#and it was the last screening too.......................... | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

leadyoutothelight · 2 days ago

Text

Please Hold-Part 1

You've only known him as the Lonely Cowboy, the phone sex operator who's titillated your ears for well over a year, indulging in your sexual desires without the messy complications of a physical partnership. But when your diner regulars Sarah and Ellie introduce you to their father, new town transplant Joel Miller, you realize his sinful southern drawl is familiar in all the wrong ways.

Rating: 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, do not use my work to train AI, it will be deleted.

Warnings: Phone sex, Sex work, Fingering, Edging, Masturbation (male and female), Unprotected sex, Dirty talk, a tiny bit of exhibition, Voice kink (come on it's Joel Miller), Pet names, Degradation, Misunderstandings, Unspecified Age Gap *please let me know if I missed anything*

Pairing (No Outbreak AU) Joel Miller x F!Reader

Word Count: 8k

Note: Um, hi...this came about because honestly the idea of Joel Miller talking you through an orgasm wouldn't leave me alone...So enjoy! Part 2 is in the works!

It’s been a long week, too long, with too many closing shifts and not enough tips. You’re barely scraping by. But a girl has her needs, and you’ve made sure to budget in the money you're about to spend like a kid at a candy store. After stumbling into your apartment, hung up your coat, kicked off your shoes, you wander into the gloom of your bedroom. Still in your waitress uniform, a horrid bright red, white polka-dotted monstrosity, and a short poodle skirt to match.

It was a staple of the old fifties diner you worked at, that could handle the weird hours you needed while going to the local university, working TA hours, and assisting in other department needs. You sigh, rubbing at your tired eyes, considering for a moment that maybe you’ll just sleep.

But there’s an ache that’s settled low in your stomach, a warmth spreading since you realized what day it was. Your phone dings in your hand, you know it’s the notification from your email, a reminder sent to yourself about who’s back on the soundboards tonight.

The number is already saved in your phone, has been for about a year, and thankfully you’ve avoided calling it for about a month…after all he’d said he’d be off.

A quick poke of your finger, and the screen shifts as the phone dials. It rings for a few moments too long, and you worry that…maybe you misheard, misdialed?

“You’ve reached the Lonely Cowboy, how can I help you tonight?”

To hear that raspy southern drawl tickle your ear has your toes curling into the softness of the comforter. Breath hitching, a familiar throb settles between your thighs, and it takes every ounce of your self restraint to keep your hand from wandering.

“Hey Cowboy,” you mummer, bottom lip trapped between your teeth, as he chuckles a fondness filling his voice as he recognizes you.

“Is that my sweet Cherry Pie?” The way he hums your nickname has you squirming, it’d been too long. You can’t resist any longer, hand wandering down your side finger tips pulling up your skirt.

“Yes, missed you–” Christ, you’re already breathless, and needy. “Been counting down the days till I could call you again.” Your fingers slip between your thighs, finding the wet spot on your panties. A quick press of your middle finger, pressing the cotton against your clit, you whine.

“Were you a good girl while I was gone?”

You freeze, blood rushing from your cunt to your head, as you recall your last conversation, last month, right before he told you he’d be out of commission for a month to move. He’d made you swear, before he’d let you cum, you’d be a good girl. That’d you’d wait a whole month without indulging in masturbating without him. You’d been so close to following his instructions…but you’re needy, and had caved about mid way through the month.

But after that one misstep you’d abstained, now though, the guilt clawing at your innards as you considered lying, but he’d know…he always knew. Maybe it was the inflection of your words, or that little tremor you’d get in your throat.

“Cherry,” there’s a dangerous lilt to his tone, you imagine him, spread legged in his chair. A fist curled on his thigh, his face shrouded in shadow as you never gave much thought to how he looked, “Were you a good girl while I was gone?”

“No…” a hushed confession spoken to your phone, your finger halting its feather-soft torture. Yet the ache grows, a heat enveloping your skin. From the top of your head to the tips of your curled toes. Silence stretches between the two of you, and for a panicked moment you think he’s going to hang up.

But you hear it, his soft sigh through his nose, the clink of a belt buckle, the hush of a zipper. You squirm, waiting for his order, his command.

“Oh Cherry Pie,” he hums, and you strain to hear it, the telltale noise of his hand stroking his cock. You know he probably does this with his other clients…fists himself into a frenzy, whispering sweet platitudes, and sinful words to whoever is on the other line. But you can’t resist the greedy thought that you’re the only one who’s heard his groan of release. “And here I was…thinking you’d be good.”

“I–it was one time–” you whimper, head falling back, his voice sends your heartbeat thumping, body writhing as the pulse in your cunt grows.

“You promised me, no touching yourself till I came back.” His words are low, there’s a growl to his tone, one that sends a spark of pleasure through your clit. Your finger twitches, to rub the little bud, but he hasn’t said you could.

“Is your hand between your legs?”

“Yes,” you respond in a breathless whine.

“Oh no sweet Cherry,” he rasps, and you whine, “hand by your side.”

You comply, hand leaving its place between your thighs to rest beside your hip, fingers grip the soft comforter. You’re silent as you listen to the lazy strokes of his fist on his cock.

“Now, what did you do,” he hums, your stomach swoops as you hear him grunt…wondering if he squeezes the base of his cock to keep himself from cumming too soon.

“I can’t–”

“Oh you can, or this call is just going to be you listening to me get off how does that sound Cherry?”

You know he means it, and you know you’ll comply, he’s got you wrapped around his finger and it’s a cosmic joke that you're whipped for a man you’ve never actually seen, much less met.

“Now, what did you do sugar?”

Teeth bite your lip, and your legs shift with impatience. Before finally speaking.

“It was a few weeks ago…” you mumble eyes staring up at the popcorn ceiling of your room, the fan humming as it turns, and turns.

“I had one of our calls saved–”

“Which one?”

It surprises you, the sigh of his voice, the way he sounds almost as needy as you, sends a little thrill through you. That maybe he missed you as much as you missed him, though you know it’s not true, but you’ll think about that later…right now you just want a release.

“The one where you came…and I squirted,” the heat that rises to your cheeks at the admission. Another throb courses through your cunt, a noticeable gush of wetness leaks between your thighs.

“Fuck,” he rumbles and you whine,you can hear his breathes, shorter, quicker. You almost can’t hear the wet sound of his fist fucking his cock. “What were you thinkin’ about?”

“You,” a breathless admission, “I was thinking about being on my knees between your thighs, making you cum like that with my mouth.”

Your thighs tense rubbing together to give yourself some relief. To bring down the ache of your clit, but it’s a losing battle. Your cowboy groans into the receiver, another whispered ‘fuck’.

“I thought about how badly I needed to feel your cock in me, in my mouth, in my cunt—”

“You can touch yourself,” you almost cry out at that. Your hand is quick, pulling your panties down, your thumb moving on your phone screen and you switch it to speaker. Your fingers eager against your clit, pressing on the nub with a panicked ferocity.

“Did you use a toy?”

He asks with a moan, and you keen in reply.

“Yes, I can’t get off with just my fingers–”

“Wanna use one now?” he grunts, his fist working faster, sweat coats your skin in the late summer night, it has been unseasonably hot this year, and your fingers leave your cunt to strip off the uniform. Removing the outfit is freeing, and after the dress comes your bra, nipples pebbling in the exposed air.

“Can I?” You ask into the phone, he answers with a strained ‘uh-uh’. You take the chance and scramble to your nightstand, opening the bottom drawer and finding your collection of toys you grab your bullet vibrator. You just need relief, and that’s what this will provide.

“Got it?”

You settle back down beside your phone, “Yeah, can I use it?” Another grunt is your affirmation, pressing the button the toy buzzes to life between your fingers. Your other hand goes to your breasts, pinching and toying with your nipples, the touch sending sparks of pleasure coursing down your spine to settle in your stomach.

“What else were you thinking about?” He snarls, you wonder how close he is, how desperate he is, because your thighs are wet with slick, and you know you’ll need to wash your comforter–but that’s not the priority, not right now as you press the bullet to the hood of your clit you almost scream at the pleasure sparks through your body. Back bowing and hips jolting away from the sudden onslaught.

“Fuck!”

He chuckles, “sensitive Cherry?”

“It’s been a few weeks, of fucking course I am you ass,” there’s no venom to your words, only a breathless relief as pleasure coils in your belly. He huffs into the receiver, and you can’t help yourself, “how close are you old man?”

He laughs at the nickname, and you hear his fist slow again, as he pants into the phone.

“I may be old Cherry, but I could have you screaming all night, now, what else were you thinkin' about?”

You rub the vibrator in slow circles around your clit, whimpering as the vibrations send jolts of sweet pleasure through you, almost too much as your hips jerk away from the sensation.

“Was thinking about how I’d clean up your cock after you came, how I’d get you hard again and ride you, till you filled me up.”

You feel it, the cresting pleasure, the overwhelming sensation, your cunt fluttering around nothing, and it makes you want to cry. Cowboy groans his fist going faster, he’s close you hear it in the growl of his voice.

“Would love to see that, my sweet Cherry Pie riding my cock,” you gasp as the vibrator rubs against your clit just right. “Watch those pretty tits bounce, see your neck all marked up by me.”

“Fuck, please--please,” your eyes clench shut as you struggle to keep your legs open and your other hand abandons your breasts to toy at your entrance, before slipping two fingers into your soaked cunt.

“What do you want baby?” he hums into the phone, though you hear the breathlessness of his voice, knowing he’s close.

“Pleasepleasepleasepleaseletmecum,” a babbled plea as your fingers fuck into your cunt, the wet noises filling the room, and the vibrator edges you closer and closer to breaking. “Please, baby, please.”

“How could I say no to such a sweet plea?” He groans, and you hear him gasp, you wonder how he looks when he cums. If his mouth drops open, eyes rolling back into his head…if he cums on himself…

“Cum,” you obey without a second thought, vibrator pressed against your clit, and your fingers knuckle deep into your cunt, stroking that spot the tips of your fingers just barely reach. You shriek when it hits you, your back arches off the bed a gush of slick drenches your fingers. Your thighs snap closed, as your hips twitch.

You pull the vibrator away when it becomes too much, your breasts heave as you come down from your high. You hear Cowboy’s pants as well, both of you stay like that for a moment, listening to each other breathe. You switch off the vibrator, letting it fall to somewhere amongst your blankets.

“Fuck, I missed you…”

The words are out before you can stop them, your lips loosened by post coital bliss. You wince as Cowboy chuckles into the phone. His voice whiskey rough, “Missed you too Cherry.”

While his words soothe the sting of embarrassment a bit, the haze of your orgasm is wearing off, and sense is returning full force. You glance at your phone, wincing at the time, you’ve been on the phone for almost forty-five minutes. You don’t have much time left, and no real way of ending the conversation.

“Move went well, I take it?” You change the subject as you sit up, looking around blindly for something to cover yourself with. An oversized t-shirt on the ground catches your eye and you slip it on.

“Besides a long ass drive across the country, I’ve survived, though moving into another house was something I never want to do again.” He grouses, and now you snicker.

“You say you’re not an old man yet you complain like one.”

“I think you like that about me Cherry,” he responds and you smirk. “Besides, I knew I had to be ready for my favorite girl to call.”

You chuckle, and stretch as you lay beside the phone again. Body loose and boneless now that you’ve finally gotten to hear him again…this is probably some sort of addiction issue but you again push the thought away, glancing at the time on your phone you wince, already getting too close to your max spend you sigh.

“Gotta go?”

He asks softly into the phone, you hope that disappointment is real, but you know better.

“Yeah, but…hey we have next week right?”

“We do, I always need my weekly slice of Cherry Pie.”

You know you shouldn’t love the way the nickname slips off his tongue like sweet syrup.

“And I need to get off to my dirty old man,” he chuckles and you sigh.

“Well, goodnight Cowboy.”

“Goodnight Cherry.”

And like that, you're ending the call. You knew you’d be spending a ton on this, a notification from your bank letting you know the payment’s been withdrawn. You lay in the dark quiet of your room, just thinking.

You’d been calling the Lonely Cowboy for a year now, it’d happened after your most recent breakup. You weren’t a one night stand kind of person,or someone who had a list of people she could rely on for a quickie.

You were too busy with work, with your degree program…it’d been one of the many reasons your last relationship had gone up in flames. Dude thought he was more important than your future.

So drunkenly you’d looked up porn…then found the link to the sex phone line…and the rest was history. He was the relief you craved, without all the complications of an actual relationship, and the weirdness of a physical only relationship.

You sighed, kicking the comforter off your bed, it’s too hot to sleep with one anyways.

The Pie Hole is located close to the heart of the small university town, one of the last small town restaurants where a lot of the students and families come throughout the week to enjoy greasy, fried food. And a slice of the owner Ned’s homemade pies. It was probably a lot nicer in its heyday. Now it’s a bit rundown, though Ned and his wife, Chuck, have poured a ton of renovations and love and care into the place

It’s like every diner, clinging to the past 1950’s aesthetic, the black and white checkerboard tiled floors, with matching wallpaper, decorated with black and white photos of old celebrities. The usual faces like Elvis, Frank Sinatra, and other groups you’ve not bothered to pay much attention to. TV’s dot the corners playing old cartoons, or black and white shows, though it’s the same tape, replayed over and over again. Shockingly enough no one’s noticed since you started working here four years ago.

The glittering red vinyl seats in the booths and the high-tops at the bar. Bright neon signs shine in the windows, baring the diner’s name and advertising the homemade pies, and milkshakes. Finally the pride and joy for Ned is the restored jukebox, with its neon lights, that takes a quarter and it changes whatever is playing over the diner’s speakers. Unless someone decides to pull a prank, like replaying the same song several times…That was a dark day, then it’s cut, and an Ipod is prepped in the back with an oldie's playlist ready to go.

The Pie Hole has turned into the local hangout, where a lot of students filter in throughout the week, between classes, parties, and everything else college life holds.

And on a Saturday afternoon, it’s busy, much to your chagrin. You’ve been welcoming regulars, and newbies alike. After all it’s the beginning of the semester and that means families coming with their newly graduated freshman looking to spread their wings and hack it at college life.

Your arms are sore from carrying trays, and clearing tables. You’ve just managed to take a quick drink break in the kitchen when Kristin rushes in with her notepad and a look of annoyance on her perfectly made-up face. She’s a biomedical law student, and she’s a genius.

Sometimes you wonder why the hell she came to this university. She easily could have gone to an Ivy league, but you know she preferred to stay closer to home. Her hair is left out and it forms a perfect Afro about her face. She’s wearing the same uniform, bright red with white polka dots, though she’s styled hers with charms and other sparkly additions.

“Jerry, where the hell is my app for table twelve?”

Jerry, the resident fry cook, has the decency to look sheepish. He’d been buried in his phone, and you raise a brow, watching the exchange.

“Shit, sorry Kris–”

“Don’t fuckin’ apologize just get me my app before this fucking old man bites my head off.” Jerry nods quickly and Kristin sighs slumping beside you, taking a swing of your water. Much to your annoyance.

“You know, you have your own glass somewhere right?” She smirks, leaving a deep red lipstick stain on the rim of your glass.

“Yeah, but yours is here, and you love swapping spit with me.” She winks and you roll your eyes.

“Besides your break is over, some of your regulars are here,” her gaze flicks up, and you take a look outside the kitchen window.

She’s correct, your regulars Sarah and Ellie have settled in their usual booth beside the window looking out at the busy main street road. With a sigh you stand, she gives you a good natured hip bump with a laugh as you grab your notepad and head out to greet them.

Walking through the busy throng of tables, you pause in your sections, asking the usual questions. Noting who looks ready to head out, and who needs a refill, or who might be interested in a piece of pie.

Before finally reaching the girls, who both smile as you approach.

“Hey Sarah, hey Ellie!”

“Hey Y/n!” Both answer in unison, and it makes you smile. Both girls are sweet, and came to the university when you were in your senior year. They’d been coming to the Pie Hole weekly without fail since, and you’d enjoyed seeing them.

“You guys excited for your final year?”

Ellie bounces with excitement nodding her head, “Yes! Then I can get an actual job and my girlfriend Dina and I can get a house–”

“Have you told Dina this?” Sarah questions with a laugh, and you chuckle as well, Ellie’s cheeks flush as she glares at her sister. From what you’d gathered, they’re not biological, but apparently Ellie had been adopted by Sarah’s father after her mother passed suddenly.

“I’ll ask her at graduation…” Ellie huffs, and you chuckle, but stop noticing their strange arrangement. Both girls share one side of the table, which you find odd. You gesture to them with a quirked brow.

“Oh, didn’t we tell you?” Sarah asks, and you tilt your head, again confusion filling you. Trying to recall the last few times they’d been by to eat, they hadn’t mentioned anything that stuck out to you. You notice Ellie’s eyes alight, and Sarah starts to get up, their attention behind you.

“ 'Scuse me darling,” the voice sends a bolt of heat through you, a familiar tingle begins in your innards. Your knees feel weak for a moment as you turn with a yelp.

Behind you stands the most gorgeous man you’ve ever seen, clearly older, his deep mahogany eyes take you in. Salt and pepper hair is neatly styled out of his face, a chiseled jaw, covered by a greying scruff of beard. Hands shoved in his jean pockets, you blink finally realizing that you’ve been blocking the booth behind you, gaping like a fish at the poor man before you.

“Oh, gosh sorry!” You shuffle to the side, and the man offers you a nod, those eyes going to the two girls behind you. Finally a smile lights up his face, as both girls shout an excited, ‘Dad’!

Okay now you need to know the details of this. As the man settles and offers the girls another smile, they turn to you expectantly. Which brings you back to the present.

“Y/n, this is our dad Joel,” Sarah introduces, Ellie looks about ready to bounce out of the booth. You smile at her excitement and turn your attention to Joel, who is smiling at his daughters fondly.

“Oh! Right, this is the mysterious Joel I’ve been hearing about!” Sarah and Ellie had been beside themselves the last few times they’d been to the Pie Hole, excitedly telling you that their father was moving closer to them.

“Hopefully all good things?” Joel offers with a smile at his girls, which Ellie chuckles at and Sarah rolls her eyes but smiles.

“No Dad, we told her all the terrible things,” Sarah answers, giving you a mischievous smile that makes you laugh. “Like how you thought NSYNC and the Backstreet Boys were the same.”

You and Ellie snicker, and Joel winces, “What can I say, the music sounded the same–”

“Oh, that’s a strike right there,” you joke, and Joel smirks at you. It sends a shiver down your spine, and you take a quick breath to calm yourself. “But since you’re new, I’ll overlook it this time.”

He chuckles and the way your cunt throbs at the sound has you mortified. The poor man is here to eat with his daughters, who you’ve known for years, and are only a few years younger than you. Calm down!

“But I swear sir, they’ve been going on and on about their dad moving closer, excited to meet you. Hopefully you’ll be able to handle college town living.”

“We’ll see, thankfully not living too close to town, but got some land a few miles south.”

“Ah, smart,” you acknowledge and Joel nods. Feeling the conversation lulling, you take the opportunity to return to your job duties.

“Okay, well now that your Dad is here, your usual milkshakes?” Both girls nod and Joel looks at you once more, his eyes make your heart stutter. It’s embarrassing, you’ve just met the guy, calm the fuck down.

“And for the gentleman?”

You give him a sweet smile, one you know wins over all the customers that enter the diner, trying very hard to ignore the way those eyes take you in. Lingering a bit too long on the way your uniform tightens at your chest, the cut of the collar opened enough to reveal a modest amount of chest, but nothing scandalous. His smile has softened, and he considers you for a moment.

“Uh, you have any recommendations?”

You notice his voice carries a delicious southern drawl to it, that has your brain short-circuiting, as you fail to recall any of the drink options you’ve known since the first month you started working at the Pie Hole. And something about it feels familiar, a melody from a song you swear you’ve heard before, but the name escapes you.

“Uh–Well,” You huff softly, and remind yourself that right now you are at work and you need to get a grip, because your other tables need to be addressed as well. Finally, your mind restarts and you recall the drink menu.

“Well if you have a sweet tooth, we have some great milkshakes. My favorite’s the chocolate, but if you’re not in the mood for something that sweet we home make sodas to order, with different syrups.”

“Really?” His brow quirks, and he gives you a smirk.

You give him another sugar-coated smile and nod. “Any syrup you can think of, we’ve probably got it.”

He pauses for a moment, glancing over at his daughters before meeting your gaze again, and your knees do that horrid shake that you’re grateful your skirt hides.

“How about a Shirley Temple?” You give him a nod and glance at your table.

“The usual milkshakes and a Shirley Temple coming right up. I’ll come back for your order in a sec, girls I can trust you to give him the menu rundown right?”

Ellie and Sarah nod, and with that you turn and head back to the drink bar to get their order, and the refills done.

The rest of your shift passes by in a blur, the girls came in close to the end of your shift but as the day slows, and you get their order in, Ellie orders a burger and Sarah gets the chicken tenders, with Joel ordering the chicken and waffles. You get them a plate of fries to share.

You return as you notice they’ve all settled back in the booth, and the plates before them are mostly clean. Picking up the plates, you catch a bit of the conversation.

“Oh, you have to come with Dina and me to the national park, has some great trails,” Ellie says excitedly as Joel nods. She quiets though as you finish picking up the plates.

“Well, has anyone saved any room for dessert?”

Both the girls shake their heads, though Joel is quiet for a moment as he considers the dessert menu to the side.

“How’s the pie?”

It’s such a simple question, yet the way he says it, the soft hum of his voice. You’re left breathless as those brown eyes meet yours. Tongue tied for a moment you stumble to answer, something about his tone, about the gruff, roughness to his words. As he mutters just beneath his breath, you’re struggling to put a finger on it. But you try to find your voice again.

“Oh–well,” with a huff you straighten, attempting to get some dignity back, “we’re known for our pies. The owner used to be a pastry chef in New York, and his pies are legendary.”

Joel’s eyes never leave you, and you feel warmth spreading along your cheeks, your neck, heart kicking into overdrive as those warm brown eyes linger on your lips, you notice the slight purse of his own, the tip of his tongue sneaking between them to wet his bottom lip. Your mind returns to the present as you remember you’re supposed to be recommending a pie, “b–but I have to say my favorites are either the pumpkin, or the apple.”

Joel smiles, and considers the menu for another moment as you turn to the girls and mouth ‘check’ which they nod. Finally Joel returns his gaze to you.

“I think I’ll try a slice of cherry pie.”

It’s like all the air gets sucked from your lungs in a second. As the words leave Joel’s lips, your cunt throbs, and your brain launches you back into last night. On your bed, legs spread with a bullet vibrator pressed to your clit. Eyes rolled back into your skull, and your orgasm teetering dangerously close.

That same voice whispering dirty praises and sinful promises of what he’d do if he could actually touch you.

You’re brought back by the sound of ceramic shattering on tile and Ellie and Sarah shouting something, Joel surprised and reaching out a hand to you, and the busy diner quieting at the sudden chaos of noises.

You stand there, frozen, looking between the shocked trio and the broken plates scattered on the floor.

“Oh my god—” it’s all that comes out of your mouth, you're saved by a frazzled Ned, who came in at some point during the afternoon rush.

He gives your table an apologetic smile and ushers you to the back kitchen as one of the bus boys scurries over to clean up the shattered plates. He leaves to go deal with your section as you hide in the kitchen.

Mind a whirling mess, all you can think is, Oh my fucking god, he’s Lonely Cowboy and he lives in my town.

Moving is a bitch, Joel knows this too well, after packing up his house in Austin and stuffing a rusted U-haul with all his worldly possessions and attaching it to his old pick up. The drive had been the easiest part, but the actual process of moving, the paperwork, the sleepless nights trying to find a decent moving company only to come to the conclusion that he needed to just move himself and a few pieces of furniture. It was overwhelming.

Resettling in a new town, new people, but he’d do it all over again if only to see the way the girls' eyes lit up when he told them he’d bought some land and a house about thirty minutes from their college. Sarah and Ellie had shrieked so loud he was worried he might lose what little hearing he still had in his right ear.

He’d made it though, and…with the additional funds from his–side hustle, he’d been able to afford a nice home. One where he hoped his girls would visit and maybe live after they finished school, maybe give him a few grand kids that could come stay with him.

But that was thoughts for the future, right now Joel was just trying to find a new normal. Which he’s struggling to find, now yes, he’s gotten a job with a local construction company. The work is hard but he’s used to it, and it keeps his mind busy.

Also the hours work…for his other job. Which has become his money maker.

He’d never thought he’d get into this line of work, being a phone sex operator. But when he’d taken on Ellie, expenses doubled that he wasn’t completely prepared for, and while yes being a contractor paid well enough, he wasn’t able to put as much away for Sarah and Ellie’s futures.

Especially college, and when both girls showed him their college choices, he’d probably aged a few decades when factoring in the cost. But he didn’t let it show, one night when the girls had been at a sleepover, he’d been doing research on possible extra jobs he could do.

It’d popped up on Craigslist of all places…and in his desperation he figured it’s not like he’s touching anyone…or them touching him.

So he applied, got a probationary period and he took off. Maybe it was his charm, the southern drawl, the fact that he didn’t have to look someone in the eye and lie to them about how much he wanted them when he’d rather be doing anything else. But Joel thrived as a phone sex operator.

And his clients grew, as did the amount he could charge. It was a job, that’s all it was, a way to put more money to the side for Sarah and Ellie’s college fund, and have an emergency stash, because having two teenagers meant you needed to be prepared. Lord knew Ellie was a walking caution sign, and Sarah with her sports injuries…The job helped alleviate the stresses of being a single dad with only one brother to look to for help, and he had his own worries with his own family up in Jackson.

But he grew to enjoy it, getting on the phone with his regulars was one of his favorite parts of the job, but…the night Cherry called a year ago something shifted. With other clients it was easy to whisper sweet nothings, and carnal desires into their ears. Listen to them get off to the sound of his voice. But Cherry, the softness of her voice unsure of herself and what she was doing, the way she all but swooned for him, it changed something in him.

With Sarah and Ellie being his priority in life, dating just never…worked. He was busy, and he was fine with a woman not being involved in his life, and his hand worked. But then when Cherry became a regular suddenly he’s so hard during the shift he knows she’ll call. That when he hears her voice it’s agony to not cum then and there.

But then, he moves, and that final call only a month ago…Since then it’s been crickets.He knows he shouldn’t get too in his head about it, clients come and go in this industry. Also from what she’d admitted to him on the phone, he knew she was busy with life, and her outside responsibilities.

But that last call he’d thought…maybe hoped something would change. The admission that she missed him…how quick he’d been to admit he missed her too. Joel didn’t think he could form an attachment to someone he’d never seen. But every time she called, exactly on the dot, his weariness left him. All he wanted to hear was her voice, asking about her day, her life, whatever she’d tell him.

He thought about trying to call her back, but both his number and hers were protected, blocked when she called the line. No way to track her, even the email contact was through the agency. So by the second week when her voice hadn’t graced his ear, and he had exhausted all ideas on how to reach her. He’d tried going through the agency, though they only helped in offering for him to lower his price…he’d tired. Cherry’s syrup sweet voice was never on the other line.

He’d played the call over, and over again. Trying to find when he’d messed up, overstepped that boundary she’d set, maybe it was that he was too domineering? No, her cries of release were anything but fake. Maybe…maybe she was just tired of him, and though he’d never admit it out loud, it hurt. Even her calling to tell him she was done would have been better. But the silence, leaving him hanging on to a rope that’s fraying with every week she doesn’t call. It’s a hell he didn’t think this job would put him through.

He listens to their calls, the company saving their entire year of communication, studies it, pours over every second of audio, wondering where he fucked up. Hoping he’d hear something, a clue as to what happened. Though he also just listened to her sweet voice, cooing her need, begging him to let her cum. The wet sounds of her fingers in her cunt. Fuck, he missed her, and he had no way of fixing…what ever the hell he broke.

He sits back at his desk, finishing another call, play by play they ask him what he’s doing/wearing, he gets them off they hang up. He gets paid. It was quick, and dirty, all so that he could sit there and wait. He glanced at the clock, the next hour blocked as always, the last hour of his shift, when she’d call.

Like clockwork his phone would glow with the call, and he’d answer a bit too breathless, and then he’d hear her sweet voice…but he’s left disappointed when his phone remains quiet. The minutes tick by, and that same dull ache fills him. As the ever-passing hour reveals that she’s not calling, again.

He sighs, and shuts off his other phone, staring at his computer screen for a few moments. Before with a grunt he stands, and collects his things to go out.

Visiting the Pie Hole has become one habit that Joel’s managed to keep to, maybe it’s the food…but no, the main reason he keeps coming back is to see you.

After your first meeting Joel couldn’t lie, you'd made an impression, now…dropping the plates had surprised him, and he’d been a bit worried for you. Though you’d been an apologizing mess, stumbling over your words, a strange nervousness to your voice that he hadn’t noticed before. Sarah and Ellie had both later told him you weren’t jumpy like that. Until they mentioned you were in your final year of your Master’s and had a huge thesis presentation; that might have been the issue.

So with that in mind he’d come back, and even though you apologized several times again, Joel waved it off and gave you his most charming smile. He noticed at first you seemed–off. Maybe a little wary, but he wanted to show he’s more than happy to forget your first meeting.

And, he’d never admit it, but Joel was lonely and he enjoyed the attention you paid to him. He’d figured out your schedule, with the help of the other waitress Kristin. Which she’d been a bit too eager to give to him, Joel started showing up to the Pie Hole weekly, and if his schedule allowed it, more.

He liked watching you leave the table, taking in the way that outfit clung to your hips, your chest, noting which shade of red you painted your lips. The man had developed a crush, and since the client who’d helped alleviate his sexual frustration had stopped calling Joel was struggling to find a new outlet.

When he’d arrived at the diner, as usual it’s dead this time of night, save for a few bleary-eyed students, a trucker or two, and the staff. One of which is you, you're stationed at the bar, busily scribbling in what he assumes is your study book.

You’re leaned over the counter, with just the right angle that Joel can see the tempting swell of cleavage that has him flushing. He feels like a fucking teenager again, the way just seeing a peek of your tits had his cock throbbing. He rushes to his usual booth in your section, it takes a moment before you notice him.

He gives you an awkward wave, as you flash him one of those wide-mouthed smiles. It makes him smile back, before you head over you’re stopping at the soda bar. Making his now favorite drink, a root beer float.

He watches your every move the way your fingers flick easily over the spout, the rush of carbonated water filling the soda glass. Filling it just right, then adding the syrup and a small scoop of ice cream, before adding a straw and a maraschino cherry.

He pretends to read the menu as you approach, he can’t have you seeing the way his eyes track your every movement. The sway of your hips, swishing the skirt, the way your fingers clutch the soda glass.

He blows out a soft breath between his lips as he considers the menu, even though he already knows what he’s going to get.

“All by yourself tonight Joel?”

Your voice sends something through him, a familiar tingle of need that has him dizzy with confusion. Another jolt of his cock, and he shifts in his seat, trying to ignore the growing tightness of his jeans.

“Yep, Ellie and Dina are out at some party, and Sarah’s with the softball team out of state.” He offers with a smile, he hopes you don’t hear the rasp in his voice. Notice the way his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows.

No, you just flash him that same smile, setting the glass down and taking out your notepad.

“So what can I get you?” You ask as you ready your pen, poised over the worn yellow lined pages. Joel resists the urge to watch your hands, the way your fingers curl around the pen, the tip of your thumb pressing the clicker with practiced ease. He can’t stop his mind imagining how they’d look around his cock. He forgets how to breathe for a moment as he meets your eyes.

A curious quirk to your brow that makes him wonder if you see right through him, the old man that’s coming to the same diner almost daily if only to see you. Oh god, it’s sad, even worse he’s using whatever it feels for you to replace the emptiness Cherry is leaving in her wake. He coughs as the silence stretches on a bit too long.

“Uh, the pot roast stew please,” you give him a smile with a soft laugh.

“Jeez, have you tried anything else on the menu?”

It’s a well meaning jab, though Joel feels heat along his neck, and his cock jolts at the sound of your breathless jest, again that twinge of something familiar like he’s heard it before. But can’t place it.

“Heh, can’t say I have, but what can I say: I’m a man of habit.”

You smile, jotting his order down you give him a wink, before turning and heading back to the kitchen. Your uniform’s poodle skirt swishes just high enough that the bottom swell of your ass peeks just beneath the hem, he thinks for a moment he catches sight of a pair of panties, but it couldn’t be.

“Jesus,” Joel husks under his breath, trying subtly to adjust, the brush of his palm against his cock sends a sweet tickle of pleasure along his spine. His toes flex in his timberland's as he shifts in his glittery red vinyl booth. Grateful that the few other patrons are so engrossed in their own meals or phones they barely notice his distress.

He takes out his phone to distract himself, swiping through different apps, trying and failing to forget the sway of your hips, imagining the softness of them against his palms as he fucks into you. The noises you’d make as he pounded you into the table before him, the way your cunt would flutter around his cock as you cum, again, and again.

Fuck.

He needs to figure out an outlet, that’s not the pretty waitress at the diner he’s frequenting. He’s pulled out of his imaginings when you approach, his food in your hand. Giving him another sweet smile, his cock jumps, he thinks to himself how pretty that red lipstick would look smudged on his shaft, and around your lips.

“Alrighty, one pot roast stew–” he should have seen it coming, normally he moves his drink away from where you place it on the table, but he’s been so entrapped in his fantasies he neglected to move it. The edge of the plate clinks against the glass, and it’s tumbling into his lap, the chill of the soda against his bulge is startling, he jolts with a swear.

But you react with a quickness that dumbfounds him, a whispered curse followed by a whimpered chorus of apologies. The towel hanging at your hip is in your fingers, and before he can stop you, your hand is pressing between his legs.

It’s an innocent caress, you’re trying to clean him of the bubbling soda and melting ice cream. But all his mind–his dick can focus on is the soft press of your fingers against his bulge through his jeans.

A strangled grunt leaves him, like he’s been wounded as his cock all but pulses beneath your touch.

“Fuck–Joel I’m so sorry–” your eyes are focused on the wet spot on his crotch, he’s mortified, knowing you’ll feel the outline of his cock straining against the denim of his jeans. Throbbing against every swipe of the towel, the accidental brush of your fingertips against it.

“S–Stop–Stop, I got it!”

He doesn’t mean for it to sound as venomous as it does, but he can’t…won’t let you feel the way his cock reacts to your touch. You step back, a clear wounded look in your eyes. A flush creeps up his neck, into his cheeks, the other patrons are looking. He needs to leave before you feel it, call him out on it.. He stands without a look he leaves a couple of bucks on the table…more than the spilled drink is worth and stomps out of the diner.

You call after him, but he ignores it, heading to his truck, the pain between his thighs growing as every part of him begs to turn around. Go back into the diner, press a scalding kiss to your pretty red lips and fuck you atop the table.

No, he can’t do that–fuck, he won’t do that. You’re a young woman in her prime with plenty of admirers. He sees them in the afternoons, the way other boys watch you too, their lust barely contained…He’s no better then them, salivating after you like a dog in heat. Maybe he’s worse though, after all there’s another girl out there he’d happily drop to his knees and worship. You seem like a nice girl, sweet, maybe a bit naive…But you’re not Cherry, and a part of him winces at that.

The ride home passes too slow, and yet too fast, how he makes it home when all his mind can think about is you, the softness of your hand against his crotch. He can’t recall any of the drive, if he stopped at the lights, or just sped through them.

Joel stomps into the house, into his bedroom. Undoing his jeans his cock still achingly hard as he spits into his palm he starts at a quick uncoordinated pace. Standing before his unmade bed, he fucks into his hand bottom lip trapped between his lips.

This is just about relief, and all he can think about is you, naked on your knees, lips around his cock. On his bed ass up and spread as he pounds into you, the sweet pretty noises you’d make, the way his name sounds on your lips as you beg him for more. And he’d give it to you, oh fuck, he’d give you anything and everything you asked for.

The sweet flutter of your eyes as he pounds into you, fuck you’d feel so good. He knows you would, knows you would whimper the sweetest things to him, he gasps as he cums with a sudden jolt.

He pants staring at the splatter of cum painting his comforter and the top of his fingers. His cock softening in his palm, pulses again as he thinks you would clean him, would watch him through your lashes as the sweet little tongue swirled around his fingers sucking him clean.

“God…dammit.”

He comes back to the diner a week later, again late at night. Cherry still hasn’t called, the guilt he feels has started to overwhelm him. He knows he needs to make things right. Entering the 50’s diner, as usual it’s barren, his heart jolts seeing you’re not there. He sees your friend Kristin, who’s busying herself with some glasses.

The second she sees him though, her eyes widen, and then darken–for a moment he worries that he’s burned this bridge so bad he’ll never see the other side again, and he can’t do that again. Not when the sting of Cherry disappearing is too fresh. But then you appear from the kitchen when you see him, your eyes widen and he holds up his hands in surrender.

“J–joel–”

“Can we talk?”

He finally manages, and you pale, he winces guilt gnawing at his innards as he figures out what to say, how to explain himself. I left so suddenly because I couldn’t stand the thought of you feeling my boner, doesn’t seem like the best way to start an apology. You give a worried look to Kristin, who for all the poison in her gaze gives an encouraging nod in his direction.

He resists the urge to blow out a breath of relief when you step forward then and go to Ellie, and Sarah’s booth. You sit, the poodle skirt flaring out around your thighs, and his cock jolts, he forces his eyes to lock onto your face.

Sitting across from you, he clears his throat, considering what he should say, you start.

“I’m so sorry about last week, I–I have no idea what’s come over me–”

“Y/n,” saying your name, you stop your fingers fidget on the black table top. Watching him silently as he considers what to say next, “I–I’m so sorry about last week, I shouldn’t have…stormed out the way I did.”

He scrambles through his mind to find the next words of his apology, as your teeth pull your bottom lip between them. His cock throbs again, as all he can think is how soft it would feel between his teeth. The noises you’d make–focus.

“I had a bad day at work,” he admits, not his contracting job, no he’s getting tired of the phone job, now that Cherry is well and truly gone. The excitement he had is waning, the money is still fine, but…both his girls are almost done with school. And he’s got enough of a nest egg growing he could leave it, and not have to worry about funds again. “I–I shouldn’t have taken it out on you like that, I’m so sorry.”

You blink at this hesitating before answering, he jolts when your hand reaches over the table top, your nails are painted with a chipping soft pink nail polish.

“Let’s start over, hi, I’m Y/N and I work at this diner when I’m not being driven insane by my Master’s program.” You give him a sweet smile, and Joel’s heart stutters, flipping in his chest with glee. He returns the smile and takes your hand in his, noticing how soft–stop it.

“I’m Joel Miller, cantankerous, I don’t know the difference between NSYNC and Backstreet Boys, and my girls are my world.”

You giggle at his words, and nod, he doesn’t want to let go of your hand. But you release it, and he lets his return to the table top. Your fingers brush a stray lock of hair from your face.

“So, can I get you a root beer float, and not spill it on you?”

“By all means.”

You stand with a sweet smile, “Okay, be right back, let me just check on my regular and then I’ll get your order?”

He nods, and turns to look at the menu, though he knows what he’s getting. He feels a relief sweep through him, hopeful that now he can get on the straight and narrow with you. This was a good sign.

“How’s everything?”

He listens as you work the only other table in your section. An elderly man sits there, plate half finished, “as always delicious.”

“Good to hear, you’ll be taking the rest to go?”

“You know me too well y/n, and of course you’ll be included to come home right?”

You laugh at the old man’s joke, clearly he’s tried before, but there’s no malice or degradation to the old man’s tone.

“Mr. Gordon, you know I’m not available for house calls anymore,” he chuckles as you clean away the plates.

“I know, but you treat me so sweetly, someone has to sweep you up, why not me?”

Joel doesn’t know why he doesn’t tune out the conversation, maybe it’s the flare of jealousy that courses through him, at you so easily flirting with someone else–an elderly man at that, but your next words have his world collapsing.

“Oh, hush you dirty old man–” he hears nothing else, he knows those words, he knows your voice. Maybe it’s pitched a bit higher then he remembers or maybe because it’s not garbled by the phone reception. But it’s her–you–fuck–you’re Cherry.

Joel doesn’t know what to do, all he hears is a ringing in his ears and feels his heart pounding in his chest. Thinks he might pass out if he’s honest for a moment, the world tilting.

But how? When?

His mouth opens and closes, trying to understand what the hell landed him into this situation.

“Joel?”

He jumps, startled that you’ve appeared to his side, having finished your exchange with your elderly regular. He hears it then, though he doesn’t want to admit it–fuck he’s been here for a month, and never—never put two and two together. But he hears it now, the soft lilt to your question, the way Cherry’s words would do the same thing when she–you were unsure.

He stares for what feels like too long, before he’s muttering a quick apology, an excuse that he’s been called to a job site. He’s pissed, anger flaring through him with a heat that coils in his chest, he gets in his truck with a snarl and slams his palms against the steering wheel, ignoring the way you watch him leave hurt clear in your eyes as he drives away.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #no outbreak au #pedro pascal characters #joel miller smut #pedro pascal smut #tlou hbo #joel miller imagine #joel miller fic

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lanadelspray02 · 2 days ago

Text

HOLD ME ANYWAY: CHAPTER 22

paige x azzi

Hey guys, I'm so sorry for the long wait. This chapter isn't the longest, but I think you'll still enjoy it. I'll be back to posting frequently again. I hope y'all like the chapter :) let me know ur thoughts

if we lose to the fever.... im crashing out.

crossposted ao3 here

masterlist here

wc: 4052

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The sun wasn’t even fully up yet, just brushing the edge of the horizon in pale watercolor streaks, when Paige zipped the last duffel bag shut. The house was quiet around them, soft and dark in that familiar way of early morning, where the walls seemed to exhale sleep and the silence felt a little sacred. Ruby was curled up in Paige’s sweatshirt on the couch, Sparklehorn clutched under one arm, the ends of her hair curling damply around her cheeks from last night’s bath. She stirred every so often but didn’t wake, one leg flopped over a pillow like she owned the whole couch.

Azzi moved through the house with slow, quiet steps. She hadn’t slept much, though she’d pretended well enough when Paige curled around her in bed a few hours earlier. Her mind had been too loud. She’d checked her phone three times between midnight and four, staring at the same message each time.

Darshay: I know I messed up. But I want to talk. Please.

She hadn’t responded.

Bob was already up when they came downstairs, his hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, coffee mug in hand. He didn’t say much, just offered Azzi a nod and Paige a warm smile, and helped them carry the bags out to the car while the morning stayed quiet.

Drew emerged right before they were about to leave, rubbing sleep from his eyes, his pajama pants twisted like he’d fought a blanket in his dreams. He hugged Ruby goodbye with dramatic flair and gave her a folded piece of notebook paper with a big crayon drawing on it, the five of them in front of a castle, Sparklehorn huge and smiling in the sky.

"So you won’t forget us," he said, very seriously.

Ruby nodded solemnly. "Never ever."

Bob pulled Paige in for a hug, murmured something in her ear that made her eyes go soft, then turned to Azzi and wrapped her in the same kind of quiet strength.

"Anytime," he said. "You don’t need a reason."

Azzi swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded. "Thank you. For everything."

The drive to the airport was sleepy and uneventful. Ruby dozed again in the backseat, her hoodie pulled over her head, feet curled beneath her. Paige sat beside Azzi with one hand rested on her thigh.

"You okay?" Paige asked eventually, voice low.

Azzi hesitated, then pulled her phone from her pocket. She turned it screen-out toward Paige.

Darshay: I know I messed up. But I want to talk. Please.

Paige's jaw flexed. She didn’t speak for a beat.

"When did he send that?"

"Yesterday. I didn’t want to ruin our last day."

"You didn’t ruin anything," Paige said. "He doesn’t get to have that kind of power anymore."

Azzi looked out the window. Her voice came out quiet. "What if he tries something? Like showing up? Or going to court? He’s not on the birth certificate, but still."

Paige squeezed her hand. "Then we fight. And we don’t do it alone. You have me now. And Ruby has both of us."

Azzi didn’t answer, just nodded slightly and turned her gaze back to the window.

At the airport, they moved through security slowly, Ruby still groggy but cooperative, Sparklehorn getting her own bin at TSA. Paige got them coffee and orange juice while Azzi sat with Ruby tucked into her lap at the gate.

When Paige returned, Azzi was staring at her phone again.

"You thinking about responding?" Paige asked.

Azzi shook her head. "I don’t know. He might not stop unless I do."

"Then let’s hear what he wants. On our terms."

They boarded the plane in quiet coordination, Ruby taking the window seat and immediately plastering her drawing to it with the little roll of tape Paige had stashed in her backpack. Halfway through the flight, Ruby fell asleep with her head on Paige’s lap, Sparklehorn tucked like a pillow under her chin.

Azzi leaned close, whispering. "He didn’t want her when I begged. But now that she’s growing up, now that she’s happy… now he’s curious?"

"You built a world without him," Paige whispered back. "He doesn’t get to step into it like he’s owed something."

Azzi rested her forehead to Paige’s shoulder. "I want to believe that."

"Then start here. With me."

--------------------

By the time they landed, the light outside had turned gray and overcast. Familiar.

The drive back to Azzi’s house was quiet, Ruby dozing in her car seat with Sparklehorn hugged tightly to her chest. The clouds hung low, and everything outside the window looked washed in silver.

When they pulled into the driveway, the porch light was already on even though it was still afternoon. Katie opened the front door before they even rang the bell, a warm smile on her face and her arms immediately reaching for Ruby.

"There’s my girl," she whispered as Ruby melted into her arms. "And Sparklehorn too, of course."

Tim appeared a second later, taller than the doorway, his smile soft. "Welcome home."

Azzi hugged them both, lingering longer than usual. Paige followed, quiet but present, and received hugs of her own, Katie holding her tight like she’d always belonged, Tim ruffling her hair with a quiet chuckle.

Inside, the house smelled like roasted vegetables and something sweet cooling on the counter. It was warm in the way only homes lived in by love could be. Azzi helped Ruby out of her coat while Paige dropped the bags by the stairs.

They all moved into the kitchen, exchanging travel stories and small laughter, the kind that covers the quiet beneath. Ruby curled up on the couch with a blanket and was out within minutes, Sparklehorn tucked under her chin.

After a while, Katie took Tim by the hand and said they'd let them rest, leaving the girls in the kitchen alone.

Azzi stood by the counter, phone in hand, staring at the voicemail icon.

Paige entered silently, watching her.

"You gonna listen?"

Azzi nodded once, barely.

She pressed play.

Darshay’s voice came through low, clipped, and defensive.

"You’ve kept her from me long enough. I don’t care what excuses you’ve made. She’s my kid too. I got a right to see her. Don’t think I won’t do what I have to if you try to keep playing house without me."

The message ended.

Azzi stood still. Then slowly, she set the phone down on the counter.

Paige crossed the room and pulled her into a hug without saying anything.

Azzi leaned into her, breath shaky.

"I don’t know what I’m going to do."

"Whatever it is," Paige said, steady, sure, "we do it together."

Azzi closed her eyes. Her arms came around Paige like muscle memory. Like home.

--------------------

The house had quieted after dinner, the kind of hush that settles after too much food and just enough warmth. Ruby was upstairs in the bath with Katie, her voice floating faintly through the floorboards in high-pitched little bursts of song. Tim had disappeared into the living room with a blanket and the remote, mumbling something about his nightly routine. Azzi stood in the hallway near her old bedroom, arms crossed, staring at the floor like it owed her answers. The air felt thicker here, maybe because it still held pieces of who she used to be. Maybe because the voicemail still hadn’t left her body.

Paige moved softly down the hall, slow like she knew how easily the wrong step might shatter the quiet. She didn’t say anything when she reached Azzi, just slid in behind her, wrapped both arms around her waist, and rested her cheek on Azzi’s shoulder like they’d always fit this way. Azzi leaned back without hesitation. She didn’t need to say thank you. Paige already knew.

“I’m fine,” Azzi murmured, voice low and thin.

“Sure,” Paige replied, not letting go. “And I’m training to box.”

Azzi blinked, half-turning her head. “You’re what now?”

Paige didn’t miss a beat. “Boxing. Gonna join a gym. Learn to punch. Maybe get one of those mouthguards that makes me look cool but also slightly unapproachable.”

Azzi tilted her head. “For what purpose?”

Paige’s voice dropped into a dry mutter. “For when certain people forget how replaceable they are.”

Azzi huffed a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh but wasn’t far. “You’re gonna beat up a grown man?”

“If I have to. I already play forty minutes a game and lift three times a week. All I need is footwork.”

Azzi turned fully this time, hips still pressed to Paige’s as she faced her. She didn’t smile yet. But she did let her hands slip up, palms skating under the hem of Paige’s hoodie until they found warm skin and the hard lines of her stomach.

“These abs,” she said softly, brushing her fingers along them, “are not for boxing.”

“They could be,” Paige said, chin tilting up a little smug. “They’re functional.”

Azzi’s hands lingered, slow and deliberate now. “They’re dangerous.”

“I hope so.”

“Just not in a boxing way,” Azzi said, thumbs brushing slow circles against Paige’s ribs, her voice a little lower now, a little warmer. “More in a… you walk into a room and I forget how to think way.”

Paige leaned in, forehead almost touching hers, smile twitching at the corners of her mouth. “Is that what happens?”

“Frequently.”

“I like it when you flirt with me,” Paige whispered.

Azzi’s voice was barely audible. “I like it when you let me.”

Paige was already leaning in when the soft sound of footsteps padded down the stairs. Both of them stilled, heads turning as Ruby’s small figure appeared at the bottom step. She had damp curls sticking to her forehead, pajama pants that nearly swallowed her feet, and Sparklehorn tucked beneath one arm like a personal bodyguard. She blinked at them, sleepy and pink-cheeked, before padding over with the kind of gentle certainty that only toddlers and house cats could get away with.

“I done with bath,” she announced softly. “Can we all cuddle now?”

Azzi dropped to one knee immediately, arms opening. “Of course we can, baby.”

Ruby folded into her like she’d been waiting to all day, Sparklehorn squished between them. Paige crouched beside them, brushing a damp curl off Ruby’s temple, and watched the way Azzi’s whole body softened when she held her daughter close.

Ruby looked up at both of them, voice smaller now. “We can cuddle in the bed?”

Paige kissed the top of her head. “Wherever you want.”

Azzi didn’t say anything. She just stood slowly, Ruby balanced on her hip with an ease that looked effortless but wasn’t, not really. It had taken years to make it look like that. Paige followed them into the bedroom, shutting the door behind her with a soft click, the kind of quiet that made the room feel like a secret.

They curled up together without words, all limbs and blankets and Sparklehorn somewhere in the middle. Paige’s arm draped over both of them, fingers resting lightly against the curve of Azzi’s hip, and Azzi didn’t even pretend she didn’t need it. Ruby squirmed once, then settled, sighing like a content little furnace tucked between their bodies.

Paige didn’t say anything about the voicemail. She didn’t ask for more or try to fix it. She just stayed close, her touch steady, the rise and fall of her breath anchoring the space between them.

And when Ruby reached out in her sleep and curled one small hand around Paige’s shirt, neither of them moved.

--------------------

The morning was already moving too fast. Katie had packed their breakfast into foil-wrapped bundles for the road, handing them off with a kiss to Azzi’s temple and a reminder to breathe. Tim had offered a silent nod and a thermos of coffee. Ruby was in the backseat, humming to herself, one sock half-off and Sparklehorn buckled in beside her with her own seatbelt looped around a glittery horn. Paige drove. Azzi sat beside her, scrolling through texts she wasn’t reading, occasionally glancing over her shoulder to check on Ruby. The car was quiet in that way mornings often were — everyone halfway between asleep and alert, the day still waiting to fully begin.

They pulled into the small gravel lot beside the daycare just before eight. A couple of other parents were walking toward the entrance with lunchboxes and sleepy toddlers. Paige was halfway into a gentle hum when she saw him.

Darshay.

He was standing near the gate, hoodie pulled low over his head, arms crossed. Like he belonged there. Like he had the right to be there.

Paige’s whole body stiffened. She slammed the gearshift into park and sat frozen for half a second. Azzi followed her gaze and immediately went still. Her breath caught with an audible hitch.

Ruby, oblivious in the back, was singing quietly to herself, stringing together lyrics she didn’t understand.

Paige was already reaching for the door handle. “Stay here,” she said, low and tense.

Azzi opened her door before she could finish the sentence. “I can’t stay here.”

Paige rounded the car fast, meeting her on the other side, voice still low but urgent. “Azzi, you don’t have to talk to him. He has no right”

“I know. But Ruby—he’s here for her.”

They both turned as Ruby climbed down from her car seat, dragging Sparklehorn behind her by the tail. “We here?” she asked, still yawning. “I bringed my backpack.”

“Yeah, baby,” Azzi said softly. “We’re here.”

Paige stepped in closer, putting herself slightly ahead of Azzi and Ruby as they walked. She didn’t make it obvious, she just shifted forward enough to be between them and Darshay.

He saw them immediately. Started walking toward them like he hadn’t vanished for three years. Like he hadn’t missed birthdays and fevers and first words. Like this wasn’t trespassing.

Azzi stopped walking.

Paige mirrored her.

Ruby tugged on Azzi’s sleeve. “I go in now?”

Darshay’s voice cut through the air like a knife. “So you just gonna keep pretending I don’t exist?”

Paige stepped fully in front of them now, squared her shoulders. “Back off.”

“I’m talkin’ to her,” he said, nodding past Paige. “She’s the mother of my kid.”

Ruby blinked up at them, confused. “Mama? Who’s that?”

Azzi knelt down beside her. “It’s okay, baby. Just stay close to me.”

But Darshay kept coming. “You kept her from me long enough,” he snapped. “I don’t care what lies you told. She’s mine too.”

Paige moved again, blocking his path with her whole body. “Leave. Now.”

“You don’t get to tell me what to do,” he spat. “You’re just playing house. You think because you wear the jersey and sleep in her bed, you get to be her daddy now?”

Azzi stood slowly, her hand holding tight to Ruby’s.

“Stop it,” she said, her voice shaking. “Just stop.”

Darshay looked down at Ruby then, and it was like a bomb went off.

“Ruby,” he said, loud and deliberate. “I’m your daddy.”

Everything stopped.

Ruby’s little body stiffened.

“No,” she said, voice small. “No you not.”

Darshay kept talking. “Yes, I am. I’m your real dad. I’m supposed to be—”

“No!” Ruby screamed. Her face twisted up like she didn’t have words for the panic surging through her. “No! No! I don’t got no daddy!”

Paige reached for her, but Ruby jerked away, tears already rolling down her cheeks. “I got two mummys! I don’t want you! I don’t want you! Go ‘way!”

People were looking now. Other parents slowing. Teachers coming out to the curb.

Azzi dropped to her knees and pulled Ruby into her chest. “Shh, baby, shh, I’ve got you, it’s okay, it’s okay, he’s leaving.”

“No!” Ruby sobbed, fists pounding against Azzi’s chest. “He scary! He lie! He not my daddy! I got you and Paigey, that’s all I got!”

Paige stood frozen for a second. The words, two mummys, echoed in her head like a siren. Not because of what they meant, but because of how Ruby had said them. Screamed them. Claimed them.

Azzi was rocking now, whispering into Ruby’s hair, trying to breathe through the storm.

Darshay looked around and realised everyone was watching. He backed up, muttered something under his breath, and then he turned and walked down the street, around the corner, gone like smoke.

Paige blinked, came back to herself, and dropped down beside them.

“I’ve got you,” she said, voice trembling now. “I’ve got both of you. Let’s go.”

She helped Azzi lift Ruby, who clung to her with desperate, shaking limbs, her face buried in Azzi’s neck. Paige wrapped her arms around them both, pressing a kiss to the back of Ruby’s head, and another to Azzi’s temple.

“C’mon,” she whispered. “We’re going home.”

Azzi nodded, eyes still locked on the space where Darshay had disappeared.

Paige didn’t look back.

--------------------

The drive back to Azzi’s house was quiet, the kind of silence that didn’t ask to be broken. Ruby was tucked into Azzi’s arms in the backseat, her face pressed into her shoulder, one small fist still clutching Sparklehorn’s mane like a lifeline. Her sobs had faded into hiccups, then into breathy whimpers, but her body stayed curled tight, like she was trying to shrink into safety.

Paige didn’t say a word the whole way. She drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on her thigh, fingers twitching now and then like she didn’t trust herself not to fall apart. Her jaw was clenched the entire time, but her eyes kept darting to the rearview mirror, checking on Azzi, checking on Ruby. Every glance only made her chest hurt worse.

Katie opened the front door before they even knocked, Tim appearing just behind her, concern already carved into both of their faces. Katie took one look at her daughter holding a trembling Ruby and didn’t hesitate, she reached out, arms wide.

Azzi didn’t speak. She just stepped into her mother’s arms and let herself be held, Ruby still wrapped tight between them.

“It’s okay, baby,” Katie whispered, rocking both of them gently. “You’re safe now. You’re home.”

Tim looked at Paige, who gave a short, stiff nod. “Darshay showed up,” she said, voice flat.

Tim didn’t respond with words. He just exhaled hard and gave a slow, heavy nod. He didn’t ask for details. Didn’t need to.

Katie coaxed Ruby from Azzi’s arms like it was second nature. “C’mon, little one. Let’s get you cozy. You wanna sit with Grandma on the couch? I’ll put Sparklehorn’s blanket in the dryer so she warm-warm, yeah?”

Ruby nodded into her chest without speaking, eyes still glassy and tired.

As they disappeared down the hallway, Azzi turned to Paige, but Paige was already gone.

She’d slipped away sometime in the hand-off, and by the time Azzi noticed, her bedroom door was already shut.

Paige sat on the edge of Azzi’s bed, both hands pressed hard to her eyes, trying to breathe through it. The moment had been too much. Seeing Azzi like that. Hearing Ruby scream like she’d been betrayed. Watching the man who caused it all walk up like he had any claim at all. She hadn’t cried when it happened. Hadn’t blinked. Hadn’t breathed.

But now that they were safe, now that Ruby was tucked into Katie’s arms and Azzi had let out that first, broken exhale. Paige couldn’t hold it anymore.

She pressed her fists to her eyes and curled forward, elbows on her knees. The tears came fast and hot, burning her throat, tightening her chest. She didn’t sob. She just shook, silently, shoulders trembling under the weight of everything she couldn’t say out loud.

She didn’t hear the door open.

Didn’t hear the tiny footsteps.

She only noticed Ruby when she felt a small hand brush her knee.

Paige jerked her head up, wiping her face with the back of her sleeve, trying to gather herself. “Hey, Roo, hi, baby sorry, I just needed a minute—”

Ruby looked at her with big, worried eyes, then silently climbed into her lap.

Paige froze. “You okay?” she whispered.

Ruby nodded, then reached up and touched her cheek with a still-damp hand. “You cryin’?”

Paige swallowed. “A little.”

“You sad?”

“Yeah.”

Ruby snuggled in closer, resting her head against Paige’s chest. “I sad too.”

Paige wrapped her arms around her instinctively, holding her tight, letting Ruby’s warmth ground her.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Ruby lifted her head, peered up at Paige, and asked, quiet and careful, “Paigey… you my mummy too, right?”

Paige blinked, caught between breath and something breaking open. “What?”

Ruby nodded, serious and small. “I got two mummys. You and Mama. That’s right, huh?”

Paige stared at her, the breath gone from her lungs. “Yeah,” she managed, voice shaking. “Yeah, baby. That’s right.”

Ruby leaned in again, arms wrapping around Paige’s neck like she’d done it a thousand times. “Okay. You don’t be sad, ‘kay? We safe now.”

Paige held her tighter, kissing her head, tears slipping silently down her cheek. “Yeah, baby,” she whispered. “We’re safe now.”

She didn’t notice Azzi standing in the doorway.

Azzi hadn’t meant to follow. Had only stepped down the hallway when something in her chest said Paige had been gone too long. But when she reached the door, slightly ajar, she froze.

She heard it all.

Saw the way Ruby curled into Paige’s lap like she belonged there, like she always had.

Heard the softness in Paige’s voice, the way it broke and steadied in the same breath.

She didn’t move. Just stood still, heart in her throat, watching the love of her life be called something she’d never dared say out loud, not even in the safest moments.

“Mummy.”

And then Ruby looked up and saw her.

“Mama!” she shouted happily, bouncing in Paige’s lap like she hadn’t been crying an hour ago. “Mama, I told Paigey somethin’!”

Azzi stepped in, her voice gentle. “Yeah? What did you tell her?”

Ruby grinned, proud and wide-eyed. “I said she my other mummy! ‘Cause I got two!”

Azzi’s chest ached with the force of it.

She knelt beside them, resting a hand on Paige’s back, pressing a kiss to Ruby’s forehead. “You do, baby. You really do.”

Paige looked at her, eyes still shining, lips parted like she didn’t know what to do with the moment.

So Azzi kissed her too, soft, grounding, forehead to forehead. No words. Just breath.

Then Ruby wiggled between them and announced, “Cuddle time!”

Azzi let out a short laugh and slid into bed beside them. Paige followed, letting Ruby climb onto both of their chests like she was the bridge keeping them upright. Sparklehorn was wedged between pillows. Ruby yawned and stretched and then sighed like she had solved every problem in the universe.

And then Azzi turned toward Paige like she couldn’t hold it in anymore. She kissed her cheek. Then her jaw. Then the tip of her nose. “I love you,” she whispered between each kiss. “So much. You’re—God—you’re everything.” She kissed her again, longer this time, lips pressing warm and sure against Paige’s as her hand slipped up her back.

Ruby giggled. “More kisses!”

Azzi laughed into Paige’s mouth, then pulled back just enough for Ruby to wiggle up beside her.

“Mwah!” Ruby declared, planting an exaggerated kiss on Paige’s cheek. “One more!”

“Mwah!” Another, right on Paige’s forehead.

Paige was laughing now, breathless, wrapped up in the weight and joy of both of them piled on top of her, covered in kisses and the kind of love that left no room for doubt.

“Okay,” Paige said between laughs. “You two are gonna smother me.”

“Love smother!” Ruby yelled.

Azzi leaned in again and kissed the side of her neck. “We’re not sorry.”

“I don’t want you to be.”

They lay there tangled up, warm and full and clinging to each other like the storm had passed, like they were still alive inside the eye of something beautiful.

And if Paige cried a little more with both of them in her arms, no one said a word.

Because now it wasn’t fear. It was a relief. Ruby had said it out loud. She saw Paige as her mummy. And that was everything.

#pazzi #azzi fudd #paige bueckers #pazzi fics #uconn wbb #paige x azzi #wlw

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maskedbyghost · 1 day ago

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last part of toxic ex!Simon Riley x f!Reader

You weren’t even sure what you were supposed to feel anymore, and maybe that was the worst part of all of it, because at least when you were angry, you had direction, something to aim at, something to burn down, but now everything just felt kind of… flat.

You were tired in places you didn’t even know could get tired, your body was carrying weight that didn’t belong to you anymore, and your brain kept trying to replay every fight, every night you waited for him to show up and he didn’t, every time you thought maybe this time, only to realize he hadn’t even noticed that you were hoping.

You weren’t sad, because that part had already happened, that storm had already come and gone and ripped through every soft part of you, and now there was just this… this weird emptiness. This dull ache that sat in your chest.

And the worst part was that you still kind of missed him. Or not even him, really, just the idea of him. The idea of someone who used to know how to make you laugh without trying, someone who used to touch your back in passing like he couldn’t help it, someone who used to say your name like it tasted good in his mouth. You missed the version of him that only existed in your head now, the one you used to imagine was just hiding under all the bullshit if you could dig deep enough to find him.

But you weren’t stupid anymore. At least, not in the same way.

So when the first text came through, just a short, careful message that read: Morning. Hope you slept okay. Don't worry, I’m not expecting a reply. Just wanted you to know I’m thinking about you—you didn’t answer it.

You stared at your screen for a few seconds, heart doing that annoying lurch it always did when his name popped up, and then you locked your phone and tossed it on the bed.

You weren’t going to do this again. Not for a text that took five seconds to type.

And when he sent one again the next day? Same thing.

Made coffee and thought about how you always put way too much sugar in yours. Miss that.

Still no reply.

The third day?

Morning, love. I just opened a cupboard and found one of your hair ties. I held it like a grieving Victorian widow for three minutes. So that’s fun.

You almost smiled at that one. Almost.

But you still didn’t answer.

He didn’t double-text. Didn’t follow it up with a question mark or a “Did you get my message?” or anything that would’ve given you more reason to roll your eyes. He just sent one a day. Always in the morning, and a little nervous, like he was scared you might actually block him again, but was still doing it anyway.

Day after day, for a full week. You didn’t block him this time. But you didn’t answer either.

Because part of you wanted to see how long he’d keep doing it without getting what he wanted. How long he’d be willing to sit in the quiet. How long he’d go before breaking the pattern and asking for more.

And honestly? You didn’t even know what you wanted him to do. You just knew you weren’t going to make it easy.

Not this time.

It had been a long week, and you weren’t even really in the mood to go out, not at first, not when your friends were pulling outfits out of your closet and hyping you up while you just stood there pretending like you weren’t still kind of hollow inside, like your stomach didn’t still do that annoying twist every time you saw his name pop up in your notifications, even if it was just another one of his dumb, soft morning texts that you still hadn’t replied to.

But they didn’t let you stay home. They dragged you out, shoved a drink in your hand, and told you you were hot and you deserved to feel good again. And honestly? After the second drink, after the third song, after the lights started to feel warmer and your feet started to move on their own, you started to believe them a little.

You danced, you smiled, and you let your body move without thinking too hard. And when some guy stepped close and started dancing with you, you didn’t say no.

It wasn’t anything crazy. You weren’t grinding on him or making a scene. You were just letting yourself feel something that wasn’t grief or guilt or the hollow ache of remembering someone who used to know every inch of your skin and now felt like a stranger who texted you about breakfast.

And then you turned.

And you saw him.

Simon.

Sitting at the bar.

Alone.

He wasn’t drinking. There was a beer in front of him, but he wasn’t touching it. He wasn’t watching the game on the screen behind the bar or scrolling through his phone or pretending not to notice you. No, he was just sitting there with his forearms on the bar, that stupid hoodie pushed up to his elbows, and his eyes locked on you like you were the only thing in the goddamn room.

You froze for half a second, caught mid-step, one hand still raised like you were about to toss your hair back and laugh, and your heart just… stopped. Because there was something in his face that made your chest feel like someone had wrapped their hands around your ribs and squeezed.

And he didn’t look away.

Not when you turned back toward your friends. Not when the guy you’d been dancing with leaned in to say something. Not even when your friend grabbed your hand and spun you around, laughing. Simon just watched quietly.

Like he’d seen everything he didn’t want to see and couldn’t look away from it.

You didn’t go over, you didn’t acknowledge him, you just danced. Let yourself move more freely. Let yourself pretend that he wasn’t sitting twenty feet away, like he was reliving every mistake he ever made and feeling every single one of them hit all at once.

And when the night ended, when the music died down and your feet were sore and your throat ached from yelling over the speakers, you walked out into the cool air with your girls, arms linked, laughing and stumbling a little, too tired and tipsy to care.

And there he was again.

Leaning against his car, hands in his jacket pockets, hair slightly messy, that same unreadable look on his face, but softer now, just tired. He’d been waiting there for hours and would’ve waited longer if he thought it meant you’d speak to him.

“Need a ride home, ladies?” he asked, voice low but smooth, but he didn’t look smug, didn’t look flirty. He looked like someone who knew exactly where he stood and was offering anyway.

And your friends?

Oh, they swooned.

One of them leaned in and whispered, “Is that the Simon?” like he was a celebrity instead of your ex. Another one literally fanned herself with her hand and said, “He could drive me home any night.”

You rolled your eyes. But you didn’t say no.

He opened the passenger door for one of your girls, helped another into the backseat, didn’t comment when they giggled a little too loudly or gave you a look that said this is so not over. He didn’t push. Didn’t even try to talk to you, really. He just drove.

Like he wasn’t breaking apart slowly behind the wheel.

He dropped them off one by one, and every time one of them got out, she’d turn and give you a look—one of those do you want us to wait? do you want us to make an excuse? kinds of looks—but you just shook your head.

Until it was just the two of you.

The silence filled the car, awkward and pressing down on your chest until it was hard to breathe. You didn’t say anything. Neither did he. He just kept his eyes on the road, jaw tight, fingers flexing slightly on the wheel like he was trying not to say the wrong thing.

He pulled up to your building and parked, let the engine idle for a second too long.

Then he looked at you

“I wasn’t there to ruin your night,” he said finally, voice rough and low like it hurt to talk. “I didn’t even know you’d be there, swear to God. I just… I haven’t seen you laugh like that in months. I didn’t know if I should feel happy for you or fucking sick.”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t come out like a confession or a slap.

So he sighed, ran a hand through his hair, and then added, even softer:

“You looked happy. That’s all I’ve wanted. Even if it’s not with me.”

You still didn’t speak. Your hand was already on the door handle.

But before you stepped out, he leaned slightly forward, not close enough to touch, just enough to say it:

“I’d rather watch you be happy from a distance than fuck up your peace again. But I’m not gonna stop hoping you let me try.”

Then he leaned back, hands back on the wheel. And you opened the door and stepped into the night, heart pounding, head spinning, trying to decide if it was anger or longing or both curling up in your chest.

You didn’t look back until you reached the door to your building.

And when you did?

He was still there.

There were moments when the world slowed down and no one was talking and nothing urgent needed doing, where you’d stop and realize you didn’t actually know how you felt anymore. Some mornings, you woke up feeling like maybe you could move on. Other mornings, you missed the shape of his arms around you so badly you had to physically sit on your hands to keep from texting him first.

And through it all, Simon kept texting.

Every single day.

Not demanding, not pushing, not trying to force a response. Just… there. Sometimes it was early in the morning, sometimes mid-afternoon, sometimes twice a day if he thought you’d had a bad one. And even though you never replied, not once, you read every single one.

Morning. Hope today doesn’t suck. I mean it. Go drink water or something.

Dropped my toast butter side down. Is that karma? Did I deserve this?

Just walked past a couple holding hands. I don’t wanna talk about it.

There was a dog outside the bakery this morning. I told him about you. He seemed supportive.

And you’d always read them.

Eyes rolling, lips twitching, heart doing that annoying little ache that you swore you were done feeling. But still, you didn’t reply.

Not until the bookshelf.

You got home late one night, tired and irritated and already half-ready to crawl into bed and ignore the world. Your bag dropped to the floor with a dull thud, and you kicked off your shoes, not even looking up as you walked toward your room, fully intending to faceplant and scroll TikTok until your eyes hurt.

But then you looked up.

And froze.

In the corner of your bedroom was a brand new bookshelf. Not a flimsy little piece from a discount store. No, this was beautiful, tall and dark-stained, filled with books so neatly arranged you thought you might be hallucinating for a second.

“What the fuck,” you muttered, stepping closer, blinking hard like the furniture might vanish if you stared at it too long.

And then you saw the note.

Taped to the shelf with one of those dumb gold star stickers.

A gift for you. I found your Goodreads account. (Your friend helped me. I bribed her with cupcakes. She’s disloyal.) These are all from your TBR list. Yes, all of them. No, I don’t want to talk about how long I was in that store.

Also, a real question... Did you mean to save the one where the guy kidnaps her and she calls it romance?? Are we not calling the police in these?? Also what is a ‘reverse harem’ and why is there a dragon on the cover?? I’m not kink-shaming, I swear. Just... blink twice if you need help, or like... a stable relationship?

You stood there for a full minute just staring at it, at the books, at the note, and at the fact that he had spent God knows how much time and money finding your unread books and building you a whole-ass bookshelf and then roasting your taste in spicy novels like that would somehow soften the blow.

And then?

Then you laughed.

Like, really laughed. Loud and unexpected, almost wheezing as you reached for your phone and opened his message thread for the first time in forever. Your fingers hovered for a second. Then typed:

I read the smut so I don’t text you ‘come ruin my life again’ at 2am. It’s called coping. Don’t judge me.

His reply came instantly:

Okay, well now I have 4 tabs open trying to figure out why that man in your book liked being stabbed. You scare me. I miss you. It’s confusing…

And that night, you fell asleep with a stupid smile on your face for the first time in forever.

Some days, it felt easier. You could get through a full twenty-four hours without thinking about him every time your phone buzzed, or without letting his name run laps through your mind just because you saw someone wearing his cologne at the store, or caught the tail end of a song he once hummed under his breath while cooking eggs at 2am in your kitchen.

Other days it was still a mess.

He still texted. Every morning without fail, like some broken record that somehow never made you roll your eyes hard enough to block him again. Sometimes you answered, short and sarcastic “wow you’re up early” or a “why are you telling me about your toast again.” Sometimes you didn’t. Sometimes you read his messages and stare at them for too long, and lock your phone before you can type something you’d regret.

Sometimes you laughed out loud when he sent you a picture of a dog in a sweater and said “he said he misses you, not me, just you.” Sometimes you wanted to scream when he followed it with a soft: “I miss you too though. Every version of you.”

You didn’t know what you were doing. Not really. Letting him text you, not shutting it down completely, letting him hang in the doorway of your life like he was waiting to be let back in if you just gave the word.

And today, it all felt like too much again.

So you left your apartment, pulled on a hoodie, headphones in, and wandered out until your feet took you to the park. You didn’t have a plan. You just needed to be somewhere else, somewhere quiet. You sat on a bench near the edge of the lake, watching ducks paddle around, watching couples walk hand in hand, the same aching scene you thought you were done getting crushed by.

But it still hit you.

The soft stuff always did.

A girl sat across the path with her head on her boyfriend’s shoulder while he played with her fingers. An older man helped his wife sit down carefully on a bench, then pulled a thermos from a bag and poured her something hot while she smiled at him like he was the only person in the world who mattered.

It made your chest tight again, that type of wanting that snuck up out of nowhere and sat on your ribs. Not for someone in particular—just for something that didn’t make you feel like you were bracing yourself all the time. Something that didn’t break and beg and promise, only to leave you rebuilding everything from scratch again.

And then you felt it. That weird shift in the air. The kind of awareness you’d only ever felt when he was near.

You turned your head. He wasn’t moving toward you, just standing there a few feet away, hands in the pockets of his jacket, looking at you like he didn’t know whether he was allowed to come closer or not.

You didn’t speak, didn’t wave, but you didn’t leave either.

So he walked over. Sat on the opposite end of the bench, he wasn’t sure how close he was allowed to get, and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees.

You didn’t say anything for a minute. Just sat there, watching the water.

And then he spoke.

“I’m not trying to win you back in some big dramatic way,” he said, glancing over at you now. “No grand gesture, or some stupid speech. Just… me. Every day showing up and being better. Whether you want to forgive me or not.”

Your throat felt tight, and you hated that.

You hated that your first thought was that he looked tired. Not messy tired, not in a falling-apart way, just like someone who hadn’t had a full breath of air since you told him to leave.

You looked back at the lake, arms crossed over your chest like that would keep anything else from slipping out.

“I don’t know what you expect me to say,” you said eventually. “I don’t have a big answer for you. I don’t even know if I trust you again, or if I should.”

“I don’t expect anything,” Simon said. “I mean, I hope. But I don’t expect. I just wanted to see you, even if we just sit here in silence and you never text me back again. This is enough for me.”

You both sat there quietly, for a long time of nothing but wind and leaves and distant laughter from a kid feeding the ducks with too much bread.

“I still think about it, you know,” you said suddenly, almost surprising yourself. “Everything. But I also think about the nights I cried myself to sleep, and how exhausted I was all the time from hoping you’d show up the way I needed you to.”

Simon flinched a little, like your words landed right where they were supposed to.

“I know,” he said. “I think about that too.”

You let your eyes close for a second, just to breathe through the ache.

“I don’t know if I can forgive you,” you said, softer now. “I don’t know if I’m supposed to, or if I even want to.”

“I’ll wait,” he said.

You turned to look at him, finally, really looked at him, and he didn’t smile or try to touch you or do anything that would tilt the balance.

He just looked back.

And then you stood. Brushed off your jeans, adjusted your hoodie, and slung your bag over your shoulder.

Simon stood too, but didn’t reach for you.

“I’ll see you around,” you said, voice unreadable.

He nodded. “I hope so.”

You gave him one last look, something tired and unsure but not entirely closed off, then turned and started walking down the path.

He didn’t follow.

And maybe you’d text him tomorrow, or maybe you wouldn’t. Maybe this was a step forward, or maybe it was the start of goodbye.

But either way, for now, you didn’t feel like you were drowning.

And that was enough for now.

----------------------------------------

I left the ending open on purpose because honestly it’s up to you. Maybe she forgives him eventually. Maybe she doesn’t. Maybe she texts him back that night, or maybe she blocks his number the second she gets home. Either way, I wanted it to feel like those unfinished things we all go through sometimes. So whatever ending you pick in your head? That’s the right one.

Thanks for reading. <3

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate @xocandyy @nightfwn @robinfeldt98 @xiisblogs @mad-die45 @readingthingy @actualpoppy @amongthe141 @whore4romance @thatghostlykid @syofrelief @avgdestitute @sheepdogchick3 @echo9821 @imalapdog @foxintheferns @trulovekay @preeyas-world @ruleroftides @rose37373 @succulambb @havoc973 @jajouska @fruitymoonbeams-blog @cece2608

#simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x female oc #simon riley imagine #simon riley x reader #simon riley #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost x you

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liuhsng · 2 days ago

Text

─────⋆˚࿔ ⋆ eyes on me ( lhs ! ) — part 1

✩ˎˊ˗ enhypen masterlist

⤷ pairing — heeseung x fem!reader

⤷ part 1 | part 2 ⤷ word count — 13.7k ⤷ based on this and this by my lovely anons ⤷ permanent taglist — open !

⤷ a/n — as promised, here it is, i fear this might be one of my best works yet… and definitely the longest. part 2? i’m already writing it as we speak. the last fight between heeseung and the reader was heavily inspired by moonstruck (iykyk), and i really poured so much into this one. enjoy reading, loves—i hope it hits all the right places in your heart 🤍

⤷ warnings — idol au, idol!heeseung, dancer!reader, slowburn, enemies to lovers trope-ish, emotionally awkward heeseung, emotionally constipated reader, cold!reader, loser!heeseung, whipped!heeseung, heeseung’s down bad, reader does not care that he’s famous, miscommunication (so much miscommunication), hurt/comfort undertones, fluff (eventually), heavy angst

✩ˎˊ˗ summary — as a rising dance prodigy, you're no stranger to idols—you’ve trained with them, performed behind them, and watched some fall from grace when the spotlight turned harsh. so when you’re cast as one of the dancers for enhypen’s newest comeback, you already know what to expect: long nights, hard work, and an idol or two trying to get in your pants. lee heeseung, you decide, is exactly that kind. smiles too easily. stares too long. he sees you once and falls all at once—messy, quiet, and stupidly soft. or, where you think he’s everything you should avoid, and he thinks you’re everything he’ll never deserve—but still wants anyway.

You were panting, chest heaving, sweat trailing down your temple as you leaned against the mirror—fingertips grazing the cold glass to keep your balance.

The song you’d been replaying for nearly an hour echoed faintly from the speaker still running in the corner of the room, but you’d long tuned it out. The only thing you could really hear now was your heartbeat and the silence that always came after giving everything.

It wasn’t even your scheduled session.

Not really.

With Le Sserafim on pause before their next comeback and your calendar suspiciously clear, you found yourself gravitating to HYBE’s third practice room on the fifth floor.

Same old lights. Same scuffed flooring. Same drawer in the corner where you kept your charger and your lip balm—your unofficial locker in a room that wasn’t really yours but somehow felt like home.

You pushed off the mirror with a sigh and padded across the studio, footsteps soft against the wooden floor as you reached the familiar drawer.

Your phone sat inside, screen lighting up with two messages from Yunjin and one chaotic selfie of Chaewon in the groupchat you never muted.

yunjin [8:00 P.M.]: tell me why i just heard you’re at the building practicing again, girl sleep

chaewon [8:00 P.M.]: we miss you bitch come downstairs after ur possessed dance session

You cracked a grin despite yourself.

Being under HYBE was never the dream—but dancing was. Always had been. And when Le Sserafim debuted and you got scouted as part of the core backup team, something clicked.

Not just because the girls welcomed you like you’d grown up with them—dinners after rehearsals, borrowed hoodies, inside jokes—but because for the first time, your work felt like it belonged to something bigger.

“Should’ve debuted,” people often said. “You’ve got the talent. The look. The stage presence.”

Maybe you did.

But the contracts? The rules? The never-ending line of expectations and media training and image polishing?

You loved the spotlight, not the cage it came with.

So you danced. You lived. You stayed free.

Grabbing your phone, you wiped the back of your hand across your brow, tying your hair back into a loose bun and tossing your water bottle from one hand to the other as you headed toward the center of the room again. Just one more run-through. You weren’t tired—you were wired.

You tapped the playlist again.

Until—the door clicks open.

You pause mid-step, halfway through a turn.

Your brows furrow, already annoyed. This room was empty for a reason—booked by staff, reserved for registered dancers. If someone forgot to check the schedule again, you were not in the mood.

But then the door swings fully open, and Lee Heeseung walks in.

Baseball cap, all black sweats, and a water bottle tucked under his arm like he owns the place.

You recognize him immediately, not because you follow ENHYPEN—god, no—but because you’ve seen him around enough. Stage rehearsals. Passing glances in the hallway. One of HYBE’s golden boys.

The second he steps inside and hears the track echoing through the speakers, he freezes.

Eyes wide. Shoulders stiff. Like someone just pressed pause on his whole system. His gaze slowly scans the room—until it lands on you.

And for a second, he looks like a deer caught in headlights.

You glare instinctively. “This room’s booked.”

“Oh,” he says, like he’s only now realizing you’re real and not part of some fever dream. His voice is soft, almost breathless—like you startled him more than you should’ve.

He doesn’t move.

You shift your weight onto one hip, fixing your posture as you cross your arms over your chest. His eyes follow every movement, slow and wide-eyed, like he’s trying to memorize the moment. Your brow arches higher.

“…Are you lost?” you ask coolly, tone laced with dry amusement. “Or are you just staring for fun?”

Heeseung blinks again, visibly short-circuiting. “What? No—I mean—uh, sorry. I didn’t know anyone was still using the room.”

You roll your eyes, unimpressed, turning your back to him as you stride toward the speaker setup. Your phone’s still tucked into the little drawer beside it. You tap the screen to shut the music off mid-chorus, and the room falls into a painfully loud silence.

From behind you, his voice comes again—hesitant, awkward. “You were… practicing, right?”

You shoot him a look over your shoulder. “No shit.”

He flinches slightly—not from offense, but from the sheer tone. Like he’s never been spoken to like that in his life. Like no one’s ever looked at him like that—like he was in the way.

His lips part, stunned. You watch his mouth open, close, open again like he’s buffering.

You sigh. “Do you need something?”

“I just—uh. I have practice. After this. With the group. Here.”

You stare at him flatly. “…Congrats.”

Your phone finally detangles from the charger and you tug it free, slinging your towel across the back of your neck as you gather your things without urgency. You don’t rush, but every move says this conversation is over.

Heeseung doesn’t move out of your way.

He just stands there, eyes tracing the motion of your hands as you zip your bag shut.

His gaze follows your every motion, like your movements are a routine he can’t quite catch the rhythm to. There’s something almost boyish in the way he stands—hands at his sides, weight shifting between his feet, unsure if he’s allowed to speak again.

You don’t give him the satisfaction of eye contact.

You feel his stare burning into your back, heavy and annoyingly curious, as if he’s trying to figure you out like a puzzle someone dared him to solve. But you’ve played this game before. With idols who smile too easily. With eyes that linger too long.

You toss your bag over your shoulder, grip your phone in one hand, and walk past him without a glance.

The scent of his cologne barely reaches you—a subtle, clean warmth—but you ignore it like you ignore everything else about him.

Heeseung turns slightly as you brush by, part of him wanting to say something—anything. Maybe an apology. Maybe a compliment.

But you’re already out the door.

And behind you, Lee Heeseung stands frozen in the center of the practice room, watching the space you left behind like he’s never been dismissed that fast in his life.

The steam from your ramen curled lazily into the air, untouched and slowly going cold as you sat hunched over the dining table, poking at the noodles with your chopsticks.

The soft chatter of your friends buzzed from your phone, propped up on a half-empty water bottle in the center of the table.

Yunjin was in her usual spot on her bed, animatedly talking with her hands as she ranted about the upcoming concept, while Chaewon nodded along beside her, munching on what looked like a rice cracker.

“…and if they make us do that choreography again, I swear to god I’m filing a complaint,” Yunjin groaned dramatically, falling backwards onto the mattress. “My knees weren’t made for this. I’m an idol, not a gymnast.”

“You’re just mad you have to wear those boots again,” Chaewon snickered.

Yunjin gasped, pointing at the screen. “Don’t expose me like that!”

You didn’t respond.

You barely even blinked—chin resting in one hand, the other absentmindedly swirling your chopsticks through the broth.

You weren't even listening, really. Your mind was still in that practice room, rewinding and replaying something you refused to admit got under your skin.

“…Hello?” Yunjin’s voice cut through your fog. “Earth to (Y/N)?”

Nothing.

“(Y/N),” she called again, louder this time, leaning closer to the camera. “Are you even with us right now?”

You blinked and finally looked up. “Huh? Oh—sorry. Sorry, I wasn’t—yeah.”

Chaewon tilted her head. “You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

You shook your head quickly, lips pressing into a thin line. “No, it’s nothing. Just… tired, I guess.”

Yunjin raised a perfectly sculpted brow, not buying it for a second. “That didn’t sound convincing at all. Spill.”

You sighed and dropped your chopsticks, leaning back in your chair. “It’s not even a big deal.”

“That’s what people say right before they drop the good shit,” Yunjin said, crossing her arms.

Chaewon chimed in, “Come on. You’re never like this.”

You hesitated, then finally muttered under your breath, “…I just—bumped into someone earlier.”

Yunjin perked up. “Who?”

You sighed, scrunching your nose as if the memory physically pained you. “That deer-looking member from ENHYPEN.”

Chaewon immediately burst out laughing, nearly dropping her snack. “You mean Heeseung-sunbaenim?”

Yunjin’s eyes lit up like a fire had been lit under her. “Wait—Lee Heeseung? That Heeseung??”

You groaned, dragging your palm down your face. “I didn’t even do anything. He just… walked in. Stared at me. Looked like he forgot how doors work. And then tried to talk like he wasn’t mentally glitching the whole time.”

Chaewon snorted. “That’s so specific.”

“I thought he was gonna pass out when I asked if he was lost,” you muttered, slumping forward dramatically. “Why do idols act like no one’s ever spoken to them like a normal person?”

Yunjin snorted. “Because they’re so used to everybody praising them and giving fake smiles. One real sentence and they malfunction.”

You laughed, dry and amused. “Amen to that.”

Chaewon, who’d gone quiet for a moment, suddenly spoke up. “Well… I mean, Heeseung-sunbaenim’s pretty notorious around here.”

You blinked. “What do you mean by ‘notorious’?”

Yunjin clicked her tongue and shot Chaewon a look. “Unnie.”

Chaewon just shrugged with a guilty smile, like she realized a little too late that she opened a door you were definitely going to walk through.

You narrowed your eyes. “What did she mean by that?”

Chaewon held her hands up innocently. “Nothing! I mean—I just meant… well, it’s really not my story to tell.”

You stared at her flatly. “You already started the story, might as well finish it.”

She sighed dramatically and leaned in closer to the camera, as if anyone was around to overhear. “Okay, fine. But lower your expectations—it’s just… you know how it is in the building. People talk.”

You nodded once, wordlessly. She took that as her cue.

“Well,” she began slowly, her voice dropping a little, “he’s kind of… known to be a—I don’t know—player, I guess?”

Yunjin shifted uncomfortably but didn’t interrupt this time.

“There was this whole thing a while back,” Chaewon continued, eyes flicking down like she didn’t want to make it a big deal. “Rumors said he used to date one of the backup dancers from a different group. And, um… it didn’t end well.”

Your expression didn’t change, but your fingers stilled against your water bottle.

“Didn’t end well?” you echoed.

Chaewon bit her lip. “Word is he ghosted her after a few weeks. Left her totally heartbroken. Like—treated her like she never existed.”

You raised a brow. You weren’t one to believe in gossip, but… these weren’t just random trainees or building buzz.

These were your girls. They never lied to you. Never exaggerated unless it was for comedic effect. And they weren’t even speaking with drama in their voices—just quiet caution.

Yunjin finally sighed and folded her arms. “Look, we’re not saying he’s evil or anything. But just… be careful, okay?”

“Careful?” you scoffed. “Yunjin, I threatened his life with a single look. I think I’m good.”

“Still,” she said, chin propped on her hand. “Guys like that? They love a challenge.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue. You hated that they might be right. Hated more that part of you had noticed the way he looked at you—like you were choreography he couldn’t quite learn but desperately wanted to.

Chaewon tilted her head. “So… are you gonna see him again?”

You blinked. “God, I hope not.”

You reached for your water again, swirling the bottle absentmindedly. “I mean—I just bumped into him. Literally. Once. So yeah, I hope not. Let’s leave it at that.”

Yunjin leaned in closer on camera, resting her chin in her palm. “Well… you’re contracted to us. Technically. So unless Heeseung-sunbaenim suddenly joins Le Sserafim, I think you’ll be safe.”

You snorted. “Right? If he pops up in our choreography, I’m quitting.”

“Bold of you to assume he wouldn’t volunteer for that,” Chaewon said under her breath.

You groaned, dragging your hand down your face. “Okay, can we not do this? He was barely in the room for five minutes and he was already glitching like I punched him with my eyes.”

Yunjin gave you a look. “You kind of did.”

You rolled your eyes, slumping back in your chair. “Whatever. It’s not like I’m ever gonna see him again. I’ve got enough going on.”

Yunjin tilted her head knowingly. “You’re only this defensive when something’s getting to you.”

“Getting to me?” you scoffed. “I’ve dealt with idols before. He’s not special.”

“Mm-hm,” Chaewon hummed, clearly not believing you.

“I’m serious,” you insisted. “He’s not even my type.”

You weren’t exactly sure how you ended up in this situation.

One minute you were running choreography drills for Chaewon’s solo part, and the next, you were seated stiffly in a cold conference room across the HYBE annex building, sipping on watered-down coffee like your future wasn’t being casually decided in front of you.

You sat silently as two managers—one from Le Sserafim’s team and one from ENHYPEN’s—talked over each other across the glossy table, voices overlapping in between manila folders and open schedules.

“We’re short one female dancer,” ENHYPEN’s manager said, flipping through pages.

“It’s a center piece too. A lot of exposure. We need someone who can hold their own without relying on the main members to carry the dynamic.”

“She’s perfect for it,” your manager added without hesitation. “She already has chemistry with the camera, she’s sharp, precise—and she’s worked alongside the girls long enough to adapt fast. She’s ready.”

They kept talking like you weren’t even there.

Your elbow was propped up against the table, chin resting on your hand as you tuned them out somewhere between “urgent casting call” and “we’ll handle the paperwork.”

All you could think about was this:

You were about to work with hormonal male idols. For a solid month.

And one of them just so happened to be the infamous deer-eyed flirt you had the misfortune of meeting barely 24 hours ago.

You’d heard the rumors. You weren’t new to this industry. You just never thought you’d be getting paid to be around them.

But god, the paycheck.

ENHYPEN wasn’t just big—they were everywhere. If you signed on, it would double your rate. Triple it, even. And it’d look good on your record. So good.

You sighed, finally tuning back in to the sound of your own name.

Both managers had turned to look at you, expectantly.

You blinked, eyes flitting between the two of them. Their faces were hopeful. It wasn’t like you had a million options.

You mumbled, “Yeah… I’ll do it.”

Cheers erupted immediately. The ENHYPEN manager clapped his hands together, standing to shake yours. “Knew you’d say yes. Great call—seriously. You’re saving us.”

You gave him a tight, polite smile, shaking both their hands with the enthusiasm of someone who just signed a deal with the devil. You adjusted your blouse, brushing invisible wrinkles from your skirt as your manager smiled at you.

“You can go now,” she said warmly. “We’ll finalize the transfer.”

You bowed slightly. “Thanks.”

As the door clicked open, your shoes echoed lightly against the tiled hallway floor—and you stopped short.

There they were.

Seven heads turned the moment you stepped out. ENHYPEN, all seated against the wall outside the conference room like they’d been waiting for their turn—or your decision.

You didn’t even let your gaze linger long enough to tell. You simply dipped your head in a short bow and kept walking, barely glancing their way.

But you felt it.

The same eyes from last night locked on your back again like a magnet—quiet, unblinking, and far too curious for your comfort. You pretended not to notice, walking right past like he was part of the wallpaper.

As soon as the door swung closed behind you, the hallway fell into silence.

Jake leaned over, nudging Heeseung with an elbow.

“Hey,” he said casually. “What was that?”

Heeseung blinked like he was just coming out of a daze. “Huh? Sorry—yeah. What?”

Jake raised a brow. “You good?”

Heeseung cleared his throat and looked down at his hands. “Yeah. Just tired.”

Jake didn’t believe it for a second, but he let it slide, leaning back against the wall with a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Right. Tired.”

Heeseung only smiled in return—soft, distracted—and fiddled with the rings on his fingers as if his thoughts were too loud to sit still.

His thumb brushed over the silver band on his index like it could help him, but it didn’t help much. Not when his mind was still stuck on you.

The manager’s voice called out, sharp and professional, “ENHYPEN, let’s go. We’re starting the prep meeting.”

Heeseung stood, brushing imaginary lint off his jeans before quietly following the others into the room—head down, heart louder than it should be.

You, on the other hand, were on the verge of a very quiet breakdown.

Your steps echoed through the hallway of the HYBE building as you made your way toward Le Sserafim’s practice room. You pushed the door open a little too fast, and the moment it swung wide, five sets of eyes snapped toward you like you’d triggered some kind of alarm.

“Whoa,” Yunjin blinked. “You good?”

You ran a hand through your hair and didn’t answer. Instead, you walked straight past the mirror and started pacing near the center of the room, your brows furrowed in thought.

Kazuha stood up first, moving toward you with a gentle hand reaching for your arm. “Unnie… are you okay?”

You blinked down at her, lips parted, and then forced a tired smile as you licked your lips and sighed. “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just—I have another schedule right after this stage, so…”

The girls exchanged glances, the air shifting with curiosity.

“What do you mean?” Eunchae asked, already scooting closer beside you on the floor like she was preparing for a full story.

Kazuha guided you to sit in the middle with them, and you gave in, sinking onto the practice mat as you exhaled again, hands resting on your thighs.

“I was offered something,” you said slowly.

Chaewon’s eyes narrowed slightly, protective by nature. “Offered what?”

You looked at her, then glanced down. “I was hired… for ENHYPEN’s upcoming comeback.”

A chorus of squeals and gasps broke out instantly.

“Unnie, what?!”

“No way—”

“That’s huge!”

“You’re gonna be in the center??”

Sakura clapped her hands together. “Isn’t that a great thing? That’s such a big opportunity!”

You gave her a pout. “Unnie, won’t you miss me?”

She laughed, crawling over to drape her arm across your shoulder. “Of course I will! But that doesn’t mean I’m not proud.”

“You’re gonna kill it,” Yunjin said, pointing at you with certainty.

“I mean, we’re still in the same building,” Eunchae added with a small giggle. “It’s not like you’re moving countries.”

You groaned, throwing your head back dramatically as you let your hands fall into your lap. “Yeah, but I’m gonna be working with Heeseung.”

Sakura blinked. “Is that… such a bad thing?”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t need to.

You just slowly turned your head and sent a pointed look toward Chaewon, one brow raised like a silent accusation.

Sakura’s eyes widened instantly. “Wait—you told her?”

Chaewon raised both hands in mild defense. “Okay, well—she bumped into him last night! Practically had him shaking in his boots. What was I supposed to do, not say anything?”

Yunjin leaned back on her palms, letting out a low sigh. “To be fair, it’s just a rumor. About Heeseung-sunbaenim, I mean. No one really knows what happened with that backup dancer. It could’ve been blown out of proportion.”

Sakura sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose like she was the only adult in a room full of unhinged daughters. “Still… Heeseung-sunbaenim? That’s not exactly the kind of name I like hearing next to yours.”

You exhaled loudly, falling back onto the wooden floor with a light thud. “What am I even gonna do?”

“You’ll survive,” Chaewon said, grinning down at you as she leaned forward on her knees. “You hate male idols. So I’m guessing you’re safe.”

You gave her a flat look from where you were sprawled out. “I do.”

Yunjin shrugged. “She really does.”

“I mean,” you went on, dragging your hand over your face lazily, “they’re loud. They reek of fabric softener and expensive cologne. And most of them only train hard when a camera’s on.”

“Damn,” Eunchae muttered with a small laugh.

“And they all flirt like it’s their job,” you added for good measure, removing your hand off your face and staring at the ceiling. “Which, I guess… it kind of is.”

Chaewon raised a hand in mock prayer. “May the gods protect Heeseung-sunbaenim.”

You sat up slowly, shoulders sagging. “I mean, it won’t be that bad. Right?”

Kazuha patted your back gently. “That’s the spirit.”

“Exactly,” you nodded. “I’ve worked with guys before. I can be civil. Just gotta stay professional.”

But beneath all the teasing, all the nervous tension, and the semi-unfounded panic, you were trying your best not to wonder what working beside him would really be like.

Because no matter how much you insisted otherwise—the look in his eyes—the way he’d stared at you like you were some kind of glitch in his system.

You remembered it a little too well.

You sat cross-legged on the polished floor of the massive HYBE practice room, surrounded by six other girls—all dancers like you, all chatting quietly as they stretched, refilled water bottles, or scrolled through their phones between warmups. Despite only meeting earlier this week, you already liked them.

Maybe it was the familiarity in movement. Maybe it was the shared exhaustion.

Or maybe it was the way everyone kind of understood how tiring it was being in the shadows of the spotlight without actually resenting it.

You leaned back on your palms, listening to one of the girls, complain about her past contract. “I used to be assigned to TXT for their last few comebacks,” she sighed, brushing her bangs out of her eyes.

“But with ENHYPEN blowing up like this? I couldn’t even breathe during rehearsals.”

Another dancer, laughed. “Girl, be serious—it’s not even TXT’s fault. You just like sleeping.”

The group chuckled and you smiled, nodding along. “No, I get what she means though. These kinds of projects get intense. One delay and everything collapses.”

“Exactly,” One of them said, holding up a triumphant finger. “See? She gets it.”

Even one of the choreographers nearby, who was mid-conversation with another coach across the mirrors, looked over and grinned. “She couldn’t survive another world tour. This is her redemption arc.”

That earned more laughs from the dancers, and the room softened with warmth again.

Then a new voice piped up from your right. “So, (Y/N), who did you used to work with?”

You glanced over. Another dancer, tilted her head curiously. “Like… which group?”

You shrugged, casually stretching your arms. “Ah—I was with Le Sserafim.”

Immediately, someone gasped. “Wait, really? Is it true they’re super kind? Like, off-cam too?”

You smiled automatically, fondness slipping into your voice before you could filter it. “Yeah. They’re honestly the sweetest. Super hardworking. It was… fun working with them. Like, really fun.”

“Aww,” someone said, and another sighed dreamily. “See, I knew they were angels.”

You laughed under your breath, tucking your hair behind your ear—just in time for the door to swing open with a solid click.

The entire room paused.

And in walked the seven boys you were assigned to work with for the next four weeks.

The same boys you’d passed in the hallway. The same ones from all the stages, the headlines, the insane fan energy. And the same group that just so happened to include him.

You stood automatically with the others, muscles tight from both habit and something else.

“Good morning!” their manager called behind them.

“Good morning!” the dancers and choreographers chorused back, all polite smiles and tiny bows.

The boys followed suit, each dipping into a respectful bow before scattering around the mirrored room—bags being dropped, jackets shrugged off, water bottles set down with practiced ease. You bowed too, forcing your body to stay neutral.

Your eyes found him immediately.

Lee Heeseung.

He moved like he belonged in the center of the room. Not because he demanded attention—but because his presence pulled it. Effortless, fluid, camera-ready even in joggers and a hoodie.

His hair was silver now.

Freshly dyed. Still glinting slightly under the overhead lights, strands catching the soft fluorescent white like moonlight turned solid.

He was scanning the room—just like you were—and the moment your gazes met, it was instant.

Sharp. Heavy. Lingering just one second too long.

You blinked.

So did he.

Then he quickly looked down, fumbling with the strap of his bag like it suddenly became a Rubik’s cube. You rolled your eyes to yourself and turned away, muttering under your breath as you took a step back toward the center.

“Well. This is gonna be great.”

You muttered it mostly to yourself as you adjusted the hem of your loose tee, tucking it into your joggers while quietly making your way to stand beside the other dancers near the wall.

The mirrors across the room stretched from end to end, reflecting the hum of quiet excitement as both groups began gathering in clusters.

And even from across the room, Heeseung’s ears burned. Because even if you weren’t looking anymore—he still was.

You stuck beside one of the girls you’d spoken with earlier, both of you choosing to hover just slightly farther from the others—close enough to listen, far enough to not be the center of attention.

Not yet, at least.

“Alright, let’s get started,” Jungwon’s voice rang out gently over the low murmurs, ever the natural leader. “Hyung, they’re all here.”

One of the choreographers clapped his hands together in the center of the mirrored room, stepping forward with a wide smile. “Perfect. Good morning, everyone!”

A chorus of polite greetings echoed back.

“We’re all here today to begin blocking for ENHYPEN’s upcoming comeback performance,” he continued. “Congratulations to the group, by the way—this one’s big.”

Everyone clapped.

The dancers. The choreographers. Even a few stylists and managers along the back wall clapped and grinned, nodding toward the boys with pride.

You clapped too. Briefly. Quietly. No emotion behind it—but polite enough.

“Let’s start with greetings,” the second choreographer said, motioning toward the group. “Boys first. Formalities matter, okay?”

With that, Jungwon took half a step forward, his signature dimple flashing as he smiled like it was second nature. “Okay, okay. One, two—connect!”

The rest of the group snapped in sync: “We are ENHYPEN!”

It earned a few amused reactions from the dancers around you—some cooing at the professionalism, others just watching with quiet admiration. They really were idols through and through.

“I’m Jungwon,” he said warmly. “I’ll do my best to keep up.”

“Jay,” came the next, a sharp bow and his eyes flickering briefly toward you and the other girls. “Thank you for working with us.”

“Sunghoon,” said the next, voice cool, expression unreadable.

Then came: “Sunoo! I’m looking forward to dancing with you all.” followed by his signature grin.

“Ni-ki,” the youngest nodded, already swaying slightly like he couldn’t stand still. “Please take care of me.”

“…Heeseung.”

You didn’t realize you’d turned slightly until your eyes locked on him—and once again, he was already looking.

Hard.

You could see the tightness in his jaw, the awkward twitch of his fingers as he bowed slightly, his voice just a pitch softer than the rest. “Nice to meet you.”

Heeseung’s eyes trailed after you long after the boys stepped back into line.

His ears were burning.

He couldn’t even pretend to look somewhere else. Not when you were standing like that—posture sharp, head high, exuding confidence like it was woven into your skin.

The way you carried yourself—like you already owned the room. And maybe, maybe that was what made him feel like he forgot how to stand.

“Your turn, girls,” one of the choreographers said, gesturing toward your side.

The girls began one by one. Bowing politely, offering soft greetings.

“Hi, I’m excited to be here.”

“Looking forward to working with everyone.”

“Hope we’ll all get along well.”

You stepped forward, just enough. Bowed once—sharp, respectful, effortless. When you lifted your head, your voice was even, steady.

“I’m (Y/N),” you said. “Please take care of me.”

Simple.

Straight to the point.

And Heeseung was gone.

He stared—eyes wide, lips parted ever so slightly. Your name hit him like it echoed, like it attached itself to his spine and rewrote his posture.

“(Y/N),” he mouthed, almost unconsciously.

His fingers moved without thought—tugging at the top of his ear where the skin felt like it was on fire. He rubbed the shell of it, trying to focus, to breathe, to not look like a complete idiot.

But it didn’t help.

Jay, standing next to him, leaned in just enough to whisper without breaking formation. “Dude.”

Heeseung blinked. “Huh?”

“You’re staring like you’ve never seen a girl before.”

“I’m not—”

Jay snickered, looking ahead again. “Your ears are literally red.”

Heeseung didn’t respond. Just kept fiddling with his earring, swallowing once. Twice.

Then, like even that felt too revealing, he let his hand drop to his side and instead started tugging at the sleeves of his oversized sweater. The cotton bunched in his fingers as he pulled them low—hiding his hands, letting the ends fall just enough to brush against his palms.

His gaze never found you again. Not directly.

He kept his eyes somewhere safe—like the mirrors. Or the floor. Or the vague corner of the room that wasn’t currently occupied by the girl who now had a name. A name that rolled around his head on loop like a song he couldn’t shake off.

You raised a brow at his odd behavior.

Heeseung wasn’t exactly subtle. It was like watching a deer try to pretend it wasn’t cornered.

Before you could dwell on it, one of the choreographers clapped their hands sharply, recentering everyone’s attention.

“Alright! Let’s jump in,” she said, spinning back toward the room’s center. “We’ll be starting with the title track first—‘Bite Me.’”

There were a few audible reactions to that.

Jake nodded, lips quirking.

Sunghoon crossed his arms, unreadable.

“Oh no,” he whined, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. “Don’t tell me it’s another dark concept. I was made for cuteness!”

One of the other choreographers laughed. “You’ll survive, Sunoo.”

“Barely,” he muttered.

“We’re leaning heavy into the vampire theme,” the choreographer continued, pacing slowly as she spoke.

“Dark, dramatic, a little seductive. Think… elegant, but dangerous. Intense, but controlled. It’s a visual-heavy piece, so expression work is just as important as the movements.”

Another coach jumped in, voice sharper, more technical. “Blocking and formations will start today, but we’ll ease in. Dancers—you’ll be working close. Touching will be part of this. We’re not going cutesy here.”

You blinked, processing.

“Did she say seductive?” one of the girls whispered beside you, stifling a laugh.

You sighed, arms crossing as you tried not to react, eyes flicking briefly toward the group across the room.

Heeseung was still fiddling with his sleeves. Still avoiding your gaze. Still pretending to be very, very invested in the floor.

You exhaled slowly through your nose.

“This comeback’s all about energy,” the choreographer said firmly. “That tension between danger and desire. We want chemistry. We want heat. If it doesn’t feel electric, it’s not working.”

Fantastic, you thought dryly.

Someone from the staff behind you quietly passed out water bottles and printed choreo maps.

“Partners will be finalized in a few minutes,” the head coach added. “But today, we’re just learning formations. Take mental notes of who moves where—chemistry’s part of the selection process.”

You nearly flinched.

Because just the word partners sent something uneasy crawling up your spine.

You didn’t know if it was nerves or dread.

You exhaled slowly, reaching up to move your hair from your shoulders, pulling it back into a loose ponytail as if the movement would also push away the anxiety building in your chest.

“Alright,” Jungwon clapped his hands once, the sound clean and polite. “Let’s find space so we can stretch first. Coach said to keep it light for now.”

Around you, everyone shuffled into place.

The music started low, steady from the mounted speakers—an instrumental beat pulsing soft but cold, fitting the vampire concept too well.

You padded toward a space near one of the other dancers, taking your mark as your arms loosened at your sides. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught movement.

Jay and Heeseung stepped into the spot diagonally across from you.

A few feet away.

Just far enough to notice.

Silver hair. Pale under the lights. A tall frame you could not ignore if you tried—and you really, really tried.

Heeseung moved precisely, even when doing something as simple as a forward fold. Every stretch, every posture, even the subtle turn of his wrist as he reached upward, had the kind of practiced grace that only came from years of muscle memory.

And fine, maybe the way the hem of his sweater rose a little to reveal the curve of his waist was—not an eyesore.

He bent forward, long legs folding in near-perfect symmetry, and you hummed to yourself in thought as you copied the motion, fingertips brushing your sneakers as you leaned into the stretch.

You closed your eyes briefly.

He’s not ugly, your brain offered helpfully.

But it wasn’t about looks. Never was.

You didn’t trust the type. Not the idol charm. Not the carefully curated appeal. Not the ones who knew they were beautiful and acted like it was a favor to the world.

Still, you found yourself peeking again, through the fall of your lashes, just in time to see Heeseung adjust his sleeves and glance up—and this time, his eyes nearly caught yours.

You turned away before they could.

You reached upward on cue as Jungwon led the next stretch, voice light and encouraging from the center.

“Arms up,” he said, demonstrating. “Inhale, and—fold. Let’s warm up your legs and lower back.”

You followed the rhythm, letting your body fall back into instinct.

Jungwon’s voice carried steady through the room as he guided the group through the last stretch. “And exhale slowly—come back up.”

Everyone rose from their positions in a wave of motion, quiet exhalations filling the space like a shared breath.

The choreographers moved to the front again, clapping once to gather attention.

“Alright, now that everyone’s loosened up,” one began, “let’s talk a bit more about the concept before we get into teaching.”

You rolled your shoulders back, settling into a comfortable stance, arms crossed loosely as you listened—nodding every so often, even if most of it passed over your head like background noise.

“‘Bite Me,’” the head coach repeated. “We mentioned earlier—vampire concept, but we’re going deeper. Think power. Think seduction. There’s a desperation to the choreography, like you’re drawn to each other, pulled in and pushed away again.”

You blinked slowly.

“Now, before we assign partners,” another choreographer chimed in, “we’re going to teach the first part of the chorus. Just to see how the movement flows. Chemistry matters—and it’s easier to feel that when we see you do it alone a few times first.”

Alone.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

“Everyone, shift to formation, please,” the head choreographer instructed. “We’ll teach the base steps first, no pressure, no full-out yet.”

You moved into place with the other dancers, falling naturally into a slot near the right. The ENHYPEN boys were mirrored on the other side of the room—learning the same steps, taught by a different coach with half the mirrors angled toward them.

The music started again.

Slower this time. Stripped. Just beat and breath.

And then the first movements were demonstrated—an arch of the back, a turn on the heel, a downward drag of your hand down your neck and chest. A flick of the wrist. A step forward with intent.

You weren’t a stranger to dancing in close contact—but this was different. Every move screamed tension.

Everything about it screamed closeness, heat, the kind of near-touch that burned more than actual skin-on-skin.

Still—you adapted fast.

Even without a partner, your movements flowed smoothly. The twist of your body, the precise lines of your arms, the slight drop of your head when instructed to lean back with your neck exposed—

“Nice, (Y/N),” one of the choreographers called out, eyes sharp as she passed you. “Try leaning your head back just a bit more. Let it feel surrendered.”

You nodded quickly, making the adjustment as you repeated the movement again from the top. Fingers ghosting your collarbone, chin tilted higher this time, lips slightly parted with the breath it took to move like that.

You caught your own reflection in the mirror.

And for a moment, even you did a double take.

You hummed under your breath and went back to hitting the formation, silently wondering how the hell you were going to do this with actual physical contact involved.

And across the room, Lee Heeseung was spiraling.

He couldn’t look away.

Not really.

He tried—god, he really tried—but you were in his peripheral vision like gravity, like something pulling him in every time you moved with that sharp, fluid control.

There was no faltering in your rhythm. Every drag of your hand, every arch, every twist of your body—it was like your bones knew the beat before the music even dropped.

And it was doing things to him.

His jaw clenched. So did his hands, tightening into loose fists at his sides as the choreographer called out the next set of steps.

Heeseung had a half-mind to listen. The other half was firmly rooted in the sight of you dragging your palm over your throat with your eyes closed.

Jake, next to him, didn’t even look up as he sighed. “Stop acting like it’s the first time you’ve seen a girl besides your mom,” he muttered under his breath.

Heeseung whipped his head toward him with a scowl, voice low. “Shut up.”

Jake raised both hands in mock surrender. “I’m just saying. You’re being so obvious right now.”

Heeseung glared for another beat before turning back toward the mirror. He adjusted his footing, shook out his arms, and tried to fall into formation again—but it was impossible.

Because now the music was picking up, and the choreographer’s voice cut across the room sharply—

“Focus! Don’t just mark it—move like it means something.”

He bent his knees slightly, timed the flick of his hand to the beat. But then came the next count—hips sliding forward, one arm curling behind the neck as if gripping something—or someone.

And his eyes flicked to the other side of the room.

To the way your neck tilted back like surrender. The way your lips parted ever so slightly with the breath it took to dip into the move. The sheer ease of it.

He blinked.

His thoughts were so loud he nearly missed the cue to step again. He silently begged the universe to make it stop.

Or not.

He didn’t know what he wanted anymore—does he want to be paired with you or not?

Because, on one hand, if he was—he’d combust. On the spot. Sweaty palms. Shaky voice. Couldn’t make eye contact for days.

On the other hand—if he wasn’t, he might die anyway.

The thought made him exhale sharply through his nose, dragging a hand over his face as the song faded out and the choreographer’s voice came in again, too chipper for the tension in his bones.

“Alright,” they said. “I think we’re ready to try that with partners now.”

A collective groan passed through the room.

Everyone drifted from their positions, regrouping in the center of the studio. The casual chatter returned—water bottles uncapped, someone fixing a hair tie, another adjusting the waistband of their sweatpants.

“Actually,” the assistant choreographer interrupted, stepping forward, “line up by height first. Let’s just get a visual.”

Sunoo blinked. “Are we back in high school?”

You barely suppressed a laugh, biting the inside of your cheek as a few dancers giggled around you.

But when you realized where you were standing once the line shifted into place—right at the front—you frowned almost instantly.

You exhaled slowly, arms folded over your chest as the choreographers paced the length of the line, murmuring notes between each other.

Occasionally, one would glance up, pointing briefly at a pair as if mentally bookmarking the duo. Once they reached the end of the line, the head coach nodded.

“Alright, back to the side please. We’ll start pairing off.”

Everyone shuffled away again, some more eager than others, some already whispering guesses. You stayed quiet.

“Let’s get this over with,” the choreographer continued, scanning the clipboard in their hand. “The sooner we find working chemistry, the better. We’ll try each pairing for a few counts, take notes, and go from there.”

You leaned against the wall, towel over your shoulder, fingers nervously tracing the hem.

“Heeseung.”

Your head turned.

He stepped out from the crowd smoothly, all quiet confidence and long strides. His silver hair glinted faintly under the studio lights, and despite the way his sweater clung to his back with sweat, he moved with ease.

He stood in the center of the room like he was born there, and maybe he was.

The choreographer tilted their chin. “Let’s see the male part from the top. Just walk us through it alone.”

Heeseung nodded, rolling his shoulders out as the music cued.

He moved like water—sharp but fluid, clean but emotional. Every movement was deliberate, every beat executed with the kind of skill that only came from years of muscle memory. You couldn’t deny it.

He was good. Really good.

The choreographers scribbled something down as he finished the last beat, chest rising and falling lightly.

You hummed under your breath.

“(Y/N).”

Your eyes flicked up. You pushed off the wall without a word, making your way toward the center as Heeseung stepped aside instinctively, giving you enough room to take your mark.

You dropped your towel, exhaled, and rolled your wrists once.

Your steps hit beat-for-beat with the track. Smooth twists, steady isolations, a sharp flick of the wrist here, a dragged palm across your jaw there—every motion etched in muscle and instinct. When you tilted your head back for that final count, eyes fluttering shut, it felt like electricity humming down your spine.

Even Heeseung blinked.

The choreographers paused. Whispered again. “Heeseung. Step in.”

He did. Hesitantly. Carefully. At least three feet away from you.

Laughter erupted from the other side of the room.

Jungwon scoffed playfully. “Hyung, what is that? A long-distance relationship?”

Heeseung scratched the back of his neck sheepishly, the tips of his ears already red. “Just… giving space.”

“You won’t be giving space when you’re doing the actual choreo,” one of the choreographers said dryly. “Move closer.”

Heeseung inched forward—half a step. Barely noticeable.

“Closer.”

Another half-step.

Heeseung’s mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. “…Right.”

You nodded once, sharp and simple, then turned your attention to the choreographers. You needed to keep it together—focus. You’d done harder routines than this. You’d worked with idols before.

But none of them had stood next to you like this.

None of them had made your skin crawl in a way that felt more like heat than discomfort.

You barely registered Heeseung fidgeting again, fingers tugging at the ends of his sleeves like they might hide the way his hands wouldn’t stop twitching. You didn’t even look at him.

The choreographers, clipboard in hand, were murmuring something. Their voices low, but not low enough.

“She’s a full foot shorter, but I think it looks great on camera.”

“Yeah, there’s contrast—but not awkward. They match. Perfectly.”

“I think this could work.”

You said nothing and let it slide.

Because if you were going to do this—you had to act like Lee Heeseung’s existence didn’t crawl up your spine like static. That his height didn’t make you feel cornered. That the word match didn’t make your stomach twist uncomfortably.

You straightened your posture.

Heeseung cleared his throat softly beside you.

The choreographer clapped once, “Alright. Let’s walk through it slowly first—no music yet. Get into your first position.”

You both nodded. You stepped back into formation, facing each other with about a foot of space between. Heeseung took one breath in—then another. You didn’t dare look at him.

“On my count.”

One. Two. Three.

You started slow, like instructed—bodies circling, moving around each other.

The first few steps had you moving away from him, then pulling close again. As the count hit, you slid your hand up—just under his chin, fingers hovering at the edge of his jaw. Your eyes flicked up briefly, catching the slightest flicker of hesitation in his.

Heeseung inhaled—shallow and sharp.

Still, he leaned in, just like he was supposed to. The distance between your faces cut down to mere inches. You could feel the heat radiating from him, smell the faint scent of cologne and fabric softener and nerves.

You dropped down—one knee softly touching the floor.

Your hands moved slowly up from his hip to the hem of his shirt, grazing the fabric there, before trailing higher, across his abdomen, tracing a path to his chest.

His jaw clenched, but his arms remained at his sides like he was afraid to move too early.

You heard the choreographer’s voice again, distant but present.

“Nice. That’s good. Keep going.”

Heeseung finally reacted—just in time for the next cue.

He moved his hands to your waist, gentle but firm, fingers curling against your sides as you rose slightly from the kneel.

The contact startled you more than it should’ve, even though it was expected. You glanced up instinctively—only to find him already looking at you.

His gaze dropped immediately, like he got caught.

You cleared your throat and placed both hands on his shoulders, grounding yourself, letting the last beat echo in silence between your bodies.

You could hear everything—the beat of your own pulse, the slight shift in his breath. His fingers still rested on your waist, not too tight, not too loose. Just there.

Holding you like he was still figuring out if you were real.

The choreographers finally broke the silence.

“Alright, not bad. Let’s do that one more time. Try to make the connection feel more intentional.”

Heeseung beat you to a response.

“S-sorry,” he muttered quickly, bowing slightly. “That was on me.”

The second choreographer chuckled under her breath. “You’re being too careful, Heeseung. This is a dance, not a bomb you’re diffusing.”

Heeseung gave a sheepish laugh, scratching the back of his neck. “Right. Got it.”

His ears were already red.

You just raised a brow at the way he looked everywhere but at you.

“Places,” the coach clapped once.

You rolled your shoulders, exhaled through your nose, and stepped into formation again. Heeseung followed, a breath deeper this time.

The beat kicked in, and this time—he was different.

Gone was the awkward fumbling. Gone was the frozen posture and hesitant touch. He moved with rhythm. With ease. With intent.

Every shift of his body matched yours, every brush of his fingertips felt steadier. More confident. The moment your hand ghosted up his chest again, his jaw clenched—but not from hesitation.

He arched into it this time. Deliberately.

When you circled him, he matched the pace with a slight smirk playing on his lips, eyes sharp. There was no sign of the awkward boy from five minutes ago.

Only the performer. The idol. The center.

Your hands slid across his shoulders. His gripped your waist—not tentative, not light—just firm enough to make your breath hitch for half a second.

You weren’t expecting that. You were not expecting him to suddenly be good at this.

The last beat hit. Your chest close to his. Breaths heavy. The song faded out.

And just like that, Heeseung stepped back. Not far. Just enough.

Enough to breathe again. Enough to stop looking at you like he forgot how to speak.

The choreographers clapped slowly.

“That,” one of them said, beaming. “That was it. Excellent. You two have great chemistry. This might be a breeze.”

You nodded politely, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. “Thank you.”

Heeseung did the same, his voice calmer this time. “Thank you.”

But when you turned to walk back to the side of the room—Heeseung followed.

Not close enough to be weird, but close enough for you to hear him exhale softly when he caught up. Close enough for your skin to still remember the imprint of his hands on your waist.

You sat down without looking at him.

Lee Heeseung was everything you didn’t like about male idols: too pretty, too confident, too adored. You’d heard the whispers, the quiet little stories shared in half-jokes around company dinner tables.

The dancer he used to date.

The heartbreak. The ghosting. The way she supposedly cried in the hallway of the studio one night before switching agencies altogether.

You shook your head. You had no business even thinking about the way his grip had felt—firm, steady. Like he’d done it a thousand times but had only now started to mean it.

You didn’t care how steady his hands were. Or how he watched you like he was trying to memorize the shape of your silhouette.

You didn’t care.

Except he was still looking.

You could feel it—his gaze hot on the side of your face. Not cocky, not smug. Just curious. Like he didn’t understand what just happened either.

From the corner of your eye, you saw movement. Sunoo plopped down next to Heeseung with all the grace of a cat, glancing between him and you like it was nothing.

Then, casually, he patted Heeseung on the back.

“Hyung, you didn’t trip,” he said, voice light. “Proud of you.”

“Thanks,” he mumbled, barely registering the words. His reply came on a delay. “I, uh. Yeah.”

You kept your expression unreadable. Your towel still pressed to your neck. The choreography hadn’t even reached the hardest part yet, and already—your limbs felt heavier than usual.

This was going to be a long month.

It had been two weeks.

Two weeks of long rehearsals. Late nights. Sweat-slicked skin and sore muscles. Two weeks of fine-tuning footwork and syncing counts to the breath.

Two weeks of him.

Two weeks of Lee Heeseung glancing at you when he thought you wouldn’t notice. Two weeks of him acting like you’d shatter if he so much as stepped too close.

Two weeks of slow, stuttering hands on your waist when the choreography required it—and apologies mumbled under his breath every time your eyes met.

You were in the middle of running through his solo transition in the second verse—just before the chorus kicks in again. It was one of the more intimate moments in the choreography. One that required connection. Chemistry. Conviction.

Which was currently nonexistent.

You stood in position, the rest of the dancers fanned out behind you in a wide semi-circle as the music paused.

In front of you, Heeseung exhaled hard.

His hand fell from where it should’ve rested on your hands, and the choreographer clapped once to cut the tension.

“Heeseung,” one of them sighed. “Focus.”

“Sorry,” he muttered, rubbing his palms on his sweats. “I just—can we run it back one more time?”

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. Barely.

The choreographer waved a hand at the sound tech, who restarted the instrumental from the top of the chorus.

As everyone began shifting back to position, you crossed your arms and turned to him.

“Are you okay?” you asked, voice flat but biting.

Heeseung flinched at the way your words landed—like ice across his skin. Your voice wasn’t harsh, but it held no warmth either. No softness. Just clean, sharp indifference.

Heeseung blinked at you, startled. “What?”

You stared at him for a beat longer. His silver hair was tied up today, loose strands sticking to his forehead. His chest rose and fell like he was mid-marathon instead of just missing a step.

“Because I’m not going to carry this part on my own,” you added, voice still calm. Cold. “This is your choreography.”

He blinked, jaw tightening ever so slightly. “I never said you had to.”

“Then act like it.”

That made something in his face shift—like the words cut deeper than intended. His smile dropped entirely. A faint frown formed between his brows as he looked down at his shoes.

But you were already walking back to your mark, not sparing him another glance. Ignoring the way his eyes followed you.

Jay nudged him lightly with an elbow, “You’re overthinking it, bro.”

Heeseung didn’t answer. Just inhaled. Exhaled. Rolled his shoulders.

The music started again—bass thumping low, count-off syncing everyone back into motion.

He moved with more control this time. You could tell he was trying. His footwork was cleaner. Timing sharper. But the second verse solo was his moment. And he knew it.

So when the cue came—the one where you stepped behind him, hands skimming lightly down the length of his arms—he stepped forward too early.

Not by much. Barely half a beat. But it was enough to throw off the rhythm. Enough that your hand missed his shoulder completely and hit air.

The head choreographer raised a hand, halting the music mid-beat.

“Take five,” they said, sighing as they turned to the sound tech.

Everyone scattered instantly, water bottles and towels in hand. Some of the other dancers stretched quietly in the corner, a few whispering about the mistake under their breath.

You pressed your lips together, jaw tight as you reached for your towel.

Heeseung hadn’t moved from his spot.

Jay clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Relax. It’s fine.”

But Heeseung didn’t look relaxed. Hands on his hips, sweat lining his jaw, hair a mess from the constant movement—and still, his eyes flicked to you.

Just once.

Just long enough to catch the way your gaze slid past him like he didn’t even exist.

He swore something cracked in his chest.

Heeseung looked at himself in the mirror—chest rising and falling, expression pulled tight with something he couldn’t name. Was it disappointment? Embarrassment? Whatever it was, it felt heavy.

He walked away slowly, grabbing his phone off the floor and padding out of the room with barely a sound. His head hung low, lips slightly parted as he exhaled shakily.

He turned the corner and made his way to one of the vending machines stationed near the end of the floor. Neon lights flickered faintly above as he crouched slightly, scanning the QR code on the machine’s screen with his phone.

A soft beep.

A second later, a familiar thunk as the bottle of banana milk slid down the chute.

Heeseung grabbed it, twisting the cap with one hand. He took a long gulp, only to cough right after—choking slightly from the rush of cold liquid.

“Are you seriously an idol?”

He turned, startled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. You were leaning against the wall, arms crossed, expression unreadable. The pale gray concrete made your figure stand out sharper, fiercer.

“Uh—” He cleared his throat. “Yeah. I mean. I guess. Practice kept getting held up because of me so I just—needed a break. I’m… sorry.”

You scoffed, pushing off the wall with one shoulder.

“Stop apologizing and focus,” you snapped. “You’re dragging everyone down with you.”

He blinked, stunned by your bluntness—still unused to anyone speaking to him like that. Not his members, not the managers, never anyone outside his circle.

“I’m trying, okay?” he muttered, voice lower now, like the words hurt to admit.

Your brow twitched.

You stepped toward him—slowly, purposefully.

Heeseung tensed, eyes wide. You stopped just a few inches away, close enough that he could see the slight sweat sheen on your cheekbones, the fire in your gaze.

Heeseung was tall, but the way you looked up at him made him feel small.

“Then try harder,” you bit out. “People are just trying to do their jobs. People who actually care.”

He opened his mouth to defend himself—but the words caught in his throat as your finger jabbed into his chest.

“I don’t care if you’re tired, or nervous, or whatever this is,” you snapped. “If you’re gonna be in the center, then act like it. Earn it. Not just for yourself.”

You stared at him a second longer. Heeseung didn’t even breathe. And then you pulled away with a scoff, shaking your head as you turned on your heel.

He didn’t say a word. He just stood there—silent and still, banana milk cold in his hand.

And only when you were completely gone—your footsteps echoing down the hall—did his head drop again, shoulders slumping like the weight finally cracked through.

He blinked fast, hoping to stop it. But his eyes were already stinging.

Jaw tight, thumb absently fidgeting with the plastic bottle cap as his other hand wiped at the corner of his eye with the sleeve of his hoodie.

Heeseung sniffed once.

He was the center of the comeback. And he was falling apart over one dancer who probably hated his guts.

And yet, all he could think was—you’re right.

Heeseung sniffed again, the burn behind his eyes finally dulling as he blinked rapidly and wiped at them with his sleeve. Another shaky exhale. Then another.

Until he felt composed enough to not look like he’d just had a breakdown beside a vending machine over a girl who barely said two nice words to him.

He dragged himself back to the practice room, the hallway suddenly feeling too short, too bright, the hum of the aircon too loud in his ears.

The moment the door slid open, all heads turned.

Heeseung kept his gaze down, refusing to meet any of their eyes. Not Jay’s. Not Jake’s. Not yours.

Especially not yours.

He padded in quietly, setting his half-finished banana milk and phone down beside his bag like nothing happened. His face was mostly hidden behind the sleeves of his sweater again, his silver hair falling slightly over his forehead, damp with sweat.

“Positions, everyone!” one of the choreographers called out cheerfully, clapping their hands twice as they stood near the mirror.

You watched him move.

He didn’t hesitate this time.

He stepped into the center of the room, right where he belonged. His jaw was set now. Shoulders straighter, feet firmer, like he was holding himself together with everything he had.

Your fingers curled slightly at your sides as you took a step forward, trailing behind the others who were getting into position. Your eyes didn’t leave him.

Not once.

You watched as he stood there silently, hands flexing and unflexing by his thighs. Like he was waiting to be told what to do. Like he was afraid to mess it up again.

And then his eyes flicked up—just briefly. Not even a full second.

But they met yours. Red-rimmed and soft.

Your heart twitched against your will.

“Alright,” the choreographer said, clapping again. “From the top of the chorus. Everyone ready?”

You nodded along with the others and moved into place, still watching him.

Still unsure why it suddenly felt like you couldn’t breathe right.

As the music began to hum from the speakers again, you shifted forward, placing yourself behind Heeseung—just like the choreography required. You noticed the slight tremble in his fingers. The way he inhaled through his nose like he was bracing himself.

And maybe it was stupid. Maybe you shouldn’t have felt anything at all.

But you leaned in slightly and muttered, just loud enough for him to hear, “Don’t mess this up.”

It wasn’t mean. Not sharp. Not scolding.

But Heeseung didn’t lift his gaze. Didn’t say anything in return.

Just gave the smallest nod—like he was afraid even that would be too much. His eyes fixed straight ahead, shoulders rigid but steady, jaw ticking faintly as the music started again.

And this time, he didn’t stumble. He remembered the counts. The shifts. The way your hand was supposed to trail across his chest, the way he was supposed to hold your waist just tight enough to keep the tension.

Heeseung danced like he had something to prove. Like proving it would mean something to you.

The second the last beat hit, a wave of cheers erupted from the room.

“Nice! That’s it!”

“That’s the energy!”

But not a single sound came from Heeseung. Not even the usual, breathless laugh he let out when he nailed a routine. Not even the bright smile that usually curved his lips when he got praised.

Instead, he let go of your waist slowly, barely brushing your arm as he stepped back.

Eyes still downcast, expression unreadable.

He reached for the hair tie at the back of his head, quietly tugging it free. His silver bangs fell into his eyes again, and he swept them back absently with one hand, a habit so practiced it didn’t even look intentional.

Then he turned without a word.

Heeseung walked across the floor, sneakers making barely any sound on the hardwood as he crouched beside his things.

He grabbed his phone, sat down with his back against the mirrored wall, and stared at the lockscreen like it would give him something to focus on.

Your brows furrowed slightly as you watched from a few steps away, towel still hanging from your neck. The cheers died down, but you barely noticed. Your eyes were still on him.

Not because he was Heeseung, but because he looked—small.

Small in a way that didn’t make sense on someone so tall. Small in the way someone looks when they’re trying not to feel something too loud.

And you hated it.

You hated the way your hands twitched at your sides. You hated that he wasn’t smiling. That he wasn’t doing that dumb, nervous laugh anymore. That he didn’t even look proud of himself for finally getting it right.

"Why does he have to look like a kicked puppy," you muttered under your breath, rolling your eyes before wiping at your face with your towel.

Because you didn’t feel bad.

You didn’t, right?

“Alright, take five and we’ll break down the transitions,” one of the choreographers called. “If anyone needs water, now’s the time.”

You made a move to walk toward your own bag, but your eyes—again—betrayed you.

Heeseung was still sitting. Same spot. Same posture. Thumb hovering over his phone but never typing anything.

Jungwon passed by him with a water bottle and a small pat on the shoulder. “Good job, hyung.”

Heeseung looked up with a tight smile. “Thanks.”

He didn’t smile for real, and that’s what got you.

Because Lee Heeseung always smiled.

Until now.

And it was all because of you.

It was nearly midnight.

The halls of the HYBE building had gone still, that hushed kind of silence reserved only for the end of long days and overworked idols.

You were curled into one side of one of the couches in the lounge area, legs folded underneath you, your bag slumped beside you like it was just as tired.

Your phone glowed in your hand, thumb scrolling mindlessly through Instagram. Not liking anything. Not even looking, really. Just passing time. Trying to breathe.

The last two weeks had been a lot. And you didn’t know how to feel about any of it anymore.

You were about to shut your phone off when someone cleared their throat gently nearby. You looked up, blinking at the figure that stood in front of you.

Sunoo.

Ginger hair bouncing lightly, a hopeful, careful smile on his lips.

“Hi,” he said, his voice sweet and just a little unsure. “Can I sit here?”

You blinked once. Twice. Then nodded, gesturing to the empty space next to you. “Yeah. Of course.”

He plopped down beside you with a soft huff, his hoodie sleeves slipping down to his hands as he leaned back into the cushion.

“Hi, (Y/N)-noona,” he greeted, brighter this time. “How are you?”

You couldn’t help but smile a little—his energy was just that infectious.

“I’m fine,” you answered, voice softer than usual. “What about you? Shouldn’t you be at the dorms? It’s late.”

Sunoo laughed, brushing a bit of his hair from his forehead. “I stayed behind. Had to re-record some of my lines for Karma. I think I messed up a vowel or something—Jake-hyung said it sounded like I was crying.”

You let out a soft laugh, the tension in your shoulders easing just a bit. “Well, at least you got it done.”

He nodded. “Barely.”

For a moment, it was quiet again. Your phone dimmed in your lap, screen turning black.

Sunoo glanced at you from the corner of his eye, fingers fidgeting with the ring on his thumb. And then—very softly: “Noona… can I ask you something?”

You turned your head to look at him. His brows were drawn in slightly, lips pressed into a pout that made him look younger than he already did.

You nodded. “Sure.”

He hesitated.

“Do you hate us?”

The question landed like a pin drop in a silent room.

Your brows furrowed. “What?”

He looked at you this time. Really looked at you. “Me. The guys. Heeseung-hyung especially. You kind of… look like you do.”

“I mean,” Sunoo rushed to explain, hands flailing slightly, “it’s not that we want you to like us or anything! Well—I mean—it’d be nice, I guess, but—”

He huffed. “I just mean that you always look like you’re ready to run the second practice ends.”

You bit the inside of your cheek.

“I don’t hate you,” you said eventually. Quiet. Honest. “I just don’t know you.”

Sunoo nodded slowly, looking like he was trying to understand. “And Heeseung-hyung?”

You paused.

Then shook your head. “I don’t know him either.”

“But you… don’t like him.”

You let out a breath, turning your gaze away. “I don’t trust him.”

Sunoo’s mouth parted slightly, like he wanted to ask why—but something in your expression must’ve warned him off. Instead, he just tucked his hands into the sleeves of his hoodie and nodded slowly.

“That’s fair,” he said. “I just… I think he really wants you to.”

You looked at him, startled. “Wants me to what?”

“Know him,” Sunoo said, shrugging. “He sucks at it, obviously. Like really, really bad. But I’ve never seen him get so quiet around anyone before.”

You didn’t say anything.

Not because you didn’t have anything to say—but because you didn’t know what to do with that.

“Heeseung-hyung’s usually…” Sunoo twirled a finger in the air, searching. “I don’t know—composed? Effortless? He walks into a room and owns it. Like, even when he’s being a dumbass, he’s a confident dumbass.”

You snorted quietly despite yourself.

“But with you?” Sunoo tilted his head. “He gets all… careful. Like he’s afraid he’ll breathe wrong and piss you off more than he already has.”

Sunoo offered a small, almost sheepish smile. “I think you scare him. And I don’t think that’s a bad thing.”

He let that settle for a second, fingers absentmindedly fiddling with the hem of his sleeve before he added, “But… it’s weird. Seeing him so hung up over something somebody said.”

You glanced at him, but he wasn’t looking at you. He was just gazing ahead, voice softer now.

“I thought he let go of that since I-LAND, you know?” Sunoo continued.

“All the doubts, the overthinking. He’s worked so hard to be… sure of himself. Confident in what he does, who he is. But you—” he paused, almost amused, “—you say one sentence and he looks like he’s about to rewrite his whole personality.”

You still didn’t say anything, because… what could you say to that?

Sunoo looked at you now, not accusing—just honest, open, like someone who’d seen the best and worst of the people around him and still chose to believe the best anyway.

“I just hope you let him in soon,” he said, voice steady. “And us too.”

You blinked.

“Heeseung-hyung’s really nice if you get to know him,” Sunoo added.

“A little dramatic. Kinda dumb sometimes. But he’s not the person people make him out to be.” Then, a small laugh escaped him. “You should see how many playlists he makes for songs he never finishes. Or how he hums when he brushes his teeth. It’s stupid.

You smiled despite yourself.

Sunoo tilted his head, smile gentler now. “Just… don’t write him off too quick, noona. He’s not perfect. But I think he’s trying.”

And for a moment—you didn’t feel like arguing.

“Anyway,” Sunoo said, standing slowly and brushing imaginary lint off his pants, “thanks for letting me sit here. I’ll see you tomorrow, noona.”

You nodded wordlessly, watching as he offered you one more smile before turning and walking off down the hall.

And when he disappeared around the corner, you leaned back against the couch and stared at your phone again.

Only this time, you weren’t scrolling.

Just sitting there. With your heart beating too loud in your chest.

And wondering why Lee Heeseung—of all people—wanted you to know him.

You sighed, dragging a hand through your hair and sinking further into the cushion behind you, head tipped back to stare at the ceiling.

Sunoo’s words echoed in your head.

“I think you scare him. And I don’t think that’s a bad thing.”

You didn’t mean to scare him.

You just didn’t know him.

All you knew was the rumor mill: that he toyed around with backup dancers. That he used to date one. That he left her crying and never looked back.

You knew he was a damn good performer. A strong voice. A face that pulled attention. A body that moved like water.

But who was Lee Heeseung when he wasn’t on stage?

You didn’t know. And you hated that not knowing was starting to bother you.

“Ugh,” you groaned, frustrated with yourself, grabbing your bag and slinging it over your shoulder.

You just needed air.

You paced down the hallway, letting your footsteps echo through the emptying building. The elevators were at the far end—but you slowed when you passed by another open lounge area, tucked to the side.

Three familiar voices. One unmistakable.

“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” It was Heeseung, his voice cracking mid-sentence. “Like—seriously. I feel like I’m ruining the entire choreography.”

“Hyung, you’re just stressed—” Sunghoon began, but Heeseung cut him off.

“It’s not just the choreography,” he snapped, quieter this time. “It’s her. I can’t even look at her properly without feeling like I’m gonna throw up. Or say something stupid. Or trip on my own damn feet—!”

There was a thud. Probably Heeseung slumping back onto the couch.

“She probably thinks I’m a joke,” he mumbled. “And maybe I am. I don’t even know why I care this much. But every time I see her, I just—”

A pause. A shaky breath.

“I feel like I’m messing everything up. And she hates me for it.”

You stood there, frozen, lips parted slightly as your fingers hovered over the strap of your bag. You knew you shouldn’t be listening. But you couldn’t move.

“Hyung…” Jay’s voice was quieter. Gentler.

“It’s not that deep—”

That was your cue.

You reached for the white AirPods hanging from the keyring on your bag, shoved them in like muscle memory, and walked—like you hadn’t just overheard the guy who’d been dragging his feet around you for two weeks quite literally crumbling over your mere existence.

The soft mechanical chime of the elevator landing saved you from having to hear anything else.

You pressed the button—twice, even though it was already lit up—and stared straight ahead, pretending you didn’t notice the way all three heads turned toward you as you walked past.

Heeseung sat up straighter in his seat, hurriedly wiping at his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie. He didn’t even try to hide it.

Jay and Sunghoon just looked between him and you silently, Sunghoon with a slow, barely-there shake of his head.

You didn’t look at any of them. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t say a word.

But Heeseung’s stare burned at your back—like he was silently willing you to turn around.

You didn’t.

You stepped into the elevator when it dinged and let the doors close in front of you.

But even as the floor shifted beneath your feet and the numbers ticked downward, you couldn’t shake the image of Lee Heeseung—shoulders hunched, eyes red, voice raw—murmuring that he was the reason everything was going wrong.

And all because of you.

It was barely past ten and the practice room was already flooded with artificial lights—white bleeding in, casting long stripes across the mirrored walls and polished floors.

The speakers hummed softly with the instrumental of ‘Bite Me’, looping from the top as you stretched in the center of the room. Your arms raised above your head, your body bending gently from side to side.

The black crop top you wore shifted with every breath, exposing brief slivers of your waist before you pulled at the band of your white sweatpants to fix it.

Your neck rolled to the side, hair slipping over your shoulder as you exhaled and let your muscles relax.

The door opened.

Your eyes flicked to the mirror.

Lee Heeseung.

Black oversized tee, light gray sweatpants that hung low on his hips, hair slightly damp like he’d just washed his face in a rush. But more than anything, you noticed the puffiness around his eyes—still red, slightly swollen. As if sleep had been a stranger to him last night.

He looked at you.

Just for a second.

And then immediately looked away.

Your mouth pressed into a line as he walked to his usual corner, dropping his duffel bag onto the ground with barely a sound. He didn’t say a word. Just crouched down and pulled out his phone like it held the meaning of life—eyes glued to the screen, thumbs unmoving.

Not even pretending to scroll.

Then let out a quiet breath and shook your head.

“He doesn’t even say hi anymore…” you muttered to yourself, barely audible over the light beat in the background. “God, he’s really that sensitive to me being in the room?”

You shook your arms out and turned away.

It stung. You weren’t gonna lie.

Not because you wanted him to talk again. Not because you needed him to smile at you.

But because now you knew. Now you’d heard it—his voice, raw and trembling, saying your name like it hurt to speak.

And still, he said nothing.

You shifted your weight to one leg, crossing your arms as you glanced at the mirror again. He was still sitting there. Same position. Same phone. Same silence.

It was almost pitiful.

Like a kicked puppy in sweatpants.

And you hated the fact that your chest twinged a little at the sight.

Your jaw tensed. You looked away again.

Because you didn’t know what to do with the version of Lee Heeseung who didn’t smile. Who didn’t joke. Who didn’t even pretend to look okay.

And a few feet away, Heeseung exhaled quietly—his shoulders sagging with the weight of something that didn’t seem to lift no matter how long he sat there.

He finally unlocked his phone. But he didn’t scroll. Didn’t tap any apps. Didn’t open messages.

Just stared at his homescreen like it might offer him answers.

The soft hum of the speakers continued. His gaze flickered—briefly, hesitantly—to the mirror across the room.

To you.

You weren’t looking at him.

Of course you weren’t.

You were stretching again, arms over your head as you twisted at the waist, back arched. You looked so calm. So unbothered. So… indifferent.

Like he didn’t exist.

Like you hadn’t told him off. Like you hadn’t jabbed a finger into his chest and practically told him he was worthless. Like you hadn’t shattered him with one glare and a scoff, then walked away like he was nothing.

And still, he looked.

Still, he watched you.

Heeseung swallowed the lump rising in his throat and leaned his head back against the wall, his phone still lit in his palm. A notification came in—a text from Sunghoon probably, or Jay—but he didn’t bother reading it.

He ran a hand over his face. Fingers pressing into the skin beneath his eyes.

He wanted to talk to you.

He wanted to explain.

But how the hell could he explain what even he didn’t understand?

Why your voice stayed in his head like a loop.

Why he couldn’t sleep until two a.m. replaying that moment in the hallway.

Why he felt like the air disappeared the moment you looked at him like that—like he was just another arrogant idol who didn’t care.

He bit the inside of his cheek.

And still, you didn’t even glance his way.

The tension in the room hung thick and unmoving until the studio doors creaked open again.

The two choreographers walked in—smiling, laughing about something that died the moment they caught sight of their two lead dancers. You, standing in the center, eyes distant. Heeseung, sat by the wall, eyes lower.

But both of you bowed anyway.

You straightened your posture and offered a polite greeting. “Good morning.”

Heeseung scrambled upright at the same time, tripping slightly over the strap of his gym bag before stumbling into a clumsy bow. “Ah—g-good morning!”

One of the choreographers blinked at the awkwardness before grinning, pretending not to notice. “You two look awake at least.”

They walked toward the mirrored wall, settling their tablets and notes on the low table. One of them looked up and waved a hand toward both of you. “Come here for a second?”

You nodded, not sparing Heeseung a glance as you walked over. He hesitated, then followed behind you. You could hear his footsteps. Could practically feel the distance he was keeping behind you. It was like his shadow didn’t even want to touch yours.

The four of you stood in a half-circle. You to the left, Heeseung on the right. Silence stretching so tightly between you, it might’ve snapped.

But the choreographers didn’t seem to notice. “How’s progress?”

You answered without hesitation.

“It’s going well,” you said calmly. “We’re still polishing the transitions, especially around the solos. Some of the blocking needs tweaking, but otherwise, everyone knows their parts and is keeping up.”

They nodded, taking notes on the screen of one of the tablets. “Good. And you, Heeseung?”

You didn’t look at him. But you heard the way he shifted his weight.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, uh… I’m okay. Just tired. Sorry.”

That awkward laugh of his was barely a breath.

Both choreographers chuckled kindly. “Tired’s normal,” one of them said, smiling. “But that’s not what we wanted to talk to you both about.”

You blinked, waiting.

They glanced at each other. “So, we’ve been reviewing the recordings. And while your initial chemistry was great, things have been feeling… well—tense.”

You froze. Heeseung did too.

“We just want to ask—are you both okay?”

“Yes,” you said immediately, not even letting Heeseung open his mouth.

Your voice was even, firm. Almost mechanical. “We’re just both equally tired. I want to apologize if that’s been noticeable.”

The choreographers didn’t seem entirely convinced, exchanging a quiet look before one of them tapped on the screen again. “We believe you. But we also had a small proposal we wanted to run by you both—especially before filming starts.”

You lifted your eyes. Heeseung did too—slowly.

“If it’s alright with both of you,” the choreographer began gently, “we’d like to request recorded video updates. Just the two of you. Every three to four days.”

Your heart stuttered once.

Heeseung blinked. “Just us?”

“Yeah,” the other said. “Not the group. Not the others. Just your partnership parts. The lifts. The proximity work. The stuff where chemistry matters.”

Your lips parted, but no words came out.

“Again,” they added quickly, “only if you’re both okay with that. It’s just that Heeseung’s got a lot of center time, and your blocking overlaps more than anyone else’s. If you two are more aligned—it’ll elevate the whole comeback.”

You stayed quiet.

Heeseung nodded after a beat. “Understood.”

Of course he’d agree.

You exhaled slowly and muttered, “That’s fine with me.”

One of them smiled. “Great. Then let’s aim for the first clip at the end of the week. You can find a free room or ask staff to reserve the small studio downstairs.”

They moved on, discussing timing and files and where to upload the clips, but you weren’t listening anymore.

Because out of the corner of your eye, you saw Heeseung’s head dip lower again—like the weight of his thoughts was pulling him into the floor.

And suddenly, it was you who didn’t know what to say.

You stood side by side. Silent. Cold. Strangers.

But at least now, you were strangers who had to see each other every three days.

Just the two of you.

And not even the floor could swallow you whole fast enough.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

The Bluetooth speaker let out a soft chime as you connected it to your phone, the dim lights of the small HYBE practice room casting long shadows on the polished floor.

It was past nine—long after most of the building had emptied out—and yet here you were, standing in the middle of the room with Lee Heeseung, the soft hum of your phone against the speaker being the only thing cutting through the tension.

Heeseung stood off to the side, stiff, fidgeting. His fingers pulled at the hem of his oversized black shirt, head ducked, silver hair messy and falling over his eyes like it had something to hide.

You sighed, fingers still hovering over your screen. “Do you still need to stretch?”

His shoulders jolted slightly at your voice, as if it startled him. He shook his head. “No—I’m good,” he mumbled.

You nodded wordlessly, walking to the center of the room. The mirror reflected both of you in silence—your posture poised, his shoulders tight.

You turned to face him, standing a few feet away, but it was close enough to feel the strange energy bouncing between you two like static.

“The choreographers want the clip by tomorrow,” you reminded, voice even. “So we’ll start from the chorus and end right after your solo, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Heeseung said quietly, nodding, eyes still trained on the floor.

You pressed play, the faint bass of ‘Bite Me’ bleeding through the speaker.

A few seconds before the pre-chorus hit, you bent down and hit record on the phone set up on a tripod near the door. You stepped back into position beside him. Neither of you said anything more.

When the music started, instinct took over.

You grabbed his wrist gently—guiding, not harsh. His hands ghosted over your waist, fingers barely grazing the fabric of your cropped shirt. He mouthed his lines, lips moving in sync with the playback. But he never once looked at you. Not once.

His eyes flicked up toward the mirror instead, fixated on some invisible spot beside your shoulder.

His jaw clenched when the choreography demanded he pull you closer—still not touching, still hovering like you were something fragile.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t break character. You simply moved.

Your hands ran smoothly down his arms as his solo started. His breath hitched—barely noticeable, but you felt it. His weight shifted forward, leaning into your space but never filling it. His fingers twitched against your hands, uncertain.

You hated how rehearsed it felt. Not the dance—he was still Heeseung, precise and sharp and painfully good. It was the distance. The wall he still held up between the both of you, even when the routine demanded that wall be torn down.

You didn’t look at him.

He didn’t look at you.

And the mirror watched it all unfold—two people dancing together, with nothing tethering them in place.

As the chorus faded into the next section, you stepped back—retreating to the side of the room, chest rising and falling as you shook out your hands. The music played on. You stood quietly, watching from your place near the wall.

Heeseung didn’t notice.

Or maybe he did, but he didn’t dare let it show.

He moved sharply—every step hit clean, every spin crisp. The silver of his hair caught the overhead lights as he moved, jaw tight, hands curling and releasing like he was trying to keep control. He landed the last beat perfectly, and yet—

As the final note echoed off the mirrored walls and disappeared, Heeseung just stood there.

Like he didn’t know what to do with himself.

Back to that stance from earlier—shoulders tight, legs firm but uneasy, hands nervously tugging at the hem of his shirt again. He panted softly, chest rising and falling as sweat lined his neck and forehead, strands of hair sticking to his skin.

You sighed.

Crossing the room in a few quiet steps, you leaned down and pressed the red circle on the screen of the phone, ending the recording.

Heeseung stepped a little closer.

Not enough to be beside you.

But enough to watch over your shoulder.

The recording finished playing with a quiet click. And then:

“…Again,” he mumbled, voice hoarse. “Please.”

You nodded—wordless.

You both moved back into place, footsteps soft against the hardwood floors. He took his position beside you, not too close, but closer than before—like maybe the space didn’t scare him as much now. You could still feel the ghost of his breath when he turned toward you.

Heeseung stood beside you again—not too close, but closer than before. Maybe the gap didn’t scare him as much now. Maybe he was just tired of being scared.

You sighed as the beat dropped and moved like you were taught, muscle memory taking over. Heeseung followed beside you, gaze locked on the floor. He didn’t look at you—not once—but he hit every beat, every count, every breath.

It was cleaner.

But it didn’t feel natural.

Everything—from the way your fingers ghosted across his frame to the way he rested his hands on you—felt stiff. Forced. Like two people pretending they weren’t holding back an entire war between them.

But neither of you said a word.

As the final note faded and the room fell back into silence, Heeseung went still—then slack again, like he always did. Shoulders dropping. Jaw clenching. Eyes cast down.

You walked over to the phone and pressed the red button.

The video stopped recording.

You stared at the screen, watching the last frame freeze—both of you caught mid-movement, frozen in a pose that looked closer than the reality ever was.

“…It’s better than the other one,” you mumbled, mostly to yourself.

Heeseung nodded once. Still not looking at you.

You turned your head. “Are you okay with this for today?”

There was a pause. He hesitated. Then nodded again, more slowly this time, fingers catching the hem of his shirt like he was trying to tear it in half just to keep his hands busy.

You nodded too. “Okay.”

Silence blanketed the room again as you saved the video and uploaded it into the shared iCloud folder that the choreographers had created earlier that week. The little blue bar filled up slowly, and all the while, Heeseung stood where he was—still refusing to meet your eyes.

You sighed softly and said, “It’s best if we pack up and get some rest, yeah?”

“…Yeah.” His voice was quiet, just a breath. He turned away, moving to where his things were neatly placed by the wall. He slipped his phone into his bag, capped his water bottle, and zipped it shut with trembling fingers.

You didn’t say anything as you grabbed your own phone, shoving it into your sweatpants pocket.

He glanced at you then.

Just once.

Noticing how fast you always packed up. How quick you were to leave.

Then, quietly—without a word—he padded over to the door. He opened it and stood there, holding it open, eyes cast toward the ground but his presence heavy with anticipation.

Waiting.

Waiting to see if you’d take the silent offer.

You stared at him for a second.

Just one beat too long.

Then you walked past him, mumbling a quiet, “Thanks.”

Heeseung only nodded, shoulders stiff as you stepped through.

Neither of you spoke as you made your way down the empty hallway, shoes echoing against the linoleum floors of the ground building. You scanned your fingerprint on the security pad, and the door clicked open.

He followed behind you.

You turned to him at the threshold, the soft whir of city wind brushing against your face.

Your voice was flat—but your eyes burned into him like they had weight. Like they had things to say that your mouth wouldn’t.

“Let’s do this again. There should be some improvements by next time.”

He nodded, but his eyes didn’t move from your figure.

Not even as you turned and disappeared into the night.

And when you were finally out of earshot—just gone far enough that he didn’t have to pretend anymore—Heeseung exhaled. The kind of breath that left with his shoulders.

His hand dragged through his hair, a frustrated sweep of silver strands falling over his eyes.

“…Yeah,” he muttered to himself. “Improvements.”

Still watching the door you vanished through.

He turned slowly then, walking past the main lobby toward the side of the building—toward the back exit he was supposed to use from the start. But instead, he walked with you to the front.

Even if you didn’t notice.

Even if you didn’t ask him to.

He just wanted to be near you for a little longer.

Even if it hurt.

⤷ read part 2 here !

⤷ permanent tagllist — @m1kkso

278 notes · View notes

daniiiboo · 2 days ago

Text

sleep talking - qh43

summary - Quinn calls the reader from his hotel bed on a long road trip, hair a mess, blinking sleepily.

dani's thoughts - QUINN QUINN QUINN happy birthday to me!!! but sadly this is the last day of my fics :((

warnings - sad quinn

word count - 345

read the rest of my birthday countdown fics : here !

You’re brushing your teeth when your phone buzzes on the bathroom counter, screen lighting up with "q bear ❤" calling.

You smile and immediately answer. The screen fills with a dimly lit hotel room and the most tired-looking hockey player you’ve ever seen.

Hair askew. Cheeks pink with post-game showers. A side of his face deep in the hotel pillow. He blinks at you like he's trying to stay awake with sheer force of will.

"Hi," he growls, voice weighed down by sleep.

"Hi, baby," you whisper around your toothbrush. "Didn't think I'd hear from you. Thought you'd be out cold by now."

He opens his mouth in a huge, lazy yawn.

"Tried. Can't sleep."

You spit in the sink and smile.

"Let me guess. Because you didn't get your daily hearing-my-voice fix?"

He shrugs, eyelids weighted.

"Not a fix. It's. like. medicine. You're sleep-medicine."

You laugh softly, getting up and placing the phone against your pillow. Quinn squirms uncomfortably, trying to get the angle right, now all curled up in his hotel bed like a sleepy golden retriever.

"You're a dork," you mutter, tucking beneath your blankets.

"I miss you," he replies immediately, eyes closing. "S'cold in here. My feet are cold. You warm my feet better than socks."

You arch an eyebrow.

"Quinn. are you sleep-talking?"

"No," he protests, which is exactly what a person sleep-talking would do. "I just, think better when I'm half-asleep."

"Think about what?"

He yawns again.

"About how much I wanna be home. About how good your shampoo smells. About how every pillow that's not yours sucks."

Your heart hurts painfully at how kind he is when he's tired and so far away.

"I miss you too," you whisper. "You'll be back soon. One more game."

He hums in agreement, blinking slowly at you, like a cat ready to sleep. "Don't hang up."

"I won't."

He nods.

"You make my dreams better."

You smile, full to the brim of your heart.

"Then dream away, Quinny."

His eyes finally close, breathing slowing to the beat you know by heart.

And even through a pixelated screen and two time zones away, you feel him with you , warm, soft, yours.

#dani writes ᡣ𐭩 #dani's birthday countdown !#quinn hughes x y/n #quinn hughes x you #quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes #vancouver canucks x reader #vancouver canucks

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starpeachjelly · 1 day ago

Text

Kindred Spirits ₊˚⊹⋆

prologue part 3

part 1 / part 2

synopsis: Four years have passed since the chronorift catastrophe, since you've regained the memories of your past life, since you crossed paths with her. You two are close, and you think Caleb might not like that.

warnings: none.

word count: 1.9k

authors note: my biggest fear is mischaracterization, but i hope i did good for young caleb.

Every time she has a problem she comes to seek you out. It doesn't matter if it's a tricky problem on her homework, or a full blown fight with her friend. No matter the issue you're always the first person she comes to. You try your best to convince her to go to Caleb instead, knowing how much he appreciates it when she seeks him out for help. Sometimes she listens to you, most of the time she doesn't.

You know Caleb doesn't like this. You can tell based on the way he looks at you.

He's always polite in front of her. He smiles and talks with you casually when she's in the mix, treating you like a friend. But the moment she's no longer there something in his behaviour shifts. It's not noticeable to anyone else, but you can always tell the difference.

It's the way his eyes darken. You remember how fans used to point out the way his gaze could change so quickly. Puppy eyes that are able to turn into something so serious and dark in a matter of seconds. You used to think it was something that only started after he becomes cornel. Yet he's only fourteen and able to send shivers down your spine with how coldly he looks at you. Even when you don't look at him you can always feel it.

Music plays from your headphones as you breeze through your homework. You miss the music you used to listen to in your past life, but you've managed to find some songs in this world you enjoy too. It's a peaceful evening, but that moment of peace fades when you feel your heart tighten. The urge to cry overwhelms you, causing you to put down your pen and move away from the pages scattered across your desk. You'd think this was coming out of nowhere, but after four years you know better.

She's in a fight with Caleb.

You always get this feeling when she's arguing with him. No matter how big or small the issue is.

Right on cue your phone starts to blow up. Dozens of messages from her pop up on your screen telling you about how much of a "meanie" he is, how he never listens to her, and a bunch of other complaints. You sigh, put your phone in your pocket, and head over to Josephine's house to comfort her. Every time they argue you're always there to help her. You know that it's another thing you do that Caleb doesn't like. But with your shared connection you feel a sense of responsibility to be there for her no matter what.

Most of the time their fights are just misunderstandings or petty arguments. Things that usually resolve themselves after a couple hours of her ranting, and him buying her her favourite snacks. This time things are different.

Hours have passed. Deep purples and oranges have faded into navy blue. The sun has set fully, leaving the sky decorated with a full moon and countless stars. It's a shame such a lovely night is filled with such anger and sadness.

You've lost track of how long you've been sitting on her bed. Gently running your fingers through her hair with her curled up next to you while she rants about him. Yet despite all the ramblings she still hasn't told you what exactly it is he's done to upset her so much.

The tightness in your chest has yet to subside, an indicator that she's still as troubled as she was when this all started. You care for her, you really do. You can feel her pain like it's your own. But you need this to be resolved soon because you don't know how much more patience you have left in you. Listening to teenage drama when you're no longer a teenager yourself is like a special kind of torture.

So, in a desperate attempt to put an end to this you decide to talk to Caleb yourself, even though you know you're probably the last person he wants to see right now.

Three knocks on his bedroom door. Shuffling can immediately be heard from the other side. He peeks his out from the crack, looking like a kicked puppy. Big shiny purple eyes, brows knit together, and a small pout on his chapped lips. You can feel your heart twist at the sight. He's so cute and tiny, it's hard to believe what he'll turn into in a few years.

"What happened?" you ask.

He looks away. A red blush starts to dust across the tips of his ears. Immediately you understand that whatever they're fighting about has something to do with you.

It most likely had something to do with what happened earlier today; when she had asked you to win her some plushies while you were all at the arcade. He had tried to get her attention by winning some himself, but as appreciative as she was she clearly had a preference for the ones you had won. You'd gifted him one too in hopes of cheering him up, but you're not sure if it helped or made things worse.

"I was just messin' with her."

The look on your face must be filled with skepticism because the moment he looks at you he sighs, rubs his neck, and goes back to avoiding your gaze.

"I may have taken it a step too far–"

He staggers back as you take a step forward to look into his room. As expected, right on his bed, is one of the plushies you had won her. (And to your surprise so it the one you had gifted him.) The red on his ears immediately spreads to his cheeks.

You understand his jealousy, his protectiveness towards her. After everything they've gone through, to have someone else, someone he thinks is oblivious to what they've gone through, show up into their lives and start taking over the role he had played for years. Who wouldn't be upset with that?

If you didn't have this shared connection with her you would leave this situation for them to resolve on their own. But you can't stand this ache in your heart anymore.

"I'm sorry." You say, not just for unintentionally stealing her attention, but for becoming part of their story. For changing it no matter your attempts not to.

His eyes widen, clearly caught off guard by your apology. He stares at you, not saying a single word. So you continue. "I'll never be able to replace you, not that i want to. But even though i'm part of her life, you're still very important to her."

He's still quiet. Still staring at you with that surprised expression. Hopefully your words have finally helped him understand you're not trying to take his place, and that you'd never be able to. Whatever unexplainable bond you have with her doesn't change what they've gone through, even if she doesn't remember.

"But, you should give her the plushie back." You offer him a small smile before leaving, not wanting to push your luck.

The next morning a sudden thunk against your bedroom window startles you from whatever it is you're looking at on your phone. Another thunk comes two seconds later. You get up off your bed to see what's happening. Caleb stares up at you from your back yard.

Glass panes groan softly as you open them, peaking your head out the window.

"Can I come up?" he asks.

His words catch you off guard.

"Please," he adds when you don't answer.

It's barely 8 am on a sunday. You're not even dressed, still wearing your comfiest pajamas. "Caleb–"

"I'm comin' up."

Your eyes widen as you watch him start to climb the downspout that runs next to your bedroom window.

"Caleb!" You whisper shout, not wanting to alarm your parents, but if he hears you he doesn't seem to care.

Floor boards creak as he steps into your room, swinging himself in from the ledge of the window. He stands in front of you, fully dressed in non sleepwear. You're not sure what to do or say, too caught off guard by what you just witnessed.

"I wanted to say sorry."

His words are even more of a surprise than him climbing through your window. It must be written on your face, because he immediately explains his unexpected apology.

"For how i've been treatin' you."

"It's fine–"

He cuts you off. "It's not."

An awkward silence hangs between the two of you. A strong gust of wind shakes the trees outside, wafting in the scent of asiatic apples into your room. He's not saying anything, but you can see a vulnerability in his eyes that you've never seen before. Not even when he looks at her.

"It's okay. I know." you say.

You have a feeling that he wants to explain why he's so protective of her. But you already know everything.

His expression shifts into something you can't quite place your finger on. The vulnerability in his eyes is still present, but there's something else there. Something akin to realization.

He clears his throat and pulls something out of his pocket. In hand is a tiny charm with three apples on it. One red, one yellow, one green. All stacked up one atop the other. "It doesn't make up for how i've been actin' like a big jerk all these years. But I thought it could be like a peace offering or somethin'."

You don't pick up the charm, examining the polymer clay apples in his palm before looking back up at him. His eyes are no longer on you, instead you find them glued to his feet. He looks nervous, and a little bit embarrassed. It's odd seeing him like this, usually he always appears so confident.

You could accept the peace offering, put an end to his nervousness. But you find yourself wanting to mess with him first. After all, he deserves it for all those unnecessary chilling glares. You tap your index finger against your chin and hum in faux contemplation. It's hard not to laugh as he immediately starts to shift awkwardly.

"I'll accept this peace offering, if you promise to make me some of your famous braised chicken wings."

His head snaps up to look at you. His eyes are wide, as if stunned you're actually forgiving him despite his jealousy and past behaviour. But you do, because you understand. You know.

"Yeah. I promise." The way his gaze softens, and the smile on his face warms your heart.

After that night things between you change. When it's just the two of you he no longer ignores you. Awkward silences have changed into jokes and laughter, lighthearted banter. Icy stares melt into something more gentle. Now he looks at you the same way he looks at her, like someone he wants to protect. It's a heartwarming change. One you unfortunately don't get to experience for long.

Your mother gets a promotion that requires your family to move to the newly built city of sky haven. You try to tell yourself that this is a good thing. Living in skyhaven means you won't be nearby, you won't be able to affect the story anymore. Despite your logical reasoning, a part of you doesn't want to leave. You don't want to leave her. And with you and Caleb finally becoming friends, you don't want to leave him either. But you know this is for the best.

Things will finally return to normal.

tag list: @moonchildjae00 @elegantdeerlady @hon3yydew @chocochip-gaia @solmanel1 @wooasecret @peachystea @seung185 @mcdepressed290 @whimsiecat @shadowypeachsweets @animegamerfox @gabywho @ryuukuran-blog @insidious-innocence @hiqhkey @chiikasevennn @ehneh @mangooes @sleepydang @fictionalpeoplemmmhmm @dynastyofyearning

a/n: thank you all so much for your support and comments <3 they mean the world to me 🥺💕

#love and deepspace #caleb x reader #lads x reader #rafayel x reader #love and deepspace x reader #sylus x reader #xavier x reader #zayne x reader #lads #lads x you #sylus x you #caleb x you #zayne x you #rafayel x you #xavier x you

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p0orbaby · 17 hours ago

Text

i wrote this in an attempt to get my juices flowing again

a secret relationship between a track athlete and a footballer, leah pushing her luck, and some sexy time to top it off

You don’t mean to say anything. You were going to let it go. Just get off and ignore it. Do what you usually do when she starts this game again. Pretend it doesn’t get to you. Pretend it isn’t constant. Pretend you don’t check who liked what before you even brush your teeth in the morning. You do that every day. Wake up, turn your phone face-down again because the screen lights up too bright too fast, but unlock it anyway. Instagram first, before emails, before missed calls, even before messages about contracts from your agent. Tap the post. Scan the likes. Find her name. Tap through to her profile. Check if she’s online.

Every time, you say you’re not going to bring it up. That it’s too small to matter. That it’ll make you sound like you care too much. That she’ll think she’s won.

But then her hand slides under the hem of your hoodie, and you can feel the heat of her hand against your waist. She’s barely touched you. The tag of your knickers digs into your tailbone because you’re lying half-wrong, and her thumb is resting on the band, like she’s measuring something. And it slips out before you stop it.

“You’re doing it again.”

She doesn’t pause. Doesn’t even miss a beat. Just says, “Doing what again?”

Her tone’s easy. Light. She knows exactly what. You watch her face for tension—there’s none. She’s calm. Comfortable. The kind of comfortable that gets under your skin, because she never gets flustered the way you do. You inhale through your nose.

“Liking my posts.”

Now she blinks at you. Nothing sharp. Nothing defensive. No shift in her breathing or hand or jaw. Her hand’s already low enough to make your stomach tense and your thighs twitch, but she hasn’t moved. She’s still. She knows how to wait you out.

“You said you wouldn’t.”

“No,” she says, voice flat. “You said I shouldn’t.” She leans down, not kissing you. Just hovering. Mouth near your jaw, her breath warm. “I never said I’d stop.”

You pull your head back slightly, just enough to look her in the eye. You keep your voice low. Sharp. “You knew what I meant.”

“I did.” Her thumb slides across the line of your stomach, just under your navel. “I just didn’t agree.”

You laugh, but it sounds thin in your throat. “You didn’t agree.”

“Nope, and I still don’t.” Her hand slips lower. Her knuckles trace the waistband of your knickers again, just lazy contact. She’s not checking to see if you’re wet yet. She knows you’re not. She’s building the space for it. Making you wait. “They’re not obvious likes.”

“They’re so obvious.”

“They’re not.” Her voice drops a little, still casual. She’s using her calm tone now. The one she uses when she’s talking to the press or to brand reps she doesn’t rate. “We’re both Nike girls. Could be support. Could be algorithm. Could be anything.”

“They’re all on photos where I’m half-naked.”

“So?” Her mouth finds your neck, lips grazing just under your ear. You feel the shape of them. She speaks against your skin. “I like you half-naked.”

You stiffen. Jaw tight. “You promised you wouldn’t do it anymore.”

She kisses the corner of your jaw. “And you said you wanted to keep us private.” Her hand shifts. She’s not pressing, not stroking. Just there. “But you’ve got a million followers and your last story was you in a crop top licking an ice lolly with ‘track girl summer’ as the caption.”

“That was for my sponsor—”

“Right,” she says, her grin brushing your throat. “So why can’t my likes be for mine?”

You shove her. Not hard, but not playful either. She doesn’t move. You say, “You’re so annoying.”

“And you’re so wet.”

“I’m not.”

She lifts her head, eyes flicking down your body. Then she presses. Just the heel of her palm, firm between your legs. Through your knickers. No movement. No teasing. Just enough contact to prove her point.

“Stop being silly,” she says, and her voice is flat again. Not smug. Not cruel. Just patient.

You swallow. Hard.

She doesn’t gloat. She doesn’t say anything. Just keeps her hand there, the weight of it steady. Your breath changes. You feel it before she does.

“I want people to know,” she says quietly. “That you’re mine.”

You stare at her. You don’t blink.

“Why?”

“Because you are.”

“Yeah,” you say, dry. “But what’s in it for me?”

You don’t mean it to come out like that. You mean to sound cold. Detached. You don’t. You sound like you want her to prove it.

She doesn’t answer.

She slides two fingers into you.

No warning. No warm-up. Just smooth contact, strong, confident. You gasp. It’s too fast but not painful, just jarring—like falling into hot water. Like a sudden drop. Your thighs jerk. Her hand steadies you at the waist.

You’re soaked. You know it. You didn’t notice when it happened. That’s what pisses you off. You were supposed to be in control.

She curls her fingers once. Not deep. Just angled. Your stomach lifts. Your legs stiffen.

She looks at you. Her voice is low. “What’s in it for you?”

You nod, already breathless. “Yeah.”

She leans in close. Kisses you once, soft, middle of your mouth. Then again, longer, with her tongue. Her free hand finds your jaw, thumb pressing against your cheekbone, anchoring you there like she thinks you’ll drift away.

“Everything.”

Her fingers push deeper. The rhythm’s steady, slow, exact. She watches your face. You hate being watched. You can’t look away.

“You get everything.”

You grip the back of her neck. Your palm’s slick with sweat. You try to move your hips but she’s got you trapped—one thigh across yours, hand under your spine, the kind of positioning that says I’m not letting go until you come.

“You get me.”

She curls. Presses. Curls again.

You whimper. Not a real sound. Just broken breath and pressure.

You hate it. You love it.

She smiles against your mouth. “And they get to know they never had a chance.”

You try to speak. You think about saying something clever. Something brutal. Something that makes you sound less completely owned. You think about reminding her you’re the one who gets photographed alone, always alone, slipping into hotels at night and out of them in the morning with your hood up and your face down. You think about saying no one’s ever made you their profile picture. That you don’t belong to anyone. That you’ve never needed to.

But then she adds a third finger.

And all that comes out is a moan.

#leah williamson #leah williamson x reader #woso #woso x reader

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partyven0m · 3 days ago

Note

I've said this before but I'll say it again, I LOVE YOUR KRIS FICS!!!!! So I was thinking about you doing something similar to the fic where the reader has a fat crush on Kris, but KRIS who has a fat crush on the reader, they would be a fucking loser and something like that, but yk like in their way

'We used to whisper, now we just talk'

In which... you and kris used to be close friends as children, but as you gained popularity, the two of you became strangers. Yet even after believing you've forgotten all about them, Kris still can't let you go. (notes at the end !! ;B )

Detention wasn’t new to Kris.

Not that they got it often, really. They just had a habit of being nearby when Susie decided to do something objectively stupid.

This time it had been naming the two of them “dih” and “ass” when playing Kahoot as a class.

Susie bailed 5 minutes into detention. Said she had to “pee” and never came back. Kris didn’t bother covering for her.

Alphys paced back and forth at the front of the classroom, fiddling with her hands like she’d just committed a crime.

“I-It’s not that I want to do this.” she mumbled, voice shaking more than usual. “It’s just– Undyne said I need to, um, ‘lay down the law’ a little more? Something about backbone? Discipline? But I don’t–this is too much, I think–I mean, you’re not even the one who– this is probably unfair–"

Kris stared blankly ahead, chin resting in their hand. They blinked once, slowly.

“Okay.” Alphys said eventually, caving. “You can go. Or not. It’s up to you. Or– no pressure. You can leave, though. Please.”

She shuffled out of the classroom in a hurry, nearly dropping her clipboard on the way out. The door clicked shut behind her.

Kris didn’t move. Didn’t have to.

They leaned back in their chair, slowly digging around in their pocket until they pulled out their 3DS. It was covered in scratches and spots where the paint had chipped, adorned with half rubbed off and faded stickers.

They booted up Pokémon. It loaded with a happy little jingle that echoed in the quiet classroom.

Their save file was right where they left it, just outside a Pokécenter. They scrolled through their party out of habit.

Their starter blinked up at them.

Same name as always.

Yours.

They stared at it for a second. Not too long but just long enough.

They had named their first ever partner pokémon after you when they were 9. It wasn’t even supposed to be a big thing. You were just... their best friend back then. The person they cared about the most.

And now? Years later?

It had became a tradition.

Kris let out a tiny breath through their nose and slumped forward, resting their forehead against the desk. Their thumb moved slowly over the controls. Half-playing. Half-thinking.

It was raining outside.

They didn’t really notice until the thunder started.

Then they glanced toward the window. Watched the water fall down the glass in slow, squiggly lines. Everything outside was gray and dripping, and kind of pretty in a way that made you want to fall asleep.

They wondered what you were doing right now.

Still at club, probably. You were the president of something. A few somethings, maybe. You always had people around you, laughing, talking, helping with things. You had that kind of face. Easy to go to. Easy to like.

Kris stared at the screen without really looking at it.

You probably didn’t even remember what day you two stopped hanging out. Probably didn’t notice the last time you two spoke. They wouldn’t blame you. It was just one of those things that happened slowly, like bangs getting too long or gold stars peeling off the wall.

But still.

Sometimes they caught themselves looking for you in crowded halls. Sometimes they noticed the way your laugh sounded even when you were two rooms over. Sometimes they– okay, they always– named their Pokémon after you.

Just because.

The screen blinked. Their starter fainted again.

. . .

After an hour or so of mindlessly grinding in their Pokémon world, they yawned, closing the 3DS and sitting up, rubbing the back of their neck.

The thunder rumbled closer now. The rain was coming down even harder than before.

They figured they’d head out. Not home. Just… out.

So they stood up.

legs feeling weird from sitting too long. They stretched a little, then shoved their hands in their hoodie pocket and walked out of the classroom.

The halls were completely empty now. A lot of the lights had already been turned off. The whole building felt still and slow.

They pushed the front doors open.

The rain was deafening. It hit the pavement in fast, loud drops. Big puddles had already started to form near the sidewalk.

Kris stood there for a second, holding the door open, watching.

Then they stepped outside, just far enough to sit on the front steps. The awning shielding them from the rain. The air smelled like wet concrete and grass.

They sat down, pulled their hood up, and rested their arms on their knees.

After a moment, they reached into their hoodie and pulled out their 3DS.

They stared at it in their hands. Thought about opening it. Didn’t really want to. But there was nothing else to do.

So their thumb slowly glided over the on button, just before-

“…Kris?”

They froze before slowly turning towards the voice.

It was you.

You had just stepped outside, holding a folder against your chest, like you were keeping warm. Your backpack hung off one shoulder and you looked surprised to see them.

You stepped under the awning, letting the door swing shut behind you.

“What are you still doing here?”

Kris blinked up at you silently. They didn’t say anything right away.

Their hand tightened a little around the 3DS. Their face felt warm.

“…Just waiting out the rain.” they said finally. Tried to make it sound casual.

You nodded. “Makes sense. It’s coming down pretty hard.”

You stepped closer, dropping your bag on the ground with a soft thud. Then sat next to them on the steps, a little space between you.

Kris glanced sideways. Then immediately looked forward again.

You rested the folder on your lap and sighed. “I heard Susie got you in trouble again?”

“…Yeah.”

You snorted.

Kris felt their ears get hot.

You leaned back on your hands, staring out at the road. “Is it like Ms. Alphys to give out detention? She seems too shy…”

Kris shook their head a little as they looked away. “Didn’t last long.”

“Figured. Your class seems fun to be in.” You muttered happily under your breath.

There was a pause. Not awkward. Just quiet.

Rain hit the pavement in a steady rhythm. Street totally empty.

You didn’t say anything else for a moment. You just sat there. Calm. Like this was nothing strange. Like it was totally normal to be sitting next to each other again after all this time.

Kris didn’t move. Didn’t trust themselves to.

Their heart was beating faster than it should have been.

They kept their head down, hiding behind their bangs a little.

They weren’t sure why you were talking to them. Or why you sat down. But they weren’t going to move.

Kris had liked you for a long time. Maybe longer than they even realized. When you were kids, you were close, basically best friends. You’d run around the playground together, sharing secrets and silly games. Kris thought you were the brightest, most wonderful person they’d ever known.

But as you grew up, things changed. You became more popular, always surrounded by new friends, laughing easily with people Kris didn’t know. It wasn’t that you forgot Kris completely. It was just... you slipped out of reach. Like trying to hold onto light.

No matter how much time passed, Kris couldn’t let go of their feelings. They told themselves it was just a phase, or that maybe you had already forgotten them. But deep down, their heart held onto you. It was like a quiet hope that kept flickering.

As they got a little older Kris would snap whenever their mom or brother asked them how you were doing. Not because they didn’t care. It was the opposite. It hurt too much to talk about you. So they’d get quiet or change the subject. After a while, they both knew to stop asking.

They didn’t know how to move on, and honestly, they weren’t sure they wanted to.

You leaned back a little, stretching your legs out in front of you.

“You ever get the feeling the day’s been way longer than it should be?” you asked.

Kris glanced over. You weren’t looking at them, just watching the rain hit the pavement.

They nodded. “Yeah.”

They didn't get that feeling at all. In fact they had no clue what you were talking about, but they knew that they liked your voice and it sounded like something you'd say. So they nodded anyway.

You smiled faintly. “Feels like it should be tomorrow already."

Then there was another pause.

A quiet one. Not awkward. Just quiet.

You hugged the folder closer to your chest.

“…It’s kinda weird seeing you here.” you said. “Not bad weird. Just, I don’t know. We don’t really talk anymore, huh?”

Kris froze for half a second.

They kept their eyes forward, toward the sidewalk, pretending that sentence didn’t land exactly where it hurt.

“…Yeah.” they said quietly.

You tilted your head a little, thoughtful. “We used to hang out all the time.”

Kris swallowed. “Then we just stopped.”

They said it before they could think. And as soon as the words were out, they wished they hadn’t.

You were quiet for a second and they found themselves hoping you hadn't heard them over the rain.

“Yeah.” you said. “We did.”

You didn’t sound sad. Just honest.

Kris felt their hands curl tighter in their sleeves. Their heart was beating fast. They didn’t know why they felt embarrassed, it wasn’t like you’d said anything mean. But something about the way you remembered it made everything worse. Or better. They couldn’t tell.

Your voice was a little softer now.

“I still think about that sometimes.” you said.

Kris went still.

You weren’t even looking at them. Just out toward the rain. Like you were talking to the air more than anything.

“When we used to hang out,” you added. “after school. Before stuff got… busy, I guess.”

Your tone was light. Easy. Like it wasn’t a big deal.

But Kris’s chest tightened anyway. They kept their eyes on the ground.

You shifted a little beside them.

“There was that one day,” you said, “where we got in trouble for splashing water at each other outside. You remember that? You had that weird plastic dinosaur in your pocket and it got soaked.”

Kris blinked.

Their voice came out low. Barely there.

“…You remember that?”

You turned toward them now. Not dramatic. Not intense. Just surprised they even had to ask.

“Yeah?” you said. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Kris didn’t answer right away.

They looked down again.

They thought about that stupid plastic dinosaur. It had been orange. It smelled weird after it dried. They’d kept it in their drawer for years, even after the paint chipped off.

They thought they were the only one who remembered that day.

They thought you’d forgotten everything.

“…I dunno.” Kris mumbled.

Their voice felt small. Embarrassing. But they didn’t take it back.

You didn’t laugh at them. You just smiled a little, like you understood.

There was a quiet moment after that.

Just the sound of the rain.

“You were kind of my first real friend, you know.”

That made Kris turn to look at you.

You weren’t trying to be sentimental. You said it like it was just a fact.

“I didn’t really talk to people much before that,” you went on. “but then you just kinda… let me follow you around. Even when I was being annoying.”

Kris shook their head. “You weren’t.”

You looked at them again. You were still smiling, but there was something shy behind it now. Like saying this out loud felt a little strange for you, too.

“You made stuff feel easy back then,” you said. “I think that’s what made me want to talk to more people.”

Kris didn’t know what to say.

Their throat felt tight. Their heart felt like it was sitting right at the base of their tongue.

They hadn’t even realized they were gripping the edge of their hoodie until they forced their hands to relax.

You looked away again, back toward the rain.

“I guess I just never said thanks.” you said.

Kris stared at you.

You weren’t even looking at them. Just watching the rain, like you hadn’t said anything weird. Like that wasn’t the nicest thing anyone had ever said to them.

They looked down again, fiddling with the drawstring of their hoodie.

You remembered.

They didn’t know why that made their face feel so hot. Or their chest kind of floaty. It was just… a lot. In a weird, sweet way.

They’d thought about those afternoons a million times. You and them, stomping through puddles, getting scolded by teachers. Laughing so hard it made their stomach hurt. You used to talk so much back then. About everything.

They always figured you forgot. Or grew out of it.

But you didn’t.

You were sitting right here, saying you missed it. That it mattered. That they mattered.

Kris pressed their sleeve to their mouth for a second. Just so they didn’t have to figure out what their face was doing.

Their heart felt like it was trying to walk in shoes too big.

You nudged your foot gently against theirs.

“I didn’t mean to make it weird.” you said. “I just think about that stuff sometimes. That’s all.”

Kris shook their head quickly.

“It’s not weird.” they said. Too fast. “I–It’s not.”

You smiled again. Just a little. Not looking at them.

Kris stared down at your foot next to theirs. It wasn’t even touching. Just close.

They kind of couldn’t believe any of this was real.

“We should talk more.” you said.

Kris’s heart stuttered.

They looked down so fast it was almost embarrassing.Their bangs fell in front of their eyes, and they didn’t bother brushing them away.

“…Okay.” they said, barely above a whisper.

You didn’t laugh. Didn’t act like it was weird. You just smiled, soft and normal, like this was the most casual thing in the world.

“Cool,” you said. “we’ll start now, then.”

Kris could barely breathe.

They curled their hands tighter into the sleeves of their hoodie, trying to act normal, but they could feel their face burning. It wasn’t fair, how easy it was for you to say stuff like that. How you could sit next to them, say we should talk more, and smile like it was that simple. Like it didn’t just completely ruin them.

They’d spent so long convincing themselves you were out of reach.

And now you were right here.

Talking to them like you wanted to be close again.

They couldn’t even think straight.

“…What do we talk about?” they asked, too quiet. Their voice was shaky, and they hated that you might’ve heard it.

You didn’t say anything for a second.

Then you turned to them, eyes soft. “You pick.”

Kris froze.

That was the worst possible answer.

You pick?They could talk about a hundred things. What you liked, who your friends were now, your favorite colors. They could ask if you still ate your cereal dry or if you still doodled on your math homework like you used to.

They could ask if you ever thought about them.

Like they thought about you.

But none of those things were safe.

So instead they mumbled, “I’m… still bad at Pokémon.”

You laughed again.

You leaned back a little, grinning. “Good.” you said. “That’s how it should be. I’d be worried if you were suddenly, like, good.”

Kris pressed their sleeve to their mouth again, like they could hide the smile trying to creep up.

You sat back again, arms stretched behind you on the step, legs kicked out in front. Like you weren’t in any rush at all.

“…Y’know,” you said after a minute, “you’re kinda different from how I remember.”

Kris blinked. Their whole body tensed.

You didn’t sound judgmental or weird about it. Just thoughtful. Casual.

Kris shifted in their seat. “Different how?”

You hummed, thinking.

“Dunno.” you said. “You’re still quiet. But I guess I thought you’d be, like… meaner now.”

Kris stared.

“…Mean?”

You laughed. “I don’t know! You’ve got that whole scary hallway stare thing going on.”

Kris’s ears went red. “That’s just my face…”

“Yeah.” you grinned. “I figured that out today.”

Kris let out a tiny sound that might’ve been a laugh.

You turned your head slightly, your voice softer now.

“I’m glad you’re still you, though.”

Kris stared at you for a second too long.

Then their mouth moved before their brain caught up.

“You’re different too.” they said.

You blinked. “Me?”

“Yeah. I mean–” Kris looked down fast. Their thumb rubbed at a loose thread on their sleeve. “Not in a bad way. Just. You seem more…”

They trailed off, trying to find the right word. It was hard to explain what they meant without sounding stupid.

“…Content.” they said finally. “You seem… okay. With everything. With school. People. Life.”

You tilted your head a little, curious, but didn’t say anything.

Kris swallowed. “It’s not like you weren’t before, I just– back then you didn’t talk to anyone but me, really. And now you’re–”

They stopped again. Their ears were burning.

You were still just watching them. Patient.

Kris hesitated.

They wanted to say they were happy for you. That it was cool seeing you like this. That you deserved it.

“…Sometimes I feel like I was there first.”

You blinked.

Kris still wasn’t looking at you. Just down at the wet concrete.

“I knew you before everyone else.” they mumbled. “When it was just us. And now you’re–”

Everyone’s.

They didn’t say that part. But they didn’t have to.

The words sat between you both, quiet and strange. Kris felt like shrinking into their hoodie and disappearing.

But they meant it.

They’d been proud of you. Always.

But deep down, it stung. How easily other people got to be close to you now. How they got your laughs and your inside jokes and your after-school stories.

When Kris had been the one there first. The one who remembered every little thing.

The one who never stopped thinking about you.

Yet as soon as they said it, they regretted it. Their whole chest clenched up.

Too honest. Too weird. Too much.

They bit the inside of their cheek and looked away, heart thudding like a drum in their ears.

You blinked. For a second, you didn’t say anything.

Then, quietly, “…I didn’t know you felt that way.”

Kris didn’t respond. Just stared hard at the step below them.

They hadn’t meant to say that. Not really. Not like that. They weren’t even sure what they did mean, just that it had been sitting in their chest for years.

A slow, quiet ache with no name.

There were too many things they remembered about you.

The way you used to swing your legs under your desk in elementary school. The way your laugh cracked a little when you were caught off guard. The way you used to look back at them during class like you were waiting for them to make some dumb face to keep you from falling asleep.

Every time you smiled at someone else now, Kris felt like it should’ve been them.

They knew it wasn’t fair. They knew it was stupid.

But still, some part of them, childish and stubborn, kept whining, I knew you first.

You shifted beside them.

“I always kind of thought you didn’t want to talk to me anymore.” you said, your voice quiet. Thoughtful. A little uncertain.

Kris shook their head fast. “That’s not it.”

You looked at them then. Not teasing. Not amused. Just surprised. Like you were trying to see something you hadn’t let yourself see before.

“Yeah, I guess I really had no reason to think that… We should’ve talked sooner.” you said.

...

“Sorry.” you added, voice softer now.

That made Kris glance at you.

You weren’t looking at them anymore, your eyes were down, hands curled in your lap, like you weren’t sure if you’d said too much too.

And Kris… God, they wanted something so simple.

They wanted to rewind everything. Back to when things were easy. Back to muddy shoes and shared gummy bears and rainy days where you grabbed their wrist before they could even respond.

They wanted to hand you their umbrella. Walk you home. Carry your backpack for no reason. Tell you they liked your smile and mean it so hard their whole chest hurt.

They wanted you to know that no matter how much time had passed, they’d never really let go.

Not even a little.

Even now, they caught themselves daydreaming about things that didn’t make sense, like you resting your head on their shoulder during a bus ride, or pulling them into a photo on your phone and saving it as your lock screen. Stuff that made them cringe, but felt good anyway.

Stuff they wanted more than they could say.

They glanced back down at their lap. Tried to stay still. Tried not to mess it up more.

Maybe you didn’t feel the same way. Maybe you never did.

But you were here now.

And that had to mean something. Right?

“I’m really glad I ran into you today.”

Kris didn’t know what to do with that. Their hands twisted in their sleeves. Their eyes dropped to their lap again.

“…Yeah.” they said. “Me too.”

You smiled at the sidewalk. Said nothing for a moment.

Then you sat forward a little and quickly shoved your folder into your backpack.

“…Hey.” you said, half-smiling, like you were thinking something dumb. “Wanna run?”

Kris blinked. “What?”

You looked over at them, grinning before quickly standing up and adjusting the strap of your backpack. “Home. Wanna book it?”

“It’s still pouring.”

“I know.”

Kris stared up at you. “You’ll get drenched.”

You shrugged. “So will you.”

There was a beat.

“Okay, yeah. Dumb idea.”

You said with a small laugh as you plopped back down onto the step.

Kris didn’t say anything. They couldn’t. Their chest felt too tight.

“It’s childish.” you added, a lot softer now.

And something about the way you said it, like you missed it, even just for a second, made their stomach twist.

They caught it in your voice. That small drop. That flicker of something like disappointment.

It hit them all at once. You wanted to go. You wanted to run. You wanted them to say yes.

And if they sat here and let that pass, if they had to watch your face fall even a little, they were going to lose their mind.

So before they could even think about what they were doing, Kris reached out and grabbed your hand.

You turned fast, startled, but Kris was already standing, already tugging you down the steps.

“Wait–”

Your voice barely registered.

Because when you looked up at them, Kris wasn’t even looking back. Their head was turned slightly away, their brows furrowed, their face bright red, like just holding your hand was already too much.

But they didn’t let go.

They pulled you down into the rain.

And you laughed, breathless. “Are you serious–?!”

Water splashed around your ankles. Rain slipped down your sleeves and soaked through your top in seconds. The sky was still gray but the clouds had started to open up, letting rays of light through.

You kept running.

Kris kept holding on.

And if you noticed how tightly they were gripping your hand, how determined their face was, like they couldn’t bear the idea of letting you down, you didn’t say anything.

You just squeezed back.

. . .

“Well that was a dumb fucking idea.”

Kris nodded.

You two took cover under a bus stop as the rain got heavier and your legs tired. Soaked, cold, and worn out bodies shivering, looking out into the street with blank faces.

“I’ll call someone to pick us up.”

“My socks are wet…”

. . .

EDIT: GUYS. I just reread the ask and honestly i feel so bad AURBHHH BEAHHHH like i think i rlly did lose the plot… they were barely a loser 😞😞 ill take this as my sign to not take too much time writing something bc ugh I literally forgot the entire plot I’m so sad

a/n!! hihihihihi tysm for requestinggg 1!!1!111 not TOOO happy with this honestly! rereading it, it feels all over the place and thats most likely bc i took day long breaks from working on it so idk it just felt like i was writing it in sections and they dont quite connect right ykwim??? but i hope u like it regardless!

thought making u guys imagine what kinda pokemon kris saw u as would be fun!! sorry again for the kinda of sudden ending, i honestly just rlly like writing them i think. like open endings to me r so fun IDKIDK!!!!

again THANKS SMMM for the request!!!1!1 rlly hope u like ittt lmk!!!!

(title is a paraphrased lyric from Caraphernelia by pierce the veil WHO I SAW 3 DAYS AGO AHH BEST CONCERT EVERRRR ok bye love u)

#do u guys fuck with my banners #or should i make them actually aesthetic #deltarooone #deltarune #deltarune x reader #kris dreemurr x reader #kris x reader #kris deltarune #kris dreemurr

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