#but maybe one of them had a close call with a big machine or the world ending or something! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

elysiumae · 7 days ago

Text

like gravity.

pairing: phainon x f!reader

word count: 13k

synopsis: pacrim!au. wahhhh writing this almost made me tear. i can't believe i've become the shaoji of this universe. also how are the snippets getting more attention than the actual fic LMAO

chapters: part one | part two | part three

II. FRICTION

For the second morning in a row, you hear Tribbie’s rapid fire knocking on your door. You glance at the clock and groan. It’s seven in the morning again. Does the military run on some deranged circadian rhythm designed by sadomasochists or what?

It doesn’t help that you’d spent the night tossing and turning. The cot wasn’t particularly comfortable, but the real culprit had been the memory replaying behind your eyelids every time you closed them: Phainon’s expression in that corridor outside Aglaea’s office, the flash of quiet vulnerability you’d seen in his eyes.

It matters to me, he’d said. Those words had haunted you more than any nightmare ever could.

The knocking intensifies, “Coming, coming,” you grumble, shrugging on your jacket.

Tribbie beams up at you when the door opens, looking energetic enough to singlehandedly power a Jaeger’s core. “Morning! You sleep okay? The beds here are kinda terrible, right?” She doesn’t wait for a response before thrusting a steaming mug into your hands. Ouch. Hot. “Coffee! Thought it might help wake you up.”

You stare down blearily into its contents. It smells like a three-in-one mix: engine oil, battery acid and maybe a death wish. Tribbie smiles proudly up at you. “I even added sugar! Figured you might need it after what happened yesterday…” She rocks on her heels, grips the straps of her overalls. “So, are you ready for another fun filled day of—”

You slam the mug back like it's a shot of whiskey and sigh. “Lead the way.”

Jaeger: Jaegers ([ˈjɛːɡɐ], Jäger, Hunter) are a special type of mobile weapon created by the Jaeger Program. The Jaegers were the most effective first and last line of defense against the kaiju during the Kaiju War.

Tribbie leads you through the maze of interconnected corridors in the Shatterdome, walking backwards without tripping as she does. You’ll never get used to the size, you think, the sheer scale of it all. It’d take you a map and a compass not to get lost in this place. Back in Marmoreal, you knew every back alley and escape route like the back of your hand. Here, there’s nowhere to hide, just endless corridors branching into more corridors. People here and there and everywhere, and their eyes…

Tribbie slows down to walk properly beside you, her tiny hand gripping yours. “You okay?” she asks, too perceptive for her age. “You’re all…” She slouches her shoulders and screws her face into an exaggerated scowl that would be comical if it weren’t so accurate.

That gets a suppressed snort out of you. “Just not used to…” you gesture at a passing security team, “...having so many people around.”

Tribbie blinks at you, blue eyes big and innocent. “Why?” she asks curiously, as though it’s normal to live surrounded by thousands of soldiers and the most advanced war machines ever built in a giant military facility. “Did you live alone before coming to the Shatterdome?”

You never stayed in one place for long. Work — wow, that’s what you’re calling it now? — had always forced you to stay on the move. You could be sleeping in the bed of a five star luxury hotel provided by a client one night and be bleeding out in some dark, dirty alleyway the next. But one thing had always stayed constant — the kind of silence that comes with being alone.

You nod. “Yeah.”

“Were you lonely?”

Perhaps it’s because the question takes you by surprise. Or the way that she asks — no pity, just simple curiosity. Or maybe it’s the warmth of her small hand in yours that reminds you of times long past, running along the beach with the salty sea breeze in your hair, pulling along a boy with the brightest blue eyes after a pink haired girl to chase the planes flying overhead…

“... maybe,” you mutter, immediately regretting the vulnerability. Since when do you trauma-dump on children? “I mean, not really. I liked the peace. And quiet.”

But Tribbie just squeezes your fingers tighter. “Good thing you’re here now, then,” she declares, as if that settles everything, and pulls you along.

The first place she shows you to is the mess hall, which is, according to her, the most important place in the Shatterdome. No organisation can run on an empty stomach, and hangry soldiers are scary. The next stop on your tour are the K-Science labs, which you make an effort to avoid. You’ve already formed more than enough traumatic memories in there, thank you very much.

After that, Tribbie brings you to the hangar. It requires another biometric scan of her palm to authorise, which almost fails because the scanner is too high up for her to reach, but then the gates open, hydraulics hissing, so massive that they’re barely open a crack and you could still fit a bus through sideways with ease.

“The Jaegers are all stationed inside,” Tribbie explains as the two of you walk through. “Roof’s fully mechanized, it can retract fully within three minutes for the jumphawks to lift the Jaegers out. The other gate,” she gestures at the giant gate on the other side of the hangar, just as massive as the one you’d walked through, “leads to launch bays overlooking the ocean. Saves twelve minutes on deployment when the alarms go off.”

For the tenth, no, hundredth time since coming here, you decide to bury the question of is a kid supposed to know all of these things and glance around the hangar instead, neck craning backwards to take it all in.

It’s by far the busiest place you’ve seen in the Shatterdome. Metallic clangs and the whirring of electrical tools echo throughout the vast space. People — engineers, technicians, operators — rush around the hangar with a sort of calm, laser focused urgency, looking like they’ve had three tasks due since yesterday.

But all that still pales in comparison to the Jaegers.

Towering monuments to human ingenuity and desperation, the Jaegers dwarf everything in the hangar like mechanical gods. Catwalks swing high above your head, small teams perched on gondolas like birds as they work on the monstrous hunks of metal. It's hard to believe these things can move, let alone fight. But you've seen the videos. You know what they're capable of.

Someone had once looked at the kaiju, after several nuclear resolutions had proved unsustainable, and said, “we’ll build our own monsters.” And against all odds, it had worked.

You’re still staring when a sudden alarm blares — short, sharp bursts of sound. You freeze when everyone around you does, heart thumping in your chest. Half a second passes before a tired voice crackles over the PA.

“False alarm, people. Just Professor Anaxa testing the Mark-4’s systems again.”

Groans echo through the hangar as work resumes. Tribbie just laughs. “Happens like twice a week, nowadays. It’s a good sign, though — means Naxy’s almost finished.” A new Mark-4? “He’s been driving Aggy crazy about the budget for the past year.” She takes your hand, pulls you along. “Come on, I wanna show you—”

“Hey, Tribbie! Oh, who’s this?”

The sudden voice makes you turn. Two people are standing to the side. They look young, maybe in their mid-twenties, if you’d had to guess. Identical silver-gray hair, the same golden eyes. Even their clothes are matching, even if their body language couldn’t be more different. The woman stands with one hip cocked, arms crossed, while the man fiddles lazily with a tool crate, looking like he’d rather be somewhere else napping.

Tribbie brightens when she sees them. “Aggy’s trying to recruit her,” the young girl chirps. She turns to you. “This is Stelle,” the young woman grins, gives you a mock salute, “and this is Caelus.” The man lifts two fingers in a half-hearted wave. “They’re the twins who pilot Trailblazer.”

“Intergalactic Baseballer,” Stelle corrects automatically. She glances over at her brother, quirks an eyebrow. “Because someone thought it’d be funny to program our Conn-Pod with baseball commentary during our first drop.”

Caelus shrugs, evidently unrepentant. “Worth the disciplinary hearing.”

You look at the two of them. There’s something about their accent that’s distinctively non-native, even though their standard Amphorean is near perfect. Stelle catches your look and laughs. “We transferred here from the Herta Science Station a couple of years back. The Okheman Shatterdome was short on Jaegers ever since… you know.”

Since Kephale fell. That loss had marked the beginning of the end — Janus had fallen in less than six months after that, together with the city it’d been named after. Two months later, Georios had self-destructed its core to bring down Terravox, a kaiju rampaging through Aidonia. Three Jaegers lost in less than a year.

Caelus clears his throat, deliberately lightening his tone. “It’s nice here,” he shrugs. “Better funding there, but way more paperwork. The food’s worse there, too.” He makes a face, sticks out his tongue. “I hope I never have to eat diet fried rice again.”

Rangers from the HSS… Recognition clicks in you. “Wait — you’re the Jarilo Rangers.” The words come out before you can stop them. “I watched your takedown of that Cat III near Belobog’s geomarrow plant—”

“Noooo.” Stelle’s face crumples in exaggerated despair. “Why does everyone remember us from the Cocolia incident?” She throws her arms up. “We slipped on ice! On live broadcast! Do you know how many memes it spawned?”

Tribbie just smiles. “You guys were #1 trending on the World Wound Web for weeks.”

Caelus pats his sister solemnly on the shoulder. “But we looked damn good doing it, at least.” He points out one of the Jaegers — a sharp, brutal thing built for the singular purpose of beating the crap out of kaiju. Its armour, forged from reinforced carbon-plated alloys, shimmers with a gunmetal grey sheen. An empty space rests where the Conn-Pod should be, nestled between angular shoulder plates.

“That’s our baby. Mark-2 with an experimental Stellaron core… Mister Screwllum said that if anything went wrong, it would be like having the sun crash land on earth.” He thinks about this for a moment and then shrugs, scratching at his head. “It’s safe though. Been five years and nothing’s happened…”

“Yet,” Stelle adds, unhelpfully. Are all rangers just born without any sense of self-preservation or is it an occupational hazard? You glance down at Tribbie. Unlike you, she doesn’t look particularly fazed by the possibility of being eviscerated by the equivalent of a small sun imploding.

Good god, you’re surrounded by lunatics.

“That one,” Tribbie points to a sleeker model with angular armour, “is Akivili. Also from the HSS. And the one over there…”

Your attention snags on the massive form behind them. “Nikador,” you breathe.

The last remaining Jaeger from the Titan line looms like a slumbering god of war, casting a shadow over the hangar. Its armour, once pure white and gold, has dulled to the colour of old bones. There are long scratches in the plates across its chest, where kaiju claws failed to penetrate.

Even powered down and completely still, its presence is overwhelming. After Kephale, it’s responsible for the most kaiju takedowns in Amphorean waters.

“Old Nikky.” Stelle looks at it. “Last of Professor Anaxa’s original five still standing. We call it the Undying.” She snorts to herself. “Just as stubborn as its pilots.”

“The Titans,” you murmur, running through the list of names in your head. “Phagousa, Janus, Georios, Nikador and…”

Caelus must guess what’s on your mind, because he shakes his head. “Kephale’s in pieces down in Bay 9. Anaxa’s cannibalising him for parts — building that top-secret Mark-4 prototype of his.” He shakes his head. “Still a shame, though. He was a real fighter.”

Kephale. The Jaeger that Phainon and Cyrene had piloted. You remember watching the replays of the battle footage in internet cafes, hunched over instant noodles between jobs. Studied every frame — the way it moved, the distinct step forward of its right foot during combat manoeuvres, even the slight delay in firing its Plasmacaster. You could probably still recite its technical specs from memory.

Now it’s just another ghost in the Shatterdome’s graveyard. One of its pilots is gone, ashes scattered into the warm, sunlit waters of a familiar sea. And the other…

Stelle’s sudden clap jolts you from your thoughts. “So!” She grins, all mischief in the edges of her smile. “Since the General is trying to recruit you…” She jerks a thumb at Trailblazer’s — sorry, Intergalactic Baseballer’s — Conn-Pod, suspended high above its body by rigs. Right, since the Mark-2s are nuclear powered… “Want the full VIP tour? Nothing sells the Ranger life quite like seeing the inside of a real Jaeger.” Her eyes gleam gold. “Okay, I guess the fat paycheck helps too.”

You should say no. These are weapons of war, not toys — each one costs more than the GDPs of some small nations. You don’t even have any intention of becoming a ranger. But standing here in their shadow… you feel like a teen again, pressing your nose to the shop windows to stare at the Jaeger models on display. Your fingers twitch at your sides.

When Aglaea cuts you loose — and she will — this chance won’t come again.

“... just a quick look,” you find yourself saying, and Stelle’s triumphant whoop echoes through the hangar.

J-Tech: J-Tech (or Jaeger-Tech) is an occupation given to officers in charge of the maintenance of the Jaeger systems and robotics.

Tribbie leaves first, citing that the GM has something for her to do. You follow Stelle and Caelus into one of the many elevators in the hangar, wires screeching as it ascends.

The metal catwalk vibrates underfoot as you step into the Conn-Pod — the Jaeger’s head. It’s bigger than you expect — wow, that’s what she said — but that goes for everything associated with the Jaegers, so. The lights are dimmed, windows curved like a visor. Two rigs hang like dormant sentinels in the center, awaiting their pilots. Everything smells vaguely of something metallic and chemical coolant.

Caelus slaps a control panel with practiced familiarity. The speakers crackle to life: “This ball is long gone, just like the ex-girlfriend who will never return!”

You stare. “You built a Discord soundboard into your billion dollar Jaeger?” Stelle just laughs. Caelus pats the console affectionately. “Gotta keep things lively when you’re about to get your ass kicked by a kaiju.”

“For when we’re about to kick a kaiju’s ass, you mean.”

You leave behind their bantering to wander over to the massive forward visor. Below, technicians scurry like ants across the hangar’s ground floor. You glance back at the pilot’s rig behind you, and imagine—

— a pink haired woman, grinning as she leans over the center console to give you a fist bump.

A dark mass, emerging from the waves. Moving fast, too agile.

A sinking feeling of despair. Teeth, clamping through the top of the Conn-Pod.

Metal screeching, something in his mind shattering, and then—

Silence.

Something in your stomach lurches, and you grab onto the nearest thing to steady yourself. What the fuck was that? Imagination that vivid is only reserved for bedtime, and although you’d read the news articles, thought about it, had nightmares again and again about it, you’d never actually seen the way that Cyrene had—

Oh.

“You okay?” Caelus asks, noticing your white-knuckled grip on the railing. He’s peering at you, golden eyes concerned.

“Yeah. Just…” You flex your fingers, pry them off and shove them in your pockets, “never been this high up before, actually.” There’s a dryness in your throat and you swallow hard, decide to turn your mind to other things. “Um, what’s drifting successfully actually like?”

The twins exchange one of those wordless glances that only siblings can pull off. They seem a little surprised by your sudden question, but try to humour you regardless.

“Honestly?” Stelle shrugs. “Wasn’t much to think about. It kinda just… happened.”

Caelus nods. “It’s like remembering how to ride a bike, except the bike is also remembering you back.” What does that even mean? He scrunches up his face, searching for the words, and then gives up. “Hard to describe, unless you’ve felt it yourself.”

You think back to yesterday’s failed attempt, how violently you’d forced out Phainon’s presence in your head. “I guess it’s not supposed to feel like someone’s groping around in your mind, huh?”

“It’s a two way street,” Stelle shrugs, tilting her head to look at you. Her eyes are suddenly more perceptive than you’d like. “Like they say, it’s a neural handshake. Can’t have a handshake when one hand’s closed. Or if the other is trying to go for a slap. Or if one’s giving you the middle finger. Or—”

“I’m sure she gets the idea,” Caelus laughs, and you glance away. “Well, even with a successful sync, it doesn’t mean drift compatibility’s always high. Like shaking someone’s hand and finding out they have sweaty palms.”

Ugh. You look at the two of them. “But you’re twins,” you reason aloud. “Guess it came naturally for you.”

“That probably helped,” Stelle admits. “But compatibility’s weird sometimes. Some married couples can’t drift to save their lives and then you get guys like Mydei and Cassie who synced a 70% on their first try.”

Anything above 50% is within the passing range. Most pilots score between 56% to 80%. You think back to the 26% you’d gotten with Phainon, try to extrapolate it the best you can. Maybe if you can just complete a successful sync without giving away too much…

But then there’s the other issue. “And after you drift,” you say slowly, “is it normal to see memories—”

Before you can finish asking your question, the Conn-Pod doors hiss open. A tall man with green — green? — hair storms inside, flanked by a team of J-Tech in greased-stained coveralls. His lab coat might have been white once, but now it’s just a map of coffee stains and scorch marks. One of his eyes is covered with a medical eyepatch.

“Stelle!” he barks, completely ignoring you and Caelus. “Why are you contaminating my equipment with your… your…” He waves a hand vaguely at her. “Vibes.”

Stelle rounds on him, scowling. “You’re the one harassing me in my Jaeger!”

His one visible eye twitches. “I formulated all the repairs for this thing. I was the one who re-calibrated every neural relay when you fried them kicking that EMP kaiju!”

Caelus sidles up next to you. “Professor Anaxagoras. He’s the head physicist and engineer in the Shatterdome. They’ve been like this ever since Stelle asked if his hair came standard issue with the military uniform,” he whispers, not quietly enough.

Anaxa’s head whips around. “I heard that!”

Before the argument can escalate, a mountain of a man steps between them. His coveralls are streaked with grease, hands scarred from decades of physical work. When he speaks, his voice is… quieter than you expect, a low rumble in the cavern of his chest. “No time for arguments,” he says, slow and patient, with the air of someone who's mediated this argument too many times. “Plasmacutter upgrades necessary.”

Stelle brightens. “(Name), meet Chartonus — the person who actually keeps this circus running.” His eyes, intense and deliberate, settle on you. You shift, mildly uncomfortable.

“Nice to meet you.” he says, slowly. He speaks with an accent distinctively not Amphorean. Or at least, not the standard Amphorean you’re used to.

Stelle elbows the technician lightly. “So? What fancy new ways to murder kaiju do you have for me this time?”

“Let me explain my own designs, thank you very much,” Professor Anaxagoras — Anaxa? — pulls out a tablet from the pockets — how’d that even fit in there? — of his lab coat, projects a rotating schematic. The blade’s design glows blue. “Managed to stabilise the system, prevent a complete meltdown while the plasma blades heat to 30,000 Kelvin. Should slice through even a Cat IV’s hide like butter.”

“Holy hell,” Caelus whistles, looking impressed. He leans in to take a closer look. “Overkill, much?”

Chartonus shakes his head. “Not overkill. Necessary.” He glances at Professor — Anaxagoras? Anaxa? — and his shoulders slump slightly. “Reports from Analytics division. Kaijus learning.” He meets Stelle’s frown with a serious look of his own. Suddenly, you feel like you’re hearing things that you shouldn’t be privy to — words that carry the weight of the world.

Professor Anaxagoras nods, eye narrowing. All traces of humour are gone when he speaks. “There are similar reports coming in from the other Shatterdomes. The EMP six months back? Not an anomaly anymore. Now, it’s a pattern. They’re evolving fast, and we need to be faster.”

“What the fuck?” Stelle exhales sharply, looking frustrated. “How are they doing this so quickly? It tooks millions of years to get from monkeys to here and they’re doing it in months?”

Chartonus just shrugs, a wearisome movement that feels like a sigh. “Hyacinthia’s job, to think. My job,” he glances at the Jaeger, “to build.”

He nods at the massive clock visible through the front visor — the War Clock, Tribbie had told you, reset after every kaiju attack. A tally of borrowed time.

[001:17:42:11]

A month and seventeen days since the last breach. Even as you watch, the seconds climb upward with relentless precision. When Chartonus speaks, his words land heavy.

“When comes… must be ready.”

The maintenance ledge juts out over the ocean like a dare, its rusty railing the only thing between you and a roughly fifty-meter drop into the churning waves below. You dangle your legs over the edge anyway, heels kicking absently against the Shatterdome’s concrete underbelly.

The Okhema Shatterdome had used to be a wave generation facility, before it’d been bought out by the Pan Pacific Defense Corps and the IPC. From here, all you see is ocean, waters slate grey instead of the sparkling blue waves you’re used to, but it’s better than staying inside. The lack of windows has started to unnerve you just a little, the constant hum of machinery a poor substitute for the crying of seabirds.

You look out. Somewhere beyond the horizon lies Aedes Elysiae. Or what’s left of it, at least.

You’re not the sentimental type. Haven’t let yourself be, ever since you’d decided to leave everything behind. But here, listening to the waves, you can still vaguely picture your hometown when you close your eyes: the salt-warped boardwalk where Phainon had dueled crabs with sticks from the beach, the tide pools where Cyrene had collected her perfectly spiral shells. And you’d been… whatever you’d done didn’t matter, because a kaiju had appeared.

All you remember doing is staring, eyes wide as the monster rose from the water, kept rising and rising and oh, that’d just been its head. The way its shadow had blotted out the sun.

The news reports hadn’t even named your town in the headlines. Lethe’s two million souls mattered more than Aedes Elysiae’s few hundreds. But the kaiju that day had taken away everything you’d ever known.

Voices echo from behind you. Bright and eager, cutting through the sounds of the ocean. With energy this excitable, they can only be recruits.

You sigh, glance behind you. Leaving now would mean crossing the open stretch of the ledge, and there’s no way they wouldn’t see you. Not that you’re not allowed to be here — you didn’t even have to pick any doors on the way, or swipe any keycards. But you’re just not quite in the mood to be perceived right now. When are you ever, actually? You press your back against the cold metal, willing yourself to stay still. Maybe if you don’t move, they’ll pass by in just a bit.

But then, you hear a familiar voice — Phainon’s. Gods, what are the odds? The Shatterdome is massive and somehow you still manage to end up in a place with the Deliverer in it.

You risk a glance around the edge. Watching them as they crowd around him, faces lit up with something dangerously close to worship. One of them — wiry and still barely just a kid with a fresh Jaeger Academy tattoo on his forearm — leans in, voice almost trembling as he speaks.

“I— I joined the Jaeger program because of you, Sir. After that takedown in Kremnos, I—”

Phainon waves a hand, that practiced, self-deprecating laugh of his rolling out as smoothly as a broadcast soundbite. “Ah, come on, that was a team effort. Georios was the real MVP there.” He sounds disgustingly sincere, and what makes it even more annoying is that you know that it is.

Another recruit, a woman with hair curling just beneath her ears, pushes her way forward. “I heard that you haven’t found a new co-pilot,” she says determinedly. “I know that I’m not good enough yet to match up to Dr Cyrene, but I’ll try my best.”

You squint, annoyed. Yeah, yeah, good luck lasting more than a minute in there with him.

Phainon just smiles. “It’s not about being good enough. I’m sure that you already carry a hero in your heart. And my scores, well, I guess it’s just not time for me to be back out in the Jaeger just yet.” You catch the weariness in his tone, barely noticeable. But there.

The kid from earlier doesn’t seem to hear it, because he just scoffs. “Bullshit. That just means no one is good enough for you.”

You roll your eyes, biting back a snort. “What, is drifting some sort of matchmaking service now?” you mutter under your breath.

But of course, no one hears you. They’re too busy hanging onto Phainon’s every word, too caught up in the myth of him — the golden boy, the unmatched pilot, the man who should have been grounded after his co-pilot died but somehow kept getting pushed back into the spotlight because the PPDC needed a hero more than it needed honesty.

And Phainon — he plays the part perfectly. The sincere, genuine charm, the effortless confidence, the way he claps a hand on the kid’s shoulder like they’re old friends instead of strangers who’ve known him for five minutes. It’s easy to see why they’re basically eating out of his palm.

It's nothing like the quiet, tortured looks he gives you when your eyes meet. Like he’s looking at the ghost of something he’d rather forget but can’t quite leave behind. And that drift… you’d already known it before, but it’s something completely different to feel Phainon’s disappointment in you. It stings more than you care to admit.

Something twists in you. You tell yourself it’s annoyance.

This is a good thing. You want this. As soon as you’re finished with that NeuroSync, show Aglaea that the two of you are incompatible as people can be, you’ll leave and never cross paths with Phainon ever again.

The recruits finally leave, buzzing with adrenaline, their voices carrying on the salt-stiff wind as they chatter about training schedules and neural tests and did you see the way he looked at me?

And Phainon is left all alone.

You duck your head behind the pillar again. But that doesn’t do you any good, because a few seconds later you hear the sound of boots on the metal sheets, and then a soft ‘hey’ behind you that makes you nearly throw yourself off the ledge.

“Woah!” Phainon panics, fingers clamping around your upper arm with nearly enough force to bruise. The sudden contact sends a jolt through your body, palm warm through the fabric of your jacket.

“Don’t… don’t sit there.” His voice is tight, strained in a way that makes you look up. Phainon’s face is slightly pale beneath the tan, blue eyes wide with something beyond concern. “The railing’s rusted through. What if you—” He cuts himself off sharply, like he can’t bear to finish the thought.

You roll your eyes, shrugging against his grip. “I’ve been in shootouts. With machine guns. Pretty sure I can handle a dodgy railing.”

But he doesn’t let go. Instead, his fingers tighten fractionally, and when you meet his gaze, what you see there makes your breath catch — not just worry, but something raw and desperate, like he’s seeing you balanced on some invisible edge only he can perceive.

“Please?” Just one word, barely above a whisper, but it lands like a physical weight. There’s a history in that single syllable — years of similar pleas you’d ignored, walked away from. Why does he still even bother?

Something in your chest twists. Against your better judgment, you shift back from the edge. “Happy now? Guess I can’t die until we’ve completed that NeuroSync, huh…”

He doesn’t answer, just exhales sharply through his nose, shoulders relaxing just a fraction. The hand on your arm lingers a moment longer than necessary before falling away, and you find yourself missing the warmth.

Just the warmth, you tell yourself. Because it’s freezing out here.

“I’m surprised you saw me,” you grumble, picking at a flaking patch of paint on the railing. “Thought you were too busy playing hero for your fan club.”

Phainon turns to look at you fully, and the expression on his face is so painfully familiar it makes your teeth ache. That same searching look he gave you when he saw you behind bars for the first time, like he was trying to reconcile the person in front of him with the ghost he’d been chasing.

“I spent six years searching for you after you disappeared,” he says softly, as if he’s remarking on the weather and not the half-decade he’d wasted combing through wreckage and dead ends for any sign of you. “It’s not a habit that disappeared overnight after you reappeared.”

Six years. You’d heard the rumors, of course — how the PPDC’s golden boy had turned down command postings, how he’d personally scoured every seabed in Amphoreus for what remained of your bones. Any confirmation of your death. You’d told yourself that it was out of obligation. Guilt. The kind of stubbornness that once made him chase you down the beach for stealing his last chimera cookie back when you were thirteen and he was twelve, boardwalk sandy under your bare feet and shrieking with laughter.

But hearing it now, in his own voice, with the sea wind between you — it lodges between your ribs like a shard of glass.

Before you can respond, he’s lowering himself onto the ledge next to you. The space between you is narrow enough that you can feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the familiar mix of engine oil layered over a hint of something warm and citrusy from some expensive cologne.

The silence stretches, filled only by the rhythmic crash of waves against the Shatterdome’s foundational pillars. Out on the water, the setting sun fractures against the waves, scattering light across the sea like diamonds, glittering.

“I come here a lot,” he says at last, voice oddly soft. “Reminds me of home.”

You almost laugh. The Shatterdome’s industrial landscape is a far cry from Aedes Elysiae’s beautiful beaches, warm sand between your toes and smooth pebbles you’d skipped across the waves. But there is no more Aedes Elysiae. Only this — rusted metal, cold concrete, the war he's so desperate to throw himself back into looming on the horizon.

For some reason, against your better judgment, you find yourself speaking. “Why do you want to get back in a Jaeger so bad?” you mutter. You remember the war clock, the way the numbers had ticked, steadily going up and up. Almost like a countdown, time marching towards an inevitable fate. “Are you that excited to die?”

Phainon hesitates for a moment. His fingers flex slightly where they rest on his knees. “All of us have a responsibility to save the world,” he says at last. The perfect response for the PPDC’s perfect hero. His eyes stay fixed on the horizon where the water meets the sky.

You shake your head, stare out at the waters. “Damn hero complex…”

He just sighs, like he’s given up on explaining himself. You wonder if that's something you'll ever understand, even if you drifted with him another ten, hundred or thousand times. That’s why you’ll never be drift compatible with this man.

But for now, the two of you stay there in silence, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with the boy you grew up with and the man he became, watching the waves until the last of the sunlight fades from the sky.

At night, the bed creaks beneath you as you stare at the ceiling, thin mattress doing nothing to cushion the ache in your bones. Around you, the Shatterdome hums with purpose — muffled footsteps in the corridor outside, distant clang of maintenance crews working through the night. Every sound underscores the same note: you don’t belong here.

All the people you’d met today — Stelle, Caelus, Anaxa, Chartonus — they move through the world with a certain conviction. Like they wake up each morning believing that the things that they do matter. That if they just fight hard enough, they can claw back some light from the darkness that encroaches.

And Phainon belongs among them. He’d burn himself to cinders if it meant saving the world and think nothing of it. Maybe even do it with a smile. Self-sacrificing git…

You press your face into the pillow, pull the blanket over your head. Tomorrow, they’ll attempt to convince you that you’re someone capable of drifting with a hero. And tomorrow, the results will come back and they’ll tell you what you already know — that you’re not enough.

But tonight? Tonight you’re just a thief in a hero’s bed, counting down the hours until the world reminds you of your place.

Kaiju: The Kaiju (怪獣 kaijū?, Strange Beast) are a race of amphibious creatures from the Anteverse. In 2011, a portal known as the Breach opened between dimensions at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean, allowing the Kaiju to enter Earth. As biological weapons of warfare, Kaiju are extremely hostile and toxic creatures designed with the intention to wipe out all humankind.

The K-Science biolab smells like antiseptic and formaldehyde and something sharper underneath — the sharp sting of kaiju blue that always seems to linger no matter how many times Hyacine sterilises the place. Phainon waits by the examination table, fingers drumming nonsensical rhythms against his thigh as he watches her work.

Hyacine doesn’t look up from her microscope. “Give me a second,” she says, adjusting the focus. The mechanical gears in the knob make tiny click-click noises. “Just need to finish up this sample analysis…”

“Still working on Terravox?”

“Mm. Secondary brain tissue, might give us some insight as to how their tails work independently of the main brain. The General thinks she’s seeing a rising number of kaiju with decentralised neural networks.” She finally sighs, straightens up to peel her gloves off and gives him a wan smile. “But you’re not here for my research. Come on, let’s get your psych eval done.”

She motions him towards the chair by her cluttered desk, the same one she’s been using since he’d started these monthly psych evaluations three years ago. Phainon sits, trying not to fidget as she scrolls through his records.

“Sleep still bad?” she asks. Phainon shrugs.

“Could be worse.”

Hyacine gives him a scolding look. “That’s not an answer.” She taps the screen where his prescription history is listed out. “Your meds have been refilled three times this month. That’s more than your baseline.”

He shrugs again. The floor sticks to the soles of his boots. Yikes. “There’s been a lot on my mind.”

“Uh-huh.” Hyacine sets her mouse aside to cross her arms at him. It's always disconcerting to see the usually cheerful biologist slip into full doctor mode—her posture straightens, her voice drops half an octave. Always about the patient’s well-being, though… “How many nights this week did you sleep without the pills?”

Phainon hesitates just a beat too long. It's enough of an answer for Hyacine.

“That’s what I thought,” she sighs, rubs at her temples like she’s fighting off an impending headache. “Look, I can’t keep rubber-stamping these evaluations forever. I know the General believes in you, but…” She leans forward, green eyes softening. “If you’re not alright, it’s okay. It’s expected. I don’t even want to imagine what it felt like, being trapped in the Drift when Cyrene…”

The name hangs in the air between them. Phainon’s jaw tightens, but he keeps his voice carefully even. “I’m functional.”

“I don’t want you just functional. I want you well.” Hyacine clasps her hands together, looks at him with something like pleading in her eyes. “Phainon, look, you know I’m always on your side. But you’re pushing yourself too hard. The nightmares, the insomnia—” She pauses, choosing her words carefully. “These are symptoms, not just inconveniences that you can bury with pills. You’re no good to anyone if you go chasing R.A.B.I.Ts mid-drift, yourself included.”

It’s one thing to know these things, but another to be confronted with them by someone else. “I know.” Phainon’s voice is quiet. “Thank you, Hyacine.”

When she sees that he has no intention of engaging further, Hyacine just sighs, reaches for her stylus with the air of someone conceding the battle but not the war. “Fine. But I’m cutting your dosage. Half the pills, twice the check-ins.” She fixes him with a stern look. “And if I hear you’ve been rationing the pills in an attempt to stockpile them, we’re going to be having a very different conversation.”

No wonder why Mydei likes her so much. Phainon nods, the motion tight but sincere. “Understood, ma’am.”

Hyacine scribbles her signature on the psych evaluation with more force than necessary, a looping cursive. The printer whirs to life and she hands him his prescription chit. He takes it, paper curling between his fingers.

Phainon smiles, a genuine one as he stands. “Thanks, Doc.”

“Just don’t make me regret it,” she mumbles, turning back to her microscope. “People care about you, Phainon.” The door slides shut.

More than you realise, I think.

After the psych evaluation, Phainon wanders the Shatterdome aimlessly. His feet, as usual, bring him to the Kwoon Combat Room. He’d once sparred with Mydei here for four hours straight, when the other ranger had first become a pilot. If they hadn’t each already had their own partners, Phainon sometimes wonders whether they would have been compatible as co-pilots.

Regardless of that, he pushes open the door and hopes to find Mydei in the training arena — someone who can match him blow for blow, where he can lose himself to the rhythm of hand to hand combat and just… quiet his mind.

Instead, he sees you.

You’re in the center ring, fumbling with a practice staff like it’s personally wronged you. The sight makes him pause in the doorway. Stelle, Caelus, and March — one of Akivili’s pilots — are sprawled on the ground next to the ring, all looking similarly sweaty. Dan Heng, her co-pilot, corrects your posture with a hand on your wrist and you frown, gripping it even more tightly.

The NeuroSync is scheduled for this evening. He tries not to think of the last time your minds brushed. Tries not to think of the way you had forced him from your mind. You should have been compatible with someone else.

The rational part of him knows he should turn around — the quiet moment you’d shared last evening changes nothing, fixes nothing — but then you laugh at something Dan Heng says, a rare, unguarded sound he hasn’t heard in years, and then suddenly leaving feels impossible.

Before he can make up his mind, March spots him. “Phainon! Perfect timing!” she calls, waving him over with an enthusiastic grin.

He sighs, rubbing at the tension gathering at the base of his neck. Too late to escape now. As he approaches, he watches your shoulders stiffen the moment you register his presence, that guarded look flashing across your face before you school your features into careful neutrality. Part of him is irrationally jealous all of a sudden — though of what exactly, he isn’t quite sure.

“Six to zero,” Tribbie calls — Phainon hadn’t noticed the little redhead behind Dan Heng, there. She beams up at him, waves both hands enthusiastically. Caelus gives him a lazy salute as he comes to stand next to them.

“I’m not used to these things,” you mutter, shifting your grip on the staff. “Who even uses staffs in this day and age? Give me a gun any time.”

Dan Heng exhales through his nose, a slight hint of amusement showing in his eyes. “It’s not about the weapon — not even about winning, actually. The combat room is more about forging a relationship between pilots, developing a physical chemistry with your partner.”

“Could we not say it like that, please?” You attempt the spin that Dan Heng shows you and nearly drop it. Wrist is too stiff… “Guess the military couldn’t come up with a better way to build a relationship than to beat the shit out of each other, huh…”

The dark haired ranger shrugs, sweeping his own staff forward in a controlled arc that you barely manage to block. “Before Cyrene developed the NeuroSync, they were using all kinds of tests to see if potential rangers had compatibility. March and I got tested because we used the same excuse to get out of tasting Dr Himeko’s coffee back at the HSS.”

“That’s not even the strangest one,” Stelle chips in, dabbing at her forehead with a towel before glancing up at him. “Didn’t you and Cyrene get tested with a Nintendo Switch?”

The memory feels like it happened lifetimes ago. It might as well have. He nods slowly, can’t help the slight smile that tugs at his mouth. “Beat the Shatterdome’s highscore for Overcooked 2 in a day.”

“What?” You blink, momentarily distracted. “This is the kind of scientific research my taxpayer dollars are going into?”

Dan Heng uses your distraction to move again. His strike is slow, but you still nearly drop the staff entirely in your scramble to defend. Phainon steps into the ring without thinking, plucking the weapon from your hands.

“Here,” he says, adjusting your grip with practiced ease. His fingers brush against yours — warm and calloused — and he feels you tense. “Can’t wield it properly if you hold it like it’s going to bite you.”

You make a noise of disgust, expression sullen. “Everyone’s a critic…” You don’t pull away, though.

Phainon watches you with an unreadable expression, something flickering behind his blue eyes. There's a strange, almost childish desire rising in him — to keep needling you, to draw out more of those reactions, to prolong this moment where the air between you doesn't crackle with unsaid things. This is the most normal you've been around each other in months, and some traitorous part of him wants to stretch it indefinitely. “Would you rather keep losing?”

“Woo-hoo! Phainon verses (Name).” He turns just in time to catch the staff March tosses at him, her eyes bright with their usual playfulness. Dan Heng is already slipping out of the ring. That guy moves like the wind… “First to five hits wins!”

“Wait,” you lower your staff, eyes darting over to Phainon before frowning at her. “I never agreed to—”

Before he can fully think it through, Phainon steps forward to tap the point of his staff lightly against your forehead. “Dead,” he announces. You whirl around to stare at him, indignant. “What? That doesn’t count!”

Tribbie just giggles, chin propped up on her hands. “One to zero,” she calls in a sing-song voice.

You lunge at him with a scowl and he sidesteps easily, countering with a light but precise strike to your ribs. “Two.”

He can practically see the gears turning in your head as you clench your jaw and fall back, circling him. He expects another reckless charge, but instead you pause — eyes locked on him with an intensity that makes something in the pit of his stomach curl. And then, when he shifts his weight to feint left, you strike.

The staff cracks against his forearm with surprising force.

“One to two,” Tribbie announces, eyebrows raised. Phainon glances down at his arm in surprise, at the hot sting where your blow had connected. You shouldn’t have been able to read that move. He looks up.

You’re grinning a little, looking too pleased with yourself. “Surprised?”

He is. More than he’d care to admit.

The next exchange is faster, more fluid. Phainon goes low, slots the end of the staff between your ankles and flips. Your back is on the ground before you can even register falling, eyes wide as you look up the pole he holds to your throat. He huffs out a little breath, smiles down at you. “Three.”

You push yourself to your feet, eyes narrowed — and just lunge forward, instantly. He’s almost taken by surprise, rushes to bring his staff up to counter yours. You pull away before he can twist your arm into a deadlock, jab at his right shoulder where he can’t quite reach.

You’re still sloppy with the staff, technique unrefined, but there’s something unsettling familiar in the way you move against him. Like you’ve studied his fighting, somehow. Like you know his tells before he commits to them.

It happens again. When he steps forward, aims high just as you go low. Like you knew, somehow. The end of your staff knocks into his side.

“Two to four,” Tribbie is starting to sound confused, now.

The two of you exchange blows again, but Phainon’s mind is speeding through a thousand thoughts in minutes. Suddenly, it clicks. “You’ve watched my fights,” he accuses, between strikes.

“Kephale’s fights,” you correct, twisting away from his advance.

He presses and you block — barely — arms shaking from the strain. “Which ones?”

You exhale sharply through your nose, blink away the sweat as your eyes lock. “All of them,” you admit after a beat, and the admission that makes his chest tighten. Something hot and unnameable flares behind his ribs at the thought of you sitting in some dimly lit room somewhere, rewinding footage of Kephale — of him — over and over until you could predict his movements like second nature. Because Kephale’s movements were — are — his.

You were watching him.

The fight shifts then. It’s not just sparring anymore — it’s a push and pull, a give and take that feels dangerously like the Drift itself. He sees it now, the way you fight like a cornered animal. Mydei had always said, to know someone you observe them in battle or fight them yourself, to reveal their true nature. You’re all sharp edges and a whirlwind of something frantic, as though staying down for more than a second equals death. But there’s something more beneath it. A rhythm. A syncopation that he finds himself falling into step with.

“You’re not going easy on her, are you, Phainon?” Stelle calls from the sidelines, arms slung over the ropes. She’s frowning.

He’s not. Not going all out, of course. But he’s not exactly holding himself back, either. You drop low and he follows. Your sticks smack together but he’s stronger, forces your staff back and twists it from your grip. But you let it slide, reaching down to catch if before it can hit the mat, and hold one end to his neck just as he does the same to you.

The two of you stare at each other for a few moments. Your chest is rising and falling with each breath, harsh and heavy.

And then he realises: the room has gone quiet.

Stunned, the two of you turn to see a small crowd has gathered. And at the front of it, arms crossed, expression unreadable — stands the General. Phainon exhales, lowering his staff.

He knows what this means, and from the look on Aglaea’s face, so does she.

Hyacine moves quickly through the biolab, her usual methodical precision abandoned in favour of urgency. The NeuroSync hums to life, screens flickering as initial diagnostic and calibration tests run.

Aglaea had pushed the test forward, the moment she’d seen you and Phainon in the ring. As though whatever fragile, fleeting compatibility you had with him might just evaporate if given too much time to breathe.

You stare down at your hands, still trembling from the fight — or nerves? Beginner’s luck, you try to reassure yourself. Freak incident. Nothing more. But even that doesn’t convince you.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

You were supposed to have another three more hours. Not much time, but enough to make a run for it — if you’d known, you might have just tossed yourself into the ocean and made a swim for it. Not this hurried, reckless plunge into something that could ruin the entire course of your life. Your stomach twists.

And despite yourself, you find yourself glancing at Phainon.

He’s standing against the wall, arms crossed and expression schooled into that infuriating calm he wears like armour. But you see the tension in the line of his jaw, the way his eyes sweep the floor in front of him, restless. Fingers digging into flesh, like it’s the only thing grounding him to here, to now.

He’s just as unsettled as you are.

Hyacine steps back from the console, wiping her hands on her lab coat. “Systems are up,” she says, her voice softer than usual. There’s something hesitant in her gaze as she glances between the two of you. “Whenever you’re ready.”

You exchange one last look with Phainon — something silent and weighted passing between the two of you — before you settle into the chair. Hyacine is silent as she attaches the electrodes to your temples, does the same with Phainon. The headsets descend with a mechanical hiss.

It starts with the same unsettling thrumming, as though someone’s placed a speaker right next to your ear and turned the bass all the way up. Grows and stretches, until it’s enveloping your entire mind. And then you fall, no ground beneath your feet, and—

It’s summer, sun high in the sky. You’re on your hands and knees, digging at the sand under the boardwalk where you’re sure Phainon has hidden your flip flops. Cyrene’s cheeky laughter rings out in the background, tasting of salt and sunshine. “Lose something again?”

“I didn’t take them.” A young teen with the brightest blue eyes you’ve ever seen in the surf, waves washing up to his knees. His hands are cupped around his mouth, but you can still make out his grin. “You’d lose your head if it weren’t attached to your shoulders, y’know.”

You toss a handful of sand at him that scatters in the stiff wind, wave a fist at him. He doubles over laughing, the sound bright and warm and oh so—

The sky goes dark. So suddenly, it steals your breath.

One moment, the sun is shining, the next — the sky splits with the scream of fighter jets. Alarms tear through the air, shrill and panicked. Phainon’s eyes meet yours, blue swallowed by fear. In the distance, the kaiju roars. And then—

He’s kneeling in the blackened sand. Clawing through the debris, fingers raw and bleeding, face streaked with tears he didn’t even know were falling. Cyrene is tugging at his shoulder, her own eyes red-rimmed and wet. “Stop,” she’s saying, voice breaking. “Stop, Phainon, she's gone—”

Not yet. Not as long as he can still move. Not until he sees—

You’re smaller, younger. The knife in your hands feels too heavy. The man in front of you — a pale stranger with cold eyes — presses it into your grip. “Make yourself useful, then.” His voice is smooth, constricts around your throat like a noose. Silk and venom.

Your hands shake. Fear coalesces in your chest, a cold that splinters and doesn’t melt. But you don’t drop it, fingers gripping—

The Conn-Pod shakes. The world tilts violently. Phainon’s voice is frantic. “Cyrene! Cyrene, we need to—”

Then— wet, crunching metal. The sound of something tearing, like fabric being ripped apart. The neural handshake fractures, a burst of warmth like a dying star, and suddenly, there’s nothing. No presence in his mind. No steady stream of thoughts. It’s like hearing his own heartbeat come to a stop.

You stand at the end of a pier, staring out over familiar waters. Silently drop a perfect, spiralled shell into the water, watch it sink beneath the waves without a trace. Too late. Everything is too late.

Phainon stares at his own reflection in the mirror, eyes hollow. Looks down at the bottles of pills in the medicine cabinet, fingers curling around the edges of the sink, and—

It’s too much. All of it, it’s too much. You’re already halfway through ripping off the headset, before you even realise what you’re doing. Try to breathe deeply to fill the clawing emptiness in your chest, eyes wet. Next to you, Phainon pulls his off slowly, eyes on the ground but not really seeing. He looks gutted, like someone’s reached into his chest and rearranged everything in there.

The screen flashes. 86%.

For a second, you just stare, wondering if the Drift has finally cooked your brain so hard you no longer recognise numbers. But Hyacine is gaping at the results as well, similarly wide eyed, and the sinking feeling in your chest becomes real all at once.

“I’ll give the General the results,” Hyacine mumbles, when she finally peels her eyes away from the screen. Her voice is hushed, as though the numbers on the screen might change if she speaks too loud. She offers you a sympathetic look, at least.

Next to you, Phainon says nothing.

You end up in Aglaea’s office again, but not alone this time. Everything is uncomfortably silent, except for the occasional tap tap of the General’s fingernails against the desk as she reviews the results. Phainon sits on the chair next to you, back rigid, arms crossed, jaw set. He hasn’t looked at you once since you entered. The tension between you is palpable enough to choke on.

86%.

Your pulse hammers in your throat, palms damp where they’re pressed against your thighs beneath the table.

“I can’t do this,” you blurt out, before Aglaea can say anything, hate the way your voice cracks like thin ice. “Look, Aglaea, I’m not a soldier. You can’t possibly think that putting me in a Jaeger is a good idea.”

To your surprise, it’s Phainon who replies. “Stelle and Caelus weren’t soldiers.” His voice is low and measured, still staring at some fixed point on the wall. “March, too.”

Aglaea steeples her fingers. “He’s right. You don’t have to be military to pilot. What you do need,” she locks eyes with you, “is compatibility. You might not be a soldier, but Phainon is. And when the two of you have drifted properly, you’ll understand everything about what’s needed of a Ranger.”

“What, you mean the suicidal urge to climb into a walking coffin?” You snap back. “No sane person would volunteer for that. Only you brainwashed lackeys who think that being torn apart by kaiju is somehow noble—”

“Cyrene did.”

The name hangs between the two of you. Your stomach twists.

“Yeah, and look what happened to her,” you spit, hands trembling violently now. The words taste like battery acid in your mouth. “Fucking idiot should’ve known better than to put herself into a Jaeger—”

Phainon goes very, very still. It’s something deeper, more terrifying. Like all the molecules in the room have frozen in place, too afraid to move.

“Say that again,” he says, voice barely over a whisper.

You don’t back down. “What, does the truth hurt? She was so smart, and all for what? Still stupid enough to get into that death trap. All rangers do is die. And then they shove new ones in and watch those ones die too. Just like they’re trying to do with me now—”

Phainon slams his hands on Aglaea’s desk so hard that the metal shudders under his fists. The sudden violence of it steals your breath. His face is inches from yours now — when did that happen? There’s a white hot anger in his eyes, a nuclear fission ongoing behind those blue irises.

But when he speaks, his voice is glacial. “You don’t get to say her name. You don’t get to talk about her like that. Not when you spent years hiding from us. Not when you couldn’t even be bothered to show up for her funeral—”

“Enough.” Aglaea’s voice cuts through like a knife. Phainon doesn’t move. The General’s words drop into something deadly quiet. “Phainon. Out. Now. Or I’ll have to call security to escort you out.”

His fingers tighten on the edge of the table. For a moment, you think he might refuse. Then, with one last searing look, he turns on his heel and storms out, door slamming shut behind him so hard the displays shake.

Silence.

You stare at the door. Gods, if Phainon didn’t already hate you before, he definitely does now. He really hates you now. You don’t even realise that you’re shaking like a tree in a storm until Aglaea says your name, cautious.

“I can’t…” your voice barely comes out as a whisper, raw with a hint of unshed tears. You don’t even know who you’re talking to, now. “There are a million other people who are better than me, for fuck’s sake. I’ll never be able to live up to someone like Cyrene…” The admission hangs quiet, in the space between the two of you.

Aglaea just looks at you. And for a moment, her expression is almost kind.

“There might be a million other people who are better. But the Drift isn’t about being better.” Aglaea reaches over the table to rest a hand on your shoulder, a look of sympathy in her sea green eyes. “For now, you’ll have to report to the Ranger division. But I assure you, we’ll keep looking.”

You don’t answer.

“Get some rest, (Name).” Aglaea says softly. “I’ll have the soldiers move your things to the Ranger wing for you.”

You have no words left. Numb, you rise and head for the door.

As you walk along the corridor, you pause at the observation deck windows. Below, in the hangar, the Jaegers stand sentinel in their bays — glorious, towering monuments to human defiance. You press a hand to the cold glass.

They didn’t save Cyrene. You’ve always wondered what she’d felt like, in her last moments. Whether she’d been afraid. Whether she’d been cold. Crushed between metal and giant claws. Lost beneath the waves, screaming for air, drowning in the dark. And the fear of dying, lodged in your chest, worse than dying itself.

And if Phainon dies too?

Your fingers curl against the window, leaving smudges on the pristine surface as you step away. The thought carves something hollow and aching from your ribs.

You’d already considered it once, when Cyrene had died. If you lose him, too, you might just end it yourself, on your own terms.

There’s only so much one person can take.

Phainon’s hands are bruised.

He flexes his fingers absently, watching the blue-green mottling across his knuckles bloom darker where the skin split against Aglaea’s desk. Barely feels the pain, secondary to the storm whipping in his chest. He doesn’t even remember walking to the mess hall — one moment, he’d been storming out of Aglaea’s office, and the next he’s sitting at a corner table with a tray of cold food he has no appetite for.

Aglaea had sent him orders, earlier. Move to the Ranger wing by tonight. Shared quarters. Builds compatibility, had been their reasoning. As though the forced proximity could mend what years of absence and today’s words had shattered.

Phainon stabs at his peas with a bit more force than required. They’re overcooked, the kind of mushy that sticks to the roof of your mouth. Wonders if you’ve eaten (he hasn’t seen you come down to the mess hall). Or if you’re already in that shared room, unpacking your things with the same spiteful energy you’d hurled at Cyrene’s memory.

Was that really what you thought of Cyrene? He wonders to himself, chest hollow. Cyrene, who’d died with a kaiju’s teeth buried in her chest? Whose last memories had been of you?

The thought makes his grip tighten. The fork wilts slightly under the pressure.

Around him, the mess hall chatter continues at a careful distance. Soldiers cast furtive glances his way before quickly looking elsewhere to sit. Even the boldest recruits who normally pester him for conversation are giving him a wide berth today. Good, because Phainon has no desire to pretend to be the PPDC’s golden boy now.

He shovels another forkful of peas into his mouth. They taste like cardboard.

“No juice?” Stelle’s voice cuts through his brooding. She slides her tray opposite him, takes a seat. She’s followed by Caelus, and then March, and then Dan Heng, their trays clattering onto the tray in a discordant symphony. “Someone’s in a bad mood today.”

Phainon blinks at his tray. Sure enough, no juice carton. He hadn’t even noticed.

Dan Heng exchanges glances with March, and silently, slowly, puts his juice onto Phainon’s tray. “I don’t like apple,” he says, by way of explanation.

Something tight in Phainon’s chest loosens just a fraction. “Thanks,” he mutters, the word coming out rougher than intended.

Caelus, tray piled high with every variation of potato the mess hall offers, gives him a searching look. “We heard that you’re moving back to the Ranger wing.” A wedge pauses halfway to his mouth. “But from the look on your face… I’m assuming the NeuroSync didn’t go well?”

Phainon swallows. “We’re… compatible.” The peas taste bad in his mouth, so he switches to the pork chop. “But she doesn’t want to do it.”

“Guess Aglaea’s got leverage anyway, if the two of you are still going ahead with this,” Stelle muses. The knife in his hand suddenly feels like it weighs a thousand pounds, and then, behind his eyelids—

“Make yourself useful.”

The knife in your hands. Trembling fingers, smeared with blood. A tall, pale man who he recognises as Lygus, smiles down at you. It’s not a kind smile.

“Won’t make it out of the undercity alive, otherwise.”

Phainon presses the heel of his palm against his eyes, feels the bruises ache. Drift fallout — fragments of memory that aren’t his but linger anyway, in his mind. He feels your fear like it’s his own, lodged like shrapnel in his chest. I can’t die. I can’t die here. I can’t I can’t I can’t—

March looks sympathetic. “Think the General can change her mind?” she asks, twirling a strand of pink hair between her fingers. There’s no judgment in her voice, just a genuine curiosity.

“I don’t want her to have to change her mind.” His admission surprises him as much as it does the others at the table. “I might not… agree with her. But she has her own reasons, for being the way she is. I just happen to have my own.”

Then why were we even compatible? He signs through his nose, looks down at his tray again. The Drift’s never been an easy thing to work with, let alone understand, even with Cyrene’s years of research.

“Unfortunately, personal reasons don’t matter much when the world’s ending,” Dan Heng mutters. He’s looking at Phainon now, a wry smile on his face. Other than Phainon, he’s the only other military guy here. “I doubt most people want to go out there and fight giant monsters.” He pauses, makes a face. “Except maybe Stelle.”

She flashes him a grin. “I crave destruction.”

“And Caelus too, the guy is crazier than he looks.” Caelus shrugs, not disagreeing as he shoves another spoonful of mashed potatoes into his mouth. “But someone’s gotta do it. Guess it’s easier, if you have something to fight for.”

Phainon stares down at his tray, bent fork still grasped loosely in his hand.

He wonders if there’s anything left in this world that you care for enough to risk dying for.

Your room in the rangers' wing is to be shared.

Your things have already been moved in — standard-issue military shirts they’d ‘loaned’ you folded neatly on the lower bunk, a thin pillow that looks suspiciously like the one you’d been using in the temporary quarters. The space is sterile, impersonal, bare. Again.

Phainon isn’t here.

Good. You don’t want to be around when he returns — not after what you’d said in Aglaea’s office, not after the way he’d looked at you like you’d ripped open an old wound and left it to bleed out. So you toss what little things you have onto the bed and leave before the silence can suffocate you.

The cafeteria is out of question — too many people, too much noise, too high a chance of running into him. Instead, you wander the Shatterdome’s endless corridors aimlessly, taking turns at random until the sounds of chatter and machinery fade into distant murmurs.

Then, without realizing it, you find yourself standing at the entrance of the Hall of Glory.

The hallway stretches before you, long and solemn, its walls lined with plaques and portraits of Rangers who never came home. Your footsteps echo in the empty hallway as you walk, eyes skimming names until—

There.

Cyrene’s portrait stares back at you, her pink hair vibrant even in the dim light, her lips curved in that teasing half-smile you still see in your dreams. The plaque beneath reads:

Cyrene Pilot of Jaeger ‘Kephale’ “This will be a romantic story like none that has come before.”

You stare at the plaque for a few moments before letting out a huff. Only Cyrene would choose such lighthearted, whimsical words to be put on her obituary plaque. For a moment, you let your fingers linger against the embossed brass, stare into those soft blue eyes as though you aren’t too late. As though she can still hear you.

As though you still have time to tell her that you’re sorry.

“I don’t know what to do.” The words escape you in a whisper. “I can’t do this, Cyrene. I’m not you. Not selfless enough, or heroic enough, or—” You cut yourself off, fingers curling into a fist. “It should have been you here instead.” Your voice is thick in your throat. “What a waste.”

“I’d advise you not to speak like that of the dead.”

The voice startles you — a whisper, soft a candle smoke, yet carrying an unexpected weight to it. You turn to see a young woman with waist length lilac hair pulled into a neat braid standing a few paces away. Soldier? Doesn’t seem like it. In the dim light of the hallway, she appears more like a ghost wandering these halls, hands clasped in front of her.

You drop your hand from Cyrene’s plaque, crack a half smile at her. “The dead can’t hear us.”

She walks towards you slowly, pace unhurried. “No,” she agrees. “But the living still can.” Her hand comes to rest on Cyrene’s memorial plate, her touch as light as a moth’s wing. “My name is Castorice. I come here often. To remember.”

You give your name in response, surprised by how easily it comes. There’s just something disarming about her — maybe the quiet calm that hangs around her, like a shroud, or the faraway look in those violet eyes — that makes the walls you usually keep up feel unnecessary.

For a long moment, you both stand side by side in silence, studying Cyrene’s photograph. The camera had captured her perfectly, that playful light in her eyes, smile curving her lips like she was sharing a private joke with the photographer.

“It must be terrifying,” you say at last, “being out there in a Jaeger.” The words feel inadequate for the churning in your stomach at the thought.

Castorice, however, just smiles, lashes fluttering like butterfly wings. “The first time? Like standing naked before a hurricane. The fear… you get used to it, but it never really goes away.” She hums softly. “That’s why we don’t go alone. The Drift… it anchors you. Gives you someone to hold onto, when the fear comes.”

So she’s a ranger. You watch her profile as she speaks, noticing the way her eyes linger on certain names along the wall. This isn’t just a place she visits — it’s a place she knows intimately.

“I don’t know how Phainon does it,” she murmurs, almost to herself.

The mention of him sends an unexpected pang through your chest. You could run to the ends of the earth and somehow Phainon would still find you there. Haunting you like a living ghost, in the cadence of strangers’ laughter, in the hush between heartbeats, in that hollow within your ribs where his absence has made its home.

“They say he piloted solo for twelve minutes after…” you gesture at Cyrene’s portrait. Castorice nods.

“After she died. He was still connected to her, in the Drift.” Her voice quiets to a whisper. “After Captain Hysilens died when Phagousa fell… the General never stepped foot into a Conn-Pod again. It’s not something that you just come back from.”

The image hits you with a sudden, brutal clarity — what it must have been like for Phainon in those final moments. You remember the suffocating intimacy of the NeuroSync, what Hyacine had called a facsimile of actual Drifting. Phainon’s emotions bleeding into yours, his thoughts like whispers under your skin. You can’t imagine the thought of feeling someone die while being connected like that.

Your breath comes short. The memorial hall suddenly feels too small, the air too thick with ghosts.

Castorice turns fully to face you, her violet eyes holding yours with surprising intensity. "The Drift shows you everything," she says quietly. "But it also gives you everything. There's no hiding, but there's also... no more being alone. Not truly."

With that, she offers you a small, knowing smile before turning back to her quiet vigil. You linger a moment longer, fingers brushing Cyrene’s plaque, before stepping back into the world of the living.

Back into the waking world.

It’s long past midnight when you finally decide to return.

The room is dark when you push open the door, the lights dimmed down. You pause in the doorway, letting your eyes adjust, and see a dark shape — Phainon — sprawled on the upper bunk, one arm thrown over his face. His chest rises and falls with slow, even breaths.

Is he asleep?

Holding your breath, you shut the door quietly behind you and tiptoe over to your bunk, intending to grab your toiletries and escape to the relative safety of the showers. And then you see it — two neatly wrapped sandwiches and a juice carton, placed carefully on the covers. Your throat tightens.

He noticed. Despite everything you’d said, despite the way you’d torn into him earlier… he’d still noticed.

“Thank you,” you whisper, before you can stop yourself.

The response comes immediately. “Couldn’t have you starving to death,” he mutters.

You nearly drop your bundle of clothes, startled. “You were awake?”

Phainon’s arm doesn’t move from his face. “Waited for you for eight hours.” His voice is rough with exhaustion, a little snappy. “I thought you might’ve decided to make a run for it.”

Something in you twists — you’d been thinking of just that, actually. “What, worried that your only ticket into a Jaeger might have…” But the memory of his bruised hands, of the food he left despite everything, stops you. You let out a slow exhale, the fight draining out of you like air from a deflating balloon. “I’m sorry. Let me try that again.” You lick your lips, mouth suddenly dry as bone. “I just… went for a long walk. Was trying to collect my thoughts.”

Silence stretches between the two of you, thick with everything unsaid. Then Phainon shifts, lowering his arm, and you feel yourself tensing up. Too soon? Even in the dim light, you can still see the blue of his eyes, looking straight at you. “And?” His tone is softer now, the edge gone. “How’d that go?”

You bite your lower lip, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. You sit on the lower bunk, feeling the mattress creak under your weight. “Bits and pieces, I guess.” It’s easier to speak to the darkness. “I ran into Castorice,” you add.

“Mm,” you can hear him shift above you, the bed’s frame creaking as he moves. “She’s one of the nicest people I know. Also one of the only few people I know who can get around how headstrong Mydei is.” A pause. “Maybe that’s why they’re drift compatible.”

Another stretch of quiet. The Shatterdome hums around you — distant footsteps, the occasional muffled voice through the walls. You unwrap a sandwich, not because you’re hungry, but because you need something to do with your hands. Tuna and cucumber. Does he remember, or is this just coincidence?

Phainon exhales sharply above you. “Look, if you want to go,” the words come out in a rush, like he doesn’t want to say them, “then go. I spoke to Aglaea. There’s another batch of new recruits I can continue testing with.”

The sandwich turns to ash in your mouth. “You really hate the last choice that you have left, huh?” You try to joke, but it falls flat even to your own ears, your voice small and wounded.

“What?” He makes a noise of confusion, like he has no idea what you’re talking about. “Gods, no. Don’t be stupid.” When he continues, his words are measured, careful. “I know what it’s like to be out there facing the kaiju. The fear, the terror…” He takes a slow breath. “I don’t want to do that with someone who doesn’t want to be there. No one should have to be forced to do that.”

Your breath catches, and you look down at your own hands. Heroes… “So even the great Deliverer is afraid in there?” you ask, quietly.

He lets out a little laugh. “Of course.” No bravado. No deflection. Just… truth. “All the time.”

Something cracks open in your chest. The admission hangs between you, fragile as glass. “I'm scared, Phai,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

You hear him go still above you. That name belonged to a different life — to a sky filled with sunshine and shared ice creams, to a time before kaiju and grief and all the ways you’ve hurt each other since. Too much. Too vulnerable. But Phainon cradles it in his hands, with a gentleness that you know you’ve never deserved. “I know,” he says, so softly that it aches. “I’ll be in there with you.”

Not I’ll protect you. Not there’s nothing to be afraid of. Not you’ll be fine. Just this — I’ll be in there with you.

The simplicity of it is what undoes you. Your vision blurs. A tear splashes onto the sandwich wrapper, then another. You press the heels of your hands to your eyes, but it’s no use — the dam breaks, and suddenly the tears are falling without abandon, your shoulders shaking with the force of the emotions in your chest.

You try to stay silent, but Phainon hears — always does, the perceptive fucker. You hear a sharp intake of breath, and then there’s a pair of long legs swinging over the ledge of the top bunk before he drops down next to you. Through the tears, you see his expression twist into something pained, before he comes to crouch in front of you. His hands hover, fingers clenching and unclenching uncertainly before they settle lightly on your knees.

“You don’t have to do this,” he murmurs. “Just say the word, and I’ll call it off. I won’t let Aglaea touch you. You don’t have to worry about that.”

You shake your head, swiping at your face. It's not that simple anymore. When has it ever been? You think of dying, the fear of dying, of Phainon dying, and it all just… "What if I'm not brave enough?" The admission tears free, ragged at the edges. "What if I freeze out there? What if I—"

His fingers tighten slightly. “Then I'll carry you.” No hesitation. No doubt. The certainty in his voice steals your breath. You search his face — the new lines at the corners of his eyes, the sun tattooed on the side of his neck, the stubborn set of his jaw. The boy you'd left behind and the man he'd become.

His thumbs brush over your knees, the touch feather-light. “I won’t let you fight alone again, (Name),” he whispers, almost like a promise. A vow. “I swear it.”

And for the first time in years, you find yourself wanting to believe him. Your eyes well with tears again.

Phainon doesn’t shush you or tell you to stop. Just lets them fall until they’ve run their course, until your hiccuping breaths even out. Only then does he lift his hand, using his sleeve to carefully wipe the salt tracks from your cheeks. And then, instead of returning to his bunk, he slides down to sit against your legs, his shoulder a warm pressure against your calf. The two of you exist like that in the quiet dark, the only sounds your breathing and the distant hum of the Shatterdome’s night.

And somehow, impossibly, you feel the fear in your chest loosen its grip. Just a little.

Just enough for you to breathe again.

#phainon x reader #hsr fanfic #hsr phainon #phainon #hsr x reader #phainon hsr #khaslana #hsr #pacific rim #honkai star rail #FUCK YOU LYGUS #im lycurgus' no 1 opp

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rkvriki · 2 years ago

Text

PAIRING ! ceo!jay x trophy wife!reader

SYNOPSIS ! A lavish lifestyle, the perfect rich husband, a full walk-in closet, expensive jewlery, expensive car, luxurious vacations... You had it all. Or at least everyone thought so. There was one thing missing for you and only your husband could give it to you. Was he gonna give it to you that easily?

WARNINGS ! SMUT! afab reader; jay praises reader; kind of dumbification of reader?? but not really; jay is a tease and kind of edges her; oral (f receiving); p in v; porn with unnecessary plot; handjob, reader calls herself a slut jokingly in the very end; jay smacks her ass once; this will be awkward get ready ! lmk if im missing any warning

word count: 4.3k

When you married Jay you knew what you were getting yourself into. Even when you guys were only dating, the tabloids’ front pages were already filled with pictures of you two in any situation they could catch you in. It was expected, of course. Who would ignore the fact that the daughter of one of the biggest CEOs of the country is now married to the young rich CEO who took over his father’s positions in one of the biggest companies out there? Everyone who looked close enough could tell you were both head over heels for one another, but that wasn’t enough to stop people from calling your marriage a mere deal or arrangement. Those headlines made you gag when you looked at them.

You couldn’t care less about them but something about people actually believing that made you get a sour feeling in your stomach. You were used to being a hot topic in magazines and whatnot. People always found a chance to make you a target of criticism, maybe out of envy, you wouldn’t know and never tried to do so. Ever since you were young you were taught the art of not giving a fuck mostly by your mother who knew you would deal with this kind of thing in your adult life.

Now ever since you got married people thought you were living the perfect life. I mean, you had everything you wanted in the palm of your hand, who wouldn’t want that? You spent almost all of your days at home, never needing to raise a single finger since you had a housemaid to do everything for you. But was it all that good? No one can imagine how boring that can get. It got to the point where you have asked, no, begged the maid to help her out just for the sake of doing something. And poor woman told you to do something simple because you don’t even know how to work with the laundry machine since you were never requested to do any house chores.

You gave up on trying to do anything, accepting that there would be days when you really had nothing to do. Unfortunately for you, today was one of those days. Or kind of one of those days. There was one thing you knew that could satisfy your craving for the day but said thing was not home at the moment. So you got up and went inside your closet looking for one specific thing. Browsing through one of your multiple drawers you finally felt the fine rich lace. Pulling it out, you stared at the beautiful two pieces of black lace lingerie that Jay had bought but you’ve never worn before. You quickly got ready, being extra careful with your appearance, and made your way out of the house, driving straight to your husband’s company building.

The sound of your heels clacking was the only thing heard in the big building’s hallway alongside the whispers of, mostly, female workers around you. The quiet voices were something you learned to ignore over time. Not that they were worth being heard anyway, being nothing more than jealous comments coming from women who envied you just for the simple fact you dated their hot boss. You were very much used to hearing Jay’s employees call you trophy wife, which wasn’t exactly a lie if you were being honest.

You were a stay-at-home wife, who spent her time relaxing at home or shopping, so cliché right? It’s just the lifestyle that was given to you by your husband. You had a college degree but Jay insisted that you didn’t need to work since he had more than enough to provide you with a comfortable lifestyle and who were you to deny him that? Everyone told you you were being ungrateful for wasting your precious superior education years but you knew damn well if they were given the same opportunity they would take it.

You’ve always been privileged since you were little, being born into a family of old money who had always been involved with multiple big companies, which brought you to meet Jay. You were invited to a party that one of your father’s associates hosted and everyone who owned big businesses like his’ was there. Later that night, at the after party when your parents were already home, you met Jay. You would love to say you weren’t expecting it, but you spent the whole evening eyeing him, trying to get his attention, because no, just having a pair of perky tits and round ass wasn’t enough to get a man like Jay. You knew the moment you saw him silently reject other women that you would need to work hard for his attention, and it worked out just fine for you. Needless to say, the night went to your accord and somehow it ended up with you two getting married two years later.

You looked in the direction of the people whispering, seeing the two workers who were always running their mouths about you when you were present in the building. You simply looked at them with nothing but disgust in your eyes and kept making your way to the big tinted door. You don’t even bother to knock as you make your way inside Jay’s office. He looks up from his computer, making eye contact with you, seeing you smiling and all pretty for him. “Didn’t expect you to come here, baby.” Jays said as he smiled at you, motioning for you to come closer. You walked up to his side, towering over him as you gave him a tight hug. “I missed you and there was nothing to do so I came to see you.” You told him with a pout, making Jay laugh at your behaviour.

“It’s not funny, Jay! You’ve been so busy lately, we barely spend any time together.” You said with a huff, crossing your arms while avoiding looking at him. “Baby, I already told you that we’ve been dealing with this very important client and I can’t just drop this.” He said with a sigh. “I understand you feel upset and I’m not trying to discard your feelings but I also need you to understand that this is a big thing for the company, yeah?” You held back a sigh, trying not to sound too upset. “I know that, but you barely pay any attention to me when you’re home.”

Many were the nights where you waited patiently for Jay to arrive in bed, seeing the clock hit 11pm and not seeing any signs of him coming anytime soon and before you could help it you would fall asleep curled to his side of the bed. There was only one time when you were able to stay up until he came, sitting all dolled up pretty while you waited for him in your most expensive silk nightgown. Jay didn’t seem to get the hint of you needing and craving his attention, because he simply kissed you goodnight before making his way to the bathroom to get ready to sleep. You decided that you were gonna give him the silent treatment, but you couldn’t ignore someone who wasn’t even in the house. You stopped trying to wait for him, you were only wasting your efforts so you just waited for this dry spell to be over. It’s not like you only missed Jay for sex, but you were a healthy woman with needs and your ovaries were screaming at you.

“You know I don't mean to do that, baby.” Jay said as he got up, making you turn your back to him. You knew your sulking was being unreasonable but if you didn’t exaggerate in your reactions Jay wouldn’t do anything about this. “Y/n, please look at me, princess.” your husband said, grabbing your arms to turn you around. You faced him, looking up at him with the best puppy eyes you could pull. Jay brought his hand up to brush your cheek, making you lean into his touch. “You know I love more than anything in this world, don’t you?” He asked as he held your face, making you look at him in the eyes. You nodded at him, your eyes drifting from his eyes to his pouty lips you adored and missed so much. He seemed to get the hint and sat back in his chair, patting his lap, motioning for you to sit on his lap.

You wrapped your arms around his neck as you got comfortable in his lap. Jay leaned forward, capturing your lips for a passionate kiss. You kissed him back eagerly, trying to get as close as possible to him. His pillowy lips fitted perfectly with yours and you felt like you were getting on cloud nine. His tongue licked at your lips, indulging them to open up, making you do so. His tongue danced around with yours, not trying to fight for dominance with yours. You moaned in his mouth as he sucked on your tongue, making you clench your thighs together. You pulled away from the kiss, feeling your cheeks grow hotter and hotter with each second passing by.

“Jay…” You said, your voice merely above a whisper. “Yeah, baby?” He leaned his forehead into yours, making you close your eyes shut. “Need you so bad, Jay. Please.” You whined against him, your ass slightly grinding against his crotch. Jay laughed at your answer, almost feeling bad for what he was about to do. “Yeah? Tell me what you need me to do. Use your big girl words.” He said with a smirk, his lips brushing against yours, making your craving for him grow even more. “Need your cock, Jay. Need you to fuck me so hard. Please…” You buried your head in the crook of his neck, embarrassed by your own neediness. “Such a good girl using your words, aren’t you, pretty girl?” He asked not actually looking for an answer but you nodded anyway. “That’s right, baby.” He started. “It’s a shame I need to leave for a meeting now, isn’t it? But big girls like you can wait, don’t they?”

Your eyes widened at his words. Your hands went to his shoulders, grabbing his suit jacket in desperation.“No, no! Please, Jay. Don’t do this, please.” You begged, making Jay chuckle. “Look at you. Going dumb for my cock.” He said grabbing your chin with his soft hand. “I thought better than that didn’t I? If you don’t behave you might not even get anything tonight, get it?” You felt tears of frustration prickling in your eyes, but you blinked them away as you nodded at him. “Use your words.” He demanded, grabbing your face harder. “Yes, I understand.” You answered, feeling pathetic for how you felt yourself getting even more wet. “Good.” He said releasing your face. “Now, go home and wait for me. And don’t you dare touch yourself until I get back tonight.” And with that he walked away towards the meeting room, leaving you alone in his office with all your efforts of looking good going to waste.

You felt like you would burst with how desperate and needy you were. Jay had sent you home more than 3 hours ago and he still hadn’t come back. If this was some stupid test where he was trying to test your patience, well, it can end right here right now, because you had none, at least at the moment. You were lying in bed staring at the ceiling, feeling your panties uncomfortably stick to your core. You tried to distract yourself with anything you could. You scrolled endlessly through your phone and even spent a good amount of time and money in online shopping just for the heck of it. You sighed for the nth time that evening as you closed your eyes trying to think of something that wasn’t your husband or his dick inside you.

You looked at the clock on your nightstand seeing it was way past 6pm and just as you were about to get up from bed, you heard the front door slam open. Your face quickly stretched with a smile as you looked at the door waiting for Jay to make his entrance. You heard his footsteps getting close, making you bite your lip with anticipation. The door finally opened revealing your husband loosening his tie, his eyes sharp and dark with what could only be lust. He walked to stand at the foot of the bed, admiring you, still wearing the outfit from earlier, your thighs pressed together.

Jay’s knees dipped the mattress as he got up on the bed, towering over you, making you look up at him with those doe eyes of yours. His hands grabbed both of your knees, pulling your legs apart so he could lean down to your height. His lips brushed against your neck, sending shivers down your spine before spreading kisses all over the skin there. You closed your eyes with a moan as he sucked that one spot that made you weak, sucking on the area before soothing it with his tongue. He pulled back looking at you in the eyes. “Poor baby.” He said caressing your cheek with his thumb.

“Waited so patiently for me, didn’t you, pretty?” You nodded your head at him as a whine escaped your pouty lips. “Think you deserve a reward, no?” He asked rolling his sleeves up his forearms. “Yes! Yes, Jay. I waited for so long. Deserve it so bad, please.” You said as you felt your eyes tear up from the relief of finally getting what you’ve been waiting for. “That’s right, baby. Been so cruel to you, haven’t I? Making you wait like that.” His face leaned closer to yours, your noses brushing against each other before Jay crashed his lips against yours in a needy kiss.

The sound of your lips smacking filled the room. Your teeth clashed against each other, but nothing mattered right now. Jay’s hands roamed up from your thighs until they reached the hem of your top, pulling it off of you easily, revealing your lacy bra. “Fuck.” He muttered under his breath. “You’ve been wearing this the whole day?” He asked making you nod at him. “Wore it just for you, Jay.” You said in a whiny tone. “Yeah? It’s a shame it’s coming off later. Or should we keep it?” He didn’t allow you to answer as he captured your lips in another kiss, biting your lower lip, making you let out a low moan.

The air in the room seemed to be getting hotter, the sound of your breathy moans started getting louder the needier you both got. Jay laid you down on the bed, settling himself in between your legs. His hands circled your hips, searching for the zip of your skirt. He got up to pull off your skirt leaving you in your lacy set. He licked his lips as he looked you up and down, his eyes stopping at the dark spot in your panties. You closed your thighs shut, suddenly feeling shy. He chuckled at you as he opened them back, sliding down on the bed, his face now eye level with your cunt.

He started kissing on your inner thighs, whiney moans leaving your parted lips as you laced your fingers in his hair trying to lead his head to the place you needed him the most. “Be patient, baby.” He said in a soft voice but it felt like a warning. You gasped when you felt his nose nudge against your clothed clit. “Please, Jay. Need it so bad, can’t take it anymore.” Jay let out a hum at that. “Need what, pretty? Need you to be more specific.” You held back a frustrated groan. “Need your tongue, please.” Jay seemed pleased with your words as he pulled your panties down, revealing your glistening pussy. He let out a shaky breath as he closed his eyes and inhaled your sweet scent. You felt your heart thump in your chest as you felt his hot breath get closer to your heat.

His tongue made contact with your clit in an experimental flick, your thighs wanting to close around his head as you let out a soft moan at the small contact. His lips engulfed your nub, sucking on your bunch of nerves as you pull his hair harder. Jay closes his eyes as he focuses on pleasuring you, giving you what you earned. His mouth moves south as his tongue teases your entrance, your sweet taste hitting his taste buds making him moan lowly, the vibrations causing you to squirm against him. He moved his tongue further, getting inside your warm cunt as his nose bumped against your clit, stimulating it. Your brain going numb from the pleasure you missed so much, your moans getting louder the further his tongue got inside of you. Jay twisted and turned his tongue in your insides, at this point doing it for his own pleasure as he rutted his hips against the mattress.

“Please, Jay. Need your fingers, fuck!” You begged him as you looked down to where his mouth met your cunt, making you moan at the sight. He didn’t speak a word as he obliged to your request. He pulled his mouth off of you and before you could complain, his two fingers replaced his tongue, entering you with ease. You let out a silent moan as his lips made their way back to your clit as his fingers kept thrusting in and out of you at a fast pace. He was hitting all of your favourite spots, making you see starts. You started to feel the familiar knot form in your stomach, your thighs clenching around his head as you grinded against his face, smothering him with your essence.

“Fuck, Jay. I’m so close!” You were panting at this point, holding his face in the spot, afraid you would lose the sweet pleasure you were feeling. Jay’s fingers didn’t falter and you felt yourself getting closer and closer, squelching sounds filled the room along with your rapid breathing. Suddenly his fingers hit the spongy spot inside you, making you let out a silent scream as you let yourself get the sweet release you craved so much. “F-Fuck Jay. Oh my god!” You said as he pulled away from your pussy, but kept his fingers going inside you, helping you ride out your orgasm. He leaned down, kissing your lips and swallowing your moans. You whined in overstimulation, pulling his fingers out of you. “Thank you, Jay.” You said smiling at him, making him laugh at you as he rested his forehead on yours. “You deserve it, baby.” He said as he lovingly pecked your forehead.

You got up on your knees in front of him as you started pawing at his belt, trying to undo it. “Wanna suck you off.” You said, batting your eyelashes up at him. “No need to do that now, princess.” He said removing your hands from him and undoing his pants himself. You pouted your lips at his rejection. “Please, Jay! I really wanna do it!” You whined against him. He closes his eyes, letting out a breathy shake. “Y/n, if I don’t fuck you right now I’m gonna bust in my pants, so shut up and just let me fuck your pussy, yeah?” Words got stuck in your throat at his words, eyes watching his every move as he removed all of his clothes, now standing in all his naked glory.

Your eyes roamed from his sculpted face, down to his abs and when they were reaching his crotch, his hand held your chin, making you look up at his smirking face. “Eyes up here, doll.” You blushed, smiling up at him making him mirror your expression. Jay leaned down and connected your lips with yours while slowly lying you back down again. He hovered over you, his cock bushing against your core just slightly but it still makes you shudder when you feel it.

You tried to sit up to remove your bra but Jay stopped you. “Jay- My bra!” You whined. “Keep it.” He said sternly and you obviously weren’t gonna deny him that. His lips went back to yours, kissing you passionately. One of your hands travelled down his chest until it reached his member. You wrapped your warm hand around him, making him hiss in your mouth. You gathered some pre-cum that leaked from the tip to aid you when you started stroking him. Your hand felt delicious around him. It squeezed and twisted in all right places, making him buck his hips in your fist. Jay took your hand off of him and went to reach his nightstand where he kept his condoms, but your hand stopped him. “Fuck me raw, Jay. Please.”

Maybe it was the way there was a slight whine or maybe it was the way your eyes looked up at him, but somehow, Jay found himself agreeing with his wife. “Fuck, ok.” Jay grabbed the base of his cock and aligned it with your entrance, not wasting any time to thrust unto you. The raw feeling of your walls wasn’t foreign to him, but it had been a while and he felt like he could bust a nut right there and then. You squeezed your eyes shut, feeling every vein and bump of his dick as you moaned loudly.

Jay stayed still for a while before pulling back until only his tip was inside before thrusting back in. Your eyes opened wide as you felt him hit seep inside you as he started fucking you at a fast pace. Your hands desperately scratched his back, in need of something to hold on to. Your moans along with his sounded like a melody to you. The sound of skin slapping and the lewd sounds coming from your wet pussy filled the room. The feeling of his tip almost hitting your cervix was becoming almost overwhelming to you and your moans were coming out almost silent from the immense pleasure. Both of your bodies were now covered in a sheen layer of sweat, making your husband glow under the warm light of your bedroom.

His body was gliding against yours just perfectly, intensifying your feelings. He propped himself on his elbows, now closer to you, making your nipples rub against his. Your moans were getting louder as his fat tip started hitting the spongy spot. “Need more. More, please, Jay!” You begged, taking all of your energy to voice out your request. Jay chuckled at you. “I’m already fucking you this hard and you still need more, huh?” He said making you whine. Suddenly he stopped, making you whine. He sat up on his knees as he grabbed your hips and turned you around, putting you with your ass up.

Your face was buried in your pillow as he rubbed his tip against your slit, making you moan as you squirmed your hips against his cock. He rubbed your butt as he inserted himself back into you, reaching deeper than before. You let out a scream you felt his hand smack against your ass cheek as he thrusts into you furiously. He groaned as he threw his head back when your cunt clenched around him, almost getting him stuck inside you. His hips were pistoning into you at a steady pace, going at the perfect rhythm. Your mouth was agap and drool was pooling on the side of your mouth. “Look at you. Dumb for some cock.” He scoffed, but his voice was shaky showing you he was just as fucked out as you. You whined into the pillow, hiding your face.

“Jay!” You screamed, “I’m so fucking close, please don’t stop!” His dick twitched when you raised your head to look back at him. Your face was flushed, eyes droopy, mouth parted as nothing but moans came out of it, completely fucked out to even think properly. His thrusts started getting slightly sloppy, but he tried his best to keep up. Your moans were staccato to the rhythm of his thrusts. Your chest started heaving up and down in fast breaths. “J-Jay, M’gonna cum! I’m gonna-” You were interrupted by your climax. spilling all over your thighs and his too. “Fuck!” Was the last thing Jay said before thick ribbons of his cum started filling you up as he stayed still inside of you, making you moan at the warm feeling.

Jay was leaning in your back, breathing against your ear. Both of you too gone to even speak. After you both came down from your highs, Jay slowly pulled out from you, making you whine. He stared at your pussy, watching as his cum mixed with his spilled out from you. You collapsed on the bed, breath still a bit uneven, with your eyes closed as you started feeling sleepy. Jay lays beside you with a thump, making you open your eyes to look at him. You both stared at each other before you both started laughing. Jay pulled you into his chest, embracing you, leaving a kiss on the top of your head.

You heard him take a deep breath before he spoke. “I’m sorry if I’ve been neglecting you. I never intended to do it, I promise I’ll try harder to be home earlier.” His words made you look up from his chest. “Jay, you haven’t been neglecting me. At all. I understand that you are going through something important at work, I just missed you, it’s all!” You said caressing his cheeks with your thumb. “And besides, you should know you were marrying a slut when you signed that paper.” You said, making both of you laugh. “You’re no such thing, baby.” He said laughing. “Yeah, whatever. Can we take a shower now? Your cum is drying inside of me.” “Whatever the lady wants!”

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carlislefiles · 2 months ago

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slice of life | fushiguro toji, geto suguru, ino takuma, kamo choso, kong shiu, nanami kento, sukuna ryomen, yuuji itadori ╰►you wouldn’t say you love being a server, but you do love tips and being able to afford rent. you also don’t mind your flirty coworker. 7.1k words

a/n: guys...do any of y'all watch bistro huddy on tik tok...is this too niche...have I finally niched myself out....just let me know...I'll be here...fr though, I actually hate working at a restaurant, but this is of course, a tumblr post, and not real life!! tragically...also some of these are like funny and cutesy, and then others quite literally had me in tears writing them (nanami, hello...?) so, yeah watch out for that. also, I am well aware that this is wildly unrealistic. no warnings I don't think, besides maybe some cussing, and a singular usage of my publicly detested "y/n" unfortunately it couldn't be avoided. enjoy <3

you wouldn't say you love being a server. no one really does. it’s a chaotic mix of remembering eight drinks at once, smiling through the pain of a toddler screaming into your soul, and pretending that the tip at the end of this tunnel is worth the psychic damage. but the money’s decent, your coworkers are tolerable, and—if we’re being real—toji makes clocking in a little too easy.

he's the line cook from hell. not in the gordon ramsay "this food is trash" kind of way—though he absolutely yells like that sometimes—but more in the "how did this man get hired with zero culinary training and the attitude of a convicted felon" way. he burns at least one dish a night, calls in late more often than not, and refuses to wear a hairnet even though the manager has told him twice. and yet, somehow, he never gets fired. probably because when toji isn’t being a menace, he runs the kitchen like a finely oiled machine, barking out orders and flipping pans like he owns the damn place.

and then there’s you. sweet, stressed-out server #7. you try not to like him. you really do. but he’s got that charm, the greasy line cook appeal, the kind of hot that’s more danger than it is attraction—and you're kind of into it.

toji doesn’t flirt like a normal person. he flirts like someone who’s trying to win a bet. he’ll stare at you through the kitchen window with those unreadable green eyes, one corner of his mouth lifted like he knows something you don’t. he doesn’t say things outright; he just makes you wonder what he’s thinking.

“order up. yours is the only plate that doesn’t look like shit,” he’ll say, sliding your food onto the counter with a wink. or: “don’t let that guy on table four look down your shirt again. I'll stab him with a thermometer.” you laugh, mostly because you’re pretty sure he’s not joking.

toji’s not nice. not in the traditional sense. he makes the new host cry twice in one shift, tells the manager to shove it at least weekly, and has a permanent scowl that could curdle milk. but when you’re sweating through a double, on your fourth round of waters, and the host stand sends you four parties back to back with no remorse, toji’s the one yelling at them to “get their heads outta their asses” and “quit drowning the floor staff.”

sometimes he has leftover fries. he never offers them out loud, just slides a basket your way and raises an eyebrow. you know better than to say thanks—he doesn’t like being made a big deal of. he just likes watching you eat them, then tossing you a smirk when you catch him looking.

the other servers think you're sleeping together. you’re not. not really. there’ve been a few moments—late nights after close when you both stayed to do inventory, his hand lingering too long on your waist, your laugh a little too soft, his eyes a little too hungry—but nothing’s happened. it’s a situationship, or pre-situationship, or whatever the kids are calling it when someone wants to get under your skin but also wants to stick around for the long haul.

and the thing is? toji’s patient. maybe surprisingly so. he doesn’t push. he doesn’t ask what this is or where it’s going. he just shows up—hungover or not, late or not—and makes sure your orders come out first. he throws out a guy’s number when he catches him trying to slide it into your apron. he doesn’t even tell you, just rolls his eyes when the dude “suddenly loses his appetite.”

you don’t know what to make of him most days. you hate him when he’s yelling at the dishwasher or putting the wrong ticket in the window. but then he saves your ass on a slammed saturday by grilling a steak in under three minutes flat and smirking like he didn’t just perform a culinary miracle.

you don't love being a server. but you do love the moment when you duck behind the line after a brutal dinner rush, your arms aching and your brain fried, and toji flicks a cold soda can your way without saying a word.

he's not yours. not yet. but damn if he doesn’t act like it.

you and suguru both clock in at 5 p.m. sharp—he in his crisp white shirt rolled at the sleeves, hair tied back in a sleek ponytail; you in the same black polo and slacks, hair up in a practical bun. you don’t say “good evening” so much as you arch an eyebrow at each other across the host stand. tonight’s the night you’ve challenged each other to the monthly $100 tip-off: whoever racks up the highest tips gets the bonus. the stakes aren’t just bragging rights. you need that cash; he knows it.

7:15 p.m. you catch your first table—two businesswomen celebrating a deal. you’re charming but low-key (no geto-level razzle-dazzle), and they’re eating it up. you leave the table with a $15 tip. not bad.

geto swoops past, tossing his apron over your shoulder like a ribbon. “nice haul,” he drawls, “but those are rookie numbers.” he winks. the ladies at his table are swooning; one leaves him a $20. you grit your teeth—but you can’t help smiling when he slides the money into your apron pocket.

8:00 p.m. a trio of frat bros waltzes in. they sidle up to your section. you brace yourself for unwanted contact—hands on your waist, a “you look hot tonight” too close to your ear. before you can whirl away, suguru materializes behind them like a polite bouncer. “actually, that table’s mine,” he says, voice cool.

they blink, shift into his section—hands off you. one of them shoots you a grateful thumbs-up before stumbling away. you mouth, “thanks,” and he just grins. “protecting my girl’s turf,” he says. why do you like the way that sounds?

9:00 p.m. you’re drowning in plates. three tables triple-sat you by mistake, and there’s no end in sight. meanwhile, suguru’s section is empty, pristine. you feel a tug in your chest—guilt, annoyance, something like excitement. he strolls over, socks your hands playfully with a folded napkin, and says, “my chef back there took thirty-five minutes on that club sandwich you ordered. I went in and told them they can rediscover their souls or find a new career.” the grill staff visibly quiver.

your heart leaps—you hate that you can’t hate him. he leans in close. “sit tight,” he murmurs, “I've got a feeling about this next table.” and just like that, he’s back in action, leaving you to catch your breath.

10:00 p.m. the final round. two businessmen slide into his section; the bigger tip potential you’ve both been waiting on. you glance at him: both of you know what’s happening. you move to intercept—but suguru’s already there, slinging napkins over his shoulder with that effortless swagger. they laugh at his jokes. you fume.

your last table for the night is a college student buying dinner with tears in his eyes—tuition woes, parents sick back home. you give him a warm smile, chat him up, send the house dessert on the house. you walk away…and he leaves you a $25 tip anyway because god loves you, or something like that.

11:00 p.m. back at the host stand, you both dump your tips on the counter. $112 for you. $80 for him. he furrows his brow like you’ve just dealt him a personal blow—and that kind of look from suguru is…almost devastating.

you look back at him, triumphant. “winner.” you’re grinning so hard your cheeks hurt. he glances at your haul, then to his, then back to you, and—without saying a word—he slides $40 across so that his total matches yours exactly.

you jerk back, stunned. “hey!” he flips his dark hair back, flashing an absurd, infuriatingly charming smile. "I told you, I'm not about the money. I'm about you.”

your heart twists. he glances down at the pile of bills, then back at you, eyes soft. “go on home with a full tip,” he says. “and maybe, uh…celebrate?”

you swallow, stomach fluttering. “celebrate?”

“yeah.” he leans in. "I know a secret spot—if you’re up for it.”

later, you find yourself alone in the walk-in cooler. the hum of the fridge is comforting. suguru’s here, too, leaning against a shelf of bottled sodas. he grabs your hand and pulls you close, pressing your back to the chilly metal.

you laugh, breath misting. “the cooler?”

he shrugs with a wicked grin. “intimate. zero witnesses.”

your breath catches when he brushes hair from your face. his eyes are dark with something tender and wicked at once. you cup his jaw—warm, familiar. then you close the distance, lips meeting his. it’s feral and soft and utterly devastating. he tastes like salt—fries and sweat and something sweet.

suguru’s arms wrap around you, careful not to crush. “we make a pretty good team, huh?” he whispers.

you nod against his mouth. “the best.”

gojo satoru was meant to be a server.

some people find it demeaning, this job. the fake smiles, the rushed steps, the corporate chokehold of dress codes and “hospitality voice” policies. but satoru? he makes it look like an art form. he slides into it effortlessly—flirty just under the line of inappropriate, funny in the exact way that makes people feel clever for laughing, and beautiful enough that no one really minds waiting a little longer for their fries. his apron stays just a little askew, his sleeves rolled to mid-forearm like it's casual (it's not), and the blue eyes? god. the tips are ridiculous. women leave their numbers like confetti. some even ask for selfies. men stare a little too long. even old couples seem enchanted, like he’s their grandson reincarnated from a better life. he winks. he laughs. he gets away with everything. and you? you barely look up.

not because you don’t notice—please. you notice. the way his undercut drips with sweat halfway through a double, how his voice drops an octave when he’s tired, how he shoves his hair back with one hand when it starts falling into his face. you notice. but you’re not jealous. because you’re not his. maybe that’s why it doesn’t sting. not when table 9 calls him “sweetheart,” not when the hostess whispers behind the bar that she thinks he’s gonna ask for her number. because at the end of every shift, he walks out with you. matches his stride to yours in the parking lot like muscle memory. waits by the time clock just so he can clock out the same second you do. brushes against you when you're both behind the bar, too close, too long. it's never an accident.

you’ve been here longer. you’re the real vet—been through the wringer. worked through high school, stayed through college, watched tyrant managers come and go. you’ve seen uniforms change, menus rotate, bullshit policy updates emailed at midnight. you can carry four plates in one hand and argue with a guest at the same time. there’s not a single soul in the restaurant who doesn’t respect you.

and yet—satoru never treats you like a fixture. he treats you like you’re magic. every day. he compliments you like he gets paid for it. but it’s never the same thing twice. never just “you look nice.” no, satoru’s got creativity. you’ve been compared to goddesses, to perfectly folded napkins, to cinematic lighting in golden hour. “you’ve got a real victoria’s secret model vibe going for you today,” he’ll murmur, watching you reset tables. “you always do.” god, he’s such an ass.

and you hate that it makes you smile. you pretend you barely know him. call him “bluey” or “gojo” or “you, with the hair” like he’s some guy who just wandered in off the street. but you know exactly who he is. you know the way his shoulders tense after a manager talks down to him. you know he’s stopped wearing cologne on your shifts because you once wrinkled your nose and said “you smell like a department store.”

you know he fantasizes about helping you open your own place. he hasn’t told you—but you’ve seen the notes scribbled on napkins. “satoru & y/n’s all-night diner.” sometimes he’s crossed his name out. sometimes yours.

you make it so hard to read you. you’re cool. calm. no-nonsense. you come in, do your job, get out. flirtation rolls off your back like grease from the kitchen vent. but you help him. when he’s double-sat. when a big table throws a fit. when he forgets to grab a ramekin and you silently drop one next to his hand before he even asks.

you don’t say much, but you show it. and he’s obsessed with every second of it. he fell first. hard. he keeps falling. and god, he falls loud.

he flirts like a man who knows no shame, like a man who knows you’re going to marry him eventually and is just waiting for you to catch up. and you? you hold out...until the shift where the air conditioning breaks. you’re both drenched. irritated. miserable. you disappear to the back and he finds you leaning against the manager’s office door, trying to cool down with a napkin full of ice cubes. and before he knows it, he’s kissing you.

you shouldn’t be there. the office is off-limits. you’re on the clock. there’s a literal screaming baby in section three. but you kiss him back. hands in his hair. mouth on his. like you’ve been waiting. and when he finally pulls back, stunned, breathing heavy, blinking like he’s not sure if this is real—you straighten your apron, smooth your hair, and say, “if you’re late on your tables again, I’m not covering for you.” but he hears the smile in your voice.

and from that point forward? he’s ruined for anyone else. they still leave numbers. still flirt. still call him handsome. and he smiles, sure. tips are tips. but he doesn’t flirt back the same. he saves that for you. for when your eyes are tired. when your feet hurt. when you’re halfway through a double and your hands shake from too much caffeine and not enough food.

he’ll press a granola bar into your palm. or sneak you fries from the kitchen. or lean in and whisper, “ten more minutes and then you get to yell at me in the walk-in. we’ll call it therapy.” you never admit you’re falling for him, too. but he sees the way you reach for him now. the way you linger. the way your eyes follow him across the floor. and he’s not worried.

because someday—when you’re standing in your own restaurant, clipboard in hand, menu the way you want it—he’s going to be there, too. apron crooked, smile crooked, heart in his hands. satoru gojo may be made to serve, but he only ever wants to serve you.

you don’t know what divine comedy landed ino takuma behind the bar and on the line, but you’re convinced the universe has a sense of humor. he’s not a bad cook—when he remembers to turn the fryer on. he’s not a bad bartender—if you’re okay with him triple-checking a gin and tonic. and he’s not a bad guy. not even close.

just…hopeless. endearingly, aggressively hopeless.

he shows up to work five minutes early every shift, apron askew, hair still wet from a shower, shirt clinging to his chest like a cry for help. you say, “you’re early,” and he grins like he’s been awarded a medal. you say, “your fly’s down,” and he thanks you like you’re handing him the secret to life.

you flirt with him constantly. obnoxiously. strategically. you lean over the bar when he’s counting tips, press close behind him when he’s slicing lemons, tell him you’ll give him a ride home if he promises not to make you stop for gas.

he always, always, blinks at you like a confused golden retriever and goes, “oh, you don’t have to! I can walk!”

you once flat-out asked him if he wanted to fool around in your car. after your shift. in the lot. his face turned a color that shouldn't be humanly possible, and he said, “you mean like…play a game?”

a game. you considered ending it all right there in the stockroom.

but you didn’t. because for all the cluelessness, the blank stares, and the unintentional friend-zoning, ino is…wonderful. when your boss is on a rampage, yelling at staff for the busted walk-in freezer door, ino raises his hand with a sheepish shrug. “that was me. my bad. leaned on it too hard.” you know it wasn’t. he knows it wasn’t. he still takes the write-up and the lecture, and when you come close to tears afterward, he tells you it’s okay. “it’s just a warning. I got thick skin.” then he gives you a crushing hug in the alley out back and insists on buying you a gatorade with his last $3.

he always “accidentally” messes up one of your orders. “oops, I made the chicken sandwich with extra avocado and fries. I guess we can’t serve it now. you want it?” he does it with the most oblivious innocence. you’re sure he thinks you haven’t noticed. you’ve noticed.

when a customer gets too mean—someone with the audacity to snap their fingers at you, demand a refund, insult your service—ino is the first one through the kitchen doors. he storms up to the table, wiping his hands on a rag. “hey. you got a problem? cool. tell me. but you don’t talk to her like that. or any of my servers. not now, not ever. got it?”

you hear it from the dish pit. you don’t even have to see it. and when he comes back in, cheeks red, trying to play it off like he didn’t just defend your honor like a knight with a spatula, you want to scream.

“my servers,” he’d said. his. you make $10 an hour before tips, and he’s claiming you like you’re family. or worse—like you’re sacred. like he’s protecting a relic, not a girl he hasn’t realized he’s desperately in love with yet.

it doesn’t occur to him until much, much later—maybe when he’s halfway through his shift, flipping pancakes for some hungover regular, and you sneak up behind him and plant a kiss on his cheek. he stops. entirely. pan goes still. face goes red. you’re about to laugh when he turns, gently, and stares at you like he’s never really looked before.

“oh,” he says. it’s reverent. “you…you really like me?”

you blink. "I asked you to make out with me in my car. twice.”

"I thought you were joking.” he groans in pure and utter shame and tragedy. you’re telling him he missed out on the opportunity to make out with you twice? god might as well just take mercy on him and kill him now.

you can’t hold back your laughter.

he wipes his hands on his apron, then takes yours—callused, warm, soft in the way you knew they’d be. “you’re, like…amazing. you could have anyone. you could be out of here, living in a penthouse or something.”

you snort. “what, with my tips?”

but he doesn’t smile. he holds your gaze, totally sincere. “you’re the best part of this place. you’re kind and smart and funny and you remember everyone’s orders and you…you notice things. I look forward to seeing you. I—”

you kiss him again, just to shut him up. he worships you after that. carries your water bottle around like it’s precious cargo. tells anyone who tries to flirt with you that you’re spoken for—then blushes and adds, “well, not, like, officially. yet.”

he burns his hand one day because he was too busy watching you laugh from across the kitchen. you kiss it better.

he asks you—bashfully, finally—if he can take you out. “like…to a movie. or dinner. but not here. somewhere nice. you deserve nice.”

you say yes, and he lights up like someone turned on the sun. later that night, you park in the back, doors locked, seats reclined. finally. he grins at you, sheepish and eager and so dumb in the best way.

you tease him. “you sure you know what we’re about to do?”

he nods. “yeah. make out in your car. right?”

you laugh. “good boy.” and if he wasn’t devoted before, he sure as hell is now.

choso is…not good at this. at first.

his shirt’s always a little wrinkled, name tag hanging crooked, hair somehow both neat and tragically emo. he’s new. you clock it the second he opens his mouth with a soft, “hi, welcome in!” and an awkward glance at the seating chart like it’s written in ancient greek. he fumbles. a lot. tells a party of six to follow him, then panics when he realizes he only has a four-top ready. doubles up your section on accident. gets the table numbers wrong. once seated someone in the storage closet. (to be fair, the door was open.)

normally, you’d be mad. no—furious. you’ve worked here two years. this is your turf, your money, your grind. you’ve snapped at hosts for far less. but choso? choso’s different. because when he messes up, he looks so apologetic it’s like kicking a puppy. big, dark eyes full of guilt, soft voice saying, “I'm so sorry, I didn’t mean to—” while the other servers tear into him like vultures.

but not you. no, you pull him aside, speak low and calm, point at the chart with your pen and say, “these four tables are mine. keep me steady, not slammed. focus on even rotation and don’t give me a party of eight ten minutes before close or I will cry.” and he listens. god, does he listen.

after that, he starts to figure it out. mostly because you’re the only one who takes the time to actually explain things to him. where the kids’ menus are. how to stall a wait time. why kevin is never allowed to take the patio by himself. you give him your number, say, “text me if you’re not sure what to do,” and choso nearly drops his phone trying to save your contact.

he’s scheduled five nights a week. you are too. coincidence? maybe. but he starts picking you up on the way in. says he’s just being nice. says he was heading that way anyway. his apartment is in the opposite direction, but he never mentions it.

he learns your coffee order before he remembers your last name. keeps a little note in his phone with the specifics: oat milk, light ice, two pumps of vanilla. shows up with it when your eye twitch starts from three doubles in a row. says, “you looked tired,” like it’s a compliment. every other server treats him like a punching bag. you treat him like a person. and that difference? it shifts something in him.

he starts putting your name next to the easy tables. the regulars that tip well. the quiet couples on dates. never the frat bros. never the wine moms. he tells the loud bachelor party at the door that the wait will be an hour when there’s actually an open booth. then he sends them to kevin.

“don’t want you dealing with that,” he mutters as they stomp off. “guy looked like he calls women ‘sweetheart’ unironically.”

you raise a brow. “and what do you call women, choso?”

his ears turn pink. "I’d call you whatever you wanted me to, anything, if you liked it.” you laugh it off. he doesn't.

he never flirts outright—too nervous, too respectful—but his version of it is just as obvious. carries your food runner trays for you. offers to fold napkins with you after hours. gives you the booth in the back when you look like you're gonna cry. he’s like a one-man support system in a black button-up. the kicker is: he never asks for anything. never expects. never pushes. just stands by the host stand like a dark-haired lighthouse, watching you hustle, hoping you’ll glance his way.

and then one night—it’s late, the shift’s over, the air outside is damp and cold—he walks you to your car. says, “you looked tired,” again. soft. sweet. no coffee this time, just concern. you turn to thank him, keys jingling in your hand.

you’re not sure who moves first. maybe both of you. maybe it’s mutual. but suddenly, you’re kissing him in the dark, your back against your car, his lips trembling against yours like he’s never done this before, or at least never done it like this.

when you break apart, he stares at you like he’s dreaming. then: “can I—can I kiss you again? please?”

and how do you say no to a guy like that? you don’t. he leans in again, hands gentle but sure, breath shaky, and this time it’s deeper. this time it’s real. by the time you finally unlock your door, he’s breathless, dazed, eyes wide and reverent.

“you okay?” you ask, teasing.

he swallows hard. “you don’t understand. I've been in love with you since you explained how to rotate sections. I'm—god, I'm yours. fully. whatever you want.”

shiu is a menace behind the bar.

the type who remembers everyone’s name, favorite drink, last heartbreak, and whether or not they tip in cash. he flirts like it’s his native tongue—easy, smooth, devastating. the regulars eat it up. that bachelorette party from two weeks ago? still posting about him on instagram. that lonely professor who comes in every thursday night for a manhattan? doubled her tip after shiu called her “darling” and winked. he's untouchable. untamed. he knows it. he thrives on it.

you? you're a server. professional. efficient. apron tied tight, hair done just right, customer voice always on. you’re good at this job—great at it—and you don’t have time for his games. you’ve seen him turn it on and off like a light switch. you’re not getting caught in that. at least, you’re trying not to. dating a coworker is so cliché.

but when he leans over the bar and says your name like it’s a secret, or hands you your usual drink with just the right amount of lime, or slides you a shot after a rough double and murmurs, “just for you, sweetheart,” your stomach flips in a way it shouldn’t. because it’s not like how he flirts with everyone else. it’s softer. focused. less of a performance, more like a confession.

you ignore it. play it cool. tell yourself it’s just what bartenders do. he’s just trying to boost tips. that’s all. but shiu? he’s obsessed with you. it drives him crazy that you don’t flirt back the way everyone else does. that you give him a look when he’s sweet-talking a table of sorority girls like, really? again? that you roll your eyes at him when he’s juggling three numbers and a tequila bottle behind the bar like it’s a circus act.

you make fun of him. and he loves it.

he watches the way you tie your apron every shift—tight, efficient, crisp. watches the way you adjust your hair before a heavy section, the little details you fine-tune to maximize charm and cash. you’re just as good at your hustle as he is at his. maybe better. and that’s what gets him.

you’re not impressed. not by him, not by the attention he draws like flies to a light. and that’s why he wants you.

the thing is—he wants you in a way he doesn’t want anyone else.

sure, he’s flirted with everyone under the sun. but he’s invested in you. the real kind. he stares too long when you’re laughing with a table. leans over the counter a little more when it’s you asking for drinks. punches out on his tab to walk you to your car, tells you it’s just coincidence—he’s heading that way. he’s not.

you catch him watching you across the restaurant, and he doesn’t even pretend he wasn’t. just smirks, shrugs, goes back to rinsing glasses.

and don’t even get him started on the dishwasher. that guy? skinny little slip of a thing. always lurking by the expo window like a lovesick puppy, trying to catch your eye with his elbow grease and soft boy act. makes shiu want to snap a mop handle over his knee.

he won’t say anything outright—yet—but he starts making it clear. “don’t let dish boy waste your time, sweetheart,” he’ll murmur as you reach across the bar. “he can’t even roll silverware right.” that makes you laugh, and he’s ready to dedicate the rest of his life to hearing that again. or, “if he ever gets too clingy, just say the word. I'll toss him in the dumpster out back.” he says it like a joke. you’re pretty sure it’s not. because shiu kong may be a flirt, a charmer, and a total piece of work—but when it comes to you? he’s real. no bit. no hustle. just him. a little too protective. a little too sincere.

you think you’ve got him figured out. but then he says, quiet and low, after one too many near-kisses and casual brushes of fingers: “I'm not like this with anyone else, you know? I know you think I am, but I’m not. I don’t want your tips. I want you.” and suddenly, he doesn’t seem like such a joke after all.

nanami does not consider himself a morning person. he wakes up early, yes. he’s disciplined. on time. efficient. but liking the mornings? no. that would imply a warmth, a softness he rarely shows.

except with you. you work the overnight shift—midnight to noon—and it’s brutal. a cursed, unspeakable schedule nobody wants. too late for night owls, too early for early birds. tips are few and far between, your body aches in odd places, and you’re so tired sometimes your thoughts blur together like batter left out too long.

nanami knows this. and he hates it. he doesn’t say that, of course. that would be unprofessional. what he does do is start showing up earlier. first it’s 6:00 a.m. then 5:30. then five sharp.

he tells himself it’s to prep the sourdough, to perfect the croissants, to experiment with a new proofing technique. but that’s not true. the truth is: he just wants to see you. those quiet hours before the sun rises? when the kitchen hums with low lights and clinking trays? that’s his favorite part of the day.

because that’s when you’re there. hair a mess. apron wrinkled. running around trying to manage a floor with three absolutely wasted/hungover customers and zero patience, always looking like you’re one plate short of a meltdown. and still, you smile at him. just for a second. a little tired thing, crooked and bashful. he treasures it like gold.

nanami doesn’t push. not you. you’ve got that twitchy, overworked thing about you—like if someone showed you real kindness, you might unravel on the spot. so he does it in ways you don’t notice.

he starts “messing up” loaves. burning the corners, cutting the top wrong, forgetting the egg wash. “guess I’ll have to get rid of this one,” he’ll say, and hand you a still-warm loaf before your shift ends. he sets timers longer than necessary when it’s your break. you’re curled up in a corner of the warmest baking room, clutching a jacket he just happened to leave there, and he quietly snoozes the alarm every ten minutes until you wake up on your own.

if a manager comes sniffing around, asking why you’re not out front, he’s unflinching: “she’s helping me with inventory. you’ll have to wait.” no one argues with nanami. not even the boss.

so you stay where you are, drinking tea from a chipped mug while he slices strawberries for tarts. he’s always inventing new desserts. says it’s for the case. for the spring menu. but you notice they all seem to feature your favorite flavors. and he always gives you the first bite. “quality control,” he says, though he never samples them himself.

once, during a late shift when you were crashing hard, he wordlessly placed a cup of fresh-ground coffee and a plate of something sweet in front of you. a honey lavender scone, still steaming. you bit into it and teared up a little bit without meaning to. he said nothing, only handed you a napkin and asked if the texture was acceptable.

and when you work yourself to the bone—when your eyelids sag and your legs barely hold you up—he appears at your side without fanfare. “I’ll drive you home,” he says softly. you start to protest, but he’s already holding your coat out like a gentleman from another era. and when you nod, exhausted, he drives in silence, the kind that feels safe. whole. the car is warm. he keeps the heat turned up for you.

he watches you sometimes, when you’re nodding off in the passenger seat. you deserve better, he thinks. a better job. more rest. more peace. and if you won’t give it to yourself, he’ll do what he can in the spaces in between. in the extra sugar on your scone, the longer breaks, the fake orders he pretends you’re needed for. in the way he always notices when your hands are cold and slides a hot drink toward them without saying a word.

you make him soft. and though he’d never say it aloud, he’d get up before the sun every day of his life just for five more minutes with you. the thing about nanami is: he doesn’t just like you. he cherishes you. like the finest recipe he’s ever perfected—measured out in sugar, baked into something golden, and handled with the gentlest hands.

he is so much better than this place. everyone knows it. especially you. you're not even sure how someone with that much talent and that little tolerance for bullshit ends up in the back kitchen of a mid-tier casual dining restaurant, but sukuna runs that line like a war general. if war generals had tattooed forearms, eyebrow piercings, and a habit of glaring knives into the backs of lazy fry cooks.

he’s intense. immaculate knife skills. sauces that make grown men cry. meat cooked perfectly every single time. it’s the kind of skill that should have a michelin star slapped on it. and when you told him that—after he handed you a rogue slice of steak on a shift you didn’t even have time to breathe during—he just grunted. “not going anywhere ‘til you do,” he said, like it wasn’t the most romantic thing he’d ever said in his life.

but even though he’s stuck here, he’s not idle. sukuna wastes ingredients like they cost nothing—testing, tasting, refining. always for you. a little something stashed on the back shelf of the walk-in, labeled in sloppy sharpie with your name. sometimes he “accidentally” burns something (he would never, he couldn't bring himself to) just so he can slide you a replacement and watch your face light up after the first bite. and your face does light up. that’s the kicker. he memorized your palette like a quiz he studied for weeks. knows exactly how much heat you like, how much garlic is too much garlic (almost never), and what sweets will perk you up after a triple sat lunch rush.

when your perfume hits the air as you fly past the expo line, he lifts his head like a hunting dog catching scent. you rush out, plates in hand, stress in your shoulders, muttering “that took way too long” under your breath—and still, he doesn’t yell. he doesn’t have to. not when one folded arm and a sharp, deliberate glare can silence the entire kitchen. they fall into place like children lining up for recess. because when sukuna’s pissed? that’s an osha violation waiting to happen. but he’s not like that with you.

no, with you, he’s practically docile. you could walk into the kitchen mid-rush, batting your lashes and apologizing because you forgot to ring in table 12’s order and now they’re threatening to walk—and he’d just sigh, crack his knuckles, and say, “gimme five.”

you don’t even realize it—how much you have him wrapped around your finger. how he times his breaks to yours, how his chest puffs out every time you moan after biting into something he’s made, how he scowls when anyone else so much as thinks about you. you really don’t realize it until one of his line cooks makes some offhand comment—something about how you look in that skirt, how you bend when you wipe the table. and sukuna explodes. “say that again. I fucking dare you.”

it’s not subtle. nothing about him is. the kitchen goes silent. the cook apologizes. the conversation never happens again. but your name still burns in his chest.

and the customers? oh, if only they knew. sukuna doesn’t go full psycho while the nice ones are in the restaurant. no, he waits. watches from the shadows, counts the minutes, until everyone leaves but that one fucking table that always gives you grief. “how come my girl comes back sniffling and weepy every time she deals with you, huh? she’s not serving you good enough?” he bites. they stare at him with something like awe. “tip her good and get out of here.”

you don’t know he does this. not really. but you do notice how quiet the problem tables get on return visits. how much better your tips are from people who used to sneer at you for sport.

and behind all that big, black dog energy, there’s a softness he saves just for you. the way he presses you against the dry goods in the storage closet, one hand braced above your head, the other pulling you closer by the waist. he tastes like smoke and spice, kisses you like he’s hungry, like you’re something he made with his own two hands and he doesn’t want anyone else to have a bite.

you're breathless, lips swollen, apron askew. he leans in, brushes a thumb across your cheek.

"you good, princess?" he asks, like he didn’t just nearly ruin you against a wall. and you nod, cheeks hot, breath caught, heart doing a tap dance in your chest. you don’t call it a relationship. of course not. that would make it real. that would mean admitting what this is. but when you walk out of that closet, hair a little mussed, pulse still skipping, and sukuna’s right behind you—no one else dares to say a word.

itadori is what corporate types call a personality hire. and if anyone says it like it’s a bad thing? he just laughs. because yeah, he does have a great personality. he’s sunshine in an apron, muscles in a tight shirt, charm with a dimpled smile. grandmas give him candy. kids draw him pictures on napkins. drunk businessmen leave him hundred-dollar tips “for the vibes.” he’s a walking serotonin shot, and he knows it.

but you? you’re the real powerhouse here. you’re the puppet master behind the diner curtain. it’s your fourth year and counting, and you know everything—who to flirt with for favors, which register button unlocks the “forgot to ring it in” meal, which chef will actually make your off-menu creations if you say “pretty please.”

yuuji's jaw dropped the first time he watched you finesse a bartender into remaking a drink just because “this one had the wrong vibe.” and they did it—smiling, even. you taught him everything. took him under your wing. even tied his first apron when his hands were shaking on his first shift. he was done for immediately.

and so, he plays the long game. he plays dumb, just a little. “wait, wait, slow down—so if I bring fried pickles to table 3 before their drinks, they’ll tip better?” “you mean to tell me that table 7 always splits the check four ways?” “so, wait, the dishwasher likes sour candy, and that’s how you get your ramekins clean faster?” he knows all this like the back of his hand; had it down the very first time you told him...but he could listen to you talk for hours. watches your lips as you explain, your gloss catching the fluorescent lights. watches your eyes sparkle when you say, “c’mon, yuuji, keep up.” watches your hips sway when you saunter out with a full tray balanced like it’s a stage prop and you’re the star.

he starts showing up early. stays late. always, always ready to take your tables. that couple that never tips? done. the guy who ogles you too much? “I got it, don’t worry.” that side work you hate? “I already did it—no big deal.” your drink? already waiting for you by the soda machine. he’s even talked a manager out of writing you up once with a dumb joke and a grin. yuuji is, simply put, your bitch. and he loves it. but he’s not dumb.

he sees how you hover sometimes. how you glance over when he’s laughing with another server. how you tug on your apron strings and mumble, “I can take that table, if you’re swamped.” how your fingers brush his when you hand him silverware and your breath catches just a little.

and when your manager corners you to ask who deserves that upcoming raise? well, you don’t even blink. “yuuji,” you say. like it’s obvious. like it’s fact. and it is. he works harder than anyone. smiles through the lunch rush and stays sane through the dinner chaos. fills in for no-shows. makes customers laugh even when they’re impossible. you say his name like you’re proud. he practically floats for a week after that.

you try to pay it back—try to do his side work one night. try to scrub down the soda machine or refill the salt shakers or fold napkins. but he gently takes it all out of your hands and says, “nope. sit. I got this.”

“yuuji, seriously—”

“you work too hard. let me do it for once.” he grins. he always grins. but there's something a little different in this one. a little soft. like he's holding back something bigger. because he is. so much bigger.

he’s had to stuff his fantasies deep, deep down. the ones where you live with him, sleep in his shirts, kiss him good morning, throw popcorn at him during movie nights. the ones where you let him take care of everything. where he works and you just get to be happy. lazy. loved.

the ones where your lip gloss is smudged because he kissed it off. but for now, he lets himself dream. and when you lean over and whisper, “thanks, yuuji. you’re the best,” he swears his heart punches a hole in his chest. yeah. maybe he is a personality hire. but lucky for you, that personality is hopelessly in love.

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beritybaker · 1 month ago

Text

Preheating, Freezing

My first @steddiebingo fic for round 2! Prompts: Bakery AU, Trapped

Takes place post-Vecna, but in an AU where Eddie wasn't involved. Also - Weirdo Steve Harrington supremacy.

Rating: G | WC: 4,851 | Tags: Pre-Steddie, Coworkers, Crying, Codependent Robin & Steve, PTSD, Head Trauma, Emotional Hurt/Comfort | ao3

If it weren’t for this job, Eddie doesn’t know what he would do. Get a different one, he supposes, but that would suck ass. He likes the one he has. He likes showing up at 4:00 AM after a late-night-turned-early-morning, using the quiet hour of solitude between the drunks and the go-getters to mull over last night’s gig, or the progress he made on his campaign before he had to head out for work. He likes surrounding himself with the smell of proofing sourdough and pies in the oven, and munching on yesterday’s chocolate croissants with an extra-large coffee.

What he doesn’t like is training new hires.

It’s not a common occurrence. The joint is family owned, and small—so small it doesn’t really have a name. People call it “the place by Bradley’s” when they’re talking about where to get a birthday cake, and nobody asks which one when Eddie tells them he works at the bakery. Still, it’s popular enough to get a steady stream of customers until mid-afternoon, and with Chrissy gone for school, he knows they need another part-timer to pick up the slack. He just wishes his morning peace didn’t have to be interrupted for it.

“Hey, Munson.”

“Harrington,” Eddie replies, unlocking the door. He glances up as his newest coworker approaches from the BMW parked on the curb, yawning wide. “Early enough for you?”

“Feel like I’m headed to swim practice,” Steve says through the end of the yawn.

Eddie steps through the door and holds it open for Steve to pass through behind him. “A lot less bread at swim practice, I hope.”

“Definitely.”

Locking the door behind them, Eddie beckons for him to follow to the kitchen. He punches in, grabs a clean apron from the hook by the time clock, and leans toward the rack of cards while he puts it on. When he finds Steve’s name, he mutters, “Aha,” and plucks it from the rack to hand to him. “You ever used one of these before?”

Steve nods, sticks his card into the machine, and puts it back in the rack next to Eddie’s. “Same kind we had at Scoops.”

“That’s right, you worked at the food court. So did I.”

“Really?”

“Yep. Burger King.”

“Oh, wait.” A sly smile makes its way across Steve’s face. “So you had to wear that god-awful red polyester? And I thought we had it bad with the sailor outfits.”

“At least those things looked a tiny bit breathable,” Eddie agrees. “It was honestly a relief when the mall burned down, because I didn’t have to wear that shit ever again.”

Inexplicably, Steve’s smile freezes into an unsettled grimace. “Y-Yeah,” he mumbles. “Yeah, I guess not.”

Okay…weird. Eddie knows that look. It’s the same one Wayne gets when something reminds him of the F5 that came way too close to the trailer park in ’74, or the look his mom would get when her asshole brother came around. Eddie wants to ask why his dumb joke seemed to give Steve a fucking Vietnam flashback, but he holds his tongue. Maybe he was there when it happened, or a friend of his died in the fire. Whatever the case, Eddie’s not about to drag all that shit out of him while he’s supposed to be teaching him how to work the big oven, no matter how curious it makes him.

“Right,” Eddie says. He clears his throat and reaches for a second apron. “So, um…put this on, unless you want to look like a powdered donut. That’s step one.”

Steve obediently pulls the thing over his head.

While he’s tying it, Eddie goes on, “Step two is looking at the list for today.”

“The list?”

He leads Steve to the bulletin board by the walk-in freezer and taps the paper pinned up in the corner. “Everything we’ve got to get in and out of the oven before the morning rush. Some special orders to prep, but mostly—”

“Breakfast stuff?”

Eddie resents being interrupted, but at least it tells him Steve is on the right page. “Yep.” He pulls the list down and reads by the dim bulb above the sink.

“Do you want me to turn on the light?”

“Good god, no. I never turn it on if I can help it.”

“Oh…okay.” Steve stands there looking awkward and useless.

Eddie ignores him, turning his attention back to their morning checklist. He usually thinks aloud, and this morning is no exception. He hopes Steve is listening so he doesn’t have to repeat himself. “Croissants and scones are in the freezer; they can go right in the oven. George made the bagels last night, just have to pull those out of the pantry and put ’em in the case. Muffins: blueberry and…maple flax? Really, Pauline? We haven’t sold more than two flaxseed muffins all month.” He sighs, knowing what he’ll be having for breakfast tomorrow. “Whatever…”

“So we need to make muffins?” Steve says.

Eddie glances up. He’d almost forgotten there was someone else in the room. “Yeah. But we should take care of the scones first. Can you set the oven to four-hundred?”

“Oh,” Steve says again. “Sure.” He turns to one of the two industrial-sized ovens a few feet away, walks over, and stares at it for a moment. Then he turns back to Eddie and says, “Uh…how?”

Trying to suppress a long-suffering sigh (though admittedly not trying very hard) Eddie marches over and shows him, punching buttons with learned precision. “Got it?”

“Yeah. I think so.” Steve lets out a nervous chuckle. “You’re a braver man than me.”

“Why do you say that? You afraid of ovens or something?”

“No! God, wouldn’t that be funny, working in a bakery?” Another chuckle. “No, I just can’t turn on an oven without checking inside first. Cleaning up melted Tupperware isn’t something I want to do ever again.”

Eddie stares at him. “You left Tupperware in your oven?”

“My mom did. My family doesn’t bake much, so she stores it there. One time I wanted to make cinnamon rolls, and let’s just say the fire department wasn’t amused.”

“Well, lucky for us, the only thing that passes through this oven is stuff that’s supposed to be there. Speaking of which”—Eddie whirls and heads back to the walk-in—“let me show you where we keep the stuff that gets prepped ahead of time.” He pulls the handle on the massive door and lets it swing wide. A frigid cloud hits them, and he steps forward. Once Steve is inside too, he props the door open behind them.

“Chilly,” Steve remarks, chuckling yet again. “Would suck to get trapped in here.”

Eddie raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t otherwise acknowledge the observation. Instead he points at the shelves at eye level and says, “Right here is where you’ll always find stuff for the day ahead. By the time the afternoon shift is here, this will all be gone, and they’ll fill the shelf back up with tomorrow’s.” He picks up a baking sheet, covered in doughy triangles that are just visible through a layer of frosty plastic wrap. “These are orange-cranberry scones. There’s some blueberry-lemon and cinnamon right there. Go ahead and grab a tray, and we’ll start putting ’em in the oven as soon as it’s done preheating.”

Stepping out of the freezer, the temperature of the kitchen is a stark contrast. With the oven heating up, the whole room has started to get a little stuffy. Eddie puts his tray of scones on the counter next to the oven and goes to open the window. Usually he opens it before turning anything on. That’s what happens when something fucks with my routine. He wonders what else he’s going to forget before this shift is through. Hopefully it won’t be anything important.

The next half-hour is uneventful. Steve takes instruction surprisingly well, always rushing to do whatever Eddie suggests—though at times, he realizes just a moment later that he needs further guidance. Over the course of the morning, Eddie becomes more and more willing to give it, because goddammit, despite his misgivings, the guy’s charm is undeniable. He’s still not happy to be losing his quiet time, but at least Steve doesn’t say more than he needs to. With another set of hands there, Eddie is also more productive than usual, and by a quarter to five they’re left with very little to do.

He goes over their remaining tasks in his head. They’re all easy things: packing up Flo’s usual order for the station, feeding the sourdough starter, putting the muffins and loaves in the case once they’re out of the oven, replacing them with the pies of the day. Last thing to do is put together the cookies for the Wheelers’ party platter, but it’s a little early for that.

Time for breakfast, then, he thinks, and he calls out for Steve, who ventured into the freezer at his suggestion to pull out the unbaked pies. “Let’s take a breather. You wanna pick out a bagel? Bet we could get away with raiding the fresh ones.”

He doesn’t get an answer.

Furrowing his brow, Eddie tries again. “Harrington? Do you want some breakfast or not?”

Still nothing.

He rounds the corner to the freezer and finds the big door shut. Whirling around and around for some sign of where Steve went, he starts to panic. It’s not that he’d be upset if Steve decided bakery life wasn’t for him and skipped out on him; it’s more about the fact that Pauline will definitely blame it on Eddie for scaring him off. His snark is no secret, and he’s pretty sure it’s why she gave him the pre-open morning shift in the first place, to keep his mouth from offending any customers. The last thing he needs is for the manager to have another excuse for her weird vendetta.

Eddie breathes a sigh of relief when he spots an unfamiliar set of keys on the hook beside the bulletin board. Steve is still here, unless he decided to leave his car for some reason.

Turning back to the freezer, Eddie cocks his head in confusion. Did he shut himself in? He reaches out, turns the handle, and pulls the door open. On the other side, he does find Steve, though not remotely in a state he anticipated.

He’s huddled on the floor, with his back to a shelf of frozen butter, and though he jumps about a foot in the air at the sound of the door creaking on its hinges, the startled look on his face does nothing to hide how red and puffy his eyes are. “Munson!” He shoots to his feet, wiping his nose on the back of his hand and sniffling hard. It’s clear he’s desperate to look casual, though his voice is thick and rough when he goes on, “Sorry, man. I, uh…I got stuck.”

Eddie stares, blinking. “You got stuck,” he echoes.

“Yeah.”

Because he’s never been one to shy away from the elephant in any room, he purses his lips and says, “Is that all you were crying about? Getting stuck in the walk-in?”

Steve looks startled all over again by Eddie’s candor. He opens and closes his mouth half a dozen times before crossing his arms over his chest and grumbling, “No.”

Now Eddie is even more surprised. “Okay…then why were you crying?”

There are a few different emotions in conflict on Steve’s face. Eddie spots the ones he expects, with fear and shame taking the lion’s share. There’s also a tiny flicker of something hopeful, though, and he realizes a moment before he speaks that Steve must be debating whether or not to be honest. He huffs, then says, “I miss Robin.”

“What?”

“Robin Buckley. This is the first job I ever had without her, since she left for U of L. I mean, I guess that’s if you don’t count that summer I was a lifeguard, but that was totally different, because—”

“You mean to tell me,” Eddie interrupts, because he knows the beginning of a nervous ramble when he sees one, “that you came to the walk-in to cry because you’re used to working with your friend?” When he sees some of Steve’s fear overtaking his shaky confidence, he hurriedly adds, “Which is totally fine! I mean, we’ve all done it.”

Steve stares. “You have?” he says, with the dull monotone of disbelief.

“Yeah. I mean, not for the same reason, but if you ask around you’ll find that the walk-in is a popular spot for the occasional mental breakdown among staff.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Steve says slowly, seeming to mull over the concept. “We did the same thing at Scoops sometimes.”

“Robin worked with you there, too, right?” Eddie says, trying to keep his voice as gentle as possible without sounding patronizing.

A leftover tear escapes over Steve’s lashes and drips down his cheek. He wipes it away impatiently and nods. “It’s where we met. And then she basically got me the job at the video store, because Keith hated my guts. When she left for school…I don’t know. I couldn’t stand being there without her around, so I quit.” He grimaces and shakes his head. “Not the best idea I ever had.”

“So you two went from food service straight into retail? No wonder you’re best friends. You’ve been through a lot together.”

The joke does its job. Steve laughs a bit and says, “You have no idea.”

Glad to have diffused some of the tension, Eddie taps Steve’s shoulder with his knuckles and says, “Anyway, I was looking for you. You wanna have some breakfast?”

“That sounds like a good idea,” Steve sighs. He sniffs one more time, but it’s clear his tears have dried up. Before they make it out of the freezer, though, he says, “Oh! I did actually get stuck, though. Is there a way out of here when that happens?”

“Sure. Want me to show you?”

“If you don’t mind.”

Eddie smiles. “That’s what I’m here for.” He takes a step back and lets the door shut with a metallic thud. “It’s really easy. All you have to do is…oh. Wait.” He stares at the lever that opens the door from the inside.

There’s a beat of silence before Steve says, “Everything okay?”

Still with his eyes fixed on the mechanism, Eddie bites his lip. “I, uh. I forgot.”

“You forgot what?”

He turns to meet Steve’s gaze, hoping his apologetic look masks the rising alarm. “It’s broken.”

Steve’s eyes go wide. “So we’re…?”

“Yeah.”

He swallows. “And Pauline—”

“Won’t be here for another half-hour,” Eddie finishes for him.

“But the muffins are supposed to come out in twenty minutes!”

It’s such a strange thing to be concerned about in their current predicament that Eddie actually laughs. In fact, he doubles over, struggling to breathe the frigid air and leaning on one of the shelves to keep himself on his feet.

“What’s so funny?” Steve demands.

“Nothing! It’s just…you’re looking down the barrel of half an hour stuck in the freezer…and you’re worried about the muffins?”

“We worked hard on them,” he says, looking wounded. Before long, though, he seems to understand how absurd it is, and the look morphs into a sheepish grin.

Eddie hates to admit it, but that expression is one of the most adorable things he’s ever seen, and the dopey giggle it’s paired with does his psyche no additional favors. “They’ll be okay with an extra ten minutes. Maybe a little charred, definitely a little dry. That just means Pauline’s vision of a flaxseed empire will crumble.” He snorts at his own pun, then adds, “It’s her own fault for not getting the repairs done as soon as the door broke last week.”

“It’s a safety issue, actually. I’ll bring it up with my mom.”

“Your mom? Why?”

“She’s friends with Pauline. It’s the only reason I got this job,” Steve says. He smirks. “I bet if I tell her about this, it’ll be fixed by tomorrow.”

“Hm. So you’ve got an in with the boss, huh? That could come in handy.” Eddie sinks to the floor, right next to where Steve sat a minute ago.

Steve lowers himself with a groan, joining him. “Don’t get too excited. She’ll only raise hell about the freezer door because it’s a hazard.”

“So that means no raise, huh?”

“I’d say probably not.”

“Damn.” Eddie shoots him a grin. “Well, forcing her to meet OSHA standards is better than nothing. It might be nice having you around.”

“That’s good to hear. I was so worried about fucking up, I hardly slept at all last night.”

“Why? You’re doing just fine.”

Steve sighs. “I guess sometimes it feels like—or, I don’t know, it felt like Robin did most of the work, at Family Video at least. I don’t know shit about movies. Even though she tried to show me some, my memory is total shit, so I didn’t ever retain much.”

“So you’re not into movies. Who cares?” Eddie shrugs. “I’m not that into baking, even though I’ve been working here since my junior year. Everything I do turns out like it’s supposed to, but it’s not like I could bake a loaf of banana bread without the recipe right in front of me. Although,” he says, smirking, “it has given me a lot of ideas for things to add a secret ingredient to, if you catch my drift.”

Steve exhales a short laugh and looks down at his lap, where his hands fidget with the hem of his apron.

“I’m just saying, you probably did a lot more for that joint than Keith’s encyclopedic knowledge of Star Trek ever did.”

He exhales again. “You know about that?”

“Oh, I’m very familiar. One time we got into it over who would win in a fight between Tolkien’s orcs and the Klingons.”

“I have no clue what that means.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Eddie says, waving a dismissive hand. “Just know that he came into that argument with more trekkie trivia than I thought even existed.”

Steve laughs. He actually laughs out loud, instead of letting out one of his nervous chuckles.

It’s a pretty sound, Eddie thinks. Too pretty. The last thing he needs is to start thinking about how cute Steve is, especially if they’re gonna be working together.

Because Steve is cute. He always has been, and Eddie isn’t about to deny it: gorgeous face, melodic laugh, a cleverly self-deprecating attitude that plays Eddie’s heartstrings like a fiddle. None of that changes the fact that Steve Harrington was a cookie-cutter jock in high school, though. He’s the type of guy who would probably kick his ass if he called him cute out loud.

Then again…he’s close enough with some hyper band geek to be weeping over her absence. More importantly, he owned up to the tears, and the potentially embarrassing reason for them. Eddie knows that’s not something his old douchebag friends would’ve ever let him live down. So maybe he’s…sensitive. In a good way.

In a cute way.

“Look, I know I’m not Buckley,” Eddie says, “but maybe I can stand in for her. At least ’til she’s home for Thanksgiving.”

Steve studies his face. It takes Eddie a moment to register that he’s looking for some kind of cruel joke, his wary eyes searching for a sign that Eddie’s putting him on for laughs. Eddie wonders how often that used to happen with his old friends. Lord knows they did it to the rest of their peers, though he hadn’t ever considered the fact that Tommy H might’ve been just as much of an asshole to Steve as he was to everyone.

“I’ll be your work buddy,” Eddie elaborates, trying to sound sincere while keeping his tone light. “You need to bitch about something, you can bitch to me.”

“Okay,” Steve finally says, a cautious smile playing at the corners of his lips.

“It goes both ways, though. You have to let me bitch about management, too.”

“Deal.”

“And I promise that it will be in no way an excuse to get you to tattle on Pauline.”

Steve laughs again. If he’s not careful with that giggle of his, Eddie’s gonna fall in love with him.

They’re quiet for a while. The cold is starting to get to Eddie, but with Steve close to him, it’s not too bad. He checks his watch, starts to comment on how it won’t be long before Pauline waltzes in and frees them, but Steve speaks up first.

“I’m sorry if I was ever a dick to you in high school,” he says, his voice quiet.

Eddie bites the inside of his cheek. “Nah, it’s all water under the bridge.” He pauses, thinking. “You know what? Actually, I don’t think you ever were.”

Steve turns to look at him. “No?”

“No,” Eddie repeats, shaking his head. He offers a soft, playful smirk. “You’d have to know I existed to be a dick to me.”

“I knew who you were,” Steve protests. “I bought drugs from you once.”

“What about the bagels?”

His eye twitches, and he frowns. “Bagels?”

“Your order at the bakery. Sesame bagel with bacon, egg, and cheese. To go.”

“You…remember that?”

“Well, you came in every day at the ass-crack of dawn and ordered the same sandwich. Kinda hard to forget.” Eddie smiles, trying to get across that he’s not offended.

“I thought you said you worked at Burger King before.”

“Only last summer, because Pauline hired her nephew and I couldn’t stand him. I was here through most of high school. Had to come crawling back after the mall burned down.” Because guilt is starting to settle into Steve’s features like it belongs there, Eddie goes on, “It makes sense you don’t remember me, though—it’s not like Pauline would ever let me get away with my signature look working front of house.”

Still frowning, Steve says, “I just can’t believe I forgot.”

“You’re the one who said your memory’s shit,” Eddie reminds him with a gentle smile.

Thankfully, it draws a small one from Steve, too. “Good point.” He tilts his head, staring at the floor in front of him. “You know, Robin remembered that sandwich, too. We were in Click’s class first period, and she was so annoyed with me getting crumbs all over the place every day. I didn’t even know she was there.” The last part is so quiet, Eddie isn’t sure he was supposed to hear it.

“And now it takes a crowbar to pry you two apart,” he emphasizes.

“Not true,” Steve says. “She’s in a whole other state now.”

“Oh, boo-hoo,” Eddie shoots back, with yet another good-natured smile. “I bet you talk on the phone every night.”

Steve blushes. Though he doesn’t answer out loud, that’s answer enough.

“And you can always get in that beemer of yours to go see her. Isn’t it just a straight shot down 65? Can’t be more than an hour’s drive.”

Steve shakes his head, looking for all the world like a lost puppy. “I don’t want to bother her. Besides, I’m okay just talking to her on the phone.”

“Sure,” Eddie says. He shoots Steve a sly grin.

It earns him one in return. “Okay, fine. I’d love to go down and spend the day with her sometime.”

“If you need company on the drive…I’ll be around.”

The tips of Steve’s ears go as pink as his cheeks. “Thanks. I’ll keep you in mind.”

It was an experimental offer; the fact that Steve seems receptive makes Eddie’s heart start hammering, and suddenly he’s desperate to change the subject before he asks him out right then and there. He pushes out all his air in a huff and says, “There’s something else that’s bugging me.”

“There is?” Steve says. He looks uncertain again, though not quite as blue as he did when Eddie mentioned his usual breakfast in high school.

“Yeah. And it might a be a little personal, if that’s alright.”

He narrows his eyes, but he says, “Okay.”

“Earlier, when I brought up the mall burning down…you looked like you wanted to ralph. What was that about?” Eddie asks.

“Oh.” Steve surprises him by smiling and shaking his head. “You wouldn’t believe me.”

“I’m trapped in a giant icebox with King Steve, who just got done crying his eyes out because he’s got some kind of weird codependency going on with Robin Buckley, of all people.” Eddie catches his eye and raises an eyebrow. “At this point I’d believe anything.”

“Trust me, man. It’s pretty out there.”

“Try me.”

Steve shakes his head again. “It’s too weird.”

“I’m weird,” Eddie points out. “I’m like, the keeper of weird shit. If there’s something strange afoot and I’m not aware of it, I’m doing a subpar job.”

Fixing him with a wary look, Steve purses his smiling lips. It makes him look like he’s begging for just one more reason to spill the beans. Eventually, he says, “It could put a target on your back if you knew.”

“With who?”

“The feds.”

“Well, now you have to tell me,” Eddie whines, reveling in the short laugh Steve returns to him. “You can’t say something like that and expect me to just move on!”

“Okay, fine! I’ll tell you. But you can’t repeat a word of it to anyone.” Steve takes a deep breath, lets it all out, then takes another before he continues. “You remember a couple years ago, when Will Byers went missing?”

Eddie blinks, startled. “Will Byers? What does that have to do with the mall?”

“I’m getting there. You remember it?”

“Sure. Really pissed me off the way people talked about the kid when he came back. ‘Zombie Boy’…like he had a fucking say in the cops thinking that other body was him.”

“You remember the official story?”

Eddie raises his eyebrows and sighs, trying to recall what he heard on the news. “That he got picked up by some drifter, right? He got away from ’em, but he almost died in the wilderness before the Chief found him.”

Steve meets Eddie’s eye and shakes his head. “No.”

“No? What do you mean, ‘no’?”

“That’s not what happened.”

“Then what did happen?”

“He got kidnapped by a monster and taken to this…other dimension, or whatever. I’m not very good at explaining it. But his brother and Nancy Wheeler lured it out—this big fucker, at least seven feet tall, huge mouth for a face—and I fought it with them. Hopper and Joyce found Will and brought him back to the real Hawkins.”

Eddie stares—not in disbelief, because that would require a modicum of understanding, and he’s having some trouble processing what Steve just said. “You…? Hold on. Another dimension?”

“Told you it was weird,” Steve says, shrugging. “Anyway, the mall got attacked by another monster. Different kind, made of melted people, and it possessed Hargrove. The fire was a cover-up.”

“And you…?”

“I was there. Me and Robin, and a bunch of our other friends.” He grins in vague reminiscence. “Weird way to celebrate the Fourth of July, but at least there were fireworks.”

What the fuck? Is he off his rocker? His voice faint, Eddie echoes, “Fireworks?”

“Oh, we threw ’em at the melted-people monster,” Steve explains, dismissive. “Not sure how many I landed, because it turned out the Russians gave me a massive concussion, but—”

Russians?! “Let me get this straight,” Eddie says, turning towards Steve. He needs to see his face, needs to study it the same way Steve studied his earlier, looking in vain for a trace of humor. “Not only are these monsters real, but they’ve attacked people in Hawkins twice?”

“Three times,” Steve corrects. “The fucked-up pumpkin patches were because of the monsters, too. Will Byers got possessed that time.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“You regret begging me to tell you?”

“I’m gonna be totally honest, I’m not sure I believe you after all.”

“Fair enough. But I swear I’m telling the truth.”

“You sure you didn’t, like—”

Eddie is cut off by the clang of the door handle, signaling their rescue. As the heavy door swings open, and Pauline’s expression of apology comes into view, Steve presses a finger to his lips. He smirks once again, rises to his feet, and meets Pauline at the door, greeting her cordially.

It takes Eddie an extra few seconds to join them. He can’t move very quickly, because he’s too busy processing everything he just learned—not just Steve’s story, but the nonchalant and honest way he delivered it. Because it was clear that Steve at least thought he was telling the truth, which means one thing, regardless of whether he was right or if he’d had some vivid hallucinations.

Steve Harrington is way stranger than Eddie would’ve ever guessed.

#steddie #steddie fic #steddiebingo2025 #author stuff

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miaoua3 · 3 months ago

Note

hii ! could you do a jeonghan drabble where like hes cuddling reader and soothing her period cramps away ? also could u make it 600 words+ (if u can!!) becus i LOVE jeonghan fluff and i only can find those short ones ☹️ thank you !

hii! ofc i can do it, i just don’t know if i can make it 600+ words as that is quite long and i have 20+ requests in my inbox atm😭 still, i hope that you like it!

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••

(pairing: bf! jeonghan x f! reader)

warning: mentions of cramps and blood

you twist your whole body until your face ends up buried inside your pillow, eyebrows furrowed as you try to brave for another wave of pain and cramps.

you really hated surprises, especially when it’s a surprise period that we are talking about. you weren’t supposed to get it for another few days, usually somewhat on time. to say that you were completely unprepared for this is an understatement.

the cramps are so bad this time, you can’t honestly remember the last time they were this bad. unfortunately for you, the medicine doesn’t seem to be kicking in for some reason, leave you at mercy of the strong pain in your tummy.

you hold onto your tummy strongly, pushing your hands into your skin as you moan and groan in pain. you peak with one eye at the bloody sheets that you only had the strength to peel them off and throw them onto the floor, mentally making a note to put them to wash later, once your cramps stop feeling as if you are getting stabbed.

it is at moments like this you wish your boyfriend had a more flexible job, just so you could call him and ask him to come home.

almost like a prayer getting answered, you hear the front door unlocking, opening and closing, before you hear hannie’s sweet voice calling for you.

“angel? are you there? i’m home!”

you groan as you weakly call out “in the bedroom”.

in the matter of seconds, hannie appears, his joyful mood immediately souring at your state, cooing in empathy.

“oh baby why didn’t you say anything? i would’ve been home much earlier had i known that you got your period.”, he slowly approaches you before he sits down beside you, pushing the messy and frizzy hair out of your face as he looks at you with sad eyes.

you close your eyes as another wave of pain and nausea hits you, before you answer him through gritted teeth “didn’t want to bother you…plus you are here earlier either way so..”

jeonghan frowns at your words for a second before he bends down to kiss your temple, softly mumbling against your warm skin “you are never a bother to me, baby. next time, whatever the case-if you need me, call me.”

from there on, you completely shut your brain off, because jeonghan takes over and does everything he can think of to help you relax. takes a shower with you where he makes sure that the water is hot enough that it burns his skin off but he ignores the pain because he can see that it helps you with your pain. changes the sheets and puts the bloody ones into the washing machine. boils the water for the hot water bottle for you to hold onto.

and lastly, he gets into bed with you, his strong chest pressed deeply into your back as he hugs you from behind.

it seems that the painkiller finally started to kick in, or maybe your boyfriend has a magic touch, because the moment he stuck his hand under your shirt and started to softly massage and rub your tummy, your cramps started to get better, finally allowing you to relax and enjoy your boyfriends presence.

you close your eyes as you enjoy the series of kisses jeonghan softly presses into the nape of your neck, his lips taking time as he presses them into your skin. although you can feel how they are a bit scratchy, probably due to him biting them from all the stress he had to endure during the day, you just ignore the feeling and just…let his presence calm yours down.

his big and strong hand on your tummy continues to rub slow circles on it, the warm water bottle completely abandoned by you in the name of feeling the warmth jeonghan provides to you. his other hand (the one you are laying on) is intertwined with one of yours, thumb rubbing soft circles on the back of your hand.

you two don’t speak, whatever show playing on your tv providing the only sounds within the four walls of your shared bedroom.

you feel yourself slowly drifting off to dreamland, but before you can fully succumb to the sweet dreams, jeonghan presses one soft kiss onto your cheek, waking you up immediately upon feeling the touch on your skin.

his tired yet soft voice gently asks you “feeling better, my angel?”

you only have it in yourself to nod and whisper a small ‘thank you’ before you feel your eyes slowly close again, all on their own.

as you drift away, almost pain free and completely comfortable in your lover’s embrace, you hear his voice softly say

“nothing to thank me for. anything for you, baby. anything for you.”

#seventeen #svt #svt x reader #fypシ #tumblr fyp #fypage #fluff #jeonghan svt #jeonghan x you #jeonghan x reader #yoon jeonghan #jeonghan #yoon jeonghan x reader #yoon jeonghan x you

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oddlydescriptive · 3 months ago

Text

Reset, Chapter Seventeen

Series Masterlist

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

You didn’t get flown out for the final race. Didn’t get a dress code email for the prize giving ceremony. Didn’t get a hotel keycard left in an envelope at the front desk. You watched the last race of the season from your dorm, curled up on your twin bed with a plate of freezer dumplings and a laptop that buffered at least twice before the stream caught up.

Red Bull won everything, obviously. Verstappen took the final checkered flag like it was inevitable. The team celebrated in a blaze of champagne and perfectly lit content loops. You closed the window before the podium interviews even started.

No one called. No one needed anything.

And honestly, that made sense.

You’re still under contract through December 31st- still, technically, Red Bull property- but AlphaTauri’s already been announced. You’re not just development anymore. You’re not just RedBull Racing anymore. You’re forward-facing. Pipeline material. And while no one has said it aloud, the shift’s been happening for weeks.

They’re phasing you out.

Quietly. Gently. Efficiently.

Your data access had been the first thing to go- little changes, gradual redactions. You still had log-ins, but fewer dashboards showed up when you used them. Then the assignments started thinning out. Weekly reports became biweekly summaries. Dev meeting invites stopped appearing unless someone had a specific question for you. A sim anomaly. A question about a comment you had left on the braking data a few weeks ago.

It’s not personal. It’s not even cruel. It’s just… logistics. And you got it. You get it. You do.

You’re not their girl anymore. Or, won’t be. Not in the gears-and-axles sense. You got exactly what you wanted. You’ve stopped being a cog. Now you’re something shinier. Something public. A face. A product. A name.

You’d had more access than you probably should’ve from the beginning. More control. More input. They’re only pulling back what they’d loaned in the first place.

Still.

You’d built your entire life around this place since they dumped you on the factory steps in August- broke, jagged, desperate, hungry for anything more than the Indy career you had torched to the ground. This badge. These halls. The windowless sim rooms and bitter instant coffee and shared dorm showers. It’s become your whole ecosystem.

And now?

Now you’re bored.

Not in the casual, oh-I-have-nothing-to-do sense. Not in the Instagram scroll, maybe-I’ll-go-for-a-run way. You’re untethered. No real tasks. A measly four calendar holds before the end of the year. No Gavin- he’s traveling with the team. No Alessandro- burning PTO like a matchbook before the winter build surge. No Danny- off wrapping up his last days with McClaren. Stuck, just like you. Stuck, right here in purgatory.

Lying on your back in a sterile little dorm room with your legs curled up like a child and your phone battery at nine percent. Watching the forced-air heating ruffle a stray paper on your desk, trying not to fall asleep before the year-end party even starts.

It’s not loneliness, exactly. You’ve survived worse. Objectively, you have zero complaints.

But it’s quiet in a way that makes your skin itch.

There are big things coming. Huge things. A race seat. Brand deals and sponsors. Points, even, if you play your cards right. But right now? Right now you’re still technically Red Bull. Still on their payroll. Still sleeping under their roof.

You’re not part of the machine you live in anymore. And the weight of that contradiction is making you feel… something. Not numb. Not sad. Not exactly.

Just unmoored.

The day’s gotten away from you in your spiral- cold gray light stretching thin across the dorm ceiling, your phone buzzing occasionally from across the room and left unread. You should be doing something. Hair. Makeup. Picking out an outfit for this evening’s staff year end party. Anything.

Instead, you’ve just been… still.

You can’t quite name it. The feeling in your chest like a tether’s been cut. The quiet hum of weightless boredom, pressed under the skin like a bruise that never quite blooms.

You’re still training. Still working. You show up to the gym like it’s your job- because it kind of is. Because it’s the only thing that hasn’t shifted beneath your feet lately. The rhythm, the discipline, the ache. It reminds you of the summer. The purgatory of Jos’s house. The hours you carved open just to fill them with movement. With sweat. With anything that kept you from unraveling entirely.

But this has been different.

Since you got here- since the AlphaTauri shook the marrow out of your bones and left you wrung out and trembling for your life in an ice bath- you’ve been training with intention. Not just survival. Not just control. Not just maintenance. You’ve been trying to build.

For the first time in your life, the goal isn’t to disappear.

It’s to expand.

IndyCar never cared if you were strong. They cared if you were light. No driver weight minimums. Junior series, whatever flavor you drove in any given year, same thing. Lighter was faster. Coaches, engineers, principals- always asking the same questions.

How light can you get and still drive? How many days can you go without carbs before your body starts eating your reflexes?

Smaller was better. A decade of conditioning that turned your own hunger into an enemy. Every pound scrutinized. Every calorie accounted for. Racing in those worlds meant being barely there- meant learning to cut yourself down until you fit inside the mold.

The only real advantage to being a woman in that system? You were already small. Naturally lighter. It made the weight targets a little easier- sometimes. While your male teammates were scraping muscle off themselves to make weight, skipping meals and running hot just to cut grams, you were coasting in under the line. Not because it was healthy. Not because it was fair. But because being born smaller meant you starved less.

But now?

Now you’re in F1.

Now there's a minimum. A fixed number. Now it doesn’t matter if you’re naturally small- because every pound you don’t carry is another pound your competitors get to fill with power. With strength. With muscle that helps them outdrive, outmuscle, outlast you.

You’re no longer rewarded for taking up less space. You’re punished for it. So you’ve changed.

You’ve been eating like it matters. Training like it’s math- input and output, time and tension. Your body, for the first time since before you got your first period, isn’t a compromise. It’s becoming a weapon.

You sit up slowly. Peel off your clothes. One layer at a time. Hoodie, socks, leggings, tank. Until you’re just in your underwear and bra. Cotton. Soft. Familiar.

Then you reach for the full-length mirror leaning against the wall and drag it onto the bed with you. Set it up agasint your pillows so you can see yourself. All of you. Up close.

And then you look. Really look. Take stock.

Your thighs are thicker now. Solid. Corded with new muscle, the kind that moves when you shift and flexes without trying. They press together, heavy and warm and proud. They flow into hips that have grown wider, fuller, more anchored somehow. Your waist is still there- narrow, defined- but the curve from rib to hip to thigh is smooth and deep and fucking stunning.

You twist slightly, propping yourself on one arm, and turn your attention lower.

Your ass is outrageous.

You blink. Then smile. Every inch of it earned from loading squats three times a week until you might have cried with exhaustion. It lifts high and round, fuller than it’s ever been. It’s the reason most of your jeans have become… hazardous, lately. You only have a handful of pairs left that fit at all, much less well. The shape is almost surreal- like someone photoshopped you and forgot to undo it. But it’s not fake. It’s earned. It balances the line of your back, the curve of your hips, the strength in your thighs.

You shift your hips again, slowly. Watching the way everything follows. The drag of your skin, the flex and pull of muscle. And it’s not just power. It’s not just the function of it.

It’s beautiful.

There’s a sensuality to it that catches you off guard.

Not sexual. Not quite. Not the kind of thing you’d show off for someone else. This isn’t about being wanted. You haven’t been touched in months. Haven’t been kissed. Haven’t felt the pressure of someone else’s palm against your skin or the heat of a gaze that wanted this body.

And that’s okay.

Because right now, this moment isn’t for them.

It’s for you.

You look at your stomach- still lean, but no longer hollow. Muscle built up through dedication, not revealed by deprivation. Your shoulders roll back as you shift upright, and your back pulls taut, muscles threading together like ropes under skin.

And then your eyes land on your chest.

Your bra- nothing fancy, just plain cotton- stretches over you in a way it never used to. Full. Rounded. Heavy in a way that’s new. Like your body finally got the message that it’s safe to have things now. That you’re allowed to take up space.

You trail your fingers from your sternum outward. Over the shape of yourself. The dip of your waist. The rise of your hips. The flare and the fullness and the heat pooling under your skin, not from desire- but from recognition.

This is not the body you left America with.

Not the one built for hunger. Not the one that fought, that starved, that was sold in sponsorship dollars and calories just to survive. Not the same one that felt powerless and drowned and vulnerable in pits full of men with egos that outpaced their cars.

This one is yours.

All of it. The strength. The softness. The sex appeal.

And yeah, it’s probably a little vain, the way you pose. The way you tilt your chin and arch your back and stare at your own reflection with a smirk you didn’t know you still had in you. But you don’t care.

You love her.

This new shape. This new presence. This walking, breathing proof that you are here. You deserve this space. You are every inch of who you make yourself to be.

You pull your knees up to your chest, still sitting on the bed, mirror between them, and rest your cheek on your own shoulder, watching the way your arms curve around yourself.

It’s not lost on you how much trauma lived in the old body. In the bones that didn’t bend. In the skin that always felt too tight. In the way people looked at you like a novelty or a threat or a product.

This body isn’t for them.

It’s for you. For who you’re going to be.

And it’s perfect.

Eventually… you move. Not quickly. Not decisively. Just… gradually. Like heat returning to numb limbs. You get up, still in your underwear, and pad barefoot across the cold dorm floor to the narrow wardrobe tucked beside your desk. It’s small, just to hold the things you can’t afford to let wrinkle. You’ve only opened it a handful of times since you got back from Brazil.

The contents aren’t much. A few basics. A pressed pair of jeans with a sharp, precise crease ironed down the front. Slacks. A simple blazer. At the right end, your suit hangs crisp in its plastic wrap, the one you wore to push your contract at Helmut, back when the words “development driver” still felt like something borrowed.

You touch the fabric out of habit. The pants look… impossible. Maybe, if you hold your breath and pray to Sara Blakely and her Spanx gods- oh, and don’t eat all night- but honestly, you’re looking forward to the catering spread. Besides, it’s just the staff party- it’s really not that serious.

You let them hang.

Instead, you let your fingers walk a few hangers to the left. Fingers brush something soft. Velvet. Rich, forgiving, quietly festive. Not ugly sweater festive, but more like ‘yes, we are acknowledging it’s December.’ You pull it forward.

The dress is red. Not race-car red, not attention-demanding. Just… warm. A little saturated. The kind of color that makes your skin look golden and your hair a little darker in contrast. Sleeveless. High-necked. Hits just above the knee. Enough stretch to move with you. To let the body you’ve built exist without apology.

You hold it up to your chest, glance toward the mirror still propped on your bed, and nod once. Quietly. Like you’re letting yourself agree with the version of you that smiled at her own reflection twenty minutes ago. It’s not a statement dress. It’s not supposed to be.

You pull on a pair of black nylons- semi-sheer, a soft little balance between flirtation and formality. The kind you used to wear for media days in junior formula, when you wanted to look polished but not severe. They slide up with the faintest whisper, snug but not constricting. They feel like intention.

Shoes next- your simple black pumps. Not casual, not party heels. Just clean, classic. You slip them on and they still fit the way only leather can- with loyalty. Like no matter how much the rest of you changes, these shoes will still love your feet. That feels like something. A single, stable detail in a body and world that’s otherwise brand new.

You perch on the edge of your desk to do your makeup rather than move the half-clean laundry that lives on your chair. Try not to sit in your compact while you plan your face.

Nothing heavy. Nothing loud. Just light coverage. A little shimmer. A soft sweep of blush across the apples of your cheeks that makes you look sunlit, even under factory-grade fluorescents. You gloss your lips with something pink and sheer, add a touch of mascara. Pretty. Festive. The kind of face that looks like someone you’d want to talk to at a work party without checking a credential first.

Your hair’s a little unruly from lying around until it air-dried, but it still curls easily under your hands. You twist it up in loose, polished sections, pin it in place, and finish it with a narrow ribbon tucked just above the nape of your neck. The bow is barely anything- thin, dainty. Just a little touch.

And when you finally step back from the mirror and take it all in- dress, tights, pumps, makeup, the slight shimmer on your collarbone- you don’t feel like a driver or a ghost or a PR obligation. Not really.

You feel like a girl going to a party at the end of the strangest, most transformative semester of her life. A little out of place. A little nostalgic for something that hasn’t even fully ended. Quietly proud. Quietly melancholy.

You smooth your hands down your dress once, just to feel the fabric hug your ribs. Time to say goodbye- quietly, professionally, beautifully- to the place that made you feel like someone valuable again. Even if they’re already learning how to do without you.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

The party’s better than expected.

Not flashy, not loud- just the hum of conversation, the clink of glasses, the low warmth of staff laughter echoing against the high factory walls. Someone’s strung lights across the ceiling beams, giving everything a soft golden tint. There’s music playing low from the overheads, just enough to keep the room moving. Food’s decent. Little platters of fussy fingerfoods that strike a balance between upscale and approachable. Drinks are free. Everyone’s at that perfect midpoint between polite and tipsy.

You’re leaned against a high table near the edge of the floor, nursing something red and fizzy in a plastic flute. The dress is holding up. The shoes haven’t betrayed you. And you’re laughing- real laughter, open and soft- because Ollie from dev is holding court like his life depends on it.

“I swear to God,” he’s saying, wide-eyed, one hand gesturing wildly, “the second I mentioned it, he looked at me like I’d confessed to a murder.”

Nicole’s giggling politely beside him- dark hair curling over her shoulders, dress tastefully low-cut, clearly groomed and pressed to the nine- and Ollie is doing absolutely nothing to hide the way he’s looking at her.

It’s not subtle.

He is making full, direct, devotional heart eyes every time she opens her mouth. You’re only half listening to the story at this point. Mostly you’re laughing at the sheer audacity of his infatuation. Like he doesn’t even care that you’re standing right here, clocking every stolen glance like it’s your actual job.

Ollie says something else- something about a lost data package and a RedBull fueled all nighter that left him hallucinating on his drive home- and Nicole tilts her head, clearly humoring him.

“That’s… so wild,” she says, all doe-eyed and glittery.

Ollie looks like he’s going to combust. You have to bite your lip to keep from laughing again. You sip your drink instead, cheeks warm. For the first time all day, you feel… present. A little girlish. A little like you belong. And yet, despite the comfort of that- you feel it.

You can feel Jos moving through the room.

It’s not oppressive. Not threatening. He’s not circling like a shark, and you’re not prey. It’s just… something you’re aware of. Like tracking a storm in the distance. You always know where he is.

And honestly?

You’ve resigned yourself to it.

You know he’ll find you eventually. That’s the nature of Jos. He always does. Always appears at the edge of a moment you thought was yours, all gravel-voiced analysis and heavy handshakes and that particular brand of European proximity that makes everything feel more intimate than it should.

And you’re not exactly afraid. You never have been.

If anything- God, you almost missed him.

Jos is a lot. An exhausting amount. But he’s also sharp. Dangerous in the way only brilliant men can be. Talking to him is like fencing with live wire- strategic, quick, crackling. But you’ve never felt like the target. Not really.

You’re not sure what that makes you.

An ally, maybe.

A co-conspirator.

Because Jos doesn’t talk to you like you’re lucky to be here. He talks to you like you’re a weapon. Like you’re leverage he trusts to understand what you’re worth. Like you’re playing a game with him- and unlike with most men in this sport, with Jos, the game doesn’t end with you losing. You think. Probably. So far, at least.

Still, there’s a sliver of something colder beneath it all. A flicker of discomfort you haven’t fully looked at yet. You don’t let yourself think about that too hard. Not here. Not now.

Instead, you set your drink down and laugh again- high and bright, because Ollie has just managed to turn a telemetry error into a flirtation, and Nicole is playing along like she might just let him win. You play with the ribbon in your hair, glance sideways across the room- And, sure enough, Jos is watching. Not close. Not obvious. Just… waiting.

You adjust the strap of your dress, smooth your hands down the velvet one more time. Your glass is nearly empty. Nicole’s laughing again, Ollie’s blushing so hard it’s a health concern, and somewhere across the room, Jos Verstappen is waiting for you.

So you decide- fuck it.

If he’s going to find you anyway- if he’s already watching- you might as well meet him on your terms. Even if those terms are flimsy. Even if they exist mostly as a way to keep your spine straight and your voice level and your heart from pounding through your ribs.

You slip away from the table, leaving Ollie mid-laugh and Nicole mid-smile. Neither of them notices you go.

You push off the table and cross the floor without fanfare. Slow, steady, unbothered. Your heels click softly against the concrete. The lights above throw gold over your shoulders, and you hold your posture just right. Not stiff. Not girlish. Just composed. Whole.

You don’t know what compels you, exactly. It’s not submission. It’s not allegiance. It’s something quieter. Resignation, maybe. Or- God, maybe curiosity. You’ve danced around this enough times to know it’s coming. He’ll find you eventually. Might as well see what happens when you make the first move.

Jos tracks you the whole way. He’ss standing near the back, half-shadowed by a pillar and positioned with surgical precision- close enough to be in the mix, far enough that no one casually wanders into his orbit. He’s talking to someone from powertrains, nodding along like he’s interested, but his eyes flick toward you the moment you cross the floor.

Not obviously. Not openly. Just with the kind of stillness predators have right before they strike. Arms folded. Drink untouched. He shifts his weight once, almost imperceptibly, like he can’t believe his luck but is already plotting how to use it.

You keep your shoulders relaxed. You walk like you have nowhere in particular to be.

Jos smiles when you reach him. It doesn’t quite touch his eyes.His gaze flicks over you once- just once- but it’s loaded. Evaluating. Not lecherous, but not empty either. Like he’s cataloging the value of your appearance for some unseen ledger.

“There she is,” he says, low and pleased. “I was wondering when you’d come say hello.”

You smile. Easy. Controlled. “Thought I’d save the best for last.”

He laughs once, a short sound, dry and amused. “I like the dress.”

You resist the urge to fidget. “Thanks. Needed something that fit.”

Jos’s eyes flash at that- just a brief glint of approval, the kind that makes your skin feel seen in a way that’s not quite comfortable. Not inappropriate. Just intentional.

You sip your drink- what’s left of it- and let a small silence settle between you. The music hums along in the background. Conversation rolls across the room like static. You glance over your shoulder once, scan the space like you’re keeping track of exits. Then turn back.

And with practiced casualness, you say, “You hear about anything running this winter?”

Jos’s attention sharpens, just slightly. Barely a twitch in his jaw. But he clocks it. You keep your eyes on the middle distance and take a sip of your drink- mostly for the pause it offers- and then, casually, like you’re mentioning the weather: “I’ve been a little bored.”

Jos tilts his head. Interested. “Is that so?”

“Just... stir-crazy.” You keep your tone light. Bright. “Haven’t been in a real car since they flew Max in for brake testing.”

He gives nothing away. Just waits.

You glance out over the room like it doesn’t matter, like you’re not carefully placing each word. “I was thinking- if anything came up. A testing slot. A rally drive. Anything like that.” There. Gentle. Palatable. No pressure. Not desperation. Not even an ask, really. Just a statement. A floating suggestion.

Your voice doesn’t shift. Your shoulders stay easy. But your stomach coils tight. Because even now- even with this new body, this new deal, this new version of you- there’s still something about asking that feels like folding. Like peeling open your ribs.

Jos’s mouth twitches. Just the corner. “Hm.” That’s it. Just that. But you know him well enough to catch it. That sound- small, smug, delighted. It’s the sound of a trap closing.

Because you came to him. Because you asked.

No matter how subtle. No matter how casual. You asked. And it thrills him. Because Jos Verstappen lives for this.

He hides it well- he always does- but it’s there. The faint shift of weight toward you. The satisfied tilt of his head. The way his eyes sharpen just slightly, like the game he’s been playing has finally started to swing in his favor.

“You want me to make a call?” he asks, smooth and quiet, like it costs him nothing.

You lift a shoulder. “Only if it’s not a headache.”

He hums, looking away for a moment, already flipping through names, contacts, favors- building the scaffolding in his mind. He lets the silence stretch just long enough to prove he holds the reins. Only then does he speak.

“It wouldn’t be a single-seater,” he says finally. “Rally, most likely. Scandinavia. Snow. Cold. Not much exposure. Barely any pay.”

You don’t hesitate. “Send my paycheck straight back to the team,” you say. “Call it a sponsorship. I don’t care what it is.”

That gets his attention.

Jos studies you, eyes narrowing just slightly. Not with suspicion. With curiosity. Like he’s just thrown a line out, expecting it to hang in the water for a while- and you bit down before it even landed.

It was a test. A measure of your grit. Of your desperation. Of your understanding.

And you passed.

He leans back ever so slightly, nodding once, like he’s filing something away. “That sounds like a good time, does it?” he asks, tone dry but edged with something almost amused.

You hold his gaze. Steady. “Yes. It does.”

Another beat. He looks at you for a moment longer- really looks. Like he’s trying to figure out if you’re naive or ruthless, and whether or not it matters.

Then, almost fondly: “You’re smart to ask.”

There’s no threat in it. But there is a temperature. A charge beneath the compliment. He wants you to know you’ve made the right choice. That you’re wise to seek him out. That there’s more where that came from, if you stay close.

Jos smiles again, all teeth and calculation disguised as generosity. “I’ll be in touch. Keep your gear bag packed.”

And just like that, you’ve traded yourself for a favor. You feel it settle in your ribs. Weightless. But not free. The kind of thing that won’t show up in contracts or inboxes, but that you’ll carry all the same. Jos slips away only a moment later.

One minute he’s promising to make a few calls, and the next he’s clapping someone on the back and gliding into another conversation- like he hadn’t just offered you a taste of something sharp and sweet with a leash hidden inside.

You’re left standing near the perimeter of the room, drink still in hand, blood still humming from the conversation. It's not adrenaline exactly. Not fear. Just the slow, uneasy swell of something that feels like a contract being signed without ink.

You can feel him before you hear him. The shift in temperature. The static at your back. Max. Predictable, honestly. That Jos would drop you off right in his periphery. Fitting, truly. Inevitable.

You don’t see him approach- he moves like a shadow under a locked door. Silent. Sure. Unwanted.

But this time? You’re not caught off guard. You’re not off balance. You’re not scrambling to please, or prove, or endure. You’re tired. Bone-deep tired. The kind of tired that scrapes everything polite out of your chest and leaves nothing behind but sharp teeth and sharper instincts.

And you’re not afraid of him anymore.

Max takes position just behind your left shoulder, close enough that the heat of him skims your skin without touching it. Like a dare. Like he wants you to turn.

You don’t flinch.

You just wait. He wouldn’t have stepped forward if he didn’t have something to say. Fucking say it, Max.

“You really going for the full set, huh?” he says at last, voice low and dry. Venom tucked under every syllable like it’s something elegant. “Sponsorship. Seat. Verstappen family holiday invite.”

You blink once. Slow. Unbothered. “Jesus.”

You turn your head over your shoulder- just enough to catch the line of his mouth, the cut of his eyes. The disdain’s still there, as always, but there’s something else now. Something darker coiled just behind it. “Is this your idea of a Christmas card?” you ask.

He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t have to. The accusation’s already in the air between you. He’s not here to be clever. He’s here to see what you’ll do.

You inhale, sharp and silent. Then pivot on your toe, full-body now, facing him square for the first time. He’s close. Closer than you expected. Closer than anyone should be in a room full of champagne and fairy lights and factory staff pretending they aren’t watching.

You meet him at eye level. No posture. No smile. No spin.

Just you.

“I’m sorry I’m not subtle enough for you,” you say, voice steady. “But some of us don’t have the luxury of pretending we don’t need favors.”

You take a half-step forward. Not aggressive. Not passive. Just enough to reclaim the space he thought he’d filled.

“Look,” you go on, tired and clear and done with it, “I’ve got nothing to sell but my drives and my time. That’s it. So yeah, if Jos wants to hand me a favor, or a drive, or a fucking photo op, I’m going to take it. I’m going to smile, say thank you, and take everything he gives me. Because I’m not in a position to be picky.”

His jaw tightens. Barely. Just enough.

And maybe you should stop there. But you’re so fucking done. With him. With this. With the way he’s hovered all season like a storm cloud and acted like you were the one blocking the sun.

So you don’t stop.

“Seriously,” you add, biting now, “why are you standing here? Why don’t you go find another junior employee to intimidate? Do some scouting for next season. You love that shit.”

Max doesn’t blink. Doesn’t budge.

But his silence isn’t power anymore. Not to you.

In two weeks, you’re out of his factory. Out of his immediate orbit. You’re done tiptoeing through his moods like they’re weather patterns. So you lean in. A breath closer. Just to twist the knife. Just because you can.

“Or maybe,” you murmur, “you want me to yell at you again.” His expression doesn’t change. But his pupils sharpen. You see it. The flash of it. That dark, sick little thing he doesn’t want to name.

You remember it. That day in the boardroom. The way he stood there, watching you unravel like it was art. Practically licking his fucking chops in the blood of a kill. Like he’d finally pulled the right string and the whole thing came tumbling down and God, wasn’t that just so satisfying.

You raise your brows now, almost playful. “Seemed like you loved it.” The air between you tightens.

Not with fear. With something else.

Something heavier. Twisted. Threaded through with adrenaline and ego and the fact that you don’t technically need to be any nicer to him than he deserves anymore- but fuck, you’ll still take the last word.

Your drink sweats in your hand. Somewhere, someone across the room laughs too loud. A champagne cork pops. Max breathes in. Sharp. Controlled. You can see the words on his tongue. You can see the war inside him- the want to snap back. To grab. To tear. But he doesn’t.

He flicks his gaze down your body instead.

Not long. Not crude. Just one slow, scalding drag of assessment. Like he’s not even sure if he’s sizing you up or taking you in. Then he tilts his head. Just a little. Voice flat. “Careful.”

You smile. Not sweet. Not kind. Just knowing. “Or what?” you say, cool and easy. “You’ll call HR? Kick me off the team?” You let the smile grow sharp. “Oh, wait. You can’t. I’m already leaving.”

His eyes narrow- barely. He’s trying so fucking hard not to react. To be cool. Detached. Unbothered. And he almost pulls it off. Almost. Because this? This isn’t a fight.

Not yet. This is play. The sick kind.

Two wild animals circling the same patch of dirt. Teeth bared, tails twitching. Neither of you quite sure if this is about dominance or the last laugh or mutual destruction- but God, don’t you both want to find out.

You take a sip of your drink. Cool and steady.

And Max- quiet, scalding Max- just stands there. Watching.

Your phone vibrates in your clutch.

You wouldn’t normally check it in the middle of a cold war reenactment with Max Verstappen, but almost everyone on your short, carefully curated no-Do-Not-Disturb list is in this room, except your parents and-

You pull it out.

Danny Ricciardo [8:42 PM] bailing on mclaren. headed your way. party still good or should we find a pub? 20 mins out

You blink. And then you smile. It hits like a burst of light- like someone cracked open a window in a room you didn’t know was suffocating you. Danny.

Your maybe-friend. Your only safe person in the entire Red Bull ecosystem. Someone who isn’t looking at you like he’s devastated you’re leaving, or like he’ll forget your name the second the paperwork clears, or like he’s waiting for God to strike you down mid-sentence.

(Max, that last one. That look is all Max.)

You type fast.

You [8:43 PM]still rolling but up to you. everyone here keeps looking at me like a kicked puppy. wouldn’t mind a drink that doesn’t have ‘compote’ or ‘infusion’ in it.

There’s no reply for a minute.

Two.

Five.

Max, then, checks his phone beside you, his thumb hovering just a little too long. You glance at him- because you can’t not- and for the first time, he looks mildly annoyed. That makes you feel excellent. The night does have hope after all. You sip your drink just to keep from smiling.

Your phone buzzes again.

Danny Ricciardo [8:51 PM]let’s go out. I’ll text when I’m close.

You straighten, pulse skipping just once. You’re not going out in this. Not with Danny. Not to a pub. Velvet dress? Ribbon hair? Absolutely not.

You glance at Max, who’s still scrolling, now with an expression like he’s trying to burn holes through his phone. Good. He can stay here with his bad mood and his weird dad. You’ve got plans. “Bye,” you murmur, not bothering to wait for him to look up.

You disappear through the side doors, heels clicking across tile. Up the stairs. Down the dim dorm hallway that’s somehow still home even when it’s already starting to forget you.

Inside your room, you move fast. Dress peeled off in one motion. You keep the nylons- they add a little warmth, and they make you feel like your legs have a little secret armor- and pull on a pair of shredded black jeans. High-rise, frayed knees, familiar as a favorite memory. A memory that is a little tight over the ass, but it’ll do.

A sleeveless top. Tighter. Cropped just enough to make your waist look like something sculpted- enough that it just barely kisses the waistband of your jeans. Black, because of course it is, but with a slight sheen that catches the dorm light.

You let your hair down. Shake it out. Pin the bow back in, low at the base of your skull.

Quick check in the mirror- yeah. That’ll do. Cute. Sharp. A little youthful. A little fuck-you. A little fuck-me.

Exactly right.

You grab your jacket. Lip gloss. Your phone. And when you leave this time, it’s not with a sense of something ending. It’s with a thrill in your chest like maybe- finally- something is about to begin. The all black is fitting- like Danny’s come to save you from your own funeral.

You’re practically skipping by the time you spot the rental SUV idling just past the front doors.

Factory lights still gleam overhead, pooling muted white against the cold pavement. You’re flushed from the party, from the hallway sprint, from the stupid quiet thrill of knowing someone actually wants to see you.

You wave once, already grinning.

Danny rolls the window down, half laughing already. “There she is! Backseat, Hollywood.”

You stop short. “What?”

He grins wider, too casual. “You’ve got the back.”

You blink. There’s a half-second- maybe less- where your brain tries to find a joke there, or context, or anything to make that sentence mean what you want it to mean.

But then you round the side and open the door-

Oh.

Okay.

That’s fine.

This is fine.

Max is in the passenger seat, half-turned toward the window, jacket collar flipped up like he’s shielding himself from the entire world. He doesn’t even look at you. Your brain tries to recalibrate.

Because you’d assumed. Of course you did. Danny texted you. Danny said let’s go out. Danny is your friend. And for a few fragile minutes, you let yourself believe that meant just you and him. That it would be easy. Familiar. Comforting.

And now-

Now you’re crawling into the backseat behind the same man you had a little verbal sparring match with not seven minutes ago. Perfect.

You clamber awkwardly across the console, half-kneeling on the leather, and stretch your arms around Danny in the world’s least ergonomic side hug.

He laughs, warm and immediate. “That’s one way to say hi.”

“You’re lucky I’m flexible,” you mutter, chin nearly in his shoulder.

“You’re lucky you smell good,” he shoots back, arms slipping around your waist just long enough to squeeze.

You pull back, cheeks pink from wind and exertion, and slide fully into the backseat.

Danny eyes you through the rearview mirror. “You look nice.”

You roll your eyes, adjusting your seatbelt. “You say that like you’re surprised.”

“No, I’m saying it like you’re trouble.”

From the front, Max shifts. Says nothing.

You glance at the back of his head. His silence is louder than the engine.

Great.

This is going to be fun.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

You’re practically folded over the center console, laughing about something stupid- Danny said a phrase wrong, or you did, and now the two of you are tangled in some inside joke Max doesn’t understand and doesn’t want to. You’re taking up space like you live there- laughing, leaning in too close to Danny, warm in a way Max hasn’t seen from you in weeks. Maybe ever.

And it’s not just the posture. It’s the presentation.

Your hair spills over your shoulder, catching the light from the streetlamps overhead. Loose. Shiny. Feminine in a way that makes his throat tighten.

Your shirt rides up slightly at the back, just enough to reveal the soft curve of waist where the jeans cling a little too perfectly- black denim, snug in all the places that would make anyone stare, especially now, with your new body- louder, prouder, stronger than the one Max last saw at a weigh-in this summer. Sheer black nylons that aren’t entirely see-through, but just enough to make his eyes linger before he can snap them away.

He doesn’t look. He shouldn’t be looking. He isn’t looking.

But he can’t stop seeing.

He tries not to. Shifts in his seat like that’ll stop his peripheral vision from functioning. Like the heat creeping under his collar isn’t his problem to deal with.

He hates this.

Because it’s not just the way you look- it’s the way Danny’s looking at you. The way you’re looking at Danny. All warm and open and lit up from the inside. Like Danny’s safe. Like he’s yours. Like he’s seen something Max hasn’t.

There’s a ribbon in your hair.

A fucking ribbon.

Tied low, trailing down the back of your neck where your curls fall loose and messy, like you meant for them to look that soft. That touchable. But Max can’t stop looking at it. He hates that bow. He hates what it implies- what it softens. Like you’re approachable. Sweet. Like there’s anything gentle about you.

And he hates that it works.

Danny said it first- you smell good- and Max hasn’t been able to un-smell you since. Now Max can’t stop noticing. Something soft and expensive and a little sweet, something that clings to the heater vents. Wraps around his throat. It’s subtle. Effortless. Exactly the kind of scent that doesn’t try to draw attention but does anyway. Warm. Light. Clean. A little vanilla, maybe. A little powder. Something soft and domestic and utterly disarming, soaking into the the edge of his patience with every breath.

He wants to roll down the fucking window.

You look good. And that should be annoying. Just another fucking thing about you that takes up too much space. But it’s worse than annoying.

He hates all of it. He hates how cute it is. Not loud. Not styled to seduce. Just naturally, infuriatingly attractive. He wants to make Danny turn the car around. Wants to shout something just to ruin the mood you and Danny are building without even trying.

Because it undermines everything. The bow, the perfume, the gloss on your lips- none of it belongs on someone like you. Someone who’s clawed her way into every room, swinging elbows, spitting fire, refusing to take a single inch without drawing blood.

But now you’re in Danny’s car looking like this?

Like a girl?

Because for the first time- the first time- Max doesn’t see you as a rival, or a nuisance, or a pressure point to push until you scream.

For the first time, he sees you as a woman.

And he hates it. Hates that it’s you. That it’s now. That it's happening at all. Because you’re not supposed to be this. You’re supposed to be sharp edges and smug retorts. A storm in a Red Bull polo. Someone to fight with. Someone to prove wrong.

You’re not supposed to be cute.

You’re not supposed to be beautiful.

But you are.

And now you’re glowing in the backseat like some perfect fucking contradiction, all honeyed edges and storm-wrought eyes, and Max-

Max can’t breathe.

Because the same power that makes him want to throw something through a wall every time you talk is the same thing that’s pulling at his nerves right now. That’s twisting under his skin like a wire.

You are so goddamn alive.

Every room you walk into, you change the temperature.

Every time you speak, you rearrange the gravity.

Max clenches his jaw. Because the worst part- the part he can’t admit, even to himself- is that this isn’t new. Not really. That presence you carry, that fire, that thing that pisses him off every time you open your mouth- that’s what this is. You’re a problem. You’ve always been a problem.

And now he’s seeing what that problem looks like in black jeans and soft perfume and a bow tied at the back of your head like a dare. You’re not just a problem. You’re alluring. You’re dangerous. And Max is hating every single fucking second of realizing it.

When the car pulls up in front of the pub, you unclip your seatbelt with a soft click and glance between the two of them.

“I can check it out first,” you say, hand already on the door. “Make sure it’s halfway subtle. Not filled with factory staff or a Max fan club.”

Danny huffs a laugh, but you’re already slipping out- shoulders squared, leather sneakers hitting pavement with that easy, practiced rhythm that says you’ve never once considered asking permission to take up space.

You cross in front of the SUV, slicing clean through the headlights. And for a second- just a second- Max forgets to breathe.The way your hips move. The way the sheen of your tights catches the light through the ripped in the denim at the back of your thigh. The bow bouncing softly behind your hair as you go.

Danny’s eyebrows shoot up.

He’s watching, too. Staring, really. Full tilt. Blatant.

And not in the way Max is- bitter and defensive, trying to smother it before it spreads. Danny’s looking like someone genuinely pleased to see you. Someone who likes watching you walk. Someone who wouldn’t mind seeing you keep going and not come back, just so he has an excuse to follow.

And Max-

Max hates that, too.

You disappear into the pub, shoulders back, posture casual. And the moment the door swings shut behind you, Danny exhales.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “She looks good.”

Max doesn’t respond. Doesn’t look. Tries not to. But he can feel you out there, just like he’s always been able to feel it- occupying more than your share of the air.

Danny exhales through his teeth, a little laugh catching at the end. “She always like that?”

Max flicks his eyes toward him, annoyed already. “Like what?”

Danny shrugs, eyes still tracking the door you just disappeared behind. “You know. All... that.”

Max doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have an answer. He doesn’t know what that even means. The ribbon? The legs? The presence?

Danny glances at him. A little softer now. Still watching the door, but quieter. More careful. “You knew her first, man. What’s her deal?”

There’s a beat of silence.

Max could say a dozen things.

Her deal?

Where would he even start?

He could say you are stubborn. Sharp-tongued. Obsessive. You don’t bend unless something breaks you. You’re exhausting and impressive and sometimes so fucking loud in his head it drowns out everything else.

But the truth is simpler. The truth is worse.

All Max really knows is how much it takes to break you.

That’s it.

How long you can hold your breath in the fire. How much pressure you absorb before something cracks. What your voice sounds like when you’ve been holding back a scream for hours, for weeks. What it’s like to push you into a corner until the only thing left is fight.

It’s not knowledge. It’s pathology.

And it makes him feel a little sick.

He looks away, jaw tight. “I don’t know her.” And it’s the truth, but it doesn’t feel like the right thing to say. Not when Danny’s looking at him like he wants a reason to justify feeling something warm- like he’s hoping Max can explain the thing Danny’s become infatuated with. But Danny doesn’t push. Cuts himself off as your figure comes darting back across the parking lot.

You push open the car door and duck back in, breath puffing in the cold. “It’s decent,” you report, tugging your jacket tighter. “Not a lot of quiet corners, but if we can get y’all to a table fast, there’s a good chance we can get a drink or two in before the whole town realizes Verstappen’s here for pint night.”

Danny snorts and grabs the handle. “Copy that. Deploying cover fire.”

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

The three of you head inside. It’s warm, a little cramped, but charming in that British-pub-on-a-Friday kind of way. Low ceilings, scuffed wood, red walls. A few tables of locals already deep into their second round, but no one looks up long enough to register who just walked in.

You claim a booth near the back- narrow, loud, good enough- and offer to grab the drinks. Danny rattles off his usual, Max mutters his without looking up, and you head to the bar, sharp-heeled and half-smirking as you go.

You come back balancing three pints in your hands, pushing one toward each of them and settling into the seat across from both. Max takes his without thanks. Danny gives you a soft, sideways look that you pretend not to see.

Small talk kicks up, carried mostly by Danny. Easy stuff. You all pretend for ten minutes that the last few months haven’t been a professional and emotional meat grinder. You have problems. Danny has problems. Max has problems. You talk about none of them. Instead, racing gossip. Car updates. A truly unhinged story from Danny about a team principal with food poisoning in Singapore. You didn’t need to know that much about Zak Brown, honestly, but you’re laughing anyways.

And then, half a beer in, Danny leans back. One arm stretched across the booth. His gaze lands on you.

“So.” He takes a slow sip. “Hollywood. You talked to anyone since moving?”

You blink. Oh. “Like… romantically?”

He lifts a shoulder. “Or whatever you call it when it’s mutual.”

You nearly choke on your beer. You cough once, cover your mouth, and wave a hand like it’ll clear the air. “Oh my God.”

Danny laughs immediately. “That bad?”

“That’s hilarious,” you sputter, wiping your mouth. “Genuinely. Peak comedy.”

Max shifts slightly, glass still in his hand but eyes cut sharp across the table. Maybe you shouldn’t talk about your life in front of him, but honestly, there’s nothing to tell. Not really.

You shake your head. “Danny. I live in a dorm room above the factory. Everyone I interact with is either married, under the age of twenty, or- ” you gesture lazily, without even looking- “him.”

Danny turns to glance at Max and immediately huffs a laugh. “Right. Right.”

Max doesn’t blink. Just lifts his beer and takes a long, steady sip.

You lean back in your seat, finally grinning. “Where do you think I’m meeting people? The break room? Am I supposed to flirt with the espresso machine?”

Danny’s shoulders are shaking now, head tilted back in open laughter. “Listen, I don’t know your life.”

“No. But you should. Because it’s deeply, profoundly celibate. Probably for the best. I don’t really plan on doing the whole distance thing.”

Danny’s still grinning when he gestures with the rim of his pint toward you. “Okay. No distance. Fair enough. So, theoretically- if someone not married, not a minor, and not mean,” he says, throwing a glance at Max that’s almost too quick to track, “were to, say… express interest. Someone from F1. That’d be off the table?”

You raise an eyebrow. “From F1?” The suspicion in your voice is thick enough to chew on. Profound. Amused, because this is a joke, clearly.

He shrugs, feigning innocence. “What? We’re not all emotionally stunted.”

You snort. “Okay. Let’s break that down.”

Danny lifts his hands. “I’m just asking questions.”

“Uh-huh. Let’s fuck one of my new coworkers,” you say dryly, “whose dating pool is a puddle. Like, I have seen more water on the floor of my shower.” Danny nearly spits his beer, but you keep going. You’re on one, now.

“Yeah, fantastic idea. Let me join the glorious tradition of passing around the same three girlfriends like a paddock carnival prize. I’ll get murdered in my sleep by a group of jealous ex-WAGs and my tombstone will just say ‘should’ve known better.’”

Danny’s howling now, and even he looks slightly ashamed about how funny he finds it. Max hasn’t said a word, but you can feel it- the bristle, the shift in his posture. That thing he does when he’s trying to stay above it and failing completely. Like he does not want to appear to be enjoying this conversation in any manner, yet can’t quite help it.

And then he speaks. Mistake. “They’re not all like that,” he says, quiet but pointed.

You both turn to look at him. Just one of those slow, synchronized movements that would be funny if it weren’t so precise. Danny raises an eyebrow. “Oh?” You just sip your beer, staring at him over the rim.

Because if Max Verstappen- the reigning king of WAG turnover- is about to defend the honor of the grid, you’re going to need another drink.

And you both wait.

And Max?

He says nothing. Because he can’t. Because his most recent ex was literally the mother of his former teammate’s child. Kelly. Kelly fucking Piquet.

She was with Daniil. Had a baby with him. Then moved on to Max like it was a change in season. And Max, to his credit- or to his utter lack of shame- never said a word. Just took what he wanted, like he always does.

The silence stretches.

Danny takes a sip of his beer. You take another.

And the look you both give him- matching, amused, pointed- is louder than anything either of you could’ve said. Max doesn’t flinch. But the muscle in his jaw ticks.

Yeah. That’s what you thought. Down, boy.

The conversation drifts. Eventually, even Max and Danny start talking- about tire strategy, about something ridiculous Christian said in a meeting last month, about a simulator bug that made the steering rack twitch even under a full shutdown like a haunted marionette. You know the one. You had to unplug the wheel entirely each night just to keep it from scaring the shit out of you after 9 pm.

You half-listen, sipping your beer, watching the crowd thicken near the bar. Observe the slow turn of a face or two across the room- but everyone goes back to their own beers, their own conversations.

You’re part of the table, but not the conversation. Just a warm body holding one corner down. And honestly, it feels kind of nice. To not be the one driving the story. To let your posture soften, to let your brain go quiet for a minute.

Max is talking to Danny now- something about the setup in Brazil and how god-awful the outside line was that weekend. You’re half-listening, enough to track the rise and fall of his voice, the occasional gesture of his hand, but your mind drifts.

Danny is still nodding along. Still laughing in the right places. But you notice it- once, twice, then again.

His eyes keep darting over to you.

The first glance is quick. Curious, even. The second lingers longer. Long enough that you glance up and catch it. He doesn’t look away. By the third time, he’s full-on watching you.

Like you’re the most interesting thing he’s seen in weeks. Like maybe he’s not just being polite anymore.

You glance down at your drink, the rim of your glass smudged with a faint print of gloss, and try not to fidget. It’s not romantic. Not exactly. But it’s focused. Intentional. He’s looking at you like he forgot what Max was even saying.

And Max notices.

You feel it in the fractional pause in his cadence. The way his voice flattens slightly at the edges. His story loses shape. His next sentence tapers off like he’s forgotten the punchline or just doesn’t feel like delivering it anymore.

There’s a lull- brief but open- and Danny jumps on it like he’s been waiting all night for the gap. Turns to you fully.

“You really are fun, you know that?” he says, leaning a little closer, the kind of grin on his face that usually means trouble- but not in a mean way. Somewhere between beer two and beer three, and all of him just buzzing with charm and distraction.

You blink, startled out of your haze, but smile anyway. “I hope so. Would hate to be boring on top of everything else.”

Danny’s smile softens. His voice drops half a register. “No. Not just fun. Like- bright. You glow when you’re around people you like.” That makes you pause. It’s sweet. Really sweet. And unexpected. You’re not exactly sure what to do with it.

Not in a romantic way. Not really. It’s just Danny being Danny- charming, loose around the edges, ADHD running the conversation like a DJ with a broken crossfader. You’ve gathered that he’s always this side of a flirt, especially after a couple drinks. But still, something about the way he says it lands. The way his attention keeps snapping back to you like a rubber band.

You smile, wide and sheepish. “You’re just saying that because I got the drinks,” you tease, nudging his foot under the table.

Danny laughs. “Maybe. But it’s still true.”

Max, across from both of you, exhales like he’s trying not to audibly gag. And then- because he cannot help himself- he drops the hammer. “Right,” Max says, voice flat. “Just wait ‘til you see her lose it in a meeting. Then you’ll really see her glow.”

You blink.

Danny turns.

Max sips his beer, casual. Lethal. “Full meltdown. Everyone stopped talking. I think someone apologized to her, which was insane, because she was the one yelling.”

You can feel the flush rise up your chest like a fuse.

Because how dare he. You stare at him. Stunned. Furious. You can’t even speak yet.

Because he left out everything.

He left out the weeks of poking and prodding. The whispered digs. The anonymous feedback dropped into your reports. The pointed questions in front of senior staff. The deliberate redactions in your sim notes that made you look wrong even when you weren’t.

The mother-fucking-Diet-Coke.

He left out how he made you snap. Just this. This version. You, unhinged. Overreacting. Embarrassing. And now he’s feeding it to Danny like you’re some unhinged liability who just couldn’t keep her pretty little mouth shut in a meeting.

Max takes a slow sip of his beer. God, he looks so fucking pleased with himself.

But then- Danny laughs. Hard.

You blink again, confused.

Danny’s eyebrows go up. “No way. Her? C’mon.”

He looks at you, grinning. “You? You’re the meltdown type?”

Your mouth opens, words fighting their way up your throat, then closes again. Because what are you supposed to say? That it’s true? That you did raise your voice, that you did storm out, that you did send a stack of paperwork flying over the top of Max’s head and let it rain down like confetti?

That Max got what he wanted?

Danny leans back. “Nah. Don’t believe it. Not Hollywood. Not our girl.” He says our girl, like Max might share a claim to any part of you but your absolute contempt.

You glance at Max. He’s still staring into his glass. But his jaw is tight now. Just slightly. Like the moment didn’t go the way he planned. Danny bumps your foot under the table again, teasing. “You’d have to be a menace to get her to snap.”

You lean forward slightly, eyes still locked on Max, voice just loud enough to cut through the hum of the pub.

“Yeah,” you say. “A real fucking menace.”

Max doesn’t flinch. But his next sip of beer is sharp, and silent. But you can’t gloat on it for long, because there’s something about the room, the bar, the energy that’s… changing. You sneak a glance over the boys.

A couple glances from across the pub. Someone nudging someone else. A phone tilted in your direction, not discreetly enough. The laughter from your table a little too loud, your faces a little too familiar.

You’re not famous-famous. Not like them. But you’ve got enough edge now that your name rings a bell. And when you’re sitting across from two men who look very much like Max Verstappen and Daniel Ricciardo on a Friday night, wearing a shirt that fits a little too well and a bow in your hair that people seem to notice more than they should- it adds up.

You clock it before either of them. So you slide your empty glass across the table and say, “Time to go.” No one argues.

Outside, the air is colder than you expect. Your breath fogs. Max shrugs into his coat without a word. Danny smiles, easy and relaxed, spinning his keys once before offering them to you.

“You good to drive? We can get a cab if we need to.”

You nod. “One beer. You guys had, what, two? Three?”

Max grunts. Danny grins, a little shrug, boyish. “I was thirsty.”

You slide into the driver’s seat. Max takes the passenger side without asking, which- yuck. Bad manners. Danny climbs in back. The plan’s simple: drop them off at the hotel. You’ll take Danny’s rental car back to the factory, bring it back to him tomorrow.

Easy.

But when you pull up to the curb, the quiet lingers just a little too long. You put the car in park. Danny leans forward between the seats, voice low and warm.

“You want to come in? Just for a drink. Hotel bar or my room- whatever’s less weird.” You blink. Not thrown off, not uncomfortable- just surprised. Max stiffens beside you. Danny’s smile doesn’t waver. “Just to hang out. You’ve been in factory jail for weeks.”

You glance at him. Then Max. Then back again. “I mean- sure,” you say, casual. “I’ll come in for a little.”

And that’s when Max says it. “I’ll come too.”

You turn.

Danny blinks.

Max’s expression doesn’t change. Still casual. Still detached. “If we’re doing a nightcap. Why not.”

Danny hesitates. Just a beat. “You literally said you were going straight to bed.”

Max shrugs. “Changed my mind.”

You stare at him. “You really don’t have to- ”

Max cuts you off. “I want to.”

And that’s it. Decision made.

You press your lips together, amused despite yourself. Danny sighs, a little dramatic. “Alright. Boys’ night plus you, then.”

You shake your head and kill the engine. “Don’t make me regret this.”

Max’s jaw ticks as he gets out. He’s already regretting all of it. But the idea of Danny and you alone- in a hotel bar with mood lighting, or on a couch, or anywhere near a bed- is worse.

If Danny falls for you, Max won’t survive it. He is not losing custody of his best friend to you.

So tonight?

He’s not letting either of you out of his sight.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

One drink turns into four.

You’re not even sure how. One minute you’re perched on the edge of the couch in Danny’s hotel suite, shoes still on, sipping something floral and deceptively strong. The next, you’re flat on your back on the carpet, legs splayed out under the coffee table, laugh-crying into your forearm.

You can’t breathe. You cannot breathe.

Because Max- Max- is pacing the room, red-faced and animated, shouting over Danny while they argue about whose fault it was that the side of Max’s caravan sheared off halfway through their marketing stunt at the RedBull Ring five years back.

“No, no, no- you hit me!,” Max says, pointing aggressively with his gin and tonic like it's a laser pointer of truth. “You always do this- !”

“I was being cinematic!” Danny yells, already wheezing. “It was for the shot!”

“For the shot?! It was a caravan, not a drone sequence! You tipped my caravan over!”

You’re howling.

There are tears streaming down your face. Your stomach hurts. You’re half convinced you might actually piss yourself on the floor of a Milton Keynes hotel if they keep going. And you don’t know if Max is actually funny or if you’re just drunk enough to believe he is- but either way, this is the funniest thing you’ve heard in weeks.

Maybe ever.

You manage to lift your head just enough to wheeze, “Please stop talking- I can’t breathe- ”

Danny falls off the arm of the couch, landing next to you in a heap. ““I was winning!!” he gasps again, absolutely beside himself.

Max throws his hands in the air, grinning like a lunatic. “You were going to kill us!”,

You’re laughing so hard now that it’s silent- just your mouth open, body shaking, face buried in the hotel carpet.

You should not be this happy. Not here. Not now. Not with them. But God, for the first time in months, the ache behind your ribs isn’t heavy. It’s light. Not this isn’t terrible, not this is actually kind of enjoyable, but genuine, rib cracking fun.

You can’t help but think it again, horrifyingly, as he gears up for another round of arguing with Danny. Max Verstappen- stone-faced, growling, rage-fueled Max Verstappen- might actually be funny. The world is upside-down. And you’re just drunk enough to love it.

At some point following drink four, Danny tries to scoot closer to you on the couch.

It’s not dramatic- just a lean-in, knee bumping yours, shoulder dipping slightly in your direction as he cracks open another story. You don’t really clock it. You’re still laughing, still breathless from whatever Max just said about how fucking terrible the sausages they cooked at the end were.

But Max sees it.

Max clocks it immediately.

And before Danny can even shift his weight again, Max moves- fast and thoughtless, dropping down right between you like he’s claiming a spot that was always his. “I mean, you could taste the propane,” he cuts in, reaching across you both for a half-empty can of tonic. “I think that’s when I realized I am an awful cook.”

Danny blinks. His arm is still outstretched where it was trying to find the back of the couch behind your shoulders.

Now it’s hovering awkwardly in midair behind Max’s neck.

You blink too, a little disoriented, because now Max is suddenly close- like really close- one leg pressed against yours, his shoulder brushing yours every time he gestures. He’s not even looking at you, just ranting about how Danny “none of it was the same after he left,” but the space between you has evaporated.

Danny tries again a few minutes later- after he stands to make another round of drinks, another bout of story-laugh-shouting that has you giggling into your wrist, head thrown back against the couch cushion.

Danny drops on the arm of the couch as he hands you your drink, shifts toward you. Barely. Just trying to close the distance. Maybe bump your shoulder. Maybe nudge his knee next to yours again.

Max leans back.

Elbows wide. Legs spread. Like he’s stretching- only somehow, his stretch ends with his knee fully pressed against yours and his arm slung behind you on the couch. Not quite touching you. But close enough that the heat of him is a presence. Enough to make you stand too, vacate the space Max clearly needed to manspread into, and drop down on the far side of the couch. Max between you and Danny. Again. It’s fine. It’s better even, because you can kick your feet up.

Danny narrows his eyes. Clears his throat. Mate, you are fucking this up for me.

Max doesn’t even glance at him. Doesn’t notice. Or rather, he pretends not to. Just keeps sitting there.

Because as far as he’s concerned, he’s just protecting his friend. That’s all. Keeping things in check. Hogging Danny, maybe, but only because he doesn’t want him tangled up with someone who ruins everything she touches.

That’s the reason.

And it keeps happening. You’ve noticed, even through the gin haze.

Every time Danny leans in- just slightly- Max inserts himself like it’s a sport. When Danny shifts toward you on the couch, Max shifts further. When Danny makes a joke, Max cuts in before you can answer. When Danny starts a story, Max finishes it.

You’ve moved to the armrest. Then the cushion beside it. Then leaned onto the floor with your back to the couch.

Each time, Max finds you.

It’s gotten to the point where you’re halfway through a laugh and suddenly there’s a knee pressed into yours and Max is talking again, louder, sharper- about you, at you, through you.

Like just by existing, you’ve ruined something that was his.

You try to ignore it.

Try to keep drinking. Keep smiling. Talk less, if only it means trying to hang onto the little bit of joy left in the night.

But the last straw comes when Danny tosses an arm across the back of the couch, joking about some fucked up F1-themed wedding he saw on Instagram- complete with matching helmets- and Max just has to cut in.

“Hey, maybe you can sell your wedding to SkySports,” he says, all casual menace. “Or maybe not. Wouldn’t want a public meltdown broadcasted when you go full-bridezilla.”

Your entire body stills, because what normal fucking person would ever say that?

Danny freezes, stares at Max. You stare at Max. Danny stares at Max. You stare at Max. Danny stares like his favorite dog just shit on the floor of the White House. And for a long moment, the room is just… quiet.

Then, you turn your head. Slowly. You speak. Too sweet. “Max?”

He glances over, cocky as hell.

You smile. Bright. Lethal. “I would rather lick the inside of a fucking racing boot than sit next to you for one more minute.”

Danny chokes on his drink. You stand, grab your phone, and type out a rideshare request in record time.

Max shrugs, already halfway smug. “I’m just-.”

You cut whatever bullshit he had loaded up off at the knees. “-you were just shutting the fuck up, thanks.”

You don’t even wait for a reply. Just turn to Danny- softening your expression, letting the warmth return. “Thanks for tonight,” you say, and mean it. “I had fun. I’ll see you around.”

And then you’re gone. Door swinging gently shut behind you.

Danny stares at it. Still holding his lowball glass of ice. Still seated on the couch, still half stuck in the dream where he was supposed to be the one walking you out. Getting a real date set. Maybe a kiss, if he’s being wishful. At the very least, not ending the night like this.

Max exhales. “You’re welcome.”

Danny turns slowly. “Sorry?”

Max shrugs. “You were about to make a mistake. I saved you.”

Danny just stares. “You think she’s a mistake?”

“I know she is.”

“Right.” Danny nods, lets it hang for a moment. “Cool. Cool cool cool.”

Silence.

Max sits back like it’s a game he just won. Like he didn’t just gut the night with a single, well-placed knife between her ribs.

“I liked her,” Danny says, finally. Quiet. Not for sympathy. Just the truth.

Max doesn’t say anything. Because he could see Danny liked you, at least a little. And he did fuck it up. On purpose. He watched Danny lean in- watched him light up like you were something precious- and he couldn’t let it happen.

Not because he wanted you. But because Danny did. And something about that felt too threatening. Too unstable. Too real. So he ruined it.

And he’s still not sorry.

Because in Max’s mind, he didn’t sabotage Danny’s shot with a good thing- he saved him from a bomb that hadn’t gone off yet. He just doesn’t know how to explain that in a way that doesn’t make him sound like the jealous asshole he refuses to believe he is.

So instead, he leans back. Folds his arms. And lets the disappointment settle between them, thin and quiet and heavy as sleep.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

Series Masterlist

A/N: Back from the dead with a 31 pager! Definitely struggling a little bit recently, and I hate that feeling of being 'in debt' to you guys with chapters, so I am going to try to make a push for a few releases this week, don't hate me if it doesn't go accordingly.

On my hands and knees begging for feedback and your commentary on the story as it quite literally is my only mental reward for the hours I am putting in. It makes my little ADHD brain go brrrr

#f1 #max verstappen #max verstappen x reader #f1 x reader #formula one #f1 fanfic #max verstappen x y/n #max verstappen x you #mv1 fic #mv1 x reader #mv33 #mv1 #formula 1 x you #formula 1 x reader #formula 1

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bibli0thecary · 3 months ago

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empty table ౨ৎ

pairing: baker! joel miller x reader

In a world with no outbreak, Joel Miller runs a popular bakery—grumpy, flour-dusted, and way too serious about sourdough. His daughters, Sarah and Ellie, are either helping or causing chaos behind the counter.

Then there’s you—a stressed-out grad student who starts doing your thesis in his cozy café. You only came for the pastries… and the baker.

read more: baker! joller miller series

.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・．

It was a quarter past ten, and the damn bell hadn’t rung.

Not once.

Joel glanced at the door for what had to be the eighth time in three minutes. The usual morning crowd had thinned out, replaced by the quiet lull of late-morning regulars and the hum of the espresso machine. Ellie was arguing with Sarah about putting whipped cream on everything, and the twins working the register were too busy bickering over the playlist to notice how distracted he was.

He wiped his hands on his apron and stared at your usual spot. Still empty.

Again.

“Maybe she’s got class,” Sarah said behind him, unprompted but obviously reading his mind. “Or maybe—just maybe—she realized she can’t finish a thesis on lemon scones alone.”

Joel grunted. “She always comes in on Tuesdays. Same time.”

Ellie grinned like a cat who smelled weakness. “You miss her, big guy?”

He rolled his eyes. “She just... brings in steady business, is all.”

“Oh totally,” Sarah chimed in. “You give all our ‘steady business’ customers free scones and soup when they skip lunch, huh?”

“Didn’t realize lemon scones were a love language,” Ellie added with a snort. “But hey, you do you, Baker Daddy.”

Joel paused mid-reach for the bread knife.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Sorry. Daddy Baker.”

He turned to face them both with his best patented Grumpy Old Man glare, but it only made them laugh harder.

“You’re both insufferable,” he muttered, retreating to the back. Not because he was flustered, no, but because the oven timer was beeping. That’s all.

Definitely not because he kept checking his phone in secret.

By noon, it was starting to gnaw at him.

You hadn’t texted Sarah. You hadn’t messaged Ellie. No little ping from you asking for “your usual table,” or a smiley face followed by Save me a scone before I cry.

You weren’t just a customer anymore. Hadn’t been for a while, if Joel was honest with himself. You were part of the rhythm of his week. The soft-spoken chaos to his gruff order. A quiet corner in his noisy life.

And now, without warning, you were missing.

His hands itched with the need to do something—knead dough, fix something broken, hell, rearrange the spice shelf if it’d shut his brain up. But instead, he found himself cleaning your table even though it was already spotless. Just in case. Just in—

Jingle.

The bell rang.

He looked up so fast he almost dropped the tray of croissants.

But it wasn’t you.

It wasn’t you again an hour later either.

Sarah came up behind him during closing, holding the broom like a staff.

“You know,” she said, not unkindly, “if you’re that worried, you could always text her.”

“I ain’t worried.”

“Right. Just cleaning the same table four times in one day for fun.”

He scowled.

Then sighed.

Then glanced at his phone, thumb hovering.

He wouldn’t text. Not yet. Maybe you just had a long day. Maybe life got in the way.

But if you weren’t back tomorrow…

He was gonna hunt you down with a basket of lemon scones and pretend it was strictly business.

Definitely not because his chest felt too damn quiet without you in it.

────୨ৎ────

taglist: @lcvespedro

#joel miller x reader #joel miller #tlou hbo #tlou

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chogiwow · 4 months ago

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the law of unintended consequences. | jake sim (part three)

→ posits that actions often have unforeseen and unanticipated effects, which may be positive, negative, or neutral, that are not part of the actor's original intent. MASTERLIST | PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4

pairing: astrophysicist jake x assistant reader

genre: co-workers to lovers

wc: part 1 – 20k | part 2 – 17.3k | part 3 - 21.2k

warnings: even more slowburn than before lol, topics of abandonment issues, jake has his first kiss, makeouts, some touching (that's as far as it goes), cheesy ass astronomy rizz :'D

a/n: part 3 is hereee ! and apparently ! there's gonna be one more part :'D bc i can't write for shit w/o making my characters go through emotional hell

seventeen.

life goes on, as is bound to.

you still wake up at six every morning, rushing to get ready because you prefer to dawdle in bed for half an hour before realisation strikes that you’re going to be late again. you still alternate between cereals and toast, a simple breakfast, before you catch the bus to your work.

it's a routine you’ve followed for months now, and you’re finally settling into it.

work still kicks your ass, but you get through it.

somehow, though, something has changed. the night at the observatory had been the catalyst to this.

it’s subtle at first. the way jake acknowledges you more, the way his gaze lingers for just a second longer when you pass by his office. the way his notes keep coming – little comments, little jokes, little facts about the universe that make you pause and smile before you tuck them away in your drawer.

like the slow drift of galaxies, expanding ever so slightly over time – so gradual that no one on earth would ever feel it. the kind of change that isn’t obvious until you stop and measure it, until you realize the stars aren’t where they used to be. that’s what this feels like. that’s what you and jake are becoming.

it’s in the way he lingers by your desk a little longer than necessary after handing you a report.. it’s in the way your name sounds when he says it – less clipped, more like a thought spoken aloud, like he was already in the middle of thinking about you before he even called you.

the universe is always changing, he told you once. expansion isn’t a choice, just a consequence of existence. even if you tried to hold everything still, the shift would happen anyway, quietly, inevitably.

maybe that’s why you don’t fight it. why you let these moments unfold, pretending not to notice the way his shoulder nearly brushes yours when you stand too close at the coffee station. or how his gaze lingers just a second longer when he thinks you’re not looking.

but it’s not just at work.

somewhere along the way, he’s started integrating himself into your routine in ways that don’t feel intentional, yet keep happening anyway.

like how you keep running into him at the coffee machine in the morning, a barely-awake jake muttering something about how caffeine is the only thing keeping him alive, while you groggily nod in agreement. or how, somehow, without ever planning it, you both always seem to leave work around the same time, walking to the bus stop together in companionable silence, the city lights stretching out ahead of you.

and then, there are the lunches.

you don’t know when those became a thing. it started with that one lunch invitation – one that you thought was an exception, a random occurrence. but then it happened again. and again. and now, it’s just… part of the day.

"are we getting lunch?" he asks you casually one afternoon, not even looking up from his screen.

you pause, caught off guard. "uh, i guess?"

he hums, nodding, like that settles it.

and just like that, it’s a thing.

there are conversations, too – ones that go beyond deadlines and reports. ones where you learn that jake likes books about astronomy, not so big on fiction. that he’s been working on a research paper in his free time, though he never lets you see it. that he still thinks about his mother’s cooking when he’s stressed, though he rarely has the time to make anything himself.

and in turn, you tell him things, too. about your family. about how you used to excel in your art classes, how this job had been a way to repay student loans but you were starting to enjoy it. about the little bakery you stop by every friday after work because their pastries remind you of home.

he listens. really listens.

you don’t know when it happens, but one day, you wake up, go about your morning routine, and realize – jake sim is a part of your life now.

and it feels… weirdly normal.

so it's easy to pick up on cues now. it's easy for you to discern the frown on his face when he’s thinking about a complicated calculation or what to eat for lunch.

it started small.

at first, you didn’t even notice the way jake had started paying attention. you were too used to being the one who did the noticing, who made sure he was okay, who subtly adjusted things in his life so that he could function without running himself into the ground.

but then, there was the first time.

it had been one of those days where you just wake up feeling tired, like some age old fatigue settling in your bones. you had been running on four hours of sleep, your brain foggy and sluggish, a dull headache pressing at your temples as you tried to focus on the report in front of you. it was late, and most of the office had emptied out. the soft hum of the fluorescent lights overhead was the only sound accompanying the rapid clicks of your keyboard.

and then, out of nowhere – a cup of tea materialises on your desk.

you blinked at it, then up at jake, who was standing there with his hands shoved into his pockets, his expression unreadable.

“i heard peppermint tea is good for headaches,” he said simply. “figured you could use something.”

you stared at him, trying to process the gesture. jake wasn’t the type to do things like this – at least, not before. he accepted help, sure. he let you fuss over him when he got too caught up in work, too lost in his thoughts to remember to eat or drink water. but this? this was different. besides, how had he even figured out you were coming down with a dull pounding in your head?

still, you took the tea, murmuring a quiet, “thanks,” as you wrapped your hands around the warmth of the cup.

the next time, it was an umbrella.

you had forgotten yours at home on the one day it decided to rain, and just as you were mentally preparing yourself to brave the storm, jake appeared beside you at the entrance, wordlessly opening his umbrella and tilting it over you.

you looked at him, startled.

“what—”

“i’m heading out anyway,” he said, as if that explained everything. “might as well walk you to the station.”

you didn’t argue. you weren’t sure you could, with the way your chest tightened at the thought that he had noticed – had thought about you, even in passing.

then, there were the snacks. the ones you mentioned liking once in a conversation weeks ago, the ones you’d find in the break room with a note in his messy handwriting that read, for when you forget to eat.

the way he started subtly shifting schedules around so that you wouldn’t have to stay too late. the way he made sure your favorite tea was stocked in the kitchen, even though you never asked.

and then, there was today.

you were having one of those days. the ones where everything felt like too much – too loud, too fast, too overwhelming. the emails were piling up, your head was throbbing, and every little thing was grating on your nerves. you just wanted to finish your work and go home.

jake seemed to sense it before you even said anything.

you barely had time to react before he was pulling you away from your desk, leading you toward the quiet sanctuary of the rooftop, devoid of emails, and computer screens and irritating fluorescent lights.

you let yourself be guided, confusion simmering beneath your exhaustion.

“what—”

“you need a break,” he said simply. how the tables had turned.

he wasn’t wrong, but still – you hesitated.

“i have work—”

“it’ll still be there when you get back.”

the words were firm, leaving no room for argument. and maybe that was what finally made you relent, allowing him to tug you into the dimly lit space where the city lights couldn’t reach, where the stars were endless and infinite above you.

for a moment, there was silence.

then—

“you’re always looking after me,” jake said, voice quieter now. “but who looks after you?”

your breath hitched.

the words caught you off guard, unraveling something deep inside you, something you hadn’t even realized you had been holding onto. you never really thought about it – not in those terms. you were fine, you always told yourself. you managed.

but jake… he had noticed.

and when you didn’t answer right away, he exhaled softly.

“i do,” he said, so matter-of-factly it made your chest ache. “i will.”

you turned to look at him then, only to find that he was already watching you. there was something there, something in the way he was looking at you that made it hard to breathe.

and suddenly, you realize it all happening. the dull thudding against your chest, the beginnings of a tremor in your hands, the way your eyes trembled slightly, unsure of what to do, where to look.

the world hadn’t stopped spinning, the weight on your shoulders hadn’t disappeared, but standing here – beneath an endless sky, with jake’s steady gaze holding yours – you felt something shift.

like the earth’s axis tilting ever so slightly, a small, imperceptible change that altered everything in ways no one would notice at first. but given time, given gravity – eventually, everything would feel different.

eighteen.

jake doesn’t consider himself the petty type. he really doesn’t.

but when you stroll into the office that morning, casually greeting jay with an easy, “morning, jay,” followed by a teasing, “you look like you had a long night,” jake feels something inexplicable twist in his chest. it’s not jealousy. no, that would be ridiculous. it’s just… unfair. unjust, even.

because when you turn to him, all he gets is a polite nod and a warm, “morning, dr. sim.”

dr. sim.

why does that sound so… wrong?

he tries to brush it off, truly. it’s just a name, a title, nothing personal. but all throughout the day, it needles at him, distracting him in the worst ways. he hears it every time you approach him, every time you hand him a file, every time you leave a post-it on his desk with a reminder about a report.

dr. sim, dr. sim, dr. sim.

is that really all he is to you?

jay gets to be ‘jay,’ but he’s stuck being ‘dr. sim?’

he doesn't bring it up right away. that would be ridiculous. childish, even. but by the time the workday is winding down and you’re standing at his desk, waiting for him to sign off on something, he can’t hold it in any longer.

jake clicks his pen a little too aggressively as he signs off on the last document, his irritation bubbling just beneath the surface. he shouldn’t care this much. he really shouldn’t. but after hours of hearing “dr. sim” fall so effortlessly from your lips while jay gets the privilege of a casual “jay,” he’s had enough.

“you call jay by his first name,” he says, his voice carefully measured as he hands the file back to you.

you blink, caught off guard by the sudden statement. “uh… yeah?”

“and me?”

you hesitate, brow furrowing slightly. “you’re dr. sim?”

something about his expression makes you pause, studying him a little closer. he’s looking at you with that unreadable intensity again, the one that makes you feel like he’s solving some impossible equation in his head. you tilt your head, suddenly amused.

jake sighs, setting his pen down. “right, of course. but it wasn’t always ‘dr. sim.’”

you tilt your head, clearly not following. “what do you mean?”

he leans back in his chair, studying you. “you used to call me jake.” well, you had just called him that one time.

at that, your brows furrow. “no, i didn’t.”

jake levels you with a look. “yes, you did. once.”

you still look unconvinced, so he elaborates, voice softening ever so slightly. “it was when my mother was in the hospital.”

something flickers across your face, and oh – there it is. recognition.

jake watches as you straighten, lips parting slightly before you quickly school your expression. “i—” you clear your throat, shifting on your feet. “i didn’t mean to. it just slipped.”

jake quirks a brow. “so it was an accident?”

you look distinctly uncomfortable now, gaze darting to the side as you mutter, “i wasn’t really thinking, that’s all.”

because how the hell are you supposed to respond to this anyway? is he confronting you about calling him by his first name that one time or is he trying to…? no, that would be hoping for too much.

jake exhales through his nose, fighting back a smirk. “well,” he says, reaching for his pen again. “think about it.”

you frown. “think about what?”

he signs off on the document with a final flourish before pushing it toward you, meeting your gaze with something unreadable. “calling me jake again.”

your brain short-circuits. completely malfunctions. “what?”

its like you’ve forgotten how to string together sentences, you talk in mono syllables now.

jake shrugs, oh-so casual. “you already did it once.”

“that was—” you huff, flustered beyond belief. “that was different.”

he tilts his head. “how?”

you glare at him. “it just was.”

jake is grinning now, and it’s so unfair how smug he looks. like he’s won something. “alright, if you say so.”

you don’t press him, nor this abrupt demand for calling him by his first name, simply snatch the report off his desk and exit as quickly as you can, willing the flush in your cheeks to calm down. but the thought lingers in your mind the entire day, stretching into the moments that follow.

the thing is, jake isn’t used to wanting things. he’s always been good at compartmentalizing, at focusing on what matters and dismissing everything else as unnecessary distraction. but this – you – are slipping past his carefully drawn boundaries, making space in places he hadn’t thought to guard.

and it’s not just the way you call him dr. sim.

it’s the way your laughter carries through the office, light and infectious, somehow making the fluorescent lights feel less harsh. it’s the way you scribble little doodles on post-its when you leave notes for him, sometimes of constellations, sometimes of a tiny spaceship floating aimlessly in the margins. it’s the way you frown at your computer screen when you’re concentrating too hard, the way you murmur “please cooperate” to the printer like it has any choice in the matter.

he starts noticing things he shouldn’t.

like how your shoulders tense when you’re stressed, and how you always roll them out absentmindedly when you think no one’s watching. how you tap your fingers against your mug while waiting for your coffee to cool. how you always seem to instinctively seek out the quietest corners of a room, as if subconsciously drawn to spaces where you can just breathe.

jake isn’t sure when his awareness of you started tipping into something more. he only knows that once it did, there was no undoing it.

maybe that’s why, when the workday finally winds down and you’re getting ready to leave, he finds himself blurting out, “i’ll give you a ride home.”

you pause, hand frozen over the strap of your bag. “what?”

he clears his throat, suddenly feeling uncharacteristically self-conscious. “you take the bus, right? i can drop you off.”

before you can respond, jay snorts from his desk. “damn. guess my offer to drive you home just got revoked.”

jake shoots him a glare, but jay only grins, visibly enjoying the moment far too much. meanwhile, you shift your attention back to jake, expression unreadable.

“you don’t have to do that,” you say slowly.

“i know.”

you hesitate for another moment before nodding. “alright, dr. sim. if you insist.”

jake stiffens.

you’re teasing him – he can hear it in your tone, see it in the amused glint in your eyes. but still. after everything, ‘dr. sim’ still feels like a wall between you. he opens his mouth, ready to say something, but then you’re already brushing past him, walking toward the exit with an easy, “i’ll meet you outside.”

he exhales, dragging a hand down his face before following you out.

the drive is quiet at first, but not uncomfortably so. the city lights blur past in a steady rhythm, the hum of the engine filling the space between you.

then you shift slightly in your seat, glancing at him. “you really didn’t have to do this, you know.”

jake keeps his eyes on the road. “i know.”

you watch him for a moment before letting out a soft chuckle. “you’re hard to read sometimes.”

that gets his attention. he flicks a glance at you, eyebrow raised. “am i?”

“mhm.” you tilt your head against the window, looking at him out of the corner of your eye. “sometimes i think i’ve got you figured out. and then you do something unexpected.”

jake hums, considering. “like offering you a ride?”

“exactly.” you grin. “it’s very… un-dr. sim-like.”

he exhales sharply through his nose. “right. because i’m just dr. sim to you.”

your grin falters slightly, the teasing air shifting into something quieter. you don’t answer right away, and he doesn’t push. the silence stretches, but it’s not uncomfortable. it just lingers, like something unspoken settling between you.

jake for his part can’t comprehend why he said that. his fingers curl around the steering wheel, an action that doesn’t go unnoticed by you. you try not to blatantly stare at his lean fingers. just the thought makes you want to bang your head against a wall because what the actual fuck?

this was not normal.

then again, nothing about this situation is normal. if someone told you a month ago that you’d be sitting in the jake sim’s car while he drove you home… you would have laughed and commended them on their imagination. but now?

jake tightens his grip on the wheel, jaw clenching slightly. he hates that he’s thinking about this. about you. about the way your voice softened just then, like maybe you were considering something you hadn’t before. and he hates even more that he’s noticing things he shouldn’t – like the way you shift in your seat when you’re deep in thought, or the way your fingers play idly with the zipper of your bag.

it’s distracting.

you, in general, are distracting.

he exhales slowly, forcing his thoughts back to the road. he’s good at controlling his emotions – has spent years perfecting the art of keeping things measured, composed, professional. but there’s something about you that makes it difficult. like you’re slowly dismantling his careful walls without even realizing it.

you shift in your seat, suddenly hyper-aware of how small the space between you feels. the air is charged now, thick with something neither of you are acknowledging outright.

jake swallows. he doesn’t know why he brought it up. maybe because he wants to hear you say his name again. and not just by accident. maybe because he wants to know if it meant anything to you at all. maybe because he’s realizing, with a slow, sinking certainty, that the sound of his own name in your voice did something to him that he can’t quite explain.

you study his profile, the sharp angles of his face softened by the dim glow of the dashboard. there’s something different about him in this moment. something rawer, more unguarded. and for a second, just a second, you wonder what would happen if you said it again. just to see how he would react.

but then you hesitate.

because you know, instinctively, that if you do – if you let yourself cross that line – there will be no going back.

a few minutes later, you break the silence. “wait—”

jake barely has time to register your alarm before you turn to him, laughing in disbelief. “we don’t even live in the same direction, do we?”

jake tightens his grip on the wheel, resisting the urge to groan. because, no, you don’t. and he knew that. he just… he just didn’t think that far ahead.

you laugh again, shaking your head. “you really offered me a ride without knowing where i live?”

“i—” he exhales sharply, gripping the wheel tighter. “i wasn’t thinking.”

“that’s new.” you shoot him a grin, eyes twinkling. “dr. sim, not thinking things through?”

he rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue. there’s no point. he walked himself straight into this one.

eventually, he sighs, fighting the urge to bite his lips because he can feel your stare and it's making him nervous.

“thank you,” you say, “it’s kinda nice to actually sit on my way home.” it's just a joke to you, but this piece of information is new to jake and he’s already filing it away in a cabinet in his mind that he’s subconsciously come to dedicate to you.

jake glances at you, but you’re looking out the window again, city lights reflected in your eyes. and for some reason, his heart does something weird in his chest.

you continue, voice softer this time. “also it’s been a while since i had a quiet drive like this.”

jake doesn’t know what to say to that. so he just focuses on the road, letting the moment settle.

the rest of the drive is quieter, but it’s different this time. less awkward, more… something else. something almost comfortable. like neither of you feel the need to fill the silence.

when he finally pulls up in front of your place, you don’t get out immediately. instead, you linger for a second, fingers tapping against your bag. and you take a shot at whatever this was. at whatever this was about to become. good or bad.

jake doesn’t say anything, doesn’t rush you, just waits. his hands are still on the steering wheel, but his grip is loose now, relaxed.

you take a slow breath. you don’t know why this moment feels important – like stepping over an invisible line you won’t be able to cross back over. but you recognize the weight of it all the same.

you shift slightly in your seat, turn toward him, and say quietly, “thanks for the ride, jake.”

it’s subtle, the way he reacts, but you see it all the same.

his fingers twitch where they rest. his posture stiffens, just slightly, just enough for you to notice. and then there’s his eyes – warm and dark in the dim lighting, holding yours for just a fraction longer than necessary.

it’s a simple thing, calling someone by their name. but with him, it feels like something more. like offering a piece of yourself you didn’t realize you had been keeping at arm’s length. like letting him step just a little closer, even though you don’t know if you’re ready for it.

jake.

the name lingers on your tongue, settles into the space between you. it feels different from dr. sim, feels different from the careful distance you’ve been trying to maintain. more familiar, more intimate. more dangerous.

you should get out of the car. you should say goodnight and go inside before this shifts into something you can’t take back.

but instead, you linger.

jake doesn’t look away. he doesn’t speak, doesn’t break the moment, just lets it settle the way he does with most things – quietly, carefully, like he’s turning it over in his mind before deciding what to do with it.

and you? you sit there, pulse thrumming in your throat, because for the first time in a long time, you realize you want something you shouldn’t.

the problem is, you don’t know if you’re brave enough to take it.

nineteen.

you don’t call him ‘jake’ all that often.

truthfully, he had half expected you to go back to last name basis with him and you had in fact, but jake quickly learned that it was only when you had to be formal. notifying him about kang’s incoming rounds? he’s dr. sim again. the words are professional, as if drawing a clear boundary between the workday and whatever exists outside of it. but then there are moments where the distinction blurs.

the end of a long shift when you linger in the doorway of his office, hesitation evident in the way you shift your weight from one foot to the other. a thoughtful pause before you ask if he’s heading out soon, if maybe you could walk together. and in those moments, he’s jake.

knocking on his door quietly just five minutes before lunch, your head peeking in and your fingers gripping the doorframe, asking him shyly whether you would have lunch together again? he’s jake then. and the way you say it – soft, almost careful – does something to him. it’s the kind of thing he shouldn’t be thinking too hard about, but he does anyway.

because it’s different. there’s a familiarity in it that wasn’t there before. a warmth that seeps in through the cracks of whatever this dynamic is. he tells himself he won’t read into it. he tells himself it’s just a name. and yet, when you brighten slightly at his nod, he wonders if maybe you don’t dislike calling him jake as much as you pretend to.

jake doesn’t think much of it at first.

doesn’t tease you about the way you seem visibly flustered while doing this. doesn’t push you to pick one, rather lets you do what you’re comfortable with. but it lingers in the back of his mind, a quiet thought he doesn’t quite know what to do with. the realization settles in during the most mundane of moments – when he’s typing out a report, when he’s sipping his coffee, when he’s scrolling through his phone. it clicks, all at once, that you only ever call him by his first name in the quieter, more personal moments. not when you’re in a room full of people. not when there’s an audience. just when it’s the two of you, when the words carry a different kind of weight.

he tries hard not to smile like a lunatic at his screen at the realization. he fails miserably.

jake can feel it – a quiet sort of courage, inching its way into his chest. it’s fragile, tentative, and it crumbles a little every time he watches you move through the world so effortlessly. the way you strike up conversation with department assistants, ask the janitor about his daughter, or pass the cleaning lady a cup of coffee like it’s second nature.

you’re effortlessly kind. not in a loud, performative way, but in a way that’s woven into the fabric of who you are. it’s in the way you remember details most people would forget, how you know which of the interns take their coffee black and which ones are too shy to admit they don’t know how to request time off. it’s in the way you say people’s names like they matter, like they’re more than just faces passing through the halls.

and maybe that’s what unnerves him the most.

because up until now, he’s seen you as his assistant. his colleague, even. the one who hands him charts and keeps his schedule in check, who teases him just enough to throw him off balance but never enough to cross a line. it was easy to keep you in that box, to pretend that was all there was to you.

but now – now he sees you as a person. as someone with a world outside of this building, with people who care for you, who look forward to your presence. he sees the way you brighten around others, how effortlessly you slot yourself into people’s lives, and it stirs something deep in his chest.

jake doesn’t know what to do with that.

he should look away, should focus on the notes in front of him, but his gaze lingers a second too long. because when you laugh at something the receptionist says, when your shoulders shake just a little from the force of it, it hits him – really hits him – that he wants to be someone you laugh like that with.

and maybe that scares him more than anything else.

he feels himself wilting at the simple brush of fingers when you hand him a report, an unintentional graze of arms when you lean over to point something out on his screen. but each time, it lingers. not physically – just long enough to be noticeable – but in his mind, it stays.

he tells himself it’s nothing. but then it happens again.

like when you pass him a coffee one morning, your fingertips skimming against his palm. it’s not supposed to mean anything, but his fingers twitch against the warmth of the cup, and when his eyes flicker up to you, you’re already turning away like nothing happened. like your skin hadn’t just burned into his.

or the time he catches you mid-stumble in the hallway, his hand instinctively reaching out to steady you, fingers wrapping lightly around your wrist. it’s brief, over in a second, but he swears he can still feel the warmth of your skin under his fingertips long after he lets go.

and then there are the moments that are quieter, heavier.

the ones where you’re physically not there but he’s thinking about you. he’s thinking about you too much.

when he’s in his bed, his body sinking into his comforter, that’s when you strike. when the absence of conversation makes the memory of your voice louder. he replays moments he shouldn’t, imagines responses he never gave, finds himself staring at the ceiling as if the answer to all of it might be there.

and he doesn’t know what to do, what to feel because he’s never done this before. never let himself sit in the weight of emotions like this, never allowed himself to even consider what it would mean if he did. but it’s getting harder to pretend it’s nothing when you’ve made a home in the corners of his mind, settling into places he hadn’t realized were empty.

he’s unsure of what to feel and how much of it he should feel in the first place. because if he lets himself feel all of it, if he acknowledges that this pull toward you is real, then what happens next? what happens if he admits, even just to himself, that he doesn’t mind being in your orbit at all?

because you’re in his orbit now, and somehow, he’s in yours.

and jake – who has never been good at these things, who doesn’t know how to define whatever this is – finds himself wanting to stay there.

so when you willingly reach out to him to stay a while longer, he doesn’t hesitate.

you don't plan it. really, you don’t.

it’s one of those things that just happens – a fleeting thought that slips past your usual mental filter before you can stop it. and by the time you realize what you’ve done, there’s no taking it back.

jake is beside you in the breakroom counter, pouring himself a cup of coffee. he moves with his usual precision, measured and methodical, the way he does most things. you watch as he tilts the carafe, the dark liquid swirling into his mug, steam curling into the space between you.

you’re not even supposed to be here. you had just come in to grab something quickly, but then jake was there, and then you were making conversation, and then—

“hey, are you doing anything this weekend?”

jake glances at you, his hand still wrapped around the coffee pot. he blinks, as if the question caught him off guard. “uh.” a beat passes. “not really. why?”

you clear your throat, shifting your weight. “there’s a space exhibition at the museum this week. it’s only in town for a little while, and i thought… i don’t know. it might be interesting?”

jake stills.

it’s subtle, but you catch it. the way his grip tightens just slightly around the handle of his mug, the way his eyes search yours as if trying to read into the intent behind your words.

you hold his gaze, waiting for an answer, but the longer the silence stretches, the more you start to regret opening your mouth in the first place. maybe this was stupid. maybe you’re overstepping. maybe he doesn’t actually—

“i’d like that.”

your breath catches. “you would?”

jake nods, setting his coffee down. “yeah.” his voice is quieter now, more certain. “it sounds… nice.”

there’s something about the way he says it that makes your stomach flip. you’re suddenly very aware of how close you are, how the warmth of his presence seems to linger in the space between you.

you offer him a small smile. “cool.”

jake hesitates, then, like he’s considering something. “you really think i wouldn’t be interested in a space exhibition?”

you blink. “i—what?”

“the way you phrased it,” he continues, tilting his head slightly. “like you weren’t sure.”

“well, i mean…” you exhale, suddenly flustered. “of course, i figured you’d be interested. it’s just—”

“just what?”

you hesitate. “i wasn’t sure if you’d want to go with me.”

the words hang in the air between you, weighty and unspoken. for a second, you wonder if you’ve said too much. if you’ve crossed a line you didn’t realize was there.

but then he smiles.

it’s small, barely there, but you catch it. a soft curve at the corner of his lips, something warmer in his eyes. and for some reason, that look alone makes you feel like your heart is about to beat out of your chest.

“saturday?” he asks.

you nod. “saturday.”

he picks up his coffee again, taking a slow sip, and when he lowers it, he’s still looking at you. “what time?”

“um.” you scramble to think. “maybe around six? we could grab something to eat after.”

jake hums, considering. “sounds good.”

and just like that, it’s set.

the realization settles in slowly as you go about your day, replaying the conversation over and over in your head. you asked jake to go somewhere with you. outside of work. on a weekend. and he said yes.

it shouldn’t feel like a big deal, but somehow, it does, because when saturday arrives faster than you expect, you’re all but a bundle of nerves.

neither of you had called it a date per se, but somewhere in the back of your mind, you had been yearning to call it that.

you tell yourself not to overthink it. you tell yourself it’s just two colleagues going to an exhibition together. nothing more, nothing less.

but then jake shows up looking… well. like that. and you weren’t prepared for this.

he’s waiting for you outside the museum when you arrive, dressed in a dark sweater and jeans. it’s a simple look, but somehow, it makes him seem even more put together than usual. he has his hands tucked into his pockets, his gaze sweeping over the entrance before landing on you. he’s changed out of his horn rimmed glasses for a thick black framed one and honestly? it does a number on you.

you’ve always considered him to be attractive, like its a fact at this point, there’s no denying it. but right now, seeing him dressed so casually – a side of him you never could have even imagined – it makes you curl your fingers into a fist, pushing down at whatever churning feeling rises up in your throat straight from the depths of your chest.

jake, for his part, is having a similar moment.

he’s used to seeing you in a professional setting – sharp, polished, always composed. but tonight, under the dim glow of the museum lights, you look different. not in a way that’s unfamiliar, but in a way that makes something in his chest shift uncomfortably.

casual. at ease. like the version of you that exists beyond his orbit. and for some reason, he finds himself wanting to know more about that version.

his gaze lingers a beat longer than it should before he catches himself.

“you made it,” he says, clearing his throat.

you raise an eyebrow. “was there ever any doubt?”

jake huffs a quiet laugh. “no. just making conversation.”

something about that makes you smile. “shall we?”

he nods, and the two of you make your way inside.

the exhibition is stunning.

massive planetary models hang from the ceiling, their surfaces illuminated with soft light. constellation maps line the walls, showcasing the stars in intricate detail. there’s even an interactive section where visitors can simulate what it would be like to walk on different celestial bodies.

jake takes it all in with an expression you rarely see on him – genuine, unguarded wonder.

you watch as he moves from display to display, his gaze lingering on certain exhibits longer than others. every now and then, he murmurs something under his breath, a fact or observation about a particular planet or star system.

there’s a small part of you – an unfamiliar, irrational part – that wants to see him like this more often.

then, at one point, he pauses in front of a model of betelgeuse.

the exhibit is quieter here. the kind of quiet that doesn’t feel empty, just hushed, like stepping into the stillness of space itself.

this part of the museum is quieter, darker. the only illumination comes from the digital projection of the massive star suspended above them, pulsing in slow, rhythmic intervals. every few seconds, a deep red glow spills across the room, washing over their faces, their skin – before retreating into darkness again. it feels like stepping into the void of space itself.

he stops walking without realizing it.

you almost pass him before noticing he’s no longer beside you. when you turn, he’s standing still, hands in his coat pockets, gazing up at the red giant with a look you can’t quite place.

it’s unlike him.

there’s something distant about the way he looks at it, like he’s seeing something beyond the projection itself. the soft flickering light makes the sharp angles of his face seem softer, more open, and for a second, you feel like you’re seeing him – just jake, without the polished professionalism, without the careful restraint.

you hesitate for only a moment before stepping closer.

“you like this one?” your voice is quiet, like speaking any louder would disturb the stillness between you.

jake hums. “betelgeuse is interesting.” his gaze doesn’t leave the star. “it’s one of the largest stars we can see with the naked eye, but it won’t last forever.”

the words linger in the space between you. heavy. measured.

you tilt your head slightly, glancing at him. “what do you mean?”

“it’s nearing the end of its life cycle.”

this time, he does look at you. and for some reason, the moment feels different.

maybe it’s the way the red light reflects in his eyes, making them seem warmer than usual. maybe it’s the way his voice is quieter here, steadier, like he’s sharing something that matters. or maybe it’s just the closeness – how, in this darkened corner of the exhibit, with no one else around, it feels like you and jake exist in your own little pocket of the universe.

“eventually, it’ll go supernova,” he continues. his gaze flickers over your face for a beat too long before shifting back to the dying star above you.

then, softer—“but for now, it’s still shining.”

the words settle over you, quiet and lingering. neither of you move nor speak.

you just stand there, shoulder to shoulder, close enough that the warmth of him is noticeable in the cool air of the museum. close enough that if either of you shifted even slightly, you’d touch.

the projection pulses again, casting your faces in a deep red glow.

jake is half-lit, half-shadowed, the flickering light drawing out the details of his expression – the faint crease in his brow, the careful set of his jaw, the way his lips part slightly like there’s something else he wants to say but doesn’t.

there’s a stillness in the air. a moment where it almost feels like something should be said, but neither of you say anything. like the silence itself is waiting.

the betelgeuse model pulses one last time before dimming again, but even after the light fades, you still feel it.

twenty.

jake doesn’t think much of it at first.

the exhibition had been… nice. more than nice. he had enjoyed it more than he expected – not just because of the displays, but because of you. because of the way your eyes lit up when he talked about the stars, because of how you listened, genuinely listened, not out of politeness but curiosity. because for the first time in a long time, he had allowed himself to just be.

neither of you had called it a date. you’d simply invited him, and he had simply said yes.

that was all. at least, that’s what he thought.

until jay brought it up.

“damn, didn’t think you had it in you, sim.”

jake looks up from his coffee, blinking. “what?”

jay leans back in his chair, grinning. “the whole date thing. i mean, i know you’re not the best at this stuff, but you did good. a museum date? classy.”

jake’s stomach twists in a way he doesn’t fully understand.

he doesn’t answer right away when jay asks how the "date" went. he just takes a sip of his drink, lets the word settle in his mind, like if he doesn’t react to it, it won’t hold any meaning. but it does.

date.

jay had said it so offhandedly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

jake huffs. “it wasn’t a date.”

jay tilts his head, unimpressed. “then what was it?”

jake thinks about it for a second too long, and jay’s lips twitch like he’s already won. but jake refuses to entertain this. instead, he says, “just an exhibition. we were both interested in it, so we went. that’s it.”

jay hums, swirling his beer lazily. “sure.”

jake ignores him. or at least, he tries to. but the thought lingers.

he’s still thinking about it that night, staring at the ceiling, the room dim except for the soft glow of his bedside clock. 2:28 am.

jake sighs. turns over. closes his eyes.

it doesn’t help.

jay’s voice is still in his head. so… how’d the date go?

it hadn’t been a date. that much, he was sure of. but then, what had it been?

he tries to be rational about it. you had been the one to invite him. but it hadn’t been anything extravagant – just an exhibition you thought he’d enjoy. that’s what friends do. that’s what coworkers do.

and yet, jake finds himself ruminating about the evening again. the way you had smiled when you saw him waiting outside the museum, the way your eyes had lingered just a second too long. the way you had listened, really listened, when he talked about the stars, about betelgeuse. the way you had looked at him then, in the dim red glow of the exhibit, like you saw something in him that even he couldn’t quite understand.

his stomach twists. groaning, he presses a hand to his face. this was stupid. he was overthinking it. it’s ridiculous. he’s ridiculous.

because the thing is, he can’t remember the last time he spent time with someone like that – just the two of them, sharing quiet conversations, moving through the space together like it was the most natural thing in the world. and maybe that’s what unsettles him the most. how natural it had felt.

it wasn’t supposed to be like that.

the thought gnaws at him, the edge of something unfamiliar settling deep in his chest.

jake has never been good at this kind of thing – relationships, feelings, whatever this was. he keeps his world structured, predictable. work is work. anything outside of that is just white noise, distant and unimportant. that’s how he’s always operated.

but you? you’re not white noise. you never have been.

jake knows this. knows it in the way his pulse had stuttered – just for a second – when you brushed against him, fingers barely grazing his sleeve. knows it in the way he had caught himself glancing at you, noticing details he shouldn’t. the way your hair caught the faint light of the exhibit. the way your lips had parted slightly when he explained something, as if committing his words to memory.

he groans into his pillow. this was dangerous. he couldn’t – shouldn’t –be thinking like this. shouldn’t be thinking of you well into the depths of the night.

it wasn’t a date. it wasn’t.

jake tells himself that again, but the logic of it is starting to feel shaky, unsteady beneath his feet. because if it wasn’t a date, then why did it feel so different? why did he keep circling back to the way you had lingered at the end of the night, standing just a little too close, hesitating like there was something left unsaid?

and maybe the worst part – the part he’s trying the hardest to ignore – is that some part of him had wanted it to be a date.

the thought startles him. his stomach clenches, his fingers curling into his sheets.

he doesn’t know what to do with that realization. doesn’t even want to acknowledge it fully. because if he does, then what? then everything changes. then he has to start questioning things he’s not ready to question.

so instead, he focuses on the facts.

you had invited him. you had called it an exhibition. you had never said it was a date.

and when jay had said the word, you hadn’t been there to confirm or deny it. so he should leave it at that. let it go. move on.

but he knows himself. he knows this isn’t something that will leave him easily.

and sure as hell, the next morning, it’s still there, lodged in his brain like a splinter. he catches himself watching you more than usual – studying the way you move, the way you talk to others, the way you act around him.

do you see him differently now? have you always?

it takes him another day to gather the nerve to ask.

you’re in the break room when he finally does, stirring sugar into your coffee. he leans against the counter beside you, pretending to be casual.

“so…” he starts, clearing his throat. “the exhibition.”

you glance up. “yeah?”

jake hesitates. “did you… was that—” he stops, exhales through his nose, tries again. “would you have considered that a date?”

something flickers across your face. it’s so quick, so fleeting, he almost misses it. then you let out a small laugh, shaking your head.

“why? would it have mattered?” you say, teasing.

but jake hears it – the way your voice tightens, just a little. the way your grip on your cup tenses before you force yourself to relax.

he swallows. he doesn’t know what he had wanted you to say, but now, with this, he isn’t sure what to do with it.

you don’t give him a chance to figure it out. “don’t overthink it,” you say lightly, nudging his arm as you pass by. “it was just an exhibition, right?”

and well, you try not to overthink it either. in fact you try not to think about it at all. but you still wonder, would it have been that bad had it been a date?

you know you’re expecting too much of course, neither you nor jake had been close enough before this. sure, the month that had led up to this had been eventful, to say the least. but jake had never shown any romantic interest in you. or anyone, for that matter.

from what you knew, jake wasn’t the type to get caught up in things like this. he was meticulous, methodical, everything in his life followed a formula, a pattern. work, research, the occasional gathering he was dragged into. he had routines, predictable rhythms, and you? you weren’t supposed to be part of any of it.

and yet, here you were.

you try to shove the thought away, but it lingers. because despite everything, despite your better judgment, you still wonder.

you replay the moment in your head – the hesitance in jake’s voice, the way he had carefully chosen his words. he had been thinking about it, too. maybe not in the way you wanted, but enough for him to ask. and that alone was dangerous, wasn’t it? the fact that he had considered it at all.

you take a deep breath, willing yourself to stop spiraling. it was just an exhibition. it wasn’t a date. jake had never given you a reason to think otherwise.

but the thing is – you don’t think you would have minded if he had.

the thought sits heavy in your chest as you go about your evening, but you ignore it. you go home. you change into more comfortable clothes. you eat dinner. and then, before you can talk yourself out of it, you text jay.

which is how you end up here – sitting across from him at a bar, nursing a beer, and feeling considerably less fine about everything.

jay watches you, unimpressed. “so let me get this straight – you wanted it to be a date, but when jake asked if it was a date, you said no?”

you groan, knocking back another sip. “it sounds dumb when you say it like that.”

“it is dumb.”

you glare at him. “it’s not that simple, okay? he looked—” you struggle for the right word. “weird. like he was waiting for me to say the wrong thing.”

jay raises an eyebrow. “and you thought the wrong thing was saying yes?”

you sigh, rubbing your forehead. “i don’t know. i just… i didn’t want to make it worse.”

jay studies you for a moment, then shakes his head. “you two are ridiculous.”

you shoot him a glare, but there’s no real bite to it. “it’s not that simple.”

jay scoffs. “no, it actually is. you had the chance to be honest, and you chickened out.”

you open your mouth, then close it. because as much as you hate to admit it – he’s right.

you had wanted it to be a date. and when jake, hesitant and uncertain, had asked if it was one, you had shut him down before he could even decide what he wanted to hear. because the truth? the truth was terrifying.

because if it had been a date, if jake had agreed, if jake had thought of it that way too – then what? what would you have done with that knowledge?

jay raises an eyebrow. “are you afraid jake would treat you different if you had told him it was a date?”

you stare down at your beer. “…i don’t know.”

you feel a bit ridiculous right now. like you were back in college, worrying over your crush noticing you and talking to your girlfriends about it.

jay sighs, shaking his head. “you know, for someone who started this whole thing trying to get jake to notice you, you sure are bad at dealing with him actually noticing you.”

you let out a dry laugh. “yeah, well. i didn’t expect to fall for him in the process.”

jay stills. you blink, realizing what you just said.

and then you exhale, pressing your fingers to your temple. “god.”

“you like him,” he repeats plainly, voice cutting through the noise of the bar.

there’s no teasing lilt, no smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. he’s not mocking you. he’s just stating it like it’s a fact, like it’s something as obvious as the beer bottle in your hand or the way your fingers are tightening around it.

and maybe you should lie. maybe you should deflect, laugh it off, pretend you don’t know what he’s talking about.

but you don’t. because you’re exhausted. because there’s no point in pretending anymore.

“yeah,” you murmur, setting your bottle down. “i do.”

jay doesn’t react right away. he just leans back, tilts his head like he’s trying to piece something together. “and?”

you exhale sharply through your nose, shaking your head. “and what?”

jay gives you a look. “and what are you going to do about it?”

you laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “nothing. what the hell am i supposed to do about it?”

“you spent all that time trying to get him to notice you,” jay says, propping his elbow up on the table. “and now that he has—”

“it’s not like that,” you interrupt, voice tight. “that was just—”

“a way to get under his skin?” jay lifts an eyebrow. “sure. but now?”

you don’t say anything. because now? now it is different.

now, you’re here, drowning in the weight of it, feeling like an idiot because you had let yourself hope. because you had wanted to call it a date. because when you had looked at jake in the dim glow of the exhibit, something had settled in your chest, something real and terrifying, something that had whispered, this is it.

you don’t shy away from it. you don’t deny it. but you also feel like a dumb teen with a crush, stomach twisting with something close to regret. because now that you’ve admitted it to yourself, you can’t take it back. you can’t pretend it was never there.

you look down at your hands, fingers tracing the condensation on your glass. “i don’t know what to do with this.”

jay exhales, leaning back. “you don’t have to do anything right now. but you should stop lying to yourself.”

silence stretches between you. heavy. unspoken. but something has shifted, set in stone.

and it’s not just the realization that you like jake. it’s the fear that it won’t matter.

jay watches you for a moment, then exhales through his nose. “you ever think that maybe… you’ve always liked him?”

your head snaps up. “what?”

he shrugs. “maybe it’s not that jake’s suddenly reciprocating, but that you’ve always had feelings for him, and now that he’s acting different, you’re finally noticing.”

you scoff, rolling your eyes. “bullshit. jake didn’t even want to call it a date.” you tip your bottle toward him, your mouth twisting bitterly. “reciprocate my ass.”

jay leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. “just because he couldn’t call it a date doesn’t mean he didn’t want it to be one.”

you shake your head. “don’t do that. don’t sit here and try to make excuses for him. if he wanted it to be a date, he would have said so. it’s that simple.”

jay is quiet for a long moment. then, softer, “is it?”

you hate the way your throat tightens. the way your chest aches. because you don’t know the answer to that. because part of you knows that jake is different. that maybe it’s not as simple as him just not wanting it.

but that doesn’t change the fact that he didn’t say it. that he hesitated. that he left you to sit with that disappointment, with the weight of knowing you had wanted something more than he did.

so you don’t answer. you just grab your beer and take another drink, staring down at the table like it might give you the clarity you so desperately need.

jay doesn’t push any further. he just sits back, watching you, like he’s waiting for you to come to your own conclusion.

and you do.

the realization settles in your chest, heavy and unyielding.

you have feelings for jake. you have had feelings for jake. and maybe you’ve been trying to ignore them, to mask them as something else, but they’ve been there all along.

and now? now, you don’t know what to do with them.

twenty-one.

what do you do when you have feelings for someone you’ve just realised you’ve had feelings for a long time? what happens when you realise that the crush had secretly migrated into full blow ‘i like this person’ zone?

you do what any rational person would do when faced with undeniable, terrifying feelings for someone you weren’t supposed to fall for.

you avoid him.

it’s not obvious at first – or at least, you hope it isn’t. you still do your job, still interact with him when you have to. but you stop lingering after work. stop waiting by his office door with some offhand excuse just to talk to him. stop initiating conversations that aren’t strictly necessary.

jake notices the shift before he even fully understands it. the way you talk to him, the way you look at him – it’s different. not in a way that anyone else would catch, but jake isn’t anyone else. he’s spent too much time watching, listening, knowing exactly how you move through the world. and right now? you’re moving away from him.

not completely. not obviously. but in the way that matters.

you don’t linger after work anymore. you don’t stop by his office just to make some offhand comment about something completely unrelated to work. you still talk to him, still answer when he calls, but it’s all business now. and it’s throwing him off more than he cares to admit.

he tries not to overthink it. maybe he’s imagining things. maybe this is just how things are supposed to be. but then, he finds himself hesitating before he knocks on your office door one afternoon, a question on the tip of his tongue.

“hey, uh,” he starts, rubbing the back of his neck. “lunch?”

you glance up from your desk, looking at him for a beat too long. and for a second, something flickers across your face – something that makes his stomach twist in a way he doesn’t understand. but then, just as quickly, you smile.

“oh,” you say, then offer him an apologetic smile. “i can’t today. we’re going out for ms. heo’s birthday.”

jake blinks. “ms. heo?”

“from the assistant team,” you explain. “we’re all grabbing lunch together. it’s kind of a thing we do when someone’s got a birthday coming up.”

he doesn’t know why that surprises him. of course you’d have your own circle in the office, people who weren’t just him and jay. but the realization still sits uncomfortably in his chest, like something he should’ve known but never really considered until now.

“oh, right,” he says after a beat. “that makes sense.”

you hesitate for a second, almost like you’re about to say something else, but then you just give him a small wave before turning back to your work.

jake doesn’t go back to his office right away. instead, he watches as you leave with the others, watches the way you laugh at something someone says, watches the way you move so effortlessly in a space that suddenly feels completely separate from him.

and it hits him.

maybe you and him exist in two different worlds. maybe he’s only just now realizing it.

and that should be the end of it. but then, purely by coincidence – because of course, that’s all it is – he ends up at the same restaurant later that afternoon. it has nothing to do with the fact that he had asked you where you would be going. and it has nothing to do with the fact that he had dragged jay there despite the latter’s protests about how he had a report to file urgently.

jake tells himself he’s just here for lunch. that the fact that you’re sitting a few tables away, surrounded by your coworkers, is purely incidental.

jay, however, is not buying it.

“you’re the worst liar i’ve ever met,” he mutters, stabbing at his food with little enthusiasm.

jake doesn’t respond. he keeps his gaze on his own plate, like that might somehow stop his ears from picking up the sound of your laughter, the easy cadence of your voice as you talk to the others.

it’s strange.

he’s so used to seeing you in his space – his office, his schedule, his orbit. but here, surrounded by people who move through the world with you instead of just passing through it, you seem… different. freer, somehow. more yourself in a way that jake isn’t sure he’s ever seen before.

and it unsettles him more than he’d like to admit.

“dude,” jay says suddenly, dragging him out of his thoughts. “are you seriously considering it?”

jake frowns. “considering what?”

but jay just tilts his head in your direction. and that’s when jake realizes – somehow, at some point, he had started to stand up.

his pulse jumps. he hadn’t even thought about it. it had been instinctual, a decision made before his brain had even caught up to it.

he hesitates. this is a bad idea. he knows that. and yet, before he can talk himself out of it, he’s already moving, already making his way to your table.

the chatter quiets as he approaches. a few of your coworkers exchange confused glances, clearly just as thrown off by his presence as he is.

you look up last. your expression is unreadable.

jake clears his throat. “ms. heo.”

she blinks. “uh—yes?”

he exhales. no turning back now. “happy birthday.”

silence. and then,

“oh!” ms. heo recovers quickly, her surprise melting into a polite smile. “thank you, dr. sim!”

jake nods. “enjoy your lunch.”

and with that, he turns and walks off, forcing himself to keep his pace even, his shoulders squared.

by the time he reaches his table, jay is staring at him, looking equal parts entertained and exhausted. jake doesn’t say anything as he picks up his fork. he doesn’t have to.

because now, after everything, after weeks of trying to make sense of this – he finally understands one thing: you aren’t the only one confused.

you on the other hand, are mildly confused. for a moment, nobody says anything and then, it’s like the entire table collectively short-circuits.

“did dr. sim just—?”

“what the hell was that?”

“wait, how did he even know?”

you barely hear them over the sound of your own thoughts, still stuck on the fact that jake – dr. jake sim, notorious for barely remembering his own birthday – had gone out of his way to wish ms. heo a happy one.

you snap out of it when ms. heo turns to you, wide-eyed. “was that because of you?”

“i—” you shake your head, just as baffled. “i have no idea.”

because really, you don’t. sure, jake has always been a little softer than people give him credit for, but this? this was unexpected.

and it was…it was sweet.

maybe too sweet, considering you’ve spent the last few weeks trying to convince yourself that none of this meant anything. that jake only saw you as his assistant, that you had just misread things, that any warmth between you had been incidental at best.

but now, here he is, going out of his way to do something thoughtful – something he had no reason to do.

and it lingers. the way his voice had sounded, a little quieter, like he wasn’t sure how it would land. the way he hadn’t even looked at you, not really, before walking off like he was escaping.

you shake your head, pushing the thought away.

later, when you pass by the dessert counter on the way out, you pause.

jake doesn’t like sweets. you know that. you’ve heard him say it a dozen times before. but when your hand moves before your mind can stop it, when you find yourself paying for an extra slice of the coffee cake, something that’s not too sweet, you tell yourself it’s just a small thing. just a thank you.

nothing more.

you don’t give it to him right away. instead, you leave it on his desk, tucked neatly in a small paper bag, the note attached reading simply:

for the birthday wishes.

and then you go about your day as if you haven’t just done something completely out of character. as if you haven’t just spent far too long deliberating over whether or not to leave the note at all. it’s ridiculous. you don’t even know why you’re making such a big deal out of it. it’s just a piece of cake.

except, when jake finds it, it doesn’t feel like just a piece of cake.

he stares at the bag for a long moment, fingers brushing over the note, the simple handwriting somehow making his chest feel inexplicably tight. he knows exactly who it’s from. knows exactly why you left it. and yet, when he opens it to finds the dessert – something just sweet enough but not overly so – he finds himself hesitating. because it’s from you. and for some reason, that means something.

so he doesn’t hesitate this time before approaching you in the hallway, the small paper bag in one hand, the note pinched between his fingers. you’re balancing a stack of folders, mid-step toward your office, when you hear him clear his throat.

“you didn’t have to do this,” he says after a moment, picking up the note between his fingers. his voice is quiet, almost careful.

you force a shrug, suddenly very interested in the pile of folders in your arms. “it’s just coffee cake. thought you might like it.”

jake studies you for a beat too long, like he’s trying to make sense of something. then, instead of setting the bag aside like you expect him to, he opens it, peeling back the paper to reveal the neatly packed slice inside. the scent of coffee and caramel drifts into the air between you.

you watch as he hesitates, then picks up the small fork tucked beside the container. you don’t think he’s actually going to take a bite – he’s made his distaste for sweets well known – but then, to your complete and utter shock, he does.

he takes a bite before he can overthink it. the taste is rich, the coffee flavor strong, just the way he likes it. and maybe he should’ve expected it, but there’s something about the fact that you remembered, that you even thought to pick something he might like, that makes his stomach twist in ways he doesn’t entirely understand.

he doesn’t say anything right away. just chews thoughtfully, expression unreadable. then, finally, he swallows, clears his throat, and glances at you. “it’s good.”

you blink. “you don’t have to lie.”

“i’m not.” he looks down at the cake, then back at you, almost like he can’t believe it himself. “i actually… like it.”

something strange and warm curls in your chest. you don’t know what to do with it. don’t know what to do with the way he’s looking at you right now – like you’ve somehow caught him off guard, like he doesn’t quite understand how you’ve managed to do that.

you clear your throat, shifting the folders in your arms. “well, good. wouldn’t want it to go to waste.”

jake nods, but he doesn’t look away, doesn’t move to put the fork down. he takes another bite, slower this time, and you realize with a start that he’s enjoying it. not just tolerating it. actually enjoying it.

the thought makes your stomach do something odd.

you take a step back, needing to put some distance between you before you start reading too much into things. “i should—um—i have some things to file. so…”

jake nods again, this time a little more distractedly, his gaze dropping back to the cake. “yeah. sure.”

you turn before he can say anything else, before you can let yourself linger, but as you leave, you hear the quiet scrape of his fork against the container, another bite taken.

the warmth in your chest lingers long after you’re gone.

as for jake, he doesn’t know what to make of it either. not yet. there was the whole 'date' fiasco before all of this.

the cake was a small thing, a simple thank-you, nothing inherently significant. and yet, as he stares down at the empty container on his desk, the lingering taste of coffee and caramel on his tongue, he can’t shake the feeling that it meant something more. that you meant something more by it.

he thinks about the way you looked at him, the way your voice had been just a little uncertain when you’d given it to him. thinks about the way you’ve been lately – present, but distant. still here, still doing your job, but something is different. something’s changed.

and he doesn’t know why it unsettles him so much.

jay finds him like that, still staring at the empty container like it might give him answers.

“dude,” jay says, sliding into the chair across from him, “i thought you didn’t like sweets.”

jake sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “i don’t.”

jay raises an eyebrow. “right. so that’s why you demolished that cake like it personally wronged you?”

jake scowls but doesn’t argue. he can’t. because jay is right, and they both know it.

jay studies him for a long moment, then leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. “you know, for two of the smartest people in this office, you and y/n are really, really dumb.”

jake frowns. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

jay sighs dramatically. “it means you’re both dancing around whatever this is instead of just dealing with it like normal human beings.”

jake stiffens. “there is no ‘this.’”

jay just looks at him, unimpressed. “uh-huh. sure.” he gestures to the empty container. “tell me, would you have eaten that if it came from anyone else?”

jake doesn’t answer, because the truth is, he wouldn’t have. he knows it. jay knows it.

he wants to argue. wants to tell jay he’s wrong. but the truth is, he doesn’t know what to say. because something is changing, shifting, and he’s only just starting to realize it.

and it terrifies him.

because for the first time in a long time, jake thinks he might actually want something more. and he has no idea what to do about it.

twenty-two.

the first sign that something is off is the way jake is gripping his pen.

you notice it immediately when you step into his office, armed with a thick folder of notes for his upcoming conference. usually, he is composed, methodical – his precision extending even to the way he holds a pen, fingers relaxed yet firm.

so when you see him hunched in his office one evening, a week before a big presentation, you can tell he’s stressed. his fingers are flying across his keyboard, typing in equations and theories as fast as he can.

it's one of those conferences where young researchers present their proposals for research. it's something jake has been working on the entire year – even before you came – and it's finally descending on him.

you linger by the doorway for a second, watching him. he hasn’t noticed you yet, too focused on whatever calculations are running wild in his head. his brow is furrowed, his mouth pressed into a thin line. his fingers hover above the keyboard for a second before he exhales sharply, leaning back and rubbing his temples.

he’s exhausted. you can see it in the way his shoulders slump, the way his usually neat hair is mussed, tangled in soft waves, as if he’s been running his fingers through it all day.

“dr. sim?”

his head snaps up at your voice, and for a brief second, something in his eyes flickers – something tense, something uncertain. it’s rare to see him like this, so unguarded, so unlike the astrophysicist who always seems to have the entire universe mapped out in his head.

“what’s wrong?” you ask, stepping closer. “are you nervous?”

jake exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. “no,” he says, too quickly to be believable. then he pauses, scowling slightly before adjusting his glasses. “…maybe.”

your eyebrows shoot up. “maybe?”

he leans back, gaze flickering toward the papers spread across his desk. the conference is in two days – a huge opportunity, one that most scientists dream of. but instead of excitement, there’s only frustration etched into his features. “it doesn’t make sense,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “i’ve presented research before. i’ve written papers, given lectures – none of this is new to me.”

you tilt your head, watching him closely. he’s clearly overthinking this, spiraling in his own thoughts, which is unusual. jake never second-guesses himself. he never doubts.

but this time, something’s different. and for some reason, it bothers you.

enough that you move before you can think, reaching for his wrist. “okay, that’s enough.”

jake stills.

you tug at his hand, pulling him away from the desk. he doesn’t resist, though his expression is a mixture of confusion and intrigue as you guide him to stand up.

“step away,” you say firmly, steering him toward the window. “you’re overthinking.”

jake narrows his eyes. “i don’t—”

“you are.” you cut him off, leveling him with a look. “you’re spiraling, and you don’t even realize it.”

and then he looks at you. properly. he lets his heavy eyes rest on you, tilts his head slightly to match your height.

you’re too aware of him. it’s unbearable.

the way his fingers twitch against the desk, the way his jaw tenses, the way his throat moves when he swallows – you hate that you notice. hate that your body reacts to every little thing, hate that your heart stumbles over itself like some lovesick fool.

but none of that matters right now. because jake is spiraling, and you are the only thing tethering him to solid ground.

so you shove it all down. you tighten your grip on his wrist – not enough to startle him, just enough to be steady. to make sure he feels you there.

“step away,” you say, voice even, controlled. the exact opposite of how you feel inside. “breathe.”

jake exhales sharply, eyes flicking to yours. he hesitates, searching for something in your expression, and for one excruciating moment, you think he might see it – see the way you’re coming undone just being this close to him.

his jaw tenses, and for a second, you think he might argue. but then he lets out a breath, slow and measured, and glances at you. “…what do you suggest, then?”

you hesitate, then steel yourself. “you listen to me.”

his brow raises slightly, but there’s something amused in his gaze now, as if entertained by the fact that you’re taking charge.

you ignore it.

“i know you,” you continue. “i know that you hate failure, that you analyze everything until it’s perfect. but you need to stop treating yourself like an equation to solve, dr. sim. you’re—” you falter slightly, but then push through. “you’re the most brilliant man i’ve ever known.”

silence.

jake blinks at you, clearly caught off guard.

your heart hammers against your ribcage, but you don’t back down. “you don’t need to prove anything,” you say, voice softer this time. “not to anyone.”

for the first time since you entered the office, jake looks genuinely speechless.

you hesitated for only a moment before stepping beside him, reaching out to gently press a hand against his shoulder. the warmth of him seeped through the fabric of his dress shirt, and at last, you felt the smallest shift beneath your palm.

he exhales. “i need to get this right. the entire thesis hinges on this one equation and it’s just – it’s not clicking.”

you bit your lip, watching the tight set of his jaw, the way he pinched the bridge of his nose as though trying to ward off an oncoming headache. you weren’t a scientist, and you certainly weren’t an astrophysicist. there was nothing you could do to help him solve the problem weighing him down. but you could pull him out of his own head – if only for a little while.

so you smiled, aiming for lighthearted. “okay, but have you considered that your brain might just be staging a rebellion? like, maybe it’s on strike until you feed it something that’s not data?”

jake let out a breath that was almost a laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. still, he shook his head, leaning back in his chair. “i appreciate the concern, but i can’t afford to waste time.”

you hummed. “and what if i told you a break isn’t a waste? what if i told you that, statistically speaking, stepping away from a problem can actually improve problem-solving efficiency?”

that did make him look at you. a single brow arched, the faintest glimmer of amusement in his gaze. “that so?”

“yeah.” you nodded solemnly. “saw it in an article once. probably written by someone much smarter than me.”

and just like that, the moment shifted.

the teasing lightness in your voice didn’t quite reach your eyes either, and jake noticed. he always noticed. something flickered across his face – something unreadable, something soft – as he turned slightly to face you. “you say that a lot,” he murmured. “like you don’t think you’re smart.”

you blinked, caught off guard. “i mean… i work with people like you. people who spend their lives studying the universe, making discoveries that change the way we see the world. compared to that, i just… remind you of meetings and make sure you don’t skip meals.”

jake’s brows drew together, his expression darkening slightly. “that’s not—”

but you weren’t done

“jay said you didn’t really see me at first, you know. and i didn’t hate that. i mean, why would you? you’re brilliant, jake. you look at the stars and actually understand them. people like me? we just look up and think they’re pretty.”

silence stretched between you. heavy. uncomfortable. real.

jake stared at you, his lips parted as if he wanted to say something, but nothing came out. you didn’t realize it, but you’d just gutted him. there was something about the way you spoke, the way you brushed it off like it was nothing – as if you genuinely believed your own insignificance. it made something tighten in his chest, something he didn’t know how to name.

you meant more. more than your job. more than your standing in society. and jake – who had spent his entire life grounded in logic, in facts and equations – wanted to tell you that. wanted to tell you that, in this universe, you meant something.

that maybe, to someone, you meant everything.

his throat felt tight. he swallowed, trying to push past it. “that’s not true.”

you looked up at him, caught off guard by the quiet intensity in his voice.

“you’re wrong,” he said, firmer this time. he leaned forward, eyes locked onto yours. “understanding the stars doesn’t make someone brilliant. i spent my whole life looking up, trying to figure out what’s out there, but you see what’s in front of you. you remind people to eat. you remind me to eat. you make sure i don’t get lost in my own head. that’s not nothing, y/n.”

you stared at him, lips parted, words caught somewhere between your mind and your tongue. you weren’t sure what to say, weren’t sure you could say anything at all.

jake wasn’t sure why this mattered so much to him. he wasn’t sure why the thought of you belittling yourself made his chest feel like it was caving in. but as he sat there, watching the way your eyes softened with something uncertain, something almost hopeful, he realized—

he wanted to be someone who saw you. really saw you. and he was starting to hope, achingly, desperately so, that you saw him, too.

“when was the last time you ate?” you say, changing the subject and hoping against hope that your cheeks aren’t as flushed as they feel.

jake glances at his monitor as if the answer might be there. “…lunch?”

“that was six hours ago.”

at that, he sighs and rubs a hand over his face. “yeah. i lost track of time.”

you already figured as much. without another word, you set the small paper bag you brought onto his desk. he looks at it, then at you, puzzled.

“i stopped by that bakery after work,” you say, not quite meeting his eyes. “figured you might need something.”

there’s a pause.

“you went all the way there?” his voice is quiet, almost unreadable.

you shrug. “it’s friday.”

jake doesn’t say anything for a moment, just stares at the bag before carefully pulling it toward him. he opens it, and the scent of fresh pastries immediately fills the space. his shoulders loosen slightly.

“it’s the coffee cake i got you last time, you seemed to like it.” please someone, make the ground crack open and swallow you whole/

“…thanks,” he murmurs. then turns away as if physically trying to shield himself.

you nod, pretending to busy yourself by scanning the contents of his desk. there are notes everywhere, covered in equations and scattered diagrams, a barely-touched cup of coffee off to the side.

“is this for your conference?” you ask, gesturing at the mess.

jake sighs, sitting back in his chair. “yeah. the presentation is next week, and i still need to finalize my model. it’s a mess.”

you glance at the numbers on the screen. “you say that like i can’t already tell.”

he huffs a quiet laugh before rubbing the back of his neck. “it’s just… a lot. i’ve been working on this for months, and if i screw it up now—” he exhales sharply. “i don’t know.”

you watch him for a second, weighing your words. then, without thinking too much about it, you sit on the edge of his desk.

“you won’t screw it up,” you say simply.

jake looks up, surprised. “you sound pretty confident.”

you tilt your head. “because i’ve seen how much you care about this. and i’ve never seen you half-ass anything. so, yeah. i’m confident.”

something shifts in his expression.

it’s subtle, but you catch it – the way his lips part slightly, like he wasn’t expecting that answer. like he wasn’t expecting you to believe in him so easily.

a beat of silence passes. then, his gaze flickers down, like he’s trying to hide something. “you have too much faith in me.”

“maybe,” you say, watching him carefully. “or maybe you just don’t have enough in yourself.”

for a moment, neither of you say anything. the only sound in the room is the faint hum of his monitor and the city buzzing outside the windows.

then, slowly, his fingers tighten around the paper bag in his hands. he nods once – more to himself than to you.

“…i should eat.”

you take that as your cue to leave, pushing off his desk. “yeah. you should.”

you don’t expect him to say anything else, so you’re already halfway out the door when his voice stops you.

“hey.”

you glance back.

jake hesitates for a second before meeting your eyes. there’s something softer there, something unspoken.

“…thanks,” he says again, quieter this time.

you don’t reply, just give him a small nod before slipping out. and as you walk away, you feel it – that shift, that quiet realization.

something between you and jake sim is changing.

and there’s no stopping it now.

it’s a thought jake finds himself pondering upon too, when it's too late and all the lights in the office have gone out except his own and few stragglers, probably pulling all nighters like him.

his eyes hurt, squinting at his screen all day. if you had been here, you would have probably forced him to take some eye drops. it makes him let out a small laugh which dies as soon as it falls off his lips.

since when did he start thinking of what you would have done?

a quiet sigh escapes his lips. honestly he should have seen this coming. but here’s the thing – jake’s not good with feelings. well, he can’t be a judge of that entirely, mostly because he never tried. he’s never dated, never been in a relationship before, never even had a crush. and now that there’s an inkling of those feelings starting to rise up on him, he’s rightly confused.

jake exhales, leaning back in his chair, eyes trained on the ceiling. he should get back to work. he needs to get back to work. but his thoughts keep circling back to you – the way you just knew he hadn’t eaten, the way you told him he wouldn’t screw this up like it was a fact rather than a possibility.

the pastries sit untouched on his desk. he should eat. that’s what you’d tell him. that’s what he had promised you.

so he does.

the first bite is soft, a little too sweet – just like the memories it brings back.

because it’s friday, and you went all the way there, to get him your favorite pastries. it’s like he’s slowly stepping into you orbit, getting a taste of your life. what you like, what you eat…. and he’s never had this before. never had someone think of him like this.

jake sets the pastry down carefully, staring at it like it holds answers to questions he’s too afraid to ask. he can’t be imagining things, right? this feeling creeping up on him – this warmth, this tension that makes his fingers twitch whenever you’re near.

but what is it? what is this?

he scrubs a hand over his face, frustrated. damn it.

he hates not knowing things. he hates uncertainties, hates dealing in emotions when logic has always been his safest place.

so maybe he is overthinking it. maybe this is just you being nice, because that’s who you are. you care about people. this is just who you are.

jake exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. he glances back at his screen, at the blinking cursor waiting for him to continue his work, but his mind is already far, far away.

and then he sees it.

the note is small – just a simple sticky note pressed under the cardboard box, written in your handwriting. the ink is slightly smudged, probably from your fingers. jake stares at it longer than he should. he had almost missed it

“betelgeuse is still shining. you’ll get through it too!”

his stomach does something weird, a strange, unfamiliar pull tightening at his ribs. it’s like…it’s like someone suddenly opened a jar of butterflies within that erupted out all at once.

it shouldn’t be a big deal. it’s just a note. just like the dozens he’s left you over the past few weeks – facts about galaxies, black holes, the andromeda-milky way collision – but this one is different.

because it’s from you. because you thought about him. because you left it for him in return.

because you listened to him. and you remembered.

his grip on the note tightens. damn it.

jake has spent years understanding the mechanics of the universe, memorizing equations that map out the way things move, how things change. but this? this thing blooming in his chest – this warm, unfamiliar ache that lingers long after you’ve left – he has no formula for this.

no equation, no logical explanation.

just the undeniable, inescapable fact that you are getting under his skin. and for some reason, that thought sits uncomfortably in his chest.

for some reason, it feels too familiar.

jake thinks about the way his world has subtly, almost imperceptibly, started revolving around you. how your presence has become a fixed point in his orbit. the quiet check-ins, the shared lunches, the notes, the way you listen when he talks about the universe like you actually care. the way you look at him sometimes, like he’s someone worth looking at.

it was slow. a gradual shift. like a planet caught in a gravitational pull stronger than its own. he hadn’t realized it at first, hadn’t noticed the way he kept looking for you in a room, the way his mood lifted at the sound of your voice, the way he found himself wanting to make you laugh just to hear it again.

but now? now it’s undeniable.

because the second he sees that note, the second he realizes that you left it there because you know him – know how he’d find it interesting, how he’d read it and think of you – something in his chest collapses.

a free fall. a point of no return.

jake grips the note tighter, swallowing against the sudden dryness in his throat.

shit.

twenty-three.

jake doesn’t throw the note away.

he should. he should crumple it up, toss it in the bin, move on like it’s just another piece of paper. but he doesn’t. instead, it sits on his desk, half-hidden under a stack of equations and research notes, but never gone.

and maybe that’s why, over the next few days, something shifts.

it’s subtle at first.

monday, you bring him coffee. not on purpose – not really. you just had an extra one, you said. leftover from a run you made with a coworker. jake takes it without thinking, murmuring a quiet thanks. he doesn’t even realize until later that it’s exactly how he likes it.

wednesday, you’re in the break room at the same time. he doesn’t even mean to say anything, but somehow, you’re talking. about his presentation, about the stress, about how he’s barely sleeping. you listen like it matters. you tell him, very simply, “you’re going to be fine.” and for some reason, it sticks.

friday, you pass by his office when he’s too in his head to notice much of anything – until you pause in the doorway. you don’t step in, don’t linger too long, but your voice is steady when you say, “don’t forget to eat.”

and he doesn’t.

it’s nothing big. nothing dramatic. just… small things. but jake notices them. he notices you. and by friday night, when he finds himself staring at that damn note again, he realizes—

you’ve been there. all week. a quiet presence, slipping into his orbit before he even knew it was happening.

and for the first time, maybe ever, jake doesn’t mind.

scratch that, he stopped minding a long time ago. he stopped minding the day he had snapped at you and you had made yourself sparse to him. your little note had just been a nail in the coffin, the final act before he had fully realised the extent of his feelings.

the problem is, he doesn’t know feelings. he knows of them, but it all circles back to him being abysmally clueless on how this stuff works. does he just tell you? or are you supposed to figure it out by yourself?

jake doesn’t tell you.

not because he doesn’t want to. not because the thought hasn’t crossed his mind a hundred times over the past week, every time he sees you or hears your voice or finds another piece of you lingering in his space. no, he doesn’t tell you because he genuinely has no idea how to.

it’s a frustrating thing, realizing something but having no clear answer for what comes next. he’s spent years solving equations, mapping out trajectories, following strict logic to find the right answer. but this? this isn’t logical. there are no equations for this. no step-by-step process he can follow. no set reaction to plug into a formula that will tell him what to do.

and it’s driving him insane.

by saturday night, he’s overthinking so hard that his brain refuses to function properly, so he does what he always does when he needs a break – he texts jay. which is how he finds himself at a quiet bar, sitting across from his best friend while nursing a whiskey he barely remembers ordering.

jay watches him, unimpressed. "are you going to actually drink that or just stare at it until it evaporates?"

jake huffs but takes a sip. it burns in a way that should ground him, but his mind is still tangled elsewhere. jay catches the way his brows pinch together, the way he keeps fidgeting with the rim of his glass.

he smirks. "so. you wanna tell me why you've been acting weird for the past week?"

"i haven’t been acting weird."

jay raises a brow, unimpressed. “you just spent the last five minutes sighing at your drink like it personally wronged you.”

jake exhales sharply, shaking his head. "it’s nothing. i just... i don't know."

jay leans forward, resting his chin on his palm, clearly entertained. "oh, this is gonna be good. go on.

“jay, it’s just... how do you know when something's different?”

jay blinks. “different how?”

jake exhales. “like… when someone just—” he gestures vaguely. “—gets into your head. but not in a bad way. just – suddenly, they’re there. and you don’t know when it started, but you know it’s not going away anytime soon.”

jay tilts his head, considering him for a long moment. and then, he snorts.

jake glares. “what?”

“nothing. it’s just—” jay shakes his head, amusement flickering across his face. “man, this feels like déjà vu.”

jake frowns. “what does that mean?”

jay only shrugs, but there's something knowing in his gaze. something infuriating. “nothing. just keep going.”

jake scowls but does, running a hand through his hair. “i don’t know, dude. it’s just…you know how you can watch something fall into place in real time? like, it’s not sudden, it’s just a shift, slow and inevitable?”

jay hums. “yeah. i do.”

jake huffs out a humorless laugh. “yeah? and what do you call that?”

jay takes a sip of his drink, eyes glinting over the rim. “you tell me.”

jake doesn’t answer, just frowns at the table, running his thumb over the condensation on his glass. his thoughts have been a mess ever since you left that note – ever since you started feeling less like an anomaly and more like a constant.

and it’s not just the note. it’s the way you notice things, the way you always make sure he eats, the way you listen when he talks about space like it means something to you. it’s the way you looked at him that night in his office, like he was someone worth believing in.

jake shifts uncomfortably, gripping his glass. “i don’t know,” he mutters.

jay sighs. “you do know. you’re just refusing to say it out loud.”

jake looks away. he knows what jay wants him to admit, but there’s something about it – about the weight of acknowledging it – that makes his chest feel tight.

jake exhales, pressing his fingers against his temples. “i just don’t get it,” he mutters.

jay tilts his head. “get what?”

“this,” jake gestures vaguely, frustration bleeding into his voice. “how people do it. the whole – liking someone, being in a relationship, whatever.”

jay watches him for a second, expression unreadable. “you mean… how people fall in love?”

jake tenses. the word feels heavy, pressing against his ribcage like something sharp. “i don’t know if it’s that,” he says, and it’s the truth. “i just – how do people bank on feelings like that? they’re not stable, they change all the time. how do you trust something that’s basically unpredictable?”

jay’s quiet for a long moment. when he finally speaks, his voice is softer, more thoughtful. “not everything is an equation, jake.”

jake exhales sharply. “yeah, i figured that out the hard way.”

jay doesn’t laugh. instead, he studies jake carefully, and then, as if piecing things together, his gaze turns knowing. “this isn’t just about her, is it?”

jake stills. and suddenly, his mother’s voice rings in his head; ‘don’t be like your dad, jake. don’t push people away.’

jake grips his glass tighter. he hates this part – the part where everything circles back to the one thing he never wants to think about.

jay leans forward slightly, like he already knows. like he’s seen this before. “it’s about your dad, isn’t it?”

jake exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “it’s not—” he pauses, jaw tightening. “it’s not about him.”

he clenches his jaw, stares at the table. he knows he should let it go, but the words spill out before he can stop them.

“i just don’t get how people do it,” he mutters, voice lower now. “how they just decide to trust someone. to be with them. like it’s that easy.”

jay hums. “it’s not easy.”

jake looks up, brows furrowing as if begging to understand whatever this was.

jay shrugs, swirling his drink. “it’s not easy. and yeah, sometimes feelings change. sometimes they don’t last. but sometimes, they do.” he pauses, then adds, “sometimes, they’re the only thing that does.”

jake doesn’t say anything, just stares at his drink.

jay exhales. “you ever think maybe that’s the whole point? that people choose to believe in it, even when it’s uncertain?”

jake clenches his jaw. “and what if they’re wrong?”

jay tilts his head. “what if they’re right?”

jay watches him for a long moment, then leans back. “look, man,” he says, more casual now. “you don’t have to have it all figured out. but if you’re waiting for some kind of certainty – some mathematical proof that tells you this is safe – you’re gonna be waiting forever.”

jake doesn’t answer, just stares at his drink.

jay sighs, but there’s no frustration in it this time – just something almost fond. “you like her,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

jake doesn’t answer. he just exhales, jaw clenched, grip tightening around his glass like it’s the only thing tethering him to the present. because if he lets himself think – really think – he’ll have to admit it: that it’s not just about liking you. it’s about what comes after. about how people leave. about how things change. about how he spent years watching his mother hold onto something that was never coming back, watching her tell herself if i try harder, if i love more, he’ll stay – and how none of it had mattered in the end.

because sometimes, love isn’t enough. and jake has never been the kind of person to bet on something that fragile.

jay watches him, expression unreadable. he’s quiet for a moment, letting the weight of jake’s silence settle between them. then, with a sigh, he leans forward, resting his forearms on the table.

“you know,” jay starts, voice even, “for a guy who spends all his time solving impossible problems, you sure make this one more complicated than it needs to be.”

jake huffs out something that might be a laugh, but it’s humorless, empty. “that’s the thing, jay,” he mutters. “this is impossible.”

jay raises a brow. “how do you figure?”

jake shakes his head, staring at the amber liquid in his glass. “because—” he stops, jaw working, frustration curling in his throat. “because she’s her,” he finally says, like that alone should explain everything. “and i’m me.”

jay just blinks. “wow. that sure cleared things up.”

jake exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “she’s… she’s good, jay. she believes in things. in people. she thinks the best of them, even when they don’t deserve it.” his voice dips lower, almost bitter. “even when i don’t deserve it.”

jay doesn’t respond immediately, just watches him, waiting.

jake exhales, shakes his head. “and she’s smart – god, she’s so smart. not just in the way i am, not just formulas and logic and equations. she understands people. she sees them.” he huffs out a humorless laugh. “she listens to me talk about space like it’s the most interesting thing in the world, like any of it matters, and i know that she sees something in me that i don’t. that maybe no one else does.”

jay tilts his head, watching him carefully. “and that scares you?”

jake scoffs, but it’s too sharp, too forced. “of course it scares me.” he clenches his jaw. “because what if she’s wrong?”

jay sighs. “let me get this straight,” he says, slow and deliberate. “you’re saying she sees something in you that no one else does, that she thinks you’re worth believing in—" he lifts a brow. “and that’s the problem?”

jake clenches his fists. “she called me brilliant.” his voice is quiet, almost small. “the most brilliant man she’s ever known.” he swallows hard. “she believes in me.”

jay tilts his head. “and?”

jake exhales, voice hollow. “and i don’t.”

jay stills.

for once, he doesn’t have a quick remark, doesn’t shoot back with a knowing smirk or a snarky comment. he just looks at jake, really looks at him, and it makes something in jake’s chest tighten, makes him want to take it all back before jay can say anything.

but jay just exhales. “okay,” he says after a beat. “say you’re right.”

jake blinks. “what?”

“say you’re right,” jay repeats, shrugging. “say she does see something in you that you don’t. say she thinks you’re brilliant, that she believes in you when you don’t believe in yourself.” he lifts his brows. “what then?”

jake doesn’t know how to answer that. he doesn’t even know why the question makes his stomach twist.

jay leans forward, eyes sharp. “are you saying she’s wrong?”

jake presses his lips together.

“because if you are,” jay continues, “then you’re saying she’s not as smart as you think she is. you’re saying she doesn’t know you at all.” he pauses, lets it sit. “but we both know that’s not true.”

jake swallows. he hates this. hates how easily jay gets under his skin, how he takes things jake can’t even put into words and lays them out in front of him, undeniable.

jay watches him for a long moment. “you know what i think?” he says finally. “i think you’re so used to proving yourself with numbers and theories and things that make sense, that you don’t know what to do when someone just… believes in you. no proof, no equations. just you.”

jake tenses. he hates how much that makes sense.

jay shakes his head, softer now. “and i think that scares the hell out of you.”

jake exhales sharply, staring at the table. “you make it sound so simple.”

jay snorts. “oh, it’s not. it’s the farthest thing from simple. but that’s the thing, jake.” he leans back. “people don’t believe in you because it’s logical. they don’t care about how many degrees you have, or how many papers you’ve published, or how many theories you can prove.” he tilts his head. “she doesn’t believe in you because of those things. she believes in you, period.”

jake clenches his jaw, the weight of it all pressing into him, heavier than he knows what to do with.

jay watches him for a long moment before sighing. “you really think she’d waste her time on someone who wasn’t worth it?”

jake flinches.

jay shakes his head. “then maybe the real question is—" his voice dips, steady, almost quiet. "why don’t you?"

and that is the one question jake doesn’t have an answer for.

jake grips his glass tighter. the ice has melted now, whiskey diluted and forgotten. but he’s not really looking at it. he’s looking at nothing, eyes unfocused, as jay’s words echo in his head, looping over and over until they settle like lead in his stomach.

maybe he does have an answer.

but if he admits the truth – if he lets himself acknowledge that he’s the only one standing in his own way – then he has to face everything else, too. the quiet belief that he’s not enough. that no matter how much he wants you, how much you linger in his mind, it doesn’t change the fact that you are you and he is him. that you are warm and bright and brilliant, and he is… jake. just jake.

a man who is scared to believe in something good because he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to hold onto it.

the thought weighs heavy, pressing down on his ribs, and before he can second-guess himself, before he can think at all, he’s pulling out his phone.

jake barely registers jay muttering something about needing to use the bathroom. the moment he’s gone, the absence is almost too much. like his thoughts, which had been held back by the steady presence of his best friend, finally push through the floodgates, drowning him whole.

your phone buzzes against your nightstand, the unexpected call lighting up your screen. you blink at the name flashing across it.

dr. jake sim.

your stomach flips. jake never calls. he barely texts. if he needs something, he emails. the fact that he’s calling you – past midnight, no less – has you scrambling to answer, pressing the phone to your ear.

“hello? dr. sim”

there’s silence, then a low exhale. and then—

“why do you call me that?”

his voice is gruff, lower than usual, edged with something unreadable. you frown, shifting upright in bed. “call you what?”

“dr. sim,” he mutters, as if the words themselves irritate him. “told you to call me jake.”

his voice is rough – low and gruff in a way that sends a shiver down your spine. but it’s not the usual sharp-edged jake you’re used to. it’s looser, unguarded. and… is that the faintest hint of a slur in his words?

you blink. he sounds… off. not angry, not exactly, but different. looser. and that’s when it clicks.

"wait – are you drunk?"

a heavy sigh, followed by the sound of something shuffling in the background. "m’not drunk. just – thinking. about space. about the way everything moves, how nothing stays still. it’s all just—" he exhales, long and slow. "cosmic entropy."

you blink. "...what."

"everything’s always changing," he murmurs, voice dipping lower. "expanding, shifting, breaking apart. that’s the nature of the universe. you can’t stop it. can’t predict it. and yet… people still try. they believe in things staying the same, believe in things lasting." he scoffs, the sound almost bitter. "how do they do that?"

you sit up a little straighter, heart hammering. he’s never called you before. he barely even texts. and now he’s on the phone with you, drunk, rambling about entropy and permanence and—

"jake," you start carefully, "where are you?"

"bar." a pause. "jay’s in the washroom."

of course he is. you press a hand to your forehead, trying to steady yourself. "okay. do you need me to—"

"i just don’t get it," he interrupts, voice dropping into something almost too quiet, too raw. "how can people trust something so uncertain? how do they just… believe?"

your throat tightens. you don’t know what to say to that, don’t know how to answer a question that sounds so much bigger than just theoretical physics. so instead, you latch onto the one thing you do know.

"jake," you say again, softer this time. "do you want me to come get you?"

he doesn’t respond right away. and for a moment, you think maybe he’s drifted off, lost in whatever spiral of thoughts led him here in the first place.

"no," he says, quiet but firm. "just… stay on the phone. just for a bit."

your breath catches. but you don’t hang up. instead you stare at your phone, half expecting the call to drop any second, but it doesn’t. instead, jake keeps talking, voice low and gruff, words a little slurred but still oddly deliberate.

“i mean it,” he says, like it’s the most important thing in the world. “i told you to call me jake.”

you blink. “you’re literally drunk right now.”

“so?” he huffs, and you can hear the faint clink of ice in his glass, like he’s still holding his drink. “that doesn’t change anything.”

you pinch the bridge of your nose, torn between frustration and the undeniable amusement bubbling in your chest. you have no idea how you ended up here – half-asleep in your pajamas, curled up on your couch, listening to your boss slash co-worker slash not-so-secret-crush spiral into some kind of drunken existential crisis.

“this is so weird,” you mutter to yourself.

“what’s weird?”

“this. this whole situation – you calling me. you never call me.”

there’s a pause on the other end, just long enough for you to wonder if you said something wrong. then—

“you never call me either.”

that throws you off. you shift on the couch, pressing the phone closer to your ear. “i—well, yeah, because…you’re you.”

jake exhales, slow and deliberate. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

you open your mouth, then close it again, realizing you don’t actually have a proper answer. because what are you supposed to say? that he intimidates you? that half the time, you don’t even know where you stand with him? that despite all that, he somehow manages to take up space in your mind like he’s carved out a permanent place there?

instead, you say, “you just – don’t seem like the type to want people calling you all the time.”

another pause. then, softer this time, “maybe i wouldn’t mind if it was you.”

your breath catches in your throat. your brain stalls completely. and jake – oblivious, drunk, or just too far gone to care – keeps talking.

“you ever think about the cosmos?” he murmurs. “like, really think about it? how we’re just – these tiny, insignificant specs in a universe that doesn’t even know we exist?”

you stare at the ceiling, trying to steady your pulse. “that’s…a little depressing.”

“nah,” jake hums. “it’s kinda beautiful, isn’t it? the fact that we’re here at all. that somehow, out of all the possible outcomes, we exist at the same time, in the same place.”

you swallow. something about the way he says it – low, thoughtful, like he’s on the verge of some grand realization – makes your chest feel tight.

“…jake,” you start, but before you can say anything else, there’s some muffled noise on his end, followed by a familiar voice groaning something that sounds like, “oh my god.”

you recognize it instantly. “jay?”

“yeah, it’s me,” jay sighs. “please tell me he’s not talking your ear off about space.”

you glance at the clock. “he might have been.”

jay groans again. “of course he was.” then, directing his attention away from the phone, “dude, i leave for two seconds and you’re out here drunk dialing her?”

jake mumbles something in response, but it’s too quiet for you to make out. jay sighs again, more exasperated this time. “alright, i’m cutting him off. sorry for…whatever this was.”

you can’t help but laugh. “it’s fine. take care of him.”

“oh, don’t worry. he’s not living this down.”

you hear a faint protest from jake, but the call cuts off before you can catch what he says. you stare at your phone for a moment, heart still racing, brain still scrambling to process everything that just happened.

jake had called you. drunk. talking about the cosmos. and…maybe i wouldn’t mind if it was you.

you drop your phone onto your lap, pressing your face into your hands.

yeah. you were so not getting any sleep tonight.

twenty-four.

jake wakes up to the worst headache of his life. his skull feels like it’s been cracked open and stuffed with static, his mouth is drier than the sahara, and worst of all – there’s a deep, bone-chilling sense of dread sitting heavy in his chest.

he groans, shifting onto his back, trying to force his brain to function past the pain. the details of last night are foggy, blurred at the edges like a half-remembered dream.

he remembers the bar. he remembers jay. he remembers whiskey.

and then his eyes snap open. oh, no.

he remembers a phone call. he remembers your voice.

“shit,” he rasps.

from somewhere in the room, jay makes a noise – amused, awake, too awake for this hour. “good morning to you too, casanova.”

jake groans again, draping an arm over his eyes. “what did i do?”

jay doesn’t answer immediately, which is bad. jay loves rubbing things in his face, so if he’s holding back, it means he’s screwed. really fucking screwed.

jake forces himself up, barely able to sit without his head spinning. “jay,” he says, voice rough. “what did i do?”

jay is grinning. he’s too pleased, sipping his coffee like he’s been waiting for this exact moment. “dunno, man,” he says, tilting his head. “why don’t you tell me?”

jake stares at him. then, cautiously, he checks his phone.

the call log is there. 13 minutes. what the fuck did he say…

he exhales sharply, gripping his phone tighter. “okay. so, i called her. what did i say?”

jay just shrugs, far too casual. “wouldn’t you like to know?”

jake nearly lunges across his bed. it does not help that the twenty four hours of agony that follow are pure, undiluted hell.

jake spends all of sunday trying to recall details from the call. some parts come back in flashes – something about the cosmos, something about his name. something about… maybe i wouldn’t mind if it was you...

which – yeah, that part alone is enough to make him consider moving to another continent. because what the hell was he thinking? he’s not the kind of guy to get drunk and call someone? especially not someone he likes. or maybe he is, since he’s never liked anyone before you.

by sunday evening, jake is halfway convinced he’s destroyed the only real connection he’s ever had that wasn’t based on logic or academia.

he doesn’t go outside. doesn’t even open his blinds. the sunlight feels too loud.

every time he remembers a new detail from the call – your voice when you answered, the soft laugh in the background, the way he apparently said your name like it was a lifeline – he sinks deeper into his mattress and contemplates erasing himself from the space-time continuum.

he googles how to fake your own death in the 21st century and immediately regrets it.

he briefly considers texting you. something casual. maybe: hey. sorry if i was weird last night. or just. weird in general.

he doesn’t send it. instead, he stares at the open and empty text box for ten whole minutes before deleting it and throwing his phone across the room like it’s personally responsible for ruining his life.

by monday morning, he’s more nauseous than he’s ever been in his life – part embarrassed, part anxiety, all nerves. he stares at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, wondering if he looks as terrible as he feels. (he does.)

jake is running on approximately two hours of sleep, three cups of coffee, and the sheer willpower not to combust.

he makes it through the front doors of the lab with his head down, his headphones in, and his hope clinging to the desperate idea that maybe, by his sheer will of manifestation – you’re running late today.

you are not. because of course you’re not. you're always on time. of course.

you’re halfway down the hallway, looking just as composed and steady as always, clipboard in hand, hair pulled back in that way that should not make his heart stutter but absolutely does.

jake stops walking. like, fully halts.

you look up just then – because the universe has no chill – and your eyes meet his.

it’s maybe a second. maybe less. but it’s enough. because jake short-circuits.

he forgets how to move, how to blink, how to breathe. you don’t smile, but your expression softens, and it’s so much worse. because there’s something unreadable in your gaze. something curious. something almost fond.

jake panics. he looks away so fast it should cause whiplash and fumbles with his keycard like it personally offended him.

you don’t say anything. you just keep walking.

and jake? jake shuffles sideways like he’s trying to blend into the drywall. his fingers tremble as he finally swipes in, and the second he’s inside his lab, he shuts the door and leans against it like he just outran a tsunami.

from the other side of the hallway, your heart is beating somewhere near your ears. because what the hell just happened?

jake looked like he saw a ghost. or like he was the ghost. and you? you weren’t even trying to be weird, you just looked at him. like a normal person. and he—

you squeeze your eyes shut, gripping your clipboard tighter, silently begging the floor to open up and swallow you whole. because yes, jake is usually awkward, but he’s never… nervous.

not like that. not like he’s the one with a crush now.

jake lasts approximately three minutes in the lab before he realizes he’s going to have a full-blown meltdown.

because all he can think about is your face when your eyes met his. not shocked. not annoyed. just… soft. warm. the kind of look he’s only seen you give the stars when you’re studying the simulation or looking at the readings he forgot to be proud of until you pointed them out. it’s the kind of look that ruins him.

his brain is running a mile a minute, trying to reconstruct the pieces of last night’s call. he knows he said too much. knows he was rambling. he remembers – faintly – your voice saying “dr. sim,” and how that had cut through the haze in his head like lightning. he’d practically growled at you for it. told you to call him jake. not asked. demanded, more like.

he groans, dragging a hand over his face as he leans against the cool metal table, hoping the shame will physically leave his body.

he should say something. apologize. pretend it didn’t mean anything. but what if you pretend it didn’t mean anything? what if you smile like usual and tease him about being drunk and call him “dr. sim” again and laugh – and mean nothing by it? what then?

because jake doesn’t think he can take it. doesn’t think he can survive being the only one who’s still stuck on what he said. on what he meant.

especially now that he knows it’s you. it’s always been you.

you, meanwhile, are doing a very good job pretending to be normal. you’re even answering emails. smiling at coworkers. nodding politely as if your entire brain isn’t short-circuiting every time you replay the sound of his voice from last night. that low, unfiltered, almost serious tone when he said your name. when he muttered things you weren’t sure you were supposed to hear. things that didn’t sound like drunken nonsense so much as buried thoughts slipping past the guard he always kept so firmly in place.

yeah, you expected him to pretend nothing happened. but you did not expect to look at you like you’d caught him in a secret he didn’t know how to hide anymore.

but as the day continues, you’re unsure of what’s going on. because it already begins with jake nearly bolting in the opposite direction when he catches a glimpse of you turning the corner. it’s too early, he hasn’t had coffee, and he’s already nursing a headache that refuses to fade.

but as the day drags on, it becomes painfully obvious that it’s not. it’s you.

he spends most of the morning ducking behind doorways and acting like he’s suddenly deeply fascinated by spreadsheets he’d normally ignore. you’re around, of course – you always are – but it feels different today. jake can sense the difference in how his heartbeat spikes when he hears your voice, how his gaze flickers toward the hallway every time there’s movement, hoping and dreading in equal measure that it’s you.

the worst part? you’re trying. he sees it in the way you glance his way, the way you linger by the break room longer than usual, clearly waiting for a chance to talk. and jake? he wants to. god, he wants to. but every time he’s just about to walk over, something gets in the way.

first, it’s a department head asking for a last-minute update on his research. then, it’s a scheduling conflict about the upcoming conference that pulls him into an impromptu meeting. by the time he escapes, it’s already lunch hour – but you’re not in your usual spot.

he waits, telling himself you’re probably just running late. then he tells himself you’re probably eating at your desk. then he tells himself to stop being pathetic. he doesn’t eat either.

the afternoon is even worse.

every time he crosses paths with you, it’s like a scene designed to test his patience. you’re walking one way, he’s being pulled the other. you open your mouth to say something, but a colleague interrupts. he steps forward to greet you, but someone calls your name. it’s like the entire universe has conspired to keep you two from talking.

by 4 p.m., he’s convinced the day is cursed. the only moment he gets any semblance of peace is when he steps into the lecture hall to prepare for his keynote talk at the upcoming conference. it’s quiet. the kind of quiet that usually calms him.

it doesn’t work this time.

because now that he’s alone, his mind is a mess of what-ifs. what if you’re avoiding him? what if you regret picking up the phone? what if you remember more than he does? what if you think he’s an idiot?

what if you don’t feel the same way?

he rubs his hands over his face and stares at the empty auditorium. he’s supposed to be reviewing his slides. instead, he’s imagining the way you’d sounded that night – half-confused, half-soft, calling him dr. sim until he’d grumbled for you to use his name.

and the way you’d said it like it meant something. he wants to believe it still does.

but he doesn’t get to linger in that thought. another knock at the door. another set of questions. another missed moment.

the office is quiet.

it’s late – most people have already gone home, and the hallways have settled into that strange, liminal hum that only exists when the world is caught between work and rest. jake’s still in his office, slumped in his chair, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, the hum of his computer casting faint blue shadows across his desk.

he should be exhausted. he is exhausted. but his mind refuses to slow down.

you’d looked at him differently today. not in a bad way, not cold or distant, but like you were waiting for something. like you expected something from him. and jake had felt that expectation like a weight in his chest, crushing and confusing and impossible to shake.

he leans back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.

all day, he’d meant to pull you aside. at lunch, when you passed by his desk. at four, when you bumped into him in the hallway. even just ten minutes ago, when he watched you gather your things with a smile too polite to be anything real.

he didn’t say a word.

because the phone call – that damn phone call – had changed everything and nothing all at once.

he doesn’t remember all of it. just enough. your voice calling him dr. sim. the way his stomach flipped even then.and then the part that keeps ringing in his ears, soft and slurred and unmistakably honest: "maybe i wouldn’t mind if it was you."

jake groans, burying his face in his hands. he’s never going to live that down.

but the worst part – the part that won’t leave him alone – is that he meant it. still means it. and if he’s honest with himself, he’s probably meant it for a while.

the conference. that’s where this started, didn’t it?

you were the one who told him he could do it. when he was spiraling over deadlines and expectations, when he was ready to pull the plug on the entire presentation and lock himself in his office forever, you were the one who’d looked him dead in the eye and said, “you’re the most brilliant man i’ve ever known.”

he’d scoffed at the time. maybe rolled his eyes. but he’d remembered it. he still remembers it.

and now, the thought of going to that conference – the one he’d only agreed to because you pushed him to – feels… wrong, if you’re not there.

he turns, slowly, letting his gaze drift toward the narrow window in his door. you’re still here.

sitting at your desk, a little slumped over your laptop, frowning in that way you do when you’re too focused to blink. your glasses are slightly askew, your hair a little messy, and jake thinks, without meaning to, how easy it would be to step outside right now. to knock on your desk, to ask you.

but not as his assistant – as something else.

he swallows hard, fingers tightening into fists on his lap. because here’s the thing: he doesn’t want to mess this up. he doesn’t want you to think the invitation is out of guilt or obligation or some weird post-drunken-embarrassment overcompensation. he wants to ask because he wants you there. because maybe he wants to hear your voice in his ear when he’s standing backstage. because maybe – he wants to see what it’s like to have someone like you beside him. for real.

and maybe, for once, he doesn’t want to be afraid of what that means.

his eyes fall back on the small bag by his desk, where the neatly printed schedule for the conference sits, tucked between scribbled notes and a half-eaten protein bar. he pulls it out slowly, flipping it open.

three days. two presentations. one person he wishes was going with him.

jake breathes out, slow and deep. he’s making a decision.

this time, he’s going to do it right. not by accident, not drunk, not in some cryptic metaphor or half-baked excuse. he’s going to ask you. properly. without hiding behind science or sarcasm.

he’s going to ask you to come with him – not as his assistant. not as a colleague. but as the one person who’s believed in him more than anyone else. as the person he can’t stop thinking about. as the one he’s scared to lose.

and if you say no – if you look at him with that confused expression and ask what the hell he’s talking about – then at least he’ll know. at least he’ll have tried. but if you say yes…

jake peeks out the door one more time, watching as you stretch and glance at the time, probably packing up soon. he lets himself smile; small, tired, hopeful.

if you say yes, then maybe the stars are aligning after all.

#enhypen imagines #enhypen jake imagines #jake enhypen imagines #enhypen x you #enhypen x reader #sim jaeyun imagines #my writings

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