#Wedding Planner!Reader

[lambcultist]

𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑢𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛.

　teaser | illusion masterlist | next chapter.

ˋ°•*⁀➷ ♡ your best friend thinks she holds a candle to your knowledge of love, and you’re not sure what in the hell she was thinking with this one—but this blind date has reopened wounds barely patched from almost a decade ago. word count: 3.6k.

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 — ‧₊˚ ⋅ MINORS DNI (18+) wedding planner!reader x divorce attorney!ellie. flashback scenes. fluff and angst and some sexual themes if you squint. teenage heartbreak. toxic friendship (cat). ellie x cat (in the flashbacks). bullying + one instance of body shaming. lonely reader. jealousy. awkward tension. alcohol. oblivious!ellie. manipulation. college talks. camping trip. original characters. you're gonna really hate cat. reader has anxious attachment issues… jesse and dina mentioned. reader’s hair is described as long enough to play with + style with bows. ellie’s a little rude :( + this is pretty expository.

── btw i’m going to be offline for a bit (already have been) but i am going to try to bring chapter one asap regardless! just needed a social media break ♡

꒰ PROLOGUE: 𝒇𝒐𝒐𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒉 𝒐𝒏𝒆. ꒱

your heart sits neatly in flower wrap; cellophane and kraft paper working overtime to heal every crack and bruise, tightly binding each wound to fight the swelling that seems to keep worsening.

and when you lay your eyes on her on this night, it just about bursts. buried beneath all the bouquet wrap is teenage angst that rustles and bristles and this time, you're defenceless against it.

your heart breaks all over again. nine years gone, and it's fresher than ever.

from a bird's nest of red hair, guarded by freckles smattered over each millimetre of skin, those eyes peeked up at you, evergreen and fresh.

"song ideas? anyone? anythin'?"

you looked around, begrudgingly. people you haven't seen in months, even years, sat on the picnic blanket with legs crossed and a monopoly board seconds away from being flipped. payton, lauren, adam, and cat, participating in the great debate over paper finances. 

"they're not even aware that we're here, are they?" ellie asked, a low chuckle sounding as you looked back at her. "ah hell, what's the point in me playin' this thing if they aren't even gonna listen?"

"well, i'm listening," you insisted. how could you have not? she didn't need a guitar in her lap for you to listen, nor her fingers on the strings. her voice—like gravel on the path to happiness, a smoky-smooth texan drawl—could have been the soundtrack to forever if you had any say in it. 

"you always are," ellie agreed, nodding. she shot you a charming grin, "i'd be talkin' to thin air all the time if it weren't for you."

you smiled back, although your cheeks felt weak, and ellie began to play another little tune. your attention, of which she had always commanded, was stolen for a moment when finally the board game went up in the air, pawns, cards, and dice strewn over the checkered blanket. 

"i've had enough, i'm starting dinner, go fuck yourselves." lauren stood and wiped her jeans down, heading towards the mini-fridge to grab the barbecue meat. she flipped the bird back in the group's direction when cat, payton, and adam teased her.

"sore loser, that's what she is," adam said.

you were fresh graduates, enjoying summer nights by the lake in celebration of earning your high school diplomas. you had survived what you thought would be the worst years of your life, but now you know better; these years were just the beginning of life's trials, and it would soon be worse.

this trip was the happiest you had ever been, although perhaps it was placebo provided by the calm of the lake and the silence of the woods. you were growing impossibly content with your life and the future ahead of you. innocent, hoping, naïve.

if there was any driving factor behind it all, it was ellie. 

if you had felt ignored, ellie would be the one to glance at you. if you had felt shut down, or hurt, or unloved, ellie would be the one to change it. 

and the fondness you felt was your little secret. and cat's.

"how's it hanging over here?" cat asked cheerfully, scooting over to where you and ellie sat. "all alone. i am sorry we left you alone with her, ellie, must be boring, yeah?"

you looked down at your lap and felt an imbalance between the evening breeze on your cheeks and the embarrassment shooting up your spine. cat had always been like that. the most confusing best friend—it felt as though she didn't even like you at times.

and when you had told her you had feelings for someone, she was sorely shocked. it was a blow to your self esteem, that she seemed to think you were not worthy of loving anyone, even despite having been privy to your romantic tendencies in the past.

every item you owned was heart-shaped or donning the pattern. every book you read featured the most epic of romances, every movie that brought you to tears would depict it. you were a fan of fairy tales growing up and now, who could blame you for craving 'the one' after being raised on disney princesses?

when you told her it was ellie that you loved, in great trust of who you considered your closest friend, cat acted like it was the funniest joke she had ever heard.

"boring? nah. we're fine." ellie proceeded to play her guitar—or tried to. cat would not stop talking after this. her voice was in your ears like the ring of a bell, ellie nodding along, 'mm'ing and 'ah'ing.

by the time dusk began, lauren was planting juicy steaks and sausages on the foldout table like a buffet. 

"admit it, i'm the best cook on the planet," lauren boasted, standing with her hands on her hips as you all raided like vultures.

"pretty good, but a cookout doesn't get any better than joel's. he makes some pretty solid shit on the grill."

"stop talking about your dad for five minutes, will you?" adam scowled at ellie.

"just 'cause you ain't got one, doesn't mean i have to stop talking about m—"

"you're adopted!"

"at least someone wanted me." ellie snorted. you remember the way she scrunched up her nose and cackled at the guy, then passed you the tongs so you could fill your plate.

you kept to yourself, loading up some bread and meat onto your place, and the voice that still haunts you piped up.

"jesus, are you really having that much? you don't think that's a little bit too much?"

you stood still and looked at cat. her plate was much emptier, a few leaves of lettuce next to a small steak. it looked more than just unappetising to you, but when you checked your own plate, you couldn't help giving in. after all, cat said that quite loudly. you didn't want anybody else to see how little you could control yourself.

so you started putting some of it back, hoping that nobody but cat knew. 

"i'm just looking out for you," she said. "you know that, right?"

you nodded. cat wasn't afraid to tell you the ugly truth. she even enjoyed doing so—being a 'girl's girl', she would say. 

and when you sat down, you couldn't do much but play with the food, pressing your fork against the steak until its juices spilled, cutting it into little pieces. all things that should make it easier to stomach, more enticing to swallow, but you lacked the interest in it. 

"lauren, please tell me you haven't changed your mind about culinary school," payton begged through a mouthful of meat, lips and chin dripping in sauce.

"of course not," lauren replied, the hint of a smirk in her voice. "i couldn't, not with the way you guys are always moaning when you eat my food."

"ew, dude, way to make it weird," adam grumbled.

"chef lauren, please may you be my wife?" payton continued, putting her hands together. "i'll provide."

"no," lauren said with a scoff. "when i open a five star restaurant, though, you can have a discount every time you come eat."

"one hundred percent off?"

"thirty at most."

"stingy," ellie chimed in.

"well, i'll have to pay off culinary school somehow!" lauren defended herself, chuckling. "how do you expect to pay off your what, ten years of schooling?"

"it's seven, and shut the fuck up." ellie shrugged her shoulders. "my student loans and i will be in a committed relationship for the foreseeable future."

"you're staying in jackson with the rest of us, right?" payton asked. ellie looked up and gave a nod. "jackson's too good to leave."

ellie gestured to you then, trying to invite you to the conversation, because you'd been watching it all go by like a movie. "you wanted seattle though, didn't you?"

"well, i was considering going to seattle," you murmured. "the business programs over there are great— but, like, i didn't wanna leave everyone here… so i'm settling on staying."

"did i even tell you guys what i'm studying in college?" cat suddenly asked. she laughed at the silence, which was just a prompt for her to continue, but she faltered—cat was never okay with being met with silence. "well, i'm doing teaching. imagine what our old teachers will say when i walk in like, 'hey, i'm back!'"

"...don't you have to be nice to be a teacher, though?" adam replied.

her face fell and you saw her clenching fists at her sides. a couple of the others seemed to hold back laughter. you only felt uncomfortable.

the next morning, the tension was upped. something within the group was off. you couldn't put your finger on it just yet, and your memory of it grows vague, but you felt like your friendships were on rocky tide. no good spirits from the day previous had carried over. ellie and cat were the first awake, and you didn't know why it put such a murmur in your heartbeat. you thought it was petty jealousy.

but where your brain stored the strongest memory was not in the love, nor the uncertainty; it was the betrayal.

a week had gone by. tents were taken down and bodies returned to family homes. nobody seemed to remain in contact, but it wasn't greatly unusual. you still had cat, like always, but what put the sharpest wound in your heart was that ellie had not reached out to you. it was growing bigger, big enough to confide in your best friend about.

you: i'm just worried i did something wrong or smth, yk? ellie normally is quick to reply. i don't mind it if she's busy but i'm starting to wonder if maybe there's something else going on? like maybe she doesn't like me anymore?

you held your phone tightly, your tangled up earbuds connected as you rode the bus home from work. cat's reply took the wind out of your sails, left you halted for several moments—hot, hot pressure building in your chest and through your cheeks.

cat: she's been busy lmao. probably because we're dating now

you retched as the bus came to a jolting stop on the side of the road, and it wasn't your stop, but you fled. you swung out of your seat and out the door, yearning for air that you'd never tasted before. 

you: wait wdym

cat: she's my gf. since we went camping lol

more and more texts came through. somewhere in your mind you knew that cat wasn't attempting to explain herself. she was attempting to silence you. it was remorseless. 

cat: dw, she still likes you! as a friend cat: and jsyk, she asked me out, not the other way around :)

your thoughts in this moment felt like the sea, cold and dark waters pulling you under. you couldn't breathe. you remember clutching at your chest and feeling as though you were bleeding out. 

the way home was impossible. you couldn't think of what to say—so you said nothing.

cat knew what she was doing. she had to have known. she saw the way you interacted with ellie in a different light than the others did, because she had the truth. she knew that you were in love. she would make sure you knew what she thought about it. the mocking, the laughing, the smirks—but you didn't think she would have done something like this to you. 

if she liked ellie too, why couldn't she have told you? it could have been a bonding moment. that sickly sweet friendship in all the coming of age movies, where the girls stay together and cry together over the person they share a love for. 

you hadn't shown your face to the world in days; you couldn't bare to, and the longer you isolated for, the harder it became to leave.

cross-legged in your bed, your hair in your fists and a stream of heavy sobs falling out of you—tears trickling down your cheeks and burning skin, because the only person who you could have pictured your future with had been swiped from beneath your fingertips. you tried so hard, convincing yourself it would be okay because ellie was truly just some girl, and there would be plenty of other fish in the sea.

ellie was never just some girl. she had eyes like vast pastures, room to grow in, a place you didn't feel entirely afraid to be yourself in. she was caring. but she was oblivious.

you didn't want to face the others. not adam, not lauren, not payton, and certainly not ellie or cat. you couldn't picture them together without choking. after being second best to cat your entire life, what hurt more than anything else was the idea of her being where you should be; in ellie's arms.

maybe part of growing up is learning to leave behind the ties that have grown cancerous. but your blurry vision fell back to your acceptance letter from university of washington. 

it wasn't too late to change your plans. 

you disappeared without a trace. your goal became to build a new sense of self. 

you jumped into the dating pool in seattle. a blonde athlete with arms of sculpted muscle was your first. but you were too clingy, she cited. there were new problems that arose in every relationship. you wish you could say you were never the problem, but cat's behaviour had affected your own. 

you cried over different girls in the arms of your new ride or die. dina is everything cat wasn't. dina is kind. dina isn't jealous. she built you up instead of breaking you down.

you earned your degree in business, moved back home with your best friend, and began to plan the most stunning parties jackson had ever seen. 

you threw yourself into weddings like you were cupid's daughter, called yourself the expert on love after helping so many couples with the beginning of their happily ever after.

with the perfect office in jackson's main street, wedged on the corner between a bridal boutique and a craft store, you built your wedding planning business up all on your own. the office feels like a little portal to paris, the city of love, with dainty black detailing and gold accents, even paneled walls with paintings and pictures of the work you're proudest of in bespoke frames.

dina, who had been raised with a florist for a mother, was exactly what you needed to bring something unique to your business; connected to your office is her own flower shop, and she works with you on each and every wedding planned, bringing to life the most adoring florals your brides have ever seen.

enchantment everlasting is the purpose to your life.

so why does it feel like all that you built in the past decade is unravelling before your very eyes? 

"i'm.. actually shocked." ellie chuckles, sitting across from you. you dig your heels into the floor below you, wondering if this is some sort of prank dina and jesse set you up for. "what are the chances? a blind date with you?"

your eyes rove across her face. although she is sharper and older, those eyes are the same, if only a little duller than you've ever seen them. she even sounds different, as though her southernness has been softened or lost to time. 

she's effortlessly beautiful; her hair cut just above her shoulders, the first few buttons of her shirt undone, her jacket loose on her body as if she came straight from work, and yet still looks enticing.

"it's… yeah, i mean, it's a small world?" you reply, picking your jaw up from the ground. dina and jesse are either the shittest matchmakers on earth, or this was a prank, and it cannot be the latter considering they're not entirely aware of your history.

"definitely is." she nods, pulling a menu from the centre of the table mindlessly. "nice to see you back in jackson. you did go to seattle, didn't you?"

"uh-huh." you nod back, eyes trained on the menu between her hands and the rings adorning them on all but the left hand ring finger. the place feels stuffy now, but the slightest, most timid excitement is settling in at the prospect of this all. 

"you just left. we were so worried," ellie says. "cat was in hysterics, you know. it hurt. but i have a hunch as to why you left. she's not the easiest to deal with."

you stiffen involuntarily, the name stirring the concoction of fear and now disappointment in your stomach. "yes, um… i needed a change of scenery," you mutter, tossing some hair behind your shoulder and subtly fanning your neck.

she studies you. you think about what ellie must be noticing now. is it the way that you've finally learned what eyeliner style enhances your features, and you no longer suffer blush blindness? is it the way your hair is done, neat and tidy and fixed with a big bow? perhaps it's the dress you never would have worn ten years ago. it's all low cut neckline and exposed shoulders, rosy satin ruched at the hips.

"you know jesse and dina?" she asks. "how?"

"ah, well—" you pinch yourself for thinking ellie notices things. it seems that some things never change, and obliviousness is in her nature. "dina and i met in college. at a party. we've combined our separate businesses now. she is my best friend. yada yada, she got pregnant, now i know jesse."

ellie's skimming the menu at this point, and your chest is aflutter as a piece of auburn hair sneaks into her view. it's the strand. the cowlick that gives her constant grief, wild and never to be controlled. you sensationalised it when you were eighteen—it was just the prettiest thing. 

but she doesn't respond, doesn't even acknowledge you, never mind that you answered the question she asked in the first place. she just looks up, then says, "i'm gonna do the chicken risotto."

your brain kicks into gear, picking up on the sudden rush forced upon you. you grab the menu and skim it and just pick something. "are you hungry?" you laugh quietly.

"sure."

it never used to be this hard to talk to ellie. you never needed to carry the conversation like this. "you're jesse's coworker, right? so, you got your dream job?"

"sure did," ellie says, the tone satirically optimistic. "and you, with your wedding stuff. can't believe you did it—i thought you were too shy for a job like this. you never did talk all that much in high school."

a perception so wrong your eye twitches. you fret, looking at the lace tablecloth, and bite back a sigh. worst date in your entire life so far. "i've never been shy, but i just— i— you know?"

it was the people you knew that had bred your meek nature. 

you're not sure ellie would understand that. she never had the issues you suffered from within that group. and you won't risk having to explain it.

"but you're still into your whole love thing?"

"ha, yes," you say, forming a smile. "still love love. it's dreamy."

"yeah, and that's why you're on a blind date, right? nothing more romantic than that." ellie chuckles. she eyes your fingers, wrapped tight around your wine glass and the way you glance away while taking a sip. "surprised you haven't had a reality check yet."

ellie williams—the one and only person you knew growing up who had embraced your wonder and grandeur—she's sitting here and she's mocking you.

and she looks too good to be doing that.

heat fills your face and with a moment's hesitation, you blurt out, "then why are you here, if that's what you think?"

"i like this place," she responds. "good food. have you tried it here before?"

oh dear. your heels almost scratch the floor now, with your eyes searching for the exit. maybe it's for the best to leave this here, to not have these memories of your first love tainted any further. 

what in the hell were jesse and dina thinking? it has to be a prank. they cannot in good faith have thought this would be a match made in heaven.

and when you finally express your desire to leave, she shrugs indifferently, although you swear she winced—you hope that she did. you hope she struggles with the gravity of her current behaviour. it’s all you ever wish for; people who hurt you feeling remorse. 

"alright, suit yourself darlin'. it was good to see you."

she's rude and it's maddeningly attractive, and you hear dina's voice from years ago telling you that you need to stop going for these kinds of people. so you stand up, you grab your purse, you turn to leave.

and from behind, you hear, "even better to watch you leave.” the hint of a smirk in her words, a small laugh at her own comment.

who let ellie turn out like that?

you hurry out, now covering your rear with your purse as though it preserves your dignity.

it can't be the half of your wine glass that you drank that's making you feel sick right now. without a doubt it must be her attitude, and perhaps the good food you didn't get to try, now upsetting your stomach. 

you think you know what it is that makes you feel the worst.

it's that after all this time—years of heartbreak, perseverance, constant search for your soulmate—you've never learned to get over things. 

your career is not a foolproof bandaid. the castle you built from bricks people had thrown at you, the reminder that your person is still out there waiting for you, your passion turned into business; enchantment everlasting cannot save you the way that you've pretended it has.

you can't recover. especially from girls with red hair, green eyes, and cute freckles.

and as you know (or maybe didn’t know) i write so much stuff based off of events that happened to me in real life. yes, what cat did to reader happened to me irl. except i was thirteen, and now i don’t really care, but i think it makes great angst. ♡

i know, i know, ellie was a bit bitchy here, and it gets a teeny bit worse before it gets better, but it will get better :)

in regards to the social media break i mentioned at the top of the post, i really am just taking a break from viewing all social media lately for my mental health. but i’m still writing and i’m still going to post my fics. i’ll stop in a couple of times through the week to answer asks and stuff. ♡ love yous.

🏷️ @abbysdollie @valeisaslut @eriiwaiii2 @ellieshothousewife @piercedome @therealhexstrap @jinxedbambi @heyimrye @rhian88 @g4ys0n @yoosohh @marvelwomenarehot0 @l0veylace @lacelottie @marieeeluvsyou @ssijht @chlocaine17 @snooopyinspace @andieprincessofpower @reneeisadyke @ssshhh-imreading @spideyellie @allieisabibliophile @adoringanakin @marirxse @loveitbuffs @bambi-luvs @softqirls @sevikasleftasscheek @ferxanda @elliewilliamsrighttit @serpentgirla @mikaelii @lavenderseedling @gold-dustwomxn @sewithinsouls @elliespookie @chappellroankisser @krilara

[halfrican-heat]

ALL MINE (Ony)

"You come here, I'll knock your pussy out the damn frame. Remember the last time I made you miss your damn plane? Remember the last time I wet you down with champagne?"

A/N: Hey! I'm down bad for this man rn, lol. I've got lots of ideas for him though, so yay! Happy reading :) Inspired by @lingeriae and this post! Requests are open, too! Get at your girl.

Warning(s): Explicit Sexual Content; Penetrative Sex (p in v), Oral Sex (F receiving), Cursing, Public Sex (Outdoors), Cervix kissing, Wedding details, N Word Used, Black reader in mind, AAVE/Dialogue with Dialect, Dominant!Ony (when tf is he not in my mind), Depiction of marijuana usage, Depictions of alcohol consumption, Mild Dubious Consent; Beta'd by my besties <3

Pairing: Ony x Wedding Planner!Reader

Song Inspo: All Mine - Brent Faiyaz

His eyes drilled into the side of your head, trailing the curves of your body.

As maid of honor, your dress was a little different from the other bridesmaids. Make no mistake, your girls looked good with a t on the end. You made sure of that, but you all agreed upon something more…tailored for the lady making the most moves. So, your dress was designed to your tastes and fit you like a glove. It accentuated all your assets and Onyankopon was taking stock. 

The two of you had only fucked once but there was this heightened tension ever since.

During the entire wedding process, Ony had been a pain in your ass. Because he was the best man, the two of you had to collaborate on many of the joint events-- like the Engagement Party and Bridal Party mixers. He was a terrible flirt and spent most of his time trying to get in your pants. Then, if it wasn’t you, he was flirting with any lady he could. And they would swoon just as soon as Ony flashed that handsome, megawatt smile of his. 

But for some reason, Ony liked the challenge you posed. The way you were resistant to his charms. Unfortunately for you, Ony was interested in you. He liked you.

You dealt with his bullshit for a good while, putting in a valiant effort because you were doing your best friend and fellow soror, Kendra, a favor. Y’all went back to diapers and stuck together through everything. You were a celebrity event coordinator, specializing in weddings, so you were doing double duty by being her maid of honor and planning the entire wedding. But shit hit the fan between you and Ony the night of the final Bridal Party mixer. The two of you got into a huge blowout fight that ended with your cute little cocktail dress torn and strewn about the floor of Ony’s hotel room, his tongue licking champagne from places it shouldn’t have been. 

“You doing so good, ma.” He had whispered, fucking you into his sheets. 

You ended up missing your damn plane the next morning. Needless to say, he moved up on your list of people you wouldn’t mind spending time with. But he quickly moved back down the list after he ghosted you the next day. During the rehearsal dinner, you found him talking up some girl in the hotel lounge. He made eye contact with you as he flirted with her, looking away to give her his full attention. 

So, you kept it cordial and cute after that. You acted like it didn’t bother you. Did he have amazing, life-changing dick that made you want to murder him and the bitch from the hotel lounge? Yes, yes he did. But were you a classy, sophisticated bitch who successfully planned a destination wedding while being the maid of honor and dealing with Ony’s shiesty ass? Yes, yes the fuck you were. 

And no nigga was gonna make you second guess that shit. 

The “Lounge Incident”, as your friends lovingly dubbed it, had happened a week ago. Fast forward to the present and there you were, watching your best friend dance and act a fool with the love of her life. You were happy for her, of course, but it did make you feel a little wistful.

The wedding ceremony wrapped up two hours prior and you found yourself nursing a glass of champagne at the reception. You were pretending to be unfazed by the looks Ony was sending you from across the room. You stole a glance at him when you felt like he wasn’t watching you and…dear Lord. 

His white dress shirt was tucked into his green slacks, suit jacket long forgotten, with a few of the top buttons opened. His gold chain shined at you, almost winking, as it matched the gold Rollie on his wrist. He flashed a smile to one of his homeboys and you felt your knees wobble a little. You looked away quickly and crossed the room to find your girls. They were standing around one of the reception tables talking.

“Aht, don’t bring that energy over here, ma’am!” Your friend, Chelsea, said. “That man look like he ‘bout to jump your ass.”

“Please tell me y’all not about to fuck at this wedding,” Liyah groaned.

Your girls laughed loudly and you hid a smile behind your champagne glass as you took a sip. You risked a glance back at Ony, finding his gaze already on you. He didn’t care to hide the fact he was staring at you, not even giving the young lady in front of him a glance as she spoke to him. You whipped around, clearing your throat. 

“Bye, girl. It ain’t even like that.”

The table went quiet, all the girls looking over your shoulder. A shit-eating grin spread across Chelsea’s face as she raised her hand, waving playfully. 

“Hey, Ony.”

Your eyes widened as his chest pressed against your back, his warmth surrounding you. You tried to pretend to be unbothered as your friends gawked with wide eyes and smirks. 

“Hey, ladies.”

The smile was evident in his voice, sending chills down your spine. But you took a sip of your champagne with a neutral face, not acknowledging him. In truth, you didn’t need to. He leaned down so that his mouth was close to your ear, hands braced on the table as he trapped you against his chest. His chain brushed your neck, not helping the goosebumps erupting all over your skin. His words, low so only you could hear them, didn’t help either. 

“Say bye to your lil friends so I can eat your pussy.”

He paused as you turned your head slightly, your faces close to touching. 

“And stop playing with me.”

His eyebrow arched at you as he pulled back, taking a sip from his whiskey glass. He addressed your friends again, setting the glass down. 

“Ladies,” He said with a charming smile. 

With that, he left you standing there as you slowly looked back to your friends who gaped back at you. 

“Bye.” You said finally, scurrying from the reception hall as fast as your legs would carry you.

You found Ony outside the building, perched against the wall. A blunt hung from his lips as he gazed at you sidelong. You approached slowly, hips swaying with each step. His eyes never left yours as he sparked up and inhaled, exhaling the smoke slowly. You felt dizzy with need but you weren’t down that bad. Not yet. 

You took the blunt as he passed it to you. You let the smoke soothe you before you exhaled. You took a few more pulls before passing it back to him. 

“Take your panties off,” He said finally, after a long draw. 

You tutted, crossing your arms. 

“You just gon’ act like you ain’t ghost me, Ony?”

“I was wrong for that. But I'm here now, ain't it?” He said casually. 

You rolled your eyes, turning to go back inside. He grabbed your arm and pulled you back to him, his lips pressing firmly against yours. His mouth teased yours, opening it as smoke billowed between the two of you. His arm slid down to your waist as you exhaled the smoke he gave you. 

He took another pull, exhaling, before he looked back down at you. 

“I told you stop playing with me.”

“Maybe I'm done with you," You bluffed. "Maybe I got me another nigga to fuck on now.”

Ony scoffed, tucking the rest of his blunt away for later.

“Aight, that’s enough of that shit,” He mumbled, grabbing your hand as he pulled you to the side of the building. 

It was a more hidden spot, behind large bushes that wrapped around the front of the building and off to the side. From there, you could see guests entering and exiting but they couldn’t see you unless they were looking hard enough. Your eyes widened as he kneeled in front of you and shoved your dress up your legs. You swatted at his hands, panicking as your eyes darted around. Ony stilled, his gaze hard as he grabbed your hands and looked up at you.

“Don’t piss me off.”

Now, you were down bad. 

You took a shaky breath as he released your hands, going back to bunching up your dress. 

“Hold that,” He said, tossing your leg over his shoulder. 

You did as he asked, taking the garment in your hands. Your body flushed with heat as he shamelessly nuzzled his nose against your soaked core, smelling your needy scent. He kissed your clothed core and pushed your panties aside, holding them in one hand as he slipped a finger into your dripping cunt. He moved the digit in and out, brushing against that soft spot inside you. 

“Oh, fuck,” You whined, your head falling against the wall. 

“Yeah, say that shit you was sayin’ now,” Ony taunted, sliding another digit inside. “This pussy all mine.”

You panted, bracing yourself with a hand on his shoulder, as you forced out your next question.

“What about that bitch from the lounge, Ony?”

“I was gonna try what she was offering, but she wasn’t you,” He said easily, his eyes glued to his fingers moving in and out of you. “Damn, ma. You sucking that shit in.”

“Ony,” You whimpered. “I don’t want to play no games with you--”

“I’m not. That shit not an offer to me when you’re around,” He said firmly. “Now, you gon’ keep complainin’ or you gonna let daddy eat his pussy?”

“Ony--”

Any rebuttal you had became a wanton moan as he didn’t wait for a response, his mouth descending on your clit as his fingers continued to move inside you. You covered your mouth with your hand, trying in vain to stifle the sounds of pleasure he was snatching from you. He pulled his fingers from you gently, spreading your sopping pussy wider as he fucked his tongue in and out of you. 

He ate you out messily, drinking up your juices like sweet nectar. The slurping noises were lewd as he sucked on your clit, teasing it with his tongue before dipping it back into your weeping hole. His performance was drawing pathetic whines from your throat as you tried to keep the two of you from getting caught. Heat pooled in your belly as his mouth on your core drove you toward a heated finish. 

Then, he stopped completely. You let out a confused moan as the pleasure waned, your orgasm evading you. The confusion didn’t last long, however, as you heard his belt coming undone. He pulled himself from his pants as he tore your panties. He hiked your leg around his waist and slid home without warning.

“Hold on to me,” He grunted, his other hand supporting your back.

You wrapped your arms around him, your head resting on his shoulder as he thrust into you. His pace was rough and deep, fucking you like he owned you. Maybe he did. Maybe you wanted him to. You muffled a scream into his shoulder as his length kissed your cervix, unrelenting as the drag of his cock against your tight walls sent you into oblivion.

“Fuck, baby,” He groaned. “You so tight f’me. Takin’ me so good.”

You choked back a sob as his tip brushed that soft spongy spot, bringing back the pool of pleasure from before. Ony noticed your reaction, angling his hips to hit it over and over again. Your whimpers and moans were his own private mixtape as you keened and cried in his ear. He stretched you so good, the feeling of being this full something new and foreign to you. Ony was a bad habit, and he was making sure you wouldn’t be able to kick him any time soon.

That pool of pleasure warmed further with each snap of his hips into yours. Your quiet, open-mouthed cries built in intensity as the temperature inside you began to rise, swirling like a tsunami. You felt yourself teetering on that delicate edge and so could Ony. He picked up the pace. 

“You gonna cum on your dick?” He taunted, egging you on. “You gon’ show me who this dick belong to?”

Your climax crashed over you as you slapped a hand to your mouth, muffling the sob that broke free. He fucked you through your orgasm, prolonging it as your body seized around him. He could barely pull out, opting for shallow thrusts as you came down from your high.

You sagged against the wall, trying to catch your breath as Ony pulled out. He fixed your dress and smoothed it down around the hips. He tucked himself back into his pants and dug his wallet from his pocket, fishing out his room key. 

He flashed it in front of your dazed face before placing it in your hand. He pulled you off the wall, making sure you looked good before nudging you in the direction of the front doors. 

“Go to my room. Third floor, 303. I’ll be there in a minute.”

You looked down at the key card in your hand then back to him. He sparked up his blunt again, blowing out smoke as he smacked your ass. 

“Go ‘head, ma. I’m coming.”

You jumped slightly from the impact and found your feet moving you out of the bushes. You stumbled back into the hotel lobby, walking on wobbly legs to the elevators with his room key clutched in your hand. Your girl, Chelsea, was coming from the restrooms as the two of you made eye-contact. She smirked, her eyes trailing over you. She subtly adjusted the top of her dress, nodding at you.

You took the hint, fixing yours. 

She went back into the reception hall without a word as you fumbled to press the elevator button. 

Your night was not over yet.

[xxgoblin-dumplingxx]

Do you have any interest on continuing the wedding planner!reader universe? 🥰 love your writing and this one really caught my attention. Have a nice week!

"Oh my god. This could put us on the map," Alexandria hissed.

"I know," you hum, casting a critical eye over proofs for invitations with a frown. "If they sign the paperwork. And If Gloria won't agree to make me a partner- well."

"You wouldn't," she gasped wide eyed.

You shrug, "I don't break my back and have no life just for the love of taffeta. If she makes me a partner she can't just shove me out the door. And if she doesn't well. We and my contacts will just walk and she can figure it out."

"That's cold."

"And? I'm not stupid, since Sandra left she can't do it alone."

"Cold and vicious, I love it. Teach me?" she begged, folding her hands.

"First of all," you tell her, "Stop leading with smokey eyes and leopard print. This is Jersey but it's not 2012. Brides that hate their friends will go for it- you want the bride's maids to not loathe you. They'll help you rein in the Zillas. Second. Tell a story and sell it. Once the bride can see a vision in her head all you have to do is make it happen."

"But-"

"Just make it happen. That's it. Sometimes it takes a miracle sometimes it takes a favor but as long as no one sees you sweat, well- that's all you need."

[throatgoat4u]

*𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 *

"𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐨?"

…

"𝐨𝐡, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐚 𝐰𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐝? 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐡?"

…

"𝐣𝐮𝐧𝐞? 𝐨𝐡! 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐬�� 𝐬𝐨𝐨𝐧, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐲—𝐢’𝐯𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝!"

introducing...

wedding planner!reader... 23. has loved weddings since she was a kid. big dreamer. keeps clippings of the newspaper (the one's that overview the weddings). organized but messy. has kept every bridesmaid dress she's worn. lives off of coffee. mary janes. big people pleaser. rule follower. good at negotiation. has never said no in her life. multi-tasking. always on top of everything.

𝐀𝐍𝐃

journalist!matt... 25. hates weddings. always trying to go above and beyond with his work. sarcastic asf. work focused. penny-pincher. wears his heart on his sleeve. good listener. commitment issues. unconventional. reluctant romantic. really good at cooking. pushes his feelings away. not good with confrontation. goes by kevin doyle in the papers. doesn't like to follow rules.

a/n: A 27 DRESSES INSPIRED AU!!!!! WOOHOO!!!! i'm actually so obsessed with them i can't even. and before ya'll start on how jane is not a wedding planner, I KNOW. but i wanted to make nisée (that's gonna be her nickname btw) a wedding planner cause i wanted to. anywho!

tagging mutuals for interaction!: @snoopychris. @oopsiedaisydeer. @leoslaboratory. @whore4mattsturniolo, @freshloveee. @secretlocket. @sturns-mermaid. @loser41ifee. @sturnslutz. @t0riiiis. @theyluvivi. @mattsleftball. @y3sterdaysproblem. @immaqulate. @hjvi. @shadowthesim237.

(idk many people so sorry if you randomly got tagged 🫣)

toodles sluts :)

dividers: @issysh3ll

[sodaneko]

clumsy chef in training Y/N x head of the local fire department & neighbor Iwaizumi........................

[suiana]

I wanted to tell you that you are the most prolific yandere writer I have ever seen on this site and I really appreciate all the content you've written! Can I request a yandere wedding planner :0

It's fine if you don't want to take this request. Please get enough rest!

ofc bae and thank u for that compliment 😇😇

✎ yandere! wedding planner who's also your best friend?? wowow what a coincidence! it's almost as if he planned it all from the beginning haha...

✎ yandere! wedding planner who only became a wedding planner because he thought that he'd be planning for the wedding of you two back when he was little. if only he had asked you out... sighs

✎ yandere! wedding planner who plans the wedding just as if it were for you two. um... what? what do you mean he's purposely leaving out your future spouse haha! no no, he's just waiting for the right time to add them into the plan! which means never :3

✎ yandere! wedding planner who obviously crashes your wedding. duh, how could he let you marry that other person when he's clearly the right option for you?? he'd be a fool to let the wedding continue.

"darl- y/n. what do you think about this cake?"

"i think it's alright. but let me ask my spouse..."

your best friend, also your wedding planner, frowns as he puts down the picture of the cake that he was holding. fuck, fuck, fuck... it's always your spouse this! your spouse that!

do you know how infuriating it is? especially when he's planning for the wedding of you two instead?!

but he can't say anything. of course he can't. not when your damned spouse is still alive and kicking around.

"haha... of course... of course..."

he grumbles to himself, forcing a smile onto his features as you cheerily talk to your spouse over the phone.

it's okay... it's alright... just endure for a few more weeks and... you'll be all his...

what more is a few more weeks if he's been waiting for you his whole life?

[delicioushottubpeanut]

I'm literally crying right now, I need and want a man like matthew mcconaughey in The Wedding Planner it makes me sick!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

I actually think im suffering from heartbreak for someone I never had

[navybrat817]

Delivery Driver Bucky was definitely a new one 🥰🥰🥰

But hear me out! Wedding planner Bucky!

Nonnie, you get back here!

Bucky's attention to detail and ability to cater to his clients are just a couple of reasons why he's an amazing wedding planner. He's creative without losing the realism. He's resourceful, patient, and wants to make dreams come true.

But he can't help but feel a pang of sadness whenever he helps couples with their big day. And he doesn't just want a beautiful wedding. He wants someone to share his life with.

My God, I'm swooning at the thought of him and needed this after my recent meeting. Love and thanks! ❤️

[formulaonedirection]

Do not ask me to plan something because I will be doing the most no matter what

[limerlove]

─── ·˚͙͘͡★ ❝ I KNOW SUNSHINE ❞

dykematch represents. exwife!abby x yearning!reader

sum. dr. anderson, a heartthrob to many, but at one point to you, she was only a broke college athlete with a soul that cared too much. now, she's your ex-wife that you just can't kick. an old friend's wedding brings you together. for one final time, can you finally bid the love of your life c'est la vie?

content warning. eighteen+, wc 10k. wedding!au, surgeon!abby, some college abby thrown in for fun, smut, strapsex, angst, fluff, grab your tissue babes.

here's my latest baby! on the real, i have been feeling very burned out in the writing community. especially tlou. but had to remind myself that writing can be fun when bitches aren't making it not so fun! this was honestly a very personal piece in some areas so, here's another chunk of my heart. hopefully i'll be back soon, mwah. and happy almost pride!

August, 2025. 

Greenery sprouts from around the bouquet, each vine hand-picked, every flower meticulously placed. An arrangement of lilies, pearly-white roses, and a sprinkle of tulips in your hand as you find the bride. The venue is something you wished didn’t make you think of your own. You kept reminding yourself today isn’t about you. 

Lola. 

Lola and Chris. 

You’d seen glimpses of her at the rehearsal dinner. Highlights  of blonde eclipsing your vision just for the moment but the sun seeping through the tall windows made its presence known instead. There was too much to do, too much to say to her, and none of it would come out right. 

What’s in the past is done. Right? 

You take a moment to take Lola in. After all, this is what it’s all about. True love. Never have you seen two people so perfect, standing the test of time. Through four years of college, and another four after, here she is. 

Ready to say forever in front of all her family and friends, their loved ones ready to synchronize the joyous cries in harmony. Lola and Chris. The love of their lives. 

They are the focus, until the last speech of the night, this is all you focus on. Even though Abby is a part of their wedding party. Desperately, you make an attempt to remain your composure when you’re walking down the aisle with Abby. You ignore the navy blue tie illuminating her eyes, or the arm she offers in silence as you wait for the wedding planner to give you your cue. 

There are thoughts. Pestering ones. Reminding you of four years ago, the two of you high on love, a wedding band around Abby’s finger, her hands barely able to stay off of you more than a second. When she used to look at you with unwavering devotion. 

Neither of you had been scorned by life yet. 

And you hoped Lola and Chris would be so lucky to never feel the burn. 

─── 

The second? The fourth? Wait, no, this has to be the third…right? 

In the echoes of your lonely chambers, party for two. A glass of whiskey and some sorrows to drown in. Locked in her admiring gaze, you watch as she dances with your five-year old niece. A gracious heart leads Abby to let the little bundle of joy  dance on top of her feet. 

There’s a twinkle, blinding as a new-born star, and it reminds you of what it feels like to be a constellation she chases. One fleeting star desperately attempts to connect to the closest neighbor twinkling in the midnight sky. Always wondering if the newest will shine as much as the last. 

Ellie will momentarily start making gagging noises to your left. Right on cue, she snaps her fingers in front of your face, bursting your fantasies. 

Reality is brutal. 

“How long?” Ellie questions you, ivy-green eyes watching you like a hawk. 

“Still the same — a year.” 

Then Abby’s laughing with your mom, leaning into her warmth. Even after Christmas passes, another thanksgiving drifts from the calendar, and you wonder if she’s alone. One too many Valentines you should be spending with her, you can’t help but wonder if things could be different. 

The girlfriend you refused to bring leaves a stain in your mouth, the fight the two of you had before, it’s all so fucking cliche. Another wasted relationship to forget the horror you’re living in. Another breakup you’ll pretend didn’t happen at the sake of your dignity. She can’t know you’re single, again. 

It’s too obvious to anyone who’s watching, divorced for three years, separated for four and it's only been a year since the last time you were together. A year since she���s been gone, radio silence engulfing you the second she left town. 

The well-renowned heart surgeon, Dr. Anderson is called all across the globe. Her two feet are never on the ground enough to call any place a home. Her speciality didn’t always have her chasing both ends of the globe, fleeing to where she’s needed at a moment notice. 

She was leagues above her peers and even her superiors. Abby running circles around them. Putting them in a continuous loop. Until she kept moving to the next big thing. Something had to give and it wasn’t her career. 

The final dagger in your cracking marriage was when she missed your anniversary for the second year in a row. Your birthday before that. And the wilted flowers you couldn’t bring yourself to discard months before that even. 

But neither of you were able to quit each other. Long after the ink dried with every dotted line signed and you still found a way to crawl into her sheets. There wasn’t anyone else who compared to her but you were still trying to find it. 

The moment you truly fall in love, when it’s undeniable and it consumes you, where you finally feel peace with their comfort surrounding every worry you’ve had. 

But maybe lightning only strikes once. A bolt of love with only her initials carved in by the magic of gods, each promise she’d broken forged into a blossom that ends — painfully does it linger — like a spring begging to kiss summer. 

“You’re breaking it tonight.” Ellie shakes her head. You can’t take your eyes off of Abby for more than one second. “Neither of you can help it.” 

“I have a girlfriend, Els.” A vicious burn chokes your throat as the whiskey burns and settles disparagingly in your stomach. The lie smothers you all the same.  “A smart, beautiful girlfriend.” 

“Listen, I love you. You know that but none of your relationships are ever going to work when you still look at Abby like this.” She finds it necessary to emphasize the bright light in a shadow of green. “All of these years and you’re still not over her.” Ellie swiveles in the bar stool to face you. “Plus, we both know she’s not as innocent as she looks.” 

There’s silence for a bit, downing the rest of your drink, hoping the burn coating your throat travels to your heart, dimensioning all hope beating for the woman you’ve never been able to shake. 

Everyone expects you to. Like it’s easy. As if you didn’t think vows are forever. Life has never been so unkind to you. You’re more fortunate than most. 

“Do you really need it explained?” 

“No.” You speak as if you’re wounded but all she did was point out the obvious. Abby is a glaring truth you tuck underneath your seat, the missing raspberry-chapstick in the bottom of your purse. A trinket. Better off hidden than searching for something that is no longer intact. 

“I can make this work. Abby doesn’t always have to be the person I run back to. I can move on and heal or whatever the fuck it is normal people do. I can do this.” It’s a mantra to convince yourself, but not even Ellie is convinced. 

Ellie smirks as Abby makes her way over to you but you’re too caught up in ordering another whiskey to stop yourself from doing something idiotic. A brainless action that would only bring your gratification for a moment, before your hands would be coated in your lovers’ blood the second it’s over. 

She’ll always be a phenomenon, the dime of a dozen. A bundle of your highest dreams wrapped in the warmest blanket. Fine lines deepening the apple of her cheeks, not to mention the wrinkles when she furrows those maddening eyebrows. There is no denying how much you’ve always loved her. 

You’re truly doomed. 

───

“Old fashioned, please.”

An open bar was the best decision of the night. Everyone was buzzing, congratulating the happy couple, nursing their favorite drink in hand. Everlasting love for the blessed ones or a vice of your choice for the insufferable. The ones who had already ventured down the aisle and couldn’t make it on the other side. 

It’s why you couldn’t stand the particularly young bartender eyeing up Abby like she’s a piece of meat. Before you never had felt the weed of jealousy wrap around your throat, suffocating the joy right out of you, but they might as well be thorns protruding through your sternum for every second her eyes linger on Abby.  

Silky locks of midnight-blue and hazel eyes taunt you as she stutters and drops the glass she’s been holding right in front of Abby. As of the mere sight of her warrants for precious glass to be broken. She just laughs it off as the woman who makes Abby’s drink blooms a deep shade of pink. 

“Let me guess…The Macallan?” Abby gestures to the glass of whiskey you’re nursing. 

“Maybe.” A glimmer in your eyes, tightly pursing your lips in attempts to keep at least one thing closed tonight. But she leans forward, her nose sniffing above the rim. 

With her eyes beaming up at you, blonde-eyelashes curling to kiss her sandy freckles, she smiles. A sparkle. Another flame so warm it matches the shade of blue in her eyes, cursing you with the love she once felt. Almost making you believe it could happen again. 

“That’s definitely Macallan. Your favorite. How could I ever forget?” Abby offers a question as her cologne isn’t so invasive, there’s space for you to breathe, but with her close you doubt there’s enough oxygen to spare. 

“It’s only because of New York. I’m not sure I could ever forget it.” 

“We went through, I don’t know—” Abby tries to recall, but you don’t need to be told. You’re fully aware of what happened. 

The first time Abby whisked you away on a spontaneous trip before life got so hectic. Labored gust of her minty-fresh breath kiss your neck as she sinks herself into your warmth, a blank canvas for her lips to mark. Abby does it quietly, the summer sun raining light on your silky skin, and she decides to shower you with more of her love.

Out of habit as if she’s said it a million times before. But it’s the first. Naively, she whispers those three little words. Lips of subtlety rest against your ear as they are released. A moment of confusion has you turning around, eyes squinting against the light of the sun, making you think twice if you heard her right. 

And you did. 

The memory suffocates, morphs into a dream, and then you find yourself lucky enough to barely remember it. A blatant lie, but if you believe it hard enough, it could be the truth. 

“Three bottles in one night and then you held my hair when I puked my guts five minutes later that morning and told me it made you love me even more.” Your face scrunches up and Abby knocks her shoulder with yours. 

“Do you remember later that night when you let me do that thing with my t—” 

“I’m still right here!” Childishly, Ellie throws her hands up on the hair before she takes another swing from her beer. 

“Williams, I sure have missed the shriek of your voice.” Abby leans over, throwing her arm over the backrest of your chair, making herself comfortable. 

As if no time has passed, the three of you slip into easy conversation. You wished for this. A glimpse into the life you once had. For a time, little moments just like these only existed in your dreams. Even when the two of you were still living under the same roof — in your cruel reality it still felt like a fantasy — one that was entirely too unattainable. 

It makes you think of when it all started. When life felt easier. 

───

The College Years: University of Seattle 

Ellie had been the first to set your sights on you, well, before Abby at the very least. Pining only ran so deep and your consistent rejection became a heavy cross for her to bear. Over your first semester, Ellie became a confidant, and her crush melted in friendship. 

She’s the first person you’d ever trusted with your harboring secret. A sophomore in college and you finally felt yourself settling in. Your first year, you only allowed yourself to drown in your studies. A strict regimen. The only real friend you did make was Ellie and only because she couldn’t land herself in your sheets. 

But regardless of how the situation had started, her presence in your life became concrete. A month into the semester of your second year, Ellie thinks it’s a great idea to start dragging you into parties. Like that’s the most obvious choice in the world. Yet, you’re still warming up to the idea. 

Cheap beer, frat boys trying to make their presence known to any girl who walks by, whatever pop song they deemed necessary to funnel them to the next raunchy beat. None of it really had ever been your scene. Ellie thrived in it when she chose to. When she didn’t feel like it, the two of you would silently read books in your insanely small dorm room. 

You agreed to go to one this week. Even if it pains every bone in your body. Ellie flips through the pages of a book you recommended to her as you emerge from the bathroom, practically done. For the past hour, you envied Ellie’s nonchalant red converse and navy-blue flannel attire. It must be nice to not have to do yourself up to the nines to feel comfortable. 

You craved it. 

For a moment, you contemplated an outfit change but then there was a disturbance at the door. A loud one, too. 

Ellie shrugs her shoulders as if to say — this is your dorm, not mine — and she’s right but it doesn’t make it any less nerve wracking. 

Maybe Dina has someone stopping by and she double booked? You take a moment to glance at her made bed before opening the door. 

“Lola, would you please—” The snarky blonde who is in the middle of an eye roll, stops in her tracks. Freckled and pale cheeks coated in a bashful crimson. “Oh, right, you’re not Lola.” 

“Am I supposed to be?” There’s a confidence in your tone, enough where Ellie puts her book down to watch. 

“It’s Chris’ girlfriend, she’s always going about me taking a long time to get—” The woman pauses realizing you have no idea what the fuck she’s talking about. “And…….you don’t know Chris. Wow, really making an ass out of myself, huh?” 

“Yeah.” 

Ellie laughs, a bit too loudly, and it’s enough to warrant her attention as she sneaks a peek into your dorm. 

“Sorry, didn’t mean to intrude on you and your girlfriend—” She sighs, hiding the bag she had in her hand behind her back. “Lola is probably just fucking with me and sent me the wrong room on purpose. She says I’m overly confident and I apparently need to be humbled, desperately. This isn’t the first time she’s done this, believe it or not.” 

“So, are you?” 

“Am I what?” She questions, a smirk etching its way into her full cheeks. A bright-glint in her eyes personified to tease you. 

“Overly-confident?” 

“Me? Never, sunshine.” As if she’s looking for a sign. 

You give yourself permission to look at her and there’s a lot to be confident about. Her staturing height, golden waves of blonde, piercing-blue eyes creating round edges around your soul. There’s a sincerity there. You wonder if she’s even aware of it. 

She looks simple enough, a white button down loose and opened, even slightly wrinkled. A pair of vintage denim shorts, a wash of pale-blue fitting loosely on her thighs with a graphic tee that brings out her eyes even more. 

She’s tan, clearly athletic, and definitely a flirt by the looks of it. The interaction is too overwhelming and she’s too warm. You don’t even know her name. Nor do you have any intention to. She’s terrifyingly self-assured, batting her blonde eyelashes at you as if she’s waiting for you to paint her golden. 

“Well, I hope you find Lola and Chris.” The beautiful woman in front of you, equally as muscular as you’ve seen from anyone on campus, blushes. But you’re too in your head to notice. “Have a good night—” 

“Abigail. But you can call me Abby.” 

The next couple weeks blend together. All of it is more or less the same. A string of classes you’re trying to keep up with, caffeine you’re pumping your body with, and a mysteriously confident girl who won’t leave your mind. 

Ellie waits until it’s been three weeks to torment you with it. You’re surprised she even found the patience. 

“You know who that girl was, right?” 

“What girl?” The two of you are walking back from the cafe, headed back to your dorm room before the both of you call it a night. Ellie insisted she make sure you get home safely which you appreciate. 

“Don’t give me that. You know exactly who I’m talking about.” 

To be fair, you did. But you didn’t want to make it obvious. 

“I’ve seen her around, yeah. I don’t know who she is and it doesn’t really matter. It’s not like I’m going to see her again. She’s just someone who knocked on the wrong door.” 

“So, the captain of the rugby team, every lesbian’s dream girl is going around campus asking about you and you’re not going to even bite?” 

“What?” You take a beat, trying to process the information. “She is not—” 

Ellie shrugs her shoulders, as if it’s a fact you have to stomach. A truth that should be sweet to swallow. To you, it feels more than overwhelming. It’s an unbearable weight. The last thing you’ve ever wanted was attention. With Abby dialed into you, for whatever reason, is too much for you to carry. 

“Well tell her you’re my girlfriend. She already thinks so, there’s no harm in—” 

“She totally doesn’t.” 

Her response crosses you with confusion. “But why wouldn’t she when I never corrected her?” 

“Because she asked me and I said you weren’t.” Ellie mischievously smiles. 

You think about punching her in the lip, but decide against it. 

It's nearly two months before you see Abby again. For a while, you thought you would never have to see her again. The more you gave yourself time to think about it, the more of a distraction she felt. This is exactly what you had been so strictly against. 

You didn’t have time for that. A budding romance. No matter how tempting her pretty muscles and pink lips seem to be — it’s not like you’re even interested. She's just a jock with a pension for something she can’t have. It didn’t necessarily help that she wouldn’t stop asking Ellie about you. 

Every time, Els would come back to you with her eyes shimmering in a vibrant-green. A smile nearly revealing itself in the light. A new question about you, a new interest in something you like. Abby loves asking about you. Ellie makes sure you know it too. 

“If she’s so fond of me, why can’t she be bothered to talk to me?” 

“Because she would scare you off. You need time to warm up. Something where you don’t feel so much pressure.” 

The truth nips at her skin like the prickly ends of a cactus. Abby would scare her off. The popularity she carries is enough to make her run sixty miles in the other direction. Let alone everything else about her that makes you nervous. The first encounter was a hail-mary. In the comfort of your own room, there was an extension of yourself to latch onto. 

Outside of it, there was nothing warm and comforting, just cold heartless feins threatening to suck your discipline dry. 

“I hate that you know me so well.” 

“I know.” Ellie nudges your shoulder with hers. 

The local pub is quiet, you’re nursing a beer Ellie had been able to score with her fake id. Suddenly, the discussion of Abby being brought up made you question the size of this table. And before you could say a word, a couple of unnamed faces funneled in with the woman of the hour.

You wonder if the couple clinging onto each is Lola and Chris. Dina follows right behind them as she ends a phone call. 

“Ellie, you did not—” 

“Oh, I so did. You need to get fucked by a b—”

“Hi, Sunshine.” 

Abby’s voice tugs at your heart, so badly you have to physically put your hand over your chest. Lola and Chris introduce themselves as they delve into a conversation with Dina and Ellie, like they knew each other. 

Like everyone knows everyone but you. The whole night Abby is persistent. An open book, she wants to talk about anything. Everything. All of this seems to be so easy for her. A couple times, you find yourself getting distracted with her toned-arms, they’re even larger than Chris’ slimed arms. 

Abby asks you questions and involves you when she gets looped into conversation with Ellie or Lola. You like it when she always asks your opinion, giving you her undivided attention when others go off to the next topic. The golden signet ring on her pinky shines in the dually-light bar. Catching against the reflection of the mirror adjacent to the oak-stained wall. 

“You wanna pick a song? I think I might have some cash on me. Or some coins, something of currency.” Abby steps off the stool, lending you a hand even if it’s a short step for you, and you still take her guidance. 

“Uh, sure. I don’t see why not.” 

“Is that almost excitement I’m hearing, sunshine?” 

When your face sulks back into something moppy and annoyed, Abby laughs as bright as the sun. 

“C’mon, don’t let my optimism put you off. I’m not nearly as bright as I seem. You just have that effect on me.” She says what you’re thinking. Kiss her, run away, hit Ellie for making you painfully aware of the beautifully-golden girl who holds some type of affection for you. 

Abby stands behind you as you sift through the music on the jukebox. A collection of classics from the eighties and nineties. Even some lingering songs from the seventies have made its way. You’re not even paying attention, not really. You’re not sure if Abby wants to torture you, but she stand behind you, a fraction off to the side as she extends her arm across to the right, leaning into even more. 

“You pick. I can’t decide.” 

“Okay, but on one condition.” 

“Why do I have a feeling I’m not gonna like this.” Abby just smiles, whispering in your ear that you have nothing to worry about. 

“Just a dance, one song.” 

“Abby, you should know I—” 

“What? You don’t like girls?” You can tell she’s joking. The small joke even makes you laugh. The two of you both knew how much you’ve been ogling, not really letting her out of your sight, even if it’s for a minute long. 

“Abby.” You warned and then she dials back her flirting, telling you to go on, as she scrolls through the list of songs to choose from. 

“Go on, sunshine. Tell me the devastating news.” 

“I don’t date. I don’t want to. It’s not something I want to focus on.” Abby chooses a song before twirling you in her arms. It gives you no option but to latch onto her, arms thrown around her neck once the two of you settle into each other. 

“And how firm do you feel right now in that decision?” There’s no teasing, she’s genuinely asking as she holds you, in a bar full of staring people, she couldn’t care less. If you’re not careful, you might fall in love with her this very fateful second. 

“Pretty good.” You meet her eyes, as she inches forward, her chest pressed against yours and Abby leans her foreheads against yours. A breath full of mint kissing your luscious lips, a strawberry-balm coating them a deep tint of red. 

“And what about now?” She wants you to lean in. To give into the selfish devil on your shoulder, or the angelic soul whispering in your ear, whatever brings you closer to her. 

The song is over but the two of you haven’t even struck the first chord. 

───

You think of your almost first kiss with Abby. How deeply you felt for her even before you knew her as intimately as you do now. Even when the years apart sever you, the nerve endings binding you together barely holding on, you’ll always have that moment. 

An almost. It’s laughable how relevant all of those moments feel just as you are now. Almost a lifetime later. It makes you think of the life you once had, the one you never took for granted, but you soon would learn she would. 

Abby was never some dumb jock who was careless and reckless. There’s naivety that blooms in your youth, and somewhere along the way, you grow up. The leaves of your knowledge become weathered, the colors change, and suddenly what made you so green turns into a numbing-brown. Until you fall into something new. 

Even now, you still cling to the memories of her. The novel acts of love and the ones forgotten that made your blood run cold. 

Late nights watching your favorite horror movies while Abby cooks a dish she knows you love. Or when she stops on her way home to get you a bottle of your preferred white wine. The little things she used to do for you suddenly fell into acts of service that never happened until it was just you and the bottom of the bottle each night, wishing Abby was there with you. 

No one truly knew how this worked. How you and Abby are so amicable, so kind to one another after the divorce was finalized. It’s easier when the two of you are still in love, circumstances pulling the two of you in different directions but there’s still so much love. 

“Oh, how I’ve missed the cocky jock everyone fawned over.” Ellie jokes, “But truly, it’s good to see you. Even if it’s for these two crazy love birds. Lola and Chris, god she’s such a saint.” 

“If that ain’t the fucking truth.” Abby and Ellie ding their glasses together. 

It’s nice to see the two of them together but you know Ellie. She’s up before you have time to blink. She’s always been the biggest supporter for you and Abby. And she so badly wants the two of you to work. Whether the pressure feels good or it doesn’t, she places it there. 

The words she spoke to you junior year of college still ring in your ear. 

One day, I’m going to find the love Abby and you have. I want someone to look at me like that. So full of love. Of faith. Like there’s a testimony waiting to be written in her eyes. That’s how Abby looks at you. I want to believe love exists like that for everyone. Even for someone like me. I haven’t forgotten you rejected me by the way. 

Classic Ellie. 

Without so much as a word, she excuses herself when Dina pleads for a dance and she so freely gives it — you wish it could’ve been this easy for you. Like she believed it would be. 

A love full of faith and promise. Now you just had a badgered testimony. 

“Where is she?” Abby asks the moment Ellie is gone, it’s the first thing she wanted to ask but she waits until the two of you are alone. She won't say her name, not when she still feels the burn. The ache in her stomach when Iris hard launched the both of you online. 

“Home.” It stings more than Abby expects it too but she takes it on the chin. There's still silence as the two of you sit comfortably, leaning your head against her supportive shoulder. 

You cared for her. You hated that it felt good to see the jealousy rage in her eyes. For once, she didn’t hide what she felt behind her impenetrable mask, one that was built over time, but it was short lived. 

“I’m sorry, Abby. If I had known I would have never—I never would have gone there.” 

It all comes flooding back like ivory wine before it spoils into crimson. A year ago when it all blew up in your face. Even if you didn’t know Abby so well, an imbecile would know it’s why she disappeared. Never coming home after, ignoring your texts with a dryness you hadn’t experienced in years. 

If you could take it all back, you would. Abby tells you it’s fine but she forgives a lot when she loves you. It’s another slice to your heart; you’ll never stop bleeding. 

“We don’t have to talk about it.” There’s a wall in front of her eyes, keeping you from knowing a thing. It hadn’t been much different when the two of you were married. Always so much to hide, very little room for you to be let in. 

You loved the girl who was an open book, somehow the both of you had lost her. 

“No, we don’t have to talk.” Abby smirks as she talks a sip of her drink. 

“You’re such a cheeky shit.” You nudge your knee against hers as you lean closer to her, thick and muscled thighs shifting towards you, sandwiching your legs between hers. “I guess some of us don’t really change.” 

“I’ve changed plenty—” Abby places her hand on your thigh, playing with the flimsy material of your dress, enjoying the slit in your dress exposing smooth skin in the beeline of her vision. 

“Yeah, totally.” 

“I have.” Dragging her fingers along your thigh as she tests the waters and she rises higher, rubbing soothing circles into your skin as she recites every inch of surface from memory. “A lot of things have changed for me recently.” 

“Like what?” You’re the definition of pathetic, fawning over her every word as if she’s the first to say each one. 

“Different things, my life, my um—” She pauses for a moment before she bites her lip, a heavy sigh leaving her lips but it’s one of relief. “My job.” 

There’s some disposition in your heart, how it feels to be lost back in a past memory. Eternally, a glimpse of your pleading meets a moment you keep under lock and key. 

But you don’t ask. Anxiously you gulp down the rest of your drink. You’re not a fan of how it burns but it’s better than giving into what she wants. Giving her the satisfaction of being enamoured with the possibility of her being home. It’s what you dreamed of four years ago. 

You wanted to believe the well has dried up — she’s too late. Even the idea planted in your mind sounds falsified. There’s an abundance of desperation threatening to make home, torturing the life out of you with the greediness rooted in fresh soil. 

It begs for a chance to blossom. 

“You can ask me. I won’t bite, promise.” 

With cheeks, rosing red like cherries, you wonder what else finds itself blossoming beneath the surface. 

You take the safer route. “What country are you going to this time?” The sorrow in your voice is palpable. 

Abby ignores you. 

“You know that green and white house in the countryside, the fields so open you could get lost in them, the one we always talked about. Do you remember it?” 

“Abby, I hope you have a point to all of this or perhaps you’re just feeling particularly cruel.” 

Of course you remember it. The amount of times you’ve come into town and passed by it. At one point, it’s what the both of you wanted until your needs and hers got lost in the shuffle. Two hearts of the same beat drifting from one another in tragic harmony. 

“I bought it. I’m flying to England to do one last surgery that my assistant already had scheduled last month and I’m coming home. Opening a private practice here. I’m done flying out. If patients want to see me, they can come here.” 

“W-What, um—” You stutter out, trying to think of a reasonable response, anything but kissing her or crying. It’s not fair. It’s not right. This is all you had wanted. 

Four years ago. 

─── 

April, 2024. 

“A-Abby, oh god—” 

She’s smirking like a goddamn idiot. All meat and muscle. The strong v-line that made you wanna slap it right off of her. No one should ever look this good. It’s such a punishment. A curse. Devil’s karma on a double-edge sword but somehow you’re eating both ends. 

“Mhm, that good? I know you’ve always been loud, baby, but you’re singing like a perfect angel.” Abby grunts as she thrust upwards, watching you squirm as your full-seated on the baby-blue strap she’s fucking you with. “Those pretty girls that keep posting you not enough?” 

“Are you jealous?” Lifting an eyebrow but she doesn’t respond. Thrusting into you at a slow pace, watching you slowly crumble before her haunting eyes, never straying for even a moment. 

“Jealous of what exactly? It’s not like they hold a fucking candle to me. I’ll snuff them out before they have a chance to light the match.” With a gentle hand, she guides you closer to her, your forehead pressed against hers, meeting her deep thrusts with a slow grind. 

Her coaxing arm wraps around your waist, tickling your spine as she does so, searing your lips to hers. It coats your entire body with a heat, blossoming at your heart before it spreads into every inch of your body. Laying waste to any part of you trying to go anywhere but here. 

“I’m not as easy as you think, Abby.” 

“Never said you were. For everyone else, I'm sure it’s very difficult…if you aren’t me.” Abby does the thing. Lips touching but despite the desire, she enjoys watching you chase. You want her, every piece of her. Each part she’s shown you, you cling onto it like a lifeline, hoping she’ll unravel another momentum for you to hold onto. 

Abby will leave and the time spent with you is all you have left. Trying to think of anything else, you slip into the role she wants you to play. It’s all you can do. 

“God, you’re so full of yourself.” 

“I think you’re kind of full of me at the moment.” Planting her feet on the bed she pushes a few thrusts that shut you up, gasping as your lips brush against her she doesn’t take the bare. 

Abby is perfectly content with watching you fall apart, a speciality she hasn’t had the opportunity of exercising while she’s been away. You fall into the crook in her neck, lips kissing at the exposed flesh as you take what she gives. 

“I know, babygirl, you love my cock too much to stay away. I can hear how wet you are for me. Singing to me with your pussy like the pretty angel you are.” Abby moans when your teeth sink in, sucking at the flesh until you’re satisfied with the marks you’re leaving behind. 

“Please— A-Abby, you love to talk so much shit, would you just make me come?” 

“Then work for it, baby.” That’s all it takes before you’re bouncing on her cock, riding as deep as Abby will allow. Lazily, she props herself on her elbows as she takes a look at the show. The double A’s on your left hip are still inked and Abby smooths her thumb over it. 

A smile she can’t help but show. 

“God, Abby would you just—” 

“Still a brat.” Abby chuckles, slapping your ass in the process which causes you to shudder. 

Leaning over you whisper in her ear, “So, you do remember a thing or two.” 

Abby flips you over, your head plush against her satin pillows, sinking your neck so you lay comfortably. Dildo still laying perfectly within you, as she smooths her calloused fingertips on your thighs, smoothing along the surface. 

A much more gentle touch than what you’ve been used to in the past year. You didn’t mind it to be fast, rough, even a little messy at times. You enjoyed it when it was with someone new. Thrived in the throes of a meaningless fuck, where a delicate hand wasn’t required. If you need to get off with no complications, it’s the best option. 

Abby was never just a quick fuck. It wasn’t how any of this started and when she needs a smidge of stress to relieve, she’s always been a woman to take her time. Wind you up so tight, her hand is the only release you’re willing to grab onto. A tidal wave she wants to bring to the shore until you’re paralyzed by her wave. 

“It seems like you need to be reminded of who you're with.” With a look of curiosity flourishing under the prosperity of spring, she spreads your legs far enough to make room for her build. 

You take a few heartbeats to check out her physique, which has only grown stronger since the last time you’ve seen her. High and mighty with toned shoulders that would put Hercules to utter shame, her six pack still fully in tack with freckles adorning every part of her body. 

Never would you grow tired of looking at her in all her glory, but that’s all anyone sees. The first time she opened up to you is the moment you fell in love with her. Maybe there’s more. You seem to lose track of them all. 

You’re the first to ever ask me anything about myself, you know? Most women just flirt with me, compliment my body, or they fuck me with their eyes first glance. Of course, it’s nice, but it’s hard feeling like I’m anything more than a body for them to use. Like that’s all I’m good for. 

I do believe you’re more than what other people reduce you to. I’m more interested in this amazing and kind brain of yours. Everything else is just a bonus. It’s a rarity to find someone as beautiful on the outside as they are on the inside. I think that’s what makes you so special, Abby. 

The moment flashes, a film rolling behind your eyes and you almost feel her words lace over skin as if you’re transported to the exact moment she said them. 

Not a soul sees the person that you see. They don’t see the curve of her smile when you call out her name. When she’s nervous, she’ll pull at the ends of her golden strands, threading at her split ends she so desperately needs to cut. 

Abby loves to read books, but she’ll cry right in front of you if you get a book she’s been eyeing but won’t buy for herself. Don’t have the time, it’s what she always used to say. The high demands of her career never allowed for such a thing. 

No hobbies, no life, and certainly no love. 

Memories transform into recent nightmares, the horrors of your insecurities bloom in the root of your mind, reminding you of all the ways you can’t be enough for her. On somber nights when your imagination is feeling particularly cruel, you have dreams of the nights you used to have. A simple dream where it doesn’t end in divorce and indifference.  

“Hey, are you okay?” Her soft voice breaks you of the self-captured spell you cursed yourself in. “What’s wrong?” 

This is the part you loathe and it’s almost enough to boil the blood in your veins. It’s not her fault she knows you like the back of her hand. One glance and she knows if you’re upset, gleefully happy, or steaming with jealousy. Abby can see it all. 

“M’good,” But you know the words won’t be enough. You know she’ll want a reason. It’s one you can’t freely give, even if it’s what she wants. “I missed you, that’s all.” 

And that much is true. The sun yearns for the moon, but the two are always destined to be apart. Her aspiration to be the best in her career is always being held over anything else held near and dear to Abby. You would never fault her for it, it’s why you served the divorce papers in silence — maybe it’s why she signed them without a second thought — abstinence is better than rejection. 

“I miss you, too. I always do.” Even if it’s selfish, Abby can’t help herself. 

You lose yourself in the tidal wave of affection, bound to be pulled by her light. A star that was never meant to be yours to begin with but you still couldn’t help but chase. 

A month? A couple weeks? Then she’ll be boarding a new flight, to a new state, country, or continent and she’ll forget all about you. All you need is a moment. One of self-sacrifice. The heart barely beating in your chest will chastise you for it later, but for now, you have this one night with her. 

A single night to pretend she’s still yours.  

Instead of telling her how much you don’t want her to go, or that you never should have filed for divorce, you allow your lips to melt into hers. You see an island of sapphire, an entire land of love blazing in her eyes, before you allow yourself to get lost in her touch. 

It’s when the scorch of the sun seems worth it. Any moment you’re close to her, feeling the abundance of devotion laced in her velvet tongue, whispering promises she never intends to keep. The potential of more rumbles beneath, waiting to catch her, but she’s always running off in the opposite direction. 

This is all you have. With salacious greed, you welcome it like the sin nestled in your heart. You feel her movements still, but you pull her closer, a soft plea falls from your lips reeks of desperation but you don’t have half a mind to care. 

“You know I’ll give you whatever you want but I’m not going to keep going unless you ask me to.” Abby whispers in the moonlight room. It’s so gentle, if you couldn’t help but look anywhere but her you might have missed it. 

“I-I’m fine, Abby. Really.” You promise her, but it falls on deaf ears. 

Her accusatory eyes dial in, squinting so loudly at you, “You’re about two seconds away from crying.” 

“It’s….the cock….it’s too much.” Trying to keep a flat face, you bite your lip, before the two of you burst into a fit of laughter. 

“You’re still not a very good liar, baby.” Abby purrs. Her voice goes an octave lower than she needs it to. “It’s not the cock. I’ve fucked you with bigger, so why don’t you use your words and tell me what’s wrong so I can fix it.” 

“Last time this happened, I cried for three days after you left and I made a promise I wouldn’t be here again and now I’m here and I know as soon as this ends you’ll forget this ever happened and go on with your amazing career and yet again I’ll be left in the dust to fend for myself and—” 

“Woah, baby, slow down. Alright? Take a deep breath and breathe. You’re getting yourself worked up, okay?” 

“But it’s the truth. You’re not even denying it.” You exasperate, groaning as you’ve overcomplicated what was supposed to be a fuck. Only a fuck. But it never is. Not when you’ll always be consumed by your love for her. Not when she’s everything you want. 

You couldn’t be just a meaningless one-night stand. For anyone else? You could. But not to the woman who you love beyond comprehension. 

Abby wrestles with herself. Contemplate her next words and you see the exact moment she gives into something you silently wish for. In only a language she understands. 

A silent wish to be granted — tell me how important I am to you too. 

She leans down, mirroring your position from earlier, with her scarred cheek pressed against your cheek as she delicately whispers, “I think about you every second of every day. I spend every minute missing this. Every hour apart I wish for this, being close to you, pretending things aren’t the way I’ve made them. But I can't change the past, so I can focus on making you feel good —  I’ll be yours forever even if you aren’t mine.” 

“Do you really mean that?” 

“Yes, I do.” Abby confesses to you, sealing her promise in her lips. 

Abby gives sweet pecks along your neck as she peppers your face with litters of love. Making her way back to your lips once again, searing her love until you feel every bit of it. Hoping it’s enough for you to hold onto. 

Abby groans as she starts to move her hips, and god do you take it so fucking well. Picking up right where the two of you left off, but this time you wrap your legs around her waist, allowing her to fuck you at a new angle. 

It’s then when she starts to pick up the pace, brutal hips snapping forward as she lets herself go. The power of her thrust sends the headboard fleeing to the wall. The worn out bed frame she won’t bother to replace creaks under the weight, threatening to snap. 

“No one is as sweet as you, can take my cock like you do. Fuck, you’re so perfect.” She spills all her secrets, the ones threatening to come out of her mouth all night but you still hear them. 

It’s getting her off just as much as it does for you. But she wants you there faster. With a sly of hand she applies pressure on your bundle of nerves, your swollen clit thumping from being touched by its owner, the only one who knew how to pull the string just right. 

A symphony Abby created; no one else stood a chance. 

She watches as you pull yourself closer to her, bringing her small tits against your chest, grabbing you by the hips, losing herself in each thrust. The whimpering slips, any effort to conceal gets pulled from the soft strokes to your clit. 

Tugging at her blonde strands as you pull her lips towards yours again as Abby fucks you as if it’s an art form. Clenching her stomach as she hears you aggressively getting louder, with each thrust there’s a line being drawn from you to her, forever cementing her dedication of vows already broken. 

“Abby, I’m—” 

“I know sweet girl, you can let go for me. I got you.” Abby whispers silently into the night as she gets you through it. The moment your body is convulsing around 

her, grabbing any part of her you can, she kisses you the moment you start to come. 

Always, she’s been one for the details. Paying attention to every little thing about you. Nonsense stories you half-expect her to listen to, never goes unnoticed by her. From remembering your mother’s favorite cake, to your favored choice of sour candy, or how you take your coffee in the morning — Abby pays attention to everything. 

It wasn’t enough she was the most charming woman you’ve ever met, she had to be an angel too. Even through the vicious fights, moments as sharp as a razor blade, she never seemed to leave a mark. Still, Abby was soft. Like a perfectly melted marshmallow in the fire pit, roasted around all the edges but she never seems to burn. 

She looks at you with a wondrous love, shattering-encompassing forever that never comes. One you’ll die waiting for it. 

Quickly you remove yourself from the bed, suddenly the sheet turns into hot lava, scorning you as she looks upon you with admiration. A love you can’t afford to keep any longer. 

“I have to go.” You find your top to be torn by Abby’s hands. 

Putting a pair of boxers on her body, she drifts into her closet, finding her favorite shirt before she helps guide it on your naked frame. 

“This was the last time.” Setting eyes on her, meticulous hand smoothing the cotton in hopes it might merge with your skin. A part of her potentially entangled with you, forever. “We can’t keep doing this. It’s not good for either of us. Neither one of can seem to move on—” 

“I never wanted to move on or a divorce.” Abby confesses but it’s falling on deaf ears, you won’t meet her eyes as you look for the other boot gone missing. 

“Abby, you chose your career. I don’t blame you for it but you did. This will never work. You signed the papers without even fighting. You gave up and I’m not blaming you — I did too.” 

“But what if things changed? What if my job changed and I was here?” She’s desperate, clinging onto anything to make you stay. She wishes you had malice, screaming, even a slap to her stomach or thigh, a pinch to keep her from this ongoing nightmare. 

You kissed her sweetly, and there’s poison on your lips and she’s the only antidote. 

“We both know it never will. The world always needs you more. And I’m just—” Bitterly, her ignorance crunches like dead leaves under your boots. Walking you out the door, in what you hope will be the last. 

You can’t afford for this to happen again. Old habits seeping into you and she’s the most difficult one to kick. 

“But what if something changed?”

What if I changed? 

“Abby?” 

“Yeah, sunshine?” The name wounds you. 

“Don’t do that.” You want to scream, punch a wall, wish for a different future than the one you were given. But your kindness seeps in. The faith of love you hold onto. “Not when it’s the only thing I want.” 

The only thing I need. It’s what you want to say but decide not to. 

“Okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—” 

“I know, Abs.” 

───

Present. 

Four years of being divorced, and neither of you knew how to operate without the other. Two souls extending to each other, in complete tangent with the other. Secretly thriving off the joined consciousness, Abby holds onto every piece of you she can. 

Even if the shards she shattered pierce through her hand, bleeding her dry of every ounce of blood, if it’s for you — the ends justify the ache. Not once has she wavered. Your warning was enough. Keeping her head under, Abby did what she thought was best. 

Surgery. Saving hearts. It’s the one thing she hadn’t failed at. Maybe she couldn’t save the two of you, but she could save the heart in her hands. The passion she felt when she sutured a heart, or teaching interns a new technique that would soon be named after her — there couldn’t be anything else like it. 

Not even you, the love she’ll never forget, could replicate the adrenaline coursing through her veins when Abby was in the operating room. For four years, without the worries of failing you again, she reached unseen heights. Paving the way for all cardio vascular surgeons. Not just for the women but for everyone who had passions just like hers. 

Even with all the accomplishments, the awards, the undeniable concrete ego built in the process, when she’s around you — every bit of her seems to fade — and you’re an angel with a freighting bright halo guiding her home. 

Abby’s been told that nothing would compare to playing god in an operating room, being able to do the impossible. The most inoperable of hearts would be placed in her trained hands, she would make water into wine, an otherwise dead organ would be brought to life because of her. 

All she could do was be the very best surgeon, save as many people as she can, and pretend her heart wasn’t on the other side of the country waiting for you to crave a taste of her again. 

Cruel-hearted with a god-complex, the modern medicine Messiah begs for you to love her again as you once did. Abby’s selfish enough to be bent on receiving what she had once. A steadfast love she had taken for granted once. There wouldn’t be a second. 

Love remains lingering in your eyes, it tries to flee when you get lost in her stormy-blue eyes, but you’ve always had a thing for chasing mayhem. Even if it’s the last thing you want to see, she can’t run away this time. 

“Why would you tell me this?” Scorning Abby as you down another drink the bartender leaves in front of you. “You know I’m in a relationship, you know this is the closest I’ve ever gotten to being happy again, why can’t you just leave me alone?” 

Another lie. But there’s too many to count. It’s the only stretched truth to separate her from you. 

“I-I wasn't, um, I was trying to—” There’s no sense, not when she sees the betrayal simmering in your eyes, begging for a logical explanation. She’s just not sure if she can find one. All she knows is you deserved better but this is all Abby can give. 

���Excuse me, Anderson.” She hears your platform heels ticking against the tile, nearly as angry as you must feel. For a second, she thinks about letting you be. Allowing you the space to forget this ever happened. This is what she does. Abby lets you go until you calm down, your love boiling down to complacency each time she drags you through the mud. 

For the first time, Abby wants to fight. She wants you to scream in her face, yell at her with devotion full of greed — begging for an ounce of deranged sentiment — but trying to build a relationship out of silence? She’ll end up failing again. So, when you’re almost too far, she chases after you. 

The elevator is just about to shut when Abby squeezes her fingers through the elevator, pushing her frame through as you look at her, tears threatening to make home, where they forever belong. A vow of heartache sworn as each tear tattoos your skin. 

“What are you doing?” You’re pissed. Beyond fucking pissed with your pouty lips and furrowed eyebrows pinching your eyes into a squint. Perfectly soft jaw clenches as you dig your heels into the carpet. The fibers are ripped with every subtle drag. 

“I’m fighting because I know as much as you want to be happy with her, you can’t. It’s why she’s not here with you tonight. It’s why no has stuck after me. It’s why I can’t date anyone that’s not you. And it’s why this has never really ended.” The scent you love so desperately overwhelms you as she steps close, leaving hardly any room for you to breathe. 

“You signed those divorce papers, you ended all of this.” 

“I made a mistake? Okay? I fucked up. I thought your life would be so much easier without me constantly putting you second in my life. I gave up on us and the most decent gift I thought I could give was giving you a better chance with someone else.” Abby relents, a half-apology being uttered and you're trying to process all of it. 

She deserves to be pushed away. You want nothing to do with her, but she starts kissing along your neck, the sweet spot behind your ear, dragging her tongue over sensitive skin before she leaves a mark you’ll have to explain. Abby’s always been fond of possession, and she can’t help herself when it comes to you, she knows just what to do. 

“I’m sorry.” Each time her lips drift to another spot along your neck, another apology is spilled. Every inch of your neck might as well be inked, her tenacious voracity met with the gloss of her tongue, edging you further into the grave she continues to dig. 

“This doesn’t make everything you did okay, Abby. You hurt me, left me rotting on a fucking shelf and now that you’re ready I’m supposed to drop my life for you? Give you everything I would’ve died waiting for?” Your words escape with brittle need, a crack threatening the dam to flood. 

“Give me nothing, give me everything, walk out this elevator and never speak to me again.” Abby presses forward, her freckled cheek pressed to yours, her sinful-sultry voice sweltering your body like summer in the middle of July. “Whatever you want, It’s yours. I’m only sorry it couldn’t be given to you sooner.” 

The elevator announces its arrival as you straighten out your dress and as you begin walking away Abby accepts her fate. For what feels like a lifetime, heaven engulfs her tenuous hands and without saying a word you maneuver her into your path. Pulling her by the end of her tie. 

Partnering with the silence as you open the door to your room, the door shutting behind Abby with a soft shutter. Abby stays glued to the door as you grab a glass of wine, filling it halfway before you sit on the edge of the bed, watching her squirm. 

“Is there another girl? Someone else I need to be worried about?” Abby shoves her hands deep in her pockets, her heel lightly tapping against the door. With a shake of her head, she dismisses the idea entirely. 

“C’mon, what’s her name? An intern, a colleague, a boss?” You keep pushing but she won’t budge. “You expect me to believe there has been no one?” 

With her cheeks flaring pink, the tips of her ears painted violet, you think it’s time to swallow your words. “You mean there’s only been—” 

“You.” Abby looks embarrassed, as if her skin is about to consume her alive. Rubbing the wedding band she has tattooed on her skin, in all four years she hadn’t bothered to cover it. Before setting the glass down, taking one final swing, mustering up the courage to give into her pouty-blue eyes. “Since college, I haven’t, uh, not with anyone else—” 

“You have women flirt with you all the time. You’re everyone’s fucking dream. There’s no goddamn way you haven’t had sex in a year.” 

“I only have one dream—” Abby steps forward, closing some of the distance between you. “I replay it over and over in my head when I’m alone.” 

“What does the Dr. Anderson dream about, huh? Enlighten me.” 

“The green house on Maple street.” Abby’s words cut deeper than you anticipate, your next breath trapped in your throat. “It’s not something cruel I’m using to taunt you with. It’s real. It’s yours but it could be ours. I’m four years too late, but I want to give you what I promised.” 

“What do you mean by mine?” 

Abby clears her throat, getting choked up as she paces in your room, her broad frame tensing as she tries to find a way to confess. A cloud of wonder swarms in her grey-blue eyes. 

“The deed for the house is in your name.” Immediately, you let the words sink in. Trying to rationalize it, trying to twist this into something else. There’s no way you’re hearing her correctly. She wouldn’t, right? 

“You bought our dream home for me?” Sheeply, Abby nods. The apple of her cheeks resemble a rose, sheepishly embarrassed. 

“My success, the life that I have, all of it is because you pushed me through med school. You wouldn’t give up on me even when I had given up on myself. I always wanted to do this for you. I always wanted to take care of you but I lost sight of what was important to me. I forgot why I even wanted to do this in the first place.” 

“Your dad.” You tried to smile, but it didn’t reach your eyes. You loved Jerry, he welcomed you in the family with open arms. But when he got sick, it changed Abby. Her work became her life when he didn’t get better. And soon, it’s all she became. 

“He would hate how much I fucked up everything with you. I just felt like it was the one thing I needed to still have him here with me. Like if I didn’t prioritize this—” 

“Then there would be nothing left.” You took the words right out of her mouth. 

“Look, I’m sorry I kissed you. Really, I shouldn’t have. You have a girlfriend. Someone who loves you and I won’t get in the middle of it. I’ve hurt you for so long. It makes me physically ill and I won’t do it anymore. I can’t. All I want is for you to be happy. That’s why I bought the house for you. It was always something I wanted to do for you. Regardless if we’re together or not.” 

Her pacing hadn’t stopped, she still kept moving but then nodded as she finished. This was her peace. She could move on. The both of you could move on. The ink had dried up long ago. You should move on. 

“Yeah, that’s it. Okay, I’m gonna go now.” Somehow, she transformed into the college student who knocked on your door. Confident but god, she was so unsure of herself and it still makes your heart beat a million times a minute. 

“I don’t have a girlfriend.” You turn away from her, “Not anymore.” 

You still expect her to leave, or make you look at her with tears in your eyes. You could cry a river for her and it still wouldn’t seem enough. You can’t face her. Not when one look will have you give in. The words left unsaid stain two hearts. 

I don’t have a girlfriend because I still love you. 

Like the anchor she’s always been, she wraps your frame in hers, holding you from behind. A faith of love. A testimony broken and healed by time and soothed with distance. 

There was so much you had to discuss, feelings you had to iron out fresh. Like the slightly wrinkled shirt she’d worn on the day you met. But on this day, you decided to have hope. That one day, you could climb the wall Abby built and restore your love in the vow you once sang in tune. 

“This doesn’t mean I forgive you.” But Abby sniffs out the smile. 

“I know, sunshine.” 

um. so yeah. that happened. i was trying to do a somewhat realistic ending without shredding some hearts......and i just love abby a little too much ♡

[lambcultist]

♡ PROJECT REVEAL ♡

more info below the cut.

　　　　𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑢𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛. (e.w.)

pairing: wedding planner!reader x divorce attorney!ellie

ˋ°•*⁀➷ ♡ the one woman who should know everything about love, and the woman who should know everything about its end. you are chronically single but in love with love; a wedding planner with silent envy for each of your brides, haunted by your past and unable to catch a bouquet even if it were to save your life. when poor matchmaking puts you back in the hands of your first heartbreak, you think about falling headfirst, until you realise you must first heal the scars that led you down this path to begin with.

── ‧₊˚ ⋅  the fic i have been planning to exhaustion this past month is almost here! illusion is a multi-chapter ellie williams x reader fic about hopeless romanticism and heartbreak wrapped in bridal lace and ribbon. intended for readers who are incapable of nonchalance, don't know how to move on, and hold soft spots for the cliché.

prologue drops on or around 30.07.2025. (but knowing me, it might come earlier out of pure excitement. currently writing it and rubbing my hands together like a fly.)

to rsvp, reply to this post and you'll be added to the formal tag list. if you're already on my permanent tag list, you will be tagged anyway! going to do my best to upload chapters regularly, but some may take longer than others due to the length of them.

🏷️ @honeymoondollie @valeisaslut @eriiwaii @ellieshothousewife @piercedome @therealhexstrap @jinxedbambi @heyimrye @rhian88 @g4ys0n @yoosohh @marvelwomenarehot0 @l0veylace @lacelottie

[lvrclerc]

MEANT TO BE YOURS

summary: you didn't expect to realize you didn't want to marry your fiancé at the altar, and you sure as hell didn't expect your formula one driver best friend to be your getaway car. still, you and oscar piastri are facing the neverending coast, and the true reason why you bailed out of your wedding. ✷ IVY'S POETRY DEPARTMENT EVENT: « i have never loved before as i love you─ with tenderness, to the point of tears. »

F1 MASTERLIST | OP81 MASTERLIST

pairing: oscar piastri x best friend!f!reader wordcount: 10.3K content: best friends to lovers, road trip, bittersweet, fluff, toxic/controlling relationship, age gap (not with oscar), happy ending note: requested here! i told myself i'd only write semi-short fics for this event but i have a severe case of overwriting. can you tell i enjoy writing op81 friends to lovers?

♫ paul - big thief, from eden - hozier, anchor - novo amor

SOMEONE RANG THE church bells by accident, a shrill clang which startled the officiant in the middle of his question. Most of the assembly had laughed, albeit awkwardly, to the obnoxious melody coming from the metallic giants, and the man behind the lectern had sputtered out a weak joke to ease the discomfort creeping up your spine at the interruption. Your fiancé, whose callouses still scraped your fingers he held in an iron grip, rolled his eyes and urged him to carry on.

It was the moment you knew.

“Y/N,” the officiant starts again. Your name felt pasty and foreign in his mouth, and reverberated back at you as a distorted echo of yourself you no longer recognized. “Do you take Elijah to be your husband, your best friend, and love for life?”

The look your fiancé laid upon you was nothing short of expectant. His wedding band is cold on your burning skin, branding you with its white hot ore, and you realize you hadn’t had a say in how your own looked like. The venue hadn’t been your choice either: it had been carefully curated by a wedding planner Elijah had paid, draped in strings of pearls and pristine white roses— the thorns on your bouquet hadn’t been removed and poked at your fingers through the gloves.

Your gaze drifted through the assembly. Your side blinked away tears, blotting them with monogrammed napkins bearing the last name you were meant to take, whispering their admiration about how well you were marrying for a girl of your background. His side wore rigid Venetian masks of neutrality, keeping their head high and eyes narrowed in funeral silence, all except for one.

Oscar had his eyes locked upon you. Rust-gold hair fell across his brow, hands tucked on his lap, ever the picture of calmness. Yet, you knew your best friend like no other, and the confusion swirling in his pupils told you he noticed the sweat beading on your forehead, the shuffle of your heels. He knew you just as much—if not more.

Seconds ticked by like hours, your silence was arousing raised eyebrows and disapproving stares. It took you a longer moment to notice the tightening grip Elijah had on your hands. His eyes were harsh and urgent, nothing like the soft questions in Oscar’s. He hadn’t seen it. He didn’t know.

But you did, now.

You took a step back, and the shift was almost imperceptible, still, your heel seemed to strike against the marble floor like a gunshot, rippling through the entire crowd. Gasps turned the air thick with incomprehension, building up the pressure in your lungs. Your vision frayed at the edges. Elijah’s mouth moved in a whisper, “What are you doing?”. Oscar worryingly stirred in his seat. 

It took everything in you, every ounce of will and bodily strength, to tear off your hands from your fiancé’s grasp. You didn’t look back at the people seated in front of you. You didn’t even glance back at Elijah, the man you were supposed to marry today.

Desperate, breathless, you looked at Oscar. Mouth agape in search of any intakes of air, tears pearling at your lower lashes. His confusion melted, replaced by a soft understanding, because he knew— he always did. In that moment, your shoulders unknotted. He nodded. Got up from the wooden bench, along with many outraged others.

And you ran.

Your feet pounded against the floor, echoing louder than the gasps behind you. The half-opened side-exit loomed ahead, beckoning you closer, and you hurried toward it without looking back. Cold air wrapped around you, bracing after the weight of the ceremony hall. Behind you, the commotion dulled into a muffled roar: voices tangled together in an indecipherable mess, heels clicking in panic, Elijah’s voice yelling your name. You gathered the heavy layers of your dress, bunching the white satin and lace with trembling fingers, and sprinted through the maze of narrow corridors and clerestory windows, past wooden doors creaking in protests mixing with the rush of blood in your ears.

The last door slammed open beneath your palm, leaving you stumbling to a parking lot, and the bright morning sun seared its shape into your irises. You shielded your face with one hand, lungs dragging in the sharp air. For a moment, light, color and sound blurred together.

Then there was the low purr of an engine, the hasty screeching of tires against the tarmac. A car swerved into view, and the pacific blue of it glinting under the sunlight so familiar it took your heart with the last move of its steering wheel. It came into a clean, urgent stop in front of you.

Oscar threw the passenger door open, already leaning over to push it wide enough. Your breath caught in a sob. He didn’t say anything. You didn’t either.

Wordlessly, you rushed toward him. The train of your dress snagged on the doorframe of the church, and you let out a small, strangled laugh, somewhere between hysteria and relief, as you fought to stuff the endless fabric into the cramped footwell. Oscar helped as much as he could, waiting, always a careful eye set on you.

Once you were in, he met your eyes, hands firmly on the wheel. “Where to?” he asked.

You swallowed and turned your head to the window.

“Anywhere.”

Oscar didn’t hesitate once. The tires squealed as he floored it, the engine growling beneath you like a beast let off leash. Speed took the wheels, and the church disappeared in the rearview mirrors until it was but a grain of sand in the endless ticking of an hourglass. The guests, the whispers, the life you almost disappeared into, and somewhere, amongst it all, Elijah stood at the threshold, watching you vanish.

The bells were still ringing when you passed by the exit sign.

You met Oscar Piastri three years ago. It was the first time Elijah had invited you to a Formula One race. In the two years you’d been dating, it had always come first: he was gone more often than not, attending meetings, galas, and testing weekends.

Elijah wasn’t just anyone in the motorsports world. Not that he was of any importance in the intricacies of engineering, steering the heavy cars across the narrow corners or knew how to navigate overtakes from behind a helmet— he didn’t do any of that. What Elijah did was pay for the parts and repairs, and the logo from the company he had inherited from his father graced the pristine pink and blue of the Alpine racing suit. When you first learned about it, your eyes went wide in childlike excitement. You were only in your second year of university, only nineteen, and the most expensive thing you owned was an Ipad you’d saved for one summer. So when a man, ten years older, confident and polished, told you he had his last name stitched into one of the most elitist sports in the world, it had stunned you into admirative silence.

You’d looked at him like he had been touched by Midas himself. You thought it meant something about him.

Looking back on it now, you could only describe it as garish, and note that he shouldn’t have been talking to you in the first place.

But here you were, twenty-one, dressed like you belonged, stepping into the paddock. 

You had always imagined it to be somewhat organized and polished. Instead, you were met with the blur of motions and noises: staff members pushing past, PR agents shouting into headsets, camera shutters clicking in quick succession. Conversations overlapped in different languages, and bodies moved like currents, in which you were just another thing to dodge. However, you had no time to get accustomed to it: Elijah had to leave—“Important meeting, you see,” he said with a formal kiss to your forehead, “you’ll be fine, Alpine’s hospitality’s nearby”—and left you to your own devices in the den of lions.

The Miami heat had a devastating effect, sticking to you like molten plastic. Sweat clung to the back of your neck, and your dress, carefully picked by Elijah, dug uncomfortably into your ribs. Every time you tried to step aside, someone shoved past, never long enough to help.

Vision tunneling, you pressed a hand to your forehead, but even that felt wrong. You didn’t belong there, and Elijah was right not to invite you for so long. The humidity stuck to you like a second layer of skin, your breath shallow.

“Hey.”

A voice, calm and low, cut through the static.

You blinked up, sight clearing, only to find a pair of soft brown eyes studying you, brows furrowed beneath sun-drenched hair. It was Oscar—well, you didn’t know his name yet, but at that moment he already looked familiar, a barrier between you and the world.

“You okay?” he asked, hands tucked in the pocket of his shorts as if not to startle you.

You nodded too fast, then winced at the sudden movement when the world around you started spinning again. “I’m just… I’m supposed to find Alpine’s hospitality? I can’t figure out where that is.”

His gaze flickers past you to the swarm of people. “Yeah… it’s chaos today.” Pulling a hand out one of his pocket, he handed you a water bottle—or what you assumed was a water bottle, warranting your vision could only make out blotches of pale blue. “You should sit for a minute. Shade’s better over there.”

Hesitation overcame you, visible on your face, but he didn’t urge you. He waited.

You took the water.

He led you toward a quiet stretch of wall just beyond the media scrum. It was hardly private, but the sun wasn’t blistering your skin anymore, and fewer people were circulating. You sank to the curb, grateful for the cool concrete against the back of your legs. He sat beside you, elbows on his knees, a polite distance away. You silently thanked him for it.

“I’m Oscar,” he said after a moment, glancing over at you with the same grounded calm. “Oscar Piastri.”

You managed to muster a smile. Shaky, yes, but a smile nonetheless. “Y/N.”

Your hands were trembling slightly when you reached for the cap of the bottle. Observant, as he always was, you’d come to discover down the line, his fingers brushed against yours in a question. You let him take the bottle, which he unscrewed open without much of a word about it. “First race?” he asked.

Nodding, you took back the plastic container. “First time… all of this.”

“Yeah, it can be a lot,” Oscar smiled. It was a tiny stretch of the lips, it could be mistaken for a frown, but it didn’t escape you. “You’ll get around it though, if you stick around.”

“Is that your way of asking if I come here often?” you probed after a gulp of water, arching a brow.

That got a flustered chuckle out of him, the first out of many that you’d elicit in the years to come, and your heart whipped in a somersault. “Not really, but now I’m curious.”

Elijah would later find the two of you engulfed in the small corner, deep in conversation, your laughter a thread of relief amid the chaos of the paddock. His anger, visible in the tight line of his jaw, melted almost immediately when Oscar’s gaze landed on him, unassuming. That day, you’d learn that Oscar was McLaren’s rookie on his first season, just a year older than you, and that he and Elijah had been friends since karting days. For Elijah, it had always been a hobby to brag about at dinners. For Oscar, racing was simply etched in his bones, similar to all nineteen of his colleagues who fought to get there.

You’d smiled and nodded as Elijah threw a possessive arm around your waist, pestering you to the Alpine hospitality. Oscar gave you a small wave as you were pulled away.

It wouldn’t be the last time you’d meet him. You’d run into him on multiple occasions: galas, race weekends. Sometimes he’d find you alone, and you’d share coffee on a bench, no matter how stifling the heat. Among those many instances, you’d exchange numbers. From there, the rest felt inevitable: Oscar would start calling you after races to ask how your day was, participate in movie marathons during which you’d eat room service on the ground and fall asleep leaning on his shoulder, keep the other company in quiet corners when black-tie occasions rose and Elijah left you unsupervised as he networked. Oscar would listen, hold your deepest secrets, and you would hold his, cradling them between your intertwined fingers. 

It felt like fate written in the margins. But at that moment in time, you didn’t know. Not yet.

You couldn’t have known he’d be the same guy, three years later, driving well over the speed limit to get you as far away as possible from your own wedding either.

The landscape would be suffocating if it didn’t steal your breath away: the tall pine trees loomed over you like ancient sentinels, their dark bark and deep green needles wrapping around the world in quiet reverence. They stood close, tangled together to form a living fortress stifling any clear view of the coast? In the fleeting glimpses between trunks, you could see the ocean foam itself into a fury against the cliffs, hear its wild applause in the distance.

The air was cooler than it had been at the altar. A bracing wind tore at your carefully pinned curls until they unraveled into ribbons, leaving strands dancing across your face. The car windows were rolled down all the way; you leaned your head back, letting the rush of air thread through your fingers. The radio played low, echoing the chords of a half-forgotten melody you barely listened to.

The tear tracks on your cheeks had dried in delicate salt lines, reminiscent of the sea. You couldn’t remember the last time either of you had spoken.

Oscar’s driving had settled from frantic to steady, but his knuckles remained white on the steering wheel. The sun shifted overhead, sliding across his profile—sharp, yet gentle, a hint of shadow pooling in the curve of his jaw.

You wanted to ask where you were going. He wanted to ask what you were running from. Both questions simmered on your tongues, both knowing, yet neither of you voiced it out. That’s what often happens when you know someone from the inside out—things were left unsaid under the impression the other already understood.

Except sometimes, only sometimes, it didn’t work like that. It had been what Oscar and you struggled with for a while, now.

The car began to slow, easing out of the rapid pace of the highway. Caught up in your own thoughts, you felt the shift before you could see it: Oscar’s foot lightened on the pedal and the hum of the road softened beneath the tires. Through the pines, you noticed the glint of an old, flickering neon sign, weathered by time but still clinging to its pink glow, even in the middle of the day. Rosie’s Diner.

The small building was a 1950s-style chrome beacon, half-buried in the woods, clashing with the darkness by its bright colors. The parking lot was cracked asphalt, wild grass sprouting through the grass in a fragile attempt of a rebellion against time. Oscar pulled into the lot and cut the engine. For a moment, only the soft ticking of the cooling car filled the silence.

You opened your mouth to form a question, but the Australian spoke up first. “It’s almost lunch.” He turned to face you. His gaze flickered to the tear lines on your cheeks, then back to your eyes. “And I know you didn’t eat this morning because of… everything.”

A blush rose to your cheeks, embarrassed by how transparent you could be to him. You looked down at the disheveled wedding dress gathered in your lap, filling the passenger seat with white satin gone grey at the hem and torn lace. “Oscar,” you whispered, voice hoarse. “I can’t go in there like this.”

A gentle smile ghosted across his lips. “Y/N, we’re in the middle of nowhere. There’s probably two people in that place. Nobody’s going to look twice at you.” His smile grew a fraction warmer, like it often did with you. “Even if they do, it’s not like we’re going to see them again, are we?”

“You’re a celebrity, Oscar,” you noted, acerbity laced in your trembling tone.

He shrugged. “I don’t see how that factors in anything.”

You let out a shaky laugh, the sound breaking free as would a breath held for too long. There had been no hesitation in his words, only a factual reassurance. Oscar believed what he was saying, he didn’t see the issue because there wasn’t one. Elijah would have rather died than got out of this car with you in such a state.

Oscar’s hand found yours on the center console, and he gave it a reassuring squeeze. The gesture sent a shiver down your spine, no matter how familiar. “Come on,” he said, a quiet invitation to something new.

So you took his hand, letting him anchor you in the moment, and together, you stepped out of the car.

Saying the diner was empty would have been an understatement. Apart from two tired-looking waitresses with roller skates leaning on the counter and a couple of line cooks half-heartedly flipping burgers in the back kitchen, even the rats seemed to have deserted this place.

The years had left their marks: chipped vinyl booths, gritty floor tiles that hadn’t been swept in god knows how long, and walls that might have been white but now leaned closer to a yellow shade of old nicotine. You slid into a corner booth near the window, the cracked red leather sighing under your weight. The menus, laminated and curling at the corners, looked like relics coming straight from the nineties—Comic Sans titles and cartoonish doodles framing a faded list of cheeseburgers, milkshakes, and fries.

Oscar sat next to you. It was an unspoken rule in your friendship, because sitting across from each other always felt too impersonal. He was still in his tuxedo that had started to crease in the humidity of the coast, and his tie was coming undone at his throat. Your gaze lingered on that detail for a split second before you caught sight of yourself in the window: a disheveled bride in a wedding dress, smudged in dust and tears.

What a pair you made.

A waitress ambled over, pencil tucked behind her ear. She glanced between the two of you, curious eyes remaining a beat too long on your wedding dress. You tensed up, and Oscar’s eyes narrowed imperceptibly at the movement. “Well, don’t you two look like something out of a movie,” she drawled. “What can I get for you today?”

Oscar lifted a brow at you. “Bacon cheeseburger?”

You laughed softly, the sound a little bit broken. “Bacon cheeseburger. As usual.”

She scribbled it down. “Two of those, coming right up. Oh—” she leaned in conspiratorially, a wicked grin on her lips. “And since it looks like you’re getting married and all, that’s half price for y’all today. Congratulations, by the way!”

The comment struck something in your chest, although you couldn’t pinpoint what, exactly. You know it should have stung, tug on what you had left behind, and it looked like Oscar expected as much: he flinched, eyes darting to you, his lips parted as if to protest. You knew what he was thinking about it—your tears, the cadence of your feet as you fled the altar—and he was ready to explain, to protect you from the memory.

You stopped him with a gentle touch on his hand. “Thanks,” you said to the waitress. You offered her a small smile, “Half-price is too good to pass up, right?”

Oscar’s eyes widened in understanding. He quickly went with it, and the waitress winked and bustled off. For a second, the silence between you and Oscar threatened to swallow the air, but then you locked eyes. You both burst out laughing, the sound bright and unexpected, so needed it nearly broke your heart all over again.

“We didn’t need the discount, you know,” he managed to say between laughs.

“I know,” you sighed, “but it doesn’t hurt. Besides, these burgers are so overpriced.” You turned the menu around again, squinting at the faded prices. 

Oscar leaned over, close enough that you caught a faint whiff of his cologne, clean and citrusy, washing over you. His cheek brushed your shoulder and you didn’t miss the pink flush at the tip of his ear either. “Maybe the quality’s good?” he teased.

You snorted. “Do you actually believe what you just said?”

“Not at all.”

The waitress came back with your orders in record time, balancing two plates stacked high with cheeseburgers and fries, looking way more delicious than you’d expected. The smell, greasy and comforting, sent your stomach into a frenzy of need. Oscar was right: you were starving.

You grabbed a fry and popped it into your mouth. You groaned in pleasure at the taste, and Oscar raised an eyebrow at you in a way that looked suspiciously like a non-verbal I told you so. You swatted his arm with a napkin.

Between bites, the conversation flowed like seawater, laughter bubbling up to the surface and dissolving into other topics as you made your way through your meal. The remnants of the morning’s panic were at the back of your mind, which was a cruel thing to notice, but the pang in your heart disappeared as Oscar threw another offhand comment at you. At one point, as you set your burger down and wiped a red smear of ketchup from your cheek, you sighed and leaned back against the cracked booth.

“This,” you started lightheartedly, halfway through a burger bite, “reminds me of that time I fake-proposed to you in that little restaurant in Italy.”

Oscar’s groan was immediate and full-bodied, and the sound only widened your grin. “Please, don’t remind me,” he mumbled, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead. “I had to have the weirdest conversation with my media team afterwards— ‘Yes, she’s my best friend. No, I’m not hiding a wedding. Leave me alone.’ Absolute nightmare.”

You cackled at the memory, so dear to you, and the sound echoed bright and sharp, like something cracked open in your chest. “But hey! We got the meal for free! And you got the prettiest ring made out of a napkin.”

He couldn’t help but laugh too, and the inflections of it were so utterly soft, the eyes he set on you captivated as you threw your head back in a chuckle. There was something worshipful in the way his gaze never left you even as he took a slow sip of his soda, and it made you feel blasphemous to sit under it inside a diner booth.

“You know,” Oscar murmured, his voice dropping just enough, “this is nice.”

His tone softened your grin into a smile. “What is?”

“Being with you, like this. You haven’t laughed like that in…,” he sets his drink on the table, “I don’t know. A long time. You kinda—” Oscar paused, searching your face. “You kinda lost your spark. Your thing, you know? So it’s nice. You and I, like this.”

Like old times.

You opened your mouth to say something, but nothing came out. The words dissolved on your tongue, instead taking the shape of the sudden sting of tears pricking at the corner of your eyes. The words didn’t hurt, but the reality behind them hit you like bullets: you couldn’t recall the last time you let your tongue run free of any overthinking, your laugh coming from the deepest cracks of yourself, your shoulders released of any tension.

You come to the realization you forgot what it was like to be you, and hamburger grease drips down on the white of your wedding dress.

“Shit!” you gasped, dazed, staring at the growing yellow splotch on your bustier.

Frantically, you grabbed a napkin and dabbed at it, but it only smeared. Tears pricked at your lashes, as you bit back a sob as you muttered, “Sorry— god, I’m such a mess.”

Oscar reached across the table and gently took hold of your wrist, fingers marching the warmth of your skin. “It’s okay,” he murmured, and it felt like a balm. “Who cares?”

You let out a breathless, disbelieving laugh. The sticky table, the harsh overhead light in the middle of the day, the chatter of the waitresses, all of it faded, and your world narrowed down to the feel of Oscar’s hand on yours, the salty beads pearling at your eyes, and that stupid stain on your stupid dress. “Yeah,” you breathed out, your voice breaking into a chuckle. “Who cares?”

Oscar’s answering smile lit up his entire face, and you couldn’t help but revel in it. It felt like a sunrise, one you hadn’t seen in a really, really long time.

Because you had forgotten what it was like to be you, and Oscar offered you fragments of it. A reminder you were still there, somewhere in the deepest parts of yourself and the most evident parts of him. 

When the waitress dropped the bill, you both paid with cash from the bottoms of your pockets—who brought their credit card to a wedding?—and practically rushed through the door, a newfound lightheartedness in the way your hand rested on his bicep. Oscar took a moment to help you gather the layers of tulle and satin that had tangled around your ankles, his fingers brushing yours as he lifted the skirt with exaggerated care. 

“Honestly,” you groaned, tilting your head back, “this dress is the most impractical thing I’ve ever worn.”

Oscar’s eyes crinkled with a grin. “You do look like a giant cupcake.”

The fact that he was bent over and helping you gather the fabric gave you better access to smack his shoulder—playfully, always. “You just know how to reassure a woman, don’t you, Osc’?” That made him laugh.

“Seriously, though,” you sighed, glancing down at the ruffled mess of your skirt, “I need to change. I’m sweating my ass off in this thing.”

Even though your tone was as light as you could make it, your best friend seemed to get the undertones the moment they left your tongue.. “Well, Maps did show a thrift shop about forty minutes from here,” he said, cutting your thoughts short. “Not exactly designer, but…”

A quiet, reckless joy bloomed in your chest. “Screw that, like I care about price tags anyway.”

And just like that, the two of you were rushing back to the car. Oscar hurried ahead and opened the door for you with playful flourish. You tumbled inside, not stopping the string of half-formed sentences and childish giggles that spilled from your lips.

Oscar’s grin widened as he closed the door shut and jogged to the driver’s side. The engine roared back to life with a satisfying growl and with one last glance at you, eyes bright and wild like he had missed, he pulled away.

The hefty silence had been left in Rosie’s Diner’s parking lot. The car had come alive under jokes thrown to the wind funneling in through half-opened windows, and the radio blared loud enough to tempt your lips into finally humming the melody. Sometimes, Oscar's gaze wandered from the road, catching yours, and you’d meet it, beaming. Other times, you’d stare at him as he maneuvered the tight curves of the mountainous coast, seeking any sign of exhaustion in the way the early afternoon light carved shadows in the dark of his irises. There was none, there never was— just unbridled warmth.

Forty minutes slipped by like five and, before you knew it, you were pulling into the dirt lot of a questionable wooden building. The weathered facade had been battered by sea salt and wind until the paint cracked, the structure groaning in rhythm with the coastal gusts. The sign had long given up its name, now only legible by its function: Thrift and Pawn Shop.

“What a fine establishment,” you quipped, eyeing the warped planks.

Oscar killed the engine. “But you don’t care about price tags, right?”

You rolled your eyes, but the smirk on your lips was nothing if affectionate. “You know, maybe I should’ve let myself die of thirst the day I met you.” You don’t mean it.

“Maybe I should’ve let you,” he fired back, and his traits only carried the same knowing softness. He didn’t mean it either. That was the whole point.

You entered the shop side by side.

The inside was a considerable improvement from the outside, to say the least. It was an Aladdin’s cave of mismatched treasures: clothes and antiquities climbed each wall like ivy, so much the ceiling was brimming with another rack to choose from. Shoes and hats littered the floor to form a winding makeshift pathway to the front counter, a glass table at the back cluttered with multiple trinkets varying in quality, all overseen by a middle-aged woman. When her eyes set upon you, her eyebrows shot up in surprise at the wedding dress trailing behind you and the tuxedo at your side. You offered her an awkward smile, to which she answered with an indifferent shrug.

You and Oscar shared a look—that could be translated by Let’s get this over with—before diving into the efficiently organized chaos.

The options felt endless and overwhelming. You didn’t even know where to start, Oscar either, and the oppressive gaze of the woman at the counter didn’t help your hesitation: racks sagging under the weight of too-small shirts, dresses with questionable patterns, and pants that looked like they’d fit a twelve-year-old or a linebacker, no in-between.

You decided to divide and conquer. Oscar took the left side of the store while you made your way to the right, burying yourself in a twisted maze of dusty shelves.

As per thrift shop customs, everything seemed to miss the mark: too tight, too loose, too… everything. You huffed in frustration, and the creeping feeling of spending the entire day in that wedding dress, like you were originally supposed to, came crashing upon you. Just as the thought swallowed away your renewed optimism, a beacon of hope reached your eyesight.

A pair of worn jean shorts peeked out from underneath a dizzyingly high pile of knitted sweaters. Hoping for a miracle, which would take the form of a size that could actually fit you, you grabbed them. That was when the shelf next to it caught your attention with a slightly askew hanger.

You couldn’t help but laugh out loud when you took it. “Oscar!” you called, giddy and wheezing. He appeared from between racks of 80s windbreakers, eyebrows raised.

“What’d you find?”

With all the pride you could gather, you held up the brand-new, bright orange McLaren shirt you had found, with the number 81 in bold lettering on the front pocket.

His eyes, both reflecting so much and so little, went back between your smile and the shirt a few times.. “I’m… mildly offended to find that in a thrift shop,” he finally said, deadpan.

You chuckled again, and the sound of it stole a fond grin out of Oscar. “It’s half-priced too, $40,” you read off the tag attached to the hanger.

“That’s a bargain.”

“Yeah… might be because of that.” You turned the shirt around.

The number 81 was bigger on the back, but it wasn’t the star of the show. The real showstopper was Oscar’s last name, written similarly, right below it, spelled out in bold—PAISTRY.

There was a moment of silence during which Oscar stared at the letters, entirely too dumbfounded to manage one of his usual dry remarks. You snorted, and that broke the dam: you were both bursting out in messy laughter, doubled over with shaky shoulders and tears prickling at your eyes. The sound ricocheted off the cluttered walls, drawing a loud, pointed cough from the woman at the counter. Reminded of the time and place, you straightened abruptly, slapping a hand over your mouth in a failed attempt to stifle the giggles. Oscar mirrored your motions, clearing his throat, his lips still twitching.

“I’m sorry,” you managed to wheeze out, wiping at your cheeks, “but I have to have this. I can’t just leave it here.”

Oscar laughed. “You could’ve just told me if you wanted one, I’d have stolen you a dozen from the HQ.”

“That’s not the same!” You flipped the shirt back around so you could see the misspelled name. “I can’t pass up the chance to be Mrs. Paistry, can I?”

The words tumbled out before you could stop them, and the significance hit you like a rogue wave, leaving you too dizzy to take them back before the momentum passed. Oscar’s eyes widened just a fraction, a bright, telltale pink dusting his ears and cheeks. You could feel the heat rising in your own and the tip of your fingers tingling as you clutched the shirt tighter. Eye contact felt suddenly unbearable, so you busied yourself looking at every worn vest and secondhand jacket, shifting from one foot to the other like you reverted back to being an awkward sixteen years old, and not at the wise age of twenty-four.

Maybe the truth was that becoming Mrs. Piastri—or Paistry—wasn’t such a terrifying thought after all. Somehow, it sounded better than Mrs. Elijah Hart.

Oscar cleared his throat, cutting your train of thoughts short. ”Do you even have forty bucks?” he asked, voice a touch too casual as if he was trying to keep things light save for his obvious fluster. “I’d get it for you, but I barely have gas money after the burgers.”

“Oh.” You deflated a little. You didn’t have forty dollars. Hell, you probably didn’t have ten. Brides didn’t usually carry money on their wedding days, after all—the rest of your cash and your card were safely tucked at home, which seemed like a whole other world right now.

You ran your thumb absentmindedly over the wedding ring on your finger, something you found yourself doing whenever you were thinking. The smooth gold caught your eye, glinting artificially under the store’s dim light. The idea hit you right here and there.

A spark of defiance bloomed in your chest. Trembling breath and limbs, you took a hold of the layers of your dress and turned toward the counter, where the middle-aged woman still watched you with detached disinterest. “This is a pawn shop, right?” Your voice carried strength, even if you couldn’t feel it in your muscles.

Next to you, Oscar frowned, but kept quiet.

The woman raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, it is,” she answered, her tone slow and a little suspicious. “Why?”

You paused for a second, letting your skin absorb the coolness of the metal one last time, and before you could hesitate, you slipped the wedding ring off. It fell onto the glass counter with a small clink, which seemed to reverberate inside the entire shop, bouncing off the walls until it was inside your bones. Yet, it was more satisfying than it should have been. “How much for this?”

Oscar let out a stunned exhale, a silent panic flickering in his eyes. The movement was subtle, but there nonetheless: he reached out, the pad of his fingers scraping against your sleeve as he gently held your elbow. “Hey— are you sure about this?” he asked softly, barely above a whisper. “I can get you a better shirt, or a hundred of them. You don’t have to—” He faltered, took a deep breath to regain his usual composure. “If you really want to do this, you have to be sure. It’s big.”

You looked down at the spot where your ring had sat, and spotted the faint tan line that marked the absence of something that had once meant everything, or so you thought. Now, it just looked like a parcel of skin bruised and branded white, a part of yourself that didn’t belong to you anymore but rather to the ghost of something past. You thought of all the sun you’d soak up, the laughter and scratches that would paint over that line, a testimony of the spark you’d welcomed back in the past hours.

You weren’t attached to the ring. Or the marriage. Or any of it, truly.

You took a deep breath and met Oscar’s gaze, smiling. “I’m sure,” and you meant it.

Oscar’s expression melted into a thing of warmth, pride, and maybe a bit of relief. He gave your arm a reassuring squeeze, his eyes shining. “Alright, let’s do it then.”

The woman eyed the two of you before her eyes set back on the ring. Minutes passed while she scrutinized under the glare of a magnifying glass and poked it with a few tools. Pursing her lips, she finally lifted her gaze back to you. “This is expensive stuff. You sure you want to sell that here?”

“Never been more sure of anything.” 

She raised her brows and gave you a slow once-over. “Not a happy… almost-marriage, I’m guessing.”

“Let’s say I tend to gravitate more toward silver,” you said in a sigh. The woman looked back at the golden band with an empathetic hum. Oscar, who’s been hovering right behind you, let out a snort.

“That’s a nice way of saying he was a dick,” your best friend interjected dryly, and you turned to him in surprise. Elijah and him had been friends, or so you thought. You wouldn’t have expected Oscar to openly berate him, but then again, today had been a day of surprises—and he had been front row for your entire disaster union.

After a bit of back-and-forth and some haggling, the woman finally relented. She handed you a surprisingly heavy wad of nine hundred dollars in cash—minus the cost of your jean shorts, the McLaren shirt, the surprisingly pristine white sneakers Oscar had found for you, and a new outfit he’d picked out himself. You’d insisted on paying for his clothes, too. Reparations, you’d called it, and he had rolled his eyes at you.

You both made your way to the single changing area at the far end of the thrift shop. Giddy to escape the heat of your dress, you ducked into one stall, while Oscar took the one beside you.

But as you kicked off your heels with relief, cold realization trickled upon you: the tight, back-laced corset. You cursed under your breath. It had taken the combined effort of your mother, your sister, and a few Hail Marys to get it on in the first place. You were a fool to think you could manage it alone. Still, you tried.

You twisted and contorted your body, which definitely earned you a type of scoliosis, and the knots only seemed to get tighter the more you moved. In another effort, your elbow slammed against the thin wall separating you from Oscar’s stall with a loud thud.

“Is everything alright?” Oscar’s voice floated through the cheap wood paneling.

A frustrated laugh, tinged with desperation, escaped you. “No I— I think I might need help. With the dress. This goddamn corset—”

There was a pause. After what felt like forever, you heard the hesitant creak of Oscar’s door and a few footsteps before your own cabin door eased open. He stood there, a little unsure, his shirt half-opened and his jacket forgotten somewhere. He was probably in the middle of changing, you thought, and a flush crept up your neck.

“Can you—?” you gestured awkwardly toward your back.

His brown eyes softened. “Yeah. Of course.”

Oscar carefully stepped inside. The space became more cramped than it already was with the addition of his presence, so when you turned so your back faced him, you were almost leaning entirely against his chest. His breath was a warm wave on the nape of your neck, catching at the sudden closeness, and the mirror in front of you showed the clear tension in your cheeks, your chest heaving.

His fingers, steady, found the first knot and began to loosen it. Oscar was methodical in his movements, making his way slowly through each row with brushes so gentle you wondered if he was even touching you at all. The imperceptible sweep of his knuckles against your spine had been featherlight, maybe accidental, but echoed through your entire body as if he had dug his fingers in your hips. Your breath hitched, and your eyes flew to the mirror.

His had too.

Oscar’s expression was nothing if focused, save for the tenderness of his eyes gliding upon you. His hands untied the last row of ties, achingly measured, each loosened lace a small liberation. The corset eased off, and the cold air hitting your bare back was a relief that almost brought tears to your eyes. Yet, what reduced you to pieces was the subtle ghost of Oscar’s fingertips, his eyes transfixed, tracing down your spine in sheer reverence. You don’t think someone had ever touched you so.

A soft gasp slipped past your lips. “Oscar—” you whispered. Your voice was trembling, carrying gratitude and something else, something you couldn’t quite name, or were too scared to.

His eyes snapped back up to yours, and his cheeks flamed red. His name seemed to have brought him back to whatever trance he had been plunged in. Oscar stumbled back, his hands dropping to his side. “Uh— I’m going to— I’ll go get changed,” he stammered, looking everywhere but at you. “I’ll meet you outside, okay?”

You watched him retreat, a thunderstorm waging in your ribcage, the mirror reflecting your dazed expression. The wedding dress pooled at your feet as you released the iron grip you had on the bustier.

Reaching out for the McLaren shirt hanging on the side with shaky hands, you caught a glimpse of your back in the mirror: hard pressure scars were left where the lace had clung too tightly, where Oscar had let the pad of his fingers drift for mere seconds.

You thought about the pressure of the basque waist. The overwhelming smoothness of the satin against your legs, trapping sweat in every crease. The beading heat between your breasts. Your ribs had cracked, and you had bent yourself into someone whose spine had to fracture in order to breathe.

Slipping on the orange shirt with Oscar’s name on the back, no matter how misspelled and large on your fragile stature, felt like mending bones. Little by little, one vertebra at a time.

Oscar was indeed waiting for you by his car, half-perched on the hood with his arms folded across his chest. He’d traded his tux for a short-sleeved grey shirt that clung to his arms, some well-worn cargo shorts, and a pair of sneakers that matched the ones he picked for you. The outfit was so unapologetically Oscar that you couldn’t help but let out a quiet chuckle.

He caught the sound immediately and grinned, before pushing himself off the hood. With practiced ease, he opened the backseat door and gestured at the sad remains of your wedding dress you held in your arms, now crumpled like a white flag.

“Figured you’d want to put that behind you,” he said.

“God, yes,” you muttered, dropping it in the backseat. It hung there like a ghost.

You slipped into the passenger seat, stretching your legs. You relished in the space you had, your feet finding a home on the dashboard without a hint of shame. Oscar’s lips twitched in amusement as he buckled up. “So, where to?” he asked

You heard the question beneath the question. Want me to take you home? Get you someplace safe, so you can finally think?

Except you didn’t want safe. You wanted the rest of the world, the horizon you could squeeze in the rest of the day and what Oscar made you see you missed. You wanted everything, or as much of it as you could have right now.

You grinned at him. “Anywhere.” It sounded like a dare, and his smile widened.

He took you there.

You drove down the winding coastal roads with the radio turned all the way up, sea wind tangling in your air as you leaned out the window and belted out every song, no matter how wrong the lyrics. Oscar threw his head back in a laugh, and though he made fun of your singing, he couldn’t resist when you demanded he join in. His voice was lower, just a hum, but it occupied the car entirely.

At a run-down gas station, Oscar filled the car up while you wandered inside and returned with a cheap keychain—a gaudy plastic seahorse with a chipped tail. You looped it around the rearview mirror. Some other charms you had already gotten him were already dangling there, untouched.

An hour down the road, you parked on the shoulder to share sandwiches he had gotten at the gas station behind your back. You sat on a nearby bench, up in each other’s personal spaces as if there wasn’t enough space on the wooden seats for both of you, crossed legs and crumb-covered. Between bites, you caught up on everything that had slipped through the cracks of the preceding year: you both had grown and stumbled, drifted and returned. The reality that you spent a year with Oscar at arm length grew more irrational by the minute, especially when being with him felt so natural.

Eventually, the road leveled out, giving way to a flat stretch of cracked asphalt. On the near horizon, a glimmer of white sand and the loud sound of rolling waves called to you like a siren’s song. You bolted upright in your seat. “We really got to the beach?”

You didn’t have to voice your request. Oscar squinted, frowning at the sky. The clouds had begun to gather in thick gray bunches, and shadows had already started stealing the sunlight. “I don’t know… looks like it might rain.”

“Come on!” You threw your arms in the air dramatically. “It’s just sight-seeing, it’s not going to take long.”

Oscar shook his head, yet a fond expression tugged at his facial traits despite himself. “You’re impossible.”

He parked right here and there.

The beach was a place of wilderness. The rocky cliffs you’d been riding on blurred into the misty edges of the pale sand, littered with dark driftwood and the bleached skeletons of forgotten trees, left to rot amongst the seascape. You could have found poetry in it, about endings and new beginnings, but your mind was too tender to poke at metaphors, bringing you back to your own issues and the meaning behind them. You settled on the simple, superficial beauty of it all.

You and Oscar strolled along the shoreline, careful to keep your semi-new shoes away from the forty reach of the waves; neither of you wanted to risk soggy socks and the humiliation of having to resort to the abandoned loafers and heels. Bits of conversations floated between you, punctuated by the kind of comfortable silence only best-friends shared.

A blush-pink seashell, perfectly intact and glistening in the sand, caught your eye just before you would’ve stepped on it. You bent to pick it up, already imagining nestled in the little collection on your shelf back home, until—

A cold splash of water hit the thin cotton of your shirt. You gasped as more droplets splattered across your arms. You could have sworn it was the rain Oscar had warned about, at least if the latter wasn’t standing there, grinning, with dripping wet hands.

“You little—”

Before you could finish, he flicked another handful of water at you, his laughter joining the rising wind. You lunged, scooping up water with both hands and launching it at him. It hit him square in the chest, and he let out a high-pitched yelp you’d never heard from him before.

Water flew back and forth, each splash accompanied with screeches and half-formed curses. By the time the first real raindrops fell from the darkening sky, your hair was already clinging to your forehead and your clothes were sticking to your skin. Oscar caught your eyes, a tad breathless, and you both turned your faces upward just as the sky opened.

The drizzle turned into a downpour. 

“Shit, let’s run!” he shouted, grabbing your hand as you bolted toward the nearest cover: a massive pine tree at the edge of the forest line. You both stumbled underneath, breathing hard and dripping wet on the mix of sand and grass. The rain roared around you like a thousand tiny drums.

Oscar was laughing, really laughing. The kind of laugh he never let out in public, the one with the wide open mouth and the hand on his knees that shook his whole body and took his voice with it. It stole yours away too, reducing you to a look of wonder, taking him in between huffy intakes of air, a parody of the sound that was supposed to come out of your lips.

The reality of what this day had come to was a comic realization, and it struck you right in the chest when you and Oscar locked eyes. His smile was broad when he spoke up, loud enough to be heard above the pounding of the rain. “God, started with a wedding and ended drenched in thrifted clothes on some random beach. That’s wild.”

The giggle bubbled in your throat and escaped your lips, trembling in disbelief at the scene around you. The rain poured down harder now, piercing through the pine canopy and spattering your arm like cold bullets. The air was thick and heavy with fog, choking your lungs and turning the beach sweltering in a shroud of gray. The salt bit at your eyes. The waves roared in a relentless crash. The cold of the settling evening. The breathless laughter splintered into a sob—one miserable gargle at the back of your throat.

Everything came out at once.

You pressed your palms to your eyes in a final, useless attempt to dam the flood, but the tears wouldn’t be stopped. They streamed down your face, and your shoulders convulsed with the strength of them, the effort to hold yourself together failing with every ragged breath.

Oscar’s smile faltered. He stepped forward without hesitation, without a word, and wrapped his arms around you, strong and warm despite the chill. He held you against his chest, a shield against the wind and the rest of the world. You tried to anchor yourself to the steady rise and fall of his breath.

“It’s okay,” he murmured in your ear, one hair smoothing over your hair. “I got you, it’s okay.”

Beneath the shelter of the pine tree, with the storm raging and the ocean crashing in wild, beautiful chaos, you finally let yourself break. You fell apart for good, in ugly, keening sobs and pained wails clawing for blood at your throat, trembling but safe, held fast in the arms of the person who had carried you through everything.

Eventually, the rain relented, leaving a misty calm in its wake. The silence stretched, and stretched, until you felt brave enough to talk again.

“I just— Oh my god. I left him at the altar,” you choked out, your voice hoarse from crying. “I ran away like a coward. And you know the worst of it, Osc’?” You pulled back just enough to see his face, but your hands still rested on his chest. “I’m not even feeling guilty about it. I ran away from my wedding, I sold my ring in a sketchy pawn shop, I got hamburger on my dress and it just felt… freeing. Like— Like I could breathe again. Does that make me a bad person?” You sobbed. “It does, doesn’t it?”

Oscar studied you with that careful focus you’d seen a hundred times, like the night before a race, analyzing data while you dozed next to him on the couch, or after a weekend where the car let him down and he reviewed every lap. Only this time, his eyes were gentler. This time, he didn’t assume he knew the answer.

This time, Oscar asked.

“What pushed you to do it?” There was no judgement in his question. Only curiosity, along with an unbridled desire to understand you.

When you opened your mouth, you knew it was already too late.

“I don’t know, I— He was being rude to the officiant, when the bells rang. And I—” Your voice wavered. “I dropped out of the most prestigious marine biology programs in the country because he asked me to. I sat in his house alone for days while he called me from god-knows-where to ask me to buy a dress and show up at galas I couldn’t even speak at. He asked me to stop being so close to you because it could make him look bad with Alpine. He picked my wardrobe and told me how to stand and what to say, and I let him. I let him. All that— so he could treat the officiant like garbage on our wedding day?”

A sob tore at your throat. “And it’s such a small thing, so insignificant. There were probably a thousand telltale signs before that, but I just— I realized that I couldn’t live my whole life like that. I’m only twenty-four. I met him when I was nineteen, and I— I feel like I wasted such a big part of my life on… nothing. A whole lot of nothing. Delusions. I deserve more. I know I do, but… what am I supposed to do now? With all the things I wasted?”

Your question was met with silence. Truth be told, you hadn’t been expecting an answer—the question had been more directed at yourself than at Oscar. Yet, his hand rose to your cheek, and his thumb swiftly brushed away a tear that had clung stubbornly to your skin. His eyes were so full of tenderness, no matter what you just confessed, it made you shudder. More tears welled up as he smiled at you.

“I’m not… amazing at comforting people, you know it,” he started, “but it doesn’t take an empath to know you didn’t waste anything. Like you said, you’re twenty-four. That’s nothing in the grand scheme of things,” he shook you a little bit when he said that, and a strangled laugh fell from your lips. “You’re not a bad person for knowing what you want, you just had bad timing. You’ve got a whole lifetime ahead of you to decide what you actually want and to take it, instead of wallowing on what you’ve ‘wasted’.”

His thumb traced your cheek again, so gentle it felt like a balm on an old wound. “You’ve always deserved more than what he gave you.”

You blinked through the tears. Oscar’s words wrapped around your heart, swirled in between your ribs, chasing away all guilt and shame. Something in the way he looked at you, so open and certain unlike you’d ever been, hit you in a way you hadn’t quite prepared yourself for. A tremor of realization that cracked open a door you’d been too afraid to look behind.

Maybe the reason you’d run, the reason you’d found your strength, hadn't been just because of what you lost and left behind. Maybe, deep down, it had been because of what you’d always wanted, and who you wanted by your side. Among the corpses of feelings you’d been forced to bury, hopes, dreams, and softest truths, something had survived. Someone had survived. And maybe that someone had been standing right in front of you all along.

Your heart raced at the possibility. It felt as if Oscar could sense the sudden shift in the air between you, the weight of what you’d never dared to name.

You never had the time to figure out what love really was. You didn't know at nineteen any more than you had at sixteen, cradled by storybook fantasies. In reality, every chance you’d had to understand love had been smothered under the suffocating weight of a man’s expectations, with delusions of grandeur packaged as tenderness, objectifying greed dressed as devotion. Your definition of love had been shaped by cold beds and lonely nights, by a hand that hovered at your lower back only when cameras were near, by an iron-tight grip on your wrist and the wrong flowers arriving a day late. Love, to you, had been a cage—a brand name on a leash.

In the span of a single day, between thrift shop and laughter in the rain, you’d learned more about love than you had in the last five years.

Love didn’t need to be grandiloquent in order to be real. It didn’t have to be bought and paraded to matter. Love could be gentle, and match the rhythm of the heart it belonged to, quiet and careful. It could be found in the smallest gestures—wiping away tears, helping someone out of a corset, listening, asking.

You didn’t need grand gestures to know that you loved Oscar Piastri, and maybe you had for a long time now.

“Oscar?” you called, shaky.

Decide what you want and take it.

You could do that.

“Yeah?”

You wanted Oscar, so you took him by the mouth and made him yours.

The gesture was as clumsy as it was true, as hesitant as it was pure. Your lips had moved on their own, seeking the only warmth that ever felt like home. For one suspended second, Oscar froze and you could feel the tension in his body, the startled catch of his breath. In that heartbeat, every doubt you’d harbored came flooding back. Maybe it had been all in your head, that you’d mistaken friendship for something more and lost your best friend for good.

But that’s when Oscar kissed you back.

It wasn’t rushed or desperate, not the kind of kiss you’d expect after a day like this. It was soft, as though he was afraid of breaking something precious if he ever moved too abruptly. His hands found your waist, tentative at first, then firmer, drawing you closer until there was no air left between your bodies but the one you shared. Oscar kissed you the way you’d find peace in the eye of a storm: slow and patient, with a quiet devotion that made your knees go weak. He tasted like the sea.

No urgency, no hunger, just the relief of being known and being wanted exactly as you were.

When you pulled back for breath, your eyes fluttered open to find him staring at you, memorizing your face as if you’d vanish in the next second. A small, incredulous smile curved at Oscar’s lips, and his eyes shined with unshed tears of his own. He dipped his forehead to touch yours.

“You have no idea,” he murmured, breaking with emotion, “how long I’ve been waiting for you to do that.”

Your heart lost its rhythm, and something between a sob and a laugh escaped you as relief and wonder alike washed over you. Oscar’s arms tightened around your frame and for the first time in a long time, you felt like you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

“Me too,” you admitted. God, did it feel good to finally say it out loud.

But even in the midst of that newfound honesty, a quiet hesitation tugged at the hem of your being. You loved Oscar—oh, you did—and you wanted him. There wasn’t a single doubt in your heart about that, not anymore, at least. But you’d left your wedding just this morning. You’d left an entire life, five years of your life, and there were wounds you hadn’t even begun to understand, let alone heal.

You drew in a shaky inhale, eyes darting between his, searching for understanding. “I think…” Your voice cracked. “I think I need a little more time before we… you know. Before we start… us.”

Oscar’s gaze softened with a characteristic, unwavering kindness. He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes fully, and in them, you saw the steady promise of every whisper, every late-night talk, every wordless understanding you'd share. “Don’t worry,” he murmured. “We’ll figure it all out. Everything you want, everything you deserve—I’ll be there. I’m not going anywhere.”

The tears streaming down your cheeks were ones of relief. You exhaled a trembling chuckle. “I know you will.”

The rain had softened back to a drizzle by the time you both made it back to the car, the world around you washed clean. As you settled into the passenger seat, damp, messy, and more at peace than you’d felt in years, Oscar turned the keys and the engine hummed to life.

He glanced over at you, his smile easy and open, like it had always been just for you. “Where to, now?”

You didn’t have to think about it. Your head tipped back in a laugh, the sound unburdened. Free.

“Anywhere.”

And this time, anywhere meant home. Home in his apartment that already had a space carved out for you on the bed, and a toothbrush with your name on it. Anywhere, as long as it was with the man who saw every piece of you and never once tried to turn away, who was letting you reassemble the puzzle yourself. As long as it was with Oscar and no one else.

There wasn’t anywhere else you’d rather be, anyway.

©LVRCLERC 2025 ━ do not copy, steal, post somewhere else or translate my work without my permission.

[xxgoblin-dumplingxx]

pls let the peak dilf era Bruce almost marry Selina. I live for the drama

I mean I ship Brutalia before Batcat sooo. Whoops. Keyboards slipped

"Why are we here?" Selina stage whispered, snuggling against Bruce's side.

"Scouting," Bruce said chuckling a little. "Alfred's idea. He's heard this wedding coordinator is very good. So he reached out and asked if she could find a place for us on the guest list."

"But-"

"I wanted to watch her work before we hired her," Bruce said shrugging. He'd been working with the same team for years but. They were starting to retire now. And it was time to start putting other people on retainer.

He nodded discreetly to where you were off to the side. Dressed professionally in a nude-sleeved skirt and blazer set with matching heels. Modest jewelry. Hair in a French twist. Toned down makeup. But for the earpiece and clipboard, you could almost be mistaken for a guest- not in a bad way.

"Ugh. So serious."

"But the three drunk uncles, two fighting cousins and baby mama running around haven't even caused a blip in proceedings," Bruce noted. Either you'd hired good security OR you had them tied up in a closet.

"How did you-" She broke off and huffed a laugh. Of course he noticed. "Would she get us a chocolate fountain do you think?" she mused.

Bruce smiled a little and kissed the top of her head, "If she can stage a helicopter to land on a beach so a groom can play James Bond, I think she can manage a chocolate fountain."

[highvern]

Dessert First

Pairing: Kim Mingyu x f!reader

Genre: baker! mingyu, wedding planner!YN, fluff, smut, angst, exes to lovers

warnings: hate for the Dodgers, alcohol consumption, smoking, past drug use, lots of mentions of food, mentions of anxiety/poor self esteem, past toxic relationship, a little bit of jealousy from reader, fingering, dry humping/thigh riding, oral sex, unprotected sex, cum eating

Length: ~21k

Note: FINALLY WE ARE HERE for @camandemstudios Lonely Hearts Cafe Collab. check out all the amazing fic (26 in total) on the master list. everyone has worked so hard and im so excited to read them thank u pookie @gyuswhore @miniseokminnies and @starlightkyeom for beta reading and telling me this wasn't trash

summary: You've got a great life. Your wedding planning business is booming, your clients are great, and you're finally over your ex-boyfriend after years of pining. Or you are, until the universe decides to test if those three things are actually true.

collab m.list || m.list

This blog is intended for 18+ only! Minors/blank blogs will be blocked.

Comment to be tagged in the full fic coming February 17th!

It starts with the coffee maker.

By all accounts you could buy a completely new one that actually worked but some sentimental part of you liked the baby blue machine with scratched enamel and an inability to brew a full pot in less than twenty minutes. If your coffee maker worked the way it was supposed to then you wouldn’t have left your apartment ten minutes late. And if you hadn’t left your apartment ten minutes late then you wouldn’t have arrived on the subway platform just as the train doors closed, forcing you to wait another ten minutes for the next train and by then the mist of rain outside devolved into a biblical downpour leaving you soaked to the bone despite a rain jacket and an umbrella. 

At least the binder containing every last detail of your life for the next two months is safe.

Sprinting down the street, your shoes squish through filthy puddles. No point in taking the extra time to dodge them, you’re already twenty minutes behind schedule with a ruined pair of brand new loafers. The only saving grace is Joshua and Sarah’s, your clients, habit of running at least thirty minutes behind. Which is why you told them the meeting started at 10AM and not 10:30. 

So technically you aren’t late. Yet. But you planned a thirty minute buffer to meet with the pastry chef and discuss color scheme, flavors, and logistics before Joshua and Sarah arrived to ensure everything went smoothly. As smooth as it can with clients that believe more is more and have no budget. 

The cafe bustles to the brim with people trying to escape the tsunami outside and enjoy something sweet. Damp businessmen sip cups of coffee while thumbing through damp newspapers, college students cram over notebooks with cookies by their side. A group of moms cluster on the couches, baby toys and lattes strung across the table while they share the latest playground drama. You can see yourself bunkered down at the table by the wide bay window, typing away emails and finalizing calendars with a hot cup of coffee and one of the massive croissants displayed on the counter.

Joshua and Sarah insisted on using Dessert First for their cake. They had their first date here and you can see why they love it so much. The display case sits packed with cakes and pastries; tarts with jewel like fruit, iced treats that make your mouth water. The heavenly scent of almond, vanilla, and coffee clouded the air. Plants hung from the ceiling, a shelf in the far corner stacked with pre-packaged goods to go.

You can almost forget the chill seeping into your veins from the cozy aroma of vanilla and espresso. A perfect oasis in the middle of the overcrowded city.

You’re still ten minutes early according to your watch. Plenty of time to devise a battle strategy with whatever unfortunate baker owns this place. You couldn’t find anything about them online, no pictures or reviews that mentioned them by name; only one article in the city newspaper announcing the grand opening last year which obviously resented a bakery replacing the former pizza shop that was shut down due to a myriad of legal issues. Who knew money laundering was so prevalent?

Even when you called to schedule this meeting you couldn’t get a name, just one of the cashiers promising to put you on the calendar before hanging up without asking for any of your information.

Stepping towards the cash register, a lone employee taps a quiet beat on the counter with his fingers, lost in his own world. Vernon, his name tag reads. You're almost certain this is the same man you spoke to one the phone.

“Hi.” You plaster on your most convincing smile, hoping it distracts from the wet mess of your…everything. “I’m supposed to be meeting with the pastry chef. I’m—”

He cuts you off with a snap. “You’re the wedding planner lady, right?” 

“Yep, that’s me.”

“I’ll let him know you’re here. You want a coffee?”

“A coffee would be great,” you sigh in relief. 

“Cream? Sugar?”

“Nope, just black,” you nod. “Thanks.”

Vernon fills a mug almost to the top before sliding it across the counter and disappearing into the back with a swish of the kitchen doors. While he grabs the mysterious baker, you head towards the table in the window. It’s perfect. You can see the entire cafe and the street, with plenty of space for everyone to gather around. Plus, it’s far away from the A/C blowing steadily on the opposite side of the cafe.

At best, you hope your new colleague will take the stress of this wedding for the premium pay. Sarah and Joshua want a lot but they’re willing to put their money where their mouths are. And unfortunately, they’re nice. Pleasant to the point you can’t fathom telling them no.

There was a point where you felt the butterflies they felt, and you wanted the same dream wedding they wanted. Maybe that’s why you’re willing to do whatever it takes to give them the perfect day they envisioned. That, and the promise of high end clients if everything goes well.

You’re too busy organizing everything to perfection on the table to notice a new presence over your shoulder until he clears his throat. This isn’t how you planned to introduce yourself but you steel against the embarrassment of the morning and turn around. “Hi, I’m—”

Mingyu.

Any hope of this working shatters into a million pieces before your eyes.

Fuck.

The shock buckles your knees, collapsing onto your ass on the hard tile floor. Trying to scramble for balance only brings the stack of papers on the table down with you. 

It isn’t enough to face your ex after years in private, there is no way the universe is this cruel. The only logical reason for any of this is you slipped and fell down the subway station stairs and are currently in a coma in the back of an ambulance. That must be what happened because this level of mercilessness is the type of thing only your subconscious could brew.

“Are you okay?” Mingyu asks.

Dejectedly, you slump on the floor. Kill me, you pray. But when you open your eyes, Mingyu is kneeling over you, eyebrows furrowed like he’s concerned. 

He offers you a hand. “What are you doing here?” 

You push him off, diving down for your scattered belongings to hide the embarrassment burning your face. So much for the dramatic ‘I won’ encounter you fantasized about post breakup. “I’m meeting the owner. What are you doing here?”

Rising to your feet, you try to keep your chin held high. Neither of you are winning in this situation but you cling to your pride even if it’ll kill you. You know what Mingyu is doing here before he even says it. He’s got an apron covered in flour cinched around his waist and that stupid Dodgers hat from college he apparently still refuses to toss out holding his hair back. It’s longer than the last time you saw him, curling around his ears.

“I’m the owner.”

“Of course, you are,” you laugh bitterly. “Did you know about this?”

“Obviously not,” Mingyu scoffs. “Do you think I was like ‘oh yeah, I’d love to work with my ex-girlfriend on your wedding cake, what a great surprise!’”

He respected your boundary to not see each other after the break up; only communicating through Soonyoung to coordinate moving out of your shared apartment. You hadn’t blocked his number but he didn’t take advantage of it. He didn’t call or text, left your social media alone. Mingyu turned into a ghost at your command. 

No, Mingyu wouldn’t do this to you. The universe just hates you enough to make it happen.

Besides, it’s too late to cancel and even if you wanted to, Sarah and Joshua gushed nonstop about having their dream cake made by none other than your ex-boyfriend. You could do this. You were a professional. You’ve worked with far worse people than Mingyu, and in two months, you would never have to see him again.

Mingyu takes a seat at the table, watching as you do the same. You try not to show how flustered you are while neatly organizing everything again. 

He breaks the silence. “How are we doing this?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do I know you? Or are we pretending we’ve never met before? Should we make a quick slideshow about all the reasons we didn’t work out? I’m sure you have one.”

You sour at the comment but only because somewhere on your laptop is a slideshow detailing the epic explosion resulting in your break up, color coded by who won the fight. It was easier than explaining again and again to your friends how someone like you and someone like him just didn’t work. Especially when all they saw was a handsome face and a nice smile.

Lying would only come back to bite you in the ass later but how would it look for a wedding planner to work side by side with her failed long term relationship? At best, your clients wouldn’t care. It really isn’t any of their business why you and Mingyu ended things. The sour ending between you two wouldn’t affect work; you could work with someone you didn’t like. You did it all the time. 

Worst case scenario, they’ll think you’re a complete fraud and incapable of planning the perfect day to celebrate their love since your own romantic life is a burning garbage fire doused in gasoline. They’ll think there is no way you and your ex–boyfriend can work together for the next six weeks to pull this off and they’ll be left in the ruins.

“We’re…friends of friends.” 

“Got it,” he nods. “So friend…how’s business?”

You shrug, focusing on the small line forming at the cash register. “Good. Busy.”

Truly, business was better than ever before. Sarah chose you after her friend’s wedding was praised in the city paper as the event of the season. Thank whatever powers be that Jeonghan agreed to write the feature if you planned his sister’s wedding for free; all the work paid off in spades for the free advertising. You even had enough money to bring Seungkwan on as your part time assistant.

But you don’t need to bog Mingyu down with the details of how busy you were. You want to know how everything around you finally came out of his brain and into existence; right down to the sleek espresso machine and the display case of artfully decorated cakes. You should have recognized all the details he spent hours describing for when he opened his own bakery like he always wanted, checkerboard tiles and all.

“You can ask,” he says.

There is no point in pretending you aren’t curious. He could see right through it.

“When did all this happen?”

“Last year.”

“I didn’t know you quit your job.”

“We weren’t really on speaking terms…” Mingyu shakes his head. “I started working at Annette’s on Second the year before that. Saved up. Now I’m here.”

“Well, if Sarah and Joshua are anything to go by, you’ve got the best cake in the city.”

Mingyu looks away and at first you think it’s because he can’t take the compliment. But that’s unlike him. He loves compliments, even if he gets flustered and pink at the collar. When he looks back, his lip is pinched between his teeth in barely contained laughter.

“Not like that!” you gasp.

“I didn’t say anything!” he argues.

Your eyes roll as you settle back into your chair. It feels too close to normal, like you’re back in those days when Mingyu was some guy you truthfully did only know through a friend of a friend. Before he asked you to a party at his apartment, before you told him you weren’t interested in seeing anyone else; before…everything. 

You can’t go down that road. Discussing business is far safer than whatever this is; if this is anything to be worried about at all. Mingyu was always a flirt and obviously hadn’t changed in the years spent apart. It didn’t mean anything. It wouldn’t mean anything.

“Alright, so before they get here,” you start, flipping through your notes. You have less than ten minutes to convince Mingyu to do this wedding, when you really need six months and good blackmail. “They want a wedding cake for Saturday, individual panna cottas for the rehearsal dinner Friday night, and cookies waiting for everyone at the hotel when they arrive on Thursday… Oh, and sticky buns and coffee cake for breakfast Sunday morning for people to grab as they leave. I think that’s it.” 

“Oh, that’s it?” 

You shrug. “They might change their mind once they get here.”

“Like how?”

“They said they wanted all the stuff they’ve eaten here since they started dating so maybe they’ll remember something else once we get talking.”

“They come in a lot…” Mingyu winces.

As if divine fate, the couple in question barge through the door, perfectly dry in designer coats like they walked off a movie set.

“Sorry we’re late!” Sarah announces.

“Don’t worry about it. We were just chatting.” Mingyu shrugs, rising to shake their hands. “Can I get you both something to drink?”

You swallow the jealousy from catching a glimpse of Sarah’s engagement ring as she and Joshua settle down. Vintage emerald cut diamond big enough to see from the moon but somehow fits her reserved style despite being passed down in Joshua’s family several generations over. You’ve planned a lot of weddings which means you’ve seen a lot of engagement rings; some good, some great. But Sarah’s is the stuff out of a Cartier commercial.

After Mingyu settles everyone with fresh coffee, he pulls his chair back out, spins it around and takes a seat with his arms crossed over the back. 

“All right, let’s talk dates—”

“Six weeks,” Joshua says.

“Six…weeks?” Mingyu blinks several times like he also is beginning to believe this is some horrible coma induced nightmare.

You school your features into the perfect picture of innocence. “Didn’t I mention that?”

He doesn’t buy it for a second. No fucking way, his eyes say.

I’ll kill you slowly and painfully, your own respond.

“We know it’s fast but we don’t wanna wait,” Sarah gushes.

“Right…” Mingyu sucks in a long breath. “Well, it shouldn’t be too hard to squeeze you into the schedule.”

What you hear beneath his appeasing tone is: you owe me big time.

Nonethewiser, Sarah and Joshua perk up like freshly watered daisies. 

The details hammer out quickly. Three hundred guests means hundreds cookies for the welcome party, a hundred individual desserts for the rehearsal dinner, and a massive four tiered cake for the wedding, and several batches of pastries for Sunday. You shove the curated stack of inspiration pictures into his hands, grimacing when his eyes widen. They’re all vintage round cakes with pounds of icing piped on with painstaking details. Rosettes, ruffles, bulbs of white icing with fresh cherries on top; everything but the kitchen sink slapped together. 

But despite the overwhelming demands, the numbers rack up behind his eyes. You’ve been in business long enough to estimate prices of everything from flowers to cake to bartenders to a balloon arch. The cake itself is easily three thousand if not more with how much detail they want. Add on the other desserts and Mingyu must realize he’s sitting on the biggest contract he’s ever seen with the promise of more business if all goes well. Plus, Sarah’s family reputation means every detail of the wedding would be front page news – who attended, how much they spent, and what businesses were lucky enough to serve an heiress. And if it was good enough for an heiress, then brides all over the city wanted the same treatment no matter the cost.

He’d be stupid to turn them down. You’d strangle him if he even considered it; right across the table top separating you two.

“I can definitely do this. What are we thinking for flavors?”

“Chocolate,” Sarah says.

“Lemon!” Joshua adds.

“What about vanilla? Grannie Donna won’t eat anything fancy,” she warns. “Since it’s four tiers, can we do four flavors?”

You focus on the vein in Mingyu’s neck growing more pronounced as they prattle off on a million different tangents; fondant versus icing, fruit filling or mouse, alcohol infused or would that be too much? They are nice enough but it was like herding cats every time you sit down with them. Spare no expense but your sanity. In time, Mingyu will learn that presenting them too many decisions at once is asking for trouble, but for now you revel in watching him fluster through each option in painstaking detail. 

“How about we do a tasting next week?” Mingyu asks, clearly exhausted. The only thing preventing him from tugging at his hair the way he always does when stressed is that hideous baseball hat. “I can do a slice of each cake flavor we have and the fillings you're interested in.”

“That’ll be perfect!” Sarah claps.

Once they agree to a time, Sarah rushes Joshua out the door for brunch with her parents leaving you alone with Mingyu.

“Six weeks?” he asks.

“How do you think I feel?”

“The pay is that good?”

“She has shoes worth more than my life and Josh’s family has a summer home in Antibes.”

“Where the fuck is Antibes?” Mingyu blurts.

“France.”

“Well, shit.”

“Yeah. So for the next six weeks I’m in charge of getting them whatever they want. Even if that means putting on an apron and making their cake myself.”

Mingyu shudders. “Never threaten me with your cooking.”

“I’m not that bad!”

“Right,” he says. “I forgot omelets and spaghetti are supposed to be crunchy.”

“Anyway…” Your eyes roll. “Think you can handle everything?”

He leans back, arms crossing over his chest. “I haven’t done a wedding before. It’ll be good for business.”

The corner of your lip twitches because you know that look on his face. Mingyu likes a challenge and what you’re asking of him is probably his biggest challenge yet.

“Alright then,” you say, rising from your seat. “I’ll see you next week.”

“How was the meeting?” Seungkwan asks around a mouthful of pad thai.

You pick at your own plate with gusto. Your day had been packed with meetings since this morning’s nightmare, no time for a change of clothes or anything other than the coffee and pastries Mingyu sent you off with. But Seungkwan surprised you with take out and a Ted Lasso marathon after you wrung out.

 “You will never guess who the baker is.”

“Mingyu.”

“How the fuck did you know that?” You whip around to face him, elbow catching on the coffee table. “Ow! Fuck!”

Seungkwan shrugs, unmoved by your pain. “Because I know everything.”

“And it didn’t occur to you to—I don’t know—mention that to me?” you shriek.

“It did. But it was more fun this way.”

“Well I’m glad one of us finds this funny.” You stab a carrot on your plate with more force than needed.

“So how is he?”

“I thought you knew everything?”

“That good, huh?” Seungkwan asks with an eyebrow wiggle. “Did he make a move?”

“Yeah, he actually asked me if I wanted to do him right there on the coffee bar in front of everyone. Obviously, not.”

“Sounds like you wish he did.”

“Ew, no.”

“Oh, please,” he snorts. “As if you’d turn him down.”

“I would.”

“You guys never did the whole break-up sex thing. Just the ‘break up and never speak again’ thing. You are long overdue for it.”

“The point of breaking up is that we don’t see each other anymore.”

“What does that have to do with anything? And now that he’s back in the picture, you don’t feel even the smallest bit of curiosity?”

“No.” 

Lie. Lie, lie, lie, lie, LIE. Of the millions of reasons you broke up with Mingyu, lack of attraction wasn’t one. It wasn’t enough that he was tall and handsome, he was actually a good person who wore generosity like a second skin. In the weeks following your break up you resisted the urge to ask him for any sort of ‘closure.’ And gradually, those feelings and curiosity went away the longer you ignored them. But seeing him today brought those dead feelings back with enough force to leave you breathless.

“Whatever you say.”

“I’m not that easy.”

“It’s not about being easy, it’s about having hot hate sex with your ex boyfriend,” Seungkwan tsks. “Why can’t you be normal like everyone else?”

“Not everyone is having sex with their ex-boyfriends!”

“Not everyone’s ex-boyfriend is Mingyu!”

“Why are you invested in my sex life?”

“Because as your friend and employee, you are way better to work with when you’re getting laid.”

“Yeah well you’re better to work with when you mind your own business.”

“He looked good, didn’t he?”

You throw your arms up in defeat. “Fine, yes. He looked good.”

“And?”

“And ‘hot, hate sex’ doesn’t sound like the worst thing ever.”

“And?”

“What else is there? I’m not gonna do it. I have to work with him for the next two months.”

“I don’t know, I just wanted to see what else you’d admit, skank.”

Mid-suffocating Seungkwan with a throw pillow, your phone lights up with a text. Speak of the devil.

Mingyu: realized i didn’t give them a quote on price

When you told him how good the money was, you thought he’d understand. Sarah came from money so old her family were probably the first cavemen to need a bank account. Joshua had family members married to royalty in other countries. 

“Is that him? What did he say? Is he asking you to come over?” Seungkwan tries to look over your shoulder.

YN: send me the invoice and i’ll take care of it

Mingyu: aye aye captain

You blare at Seungkwan, sinking back into the couch. “No, it’s about work. Because we work together now.”

“I hear office romance is all the rage these days.”

“I hear firing your assistant is too.”

Seungkwan mutters something under his breath but goes back to watching TV, leaving you to think about what he said.

The first time you met Mingyu was three minutes before Holly, your junior year roommate, shared you two would be splitting twin bunk beds for a weekend at her family’s lake house.

You couldn’t complain. A free weekend on the lake? There was no way you’d ever afford something like it with your budget. As the only two single people on the entire trip, it was a blessing you got real beds and not a pull out couch or air mattress in the living room. Besides, Mingyu seemed nice enough and you wouldn’t be spending that much time in the tiny bedroom anyway. It would be perfectly fine.

And then it rained that entire weekend.

Being stuck inside with five couples for four days left you and Mingyu scrambling to find anything to distract from third wheeling. Turns out, he made good company.

“Pool?” Mingyu asked after the seventh round of cards. Seven losses in a row made him desperate for something he could beat you at.

Eager for anything to prevent going back to your room which shared a wall with Holly and Soonyoung, you tossed the cards on the table and followed him.  “Do you know how to play?”

“Do you?” Mingyu turned with two cues in his hand. He passed one to you before grinding the blue chalk on the tip of his.

“Maybe.” You shrugged, racking the balls.

The first game ended in uncontested victory. Mingyu managed to scratch every turn he got, sinking two stripes before the eight balls tipped into a corner pocket and declared you the winner after barely ten minutes.

“How are you this bad at pool?” you asked.

Mingyu sipped his beer indignantly. “Sorry we can’t all be experts.”

“I only pocketed three balls, you lost all on your own. ” You laughed at his eye roll. “Re-rack the balls and I’ll show you.”

Mingyu did as you said, and rounded back where you stood, eager for instruction.

“Okay, now get in position.”

Eying him up and down, you didn’t focus anywhere for too long in fear of getting distracted by…all of it. You had eyes, you could see how handsome he was. Not to mention the last two mornings he woke up early to workout and came back shirtless while you pretend to sleep, watching from the top bunk as he dug through his duffle for a change of clothes. 

“First problem,” you started, moving into his space. “Your hands are a mess. Move your left hand, no. Your other left hand.” You pulled his hand away from the green velvet of the table, splaying his fingers wide under your own. “Use this one to aim. Balance the cue between two fingers, it’ll keep it stable so you don’t scratch against the table.” Then your front plastered to his back but you were too dedicated to correcting him to think much beyond the clumsy way he fumbled the stick. “It helps if you keep your grip tight. Now, focus between the tip of the cue and the ball. Don’t do anything crazy, just aim straight.”

The balls cracked on impact, flying different directions and ricocheting off the border until the orange stripe sinks into the corner. 

Mingyu stared, mouth wide and cheeks rosy. Your own body vibrated where it touched him; something fluttered up your front, where the heat of his back lingered; where you could still feel the way his chest expanded with each breath. 

“See?” you breathed into his ear, pleased at his shiver. “Better already.”

The second game was slightly better than the first. Mingyu improved, pocketing a few more balls. Everytime he looked at you for approval, you forgot how to breathe. You intentionally pocketed the eight ball too soon just to catch your breath.

“I’m gonna grab another beer,” you said, disappearing upstairs. 

When you returned, Mingyu insisted on a third game. Alcohol didn’t help keep either of your shots steady but it did make things hazy around the edges. You touched Mingyu more, finding any excuse to correct his form. He let you before starting to ask for more pointers, watching closely as you pocketed more balls.

Mingyu’s hand covered yours when you descended into puddles of laughter after he sent the cue ball flying across the room. Then you were kissing; pinned between his mouth and pool table.

That night, you didn’t hear anything from Holly and Soonyoung’s room. All you heard was the sound of Mingyu between your thighs and then, later, the steady beat of his heart as you fell asleep against his chest.

The tasting appointment comes fast. In the past week you’ve exchanged a few more messages with Mingyu, all strictly professional which serves to soften the lead in your stomach. You can do this. You can work with him and not have it be weird. In five weeks everything will be done and you can go back to sweet ignorant bliss, ignoring his entire existence.

You just have to survive.

Another stormy day leaves the subway running late and traffic bumper to bumper. At least this time, you’re dry when you arrive ten minutes early for the tasting.

Vernon wipes down the counters, the display case empty for the night and most of the chairs turned over on top of tables. 

“Is Mingyu—”

“I’ll get him from the back,” Vernon says, disappearing through the kitchen doors with a swish.

Without the bustle of people, the cafe feels much larger. However, it maintains a cozy warmth even when there are no kids leaving sugar cookie crumbs on the floor, or old men tapping their fingers on the table while reading the news. 

Years ago, when you were still dating, he described this exact cafe in detail. Somewhere that felt casual enough for afternoon coffee but fancy enough to bring a date. You helped him put together inspiration boards; paint swatches, furniture ideas, sketched out logos. You should have recognized all of it the first time you visited: the bookshelves stuffed with board games and plants, tables with local ceramics for sale, down to the beaten up couches sandwiching a coffee table with a wooden chess board on top. Exactly what Mingyu wanted. 

You’re happy for him. 

Your phone vibrates, lighting up with a text from Sarah.

Fuck.

Mingyu comes out from the kitchen as you’re typing out a response, same Dodgers hat and flour covered apron as last week. 

“I have everything ready, when are they supposed to get here?” he asks.

“They’re stuck on the bridge and traffic hasn’t moved in thirty minutes.”

It’s already later than you’d like. By the time they arrive, taste everything, and settle down on their order, it’ll be well past the last train to your apartment and all you want after a day running around the city is to go home and curl up on the couch with a glass of wine and bad reality TV. You release a slow breath, a dull throb resonating in your temple. 

Mingyu sighs as well before responding, “Well, if you wanna hangout out here, be my guest. I’m gonna work on some orders in the back until they get here.”

Like always, your unread emails near the triple digits even after only a few hours away from your phone. You set up at one of the chairs lining the counter, laptop hot to the touch and sounding ready for take off. Couples in full meltdowns, vendors needing finalized contracts, venues looking to do walkthroughs and be added to your roster of recommendations. You get the most pressing ones done; a couple deciding they wanted to change their theme from regency garden party to rustic botanical (they’re still a year out, thank god), an overdue invoice from Jihoon for express order of white Dahlias (you sent the filled invoice dated from last week back), a hotel trying to split the block of hotel rooms you already arranged for a wedding next month (absolutely not).

For every fire you put out, three more crop up in its place.

It’s fine. You handle it the way you handle everything, fueled by exhaustion and waning patience. Washing down the last sip of coffee Vernon provided before leaving, you tiptoe around the counter to fill up the mug to the top before setting back to work. You can hear Mingyu humming to himself through the kitchen doors.

A wave of nostalgia washes over you. Years ago, back when you first started and had all of two couples willing to take the risk of hiring someone completely new to the industry, you’d park yourself at the thrifted dining room table in your shared apartment. He’d make dinner, humming away while you worked furiously on your laptop. Polishing your business plan, researching licenses and permits, emailing florists and photographers and anyone else you could network with. Crying from the stress after the hundredth ‘no.’

When it got too much for him to bear, Mingyu would force your laptop out of the way, tuck it away somewhere you couldn’t reach with the promise you could have it back after you ate something that wasn’t popcorn or coffee. The nights he failed to distract you, he’d stand behind your chair, massaging your tense shoulders until your eyes drooped and let him pull you into bed.

But now, Mingyu hides in the kitchen because he is avoiding you. You’re hunkered down at the bar with cold coffee and a dying laptop because you’re avoiding him. It’s hard not to imagine all the what if’s but you focus on work because work is safe; where you can channel all the restless energy and pretend you aren’t thinking about what Seungkwan said.

Then, because life is never kind, the power goes out.

And it stays out.

“Damn it,” you hear Mingyu curse.

Using your phone as a flashlight, you meet him at the kitchen doors.

“Powers out,” he says, wincing at the harsh light of your phone.

“That's what it is?” you gasp mockingly. “I thought you were politely telling me to leave.”

“Smartass,” he huffs. “Can you call the utility company? My phone’s dead.”

“Sure.”

Mingyu leads you back through the kitchen, towards the office. The scent of sugar and vanilla is more concentrated back here, clinging inside your nose. You take stock of everything: steel work benches, one with a half decorated cake frozen in time. Metal shelves filled with proofing dough, others jammed full of freshly baked loaves for tomorrow. The far wall is nothing but industrial sized ovens. Luckily, they’re all empty. 

You try not to stare for too long but you hate mystery and the doors separating the kitchen from the rest of the cafe have kept you from knowing anything about this space. Maybe that was for the best because your imagination takes over. You see Mingyu kneading dough on one table, sleeves rolled up. Meticulously piping icing flowers onto the half finished cake. Whipping up macaroon batter in the gigantic mixer. All the things he did in the tiny kitchen at your old apartment, now with the space he needs to bring his recipes to life.

He ushers you into the closet turned office. On looks alone, you know your arms could touch the side walls without fully extending. Mingyu takes up seventy percent of the space on his own. You don’t think about it.

“I know I have the number somewhere,” he says, digging through a stack of papers. 

You aim the flashlight a little higher to help him see.

Mistake.

There is nothing overtly sexual about one person’s elbow grazing someone’s shoulder. Not unless you're a Regency era gentlewoman and a flash of ankle sends men into a fit of passion. However, Seungkwan’s words about Mingyu still ring in your ears no matter how much you try to drown them out.

You’re close enough for the scent of his cologne to fill your senses, soak in the heat of his skin through his shirt where your elbow brushes against him as he flips through papers. If he notices the way your breath stutters, he fails to mention it. 

Your face heats. How embarrassing is it that the first time you're alone with him since the breakup, all you can think about is if Seungkwan was right and if Mingyu would be any good at it. By history alone, you know he is which opens a whole other can of worms because it’s been months since you had the time or energy for anything beyond a drunk bar makeout with a stranger. Of all the issues in your relationship with Mingyu, lack of chemistry in the bedroom was never an issue.

“Got it!”

You snap to attention. After handing you the business card, Mingyu grabbed a flashlight from the desk drawer and left to check the generator.

Before you dial the number, you ground with a few breaths. It’s just Mingyu. He is just Mingyu. Mingyu who you broke up with and don’t regret leaving. The same man who clearly was no longer thinking about you in any way other than a temporary thorn in his side. 

The office doesn’t have any service so you wander back into the kitchen. Mingyu is off somewhere but you can’t hear him as you dial the electric company. You aren’t scared of the dark and definitely not storms but being all alone out front raises hairs on the back of your neck. Maybe your heart is overcompensating for being alone in Mingyu’s presence and is channeling that energy into something less embarrassing, like the Boogey Man. 

The line is still ringing when the lights come back on, flickering at first like some cheap horror movie gimmick, but they stay on. 

You leave a message for their automated voicemail complaining about the issue and hang up as Mingyu comes back into the kitchen from a door in the back.

“Fixed it?” you ask.

“No, I didn’t even get the door unlocked.”

“Well, hopefully it’s fixed.”

“Did Josh and Sarah say anything about when they’d get here?”

You glance at your phone, sending a quick text to Sarah that she responds to immediately.

Sarah: traffic still backed up :( probably another hour

Sliding your hand down your face, you release a long breath. There is no rescheduling. This has to be done tonight or the already tight deadline will become impossible for Mingyu to meet. 

“I’m going back out front.”

“The Wi-Fi won’t come back for a while,” Mingyu warns.

“Then I will bash my head into the counter until I die or they get here. Whatever comes first.”

“I don’t have that kind of insurance,” he jokes. “I could use a hand, if you’re up for it.”

Your brain doesn’t go straight to the gutter but only because you refuse to allow it. Professional. You are a professional. And professionals do not sleep with their colleagues even if the colleague in question is their ex-boyfriend who historically proved to be great to sleep with.

“What happened to ‘don’t threaten me with your cooking’?” 

“The fact you think this is cooking proves that point. Just crack all the eggs into the bowl.” He shoves a massive flat of eggs and a large steel bowl across the counter before focusing back on the half decorated cake.

The kitchen falls into comfortable silence. The crack of shells against the counter, the sound of your breaths evening out simultaneously. You lose yourself in the task; crack, open, toss, repeat. Easy. Halfway through the tray you feel Mingyu’s gaze.

“What?” you ask, not looking up.

“People tend to prefer their cakes without shells.”

A few pale shell fragments float in the bowl. There aren't that many, he’s just picky.

“I was going to get them all after,” you huff.

His responding snort sets you off. To your own surprise, the empty egg in your hands smashes into the center of his apron covered chest.

He freezes, eyes flashing to yours. “You didn’t.”

“Oh, but I did,” you nod, an evil grin twisting your face.

When you stoop low, Mingyu races to meet you. He dips his hand into the bowl of sifted flour resting on the bench,  and flicks it onto your cheek, into your hair. 

“You’re gonna pay for that,” you warn, taking a step closer as he takes one back. 

You slap a handful of icing on his neck, the pale pink color contrasting with the warm hue of his skin. 

“I’m going to kill you!”

“I’m shaking in boots,” you squeal, putting the metal table between you.

Flour, eggs, and buttercream litter the floor, making it too slick for an easy escape. Mingyu manages to snag your wrist before you can round the opposite side of the metal workbench. He’s got you pinned, trapped between a fingers covered in icing and the hard ledge. 

“Any last words?” he asks. His warm breath puffs over your face, face barely a hands distance from yours.

You don’t think as you roll up on your toes, exactly like the first time you kissed him. Your lips meet his, soft and warm; exactly how you remember them yet somehow better. It lasts barely a second before he withdraws, hovering a hair's breadth away. He’s going to brush you off, step away. Put a stop to whatever this is before it gets out of hand.

Mingyu kisses you again.

The hat holding his hair back falls to the floor, your hands burying in his hair to drag him closer. Muscle memory prevents any awkwardness. When Mingyu tilts his head, you go the opposite way. When you tug at his hair, a grunt tickles across your lips a second before his tongue does. His hands slot on your waist, pulling you firmly against his chest.

Your own roam over his shoulders, down his front until your body gets in the way – wedged so tight against his body you can feel his heart beating against yours. Mingyu lifts you onto the edge of the metal table, standing between your spread legs like so many times before.

You can’t think, you can’t breathe. Nerves dull from too much Mingyu too fast, but you don’t want him to stop. The taste of vanilla and sugar on his tongue is addictive and you whine when he leans back to leave a hot trail over the side of your throat.

Every part of you responds like no time has passed; nipples tight, hips curling against the zipper of his pants when Mingyu feels bold enough to ghost his teeth across your earlobe. You should have done this sooner. So much sooner.

Your hands are all over him like magnets, his the same. Too much to touch and still not enough. Mingyu leverages his weight until your back meets the counter top, completely at his whim. His stupid apron prevents every attempt to get his shirt off or sneak your hand into his pants but that doesn’t stop you. Mingyu’s back is just as nice to touch as his front, you grip his ass and roll your hips.

“Fuck,” he grunts when you do it a second time, rolling with more force into the friction.

A response bubbles in the back of your throat when someone out front calls “Hello?” 

Mingyu abandons the patch of skin revealed by the stretched neckline of your sweater, eyes meeting yours as you both realize for the first time exactly what was happening. All the reasons why this is a horrible idea sprint into your head.

One: he is your ex-boyfriend.

Two: Joshua and Sarah are less than twenty feet away.

You scramble from between him and the table, rushing to exit the kitchen, desperate for as much distance as possible from the disappointment you caught in his gaze. “Coming!”

Flour clings to the cuff of your sweater, and there is definitely frosting and egg shells in other places. 

“Sorry we’re late,” Joshua says.

“It’s fine!” you squeak. Your lips feel swollen and tingly, the heat of Mingyu’s hands lingering on your back, your cheeks burning hotter. You pray neither of them notice the clear signs they interrupted whatever you were doing with him in the back. 

Mingyu sweeps through the door, pinker than you left him, hair a mess. “Who is ready for some cake?” 

“I think I wanna do wedding planning,” you shared over a mouth of pasta.

“Wedding planning?” Mingyu asked. He manned the stove partially nude, only a pair of boxers saving his modesty, messy hair hidden by a backwards baseball hat – like a regular frat boy. He insisted on a midnight snack after a joint and a blowjob on the couch during the newest episode of Prehistoric Planet.

“Yeah,” you said. “Wedding planning. Planning weddings. Dealing with bridezillas and their crazy in-laws.”

Mingyu turned towards where you sit on the countertop with an amused smile, eyes bloodshot. “Okay. What can I do to help?”

“Do you know anyone getting married?”

“We know the same people,” he laughed.

“You’re not helping!” you whined.

Mingyu returned back to the pan, stirring with measured precision, shoulders tense. 

Gotcha, you thought.

Mingyu couldn’t keep a secret if his life depended on it. Especially from you. Not for long. He had one, you just needed to apply the right pressure.

You pulled him away from his cooking, ushering him to stand between your legs. You weren’t playing fair, in his shirt and nothing else, gazing at him with soft features he was already enamored with. “You don’t know anyone thinking about getting married?”

Like an overstuffed pillow, his lips bursted open with a rush. “Soonyoung is planning to ask Holly.”

A wicked grin splits your face. “Really?” 

“But they’re eloping.” Mingyu collapsed into your shoulder, nose tracing the curve of your throat. 

“Well, I can still help them!” you said. “When is he asking?”

You ignored his hand sneaking up your thigh but it’s not necessary. He only wanted to hold you close, cuddly and touch starved from a little too much weed. He sighed, squeezing you tight against him.

“Next week, when we’re all back at the lake house.”

You shuddered at the idea of sharing the wall between the bunk bed room and the master suite while they celebrated. Even after six years of dealing with their volume, it never got any easier. But this was the chance you needed. Something small, something with two people as easy to please as Soonyoung and Holly. 

“Do you think I’ll be good at it?” you asked, suddenly self conscious. 

“I think you can do anything you put your mind to,” he whispered against your hairline.

Clipboard. Check. Phone charger. Check. Wallet. Check.

You methodically pack your bag for today’s appointment at the venue. You’ve never seen it in person but if the reviews and photos are even half true then it would be perfect, exactly what Sarah and Joshua envisioned. By some gigantic miracle, the Ellery Estate had a cancellation aligned with their desired date which has come simultaneously fast and slow. One more week, ten days to be specific, and this entire thing would be a done deal.

In the meantime, you just have to survive.

On the brightside, Mingyu was radio silent over the past four weeks, only responding when you reached out to him to confirm attendance for today. He insisted on delivering everything for the weekend himself and needed to know exactly how the kitchen was set up. Somehow, it became Sarah and Joshua offering to pay for his accommodations to stay through the event in case there was some cake related emergency. Joy.

The silver lining is he seemed to be as intent on ignoring the kiss as you were. He didn’t make any smart comments, or throw it in your face. After the cake tasting last month he all but sprinted into the back of the kitchen after everything was settled. It shouldn’t make you as annoyed as you felt, which made you even more annoyed. You shouldn’t have kissed him and he shouldn’t have kissed you back. 

Your phone rings, a familiar tune playing instead of the default chime. Only one person has that ringtone. Because you never bothered to change it, because you didn’t remember it even needed changing until now because the last time you heard it was years ago.

“What?” you snap after answering, continuing to back your bag with shaky hands.

Mingyu’s scoff crackles through the speaker. “Hello to you, too.”

“Hi. What?”

Mingyu sighs deeply over the line. “My car broke down.”

“Your what did what?”

“My car broke down. Well, someone actually totaled it –  but the point is, I don’t have a car.”

“The run through is this afternoon,” you say, voice shrilling with panic.

“So nice of you to be concerned. I’m fine by the way. And yeah, I know.”

Everyone had to be at the walk through, they had to. The caterer, the photographer, Seungkwan, you, Josh and Sarah, and Mingyu. There is no make-up day for Mingyu to go alone, the venue was booked solid up until the ceremony. Today is it.

The vein in your temple starts to throb. “You can ride with me.”

“Are you sure? That’s a long drive…”

“It’s fine. I need this to go well and if that means towing your ass everywhere then that’s what I’ll do.”

“How considerate,” Mingyu huffs.

“I’ll be at your apartment at noon. Do not make us late.”

“I’m not that bad anymore!” he argues.

“Alright, see you in an hour.” You hang up before he can say anything else.

You spend the next thirty minutes sprawled on the sliver of floor space between the couch and coffee table. This was fine. It was perfectly, absolutely, totally, one hundred percent fine. Better the rip off the bandaid of awkward discomfort sooner than later. You kissed Mingyu and now that it happened, it was firmly out of your system. You definitely don’t think about how if your mind slips from the tight leash of control, you can still feel everywhere his body pressed against weeks ago.

But as the last few weeks showed, no amount of ignoring the memories helped. When you literally took matters into your own hands, the short lived bliss of an orgasm fizzled into hollowness. Nothing relieved that consuming need. At your wits end, you downloaded Tinder with the sole purpose of finding someone who was not Mingyu to help but deleted it because deep down you knew it wouldn’t work either.

It hadn’t worked yet but, if you could firmly cement Mingyu as someone you worked with and not someone you knew every intimate detail about, then maybe the desire to kiss him again would go away.

Hopefully.

When you pull up outside the bakery twenty minutes later, Mingyu is waiting with his arms crossed over his chest and his foot tapping impatiently. Apparently, he lives in the apartment above the bakery. At least, that’s what he said. Maybe he’s lying to you because he doesn’t want you to know where he lives in case he screws up and you plot to kill him in his sleep. 

“You are not wearing that,” you say.

“What’s wrong with this?” Mingyu looks down at his outfit: t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. And like always, that ugly Dodgers hat. 

“They’re paying half a million for this venue. Put on some damn slacks,” you snap. “And brush your hair!”

“Who pissed in your cereal?” he grumbles but goes back inside. Ten minutes later, Mingyu walks out in slacks and a navy button up, hair tousled. “Happy?”

“Ecstatic.”

He mutters something else under his breath before buckling his seatbelt. Then you’re off.

The drive isn’t horrible. You’ve got a playlist that Mingyu is content with and he brought coffee along with a few pastries to snack on. You don’t linger on the fact he still remembers your order – iced latte with cinnamon. It doesn’t mean anything. He just has a good memory and was probably trying to smooth over the tension. 

Three hours later and a slightly numb but later, a large iron gate rolls into view, manned by multiple security guards. They check your IDs against their list of guests for the day before waving you through.

“Where the hell are we?” Mingyu asks. “Buckingham Palace?”

The venue is a modest mansion on 8,000 acres of lush land, hidden away in between rolling mountains and dense forest. Surrounding the pristine white building is a massive yard, mowed with a perfect checkerboard pattern. You creep down the pebbled driveway towards the front of the house where a man waits on the steps, impatiently checking his watch.

Mr. Ellery.

Even though you only spoke to him on the phone and exchanged emails, you know it’s him by his dry gaze and silent imposition, the fine cut of his suit screaming money. He resembles the butler from Haunted Mansion a little too much for comfort. Brown eyes – perfect to see straight through you – and thick white hair cropped close to his skull. 

Several other cars line the driveway. Sarah’s BMW, Seungkwan’s Volkswagen. The others you don’t recognize as you pull in next to them. You put the car in park, turning to Mingyu who looks a little paler than usual. 

“Please don’t say anything stupid.”

“When have I ever—”

“I’m serious.”

Mingyu mimes zipping his lips before getting out of the car. You take a deep breath, lungs stretched until they burn, releasing it slowly before opening the door.

“Mr. Ellery,” you greet, shaking his hand. You hope yours aren’t clammy with nerves. Either way, the slight annoyance on the older man’s face makes you feel like you could cure cancer and still be an inconvenience. “And this is our baker, Mingyu, he’ll be—”

“Everyone else has already arrived,” Mr. Ellery says dryly. “This way.”

You studied the venue website extensively before booking but nothing could have prepared you for seeing it in person. The massive exterior of the house does a poor job of betraying how spacious the inside is. Each click of Mr. Ellery’s expensive leather loafers on the marble floor echoes loudly, the high ceilings make the room feel infinite and you’re nothing more than a speck of dust floating through, about to be swatted by a maid. 

Sarah and Joshua are sipping champagne and nibbling cookies in the Rose Room, chatting with Jeonghan about the article for their wedding. Seungkwan is in the corner entertaining the caterer and photographer. You’re not late but somehow the shocked expression from everyone as you and Mingyu arrive makes you feel like you’re back in elementary school.

“Now that the entire party has arrived,” Mr. Ellery drawls. “We can begin our tour.”

A young woman named Tabitha leads Seungkwan, Mingyu, and the Dokyeom away to tour the kitchens and access points they’ll need while you, the happy couple, Jeonghan, and the photographer, Wonwoo, follow Mr. Ellery back into the main foyer.

“As mentioned on our website, my staff will handle all decoration set up and tear down. I have many priceless family heirlooms throughout the estate and wish to keep them in pristine condition,” Mr. Ellery says.

The air around him is stiff with seriousness. Ironic for a man named Shannon but you focus on nailing down details for the ceremony next week.

“Of course,” you nod. Your clipboard covered in notes is slowly checked off as each obstacle is addressed. Live band? Check. Dance floor installation? Check. Bridal suite, groom’s room, wedding party accommodations. It all flows smoothly.

Three hours later, you’re standing outside in the center of the Ivory Garden, one of the seven formal gardens. White tulips and daffodils explode out of the ground. Shrubs covered in pale quince petals offer a natural division on the sides, puff balls of viburnum exploding from emerald bushes. 

Wonwoo directs the couple around the space for some candid shots while you and Jeonghan watch from afar. Shannon was called away to handle an issue with the estate’s swans, leaving all you to kill time until he returns.

“I think he keeps bodies in the basement,” Jeonghan whispers.

“I think you should focus on interviewing Josh and Sarah.”

“When Joshua Hong, heir of the Hong Diamond’s empire met Sarah Ko, he knew he had a rare gem on his hands,” Jeonghan says into his phone microphone.

“You are so painfully cliche.”

He presses the record button again. “Their wedding was planned by the ultimate stick in the mud, Y/N. Her hobbies include drowning kittens and drinking tears.”

Before you can respond, or push him into the nearest bush like you itch to, Sarah comes running up. “Isn’t it just perfect?”

“Absolutely,” you nod.

“It’s going to be like a fairytale,” she sighs, face glowing. “Do you think delphinium would work better in the aisle floral arrangements than snapdragons? With all the space I think we’re going to need more height. Jihoon can do that, right?”

“That sounds like a great idea. Let me text him.” You smile but beneath the lift of your mouth, every muscle in your body pulls taunt. Jihoon already associated Sarah and Joshua with his own personal version of Hell. Changing the flowers a week out is going to put you on his hit list, if he doesn’t hunt you down immediately. 

You fumble with your phone, shooting off the request and bracing for his reaction.

Y/N: don’t hate me

Jihoon: if it’s the Hong wedding, i will kill myself in front of them and then haunt you

Great.

“My apologies,” Mr. Ellery says upon his return. “Where were we? Oh, yes. As we discussed, the champagne toast will take place in the courtyard…”

He shepherds your group back towards the manor. You follow behind, furiously typing on your phone.

Y/N: please tell me things are going well even if its a lie

Seungkwan: things are great! (not lying)

Seungkwan: DK says kitchen is perfect. He and mingyu worked out storage and timing

Your shoulders relax a fraction. At least something seemed to be fine. You’d take your wins wherever they came from. Even if it was just Mingyu and Dokyeom working out who got what shelf in the fridge.

Catching up to the group, Ellery stops in front of the large fountain serving as the courtyard’s centerpiece. “I believe that concludes our tour. Please join me inside for some refreshments before taking your leave.”

Dark clouds swirl overhead, only just hesitating to release all the water they’ve swelled with over the course of the afternoon. As much as you wished to stay and brow beat the old man until your face turned blue, three hours in the pouring rain back to the city wasn’t worth what could be solved over email.

Seungkwan, Dokyeom, and Mingyu stand around, chatting with Tabitha in the main foyer, much laxer than you expected. At least your assistant wasn’t lying to your face. If things went poorly, you don’t Dokyeom and Mingyu would be acting like long lost friends. 

You snag a glass of water from the table, emptying it before heading in Mingyu’s direction.

“How’d it go?”

“Good,” you tell him. “It’s a long drive back so we should head out.”

“I can drive,” Mingyu offers.

“I don’t think so.”

“You have work to do. I don’t. Just let me drive.” 

There's more to it than that and you know it. Hiding your anxiety from clients was one thing. They didn’t know what cracks to look for, what obvious tells were. But Mingyu did. He always had a way of reading you like the back of his own hand.

Even if he’s doing it to be nice, Mingyu gives you a solid excuse to pretend like everything is fine. You really can’t afford to lose three hours to driving when you have an angry florist to talk down from the ledge, hotel reservations to finalize, and a serious lack of sleep. Jihoon would take at least an hour to convince not to disappear into the woods forever.

“Fine.”

You ignore Seungkwan’s pointed look at Mingyu takes your keys and you open the passenger side door.

The drive home is much the same way as the drive out, quiet but the tension from before seems to have melted. Mingyu hums along with the radio, fingers tapping a steady rhythm into the steering wheel. You send off emails and texts, Jihoon finally calming enough to bargain for a steep upcharge you don’t even try to haggle over. Seungkwan asks about Mingyu every other text and you manage to ignore them in favor of tasking him with picking up Sarah’s aunt from the airport Thursday night.

Rain pelts the windshield, new mist immediately blurring the road barely a second after the windshield wipers clear it. 

Incoming Call…Jeonghan Yoon

A frown crosses your lips as you answer. “Hello?”

“Listen, I need some more info for the announcement but Sarah and Josh are all booked this week. Can I pick your brain?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Well don’t sound too eager. I’d hate to think you’re excited to hang out with me.”

Your lips quirk, a puff of amused breath. Leave it to Jeonghan. “Dinner. Tuesday, 8 PM at Plazzo’s.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Bye.” 

You end the call and return back to Ellery’s email detailing that the parking for the wedding would have to be valet only and the shuttle services would require an extra fee. 

“Date?” Mingyu asks.

You prickle. “No.”

“It’s fine if it is. I don’t—”

“It’s none of your business!” Your voice comes out sharper than intended. “But if you must know, it was Jeonghan who I’m not sleeping with and never have. Is that really what you think of me?”

“Sorry,” Mingyu concedes. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

The car is quiet after that. Not even the dull hum of the radio can mask the tension. Embarrassment already burns your face. Mingyu was just trying to make things feel normal.

“It’s not a date.”

“Okay, it’s not a date.”

“And even if it was, I wouldn’t talk about it with you.”

“Why not?” You level him with an expectant look. “Okay, fine. But for the record, it’s not like I don’t expect you to be dating. It’s been a long time.”

“For the record, I barely have the time to sleep, let alone date.”

“At least we still have that in common,” he jest. “If you need any advice on getting back out there—”

“No offense, but you are the last person I’d take dating advice from,” you snort, before realizing what you said. “Sorry that was mean.”

What was a warm space, froze back over. You watch Mingyu from the corner of your eye, the signs of his frustration clear as day; his jaw set tight, tongue pinned between his teeth. The rain falls steadier now, fat drops challenging the wipers to keep up. 

His grip on the steering wheel tightens. “No, you’re right. I haven’t been on a date in…years.”

The math circles your brain but you refuse to acknowledge the implications of his confession. 

“Why not?”

“Time. I’m in the bakery for like fifteen hours a day and I never—”

Just then, the car shudders violently. The force overrides Mingyu’s control of the wheel, swerving into the other lane before he regains control to slow down and pull up onto the side of the road. 

“What the hell?”

The car feels off balance, Mingyu’s side slouching closer to the ground. Fuck.

Your eyes close, head meeting the dashboard in preemptive defeat. “Please tell me it’s not what I think it is.”

“It’s exactly what you think it is.”

A long sigh leaves your nose. “Great.”

Mingyu mutters a curse before throwing open the door and disappearing outside. It’s so dark his silhouette is barely decipherable through the rain. All you can do is watch as he examines the tire in the dark.

A few minutes later, he ducks back into the driver's seat, significantly wetter than when he left. “The tire is flat. Should be an easy fix. Where is your spare?”

You hesitate. “That might be the spare.”

“I—” he starts. You prepare for a lecture about why driving on the spare is bad, how dumb you are not to get it replaced but Mingyu stops himself. “Do you have the number for a tow truck?”

“Yeah, let me just…no service. There was an exit a few miles back. Maybe we can walk there?”

“In this weather?” Mingyu asks.

“I don’t see you coming up with any ideas,” you reply.

“We wait until morning, when it’s not pitch black and raining, and then walk.”

“Fine.”

It's only a little past ten. No service means no distraction to fill the time with. Mingyu’s perpetually uncharged phone is already dead, and he doesn’t want to waste the car battery on charging it. So you both crowd together to watch the one show you have downloaded on your phone: Prehistoric Planet.

There’s nothing sexual or romantic about it other than the memories of giving Mingyu hickies on the lumpy couch of your shared apartment. The backing track to high makeouts that always led to more. This might be the first time you’ve actually tried to pay attention to what the mosasaur is doing.

Half way through the episode is too late to bail. Unless you want to admit to what exactly is going through your head, what he is clearly remembering; the massive elephant in the car. Next to you, Mingyu tries to act like he isn’t remembering the same details which only makes it all the more awkward. He doesn’t blink, doesn’t look at you. 

Forty minutes later, the credits roll. The car is dark. Mingyu’s breath comes out measured, yours too. 

You don’t know how it happens but Mingyu is folded at the waist over the center console, your hands on the back of his neck, pulling him into a kiss. Unlike last time, he doesn’t hesitate. He tugs at you with equal enthusiasm, a hum of content tickling against your lips as you comb a hand through his hair.

He gets you into the back seat with some maneuvering, legs and arms at awkward angles but you're so caught in his orbit you don’t care. All you want is him and the more you have, the more you want.

Planted in his lap, you tug at his damp shirt. Tilting your head back, Mingyu nips along your throat until the collar of your shirt stops him. But not for long. You have it off and lost to the floor, while he folds the cups out of the way before sucking a nipple into the heat of his mouth. Distracted by the pinch of his teeth, you don’t feel his hand snake between your legs until the pads of his fingers prod against your panties.

“Mingyu,” you moan.

“God, you’re so wet.”

It’s only half the sentence you expect to hear. In the past he’d add “for me” but he doesn’t now. You don’t dwell on it. This is a bad idea. A horrible idea. No one is scheduled to interrupt, to remind you there is a world outside of the one between you and Mingyu’ that consequences for this lapse in judgement verge on fatal.

“We should—hmm—talk about this,” you whimper.

“Do you want me to stop?” Mingyu pants against your neck, fingers tucked inside your panties, teasing with a shallow dip up to his knuckle.

“No,” you object, dragging him back into another kiss. “Don’t stop.”

It’s only you and Mingyu. No one has to know, and in a week you’d never have to see him again.

You flatten your chest into his, teeth hard against his lower lip as you rut desperately across the firmness of his crotch. You want him in your mouth, inside you. You’re too needy to make either of you wait very long.

He’s hard enough for your hand to cup around as you twist into a familiar position, knelt on the car seat between Mingyu’s spread thighs. Years ago, back in college when you both had roommates, Mingyu’s car on the side of an abandoned road was a frequent spot for hickies and blowjobs. 

You don’t give yourself time to think as you peel his boxers down his thighs, honing in on his length immediately. Pretty isn’t a word you ever used to describe dicks until the first time you saw his. Mingyu huffs, chopped and ragged, as your tongue wets his cock with heavy licks; savoring the taste of him.

“Oh my god,” Mingyu groans at the roof, throat on display. 

His thighs jump under your nails as you suck the tip softly, a light tease he used to despise. All of his turn ons are at the front of your brain: gag a little too loud, squeeze on the upstroke, act like you want nothing more than the taste of him on your tongue.

A hand rest heavy on the back of your neck, nudging you down with the smallest amount of force. You gag with it, a rogue tear joining the mess dripping down your chin. You pull off to slap his cock against your tongue.

“Holy shit,” Mingyu gasps.

You wonder how long it’s been for him, if he’s gone through the same dry spell as you. Mingyu said he hadn’t been on a date but that doesn’t mean he’s been celibate too. 

“Fuck, babe,” he keens. 

You work him with a spit slick grip, while catching your breath. “Take your shirt off.”

Saliva drips down your chin, fucking him with your mouth in slow measures. If Mingyu could see how fucked out you know you look then he’d be cross eyed. He silently pleas for more, hips curling into the torture you rain down onto his length. Your throat opens as you swallow his cock down, nose to his stomach. 

Mingyu tries. He really, truly tries not to blow his load in the first five seconds of having your mouth on him, but your lips tighten when he’s half way out and he flounders like he’s never had a blowjob before. Cum washes over your tongue, and you take it all, swallow it cleanly. It floods your mouth, excess pushing out the corners of your lips for you to collect later.

You don't get to enjoy the pleasure of a job well done for long. Mingyu hauls you up into his chest, sucking the traces of his spend from your teeth, fingers back back between your legs more aggressive than before.

“Just like that,” he instructs, his other hand dragging you over his crotch like you're riding his cock and not his thigh. You wish you were. 

But there isn’t a condom nearby. You’re desperate, not stupid. Maybe it’s for the best that you don’t fuck your ex-boyfriend turned colleague in the back of your car. So you settle for thinking about how his cock was made to split you perfectly, imagine Mingyu fucking you hard and fast while his fingers supply a decent alternative. 

“Gonna c-come.”

“Good,” he croaks. “Want you to.”

Two fingers become three, the heel of his hand leveraged against your clit for a perfect grind. You claw at his chest, pink lines to be found in the morning.

Fantasies and memories swirl together behind your eyes. Mingyu telling you to take his cock, praising you for it, giving it to you as hard as you can take and then some more.

“Mingyu.” Your back arches painfully as a thousand stars explode in your eyes. 

Brain dulled by the first truly satisfying climax you’ve had in months, you nuzzle down into Mingyu’s neck and fall asleep. 

The morning comes slowly then all at once. You’re warm, sweaty around your hairline. Your face angles out of the sunlight but it’s no use. You open your eyes just a hair. You’re nose first against the upholstery of the backseat, an old sweater serving as a blanket, Mingyu nowhere to be seen. 

Memories of last night assault you.

Fuck.

No wonder he left. He’s not good at letting people down easily. Even if it didn’t mean anything he’d hate to be the one to say it. 

Checking your reflection in the visor mirror, you look exactly like someone who hooked up in the backseat of a car and fell asleep right after. You fix your hair, tug the collar of your shirt high enough to conceal one of several hickies Mingyu littered across your chest. Most are lower, where no one will see, which is somehow better and worse for the sense of dread coil in your stomach. You shudder to think what he looked like this morning.

Just as you're about to go looking for him, a tow truck pulls up. 

“Need a tow?” the driver calls. Sitting beside him in the cab is Mingyu, significantly more put together than you thought he’d be.

“Ugh, yeah.”

Stuart wiggles out of the car, barely coming to your chin in terms of height and maybe old enough to be your grandfather’s grandfather but he carries himself with the energy of someone much younger. A toothpick sticks out the corner of his mouth like he’s some Western movie star.

“Where did you find this guy?” you ask Mingyu.

“The diner in town. Here,” Mingyu says, handing you a styrofoam coffee cup. “He says he can take us all the way back to the city.”

“How much will that cost?”

“Free ninety nine for my new friends!” Stuart interrupts. “This fella gave the misses the tiramisu recipe we read about in the paper from his shop. Can’t put a value on secrets.”

You probably could have given how tight lipped Mingyu is about his recipe book, protecting it with his life. It’s the only thing he has ever been able to successfully hide from you. 

“Thank you, Stuart.”

“My pleasure,” he nods, before getting back into the truck and working to load your car.

Mingyu rocks from one foot to the other while watching from the sidelines. “About last night…”

“It was a mistake. We shouldn’t have done it.” You beat him to the punch.

“Mistake?”

“Yeah. Don’t worry, it won’t happen again.”

You don’t wait for his response as you brush past him, thankful Stuart’s truck has enough room for you to hide in the backseat while Mingyu takes shotgun.

Day one of the Hong-Ko wedding weekend extravaganza starts with a bang.

Literally.

Seungkwan beats down your door long before the sun is up. Guests won’t arrive until at least dinner time but that means you only have a few hours to get to the venue, set up basecamp, double and triple check everything, and acclimate to Mingyu’s presence enough to not become a sweaty, blushing mess every time he comes within eyesight. 

“I still can’t believe you two didn’t make out,” Seungkwan says.

He hammered for details from the moment he arrived at your apartment until parking the car outside the estate. You managed to keep the details under lock and key. Mostly because you didn’t want to hear Seungkwan’s conspiracy theories, but partially because if you say it happened then you can’t ignore it anymore. But your rigid silence didn’t deter him. Now that the day is done and there are no guests to eavesdrop, Seungkwan takes the mantle back up.

“Well, believe it,” you respond, only a step behind. 

You still aren’t familiar with this part of the house. The pale walls are covered in old paintings, each door decorated with a different flower to denote the suite’s theme. You were in the Lily room, while Seungkwan was further down the hall in the Tulip suite. 

And right next to you happened to be the Rose room where Mingyu would be staying.

He made a brief appearance this morning at the check in meeting with all the vendors in staff in the ballroom. You only noticed because stood out a head taller than everyone else, perfect height to show off the Dodgers hat he tore off when you made eye contact. Then he was lost to the chaos of the day.

You consider it a blessing that Jihoon went toe-to-toe with the staff about where he could and couldn’t put his arrangements while you played referee. It kept you far away where you couldn’t do anything stupid.

“See you in the morning,” you yawn, leaving Seungkwan in the hallway.

Every muscle in your body aches from spending all day on your feet, lifting chairs and moving decor. Who needed a gym when your job was so physical? 

You need a shower to wash away the grit and sweat of the day – the noise of water drowning the outside world into silence, only the floral soap and sting of hot water preventing you from drifting away into nothing. 

On the bathroom counter is an array of goodies. Sheet masks, bubble bath, bath salts and oils. If you had the energy, you’d take a long soak in the clawfoot tub, maybe call the kitchen for some tea. But tomorrow will be another long day and you should get to bed.

Thankfully the shower has great water pressure. You crank it all the way up, enough to boil alive, scrubbing until your skin hurts. 

After you’re sufficiently raw, you let the water run over you. In the haze of steam, your mind wanders. To do lists, itineraries, details for other weddings. You try to block them out and focus on nothing but that leaves you with the one person who you really don’t want to think about.

Touching Mingyu hadn’t worked, ignoring him hadn’t worked. There weren’t many options left besides assuming a new identity and running away to another city. Even if you did, you know it won’t help.

How right it felt to have him beneath you, moaning into his skin from even the lightest touch. More recent memories you’re desperate to forget but the universe clearly refuses to give up its entertainment just yet. If you can’t beat them, you might as well join them.

You imagine his mouth, Mingyu on his knees before you, lips teasing over your stomach. The way he’d watch you through his lashes, waiting for you to beg him to touch you.

Just as your hand skates down your front, a familiar moan echoes through the wall.

Speak of the devil and he shall appear.

You freeze.

This cannot be happening.

“Y/N,” Mingyu whimpers.

For a moment you think Mingyu knows you can hear him, every muscle in your body zipping tight. But that isn’t possible. You didn’t even know he was in the shower until just now and the likelihood he could hear you was slim. 

His broken voice rounding over the syllables of your name replays over and over and over.

You know what Mingyu is doing, can picture him down to the last detail. Another curse. Lip snagged between his teeth, stomach caved in, cock leaking through the tight grip of his fist. You’ve watched him do it enough times to know exactly what makes him sigh and moan and grunt. Made him come the same way only a few days ago. You remember it all. How he’d try to keep his eyes open to watch your reactions and fail, how his chest and throat tinged pink, how his thighs flexed and—

“Fuck,” Mingyu’s disembodied voice shudders.

And how he sounds when he’s coming.

You flee the shower, hair soaked, scrambling for the world’s smallest towel courtesy of housekeeping. This cannot be happening. All you wanted was one night of peace but even that was too much to ask for.

It’s one thing to think about Mingyu. It’s another ordeal to rub one out while he seemingly does the exact same thing only a wall away, unaware he has an audience. At least he is free from the weight of knowing you use him as spank bank material. You have to live with the fact that he fucks himself with your name on his lips.

The bedroom is safe from Mingyu but your brain isn’t. You try thinking of something else – anything else – but nothing can break through the loop of his sighs. Trying to escape him between the sheets proves to be worse. Every time you turn, you half expect to see him on the other side of the mattress. Each time the windows rattle from the wind it reminds you of the shaky noise of his moans. The tug of the sheets across your body reminds you of his hands, caressing your stomach, your thighs, your chest.

You don’t sleep a wink.

Your feet hurt, your head hurt. A sixteen hour day filled with a crying bride and demanding family drained your entire life force. All you wanted was to get home, lay down, and pass out.

When you made it through the door, Mingyu was sitting at the kitchen table. Another thing in your way.

“How was it?” There was an edge to his tone. It’s not a question, it’s an integration. Sometime after the fifth hour you turned his contact on Do Not Disturb and Mingyu knew it.

“I don’t want to do this right now. I’m tired,” you say.

“You never want to do anything. You put more energy into other people’s relationships than ours.”

“I’m sorry I have a fucking job!”

“It’s not about that!” he argued.

You collapsed into one of the dining chairs, the last flame of fight snuffed out. This was it. The inevitable end that you attempted to put off for months. You thought it was a rough patch, an adjustment period from doing weddings full time. But there were more bad days with Mingyu than good ones. You cried for no reason, avoided him in your shared apartment. It was all so exhausting.

“I don’t want to dread coming home. I don’t want to fight with you all the time. I’m just…tired,” you choked, tears pricking your eyes already. “I—I think we should take a break.”

“What?” Mingyu said.

Mingyu stared at you, unmoving. Once upon a time, you thought he was it. The one. Your person who would be with you through everything. Someone you’d figure everything out with. When you started planning weddings full time, you watched couples exchange vows over and over and over, all with the same cliches. Two puzzle pieces, halves of a whole circle, soulmates. No matter how many times you heard the metaphors, you always pictured Mingyu and the day you would be standing at the end of the aisle saying the same thing.

Until you didn’t.

“We should break up.”

“Fine,” he said.

When he left that night, you stayed behind to pick up the pieces of your heart.

The entire day leading up to the rehearsal dinner goes smoothly. Joshua and his groomsmen hung out on the estate’s golf course while the bridesmaid’s took over the spa, and you avoided the kitchen at all costs. Luckily, one of Sarah’s aunts has a conniption over the size of her suite and you spend the entire day rearranging room assignments, careful to follow Josh and Sarah’s rules. Aunt Beatrice cannot be within fifty feet of uncle Simon, Simon and Grandma Tildy both snore loud enough that whoever is in rooms adjacent need earplugs but Sarah’s mom won’t wear them so her parents need to be far away. It’s a giant puzzle. One you thrive on untangling, mind lost to figuring out the limited combinations that will prevent all out war. 

At 4:30 the rehearsal ceremony ends and you’re corralling the entire wedding party and dozens of relatives into the formal dining room where Dokyeom waits to serve them. Seungkwan helps usher everyone to their assigned tables. Far easier than reshuffling rooms since half of them refuse to go near tables with their known nemesis present. 

Dinner continues without a hitch, champagne flowing through each course. Dessert comes and with it Mingyu. The staff served the panna cottas under his watch, meticulously checking each tray before it’s served. Your gaze follows him like a magnet. It makes you smile, pride blooming in your chest. 

What happened with Mingyu was a bruise that might always remain tender, but you want him to be happy. Even if you weren’t the person to do that anymore. 

As the desserts go out, Seungcheol, Joshua’s best man, rises to give a speech. You find an empty table in the back to watch.

“I met Josh when we were six years old and he decided to pour milk in my shoes. Lucky for me, I met Sarah under far better circumstances. She side swiped my car.”

Everyone laughs. 

“It was an accident!” Sarah argues. 

“Can you believe this guy?” Jeonghan whispers, taking the seat next to you.

You don’t know Seungcheol well but the number of photos of him and Josh from childhood till last week speaks to their friendship, they flash by on the giant projection screen. Apparently, Seungcheol introduced them.

“Some people actually speak from the heart and not just pretend to for a paycheck.”

Jeonghan clutches his chest. “I’m offended.”

“Good, that’s why I said it,” you snort.

You’ve worked with Jeonghan enough to know he’s always working an angle. He probably wants to know which bridesmaids are single and not insane, or he’s looking for something to keep himself entertained.

“So you and the baker…”

There it is. 

“I will kill you where you stand.”

The threat rolls right off him. “First, I’m sitting. Second, who will write about your weddings?”

“Michael,” you shrug.

Jeonghan’s eyes roll. “Michael can barely string two sentences together.”

“Okay, but he isn’t as annoying.”

Snagging a champagne flute from a passing waiter, you slouch back in the seat. If you’re going to talk about Mingyu with Jeonghan, then you need something much stronger.

“Listen, far be it for me to give you relationship advice,” Jeonghan says with shocking sincerity. “But if I didn’t know you were attempting to be a nun then I think you two would make a good couple. He seems like a nice guy.”

“Been there, done that,” you mumble.

Jeonghan opens his mouth to ask for more details but something over your shoulder stops whatever he was going to say.

“What?”

“Looks like someone else is currently trying to do that.” 

You follow Jeonghan’s stare to the corner of the room where Mingyu is held captive by a tipsy bridesmaid. Her hand on his chest, bright red manicure contrasting against his pristine white chef’s jacket. Like blood on fresh snow. The same red tinges the corners of your vision.

The corners of his mouth tilt upwards. “Jealous?” 

“No,” you say stubbornly.

Mingyu can do whatever he wants, with whomever he wants. It’s not your business. What is your business is the fact he’s supposed to be working right now, not chatting up a tall blonde in the corner of the room. You know every bridesmaid, at least what Sarah deemed important enough to share. Margaret lives in New York City, does pilates six times a week, and looks like she is perpetually put together in a way that says she is not trying at all. The last part you figured out yourself when she arrived yesterday, fresh off a sixteen hour flight from Bali without a hint of jet lag. 

Seungcheol wraps up his speech, applause echoing in the room as the maid of honor takes his place. You stay rooted in place, watching Mingyu flirt and chuckle at whatever Margaret is saying. 

The final straw is she squeezes her nails into his arm like he’s a piece of meat.

Downing the last bit of bubbly, you stand. “I’ll be right back.”

“Go get ‘em tiger.”

You cuff Jeonghan on the back of the head before heading to battle.

He’s flirting on the job. That’s what you tell yourself this is about. Mingyu tarnishing your reputation by association because he can’t keep it in his pants, despite the fact that you are about as bad as he is. Except the closer you get, the more obvious he is doing the complete opposite of that.

“Do you work out?” Margaret asks, reaching up on her tiptoes to speak into his ear.

“Not really,” he responds, voice tight. When his eyes meet yours over Margaret’s shoulder, they flash with something you assume is HELP ME.

“Sorry to interrupt,” you smile politely, teeth glinting like knives as they both turn towards you. “But I need Mingyu’s help.”

He untangles from Margaret’s clutches, strategically using you as a shield. “What’s wrong?”

“Um… kitchen emergency,” you say, side-eying Margaret pointedly.

Mingyu blinks in confusion. “Emergency?”

Margaret’s nose wrinkles in disgust. “What kitchen emergency?”

“Confidential. Sorry. Have you tried the champagne? It's great,” you say as you wrap your arm around Mingyu’s and stride towards the hallway. The opposite direction of the kitchen. Oh well.

“What happened in the kitchen?” Mingyu says once outside. “Did Dokyeom fuck with my cakes? I told him not to touch—”

“Everything is fine,” you explain. “I just thought you could use an out.”

Mingyu laxes before shuddering. “I thought she was going to eat me.”

“Margaret is harmless. Sarah told me her last divorce ended on good terms.”

“Well, in that case.” He pretends to turn back, jerking back where your arms are linked. 

“Please do not make me deal with a pissed bridesmaid because you turned her down.”

“How did you know I was gonna turn her down?” he argues.

“Because you look like a constipated baby when you don’t know what to say.”

“I do not!”

Stifling a grin, you level him with an expectant look. “You looked like you wanted to die.”

The corner of his mouth twitches as well. “Well, you aren’t wrong. She was asking if I modeled.”

“Oh, god. Don’t let that go to your head.”

“Why not? Don’t you think I’d be a good model?”

His face morphs into the best Zoolander impression he can manage which isn’t saying much. You’re still linked at the elbows, allowing Mingyu to pull you closer when you try to hide your laugh from his ridiculous expression. Feels nice, normal even, having him by your side, laughing over something stupid. You can almost forget last night. Almost.

You look at the floor, continuing to walk further away from the party you’re still working. “Finance guy turned baker turned model.”

“I am a man of multitudes.”

Mingyu stops, face inches from yours. You falter under his gaze, smile dissolving as you stare up at him. His eyes fall to your mouth, close enough you can count each of his eyelashes. Then it rushes you all at once, stunned by the realization that you want him to kiss you and you want it to mean something. Your chin tilts up, Mingyu already halfway there and…

Seungkwan’s voice cracks in your ear. “We’ve got a drunk bridesmaid causing a scene.”

You inhale shakingly, untangling your arm from Mingyu’s and stepping back. You wince before lifting the mic to your lips. “Be there in a second.”

“There is throw up in a potted plant,” Seungkwan replies. “One of Jihoon’s potted plants.”

Cringing again, you take a step back. “Well, there is now a real emergency so I better…”

“Yeah, I…Yeah.” 

Turning on your heel, you walk back towards the party, barely stopping yourself from looking back at where Mingyu waits.

You spend the entire night tossing and turning, brain firing at rapid speed. You never sleep well during an event.  Skin tight and itchy, you pace back and forth. Opening the windows helps a little, the light chill of wind breaking the restless feeling. 

Except it’s not about the wedding. By all accounts, for the time you were granted, everything has gone shockingly well so far. Everything is sorted and the only things that can go wrong at this point are the numerous possibilities that would require years to list out. You’re seasoned enough to know that.

It’s Mingyu.

And the way he looked at you after you saved him from Margaret. The way he looks at you in general, when he thinks you’re not looking. When he walks into a room and you’re the first person he looks for. His face when you said the night in the car was a mistake.

You’ve been so stuck in not wanting to look bad in front of Sarah and Joshua, you haven’t given your feelings any real thought. Clearly, not thinking about him wasn’t working so perhaps you needed to actually untangle your problems the way you did with a seating chart. 

On one hand, Mingyu seems like he isn’t the same man you left years ago. He’s happier, more himself than he was in those months culminating in your break up. Different. Not in a way that scares you, the Mingyu you know is still there, in the way he jokes and tries to fix things before they become a problem. Whatever is different about him excites you.

On the other, you don’t know what he’s thinking. If any of the kisses or stolen moments meant anything to him. If he was working through the same feelings or if he was just a guy looking for a good time with someone he knew intimately. He could still be the same man who accused you of putting him on the backburner for your career.

You wouldn’t know what he wanted until you ask.

One of you had to be brave enough to address whatever was happening, and after multiple rejects you were the one who had to do it. It would suck and you would probably cry but after this weekend, you promise yourself to talk it out with him. If that firmly shut the door closed on your relationship then so be it but at least there would be an answer. At least, you wouldn’t spend every night spiraling.

The uneasy nerves from before are quieter this time. Having a plan, even when it’s as simple as asking Mingyu where his head is at, calms you. 

The sun barely peeks over the horizon when you head to the bathroom to get ready. Mingyu has never once been an early bird in the time you’ve known him and he didn’t have to be anywhere to be until tonight for the cake cutting at the reception. You still listen for any signs of him on the opposite side of the wall but nothing, not even a question shuffle, comes through. 

Taking your time, you wash your face, the cold water keeping you alert enough until you can snag a coffee from the kitchen. There isn’t a point in putting too much effort into your hair and make up, the day was forecasted to be warm and with all the running around you needed to do you’d sweat out whatever effort you put in.

When done, you pull out the black dress laid out for today. The usual slacks and blouse didn’t seem formal enough for a day like today. Floor length, with just enough back exposed to still be appropriate, it is the most expensive thing you own. You’d probably be wearing it to the grave to justify the cost. But you can’t put a price on looking the part of ‘wedding planner everyone wants to work with.’

After twenty minutes of twisting and forcing flexibility you do not have, the dress is zipped, your heels are on, and you head back into the bathroom for final touches. 

While you fought with a pile of chiffon from hell, Mingyu woke up.

“No, I can’t just—” Mingyu’s voice floats through the wall. 

You look fine in the mirror. There's no reason to linger any longer. You’re about to leave, determined not to eavesdrop, when his voice makes you stop.

“I can’t ask her to get back together, Mom, that’s not fair.”

It’s like someone cut the tether to your body, and now you're floating.

Get back together…

The words don’t hit you like that should. At least, not at first. It’s like being underwater, Mingyu tossing you into the deep end.

“I know she doesn’t want to do this with me,” he continues. “No, she didn’t say that but I can’t imagine working with your ex-boyfriend on the biggest wedding of your life is very fun. She’s worked hard for this, I’m not gonna ruin it for her by making it about me.”

Your ass meets the tile floor, his words replaying over and over again. When you snap back, you can’t hear anything but the steady rush of your pulse, lungs burning like you ran a marathon. For a second you think everything Mingyu said is a hallucination co-sponsored by stress and sleep deprivation. But you know that isn’t the truth which means you have half an answer on what he’s feeling. It makes bringing it up later seem much easier to approach than jumping feet first. 

The vibration of your phone snaps you back to now.

Seungkwan: ellery says no coffee for vendors

Later, you can browbeat Mingyu into telling you everything. Right now you have work to do. First, stop a mutiny of florists, musicians, and kitchen staff. 

You type out a response while rushing out the door. 

Y/N: tell him i will personally reimburse him for whatever we drink

Seungkwan: i told him to eat my ass

Y/N: i pay you to make my life easier…

Seungkwan: you do not pay me enough for that, settle for my dazzling humor and friendship

Glancing up from your phone, you see a frozen Mingyu hovering half way out his own door. White coat in hand, ready to head down to the kitchen.

And he’s staring at you like you might as well be naked.

“Hi,” you manage, voice more breath than sound.

Good morning, I heard you tell your mom, who still texts me every year on my birthday by the way, that you want to get back together. Coffee?

“You look nice,” he offers, eyes raking over you from head to toe.

Your heart thuds with the urge to confess everything, to hide away somewhere on the grounds for the rest of the day with him and work it all out. Now. But this is the biggest wedding of your life and you have worked hard for this. Whatever you need to have out with Mingyu, he will be waiting on the other side of today.

“Thanks. I—um— I have to go.”

You barely make it ten feet down the hall before Mingyu says your name.

“Wait!” he calls.

You turn to face him. “Mingyu, I really need to go.”

He looks like he didn’t plan further ahead than asking you to give him a second glance, unsure of himself now that he got it. “I just wanted to say…good luck.”

“Thanks. You too.”

Within ten minutes of descending the stairs, no less than four issues require your attention. The guest book is nowhere to be found, the band left cigarette butts outside in the garden last night sending Ellery into a fit and prompted him to withhold coffee, the flower girls (Sarah’s twin nieces) refuse to share their basket, and Jihoon is on the verge of a mental break down over bouquets.

Divide and conquer. While Seungkwan tracked down the book, you focus on negotiating with Satan himself.

In the kitchen, Mr. Ellery guards the coffee pots like a watchdog, snarling at anyone who gets too close. You approach him without an ounce of fear. Honestly, you’ve had enough of his weird eyebrows.

“Mr. Ellery,” you greet. “I heard we had a bit of a situation.”

“‘A bit of a situation,’” he gasps. “I will not have my family home littered with garbage!”

“And I agree. That is why my assistant is already outside cleaning up the mess and I’m going to speak to the people responsible once we’re done.” You plaster the same slightly unhinged smile on your face from last night. “However, if my staff isn’t treated well then perhaps next time I have a premium event, I’ll take it elsewhere. Just to avoid this same conflict from happening.”

No one got fair in this business by letting people walk all over them. 

Don’t fuck with me, old man.

Brown eyes went wide. “Well, let’s not be hasty—”

“Coffee. Now.”

Not caring to respond, his arms cross tightly over his chest with a ‘humph’ before stepping away, defeated. One of the catering staff jumps in immediately to start the machine. 

One down, fifty million to go.

Next is the band.

They huddle around in the corner of the ballroom. Laughing and joking with one another despite the early hour. You know exactly one of them, Jun, who is a head taller than the other two. He had worked a few events with you before and you know he isn’t the one leaving a mess outside. He probably didn’t know it happened.  

You stand behind the shortest one, clipboard clinched in your grip, waiting for their attention. Jun and the bassist, Minghao, stop talking to stare at you while the one in front of you continues. 

“And so I told her, I have to—”

“Excuse me,” you snap.

The brunette whips around, a high pitched squeal leaving his throat. 

“You.”

“Me?” he replies.

“Are you the one who can’t clean up after himself?”

His eyes go wide, the hands in his pockets now in front of him like you might take the clipboard and beat him to death with it. “I didn’t—”

“Listen to me very carefully,” you went on, taking a step closer. “You’re going to go outside and pick up every single filter, every single ash and leave it like you found it. Actually, better than you found it. And you do it again and I will light you on fire. Got it?”

“Chan’s in trouble,” Jun singsongs.

“Yes, ma’am,” Chan mumbles to his shoes.

“Give me your cigarettes and a light,” you demand, hand out like a teacher confiscating a note. Chan shoves the entire pack into your hand, his own shaking. “Now, if you all could go set up, I would appreciate it.”

The four of them all but sprint out of your vicinity. They’re still in earshot when you hear Chan scream again, probably because Jun has him by the ear like a parent. You can’t relish in the humor of it for long.

Seungkwan finds you at the entrance of the ballroom, the book and a second basket in hand.

“Where did this end up?” you ask.

He huffs without any amusement. “Grannie Donna apparently has sticky fingers.”

You take his hoard, swapping the cardboard box in your hand for the basket.

“Take Jihoon outside, give him these and the biggest coffee you can find. Whatever you do, don’t let him leave.”

“Yes, boss,” Seungkwan salutes and beelines it down the hall.

“And only let him have those out in the parking lot,” you call after him. “Not the gardens.”

“Got it.”

You’re alone in the hallway. Not really, because venue staff are rushing about to set up breakfast, clean before guests come down from their rooms. But even with the morning mishaps, the day is already ahead of schedule. At three the ceremony will start, pictures, dinner, and then Mingyu. 

Mingyu with the cake, you remind yourself.

Checking your watch, you head to the foyer. The makeup artist should be arriving any minute and that meant—

“Holly, thank god.”

She beams when you pull her into a hug, her kit digging painfully into your side. “Good to see you too. Now, where is the bride to be?”

“Upstairs. I’ll show you.”

“So Soonyoung said Mingyu is here too,” Holly says after reaching the second floor. 

“Small world,” you shrug.

“You are a horrible liar.”

“Am not!”

“Yes, you are,” she says. “So how many times have you kissed him?”

“Twice,” you say.

“Damn it.”

“What?”

“I owe Soonyoung twenty bucks.”

“You’re betting on my love life?”

Holly laughs. “I am married. I need some form of entertainment.”

There’s no use in lying. Of all the people to judge you, Holly is the last person to join the line. Besides, she’s the only one that knows Mingyu almost as well as she knows you.

“I may have overheard him talking about wanting to get back together,” you share. 

Holly doesn’t miss a step as she replies, “Yeah, he does that a lot.”

“What?”

“Okay, maybe not a lot but I know he’s asked Soonyoung more than once if it was a good idea to call you and I also know six weeks ago he showed up at our house like he’d seen a ghost.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” You stop on the landing, facing her. Holly stops too, unphased by your petulance. 

“If you did that, would you want Soonyoung to tell him?”

“You’re telling me now.”

“Yeah well, you planned my wedding for free, I owe you.”

“Mingyu made your wedding cake.”

“He also threw up in my pool and I didn’t kill him so he’s at net zero.”

“What if…What if we don’t work?”

Holly taps her chin, head tilting to the side. “Then it doesn’t work.”

“Thank you wise one, what would I ever do without you.”

“Things change. People change. Mingyu…he’s worked really hard to be in a better place than when you two broke up. I think if you don’t at least talk to him about it then you’ll regret it.”

“Okay,” you nod. “I’ll talk to him.”

“Full transparency, I take credit for getting you two together. I knew he’d be obsessed with you the moment he laid eyes on you and I was right. So when you two do work out, I will be first in line to make a speech.”

Your eyes roll. “Whatever you say. Now, go. Sarah is waiting.”

Six hours later, the ceremony goes off without a hitch.

It’s the wedding of fairy tales. The florals Jihoon nearly ripped his hair out over transform the already stunning garden into a botanical wonder. Each of the bridesmaids look straight off the cover of a magazine in their gowns, the same for the tailored tuxedos the groomsmen don. After the flower girls scatter white rose petals all over like confetti, Sarah floats down the aisle in her wedding dress to a teary eyed Joshua, they recite their vows with just enough vulnerability, and when the officiate cues them, Joshua wraps Sarah in his arms, dips her low to the ground, and seals their love with a kiss.

Your favorite part of weddings isn’t the first look or watching the bride walk to her soon to be husband. It is always the moment after the kiss. When the couple is so clearly lost in their own world, staring at each other as if all the cheering from the audience is silenced in their own little bubble. And then comes the snap back to reality. No matter if they were bold or timid, it is the same every time. A moment just for them you’re lucky enough to witness.

After that is chaos.

You assist Wonwoo with corralling the bridal party for pictures. If the ceremony is a highlight reel, then everything leading up to the reception is a compilation of top ten worst things to ever plague mankind. A hungry bridal party you feed between shots, Sarah’s mom insisting on her good angles which contradict with Sarah’s good angles, and the sun hot in the sky rising beads of sweat along your eyebrow.

“I think that’s good for now,” Wonwoo announces. “I’ll take more inside.”

Dinner passes with no casualties. You even manage to go to the bathroom and eat a plate for yourself without the building catching on fire. With everyone glued to their chair for the meal, it’s hard for anything to go wrong. Then it’s time for the cake.

And with it, Mingyu.

You watch him roll the massive cake out from the kitchen, three feet tall and covered in white frosting. Exactly what Sarah and Joshua wanted down to the fresh cherries resting on the pipped peaks.

To be completely and truly honest, it’s the tackiest wedding cake you’ve ever seen.

Sarah and Joshua cut the cake, Wonwoo snapping pictures from every angle of the monstrosity. You pray the Franken-cake is left out when the photos come out in whatever bridal magazine next month. 

“Not half bad,” you tell Mingyu, leaning on the wall next to him.

“I’ll be sure to put that review on my website,” he snorts. “Dessert First Bakery, we’re not half bad.” 

Sarah swipes a frosting covered finger against Joshua’s chin. 

“It’s so ugly,” Mingyu whispers, horrified.

“It was…unique.”

He pins you with a look. “I used fifteen pounds of buttercream. It’s fucking ugly.”

“You said it, not me,” you shrug.

For a few moments, you simply look at each other. You don’t have the urge to rush away and find some distraction, not like before. The only thing you feel is an ache in your stomach, one you thought died years ago that dark night in that cramped apartment. There aren’t butterflies but full sized birds trying to take flight. 

“Well,” Mingyu’s jaw flexes. “I’ll leave you to it.”

You watch him go, escaping out into the hall, leaving you behind. That moment with him still lingers, the entire party dull on your senses because all your brain focuses on is where he disappeared, the urge to follow him like a moth to flame.

Lifting the mic of your head set, you speak. “Seungkwan, can you cover for me?”

“On it,” he responds instantly. “Go get your man.”

You don’t bother chastising him. There are more important things to do. Like finding Mingyu before he slips away.

The first step towards the exit is hard. The ones after are incredibly easy.

He’s halfway down the hall, back in the direction of the kitchens, when you catch him. “Mingyu, wait.”

Mingyu’s face gives nothing away.

“Can we talk?”

He nods.

“Not here.”

“Then where?”

You take one look at Mingyu before turning on your strutting past him towards the stairs. “Come on.”

His footsteps click behind you the entire way back to your suite. Luckily, everyone else is down at the reception or tucked away in their rooms for an early night. Neither of you speak the entire way, not stopping until the door of your suite latches with a barely audible click. 

As close as you feel, the chasm between you and Mingyu is much wider now that you're at the edge and attempting to cross.

“I’m guessing this isn’t about the invoice,” Mingyu jokes, hands in his pockets.

Your head shakes. Your hands are shaking too. The room feels so much smaller with him taking up space.

“Then what is it?”

You exhale. “You told your mom you couldn’t ask me to get back together. Why?”

There goes being subtle about it.

“How do you know that?” he asks, shocked.

“I’m psychic,” you deadpan. “I can hear you through the bathroom wall, genius.”

“You were spying on me?”

“You were the one jerking off while thinking about me so I’d say we’re even.”

His neck flares red, eyes wide in horror. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“Mingyu, I don’t care about that,” you huff. “Why did you tell your mom we couldn’t get back together?”

“I didn’t think it was an option.”

“I’m not saying it’s an option, I just…”

“Then what are you saying? What do you want from me, Y/N?”

“I—”

Mingyu steps closer. “You wanted to break up. I agreed. You wanted space, I gave it to you. You wanted me to do this wedding, I did it. I didn’t sleep for three days making sure everything was exactly how you wanted it. After the car, I thought you said it was a mistake so I dropped it. I’ve always tried to give you what you want. So tell me what you want and I’ll do it,” he says, voice a little desperate. 

“I was planning to talk to you about this after this weekend was over…” you shudder, chest tight. 

“Talk to me about what?” Mingyu watches you with guarded hope, fingers flexing at his sides like he wants to reach out and hold you but he doesn’t. “Tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you.”

“I want you.”

The words hang in the air, spelled out in the space between you and him, heavy like smoke. 

“Be more specific.”

“I miss you and I want you back, even if we hate each other and don’t work and you hope I get hit by a bus—”

Mingyu pulls you into his chest, silencing your ramble. “I have never hated you.”

You melt into his warmth, the smell of his cologne and sugar and vanilla conjuring tears. It feels like home. He feels like home.

“Every time I look at you I feel like…” you trail off. You don’t know how to describe it. Like a million balloons popping at once, like you’re in the eye of a tornado. Something about a half made whole and whatever other cliches people throw around about the person they love.

“I know,” Mingyu whispers into your hair. The thud of his heart beats into your ear. “I feel that way too..”

As good as it feels to have him unfiltered once again, you’re still terrified. “But we didn’t work, Gyu. What’s changed between now and then? I work more. You work more. Wasn’t that what we always fought about? Not having enough time?”

“That’s not what I was upset about.”

“Then what was it?”

Untangling himself from your hold, Mingyu sits on the bed, chin tipped down, face hidden in his hands. You want to pretend like you never asked, that you two are back together and everything is sunshine and rainbows because you have him once again. But you can't put a bandaid on an infected wound and hope it’ll heal on its own. As painful as it is, the infection of your past needed to be cleaned.

“I started seeing a therapist,” he says after a long moment.

“You did?”

“I felt like…” his voice clips like he’s trying not to cry. “I felt like I wasn’t good enough for you.”

“Mingyu…”

“I know. And that made me feel even worse. I started talking to them a few months after we ended and I realized I wasn’t upset you worked all the time. I was ashamed because you did exactly what you dreamed of doing and I was too scared and I took it out on you. I was always proud of you. I still am. When I see your weddings in the paper and everything. You were so much braver than I was and I felt ashamed of it. And when you left I didn’t even blame you for it. And I’m sorry for everything I said, and that I didn’t tell you and I let you think you weren’t important to me.”

You wait in case he wants to share anything more but Mingyu doesn’t speak. 

“Mingyu,” you whisper, stepping into the space between his legs. He hides his face in the fabric covering your stomach. “Mingyu, Mingyu, Mingyu.”

Each repetition of his name is punctuated with against his hair. He melts beneath them, tension evaporating from his body as he pulls you closer.

“I forgive you.”

You do. It surprises even yourself that you can forgive him so easily but Mingyu has been trying. Not with the intent to get you back but because he knew he was wrong and wanted to be better. 

Those seem to be the magic words he needs. Mingyu collapses back onto the mattress, pulling you with him. You both lay there, glowing with content. He traces circles on the back of your neck, other hand curled over your back like you might leave. You won’t. Not this time. Not again.

“If I tell you a secret, promise not to make fun of me?”

“Hmmmm.” You pretend to consider it while planting kiss after kiss over jaw, down his neck, soaking in the steady rhythm of his pulse against your lips. “Depends.”

“What if it’s romantic?”

“I guess.”

“I named the bakery after you.”

“What?”

“You told me to save the money I’d put on a ring to open it one day. It felt like the least I could do.” Mingyu hides in your hair, squeezing you so tight your bones hurt. “You always said dessert should be served first at dinner.”

Whatever witty comment blooms on your tongue wilts instantly. So you bite him instead.

“Ow! What the fuck?”

“Oh my god, I love you, you cheesy motherfucker.”

Mingyu pulls your palm to his lips, looking straight through. “I love you.”

Your hand curls around his cheek before you kiss him. Just once. A soft pass of your mouth over his, dual sighs of relief mingling together.

“We’re getting back together, right? Because I really can’t handle—”

“Yes, we’re getting back together.”

“Thank god.” Mignyu sags with relief. 

“You know,” you say, arms weaving over his shoulders. “I have the night off.”

“Oh really?”

You bite your lip to keep from smiling too big. “Mhm.”

“And what do you plan to do with your free time?”

“I have a few ideas.”

You suck his bottom lip, fingers working at the buttons of his jacket. He only makes it more difficult by rolling on top of you, taking advantage of the moment to snake his tongue along yours. 

Mingyu groans in frustration, refusing to pull his mouth away from yours. “How do you get this dress off?”

You prod his shoulder, standing to present the zipper curved down your spine. “Help me.”

The fabric goes slack. You let it fall, no attempt at modesty. Turning back to face him, Mingyu stops you, plastering his front to your back, cupping your chest as he watches over your shoulder. 

His thumbs graze your nipples, over and over and over again. It’s madness, how turned on you are from this alone. If he gave you something to grind against you’d come. 

“Mingyu,” you grovel. The ‘please’ is implied with the arch of your ass against his hard on.

A puff of air rains across the curve of your neck, his teeth quick to follow. “I told you to tell me what you want.”

“I want you to eat me out.”

He bends you over the desk with a gentle push. Mingyu nudges your legs further apart, fully on display for him. You hear his clothing fall, the thump of a belt buckle hitting the floor. You hope he’s naked.

When you look back to check, he’s zoned in on your ass and palming over his briefs. You arch a little bit more. 

“Are you planning to just stand there or are you going to do something?” you goad.

“Patience.”

His nose traces over your spine and you savor the attention. The waiting is the worst part but you crave a deeper intimacy than a quick tumble. You want to rediscover all of him, and him all of you.

Teeth sting into the curve of your ass, your eyes rolling. 

Your voice thins when you speak. “Is there a reason I’m still wearing heels?”

“Hot,” he grunts into the back of your thigh, fingers etching along the hem of your thong. 

The wet heat of his tongue snakes through what little is covered by the fabric, right where the arousal he stokes out of you collects. There is some pleasure in being teased but tonight isn’t one of the nights for it. You want him. All of him. Now.

Your fingers slither back into his hair, holding firm. “Take them off.” 

Mingyu rolls down your thighs, abandoning them at your knees to bury his face between your legs.

“Oh my god.” He sucks your clit, tongue lashing with no build up, rough hands spreading your ass. 

No one ate your pussy as well as Mingyu does. He’s too devoted to be selfish, willing to spend as much time as it takes for your eyes to roll and muscles to seize. 

Each shudder and moan forces your breast across the desk, nipples catching on the waxed surface. 

“Fingers,” you moan. “Fingers too.”

Your sighs rise, moaning through the addition of his fingers coupled with a rough lap of his tongue that has you arching back to ride his face. His lips suction tight. You let him fuck you in with slow strokes. 

The desk keeps you upright. All you have to do is take it, take what Mingyu gives and let it fester. 

“Oh my god,” you choke when he leans back and spits on your cunt.

Reaching back blindly, you tug him back by the hair. 

You can feel the end just out of reach. A few vulgar flicks and its release in long waves that make you keen his name horsley. 

The surface of the desk is cool against your skin, soothing the burn in your cheek as you catch your breath. Mingyu kisses up your back, wet lips leaving traces of your arousal everywhere. 

He nips your ear. “Good?”

You nod, craning to kiss him. Mingyu turns you around, not breaking contact, and leads you to bed. Your knees fold over the edge and then you’re looking up at him from where he stands between your spread legs.

“My feet hurt,” you pout.

Mingyu stretches your legs up his chest, ankles right at eye level as he undoes the buckle. He’s still teasing. The bulge of his cock pressed, hidden beneath his underwear, heavy against your ass. 

“You’re the worst.”

He smirks but maintains focus on the dainty strap. “Be patient.”

“Mingyu,” you sigh, half begging half objection from the subtle grind of his hips. “Want you.”

“Let me enjoy this.”

“You’re driving me insane.”

“Now you know how I feel seeing you in that dress this morning.”

 Your eyes roll. “It’s not that nice.”

“I was talking about the woman wearing it.”

Free from shoes, your legs spread, pussy on display. Mingyu swallows hard as your fingers move through the mess of spit and arousal. “Well the woman wearing it wants you to fuck her.”

He cocks a brow. It means nothing with the red tint of his ears. “Does she now?”

“Missed having you come inside me,” you tease.

Mingyu shivers. “Yeah?”

“You were the only one.”

“All mine.”

You sit up, mouth at one of the marks from last week, already healed and just a shadow of what it was. Moving slightly, you pin his nipple between your teeth. “Will you give it to me?”

“Whatever you want,” he pants.

His underwear hits the floor, cock perfect in your palm. You lean back, eyes on his, and spit on it. Mingyu’s hips kick, fucking himself through your grips. 

“What do you want?” 

He groans, throat raw. “Wanna come inside you, want you to ride me.”

“Then come here.”

You guide him into the sheets, splayed out like a full meal. He pulls your leg over his lap. You could stay here. Sat on his thighs, stroking his cock until cum paints his chest white. Clean it up with your mouth. And do it all again over and over.

But this isn’t the only chance to drag him through hell for the sake of pleasure so you save it for later. 

Mingyu grips himself, presenting his length like a throne. All it takes is an easy roll of your hips and your flat against him, full beyond belief.

“Fuck, I love you,” he moans into your mouth as you sink down.

You rock forward, grinding to prevent even a moment without the satisfying feeling of your insides molded to his cock. 

His fingers dig into your ass, helping you with gentle thrusts. “Feels so good, fuck.”

“Mingyu,” you hiss.

“Want you to come for me again.”

His eyes glue onto the view down your front: your throat, your breasts bouncing with every grind, the way his cock disappears and comes back soaked. You watch him watch you, drooling for the fucked out look on his face.

You kiss the cord of muscle in his neck.

“Come inside, Gyu. Give it to me,” you whisper, all breath right in his ear. “I wanna feel how hard you come for me.”

He pinches your nipple, the pain shooting straight to your core.  Your back curves and you feel his cock in the back of your throat.

“Don’t stop,” you beg. “Fuck me. Please, fuck me.”

Tugging you off, Mingyu manhandles you down into the sheets.

“No,” you protest, scrambling for him. Any part of him you can reach. 

Those muscles go to use pinning you in place. One hand holds your wrists over your head, thighs splayed across his. Mingyu slaps his cock against your pussy, leaking tip teasing your clit. “Tell me you want it.”

“I want it,” you nod, dumb.

He dips lower, lips rubbing against yours for his next command. “Tell me how much you need me to fuck you.”

“Need it,” you sigh, thighs squeezing around his waist, aching for a chance to slip him inside. “Need you to fuck me.”

In a frenzy, Mingyu ruts into the snug feel of your walls. The angle stretching you out just right, cock battering that place inside that makes your joints lock. He spreads your legs wider with a roll of his hips, finding your clit easily. 

“There, there, there.” 

He rubs you raw to the core, not stopping when you tremble. It’s not fair he can fuck you like second nature, dragging you to the brink of insanity with the tiniest bit of effort.

“C-cumming,” Mingyu shudders, finding your mouth once again. You’ll be sore tomorrow from the way he bares down into you, until you’re flat against him, taking it deeper. 

You shudder when he grinds down into you a few more times, pure greed driving him to stay inside you despite his own sensitivity. 

“Oh my god,” he breathes, carefully pulling out. You’re not empty for long. His fingers stuff your opening, slick cum making it an easy slip. 

He pulls them out, presenting them in the pale light of the room. You snag his wrist and suck them between your lips, preening at his reaction.

“God, that’s hot,” Mingyu mutters.

You give another lewd suck before popping off “C’mon lover boy, I need a shower.”

“I can come?” 

You laugh. “Yeah, you can come.”

Mingyu sneaks back into his room, snagging whatever clothes he needs for the night while you hop into the shower. The steam softens all those sore muscles when you hear a knock.

“Can you hear me?” he asks through the wall.

You knock back. “Yes!”

“I love you.”

“I love you too. Now hurry up, it’s getting cold.”

An hour later, you’re squeaky clean between the bed sheets with Mingyu. He brought one of his old shirts for you to wear from college. You regret buying him so much Dodgers paraphernalia as a gag gift for Christmas all those years ago. But you take the shirt because it makes him happy. Almost happier than if you chose to sleep naked.

Cuddling up to him, you let your mind wander off, sleeping rolling over you. Your eyes open for one last look only to find him already looking at you, face soft, eyes committing your face to memory.

“Stop staring at me. It’s creepy.”

“I’m not creepy,” he pouts.

“You’re not but watching me try to sleep is.”

“I was going for romantic.”

“How about going to sleep. We have to be up early.”

“Goodnight kiss?” he asks, halfway to your mouth already.

One turns two and two into many more.

You’re both still awake when Mingyu’s alarm goes off hours later.

2 Years Later…

Whisking Up a Perfect Match: The City’s Most Notorious Wedding Planner and Beloved Baker Say 'I Dough’

BY JEONGHAN YOON

They say love is a lot like baking; it takes patience, precision, and a little bit of magic…

taglist: @tomodachiii @cvpidyunho @miniseokminnies @ddaengpotate @arycutie

@gaebestie @primoppang @gyuguys @mine-gyu @doremifasire

@missminhoe @toplinehyunjin @crvs4vldtn @sliceofwoozi

@writingbarnes @dokyeomkyeom @christinewithluv @minwonfairy @wobblewobble822

@futuristicenemychaos @seungkw1 @horanghaezone @jespecially @scoupsjin

@isabellah29 @luvseungcheol @crisle19 @iamawkwardandshy @lukeys-giggle

@aaa-sia @tinkerbell460 @gyuhao365 @ourkivee  @bokk-minnie

@cookiearmy  @moonlightwonu @kyeomofhearts

@melonacco @lllucere @wwjagabeee @syluslittlecrows @yourbimbohope

@whrryuu @wonrangwoo @xchaenx @champagnenoona

[yanderenightmare]

♡ TW: omegaverse, omega reader, careless alpha husband, marriage problems, poor communication

♡ GN reader

He’s a little reckless sometimes—not always paying attention to the feelings of those around him, but he means well, you’re sure of that.

He’s just a little high-strung, is all—doesn’t really have the time to think things through.

He’s always been like that—ready for just about anything and everything anyone would throw his way, and just sort of expecting everyone else to be onboard. He’s an Alpha, after all—it’s not in their nature to worry or look back.

All your life, he’s been the leader—all you others could do was chase after him and just hope on your life to keep up. And as an Omega, you were comfortable like that—with having someone to follow. It felt natural to you—safe and good and correct.

But when he started courting you, you admit being a bit skeptical—weren’t sure if it would work the same way, not sure if it even could. Being mates is different, after all. You’re supposed to be in tune with one another, and you weren’t sure if you’d be heard or just end up being bulldozed.

But you figured, since you weren’t too big on making decisions anyway, that you’d just go along with it, and it would be fine. You’d put your trust in him and follow his lead, and maybe that would be enough.

And it was. Everything worked out perfectly—for the most part. You married in the spring and moved into your new house the day after. He’s a good husband and nice man, deserving of the respect he garners, and he’s successful. A true Alpha. Perfect on all fronts.

What more could an Omega ask for?

Well… suppose it wouldn’t hurt if he listened sometimes. Or no, that’s not fair. You’d have to speak up first in order for him to listen. Still, you think… he should be able to tell without you saying anything. 

You don’t even know what you’re complaining about, really… It's not as if he’s done anything overtly bad. You just feel… well, you suppose you just feel a little left out. He’s so dominating in everything he does—you just end up being swept along in the process. He doesn’t ask for your input, nor do you give it. Things just happen the way he wants them to before you’ve even agreed. You don’t even think he recognizes it himself, how he makes decisions you’re supposed to be making together on your behalf.

He bought the house without telling you, for starters. But it was a wedding present and a nice surprise, so you’re not mad about it exactly. But given how big a step it was, it still feels strange to have been on the outside. Then he sprung that vacation on you and even called your boss to schedule your leave—only a month after your honeymoon, no less. Not to mention the wedding itself—how all the arrangements were already done before you’d even sat down with the wedding planner, of whom was his choice. In some ways, or in many ways, you felt as if you were just a part of the decor.

But it’s not as if you aren’t happy—because you are. And it’s not as if you don’t love him—because you do. It’s just well… You know it’s not exactly fair, but you’re beginning to feel a little taken advantage of… as if he doesn’t even care about you or your thoughts and feelings as long as you’re keeping him happy.

But you can’t keep feeling that way without telling him, you decide. You’re sure none of it is his intention. You’ve never taken an interest in decision-making, so why would he think you’d want to? For all his prowess, you can’t exactly expect him to read your mind, either.

So, tonight’s the night you’ll finally say something. You want to be included. If he’s hiring a new maid, you wish to be a part of it. If he’s buying a new TV, you want to help pick out which one. If he’s taking you out to dinner, you want to be informed, preferably beforehand. Even if all he’s doing is getting his hair cut, you want him to tell you about it.

“Hello, welcome home,” you greet once he staggers into the bedroom, looking tired yet no less neatly put together than always.

“Hello, my sweet,” he mirrors, voice gruff with the toils of the day as he marches over to plant a kiss on your cheek.

It’s late. You’ve already gotten dressed for bed, having been just about ready to cut your losses and postpone the talk for tomorrow.

He could have told you he was working after hours. No, he should have.

You were just about to switch off the night lamp and go to sleep—but find yourself feeling redetermined now.

This was just another one of those things you can bring up as an example, after all.

“I-”

“God, I missed you today. Felt like work took an eternity,” he groans, hurriedly removing his suit with sloppy movements, throwing his jacket on the floor, shirt quickly following before he’s back on you. “Give me those pretty lips—I’m starving.”

He takes your mouth with his, one hand steadying him against the bedframe while the other works on unbuckling his belt, hunching over where you lay.

You put your hands on his bare chest to distance him, asking, “Can it wait a bit?”

He drops his pants on the floor and climbs on top of you, face buried in your neck while muttering, “No, not really. Been waiting all day.”

“Well, I wanted to talk to you about something-” you try again, to no use.

“No talking tonight—none, except pillow talk.”

He says it with a smile. You feel it against your neck—his teeth and tongue and the heat of his voice.

You’re sure he means it playfully, and yet you freeze, feeling a little sick.

“But I really need to—”

“Omegas are supposed to obey their Alphas, you know.” 

His touch isn’t rough, but it’s not without force, but more than that it’s those words that make your heart jump and then stutter. 

You hold your breath, but it goes unnoticed by him or maybe ignored—you’re not sure which. It shocks you—scares you even, but then, following the original freight, your heart sinks, and you feel nothing but disheartened and disappointed.

And then, even a little angry.

“Oh…” you mumble, lying still beneath his onslaught. “I guess I thought I was yours ‘cause I wanted to be, but I see now…” Your brows cinch with many feelings between them. “I had it wrong.”

He halts then—struck with a sudden pang of guilt maybe, or perhaps just puzzled by your words. Whatever the case, the former rush he’d been in is gone, and he looks down at you—finally.

“What? What do you mea-”

“No, no, never mind. I was out of line,” you brush him off—harshly, and he blanches, going rigid. “Do what you want—you’re the Alpha, after all—so by all means.”

You turn your head to the side and lie still.

Eyes prickly and throat tight, you push the words out all stiff and hoarse, “I have no right to stop you, and even if I did, it’s not like I could. But who cares, right? Nothing I think matters.”

“Baby, you know that’s not what I mea–” he tries.

“Then what did you mean?” you all but bark, snapping to face him again. But however pointed your glare is, there’s no mistaking the now visible tears brimming in your eyes.

Seeing it, he stiffens even more, undaring to move. Trying to make his voice softer, “Don’t cry.”

But his acts of comfort are far from sufficient.

“Why? Does it make you uncomfortable?” 

Good, you think—it better. He made you uncomfortable when he ignored your wishes, so why shouldn’t you? And ignore him in turn?

“Funny that, isn't it?” you continue. “The only thing I have against you is a pesky few tears. Would you like me to turn around, maybe?” 

You know you’re guilt-tripping him—and you’re not sure why or if it’s the right thing to do, but even so, you couldn’t find it in you to stop either—no, not until you had punished him, for some reason.

“If you hide my face in a pillow, maybe you won’t hear it either–”

“Please stop,” he finally begs, bowing his head. “I’m sorry.”

You stop. You’re not sure if he even knows what he’s apologizing for. And though the thought of asking him to clarify strikes you, it doesn’t feel important. Those weren’t the words you wanted to hear.

You sigh then, trying to calm yourself down. “I don’t need you to be sorry. I need you to see me—to listen—I need you to respect me.”

He looks up again, this time with a deeply remorseful expression warping his face. “I do. I’m sorry-”

“Really?” you question. It's a little harsh, you admit, but it's what you need, “Then get off me and go sleep downstairs.”

He’s rigid under your admonishment. Shocked by your claims, yet begrudgingly ashamed by the truth in them. 

You were right. He wasn’t paying attention. And by the looks of it, he hasn’t been paying attention for a while.

 “Okay,” he ends up agreeing.

Sliding off the bed like a shunned dog, he walks back to the door he’d only just come through a moment ago.

Keeping a hand on the doorknob, he looks back—head still bowed.

“Good night.”

You feel a little bad about how it turned out, but you steal yourself. You wanted to be alone right now. In fact, you think it would do you both some good.

“We'll talk tomorrow. Good night.”

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Hawks, Mirio ♡ JJK – Gojo ♡ HQ – Kuro, Bokuto, Miya twins ♡ BLLK – Reo, Rin, Sae, Yukimiya, Baro, Aiku ♡ DS – Akaza, Sanemi ♡ WB – Umemiya, Togame

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[navybrat817]

Wedding planner Bucky anon here!

Glad you liked the suggestion! He'd be so good at his job!

I'm just wondering who he might fall for? The wedding singer, like one commenter suggested or maybe the cute backer from the company he just started working with?

Or maybe one of the bridesmaids from the next wedding is a former friend/girlfriend from school and they haven't seen each other for years?

Maybe it's another wedding planner who's his rival and who he's butting heads with all the time?

So many options, nonnie! They're all so sweet.

The rival planners? Perfect enemies to lovers.

Bridesmaid who used to know or date Bucky? Perfect friends to lovers or second chance. I believe @rebel-stardust mentioned a wedding singer (or a baker like you said), but life isn't so bright outside of the weddings. Can you imagine someone slightly jaded about weddings and love? Like a reversal of 27 Dresses with Bucky as the optimistic one and reader is out here like...

Bucky isn't having that. He'll prove to you that love is worth it.

AHH! So sweet. Love and thanks! ❤️