. You lost track of how many times she whispered gentle things through the door. Her voice never rose. She never got impatient. Just stayed with you.

After what felt like forever, she tried again. “Can I come in, angel?”

You whimpered, then nodded, even though she couldn’t see it. The door creaked open a second later, and she gently squeezed into the small space with you, wrapping her arms around you like the softest, warmest blanket.

“I got you now, baby,” she murmured, stroking your hair as you cried into her shoulder. “Shhh… Mama’s here. You’re safe. You’re so safe.”

You clung to her like your life depended on it.

She rocked you until your sobs got quieter… then slower… until your breathing evened out and your tiny fingers loosened their grip on her shirt. You drifted off right there, in the safety of her arms, inside a dark closet filled with soft things and love.

—————————————————————————

You woke up in the big bed later, wrapped in warm blankets and the scent of Sofia’s shampoo. The room was quiet, dimly lit by the glow of fairy lights they’d strung up just for you.

Then, a rustle.

Rafe appeared at your side, eyes red, looking like he hadn’t moved in hours.

“Hey, bug,” he whispered, kneeling by the bed. “Can I talk to you?”

You didn’t say anything, just blinked at him.

His voice cracked. “I’m so sorry I yelled. I shouldn’t have… ever. You didn’t deserve that. I wasn’t being a good daddy, and I scared you. That breaks my heart.”

You looked at him, lip quivering.

“C’mere?” he asked softly.

You hesitated… then slowly reached your arms out.

He scooped you into a warm, tight hug instantly, rocking you gently.

“Daddy loves you so much, baby girl,” he whispered into your hair. “More than anything in the world. You’re my whole heart, okay?”

You nodded, cheeks damp but calmer now.

He kissed your forehead, cheeks, nose, and even your chin, making you let out a tiny sleepy giggle. “There’s my little lovebug.”

Sofia smiled from across the room, watching as Rafe laid back on the bed, holding you securely against his chest while you nuzzled into him.

“Can we stay like this forever?” you mumbled.

“Forever and ever,” Rafe said.

“Promise,” Sofia added, joining you both under the blanket.

And in their arms, you felt the safest you ever had.

[alchemistc]

Just gonna say from the top I have not been paying much attention to 9-1-1 spoilers or spec so I'm coming at this from a place of Lou posted a rooftop pic around the same time there was bts of 9-1-1 filming on a rooftop. I know nothing else. I also haven't watched past 8x6 so 🤷‍♀️

something in the orange

Buck has never really been one for a lot of quiet introspection. He's done the therapy, worked at it, worked on himself - but at the end of the day his downtime typically means he's got a book in hand, a Substack to dive into, his phone open to distract his brain long enough for his body to relax. He doesn't do quiet time. He needs to have something to do with his hands, needs his eyes focused on something other than a horizon line.

He's at the tail-end of a q-word shift and Ravi's already inventoried half the station, there hasn't been anything to clean for at least an hour, and it's not like he can go bug Eddie to keep himself occupied.

(And that's a train of thought better left for the scones he's gonna bake tonight, even if Eddie's kitchen is laid out terribly for baking.)

The sunset is gorgeous.

It's not - quiet, exactly. You don't really get quiet, in LA, at any time of the day or night, but it's calm. Peaceful. Traffic runs smoothly, for a given value of smooth, down below. There's a soft breeze. The sun has warmed the rooftops of the city all day, and that extra hour baked them well, so even as it sets the gravel beneath his feet radiates just the right amount of heat.

Buck tilts his head back to watch a fluffy cloud drift across the sky, and takes stock.

He's a fucking mess, but that seems to be beside the point, right now.

Chris is pissed at Eddie but reluctantly speaking to him, and it seems like maybe there's something going on with Eddie's mom but it's not like Eddie comes to him until -

Nope.

Maddie's recovering, and the baby is fine. She'll scar, though, and Buck doesn't quite know how to reconcile that. She's been bruised, bloody, terrified, mad as hell, out of her mind and settling back into it but there's never been lasting physical evidence before and he's -

Making it all about himself, again.

Bobby and Athena are circling in on a place to live, finally, and he's happy for them, ecstatic, can't wait to watch Bobby man a grill again and have everyone - well, mostly everyone -

New line of thought, actually.

Chim seems to be holding it together extraordinarily well, considering, but Buck's not entirely sure he'd know otherwise: he's got Hen for that.

Must be nice, he thinks, and then immediately slams a foot down in an attempt to not be such a selfish, miserable bastard.

Two nights ago he'd watched Taylor Kelly do a special news report covering the wildfire recovery efforts, and she'd looked good - beautiful, healthy, with that fire behind her eyes when a story has some juice to it. And he'd watched, start to finish, and he'd selfishly wondered if she ever actually thought about him, other than an aside about the guy who'd kissed another woman and then railroaded her into living with him.

And he never knows what the hell is going on with Ravi but apparently he bought another block of condos.

So it's like -

It's just -

He's so fucking lonely.

It's not a new feeling, exactly. He's been on his own for a lot of his life. Always latching on to whoever holds eye contact long enough for him to start an info-dump. But all of his people are reaching all of these milestones, or dealing with their own shit, and even though he's made an attempt, the casual hookups just aren't doing much in the department of letting Buck unload all of his issues like he wants.

Which is why everyone ends up leaving, apparently. He takes too much, demands too much, makes things about himself, and it's not the first time he's had to square up with that but it still fucking hurts. He still doesn't know how to fix it.

Gold melts across the skyline as the sun dips low low low, and the door to the roof opens up, and Buck tips his head back again. Closes his eyes and tries to place the footfalls making their way across to him. Feels his chest tighten around the face that materializes behind his eyes and swallows it back, because that isn't happening.

He keeps his eyes closed and enjoys the last streak of heat as the sun dips below the horizon.

Gravel crunches just behind him.

"Hey," says a voice, soft and warm and always just a little surprisingly pitchy for the barrel of a chest it's coming out of.

When he blinks his eyes back open he's greeted with the underside of Tommy Kinard's chin. In the fading light the dip of his cleft is more pronounced, and his hair has streaks of pink in the barrel of the curl, light bouncing off the clouds and making a home on Tommy's crown, and Buck has to bite back the urge to shove out of his chair and tuck his whole body into the circle of his arms. They're not - this isn't -

Tommy's hand drops, warm and huge and comforting in a way Buck always leaned into like a cat, to the dip of Buck's shoulder.

He can't really find any words. He's had - so fucking many words, things he wants to say, things he wants someone to hear, but now they're all stuck in his throat or lost to the breeze kicking up around him.

God, Buck has missed him.

Tommy's eyes dart back and forth across his face, jaw tight as he takes in the sight, his posture all sorts of uncomfortable, and Buck just wants -

Just five minutes. Just. Enough time to watch the pinks fade to purple and blue. He tips his head back just enough that his skull meets the give of Tommy's stomach, and Tommy's hand squeezes.

They watch the sky streak with color and fade, and Buck thinks: if this is it, at least it's a softer landing than he'd had before.

[p0orbaby]

Would you do a blurb with Leah getting the flu while your on holiday?

i went with stomach flu cause i’ve already done a few colds

TW for mentions of vomit

-

This was not the dream getaway you’d planned. The Maldives had promised pristine beaches, crystal-clear waters, and candlelit dinners. Instead, you’re crouched in the bathroom of your luxury villa, holding Leah’s hair back as she dry-heaves into the toilet.

“Kill me,” she croaks between retches, voice echoing mournfully off the marble tiles.

“You’re not dying, Leah,” you say, even though she looks very much like someone auditioning for a low-budget zombie film. Sweat sticks to her forehead, and her skin is pale with a greenish tinge.

“Feels like I am,” she mutters, slumping against the wall. Her eyes are half-closed, the faint light overhead casting unflattering shadows on her gaunt face.

You pass her the glass of water you’d been holding, which she takes with trembling hands. “Sip, don’t gulp,” you remind her.

“I know how to drink water,” she snaps weakly, then immediately coughs like a toddler who’s just choked on juice.

“Clearly”

You lean back on your heels, surveying the scene. There’s a pile of damp towels in the corner (your failed attempt to mop up earlier mishaps) and an untouched plate of crackers on the sink ledge (your optimistic effort to reintroduce food).

“You’ve ruined my holiday, you know,” you say lightly, breaking the silence.

Her head snaps up, eyes wide with indignation. “Your holiday? I’m the one throwing up my soul here!”

“And I’m the one living with it,” you counter, smirking.

“Wow,” she deadpans, leaning back against the tiles. “Someone call the Vatican, my saintly partner is really showing their true colours”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Sorry, would you like me to write a sonnet about how much I love mopping up sick at 2 a.m.?”

She tries to glare at you but ends up burping instead. You both pause, her face shifting from mortification to panic.

“Bathroom bin,” you say quickly, shoving it into her lap just in time for another round of misery.

By the time she’s done, she’s groaning like an extra in a war film. “If I survive this, I’m never eating shellfish again”

“That’s what you said after your last stomach bug,” you remind her.

“This time I mean it,” she mumbles, slumping sideways until her head rests against your thigh.

You stroke her hair absentmindedly, feeling a flicker of guilt for teasing her earlier. Sure, she’s dramatic, but there’s something endearing about how utterly pitiful she becomes when she’s ill.

After a few minutes, she speaks again, voice muffled against your leg. “You’re going to wash those pyjamas, right?”

You look down at the now-questionable state of your favourite sleepwear and sigh. “You owe me new ones”

She grins faintly, despite everything. “Deal”

[yamumsyadadd]

Mami and mama

It felt natural coming out of your mouth, like you’d always called them that but it wasn’t until you were home the you realised. 

It was coming to the end of the season, which meant warmer weather and less school, less football too. A big holiday with Alexia and Jenni was planned, Leila and Mapi would be there after too. 

It had been about 8 months since Alexia and Jenni took you home. There were a lot of hiccups along the way and they truly realised that you needed extra love and reminders to be a kid. 

—————————————————————————

You were sitting there, cris-cross applesauce, hands neatly on your thighs, waiting for alexia or Jenni to let you out of your room for the day. 

It was something that started at your old foster home, unless the adults said you could leave your room, you were to sit and wait. You could only leave if your bed was made, your limited toys cleaned up and you were dressed and ready for the day. If you didn’t do it then boy were you in trouble. 

Alexia noticed how quiet you were in the morning, you usually didn’t leave your room without permission and even when it was granted you stood in the corner of the dining room staring longingly at the table. 

“Are you hungry Mariquita?” 

“Sí.” 

You still didn’t move. Almost like a solider on post. It confused her for a while. You were four, but it didn’t look it. You were lanky like Jenni but incredibly skinny, almost too skinny. Your social worker had mentioned that you were underweight and the paediatrician suggested six meals a day that were smaller in size. 

Every morning was the same breakfast, porridge with honey or cinnamon, a bowl of fruit, a piece of toast and two drinks: one orange juice and one milk. At first, you ate and drank it all. Often making yourself sick due to the amount of food, but slowly Alexia and Jenni were able to convince you that it was okay to eat a bit of everything, as long as you were truly full. Jenni usually ate the leftovers anyway. 

They didn’t love taking you to training, but since the event with Eli, it was their best option. After a few weeks the club agreed to turn an old office into a play room of sorts. Alexia and Jenni then spent even longer finding a carer for you. Someone who would be willing to be patient, without be condescending. Someone who would help teach you how to play, to be a kid. That’s what they truly emphasised throughout the interviews. You didn’t know how to play. 

Isabel was their final choice. She was young, younger than Alexia wanted but you took to her quickly. She taught you how to play but also how to paint, how to do simple maths and you taught her about the violin. Like how the modern violin has been around for at least 500 years or that they were usually made from spruce or maple wood. 

At no point did Isabel ask about your Mami or papi, or about foster homes. She didn’t make you talk about the bad stuff but she did help you learn about feelings and what to do when you were having big feelings. It didn’t take long for everyone around you to notice the difference. You were smart, incredibly so, and even though you were shy around certain people, you started to flourish around the adults to deemed safe, two of those being Mapi and Leila. 

—————————————————————————

School had been out for two weeks and Isabel had called in sick, catching the bug you had during the week. That meant that Alexia and Jenni had to bring you pitchside for the day. You’d packed your bag with a few books, your maths sheet Isabel and you were working on and your disposable camera Mapi gave you last week. 

Jenni slathered your face in sunscreen, letting out a satisfied hum when she was done and laughing at the frown on your face, before she ran off she pulled the brim of your hat down so you couldn’t see. 

After you got comfortable, your snack box to the left with your water bottle, your stuffed dog that looked like Nala (that’s exactly why you got it), you started your maths sheet. It was easy work, and you flew through it. 

You didn’t noticed the team had taken a break until the class clown sat down. 

“Hola Mari!” Mapis cheerful voice put a smile on your face immediately, “what are you doing?” 

“Maths! See!” You shoved the paper in her face as you sat up. 

“Wow! You got these all right, you’re the smartest girl in the world Mari!” 

“Mami and mama said that too.” Taking a big mouthful of water you went to move to your snack box before Mapi grabbed your hand. 

“Who?” 

“Mami and mama?” 

“Who are they?” 

“don’t be silly Mapi! You know Mami and mama. They are right over there!” You pointed to Alexia and Jenni who were both drinking and chatting with the other girls. 

“Right, yes of course. Silly me.” Mapi did the same annoying move with your hat before she was gone. You went started reading your new book that Mami had picked up. 

By the end of the day you were tired and your skin had the yucky residue left over from the sunscreen, your snacks were gone and your water was almost done too. 

You were in the middle of a game of tag with Leila and Mapi when it happened. Mapi was in, chasing you around the pitch while most the team watched on with smiles on their faces. Leila, forever the traitor, had scoped you up in her arms so Mapi could tag you. 

“Mami! Mama! Help me. Lele is cheating again!” Everyone froze. Leila wasn’t sure what to do and shared a shocked look with Mapi. As soon she as arms relaxed enough you got yourself out and ran towards your Mami and Mama. Everyone just watched you, no one dared to move. 

“Mariquita? What did you call us?” Jenni got on her knees so she was eye level with you. 

“Mami and mama?” You titled your head at her, truly confused. 

“We are your Mami and mama?” 

“Yes silly! You’re mama, she’s Mami and I’m your mariquita. That’s what Abuela says!” Alexia had turned around, not wanting you to see her cry. The fact that you thought of them as your Mami and mama made them feel on top of the world. 

“You’re our mariquita. Our beautiful, once in a lifetime mariquita. Is that right Ale?” She raised an eyebrow at the other woman who was hastily wiping her tears. 

“Sí, sí. All ours.” The hug that was shared between the three of you very quickly turned into a group hug. Every member of the team joining in and subtlety wiping their tears. 

Once safely tucked into bed that night, Alexia finally let all her tears fall. Jenni held her tight as she cried, shooting a text off to her mother in law. After all, she knew Alexia would’ve spoken to her about hers hopes and fears for the little girl. 

She called us Mami and mama today. Thank you

[somber-sapphic]

Hi! I have a request for a WandaNat x Reader fic. The reader is on a mission with Tony and Steve that quickly goes south. Additionally, the reader comes down with the flu. Steve and Tony have been arguing over how best to care for the reader. Wanda and Nat are sent for extraction to pick up the three of them, but they are unaware that the reader is sick. When they finally arrive, they rush back to the compound to get the reader into the Med Bay and ultimately nurse them back to health.

In Good Hands

〖Summary: Natasha and Wanda comfort you while you're stuck in the MedBay〗

〖Word Count: 900〗

〖Pairing: WandaNat x Sick R〗

〖Notes: This isn't super focused on Tony and Steve (I don't write men) but I hope you like it!〗

☾Masterlists☽

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

You coughed and turned your head, the crinkling of the MedBay pillow case ringing throughout the all too quiet room. Natasha had gone to change into something more comfortable and Wanda was chewing out Tony and Steve in the hallway. 

You could see her standing there, one hand on her hip and the other waving in the air, tendrils of magic trailing her fingers. The look on their faces was enough for you to know that she was digging into them, you didn’t need to hear her words to assume how angry she was. 

Another cough sprung from your lips, this one harsher than the last. You were pretty out of it from whatever drugs they had given you, something for the pain something else for the fever, and whatever they put in the tea they made you drink. It was presumably some sort of flu medicine, you couldn’t think of what else it might be, but it wasn’t a big deal to you. Not much was a big deal now that you were safe. 

The mission had been rough. It wasn't supposed to be. Part of it was your fault but most of it was the guy's macho attitudes. You’d tried to convince them that confrontation was a stupid idea, you were there to collect intel not to start a fight, but they hadn’t listened. Even worse was while they weren’t listening to you they were also arguing with each other about the best approach. 

A big part of why you didn’t want to engage came from how you were feeling. You’d picked up a bug in New York, something you thought would pass in time, but it didn't. Of course, it didn’t. You had tried to shake it, getting extra sleep, drinking a ton of orange juice, and you’d even broken down and taken cold medicine.

The medicine had worked well enough and since it was supposed to be an easy mission you had decided to go after promising Natasha and Wanda that you would be safe. They still had been reluctant to let you go but they also knew that there was nothing they could do to change your mind. 

“Idiots, both of them,” Wanda growled stomping into the room. Her eyes were flickering red in frustration. Her anger visibly dissipated when she returned to your side and rested a hand on your shoulder, shaking her head slightly. Your wrist was in a plaster cast and you had a bandage on your leg to cover the graze of a bullet. Considering how bad it had gotten you were lucky to have only come out with that much. 

“Mhm. Men are stupid.” You agreed, tilting your head to rest on her hand. She laughed quietly and kissed your forehead, holding you close for a few seconds. Every time you went on a mission you missed your girlfriends so much, it was nice to be near them even if it meant you were stuck in the MedBay. 

“When’s Nat comin’ back?” You asked, pulling back to look into her now brown eyes. The door creaked open and you glanced over, smiling when you saw the other woman walk into the room. 

“Somebody talking about me?” She came to your other side and gave you a big hug, being careful not to jostle you. She’d seen the bruises when you came in and it had broken her heart. There were so many times that she wished you and Wanda weren’t Avengers, she wanted so badly to keep you both safe but it seemed that would never be possible. 

“I talked to Fury, he says you’re off duty until that arm is healed. Probably going to be six weeks. On the bright side though we can take you back to our room as soon as this IV is done.” She had taken the words right out of your mouth, sometimes it was like she was the mind-reading witch and not Wanda. 

The assassin climbed into the small hospital bed, laying on her side so that you had enough room but she could still hold you. It wasn’t abnormal for Natasha to show extra physical affection after the three of you had been apart for a long time, she was better at showing how she felt rather than telling. Emotions were not her strong suit. 

“How are you feeling love?” Wanda asked, taking a seat in the uncomfortable plastic chair that could be found in every hospital room. You reached out for her hand, wanting to be touching both of them. Natasha had her arm wrapped around your waist and nestled her head into your shoulder. 

“M’okay. Sleepy, stuffy.” You sniffled to prove your point further and blinked slowly at Wanda, trying to stay awake. She was pretty. Your girlfriends were so pretty. Natasha was warm, you wished you were in your real bed instead of the hard hospital bed but it was better with them. 

“Yeah, that doesn't surprise me. Close your eyes, we’ll be here when you wake up.” Nat murmured, kissing behind your ear. You nodded and sneezed into your blanket, grumbling slightly. The pain meds were helping but the sudden jerk of the sneeze had hurt. 

“I’m not going on any missions with them ever again.” 

“Agreed.” They said in unison, making you smile. You snuggled into bed, careful not to bump your IV and shut your eyes. You fell asleep to the sound of a heartbeat monitor and your girlfriends talking quietly to each other. You caught a few words before slipping into unconsciousness, most of them about keeping you safe. 

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[daycare-care]

Summer themed activity post!

Coloring pages

ACTIVITY SHEETS

ACTIVITIES TO DO…

Play some roblox games themed around summer Minecraft or animal crossing is always fun! swim in a pool and play mermaids/fish. Get a tiny pool and fill it with sand water balloon fight! take a walk, what all can you see?

QUESTS

The Great Ice Cream Rescue

Story: The sun is melting the magical ice cream kingdom! Quest:

Design your own ice cream cone with craft supplies or draw one.

Make a real or pretend ice cream snack.

“Save” the kingdom by putting the ice cream in the freezer or drawing a new chilly world.

Seashell Searcher Mission

Story: The beach fairies lost their favorite shiny shells. Quest:

Hide some toy shells, buttons, or shiny things around your room or yard.

Go on a treasure hunt and collect them in a basket or sand bucket.

Bonus: Decorate a paper treasure map!

Lemonade Stand Manager

Story: Your lemonade stand is the best in the land — can you open it today? Quest:

Make real or pretend lemonade (even water with lemon slices counts!).

Decorate a sign for your stand.

“Serve” your plushies or yourself as customers.

Picnic Party Planner

Story: The plushies want a sunny day picnic! Quest:

Pack a small picnic with snacks or toys.

Lay out a blanket indoors or outside.

Pretend to eat and play games with your plush friends.

Sandcastle Sorcerer

Story: A magical crab needs your help building a sandcastle strong enough to keep waves out! Quest:

Build a sandcastle (with sand, play dough, blocks, or kinetic sand).

Decorate it with shells, small toys, or paper flags.

Take a picture or draw what it looks like!

Popsicle Potion Crafter

Story: You’ve been chosen to create the ultimate summer popsicle potion! Quest:

Mix juice, yogurt, or soda into a cup or mold and freeze (or pretend).

Create a name and label for your new flavor.

Present your potion to a plushie judge!

SNACKS AND DRINKS RECIPES!!!

1. Watermelon Wands

You’ll Need:

Watermelon slices

Star-shaped cookie cutter (or any fun shape)

Skewers or popsicle sticks

How to Make:

Cut the watermelon into thick slices.

Use the cookie cutter to cut out stars (or hearts, etc.).

Stick them on skewers = magic fruit wands!

Little Extra: Dip the edges in yogurt and freeze for a cool treat.

2. Rainbow Fruit Kabobs

You’ll Need:

Strawberries, oranges, pineapple, green grapes, blueberries, purple grapes

Skewers or straws

How to Make:

Line the fruit up in rainbow order on the skewer.

Serve with yogurt or whipped cream for dipping.

Little Extra: Name each kabob like a magical spell — “Sunshine Snack Stick!”

3. Frozen Yogurt Bark

You’ll Need:

Yogurt (vanilla or fruity)

Mixed berries

Sprinkles or mini chocolate chips

How to Make:

Spread yogurt onto a lined tray (like frosting a cake).

Sprinkle fruit and fun stuff on top.

Freeze for a few hours, then break into pieces.

Little Extra: Pretend it’s fairy ice shards from a summer snowstorm!

4. Bug Trail Mix

You’ll Need:

Pretzels, cereal, mini marshmallows, raisins, chocolate chips, gummy worms

How to Make:

Mix it all in a big bowl.

Scoop into small snack bags or a cup.

Name your mix something silly like “Worm Wiggle Crunch!”

Little Extra: Make labels for your own bug-themed snack stand.

5. Lemonade Popsicles

You’ll Need:

Lemonade (or any juice)

Sliced strawberries or blueberries

Popsicle molds (or paper cups & sticks)

How to Make:

Drop fruit into the molds.

Pour in lemonade.

Freeze for 4+ hours and enjoy!

Little Extra: Use different juices for a rainbow version.

[cinnbar-bun]

Gifts OP Characters Give you for Valentine’s Day

Rating: SFW

A/n: happy Valentine’s Day!! Enjoy this short little thing. Vday is kinda messy for me cuz I’m allergic to chocolate so 😭 Oofie lmao. Chopper is platonic only!!!

Luffy: He is very earnest and most of his “affection” is shown through actions, so he’ll probably be more physically affectionate and want you by his side all day. Would gift you some food to share and maybe a single flower (he accidentally crushed it but it’s so cute)

Zoro: Your favorite drink. He probably would drink lots of sake, but if you don’t drink sake/alcohol in general, he buys you your favorite soda, coffee, tea, or sparkling juice etc. to drink beside you. Prefers a more romantic gesture of drinking at night alone with you under the stars.

Nami: Chocolate covered tangerines. Or if you’re allergic to both/either/don’t care for those, she gives you a nice piece of matching jewelry to wear with her.

Usopp: A heart-shaped device. Dunno what that device would specifically be but it’s probably based on whatever you needed and he decided to spruce it up for you.

Sanji: Mr. Prince does everything. Bugs you two dozen glitter roses, large teddy bears, and heart shaped everythings. Gives the gifts to you all day and makes sure to make a romantic vday dinner with you. Lots of kisses.

Chopper: cotton candy!!! And it’s pink!!! And kinda looks like a heart!! (Please ignore the way he wants to take a bite of it… or don’t and just forfeit all your possessions to him).

Robin: A lovely scrapbook and some flowers. She likes homemade gifts for you and her, so she made sure to buy those for you to always carry the memories you two shared with each other.

Franky: a miniature boat with figures of you and him he dubs the ‘love boat’. It’s so cheesy but it’s so expertly crafted and made you can’t help but be l happy about it.

Brook: a new song just for you. Brook is always happy to perform for you, and you’re his biggest muse so he’s always got you on the brain. He crafts a love song just to express his feelings for you.

Jinbei: a nice new tea and some desserts for you two to indulge in and relax with. Sweets are always better with you <3

Buggy: New makeup and a matching outfit with him. He loves when your outfits complement his so he wants to have you dress up in a similar fashion to him!

Mihawk: Nice homemade meals and a romantic dinner. He’s extra attentive and romantic today, making sure to pepper you in kisses and hold you close to him.

Crocodile: Expensive gifts made with gold and lots of flowers. Excess is the name, and that’s Crocodile’s game. He is happy to present you with a room full of gifts and then murmur to you he is happy to have you beside him the rest of the day (and night).

Law: Says he doesn’t believe in this yet he got you nice (and a healthier version) of some of your favorite foods. Also some flowers too, which he extensively looked up the meaning of so he could confess the feelings he’s too tsun to admit (if you care to notice-)

Corazon: Says you don’t need a gift, since your love is the best gift in the world. Just kidding, he gets you flowers and offers to take the day off to just do whatever you want.

Doflamingo: Awwwww you were expecting flowers? Maybe even chocolates? No, he’s got you a new outfit and you better be ready soon cuz he’s got a reservation at a fancy restaurant for the both of you.

Shanks: Also says you don’t need a gift because he’s the greatest thing ever and your love is just so strong with each other and- okay okay, he’s being serious now. He got you that one trinket you were eyeing at the island back there that you thought he didn’t notice you were eyeing but he did because he’s like that.

Beckman: Gruff man who is offering to take care of you today and make sure you’re completely relaxed and not lifting a finger. If the others try to get you to work, he’s lecturing them. Also wants to just spend time with you quietly.

Ace: Big teddy bear!!! It’s so cute!!! Just like you!!! He had to get it!! Might also accidentally set it on fire from getting flustered when you kiss his cheek.

Sabo: Gentleman- he gets you traditional gifts associated with Valentines Day, but then offers to take you to an untraditional date spot.

Koala: Girl put her hardest effort into making your favorite sweets/food. She wants a romantic meal with you and to spend time not working for a night.

Perona: … hello??? You’re supposed to be getting HER gifts??? She’s a princess, why are you bugging? Okay… she’ll admit, she made you a cute gothic outfit so you can be just as cute as her. She demands romantic movies and cuddles.

[quasar-kaiser]

Master Kohga (Legend of Zelda) as a Hollow Knight bug!

This is the weirdest crossover I've done yet lmao - but I love it

He controls soul but not as refined as Soul Master does it - hence why whatever he conjures doesn't look very finished. He of course added spikes because all good attacks involve spikes, in his opinion. (they don't even do more damage he just thinks it looks cool)

His boss fight would be mostly chaotic I think, without much rhythm or logic: think the vibes of Grey Prince Zote but with magic instead of that shellwood sword, and possibly would do the Hornet/Hive Knight spike ball things to add to the chaos (but of course you can hit these balls into him for extra damage, and his hitbox is large so it wouldn't be too difficult if you manage it before he teleports away)

He absolutely couldn't escape The Radiance though so he got orange juiced, RIP

I think she promised him bananas /j

[lovelylemoncake]

.☆《 POV: You're on a picnic date when...? 》☆.

[ Xavier x MC Reader ]

Warnings: Some Harassment

*°•●☆ *°•●☆ *°•●☆ *°•●☆ *°•●☆ *°•●☆

The blanket splayed out on the plush grass was probably going to be a tight fit with the amount of food you both brought. Orginally, you had planned for only a handful of dishes, but your picnic plans got put off ("Emergency mission again?!") every single week until bordering the end of spring. Eventually, you and Xavier both ended up adding new snacks to the picnic list until you had a full-on feast to eat at the park.

"This is probably enough to feed our whole department," you say after stepping back to take in the whole lunch spread before you.

"Don't underestimate our stomachs," Xavier says with determination, though you can tell he's also got a hint of a laugh in him.

"Well carrying these from the car did make me work up an apettite," you shrug. "Oh gosh, wait a minute--Xavier, where's the cooler..?"

You stare at each other, blinking in silence.

....Oops.

"It's back in the parking lot isn't it? I have to go up that hill again?" You sit on the grass in a bit of defeat while staring at the long way down.

Just last night you had run several kilometers to eliminate a Wanderer that had escaped from a different team's mission. Who knew that it would render you so sore despite your hunter training? Maybe the muddy terrain got to you more than usual. Your thighs are burning.

"I can go get it," Xavier reassures you. "You don't have to worry about it."

Those words light you up. In the moment, Xavier looks more valiant than usual. He's always shining but today he's extra radiant, huh? You'd have never guessed that he was dead asleep the entire car ride over here with the world's most legendary bedhead. Dependable indeed!

"Really?" You rest your back into the grass, spreading out like a starfish. "I can go too."

Xavier softly laughs, seeing you so unashamedly comfortable. "You rest here. I'll be right back."

You can see him heading back down from your spot. Before he disappears into the lush trail back to the parking lot, you sit up and wave at him.

"You're the best, Mr. Number-One-Hunter!!" You shout with a big, goofy grin.

He turns back to look at you, shakes his head with a smile, and disappears into the trees.

There was a lot of food to guard by yoirself. Luckily there was a bit of a breeze today to keep the bugs at bay. With the clouds providing occasional shade, it would be the perfect day to enjoy the weather. You look at all of the tasty dishes and reminisce about what lead to them all.

For example, the original plan was for sandwiches and juice. Then the mini charcuterie boad got added due to leftover sandwich materials. Later you realized that the leftover cold noodles needed to be eaten eventually, and then after that there was the mochi in your stash on the verge of expiring too... Oh yes, and Xavier wanted to try the stew he learned from a new cook book!

"Okay, we probably should have thought about this a little bit," you say to yourself. You probably should have gone without breakfast to leave some space for this impromptu banquet. All you can do is sigh and laugh a little about how how eager you and Xavier were to accomplish these plans despite a lot of scheduling issues.

Some birds fly by. The trees rustle with the wind. A few colorful kites from some other park-goers are soaring high into the air with pretty tails. The air here tastes so much better than the muddy terrain from your mission last night. You look at the grassy space beside you and wish Xavier would come back sooner so you can enjoy this together.

You're so absorbed in your thoughts, you almost don't notice a few guys approaching you. They look dressed up for some sort of sport. Are they on some sort of team?

"Hey, do you mind if we do some drills nearby?" One of them asks. He seems very nice. "We're sort of loud when we're practicing."

"Dang, that's a lot of food for a shortie like you," the other says, looking at your picnic spread. "Trying to grow more?"

"Dude, Nate," the nice guy says. "Don't be rude." He smiles at you apologetically. "Sorry about that."

You raise a brow at Nate, but it's honestly not that big of a deal.

"Yeah that's totally okay," you tell them.

"You know, you can come watch us practice if you want, shortie." Nate suggests.

"No, I'm good," you shake your head.

"Then why don't we join you after practice? Help you put all this food away--" Nate walks right up to you with some high and mighty expression on his face.

He towers over you as you're sitting down at the moment. A tiny bit annoyed, you stand up and step back.

"Dude, I'm serious Nate. Cut it out," the other guy tugs Nate backwards from the back of his shirt.

"I'm just trying to make friends, Kellen!" Nate scoffs.

"Gosh, just shut-- look I'm so sorry for taking up your time," Kellen interrupts himself to apologuze to you again.

You pity Kellen a bit. He's genuinely suffering from second hand embarrassment at the moment. You decide that this conversation needs to be over soon.

"You're okay. You can practice wherever you want. I'm just waiting for someone so we can eat," you explain. "Have a good time."

"Yes we will," Kellen nods, trying to pull Nate to come along with him.

Nate doesn't budge however. "Then you both should come watch our practice after you eat. I'd like to show you what these legs can do."

He starts flexing, and as irritating as he his, you also have to suppress the urge to laugh because you're pretty sure you've seen six year olds strike better poses than him. Compared to Xavier's usual grace, he looks like he's trying to do an interpretive dance. Kellen looks like he would like to crawl into a hole at the moment.

You shake your head. "No--"

"No thanks," a warm hand snakes around your waist. This voice is quite calm yet firm. It also sounds like he's ran up a hill.

You look up with a big smile.

"You made it back. That was fast."

"I didn't want the ice to melt," Xavier says, looking away slightly. He plops the cooler down quickly.

You squint a little and take his word for it. In your head, you know he probably started running the minute he saw you and the other guys from a good distance away. He looks composed right now, but you can hear his heart hammering away just a bit as he's flush against your back. It's pretty endearing.

"You're the friend?" Nate furrows his brows at Xavier like his nemesis had just appeared.

You move to correct the guy. "Oh, he's actually--"

"Partners. This is my partner," Xavier's hand sinks a little into your skin, squishing you against him like you'll be taken away.

His blue eyes are burning bright, and though his smile is as gentle as ever, you can sense that the emotion behind it is a little sharp. Amused and maybe just a little touched, you put your hand on top of his hand around your waist. Are your cheeks a little warm and toasty? Yes. Will you ever admit that? Probably no.

"Nate, please," Kellen sighs like a tired babysitter at their wit's end. "Let's go."

Nate finally relents, but he turns around to look at you before he leaves.

"Hey shortie, you should still come see our practice when you're free. I'll make it worth your time."

"We are very busy," Xavier instantly fires back. "We have more important things to do with our time."

Hard emphasis on "we," huh?

You can see Nate open his mouth to reply, but Kellen basically hauls him away with a very angry expression before he has the chance. You watch them disappear, but just a bit later you can hear a fuming Kellen nearby.

("You can do burpees until we leave, Nate!")

Oof.

Xavier just hugs your back for a very long time. You both stare at the clouds passing by in the sky. The kites are still dancing around in the wind. He grips you like you might fly away. Like you're a flower petal about to be swept off of a tree.

"You said we had important things to do," you say after a little while. Its always so comfortable in his arms. It's like time slows down. "Can I ask what that would be, Mr. Xavier?"

He looks at you with those deep blue eyes. Before you realize it, his lips are pressed desperately into yours like every inch of you can't be missed. Taken aback, you grip his shirt and melt into his hold. It continues for some time. Finally, when he steps back, you're a bit of a mess. A bit embarassed, you quickly dig in the cooler for some water or juice instead.

"Be with you," he suddenly says, turning around with a bit of a flush evident in his neck.

"What?" You say, brain processing a bit jumbled after, um, face squishing with each other.

"The important thing." He turns back around. "I would say the most important thing to do... is to be with you."

Every single word is a shot of sugar to your cheeks breaking into a smile and the rush in your heart.

You leap to tackle him with a hug.

Consequently, you're both sent tumbling together down the hillside.

Rolling in each other's arms, you both laugh as the dandelions you pass by have their seeds sent into the air. At the bottom, when you finally stop, Xavier plants a kiss to your cheek. Still full of giggles, you pull some grass out of his hair.

Maybe another trek up the hill for lunch isn't so bad after all.

*°•●☆ *°•●☆ *°•●☆ *°•●☆ *°•●☆ *°•●☆

A/N: Could you tell i was hungry when I wrote this, lol? I orginally wanted to make this a small fic about eating together, but then I realized I've never written about a jealous Xavier before. I had to make it happen. ^-^

[demigodsanswer]

Percabeth future AU “I meant it when I said for better or for worse”

okay so I started this, forgot about the prompt completely, and then barely worked it in. sorry!

~

It was the first day of summer. Technically, it was the first day of Percy's summer. School was out.

And that meant he was asleep.

Annabeth insisted that he really, properly sleep in that Saturday, instead of their usually seven a.m wake ups by their rowdy girls, or worse: his usual five a.m wake ups to get to school by the 7:30a.m start time.

Today when Nella and Sophia had knocked on their door to wake them up, Annabeth had just kissed Percy's cheek, told him to stay in bed, and gotten up alone to entertain the girls.

Percy had tried to protest; Annabeth was four months pregnant and needed rest, he claimed. But for the first time, she had a pregnancy that wasn't making her sick. In fact, she'd spent the whole thing so far imitating the very hungry caterpillar, and encountering new and increasingly specific food cravings.

But Percy was so exhausted himself that it really only took her leaving him along in the dark and quiet bedroom for him to fall right back to sleep.

"Where's Daddy?" Sophia had asked immediately.

"Sleeping," Annabeth said in a whisper. "He's really, really sleepy, so we're not going to bug him this morning."

"I won't bug him," Sophia said, trying to push past her. Annabeth stopped her.

"By not bug him I mean we leave him alone to sleep," Annabeth explained. "We're going to give Daddy some privacy so he can rest."

Sophia pouted but nodded, understanding the basics of boundaries at least. Nella seemed unbothered by the lack of access to her dad, and mostly just wanted uppies. Annabeth did her best. Nella was a few months past her second birthday, but still she was a skinny little thing who clung to her blankie with an iron fist. Despite how small Nella still was, with Annabeth's ever-growing belly (her largest yet by a margin), it wasn't that easy.

"Come on," Annabeth said. "Lets get some cloths on and take Max outside."

The walk with Max only ate up about fifteen minutes of their morning. Annabeth was hoping to milk it more, but the girls were hungry and starting to get cranky. They dropped Max off upstairs before heading out to find a good breakfast.

The Greek diner around the corner knew them.

"Ah! Where is husband?" Vikki, the old woman who still owned the restaurant, despite developers' pleas for her to sell, asked after seeing Annabeth walk in with a girl holding either hand.

"Daddy's sleeping," Sophia said.

"Lazy man," Vikki joked with her, before grabbing a high chair for Nella. She got the family settled at a booth, crayons and paper place-mats for both girls to keep the busy, and the one cup of full-caf black tea Annabeth was permitted.

Starving and in the mood for just about everything, Annabeth ordered French Toast with whip cream and strawberries, with a side of bacon, extra crispy. Sophia got pancakes, and Nella picked a waffle. Annabeth insisted they each also get a side of fruit, so that they might eat something resembling a vitamin.

Not long after Vikki brought them their drinks, Sophia tried to help Nella draw a flower. Nella perceived this not as the big sister kindness Sophia had intended, but an encroachment on her territory akin to an act of war. Nella grabbed the place-mat off the table, crumbling the corner up in her baby first and screaming. Annabeth barely had time to save her orange juice from going everywhere. The crayons were not so lucky, clattering to the ground around them as Nella scream-cried.

Red-faced and doing her best, Annabeth offered apologetic glances to the other diners, while Sophia hastily tried to defend herself.

"You're not in trouble," Annabeth told Sophia. "Can you build me a jelly tower while I calm down your sister?" Sophia nodded, and set to her task, stacking likely-ancient packets of Smuckers jellies one on top of the other.

Nella was still crying and flailing her little arms, kicking her feet under the table too. If Percy were here, he'd probably find a way to distract her out of the tantrum, to tickle her or do some kind of funny bit. But whenever Annabeth tried to mimic him, she was told she "wasn't doing it right."

So, instead, she settled for doing what she thought might work.

"Nelly belly," she said in her soft bedtime voice. She started tracing her finger over Nella's face the way she did at bedtime. Nella stopped screaming, although she was still making her unsteady little breathing noises. "Do you want to sit with Mommy and tell me what's wrong?" Annabeth offered.

Nella reached out her arms, and Annabeth managed to get her out of the high chair and into her lap. Annabeth kept tracing her face.

"Do you want your juice?" Annabeth offered. Nella shook her head, fingers in her mouth. "Okay, we don't have to have it right now. Can you tell me why you're sad?"

Nella started to babble, but Annabeth got the gist -- she didn't want Sophia to draw on her place-mat and now her place-mat was all crumpled and ruined.

"I didn't ruin it!" Sophia said in defense of herself.

"Sophia was trying to show you how she draws flowers, but you didn't like her drawing on your paper, did you?" Nella shook her head. "Next time, we can ask before drawing on each other's papers?" Nella and Sophia nodded in agreement. Annabeth didn't really expect the two-year-old to remember to ask, but she hoped Sophia was old enough to remember. "Nella can you say 'thank you for trying to help me, but please ask before you draw on my paper?'"

Nella managed to get some jumbled words out.

"Good girl. And can you tell Sophia you're sorry for yelling at her?"

Nella offered a weak: "Sorry."

"It's okay," Sophia promised. "Sorry you crumpled up your paper."

Annabeth glanced down to the floor, where the half-wrecked remains of the place-mat were still resting.

"Maybe if you ask nicely, Ms. Vikki will bring you a new one," Annabeth said.

But when Vikki came back, this time with plates of food, Nella was too shy to asked. Annabeth asked for another one for Nella, who spent the rest of breakfast coloring, eating four grapes and quarter of the waffle. But she at least didn't scream anymore.

At the end of the meal (which Annabeth basically devoured), Nella showed Annabeth what she'd spent the morning drawing. It was a little blob person laying down on a line.

"Daddy," she said, pointing to the blob.

"It's beautiful. Should we bring it home for him?" Annabeth offered. Nella nodded. "What about you, love bug, are we taking your picture home?" Sophia nodded and scooted the paper out from under her plate.

Annabeth slipped them both in the to-go bag that had Percy's own pancake stack, two order of home fries, and two sides of bacon (she'd placed an order for one of each, and then decided they sounded too good to not get some of her own).

"Daddy might still be asleep, so we need to be quiet, okay?" Annabeth said, unlocking their front door. It was barely nine in the morning. She'd bet anything he wasn't out of bed yet.

The girls took this instruction seriously and tiptoed inside. Annabeth set them up with a Sponge Bob marathon upon Sophia's request. Percy believed in the grand tradition of Saturday Morning cartoons, and the Sponge was a house favorite. Annabeth rolled out a big sheet of white paper for the girls to color on while they watched, asking first if they were happy sharing or if she needed to split it down the middle. This they were happy to share. Annabeth couldn't wait to see how long that lasted.

She sat herself down on the couch with her potatoes and bacon, and big mug of decaf coffee, and enjoyed the Bubble Bowl.

Sophia made it three episodes before she realized she still hadn't seen her dad yet that morning.

"Is he ever going to wake up?" She asked. Behind her, Nella nodded, as if to say seriously Mom, we're worried about him.

"He will wake up, he's just tired. He works really hard, we should let him sleep sometimes," Annabeth said.

Sophia put on her best pleading face, which Annabeth was usually completely vulnerable to. "But please! I miss him!"

Annabeth inhaled. "How about we do one more Sponge Bob episode, and then I'll go see if he wants to wake up. But it's up to him if he does or not."

Sophia nodded, happy with that arrangement.

~

Percy had been drifting in and out of sleep for over an hour. He kept thinking about getting up, but then ... no one was bothering him, no one needed him, and his bed was so, so comfy.

He did have to get up at some point, he figured. Annabeth opened the door quietly and stepped in, a mug of coffee in her hands.

"Is that my beautiful wife?" Percy asked, reaching towards her.

Annabeth smiled and put the coffee down on the nightstand. "Sure is. How'd you sleep?" She asked, sitting next to him on the bed and running a hand through his hair.

"Amazing," Percy said. "Thanks for giving me the morning off."

Annabeth leaned forward to kiss him. "You deserve it. There's food for you too. We went to the diner."

He was hungry. He usually ate before school, and on his free period which was about 11:30 in the morning. But he wasn't quite ready to get out of bed.

"I'll gt up in a minute," he promised, resting a hand on her belly. "How are my girls doing this morning?"

"This one's eating me out of house and home," Annabeth said, looking at the bump. "The other two are dying to see you."

People often asked them if they were trying for a boy or wished they were having a boy. They were always honest: no, we don't care, as long as it's happy and healthy. But if Percy was really, really honest ... he loved his girls, his collection of tiny Annabeth's. A third girl sounded pretty perfect to him, and he had secretly been hoping for another one.

Percy was glad Annabeth was finally having an easy pregnancy. Sophia and Nella had made her so sick for months all Percy could do was hold the emptied contents of her tote bag while Annabeth threw up into it on the subway.

"Sorry," she'd said to him, looking green and miserable.

Percy rubbed her back. "I meant it when I said sickness and health, better or worse." Before Annabeth could respond, she was sick again.

Annabeth actually seemed to be enjoying this pregnancy. It wasn't a secret that this was he least favorite part: "I have so much to protect, but I'm physically unable to," she'd said, near tears in a panic when she was still pregnant with Sophia

"I'll protect you," Percy promised, "that's what I'm here for."

This time, she was just a beautiful as she always was, but happier, more relaxed. Percy kept rubbing her bump, obsessed with it, obsessed with his wife, before reaching up for Annabeth face.

Percy stole a few more kisses. The only thing that could have made his morning better would have been Annabeth sharing it all with him.

"Alright, send in the clowns," Percy said.

Annabeth barely turned towards the door before saying: "Okay, Sophia, you can come in."

Their bedroom door opened, and Sophia rushed in, Nella toddling behind her. Sophia jumped into Percy's arms and he dragged her onto the bed.

"We're you a good girl for Mommy this morning?" Percy asked her. Sophia nodded. Percy tossed her onto the bed and started to tickle her. "Were you?" He asked over and over as she laughed and laughed.

Nella was saying something to Annabeth quietly. "Yeah, let's go get it," Annabeth said. The two left and came back a minute later with a familiar green place-mat from the diner. "Nella made this for you," Annabeth said as Nella handed him the paper.

Percy looked and saw a blob laying down with it's eyes shut.

"Daddy!" Nella explained.

"Wow! This is great!" Percy said. "Should we hang it up somewhere?" Nella nodded and pointed back towards the kitchen. "Yeah, i think the fridge is the perfect place for it," Percy agreed.

[salamandergoo]

STWG Prompt: “Why are you sitting in the closet?”

CW For depictions of child abuse

Jonathan rubbed his fingers against his toy bunny’s ear and blew out a shuddering breath. He’d stopped crying, there weren’t tears rolling down his face anymore, but he could still feel the sticky tracks left behind, where they’d been on his face. He tucked his face against the stuffed animal and sucked in another breath, taking in the smell of it. It was a little dusty, given it stayed tucked in his closet behind his snow pants, but it smelled like soft cotton and something a little like baby powder. Comforting.

Strictly speaking, he wasn’t supposed to have Bun anymore. His dad had taken it away after his little brother was born and said he was too old for toys, especially girly ones. Jonathan didn’t think Bun was girly, it was a soft shade of gray and had long floppy ears. The ears weren’t fluffy like Bun’s body though, the incessant worrying of the ears between his fingers had worn off the fluff years ago. After his dad had taken Bun away, saying he was going to throw it out, Jonathan had done what was probably the most rebellious thing in his young life. He’d snuck into his parents’ room while they were both out of the house and taken Bun from the trash before hiding it in his closet.

His dad hadn’t said a word about it after, probably thought Bun was long gone. His mom had asked once or twice since Bun had been grasped in his hands at all times before that, but he never said anything about it to anyone.

And Bun stayed hidden in the closet ever since, except for the one time he’d risked sneaking it into a load of laundry to clean it up.

Bun didn’t even come out during the night time. Not even after nightmares. Bun was an emergency measure, only allowed when he couldn’t breathe, when his lungs felt like they couldn’t get big like they were supposed to, when his voice was extra choked away, when he needed to hold something so he wouldn’t explode into a million billion pieces.

Today was one of those days, one where something bad happened.

He didn’t remember why his dad had gotten so upset. He remembered it being a good morning, quiet. His mom had gone to work without any fighting, his dad had even put peanut butter on toast like Will liked. Jonathan had gone outside to draw in the back of his lined notebook he used for school, looking out for cool bugs or birds to draw. His eyes went from the trees to the ground where he looked under flipped over rocks. He’d been nudging a curled up centipede with the end of his pencil, being gentle so he didn’t hurt it, when he’d heard yelling inside. He’d dropped his pencil, notebook still tucked under his arm, and ran inside as fast as he could, nearly tripping over the lip of the porch in his haste.

His dad was yelling at Will, whose eyes were wide and shiny and scared. A broken glass and a puddle of juice were at his feet and dad lifted his hand-

“No! Stop!” Jonathan dropped the notebook and ran towards Will with his hands held up. He’d never raised his voice at his dad before. Almost never raised his voice at all, preferred to be quiet so only people he wanted to hear could hear him.

Jonathan didn’t take the time to be surprised by his own voice. He ran to Will, whose head only came up to Jonathan’s chin, and pushed himself between him and their dad. Glass crunched under his sneaker and he was glad he was wearing them, even though the left one was too tight on his big toe.

His dad narrowed his eyes at him. “Are you speaking back to me?”

As quickly as the words had come, they were gone again. His tongue was dry and his throat was empty of sound. So he shook his head, but was unsurprised when he was pulled in closer.

His dad punished him for backtalk and lying and yelling inside. He didn’t know how that was fair, not when all his dad did inside was yell, but he was quiet for it, trying his hardest to keep the tears back. Will was openly crying, big hiccuping sobs. He wasn’t allowed to go to his room when Jonathan was punished, he had to watch. And that just felt like it made Jonathan’s punishment worse, having to listen to Will cry and not make it better.

By the time it was over, Jonathan felt unsteady as he got to his feet, skin burning hot. He kept his head down as his dad threw a kitchen towel at him with a snapped comment about cleaning up the mess. The door opened and closed and he and Will held their breaths as a car started and drove away.

Will stared at Jonathan for a long moment before turning to run to his room. Jonathan didn’t let his tears fall yet. He got on the floor to wipe up the glass and the juice, gathering the glass in the towel like his mom had showed him so he didn’t cut his hands. He swept up the littlest pieces with the broom that was as tall as he was. Then he wiped the spot on the floor again with a wet paper towel because juice was sweet and that invited bugs inside, and Jonathan couldn’t bring bugs inside, mom said so.

Only then, as he was taking off his shoes, did the first tears fall.

Then Jonathan climbed into his closet and sat on the winter quilt and cried into the fur of Bun, rubbing its ears in his fingers.

He’d almost stopped crying when the bedroom door creaked open. He went rigid, panicking too much to shove Bun back into place behind the snow pants. He hadn’t heard the front door or a car or anything. He held Bun tighter and wondered if he should stop breathing too, but he was still breathless from crying. “Jon…?”

It wasn’t his dad. The tiny voice was Will’s. He nudged the closet door. “I’m in here.” His own voice was small too, the size it was most of the time.

A little hand curled around the side of the door and pulled it open. Will was standing there with red eyes still wet, chubby cheeks streaked with tears. “Why are you in your closet?”

“Dad can never find me in here.” He scooted and made room. Will climbed in with him and sat close enough that their knees touched. Jonathan didn’t feel his usual urge to move away from touch, not from Will, never from Will. “Are you okay?”

Will shrugged, looking at Bun instead of Jonathan’s face. “You yelled at dad.”

Jonathan mirrored the shrug and turned Bun around so Will could see its brown plastic eyes and stitched nose and mouth. “I know.”

“He was mad. You don’t yell.”

“Not usually.” It was getting easier to find his words. It was easiest to find them with Will. “He was going to hurt you.”

“He did hurt you.”

“Because I yelled. We’re not supposed to. You probably didn’t drop your cup on purpose.”

Will shook his head and reached out to touch Bun’s ears. “He hurt you though.” Will sounded upset and Jonathan looked at him closely.

“I’m okay, though. It didn’t hurt that bad.” One time, his mom had told him that sometimes it was okay to lie a little bit. If telling the truth would only make the other person more upset, it was okay to not tell the whole truth. He’d taken that to heart.

Will seemed to relax a little and let go of Bun. “Why?”

“Why didn’t it hurt…?”

“Why did you get in front of me?”

“Because I’m supposed to protect you. You’re my little brother, that’s what big brothers do. Before you were born, mom said that it would be my job.”

Will didn’t seem completely happy with the answer, but pushed Bun aside to climb into Jonathan’s lap. Jonathan clutched the leg of Bun and wrapped an arm around Will, holding him tight. He was warm. “I love you, Jonathan.” Will kissed his cheek.

“I love you too.” He said it quietly. Even if his dad wasn’t home, he still stayed quiet. After all, the only person who needed to hear him was close enough that he didn’t have to try to be loud.