#you all want good things to happen to this man | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

solxamber · 1 day ago

Text

Stake Through the Heart || Rook Hunt

You’re absolutely convinced your neighbor is a vampire. No evidence yet, but your gut—and your deeply flawed instincts—say yes. The investigation is underway. Nothing will stop you. Not even common sense.

You were already suspicious of the building when you signed the lease. The hallway lights had a flicker that could only be described as "threatening," the elevator creaked like it had regrets, and your sink coughed before turning on. But hey—rent was cheap, and you had resigned yourself to coexisting with at least one minor ghost. Maybe two if they were a couple.

What you didn't expect was your upstairs neighbor dragging a human-sized trunk up five flights of stairs at exactly midnight like it was a perfectly normal time to engage in cardio and/or hide a body.

You were brushing your teeth—half-dressed and fully irritated—when you heard the unmistakable sound of wood scraping aggressively against tile. It was the kind of noise that said, "I am absolutely not supposed to be here, but I will make it everyone's problem anyway." You paused, toothbrush in hand, and listened. Another thump. Another scrape. A strained grunt, followed by—

"Ah! The climb is arduous, but so is the ascent of the soul!"

You spit your toothpaste directly into the sink and stared at yourself in the mirror like, Did I just hear a villain monologue in the hallway?

Curiosity won. You opened your front door just enough to peek out—and there he was.

Wide-brimmed hat. Floor-length coat. Boots that definitely cost more than your microwave. And a trunk. A massive trunk. The kind usually reserved for pirates or magicians or suspicious aristocrats who "don't go out during the day."

You watched, transfixed, as he slowly dragged the thing up another step, muttering something about "fate's heavy burden" and "destiny's ever-turning wheel."

Your brain, overworked and overcaffeinated, came to a single, definitive conclusion:

Vampire. 100%. No notes.

No human being talks like that. No one wears a coat that dramatic without drinking blood recreationally. The man radiated "I sleep in a silk-lined coffin and I know all the moons of Jupiter by name."

Still, you tried to play it cool. "Hey, uh… need help?"

He turned. Slowly. He reminded you of an NPC about to issue a side quest.

"Ah," he said, bowing slightly. "A kind spirit in the veil of night. May the stars illuminate your path, trésor."

You blinked.

He smiled. Too many teeth.

"…Right," you said. "I'm gonna go back inside now and pretend this conversation didn't happen."

You shut the door. Locked it. Double locked it. Briefly considered salting the threshold but remembered you were out of salt.

You pressed your back to the door and exhaled. That was fine. Everything was fine. You didn't need to know what was in the trunk. You weren't the main character. You had a day job and seasonal allergies and no time for undead drama. You were going to mind your business.

Until the next morning, when he knocked on your door holding a fruit basket, a poetry book, and a glass bottle that may or may not have been full of suspiciously thick, red liquid.

"Good morrow," he said with the confidence of a man who still used words like morrow. "I have brought tokens of neighborly goodwill."

You stared at him.

He stared back. Smiling.

"I, Rook Hunt, am most pleased to meet you."

You took the basket. You nodded. You said thank you like a hostage in a movie.

And in your heart, you knew.

You were absolutely going to get involved in whatever this man's dramatic, possibly blood-soaked nonsense was. Whether you liked it or not.

You did not, for the record.

You didn't want to be that person. The kind who built conspiracy boards out of half-baked assumptions and circumstantial evidence. The kind who said things like "I just think it's weird that…" before launching into a theory involving aliens, lizard people, secret societies, or in this case, your neighbor being a vampire with a flair for the theatrical.

But then came The Curtain Incident.

It was the next evening. You had gone to the store for boring mortal things—dish soap, batteries, a very specific type of screwdriver that only existed in legend and IKEA manuals. You were minding your own business. You were trying to pick out lightbulbs that didn't hum when you tried turning them on.

And then, out of the corner of your eye, you saw it: the hat.

Wide-brimmed. Looming. Definitely not weather-appropriate.

You whipped around so fast you almost knocked over a display of lawn flamingos. And there he was, in all his nocturnal glory: Rook Hunt, your neighbor, standing in the middle of aisle seven like it was a catwalk at fashion week. Long coat. Gloves. That same calm, vaguely predatory smile. And in his cart?

Blackout curtains. Three sets. Jet black. Extra thick.

You stared. He made eye contact like a man who knew. Knew he was being watched. Knew he was being suspected. Knew that this was not how humans typically purchase home decor unless they were trying to turn their living space into a vampire's safehouse slash crime scene.

You tried to act casual. Failed immediately.

"Heyyy," you said, voice cracking like a out of tune violin. "Doing a little… home improvement?"

He inclined his head. "Mais oui. The sun—ah, how she burns with such cruel passion, non? I find her embrace a touch too… insistent." He lifted a curtain panel with one gloved hand. "To cocoon oneself in shadow, to drift in velvety darkness… c'est magnifique."

You nodded, as if that explained literally anything.

"That's cool," you said, backing toward the paint swatches like they could protect you. "Totally normal. Curtains. Love that for you."

His smile widened.

You were spiraling.

Because listen: you're not completely irrational. You know some people are just weird. You know blackout curtains are a thing. Maybe he works nights. Maybe he's just allergic to joy. But also?? His shopping cart contained no other regular item. No food. No tools. Just three sets of blackout curtains, a single red candle, and—swear to God—a hand mirror.

Why would a vampire buy a mirror?! Was it a decoy? A flex? A prop for when he practiced brooding dramatically at an empty reflection?!

You left the store in a daze, carrying a pack of AA batteries and a sense of unease. As you walked home under the streetlights, you made a mental list:

Never seen him in daylight.

Talks like he's auditioning for a Shakespeare reboot no one asked for, but with more French vowels.

Dragged a suspiciously heavy trunk into his apartment at midnight.

Blackout curtains.

Keeps bringing you gifts that feel like offerings before a blood pact.

Smiles like he knows how you die.

By the time you got home, you were pacing your kitchen whispering, "He's definitely a vampire," like it was going to summon help from the garlic gods.

You considered texting a friend, but how do you even phrase that?

hey quick question if ur neighbor owns a cape and possibly a coffin do u call the cops or the local priest or like, what's the protocol here

Instead, you sat on your couch, stared at the wall, and decided you had two choices: move out, or commit to this bit like your life depended on it.

Because if your neighbor was a vampire, then you were either going to die horribly or end up in some kind of ancient blood soulmate contract by accident—and if it was going to be the second one, you were at least going to get a dramatic entrance line out of it.

You were having what could generously be described as a trainwreck of a day.

Your boss had decided to hold a mandatory team-building exercise that involved trust falls and absolutely no regard for personal space. Your lunch had been mysteriously replaced by someone else's aggressively spicy quinoa salad (you were not emotionally prepared for that level of chilli oil). And your phone had spent the entire afternoon at 3% like a drama queen begging for a charger and attention.

All you wanted—all you wanted—was to drag your exhausted corpse up five flights of stairs, collapse into your lumpy couch, and watch garbage reality TV until your brain leaked out of your ears.

But fate—unrelenting, nosy fate—had other plans.

You hit the third floor landing. Your eyes were on your phone, trying to Google "can you die from inhaling someone else's quinoa," when you looked up—and there he was.

Rook. Your neighbor. The cryptid. The probable vampire.

He was just casually coming down the stairs, like he wasn't the most suspicious person in a ten-mile radius. Still wearing a long coat, still dressed like a brooding poet about to duel someone over honor and a baguette. But this time…

This time he had a sunburn.

Just a little one. Right on the tip of his nose. Faint. Pink. But real. You squinted to make sure it wasn't some kind of trick of the hallway light—but no. It was there. Angry and tender.

Your brain slammed the panic button.

OH MY GOD.

IT BURNS HIM PHYSICALLY.

I KNEW IT.

The conspiracy board in your head lit up. Thumbtacks connected by red string. Newspaper clippings. Grainy surveillance footage of your neighbor dramatically pulling blackout curtains shut while whispering about "la nuit éternelle." It all fit. The signs. The trunk. The curtains. The sunburn. The French.

He caught you staring and—like a man who had just stepped into a spotlight and loved it—tilted his head, utterly unbothered.

"Ah! Bonsoir, my dear neighbor. I fear I was… overzealous in my ambitions today." He gestured vaguely toward the window at the end of the hall, where the last rays of the sun were beginning to fade. "Even the mightiest hunter is humbled by the cruelty of Sól."

Sól. He named dropped the sun like it personally betrayed him. You were one step away from calling the Vatican.

You cleared your throat. "So… you got burned? By the sun?"

"Indeed," he said gravely, touching the red spot like it was a war wound. "A careless moment. I was enthralled by a flock of birds and lost track of time." He smiled. "Still, I find the sting to be a reminder—ah, how fragile the flesh, how divine the dusk."

You nodded slowly. "Yup. Happens to the best of us. Just, you know. Skin melting in the light of day. Totally normal."

He laughed. Laughed. A rich, delighted sound like he'd just watched someone walk into a trap he set.

"Your wit is ever sharp," he said, and then—because of course he did—he pulled a tiny glass vial from his coat pocket and dabbed something that might have been cream onto the burn.

You turned and bolted upstairs before he could hand you an invite to a midnight blood tasting.

In your apartment, you slammed the door, leaned against it, and let your bag slide to the floor.

It was real.

He was burned by the sun.

This was no longer a hunch. This was evidence. This was Exhibit A in your vampire trial. You didn't know what you were going to do yet—alert the supernatural authorities? Start a blog? Join him in eternal night as his dramatic, overly caffeinated familiar?—but you did know one thing:

Your neighbor was a vampire.

And that burn was your smoking gun.

The plan was simple.

Invite him over. Offer pasta. Load said pasta with enough garlic to stun a horse. Smile innocently. Observe. Wait for spontaneous combustion, bat transformation, or dramatic gasping followed by a monologue about curses, betrayal, and forbidden cravings.

It was a flawless trap. A garlic-scented bear trap of domestic hospitality.

You set the table. You dimmed the lights to a level you assumed would make him comfortable. You even lit a candle—not romantic, just for ambience. Everything smelled like garlic. The sauce, the bread, the air. You yourself smelled like you had crawled out of a room full of garlic-scented incense.

When he knocked on your door at eight o'clock sharp, you opened it with your most casual expression.

"Bonsoir, mon ami," Rook greeted, bowing slightly, because of course he did. "The moonlight suits you so exquisitely tonight."

You smiled like someone who absolutely was not trying to expose their possibly immortal neighbor through the power of garlic. "Thanks. I guess."

He stepped inside, gave a pleased hum at your lighting choices, and then—froze.

His eyes, usually sparkling with strange poetic menace, locked onto the garlic bread.

You watched in silence as his entire body tensed ever so slightly, like the baguette had just challenged him to a duel. Slowly, reverently, he walked up to the plate and looked down at it like it had personally wronged him in a past life.

"A classic," he murmured. "So bold. So… persistent."

"It's garlic bread," you said flatly.

He gave a tight smile, like a man at war with his own immune system. "Indeed. It is… not to my taste. The scent tends to cling, comme un souvenir unwelcome. It is difficult to hunt the wind when one's coat reeks of crushed cloves."

You blinked. "You don't like garlic?"

"I find it… overwhelming." He sniffed delicately. "Like a song sung off-key, but shouted."

Oh. OH.

He hates garlic.

He fears garlic.

He is one garlic knot away from bursting into flames and ascending to the underworld.

You knew it.

You were a genius. Sherlock Holmes WISHES.

But then—

He sat down.

And without flinching—he ate the garlic bread.

The entire world went silent.

You watched, slack-jawed, as he took a bite, chewed like a man contemplating the duality of pain and pleasure, and swallowed without so much as a grimace. Then he sipped the wine he'd brought—red for the record—and turned to you with a serene expression.

"Your cooking is divine," he said. "The flavor lingers like a haunting melody."

You stared at him, heart racing, mind screaming.

HE ATE IT

HE. ATE. THE. GARLIC.

WHAT DOES IT MEAN????

Was he lying? Was he in pain but hiding it because his honor wouldn't allow him to show weakness in front of a mortal? Was he so ancient, so powerful, so unknowable, that garlic simply didn't affect him anymore? Had he built up a resistance? Were you dealing with some next-level Nosferatu Final Boss?

Or.

Oh no.

What if he's a half-vampire?

What if he was born of both worlds? Doomed to walk the line between the night and the garlic aisle? Too vampire to bask in the sun, too human to fully reject pasta?

You looked at his elegant profile, the way he sipped his drink, the slight wrinkle in his nose that said he still hated the garlic but was choosing not to comment on it. The duality. The mystery. The drama. The tragedy.

You were spiraling again.

You tried to speak, but what came out was, "So… you're definitely not allergic?"

He tilted his head, smiling. "Non. I simply dislike being followed by the scent of someone's kitchen for a week."

You nodded. Sure. Totally. Not suspicious at all. Definitely something a normal human person would say. The whole garlic-aversion-due-to-personal-aesthetic thing was definitely not code for "I will turn into mist if I touch raw cloves."

He took another bite of garlic bread and made a soft noise of appreciation.

You were absolutely losing it.

Because you had no idea if you were in the presence of a man… a monster… or a fashion-forward night creature of immeasurable strength who had conquered his natural aversions through sheer will and seasoning tolerance.

And you still weren't ruling out the bat thing.

You chewed your pasta slowly, cautiously. He was either about to compliment your sauce again or turn into a cloud of smoke and vanish into the air vent.

Frankly, at this point, you weren't sure which option was more terrifying.

You'd been holding it together for weeks. Weeks of tiptoeing around your extremely suspicious, extremely courteous neighbor who may or may not be a vampire, a demon, a historical reenactor, or some kind of poetry professor. You were normal about it. Chill. Totally fine. You only Googled "can vampires enroll in rent-controlled housing" once.

But today? Today broke you.

Because today, Rook complimented your socks.

"Exquisite pattern," he had said, eyes lingering on the tiny frogs doing ballet across your ankles. "Such expression upon so small a canvas. You are, as always, a delight of aesthetic paradoxes."

You blacked out for at least four seconds trying to interpret that.

And then, without waiting, he took your grocery bags. Both of them. Including the one you packed with canned goods like an idiot. Just carried them effortlessly up the stairs, whistling some baroque little tune under his breath like he wasn't actively enabling your spiral into conspiracy madness.

And so now here you are, pacing a cracked sidewalk outside the convenience store, holding an emergency slushy and waving your arms like you're about to summon lightning bolts. Ace and Deuce are sitting on a bench watching you with the exact expressions of two people who have absolutely heard this before and regret returning your texts.

"He complimented my socks," you repeat, wild-eyed. "Who even sees socks? Who notices frogs doing ballet unless they're training themselves to observe every detail of their next victim?"

Ace slurps obnoxiously from his ice cream cone. "Dunno, sounds like you just have a weird crush."

You point at him like you're about to smite him. "I will take that cone out of your hands and launch it into traffic. Try me."

He raises both hands. "Okay, okay, chill! Just saying. You're the one who keeps inviting him to pasta night and analyzing his cutlery use like it's a crime scene."

Deuce, bless his concerned little heart, tries to play diplomat. "Maybe he's just… a polite guy? Some people are like that. Maybe he was raised well."

You whirl on him. "No, Deuce. He's not just nice. That's vampire hospitality. They're known for being strangely polite before draining your life force."

"…Is that a thing?" Deuce asks, already regretting it.

"YES," you shout. "It's part of the psychological warfare. They lure you in with compliments and help carrying your bulk baked bean purchases, and then bam—next thing you know, you're waking up with two holes in your neck and an allergy to garlic."

Ace is now straight up cackling. "Oh my God. You think he's grooming you. For blood reasons."

"I'm not saying he's gonna drain me tomorrow," you mutter, offended but also a little flattered at the thought. "But I am saying I've been watched like a fine wine and I feel it. He called me a 'treasure of contradictions.' Who says that? No one normal. That's Dracula-core."

Ace, still wheezing, gestures with his cone. "You're insane. I love it. I'm not helping, but I'm definitely watching you go down in flames."

Deuce pats your shoulder gently. "I mean… if he tries anything weird, I'll beat him up?"

"That's sweet, Deuce. But he'll probably just evaporate into mist before you can land a punch."

At the end of the emergency meeting, which concludes with you scribbling "suspiciously aware of frog socks" under Rook's name in your increasingly unhinged spiral notebook, you realize something tragic.

You are no closer to solving the mystery.

Rook remains an enigma. A poetic, shadow-wearing, door-holding enigma.

He may be a vampire. He may just be French.

He may, horrifyingly, be both.

And so, you slurp your slushy. You stare into the distance. You prepare yourself for another sleepless night of Googling "can half-vampires enter your apartment without an invite if you leave the door cracked."

This was for research. Pure. Intellectual. Unbiased. Definitely not emotionally compromised in any way. You had a theory to prove and a public duty to fulfill. You were a lone academic on the brink of a supernatural breakthrough.

This had nothing—nothing—to do with the fact that Rook Hunt had the kind of smile that made your lungs forget how to function, or that he said things like "Ah, your laughter—it rings like wind chimes in spring rain," and then meant it.

You were a serious investigator. You were hunting the hunter.

That's why, when he asked if you'd accompany him to an "exhibition of twilight-themed oil paintings" this Friday, you agreed.

Not because he looked like he belonged in an oil painting.

Not because he bowed slightly when he said "It would be my honor."

But because, scientifically, museums are great places to see if a person casts a reflection in glass.

"Consider this a field study," you muttered to yourself in the bathroom mirror, fixing your hair for the fourth time. "Not a date. A field study."

The "not-dates" kept stacking up after that.

A sunset walk through the botanical gardens ("Ah, the dying light brings out the golden undertones of your soul," he said, and you nearly tripped into a decorative pond).

A late-night jazz café, where he sipped his wine and you absolutely did not spend the entire evening imagining what he'd look like with his hair down and a dagger in his teeth.

A poetry reading. Where the poet stopped mid-verse because Rook was clapping too emotionally.

He always paid. He always pulled your chair out. He always smelled like cedarwood and wind.

He called them dates.

You called it recon.

You brought a tiny hand mirror to dinner once. "Oh this? I just… use it for checking my eyeliner. And your reflection. No reason."

He didn't even blink. "Ah, how clever. But perhaps you'd see more clearly if you looked into my eyes instead?"

You choked on your breadstick.

Every time you tried to interrogate him—"So, what's your opinion on eternal life?" or "Ever wake up craving plasma?"—he'd laugh, then dodge the question with something outrageous like, "Only a fool seeks eternity when each moment with you is already infinite," and you'd have to physically reboot your brain like a crashed laptop.

You were flailing.

You kept trying to stay professional. Collected. Objective.

But it was hard when he looked at you like he was composing a sonnet in real time.

When he held your hand like you were made of porcelain.

When he picked a flower off a tree and tucked it behind your ear without asking and whispered, "Even the moon must envy you, mon chèr."

You were on high alert. Not because you liked him. No.

You were vampire watching.

That's why you kept a notebook titled "Behavioral Observations of Suspected Night Creature." Not because you were doodling little hearts around his name. That was for decoration. To, um, throw off suspicion.

And yes, you did Google "can you date a vampire if it's for science," and yes, you did find three different Reddit threads about people claiming their immortal lovers left bite marks shaped like the Eiffel Tower.

But that was research.

Totally. Entirely. Academic.

And if your heart skipped a little when he kissed the back of your hand and called you his "bravest flame in this dim world"—that was probably just heartburn.

You were on a mission.

You were not falling for him.

You were simply… emotionally compromised by how obscenely attractive his collarbones looked in candlelight.

It could happen to anyone.

Dinner had been amazing. Which was kind of the problem.

You weren't supposed to be this charmed. You were supposed to be investigating. Your whole deal—the entire point of this increasingly suspicious series of encounters—was that you were gathering evidence. You were the lone voice of reason in a world of garlic apologists. You were the slayer. You were—

"You have a beautiful way of smiling when you're trying not to laugh," Rook had said tonight, eyes soft, head tilted like he was trying to memorize the way you looked with your mouth half-full of food and trying to hide it behind your napkin.

And you had smiled wider. Like an idiot. Like a fool. Like someone who was no longer on the hunt but absolutely being hunted.

He had pulled out your chair. Tipped the waiter. Paid the bill while you were in the bathroom. Walked you home under the glow of warm street lamps and murmured poetry under his breath when he thought you couldn't hear. He held your hand when you almost tripped on the curb like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You let him.

You had, in fact, squeezed his hand back.

What the hell was happening to you.

When you finally got back home and closed the door behind you, still glowing with post-date buzz and clutching the flower he'd picked out of someone's garden "because it matched your joy," you stood in your dark living room and had a single, terrifying realization.

You hadn't looked for a single vampire sign tonight.

You hadn't tried to check his reflection in the restaurant windows.

You hadn't counted how many times he blinked per minute.

You hadn't casually brought up crosses or holy water in conversation.

You hadn't even offered him garlic bread as a passive-aggressive test.

In fact—

Oh god.

You had leaned in. You had laughed. You had flirted back. You had let him compliment your soul's timbre and hadn't even made a joke about bloodlust once.

You had been on a normal date. Like a normal person. With a man you liked. Who may or may not have been literally undead.

You slowly sat down on your couch, holding the flower like it was damning evidence and also maybe your new favorite thing. You stared blankly at the wall for a full minute before whispering, with great horror:

"Oh no. I'm into it."

You, the world's most paranoid supernatural truther, had let your guard down. You weren't even wearing your emergency clove of garlic necklace. You had become everything you swore to destroy.

Worse—you hadn't even noticed.

And now you were spiraling.

Because he was so weird. And so poetic. And so suspiciously strong when lifting heavy objects with no visible strain. And he knew so many historical references and always seemed to know when the moon was full and probably didn't even own a full length mirror, and yet—

He made you feel like you were the center of the universe.

You buried your face in a pillow and screamed for three seconds.

Then you picked up your notebook of vampire observations, stared at it, and quietly flipped it closed.

For now.

Not forever. You were still reasonable. You were still observant.

But maybe… maybe you could let yourself enjoy this.

Maybe, just for tonight, you didn't need to know if he slept in a coffin.

Maybe he was a vampire.

Maybe he wasn't.

But tonight he kissed your knuckles like you were made of starlight and promised to write you a poem, and honestly?

That felt a lot more dangerous.

It started with a cough. A sniffle. A minor ache in your bones that you absolutely ignored, because you were a functioning adult with deadlines and a very real fear of your boss showing up in your nightmares wielding a spreadsheet.

You told yourself it was fine. You were fine. You could survive on four hours of sleep, three cups of coffee, and the sheer force of spite.

By day three, you were half-delirious, wearing two mismatched socks, and attempting to microwave a cold compress while muttering "this'll fix it" like some kind of cursed wizard. You were not, in fact, fine.

And that was when Rook showed up at your door.

Unannounced.

With soup.

"You did not reply to my messages," he said, like that explained how he somehow knew you were dying. "I feared you had succumbed to some terrible affliction of the soul. Or perhaps a particularly villainous flu strain."

You tried to smile and failed. It came out looking like a grimace. "It's not that bad," you croaked, clutching the doorframe for stability like gravity had become an optional setting that you'd accidentally toggled off.

He gave you a look. One of those devastatingly fond ones. The kind that made your insides do cartwheels despite the fever.

"Mon pauvre cœur," he murmured, brushing hair off your forehead with all the delicacy of a man who absolutely did not know what personal space was, "even your aura looks congested."

You were too weak to argue. Too feverish to care. You let him in.

He floated around your apartment like a very helpful, very beautiful hallucination. He made tea. He changed your blanket. He hummed something suspiciously like an 18th century lullaby while rearranging your cluttered living room into a sickbed worthy of a fever-ridden noble, which you had definitely not asked for, but you were too busy dying and blushing to stop him.

And then he brought the soup.

It was… soup. Probably. You couldn't taste it. You could've been drinking warm mop water for all you knew. But he was feeding it to you with this maddening look of gentle amusement, like he was taking care of a wounded dove he'd found by a pond and had already named and written a sonnet about.

He knelt next to you on the couch, one hand holding the bowl, the other carefully tilting the spoon toward your mouth. His voice was low and tender.

"You must eat. Even if only to give your immune system the dramatic support it deserves."

And you—

You just looked at him.

Hair pulled back, those ridiculously green eyes crinkled with worry, coat sleeves rolled and he was feeding you soup and calling you mon cœur and—

Oh.

Oh no.

You were in love with him.

It hit you like a falling anvil. Right in the heart. The full Looney Tunes experience.

You were in love with Rook Hunt.

Weird, dramatic, possibly-a-vampire Rook Hunt.

Who once described your laugh as "a forest waking in spring."

Who carried around obscure herbal tinctures and had once given you a bouquet that included a flower used to curse kings in the 1400s.

And you did not care.

You were flushed from fever and feelings, you looked like a raccoon that had been hit by a truck, you hadn't washed your hair in a shameful number of days, and yet this man was looking at you like you were the embodiment of a love ballad—and for once, you believed it.

Garlic, sunlight, potential bat transformation—none of it mattered anymore.

You'd fallen. Hard. Unrecoverably. Irreparably. Ridiculously.

You swallowed the next spoonful of soup with the gravity of someone accepting their fate, and Rook smiled so warmly it was unfair.

"…Can I ask something?" you mumbled, voice a little hoarse.

"But of course," he said, setting the bowl down gently.

You looked into his eyes. "If I die from this fever… will you write me an epic poem and read it dramatically at my funeral?"

He blinked. And then laughed. Soft and breathless, it felt like sunlight through curtains.

"Mon amour," he said, like that was a thing you both had agreed on, "I would do so even if you were merely five minutes late to brunch."

You sighed. Leaned back. Let yourself fall fully into the pillows and into this moment. Feverish, exhausted, helplessly enamored.

Vampire or not.

You were doomed.

You woke up to warmth. You shifted under your blanket, eyes squinting against the morning light filtering through your curtains, and that was when you noticed it:

Rook was sitting beside you.

Still holding your hand.

You blinked at him, groggy and confused and still crusted in the aftermath of a full immune system breakdown, and the first thing your brain offered up was:

He was warm.

Which, scientifically speaking, meant he wasn't technically a full vampire.

You lay there, fever-free but still dumbstruck, staring at his hand in yours. He wasn't wearing gloves. His palm was pressed to yours like it belonged there, fingers curled so gently it was like he was afraid you'd vanish. And his hand was warm.

Your inner conspiracy theorist made a brief, tired attempt at logic:

"He's warm. That means he probably has a functioning circulatory system. Which means he probably doesn't sleep in a crypt or consume Type O-Negative on toast. Probably. Probably."

But the part of you that still had soup breath and eye gunk and emotions just went, Shut up. He stayed.

Because he did. He had stayed. All night. Sat by your couch with his coat thrown over the chair and a book he never got around to reading and a cup of tea that went cold. And he was still there now, sleep-rumpled and beautiful, watching you like you were more fascinating than the rise and fall of empires.

When he noticed you were awake, he smiled, slow and soft.

"Ah, bonjour, petit trésor," he murmured. "You look slightly less haunted. A triumph."

You made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a dying toad. "How long…?"

"All night," he said, like it wasn't a big deal. "I could not leave while you burned like that. It would be a crime against romance."

You tried to sit up.

Your body politely declined the request.

Rook tsked like a disapproving aunt and pressed you back down with one hand—still gentle, still infuriatingly poetic about everything.

Then he placed the back of his other hand against your forehead, checking your temperature.

"Much improved," he said, beaming. "Your internal sun begins to rise again."

And in that exact moment, with his hand on your face and his eyes glowing like the sunset in a prose-heavy novella, you realized something extremely stupid.

If he leaned down right then, bared fangs, and whispered "May I bite thee, my precious bloom?"—you would have said yes.

You would have said yes so fast.

You would've thrown your neck back and exposed the vulnerable curve of your throat like you were in a Twilight reboot. You absolutely would have gone down in history as the idiot who looked at their maybe-vampire crush and thought, Take a nibble, king, I trust you.

He wasn't even doing anything. Just sitting there. Holding your gross, clammy hand and looking at you like you hung the stars.

And somehow, that was worse. That was so much worse.

You'd completely lost. He could be a vampire. He could be a wizard. He could be a really enthusiastic barista. You did not care.

Because last night, you had been miserable and messy and borderline incoherent, and he had stayed. He made soup. He hummed lullabies. He called you his heart's ember and meant it.

You were in love.

Utterly, helplessly, stupidly in love.

And as Rook gently brushed your hair off your face and offered you a glass of water with all the reverence of a man presenting the Holy Grail, you decided you'd deal with the vampire thing later.

Preferably after he kissed you.

Or after you asked if he was free for dinner again next week.

You know.

For research.

You ended up taking another nap.

You were floating somewhere between sleep and soup-induced delirium, the kind of half-conscious state where time didn't exist and the laws of physics didn't exist either. Vaguely, you were aware of warmth—sunlight, probably, or maybe just the lingering fever turning your body into a baked potato. But then movement caught your eye. A silhouette crossed your blurry vision, elegant, composed, and way too vertical for this hour.

Rook. He'd stayed again.

Then he did the unthinkable.

He walked to the window.

He reached for the curtain.

You blinked. Once. Twice.

He said, casually, as if it were normal behavior, "You must receive a little sun, mon trésor. Even a flower must bloom."

You made a sound. It was supposed to be words. It came out more like a blender choking on gravel.

Because no.

NO.

You watched his fingers brush the curtain, and something in your barely-functioning brain screamed, "HE'S GOING TO COMBUST."

You didn't even think.

You launched.

With the coordination of a squirrel on Nyquil, you hurled yourself across the couch, staggered upright, and threw your full weight into him just as the sunlight began to stream in. "NO—YOU'LL BURN," you shouted, with the certainty of someone who'd done zero research but had watched two vampire movies once in high school.

The two of you hit the floor in a pile of limbs, your fevered body sprawled dramatically across his chest like you were shielding him from a grenade.

There was a pause.

A long one.

Rook blinked up at you.

Then—like you'd just told him the funniest knock-knock joke in history—he started laughing.

Loudly. Joyfully. Like a man who had just been tackled by his crush and decided it was the best day of his life.

You were still clinging to him like a paranoid marsupial, blinking in confusion. "What? Why are you—? You were in the sun!"

He wheezed. "You thought—mon dieu—you thought the sunlight would incinerate me?"

"Yes???" you said, still on top of him, still wildly unsure about the rules of nature. "You—midnight moving, blackout curtain buying, garlic bread dodging—you showed so many signs!"

He laughed harder. "Oh, mon trésor, I gave you those signs. You were so adorably suspicious."

You froze. "You what."

"I knew from the first moment you side-eyed my coat like it was made of coffin lining," he said, beaming. "You were so serious. So intense. So endearing. I could not help myself—I wanted to see how far you'd go."

You stared down at him, horrified. "You knew I thought you were a vampire and you played into it?!"

"Mais oui," he said cheerfully. "You were like a curious little owl—staring, theorizing, leaving garlic on your balcony. I was enchanted."

You felt your soul attempt to leave your body via cringe teleportation. "Oh my god. I'm an idiot. I'm an idiot raccoon caught with both hands in the garbage bag."

"You're delightful," he corrected. "And very creative."

You groaned and flopped forward until your face was smushed into the side of his neck, which, to your horror, was warm and pulse-having and distinctly not vampire in nature. You could feel your dignity dissolve molecule by molecule.

"So you're human," you muttered.

"Yes," he said, "Entirely human."

You made another noise of despair. It sounded like a dying fax machine. "I tackled you."

"You did. With great passion."

"I thought I was saving your life."

He tried very hard not to laugh again. "You were magnificent."

You sighed into his neck. "This is the worst thing that's ever happened to me."

"It's one of the best things that's ever happened to me," he said brightly. "I got tackled by someone who cares. How very romantic."

You lifted your head just enough to glare at him. "You're enjoying this way too much."

"And yet," he said, cupping your cheek with a hand full of laughter, "I did stay all night with you. Even made you soup."

"…You did do that."

"And if I had been a vampire," he added, "I assure you, you'd be one by now."

You groaned again. And then stayed where you were, because honestly? You were still kind of in love. Vampire or not.

Even if he was the most dramatic man you'd ever accidentally tackled.

You told them over milkshakes.

Because if you were going to admit to wildly misdiagnosing a man as a nocturnal bloodsucker and then also falling stupidly in love with him, it needed to be over something cold and full of sugar. Preferably in public, so they wouldn't scream.

Ace was halfway through slurping his chocolate shake like it owed him money when you said, in your best casual voice, "So… turns out Rook's not a vampire. He's just French."

Deuce blinked slowly. "What?"

"Yes," you sighed. "Like baguette and poetry and politely opens doors French. Not sleeps-in-a-coffin French."

There was a beat of silence.

Then Ace let out the longest, most dramatic groan known to man, dragging his hands down his face like you personally had caused his suffering. "Oh my god, DUDE."

Deuce, meanwhile, turned to Ace and, with the unshakable calm of someone who had been waiting for this moment, said, "Pay up."

"What," You snapped, "you bet on this?!"

"Yeah," Deuce said, deadpan. "I bet you'd fall in love with him. Ace thought you'd just spiral into full conspiracy and get arrested trying to break into his basement."

You squinted. "Rook doesn't have a basement."

Ace gestured wildly. "AND YET YOU WOULD HAVE FOUND ONE."

You groaned and covered your face. "This is the worst."

"No," Ace said. "The worst was you texting us at two in the morning like 'what if he's half vampire and garlic only makes him stronger.'"

"I was being thorough!" you cried.

Deuce helpfully added, "You also asked if vampire sunscreen exists."

"I WAS SICK," you yelled. "ON MEDICATION. MY BRAIN WAS BARELY FUNCTIONING."

"And yet," Ace said, sipping his drink loudly, "you tackled him. You physically tackled a man because he tried to open a curtain."

You made a noise that could only be described as internal combustion.

"Oh," Deuce said suddenly, "by the way—I almost called an actual mold inspector? Like, to check your house? Because your vampire theory was so intense I thought you might be hallucinating from spores."

You gawked at him. "You thought I had mold poisoning and your solution was not telling me and just… calling a guy?!"

Deuce shrugged. "I was trying to help."

Ace pointed at your milkshake. "You don't deserve that."

You flipped him off.

"Anyway," you grumbled, "I love him."

Ace choked on his drink.

Deuce blinked. "Wait. You what?"

You sank lower in your chair, hands over your face. "I said I love him. Okay? Because he took care of me when I was dying and he's warm and nice and has cheekbones like a fantasy novel villain and I'd let him bite me even though I know now he has a working circulatory system."

They both stared.

Then Ace said, "You are so weird."

And Deuce, bless his heart, just patted your shoulder and said, "That's kind of romantic. In a fever-dream, garlic-bread, public-health-incident kind of way."

You sighed into your straw.

Ace, of course, was already texting someone. "I'm telling Rook he better marry you before you accuse him of being a merman next."

You scowled. "That was one time and he was very wet."

"You were following him around with a seashell, bro."

You groaned and started googling "how to fake your own death with dignity."

Somehow, they still paid for your milkshake.

Rook had taken you out to some quaint little garden bistro.

He'd spent the entire evening being charming in that completely effortless way he had—holding the door open like it was an art form, ordering in lilting French, complimenting your laugh like it was a rare wine, and absolutely ruining your ability to think straight.

And you—foolish, once-misguided, now-fully-delirious you—had melted for all of it.

You'd laughed, and blushed, and kicked his foot under the table like someone who hadn't once sincerely believed he was going to transform into a bat mid-conversation.

Now, you stood outside your apartment under the stars, the night cool and still. Rook faced you, hands behind his back like he was either about to recite a sonnet or present you with a rare bird. You were prepared for either. What you were not prepared for was what came next.

"Mon cœur," he said, gently, "would you allow me the honour of calling you my partner?"

Your brain static'd. Just—flatlined.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Stared at him like he'd asked you to solve a riddle in a collapsing building. And then you did the only logical thing your brain could come up with.

You kissed him.

You kissed him like your life depended on it, like you'd never get another chance to make up for all the garlic bread and wild accusations and crime-scene-level suspicion. He made a quiet noise of surprise—pleased, delighted—and kissed you back, one hand moving to cradle your cheek like he was holding something deeply precious.

When he pulled away, he was smiling.

The smile was resplendent. The kind of smile people wrote poems about. The kind of smile that had absolutely no business being that sweet or that bright or that heart-wrenchingly warm.

It didn't matter that he wasn't a vampire.

Because with that smile?

He drove a stake through your heart anyway.

You stood there, dizzy, in love, fully emotionally slain.

He tilted his head, as if waiting for you to say something, but all you could manage was a breathless, "Yeah. Yes. I'd—yeah."

"Ah," he said, eyes twinkling. "Alors, it is official."

He twirled you like a ballroom dancer in the middle of the sidewalk.

You let it happen.

Because honestly? Your first impression may have been unhinged. You may have staged an entire fake investigation and tackled him in broad daylight. But this?

This was it.

He was your person.

Not a vampire. Just tragically French. And unfortunately perfect.

Masterlist

#twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twst #twisted wonderland #rook hunt x reader #rook x reader #rook hunt #rook x you #rook #twst rook #twst rook x reader

489 notes · View notes

eluminium · 18 hours ago

Text

What your favorite Hermit says about you! (In the style of Blake Jennings)

DISCLAIMER: THIS IS ALL IN GOOD FUN AND JEST. NONE OF THESE ARE TO BE TAKEN SERIOUSLY. Also all of these are based mostly on vibes and minimally on research. If you wanna check out the guy whose videos inspired this post, you can click here.

WITH THAT OUT OF THE WAY, ONTO THE SHAMING!

BdoubleO100: Chronic scratcher. You've never thrown a proper punch in your life but my god you've turned multiple people's arms into segmented paper after they looked at you funny.

Cubfan135: It's low-hanging fruit to say you're the most neurodivergent person in any room you enter. It's high-hanging fruit to say you're the neurodivergent who spends uncomfortable amounts of time in games like The Sims or People Playground perfecting your handmade torture chambers and killing machines.

DocM77: Horny jail. Your W.I.Ps would get you flogged by a priest in the town square, and there's a non-zero chance you'd actually be into that.

Ethoslab: A majority of the time, you're relatively normal passing. But the times you aren't you are a magnitude 10 quirkquake. This is both an insult and a compliment.

Falsesymmetry: Ah, perfectionists. You poor lot are masters at getting stuck in the "wanting things to be perfect vs knowing you don't have enough skill to make it perfect" loop which leads you into doing nothing and then developing depression.

Geminitay: Out of every hermit fanbase, Gem mains are the ones I believe most when they say they'd kill and die for their hermit. Like everyone else you can just go "haha funny! I am also a fan of hyperbolic humour" but with Gemboys you're not quite sure if bestie is joking or admitting to premeditated assault.

Grian: I get the feeling that you are the type of person who, when asked what you want to eat, will say "I'm fine with anything!" but you'll get genuinely frustrated if they pick something you didn't want.

GoodtimeswithScar: You guys are the embodiment of the bed of nails vs one nail phenomenon. The most traumatic thing could happen to you and you're like "eh" but if a stranger called you mid you would start sobbing.

Hypnotizd: WHERE ARE YOU?! What kind of dark, hidden discord servers do you people hide in??? Hypno mains are like the goddamn Higgs-Boson, finding evidence of one existing in public is damn near impossible but you MUST EXIST or there would be a fundamental error in the fabric of the universe. I can't even poke fun at you because I CANNOT FIND YOU.

iJevin: I'm guessing Vulture Culture is very important to you. If it's not, it's only a matter of time until it will be.

ImpulseSV: You, like him, are a cavalcade of undiagnosed mental disorders that you don't feel like getting treated. Really, the only difference between you and him is the fact that you are a lesbian.

Joe Hills: Your right-wing older relatives call you a woke leftist and your cousins call you a weirdo. What no one will call you is a maladaptive daydreamer because you've at least got the sense to keep that to yourself at family reunions.

Keralis: *sigh* Daddy kink. And that's all the descriptive words you deserve because you are neither slick nor subtle with it.

MumboJumbo: He is babygirl. You want to be babygirl. You are not babygirl. You're sitting on your throne of bones and this man is the bunny you pet while you watch the heroes lose to you in children's card games.

PearlescentMoon: Hello art kids! Specifically, art kids who could not have a normal student-teacher relationship with art teachers. There was at least one art teacher in your life who either adored you or hated your guts and which one you got completely depended on how neurodivergent YOU were and how neurodivergent THEY were. (This includes all forms of art)

Rendog: People who are most likely to be turned into bangmaids by their boyfriend/girlfriend. Look, it's completely okay that you like your partners a little bit cringe and pathetic and dumb, but remember that weaponized incompetence is not sexy!

Skizzleman: You have daddy issues, or you have intimacy issues. You could even have both. Whatever you have, you NEED to seek therapy because he cannot fix you.

Smallishbeans (Joel): You're the type of person who's kinda obsessed with the idea of biting people as a show of affection. Which is unfortunate because associating that behavior with a brunette British man historically hasn't ended well.

TangoTek: Oh my god, PICK A STRUGGLE. Are you addicted to having 500 problems at once and 65% of them are self-inflicted? I can't think of any other reason you'd do these things to yourself because it's not like you ENJOY this, you meet every single battle with the disposition of a SOAKED CAT.

VintageBeef: I know you'd lose ALL self-respect if you met a man (or woman) like Beef in a bar or club. Like, biblical levels of self-disrespect. You'd lose all morals, all convictions, everything you've ever known about the world and yourself, just for a chance. I don't know if it's admirable or really, really sad.

Welsknight: Oof, how's that religious trauma treating you? If you were brought up in a non-religious environment, swap this out with that emptiness you feel when you realize you will never be able to truly convince yourself to believe in any faith, even if you want to.

xBCrafted: Hey diva, how's your mid-to-late 20s going? Still having a crisis over being able to drink fewer and fewer glasses of wine without feeling like death in the morning? Oh, you're not in your mid-to-late 20s? Damn, you've probably been called an old soul your entire life, and I'm not sure you've realized yet that it's not a good thing.

Xisumavoid: It's hard to pick on you guys because you already have it hard enough, so let me give you some advice instead. DO NOT DATE THAT TRADWIFE/TATER TOT YOU'RE CHECKING OUT. I know the temptation is there but YOU CANNOT FIX THEM. THEY WILL RUIN YOUR LIFE.

Zedaph: You could not explain your gender identity to your cishet family members if you tried. Honestly, you couldn't explain it to your fellow gays either. You have ascended to gender beyond most people's imagination.

ZombieCleo: You have a thing for authority, don't you? You want nothing more than for a person higher up the food chain to tell you straight up what to do at all times so you don't have to navigate the minefield that is small talk with people you don't know.

And that's all of them! Thank you for reading through this project of mine! If the comment under your favorite hermit doesn't fit you, feel free to write your own in the tags or something. Or yell at me for being stupid and dumb and bad and knowing nothing about you. We love free will and attention here at the Eluminium Tumblr blog.

571 notes · View notes

solrburst · 2 days ago

Text

theirs — joel x reader x tommy

𝒮ummary: Joel's been with you for weeks, but when he catches the way you look at his brother, he decides it's time to share.

𝒲arnings: threesome, dirty talk, light degradation, unprotected sex, oral sex (f! & m! receiving), orgasm denial/edging, dom!joel, voyeur!joel, reader objectified (consensually)

𝒜uthor’s 𝒩ote: i swear to god this is the dirtiest thing i ever wrote but let me know if you want a part 2 bc i could do a collection or a whole book of them together

𝒲ord 𝒞ount: 8,4k

You’re on Joel’s lap the night it starts.

Half-drunk on cheap whiskey and the weight of his arms around your waist, you’re draped across him like you belong there. The porch creaks beneath your bare feet as you rock slowly in the old chair, his breath warm against your neck, and his hand resting low on your thigh, just under the hem of your shorts. A breeze carries in the sounds of Jackson’s quiet night—distant voices, boots over dirt—but your eyes are locked on one thing.

Or rather, one man.

Tommy Miller.

He’s sitting across from the two of you, laughing at something dumb Joel just muttered—God knows what, you’d stopped listening a minute ago. He’s got that easy grin, relaxed posture, tanned skin catching firelight from the lantern beside him. A couple buttons are undone on his shirt and his forearms are dusted with grime and work. And you?

You’re staring.

Hungry.

It’s not subtle either. You let it happen, cocking your head just a little, gaze dragging over the line of Tommy’s jaw, lingering where his neck disappears into his collar. You know Joel sees it. You want him to. All the time.

He shifts beneath you, breath catching just a little. His fingers flex tighter on your leg.

“Careful,” he murmurs, voice low in your ear. “You’re starin’, sweetheart.”

You hum, slow and syrupy, turning your head to glance back at him over your shoulder, lips curling.

“Can’t help it,” you purr, unbothered. “You Millers come in the same model—built tough, look good filthy. I got a type, what can I say?”

Joel’s jaw tightens, but there’s no anger in it. Just something darker. Slower. Watching you with that narrowed stare of his, like he’s weighing the shape of your words in his head. Behind you, Tommy’s too busy sipping his drink to notice how thick the air’s gotten.

Joel slides his hand higher up your thigh.

“You want him?” he asks, almost too casual. Almost.

You blink.

“What?”

Joel leans back in the chair, pulling you with him. You’re sitting square in his lap now, back against his chest, his palm splayed against your stomach.

“You look at him the same way you look at me,” he says, voice low and steady. “Been noticin’ it a while now. When we’re out on patrol. Dinner. Hell, even when it’s just the two of us here. Eyes all starvin’. So I’ll ask again.”

He nudges your thighs apart just a little with his knees.

“You want him?”

You laugh, soft and breathless, turning to face him properly now. “And if I do?”

Joel doesn’t blink.

“Then you could have him,” he says. “Long as I get to watch.”

The words hit you like a spark to dry tinder. Your mouth parts. Your breath stills.

You feel it between your legs immediately.

He sees it.

“Fuck,” you whisper, smiling slow. “You’re serious.”

His gaze doesn’t waver. His voice lowers.

“Dead serious.”

And from the other side of the porch, Tommy lifts his glass and calls out, easy and oblivious:

“Y’all whisperin’ secrets over there, or just bein’ gross again?”

You smirk.

Joel’s hand slides even higher.

“Maybe both,” you call back, eyes never leaving Joel’s.

The horses are stabled, boots are muddy, and the sky’s starting to dim again — that hazy, gold hour when the shadows stretch long and the air feels thicker than it should.

Joel tosses his saddle over the gate and wipes sweat from his brow. Tommy’s leaning against the fence post, drinking from his canteen, still catching his breath.

They’ve been riding quiet all afternoon — too quiet, for brothers who usually bicker just to pass the time.

Joel doesn’t look at him when he says it.

“You been starin’ at her too, haven’t you?”

Tommy’s halfway through a drink. He pulls the canteen away, squinting.

“…The fuck?”

Joel finally glances over, eyes steady beneath his brow. “Don’t play dumb, Tommy.”

Tommy laughs. A short, sharp bark of disbelief. “You serious right now?”

Joel just stares.

“You’re talkin’ about her?” Tommy adds. “The girl who’s been crawlin’ all over your lap for weeks? That one?”

Joel gives a slow nod.

Tommy shakes his head, smirking. “What, you wanna fight me or somethin’? ’Cause I looked?”

“No,” Joel says. Then, after a pause:

“Wanna offer her to you.”

The smile dies right there.

Tommy straightens. “Jesus Christ.”

Joel leans against the fence, arms crossed, voice low and even.

“She’s not mine. Not really. We fuck. We talk. She drinks my whiskey and runs that smart mouth of hers till I shut her up. But we keep it casual. She doesn't belong to me.”

Tommy just stares at him like he’s gone insane.

Joel shrugs. “I see how she looks at you. The same way she looked at me before she got in my bed. You ever notice how quiet she gets when you walk into a room? Or how she licks her lip when you talk?”

Tommy doesn’t answer, but his jaw tics.

Joel sees it.

“Thought I was imaginin’ it,” Joel says. “But last night? When she sat on my lap and you were sittin’ across from us? She didn’t even try to hide it.”

“She’s half your age,” Tommy mutters, shaking his head, still like he doesn’t quite believe this is happening.

Joel’s voice drops, quiet and rough. “And yours too. That stop either of us?”

Tommy goes silent.

Joel watches him.

“It don’t have to be a thing. You want her—I’m givin’ you the green light. She wants it too. She’s probably just waitin’ for one of us to say it out loud.”

Tommy laughs again, but it’s different this time. Lower. Nervous.

“You really okay with just… watchin’?”

Joel raises an eyebrow. “Who said I’d be just watchin’?”

That gets a look.

But Tommy doesn’t argue.

He looks away instead, out toward the mountains. Wipes a hand across the back of his neck. He’s quiet for a while. Too long. And Joel lets him sit with it.

Then, finally, Tommy sighs.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

Joel waits.

“I mean… yeah,” Tommy says. “I’ve looked. I’ve thought about it. Lot more than I should’ve.”

Joel nods once, like he knew it already.

Tommy exhales, shaking his head. “You’re a goddamn lunatic.”

Joel just smirks.

“Yeah,” he says. “But I’m not wrong.”

Joel’s place smells like cinnamon and sin.

He walks in first, boots heavy on wood, holding the door just long enough for Tommy to follow. You don’t look up right away — you’re elbow-deep in something sweet, hands dusted in flour, sleeves pushed up past your elbows, a pie crust laid out on the counter in front of you like an offering.

You hum to yourself, casual, barefoot, hips swaying just a little in the quiet rhythm of your own routine.

“I brought company,” Joel says from the doorway, voice unreadable.

You glance back, eyes flicking over your shoulder, playful smile already curling.

“Hope it’s someone I’d actually let eat my pie,” you say, sweet as honey and sharp as the knife on the cutting board.

Tommy snorts behind him. “If that’s the welcome, I might take my chances.”

You finally turn, arms folded, leaning your hip against the counter. The apron tied around your waist does nothing to hide the curve of you — the softness, the bare legs, the casual confidence. You’re comfortable here. Powerful in it.

And you know exactly what you’re doing.

“Well, well,” you purr, eyes dragging over him, slow and deliberate. “Didn’t know we were graced with royalty tonight. To what do I owe the honor, Miller junior?”

Tommy raises an eyebrow. “Joel’s idea.”

You shoot Joel a look, mock suspicion. “That so?”

Joel shrugs, already settling into his chair at the table like he didn’t just bring a loaded weapon into his kitchen.

“Said you were bakin’,” he says. “Figured Tommy might wanna see you with somethin’ sweet in your hands for once, instead of my cock.”

Tommy nearly chokes. You laugh.

“Oh my god, Joel,” you say, eyes wide, fighting the grin.

But you don’t deny it.

You look at Tommy again — this time slower, letting the silence stretch. He’s shifting his weight, trying not to stare too obviously. Failing. His eyes flick down, then up again too fast, trying not to look at your thighs, or the smear of flour on your chest.

“You bake, Tommy?” you ask, teasing. “Or you just good at eatin’ things other people make?”

He smirks, leaning against the frame. “I get by.”

“I bet you do.” You tilt your head. “You watch long enough, I’ll let you lick the spoon.”

Joel chuckles low in his throat, shaking his head, but doesn’t interfere.

Tommy lifts both hands like surrender. “You’re trouble.”

You turn back toward the pie, smoothing the crust into the dish, voice over your shoulder: “Only if you don’t know what to do with me.”

Behind you, Joel meets Tommy’s eyes — silent, subtle — and gives a single nod.

Tommy exhales slow, tongue running along the inside of his cheek.

“Pie smells good,” he says, eyes still fixed on you.

You smirk without turning.

“Better when it’s hot.”

You don’t look at either of them as you fold the last edge of crust into place, fingers moving with practiced ease. The room’s gone quieter, heavier, like the air itself knows something’s different. Joel’s sitting at the table with one leg stretched out, a glass of whiskey in hand. He hasn’t said a word in minutes — just watching. Steady. Measured. Like this is all part of some slow game he already knows the ending to.

Tommy lingers at the counter, just behind you now, arms crossed. Close enough to smell the cinnamon, and under it — your skin.

“Didn’t know you could cook,” he says after a beat.

You shrug, wiping your hands on a dish towel. “I like working with my hands. Keeps me out of trouble.”

“Pretty sure you are the trouble,” he mutters.

You glance back, smirking. “Then I guess I’ve been working overtime.”

Tommy chuckles, but it’s tight. A little shaky around the edges. He runs a hand through his hair and glances toward Joel, like he needs a read on the room — needs to know how far he can go without crossing something he can’t walk back.

Joel just lifts his glass.

“Don’t look at me,” he says. “You’re the one standin’ there, starin’ at her like you’re tryin’ to solve a goddamn puzzle.”

You laugh quietly, leaning back against the counter. The pie dish sits beside you, raw and waiting.

“Well?” you ask Tommy, eyes catching his again. “What’s so complicated, huh?”

He opens his mouth, closes it again. Scratches at his jaw.

“I dunno,” he says finally. “Feels like you’re messin’ with me.”

“Oh, baby.” You push off the counter and step toward him, slow and deliberate, bare feet silent against the floorboards. “I am messin’ with you. Doesn’t mean I’m not serious.”

He stands still as you pass him, brush by his arm — the heat of you so close, so casual. You walk to the sink, rinse your hands in cold water, stretch your arms high over your head when you’re done, knowing exactly how your shirt rides up, how Tommy’s eyes follow the motion even though he tries not to.

Joel watches it all with that quiet, unreadable look.

You turn, leaning one hip against the sink, towel still in hand.

“I see the way you look at me, Tommy. It’s cute. Like you’re tryin’ real hard to pretend you’re not imagining what I sound like moaning your name.”

Tommy swallows hard.

You smile, wicked and slow.

Joel’s voice comes in, low from the table. “She’s good at that part, too. That sound.”

Tommy shoots him a look, but Joel just sips his whiskey, calm as ever.

You walk back toward the counter, sliding the pie into the oven without breaking eye contact. Then you close it with a soft clink, straighten, and say:

“You gonna help set the table or just keep standin’ there tryin’ not to pop wood in your brother’s kitchen?”

Tommy chokes on air.

Joel laughs — deep, rough, genuine.

But you don’t wait. You’re already moving to the cabinets, humming some old song under your breath like this is just another Sunday evening. Plates clink. Silverware glints.

And behind you, Tommy finally takes a slow step forward.

Right into the deep end.

The pie cools just long enough for the scent to fill every corner of the room — cinnamon, brown sugar, heat.

You slice it carefully, the crust flaking under your knife just right, steam curling into the air as you plate each piece. Joel gets his first — always does — and you set his down in front of him like a ritual. Tommy’s next, though, and this time you place his on the table with a knowing little smile.

Then you move past both chairs.

You don’t sit in yours.

You sit in his.

Right in Tommy’s lap.

He freezes under you, fork halfway to his mouth. You wiggle just a little, getting comfortable, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Hope you don’t mind,” you murmur, your voice honey-thick and innocent.

Tommy swallows hard, one hand hovering mid-air like he doesn’t know where the hell to put it.

“You… uh,” he starts, eyes darting briefly toward Joel, who hasn’t moved. “You’re real casual, ain’t you?”

“Mm,” you hum, cutting into your own slice with his fork, then turning slightly in his lap to look at him. You feed yourself slowly, tongue catching the edge of the bite before pulling it in, licking a smear of filling from your lip.

Tommy just stares.

“Y’know,” he mutters, “you’re dangerous.”

“I’ve been told.”

Joel leans back in his chair, pie untouched for now, watching you two. Quiet. Patient. There’s a glint in his eye — not jealousy, not quite approval either. Something possessive in its own right. He’s enjoying this, you realize. Watching Tommy squirm. Watching you work.

Tommy’s hands finally find a place — one at your waist, the other resting gently on your bare thigh, unsure if it’s allowed to go further. You don’t flinch. Don’t pull away.

You just lean back against him and take another bite.

“Don’t let me make you nervous, Tommy,” you say without turning. “You’ve seen what this mouth can do.”

He huffs a laugh under his breath, but it’s strained.

“I haven’t,” he says, low.

You look over your shoulder. “Not yet.”

Joel’s voice cuts in then, calm and smooth:

“She likes bein’ watched.”

That pulls Tommy’s eyes back to him, startled for a moment — but Joel’s calm. Still. Like none of this rattles him.

Like he wants this.

“She likes pushin’ buttons. Likes takin’ control.”

You shift in Tommy’s lap again, slow, pressing back ever so slightly.

“Only if the man’s worth it.”

“You think he is?” Joel asks, voice even, measured.

You smile.

“I think he’s about to find out.”

The plates are empty.

Crumbs scattered, forks abandoned. The only sounds left are the creak of old chairs, the low tick of cooling metal from the oven, and the steady beat of breath — yours, his, Joel’s. The quiet isn’t comfortable anymore. It’s thick. Heavy with what’s next.

You’re still on Tommy’s lap.

His hands have found their place now — one splayed wide on your thigh, the other curled around your waist like he forgot it wasn’t supposed to be there. He’s warmer beneath you than he was earlier. A little tense. A little still.

And very aware of where you’re sitting.

You let the silence stretch.

Then you shift again — slow, subtle, but enough to drag your ass right over the growing bulge in his jeans.

Tommy inhales sharply.

Joel watches from across the table, his eyes dark, steady.

You glance up at him briefly, then back at Tommy, tilting your head like you’re thinking real hard.

“You always this quiet?” you ask, your voice syrupy, sweetened with a mocking lilt. “Or is that just ‘cause I’m sittin’ on something important?”

Tommy’s jaw ticks.

“You keep grindin’ like that,” he mutters, “and I’m not gonna stay quiet.”

“Oh?” You grin, resting your elbow on the table, your body still square in his lap. “Big talk for a man who hasn’t even tried to touch me proper.”

“You’re in my lap.”

“And fully clothed. Which, frankly, is a little rude.”

Tommy shifts under you again, hands tightening on your waist.

Joel, still lounging in his chair, finally speaks.

“You don’t have to hold back, y’know.”

Tommy’s eyes flick to his brother. “You sure about that?”

Joel lifts his glass, tilts it lazily.

“I wouldn’t’ve brought you here if I wasn’t.”

The implication hangs there, heavy and clear.

You twist around just enough to look Tommy in the eye, your legs straddling him now, knees on either side of his thighs. You’re close enough to feel the heat of his breath, to hear how shallow it’s gotten.

“You ever think about it?” you whisper. “Me. Spread out. Moaning your name. Begging for it.”

His eyes flick down to your mouth, then back up.

“Yeah,” he says, low. “I’ve thought about it.”

“Good,” you murmur. Your hand slides up his chest, nails dragging lightly over the buttons of his shirt. “Because I’m done with pie. And I’m fuckin’ starving.”

Joel lets out a low breath — something close to a chuckle.

And Tommy?

Tommy finally moves.

You don’t wait for him to move again.

You lean in first — one hand still curled lightly around the collar of Tommy’s shirt, the other resting against his jaw, fingertips tracing the rough edge of his stubble. His breath hitches when you get that close. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe.

You tilt your head, just enough.

And kiss him.

Soft at first.

Just your mouth against his — light pressure, a test, a tease. He doesn’t move right away, but you feel the way his whole body responds under you, muscles tightening, breath catching.

Then he kisses you back.

Harder.

Hotter.

You pull away just enough to murmur, “Get up.”

Tommy blinks. “What?”

You slide off his lap, hand still in his shirt. “Get up.”

He does, and you move immediately, climbing up onto the edge of Joel’s kitchen table like you’ve done it a hundred times — like you were meant to be there. You sit at the edge, legs spreading slowly, heels hooking around the edge of the chair he just vacated.

You look down at him, still standing between your legs.

You smile, dark and soft. “C’mon, Miller.”

He steps in, hands going to your hips — tentative at first, then firmer when you don’t flinch. You pull him in again, fingers tugging at his collar as you press your mouth back to his, this time deeper, slower, lips parting just enough to let him feel the heat behind your teeth.

You kiss like you’ve been waiting for this.

Like you’ve already pictured exactly how he tastes.

And now?

You’re proving yourself right.

His hands slide down to your thighs, thumbs dragging along your bare skin as your tongue flicks against his. His breath comes faster, and the kiss turns rougher — no hesitation now, just heat. Hunger. His hips press forward without meaning to.

Behind him, Joel hasn’t moved.

You break the kiss long enough to glance past Tommy’s shoulder. Joel’s still seated, still drinking you both in with that quiet, coiled energy. His elbow on the table, fingers wrapped around a glass of whiskey he hasn’t touched in a while.

You lock eyes with him over Tommy’s shoulder.

Your lips still wet from his brother’s kiss.

And you smirk.

Then you whisper, low into Tommy’s ear:

“Tell me what you want.”

You don’t have to ask again.

The second your breath brushes Tommy’s ear, something breaks loose in him.

His hands slide up your thighs — rougher this time, fingers digging in as they rise. There’s no hesitation now, no caution. He’s locked in, focused, hungry. And you feel it in every inch of his touch.

He kisses you again — deeper, messier this time, mouth open against yours. His tongue pushes past your lips, meeting yours in a slick, heated grind that sends a slow pulse straight between your legs. You shift forward on the table, pulling him closer, the pressure between you sparking against the friction of your bodies.

His hands slip under the edge of your skirt.

You gasp into his mouth as his thumbs hook the waistband and drag them down just far enough to bare the curve of your hips, his fingers brushing heat and skin and nothing but you.

“You’re soaked,” he mutters against your lips, voice thick.

“Yeah?” you breathe, pulling back just enough to look him in the eyes. “Guess I do like bein’ watched.”

You glance at Joel again — still in the same chair, jaw set, eyes locked on the two of you, a muscle twitching in his cheek. He hasn’t said a word. His hand rests loosely on his thigh now, the other curled around his untouched glass.

He doesn’t interrupt.

Doesn’t look away.

Tommy’s fingers slip lower.

They find you.

And they don’t hesitate.

Your breath catches hard as he slides two fingers between your folds, slow and deliberate, dragging through the slick heat. His thumb brushes over your clit just once — featherlight — and your legs twitch around his hips, heels digging into the edge of the table.

You moan softly, back arching.

He watches your face like he’s trying to memorize it.

“You feel like fuckin’ heaven,” he mutters, voice raw.

You laugh — breathless, dark. “Better than pie, huh?”

Tommy groans, sliding his fingers deeper, your slick welcoming him with ease. The stretch is perfect, just enough to make your thighs tighten around him. Your hips roll into his touch without thinking.

Behind him, Joel shifts.

The sound is small — wood creaking under his weight — but it cuts through everything. You look at him again, lip caught between your teeth, his eyes burning into yours.

You can tell.

He’s hard in his jeans.

And he’s not touching himself.

Yet.

“You gonna keep watchin’?” you ask him, voice low, laced with heat and dare.

Joel leans forward just slightly in his chair.

“For now.”

Tommy presses deeper.

And you cry out — loud this time, no shame, no restraint — your body rocking into his hand as your head falls back.

The table creaks beneath you.

And Joel just keeps watching.

Tommy’s fingers leave you only long enough to push your dress up — slow at first, like he’s trying to savor the reveal. The hem catches on your ribs, and you lift your arms without a word, letting him pull it over your head.

It drops to the floor with a soft whisper.

You’re bare underneath.

No bra.

Tommy swears under his breath — not loud, just enough that you feel the heat of it where he’s staring. His eyes drag over your chest, lingering on the swell of your breasts, the way your nipples tighten under the chill of the room — or maybe under his gaze.

His hands slide up your sides, calloused and warm, thumbs brushing under the curve of your breasts. Then, without warning, he dips his head.

His mouth wraps around your nipple — hot and sudden — and your whole body jolts.

Your hands fly to his hair, fingers curling into it as he sucks deep, tongue swirling slow, drawing tight circles around the sensitive bud. He groans into your skin, the sound low and reverent, like he’s been waiting to do this — like he’s dreamed it.

Your head tips back with a sharp gasp.

“F-fuck, Tommy…”

He moves to the other, dragging his mouth across the center of your chest, stubble scraping sensitive skin. His tongue is hotter than his hands, mouth open, wet, taking you in like it’s the first real taste he’s had all day.

Your thighs flex around his hips, heels locking against the backs of his legs. You grind instinctively against the denim of his jeans, slick and aching, every nerve lit up from the way he’s devouring you inch by inch.

Behind him, Joel hasn’t moved.

But you feel him.

Your eyes flutter open long enough to look over Tommy’s shoulder.

Joel’s leaned forward now, elbows on his knees, his face unreadable — but his eyes are fire. Fixed on your breasts, on Tommy’s mouth working you. You watch his throat bob as he swallows hard.

You smile through your moan.

“Y’mind if I let him keep going?” you breathe, voice teasing, drunk with pleasure.

Joel’s voice is gravel, low and tight:

“Didn’t tell him to stop.”

Tommy’s hands slide around your back, pulling you tighter to the edge of the table as his mouth keeps working you — slower now, wetter, tongue flicking teasing circles while his fingers knead your waist, possessive and sure.

He lifts his head only for a second — lips swollen, jaw tight — and says, voice rough:

“You taste like fuckin’ sugar.”

Your laugh turns into a gasp as his mouth drops again, tongue lapping hungrily against your nipple before he takes it back between his lips, harder this time.

You cry out — back arching, head thrown back.

And Joel?

Still hasn’t touched himself.

But his knuckles are white around that glass.

Tommy pulls back, breath hot against your chest, lips glossy from where he’s been working your skin. His hands are still on your waist, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

You’re flushed, gasping, but the smile playing on your lips is wicked. Too smug.

You glance over Tommy’s shoulder again.

Joel still hasn’t moved — but his glass is half-empty now, the other hand resting on his thigh, his thumb tapping slow against denim.

He’s watching your mouth when you say it.

“You sure you’re okay just sittin’ there, Joel?” you purr, breath still catching between words. “You look like you’re gonna break that glass or start humpin’ your chair.”

Tommy huffs a laugh against your collarbone — but Joel doesn’t smile.

He lifts his eyes to yours, slow.

Dead calm.

“You’re real mouthy tonight,” he says, voice low and dry. “Feelin’ bold ‘cause you got someone else’s tongue on your tits?”

You grin wide, dragging a thumb across your nipple, still wet from Tommy’s mouth. “Might just invite the whole town next time. Start a little bake sale.”

Tommy snorts again, but quieter this time. Joel’s face hasn’t changed.

Just his posture.

He sets the glass down.

Stands.

His boots are loud on the floor as he walks over — slow, measured. You tilt your head up as he approaches, all smirk and challenge, legs still spread where Tommy left you on the edge of the table.

Joel stops right in front of you.

“You done?” he asks.

Your smile doesn’t fade. “You jealous?”

His eyes narrow.

Then his voice drops, dark and final:

“Bedroom. Now.”

You blink.

Then grin even wider. “Oh? Daddy’s done watching?”

He leans in — not quite touching you, just close enough that you feel the heat roll off his chest.

“No. Daddy’s tired of his brat running her mouth like she owns the room.”

That one hits.

You swallow.

And for a second, neither of them moves — just the sound of your breath, the silence between their bodies, and Joel’s voice hanging in the air like a struck match.

Tommy clears his throat softly behind you, like even he felt that hit a nerve.

You hop off the table slowly, feet hitting the floor with a soft thud.

Still smiling.

But your legs tremble just a little as you walk past Joel, hips swaying on purpose, your voice over your shoulder like a dare:

“Coming, boys?”

You reach the bedroom first — the door creaking open with a soft groan — and step in like you’re still in charge, like this is your space. But the second Joel fills the doorway behind you, arms crossed, blocking out the light from the hall with that dark look in his eyes, everything tilts.

He doesn’t step in fully.

Just stands there.

Commanding the room without needing to raise his voice.

“On the bed,” he says. “Hands and knees.”

You hesitate, just for a beat.

And that’s all it takes.

Joel’s brow lifts. “Don’t make me ask twice.”

Your mouth goes dry. You climb onto the mattress — slow, deliberate, still trying to hold some kind of power — and crawl forward. You settle on your hands and knees, back arched, hair falling into your face. Your skin’s flushed, still tingling from Tommy’s mouth, and the cool air brushes over where your shorts were peeled off.

Behind you, Joel’s voice stays low, easy.

“Start with your mouth, Tommy.”

Tommy lingers just inside the room, but Joel doesn’t look at him — just keeps his eyes on you.

“She likes that,” he says. “Being on all fours. Somethin’ about it makes her feral.”

You let out a shaky breath, fingers flexing against the sheets.

Joel steps just inside now, but still doesn’t come close — leaning against the wall, arms crossed, voice steady as ever.

“Go on,” he says. “Get on your knees behind her.”

You hear the soft rustle of Tommy moving — the sound of his jeans shifting, dropping, the faint thump as he kneels onto the mattress behind you. Then warmth — his hands sliding up the backs of your thighs, fingertips tracing the curve of your ass.

“She’s soaked,” he mutters again, almost like it’s for himself.

Joel chuckles, quiet and dark.

“Of course she is. Been starvin’ for it all night, runnin’ that mouth like she doesn’t want to beg. Show her how quiet she gets when she’s got your tongue on her.”

And Tommy does.

He grips your hips gently at first, then firmer, spreading you open beneath him — and then his mouth is on you.

You gasp — high and sharp, your head dropping between your arms. His tongue moves slow at first, licking a broad stripe through your folds, warm and wet and teasing. Then he finds your clit — flicking, circling, sucking just the way your body needs — and your legs tremble instantly.

Joel watches it all.

Eyes locked on the way your back arches, the way your thighs shake when Tommy’s mouth gets deeper, wetter, messier.

“Good,” Joel says softly. “She’s real sensitive. You’ll know when you hit the right spot — she’ll start whining like a fuckin’ toy.”

Tommy groans into you, and the sound sends heat lancing up your spine.

Your moans start to come faster, more broken, hips rocking against Tommy’s face without shame. One of your hands clutches at the sheets, the other fisting uselessly in the air.

“F-fuck, Joel…”

He hums, slow and calm, still leaned against the wall like he’s got all night.

“See?” he murmurs. “She’s still cryin’ for me.”

Tommy’s mouth doesn’t stop moving.

He’s deeper now, tongue sliding lower, licking into you like he wants to drown in it. His grip tightens on your hips, pulling you closer, holding you wide open for him, tongue flicking firm and fast against your clit. Each pass sends another jolt through your spine, your thighs trembling, the bed creaking under your knees.

Your breath breaks into moans — ragged, helpless, strung out in Joel’s name whether you mean to or not.

And Joel, still leaning by the door, just smiles.

“That’s right, baby,” he says, voice low and steady like it’s just for you. “Let him taste all that mess you made. You love this, don’t you? Gettin’ tongue-drunk while I stand here and watch you fall apart.”

You whimper, burying your face in the sheets, fingers curling into the blanket. You try to speak — to answer — but all that comes out is a gasped, desperate noise.

Joel steps forward a little, just enough for the light to catch the sharp line of his jaw.

“Use your words,” he says, slow and thick with command. “C’mon, girl. You got so much to say when you’re runnin’ your mouth. Now tell me what you want.”

Tommy groans into you again, his tongue circling your clit with maddening precision — and your hips stutter, your thighs twitching around his head as another cry escapes you.

“F-fuck, Joel—please—”

Joel’s smile sharpens.

“There she is,” he murmurs. “That’s my girl. You beg real pretty with your pussy stuffed full of tongue.”

Your moan splits into something higher — a whine now, helpless and wet.

Tommy’s mouth doesn’t falter. He flattens his tongue and drags it slow, firm, sucking you just right — and Joel watches the whole thing, eyes glued to the way your back arches, the way your legs shake.

“You gonna come just from that?” Joel teases, voice darker now. “Just from a mouth on you? On all fours like a bitch in heat? Yeah… you will. I can tell.”

“Joel,” you cry again, breath breaking.

Tommy tightens his grip on your ass, pulling you closer, pressing his face in deeper — hungry, worshipful, lost in you.

And Joel keeps talking.

“She’s close,” he says, like he’s proud. “Get your fingers in her, Tommy. Nice and slow — let her feel it. She needs that stretch. Needs to be filled while she falls apart.”

Tommy groans again — this time muffled by your body — and then his fingers are sliding into you, two at once, thick and slick, curling deep while his tongue keeps lapping at your clit. The stretch is perfect, the pace brutal.

You cry out, the sound cracking in your throat.

Your knees nearly give out.

Joel’s voice dips lower, rougher.

“Go on, baby. Let it break you. I want you screamin’ while his mouth’s on you and my name’s still the only thing you can say.”

You’re right there.

So close your thighs are shaking, breath caught in your throat, the sheets twisted in your fists. Tommy’s tongue is relentless, his fingers stroking you just right, deep and curling — everything perfectly timed, perfectly built to take you over the edge.

Joel watches, still near the doorway, arms crossed and mouth set in something close to satisfaction.

But then — suddenly — Tommy stops.

Everything.

His mouth pulls back. Fingers slide out, slick and slow.

You gasp, body jolting forward like someone yanked your soul out of it.

“W-what—?”

Your voice breaks on the word.

You glance over your shoulder, dazed, wrecked — eyes wide, lips parted, thighs soaked and twitching. You look like something ruined. Like a fire halfway extinguished and still burning underneath.

Tommy wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, chest rising and falling hard.

Then his voice comes — low, new, edged with something else now.

Something earned.

“On your knees.”

You blink. “What?”

He sits back, legs spread, cock straining thick and red between them — eyes dark and locked on you.

“I said kneel. Right here,” he says, tapping the space in front of him. “You wanna come? You earn it.”

Joel lets out a quiet sound — not quite a laugh, not quite a breath — more like approval. He leans back against the wall again, letting it unfold.

“She’s good at it,” Joel murmurs. “Once she shuts up and listens.”

You hesitate for only a second — not because you don’t want it, but because you do, too much.

You slide off the bed, knees hitting the floorboards with a soft thud. Your hands come to Tommy’s thighs automatically, steadying yourself between them. His cock’s heavy, flushed, glistening at the tip, and your mouth waters instantly.

You glance up at him — wide-eyed, breathless — and lick your lips slowly, still trembling from the orgasm they ripped away.

“Still hungry?” he asks.

You nod.

“Then open your fuckin’ mouth.”

And behind you, Joel’s voice comes again — rougher this time, deeper.

“Make it good, baby. You want that release? You better earn it with your throat.”

You open your mouth without a word.

Eyes wide, lips parted, tongue wet and waiting — hungry, desperate, obedient. You press your hands harder into Tommy’s thighs, steadying yourself, and lean forward until your lips brush against the flushed head of his cock.

He groans immediately.

Low and guttural, like the sound’s been building in him all night.

Your tongue slides out first — a slow, deliberate lick over the tip, tasting the bead of precum already there. Then another. Then you flatten your tongue and drag it down the length of him, slow and wet, watching his head tip back with a hiss through his teeth.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “She’s—Jesus—she’s perfect like this.”

Joel hums from across the room. “Told you.”

Your mouth wraps around the tip, and you take him in slow — inch by inch, steady, letting him feel every wet pull of your lips, every flick of your tongue under the shaft. Your throat opens bit by bit, eyes never leaving his, and Tommy’s hand slides into your hair automatically, not to control — not yet — just to feel.

Joel’s voice cuts in — calm, sharp.

“Don’t let her go too fast.”

Tommy looks toward him, dazed. “What?”

“She’ll try to get you there quick. Girl knows what she’s doing. Don’t let her. She doesn’t get to end this yet.”

Your lips curl around Tommy’s cock at that — around the moan building low in your throat.

Of course Joel would know your tricks.

Tommy grunts, hand tightening in your hair just a little, guiding your pace now.

You bob your head slow, mouth slick and hot, tongue swirling around the tip each time you pull back. You suck him deep, letting spit drip from your chin, eyes fluttering shut for a second as your throat stretches to take him farther.

“You see that?” Joel murmurs, voice thick. “Look at the way her jaw opens for you. Look how needy she is with her mouth. She’ll suck the soul outta you if you let her.”

Tommy groans, hips twitching forward involuntarily — and you let him, choking just slightly, loving the weight of him, the control you don’t have.

But Joel speaks again — firmer now.

“Pull out.”

Tommy grits his teeth. “What?”

“Pull out,” Joel repeats. “She doesn’t get to finish that. Not yet.”

Tommy looks down at you, torn.

You look wrecked — spit smeared on your lips, your chest rising fast, eyes wild and glassy, your tongue flicking out to chase every inch he takes away.

But he obeys.

He pulls back with a gasp, and your mouth falls open, a whimper escaping you as your hands tighten on his thighs.

“No—Joel—” you start, voice trembling.

Joel steps closer now, finally off the wall.

“Don’t whine,” he says. “You knew what this was.”

You sit there on your knees, ruined, mouth open, jaw sore, cunt throbbing — and still completely untouched where it counts.

Joel looks you over, eyes slow, deliberate.

Then he nods to Tommy.

“Sit her on the edge of the bed. Let her feel it without havin’ it. We’re not done teachin’ her patience yet.”

Your back hits the bed as Tommy hauls you up — strong hands under your thighs, spreading them wide, holding you open like you’re something to be used. He’s panting now, voice dark and wild in your ear.

“You’ve been teasing me with this pussy all fuckin’ night,” he growls. “Every time you looked at me, I thought about splittin’ you open. Now look at you — spread and soaked for it. Fuckin’ brat.”

He lines up — thick and heavy, already glistening from your mouth — and presses the head of his cock against your entrance.

You whimper, still oversensitive, still aching from the denial.

And then he pushes in.

Not slow. Not gentle.

A single, hungry thrust — deep, firm, greedy — and you cry out, hands flying to the sheets, your head snapping back with the shock of it.

“God—Tommy—”

“Oh, that’s right,” he mutters, hips grinding as he bottoms out, buried deep. “She’s tight, Joel. Real tight. Like her pussy doesn’t know who it wants to come for.”

Joel’s there before you can answer — right beside you now, his belt already loose, jeans undone. His cock’s out, heavy and flushed, and his hand finds your jaw like it belongs there.

“Open up.”

You do — lips parting, tongue already slick, already aching for something to fill it.

He slides in without hesitation, thick and slow, stretching your mouth just like Tommy’s stretching your cunt. The noise you make is guttural, strangled — your throat filled as your pussy clenches around Tommy’s cock.

Joel groans low. “Fuck yes.”

“Look at her,” Tommy snarls from between your legs, hips snapping forward now, fucking you in rough, steady thrusts. “All that attitude, now she’s just a hole on both ends. She begged for this.”

Joel holds your head in place, thumb stroking your cheek as he slides deeper into your throat, slow and controlled.

“She’ll keep beggin’, too,” Joel murmurs. “It’s what she’s best at.”

Tommy grunts, each thrust sharper now, driving into you with the full weight of his hips, skin slapping against skin. “Tight fuckin’ cunt, squeezin’ me like she wants to come — you feel that? She’s already there. We could ruin her right now.”

Joel pulls back slightly from your throat, letting you breathe just enough before pushing in again.

“We could,” he agrees. “But we won’t.”

Tommy groans.

You’re shaking under both of them — mouth and cunt full, no room for thoughts, just sensation and heat and pressure. Your hands claw at the sheets, at anything, but all you feel is the rhythm of Tommy’s thrusts and Joel’s cock pushing into your throat.

“Goddamn,” Tommy growls. “This pussy’s beggin’. She’s fuckin’ choking on you and she’s still clenching on me like she wants me to fill her up.”

Joel chuckles darkly, pulling back to the tip.

“Not yet.”

Tommy grits his teeth, thrusting deep once more, staying inside you.

“She don’t get it until she earns it.”

Tommy’s pace is brutal now.

His hands are wrapped around your hips, dragging you into every thrust, cock punching deep, relentless, hitting the spot that’s made your legs twitch and your voice crack for the last goddamn hour. He’s grunting with each slam of his hips, sweat slick between your bodies, his head low, eyes locked on the way you take him.

“Fuckin’ look at her,” he growls, jaw tight. “She’s clenching like she’s tryin’ to make me come just by beggin’ for it.”

Above you, Joel’s grip tightens on your jaw, guiding his cock deeper into your mouth, then letting you pull off with a wet gasp. He fists your hair in one hand, the other gripping yours — tight, grounding — fingers laced between yours on the bed.

His voice drops low, growled against your temple.

“Say it.”

You try, but your voice breaks into a moan — overwhelmed, ruined.

“Please,” you whimper, your throat raw, lips swollen. “I-I need to—God—please, let me—”

“Say who you’re beggin’,” Joel murmurs, thumb brushing over your spit-slick lips. “You want to come? You ask us.”

Tommy slams into you harder — so deep it knocks the air out of you.

“Beg for it, sugar. Or you’re not gettin’ shit.”

Your hand tightens around Joel’s.

“Please,” you sob, thighs shaking, cunt pulsing around Tommy’s cock with every thrust. “Joel. Tommy. Please, let me come. I need it—I can’t—I’ll be so good—just please.”

Joel groans — low, wrecked — as he fists his cock and presses it against your lips again, letting you lick and suck at the tip, sloppy and desperate.

Tommy’s rhythm stutters.

“She’s fuckin’ there,” he gasps. “I can feel her—she’s gonna come the second I do—”

Joel leans down, lips right at your ear, voice shaking:

“Now.”

Tommy slams in deep — one, two more thrusts — and with a strangled groan, he comes, buried to the hilt, pulsing thick inside you. His head drops to your shoulder, breath ragged.

Joel’s hand tightens around yours, and you open wide for him one last time, sucking him in deep, just as his cock throbs on your tongue. He groans hard through his teeth, spilling into your mouth, and you take all of it — choking, gasping, swallowing him down as your body finally, finally breaks.

Your orgasm crashes over you like a fucking storm.

Your legs lock around Tommy’s hips, your fingers nearly crush Joel’s, and you scream into Joel’s palm — throat raw, body shaking, cunt squeezing around Tommy’s cock like it’s trying to keep him there.

Everything pulses.

Everything floods.

Tommy breathes your name against your skin, hips still twitching.

Joel pulls his cock from your mouth slow, slick, spent, leaning down to press his forehead against yours.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, brushing sweat-soaked hair from your cheek. “That’s my girl.”

And you just lie there — wrecked, full, held between them.

Finally emptied.

Finally claimed.

Your body’s still shaking.

The climax hasn’t let you go yet — your thighs twitch with aftershocks, your chest rising too fast, lips swollen from sucking Joel down until your jaw ached. You’re stretched full, pulsing around Tommy’s softening cock, every nerve still lit up.

You barely register it when Joel brushes the hair from your face. When Tommy presses a soft, grounding kiss to your shoulder. All you know is warmth — inside and out — and the weight of hands that no longer hold you down, but keep you together.

Joel’s the first to speak.

Voice low, rough-edged from release, but gentled now.

“You did so fuckin’ good for us.”

He’s sitting at the edge of the bed, still close enough to touch. His thumb strokes over your knuckles, hand still laced with yours. “Took everything we gave you. Held it like you were made for it.”

You shudder softly, the words going straight to the sore center of you.

Tommy’s still inside you — slowly softening, but not in a rush to pull out. His hands rub up and down your waist, calming, coaxing your breath back to normal.

“You were somethin’ else,” he murmurs, lips near your ear. “Been thinkin’ about that mouth for weeks. But this—?” He kisses the side of your throat. “You just gave it. All of it.”

You let out a quiet breath, your voice hoarse. “Thought you were gonna make me pass out.”

Joel chuckles — warm, real.

“Almost did,” he says. “You should’ve seen your fuckin’ face.”

“She looked gone,” Tommy adds, still stroking you. “Goddamn beautiful. Messy, ruined, full of both of us, and still beggin’ like it wasn’t enough.”

You manage a smile, eyes fluttering closed, cheek pressed to the pillow. “Still might be.”

Joel hums low in his throat, thumb brushing your bottom lip.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “Say shit like that, you’ll get round two without a nap.”

Tommy finally slides out, slow and careful, and you whimper at the loss. He presses another kiss between your shoulder blades.

“Let’s clean her up.”

Joel’s already grabbing the towel from the nightstand — planned, prepared, always thinking ahead. He’s gentle when he wipes you down, cupping your hip with one hand to steady you, cleaning between your thighs like he’s done it before.

Tommy watches, then leans down to whisper:

“Hey.”

You look up.

He’s grinning, soft now, worn out and happy.

“You’re the best fuck I never knew I needed.”

Joel shoots him a look, deadpan. “That supposed to be a compliment?”

Tommy laughs. “Shut up, man, she knows what I mean.”

You smile again — sore, satisfied, soaked in praise and attention.

Joel tosses the towel aside, then climbs into the bed behind you, pulling you into his chest with one strong arm. Tommy settles in on the other side, hand stroking lazy patterns across your thigh.

“You did real good, darlin’,” Joel murmurs again against your hair. “Bratty, loud, filthy. Just how I like you.”

Tommy nods, fingers tracing the curve of your hip.

“We’ll keep you like this,” he says. “All soft. All ours.”

And in the dark, held between them, full and warm and safe, you finally let yourself drift.

The bathwater Joel prepared is hot.

Almost too hot at first — enough to make you hiss as your legs lower into it, thighs trembling from soreness. But Joel’s behind you already, one hand on your waist, the other steady on your back.

“Easy,” he murmurs. “I got you.”

Tommy’s in front, sleeves rolled up, crouched at the edge of the tub, watching with that lazy smile of his. He hands Joel a cloth, already soaked through with warm water and lavender soap.

You sink into the tub slowly, your whole body protesting in the best way — muscles aching, cunt sore, jaw tender.

Wrecked. Used. Worshipped.

Joel starts to wash you.

Carefully.

He runs the cloth down your neck, over your shoulders, across your chest like you’re something breakable now. The same hands that held you still earlier now glide over you like you’re made of silk.

Tommy just watches for a minute. Quiet. Soft-eyed.

Then he speaks, voice low, slower than before.

“Never seen anyone like you.”

You glance at him, brows raised, lips barely curving.

He leans in closer. “You’re wild, y’know that? Got a fuckin’ mouth on you. Make a man wanna ruin you. And then you turn around and melt when we talk sweet.”

You blink, your throat too thick to answer.

524 notes · View notes

prophetic-contradictory · 1 day ago

Text

Unfortunately, I took this prompt and ran off with it. Not really sure, but uh, a prompt is a prompt!

FYI, it's DCMK. Pre-slash.

It isn't a disease, if you really want to get technical. Sherry is certain that what that person wants is actually a cure, not poison nor bio-terrorism. She's pretty sure that terrorism bit is already taken care of, after all, no one knows what sort of pastime Gin has when he doesn't have names to cross off of a list. Not that Sherry has a hobby of imagining her fellow (what a word) code-named members' downtime. She would like that, downtime. Away from the stifling cold that is her laboratory.

However, she has a slew of things to do. One of which happens to be perfecting the poison that bastard has taken a liking for. APTX-4869. Tested so thoroughly, yet, there's a note (orders) on Sherry's desk to investigate (how can she??) the mortality rate again. Is it not enough, all of this she research she has done for them?! Why must she be-

It's Vermouth's fault. It's Gin's fault.

---

"They're the ones who didn't check for a dead body," Haibara tells him over a cup of coffee. "Utterly careless. I'm the one who has to clean up after them! Isn't it insane, putting a researcher to that task? They're fucking insane, I tell you."

"Whoa, there." Conan is sitting on the safe side, lest Haibara hurls that cup on him. He leans in closer, whispering so that the kids won't hear them. The matter of APTX-4869, their entire situation is not for the public, after all. "More details on that, and you're going to write a formal complaint. Do they even have an HR department?"

Haibara's stare tells him a very colourful picture. You think? "Depends," she sighs, putting down her cup on the table. "If they're recruiting, Vermouth. If they're firing, Gin." The flat way she delivers that piece of information is enough for Conan's enthusiasm to die down. "You are the one who wants to file a complaint," she harrumphs.

"Sorry about that," he mumbles into his mug.

"But it's a good thing, you know," she grins suddenly, "that they complained to me. Now we have a pattern."

"Of what??" Conan doesn't like that expression on the scientist's face.

"Men and women died from that pill," she starts with a smile that keeps widening by the second. "Certain people, below sixty," oh, Conan really, really doesn't like this, "struggled until their death. In recent findings, they survived the poison and-"

"Wait, wait!"

Haibara is absolutely not stopping just because Conan backs away from her in fear. "-they shrank!" She slowly approached the shivering not-first-grader. "All of them are women."

Whispering close to his ear, Haibara descends upon her target like a hungry bird of prey. "Kudo-kun," she smiles sweetly, grinning ear to ear, "are you sure you're not a teenage girl?"

"WAAAAAAH!" Conan yells loudly enough to startle himself, and he'll come up short with the excuse when he realises the kids are playing with the Professor's VR game. Only Agasa-hakase jumps in shock, and Conan will be sorry if the old man suffers a heart condition from that, right now, however!

"Haibara, you!" What is she so gleeful for?!

Cackling in laughter, Conan can somehow visualise her in blacks, Haibara scoffs. "What, you haven't thought about it? Only Mary, me, and you have shrunk. What does that say, Kudo-kun? Hm??"

"But, that's circumstantial at best, and-!"

"And you have a dick," Haibara huffs, hands on her hips with a look that still doesn't bode well for Conan. "How about now?"

"What do you mean, now?? I still have-" He resists the urge to check, and shows her he is a man.

She bulldozes through his pathetic attempt at reasoning, "Mooning over older people. Crushing on dependable adults," she counts on one hand, "sweetly, ugh, talking with dangerous men? My, a classic high school girl. Wouldn't you say so?"

"WHO IS CRUSHING ON-"

"Oh, come on. You know who I'm talking about."

Then, she sighs like a mother. "Well, I guess it's their fault, too."

"THEIR?! I'M SAYING THAT I AM NOT CRUSHING ON-"

"Amuro Tooru feeds you, sneaking in iced coffee between lemon pies. Hey, don't look at me like that. Ran-neechan told me everything," Conan is beyond mortified. "There's also that annoying neighbour, who always has leftovers when you're in danger."

"HAIBARA!!" She is not stopping, Conan's misery is simply too delectable. Especially when he's this embarrassed.

Laughing, she cheekily adds another. "You get postcards from a foreign man, routinely?" She rolls her eyes amusedly, overly joyous that Ran has shared everything about Conan and his rendezvous. Ha! "It doesn't help your case that you're chasing a man with silver hair. Or is that your type, silver foxes? Very niche, Kudo-kun."

Conan can only crumble on himself, trying his best to tune out the mad woman in front of him. In his best efforts, he doesn't realise Agasa Hakase is letting a guest inside as quietly as possible. "-made too much. If you don't mind..."

"Oh, speak of the devil."

Conan snaps his attention to the front door. He whips his head back to Haibara. Don't you dare. That mad woman only smirks in response.

"Not my cup of tea. Also, I'm not suicidal." She takes her cup away and off to the kitchen, throwing a finishing line over her shoulder. "Come on, Hakase. We shouldn't bother them."

She gestures to Okiya Subaru, shoo, "The one you're here for is that way."

"HAIBARA, YOU!"

"I'm not giving you the newest version, by the way!" There are no more words to explain Conan's desire to dig himself a grave. He settles to look anywhere else than that confused expression on the annoying neighbour's face. It's not even his real face! "He can wait for six years."

"Conan-kun," Okiya Subaru is about to take a step closer but Conan holds up a hand.

"Don't say anything." Will it help Shinichi if he knows Shuuichi has been eavesdropping? Probably not. Right now, Conan has his face in his hands, groaning his grievances. "Not a word."

A supervillain unleashes a disease on the world in order to weaken his enemies and monopolize the cure. But his team of goons didn't test it on women. The unaffected female hero(es) confront him and the fight devolves into a conversation about lack of female representation in medical testing.

#dcmk #writeblr #writers on tumblr #writing prompts #kudo shinichi #miyano shiho #akai shuuichi #amuro tooru #gin detective conan #riishi ramanathan #drabble

5K notes · View notes

robbysreaders · 20 hours ago

Note

Sorry I don’t make the rules, we need more ex x baby daddy!Jack!

Especially their wedding, breeding kink Jack, more babies, the whole thing.

Hehe pls & thanks

pairing: jack abbot x f!reader word count: 3.6k notes: part 4 of ex!reader and babydaddy!jack way hornier than the rest of writing but tbh like .5 chili peppers haha and thank you for this req in my inbox!!!! i love these two and i'm working my way through some ideas that have been shared with me but i just started a new job so they will probably be over the next few weeks!

Something unlocks after you get engaged.

It’s not dramatic, not fireworks. Just this quiet, grounded certainty that settles between you. This is it. This is real. There’s a ring on your finger, a boy in the other room who looks like both of you, and Jack—Jack, who once felt like an impossible choice, now feels like home.

And you continue to see a side of him you’re not entirely used to.

He's still Jack—still grumbles about budget cuts and leaves coffee mugs in strange places—but he’s also… attentive. Almost absurdly so. Sweet in a way that feels like he’s been saving it all up. And maybe a little unhinged in the best, horniest way. He touches you constantly. Always finds a way to press a kiss to your temple, your shoulder, your stomach. Like he still can’t believe he gets to.

“I locked you down,” he mutters one morning, arms snug around your waist as you brush your teeth. “You, Beau, and a damn ring. The trifecta.”

“You make it sound like a hostage situation,” you laugh, spitting into the sink.

Jack grins against your neck. “Maybe I should squirrel you away to the courthouse before you change your mind.”

“Oh, we were dangerously close to that, don’t kid yourself,” you say, rinsing. “But I wanted the view.”

And the view was worth it.

Lake Como in late May. A small villa perched on a hillside, all warm stone and blooming vines. The ceremony was intimate—friends, family, a very small and slightly chaotic PTMC contingent somehow made the trip. Robby cried, and Dana pretended not to. Your sister wrangled Beau through the flower-petal aisle like she’d been training for it her whole life.

You danced under string lights. Said “I do” to a man who still sometimes forgets to fold towels correctly but looks at you like you hung the stars.

And somehow—shockingly—you agreed to let your sister take Beau back with her, so you and Jack could have a true honeymoon.

Just you. Just him.

The first night, you’re on the balcony in a linen robe and nothing else, wine glass in hand, the lake glowing below you.

Jack comes up behind you—barefoot, shirtless, lazy smile on his face—and wraps his arms around your waist like he can’t help himself.

“I love this,” you murmur. “I love you. I want to stay here forever.”

“I know,” he says, kissing that spot just beneath your ear. Then, after a beat, “But… is it just me, or does it feel like missing a limb without Beau? …no pun intended.”

You laugh and spin in his arms, wrapping your hands around his neck. “God, I love you. This is why I married you. You’re in my brain.”

“I’m just saying,” he grins, brushing your hair back. “Maybe we wouldn’t miss him so much if you were already carrying another little Abbot with you.”

You raise a brow. “Wow. Wasting no time, huh?”

“I’ve been waiting six years Mrs. Abbot. You can’t be surprised.”

“Careful,” you say, teasing, “you sound like you get off to me being barefoot and pregnant.”

Jack hums, low and amused. “I mean… if the shoe fits.”

You groan, half-exasperated, half turned on. “God, you’re such a menace.”

“An insatiable menace,” he says, sliding his hands beneath your robe. “Who happens to be very good at making you come. Efficient, even. Fill you so good we’d get twins. Two for one.”

“Okay, Doctor Abbot,” you laugh, swatting at his chest. “Did you hit your head or is this just post-wedding delirium?”

He grumbles into your neck.

You swat his chest. “You know, for a doctor, you know nothing about conception.”

“I know the basics,” he says, hand smoothing over your hip, “and that I’m pretty damn good at it.”

“God, you are so full of yourself. Should’ve never married a jock.”

He smirks. “Did someone say cock?” His hips roll against yours, slow and deliberate, pressing a point.

You groan, laughing into his mouth as he kisses you. “You’re ridiculous. And I thought you’d go for the “and you’ll be so full of me’ route”

“What can I say, I’m maturing,” he mumbles, deepening the kiss, his hands roaming now. “You’re lucky you married me. Any other man would’ve passed out from post-wedding exhaustion.”

“Instead I got the energizer bunny in scrubs.”

He scoops you up with ease—one arm under your thighs, the other around your back—and carries you inside like it’s your first night all over again. He drops you onto the bed gently, then follows, kissing a path down your stomach.

“Jack,” you murmur, threading your fingers through his hair.

“I’m just doing a thorough exam,” he says into your skin. “You’ve under my care, it would be negligent not to check on you after such a major life event like getting married.”

“You’re annoying,” you say, breath hitching.

“You love it.”

You do.

You love all of it. The warmth, the ease, the hunger in him that never faded, just changed shape over time. You let him take his time—relearn your body like it’s the first time all over again. You lose yourself in him, in the soft press of lips to skin, the whispered confessions that slip out only when his guard is down.

Laughing, gasping, kissing like it’s the only language you know. After, you lay tangled together, sweat-damp and boneless.

He traces circles on your back, eyes half-lidded. “Seriously. Twins.”

“You’re out of your mind.”

“I’m just saying, it’s efficient.”

“Beau is six and I’m still tired.”

Jack chuckles. “Fine. No pressure. Just practice. Lots of practice.”

You roll over, facing him. “You happy?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “More than I knew I could be.”

The room is quiet. Outside, the lake glimmers in moonlight.

“I was scared, you know,” you whisper.

Jack glances down at you. “When?”

“All of it. Letting you back in. Saying yes. I kept thinking, what if we just mess it up again?”

He brushes a hand along your jaw. “We probably will. Sometimes. But I’m not going anywhere. And I won’t let you carry the weight alone.”

Your eyes sting. “That’s what scared me before. Feeling like I was alone in it.”

“I know,” he says softly. “I felt it too. But I didn’t know how to fix it then. I was still trying to outrun things.”

“And now?”

“Now I’m tired of running.”

You press a kiss to his chest. “So no running. No hiding.”

“No hiding,” he repeats.

There’s a long silence, filled only by the soft hum of the night and your breathing slowing in sync.

Then Jack says, so quietly you almost miss it: “I want a big life with you.”

You look up. “You already have one.”

He smiles. “I know. But I want more of it. All the messy, beautiful pieces. Soccer games and parent-teacher conferences. Slow Sundays. Another baby. or two. or ten. Just—more.”

Your throat tightens. “God, you’re such a sap now.”

“Shut up,” he mutters, pulling you in closer.

You grin into his skin. “Don’t worry. I’m into it.”

And he’s into you—clearly—because within minutes, he’s proving again just how committed he is to ��practice.”

That night, you fall asleep in his arms, lulled by the gentle lapping of water against the shore and the quiet certainty that this time, you didn’t choose wrong.

His arm is slung heavy around your waist, one leg wedged between yours. His hand is resting possessively on your hip, thumb tucked just under the curve of your stomach like it belongs there. You don’t move. You just lay there, soaking in the stillness.

The lake outside is calm. There’s birdsong, a faint breeze, and nothing else.

You sigh into the silence.

“Mmm,” Jack mumbles, tightening his grip. “Alive?”

“Barely.”

“You wore me out,” he says, voice hoarse and self-satisfied.

“You begged for it.”

“I did,” he agrees. Then, after a beat: “I’d do it again.”

You smile, pressing your nose to his chest. “We’ve officially entered the honeymoon stage.”

“We skipped it the first time. I’m cashing in.”

You shift slightly, pressing your cold toes to his shin. He flinches.

“Jesus.”

“Sorry,” you murmur. “Poor circulation. Still your wife though.”

“Unfortunately.”

You laugh, then kiss his shoulder. “What time is it?”

“No idea. But I think I’ve achieved full body paralysis.”

“Same.”

There’s a long, quiet pause. Then Jack says, “We should go swimming.”

You blink. “Right now?”

“Yeah. Why not? Lake’s right there. We’re in Italy. No Beau to referee. Might be our last chance before life crashes back in.”

“Very romantic. Also, I don’t even know where I packed my swimsuit.”

“Who said anything about swimsuits?”

You arch a brow. “You want to skinny-dip? In the daytime?”

He shrugs, rolling onto his back. “I’m just saying, we’re legally married. What are they gonna do, arrest us for being in love?”

“Jack.”

“Live a little, Mrs. Abbot.”

You stare at him. “You’re serious.”

“I’m proposing an impulsive memory. Don’t make me swim alone like some pervert.”

You groan dramatically, grabbing a sheet as you roll out of bed. “Fine. But if I get arrested in a foreign country for public indecency, you better bail me out.”

He grins. “Knew you couldn’t resist me.”

You wrap yourself in the linen sheet toga-style and pad barefoot out onto the balcony. The stairs down to the private dock are warm beneath your feet, sun already high and bright.

Jack follows behind, also barely dressed, with two towels slung over his shoulder and that cocky post-wedding glow.

The water is cool but not cold. Crisp. Clean. You wade in first, shrieking at the initial shock until Jack yanks you forward and pulls you under with him.

When you surface, sputtering, hair slicked back and gasping from laughter, he’s looking at you like he can’t believe this is his life.

“You’re unreal,” he says, reverent.

You splash water in his face. “I married you, didn’t I?”

“Best scam I’ve ever pulled.”

You drift closer, legs brushing. His hand cups the back of your neck. You kiss, slow and deep and lazy, and when he pulls back, you can see the smile in his eyes.

The lake stretches out behind him. A postcard come to life.

You stay in the lake until your fingers are pruned and your stomach’s growling. Breakfast is pastries you picked up from a little corner bakery, still flakey and warm. Jack makes espresso in the tiny kitchen, whistling off-key. It’s stupidly domestic. And perfect.

You sit on the floor of the villa, legs tangled, plates on your laps. He steals a bite of your sfogliatella without asking.

“Do you think we should call Beau today?” you ask, chewing.

Jack nods, swallowing his own bite. “Yeah. Just to check in. Not now though. He’ll be with your sister at the zoo or the pool or learning how to disassemble small electronics, depending on her mood.”

You laugh. “She does run a very strange babysitting operation.”

“She’s a miracle worker. Honestly, I’m still shocked she agreed to take him.”

“She told me every married couple deserves three uninterrupted days after the ‘I do.’ Then handed me a jumbo box of condoms and said not to come home pregnant unless it was intentional.”

Jack chokes on his coffee. “Jesus Christ.”

You shrug, smug. “Just saying—her words, not mine.”

He leans back against the couch, eyeing you. “And is it?”

You glance at him.

“Intentional.”

The air shifts.

You don’t answer right away. Just push your plate aside and crawl into his lap. He adjusts instantly, arms wrapping around you, palms dragging up your thighs.

“I think… I’m not not open to it,” you say slowly. “Before, it felt impossible. Everything felt so fragile. But now? I look at you and Beau, and it’s like—yeah. I want more of this. More of us.”

He swallows, throat bobbing. “You’re sure?”

You smile. “You’re the only thing I’ve ever been sure about.”

His mouth finds yours, urgent now, full of promise. You kiss like it’s a decision, a vow, a whole damn future.

And when he finally pulls back, he’s flushed and breathless.

“I love you so much it’s physically uncomfortable.”

You laugh against his jaw. “Sucks to be you, I guess.”

He grins. “Yeah. Tragic.”

That afternoon, you nap in the sun. The villa has a hammock strung between two cypress trees and Jack insists on sharing it, even though he’s too long and your legs keep tangling and one of you always ends up with an elbow in the ribs.

“I hope Beau’s having a good day,” you murmur, eyes closed, head on his chest.

Jack’s hand is tracing idle circles on your bare arm. “I’m sure he is. You think he’ll remember the wedding?”

“Some pieces,” you say. “The dancing. The cake. Robby giving him ten euros to yell ‘just kiss already!’ before we even got to the vows.”

“God,” he sigh. “What a circus.”

You hum in agreement.

Then, “Do you think we’re doing okay? With him? With this?”

Jack shifts beneath you. “Honestly? I think we’re doing great. Not perfect. But real. He’s kind. Confident. Feels safe. That’s what matters.”

You nod slowly. “I used to worry so much about what we were showing him, you know? The split. The mess.”

“He saw love,” Jack says simply. “Even when it was hard. Especially then.”

You press your face to his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of him—sun, sweat, skin.

“I’m glad we waited to do this right,” you whisper. “I don’t think I could’ve survived a version of us where we never figured it out.”

Jack’s voice is thick. “Me either.”

That night, you dress up.

No real reason. Just a silky dress you’ve been saving, heels a little higher than you usually wear. Jack puts on real pants—well, linen slacks—and a button-down that’s already half undone by the time he finishes wrestling with the cuffs.

He sees you and stops short.

“Jesus.”

“Too much?”

“Not enough.”

Dinner is just a short walk into the village—twinkly lights and hand-pulled pasta and a carafe of wine that disappears too quickly. You talk about everything and nothing. The neighbors at home. Future holidays. How much more you can fit in your suitcase without paying extra baggage fees.

“You’re going to check my carry-on and judge me, aren’t you?” you accuse.

“Only because you brought six pairs of shoes and wore the same ones every day.”

“They’re options, Jack.”

He leans over the table, resting his chin on his hand. “God, I love you.”

You stop. Just for a second. Let it wash over you.

“I love you too.”

Later, you walk back slow. His hand finds yours. Your shoulders brush.

Back at the villa, Jack peels the dress off you like he’s unwrapping a gift. Kisses every inch of bare skin he uncovers. You let him take his time.

You make love slow. No rush. No hunger. Just reverence. It feels different this time—heavier, softer, but still electric.

You don’t remember falling asleep—just the weight of Jack’s body against yours, the slow press of his kisses, the steady rhythm of your breath returning to normal in the quiet afterglow.

What wakes you is the light. It spills through the shutters, golden and soft, casting lazy stripes across the sheets.

Jack’s already awake, propped up on one elbow, watching you like you’re some kind of sunrise. His hair’s a mess, lips kiss-bitten, and he has the nerve to look smug about it.

“Morning, Mrs. Abbot,” he says, voice rough with sleep.

“God,” you groan, burying your face in the pillow. “You’re going to say that all the time, aren’t you?”

“Yup,” he grins. “Until it’s on your driver’s license.”

You roll onto your back, stretch slowly. His eyes follow the movement like he’s hungry again.

“You’re staring,” you say.

“You’re glowing.”

“I’m sweating.”

“Still counts.”

You nudge him with your foot. He catches it, presses a kiss to your ankle, and suddenly you feel a whole lot warmer.

“You hungry?” he asks.

“Starving.”

“I’ll make breakfast.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You brought me to Italy just to feed me scrambled eggs?”

Jack swings his legs off the bed and stands—naked, unabashed. “I’m a man of many talents. But fine. Pancakes?”

“In Italy?”

He shrugs. “International pancakes.”

You laugh as he heads toward the kitchen, grabbing a pair of boxers on the way. He whistles while he moves, some Sinatra song you vaguely recognize, and your heart tugs in your chest like it still can’t quite believe this is real.

You pull on one of his shirts and pad barefoot after him. The villa is quiet, the lake just barely visible through the open patio doors, glittering in the morning sun.

Jack’s already got flour out. There’s a pan warming on the stove. You wrap your arms around him from behind, rest your cheek between his shoulder blades.

“Don’t burn them.”

“You wound me.”

“I’ve seen you try to flip a pancake. You get too cocky.”

“That’s because you heckle me,” he says, flipping the first one with unnecessary flair. “Watch and learn, Mrs. Abbot.”

You roll your eyes but sit at the table, watching him with something dangerously close to adoration. There’s something ridiculous about how seriously he takes this—like he’s proving something. Like if he makes these pancakes just right, he’ll have earned it all over again.

He sets a plate in front of you with a flourish. “Bon appétit.”

You take a bite, eyes widening. “Okay. Okay, maybe you have improved.”

Jack smirks, sitting across from you, fork already in hand. “I’ve been practicing.”

“For this moment?”

“For this life.”

The words hit you low and deep, like a drum. You look at him—really look—and see it there: the steadiness. The certainty. He’s still Jack, but he’s… more. Softer around the edges. Not smaller, just less armored.

You reach for his hand across the table.

“I still can’t believe we’re here.”

“Me neither.”

“I don’t think I let myself imagine it,” you admit. “Not after everything.”

Jack’s expression sobers. He sets his fork down. “Can I tell you something?”

You nod.

“That night. The one when you said you needed space. I thought… I thought that was it. I thought I’d ruined my life beyond fixing.”

You squeeze his fingers.

“I let it happen,” he continues quietly. “I was so afraid of screwing it up that I stood back and watched it fall apart. It’s like—if I didn’t fight for it, I couldn’t be blamed for losing it.”

Your throat tightens. “Jack…”

He shakes his head. “But I realized it wasn’t fair. To you. Or to Beau. Or to myself, honestly. But I didn’t know how to be better then. I didn’t even know what better looked like.”

“You do now,” you whisper.

“Yeah,” he says. “Because of you.”

There’s a silence that stretches, heavy but full. Then you stand, walk around the table, and sink into his lap. He holds you like he’s anchoring himself.

“You did all the hard work, I just pushed you to do it. We’re allowed to be happy now,” you murmur into his neck.

Jack’s arms tighten. “Yeah. I don’t think I ever thanked you”

“I can think of a few ways to start showing your gratefulness”

The rest of the day unfolds like a dream.

You spend the afternoon wandering through the nearby village—stone streets, small shops, gelato for lunch. Jack insists on carrying your bag. You make fun of his touristy camera strap, and he makes fun of your obsession with ceramic bowls.

You take a million photos together, and he looks so happy—so open—that you save one immediately as your phone background.

When you get back, you read on the balcony while he naps on the couch, one arm flung dramatically over his eyes like a romance novel hero. You don’t even wake him when he starts to snore.

By evening, you’re tangled again in bed, warm skin against warm skin, and Jack is tracing his name on your thigh with his fingertip.

“You know what I was thinking?” he says, voice low.

“Mm?”

“That I want to take you everywhere. That we should do a honeymoon part two, with Beau. Paris. Or Morocco. Or Tokyo. Somewhere Beau can try weird candy and yell at me in public without getting in trouble.”

You laugh. “He already does that.”

“True. But we could do it under the guise of cultural education.”

You turn to face him. “You really want to travel?”

“I want to do anything that keeps us feeling like this,” he says. “Like we’re not just surviving.”

You study him. The honesty. The hope.

“Then let’s make it a plan,” you say. “Once a year. Somewhere new.”

Jack’s smile softens. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright. Deal. Annual Abbot Adventures.”

“Trademark pending.”

“You, me, a six-year-old with a suitcase full of Legos. What could go wrong?”

You laugh, leaning in to kiss him. “Everything.”

“Exactly,” he grins. “Perfect family vacation.”

Later, after you’ve both showered, after he’s poured you a glass of wine and rubbed your feet and claimed it was “medically necessary to assess swelling from travel,” you’re curled together in bed with the windows open to the night air.

Jack’s arm is around you, fingers resting on your stomach again. Always that same spot. Like he’s waiting. Or willing.

You place your hand over his.

“You really want another?” you ask, voice soft.

“I want whatever you want,” he says.

You don’t respond right away, “You’d be a great girl dad.”

He snorts. “God help me if she’s anything like you.”

“Smart, stubborn, charming?”

“Dangerous,” he says. “too smart, perfect.”

You smile. “You’re already soft. You’d fold the second she looked at you.”

“Don’t tell Beau.”

You laugh, and the sound is easy. Real. Everything feels easy tonight.

And it hits you again—like it’s the first time.

You’re married. To him.

#jack abbot #jack abbott #jack abbot x reader #jack abbott x reader #the pitt drabble #the pitt imagine #dr. abbot #dr. abbot x reader #dr. abbott #dr. jack abbot #dr. jack abbott #dr. jack abbot x reader #dr. jack abbot x you #p attempts to start writing #ex!reader and babydaddy!jack

324 notes · View notes

blvdprn · 2 days ago

Text

CW: dark, necrophilia technically (IF I MADE IT INTO A FIC ISTG IT WLD HV A GOOD REASON PLZ), dub-con (i swear), gore, unstable reader, cannibalism, reeeaaaally vague sex

pre-zombie!bf who’d always set up a sleeping place and make it as cozy as possible just for you. it didn’t matter if it was in the middle of the forest, a store, a rundown mall—he’d always try to make you feel comfortable just like before the apocalypse.

pre-zombie!bf who scolded you every time you put yourself in harms way for him. it didn’t matter if he could defend himself or not, you were always doing it because you loved him.

pre-zombie!bf who did the same thing you did even if it was subconsciously. he was such a hypocrite and he didn’t even notice, but you did.

pre-zombie!bf who gave you a weird look when you asked him if he’d still love you if you were a zombie. then gave you another weird look when you asked him if he’d let you love him even if he were a man eating cannibalistic rotting walking corpse. he said yes (at some point…) to both.

pre-zombie!bf who sometimes went on secret runs while you were asleep in a safe spot. he wanted to scavenge for food and other necessities without you being in danger.

pre-zombie!bf who got stupidly bit on one of those secret runs like an idiot. he cried a little, he wasn’t going to lie. so he decided he wanted to at least cherish your last moments together.

pre-zombie!bf who started acting weird. getting a little more touchy, a little more loving. he began to be a little more emotional and open. you weren’t sure why, but you had a horrible gut feeling.

pre-zombie!bf who wanted one last night with you. but when he asked, you said no. it wasn’t because you didn’t want to, it was just… maybe that horrible feeling you had was a warning that something was going to happen if you were distracted.

pre-zombie!bf who got really fucking sad. but it was fine, he was still going to spend his last minute with you until he couldn’t.

pre-zombie!bf who snuck out and ran away as far as he could to not hurt you. he tied himself to a tree instead of killing himself—not wanting to use a weapon because he wanted to leave them all to you.

pre-zombie!bf who didn’t realise you noticed him leaving. you thought he wanted to take a huge shit or something, which is why you didn’t go after him until your head slammed onto the floor, realising that you fell asleep.

zombie!bf who you found biting and growling into the air as you approached. when you finally understood why he was acting strange, you immediately regretted not having one last intimate moment just like he wanted.

zombie!bf who no matter what you did, wouldn’t snap out of it. not like you had much hope anyway, but it never hurt to try, right?

zombie!bf who you didn’t have the guts to kill or leave alone tied like an animal. he launched at you as soon as you untied him, but you were able to hold him back.

zombie!bf who you couldn’t let go of. so now after a week, he had his arms chained behind his back with a pipe tied against his mouth. you used him to lure other zombies away—even in death he kept saving you.

zombie!bf who even with the complexion of a corpse and see through veins, still looked beautiful in your eyes.

zombie!bf who you remembered was almost begging for sex the last time you talked to him. and as you saw him slowly start to dehydrate from hunger, you decided to give him the last piece of love that he wanted so bad.

zombie!bf who aside from the unnatural growls, sounded as sweet as when he was human.

zombie!bf who’s metal pipe lay beside him as you put one of your fingers in his mouth, letting him bite it off for him to feed and for you to finally join him in shared demise.

zombie!bf who chewed on the given bone and flesh as he drank the blood that accompanied it.

zombie!bf who heard your pained groans and sad sniffs because you weren’t strong enough to go through more pain no matter how much you loved him. and as you fainted, his eyes began to get clearer and clearer.

zombie!bf who’s brain wasn’t so dead anymore.

348 notes · View notes

fic-girlie · 7 hours ago

Note

Can you please write a fic for qz!Joel where him and reader are smuggling partners and are in a situationship (fwb but with something more?). One day reader is going over to Joel's apartment and she gets jumped by a few guys (a few cuts and bruises). Joel is POSSESSED to say the least and decides that he has to make things official with reader so everybody knows she's his and not to mess with. He beats the shit out of one of the guys but doesn't kill him, makes sure he stays alive and that his battered body serves as a warning of what happens when you mess with Joel miller's girl.

Claim what's mine

Pairing: qz!Joel Miller x f!reader Summary: After you're attacked, Joel makes it official—you’re his—and leaves a brutal warning behind for anyone who might forget it. Warnings: mentions of violence, mentions of blood, Joel being very protective and beating the shit out of everyone, confessions

You're still bleeding by the time you get to his door.

Your right knuckle is ripped open and pounding like it's got a heartbeat of its own, and you can feel the slow trickle of blood seeping from a gash just below your eyebrow. There's a bruise swelling beneath your ribs that takes your breath every few steps, and your coat is torn, some of the material hanging on threads where they tried to grab you and pull you down behind the heap of rusted-out cars at the old ration center. You didn't scream. Not once. Because you knew it wouldn't do any good—not here. Boston's QZ doesn't listen. But you fought. You got away.

And here you are now.

You don't even knock. Your hand trembles on the knob when you shove the door open, shoulder easing in with a grunt, swallowing the thick, hot iron taste of pain that's been brewing at the back of your throat. Joel's sitting at the table carefully cleaning a pistol—he always cleans his guns like it's therapy, like if the barrel gleams and snaps into place clean enough he won't turn into the man he swears he doesn't want to be. You don't even say anything. You just kick the door shut behind you and let it slam. It takes him by enough surprise that he looks up abruptly, frowning, already on edge—

And then he sees you.

You can feel the change in him, the way his body stills all at once, not like he’s frozen, but like something just snapped tight and locked into place. His gaze drags over every inch of you, calculating damage. The blood on your lip. The shaky grip you’ve got on the doorframe. The way you’re holding your ribs. And Joel… Joel fucking stands.

"Who," he snarls, in a voice so low it might be underground, "did this to you."

You almost laugh. You don't, because it would hurt too much, but the sound draws back from your teeth. "Couple of guys off the south wall. They tried to pull me behind the fence by the old checkpoint. One of them had a pipe, I think." You shake your head as if you can brush it all away. "It's not that bad."

He's already going. The same rag he's been using to clean his gun is still balled in his fist when he brushes past you, but he doesn't make contact—not yet. He paces once, like he needs motion to keep from exploding, and then goes still as stone in the middle of the room, back to you, chest heaving like a storm's about to erupt there. You watch the veins in his neck twitch, jaw clamp shut tight. It's a beautiful, terrible thing-how Joel Miller uses his anger like a sword, like he could slice the world open wide with it and never blink.

You go first. You sit down next to your bag by the couch, hoisting up your shirt to examine the damage, gritting your teeth. The bruise is already discoloring, purpling like ink. "You don't have to do anything, Joel. I got away."

He turns.

"You think they care that you got away?" he says, his voice low and biting. "They think they could've had you. That's all they need. That's all every other bastard in this sector needs who thinks they can look at you, touch you, take you, because they don't see you walking around with someone who makes it clear—" He cuts himself off like he's just realized what he was going to say.

Your heart beats once. You can barely breathe. "Makes it clear what?"

He doesn't answer. Not really. Instead, Joel is across the room in two steps and is kneeling in front of you, his hands finally on your legs—tentatively, reverently, fingertips tracing up your thighs as though searching you for hurt. "Who were they?" he whispers.

You hesitate. Just for a moment, however. "The tall one's named Ray. He's always hanging around that garage on the corner near the north patrol gate. The others didn't say much. One of them had a snake tattooed around a skull on his hand."

Joel's already standing again.

"What are you doing?" you ask, though you're aware. You've seen that spark in his eye before. Never for you, never for you. You've seen it in alleyways, in the dark moments between smuggling runs when things go bad and someone tries to cheat him. You've seen Joel press a man into a wall for skimming a quarter of a ration card. You've never seen him like this.

"I'm making sure that everybody in this damn neighborhood knows not to lay a hand on you."

You rise, wincing at the soreness in your side, taking his arm. "And then what? You think this makes it better? You go down there and beat them bloody, you think it won't draw more heat? You think they won't come back?"

He looks down at your hand on his arm, then back up into your eyes. Something liquid in him now—dark, hot, and ancient.

"No," he says, "I don't think they'll be back. Because I'm not gonna kill 'em."

That surprises you. He says it like he's doing you a favor.

"I'm gonna let 'em live. Barely. Enough so every motherfucker they know gets the message: you don't touch what's mine."

Your mouth goes dry. "I don't belong to you."

Joel's hand comes up to your jaw, slow, his thumb hardly grazing the dried blood at the corner of your lip. "Don't you?" he asks.

You gaze at him, chest constricting, pulse pounding so hard it's even more painful against your bruised ribs. The truth between you like a question you've never been brave enough to ask. It's always been like this—after runs, in other people's rooms, in the dark still when you both needed something warm. You've fucked him more times than you can recall, against mildewed mattresses and wet brick walls, whispered things that you both pretended didn't mean anything. You let him touch you like he meant it, and he did. You let yourself feel it, even when you told yourself that you wouldn't.

You could lie now.

You don't.

Joel sees it in your face before you've said a word, and his jaw tenses again, not in anger now, but in something more like hunger. Possession. He moves in slow, like he's giving you the opportunity to make him stop—but you don't. You let his mouth brush against yours, slow and claiming, and when he kisses you it's different from before—there's no urgency, no chase of release. This kiss is telling you you're his, and he's making sure you know.

When he pulls back, he whispers, "Stay here. I'll be back in a few hours."

You almost argue. But there is no point. Not the way he says it. Not the way his eyes are.

And when he comes back, it's nearly daylight.

You're half asleep on the couch, painkillers helping to ease the throbbing of your ribs, when you hear the door open. Joel enters covered in blood that isn't his—dark spots on his shirt, knuckles raw. He reeks of sweat and anger and old rust, and there's a small smile playing at the edge of his mouth that looks just a little wolfish.

"You left him alive," you say, sitting up.

"Course I did." He shrugs off his jacket, moving toward you. "He'll be front of that garage for the next two days, rolled up like a dead dog. Anybody comes by will recognize his face and know why."

You swallow. Joel stands before you, a man who's stepped across a line and isn't returning.

He bends down and touches your cheek, the pad of his thumb tender where the skin's bruised purple.

"You're mine," he whispers.

You want to interrupt. You want to deliver some diatribe about choice, about autonomy, about not belonging to anyone.

But you also remember the sensation of it—fighting for your life alone behind those cars. How no one helped. How no one cared.

And you remember how Joel looked at you tonight, like there was nothing else in the world but the sight of you hurt.

So you nod once, slowly. "Okay."

His mouth shatters yours in the next heartbeat, all heat and claim and promise of something finally real. And when he takes you to bed, he's careful with the bruises. His hands are rough but respectful. His mouth whispers your name like a prayer.

It's not just a casual fuck anymore.

It hasn't been in a long time.

#pedro pascal #pedropascal #joel miller #joelmiller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #pedro pascal x reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fanfic #joel miller fic #qz!joel #pedro pascal fandom

175 notes · View notes

xylatox · 20 hours ago

Text

Out of tune [pt2} || cbg

Hehe, and ive made it to part 2. I have yapped enough at the beginning of part 1 so Im just getting straight into my thoughts

Love that we instantly start from Beomgyu’s POV and from that night, im so excited

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk to her. It was just that… sometimes, it was easier to pretend things were fine when he didn’t hear how tired she sounded. Still, after a few moments, he forced himself to dial.

Yeah I get this. Its so much more painful when you hear the exhaustion especially when its from a parent and you cant do anything about it

The way your eyes found him, held him, even for just a moment. The way your expression flickered, unreadable, like you were trying to piece together something that neither of you had the words for.

I love seeing her from his perspective

Yunjin listened, her expression unreadable. “Do you want his approval?” she asked. “Or do you want him?”

We love Yunjin, asking the right question

And he was looking at you. Even in the dim lighting, even from across the room, you could feel the weight of it—heavy, unwavering, pressing against your skin like static before a thunderstorm. There was something sharp in his gaze, something unsettled. Irritated. His jaw was tight, his fingers flexing slightly against his bicep, like he was holding something back. But from what? From you?

I love how frustrated Beomgyu actually is, I feel like it heightens the tension so much more.

Yeonjun exhaled, setting his drink down. "Nothing—just…" He hesitated before continuing, "after you left, Beomgyu and Yunho got into it."

I literally said what out loud I was so shocked??

Baekhyun exhaled, then said, "Beomgyu dropped out of the project."

Part 2 is full of surprises what the fuck??? Why????

WAIT. WHAT???/ HE REALLY IS THE REASON WHAT?? NO FREAKING WAY

"Ever since we started this fucking project," he continued, voice rough, "I haven’t been able to think straight. I go home, and I still hear your voice in my head. I wake up, and I’m already wondering what kind of mood you’ll be in, if we’re gonna fight, if we’re gonna work, if—" He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "It’s you. It’s always fucking you."

Oh my god Im going to go insane.

OH MY GOD THE KISS HELLO????/

Because fuck, he kissed like this? Hot and desperate and messy, like he had been waiting for this for longer than even he was willing to admit. Like he had no idea where to put his hands because he wanted to touch you everywhere.

This is so insane, im going insane.

Your fingers dug into his hoodie, tugging him forward, not willing to let him have all the control. He groaned at that.

I will pass out.

Ronnie. You cannot leave me like this oh my god🧍‍♀️how can he just up and leave hello? This really is the most intense slow burn and angst. I feel so bad for her :( the way shes crying, poor baby.

Yeonjun hummed like he didn’t believe you for a second. He didn’t push, though. Instead, his thumb rubbed slow, calming circles into your knee. "Look, Y/N… I don’t think Beomgyu ran because he didn’t care. I think he ran because he does."

I love this. I love that Yeonjun understands Gyu’s perspective and doesnt immediately take sides but just helps her try to realize Gyu really didint want to do what he did.

This is probably the first time something has actually gotten to him in a way he doesn’t know how to handle.

Love the effect women have on men

Not you making him right the moonstruck lyrics oh my god

Also mc also writing the most gut-wrenching lyrics about Beomgyu (thats such a good song btw) is heartbreaking

Man Cheol why must you be the kind of evil guy here :( The way hes making Gyu seem like a problem no <//3

Baekhyun rubbed his temple. "I had a feeling this might happen eventually. Seungcheol has a reputation—he doesn’t always separate work from… other things."

Oh this made me cringe oh ew why must men

He might not even listen to it. He might throw it away. He might ignore it completely. But still, you left it there. And as you walked away, your chest felt lighter. Because for once, you weren’t running. You were giving him a chance.

Oh my god these words :((

Your breath hitched. "Twice?"

His lips twitched, just barely. "Maybe more." You let out a short, breathy laugh, shaking your head. A pause. "What made you write it?"

I love them so much, amidst all the tension and slow burn i love them so very much

Beomgyu hesitated, his jaw tightening slightly. "I didn’t want to leave you alone." He inhaled sharply, like he was steadying himself. "But I didn’t want my feelings to get in the way."

Oh my god.

OH MY GOD WHAT THE FUCK SEUNGCHEOL. I am so angry get awayyyy shooooo

You grabbed the pen and handed it to him, your fingers barely grazing before he pulled away. "Thanks, sweetheart," he said, easy, casual. "See you later."

Fucking ew (i love cheol but not rn no ewww)

Beomgyu let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah. And apparently, Seungcheol’s been waiting for his turn. ‘Dying to get a piece,’ is what he said."

This makes me so sick ew nonono

Oh i love it when men yearn so badly

Beomgyu pressed a button near the panel, locked. He finally turned to face you then, and, fuck, he was close. "I don’t want anyone interrupting this time," he murmured.

Oh sweet heavens

"We should stop," you murmured, forcing the words out before you lost your grip on reality completely. "Beomgyu, we’re— We’re at work. It’s not even noon."

I laughed, so if it was the afternoon would it be okay?

You pulled the door open, and then, just as you were about to step out, his hand caught your wrist. Before you could even process it, he tugged lightly, just enough to make you turn back, and pressed a soft, lingering kiss against your lips. It was barely a second. Barely anything. But it hit you like a fucking meteor. He pulled away just as quickly, his eyes flickering over your face, watching your reaction. You didn’t move. Couldn’t move.

His goal is to make her pass out I swear

You sighed, watching as he expertly cooked the meat, barely thinking before reaching for the lettuce wraps, stacking up the perfect bite, then placing it in front of you. Your eyebrows lifted. "Are you seriously making me food right now?"

Thats so sweet ugh

Also My Bloody Valentine mention?? Ive been transported back to the early 2000s

Not Yeonjun interrupting their kiss😭

Oh my god, I cant believe I reached the end of part 2! This was so good. Immediately making my way to part 3

OUT OF TUNE ˖ 🎙◞⋆ (part 2)

pairing: producer!beomgyu x producer!femreader part 1 // part 2 // part 3

summary: you and beomgyu have been at each other’s throats since day one at HYBE. both of you are producers, both of you are talented, and both of you absolutely refuse to lose to the other. whether it’s competing for the best demo, fighting over studio time, or bickering in team meetings, everyone knows one thing: you and beomgyu cannot stand each other so, of course, your boss decides to put you two on the same project—producing ENHYPEN’s next album. together. as in, sharing a studio, making creative decisions, and not murdering each other in the process. and suddenly, the tension isn’t just about work.

genre: enemies to lovers, coworkers to lovers, slow burn, angst with a good payoff // w/c: 26k // warnings: not proofread, MDNI!! smoking (reader and beomgyu smoke), drinking, angst, jealously, overworking characters, making out, petnames, dry humping

author's note: you guys loved part 1 so much that i decided to drop part 2!! i wasn’t originally planning on posting this so soon, but all the love and reactions made me wanna share it with you asap. hope you enjoy <3 READ PART 1 HERE //

out of tune's playlist <3

The night was quiet, but Beomgyu’s mind wasn’t.

It had started with a question. A simple, stupid question that he never should have asked.

Waiting for your boyfriend to pick you up?

You had blinked at him, caught off guard, before letting out a soft laugh—so casual, so oblivious to what you had just done to him. "Yeonjun? No. God, no. He’s just—" You shook your head, still smiling. "He’s not my boyfriend."

Beomgyu had scoffed, looking away before you could see how tightly his jaw had clenched.

It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that you weren’t with Yeonjun. It didn’t matter that you had laughed, like the thought had never even crossed your mind.

And yet, by the time he pulled into the parking lot of his apartment that night, exhaustion was settling deep into his body, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. He rarely did these days, not properly, anyway.

The hallway to his apartment was quiet, dimly lit, the familiar flickering of the overhead lights casting long shadows against the walls. It wasn’t a bad place. Spacious, modern enough. But it felt empty.

As soon as he stepped inside, he tossed his bag onto the couch and went straight to the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge. His shoulders ached from hunching over his desk all day, his head heavy from staring at screens for too long.

Still, instead of going to bed, he pulled out his phone and scrolled through his call log. His thumb hovered over the contact labeled Mom, but for some reason, hesitation rooted him in place.

When she picked up, her voice was soft, laced with the kind of exhaustion that came from being sick for too long. "Gyu-yah."

His chest tightened. "Hey, Mom."

"You’re calling late," she murmured, a small smile in her tone.

"You’re awake late," he echoed his earlier words to his brother.

She chuckled lightly. "Guess it runs in the family." Another beat of silence. "You’ve been working a lot, haven’t you?"

Beomgyu leaned against the counter, closing his eyes briefly. She always saw right through him. "Yeah. Big project."

"Hm. And how’s that going?"

He exhaled, rubbing his fingers over his temple. "It’s—" He hesitated, searching for the right words. "Harder than I thought."

"Isn’t it always?"

He huffed a quiet laugh. "Yeah."

His mother’s voice softened. "What’s making it difficult?"

Beomgyu rolled his shoulders, shifting against the counter. He could lie, say it was just the usual stress of production, deadlines piling up, expectations weighing on him. That was part of it, sure. But there was something else. "She’s… challenging," he admitted before he could think better of it.

A pause. Then, amusement slipped into his mother’s voice. "She?"

Beomgyu regretted his wording immediately. "I meant the project is challenging." His mother hummed knowingly, and somehow that was worse than if she had outright called him out. He sighed, tipping his head back. "It’s just—I don’t know. I’m used to working on my own. Or at least, if I do work with other people, I don’t have to think about them all the time."

"All the time?"

He gritted his teeth. "Not like that."

His mother just laughed softly, as if she had already heard this story before. "That means they’re good, doesn’t it?"

Beomgyu scoffed. "More like they piss me off."

"That’s the same thing sometimes." He rolled his eyes, but a small, unwilling smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Does she make your job harder?" his mom asked after a moment, more thoughtful now.

Beomgyu exhaled slowly. "She makes my job better."

It was the truth. And he hated that. Because you did. Even when you were annoying, even when you were frustrating, even when you made him want to slam his head against the mixing console, you still made the music better.

And that should be the only thing that mattered. Should be.

His mother hummed softly, as if she could hear everything he wasn’t saying. "Some people just have a way of getting under your skin," she murmured. "And sometimes, that’s not a bad thing."

Beomgyu didn’t respond to that. Because he wasn’t sure he liked where his thoughts were heading. After a while, he let her rest, hanging up the call and tossing his phone onto the couch. He should go to bed. But instead, he found himself standing in his kitchen, staring at the dark city skyline through the window, mind circling back to the same damn thing. To you.

To the way you had looked at him earlier, confused by his mood. To the way your voice had softened when you told him you weren’t having a good day. To the way you had laughed at the idea of being with Yeonjun, so casually, like it wasn’t even a possibility.

He didn’t know why that last part stuck with him the most. And he really didn’t like that he cared enough to wonder.

And now, standing in the middle of a crowded party, staring at you across the room, he realized: You had never really left. You were looking at him. Even with the haze of alcohol buzzing in his system, even through the blur of shifting bodies and flashing lights, Beomgyu felt it—sharp and unmistakable. The way your eyes found him, held him, even for just a moment. The way your expression flickered, unreadable, like you were trying to piece together something that neither of you had the words for.

And for the first time that night, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to smirk or swear. Because he liked it. He liked that you were looking. He liked knowing that, no matter how much you fought him, no matter how much you denied it—there was something there. But then, you looked away. Like it hadn’t meant anything. Like he didn’t mean anything. And something twisted deep in his chest, hot and sour. So, naturally, he did what he always did. He let his mouth run before his brain could catch up. "But don’t worry," he said, voice light, almost lazy, but aimed with precision. "I don’t care either way. After all, like you said… I’m just your coworker." The words landed exactly how he intended. He saw it—the way your shoulders tensed, the way your lips pressed together. The way something flickered in your eyes, so fast that if he blinked, he might’ve missed it. Then he smirked. Just a flash of teeth, just enough to make your stomach twist. And before he could second-guess himself, before he could let the alcohol-fueled honesty catch up to him, he turned on his heel and walked off, leaving you standing there, heart pounding, head spinning, caught between wanting to kill him and— No. You weren’t even gonna finish that thought.

You let out a slow, frustrated breath, running a hand through your hair. You needed to get out of your own head. You needed a drink. And after that, you needed Yunjin.

The party was still buzzing when you stepped back inside, the room warm and crowded, laughter spilling over the music. You spotted her near the bar, leaning against the counter, drink in hand, mid-conversation with some guy you didn’t recognize. You marched straight up to her, grabbing her wrist.

“I need to talk to you.” Yunjin barely had time to react before you were pulling her away from the noise, past groups of people, through the doorway leading to one of the quieter lounge areas.

Once inside, she gave you a look, raising an eyebrow as she took a slow sip of her drink. “Damn. No ‘hey, how are you?’ Not even a ‘you look great tonight, Yunjin’?”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “Not now.”

She studied you, then smirked knowingly. “This is about Beomgyu, isn’t it?”

You stiffened. “No.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, completely unconvinced. “Go on…”

You exhaled sharply, slumping onto the couch, rubbing your temples. “I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me.”

Yunjin sat beside you, kicking off her heels, posture casual. “Alright, let’s hear it.”

You hesitated, staring at the floor, feeling strangely vulnerable all of a sudden. It took a few seconds before you found your voice. “I—” You stopped, frowning. “I don’t even know what I feel right now. I’m just… frustrated.”

She hummed. “At him?”

“At everything,” you admitted. “At this whole fucking project. At the way he gets under my skin so easily. At the fact that—” You cut yourself off, clenching your jaw.

Yunjin, sharp as ever, caught it immediately. “At the fact that what?”

You hesitated, gripping the edge of your seat. “I want his approval.” The words came out quiet. Frustrated. “I don’t know why. I just—I hate how much I care about what he thinks. Every time we work on something, I catch myself waiting to see how he reacts. Like, I tell myself it doesn’t matter, that I don’t need him to validate me, but then—” You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “But then he does. And it fucks with me.”

Yunjin listened, her expression unreadable. “Do you want his approval?” she asked. “Or do you want him?”

Your head snapped toward her. “What?”

She shrugged, completely unfazed. “I mean, you’re so worked up over him, and yeah, some of it is because of work, but…” She tilted her head, giving you a look. “Is that all it is?”

Your stomach twisted. “Yes,” you said immediately. Yunjin just stared at you, unimpressed. You crossed your arms. “It is.”

Silence. Then she smirked, slow and knowing. “Liar.”

You groaned, shoving your face into your hands. “Oh my god, shut up.”

She laughed, nudging your foot with hers. “I mean, come on. This whole thing screams unresolved tension. You two have been circling each other for months, pretending you’re just rivals when clearly there’s more to it.”

You lifted your head, glaring. “There isn’t.”

“Okay,” she said, amused. “So if he kissed you tomorrow, you wouldn’t think about it for the rest of your life?”

Your brain short-circuited so violently that you actually choked on air. “What—”

Yunjin grinned. “Exactly.”

You scowled, but the damage was done. The thought was already planted in your head, unshakable. Beomgyu, close. Beomgyu, leaning in. Beomgyu, looking at you with that stupid, unreadable expression of his before—

Nope. You refused to entertain this. You grabbed her drink, downing the rest of it in one go, ignoring the way she laughed at you. “I hate you,” you muttered.

“No, you don’t,” she teased. “But you do have a thing for Beomgyu.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

“Shut up.”

“Denial isn’t a good look on you, babe.”

You groaned, sinking further into the couch, your mind an absolute mess. Because no matter how much you wanted to deny it, Yunjin wasn’t completely wrong.

The music pulsed through the party, deep bass reverberating in your chest as you let yourself sink into the moment. The weight of the conversation with Yunjin still lingered in the back of your mind, but you shoved it aside, focusing on your friends instead—on the warmth of Yeonjun’s arm slung over your shoulder as he dramatically belted the lyrics to whatever song was playing, on the way Taehyun shook his head at him, on Hueningkai laughing so hard at something that he nearly dropped his drink. You let yourself get lost in it.

And then, eventually, the night began to wind down. People started leaving in waves, slipping out the doors in pairs or groups, laughter and goodbyes trailing after them. Your own friends were still lingering, but you were exhausted, drained from the long week, from the constant push and pull inside your head.

You needed sleep. You told them as much, earning dramatic protests from Yeonjun that didn't want to leave with you, a teasing “boring” from Yunjin, and an understanding nod from Taehyun. Hueningkai just patted your shoulder. "Get home safe," he said, voice warm.

Near the entrance, just a few feet away, Beomgyu stood against the wall, shoulders tense, arms crossed over his chest. He wasn’t talking to anyone, wasn’t laughing, wasn’t even pretending to enjoy himself. He was just there, like he had been standing in that same spot for too long, stewing in whatever storm was brewing behind his unreadable expression.

The noise of the party faded into the background, drowned out by the heavy thrum of your own heartbeat. You didn’t know why you were still standing there. You didn’t know why the sight of him like this made something twist sharply in your stomach, something restless, something uneasy.

You exhaled sharply, breaking the moment before it could turn into something you weren’t ready to name. Without another glance, you turned on your heel and walked out of the party.

You didn’t know what you felt.

But whatever it was, you hated it.

Just like you thought you hated Beomgyu.

You woke up feeling like absolute shit.

The kind of headache that pounded behind your eyes, the kind of dryness in your throat that made you regret every decision from the night before. You groaned, burying your face in the pillow, willing the pain to go away.

It didn’t. Of course it didn’t.

Memories from last night filtered into your mind slowly, fragmented, like puzzle pieces that didn’t quite fit together at first. You remembered the warmth of the alcohol in your veins, the steady bass of the music vibrating through your chest, the feeling of actually having fun for once—until you saw him.

Beomgyu.

You squeezed your eyes shut, as if that could make the memory disappear.

Beomgyu, drunk and loose-limbed, flashing you that easy, lazy grin that made your stomach flip before you could even process why. Beomgyu being nice, too nice, his words softer than usual, his teasing edged with something warmer.

And then, just as quickly as it came, it was gone. The shift. The way his smile dimmed when he saw you talking to Yunho. The way his fingers curled slightly around his drink, his jaw tightening just enough for you to notice. The way his gaze darkened, cold and distant again.

And right before he walked away, he had turned to you with that unreadable look in his eyes, that frustrating mix of amusement and distance, and had said— "After all, like you said… I’m just your coworker."

Your stomach twisted. You threw the blanket off you, forcing yourself to sit up, because if you laid here any longer, you were going to start throwing things.

The apartment was dead silent, except for the faint sound of someone snoring in the living room. You got up carefully, wincing at the headache that pulsed through your skull, and padded out of your room. Yeonjun was passed out on the couch, one leg hanging off the side, his face smushed into a pillow. You sighed, grabbing the nearest blanket and draping it over him.

Then, as you turned toward the kitchen, you nearly tripped over two bodies sprawled out on the floor. Hueningkai and Taehyun. Both dead asleep, Kai using a hoodie as a pillow, Taehyun curled up in the most uncomfortable-looking position you had ever seen.

You stared at them for a long moment, then sighed again, rubbing at your temples. You needed coffee. You needed out of this apartment. That's why you decided to grab coffee somewhere else.

It was still too early for the world to feel real. The streets were quiet, the sky dull with that soft, overcast light that only came on hungover Sundays. You wrapped your jacket tighter around yourself as you pushed through the doors of the coffeeshop, craving caffeine more than you had ever craved anything in your life.

You were so focused on getting to the counter that you didn’t even notice him at first.

"So we really had the same idea, huh?" You blinked, turning toward the voice. Soobin was sitting at a corner table, hoodie pulled up over his messy hair, looking just as wrecked as you felt. His iced coffee sat half-finished in front of him, condensation dripping down the sides.

You stared. "Holy shit. You look like hell."

He scoffed. "Thanks. You’re glowing this morning."

You snorted, finally ordering your drink before sliding into the seat across from him. "Didn’t expect to see you here."

Soobin hummed. "Didn’t expect to be here. But I woke up with a headache from hell and figured coffee might bring me back to life."

"Same." You took a slow sip of your drink, wincing as the cold hit your stomach. "Last night was… a lot."

Soobin huffed a quiet laugh. "Yeah. Some more than others."

You narrowed your eyes. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

He just smirked, shaking his head. "Nothing. Just… Beomgyu was in rare form last night."

You stiffened slightly. If Soobin noticed, he didn’t mention it. "That drunk?" you asked, voice carefully neutral.

"Drunk enough to be nice," Soobin mused. "Which, you know, is when you should be really concerned." You huffed a laugh, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. Soobin watched you for a moment, something thoughtful in his expression. "You know," he said eventually, stirring his drink with the straw, "he’s not as much of an asshole as he tries to be."

You raised an eyebrow. "Could’ve fooled me."

Soobin chuckled. "Yeah, he’s good at that. But—" He tilted his head slightly, studying you. "—he respects you."

You hesitated. It wasn’t that you didn’t believe that. You knew Beomgyu took you seriously, he wouldn’t compete so hard with you if he didn’t. But respect wasn’t the word that had been echoing in your head since last night.

Soobin leaned back in his chair. "And maybe he likes your work a little too much."

Your heart skipped, just once, just enough for you to feel stupid. You forced out a scoff, shaking your head. "Right. Sure. That’s why he spent half of the night treating me like shit."

Soobin’s smirk barely twitched. "I never said he handles it well."

You stared at him, trying to figure out if he was messing with you. But there was nothing teasing in his gaze, just knowing amusement, like he had already seen how this story played out before you even knew what page you were on.

You hated that. You hated that something about it made your stomach twist.

So, you stood up, grabbing your order. "I need to go before you start giving me life advice."

Soobin grinned, unfazed. "See you Monday, then?"

"Yeah, yeah," you muttered, already heading for the door.

But even as you stepped out into the cold air, the caffeine still not fully kicking in, Soobin’s words stuck with you. Maybe he likes your work a little too much. Whatever that meant, you weren’t sure if you wanted to know.

The walk back to your apartment was slow, the cool morning air doing little to clear the fog still lingering in your head. The coffeeshop bag swung gently at your side, filled with coffee and a few pastries, not because you were feeling particularly generous, but because you knew the three idiots waiting for you would need it just as much as you did.

When you finally pushed the door open, the apartment was still a disaster.

Yeonjun was awake now, sprawled across the couch in the same position you had left him in, scrolling through his phone with half-lidded eyes. Taehyun and Hueningkai were still on the floor, looking like they had barely moved.

You let the door shut behind you with a soft thud, and all three of them flinched.

"Jesus," Yeonjun muttered, rubbing his face. "Not so loud."

You rolled your eyes, tossing the bag onto the coffee table. "Brought coffee. If any of you die, it’s not my fault."

Hueningkai groaned, blindly reaching for the bag without sitting up. "You’re an angel. A mean one, but an angel."

Taehyun sat up with effort, running a hand through his already-messy hair. "Where’d you go?"

"Coffeeshop," you said simply, grabbing your own cup before sitting on the arm of the couch. "Needed air."

Yeonjun stretched his arms above his head, then let them drop dramatically. "Did we ever figure out what happened to Yunjin?"

"Yeah," Taehyun answered, taking a sip of his drink. "We got her home safe. She passed out halfway there."

"Typical," Yeonjun muttered, shaking his head.

Hueningkai yawned. "We were too drunk to go back to our own places, so we crashed here. Hope you don’t mind."

You shrugged. "I figured. You were taking up half my floor." You shook your head before speaking again. "Ran into Soobin there, in the coffeeshop."

That got their attention. Hueningkai snorted. "Damn, everyone had the same idea."

"Yeah," you mused, stirring your straw through your drink. "He looked just as bad as me. Maybe worse."

Yeonjun hummed. "He drank a lot last night."

"Yeah," you agreed, then took a slow sip of coffee before adding casually, "But he said Beomgyu was worse." You expected some reaction. A laugh, a sarcastic remark, maybe even an exaggerated groan. What you didn’t expect was the subtle way Yeonjun and Taehyun exchanged glances. You frowned. "What?"

Yeonjun exhaled, setting his drink down. "Nothing—just…" He hesitated before continuing, "after you left, Beomgyu and Yunho got into it."

You blinked. "What?"

Hueningkai nodded, chewing slowly. "Yeah. Not, like, a full fight or anything. But they were arguing. And it wasn’t friendly."

You sat up slightly. "Over what?"

Yeonjun shrugged. "No clue. Heeseung and I stepped in before it got worse, but they were both pissed."

Your mind raced, replaying the night. Yunho had been fine when you left, normal, flirty, acting like he always did. And Beomgyu? Beomgyu had been weird. The shift had been so sudden, one second he was being nice, playful, softer than usual. The next, cold, distant. And now, apparently, he had also picked a fight with Yunho. None of it made sense.

You drummed your fingers against your cup. "What did Yunho even say?"

Taehyun shook his head. "Dunno. But whatever it was, Beomgyu hated it."

You scoffed lightly. "So what? He was already pissed at me."

"Was he?" Yeonjun asked, raising an eyebrow.

You frowned, opening your mouth to respond, but nothing came out. Because, honestly? You didn’t know. He had been acting off all week, distant and unreadable. And then last night, he was the opposite, warm, teasing, close. And then, again, the shift, cold. Your head hurt just thinking about it.

"I don’t care," you muttered, standing up and stretching. "I’m taking a shower. If you guys are still here when I’m done, I’m kicking you out."

Taehyun smirked. "Love you too."

You rolled your eyes, but as you walked toward your room, the weight of Yeonjun’s words lingered. Whatever it was, it clearly got under Beomgyu’s skin. But why did that matter? And why the hell did you care?

The car ride to work on Monday was quiet, but not in a peaceful way.

Yeonjun was dropping you off like usual, his music playing softly in the background, but you weren’t really listening. Your thoughts were elsewhere, circling, looping, pulling you into an endless spiral of what the hell is going on with you and Beomgyu.

You had spent the entire Sunday trying not to think about him.

Trying not to think about the way he had been so warm, so teasing, so himself, until he wasn’t. Trying not to think about Yunho, about their argument, about the way Beomgyu looked at you when you left.

And yet, here you were, staring out the car window, still thinking about it. Because now you had to see him again. And you had no idea which version of Beomgyu you were going to get. The smug, infuriating one who lived to push your buttons? The cold, distant one who had barely acknowledged you all week? Or the version from the party, the one who looked at you like he knew exactly what he was doing to your head?

Which was exactly why you didn’t want to talk about this. Because if you said it out loud, then it would feel real. Instead, you just turned back toward the window, watching as the HYBE building came into view.

You made it to your studio without seeing Beomgyu. Thank god.

You hadn’t even realized you had been holding your breath until you shut the door behind you, exhaling slowly. The last thing you wanted was to run into Beomgyu in some awkward hallway moment, trying to pretend like everything was fine when clearly nothing was.

So you did what you did best. You threw yourself into work.

The hours slipped by, your fingers moving almost mechanically over your keyboard, your mind hyper-focused on mixing, arranging, tweaking. It was easier this way, easier to pretend that nothing had changed, that your work was all that mattered.

You didn’t see Beomgyu once. Not in the hallway, not in the break room, not even in the usual spaces where he always seemed to be. Maybe he was avoiding you too. You tried not to care. Tried not to think about it.

But then, just as the day was winding down, just as you were finally about to pack up and go home, there was a knock at your door.

You frowned, pushing your chair back. "Come in."

The door swung open, and standing there, looking as serious as ever, was Baekhyun. "Hey," he said, stepping inside. "Got a minute?"

You straightened slightly, your pulse kicking up for no reason at all. "Uh… yeah, of course."

Baekhyun shut the door behind him before turning to face you. His expression was unreadable, calm, neutral, but with a weight behind his eyes that made your stomach churn. You had a bad feeling about this.

"Listen," he started, crossing his arms. "I wanted to tell you this before you heard it from someone else."

You swallowed. "O…kay?"

Baekhyun exhaled, then said, "Beomgyu dropped out of the project."

The words didn’t register at first. You just blinked at him, waiting for him to say something else. But he didn’t. Because that was it.

You sat up straighter, confusion flashing across your face. "What?"

"He asked to be reassigned," Baekhyun clarified. "You’re the sole producer now."

Your stomach dropped. "He what?"

Baekhyun sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don’t know what happened, but it wasn’t about work. His excuse was weak as hell. He just said he ‘wasn’t the right fit for the project’ and left it at that."

You stared at him, your brain struggling to process. Beomgyu, who never backed down from anything, had quit? Beomgyu, who had spent the last few weeks going head-to-head with you, challenging you, pushing you, had walked away?

Just like that? Your pulse roared in your ears. "Why?" you demanded.

Baekhyun shook his head. "I have no idea. And honestly, I don’t have time to figure it out. The album still needs to get done, and now it’s all on you."

You barely heard him. Because all you could think about was him.

The way he had been acting all week. The way he had been acting at the party. The argument with Yunho. The distance. The sudden shift. And now this.

Beomgyu didn’t just quit. Not unless there was a reason. But what the hell was it?

Baekhyun sighed, checking his watch. "Look, I have to run, but if you need anything, let me know."

You nodded stiffly, barely registering as he left the room, shutting the door behind him. And then you were alone. Alone with the news. Alone with the confusion. Alone with the sharp, twisting feeling in your chest that you refused to call anything other than frustration.

Your brain spiraled. Your hands clenched into fists against your desk, your pulse hammering in your ears. Beomgyu quit? Just like that? Without saying a word to you? Without even giving a proper reason?

It made no sense. None of it made sense. You sat there, staring blankly at your screen, but you weren’t processing anything. All you could think about was him.

You exhaled sharply, pushing back from your desk. You weren’t going to sit here and let your thoughts drive you insane. If he wasn’t going to come to you, then fine. You’d go to him.

The building was nearly empty. Most people had already gone home, leaving only a few scattered producers and trainees still working. The silence felt heavier somehow, like even the air itself knew something was wrong.

You walked straight to his studio first. Locked. No lights inside. Empty.

Your jaw tightened as you turned away, moving faster now. Fine. Maybe he was in the break room.

You checked there next, stepping inside and scanning the area. Nothing. Not even a half-finished cup of coffee or an abandoned snack, things that always seemed to be left behind whenever Beomgyu was around.

Your fingers twitched at your sides. You were already walking before you had fully decided to, heading down the hallway toward the smoking area outside. You shoved the door open, stepping onto the dimly lit balcony. The cold air bit at your skin, but you barely noticed. Because the space was completely empty. He wasn’t here.

You let out a frustrated breath, running a hand through your hair. Where the hell was he?

After a few more seconds of standing there uselessly, you turned back around, forcing yourself to accept that you weren’t going to find him tonight. Maybe he had already gone home. Maybe he had been home this whole time, avoiding everything and everyone. Maybe you were wasting your energy trying to chase after someone who clearly didn’t want to be found.

Defeat sat heavy in your chest as you trudged back toward your studio, exhaustion sinking into your bones now that the adrenaline had faded. You should just let it go. Just let him go.

But when you stepped inside your studio—

You froze. Because there he was.

Sitting in your chair, arms resting on the desk, staring at you like he had been waiting. Like he had known you’d come looking. He had that look on his face. That stupid, pathetic, guilty expression—like a kicked dog, like he knew exactly what he had done, like he was bracing himself for the storm he knew was coming.

You shut the door behind you harder than necessary, your heartbeat roaring in your ears. Beomgyu swallowed, his hands tightening slightly where they rested on the desk.

"Listen—"

"Listen what?" Your voice snapped through the air, sharper than you even intended, but you didn’t care. Because after everything, this was what you got? A half-hearted listen? No. Not happening. You crossed your arms, glaring at him. "Go on, Beomgyu. I’d love to hear it."

The words hit the air like a match against gasoline. Beomgyu exhaled sharply, rubbing his palms against his jeans before leaning forward, elbows on his knees. His gaze flickered up to meet yours, hesitant, cautious. "I just—" He ran a hand through his hair, frustration leaking into his voice. "It wasn’t working."

"What wasn’t working?" you demanded. "Because from where I’m standing, the only thing that wasn’t working was you deciding to disappear without saying a damn word to me—"

"Would you just let me talk?" Beomgyu snapped, his voice cutting through yours.

You froze. He never raised his voice at you. Not like this. Not with something heavy sitting behind it, something too close to something real. You set your jaw, arms tightening over your chest. "Fine. Talk."

He let out a bitter chuckle, shaking his head. "You think I wanted to leave the project?"

You blinked. "You literally did."

"Yeah," he snapped. "And maybe if you weren’t so stuck in your own head all the time, you’d realize why."

Your stomach twisted. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Beomgyu scoffed, pushing himself up from your chair. "It means," he said, voice low, controlled, "that I warned you about people you let in in your life, and you didn’t listen."

And there it was. The shift. The argument that had started as one thing—the project, his sudden absence, your frustration, suddenly becoming something else. Your hands clenched at your sides. "This is about Seungcheol?!"

He let out a sharp laugh, running his tongue over his teeth. "Wow. Look at that. You do listen sometimes."

You took a step closer. "And what exactly is your problem with him?"

Beomgyu’s jaw ticked. "My problem," he muttered, "is that you’re so damn naive sometimes—"

"Excuse me?"

"You think everyone is exactly what they show you," he continued, voice rising slightly. "You think people don’t have their own reasons for the things they do, for why they pay attention to you—"

You felt something sharp crawl up your throat, something dangerously close to real anger. "And why the fuck does that matter to you?"

Beomgyu’s breath hitched, just for a second, just enough for you to see it. And then, just as quickly, his face hardened again. "It doesn’t," he said flatly.

You let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Right. Got it. So, you threw away an entire project, left me with all the fucking work, because you suddenly don’t care?"

Beomgyu’s hands curled into fists. "I left because I knew this was going to get messy."

"It’s already messy, Beomgyu!" you exploded. "You made it messy! I thought we were a team—I thought, for once, that maybe you weren’t just trying to be better than me, that maybe we actually worked well together, but no—of course not, because you had to fucking run the second it got complicated—"

"Are you even hearing yourself?" His voice was sharp, eyes blazing. "Do you really think I left because of the fucking project?"

You opened your mouth—then shut it. Because, no. You didn’t believe that. Not for a second. Because if this was just about work, then Beomgyu would’ve fought harder. He always fought harder.

Your breath was shallow now, your heart racing against your ribs. There was only a foot of space between you.

You could hear his breathing, sharp, uneven. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched at his sides like he was fighting the urge to do something. And you could feel it, how the air between you had shifted, thickened into something neither of you knew how to name.

This wasn’t just about work. This wasn’t just about Yunho, or Seungcheol. This wasn’t just about Saturday night. It was about everything. But neither of you were ready to say it. Neither of you knew how.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to keep your expression neutral. "Then why did you?"

His jaw clenched. "I told you—"

"No," you cut him off, stepping even closer, your anger outweighing your restraint now. "You didn’t. You keep talking in circles, Beomgyu, but you haven’t told me shit. You just keep—acting like I’m supposed to read your fucking mind."

Beomgyu exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. "Because you don’t get it!"

"Then make me get it!" you snapped.

His eyes flashed, dark and burning. Then, suddenly—

"You drive me insane."

The words hit the air before he could stop them, before you could process them, and for a second, the room froze. Your breath caught.

Beomgyu’s lips parted slightly, like he couldn’t believe he had actually said it out loud. His chest rose and fell unevenly, like he had been holding onto those words for too long, like they had just ripped their way out of him.

You felt your stomach twist, your skin heat, your pulse roar in your ears. Because he wasn’t looking at you with anger anymore. He was looking at you like you were something dangerous. Like you had the power to ruin him. Like you already had.

Your pulse slammed against your ribs. This, whatever this was, it had been bubbling under the surface for so long, hidden under sharp words and competition and a rivalry neither of you had ever actually needed.

"You fucking ran." Your voice was quieter now, but not softer.

Beomgyu’s brows pulled together. "I had to."

"No," you countered, stepping closer. "You wanted to. Because it was easier than—than whatever this is. Because you can’t handle anything you can’t control."

Beomgyu let out a sharp breath, tongue running over his teeth. "You think I’m the only one running?" You hesitated. That second of hesitation was all it took.

Because then, suddenly, Beomgyu’s fingers curled around your wrist, not pulling, not forcing, just grounding, and you felt the warmth of his skin burn into yours. "You tell me to stop running," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper now. "Then tell me to stay."

Your heart nearly stopped. The challenge in his tone, the weight behind it, felt like stepping off a ledge. You stared at him, your throat tight, your head light, your pulse a fucking mess. Because this wasn’t how things were supposed to go. This wasn’t the plan.

And yet, your fingers tightened slightly around his. Barely, just enough for him to feel it. Just enough for something inside him to snap.

You barely had time to process it before Beomgyu moved.

His hands found your face first, warm, calloused fingers cradling your jaw like he needed to hold you in place, like he was afraid you’d pull away before he could do what he had been holding back for too long.

The space between you disappeared, and then his lips were on yours.

The first press was firm, almost hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if you’d kiss him back, if this was something he was allowed to take. But then you gave in. A sharp inhale, a slight tilt of your head, the way your fingers fisted into his hoodie, yanking him closer. That was all he needed. Because once Beomgyu realized you weren’t stopping him, that you weren’t pushing him away, he lost it.

The kiss got harder, deeper, his lips parting against yours as his hands slid from your jaw to your waist, fingers gripping your sides like he was pissed off—at you, at himself, at the entire world for making him wait this long.

You made a sound against his mouth, but it wasn’t protest. It was frustration, relief, disbelief that this was even happening. Because fuck, he kissed like this? Hot and desperate and messy, like he had been waiting for this for longer than even he was willing to admit. Like he had no idea where to put his hands because he wanted to touch you everywhere.

You felt his teeth graze your lower lip, just barely, just enough to make you gasp, and he took full advantage of it, deepening the kiss, pressing himself into you until your back hit the door behind you.

All you could process was him, his lips, his warmth, the way one of his hands slid up, fingers curling around the back of your neck, angling your head so he could kiss you even deeper, even dirtier. Your fingers dug into his hoodie, tugging him forward, not willing to let him have all the control. He groaned at that.

A soft, frustrated sound that sent a thrill through your body, because you had never heard him sound like that before, had never imagined that you could pull that sound from him. And then, just when the heat between you had grown unbearable, just when his hands started to wander, gripping at your waist like he wanted to pin you there forever—

You both realized what was happening. Realized that this was you and him. That this was real. That this wasn’t something either of you could take back. So you pulled away first. Barely, just a few inches. Just enough to catch your breath. Beomgyu didn’t move.

His forehead pressed against yours, his breath warm and uneven against your lips, his hands still gripping your waist like he couldn’t let go. Your chest heaved, heart hammering so loudly you swore he could hear it. Neither of you spoke. Neither of you could. Because whatever line had been there before? You had just obliterated it.

His breath was uneven, and the silence between you both stretched longer than either of you had anticipated. The air in the studio felt thick now, charged with something neither of you quite knew how to handle.

Finally, you broke the silence. Your voice came out rough but firm as you looked at him. "You… you can’t just walk away."

Beomgyu’s hand twitched at your waist, his grip still there, like he was trying to hold onto something real in the middle of all the chaos between you two. His lips parted, but he hesitated, like he wasn’t sure what to say next.

"You want me to stay?" he asked, his voice quieter now, more vulnerable than you expected. "You really want me to stay?"

You swallowed hard, a knot forming in your throat. It wasn’t that simple. But then again, it was. "I do," you said, your words coming out with an honesty you couldn’t take back.

The air seemed to crackle around you both, and Beomgyu finally let go of his tight grip around your waist, but not completely. He just let his hands fall to your sides, his touch lingering as though he was afraid of pushing too far.

And there it was. The line had been crossed. The weight of your words hung between you, settling like something inevitable. Neither of you moved, but there was something different now, something undeniable that shifted in the space you shared.

Beomgyu’s eyes softened for the first time, he leaned in again, his hand gently cupping your cheek this time, as though he was finally allowing himself to believe that this wasn’t just another fleeting moment, another mistake. His touch lingered for a moment longer, his hand soft on your cheek as though he were afraid that if he moved too quickly, everything would fall apart. His eyes searched yours, the intensity of the moment hanging between you, thick with unspoken words. His lips parted slightly, as though he was going to say something, but the words seemed to get stuck in his throat.

For a long moment, all that was heard was the sound of your breaths, his shaky, yours quick. But then, just as quickly as he had leaned in, Beomgyu pulled back.

The change was immediate. His hand dropped from your cheek, and there was a flicker of something in his eyes, something almost… regretful. You could feel the tension in his body shift, a quiet storm brewing in him that you couldn’t quite understand.

"Beomgyu…" you started, but before you could get another word out, he turned away from you.

Without a word, he walked toward the door. Your chest tightened, confusion and frustration flooding your senses as you watched him move. You didn’t know whether to call out, to beg him to stay, or to just let him go and pretend that this whole mess hadn’t happened. But no matter what, you felt a pit in your stomach, a weight you couldn’t shake off.

Beomgyu reached for the handle, his back still to you, and for a brief second, you thought maybe he would say something—anything. Maybe he would explain himself, finally tell you what was going through his head. But instead, he opened the door. The sound of the hinges creaking was like a cruel reminder of what was happening.

He stepped outside, and for a heartbeat, the door remained open, leaving you to watch him through the gap. His expression was unreadable, his body stiff. Then, without looking back, he closed the door behind him, the sound echoing through the room like the finality of everything.

And just like that, you were left alone.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you sat down, staring at the door, still hearing the faint click of it locking in your mind. You couldn’t move. You couldn’t breathe. It felt as though the world had tilted on its axis, leaving you floating in the aftermath, unsure of what had just happened. What had changed? Why did it feel like you were left with nothing?

Everything was so… messy. You had never felt so raw, so exposed, and yet, Beomgyu had walked away without a single word. The silence that filled the room now was deafening. You wanted to scream, to shout, to demand answers, but all you could do was sit there, trying to make sense of it all.

Had you been wrong to ask him to stay? Did you push him too far, too soon? Or was this all just another part of that complicated dance you two had been doing from the very start?

You didn’t know. All you knew was that the studio felt emptier now, quieter. And Beomgyu… Beomgyu had walked away. The silence in the studio was suffocating.

You sat there, unmoving, eyes still locked on the door even though Beomgyu was long gone. Your hands were trembling in your lap. The lump in your throat tightened, and before you could stop it, a sharp, broken breath escaped you. Until the tears spilled over, hot and relentless, blurring your vision and burning your cheeks.

You sucked in a shaky breath, gripping the edge of your desk like it was the only thing keeping you grounded. You never cried over shit like this. Not over work. Not over him. You hated this. You hated feeling like this.

You blinked rapidly, wiping at your face with the sleeve of your hoodie, but the tears wouldn’t stop. Your breath came out in uneven gasps, the weight in your chest growing heavier by the second.

You needed to leave. Your fingers scrambled for your phone, your vision still blurred with tears as you unlocked it and pulled up your messages. You barely even thought before typing.

[you]: can you pick me up The response came within seconds.

[yeonjun]: on my way. stay there.

You let out a shaky breath, gripping your phone like it was the only thing keeping you from completely unraveling.

The second you slid into Yeonjun’s car, the dam broke.

The moment the door shut behind you, the sobs you had barely been holding in ripped out of you, raw and unfiltered, shaking your entire body.

Yeonjun didn’t hesitate. Didn’t ask any questions. Didn’t push. He just reached across the console, one hand on your back, grounding you. "Hey, hey, hey," he murmured, his voice low and calm as he rubbed small circles. "I got you, okay? Just breathe."

You shook your head violently, pressing your palms into your eyes, trying, and failing, to stop crying. "I—I don’t—" A sharp inhale, a choked-out sob. "I don’t even know why I’m crying."

Yeonjun let out a soft breath, like he already knew that was a lie. You sucked in another shaky breath, leaning your head back against the seat, staring up at the roof of the car. For a few minutes, neither of you spoke. Yeonjun just drove.

The car was quiet, save for the steady hum of the engine and the occasional sound of your sniffles as you tried to get your breathing under control. Yeonjun didn’t say anything right away. He didn’t press, didn’t demand answers. He just waited and held your hand while he drove. Slow, steady, like he had done this a hundred times before. Like he knew you needed the silence before you could find the words.

And when you finally did, your voice came out small. Tired. "He quit the project." Yeonjun’s grip on the wheel tightened slightly, but he stayed quiet, letting you continue. "I don’t—I don’t get it," you said, shaking your head as you wiped at your eyes with your sleeve. "I was working all day, and then Baekhyun came in and just dropped it on me like it was nothing. Like it was some casual decision Beomgyu made, and now I’m just supposed to deal with it—"

Yeonjun exhaled sharply. "Wait. He just left? No warning? No explanation?"

You let out a shaky breath. "Nothing. I—I went looking for him, but he wasn’t anywhere. Then when I finally gave up and went back to my studio, he was just there, like he had been waiting for me or something." Yeonjun frowned, but he didn’t interrupt. "And I was so fucking mad," you admitted, voice thick with frustration. "I just—I don’t understand him. He always has to push my buttons, always has to act like he doesn’t care about anything, but then he turns around and does this. Like it means something, but then he—he just—"

Your breath hitched. You squeezed your eyes shut, your chest aching. "And then he kissed me," you whispered.

Silence. Yeonjun inhaled slowly. "What?"

Your hands clenched in your lap. "I don’t even know how it happened. We were yelling at each other, and it just—it happened."

Yeonjun didn’t respond right away. His fingers flexed around the steering wheel, his brows furrowing as he processed what you just said. "And then what?" he asked, quieter now.

Your throat tightened. "And then… he left."

Yeonjun let out a slow, controlled breath. "What a dick." You let out a weak, wet laugh, shaking your head. "Yeah, well, I mean it." He tightened his grip on the wheel before exhaling, forcing himself to soften.

Then, carefully, he reached over, his fingers curling around your knee, grounding you. "Hey." You sniffled, not looking at him. Yeonjun’s voice was softer this time. "Did it mean something to you?"

Your breath caught. Because, fuck. It did. It did, and you hated that. You let out a shaky exhale, running a hand over your face. "I don’t know," you lied.

Your chest ached. "Then why not just fucking say that?"

Yeonjun sighed, turning onto your street. "Because people are dumb. Men are dumb. And Beomgyu’s spent years convincing himself that he doesn’t care about anything. You think he’s just gonna wake up one day and admit that he cares about you?" Your breath stilled. Yeonjun just shook his head. "He’s an idiot. That’s all it is."

You let out a weak laugh, leaning your head against the window. "Yeah," you murmured. "That makes two of us."

Yeonjun pulled into your apartment complex, shifting into park before turning to you. He didn’t say anything for a second, just watched you carefully, his eyes warm and steady. Then, gently, he reached out, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. "You’re not an idiot," he murmured. "You just care too much, and you’re scared."

You scoffed. "No shit."

You swallowed hard, your throat tight. He let that sit for a second before shaking his head. "You know what I think?" Yeonjun hummed, thoughtful. "I think he’s scared, too."

You stiffened slightly. "He didn’t seem scared when he left me standing there."

"Yeah?" Yeonjun mused. "Then why did he leave at all?"

You frowned, glancing at him. "What do you mean?"

Yeonjun sighed. "Think about it. If Beomgyu was just messing around, if this was just another game to him—he wouldn’t have left. He would’ve stayed. Would’ve laughed it off, made some cocky comment, pretended like it meant nothing." Your stomach twisted. Yeonjun turned toward you, his expression softer now. "But he didn’t, Y/N. He ran."

You let that sink in. Because maybe Yeonjun had a point. Maybe Beomgyu leaving wasn’t just some asshole move. Maybe he had been just as freaked out as you. The thought made your chest tighten all over again.

Yeonjun reached over, squeezing your hand once before letting go. "You don’t have to figure it all out right now," he murmured. He gave you a small smile before reaching over, pulling you into a hug. "You’re gonna be okay," he murmured against your hair. "I promise."

You let out a shaky breath, gripping onto him a little tighter. You weren’t sure if you believed him. But for now, you needed to. You sighed, leaning back against the seat, exhausted. But even as Yeonjun turned off the car, even as you sat there, trying to steady yourself, one thought wouldn’t leave your mind.

Beomgyu had run. But what the hell was he running from?

The question rattled in your mind, looping over and over as you stepped into your apartment, your limbs heavy with exhaustion.

You barely remembered saying goodnight to Yeonjun. You barely even registered the moment you locked yourself in the bathroom, turning on the shower and stepping under the scalding water.

Steam filled the space around you, thick and hazy, but it did nothing to quiet the storm in your chest. You tilted your head back, letting the water soak through your hair, tracing down the curve of your spine. Your breathing was still uneven, your mind still too loud.

You were supposed to be fine. It wasn’t a big deal. So what if he had kissed you? So what if he had left? You and Beomgyu had been dancing around each other for years—this was just another part of the cycle.

Right?

You squeezed your eyes shut, inhaling deeply through your nose. Then why does it feel different this time? Your fingers curled into fists.

You could still feel his hands on your waist, his breath against your lips. Could still see the flicker of hesitation in his eyes right before he pulled away. Could still hear the sound of the door clicking shut as he left.

You sucked in a sharp breath, forcing yourself to push the memory away. You weren’t going to do this. You weren’t going to sit here, overthinking every second, every glance, every fucking thing about Beomgyu.

So instead, you stayed under the water until your skin was raw, until the ache in your chest dulled into something you could ignore.

And despite everything—despite the storm in your chest, despite the weight in your head—you managed to fall asleep. But you woke up feeling like your body was still stuck in yesterday.

Your limbs were sluggish, your mind groggy, and the second you remembered why, your stomach twisted unpleasantly. You groaned, dragging a pillow over your face, trying to will yourself back to sleep.

But outside your door, you could already hear Yeonjun moving around the kitchen. You forced yourself out of bed, padding into the living room to find him standing by the stove, frying eggs like he actually knew how to cook. You frowned. "What are you doing?"

Yeonjun glanced over his shoulder. "Making breakfast."

"You don’t cook," you pointed out.

"Yeah, well, desperate times." He nodded toward the table. "Sit."

You sighed but obeyed, rubbing at your temples as you slumped into a chair. A minute later, Yeonjun set a plate in front of you, eggs, toast, and a coffee. You blinked. "You’re really committing to this whole overbearing best friend thing, huh?"

Yeonjun smirked, plopping down across from you with his own plate. "You love it."

You rolled your eyes but took a bite of the eggs anyway. They were… passable. Yeonjun watched you carefully between bites, waiting. You sighed. "I will be fine, you know."

He hummed. "Yeah, I know." He took a sip of his coffee, then added, "But are you fine right now?" Your fingers tightened slightly around your fork. You didn’t answer. Yeonjun just sighed, reaching across the table to squeeze your wrist. "You don’t have to be fine yet, Y/N."

Your throat tightened. So instead of answering, you just nodded, pushing your food around your plate. Yeonjun didn’t push. Just let you sit there, existing, until you finally managed to eat something.

When it was time to leave, he drove you to work again, filling the silence with easy conversation, talking about his projects, making fun of bad drivers, anything to keep your mind off of what was waiting for you at HYBE.

But the second you stepped out of the car, the weight returned. The anxiety crept back into your bones. Because today, you had to see Beomgyu. And you had no idea what was going to happen.

You made it to your studio without running into him. You didn’t know whether that was a good thing or a bad thing.

But instead of sitting there, drowning in your own thoughts, you pulled out your phone. Your fingers hovered over the screen for a moment before you typed.

[you]: taehyun, i need to talk to you [taehyun]: About what? [you]: just… when you have a second. come by my studio [taehyun]: Be there soon.

You exhaled, setting your phone down. You didn’t know why you needed to talk to him. But right now, Taehyun felt like the only person who could give you some kind of clarity. And clarity was exactly what you needed.

It didn’t take long for Taehyun to show up. You barely had time to fully gather your thoughts before there was a soft knock at your door, and then he was stepping inside, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, head tilting slightly as he studied you.

"Alright," he said, shutting the door behind him. "What’s up?"

You opened your mouth, then closed it. Because now that he was actually here, you weren’t sure where to start. Did you tell him about Beomgyu quitting? The fight? The kiss? Did you tell him about the way your heart had completely fallen apart when Beomgyu walked out of that room?

You exhaled, rubbing your temples. "This is stupid."

Taehyun raised an eyebrow. "Well, now I definitely wanna hear it."

You shot him a dry look, but he just crossed his arms, waiting. So you told him. Everything.

How you found out that Beomgyu had quit. How you had gone looking for him. How he was already waiting for you when you got back to your studio. The argument and then… And then the kiss.

Taehyun listened carefully, barely reacting at first. Just nodding, humming occasionally, letting you spill everything you had been holding in since last night. And when you finally finished, slumping back into your chair with a deep breath, he exhaled slowly, shaking his head.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered. "You guys are exhausting."

You let out a short, humorless laugh. "Tell me about it."

Taehyun was quiet for a moment, thoughtful. "He’s an idiot," he said. You blinked. "He is," Taehyun repeated, sitting on the edge of your desk. "Beomgyu is… complicated. He’s impulsive, and reckless, and sometimes he doesn’t think before he acts. But he’s not bad, Y/N."

You frowned, shifting in your seat. "I never said he was bad—"

"You didn’t have to," Taehyun interrupted. "You’re pissed, and you should be. He left you with an entire project and just disappeared. That’s a dick move."

You scoffed. "Glad we agree on that."

"But," Taehyun continued, leveling you with a look, "you also know that if this was just about work, he wouldn’t have left."

You stiffened. Because, yeah. You did know that.

Taehyun sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Look… I’ve known Beomgyu for a long time. And I can tell you one thing for sure—he’s confused as hell about you." Your stomach twisted. "Beomgyu’s not used to… feeling things like this. You know him—he jokes, he messes around, he acts like nothing ever really matters to him. But this? You? This is probably the first time something has actually gotten to him in a way he doesn’t know how to handle."

You looked away, fingers tightening slightly around the edge of your desk. "He looked at me like…" You hesitated, searching for the right words. "Like he regretted it."

Taehyun hummed. "Maybe he did." Your heart sank. Taehyun must have noticed your expression, because he shook his head quickly. "No—not like that. Not in the I wish I never kissed her way. More like… Fuck, what did I just do?"

Your breath hitched. Taehyun leaned forward slightly, watching you carefully. "Y/N… if Beomgyu didn’t care, he wouldn’t have left. He wouldn’t have pulled away. He wouldn’t be acting like this at all."

You swallowed hard. "Then why didn’t he just say something?"

Taehyun sighed. "Because he’s a coward."

You blinked. "Wow. That’s blunt."

"Yeah, well." He shrugged. "Someone has to say it."

A short silence stretched between you, the weight of everything still settling in your chest. And then, Taehyun’s voice softened slightly. "I know you want to see him." You inhaled sharply, but before you could argue, he continued. "But you won’t," he said simply. "Not for a while, at least."

"What do you mean?"

Taehyun rubbed the back of his neck. "I overheard Baekhyun talking to some of the staff this morning. Beomgyu asked for a week off before getting reassigned to another project." Your stomach dropped. You opened your mouth, closed it, then opened it again. Taehyun hesitated. "He’s not ot gone. Just… off the grid for a bit."

You swallowed hard. A week. You had a week without him. A week to focus on work. A week to stop feeling like this. A week to—

To what? Forget about him? Pretend none of this ever happened? Pretend that the past twenty-four hours hadn’t completely flipped your world upside down?

You clenched your fists in your lap, nodding stiffly. "Okay."

Taehyun studied you for a moment. Then, finally, he sighed and reached out, squeezing your arm. "You’ll be okay," he murmured.

You let out a shaky breath, forcing a nod. "Yeah."

But as he walked out of the room, leaving you alone with your thoughts, one thing was clear. You weren’t sure if that was true.

The first day without Beomgyu was easier than you expected.

Maybe because you were still fueled by frustration. By anger. By the exhaustion of the past few days. It was easier to channel all of that into work, to drown out the silence with layers of sound, synths, drums, melodies, anything to keep your mind occupied.

You convinced yourself that you didn’t need him here. Didn’t need his input, his annoying commentary, his stupid smirk when he knew he was right about something. And for a little while, you almost believed it.

But then the second day came. And the third.

And by Wednesday, you realized just how much space Beomgyu used to take up, physically, mentally, emotionally. The studio felt different without him. Too quiet.

You had spent so long being annoyed by his presence, by the way he was always around, always making some offhand comment, always pushing your buttons just because he could. And now it felt like the air had been sucked out of the room. Like the silence was mocking you. You tried to ignore it.

Tried to focus on the album, on the endless meetings with Baekhyun about tracklists, on your studio sessions with the Enhypen members.

Jake had mentioned that they were excited about the project. Jungwon had suggested a few ideas for the second track. Heeseung had even sat with you for over an hour, working through some of the melody transitions.

It was good. The work was getting done. Everything was moving forward. So why did it still feel like something was missing?

By Thursday, Yeonjun had stopped asking if you wanted to talk about it. At first, he had tried, little things, subtle attempts to get you to open up.

"You seem really focused on work this week," he had mused over dinner on Tuesday. "Trying to distract yourself?" You had rolled your eyes, shoving a bite of food into your mouth just to avoid answering.

By Wednesday, he had simply given you a long, knowing look before sighing. "Okay. I get it. You don’t want to talk about it."

And you didn’t. Because what was there to say? That you missed him? That you had caught yourself glancing at his empty chair during meetings? That every time you pulled up a demo, you could still hear his suggestions in the back of your mind? That you had started a dozen text messages, only to delete them before even finishing the first word? No. You weren’t going to do that.

You weren’t going to let Beomgyu live rent-free in your head while he was off doing whatever the hell he was doing.

So by Friday, you had convinced yourself that you were fine. That you were moving on. That you had finally, finally stopped thinking about him. At least, until you walked into your studio that morning.

And saw the letter sitting on your desk.

At first, you thought it was just another memo from Baekhyun. Or maybe some notes from one of the Enhypen members. But then you got closer. And you saw his handwriting.

For a moment, you just stood there, frozen in the doorway, staring at the folded piece of paper like it might disappear if you blinked. Then, cautiously, you stepped forward. Your fingers hesitated before reaching for it. The paper was slightly creased, as if he had folded and unfolded it multiple times before finally deciding to leave it here. No greeting. No explanation.

Just one simple sentence, scrawled in messy, familiar ink.

i think this fits for track 1

Your heart pounded in your chest as your eyes flicked down to the lyrics below. And the second you started reading, your breath caught.

Just the two of us, getting deeply moonstruck Oh, you make me go crazy over you, you, baby Let me hold you close, I want to feel you until the end of the night Fly this night above the rising moon Crazy over you, you, baby We can take it slow Moonstruck in ecstasy

Your fingers clenched around the edges of the paper. This wasn’t just a song suggestion. This wasn’t just another track for the album. This was Beomgyu, talking to you the only way he knew how. Your pulse roared in your ears.

Because, fuck. You weren’t stupid. You knew exactly what this meant. And now, you had no idea what the hell you were supposed to do about it.

You sat at your desk, gripping the paper so tightly it was a wonder it hadn’t torn yet. Your eyes kept flicking over the words, tracing the messy, slightly smudged ink of his handwriting. Moonstruck.

You read the lyrics again. And again. Each time, they felt heavier.

I'm so intoxicated, getting more and more into you, baby

What the fuck was he trying to say? You tried to rationalize it. Maybe he had written it before everything that happened. But that didn’t make sense, did it?

Your fingers curled into the fabric of your hoodie as your mind looped back to that night. The way he had kissed you. The way he had run. And now, instead of an explanation, instead of a conversation, he left this? A song?

You exhaled sharply, forcing yourself to push it aside. If Beomgyu wanted to talk in lyrics, fine. You would make sure they were heard.

The Enhypen members were already lounging around their practice room when you arrived. Sunghoon was sprawled on the couch, lazily scrolling through his phone. Jungwon and Jay were flipping through notes on the album’s concept. Jake was throwing a crumpled-up piece of paper at Sunoo, who swatted it away with an exaggerated groan.

The second you stepped in, Heeseung perked up. "Oh, hey, you’re here. What’s up?"

You inhaled deeply, clutching the paper in your hands. "We have a song."

That got their attention. Sunghoon sat up properly. Jay leaned forward, brows raising. Ni-ki, who had been half-asleep in the corner, immediately straightened, eyes flicking toward you.

You placed the lyrics down on the table. "It’s called Moonstruck," you said, keeping your voice steady. "Beomgyu wrote it."

A beat of silence. Jungwon blinked. "Wait. Beomgyu?"

You nodded stiffly. "Yeah."

Jake leaned in, scanning the paper. "When the hell did he even—?"

"I don’t know," you admitted, arms crossing over your chest. "But it’s good. And I think we should use it."

They didn’t argue. Instead, they took the next few minutes carefully analyzing the lyrics, murmuring about which parts fit their vocal tones best.

"Pre-chorus has to be Ni-ki and Sunghoon," Jay noted, nodding to himself. "Their voices will carry this section perfectly."

Ni-ki grinned. "I do sound good under moonlight."

Sunoo groaned. "God, shut up."

Jake chuckled, shaking his head. "The first verse has a nice flow. Maybe Heeeseung and Jay can split it?"

You nodded. "Yeah, that works."

As they discussed vocal distribution, you quietly worked on the arrangement, playing with some of the melodies on your laptop. And as much as you hated to admit it, the song was beautiful.

The harmonies, the depth, the longing in the lyrics—it all weaved together into something intoxicating. Something that felt like Beomgyu. And, more terrifyingly, something that felt like you and Beomgyu.

You poured yourself into it. Every ounce of frustration, every unanswered question, every lingering moment of that damn kiss, you put it all into the music. If Beomgyu wanted to communicate this way, then fine. You would answer him in the production.

By the time the first rough demo was put together, the entire room had shifted. The members listened intently, nodding along to the beat, already humming harmonies under their breath.

And when the final note played, Heeseung let out a low whistle. "Okay," he muttered. "That was… insane."

Jake leaned back against the couch, arms crossed. "This might be one of the strongest songs on the album."

Ni-ki grinned. "It’s sexy."

Jungwon rolled his eyes. "It’s romantic, you idiot."

Sunghoon smirked. "Both."

You stared at the screen, fingers still hovering over the controls, heart pounding in your chest. You had lost track of time, lost yourself in the production, in the process of turning Beomgyu’s words into something real.

Heeseung stretched his arms over his head, glancing over at you. "How the hell did this come together so fast?"

You hesitated. Then, before you could think too much about it, the words tumbled out. "Because Beomgyu wrote it."

The room fell quiet for a beat. You swallowed, suddenly feeling exposed under their stares. You ignored the pointed looks, turning back toward the screen.

You had done what you needed to do. You had taken Beomgyu’s song and made it something real. And yet, as you sat there, staring at the lyrics again, one thought lingered.

This was his way of talking to you. But when—if—you finally saw him again… Would he have anything else to say?

The weekend arrived quietly, slipping in like a breeze through an open window. For the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to exist outside of work, outside of the chaos, outside of the constant hum of him in the back of your mind.

You spent Saturday sprawled across the living room floor, limbs tangled with Yunjin’s as she attempted (and failed) to beat Hueningkai in a Mario Kart tournament.

"HOW is this fair?!" she screeched, gripping the controller like it personally offended her. "This little shit has been in first place for the entire race—"

"Skill issue," Hueningkai mused, barely sparing her a glance as he executed yet another flawless turn.

Taehyun cackled from his spot on the couch. "Face it, Yunjin, you’re bad at this game."

"You’re supposed to be on my side!"

"I would be," Taehyun said easily, taking a sip of his soda. "If you were winning."

Yunjin let out an exaggerated wail, flopping back onto the floor in defeat as Hueningkai crossed the finish line with ease. You laughed, stretching your legs out, your shoulders relaxing in a way they hadn’t all week.

This was nice. No tension, no overthinking, no lyrics folded neatly onto your desk like an unanswered question. Just this. Just them.

Yeonjun, who had spent the afternoon attempting to make cocktails, only to get tipsy himself after "taste testing" every single one. Hueningkai, who had somehow convinced everyone to build a fort in the living room, resulting in a half-collapsed mess of blankets and fairy lights that no one had the energy to fix.

Taehyun, who had made it his personal mission to bother you at all time, poking your cheek, stealing your hair tie, purposefully messing up your playlists just to get a reaction out of you. And Yunjin, who was now lying dramatically across your lap, still mourning her loss. "I hate this game," she mumbled into your hoodie.

"You say that every time you lose," Yeonjun reminded her, nudging her foot with his own.

She groaned. "Because I do."

You chuckled, resting your head against the couch cushions. For the first time in days, your mind felt quiet.

Maybe Beomgyu was just a phase. A storm that had come and gone, leaving only a few stray raindrops behind. Maybe by Monday, you would go back to work and it wouldn’t hurt anymore. Maybe.

It wasn’t until Sunday night, when the apartment had finally settled into silence, that something shifted. Everyone had gone home. Yeonjun had retreated to his room, muttering something about a deadline he had been procrastinating. And you were alone.

The weight of it settled over you slowly, like an old sweater you hadn’t worn in years but still fit perfectly. You weren’t sure when you reached for your guitar. Hadn’t even realized you were doing it until you were sitting cross-legged on your bed, fingers ghosting over the strings. It had been a while.

Too long since you had written something for yourself. Too long since you had let yourself sit in the mess of your own emotions, instead of tucking them neatly into productions meant for other people’s voices.

You plucked a few chords aimlessly, letting the melody come to you naturally. Something soft. Something slow. And then—without meaning to—you started to hum. A tune that wasn’t meant for the album. A tune that wasn’t meant for anyone.

The words slipped out like a confession, too quiet for anyone else to hear. You didn’t even think about them. You just sang.

Your fingers stilled. The room felt too small. You closed your eyes, exhaling through your nose. And then, with trembling hands, you picked up a pen and started to write. Not because you wanted to. But because some things were too heavy to carry in silence.

The first chord rang out soft and hesitant, barely louder than the steady hum of the city outside your window. You pressed your lips together, fingertips finding the familiar weight of the strings, the slightly worn frets beneath them.

And then, you started to sing.

This is the first day of my life Swear I was born right in the doorway I went out in the rain, suddenly everything changed They're spreading blankets on the beach

The words came slowly, carefully, like they had been waiting for you to let them out. Your voice was quiet, almost unsure at first. But as the melody settled into you, as the lyrics unfolded with each passing chord, something in your chest loosened.

Yours was the first face that I saw I think I was blind before I met you And I don't know where I am, I don't know where I've been But I know where I want to go

Your breathing evened. Your fingers moved more fluidly. And suddenly, it wasn’t just a song anymore. It was him.

The memories bled into the music, uninvited but unavoidable. The late nights in the studio, the sharp bickering that always gave way to something deeper. The way he looked at you sometimes, like he knew you, like he saw through every wall you had ever built and wasn’t afraid to push past them.

So if you wanna be with me With these things there's no telling We just have to wait and see But I'd rather be working for a paycheck Than waiting to win the lottery Besides, maybe this time is different I mean, I really think you like me

The realization settled slowly, creeping in like the soft glow of headlights through your window. You missed him. Not just as a producer, not just as a coworker, not just as the person who had spent years getting under your skin.

You missed him. His presence, his voice, the way his eyes flickered with something unreadable when he looked at you. The way you had always convinced yourself that the tension between you two was nothing but competition.

But now? Now, as you sat here with a guitar in your lap and a song that tasted like confession on your tongue, you weren’t so sure anymore.

The words hung in the air, delicate and fragile. And for the first time in weeks, you stopped running from the truth. It wasn’t just a rivalry. It wasn’t just frustration. It wasn’t even just a stupid, fleeting crush.

You liked him. And that was terrifying.

The car ride to work felt different today.

You weren’t as anxious as last week, your chest wasn’t as tight, your hands weren’t as clammy, but there was still something unsettled in you, something quietly nagging at the back of your mind.

Because today, Beomgyu was coming back.

And you had no idea what that meant. No idea which version of him you’d be facing. No idea if he’d pretend like nothing had happened, if he’d be cold again, or if he’d acknowledge it, that stupid, reckless, earth-shattering kiss. Or, if you'd even seen him today.

The HYBE lobby was already buzzing with early-morning energy. You kept your head down as you made your way toward the café, deciding that you desperately needed caffeine before facing the rest of the day. When you stepped inside, the familiar scent of espresso and vanilla filled the air, the quiet hum of conversation washing over you like white noise.

You spotted Taehyun near the counter, casually scrolling through his phone as he waited for his order. "Morning," you greeted, sliding into line beside him.

Taehyun glanced up from his phone as you slid into line beside him. "You’re here early," he remarked, taking a sip of his coffee.

You shrugged, adjusting the strap of your bag. "Figured I’d try something new. Maybe if I start my day with caffeine instead of stress, I’ll live longer."

Taehyun smirked. "Doubt it. But I respect the effort."

You hummed, stepping forward as the line moved. "What about you? Thought you weren’t a morning person."

"I’m not," he admitted, stuffing his free hand into the pocket of his hoodie. "But some of us have obligations."

You snorted. "Right." You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you reached for your phone. And just as you unlocked it, a notification popped up at the top of your screen.

[baekhyun (HYBE)]: meeting on the 18th floor. 10 minutes.

Your stomach twisted slightly. Taehyun must’ve noticed the shift in your expression because he raised an eyebrow. "Everything good?"

You exhaled, locking your phone and slipping it back into your pocket. "Yeah. Just got called into a meeting."

He hummed, sipping his coffee. "Just you?" You nodded, grabbing your drink from the counter. Taehyun studied you for a beat before smirking. "Well. That’s suspicious."

You shot him a flat look. "Everything is suspicious to you."

"And yet, I’m usually right." Taehyun smirked. "Good luck, warrior."

You shot him a dry look before turning to leave. But as you made your way toward the elevators, your chest tightened slightly. You weren’t nervous. At least, that’s what you kept telling yourself.

But the moment the elevator doors slid open, your breath caught in your throat. Beomgyu was already inside.

He stood toward the back, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, the sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal the veins in his forearms. His dark hair was slightly tousled, messy, like he had run his hands through it too many times this morning.

Your heart did something stupid in your chest.

You hesitated for half a second, debating whether you should just wait for the next elevator, but then Beomgyu’s eyes met yours. And you couldn’t run. Not again. So, stiffly, you stepped inside.

The doors slid shut behind you, and the silence pressed in like a heavy weight. You swallowed. Beomgyu said nothing. You could feel him there, standing just a few feet away, but he didn’t look at you. His jaw was set, his gaze fixed on the doors in front of him, his entire body wound tight.

The tension was unbearable. So, stupidly, you spoke first. "You’re back."

His lips pressed together slightly. "Yeah."

You exhaled slowly, nodding. The elevator climbed higher, the numbers blinking above the doors, but the silence remained.

"I saw the tracklist update," Beomgyu said, voice even. "You kept Moonstruck."

Your breath hitched. For the first time since you stepped inside, he looked at you. And suddenly, you were back there. Back in the studio. Back in the moment he kissed you like it meant something. Back in the moment he ran.

You swallowed hard, gripping your coffee cup like it could anchor you. "Yeah," you said, keeping your voice steady. "It’s a good song."

Beomgyu’s gaze flickered, just briefly, just enough for you to see something shift. But he didn’t respond.

The elevator slowed. And before either of you could say anything else, the doors slid open. 18th floor. You stepped out first, pulse hammering against your ribs. But just before the doors shut behind him, you heard Beomgyu exhale a quiet—

"See you around."

And fuck. You were not ready for this.

Your legs carried you toward the meeting room, but your mind was still in that elevator. Moonstruck. He had noticed. You didn’t know why that made your stomach turn. Why it sent a hot, prickling feeling down your spine.

You had convinced yourself that the song was just work, just another track, just another piece of the album puzzle. But hearing him say it? Knowing that he knew?

It made it real. And the way he had looked at you when he said it, like he was waiting for something. Like he wanted an answer. But you didn’t have an answer. Because what were you supposed to say?

You inhaled sharply, pushing open the door to the conference room. And the second you stepped inside, you regretted it. Because sitting at the table, next to Baekhyun, was Seungcheol.

His eyes flicked up to yours immediately, and his lips curled into that same knowing smile he had given you at the HYBE party. "Ah," he mused. "Finally, our star producer has arrived."

Your stomach twisted. You forced a polite smile, slipping into the seat across from them. You had no idea what this meeting was about. But suddenly, you had a feeling it was going to be a lot.

You sat down, adjusting your posture, trying to ignore the sudden unease creeping into your chest. It wasn’t like you had anything against Seungcheol, he had always been perfectly pleasant whenever your paths crossed.

At the HYBE party, when Baekhyun introduced you, he was polite, curious, asked questions about your work that felt genuine. A few days later, in the hallway, he reinforced that same interest, saying he wanted to learn more about your creative process, that he admired what you were doing. It made sense, he was HYBE’s creative director, after all. It was his job to connect with the producers.

But then he happened. Beomgyu. With his endless stubbornness, his unwarranted judgment, his obvious disdain for Seungcheol.

He didn’t trust the guy. And he made that very clear, not just at the party when he interrupted your conversation, but later, in the hallway, with the way he threw out casual, cutting remarks, as if it was obvious that Seungcheol had ulterior motives.

You had ignored him. Because Beomgyu was always like that, poking, provoking, saying things just to get under your skin. But now, sitting across from Seungcheol, watching the way he smiled at you, the way his gaze lingered just a little too long, something inside you hesitated. And that was when you realized, that voice in my head isn’t mine. It’s Beomgyu’s. The thought irritated you. You didn’t need him planting ideas in your mind. Seungcheol had done nothing wrong.

He had never been inappropriate, never crossed any lines. If you were uncomfortable now, it was only because Beomgyu had convinced you that you should be.

Seungcheol leaned forward slightly, resting his hands on the table. "I was really pleased when I heard you’d be leading the production on your own," he said, his voice smooth, effortless. "I think you deserve it—this is a great step forward in your career."

You blinked, keeping your expression neutral. Something about the way he said it bothered you. Because the truth was, you hadn’t minded producing the album with Beomgyu. He was a good producer. One of the best, actually. And despite all your frustrations with him, you couldn’t deny that the work had been better when he was there.

You licked your lips, choosing your words carefully. "I never had a problem sharing the workload," you replied smoothly. "Beomgyu is incredibly talented. The album was going really well with the two of us working together."

Seungcheol didn’t react immediately. Instead, he just smiled a little, as if he had been expecting you to say that.

Next to him, Baekhyun, who had been flipping through some papers, glanced up. "Beomgyu’s decision to leave was personal," he noted, sensing the tension. "He requested to be removed. It had nothing to do with the quality of your work together."

You nodded, but Seungcheol simply let out a quiet, almost amused chuckle. "That sounds like something he’d do," he murmured, almost to himself.

You frowned. "What do you mean by that?"

Seungcheol met your gaze, tilting his head slightly, his expression unreadable. "He’s impulsive," he said simply. "Always has been. He doesn’t handle things well when they don’t go his way."

Your jaw clenched. Something about the way he said it bothered you. It wasn’t what he said—it was how he said it. His tone was too calculated, his words too deliberate, like he was trying to implant something in your mind without directly stating it. And maybe you were being paranoid, but it almost felt like he was waiting for a reaction from you.

You kept your face carefully blank, but you couldn’t stop the words from slipping out. "Or maybe he just had a valid reason for leaving," you said, keeping your voice light but firm. "Whatever it was, he’s one of the best producers here. He always delivers, and he knows exactly how to handle pressure when it matters."

Seungcheol raised an eyebrow, like he was mildly surprised by your defense. But instead of pushing, he just smiled again. "If you say so."

Baekhyun cleared his throat, flipping to another page. "Anyway, now that you’re leading the project, we need to finalize some decisions about the album direction. We have to lock in arrangements before we move forward with recording."

You nodded, relieved that the conversation was shifting back to work. The meeting had gone on longer than expected. You had been so focused on the album’s direction, discussing arrangements and potential changes to the tracklist with Baekhyun, that for a moment, you managed to forget about Seungcheol entirely.

Until you didn’t. Because at some point during the discussion, as you were leaning over the table, flipping through some production notes, Seungcheol’s hand landed on your arm.

Not aggressive. Not too much. Just enough. Enough to make your shoulders stiffen, enough to make your fingers freeze mid-page, enough for that cold, uncomfortable feeling to creep down your spine.

It was subtle, an easy touch, light pressure on your forearm as he leaned in slightly. "I really admire how dedicated you are," he murmured, his voice smooth, casual. "It’s rare to find someone so talented and hardworking."

Because now, you saw what Beomgyu saw. Maybe he had been dramatic. Maybe he had been exaggerating. But Seungcheol was flirting with you. And for the first time, you couldn’t ignore it.

You swallowed, keeping your eyes on the papers in front of you, pretending not to notice the way his fingertips lingered a little longer than necessary before he finally pulled away.

This was work. This was a meeting. You weren’t going to make a scene. You shifted slightly in your chair, tucking your arm out of reach, nodding stiffly. "Thanks," you said, your voice carefully neutral.

If Baekhyun noticed anything, he didn’t react. He simply continued walking you through the album structure, his focus locked on the material in front of him. But your focus was gone. Because now, every single word out of Seungcheol’s mouth sounded different.

When he agreed with your ideas, it wasn’t just professional, it was deliberate. When he smiled at you, it wasn’t just friendly, it was calculated. And Beomgyu’s voice, the one you had sworn you wouldn’t listen to, was ringing in the back of your head, loud and unshakable.

You should be careful with him.

By the time the meeting wrapped up, you were exhausted, not from the work, but from everything else. You had barely finished stacking your papers when Seungcheol stood up, stretching his arms with an easy smile. "Well," he said, buttoning his blazer, "this was productive."

You hummed noncommittally, hoping that was the end of it. But as he reached the door, he paused, glancing over his shoulder at you. "Oh, and by the way—" You looked up. "The invitation still stands," he said, that same smile playing on his lips. "You should drop by my office sometime. I’d love to go over more of your work."

Something about the way he said it made your stomach twist. Before you could respond, he was already walking out, leaving you alone with Baekhyun. The second the door shut, you let out a slow breath, pressing your fingers to your temple.

Baekhyun sighed, setting his notes down. "Alright," he said, leaning back in his chair. "I know that look. What’s on your mind?"

You hesitated for half a second before deciding—fuck it. If you didn’t say something now, you were going to explode. "Look," you exhaled, straightening. "You’re my boss. I respect you. I like working with you. But I need to be honest—"

Baekhyun raised an eyebrow. "Go on."

You licked your lips, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. "That whole meeting just made me really uncomfortable."

His expression shifted slightly, his features smoothing into something unreadable. "Because of Seungcheol?"

"Yes." You didn’t hesitate. "It’s not just today. It’s been happening for a while. I didn’t want to make assumptions, but now I—" You shook your head, exhaling sharply. "I don’t know. The way he talks to me, the way he acts… It doesn’t feel like it’s just about work."

Baekhyun didn’t answer immediately. He watched you carefully, considering your words before finally sighing. "Yeah," he muttered. "I figured as much."

You blinked. "Wait, what?"

Baekhyun rubbed his temple. "I had a feeling this might happen eventually. Seungcheol has a reputation—he doesn’t always separate work from… other things."

Your stomach sank. "So it’s not just me," you muttered.

Baekhyun hesitated before shaking his head. "No. It’s not just you."

You exhaled, leaning back in your chair, processing. Baekhyun watched you for a moment before continuing, his voice lower now. "Listen, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. If he makes you uncomfortable, I’ll back you up. But I also know how these things can be tricky, so… what do you want to do?"

You stared at him. You hadn’t expected that. You hadn’t expected someone to actually ask. You swallowed, gripping the edge of the table. "I just… I just want to do my job."

Baekhyun nodded. "Then that’s what you’ll do."

And for the first time that day, you felt like someone was actually listening. You sighed, rubbing a hand over your face. "Honestly… I didn’t want Beomgyu to leave the project."

Baekhyun leaned back in his chair, watching you closely. "Yeah, I figured."

You hesitated for a moment before continuing, choosing your words carefully. "It wasn’t perfect, working with him. We fought a lot. We had different approaches. But the album was better when we were both on it. And now, I don’t know… it just doesn’t feel the same."

Baekhyun hummed thoughtfully, tapping his fingers against the table. "You know," he started, "when he asked to leave, I thought it was weird too."

Your brows furrowed. "Weird how?"

Baekhyun exhaled, tilting his head slightly as if trying to recall the exact conversation. "For starters, the excuse he gave me was bullshit. He said he just had ‘other priorities,’ but it didn’t add up. He didn’t have anything urgent lined up. He wasn’t being reassigned yet. If anything, he was in the perfect position to stay on the project."

Your stomach twisted. "Then why did he do it?"

Baekhyun studied you for a moment before answering. "Because of you."

Your breath hitched slightly. "What?"

"He told me you were the perfect person for this album," Baekhyun said simply. "He said that if anyone deserved to take full control of it, it was you. That you understood the vision, that you had the best instincts for the sound, that this was your project."

You blinked. Baekhyun smirked slightly. "He also said he’d still be available if you needed anything—which was interesting, considering he was insisting on stepping away."

You swallowed, shifting in your seat. "So… he didn’t leave because I was in the way."

Baekhyun raised a brow. "No. He left because he thought he was."

Your chest tightened, your fingers clenching slightly over your notebook. Beomgyu thought he was in the way? That didn’t make sense. That wasn’t how this worked.

You had spent years competing with him, matching his energy, pushing yourself to outdo him the way he pushed himself to outdo you. You thought he saw you as a rival, as someone to challenge, someone to beat.

This didn’t sound like someone trying to win. This sounded like someone stepping aside. And suddenly, for the first time since that damn kiss, you wondered— Had you misunderstood everything?

The meeting wrapped up soon after, but your mind was far from settled. Baekhyun left first, offering you a knowing look as he walked out. Seungcheol was already gone, thankfully, leaving the room feeling a little lighter.

You stayed behind for a moment, fingers tapping restlessly against the table, thoughts still tangled in everything Baekhyun had just told you. Beomgyu thought he was in the way. He stepped back because of me?

The idea felt foreign, almost ridiculous. But the more you sat with it, the more you replayed every interaction, every lingering glance, every almost-argument that dissolved into something softer. Maybe it wasn’t ridiculous at all.

You exhaled sharply, pushing the thoughts aside as you gathered your things and made your way back to your studio. By the time you stepped inside, something had already shifted in you. Because for the first time in days, you wanted to write. Not because of deadlines. Not because of expectations.

But because something inside you was begging to be let out.

You locked the door behind you, took a deep breath, and crossed the room, fingers reaching for the guitar propped against the wall. It had been there for a while, untouched, gathering dust in the chaos of everything else. But the second your fingers curled around the neck, something inside you settled.

You didn’t know why, but you wanted to record this song you wrote on Sunday night. First Day of My Life. You knew it wouldn’t fit the album. It was too raw, too stripped-down, too honest. It wasn’t meant for Enhypen’s project—it wasn’t meant for any project.

But still. You adjusted the mic, positioned the guitar properly, and pressed record. And then, you played.

Your fingers moved over the strings carefully at first, but then muscle memory took over, and suddenly, it was effortless. The chords flowed easily, filling the quiet studio, wrapping around you like something safe, something familiar.

And then your voice followed. The words came soft, steady.

“Yours was the first face that I saw…”

You thought about the way he looked at you when he didn’t think you’d notice. The way his lips parted like he wanted to say something but never did.

“I think I was blind before I met you.”

Your breath hitched slightly, but you kept going, pouring yourself into every note, every word. The melody washed over you, unfiltered and vulnerable, and for the first time in a long time, you weren’t thinking about what came next.

You were just feeling. And when the last chord faded into silence, you opened your eyes slowly, exhaling shakily. You sat there for a moment, staring at the blinking red light on the recorder. Then, without hesitating, you saved the file.

You stared at the tape sitting on your desk. And it stared back.

You had written a post-it, your handwriting slightly messier than usual, because your hands had been shaking when you wrote it.

wanted the opinion of the best songwriter i know.

Your stomach twisted. This was stupid. It was so stupid. And yet, you grabbed the tape before you could overthink it.

The hallways of HYBE were quieter now, most people already heading out for the evening. You didn’t know where Beomgyu was, but you hoped, prayed, that he wasn’t in his studio right now. Because you weren’t ready to see him. Not yet.

Your footsteps were light as you reached his studio door. It was closed, the small light inside turned off. Empty. Good. You slipped inside quickly, ignoring the way your heart was pounding against your ribs. You set the tape down gently on his desk, smoothing the post-it out with your fingers. And then you stepped back. You stared at it for a moment longer, your pulse hammering in your ears.

You were late.

Not catastrophically late, but late enough that you were definitely pushing it. Yeonjun had texted you when he woke up, asking why the apartment was unusually quiet, only for you to send back a half-panicked “I overslept, don’t judge me” before practically rolling out of bed.

You hadn’t meant to stay up so late the night before. But lying there, staring at the ceiling, replaying every single second of the last few days in your mind?

That was apparently more important than sleep.

By the time you rushed into HYBE, coffee was your only priority. You barely had time to breathe as you dodged people in the hallway, some of them calling your name, others trying to get your attention.

"Y/N, do you have a second?" "Hey, I sent you that file, did you get a chance to look at it?" "Oh, Y/N—can you check in with the Enhypen team later?"

The words blurred together, the weight of everything pressing against you as you nodded, mumbled vague acknowledgments, and kept walking. Because, in the end, none of it mattered. Not right now.

Not when the only thing on your mind was getting to your studio and catching your breath before the day swallowed you whole. You reached your door, exhaled sharply, and pushed it open.

And froze. Because there, sitting casually in your chair like he belonged there was Beomgyu. Holding the tape.

Your stomach dropped. The scene was so eerily familiar that for a split second, you thought you had hallucinated it. The way he was slouched slightly in the chair, the way his fingers turned the tape over slowly, like he was still processing it.

The way his dark eyes flicked up to meet yours, and how, in that exact moment, you saw it. You saw the feeling written across his face. Soft. Open. Maybe even a little wrecked. You sucked in a sharp breath and, without thinking, shut the door behind you. A beat of silence passed.

"You wrote this," Beomgyu murmured, his voice quieter than you expected.

It wasn’t a question. You swallowed hard. "Yeah."

His fingers tightened around the tape slightly. "Was it for the album?"

You shook your head. "No. It doesn’t fit the concept. I just… wanted to record it."

Beomgyu exhaled, slow and measured. "It’s beautiful."

The words hit you in a way you weren’t prepared for. You blinked. He wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t throwing in a sarcastic remark, or a smug smile, or anything that would make this easier to brush off. He just meant it.

And it made your chest ache. You shifted slightly, gripping your coffee cup a little tighter. "You listened to it?"

Beomgyu nodded, still looking down at the tape. "Twice."

Your breath hitched. "Twice?"

His lips twitched, just barely. "Maybe more." You let out a short, breathy laugh, shaking your head. A pause. "What made you write it?"

Your fingers curled slightly over your cup, heat pressing into your skin. You could lie. You should lie. But you didn’t. You licked your lips, shifting your gaze to the floor for a second before looking back at him. "I don’t know. I guess I just… needed to."

Beomgyu studied you for a long moment, the weight of his gaze settling over you like something heavy. And then, so quietly you almost didn’t catch it, he says: "It felt like something you needed to say."

Your heart stumbled. Because maybe it was just your imagination. Maybe you were hearing things that weren’t there. But the way he said it, like he understood, like he knew.

Beomgyu’s fingers drummed lightly against the tape, his gaze flickering between you and the guitar leaning against the wall. The silence between you felt fragile, like if either of you moved too fast, it would shatter. Then, without a word, he reached for the guitar. You raised an eyebrow as he adjusted it on his lap, fingers testing the strings before looking up at you again. "Pass me the chords?"

You hesitated, but eventually nodded, grabbing a piece of scrap paper and jotting them down quickly. When you slid it across the desk toward him, his fingers brushed yours as he took it, sending something electric up your spine.

Beomgyu studied the chords for a moment, then started playing. Slow, tentative, like he was feeling out the song in his own way. And before you even realized what you were doing, your lips parted—

"This is the first day of my life…"

The words came out softer this time, more intimate. You weren’t just singing anymore, you were sharing something. Beomgyu kept playing, his eyes locked onto you now, his expression unreadable.

"Swear I was born right in the doorway…"

You swallowed hard, voice faltering slightly when you saw the way he was looking at you. Like there was something he wanted to say. But he didn’t. He just kept playing. And so you kept singing.

"Yours was the first face that I saw… I think I was blind before I met you."

Something shifted in the air. You weren’t sure if it was you, or him, or just the weight of everything that had been left unsaid between you two for so long.

But for the first time, it felt like neither of you were trying to fight it.

When the song finally came to an end, the last note fading into silence, Beomgyu exhaled slowly, letting his fingers rest against the strings. And then, so quietly you almost didn’t catch it—

"I’m sorry."

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden softness in his voice. "For what?"

He looked down at the guitar, running his thumb absently over the wood. "For dropping the album."

Your chest tightened. "You didn’t have to," you murmured. "I never wanted you to."

He let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. "I thought… I thought you’d work better without me."

You frowned. "That’s not true."

Beomgyu hesitated, his jaw tightening slightly. "I didn’t want to leave you alone." He inhaled sharply, like he was steadying himself. "But I didn’t want my feelings to get in the way."

Your breath hitched. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears. Slowly, carefully, you asked— "What feelings?"

Beomgyu tensed. For a second, he looked like he wanted to say it. Like he might say it. But then something closed inside him. His shoulders stiffened, his fingers gripping the guitar a little tighter. And when he finally spoke, his voice was quieter. More distant. "It’s hard for me."

You furrowed your brows, confused. "What is?"

Beomgyu swallowed, looking down. "This. Talking. Saying things out loud." His lips pressed together for a moment before he let out a soft, humorless laugh. "It’s easy to write about it. To turn it into lyrics. To make it rhyme and feel poetic and beautiful."

He shook his head, exhaling through his nose. "But when it’s real? When it’s not just a song?" He shaked his head. "In real life, it’s harder."

You stared at him, heart twisting. Because this was him. This was Beomgyu without the smirks, without the teasing, without the carefully crafted walls. And for the first time, you realized, maybe this wasn’t just difficult for you.

Maybe he didn’t run because he didn’t care. Maybe he ran because he did.

Your heart pounded, your throat felt tight, but you forced yourself to breathe, to steady your voice. "What did you mean by that?"

He exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. "You know what I mean."

"Do I?"

Beomgyu let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. "Come on, Y/N."

There was something in his voice, frustration, exhaustion, something too tangled up in itself to pull apart. You frowned. "I don’t want to assume."

"Right," he muttered. "Because assuming things with me has always worked out so well."

Your chest tightened. "Beomgyu—"

"I—" He exhaled, running a hand through his hair, then finally, finally, looked up at you. And god, you hated the way it made your breath catch. The way his eyes, dark and searching, made you feel like you were standing at the edge of something.

Like if you took one more step, there’d be no turning back. But before you could say anything—before he could say anything—the door creaked open.

Both of you turned at the same time.

"Hey," a familiar voice broke through the tension. "Think I left my pen with you earlier."

Seungcheol. His voice cut through the tension like a blade, sharp and unexpected. He stepped inside, eyes flickering between the two of you, taking in the scene—the guitar in Beomgyu’s lap, the tape on the desk, the way neither of you seemed to be breathing.

You turned toward the doorway, blinking as he leaned against the frame, his usual easy confidence settling into the room like he belonged there. Beomgyu’s entire posture shifted. It wasn’t obvious, no clenched fists, no outright glare, but you saw it anyway. The slight stiffening of his shoulders, the way his fingers curled subtly against the guitar.

You exhaled, stepping toward your desk. "Yeah, I think you did."

Seungcheol grinned. "Knew it."

You grabbed the pen and handed it to him, your fingers barely grazing before he pulled away. "Thanks, sweetheart," he said, easy, casual. "See you later."

And just like that, he was gone. The door clicked shut.

The silence that followed was worse than before. You turned back to Beomgyu, and immediately knew something was off. He put away the guitar, his arms crossed, expression unreadable, but his jaw was tight. "You going along with him?" His voice was sharp, cutting.

You frowned. "What?"

"Seungcheol," Beomgyu said, eyes locking onto yours. "You going along with his shit?"

Your frown deepened. "No. What the hell are you talking about?"

He scoffed, shaking his head. "I told you not to trust that guy."

"And I didn’t," you snapped, "I just gave him back his damn pen."

Beomgyu’s jaw clenched, his frustration spilling out in waves. "Yeah? Well, maybe you should know what your old friends are saying about you before you act like I’m being dramatic."

You stared at him. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

He exhaled, running a hand through his hair, like he was trying to decide if he should even tell you. But then, his eyes darkened, and whatever hesitation he had burned away. "You remember Yunho?"

Your stomach twisted. Of course you remembered Yunho. Beomgyu didn’t wait for your answer. "After you left the party, he came up to me," he said, voice tight. "Started making conversation—asking if I worked at HYBE, shit like that. And then, out of nowhere, he says he knows Seungcheol."

Beomgyu watched your reaction closely, but he didn’t stop. "And then, Yunho tells me he used to fuck around with you," he continued, voice growing harsher, "but dropped you because, in his words, you were ‘too desirable.’"

You flinched. Your fingers curled into your palms, nails pressing against your skin. "What?"

Beomgyu let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah. And apparently, Seungcheol’s been waiting for his turn. ‘Dying to get a piece,’ is what he said."

The words hit like a punch to the gut. Your heart pounded. "You’re lying."

Beomgyu’s gaze snapped to yours, sharp, furious. "I fucking wish."

You felt sick. But Beomgyu wasn’t done. "And then," he continued, voice low, "this motherfucker—this piece of shit—starts talking about how he doesn’t go for ‘girls who get around’ because he has standards." Your breath hitched. "That’s what he called you," Beomgyu said, voice flat. "A girl who gets around."

A sharp, ugly silence settled between you. Your pulse was roaring in your ears, rage and humiliation coiling together in your stomach like poison. "You fought him."

Beomgyu scoffed, shaking his head. "No. We talked."

You frowned. "Talked?"

"Yeah," he said, jaw tight. "He was acting like he had some kind of moral high ground," Beomgyu went on, voice sharpening. "Like he wouldn’t go for a girl who’s ‘too easy’—but oh, Seungcheol? Seungcheol was dying for a chance with you. And the way he talked—" Beomgyu exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "It pissed me off."

You swallowed hard, something ugly and bitter crawling up your throat. "So what, you argued with him?"

Beomgyu’s eyes flickered with something unreadable. His expression darkened. "Don’t do that."

"Do what?"

"Act like it doesn’t bother you," he snapped. "Act like it’s nothing when people say shit like that about you. I know you, Y/N."

Your breath caught. Because he wasn’t wrong. But you weren’t about to admit that. The air between you crackled with tension. His expression flickered. You should’ve let it go. Should’ve walked away. But something about the way he was looking at you made something snap inside you.

You shook your head, frustration burning beneath your skin. "You’re exhausting," you muttered, voice sharp. "One second you’re quiet, then you’re nice, then you’re picking fights, then you act like I’m just some coworker—"

Beomgyu’s expression flickered, something dark flashing in his eyes. "You think I treat you like that?"

"You tell me, Beomgyu," you snapped. "Because I have no fucking clue what you want from me."

The words hung in the air like a threat. His jaw tightened, his fingers flexing at his sides. "Don’t act like you don’t know," he said, voice rough. "Act like this is just me playing games—like I’m trying to play with you just for fun."

You let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Aren’t you?"

Beomgyu’s entire body tensed. "Are you serious right now?"

"Yes, I’m fucking serious!" You took a step closer, rage bubbling up from every place you had been shoving it down. "You kissed me, Beomgyu. And then you disappeared for a fucking week. No texts, no calls, nothing. And then you show up at work like it never happened—like I should just be fine with that."

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. "It wasn’t like that."

"Then what the fuck was it like?"

He ran a hand through his hair, fingers tugging slightly at the strands, like he was trying to pull himself together. "I needed time."

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. "Bullshit."

Beomgyu scoffed. "Oh, so now I’m the bad guy?"

"You’re not the fucking victim," you shot back. "You don't get to kiss me like that, make me think—"

You cut yourself off, biting down hard on the words before they could spill out. But it was too late. Beomgyu was already looking at you like you had just punched the air out of his lungs. Like he knew exactly what you were about to say.

The air between you was too thick, too charged, suffocating and electric all at once. His hands curled into fists at his sides, his chest rising and falling unevenly. "You think I don’t fucking feel it too?" His voice cracked slightly, rough and raw. "You think this is easy for me?"

Your breath caught. "Then why do you keep running from it?"

Beomgyu exhaled sharply, something desperate in his gaze. "Because I don’t know what to do with it!"

Silence. His confession settled between you like an exposed wire, dangerous and crackling with heat. His jaw clenched, like he hated admitting it, like he hated feeling this much. But then, his expression shifted, morphing into something sharper, something wrecked.

"Fuck, Y/N," he muttered, voice strained. "You don’t get it. You don’t fucking get it."

"Then make me get it!" you yelled, frustration boiling over. "For once in your goddamn life, just say it!"

Beomgyu’s breath hitched. For a second, he didn’t say anything.

"Because I can’t fucking want you this much and still pretend it doesn’t matter!"

Your entire body locked up.

Beomgyu exhaled sharply, chest heaving, his eyes dark and so fucking serious it made your stomach flip. "I can’t—" He dragged a hand over his face, voice lower now, wrecked. "I can’t pretend that this thing between us doesn’t fucking kill me every time I try to ignore it." Your heart was a wildfire in your chest. Beomgyu let out a sharp laugh, one that sounded more like frustration than amusement. "I don’t know how to fucking want you without ruining everything else."

The words hit harder than they should have. The words hit harder than they should have. Because that was it, wasn’t it? That was why he ran. Why he pushed, pulled, disappeared, came back. Why he kissed you and then left.

Because he wanted you. But he didn’t trust himself with you. The realization sat heavy in your chest. And for the first time, you saw it, the fear beneath the anger, the hesitation beneath the frustration.

Beomgyu didn’t just want you. He was terrified of wanting you. And you didn’t know what scared you more. The fact that he was afraid. Or the fact that you weren’t.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The air between you was stretched too thin, humming with something neither of you knew how to control. Then, Beomgyu exhaled, deep, uneven. His gaze flickered downward, his fingers flexing at his sides like he wanted to reach for something but couldn’t bring himself to do it.

"I’m sorry," he said.

The words were quiet, but they landed with the weight of something long overdue. You swallowed. His lips parted, then closed. He let out a slow breath, shaking his head slightly, like he didn’t even know where to start. "For kissing you," he murmured. "For leaving. For not talking to you for a week like a fucking coward." His jaw clenched. "For making you think that it didn’t mean anything."

You stared at him, heart pounding. "And did it?" you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Beomgyu lifted his gaze then, something wrecked behind his dark eyes. "You already know the answer to that."

Your breath caught. He was looking at you differently now. Not with frustration, not with hesitation, but with a kind of certainty that sent heat curling in your stomach.

Then, before you could even process it, he took a step back. "Come with me," he said.

You blinked. "What?"

Beomgyu turned, already heading toward the door. "Come on," he repeated, glancing back at you. "I wanna show you something to prove it."

Something in his voice made your pulse jump. Still, you hesitated. "Show me?"

He didn’t answer. Just held the door open, waiting. And for some stupid, unexplainable reason, your feet started moving.

The walk to his studio was silent. Not tense, not uncomfortable, just charged. You could feel it, the way he was holding something back, something big. His pace was quick, purposeful, like if he didn’t move fast enough, he’d lose his nerve.

When you reached his studio, he pulled out a keycard and swiped it, unlocking the door before stepping inside. You followed hesitantly, eyes flickering over the dimly lit space.

Beomgyu didn’t say anything at first. Instead, he walked over to the soundboard, pressing a few buttons, adjusting the controls. A small red light flickered on in the recording booth.

Your stomach flipped. "What are we doing?" you asked, voice quieter now.

Beomgyu turned to face you, his expression unreadable. "I want you to hear something."

And then, he pressed play. A soft, melancholic guitar filled the room. Your breath caught immediately. You recognized it before he even started singing. Moonstruck.

But it wasn’t the version you had heard before. It was him. Beomgyu’s voice. Low, warm, just slightly raspy—vulnerable.

Your mind had barely caught up to the fact that he had recorded this himself when he spoke again. "I think you know why I wrote this," he said, voice quiet, steady. Your head snapped toward him, but he wasn’t looking at you.

He was looking at the recording booth. And then, he moved. Slowly, purposefully, he reached for the door handle and pushed it open, nodding his head for you to follow. "Come here."

Your pulse stuttered. You should’ve stopped. Should’ve said something, anything to break whatever the hell was happening right now. But you didn’t. Instead, you stepped inside. The door clicked shut behind you.

Beomgyu pressed a button near the panel, locked. He finally turned to face you then, and, fuck, he was close. "I don’t want anyone interrupting this time," he murmured.

Your breath caught. The air inside the booth was thick, the music still playing softly through the speakers. Beomgyu took another step forward, and this time, you didn’t move away. "You know what this song is about," he said, voice lower now.

You swallowed hard. "Beomgyu—"

"You know," he repeated, softer.

You couldn’t breathe. Because he was right. You knew. You had known since the first time you read the demo, since the first lyric. This was about you. And now, standing here, locked inside a booth with him, his voice bleeding through the speakers, warm and raw and real, you had never been more aware of it.

Beomgyu reached up then, fingers barely grazing your wrist. Not pulling, not pushing. Just there. A question. A hesitation. You didn’t know who moved first.

Maybe it was him. Maybe it was you. But suddenly, there wasn’t space between you anymore. His hand slid up, over your wrist, your forearm, until his fingers curled gently around your jaw. Your lips parted slightly, breath uneven, your pulse roaring in your ears.

Beomgyu’s gaze flickered down to your mouth. And then, he kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed, wasn’t messy, just slow, lingering, like he wanted to memorize the way you felt against him. His fingers curled tighter against your jaw, tilting your head just enough to deepen the kiss, to let himself drown in it.

And you let him. Because right now, nothing else mattered. Not the past, not the fear, not the things left unsaid. Right now, there was only this. Only the music, still playing softly in the background. Only him.

The kiss deepened before you even realized it was happening. Beomgyu wasn’t hesitant anymore. He wasn’t uncertain, wasn’t holding back, he was in it, pressing into you with a kind of desperation that made your head spin. His fingers dug into your jaw, tilting your face just the way he wanted, his lips parting against yours, taking.

Your back hit the wall of the recording booth, and he was on you in an instant, one hand braced against the panel behind you, the other sliding down, grazing the side of your neck, the bare skin of your arm, like he needed to feel you.

You barely had a second to breathe before he kissed you again, harder this time, almost rough, a low sound slipping from his throat as you pressed up onto your toes, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt.

"Fuck," he muttered against your mouth, voice already wrecked. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this."

Your breath hitched. "Then why did you run?"

His teeth grazed your bottom lip, his fingers tightening around your waist. "Because I’m a fucking idiot," he murmured, pressing another kiss against your jaw, then lower, dragging his lips along your neck. "Because I didn’t know if you—"

You cut him off, pulling him back to you, kissing him harder, more insistent. Beomgyu groaned against your lips, his body pressing flush against yours now, his hand slipping down to grip your thigh, hiking it up against his hip. His touch burned, warm and firm, like he needed you closer, needed to close the space that still existed between you.

"Tell me to stop," he muttered, his mouth trailing down, lips brushing the sensitive spot just below your ear. "Tell me to stop, and I swear I will."

You swallowed hard, fingers digging into his back. "I'm not telling you to stop."

That was all it took. Beomgyu made a low, almost guttural noise, like something inside him had just snapped. The next kiss was different. Messier. Hungrier. His hands were everywhere, sliding up under the hem of your shirt, skimming over bare skin, gripping your waist tight enough to leave bruises. Your body arched into his touch, your breathing uneven, heat pooling deep in your stomach as his fingers dug into your hips.

"Say it," he muttered against your lips, voice rough with something you couldn’t quite place. "Say you want me, too."

You let out a shaky breath, barely able to think. "I want you, Beomgyu."

He groaned, pressing his forehead against yours for a split second before kissing you again, slower this time, but deeper, like he wanted to drown in it. Then, suddenly, his grip tightened. He lifted you effortlessly, guiding you up onto the small ledge of the booth, your legs wrapping around his waist, his body slotting between your thighs like it was meant to be there.

Your pulse roared. He was so close now, every inch of him pressed against you, his breath uneven, his fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles against the skin just above the waistband of your jeans. "You drive me fucking insane," he muttered, his lips brushing over yours between each word. "I can’t think straight when I’m around you."

You barely had time to process that before his mouth was on your throat again, biting, sucking, dragging his lips down and down and down. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan, his hips pressing forward on instinct. The friction made you gasp, your legs tightening around him. "Shit," Beomgyu swore, his forehead dropping against your shoulder.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Your breathing was uneven, your body burning, your skin thrumming with heat where he touched you. Then, slowly, Beomgyu lifted his head. His gaze met yours, dark, unreadable. His hands flexed against your waist, like he was trying to ground himself. "I don’t want to fuck this up," he murmured, voice strained. "Not with you."

Your chest ached. Because he wasn’t saying I don’t want this. He was saying I don’t want to ruin it. Your fingers traced lightly along the back of his neck, your breathing still shaky. "Then don’t," you whispered.

Beomgyu swallowed hard. "I’m trying." He was still close. His forehead was still resting against yours, his hands gripping your waist, his body pressed between your legs like he wasn’t ready to pull away yet.

Your breathing was uneven. So was his. And then, like some invisible force snapped between you, his lips were on yours again. This time, there was no hesitation. He kissed you like he had been starving for this, like he was finally letting himself have what he had wanted for so long. His fingers dug into your waist, pulling you against him, his body heat swallowing you whole as his mouth moved against yours, deep and urgent.

You gasped slightly when he tilted your chin up, angling the kiss deeper, his tongue teasing against yours just enough to make your stomach tighten.

You felt like you were burning. Everywhere he touched, everywhere he pressed, lit up. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, fingers threading through his hair, tugging just enough to make him let out a low, almost desperate sound against your lips. His hips pressed forward, instinctive. "Beomgyu—" you breathed against his mouth, barely able to think.

"Mm?" He didn’t stop. Just kissed along your jaw, down your neck, biting down lightly at the sensitive skin there before soothing it with his tongue.

A shiver ran down your spine. "We should—"

He kissed you again, cutting off your words, his hands gripping your thighs, holding you steady against him. "Say it later," he muttered, voice rough, lips brushing against yours. "Say it after I kiss you again."

And then he did. Harder this time. Deeper. Your body arched into his without thinking, heat curling in your stomach, your hands gripping onto his shirt to keep yourself steady. You could feel everything. His heartbeat, heavy and uneven against your chest. The way his fingers flexed against your skin like he was trying to memorize the way you felt. The low, unsteady sounds he made every time you moved against him, every time you kissed him back just as desperately.

It was too much. You broke away first, chest rising and falling, trying to catch your breath. Beomgyu didn’t move. He stayed close, lips still brushing against yours, eyes dark and heavy-lidded. Your fingers were still curled in his hair. His hands were still gripping your waist.

"We should stop," you murmured, forcing the words out before you lost your grip on reality completely. "Beomgyu, we’re— We’re at work. It’s not even noon."

Beomgyu let out a slow, shuddering breath. "Fuck." He still didn’t move. You could see it, the way his jaw clenched, his eyes flickering over your lips like he was debating whether to listen to you or keep going anyway. Then, finally, he exhaled sharply, resting his forehead against your shoulder for half a second before stepping back. "Yeah." His voice was strained, rough. "You’re right."

The air felt thin without him against you. You took a slow breath, trying to calm the racing of your pulse, trying to ignore the way your body still buzzed from his touch. His fingers brushed over your thigh before he pulled away completely, straightening his shirt, raking a hand through his hair.

You slid off the ledge, steadying yourself as you smoothed out your clothes. "I should get back to work," you muttered, voice still slightly breathless. "The album—"

Beomgyu gave a humorless chuckle, rubbing a hand over his face. "Yeah. Right. The album."

Neither of you moved. Neither of you looked at each other. Because you both knew, work was the last thing on your minds right now. But still, you turned toward the door, reaching for the handle. "I’ll see you later," you mumbled.

Beomgyu hummed in response, something unreadable in his expression. "Yeah."

Because what the fuck was that? Not the heat, not the urgency, not the kind of kiss that made your head spin and your knees weak, but something softer. Warmer. Something that made your stomach tighten in an entirely different way.

Beomgyu’s lips quirked upward slightly, like he could see the way your brain had short-circuited. "Go work," he murmured.

You blinked. "Right." And then, without another word, you turned and walked out, your heart still pounding.

You spent the rest of the afternoon in your studio. Hours passed. You barely noticed.

The only thing grounding you was the music, the way it pulsed through your headphones, the way it filled every inch of your studio. The way it made everything else, the tension, the heat, the weight of Beomgyu’s touch, fade just enough for you to breathe.

Your fingers moved instinctively, layering melodies, adjusting levels, smoothing over instrumentals. Every track you touched felt electric, the ideas spilling out of you faster than you could process them. Maybe it was adrenaline. Maybe it was something else. But whatever it was, you let it take over.

The hours blurred together, stretching into one long, unbroken moment of creation. A new beat took shape, fast, sharp, pulsing with urgency. You molded it into something heavier, something alive. You adjusted the bass, the synths, the vocal layers, adding a deeper texture, something that ached in all the right ways.

Then another track, smoother, melancholic, intimate in a way that made your chest tighten. You let the guitar linger in places it normally wouldn’t, let the reverb stretch out just enough to make it feel like the song was breathing.

Another, this one bold, unrelenting, filled with heat and confidence. It demanded attention, crackled with something fierce. You didn’t stop. You couldn’t stop. Your eyes flickered to the screen as the tracklist took shape in front of you:

XO (Only If You Say Yes) Your Eyes Only Hundred Broken Hearts Brought The Heat Back Paranormal Royalty

A solid foundation. A damn good foundation. By the time you finally leaned back in your chair, exhaustion was creeping in, settling into your limbs, but there was a different kind of satisfaction sitting beside it. Because you had done it. Most of your work was done. And maybe, just maybe, you had needed this. The music. The escape. The chance to turn everything swimming in your head into something real.

With a deep breath, you saved the files, powered down your setup, and began gathering your things. Your jacket, your bag, your phone, shoving everything into place as you checked the time. Late.

The sun had already set by the time you stepped outside. The air was crisp, the streets quieter now, the city humming with the distant sounds of life. You exhaled, adjusting the strap of your bag over your shoulder as you turned toward the metro station.

And then—

"You took your time."

Your steps faltered. Beomgyu was waiting. Leaning against the side of the building, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, his head tilted slightly as he watched you.

Your brows furrowed. "What are you doing here?"

Beomgyu smirked. "Told you I had until the album dropped for you to change your mind."

You blinked. "Change my mind about what?"

His smirk widened. "About getting a drink with me."

You stared at him. "Are you serious?"

"Dead serious," he said, pushing off the wall, stepping closer. "You spent the whole day in that studio. You need a break."

Your lips parted slightly, caught between irritation and something closer to amusement. "And you decided you’d be the one to provide it?"

Beomgyu shrugged. "Obviously."

You shook your head, exhaling. "I was planning to go home."

"Okay," he said easily. "You can still go home."

You frowned. "What?"

"After one drink," he clarified. "Then you can go home."

You let out a short laugh, shaking your head again. "You’re impossible."

"And yet," he mused, rocking back on his heels, "you’re still standing here, considering it."

Your jaw clenched. Because he wasn’t wrong. The exhaustion was still there, but so was something else, something that made you hesitate, something that made you want to say yes. Beomgyu noticed.

And so he tilted his head, lowering his voice just slightly. "Come on, Y/N. Just one."

You stared at him for another long moment. Then, before you could stop yourself, "Fine."

Beomgyu smirked, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets as he led the way. "You know," he mused, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, "you’re a lot more fun when you don’t overthink things."

You scoffed. "I’m not overthinking anything."

He grinned. "Then why do you look like you’re already regretting this?"

You huffed, shoving your hands into your jacket. "I’m not."

Beomgyu just hummed, like he didn’t believe you, but didn’t feel like arguing. Instead, he turned down a quieter street, leading you toward a bar tucked between two buildings, a cozy-looking place, warm light spilling from the windows, the scent of grilled meat drifting through the air.

You hesitated. "This is where we’re going?"

Beomgyu glanced at you, amused. "Why? You don’t like barbecue?"

Your stomach growled at the thought. You sighed. "I do, a lot."

He just smirked, pushing open the door. Inside, the atmosphere was just as inviting as the smell. Low, warm lighting. Laughter. The quiet clinking of glasses. The faint crackle of meat sizzling on the built-in grills at the tables. It was comfortable. And you hated that it made you relax a little.

Beomgyu led you toward an open table near the back, sliding into the seat beside you instead of across from you, leaning back like he had done this a thousand times before. Which, knowing him, he probably had. "You come here a lot," you muttered, glancing around.

He grinned. "I have good taste."

You rolled your eyes. A server appeared, and Beomgyu barely had to glance at the menu before ordering beef short ribs, pork belly, a few side dishes, and two cold beers.

You raised an eyebrow. "Ordering for me now?"

Beomgyu shrugged, tapping his fingers against the table. "You like barbecue. You like beer. I connected the dots."

You leaned back, crossing your arms. "What if I suddenly decided I hate all those things?"

Beomgyu smirked, resting his chin in his hand as he looked at you. "Then you’d be lying." You narrowed your eyes at him.

The beers arrived first. Beomgyu picked up his glass, tilting it slightly toward you. "To finishing most of the album in one day."

You huffed, clinking your glass against his. "To having nothing better to do than drag me to a bar."

Beomgyu just grinned before taking a sip. The beer was cold, smooth, the kind that went down easily after a long day. And as much as you hated to admit it, this, the warmth of the place, the comfort of the food, the quiet hum of conversation around you, felt nice.

You set your glass down, glancing at him. "Alright," you muttered. "You win. This isn’t terrible."

Beomgyu smirked, leaning in slightly. "High praise coming from you."

You scoffed, taking another sip. "Don’t get used to it."

And then, the food arrived. Plates of sizzling meat, steaming side dishes, the aroma so good that your stomach twisted with hunger. Beomgyu grabbed a pair of tongs, flipping the short ribs on the grill, moving with too much ease.

You eyed him. "You really come here a lot."

He smirked. "Told you."

Beomgyu shrugged, sipping his beer. "What, you want me to feed it to you, too?"

You scoffed. "I can make my own wrap, Beomgyu."

"Yeah, but I already did it." He nodded toward the plate. "So eat."

You rolled your eyes but took it anyway, biting into the warm, flavorful wrap. You weren’t sure if it was the exhaustion, the hunger, or the fact that Beomgyu was sitting so close, watching you eat with an amused expression, but something about this moment made your chest feel too full. You pushed the thought away.

"So?" he asked, watching you chew.

You swallowed, setting your chopsticks down. "It’s fine."

He snorted. "You are so bad at compliments."

"No," you corrected, taking another sip of beer. "I just don’t like boosting your ego."

Beomgyu grinned. "Too late for that."

The conversation flowed easier after that. The second beer turned into a third. The food disappeared, leaving just the sound of clinking glasses, the occasional glance that lingered too long, the way your shoulders brushed when you leaned forward to reach for something.

Somewhere between another drink and another teasing remark, you realized something: You were having fun. And Beomgyu knew it. His smirk never wavered, his eyes never left yours for too long, his voice never dropped that teasing lilt that made your pulse stutter more than it should. And maybe it was the alcohol. Or maybe it was just him.

But as you sat there, half-listening to him ramble about some ridiculous story, you realized, you didn’t really want the night to end. And by the time the last plate had been cleared and the third beer had been emptied, you were warm all over. Not drunk. Just loose.

The world felt a little softer around the edges, your limbs lighter, your thoughts slower but comfortable. Beomgyu, across from you—no, beside you, because he had sat next to you like it was the most natural thing in the world—was in the same state, his body relaxed, his usual sharp-edged energy dulled by alcohol and good food.

You tapped your fingers idly against the table, staring at the condensation on your glass. "So," you muttered, "you never told me—what do you think of the album name?"

Beomgyu blinked, then frowned slightly, turning his head to look at you properly. "What album name?"

You exhaled, stretching your arms over your head. "The one Baekhyun’s thinking about. ‘Files of Romance.’"

His reaction was instant. Beomgyu made a face like you had just told him the worst news imaginable. "Nah, not my personal taste."

You raised an eyebrow. "You hate it that much?"

"Hate is a strong word—" he paused, reconsidering. "—but yeah, I fucking hate it."

You laughed. "Why?"

Beomgyu turned in his seat, facing you fully now, one arm resting on the back of your chair. "Because it sounds like some 2010 Wattpad fanfiction. ‘Files of Romance’—what is this, a collection of love letters? A secret diary? An unfinished manuscript?*"

You smirked, tilting your head. "It’s poetic."

"It’s cheesy," he corrected.

You rolled your eyes, taking another sip of beer. "Okay, then what would you call it?"

Beomgyu hummed, thinking for a moment. Then, he looked at you. And something in his gaze shifted. His smirk faded, not completely, but enough for you to notice the way his expression softened slightly. "Romance: Untold."

The words settled between you like something heavy. Your fingers stilled against your glass. "Untold?"

He nodded. "Because that’s what this album is, isn’t it? All these songs, all these stories—" he tapped his fingers against the table, voice dropping slightly. "It’s about things people don’t say out loud. Feelings left unsaid. The in-between moments, the things you can’t admit, the things you only let yourself feel when no one’s looking."

Suddenly, this wasn’t about the album anymore. Beomgyu wasn’t looking at you like a producer talking about work. He wasn’t critiquing an idea, wasn’t just throwing out another title. He was talking about you and him.

Your lips parted slightly, heart picking up speed. "That’s…" you hesitated. "That’s actually not bad."

Beomgyu grinned. "Not bad? Come on, admit it—you like it."

You exhaled, shaking your head. "You’re impossible."

"And you’re predictable," he countered easily, taking another sip of his beer. "You act like you hate everything I say, but deep down, you know I’m right most of the time."

You scoffed. "Most of the time?"

"Mm-hmm." He leaned in slightly, his smirk turning just a bit more smug. "Like right now."

Your eyes narrowed. "Beomgyu—"

"Say it," he murmured, voice lower now, the playful edge still there but thicker, like something else was creeping beneath it. "Say you like the name."

You exhaled sharply, pressing your lips together. He was so annoying. But also, he was right. You sighed. "Fine. It’s… a good name."

Beomgyu smirked, triumphant. "See? I always win."

You rolled your eyes, taking another sip. "You don’t always win."

"Pretty close to always," he teased, nudging your leg under the table. "And anyway—" his gaze flickered over you briefly before settling on your lips. "I get the feeling you like it when I win."

You swallowed, shifting in your seat, trying to ignore the way your skin felt hot under his gaze. "You’re drunk."

Beomgyu smirked. "Tipsy."

"Same thing."

"Not even close." His fingers tapped against his glass, his smirk lingering. "You just don’t wanna admit I’m fun outside of work."

You snorted. "Fun is a strong word."

"And yet," he murmured, leaning in slightly, "you’re still here."

He wasn’t wrong. You could’ve left at any time. You could’ve said no to this drink. You could’ve cut this conversation short the second it started feeling like more than just talking. But you didn’t. And now, sitting here, so close to him, so aware of every movement he made, every glance, every shift in his voice, you couldn’t pretend that it was just because of the album anymore.

You cleared your throat, forcing yourself to look away. "We should probably head out soon."

Beomgyu hummed, like he knew exactly what you were doing but didn’t feel like calling you out on it. "Yeah, yeah."

Neither of you moved. Instead, he let his arm stretch across the back of your chair, fingers tapping against the wood in a slow, easy rhythm. "Romance: Untold," he repeated, more to himself now. "Yeah. I like it."

You exhaled. "Me too."

And somehow, you knew, this wasn’t just about the album. This was about you and him. The story neither of you had told yet. But one that, deep down, you both knew was already being written.

The night air was cooler now, a crisp contrast to the warmth still buzzing under your skin from the drinks. The street outside the bar was quiet, only the occasional car passing by, headlights flickering against the pavement.

Beomgyu stretched his arms over his head, then shoved his hands into his pockets. "Alright, let’s get you home."

You raised an eyebrow. "You’re not driving."

"Obviously not," he said, rolling his eyes. "I’m not a fucking idiot."

You let out a breathy laugh. "So what’s your plan?"

Beomgyu tilted his head, smirking. "Gonna take the subway with you."

You blinked. "You don’t have to do that."

"I know." He started walking. "Come on."

You hesitated, but ultimately followed, falling into step beside him. The subway station wasn’t far. The streets were quieter here, the hum of neon signs flickering against the damp pavement. It felt… nice. Comfortable. Like the two of you had slipped into something easier than usual.

The train arrived just as you stepped onto the platform. You both boarded, sliding into a seat near the back of the car. "So," you mused, resting your head against the window. "Tell me something I don’t know about you."

Beomgyu hummed, stretching his legs out in front of him. "Something good or something stupid?"

"Good," you said. "And don’t say something obvious."

Beomgyu smirked, tapping his fingers against his knee. "I’ve wanted to do music since I was ten."

You blinked. "Really?"

"Yeah." He leaned back, gaze flickering up toward the train ceiling like he was remembering something. "I used to listen to my older brother’s CDs all the time—Nirvana, Radiohead, The Strokes, My Bloody Valentine. I’d sit in my room with those shitty little wired headphones and just obsess over the sounds, the production, the way the lyrics hit different when you were alone in the dark."

You tilted your head, watching him. "I never took you for a rock band guy."

Beomgyu scoffed. "What, you think I only listen to industry shit?"

"I mean… kinda."

He clutched his chest dramatically. "Wow. The disrespect."

You laughed. "Okay, okay. What’s your favorite album of all time?"

Beomgyu exhaled, tapping his fingers against the seat. "Damn. That’s hard."

"Come on," you nudged his knee with yours. "You’re a music guy. You have to have a number one."

He thought for a second. "‘Loveless’ by My Bloody Valentine."

Your brows lifted. "Shoegaze?"

"Shoegaze," he confirmed. "That album changed me."

You smirked. "Oh, so it’s that serious?"

"It’s life-changing serious," he said. "I mean, listen to ‘When You Sleep’ and tell me that shit doesn’t make you wanna dissolve into the floor."

You chuckled. "Okay, fine. I’ll listen."

"You better."

The conversation flowed easily after that. Beomgyu rambled about different albums, breaking down the exact moment he fell in love with certain sounds, which producers he admired, which live performances made him feel something real.

And you listened. Really listened. Because even though he talked a lot—too much, sometimes—this was different. This was Beomgyu talking about the thing he loved. And it made you want to know more.

By the time you reached your stop, the train car was nearly empty. The streets were quieter now, the air even cooler. Beomgyu walked beside you, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, his usual smirk still tugging at his lips. And then, without warning, his arm slung over your shoulders.

You stiffened. "What the hell are you doing?"

Beomgyu grinned. "Relax. You looked cold."

You scoffed, but didn’t pull away. "You just wanted an excuse to be annoying."

"And?" he teased. "Is it working?"

"Always."

Beomgyu chuckled, squeezing your shoulder lightly before letting his arm stay there, draped over you like it belonged there. And, for some reason, you let it. By the time you reached your apartment building, the air between you had shifted again, lighter, charged, something humming just beneath the surface.

Beomgyu turned to face you, his smirk softer now. "Well, that was fun."

You raised an eyebrow. "Oh? You admit I’m fun now?"

"I didn’t say that." He grinned. "I said that was fun."

You rolled your eyes, stepping toward your door. "Whatever."

But before you could reach for the handle, Beomgyu caught your wrist. You turned. And suddenly, he was right there. Closer than he had been all night. The teasing was gone from his face. His eyes flickered between yours, his fingers still wrapped loosely around your wrist. And then, he leaned in. Slowly. Deliberately. Like he was giving you time to stop him.

But just as his lips were inches from yours, the door swung open.

"Well," Yeonjun’s voice rang out, amusement laced through every word. "What do we have here?"

Your stomach dropped. Beomgyu’s entire body went rigid. Yeonjun grinned, stepping onto the porch, holding a tied-up trash bag in one hand. "I was just taking out the garbage, but this is much more interesting."

You groaned, pulling away from Beomgyu instantly. "Yeonjun."

"What?" Yeonjun feigned innocence, looking between the two of you. "I didn’t know we were having late-night meetings outside the apartment."

Beomgyu exhaled sharply, pressing his fingers against his temple. "Great timing, dude."

"I try my best." Yeonjun smirked. "So… are you gonna kiss, or should I give you some privacy?"

"Yeonjun, I swear to God—"

"Alright, alright, I’m going!" He held up his hands, stepping off the porch with a laugh. "But we will be talking about this later, Y/N."

You shot him a glare as he disappeared down the walkway, humming to himself. The second he was out of earshot, you huffed. "Unbelievable."

A beat of silence passed. "So…" Beomgyu shifted, glancing at you. "Where were we?"

A slow smirk tugged at Beomgyu’s lips. His head tilted slightly, his eyes flickering down to your mouth, just for a second, just enough for your breath to catch. He was waiting. Waiting to see if you’d push him away, if you’d roll your eyes and disappear inside, if you’d cut this tension off before it turned into something real.

But you didn’t. And that was all he needed. Beomgyu took a slow step forward, closing the space between you with the kind of confidence that sent your heart slamming against your ribs. His fingers brushed against yours, hesitant for only a moment before he tilted his chin down, leaning in. And then, finally, he kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t urgent or rough or anything close to what you had before. It was gentle. Soft in a way that made your stomach flip, slow in a way that made your knees feel weak, like he had all the time in the world to memorize the way you felt beneath his lips. Beomgyu wasn’t pushing. He wasn’t taking. He was giving. And you let yourself take it.

Your fingers curled against the front of his jacket, tugging slightly as you kissed him back, sinking into the warmth of it, the quiet rightness of it. Beomgyu let out a soft sound against your lips, half a sigh, half a laugh, before tilting his head slightly, deepening the kiss just enough to make your stomach tighten.

His hand came up, brushing against your cheek, fingers tracing the line of your jaw, slow and deliberate, like he was trying to remember this. Like he had wanted this for too long. You could feel his smile against your mouth, feel the way his fingers flexed slightly, like he wanted to pull you closer but was holding back.

And then, someone cleared their throat. Loud. Pointed. Beomgyu stilled for half a second, then pulled back, blinking like he had just been shaken out of something. Slowly, almost painfully, you turned toward the sound.

Yeonjun. Standing in the hallway. Arms crossed. Smirking. "Really?" he mused. "Right outside the door?"

Your stomach dropped. "Yeonjun—"

"You guys didn’t even wait five minutes after I left?" he continued, shaking his head. "Damn, Beomgyu. You work fast."

Beomgyu groaned, dragging a hand over his face. "For the love of God—"

Yeonjun just grinned as he stepped inside. "Don’t let me stop you. I was just coming back."

You wanted to die. You wanted the ground to open up and swallow you whole. Beomgyu exhaled sharply, muttering something under his breath before taking a small step back, running a hand through his hair.

You cleared your throat, trying to ignore the way your skin burned. "I should go inside."

Beomgyu looked at you, his expression unreadable for half a second before he smirked. "Yeah. Probably."

You hesitated. "Goodnight, Beomgyu."

He tilted his head. "Goodnight, Y/N."

And then, because he couldn’t help himself, he leaned in one last time. A quick, teasing peck against your lips. Barely a second. Barely anything. But it sent your stomach spiraling.

Then, before you could even react, he turned toward the stairs, shoving his hands into his pockets. "See you at work," he called over his shoulder. And with that, he disappeared.

The second the door shut behind you, your back met the wood, and you let out a sharp breath. What the fuck just happened? Your fingers hovered over your lips, the ghost of Beomgyu’s kiss still lingering, the warmth of his touch still burning on your skin. Your heart was still racing, your mind still spinning, and—

"Oh, this is so good," Yeonjun’s voice cut through your spiral, full of glee.

You groaned. "Please. Shut up."

author's note: i hate to do this… but we’re getting a part 3. there was just too much to fit into this chapter, and things are about to get tense next time. if you want to be on the taglist for the next part, let me know in the comments!

ALSO i wrote this fic way before beomgyu even announced PANIC 😭😭 so pls go give him all the love bc he looks AMAZING the song is perfect and i swear the beomgyu i wrote is the same beomgyu who wrote panic did i just win????? 😭💘

taglist: @czennieszn @iyoonjh @shycreationdreamland @beomsdoll @whatblop @cbgtopia @enhaloveeee @hyunj00 @jnysaln @woncheecks @soobinslvr13 @kejingken @v1shwa-xo @yeovnjin @c1eod1n3 @etherealid7 @naeyerys

part 1 // part 2 // part 3

1K notes · View notes

rubyvhs · 1 day ago

Text

BARE MINIMUM — multi

the jjk men do the bare minimum, and you, like an idiot, almost break down. and they’re even more sweet about that. | 1.2k

includes: g.suguru & k.nanami & t.fushigoro & g.satoru. fem!reader, early established relationship (dating), some hurt/comfort, kissing, suggestiveness, lots of cute names (pretty girl, sweetheart, honey, baby, doll etc). based on this by @aquasoftware

geto suguru

you sigh the second you set your work phone down, thankful the messages stopped for a second, except your personal phone rings just as fast. you groan as you pick it up, letting out an annoyed, “what!”

“hey, pretty girl.” you sit up immediately as you recognize your boyfriends voice. oh crap, you did not mean for that to happen. “sugu, i’m so sorry, i’ve just had a really long day and i didn’t notice that it was you.”

“really? it’s only twelve,” he says but it isn’t accusatory, if anything, he seems worried which just fuels your guilt. “anyway, it’s why i called, wanted to ask how your day was.”

“oh.” oh. it seems like a trick question, all you’ve ever known is the ‘shut up’ and ‘stop talking so much’ from your family and past boyfriends, this feels like a trick, asking how your day was just so he can tell you your voice is annoying— “good.”

“good? you just said it was long. tell me about it, tell me what happened, i miss your voice.” he misses your— okay, now this really is a trick phone call. maybe he has gojo there to laugh with him. it feels cruel to assume these things of suguru but you don’t know why else he would ask. “you there? are you busy? i can call back—”

“no, no, just not used to the question, i guess.” you’ve only been dating for a few weeks, guess there’s a lot you need to get used to with geto suguru.

“really? that’s stupid, i love hearing about your day so c’mon, i wanna know everything i can in this twenty minute break.” you can’t help the smile on your face.

nanami kento

you let your head fall to the pillow with one last breathy sigh, laughing. “what?” ken asks, finally sitting up from in between your legs. you just shrug, not ready to let go of the magical world he put you in for the past hour. you would say your first time with kento is a success.

he shakes his head at you with a smile of his own, standing up off the bed which worries you. your smile falls immediately and you push yourself up with your elbows, eyes following him as he enters the bathroom. you didn’t mean to be rude, you were just happy. he has to know that. but you don’t think calling out to him when he wants alone time is wise so you just fall back on your pillow, pulling the covers up to your face with a frustrated sigh this time. you can’t seem to get anything right.

“sweetheart?” you hear his voice and immediately pull the sheets down. “do you mind if i clean you up? pretty sure i did a number on you.” he asks, fingers moving down to your legs above the satin fabric. you shake your head mindlessly, not exactly sure what’s happening.

you’re not stupid, you know what aftercare is, you just don’t usually receive it. and by ‘not usually’ you mean ‘not ever’. he pushes the cover up to your stomach so you’re not bare, something you didn’t know you’d actually care about that much till he gave you the option, and a few seconds into cleaning his and your ‘fun’ off of you, he looks up, “why did you do that?”

“do what?” you thought everything was perfect, you thought you did good.

“cover your face.”

“oh, i— i’m sorry, i just thought you were gonna shower or head out or something.” despite it being his house, it isn’t exactly unheard of for you that a man leaves you in the bed the second you both come.

“honey,” he frowns, moving so he can kiss you, pushing himself up with his elbow right next to your biceps. it takes a while before he says something, not wanting to bring too much attention to the topic, he knows how closed off you can get. so he settles with, “i love you, okay?” your heart swells up as you nod and kiss him again.

fushigoro toji

your phone rings for the third time and assuming it’s your friend asking why you aren’t at work again, you just silence it and go back to bed. god, this headache is gonna kill you, and if it doesn��t then your temperature just might. why is everything cold?

you don’t even hear your front door open, which is good considering you couldn’t do much even if it was a burglar, but you do hear your boyfriend knocking on your bedroom door. he calls out your name as if checking if you’re still alive. “hi, toji.” you mumble, face still in the pillow so he doesn’t really hear anything. good thing you’re still breathing at least.

“hey, doll,” he sits down next to you, pushing you inside. “got you some soup, figured you wouldn’t be able to eat.”

you gasp, looking up quickly and spotting two large bags on his lap. “oh my god, you’re a heaven sent.” he smiles, though it does strike a question in the back of his mind about just how many douchebags you’ve been with if you think soup while you’re sick is angelic, but it doesn’t matter because you’re smiling at him through your tear stained cheeks and it’s the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen.

he leans down to kiss your hair before you push him away weekly. “stop it! i’m sick—”

“and where did you get it from?” he challenges with a smirk, though there’s no real heat as he opens up the soup container. he’s the one who got you sick anyway, he might as well take responsibility for it. once you’re eating in his arms, you feel a thousand times better.

gojo satoru

satoru knocks on your door for the second time before you finally open the door, your earrings in your hand as you try three different pairs on. “uh… hey?” he hesitates as you rush him in and shut the door. “you look beautiful, baby.” he doesn’t even get a moment to kiss you because you’re running back into your bedroom.

“i’m sorry!” you yell so he can hear you, “i’m totally late.” he walks into the room to find your clothes laying on every horizontal surface. “i swear i’m done, i just need to find my other earring and i’m so done.”

satoru just laughs, walking towards you to stop your frantic search for the matching pair of earrings in your hands. he, finally, kisses you. when he pulls away you notice the flowers in his hands, “what’re those?”

“those,” he says with a smile, “are for my perfect girl. my law graduate girl.” he sees the tears brimming in your eyes and quickly takes your face in his hands to kiss you again. “you’re graduating.”

“i am?” you ask with a small smile before the tears start flowing. “i am. ‘toru, i’m graduating.” he laughs and pulls you in for a hug.

#gojo satoru x reader #satoru gojo x reader #geto suguru x reader #suguru geto x reader #nanami kento x reader #kento nanami x reader #toji fushigro x reader #toji x reader #toji x f!reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen scenarios #&. mine #&. toji #&. gojo #&. geto #&. kento

301 notes · View notes

satrs · 2 days ago

Text

A/N; working on alll of ur requests rn sweeties!!! It's gonna take me a good while tho, so here is a lil sum sum I wrote abt the guys sum time ago ^^ Hope u enjoy my late night yapping and plzzzz be patient with meeee, I didn't forget ur requests my lovelys!!!

Random/unpopular headcanons of Weird stuff they do! (MDNI! SFW ans NSFW)

ZAYNE

SFW

Drink his coffee HORENDOUSLY. It looks like a brew straight out of hell. Honestly, it’s closer to motor oil than anything drinkable.

Eats like a pregnant woman with the wildest cravings. I’m convinced he mixes sweets with damn near everything, pickles with ice cream, shit like that.

Uhhh, I also think he’s messy??? Like, his house looks tidy at first glance— floors clean, dishes done, nothing crazy. But if you actually live with him, you realize he doesn’t have time to handle allat!!! There’s always clothes flying around, jackets tossed over chairs, hoodies crumpled on the couch, random socks disappearing into the void. Not necessarily dirty clothes, just... clothes littered across the house. It's like he tries to stay organized, but life moves too fast and the laundry pile moves faster.

NSFW

Tries to optimize things. It's kinda weird but also hot??? "What if we adjust the angle by 12 degrees—oh. Oh, that's better."

One time, he came with one hand on the wall like a man in mourning and didn't say a word, just stood there. (Post-nut trauma pose lmaooo)

Looses track of time when he's with u. You've been at it for 3 hours with barely any break before he realized that he has 2 hours of sleep left before he has to get up for work. But he'll worry about that in the morning.

He's giving you a clinical review when you ride him. "Your pelvic tilt just now was exceptional. Ten out of ten."

SYLUS

Bro im ngl… i feel like he's a hoarder. Antique stuff probs like old pennies from 1500s or sum shi.

Props a history nerd on the low. Knows every event ever happening around the word from the stone age to modern times. (Rants to you about them sometimes)

Caffeine Dependency, But in odddd forms.He refuses to drink normal coffee so, instead, he's obsessed with fancy stuff like matcha lattes, cold brew espresso, or even herbal teas that are supposed to enhance mental focus. If you catch him on a "bad caffeine day," you'll see him get irritated if he had to settle for a drink that doesn't meet his exacting standards (He's gonna pull out the glock ain't he).

NSFW

Discovered his wax kink one time when candle wax happend to drip on him turing sexy time, and he moaned so loud it scared you. That's when you both began to involve wax as a main actor during the act more often.

Oh he's soooo horny when you patch him up after a deal gone wrong. Grows soooo hard when you're shocked self runs up to his all bloodied form:(( Just such big baby and a suckerrr for your nursing skills!!!

Guns are everywhere. Like, casually. Sometimes there's one just sitting on the nightstand, loaded, of course— the barrel practically staring at you while he's fucking you. It's kinda terrifying if you think about it too hard.

Okay, hear me out!!!! When he's really exhausted, like dead-on-his-feet exhausted, he comes home, takes a quick, half-awake shower, then just slumps onto the bed, still wet, still half-dressed, a lit cigar hanging from his lips as you ride him. He's barely doing anything, just lying there with this lazy, heavy-lidded look, letting you use him however you want. Smoke curling up toward the ceiling, his body all warm and loose under your hands. It’s messy, raw, and honestly addicting if you admit.

CALEB

SFW

Constantly challenges himself to do backflips in inappropriate places. "Bet I can flip off this railing" No, Caleb. You can't. But he does it anyway(urghhh). It's even grown to a point that he makes a quick backflip when you two meet up as agreeting mane. It's sooo embarrassing when the bystanders eye him but he thinks it's soooo cold LMAOOO

Caleb still doesn't know how to use a lot of things properly. He'll try to fix things around the house and end up breaking them worse than they were. You'll catch him watching YouTube tutorials, struggling with the basics of cooking, or just trying to figure out how something works.

NSFW

Tries to make you laugh mid-stroke. Literally says stuff like "What would you do if I'd start moonwalking right now?" You're crying laughing while he's still inside you.

He high fives you after sex. Every damn time. Yep. Its canon bc i said so!

Treats you on top as if he's ur personal trainer. "Yeahhh, get those megan-kness working. One, two, three— heyheyhey you gotta put your legs into it!“

XAVIER

SFW

Despite him sleeping so damn much, I feel like hes a light sleeper. If you move away slightly his eyes shoot open bruh. (They also glow in the dark and scare the shit out of you when ypu come back to the room after taking a piss)

Incredible memory for faces, but not names. He can remember every single detail about a person's face—the way they looked when they smiled, the exact way they tilted their head during conversation—but when it comes to their names? Not a clue. He js couldn't give less of a fuck.

Always late for your dates. At least half an hour. Not bc he's been sleeping but because he's so slowww man! You're so mad bc you can't teleport like a certain someone cough cough, but still manage to show up on time!!! And when he shows up he acts so innocent and clueless as if you didn't wait for him for half an hour.

NSFW

Thinks it's soooo sexy when you scold him. Say his full name with force and he's rock solidddd 'm tellin youuuu!!!

Always insists on so much foreplay it's frustrating. Don't get me wrong it's sexy! ....until it's been 45 minutes and you’re still begging for him to finally put it in.

Has a thing for u playing with his hair, especially if you pull it when he's eatin you out. But even if you just genuinely move it out of his face after a heated make-out shesh, he whines as if you got his dick in a headlock (you do).

RAFAYEL

Props has a journal and draws little doodles of you next to his entry of the day!! When he's feeling espacially romantic, he'll begin with a small doodle but get lost in it end end up drawing the most breathtaking portrait of you. He hides the journal too, a bit too embarrassed to show you his rambles of how much in love he is with you. Yeahhh for his eyes only!

Rafayel is full of bizarre superstitions. He's the type to refuse to walk under a ladder, always carries a lucky charm, and insists that everything happens for a reason. If you spill salt, you're definitely going to have to throw it over your left shoulder. Was a literal sea god but bad luck are the most of his worries ig...

His desk is a mess, but somehow everything is in its right place. Papers are scattered everywhere, but you can not touch them. He has his own chaotic filing system, and God help you if you try to reorganize anything.

NSFW

Sucker for you when ur in heels. I dare you to step on his foot by accident in heels!!(he almost came in his pants). Loves to fuck you in heels from that point onwards.

Ok so this is ridiculous but I have this headcanon that you both made out in the ocean once and got so into it that you didn't notice rafayel turned into a merman until his fishtail grazed your legs and you fucking screamed for your life. He had to make it up with some sloppy toppy head underwater ofc!!!

Will literally stop mid stroke to get his sketchbook and sketch you when he has the urge to capture your beautiful form splawed out for him. Like, this is for him, like.... oh my godddd yu're so perfect???

#lec talk ✧˖°#love and deepspace #love and deepspace smut #lads smut #l&ds smut #caleb smut #sylus smut #rafayel smut #xavier smut #zayne smut #♡˳ᴸ&ᴰˢ #◛⑅·˚ ᵂᴼᴿᴷ

327 notes · View notes

norristrii · 11 hours ago

Text

IN EVERY LANGUAGE, IN ANY PLACE.

You met him by accident in Monaco—bad parking, shared laughter, and a night where he taught you French. You never expected to see him again. But in Italy, there he was, this time, speaking Italian. And suddenly, it all made sense. It was him.

pairing. Charles Leclerc x fem! reader.

warnings. age gap (22/27), 8,1k words, google translated french & italian, teasing, suggestive (make out), sexual tension, one-night stand, soulmates kinda, reader wears dress, pet names.

music. Mystery Of Love & Futile Devices by Sufjan Stevens.

MONACO FELT LIKE THE PERFECT PLACE to fix your struggle with French. After years of studying, somehow, the language still slipped away from you when you needed it most. It frustrated you, how much effort you had put into learning it, only to still feel lost in conversations. You told yourself that spending a week in Monaco would be the answer—that being surrounded by the language, hearing it every day, would finally make everything click.

That was what you told yourself, at least.

In reality, you had mostly come for the experience. Monaco was beautiful, exciting, full of life. The clear blue water, the elegant streets, the sound of laughter mixed with the hum of expensive cars—it was the kind of place people dreamed about visiting. And if improving your French was the official reason for your trip, it was just a bonus.

Still, despite your best efforts, English had taken over almost every interaction. Ordering coffee? English. Asking for directions? English. The one time you had really tried to hold a conversation in French, the waiter had simply nodded politely and responded in perfect English, like he knew there was no point in struggling through your accent.

It had been embarrassing—but also a relief.

You wanted to get better, you really did. But between the beauty of the city and the ease of slipping back into English, you weren’t sure if you were actually learning anything or just enjoying a break from reality.

Not that it really mattered.

If nothing else, it was a good excuse to be here.

Parking in Monaco was proving to be more of a challenge than you had anticipated. You had expected tight spaces, expected expensive cars lining the streets, expected to feel slightly overwhelmed by the sheer luxury of it all—but actually squeezing your not-so-small sports car into a ridiculously tight spot without scratching paintwork worth more than your entire life savings? That was a different kind of pressure. Your hands tightened around the steering wheel as you focused, adjusting the angle, inching forward with painstaking caution, all while trying not to imagine the disaster that could happen if you miscalculated by even a fraction.

And then, just to make things worse, someone was watching.

A man stepped out of the sleek black Ferrari parked beside you, arms crossed over his chest, his posture entirely too relaxed for someone whose car was in immediate danger. He leaned back slightly, the sunlight catching the lenses of his sunglasses, making it impossible to tell exactly where he was looking—but you didn’t need to see his eyes to know he was amused. His smirk was obvious, practically dripping with enjoyment.

"You better not crash my car," he said, laughter easy, smooth, effortlessly confident, like this was nothing more than casual entertainment for him.

You exhaled sharply, fighting the urge to roll your eyes as frustration flared in your chest. You had barely been in Monaco a few days, but the city seemed to be crawling with people like this—rich, cocky, completely at ease in a world where expensive cars and effortless charm were just a given. You muttered under your breath, resisting the urge to say something snarky. Just another arrogant idiot with too much money.

But he didn’t just walk away.

Instead, he stepped closer, taking his time, moving like he had all the patience in the world, like he had decided that watching you struggle was far too entertaining to pass up. His hands slid into the pockets of his jacket as he reached your open window, his posture casual, the smirk never fading.

"You want me to do it?" he asked, the words slow, confident, teasing—but not mocking.

You inhaled, turning to finally look at him properly, prepared to brush him off with some sarcastic remark—but then you saw him. And wow.

Messy brown hair, like he had just run his fingers through it. A mustache that shouldn’t have suited him but somehow did, framing his lips in a way that added to his already unfair level of attractiveness. Sunglasses shielding his eyes, but not hiding the way he carried himself, the easy confidence in his stance, the quiet amusement in the way his smirk deepened.

You hesitated, your fingers tightening slightly around the steering wheel as uncertainty flickered through your mind. Was this really a good idea? Letting a complete stranger slide into your driver’s seat and take control of your car? For a split second, an irrational thought crossed your mind—what if he just drove off? What if he disappeared down the street in your car, leaving you standing there, utterly humiliated?

But then, reality kicked in. You were in Monaco. This wasn’t some shady alley where people stole cars out of desperation. This was a place of luxury, wealth, and ridiculous displays of status. The man standing next to you had stepped out of a Ferrari—one that was probably worth ten times more than your own car. If there was anyone in this world who didn’t need to steal a car, it was him.

You sighed, finally letting go of that last bit of hesitation, exhaling sharply like the act of trusting him was somehow exhausting. "Better than humiliating myself any longer, I guess."

The moment the words left your mouth, he moved. Effortlessly, smoothly, like he had done this a million times before. There was no uncertainty in his movements, no hesitation in the way he slid into your driver’s seat. His hands settled on the wheel, adjusting for a brief second before shifting into gear.

And then—just like that—he parked.

Perfectly.

One smooth, confident motion. No back-and-forth adjustments, no struggle, no second-guessing. Just precise control, like he had been doing this since the moment he learned how to walk.

You stared, blinking, processing.

Well. That was humbling.

He stepped out of the car with the kind of confidence that only someone truly comfortable in their own world could have. His smirk hadn’t faded, and as he shut the door behind him, he glanced at you with a look that practically radiated smug satisfaction.

"See? Easy," he said, flashing a smile, like parking a car in Monaco’s ridiculously tight spaces was the simplest thing in the world.

You scoffed, crossing your arms but unable to stop the small smile tugging at your lips. "Show-off.”

He shrugged, completely unbothered by your comment. "I’ve lived here my whole life," he said, adjusting the sleeves of his jacket. "I know every parking space."

You raised an eyebrow, tilting your head slightly. "Every parking space?"

His smirk deepened, his sunglasses catching the light as he leaned casually against his Ferrari. "Every good one," he clarified, voice smooth, effortlessly confident.

His gaze lingered for a moment, sweeping over you before shifting toward your car’s plate, his smirk deepening with quiet amusement. There was something about the way he looked at you—like he was studying, piecing together details, making his own quiet assessments without needing to ask any questions.

"You’re not from here," he observed, his voice effortlessly smooth, carrying just enough intrigue to make the statement feel like it meant something more than just a simple remark.

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head slightly as you shifted your weight, arms crossing loosely over your chest. "Was my parking that terrible?”

The corner of his lips curled into something dangerously close to a grin, one brow lifting ever so slightly in a way that made it painfully obvious he was enjoying himself. "Maybe," he admitted, dragging out the word like he was savoring it, like he was deliberately teasing. Then, after a beat, he shrugged. "But also—your plate."

You glanced toward your car for half a second before looking back at him, the realization settling in. Right. He wasn’t wrong—your plate was a giveaway. A clear sign that you weren’t local, that you were just passing through, that maybe you didn’t quite belong here the way he obviously did.

And yet, there was something about the way he said it—the easy confidence, the teasing smirk, the way he made the most basic observation feel like it carried weight—that made you wonder if he was sizing you up for reasons beyond just where you were from.

Wow. He knew exactly how to charm a woman.

You shook your head slightly, a small smile tugging at your lips as you clarified, "No not at all. I'm just here for my studies."

Your tone was light, casual, the kind of response that was meant to keep the conversation simple, easy, without giving too much away. But somehow, saying it out loud made Monaco feel even more like an unfamiliar world—like you were an outsider dropping into a place that wasn’t entirely yours.

His smirk didn’t fade, but his interest sparked just a little more, like your answer had intrigued him in ways you hadn’t expected. He tilted his head slightly, watching you carefully, processing your words before responding.

"Studies, huh?" he mused, the word rolling off his tongue with casual amusement. "Let me guess—French?"

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head, knowing he wasn’t entirely wrong. "Yeah, and before you say anything, yes, I know my parking skills weren’t helping prove that."

He chuckled at that, a rich, low sound that sent a flicker of something through your chest. His posture remained relaxed, his hands slipping effortlessly into the pockets of his jacket as he continued to study you. "I wasn’t going to say anything," he teased, but there was something in his tone—something playful, something knowing—that told you he absolutely was going to say something.

You rolled your eyes, exhaling softly, feeling the light breeze move through the streets around you. Monaco might have been full of cocky, charming men—but something about this one felt different.

His smirk lingered, and even though you had answered his question, it was clear he wasn’t quite done with you yet. He shifted his weight slightly, the ease in his posture never fading, and you could tell that this conversation—this interaction—was something he was enjoying far more than just idle small talk.

"So, a week in Monaco to improve your French?" he mused, the teasing edge still in his voice. "Bold choice."

You scoffed, shaking your head slightly. "I wouldn’t say bold," you corrected, crossing your arms loosely over your chest. "Necessary might be a better word."

He hummed, tilting his head as he studied you again, like he was deciding something about you that he wasn’t going to share just yet. "And how’s that going for you?"

You let out an exaggerated sigh, glancing around for a moment, pretending to survey your surroundings like you were searching for evidence of your progress. "Well," you started, dragging out the word, "so far, I’ve mostly spoken English."

His chuckle was immediate, rich, the kind of sound that felt entirely too warm for someone as effortlessly smug as he was. "Ah," he mused, shaking his head slightly. "So, failing, then?"

You narrowed your eyes at him, though the smile tugging at your lips betrayed any real attempt at annoyance. "I wouldn’t say failing.”

His smirk deepened, and for a second, the moment stretched—comfortable, easy, natural in a way that caught you just a little off guard.

His smirk remained steady, the confidence in his stance effortless, like it was second nature. He leaned against his car with ease, arms crossed loosely over his chest, sunglasses still shielding his eyes, but you could feel the way he was watching you—curious, amused, intrigued in a way that made it clear this conversation was far more entertaining to him than just polite small talk.

"What’s your name, pretty girl?" he asked, voice smooth, laced with something teasing, something knowing. "Maybe I can help you with your French."

You couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at your lips. There was something about him—the way he was so unapologetically confident, so comfortable in the way he carried himself, so assured in his approach—that made it hard not to enjoy this. He wasn’t hesitant, wasn’t shy. He knew exactly what he was doing.

"I’m Y/n," you said finally, letting the words roll off your tongue with the same casual ease, letting your voice carry the same playfulness, the same subtle challenge that told him you weren’t just going to let him lead this conversation. Then, after a beat, you tilted your head slightly, letting your gaze flicker over him deliberately before adding, "And you, pretty boy?"

The moment the words left your mouth, you saw it—a flicker of something in his expression, barely noticeable but definitely there. Surprise.

But only for half a second.

Because then, just as effortlessly as before, his smirk returned, deepening like he had expected you to play along, like he had hoped you would. And suddenly, you were certain—he was enjoying this just as much as you were.

His smirk didn’t waver, but there was something in the way his head tilted slightly, like he was sizing you up, weighing your reaction, testing the waters of your confidence. He had expected you to flirt back—you could see it in the way his lips curled, in the amused glint behind his sunglasses—but that didn’t mean he hadn’t enjoyed the confirmation.

"Pretty boy?" he echoed, amusement dripping from his tone, his posture shifting just slightly, the casual confidence never fading. "I haven’t been called that in a while."

You shrugged, keeping your expression light, playful, effortlessly unbothered. "Well, I call it like I see it.”

His chuckle was slow, rich, the kind of sound that carried more meaning than it should have, like he was taking his time with this moment, like he was deliberately drawing it out. Then, in one smooth motion, he reached up, sliding his sunglasses down just enough for you to catch a glimpse of his eyes—sharp, green, filled with something that was equally teasing and analyzing all at once.

"Charles," he said finally, his name rolling off his tongue like it belonged here, like he belonged here.

Something about the way he said it told you this wasn’t just a name—it was an introduction. A moment meant to stick. A small shift in the atmosphere that hinted this wasn’t the last conversation the two of you were going to have.

Charles’ words hung between you, smooth and effortlessly confident, like he had extended the invitation knowing you wouldn’t refuse. He leaned casually against his car, arms crossed, sunglasses still shielding his eyes, but you could feel the smirk beneath them—felt the unspoken meaning lingering just behind his offer.

“So, Y/n—tonight on my yacht?" he suggested, voice easy, teasing, yet somehow carrying a quiet challenge. Then, after a beat, he added, "For a French lesson."

You raised a brow, crossing your arms, your lips twitching at the corners as you studied him. "French lesson, huh?" you echoed, letting the words stretch just enough to make it clear you weren’t fooled. "That’s the reason you’re going with?”

Charles chuckled, shaking his head slightly, completely unbothered by your skepticism. "You do need the help," he pointed out, the teasing laced in his tone impossible to miss. Then, with that same smirk, he shrugged. "Besides, is there a better way to learn than on a yacht, under the stars, with someone who actually speaks French?"

You exhaled softly, pretending to weigh your options, even though—deep down—you knew there was only one answer.

Charles watched you carefully, his smirk never wavering, the challenge in his eyes evident—even through the shield of his sunglasses. He wasn’t just inviting you onto his yacht for a simple lesson; he was inviting you into his world, into his Monaco.

And somehow, despite the little voice in the back of your head telling you to be rational, telling you that this was probably a bad idea, you still found yourself intrigued.

"Alright, fine," you finally said, crossing your arms, tilting your head slightly. "But only if you promise I’ll actually learn something.”

He chuckled, pushing off his car with a casual ease. "I promise," he mused, his voice carrying just enough mischief to make you question if he meant it.

Something told you that stepping onto that yacht wasn’t just going to be about learning French.

Charles’ smirk deepened ever so slightly, like he knew he had won—like he had expected you to say yes but still enjoyed hearing the confirmation. He reached into his pocket, effortlessly pulling out his phone, fingers moving smoothly as he sent off a quick message, probably setting things in motion for the evening ahead.

"You won’t regret it," he assured, slipping the phone back into his jacket, watching you with that same quiet confidence. "Meet me at the docks around eight."

You raised a brow, pretending to weigh the offer in your mind, even though you had already made your decision. "And what exactly can I expect from this so-called French lesson?”

Charles chuckled, pushing his sunglasses up slightly, the smirk never fading. "That depends," he mused. "Are you a fast learner, or do you need some extra motivation?"

There was something about the way he said it—something teasing, something layered—that made it clear tonight wasn’t just about learning French.

And somehow, you found yourself looking forward to it.

"I prefer motivation," you said, your smirk matching his, refusing to let him have the upper hand too easily.

Charles’ own smirk widened, amusement flickering in his sharp gaze, like he had expected that answer but still enjoyed hearing it. There was something about the way he carried himself—an easy confidence that never wavered, a natural charm that wasn’t forced but felt effortless. Every movement, every glance, was calculated just enough to draw you in without seeming deliberate.

He pushed off his car with a casual ease, adjusting his jacket like he had all the time in the world, taking a slow step forward. The shift was subtle—barely noticeable to an outsider—but you noticed. He wasn’t just moving closer; he was setting the pace, drawing out the moment, stretching the space between you just enough to make it feel intentional.

“Good," he murmured, voice smooth, carrying a teasing undertone yet laced with something undeniably confident. He let the words settle between you, his smirk never fading, his gaze locked onto yours. “Because I happen to be very good at motivation."

You raised a brow, refusing to back down, meeting his challenge without hesitation. There was a playfulness in the exchange, but also something else—something neither of you were quite willing to name yet.

───

The evening was warm, the air carrying the fresh scent of the sea as soft waves lapped against the dock. Lights from the yachts reflected on the water, casting a golden glow, making everything look just a little more magical. The docks weren’t too busy, just enough movement and quiet chatter to remind you that Monaco never truly slept.

You stood there, shifting slightly, adjusting the books tucked under your arm, as if they made this feel more like an actual lesson instead of… whatever this was becoming. Your black dress fit just right, hugging you in all the places that made you feel confident. It was shorter than what you usually wore, but tonight felt different. You had spent extra time getting ready, making sure everything was smooth, perfect, just in case.

Your eyes moved over the yachts, each one shining under the dock lights, sleek and expensive. Some were massive, almost too large to seem real, while others were slightly more understated—but only in the way Monaco’s wealthy could be. You wondered which one belonged to him.

Then, footsteps. Steady, calm, unhurried. The kind of walk that told you this person had all the time in the world.

You turned just as Charles stepped into view. He looked effortlessly put together, wearing a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled up casually, the top few buttons undone. He fit here, belonged in this world, carried himself with the quiet confidence of someone who knew he was charming.

His smirk appeared the moment he saw you, his gaze sweeping over you with easy amusement before flickering to the books in your arms.

“Not bad, Y/n," he mused, voice smooth, teasing. “You actually brought them?"

You couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. "Of course," you said, tilting your head slightly. "I take my lessons seriously.”

Charles chuckled, shaking his head slightly, like he wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or just entertained.

“Well then," he murmured, stepping aside, motioning toward the large, sleek yacht behind him. "Let’s get started."

Charles led the way up the dock, his movements easy, natural, like he had done this a hundred times before. As you stepped onto the yacht, the soft sway beneath your feet reminded you that this wasn’t just any boat—it was luxury, through and through. Sleek, modern, with soft lighting that cast a golden glow over the pristine deck. Everything was polished, elegant, effortlessly perfect.

You barely had time to take it all in before Charles turned to you, hands slipping into his pockets, smirk still in place.

“Make yourself comfortable," he said, motioning toward the seating area at the back of the yacht, where plush cushions surrounded a glossy table.

You exhaled softly, moving toward the spot, setting your French books down before settling onto one of the seats. The evening air was warm, carrying the scent of salt and expensive cologne—a mix that somehow suited the moment too well.

Charles took the seat next to you, leaning back, stretching his arm over the edge of the seat like he belonged there, like he belonged everywhere.

“So," he mused, eyes flickering toward the books before back to you. “Where should we begin?"

You raised a brow, tapping your fingers lightly against the cover of one of the books. "That depends. Do you actually plan to teach, or was this just an excuse to get me here?”

His chuckle was immediate, warm, amused. "A little bit of both," he admitted, flashing you a grin. "But don’t worry—I’m a great teacher.”

Charles wasted no time. The moment he settled into his seat, he leaned back, his smirk unwavering as he casually started speaking in smooth, fluent French—his words flowing effortlessly, his tone relaxed yet confident, like he was testing you, like he was enjoying watching your reaction.

You blinked, trying to catch at least some of what he was saying, but it was hopeless. His words blended together too quickly, too naturally, and before you could even try to keep up, you found yourself laughing, shaking your head as you lifted a hand in protest.

“Hey, hey—slow!" you said, amusement clear in your voice, your laughter slipping between the words. "I’m trying to learn, not get overwhelmed!"

Charles chuckled, his expression practically glowing with amusement, clearly enjoying this. He tilted his head slightly, pretending to consider your request before shrugging.

“Ah, but learning under pressure is the best way, no?" he teased, eyes flashing with something both playful and smug.

“I ended with animals," you said, smiling as you flipped through the pages of your book. Somehow, despite all the effort, all the attempts at forming proper sentences, you had ended up learning random animal names instead of anything actually useful. It wasn’t exactly what you had planned when you stepped onto the yacht, but at this point, you weren’t sure if anything about tonight was going according to plan.

Charles raised a brow, clearly amused, his smirk deepening as he leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees. The soft glow of the yacht’s lights cast a warm hue over his skin, making the teasing glint in his eyes even more noticeable. "Animals?" he echoed, his voice carrying that familiar hint of amusement.

You grinned, feeling oddly proud of your one solid takeaway. "I know how to say owl," you announced, sitting up a little straighter, ready to flex your knowledge.

“Chouette," you said confidently, looking at him like you had just won something.

But the moment the word left your mouth, Charles burst into laughter, shaking his head immediately, his whole body leaning back slightly as he let the sound roll through him.

“Non, non,” he chuckled, his amusement clear as he ran a hand through his hair, still grinning. "Your accent—what was that?”

You gasped dramatically, placing a hand over your chest. "Excuse me?”

“Excuse you,” he teased, still laughing, his eyes shining with pure entertainment. "That was terrible.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were laughing too, shaking your head as you grabbed your book again, flipping through the pages like you were searching for proof that you had said it correctly. "Fine," you huffed, pretending to be annoyed even though you were enjoying this far more than you should. "Teach me how to say it properly, professeur.”

Charles smirked, leaning in slightly, his voice dropping just enough to make the moment feel too intentional. The space between you suddenly felt smaller, the teasing atmosphere shifting into something else—something neither of you were quite acknowledging yet.

“Gladly," he murmured, his gaze locking onto yours for just a second longer than necessary.

Charles didn’t hesitate. He leaned in just a little more, closing the space between you, his smirk still firmly in place as he spoke again—slower this time, deliberate, letting the word roll off his tongue in a way that made it impossible to ignore.

"Chouette," he repeated, his voice smooth, rich, carrying that effortless charm that made even a simple correction feel like something more.

You watched him carefully, trying to focus on the actual lesson, but it was hard when he was this close, when the warmth of the evening mixed with the quiet hum of the water beneath the yacht, when the teasing glint in his eyes made it clear he was enjoying this far too much.

You cleared your throat, straightening slightly, determined to get it right this time. "Chouette," you tried again, mimicking the way he had said it, paying attention to the way the syllables should sound.

Charles tilted his head, considering it for a moment before nodding slowly. "Better," he admitted, though the smirk never faded. "Still not perfect, but better."

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head. "You’re impossible."

"I’m thorough," he corrected, leaning back slightly, finally giving you a little space—but not too much. "You wanted motivation, didn’t you?"

You exhaled, pretending to be exasperated, but the truth was, you were enjoying this far more than you had expected.

"Fine," you said, crossing your arms. "What’s next, professeur?"

Charles chuckled, reaching for your book again, flipping through the pages like he was searching for something specific.

"Let’s see… something useful this time, maybe?" he teased, glancing up at you with that same playful glint in his eyes.

He smirked, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly, amusement playing behind his sharp gaze as he leaned back against the cushioned seat. There was something about the way he carried himself—unrushed, confident, like he had all the time in the world and was thoroughly enjoying the moment. The soft glow of the yacht’s lights reflected in his eyes, making his expression even more unreadable, more teasing.

"Quel âge as-tu? (How old are you?)" he asked, voice smooth, effortless, slipping into French like it was second nature. The words rolled off his tongue easily, and you wondered briefly if this was still part of the lesson or if he was just trying to collect details about you, learning bit by bit, pretending it was all just casual conversation.

You actually knew what that meant. For a split second, you considered whether he was testing you—gauging how much you had actually picked up from your lessons so far. Was he genuinely curious, or was this just another excuse to keep the conversation going, to shift things into something more personal? Either way, you weren’t going to make it too easy for him.

But you played along anyway.

"J'ai vingt-deux ans (I’m twenty-two)," you answered, keeping your voice casual, easy, like you weren’t thinking too much about the way he was watching you now. The words felt familiar, comfortable enough that you didn’t stumble over them, and you felt the smallest twinge of pride in that.

Charles raised a brow, nodding slowly, considering your response like it meant more than just numbers. He let the moment stretch for a second longer than necessary before finally speaking again.

"Vingt-deux (twenty-two),” he mused, rolling the words over his tongue like he was tasting them, testing how they felt in the space between you. "Not bad."

You smirked, tilting your head slightly, matching his energy. "And you?"

His smirk deepened, like he had been expecting the question, like he had been waiting for it. There was something unreadable in his eyes for just a brief second—something calculating, something amused.

"Vingt-sept (twenty-seven)," he said finally, the number settling between you in a way that made the space feel smaller, more intentional, like the conversation had shifted into something just a little more personal.

And for some reason, you didn’t mind.

You hadn’t expected him to be twenty-seven. Maybe twenty-five at most, but hearing the number settle between you made you reconsider. It suited him—the quiet confidence, the effortless charm, the way he never seemed unsure of himself. He carried himself like someone who knew exactly who he was, someone who had already carved out his place in the world and wasn’t wasting time doubting it.

And really, was it a bad thing?

Rich, pretty, older than you? That was basically everything you wanted wrapped up in one dangerously charming package. He had the kind of presence that made people take notice, the kind of energy that drew you in without you even realizing.

Charles must have noticed something in your expression because his smirk deepened just a little, like he could read your thoughts, like he knew exactly what was going through your mind. His eyes lingered on yours for half a second longer than necessary, like he was quietly enjoying your reaction.

"Surprised?" he asked, voice low, teasing, as if he already knew the answer.

You shrugged, refusing to let him see too much, keeping your expression neutral even though you could feel the way the conversation had shifted slightly. "A little."

He chuckled, shaking his head slightly, eyes still locked onto yours, like he was figuring out the best way to keep this moment stretching just a little longer. "Don’t worry, twenty-seven isn’t old," he mused, his tone playful yet steady, as if daring you to challenge him. "I promise I’ll keep up."

He handed you a glass filled with crisp white wine, the cool surface pressing against your fingers as you accepted it. The golden liquid shimmered under the soft yacht lights, casting reflections that danced with the gentle sway of the boat beneath you. There was something effortlessly smooth about the way Charles moved, like every action was carefully measured yet completely natural at the same time.

"Comment trouvez-vous Monaco? (How do you like Monaco?)" he asked, his voice carrying that same teasing lilt he had kept throughout the night.

This time, you actually understood—or, well, you understood one word. Monaco. The rest? A blur of syllables spoken too fluidly, too easily for you to process.

Still, there was no way you were about to admit that so quickly.

You mirrored his movement, lifting your glass slightly before taking a small sip, buying yourself a second of time. Then, after setting it down, you smirked. "Monaco," you repeated, nodding as if that was a perfectly valid answer.

Charles chuckled, shaking his head slowly, setting his glass down for a moment. "That’s it?" he teased, watching you closely.

"That’s all I got," you admitted, laughing lightly, swirling your wine in the glass. "Something about Monaco. Am I close?"

His grin widened, and he exhaled through his nose, clearly entertained. "Close enough," he mused, swirling his own glass gently before taking a sip. "I asked what you think of it."

You hummed thoughtfully, glancing out over the water, the city lights shimmering in the distance, the soft hum of waves filling the quiet spaces between words.

"It’s… surreal," you admitted after a beat, looking back at him. "Like it’s not real life, you know?"

Charles nodded slowly, studying you for a moment, his expression unreadable—but curious.

"It’s a world of its own," he said, voice softer now, reflective. "Some people come here and never leave."

For a moment, you wondered if he was including himself in that.

You swirled your glass absentmindedly, watching how the golden liquid caught the yacht’s soft lighting, reflecting the quiet glow of the Monaco skyline in the distance. There was something surreal about being here, about sitting across from Charles, about the effortless way the evening had unfolded.

"Just like you?" you asked out of curiosity, tilting your head slightly, your fingers lightly tracing the rim of your glass.

Charles' smirk remained, but his eyes held something softer now, something thoughtful. "I was born here, actually," he said, the words coming out effortlessly, like it was something he had explained a hundred times before.

You blinked, processing his words as you set your glass down. Somehow, the idea of Charles being born in Monaco made perfect sense—but at the same time, it caught you off guard. You had always assumed people came here, drawn in by the glamour, the exclusivity, the effortless luxury. But for him, this wasn’t just a place to visit. It was home.

Charles leaned in slightly, his smile lingering, the challenge evident in his eyes. He had been enjoying this, guiding the conversation just enough to keep you engaged, watching closely as you navigated your way through each question, each attempt at forming sentences.

"But I want you to answer," he said smoothly, tapping his fingers lightly against the side of his wine glass. "In French."

You took a breath, steadying yourself, determined not to let this moment slip. French wasn’t easy for you, and answering on the spot, with him watching, only made it feel more intimidating. But you weren’t about to back down.

Carefully, deliberately, you put your best effort into the answer.

"J'aime cet endroit, surtout maintenant (I love this place, especially now)," you said, the words coming out slower than his but clear enough, confident enough.

Charles tilted his head slightly, considering your response, his smirk deepening just a little, like he was amused by the effort, impressed despite himself.

"Not bad," he mused, taking a sip of his wine, eyes still locked onto yours. "You like this place… especially now?"

You nodded, meeting his gaze, holding onto the moment just long enough for the weight of his words to settle.

"Yes," you admitted, setting your glass down, fingers grazing against the rim absentmindedly. "The lesson is helping."

Charles chuckled, shaking his head slightly. "Ah, so I am a good teacher," he teased, sitting back, watching you like he was still figuring something out.

Charles moved in, slowly, deliberately, closing the space between you with an ease that made your pulse quicken. His presence was impossible to ignore, his confidence effortless, like he knew exactly how close he could get before it became too much—except this time, too much was exactly what you wanted.

The wine had settled in your system, warmth spreading through your limbs, but that wasn’t what made you lean in slightly, wasn’t what made you hold his gaze with unwavering certainty. You wanted this. You wanted him. Even though, just hours ago, he had been nothing more than a stranger who happened to help you park your car.

His voice was low, smooth, carrying that undeniable edge of amusement as he spoke. "Tu es vraiment jolie, tu le sais? (You are really pretty, you know that?)”

And for the first time tonight, you understood every single word.

You felt your breath hitch slightly, but you didn’t let it show. Instead, you exhaled slowly, letting the weight of the moment settle between you.

"You think so?" you mused, tilting your head slightly, watching the way his smirk deepened in response.

"I know so," he murmured, his voice dipping lower, carrying just enough certainty to make the air between you feel heavier, charged.

The hum of the yacht, the quiet waves against the dock, the distant sounds of Monaco—it all faded into the background. Right now, there was only this.

Only him.

Charles’ breath was warm against your ear, his words barely above a whisper, yet you felt them—every syllable, every hesitation. They weren’t just words; they were an unspoken confession, a quiet unraveling of the careful, effortless charm he had worn all evening.

“Je te veux un peu. (I kinda want you)”

It was quiet. Careful. As if he wasn’t sure if he should be saying it at all, as if he was testing the weight of the admission before fully giving in to it. Until now, every glance, every smirk, every lingering touch had felt intentional, like he knew exactly how far to push without giving too much away. But now? Now there was something uncertain, something raw beneath his teasing façade.

“Is it weird?" he asked, his voice softer now, lower, suddenly hesitant in a way that didn’t feel like him.

You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, to catch the faint flicker of uncertainty in his expression, something rare, something unexpected. The space between you was dangerously small, but neither of you moved to widen it.

“You only kinda want me?" you asked, arching a brow, a teasing lilt in your voice—because you weren’t uncertain. Not even a little. You wanted him. More than hesitant words and uncertain breaths. You wanted all of him.

Charles exhaled, his grip tightening ever so slightly, his fingers pressing against yours in quiet confirmation. His smirk returned, curving just at the edges, but there was something different about it now. Something heavier. Something decisive.

“Okay," he murmured, voice lower, thicker, like the hesitation had finally melted away. “Beaucoup. (A lot)”

Charles' eyes held yours, dark with intent, his grip firm against your waist, like he already knew what was coming—like he had been waiting for it. The tension between you had stretched for too long, simmering beneath each teasing exchange, each lingering touch, each second of withheld restraint.

And then, finally—

“Embrasse-moi, Charles. (Kiss me, Charles)”

You barely finished the words before he acted.

He kissed you. Hungrily. There was no hesitation, no teasing buildup anymore—just pure, undeniable want. His hands tightened at your waist, pulling you onto his lap effortlessly, needing you closer, needing more.

His lips moved against yours with intoxicating urgency, fingers pressing firmly into your sides as he drank you in, as if he had decided in that moment that this wasn’t just desire—it was necessary.

The warmth of his body, the steady hum of the yacht beneath you, the rhythm of the waves against the dock—it all blurred into insignificance.

His fingers pressed into the fabric of your dress, his grip tight but controlled, holding you in place as if he couldn’t stand even the smallest bit of distance between you. The yacht swayed gently beneath you, the rhythm of the waves mirroring the way his lips moved against yours—deliberate, intense, possessive.

You sighed into him, your own hands tangling in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him even closer, matching his urgency, meeting his pace.

Charles exhaled against your lips, his breath uneven, his grip tightening at your waist like he was trying to steady himself, like he was savoring the way you fit against him.

"Dieu… (God)” he murmured against your skin, voice low, rough, nearly a groan. "Tu es dangereuse. (You are dangerous)”

Charles' lips moved slowly along your neck, warm and wet, leaving behind red marks that tingled on your skin. Every kiss felt like a spark, like he was setting your nerves on fire with every press of his mouth. He wasn’t in a rush—he took his time, letting each touch sink in, making sure you felt everything.

Your head tilted back, eyes fluttering shut as a soft sound escaped your lips—half sigh, half moan. You could feel him smiling against your skin, as if he knew exactly what he was doing to you. And he did. He always did.

“Fuck, Charles,” you whispered, barely able to speak, the words slipping out before you could stop them. It wasn’t just desire in your voice—it was need. His name came out like a prayer, or maybe a plea, heavy with everything you were feeling and couldn’t put into words.

“J’ai besoin de toi chérie, de toi tout entier (I need you darling, all of you),” Charles whispered into the curve of your neck, his voice low, velvet-soft, and full of quiet need. The words wrapped around you like silk, and a shiver ran down your spine before you could stop it.

You closed your eyes, overwhelmed—not just by the sound of his voice or the way his hands knew exactly where to rest, but by the simple, impossible truth of it all. This moment. This man. You had never imagined anything like it, not even in your most daring, secret dreams. Yet here you were, wrapped in the arms of a man older than you, powerful, undeniably attractive, and utterly, disarmingly real.

─── SIX MONTHS LATER

The sun hung high over Bologna, casting golden light over the terracotta rooftops, warming the historic streets and filling the air with the scent of espresso and freshly baked bread. The city was alive, bustling with movement—locals chatting outside cafés, tourists wandering with cameras slung over their shoulders, the distant hum of a violin playing somewhere in the maze of alleyways.

You hadn’t planned to stay long. It was just a stop—an indulgence before heading to Neapoli to see your friend. A chance to walk these streets you��d always dreamed of visiting, to taste, to experience, to collect fragments of a place you had admired from afar for years.

But then—something made you pause.

A car.

Sleek, polished to perfection, black with a striking red and white stripe cutting through the front. It sat at the curb, motionless yet demanding attention, gleaming under the afternoon light like an invitation you weren’t sure you should take.

Your steps faltered.

You knew this car.

You had seen it before—maybe in Monaco, maybe somewhere else, maybe in a moment that had slipped from your grasp but never really left you.

Nothing seemed more fitting in the moment than pulling out your phone, filming the scene for your friend. You had vlogged your entire trip through Italy—every stunning view, every hidden café, every little unexpected moment. So why not this?

You held up the camera, steadying your grip as you zoomed in slightly, capturing the sleek black Ferrari resting against the curb. The sunlight gleamed off its polished surface, accentuating the striking red and white stripe that cut across the front.

“Questo è così familiare… giuro che ho già visto questa macchina da qualche parte (This is so familiar… I swear I've seen this car somewhere before),”you murmured into the phone, your voice lined with curiosity and amusement.

A fleeting thought pressed at the back of your mind, an eerie sense of recognition tightening in your chest. This car—this exact car—you had seen it before.

You hit record, adjusting your grip on the phone as you zoomed in on the Ferrari parked near the curb. Its glossy black finish gleamed under the Bologna sun, the sharp red and white stripe cutting across the front like a signature—bold, impossible to overlook. There was something undeniably familiar about it, something that made your heart pick up its pace, something that pulled at your memory in a way that you couldn’t quite shake.

“Ragazza, giuro che sembra una follia, ma io conosco questa macchina! (girl, I think I sound completely crazy, but I know this car!)” you exclaimed, your voice carrying a mix of excitement and disbelief as you pointed directly at the car, ensuring it was fully in the frame. The words felt almost surreal as they left your lips, but deep down, you knew it wasn’t just some passing coincidence. You had seen this car before. You had been near it.

Without hesitation, you sent the video to your best friend, watching as the message processed before disappearing into the chat.

Your phone remained in your grip, screen still bright, messages from your friend continuing to flood in one after another. Each notification made the situation feel even more surreal, like reality was still catching up, like fate had decided to drop something unexpected right into the middle of your plans.

You could already imagine her reaction—her shock, her excitement, probably yelling at her screen, demanding answers you weren’t even sure you had.

But before you could even type out a reply, before you could take a single breath to process the moment, a voice slipped effortlessly through the space behind you.

Smooth. Familiar. Teasing.

“Non mi hai detto che parli italiano. (You didn't tell me you speak Italian.)”

The words sent a jolt straight through you, freezing you in place.

Your fingers tightened around the phone instinctively, your heartbeat picking up its pace, the world around you suddenly feeling different—like the sounds of the city had softened, like the warmth of the sun wasn’t the only thing settling against your skin.

Slowly, carefully, you turned.

And then—

Charles.

Standing just a few steps away, effortlessly composed, looking at you with a mix of amusement and curiosity, the faintest smirk playing at the edge of his lips. The sight of him pulled something deep from your memory, something tied to warm nights and whispered challenges, something you hadn’t expected to feel again.

Charles watched you carefully, his gaze steady, holding onto that slight smirk as if he already knew how this was going to unfold. His posture was relaxed, effortless, yet there was something undeniably focused in the way he looked at you—something quietly deliberate, like he was taking in every detail, like he was committing this moment to memory.

You felt the weight of it—the unexpectedness of his presence, the quiet charge lingering in the space between you, the way time seemed to hesitate just long enough to make you wonder if fate really had orchestrated all of this.

It had been six months since Monaco, since nights stretched out on a yacht, since whispered conversations and stolen moments, since something shifted in a way that neither of you had fully defined. You had left knowing there was no clear path forward, no promises, no expectations—and yet, standing here, looking at him now, it was impossible to pretend that nothing had changed.

“You surprise me, chérie," Charles said, slipping his hands into the pockets of his jacket, the teasing edge to his voice not quite masking something deeper beneath it.

You let out a breath, shaking your head slightly, a smirk curling at the corner of your lips despite the rush of thoughts tumbling through your mind. "Seems like I’m not the only one full of surprises."

His chuckle was soft, amused, but his eyes held something more—something familiar yet entirely new.

“It appears fate enjoys playing with us," he mused, his voice lower now, more measured, more certain.

Charles hesitated, his gaze locked onto you with a quiet intensity, like he was studying you, searching for something he wasn’t sure he’d find. The sunlight slipped across his features, highlighting the sharpness of his jaw, the ease in his posture, the familiar warmth in his expression—soft, careful, holding something unspoken.

It had been six months.

Time had passed—fast, slow, uncertain—and yet, standing here, in a city neither of you had planned to meet in, it felt impossibly like none of it had passed at all.

His gaze didn’t waver. It lingered, taking you in, as if he was looking for the parts of you that had changed, the parts that had stayed the same—the parts he had memorized without meaning to.

“Will you stay this time, amore?"

The words left his lips slowly, carefully, carrying something heavier than just curiosity. There was no teasing, no playfulness—just quiet truth. Just a question that felt more like an invitation, more like a possibility, more like hope.

You felt the weight of it press against your chest, the way the words settled into the space between you, waiting—patient, deliberate, meant to be answered.

Stay.

Six months ago, the idea hadn't even been on the table. Monaco had been fleeting, temporary—a moment suspended in time, something that existed separately from reality. And yet, now, standing here in Bologna with Charles watching you, waiting for an answer, it felt like an entirely different choice.

“I will.”

babsie radio ! My first longer Charles fic!! If you’re italian/french and spot any mistakes in the translation, let me know!!

#formula 1 #charles leclerc x female reader #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc #cl16 x y/n #cl16 x reader #cl16 imagine #cl16 x you #cl16 fic #f1 x female reader #scuderia ferrari #f1 writing #f1 imagine #formula one fic #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #forza ferrari

268 notes · View notes