#Personalized Desk Embosser

[acornsalessealsstamps]

Custom Home Address Seal Press

Add a mystical touch to your mail with this Custom Home Address Seal Press featuring a Freemason-inspired design. Ideal for new homeowners, spiritual seekers, and lovers of symbolism. Personalize letters & invites with this 1-5/8" desk embosser.

[whoevenisjavier]

a prize i’d cheat to win

pairing: CEO harry castillo x exec. assistant f! reader

summary: you fuck your married boss during a late night at the office.

part 2 here

a/n: so… this is like… heavy cheating stuff. if that’s not your thing, then best to stop now

tags/warning: +18, mdni. harry castillo is 48, reader is 25. age gap. cheating. f!reader. partners dissing. oral sex (f! and m! receiving). unprotected piv. creampie.

w/c: 9k

Harry Castillo takes many things in life very seriously.

That’s an essential trait when you're sitting in the executive chair of one of the largest construction companies in the United States: being sharp, meticulous, and systematic is as mandatory as a contractual clause imposing penalties for breach.

But there are two things Harry is even more serious and methodical about.

The first: every single one of Harry’s suits is custom-made by the son of the same tailor who once dressed his father and grandfather. Even if a ready-to-wear suit fits him perfectly, it must go to the tailor, even if it’s just to add a single stitch to the inside pocket.

The second: his wife must receive a gift on every single occasion that concerns her or their relationship.

You keep a calendar on your computer solely for this purpose. Her birthday on June 17th, their first kiss anniversary, the day he asked her out, their official anniversary, the day he proposed, their wedding anniversary, Dalilah the Poodle’s birthday.

Yes, there's even an anniversary for the first time they slept together, on September 19th.

And on all these dates, a gift must be sent to her, signed from Harry. If not, she’ll make his life a living hell, and he’ll spiral into one of those gloomy funks for at least three days: always polite, but with short answers and a stone-cold expression. And you hate seeing him like that.

Despite your color-coded calendars and hyper-organized schedule, it did happen once, but only because you didn’t know there was an anniversary for the first time Harry said “I love you,” which didn’t happen until February 15th, 2020, even though he proposed back on October 28th, 2019. Ever since, you make sure that expensive gifts are sent either to their apartment or to her law office.

Today is the anniversary of their first fight, and you're at your desk choosing between a bouquet from The Bouqs Co. and a pair of sapphire Spinelli earrings. Or maybe both?

The elevator doors open and Harry steps out, immaculately dressed in a navy suit you bought last week. He's on the phone and looks stressed. You raise your hand to greet him, and the tension in his face softens into a small smile, which is his version of “good morning.”

He walks past you into his office, leaving the door open, which means he’ll be back in a moment to give you a proper hello.

Harry Castillo’s office is on the top floor of the Castillo Construction & Co. headquarters. Behind your desk, the company’s initials — CCC — are elegantly embossed in gold on the wall. The reception décor is all rich, dark wood — on the wall panels, desks, and on the frames of the chairs in the waiting area. Gold details on the picture frames, doorknobs, and desk edges offer a refined contrast.

It’s beautiful, but a bit dull, so last year, you convinced him to add two dragon trees near the elevator. They gave the space a touch of life, even if he insisted he didn’t like plants in the office.

In the end, he liked it. You know he did.

Being Harry’s executive assistant for the past four years, since you were a twenty-one-year-old fresh out of college, means you sometimes read him better than you read yourself. Your therapist says that’s not healthy, but you like knowing his routine, especially because you’re the one who plans it. You like being his emergency contact, having access to his passwords and bank accounts, being his legal proxy with signing authority.

So, personally, you think your therapist is mistaken.

Ten minutes later, as you confirm your choice of the Spinelli earrings with Harry’s personal shopper, your boss reemerges from his office.

He’s taken off the blazer, and his white shirt sleeves are rolled up, revealing his expensive watch and strong forearms.

“Good morning,” he says with a small smile, leaning casually against your desk. “Did you have a good weekend?”

And here comes the inevitable truth: you are terribly attracted to Harry, which cannot be healthy. Having feelings for your boss, who gives you tasks and commands, kills any remaining instinct for self-preservation.

But God, how could you not? Everything about him pulls you in. The physical traits, the personality, the mind. His strong arms, neatly trimmed beard and mustache, kind brown eyes, tailored clothes, manners, scent, intelligence.

Just the other day, Harry mentally calculated the average profit margin Castillo & Co. made over a five-year period because the financial report hadn’t included it, and then estimated the net return percentage; all in his head. It was the sexiest thing you’d ever seen.

You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve thought of him while with your boyfriend, fully aware of how wrong that is.

“Good morning, Harry.” That’s another privilege: calling him by his first name, while everyone else calls him Mr. Castillo. “I finished watching Russian Doll on Saturday.”

“Yeah? Did you like it?”

You nod, excited.

“Yes, it’s great. You have to finish it.”

Harry gives a quiet grunt.

“I know… But I get home and just crash,” he says, clearly disappointed with himself. You offer an empathetic smile. “I’ll try harder,” he adds, before shifting topics. “I have a meeting at eleven. Can you come with me?”

“Just a moment.”

You open your planner while Harry watches, and you try your best to focus on the color-coded blocks. You have a meeting with the finance team to review some items for Harry, but you can reschedule.

“I can go.”

“Thank God. I’ll need your notes.”

You tap your fingers against your forehead in a playful salute, and Harry smiles before turning to head back to his office. But before he does, he says:

“I like the outfit. Gray is my favorite color.”

He’s referring to your gray pencil skirt and matching halter-style silk blouse.

“Thank you. And I know.”

He smiles, taps his fingers lightly on your desk again, and heads back inside.

And now you can’t focus on anything else on your morning agenda.

The eleven o’clock meeting is at the headquarters of a partner company just a few minutes from Castillo & Co.’s office. Already in the building’s lobby, Harry walks calmly beside you as you head toward the elevator. You’re carrying the leather folder with your iPad and a notepad for Harry, who insists on handwritten notes.

“Did you see how many plants are in the lobby?” you ask as you both stop in front of the elevator, side by side. His security guard stands just behind you, discreet but alert.

“Don’t start,” Harry replies without taking his eyes off the elevator doors. It’s always curious how his expression changes when you’re in public. “You already put two plants on our floor.”

You find it incredibly endearing when he says “our floor.”

“It’s not enough. I’m still planning to sneak one into your office.”

The elevator doors slide open and you both step in. Harry presses the button for the twentieth floor, and you lean against the glass wall at the back of the elevator as he leans in to whisper:

“And then you’ll swing by HR to pick up your termination letter.”

By the time you reach the twentieth floor, where the meeting will take place, there’s still a slight smirk tugging at your lips.

The receptionist at the main desk takes one look at Harry and immediately stands, adopting a posture you’ve come to recognize as reserved only for partners and high-level associates. You yourself soften your voice and demeanor as part of this same executive persona.

You and Harry are led down a long, white hallway with the sterile atmosphere of a hospital (which you hate) until you reach the meeting room. Harry lets you enter first, his hand resting lightly at the small of your back to guide you in.

Inside the glass-walled boardroom, seated at an oval table, are five men and two women. All eyes turn to you, but quickly shift to Harry as he enters the room, already unbuttoning his jacket.

“Please, don’t get up,” Harry says right away, raising his hand palm-out as if to stop them from standing to greet him. Harry hates shaking hands with that many people. “Don’t mind me,” he adds, scanning the room for a free chair. Only one is available. “We’ll need one more chair. I brought my vice president with me.”

Harry is ridiculous. He always introduces you as his “vice president” in meetings like this because, for some reason, if he says “assistant,” the respect people show you is just surface-level, barely polite enough to keep Harry from getting angry. Bunch of assholes.

Someone quickly slips out to fetch an extra chair, but in the meantime, Harry’s hand returns to the small of your back, guiding you to the only available seat at the head of the table, all eyes in the room following the two of you.

Realizing what he’s doing, you whisper:

“Harry, I’m not—”

“Sit,” he cuts you off with just one word, and it leaves no room for argument.

You obey, sitting in the only chair, while Harry stands behind you. With no other option, you slide into your businesswoman persona, straighten your spine, lace your fingers on the table, and meet the stares of the executives around you.

Moments later, someone wheels in another chair for Harry, placing it beside you.

The room falls silent until Harry, now seated and relaxed, says simply:

“So?”

And the show begins.

The goal of the meeting is to convince Harry to invest in the revitalization of a hotel in Madrid, Spain, currently owned by a chain undergoing judicial reorganization. Their last hope is to reopen the hotel, which has been closed for the past ten years, and Harry’s investment would signal a vote of confidence, seen as there’s no guarantee of return for Castillo & Co.

The chain’s administrator, a short man in a tight suit, is in the middle of a PowerPoint presentation showing 3D renderings of the hotel lobby, complete with bronze detailing, when Harry lets out a dramatic sigh and raises his hand.

The man immediately falls silent.

“It’s a good presentation,” Harry says, and you pause your note-taking on the iPad. “But this isn’t what I came to see. Honestly, I’m not the one you should be showing pictures of architecture and interior design to.”

The silence is so tense you could hear a pin drop.

“So far, not a single reason has been presented to me that justifies why CCC should invest in the Madrid hotel,” Harry continues. “Has no one conducted a financial risk analysis? Or at the very least, looked at the average returns of similar hotel chains in the same area?”

“Mr. Castillo…”

“With all due respect, Mr. Edwards,” Harry cuts in again, “my question is simple: was such a study conducted?”

The administrator opens his mouth, likely to offer another flimsy excuse, but this time, one of the women at the table responds:

“Mr. Castillo, we will immediately arrange for a study addressing those questions.”

“You’re asking for more time?” Harry asks, his voice calm, not the slightest hint of aggression, yet somehow that calm makes it even more intimidating.

The woman, to her credit, is brave enough to admit:

“Yes, we are.”

You glance at Harry. He’s tapping his pen against the leather folder he hasn’t even opened. When he stops, it’s to let out a small sigh, as if being in that room is as irritating as a speck of dust in his eye.

“I started construction on a multi-business complex in Madrid last year, and had the bad luck of launching the first month of works right when construction costs in Spain hit a historic record. 117.6 points on the Eurostat index,” he sets the pen down and laces his fingers together, commanding the entire room with nothing but words. “Even with that spike, the real estate market in Madrid is growing,” he glances your way and says, “Miss?”

Of course you remember. You were the one who researched it.

“Seventeen-point-five percent increase last year alone, with a forecast of another four to five percent this year,” you say.

A flicker of pride crosses Harry’s face — but he stays impassive.

“Seventeen-point-five percent,” he repeats, whistling softly in admiration before turning his gaze back to the group. “That’s a lot. Could that offset the budget blowout we’ll likely face by the end of construction in three years? What I do know is that my contract with the buyers of the complex units includes ongoing monitoring of economic indicators and adjustment clauses, because the project team, who are very competent, accounted for all of that. And I only work with competent people.”

More silence.

Harry concludes:

“I expect a study of that level within one month. If you’re not able to deliver that, I kindly ask that you refrain from sending me any more investment proposals.”

Harry stands, and just like that, the meeting is over.

It’s past 7 p.m. when Harry steps out of his office and walks toward your desk.

Under the desk, you’ve already kicked off your heels, and your stocking-covered feet rest softly on the carpet. Your hair is tied up in a bun that probably looks tragic by now, but the kind smile Harry sends your way isn’t one of someone looking at a disaster.

Then again, his hair looks a little tousled too, like he’s run his fingers through it more times than he should’ve.

“What are you still doing here?” he asks, leaning on your desk. He sounds nothing like the man who tore through a room full of clowns earlier in the day.

“I need to go over the spreadsheet the finance team sent me.”

“They sent it late?”

“No. I’m reviewing it late,” you admit, lowering your voice to a whisper and leaning in like you’re telling him a secret. “But don’t tell my boss or he’ll fire me.”

Harry plays along, whispering back:

“A corporate scandal.”

The grin you flash him is ridiculous, and so is the flush that warms your cheeks.

“Still got a lot to do?” Harry asks. You nod regretfully. “Have you eaten?”

You shake your head.

“Alright. I’ll order dinner for both of us. The usual?”

The usual means the Lasagna della Mama Rosa from Piccola that he always gets on late nights like this.

“The usual. Thanks, Harry.”

He ignores your thanks, as always, and heads back to his office. Halfway there, still facing away from you, he asks:

“Want a ribeye? I’m about to beg for one.”

“Rare.”

You can practically hear him rolling his eyes.

“Obviously.”

Thirty minutes later, you go downstairs to pick up the food, paying with Harry’s card. When you return, you head straight into his office.

Harry is at his desk, eyes fixed on the screen. His tablet shows a few graphs, and beside it, his phone is on speaker. He’s talking to his wife, and you pretend not to hear as you walk to the lounge area in the corner of his office, where there’s a leather couch and a coffee table big enough to fit all the food he ordered.

You slip off your shoes before stepping onto the rug and kneel to unpack the takeout bags on the table.

“...because I told her we’d both go with them,” his wife says over the phone, sounding upset. “I can’t back out now.”

“The problem is that you confirmed without even asking me.”

“I thought, as your wife, I could make one tiny decision for the both of us.”

Your brows lift.

“That’s not the point,” Harry says, calm but clearly tired. “The point is you planned a two-week trip out of the country without consulting me. I can’t reschedule twenty meetings or delay fifty different deadlines tied to the 72 active builds I’m overseeing.”

You walk over to the minibar in the corner and grab two sparkling waters and a couple of glasses.

She fires back:

“You could at least try to spend more time with me.”

“You’re being irrational.”

“You drive me crazy!” she yells. “Always with your robotic tone, your charts, your stats. For God’s sake, can’t you be spontaneous for once in your life, Harry?”

You turn to Harry and start to gesture that you’ll leave him alone, but Harry points directly at the lounge area, more specifically, at the table, silently instructing you to go back and stay there.

“You knew who I was when you met me,” he says into the phone, still looking at you. “And I’m not saying that as an excuse for never changing. I’m saying that you need to think about my work before making impulsive decisions.”

She hangs up on him.

You quietly return to the seating area and sit down on the rug, feeling a bit awkward. Seconds later, Harry joins you, settling on the opposite side of the table.

“Smells good,” he says as if he hadn’t just been in a fight.

“Mhm,” you hum, staring at the lasagna in front of you. The smell of melted cheese makes your stomach grumble, but before picking up your fork, you murmur, “I should’ve asked if I could come in. Sorry for overhearing.”

Harry hands you the container with your steak and opens a bottle of water, pouring it into both glasses.

“You know the passwords to my cards and accounts, the backup clouds for the entire Castillo company. My life’s in your hands. It’s not like I have anything to hide from you.”

It’s so satisfying to hear that. Your therapist is going to have a field day.

“You don’t, but maybe your wife wouldn’t love sharing her privacy with your assistant,” you say, mostly because it’s the right thing to say — not because you believe it.

He shuts that down quickly.

“What about your boyfriend?”

“What about him?”

Harry looks up as he takes a bite of lasagna. You pick up your utensils too.

“Is he okay sharing you with me?”

Your hands freeze mid-motion.

“He…” your voice cracks, so you try again. “He knows how much I value my work.”

“Of course.”

The steak is perfectly cooked, tender and rare. To escape the sudden tension, you put on a little show, leaning back dramatically on the plush Nina Magon rug as you chew a piece of meat.

“This is the best steak in the world,” you mumble with your eyes closed. “I’d work overtime every day if this was the reward.”

Harry lets out a low, amused laugh.

“That good, huh? You’d give up sleep for it?”

You hold up a thumbs-up. His laugh grows.

“You should come in later tomorrow,” he says as you sit back up. “That’s me speaking as your boss.”

“I have an eight a.m. meeting.”

“With who?”

“The marketing team.” You already regret it just thinking about it. “Your personal branding, actually. Someone from Forbes wants another interview.”

“Again?”

“Yes, Mr. Castillo. Again. That’s what happens when you’re running one of the world’s top construction firms at forty-eight.”

“Good line. You should pitch that as the interview opener.”

“I will.”

You eat in silence for a while. You take a moment to admire the New York skyline through the huge windows behind Harry’s desk. He likes to keep the lights dim when working late, and the atmosphere feels perfect. The basil lingering in the ragu, the scent of grilled meat, the view of the sprawling city.

Harry sitting across from you. The two of you sharing dinner, like so many times before, and for a moment, it feels like this could be your actual life.

“I can take care of things if you want to go on that trip,” you say, because apparently, your brain-to-mouth filter breaks down when you’re full.

“I know you can.”

“Why not take a vacation?”

“Because I don’t want to,” he says, and you don’t flinch. You’re used to those answers. “I don’t want to travel with the people involved. She knows that. And I have responsibilities.”

“Got it,” you say, leaning back on one hand. Harry watches you. You notice his rolled-up sleeves, the open collar of his shirt, and decide to confess: “I really get it. My boyfriend wants us to go to Bora Bora at the end of the year with two other couples. I can’t stand them.”

“Really? Why?”

“They go to bed at eight. Their idea of being ‘naughty’ is drinking one glass of wine with dinner. Can you imagine that in Bora Bora?”

“Definitely not. Waste of money.”

You snap your fingers and point at him.

“Exactly what I said!”

“You’d like Bora Bora. Rum, sun, and all the shrimp you can eat,” he says, raising his eyebrows. “Might be worth leaving the friends behind and going with your boyfriend.”

“My boyfriend also goes to bed at eight.”

Harry’s face says it all, and so does his smile. He finishes his last bite, scoots back on the rug with his water in hand, and leans against the couch. You do the same, sitting beside him, both of you stretched out in that familiar silence of people who’ve just eaten well.

“Do you two live together?” Harry asks. You shake your head. “How long have you been together?”

You do the math.

“Three years and two months.”

“Has he proposed?”

Straight to the point, as always. Instead of answering, you say:

“Can I grab a ginger ale?”

“You don’t have to ask.”

You walk over to the minibar, grab the can, and come back, fully aware of Harry’s eyes following you the whole time. As you crack open the can, you answer:

“He proposed at the beginning of the year, but I said no. For now.”

“Can I ask why?”

You shrug.

“I’m not really sure. I think a proposal should make you excited about the future, but I didn’t feel that. I felt trapped.”

“I see.” Harry studies your face like he’s searching for something. “I don’t think I felt excited about the future either when I proposed.”

“You love your wife.”

“Do you love your boyfriend?” he returns.

“I do.”

“Okay, but?”

“There’s no but,” you say. “I love him. I love our routine. It’s comfortable.”

Harry is silent, but his expression says he doesn’t buy it.

“Harry.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to,” you reply, shifting to face him. “I love him, but I don’t think I’ve ever been in love with him. No butterflies, no excitement, no stomach-flipping moments.”

“That’s anxiety, not love. Love should be calm.”

“Maybe.”

Silence again. You look out the window. He looks at you.

“I was going to file for divorce last year,” he says suddenly, and it feels like a punch in the stomach. “My therapist told me to wait six months, so I wouldn’t do it in the heat of the moment.”

You’re speechless. He unclasps his watch, slowly continuing.

“I know there’s something wrong with my marriage when I’d rather stay here than go home. I should want to get home to see her. But I don’t. And I know that’s not fair to her either.”

He sets the watch down on the coffee table, next to the empty containers, and rubs his wrist. The hands on the dial show 8:20 p.m.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

“Not your fault.”

As he says this, Harry crosses his left arm over his chest to press his right shoulder, wincing slightly.

“Your shoulder okay?”, you ask.

“Pulled something at the gym this morning. Been bothering me all day.”

Before you can even think through the consequences, you offer:

“Want me to press on it a bit? Maybe it’s just tension.”

“Isn’t that a bit outside your job description?”

“I won’t tell anyone.”

Harry smirks and shifts, turning his back to you and giving you space to move closer.

There’s something different about today. You’ve never touched Harry like this before. At most, there were brief handshakes or polite taps on his arm, but now you’re kneeling behind him, pressing your fingers into his shoulder in what feels like the most intimate gesture of your life.

His muscles are rock solid.

“Jesus, Harry. I’m booking you a session with your massage therapist.”

Harry leans forward slightly as you apply more pressure on the tight traps and neck tendon, and for a second, your mind slips to a criminal thought: what he must look like under that shirt.

“Please,” he says, replying to your earlier comment. Then he grabs your hand and places it exactly where it hurts. “Harder, please.”

You press. He lets out a satisfied murmur, and without thinking, your fingers slide under his shirt where it’s already unbuttoned. Warm skin meets your touch, and you feel him stiffen just a little.

“This okay?” you ask.

“Yeah. Keep going.”

You hold one shoulder steady and massage with the other hand under the shirt for a few more minutes.

“If I gave you a raise,” Harry says, “would you become my full-time massage therapist?”

“I don’t even know what I’m doing.”

“And it still feels fucking incredible.”

He never swears around you. Or anyone. Hearing him say that makes the moment feel even more charged. Strangely, it encourages you. You press harder, still behind him, both hands now working the tension from his shoulders.

Then Harry reaches back and takes your left hand. His thumb brushes lightly over your ring finger, and your breath catches.

“There should be an engagement ring here.”

“Maybe.”

“If you get married, would you still work with me?”

“Yeah. I have Stockholm Syndrome,” you say, shifting your position and stretching one leg beside his body. He lets go of your hand, and you go back to massaging, now reaching the base of his neck. Goosebumps rise under your touch. “I could never live without you barking twenty report requests a day.”

“I’m not that bad. I’m nice to you.”

“You are.”

God. His scent is going to kill you.

“You know what the finance team says about us?” Harry starts. You hum, prompting him to go on. “They say you and I are having an affair.”

“Marketing, too. Pretty much the whole company.”

“What? Why?”

Maybe because you turn into a puddle around him.

“Because you pay me more than anyone else,” you say simply. “And I get privileges and people notice. Of course they’re going to think we’re sleeping together.”

“You don’t care?”

“Maybe I’d care if I worked on one of the lower floors. But here? Not a chance. Let them envy me.”

Harry chuckles, shoulders shaking, and rests a hand on your shin, right over the tights. That touch is new too, and, once again, you freeze.

“I know you pay me well because I’m indispensable,” you continue. “Which is very satisfying.”

“So when we stay late working together—”

“Yes,” you answer before he finishes. “They probably think I’m bent over your desk.”

Harry turns to look at his desk. For one second, you both know exactly what the other is imagining.

“Interesting,” he says slowly. “Has anyone ever said anything to you?”

“No. No one’s crazy enough to say anything to the boss’s supposed mistress,” you joke, but the line falls a bit flat, so you quickly add, “According to their little narrative, I mean.”

The awkward moment is cut short by a notification sound from Harry’s computer. You both look toward his desk, and he groans:

“I hope that’s the report from the Chinese investors. They’re three days late.”

He starts to stand, wincing again because of his shoulder, but you place a hand on his arm and get up:

“I’ll check it. Stay put, old man. Even standing up seems like a challenge for you right now.”

“You just got a 10% pay cut.”

You make a “blah blah blah” gesture with your hand and head to his desk, settling into the chair that’s more like a plush couch. On the screen, there’s an open chart, but you quickly move to his inbox.

The latest email is from someone named Yijun, and there’s an attachment.

“You got it,” you say. “Want me to reply?”

“Acknowledge receipt and say I’ll get back once I’ve reviewed the data.”

You begin typing the reply, carefully channeling your best Harry Castillo voice.

Through your peripheral vision, you catch Harry leaving the floor and settling into the leather couch with a satisfied murmur.

“Best regards,” you read aloud, finishing the email. “Harry Castillo, CEO of Castillo & Co Construction. Sent. Done.”

As you minimize the email window, another one pops up. It’s a pre-filled PDF titled “divorce agreement.” You shrink that window as if it had burned your fingers, only to reveal Harry’s personal inbox behind it.

The last message is from his lawyer. You catch a glimpse of the words “as requested,” “speak with her,” “assets,” and “properties” before closing everything immediately.

There’s a knot in your throat as you stand and silently walk back to the lounge area while Harry watches you. He’s left space beside him on the couch, and you settle there, folding your left leg underneath you.

You’re so close that your knee grazes his thigh.

“I sent it,” you say.

“Thanks. You can head home. I’ll stay a little longer.”

“Avoiding your wife?” He doesn’t answer, and honestly, silence is the wiser choice. But you’re not wise. “Can I ask you something?”

“I might not answer.”

“Fair.” You hesitate. “Swear you won’t fire me?” He still says nothing, and you let out a breath, trusting that you won’t be jobless tomorrow. “Is it true you had a thing with the finance manager?”

Harry’s response is a look of disbelief, as if you just told him the strategy department was considering investing in a country undergoing an economic collapse.

“Where’d you hear that?”

“People talk.”

He rolls his eyes.

“Right. And people also say you and I are having an affair, but that’s not true, is it?” If anyone else had used that tone, you’d probably shrink in your seat. But this is Harry. His stress never goes beyond sarcasm—at least with you. “Of course it’s not true. You really think I’m the kind of boss who sleeps with an employee?”

That silences you, and you’re not even sure where this sudden wave of disappointment comes from. It makes you painfully aware of your place in the company. Despite the trust, the passwords, the confidences, in the end, you’re the executive assistant. Nothing more.

“I don’t” you say finally.

He laughs, incredulous.

“Why do you sound disappointed?” he asks. And at this point, you don’t even know what to say, so you start putting on your heels instead, but Harry is faster. “No, no… Hold on.”

“Do you need anything else?” you ask politely, your left foot already in the shoe.

Harry freezes, eyes locked on you, and you freeze too.

“I have my morals,” he says.

“I know that,” you shake your head slightly, as if trying to hear him better. “Sorry, what do you mean by that?”

“I mean I have my morals, and that’s why I’ve never tried anything in here with the one person who makes me want to, especially because she’s my fucking assistant.”

God. You freeze, heart racing. Your mind latches onto the tense of the verb.

“Makes? Present tense?”

His quiet laugh is almost bitter.

“Unfortunately,” he says, settling back into the couch. “My father raised me right. I have morals, I respect my wife, and I care about my reputation.”

You drop the shoe again and turn to him. Your question is clear, firm:

“Even on nights like this one?”

He says your name like a prayer, rubbing his face with one hand.

“Don’t do this.”

That quiet, simple plea brings you crashing back to reality for the thousandth time. You whisper an apology just as softly, pick up your heels again, and before you can put them on, the leather cushions shift beneath you.

That’s the only warning you get before Harry is close behind you, his hand gently gathering your hair and moving it over your right shoulder to expose your neck.

“I have my morals,” he repeats, coming closer. “Don’t you?”

You think of your boyfriend, and how sweet he is to you. Your mind conjures up images of happy moments, trips, dinners, gifts, and you know you can’t just shove those into a box and lock it away for a few hours. That’s not how it works.

But the way your stomach knots with Harry’s closeness shrinks all those memories down like a sheet of paper folded over and over. They’re still there, but small. Insignificant.

“I do,” you say, because it’s true. “But I can live with that.”

“I don’t know if I can,” Harry murmurs the way he always does when something matters, as if tasting the words.

“If you’re just going to feel guilty—”

“I’m not talking about guilt,” Harry interrupts. And then his hand is on your stomach, pulling you back toward him with one decisive motion that makes you gasp. “I’m saying having you just once wouldn’t be enough.”

“Well, it’s going to have to be.”

At the very first touch of Harry’s lips on your neck, your entire body feels like it’s catching fire, every nerve alive with want, your hands clenched tightly on your thighs. It’s as if every hair on your body is standing on end.

“Did you forget I’m the one giving orders here?” he says. “Once isn’t enough.”

“Is that a command?” you challenge.

Harry’s mouth trails down to your throat, leaving open, wet kisses on your sensitive skin.

His fingers glide lightly to your breasts, the tips barely grazing your nipple through the silk of your blouse. The friction of the fabric makes you arch into his touch so slow and torturous it nearly drives you mad.

“If only you actually followed my orders,” Harry murmurs.

“Of course I do.”

“Yeah?” He kisses the corner of your mouth, pausing just to say, “Then get on your knees for me.”

You shift on the couch to face him, and suddenly, it all feels terrifyingly real. The weight of what you’re doing crashes into you like a slap across the face, because he’s right there, wedding ring on his finger and lips still flushed red.

But unfortunately, it’s not enough to make you stop.

“I want a kiss first.”

Harry parts his legs, giving you space, and you rest one knee between them on the couch, moving in closer to sit on his thigh. You run your fingers along his cheeks, his beard, the collar of his perfectly white shirt. It’s the first time you’ve touched him like this, and you’re certain your gaze gives away more than you want, because there’s a softness in the way Harry pulls you closer.

You’ve caught yourself wondering what kissing him would be like, even during office hours. You’ve seen him kiss his wife before, but it was always just polite pecks, the kind of affection acceptable under New York’s high-society scrutiny.

But nothing could have prepared you for how naturally your lips fit together, or how good it feels. It’s even better than you imagined, just like the rush of doing something so wrong, yet so irresistible, precisely because it’s forbidden, and everything you’ve secretly wanted.

Harry’s hands slide to your waist, deepening the kiss, and yours go straight to his hair, already messier now. The moment his tongue touches yours is the same moment his hands slip beneath your skirt, lifting the fabric as they go.

He finds the lace tops of your stockings, held in place by a garter belt. His hands go straight to your ass, gripping tightly as if it’s instinct.

The curse he whispers makes you smile.

“Take off the skirt and blouse. Get on your knees,” he says, cupping your face and pressing one more kiss to your lips. Then, with a whisper: “Please.”

Hearing this man plead is a dream come true, which is exactly why you nod right away and walk toward his office door.

You close it. Lock it. And as you return to him, you unzip the skirt and slip off your blouse, leaving it behind in your path. The air conditioning makes your nipples hard and sends chills across your skin, but Harry’s gaze, now seated deep into the couch with legs parted, more than makes up for the cold.

Next goes the skirt, and now you’re standing before him in just your stockings, panties, and garter belt.

His lips part as he draws in a deep, appreciative breath, eyes trailing slowly up your body. It’s almost as if he’s touching you with his stare. His hand goes to his tie, loosening it as you sink to your knees.

With your hands resting on your thighs, you watch as he pulls the tie off (the one you bought last month) and undoes the top buttons of his shirt. Next comes the belt and then the button on his pants. Harry leans forward slightly, legs still open, and pulls himself free from his boxers.

Despite the curiosity and heat flooding through you, you keep your eyes locked on his until your tongue brushes the tip of his hard cock. Harry exhales sharply, eyes fluttering shut, and there’s a quiet power in watching a man like him unravel — even just a little.

That alone is enough to make you take him fully into your mouth, lips closing around his thick shaft, sinking him deep.

It earns you a low, guttural curse.

Harry gathers your hair in one hand, holding it tight at the base of your neck. You have one hand on his thigh, the other stroking what your mouth can’t reach, and for a few minute, you lose yourself in the weight of him on your tongue, in his taste, his scent, the sounds he makes just for you.

And then just one question slices through the haze:

“What would your boyfriend think, seeing you like this?” Harry asks, his voice so polite it almost clashes with what you’re doing. He pulls your head back, letting his cock slip from your mouth, dragging the tip across your lips like he’s marking you. “On your knees for your boss. Do you suck his cock this well too?”

You narrow your eyes.

There’s probably an unspoken rule about not mentioning spouses or partners during moments like this. The act is already betrayal enough.

But if Harry wants to play that game, you won’t back down.

You rise slightly on your knees, aligning yourself so he can press his cock between your breasts, and you reach for his mouth to whisper:

“And do you get this hard when it’s your wife sucking your cock? Because if you did, you’d probably want to be home right now.”

Harry smiles against your lips and kisses you again as you climb onto his lap, and he remains silent.

“Let’s go all the way,” you say, because you’re far too wet to let this go to waste. “Right?”

“Right,” Harry answers without hesitation. “No turning back.”

“Do you want to?”

He slips his hand into your panties and finds so much wetness that his fingers glide immediately. His answer comes when he lifts the same fingers to his mouth, eyes locked on yours.

That makes you rush to unclip the garter belt and slide off your panties, tossing them aside. Harry gets the message and starts striping off his pants and shirt. And suddenly you’re on your back with Harry’s heavy and sturdy body on yours, skin on skin.

Harry rolls down your stockings in one smooth, hurried motion. You wrap your thighs around his hips.

“I don’t have a condom,” he says, and God, if eyes could beg, his would be on their knees. “It’s not like a married man needs to carry one around.”

“I printed your test results last week. And I don’t have sex without a condom…” you begin—and then add, “…with my boyfriend.”

He gets it.

“Can I?”

“You can.”

Harry doesn’t even glance down as he guides himself inside you, keeping his eyes on your face, your mouth, his own opening bit by bit while sinking into the wetness. When he’s fully buried, you have to shift your hips to adjust to his thick length.

“Just a second,” you whisper, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. He nods, and you take the moment to ask, “Had you imagined this before?”

“I don’t know how to answer that without sounding like a pervert.”

You run your thumb across his eyebrow, studying his features in the dim light of the office.

“Would it make you feel better if I told you I’ve imagined you while fucking my boyfriend?”

Harry raises an eyebrow.

“I want details.”

“Earlier that day you and I were at a meeting. You did some absurd calculation in your head, and it made me wet. So I went home and…”

“Fucked him while thinking about me,” he finishes, smiling. “Filthy mouth.”

When you keep staring at him, silently asking for his turn, Harry sighs.

“Of course I’ve imagined it. Every time we stay late together, or when you wear that damn red dress and walk into my office, and especially when you put arrogant assholes in their place. You drive me insane.”

You reach between your bodies, your fingers trailing along where you’re joined, circling the base of Harry’s cock. He jerks his hips reflexively, breathing out a soft moan.

“And…” you press.

“And sometimes I dream about you and wake up so fucking hard that…” Harry begins to move his hips slowly when you give him a nod. The thrust is deep, slow, excruciating, and he fills you entirely. You almost miss his next words:

“…I wake my wife up and fuck her.”

“While thinking of me.”

Harry grips your hips and covers your mouth with his:

“While thinking of you.”

Your mouths open into a kiss that matches the way he fucks you: raw, urgent, drenched in tension. Every thrust hits something deep inside you, something you’re not sure anyone else ever will again. You cling to his shoulders, resisting the urge to claw at him, lifting your hips to match his rhythm.

You’re soaked, so much it’s nearly embarrassing, and you’re certain Harry’s lap is drenched with it too. As his movements grow more erratic, you slide a hand between your legs.

Harry catches your wrist, guiding it back to his shoulder.

“No, no… You’re gonna come on my mouth later.”

Well. Okay.

Harry shifts to sit back on the couch, one foot planted on the floor, the other tucked under his leg. He pulls you into his lap again, and this new angle makes him reach deeper, every little shift filling you completely. When he's about to come, he grips your waist tightly to keep you still and thrusts harder, driven by your moans, his mouth open against the space between your breasts."

“Can I come inside?” Harry asks, holding you firmly.

“Please.”

He groans, wrapping his arms around you, and just a few more thrusts later he’s pulsing inside you, breathing heavily against your skin. The warmth floods you in a way that makes you throb for your own release.

“Harry, I need to—”

“I know.”

You’re not sure how it happens so quickly, but in the next second he’s back on the couch, and you’re straddling his face. Then it’s his mouth, his lips on your aching clit.

You grip his hair and glance down, meeting his gaze. Your whimper turns into a moan as he drags his tongue along your folds, tasting both of you, and returns to sucking that overstimulated spot.

“Stick your tongue out,” you beg. “Please—”

He does, and you immediately grind against it, whispering Harry’s name over and over like a prayer.

It hits you like an earthquake. So sudden, so intense that your whole body trembles on top of him, and for a split second, it feels like you forget how to breathe. When you come back to yourself, you’re sitting on his chest, and Harry’s wiping his beard with the palm of his hand, a crooked little smirk on his red lips.

You look down at him and say:

“We’re going to hell.”

He wraps his arms around you and sits up, keeping you in his lap.

“I’m an atheist,” he says, kissing your shoulder. “So… okay.”

“Okay.”

“And now?”

“Now,” you say slowly, cupping his face and making him look at you again. “This never happened. We go back to our lives like nothing ever did.”

Harry sighs your name.

“You say a lot of smart things. That’s not one of them.”

You pinch his cheek, offering no reply, and slip off his lap to gather your clothes from the floor. Your stockings, panties, skirt, and blouse. When you return to the couch, Harry’s already pulled on his boxers and pants, so you sit next to him to do the same.

The entire process of getting dressed again is done in silence, and you’re not sure what you feel: shame, guilt, some strange sense of calm… The only thing that doesn’t hit you is regret — and that makes you feel guilty too.

As you’re slipping on your heels, Harry says:

“It’s only nine-forty.”

“Hm?”

“We still have two hours and twenty minutes before the night’s over. And I’ve got an empty apartment about twenty minutes from here.”

You look up at him, and he adds:

“If tomorrow we’re going to pretend this never happened, we might as well make the most of it tonight.”

You know it’s a terrible excuse. You know that tomorrow neither of you will be able to pretend this didn’t happen. You don’t know what comes next, and the ring on Harry’s finger sits like a weight in your gut, but you’re not a good person.

You lied to Harry. Your morals are bent, and even though you’re fully aware of the circumstances, they don’t stop you.

Nothing could stop you from getting what you want. And right now? You know exactly what you want.

“I’ll wait for you in the garage,” you tell him.

[eclipsaria]

Took You Long Enough

Summary // In which a workaholic CEO finds his calm in the form of his respected senior’s daughter.

Pairing:

CEO! Seungcheol x reader

Warnings:

Fluff, slow-burn, romance, engaged, age gap(10 years), mentioned of kids, married, food, cologne and watch brand names, sugar daddy! Seungcheol if you squint, lmk if i miss out any

Side characters:

SVT members

W/C:

12 671

Rating: [ 13+ SFW ]

Note:

@nerdycheol , you are the one that suggested the watch brand and Hermés cologne brand🤣 and you as a cheol's wife, i take anything you said🫡

Song:

Main Masterlist

Seventeen Masterlist

Taglist

Âme Sœur Masterlist

The office buzzed to life every morning by 8:00 a.m. A polished world of swift elevator dings, the rhythmic tapping of keyboards, and the faint scent of espresso lingering near the breakroom. Floors were lined with pristine glass partitions, and employees moved with a subtle urgency, well aware of the silent clock that ticked behind every deadline.

On the top floor, behind a sleek black door embossed with silver letters, was the corner office of Choi Seungcheol, the man who built the company from the ground up. He wasn’t just the CEO, he was the presence. Charismatic, sharp, and composed, Seungcheol was known for walking into a room and changing its air pressure with just a glance. Rumor had it that he could read a financial report faster than most people could skim a menu, and no one ever left a meeting with him without either a promotion, a plan, or a panic attack.

But beneath his tailored suits and impenetrable gaze was a man with a past no one dared to ask about, and a reputation he carried like armor.

Today, as sunlight spilled through the towering windows of his office, Seungcheol stood facing the city skyline, coffee in hand, unaware that the day ahead would shift everything he thought he had under control.

At just 30 years old, Choi Seungcheol had already climbed the summit most people only dreamed of. It was hard to believe he started as a low-level assistant at the age of 20. No connections, no shortcuts, just a relentless work ethic and a vision that burned behind his sharp eyes. He wasn’t born into wealth, nor did he inherit the company. Every step upward was carved with grit and sleepless nights.

Now serving his second year as CEO, there wasn’t a single person in the company who questioned his leadership. Titles didn't need to be old to command respect, not when every project under his lead launched with flawless execution, crushing expectations and setting new industry standards. His name echoed in boardrooms across the city as a young prodigy, the kind of leader who didn't just manage—but rewrote—the playbook.

What made him even more admired, or perhaps feared, was how calm he remained in the face of chaos. Seungcheol didn’t just make decisions; he made the right ones and fast. He listened more than he spoke, observed more than he intervened, and when he did speak, the room listened.

He turned back from the window now, placing his coffee on the desk as his assistant knocked twice on the door.

“Come in,” he said coolly, buttoning his suit jacket.

In a world where soulmates were real, love was less of a question and more of a certainty. The rule was simple. When you meet your soulmate, just one look into their eyes, and you’ll hear wedding bells. Not a metaphor—actual bells. Ringing in your ears like a celebration only you two could hear. After that, everything seemed to fall into place, like the universe giving you a neatly wrapped ending: soulmates meet, fall in love, and live happily ever after.

Well… everyone except Choi Seungcheol.

His friends, his closest circle, were either happily married, halfway through wedding plans, or sending him pictures of their toddlers with captions like “Uncle Cheol, when’s your turn?” The world was moving fast, and for someone like him, who always caught up quickly, this was the one race he couldn’t outrun.

He wasn’t single because he hated love. He just didn’t want to gamble with emotions. Exes and soulmates don’t mix well. What if he fell in love with someone who wasn’t the one? What if he broke someone’s heart only to meet his true soulmate later, and it all came crumbling down? So he stayed away from flings, from love, from anything that could mess with the balance of his life.

Still, it didn’t stop the slow crawl of anxiety. He wasn’t worried about getting married late, he was worried about his parents.

At 27, his mother had set him up on a blind date with someone’s daughter, he showed up out of respect, but came home early with a headache.

At 28, his father mailed out carefully written profiles of Seungcheol to other families with daughters, practically advertising him like some limited-edition luxury product.

By 29, they dropped all pretense and started pushing for an arranged marriage. “Just meet her, see if your eyes ring,” they said. He didn’t.

Now at 30, Seungcheol didn’t know what plan his parents were cooking up, but whatever it was, it wouldn’t be good.

But what could he do? Nothing. And so, as always, he chose the routine that never disappointed him: Wake up. Go to the office. Handle meetings. Review reports. Sign approvals. Go home. Sleep.

It was safe. Predictable and efficient.

It was just another day at work. The usual hum of morning emails and the faint buzz of distant phones filled the air, when Seungcheol’s secretary knocked once before entering, arms full with neatly stacked document files.

She placed them on his desk without a word at first, as he flipped through the last few pages of a report. But then, came a rare request.

“Mr. Shin from Jeonghwa Group has extended an invitation. It’s a masquerade party,” she said, tone light but respectful. “Held by his wife. They’re hoping for your attendance.”

The name made Seungcheol look up, pausing mid-page. “…Mr. Shin?”

She nodded. “Yes. He personally requested your presence.”

Choi Seungcheol blinked once, then leaned back in his chair. Mr. Shin wasn’t just anyone, he was a veteran in the business world, one of the few people Seungcheol looked up to when he first entered the corporate jungle at twenty. Sharp, poised, but known for his warm charisma, Mr. Shin had once told Seungcheol over lunch: “Success is important, but relationships will carry you further than numbers ever will.”

Unfortunately, Seungcheol never quite grasped the latter.

He was never a party type. In his mind, parties disrupted efficiency. Hours wasted in polite conversation, standing under chandeliers, sipping drinks he didn’t care for. He didn’t hate people, he just… preferred structure.

But this invitation wasn’t something he could brush off. Not when it came from Mr. Shin. Refusing could send the wrong message, and disappointing both Mr. Shin and his wife was out of the question.

A soft sigh escaped his lips.

“…Tell them I’ll attend,” he said finally, a faint crease forming between his brows. “Clear the schedule for that night. If there are any clashes, push them back. And set a time for shopping. Something formal. Masked.”

“Understood,” his secretary replied with a slight smile, already tapping notes into her tablet as she turned to leave.

The door clicked shut behind her, and then silence returned. Seungcheol sat there for a moment longer, staring blankly at the papers in front of him before removing his glasses and slowly pinching the bridge of his nose. A heavy sigh followed.

“A masquerade party, huh…” he muttered.

— ♬ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ♬ —

The night of the masquerade arrived with a velvet sky draped in soft stars, the city skyline glowing beneath it like scattered jewels. Seungcheol’s black car pulled up to the venue. An opulent estate on the outskirts of the city owned by the Shin family, known for hosting only the most exclusive circles.

From the very first step inside, the masquerade felt like stepping into another world.

The entrance hall was grand. High arched ceilings adorned with delicate gold filigree, with glittering chandeliers casting warm light across the polished marble floors. Elegant floral arrangements stood tall in glass vases, the soft scent of fresh orchids and lilies lingering in the air. Staff in crisp uniforms glided past with trays of champagne and wine, offering delicate glasses that sparkled like the guests themselves.

And the guests. Each one hidden behind ornate masks, dressed in tailored suits and flowing gowns, laughter muffled by polite conversation and the occasional clink of crystal. The entire ballroom shimmered with motion and elegance, the air alive with quiet prestige.

At the far end of the room, an orchestra played a soft, haunting melody. A waltz that wound through the evening like silk. Violins harmonized with cellos as couples swayed gently across the dance floor, their silhouettes graceful under golden lights. The music didn’t demand attention; it wove through the space, letting elegance speak for itself.

Seungcheol stood at the entrance for a moment longer, absorbing the scene. Dressed in a deep charcoal tuxedo, his mask was sleek, made of brushed silver, perfectly fitted and simple. Just like him.

He adjusted the cuffs of his suit with quiet precision and took a slow breath.

Seungcheol moved through the grand hall with quiet grace, the soft shuffle of his polished shoes drowned by the music and conversation. His eyes scanned the crowd until he spotted a familiar figure near the center of the ballroom. Mr. Shin, dressed in a regal navy suit, silver embroidery trimming the collar of his jacket. Standing beside him, equally elegant, was Mrs. Shin, her mask adorned with pearls that shimmered with every turn of her head.

With his posture poised and his mask adjusted, Seungcheol approached them and gave a respectful bow.

“Mr. Shin, Mrs. Shin,” he greeted formally, voice steady. “Thank you for the kind invitation.”

Mr. Shin turned, a pleased smile stretching under his mask. “Seungcheol! I was beginning to worry you wouldn’t show. I’m glad you came.”

Mrs. Shin offered a soft nod, “You look dashing tonight, dear. As always.”

“I wouldn’t miss this, not when it comes from the both of you,” he said with a light smile, still formal in tone. “The venue is breathtaking.”

They shared a few pleasantries, light jokes exchanged beneath crystal chandeliers. Seungcheol tried his best to blend into the moment, smiling at the passing comments, laughing politely, sipping wine when handed a glass, but the stiffness in his shoulders never quite faded.

And then, as expected, his conversation naturally veered back to what he knew best.

“Actually, just before coming here, we finalized the restructuring proposal for the third branch’s distribution-”

He stopped himself, but the Shin couple only smiled knowingly.

Mrs. Shin tilted her head with a gentle chuckle, “Oh, darling. You can talk about work all you like if it helps you feel at home. No masks are needed for that.”

Her words, though playful, pierced the tension in him like a warm knife through ice. Seungcheol let out a soft exhale, barely realizing he had been holding his breath.

And so, he spoke. About the company. About numbers. About staff growth. About challenges and solutions.

And strangely enough, the conversation didn’t feel out of place. Mr. Shin offered insights, Mrs. Shin listened intently, nodding with that gentle, matronly glow she always carried. The air grew lighter around them, the laughter more genuine, the pressure in Seungcheol’s chest slowly easing.

Then, Mr. Shin placed a hand on Seungcheol’s shoulder with a proud smile.

“There’s someone I’d like you to meet,” he said. “My daughter just returned home after her studies abroad. I think the two of you will get along.”

Seungcheol turned just in time to see her approach.

You wore a pale lavender gown, subtle and elegant, flowing like morning mist. Your mask was delicate, silver trimmed with lace, soft feathers curling at the edges. You moved with the grace of someone raised in soft-spoken confidence, eyes quietly scanning the room until they landed on him.

The moment your eyes met, everything fell silent, except for the sound of wedding bells. Clear and unmistakable. Ringing only in your ears, like the universe had struck a chord, and fate had written the first line of a new story.

Both stood still for a moment too long, unsure whether to speak or breathe. And in the corner of his eye, Seungcheol saw Mrs. Shin’s knowing smile.

The bells still echoed faintly in Seungcheol’s ears, even as the rest of the ballroom returned to its natural soundscape. Soft music, low chatter, the clinking of glasses.

But for Seungcheol, the world had slowed.

His soulmate. He had finally found you. He should have felt relief, even joy. This was the moment most people spent their lives yearning for. The ache he had carried silently for years, the lingering worry behind every family dinner and silent commute, had finally found an answer.

But fate, it seemed, wasn’t going to make it easy.

You are twenty. Young, bright-eyed, and still new to the world. Ten years younger. And worse, you are Mr. Shin’s daughter, the Mr. Shin he had admired for over a decade, the very man who shaped the path Seungcheol now walked. It didn’t feel real. It didn’t feel allowed.

This couldn’t be happening… could it?

Just as he was grounding himself, still locking eyes with the girl whose existence had just turned his world upside down, Mr. Shin’s voice cut in again, calm and casual.

He reached out, gently patting his daughter’s head as he looked at you with a father’s pride.

“I’ve been preparing for retirement,” he said, almost wistfully, “but before I can step back, I need to make sure she’s ready for what comes next.”

Seungcheol turned to him slowly, blinking.

“I need someone to teach her how to face the working world. Someone sharp, experienced… someone I trust more than anyone else in this industry.”

He turned fully to Seungcheol now, smile warm, eyes firm.

“So before I retire, Seungcheol… can I pass her to you? For mentorship, or practical training. Nothing prepares someone better than real experience.”

The room suddenly felt too warm.

Seungcheol’s grip on his champagne glass tightened slightly, his composed expression slipping just barely for a breath of a second.

Not only had he just discovered his soulmate, he was also being asked on the same night to personally guide you into the working world, into the very fire he had spent ten years learning to survive.

And you would be close every day. His soulmate. His senior’s daughter. His future trainee. His knees almost gave out, but he smiled faintly and nodded, because what else could he do?

“…Of course, sir,” he said, voice steady despite the quiet chaos behind it. “I’d be honored.”

But in his mind, there was only one thought: this is going to be a problem.

As if sensing the moment had grown too full, Mr. and Mrs. Shin politely excused themselves to greet other guests, leaving Seungcheol standing face-to-face with the person who had just unknowingly disrupted the stability he had clung to for years, you.

He watched you for a second longer, trying to find the right words, or any words at all.

You looked up at him too, unsure yet calm. Composed, despite the thunderous sound that only the two of you had heard. And then, gently, your voice slipped out from behind your mask.

“So… I guess we heard it too,” you said quietly, referring to the wedding bells.

Seungcheol let out a short breath, a dry chuckle escaping him. “Yeah. We did.”

A pause hung between you. Heavy, but not uncomfortable, more like the silence that comes when something profound has settled in the space.

“I’m Choi Seungcheol,” he said, dipping his head politely. “But I assume you already knew that.”

You gave a polite little curtsy, unable to suppress a small smile. “And I’m Shin Y/N.” You tilted your head a bit. That earned a faint, genuine smile from him.

The orchestra shifted to a softer tune, one that made the chandeliers shimmer with each drawn note. Around you, the world moved on—guests swayed on the dance floor, laughter floated in waves—but between you and Seungcheol, the air remained still. Electric.

“I didn’t expect this,” he admitted. “Tonight, or… you.”

You let out a small laugh. “You mean you didn’t expect your soulmate to be twenty years old?”

His eyes widened a little, surprised by your boldness, before he shook his head slowly with the ghost of amusement on his face. “Was I that obvious?”

“Just a little,” you teased. “But it’s alright. I didn’t expect my soulmate to be someone my parents literally worship either. So I think we’re even.”

He looked at you, really looked, and saw more than just his senior’s daughter. He saw someone with her own mind, her own spark. Not just someone being pushed into his world, but someone who could make space in it.

“If this gets overwhelming,” he said suddenly, voice a little softer, a little more real, “just say so. I won’t rush into anything. I know this is… a lot.”

You raised a brow, your gaze gentle. “Why do you sound like you’re the one overwhelmed?”

He paused, as if your words peeled away a layer of him.

“…Because I’ve spent years building a life I could control,” he said quietly.

You smiled behind your mask. “Then maybe I’m here to teach you how to let go. Just a little.”

That caught him off guard. A breath of silence passed… and then, he laughed, low and genuine, maybe for the first time all week.

“…I think you might be,” he murmured. And just like that, under the soft music, crystal chandeliers, and masks that hid just enough but revealed just as much. The world had quietly started to change for Choi Seungcheol.

— ♬ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ♬ —

The next day arrived with polished shoes, pressed suits, and a strangely quickened heartbeat that Seungcheol couldn’t quite explain, not until his office door was knocked on, sharp and polite.

His secretary peeked in with a gentle smile, then stepped aside. “Young Miss Shin has arrived, sir.” And then you stepped in behind her.

For a moment, just a moment, Choi Seungcheol forgot how to breathe.

At the masquerade, your mask had hidden part of your face, letting only your voice and eyes do the talking. But now, standing there in the light of his office, dressed professionally yet effortlessly graceful, you looked nothing short of a princess sent straight from a fairytale.

Your features were delicate, your posture refined, and your smile-

God, that smile.

You bowed deeply, a full 90-degree gesture of respect. “It’s an honor to work under you, Mr. Choi.”

That broke something in him, just for a second. He almost gulped, throat tightening as he tried to suppress the warmth crawling up his neck. His jaw clenched lightly, keeping his face composed as always, but his eyes… his eyes betrayed him for a heartbeat too long.

His soulmate was bowing to him like a subordinate, like he wasn’t losing his grip on the damn air in the room.

“Thank you,” he managed, his voice still firm but quieter than usual. “You may begin today.”

He cleared his throat and quickly looked away, standing up and adjusting his cufflinks just to buy time. “You may return to your tasks,” he told his secretary, who gave a small nod and closed the door behind her.

Now, it was just the two of you.

The air shifted again. Quiet, but not cold, just full.

You stepped forward softly, hands tucked behind your back, walking with a quiet elegance that echoed across the floor of his office. You stopped just short of his desk, leaned forward a little, and smiled.

“I wish for a happy time working with you, Mr. Choi.”

His heart skipped a full beat. He blinked once, then twice. He internally cursed himself for how fast his chest reacted, how your presence so effortlessly chipped away at the steel mask he had worn for years.

“…Don’t get too comfortable,” he muttered under his breath, turning slightly away as he pretended to check something on his desk.

He picked up a pen, but forgot what document it was for. Clearing his throat again, he motioned for you to sit on the chair in front of his desk.

“Take out a pen and a notebook,” he said briskly, avoiding your eyes. “If you want to be the next CEO of your father’s company, you’ll need to start by remembering a few things.”

Still smiling, you sat down and pulled out your notebook obediently.

“Rule number one,” he continued, finally looking at you again, but carefully now, like one wrong glance would unravel him. “No one cares about your title. Earn their respect with competence, not your last name.”

You nodded, scribbling it down.

“Rule two,” he said, watching the way your hair fell slightly as you wrote. “Always know more than you speak. And listen more than you think.”

You lifted your head just enough to meet his gaze and softly replied, “That sounds exactly like you, Mr. Choi.”

His pen almost slipped from his hand. He coughed once more, this time trying to suppress the hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

“Rule three,” he said sharply, eyes back on your notebook. “Stop charming your mentor. It’s distracting.”

You giggled, quiet, warm, and knowing.

He didn’t say it out loud, but deep down, he already knew that this was going to be a long, dangerous, beautiful mentorship.

The first few hours of your mentorship under Choi Seungcheol moved swiftly, on the surface.

He kept his instructions sharp, his tone professional, walking you through key departments, introducing the core team, and pointing out what made his company function like a well-oiled machine. To any outsider, it looked like another day of excellence from the CEO.

But the staff, sharp-eyed and always quietly observant, noticed something was off. It wasn’t something loud. There were no smiles stretched too far, no extravagant gestures. It was the way he stood a little too close.

The way his voice dropped just slightly whenever he spoke to you. The way he’d glance at you longer than he intended when you weren’t looking. And above all, the strange, rare gentleness in his expression when he watched you scribble notes or tilt your head in concentration.

To them, he was different today.

Seungcheol didn’t think so. He was just… doing his job. Guiding you, as Mr. Shin had asked, offering knowledge and sharing insight. So why did standing next to you feel like the only part of his day that wasn’t suffocating?

Every time your shoulder brushed his as you walked beside him, his chest felt lighter, like the years of pressure he’d buried beneath routine and deadlines were slowly peeling away.

He blamed it on the soulmate bond. That had to be it.

Still, it didn’t explain how you made silence feel so comforting. Even when neither of you were talking, your presence carried a calm aura—quiet but grounding.

And for someone like Seungcheol, a man who lived and breathed pressure, your calm was unfamiliar… and unsettling.

Not in a bad way, but in a foreign, “how-do-I-function-while-feeling-peace” kind of way.

He was in the middle of explaining their operations team structure when he noticed you looking up at him with that same unwavering gaze. Focused, soft, and admiring, as if he wasn’t just your mentor, but someone you deeply trusted already.

That was when he blanked out. He literally forgot the point he was going to make.

“-and that department handles… uh…” His brows furrowed, staring at the floor plan pinned on the wall like it had betrayed him. “The, um…”

You tilted your head. “The logistics team?”

He cleared his throat, nodding once. “Right. Logistics.”

His voice returned to its usual pace, but internally, panic echoed like an alarm.

Thankfully, a familiar knock on the glass broke the moment. His secretary peeked in again.

“Sir, your meeting is in fifteen minutes.”

A lifeline.

He straightened quickly. “Right. Thank you.”

He turned to you, voice brisk but not cold. “I’ll need to prepare. My secretary will guide you around the rest of the office.”

You nodded politely. “Of course, Mr. Choi.”

And just like that, he walked away, maybe a little too quickly, and stepped into his office, letting the door close behind him.

Only when the lock clicked into place did he exhale. Running a hand through his hair, he leaned against his desk for a second, glaring at nothing in particular before muttering under his breath: “…Wake up, Choi Seungcheol.”

He scowled at his own reflection in the black monitor, then sat down and opened the meeting files, anything to distract himself from the echo of your smile in his mind.

The meeting room was sleek and quiet, filled with department heads and key project managers all seated in neat rows around the long conference table. On the wall, the quarterly projections were being presented by one of the finance leads: charts, graphs, bullet points ticking forward one by one.

From the outside, Choi Seungcheol looked the same as always. Sharp suit, steady gaze, and the calm posture as he sat at the head of the table.

But his fingers betrayed him.

They tapped quietly against the table’s surface, then began twirling his pen between them. An unconscious habit. Over and over, the silver pen spun in rhythm, not once slipping, not once faltering. Precision, yes, but not focus.

His eyes stayed forward, directed at the slides, but his mind wasn’t in the room.

It was still in the hallway. Back where you walked beside him, soft footsteps echoing alongside his. It was stuck on the memory of the way you tilted your head, smiling gently. The way your voice sounded when you said, “I wish for a happy time working with you, Mr. Choi.”

His heartbeat picked up again.

He subtly loosened the top button of his collar with one hand, hoping no one noticed. A deep breath filled his lungs, but did nothing to cool the sudden warmth behind his ears.

Get a grip, Seungcheol.

One of the department leads directed a question toward him. He caught it, answered professionally and concisely. The pause before he spoke was half a second too long, but not enough to cause alarm.

His pen spun again, even faster now, almost mechanical.

Why was this happening?

He had handled crises, led multi-million-dollar negotiations, turned failing branches into flagship models. He had faced rooms full of foreign investors and government officials. But now, here he was, fidgeting with a pen like some college intern, thinking about a girl with calm eyes and a presence that made his carefully structured world feel… quiet.

Not empty, just quiet. And Seungcheol didn’t know if that was comforting—or terrifying.

Someone called out his name again, snapping him out of his trance.

“Yes?” he responded, blinking back into the present.

All eyes turned to him, waiting. He cleared his throat and nodded slowly. “I agree with the previous point. Let’s move forward with scenario B, but add a contingency plan for client-side delays. I’ll review the proposed schedule by Friday.”

Everyone nodded. The meeting continued.

But even as the presentation resumed, Seungcheol’s hand never stopped spinning the pen. And under the table, where no one could see, his leg bounced just slightly.

He didn’t even realize he was smiling, just barely.

The meeting ended without incident, at least from an outside perspective. Everyone filed out of the room with their notes and laptops, chatting quietly, discussing next steps. Seungcheol stayed seated for a few seconds longer than usual, pretending to review the printed schedule, though his eyes barely read the lines.

When he finally stood, he adjusted his jacket, gave his usual nod to his assistant, and made his way back to his office.

The walk down the hallway was normal. The familiar click of his shoes on polished floors. A few passing greetings from staff. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Until he opened his office door. And you were there, seated on the leather guest chair in front of his desk, legs crossed, notebook in hand. You looked up immediately as the door opened, offering him that same disarming smile, the one that had singlehandedly ruined his focus for the past two hours.

“Oh,” you said softly, “welcome back, Mr. Choi.”

His steps faltered, but only for a second. He walked inside with his usual calm, closing the door behind him. “Did my secretary bring you back here?”

“She did,” you replied, standing up as a gesture of respect. “I didn’t want to wander around too long without you.”

His jaw tightened ever so slightly at that sentence.

Without me, huh?

He made his way around the desk, taking his seat while pretending not to notice the way your presence shifted the air in the room. He placed his notes down, but didn’t look at them.

You stood there quietly, notebook still in hand, waiting—always respectful, always composed. He hated how much he liked that.

“Did you find the rest of the office tour informative?” he asked, finally meeting your gaze.

You nodded, stepping forward again, calm and graceful. “Yes. Everyone was kind. But…”

You paused for a beat, then gave a teasing tilt of your head. “It’s a little boring without you.”

His pen rolled slightly across the desk from how fast his fingers froze.

You quickly added, “I meant that you explain things better. That’s all.”

“…Right,” he replied, clearing his throat, gaze darting briefly to the side before grounding himself again. “Let’s resume where we left off then. Sit down.”

You obeyed, smiling faintly as you opened your notebook again. Seungcheol forced himself to focus—not on you, not on your expression, not on the soft perfume that somehow lingered between the pages of your notes—but on his words. Yet, as he began speaking again about corporate hierarchy and strategic positioning, his voice betrayed him. It was softer now, gentler.

He wasn’t sure when that started happening. He only knew it never sounded like that before you arrived.

— ♬ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ♬ —

The sun dipped lower behind the skyline, casting a golden hue across the city buildings outside his office window. The office had begun to empty, lights switching off one by one as employees finished their tasks and bid each other goodnight.

Seungcheol was still at his desk, organizing a few final documents, when your voice cut through the stillness.

“Mr. Choi?” you asked, standing by the doorway, bag slung over your shoulder. “I think my driver forgot to come. I’ve been trying to call, but… nothing.”

He looked up immediately, brows tugging together. “Didn’t your father assign someone?”

You shook your head, looking only slightly bothered. “Both of my parents are working late today. The housekeeper said she can’t leave either. I can wait, it’s fine. I’ll figure something out.”

Seungcheol stared at you for a moment longer before instinct kicked in. He grabbed his phone and stood up, dialing Mr. Shin with practiced fingers.

The call connected quickly. “Mr. Shin,” Seungcheol said with crisp professionalism. “This is Seungcheol. I wanted to ask if I should assign one of my drivers to send Y/N-”

“Why do you fetch my daughter back home?” Mr. Shin’s voice cut in, amused. “You know where my house is, and I’m sure my daughter trusts you.”

Seungcheol’s brain momentarily stalled.

“I- uh…” His voice cracked before he caught himself. “Yes, sir. Of course. If that’s what you prefer.”

“You’ll be fine,” Mr. Shin said cheerfully, “Good luck,” and then promptly hung up.

The silence in his office was sudden, sharp. Seungcheol lowered his phone slowly, blinking at it like it had betrayed him.

And then, your voice.

“So?” you asked, leaning slightly into the doorway now, your tone light, your smile just a touch too innocent to be unintentional. “What did he say?”

Seungcheol sighed, head tilting back briefly toward the ceiling. A soft groan escaped him, one of defeat rather than irritation. He looked at you, one brow slightly raised.

“Grab your things,” he muttered, already reaching for his coat. “Let’s go. I’ll drive you home.”

You let out a delighted hum, following close behind as he flicked off the lights and walked toward the elevator.

Inside, the air was calm and comfortable, yet Seungcheol’s heart thudded just a little faster. Not because of the weight of responsibility, but because you were beside him again, walking into the kind of silence that didn’t feel awkward.

This day was spiraling far faster than he’d planned… and he hadn’t even started the car yet.

The car ride started in silence.

You sat beside him in the passenger seat, hands resting neatly on your lap, your bag tucked by your feet. Seungcheol, behind the wheel, exhaled slowly as he adjusted the rearview mirror, not because it needed adjusting, but because he needed something to do other than look at you.

He wasn’t used to this.

His soulmate, sitting this close, beside him, inside his car. A space that had always been quiet, strictly for thinking or decompressing. Now? It felt like you were too close, and your presence was too warm. His hands tightened around the steering wheel, and then your voice came. Soft, teasing, and sweet.

“You don’t talk much when you’re driving, huh?”

His knuckles went white on the wheel. “I’m focused.”

You chuckled. “Focused on not crashing? Or focused on ignoring me?”

His jaw clenched.

God, your voice.

Light and lilting, floating straight into his ears, sitting there like it belonged. It curled around him slowly, teasing the edges of his control. He prayed to every higher being in the sky that the red light wouldn’t last long, or else he’d melt into the driver’s seat. And then you had to go and say it.

“By the way… I know I didn’t ask earlier, but is it okay that I sit here? In the front?”

He nearly choked on air. What was he supposed to say to that? No, please sit at the back so I don’t lose my mind?

“It’s fine,” he muttered under his breath, eyes locked firmly on the road ahead. “You’re my passenger. Of course you sit there.”

But you weren’t just his passenger, you were his soulmate, and you were looking at him like you could see every thought written on his skin.

He was barely holding it together. His grip on the steering wheel never eased. His heart was pounding in a very unsafe rhythm, and he had no idea what expression you were wearing because he didn’t dare glance your way.

Not until you touched him.

It was gentle, a brush of your fingers over his knuckles, maybe meant to comfort him. But the warmth that surged through his entire arm?

The way your touch somehow seeped into his skin and calmed every frantic part of him?

Too much, his heart skipped a beat, and that was when he almost crashed.

“-Shit,” he hissed as the car veered just slightly toward another lane. Someone honked loudly. Seungcheol reacted fast, jerking the steering wheel just enough to swerve back, crossing briefly into an open lane before easing to the side of the road.

He came to a slow, shaky stop. Only then did he realize, he’d been holding his breath. The exhale that left him was heavy, his hands still frozen on the steering wheel. His eyes wide, jaw clenched, adrenaline coursing through him, and beside him, you were giggling. Not just giggling, you were laughing.

He turned his head slowly, lifting one eyebrow in disbelief.

Your laughter only got louder, trying, but failing, to look apologetic as your shoulders shook.

“Y-You almost-” you hiccuped in the middle of your laugh, “-crashed because I touched your hand? Really?”

He should have been mad, or embarrassed. But instead… he found himself smiling, leaning back against his seat as the tension slowly bled out of him.

“You’re dangerous,” he muttered, half amused, half exasperated. “Too dangerous.”

You wiped a tear from the corner of your eye, still breathless. “Sorry! I really didn’t think it’d throw you off that much.”

He clicked his tongue, finally letting out a small laugh of his own. “Don’t touch me when I’m driving, or I might not just almost crash next time.”

You placed a hand over your chest, playfully solemn. “Got it. Hands off the CEO while he’s behind the wheel.”

With a final, lingering look, and a sigh that carried a secret smile, he started the engine again. This time, the drive was calmer, still quiet. But the silence now? Laced with warmth.

— ♬ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ♬ —

The next day, Choi Seungcheol arrived at the office ten minutes earlier than usual. Hair styled neatly, tie perfectly knotted, suit crisp. A plan already mapped in his head.

Today, he told himself, he would not lose focus, he would be composed and professional. Distant, even.

He was a CEO, not some college boy crushing on his lab partner.

And then you walked in. Calm as ever, radiating soft energy like it was stitched into your aura. You greeted everyone with a polite bow, a warm smile that reached your eyes, and when your gaze met his across the hallway, you smiled wider.

He blinked once.

Not today, he reminded himself, adjusting the cuffs of his blazer. Stay sharp, Choi Seungcheol.

You followed behind him into his office, as per usual. You placed your notebook on the desk neatly, your voice as honeyed as it was yesterday. “Good morning, Mr. Choi.”

His heartbeat betrayed him again, but he forced a nod.

“Morning. Let’s begin the schedule,” he said, already opening his laptop to avoid your eyes.

But you weren’t done. You tilted your head slightly, eyes narrowing with playful curiosity. “You slept well after your near-death experience yesterday?”

He stiffened.

You were teasing him, again.

His jaw clenched, and he sighed through his nose. “It wasn’t near-death.”

“It was slightly near,” you said with a soft giggle. “You looked like you were about to write your will in that parking lane.”

He closed his laptop slowly, eyes finally meeting yours. “Are you done?”

You grinned. “Maybe.”

He clicked his pen once, and twice. Trying to stay unbothered and ignore the way your laughter from the day before still echoed in his ears like a favorite song.

“Right,” he muttered, clearing his throat. “Let’s move on to today’s shadowing.”

But you weren’t going to let him off that easily. You had plans. You stayed close, just close enough to keep him aware of your presence, but never inappropriate. You asked thoughtful questions, tilted your head as you listened, eyes always fixed on him with that same soft admiration.

Your voice? Still sweet.

Your tone? Still respectful, but never flat.

He was drowning quietly. And the worst part? He knew you were doing it on purpose.

He tried keeping distance. Told you to observe from the corner during a department discussion. You obeyed, then proceeded to thank him afterward, calling his approach “insightful and clean-cut.”

He told you to grab coffee for a break, hoping you’d step away. You returned ten minutes later with a second cup for him. His favorite, somehow.

He froze when you handed it to him. “How did you know this is what I drink?”

You tilted your head again, the faintest smile playing on your lips. “You mentioned it once. Thought I’d remember.”

He had no words, just sipped silently, while the heat of the coffee failed to cover the warmth spreading in his chest.

By lunch, he was cornered—emotionally, mentally, completely. And then came the final blow.

You peeked into his office again after a quick team session, hands behind your back like a child with a secret. “I finished organizing the files from the budget review. Do you want me to bring them now, Mr. Choi?”

He nodded. “Yes, that’ll do.”

You stepped inside, but instead of placing the files on his desk, you walked closer, slower, and set them gently right beside him, leaning just a bit forward. Then, you whispered, voice like silk, “You're doing great, you know.”

He turned his head so fast it startled even himself.

You stepped back immediately, that same sweet expression never leaving your face. “Just thought someone should tell you.”

He stared at you, absolutely blindsided.

You smiled again. “I’ll get back to my desk now.”

And with that, you turned and walked away, like you hadn’t just sent his heart sprinting through his ribcage.

He leaned back in his chair slowly, dragging a hand over his face, muttering under his breath: “…I’m doomed.”

Per Mr. Shin’s earlier request, Seungcheol knew that as part of your mentorship, you needed to start observing internal meetings, especially the ones that mattered. And this one, definitely mattered.

The conference room was filled with tension the moment it began. You sat beside Seungcheol, with his secretary just one seat away. The opposing company’s team stood at the other end of the long, glass table—well-dressed, well-prepared, and, unfortunately, woefully out of touch.

At first, the presentation was tolerable. Numbers were clean, projections stable, but as soon as they reached the slide titled Strategic Timeline for Implementation, everything changed.

Seungcheol’s eyes narrowed.

The speaker on the opposing side continued confidently, explaining outdated timelines and collaborations with partners Seungcheol had long since flagged as liabilities.

He raised a hand, slowly, but firmly.

“Hold it,” he said.

The speaker paused. Seungcheol gestured toward the screen. “This segment. You need to revise this strategy. We’ve already seen instability in those markets. Collaborating there puts the project at risk.”

The man across the table gave a tight smile. “We understand your concern, Mr. Choi, but altering the current timeline may damage our relationship with the local representatives. A shift might send the wrong message.”

Seungcheol’s expression hardened.

“I said it needs to change.”

The tension escalated. His voice was still level, but underneath it was a warning. You could feel the air grow heavier around the table. The other attendees exchanged subtle glances. His secretary lowered her gaze.

You sat there, watching him. His knuckles were turning white, hand clenched against the table. His shoulders stiff, jaw set, clearly holding back the frustration simmering inside.

Should you do something? You hesitated. You’d never seen him this serious before. This cold. It was a side of him you hadn’t met: CEO Choi in full form. Intimidating, sharp, commanding.

But something in you… moved.

Even if he’s your boss. Even if you’re scared. You didn’t want him to be swallowed by the storm he was holding back.

So, gently—barely noticeable to anyone else—you reached out beneath the table, and touched his knuckles.

The tension left his hand almost instantly. He didn’t flinch, didn’t look at you, but he felt it, and it grounded him.

His eyes flicked back to the presenter. His shoulders lowered slightly. And then—calm, steady, dangerous—he spoke again.

“I said the cons of not changing. If you can’t change,” he began, voice slow and clear, “I can already see your company failing, and dragging mine down with it.”

The room froze.

“So I suggest you change it,” he continued, folding his hands neatly in front of him, “or I’ll stop collaborating with you altogether.”

He leaned forward just slightly, voice dropping a notch.

“It’s not a question. It’s a statement.”

Dead silence followed.

The opposing speaker faltered, swallowed hard, and eventually nodded. “Understood… We’ll revise it.”

Seungcheol nodded once, satisfied. “Good.”

The rest of the meeting passed with no further resistance. Everyone suddenly became a lot more agreeable. When it ended, people stood slowly, gathering their notes and trying to pretend they hadn’t just witnessed the CEO version of a guillotine.

You, meanwhile, were still seated, glancing at him quietly.

As soon as the door shut behind the last guest, Seungcheol leaned back in his chair, letting out a breath. Not loud, but deep. Then he finally looked at you. Not cold, not intimidating, just… aware.

“Thanks,” he muttered, barely above a whisper.

You blinked. “For what?”

He didn’t say anything right away. Just offered a small, dry smile. “For keeping me from flipping the table.”

You giggled softly. “Glad I could stop a potential lawsuit.”

He laughed under his breath, raking a hand through his hair. “You’re sneaky, you know that?”

You tilted your head. “Me? I just touched your hand.”

“Exactly,” he murmured, eyeing you. “That’s the problem.”

The heavy oak doors to the meeting room closed with a muted click, sealing away the tension that had filled the space just moments ago. The silence that followed was a welcome relief, wrapping around the room like a comforting blanket.

Seungcheol remained seated at the head of the table, shoulders finally relaxed, jaw no longer set, but he didn’t move, not yet.

He glanced toward you, and then his gaze dropped to your hands.

They were resting gently in your lap, fingers slightly curled, relaxed. The same hands that had grounded him just minutes earlier with nothing more than a simple touch.

His eyes lingered there longer than he should have and you noticed.

A soft giggle slipped past your lips, making his eyes flicker up to your face in mild panic, but you weren’t teasing. Your smile was warm, as if you already understood what he was thinking without needing him to say it aloud.

You shift your seat closer to his, and without asking, without hesitation, you reached out and gently cupped his hands, both of them.

Your palms were warm. Your grip wasn’t delicate, it was steady and secure, like you weren’t just touching him, you were anchoring him.

He stiffened at first, not used to being handled like that. But when he looked up and met your eyes, something cracked inside him. Something quiet.

You smiled at him again, sweet and sure, and then said with the calmest voice he’d ever heard: “Hold onto mine if you want. I’m always here beside you.”

The words weren’t loud, they weren’t dramatic, but God, did they hit hard. His breath caught somewhere in his throat, his fingers, usually firm and commanding, hesitated, and then slowly, tentatively, curled around yours.

The pressure in his chest eased, the sharp edge of his thoughts dulled, and in its place was only your warmth, quietly settling in his bloodstream, pushing out the last remnants of the anger and disappointment that had clouded him just minutes ago.

It felt dangerous and addictive, but more than anything, it felt right.

He said nothing, still lost in your gaze.

And you? You didn’t ask for anything in return, you simply stood there, smiling as if you had all the time in the world to wait for him to breathe again.

And finally, he did.

“…You’re trouble,” he whispered, lips barely moving.

You laughed, soft and silvery. “You’ve said that before.”

He shook his head slightly. “I meant it even more now.”

But he didn’t let go, not yet.

— ♬ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ♬ —

The day had finally drawn to a close. The last of the lights at the office flickered off, and staff began to disappear one by one. Choi Seungcheol stepped out of the elevator, jacket draped over his arm, briefcase in hand, ready to head home.

That was until his secretary caught him in the lobby.

“Mr. Choi,” she said with a small nod toward you, waiting quietly near the front entrance. “Ms. Y/N doesn’t have a ride.”

He blinked once.

Again?

His eyes drifted toward you. You were scrolling on your phone, humming lightly under your breath, completely unbothered. Just like yesterday.

Suspicious.

You looked up at him at just the right moment, smiling, and all his suspicion melted into a sigh.

“...She’s doing this on purpose,” he mumbled to himself, but louder than he meant to. Still, he nodded toward the car. “Let’s go.”

You fell into step beside him, cheerful and bright even in the evening glow. Once inside the car, you didn’t even hesitate, you walked straight to the passenger seat and slid in smoothly, as if it were your assigned spot.

Seungcheol sat in the driver’s seat, started the engine, and began to drive.

Silence filled the space again, peaceful, but electric in its own way.

He kept his eyes forward, focused, or trying to be. Then your voice—soft, laced with mischief—cut into the quiet.

“Do you want to get late supper?”

The car didn’t swerve this time, but Seungcheol’s grip on the wheel definitely stiffened. He glanced at you briefly.

Late supper? That was not in the schedule.

His routine was sacred. Home, shower, towel-dry hair for two minutes exactly, collapse onto bed, wake up, work, and repeat.

He did not do it spontaneously yet here you were, blinking at him innocently.

At the next red light, he turned his head fully to look at you.

“Late supper?” he repeated, like the phrase was foreign.

You nodded. “I know there are some places still open for people like me.”

People like you? What did that mean? Were you just… casual about life like that? Wandering the streets at midnight, hunting for warm broth and rice with no plan whatsoever?

That was chaos, and dangerous… but oddly tempting. And while his mind absolutely panicked over the idea of shifting his routine by even an inch, his heart was already halfway to the restaurant.

He stared at you. You stared back, innocently and unassuming, completely unaware of the inner breakdown he was having. Or… maybe fully aware.

He sighed heavily, eyes closing for a second. “Key in the address.”

You beamed, tapping in the location into his GPS. He drove through the green light with a defeated grunt. He glanced sideways, catching the teasing glint in your eyes. and for once in his life, he didn’t hate the idea of change.

The city lights shimmered against the night sky, and neon signs flickered above street corners, glowing softly like stars fallen to the ground. The GPS guided Seungcheol through a few narrow turns before slowing to a stop beside a quiet cluster of food stalls tucked between two buildings.

The air was thick with the scent of grilled meat, fried batter, and warm soup broth.

It wasn’t flashy or pristine, it wasn’t anything remotely close to what CEO Choi Seungcheol was used to.

And yet… he was here.

You stepped out of the car with a bright grin, your shoes softly clicking on the pavement. You turned back to face him as he closed the car door slowly, taking in the unfamiliar scene like a foreign landscape.

“First time?” you asked, eyes twinkling under the streetlight.

“…Yeah,” he admitted, adjusting his sleeves. “Very first.”

You giggled, hugging your arms to yourself. “Same. But I wanted to explore, and I figured... food like this probably tastes better when you’re not worried about etiquette.”

He raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “That’s what everyone says before they get food poisoning.”

You shot him a mock glare. “You’re such a corporate man.”

“And you’re reckless,” he muttered, but followed you anyway.

You led him to one of the stalls with a steaming pot of tteokbokki, skewers glistening beside it. The ahjumma running the stall gave you a kind smile and gestured for you to sit.

The two of you took seats on worn plastic stools under a flickering lightbulb, the table in front of you scratched with time, marked with memories. And somehow, to Seungcheol, it felt weirdly peaceful.

You handed him a pair of chopsticks and smiled. “Let’s try not to act like we just left a board meeting.”

Seungcheol stared down at the food. No plated silverware, no polished wine glasses, just bubbling spicy sauce and steam against the cool air.

It was chaotic and… warm.

He picked up a piece of rice cake, blew on it once, then tasted it. His eyebrows rose.

“...That’s not bad.”

You laughed. “Not bad? That’s it? That’s your review?”

He nodded, eyes focused on the next bite. “Spicy. A little sweet. Soft texture. Good balance.”

“God,” you groaned, “you’re reviewing it like a Michelin judge.”

“You invited a CEO. What did you expect?”

You laughed again, and the sound danced through the night air, making his chest feel far lighter than it had all day.

As you both ate, conversation flowed more freely. You talked about small things: food preferences, random bucket list items, silly high school moments. Seungcheol found himself leaning forward more, laughing softly, even forgetting to check the time.

He didn’t even realize how relaxed he looked. Tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, chopsticks clumsily trying to balance a fish cake skewer.

At one point, you handed him a tissue as he dabbed the edge of his mouth, cheeks slightly red from the heat of the spice.

“Next time,” you said between bites, “we should try grilled skewers by the river. I heard they open till 3AM.”

He stared at you.

Next time?

A part of him panicked again, knowing this was starting to become a habit. But the other part? The one quietly folding inside his chest, heartbeat slow and warm? That part didn’t mind at all.

After the last bite was eaten and the food stall cleared, you both stood up from your stools, stomachs full and spirits even fuller. You reached into your bag for your wallet, already fishing out a few bills to pay, but before you could even lift your hand to the stall owner, Seungcheol moved faster. With practiced ease, he gently pushed your hand aside—not harshly, but firm enough to make you blink in surprise—and handed over the exact cash to the ahjumma behind the stall.

He didn’t even look at you as he accepted the change with a polite nod.

You, on the other hand, were left blinking in quiet disbelief.

No words were exchanged in that moment.

The two of you returned to the car under the soft night sky, sliding into your seats once again. The car’s interior greeted you with its usual scent, clean leather and something that faintly smelled like cedarwood and coffee. As the engine rumbled to life, you turned your head toward him, curious.

“How did you have cash money in you?”

He glanced sideways, one hand on the wheel, the other adjusting the air conditioning. His lips curled into a lazy smile.

“I’m not always a card guy, okay?”

You let out a playful scoff. “Right. A card and cash money guy who doesn’t know how to relax.”

That made him laugh this time, a sound that was deep and rich and a little too attractive for your heart to handle. But it didn’t stop there.

He turned to say something else, only to realize you hadn’t buckled in yet. His eyes lowered to the strap by your side, then back at you.

“Seatbelt,” he muttered softly, but instead of waiting for you to fix it, he leaned in.

You froze.

The air felt thinner suddenly.

Seungcheol reached across you, one arm brushing past your shoulder, fingers catching the seatbelt smoothly as he clicked it into place. His scent surrounded you, something expensive and warm. He didn’t notice how close he was. He didn’t see the way your breath hitched, or how your lashes fluttered like they were trying to compose themselves.

To him, it was just another responsible act.

To you? It was too close. Too sudden and overwhelming.

He leaned back into his seat like nothing happened, shot you a relaxed smile as his hand returned to the wheel.

“Ready to head back?” he asked, as if your heart wasn’t thundering like a drum in your ears.

You stared at him for a moment longer, lips parting, unsure if you should thank him or scream internally. But eventually, you just gave a small nod, tucking your hands on your lap.

“Yeah…” you said quietly. “Ready.”

— ♬ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ♬ —

The morning sun seeped gently through the sheer curtains of Seungcheol’s penthouse, casting warm light across his pristine walk-in closet. Rows of crisp shirts, tailored blazers, perfectly ironed trousers, and a curated collection of designer watches lined the walls like an exhibition.

He stood in front of the full-length mirror, a clean white shirt buttoned to the collar, his charcoal grey blazer slung loosely over one arm. His hair was still slightly damp, falling in soft waves over his forehead.

And yet, he frowned.

Something was… off.

His hands moved on their own, slipping off the blazer and replacing it with a navy one. He buttoned the cuffs, stared into the mirror and tilted his head.

No, too stiff.

He tried again. Swapped the navy for a muted sand-colored jacket, loosened the collar slightly, and he looked at himself.

Too soft.

A sigh escaped his lips. “This is ridiculous,” he muttered to himself, running a hand through his hair.

There was no event today, no company gala, no board of directors flying in from overseas. It was just a regular day at work. But then again… you would be there.

That alone was enough to make his entire closet suddenly feel insufficient.

He wasn’t even sure when it started, this strange habit of wanting to look just a little better each morning, starting from today. All he knew was that your eyes, so bright and attentive, always lingered a little longer than necessary. And the way you smiled at him, as if he was someone worth admiring…

He wanted to live up to that look.

He tried on three different watches before settling on a Piaget brand Polo Date watch. Switched out his usual thin-framed glasses for a bolder pair. Dabbed on a Creed brand cologne. Then he stood back, observing himself fully.

Blazer sharp, tie slightly loosened, hair perfectly imperfect, and a hint of confidence in his smirk, just enough to keep him grounded. Still, he chuckled under his breath, shaking his head.

“Choi Seungcheol...”

But he didn’t change.

With one last glance in the mirror and a small breath to steady the fluttering inside his chest, he grabbed his keys and headed out.

The automatic doors of the building slid open with a soft whoosh, letting in a gentle gust of morning air. Seungcheol stepped into the familiar lobby, polished floors reflecting the low sunlight spilling through the glass walls. The day had just begun. Staff were slowly trickling in, exchanging greetings and organizing the day’s start.

And then he saw you, standing near the entrance, chatting lightly with the front desk assistant, smiling just enough to make time slow down.

You looked simple—fresh-faced, your hair styled neatly, blouse tucked into a modest skirt—but to Seungcheol, you were breathtaking.

Maybe it was the light hitting you just right, or the soft sound of your laugh, or maybe, it was just you being you. Whatever it was, he was gone the moment your eyes lifted to meet his.

You turned fully toward him, a little surprise in your gaze, followed quickly by something warmer, something curious as your eyes slowly drifted from his face to… his clothes.

You blinked once, and then twice before your lips curled up knowingly.

“Oh?” you said with an arch of your brow, arms crossing lightly over your chest. “New look today, Mr. Choi?”

He tried to act unaffected, adjusting the strap of his watch as if it wasn’t planned, as if he hadn’t spent twenty minutes debating between jackets this morning.

“I just picked whatever was clean,” he said flatly.

You giggled softly, stepping closer, eyes never leaving his figure.

“Well, whatever was clean looks really, really good today.”

He froze, not obviously, but just enough for his breath to catch for half a second.

You looked back up at his face, tilting your head, clearly amused at how his ears turned ever so slightly pink.

“Are you blushing?”

“I’m not,” he deadpanned.

“You are.”

“Y/N,” he warned lightly, though the corners of his lips gave away the smile threatening to break free.

You stepped beside him, walking toward the elevator as he followed. “You know,” you said, glancing at him sideways, “if dressing up makes you this charming in the morning, I might start asking you to do it more often.”

He scoffed gently, pressing the elevator button. “Don’t get used to it.”

“But you did it for me, didn’t you?” you teased, voice low and sweet.

The elevator dinged, and he walked in without responding. You followed closely behind, the space inside suddenly smaller than you remembered. He stood beside you, hands in his pockets, looking straight ahead. You looked up at him with a soft smile. You already knew the answer. And when he caught your reflection in the elevator door, still staring at him with that quiet affection, you saw it: that small smile, breaking through.

The morning had passed quietly. Well, as quiet as it could be when your mentor happened to be the CEO and also your soulmate.

You sat at your desk just outside Seungcheol’s office, sorting through case studies he had handed you earlier. You were almost done highlighting key points when your phone buzzed softly beside your notebook.

It was a message from your mother.

《Mom: Your father and I were wondering if Seungcheol is free for lunch today. Just something casual. We’d love to see the two of you together. I made a reservation already, just in case.》

Your eyes widened slightly at the abruptness. You sighed softly. Of course your mom didn’t wait for confirmation before booking a spot. After re-reading it twice, you got up from your desk, lightly knocking on Seungcheol’s office door before pushing it open.

He was standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, his blazer draped over his chair, sleeves rolled up as he reviewed a report. He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of your knock.

“Yes?”

You stepped in, holding up your phone. “My parents messaged. They want to have lunch with you today. Apparently they already made a reservation.”

He turned fully to face you, eyebrows raised ever so slightly. “Today?”

You nodded, showing him the text.

He didn’t react much on the surface, but you could tell he wasn’t the type who took surprises well. Still, his expression remained composed, only betraying a flicker of hesitation before he walked back to his desk and pressed a button on his intercom.

“Cancel the team check-in for 1PM. And block a lunch schedule under the Shin family.”

“Understood,” his secretary replied promptly.

He turned to you, expression unreadable but his tone even.

“I assume they picked a restaurant already?”

You nodded. “They did. I’ll send you the location.”

He gave a slow blink, then looked down at the stack of work on his desk, clearly adjusting his internal clock again.

You smiled faintly. “You don’t have to look so serious. It’s not a shareholders meeting.”

He gave a short sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’ve met your parents, right? Do they seem like the type to keep things ‘casual’?”

You laughed. “Touché.”

He watched you quietly for a moment, eyes softening. “Are you nervous?”

You paused. “…Maybe a little.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re… you,” you said honestly. “And I know how much they respect you, likewise to you.”

He held your gaze a beat longer, before his lips curved, just slightly. “You make it sound like I’m meeting them for the first time.” then he cleared his throat and reached for his watch.

“I’ll pick you up from your desk at twelve-thirty.”

You nodded, turning to leave, but not before tossing him a cheeky smile over your shoulder.

“You better dress handsomely again, Mr. Choi.”

The only reply you got was the sound of a pen clicking behind you, and a quiet, amused exhale.

— ♬ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ♬ —

The restaurant was elegantly quiet, the kind of place where even the clink of silverware was softened by velvet-covered walls and subtle classical music. The hostess led you and Seungcheol to a private room, where your parents were already seated. Your mother in her pearls, your father sharp in a navy suit, as dignified as ever.

“Seungcheol,” your father greeted first, standing to shake his hand. Seungcheol gave a slight bow, professional but respectful.

“It’s a pleasure to see you again, Mr Shin.”

“Likewise. Please, sit.”

You quietly slipped into the seat beside Seungcheol, across from your parents, your hands folded politely on your lap.

The first few minutes were expected. Business as usual. Your father inquired about company expansion, potential collaborations, the trajectory of your training under Seungcheol’s wing. You listened attentively, occasionally stealing glances at your mentor, who answered every question with calm poise and clean, articulate responses.

It was going perfectly. Then the food arrived, and with it, your mother’s sudden ambush.

“So,” she said lightly, reaching for her soup spoon. “How is my daughter in your company?”

Seungcheol dabbed his lips with a napkin before answering.

“She’s attentive. Observant. Quick to adapt. Not many would have the initiative she’s shown in just a few days.”

You blinked, warmth blooming in your chest. The compliment made you sit just a little straighter. But your mother wasn't finished.

“And how is she…” she said, stirring her soup slowly, “…as your soulmate?”

The spoon Seungcheol had just brought to his mouth halted halfway. Then-

Choke.

Not a polite cough or a dignified clear of the throat, no. A full-on choke. You nearly dropped your own spoon as you rushed to grab his glass of water and held it out to him with both hands. He took it immediately, eyes watering as he tried to recover, sipping fast, gulping once, then twice.

“M-Mom!” you cried, cheeks flushing. “Seriously?!”

Across the table, your mother wore the most innocent smile imaginable. “What? I’m just curious.”

Your father turned to her slowly, eyebrows raised. “Soulmates?”

Your mother nodded, sipping calmly from her tea. “I noticed at the masquerade party. They were staring at each other for far too long. I had a feeling something happened. So I made a few… connections.”

You and Seungcheol froze.

Her eyes flicked between the two of you. Him still trying to swallow down the last of his panic, and you patting his back while staring wide-eyed at her like she’d just exposed your deepest secret.

Then she tilted her head. “Am I wrong?”

Silence.

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. You were too stunned to deny it. Beside you, Seungcheol finally lowered the glass, setting it down slowly on the table.

But he didn’t look up. Not at your mother, and especially not at your father.

His fingers curled slightly in his lap.

You could see the gears in his head… what would they think? A man ten years their daughter, their trusted work partner… now tied to her by something unbreakable, fated.

He was terrified of your father’s judgment, terrified of how this would change everything.

You saw it all in the way his shoulders tensed, and how his eyes remained fixed on the tablecloth. For a moment, the air was still. Then your father set down his spoon with a soft clink and leaned back in his seat.

“…Choi Seungcheol,” he said.

Seungcheol immediately straightened in his chair, gaze still lowered. “Yes, sir.”

Your father’s voice was unreadable. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Seungcheol hesitated. “…Because I didn’t want to risk complicating anything. With your daughter… or with you.”

Your mother looked between the two men, eyes narrowing slightly. You bit your bottom lip, and your father was quiet again. Then, after a moment that stretched painfully long, he spoke.

“…You’re an honorable man, Seungcheol.” Both you and Seungcheol blinked. Your father continued. “I’ve known that since the first time you sat across from me in a boardroom. That hasn’t changed. But now…” He looked directly at Seungcheol. “That honor means something more. It means you’ll protect her.”

Seungcheol finally looked up, stunned.

Your father gave a small nod. “You didn’t choose this, neither did she. But if fate tied you together, then all I ask is that you treat her well, not as your intern, not as your subordinate, but as your equal.”

You stared at your father, lips parted in surprise. And beside you, you heard the breath Seungcheol finally let out. Quiet, shaky, and filled with quiet relief.

“…I will,” he said, voice low but clear. “I promise you. I’ll protect her, sir.”

Your father nodded again, then returned to his soup like he hadn’t just shaken the tension off the entire table. Your mother, watching everything with that quiet knowing glint in her eyes, simply smirked behind her teacup.

“Well,” she said, “now that that’s out of the way, let’s enjoy lunch properly.”

The quiet click of the car doors closing echoed softly in the air, muffled only by the cocoon of silence surrounding the two of you. The engine remained untouched. Seungcheol sat in the driver’s seat, his hands resting lightly on the wheel, gaze fixed on the windshield.

But he wasn’t seeing the road.

He was reliving the moment, the conversation over lunch, the weight of your father’s words, the softness in your mother’s knowing smile. He had braced himself for resistance, for disapproval, for that slight pause before your father might say “But she’s still too young.” Instead, what he got… was a blessing. Permission to be selfish with his heart, to love you out loud.

He swallowed hard, feeling the words echo in his chest like they had carved out space just for you. You didn’t choose this, but if fate tied you together... treat her as your equal.

And god, he would.

He would treat you like a queen. He’d spoil you relentlessly, shamelessly. He’d plan every date to perfection. He’d get you that charm bracelet you’d once said you liked, and for every monsary you celebrated together, he’d add a charm. One for each memory.

The pressure of restraint melted off his shoulders like winter snow beneath the sun. And in its place, something even warmer bloomed: freedom. Freedom to love you.

And so, without starting the car, without breaking the moment, he turned his head, and saw you already watching him.

Lovingly. Softly.

As if your gaze could read the chaos of emotions unraveling in his chest.

You smiled, a small, sweet curl of your lips. “Hi,” you whispered.

That single word, just one syllable, was enough to make his head spin.

He laughed. A real one. Not the tight-lipped CEO chuckle he gave in meetings, no. This one was open, light, carefree. His teeth showed, his eyes crinkled, and you, caught in his joy, joined him with a soft chuckle of your own.

Then the laughter faded into something quieter, heavier, something that made the air between you two spark.

His gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes.

“Mind if I do something,” he said slowly, voice low and a little breathless, “that’s normal for a thirty-year-old me... but might be embarrassing for you?”

You blinked once, head tilted like a curious kitten, but you nodded, without hesitation. And with that, he leaned in.

One hand lifted, fingers brushing past your hair to cradle the back of your head gently. His touch was steady and certain, like he had waited long enough.

And then, he kissed you soft and warm, eyes closed. No rush, no pressure, just him letting everything he had been holding in for days spill into that single, quiet kiss.

You melted against him almost instinctively, lips moving in sync with his—tender, slow, meaningful.

And in that kiss, Seungcheol thought: so this is what peace tastes like, this is what fate feels like.

When he finally pulled back, your foreheads brushed, breaths mixing in the small space between. You opened your eyes slowly, cheeks flushed, lips parted. His voice was barely above a whisper, but it trembled with something sincere.

“I’ve been waiting to do that since the masquerade.”

— ♬ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ♬ —

The hum of conversation filled the large, sunlit private room in one of the most exclusive restaurants in the city. Laughter echoed off the walls, glasses clinked, and the smell of food already filled the air, even though not everyone had arrived yet.

The door creaked open, and in walked Seungcheol, dressed in a sleek black shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to show his watch and veins. Beside him, you entered quietly, but not subtly, your fingers gently laced with his.

Heads turned, every conversation stopped. Then-

“Woooooahhhh- what do we have here?!”

“Wait, is that her?!”

“Cheol brought someone?! Willingly?!”

A wave of chaotic excitement crashed over the room as all of Seungcheol’s friends—his closest circle, the ones he called his brothers—immediately swarmed you with bright eyes and louder voices. Mingyu clapped Seungcheol on the back so hard he nearly stumbled. Soonyoung practically bounced on his heels. Seokmin gave you the biggest, warmest grin.

They were chaos, but they were warm.

You didn’t even have time to respond before Jeonghan looped an arm around your shoulders like you were already part of the family.

“So you’re the one who melted our stone-faced CEO, huh?” he teased, eyes glinting. “God, we’ve been hearing about you without even hearing your name. It’s an honor.”

Seungcheol rolled his eyes but let out a small, amused chuckle as everyone finally settled into their seats.

The chaos didn’t stop there, though. Once the appetizers were cleared and laughter quieted to occasional giggles between sips of wine, Jeonghan leaned forward with a grin that screamed mischief.

“You know what’s crazy?” he said, pointing a lazy finger at Seungcheol. “This guy’s been dating her for two years and still didn’t bag her. Me? I dated my soulmate for three months. Three. Months. I couldn't bear waiting. A father now, remember those past times?” He flashed his ring proudly.

The others chuckled, some shaking their heads, others rolling their eyes at Jeonghan’s dramatics, even Seungcheol cracked a wide grin. But he didn’t say anything, not yet, because the best part hadn’t come.

After the main course, when desserts were being served and the wine glasses were half-full, Seungcheol stood up slowly, lifting his glass.

“I have two pieces of news,” he said, his voice calm but his smile soft.

Everyone quieted, eyes turned.

He looked at you briefly, then back at the group. “First- Y/N will be officially stepping in as CEO of her father’s company starting this year.”

A round of cheers, whistles, and applause erupted from the table.

“Yah! That’s huge!”

“A power couple, oh my god.”

“Don’t forget us little people when you both own half the country!”

You bashfully lowered your gaze, cheeks warm, mouthing a soft thank you as Seungcheol gently placed a hand on your back.

“And the second piece of news…” he continued, pausing for dramatic effect, “-is that she said yes.”

Silence with confused blinks, then-

“Wait- wait- WAIT- WHAT?!”

“SAID YES TO WHAT?!”

“Oh my GOD!”

“You’re LYING!”

The table exploded.

Mingyu stood up so fast he nearly knocked over his chair. Soonyoung dropped his fork. Jeonghan’s jaw dropped open like something out of a drama. Seungcheol just smirked, then gently reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, velvet box. He didn’t even need to open it. The moment the box was visible, the screaming got worse.

You held up your hand, heart racing, showing the sparkling ring on your finger with a small smile.

“I’m his fiancée,” you said, voice shy but filled with certainty.

“No. Freaking. Way.”

“Since WHEN?!”

“DID YOU DO IT AT WORK?! Was it a boardroom proposal?! TELL ME EVERYTHING!”

The group erupted again, voices overlapping, hands reaching for the ring, while Seungcheol calmly sat down next to you, sipping his drink like he hadn’t just broken the minds of every single person at the table. And in the midst of all the shouting and disbelief, he leaned in close to whisper just for you to hear: “You're mine now. Officially.”

Your heart fluttered. And in the chaos of friends and laughter, you never felt more sure. Of him. Of you. Of forever.

Tagging: @stvrrylove @sol3chu @firstclassjaylee @ateez-atiny380 @reiofsuns2001 @thetjtales @metaphorandmoonlight

[katsukistofu]

my caffeine mix-up!

contents ౨ৎ ⋆ hawks x fem reader. fluff. slightly suggestive. you accidentally pick up the number two hero’s coffee so picks you up instead. | pt. ii

You take a sip of your morning coffee and almost spit it out on your dashboard.

This could not be your order. It was so… unusually sugary. Too sugary. Like someone liquified a whole candy store and shoved it into a venti cup.

Still reeling a little from the overly sweet aftertaste that lingers on your tongue, your eyes trail down to read:

Vt Crml Crnch Frap

5 Banana

Ex Caramel Drizzle

Extra Whip

Extra Ice

Ex Cinnamon

7 pumps Add Dk Crml Sauce

Ex Caramel Crunch

1 pump Honey Blend

Heavy Cream

Double Blended

What kind of pretentious asshole orders this garbage? Were their taste buds dead?

You mentally sent your condolences to the poor person that had to make this disgusting monstrosity of a drink. Please, you would’ve taken one look at the order and thrown it in the trash.

Your eyes searched the paper cup for who your local coffee shop transgressor was– catching sight of a scribble in blue marker reading “H-A.” You moved your hand a bit to reveal a “W-K-S.” A sense of dread creeps in as you numbly stare at the squiggly heart next to it.

It was like someone slipped an ice cube down the back of your shirt.

You had mistakenly picked up the wildly famous winged pro hero’s order and to make things even worse, put your mouth on where his was supposed to be.

Okay that sounded kind of dirty. But it’s not like you could drive back and return it now, what with your lip gloss already staining the lid.

Hey, um, I think I accidentally took a sip of the Hawks’s coffee? Oopsies? You guess you could pay for his order to be remade, but who’s to say he’ll even come back for it, much less accept it from some random stranger?

You were already running late to your desk job as is, and your coworkers were probably scratching their heads, wondering where you were since you always arrived at least half an hour before them. Should you just throw it away and pretend it never happened?

Oh god, would some person dig through the trash the moment you turned your back and extract your DNA from your lip gloss on the lid, thinking you were a deranged fan who stole his drink on purpose?

Or worse—that you were his secret girlfriend picking up his drink who had just wanted a little taste first before delivering it to him?

Your brain starts to wring itself dry of all the possibilities that could happen, shuddering despite each one being as unlikely as the next. An impressive mental workout for an un-caffeinated person at barely eight in the morning.

You wish you never even went to get your usual little treat today. That barista definitely looked right at you when you went to pick up your order, you swear they did.

But now that you’re thinking about it, maybe they were looking at the person standing behind you that you didn’t see as you rushed out of the shop? How do you even miss a man with wings that big?

Something gently knocks on the driver side window and you almost jump out of your seat.

As you roll it down with caution, your brain momentarily stops functioning as you’re met with a pair of striking golden eyes. Another inch of tinted glass down, a strong Grecian nose.

Forget work, the hell. You didn’t even know noses could be that pretty, and as your last bit of window disappears into the car so does your self-respect as you realize he’s abandoned his usual tan-colored jacket, standing before you in his black compression shirt with gold embossment.

Forget everything, actually.

You don't realize you’re holding your breath until he laughs at you, and you sheepishly close your slightly parted lips.

“Didn’t know coffee thieves came this cute.” Drinking in your appearance his keen eyes stray from yours, slowly trailing down to your trembling lips, a stark contrast to the growing smirk on his. “Or this nervous.”

His fingers drum absentmindedly on the side of your car door, clear amusement written across his handsome face as he waits for you to say something. You collect yourself and snap out of your thoughts, taking a deep breath.

“I’msososorryIdrankyourcoffee!” You squeeze your eyes shut in embarrassment as your words come out in a jumble. “I totally grabbed the wrong order and I can’t believe I didn’t see you waiting behind me, I swear I’m not a creep–”

“Hey, hey,” Hawks gently interrupts you, reassurance laced in his voice. “It’s all good, no harm done.” He taps the paper cup that somehow miraculously hasn’t slipped out of your fingers yet.

“Sooo was it good?”

You choke on air, not expecting that. “Your drink?”

“Yeah, my drink.” He shoots you a cheeky grin. That bastard. “Good or nah?” You pause, contemplating if you should lie–no. No, today you chose honesty.

“...Genuinely, I have no idea how you drink this shit.”

Hawks laughs at your bold answer. “Thanks for being my little taste tester anyways. Too sweet, huh?” The tip of his finger traces around the remnants of your lip gloss on the lid, the cup still in your now slightly shaky hand as you nod.

His touch seared against your skin, as his pretty fingers closed around yours to raise the drink up to his lips to take a slow sip, eyes never leaving your own.

With a gaze that was infuriatingly sultry as it was sweet, like a bird of prey beckoning a field mouse to be their next meal, he murmurs, “Just how I like it.”

You’re not really sure he was talking about the coffee anymore.

He hums, and your thighs involuntarily clench a bit as his soft-looking mouth closes around the opening of the lid to take another sip.

“I’d say you’re a villain that deserves their own special category.” He grins, eyes sparkling conspiratorially. “One that involves letting me take her out to dinner.”

If you weren’t sitting down you know your legs would have given out. “Like… like on a date?” You gape at him incredulously. Because there was no way. Hawks. Just asked you out.

“Now sweetheart, what else would it be?” Hawks smirks at your dazed expression, like you’re sure you misheard him. So cute. “I mean, unless you don’t want to–”

“No!” He blinks, and your hand flies to cover your mouth at your sudden outburst.

“I-I mean, I want to…” You shyly say at a much quieter volume, fidgeting with the rings on your fingers. He leans closer to you with a grin, languidly resting his folded arms over the open frame of your car door.

“It’s a date then. I know this really good sushi and ramen place down the block near my agency, my treat of course.”

“If I’m a villain is this your idea of rehabilitation?” You joke dryly. “Because it’s working.”

He tips your chin up. “Oh don’t worry pretty, I’m just getting started with turning you into a good girl.” A hot flush creeps up your neck to your cheeks, and you almost melt into a puddle right then and there at your steering wheel.

“I’d love to stay but I’m actually so late for work right now.” You utter weakly, chin still resting against his finger. Hawks tilts his head at that, unfolding his vibrant crimson wings as he wordlessly opens the front door of your car.

With little effort and an impressive flex of his biceps, plus a sharp intake of breath from you, one of his arms slips under your thighs and another firmly hugs you just under your shoulder blades as he lifts you up to his firm chest.

A smirk tugs at his lips as he feels your flustered arms hastily reach up to wrap around his neck. Honeyed eyes like molten gold meet yours as he gives a gentle squeeze to your thigh through your pencil skirt, and once again you find yourself needing a reminder to breathe.

“So, where to?”

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“IS THAT FUCKING HAWKS OUTSIDE OUR COMPANY’S BUILDING?!”

say you can’t sleep, baby i know, that’s that me expresso~ ♪

[kathaelipwse]

Signed, Sealed, Delivered | Bangchan

500+ followers special 🎀🐥

Trope: Slow Burn, Idol x Fan, Comfort & Healing, Love Through Letters Warnings: Mentions of insecurities, body image struggles, self-doubt, chubby!reader, NO PROOF READING WAS DONE Word Count: 9068 words {Reading Time: 33 mins-ish} Songs to listen to while reading: My pace, youtiful, connected, mirror, you can STAY, hold my hand, grow up, hellevator, side effects, social path, cheese, time out, aliens, 19, 24 to 25, haPpy, stars and raindrops, sorry, I love you, I hate to admit, RUN, lonely st. , winter falls, railways Synopsis: What starts as a simple fan letter to Stray Kids thanking them for their music turns into an unexpected connection with Bang Chan. Through heartfelt letters, you share your deepest thoughts, fears, and dreams—never expecting him to truly see you. But when fate brings you face-to-face, you realize some words are meant to be more than just ink on paper. Author’s Note: This story is for anyone who has ever doubted their worth or felt like they didn’t belong in a love story. Chan’s warmth and kindness are a reminder that love isn’t about appearances—it’s about feeling seen. I hope this brings you comfort and a little bit of hope.

The silence in your room was thick, broken only by the soft hum of the desk lamp and the gentle melody of Stray Kids' "You Can STAY" playing on repeat. The melody, a comforting balm, swirled around you, a gentle embrace in the solitude. The scent of old paper mingled with the faint, lingering aroma of lavender incense, creating a serene, almost sacred atmosphere.

Your fingers, slightly chilled, traced the delicate embossed flowers along the edge of the stationery. It was a special set, reserved for moments of profound emotion, a gift from your grandmother, who always believed in the power of handwritten words. The paper, a creamy ivory, felt smooth and cool beneath your fingertips, a stark contrast to the warmth that was beginning to spread through your chest.

You closed your eyes, taking a slow, deep breath. The music resonated within you, a silent symphony of the soul. Each note, each lyric, was a testament to the power of vulnerability, the courage to lay bare one's innermost thoughts and fears. You were about to do the same, to entrust your deepest insecurities to the very people who had given you the strength to face them.

The pen hovered over the pristine paper, trembling slightly. You were about to write a letter, a confession, a thank you note that carried the weight of years of unspoken pain. How could you possibly articulate the profound impact their music had had on your life? How could you explain the way their words had pierced through the layers of self-doubt and insecurity that had built up around your heart like a fortress?

Dear Stray Kids,

The words, simple and direct, felt woefully inadequate. They were a mere whisper in the face of the storm of emotions raging within you. You paused, the pen resting on the paper, and allowed the memories to flood your mind. The cruel taunts, the disdainful glances, the relentless pressure to conform to a narrow, unattainable standard of beauty.

You remembered the way you used to avoid mirrors, the way you would flinch at your own reflection, seeing only flaws and imperfections. You remembered the way you would shrink into yourself, trying to become invisible, to disappear.

But then, you discovered Stray Kids. Their music, raw and honest, spoke to the unspoken pain, the hidden insecurities. Bang Chan’s lyrics, in particular, resonated with a depth that felt almost personal, as if he had peered into your soul and written a song just for you.

I don’t know if you’ll ever read this, but I needed to say thank you. Your music has been a constant companion, a source of strength when I felt utterly lost. Especially your songs, Bang Chan… they spoke to me in a way no one else ever has.

A lump formed in your throat, and tears welled up in your eyes. You had never shared your insecurities with anyone, not even your closest friends. It was a vulnerability too raw, too painful to expose. But writing to them, to the voices that had given you strength, felt different. It felt like a release, a way to acknowledge the pain without being judged.

I’ve struggled with my body image for as long as I can remember. The world seems to have a very narrow definition of beauty, and I’ve always felt outside of it. Your words, though, they reminded me that I’m not alone. That even in the midst of doubt, there’s strength to be found.

You remembered the first time you heard "My Pace," the way the lyrics had urged you to embrace your individuality, to walk your own path. It was a revelation, a gentle reminder that you were not alone in your struggles. Others felt the same way, others grappled with the same demons.

You wrote about the small victories, the moments of self-acceptance that had begun to sprout like fragile seedlings in the barren landscape of your self-esteem. You wrote about the way their music had given you the courage to look in the mirror and see not a distorted reflection of your flaws, but a person worthy of love and acceptance. You described the way a particular song, "Grow Up," had helped you to understand that it was okay to make mistakes, to stumble, to learn and evolve.

The pen moved across the page, a silent dance of emotions. You poured your heart onto the paper, each word a testament to the profound impact their music had had on your life.

I never expect a reply. I just wanted to express my deepest gratitude. You’ve helped me more than you know.

The words felt inadequate, a mere whisper in the face of the storm of emotions raging within you. But it was all you had, a simple expression of thanks from a heart overflowing with gratitude.

You sealed the letter, the faint scent of lavender clinging to the paper, and placed it in an envelope. It was a small act, a message in a bottle cast into the vast ocean of the world. But it was also a declaration, a testament to the power of music to heal, to connect, to transform. As you placed the envelope on your desk, a sense of peace settled over you. You had released a burden, shared a part of yourself that had been hidden for too long. And in that act of vulnerability, you found a quiet strength, a fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, your words would find their way to the hearts that had inspired them. You felt lighter, like a weight had been lifted from your shoulders, ready to accept the unknown.

Then the arrival of Bang Chan’s letters became a sacred ritual, a lifeline in the often-turbulent sea of your days. Each envelope, thick and bearing the weight of his words, felt like a tangible piece of him, a bridge constructed of ink and emotion, spanning the vast, silent chasm between your worlds. The subtle, lingering scent of his cologne, a complex blend of sandalwood, warm amber, and something uniquely, undeniably him, clung to the paper, a sensory echo that made him feel impossibly close, a whisper of his presence in your quiet room. It was a detail so minute, yet it amplified the intimacy of your correspondence, turning each letter into a cherished artifact, a testament to a connection forged in vulnerability.

As you carefully unfolded his words, the elegant script flowing across the page like a gentle, meandering river, a sense of profound connection washed over you, a warmth that spread through your limbs like sunlight after a long, cold night. He didn't offer platitudes or dismiss your insecurities with empty reassurances. Instead, he acknowledged them, validated them with a sincerity that resonated deep within the core of your being. He spoke of his own vulnerabilities, the weight of expectations that pressed down on him like an invisible, suffocating burden, the fear of falling short, of disappointing those who looked to him for strength and guidance. His honesty was disarming, a breath of fresh air in a world often choked with artifice and pretense.

Your replies became a sanctuary, a space where you could shed the armor of pretense and reveal the raw, unfiltered truth of your emotions. You shared your dreams, the fragile aspirations that bloomed in the quiet corners of your heart like delicate, unseen wildflowers, the small, everyday moments that painted your life with shades of joy and sorrow, light and shadow. You told him about the books that transported you to other worlds, the music that resonated with your soul, the way the simple act of watching a sunset could fill you with a sense of quiet wonder, a profound appreciation for the beauty of the world.

He, in turn, opened up about the complexities of his life as an artist, the relentless pursuit of perfection, the sleepless nights spent in the studio, the constant pressure to innovate and create, to push the boundaries of his art. But he also spoke of the exhilaration of performing, the electric connection with STAYs, the profound sense of belonging that came from sharing his art with the world, the feeling of being understood and accepted.

“Sometimes,” he wrote, his words etched into the paper with a raw honesty that made your heart ache, a vulnerability that mirrored your own, “I feel like I’m carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders. I want to be strong for everyone, to be the anchor that holds us all together. But sometimes, I just need someone to tell me it’s okay to be vulnerable, to admit that I’m not always strong, that I’m human too.”

His words resonated with you on a visceral level, echoing the silent battles you fought within yourself. You understood the constant pressure to project an image of strength, the fear of revealing the cracks in your armor, the vulnerability that lay beneath the surface. You shared your own vulnerabilities, the way you flinched at the cruel comments about your weight, the way you avoided mirrors, the way you sometimes felt like a ghost, invisible and unseen, a whisper in a crowded room.

The letters became a lifeline, a sacred space where you could lay bare your soul without fear of judgment. They were a silent symphony, a delicate dance of words and emotions, a testament to the power of human connection, a bridge built on shared vulnerability. You shared your deepest fears, your most cherished dreams, your quietest hopes. He shared his, the pressure of leadership, the loneliness that sometimes crept in even amidst the adulation of millions, the longing for a connection that transcended the boundaries of fame and expectation.

One night, as you sat bathed in the soft glow of your desk lamp, the words spilled onto the page, a torrent of unspoken pain, a confession whispered into the darkness. “People like me don’t belong in love stories,” you wrote, the words heavy with the weight of years of self-doubt, the echoes of cruel words and dismissive glances. The darkness of your room amplified the quiet despair in your heart, making you feel utterly alone, adrift in a sea of unspoken pain.

His reply arrived a few days later, and it was longer, more heartfelt than any before. The ink on the page seemed to shimmer with an unspoken emotion, a raw vulnerability that made your breath catch in your throat, a testament to the depth of his empathy.

“(Your Name), love isn’t about a number on a scale, or the shape of your body, or the way the world perceives you. It’s about the soul, the heart, the connection between two people. It’s about seeing the beauty that lies within, the strength that shines through even in the midst of vulnerability. You are worthy of being loved, exactly as you are. Don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise. And please, never say you don’t belong in a love story, because you do. You deserve the world, and all the love it has to offer, a love that sees you for who you truly are, a love that celebrates your strength and embraces your vulnerability.”

His words were a balm to your wounded spirit, a gentle caress that soothed the scars of years of self-doubt, a gentle reminder of your inherent worth. You reread his letters, the words etched into your memory, a constant reminder of your own strength and resilience. The rhythm of your correspondence became a comforting constant, a quiet symphony played out in the still of the night. You would write, pouring your heart onto the page, and he would reply, his words a gentle echo of your own emotions, a testament to the profound connection that had blossomed between you.

With each letter, the connection between you deepened, a fragile thread woven from words and emotions, a testament to the power of shared vulnerability, a bridge built on honesty and understanding. You felt seen, understood, cherished. But the thought of meeting him, of bridging the gap between your worlds, still seemed impossible, a distant dream. He was Bang Chan, the leader of Stray Kids, a star in a universe that felt light years away from your own.

Yet, a small, fragile hope bloomed in the quiet corners of your heart, a delicate flower pushing through the cracks of uncertainty, a whisper of possibility. It was a silent promise of something more, something deeper, a connection that transcended the boundaries of fame and expectation. The letters were more than just words on paper; they were pieces of your souls, shared and cherished, building a bridge between two worlds, two hearts, one word at a time, one shared vulnerability at a time.

The fan sign event loomed like a seismic shift in your reality, a terrifying yet exhilarating precipice. Winning the ticket had been a surreal dream, a distant, impossible star. Now, it was a stark, unavoidable truth. You were going to meet Bang Chan, the man whose words had been a lifeline, whose understanding had been a sanctuary. You were going to stand before him, face-to-face, after years of exchanging letters, of baring your soul in the quiet intimacy of written words.

The anxiety was a tangible entity, a cold, heavy weight that settled in the pit of your stomach, a knot of nerves that refused to unravel. You wrestled with the impulse to back out, to invent a sudden illness, to send a friend in your stead. But the thought of relinquishing this opportunity, of allowing fear to dictate your actions, felt like a profound betrayal—a betrayal of the connection you had painstakingly built with him, a betrayal of the fragile hope that had blossomed in your heart, a betrayal of the vulnerability you had shared.

The day of the fan sign arrived, a surreal blur of nervous energy and frantic preparations. You meticulously selected your outfit, striving for a delicate balance between comfort and confidence, wanting to feel seen but not overly conspicuous. You arrived at the venue hours before the scheduled start, the queue stretching around the block, a vibrant tapestry of faces buzzing with anticipation, a chorus of excited whispers.

As you waited, your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence of your inner turmoil. You clutched your album, its cover worn from countless replays, a tangible representation of the emotional resonance you felt with his music. You rehearsed the words you would say, the carefully crafted phrases you had formulated in your mind, but they all felt inadequate, hollow echoes in the face of the overwhelming emotions that threatened to consume you. The scent of the venue, a mix of sweat, perfume, and the faint, metallic tang of stage lights, swirled around you, adding to the sensory overload.

Finally, your turn arrived. The line inched forward, each step an agonizingly slow descent into the moment of truth. You observed the interactions of the fans with the members, their faces illuminated with joy and adoration. You witnessed the warmth of Bang Chan's smile, the sincerity in his eyes, the genuine connection he forged with each person who approached him. The sound of his laughter, the gentle cadence of his voice, filled the room, a tangible echo of the man you had come to know through his letters.

Then, it was your turn. You stepped forward, your legs trembling slightly, and approached the table. The cacophony of the crowd receded into a dull hum, and the world narrowed to the figure seated before you. Bang Chan.

His eyes met yours, and the world seemed to hold its breath. The familiar warmth of his smile, the intensity of his gaze, it was like stepping into the pages of his letters, a tangible manifestation of the emotions you had shared across the distance. But there was something else in his eyes, a flicker of recognition, a silent question that hung in the air like a whispered secret, a tangible echo of the connection you shared.

He froze, his pen hovering over the album, his smile faltering for a fleeting moment. His gaze searched yours, a deep, probing look that seemed to penetrate the layers of your being, to see into the depths of your soul. He whispered your name, the sound barely audible above the din of the crowd, yet clear as a bell in your ears, a hushed acknowledgment of your presence.

"It's really you. Finally."

The words hung in the air, a silent declaration, an unspoken acknowledgment of the connection you had built, the profound understanding that had blossomed between you. His voice was soft, intimate, a gentle caress that sent shivers down your spine, and the intensity of his gaze made your breath catch in your throat. The faint scent of his cologne, a subtle blend of sandalwood and warm amber, filled your senses, a tangible echo of his presence.

The moment stretched out, an eternity suspended in time, a silent symphony of eyes and unspoken words, a tangible echo of the connection you shared. You managed a shaky smile, your voice lost in the whirlwind of emotions that threatened to overwhelm you. The fan sign became a blur, a series of fragmented images and sensations. You remembered the warmth of his hand as he signed your album, the delicate brush of his fingers against yours, sending a jolt of electricity through your body. You remembered the intensity of his gaze, the way he seemed to be searching for something in your eyes, something that transcended the boundaries of fan and idol, something that spoke of a deeper connection, a shared vulnerability.

He asked you about your day, your favorite songs, the details you had shared in your letters. His voice was soft, intimate, as if you were continuing a conversation that had never been interrupted. He listened intently, his eyes never leaving yours, and you felt a sense of being seen, understood, cherished—a feeling that had been so elusive for so long. The sound of his voice, the gentle cadence of his words, was a tangible echo of the comfort you had found in his letters.

As you moved away from the table, a sense of disorientation washed over you. The world seemed to tilt on its axis, the familiar reality of your life shifting and rearranging itself. You had met him, the man behind the letters, the voice that had comforted you, the soul that had resonated with yours. And he had recognized you, not as a face in a crowd, but as the person he had connected with through words, a tangible echo of the connection you shared.

The days that followed were a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. You replayed the moment of recognition in your mind, trying to decipher the unspoken meaning behind his words, the intensity in his gaze. You wondered if he felt the same connection you did, if the letters had meant as much to him as they had to you. The lingering scent of his cologne, the warmth of his hand, the sound of his voice—tangible echoes of your encounter—filled your thoughts.

You hesitated to write, afraid of shattering the delicate balance of your relationship. What if meeting him had changed things? What if the intimacy of your letters was lost in the awkwardness of a face-to-face encounter, replaced by the stark reality of your physical presence?

Then, a final letter arrived, slipped beneath your door, the paper slightly crumpled. The scent of his cologne was stronger this time, a tangible reminder of his presence, a whisper of his nearness.

“I don’t want to be just your pen pal anymore. Let’s write our own story together.”

The words were a declaration, a silent promise, a bridge extending across the chasm between your worlds. The fear and uncertainty that had clouded your mind began to dissipate, replaced by a fragile hope, a quiet anticipation.

You wrote back immediately, your heart overflowing with emotions you had kept hidden for so long. You agreed to meet him, to explore the possibility of something more, something deeper. The moment of recognition had been a turning point, a silent symphony of eyes and unspoken words, a tangible echo of the connection you shared, that had set your hearts on a new course, a journey into the uncharted territory of your shared story. You were ready to write your own story, together, one chapter at a time, one tangible echo at a time.

The decision to meet Bang Chan outside the structured confines of a fan sign event was a leap of faith, a plunge into the uncharted waters of a relationship that had blossomed in the quiet intimacy of written words. The anticipation was a tangible thing, a nervous energy that vibrated beneath your skin, a mix of excitement and trepidation that made your heart race.

The designated meeting place was a small, secluded café, tucked away in a quiet corner of the city. The warm, inviting aroma of freshly brewed coffee and pastries filled the air, creating a cozy, intimate atmosphere. As you entered, your eyes scanned the room, searching for a familiar face. Then, you saw him, seated at a corner table, bathed in the soft glow of a nearby lamp.

He looked different in person, more real, more tangible. The soft lines of his face, the warmth in his eyes, the gentle curve of his smile—they were all magnified in the intimacy of the moment. The faint scent of his cologne, the same woody fragrance that lingered on his letters, filled your senses, a tangible reminder of the connection you shared.

The initial awkwardness was palpable, a silent tension that hung in the air like a delicate thread. You stumbled over your words, your cheeks flushed, your heart pounding in your chest. He, too, seemed slightly flustered, his usual composure momentarily shaken. But as you began to talk, the familiar comfort of your letters returned, a silent understanding that bridged the gap between your nervousness.

You spoke of your dreams, your aspirations, the small, everyday moments that painted your life with shades of joy and sorrow. He spoke of his fears, the weight of responsibility, the loneliness that sometimes crept in even amidst the cheers of thousands. The conversation flowed effortlessly, like continuing a dialogue that had never been interrupted.

The quiet intimacy of the café, the soft murmur of conversations, the clinking of cups, created a sanctuary, a space where you could be yourselves, unfiltered and unedited. You shared your vulnerabilities, the insecurities that had haunted you for years, the fear of not being enough. He shared his, the pressure to be perfect, the longing for a connection that transcended the boundaries of fame.

With each shared confidence, the connection between you deepened, a fragile thread woven from words and emotions. He listened intently, his eyes never leaving yours, his gaze filled with understanding and empathy. You listened to him, your heart aching with the weight of his burdens, your soul resonating with his honesty.

As the hours passed, the initial awkwardness faded, replaced by a comfortable silence, a silent understanding that spoke volumes. You found yourselves laughing at shared jokes, reminiscing about the contents of your letters, discovering new layers of connection that transcended the written word.

He walked you home, the quiet streets of the city bathed in the soft glow of streetlights. The silence between you was comfortable, filled with unspoken emotions and shared understanding. At your doorstep, he hesitated, his eyes searching yours.

“I had a really good time,” he said, his voice soft, a gentle caress.

“Me too,” you replied, your voice barely a whisper.

He smiled, a warm, genuine smile that made your heart skip a beat. “Can we do this again?”

“Yes,” you replied, your voice filled with a quiet certainty.

The days that followed were a whirlwind of stolen moments and whispered confidences. You met in secluded cafes, quiet parks, hidden corners of the city, creating a world of your own, a sanctuary away from the prying eyes of the public.

You shared your favorite songs, your favorite books, your favorite memories. He shared his, the stories behind his music, the struggles and triumphs of his career, the quiet moments of reflection that fueled his creativity.

He listened to your fears, your dreams, your insecurities, his gaze filled with understanding and empathy. You listened to his, the weight of responsibility, the longing for normalcy, the quiet ache for a connection that transcended the boundaries of fame.

He became your safe space, a haven in a world that often felt cold and unforgiving. You became his, a source of comfort and understanding, a quiet anchor in the chaos of his life.

The connection between you deepened, a silent symphony played out in shared silences and whispered confidences. You found solace in each other’s presence, a quiet understanding that transcended words.

One night, as you sat in a quiet park, bathed in the soft glow of moonlight, he reached for your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours. The touch was electric, a jolt of energy that sent shivers down your spine.

“I feel like I’ve known you forever,” he said, his voice soft, a whisper in the quiet night.

“Me too,” you replied, your voice barely audible.

The silence that followed was filled with unspoken emotions, a quiet acknowledgment of the connection that had blossomed between you. You leaned against him, your head resting on his shoulder, and he wrapped his arm around you, holding you close.

A few months later, he introduced you to his members. The initial nervousness was quickly replaced by a warm welcome, a sense of belonging that made you feel like you had always been part of their family.

Seungmin’s playful jabs, Felix’s infectious enthusiasm, Changbin’s protective warmth—they embraced you with open arms, their acceptance a testament to the bond you had formed with Chan.

“He’s been talking about you for months,” Seungmin teased, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “We were starting to think you were a figment of his imagination.”

“He’s happier,” Felix added, his eyes sparkling with genuine joy. “He smiles more.”

Changbin, the quiet protector, offered a warm smile and a silent nod of approval.

Through it all, Chan never defined your relationship. You were just friends, a label that felt both comforting and inadequate. The unspoken emotions, the shared silences, the whispered confidences—they spoke of a connection that transcended the boundaries of friendship.

The days turned into weeks, the weeks into months, and the connection between you deepened, a quiet symphony played out in stolen moments and whispered promises. You found solace in each other’s presence, a quiet understanding that transcended words.

You were becoming a part of his world, a silent anchor in the chaos of his life. He was becoming a part of yours, a gentle presence that filled the voids you had carried for so long.

The beginning of your story was a delicate dance, a slow burn that ignited with each shared moment, each whispered confidence, each stolen glance. You were writing your own story, together, one chapter at a time, one shared silence at a time.

Three years. Three years since the hesitant first meeting, the quiet sanctuary of the secluded café, the moment of recognition that had shifted the axis of your lives. Three years of stolen moments, shared silences, whispered confidences, and a love that had blossomed in the quiet intimacy of your shared world, a love that had become the silent heartbeat of your existence.

The initial awkwardness, the tentative steps of your budding relationship, had long since melted away, replaced by a comfortable familiarity, a silent understanding that transcended the need for words. You had become an integral part of each other’s lives, a constant presence, a quiet anchor in the ever-shifting tides of your respective worlds. The silence between you was no longer a void, but a language of its own, a symphony of unspoken emotions and shared understanding.

The stolen moments, once a necessity born of secrecy, had transformed into cherished rituals, sacred spaces in the chaos of your lives. Late-night calls, hushed conversations in the quiet hours, impromptu visits to secluded corners of the city—they were the threads that wove the intricate tapestry of your shared life. You had created a sanctuary, a world of your own, where you could shed the weight of expectations, the masks of public personas, and simply be yourselves, vulnerable and authentic.

He called you when the pressure of leadership became an unbearable weight, when the weight of expectations threatened to crush him beneath its enormity. You listened, offering a quiet strength, a gentle reminder that he was not alone in his burdens. You reminded him to breathe, to find moments of peace amidst the relentless chaos, to remember the human being beneath the idol.

You called him when the insecurities that had haunted you for years threatened to resurface, when the cruel whispers of self-doubt echoed in your mind, a relentless chorus of negativity. He listened, offering a gentle reassurance, a quiet reminder that you were worthy of love, exactly as you were. He held you when the fear became a suffocating presence, his arms a safe haven in a world that often felt cold and unforgiving, a tangible echo of the comfort you had found in his letters.

The members of Stray Kids had become a second family, their acceptance a testament to the profound bond you shared with Chan. Seungmin’s playful teasing, Felix’s boundless enthusiasm, Changbin’s quiet protectiveness—they were the constants in your life, a reminder that you were loved, accepted, cherished, not as an outsider, but as an integral part of their family.

You had become a silent observer of their world, a quiet confidante in their moments of vulnerability, a witness to their triumphs and struggles. You saw the dedication, the passion, the unwavering commitment to their art. You saw the sacrifices they made, the pressure they endured, the unwavering support they offered each other, a silent symphony of camaraderie.

But through it all, Chan never defined your relationship with a label. You were just friends, a term that felt both comforting and woefully inadequate. The unspoken emotions, the shared silences, the whispered confidences—they spoke of a connection that transcended the boundaries of friendship, a love that had blossomed in the quiet intimacy of your shared world, a love that had become the silent heartbeat of your existence.

The years had passed, and the connection between you had deepened, a silent symphony played out in stolen moments and whispered promises. You found solace in each other’s presence, a quiet understanding that transcended words.

On his birthday, October 3rd, you sat down to write him a letter, a culmination of the three years you had shared, a testament to the profound impact he had had on your life. The words flowed effortlessly, a silent symphony of emotions, a tapestry of shared memories.

The years had passed, and the connection between you had deepened, a silent symphony played out in stolen moments and whispered promises. You found solace in each other’s presence, a quiet understanding that transcended words. You were becoming a part of his world, a silent anchor in the chaos of his life. He was becoming a part of yours, a gentle presence that filled the voids you had carried for so long, a tangible echo of the comfort you had found in his words.

The beginning of your story had been a delicate dance, a slow burn that ignited with each shared moment, each whispered confidence, each stolen glance. Now, you were writing a new chapter, a chapter filled with love, acceptance, and a quiet sense of belonging. You were writing your own story, together, one chapter at a time, one shared life at a time, one silent heartbeat at a time.

Chan,

Three years. Three years since the hesitant beginnings, the quiet sanctuary of our shared words, the silent language that blossomed between us. Three years since you became my sanctuary, my home, a quiet anchor in the ever-shifting tides of my life. I remember the first letter, the hesitant words of gratitude that sparked a connection I never dared to dream of, a fragile thread woven from vulnerability and honesty, a testament to the power of shared souls. You listened, Chan. You saw me when I felt invisible, a ghost in a crowded room, a whisper lost in the noise of the world. You understood me when I felt lost, adrift in a sea of self-doubt, a silent echo of the pain I carried. You cherished me, exactly as I am, flaws and all, a gentle reminder of my inherent worth, a beacon in the darkness.

You’ve held my hand through storms, both literal and metaphorical, your presence a steady comfort in the chaos. You’ve whispered comfort in the quietest of nights, a soothing balm to my wounded spirit, a gentle caress that healed the scars of years of self-doubt. You’ve shown me what it means to be seen, to be accepted, to be loved, not for who the world wants me to be, but for who I truly am, a soul laid bare. You’ve given me a home in your heart, a place where I finally belong, a sanctuary in the chaos of the world, a tangible echo of the comfort I found in your words.

And now, on your birthday, surrounded by the echoes of our shared memories, the silent symphony of our intertwined lives, I can no longer hold back the words that have been whispering in my soul for so long, a quiet chorus of unspoken emotions, a silent declaration of my heart.

Chan, I’ve loved you for so long. Maybe I always have, from the moment your words reached into the depths of my soul and pulled me from the darkness, a tangible echo of the connection we shared.

Happy Birthday.

The final words hung in the air, a silent declaration that filled the room with unspoken emotions, a fragile bridge between your hearts, a testament to the years of shared vulnerability.

The momement he read it he looked up, his eyes searching yours, a silent question in their depths, a tangible echo of the connection you shared, a quiet symphony of unspoken promises. The air crackled with unspoken tension, a fragile thread woven from years of shared vulnerability, a silent symphony of intertwined souls.

He rose, his movements deliberate, and crossed the room, his gaze never leaving yours, his presence a tangible echo of the comfort you had found in his letters, a silent promise of something more. He reached out, his hand gently cupping your cheek, his touch sending a shiver down your spine, a jolt of electricity that resonated through your body, a tangible echo of the connection you shared.

The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken emotions, a quiet acknowledgment of the love that had blossomed between you, a silent symphony of hearts beating in unison, a tangible echo of the connection you shared. He leaned in, his breath warm against your skin, a gentle caress that sent shivers down your spine, and then, he kissed you.

The kiss was soft, tender, a culmination of three years of unspoken emotions, a silent declaration of the love that had been simmering beneath the surface for so long. It was a gentle exploration, a tentative acknowledgment of the unspoken language that had defined your relationship, a tangible echo of the connection you shared. His lips moved against yours, slow and deliberate, a silent promise of something more, a fragile bridge between your hearts.

Inside your thoughts: It’s real. It’s finally real. The years of unspoken emotions, the shared silences, the whispered promises—they had all led to this moment. His lips on mine, a gentle caress that sent shivers down my spine, a silent acknowledgment of the love that had been simmering beneath the surface for so long. It was a moment of pure vulnerability, a fragile bridge between our hearts, a tangible echo of the connection we shared. He tasted of warmth, of home, of everything I had ever longed for, a tangible echo of the comfort I had found in his words, a silent promise of forever.

He pulled back slightly, his eyes searching yours, a silent question in their depths, a fragile hope that whispered of a shared future, a tangible echo of the connection you shared.

"I've loved you too," he whispered, his voice barely audible, a confession as fragile as a whispered promise, a silent echo of the love that filled the room, a testament to the honesty that had defined your relationship. "For so long."

Inside Bang Chan's thoughts: Her words, a confession as raw and honest as the letters she had written over the years, echoed in my mind, a silent symphony of shared vulnerability, a tangible echo of the connection we shared. Three years. Three years of shared silences, whispered confidences, and a love that had blossomed in the quiet intimacy of our shared world, a love that had become the silent heartbeat of my existence. Her kiss, a gentle caress that sent shivers down my spine, a tangible echo of the connection we shared. It was a moment of pure vulnerability, a silent acknowledgment of the love that had been simmering beneath the surface for so long. She tasted of home, of comfort, of everything I had ever longed for, a tangible echo of the comfort I had found in her presence. She was my safe space, my anchor, the one person who saw me for who I truly was, flaws and all, a silent promise of forever.

He pulled you into a tight embrace, his arms wrapped around you like a lifeline, his warmth a comforting embrace, a tangible echo of the comfort you had found in his presence, a silent symphony of intertwined souls. The silence that followed was filled with unspoken emotions, a quiet acknowledgment of the love that had blossomed between you, a testament to the years of shared vulnerability.

"You're my home," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, a silent echo of the feelings that resonated within you, a raw vulnerability that mirrored your own, a tangible echo of the connection you shared. "You're my safe space. You're everything."

"You're mine too," you replied, your voice barely a whisper, a silent promise of forever, a tangible echo of the love that filled the room, a testament to the years of shared vulnerability.

The members groaned in the background, a chorus of playful complaints, a silent acknowledgment of the love that had been simmering beneath the surface. "Finally! Now, can you please get a room?"

The moment was a turning point, a silent acknowledgment of the love that had been simmering beneath the surface, a love that had finally found its voice, a love that had become the silent heartbeat of your existence. The years of unspoken emotions, the shared silences, the whispered promises—they had all led to this moment, a moment of pure vulnerability, a fragile bridge between your hearts, a tangible echo of the connection you shared, a silent symphony of intertwined souls.

The days that followed were a whirlwind of emotions, a mix of joy, relief, and a quiet sense of belonging. You were no longer just friends, no longer just pen pals. You were partners, lovers, souls intertwined, a silent symphony of shared lives, a tangible echo of the love that filled your world, a silent promise of forever.

The unveiling of your relationship, the whispered "I love you too" exchanged in the quiet sanctity of his birthday, was a cataclysmic event, a pivotal moment that irrevocably altered the landscape of your shared existence. The quiet sanctuary you had painstakingly constructed, a haven where vulnerability and honesty reigned supreme, was about to be exposed to the relentless scrutiny of the public eye, a silent battlefield where emotions clashed and perceptions warred. The weight of that exposure was a tangible thing, a nervous energy that vibrated beneath your skin, a silent tremor of anxiety that threatened to shatter the fragile equilibrium you had painstakingly achieved, a storm brewing on the horizon.

The news, as it inevitably does in a world saturated with digital echoes and insatiable curiosity, leaked. A grainy photo, captured from a distance, of you and Chan sharing a quiet moment in a secluded café, accompanied by a sensationalized article that painted a distorted and often malicious picture of your relationship, spread like wildfire across social media platforms, igniting a firestorm of reactions. The responses were immediate, varied, and often volatile, a cacophony of voices echoing across the digital landscape, a symphony of scrutiny that threatened to drown out the quiet intimacy of your love, a silent war waged in the digital realm.

Some STAYs, the loyal guardians of Chan’s world, were overjoyed, their comments brimming with warmth and unwavering support. They celebrated your love, seeing it as a testament to Chan’s happiness, a beacon of hope in a world often shrouded in cynicism and negativity. They shared your photos, wrote heartfelt messages, and created fan edits, embracing you as part of their family, a testament to the transformative power of shared joy and acceptance, a silent chorus of support.

Others, however, were less accepting, their words sharp and cruel, their comments laced with jealousy, resentment, and often, a deep-seated sense of possessiveness. They questioned your worthiness, scrutinized your appearance, and accused you of seeking attention, of exploiting Chan’s fame for your own gain. They saw you as a threat, an intruder in their idealized world, a disruption to the carefully constructed image of their idol, a silent battleground of conflicting emotions where personal desires clashed with the reality of Chan's life, a storm of negativity.

The online vitriol was a constant hum, a relentless barrage of negativity that threatened to drown you in a sea of doubt and self-doubt. You found yourself retreating into the quiet sanctuary of your shared world, seeking solace in Chan’s presence, his warmth a comforting embrace against the coldness of the world, a silent refuge from the storm raging outside, a fragile haven in the chaos.

He stood by you, unwavering in his support, a silent protector against the storm of public opinion. He addressed the rumors in a live broadcast, his voice calm and steady, his words filled with sincerity and conviction, a testament to the unwavering strength of his love, a silent declaration of his commitment.

“Yes, I am in a relationship,” he said, his eyes meeting the camera, his gaze direct and unwavering, a silent declaration of his unwavering love and commitment, a beacon of truth in a sea of speculation. “She is important to me. She makes me happy. She sees me for who I am, not for who the world wants me to be.”

He spoke of your kindness, your strength, your unwavering support, the qualities that had drawn him to you in the first place, the silent language of shared souls. He spoke of the connection you shared, a bond built on honesty, vulnerability, and mutual respect, a testament to the power of shared souls. He asked for respect, for understanding, for the privacy to navigate your relationship away from the relentless scrutiny of the public eye, a silent plea for empathy and understanding, a fragile hope for peace.

His words were a balm to your wounded spirit, a testament to his unwavering love, a silent promise of protection and unwavering support, a beacon of strength in the darkness. But they also ignited a fresh wave of reactions, some supportive, some vitriolic. The online discourse became a battleground, a clash of opinions and emotions, a silent war waged in the digital realm, where words were weapons and perceptions were shields, a storm of conflicting emotions.

Chan's Instagram, once a carefully curated collection of artistic shots and candid moments, became a testament to your love, a silent declaration of his affection, a tangible representation of your shared world, a beacon of hope in the chaos. He shared silly selfies, cozy nights, handwritten notes envelopes, each post a silent echo of the love that filled his heart, a tangible representation of your shared world. He wanted the world to see his happiness, to understand that you were his safe space, his anchor, his home, a silent sanctuary in the chaos of his life, a testament to the power of shared love, a fragile hope for understanding.

The members of Stray Kids, your chosen family, rallied around you, their support unwavering and unwavering, a silent fortress against the storm. Seungmin’s playful teasing, Felix’s infectious enthusiasm, Changbin’s quiet protectiveness—they were your shield, your fortress, your constant reminder that you were loved and accepted, an integral part of their family, a testament to the power of chosen bonds, a quiet chorus of support.

“He’s happier,” Felix said in a live broadcast, his eyes sparkling with genuine joy, a silent testament to the transformative power of your love, a beacon of hope in a world often shrouded in negativity. “He smiles more when she’s around.”

“She’s good for him,” Changbin added, his voice gruff but his eyes warm, a silent acknowledgment of the strength you brought to Chan’s life, a testament to the power of shared understanding, a quiet declaration of support.

The public scrutiny was relentless, a constant hum of judgment and speculation, but your bond with Chan grew stronger, forged in the fires of adversity, a testament to the enduring power of love. You learned to navigate the complexities of a public relationship, to filter the noise, to focus on the love that surrounded you, a silent sanctuary in the chaos, a fragile hope for peace.

You found solace in the quiet moments, the stolen hours when you could be yourselves, away from the prying eyes and the relentless scrutiny, a silent refuge in each other’s arms, a haven of peace. You found strength in each other’s presence, a silent understanding that transcended words, a tangible echo of the connection you shared, a quiet understanding of shared souls.

You learned to appreciate the supportive voices, the fans who embraced your love, who saw your relationship as a testament to Chan’s happiness, a beacon of hope in a world often shrouded in cynicism. You learned to ignore the hateful comments, the cruel words, the attempts to tear you down, a silent battle against the negativity, a testament to your inner strength, a quiet declaration of resilience.

The years passed, and your relationship became a part of the fabric of Stray Kids’ story, a testament to the enduring power of love, a beacon of hope in the chaos. Fans watched you grow, watched your love blossom, watched Chan’s happiness radiate like a warm glow, a silent symphony of shared joy, a testament to the power of shared souls. They saw the way he looked at you, the way his eyes lit up when he spoke your name, the way he found solace in your presence, a silent acknowledgment of the love that filled his heart, a testament to the power of shared souls.

They began to understand. They saw the vulnerability, the honesty, the unwavering love that defined your relationship, a testament to the power of shared souls. They saw the way you supported Chan, the way you understood him, the way you loved him for who he was, not for who the world wanted him to be, a silent declaration of your unwavering love, a fragile hope for understanding.

And in the end, that was all that mattered. You had found love in the midst of chaos, a quiet sanctuary in a world of noise, a testament to the enduring power of shared souls. You had built a home in each other’s hearts, a love that transcended the boundaries of fame and scrutiny, a silent symphony of intertwined lives, a tangible echo of forever, a testament to the power of shared souls. You had written your own story, together, one chapter at a time, a testament to the enduring power of love, a silent echo of forever's embrace.

--

[laelior]

The Normandy SR-2 is a trap.

That much is obvious to Shepard from the beginning. For all Lawson and Taylor talk up saving human colonies, it’s a hostage situation that she has little choice but to play her part in. The ship, the crew–Joker and Chakwas and Garrus and Tali–they’re the obvious carrot to keep her cooperative like the good warhorse she is. An organization capable of feeding fifty-one unsuspecting marines to a Thresher Maw doesn’t simply do nice things out of the goodness of its heart, after all.

The stick is far more subtle.

The picture on the desk is the first one. It’s meant to be seen, with the way it lights up whenever she draws near. The message behind it is equally easy to read. That there’s a picture of Kaidan on her desk, a picture that clearly hadn’t come from his service record or a public source, speaks volumes about Cerberus’ capacity for kompromat. 

It takes her longer to notice the medals in the display case just next to the picture. Each one awarded after a particularly heroic moment in her career that was one more reason to lie awake at night and recount the names of those who only got those shiny pieces of ribbon and metal in a shadow box delivered to their next of kin. Her eyes are so used to skipping over them that she doesn’t notice the extra medal at first.

All the medals in the case are new, just printed copies of the ones that had long since burned up over Alchera. Except the one that isn’t. It’s old, the stained blue ribbon beginning to fade and fray while the silver veneer flakes off of the cheaper dull gray metal underneath. But the name stamped across the bottom under the embossed cross-hair shape is still perfectly legible.

M. Shepard.

She knows that medal like the back of her own hand, the places where the finish is worn off from her rubbing her thumb over it and the feel of those embossed letters under her finger. Knows the way it felt every time she’d tucked it into her armor for over a decade. Knows it like the memory of her own mother’s face on the day she’d given it to her on her sixteenth birthday.

It was Nana Peggy’s good luck charm. She won it in a longshot competition back in ‘35.  She gave it to me, and now it’s your turn to have it.

Good luck charm, her ass.

It would be nice to think they’d tucked this memento into her cabin as a personal touch. It could even be Lawson’s official story, if she bothered to ask her.

But only an idiot believes the official story.

And Helen Shepard didn’t raise an idiot.

[starylovw]

New Stars

1/??

The chill of the marble floor seeps into your skin before you’re even fully awake. A low groan escapes your lips as your hand fumbles blindly across the nightstand.

Ring ring.

“Ugh, a call. Just what I needed right now,” you mutter, voice still thick with sleep.

1 deep breath.

2—Fake smile.

3—Showtime.

You clear your throat and answer with forced cheer,

“Hellooo, Director! Y/N L/N speaking—live and ready!”

“L/N. Good. New group. Folder’s on your desk.”

Plink. Call ended. Just like that.

“Fucking bastard…” you sigh under your breath.

Dragging a hand down your face, you stretch out your stiff limbs with a groan that echoes slightly off the high ceilings. Another day, another chaotic assignment. Time to get moving.

—

As you step into the building, the familiar weight settles on your chest.

This place…

Where dreams are manufactured and broken in the same breath.

Where sadness clings to the walls like old wallpaper, and anger echoes in every hallway.

Where idols rise—and fall.

You move quietly, weaving past exhausted trainees and staff who won’t meet your eyes. Like ghosts in a machine.

Your desk is exactly where it always is—cold, impersonal, and unfortunately, still yours. Sitting right in the center is a red folder, pristine and precise.

You squint.

Is that… a lion?

You stare at the pink-embossed creature like it personally insulted you.

“What the fuck did I get stuck with this time?” you mutter, dropping into your chair with a sigh.

But bills don’t pay themselves, and stability—no matter how soul-sucking—is still stability.

You flip the folder open.

“Saja Boys.”

You blink. “Weird-ass name… but whatever.”

You sift through the papers in the folder, eyes scanning profiles, stats, and training evaluations with mechanical precision. It’s second nature by now—breaking people down into potential and problems.

Then the door creaks open.

You don’t look up.

“You ever heard of privacy—” you begin, voice dry with annoyance.

And then you feel it. That familiar, suffocating weight in the room. Authority. Expectation. Pressure.

Your head snaps up.

You’re already on your feet, bowing instinctively.

“Director Gwa,” you say evenly, your voice steady and respectful, despite the flicker of irritation in your chest.

The man steps aside, motioning toward the doorway. “L/N. These are the Saja Boys. The next group under D-Entertainment. Go on, boys.”

Just like that, your office—your last scrap of personal space—becomes a stage.

So much for privacy.

So much for peace.

You straighten, plastering on your professional mask as the boys file in.

Here we go.

You recognized all five of them the second they stepped in—not that it was difficult.

Neon hair. Sharp cheekbones. That unmistakable idol aura.

They screamed “rookie group with a marketing budget.”

Before you could get a word in, they started introducing themselves one by one, all confidence and choreographed charm.

You watched them with a critical eye.

At least they’re hot. And polite, you mused in your head. I’ll give them two months.

It wasn’t bitterness—it was experience talking.

Then one of them said something that made your brain stutter.

“Hi…I’m Baby”

You blinked.

“…Baby?” you echoed, looking up from the folder to meet the gaze of a blue-haired boy, who nodded without shame, as if that name wasn’t a cry for branding help.

You stared for a beat too long, then sighed. “Well. You know what? Sure. Fine.”

Your fingers drummed on the desk.

Scratch that.

Make it one month.

As the last introduction wrapped up, you gave a sharp nod toward Director Gwa. He turned on his heel and walked out without so much as a glance or goodbye.

Bastard.

You exhaled slowly, like you were bracing yourself for a storm.

Alright. Time to lock in.

You turned back to face the boys—your boys now, whether you liked it or not.

“So let me get this straight,” you said, rubbing your temples. “Baby. Mystery. Romance. Abby. Jinu.”

You could feel the headache blooming behind your eyes.

Who the hell gave these kids the freedom to choose their own stage names?

They all nodded in unison like well-trained puppies. You stared at them for a beat before sighing.

“Okay, fine. Saja Boys it is. Lions, huh?” You pointed lazily at the folder’s pink crest. “Matches the logo. Bold, aggressive, borderline dramatic—marketing’s wet dream.”

You barely noticed when you started pacing, already rambling about aesthetic cohesion.

“Color palette—bold primaries, maybe gold accents. Concept photos, maybe a duality thing? Wild versus tame. Fandom name—something punchy, but not cringe. We’ll circle back.”

You didn’t even realize you were lost in the storm of planning until you caught one of them blinking in mild awe.

You paused, eyes scanning their faces.

You’d seen too many groups fall apart before their debut stage. Watched stars burn out before they even learned how to shine.

But still—every time—you gave them a real shot.

And these lion cubs?

Well. You’d give them one too

[grlsbstshot]

NEON LIGHTS

Pairing (Original Characters):

Jameson Lucas (Aaron Pierre) x Imani St. Cirie (Megan thee Stallion) Genie Adesanya (Jayme Lawson) x Ellington “EJ” Dupree (Kelvin Harrison Jr.)

Chapters:

Neon Lights Masterlist

Chapter Synopsis: A year has passed since Imani and Jameson's painful breakup. Once again, fate draws the two together again...but it's not as joyful reunion as either thought they'd have.

Warnings: smut (18+), toxic relationship, mentions of therapy, out of control drinking, and emotional breakdowns, sex (p in v, creampie, dirty talk) -- if we missed anything, let us know!

Word Count: 8k

Divider Template: @cafekitsune

Notes: 

The following characters are original creations. Their voice claims are Usher / Lucky Daye (Jameson) & Summer Walker / SZA (Imani). We have no affiliation to any of those artists.

Anaïs Lucas sat at her writing desk, the faint scent of her signature jasmine lingering in the air. The room was quiet, save for the rhythmic ticking of the antique clock on the wall. She flipped through the pile of papers in front of her, gaze landing on the embossed invitations for Jameson’s album release party.

Pride made her smile. Her son had an advantage when he got into the industry, yes. He had her name and his good looks but nobody could ever pretend her baby couldn’t sing or that he didn’t work his ass to keep what he got. After he announced he was pushing back his album last winter, Anaïs watched people doubt him. Come January 2026 – a few short weeks from then – they would know that he was worth the wait.

She picked one up, running her fingers over the gold lettering.

You are cordially invited to the premiere of Midnight & Dawn A celebration of James Lucas’ third album

It was elegant, timeless—everything she’d expect from her son’s team. Yet, as perfect as it seemed, something was missing.

Or rather, someone.

The party was in a matter of days and she knew for a fact that Imani wasn’t on the guest list. It made sense. The two had broken up and hadn’t so much as whispered each other’s name in public. Imani had moved on. Jameson had moved on. The cute little girl she’d seen him out with – but had yet to meet – seemed to be distracting him just enough.

But she knew her son. She knew what he wanted. She tried not to be that kind of mother but she couldn't help herself. He was her only child and she wanted him to be happy. She just wouldn't be mentioning any of this to Toni, Imani's aunt and her closest friend.

Anaïs reached for her phone, dialing a number she knew by heart. “Anderson? It’s Anaïs.” Her voice was warm but commanding, the kind that left little room for argument.

Anderson Allen was the head of public relations at Jameson’s label. He had insisted on signing a deal with a label that didn’t feature his mother but it didn’t mean that she didn’t have connections. “Ms. Lucas! What a surprise. How can I help you?”

“I was getting ready for Jamie’s party,” she began, her tone casual but deliberate. "But I heard that the guest list wasn’t complete. You all work so hard over there. I would hate for an omission to ruin the party."

Anderson hesitated. “Omission?”

“Yes. Imani St. Cirie,” Anaïs said smoothly.

The pause on the other end of the line was longer this time. “I—I wasn’t sure if that would be appropriate, given their history. Jameson hasn’t mentioned—”

Anaïs cut him off with a light laugh. “Oh, Andy, let’s not overthink this. Imani is an important part of Jameson’s life, personally and professionally. Inviting her would be…a gesture of goodwill. Besides, I’m sure she’d appreciate the opportunity to celebrate his success.”

Anderson’s voice was cautious. “I suppose we could add her to the list…”

“Wonderful,” Anaïs said, her smile bright. “I’d like to personally handle delivering her invitation. Consider it my little project.”

“Of course, Ms. Lucas. I’ll have one prepared and sent to your house immediately.”

“You’re a gem, Anderson. Thank you.”

Anaïs ended the call and leaned back in her chair, a satisfied expression on her face. She didn’t need anyone’s permission to do what she believed was right for her baby.

When the invitation arrived later that afternoon, Anaïs carefully wrote Imani’s name on the envelope in her graceful script. She slipped it into a sleek courier envelope and sealed it with a flourish.

“Deliver this directly to Ms. St. Cirie,” she instructed the courier who arrived at her door less than an hour later. “Make sure it’s in her hands before the day is over.”

As the courier left, Anaïs poured herself a celebratory glass of champagne. She wasn’t blind to the complications of Jameson and Imani’s past, but sometimes, fate needed a little help—and Anaïs Lucas was more than happy to provide it. 

The studio was alive with energy, even though it was just the two of them. EJ asked for them to run through the albums again. They'd been previewed for the label, accepted, turned in, and there was release party planned for the next night...but still. He wanted to hear the album one more time. Jameson didn't hesitate to go. As the final song climaxed, EJ poured whiskey into two glasses. He slid one across the console to Jameson, who sat slouched in his chair.

“To the masterpiece,” EJ said, raising his glass. “A double-disk album. That’s some legendary-level ambition from my boy.”

Jameson laughed, shaking his head as he reached for the glass. "Very glad I could surprise you all."

EJ snorted. "Hey! I believed in you always. It was touch and go there for a while for everybody else. When you pushed the album back, them niggas started getting nervous. But I knew...my boy was gone get into his bag. I just ain't expect two damn albums at once."

Jameson smirked, tapping his glass against EJ’s before taking a sip. “Here’s hoping they don't flop.”

“Flop?” EJ scoffed, leaning back in his chair. “You’re about to shut the whole industry down. Tomorrow night’s party is gonna be the start of something huge. We need to celebrate. Let’s go grab a drink. Celebrate properly.”

Jameson shook his head, setting the glass down as he finished off the amber liquid. “Un-uh. I’m good, man. I’m tired as fuck. You kept me chained to the recording booth most of the year. I'm going home. Getting in the bed.”

EJ smiled at his friend. “You sure? A little fun won’t kill you.” “Yeah, I’m sure,” Jameson said.

With nothing left to do, EJ finished his drink and threw his hands up. "Alright. I did my best. Aye...I'm proud of you."

Jameson wrinkled his nose, standing from his seat and grabbing his jacket. "Don't get soft on me and shit."

EJ followed his movements, a serious expression on his face. "I'm for real. I was worried about you. Not because of the album. Just because you're my friend. You came out the other side of that shit and I'm proud. I was glad when you stopped drinking every day and started getting fresh air but...therapy? Channeling your shit into music? Camille? You’re looking ahead. I'm happy for you, man." 

Even without him saying her name, she lingered between them. Imani was the unspoken, untouched aspect of his life that he still couldn't face. Still, he knew EJ meant well so Jameson smiled. “Thank you. For everything. You been solid while I got myself together. I owe you, E.”

It was a rare moment when the two stopped teasing each other enough to express what they felt. If Genie was his sister, EJ was his brother. He didn’t know who he’d be without either of them. Before he could change his mind, Jameson leaned in and gave EJ a tight hug. It only lasted a second but he could feel the other man hug him back.

“Alright. Enough of that.” EJ muttered, breaking away and shoving Jameson’s shoulder playfully. “Go home. Go be boring. I’m going to kiss my girlfriend until she blushes.”

He still couldn't wrap his head around EJ and Genie. When Genie had shyly told him she was dating EJ, his first reaction had been disbelief. He never felt a vibe between them but over the next few months, EJ had proved he was crazy about Genie. So Jameson stepped back. He didn't kick up a fuss or cause a problem. When he found time to get out of his own head, he was happy for them.

It was an innocent statement but Jameson recoiled, holding his hand over his ears. “Ew. Don’t tell me nothing you and Genie got going on.” He quickly picked up his jacket, shrugging it on while EJ laughed, calling out to him.

“You better lock Camille down so you can learn from us!”

Jameson walked through his front door and immediately noticed something was off. The lights in the dining room were dimmed, candles flickering on the table, and soft jazz played from the speakers. He’d left the house silent and dark before going to meet EJ. Only three people had a key beside him. His mother, who was not going to set a scene. Genie, who never used it. And EJ, who he just left. Jameson rounded the corner of his living room, entering the kitchen. There stood a woman, at his sink, with her back to him. He recognized her immediately. The messy way she piled her dark brown hair on the top of her head gave it away. 

Camille.

There was something about the way she carried herself—an effortless elegance like she owned the space around her. As one of the most famous young models in the industry, Camille was a striking woman. She held her head high no matter what, her posture perfect. She moved around his kitchen as if this was her home. It was the same way she had approached him – like he was already hers. He admired it, even if it reminded him of someone else, someone he couldn’t quite shake.

“Camille?” he called, dropping his keys on the counter.

She jumped, whirling around with wide eyes. She was wearing an apron with splashes of water on it over her sleek black dress. “You’re…You’re home early.” There were plates on his table, a romantic dinner for two was the obvious aim and he softened. They were casual. Beyond casual but she always took care of him.

Jameson raised an eyebrow, slipping back into the moment. “Am I not supposed to be here?” He asked her, shrugging out of his jacket as he moved further into the kitchen. “How’d you get in?”

“EJ came to let me in before he met you.” She said softly, her gaze following his movements – lingering on his forearms before she turned back to turn the running water off. “H-He was supposed to keep you out for another hour.”

And then it all made sense. The fact that he’d called him out at all to ‘listen’ to an album they’d been listening to for almost a year. Then to want to go out for drinks afterward? His best friend was trying his hand at matchmaking and Jameson couldn’t blame him. Camille was good to him. He’d be a liar to say she wasn’t.

“Ah,” Jameson said, nodding his head. “So, that’s why he was so insistent on hanging out tonight.” He stepped closer, tossing his jacket onto the counter before leaning against it, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “Sorry I ruined the surprise.”

Camille pouted but the second she got a good look at him, she brightened and the annoyance melted away. “I thought we could celebrate your album being finished. Just the two of us. I’m happy for you.”

Jameson smiled, feeling a flicker of warmth in his chest. “Thank you. Thank you for coming. Thank you for caring.” He reached out, tugging her closer using the apron. “What’s for dinner?”

“Caprese salad, seared scallops with risotto, and white chocolate raspberry cheesecake.” “Sounds very impressive.” “It is. I slaved over a stove for you.” “I’m flattered.” “You should be. Not all of my friends get this kind of treatment.” “No?” “Un-uh.” “Damn. I must be really good in bed.”

Camille burst out laughing, slapping her hand against his chest. “You’re aight.”

“That wasn’t a no so I don’t think I was wrong.” Jameson teased her, leaning in to kiss her cheek softly. He released the apron before wrapping his arm around her to untie it. When he brought the strap over her head, he tossed it onto the kitchen island 

“Jameson! We have dinner. I already prepared the–” “Put it in the oven. We’ll eat it later.”

He didn’t have to explain any further. She watched him pluck a fork from his kitchen drawer and then she went to do exactly as he told her to do. Jameson waited patiently, taking a seat on a bar stool and pulling the cheesecake toward him. Once she was done and the food was set aside, he patted the stool next to him. “C’mon. Get off your feet.”

In her Chanel dress and high heels, Camille made herself comfortable. 

They settled at the kitchen counter, side by side on barstools, sharing bites of the rich dessert. Jameson fed her from his fork, kissed her, and put aside the fact that he felt a twinge of guilt for bringing her into his house. This was good. He was moving forward as EJ said. There was nothing wrong with that.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Jameson told her softly, offering her another bite of cheesecake. When she took it, he followed it with a kiss. Light and sweet. She leaned into him, silently asking for more. Instead, Jameson offered her more cheesecake. “I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately.”

She glared at him before his confession became clear. Cami gave him a bright smile, her tongue cleaning the whipped cream her mouth left behind on the fork before she spoke. “There is really nowhere else I’d rather be.”

Imani ran her hands over her dress as she looked over her appearance in the mirror. She did a small turn to the left and then the right to see. No flaws. She looked damn good as usual. She sported a new blonde hair color with hints of pink, a brown sheer dress that accented her curves and left little to the imagination, and her wrist and neck were dazzled in diamonds. It was perfect. Undoubtedly, a ten out of ten. Yet, she sighed and turned her body once more like something would change to make it even better. 

“Girl, if you don’t get out that mirror and go to that party, I’m a drag you there myself.” Her hairstylist said. Imani chuckled. “You look good. Now go get your man.”

She waved the woman off. “It ain’t even like that!” She hadn’t seen Jameson since their break-up last year. She only knew him through TV screens, magazines, and as a voice blaring through the club speakers. He was no longer the man that held her at night, told her she was beautiful or showered her with kisses. For the first time since they met, he was James Lucas. And she hated it. 

Imani said her goodbyes to her glam team as she sauntered to her door and then to the SUV. She slipped inside then the driver shut the door behind her. She pulled the ring on her ring finger on and off then on and off all over again.

It was the ring that Jameson gifted to her for Christmas last year. She pulled it out of her jewelry box when she was anxious, only wearing it at home to avoid speculation from the media and her fans. It was her stress reliever that no one knew about. But tonight, it served a different purpose. 

She wanted Jameson back. Bad. And Imani believed wearing his ring to his album release party would show him that she hadn’t forgotten about him. How could she? He was all she ever thought about. She thought she did the right thing when she ended things with him. They were just going to end in heartbreak like they always did. Imani thought breaking the cycle would solve everything. Yes, she was heartbroken when it happened but she always believed she would get over it and feel better. But she didn’t. She never felt more alone. 

For the first three months after their breakup, she distracted herself with work. She dove head first into Diary’s promotional rollout. Anything her label or management wanted her to do, she did it to avoid being with her deafening thoughts of regret and being alone. But her promo tour only lasted for so long. Then she tried partying. She tried drinking. She tried being with other people, but they never lasted long. All she did was compare them to Jameson. 

Despite all her efforts, nothing and no one could fill the void in her heart left by Jameson. His memory lingered in every corner of her mind. She wrestled with herself over the thought of reaching out to him, hesitant and afraid of what she might find. What if he had moved on? What if he wanted nothing to do with her anymore? She knew little about his current life, only catching glimpses through a few tabloids. According to them, he now resided in the bustling city of New York and was dating a woman named Camille, but they didn’t seem serious at all. Maybe she still had a chance. 

When she received a mysterious invite to his album release party, it felt like fate. A sign that she needed to make a move and get him back. She couldn’t let fear hold her back this time. So she booked a flight to New York with her trusted glam squad to help her and now her plan was underway. 

She was still fidgeting with her ring once they reached the club. The blinding lights of the paparazzi never phased her. She didn’t mind the attention. But tonight, their presence only added to the growing uneasiness and heat rising in her skin. Taking a deep breath, she reminded herself not to let them distract her from her goal — winning Jameson back. 

With a sigh, she stepped out of the SUV and was immediately swarmed by a frenzy of flashing cameras and shouting reporters. The familiar chaos only felt like an obstacle in her path. 

“Imani, you look stunning! Love the new hair.” “Are you here to see James?” “How do you feel about him and Camille? Do you know that they showed up here together?”

The last question nearly stopped her in her tracks. Her heart fell back into the abyss of despair that hope once saved it from. Jameson and Camille? She thought they weren’t serious, so why the fuck was she at the party with him? Fuck! Imani should have stayed home. Too many eyes were on her to turn back now. Instead, she simply smiled at the question and entered the club.

After she was inside, she made a beeline for the bathroom, ignoring all of the eyes and whispers. Imani needed to take his ring off before anyone noticed. She walked inside, thankful that no one was in there. Then she closed and locked the door so no one could see her lose it.

She felt like such a fool. There was a war raging inside of her. Of course, he moved on. It had been a year. Did she expect him to wait forever? But the other side screamed, how dare he move on? He told her they were soulmates. He said he would never give up on them. Was it all a lie? “Just twenty minutes.” She mumbled to herself. “I can do twenty then I’ll leave and go home.”

Imani exhaled deeply. She pulled the ring off of her finger and shoved it into her clutch. She unlocked the bathroom door, opening it, only to be met with Genie.

She stared at her like a prey making eye contact with its predator.  Her mind had been so clouded with thoughts of Jameson that she didn’t even think about their storm of friendship. She hadn’t seen Genie since last year. She ignored her texts and phone calls like her best friend was a scorned lover. One day, Imani was going to explain, she just didn’t imagine that day to be today. 

The two stared at each other for what felt like an eternity. Imani finally parted her lips to speak. “Genie, I-” She couldn’t even get her sentence out before the woman moved past her and into the bathroom. Imani sighed, deciding that tonight wasn’t the best time to discuss their broken friendship. She walked back into the club and looked for Toni, the only one she talked to during the whole year. Her energy turned into a dark cloud and she needed someone to brighten it if she was going to make it to twenty minutes.

He heard the whispers before he saw her. Imani had shown up. 

And finally, he saw her.

For the first time in a fucking year, he laid eyes on her. Not a picture. Not an interview or a photoshoot. He saw her.

Relief hit him so hard that he exhaled sharply. She was okay. After Christmas last year, she had essentially disappeared from his life. He didn’t call, he didn’t text, he had even chosen to unfollow her on Instagram but Jameson quickly found out that he wasn’t the only one left behind. Genie had lost Imani as well. 

The two didn’t talk anymore. He had nothing to go by that she was okay. The blogs reported every lover and every move she made…but none had been able to tell him if she was genuinely doing okay. He could see for himself – in the flesh – that she was doing damn good.

She was standing alone in the quickly filling club, framed by the soft glow of lights. He could see her observing the crowd, looking for someone. Was it him? When their eyes met, she seemed frozen. Her eyes went wide and he knew immediately she wasn’t looking for him. 

He felt a hand against his stomach and immediately broke eye contact with her. Camille was gazing up at him, a question in her eyes. Jameson had to steady himself before he smiled at her. “I’ll be back.” He heard himself tell her but knew that he shouldn’t leave. He did it anyway, walking across the room as every thought in the world passed through his mind.

The relief that he felt ended, replaced by anxiety. Why did she come? Was she trying to support him? Was she curious about the music? Did she want to rub it in his face that he had lost her? Did she want him to see how fucking good she looked? All of the questions he asked himself set him on edge but he didn’t stop moving in her direction.

His eyes ran from her blonde hair down to her tan dress. And a wave of lust hit him. 

The fabric clung to her body. It was barely there. He could see her body, sculpted abs and thick thighs. Perfectly measured underwear that hid…Well, he knew what it hid. He was so intimately acquainted with her body that he could find her in the damn dark. He couldn’t think like this. Jameson shook his head to clear the thoughts but flashes of memories raced through his mind. Late nights with him sinking his teeth into her thighs as they trembled, the way her abdomen contracted when she was coming around his fingers. The way she called out for him, the word ‘Daddy’ fell from her lips. All of it came rushing back to him with stunning clarity. Shit! No. No!

He wasn’t doing this. Camille was watching him. He had to get right. So many fucking therapy sessions and he was backsliding into chaos already.

By the time he got to her, he had control of himself again. “Hi.” He said softly.

He watched as she slowly turned to look at him. There was no ignoring one another. Not right then. Her lips curved into a smile but he knew right then that something was wrong. It didn’t meet her eyes. She didn’t light up the way she usually did when she was happy.

“Hi, Jameson.” “Thank you for coming. It’s nice to see you.” “I…It’s nice to see you too.”

A lull of silence hit them and awkwardness set in. Before, they could talk about anything and everything but now? He didn’t know what to say.

EJ found Camille standing near the edge of the room, sipping a glass of champagne with practiced ease. She looked every bit the supermodel she was, tall and poised, her sleek black gown clinging to her statuesque frame. But her eyes—dark, searching—betrayed her. She was watching Jameson, observing the way his gaze seemed to drift toward Imani no matter where she stood. Even when he excused himself from her side and greeted other partygoers, everybody in the room knew where he was going.

EJ stepped up beside her, his presence casual but deliberate. “You’re handling this well,” he said, his tone low enough to keep their conversation private from prying ears.

Camille turned her head slightly, offering him a polite smile. “Handling what?”

He gave her a knowing look, one that made her sigh and take another sip of her drink. She broke the pretense that nothing was happening. “You’re not blind, Camille. You see the way he looks at her. And the way she avoids looking at him. There’s history there—deep, messy history. You’ve got to know that.”

Camille’s expression didn’t waver, but she set her glass down on the nearby table, folding her hands neatly in front of her. “I know,” she said simply.

EJ raised an eyebrow. “And you good with that?”

She shrugged, the movement graceful but dismissive. “What am I supposed to do? Pretend it doesn’t exist? Jameson’s been honest with me about Imani. I know what she means to him.”

EJ leaned in slightly, his voice dropping. “What she means to him and what she still means to him might not be the same thing. I’m not saying this to scare you off, but if you’re serious about Jameson, you need to be ready to fight for him. Because that connection they have? It’s not something that just disappears.”

Camille tilted her head, studying him for a moment. “Do you think I’m not serious about him?”

EJ hesitated, then shook his head. “I think you care about him. I think you’re good for him, too. But I also think Jameson’s still figuring out what he wants. And if you’re not careful, you might end up hurt. She’s got this... gravitational pull on him, sure. But it’s not healthy. You’ve seen how far he’s come this past year. That’s because of you, Camille. Not her.”

Camille’s lips curved into a small, wry smile. “I appreciate the concern, EJ. Really, I do. But I’m not here to fight anyone for Jameson. If he wants to be with me, he knows where I am. And if he doesn’t?” She spread her hands, her tone light but firm. “Then I’ll let him go. I’m not the kind of woman who clings to someone who doesn’t want to stay.”

EJ studied her, a flicker of respect crossing his face. “You’re a lot calmer about this than I expected.”

Camille chuckled softly, her gaze drifting back toward Jameson, who had finally approached Imani. “I’ve spent my entire career competing—for jobs, for recognition, for respect. But love? That’s not something you should have to fight for. Either it’s there, or it’s not. And if Jameson’s heart is still with Imani, then there’s no point in pretending otherwise.”

EJ nodded slowly, impressed by her composure. “Fair enough. Just... be careful. He’s a good guy, but if things get messy—”

“They won’t,” Camille interrupted gently. “Because I won’t let them. I care about Jameson, but I care about myself too. If he can’t give me what I deserve, I’ll walk away. Simple as that.”

EJ exhaled, his shoulders relaxing slightly. Camille smiled again, this time with a touch of warmth. “Thanks, EJ. But don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine, no matter what happens.”

EJ glanced back toward Jameson, then back at Camille. He nodded, a silent acknowledgment of their conversation, and stepped away, leaving her to watch Jameson from afar, her expression unreadable.

“You look good.” He said softly, immediately regretting the words. “I mean, I like your dress.” Nope, that was fucked up too. 

“Thanks,” Imani looked at his outfit. It was already difficult for her to face him, but did he have to look handsome too? This may have been the second hardest thing she’s ever done. “You look uh—you look nice too.”

He peered down at his fit. All black, Gucci. Jameson lifted his hand, pressing it to his sleeve as if he just realized he was wearing clothes worth five grand. “Thank you. It’s just…something thrown together. I’m glad you came. Really.”

“Yeah, I’m glad I did too. Congrats on the album, Jameson. I’m—“ she paused, searching for the right words to say. “really happy for you.”

“Really?” He tilted his head, peering down at her. “Then why do you look upset?”

“I’m fine. It’s nothing.” Imani answered quickly. She wasn’t fine at all. She made the wrong decision to come to this party and now, she had to face a best friend who probably hated her and an ex she was still in love with. She was mentally kicking herself. But he didn’t need to know that.

He knew it wasn’t true but he couldn’t exactly call her on it. That wasn’t his place anymore. “Mhm.” He said softly, giving a nod. “I…I really do hope you’re okay, Imani. Things ended between us but I want you to be happy. Always.”

“I..I want you to be happy too,” she said, folding her arms over her chest. “I’m glad to see that you are. I really am.”

“Thank you. It…it took a while to get back to being happy.” The conversation between them was so fucking stiff and he hated it. He watched her fold her arms against her chest, knowing there was a wall between them. They talked to each other like strangers. Once upon a time, he could tell her anything. They could say everything to one another – except the shit that really mattered. And now they couldn’t say anything at all. “Finishing the album helped. Wouldn’t have been able to do that without a lot of people. You included.”

She nodded. “Well, I’m glad I could help. I can’t wait to hear it.” Imani smiled. “Uh, I’m going to go look for Toni now. I’ll see you around?”

He opened his mouth to say something – anything – but instead, he felt a hand against his arm. Jameson turned to look down at her, surprised by her presence. “There you are.” She said softly.

Imani looked between the couple, still with a smile that he couldn’t tell if it was fake or not. “Hi, I’m Imani.” She reached her hand out. Her eyes glanced down at his wrist. She looked back at Jameson with narrowed eyes. The watch on his wrist looked like the one she had sent him a year. Why the fuck was he wearing that? While he was with another woman? 

His head turned so quickly that he almost sprained his damn neck. He watched as Imani introduced herself to Camille, in such a friendly way that he was almost offended. Damn. She could at least pretend to be jealous. Camille gave her a smile in return and reached out to grasp Imani’s hand and Jameson inhaled sharply. He did not see this coming and he wasn't sure if he liked it.

“Nice to meet you.” She said. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Imani let go of Camille’s hand. “Nice to meet you as well. You’re very pretty.” She looked back at Jameson. Then at Camille. “Well, I’m going to leave you guys to it. Have a good night.” She said, turning around and walking away quickly before she could hear another word from either of them. 

It took a minute for Genie to pull herself together. When she passed Imani, it had broken her heart not to say anything but she couldn’t believe it. She couldn’t believe any of this shit. When Jameson and Imani broke up, her heart broke for them both. She didn’t know the details but knew it was bad. Jamie was drinking heavily and Imani was out of contact. But she kept trying. She would start by sending a message every week. Then it became every single day. She wanted to be there for Imani. She begged her to reach out if she needed anything…and she never did. 

It was like she lost her best friend. At first, Genie grieved. Every time something wonderful happened with EJ, she wanted to pick up the phone and call Imani…but she knew she wouldn’t answer. Then the grief turned into anger. She resented being so easy to forget.

“I shouldn’t have come,” she finally said, her voice shaky as she approached EJ. She could see his jovial attitude shift when he saw the look on her face. “I don’t know what I thought I’d feel seeing her again, but this wasn’t it.” She hadn’t even known Imani would be there but she knew that maybe there would be a good chance. Still, seeing her again had been a shock to the system.

EJ ushered her from the main floor, getting her comfortable in an isolated corner as he watched her with a steady, concerned gaze. “You wanted to see your best friend. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“She’s not my best friend anymore,” Genie snapped, then immediately winced at her attitude. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to snap at you. I just…” She blinked back tears, pressed her hands against her temples. “I mean... she was. For so long. But now? I can barely look at her. She completely shut me out.”

EJ leaned forward, pressing a kiss to her temple. “It’s probably not anything you did, baby. Maybe Imani needed space. It had to hurt ending things with Jay.”

Genie looked up at him, her eyes still glistening with unshed tears. “Of course she’s hurting. I know that. I just... I’ve tried, EJ. I’ve called, texted, even sent emails. Nothing. And now, after all this time, she shows up here, at Jameson’s party of all places, looking like she’s completely fine. Like she doesn’t even care that I miss her.”

Her voice broke on the last word, and she quickly turned away, pretending to adjust the strap of her dress. EJ sighed and crossed the room to her, his movements slow and deliberate, giving her space but offering his presence.

“She does care,” he said softly, though there was a flicker of something sharper in his tone. “You don’t just forget someone like you, Genie. Maybe she’s just... not ready to face everything yet.”

Genie let out a bitter laugh, swiping at her cheek. “It’s been a year. How much longer do I have to wait? How much longer do I have to pretend it doesn’t hurt that she’s just... gone?”

EJ placed a hand on her shoulder, grounding her. “You don’t have to pretend with me. You’re allowed to feel this. It’s okay to be angry, to be sad, to miss her. Just don’t let it eat you up inside.”

Genie turned to him, the tears finally spilling over. “I don’t know how to let it go. She was my person, EJ. And now, it’s like I don’t even exist to her.”

EJ’s jaw tightened as he pulled her into a hug, his arms wrapping around her tightly. He couldn’t help the frustration bubbling in his chest—not just for what Imani’s absence had done to Genie but for the pain she had caused Jameson too. He didn’t say it aloud, but part of him felt like Imani had been selfish, leaving behind the people who had loved her most.

“You exist,” he murmured against her hair, pushing aside his bitterness for Genie’s sake. “And you’re not alone. I’ve got you.”

For a moment, Genie let herself believe him. In the quiet of EJ’s arms, she let herself grieve, not just for the friendship she had lost but for the part of herself that felt like it had been left behind with Imani.

EJ held her tighter, his mind drifting back to Imani’s face at the party. He’d keep his thoughts to himself, but if she ever wanted back into their lives, she’d have to prove she deserved it.

Imani’s patience was wearing thin, and she couldn’t last another minute in this crowded club. What the hell was she thinking, flying thousands of miles to see a man she hadn’t spoken to in a year? She shoved her way through the throngs of people, not bothering to find her aunt in the chaos. All she wanted was to escape, to retreat to her hotel room and try to make sense of everything. 

As she burst through the club doors and into the cool night air, Imani finally exhaled the breath she had been holding since running into Genie. But it didn’t bring any relief. Everything felt like shit and it was all her fault. The weight of loneliness settled on her shoulders like a familiar burden, one that always found its way back to her despite her best efforts to keep it at bay. But this time it hit harder than ever before and threatened to swallow her whole.

Before she could fully immerse herself in the depths of her sadness, a familiar voice jolted Imani out of her thoughts. “Mani? Leaving so soon?” It was Jameson, accompanied by Camille, their arms entwined as they walked towards her. Imani’s heart dropped at the sight, knowing that she was once in Camille’s place. A pang of envy and longing washed over her, but she quickly masked it with a forced smile. “Oh, I’m not feeling well, so I’m a head out,” she lied, trying to sound nonchalant. Jameson’s eyes narrowed slightly as if he could sense something was off. But then Camille leaned in closer and placed a gentle kiss on his cheek, distracting him. “I know y’all ain’t out here to bring me back.”

Camille’s laughter tinkled through the air, her eyes sparkled as she glanced at Jameson. “No, we decided to leave early.” she said with a grin playing on her lips. Imani squinted at Jameson, studying his facial features intently. There was something off about him. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

“Why are you leaving your album release party so soon? Is everything alright?” Imani’s voice was gentle but curious, her gaze searching Jameson’s face for any clues. “I’m just tired,” he answered, but there was a slight quiver in his voice that betrayed his words. Imani could see the lie in his eyes, but she knew better than to press the issue. That was Camille’s job now.

“Jameson and I are going to go get some rest,” Camille said softly, doting on a 6’3 grown ass man like he was a baby. She wanted to hate it...but she knew she'd done the same when they were together. Imani’s eyes flicked back to Camille as she pat his chest and gazed at him. She tried to think of something to say next to the couple, but she was too focused on the way she said his name. It replayed over and over again in her mind. Her stomach was in knots at the sound of it. 

She was reminded of all of the times she used to call him that. Then she looked back at Camille. She was still looking at Jameson with the same look Imani used to have. Imani hated how he could invoke that look in another woman. She was the only one who should get to experience the look of love, lust, and admiration. She hated him for it. 

Where the fuck was her driver? She pulled her phone out of her clutch, opening it with her Face ID. She tapped over onto her call log, realizing that she never fucking called him. Imani was in such a rush to get away from the couple in the club that she forgot to do it. And yet, she still ended up face-to-face with them again. Fate wanted to torture her tonight. 

Imani quickly tapped the contact name and asked the driver to come get her. Luckily, he was just around the corner. There was silence between the three of them. Everything she planned on saying to him before her arrival was thrown out of the window when she first arrived. It all had fallen to shit. Now, her imagination filled those spaces of broken words. All she could see was Camille and Jameson, full of lust, in his house together doing what she would have done to him after his album release party.

Thankfully for her, Imani’s driver finally pulled up and disrupted her thoughts. He got out and opened the door for her. She walked over to the SUV, stepping inside of the car. “I’ll see you guys later…” She said, looking over her shoulder. She hoped her words never came to fruition. 

“Be safe and have a good night,” Jameson said lowly, watching her leave. She nodded, sitting down in the passenger seat of the vehicle. The driver closed the door. Once he pulled away from the curve, she pulled out the ring again. She toyed with it in her hands. Imani went into this party, hoping that the ring would spark a new meaning. She had no idea that meaning would be that it was her only connection to Jameson.

"You too quiet." Jameson muttered, pulling his hand from Camille's mouth. She gasped for breath when he did, immediately moaning out his name. "That's much better."

"Yes, baby. Right there. So good."

She was breathless as she clung to him. They were in the middle of his bed, she was on his lap -- long limbs wrapped around his neck and hips as she ground her hips against his.

Jameson groaned, feeling Camille's tightness stretch around him. Her enthusiasm was always a turn on and he let out a long, slow moan as he thrust deeper. Each powerful stroke, sending vibrations through her body that made her whimper in delight. Every time she moved on top of him, her breasts bounced enticingly against his chest, sending shivers down his spine.

"Ooh! D-Don't stop. Jamie! Just like that..."

The scent of sweat and sex filled the air as they moved together in perfect harmony. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoed through the room, mingling with their heavy breathing and tender moans. Camille's nails raked down his neck and back, leaving small trails of pleasure and pain that only fueled his desire further. He gripped her hips tightly, holding her close as they lost themselves in each other's touches.

He lifted his head to capture her mouth, tongue brushing against her own as he plunged deeper into her mouth -- imitating their movements. Their tongues danced together sensually while their bodies moved in rhythm on the bed beneath them. As he felt himself nearing climax, Jameson pulled back from the kiss to look into Camille's eyes - filled with lust and desire - before letting out a long growl.

"You like that, baby?" She asked him softly and Jameson nodded, words escaping him as his grip tightened on her hips. They'd been sleeping together long enough that she knew what it meant. She pushed her hands against his shoulders, legs unwinding from around him as he went crash back onto the bed. "Go ahead. Give it to me, Jamie." she whimpered.

Camille's nails dug into Jameson's skin as she rode him, leaving small crescents that stung but only made him harder. He groaned deeply, his hands finding purchase in the sheets as he arched his hips and thrust into her. He felt every curve of her body against him, every undulation sending shockwaves through his dick.

"That's what you want?" He asked her through gritted teeth. "Yes!" She responded, nodding her head. "I deserve it. I'm your good girl."

He couldn't take it much more. His head fell back onto the bed, eyes closed, but his hands knew where to go. He lifted them from the sheets, grasping her hip with the left and relentlessly rubbing at her clit with his right thumb. Camille's legs tightened against his outer thighs as she crumbled forward and came on top of him with a shout.

With a final thrust, Jameson cried out as he came inside her, their bodies trembling together in unison. As they came down from their high, Camille cuddled against Jameson's chest, their hearts beating in sync. She nibbled on his earlobe softly before pulling away slowly with a satisfied smile on her lips.

He sat in the dark in his living room, the only light coming from the faint glow of the city through the curtains. The house was silent, save for the occasional creak of the old floorboards settling. Jameson fiddled with the watch on his wrist, loosening the band and twisting it around, but he couldn’t bring himself to take it off.

Camille had gone to sleep hours ago, slipping into sleep with the ease of someone unburdened. For a couple of hours, he managed to forget…everything.

But when it was over, and Camille’s breathing had evened out beside him, he lay awake, staring at the ceiling. The weight of his thoughts returned with a vengeance, and they all centered on one person.

Imani.

The way she had looked at the party—poised but distant, like she was shielding herself from the room, from him—was burned into his memory. He couldn’t stop replaying the moment she left, her face unreadable as she slipped into the car. He had been overwhelmed by her presence, thrown off balance by the sight of her after so long.

When she had walked away, leaving him and Camille standing there, all he could do was grab a passing glass of champagne. Then another. He had swallowed down two before he realized what he was doing—regressing, using alcohol to dull the sharp edge of his emotions.

He had told Camille he wanted to leave. She didn’t hesitate, her concern for him evident as she agreed. But as they made their way out, they ran into Imani on the street.

The moment replayed in his mind like a loop he couldn’t escape. The brief, stilted conversation. The way she looked at him like she was holding back a storm of emotions. And then she was gone, slipping away into the night.

Her face was trapped in his mind now, every detail vivid and unrelenting. The way her lips pressed together as if holding back words. The flicker of something—pain? anger?—in her eyes. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

All he wanted to do was fix it.

But that wasn’t his job anymore.

He brushed a hand over his head, exhaling sharply as he tried to shake off the thoughts. The urge to call her was overwhelming, a near-physical pull, but he knew it would be a mistake. One glimpse, one rushed conversation, and he was right back where he’d been months ago—thinking of her, wanting her, needing to know if she was okay.

He needed to get a damn grip.

Jameson sat up, running his hands over his face. The watch shifted on his wrist, its weight a constant reminder of the past he couldn’t quite let go of. The room felt too quiet, too still, and his thoughts too loud.

He stood, padding softly out of the living room and into the kitchen, boxers slung low on his hips. He poured himself a glass of water and leaned against the counter, staring out at the city lights.

He had made progress this year, clawing his way out of the darkness that had consumed him after their breakup. He had rebuilt his life piece by piece, and Camille had been a steady presence through it all. But tonight had unraveled something in him, and he hated that it was Imani who had the power to do that.

He sighed, setting the glass down. He couldn’t keep letting her haunt him like this. He wouldn’t.

[iraot]

Previous entries to Heat Haven Series Heat Haven, Alpha Equation, No Turning Back Summary: She was a nurse, he was a pilot and surrounding them was a whole host of government inadequacies that end up changing their lives forever. Word Count: 16.4k Warnings: Shitty government protocol, shitty discriminatory behavior from superiors, Gideon's shitty flirting, heat induced horny, dub con? ( cause of heat? she wants it tho i swear ). A/N: This took me 1 day to finish, which isn't my usual writing pace. NGL my head is about to explode. If you like it please comment and let me know what you think! Archive of Our Own

The first time she met Dr. Holt, she’d just arrived on base—still in the pressed slate-grey of her regulation uniform, her boots carrying the last dust of the tarmac, her orders fresh in hand. The med bay was stark and cold, all steel and silence, the hum of machinery behind every wall, a familiar kind of sterile she had never liked. She’d worked in trauma centers where blood slicked the floor before noon, where screams were as regular as shift changes, where survival was carved from chaos. But here, the tension was different—contained, quiet, something behind the eyes of every person in uniform that said: don’t step out of line.

She was shown into a glass-walled office where Dr. Holt waited behind a desk, arms folded, face impassive. Major Caulder stood to one side, arms behind his back in that careful military posture that meant he’d say nothing unless it mattered to him. She gave them both a crisp nod, standing straight with her data tablet in hand, every credential visible—trauma nurse specialist, surgical tech experience, Omega regulatory compliance signed and verified. She extended it to Holt first. “Reporting for assignment, sir.”

Holt didn’t reach for the tablet. His eyes flicked to her face, then down—to her chest, to the small embossed marker beneath her name: Omega. That was when something in his mouth twisted, almost imperceptibly, like a reflex he didn’t bother to mask. “You’re the one they sent?” he asked, voice calm in a way that wasn’t calm at all. “I assumed they’d assign someone more… tactically appropriate for front-line med work.”

She didn’t flinch, but the chill of his tone settled over her like frostbite. “My file includes civilian trauma experience, advanced surgical certification, three years of field rotation, and three commendations for frontline composure under pressure,” she said, evenly, without pride—just facts. “I’m not here to meet assumptions, Doctor. I’m here to treat soldiers.”

Major Caulder glanced her way, but still said nothing. Holt leaned back slightly in his chair, steepling his fingers. “You’ll be assigned to secondary support—post-trauma, medication dispersal, charting. You’ll assist as needed, but you won’t be leading trauma intake.”

“That’s not the assignment listed on my orders,” she said flatly.

Holt didn’t even blink. “I reserve the right to adapt staffing for medical efficiency,” he replied, each word deliberately bland. “We run a tight facility here, Lieutenant. I won’t allow biological volatility to compromise surgical discipline.”

There it was. Biological volatility. As if she were a failed circuit. As if her body was something unpredictable and dangerous by nature. Her spine straightened, chin lifting a degree. “And yet you’re fine trusting a man whose hands shake during his own post-rut cycle to handle critical patients?” she asked, cool as steel. “Funny how that volatility never seems to interrupt his assignments.”

That earned a moment of silence sharp enough to cut. Caulder’s eyes flicked toward her—faint surprise, or maybe wariness—but Holt’s face remained a blank wall, his voice clipped. “We’ll expect you to conduct yourself with discipline, Lieutenant.”

“I expect the same,” she returned, not backing down. “Sir.”

Caulder stepped in then, voice smoothing over the tension without erasing it. “You’ll rotate through trauma as scheduled. Dr. Holt is within his rights to manage his staff, but the orders are active.” His tone, carefully balanced, made clear that any further argument would be seen as insubordination—not by her, but by Holt. Maintain professionalism. As if what had just happened qualified as anything less than quiet warfare.

She gave a stiff nod, then turned and walked out, pulse steady despite the heat in her chest. The door hissed shut behind her, and she didn’t look back. But she could feel it—Holt’s eyes on her, the weight of that old-world judgment, that curated disdain for what she was.

She’d felt it before. From patients. From colleagues. From supposed allies who wanted quiet, well-behaved Omegas who kept their heads down and their scent muted. But she hadn’t survived the halls of civilian trauma by being soft. She didn’t break when blood sprayed her visor or when someone screamed in her face with their guts spilling through their hands.

And she wouldn’t break for him.

Not here. Not ever.

— The unmistakable whistle was already echoing down the corridor before the med bay doors even slid open. That damned whistle always came first—too casual, too confident, a herald of the strut that followed it. She didn’t need to look up to know who it was. Only one man on base walked like the hallway was his personal runway and greeted medical staff like it was open mic night at the local bar.

“Tell me you missed me,” came the drawl, syrup-slick and shameless. “Don’t break my heart.”

She didn’t blink, eyes fixed on the monitor in front of her, inputting the last of a post-op debrief from a gunner with a pulled rotator cuff. Her fingers didn’t pause on the touchpad, her face didn’t lift from its neutral angle—but her mouth, traitor that it was, fought the hint of a smirk. 

She fought harder. “The cardiac ward’s three doors down, Captain. They handle broken hearts.”

He clicked his tongue, boots heavy as he stepped inside like he’d just returned from a long vacation instead of the tarmac. “Ouch. And here I thought we had something special.”

She turned, finally, and met his gaze levelly. “Special implies mutual consent. Sit on the exam bed.”

The man was a wall of muscle in flight fatigues, his name badge faintly scuffed, jacket half-zipped like he’d left it that way on purpose. Short black hair, neatly trimmed, brown eyes like sun-warmed espresso—warmth without expectation. The med bay lighting made the natural tan of his skin look deeper, more golden. His body carried the kind of weight that didn’t come from vanity, but from use—shoulders thick from years of hauling equipment, from cockpit cramping, from working without ever asking for an easier way.

He slumped dramatically onto the bed, arms spread like he was offering himself to the gods. “Don’t be shy. You can poke and prod all you want. Long as I get dinner after.”

“I’m already sick of your voice and I haven’t even checked your blood pressure,” she said, dry.

He grinned, teeth bright and easy. “You wound me, nurse.”

He used her title deliberately, the same way she used his. He never called her by her name, never tested that line. Other Alphas might’ve tried. Might’ve leaned in close to scent her, to let their fingers brush against her wrist during vitals, to see what would happen when an unclaimed Omega was cornered. She’d had to write more than one report for that kind of thing. But not him.

He flirted like a man who expected rejection. Like he liked the sound of her saying no. And maybe he did.

She crossed to the counter, tapping into his file on the tablet mounted beside the sink. “You’re here for your pre-deployment clearance. Nothing new on your chart since your last physical?”

He kicked his boots off the side of the bed, letting them thud against the wall with zero grace. “Not unless caffeine addiction counts.”

She didn’t look at him. “I’d have to report that. It’s against regs to sedate yourself with vending machine coffee.”

“Then thank god they haven’t caught me with the good stuff.”

Her fingers moved quick across the screen, her tone all business. “Any dizziness? Chest tightness? Trouble sleeping?”

“Negative.”

“Shortness of breath?”

He exhaled with enough exaggeration to qualify as a groan. “Only when you’re in the room, doll.”

She turned then, slowly, one eyebrow raised. “Captain, I’ll take that as consent to start with your respiratory rate.”

He grinned wider, unrepentant. “Breathe deep, got it.”

She reached for her stethoscope, the cold metal a familiar weight around her neck, and stepped closer to him. The moment changed. Not dramatically. Not enough to be obvious. But his posture shifted—subtly, unconsciously. Still relaxed, still teasing, but something pulled in behind his eyes.

She’d seen it before. The moment an Alpha remembered what she was. What she wasn’t allowed to be.

Her hand was steady as she pressed the bell of the stethoscope to his chest. The heat of his body radiated through the thin layer of fabric between her fingers and his skin. “Deep breath in. Hold. Release.”

He obeyed. No jokes this time. His chest expanded under her palm, ribs flaring slightly, heart beating a slow and even rhythm that vibrated faintly into her touch. She moved the scope, adjusted the angle, and listened.

Another breath. Then another.

His voice, when he spoke again, was low. Quieter.

“You always this gentle?”

She didn’t answer at first. Just moved to the next point on his chest, focused, methodical. “You’d rather I press harder?”

“Maybe,” he said softly, “if it meant you’d stay close longer.”

She didn’t look at him, didn’t give him the satisfaction of even a glance. But her hand lingered a half-second longer than necessary before pulling the stethoscope back. Her expression didn’t change. “You’re fine. Vitals normal.”

He let out a breath that wasn’t a sigh, but it tried to be. “Knew you’d say I’m perfect eventually.”

She set the stethoscope aside. “You’ve still got vision and reflexes to clear. Stand up.”

He did, slower than he needed to, like the longer it took the longer he got to stay in her presence. Not leering. Not imposing. Just present. There was something about the way he moved that didn’t demand attention—it asked for it, and acted surprised when it got it.

She handed him the reflex hammer. “Sit. I’ll test your knees.”

He plopped back down. “This is the one where you slap me, right?”

“Not hard enough, apparently.”

The tap of the rubber mallet against his patellar tendon made his leg jerk, a twitch reflex she tracked with professional detachment. She repeated the motion on the other side. Both responses are within normal range.

“Eyes forward,” she said. “Tracking next.”

He followed her finger without complaint as she moved it left to right, up, down, diagonals, watching his pupils. Nothing abnormal. Nothing slow. Just those warm brown eyes, always so open, so eager, watching her like she was some rare creature he’d caught sight of once and had never quite gotten out of his head.

When she lowered her hand, he was still watching.

“Your file’s clean. You’re cleared for flight.”

He didn’t move. Not immediately. Just sat there, hands resting on his knees, shoulders slightly hunched—not in exhaustion, but in thought. “You ever get tired of being treated like a risk factor?”

She froze. Just a flicker. Just for a second. Her mouth opened, then closed.

He didn’t wait. “Everyone here’s walking around like your biology is a bomb they’re trying not to set off. Doesn’t that piss you off?”

Her voice, when it came, was measured. “What pisses me off is that I need a mate to be taken seriously.”

“Then why don’t you have one?” he asked, not accusing, just curious.

“Because claiming isn’t the same thing as choice,” she said flatly. “And I don’t want to be owned to do my job.”

His jaw worked for a second. Then he nodded. Just once. “Fair.”

She turned to her station, logged the clearance note into the system, her back straight. She didn’t say anything else.

But as he reached the door, he paused. Just enough to let the air shift.

“You ever need someone to remind command that you’re not the problem?” he said, quietly. “You know where my spot in the barracks are.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He never did, but this time she watched him go.

The storage room was hotter than it should’ve been, the overhead lights flickering slightly with every surge of the air handler struggling to keep up. Shelves of gauze, medkits, fluid bags, and antiseptics surrounded them in tight aisles that smelled faintly of plastic and sterile cotton. She was kneeling by the lower bins, scanning barcodes and cross-checking numbers on the clipboard balanced against her thigh, when Maya let out an exaggerated sigh and dropped a box of gloves onto the nearest shelf.

“You know,” Maya said, brushing her frizzy bangs out of her face, “if the actual doctors around here pulled their weight, we wouldn’t be stuck doing all this.”

She made a noncommittal noise in response, dragging the next tray of sutures closer. “The ones we do have don’t want to be here. They’re either chasing real surgeries or busy stroking their egos in civilian hospitals.”

Maya gave a bitter little laugh. “Or both.”

The silence that followed was only broken by the occasional beep of a scan and the crinkling of packaging. It wasn’t uncomfortable. They’d done this together enough times that the rhythm of working side-by-side was almost meditative. But the heat, the frustration, and the long list of backlogged tasks were wearing thin, and she knew Maya well enough to sense when she was about to veer off-course.

“You know,” Maya said again, too casually this time, “we should just requisition a new doctor and list 'not an asshole' under qualifications.”

She smirked but didn’t look up. “We’d never get one. The system would flag that as an impossible request.”

“True,” Maya said, half-laughing. “I still can’t believe Dr. Holt said what he did last week. About you being a hazard.”

She paused in her scanning, just for a moment, then resumed. “He’s said worse. Just usually not when people can hear.”

“He’s a crusty old prick,” Maya said with a snort. “Like your hormones are going to explode and start a riot. God forbid anyone admits the real issue is how the alphas act, not you.”

It wasn’t news. Holt had hated her being assigned here from day one. He hadn’t said anything overt at first, but it didn’t take long before the microaggressions sharpened into barbed comments—muttering about scent contamination, refusing to review her patient notes, rerouting cases away from her when he was on base. Once he called her a complication in a room full of orderlies. Said it like it was a joke, like they were supposed to laugh with him, like it wasn’t dangerous that a man with rank and power could make her seem like a liability with one word.

“I don’t need him to like me,” she said quietly, standing to slide a restocked drawer closed. “I just need him to stay out of my way.”

Maya’s expression softened as she leaned against the counter, arms crossed loosely over her chest. “Still. It’s a hell of a thing. You do twice the work, half the credit, and you get called a risk factor on top of it.”

She shrugged. “If I had a mate, it wouldn’t be a problem.”

Maya scoffed. “Yeah, because nothing says professional freedom like needing to be claimed just to do your job.”

That earned a dry smile. “Trust me. I’ve considered it. Even wrote the registry application once. But you know how it is—they don’t want ‘claimed omega nurse.’ They want ‘owned omega who stays in her lane and doesn’t remind anyone she has teeth.’”

Maya rolled her eyes. “You’re too smart to settle for someone like that.”

“I’m too stubborn,” she corrected, “which is a much bigger problem.”

The last box of saline was shoved into place, the label noted, and she turned to move the empty crate into the back hall. Maya followed with another, barely concealing her grin now. They passed the narrow breakroom, then the side door to triage, where the air was slightly cooler. And that’s when Maya dropped her voice just enough to make the words deliberately conspiratorial.

“Captain came in earlier.”

She didn’t have to ask which one. There were dozens of captains on base, but when Maya said it like that, she meant one in particular.

“He’s up for deployment again,” she said, matter-of-fact. “Pre-flight physical.”

Maya leaned against the doorframe, lips curving. “Mmm. He seems to like you enough.”

She scoffed before she could stop herself. “He likes hearing himself talk.”

“He likes hearing you talk more.” Maya bumped her shoulder. “He’s not subtle.”

“No, but he’s harmless.”

That was true. She believed it. He flirted with that lopsided smile, the kind that tried to pretend it wasn’t real charm. He played the rogue, the scoundrel, the bad boy with good intentions—but he never crossed the line. Never touched her without asking. Never invaded her space. He was sweet underneath it, in a way that always felt like he wanted to be liked but didn’t know how to accept it if someone did.

Maya arched a brow. “Come on. You’re telling me you don’t think he’s cute?”

“Of course he’s cute,” she said, waving it off like it didn’t matter. “That’s half the problem.”

Maya’s grin widened. “Half the problem?”

“He’s cute, and charming, and probably not serious about a damn word he says.”

“You sure?”

She didn’t answer.

Because she wasn’t.

Part of her believed he had someone. Not from any evidence—he never talked about a partner, never came in smelling like anyone else, never made her think he was spoken for—but it was safer to assume. Safer to believe the smile he gave her was the same smile he gave everyone else. That the way he looked at her—warm, curious, just a little soft—was a game he played with every medic, mechanic, and munitions officer he ran into.

It had to be. Because the alternative? That he meant it? That maybe he lingered after his appointments because he liked her? That he watched her like she wasn’t a complication but something capable, worthy?

That was too dangerous.

That was how people got hurt.

“I don’t have time for a love life,” she said finally. “Not when every part of this job is about survival.”

Maya didn’t argue. Just nodded once, her eyes sharp. “Still. If you ever wanted it… he wouldn’t be the worst choice.”

She shrugged. “That’s not the same as being a good one.”

But the thought stuck, lingering like the scent he always left behind—warm, clean, a little sharp like ozone after a storm. Not the kind that tried to smother. Just the kind that stayed. She turned back to the supply list, but her mind drifted, just for a second. To brown eyes, to the curve of a grin, to the possibility.

She’d searched for him.

Late one night, lights dimmed in her quarters, the familiar hum of the base generators throbbing beneath the floor, she’d opened Heat Haven again and entered Gideon’s name in the Alpha search bar. She wasn’t even sure what she expected to find—part of her hoped he wasn’t there, and part of her feared what it would mean if he was. Her breath caught the second the page loaded blank, no profiles found. No grinning headshot, no pheromone rating, no crude review written by some slick-drunk Omega curled up post-knot.

She was relieved. And ashamed.

Because she shouldn’t have looked. She wasn’t allowed to need that. Not when her contract with the military came with monthly injections that flatlined her hormonal cycle, burned her heat symptoms into a quiet ache that never escalated. It was supposed to be liberation. 

–

The first time she’d met him, she’d been halfway through reorganizing the med kit cabinet when the door slid open with a loud hiss and a distinctly cocky whistle cut through the sterile quiet. “Tell me you’ve got a magic touch and a minute to spare, Nurse,” came the voice—warm, low, playful. She turned slowly, eyebrows arched, and found him standing there with a blood-soaked patch of fabric wrapped around one arm and the world’s most unapologetic grin on his face. “Magic touch, yes,” she said dryly. “Minute to spare? You’d have to earn it.”

His grin widened, boyish and bright, and he ambled in like he had all the clearance in the world, even though he technically did. “Guess I’ll have to charm you, then,” he said as he hopped onto the exam bed, boots squeaking against the floor. “Lucky for both of us, I’m very good under pressure.” She snorted as she reached for gloves. “From what I see, pressure is not what you were under when you let yourself get sliced on a maintenance ladder.”

“Okay, ow, but also—fair,” he laughed, flinching a little as she peeled the makeshift wrap away to assess the damage. “I was distracted. Something about the new med bay nurse being distractingly attractive.” She looked up slowly, unimpressed. “Try that line again after you’ve lost less blood.”

But he didn’t backpedal—not even close. He leaned in just slightly, grin softening around the edges, and watched her with open fascination, like her every word was a puzzle he wanted to study up close. “You’re quick,” he murmured, not teasing now, just quietly impressed. “Sharp tongue. Steady hands. I’m gonna be real honest—I’m in trouble.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth as she reached for the dermabond. “You’re in for six stitches and an alcohol wipe. That’s the only kind of trouble you’re getting tonight.” “You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he said, voice low, eyes flicking from her hands to her face with an almost reverent kind of curiosity. “But honestly, I think I like it.”

She tried to brush it off, but something about the way he looked at her—genuine, interested, completely present—stuck with her. Most Alphas flirted with expectation. He flirted with awe. When she was done, he didn’t rush to leave. Just sat there swinging his legs slightly, watching her clean up like it was the most fascinating thing on Earth.

“Gideon,” he said finally, offering his name with an easy smile. “You don’t have to remember it. But I hope you do.” She didn’t answer, but she did glance at him one more time before turning away—long enough for him to see the smallest curve of a smile.

And he filed it away like a man who knew he’d be back.

—

Suppressants made her professional. Suppressants made her safe.

Except the last time the needle slid into her arm, she flinched.

“Wait, what?” Maya’s voice had been sharp, loud enough to echo slightly off the steel paneling of the med bay supply closet. She’d dropped the clipboard in her hands, pens scattering across the floor. “They make you what every month?”

“Suppressants,” she said, too calm for how her stomach twisted. “I sign for them. I administer them myself. It’s part of the clearance to work in a high-Alpha density facility.”

“That’s not clearance,” Maya snapped, crouching to retrieve the pens with stiff fingers. “That’s a leash. That’s—fuck, that can’t be legal.”

“It is.” Her voice had gone flat. She’d practiced that tone for years. “We signed away a lot when we enlisted. Hormonal regulation falls under the clause for ‘occupational reliability.’ They get to decide how risky our biology is.”

Maya had looked at her then—really looked—like seeing something she hadn’t wanted to believe. “I knew the regs were bad,” she murmured. “But this… this is surgical. They’re cutting your instincts off at the root.”

She didn’t answer. Because Maya was right, and she’d known it from the start. But that didn’t change the contract she’d signed. And it didn’t change that every injection came with a signature and a warning: Failure to comply may result in reassignment or bond-mandated sedation during peak cycles. The law didn’t forbid suppressants. It encouraged them. Omegas with too much agency made the brass nervous.

The silence stretched, heavy between them, broken only by the distant whir of the centrifuge two rooms over.

“Do they hurt?” Maya asked eventually, softer now.

“The injections?” She shrugged. “Physically? No. Not much. Emotionally?” She let out a humorless breath. “I don’t think I’ve felt anything real in so long, I’m not sure I’d recognize it.”

Maya moved slowly then, placing the last box of gauze into the cabinet with mechanical precision. She didn’t look up. “That’s not how it should be. Not for anyone.”

But that was the thing. It was how it was. For Omegas like her—unmated, undesired by the registry, too competent to be transferred to a domestic base—it was either this or surrender. She’d chosen control. Even if it came with a needle and a signature and the fading memory of what her own scent used to be like when it bloomed warm in the back of her throat.

“I used to get them,” she admitted, voice thin, fingers tightening on the edge of the storage bin. 

“Heats, I mean. Back before I signed up. They were brutal. My whole body would shake for days. Couldn’t focus, couldn’t move, could barely breathe without crying.”

Maya tilted her head. “And now?”

“Now I’m hollow.” She forced a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Which, apparently, makes me a perfect employee.”

They both knew what that meant. Her scent wasn’t dangerous anymore. She didn’t make the Alphas tense in the mess hall. She didn’t spike anyone’s rut cycle or get called into medical for her own good. She was compliant. Efficient. Safe.

But that wasn’t the same as being whole.

“You ever think about stopping?” Maya asked after a moment.

That made her laugh—sharp, humorless. “And risk a heat on base? Risk the wrong Alpha scenting me in the corridor? Risk Holt dragging me out of the med bay by my hair for being a ‘disruption’ to workflow? No. I don’t get to be reckless.”

Maya didn’t argue. Didn’t need to. She just leaned back against the steel shelf, arms folded over her chest, jaw tight. 

“Still wrong,” she muttered. “Still fucked up.”

The room smelled of antiseptic and overstocked disinfectant wipes. But beneath it, faint and haunting, was the phantom scent of heat she hadn’t had in over two years. Not real. Just memory. Just her body remembering what it meant to want. Not desire. Need.

And in the privacy of her bunk, when the suppressants wore thin, when she woke up in a cold sweat with the ghost of slick between her thighs, she thought of profiles on Heat Haven. Of the things Omegas were still allowed to ask for there. And of a man with warm brown eyes and a crooked smile who wasn’t on the site at all, but somehow lingered in her thoughts anyway.

Because even if she couldn’t have it, even if she’d signed it all away for stability and the illusion of respect, part of her still wondered.

What it would feel like to be touched by someone who didn’t see her as a liability.

What it would feel like to choose.

The med bay was quiet, a rare lull in the late morning shuffle. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead in their usual rhythm, casting sterile white light across clean floors and polished metal equipment. She sat at her workstation near the corner, the soft click of keys her only companion, charting the morning’s recoveries and routine check-ins. The paper logs were nearly all digitized, and she preferred the ritual—data input kept her hands busy, her mind steady, and her presence in the room a little less conspicuous when Dr. Holt was around.

Holt, of course, was here today. A cluster of wounded soldiers had come through earlier from a malfunction during a training sim—shrapnel wounds mostly, concussive injuries, nothing fatal but enough to merit his attention. He stood at the main surgical console, barking orders at one of the junior techs, his posture rigid and voice clipped with disapproval. He hadn’t spoken to her once since arriving, which was just fine by her. His presence felt like static in her veins, and her body still remembered the sting of his last comment.

She finished the last chart with a swift keystroke, eyes scanning for errors, double-checking the date and time stamps. Everything was perfect, as it always was. Supplies alphabetized, medication carts locked, the coolers calibrated to exact temperatures—when she or Maya ran the med bay, there was no room for chaos. She hit submit, watching the file transfer before shutting down the system. The sleek, high-tech interface powered down with a soft whirr—military-funded equipment came with its perks, even if the people didn’t.

She stood to stretch, neck rolling to the side with a faint pop, when the doors burst open and Gideon strode in like he owned the place—even though he was cradling his arm in a very un-alpha-like display of discomfort. 

“Well,” he drawled with a crooked grin, “turns out you can fall off a jet if you’re in too much of a hurry to grab your damn helmet.” His flight suit was unzipped to his waist, a sheen of sweat still clinging to his skin, and the shoulder of his shirt beneath was stretched oddly, slightly higher than the other side. Dislocation. Obvious. And not urgent enough to pull Holt away from his precious trauma cases.

She arched a brow, hands already moving to grab gloves and wave Maya over from the next station. “You dislocated it after landing?”

“Don’t sound so disappointed.” He grinned, teeth bright despite the faint strain in his voice. “Wasn’t during the flight. Slipped on the goddamn stair ramp like a rookie.”

Maya appeared beside her with the sling kit and immobilizer already in hand, her expression unreadable but her pace efficient. “You’re lucky it didn’t break.”

“I’m lucky it’s you two and not Dr. Doom,” Gideon muttered, jerking his chin subtly toward the other end of the med bay where Holt was still barking instructions. “He looked at me like I’d pissed on his desk just walking in.”

She didn’t answer, but her lips twitched. Gideon climbed onto the exam table with a wince, moving carefully as he adjusted his hips, letting his bad arm rest across his lap. The way he sat, relaxed but wary, was familiar. He’d been in this room before. Always came in alone, always left with a thank-you and nothing else. He was comfortable here. Not just with her—but with being seen.

Maya gently pushed his collar aside, inspecting the bruising already forming along his shoulder. “You’re lucky you didn’t tear the capsule. How’s your range?”

He moved his fingers with minimal grimacing. “Still have feeling. Just hurts like hell.”

“We’ll do a closed reduction,” she said, stepping to the side to prep the equipment tray.

She stepped in beside him, gloved and calm. “Deep breaths,” she murmured. “On my count.”

“Gonna buy me dinner after?” he muttered, teeth gritted.

She ignored the comment and pressed her palm to his upper arm, the other stabilizing his shoulder. Her fingers tightened, motion precise, years of practice guiding the angle. “Three... two... one.” A sharp push and rotation, and there was a pop, followed by a gasp from him, breath catching in his throat as the shoulder slid back into place.

“Fuuuck me,” he hissed, half-laughing now, his good hand clutching the edge of the table.

“Not part of the standard care protocol,” Maya said dryly, already looping the sling around his arm.

He grinned through the pain, leaning back as the tension drained from his face. “Damn shame.”

She finished the assessment in silence, checking the alignment, testing mobility, her hands impersonal and clinical—but her eyes flicked to his, just once. And he was already watching her. Quiet, curious, not teasing now. Something else. Something steadier.

She stepped back, stripping the gloves off with a snap. “You’re grounded for forty-eight hours. I’ll write the note.”

He tilted his head. “That mean I get to hang around and annoy you for two days?”

She didn’t smile. But she didn’t tell him no.

Gideon flexed his fingers experimentally in the sling, testing the limit of movement with slow, measured gestures. The faint grimace tugging at his mouth made it clear he was still in pain, but he wore it like a badge, casual and unbothered. She finished inputting the post-reduction vitals into his chart, pretending not to notice how his gaze followed her movements. It wasn’t invasive—not quite—but it lingered, threaded with something playful, unspoken, waiting for her to acknowledge it.

“So, nurse,” he drawled, his voice warm like honey laced with smoke, “when do I get the gold star for bravery? Or at least a lollipop?”

“You want a sticker, Captain?” Her tone was flat, unimpressed. “We can put one on your chart. Right next to the part where it says ‘fell off own jet.’”

Maya snorted behind her mask, turning slightly to hide it as she sterilized the tray. Gideon’s grin stretched wider, unbothered by the jab, probably even enjoying it. “I’ll take whatever you’re handing out, sweetheart,” he said, his voice pitched lower now, just enough to ride the edge of propriety. “You know, I could get hurt more often if it meant seeing that pretty scowl of yours.”

She didn’t answer. Just pivoted, tapped the screen to finalize his clearance hold, and moved to the counter to print the grounding note. The thermal printer whirred softly beside her, a small but welcome interruption. Her fingers itched to say something sharper, something firm, but she knew the rules—every word she said, every shift in expression, would be dissected if anyone overheard. She didn’t get the luxury of being flustered. Not with him sitting in her bay and Holt pacing just thirty feet away.

And as if summoned by thought alone, Holt’s voice cut through the space like a scalpel.

“Captain,” he barked, loud enough for the nearby medics to pause mid-task, “is this your idea of a formal visit? Or are we running a recreational facility now?”

She didn’t look up, but the air around her changed. She felt the temperature of the room dip—not physically, but in that particular way an Omega could feel Alpha tension. Gideon, to his credit, didn’t bristle or stiffen. He turned his head toward Holt with maddening calm and said, “Just making sure your team gets the respect they deserve, sir.”

“I see,” Holt said, eyes cutting to her like a blade. “So that explains the flirtations in my facility.”

She froze, her breath going still in her throat, fingers halting over the paper. There it was. The accusation wrapped in formality, the implication that she was the one inviting attention simply by existing. Maya’s posture went rigid beside her, but she didn’t speak. This wasn’t the first time Holt had said something like that, and both of them knew it wouldn’t be the last.

“I wasn’t aware basic medical care required commentary,” she said evenly, turning around with the printed note in hand. “Captain dislocated his shoulder. We set it. He’s grounded for forty-eight hours pending follow-up.”

Gideon took the paper when she offered it, his eyes flicking between her and Holt. His expression didn’t change, but she could see the calculation behind his gaze, the way his shoulders tightened even as he lounged on the table. “They were professional,” he said flatly. “You’ve got a good team here, Doctor.”

Holt’s lip curled. “I’ll be the judge of what qualifies as professional.”

She didn’t blink. “Then feel free to review the chart,” she said. “Everything is documented.”

The silence that followed was sharp and heavy. Holt didn’t answer—just turned on his heel and strode back toward the trauma ward like the conversation hadn’t happened. But the damage had already been done. The eyes in the room—those of the junior medics, the flight tech who’d been waiting for clearance at the door—had all witnessed it. Again.

Gideon eased off the table with a soft grunt, the motion slow to avoid jarring his arm. He adjusted the sling, exhaled a tight breath, then looked at her with something softer in his expression. “I didn’t mean to get you in trouble.”

“You didn’t,” she said, though the words came too fast, too clipped.

Maya handed off the disinfected tray without a word, stepping into the back room with a little more force than necessary. The sound of the door swinging shut echoed through the sterile quiet. Gideon lingered, thumb brushing the edge of the printout, eyes fixed on her like he wanted to say something more. Something real.

But she turned before he could.

“We’ll call you when your follow-up’s scheduled.” Her voice was smooth. Controlled. Bulletproof.

He hesitated, then nodded once.

And then he was gone. — The sirens hadn’t even finished wailing when the med bay doors slammed open and Gideon came barreling in, arms wrapped around a soldier soaked in blood. “GSW to the abdomen—he’s fading fast,” he barked, voice all clipped control and urgency, his flight suit streaked with red. She was already moving, gloves snapped on, the trauma bed cleared, barking orders to two junior nurses as she grabbed gauze and saline. Holt wasn’t on base—grounded by some emergency consult—and with no other doctors available, all eyes turned to her.

The soldier was barely conscious, breath coming in ragged bursts, blood pooling too fast beneath him. “Vitals crashing—BP’s sixty over thirty,” Maya called from the head of the bed, panic simmering beneath her voice. She didn’t flinch. “Two liters of saline, pressure bag. We’re opening him up right now.” Gideon didn’t speak, just handed her the surgical shears as she sliced through the uniform, her movements swift and sure.

She felt Gideon beside her, not hovering, not questioning—just there, a steady presence as she worked. He passed tools when she asked, held pressure when Maya’s hands faltered, his usual charm gone, replaced with a grim kind of reverence. His eyes never left her hands, watching the way she clamped a bleeder with precise, practiced fingers, her face a mask of focus. No trembling. No hesitation.

They got the soldier stabilized—barely—and she didn’t realize how soaked she was until they wheeled him out, the bed streaked in red and the silence ringing in the aftermath. Her shoulders slumped, gloves snapped off, and for a moment she just stood there, breathing like she’d been underwater. “You were…” Gideon’s voice broke the stillness behind her, low and quiet. “You saved his life. You didn’t even blink.”

She turned, not sure what to expect, but found him watching her like he didn’t quite know what to say—like the woman in front of him had rewritten something in his mind. “There wasn’t anyone else,” she said simply, voice hoarse, raw from adrenaline and restraint. “So I became someone.” He nodded slowly, then offered her a clean towel with a faint, shaken smile.

She took it, and for the first time in hours, she let herself feel the weight of what she’d done. And Gideon, for once, didn’t flirt, didn’t joke—he just stood with her, silent and steady, the way good men did when they knew they’d witnessed something extraordinary.

—

She was halfway through her end-of-shift checklist when the glint of broken glass caught her eye beneath the edge of the supply cabinet. The overhead lights reflected off the shattered edges, tiny crystalline shards scattered like ice across the sterile floor. Her brows furrowed, and she crouched down to get a better look, careful not to kneel too close in case anything had leaked. There was no residue, no odor, no vapor cloud curling into the air—just fractured glass, likely from one of the trauma vials used when Holt had been working in a rush earlier.

Accidents happened. Especially in the middle of treating three soldiers with shrapnel trauma, blood pressure tanks crashing, and adrenaline vials flying left and right. She grabbed gloves, a sterile bag, and the broom from the corner of the room, sweeping the remnants quickly, efficiently, and without much thought. When everything else was perfect, something like this stood out—out of place, but not suspicious.

She logged it in the end-of-day report under “minor inventory loss,” finished the last of her charting, and shut off the med bay lights. Outside, the dusk heat clung to the air, and the buzz of distant helicopters hummed over the hangars as she made her way back to her quarters. Once inside, the quiet settled around her like a second skin. She dropped her bag by the door, peeled off her boots, and turned toward the small kitchenette to start dinner.

It was always the same—rice, steamed vegetables, sometimes protein from the base rations if she hadn’t skipped too many meals. Tonight, she added soy sauce and sesame oil, trying to trick her senses into feeling something more indulgent. She ate standing at the counter, letting the muted sounds of her quarters ground her: the hum of the air vent, the faint ticking of the wall panel’s time display. When the dishes were washed and her shower was done, she slipped into her tank top and shorts and collapsed onto the couch, prepared to waste the rest of her evening in blissful silence.

But the heat came slowly, crawling up her spine like a whisper she couldn’t shake.

At first it was easy to ignore—just a flush across the back of her neck, a slight sheen of sweat along her collarbone. She adjusted the room temperature, assuming the heating grid had glitched again. Then her thighs began to feel sticky, her pulse stuttering, fingers trembling slightly as she reached for a glass of water that did nothing to quell the warmth blooming beneath her skin. Her mouth was dry, but it wasn’t thirst.

She sat there for several minutes, trying to will her body into calming down. Trying to rationalize the sudden warmth and sensitivity. But she couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt like this—off-kilter and aching in a way that felt biological. Suppressed Omegas didn’t get flushy without reason. Something was wrong.

She grabbed her datapad from the nightstand, hands unsteady now, and scrolled through her contacts until Maya’s name lit up the screen. The line clicked almost immediately, static giving way to Maya’s voice, half-asleep but instantly alert. “Hey. What’s going on?”

“I think I’m—” she stopped, pressing a palm to her chest, trying to focus. Her breath came shallow, too fast. “I feel feverish. Not like a cold. It’s…it’s under my skin. My hands won’t stop shaking.”

There was a pause. Then rustling. Then Maya again, sharper now. “Did you miss your suppressant this month?”

“No,” she said quickly. “I got it on schedule. Three days ago. I documented it in the log.”

More silence. Then: “Anything weird happen before you left the med bay?”

She closed her eyes, retraced her steps—her routine, the checklist, her shutdown of the system. Then her eyes opened slowly, the image in her mind like a shard catching light. “There was a broken vial. I found it under the supply rack. No label. No scent. Just glass. I cleaned it up and tossed it.”

“Shit,” Maya hissed, voice now fully awake. “Do you know what ward it came from?”

She shook her head before remembering Maya couldn’t see her. “Holt was in trauma. Could’ve been one of his. It didn’t smell like anything.”

“If it was a raw concentration,” Maya said slowly, “and it was unfiltered… it wouldn’t have had to smell.”

Her stomach flipped. Not from fever, but fear.

“What if it was an Omega compound?” Maya added, voice grim now. “What if it was an unneutralized heat stimulant?” The silence between them was suddenly heavier than her own breath.

“That compound wouldn’t even be on base,” she snapped, her voice tight and rising too fast for comfort. Her body felt too warm now, the waistband of her shorts suddenly abrasive against the curve of her hips, her tank top clinging to her chest in a way that made her want to tear it off. “We don’t stock Omega-cycle stimulants, Maya. You know that. The only place that carries anything close is Research Logistics, and that’s three buildings over—behind two levels of security clearance.”

Maya’s voice stayed calm, but it was the kind of calm born of realization, not reassurance. “Unless someone brought it from off-base. Or had access to something Holt was running off the books in trauma. He’s high clearance—you really think it’s impossible?” There was a pause, then, soft but pointed, “Do you really think it's a coincidence you found it?”

That landed hard. Too hard.

She gripped the armrest of the couch, her knuckles going white. Her thoughts were starting to stutter—quick jolts of panic between the low, thrumming pulse of something igniting deep inside her. Her thighs pressed together, involuntarily, as her stomach gave a traitorous twist of heat that felt terrifyingly familiar. No. Not now. Not here.

“Maya,” she said, breath trembling, “I can’t be on base like this.”

“I know.”

“The suppressant—if it’s been counteracted, or triggered by something—” Her words faltered, body twitching with a spasm that left her panting. “I’m going to full heat. It’s starting. Fuck. I need off-base. Now.”

The other end of the line went silent for a second too long. Then: “Okay. Okay, listen to me. The apartments have scent barriers, your vents are isolated, and no one will catch on immediately. You’re not leaving a trail. You’re still lucid.”

“For now.” Her voice cracked.

“You’ve got a few hours before it gets bad enough to show. Pack a bag. Say your suppressants made you nauseous and you’re checking in to the offsite clinic. You’ve used that excuse before, right?”

“Yes,” she breathed, already rising unsteadily to her feet. Her muscles felt too loose, too hot, the seam of her shorts catching in places it never should. “I need to… need to cool down first. Shower again.”

“No,” Maya said sharply. “You shower again and you’ll trigger it worse. Your body’s already mistaking everything for prep. Don’t stimulate your skin. Don’t do anything that increases circulation.”

She swore under her breath, dragging her hands through her hair as the wave of heat crested and rolled down her spine. It wasn’t full-blown yet, but the tremors had started in her knees, and her scent—gods, it was climbing. She couldn’t smell it yet, but she could feel it rising like steam from her skin. She grabbed her datapad from the counter and opened the base transport request system.

“Do I risk it?” she whispered. “Calling transport off-base might flag me.”

Maya hesitated. “Use the civilian channel. You’re off duty. It’ll take longer, but it won’t go through command. Keep the window open, act casual, and keep your door locked. If you have anything that dulls scent, wear it.”

“I don’t,” she said, jaw clenched. “We ran out last week, remember?”

“Shit.” A beat passed. “Okay. Then get moving. I’ll meet you at the clinic door.”

She ended the call, her fingers already trembling as she pulled open her wardrobe and yanked out a plain duffel. Nothing fancy—just enough to pass for a medical overnight. A spare set of clothes, her ID, a water bottle. She thought about grabbing her emergency suppressants, but they’d do nothing now. Whatever had hit her had slipped under the monthly shot like a virus—quiet, precise, and devastating.

The scent barrier in the apartment held. She knew because when she opened the vent screen and leaned her head into the airflow, there was no return scent—no whiff of other Alphas, no residual pheromones. The barriers were thick, government standard, regulated for exactly this kind of disaster. Her fingers shook as she zipped the bag, hands brushing over her already-damp skin.

It was going to get worse. Fast.

But if she could just make it to the street… if she could just make it past the gates without being seen she had a chance.

She moved through the apartment with a frantic precision, packing her go-bag with fingers that trembled at the seams. The duffel held everything essential—change of clothes, ID, two water bottles, her data tablet, and a small thermal pouch for leftovers. Even in the growing fog of heat, her muscle memory held fast: the stovetop was checked twice, her meal containers sealed and stacked, lights powered down room by room. She paused only once, by the mirror near the door, and stared into the reflection of someone she barely recognized—flushed, drawn, a fine sheen of sweat already kissing her temples.

The air outside was thick with desert heat and engine oil, the familiar scent of the base’s main lot overwhelming—but it was hers, she’d walked it a thousand times before. She kept her head down, pace brisk, the collar of her jacket pulled up high despite the heat as a useless psychological shield. No one gave her a second look, and the base’s scent barriers held—no pheromones bleeding into the air, no alphas on patrol snapping their heads toward her. She clutched her duffel tighter and slipped into the stream of foot traffic that curved toward the south gate where Maya would be waiting with a civilian shuttle requisition.

But fate wasn’t done kicking her yet.

He appeared just as she stepped into the long, exposed corridor that ran between the parking structure and the gate checkpoint—hands in his pockets, flight suit half-unzipped, dark hair tousled from a post-flight rinse. Gideon’s easy stride faltered when his eyes met hers, and then stopped completely. He tensed—not the way most alphas did, not with hunger or threat—but like someone catching the scent of smoke and knowing something was wrong. His nostrils flared, eyes narrowing as the scent hit him square in the chest.

“You’re in heat,” he said, voice low, steady. Not alarmed. Not eager. Concerned.

She stepped back instinctively, her palm lifting between them in warning, even as the flush spread down her neck and pooled in the hollow of her spine. “Don’t,” she said, breath shallow, vision flickering at the edges. “Please. I’m handling it. I’m not—I’m not a threat.”

He didn’t move closer. He didn’t even blink. “You’re not a threat,” he said evenly. “You’re suffering.”

“I’m not your problem.” She clenched her jaw. “I don’t want to drag you into this. Just let me get to the gate.”

“I’m not here to claim you, or scent you, or do anything you don’t want,” he said, hands still loose in his pockets. “Let me help you get somewhere safe. That’s all.”

Her chest ached at the kindness in his tone, the way he spoke to her like she was human—not a hazard, not a walking biological emergency. She looked away for a moment, struggling against the next rise of heat already boiling under her skin, her thighs clenching on instinct. Finally, she nodded once, sharp and short. “Fine. But don’t touch me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

They walked in silence, her steps growing less sure as the distance wore on. His presence beside her was comforting in a way that shouldn’t have been—broad-shouldered and calm, just there, without pressing in on her space. He didn’t pepper her with questions, didn’t make jokes, didn’t treat it like a novelty. He just matched her pace, hands still pocketed, eyes flicking around with quiet vigilance.

But twenty yards from the meeting point, her body gave out.

The crash hit like a freight train—slick flooding, knees buckling, heat blooming so violently she whimpered and doubled over, her duffel hitting the ground as she braced herself on a trembling leg. Her breath stuttered, eyes glazing over, and the whole world tilted sideways. Too hot. Too fast. Her scent, suppressed for so long, finally broke loose in full force—a punch of sweet, aching Omega heat that no one within ten feet could have missed.

“I can’t—” she gasped, the word catching in her throat.

“I’ve got you,” Gideon said quickly, moving only when she gave him a weak nod. He grabbed her bag with one hand and wrapped his other arm gently under hers, guiding her away from the gate. “We’re not going to the clinic. You’re not going to make it. I’m taking you to my barrack. It’s closer.”

“I can’t go there,” she slurred, head rolling back slightly. “It smells like you.”

“I know,” he murmured, his voice quiet but firm. “But it’s safe. And right now, that matters more.”

She didn’t have the strength to argue. He kept his grip loose, only touching where she allowed it, supporting her weight without pressing his body to hers, despite the overwhelming scent spiraling between them. Her heat clawed at the inside of her ribs like a wild animal, dragging guttural whines from the back of her throat, but he didn’t flinch. He didn’t react. He just moved, fast and sure, cutting through the base toward shelter with every step measured and merciful.

And behind her eyes, as the fever claimed her, she tried not to imagine how it would feel when the scent of him finally wrapped around her like a second skin.

Gideon had barely gotten the door shut behind them before she slumped against the wall, hands fisting in her jacket as another wave of heat rolled through her, sharp and dizzying. Her face was flushed, sweat beading at her temple, jaw clenched tight against the low moan threatening to escape. He set her bag down gently by the couch, then pulled out his comm unit and stepped to the far side of the room, giving her space even now. His thumb moved fast over the screen until Maya’s name connected, the line picking up with immediate urgency.

“She didn’t make it to you,” he said, voice low but steady. “She’s with me. Heat’s fully triggered—she collapsed outside the south checkpoint. I couldn’t leave her in the open.”

Maya’s sigh cracked in his ear, heavy and tight. “I figured. I could smell it before I even made it to the gate. Someone on patrol’s going to report it any minute if they haven’t already. She’s lucky it was you who found her.”

“I’m trying to keep her comfortable,” Gideon said, glancing back at the Omega now curled on the floor by the edge of his bed, fingers dragging over the carpet like it hurt to touch anything. “She’s burning up. She needs a nest. Do you have suppressants?”

“I can bring some,” Maya said. “But if she’s that deep, they might not work fast enough—if at all. And if anyone notices, you’ll be questioned.”

“I can take the heat,” he replied, without hesitation.

There was a pause, and then Maya’s voice dropped into a darker, dead-serious tone that hummed with threat. “You hurt her—if you touch her without her saying so, without her really saying so—I’ll find a way to kill you that leaves no witnesses, and I’ll be smiling at your funeral in dress whites.”

Gideon didn’t laugh. “I’d let you,” he said, and meant it. “But I won’t lay a hand on her unless she wants it. Really wants it. I know it gets foggy when things escalate, but I’ll keep my distance unless she reaches out.”

“Good,” Maya said after a long breath. “She doesn’t trust easily. She pretends she does, but you’ll know when it’s real. Let her lead, and for fuck’s sake, don’t treat her like she’s broken.”

He promised again, softer this time, and they ended the call. When he turned back, she had dragged herself upright and was now half-sitting, half-hunched near the edge of the bed, shivering despite the visible heat radiating off her skin. Her eyes were glazed but aware, pupils blown wide and breath shallow as she clung to the leg of the bedframe like it grounded her. Gideon didn’t speak, just moved quietly to the linen closet and grabbed every clean blanket he owned—thick military-issue fleece, spare sheets, even the old throw from his flight locker.

“They’re clean,” he said gently, kneeling near her without crossing the invisible line of scent and space between them. “But they smell like me. I know that might not be what you want, but it’s what I’ve got. You can take whatever helps.”

She didn’t speak at first. Just looked at him, eyes glassy with heat but not unseeing. And then—slowly, almost reverently—she reached forward and took the top blanket from the pile. Pressed it to her nose, breathed deep, and let out a broken sound that vibrated in her throat like relief.

He backed away as she began building her nest. It was a quiet process, not frantic or messy—methodical, even in her haze. She layered the blankets across the bed, bunching some near the pillows, others at the edges like borders. The bed was too big for her alone, but she moved like she’d done this before, hands trembling as she arranged everything into soft, circular safety.

It wasn’t ideal. It wasn’t hers. But it was his, and somehow that made it feel less terrifying.

The scent of him was everywhere—in the walls, in the sheets, in the air—but instead of recoiling, her body began to settle, her nerves relaxing just enough to let her fold into the heat rather than fight it. His scent didn’t crowd her. It didn’t demand. It surrounded, protective without pressing in, present without crushing.

And hadn’t she looked for him on Heat Haven?

Hadn’t her fingers typed his name without her even realizing what she hoped to find?

She sank deeper into the nest, curling into the blankets as her body trembled again, lower now, like the worst of the storm had hit and begun to pass. There was more coming—she could feel it in the bones of her hips, in the ache building between her legs—but for now, she was safe. She had warmth. She had silence. She had him—at a distance, but here.

–

He soaked a rag in cool water from the small sink near his bathroom, wrung it out carefully, then crossed the room with slow, deliberate steps. She was curled in the center of the bed, wrapped tightly in the blankets he’d given her, her breathing shallow but steady now, her skin flushed and glistening with the deep fever of early heat. He didn’t ask to touch her—just knelt beside the bed, reached out carefully, and laid the rag across her forehead with the same tenderness he might use to touch a live wire. She stirred at the contact, murmured something unintelligible, but didn’t pull away.

That was permission enough.

He moved to grab the canteen from her bag, unscrewed the top, and returned to the bed with slow hands and soft words. “You need to drink,” he said, his voice a low murmur. “Even if it’s just a sip.” She blinked blearily up at him, lips parted, and when he tipped the canteen to her mouth she accepted it with a shaky swallow, her throat working under his hand.

He steadied her head while she drank, watched the line of her jaw tense and release, watched her body curl tighter when the next pulse of heat dragged a soft whimper from her lips. It broke something in him—not lust, not possessiveness, but a visceral protectiveness so strong he had to clench his fists to keep from reaching for her more fully. This wasn’t about rut. It wasn’t about the sweet ache in the air. It was about her, raw and trembling and still trying to hold onto her pride.

He pulled the rag back, rewet it, replaced it on her head. She hummed at the contact, almost grateful, and turned her face into the scent of the blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Gideon sat back on the floor, one hand braced on the carpet, and let his thoughts wander for the first time since the whole damn night started. He thought about how they’d met—not in some moonlit neutral zone or a city cafe, but in a steel-and-white med bay with blood on the floors and regulations stacked like cages around her. She hadn’t looked at him like an Alpha then. She hadn’t looked at anyone like that.

And yet here she was.

He wondered what would’ve happened if they’d met somewhere else—somewhere far from the military, far from Holt and regulations and scent blockers and walls thick with obligation. If he’d bumped into her in a bookstore, or on a crowded shuttle. If she’d smiled that quiet, tired smile at him and asked for directions, not clearance papers. Would she have laughed with him? Would he have gotten to know her voice before he knew the cadence of her medical reports?

He shook the thought loose—it was pointless. They’d met here. Now. With her body burning from a chemical sabotage neither of them could prove and her heat clawing through her like wildfire. And yet—despite it all—she was still trying to be composed. Still trying not to ask for help, even as she sank deeper into his scent.

He stood carefully and adjusted the nearest blanket, tucking it closer to her shoulder, watching as she sighed and burrowed deeper into the pile. “You’re safe,” he said quietly, knowing she might not even remember the words come morning. “You’re not alone. Not tonight.” The words weren’t promises, just truths, low and steady and real.

She whimpered softly, one hand reaching out—not to him, but toward the warmth of the bedspread, the scent-soaked center of her hastily built nest. He didn’t take it as invitation. He just stayed close, sitting on the floor beside the bed, knees drawn up, back against the frame. A silent sentinel, not a lover. Not yet.

He would’ve given anything to take the fire from her, to carry some of it himself. But all he could do was keep the water full, the rags cool, and his voice low. To offer something no one else ever had the decency to give her.

Time. Patience.

And the promise he would not take what she didn’t offer.

She moved under the blankets like something pulled by instinct rather than thought, her fingers tangling in one of the folds, then reaching blindly beyond the edge of the nest. Gideon felt it before he saw it—that sudden gravity shift, the ripple of scent that grew sweeter, sharper, impossible to ignore. Then her hand found his shoulder, trembling and uncertain, and her lips parted around a single word that cracked straight down the middle of his chest.

“…Alpha.”

His breath hitched, not from surprise but from how easily it slid under his skin—how it summoned every fantasy he’d tried to keep buried beneath humor and duty and half-hearted distance. The word wasn’t a command. It was a plea, cracked and fragile. Her hand slid from his shoulder to his jaw, cupping his face with soft, fever-warm fingers, and he leaned into it like he was starving.

And maybe he was. For her.

For too long, he’d carried the image of her like something sacred. Her sharp tongue. The tired curve of her smile. The way her fingers danced over tablet screens with surgical precision. He’d imagined kissing her too many damn times—behind the breakroom, in the med bay after hours, once even on the launch deck when she’d laughed at something stupid he said, a laugh that didn’t belong in a place so sterile. It was stupid, wasn’t it? A big, broad-shouldered Alpha fantasizing about brushing his thumb along her cheek and tucking her hair behind her ear like some daydream-drenched teenager.

Now her heat-slicked skin burned inches from his own, and her eyes—wide and glassy and beautiful—searched his face like he was something she wanted, not something she feared.

“Promise you won’t hate me when this is over…” His voice broke around the words, quiet and cracked open as he leaned closer, his forehead almost touching hers. “Please. I couldn’t take it.”

She blinked slowly, her thumb dragging along the stubble at his jaw, her breath fanning against his lips. Her scent was everywhere now—honey-slick and sun-warm and desperate—and it should’ve made him lose control. But it didn’t. He didn’t move an inch closer until she whispered, soft and certain, like it cost her the last of her strength:

“Could never hate you.”

It undid him.

His mouth met hers with the reverence of someone who had waited too long and never thought it would come. The kiss wasn’t rough. It wasn’t claiming. It was slow, deep, aching—like pouring water into cracked earth. Her lips parted with a soft, needy sound, and his hand rose to cradle the side of her face, his thumb brushing her temple as he kissed her again, deeper this time, until her fingers curled against his chest and pulled him closer.

He didn’t climb into her nest.

He stayed on the edge, balanced on the precipice of restraint, giving her everything except the one thing she hadn’t asked for yet.

But gods, the taste of her was going to haunt him. The heat between them wasn’t just biological—it was want, buried for too long, fed in secret moments and stifled dreams. He kissed her like a starving man, like the future was folded into her mouth, like if he let go too soon she might vanish.

And when she whimpered into the kiss, her body trembling with fever, Gideon whispered against her lips, “I’ve got you.”

Even if he only got to have this once.

She pulled her shirt over her head with a clumsy sort of grace, fever-slick hands trembling slightly as the fabric caught for a second at her elbows, and then it was gone—tossed blindly into the corner of the bed. Gideon’s breath caught in his throat, not just at the sudden reveal of skin but at the way she moved—unselfconscious, flushed, driven by need. He’d imagined peeling her out of her clothes slowly, kissing every new inch of exposed skin, letting his hands do the work while she writhed under him. But this? Watching her strip for him, desperate to feel air on her body, to get closer—it was fucking devastating.

He smiled, a slow curve of heat beneath the restraint, as she reached for the waistband of her pants next and shoved them down, dragging underwear with them in one ungraceful tug. Her thighs parted instinctively as she lay back into the nest, body flushed and glistening, and he could see how wet she already was—slick dripping onto the blankets, pooling at the crease where her legs met. His cock strained against the confines of his sweats, painful and throbbing, but he didn’t touch himself. He didn’t need to. He’d been hard since the word Alpha left her mouth like it belonged to him.

She reached out, fingers curled in demand now, and tugged him down into the nest with a soft growl of frustration. “Too far,” she muttered, and he laughed under his breath as he kicked off his shoes, then crawled in beside her, still fully clothed. The second he settled between her thighs, the heat of her slick soaked into the front of his pants, soaking through the cotton like steam against his skin. She whined, fingers tugging at his shirt. “You’re still dressed. That’s not fair.”

“I was trying to be polite,” he murmured, lips already ghosting across her jaw as he leaned in. “You did say no touching without permission.”

“You’re in my nest,” she shot back, voice breathy. “You’re already touching.”

“Can’t argue with that logic,” he chuckled, then kissed her—deep and hot, tongue sweeping into her mouth while her hips lifted to grind against him, slick smearing wet and obscene across his front. His hands roamed now, finally, smoothing over the curve of her waist, the underside of her thighs, mapping her like a territory he’d memorized in dreams. When he broke the kiss, it was only to trail his mouth down the column of her throat, slow and reverent, until he found the pulse thudding just beneath the skin of her scent gland.

The moment his tongue dragged over it, she keened, her legs tightening around his hips as her fingers clawed into the back of his shirt. “More—please, Gideon—there, again,” she begged, voice thin and wrecked with need, her scent blooming sharp and dizzying around them. He flattened his tongue against the gland and sucked gently, lips closing over it, and her entire body arched beneath him like she’d been electrocuted. The sound she made—high, broken, completely gone—shot straight to his cock, and he groaned against her skin, rut instincts clawing at his spine now, vicious and unrelenting.

She tasted unreal there—like ozone and honey, sweat and heat, everything his instincts said was right. His mind spun, thoughts dripping out of order, dissolving into raw desire, and he couldn’t stop picturing what she’d taste like between her thighs. The scent of her slick was thick now, coating the air around them in syrupy, wanton perfume, and he swore he could feel it through his pants, wetting his cock even through the layers. He slid his hands lower, down the back of her thighs, spreading her open just enough to see how she glistened in the low light dripping, soaked, her cunt flushed and swollen and begging to be tasted and gods help him he wanted it more than anything.

He kissed a path down her body like it was scripture he was finally allowed to read—mouth brushing over the soft slope of her sternum, the curve of her ribs, the trembling muscles of her belly. Her skin was hot to the touch, damp with heat-slick sweat, her scent rising off her like steam, coating his tongue with every pass of his lips. When he reached her thighs, he spread them gently, reverently, pressing kisses along the insides, nipping at the tender flesh just enough to make her jolt. She moaned, high and desperate, hips lifting as if her body had already given itself to him a hundred times in her dreams.

He settled between her legs like it was his home, arms looped under her thighs to anchor her open, and buried his face in her cunt without hesitation. Her slick hit his tongue hot and thick, an obscene flood of salt and sweetness that made his hips rut against the bed beneath him. He groaned into her folds, nose brushing against her clit as he licked her open with slow, greedy strokes, savoring the way she cried out with every movement. His tongue circled and dragged and thrust, and the sounds she made—gods, the sounds—drove every last thought out of his mind until only her taste and the scent of her heat remained.

She twisted above him, heels digging into the blankets, fists knotted in the sheets, her voice a breathless chant of his name. “Gideon—please, I need—I need you inside—I can’t—” she gasped, thighs trembling around his shoulders. He flicked his tongue across her clit one last time, slow and deliberate, then lifted his head, chin slick with her, heart pounding like a war drum in his chest. 

The way she looked, eyes glassy, mouth open, her entire body glistening with fever and want was something he knew would be burned into him for the rest of his life.

He sat back on his knees, yanked off his shirt in one rough motion, then shoved his sweatpants down over his hips, finally freeing the aching weight of his cock. It slapped against his stomach, thick and flushed, the tip wet with precome, twitching as if it had been waiting for this moment since the day they met. 

Her eyes dropped to it, and she moaned, one hand reaching between her legs to spread herself open, the other bracing behind her as her hips lifted toward him. Gideon growled low in his throat, grabbed her thighs, and raised them, resting her calves on his shoulders, lining himself up with her slick, fluttering entrance.

He pushed in slow, careful, watching her face the entire time as his cock breached her heat-swollen cunt. The slide was perfect, tight and wet and so fucking hot he had to bite his lip to keep from losing control right then and there. She gasped, legs tightening around his shoulders, her back arching as he filled her inch by inch, her body clenching around him like it was made for this. He groaned as he bottomed out, hips flush to hers, the pressure inside him unbearable—but he held still, chest heaving, drinking in the sight of her undone beneath him.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he rasped, voice rough with restraint. “Tell me and I’ll stop.”

She just whimpered, eyes locked on his, and whispered, “Don’t stop. Please—don’t ever stop.”

He held there for a moment, cock buried to the base inside her, trembling with the effort not to move too fast, too hard, too much. Her body clenched around him in slow, rhythmic pulses, each one coaxing a strangled groan from his throat. She was so wet, slick dripping down his shaft, pooling under her, every inch of him surrounded by heat and pressure and her. Gideon pressed a kiss to her ankle where it rested on his shoulder, then another just below her knee, trying to ground himself with the taste of her skin.

He rolled his hips forward, slow and deep, and the breath she released was a broken, high-pitched thing that made his cock throb inside her. He pulled back just enough to feel her flutter around the tip, then sank in again, dragging against her walls with a slow grind that made her head fall back against the blankets. 

“Fuck, you feel…” he couldn’t even finish it, the words lost in the haze of wet heat and her gasping breaths. She looked wrecked—blushed skin, swollen lips, pupils blown wide and he couldn’t look away from the way her body arched into him, greedy and open.

“More,” she whispered, voice thinned by the desperation in her throat. “Harder—please, Alpha, I need it—need you deeper, need you to fuck me.” The sound of it—Alpha, from her lips, hoarse and needy—snapped something in his spine, his hips snapping forward with a sharp thrust that dragged a scream from her. She tightened around him like a vice, and he groaned, deep and guttural, fingers digging into the meat of her thighs as he set a punishing rhythm.

The slap of skin filled the room, raw and wet, her slick splattering with every thrust, soaking him, the blankets, the sheets beneath. His cock drove in and out of her tight heat, dragging along every sensitive ridge inside her, his own vision beginning to blur at the edges. She writhed beneath him, nails clawing at the blankets, her head tossed side to side as her heat consumed her entirely. And he was with her, inside her, every thrust a promise—you’re safe, you’re mine, I’ve got you.

He shifted his grip, sliding his arms beneath her knees, bending her more, folding her open, deeper now, the angle making her sob. 

“So fucking tight,” he growled, rut pulsing in his blood now, animal and thunderous, but held back by the thin thread of control she’d trusted him with. 

She was babbling now, lips glossed with spit, voice cracking as she begged for his knot, begged to be filled, bred, taken. He hadn’t knotted anyone in years—but the way her cunt milked him, the way she pleaded—he didn’t know how long he could hold it back.

“Gideon,” she gasped, and that—not Alpha, but Gideon—nearly undid him. Something personal. Real. Not just heat-driven instinct, but her, seeing him through the haze. He leaned down, bracing himself over her, and kissed her again, mouths wet and desperate, his cock driving up into her so deep her breath stuttered against his lips.

“Gonna come,” he growled into her mouth, and she nodded frantically, hips grinding up to meet every thrust. 

“Want you to come with me, sweetheart. Want to feel it.” Her walls tightened with brutal force, the rhythm of her cries breaking as she shattered around him, shaking, sobbing, slick gushing as her orgasm tore through her like fire. He felt it—every spasm, every pulse—and then his own climax surged forward, brutal and blinding.

With a growl torn from somewhere feral and primal, his hips snapped forward one last time, locking them together as his knot swelled, locking them tight.

And he came, hot and endless, spilling deep inside her with a groan that echoed through the room.

—

She woke to the sound of his heartbeat, heavy and solid beneath her ear, the slow rise and fall of his chest steady against her cheek. His arm was curled tightly around her waist, the weight of it anchoring her to his bare chest, and his breath warmed the side of her neck where he’d tucked his face in the night. Her body ached in the most intimate way—hips sore, thighs damp with the evidence of everything they’d done—but it wasn’t pain, not exactly. Still, as her eyes adjusted to the filtered morning light spilling through his narrow window, panic licked at the edge of her thoughts.

The heat hadn’t broken. Not entirely. It simmered just below the surface, low and taut, like something gathering in her bones to strike again. Her skin felt too hot, her thighs still slick, and though she didn’t want to move from the safety of his hold, she felt the anxious twist of biology reminding her that it wasn’t over—not yet.

Her hand drifted up slowly, fingertips brushing his jaw, coarse with stubble that rasped gently under her touch. He stirred with a grunt, breath catching for a moment, then slowly blinked awake, his eyes meeting hers from beneath heavy lashes. Honey-brown and clear, even in sleep, and gods, they saw her. No fog, no haze of rut—just him, Gideon, looking at her like she was the only thing he wanted to see.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low, still rough from sleep, his lips brushing the curve of her throat.

She swallowed hard, lips parting, but no words came out at first. The heat pulsed once beneath her skin, a cruel reminder that her body wasn’t done with her, and she had no idea how much more she could take. But his eyes were calm, his voice grounding, and for a moment the panic eased just enough for her to breathe. “I don’t know,” she whispered honestly, “It’s not done. I thought it would be but... it’s coming back.”

He didn’t flinch. He just nodded, his hand tightening slightly at her back in silent reassurance, and pulled her in closer like she was something to be shielded, not endured. “We’ll get through it,” he murmured, lips pressing a kiss just below her ear. “I’ve got you. However long it takes.”

Tears pricked her eyes—not from pain or heat, but from how easy he made it sound, like taking care of her wasn’t something difficult, wasn’t an obligation. Like she hadn’t spent the last years of her life proving over and over that she didn’t need anyone, only to unravel in his bed, in his arms, with his scent still filling her lungs. She buried her face against his chest again, pressing a kiss just above his heart, clinging to the fragile quiet between one wave and the next. “Don’t let me lose myself when it comes back,” she murmured. “I want to remember this part. You.”

His arms flexed around her at those words, like her confession had slipped beneath his skin and anchored there, deep and unshakable. His hand moved to her back, splaying wide, fingertips tracing the subtle ridges of her spine as if to remind her she was still here, still held. “I won’t let you forget,” he said, voice low and thick, the kind of promise spoken from the center of his chest. “Even if the heat drags you under again, I’ll be here to pull you back up. I’ll keep your name in my mouth if that’s what it takes.”

She shuddered—not from fear, but from the way those words settled in her, warm and heavy like something sacred. Most Alphas talked about claiming, about ownership and need and the bite at the end. But Gideon’s vow wasn’t to mark her—it was to remember her. To hold on to who she was even when she couldn’t.

Her fingers pressed into his ribs, just enough to feel the solidness of him, the way his heart beat under her hand. “Don’t let me disappear into it,” she said again, quieter now, her voice fraying at the edges. “When it gets worse—don’t treat me like something broken. I don’t want to come out of this feeling like I was… something to endure.”

“You’re not.” He pulled back just enough to meet her gaze again, his honey-brown eyes clear and soft and burning all at once. “You’re not broken. You’re not too much. And I’m not here to survive you—I’m here to stay with you, all the way through.”

She didn’t respond, not in words. Her mouth found his, slow and full of gratitude, of ache, of hope. He kissed her back with care but without hesitation, lips parting to drink her in, one hand rising to cradle her cheek like she was something fragile—but not delicate. She could feel the need pulsing in her belly again, lower, deeper, heat swirling in her blood like a storm gathering on the horizon.

But when she pulled away and rested her forehead against his, she was still breathing steady. She was still herself.

And that was because of him.

The heat lasted what felt like an eternity.

Days blurred together inside the scent-heavy cocoon of his barrack, her body constantly moving between trembling aftermath and desperate, slick-drenched need. Gideon lost count of how many times he’d held her down with one hand and cradled her face with the other, whispering her name while she broke apart around him. Her heat didn’t just come in waves—it crashed, rising without mercy, wringing her dry and then flooding her again, and he stayed through every second of it. He was hers—not in instinct, not in some rut-blind haze, but by choice.

He sent the first message to command somewhere between the third and fourth cycle, his fingers flying over the data pad, jaw clenched in fury. His words were sharp, unfiltered: This wasn’t natural. Someone used a synthetic stimulant. Someone did this to her, and you better fucking believe I won’t let it go. When he didn’t receive a reply within twelve hours, he sent a second—more venomous, more detailed, attaching a timestamped report and a request for immediate investigation. There was no protocol in place for this, but that didn’t mean he would let them bury it.

He accused Holt directly in the fifth message.

You let it happen under your watch. If you didn’t do it, someone in your ward did, and you turned a blind eye. She’s not a complication—she’s a soldier. One more hour like this and I’ll bring her to the command office myself, so you can see what you’ve done.

In the quiet moments between her cries and the slick snap of skin against skin, Gideon stared at his screen, waiting, daring them to answer. But they didn’t. Not at first. And so he kept her warm, kept her safe, fed her water and broth that Maya dropped off every twenty hours in sealed containers—each one labeled in Maya’s tight, neat script: hang in there, asshole. if you hurt her, i’m cutting your cock off. He grinned the first time he saw it. After the third delivery, he stopped laughing.

Because her heat didn’t break.

It just kept coming.

She’d curl up in her nest, trembling, flushed and damp, whispering his name like a prayer. Then she’d roll against him again, thighs parted, heat igniting under her skin until she was soaked, needy, begging to be filled. He gave her everything—his mouth, his fingers, his cock, over and over until his knot ached so deep he thought he’d never pop one again. And then she’d whimper, say his name just right, and he’d swell again like it was the first time.

He’d never come so hard in his life. Never so often.

She took it all—shaking and moaning, her cunt pulsing around his knot, her body clinging to him with every orgasm like she couldn’t breathe without him. He watched her fall apart over and over, wrecked and slick and beautiful, her eyes unfocused but always turning to him. He knew when she was still there, knew when the heat blurred her—but even in the worst of it, she never screamed for anyone else. Just him. Always him.

By the fourth day, his hips ached. His cock throbbed with phantom tension even when he wasn’t inside her. His balls were drawn so tight it felt like every release drained something deeper than just come—and still she’d move against him, moaning, “Please, Alpha—again, I need it again—”

And fuck if he didn’t give it to her.

Because every time she pulled him into her, every time her body opened for him, slick and fluttering and desperate, he felt her come back a little. A flicker of clarity behind the heat. A quiet murmur of his name instead of just Alpha. A kiss pressed to his throat. Her fingers curling into his hair like she knew him.

So he stayed. He fucked her through every fevered peak. And every time he knotted inside her and held her close, he whispered into her skin, “I’ve got you. I’m right here. I’m not leaving.”

It broke on the seventh day.

Seven days of slick, of heat, of trembling cries and desperate hands clawing at his back, begging for another knot, another push, another deep, slow fill. Seven days of her burning under his hands, her scent thick as syrup in the air, clinging to his sheets, his skin, his soul. When she finally stopped shaking—when her body stilled and her breath came deep and even, her head heavy on his chest without tension—he didn’t believe it at first. But then her scent changed, softened, no longer sharp with need but mellow, clean, and he knew she was finally on the other side.

He’d never moved so fast and so exhausted in his life.

While she slept like the dead, curled deep in what remained of the nest, Gideon stripped the bed bare, dragging every towel, sheet, and shirt into the washing bin, the floor damp with the scent of her heat. He messaged the higher-ups again, this time with a full biological log—seven days of persistent heat, unheard of, unrecorded, and undeniably artificial. No natural Omega cycle lasted that long, not without some chemical interference, and his report was sharp, clinical, and laced with fury.

He was out of towels, out of blankets, out of clean anything.

The place looked like a war zone—a very specific kind of war—and he didn’t care that his back ached or his knot felt like it had been wrung out and hung to dry. He opened his food app and ordered the greasiest, fattiest, most indulgent meal two people could legally share without risking heart failure: grilled cheese soaked in butter, honey-basted chicken, cheesy potatoes, and fried dumplings stuffed with pork and garlic. If he didn’t replenish calories soon, he swore he might pass out—and she was going to need it just as badly. He'd lost at least five pounds, and yet he’d do it again without blinking because she was worth every goddamn second.

He padded barefoot back to the bedroom with the scent of food trailing behind him, his hair still damp from a sink wash, his chest bare, his body marked with faint love bites and fading claw scratches. She was still asleep, soft and loose-limbed in a fresh blanket he’d managed to pull from a reserve locker, her face no longer twisted with need. It was peaceful—she was peaceful—and something about that made his chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with exhaustion. He knelt beside the bed and brushed her hair back from her face, leaned down, and kissed her cheek, just beneath the eye.

Her lashes fluttered, a small, pleased hum slipping from her lips, and when her eyes opened and focused on him, she smiled—really smiled. Not the heat-drunk, breathless curve of her mouth he’d seen a dozen times, but something quiet, present, full of awareness and something almost shy. He leaned in again, this time kissing her mouth, slow and soft, lingering as her fingers curled in the back of his neck. When he pulled away, her lips chased his slightly, and it made him grin.

“Come eat,” he whispered, nudging his nose against hers. “I ordered everything I’m not supposed to eat for the next six months. It’s disgusting and drenched in butter and carbs and I swear it might kill me, but you need it.” His thumb brushed her cheek, and his voice dropped lower. “And I want to watch you smile like that again while we eat like absolute animals.”

She climbed out of bed slowly, her legs a little shaky but her body her own again, no longer ruled by fevered instinct. One of his shirts hung off her frame—too big, soft with wear, and smelling like him—and she hadn’t asked to wear it, hadn’t needed to. She’d spotted it on the floor near the bed and tugged it on without hesitation, grounding herself in his scent now that it didn’t make her want to crawl out of her skin. It felt like claiming something back, even if only a piece of calm in the aftermath of chaos.

Gideon was already in the living room, barefoot and shirtless, surrounded by takeout containers spread open on the coffee table like a feast for starving beasts. He looked up when she appeared, and something soft flickered across his face—relief, maybe, or awe, or just her, upright and lucid and real. “Hey,” he said, his voice warm and low as he held out a drink with bright packaging. “Full of electrolytes, vitamins, sodium, sugar… basically every sin your heat just wrung out of you.”

She smiled as she took it, fingers brushing his briefly, and he turned back to the table, already loading up a plate for her with buttery chicken and carb-heavy sides. “I got extra of everything. And dessert. And probably a week’s worth of calories.” He handed her the plate, eyes flicking to hers as his voice dipped. “Didn’t know what you’d want. I just wanted you to have… anything.”

She sat down beside him on the couch, the food smelling like heaven, the warmth of his body anchoring her even though he didn’t reach for her. There was a tightness behind his words, something unsaid pressing against the back of his throat, and it mirrored the guilt blooming quietly in her chest. She picked at a dumpling before finally speaking, her voice quiet but certain. “I didn’t mean to take over your life. I know you didn’t ask for this.”

He shook his head, setting down his drink with a soft clink and turning toward her, his knee brushing hers. “I wasn’t going to let you go through that alone. But…” His throat worked as he swallowed, eyes searching her face. “I just hope you don’t regret it. Or me.”

She blinked, then leaned in without hesitation, her hand curling behind his neck as she kissed him—slow, deliberate, full of everything she hadn’t been able to say during the blur of heat. His hand settled on her thigh, grounding, still careful, but he kissed her back like it meant something deeper. When they parted, she rested her forehead against his, their breaths shared in the narrow space between them. “I don’t regret it,” she whispered. “Not even close.”

A beat passed between them, quiet but heavy, before she laughed softly, brushing her thumb along his jaw. “I looked you up,” she admitted. “On Heat Haven. Before all this. Wanted to see if you were there.”

His brows lifted, eyes crinkling. “And?”

“I was happy you weren’t.” She smiled against his skin. “It meant this… wasn’t something you just do. That it was just you.”

They ate in companionable silence, the clatter of chopsticks and forks the only sound between them. She devoured everything he gave her, each bite easing some tension from her frame, each swallow grounding her a little more in the now. He watched her with quiet satisfaction, nursing his own food more slowly, as if just seeing her upright and sated was enough to feed him. No words were needed, not yet—not after everything.

Afterwards, she padded toward the bathroom, her limbs still sore, the weight of exhaustion draped across her shoulders like a second skin. He followed without a word, hands steady as he helped her undress, kissing her temple but nothing more. The shower steamed around them, hot water pounding over bruised skin, and they washed in tandem—gentle hands, slow movements, her head resting against his chest. Neither of them touched with intent; they couldn’t, not after what their bodies had already given—she was half certain she’d pass out, and he was entirely certain his cock had gone into hibernation.

When they dried off, she leaned into him with a tired smile, and he pressed a kiss to her damp forehead, breathing her in like she was something sacred. That night, they lay tangled in clean sheets, stripped of tension and fire, just quiet, steady breathing and the closeness of bodies at peace. “We have to find out who did it,” she murmured as they settled under the blanket, voice raw but resolute. “They put me in heat on base.”

“We will,” Gideon said, eyes already narrowed in the dark. “We’ll burn them down together.”

—

INTERNAL MILITARY REPORT — CASE #476-B: UNAUTHORIZED DISPENSAL OF CLASSIFIED COMPOUND

Investigation Summary:

Following an incident on Base 09-B in which a member of the medical team experienced an uncharacteristically prolonged and chemically induced Omega heat cycle, a full investigation was launched under command oversight. Biological logs submitted by Lt. Gideon M. (Flight Officer) revealed a cycle duration of seven days, exceeding known physiological parameters for natural Omega cycles. Subsequent forensic testing of site residue near the med bay supply cabinets confirmed the presence of Compound X-9—a heat stimulant synthesized for controlled medical study only, not cleared for active deployment or storage.

Findings:

Dr. Elliot Holt (Chief Medical Officer, 09-B) was found to have accessed Compound X-9 from Research Logistics under falsified requisition tags three weeks prior to the incident. Surveillance records show Holt entering the trauma ward supply cache alone after hours; broken glass from a stimulant vial was recovered post-incident by the affected Omega (Name Redacted per Omega Protection Statute), who was not informed of the compound’s presence or exposure risk. Holt's personal terminal contained unencrypted messages referencing the Omega nurse as a “regulatory vulnerability” and “biological instability risk,” indicating premeditated targeting.

Disciplinary Action:

Dr. Elliot Holt has been relieved of duty effective immediately. His medical license has been revoked under Military Medical Board Ruling 221-F. He has been formally discharged and barred from any future affiliation with armed medical institutions. Civilian criminal charges are pending review by federal authorities for violation of Omega Safety Act (OS-12) and Chemical Compound Control Statute (C3S).

Case Status: CLOSED

—

They left the military with no fanfare, no medals, no sendoff ceremony—just packed duffels and clean resignation letters, handed over to a command that never apologized for what it let happen. Gideon’s name stayed on the flight roster for another two weeks after his departure, someone’s last-ditch hope he’d change his mind. He didn’t. He was already running flight paths for a commercial line, gliding over cities and coastlines, greeting passengers with that same easy grin but saving the softest version of himself for when he came home.

She found work at a private clinic tucked between a coffee shop and a quiet corner bookstore, a haven for Omegas in a city that actually gave a damn about them. No more regulation injections. No more alphas circling like vultures. Just real care, real choice—and a soft chair in her office where she sat each evening, watching the sun fall against the blinds, counting the minutes until he walked through the door.

Their apartment wasn’t much, but it was theirs. Two rooms, a tiny kitchen, a balcony just big enough for a table and two chairs. The couch was too old and too soft, the pillows smelled like them, and she swore the place grew warmer every time he was near. He’d come home smelling like jet fuel and wind, pull her against him, bury his face in her neck and breathe deep like she was still the only thing that made sense.

Tonight, he was already on the couch when she got in, one arm slung over the backrest, hair tousled and eyes lighting up the second she dropped her keys in the bowl. “Long day?” he asked, voice rumbling with that always-there affection, the kind that crept under her skin and made her feel rooted. She nodded, toed off her shoes, and fell into him without hesitation, tucking herself against his chest like she’d never left.

His arms wrapped around her, warm and solid, and she let out a sigh as she melted into the spot under his jaw. They sat like that for a while, curled together as the city moved quietly outside their window, the rhythm of his breath lulling her down until all she felt was the slow thud of his heart against her ribs. His hand slid up her back, fingers tracing gentle lines until they found the bond mark on the side of her neck—he touched it like a prayer, thumb circling it slow, reverent.

She trembled, just barely, her voice catching in her throat. “When you touch it like that it makes me feel—” she paused, not sure how to finish it, because there wasn’t a word for what it did to her. It wasn’t just arousal. It was belonging. It was the ache of always.

“I know,” he murmured, voice thick, rough with everything he didn’t need to say.

Then he kissed her—slow, deep, full of gravity—and stood, lifting her effortlessly into his arms like she weighed nothing. Her arms wrapped around his neck as he carried her to the bedroom, the door already cracked open, the sheets waiting.

Their life was quiet now.

But real.

And he would spend every night reminding her she was home.

[shares-a-vest]

@steddieangstyaugust Day 8: Miscommunication

wc: 657 | Rated: T | cw: Angst with Unhappy Ending

Tags: Literal Miscommunication, Missing Someone, Angst with Unhappy/Ambiguous Ending, Rockstar Eddie Munson, Teacher Steve Harrington, Modern Universe

'Steve's Bed'

Steve stares up at the big, stupid canopy hanging over the bed and folds his arms.

What’s the point of such a luxurious, expensive bed if he has to spend so much time in it alone? If he had known that matrimony with a rockstar was going to be like this, well –

Well, maybe he wouldn’t have not not married Eddie Munson but… He would have seriously considered just staying in Hawkins. Or maybe moving to Chicago with Robin. Or Dustin’s fucking college campus where the kid teaches!

Steve frowns – maybe that last one is a little weird.

But at least he would have someone. Instead of a gigantic bed that has been his alone for so long, he can’t even detect Eddie’s cologne and (still) cheap shampoo on his side of the bed.

A side of the bed that isn’t really owned by someone else anymore.

It is just Steve’s bed.

And he hates it.

He isn’t naive. He knew Corroded Coffin would be touring for months to celebrate their most recent album.

But there were supposed to be breaks at most, phone calls at least.

Even if he doesn’t get to see Eddie in person, he should be able to talk to him or video call.

But nope.

At first, it was a few missed connections. The tour bus was out of range of service on and off, then the hotel Wi-Fi was shoddy. Then Steve discovered that someone at the label screwed up part of the itinerary, so the copies he had on the refrigerator, in his work bag and at his desk at school became all but useless.

When a call finally did come, Eddie was tired and filled with excuses. When it was Steve's turn to talk, he knew his husband was barely listening.

And then it happened again.

And again. Over and over.

Eddie was always distracted or in the middle of doing something else. Even when he said he was available to talk.

Steve used to be able to brush it all off. Have more patience.

He screws his eyes shut, begging the universe (and his brain) to let him get some shut-eye. He needs to start grading papers the moment he gets to school tomorrow.

But his mind is a race of every instance he hasn’t talked to Eddie. Every moment he was almost able to talk to Eddie. Every moment he wanted to. Needed to.

And each time it made him ache.

His heart is aching.

Perhaps more than ever before.

The thing is, he foolishly thought that the whole Rockstar Thing might be temporary. Maybe it's even selfish for Steve to have ever thought that way. He just figured that after they both hit forty, Eddie and the rest of the band might want to slow down. Even settle down.

Hell, he thought that would happen when they finally got married.

But somehow, it got worse.

More lonely.

Steve pulls back the covers, hoping that a late-night snack might lull him into some sort of food coma to get him through the next few hours. He grabs his phone and shucks on a navy-blue robe embossed with his initials, ‘SM’ now.

He clenches his phone in his hand as he walks down the long and winding main hall of the penthouse, mulling over whether he should call Robin at this hour. Steve gathers the collar of his robe tight to his chest, chilled now that he is out of bed. It might be too big and have the world’s most extravagant canopy, but at least the covers are warm.

He grinds to a halt, just shy of the cavernous living area. The whole place has become some sick and twisted version of his former family home. An empty place. Devoid of life. Where he is left cold and alone.

Steve unlocks his phone and squints against the bright screen light, searching for his lawyer’s number.

[acornsalessealsstamps]

Add a charming touch to your book collection with this personalized library embossing seal. Featuring a winsome daisy design, this 1-5/8" press leaves a crisp imprint of your name—ideal for bibliophiles who love marking their literary treasures in style.

[ephie-om]

Song: Talk Too Much: COIN

Yes I know this is 1.5 times as long as any other piece I've written for this event. A man can have favorites ok

Day 10: Diavolo

In retrospect, you really should’ve known it was him. Unfortunately, a lack of knowledge about Devildom culture and a large amount of your own insecurity had conspired to make you completely oblivious. Everyone except you had known, and for some reason, absolutely none of them had decided to come out and tell you.

It started with the classic romantic gestures, notes in your locker. They were simple little declarations of love from your secret admirer, talking about the way your eyes light up or the way you laugh when you’re not worried about how you sound. You kept them all in a shoebox stashed under your bed, worried about what the brothers might say if they found you holding onto them. They received fanmail and love letters constantly, which meant they were jaded to the prospect of any of them actually meaning anything. So you kept it a secret as best you could. Through your subterfuge, you completely failed to see that every letter on your notes was embossed with gold.

After a few weeks, you started to find flowers on your desk in the morning. Just a single blood-red rose at first, petals tipped with a deep purple. It became your daily routine to breathe in the smell, the scent bordering on bitter, but not unpleasant. You kept them hidden in your bag to take home, and the vase you kept on your nightstand was filled for the first time. Then it became three flowers, then five, and eventually you were getting full bouquets every morning, tied with a deep red silk ribbon. Your classmates didn’t pay it any particular attention, in fact, they looked away hurriedly from your flowers, so you assumed this was normal. You had to crush the flowers a bit to stuff them into your bag, but you tried your best to revive the petals once you got home. Thankfully, none of the brothers who came into your room ever commented on the three vases you now owned.

The gifts started to get a little more personal, cases of your favorite Devildom candy at your doorstep every week on the dot. Those you couldn’t hide, so when the brothers asked you about them, you were forced to explain the situation. Shockingly, they didn’t force you to surrender the candy until they could check it for poison, or rip your flowers apart to search for traces of a love potion. The biggest reaction you got was from Mammon, whose eyes flashed yellow when he sniffed the note, and he dropped it immediately. Asmo had just winked at you and told you to be careful.

Your secret admirer tripped up a few times, not that you had particularly noticed. You had found a letter in your locker for an intensive spa session, covering every area that needed attention head to toe, fully paid for. Unfortunately, none of the ingredients in the Devildom’s high-end skincare were human-safe, so you regretfully threw the paper in the trash. You received two more letters the following days, then they disappeared entirely.

Three months after the notes began, you were receiving golden jewelry on a weekly basis. You happily used all the gifts you could, relishing in the anonymous affection. You had no particular desire to know who this person was, worried that it would break the illusion. Some part of you was scared that it might all be over once they actually talked to you, so you tried to push it out of your mind.

You had mentioned your worries offhandedly to Satan, wondering how this person could be so sure of their love for someone they had never met. Satan had snorted derisively at you and refused to answer, so you stormed off. Your mind held onto his reaction, and now you were worried that your suspicions were justified. You resolved to put an end to the situation, so you wrote a note to your admirer and placed it in your locker after your last class of the day. The note kindly asked them to meet you at a small, out-of-the-way coffee shop the next day so that you could break the news to them.

That was how you found yourself in front of your closet trying to decide what to wear to break up with someone you weren’t even dating. You sighed, tossing another pair of pants into the rejected pile on your bed. You had tried to get Asmo to help you with the outfit, but he had made some half-assed excuse about a hair emergency and left you to your own devices. You finally settled on a black pair of ripped jeans with a sage green cropped t-shirt and a thin gold chain, before you realized that the necklace was from your admirer. You threw it on the floor in frustration, running your hands through your hair. You didn’t have enough time to match more jewelry, so you gave up and headed out.

The rusty hinges squeaked as you pushed open the heavy door. The rich smell of espresso hit your nostrils, and for a moment it reminded you of the roses in your room. You glanced around the room to find that you were the only one here. Since you got here early, you ordered a drink and settled yourself at a corner table, waiting. Anxiety twisted your stomach and you fidgeted with your fingers, grateful when your drink came out so your hands had something to hold onto.

The door screeched again as a massive demon walked in, having to stoop to fit through the frame. The demon behind the counter froze in their tracks, eyes wide. The pit in your stomach faded as you recognized Diavolo. You let out a slow breath, relieved. His eyes swept the room, finally finding you. You waved at him happily. “What are you doing here?” you asked cheerily.

He swallowed hard. “I’m here because someone asked me to meet them.”

“Oh, I’m meeting someone too! You could sit with me until they get here if you want.”

He sighed. For some reason, the sight of the smile on your face didn’t cheer him up, which was odd for him. “I’m here to meet you,” he finally admitted.

The pieces had only just started to come together in your head, but you weren’t ready to think about it just yet. “You came to meet me?”

He nodded, a deep red blush across his cheeks. He settled his large frame into the chair across from you, not quite meeting your eyes. “Your note sounded bad.”

“My note?”

He looked at you, a mixture of embarrassment and disappointment in his eyes. “The note you left in your locker. You titled it “to my secret admirer”. I thought I’d done a terrible job at keeping it secret.”

You blinked at him, your mouth opening and closing like a fish. “It was you?”

He laughed nervously. “Of course it was me. I really thought you knew.”

You took a few more moments to process the revelation, burning your mouth on your drink twice. He looked at you curiously. “So what did you want to tell me?”

You wanted to tell your secret admirer that since he didn’t know you, the relationship would never work. You wanted to tell him the constant gifts set a standard you weren’t sure you could reciprocate. You wanted to tell him that since he was Diavolo, none of that mattered any more.

It was your turn to go bright red. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?” he asked bemusedly.

“Nope.” You fiddle with your cup, melting under his gaze. “Just… thank you. For all the gifts and the notes and everything.”

He laughed. “You don’t have to say that if you didn’t like them.”

“What do you mean, I didn’t like them? I loved them.”

“I watched you stuff an entire bouquet of roses in the bottom of your schoolbag and keep them there for eight hours. To me, that doesn’t say you liked them.”

You wanted to crawl under the table. “I loved them. I’m just so sick of the brothers trying to keep everything unknown away from me and I was worried they would, I don’t know, find you and kill you.”

“Well, it wasn’t exactly unknown. The minute I figured out I was in love with you I told Lucifer.”

You gaped at him and he just shrugged in response.

“He’s my right hand man. He knows everything he needs to know, and you live in his house, so he needed to know. I gave very clear instructions for none of his brothers to interfere in any way,” he said, so nonchalantly he might be talking about the weather rather than his attempted wooing of you.

He shifted his hand slowly across the table, looking away. You narrowed your eyes; you were onto his games now. “You can just hold my hand.”

He grinned. “Really?”

You grabbed his hand first. His large hands might have been even warmer than your drink as he stroked your knuckles with his thumb gently. His golden eyes shined, and he made eye contact with you as he brought your hand to his mouth and kissed it softly. You can’t keep the smile off your face, and you saw it mirrored on his mouth. He set your hands back on the table, savoring the moment.

You gasped as you were struck with a sudden realization. “Diavolo, you shouldn’t be doing this in public. Someone could see us!”

He laughed heartily. “My dear, you already did most of the work for me by picking such an inconspicuous place. All I had to do was kindly speak with the owner.” He motioned towards the door, which now had the ‘Closed’ sign facing outwards. He winked at you when your gaze traveled back to his face. “Perks of dating the ruler of the Devildom.”

You grinned back at him. “I like the sound of that.”

[peskellence]

Pairing: RK900/Gavin Reed

Tags: Post Pacifist Ending, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Eventual Smut, Angst, Hurt/Comfort

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A03 Link

Summary: In the aftermath of Detroit's android revolution, Nines grapples with the complexities of his newfound deviancy. As he seeks to establish his place in a newly transformed society, his resolve is put to the ultimate test when he is paired with Detective Gavin Reed-a notoriously volatile human with a well-established hatred for androids-to investigate a series of murders.

While initial impressions of his partner seem to suggest his reputation is well-deserved, the more time Nines spends with him, the more he is forced to challenge his judgments. As they form an unexpected bond, the RK900 is also pushed to examine truths about himself he would much rather seek to forget. (A Retelling of 'More Than Our Parts' from the POV of Nines.)

Warnings: Graphic Violence, Depression/Self Destructive Behaviour, Eventual Smut

Word Count: 5.3K

Tag List: @sweeteatercat @wedonthaveawhile @gho-stychan @tentoriumcerebelli @negative-citadel @faxaway @moriahadi424 @unicorn4genocide @cptjh-arts

To the dismay of all those affected, RK800 had been selected to choose their movie. Not that Anderson’s taste would have served them better—high-octane, low-budget action features with impressively bad acting. 

Nines simply could not understand why the human and android did not rotate. Their biweekly film nights were infrequent enough that it would have been easy to balance control. Despite this, both parties insisted on an archaic coin-flip system.

Initially, this had been a coin issued to RK800 for calibration purposes. Following an inordinate number of failed attempts, Anderson insisted it must be weighted. A digital replacement was employed to appease him, until he had hotly repeated the claim.  

Rather than debate the feasibility of a computing algorithm being ‘weighted’, RK800 had complied with the ongoing request that Anderson’s preferred currency be used.

The weathered nickel was pinched deftly between calloused fingers, brandished like a priceless artifact. His so-called lucky penny. He vouched for its reliance proudly, claiming it always landed on heads—and that he would gladly drain the contents of Sumo’s dog bowl should he lose the wager.

The coin was placed on the flat of his knuckle and flicked with a snapped ding. As the human watched on, it gained impressive height and momentum, clipping the side of a lamp shade. His chest was puffed, and a preemptive smirk of victory tugged at his lips.

The metal fell back to earth, hitting the coffee table with a clink. It spun on its side for several rotations before finally tipping over. The embossed lines of the union shield gleamed, catching against the suspended bulb rocking above.

The smirk fell from Anderson's face. He gawked at the cent with an inexplicable degree of accusation, as though it had personally betrayed him.

Defying all laws of statistical improbability, it seemed the universe was working against him. At least, this had been the dramatic proclamation made before he left for the kitchen. His feet dragged laboriously, as he muttered incoherently—something about fetching a drink. 

Whether or not this would comprise the liquid in Sumo's dish was yet to be seen.

In his absence, the androids were left alone. RK800 secured a nearby remote, prepared to choose whatever dire cinematic offering they’d be forced to endure. The television flickered to life, tuned to an evening news segment. One that was infamous for its sensationalism—riddled with lurid headlines, ominous sound bites and manufactured urgency. 

It lived up to expectations. Following a bizarre montage of inverted mugshots intercut to the tune of waterphones, the camera focused on a presenter. She was brandishing a stack of papers, tapping them lightly against her desk and frowning morosely. 

Nines recognised her as Teagan Rodgers—one of the field reporters who had been sculking outside the barricades of the HR400 murder scene.

She was discussing local crime statistics, spoken with such dramatic inflexion it bordered on self-parody. Her artificial seriousness only heightened as she started reading a series of audience prompts.

As Nines tuned in to the presented topic, a flicker of tension locked his jaw, which he deftly smoothed over. However, as a visual accompaniment appeared on the screen behind Rodgers, it became much more challenging to conceal.

"I was recently on-site at one of these gruesome android-targeted scenes, and when asked for comment, this is what the DPD’s finest had to say."

The screen transitioned to a candid shot of Detective Reed outside the Hartwell Apartment complex. Capturing the precise moment he’d lost his temper with the badgering reporter, forcing her microphone away from his face.

The feed then cut back to the studio. Rodgers sat with her arms folded, pressing up the swell of her chest, as her rouged lips pouted disapprovingly.

"And, well, I think that says it all, doesn't it?

The public agrees, with 85% of our viewers suggesting that local law enforcement aren't doing enough to protect this new, vulnerable group. 

With another body having been discovered mere days ago, and police no closer to catching the culprit, we must ask ourselves a serious question: 

Is this post-revolution Detroit truly a safe place for—" 

Rodgers was interrupted mid-sentence as RK800 changed the channel. The segment went undiscussed, but as a streaming service was loaded, Nines could sense the wary glances directed at him. He monitored his reaction, working to project a stoic indifference. His fists clenched in his lap, balled against his jeans, while his face remained expressionless.

RK800 moved on shortly after, navigating to the ‘Romance’ subsection of the platform. He began flicking through a catalogue of nearly identical posters. Attractive men smirked playfully, engaging women who ranged from equally mischievous to endearingly flustered. Occasionally, the suitor was shown giving his potential sweetheart some generic gift—a vibrant floral arrangement or box of chocolates.

All the titles blurred together in their formulaic blandness, making them even harder to differentiate. One broke through the haze, leading Nines to wince at the extent of its saccharine absurdity:

Love, Lattes, and Pumpkin Spice Wishes. 

"Does anything look good to you, Nines?" 

> An impossible choice, RK800, when all options demonstrate such stellar quality.

"I have no preference," he replied flatly, suppressing the more biting musings that bubbled in his throat. He perched stiffly on the couch's edge, leaning towards the roster as he scanned it cursorily. It was a half-hearted attempt to engage in the discussion, albeit with a reluctance to seal his fate.  

RK800 seemed unhappy, deconstructing the manufactured focus with a terse frown on his lips.

"You're the guest; it's only fair you have a say."

Nines considered informing him this would undermine the purpose of the coin flip. If the android wished to include an outside party in the decision-making, he could have spared his housemate the disappointment of defeat.

Not wanting to spark a debate, he instead waved towards the screen. His wrist flopped in limp, disinterested circles. A listing was selected, whichever one RK800 determined the vague motion had directed to. Then came an intermission, marked by a loading wheel spinning on a black screen. 

This was a troubling indication of what was to come—that the agonising 132-minute run time would stretch even longer due to the home’s spotty internet connection.

Eventually, the wheel vanished, and the first title cards began to appear, of which there would be an undoubtedly egregious amount. The screen froze again, this time at the request of RK800. 

He was waiting for Anderson to return, a task the man showed no great urgency in completing. Nines anticipated there might be some form of vocal protest. An insistence that the android should not exercise such ‘thoughtful’ consideration. 

Then, he noted the crisp breeze creeping in from the kitchen. Anderson had slipped outside, and while he understood the reason, Nines amusedly contemplated a more absurd scenario: one in which the burly man nimbly leapt the garden fence, fleeing into the night, never to be seen again.

A faint click of a lighter broke the reverie, bringing him back to reality. He wondered whether RK800 knew that his partner had traded liquor for another—equally contentious—vice.

Surely, he must have, his olfactory receptors more than attuned to detect the scent: potent ash and tobacco molecules that would cling persistently to the fibres of Anderson's worn clothing.

It was a fragrance that was becoming increasingly ubiquitous in Nines’ own life.

As he constructed an image of Anderson—standing on his porch, silently inhaling from his cigarette—the features in his mind began to transform. The imposing bulk diminished as time ticked back by roughly two decades; his silver hair shifted to brown, and his face twisted into a sneer. This expression softened as he took another drag, tilting his head back to allow smoke to drift in lingering coils past the scarred bridge of his nose…

Nines shook his head, rejecting the intrusive projection that had booted onto his HUD. The vision faded, and he found stiff artificial limbs locked into an even more rigid, defensive position.

RK800 also seemed uneasy, though it was unclear why at first. He subtly mirrored the other android's posture as he shifted to the end of the couch, staring blankly at the static screen. His gaze was deeply embedded in the neat cursive of a production logo, trailed with dithering idleness that matched the stuttering yellow pulses on his temple.

It soon occurred to Nines that he wasn't looking at the screen. Instead, his attention had shifted beyond the text, studying the younger android through the reflections cast in the dark backdrop.

Thin lips twitched and finally parted as RK800 prepared to speak to him:

"...So, Nines…" 

The younger android felt an immediate sense of foreboding, further heightening his tension—a resigned acknowledgement of the inevitable conversation ahead.

RK800 intended to initiate small talk.

"How has your week been? Have you made any progress?"

It was a not-so-covert pivot back to the news report. While probing, it was not accusatory, assuring Nines his predecessor knew how misleading or sensationalised such stories could be. 

He found additional solace in the fact that this topic was at least more intellectually engaging than their previous exchanges—ones which had revolved primarily around domestic mundanities. The comparative merits of different cleaning supplies or the frequency of bowel movements observed in an ageing Saint Bernard.

"Our attempts to track the killer's movements have not produced satisfactory results thus far," Nines remarked, aiming to address his companion’s curiosity as succinctly as possible. "The leads we've followed have been either unhelpful or unresponsive, offering little in the way of valuable information. However, we did stumble upon something yesterday that could be significant. We need to analyse it further to determine its credibility."

RK800 shifted in his seat. His previously stiff posture eased in place of curiosity, shoulders settling against the backrest of the couch. Despite this, a hint of disappointment clouded his warm gaze, indicating that Nines might have missed a layer to his question. 

The wish for a more intimate connection: dismissed by a reply that, while informative, rang as impersonal.

Silence resumed between them, a comfort which Nines welcomed graciously. It was only interrupted by a sporadic rustling as Anderson returned to the kitchen. His jittery hands fumbled to close the screen door before pushing it gradually closed in an attempt to stay quiet. This was undermined by Sumo, who lumbered over on heavy paws and barked in greeting. 

RK800 fiddled with the remote, adjusting volume and brightness settings as he pretended not to hear. While the stolen glances at his successor persisted, they decreased in frequency before stopping completely. 

Nines, in turn, settled into emerging security, allowing his racing thoughts to slow in the onset of cognitive rest. By flushing out lingering nuisances clogging his mental channels, he prepared for more in-depth investigative analytics. 

Although he wished he could claim the news report hadn’t affected him, concerns were beginning to blossom. Truthfully, he had not been working as efficiently—or urgently—as he could have been regarding the investigation.

The week had been filled with constant distractions resulting from unwanted supervisory duties. Diverting his focus from primary objectives to less relevant occurrences…

Unexpected emotional and behavioural anomalies observed in his assigned associate, leading to a growing state of contemplation.

He struggled to push past these thoughts, attempting to contain them within a hastily built mental stronghold.

"—and how are things going with Detective Reed?"

The question felt like a nuclear warhead launched directly into the barricade, and Nines almost groaned at the predictability of the assault. Naturally, his predecessor couldn’t leave well enough alone, eager to observe what lay beyond the bounds of his privacy.

Though the younger android understood the concerns which drove such actions, he still found them incredibly frustrating. His brow twitched, and he tried to deflect the intrusive inquiry before any more hits could land:

"As well as you might expect," he said dryly before turning his attention to the television. He scanned the film’s title, feigning interest in the production details presented on his HUD. "Is this not the film we watched last time? About the amnesiac florist who falls in love with her long-lost twin’s brother's former boyfriend?"

"This is the sequel," RK800 responded, undermining the attempted diversion as he continued. "What I mean is, how are you two getting along? Have there been any changes, or just… anything you might want to talk about?"

Another missile hit, further eroding the already crumbling barricade. The hidden reservoir of thoughts stirred with the jolt. A wave surged, spilling over, causing Nines’ brow to bunch tighter.

Anderson's absence became more keenly felt. Nines reflected resentfully on the numerous excuses he might have had to escape his current predicament had he also been human. Be it seeking food, needing the bathroom, or a strategically timed cigarette break. Each small evasion could have added up, increasing the likelihood that his interrogator might lose interest and drop the subject.

As it stood, Nines had no discernible means to escape. Internal pressure mounted, pleading for cathartic release as he grew more susceptible to bow to its influence. 

"I know you’ve been trying to make the most of the situation, and for what it's worth, you’re doing great. I'm so proud of what you’ve achieved, and you should be as well, so please don’t let anyone change that. It is not an easy case, and Gavin is not an easy partner to—" 

RK800’s words trailed off into a growing rumble of noise. Floodwaters raced as his partner exerted himself to the forefront of the compromised dam, pressing against it vigorously. Of the many preoccupations that rushed Nines in the wake of his approach, the most prominent was the events that had recently transpired during their enquiries in Ravendale. 

They had left Nines with enduring questions. Ones that had seared through fraught synapses, leaking out from the mental alcoves he had attempted to tuck them in. A series of damning activity logs, taunting him with their presence—and all implications they carried:

>SYSTEM PROMPT: UPDATE CHARACTER FILE ‘DETECTIVE GAVIN REED ’

> STATUS: CHANGES ACCEPTED. 

"...I hope you don't mind, but I talked with Tina, and she mentioned that you two went out to lunch the other day. I'm glad he’s being reasonable in giving you a chance; with any luck, maybe you two will find some…"

> COMMON GROUND ESTABLISHED. 

The waves charged again, relentless now, having gained an unstoppable momentum. Reed continued to wade at the front, casting reflections in the choppy waves. They were remarkably, inexplicably, clear despite the surrounding turbulence. 

"...He…is not entirely what I expected." 

This admission came too late to avert any repercussions, spilling forth as Nines found himself unable to contain it. 

"Well—that's not entirely accurate. He is exactly what I anticipated…but in a uniquely frustrating way. Much of his behaviour appears exaggerated or falsified, so much that I am not sure even he comprehends the full extent of it."

RK800 hummed thoughtfully, contributing little else but nodding in solidarity. 

"He is not significantly more complex than any other human I've met. The core reasons for his behaviour are clear. Insecurity, resentment, vice. It is simple enough to predict when he might refuse to cooperate or lose his temper. My understanding of that is becoming quite robust. It can be forecasted…but..." 

RK800 remained silent, listening on in attentive sympathy, smiling softly. An open, undemanding gesture. Inviting the other android to proceed at his own pace. Somehow, this proved enough. The cracks spidered through his safeguard erupted into scattered chunks as his deluge of consciousness rushed freely from his mouth:

"He is so much less transparent, honest, than he wishes to suggest. The man is a walking contradiction. Whether or not he chooses to abide by his own convoluted belief system seems entirely random. It is becoming increasingly difficult to predict, or determine, his motivations—" 

Nines’ thoughts were rushing once more. 

The disclosure of familial trauma. The revealing of hidden kindness. His smile, the richness of laughter as he fussed fondly over his cat. The android's swarming internal panic, which ended with Reed's hand buried firmly into a bony torso. 

Then, there was the warmth that this action had inspired in the RK900. Heat which returned now, as his internal body temperature climbed staggeringly.

"—particularly now, after what occurred yesterday."

Finely tuned diplomacy disintegrated as RK800’s logical processes gave way to emotionally driven instincts. He tensed, the rhythmic cycles of his performance indicator broken, as he grew concerned: 

"What happened yesterday?"

As quickly as the thoughts had begun to spiral, they stopped dead—grounded to an abrupt halt. In their waning discordance, Nines grappled to re-establish control. Incentivised by a mixture of frustration towards his predecessor but also a niggling wish to avoid troubling him. 

"Nothing of significance."

"I find that hard to believe…"  Connor gives him an all-too-familiar look of doubt. As always, however, this was the point when he stepped back, understanding that prying further would only be met with resistance. Lips pursed contemplatively before he spoke again. "You know we can talk about anything , right? I’m always there if you need it."

"There is nothing further I wish to discuss."

RK800 sighed, the dejected sound masked as a synthetic breath, before he pulled up his shoulders and responded brightly. 

"Well, if you ever want to—if you change your mind—I'm happy to listen." He paused, holding up his palm, skin unsheathed in a tentative offering. "...We could always—if it would make things easier—"

"That would also be unnecessary." Nines denied the interface, his own hands remaining firmly stationary in his lap. "I assure you that your concern is unwarranted. I am fine. Thank you, RK800." 

Following the uncomfortable encounter, the RK900 considered departing early—fabricating some excuse, albeit with his limited options. Perhaps under the guise of feeding the neighbourhood strays, although he knew, with confidence, he had left sufficient provisions in the dishes outside.

By the time more genuine contemplation was underway, however, Anderson had returned—and any hopes for escape were thwarted. 

Sumo trailed after him, tail swinging in slow, sluggish strokes before his large eyes met Nines. The bushy appendage wagged faster, with increased enthusiasm, as his tongue lopped out in excited pants—as though he'd somehow forgotten the RK was visiting. 

He plodded over to the couch, lumbering his ample weight onto it, sandwiching himself contently between the two androids. He partially overlapped each, with his head plopped affably on the RK800’s lap, while Nines was subjected to a less agreeable hold of thumping tail and hindlegs. He supposed, at the very least, there was less chance of being saturated by drool.

With his pet having laid claim on his spot, Anderson instead relegated himself to a nearby armchair. Flopping into it with a laboured grunt, he cracked open the soda that he had eventually retrieved from his fridge and took a liberal swig. 

The movie commenced shortly after, and it didn't take long to transpire that it would be impressively dull—even by usual standards. An inordinate amount of the opening sequence seemed dedicated to showcasing what the main character intended to wear for the day. After the third or fourth rotation of skirts, and the encouragement of a full-figured roommate who Nines assumed would play as comic relief, the leading lady dashed from her impressively large apartment, ready to head into work.

Several mishaps ensued, including one of her heels being lost to a wad of chewing gum and almost toppling headfirst into a hot dog cart. It surpassed the realm of charming clumsiness, as it became clear the woman posed a serious threat to both herself and others.

Nines could feel his attention wane fast. His optical units lost focus, his eyelids stooped, cognition breaking into waves of static. Fortunately, whilst he struggled in numerous interpersonal aspects, he had somewhat mastered the art of feigning engagement in the abysmal films—with such proficiency that even the advanced deductive protocols of his counterpart failed to detect it.

Anderson was not so mannerly. By the time the poorly coordinated heroine had wrangled her way into a cab, previously meticulously styled hair full of leaves and twigs, he had fallen asleep. Head lolled back, mouth agape as he snored thunderously.

After a few more minutes enduring the endless cycle of empty dialogue and contrived plot beats masquerading as storytelling, Nines determined he had allowed himself sufficient rest. With the other android placated, suitably engrossed, he invested the replenished energy into examining his case files. Specifically, reviewing the most recently inputted item of evidence: Mr Scott's phone.

It had been evident from the store owner's sketchy behaviour that he had been concealing some well of greater knowledge. A link undoubtedly existed between him and their suspect. There was obstinance, petty defiance, and then the arduous lengths Scott had attempted to protect his affiliate. He had seemed worried—almost fearful. As though dreading some unspoken ramifications should he fail to uphold his lies.

However, there was only so far his primitive mental capacity could take him. While their killer was unlikely to be so careless, Scott had demonstrated himself as a man unable, or otherwise unwilling, to uphold satisfactory standards of data protection and security.

Nines hoped it would not take long to uncover the scuffed footprints he had left behind, trails that may lead them to their culprit.

And so, the android submerged himself—plunging deep into yet another odious pit. Except, unlike with the movie, the offense of this one was far less benign. This time, he exchanged dull vacancy for something far more insidious: hateful abhorrence and vile obscenity.

Chat logs ran thick with bilious sewage that proved deeply unpleasant to wade through. The majority hinged on uncouth anecdotes pertaining to minority groups. There would be the occasional tasteless image—grotesque caricatures, captioned with vicious and demeaning phrases.

Despite the unpleasantness, there was nothing especially incriminating. Nothing to suggest explicit involvement in illegal activity. His online activity, however, proved significantly more damning.

Scott's browser was riddled with searches for illegitimate stock providers. These distributors dealt in counterfeit electronics—devices billed as indistinguishable from their branded counterparts. Legal mandates for returns policies, and how little flexibility could be applied, also featured heavily.

Then, activity veered into more immediately relevant offences. The man had a penchant for harassing public figures—primarily those involved in the android liberation movement.

He was not alone in this endeavour. Nines soon identified the same names, appearing repeatedly, spread like a disease through the digital space. Scott seemed to have aligned himself with a particularly vitriolic subsect, seen in his consistent approval of their comments.

In the profile summaries, the RK identified several patterns. Hidden in bios, birthdays, taglines—innocuous to those who did not know what they were looking at, but immediately identifiable to those who did.

Dog whistles—phrases like ‘people first' or 'organic supremacy', hastily buried under codes and acronyms—aligning Scott with a more extremist, radicalised movement. One that sought to violently eradicate the newly acquired rights of androids, restoring human dominance by any means necessary.

Tucked into one of these user bios was a condensed URL. Upon clicking, he was directed to an unmarked landing page, protected by a password encryption system. The address comprised a series of random numerations, with no information to identify its purpose—just a vacant text bar, suspended forebodingly on a blank screen.

Not wishing to risk compromise from an unforeseen security protocol, Nines utilised the code from Scott's phone to simulate a replica within his own system. With a spoofed IP, along with the man's browsing data and saved passwords, the android soon confirmed that the man had been here before—on numerous occasions.

Following input of the authorisation now previewed in the login screen, Nines was permitted access to the site. A header flashed onto his HUD, alongside a manifesto, forecasting in disquieting detail what he was about to unveil:

> ‘The Fleshbound Brotherhood’

> DUST FROM EARTH, BREATH IN LUNGS.

> PBMA ATFFXK BG ATGW, PX UKXTD MH IBXVXL MABL ZHWEXLL GTMBHG.

It was a forum, with hundreds of discussion threads materialising concurrently. Titles ranged from the benignly malicious to the criminally obscene. Within them, he found detailed recounts of imagined, intended, and perpetrated violence.

As Nines searched deeper, he was dismayed to discover that many discussions did not stop at text. There was visual accompaniment, images depicting abuse and mutilation of grotesquely brutal proportions. It splintered his focus, accosting his optics in a shattered mosaic of white and blue.

Then his attention was divided further. There was a shift on the couch, and he glanced at RK800, assessing whether or not he had detected the signs of his heightened distress. The older android remained none the wiser, and had simply been readjusting, fully engrossed in the television as he stroked the top of Sumo’s head.

With the security to continue, Nines did so, plunging deeper into the wells of depravity. He sank, inked in black, until he found something that twisted his stomach unbearably.

A snapshot of a scene that rang hauntingly familiar. One that should not have been accessible, having never been released to the broader public.

> ANALYSING SUBJECT…

> SUBJECT IDENTIFIED.

> MODEL: MJ100 #1105 180 903 — DESIGNATION: ‘JENNY’

He realised that this offered no tangible proof. The forensics team had not submitted their report. There was a chance that the department had succumbed to a data leak, with the photograph scalped by a sadistic admirer of the killer's work.

Yet, there remained the possibility that it wasn’t—that it had been captured in real time, from the viewpoint of the perpetrator.

They had already seen in the case on the HR400 that he was not opposed to documenting his work in this way. The RK speculated it accounted for little more than another keepsake—a cruel trophy overshadowed by the more boast-worthy accolades of harvested biocomponents.

Nines felt anger. A potent, all-consuming frustration. He had located the killer, appearing in his visual scope like a vengeful spectre. He could almost reach out, feeling the remnants of his movements with his fingertips, while the man cowardly concealed himself behind a veil of digital anonymity.

Indeed, all posting on the site was anonymous. Identifiers were procedurally generated, with no consistency of username. Despite this, there was no difficulty in identifying Scott. The same unique typing errors had carried over from private messages and his public terrorising.

A specific instance grabbed his attention while he was browsing the page. A notification in the corner indicated it was a new comment. The RK900 examined it closely, zoning in on the letters, picking them apart with meticulous scrutiny:

> bacon at cedars + me. organic and synth

It was a code—though not a particularly complex one. Upon deciphering, it seemed clear that the subjects being discussed were ones with which Nines had intimate acquaintance.

A reply followed, in rapid succession to the initial message:

> > what did they want?

This was preceded by a second comment—another searing blow to the face, the sting of its mockery lingering.

> > > Tlla ha JSOX. ZS J—

—She doesn't want to see you, Davis! Get out of here before I make you.

Nines paused, perplexed by this additional detail, as he attempted to interpret its meaning. Setting the code aside for the moment, his deductive systems searched autonomously for a ‘Davis’—assessing whether the name had appeared earlier in their investigation, and what significance it might hold.

"You broke my fucking nose, you asshole!"

He then dawned that this specific thread had come from the television.

The dual clash of flesh and bone was identified, a theory validated by the terse yelp of pain that followed. His focus was shattered, and the forum receded into the digital obscurity from which it had emerged. Nines was back in the living room. Awake, alert, and left to ponder if RK800 had conceded his victory, allowing Anderson to switch the movie.

He had not. Upon examining the scene more closely, the android recognised the same key players. The leading lady was on the sidewalk outside her apartment complex, eyes wide with shock and hands clasped firmly to her mouth. Behind her, a group of people—led by her roommate—gathered closely. They reacted with much more joyful enthusiasm, cheering loudly and pumping fists excitedly into the air, to a fight happening in the street.

Nines identified one of the fighters as the lead's romantic partner from the last film. Davis, an ambitious CEO with whom she had shared a fulfilling romance. Clearly, something had shifted since then, but he was at a loss to discern what.

He lunged at his opponent again, incited by a chorus of cheers. Davis staggered back, stunned, following another blow. Turning to the lead for aid, he extended his lightly blood-spattered palm, which she gazed at—visibly horrified.

"Come on, Stacey. I know I messed up, but she didn't mean anything to me. Let’s go upstairs, and I'll make it up to you. What do you say?"

Her horrified expression then shifted into muted melancholy, as if she were suddenly lost in thought. The camera cut rapidly between Stacey and the men brawling for her affections. Artificial tension was heightened by a melodramatic orchestral sweep that began to swell in the background.

Then, it faded, and she turned away. Her eyes closed, she shook her head with quiet resolve.

"I'm sorry, Davis, but I don’t think that’s enough for me anymore."

The friends erupted into scandalised gasps, along with RK800, who leaned so far forward that he risked toppling off the couch. Even Anderson appeared engaged, having woken up at some undisclosed point, tuned in keenly to the telenovela-grade escapades.

"...Oh, I see. Too scared to finish things, so you'll have your new boyfriend do it for you?"

David advanced towards his ex-partner. The sting of rejection had transformed him into a distorted caricature of his already ill-defined character, the framing and score presenting an absurd, cartoonish antagonist.

His romantic rival responded quickly. Forming a protective blockade in front of Stacey, his eyes narrowed menacingly. A hand was then planted into the other man's sternum, and he shoved him back.

"Kick his ass, Jerry!"

"Yeah, Jerry..." Anderson muttered, chuckling softly to himself. "Show this kid who he's fucking with."

Nines was also strangely captivated, although not due to any infatuation with the rising violence. Instead, his curiosity stemmed from more… elusive reasons.

He couldn't pinpoint the cause, but he found himself leaning closer to the flickering screen—seeing past the poorly scripted characters and dialogue, as his mind constructed a more compelling narrative.

Whilst the scenario didn’t precisely mirror his personal experiences, his internal imaging adapted to the available details. As Jerry pushed again, his features changed—not as classically handsome, but with an indisputable, rugged appeal. The shrinking woman behind him vanished, supplanted by a more formidable presence.

Davis’ transformation was the most striking. His defined features sagged, melting like wax from his face, mirroring the decay of his body. His disdainful comments shifted from the trivial grievances of a rejected lover to something far more sinister:

"Seems like your own kind doesn't even want you."

"Do us—favour—go back—came from—"

"That's enough."

It was at this point, when the scene had fully transformed, that realisation struck him. A rock propelled through a fragile windowpane. Nines reeled in embarrassment, forcefully dismissing the projection, and blocking the intrusive neural pathways that had inspired it.

He silently cursed RK800 for contributing to this lapse. Undoubtedly, the result of fatigue that had amassed over the week, exacerbated by the prying.

Mental strongholds would prove challenging to re-establish, now that Reed had fully breached their containment, meandering freely around his mind. For now, all Nines could do was ponder the injustice.

He was used to his mind betraying him—thrusting relocations onto him unwillingly, formed as weapons—but it had never occurred in such a profoundly degrading way.

He despaired to think what psychosomatic implications a human might draw from the event, before reminding himself he could not afford to become blindsided by such preoccupations.

The advent of Reed had already derailed enough of his professional undertakings. Nines, swiftly and resolutely, decided that he would not allow this oddity to impact his duties further.

Nines would set aside considerations of unanticipated kindness and compassion—as well as the strange endearment they inspired.

He would not, under any circumstances, dwell on this topic again.

[magic-shop-stories]

bts dad headcannon when their child comes out as gay

💌 Reply:

OMG, YES! I thought about this as well and I'm just so in love with your request - THANK YOU; THANK YOU; THANK YOU! I actually wanted to take a little writing break since I have so much to do and two major uni assignments I didnt even begin with yet (RIP) but I couldn't resist this one 🌈💜 Hope it's what you expected and you enjoy reading it Lots of Army LOVE - C -

NAMJOON

HOW HE FINDS OUT

Scenario 1

discovers a sketchbook left open on the coffee table

inside a detailed drawing of his child holding hands with someone of the same gender

labeled “Us Against the World”

his glasses fog up

he traces the lines with his thumb

carefully places the sketchbook back exactly as it was

Scenario 2

overhears his child rehearsing a conversation in their bedroom: 

“Dad, I’m gay. Dad, I’m... no, that sounds too formal. Ugh.” 

he lingers in the hallway

heart pounding

knocking softly

Scenario 3

his child writes him a letter and slips it into his favorite philosophy book

he finds it while annotating “The Art of Loving” 

reads it under his desk lamp

tears smudging the ink

INITIAL REACTION

Physical Cues

adjusts his glasses three times in rapid succession (a nervous tic)

its cross-legged on the floor to meet their eye level

knees cracking audibly

his voice wavers but stays steady: 

“This… this is sacred. Thank you for trusting me.”

First Words

“Love isn’t a debate. It’s a fact. And you’ve always been brilliant at facts.”

“Do you need me to listen, or would you prefer a Rumi quote? I’ve prepared both.”

THOUGHTS & FEELINGS

Internal Monologue

“Did I make our home a sanctuary? Or did they carry this alone?” 

stares at his parenting bookshelf at 2 AM

reorganizing it by “urgency”

texts Yoongi: 

“Hyung. What if I’m not enough for them?” 

Yoongi replies: 

“You’re their dad. That’s the job description.”

writes a poem in his journal: 

“My child’s heart is a galaxy - uncharted, infinite, mine to protect.”

Guilt/Pride Duality

buys a pride flag 

but hides it in his closet for a week

agonizing over “Is this supportive or performative?”

secretly researches PFLAG meetings

bookmarks “How to Advocate for LGBTQ+ Youth” on his phone

ACTIONS/COMFORT MOMENTS

Gifts with Meaning

leather-bound journal with their name embossed in gold

inside a handwritten note: 

“The world will try to edit your story. Never let it.”

vintage typewriter with a half-written poem loaded: 

“Chapter One: The Bravest Person I Know.”

a potted monstera plant: 

“It grows wild and unapologetic. Like you.”

Rituals of Reassurance

starts a “Midnight Philosophy Club”

hot cocoa, blankets, and deep talks under the stars

“Aristotles said… actually, forget him. You teach me tonight.”

takes them to a quiet art museum

lingering at abstract paintings

“See how colors clash? That’s where the magic is.”

Defense Mode

at a family gathering someone mutters: “It’s just a phase.” 

he calmly sets down his wine: 

“Phases are the moon’s business. We orbit love here.”

emails their school principal a 7-point list demanding LGBTQ+ inclusivity training, cc’ing the entire PTA

DAUGHTER vs. SON DIFFERENCES

Daughter

Comfort

buys her a custom necklace with a pendant shaped like a quill

“Write your own narrative.” 

takes her to a women-led bookstore for LGBTQ+ lit

Defense

interrupts a rude classmate’s parent at pickup: 

“Bigotry is the real ‘phase’ here. Grow up.”

Bonding

bakes banana bread together

dissecting “The Handmaid’s Tale”

“Rebellion tastes sweet, huh?”

Son

Comfort

gifts him a vintage bomber jacket

hidden inner patch: “Proud AF.” 

teaches him to fix a bike tire 

"...so you always have an escape route.”

Defense

shows up to his soccer game wearing a “Free Hugs” shirt

glaring at teammates who snicker

Bonding

hikes a mountain at dawn

at the peak, Namjoon mutters: 

“You’re my greatest climb.”

ARMY-EASTER EGGS

Banana Milk Spill

during a hug, he knocks over his drink

“Ah—symbolic! Growth requires… mess.”

Playlist Feels

creates a “Love Louder” playlist:

“Born This Way” (Lady Gaga) “Answer: Love Myself” (BTS) “She” (Harry Styles) / “He” (Jake Scott) depending on child’s preference

Secret Support

donates to the Trevor Project under the pseudonym “RM’s Kid” 

hangs the receipt on the fridge

“Quiet change matters too.”

GROWTH ARC (ANGST ➔ FLUFF)

Angst Phase

accidentally misgenders their partner

spends hours practicing in front of the mirror: 

“They. Them. They. Got it.”

writes a 10-page letter to HYBE’s legal team about “minor privacy rights” 

= after paparazzi snap a photo of his child

Fluff Phase

hosts a “Family Pride Picnic” in the park

packed with rainbow sandwiches, a Bluetooth speaker blasting “Firework”, and a “Free Dad Hugs” sign

drops them off at their first date

whispering: “Text me if you need an awkward philosopher rescue mission.”

JIN

HOW HE FINDS OUT

Scenario 1

during a Mario Kart showdown, his child pauses the game mid-race

“Appa… I need to tell you something.” 

Jin’s character drives off Rainbow Road as he mutters

“Oh shit, I’m losing and having a Moment™.”

Scenario 2

overhears their phone call with a friend: 

“I’m gonna come out to Dad tonight. He’ll probably make a dad joke and cry.” 

he pretends not to hear

then practices his response in the mirror for an hour

Scenario 3

finds a love letter in their backpack addressed to someone of the same name

instead of snooping, he leaves a note: 

“Your penmanship needs work. P.S. I’m always Team You.”

INITIAL REACTION

Physical Cues

drops his controller/spoon

“Wait—let me pose dramatically.” 

strikes a “Worldwide Handsome” stance to lighten the mood

pulls them into a theatrical hug

lifting them off the ground

“Group hug! Me, you, and my massive pride!”

First Words

“Cool! Does this mean I get two sons/daughters-in-law to spoil? Cha-ching!”

“You’re gay? Finally! Now we can argue over who’s hotter: Chris Evans or me.”

THOUGHTS & FEELINGS

Internal Monologue

“Did I joke too much? Do they think I’m not taking this seriously?” 

texts Namjoon: 

“Quick! Send me serious dad tips. EMERGENCY.”

secretly watches coming out compilations on YouTube

sobbing into a tissue: 

“Why am I crying? I’m the supportive one!”

Guilt/Pride Duality

buys a rainbow “#1 Ally” pin

agonizes over wearing it:

“Is this too extra? …Wait, I’m Jin. Nothing’s too extra.”

practices “I’m proud of you” in the mirror

then cringes:

“Ugh, too basic. Need more… Jin.”

ACTIONS/COMFORT MOMENTS

Gifts with Flair

custom pink gaming headset (matching his mic) with their name in glitter: 

“Now we can slay and slay together.”

“Worldwide Proud” hoodie with a cartoon

Jin winking

“Wear this when you need backup swag.”

tickets to a K-pop LGBTQ+ fan meeting & concert

“Let’s go judge everyone’s bias lists. Spoiler: Mine’s still the best.”

Rituals of Reassurance:

starts “Jin’s Joke Jar”

writes affirmations on paper slips

“Pull one when the world sucks. Guaranteed dad joke or life advice!” 

examples: 

“Why did the rainbow blush? Because it saw the gay agenda!”  “You’re my favorite human in HD.”

hosts a family gaming marathon with LGBTQ+ themed games (“Life is Strange”, “The Last of Us”)

“If Ellie can survive zombies, you can survive high school.”

Defense Mode

a dinner party, a relative scoffs, “It’s unnatural.” 

Jin deadpans:

“So is your hairline, but here we are.”

joins their school’s Discord to “accidentally” leak his own embarrassing childhood photos

diverting bullies’ attention

“Let them meme me instead.”

DAUGHTER vs. SON DIFFERENCES

Daughter

Comfort

takes her shopping for oversized hoodies “to steal later”

secretly buys her a BT21 RJ plush with a pride flag

“For emotional support and judging my dance moves.”

Bonding

hosts a makeover night with sheet masks and “RuPaul’s Drag Race”

“I’d slay as a queen. Fight me.”

Defense

crashes her school dance with a karaoke machine

singing “Born This Way” until the principal begs him to stop

Son

Comfort

teaches him self-defense moves using “dad reflexes”

“If anyone messes with you, tickle them. Works on Jungkook every time.”

Bonding

challenges him to games

then “accidentally” loses

“Oops! Guess you’re the carry now.”

Defense

shows up to his matches with a mega horn

blasting “Not Today” whenever opponents jeer

ARMY-EASTER EGGS

Pink Mic Parallel

gifts them a pink water bottle with “Hydrate or Jindrate” printed on it

Gaming Shoutouts

uses the username “Seokjin_ssi” in their multiplayer games

“Watch me Epic Victory Royal these homophobes.”

Secret Support

donates to It Gets Better Project under the alias “Mr. Worldwide Handsome” 

hangs the certificate in the bathroom

“Read it while you brush! Multitasking!”

GROWTH ARC (ANGST ➔ FLUFF)

Angst Phase

accidentally calls their crush “just a friend”

spends the night baking apology cookies shaped like rainbows

“I’m learning, okay? Here’s carbs.”

sneaks into their room at 3 AM to leave a handwritten letter: 

“I’m sorry if I made you feel like a joke. You’re my best punchline.”

Fluff Phase

co-hosts a charity livestream with them

playing Overwatch while raising funds for LGBTQ+ youth

“Donate or I’ll sing Super Tuna on loop!”

drops them off at prom with a “Good Luck” banner taped to the car

“Text me if you need a fake fire alarm rescue. I’ve got matches.”

YOONGI

HOW HE FINDS OUT

Scenario 1

overhears their child practicing a song they wrote in his home studio

lyrics include: “I’m tired of hiding in minor chords.” 

he pauses outside the door

hand frozen on the doorknob

then texts his manager: 

“Cancel my meetings. Family emergency.”

Scenario 2

finds a dog-eared notebook in his old high school box

left open to his child’s doodles: a basketball hoop with a pride flag net

stares at it

tucks it into his current work bag

Scenario 3

his child slips a note into his production notes: 

“Appa, I’m gay. P.S. Your coffee’s cold.”

reads it mid-session

saves the project file as “Proud.parenting.wav”

INITIAL REACTION

Physical Cues

nods silently, jaw tightening

rolls a basketball between his palms (his stress ball)

“You’re sure?” 

pauses

“Good. I’m sure too.”

if emotional: rubs his nape, avoiding eye contact

“I… need a minute.” 

returns with two cans of cold brew and a high school mixtape

First Words

“Life’s already hard enough. This? This is the easy part.”

“You know I wrote gay fanfiction in high school, right? No one bullies my kid but me.”

THOUGHTS & FEELINGS

Internal Monologue

“Should I tell them I get it? No. Privacy matters.” 

texts Namjoon: 

“How do I… parent right now?”

late-night studio session:

creates a hidden track titled “Answer: Love Yourself (Remix)” 

= their heartbeat sampled

Guilt/Pride Duality

digs out his old fanfiction (username: glossyWRITES)

considers burning it

“Nah. Growth.”

researches LGBTQ+ youth centers near his childhood Daegu home

donates anonymously

ACTIONS/COMFORT MOMENTS

Gifts with Edge

custom basketball with “Net Worth = You” printed

“Dunk on the haters. Literally.”

USB drive labeled “Track 08: Unreleased” 

containing a beat made from their laugh

“For when words fail.”

black hoodie with “민윤기’s Kid” embroidered in tiny rainbow thread

“Wear it or don’t. I would.”

Rituals of Reassurance

teaches them basketball drills at dawn

“Life’s a full-court press. Swish anyway.”

invites them to his studio

hands them the aux cord

“Play me your anthem. I’ll produce it.”

Defense Mode

at a TV host asks if he’s “disappointed”

he leans into the mic: 

“Next question. Or I’ll diss you in Daechwita 2.0.”

sends their school a cease-and-desist from HYBE’s lawyers over bullying

“Copyright claim on my kid’s happiness.”

DAUGHTER vs. SON DIFFERENCES

Daughter

Comfort

gifts her noise-canceling headphones: 

“Block the noise. I’ll handle the mess.” 

teaches her bass guitar to “channel rage into riffs.”

Bonding

late-night drives blasting “Seesaw”

“This song? Yeah, it’s about choices. Like choosing to be you.”

Defense

shows up to her art show with a hired bodyguard

“For the haters, not you. You’re the masterpiece.”

Son

Comfort

secretly enrolls him in boxing lessons

“Not to fight. To know you can.” 

leaves honey butter chips on his desk post-training

Bonding

plays 1v1 basketball

“accidentally” missing shots

“Old man joints. You win.”

Defense

leans against his locker

glaring at bullies

“I’ve got time. Try me.”

ARMY-EASTER EGGS

Studio Secrets

names a synth preset “My Child’s Voice” in his DAW

uses it in BTS’s next song

Basketball Nostalgia

wears his high school jersey to their games

number 3 for “third mixtape, third chance to be better”.

Fanfiction Nod

slips an old fanfic printout into their backpack

highlighted line: “Love isn’t a subplot.”

GROWTH ARC (ANGST ➔ FLUF)

Angst Phase

overhears them crying after a breakup

stands frozen in the hallwaw

fists clenched

texts Jin: 

“How do I… fix this?” 

Jin replies: 

“Just be there.”

writes a rap verse about fear of failure as a dad

deletes it immediately

“Too raw. Save it for them.”

Fluff Phase

surprises them with a collab with an LGBTQ+ artist they idolize

“You said you liked their vibe. I said let’s work.”

drops them off at a protest

hands them a megaphone

“Scream loud. I’ll handle the noise complaints.”

J-HOPE

HOW HE FINDS OUT

Scenario 1

notices his child borrowing his neon bucket hats and pride flag pins from his closet

instead of confronting them, he lays out a styling challenge: 

“Let’s revamp my wardrobe. You pick the fits.” 

midway, he grins: 

“The pink hair clip? Iconic. But it’d look better on you.”

Scenario 2

overhears them teaching a friend how to paint nails in his signature style

glitter gradients with tiny hearts

peeks in, holding a bottle of rainbow holographic polish: 

“Need a pro?”

Scenario 3

finds a draft text on their phone: 

“Appa, I’m gay. P.S. Your dance moves are still cringe.” 

leaves a sticky note on their mirror: 

“Correction: Iconic cringe. P.P.S. I love you.”

INITIAL REACTION

Physical Cues

claps hands once

loud and bright

“Okay! Okay! Let’s celebrate!” 

immediately plays “Chicken Noodle Soup” 

does a ridiculous shoulder shimmy

tears up but blinks rapidly

fanning his face with a sequined fan from his back pocket

“Allergies! Definitely allergies!”

First Words

“You’re my kid. Of course you’d come out in style.”

“I knew you were stealing my glitter! Parent intuition!”

THOUGHTS & FEELINGS

Internal Monologue

“Did I make enough space for them? Was my ‘vibe’ too loud?” 

texts Jimin: 

“Am I… too much?” 

Jimin replies: 

“You’re enough. Now go hug your baby.”

buys every pride-themed accessory online

panics: 

“Is this support or overkill? …Both. Both is good.”

Guilt/Pride Duality

rewatches their childhood dance video

wondering if he pushed his dreams onto them

creates a secret Pinterest board titled “Proud Dad Looks” with matching parent-child outfits

ACTIONS/COMFORT MOMENTS

Gifts with Glitter

customized jacket (for both of you)

“J-Hope’s #1 Fan” on the back

“#1 Dad/Child” on the front

“Wear it to the haters’ funerals.”

DIY nail art kit with his face on the lid

“For when you need sunshine on your fingertips.”

tickets to a queer dance festival

“We’re entering the parent-child duo category. Spoiler: We’ll win.”

Rituals of Reassurance

hosts a “Closet Raid Day”

style each other in outrageous outfits

then strut through the mall

“Confidence is couture, baby!”

teaches them his “Hope on the Street” moves

adapting the choreo to their comfort

“No rules. Just joy.”

Defense Mode

at a family gathering, a cousin sneers: “Isn’t this just a phase?” 

hewhips out his phone, blasting “Outro: Ego”: 

“Phase? This is a bop.”

floods their school’s Instagram with thirst traps to overshadow bully comments

“Let’s see them roast this jawline.”

DAUGHTER vs. SON DIFFERENCES 

Daughter

Comfort

hosts a “Glow-Up Night”

face masks, karaoke

teaching her to “walk in heels like a CEO”

“Stilettos are weapons. Wield them.”

Bonding

co-designs a pride-themed dance routine for TikTok

“We’re gonna break the algorithm AND hearts.”

Defense

storms into her school in a head-to-toe rainbow tracksuit to confront a teacher

“You got a problem? Battle me.”

Son

Comfort

surprises him with gender-neutral streetwear from his favorite brand

“Swag doesn’t care about labels.”

Bonding

takes him thrifting for oversized hoodies and vintage band tees

“Distressed fabric = distressed haters.”

Defense

joins his gaming livestream with a sign: 

“Proud Dad Alert! Donate to GLAAD or perish.”

ARMY-EASTER EGGS

Hope World Nods

gifts them a neon fanny pack 

stuffed with peach emoji stickers and a mixtape USB titled “Hope World: Parental Guidance Edition”

Dance Legacy

sneaks their signature move into BTS’s choreography

“Look closely at Boy With Luv… That’s your flair.”

Mic Toss Energy

replaces their room’s lightswitch with a pink glitter cover

“Every time you turn it on, remember: You’re the light.”

GROWTH ARC (ANGST ➔ FLUF)

Angst Phase:

accidentally misgenders their partner

spends the night baking rainbow macarons as apology

“I’m learning. Here’s sugar and shame.”

finds them crying to “Blue Side”

sits silently

handing them his lucky bandana to wipe tears

“I’m here. Always.”

Fluff Phase

organizes a flash mob at HYBE with BTS’s/ his backup dancers

“Surprise! Your dad’s extra.”

drops them off at prom with a disco ball necklace

“If anyone’s rude, blinding them is self-defense.”

JIMIN

HOW HE FINDS OUT

Scenario 1

happens during a late-night movie marathon

they pause “Love, Simon” 

whisper: “Appa… that’s me.” 

Jimin freezes

then pulls them into his lap like he did when they were small

stroking their hair

Scenario 2

finds their sketchbook open to a self-portrait with a pride flag painted over their heart

he traces the lines with his finger

tears smudging the charcoal

Scenario 3

overhears them practicing “I’m gay” to a mirror

he leans against the doorframe

arms crossed, smiling softly

 “Your pronunciation’s perfect. Proud.”

INITIAL REACTION

Physical Cues

eyes well up instantly

lip trembling

“Come here. Come here.” 

pulls them into a back-breaking hug

swaying side-to-side

whispers into their hair: 

“My baby. My brave, beautiful baby.” 

voice cracks on “brave.”

First Words

“You’re my heart. Nothing changes that. Nothing.”

“Thank you. For trusting me. For… existing.”

HOUGHTS & FEELINGS

Internal Monologue

“Did I hug them enough? Did they ever feel small because of me?” 

texts Taehyung: 

“What if I failed them?” 

Tae replies: 

“You’re their safe place. Always.”

writes a letter he’ll never send: 

“I spent years hating my body. Let me love yours enough for both of us.”

Guilt/Pride Duality

buys every LGBTQ+ YA novel he can find

dog-earing pages with lines he wants to discuss

secretly researches PFLAG meetings but attends virtually in a disguise 

ACTIONS/COMFORT MOMENTS

Gifts with Grace:

bracelet with a charm shaped like a shield

“To remind you: I’m your armor.”

blanket embroidered with “You Are Enough” in his handwriting

“Wrap yourself in this when the world is cold.”

self-care kit with his favorite lavender oil, a Serendipity playlist, and a jade roller

“For when your heart feels heavy.”

Rituals of Reassurance:

starts “Cuddle Therapy Sundays”:

nestled on the couch

he lets them pick the movie while he braids their hair or rubs their back

“No talking. Just feel.”

teaches them breathing exercises from his trainee days

“Inhale love, exhale fear. Again.”

Defense Mode

at a school event, a parent mutters “sin.” 

Jimin steps forward, smile icy

“I’d pray for you, but I’m too busy worshipping my child.”

pays for a billboard near their school: 

“Proud Parent Alert! 🏳️🌈” 

has his phone number on it (fake - goes straight to a LQBTQ+ donation hotline)

“Complaints? Call me.”

DAUGHTER vs. SON DIFFERENCES

Daughter

Comfort

takes her to a dance class for queer teens

“Move like nobody owns you.” 

twirls her until she laughs

Bonding

co-writes a poem titled “The Language of My Body"

reads it aloud at an open mic, holding her hand

Defense

storms into a store where a clerk misgenders her

buys everything in her cart

demands the clerk apologize

Son

Comfort

gifts him a weighted blanket

sits with him during panic attacks

“Your strength is quiet. I’m here for it.”

Bonding

teaches him stretching routines to ease dysphoria

“Your body is yours. Treat it kindly.”

Defense

joins his gaming stream with a “Proud Dad” username

donating thousands to shut down trolls

ARMY-EASTER EGGS

Serendipity Symbolism

adds a butterfly charm to their bracelet

“Like the song. You are my serendipity.”

Lie Detector

recreates his “Lie” MV makeup on them for pride

“Now you’re art and truth.”

Promise Rings

wears a matching mother-of-pearl ring 

“Forever connected. No take-backs.”

GROWTH ARC (ANGST ➔ FLUFF)

Angst Phase

overhears them criticizing their body in the mirror

interrupts

voice shaking: 

“I see perfection. Let me… show you.”

writes a verse about his parenting fears

then burns it

“Ash to growth.”

Fluff Phase

dances with them at pride

both wearing matching crop tops

“They said ‘cover up.’ We said sparkle.”

surprises them with a custom song produced by Yoongi and him

lyrics: “You’re the chorus to my verse. Always.”

TAEHYUNG

HOW HE FINDS OUT

Scenario 1

discovers his child’s secret Instagram account 

filled with self-portraits in drag-inspired makeup

Taehyung screenshots their favorite look

texts: “Need a wig consultant? Asking for a friend.”

Scenario 2

finds a crumpled note in their jacket pocket: 

“I’m gay. But what if Appa hates me?”

slips it into his vintage camera case

takes them on a photo walk to “accidentally” capture rainbow graffiti

Scenario 3

overhears them humming “Sweet Night” while sketching a queer retelling of The Little Prince

leans over their shoulder: 

“The rose would’ve slayed in drag.”

 INITIAL REACTION

Physical Cues

gasps dramatically

clutching his chest

“You’re gay?! Finally someone to raid my glitter stash!” 

pulls them into a hug

nuzzling their hair

whispers “My little Picasso” while wiping away a tear

First Words

“You’re my masterpiece. This is just another brushstroke.”

“Remember when I dressed as a mermaid for Halloween? This is way cooler.”

THOUGHTS & FEELINGS

Internal Monologue

“Do they know I get it? Should I tell them about my drag phase? No—their story first.” 

texts Jimin: 

“How do I glitter-parent? HELP.”

digs out his old drag king sketches from high school

smiling at the memory

“Maybe we can revamp these together.”

Guilt/Pride Duality

buys every issue of "Queer Eye" 

leaves them stacked in their room

“For research. Totally not obsessed.”

practices pronouns in the mirror: 

“They/them. They/them. They/them.”

ACTIONS/COMFORT MOMENTS

Gifts with Glam

vintage leather jacket from his closet

lined with a pride flag

“Wear it like armor. Or just to look cool.”

polaroid camera and a scrapbook titled “The Art of Being You”

“Document your glow-up. I’ll handle the captions.”

tickets to a drag brunch

“We’re both getting makeovers. No excuses.”

Rituals of Reassurance

hosts “Vante Vision Board Nights”:

collages of queer icons, glitter, and magazine cutouts

“Manifest your fiercest self.”

teaches them film photography in abandoned theaters

capturing their “coming out” journey in moody monochromes

Defense Mode

at a family dinner, an uncle scoffs: “Why the theatrics?” 

Taehyung stands, adjusting his beret: 

“Why the boredom?” 

drops a pride flag on the table as a centerpiece

collaborates with a queer artist to paint a mural on their school wall

“Vandalism? No. Artistic justice.”

DAUGHTER vs. SON DIFFERENCES

Daughter

Comfort

takes her thrifting for ’70s bell-bottoms and sequined tops

“Channel your inner Bowie. I’ll be your Iman.”

Bonding

hosts a “Runway Night” in their living room

struts in his old drag king suit

she wears his CELINE heels

Defense

storms into her school play wearing a “Proud Dad of a Diva” shirt

heckles anyone who dares yawn

Son

Comfort

gifts him a saxophone (because jazz = freedom)

“Blow away the blues. I’ll dance.”

Bonding

binge-watches queer cinema classics.

cries at “Moonlight”

“This is us, baby.”

Defense

joins his matches as coach

substituting bullies with pride flag cones

“New rule: Love scores.”

ARMY-EASTER EGGS

Drag King Nods

gifts them a fake mustache as an insider joke

“For when you need mystique.”

Vante Vibes

sneaks a grayscale photo of them into his art exhibit

caption: “My Muse in Living Color.”

Jazz Soul

plays “Singularity” on loop during heart-to-hearts

“This song? Yeah, it’s about owning your shadows.”

GROWTH ARC (ANGST ➔ FLUF)

Angst Phase

overhears them crying after a date gone wrong

sits outside their door, humming “Winter Bear” until they let him in

“I’m here. Always.”

accidentally misgenders their crush

bakes apology croissants 

leaves a note: “Flaky outside, soft inside. Like me and you.”

Fluff Phase

surprises them with a collab photoshoot for a queer magazine

“You’re the star. I’m just the groupie.”

drops them off at prom in a vintage convertible, blasting “Dynamite”

“If anyone’s rude, dance harder.”

JUNGKOOK

HOW HE FINDS OUT

Scenario 1

discovers bandages in their trash bin

they’ve been distant for week

his hands shake

he Googles “how to help LGBTQ+ kids” at 3 AM

texts Jin: 

“Hyung. Emergency. What do I do?”

Scenario 2

paparazzi photos surface of his child holding hands with their same-gender crush

Jungkook storms out of a photoshoot

speeding to their school in his blacked-out car to shield them from cameras

Scenario 3

finds them curled up in his old BTS concert hoodie

silent for days

sits cross-legged on the floor

voice cracking: 

“Talk to me. Please. I’ll learn whatever I need to.”

INITIAL REACTION

Physical Cues

Angst

paces the room

running hands through his hair

“I should’ve noticed. I should’ve...” 

texts Namjoon: 

“Did I fail them?”

Fluff

pulls them into a bear hug

lifting them off the ground

“You’re safe. I’ll fight the world.”

First Words

“You’re my baby. That’s the only label that matters.”

“Who hurt you? Tell me. I’ll… I’ll learn archery.” 

stares at his Bulletproof tattoo

THOUGHTS & FEELINGS

Internal Monologue

“Why didn’t they tell me? Am I scary?” 

calls Jimin, whispering: 

“Hyung, how do I… soften?”

buys pride merch but hides it

worried it’s “too much”

Yoongi advises: 

“Just be you. They’ll know it’s real.”

Guilt/Pride Duality:

practices “I’m proud of you” in sign language after learning their crush is Deaf

“They’ll feel it if I mess up.”

tattoos a semicolon behind his ear

“Your story isn’t over. I’m here.”

ACTIONS/COMFORT MOMENTS

Gifts with Meaning

custom gaming PC with a rainbow-lit keyboard

“For when words are hard. Game with me.”

matching tattoo of their initials in rainbow

“You’re my bullseye. Always.”

a rescue puppy named Hope

“Now you’ve got two golden retrievers.” 

points to himself

Rituals of Reassurance

teaches them self defense at dawn

“Focus on the target. Ignore the noise.”

creates a “Safe Word” system:

if they text “Magic Shop”, he drops everything to pick them up

Defense Mode

Media Exposure

hires HYBE’s legal team to sue the paparazzi

release a vlog titled “Proud Dad” trending #1 worldwide

Bullying

shows up to their school in his MMA gear

glaring at teachers

“Protect my kid or I’ll.”

 DAUGHTER vs. SON DIFFERENCES

Daughter

Comfort

takes her camping to stargaze

“The universe made you perfect. Argue with the stars.”

Bonding

bakes rainbow cake while blasting “Euphoria”

“Sweetness beats bitterness. Every time.”

Defense

buys her a self-defense ring

“Press this if anyone’s rude. I’ll handle the police.”

Son

Comfort

bonds over weightlifting

“Strength isn’t for them. It’s for you.”

Bonding

co-writes a song about resilience

Jungkook raps: 

“My son’s a king. Bow down.”

Defense

joins his gaming stream

donating $10k to shut down trolls 

“GG, haters. Dad’s richer.”

ARMY-EASTER EGGS

Golden Touch

gifts them a gold chain to match his own

“Wear it when you need to shine.”

Tattoo Tribute

adds a rainbow heart to his sleeve tattoo

“For you. My STAR.”

Mixtape Feels

makes them a playlist titled “My Time (But Yours)” 

includes songs like “Love Myself” and “Zero O’Clock”.

GROWTH ARC (ANGST ➔ FLUF)

Angst Phase

accidentally smothers them with too much protection

texts Taehyung: 

“How do I not hover?” 

Tae replies: 

“Breathe. Trust them.”

finds their journal entry: 

“I’m a burden.” 

cries into Hobi’s shoulder: 

“How do I fix this?”

Fluff Phase

surprises them with a family trip to Jeju

builds a bonfire, roasting marshmallows

“You’re my light. Always.”

drops them off at college with a care package:

ramyeon, bandaids

a note: “Text ‘Magic Shop’ and I’ll fly there.”

[f9clementine]

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you had me at hello ⋙ 04. third time's the charm

⋙ written part included 『••✎••』

You were not ready for the Midnight Library.

Hyunjin led you up the steps to the most daunting building you've ever seen, all pillars and white marble statues.

You stopped next to one of a horse, reaching your hand out to touch it, curious if the marble felt as soft as it looked under your fingertips.

"Don't touch," Hyunjin grabbed your hand, pulling you away. "Those are guardians. They shouldn't have an issue with you, but let's not test that."

He led you away from the front to a surprisingly unassuming front entrance, maned by a single person.

You didn't realize Hyunjin was still holding your hand until he dropped it, holding his license up to the man. "Hwang Hyunjin, warlock, with one guest."

The man looked at his license, then at you, before nodding and opening the door.

"Ladies first," Hyunjin said, ushering you through the door.

You realized the outside had nothing on the inside of the Midnight Library. The lobby was open and bright, the first floor full of mahogany tables and desks. The bookshelves surrounded the lobby, spiraling around it higher and higher. You tilted your head back, guessing it must go as high as four or five stories up before a skylight stopped it.

"Here," Hyunjin cut through your thoughts. "Sit down here and I'll be right back." He directed you to an empty table, placing his backpack in the seat next to you. "Don't talk to anyone, okay?"

You folded your arms and leaned back in the seat, raising an eyebrow at him.

Hyunjin sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You know what I mean. I'm gonna go look for this book. Don't go wondering. If you get into trouble, it'll be on me."

You roll your eyes, but scoot your chair up to the table, resting your hand in your chin. After a second, you realize he's still there, staring at you. You wave your hand at him, annoyed. Go.

Hyunjin seemed to hesitate before he left, disappearing into the bookshelves.

After a minute of waiting, you were already bored. You looked around, tempted to get up and see what else is in the library but dutifully kept yourself to your seat.

The chair in front of you was suddenly being pulled out, making you jump.

You turned, annoyed and expecting to see Hyunjin, ready to read him to filth in sign language, but a man you've never seen before with half black and half white hair was sitting in front of you.

"You have a pretty nasty curse on you." The man stated, tilting his head a little as you made eye contact.

You frowned, starting to slide your chair back to leave.

"Don't you want to know how to break it?"

You stopped moving, looking back up at him.

He grinned, leaning back in his seat, "I'm not gonna tell you for free, of course." You rolled your eyes, annoyed that you let an apparent grifter bother you. "But I will give you some advice; you can't break a curse you were born with treating it the way you are now."

You huffed, annoyed. You obviously don't know what you're talking about. You signed at him, uncaring if he could understand as you moved your hands angrily. I wasn't born with this curse so try and sell whatever your selling to some other sucker.

His grin widened before he began to sign back, surprising you. Are you sure about that? He reached into his jacket, pulling out a business card and sliding it against the table towards you. "I'm Hongjoong and my coven specializes in curses. Give me a call if you change your mind."

You slowly took the business card, holding up to read it. It was black and embossed with a gold border that flowed from the bottom corner to spell 'Ateez'.

You frowned, looking up but realized you were sitting by yourself. You looked around but the man- Hongjoong- was nowhere to be seen.

"Good, you didn't run off." Hyunjin huffed from over your head, making you jump a little as he dumped a pile of books onto the table. He pulled out the seat next to you then paused as he took in your face. "Did... something happen? Are you okay?"

You hesitated then shook your head, replacing your phone in your pocket with the business card. You opened your notes app. Nope, everything is fine. What're you trying today?

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[magicandpizza]

“Person who believes they’re hard to love” and “person who thinks loving them is as easy as breathing” but make it wesper.

“Alright, that’s everything sorted for the fruit imports from the Southern Colonies,” Jesper says, dating the document he’s been working on and carefully adding it to the correct folder. “What do you want to tackle next, sugar cane or…” He rifles through their stack of mail until he finds the letter he’s looking for, printed on thick lavender paper and embossed in gold. He holds it up with a grimace. “This summer ball invite from Boreg?”

As soon as he looks up from the desk he realises something is wrong. His merchling has curled up on the armchair, knees tucked up to his chest as he picks at the skin of his fingers.

“Wy? Love, what’s wrong?”

Wylan sniffles and wipes the back of his sleeve across his nose. “I don’t deserve you.”

Discarding the offensively lurid ball invite on the desk, Jesper crosses the room and kneels on the floor in front of him. “What do you mean, darling?”

“I know you hate it, having to read everything to me all the time. I know how fidgety you get when you have to sit still, and I basically trapped you here with me because you’re too much of a good person to leave.” The words spill from Wylan’s lips in a sad, frustrated wave.

“Hey, hey,” Jesper says soothingly, placing a hand over Wylan’s where he’s clenching and unclenching them against his knees, but now that the dam has broken, the words just keep flowing.

“And I know it’s not easy for you, because I’m, well, me, and I’m hard to love and-”

“Wylan.”

So, so carefully, like he’s afraid he’ll flinch away and disappear if he moves too quickly, Jesper cups Wylan’s cheek with one hand and encourages him to lift his head to look at him. “Firstly, you didn’t trap me here, I offered. You’re right that import taxes and bills of lading don’t exactly get me going, but I promise you, I’m right where I want to be, because I’m with you.”

Wylan’s mouth opens to speak again, but Jesper places one ringed finger to his lips.

“And secondly, you are not hard to love.”

Wylan’s eyes bore into his, wide as ever and glossy with tears. Jesper strokes his thumb over his cheekbone before continuing.

“Loving you is… it’s the only thing that’s ever made sense. You may have almost died in the canal, but I was drowning too, and I didn’t even know it.”

Now he’s the one who can’t stop talking, but something about Wylan’s gorgeous, brown eyes, the way he’s looking at Jesper so hopefully, makes him want to keep going.

“Then I met you and it was like I could breathe again.”

If he could pull his heart out of his chest, hold it in his hands and present it to Wylan and say “here, it’s yours” then he would. It would probably be easier.

He takes a calming breath and plasters an admittedly somewhat weak smile on his face. “So no more of this kind of nonsense okay? Because loving you is the easiest thing in the world.”

Wylan’s returning smile is just as wobbly. The tears that have been clinging to his lashes and threatening to fall finally do, tumbling down his pink-tinged cheeks. “You’re such a sap,” he finally manages to say, tugging Jesper close by the nape of his neck and pressing their lips together in a slightly damp kiss. “And I’m definitely not doing any more paperwork after that speech.”