#Help these are sending me into the orbit

[malpractisnt]

More Marvel x text posts bc the fixation is somatizing

[build-a-bruce]

Diana uses make-out misdirection to cover for her and Bruce

Justice League 2001, Season 2 Episode 25, 'Starcrossed Part 2'

[burningcheese-merchant]

I've been jumping ships constantly and I've fell in love with your take on burningcheese yandere and them just being dorks

We definitely need more content of them crk fandom is lacking in that department... I fell into the rabbit hole and it turns out I can't get out! >A<

I love bird behaviour sm like imagine BS wanting to learn about birds because he thinks GC is a bird so it equals as getting to know her better 🥹

Me w/ BurningCheese fr fr

I love when people tell me they like my take on this ship and/or I convinced them to ship it, it makes my day lol. I love them so much, they're EVERYTHING to me. I can't stand the thought of shipping either of them with anyone else. They BELONG TOGETHER. They're SOULMATES. They are a fundamental truth and law of the UNIVERSE!!!

It hurts but I agree with you about the lack of content 🥺 there's a good helping on here and Twitter is, fortunately, FLOODED with BurningCheese (most of it is from Asian fans though), but there's been a dry spell lately and it bums me out. I'm going to try to make up for this with my own doodles + more fics (gonna update the newest one on AO3 later today, also my short story backlog is huge lmao), and hope that the shippers I know on here feed us again soon

Also, totally with you on BS studying bird behaviors in an attempt at wooing GC lmao! I've had that concept on my brain for ages now, it's so Them™️. Gonna try to draw stuff relating to it, so keep your eyes peeled (also also, if you haven't read it, perhaps this little story of mine shall appease you)

Gonna keep seducing people to the BurningCheese dark side without remorse. Thank you for joining my army, together we shall brainwash the entire human race and make BurningCheese the 11th commandment

[nightofthelivingmeme]

It took me until THIS YEAR, the year of our lord 2025, to understand the joke from SNL’s Real Housewives of Disney (released in goddamn 2014)

“At least I didn’t marry a beast.”

“His name is Kelsey Grammer!”

[valentinesparda]

I don't want new crushes because the new ones are hard to figure out ship lore with :(

[druid-for-hire]

There's this sort of anthropomorphizing that inherently happens in language that really gets me sometimes. I'm still not over the terminology of "gravity assist," the technique where we launch satellites into the orbit of other planets so that we can build momentum via the astounding and literally astronomical strength of their gravitational forces, to "slingshot" them into the direction we need with a speed that we could never, ever, ever create ourselves. I mean, some of these slingshots easily get probes hurtling through space at tens of thousands of miles per hour. Wikipedia has a handy diagram of the Voyager 1 satellite doing such a thing.

"Gravity assist." "Slingshot." Of course, on a very basic and objective level, yes, we are taking advantage of forces generated by outside objects to specifically help in our goals. We're getting help from objects in the same way a river can power a mill. And of course we call it a "slingshot," because the motion is very similar (mentally at least; I can't be sure about the exact physics).

Plus, especially compared to the other sciences, the terminology for astrophysics is like, really straightforward. "Black hole?" Damn yeah it sure is. "Big bang?" It sure was. "Galactic cluster?" Buddy you're never gonna guess what this is. I think it's an effect of the fact that language is generally developed for life on earth and all the strange variances that happen on its surface, that applying it to something as alien and vast as space, general terms tend to suffice very well in a lot more places than, like... idk, botany.

But, like. "Gravity assist." I still can't get the notion out of my head that such language implies us receiving active help from our celestial neighbors. They come to our aid. We are working together. We are assisted. Jupiter and the other planets saw our little messengers coming from its pale blue molecular cousin, and we set up the physics just right, so that they could help us send them out to far stranger places than this, to tell us all about what they find out there.

We are assisted.

And there is no better way to illustrate my feelings on the matter than to just show you guys one of my favorite paintings, this 1973 NASA art by Rick Guidice to show the Pioneer probe doing this exact thing:

"... You, sent out beyond your recall, go to the limits of your longing. Embody me. ..."

Gravity assist.

[goosewriting]

The Aftermath

summary: reader visits Joaquín at the hospital as he wakes up from surgery.

relationship: Joaquín Torres x gn!reader

warnings: established relationship, spoilers for captain america: brave new world, mention and description of injuries and medical procedures, mention of accident and explosions, brief mentions of PTSD from events in Infinity War/Endgame, self-doubts and guilt

word count: 2.2k

A/N: i started writing this the moment i came home from watching BNW. can't believe it took me this long to write for him,, he's been rotating in my mind ever since tfantws <3 we really need more fics for joaquín, he’s so blorbo coded like cmon!! 🥹🥹 if you have any recs pls send them my way!

[all masterlists] 🪶 [mcu masterlist] 🪶 [ao3]

(english is not my first language. constructive criticism and grammar corrections are very appreciated!)

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

Sitting by Joaquín’s hospital bed, you bring your hands to your face as you remember his accident on the Indian Ocean. You had watched the broadcast in horror, your heart in your throat as his figure fell from the sky into the open water. 

At that moment, you couldn’t help but remember the video from all those years ago, where you saw how Rhodey had fallen as well, like a rock, everyone watching, unable to do anything to stop him. Just like War Machine, Joaquín had turned uncontrollably on his descent, one of his wings ripped from the suit by the missile exploding right in his face.

You’ve been in the Avengers’ orbit since a little before the battle against Thanos on Wakanda, where you had also fought with everyone, but then got blipped. The transition back to society with a gap of 5 years had been very hard on you, and while you stayed in contact with everyone who remained, helping out whenever you could, you didn’t really have it in you to go back out to the battlefield. Even after all this time, you still have nightmares about the snap and the Battle for Earth. 

Bringing your hands back into your lap, you let out a trembling breath, clinging onto the constant soft beeping of the machinery to tether yourself to reality and not fall down a spiral of despair. Every time your eyes roam over Joaquín’s injuries, you close your eyes, pressing the base of your hands over them, then open them again. Your sight is momentarily sprinkled with dots, and as it clears, you hope for everything to have been a horrible nightmare. But once your view clears up, he’s still there. Unconscious. Hurt.

The surgery he’d been in last night had felt like it was never going to end. Still, you had stayed the whole time, and once he got out, you stayed at his side. 

It’s been several hours since Joaquín got wheeled into his room, the head medic saying he was still unconscious but stable. You shift in the armchair by the bed where you sit. One of the nurses brought you something to eat earlier since you refused to leave, the wrapper of your sandwich still in your hands as your eyes start feeling heavier and heavier, and you can’t find it in yourself to fight the welcome embrace of sleep, slowly spreading through your limbs. You’ve almost completely dozed off when you hear a groan, and immediately your grogginess dissipates. You straighten up in your seat, the wrapper falling to the floor as you scoot closer to the bed, tears stinging behind your eyes. How you still have tears left, you have no idea, given how much you’ve cried in the past hours, terrified of losing the love of your life. 

Joaquín blinks several times, scrunching his face, eyes trying to adapt to the light. He lifts his good arm, looking at the tubes attached to it, and his gaze roams the room and down his body, face contorting in pain lightly. Then his eyes land on you, and his face immediately softens.

“Hey, there,” he croaks out. 

“You’re awake,” you whisper, holding his hand in your trembling ones. “I was scared you wouldn’t.”

“Pfft, it’ll take more than a meagre explosion to defeat the Falcon,” he retorts with a pained smile.

Normally you’d laugh at his jokes, enjoying his silly side, but right now you have no humour left in you. Another wave of tears rolls down your cheeks, and his smile vanishes.

“Please don’t joke about that,” you plead, giving his hand a squeeze. “You were hit by a freaking missile. From a fighter jet. While up in the air between two armies about to start a war with each other.”

“Well, if you put it like that…” He sighs. 

There’s a moment of silence where you again study his bruised face, your gaze landing on the massive burn covering his whole shoulder, streaks of red raw skin visible on his jaw and throat. Your brows furrow in frustration.

“I should have been there,” you mumble, angry at yourself for letting this happen.

“What?” he asks, craning his neck to fully look at you.

“I should have gone with you,” you say, bringing your eyes to look up at him. “Then I could have helped and you wouldn’t have gotten hurt.”

Joaquín exhales through his nose in disbelief.

“We were in the air, and I went head to head with the missile even after Sam told me to back off,” he retorts, shaking his head. “There was nothing you could have done.”

His tone isn’t scolding; he’s telling the truth and you know it. Still, you can’t help but feel like the outcome could have been different, if you had just been better, braver. You try to choke back a sob, unsuccessful, and his hold tightens around your hand.

“Hey, hey. Look at me.” He speaks your name softly. “This isn’t on you. Please don’t cry.”

You grimace, biting the inside of your cheek.

“For a moment I thought you died, Joaquín. I was so scared,” you say with a shaky breath, bringing his hand to your face, and he cups your cheek. You place your hand over his, holding onto it and leaning into his touch like it was the last time you could hold him like this.

“I’m sorry I scared you.”

Your heart shatters at the thought that even after getting hurt, after getting blown up, he’s the one apologising to you. He’s about to add something when the door opens and a nurse comes in. You back off a bit and hastily wipe your face with the back of your sleeves as she does some check-ups, both on Joaquín and the machines, taking some notes on her clipboard. She then takes one of the tubes attached to his arm, and places a syringe at the other end.

“What’s that?” you ask, suspicious. She gives you a quick look with a raised brow, but when she sees the state you’re in, her face relaxes again.

“Painkillers and antibiotics. He’ll need both of them,” she explains.

It doesn’t take long for the fluids to reach Joaquín’s blood system, and he visibly relaxes against the pillows and closes his eyes.

“Oh, hell yeah. That’s the good stuff,” he sighs, and the nurse chuckles softly. You still can’t get yourself to let go of your worry. Once she’s done with everything, she leaves the way she came, exiting the room. As the door closes behind her, your eyes land on the wrapper on the floor, and you pick it up with a sniffle, crumpling it up further.

“Are you hungry? Thirsty? Can I get you anything?” you ask as you throw the trash into the bin from where you sit, to your surprise making the shot. He doesn't answer, eyes still closed.

“Joaquín?” you ask softly, not wanting to wake him in case he fell asleep again.

“Huh? Wha?” His eyes open and he turns to look at you, his face visibly relaxed now.

“You okay?” You take his hand again, and he gives you a squeeze.

“Hmm-mm,” he hums with a nod, blinking slowly as he tries to focus on your face. “I just think I’m… kinda high right now.”

That’s when you finally break, unable to hold back an endeared chuckle, shaking your head. Joaquín’s eyes are filled with warmth and then concern as they land on your face, brows furrowing as if he just noticed something. His hand comes up to wipe away the remaining streak of tears. He also playfully pinches your cheek for good measure, eliciting another smile of yours.

“That’s better,” he concludes, a smile spreading on his face as well. The smile that could light up any room he’s in, in your humble opinion. 

You prop your elbow onto the edge of the bed, head in your hands as you look at him, and he looks back at you with a silly grin. The beeps on the machine speed up a bit, and you look up at the screen, then back at him with a brow raised in amusement.

“Usually you can’t tell because I’m smooth as hell, but it’s true,” he notes, like a huge secret was just uncovered. “You still make my heart race.”

Heat prickles on your cheeks at his words and you avert your gaze with a snort. As long as your heart is still beating, you think, remembering that they had to resuscitate him after the accident, but you shake those thoughts away, preferring to focus on the fact that he’s still here, alive.

“I know that the moment you’re back on your feet, you’ll be out there again, suited up,” you start after a moment, shooting him a serious look. “So I won’t ask you to stop. But promise me to be more careful next time?”

“Pinky promise.” Joaquín lifts his hand, fingers curled except for his pinky, and you can’t help but chuckle as you mirror his gesture, curling your finger around his. He shakes your hand like that side to side for a bit, then drops it back down onto the bed. A strand of hair falls into his face as he leans back, and you brush it back, caressing over his bruised cheekbone gingerly. 

“When was the last time you slept?” he asks suddenly.

“Hmm.” You look at the timestamp on the muted TV in the corner, currently playing some movie or other. It’s only then that you realise you’ve been intermittently awake for almost two full days now. “Can’t really remember,” you lie.

“You need to rest. You look exhausted,” he remarks, gesturing to himself. “I’m taken care of.”

“No, I’m not leaving you,” you say, putting as much finality into your voice as you can in your state.

He says your name softly. You look away. He sighs.

“Well, if you insist on staying, then at least I can get pampered a bit, yeah?” he starts, and you narrow your eyes at him in feigned suspicion. He asks with a playful pout, “You know what would make me feel better?”

“Hmm?” 

Joaquín turns his head, offering you his cheek. You can’t help but laugh. 

“I thought you were high on painkillers already?”

“Even the best medicine holds nothing against your kisses.”

“Pfft, is that so.” Now it’s your heart’s turn to speed up. You two have been together for a while now, but he still makes you feel warm and fuzzy, and gives you butterflies in your stomach, when he isn’t on the brink of death, at least. “Well, in that case, I better get started on your dose.”

You lean forward, placing a kiss on his cheek, and he hums pleasedly. He doesn’t move, though, clearly waiting for more. You’re more than happy to oblige, placing kiss after kiss on his cheeks, his nose, his forehead, being especially careful around his injuries. Finally, you hold his chin to turn his face towards you, and kiss the corner of his mouth, then his lips. It's chaste but sweet, and he smiles into it. When you lean back, his eyes are filled with love, slightly unfocused because of the meds, a goofy grin on his face. As you hold his face, you consider saying something cheesy, hoping he won’t remember it. But before you can speak, there’s a knock at the door, and someone steps in. It’s Sam. He looks surprised to see you.  

“Damn, you’re still here?” he asks with concern, then turns to Joaquín. “How’re you feeling?”

“Splendid, really,” he replies, leaning into your hand still cupping his face.

“He got a decent shot of painkillers,” you explain, looking up at Sam with a tired smile. “He’s high as a kite.”

Sam chuckles, then looks at you worriedly. 

“You need to rest. Both of you.” He places a hand on your shoulder. “Go home, I’ll take it from here.”

You hesitate, looking between the two, and Joaquín nods, his eyes pleading for you to also take care of yourself. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Joaquín says, taking your hand from his face and giving it a squeeze. “I’ll be here when you come back.”

“Right,” you sigh and rise to your feet with wobbly legs now that the exhaustion is finally kicking in full force, and Sam holds you up when your knees threaten to give in. 

“Whoa there. You need a nap, ASAP.” 

“Yeah, yeah I do,” you say with a sigh, steadying yourself as he lets you go, his hands still hovering over your arms for a moment in case he has to grab you again, but you manage to stand straight. You grab your jacket from the back of the chair, and turn to Joaquín. “I’ll come back this evening, okay? I’ll bring your favourite snacks too. Don’t tell the nurse, though.” You wink at him with a knowing smile.

“You’re the best.”

“No, you are.” You lean over him to kiss him goodbye, whispering ‘I love you’ against his lips, and pecking him once more for good measure. The machine’s beeps speed up again.

“Love you too. See you later.” Joaquín brings his hand up to caress over your cheek one last time, then you leave the room.

Sam is still standing there, hands in his pockets, looking down at his friend as the beeps slowly start decreasing back to normal.

“Very cute,” he remarks, unable to bite back a teasing smile. 

“Don’t even,” Joaquín says and rolls his eyes playfully, knowing perfectly well that Sam will never let him live that down.

○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○

🐥 taglist: [link to join in my pinned post!]

[scarletwinterxx]

how long before we fall in love - choi seungcheol imagine

the way i was smiling, throwing air punches when i wrote this. pure 100% fluff coming your way!!!🥺😭🤭 (my head screaming SANA GETS NYO KO as i write this)

you can follow me on x, my un there niniramyeonie 😊🌻

for my other svt fics, check them here

All works are copyrighted ©scarletwinterxx 2025 . Do not repost, re-write without the permission of author.

(photos not mine, credits to rightful owner)

You’re nursing the last of your drink, ice clinking against the glass as you swirl it with deliberate disinterest, hoping the guy beside you gets the hint. He doesn't. His hand lingers too close to your elbow, and every laugh he exhales smells like beer and desperation.

You've already tried subtle. You even lied about having a boyfriend — twice. Still, he leans in with that rehearsed smirk like he's the one doing you a favor.

You scan the room, fast. Desperation breeds boldness, and tonight, you’re emboldened.

Then you see him.

He’s impossible to miss. Seated at the far end of the bar, broad shoulders framed in black, head dipped low as he nurses something amber in a short glass. He looks like he belongs somewhere darker, quieter. Maybe someplace where men don’t smile, only nod. 

You’re not even sure how your legs carry you there, but in three long strides, you’re beside him, heart skittering in your chest like it knows you’ve made a gamble. He glances up, and for a second, you're sure this was a mistake but there's no time for second-guessing.

“Hey, babe,” you say, and your voice barely wavers. “Sorry I took so long.”

His eyes narrow a fraction, and for one charged second, silence stretches between you like a fuse waiting to be lit.

Then his expression shifts. It's subtle, the faintest curl of his mouth, a spark of recognition in his eyes that wasn’t there before.

“There you are,” he says, low and even, like the words were always meant for you. He slips an arm around your waist with a kind of confidence that feels too natural, too smooth.

You think you’ve pulled it off — until a voice slices through the act.

“Seungcheol,” she purrs. She’s suddenly there, close enough that you feel the static of her presence before you even see her. “You weren’t gonna introduce me to your little friend?”

You tense, barely hiding the wince. The stranger, Seungcheol,  doesn’t move his arm.

His voice is calm, even, as if this happens all the time. “Not now, Jiwon”

“But babe—”

He doesn’t even look at her. “And how many times do I have to tell you to not call me that”

Something in his tone makes her falter. She huffs, audibly, but walks away with a forced flick of her hair.

You glance up at him, parting your lips to apologize, but he cuts you off before you can speak.

“You okay?” he murmurs, just for you and you don’t know why but you believe him. You nod.

He leans in just a little, just enough that the warmth of him slips past your skin. “You want me to make sure he stays away?”

And god help you, you say yes.

Seungcheol shifts in his seat, gaze sharp now, trained somewhere over your shoulder. You don’t even have to turn to know the persistent guy’s still hovering. You can feel the weight of him, orbiting.

“Stay close,” Seungcheol says, barely more than a breath against your ear. It shouldn’t send a chill down your spine, but it does.

He stands in one smooth motion, hand still warm against your lower back as he guides you forwar. You catch the guy’s expression the moment he sees who you’re with now. The faux confidence drains from his face in real-time, replaced by something caught between confusion and an almost primal, involuntary instinct to back off.

“Problem?” Seungcheol asks him. He’s not loud. Doesn’t need to be. There’s something in the way he holds himself, loose and deadly, like a predator who doesn’t have to growl to be heard.

The guy lifts his hands in weak surrender. “Nah, man. Just talking.”

“You were done talking when she walked away.”

It’s not a threat. It’s a statement. Inevitable. Irrefutable.

The guy backs off, muttering something that doesn’t sound like an apology, but it doesn’t matter. He’s gone. You exhale for the first time in what feels like minutes.

Seungcheol turns to you again, and just like that, the sharpness in him softens—no less intense, but different now. He looks at you like he’s cataloging something he doesn’t quite understand yet.

“You okay?” he asks again, but this time the question feels more layered. Not just are you safe, but what made you need someone like me?

You nod, slower this time. “Yeah. Thanks. That was… I didn’t expect you to actually go along with it.”

He shrugs. “You looked like you needed out.”

There’s a beat of silence, then—

“You wanna sit?” he asks, gesturing to his now-vacant seat. “I won’t bite. Unless that’s what you’re into.”

It’s deadpan. Almost. You glance at him and find the smallest glint of mischief tucked in the dark of his eyes.

You sit. Maybe it’s the adrenaline, or maybe it’s something else entirely but you get the distinct feeling your night just shifted on an axis you didn’t see coming.

You’ve barely settled into the seat beside him when you feel the disturbance before you see it. She’s back. Jiwon. Her heels click soft and calculated across the floor, posture loose but eyes laser-focused on Seungcheol. She doesn't bother with you, not really. 

She stops at his other side, voice syrupy. “Thought I’d grab you that drink you like,” she says, holding it out like a peace offering. Like she’s done this before and won.

But Seungcheol doesn’t even glance at the glass. He doesn’t blink.

“I’m good here,” he says, calm as still water. “With my girl.”

It hits with the kind of weight that lands sharp but quiet. No performance, no dramatic pause. Just absolute certainty, smooth as silk and impossible to argue with.

You blink. My girl?

Then, as if on cue, he leans in—closer than he’s been all night. His hand brushes against your thigh under the bar, casual but unmistakable. The space between you disappears, and suddenly, all you can see is him.

The edge of his mouth tilts just slightly, a private smirk made only for you.

“I help you,” he murmurs, voice pitched low, just for your ears. “You help me.”

Like a switch, you slip into the role. No hesitation. No breath to second-guess.

You lean in until you’re practically folded into his side, your shoulder brushing his chest, the scent of him filling your senses like a hit of something you’re not supposed to want.

Your fingers find his thigh beneath the bar, light but deliberate, and when you turn your head to face her, your expression is sugar-laced steel.

“Thanks for keeping my boyfriend company,” you say, voice sweet enough to rot, “but we’re good now.”

Jiwon stiffens. You see it in the tight pull of her jaw, the way her hand curls around the untouched glass like she might throw it but she doesn’t say anything. Not really. Just a scoff, quiet and bitter, before she turns on her heel and disappears into the crowd again.

The moment she’s gone, Seungcheol exhales a laugh. Low. Quiet. Almost impressed.

“Well damn,” he says, tilting his head to look at you properly. “Didn’t think you had that in you.”

You arch a brow. “What, the spine or the spite?”

His grin widens, lazy and wolfish. “Both.”

You should pull away. You should return to your drink, your solitude, the night you had before this turned into something else entirely.

But you don’t.

Because now, you’re curious—and curiosity is a dangerous thing when someone like Seungcheol is involved. He smirks again, but there’s something different behind it then he leans down, slow enough to feel deliberate, and you feel it:

The brush of his lips against your bare shoulder.

Barely there. Barely anything. But it sets off a fire low in your belly, a spark you weren’t expecting and definitely weren’t prepared for. Your breath catches, and you turn your head to say something but you’re interrupted.

“Yo, Choi!” a voice calls out, casual and easy, and you look up just as two guys approach the table.

They’re both tall, well-dressed, and annoyingly attractive in that infuriating way that only works because they know it. The one with the long and cat-like grin lifts his brows as he takes in the scene. Your hand still on Seungcheol’s thigh, your body tucked into his side, his lips a breath away from your skin.

“Are we interrupting?” the long haired one asks

Seungcheol doesn’t move away. If anything, his arm tightens slightly around you. “If I say yes, will you go away”

The other one—gentler-looking, nudges his friend. “Jeonghan, stop being an ass. Hi,” he says, this time to you. “I’m Joshua. You?”

You give your name, and Jeonghan grins like you just told him a secret. “Cute. She’s cute.”

Seungcheol doesn’t say anything. He just takes a sip from his drink but there’s something in the way his thumb traces idle circles against your hip that says plenty.

“You’re not usually the type to play house, Seungcheol,” Jeonghan adds, sliding into the seat across from you both. “What’s this, new leaf?”

“Maybe I like what I’m playing with,” Seungcheol says, and his voice is so calm, so unapologetic, that for a second, even you forget this started as pretend.

Joshua raises a brow but doesn’t push it. He just smiles a little, as if he already sees where this is going before either of you do. And when you feel Seungcheol’s hand settle more firmly against your thigh, like he’s staking a claim in front of his friends.

A few drinks later, your head’s pleasantly light, the warmth of alcohol and laughter still lingering in your chest.  Jeonghan and Joshua had finally wandered off to harass someone else, leaving you and Seungcheol alone again, though somehow the silence between you isn’t awkward—it’s alive.

You glance at your phone, blinking at the time. Late.

You push your glass away and sigh, “Alright, I should probably call it. Before I start thinking karaoke’s a good idea.”

Seungcheol chuckles, low and easy. “You’d make a great bad decision at karaoke.”

You shoot him a look, but you’re smiling. “I’m not drunk enough to embarrass myself like that.”

“Pity. I’d pay good money to hear you scream-sing something tragic.”

You snort. “You’re not even pretending to be nice.”

He tilts his head, mock thoughtful. “Did I ever pretend?”

You open your mouth to fire back something snarky, but the moment shifts. Just slightly. Just enough.

You glance toward the exit, suddenly uneasy. The weight of earlier brushes the edge of your thoughts, and now that the buzz is wearing down, the memory of that guy—the lingering stare, the way he didn’t get the hint—sticks.

Seungcheol notices. Of course he does. His eyes sharpen, but his voice stays light.

“Want me to walk you out?”

You hesitate then nod. “Actually… would it be weird if I asked you to drive me home?”

His brows rise just a touch but he doesn’t hesitate. “Not weird,” he says. “I was hoping you'd ask.”

You raise a brow, teasing. “You were hoping?”

“I mean, you’re kind of glued to me tonight,” he says, smirking as he stands, grabbing his jacket. “Thought I’d return the favor.”

You follow him out, the air outside cooler than expected. He opens the passenger door like it’s instinct—like he’s done this for you a hundred times already—and when you slide in, he leans down just enough that your eyes meet.

“You trust me to drive you home?” he asks, voice lower now, a touch more serious, but still laced with that lazy confidence.

You look up at him through your lashes, lips quirking. “I don’t know. Should I?”

And just like that, the door shuts with a soft click and your pulse doesn’t quite settle the whole ride home. When he slides into the driver’s seat, the engine purring to life beneath his hands, you glance sideways at him, half-joking, half-not, voice just a little too casual.

“I’m not gonna end up in a true crime documentary, right?”

He smirks without looking at you, eyes on the road as he pulls out of the lot. “Nah. Too much paperwork.”

You laugh, but he doesn’t stop there.

“If I was gonna murder you, I wouldn’t have bought you drinks first. That’s just inefficient.”

You raise a brow. “Wow. Comforting.”

He glances over at you, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift, his voice a bit softer now

“I mean, you approached me. Technically, this is your villain origin story.”

You feign scandal. “So I lured you in.”

“Exactly. Innocent-looking girl at a bar, bold enough to lie her way into my lap? Yeah, you’re the dangerous one here.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a grin tugging at your lips. “You think I’m innocent-looking?”

He cuts his eyes toward you, a slow once-over that makes the air between you crackle.

“I think you’re a lot of things,” he says. “But innocent? Not buying it.”

And just like that, the car gets a little quieter. Not uncomfortable. Just… charged.

And you wonder, as the streetlights blur past the windows, what you’ve really gotten yourself into tonight.

“Oh,” you say, feigning surprise, a slow smirk curling at your lips. “So you’ve got me all figured out already?”

He glances over, and this time he doesn’t hide the smile.

“Didn’t say that,” he replies smoothly. “I said I’m not buying the innocent act. Big difference.”

You hum, dragging your gaze out the window like you're not grinning.

“Maybe I’m just mysterious,” you tease. “Hard to read. Dangerous, even.”

He snorts. “You’re definitely dangerous.”

“Yeah?” you ask, turning back to him, playful but edged with something more. “Afraid I’ll break your heart?”

He laughs once but then his eyes flick over to you, and it’s different now. He’s not smiling anymore, not quite. His voice drops, soft but steady.

“Nah,” he murmurs, “I’m enjoying this too much.”

You don’t answer right away, and neither does he. The quiet stretches, dense with something neither of you name. But when his hand brushes yours over the center console—barely there, just a question—you don’t pull away.

“And you?” he says, voice quiet, like he’s easing into something he actually wants the answer to. “How come, out of everyone there… you suddenly let yourself strut my way?”

“I don’t know,” you say at first, then pause. “You just looked like the kind of guy who wouldn’t ask questions.”

He huffs a laugh, amused. “You were banking on me being cooperative?”

“I was banking on you being scary enough to make the other guy piss himself.”

“And I was.”

You grin despite yourself. “So humble.”

He finally turns to look at you fully, eyes dark but curious, a faint crease in his brow like he’s studying you a little deeper now.

“But that’s not it,” he says. “Not really.”

You tilt your head. “No?”

“No. You could’ve gone to the bartender. The bouncer. Your friends, if you had any there. But you came to me.”

You’re quiet for a beat too long, because—yeah. He’s right.

So you shrug, pretending it’s simple when it’s not. “Guess I like walking toward the fire sometimes.”

He laughs again, deeper this time, but there’s something thoughtful behind it.

“Then lucky for you,” he murmurs, eyes still on you, “I don’t burn easy.”

And your heart? Yeah. It skips. Hard.

=

The next morning, Seungcheol walks into the office ten minutes late with zero regrets and exactly one iced Americano in hand, looking irritatingly composed for someone who got maybe four hours of sleep.

He’s barely set his cup down when Jeonghan’s voice sings from across the room.

“Well, well, well—if it isn’t Mr. I-Don’t-Do-Relationships strolling in like a man who definitely didn’t go straight home last night.”

Joshua looks up from his laptop, raising a brow with a barely contained smirk. “So… who was she?”

Seungcheol doesn’t answer. Just pulls off his jacket and hangs it up with surgical precision, like he’s trying not to indulge them.

Which, of course, only makes them hungrier.

“C’mon, Cheol,” Jeonghan pushes, trailing him to his desk like a cat stalking something shiny. “You had her in your lap half the night. You don’t cuddle in public. I didn’t even know you could cuddle.”

“Technically,” Joshua adds, “I think she was in the driver’s seat.”

“Literally and figuratively,” Jeonghan nods. “She had you wrapped. It was… inspiring.”

Seungcheol exhales through his nose and finally turns around, arms folded, leaning against the edge of his desk like he’s humoring children.

“She was someone who needed help,” he says evenly. “That’s it.”

Jeonghan’s eyes glint. “So you just happened to keep your hand on her thigh all night out of… community service?”

Joshua’s tone is gentler, but no less pointed. “You looked comfortable. Not pretending-comfortable. Just… real.”

Seungcheol hesitates. He hates that they’re good at this. That they know how to read the cracks in his tone.

“She was easy to talk to,” he admits. “Didn’t play games. No agenda.”

Jeonghan fake gasps. “Wait. You liked her.”

He rolls his eyes. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t not say it,” Joshua counters.

Jeonghan grins like he just won something. “What’s her name?”

Seungcheol smirks now, because this is the part he won’t give them. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

And when he turns back to his desk, his phone buzzes once.

A message from you.

You:  So… if I walk into your office right now, am I gonna ruin your mysterious, emotionally unavailable persona?

He stares at it for a second, then smiles—small and private. Maybe he is in trouble. He stares at your text for a beat longer, thumb hovering over the keyboard like he’s weighing something heavier than the words.

Seungcheol: Only if you walk in looking like last night. My reputation wouldn’t survive it.

Seungcheol: Free for lunch? I’ll come to you.

He hits send before he can think better of it.

Across the room, Jeonghan is still dramatically theorizing about your identity, now halfway into a ridiculous monologue about you being an international art thief who seduced Seungcheol for corporate secrets.

He ignores it because right now, he’s more interested in seeing you again and if that means sneaking in an hour between meetings and pretending he’s not the kind of guy who clears his calendar for a woman he just met, then so be it.

A little past noon, your phone buzzes again. You’re mid-email, squinting at your screen, when the notification pops up.

Seungcheol: Outside. Come down. I brought bribes.

You blink. Bribes? What does that even mean? Curiosity wins out fast. You grab your phone, smooth your outfit and head down.

The moment you step out, you see him leaning against a sleek black car that absolutely screams expensive and unnecessary, sunglasses pushed up in his hair, holding a paper bag and two drinks.

Your brows lift. “So this is you not trying?”

He grins, looking annoyingly perfect for someone who probably woke up late and still somehow managed to make the pavement feel like a runway. “Told you. Bribes.”

You walk up slowly, eyeing the bag. “What is it?”

“Sandwiches. From that overpriced place near here. Hope you’re not one of those 'just salad' people.”

You narrow your eyes. “I contain multitudes.”

He chuckles, hands you your drink. “Good. You’ll need them to keep up.”

You gesture toward the car. “So, this your day job? Picking up women and showing off your mysterious wealth?”

He laughs genuinely, this time. “Would you believe me if I said I’m just a humble middle manager?”

You give him a long, skeptical once-over. “Not a chance.”

He opens the passenger door for you again like it's a habit. Like he already knows you’ll get in and you do. Because lunch with Choi Seungcheol? Yeah. That sounds like danger worth walking toward twice.

You slide into the passenger seat, you glance at him as he rounds the front of the car and settles into the driver’s seat again, placing the food carefully between you.

“Okay, so what is it that you actually do?” you ask, peeling open the sandwich wrapper, the scent already unfairly good.

He shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “Management. Mostly.”

“That’s vague as hell.”

“Intentionally,” he says, shooting you a sideways glance. “You’ll find I’m very good at withholding.”

You snort. “Is that your way of saying you’re emotionally constipated?”

“No, that’s me saying I like keeping some cards close.” He takes a bite of his sandwich, chews, swallows. “Makes things interesting.”

You hum, eyes narrowing just a touch. “So you’re not gonna tell me what your job actually is?”

He shakes his head slowly. “Not yet. I kind of like that you don’t know.”

You blink. “Why?”

He turns toward you fully now, one arm draped over the back of your seat, eyes lazy and unreadable but focused—very focused—on you.

“Because if you knew,” he says slowly, “you might treat me differently.”

Something flickers behind his tone. Not arrogance. Something quieter. Something worn and for a second, you forget you're supposed to be teasing him.

You hold his gaze. “Then maybe I’d rather not know.”

He searches your face for a beat, like he’s waiting for you to flinch, waiting for that inevitable shift he’s used to seeing in people when they do find out. But you don’t.

You just take another bite of your sandwich and speak through your smirk.

“So, Mr. Vague Middle Manager, are all your dates catered and chauffeured?”

That draws a full laugh out of him—deep and unguarded.

“This a date now?” he throws back.

You shrug with exaggerated innocence. “You did bring food. And bribes. And you’re staring at me like you wanna ruin my whole week.”

He hums, low and amused, eyes dropping to your lips and staying there just a little too long.

“Trust me,” he murmurs, “if I wanted to ruin your week… you’d know.”

And just like that, your heart forgets how to beat steady.

Again.

The place he takes you to is tucked away on a quiet side street. nothing flashy, no fancy valet, no five-star pretensions. Just the warm, familiar smell of grilled meat and the faint sizzle of something delicious already hitting a hot pan.

You recognize it immediately. The kind of Korean spot that’s half comfort, half chaos. Worn wooden tables, metal chopsticks in tin cups, steam clouding the windows from hot broth and soju-fueled laughter. A place where people don’t come to impress, they come because it feels like home.

He pulls the door open for you, and the ahjumma behind the counter beams when she sees him.

“Seungcheol-ah!” she calls, already bustling toward the kitchen. “Same table?”

He nods, bowing slightly in greeting. 

You look at him sideways. “Regular, huh?”

He shrugs, the edge of his mouth twitching. “Told you. I like places where people don’t ask too many questions.”

She’s already setting the table as you both slide into the booth. The tabletop grill is already heating, meat—samgyeopsal, thick-cut and glistening—lands in the center with a satisfying thud.

He picks up the tongs like he’s done this a hundred times, which he probably has, and starts placing the pork belly on the grill, the sizzle instant and loud.

“Wow,” you say, smirking. “So this is how you impress women.”

“I’m feeding you, aren’t I?” he says, eyes focused on flipping the meat with practiced ease. “It’s a love language.”

“You do seem suspiciously fluent in this.”

“You gonna psychoanalyze me now?”

You lean your chin into your hand, watching him with lazy interest. “Maybe. Or maybe I just like watching you cook.”

He glances up, brow raised, but there’s a flicker of something else in his gaze now. That slow burn again.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “Flirting with me at a restaurant I come to every week? You’re treading into girlfriend territory.”

You pop a piece of kimchi into your mouth and smile like it’s nothing. “Wouldn’t want to ruin your reputation.”

“Too late.”

There’s something light about this but underneath, there's a current neither of you are pretending to ignore anymore.

He wraps a piece of grilled meat in lettuce, adds a bit of ssamjang and garlic, then holds it out across the table.

“For you,” he says, voice soft, hand steady.

You pause. Then lean forward, take it straight from his fingers, lips brushing his skin on the way.

And the look in his eyes?

Yeah, lunch just got a lot more complicated.

You're mid-chew when the ahjumma comes back over, wiping her hands on her apron, eyes sharp and curious as she sets another bowl of pickled radish down on the table.

She turns to Seungcheol with a knowing grin. “You’re not with the usual troublemakers today. Who’s this lovely girl? You got married and didn’t tell us?”

You almost choke. Seungcheol freezes for a secondbut then, smooth as ever, he swallows, glances at you, and smiles like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Not married yet,” he says casually, sliding his chopsticks into the rice like punctuation. “But I’m working on it.”

Your eyes snap to him. Excuse me?

The ahjumma gasps, clearly delighted. “Aigoo! She’s pretty and patient—finally, a girl who can handle you! Yah, I prayed for this!”

You blink at her. Then at Seungcheol. He’s not even flinching. The man has the audacity to look pleased.

“Ah, he’s exaggerating,” you say quickly, giving the auntie a smile and trying not to combust. “We just—”

“—Make a good team,” Seungcheol finishes for you, eyes flicking to yours with a glint of mischief. “She keeps me in line.”

The ahjumma sighs dreamily, clearly buying the whole act. “Don’t let him go, sweet girl. He might act cool, but he needs someone who’ll yell at him when he forgets to eat. This one’s stubborn.”

You nod solemnly. “He does give off that energy.”

“Exactly!” she points at you like you’re a genius. “You understand already! Just marry him.”

Seungcheol coughs into his drink, but he’s grinning now, and you can’t help it—you’re laughing, eyes narrowed at him across the table.

The auntie bustles off, muttering about bringing more side dishes for the happy couple.

You lean in, tone low and pointed. “Married? Really?”

He shrugs, unabashed. “What? You handled it like a pro. I’m impressed.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he says, sliding another wrap your way, “you’re still here.”

You hate how easy it is to smile at him. Hate it even more that he’s smiling too—like he likes whatever this is just as much as you do.

The ride back to your office is quieter, he pulls up in front of your building, shifts the car into park, and glances over at you.

You unbuckle your seatbelt slowly. “Thanks for lunch.”

“You make it sound like I’m not planning on doing it again.”

You grin, leaning just a little closer. “Oh? Planning on making a habit out of me?”

His smirk is there, but softer now. “Thinking about it.”

You hop out before you say something stupid. Before he says something worse. But before you can shut the door, he leans across the console and says, quieter:

“Text me when you get up there. Just so I know you made it.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile betrays you. “Yes, Dad.”

He raises a brow. “You really want to test that boundary this early?”

You shut the door before your brain melts and give him a mock salute through the window.

By the time Seungcheol pulls into the garage under his own office building, he’s five minutes behind schedule and vaguely irritated at how fast traffic moved now that he was in a rush.

He checks his phone in the elevator: one message from you.

You: Alive. Fed. Still thinking about that ssam you made. 8/10.

He grins to himself just as the elevator dings open on his floor. Unfortunately, his mood immediately sours when he sees who’s already in the conference room, arms folded, feet on the table like he owns the place.

Jeonghan.

The second Seungcheol steps through the door, Jeonghan looks at his watch dramatically.

“Five minutes late. How domestic of you.”

“Save it,” Seungcheol mutters, dropping into the seat across from him.

Jeonghan smirks like he’s been waiting for this moment. “So? Was it worth it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Uh-huh. You’re flushed, your hair’s a little messy, and for once, you didn’t glare at anyone” Jeonghan taps his fingers against the table. “You’re basically glowing.”

Seungcheol sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “Can we just get through this meeting?”

“Oh, we will,” Jeonghan says brightly. “But not before you tell me if she’s single, if she has friends, and if your sudden boyfriend energy is gonna affect this quarter’s performance.”

Seungcheol narrows his eyes. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Absolutely.”

The days blur together. You two still talk, in between meetings and his hectic schedule he would always find some time for you. When he’s free he’ll go drive to you and grab lunch, wherever you want or sometimes a surprise.

It’s just past six when Seungcheol finally leans back in his chair, eyes dragging away from the spreadsheet he’s barely processed for the last fifteen minutes.

His fingers hover over his phone for a second before he gives in to the impulse—simple and direct.

Seungcheol: You free for dinner?

You:Yes. Come rescue me.

He smirks, already pushing back from his desk. Jacket on. Sleeves rolled. A very quiet kind of urgency in his steps.

On your end, the timing couldn’t be more perfect. Your coworkers have been hovering at your desk all afternoon, buzzing about Friday drinks like it’s the social event of the year. They’re already lining up shots in their heads, plotting karaoke and potential chaos.

“You coming, right?” one of them asks, nudging your elbow. “C’mon, you always dip. Just one night.”

You smile politely, already trying to edge away. “I actually have plans—”

“With who?” another cuts in, eyebrows raised. “You’ve been glowing all week.”

You blink. “What is it with people and this glowing thing?”

They groan. “So you do have a date. Who is he?”

Before you can lie—or dodge, or disappear into thin air—your phone buzzes again.

Seungcheol: Be there in twenty. What kind of rescue we talking? Fire escape or just dramatic entrance?

You bite your lip to suppress the grin that tries to surface.

“Just someone picking me up,” you say vaguely, grabbing your bag and ignoring the chorus of curious oohs that follow.

“You’re no fun,” one of them whines as you make your escape. “At least send us a picture! We won’t believe he exists!”

You wave behind you. “Exactly why I’m not sending one.”

They groan louder, but you’re already walking toward the elevator, pulse picking up just a little. You don’t know what this is with him yet—not really. But it’s enough to have you hoping the next twenty minutes pass just fast enough.

You make it out of the building just as the sun is dipping behind the city skyline, casting everything in that dusky golden glow that feels almost too cinematic for real life. As if on cue, his car pulls up. 

The passenger window rolls down, and there he is, arm resting on the wheel, watching you with that lazy, low-key amused smile that somehow makes your heart skip like it’s late for something.

“You always look like you just walked out of a movie,” you say as you slide in, tossing your bag at your feet.

He glances over, that grin growing as he shifts the car into drive. “Funny. I was just thinking the same about you.”

You shake your head, suppressing a smile. “Flattery before food? Risky move.”

“Not flattery,” he says, glancing at you as he pulls into traffic. “Observation. You look like you needed a getaway.”

You sigh dramatically, letting your head thud against the seat. “You have no idea. They were trying to hold me hostage for soju and noraebang.”

He chuckles, tapping the wheel. “I’d pay to see that.”

“You would,” you mutter. “Anyway, thanks for the timely rescue.”

“Anytime,” he says, tone quiet but sincere.

For a moment, you both fall into comfortable silence, the hum of the road filling the space. It’s not awkward. If anything, it’s the kind of quiet that only settles when someone’s presence feels... easy.

“Where are we going?” you ask after a while, glancing at him.

He tilts his head, lips tugging upward. “Somewhere that serves food hot, drinks cold, and lets me look at you across the table without interruption.”

You arch a brow. “Is that your version of romantic?”

“No,” he says. “That’s my version of honest.”

Your stomach does that annoying little flutter again. He doesn’t look at you when he says it, but his hand briefly brushes your knee in a turn—accidental, maybe—but he doesn’t pull away too quickly.

The drive takes longer this time, farther out from the noise of downtown, the streets growing quieter, narrower.

You glance over at him. “You’ve got a thing for hidden spots, huh?”

“I don’t like crowds,” he says simply. “And I like places that let me hear you when you talk.”

You pause, caught off guard by the casual weight of it. “You’re smooth.”

“I’m observant,” he corrects, pulling into a tiny gravel lot tucked away

You step out and take in the place. No line. No obvious branding. Just the kind of restaurant people guard like a secret.

“This place looks like it has stories,” you murmur, tucking your hands into your coat.

“It does,” he says, rounding the car to walk beside you. “Mostly about good food. And about the owner being mildly terrifying if you show up drunk and disrespectful.”

You laugh, and he pulls the door open for you, holding it until you step inside.

It’s warm. Cozy. The scent of doenjang jjigae and grilled mackerel hangs in the air. The lights are soft, yellow, casting everything in that old-kitchen comfort glow. You’re seated in the farthest corner, a little nook with floor cushions and a small table already set with water, chopsticks, and folded linen napkins. The privacy of it feels intentional.

The owner, a silver-haired woman in a worn apron, comes over with barely a word, just a sharp eye and a small smile when she sees Seungcheol.

“You brought someone,” she says, voice raspy but kind. “She’s pretty. And awake, unlike the last idiot your friend brought.”

Seungcheol winces. “That was Mingyu.”

She waves him off, already handing you both menus like she’s decided you’re staying regardless.

You stifle a laugh. “Do all your regular spots come with built-in character witnesses?”

“Only the good ones,” he replies, flipping open the menu. “What’re you in the mood for?”

You pretend to study the list, but really, you’re watching the way he sits here—comfortable, known, but still somehow wrapped in mystery. Like there’s more under the surface that he only lets people see in pieces.

“You choose,” you say, passing your menu across the table. “You haven’t steered me wrong yet.”

He takes it with a slow smile. “Dangerous trust.”

“You like that about me,” you say without missing a beat.

His eyes meet yours, steady and sure.

“I do.”

And the way he says it?

It isn’t playful. Isn’t light. It lands somewhere between a promise and a warning.

And suddenly, the quiet between you feels like something else entirely.

He closes the menu without looking at it for too long, then says something casual to the owner, his tone respectful but familiar. She gives you one last look (a little assessing, a little approving) before disappearing toward the kitchen with a short nod.

You raise an eyebrow. “You didn’t even ask what I wanted.”

He leans back, completely unbothered. “I did.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah. You said, ‘you choose.’ That’s verbal consent. Witnessed and documented.”

You snort. “Okay, lawyer.”

He grins. “You’ll thank me in a few minutes.”

And you do. Because when the food comes, it’s thin wheat noodles in a light broth, topped with julienned vegetables, sliced egg, seaweed, and just a hint of sesame oil. The aroma alone makes your eyes widen.

Your inner monologue might as well be standing on a table, screaming. He ordered noodles. My weakness. My love language. My eternal home.

“Are you a mind reader?” you ask, unable to hide your excitement as you pick up your chopsticks.

“I had a hunch,” he says, watching you with mild amusement as you practically dive in. “You look like someone who’d fight for the last noodle in a pot.”

You pause with your chopsticks halfway to your mouth. “Is that a compliment or a psychological profile?”

“Depends.” He’s smiling, elbow propped lazily on the table, eyes fixed on you. “Are you the type to share your noodles, or hoard them?”

You pretend to consider it, chewing thoughtfully. “Depends on who’s asking.”

He laughs, low and full. The kind that catches in your chest.

The food is simple, warm, deeply comforting. Not because of the food, exactly. But because of who’s sitting across from you. And how easy he makes all of this feel.

And when he steals one of your noodles just to prove a point? You let him.

As you both finish the last of the broth, the warm glow of the restaurant wrapping around you like a lazy blanket, you lean back on your cushion and stretch your legs under the table, nudging his knee with your foot.

You glance at the time on your phone and raise a brow. “It’s not even eight,” you say, mock-disbelief in your voice. “Don’t tell me you’re the type to go to bed right after dinner. Old-man hours already?”

“What, you think I’m boring?”

You shrug. “I mean… I don’t know. The cozy dinner. The secret spot. The soft lighting. This has bedtime-by-nine written all over it.”

“You’re lucky I like you,” he mutters, grabbing the check before you can even reach for your wallet.

You blink. “Wait. What was that?”

“I said,” he repeats, standing smoothly and ignoring your faux-innocent stare, “you’re lucky I like you.”

“Bold assumption,” you say, following him toward the door. “You don’t know me like that.”

He holds the door open, leaning into the frame as you step past him. “You say that, but you’re not running away.”

You pause outside, cold air kissing your skin as you glance up at him.

“I’d say that depends,” you murmur, lifting your chin slightly. “Are you planning to make the night more interesting or tuck me in with warm milk and a bedtime story?”

“I was thinking…” he steps a little closer, voice dipping, “maybe something in between.”

Your pulse flickers fast. Intrigued.

“So,” you say, eyes narrowing. “What now?”

He glances toward the car, then back at you. “Let’s drive.”

“That’s it? Just a drive?”

He shrugs. “You scared I’m secretly boring?”

You smile, teeth catching your bottom lip as you shake your head. “No. I’m scared you’re not.”

The city peels away behind you, all neon and noise in the rearview, replaced by wider roads and quieter corners. You glance over at him as he drives, one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily on the gearshift. 

"You always drive like this?" you ask, the wind catching in your voice just slightly.

He glances over, curious. “Like what?”

“Like you're in a movie. Slow, steady. No destination, just vibes.”

His mouth tugs into that crooked half-smile. “Wouldn’t be the worst scene to be in.”

You roll your eyes, but your grin gives you away. “You're really running with this leading-man energy, huh?”

“You’re the one who asked me to rescue you. I’m just sticking to the role.”

"Right. So where's the dramatic monologue about how you're secretly emotionally unavailable but somehow willing to change only for me?"

“That’s coming in act three,” he says smoothly. “Right after the almost-kiss and right before I mess it all up.”

You’re laughing now, really laughing, and when you glance at him again, he’s not even pretending not to stare.

He clears his throat. “There’s a lookout just up ahead. View’s nice this time of night.”

“Another hidden spot?”

“You doubting my taste now?”

“Never. Just making sure you’re not lulling me into a false sense of security before you reveal you are, in fact, a very charming serial killer.”

He chuckles under his breath. “If I was, you wouldn’t’ve made it past the noodles.”

You hum. “Fair point. Still. You are dangerously smooth.”

“I could say the same about you.”

That brings a new kind of quiet. One with heat underneath it.

By the time he pulls up to the lookout you’re not sure whether you’re more captivated by the view outside, or the one inside the car.

He kills the engine but makes no move to get out. Neither do you.

“So,” he says after a beat, voice a little lower. “Still think I’m putting you to bed before nine?”

You smirk, turning just slightly toward him. “We’re well past bedtime, Cheol.”

And somehow, that feels like the most dangerous thing you’ve said all night. He huffs a short laugh through his nose, eyes narrowing slightly with amusement as he shifts to face you more fully in the dim glow of the dashboard lights.

You tilt your head, feigning casual. “Just doing my due diligence,” you say, poking at the corner of the console with your nail. “Before this gets… you know. Interesting. You don’t have kids right? Or a wife waiting at home something like that”

He raises a brow, resting his arm against the back of your seat. “Interesting, huh?”

He doesn’t deny it. Just lets that lazy grin spread as he lets his gaze settle on you—like he’s trying to read between your words and the space between your knees brushing his.

“No wife,” he says finally. “No kids. No secrets.”

You blink. “Wow. A full set.”

He leans in just a little, voice lower now. “Disappointed?”

You laugh, the sound soft, breathless. “Relieved, actually. I’d hate to be a plot twist in someone else’s drama.”

“No,” he murmurs. “If anything, you feel like the beginning of something.”

You freeze just for a second.

“Are you always like this? Charming, smooth-talking, devastatingly good at timing?”

His fingers brush a strand of hair behind your ear, slow and deliberate. “I don’t know. You tell me.”

“Guess I’ll need more data.”

He laughs again—quiet, warm—and lets the moment linger in that hazy space between restraint and intent. Outside, the city glows. But in here, it’s just the two of you, suspended in that delicious kind of silence where everything feels possible.

You swallow lightly. “So… how much data are we talking? One night? Two? A whole series?”

His smile curves, lazy and full of mischief. “Are you asking how many dates it takes before I kiss you?”

“Maybe,” you say, voice just above a whisper. 

“Depends how good the data is.” He leans in a little, not touching you yet but close enough. His voice dips, rough around the edges in that way that sends a shiver up your spine.

Your breath catches, pulse ticking a little faster, but you don’t lean away. If anything, you meet him halfway.

You exhale slowly, watching his eyes flick down to your mouth.

“You’re really not going to kiss me, are you?” you ask, a little breathless now.

He smirks, gaze lifting back to yours.

“I will,” he says. “But not because it’s expected.”

You blink, pulse stuttering.

“Then why?”

He tilts his head, thumb brushing the curve of your cheekbone.

“Because the second I do… it stops being light and easy. And I think we both know it.”

You sit there for a second, stunned into silence—because he’s not wrong. There’s a weight to this that neither of you are quite ready to name, but it’s there. Unspoken, humming like the low thrum of electricity before a storm.

So instead, you nod—slow, almost amused.

“You’re dangerous, Choi Seungcheol.”

He leans back just slightly, watching you with that infuriatingly unreadable expression.

“And you’re trouble.”

You smile.

“So what now?”

He reaches for the gear shift, gaze still lingering on you.

“Now,” he says, “I drive you home before we both make very bad, very good decisions.”

And you don’t argue.

But as he pulls away from the lookout, your fingers resting dangerously close to his on the center console, you get the feeling this isn’t the end of the night.

It’s just the prelude.

=

The sky is painfully clear, bright blue with not a cloud in sight and the sun has no business being this aggressive before noon.

Jeonghan’s halfway through lining up his swing when he notices it. The stillness. The quiet hum of something off.

He looks over and nearly misses his shot entirely.

“Okay,” he mutters, club dangling from one hand as he turns toward Joshua. “Am I hallucinating or is Seungcheol smiling at his phone?”

Joshua, already sipping on an iced americano and way too comfortable in his obnoxiously pastel golf attire, raises an eyebrow and glances over at their friend, who’s sitting on the edge of the golf cart with his phone in hand, thumb tapping out something quick.

And yeah. He's definitely smiling. Not smirking. Not plotting someone’s downfall.

Actually, smiling.

Joshua leans closer, squinting dramatically. “Are we about to die? Should I call my mom?”

“Maybe he’s reading memes,” Jeonghan says, though his voice lacks conviction.

“Right,” Joshua snorts. “Because Seungcheol totally wakes up and chooses cat videos.”

They both watch him a beat longer.

Seungcheol finally glances up, catching their stares. “What?”

Joshua holds his drink up like it’s a toast. “Just wondering if we need to evacuate Seoul. You good, buddy?”

Jeonghan crosses his arms. “You’re smiling, Cheol. Like… full teeth. Sunshine smile. Are you in pain? Blink twice if it’s a hostage situation.”

Seungcheol rolls his eyes, but the corners of his mouth don’t drop. If anything, they twitch higher when his phone buzzes again and he types out a quick reply before tucking it away in his pocket.

“Y’all are dramatic.”

“Oh no no,” Jeonghan says, hopping into the cart. “You don’t get to be mysterious. Who is she?”

“There’s no she.”

“Liar. You haven’t looked this happy since Mingyu fell into that koi pond.”

Joshua hums, thoughtful. “It’s the girl from the bar, isn’t it?”

Seungcheol doesn't answer which is an answer in itself.

Jeonghan squints. “Wait, you’re still talking to her? Damn. I thought that was just a one-night distraction.”

Seungcheol shrugs, grabbing his club and walking toward the next hole. “Maybe I like being distracted.”

Joshua raises his brows. “He’s whipped.”

“Absolutely whipped,” Jeonghan echoes, grinning like he’s already plotting how to make this his new favorite topic of conversation.

The reason for that rare, suspiciously soft smile on Seungcheol’s face? Easy.

It’s sitting in his phone, timestamped at 8:02 a.m. 

A photo of your desk, where a bouquet of creamy white ranunculus and pale blush roses now sits in the center, like it owns the place. A handwritten note tucked between the blooms simply reads:

Thanks for keeping me up past my bedtime. - CSC

Your caption underneath the photo had been equally unfair.

You: You smooth bastard. You knew I liked flowers, didn’t you?

He hadn’t, actually but he guessed. Just like the noodles. And the way your voice lit up over the phone when he mentioned he had a surprise coming. 

It was a hunch, like everything else about you so far, a series of guesses that kept turning out more right than he probably deserved.

You: Do I have to say thank you over lunch or dinner? Because I can clear my schedule.

Hence: the smile.

The same one he’s fighting right now, out on the golf course, while Jeonghan interrogates him like a nosy mother with a magnifying glass.

“She thanked me,” Seungcheol says finally, smirking to himself as he adjusts his grip on the club.

Joshua frowns. “For what?”

He doesn’t even look up as he swings. “For the flowers I sent this morning.”

There’s a pause.

“Flowers?” Jeonghan yells from the cart. “Oh, we’re officially in rom-com territory now.”

Joshua leans on his driver. “You used to make fun of me for that. Remember back then when I got my girlfriend flowers after two weeks and you called me a simp with no spine?”

“I was right. You were insufferable,” Seungcheol replies easily. “I, on the other hand, am charming.”

Jeonghan snorts. “You sent ranunculus, didn’t you?”

That actually gets Seungcheol to glance over, brow raised. “How the hell do you know that?”

“Because you’re dramatic,” Jeonghan deadpans. “And because you’re literally the only person I know who flirts with florals like it’s a love letter.”

He shrugs, but the smug look doesn’t leave his face.

“She liked them.”

And really, that’s all he needs today. Not the perfect swing, not a quiet weekend, not even an answer to whatever it is that's slowly, surely happening between you and him.

You’re barefoot, hair up in a loose bun, sleeves shoved past your elbows, and a cleaning rag hanging off your shoulder like a badge of honor. There's a half-folded pile of laundry on the couch, your favorite playlist echoing from the kitchen speaker, and the scent of lemon cleaner still lingers in the air.

You weren’t thinking about him. Not exactly. Okay, maybe a little.

But still, when the doorbell rings, you freeze mid-wipe, glancing toward the door like it might be another delivery.

Flowers again?

You make your way over, still patting your hands dry on your pajama shorts, and swing the door open without much thought.

And your heart absolutely stutters.

Because standing there isn’t a courier. Or a stranger.

It’s him.

Choi Seungcheol, dressed down in jeans, a dark tee, and that unfairly calm expression that somehow looks even better in daylight. One hand casually stuffed in his pocket, the other holding up a familiar-looking takeout bag.

“You said lunch or dinner,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Thought I’d split the difference.”

You blink, stunned and slightly underdressed for this plot twist. “You—wait, you’re here?”

He lifts the bag slightly. “Samgyeopsal dosirak. And something sweet because I thought you might need dessert after all that dusting.”

You let out a soft, surprised laugh, stepping back instinctively to let him in. “You could’ve texted.”

“I could’ve,” he agrees, stepping past the threshold, eyes flicking to the mess of throw pillows and laundry and general weekend chaos. “But I figured showing up gets me bonus points.”

“Bold move,” you say, shutting the door behind him.

He shrugs, setting the bag down on your kitchen counter. “You already called me smooth this morning. Might as well live up to it.”

You watch him for a moment, slightly in awe—and slightly mortified you’re wearing an old t-shirt and fuzzy socks while he looks like that.

“Sorry for the mess,” you mutter, grabbing a few stray pieces of laundry and shoving them toward a basket.

Seungcheol just leans against your counter, watching you with that amused, unreadable expression.

“Relax,” he says. “I kind of like seeing you like this.”

You pause mid-fold. “Like what? Disheveled and unprepared?”

“Comfortable,” he corrects. “Like yourself.”

You clear your throat and gesture to the bag. “Well… you coming all this way with food means you’re definitely staying to eat, right?”

He grins. “Only if you sit next to me this time.”

“Scandalous,” you murmur, already pulling out plates. “We’ll have to keep the blinds shut. Can’t let the neighbors catch me fraternizing with the flower guy.”

He lets out a low laugh as he moves to help, and just like that, the space between you feels smaller again.

You slide the plates across the counter toward him, eyes flicking up briefly to meet his as you settle into the rhythm of unpacking the food. The scent of grilled meat, garlic, and rice fills the space, and for a moment, you let yourself enjoy the easy comfort of it.

“How was your morning?”

He leans back a little against your counter, breaking apart his chopsticks slowly, like he has time—like he’s in no rush at all.

“Golf,” he says. “Jeonghan roped me into it. He and Joshua have this bet going about who’ll finally beat me. Spoiler: they didn’t.”

You snort softly. “Let me guess. You smiled once and they thought something was wrong?”

He looks up at you, surprised, then chuckles. “Actually, yeah. Jeonghan thought the world was ending.”

“Because you were texting me?”

His gaze lingers on you for just a beat too long.

“Maybe.”

You look away then, biting back the way your heart trips at the casual weight of his honesty.

You try to keep your voice light. “You like golf?”

“I like the quiet,” he says. “And the way it slows everything down. Plus, it's one of the few times the guys don't expect me to be in CEO mode.”

You blink. “Wait—CEO mode?”

His smile turns crooked, caught between smug and sheepish. “You didn’t know?”

Your mouth opens, then closes. “You told me you work in management!”

“I do,” he says innocently. “Technically.”

You gape at him. “You're ridiculous.”

“And you're adorable when you're annoyed,” he replies, grinning as he sets the table with casual precision.

You shake your head, still reeling, still smiling despite yourself.

“Fine,” you say, settling down beside him. “You can be mysterious and charming and maddening later. Right now, just tell me more about your morning. What else happened?”

And he does. He tells you about the way Joshua nearly ran over Jeonghan’s foot with the golf cart. How the coffee at the clubhouse was abysmal. How the sun was too bright but the breeze made up for it. And you listen like it’s the most interesting story you’ve ever heard.

You finish the last few bites of your meal, chopsticks tapping against the empty container as you sit back with a satisfied sigh.

“So,” you say, stretching slightly, “since you’re already here, Mr. CEO—”

His brow arches, amused. “Oh, we’re using titles now?”

You ignore that smug little curve of his mouth. “Since you're already so generously spending time with a commoner like me, mind helping with a few things?”

He eyes you, mock suspicion in his gaze. “Define few.”

You push off the counter and gesture for him to follow you down the short hallway.

“It’s really just one thing. I’ve been putting it off because I like having a functional spine.”

You stop in front of your bedroom door, already bracing yourself for the impending chaos he’s about to witness. With a deep breath, you push it open and point to the far corner of the room.

“That,” you say flatly, “has not moved since I moved in. It’s heavier than it looks and it hates me.”

Seungcheol steps in behind you, eyes landing on the wide, solid wood dresser wedged awkwardly against the wall. He whistles low.

“Yeah, okay. That thing looks like it weighs more than I do.”

You cross your arms, already grinning. “Don’t be dramatic. I just need it shifted a little to the left so I can finally plug in the lamp I’ve had sitting on the floor”

“And you were just gonna… try to do this alone?”

“I tried. Got maybe an inch before I considered calling emergency services.”

He laughs, shaking his head, already flexing his fingers like he’s warming up. “Alright, move aside. Let me show you what those gym memberships are actually good for.”

You step back, arms folded, watching as he tests the weight, then—with alarming ease—shifts the dresser a few inches left, then a bit more, until it’s perfectly centered beneath the window.

“That’s it? That was like, two seconds.”

He turns, feigning a wipe of imaginary sweat from his brow. “You’re welcome, peasant.”

You scoff. “Okay, that’s the last time I compliment your arms.”

The sunlight hits him just right, painting golden streaks across his face and forearms, and for a second, the whole room feels brighter. Lighter.

“You’re trouble,” you murmur, half to yourself.

He catches it anyway, walking back over until he’s standing in front of you again, too close in that now-familiar, deliberate way.

“And you keep inviting me over,” he says, voice low and warm. “What does that make you?”

“Worse than I thought, apparently.”

He grins. “Good.”

And just like that—helping you move a dresser somehow becomes its own kind of intimacy. Domestic. Quiet. Dangerous in all the best, slow-burning ways.

Then something catches his eyes on something behind your desk. He drifts toward it, more curious than anything, his gaze pulled by the small burst of color on the wall.

It’s a collage of sorts, not perfectly arranged, but it has that personal, lived-in charm. Polaroids with slightly smudged ink dates along the bottom, movie tickets curled at the corners, scribbled notes, travel stubs, even a pressed flower or two. 

A few things are clearly sentimental, a few probably meaningless to anyone but you.

But it’s the tiny folded receipt pinned neatly in the corner that catches his eye. Barely noticeable, until he sees the logo.

The bar.

He steps closer, mouth quirking slightly. “You kept this?”

You glance over from where you're fluffing the pillow he nearly flattened earlier. “Hm?”

He taps the pinned slip, and your eyes flick toward it.

“Oh.” You laugh softly, walking over to stand beside him. “Yeah. It felt... significant, I guess. A good story.”

“You keep a lot of stories, huh?” he asks, gesturing to the wall.

You shrug, suddenly shy. “I like remembering things. Even the dumb ones. Even the weird little in-between moments. They make everything feel more real.”

“Where’s the part where you almost got kissed by a stranger pretending to be your boyfriend?”

You narrow your eyes at him playfully. “You’re lucky I didn’t choose someone taller.”

“I’m lucky you chose me at all,” he says, quiet but clear, not teasing.

The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s full—warm. Like the pause after a really good line in a movie, one that doesn’t need music or movement to make it matter.

You glance back at the wall, at the receipt, the night that started all of this.

“Guess that night’s part of the wall now,” you murmur. “Part of the story.”

His eyes flick back to you, amused. “So you’re the sentimental type.”

You raise a brow, lips twitching. “Why? That not fit into your little criteria?”

Seungcheol tilts his head slightly, eyes scanning you in that quietly intense way that always makes you feel like you’re being read instead of looked at. His voice drops, warm and smooth.

“I don’t think I ever had a real list.”

You scoff lightly. “Please. Everyone has a list.”

He grins. “Fine. Maybe I thought I’d go for someone less likely to keep bar receipts and concert stubs like museum exhibits.”

You feign offense. “Wow. So judgmental for someone who literally sent me florals with emotional implications.”

“That was strategic,” he deadpans.

“Mm-hmm. And I’m sure flirting with me in front of your friends was all part of some master CEO plan too.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just studies you for a long moment, something unreadable behind that steady gaze.

From then on, the flowers keep coming. Not every day but often enough that it’s clear there’s a pattern. An intention.

Sometimes it’s a soft arrangement of lilies and baby’s breath that arrives late in the morning with a note scrawled in that clean, all-too-neat handwriting: Don’t skip lunch today.

Other days it’s bold peonies or deep red ranunculus, tucked into a glass vase that seems to match your desk without trying. 

One morning it’s a single sunflower with a post-it: Because you were complaining about deadlines. Sun’s out now.

And in between the deliveries, there are lunches—casual, spontaneous. A text at 11:32 a.m.: You free? I’m craving something spicy.

Or dinner on the way home from work, when you say you’re too tired to cook and he offers takeout. He picks you up like it’s routine, like the two of you have been doing this for years.

He holds doors open, lets you steal bites off his plate, keeps track of which side of the booth you like to sit on. He remembers you hate soggy fries and that you get cranky when you skip breakfast.  And when your wrist started aching from too much typing, a small ergonomic mouse showed up at your office two days later. No note. No message. Just Seungcheol, a few hours later at dinner, asking casually, You get that thing I sent? Like he hadn’t just studied your habits like they were blueprints.

One night, you tease him. “You always feed people this well when you’re trying to win them over?”

He glances at you across the table, eyes warm, steady.

“No,” he says. “Just you.”

And it’s not a confession. Not really but your heart answers like it is. He grins at that—slow and lazy, like he’s been waiting for you to say it.

“Careful now,” you say, voice light, but your eyes don’t leave his, “I might get used to being spoiled.”

He leans back in his seat, one arm draped over the back of the booth, and he gives you that look

“And what exactly would be the downside of that?”

You hum, pretending to consider it, swirling the last of your drink with your straw. “Mm, I don’t know. Expectations. Disappointment. Sudden withdrawal of dumpling privileges.”

He chuckles, low and smooth. “I don’t take things back once I give them.”

You glance at him sideways, the corner of your mouth lifting. “Sounds like a threat.”

He tilts his head, his smile softening. “Sounds like a promise.”

For a second, the noise of the restaurant fades behind the weight of those words—like the hum of conversation, the clink of plates, even the music playing overhead all quiet just enough to make space for the way he’s looking at you.

You feel it, the shift. Again.

And you could say something sarcastic, you could push it away with another joke—but you don’t. Instead, you let the moment hang there, rich and charged.

“You keep this up,” you murmur, “and I might start thinking you actually like me.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink.

“Good,” he says. “That’s the idea.”

You swirl your drink once more, watching the ice clink softly against the glass before glancing up at him with a sly tilt to your head.

“So…” you start, casual—too casual. “How many more dinners like this before the kiss?”

Seungcheol’s fingers pause mid-reach for his glass, his eyes lifting to yours, slow and deliberate. There’s that smirk again—just a shade more dangerous now, edged with the kind of tension you’ve both been dancing around for days.

He leans in a little, arms resting on the table, and his voice drops low. “You keeping count?”

You shrug, the corner of your mouth twitching. “I’m just saying… that first night? You played the part really well. Had me thinking you were the type to go in for the dramatic, sweep-her-off-her-feet, movie-scene kiss.”

“I remember,” he says. “You were looking at me like you were waiting for it.”

Your laugh is soft, quiet. “Maybe I was.”

“So what number is this then? Dinner four? Five? Let’s call it four and a half. One of those was technically just noodles and complaining about work.”

“So what you’re saying is… I’m close.” You lift your glass to your lips, hiding your grin behind the rim. 

“Closer than you think. Don’t worry, I’ll make it worth the wait.”

And you believe him. God help you, you really do.

“You’re really making me wait for this kiss, huh?”

Seungcheol’s lips part, not in surprise exactly, but like he wasn’t expecting you to say it so directly. His gaze drops to your mouth for the briefest second, and it’s subtlebut enough that your heart skips once, hard.

He exhales, and the corner of his mouth lifts like he’s trying not to let it turn into a full smile. “I told you,” he murmurs, “I make things worth it.”

“Yeah, but now I’m starting to think you like the anticipation too much.”

“I do,” he says without missing a beat. “But I like your reaction more.”

Your brows lift. “My reaction?”

“The way you look at me,” he says, quietly now, eyes not wavering. “The way you lean in just a little closer when you think I might—” He doesn’t finish the sentence. Just lets it hang there between you, heavy and electric.

“You’re dangerous,” you whisper. Your heart’s hammering now, a rhythm too loud to ignore, and still he doesn’t close the distance. 

“You’re really not going to kiss me,” you say, half a laugh, half a dare.

He tilts his head slightly, like he’s deciding something. Then—

“I will,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “But not here.”

Your breath catches. “Why not?”

His eyes flick to the restaurant around you. “Because when I finally do, I’m not sharing it with a room full of strangers.”

And just like that, your skin is flushed, your chest tight, and you’re no longer thinking about how long it’s been—but how close you are now. How much more you want.

The moment you step out into the night, the cool air brushing against your skin like a sigh, his hand finds yours. No hesitation. No theatrics. Just warm fingers threading through yours like they’ve done it a thousand times.

You glance at him, heart kicking once against your ribs.

He doesn’t look over. Doesn’t need to. His grip is steady, his stride unhurried, and there’s something about the way he holds you—like it’s not even a decision anymore. Just instinct.

When you reach the car, he lets go only to open the door for you. Still without a word. Still with that same quiet, unrushed certainty. He waits until you’re seated, until the seatbelt clicks, before he rounds the front and slides into the driver’s seat beside you.

No questions.

No where to?

He starts the engine and pulls out into the street like he already knows. Because he does. He’s memorized your route home—left turns, shortcut alleys, that one spot where traffic always sucks near the crosswalk.

And for a moment, you sit in the silence of the ride, his hand resting on the gearshift, the lights of the city playing soft across his profile.

You lean your head against the seat, watching him through the slow hum of passing streetlights. “You’re a little scary when you’re this confident.”

“I’m always this confident,” he murmurs, eyes forward, that same grin pulling at the corner of his mouth.

You laugh under your breath. “Cocky.”

He doesn’t deny it. But when he reaches over at the next red light, brushing his thumb across the back of your hand, there’s a softness in it—something that betrays the calm exterior. Something that says: I’m not rushing. But I’m sure.

And it steals your breath more than any kiss might’ve.

=

Seungcheol’s already at his desk when Jeonghan strolls into his office unannounced, like he owns the place. He’s got that look on his face too. mischief bubbling just beneath the surface, like he’s been waiting for this all morning.

Seungcheol doesn’t look up from his laptop. “No.”

“I didn’t even say anything yet,” Jeonghan counters, already dropping into one of the chairs across from the desk, far too comfortable for someone who doesn’t technically work in this building.

“You’re thinking very loudly.”

Jeonghan grins. “Fine. If you insist, I’ll start. One: she completely held her own last night. Didn’t flinch once when Mingyu started rapid-ordering food like he was feeding an army.”

Recalling last night when Seungcheol took you with him for drinks out with the guys. Surprising everyone.

“She’s impressive,” Seungcheol says simply, and this time he does glance up, barely trying to hide the small, proud smile tugging at his mouth.

Jeonghan points. “That. That smile. That’s what I came here for. I knew you were gone the moment she toasted Soonyoung under the table.”

Seungcheol just leans back in his chair, lacing his fingers together. “He challenged her. It’s on him.”

“And she won. You know what that means? She’s one of us now. And more importantly…” Jeonghan leans in dramatically. “You’re so in it, man.”

“I drove her home,” Seungcheol says casually, but the softness in his voice betrays him.

Jeonghan narrows his eyes. “And?”

“And nothing.”

Jeonghan groans. “You’re seriously dragging this out? You're the most controlled man I know, and even I was rooting for a kiss.”

Seungcheol just smirks. “Told her I’d kiss her when she’s sober.”

Jeonghan stares. Then throws his head back with a groan. “You’re hopeless. Ridiculously swoony and hopeless.”

“I like her,” Seungcheol says, tone low and honest.

And that—that—makes Jeonghan pause. His teasing drops, just for a second. Because when Seungcheol says it like that, not as a joke or a half-guarded confession, but as a fact... it’s real.

He leans back, quieter now. “Yeah. I know you do.”

There’s a beat of silence between them before Jeonghan can’t help himself. “Still. If this ends in wedding bells, I’m officiating. Or, at the very least, giving the toast.”

Seungcheol sighs, already regretting letting him in.

Jeonghan grins again. “Don’t worry. I’ll start writing my speech.”

=

The city blurs past the windows in a soft hum of motion, headlights washing warm streaks of gold across your skin as you talk—casually, openly, like you always do now.

You’re curled in the passenger seat with your legs tucked under you, your shoes kicked off and your fingers fidgeting absently with the soft edge of the blanket draped over your lap. His blanket. The one he insisted on leaving in the car after you shivered just once during a late drive home.

Seungcheol doesn’t say much as you talk, but he glances over often—tiny flickers of attention between the road and you, like he’s memorizing pieces of the moment to revisit later. His left hand rests on the steering wheel, right one easy on the gear shift, the movement of his thumb mirroring the rhythm of your voice. Calm. Comforting.

You’re halfway through rambling about a disaster of a meeting you had that morning when your train of thought stutters.

“Oh,” you say, almost too quickly. “I—actually. Meant to ask you something.”

He hums, a lazy sound that rumbles in his chest. “Yeah?”

You hesitate. Just a second too long. He picks up on it immediately, his gaze flickering your way. 

You’re looking down now, fiddling with the corner of the blanket, suddenly hyperaware of the lip gloss you left in his cup holder and the extra hair tie wrapped around his rearview mirror. There are little bits of you all over his car now. Just like there are little bits of him scattered across your days. 

“So…” you start, trying for casual, but it comes out a little breathy. “There’s this wedding. In a couple weeks. One of my friends from college.”

You chance a glance at him. He’s still driving, still calm, but his head tilts slightly. Listening.

“I kind of... need a plus one,” you go on. “Well, I don’t need one, technically, but everyone’s bringing someone, and—” You bite your lip, nerves buzzing. “I just thought maybe… if you’re free, you could come? With me.”

“You want me to go with you?” he asks, voice low, like he’s checking—really checking—that he heard right.

You nod, trying to keep your voice light, even as your heart feels like it’s doing cartwheels. “Yeah. I mean, you’d probably hate it. Lots of mingling. Dancing. Champagne. Small talk with strangers.”

He smiles a little. “And you want me to be your date.”

You blink at him. “Well… yeah.”

The light turns green. He doesn’t move. Not yet. His eyes are on you, steady and searching, and the longer he looks, the more you feel exposed—in a good way. In a real way.

“I’ll go,” he says finally, with that soft certainty that always makes your chest ache. “Of course I’ll go.”

Your breath whooshes out of you. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he repeats, eyes on the road now as the car starts moving again. “But only if I get to keep pretending I’m your boyfriend.”

You laugh, startled by how easy he makes it feel, how warm your chest goes at his words. “Is that what you’ve been doing all this time? Pretending?”

His grip on the steering wheel shifts. “You tell me.”

And you don’t answer right away, not because you don’t know but because the answer sits somewhere in the middle of your ribs, nestled against every glance, every ride home, every shoulder kiss and every moment he’s chosen to stay.

When you reach your building, he parks without asking for directions. Of course he does. He knows the way by heart now.

As you’re getting out, he catches your wrist gently. “Text me the details,” he says, voice lower now, more serious. “What time. What to wear.”

You nod, and your throat’s a little tight. “Okay.”

It’s one of those perfect afternoons. the kind that hangs suspended between spring and summer, warm without being too hot, a breeze just light enough to make your dress flutter as you wait outside your building.

You’re not waiting long.

His car pulls up exactly on time, and you catch sight of him behind the wheel through the windshield—dark suit, crisp white shirt, and a tie that looks suspiciously like it was chosen to match the color of your dress. 

Your heart kicks up, stupid and traitorous in your chest, because he looks good. Too good. Like the kind of man who belongs on magazine covers, not in your driveway.

And then he steps out.

He smooths a hand down the front of his suit jacket, one brow lifting the moment he sees you. “Wow,” he says, low and honest, eyes sweeping over you with a slow, appreciative gaze that makes heat crawl up your neck. “I knew you’d look beautiful, but... I wasn’t ready.”

You try for casual, but your grin gives you away. “You clean up alright yourself, Mr. CEO.”

He holds the car door open for you without a word, and when you slide in, you spot the little extra things right away. Your favorite mints in the cup holder. A spare hair tie looped on the gearshift. He doesn’t say anything about them, but the details are there—always there.

“You nervous?” he asks at one point, tone light.

You shake your head. “About the wedding? No. They’re the ones getting married. I’m just there to eat cake.”

He smiles. “About me being your date, then?”

You pause, then look over at him with a soft grin. “Not even a little.”

When you get to the venue, it’s like the entire world slows for a second. The moment you both step out of the car and walk in together—side by side, his hand hovering at the small of your back, your arms brushing as you walk—you feel it. The glances. The looks.

You were right. Everyone did bring someone. And yet somehow, you’re the one that people can’t stop staring at.

Because of him.

Because of the way Seungcheol exists in a room like he’s always been meant to be there—quietly powerful, quietly yours.

Introductions start slow. your friends immediately curious, trying to figure him out. But Seungcheol handles them all with the kind of smooth charm that makes you want to simultaneously laugh and melt. 

He’s polite. Warm. Slightly reserved. But he doesn’t leave your side once, and when your hand accidentally brushes his under the table during dinner, he doesn’t pull away.

It’s only when you're both standing off to the side during a slow song, sipping champagne and laughing at the clumsy first-dance attempts on the floor, that he leans down, voice brushing your ear.

“You know,” he says, “I don’t think I’ve seen you stop smiling since we got here.”

You glance up at him, heart thudding. “Yeah? Is that a bad thing?”

He meets your eyes. “No. I think I’d like to be the reason behind it more often.”

He holds out his hand. “Come dance with me?”

And with your fingers in his, his suit pressed lightly to your side, his palm warm at your back, you finally stop waiting. Because this, him, was worth every slow, drawn-out second.

You don’t realize how naturally it happens. How easily you lean into him, how right it feels to have your hand resting lightly on his shoulder while his other hand holds your waist, not too tight, but firm.

“You’re not a bad dancer,” you murmur, the tease threading through your voice.

Seungcheol lets out a low laugh, eyes twinkling as he looks down at you. “I had to learn. It was either that or embarrass myself at corporate galas.”

You tilt your head, smirking. “So I’m your rehearsal?”

He leans in, just enough that you feel his breath along your cheek. “No,” he says softly. “You’re the reason I’m glad I learned.”

That shuts you up for a second—not because you don’t have a comeback, but because the way he says it—earnest, grounded—makes your heart stumble in your chest.

“I still haven’t kissed you,” he says quietly, almost like he’s reminding himself. “And you’ve been very patient.”

“Painfully patient,” you whisper back. He smiles, but it’s different this time. Not teasing. Just full of something so genuine it makes your stomach twist.

“But this moment,” he says, pulling you in just a little closer, “this right here… I didn’t want to rush it. You deserve the good kind of build-up.”

You swallow. “So… this is a build-up?”

“Isn’t it?” he murmurs. “Every time I pick you up. Every dinner. Every time you leave your things in my car on purpose.”

“I don’t—” You try to defend yourself, but he grins, cutting you off.

“I like it,” he admits. “I like all of it. Even the fact that your lip gloss has now permanently scented my dashboard.”

You laugh, cheeks warm. “You’re very sentimental for someone who pretends not to be.”

“And you’re very brave for someone who said they weren’t looking for anything serious,” he counters.

That gives you pause. Because he’s not wrong.

You didn’t plan for any of this. But then again, you didn’t plan on walking up to a stranger at a bar just to escape a persistent creep either. And now… now you’re dancing with that stranger at your friend’s wedding while the night curls around the two of you like it knew.

“I still don’t know what we are,” you say finally, your voice lower, honest.

Seungcheol’s thumb brushes your waist gently, like he feels the shift.

“You don’t have to name it,” he says. “Not yet.”

“But you already have,” you murmur, meeting his gaze.

He looks at you for a long second. “Only in my head.”

You smile. “What is it, then?”

His grip on you tightens ever so slightly.

“Mine.” he says.

Just like that the music slows to an end, but he doesn't let go. And when the moment feels just too full, too warm, too close. His hand lifts gently to your jaw. His thumb grazes your cheek. And this time, finally, he doesn’t kiss your shoulder.

He kisses you.

It’s soft at first. A gentle brush of lips that speaks less of fireworks and more of certainty like he’s been waiting for just the right moment.

You don’t even realize your hands have slipped up to his chest, anchoring yourself as his other arm wraps around your waist to keep you close. There’s no rush, no urgency. Just the quiet, unspoken truth of it sinking into your bones—that this kiss was a long time coming. T

When you part, barely an inch between you, your forehead lingers against his. Your heart beats like it’s trying to memorize the rhythm of his.

“Finally,” you whisper.

Seungcheol chuckles, low and husky, still close enough that his breath grazes your lips. “Was it worth the wait?”

You tilt your head just enough to press another soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I’ll let you know after the second one.”

He smiles like he can’t help it, like something warm is cracking open in his chest. “Greedy.”

“Very,” you reply without missing a beat.

You don’t even care that you’re standing in the middle of a wedding reception, that people are milling around behind you with cake and champagne and whispered guesses about who you are. None of that matters.

Because he’s still looking at you like you’re the only thing that does.

When you got to your building he offered to walk you up. Standing outside your door, your fingers are curled into the lapel of Seungcheol’s suit jacket, your mouth barely a breath away from his when the sound of someone clearing their throat slices right through the moment.

You both flinch, pulling apart like guilty teenagers caught sneaking out after curfew.

Your eyes widen. “Oh my god.”

Your mom stands there in front of your apartment door, arms crossed and one brow raised with terrifying precision, the classic mom look of I have questions and you better answer them properly.

She blinks slowly, then turns to Seungcheol with the kind of pointed interest that has your soul trying to escape your body.

“And who,” she says, sweetly, “might this be?”

You swallow. “Uh. Hi, Mom. What are you doing here?”

“I texted. You didn’t answer. So I thought I’d drop off some side dishes I made.” She holds up the container bag like evidence. “Good thing I came, it seems.”

You’re nearly sweating. Seungcheol, on the other hand, somehow still looks calm. Like he didn’t just almost get caught mid-doorstep make-out by your mother.

He straightens, then offers your mom a polite bow. “Good evening, ma’am. I’m Choi Seungcheol. I was just dropping her off after a wedding.”

Your mom gives him a long once-over, then side-eyes you. “A wedding? Interesting. And how long has this Choi Seungcheol been around?”

“Mom,” you groan, but Seungcheol beats you to it.

“Not very long,” he replies easily. “But I’m hoping to stick around a while.”

You gape at him.

Your mom narrows her eyes. “Is that right?”

“If she’ll let me.”

Your mom stares at him another beat. Then to your utter disbelief, she… smiles. “Hmm. Well. At least you’re polite.”

You’re still recovering when she presses the container into your hands. “These are for you. You too, I suppose, since you’re clearly being fed well.”

Seungcheol accepts them with a small bow and a quiet “thank you.”

Your mom gives him one last look, then leans in to whisper (not quietly at all), “She likes flowers. And she talks in her sleep.”

“Mom!”

She pats your cheek and strolls away like she didn’t just commit emotional homicide.

You turn to Seungcheol, mortified. “I’m so sorry. I can’t believe—”

But he’s already smiling. Like really smiling. “That was the best first ‘meet the parent’ ambush I’ve ever had.”

Seungcheol’s in his office early the next morning, already settled in behind his desk. His sleeves are rolled up, fingers tapping out a light rhythm on the edge of his desk as he hums a low, tuneless melody to himself.

He’s got that look on his face, the rare kind his staff sees maybe three times a year, a glint in his eyes like he just won the lottery and the stock market. Every so often, he pauses to check his phone, then smiles like someone just whispered a joke in his ear. 

That’s exactly the energy Joshua and Jeonghan walk in on.

“Okay,” Jeonghan says slowly, not even trying to hide the suspicion in his voice. “Who are you and what have you done with our very serious, emotionally constipated CEO?”

Seungcheol doesn’t look up. “Good morning to you too.”

Joshua squints. “Is that... whistling? Are you—tapping your foot?”

Jeonghan drops into the seat across from him and kicks his legs up on the coffee table like he owns the place. “You’re smiling. Like smiling smiling. The last time you were this chipper was when we landed the Tokyo account and you got to yell at someone in perfect Japanese.”

Joshua leans against the wall. “No offense, man, but it’s kind of weirding me out. Is this like… a blood sugar thing? Are you okay?”

Seungcheol leans back in his chair, stretching with a soft groan and a big, satisfied sigh. “I’m great.”

“Yeah. We can tell.” Jeonghan raises a brow. “So go on. Tell the class. What happened”

Seungcheol doesn’t answer right away, just glances at his phone again with that same soft smile playing at his lips.

Jeonghan and Joshua exchange looks.

“Oh my god,” Jeonghan breathes, sitting up straighter. “It’s her, isn’t it? The bar girl. Your girl.”

Joshua’s eyes widen. “The one who literally drank Soonyoung under the table?”

“She’s not my girl, yet” Seungcheol says quickly—but his voice betrays him with the slightest upward lilt at the end, like even he doesn’t believe himself.

Jeonghan leans forward, both elbows on his knees. “So what happened last night? Because whatever it was, you’re acting like a man in love.”

“I am not in—” Seungcheol stops himself, mutters something under his breath, then groans as he runs a hand over his face. “You two are insufferable.”

“Did she finally kiss you?”

“Technically,” Seungcheol replies slowly, “I kissed her. But only after she asked for the third time.”

Jeonghan lets out a bark of laughter. “Took you long enough, Romeo.”

“It wasn’t about taking my time,” Seungcheol mumbles, and then lowers his voice, more to himself than to them. “I just… didn’t want to screw it up.”

There’s a beat of quiet.

Joshua softens. “You like her.”

Seungcheol doesn’t look up. “Yeah.”

Jeonghan’s watching him, a little differently now. Less teasing, more thoughtful. “It’s serious, isn’t it?”

“She asked me to be her plus-one to a wedding,” Seungcheol replies, then glances at them, almost shy. “And I met her mom.”

Joshua and Jeonghan practically explode.

“You what?”

Seungcheol winces. “It wasn’t planned—her mom showed up at her apartment with side dishes and caught us on the doorstep. Thought I was her boyfriend or something.”

Jeonghan is beside himself. “And you survived? No wounds? No emotional damage?”

“She liked me.”

“Okay, that’s it,” Joshua says. “We’re done for. He’s in too deep.”

“Send help,” Jeonghan deadpans, placing a hand over his heart. “Our friend is gone. Replaced by this domestic, well-fed, love-struck clone.”

“I’m not love-struck.”

“You’re literally glowing.”

Seungcheol shakes his head with a small chuckle. “Shut up.”

But he’s still smiling.

Seungcheol’s phone buzzes once, then again—your contact lighting up on the screen. His hand darts for the phone almost too eagerly, thumb swiping before the second ring finishes.

“Hey,” he answers, voice dropping into something soft and familiar, like the two of you are already alone in a room and not with Jeonghan and Joshua both watching like hawks from a few feet away.

You laugh softly on the other end. “Hi. Sorry, are you busy?”

“No,” he says without hesitation. “I’ve got time.”

Jeonghan mouths liar and Joshua smirks.

“So, I was gonna text, but my mom insisted I call. She’s making dinner tonight and… well, she asked if you’d like to come?”

His heart skips in a way he’s not used to—it’s not nerves exactly, more like… something warm curling in his chest. He stands slowly, pacing to the side of the office, back turned as if it’ll make the conversation any more private.

“You sure?” he asks, lowering his voice. “I don’t want to intrude.”

“You’re not,” you assure him. “She literally made enough for an army and said, and I quote, ‘tell that polite boy to come hungry.’”

He chuckles, unable to help himself. “Guess I can’t say no to that.”

“Seven okay?”

“Perfect.” He smiles again, stupid and wide and absolutely forgetting that he is not alone.

“I’ll see you tonight then.”

“Yeah,” he says, still in that soft tone only reserved for you. “Looking forward to it.”

The call ends. He stares at the screen for a second longer before pocketing his phone, already mentally rearranging the rest of his day.

Then he turns around.

Joshua is grinning like a fox. Jeonghan has both hands folded like he’s praying. “Okay. Let’s try that again. You’re not love-struck?”

Seungcheol sighs, running a hand through his hair, the soft grin on his lips refusing to fade. “She invited me to dinner. Her mom’s cooking.”

“Oh my god,” Jeonghan groans dramatically. “That’s domesticity. That’s serious.”

“You’re doomed,” Joshua chimes in cheerfully. “Next thing we know, you’ll be asking us to be groomsmen.”

“Shut up,” 

You’re halfway through setting the table when the doorbell rings, and your mom, already at the stove with her sleeves rolled up, waves you off with a knowing smile. “He’s early. That one’s got good manners. Go let him in.”

You smooth down your shirt, trying not to look too eager, but your feet are already hurrying toward the door.

When you open it, Seungcheol is there dressed in that casually polished way that makes it look like he stepped off the cover of a weekend magazine. Button-up sleeves rolled just once, watch peeking out, hair slightly tousled like he ran his fingers through it before he knocked.

And in his hands?

Two bouquets.

You blink. “Are you trying to start a flower shop?”

He grins, lifting both arrangements slightly. “One’s for you.” He holds out the first—soft colors, delicate petals, your favorites, of course. “And the other’s for your mom.”

You take the bouquet, inhaling the sweet scent with a tiny smile before stepping aside. “She’s going to love that. You just earned, like, ten extra points.”

“I’m trying to rack them up,” he says lightly, stepping in and revealing the dessert box in his other hand. “Also, I may or may not have picked up your favorite. You know… just in case.”

You glance down and immediately light up. “You remembered?”

“Please,” he scoffs playfully. “You’ve only ranted about it, what, three times? Of course I remembered.”

You laugh as you lead him inside, his shoulder brushing yours in that easy, now-familiar way. Your mom peeks out from the kitchen, and her smile grows when she sees the extra bouquet.

“Oh, you charmer,” she says warmly, walking over to greet him. “Flowers again? You’re going to make all the other boys look bad.”

Seungcheol offers her the bouquet with both hands and a small bow. “I figured last time I came empty-handed, so I had to make up for it.”

Dinner’s warm and loud, your mom doing most of the talking while Seungcheol listens, chimes in with small jokes, and praises her cooking so sincerely she beams every time he opens his mouth. He’s relaxed here, blending in like he’s done it a hundred times, and somehow that’s the part that gets you.

Later, after helping clean up and exchanging stories with your mom, the two of you step out into the cool night air.

He walks beside you in silence for a moment, then glances over. “So... still thinking about replacing me with someone from a crime documentary?”

You laugh. “I don’t know. That guy probably wouldn’t have brought dessert and flowers.”

He nudges you gently. “Damn right.”

You turn to him, slowing a little on the steps outside your building. “Thanks for coming tonight.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it.”

And there’s that pause again—that loaded, quiet moment. You can feel it, humming between you. All the things unsaid but understood. No labels, no big declarations. Just gestures and quiet moments and the space he fills beside you like he’s always belonged there.

You lean in and kiss his cheek. He’s already smiling before your lips brush his skin.

“Don’t make me wait forever, Mr. CEO.”

He grins, eyes flicking to yours. “Patience, pretty girl. I’ve got a plan.”

And somehow, you believe him.

The moment you step back inside, your mom's perched on the couch like she never moved. She's got a cup of tea in hand and a look on her face that immediately makes you nervous—too calm, too unreadable, which only ever means she’s up to something.

Seungcheol follows behind you, quietly helping carry the dessert box into the kitchen, but before either of you can pretend the evening is winding down smoothly, your mom speaks up—tone light, but very deliberate.

“So…” she starts, gaze sliding over to Seungcheol like she’s just making small talk, “are you gonna marry my girl, or what?”

You nearly choke on air. “Mom!”

“What?” she shrugs, totally unbothered. “You’re both at the right age. You like each other. He’s handsome, polite, he brings flowers and dessert. I don’t want to wait another five years for grandchildren.”

“Oh my god—” you groan, half-burying your face in your hands.

But Seungcheol? Not flustered. Not even close. In fact, the traitorous man has the audacity to smile. A slow, confident one that only makes your embarrassment worse.

“Well,” he says, glancing at you before looking back at your mom, “if she keeps letting me stick around, who knows?”

Your mom raises a brow, then nods approvingly. “Good answer. You’re growing on me more and more, you know that?”

Seungcheol laughs, and you’re halfway to combusting. “Okay! Time to say goodnight, this interrogation is over,” you declare, grabbing his wrist and tugging him toward the door.

“Bye, Mom,” you grumble over your shoulder.

Your mom just waves, clearly pleased with herself. “Bye, future son-in-law!”

Seungcheol chuckles under his breath all the way down the hall. When the elevator doors close, he glances at you, amused. “So… how long do I have before she starts dress shopping?”

You glare up at him, still pink in the face. “Don’t you dare encourage her.”

“Too late.” He leans a little closer. “But if it helps…” His voice dips, teasing. “I am starting to like the sound of it.”

The elevator hums quietly as it takes you both downstairs, your hand tucked into Seungcheol’s without thinking. You walk him out to his car, the evening air crisp and still, soft with city quiet. He unlocks the door, but neither of you moves just yet.

“I’m just warning you,” you say, voice teasing, glancing up at him through your lashes. “Next time you come over, she’s not going to be asking if you’re marrying me.”

“No?”

You shake your head, grinning. “Nope. She’s skipping right ahead to asking when you’re giving her a grandchild.”

He chuckles low in his throat, eyes twinkling. “That so?”

“I can see it already,” you continue dramatically, “She’ll be standing in the kitchen, apron on, casually stirring soup while dropping 'So when’s the baby due?' like it’s small talk.”

Seungcheol leans against the car, folding his arms, that amused smile never leaving his face. “Well… we have kissed now,” he says, playful but soft. “I guess that means I should be prepared for her to start knitting booties.”

You swat his arm, trying not to laugh. “You’re too comfortable with this.”

“I’m comfortable with you,” he replies easily, gaze settling on you in that way that makes your heart skip and stumble all at once.

Seungcheol shifts closer, one hand brushing your hip before resting there, gentle but sure. “And hey,” he says, voice low, “about that kiss…”

Your breath hitches, and before you can even answer, he dips his head and brushes his lips against yours—slow and deliberate, nothing rushed, like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth all over again.

He pulls back only slightly, close enough that his nose still brushes yours. “Still got more where that came from.”

You manage a breathless laugh, fingers curling in the front of his shirt. “Dangerous man.”

He grins. “Only for you.”

When he finally slides into the driver’s seat, you linger by the open door. “Text me when you get home.”

He reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Of course I will.”

You step back, watching as he pulls out of the lot, his hand lifting briefly in a lazy wave. And as you head back to your apartment, you already know: your mom’s going to be impossible next time.

You barely make it three steps into your apartment before your mom, still lounging in the living room like she owns the place (she kind of does, considering she brought over food and stayed uninvited), looks up from her tea and levels you with that look.

Not smug. Not surprised. Just deeply, motherly knowing.

“Oh,” she says, setting her cup down with an audible clink. “I see what this is.”

“What’s what?” you ask, walking past her, pretending to be busy as you head toward the kitchen.

But she doesn’t let you off that easy. She turns in her seat and calls out—voice just a touch singsongy.

“You love the guy.”

“What?” You laugh, unconvincing. “I don’t—what? That’s a lot, don’t you think?”

She stands, follows you to the kitchen like a shark who smells blood—or in this case, feelings.

“I’ve been watching you all day. You were smiling at your phone like a teenager,” she says, opening the fridge like she owns that too. “And when he came over? You lit up like someone plugged you in.”

You open a cabinet just to have something to do with your hands. “He’s just… nice.”

“Oh, no. Not just nice. He’s thoughtful. Respectful. Tall. Brings flowers. Carries dessert. Helped you move furniture. That man looked at you like you’re the only person on the planet.” She shuts the fridge. 

“And you my sweet girl, you looked right back like he hung the moon.”

You groan, leaning against the counter. “You really don’t pull punches, huh?”

She smiles, proud. “I’m your mother. It’s my job to see through the nonsense.”

The smile that crept onto your face when Seungcheol kissed you tonight is still there. You feel it even now, this warmth that’s settled behind your ribs. It’s soft and terrifying and real.

And when you look back up, your mom’s just watching you with that soft expression, the one that says she’s been waiting for this kind of happiness to find you.

You sigh, eyes rolling, voice barely above a murmur. “Fine. I like him.”

She raises a brow.

“Okay,” you grumble. “I really like him.”

Her smile widens as she turns back toward the living room. “Took you long enough.”

=

The phone barely rings once before he picks up, voice warm and low like honey over gravel.

“Hey, baby.”

You swear your brain short-circuits for a second. The word hits you with a quiet thud right in the chest, catching you off guard even though you should be used to it by now. 

“Hi,” you say, a beat late, already smiling into the receiver. “Okay, I forgot what I was gonna say for a second.”

There’s a soft laugh on his end, the kind that rumbles just under his breath. “That’s a good sign.”

You roll your eyes, cheeks warm. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Too late.”

You lean against the kitchen counter, heart still doing that embarrassing little flutter. “I was just calling to see if you were gonna be busy later… I was planning to cook dinner.”

He goes quiet for half a second. Not because he’s hesitating—just because you know he’s already rearranging his whole evening in his head.

“Do I get to watch you cook?” he asks, voice lighter now, teasing.

You smirk. “That depends. Are you just gonna stand there looking pretty and touching nothing?”

“Depends. Can I taste-test?”

You scoff. “You’re just in it for the food.”

“Not true,” he says, soft again now, “but it is a very nice bonus.”

You pretend to sigh. “So… does that mean you’re coming?”

“I’ll be there,” he says without skipping a beat. “Tell me what time and I’ll bring wine.”

The ease of it makes your chest feel full, like the kind of full that wraps around your ribs and stays there.

The knock on your door is right on time—because of course it is. You’re still smoothing down your shirt when you open it, and there he is.

Wine in one hand. Flowers in the other. And that stupid smile on his face that already has you forgetting whatever it was you were about to say.

“Hi,” you breathe, just a little breathless at the sight of him. He’s in a casual button-down, sleeves rolled, hair a little messy like he ran his hands through it on the drive over. He looks good. Too good.

“For you,” he says, lifting the bouquet

“You really don’t have to keep bringing these every time, you know.”

“I know,” he says easily, already slipping out of his shoes and placing the wine on your counter. “But I like watching you smile when I do.”

You open your mouth to come up with a witty response, but it never makes it out. Because he’s suddenly in your space arms curling around your waist as he presses a kiss to the side of your head.

Clingy. He’s so clingy tonight. And you love it.

“You okay?” you murmur, hugging him back.

“Just missed you,” he replies against your hair, like it’s that simple.

“You’re really not gonna let me cook, are you?” you ask, laughing as you try to wiggle out of his grasp.

“Nope.” He grins, chin resting on your shoulder. “This is a hostage situation now.”

“You’re clingy.”

“You love it.”

You glance at him over your shoulder. “I do.”

That earns you a kiss to the cheek. Then the temple. Then your neck. He’s shameless tonight. Unapologetically soft. 

You try to cut up onions, but his arms stay wrapped around you the entire time, body warm at your back, like he can’t stand to be even an inch away. By the time dinner’s ready, he’s seated too close at the table, knees brushing yours under it, foot tapping against your ankle.

And when you pass him a bowl, he doesn’t let go of your hand right away. Just holds it for a second longer, thumb brushing your wrist.

“I could get used to this,” he says softly.

You smile, eyes locked with his.

He’s standing at your sink, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, strong hands buried in soapy water. Your purple apron is tied securely around his waist. your apron, the one with little hearts embroidered along the hem and a faint stain from that time you spilled sauce and never quite got it out.

You’re halfway through wiping down the counter when you glance up and pause, arms frozen mid-motion. Because this scene in front of you is almost too much.

Choi Seungcheol, your moody, broody, suit-wearing, don’t-mess-with-me CEO, is currently humming under his breath while washing your dinner plates in a heart-covered apron like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You wrap your arms around his middle from behind, chin pressed against the back of his shoulder. He pauses.

Then smiles, water still running as he leans back just slightly into your hold. “You done cleaning?”

“Mostly,” you hum. “I just needed a break to admire this sight.”

He chuckles, voice low, the sound vibrating through his back and into your chest. “What sight?”

“You. Domestic. In my kitchen. In my apron.”

“You mean your very fashionable, extremely purple apron?” he says, glancing down at it with mock seriousness.

“Mhm. It suits you.”

“Does it?”

“Yeah,” you say, drawing out the tease. “You look like the type of man who says things like ‘dinner’s ready, honey’ and then washes the dishes without being asked.”

“If you wanted to brag to someone, you could’ve just taken a picture.”

=

It’s a little surreal, stepping into the bar again after all these months.

The lighting’s still dim, the music low and pulsing in the background, familiar laughter echoing from the same corner booth the guys always seem to claim. Only this time, there’s no desperate escape from a stranger’s attention, no half-baked plan to use the intimidating guy in the corner to save yourself.

This time, you’re walking in hand-in-hand with him.

Seungcheol is dressed down, a fitted black tee and jeans that still somehow manage to make him look unfairly good. His hand is warm in yours, thumb drawing absent little circles on the back of your palm as he greets the guys already mid-round of drinks.

Jeonghan spots you first, grinning like he’s been waiting. “There they are! The king and queen have arrived.”

You roll your eyes. Seungcheol just chuckles, guiding you into the booth beside him. His arm slides across the back of your seat, casual and easy, but his fingers find your shoulder and rest there, grounding you like always.

It’s comfortable—normal, now.

You catch Joshua glancing between you two, a little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Kind of wild to think it all started here, huh?”

You raise a brow. “What, the bar?”

“The act,” he teases, nodding toward Seungcheol. “Captain Broody pretending to be your boyfriend.”

“Oh,” you laugh, nudging Seungcheol playfully. “Right. That little performance.”

“Wasn’t much of an act,” he mutters, just quiet enough for only you to hear.

You turn your head, surprised—and he’s already looking at you, eyes dark and soft under the warm glow of the bar lights. You swear you feel it in your stomach, that little flutter you still haven’t quite gotten used to.

He leans in closer, voice a little rougher. “What? Don’t tell me you forgot.”

You arch a brow, teasing. “Forgot what?”

“That you strut your way right up to me. All wide-eyed and bold like I wasn’t five seconds from leaving.”

“Oh please,” you grin. “You loved it.”

His smile widens. “Still do.”

The music dips into something slower, something smoother. Around you, the bar hums with noise, glasses clinking, someone laughing too loudly near the bar. But in this moment it’s just you and him.

He tugs you gently, pulling you into his side until you’re almost in his lap. You go easily, leaning into him, resting a hand on his chest.

“So,” you say with a smile, tilting your head up, “is this the part where you tell me you’re no longer my pretend boyfriend?”

He pauses like he’s considering it, then leans in until his lips are barely a breath away from yours. “Mm... maybe.”

You lift a brow. “Maybe?”

He kisses you then, slow and sure, like there’s nothing pretend about it. 

Like there never was. 

His hand comes up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as he pulls away just slightly, lips still grazing yours.

“I’m not your pretend anything,” he whispers. “Haven’t been for a long time.”

You smile, cheeks warm, fingers curling into the front of his shirt.

“Well good,” you say, heart fluttering, “because I’m pretty sure my mom already considers you family.”

He laughs, the sound low and unguarded, and kisses you again—just because he can. And you kiss him back—because it’s him.

And because this time, there’s no act, no games.

Just the two of you—right where it all began.

[sodaneko]

❥ 𝐓𝐎𝐎 𝐇𝐎𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐂𝐔𝐃𝐃𝐋𝐄 ↳ 𝐰/ 𝐀𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐮, 𝐎𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐮, 𝐊𝐮𝐫𝐨𝐨, 𝐊𝐞𝐧𝐦𝐚, 𝐎𝐢𝐤𝐚𝐰𝐚, 𝐈𝐰𝐚𝐢𝐳𝐮𝐦𝐢 & 𝐒𝐚𝐤𝐮𝐬𝐚

a/n: reader is gn! i started drafting those during one of the first sticky hot summer nights of the year, then forgot about it until this came over me once again like a fever, and now here we are. i love writing drabbles because they force you to really think about the chars, how you perceive them and how to nail their unique personalities in 200 words or less. anyway, this is my first time writing for HQ after the brainworms got me down bad and i had lots of fun! hope you'll enjoy them too ♡

word count: 1.3k

𝐀𝐓𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐔 whines when you have the audacity to kick him back towards his end of the couch, catching your ankle and pulling you towards him in return, stubbornly ignoring your protests. Too hot to cuddle, my ass, he pouts, genuinely offended that you’d even consider that; when the only time Atsumu ever feels a sense of calm is when part of you touches him. Your hand playing with the shaved hair in the back of his neck, your leg hooked over his hipbone as you sprawl out in bed together, hell, even your icy cold feet shoved underneath his butt during winter. Something was missing when he couldn’t have your proximity. Yer so needy, Tsumu. So what if he was? He pulls you into his lap, face nuzzled into the crook of your neck, hands tightening around your waist. His breath fanning over your skin, hot and cool against it. Atsumu takes, he demands, but with you he is pleading, silent for once. Just a little longer–dreaming, breathing you in, kissing till he feels you smiling against his lips.

𝐎𝐒𝐀𝐌𝐔 wears his hair shorter now, back at its natural dark color, too. You helped him buzz it off during one of those sticky summer nights. Both of you in nothing but your underwear, Osamu sitting on the edge of the bathtub in your cramped bathroom. One hand of yours holding a razor and the other clamped over your mouth because you horribly messed up a setting and now he had a funny little edge in his hair, throwing you both in a laughing fit. It was your first summer together and Osamu couldn’t help but hope that there would be many more like this to come, with your bodies orbiting each other, unable to keep your hands off despite the heat and the sweat, the air heavy and electric and yet so light whenever he hears you laugh. Nothing beats the feeling of lifting you up on the kitchen counter and your eyes lingering on his hands, shaping a midnight snack for the both of you, getting drunk on stolen glances and kisses. There’s many metaphors for food and love and right now, Osamu can taste them all on the tip of your tongue.

𝐊𝐔𝐑𝐎𝐎 hasn’t even kicked his shoes off at the entrance yet and is already loosening his tie, before slender fingers work down button for button on his shirt. He hears you laugh about his demeanor from the other end of the hallway. How lucky, he thinks to himself. To have someone waiting for him at home, making even long work days during the most miserable summer heat bearable. His shirt has barely hit the floor and he’s already on you, caging you in with his arms and covering every inch of your skin he can reach in kisses, despite your giggling and feigned huffing over how sticky he is, sending him to shower first (as if you wouldn’t come right after him). Kuroo purrs when your hands tangle in his hair. In the end you always pull him back towards your lips again, swallowing every little quip and taunt like candy, sweet and syrupy in your mouth. It reminds him how he fell in love with you many summers ago, his heart ablaze ever since.

𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐌𝐀 is glued to the fan at this point. He even switched gaming from his desktop set-up to a handheld console, reluctantly admitting that his old house would heat up even more with his computer running at full blast. His expression really says it all when you approach him, silently pleading for cuddles. Kenma just can’t understand how anyone would seek someone else’s body heat when the sun outside was already doing a pretty good job in trying to end him. Still, he isn’t immune to your charms, never was (one time he mumbled something about your stats being way too high and how everything changed once he received a love buff of yours). When you hold out a popsicle as a means of bribery and blink at him with those damn soft eyes of yours, Kenma pauses his game and holds out his arms. He hums into the kiss you give him before sitting down in his lap, your lips tasting like ice cream and summer love. He rests his chin on your shoulder, face nuzzled against your neck, before he continues his game, letting you feed him the sweet cold treat. Summer might have become a little more bearable with you in his life–though he was already looking forward to many winters under the kotatsu with you. 

𝐎𝐈𝐊𝐀𝐖𝐀 is squishing your cheeks together, his thumb brushing over the corner of your mouth. Collecting evidence, but also wanting to feel your tongue poke out slightly against it, cheeky as ever. Just how could you eat the last ice cream in the freezer without him? He lets out an exaggerated huff, feigned indignation, both of you knowing he can never keep this up for too long–not when it comes to you. Oikawa leans down to kiss you, your face still in a tight grip, tasting the remains of the ice cream on your lips, as if you weren’t sweet enough already. Maybe he can be bribed for another kiss when you offer a midnight walk to the 7/11 down the street, promising to pay for a cool sweet treat to make it up to him. He had already forgotten what he was mad about the moment you leaned into the kiss, but he’ll never say no to a chance to hold your hand, even if it’s sticky with leftover ice cream and the summer heat. To Oikawa, love is stored in the mundane things, even if his love for you is anything but that.

𝐈𝐖𝐀𝐈𝐙𝐔𝐌𝐈 is standing in the kitchen past midnight, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers while he roams the freezer for anything to help him cool down; even a pack of frozen peas would do. He feels a pang of guilt for having peeled away from you, your form pressed so tightly against him in his sleep, it almost gave him a heat stroke–for more reason than one. Everything is sticky and airless and Iwaizumi is sure that if he would have glanced at you even a minute longer, his heart might have just given out on him. All this love he holds for you, burning him up from the inside, like a fever. He lets out a long exhale when he presses an ice bag against the back of his neck, but it’s not that what causes a shiver down his spine; it’s two arms sneaking around his waist from behind, your sleepy voice mumbling out his name, your body melting into his again. The first kiss pressed on the side of your neck is an apology, the second one a promise. The third–to devour you.

𝐒𝐀𝐊𝐔𝐒𝐀 grumbles something about you being too sticky and sweaty, making a weak attempt to shove you back to your side of the bed, only to pull you back by your hips when you actually do leave some room between you. He can’t help it, you fit so perfectly in the curve of his body, your back pressed against his chest, one of his knees nudged between your legs, all tangled up. It’s the perfect position to plant kisses on the back of your neck, too. Kiyoomi loathes those hot summer nights in the concrete city. He’d rather be somewhere else with you, somewhere to breathe more easily through this heat. Maybe you should move to the countryside, yes. A small house with lots of green surrounding it. Less people and noise, just you and him. Yeah, he would like that. He kisses the back of your neck once more and takes a slow, deep inhale of your sweet scent, before sleep finally crawls upon him again. For now he’ll endure this heat, anything, as long as he can hold you in his arms like this–and have a cold shower with you in the morning, maybe.

[sarahscribbles]

𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐞

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐋𝐨𝐤𝐢 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐨���𝐞, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐧'𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐨𝐟 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐨𝐛𝐣𝐞𝐜𝐭

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐋𝐨𝐤𝐢 𝐱 𝐟!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: 𝐒𝐦𝐮𝐭

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 𝟗𝟕𝟒

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬: 𝐅𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐬𝐦𝐬, 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐠𝐞

𝐋𝐨𝐤𝐢 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Both hands slam onto the wooden headboard with such force that the entire bed frame seems to shake, and through half lidded eyes you watch your knuckles change colour against the wood. It isn’t the first time you’ve assaulted the bed frame this evening, and with the way Loki’s tongue is skillfully sliding through your cunt while you straddle his face, it won’t be the last. 

His quiet hum of satisfaction floats up from between your thighs, and the soft vibrations are enough to have you flutter wildly around him. You chance a glimpse down at the god who’s been lying between your legs for the past half hour, moaning softly at the gloriously debauched sight that meets your eyes. 

Loki is lying contentedly among the pile of pillows on your bed, ink black curls fanned out around him and a pretty pink blush staining his cheeks while he pleasures you. Elegant fingers are curled tightly around your thighs to hold you in place, gripping you so tightly that you anticipate a tiny line of bruises will form by the morning. 

He’s a work of art, really. 

“You are fucking gorgeous.” You can’t help but praise him, because there’s no sight on Earth comparable to Loki’s head between your legs. His answering deep hum sends a sharp ripple of pleasure twisting through your core, pulling a satisfied groan from your parted lips in its wake.  

It’s impossible to tear your eyes from him as he lies between your legs. Each sinful swirl of his tongue and appreciative moan goes straight to your head, but then he moves his head just enough for you to catch the shine of your own arousal coating the tip of his nose and upper lip. That alone is almost enough to send you into orbit, that is, until Loki’s eyes lock with yours and he licks a long, slow line along the length of your cunt, pulling you as close to his mouth as he physically can. 

It feels so good, so blindingly good, that for a second you’re unable to speak, unable to do anything but drown in the warm, wet feel of Loki’s tongue.

Your hands curl tighter around the headboard, but you don’t take your eyes of Loki for even a second. “Fucking…menace!” you cry out, only to feel him smile against your cunt as he returns to teasing and taunting. “Loki, I - fuck!” Whatever you were about to say is swiftly lost when he then dips that skilled tongue inside you. 

All you can manage is a strangled whimper while he fucks you with his tongue. He’s expertly building you towards the edge, in the gloriously depraved way that only he can, and you send up an unending stream of thanks to the universe that this god loves you.

Because no one before him has ever been so attuned to your pleasure, or so eager to ceaselessly place it before their own. 

“Nothing arouses me more than pleasuring you, dove.” He had said little over half an hour ago, silencing your objections as he had coaxed you over his face. 

That beautiful face is now peering up at you with reverence, as though he’s ached to worship you all his life and tonight you’ve granted his every wish. His tongue laps at your cunt with something close to desperation and, not five minutes later, you feel his hands slide along your thighs to grip your hips, clamping you firmly against his face to give his undivided attention to your clit. 

You clench wildly on top of him, beginning to rock your hips in an attempt to chase the release that’s building like a storm in your core. “Fuck, Loki, keep doing that! Please, please, please!” you plead with him. 

The coil in your core is twisted tight and about to snap, promising a blinding release. It’s glittering before you like a new star - all you need is that wickedly talented tongue.  

Curses and pleas continue to fall like spring rain from your lips, and Loki is the ever benevolent god. Before long, your climax crashes down around you with such force it rips the breath from your lungs. Tiny stars dance at the edges of your eyes and you grind wildly against your lover's face. 

Loki watches you intently, his eyes sparkling as you come undone for him. You make sure to cry out his name as soon as you’re able, letting everyone in a ten mile radius know that every part of you belongs to him. 

Your thighs are trembling on each side of Loki’s head, your heartbeat a pounding drum in your chest. You’re panting as you come down off your high, basking happily in the golden afterglow of your orgasm…

But then you realise that Loki’s tongue is still buried in your sensitive cunt.

“Mpmh, Loki…too much,” you whimper, trying to lift off his face. 

Loki’s hands only curl tighter around your hips, refusing to grant even a seconds reprieve. You squirm on top of him, because the sensitivity really is too much, but a soft warmth in your wrists acts as a momentary distraction. 

Glancing up, you see the deep green ribbons that are now tying your wrists to the headboard, effectively immobilising you and leaving no option but to remain where you are. 

You feel Loki smirk between your thighs and the mischief that’s dancing in his eyes only confirms how absolutely fucked you are. “Please…no more…,” you plead weakly, but his sinful tongue remains deep in your cunt. 

Within seconds, the beginnings of another orgasm are fizzling in your core and, through the heavy haze that’s settled over your shoulders, you vaguely remember Loki’s delicious promise from earlier in the evening, only now you can see it for what it was: a threat. 

“I won’t stop, darling. You have my word.”

[gideonpyrrha]

the way nobody except corona gives a fuck about judith besides pitying her sends me straight into orbit. shes being psychologically tortured by a massive blue orb in the sky and everyones like captain please stop screaming 🙄 she comes back from rb madness and nobody even asks her how shes doing. help

[deepspace-scenarios]

[scenario/drabble] Claymores and first aid

Summary: LI's reactions when they accidentally get injured by you. Because sometimes, keeping you safe in orbital trials means fighting in close proximity, and accidents are bound to happen. Genre: Fluff, mild hurt/comfort, vague mentions of injury (not graphic); TW: suggestiveness

SYLUS

The moment the Wanderer dissolves into shimmering particles, Sylus turns away- too quickly. You catch the flicker of silver light along his ribs- a signature mark of your claymore- before his regeneration powers can fully activate. 

His smirk is already in place when you grab his wrist, but you feel the faint tremor in his muscles. Black and red mist lingers on his side for a moment, his wound soon disappearing along with the mist.

"Kitten," he says, "You're more distraught than I am."

You press your fingers to the wound, and his breath hitches- just once. The glow of your claymore lingers stubbornly, despite the skin being healed. His amusement fades into something darker, more intrigued. 

"Hm. Seems your blade left a signature." His hand covers yours, pressing it harder against his skin. “I'm beginning to think you chose the claymore on purpose, just to do this to me,”

The way his eyes gleam suggests he wouldn’t mind if it was. 

You scoff. “If I wanted to use weapons on you, it wouldn't be during battle.”

He leans closer. “You're getting so soft these days, kitten, it's hard to believe.”

Two can play at this game. 

You tug at his jacket, pulling him close. His crimson eyes widen, just the slightest.

“Well I'm your accomplice, aren't I? Besides, if I really wanted to leave a mark on you- I'd do something else,” You kiss his cheek, tapping the spot with your finger afterwards.

“I'll take your word for it.” He smirks, bringing you in for an embrace, the kind that feels grounding, solid, and infinitely safe- that is, until you feel his fingers thread through your hair. He holds the back of your head to his chest now- a subtle, gentle grip, but one that reminds you of his true strength and command on any battlefield.

Yet, for someone who just teased you for being soft, his tone when he speaks again remains doting, the kind he uses when he's endlessly endeared by something you do.

“It will take much more than that sparkly sword of yours to wound me. And- if you're still worried about the sparkles on my skin, just see it as a little souvenir to commemorate this victory.”

---

XAVIER

Xavier kneels amidst the fading ice crystals from the Wanderer, his cloak dusted with frost. He doesn’t react when you approach- not until you see the silver glow seeping through the fabric at his upper back, along his shoulder. 

Oh, no.

"Xavier-"

"Not your fault," he murmurs, as if he's read your mind already. But when you reach for him, he catches your wrist, his grip firm. 

"Your claymore carries remnants of the galaxy," he says, head turned to the side to study the shimmer along his wound. "Fascinating."

When he looks at you, his gaze is steady, and his voice is soft.

"Will you help me inspect it?"

His fingers intertwine with yours to bring you closer, a silent reassurance that you are still his reliable partner despite the outcome of battle. Your heart swells with both hurt and guilt. He's always so calm, so patient, even when his well-being is on the line.

You nod, gently removing your hand from his and moving to check the injury. He lets out a shaky breath when your fingers touch the torn fabric.

“Xavier- let's get you back to the Association's clinic,”

“Can't we go home?” 

You can hear the pout in his voice. He winces when he tries to stand up, a clear sign that he isn't fit for any place but a medical facility.

You bring his uninjured arm over your shoulders to help him stand up. He groans at the movement.

To think that this is happening because of you sends a fresh wave of guilt through you.

When you turn to look at him, the pout is back in place- and you try to push the guilt aside and rack your brain to think of ways to persuade him.

“Would you go if… if you get cuddles in exchange? And as many kisses as you like, when we get home. For the rest of the week,” you ramble.

He lets out a small chuckle, a faint sparkle returning to his eyes. “Do I seem like one to fold under bribery?”

Hearing his banter, some relief washes over you- and then you remember. He's also good at pushing aside his needs for you.

You sigh, and try to swallow the lingering guilt. “Xavier... I'm just trying to help. I'll be with you all the way to the clinic- until we're home.”

He blinks, noticing the slight strain in your voice. “If it eases your mind- I'll take your offer. I'll be fine as long as you're with me.”

Later that night, he doesn't just accept your offer- he makes sure he eliminates any shred of doubt and guilt on your mind, with tender kisses and soft touches, letting you know he’s safe, and everything will be fine.

_____

ZAYNE

Zayne is already assessing his own injury when you spot it- a precise slash along his forearm, glowing faintly with residual energy. His expression doesn’t change. 

"Fascinating," he mutters, probing the edges. "Your blade interacts uniquely with the dermis."

You rush over to his side. "I didn’t mean to-"

"Focus and assist me." He instructs, his tone clipped. “Undo my necktie and just press it onto the wound-”

When you hesitate, his gaze softens- just slightly. "It’s not fatal. Though," he adds dryly, "if you’re feeling concerned, know that this hurts less than losing control over my own Evol.”

Your expression crumples. “Zayne, that hardly-”

“I will also appreciate the distraction of you undoing my tie,” he adds with a wry smile.

You force your trembling hands to work quickly, bringing the fabric to his wound. “Let's head to Akso just to get it checked out-”

Zayne shakes his head, already heading away from the clearing- bringing you along, your hand still clasped over the fabric on his wound. “I have enough first aid supplies at home.”

“Surely the doctors and nurses at Akso will do a much better job than me-”

He glances at you, “Consider it a chance to learn, in case of future emergencies,” 

You feel your heart clench. His comment is practical as always, but hardly easing your worry.

“I don’t want any future emergencies,” you say softly.

“It is always best to be prepared.” From his tone, you can tell he isn’t arguing with you. Simply stating the cold, hard facts and making a clinical judgement.

You know that you're speaking to Dr. Zayne, and whether it is the wish to get him back to the warmth and safety of home, or the understanding that this is Zayne in survival mode- you let him be.

The ride home is silent, for the most part. Just you glancing at Zayne at every red light, and him reminding you not to go over the speed limit too much.

Once you're seated next to him around the dining table, he guides you through the steps of first aid and wound dressing- it's nothing you haven't come across in your first aid training, but in your current state, none of that knowledge would be retrieved if it weren't for him.

When the wound is all bandaged and he is leaning against pillows in bed, you curl up next to him. 

“I'm sorry, Zayne.”

“Mm? I thought I told you not to apologise,” he says, shifting his weight as if he wants to hold you close. You gingerly move aside and walk to the other side of the bed, away from his injury.

Once you're settled next to him again, you hug his uninjured arm close. “Yeah- I just wanted to say it properly.”

“Do you feel better, now that you've said it?”

The question catches you off guard, and you frown in thought.

“...sort of,” you say, unsure of what to do with the guilt lingering in your heart.

“I'm not upset, nor do I feel the need to blame you. So don't drag yourself through hardship,” He presses a quick kiss to the top of your head. 

“In case you need a token of forgiveness on my behalf,” He explains.

Warmth blooms in your chest- and you return his kiss, a chaste one on his cheek. 

“Payment for the token.”

_____

RAFAYEL 

The fragments of the wanderer disperses around you in a flurry of particles, the harsh sounds from battle fading into a sudden, haunting serenity. Rafayel gasps the second he notices the gash on his thigh, a faint silver glow lingering. 

"Oh no! My leg!” He collapses dramatically against you, bringing you two crashing onto the grass.

You panic- until you see the grin tugging at his lips. You narrow your eyes at him when it clicks - he shielded you to break the fall onto the grass as well, his muscle coordination impeccable as ever.

“Let me assess the injury, Rafayel,” you say with a sigh, sitting up.

“How will I ever dance at the gala now?" He frets.

You look at his injury. It does look like it warrants a dramatic response, a new diagonal slit in his dress pants, skin broken underneath. 

"Unless…" He bats his lashes. "My hero carries me?"  

You shove him. 

He laughs, catching your hand. "Hey! Be nice to the wounded soldier!”

“...Does it hurt a lot?” You ask, gently skimming your fingers around the torn fabric, aware of how he flinches when your fingers are near the wound.

“Kinda,” he says, voice quieter now.

A pang of hurt ripples through you. Of course he tries to hide it with theatrics. “Alright. I'll carry you,”

Not that you really could make it all the way back to the car bearing his full weight.

“Awww, Miss Bodyguard,” he coos, nuzzling against you. “You can help me walk, and I'll make it there juuust fine,”

His voice drops. "Though next time, maybe aim for the ugly brute instead of the artist, hm?"  

_____

CALEB 

Caleb doesn’t even acknowledge the wound until you point it out- a slash across his ribs, pulsing faintly with silver. He blinks. 

"Huh. That’s new."

It's you, you did this.

There's a tingling numbness in your hands, and your knees go weak. You force yourself to take a few more steps towards him as apologies tumble from your lips. 

He just grins, but you notice it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Relax. I’ve had worse from training."

You inspect the wound, noting the cleanly torn fabric and his injury- not deep, but hardly just a scratch.

“Don't say that- it's- we need to clean your wound-”

Your trembling hands are covered by his. “Pips, hey. Look at me. It's an injury, but I'm okay,”

“But- I did this to you,” you say, voice cracking.

"Aw, pips.” He tugs you closer, holding you firmly in his arms. It's comforting, familiar and grounding - but it does little to ease your mind.

“No, wait- you'll irritate the wound like this,” you say, trying to step back and finding his arms locked tightly around you.

“If you reeeally wanna make it up to me… You can help me dress the wound when we're home.”

“And I need to get you the ointment to counteract the claymore's effects-”

“Well, I got plenty of first aid supplies from the Fleet. They have a bit of everything for anything. You can help me test out the antidote,”

If you saw the mischief in his eyes, you would've told you the testing won’t involve much of a test.

When you're home, you find that his test is more of him dragging out instructions and praises with barely-concealed heat in his purple eyes, voice low and rough, and you putting the ointment on with a blush dusting your cheeks.

Once you're done, you reach for the tissue box and wipe the excess ointment off your fingers. 

“Does it still hurt?” you ask, voice breathier than you intended.

“I'm fine because you're here,”

With that, he pulls you in- sealing his lips over yours with a fervour that tells you he's definitely going to be alright.

Opposite scenario here!

[comatosebunny09]

sum: sylus responds to an online ad for a roommate. you suddenly have this tall, well-spoken, handsome man living in the attic, playing classical music, tinkering with things he built, and humming off-key while he makes you pancakes in the morning before disappearing for weeks at a time. cw: modern au, roommate au, slice of life, slow burn, mild language, brief mentions of violence & torture, evols exists here, mutual pining, romantic tension, brief jealousy, alcohol, 3k wc track list: le carrousel - james quinn fig. 1 | fig. 2 | fig. 3 | fig. 4

The air reeks of mildew, dust, sweat, and disinfectant. 

A lone lightbulb winks tawny overhead, casting ominous shadows along the concrete floor and walls, highlighting the savagery taking place within.

Four men occupy the room. 

Sylus is the only one seated on a chair like a throne, legs crossed—the paradigm of poised, twirling a folding knife between his fingers while a henchman stands in good form at his back. 

The muffled screams have now dulled to wet whimpers. A grown man crying has never been a pretty sound. But Sylus has grown accustomed to it, sometimes dragging the fragmented remains of a man out himself. 

He’s a good foot from the show, watching with all the interest of someone used to brutality. Lowered lids cloak vacant eyes. He sighs for the umpteenth time, leaning back, clearly bored with this game.

Lackey number two rucks up slicked sleeves, swiping the sweat from his brow before getting back to work. 

The victim—a self-proclaimed freelancer discharged from a rival faction, boasting about having antimatter weapons to sell—snivels as Sylus’ henchman drags him across the floor. On his knees, ankles and wrists bound, breath shaky behind the bite of a makeshift gag, the man levels Sylus with a pleading look. 

It’s fruitless. The kingpin is in no mood for mercy. He waggles his fingers, signaling for his henchman to begin another round of mind-warping torture. 

Blood and viscera aren’t Sylus’ thing. 

If he can help it, he prefers more neat, conventional methods for extracting information. Which is why he doesn’t flinch when the goon’s cries rise again as if he’s being electrocuted. 

The lightbulb glints once more, and a moth beating its wings as it orbits it, casts a foreboding shadow below.

Sylus toys with the knife again, mind slowly detaching itself, when his phone lightly buzzes in his coat. 

He catches the blade’s handle in his palm, fishes his cell from his inner pocket, and scrutinizes the screen. Arching a brow, his lips twitch, threatening to curl upward. 

It’s a message from you, your name accented with a lone heart emoji. 

When he draws up the text, your voice invades his mind. He envisions you all frazzled, dramatic as ever, and his heart swells from the imagery.

(You): help me!

It reads half-cryptic. He’s sitting up now, the knife returning to its home with a sharp shlink!

When he starts to feel an inkling of concern creeping in, thumb hovering over the keyboard, prepared to key in a response, another message comes through. It’s a picture of a menu, sharp print against cardstock, the restaurant's name scrawled in cursive at the top. 

(You): don’t know how to read this. i’m hungry as hell and about to have a whole attitude.  (You): heeeeellllp 🚨🚨🚨 (You): and don’t say escargot. i will literally fight you.

This time, he does allow his lips to pull in that Cheshire Cat sort of way. It’s endearing how you need him. How you rely on him to translate what you call “rich bastard speak.” Even if it’s for something minor, he’s grateful to be of use to you. You give him purpose in a world that bleeds grey. The shine of a lighthouse amid a tumultuous storm. 

He’s been there before, the eatery you’re fretting over. They have good liquor and decent grilled scallops. He’s about to send back a personal rec, but then it strikes him—the gleam of silver in the photo’s corner, half-hidden by the menu, but glaringly obvious. 

An expensive watch wrapped around a wrist that’s inherently masculine catches his eye. Bigger than yours, veins and sinew spilling from the links down to manicured nails. 

Sylus’ jaw ticks. 

He knows you’re on your lunch break. Has your schedule down to a science, pocketing it in case he has to do something irreversible to clear his tracks. He’s aware that you primarily work with women—you sometimes vent about the things they do and don’t, using him as a confidant whenever your day is too heavy to shoulder. 

And maybe he’s done background checks on all of them, ensuring they wouldn’t pose a problem later. To you and him.

But you’ve never spoken of a man working in your small, hodgepodge department. A man too close for Sylus’ comfort. Casual familiarity that makes his eyes narrow.

He’s already chased off one deranged ex. He’d rather not come back to you missing while he’s in another city conducting business.

(Sylus): whos that sweetie? (You): ??? (Sylus): the tudor watch. (Sylus): in the corner. friend of yours?  (You): oh! intern. he’s cool peeps. i’m like 6 years older than him and he keeps reminding me. 🙄🙄🙄

Sylus certainly does not release the quietest, most relieved breath. And the rigid set of his shoulders doesn’t slacken upon discovering that you’re not secretly courting someone without his knowledge.

It’s not stalking. It’s ensuring his assets are secured. 

(You): anyway, can you help me? you know i don’t understand this fancy shit. (Sylus): avoid the rack of lamb. its a bit overseasoned. (You): lol (You): you forget who you’re talking to. i sprinkle seasonings on my food until my ancestors whisper, “enough, child.”

He chuckles something throaty, something endeared. And he doesn’t realize he’s let his guard down until his henchman shifts behind him, clearing his throat. Sylus cuts his eyes over his shoulder, daring the man to utter a word. He doesn’t, straightening his tie and returning his attention to the scene ahead.

(Sylus): it might be a bit overpowering even for you sweetie. (Sylus): go for the duck confit or the grilled halibut. those are more your tastes. (You): thank youuuuu! 🙏🙏🙏 (Sylus): pair it with a glass of pinot gris. (You): gesundheit. (Sylus): and be sure to introduce me to your new intern friend before he whisks you out on a date next time. (You): 😛😛😛 (You): jealous?

Sylus doesn’t do jealous. It’s never been a word in his repertoire. Possessive, maybe. A little overprotective, sure. But jealousy suggests uncertainty—belly-baring surrender. Weakness—and Sylus is everything but weak.

He keys in a response that he knows will have you tipping out of your chair.

(Sylus): jealousy would imply that youre not already mine sweetie.

He can virtually hear the cogs turning in your mind when you take a few beats to respond. The resulting surprised dog meme you send makes him stifle that rich man’s laugh behind his hand. 

You’re cute. Do you know that?

Leaving you with something to think about, he concludes your playful exchange.

(Sylus): have fun.

Peeling himself from the chair, he shoves his hands into his pockets, the arms of his coat dramatically fluttering behind him when he turns to exit the warehouse. 

He pays no mind to the cries of agony behind him. Just clips over his shoulder to a stationary henchman by the entrance, “Finish up quickly.”

The sooner he cuts out the middlemen, the quicker the suppliers will start sniffing around themselves.

—

It’s a little past 6 pm when the front door’s lock jiggles. 

Good. Perfect timing.

“You’re home early,” you call from the fridge when that messy thatch of white appears in the doorway. 

He stiffens, taking a little time to appraise you like he didn’t expect you to be home. You snort, kicking the fridge door shut, a handful of grapes clutched in your hand.

You pop one into your mouth, leaning on the countertop. Syus approaches after toeing off his loafers and dropping his coat on the rack. The particles in the air seemingly bend and shift to accommodate him. 

You try not to get hung up on what he said earlier—you know, when he insisted you were his.

Maybe he’d been drinking himself. You had a little Pinot at his behest to combat your flaring nerves. To knock a little sense into yourself.

“Why do you look like someone hacked Mephisto?” you jibe, trying to lighten the mood. 

Sylus’ expression morphs into something easier. Something more like him as his lips pull into that familiar smirk. Without warning, he swipes a grape from your palm, and his eyes shine with a challenge as he deposits it in his mouth. 

“Why do you look like you’re up to no good?” he returns in that deep gravel, tone threaded with a tenderness you’ve never heard expressed elsewhere.

Your jaw shifts. He’s lucky he’s cute. The pinnacle of manliness. Handsome as all hell. You’ve never known someone to make something as simple as eating look hot.

Clearing your throat, you swipe some invisible dust off the counter after finishing off the last of your grapes. “Not up to anything bad. But since you’re home, you can watch a movie with me.”

The silence hangs for a moment. You glance up to see your roomie eyeing you with an intrigued brow. He reaches over the counter to flick your forehead. You let out an unflattering yelp. He’s trying to scramble your brain matter, you just know it.

“Do I have a say in the matter, or are you just going to manipulate me with those dangerous eyes of yours?”

Your heart was already rabbiting in your chest. It works double time now, and your stomach drops to your feet. You’re stricken with something cold. Something halfway pleasant. 

Oh. Oh, he was flirting, wasn’t he?

Opting for coy, you tug at some frayed threads at the end of your sweatshirt, caught between a laugh and a scoff. 

“Unless you’ve got some mysterious phone calls to take, you’re mine for the night. You owe me for babysitting Mephie. You know he secretly wants to murder me.” And for leaving me all by my lonesome again, you inwardly add. 

If at all possible, his smirk deepens until a dimple craters his cheek. You have pins and needles in your legs. What the fuck even is breathing?

“Doubt that. He’s programmed to…appreciate pretty things.” The way his eyes slide to you as pretty things leaps off his tongue—

You typically keep the AC low for the summer. Pretty comfortable for you both. But it feels it’s reached boiling point in your quaint kitchen as your skin grows embarrassingly hot.  

After a deep breath to get your head together, you move to the pantry to fish out some popcorn. Your movements are noticeably stiff as you tear through the plastic, not daring to turn around, lest he get a look at that crooked smile on your face. 

“Batman it is,” you say, loud enough for him to hear above the beep of the microwave when you set the timer.

You feel him between your shoulder blades. Drilling down to the marrow with those brilliant, scarlet eyes before he huffs a laugh, tapping the counter. You peer over your shoulder as he pulls away, disappearing across the house, probably towards his room to change.

He comes back down while you powder the popcorn with seasonings. He’s over your shoulder, static growing between your bodies. And you get a whiff of his worn cologne, of the clean cotton laundry detergent woven into the fibers of his shirt.

You move to the fridge, rifling through it to give your hands purpose. Something to occupy them, to keep them from shaking as you sort through your wine stash.  

“What goes best with popcorn? I’ve got red, white, pink—oh, something I bought ‘cause the label looked cute.”

Propped against the counter’s edge beside you, arms crossed over that unfairly solid chest, Sylus shakes his head. “How about a glass of Michter’s 25? Bourbon pairs best with popcorn.”

“Uh, sure?”

You’re not entirely sure how the two mix. Probably something about the dolce colliding with the saltiness. Whatever. You like surprises. Your roomie’s always had pretty good taste.

He shoulders past you to reach for something at the top of the pantry. Amber gleams in an intricately designed bottle clutched in his hand. You give him a look, haughtily throwing some popcorn into your mouth.

“Has that been up there the whole time?”

You track him with your eyes as he draws two lowball whiskey glasses from the cupboard, then fetches some ice from the freezer. His expression’s amused while he pours. He plucks the glasses from the counter, signaling you to follow him to the living room. 

“I knew you wouldn’t be able to find it, seeing that you’re the height of a gopher. I’d say I found a pretty good hiding spot for it.”

He laughs that bewitching, throaty sound, effortlessly avoiding your foot aimed at his ankle to trip him up. 

—

The TV swaddles you in its sporadic lighting as each scene unfolds.

You turned down all the lights, save for the one above the stove, to add to the ambience. The sounds of scuffling and explosions fill your living room, with occasional quips from your roomie about the exaggerated action and how unrealistic the mobsters are. 

There’s familiarity in the way you sit on the couch. In how Sylus idly smooths his thumb over your ankle, propped in his lap, beneath a throw blanket. He put up with you shoving your cold feet under his thighs to pilfer his warmth until he tickled them and allowed you to use him as a footrest. 

One of his arms is draped along the backrest, clutching his half-drunk glass. He paces himself. You’re already on your third.

He turns to you with a twitch of a smile whenever he feels you staring at something other than the screen. Squeezes reassurance into your ankle before pretending like he’s consumed by the movie. 

That Michter, whatever-the-hell it was called? It’s smooth. Dangerous. It crept into your bloodstream when your guard was down, and your head’s a little fuzzy. Skin warm and tingly, inhibitions slowly sloughing off.

You’re on your sixth round of Sylus-watching when the doorbell chimes. Both your gazes snap to its source.

“I’ll get it,” says Sylus, tapping your foot for you to let him up, and setting his glass onto the coffee table with a soft clack.

You shake your head, feeling like you’re swimming through molasses, eyes all low, smile goofy. “Nah. I got it.”

It’s a feat. Almost losing a fight with the blanket, you make it to the door. Sylus snorts behind you. The delivery driver is kind as he hands you your pizza and receipt.

Somehow, you make it back to the living area. You’re a mess of giggles and sluggish limbs as you fall back onto the sofa beside Sylus after dropping the pizza box onto the coffee table. So close, you could conquer the distance with an exhale.

His thigh’s warm beside yours. Devastating. You contemplate grabbing it, letting your fingers test the rigidness of his quad under the pretense of being tipsy.

He closes the distance for you as if parsing through your nebulous thoughts.

There’s no preamble. No remarkable setup when his arm slips from the backrest to snake around your shoulders. It’s a loose hang. Not tight, giving you room to wiggle free if you’re uncomfortable. You peer up into his face, and his eyes crease with something you mistake for affection beneath the glinting light of a chase scene.

The movie’s no longer interesting. It hasn’t been for a while. You’re warm inside, unsure if it’s a consequence of the alcohol or his proximity. Regardless, you toy with his fingers near your shoulder, smooth over his knuckles, testing the waters.

He makes no move to deter you, instead sinking deeper into the couch, legs spreading a little wider, hold on you a little more confident. He tugs you into his side without really thinking, fingers burning through the layers of skin on your arm.

Your hands drop to his tapered waist to ground yourself through the slurry haze of inebriation and infatuation. His heart is steady in his chest, whereas yours bangs like a war call. You’re close enough to bury your face into the hollow of his shoulder. That warm scent he carries is enough to soften your knees, to loosen your jaw.

Moving on autopilot—or maybe you’re fully aware of what you’re up to—you pitch yourself closer. So close, you’re halfway across his lap, watching his Adam’s apple bob beneath the blue wash of light. Your eyes flit to those full lips, slightly parted, quivering. Those pretty lashes sweeping his cheeks, those scarlet eyes jumping like cinders in a hearth fire beneath.

Your head tilts up. He meets you halfway. Draws you closer at the waist, and you roost your hands on his chest as your lids droop, as his lips pan in.

But the union never comes.

He hesitates for a beat. Hovers, a breath left between your mouths. Shaky, ragged, hot. He drops his forehead to yours, his grip on your hip tight, and he forces out an anguished sigh.

“You’ve been drinking, sweetie,” he says, hoarse, barely restrained, almost like he’s reminding himself instead of you.

You giggle, trying to tamp down your nerves. The disappointment flaring like plasma ejections across the sun’s surface beneath your skin. “So have you.”

He huffs through his nose, lips pulling into a tired smile. “Yes. But I’m also better at holding my liquor.”

“Says who?”

His gaze consumes you. Like liquid spilled over smoldering coals. He gathers your cheek into his palm, so tender as he thumbs over your chin, your bottom lip. He watches it when he tugs down, how it snaps back into place, its texture, and you can sense the edges of his resolve eroding like a rock face worn down by the surf.

“You’re warm. You can barely keep your eyes open.” His voice drags pleasantly along with his fingers along the skirt of your jaw. “You can hardly sit upright, sweetheart. If I do this now, I won’t be able to stop.”

Quivering fingers close around his wrist. You adjust on the couch until your knees meet the side of his thigh, nuzzling your molten cheek into his palm, head reeling. “Who says you have to?” you counter, voice crackling. Pleading.

He presses your foreheads together again. Your eyes slip shut as he slides his fingers into the space between yours, guiding your hand to his mouth instead for a kiss. He’s warring with himself. Berating himself for even letting things get this far. For getting too close.

He draws back slothfully, like it stings, like he’s leaving a bit of himself with you. And maybe he is, his defenses halfway buried beneath the floor. The moment hangs between you, stretched like the fragile spindles of a spider’s web. He doesn’t want to break the spell. You don’t want him to, either.

“Not yet,” he rasps, settling against the cushions once more and drawing you back into his side. “Not like this. You’ll thank me in the morning, sweetheart.”

Somehow, you have a hard time believing that, a wobbly pout taking hold of your lips.

It annoys you to no end.

Sylus is a man who doesn’t take what he isn’t given freely. Coherently. He’s such a fucking gentleman, you want to punch him sometimes. This emotional warfare is maddening.

Still, you curl into his side, burying your face into the nook of his neck to chase that heady scent. His pulse quickens, a sharp intake of breath when your lips graze his carotid, before he rests his chin on the crown of your head. He smooths over the goosebumps flaring over your arm as the credits roll, offering a quiet apology, both for getting your hopes up and shattering them like rock candy against the concrete.

Another almost. Another could-have-been. Another bout of shitty timing.

[tobesolnelyx]

new fan, love ur frat boy series. do u think u could make one abt frat boy Shauna, Lottie, Jackie, and Nat all fighting over reader? - 🥄 not sure if this emojis been taken

— how you get the girl || fratboy!yellowjackets x reader ⭐️

a/n: hello 🥄anon! also, yes, title again from taylor swift’s song, are we even surprised?

summary: they all try to…hit on you? holy shit. modern college au. g!p characters.

warnings: none!

From the very beginning, you somehow ended up orbiting that fratboy cluster. A lot of people assumed you were just…hooking up with them, but the truth was, you had simply—miraculously—slipped into their world. You always got invited to parties. You could walk into the frat house like it was your own living room. None of them ever minded your constant presence—whether it was during casual hangouts or at the cafeteria table. You thought it was just because they liked you.

The problem was, maybe they liked you a little too much. And that started to sink in over time, once you managed to untangle flirting from just being nice.

Natalie Scatorccio was the subtlest of them all. Nat didn’t care much for people on campus, but she could spend hours in yours company. Her idea of flirting was making you endless playlists. Her strange love language was sending you songs. Sometimes, out of nowhere, she’d hand you one of her earbuds.

“Yo, check this out,” she’d say, stretched out on the frat house couch while you were supposed to be studying. Supposed to, because Natalie never took it all that seriously. She’d hand you a tiny black earbud, the same ones seemingly glued to her ears—she wore them all the time. Nothing made her happier than when you added a song she recommended you, to your favorites. Yes, she sent you shared playlist links. Always curious about what you listened to. Just so she could blast it later at parties and drag you onto the dance floor.

No, she had no idea why another song from your favorite artist was suddenly playing through the speakers… totally a coincidence.

Nat, who always insisted on being the one to give you rides. Most arguments about that were between her and Shauna.

“It’s not safe,” Shauna would insist, arm slung around your shoulders in some vague gesture of territorial affection. Natalie’s eyes would burn holes in Shauna’s hand, which rested a little too close to your collarbone.

“Oh, give me a break,” Nat would roll her eyes and flash you a grin. “You love those rides, sweetheart, don’t ya?”

Of course it was a joke—with a loaded undertone. She even bought you your own motorcycle helmet, complete with custom stickers, so she had every right to drag you out for rides now and then.

Nat, who thought you were the perfect dance partner. She’d always pull you into the center of the crowd at parties, already a little high and a little buzzed, swinging you around in drunken waltz.

Nat, who thought you were the ideal weed-smoking companion. You didn’t even have to get high with her—just being there was enough.

Jackie Taylor, who liked to play the romantic. Okay—maybe she wasn’t really playing. Sometimes, she was genuinely sweet in all of it, despite her occasional theatrics. Which made her flirting painfully obvious. Not everyone was a fan. While Nat at least tried to brush it off, Shauna rolled her eyes every time Jackie opened her mouth, muttering that nobody was buying the cheap tricks. Lottie wasn’t thrilled either—she’d mumble about how Jackie was hopelessly fake, all plastic charm and recycled lines.

Jackie, who loved bringing you flowers. Fresh, cut, sometimes even handpicked. One bouquet a week became a habit. And okay, Lottie may have had a point—Jackie did reek of clichés sometimes. But still—she was sweet. She invited you to the movies in cinema, on spontaneous ice cream runs, dragged you along to her piercer when she got new jewelry, or switched out the old. She’d even help you pick something for yourself now and then.

She showed far more than she ever said. She tied your shoes. Wrapped you in her varsity jackets. Brought you breakfast—or bought it—just because. But if anyone asked her how she felt about you, she’d deny it instantly. She’d say it was just a deep friendship. That’s all.... right…

Even though you were walking around campus in her t-shirts, and she never took off the bracelet you made her by hand.

“You can’t even admit you like her,” Shauna scoffed one night, in that know-it-all tone she reserved for moments like these.

Jackie shot her a glare cold enough to freeze glass. She threw a small tennis ball at her head—the one she’d been absentmindedly tossing around for the past hour—but Shauna ducked.

“Shut your mouth,” Jackie muttered, her voice low. A flush crept up her cheeks. “Says you,” she grumbled sarcastically under her breath. “The one who’s always first to start talking.”

Shauna Shipman, who was downright awful at expressing her feelings. She was the hardest to figure out. For the longest time, you were sure she didn’t like you at all. And then—it started.

Shauna, who spent every single study session with you. She always made sure you came along to the library. Being a full-time fratboy-level asshole was one thing. But skipping her academics? Not a chance. At first, she just tolerated your presence. Now, she was suddenly showing up at your door unannounced. That dopey grin on her face, hands shoved into her pockets.

"Ready, princess?" she’d ask, just to get under your skin. She loved irritating you. At her core.

"Not if you call me that again," you’d laugh, grabbing your jacket— and her arm was already slipping around your waist, pulling you in like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Shauna, who didn’t take no for an answer. You were hers. Even if you didn’t know it yet. She was already convinced that Lottie, Nat—and especially Jackie—didn’t stand a chance. Typical. That ego of hers.

Shauna, who started texting you constantly. Gym pics became a trend—tight shirts, sweat-matted hair, those particular grey sweatpants (hmm...). She knew exactly what she was doing.

Shauna, who had a bit of a obsession. Enough to start fights at the frat house when Natalie’s hand lingered somewhere it shouldn’t, or when Lottie tossed some strange joke your way. Not to mention she’d start the dumbest arguments over you—full-blown chaos, just because someone looked at you a second too long.

Sometimes she’d even tell people you were together. You were supposed to find out in your own time that—in Shauna’s mind—you already were her partner. Simple as that.

Shauna, who never said a word about how she felt. But her hands were nearly always on you—like they belonged there. Sometimes you’d push them away when they wandered too low or too high, but she’d only grin, that same ridiculous grin, and she definitely wouldn’t move.

Lottie Matthews, who seemed to be the most chill about the whole situation. As if she already knew—inevitably—you’d choose her in the end. As if the others were simply playing catch-up in a game they didn’t know they’d already lost.

She always watched Shauna’s desperate displays of ownership with a kind of amused pity. She snorted at Jackie’s endless, cheap gifts. And as for Natalie—Lottie barely concealed her smirk whenever Nat stumbled over her own version of flirting.

Lottie, who loved to flex her cars. Did you really understand much of her rambling about them? Not really. You’d never been that interested. But Lottie always spoke with such passion, you let her talk. She’d customized each of her cars with a space just for you— a cushion in the seat, your spare sunglasses in the glove compartment, your favorite hand cream tucked neatly beside them.

Lottie, who showered you in gifts. Sometimes she’d drag you out for a spontaneous shopping spree. Other times, she’d just show up with something already picked out. You’d both lie sprawled across her bed at the frat house—specifically chosen to avoid any surprise Shauna ambush and her relentless, idiotic monologues. Lottie would drop the shopping bag in front of you, grinning like she'd just won a prize. Visibly pleased with herself.

“Open it,” she’d snap her fingers at the bundle, and with a soft smile you’d pull out some luxury skincare set—or, more bluntly, a beautiful piece of lingerie. “Saw it today and immediately thought of you.”

“Thanks, Lottie,” you’d murmur, leaning in to press a kiss to her cheek. And she’d smile even wider like your touch sealed the deal.

Lottie, who made the dumbest jokes just to see you roll your eyes.

Lottie, who—unlike Shauna—touched you with finesse. A hand grazing your waist as she passed behind you. Fingers resting casually on your knee, like it meant nothing. Sometimes she’d lean in close only to inhale slightly, and ask if you were wearing the perfume she gave you last week.

[wordsofwhimsy]

❀ꗥ～𝐁𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 ～ꗥ❀

❀ꗥ～ Omni!Mark Edition!～ꗥ❀

Pairing: Omni!Mark Grayson x Southern Belle!Reader

Warnings: None

Tags: Fluff, slice-of-life, god Mark is trying so hard and it’s got me in a chokehold

Word Count: 2,268

Synopsis: Mark is an unquestioned powerhouse whose following in the steps of his father perfectly – which apparently includes playing the good guy role for a little while here on Earth. After saving the day in a place he had never visited before – Savannah, Georgia – he sees you for the first time, and he finds himself immediately captured by you. And bless his heart; he’s trying real hard.

a/n: waaaait omni-mark is actually too cute with her this turned out so good 😭

you can start reading the main series ❀ꗥ～ Here! ～ꗥ❀

The explosion rattled every window in downtown Savannah.

You were halfway through handing out church fliers for the bake sale when the sky opened up like the Good Lord Himself had decided to throw hands. Something mechanical shrieked overhead—a hunk of alien tech spiraling out of orbit—and folks scattered like hens. But you? You were too busy trying to help old Miss Calloway get her walker down the courthouse steps to run.

That’s when he showed up.

A blur of red and white streaked past, and the air cracked like thunder. The machine exploded mid-air, scattering debris, but not a single piece touched you. When the smoke cleared, he was hovering there—arms crossed, chest rising slow.

He looked like the kind of man Mama warned you about: handsome as the devil, with a jaw like sin and eyes sharp enough to cut. A blood red and pure white suit, that strange symbol on his chest, and not a hair out of place.

“Are you okay?” he asked, voice deep and all business.

You blinked. Smiled. “Well, ain’t you just the tallest glass of sweet tea I’ve ever laid eyes on.” You dusted off your sundress, calm as anything. “I do believe you just saved my hide, sugar.”

He stared at you.

Actually stared. Like you’d grown wings.

“…You’re welcome,” he finally said, stiff as a board.

—

You figured that’d be it. Just another cape breezin’ through town, gone like a summer storm. Lord knew Savannah didn’t have the kind of villain activity to keep someone like him around.

But then, a week later: a bank robbery on Broughton.

You were across the street looking at fabric for a new church dress when the robbers burst in, masks askew and nerves twitchin’. Not thirty seconds passed before the front of the bank exploded outward in a thunderous crash, and guess who came walking through the smoke like Judgement Day in boots?

Omni-Mark.

Two would-be robbers unconscious. A van flipped. The building cracked clear down the façade.

He stood there for a second, breathing like he’d just fought a war. Then those eyes found you again.

“…Are you okay?” Same question. Same voice. Like he didn’t remember asking it the first time.

You dusted off your bag and smiled slow. “I was, until someone sent half the brickwork into my fruit basket.”

He blinked.

Didn’t apologize.

Just nodded once and flew off, leaving the street cracked and the bank’s ATM embedded in a mailbox.

The week after that?

Arson at a seafood joint. Only it wasn’t technically arson—it was an overenthusiastic crawfish boil gone wrong.

And who just so happened to swoop in and rescue two elderly patrons and a plate of hushpuppies?

You guessed it.

By the fourth “coincidence,” you’d had just about enough.

You were at the farmer’s market, haggling over okra and mindin’ your own, when some no-name villain calling himself “Professor Static” tried to rob the honey vendor. The man had jumper cables and a Bluetooth speaker duct-taped to his chest.

And still—here came red-and-white terror incarnate, landing hard enough to knock over a bushel of peaches and sending poor Professor Static into early retirement with one punch.

You didn't even flinch this time. You just turned and said:

“Well if it ain’t my own personal tornado again. You know, I’m startin’ to think the Lord sent you to test my nerves, not save ‘em.”

Mark, still brushing bits of villain off his knuckles, replied earnestly: “There was a threat in the area.”

You tilted your head. “Mmm. And this particular ‘threat’ required a man who can break the sound barrier and throw tanks?”

He blinked like a confused dog. Then just said: “Yes.”

You smiled sweetly. “Well bless your heart. Guess Savannah’s just become real high-priority all of a sudden.”

After that, it escalated.

You’d see him perched on the roof of the Piggly Wiggly while you grocery shopped. He once “coincidentally” flew past your book club meeting—held in the back of a tea shop.

Even the church roof getting repaired wasn’t spared — you caught him “inspecting the structural integrity” one morning. At six a.m.

“Coincidence,” he told you, solemnly.

“Mmhmm,” you replied, sipping your coffee on the porch. “And I’m the Queen of England.”

It all came to a head at the Sunday picnic behind the church.

You’d just handed Pastor Whitmore a plate of deviled eggs when a little boy started crying about his balloon floating up into a pecan tree. Before anyone could grab a step ladder, a sonic boom knocked over three lawn chairs and Omni-Mark landed in a crouch like a soldier behind enemy lines.

He plucked the balloon from the tree with surgical precision, handed it to the wide-eyed boy, then turned—like he couldn’t help it—and locked eyes with you.

You didn’t break your stride. Just walked up to him, parasol bouncing against your shoulder, and smiled.

“Well hey there, stranger,” you said like you hadn’t seen him five times that week. “You just happen to be floatin’ by again today, huh?”

“I was nearby.”

“Oh really?” You tapped your lip with one gloved finger. “Because far as I can tell, Savannah’s been quieter than a cat nap in August—until you started showin’ up.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

You leaned in just a touch, that parasol bouncing lightly on your shoulder, and let your voice drip warm like honey on a biscuit.

“Now sugar, I don’t mean to be presumptuous, but if I didn’t know any better…” You paused, let him look at you, take you in like he always did — like he didn’t understand how something so soft could hold his attention so hard. “…I’d say you’re sweet on me.”

That got him.

He stiffened. Visibly. Brows drawn down like you’d just spoken ancient Sumerian.

“I’m what?” he asked.

You blinked. “Sweet on me.”

“…Is that a—threat?”

You nearly choked.

“Well no, darlin’,” you laughed. “It means… you’ve taken a shine to me. Got a fondness. Somethin’ warm and fluttery in your chest every time you see me walk by in a sundress.”

He stared at you like you’d spoken in riddles. “I don’t know if I have that.”

You arched a brow. “You been followin’ me all over town like a lost bloodhound with a crush and you don’t even know?”

“I know I see you,” he said, slowly. “And it… interrupts everything else. I think about you when I’m not near you. I look for you in crowds. I don’t understand it.”

Your heart did a little hiccup. Not that you’d show it.

Then he shifted—just slightly—and gestured behind him like he’d almost forgotten.

“I saw this,” he said, dead serious, “and I thought of you.”

You followed his hand.

And there it was.

A tree. Not just any tree—a full-grown, live oak, trunk thick as your grandmother’s front porch columns, roots still clumped with Georgia clay.

“I brought it,” he added plainly. “For you.”

You turned fully now, dress swishing, lips parted.

“…You brought me a tree.”

“It’s strong,” he said, like he was listing military assets. “Deep roots. It survives storms. And it’s beautiful.”

You stared.

He looked almost… hopeful. Like he wasn’t sure he’d done it right, but he really wanted to.

You pressed your hand to your chest and sighed. “Oh, sweetheart.”

“Did I choose wrong?” he asked, suddenly uncertain. “Is this not a… courtship gesture?”

You had to bite your bottom lip to keep from laughing—though not unkindly. No, it wasn’t mockery—it was fondness. Pure and surprised and maybe just a little fluttery.

“No,” you said at last, stepping up to him. “It ain’t wrong. It’s just…”

You rested your hand gently on the center of his chest, right over that insignia, and smiled.

“…You’re real strong, real fast, and real bad at this.”

He looked down at your hand. At your smile. And for the first time, his posture eased.

“…I’ll learn,” he said.

“Lord help me,” you muttered, half to yourself, “you’re cute—but you sure ain’t right.”

Behind you, someone whispered, “Is that your boyfriend, baby? He brought you a tree.”

You sighed. “No, ma’am. Not yet.” Then looked back at the man who could snap planets in half but was standing there like a schoolboy with a daisy, and added:

“But he’s tryin’ real hard.”

—

You should’ve known the tree was just the beginning.

The very next week, you came back from choir practice, humming “Precious Lord” under your breath with a casserole dish in one arm and a tote bag of hymnals in the other—only to stop dead on the sidewalk.

Because your house?

Was gone.

Completely, utterly gone. Just a smooth patch of red Georgia clay and some very confused squirrels.

You didn’t even drop your casserole. Just squinted at the empty lot and muttered, “Oh, hell.”

You hadn’t even had time to call the police when a blur of red and white landed softly on your lawn—just popped into existence like some kind of good-intentioned superheroic ghost.

Mark stood there with his arms folded, looking like he’d done something monumental and was waiting for you to notice.

“Hi,” he said, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “I moved your house.”

You blinked. “…You moved my house?”

He nodded. “Yes. I reinforced the supports and rotated it thirty-six degrees for optimal morning exposure. The noise levels in your previous neighborhood were above what I deemed safe. I’ve included natural barriers. Defensive elevation. There’s even a freshwater stream now.”

“…You moved my whole damn house.”

He tilted his head. “Are you… not pleased?”

You finally set the casserole down on a tree stump, took a deep breath, and strode over to him in three deliberate clicks of your Sunday heels.

“Mark, darlin’… I know you mean well,” you began, voice soft and syrupy, “but courtin’ a woman does not involve real estate displacement.”

“I didn’t damage it,” he said quickly. “I preserved everything exactly. Even the wind chimes.”

You pressed two fingers to your temple like you were tryin’ to keep your soul from leavin’ your body.

Mark took a cautious step closer. “Would you… like to see it?”

You stared at him for a long moment, arms crossed tight, casserole cooling on the stump beside you.

“…You moved my house and you want to take me on a field trip to the scene of the crime?”

“I think you’ll like it,” he said, hopeful.

And before you could say yes, no, or bless your heart, he picked you up—gentle, cradling you like you were something breakable—and whooshed into the sky.

The wind tugged at your curls, your heels danglin’ mid-air, and you had half a mind to scold him for flying off with a lady like you were luggage.

But then you saw it.

Set right on the crest of a hill overlooking a winding stream, surrounded by swaying oaks and golden brush, was your house.

Your entire house. Not a board out of place. Porch swing still swayin’. Petunias somehow re-potted on the steps.

It looked like a catalog ad for “Backwoods Dreamin’” — and you had to admit, it was gorgeous. If deeply unhinged.

He landed smoothly and set you down on your front walk like he’d done something sweet instead of city-code-illegal.

“I aligned it so the kitchen gets the sunrise,” he explained. “And you mentioned wanting to see more stars at night, so I calculated the light pollution radius and picked the optimal spot.”

You turned slowly to look at him, expression flat.

“Mark… honey, I said I missed seein’ stars — I didn’t mean for you to relocate me to a planetarium in the woods.”

“…Oh.”

You exhaled, long and slow.

“Alright,” you said, hiking your dress slightly as you climbed the front steps of your own house now resting on foreign soil. “That’s it. We’re havin’ a talk.”

He followed behind like a student reporting to the principal.

You walked into your kitchen, poured sweet tea into two mason jars (still miraculously in your cupboards), and sat him down at the kitchen table like he was about to be scolded by every southern matriarch in history.

You set the jar in front of him before fishing in your purse and pulling out your emergency notepad (every proper southern lady carries one), flipping to a fresh page. Then, in very clear, looping script, you wrote:

How Not to Woo a Woman Like She’s a Hostile Planet(Southern Courting Etiquette for the Superpowered)

No lifting houses. Ever.

Flowers are romantic. Entire ecosystems are overkill.

Don’t solve mild inconveniences with extreme force.

Ask before giftin’ anything that could legally require zoning permits.

No surprise livestock. This includes alien livestock. Especially if they glow.

He peered over your shoulder like this was a test he didn’t study for.

“What’s ‘livestock’?” he asked seriously.

You slowly turned to him. “Did you bring me an animal?”

“…Not anymore.”

You didn’t ask.

You simply handed him the notebook, patted his chest gently, and said, “Study this, darlin’. Hard.”

He took it in both hands like you’d just handed him the Declaration of Independence.

“I will,” he promised. “I’ll memorize it. I can learn.”

And Lord help you.

You liked him.

“You’re sweet,” you said, standing and walking over to rest a hand gently on his shoulder. “And dumb as a box of river rocks, but sweet.”

He blinked. “Is that… good?”

You smiled. “Sugar, it’s a start.”

[flwrkid14]

Tim and Jason: Caught Between Healing and Fear

note: completely inspired by this amazing post! tysm to @timdrakewhump for letting me use it as inspo!! <33

Tim doesn’t flinch around Jason. Not exactly. It’s more of a stiffening, a tightening of his shoulders, a flicker in his eyes that he knows Jason catches. He hates it. Everyone else has moved on. Dick forgave. Bruce rebuilt. Even Damian, with all his sharp edges, has softened into something survivable. But Tim? He still expects a hit that doesn’t come, still hears the echo of fists in the dark.

And that? That’s on him, right? It has to be. Because if everyone else can move on, why can’t he?

They don’t talk about it. Not directly. The bats have always been good at side-stepping, at smoothing over the cracks with enough shared history to pretend the damage never happened. They act like everything’s fixed, like Jason is something fragile they have to keep close, hold together. They ignore the way Tim’s shoulders tense when Jason’s voice gets too loud, the way his hands shake when shadows fall just right. They brush off his excuses to leave the room or, worse, look at him like he’s the problem.

“Jason’s trying, Tim.” “He’s better now.” “Don’t hold onto the past.”

But Tim isn’t holding on. He’s bracing.

Every patrol with Jason is a test. Every sparring match, a gamble. Jason keeps it light—punches pulled, jabs softened with crooked smiles—but Tim knows what Jason’s hands are capable of. He remembers the brutality, the raw fury that doesn’t vanish just because it’s been filed down to something more manageable. He knows Jason’s trying. He knows Jason’s better. But there’s a thin line between better and safe, and Tim’s still learning how to balance on it.

When Jason starts spending more time at the manor, no one questions it. They welcome him with open arms, eager to fill the empty spaces his absence left. He’s part of the family, they say. He needs support, they insist. So Jason sits at the dinner table, helps out on patrol, lounges on the couch like he’s always belonged there. And Tim... Tim watches from the corner of the room, a shadow on the periphery, pretending he doesn’t notice the way everyone else orbits around Jason like he’s the sun.

They send Tim on solo missions now—so Jason can have space. They say it like it’s a good thing, like they’re doing Tim a favor. More responsibility, more autonomy. He should be grateful. And he is. Or he would be, if it didn’t feel like being exiled. The irony isn’t lost on him. They don’t want Jason to be alone, so Tim has to be.

The apartment is quieter than the manor, the kind of quiet that presses in too close. No hum of the Cave, no distant footsteps of someone always nearby. It’s fine. He’s used to it. He tells himself that every night, like a mantra. He likes the solitude. It’s familiar, comforting in a way that makes his chest ache. But sometimes, when the silence stretches too thin, he thinks about calling. Jason always picks up now. He’d probably offer to come over, bridge the gap that Tim never asked to be there.

But what would Tim say? Sorry I still see the blood on your knuckles? Sorry I can’t forget how it felt to be the replacement? Sorry you came back, and I thought it would fix things, but it didn’t?

He doesn’t call.

They’re terrified of losing Jason again. They hold him close, desperate, like he might slip through their fingers if they let go for even a second. Tim understands that. He really does. He remembers the hollow ache that filled the manor after Jason died, the way grief settled into the walls like a permanent stain. No one wants to go through that again. They’d do anything to keep Jason safe, to keep him here.

But no one asks what Tim gave up. What he’s still giving up.

Jason is here, but Tim feels like he’s the ghost.

Sometimes, when they’re all gathered together—Bruce at the head of the table, Dick and Steph cracking jokes, Duke helping himself to another slice of pie—Tim looks around and wonders if anyone would notice if he slipped away. Just stood up, walked out, and didn’t come back. Would they miss him? Or would they be too busy watching Jason, making sure he doesn’t disappear again?

He catches Jason watching him sometimes, eyes sharp and knowing. Jason’s not stupid. He sees the cracks. Tim wonders if he feels guilty, or if he’s just waiting for Tim to say something, to break the silence that’s grown too thick between them. But Tim won’t. He can’t. The words stick in his throat, heavy and bitter.

So he stays quiet. He goes on solo missions, patrols alone, comes back to an empty apartment that feels less like home every day. And he tells himself it’s enough.

Because it has to be.