#emotionally dependant reader

[sirgiggles]

Graves x dog hybrid! Reader

Cw: Gender Neutral reader, hybrid unspecified aside from dog, light talk of injuries and fights, toxic relationships

When he first gets you into the Company, he isn’t quite sure what to do. He‘d worked with dogs during his time in the USMC, but dog hybrids?

He‘ll treat you like a soldier, he decides. Gives orders, corrects mistakes and praises jobs well done. It takes him a little to notice that doesn’t really work.

Your dog part handles his treatment a lot differently. Without precise instructions you are, despite all training, lost in the field. Even the smallest of praises sends your tail wagging wildly and messes your concentration up, and even a displeased frown results in pinned ears and a tugged in tail.

So Graves changes his approach, treats you more dog-like. He doesn’t understand that you weren’t brought up as an equal like most hybrids, but he‘s happy his methods work. You were lesser, always, that was something you followed, he realised quickly.

He makes you heel and sit. By his desk, in the cargo plane, during meal times. And it helps, oddly enough. Precise commands and a little work have you doing excellent field work, acting almost like his personal guard dog.

It escalates so much you follow him everywhere. Eating from his hand becomes the norm, sleeping at the bottom of his cot, like a real dog. You long for his hand between your ears, in your hair, rubbing over the collar that holds the Company logo.

You don’t realise the difference, and neither Graves nor the Shadows care much about it, between you and the average hybrid. You were a favour from one of his contacts, practically raised for the job instead of by a loving family. So you cling to scraps of affection, dig your teeth in and don‘t let go. Performing well will get you the love you yearn for.

Oh, but when Graves takes you to Las Almas to hunt down Hassan, does it become clear that you are more than a regular hybrid soldier with a fair contract and life. You stay by his side, like always, listen to his beck and call. But you can feel how the Vaqueros glance at you. Like a mutt, not an ally. Disgusted by how you act, too animalistic, too loyal. They don’t understand that it’s not just Graves treatment, it’s how you function.

While they keep a professional distance, the 141 dog hybrid, Soap, and his handler Ghost inquire. Soap greets you happily, sniffs you up and down and bounces off the walls like a puppy. You only inspect him with hesitation after Graves nods and places an encouraging hand on the back of you neck.

It doesn’t take the Scot long to realise there is something odd to you. When he tries to playfully wrestle and chase you around on a field after dinner on the first day, it ends with Graves sharply whistling you to his heel, scruffing you neck and pulling you off a shocked Soap with angry reprimands. You don’t realise that the bruises on Soap‘s face are bad, that you were supposed to blow of some steam, instead of establishing your strength and rank.

Graves shortens you leash after that, literally. Hooks it to your collar on base, muzzles you when Soap riles up your dog part too much with his careless energy and willingly instinctual behaviour. He knows that you are more instinct than control, unlike Soap, and that it will end with hurt and confusion for the other once more.

The 141 men quickly get a feel for who you are after the little incident between you and Soap; the attack dog that only seems to obey the shadows. They find your reliance on Graves odd, the way you always circle him like he‘s the center of your galaxy. Between him and his Sergeant, Ghost calls you unsafe, an unpredictable and emotionally reliant animal.

But they only truly understand the extend of your loyal and dependent temper when the Shadow Company Commander betrays them at the gate. The way his hybrid lunges at the smallest signal, taking down Alejandro and setting their eyes on Soap state a clear message. Don’t fuck with Graves, or you will regret it.

You‘re a blood hound, and when your beloved Commander, the only one to understand you, to show you what you see as true care, sets you loose to find them in the night of the city even Ghost isn’t sure they stand a chance at escaping.

[orcelito]

Wild that anytime I post an update a lot of people read it and are even excited about it and have their own thoughts and reactions to it that I'll never know.

Comments are only the very tip of the iceberg with it. And I am Very grateful to commenters for letting me in on it. But in the same way that I'll be excited with my friends when a fic we love updates, it's likely that Other people enthuse with Their friends when my fic updates. And it's just so strange. An experience I'll never have access to.

Everyone's relationship with my fic is unique. So many different people with so many different circumstances and preferences... and the number of people that have told me that my fic is one of their favorites, some even saying it's their Favorite favorite... every single one of them have their own relationship with my writing.

It's just interesting to me. I think and think and think on my writing. I have my plans for basically the entire fic, the way I want it to end already thought out, all the major plot beats and the relationship progressions, All of that thought out. I love my writing so very much, but I'm on the inside looking out. This is my mechanical horse, and I'm in here laying out the groundwork and pulling levers and constructing limbs, puttering away making the horse move. Forever and always, my relationship with it will be more intimate than anyone's, and yet more clinical. Because I know it better than the back of my own hand, but I'll never have the experience of reading it fresh. Of reading it without knowing everything that's going to happen from now to the end and beyond. I won't have the thrill of the plot twists I have planned, the delight at seeing things progress, the horror at seeing things go wrong...

This is my mechanical horse, and I'm making it move.

I just always wonder what it must be like to see it from the outside. I hope to others that it's a pretty horse.

[pepi-nillo]

reading the orv novel at this pace isn't enough i need to inject it straight to my brain

[rafesangelita]

i feel like rafe has a major housewife kink

warnings: mentions of traditional stuff (just for the sake of the kink, please don’t stone me ໒꒰ྀིっ˕ -｡꒱ྀི১), rafe is kinda misogynistic, fingering, slight dacryphilia, unprotected sex, rough sex, headlock, reader is too fucked out to think about anything else, degradation, slapping, dirty talk, hair pulling, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, baby tapping threats

“i can’t— oh my, god. rafe!” your eyes fluttered shut for what felt like the hundredth time already, your thighs trembling as both pleasure and pain wracked through your body. rafe had no regard, nor did he care about this being your fourth orgasm as he rubbed your clit into overstimulation like his life depended on it. “yes, you fucking can,” he grunted, forcing your thighs open as they threatened to shut around his hand, “m’gonna keep you cumming until i see tears running down those cheeks.” you cried out at his words, your back arching into his chest at the overwhelming sensation.

rafe hadn’t even fucked you yet, and you were already on the verge of tapping out. flipping you over, rafe snaked an arm underneath your tummy before pulling you up, wasting no time in pressing your face into his pillows. stroking the small of your back, rafe groaned at the sight. he could see the body glitter on your skin, the little specs glinting underneath the dim lighting of his room. “fuck, i wish you would just let me have you already.. i’d make sure to slut you out every single day.” you whimpered when he delivered a harsh smack to the globe of your ass. “you just don’t know,” his aching tip prodded at your entrance, “i’d make sure you’d never have to lift a finger ever again.”

wrapping your hair around his fist, rafe slid into you without warning, drawing a shriek to leave your lips. “you shouldn’t be working in that fucking club,” he said through gritted teeth, “you should be here with me, letting me take care of you. i’ll come home and you’ll be waiting for me with a hot plate,” leaning down, rafe yanked your head back so his mouth was next to your ear, “you’ll keep this place spotless and i’ll buy you whatever the fuck you want,” just then, he wrapped a bicep around your neck, your chin tucked between the crease of his elbow and his forearm, “fuck you however you want.”

rafe’s words were punctuated by his thrusts, your acrylics scratching at his skin as you held onto him for dear life. “just picture that; me using you for all that you’re good for.” maybe it was because everyone who knew you, especially your girlfriends at the club, knew you wouldn’t be settling down anytime soon, or at all for that matter, but the idea of locking you away in tanneyhill and never going anywhere without you hanging off of his arm, making you fully reliant on him, financially and emotionally, it turned him on beyond words could describe. “you don’t even know what i’m saying,” he laughed, “you’re too cock drunk to understand.”

you whimpered pathetically, tears running down your face as he planted a slap to your cheek. “gonna fill up this cunt and trap you, maybe then you’ll understand what i’m saying when i put my baby inside of you.”

[mssalo]

ma'am

Joel Miller’s spent a lifetime in control, but under your confident lead, he’s discovered just how good it feels to let go. As your right-hand man in Jackson, he’s desperate to please, finding himself worshiping you in ways he’s never dared before—and loving every filthy second of it.

Warnings: MDNI, 18+, sub!Joel, dom!f!reader, oral (male and female receiving), nipple play (SUCKING JOEL’S NIPPLES like he deserves), premature ejaculation, dirty talk, praise kink, begging, desperation kink, Joel whimpering, explicit sexual content, mutual devotion, protective partnership, reader is emotionally supportive but firm, Joel finds comfort in being cared for (he’s babygirl) and Joel being so far gone it’s frankly adorable.

11k. enjoy.

part two: after hours

· · ───────────𖥸──────────· ··

Joel Miller had always been the guy people turned to when things needed fixing—whether it was a busted fence, a tough decision, or clearing out a horde of infected, he was the dependable one. The solid one. The man who got things done without flinching.

But with you, it was different.

You weren’t like anyone else in Jackson. You’d arrived last winter, stepping into the town’s bustling life like you’d always belonged, and somehow, you’d made it your own. 

People respected you—trusted you—not because you demanded it, but because you commanded it. You were sharp, resourceful, and unshakably confident. 

Joel couldn’t decide if you reminded him of a soldier or a queen, but either way, it made his chest tighten every time you spoke.

It started innocently enough.

“Joel, we need these supplies moved to the north gate before sundown,” you said one day, standing by the depot, that calm, no-nonsense tone that made Joel’s stomach flip.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied without thinking, the words slipping out as easily as breathing.

You’d looked up, a flicker of amusement in your eyes. “Didn’t peg you for the ‘yes ma’am’ type,” you teased lightly, your lips curving into that small, knowing smile.

Joel had flushed, shifting on his feet like a boy caught stealing. “Guess it’s just… habit.”

You didn’t push, just nodded and turned back, but Joel couldn’t get the moment out of his head.

Something about the way you spoke to him—firm but never condescending, confident but never overbearing—lit something inside him he hadn’t felt in years. 

Respect, maybe. Or something deeper, darker, and far more dangerous.

The more months you worked together, the worse it got for him.

“Joel, grab the shotgun and cover me,” you ordered one day, crouched behind a rusted-out truck as infected skittered through the woods ahead. Your voice was steady, even in the heat of the moment, and Joel’s chest swelled as he followed your lead without question.

Another time, while patrolling the perimeter, you had said, “Check the west side at dusk. Let me know if anything’s out of place.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Joel had answered automatically, his voice softer, almost reverent.

You didn’t always notice how easily he fell into step with you, how much he craved the way you trusted him to follow through. 

But Joel noticed. Every damn time. 

And it wasn’t just respect—though that was there too—it was something raw and magnetic. Something that made his chest tighten and his cock stir in ways that left him fumbling for composure.

It wasn’t just the way you spoke. It was the way you carried yourself. The way you moved through the world with confidence that was effortless, never forced. 

You weren’t trying to prove anything to anyone—you just were. You called the shots when they needed calling, and people listened, not because they had to, but because they wanted to.

Joel wanted to. And more than that, he liked it.

One night, it all came to a head.

Jackson was quiet, the streets bathed in the soft glow of lanterns strung between buildings. Joel was walking back from the stables when he spotted you on the porch of the town hall, a map spread across the railing in front of you. 

The way the light hit your face, catching on your jawline and softening your features, made his chest ache.

“Joel,” you called, your voice slicing through the stillness like a blade.

He froze for half a second before making his way over, his boots crunching softly on the gravel. 

His pulse quickened as he got closer, his eyes darting over you—your loose hair falling over one shoulder, the curve of your wrist as you held the edge of the map, the faint furrow in your brow that he desperately wanted to smooth away.

“Everything alright?” he asked, his voice rougher than he intended.

You glanced up, your eyes meeting his. “Come take a look at this,” you said, motioning him closer.

Joel stepped up beside you, his shoulder brushing yours as he looked at the map.

The faint scent of soap and leather lingered on you, and Joel had to force himself to focus on what you were pointing at—a marked spot near the riverbank.

“Been seeing signs of movement out here the past couple nights,” you explained. “Could be nothing, but I want to clear it tomorrow. Need someone to back me up. You in?”

“Always,” Joel said immediately, his voice quieter than he intended but no less firm. His fingers brushed yours as he took the map, and he swore he felt a spark.

You smiled then—just a small curve of your lips—but it sent heat rushing through Joel’s chest. “Good. Be ready at dawn.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Joel murmured before he could stop himself.

Your brows lifted slightly, amusement flickering in your expression. “You don’t have to keep calling me that, you know.”

Joel rubbed the back of his neck, his cheeks warming. “Can’t help it,” he muttered, his gaze sliding to the ground. “Suits you.”

Your smile widened just enough to make his heart stumble. “If you say so.”

With that, you folded the map, tucked it under your arm, and disappeared into the town hall, leaving Joel standing there like a damn fool, his chest tight and his jeans uncomfortably snug. 

He swore under his breath, adjusting his stance in a futile attempt to ease the ache building low in his belly.

It wasn’t fair. 

The way you got under his skin without even trying. The way you made him feel… lighter and heavier all at once. 

Joel had spent his whole life being the one people leaned on, the one who carried the weight, and for once, he didn’t mind letting someone else take the reins. 

Hell, he wanted to. 

He wanted to follow you, to listen to you, to give you every ounce of control you asked for.

Joel stayed rooted to the spot, staring at the closed door of the town hall long after you’d gone inside. 

His pulse pounded in his ears, the ache in his jeans growing unbearable as his mind replayed the last few moments—the way your voice curled around his name, the subtle command in your tone when you told him to be ready, the approving smile that lingered on your lips when he’d answered.

It was ridiculous, he thought bitterly, rubbing the back of his neck. He was a grown man, for Christ’s sake, and yet here he was, rock-hard in the middle of Jackson like some lovesick idiot. 

His cock throbbed against the tight denim of his jeans, a constant, humiliating reminder of how badly he wanted you—how badly he needed you.

Joel swallowed hard, adjusting himself as subtly as he could manage, though the motion sent a shiver of frustration through him. 

This was nothing new. 

Every time he was around you, it was like his body betrayed him, reacting to the sound of your voice, the sway of your hips, the smallest flick of your wrist as you gestured for him to follow.

He couldn’t stop thinking about it—about you.

The way you carried yourself, confident and composed, made his chest tighten in ways that were equal parts admiration and raw, aching need.

You were everything Joel wasn’t. Steady. Collected. In control. And fuck if he didn’t crave that about you.

More than anything, he craved the way you made him feel. Like he could just… let go.

The thought sent a fresh jolt of arousal straight to his cock, and Joel bit back a groan, his hand clenching at his side. 

He’d spent years—decades—being the man people turned to, the one who handled the tough shit without complaint.

But with you? He didn’t want to be the guy in charge. 

He wanted to be the one following orders, wanted to be the one looking up at you, waiting for your approval. 

He wanted to make you proud. 

To hear you say his name the way you had earlier, with that faint hint of amusement, like you saw something in him that no one else ever had.

Goddamn it, he was pathetic.

Joel shook his head, muttering a low curse under his breath as he turned away from the town hall. 

The walk back to his house felt like a blur, his thoughts too tangled to focus on anything but you. 

Every step sent a dull throb through his cock, and by the time he reached his front door, his hands were trembling, his jaw tight with restraint.

Inside, Joel leaned heavily against the door, the cool wood pressing into his back as he exhaled shakily. His chest rose and fell in uneven waves, the pounding of his heart loud in the stillness of the house. 

The faint creak of the floorboards beneath his boots reminded him he wasn’t dreaming, though he almost wished he were—wished the memory of you wasn’t so vivid it set his whole body on fire.

His jacket slid from his shoulders and hung limply on the hook by the door, but the ritual did little to calm him. 

His hand lingered against the fabric, fingers gripping tightly for a moment as though holding on to it might anchor him. But there was no escape—not from the way you lingered in his thoughts, the way your voice echoed in his ears like a melody he couldn’t shake.

C’mere, Joel. I need you to check this.

C’mere, Joel….

The words played on repeat, the confidence in your tone, the subtle curve of authority behind every syllable. 

The way you’d glanced at him tonight, your eyes catching his for just a second longer than necessary—it was enough to drive him insane. 

Joel groaned softly, the sound rough and guttural as he pressed the heel of his palm against the stiff, aching bulge in his jeans.

“Jesus,” he muttered, shaking his head as if that might clear it. But it didn’t. It never did. He’d thought about you like this too many times to count. 

Late at night, alone in the dark, his fist slick and tight around his cock, imagining you leaning over him, your voice a breathy, commanding whisper.

“Good boy, Joel. Just like that.”

It was the praise that undid him every time, the approval he ached for, that soft edge of control in your voice that made his chest tighten and his hips buck into his hand. 

Joel’s teeth dug into his bottom lip as he pushed off the door, his steps hurried and uneven as he made his way toward the bedroom. 

His body was hot, his skin flushed as he kicked the door shut behind him and leaned against it, his breath coming fast and shallow.

He didn’t bother with the lights. There was no point when the image of you burned so brightly in his mind.

His hands fumbled with his belt, the leather sliding free with a sharp hiss before he shoved his jeans down his thighs, kicking them aside. 

His cock sprang free, thick and heavy, the tip already glistening with pre-cum.

Joel wrapped his calloused fingers around himself, his rough palm dragging slowly along the length as his head tipped back against the door. 

A soft, broken groan escaped his lips, and he tightened his grip, savoring the sharp sensation.

“Yes,” Joel whispered hoarsely, his hips jerking into his hand as the thought took hold.

The image was so vivid it made his knees weak.

“On your knees, Joel. Let me see how much you want it.”

He imagined you standing over him, your hands on your hips, your lips curved into that wicked, knowing smile.

You’d look down at him like you owned him, and Joel would crumble beneath that gaze, his body desperate to obey.

His hand moved faster, his strokes rougher as his chest heaved. “Fuck,” he muttered, his voice thick and broken. “I’d do it. Anything you want, darlin’. Just… just fuckin’ tell me.”

And then, there was the fantasy he couldn’t shake. You’d guide him down—your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling just hard enough to make him hiss as you tilted his face up toward yours.

“You want to make me feel good, baby? Show me.” You’d press his face between your thighs, your warmth surrounding him, and Joel would lose himself.

He could almost feel it—the softness of your skin, the slick heat of your cunt against his lips. His tongue would trace slow, deliberate circles around your clit, savoring the way your body trembled beneath his mouth. 

You’d moan his name, your voice breathy and broken, and it would be the only thing he cared about.

Joel groaned loudly, his hips jerking off the door as his hand tightened, the slick sound filling the room. “Please,” he rasped, his voice shaking. “Please, darlin’. Let me be good for you. Let me—”

He imagined you grinding against his face, your thighs clenching around his head as you guided him, demanding more. “That’s it, Joel. Just like that. Don’t stop until I come, baby.”

The thought of your approval, of hearing you call him a good boy as he worked tirelessly to please you, made his cock throb painfully in his hand. “I’d do it,” he muttered hoarsely. “I’d fuckin’ worship you, darlin’. Just say the word.”

The tension snapped, his body locking up as his release hit. Hot, thick spurts spilled over his hand, his voice breaking into a low, guttural groan as his hips jerked helplessly. 

Your name fell from his lips, raw and reverent, as the pleasure coursed through him, leaving him trembling and spent.

For a long moment, Joel stood there, his chest heaving, his hand still wrapped loosely around his softening cock. 

The air was thick with the scent of his arousal, the evidence of his need dripping onto the floor, and yet all he could think about was you. Your voice, your smile, the way you made him feel like he could let go of everything and just… be.

Joel swallowed hard, his jaw tightening as he finally pushed off the door and reached for a towel. 

He cleaned himself up quickly, his thoughts still tangled, his body still thrumming with the remnants of his release. But even as the tension faded, the ache lingered—the desperate, aching need for you.

For your voice. For your touch. For your approval.

And Joel knew he’d never stop wanting it. Never stop wanting you.

Because this wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. Not until he had you.

Not until he could hear you say his name the way he’d always dreamed, soft and breathless, your hands gripping his shoulders as you told him exactly what to do.

· · ───

The sun was barely cresting the horizon as you and Joel set out toward the riverbank, the chilly morning air biting at your cheeks. Joel kept a steady pace beside you, his rifle slung across his shoulder, his eyes scanning the dense treeline with practiced precision.

Despite the tension that always came with patrols, there was a comfort in your presence—a grounding force that he couldn’t quite put into words.

The faint scent of soap and leather lingered on you, familiar and steady, and Joel found himself stealing glances at you more than he should.

You walked with such assuredness, each step purposeful, and the soft sway of your hips had him swallowing harder than necessary.

He tried to focus, but your commanding presence made it impossible not to feel both overwhelmed and grounded.

“See this?” you murmured, crouching near a patch of disturbed dirt. Your voice was low, clipped, yet patient as you gestured for him to come closer. “Looks like someone’s been through here recently. More than one.”

Joel crouched beside you, his shoulder brushing yours as he examined the ground.

The way your hair caught the morning light, the subtle curve of your neck—it was too much. His chest tightened as he forced his gaze to the dirt and away from the way your lips parted slightly in concentration.

“Yeah,” he muttered, his voice rougher than intended. “Could be raiders.”

“Could be,” you agreed, straightening and adjusting the strap of your pack. “Let’s keep moving. Stay sharp.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Joel said before he could stop himself, the words slipping out instinctively.

You glanced at him, one brow arching, the barest hint of a smirk tugging at your lips.

You turned without a word, leading the way through the uneven terrain. Joel followed close behind, his pulse quickening with every step. 

You always had this effect on him, like you were a magnet and he couldn’t help but be pulled in.

The ambush came fast. 

Raiders poured from the treeline, their weapons raised, shouts breaking the morning quiet. 

Joel moved on instinct, diving behind a fallen log and returning fire, but it was you who commanded the chaos with sharp, decisive orders.

“Joel! Left flank! Cover me!”

He obeyed without question, his rifle steady as he took down one of the raiders attempting to circle around. 

Even in the heat of the moment, his eyes kept darting to you—how you moved like a ghost through the underbrush, your aim deadly, your composure unshaken.

But when one of them charged at your blind spot, Joel didn’t think. He moved.

The gunshot echoed like thunder as he dropped the man with a single shot. 

You spun to face him, your eyes wide—not with fear but with something else. Relief? Gratitude? Whatever it was, it made his chest swell.

“Thanks,” you said, your tone steady despite the chaos. “But I told you—stay back.”

Joel gritted his teeth but nodded, ducking back behind cover as you finished off the last of the raiders. 

When the dust settled, you stood amidst the wreckage, your rifle slung over your shoulder, your expression calm but sharp. 

You scanned the area one last time before nodding.

“We’re clear,” you said, turning toward him. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Joel replied, though his arm burned where a bullet had grazed him. 

He shifted, trying to hide the blood seeping through his sleeve.

Your eyes narrowed. “You’re hit.”

“It’s nothin’,” he muttered, brushing it off.

“It’s not nothing,” you snapped, stepping closer. Your hand grabbed his arm, firm but not harsh. “We’re done here. You’re going back to Jackson. Now.”

Joel stiffened, his jaw tightening. “I can keep goin’. I’m fine.”

You tilted your head, the corners of your lips pulling into a wry, almost dangerous smile. 

“Joel,” you said, your voice low but laced with authority that sent a shiver down his spine. “Do I look like I’m asking?”

Joel swallowed hard, his pulse hammering in his ears. “No, ma’am,” he muttered, his voice quieter this time, almost reverent.

“Good.” Your fingers lingered on his arm for just a second longer than necessary, the heat of your touch branding him, before you turned toward the horses. “Let’s move.”

At the clinic, Joel sat on the cot, his shirt discarded, the gash on his arm raw and angry. He winced as the doctor worked, stitching the wound with quick precision. 

But his eyes weren’t on the needle or the thread—they were on you, leaning against the doorway with your arms crossed, your expression unreadable.

“You’ll need to rest for at least a couple days,” the doctor said, tying off the final stitch. “No patrols, no heavy lifting.”

Joel opened his mouth to argue, but your sharp glance silenced him immediately.

“Got it,” you said curtly, nodding at the doctor. “Thank you.”

When the doctor left, you turned to Joel, your arms dropping to your sides as you stepped closer. “Let’s get you home.”

Back at his house, you guided him inside, your hand on his arm, your touch firm and steady. 

Joel sank onto the couch with a groan, his body heavier than he wanted to admit. You moved with purpose, disappearing into the kitchen before reappearing with a damp cloth and a glass of water.

“You don’t have to—” he started, but you cut him off with a look that had him snapping his mouth shut.

“Let me,” you said, your tone leaving no room for argument.

You knelt beside him, pressing the cloth gently to his arm. Joel swallowed hard, his breath catching at the sight of you so close, your fingers brushing against his skin.

The faint scent of you—clean and sharp, with a hint of something sweet—filled his senses, and he had to clench his fists to keep from reaching out.

When you finished, you sat back on your heels, your eyes meeting his. “Joel,” you said softly, “why do you push yourself so hard?”

Joel looked away, his jaw tightening. “Don’t wanna feel useless,” he muttered. “Don’t wanna… be a burden.”

“You’re not a burden,” you said firmly, leaning closer, your voice carrying a weight that made Joel’s chest ache. “You’re the furthest thing from it.”

Joel’s eyes flicked to yours, his breath catching at the intensity in your gaze. “I just…” He hesitated, his voice breaking. “I just wanna be good for you. Wanna make you proud.”

You tilted your head, a slow, knowing smile curving your lips.

“You already are, Joel,” you murmured, reaching out to cup his face. Your thumb brushed over his cheekbone, and Joel leaned into your touch like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

Joel’s breath was uneven, his good hand curling into a fist on his thigh as he struggled to find the words.

You sat beside him on the couch, quiet and steady, your eyes on his face, your expression calm yet unreadable. It only made him more frantic.

“I—I can’t stop thinkin’ about you,” Joel stammered, his voice rough and breaking. 

He rubbed a hand over his face, his palm trembling slightly as if he was trying to physically hold himself together.

“I need… I need you close. I don’t know what the hell I’m doin’, but I—I can’t keep this to myself anymore.”

Your lips parted slightly, but you didn’t speak. You just nodded slowly, your gaze unwavering, and it made him feel both exposed and comforted all at once. The tension in his chest was unbearable.

“I—dammit,” he muttered, his voice thick, his gaze darting everywhere but your face.

“I’m tryin’ to say it right, but I don’t—I can’t—I need you, alright? I can’t stop thinkin’ about you. About how you—how you’re always so damn steady, and you—”

He sucked in a shaky breath, his eyes finally locking on yours. They were glassy now, his vulnerability laid bare. “You make it easier, y’know? Just bein’ around you… I feel like I can breathe. Like maybe I ain’t so—so broken after all. And I… I need that. I need you.”

You tilted your head slightly, your lips curving into the faintest smile. It wasn’t teasing, wasn’t pitying. It was understanding, warm, and Joel swore it made his chest ache even more.

“Baby,” you murmured softly, the endearment sending a shiver down his spine. “You like me…romantically?”

Joel froze for a moment, his breath catching as your words settled over him. His lips parted, but all he could do was nod, the movement small and jerky, like he was afraid to admit it outright.

“Want to be good for me?” you asked, your voice a low, soothing hum.

Joel’s nod came faster this time, his breathing growing heavier as he leaned into you, desperate for something he couldn’t quite name.

You leaned in slowly, cupping his face with one hand, your thumb brushing over the rough stubble along his jaw. 

Joel’s eyes fluttered shut as you pressed your lips to his, soft and lingering, and the low, guttural sound he made against your mouth was filled with need. 

His hand reached out, gripping your waist as if anchoring himself to you, and his lips parted under yours, seeking more.

But just as he leaned into the kiss, you pulled back, your face still close enough that your breath mingled with his.

“Get better for me first, yeah?” you murmured, your thumb trailing along his jaw.

Joel’s eyes snapped open, his brows furrowing as he shook his head. “No, please,” he whispered, his voice rough and desperate. 

“Please, I can’t—I’ve been waitin’ for so long. Please don’t make me wait anymore.”

You shushed him softly, your fingers sliding through his hair, and Joel practically melted under your touch, his body trembling with the effort to hold himself back.

“You’ll wait,” you said firmly, though your tone was still warm. “Because you’re mine, and I’m not about to let you go. But first, I need you strong, Joel. Need you rested. Yeah?”

Joel let out a shaky breath, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he nodded, though his grip on you didn’t loosen. “Alright,” he rasped, his voice barely audible. “Alright. But just… just promise me you’ll be safe.”

“Well…you know me, baby,” you whispered, your lips brushing against the crown of his head.

Joel’s breath hitched again, his arms wrapping around your waist, holding you close as if to prove to himself that you were real. And as the weight of the moment settled between you, he felt something he hadn’t in years—peace.

· · ───

Joel had never been good at resting, but being sidelined for days was pure torture.

His arm still kinda ached where the stitches pulled at the edges of the wound, but the pain was nothing compared to the gnawing anxiety that came from not seeing you. 

Three days felt like a lifetime, and every hour that passed without you made his chest feel tighter.

You’d been on patrol since the crack of dawn, and Joel had spent most of the day pacing around his house, every creak of the floorboards setting his nerves on edge. 

He hadn’t wanted to push his luck with the doctor or you, so he’d stayed home, but the absence of your presence was like a physical ache.

He’d heard the patrol schedule—you were checking the area near the riverbank, where the raiders had been sighted. 

The thought of you out there, alone or with someone who wasn’t him, made his stomach churn.

Joel knew you could handle yourself—he’d seen it firsthand—but the idea of you in danger without him there to back you up was unbearable.

By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, Joel couldn’t take it anymore. 

His boots thudded against the wooden floors as he grabbed his jacket and rifle, the pain in his arm be damned.

If he didn’t see you soon, he was going to lose his mind.

The gates of Jackson were quiet, the air cool and crisp as Joel made his way toward the watchtower. A few guards gave him curious glances, but no one stopped him. He wasn’t exactly known for staying out of trouble, injured or not.

“Have you seen her?” Joel asked one of the guards at the gate, his voice gruff.

“Think she’s still out near the west ridge,” the man replied, tilting his hat back. “They were due back an hour ago, though.”

Joel’s jaw tightened. An hour ago. His grip on his rifle tightened as he set off toward the west ridge, his boots crunching against the gravel.

The relief was like a flood when he spotted you in the distance, your silhouette unmistakable against the fading light.

You were walking back toward the gates, your pack slung over your shoulder, your rifle in hand. Joel’s breath hitched at the sight of you, his steps quickening as he closed the distance between you.

“Where the hell have you been?” Joel barked, his voice harsher than he intended as he reached you.

You raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by his tone. “Patrol. Where I said I’d be.”

“You were late,” Joel muttered, his gaze sweeping over you, searching for any sign of injury. “Anything happen out there?”

“Couple of runners,” you replied, brushing past him toward the gate. “Nothing bad.”

Joel followed you, his chest tight as he struggled to find the right words. “You could’ve sent word. Let someone know you were runnin’ behind.”

You turned to face him then, your eyes sharp. “Joel, I’m fine. I’m more worried about why you’re out here when you’re supposed to be resting.”

“I was worried about you,” Joel admitted, his voice quieter now, though no less intense. “Didn’t like not knowin’ if you were okay.”

Your expression softened, and you let out a quiet sigh. “Joel, I told you I’d be back.”

“And what if somethin’ had happened?” Joel pressed, his voice growing rough. “What if—” He stopped, his jaw clenching as he looked away.

You stepped closer, your hand resting gently on his arm. “Hey,” you said softly, your tone soothing. “I’m here. I’m okay. And you need to trust that I can take care of myself.”

Joel’s eyes flicked back to yours, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly at the steadiness in your gaze. “I know you can,” he muttered. “Doesn’t mean I’m not gonna worry.”

You smiled faintly, squeezing his arm. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Joel huffed a laugh, the sound low and rough. “Ain’t what I meant, but… yeah, take it how you want.”

“Come on,” you said, nudging him toward the gate. “Let’s get you home. You’re not supposed to be out here.”

Joel wanted to argue, but the warmth in your voice and the steady grip on his arm made it impossible.

He let you guide him back toward his house, the tension in his chest slowly unwinding with every step.

The walk back to Joel’s house was quiet at first, the two of you falling into an easy rhythm. But as you neared the porch, Joel’s tongue loosened, and the floodgates opened.

“What was it like out there today? Was it quiet before the runners? Were they close? You eat somethin’? Drink enough water?”

You chuckled softly, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye. “Joel, I’m fine. I promise.”

“I know, I know,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, his steps faltering slightly as you led him inside. “Just… can’t stop thinkin’ about it. About you. Out there without me.”

His voice was rough, his words tumbling out so quickly he barely had time to filter them. “I mean, I know you’re capable—hell, more than capable—but I wasn’t there, and… I hate not bein’ there.”

You stopped just inside the doorway, turning to face him. Joel’s eyes darted over you, like he was trying to memorize every detail, his breathing uneven, his hands twitching at his sides as if he wanted to reach for you but didn’t quite dare.

“You’re rambling, Joel,” you said softly, your voice calm and steady as you reached up to cup his cheek.

Joel froze, his breath hitching at your touch, his wide eyes locking onto yours. “I just…” he began, his voice faltering. “I just—”

“Hush,” you murmured, your thumb brushing over his cheekbone. “I’m here. I’m fine. And I’m not going anywhere for another 4 days.”

Joel exhaled shakily, leaning into your touch like a man starved. “I know,” he rasped. “I know, but I can’t stop—”

You silenced him with a kiss, your lips soft and warm against his, and Joel melted beneath it, his whole body going taut before he relaxed into the moment. 

His hands found your hips, tentative at first, then firm, gripping you like he was afraid you might disappear.

When you pulled back, his lips chased yours for a heartbeat before he caught himself, his eyes fluttering open. He looked dazed, his chest heaving, his pupils blown wide as he stared at you.

You smiled softly, the sound of his uneven breathing filling the space between you.

Joel’s lips parted as if to speak, but before he could, you leaned in and kissed him again, slower this time. His groan was low and deep, the kind that seemed to come from the very center of him, vibrating through your chest.

His hands tightened on your hips, pulling you closer, his need unmistakable.

When your lips parted and your tongue brushed against his, Joel whimpered—a sound so desperate, so raw, it sent a rush of heat straight through you.

You couldn’t help but laugh softly into the kiss, and Joel’s grip faltered for a second, his lips pulling into a shaky smile against yours.

“Why’re you laughin’?” he asked, his voice rough, his forehead pressing against yours as he caught his breath.

“You’re eager,” you teased, your hands sliding to his shoulders, feeling the strength there. “It’s sweet.”

Joel groaned again, his cheeks flushing as his hands smoothed up your sides. “Can’t help it,” he admitted, his voice dropping lower. “You’re drivin’ me crazy, darlin’. Been thinkin’ about this for too long.”

His gaze dropped, and his eyes darkened as they settled on the curve of your breasts, visible through the gap in your blouse.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, his hands twitching like he wanted to touch but didn’t dare without permission. “You’re perfect.”

You raised an eyebrow, tilting your head as you ran your fingers along his jaw. “Joel,” you said, your tone firmer now, and he immediately snapped his gaze back up to meet yours, his breath hitching. “What are you lookin’ at?”

His cheeks went even redder, but he didn’t look away.

Your lips quirked into a sly smile, and you reached up to unbutton the top of your blouse slowly, deliberately. Joel’s eyes tracked every movement, his throat working as he swallowed hard, his cock straining visibly against his jeans.

“You’ve healed up, huh?” you asked, your tone playful, and Joel nodded quickly, his hands shaking slightly.

“Barely feel it,” he murmured, his voice trembling with anticipation. “Please, darlin’. Please let me—”

You sighed dramatically, shaking your head as you pushed the blouse from your shoulders, revealing the smooth curve of your skin.

“Go ahead, Joel,” you said, your voice steady but laced with heat. “If you think you can handle it.”

Joel groaned, his hands finding your waist again, pulling you flush against him as his mouth crashed into yours.

His kisses were messy, desperate, his lips sliding against yours like he couldn’t get enough. His hands roamed your body, shaky but reverent, sliding up your ribs and hovering just below your chest.

“Eager little thing,” you murmured against his mouth, and Joel whimpered at the words, his hips pressing against yours as his arousal became undeniable.

“Can’t help it,” he breathed, his voice shaky and desperate. “Been wantin’ to get my mouth on you for so long. Wanna lick every inch of you. Fuck, those pretty nipples—been dyin’ to suck on ‘em, darlin’. Let me taste you, please.”

The way his voice cracked, the way he clung to you—it was enough to make your resolve waver. But you weren’t going to let him get off that easily. Not yet.

“Bed,” you whispered, pulling back just enough to guide him toward the bedroom. Joel followed without hesitation, his hands still on you, his body trembling with barely-contained need.

“Sit down, baby,” you murmured, your voice firm but teasing as you pushed him gently onto the mattress.

Joel sat immediately, lips wet and swollen from your kisses, his pupils blown wide as he stared up at you like you were a goddess he was desperate to worship.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, his gaze flicking to your chest, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. “You’re so goddamn beautiful.”

You stepped between his legs, running your hands up his thighs, feeling the way they trembled under your touch.

“Is this what you’ve been dreamin’ about, Joel?” you asked, your voice low and sultry as you leaned in close. “Me, standin’ over you like this, lettin’ you look your fill?”

Joel groaned, his head tipping back as his hips jerked involuntarily. “Yes,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “Every night, darlin’. I—fuck—I think about you all the time. Can’t stop.”

You smirked, running your hands higher until your fingers brushed against the hard, throbbing bulge straining beneath his jeans. Joel’s breath hitched, his hips lifting slightly as if to chase your touch.

“Bet you’ve been strokin’ that cock to the thought of me, haven’t you?” you purred, your nails scraping lightly along his thighs.

“Thinking about my tits, my mouth, wonderin’ what it’d feel like to have me all over you?”

Joel let out a broken whimper, his hands gripping the edge of the mattress as he nodded. “Yes,” he rasped, his voice thick with desperation. “Fuck, yes. I think about you all the time—Drives me crazy.”

You laughed softly, Joel’s eyes focused, his chest heaving as he took in the sight of you, his gaze zeroing in on your breasts, the way your nipples pebbled in the cool air.

You reached up, cupping your breasts and squeezing them lightly, your thumbs brushing over your nipples. “Wanna taste them, baby? Wanna feel my tits in your mouth?”

Joel groaned loudly, his hands clenching into fists as his cock strained painfully against his jeans. “Please,” he begged, his voice breaking. “Please, let me—fuck, let me taste them."

You smirked, stepping closer and guiding his hands to your hips. “Go on then, baby,” you murmured, leaning in until your chest was level with his face. “Show me how much you want it.”

Joel didn’t need to be told twice. His hands slid up to your waist, pulling you closer as his mouth latched onto one of your nipples with a desperate groan. 

His lips were hot and eager, his tongue swirling over the sensitive bud before he sucked it into his mouth, his teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp.

“Fuck, that’s it,” you murmured, threading your fingers through his hair and tugging lightly. “Good boy, Joel. Just like that.”

Joel whimpered against your skin, his hands sliding up to cup your breasts, squeezing them gently as he switched to your other nipple. His tongue worked in slow, deliberate strokes, his lips tugging and sucking as if he couldn’t get enough.

“Finally” he muttered against your skin, his voice muffled but no less desperate.

You chuckled softly, grinding your hips against his lap, feeling the hard line of his cock pressing against your thigh. “You’re so needy,” you teased, your voice dripping with satisfaction. “Can’t even keep your hands to yourself, can you?”

Joel shook his head, his mouth still attached to your nipple as he let out a low, guttural moan. His hands slid down to your hips, gripping you tightly as he rocked against you, his cock throbbing beneath the rough denim of his jeans.

“Can’t help it,” he rasped, his voice hoarse. “You’re all I think about. All I want.”

You leaned down, brushing your lips against his ear. “Then be a good boy for me, Joel,” you whispered, your voice low and commanding. “Keep sucking.”

Joel groaned, his hands tightening on your hips as his lips moved back to your breast, sucking and licking with renewed fervor. His hips bucked against yours, his need spilling out in every touch, every sound.

“You like these, baby?” you murmured, cupping your breast and brushing your thumb over your wet, glistening nipples. “My sweet boy likes them, hm?”

Joel froze for a moment, his pupils dilating as the meaning of your words sank in. His hips bucked sharply, and he let out a strangled moan, his whole body trembling beneath you.

“Fuck, I-,” he groaned, his voice cracking as his head fell back against the headboard. “Shit, darlin’, I’m sorry—I can’t… I’m—fuck!”

You felt the unmistakable heat and dampness spreading as Joel’s hips jerked one last time, his moans spilling into the quiet room. His face flushed a deep red, his chest heaving as he realized what had just happened.

“Shit,” he muttered again, his voice thick with embarrassment as he covered his face with one hand. “I didn’t mean to… fuck, I’m so sorry. This is so stupid—”

“Joel,” you interrupted, your voice firm but soothing as you brushed his hand away from his face. “Look at me.”

He did, his eyes wide and vulnerable, his lips parted as he struggled to catch his breath. The sight of him—flushed, desperate, and utterly wrecked—only made you want him more.

“It’s okay,” you murmured, your lips curving into a wicked smile. “I’m flattered, baby. You just couldn’t help yourself, could you? Had to come in your pants for me.”

Joel let out a choked sound, his hips twitching involuntarily beneath you.

“I… fuck, darlin’, you make me crazy,” he admitted hoarsely. “Can’t stop thinkin’ about you. I need you. Please… let me make it up to you.”

Your smile widened, and you leaned down, brushing your lips against his ear. “Still wanna keep going, baby?” you whispered, your voice dripping with mock sympathy. “After you’ve already made such a mess?”

Joel nodded frantically, his hands gripping your hips like a lifeline. “Yes,” he rasped, his voice breaking. “I don’t think I ever wanna stop, ma’am. Please… let me taste you. I’ll be so good for you, I promise.”

You pulled back slightly, tilting your head as you studied him, your expression unreadable.

Then, slowly, you smiled, your fingers trailing down his chest. “Undress me,” you commanded, your voice soft but firm.

Joel flushed, his hands moving to your waist again. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of your pants, his eyes flicking up to meet yours for permission. 

You nodded, leaning back onto the bed as you let him guide the fabric down your legs, his touch careful but firm.

By the time your pants were off, you were sprawled out on the bed, your back resting against the pillows. 

Joel knelt between your legs, his chest heaving as he stared down at you, his eyes drinking in every detail like he was trying to commit it to memory.

"You're beautiful," he said again, his voice breaking slightly as his fingers slid along the waistband of your panties. 

Joel groaned low in his throat, his hands clumsy but desperate as he unbuttoned your pants and slid them down your legs.

He paused when he saw your panties, a visible wet spot already soaking through the fabric. His breath hitched, and he let out a shaky, “Fuck… look at that. So wet for me, darlin’. Goddamn.”

His hands trembled as he paused, glancing up at you for reassurance.

You smirked, one eyebrow arching as you propped yourself up on your elbows.

"Go on, baby," you murmured, your voice soft and encouraging. "You've got me all to yourself. Do what you've been dreaming about."

Joel’s hands hovered over your hips for a moment before he finally let them settle there, his thumbs brushing against the edge of your panties.

Joel settled between your legs like he was kneeling before an altar, his chest heaving and his fingers trembling as he slid along the waistband of your panties.

His eyes flicked up to yours, dark and wide with need, and you gave him the softest smile, threading your fingers into his hair as you gently tugged him closer.

“yeah, baby” you murmured, your voice dripping with encouragement.

His breath hitched, and he leaned down, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs.

He kissed you there, slow and reverent, his beard grazing your flesh and sending shivers through you. Each kiss was accompanied by a low, throaty groan, his lips moving steadily closer to the source of your heat.

“Jesus Christ,” he rasped, his voice breaking as he reached the edge of your panties. His nose pressed against the damp fabric, and he inhaled sharply, the sound guttural and desperate.

“Fuck, you smell so good, darlin’. Like heaven—sweet, wet heaven.”

His hands trembled as they gripped your thighs, holding you open as he buried his face against you, nuzzling and inhaling like he couldn’t get enough.

The rough fabric of his jeans rubbed against your calves, a sharp contrast to the warmth of his breath and the wet heat of his mouth against your panties.

“Been dreamin’ about this—about your sweet cunt for so fuckin’ long. Want it so bad, baby. Wanna taste you—wanna lick you, suck that pretty clit between my lips and drink you down till there’s nothin’ left.”

You moaned softly, your fingers threading through his hair and tugging gently, encouraging him.

“Yeah?” you whispered, your voice low and breathless. “You wanna eat me out, baby? Wanna show me how good that mouth of yours is? Then take them off.”

Joel knelt between your thighs, trembling as he slid your soaked panties down your legs.

He didn’t even try to hide the way his breath hitched when your cunt was fully exposed to him, glistening and perfect.

His chest rose and fell in quick, uneven breaths as he just stared for a moment, his lips parting like he wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words.

“You just gonna look, Joel?” you teased, your fingers slipping into his hair and tugging gently. “Or are you gonna be a good boy and show me what you can do?”

That broke him. His head dipped instantly, his breath ghosting hot over your slick folds as he whispered, “Yes… yes, ma’am.” His voice was low, reverent, almost a prayer.

The first touch of his tongue was hesitant but deliberate, a slow drag from your entrance to your clit, as if he wanted to savor you.

He groaned into you, the sound muffled but deep, and then he leaned in further, pressing his mouth to your cunt like he couldn’t get close enough.

“Good boy,” you murmured, your voice soft but thick with pleasure. “Fuck, you’re so eager for it. Just like that.”

Joel didn’t answer—couldn’t answer.

He was too focused, his hands gripping your thighs to hold you open as he worked his tongue through every inch of your folds.

His breath hitched as he tasted you, his lips sealing over your clit for a moment to suck softly before his tongue returned to explore your entrance.

“Oh, baby,” you breathed, your hips arching slightly into his mouth. “You’re so fucking good at that. Look at you, so hungry for me. You love this, don’t you? Love worshipping my pussy.”

His only response was a desperate, muffled groan and moaning as he shifted his grip, spreading your thighs wider. 

His nose pressed against your clit, and he rubbed it there as his tongue delved inside you, slow and deliberate, tasting you from the inside out. 

His breathing was ragged now, warm puffs of air against your heat between each swipe of his tongue.

“Fuck yes,” he whispered hoarsely against you, his voice barely audible over the sound of his mouth working your cunt. “Fuck… taste so good. Yes. Yes, ma’am…”

You tugged his hair lightly, guiding him just where you wanted, and he followed without hesitation, his moans vibrating through your core. 

His nose nudged your clit again, his tongue lapping at your entrance with long, languid strokes, and your moans filled the room, soft and breathy.

“That’s it,” you encouraged, your voice breaking slightly as he found just the right rhythm. “Such a good boy. Keep going, baby. Make me come.”

Joel groaned deeply, the sound muffled as he pressed his face impossibly closer to your core, his lips locking around your clit. 

Each sound he made was guttural, desperate, like he was losing himself in the taste of you.

His hands gripped your thighs tightly, anchoring himself to you as his nose pressed against your folds, adding pressure in all the right places.

“Good boy,” you whispered, your voice trembling as you combed your fingers through his hair, guiding him exactly where you needed him. “Keep going, baby. Suck my clit just like that.”

Joel whimpered against you, the sound low and wrecked, and he obeyed without hesitation, sucking harder, his tongue darting out to flick over the swollen nub between pulls. 

He groaned again, his hips shifting slightly as if he couldn’t help but grind against the mattress, completely undone by the act of pleasuring you.

Your breath hitched, your body trembling as the tension in your core tightened to an unbearable degree.

“Fuck, Joel—don’t stop. Don’t you fucking stop.”

He moaned louder at your words, his hands tightening on your thighs as he doubled down, his lips creating just the right amount of pressure while his tongue worked you mercilessly. 

His nose nudged against your clit in rhythm with his sucking, the sensation pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

“Please,” he murmured against you between strokes, his voice trembling with need. “Wanna make you come, ma’am. Wanna feel you fall apart on my tongue.”

That was all it took. Your body tensed, your back arching as your orgasm slammed into you, waves of pleasure crashing through you so hard you couldn’t even form words. 

Joel groaned against you, his tongue and lips relentless as he rode out your release, his moans vibrating through every sensitive nerve ending.

When you finally came down, your thighs trembling and your breath shaky, Joel slowly pulled back, his lips glistening and swollen, his face flushed and eyes glazed with pure adoration.

He looked like a man on his knees at the altar of a goddess.

“perfect,” he whispered, his voice wrecked, his gaze fixed on your blissed-out expression.

“Did I do good?” he asked quietly, his voice raw and hoarse.

You smiled, brushing your fingers over his cheek. “Better than good, baby,” you murmured. “Fuck.”

Joel’s eyes darted to yours, wide and full of something raw and pleading. 

He leaned in again, his lips brushing against your inner thigh as he spoke, his voice trembling with need. “Please… can I keep goin’? Just a little more. I don’t wanna stop. Wanna taste you again, ma’am.”

His mouth found your clit in a featherlight kiss, his tongue flicking out experimentally, careful and reverent as though seeking permission. 

His hands slid up your thighs, holding them open like you might change your mind.

“Joel,” you said, your voice soft but firm, your hand threading into his hair and tugging just enough to stop him. “No, baby. I wanna feel you now.”

Joel froze, his breath hitching, and he whined softly against your skin, the sound almost pitiful. “But—” he started, his lips pressing to your clit again in a desperate, fleeting kiss. “I can make you come again. Please, I—”

“Joel.” Your voice was sharper this time, not cruel but commanding. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, his lips glistening and his pupils blown wide. “You’ve been so good, baby, but I want you now. Don’t make me ask twice.”

The words sent a visible shudder through him. He hesitated for half a second before pulling back reluctantly, his lips parted as if to protest but no words came out. His hands lingered on your thighs, squeezing gently as he swallowed hard.

“Yes, ma’am,” he finally said, his voice low and hoarse, the respect and submission in his tone sending a fresh wave of heat through you.

He sat back on his heels, his eyes never leaving yours as he waited for your next command.

You leaned up slightly, cupping his cheek with one hand, your thumb brushing over his flushed skin. His lips were parted, breathless, as if he couldn’t quite believe this was happening. 

“You’ve done so well, baby,” you murmured softly, letting your other hand trail down his chest. “But I need to see all of you. Let’s get this off.”

Joel’s breath hitched, his wide eyes locking onto yours as you reached for the buttons of his shirt. “Yes,” he whispered, the words shaky and reverent, like he couldn’t believe he was allowed this moment.

One by one, you undid the buttons, the fabric parting to reveal the broad expanse of his chest.

You slid the shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall to the bed as you sat back to admire him.

Your gaze swept over the planes of his body—the strong curve of his shoulders, the scars that marred his skin, the soft dusting of hair on his chest.

“Fuck, Joel,” you murmured, your voice full of heat and awe. “Look at you. You’re beautiful.”

His cheeks turned a deep red, and he looked away, swallowing hard. “Don’t know about that,” he mumbled, his voice low and unsure.

You leaned forward, your hands sliding over his chest, your thumbs brushing along the ridges of his scars.

“Oh, I do,” you purred, your tone leaving no room for argument. “You’re fucking perfect, Joel. Every inch of you.”

Your fingers grazed his nipples, and Joel froze, his breath catching audibly. The faintest shiver ran through his body, and he let out a soft, shaky, “Ma’am…”

You smirked, leaning in closer. “Sensitive, huh?” you murmured, circling the hardened peaks with your thumbs.

Joel let out a broken gasp, his hips jerking into the air as his hands gripped the sheets beneath him.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his voice low and desperate. “Didn’t… didn’t know I -.”

“You didn’t?” you teased, leaning down to press a soft kiss to one nipple before flicking your tongue over it. Joel’s reaction was instant—a guttural moan that sent a wave of heat straight through you.

“Sweetheart I-” he gasped again, his hands trembling as they hovered near your waist, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch you. “I—fuck, I—”

“Hush, baby,” you whispered, shifting to his other nipple and sucking it into your mouth. 

Joel cried out, his head falling back against the pillows as his chest arched into your touch.

His hips bucked again, and you could feel how hard he was, straining against the confines of his jeans.

“Fuck,” he whimpered, his voice trembling. “I didn’t know… didn’t know I could feel this good. Please, don’t stop.”

You hummed against his skin, your tongue teasing over the sensitive bud before you nipped at it gently. Joel’s whole body jerked, a sharp gasp escaping his lips.

“You’re so sensitive, baby,” you murmured, sitting back to admire the way his chest heaved, his eyes wide and glassy. “Bet no one’s ever touched you like this before.”

Joel shook his head frantically, his hands gripping the sheets so tightly his knuckles turned white. “No,” he breathed. “Never. Fuck, it’s—ma’am, it’s so good.”

You let your hands drift lower, tracing the sharp lines of his ribs and the soft curve of his stomach. Joel’s eyes fluttered shut, and he let out a shaky moan as your fingers teased the waistband of his jeans.

“You want more, baby?” you asked softly, your voice teasing and full of promise.

Joel nodded frantically, his voice barely above a whisper as he rasped, “Please… please, ma’am. Anything you want.”

You hooked your fingers into the waistband of his jeans, slowly pulling them down along with his underwear, your eyes drinking in the sight of him as he was finally exposed.

Joel’s cock sprang free, flushed and thick, the head an angry, swollen red and glistening with his earlier release.

Pearly streaks of cum had smeared down his shaft, pooling at the base and even dripping onto his balls. You let out a low hum of approval, your lips curling into a wicked smile.

“Such a mess,” you tutted, your voice thick with teasing affection. “You’ve really made quite the mess, baby.”

Joel’s chest heaved, his breath coming in shaky gasps as he avoided your gaze, his embarrassment clear. But his hips jerked slightly, almost involuntarily, at the heat in your voice.

“Aw, don’t get shy on me now,” you teased, your fingers curling gently around his cock, feeling the slickness of him against your palm.

“This is nothing to be embarrassed about. It just shows how much you need me.”

Joel whimpered, his voice breaking as he finally met your eyes. “I… I can’t help it,” he admitted hoarsely, his voice trembling. “You make me—fuck—you make me crazy.”

Your thumb stroked up the length of his shaft, smearing the sticky remnants of his cum before circling the sensitive head.

“I know, baby,” you cooed, your voice softening just a touch. “And I love how desperate you get for me. Let me clean you up first, okay? Can’t leave my good boy all messy like this.”

Joel nodded frantically, his lips parting as a shaky moan escaped him. “Yes, ma’am,” he whispered, his voice thick with submission.

You leaned down, your tongue darting out to trace along the underside of his cock, starting at the base where his cum had pooled and slowly working your way up.

The taste of him was intoxicating, salty and musky, and you let out a quiet, pleased hum as you licked him clean. Joel’s entire body trembled beneath you, his hands gripping the sheets tightly as he struggled to stay still.

“Fuck,” he gasped, his voice barely above a whisper. “Ma’am… oh, fuck…”

You didn’t stop, your tongue swirling around the head of his cock, collecting every drop of his release before moving lower.

Your lips closed around one of his balls, sucking gently as your hand continued to stroke him, coaxing soft whimpers and gasps from his lips.

His thighs trembled, his breath hitching as you moved to the other, lavishing it with the same attention.

“You taste so good, Joel,” you murmured, your voice low and sultry as you pulled back slightly to admire your work. “Such a pretty cock, too. Look at you, all clean and perfect for me now.”

Joel moaned loudly, his head tipping back as his hands clenched the sheets even tighter. “You’re—fuck—you’re perfect,” he stammered, his voice cracking. “I don’t deserve this.”

You grinned, your fingers brushing along the length of his cock, your touch light and teasing.

“You deserve every bit of this,” you said firmly, your voice dipping into a commanding tone. “You’ve been such a good boy for me, haven’t you? Letting me take care of you like this.”

Joel’s hips jerked against your hand, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps as he nodded frantically.

“Yes,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “Yes, ma’am. Please… please don’t stop.”

You leaned in again, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of his cock, your tongue flicking out to tease the sensitive slit.

“You want more, baby?” you murmured, your voice dripping with seduction. “Want me to make you feel even better?”

Joel’s eyes fluttered open, his gaze locking onto yours as he nodded, his desperation palpable. “Please,” he rasped, his voice breaking. “I’ll do anything. Just… please let me feel you.”

You smiled, soft and knowing, before leaning up to press a kiss to his lips. “Anything, huh?” you teased, your voice low and dripping with promise. “Then show me, Joel. Show me how much you want this.”

Joel’s hands trembled as he gripped your hips, helping you straddle him. His cock pressed against your slick heat, and he groaned deeply, the sound vibrating through both of you.

His eyes flicked between your face and where your bodies were about to join, his chest heaving with anticipation.

“Don’t make me wait,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and wrecked. “Please, ma’am. Let me feel you.”

You reached down, guiding him to your entrance, your breath hitching as you slowly sank down onto him.

The stretch was delicious, the thickness of him filling you completely, and you couldn’t help the moan that spilled from your lips.

“Fuck, Joel,” you gasped, your hands bracing on his chest. “You feel so good, baby. So big—.”

Joel’s head fell back against the pillows, his lips parted as a choked moan escaped him.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, his voice shaky. “You’re so tight, so fuckin’ perfect. Feels like heaven, darlin’. I—fuck—I can’t believe this.”

You rocked your hips slowly, letting yourself adjust to the feel of him before setting a steady rhythm.

Joel’s hands gripped your waist, his fingers digging into your skin as he bucked up to meet you, his movements desperate and hungry.

“Good boy,” you murmured, your voice low and commanding as you leaned over him, your lips brushing against his ear. “That’s it, Joel. Let me take care of you. Let me give you what you need.”

Joel whimpered beneath you, his hips stuttering as he clung to you.

“You’re… you’re so fuckin’ good to me,” he rasped, his voice cracking with emotion. “The way you—fuck—the way you handle everything. The way you handle me.”

You tilted your head, studying him with soft affection as your hips moved steadily against his.

“Finally can let go, hm?” you murmured, your tone soothing yet commanding. “Yeah? Let me take care of you, Joel. You don’t have to worry so much.”

Joel’s eyes squeezed shut, his breath hitching as his hands slid up to cup your waist, holding you like you were his lifeline.

“Fuck,” he moaned, his hips bucking harder into you. “I—I worry about you, darlin’. But… but it’s an honor to. Always an honor.”

Your heart clenched at his words, and you leaned down to kiss him deeply, swallowing the desperate sounds spilling from his lips.

His thrusts grew erratic beneath you, his chest heaving as he neared the edge.

Joel’s hands gripped your waist tighter, his fingers digging into your skin like he was afraid to let go.

His breath came in short, ragged bursts, and his hips moved with a frantic rhythm beneath you, desperate and unrelenting. Each thrust sent waves of pleasure coursing through you, your body moving in perfect sync with his.

“You’re so fucking good, Joel,” you murmured against his lips, your voice heavy with affection and desire. “So perfect, baby. Keep going—don’t stop.”

His head tipped back, exposing the vulnerable curve of his throat, a choked moan escaping his lips.

“I—I can’t—fuck, darlin’,” he gasped, his voice trembling with raw emotion. “You feel so goddamn good. Can’t… can’t hold on much longer.”

You cupped his face, bringing his gaze back to yours, your thumb brushing over his flushed cheek.

“You don’t have to hold on,” you whispered, your voice a soothing command. “Let go for me, Joel. Let me feel you.”

Joel’s eyes widened, his pupils blown, and his hips snapped up into you with desperate force.

“You’re—God, you’re everything,” he groaned, his voice breaking as his hands slid up your sides, trembling as they roamed over your body. “Everything, darlin'. Don’t wanna stop… don’t wanna lose this.”

“You’re not gonna lose anything,” you reassured him, your own voice breathy and uneven as you rocked against him harder, the friction pushing you closer to your own edge. “I’m here, Joel. Always. Now, give it to me, baby.”

Joel’s body tensed, his back arching off the bed as a guttural moan tore from his throat.

“Fuck!” he cried, his hands gripping your hips as his release hit him, his cock pulsing inside you with a heat that sent you spiraling.

The intensity of his climax triggered your own, your body tightening around him as waves of ecstasy crashed over you.

Your cries mingled with his, the room filled with the sounds of your shared pleasure, raw and unrestrained.

Joel’s hips stuttered beneath you, his movements slowing as he rode out the last shuddering waves of his orgasm. His hands loosened their grip on your hips, sliding up to cradle your back as he pulled you down against his chest, holding you close.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the only sounds in the room your labored breathing and the faint rustle of the sheets. Joel’s fingers traced lazy patterns on your skin, his chest rising and falling beneath you as he pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head.

“You’re… you’re incredible,” he murmured, his voice hoarse but filled with awe. “I don’t deserve you, darlin’. Don’t deserve any of this.”

You lifted your head, brushing your lips against his with a tenderness that made his breath hitch. “You deserve it all, Joel,” you murmured, your voice steady but warm. “Every damn bit. You’re good to me—you’re good for me.”

Joel’s eyes searched yours, shining with an emotion he couldn’t quite name but didn’t want to hide. His arms tightened around you, his lips brushing your forehead in a lingering, reverent kiss.

"Now rest up. We’ve got work to do.”

· · ───

From then on, you and Joel became Jackson’s most formidable pair. Whether it was managing patrols, handling disputes, or protecting the town, people knew better than to question the two of you. Joel was your rock, steadfast and loyal, while you were the sharp, commanding presence that kept everything moving forward.

He was at your side for every decision, every challenge, always watching your back—and stealing those quiet moments when it was just the two of you. Joel wore his pride in you like a badge, unspoken but deeply felt, in the way his gaze lingered and his touch steadied you.

And every night, as the world outside grew dark, you both found solace in each other—a partnership built on trust, strength, and the kind of love that didn’t need words to be understood.

Joel always said it best in his own way: “Ain’t nothin’ in this world I wouldn’t do for you, darlin’. Always.”

· · ───────────𖥸──────────· ··

I am not beta reading all of that so if y'all find any errors tell me or ignore them like I did the past 22 years. Hope this was fun for you - please comment your opinions (plsplspls). I kinda feel like this is too long idk-

love youuuuuu

[babeyun]

on the rebound ☆ p.sh [m]

synopsis: sunghoon doesn't mind babysitting for the neighborhood mothers - but he certainly doesn't mind when a certain eldest daughter is around to be taken care of, too. genre: acquaintances to ???. older!reader moment (because why not, but also it doesn't really come up.) angst, fluff, smut. this porn has plot, damnit! pairing: babysitter!park sunghoon x fem!older!reader ; mentions of heeseung x reader. word count: 6k rating: 18+. minors do not interact. warnings: swearing, alcohol (that they don't even drink LOL) mentions of toxic relationships, rebounds, reader is only older by a year. smut warnings: oral (f. rec),MUNCH!HOON!! PUSSY EATING ENTHUSIAST HOON!!! nipple play, subtle body worship (f. rec), unprotected sex (don't be silly, wrap your willy!), sub!hoon x sub!reader (just trust me), creampie, subtle breeding kink, wayyy too much whining and whimpering, pet names (pretty girl, baby, etc.) listen to: lie to girls - sabrina carpenter ; number one girl - rosé ; wait - dino ; btbt - b.i, soulja boy, devita ; die for you - the weeknd. author's note: this is for all my eldest daughters out there (not me but y'all stay safe!) i whipped this up while i was procrastinating studying for finals...so apologies if it's shitty (because it is shitty.) also, i dog on heeseung SOOO bad but i promise i love him i just needed someone. this being said, happiest birthday hoonie, i love u!

You and Sunghoon weren't strangers, you wouldn't go that far.

However, there was a good reason that you weren't friends – you were never home when he was at your parents' house. You'd moved out with your boyfriend a month or so into him babysitting your menace of a sister. She was well-behaved for him, but had been an absolute tornado of a child when your mother would ask you to babysit. You were actually the one who found Sunghoon through an ad on social media, and he'd been yet another thing to add to your parents' monthly budget.

Then again, no one told them to have another kid so late in their lives. Or yours, for that matter. You were eighteen when Mina was born, and it'd been a pretty rocky five years since then. You went off to college and didn't really get to see her grow up, and she soon learned you were someone she couldn't depend on emotionally because you were rarely able to stick around outside of holidays. It pained you, but you knew you'd eventually get the time to bond with her.

And that time came very quickly after meeting Sunghoon – because your boyfriend dumped you after six months, insisting he was too busy with school to maintain a relationship. Heeseung was a graduate student, and he tutored on the side for extra cash. Your parents funded your lifestyle, so you'd never worried about anything – until Heeseung sat you down and said that the relationship was stressing him out. 

Needless to say, a week after the breakup – you moved back in with your parents and left him to figure out the rent himself. It was a calculated move, but your parents agreed that you didn't need that kind of energy in your life. It didn't stop you from remembering all the other times Heeseung dogged you – from taking continuous 'breaks' from your relationship in the three years you were together, to falling prey to temptation (read: another woman grinding on him at a bar while you were two feet away.)

And you talked about him to every person you possibly could – including now, your little sister's babysitter as he washed dishes in your parents' kitchen. The conversation hadn't started out this way, he'd actually been telling you how much Mina talked about you while you were gone.

"Anyway, that kid loves you, man." He nodded as he slid a plate onto the drying rack, and you laughed softly. "Mina was born when I was a teenager. She just thinks I'm cool now, she'll go through the phase of hating me when she's older." You shrug.

"I wouldn't be so sure. She talks about you a lot, something about you playing a viobib?" His brow is arched, and you snort. "Violin. I played her the violin one time so she'd leave me alone. I'm surprised she talks to you so much, she has a hard time warming up to anyone. Even my boyfriend can't get her to talk to him."

His eyes narrowed slightly, "You have a boyfriend? Since when?" You shrug again. "Since before I met you. I guess I should say ex, though. Boyfriend is the title he prefers, but not the one he deserves. At least, not right now." You say pointedly, and his brows furrowed as he leans on the counter, arms crossed.

"Elaborate." "You're babysitting my kid sister, not giving me counseling."

"Consider it a perk for eldest daughters who act like they deserve shitty men." He says, a bite to his tone as you scrunch your nose. You sigh, nibbling your lip before rolling your eyes. "We're on-and-off. Sometimes I call it off, sometimes he does. He's in grad school and he tutors, and he said everything was stressing him out. He dumped me a bit ago, and I moved back in here. I'm surprised I haven't seen you around more."

"Right, so what about that arrangement is making you believe that you deserve this sort of behavior?" 

You peek up at him, his brows still furrowed as he awaits your answer. Your stomach tightens a bit as you blink. "I guess…I don't know, actually." "Okay, then ditch that loser." He shrugs, and you scoff. "He's not a loser. He's smart and sweet and we're just going through a rough patch." "If you have to justify his presence in your life or his treatment of you to your friends or anyone you talk about him to, then he's a loser. He sucks and he doesn't deserve to have access to you in any way." Sunghoon clasps his hands in front of himself, and you frown.

"He's nice enough." "Yeah, so is any other guy, babe. You're not gonna give just any dude a chance because he's 'nice enough,' are you?" He peers at you through his shaggy hair, and you feel your cheeks heat slightly in embarrassment. "The fact that you allow that behavior, seemingly quite often, will only make him make you his doormat. He'll do it over and over until he's sick of you, then he gets to dump you and make it seem like it was a mutual thing. You won't win in a situation like that." "It's not about winning." You mutter, grabbing a peach out of the fruit bowl in front of you. He leans back on the island, arms crossed in front of him. 

"Isn't it, though? There is always a prize and a player in a relationship. You," He taps the tip of your nose with his finger gently. "Are the prize, and he's the player. If he's not playing to win you, then he's playing to lose and wasting your time."

You stare into his eyes, not missing the way his brows jump as he leans slightly closer.

"Stop wasting your time on a shitty dude when you can do so much better. Especially if you're really as cool as Mina says. Kids don't lie about people they admire." His tone is slightly teasing, and you roll your eyes. "Mina has thrown eggs at me, I wouldn't be so sure she admires me." "I don't know, she said you're really nice to everyone. That you're funny, you can sing…dance…" Sunghoon lists a few things your sister said while you were asleep, and you feel your ears grow hot. "She also said you're the one who taught her how to do backflips, and that she wants to be like you when she grows up. I'd suggest getting that guy out of your life sooner rather than later so you can set a good example." "Did she mention him?" Your eyes snap up, and Sunghoon shrugs. "Once or twice. She said he makes you cry more often than not." You snort, shaking your head as you look down. "What does she know? She's five."

"Kids see things from an unbiased perspective, they're still learning how to be functioning humans. She associates him with you being upset, so I wouldn't be surprised if you told me that you're 'on a break' right now. I've been listening to you for five minutes and I already don't like this guy. If he cared, he'd be here. He doesn't care." "You're only saying that because it's what I need to hear." You roll your eyes as you avoid the rest of his spiel, and Sunghoon shakes his head, stealing a grape from the ones he washed for you earlier. "I'm saying that because it's the truth, and when I love, I make sure the person I love knows." "You don't even know him." You scowl, and he smirks. "Don't have to, babe. It's all over your face. You look defeated as hell when you talk about him." "Not your babe, Sunghoon." You shake your head, and he shrugs. "Could be, if you ditched that guy. I don't even know your favorite color but I can almost guarantee I'd be a better boyfriend than him."

"My favorite color is green." You mutter, and he leans closer to your face. "Anything else you wanna tell me about this guy?" "Why? You'll just be mean about it." You mumble, licking your lips when you feel his fingers tilt your chin up. He coos, "You're cute when you're defensive over a scumbag." "Stop that." You shove his hand away, and he smiles. "You need a rebound or something. All you've been able to talk about since you moved back is this guy. He sucks, babe." "Ugh, I know! Alright, I know he sucks, you don't have to rub it in." You frown, biting into the peach in your hand. "D'you know he'd never tell me I was pretty? I mean, I know I am, he didn't have to. But it would've been nice to hear every once in a damn while." You chew angrily, before hearing him laugh softly. "You have enough confidence for a man to feel like he doesn't need to tell you that. You carry yourself so well, it's honestly very sexy." You look up at him, meeting his eyes. They're calm and sincere, like he didn't just call you sexy in the middle of your kitchen while you're wearing a random t-shirt and sweatpants. "Me?" "Yeah, you. It's just us in here, Y/N." He snorts, "You seriously need to get over this guy. I don't like hearing you talk about this like you deserved it." "What do you know? You hardly know me." You know your voice sounds bitter, but it only spurs him on. "Don't need to know you super well to know you just need to feel appreciated." "Right, appreciated." You roll your eyes, tossing the half eaten peach in the trash. "Like I'm gonna find that in a rebound." "You can." He nods, making you snort. "Like who? You?" "Sure." He shrugs, and you nearly choke on your own spit. "What? Sunghoon, be serious." "I am being serious. If that's what it takes, I'm all for it." He shrugs again, like this is the most nonchalant thing ever, like he's not offering to fuck the bitterness out of you so you'll act normal again. You gawk at him, "Sunghoon, I cannot just use you like that. We hardly know each other, are you insane?" "Is it insane if I say I want you to?" He leans forward on the counter, a soft blush on his cheeks. You gape at him, his finger coming to close your mouth. "Does it matter how well we know each other? I'm sure it'll be a one time thing, and since we don't see each other often, I don't see the harm." "You want me to use you to get over my ex-boyfriend? You want to be my rebound?" You're shocked at his suggestion, he can tell as he shrugs. "You can use me anytime you want. Think about it." He winks, pushing off the island.

You feel your cheeks grow hot as he leaves the kitchen, letting you sit with your thoughts.

Sunghoon lived a mile away, in an apartment complex you helped him pick out once your parents hired him. Your mother had insisted he live in the house, but your father refuted by saying Sunghoon was a grown man, he needed his own space. You'd taken him to fill out the paperwork, and it was one of the last interactions you'd had with Sunghoon before moving out.

You sigh shakily, running your hands through your hair.

It wasn't the worst idea. You knew that Sunghoon wouldn't have offered it if he wasn't attracted to you, at least. You knew what it was like to feel desired, but something about the way Sunghoon looked at you made you feel giddy.

Maybe it was the promise of feeling something new, or the idea that you shouldn't do it – because he works for your parents. Getting involved with you could cost him his job, if anyone found out. 

You feel your phone buzz in your pocket, and you sigh as you reach to grab it.

Message From: Park Sunghoon (Babysitter) [8:32pm] you know where i live if you're down. [8:32pm] just let me know, gorgeous.

Fuck.

Bad idea, bad idea, bad fucking idea.

It hadn't even been a day since you and Sunghoon had the conversation in your parents' kitchen. Or rather, the awkward moment in your parents' kitchen. 

It'd been three hours. It was nearing midnight as you stood in front of the elevator, the cold December air biting at your exposed legs. You'd gone to a late dinner with your friend Aeri, and you'd be lying to yourself if you didn't admit that her encouragement is what got you into this predicament.

The elevator dings, revealing a young girl and her dog attempting to step out. You give her a soft smile, earning a nod and a have a good night as you step in. You press the button to the third floor, bouncing on your heels as the elevator starts moving. This could be the worst fuck of your life and you won't even know until after, or even during. What if it's the best fuck of your life and then you're just forced to be around him as his employer rather than a potential fuck buddy or even worse, a girlfriend? "Get it together, Y/N." You mutter to yourself, hearing the elevator ding as you reach the third floor. You step out, turning to the right and walking past three doors, before standing in front of his apartment. His doormat is that of a frat boy's – Please Don't Do Coke In Our Bathroom.

You snort, before knocking on the door softly. You hear rustling, and the lowering of a TV before the pitter-patter of dog feet. You hear him sigh as he unlocks the door, his face appearing before you as he opens it. He looks surprised.

"Y/N, what a pleasure." He speaks smoothly, and you roll your eyes. "It's cold, invite me in." You cross your arms across your chest, making him smile as he steps to the side. You walk in, shivering as you carefully step out of your heels. You squat to pet his dog, but she disappears behind his legs. You pout at him, and he just snorts. "She's shy."

"It's fucking freezing outside, Hoon." Your teeth chatter as he closes the door, taking your scarf as you hand it to him. "Well, you're barely dressed. I assume it would be cold when you're half naked." "Did you want me to wear layers and make this take ten times as long? Be serious." You huff, sliding your coat off. Granted, you'd put this dress on with the idea of going to a bar after dinner and posting thirst traps on your story for Heeseung to see and yearn for…

Which is shitty of you to appear in Sunghoon's apartment after thinking that way.

"I don't think you wore this for me, Y/N. You were at dinner with Aeri." He rolls his eyes, and you forget he also has your Instagram. "Man, just take the win. Do you wanna fuck me or not?"

He shrugs, "Do you want me to?" "You wouldn't have offered and I wouldn't have shown up if the answer to either of those questions was no." You say pointedly, and he clicks his tongue. "I guess you're right." "I usually am." You roll your eyes, making him laugh. "Here, have a seat." "What, are you gonna wine and dine me?" You tease, and he smirks, disappearing into his kitchen. "Could say that." You take a seat on his couch, looking around the apartment. He's decorated in a very Sunghoon  way – lots of black decorations and shelving on the exposed brick, an array of books on a shelf to the left of his desk and a record player. You look at his coffee table, the fashion magazines and editorials stacked high.

"You always snoop through people's things?" His voice rings behind you as he holds two glasses and a bottle of wine you're sure you've seen only in your father's reserve. You huff, "Well you leave me here to entertain myself, I'm bound to look around." "Valid. Come on." He tilts his head for you to follow him, your cheeks aflame as you do just that. He leads you down to his bedroom, a large bed with a black duvet in the middle of the room. More books, a few incense candles, a few figurines in the corner of his room. "I like what you've done with the place." "Thanks, it only took fucking forever to figure out what I wanted to do. I think the exposed brick makes for a bigger headache than those home bloggers make it out to be." 

It makes you feel at ease, how easy conversation can be with Sunghoon. He doesn't make anything feel inorganic, but he also doesn't talk more than necessary in order to get his point across.

"How long were you with that guy, anyway? Here, put this on." He holds out a pair of sweatpants, which you take with a quizzical look. "Three years. Uh, Hoon, the point is to be naked here, not put on more clothes." "Is that how it was with him? You'd just show up and strip?" He rolls his eyes, digging a shirt out of his dresser for you. You feel your cheeks warm as he hands it to you, before giving you a glance. "Was it?" "...Kind of." You look at your feet, and he sighs. "Yeah, well…I don't play that. Do you need help getting your dress off?" "Oh, yeah. Just the zipper." You turn, pulling your hair to the front. You feel his fingers graze your back, before he tugs the zipper down in one go. He snaps your bra strap playfully, "We can lose this, though." "Yah!" You swat his hand away, making him laugh as he turns away. "Do you want to watch something or just talk?" "We can watch something, whatever is fine. Just nothing scary, my room is spooky at night." You shudder as you undo your bra, folding it in your hand before tugging the shirt over your head. "Oh, do you intend on driving home after?" "Did you want me to stay?" Your words sound a bit bitter, and that only makes Sunghoon frown as he scours the selection on HBO from his bed. "Dude, the more things you say, the more scummy I realize this guy was to you. Next thing you know you'll tell me he never went down on you." You freeze, and Sunghoon gapes at you as you turn around, pulling the shirt down your torso. "Y/N, you've got to be kidding me." "No, he did a few times, I swear!" You try to defend him, but Sunghoon only scoffs out a laugh. "That's fucking insane. Like, actually insane." "Hoon, you're embarrassing me." You whine, and he only blinks. "Why would you be embarrassed that he didn't wanna eat you out? That in itself is embarrassing for him. Real men eat pussy, and they eat it with gusto." "Shut up." You cover your face with your hands as you hear him sigh. "I'm just saying. Now, come on. Either put the pants on or lie the hell down." You huff, shoving the pair of sweats on before joining him on his bed. This is normal, friends fuck all the time.

Except you and Sunghoon are not friends.

You must've spaced out, because the feeling of Sunghoon squeezing your knee makes you jolt. "What are you thinking about?" "Nothing." You lie, shaking your head. He hums, turning his attention to the random movie on the television. "You're a bad liar, you know?" "Am not." Scoffing, you turn to face him. Your knees hit his outer thigh as you turn, and he gives you a lazy smile. "You are. You were staring off into space and chewing on your cheek for like, five minutes. What's up?" You scrunch your nose, looking down at your hands as he tilts his head. "You can tell me, you know. I don't judge." "Don't you, though? I mean, I'm here after you absolutely dogged on my ex earlier." You snort, and he smiles. "I'm judging your ex, not you. Well, not right now at least. I will always dislike the fact that you think you deserved that treatment, let alone from a guy who probably couldn't even make you cum." Your eyes snap to his, shock across your face as he pinches the bridge of his nose with a sigh. "Babe, come on." "He was nice!" You whine, and Sunghoon just laughs in disbelief. "Don't laugh! It's not funny!" Your lip is jutted out in a pout, before Sunghoon maneuvers you onto his lap. He makes you move up closer, your ass resting high on his thighs. "He really didn't make you finish?" You groan, adjusting yourself to sit comfortably. "I mean, he did a few times. Just not as often as I would've liked. I don't want to talk about him." You rub your temples, Sunghoon's hands finding home on your hips. "Okay, we don't have to. Tell me what you like." "What I like?" You repeat, and he nods. "Yeah. Like…positions. Any kinks, anything I should know to make this the best experience possible."

"...Does it matter?" Your voice is meek, and he rolls his eyes. "Yes, it matters. I want you to feel good. If you don't know, I can figure it out. You just have to trust me." You feel your chest warm at his words, and you glance at his face as he speaks again. "We can go as slow as you want, this is about you." "But what about you?" You toy with the hem of your shirt, and he smiles. "I'll enjoy myself either way, don't worry about me." His hands squeeze your hips gently as he looks down at you. "You okay?" "I'm nervous." You mumble, looking away as he coos. "Baby, you don't need to be nervous. It's just me." His hand comes to hold your jaw gently, making you face him. He squeezes your cheeks gently, making your lips pucker.

"You're so pretty." He smiles as he compliments you, making you roll your eyes in embarrassment. "Stop." "Why? You are. Pretty little thing." He's teasing you, your hands now holding onto his wrist as he inches closer. "Should I kiss you?" "Yes." Your reply is more of a breath, and he chuckles. "Seriously, it's okay. I'm not going to hurt you, promise. Unless you're into that."

"Kiss me already." You groan, making him roll his eyes before closing the gap between you. His lips are soft and taste like cherry Chapstick. His hand lets go of your face, moving slightly down to the base of your neck. Your own hands move to fist his shirt as his teeth nip at your lower lip, a whimper from your throat making him move you impossibly higher on his lap. His other hand moves to the nape of your neck, tangling in your hair to hold you steady as his tongue slips into your mouth. 

"You'll stay the night, right?" He pulls away from your lips, eyes searching your face for any sign of hesitation. You nod as best as you can with his hand in your hair, "Yeah. If you want me to." "I want you to." He whispers, before letting go of your hair. "Can we take this off?" He tugs at the shirt he gave you, and you move to tug it over your head. He lets you, watching the way your hair cascades down your back. His hands find home on your waist, his thumbs barely grazing the underside of your breasts as you look back at him, flinging the shirt somewhere behind you.

He doesn't say anything, only meeting your lips in a kiss. It's softer this time, but your tongue finds its way into his mouth gently. He sucks on it, hearing a low moan from you as your hips cant against his. "Sorry." 

"No, don't be." He shakes his head, pressing chaste kisses to your lips. "Use me however you want, baby. That's what I'm here for." 

"But–" "This is about you. Just let go." He meets your lips once more, kissing you deeply as his hands grip your hips tightly. He moves you against his hardening cock slowly, setting a gentle pace for you. You follow his lead, rutting against him as his hands move upward before you grab them and place them on your chest. He groans lowly into your mouth, thumbs grazing over your pebbled nipples as he drags his lips down your jaw, your soft whimpers filling the air as his teeth nip at your neck.

"S'fucking gorgeous." He murmurs against your skin, tracing his tongue down the gentle slope of your neck, a shudder running down your spine as he kisses down your chest. "Can I?" His doe eyes peer up at you though shaggy bangs, and you nod quickly. Your fingers card through his hair as his tongue flattens against your nipple as you groan.

"Feel good?" He mumbles against your skin. You only breathe out shakily as you nod, your lip bitten between your teeth as he nips and sucks his way across your chest, your nipples glistening with his spit. He scrapes his teeth against one gently, earning a guttural groan from your lips as he kisses up your chest. "Wanna taste you, angel. Can I?" Your pupils are blown as you look down at him, your fingers pushing his hair back as his hands dip below the sweatpants you're wearing. "Can I?" "Okay." Your voice is slightly raspy with lust, and he smiles softly before pressing a kiss to your lips. "We can stop anytime, just say the word." 

You nod, moving off his lap. He lays you back on his pillows, kissing your lips softly before trailing down your body. "So beautiful, baby. Can't get enough of you." He kisses down your stomach, before his teeth catch on the waistband of the sweatpants you're wearing. He bites down carefully, pulling them down your legs as you cover your face with a whine. "Something wrong?" He calls, pulling them off your ankles and flinging them to the ground.

"No." You respond weakly, and he smirks as his fingers land on your thighs, pulling you closer to him. "You're lying." "You're just hot, okay?" You peek at him through your fingers, seeing him shake his head as he snaps the waistband of your underwear against your skin. You jolt as he smiles, before sinking to his stomach and spreading your legs. You hear a soft whisper of shit from his lips. "Sorry? Is something wrong?"

You try to move away, only for Sunghoon to hold your hips down. "You're fucking soaked, doll. Holy shit." 

He doesn't give you a chance to respond, opting to press his face against the sticky fabric of your ruined underwear and inhale deeply, a whine from his throat hitting your ears as he noses at the fabric. "You're so fucking hot."

You feel his tongue before you reply, the underwear a useless attempt at a barrier as he finds your clit easily. Your thighs tense around his head, his preening at the taste of you just through the fabric is enough to make him cum in his pants. "Hoon…" You mewl, your fingers tugging at his hair to get his attention. He only hums in response.

"Take them off." Your whine is loud, and he hastily pulls your underwear down your plush thighs, throwing it over his shoulder as he dives back in, tongue lapping at your wet cunt like a man starved. You're a moaning mess as his pouty lips wrap around your clit, sucking gently as he pushes your thighs open further, working two fingers inside you carefully. He groans at the way you clench around them so tightly, your walls so warm and wet as he curls them into you.

"Taste so sweet, pretty. Would never give this up, ever." He murmurs against your clit, pressing wet kisses to it. You can't even respond, your eyes screwed shut as you cant your hips against his mouth harshly. "That's it, baby. Come on, give it to me." He's whining against your pussy, latching his lips to your clit as your thighs begin to tremble.

"H-Hold my hand." You mumble, and Sunghoon immediately laces his free hand with yours. "Need you to cum on my tongue, beautiful." His fingers find that spongy spot, making your soft belly cave in as your thighs close around his head. A choked moan leaves your lips as you coat his tongue and lips in your orgasm, your body trembling beneath him as you try to push his head away from you. "S'too much, Hoonie-" "One more, baby. You can give me one more." He bullies his shoulders through your thighs, moving to hover over you. He presses his wet lips to yours, your tongue attempting to collect any taste of you off of him. He lets you deepen the kiss, his hand snaking between your legs to rub teasing circles into your clit. Your mouth falls slack, your nails digging into his bicep. "One more, baby. Wanna feel you around me." "O-Okay." 

He reaches over you to his nightstand, pulling the drawer open to find an empty box of condoms. "Fuck, wait. I think–" "Want it raw." You mumble, eyes closed as your hands run under his shirt, fingers tracing circles into his softly chiseled abdomen. His eyes are wide, his hand coming to your face, stroking it gently. "Look at me. Are you sure?"

"Positive. Want it, Hoonie. Wanna feel full." You barely open your eyes as you nod, turning your head slightly to kiss his palm. He shivers slightly, closing his eyes to compose himself as he nods. "O-Okay. Alright." He straightens, pulling his shirt over his head and quickly pushing his sweats down. You don't bother to look down, knowing in your heart the stretch will be worth a thousand viewings. He pulls you to the edge of the bed by your thighs, carefully tucking a pillow under your hips as he rests your leg on his chest. He kisses your ankle softly, before running the leaking tip of his cock through your wet folds. He nearly buckles, the warmth almost debilitating as he eased himself into you. Your mewl is so soft he almost misses it, his eyes darting to your face as he slowly sheaths himself inside you, biting his lip so hard he's sure he'll draw blood. Your lips are so swollen from the kissing and biting that he can't help but lean over and kiss you gently, burying himself to the hilt inside you. Your soft whisper of fuck is against his lips. "Move, Hoon." "You gotta give me a second, baby." He whines into your neck, making you clench around him. "Fuck, fuck don't do that." His hips jerk involuntarily, earning a choked moan from you as your nails dig into his shoulder. He straightens himself, figuring if he's going to cum fast, he'd better make it worth your while. He pulls out almost entirely, pushing your thighs to your chest as he bullies his cock back into you. Your moans are so loud he's lost in them, your chants of yes, yes, right there so overwhelming for him as he tries his hardest to stave off his own orgasm.

"Feel so fucking good, baby. Shit." He whimpers into the air, his grip on your thighs bruising as you mewl beneath him, your hands finding his wrists. "Kiss me, Hoonie. Wan' a kiss.." He leans forward, the kiss a mess of teeth and tongue as he bottoms out inside you repeatedly. His tip is bullying your sweet spot relentlessly, making you whine into his mouth. "Want you to cum in me." You whisper, and he almost stops as the words hit his ears but your nails drag down his back. "Want you to fill me up, Hoonie. Please."

"Anything you want, fuck. I'll give you anything, baby." His voice is choked as he trails his lips down your neck, feeling your cunt flutter around him in that oh-so-familiar way. "Gonna cum for me? Gonna cream all over this dick?" You only whimper in response, your teeth sinking softly into his shoulder. He feels himself spill inside you at the sensation, a deep groan from his soul as you cum right after. He doesn't stop working the two of you through it, his hips bordering the two of you into overstimulation as you claw at him.

He feels his skin sticky as he rests his forehead on your shoulder, your fingers now flat against the muscle of his back as you breathe in deeply. You shift slightly beneath him, before patting his shoulder. "I don't…I can't get up, I don't think. I can't feel my legs." You rasp, and he chuckles into your skin.

"Yeah, that's usually what's supposed to happen." He replies smugly, earning a sharp smack from your hand in the middle of his back. "Ouch! What the hell!" "I told you to stop making fun of me!" You huff, and he moves to look at you. "I'm not! Did I not just give you two mind blowing orgasms?"

"I wouldn't say mindblowing–" He rolls his eyes as he covers your mouth. "I made you cum, which was the goal. Was it not?" "No, the goal was to get over my ex." You say, muffled by the palm of his hand. He ponders a bit, before looking down at you intently. "Well, are you?" You feel your cheeks flush as you look away. "Maybe. Might need to go again, don't know. Not fully convinced." "Not fully convinced, she says." He removes his hand from your mouth as he teases you gently, and you roll your eyes. "Okay, fine. You're good, you got me." You admit tiredly, and he smiles.

"For how long?" "What?" You look up at him, and he shrugs. "How long do I have you?" You let your eyes scan his face as he looks down at you with curiosity in his eyes. You scoff, an amused tone to your voice. "You like me." "Obviously." He rolls his eyes, "Otherwise I wouldn't have offered." "You sly little minx. Luring me in here with the premise of getting me over my ex, knowing I'm on the rebound." You poke his chest, and he scoffs. "Clearly, you like me too. Or else you could've absolutely dodged my offer." "Or maybe I think you're hot and wouldn't mind seeing you outside of the cute little necklaces my sister makes you wear." You tease, and he shrugs. "I'll take what I can get. Either way, do you feel better? Less thoughts about that idiot, more good feelings?" You nod, sitting up on your elbows. "Let me take you to dinner, Hoon." He blinks at you, before glancing at the clock on his nightstand. "It's two in the morning, babe." "Not right now. Later. After you're done babysitting." You say, and he raises his brows. "Are you sure?" "I wouldn't offer if I didn't want to." Your tone is pointed, and he scoffs. "You want me so fucking bad." "In your dreams. Get off me, I'm all sticky."

He does just that, and takes the most gentle care of you. He lets you lean against him in the shower, he shampoos your hair and steals kisses when you least expect it. He changes his sheets while you try to sit comfortably in his desk chair, complaining of sore hips and thighs as he smirks to himself. "So much for a rebound, huh?" He murmurs into your hair as you snuggle into his side, making you snort. "Go to sleep, Sunghoon. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, babe."

"Not your babe, Hoon."

"Not yet."

BABEYUN © 2024. no translations, reposting or modifications are allowed. do not claim as your own. viewer discretion is advised. your media consumption is your responsibility.

[neellscapsule]

the sunshine gentleman

summary | after discovering batman's identity, you continue your work as a secretary for bruce, keeping the secret; then, some days before christmas, your brother visits you. 

pairing | bruce wayne x kent!reader ; platonic clark kent x reader

warnings / tags | fluffy, jealous bruce, clark being the best big brother ever, mentions of drunk sad bruce

word count | 4.5k

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first languaje so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :)

this is part of the kent!batmom!reader series. you don't need to read the other parts to understand this since this is about bruce and batmom's past.  this can be read as wayne's secretary part 2.

taglist | @maolen @joonunivrs @c4ssi4-luv @fanfics4ever @inejskywalker @radenxd @resting-confused-face @fionnalopez @stargirl9911 @idek101-01

YOU WENT BACK TO WORK LIKE NOTHING HAD HAPPENED.

Well… almost like nothing had happened.

Because things had changed, and even if neither of you said a word, you could feel the shift humming beneath the surface like a quiet electrical current. You knew he knew that you knew. And Bruce Wayne—professional, stone-faced, emotionally constipated Bruce Wayne—wasn’t exactly the type to bring up rooftop vigilante confessions or bloody couch collapses during your Monday morning coffee run.

Still, he was watching you differently now.

You’d catch it sometimes—those moments when your head was bent over your keyboard, fingers flying across the calendar updates, only to glance up and find his eyes already on you. Not in that fleeting, distracted way he used to. No. This was different. Intentional. Like he was studying you, trying to memorize something he didn’t realize he’d forgotten.

You never mentioned it.

You didn’t mention the fact that your salary had mysteriously doubled, either. One morning you just… opened your paystub and blinked at the number for a solid five minutes.

You almost choked on your coffee.

Then you laughed—alone, startled, dryly amused.

Not because you weren’t grateful, but because part of you worried what it might look like. You hadn’t told anyone about Bruce’s second identity. Not even Clark. And yet, here you were, getting a suspiciously generous raise right after patching up Gotham’s most elusive vigilante on your couch.

Still, you didn’t say anything to him about the money. Just like he didn’t say anything about the fact that you’d seen him half-dressed and bleeding.

Silence was your shared language now.

Christmas crept closer on the calendar, your week-long vacation to Smallville already approved—and then extended by Mr. Wayne himself without warning or comment. You noticed it on the scheduling software one quiet Wednesday morning and blinked, eyebrows furrowed.

“Two weeks,” you said under your breath, squinting at the screen. “Did I… request two?”

You hadn’t.

He couldn’t say he wanted you to rest. Couldn’t say he wanted you safe, far from rooftops and broken ribs and the kind of darkness Gotham swallowed people in.

You could’ve marched into his office and asked—but you didn’t. You figured this was Bruce’s way of doing something nice without ever being seen doing it.

You let it go.

Instead, you buried yourself in your task list: confirming board meetings, answering endless phone calls, redirecting holiday invitations, scheduling the year-end Wayne Foundation charity appearances, finalizing travel logistics, fixing one of Mr. Wayne’s glaring calendar conflicts that would’ve had him at two galas and a board retreat on the same night.

Currently, you were typing out an email to the Metropolis city hall offices—following up on a donation Wayne Enterprises had pledged—when the phone rang.

You didn’t even glance at the caller ID.

Your hand reached for the receiver automatically, tucking it between your ear and shoulder as you continued typing.

“Mr. Wayne’s office,” you said brightly. “This is Y/N.”

There was a slight crackle on the line, followed by Eloise’s chipper voice from the front desk. “Hi, sweetie. Sorry to bother—there’s a man here—”

“Oh, go ahead and send him up,” you said, not really listening, half-focused on the typo correction blinking at you on screen. “He’s probably here for Mr. Wayne.”

“Wait—”

You hung up.

Exactly three seconds later, Bruce’s office door opened.

You didn’t even turn at first.

“Who was it?” he asked, his voice low and casual, but there was something in the tone—something tense, like a wire pulled too tight.

You glanced over your shoulder. “Don’t know. I told Eloise to send him up.”

He stared at you.

You blinked. “What?”

The tension crackled between you like static. Like the moment before lightning splits the sky. And you hated how you couldn’t stop remembering the look on his face when you asked if he wanted to stay. The way he’d looked at you when you called him complicated. The way he hadn’t denied it.

You opened your mouth to ask if he wanted you to bring water or coffee or a distraction, but then—

“Y/N?”

Your head whipped toward the elevator. The voice was warm. Familiar. Deep and smooth and impossibly safe.

Your heart leapt.

“Clark?” you gasped.

And then you were running—faster than you could remember moving in heels—across the office floor, the thick plush carpet muffling the sound of your footsteps.

Your brother stood in the doorway, tall and broad and unmistakable in that sweet, dorky way only he could manage. Thick-rimmed glasses sat on the bridge of his nose, and his soft dark hair flopped gently against his forehead, a few strands damp from the misty Gotham air. He wore a gray pea coat and a warm smile so wide it nearly broke your heart in two.

You threw yourself at him.

He caught you with one arm like you weighed nothing, like you were still six years old and couldn’t reach the cookie jar, spinning you around as you clung to his neck and laughed, genuine and warm and glowing from somewhere deep in your chest.

“Oh my God, you’re here!” you squealed.

“I’m here,” he laughed, the sound vibrating through his chest. “You didn’t think I’d miss seeing my baby sister before Christmas, did you?”

You beamed, still in his arms, eyes damp with happiness. “You never come to Gotham.”

“Well,” he said with a sheepish grin, “someone had a pretty rough week.”

You pulled back just enough to frown at him, though your eyes sparkled with amusement. “Ma called you.”

He raised his brows in mock innocence.

“Clark.”

“What? She was worried!”

You snorted, finally sliding down to your feet, still holding his forearms as if to make sure he didn’t disappear again. “Unbelievable. She ratted me out.”

“She said you cried.”

You groaned. “I did not cry. I got champagne on my dress.”

“She said you sobbed.”

You buried your face in your hands. “Oh my God, I’m never telling her anything again.”

Clark just pulled you into another one-armed hug, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

“I came to check on you,” he murmured. “Because you’re my girl.”

You blinked back something wet in your lashes.

You’d always been his. His first little sibling. His shadow. His anchor. His soft spot.

“You still have the same glasses,” you muttered.

“They’re iconic.”

“They’re huge.”

Clark laughed again, his smile wide and impossibly bright behind those dorky glasses. His hair was messier than usual, curling faintly from the cold, and his eyes—those soft, sea-colored eyes—shimmered like safety itself.

“You look good,” you said, brushing invisible lint off his jacket. “You’ve been flying more, huh?”

“Trying to,” he admitted, sheepish. “Kara says I’m too slow. Which is offensive.”

You snorted. “You’re a blur. I’ve seen it. Remember when you caught that meteor? Like. Mid-air?”

He grinned. “What, this old thing?” He mimed catching something, flexing obnoxiously. You slapped his arm.

“I missed you,” you said, more softly now.

He smiled at that, the kind of smile that reached all the way into your chest and stayed there.

“I missed you more, bug.”

There was a quiet cough behind you.

You turned and—

Oh.

Right.

Bruce.

You’d forgotten he was standing there. Your boss. Who was watching all of this with an expression so perfectly neutral you would’ve missed the sharp tension in his jaw if you didn’t know exactly where to look.

Oh.

He thought—

You stepped back slightly, placing a hand on Clark’s arm. “Oh! Sorry. Uh. Mr. Wayne—this is my brother.”

Bruce’s shoulders shifted almost imperceptibly.

“Clark Kent,” Clark offered warmly, stepping forward and extending his hand. “Reporter. From Metropolis.”

There was the barest flicker in Bruce’s eyes—recognition, maybe?—but it was gone just as fast.

“Bruce Wayne,” he replied coolly, clasping Clark’s hand.

“Pleasure, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce took his hand, shook it once.

“Likewise.”

You didn’t notice how tight Bruce’s jaw was, how his eyes narrowed for just half a second when Clark touched your shoulder again in that brotherly, protective way.

Didn’t notice the split-second flash of relief that flickered across Bruce’s face when you’d said the word brother.

He’d been bracing himself.

You’d never know that.

You didn’t see the look that passed between them—brief, measured, masculine.

Your smile widened, the tension in the room bleeding out like a pulled thread. “I was just finishing an email. Clark, you wanna sit while I wrap it up?”

He nodded, then threw a glance at Bruce. “Unless I’m interrupting?”

Bruce’s face didn’t move, but his eyes—those eyes—lingered on you.

“No,” he said finally. “Not at all.”

You turned toward your desk again, heart beating a little faster.

You didn’t miss the way Bruce looked at you then.

Not as a secretary. Not as an employee.

But as the girl who knew his secret. The girl who’d wrapped gauze around his ribs with shaking hands. The girl who hadn’t said a word—because she didn’t need to.

 “Do I get a secretary badge too?”

 “No, it's mine only.”

Bruce watched you go—your arm looped with Clark’s, relaxed, the sounds trailing like music behind you.

He stood there, quiet, still, gaze unreadable.

But inside?

Jealousy had come and gone in a blink. And now, it left something softer behind.

He’d seen the way your eyes lit up. He’d watched it all.

And for one agonizing second—before the word brother—he’d hated the thought that someone else could pull that joy from you.

Not because he didn’t want you to have it but because he wanted to be the reason you smiled like that.

And maybe—just maybe—he already was.

The rest of the afternoon went by in a warm blur.

Clark hung around your desk, alternating between leaning on it, teasing you about how fast your typing was, and wandering through the executive suite like it was a museum exhibit. He made small talk with a few assistants from legal—charming as ever, harmlessly polite, somehow looking both like a bumbling reporter and a walking supernova at once.

You finished wrapping up the weekly emails, flagged three reports for follow-up, and cleaned your desk like you always did before a long break. Clark had taken your swivel chair hostage, legs folded in like a grasshopper as he spun slow, lazy circles, absolutely unbothered.

“Clark, people work here,” you said for the third time, nudging his shoulder as you reached to log out of your terminal.

“And I’m helping morale,” he offered brightly, spinning again. “Look at you. All cheered up.”

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, because watching my older brother act like a caffeinated toddler is exactly what my coworkers needed.”

“You’re just mad I didn’t bring you cookies from Ma.”

You stared at him.

His mouth dropped open. “I knew I forgot something.”

You gasped. “Clark Joseph Kent. You monster.”

He laughed, shoulders shaking, your favorite kind of sound in the whole world. That laugh could turn a whole day around. Could mend a broken afternoon in three seconds flat. It’d been that way since you were little.

“Pa had eaten half of them,” he said between chuckles. “Said something about quality control.”

“Ugh.” You folded your arms. “I bet it was the molasses crinkles.”

“Yup.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I would’ve killed for those.”

Clark smiled as he leaned back in the chair, hands behind his head. “Well. Guess you’ll just have to come home for the rest of them.”

“I am going home. You knew that. You just didn’t want to share.”

“I’m not denying that.”

You kicked the base of the chair lightly, and he spun again, grinning wide.

The sun had dipped low over Gotham, tinting the skyline in shades of copper and soot. Snow hadn’t started falling yet, but you could feel it in the air—the crisp weight of it just waiting for nightfall. It was almost six. You��d already told Mr. Wayne his schedule was cleared. Everyone else in the suite had trickled out.

You closed your laptop slowly, dragging your fingers along the cool edge. “That’s it,” you murmured. “Last one for the year.”

Clark leaned against your chair, his warm hand tousling the top of your hair like he always did. You swatted him, but not with much force.

“You made it,” he said, all soft pride.

You beamed. “And with minimal trauma.”

That’s how Bruce found you.

You didn’t hear his office door open, but you felt it. That soft shift in the air, that weight of a presence even before a single word was spoken. You looked up instinctively—knew without knowing.

Bruce stood at the threshold of his office, silent and sharp in the dim light of the evening, his expression unreadable as ever. He didn’t look at Clark right away. His eyes were already on you.

And for a breath—just a breath—it was like the room quieted.

Clark noticed it too. The sudden stillness. He sat up straighter, adjusted his glasses, and gave a small, polite smile.

Bruce’s gaze didn’t move for a beat longer. Then, finally, he cleared his throat and said, “Y/N.”

You blinked. “Yes, Mr. Wayne?”

He paused.

Clark stood up beside you, suddenly less playful, picking up on something unspoken in your voice.

“I need a moment,” Bruce said.

You glanced at Clark. He gave you a tiny nod and turned toward the hallway, very obviously not listening. 

You stepped over quietly, hands loose at your sides. It felt like stepping into a conversation that neither of you had planned. One that had been waiting in the shadows since that night on your couch.

Bruce’s jaw was set. His eyes flicked to yours, then away again. You waited, patient as ever.

This time, you noticed.

The persona was slipping.

There was no flirty billionaire here. No polished playboy with a champagne flute and a model on his arm. No clever, offhand remarks. No perfectly rehearsed charm.

And he wasn’t Batman either.

This wasn’t the man who bled on your hardwood floors and let you bandage the hidden parts of him.

This was just Bruce.

And somehow, that was even harder to look at. Because he was the one you wanted. Not the mask. Not the myth. The man who looked like he’d spent the last days thinking about something he didn’t know how to say.

You kept your voice soft. “Something wrong?”

He shook his head once. “No.”

You nodded, waiting.

He studied you like a puzzle he couldn’t solve. Something tightened behind his eyes.

“I just…” He hesitated. “I realized I hadn’t said anything.”

You tilted your head. “About what?”

“About Christmas. Your time off.”

You blinked, surprised.

“Oh.”

Another pause. His voice was gentler this time. “I hope you enjoy the break.”

You smiled slowly. “Thank you.”

He glanced down for a moment, then back up. “You deserve it.”

Your heart twisted.

The words were simple—but coming from him? They struck deep. Like a hand brushing the side of your cheek that never quite touched, but left warmth anyway.

“I wanted to… thank you. For your work this year.”

That caught you a little off guard.

You softened, lips quirking gently. “Thank you for not firing me after I spilled coffee on the Q3 reports.”

That pulled a flicker of a smile from him. The briefest upturn at the corner of his mouth. It made your chest ache.

“You’ve been… indispensable,” he said finally.

You blinked again.

You could count on one hand how many times Bruce Wayne had complimented you. And it had never sounded like that before.

“Wow,” you said softly. “That almost sounded like praise.”

He glanced up at you now. There was something in his eyes. Not softness, exactly. But… honesty. A peeling-back, quiet and raw.

“I’ll be with my family,” you said quietly, watching him. “My Ma and Pa. Clark, obviously. My . . . cousin, Kara. And all the pets in there.”

His eyes softened at that. “Good.”

You hesitated, then added, “There’ll be snow. And pie.”

“You like pie?”

You gave him a look. “Everyone likes pie.”

That earned you the smallest hint of a smile. “Then I hope there’s a lot of it,” he said.

You smiled back, not sure what else to say. A knot sat heavy in your throat.

This felt like goodbye. Not just for Christmas. Like something deeper was trying to end itself before it could bloom into something neither of you could handle.

He took a slow breath.

“Merry Christmas, Y/N.”

Your name in his voice was a quiet thing. Almost reverent.

Your chest tightened.

“Merry Christmas, Bruce.”

It was the first time you’d said it like that. Just his name.

No title. No distance.

Just him.

He didn’t correct you. Didn’t move. Didn’t say another word.

You gave him a tiny nod and stepped back, walking down the hallway with your heart throbbing in your chest.

Clark waited by the elevator, arms crossed, his smile patient.

“You good?” he asked, stepping inside with you as the doors opened.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

He watched you press the button. “That was not a professional goodbye.”

You elbowed him gently. “Shut up.”

The elevator ride up was filled with the familiar hum of holiday music through cheap speakers. You leaned against the wall, arms folded, mind still back in the office.

Specifically… in his office.

The words he’d said. The way he’d looked at you. Something unspoken itched at your ribs.

By the time you reached your apartment, the city had gone dark. Snow dusted the sidewalk in soft, fresh layers. The heater hummed as you kicked off your boots, Clark shrugging out of his coat like he lived there.

You gave him a look and then dropped your bag by the couch and flopped down with a sigh. Clark joined you a moment later, settling beside you with two mugs of cocoa he’d made in a blur of super-speed.

“You spoil me,” you muttered, sipping the top layer of whipped cream.

He smiled. “You’re easy to spoil.”

You curled your legs under yourself and leaned your head against the back of the couch.

Clark waited half a beat.

“So.”

You groaned.

“So what?”

He looked sideways at you with the kind of smirk only an older brother could perfect.

“You know what.”

You groaned. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting, I’m just observing.”

You turned your face just enough to look at him sideways. “Observing what, exactly?”

He tilted his head, mock-thoughtful. “Oh, you know. Just the way you turned into a blushing schoolgirl the second Mr. Billionaire said your name.”

“I did not blush.”

“You absolutely did.”

You sat up, grabbing the pillow and whacking him with it.

He took it like a champ. “That’s not denial!”

“I’m not blushing over Bruce Wayne,” you insisted.

Clark grinned. “Bruce Wayne. So we’re on a first-name basis now?”

You glared at him. “You’re infuriating.”

He laughed. “And you’re in love.”

You made a strangled noise and threw another pillow at his face. He caught it easily.

“I’m serious,” he laughed, ducking. “Y/N. You’re in love with your boss.”

“I am not—!” you started, then stopped.

“You’ve got a look,” he said. “You’re doing that pouty-lip, faraway-eyes thing.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“I always look like that.”

He arched a brow.

You gave him a pointed glare. “Okay. Maybe.”

Clark grinned. “I knew it.”

You groaned. “Please don’t.”

“What?” he said, grinning wider. “I’m not judging. I think it’s cute.”

“Clark, seriously.”

“Hey, hey—look. I’m just saying. I know that look. You’re soft on him.”

You slumped onto the couch. “It doesn’t matter.”

He tilted his head. “Why not?”

You exhaled slowly, wrapping the blanket around your shoulders. “Because he’s my boss,” you said quietly. “And because I’m just… me. A girl from a farm. He has models and CEOs on speed dial.”

Clark’s gaze softened.

You didn’t meet it.

“And besides,” you added after a beat, “even if he did know I care… it’d just be gratitude. Or, like, professional respect. Nothing more.”

Clark looked at you for a long, long moment.

You didn’t realize your fingers were twisting the blanket.

He didn’t ask. Didn’t press. Didn’t say the words hovering between your teeth—that you’d seen Bruce Wayne in another light, one only a handful of people would ever witness. That you’d bandaged his wounds. That you knew who he really was beneath all the masks.

Because you hadn’t told him.

And Clark didn’t need to hear it to know your heart was wrapped in something complicated.

“You’re one of the best people I know,” he said gently, nudging your shoulder. “If he doesn’t see that… he’s an idiot.”

The city stretched outside your window, still dark, still sprawling.

You thought about Bruce’s face. The look he’d given you tonight. Like he didn’t have the words. Like maybe, he wished he did.

You pulled the blanket off the back of the couch and wrapped it around your shoulders. Clark reached for the remote, flipping to some holiday cartoon you both knew by heart.

And for the first time all year, your heart didn’t feel so heavy.

The train pulled into Smallville just past dusk on the 22nd, the windows fogged with cold and lined with frost, and for a moment, it felt like the town hadn’t changed at all. As if the moment you stepped off the platform, time folded itself in half and brought you right back to being sixteen with a knit scarf and Clark’s oversized coat hanging off your shoulders.

The Kent Farm was still there. Still white and peeling in some spots, still crowned with snow like whipped cream on top of an apple pie. The big oak out front was bare now, wrapped in tinsel and glowing red-and-green lights Clark must have strung at super-speed. The porch swing creaked like it always had. And from the driveway, you could already smell pie.

The air was so clean it almost made your eyes water.

“Ma’s been baking for three days,” Clark said, tugging both your suitcases out of the car’s trunk like they weighed nothing. “You might have to fight me for the cherry one.”

“Yeah?” you challenged. “Bet she made me my own.”

He groaned. “Favoritism.”

“Younger child advantage.”

“Still unfair.”

You stuck your tongue out at him, racing up the porch. He let you win.

Ma opened the door before you could knock, her arms already out, smile breaking across her face like a sunrise. “My baby.”

“Hi, Ma,” you breathed, hugging her tight. She still smelled like cinnamon and sugar, soft and warm and a little like sunshine.

Behind her, Pa stood in his old flannel, leaning on the doorframe, his expression quiet but fond.

“Well now,” he said, arms open. “There’s our girl.”

You hugged him next, fitting into his arms like you never left. His beard scratched your cheek, and his callused hands were gentle on your back.

“Thought you weren’t showing up ‘til tomorrow,” he said, though you could hear the smile in his voice.

“Got lucky with the train,” you replied. “Clark met me in Gotham and drove me the rest of the way.”

“Mm,” Ma said, ushering you inside, “well, lucky us then.”

The house hadn’t changed much. The old quilt on the couch. The fireplace crackling with kindling and soft orange light. The tree in the corner—short, squat, and lovingly cluttered with handmade ornaments, some dating back to your first art class in kindergarten. Clark’s old stocking hung beside yours, both sagging a little under their own weight. The radio hummed with classic carols in the background.

It was perfect.

You spent the first evening in pajamas, curled up with your feet under Ma’s legs while she threaded popcorn garland. Clark lay on the floor with Krypto in his lap, absently petting it while you flipped through old photo albums and teased Pa about his seventies haircut.

You didn’t talk about Gotham.

Didn’t talk about Bruce.

Didn’t talk about the new pay bump or the way your hands had shaken when he said your name that last day. You just breathed.

And it felt like your lungs could finally fill.

Christmas morning broke with the smell of pancakes and the sound of Pa whistling “Jingle Bells” while frying bacon.

Snow had fallen overnight. Heavy, soft, glistening snow that blanketed the entire farm in silence. The barn roof sagged under it. The wind was still. Clark had cleared the driveway before anyone woke up.

You padded downstairs in fuzzy socks and a flannel shirt big enough to swallow you whole. Your hair was messy. Your eyes still carried sleep.

Ma greeted you with a kiss on the temple and a stack of warm flapjacks the size of your face.

“Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”

“Merry Christmas, Ma.”

Clark sat at the table, already halfway through a second plate. You plopped beside him and stole one of his pancakes with a fork. He glared. You beamed.

“I have super reflexes, you know.”

“You also have super generosity,” you said sweetly.

The day passed in a slow blur of joy.

You opened presents in the morning—socks and books and Clark’s idea of a joke gift (a Gotham travel mug that said “Bat-teries Not Included”). Pa gave you a new flannel, and Ma gave you a hand-knitted blanket in your favorite color.

Clark got a new camera. Ma teared up watching him unwrap it.

After that, there were pies. All kinds. Ma had made you a cherry one just for yourself. You offered Clark half a slice. He acted like you’d handed him gold.

Later, Clark flew out to visit Lois while you helped Ma with the dishes and watched a black-and-white Christmas movie on VHS. You curled up on the couch with the blanket she made you, sipping cider, belly full and warm.

It was the kind of day that didn’t need anything more.

The kind of quiet that healed something.

Even if you still felt the echo of Gotham under your skin. Even if your thoughts still kept wandering back to a cold tower and a lonely office with dark windows. Even if your heart still ached when you remembered the way Bruce had looked at you—soft, almost apologetic, and just a little too late.

It was past midnight when your phone rang.

You were in bed, tucked under layers, the room cold but your limbs warm. You blinked at the screen, expecting a message from Clark—maybe a picture of a food coma from Lois’s house.

But it wasn’t Clark.

The name on your screen just read: Mr. Wayne :p

Your heart stuttered. You answered on the second ring.

“Hello?”

There was a pause. Then a low, familiar voice, quieter than you’d ever heard it.

“Y/N.”

You sat up slowly, fingers tightening around the phone.

“Hi,” you whispered.

He didn’t say anything for a moment. You listened to the background noise—nothing but silence. No city hum. No movement.

“Y/N.”

Your heart skipped. He exhaled through his nose, slowly.

“Mr. Wayne?” you said. 

Another silence. Then, quieter: “Bruce.”

You blinked. “Bruce. Right. No working hours.”

You could hear him breathing, the faintest rustle of fabric. Something slow, heavy. Like he was lying down.

“Did I wake you?” He asked.

Something in his voice made your throat tighten.

It wasn’t the voice of a billionaire. Not even Batman. It was just him.

Tired. Raw.

“No,” you said. “I… wasn’t sleeping.”

Another pause. You lay back down slowly, pulling the blanket higher.

“Are you alright?” you asked gently.

“I don’t know,” he said, so honestly it nearly knocked the breath out of you.

You swallowed.

“I wasn’t sure if I should call,” he said. “Didn’t want to interrupt.”

“You’re not,” you whispered. “You’re not interrupting anything.”

A faint rustle, like he shifted onto his side.

“It’s quiet here,” he murmured. “Too quiet.”

You hesitated. “You’re alone?”

“…Yeah.”

You bit your lip, thumb brushing the edge of the phone.

“Are you… okay?” you asked again, softer this time.

“I think I drank too much,” he admitted.

There was no bravado to it. No self-deprecation. Just a quiet truth.

You exhaled slowly, curling tighter into the blanket. “Do you want me to stay on the phone?”

There was a pause.

“Yes.”

That one word felt like it cracked something open inside you.

“Okay,” you said gently. “I can do that.”

Neither of you spoke for a while. Just breathing. Just… there.

And then:

“Merry Christmas,” he said, his voice so low it was barely more than breath.

Your eyes burned. “Merry Christmas, Bruce.”

You didn’t ask what he’d done that day. You didn’t ask if he’d seen anyone or if he’d sat in that big house alone with all those ghosts and memories and shadows.

You didn’t need to.

He’d called you. And that was enough.

You heard him sigh quietly, the sound tugging something deep inside your chest.

“I think I’ll fall asleep,” he whispered.

“Then sleep,” you said. “I’ll stay.”

“Thank you,” he breathed.

The line went quiet after that.

You didn’t hang up. You didn’t say a word. You just lay there, the phone pressed to your ear, the line still open, listening to Bruce Wayne fall asleep to the sound of your voice.

[abbotjack]

God I hate to be that person but ughhhhhh I love that jack fic where they find out reader is pregnant and I'm CRAVING a second part to that (if you're u to of course). Like, how it'd be during her pregnancy, him being sweet but also worried and protective. Omg I need more soft jack w a baby on the way!!!!!

The Camouflage Onesie

LIFE WE GREW SERIES MASTERLIST <3

content warnings: pregnancy, medical references, nausea/morning sickness, sexual content (explicit but consensual), body image changes, hormonal shifts, domestic intimacy, emotional vulnerability, labor and delivery scene, emotionally intense partner support, and high emotional/physical dependency within a marriage. yeah. pregnancy

word count : 5,735

WEEK 5

The test turned positive on a Sunday. By Monday morning, the entire medicine cabinet had been rearranged like it was a trauma cart.

Your moisturizer had been nudged over to make room for prescription-grade prenatals, a bottle of magnesium, a DHA complex, and—of all things—two individually labeled pill sorters with day-of-the-week dividers. One pink. One clear. Yours and Jack's, apparently.

You found him in the kitchen at 6:42 a.m., already in scrubs. He was calmly cutting the crusts off toast while listening to NPR and making a second cup of coffee for himself.

When he turned, he gave you a long once-over—not in a critical way, but diagnostic. Like he was scanning you for vitals only he could see.

“You’re flushed,” he said. “And your pupils are dilated. You feel dizzy yet?”

You furrowed your brow. “No?”

“Good. You’re hydrating better than I thought.”

You blinked. “Jack, I haven’t even said good morning.”

He walked over and handed you a glass of room-temp water. “I’m loving you with medically sourced precision.”

You stared at the glass. “This isn’t cold.”

“Cold water upsets your stomach. Lukewarm helps with early bloat.”

“Jack.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”

He tilted his head. “I’ve watched septic patients stabilize faster than accountants facing a positive Clearblue. I know exactly what this is.”

You pressed your hands to your face and groaned. “You’re not going to hover this much every week, are you?”

Jack leaned down, brushing a kiss over your shoulder. “No. Some weeks I’ll hover more.”

“I made your appointment already,” he said, voice casual. “Friday. Dr. Patel. 3:40.”

You blinked. “You didn’t even ask me.”

“She owes me a favor,” Jack said. “Got her niece into ortho during the peak of the shortage last year. Trust me—she’ll take care of you.”

You frowned, stunned. “How did you even pull that off so fast?”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “Sweetheart. I’m an ER doctor. I have connections. I can get my wife seen before the week’s out.”

Your eyes welled up suddenly—caught off guard by how steady he was, how sure. You were still half-floating in disbelief. Jack was already ten steps ahead, clearing the path.

WEEK 6

You learned very quickly that pregnancy was a full-time job—and Jack approached it with quiet precision.

The first time you dry-heaved over the kitchen sink, he didn’t rush in with a solution. He didn’t lecture or hover. He just stepped into the room, leaned against the counter, and waited until you looked up.

“Still thinking about that leftover pasta?” he asked softly.

You made a face. “Don’t say the word pasta.”

He crossed the kitchen, wordless, and pulled open a drawer. Out came a wrapped ginger chew. Then he disappeared down the hall.

When he returned, he had your cardigan in one hand and a bottle of lemon water in the other.

You blinked at him. “What are you doing?”

Jack handed you the water first. “You always run cold when you’re nauseous. But I know you’ll refuse a blanket if you’re flushed.”

You stared.

He draped the cardigan over your shoulders.

“You okay?”

You nodded slowly. “I think so.”

“Okay,” he said. “Let me know when you want toast.”

You half-laughed, half-cried, wiping your eyes on your sleeve. “You don’t have to be this gentle every second.”

Jack leaned in. “I’m not being gentle. I’m being exact. There’s a difference.”

Later that night, you sat curled up on the couch, still wrapped in the cardigan, while Jack quietly swapped your usual diffuser oil with something new.

“Peppermint,” he said when you asked. “Helps with queasiness.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And the bin next to the couch?”

“Let’s call it contingency planning.”

You smirked. “You’re really building systems around me, huh?”

Jack looked at you—soft, certain. “No. I’m building them for you.”

He moved across the room and brushed your hair back off your forehead, thumb pausing at your temple like he could smooth out whatever discomfort lingered there.

“You’re not the patient,” he murmured. “You’re the constant. And I’m going to do whatever it takes to keep the ground steady under your feet.”

You didn’t have a clever reply.

You just pulled him onto the couch beside you and tucked yourself into his chest—grateful beyond words that this was who you got to build a life with.

WEEK 9

Jack was folding laundry on the bed when you walked into the room barefoot, carrying a bowl of cereal and wearing his old college sweatshirt.

You caught his glance. “What?”

He shook his head, smiled a little. “Just thinking you wear my clothes better than I ever did.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away. He set a towel down. Reached for your bowl as you sat on the edge of the bed.

“I got it,” you said.

“I know,” he murmured, holding it anyway while you shifted the pillow behind your back. Once you were settled, he handed it back.

You took a bite, then glanced at the basket of half-folded laundry.

“You know that’s mostly my stuff, right?”

Jack looked at the pile. “It’s ours. Who else is gonna fold your seven thousand pairs of fuzzy socks?”

You laughed into your spoon.

He leaned against the dresser and just looked at you for a second. Not in a way that made you self-conscious—just soft. Familiar.

“You’re quieter this week,” he said.

You shrugged. “I’m tired.”

He nodded. “Want to go somewhere this weekend? Just us?”

“Like where?”

“Nowhere big. Just—out of the house. We could rent a cabin. Lay around. Sleep until noon. Let you pretend I’m not watching you nap like it’s my full-time job.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You do that now?”

“Not always. Just when you start snoring like a golden retriever pup.”

“Jack.”

He grinned, walked over, and kissed your temple.

“Alright, no trips. But at least let me cook something tonight. Something warm.”

You sighed. “You already do too much.”

He looked at you seriously then, crouched a little so you were eye-level.

“I don’t keep score,” he said. “I’m your husband. You’re growing our kid. If all I have to do is make dinner and fold socks, I’m getting off easy.”

WEEK 14

By week fourteen, the second trimester hit like an exhale.

You weren’t queasy every morning anymore. Your appetite returned. You could brush your teeth without gagging. And Jack, for the first time in weeks, actually relaxed enough to sit through an entire episode of something without checking on you mid-scene.

You were curled on the couch together—your head in his lap—when he slid his hand beneath your shirt and rested it on the soft curve of your stomach.

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re subtle.”

“I’m consistent.”

You snorted. “You’re clingy.”

His thumb brushed just under your ribs. “I’m memorizing.”

You shifted slightly, tucking your feet closer. “You already know everything about me.”

Jack looked down at you, the corners of his mouth twitching. “I know the before. This part? This is new.”

He went quiet, and you could feel the shift in him—something deeper, more reverent than before.

“I’ve seen pregnancy before,” he said. “But I’ve never… watched it happen to someone I come home to.”

You turned your head to look up at him. “You okay?”

Jack nodded slowly. “I just keep thinking… you’re building someone I haven’t met yet. And I already know I’d give my life for them.”

Your throat tightened. You reached for his hand where it rested on your stomach, lacing your fingers through his.

“We’re doing okay, right?”

Jack bent down, kissed your forehead. “You’re doing better than okay.”

You smiled. “We’re a good team.”

“The best,” he said. “Even if you keep stealing all the pillows.”

You laughed. “You sleep like a corpse. You don’t need them.”

He grinned. “You’re getting cocky now that the nausea’s eased.”

“You’ll miss her when she’s gone.”

“No, I’ll just be glad to have you back.”

You rolled your eyes. “You have me.”

Jack kissed you again. Longer this time.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “I do.”

WEEK 15

It started with the baby books.

Not the ones you bought. The ones Jack picked up—three of them, stacked neatly on the nightstand one morning after a grocery run you hadn’t joined him on.

You noticed them after your shower. He was still in the kitchen, loading the dishwasher, humming something that definitely wasn’t in tune. But the titles made you pause.

“‘What to Expect for Dads,’” you read aloud, holding the top one up when he walked in. “You going soft on me?”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “Hardly. Just figured if you’re doing the building, I can at least read the manual.”

You smirked, flipping through a page. “You’re the manual.”

“I’m the triage guy. I don’t have maternal instincts. I have protocols.”

You leaned back against the headboard. “You’re being humble, but you’re gonna ace this.”

He shrugged, crossing the room to sit on the edge of the bed. “I just want to know what’s coming. I’ve done newborn shifts. I’ve handed babies to people shaking so hard they could barely hold them. But this? This isn’t a shift. This is us.”

You touched his arm. “You’ve already done more than I can even keep track of.”

Jack looked at you for a long moment. Then placed his hand over yours. “I don’t want to just be useful. I want to be good. For both of you.”

You didn’t know what to say.

So you leaned forward and kissed him—gentle, deep. His hand slid to your stomach as naturally as breathing.

You pulled back just enough to whisper, “You already are.”

That night, when he thought you were asleep, he cracked open the book again.

And stayed up past midnight reading about swaddling, latch cues, and the difference between Braxton Hicks and the real thing.

WEEK 16

Jack stood in the doorway of your office for almost a full minute before saying anything.

You looked up from your laptop, eyebrows raised. “What?”

He didn’t move. Just scanned the room—your desk, the bookshelf, the little armchair in the corner that you never actually used.

Then, finally: “Is our house big enough for this?”

You blinked. “For what?”

He gestured vaguely toward your belly, then the room. “All of it. A baby. Crib. Noise. Diapers. More laundry. Less sleep.”

You smiled gently. “I thought we were turning this room into the nursery.”

“We are,” he said quickly. “I just… I keep running scenarios in my head. And this place felt huge when it was just us.”

You closed your laptop. “Jack.”

He looked at you.

“We’ll figure it out. We already are.”

He crossed the room, leaned against your desk. “I’m not trying to panic.”

“I know.”

“I just keep thinking about how everything’s going to change. I want to make sure we still feel like us once it does.”

You stood and wrapped your arms around his waist, head resting against his chest. “We will. You think too far ahead sometimes.”

“That’s my job,” he murmured.

“And mine is reminding you that it’s okay to not solve everything all at once.”

He kissed the top of your head. “I know. I just want it to be enough.”

WEEK 19

Jack was unusually quiet on the drive to the anatomy scan.

Not anxious. Just focused in a way that told you his brain had been working overtime since the moment he woke up. His hand rested on your thigh at every red light, thumb tracing small circles against the fabric of your leggings.

“You good?” you asked, turning down the radio.

He glanced over, nodded once. “Just running through the checklist in my head.”

You smiled gently. “You’re not at work, babe.”

“I know. But I’ve never seen one of these as a husband.”

You reached over and laced your fingers through his. “You don’t have to be perfect today. You just have to be here.”

He gave you a look. “I am here. That’s the problem. I’m so here I can’t think about anything else.”

The waiting room was dim, quiet, and smelled vaguely like lemon disinfectant. Jack sat beside you, legs spread in his usual posture, one hand on your knee. His thumb tapped once. Then again. Then stopped.

The tech was warm, professional. She dimmed the lights. Asked if you wanted to know the sex. You said yes before Jack could answer.

You held your breath as the screen lit up in shades of blue and gray.

“Everything’s looking healthy,” the tech said. “Strong spine, great heartbeat, long legs.”

Jack tightened his grip on your hand.

“And it looks like you’re having a girl.”

You exhaled all at once. Then laughed. Or maybe cried. It blurred together.

Jack didn’t say anything right away. Just stared at the monitor, jaw tense, eyes glassy.

You turned to look at him. “Jack.”

He blinked. “Yeah.”

“You okay?”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah, I just—” He swallowed. “She’s real.”

The rest of the appointment was a haze—measurements, murmurs of “good growth,” the gentle swipe of gel off your stomach. Jack didn’t let go of your hand the entire time.

That night, you came out of the bathroom in an old t-shirt and found him standing at the dresser, staring down at something small in his hand.

You stepped closer. “What’s that?”

He held it up without looking—one of the newborn onesies you’d bought weeks ago in a moment of cautious optimism. Light yellow. Soft cotton.

“You think she’ll fit in this?” he asked.

You smiled. “They’re tiny, Jack. That’s kind of the whole point.”

He nodded but didn’t move.

You wrapped your arms around him from behind. “You’re allowed to feel everything. It’s a big day.”

He turned, wrapped his arms around you carefully. “I think I was more afraid of not feeling it.”

You pressed your forehead to his. “You’re allowed to be happy.”

“I am,” he said, voice rough. “I just keep thinking about how I’m going to keep her safe. How I’m going to teach her to breathe through chaos. How I’ll probably mess it up a hundred times.”

“You’re not going to mess it up.”

He looked at you. “You really think that?”

“I married you, didn’t I?”

Jack smiled for real then. “You’ve always been the smarter one.”

You rolled your eyes. “But you’re the one who’s going to end up wrapped around her finger.”

He kissed your temple. “That part was inevitable.”

WEEK 25

Jack convinced you to finally start looking at houses.

You’d been reluctant—emotionally attached to the place you’d built your early marriage in, skeptical about change when everything in your life already felt like it was shifting—but Jack had waited. Quietly. Patiently.

And then one morning, while you were brushing your teeth, he leaned in behind you, kissed your shoulder, and said, “You deserve a bigger closet.”

That was how it started.

Now, you were standing in a half-empty living room with sun pouring through tall windows and a sold sign posted out front.

Jack had just gotten off the phone with your realtor. “It’s official,” he said, sliding his phone into his back pocket. “Inspection cleared. We close in three weeks.”

You blinked. “We really bought a house.”

He walked over, wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, rested his chin on your shoulder. “Correction: we bought your dream closet.”

You laughed. “You think you’re funny.”

“I know I am. Also, there’s a window bench in the nursery. You don’t even have to try to make it Pinterest-worthy.”

You leaned into him, eyes scanning the bare walls. “I can already picture her here.”

Jack pressed a kiss to your neck. “I already do. I see her trying to climb that windowsill. Leaving fingerprints on every square inch of the fridge. Falling asleep on the stairs with a book she couldn’t finish.”

Your throat tightened.

You turned in his arms. “You really love it?”

He looked at you seriously. “I love what it gives you. I love that it lets you breathe. And yeah—I love that it’s ours.”

Later that night, back in your current house, you sat on the floor with your laptop open, scrolling through registry links and bookmarking soft pink paint samples. Jack handed you a cup of tea, then lowered himself on the couch beside you with a quiet grunt.

“Is it weird that I already want to be moved?” you asked.

He shook his head. “No. It’s called nesting. I read about it in that chapter you skipped.”

You shot him a look. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m the one folding swaddles while you build spreadsheets. This is our love language.”

You leaned into him, content. “Yeah. I guess it is.”

WEEK 27

You’d been on your feet all day—organizing documents, boxing up odds and ends, making lists of what needed to be moved and what could be donated. Jack told you to slow down three separate times, each time gentler than the last.

But now, at 8:43 p.m., you were barefoot in the kitchen, half bent over a drawer of mismatched utensils, when he walked in, tossed a dish towel on the counter, and said, “Okay. That’s it.”

You looked up. “What?”

Jack didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. He crossed the room, took the spatula from your hand, and gently nudged you toward a chair. “Sit. Let me take over.”

You blinked at him. “I’m fine.”

“You’re stubborn.”

You folded your arms. “Same thing.”

Jack crouched in front of you, resting his forearms on your knees. “You’ve done enough today. Let me be the husband who makes you sit down and drink something cold while I finish sorting forks from tongs.”

You softened, your fingers drifting to his hair. “I know you’re right. I just feel useless when I’m not doing something.”

“You’re 27 weeks pregnant,” Jack said, voice warm. “You made a person and folded three boxes of bath towels. That’s two more miracles than anyone else managed today.”

You exhaled and leaned back.

Later, when you were curled on the couch with a glass of iced water and your feet propped on a pillow, Jack settled next to you and tugged a blanket over both of you.

“House is gonna feel real soon,” he said.

You nodded. “She’s going to be born there.”

Jack’s arm slid around your shoulders. “We’ll bring her home to that nursery. Hang that weird mobile you picked that I still don’t understand.”

“You said it was ‘avant-garde.’”

“I was being polite.”

You smiled, tired and full. “We’re really doing it, huh?”

“We are.”

You rested your head on his chest. Jack’s hand drifted instinctively to your belly, and stayed there.

“Hey,” you said after a minute. “Thanks for making me sit.”

Jack kissed the top of your head. “Thanks for letting me.”

WEEK 30

You caught him standing in the doorway of the nursery around 9:00 p.m., arms folded, shoulder braced against the frame like he was keeping watch.

The room was nearly done. Diapers in bins. Chair assembled. Books on shelves. But Jack wasn’t looking at any of that. He was staring at the window, like he was imagining the light that would come through it in the early mornings.

You leaned against the opposite side of the doorway, watching him.

“What’s going on in that head?” you asked.

He glanced over at you. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

Jack cracked half a smile but didn’t move. “I keep picturing her. Not just baby-her. Grown-up her.”

You walked toward him. “What version?”

He tilted his head. “Seventeen. Wants to borrow the car. Has someone texting her who I probably don’t like.”

You laughed. “You’re already dreading a boyfriend?”

“I’m already dreading anyone who gets to be in her world without knowing what it cost us to build it.”

That stopped you.

Jack finally looked at you then—really looked. “She’s not even born yet and I already know I’d lay down in traffic for her. And I know how fast people can break things they don’t understand.”

You rested your hands on his chest. “You’re not going to be scary.”

Jack raised an eyebrow.

“Well. You’ll look scary. Army vet. ER attending. Perpetual scowl. Built like you bench-press refrigerators for fun.”

He snorted. “Thanks.”

“But you’ll love her in a way no one will mistake for anything but devotion.”

Jack leaned down, pressed his forehead to yours.

“I’m not good at soft,” he murmured.

“You’re good at us,” you whispered. “That’s all she’ll need.”

He pulled you into his arms then, one hand resting flat against the curve of your belly. “She’s gonna hate me when I make her come home early.”

“She’s gonna roll her eyes when you insist on meeting everyone she ever texts.”

Jack grinned. “Damn right.”

You laughed into his shirt. “You’re so screwed.”

“I know.”

But he held you a little tighter. Didn’t say anything else. Just stood there in the dim nursery, one arm wrapped around the two of you, as if holding his whole world in place.

WEEK 32

You’d read the pregnancy forums. The blog posts. The articles with vaguely medical sources claiming the third trimester came with a spike in libido. You thought you’d be too sore, too tired. Too preoccupied.

What you hadn’t expected was the absolute onslaught.

It was like your body had one setting: Jack. Crave him. Need him. Get him here, now, fast.

He’d just gotten home from a late shift, dropped his keys in the bowl by the front door, and disappeared into the shower while you laid in bed attempting to not whine out loud. That resolve lasted six minutes.

When he walked into the bedroom, towel low around his hips, water dripping down his chest, you didn’t even mean to say it:

“I’m gonna die.”

Jack froze.

He crossed the room in seconds. “What is it? Where’s the pain?”

You were already on your back, one hand pressed to your belly, the other covering your eyes.

“Not pain,” you groaned. “Just hormones. God, Jack—this is insane.”

He crouched beside you. “You need to describe what’s happening.”

You peeked at him from under your hand. “I need you. I need you.”

Jack stilled. Blinked. Then dropped his forehead to your shoulder with a long exhale.

“Christ. You scared the hell out of me.”

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled, laughing into your wrist. “I just—I’m desperate. I thought it would go away. It’s not going away.”

He lifted his head. Smiled. “Desperate, huh?”

“You’re not helping.”

“I think I am.”

Jack kissed your temple, then your cheek, then hovered over your lips. “You sure you’re good?”

You reached for him. “No. I’m feral.”

He didn’t waste another second.

What followed wasn’t frantic—it was focused. Jack stripped you with efficiency and reverence, lips brushing every newly sensitive part of you. Your belly. Your hips. Your breasts. He murmured to you the whole time—gentle things, grounding things.

“You’re beautiful like this,” he said, kissing the swell of your stomach. “You’ve been patient. Let me take care of you.”

“Please,” you whispered. “I feel insane.”

“I know. I’ve got you.”

He slid inside you slow, controlled, the way he always did when he wanted to make it last. But tonight, there was something more behind it—urgency without rush, intention without pressure.

You clawed at his shoulders, moaning into his neck. “Jack, Jack—”

“Right here.”

“I missed you today.”

“I missed you too. I always do.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck, legs tightening around his waist. The angle shifted, and everything inside you splintered.

“Oh—God—don’t stop—”

Jack groaned, teeth catching your jawline. “You feel so good, sweetheart. So damn good.”

He guided you through it, one hand braced behind your head, the other cradling your hip like you’d break without it. When you came, it was with his name on your lips and tears at the corners of your eyes.

He followed seconds later, low and deep and steady, body shaking over yours.

Afterward, he didn’t move. Just curled around you, one arm anchored under your shoulders, the other stroking your belly in long, soothing sweeps.

“Still dying?” he asked eventually.

You huffed a laugh. “Little bit.”

Jack smiled into your shoulder. “Guess I’ll keep checking your vitals.”

He pulled back just enough to kiss your chest, then your stomach, whispering something you couldn’t hear but felt down to your bones.

When you shifted against him, needy again already, he looked up with a low laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Jack,” you breathed, “I’m not done.”

And Jack—predictable, capable, ready-for-anything Jack—just grinned.

“I never am with you.”

The second round was slower. Deeper. You rode his thigh first, panting against his neck, clinging to his shoulders while he whispered filth in your ear—soft, low things no one else would ever hear from him. He touched you like he already knew exactly what you’d need next week, next month, next year.

And when you collapsed against him again, trembling and sore and finally, finally full in every sense of the word—he kissed your forehead and said, “You’re everything.”

“I love you,” you whispered.

Jack tucked your hair behind your ear and kissed your cheek.

“Good,” he murmured. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

WEEK 35

The third trimester had turned your body into a full-time performance art piece. You were a living exhibit on discomfort, hydration, Braxton Hicks, and the high-stakes negotiation of shoe-tying. You’d stopped fighting the afternoon naps, started rotating three stretchy outfits on a loop, and made peace with the fact that gravity was no longer your friend.

Jack had adjusted too.

Without comment, he now drove you to every appointment. Without asking, he refilled your water before bed. Without blinking, he gave up half his side of the bathroom counter for the ever-expanding line of belly oils, cooling balms, and half-used jars of snacks.

But tonight?

Tonight he came home to find you crying at the kitchen table over a broken zipper on the diaper bag.

“Sweetheart.”

You looked up, cheeks blotchy. “It broke. It broke, Jack. And it was the only one I liked.”

“Hey, hey—breathe.”

You sniffled. “It had compartments. It had mesh.”

Jack took the bag gently from your hands, and examined the zipper like it was a patient in trauma.

“Looks jammed,” he said. “Not broken.”

You stared at him. “You don’t know that.”

He looked up. “I do.”

He walked over to the toolbox without fanfare, and returned two minutes later with a small pair of pliers. Thirty seconds after that, the zipper slid closed like nothing had happened.

You burst into tears again.

Jack set the bag down and pulled you into his arms. “Hormones?”

You nodded into his chest. “I love you so much.”

He smiled against your hair. “You want to take a bath?”

You sniffed. “Will you sit on the floor with me?”

“I’ll bring the towel and everything.”

Which is how twenty minutes later you were in the tub, steam curling around the mirror, your swollen belly just breaching the surface, while Jack sat on the floor, reading your baby book aloud like it was scripture.

“She’s the size of a honeydew,” he said, tapping the page. “Still gaining half a pound a week. Lungs developing. Rapid brain growth.”

You hummed. “She’s been moving a lot today.”

He smiled, reached over, and rested a palm over your belly. “She likes the sound of your voice.”

“She likes pizza. She tolerates me.”

Jack leaned over and kissed your temple. “She already loves you.”

You sighed, settling deeper into the water. “She’s going to love you more.”

Jack’s voice went quiet. “That’s not possible.”

You looked over.

He was watching you like he was memorizing the moment. Like he knew it wouldn’t last forever and wanted to hold every second of it.

“She’s got the best of you already,” he murmured.

You shook your head. “You’re the one who’s been steady through everything. She’s gonna know that.”

He kissed your hand. “She’s gonna know we did it together.”

And you believed him.

Even through the tears, the discomfort, the slow shuffle from couch to fridge to bed—you believed him.

WEEK 36

Jack came home with a basket.

Not from the store. Not from a delivery service. From the hospital. Carried under one arm like it was made of glass.

You were on the couch, half-watching a cooking show, half-rubbing the spot where the baby had been kicking for the last ten minutes straight. Jack came in, dropped his keys, and didn’t say anything at first.

He just set the basket on the coffee table and said, “Robby made me promise I wouldn’t forget to give this to you tonight.”

You blinked. “What?”

Jack gestured toward it. “It’s from the ER.”

Inside: a soft blanket. A framed photo of the team crowded around a whiteboard that read “Baby Abbot ETA: T-minus 4 weeks.” A pair of hand-knitted booties labeled “Perlah Originals.” A stack of index cards, each one handwritten—Dana’s in looping cursive, Collins’s in all caps, Princess’s with hearts dotting the i’s. Robby’s simply read: Your kid already has better taste in music than Jack. Congrats.

You turned one of the index cards over, reading Dana’s note about how you were going to be the kind of mom who made her daughter feel safe and loved in the same breath.

“I didn’t know they even noticed me,” you whispered.

Jack rubbed slow circles against your bump. “They notice what matters to me.”

You looked at him.

He shrugged. “You’re my wife. You’re not just around. You’re part of everything.”

The baby kicked again. Hard enough to make you gasp.

Jack smiled, leaned in, and kissed the place she’d just moved. “She agrees.”

WEEK 38

You’d read about nesting, but you thought it would look more like baking muffins at midnight—not following Jack from room to room like his gravitational pull physically outweighed yours.

He didn’t seem to mind. He’d brush his hand down your back every time you passed, help you off the couch like you were recovering from surgery, and kiss your temple every time he walked by.

By Thursday, the baby bag was packed and parked by the front door. You’d zipped it, unzipped it, and re-packed it twice just to check. And when Jack got home that evening, he nodded at it, then set something down beside it with a quiet thunk.

You glanced over. “What’s that?”

“My go-bag,” he said simply.

You raised an eyebrow.

Jack nudged it with the toe of his boot. “Army-issued. Carried this thing through two deployments and six different states. Thought it’d be fitting to bring it into the delivery room.”

You blinked. “You packed already?”

He nodded, unzipped the top, and tilted the bag open for you to see: a clean shirt, a hand towel, a toothbrush, a few protein bars, and a worn, dog-eared paperback you recognized instantly.

“That one?” you said, surprised. “You always said you hated it.”

“I did,” he admitted, zipping the bag shut again. “But it’s your favorite. I read your notes in the margins when I miss you on long shifts.”

You crossed the room and leaned into him. “You’re something else.”

WEEK 40

You woke up at 2:57 a.m. with a tight, rolling wave of pressure low in your spine. It wrapped around your middle like a band and didn’t let go.

Jack was already shifting beside you. Years in the Army meant he didn’t sleep deeply—not when he was home, not when you were pregnant.

“You okay?” he asked, groggy but alert.

You exhaled shakily. “It’s time.”

He sat up immediately. “How far apart?”

“Six minutes.”

“Let’s move.”

By the time you got in the car, the contractions were coming faster—steadier. Jack didn’t speed, but he gripped the steering wheel like the world depended on it.

You were wheeled in through the ER doors—because of course you were going into labor at the hospital where Jack worked. Princess met you at triage with a knowing smile.

“She’s in three,” Princess said. “Perlah’s setting it up now.”

You were halfway into the room when Jack froze.

He turned to Collins at the desk. “Patel?”

“Stuck behind a pileup on 376,” Collins said. “She’s trying to reroute.”

Jack muttered something under his breath and scanned the monitors. “Where’s Robby?”

“Down in trauma. He’s finishing up a round.”

Jack didn’t wait. He left you in Princess’s care and went straight for the trauma bay.

Robby was wiping his hands on a towel when Jack stepped in. Hoodie half-zipped. Scrubs wrinkled. Wide awake.

“She’s in labor?”

“She’s in active labor,” Jack said. “And Patel’s not gonna make it, but—”

“You want me in the room,” Robby finished.

“I need you in the room.”

Robby dropped the towel. “Done.”

When Robby stepped into your room, you exhaled like someone had lifted a weight off your chest.

“Hey, doc,” you muttered through a contraction.

“You’re in good hands,” Robby said, glancing between you and Jack. “You’ve got half the ER out there whispering about it.”

“Tell them if they bring me chocolate, they can stay,” you joked.

Perlah dimmed the lights. Princess wiped sweat from your forehead. Robby took your vitals himself and kept your eyes steady with his.

Hours blurred together. Jack never left your side.

“You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

“You’re doing perfect.”

“She’s almost here.”

Then everything started to move faster. Robby gave a nod to Princess and Perlah.

“One more push,” he said. “You’ve got this.”

Jack leaned close, his forehead against yours. “Come on, sweetheart. Right here. You’ve got her.”

And then—

A cry. Loud. Full. Brand new.

“She’s here,” Robby said quietly.

Jack didn’t move at first. Just watched. His eyes were wet. His hand covered his mouth.

Princess handed her to you, swaddled and squirming. Jack kissed your forehead and brushed a tear off your cheek.

“She’s perfect,” he whispered. “You did it.”

Later, after they’d cleaned up and the room was quiet, you watched Jack walk over to the bassinet. He held up a camouflage onesie.

“Oh my God,” you said. “Seriously?”

He looked over, completely straight-faced. “This is important.”

“You’re impossible.”

He kissed you once, then again. And held her like he’d waited his whole life.

[carnalcrows]

10 THINGS I HATE ABOUT YOU

pairing: sukuna ryomen x male reader

synopsis: College is hell—but it gets worse when your ex is scheming, your sister just wants to date, and the only guy bold enough to flirt with you might be doing it for a bet. Sukuna is cocky, tattooed, and impossible to ignore. What starts as a setup spirals into something real: a kiss at a paintball park, a night you can’t forget, and a truth that ruins everything.

content warnings: 18+, college au, alcohol consumption, tipsy sex, semi-public sex, morally grey characters, manipulation, betrayal, cheating (implied), emotionally charged sex, lying for personal gain, heartbreak, swearing, slutshaming, emotionally neglectful behavior, public confrontation, yelling, one slap, characters being hot and toxic, unresolved family dynamics, loud party scenes, academic pressure (light), emotionally vulnerable confession in a poem, a little nanami slander, inspired by the titular movie.

word count: 8.0k - art belongs to @/to00fu on tumblr

People didn’t avoid you because you were scary. They avoided you because you made it clear you didn’t want to be spoken to.

No fake smiles. No nodding along. No “haha, yeah” in the hallway. You weren’t mean—you were efficient. Quiet when you could be. Sharp when you had to be. Your sister said it was a defence mechanism. Your last boyfriend said it was unattractive.

You said nothing. And they all took it personally.

So it wasn’t shocking that Gojo Satoru, of all people, took it as a challenge.

He dropped into the seat next to you five minutes before class, sunglasses still on despite being inside, iced coffee in hand like he wasn’t already vibrating out of his skin.

“Okay,” he said, way too casually, “hypothetical for you.”

You didn’t look up.

“What would it take for someone to date you?”

You blinked once. Turned the page of your book. “A lobotomy.”

Gojo laughed like you were joking. “Nice. So you’re saying there’s a chance.”

You finally glanced at him. He was grinning. Bright, smug, stupid.

You went back to your book. “Whatever plan you’re working on,” you said flatly, “leave me out of it.”

“Can’t,” he said. “Your sister’s dating life depends on it.”

That made you pause. Just a little.

Of course it did.

✧✧✧

Gojo said your sister’s dating life depended on you like it were some minor inconvenience. Like you were the problem, and not, say, your parents’ medieval take on dating logistics.

You didn’t respond. You didn’t have to. He took your silence as permission.

“So—” he leaned in, like you were co-conspirators and not two people who’d had a total of three conversations ever, “just out of curiosity, are you into guys? Girls? Hot RAs with emotionally complicated backstories?”

You stared at him. He winked.

Thankfully, the professor walked in, saving you from felony assault.

But Gojo wasn’t done.

Later that day, you found Utahime sitting on the quad lawn, phone in hand, surrounded by three empty bubble tea cups and a stack of psych readings she was pretending to highlight.

She didn’t look up when you dropped onto the grass beside her.

“Gojo’s bothering me again,” you said.

“You bother yourself,” she muttered. “I just get collateral damage.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She looked at you. Actually looked. Her face was too pretty to pull off annoyed, but she tried anyway.

“It means,” she said slowly, like you were a particularly stupid lab rat, “I’ve been asked out twice this week. I had to say no both times.”

You blinked. “...why?”

She stared.

“Oh,” you said.

“Yeah. Oh.”

The silence stretched between you.

“I told them you didn’t care if I dated,” she said, half-hopeful. “That you weren’t, like, emotionally invested or anything.”

“I’m not.”

“Then why won’t they believe me?”

Because once, when you were seventeen, you told your mom that if she let Utahime date some slimy little theatre kid named Kento, you’d report them both to CPS. She’d laughed. But apparently the rule stuck.

No dating for Utahime until her older brother—the one who allegedly told his ex to choke on a thesaurus—started dating again.

Flawless system.

“I'm going to die alone,” she said. “And it’s going to be your fault.”

You tipped your head back and closed your eyes. “Tell Mom and Dad I’m gay. Maybe they’ll make an exception.”

Utahime huffed. “You’re not gay. You’re just emotionally unavailable.”

“Same difference.”

There was a beat of silence. Long enough for you to hear the quiet buzz of her phone screen lighting up.

She didn’t say anything, but her tone shifted.

“I’m not giving up,” she said, almost to herself.

You cracked one eye open. “On dating?”

“On you.”

You frowned. “What the hell does that mean?”

But Utahime was already standing up, gathering her notes and shoving a half-drunk boba into your hand.

“Drink this,” she said. “You need sugar or something. You’ve been looking extra feral lately.”

You watched her walk off, phone already to her ear. She was smiling. Strategically.

You narrowed your eyes.

That couldn’t be good.

✧✧✧

Naoya didn’t usually come to this café. It wasn’t his scene. Too many broke kids and philosophy majors pretending they were deep because they ordered their lattes with oat milk and wore Doc Martens like they invented rebellion. But today, he made an exception. He had a plan, and it needed someone very specific. Someone fucked-up enough to say yes.

Sukuna sat in the corner, back to the wall, hood up, earbuds in—but not playing anything. Just a signal: don’t talk to me unless you want problems. Naoya talked to him anyway.

He didn’t bother with greetings. Just slid into the seat across from him, like they were equals. Like Sukuna wasn’t already deciding if he wanted to walk out or throw his drink in Naoya’s face.

“You’re bored, right?” Naoya said. “You walk around like nothing matters. Like you’re above it all.”

Sukuna didn’t look up. “You’ve got five seconds to stop wasting my time.”

Naoya smirked. “You know Ijichi, yeah? The older one. Poetry kid. Looks like he hates everyone.”

Now, Sukuna looked at him. Not surprised—just interested enough to pause.

Naoya kept going, casual like he wasn’t holding a knife under the table. “He’s my ex. And he’s been going around acting like he’s too good for everyone now. Like he dumped me. Like I’m the joke.”

Sukuna raised an eyebrow. “...didn’t he?”

Naoya ignored that. “I want you to date him.”

That made Sukuna smile. Or something like it. Barely there. Sharp. “You want me to fuck your ex?”

“No. I want you to make him fall for you. Properly. The whole show. Make him trust you. Think you care.” Naoya leaned in. “Then you dump him. Publicly. Leave him the way he left me. Let everyone see it.”

Sukuna studied him like he was a puzzle with missing pieces. “You want revenge.”

“I want to win.”

There was a long silence. Sukuna tilted his head, just slightly. “What’s in it for me?”

Naoya smiled. “If you pull it off, I’ll owe you. I’ve got connections. People who look the other way. Professors. Admin. You’re smart, but your grades are shit. I can fix that.” He paused. “Or—if you’re more into humiliation—I’ll read one of Gojo’s poems at open mic night. Dead serious.”

That got an actual laugh out of Sukuna. Soft. Cruel.

He leaned back in his seat and cracked his knuckles, slow and deliberate. “You think your ex is dumb enough to fall for me?”

Naoya’s grin curled like a cigarette being lit. “I think you’re pretty enough to make it happen.”

Sukuna tilted his head like the whole thing was beneath him—but maybe still worth his time.

He grabbed his drink, stood slowly, and gave Naoya a look that didn’t say yes or no—just, watch me.

“Sure,” he muttered, turning to leave. “Could use something to do.”

He didn’t wait for Naoya’s reply. Didn’t care.

Because the truth was—he’d already seen you around. And maybe, just maybe, he’d been waiting for an excuse.

✧✧✧

The campus bookstore was one of your favourite places to be ignored.

Not the main one—too many screaming first-years buying overpriced highlighters. No, this one was tucked into the corner of an old side street, half-forgotten and dimly lit. Records lined one wall, poetry chapbooks on the other. The kind of place where no one asked questions if you sat on the floor and read for an hour without buying anything.

You were thumbing through the “melancholy bastard” section—Leonard Cohen, Elliott Smith, the usual suspects—when someone moved into your peripheral vision. Slow. Purposeful. Close enough to make it obvious, not close enough to say hi.

You glanced up. Froze.

He was taller than you expected. Sharper, too. Hair pulled back in a lazy knot, a black hoodie stretched across broad shoulders, sleeves shoved up to the elbow. You recognised him instantly. Everyone did. Sukuna Ryomen wasn’t a person so much as a rumour with cheekbones.

He didn’t say anything. Just flipped through records two rows over like he wasn’t fully aware of your existence—like he wasn’t performing not noticing you.

So you ignored him right back. Or tried to. Until he spoke.

“Pretty sure you already read that one.”

You glanced at the book in your hand. Sylvia Plath.

“Maybe I like rereading things,” you said.

Sukuna’s mouth curled into the ghost of a smile. “Sure. Or maybe you just like being sad on purpose.”

You turned fully to face him. “You following me, or are you just naturally this annoying?”

“Neither,” he said, stepping closer now, not even pretending anymore. “You’re just loud for someone who pretends not to want attention.”

Your jaw clenched. “I’m not loud.”

“You are,” he said, so casually it felt surgical. “But it’s fine. I like loud.”

You stared at him. He stared back, lazy and unbothered, like this entire conversation was just a thing he was trying on for size.

Then he held up a record—slowly, deliberately—like an offering. The Smiths. Of course.

“Not my type,” you said.

He grinned. “Good thing I didn’t ask.”

And then he turned and walked out.

No name. No number. Just static, and you're holding a book that you suddenly can’t read anymore.

✧✧✧

He didn’t come up to you again the next day. Or the one after that. Which would’ve been fine, except now you were aware of him. Aware in the way a body is aware of a bruise: a low ache, something you’d keep accidentally brushing up against.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That the record store thing was nothing. That you weren’t flattered, weren’t intrigued, weren’t still thinking about the way he looked at you like he already knew how the story would end. But then he started showing up.

Once in the library, at the table across from yours. Once in the dining hall, passing close enough to brush shoulders. And once—most irritatingly—in your creative writing elective, which you were sure he hadn’t been enrolled in the week before.

He didn’t say anything for a while. Just… hovered. Orbiting your schedule like it was gravitational. Always on the edge of your attention. Never too obvious. But you weren’t stupid. You’d seen this game before. Some guys flirted with flowers. Others with sarcasm. Sukuna, apparently, flirted with proximity and smirks.

The next time he spoke to you, it was after class, some Thursday afternoon that already felt like a headache. You were halfway down the hallway when he fell into step beside you, calm like you’d invited him.

“You free tonight?” he asked, like you were mid-conversation.

You didn’t even look at him. “Do I look like I am?”

He hummed. “Hard to tell. You’ve got the kind of face that always looks annoyed.”

You stopped walking. Turned to face him. “Are you flirting with me, or just bored?”

Sukuna shrugged, unbothered. “Why can’t it be both?”

You stared at him. He stared back. There was something maddening about the way he held eye contact—like he wasn’t afraid of anything you could say. Like he didn’t believe you could hurt him.

“Look,” you said flatly, “whatever this is? You can stop. I’m not interested.”

He tilted his head. “You sure?”

“Positive.”

He smiled, soft and slow. “Alright.” Then, almost like it was nothing: “You’ll change your mind.”

And then he walked off. No argument. No doubling down. Just that fucking smugness trailing after him like cigarette smoke.

You watched him go, jaw tight, heart doing something it shouldn’t have been doing. You hated people like that. People who were too confident, too casual. The kind of confidence that meant they never really got rejected, only delayed.

Still, you told yourself it was over. That he got the message. That someone like Ryomen Sukuna—someone cold, magnetic, and clearly a walking disaster—wouldn’t waste time chasing someone who wasn’t biting.

You were wrong, obviously.

✧✧✧

Utahime wasn’t sure what annoyed her more—the fact that Gojo had somehow gotten into her French class halfway through the semester, or the fact that he kept insisting it was fate. Not like “divine intervention” fate. More like “we made eye contact one time outside the dining hall and now we have to get married” fate. Which, for Gojo Satoru, was probably the same thing.

Today, he’d positioned himself at the desk next to hers with all the subtlety of a hurricane. Notebook open, sleeve rolled up just enough to show the faint tan line from a friendship bracelet someone had clearly made for him. Probably Utahime’s roommate. Or her professor. Or both.

“Je veux du café,” he said smoothly, pencil twirling between his fingers. “I want coffee. Which I do. Right now. With you.”

Utahime stared at him. “I want a lobotomy.”

Gojo grinned. “How do you say that in French?”

She didn’t answer. Mostly because she didn’t know, and partly because answering would be giving him exactly what he wanted—attention, reaction, eye contact that lingered a second too long.

Which she gave him anyway.

Because she was weak. And he was pretty. And she hated that about herself.

“I cry during movies,” Gojo added, like that would help. “And I recycle. I’m, like, morally irresistible.”

Before she could threaten him with physical harm, Naoya dropped into the seat on her other side like a glitch in the matrix. She hadn’t even seen him come in.

“Utahime,” he said, voice dipped in manufactured charm, “you’re looking…”

“Don’t,” she cut in. “Don’t finish that sentence.”

He smirked. “Feisty.”

Gojo leaned back in his seat, letting his arm drape casually behind Utahime’s chair. “We’re doing adjectives now? I can play. She’s radiant. Intelligent. Dangerously under-caffeinated.”

Naoya scowled at him. “Aren’t you supposed to be gay?”

Gojo’s grin sharpened. “I’m supposed to be a lot of things.”

Utahime sighed, grabbing her books. “I’m getting coffee.”

“Alone or fake-alone?” Gojo asked, already rising with her.

“You’re following me.”

“I’m practising immersion.”

Naoya frowned. “I could come, too.”

Utahime didn’t answer. She just walked off with Gojo trailing behind her like a heatwave. Naoya watched them leave, something bitter flickering behind his eyes.

Across the room, Geto—Gojo’s longtime friend and reluctant enabler—looked up from his sandwich.

“You’re losing,” he said helpfully.

Naoya turned to him. “Who even are you?”

Geto shrugged. “A prophet, apparently.”

And then he went back to eating like nothing had happened.

✧✧✧

You’d always hated group work. It was academic Tinder—awkward pairings, fake small talk, and someone inevitably doing all the work while the other coasted on vibes and a vaguely tragic backstory. You’d perfected the art of preemptively claiming a seat at the edge of the classroom, angled just far enough to be left out of any “everyone find a partner!” moments.

So when Professor Yaga said, “Pair off for today’s workshop,” you didn’t even flinch. You just opened your notebook and waited for some poor idiot to make eye contact with you long enough to get guilted into joining.

What you did not expect was Sukuna Ryomen to slide into the chair next to you like he’d been assigned to you by the devil himself.

“You’re late,” you said flatly, not looking up.

He shrugged. “I’m unpredictable.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he said, folding his arms behind his head, “here I am. Partnered with you. Fate’s weird like that.”

You didn’t reply. If you didn’t give him attention, maybe he’d get bored and go haunt someone else.

No such luck.

Sukuna leaned over like he was actually going to read your notes, which would’ve been hilarious if it weren’t also extremely annoying. “So… what are we doing?”

You side-eyed him. “I’m doing the assignment. You’re vibing.”

He grinned. “I like your handwriting.”

“Thanks. I use it exclusively to write insults.”

“Write one for me.”

You turned to him, finally, incredulous. “You want me to insult you?”

“Sure. Most people just talk behind my back.”

You blinked. For half a second, you caught something real in his voice. But then he smiled again, lazy and crooked, like he’d flipped a switch and gone back to whatever version of himself he thought you wanted to see.

You looked away. “I don’t know what your deal is,” you said. “But it’s not working.”

“What’s not working?”

“This.” You gestured vaguely. “The whole dark-and-mysterious routine. The sudden interest in me. The flirting that’s somehow also condescending. Whatever game you’re playing—it’s boring.”

Sukuna was quiet for a beat too long. Then: “Damn. Tell me how you really feel.”

You turned back to your notes. “I did.”

He didn’t say anything for the rest of the class. Didn’t lean in. Didn’t smirk. Just sat there, too still. Too quiet. Like maybe—for once—you’d actually surprised him.

And you told yourself that was the end of it. That you’d won. That this weird little game had finally hit a wall he couldn’t smooth-talk his way around.

But later that day, when you opened your locker, there was a Post-it stuck inside. Black ink. Slanted handwriting.

“I’m not flirting. I just like the way you look when you hate me.” —S.R.

You crumpled it and threw it away.

Then stood there for another twenty seconds, staring at the empty space where it had been.

✧✧✧

You were already regretting everything by the time you got to the front steps of the frat house. The music was so loud it vibrated through your shoes, some bastard remix of a pop song you didn’t recognise, drowning out your thoughts. You tugged at your sleeves, scowled at the flashing lights, and turned toward Utahime. “We’re not staying long.”

She rolled her eyes. “You say that like I didn’t blackmail you into coming.”

“I’m still not sure how you did that.”

“I know what happened in freshman year with that T.A.,” she said sweetly. “And I still have the screenshots.”

You glared. “You are the worst.”

“And yet,” she smiled, “you’re here.”

The house was packed. Someone was already puking into the hedge. Inside, it smelled like cheap beer, weed, and something tragically floral—like a Bath & Body Works exploded. You manoeuvred your way through the crowd, ignoring every attempt at conversation, every accidental brush of arms. You were just here to babysit. To make sure Utahime didn’t end up locked in a bathroom crying because Naoya said something gross about astrology.

And of course Naoya was here. Centre of attention, glittering in that way only rich, boring people knew how to do. He spotted Utahime instantly and made a beeline for her, offering a drink and a smirk that probably worked on freshmen with low standards.

You watched from the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, mood already circling the drain. And that’s when you felt it—his presence. Like a shift in pressure, a temperature drop, the back of your neck prickling for no good reason.

Sukuna.

Leaning against the hallway wall, red solo cup dangling from his fingers, eyes on you. Not on the party. Not on the crowd. You.

He didn’t wave. Didn’t smile. Just watched you like he was waiting for something. You looked away fast, heart doing something stupid in your chest. You hated that he got under your skin so easily. Hated even more that he knew it.

Time blurred. The music got louder. You ended up with a drink you didn’t ask for and downed it faster than necessary. It burned. You didn’t care.

Another cup. Another burn.

And then—somewhere between your third drink and Utahime yelling “YOLO is dead, stop saying that” at Naoya—you found yourself in the living room, lights flashing, bodies moving around you like smoke, and someone yelling for you to “get on the table if you’re hot.”

You didn’t remember climbing up. Didn’t remember deciding that dancing was a good idea. All you remembered was the heat in your face, the weightlessness in your limbs, and the absolutely feral look Sukuna gave you from across the room.

His expression didn’t change, but his posture did. He stood straighter. The cup disappeared from his hand. His eyes followed you like you were a threat he wanted to keep close.

You moved to the music, loose and loud and lit up with the kind of recklessness you usually buried under sarcasm and disdain. People were cheering. Someone whistled. You didn’t care.

Sukuna was at the base of the table now. Right below you. Watching. Waiting.

You dropped into a crouch, leaned forward, close enough to speak into his ear if you wanted to.

You didn’t.

But you almost did.

Instead, you held his gaze for one beat too long. The kind of look that felt like a dare.

You jumped down off the table, blood hot and your head swimming with smoke and sugar. The crowd swallowed you whole, but your eyes found him instantly, leaning against the wall like he owned it, red cup in hand, lip caught between his teeth.

Sukuna.

His eyes were locked on you. Sharp. Starved.

You didn’t even think—just pushed through the bodies, grabbed his shirt, and muttered something like “upstairs, now.”

He followed.

Didn’t say a word. Just pressed a hand to your lower back and let you drag him through the chaos, up the stairs, into the nearest room with a door you could slam shut behind you.

The lock clicked.

And then your mouth was on his.

It was messy, clumsy at first, all teeth and breath and too many hands trying to touch at once. He groaned into the kiss when you pushed him up against the wall, his fingers tightening on your hips like he’d been waiting for this all damn semester.

Your shirt came off first. His followed. Then yours again, because he wanted to see. Touch. Explore the heat under your skin and the way your breath hitched when his mouth dragged down your throat.

“Fuck,” he whispered, against your collarbone, like you were something sacred and ruined all at once.

You backed toward the bed, pulling him with you. Fell into the mattress, legs tangled, teeth clashing, laughing into his mouth when he groaned your name like it hurt.

When he settled between your thighs, grinding down just hard enough to make your spine arch, you gasped. Grabbed at him. Let your head fall back with a choked sound you didn’t mean to let slip.

“Still hate me?” he asked, breath hot against your jaw.

“Shut the fuck up,” you muttered, pulling him closer.

You didn’t stop touching him. Didn’t stop moving. Your bodies slid together like they’d done this before—like they needed it. Your fingers digging into his back. His mouth on your throat, your chest, your stomach. The way he kissed you after every gasp—like he wanted to savour it. Make sure you never forgot.

And you wouldn’t.

Not the way he whispered your name right before you came. Not the way he held your face when you did. Not the way he kissed you after, slow and reverent, like he hadn’t just destroyed you.

You lay there in silence, bodies warm and wrecked and too tangled to pretend it meant nothing.

And you knew, even then: This wasn’t just a party hookup.

This was the moment you’d remember tomorrow—when it all came crashing down.

✧✧✧

You woke up with the kind of hangover that made you question every life decision from age seven onward. Your mouth tasted like regret. Your head pulsed like there was a rave happening behind your eyes. You blinked at the ceiling for a full minute before sitting up and immediately regretting that too.

Your phone had five missed texts from Utahime, two from unknown numbers, and one photo you had to squint at to realise was you, on a table, mid-dance. Shirt ridden up. Face flushed. Sukuna—barely in frame—standing below, half-shadowed, looking up at you like you were some kind of puzzle he was deciding not to solve.

You deleted the photo. Then deleted the delete.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. People danced at parties. People got drunk. People flirted with dangerous men and almost fucked them in front of fifty witnesses. It was fine.

You were halfway across the quad, hoodie up, headphones in with no music playing, when you saw him again.

Sukuna.

Sitting under one of the older trees near the main lecture hall, legs stretched out, notebook open on one knee. Writing. Or pretending to. His eyes flicked up the moment you got close.

“Morning,” he said, like nothing had happened. No sarcasm. No smirk. Just… the word.

You stopped. Against your better judgment. “Are you stalking me?”

He shrugged. “I was here first.”

“You’re always ‘here first.’ That’s weird.”

He didn’t look at you when he answered. Just kept flipping the stupid lighter in his hand like it might say something for him. “Or maybe,” he said, calm as anything, “we just hang out in the same places.”

You snorted. “We don’t hang out.”

“Tell that to the version of you dancing on the kitchen table last night.”

Your stomach turned. Too fast. Too hard. Like it had been waiting for that line, and now it didn’t know what to do with it.

“You’re not funny,” you said. Too sharp. Too flat.

“I’m kind of hilarious, actually.”

But he didn’t smile when he said it. Not really. He wasn’t doing that thing he usually did—leaning in too close, voice dipped just low enough to make you feel it. He wasn’t smirking. Wasn’t pushing. He just looked tired. Quiet. Like he was standing on the other side of something you couldn’t see yet.

You folded your arms across your chest. “I don’t remember much,” you said. Which wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the truth either.

He nodded once. No judgment. No sarcasm. Just—“Cool. Then we’ll say nothing happened.”

That landed harder than it should have. You blinked. “You’re not gonna be annoying about it?”

“Nope.”

And he meant it. That was the worst part. No smug grin. No smug anything. He was offering you an out. A clean break. Like he’d already accepted whatever version of this you were willing to give him.

You scoffed, because it felt safer than silence. “Fine. Nothing happened.”

“Exactly.”

You turned to walk away. Fast. Too fast. Like you could outpace the heat still lingering on your skin or the phantom feel of his hands on your waist.

But then, just as the door creaked behind you, you heard him say it.

Soft. Almost like he didn’t mean for you to hear it at all.

“But it could’ve.”

You didn’t stop.

But you felt it.

All the way down.

✧✧✧

You were halfway up the metal bleachers when you realised something was off.

It was supposed to be a quiet practice. The field was open, sun bleeding through low clouds, a few students jogging the track, the campus radio playing somewhere in the background. You’d come out here to clear your head, not to be witnessed. Definitely not to be ambushed.

And yet.

The radio cut out mid-song. A pause. Then: feedback. And then—his voice.

“This is probably a bad idea,” said Sukuna, crackling through the speakers like an accidental god.

You froze.

“But you’re ignoring me, and I’m not built for being ignored. So here we are.”

Heads turned. The girl stretching two rows down looked up, confused. A guy on the field pointed toward the press box, where the campus radio station was housed.

You turned slowly.

There he was.

Sukuna, leaning into the mic, half-laughing, one arm resting on the desk like he owned the place. A little breathless. Hair pulled back. That same damn look in his eye.

“You don’t like me. I get it. You think I’m an asshole—which is fair. But you also think I don’t notice things. That I’m not paying attention. And you’re wrong.”

You felt your heartbeat in your teeth.

“You always start your notes on the bottom line of the page. You mouth the words when you read. You don’t laugh out loud unless it’s mean or unexpected. You’re mean when you’re scared. You’re scared when you like someone.”

You were going to kill him.

Not immediately. Not in front of witnesses. But soon.

“So if you’re listening—and I know you are—just know this: I’m not asking for anything. I’m just saying I see you. And I’m still here.”

Then static. Silence. Someone started clapping. A few others joined. The moment cracked open like a dropped plate.

You stood up.

Walked down the bleachers.

And made sure not to look at anyone until you were off the field and back inside.

You didn’t text him.

But that night, you couldn’t stop thinking about the way his voice had sounded through the speaker.

A little unsure.

A little real.

Too real.

✧✧✧

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” you muttered, climbing into the passenger seat of his beat-up car.

“Sure you can,” Sukuna said, sliding into the driver’s side like this wasn’t the biggest win of his month. “You’re dying to hang out with me.”

“I’m skipping class, not confessing my feelings.”

“Same thing,” he smirked, revving the engine.

You rolled your eyes and refused to smile.

He didn’t tell you where you were going, but you didn’t ask. You just watched the trees blur past the window and tried not to think about how your chest still ached from hearing his voice on the radio yesterday. Or how he hadn’t pushed you afterwards. No smug comments. No, “so, you like me now?” Just a nod across the quad, like he knew what he’d done and wasn’t going to ruin it.

And then, suddenly—you were here.

It was an abandoned paintball park just off the edge of campus, tucked behind a shuttered rec centre and a forest that hadn’t been trimmed in years. Half the inflatables were sun-bleached. The other half looked like they were waiting to be condemned. It was perfect.

“Is this trespassing?” you asked.

He looked at you. “Do you care?”

“No.”

“Good.”

He pulled two masks and a backpack full of old paintball gear from the trunk and tossed you one.

“Winner gets to ask one question,” he said, already loading his gun.

“What if I win?”

“You won’t.”

You hit him first. Right in the ribs. Yellow paint exploded across his hoodie, and he staggered back, laughing—really laughing—and called you a bitch through the mask. You didn’t stop grinning for ten whole seconds.

It went like that for a while. Running. Hiding. Hitting each other with sharp, wet bursts of colour. At one point, you tripped and rolled behind a bunker, breathing hard. Sukuna slid in after you, tackled you with just enough force to knock the wind out of your lungs, and pinned you there.

You froze.

Paint smeared between you. His mask was off now. So was yours. His eyes were close, wild and bright. His breath hit your face in fast bursts.

Neither of you said anything.

Then—just like that—he kissed you.

Quick. Hard. Like he hadn’t meant to do it until it was already happening.

You didn’t stop him.

You kissed him back.

Your hands fisted in his hoodie, and his mouth tilted against yours, hungry, like he’d been waiting for this moment since the second you told him to fuck off during class that first week.

When he finally pulled away, he looked wrecked. Not from the game. From you.

You swallowed. “I still hate you.”

He grinned. “Sure you do.”

And then he kissed you again.

✧✧✧

It was supposed to be a quick stop. Sukuna had followed you downtown because you wanted “real food, not vending machine garbage,” and somehow that turned into ducking into a cramped little music shop just off the main strip. Guitars lined the walls like trophies, faded band posters tacked behind the counter. The whole place smelled like old wood and warm metal.

You didn’t say anything when you picked one up.

Just grabbed the pair of beat-up studio headphones from the display, plugged in, and sat down on the little stool in the back.

Sukuna watched from a distance, pretending to be interested in a rack of bass picks. But his eyes kept sliding back to you.

The way your fingers moved—confident, casual, muscle memory kicking in like it had never left. Your eyes were half-lidded, head tilted just slightly, as you plucked out something low and slow. Not a song he recognised. Maybe not even a full melody. Just sound. Easy. Yours.

You looked so fucking calm.

So quietly happy.

When you noticed him watching, you smirked and pulled the headphones off.

“Didn’t peg you as the lingering type,” you said.

“Didn’t peg you as the secretly talented type,” he shot back.

You shrugged. “Used to play. Can’t afford one anymore. Not like I’d have time anyway.”

Then you set the guitar back on the wall, careful, like it mattered.

And walked out like none of it had meant anything.

Sukuna stayed behind a second longer.

Long enough to memorise the make. The colour. The way your eyes had gone soft when you played.

He didn’t say anything about it then.

But he remembered.

✧✧✧

Naoya wasn’t a genius, but he wasn’t stupid either.

And something was definitely going on.

He watched them from across the quad—Utahime, Gojo, and that stupid little spiral of tension they tried to play off as banter. Gojo leaning in just a bit too close, Utahime swatting him away, but never really moving. Her eyes lingered. His hands were always busy—spinning a pen, adjusting his sunglasses, reaching for a piece of her attention like it was second nature.

They weren’t dating. Not officially. But it was obvious. Everyone could feel it.

And it pissed Naoya off more than he cared to admit.

He’d asked Utahime to prom in the most low-effort way possible—half a smile and a “You’re free Saturday, right?” by the vending machines. She’d paused for a second, then shrugged. “Sure.” No exclamation point. No heart emoji. Just sure.

Still, he considered it a win. Until later that week, when he overheard Gojo asking her what colour she was wearing so he could “match his tie to her aura.” And the worst part? She laughed. Laughed. The kind of laugh you didn’t fake for social survival. The kind that lived in your throat when someone actually got under your skin—in a good way.

Naoya stared from a distance, fuming silently as Gojo offered Utahime a bite of whatever overpriced pastry he was eating. She took it. Didn’t even hesitate.

That’s when it hit him.

Gojo didn’t care about prom. He cared about winning.

And Utahime? She wasn’t even pretending anymore. Not even a little.

Naoya didn’t say anything. Just watched them walk off, their shadows overlapping on the pavement.

He had a date to the prom.

But he was starting to wonder if he was the only one who didn’t know it was a joke.

✧✧✧

You didn’t expect him to ask.

You’d already decided you weren’t going. Told Utahime you hated crowds, loud music, the idea of putting effort into something that would end with people puking in bushes and fake glitter in your underwear. She didn’t believe you, but she knew better than to push.

And then Sukuna showed up.

At your dorm door. Leaning against the frame like he hadn’t just jogged up four flights of stairs, hair a little messy, a half-wrinkle in his shirt like he’d slept in it and didn’t care. Like always.

“You going to prom?” he asked.

You blinked. “Why?”

He shrugged, eyes scanning your face like he was trying to read a language he hadn’t studied enough. “Figured if I have to suffer through a school event, you should too.”

You scoffed. “Is this your version of asking nicely?”

“It’s my version of asking at all.”

You should’ve said no.

Should’ve shut the door in his face, curled up in bed, and watched something violent while pretending you didn’t care. But the problem was—you did. And the way he was looking at you? Not smug. Not teasing. Just… waiting.

So you said yes.

Quietly. Grudgingly.

And two days later, he picked you up for suit shopping like this was just a thing you did now. Like the two of you had rules. Traditions. Somewhere between enemies and not-quite-lovers.

The shop was tucked behind a row of old bookstores, with mirrors that made you look taller and music that felt like static. You tried on three suits before settling on one that didn’t make you want to punch yourself. Sukuna lounged in the corner chair the whole time, pretending not to watch you adjust the collar, the cuffs, the shoulders.

“You clean up,” he said eventually, like it was a fact. Like it didn’t mean anything.

“You’re staring,” you replied.

He smiled. “Can you blame me?”

You didn’t answer. Just turned back to the mirror, trying not to imagine his hands on your waist again. Trying not to remember the way he kissed you behind that bunker, like he didn’t care who saw. Like he’d been waiting to do it since day one.

Later, you sat cross-legged on your bed while Utahime painted a line of dark eyeliner under your lashes. Her fingers were steady. She didn’t ask you anything, didn’t tease you about your date or your nerves. Just hummed under her breath, like this was something she knew you needed.

Gojo texted her mid-mascara. Something about his tie.

She smiled when she read it. Soft. The kind of smile you used to wear around people you didn’t think could hurt you.

And for the first time in weeks, your stomach sank.

Something about all of this felt too good. Too smooth.

And when things felt this good, something always broke.

✧✧✧

The gym didn’t look like a gym. Not tonight.

String lights dripped from the rafters like stars trying too hard. The floor had been covered in some kind of black satin tarp, and the punch had actual fruit in it, which meant some overworked student council member was probably passed out backstage from exhaustion.

You stood in the doorway, fingers curling into the cuffs of your sleeves, breath caught somewhere between dread and disbelief.

And then you saw him.

Sukuna.

Leaning against the back wall in a suit that looked criminal on him. Shirt half-open. Tie loose. Hair swept back like he’d tried, then gave up halfway. He looked bored. Dangerous. Stupidly hot.

But the second his eyes found you, he stared. Like you were gravity.

“Damn,” he said when you reached him, voice a little rough. “You clean up scary good.”

“You look like you lost a bet with fashion,” you shot back, but your voice was softer than usual.

His grin cracked something in your chest.

You danced. Eventually. Not because you wanted to, but because the song was slow and the room had started to spin, and Sukuna held out his hand like it wasn’t a question. His palm was warm. His fingers were steady. One hand on your waist, one on your wrist, like he was grounding you and holding you hostage all at once.

“I don’t do this,” you murmured.

“Dance?”

“Let people in.”

His grip tightened just a little. “Maybe you should.”

You didn’t pull away.

Across the room, Utahime was laughing at something Gojo said, a crumpled corsage in her hand. Gojo looked so smug that you wanted to throw something, but she looked happy. Like… happy.

Then Naoya showed up.

Lurking on the edge of the crowd like a shadow that hadn’t been invited. Eyes sharp. Smile sharper.

You felt it before you saw him approach—Sukuna going tense, his posture shifting just slightly, like he’d spotted a crack in the floor and knew what was coming.

Naoya didn’t say hello.

Didn’t greet you.

Just looked at Sukuna and said, loudly enough to turn heads:

“So, how’s it feel? Winning the bet?”

The music didn’t stop. But everything else did.

You blinked. “What bet?”

Naoya’s smile widened. “Oh, you didn’t tell him? Thought that was part of the game.”

You looked at Sukuna.

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t deny it.

Just stood there. Still. Silent.

And that—that—was all it took.

You stepped back. Out of his reach. Out of his orbit.

He tried to speak—tried to explain—but you were already walking away, mouth dry, vision tunnelling.

Utahime caught up to you in the hallway. “What happened?”

And then behind you: a smack.

Loud. Sharp. Clean.

You turned just in time to see Utahime’s hand drop from Naoya’s face.

“Don’t ever talk to me again,” she said.

Naoya stood there, stunned, cheek blooming red.

Gojo looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh.

And Sukuna? He was still in the doorway. Still staring after you. Still not moving.

Like maybe if he stayed still long enough, you’d turn around.

You didn’t.

✧✧✧

You stopped answering texts.

Not just Sukuna’s. Everyone’s. Utahime. Gojo. That one guy from chem who always sent you TikToks you never watched. Your phone became a thing that buzzed and blinked and begged for attention, and you left it facedown every time. Like ignoring it could make everything disappear.

The campus felt smaller after that night.

Every hallway echoed. Every classroom felt like a spotlight. Every glance from people who’d heard about the scene at prom—because of course they had—made your skin itch.

And Sukuna?

He didn’t vanish. That would’ve been easier. Instead, he showed up.

Everywhere.

Leaning against the locker outside your lecture hall. Sitting on the bench across from your favourite coffee place. Lingering by the library entrance like he didn’t know where else to go.

Sometimes, he tried to talk.

Not loudly. Not the way he used to. He didn’t yell or chase or beg. Just stood there, voice low, hands in his pockets, eyes rimmed red like he hadn’t slept in days.

“I didn’t think it would matter,” he’d said once. “Until it did.”

You didn’t respond.

Another time: “It wasn’t about the bet. Not after I got to know you. I swear to god.”

You walked away before he finished.

He never pushed. Never grabbed your wrist or blocked your path or made a scene.

And that, somehow, was worse.

Because he meant it.

Because if he’d laughed in your face, you could’ve hated him clean. Sharp. Easy.

But he stood there instead—like he’d been gutted. Like you were the one who’d broken him.

It would’ve been poetic if it hadn’t hurt so much.

The worst part was: you missed him.

You missed the stupid smirk. The way he leaned too close when you talked, like he couldn’t hear you unless you were touching. You missed the quiet moments. The half-finished thoughts. The way he said your name, like it was something earned.

But every time you remembered the gym lights, Naoya’s voice, and the way Sukuna didn’t deny it, you wanted to scream.

So you didn’t say anything.

You didn’t say anything.

And Sukuna stood in your silence like it was a cage he built himself.

✧✧✧

Sukuna had never really been afraid of silence. He’d lived in it, grown up in it, learned to weaponise it. But this? This wasn’t silence. This was absence.

A blank space where laughter used to live.

No more text messages with half-spelt insults. No more boots scuffing the tile next to his. No more eyes burning into the side of his face when he said something stupid just to get a reaction.

It was like he’d imagined the whole thing.

And he was losing his mind because of it.

He hadn’t been eating. Barely sleeping. His classes were background noise, the campus a grayscale blur he wandered through in a haze. Every corner reminded him of something. A smirk. A comment. That look—the one from the paintball park, all flushed cheeks and fire.

Gone.

He was in the quad when they found him.

Gojo and Geto. The human embodiment of chaos and judgment. The worst tag team in existence.

“You look like shit,” Gojo said, flopping down next to him on the bench. “Like, more than usual.”

“Thanks,” Sukuna muttered.

Geto sat on the other side. Calm. Calculated. “So. You ruined it.”

Sukuna didn’t answer.

Gojo leaned forward, elbows on knees. “I’m just trying to understand how you managed to fumble that hard. Was the bet worth it? Huh?”

“It wasn’t like that,” Sukuna said, voice low. “Not really.”

“But it was, at first,” Geto said, no venom—just facts.

Sukuna stared at the ground.

Gojo exhaled sharply. “Look. I don’t care how it started. I care that you meant it by the end. And that you let him walk away without a fight.”

“What do you want me to do?” Sukuna snapped. “I already told him it wasn’t about the bet. I told him I was sorry. He doesn’t want to hear it.”

“Of course he doesn’t,” Gojo said. “Not yet.”

“So what then? I keep showing up and making an idiot of myself until he forgives me?”

“Maybe,” Geto said. “Or maybe you show him something real. Something that proves it wasn’t just a game to you.”

Sukuna scoffed. “Like what? A fucking song? A love letter?”

Gojo grinned. “Oh my god. Please write him a love letter. I’ll frame it.”

“Be serious.”

“I am,” Gojo said. “You’re in love with him, Sukuna. Do something about it before it’s too late.”

That shut him up.

Because it was the truth.

He was. He was in love.

And he was going to lose you for good if he didn’t stop sulking and start trying.

✧✧✧

The assignment was simple: write a poem. Present it aloud. Be vulnerable. The professor’s words, not yours.

You weren’t going to do it.

But then you sat up the night before, fingers clenched around a pen, and the words came out like teeth.

So now you're standing here.

In front of half the class, with Sukuna sitting somewhere behind you, quiet for once, his presence like static behind your ribs.

You clear your throat.

Your hands don’t shake.

But your voice does.

“I hate the way you look at me,” you begin, tone flat, eyes locked just above everyone’s heads. “Like you’re already in on the joke. Like I’m something you’re about to ruin.”

Someone chuckles. You don’t stop.

“I hate the way you laugh when you’re nervous. Hate how it still sounds good anyway. I hate that I notice that.”

You breathe through your nose.

Don’t look at him.

“I hate the way you sit next to me like we’re not still pretending. I hate that you said it wasn’t about the bet. I hate that I believed you.”

The room is quiet now.

No laughter. No shifting chairs.

Just silence.

You swallow.

“I hate that I miss you when I shouldn't. I hate how you looked at me that night, like I meant something. I hate the paint on my old hoodie because it still smells like you. I hate that I can’t forget you. I hate that I don’t want to.”

Your voice catches.

You let it.

“I hate that I still look for you in crowds. I hate that I still love you.”

You fold the paper. Calm. Controlled.

And walk back to your seat without looking up—without looking at him.

Because if you did?

You might not survive it.

✧✧✧

A guitar was sitting in your passenger seat like it had always belonged there.

You stared at it through the open car door, heart pounding so hard it hurt. Your mouth was dry. Your hands were shaking. You didn’t know whether to scream or cry or smash it over someone's head, and honestly? That was on brand.

“Hey.”

You turned fast, shoulders tense.

Sukuna was standing a few feet behind you. Hoodie pulled over his head. Eyes soft. Like he’d been waiting hours to catch you alone.

“You broke into my car?” you said, because of course that’s what you said.

He lifted both hands in mock surrender. “Spare key. Utahime gave it to me. Under threat of bodily harm, for the record.”

You looked back at the guitar. Then at him.

“I meant it,” he said, before you could fire another round. “What I said. What I didn’t say. I was a dumbass. You know that already. But I meant everything. Every second.”

You exhaled, slow and shaky.

“I hate you,” you said, and you weren’t sure if it was true or not anymore.

“I know.”

“I still hate you.”

He stepped closer.

“I still want you.”

You didn’t think. You just moved.

Your hand fisted in the collar of his hoodie, yanked him forward, and kissed him like you were trying to kill the version of yourself that ever gave a shit about pride.

It was messy. Breathless. A little desperate. The kind of kiss that made up for all the ones you’d missed and then some.

He kissed you back like his life depended on it.

Like he’d been waiting.

When you finally pulled away, both of you dazed and a little stunned, he whispered, “Does this mean I can ride shotgun?”

You rolled your eyes. “Only if you shut the hell up.”

He grinned.

You tossed your bag in the back seat, slammed the door shut, and jerked your chin toward the car.

“Get in, asshole.”

He did.

And this time, he didn’t stop smiling.

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time, and I take genuine effort to do them.

Taglist: @axetivev @yyuinaa @zaynesyumei @sageofspades @onyxmango @puccigucii @the-ultimate-librarian @sooobiinn @sooniebby @i2innie @tintenka1 @timaas-blog @darlinqvi @horrorsbeyondreality @rednugget @lysanderplume @leron1108 @kauo-writez @the0ishere @calgurl @kissenturine @bleedingbl0ssom @gayaristocrat @hyppernovva [comment to be added, or send an ask]

[nephynes]

SECONDHAND HEAVEN ── .✦ lee heeseung

You’re broke, exhausted, and desperate enough to take a cleaning job no one else will touch. The client lives alone in a silent penthouse, hidden from the world by rumor and choice. You weren’t supposed to know his name—just clean and leave. But when your journal goes missing and comes back with his handwriting in the margins, everything changes.

➺ minors do not interact

➺ pairing: schizophrenic concert pianist!heeseung x afab reader

➺ wc: 28k

➺ content tags: angst, hurt/comfort, mental health themes, depictions of schizophrenia, poverty, class disparity, emotional repression, slow burn, journal entries, forbidden closeness, soft smut, loneliness, poetic prose, mentions of blood, trauma, caretaker dynamics, emotionally intense, non-idol au, heeseung x reader, reader-insert.

WARNINGS: mental illness (schizophrenia), mentions of blood, emotional breakdowns, poverty, food insecurity, toxic living environment, isolation, possible dissociation, references to past trauma, depersonalization, implied neglect, emotionally heavy content, not a fluff centric story. okay maybe there’s a little fluff.

➺ a/n: this was meant to be a 15k word fic (don’t ask me what happened) i would still die for recluse heeseung.

➺ nsfw tags under the cut

SMUT, oral sex (f receiving), squirting, unprotected sex, bloodplay implications, sex during dissociation, power imbalance, emotional dependency, mental illness (schizophrenia), mentions of self-harm, trauma, possessive behavior, emotionally intense dynamic, obsession themes. (lmk if i missed any) not proofread!

══════════════════════════

You're running. Again. The strap of your tote bag digs into your shoulder as your shoes slap the sidewalk, water splashing up your ankles with each desperate step. Rain mist clings to your skin like sweat—except sweat would be warm. This is just cold and inconvenient. Your Literature lecture ran ten minutes over because, of course, your professor finally decided to acknowledge your existence the one time you needed to leave early. He asked for your thoughts on postmodern fragmentation in the age of digital alienation while you sat there wondering if postmodern fragmentation was what your GPA would look like this semester.

By the time you made it outside, the bus was already pulling up. You waved frantically, almost twisting your ankle as you darted across the crosswalk—nearly colliding with a cyclist. He swerved. You screamed. He cursed. It was poetic, in a tragicomedy kind of way. Now, you're clinging to the pole in the bus's center aisle, damp hair clinging to your cheeks as it rocks around corners, your phone buzzing with the time—12:46 PM.

Mrs. Do expects you at 12:30. Sharp, always sharp but today you're going to disappoint her, again and it makes you nervous cause this isn't your first fuck up. Getting off at the bus stop in Mrs. Do's neighborhood is like stepping into another world. Wide sidewalks, trimmed hedges. Every driveway is the kind of polished grey stone that seems to repel dirt on principle. The kind of neighborhood that smells like generational wealth and imported jasmine diffusers.

The sky's already sour when you round the corner onto the cobblestone lane. Gray and sullen, like it knows something you don't. Your thighs ache from sprinting across campus, your spine's slick with sweat under your too-thin hoodie, and your fingers are still raw from gripping the metal pole on the bus. You hadn't even realized how tightly you were holding on—like the bus was the only thing standing between you and collapse. You're fifteen minutes late, sixteen, actually.

The house looms before you like a museum exhibit—grand, sterile, and quiet enough to make you feel like you've already done something wrong just by being there. All tall glass windows and trimmed hedges, with a front door so glossy you can see your own desperation reflected in it. You ring the bell, sucking in a breath and she opens it almost immediately. Mrs. Do doesn't need to speak to make her opinion known. Her eyes flick down your frame—hoodie, faded jeans, dirt-smudged sneakers—and her mouth flattens like she's biting back something acidic. Her nose twitches once.

"You're late."

"I'm so sorry," you say, voice thin. "My class ran over and I missed my bus, and—" She rolls her eyes, cutting you off, "You people always have an excuse". You people. "I've already called your manager," she says coolly, stepping back just enough to make room for your shame to enter. "This is unacceptable. I hired help, not excuses."

Help. You step inside anyway because she hasn't technically slammed the door in your face yet. The floor gleams beneath your feet and you're careful not to drip on the marble. "I can still clean," you try, gripping the handle of your tote tighter. "I—I'll stay longer if you need. P—Please don't fire me." She turns slowly, folding her arms like she's posing for a luxury handbag ad. "You'll leave," she says. "And next time, be honest with yourself about what you're capable of."

That's it. No raised voice, no chance to plead. Just ice in human form and the creak of the front door swinging back open like a guillotine. You stand there a second too long—long enough for it to become pathetic—then you turn and walk back out with your head down and your heart thudding where your confidence used to be. It starts to drizzle as soon as you step off her perfect property. Of course it does.You jog down to the bus stop at the end of the street, ignoring the way your socks squelch in your shoes. Your bag knocks awkwardly against your side. You still have half a bottle of disinfectant in there, you could drink it and cleanse the humiliation right out of your system.

The bus pulls up late. You board with the same dread you imagine people feel before surgery—knowing it's necessary, knowing it's going to hurt. Inside, it's packed. You stand, gripping the pole, body swaying with every uneven turn. The lights flicker overhead. A kid is screaming two seats over. A man is coughing into his hand and not covering his mouth. You catch your reflection in the window—wet hair clinging to your cheeks, eyes dull, lips chapped from chewing them in nervous spirals. This is your life, this bus ride, this moment, is unfortunately your life. The route winds through the city, away from the clean sidewalks and polished gates, deeper into the cracked edges of town where the concrete is more gum than stone and the streetlights work in pairs—if at all. You get off at the corner near the faded liquor store, shoulders hunched under the growing weight of your day.

Your apartment building is a boxy, red-brick rectangle with iron balconies rusting at the corners. The woman who lives two floors up is yelling at her boyfriend again. You can hear every word, you wonder why they're still together seeing as they're fighting every other day. You climb the stairs slowly, dragging your legs like anchors. The third floor always smells like someone burned toast and sprayed perfume to hide it. Your door sticks and it takes three tries to get it open. The TV is already blaring, some british reality dating show, laughter, the pop of a beer can. Minjae is sprawled across the couch, shirtless, remote in one hand and a bowl in the other.

Your bowl. "Yo," he greets, mouth full. "You look like death."

"Thanks." You kick off your shoes and look around in the apartment that's in pure chaos—shoes everywhere, makeup on the kitchen counter, someone's bra dangling from the dining chair. Probably Jiyoon's. The dishes in the sink are starting grow by numbers. She appears in the hallway, barefoot and probably wine-drunk, wearing one of her boyfriend's shirts.

"Hey," she slurs. "How was the bitch?" You stare at her. "I got fired." "Again?" she groans, flopping dramatically onto the peeling loveseat. "Ugh. I told you to lie and say your grandma died. It works every time." You don't respond, heading to the kitchen to open the fridge, the light flickers when you open it. There's nothing inside except a carton of milk that expired last week and someone's half-eaten burger. You close it and lean against the counter, pressing your forehead to the cabinet above.

This can't be your life. This can't keep being your life.

Your socks are still wet when you drag yourself down the narrow hall toward the shared bathroom. You don't even bother turning on the light at first—just reach blindly into the shower caddy for your body wash, hoping a hot rinse will wash off the day, or at least the last of Mrs. Do's perfume that still clings to your sleeves like a curse. Your hand closes around the bottle.

Empty.

You blink, now flipping on the harsh fluorescent light. The bottle is sitting there—your expensive one, the only thing you splurged on in months, lavender and eucalyptus, bought during a panic attack at the drugstore like a promise to yourself that things would get better but now it's squeezed dry. You stand there, frozen. Cold water dripping off your hood. Your knuckles whitening around the neck of the bottle. "Jiyoon!" your voice cracks down the hallway like a whip.

A pause. "What?" she calls back, annoyed, like you're interrupting something important—like Love Island. You storm back into the living room, brandishing the empty bottle like evidence at a trial. Minjae doesn't even glance up from the couch, he's playing something on his phone now, earbuds in, cereal bowl at his feet. Your fucking bowl.

"Tell me this wasn't him." Jiyoon sits up, scowling at your tone. "What are you talking about?" "This." You shake the bottle. "My body wash. The one you 'borrowed' last week. It's gone. Empty. And I know you don't like the smell—so unless I'm hallucinating, your leech of a boyfriend used the last of it."

She rolls her eyes. "Jesus, it's not that deep. It's body wash." "No, it's my body wash. The only nice thing I own. And he used it, again, after eating the rest of my leftovers and leaving dirty socks in the sink and never ever paying rent!"

Minjae finally glances up, one earbud still in. "Damn. You need a Xanax or something?"

Your mouth goes dry.

Jiyoon frowns. "Okay, first of all, don't talk to her like that—"

"No, don't defend me now," you cut in, voice shaking. "You let him live here for free. You make excuses for him while I scrape together every last cent to keep a roof over our heads. I work two jobs, Jiyoon. I eat scraps. I got fired today and came home in the rain to this—and now I can't even take a damn shower without discovering he's drained the last thing I own that smells like something other than despair."

She shifts, uncomfortable. "You could've said something nicer."

"And you could've picked someone who showers in his own place instead of mine!"

Silence.

You don't cry and you won't. Not in front of him. Not even here. You don't wait for an apology that'll never come. You retreat to your room, slam the door, and lock it behind you—not because you're afraid, but because you're done.

You strip off your hoodie, throw it in the corner, and climb into bed fully damp and exhausted. The blanket clings to your legs. You curl around your pillow and let the tension tremble out of your fingertips like static electricity.

You curl up in bed fully clothed, hoodie damp and clinging to your skin, fingers still aching from scrubbing tile three days ago. The blanket smells faintly like bleach. Jiyoon is laughing in the next room, voice high and bright and grating. You close your eyes.

*•*•*

You wake up to the clink of glassware and Minjae's laugh from the kitchen, that smug, high-pitched snort that always sets your teeth on edge. There's no time to be angry—not this morning. You're already late. Again.

You roll out of bed and throw on the first vaguely clean outfit you can find, dragging a brush through your tangled hair and pinning it up like your life depends on it. Your backpack's already half-packed from the night before. You stuff in your worn-out copy of Beloved, a dog-eared notebook filled with scribbles and half-finished poems, and race out the door without breakfast.

It's colder today. The kind of cold that bites under your clothes and leaves your fingers raw. You catch the bus by sheer miracle—sprinting half a block and nearly losing a shoe in the process—and squeeze into the back seat between a teenage couple whispering too loud and a man who keeps humming to himself.

You reach campus with two minutes to spare. The lecture hall smells like chalk dust and old books. It's one of your favorite smells in the world. You slide into the third row, clutching your notebook to your chest, and feel a quiet sort of calm settle over you. This is your safe place. Literature. Language. Storytelling.

The professor enters with her usual elegance, a tall woman with soft curls and a warm smile that doesn't waver even when her students barely look up. She doesn't need to raise her voice to command the room. She carries presence the way some people carry perfume—effortlessly.

"Today," she begins, "we talk about longing." You feel your chest tighten in the most bittersweet way.

She reads a passage aloud—something from a contemporary poet you love but couldn't afford to buy the full collection of—and for a while, you forget the bruising ache in your back from yesterday, or the hollowness in your stomach. You forget Minjae. You forget Mrs. Do.

After class, you linger longer than usual, pretending to organize your papers while most students file out. Professor Cha doesn't seem surprised when you approach her desk.

"I loved what you read today," you say, voice still soft from reverence. "The way it ached."

Her eyes sparkle behind her glasses. "That's a good word. A poem should ache. And yours always do."

You blink. "You read my last submission?"

"I did." She smiles, more maternal than academic now. "You write like you've lived ten lives. There's heartbreak in your syntax, but also something... resilient. It's beautiful. Raw."

The compliment hits deeper than she probably intends. You swallow. "Thank you. I... needed to hear that."

She tilts her head. "You've looked tired lately."

"I got fired," you confess, voice breaking a little at the edges. "From one of my jobs." She doesn't blink or pity you, she nods instead. "Then the world made space for something better. Keep showing up. Your stories matter even if no one pays you for them yet."

It's not much but it's enough to lift your spine straighter as you thank her and walk out the door.

The sunshine doesn't feel quite so cold.

You're halfway down the campus stairs, still thinking about her words, when your phone rings. A number you don't recognize, but one you know instinctively not to ignore.

You answer.

"About damn time," a gravelly voice snaps through the line. "Did you turn off your phone all day or do you just enjoy making my blood pressure spike?"

You wince. "Sorry, Cee. I was in class—"

"I don't care if you were in confession with the Pope," he growls. "You missed your shift yesterday and you got us fired from the Do account." You open your mouth to explain, but he keeps going.

"Lucky for you," he says, as if the words are knives between his teeth, "no one else wants this new job and I'm too tired to argue. Penthouse gig. Rich recluse. We charge double, client pays in advance, and no one wants to take it because apparently the guy's a freak."

You frown. "A freak?"

"Unstable. Hermit. Been on the news, but who the hell keeps track? Listen, I don't care if he's a lizard in a human suit—he's paying. You're taking it."

Your throat dries.

"How many days?"

"Three a week. Big place. Clean what you can, don't snoop. I'll send the address. Be early." and then, just before he hangs up, his tone softens—barely. "Don't mess this up, kid. You need it."

You really, really do.

You stare at the phone screen even after the call ends, the manager's words still ringing in your ears. Freak. Hermit. Don't mess this up.

The ache in your calves from walking half a mile after the bus dropped you off doesn't compare to the slow sinking in your stomach as you lift your head to take in the building before you.

It's not just big—it's obscene. The kind of place you'd see in a glossy magazine left behind in a waiting room. Black glass, white stone, gold accents on the automatic double doors. No peeling paint, no squeaky hinges, no smell of cheap weed in the lobby. You shift your backpack higher on your shoulder and wipe your palms on your pants, suddenly hyper-aware of how out of place you look.

The doorman gives you a glance that says you're not the usual type, but he opens the door for you anyway. Inside, the lobby is quiet. Too quiet. Your footsteps echo on the marble like you're trespassing.

You check the note your manager texted again: Penthouse, 45th floor. Don't use the front elevator. Service lift in the back.

Figures.

You find the service lift through a hallway no guest would ever wander down—a dimly lit corridor that smells faintly of lemon polish and secrecy. The kind of place you get swallowed in. You step inside the narrow elevator, the floor humming under your boots.

The doors slide shut with a groan. You breathe out. The kind of breath that's supposed to steady you but doesn't.

Your phone buzzes again just before the elevator doors open.

Cee: Don't fuck this up. Get there exactly at 10, leave exactly at 4. Even if you finish early, you stay. No exceptions. And whatever you do, NEVER go upstairs. He has rules. Don't test them.

You stare at the screen.

What kind of house has an upstairs in a penthouse? you think, and the second the thought passes, the elevator dings.

The doors creak open onto a hallway draped in shadow. No welcome mat, no noise or signs of life. Just a wide, heavy door that looks more like it belongs on a bank vault than a home.

You step out.

Your boots sound stupidly loud on the marble tile, and you hesitate before raising your hand to knock. But there's no need. The moment your knuckles reach the wood, the door clicks open on its own.

Unlocked.

The place is massive. The ceilings stretch too high, the walls too white, everything too pristine. There's barely any furniture. Just space and silence and air so still it feels like it hasn't been disturbed in years. You don't call out cause your manager said he wouldn't speak to you and that he likely wouldn't even show himself.

Just clean and leave. Do not go upstairs.

You hold your breath and step inside.

The air smells like cedar and something colder, like snow, if snow could haunt. You set your backpack down, find the gloves and cleaning supplies neatly packed inside, and glance around for somewhere to begin. The living room stretches out in an open floor plan—windows from floor to ceiling, giving a panoramic view of the city that glitters like it belongs to someone else.

You move quietly, gently, like the house might shatter if you're not careful, there's a faint creak above you that makes you freeze.

Somewhere beyond the mezzanine level—a second floor, tucked behind shadows and sleek black railings—you hear slow footsteps. Nothing fast, just the sound of pacing but then it stops and you don't look up.

You don't have to but you can feel the weight of someone above you. Maybe it's just the paranoia settling in or maybe it's the echo of your manager's warning.

Don't go upstairs.

You lower your gaze and start cleaning the untouched coffee table. You don't see a single cup stain or a single fingerprint. You think of the journal in your bag—the one you always carry, the one you use to write about your clients. He'll be in there by tonight, nameless, faceless. The man who lives upstairs like a ghost in the penthouse he knows.

For now, you work. Quiet and invisible. There's a fine layer of dust on everything. Not filth—just time, settled air and neglect. No signs of life, no spilled coffee mugs or kicked-off shoes. Just clean lines, cold surfaces, and untouched space.

You start in the living room, wiping down the windowsills and working your way around the low furniture. The couch looks barely used, the cushions still stiff. You sweep, mop, vacuum, moving silently through the rooms that all look the same—stunning, sterile, too expensive to feel real.

In the hallway near the back, there's a closet.

You pause in front of it.

It's nothing special—just a tall, sleek black door flush against the wall like all the others. But your fingers hesitate on the handle. Something about it makes your stomach twist. A soft wrongness that makes you not open it, that makes you turn around and just keep cleaning.

By 2:30, you've gone through the whole first floor. Kitchen wiped down. Bathroom gleaming. Trash collected and everything you were paid to do—done.

But Cee's voice rings in your head; Even if you finish early—stay. No exceptions.

So you sit.

You settle into one of the chairs by the window, the soft hum of the city beyond the glass lulling you into something between boredom and thoughtfulness. You reach into your bag and pull out your journal—worn leather, pages soft at the edges.

You click your pen open and start writing.

Day one at the penthouse. It smells like dust and something else I can't quite name. The kind of clean that doesn't feel lived in. I didn't open the black closet near the back. It felt like something in a horror film but I'll pretend it's just full of broken umbrellas.

Got fired from the Do account. Still bitter. She had a face like a lemon and a heart to match. Professor was a much-needed balm in comparison—thank God for her and her endless belief in me.

New job might be decent money if I don't screw it up. Cee says the guy who lives here is a recluse. Said he hasn't left the penthouse in two years. But I don't know. Maybe he's just lonely.

You pause there, tapping the pen against the paper. The upper floor is quiet. Still. You underline the word lonely and draw a small star beside it.

At exactly 4:00, you pack up your supplies, double-check every corner, and sling your bag over your shoulder and slide your journal right back into the side pocket of your bag, safe and sound.

You take the service elevator down, your own reflection warping in the mirrored steel walls, and step out into the cool evening air. The sun is already dipping lower, the clouds streaked in gold and gray.

The bus ride home is slower than usual. You sit in the back corner, forehead pressed to the rattling glass, zoning out to the lull of traffic and tired bodies. The city outside blurs past in tired shades.

As your apartment door creaks open, you start praying no one hears or sees you. But it's already too late.

Minjae's voice rings out sharp and annoyed. "I told you I'm looking, Jiyoon. What do you want me to do, lie on a fucking application?"

Jiyoon fires back just as quickly. "No, I want you to try! I'm covering your half of the rent again this month—what do you think I am, an ATM?!"

You freeze in the doorway, trying to shrink into your coat. If you're quiet enough, maybe you can just slip past—

"Hey," Jiyoon says suddenly, spotting you over Minjae's shoulder. Her tone shifts fast—softer now, almost guilty. "You just get in?"

You nod, shrugging your bag higher. "Yeah." "How's the nut house?"

You drop your bag by the door and stare at her. "The what?"

"The place you're cleaning. You know, that recluse guy who's like—off his rocker? Isn't that what your boss said?"

You toe off your shoes and mutter, "It's just a job."

Minjae grins walking away from Jiyoon's presence like the change in topic is suddenly the end of their argument. "I bet he's got some freaky shit there. Hidden cameras. Severed heads. Weird old dude stuff."

"I don't even know if he's old," you say, voice low. "And you don't know anything about him."

Minjae snorts. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."

You turn back to Jiyoon, your constant irritation for her boyfriend crawling up your neck. "It's... weird," you admit. "But clean. Quiet. Better than getting yelled at by lemon-faced socialites, I guess."

Jiyoon gives you a weak smile. "Well, if anyone can survive a haunted tower or whatever that place is, it's you."

You hum, tired beyond belief, and slip down the hall toward your room without waiting for more, maybe more will come in the morning.

And when morning does come, it hits like a slow bruise. No alarm, just the muted scrape of a garbage truck outside and the sound of Jiyoon's laughter echoing down the hall, already too loud for the hour. You blink up at the water-stained ceiling, let the ache in your jaw settle, and for a few seconds, you don't move. The blanket's twisted around your leg like it's trying to keep you here. You wish it would.

But you're broke. So you move

You don't eat breakfast. There's no time, and besides, Jiyoon's boyfriend used the last of your cereal. You found the empty box in the sink this morning, soggy and limp with leftover milk, like a personal fuck-you from the universe.

Outside, the streets are still wet from last night's rain, the air sharp and cold enough to crack your lips. You tug your coat tighter around yourself and walk fast, half-hoping your legs will just carry you somewhere else. But the route to the campus library is too familiar, too automatic. You take the side street behind the deli, cutting through the alley behind the 24-hour laundromat where the machines always sound like they're choking. There's graffiti on the brick wall now—someone's drawn a woman with eyes for hands.

The library is warm in that stale, overused way that makes you sleepy, but you know the quiet corner where the heater rattles just enough to keep you awake. You sit with your laptop and your headphones, the cushion on the chair still warm from the last desperate student who used it.

This is job number two.

You click play on the next transcription project; an audiobook manuscript from some retired executive who thinks the world needs to hear about his rise to glory. The audio crackles. His voice is deep, smug, like he's narrating his own documentary.

"It all began with a vision. I was just a boy, standing in my father's study, realizing the empire I'd one day build..." You try not to roll your eyes. Your fingers find the rhythm. You transcribe as fast as he talks, catching every word, every pretentious pause.

"Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some, like me, are greatness incarnate."

Jesus.

You pause the audio and lean back, pressing your fingers into your temples. He's unbearable. Still—you need the money, so you press play again. But somewhere in the haze of his bravado, your mind drifts, not too far, just up.

Up to the penthouse you cleaned yesterday. The thick silence, untouched surfaces and the staircase you weren't allowed to climb. It all made something you couldn't name press down on the air.

You wonder what he sounds like.

The man who lives there, the one Cee called a shut-in, a recluse. Heeseung. You only know the name because of the envelope on the front table. You weren't supposed to look, but you did. Of course you did.

You imagine his voice now, layered under the pompous narration. Not loud or self-important. Just... quiet. Measured. Maybe hoarse from disuse. You imagine what it would feel like to hear it. To be the reason it breaks the silence. Your fingers falter. The word "greatness" stutters across the screen three times in a row.

You stop typing.

And for a second, you just sit there, headphones still on, the man's voice buzzing in your ears like a mosquito trapped in a jar, and you wonder if loneliness has a sound. And if maybe you've already heard it.

You leave the library when your laptop battery dies, the sky already smudged with dusk. Your ears still ring faintly from the droning of Mr. Greatness Incarnate. You swing your bag over your shoulder, scarf loose around your neck, hands shoved deep into your coat pockets. The wind cuts sharper than it did this morning. You're too tired to fight it.

By the time you reach your apartment building, you dread the climb to the third floor, not knowing what's behind your door—and your key sticks like always when you jam it into the lock but when the door finally swings open, you freeze.

The apartment is clean. Spotless even.

No laundry tossed across the couch, no cereal bowls fossilized with milk crust sitting on the coffee table. The garbage isn't overflowing. There's even a faint citrus scent in the air, like someone opened a window and let the idea of cleanliness drift in.

And Jiyoon's on the couch. Calm. Legs tucked under her, hair braided down one side, munching on a bag of shrimp chips like this is just... normal. Like this is how things have always been.

You drop your keys into the chipped bowl by the door. "What happened?" She glances at you, shrugs. "I cleaned." You blink. "No, I mean... what happened happened. Did the landlord threaten an inspection or—"

"I broke up with Minjae," she says, and pops another chip into her mouth like she didn't just detonate an-eighteen-month-long catastrophe with five words. "Told him to pack his shit and go."

You stare. "You what?"

Her eyes don't even flicker from the TV. "He was a leech. I hate leeches."

You're still frozen in the hallway, bag slipping down your arm, unsure what dimension you walked into. The silence feels wrong. Too still. Too empty. But... not bad.

Just different.

Eventually, your feet remember what to do, and you drift to your room, slowly, almost cautiously, like something might jump out at you. You twist your doorknob, push it open—and stop again cause there's a gift bag sitting on your bed.

Brown paper, neatly folded at the top, a little gold sticker sealing the tissue paper closed. You don't touch it right away, you just stare at it like it might explode.

Then you sit, gently, fingers trembling a little now. but peel the sticker away anyway, opening the bag.

Two bottles. Your favorite body wash. The same kind Minjae used up without asking. Double this time, still sealed and tucked between them, a note—scrawled in Jiyoon's quick, sharp handwriting on a sticky note she probably pulled from her planner.

"I'm sorry."

It doesn't say anything else. Doesn't have to.

You let out this huff of a sound, half a laugh, half a sob—and press the heels of your hands into your eyes. You weren't ready for this, especially not after today, not after everything you've been through this week. You sniff, smile through the sting behind your eyes, and whisper, "What the hell is going on?"

For the first time in a long time, no one answers and it doesn't feel like a threat. Just... peace. Quiet, a rare kind.

And the bathroom is yours again.

*•*•*

The next morning wakes you gently.

Not with screaming or slamming doors or the unmistakable sound of Minjae trying to justify why rent is a social construct—but with the smell of bacon.

You lie there for a moment, still curled in your sheets, nose twitching like it can't quite believe it. Bacon. And eggs. The sizzle, the clink of a pan. There's sunlight bleeding between the slats of your blinds, the kind of sleepy, golden light that feels warm just by looking at it.

You slip out of bed in your socks, shuffle into the kitchen, and there's Jiyoon—hair still messy from sleep, an oversized shirt hanging off one of her shoulders, poking a spatula at a pan like she does this every day, like this isn't a wildly new domestic era you've entered.

"Are you dying?" you ask, voice still rasped with sleep.

She smirks. "Sit your broke ass down. We're having breakfast." You do, blinking dumbly as she plates eggs and bacon and toast like some sitcom mom. The kind of meal that costs too much time and too many groceries for the world you live in. But it's real. It's on your plate. It's hot.

And it tastes like actual heaven.

"Okay," Jiyoon says through a bite, "you're not allowed to cry over eggs." "I'm not," you lie, chewing around the lump in your throat. "Shut up."

It's quiet for a beat, just the sounds of cutlery and your lives slowly stitching back together. Then she speaks, softer this time.

"I missed this."

You glance up.

"I mean—us," she says quickly. "It got weird. And Minjae was—he j—just made everything about him. And I let it happen." You nod, eyes falling to your plate. "I missed you too."

And that's all it takes. The two of you just... fall back into it. Like nothing ever cracked. Like the gap never grew wide enough to drown you.

You're halfway through your second cup of coffee when your phone buzzes. A bank notification lights up the screen.

Deposit: $400.00 — From: H.C.A. CLEANING INC.

Your breath catches and your stomach flips but you don't even have enough time to process it before a follow-up text comes in from your manager.

Cee: Well done. Keep it up.

You stare at your phone, stunned. Your fork hangs mid-air. "What?" Jiyoon leans over, eyes narrowing, trying to look at your screen. "What is it? What's that look?"

You show her the screen.

She lets out a whistle, snatching the phone out of your hand. "Four hundred dollars?! For one day?"

You nod slowly. "It's... the penthouse."

Jiyoon's eyes go wide. "Girl. Are you sure this isn't a sex dungeon?"

"It's not—!"

"I'm just saying!" she laughs, waving the phone in your face. "Do they need two cleaners? Cause I got two hands and a back that only mildly hurts."

You snort.

"No, seriously," she grins, handing your phone back. "Keep this up, and you're gonna sugar mama us out of this hellhole."

"Us?"

"Obviously. I've already picked out my new bedroom. It has a balcony."

You shake your head, grinning despite yourself. The weight on your chest feels a little lighter today. There's food in your stomach, laughter in your lungs, and a number in your bank account that feels like it belongs to someone else. Someone who isn't drowning, maybe someone who could start swimming soon.

You rinse your plate in the sink, tie your boots, and throw on your coat with renewed resilience. There's something weird in your chest—not bad weird. Just... fluttery. A quiet excitement you can't explain, maybe it's the money. $1200 a week is enough to make a broke girl like you feel fluttery.

The penthouse is a mystery. The man inside, even more so and something about it tugs at you. You leave the apartment with a full stomach and something flickering under your ribs that almost feels like hope.

The security guard barely glances up when you pass through the front lobby, your shoes echoing across the cold marble. You know the route now—the elevator on the far end, the one with the gilded trim and the keycard scanner that flickers green the second you swipe the little laminated badge clipped to your bag.

Penthouse access. Floor 45.

You ride up alone, the hum of the elevator filling your ears, your stomach still fluttering for some godforsaken reason. It's ridiculous, really. It's just cleaning. A job. A space.

Still—there's something about this building, this job, this man—something you don't have a name for yet. Something a little strange.

When the elevator dings open at the top floor, you step out and blink at the sheer silence. It always feels a little too still up here, like the air's holding its breath. You cross the short hallway toward the penthouse door, adjusting your bag over your shoulder, then pause.

A man is walking out.

Tall. Black coat. Black hair. He doesn't look up as he pulls the door behind him and lets it click shut. There's a thick folder of papers in his hand—some printed, some handwritten—and he's flipping through them like he's on a mission. Brows furrowed as though he's deep in thought. You shift slightly to the side, give a small, polite "Good morning," but he doesn't respond, he doesn't even glance at you.

Okay.

You watch him disappear down the hallway, a little unsettled, but before your brain can start drawing conclusions, you catch something else. From behind the door.

Movement. Light.

A quiet creak, then a faint thump from the floor above. Right—he's upstairs. He hasn't come down, just like your manager said he wouldn't.

So, not Heeseung.

You shake it off, and push open the door to the penthouse. It's the same as last time. Too clean to feel lived in, a place more structure than soul. The marble kitchen glints under the soft daylight that pours in through those floor-to-ceiling windows, and the air smells faintly sterile. Like eucalyptus and untouched laundry.

You drop your bag by the door, change into your inside shoes, and head for the linen closet to start where you left off last time.

There's a note.

You spot it taped neatly to the inside of the closet door, white paper against the cool gray shelves. Typed in black ink, neatly, not handwritten.

You folded the towels wrong.

Beneath it, stapled neatly, is a printed diagram. A diagram with steps and numbered illustrations. You blink. It's absurd. It's pedantic. It's—

You laugh, quietly, to yourself. "What a nutjob," you mutter under your breath, echoing Jiyoon's words.

And then you catch yourself.

He's paying you. Four hundred dollars. For one day. To clean and to follow instructions. Folding towels properly is not asking too much—not for this kind of money, not for the kind of life you're trying to claw your way toward.

You shake your head, shoulders straightening, and refold every towel in the linen closet with the care of a military cadet. Corners aligned, fold sharp, just the way the diagram instructs.

Once you've checked them twice, you move on. The floors—again. There's always a thin veil of dust on the hardwood, like no one has lived here in years. The glass in the shower, the streaks on the chrome fixtures. You find a guest room with a window cracked just slightly, letting in the city noise below, and you seal it shut.

It's all the same movements as last time. Your body goes through the checklist while your mind wanders, as it always does. Little fragments of poetry rise up behind your eyes. A line about silence that weighs too much, about towels that speak louder than people. You file them away for later.

And like last time, you finish early.

3:26.

You double-check the space. Everything in order. Then you drift toward the single chair by the massive window that overlooks the skyline. The same chair you sat in last time. You pull out your journal, and you start writing.

He left a note about the towels. Said I did it wrong. I guess... he's not what I imagined. There's something almost neurotic about him, but not messy. Not in a Minjae way. It's all too deliberate. He's exacting. Controlled. Still not a trace of him anywhere—not a pair of shoes, not a book out of place. It's like he's trying to erase his presence even though it's so obviously here, breathing under everything.

Your pen hovers, you almost scratch it all out, but you don't.

A soft thud interrupts you. Distant. Upstairs. You freeze, eyes lifting from the page.

Another sound. A voice—muffled. A man's voice, low and smooth, bleeding through the ceiling like the floorboards are too thin to keep him contained.

You can't make out the words, but you hear the timbre. The rhythm.

You write until your hand cramps and the ink starts to skip. At 3:52, you check the time and shut the journal slowly, your gaze drifting out the window for a long moment.

But then... it happens again.

Your eyes flick to the closet door.

Same as last time. Same quiet weight pressing against your chest when you look at it. You don't know what it is about it—just a regular black door, no lock, no sign, nothing particularly ominous—but it nags at you. And before you know it, your legs are moving.

Soft steps across the hardwood. You don't even really make the decision—you just find yourself there, hand on the doorknob, heart ticking unevenly.

It's probably something stupid. Creepy. Like a skeleton, or jars of teeth. A body. It's always the ones who care too much about towel folding who hide people in their walls.

You exhale, slow, and turn the knob.

The door creaks open.

It's dim, a strip of light spilling in over your feet—and then your eyes adjust.

Not bodies. Not bones.

Photos.

Hundreds of them. Pinned to corkboard walls, stacked in boxes, frames leaning against shelves. Posters rolled into rubber-banded scrolls. A trophy case sits in the corner, glass clean, the metal plaques catching the light like little knives.

You blink, stepping in cautiously.

There are certificates. Paper yellowed with age. Borletti-Buitoni Trust Award. First Place—2022. Van Cliburn International Piano Competition 2021. Tchaikovsky Conservatory Excellence Award 2023. All in English, some in Korean, some in French.

You walk along the wall, fingertips brushing the edge of a matte photo. A group picture. A symphony ensemble, maybe. Then another, a candid shot of a teenage boy at a grand piano, his hands hovering above the keys, his brow furrowed like the music is something physical he's trying to catch.

And then another. A close-up this time. His face.

Heeseung.

Your breath catches.

He's younger in these—baby-faced almost—but you want to believe it's him. There's something about his posture, his expression, that quiet intensity even the camera couldn't wash out.

You crouch beside a crate of rolled-up posters and untangle one gently. The paper's dusty, brittle near the corners. When you unroll it, it flutters open across your lap.

A concert poster. The image glossy and faded with time: a sleek black grand piano under a single spotlight. A man sits at it, back straight, head bowed. His name sprawls across the top in elegant serif font:

LEE HEESEUNG

It's signed at the bottom, right across the curve of the piano. —With love, always, LH.

You stare at it for a long moment.

And then... the pieces begin to arrange themselves.

The penthouse. The silence. The exactness. The distance. And now—this.

He must've been a concert pianist.

You blink again, stunned that you'd never heard of him. Someone who'd clearly been celebrated, decorated, known. At some point, at least.

You tuck the poster back carefully and ease the door shut behind you. But the quiet feels different now. Not empty.

The whole bus ride home, your brain won't stop flipping through those images—trophies, posters, photos, that signature on the rolled-up poster. With love, always, LH. You hold it all in your head like puzzle pieces that almost fit, just not quite yet. But there's no mistaking it—the man in the penthouse was someone once.

The apartment smells like garlic and soy sauce when you walk in. You blink at the strange scent, automatically bracing for another fight—but it's quiet. Peaceful, even. The living room light is on, and Jiyoon's perched on the couch still in her stiff black skirt and her knock-off kitten heels, hair pinned up and eyeliner smudged.

"Hey," she says, not looking up from her phone. "Dinner's in the microwave. I made bulgogi."

You pause in the doorway, still blinking, confused. "You cooked?"

She shrugs. "Had a day. Needed to stir something before I murdered someone."

You heat up your plate and sink into the couch beside her, pulling your knees up and balancing the food on top. The meat is tender, warm and sweet, and the rice is just sticky enough.

"So?" she mumbles, mouth full of chips. "How's the nutjob in the tower?"

You laugh, almost choking on rice. "He's not a nutjob."

"Old man, then."

You glance at her. "He's not old."

She raises an eyebrow. "Yeah? And how do you know that?"

You chew slowly, smirking to yourself. "I did his laundry today."

"Oh?" She sits up straighter, grinning. "And what? The briefs don't lie?"

You laugh, snorting, and try to wave her off, cheeks hot. "No, just—his clothes. They weren't... old man clothes."

She gives you the most exaggerated eyebrow wiggle you've ever seen. "Ohhhh. So they were hot man clothes."

"Shut up."

"You want to see what he looks like," she accuses, pointing a chip at you.

You mumble something under your breath, something you don't even realize you've said aloud until she gasps.

"What was that?" she demands. "Tell me. Tell me right now."

You set your plate aside and sink into the couch cushions, eyes on the ceiling. "Okay. Fine. I opened some weird closet in his hallway today"

Her jaw drops.

"And?"

You tell her everything. The photos. The awards. The posters and the certificates. The name. The signature. The signed poster. You recite the words, LEE HEESEUNG.

She blinks. "Wait. Wait wait wait. You mean the dude you clean for is famous?"

"Was," you say softly. "I think he was famous. He was a concert pianist."

There's a beat of silence then she's snatching up her laptop. "What are we doing just sitting here? Let's Google him."

You shift beside her as she types in his name watching it autofill halfway through. She scrolls.

First result: a blurry photo of a younger Heeseung at a concert, fingers splayed on the keys.

Second result: Top 10 Rising Stars of the Classical World.

Third: The Golden Boy of the Grand Piano—Why Lee Heeseung Was Next.

There are photos—clean, posed ones, then live shots of him in motion, bent over the keys, expression contorted like the music is tearing out of him.

"Damn," Jiyoon whispers. "He was hot."

You smack her arm. "Focus."

She scrolls again—and then pauses.

You feel her go still beside you.

Her thumb hovers over the next headline.

Concert Pianist Lee Heeseung Suffers On-Stage Mental Breakdown During Performance.

Your stomach drops. It's dated 2 years ago.

"Holy shit," she whispers.

There's a thumbnail image of the article and beneath it, a video. Your fingers are trembling but you press play anyway.

The video opens on a massive concert hall. Heeseung sits alone at a grand piano under a soft blue spotlight. There's silence—and then music. Soaring, masterful, all-consuming. His fingers move like they're made of air.

He plays so beautifully that you find yourself immersed but then, something shifts.

His hands slow. His face tenses. He mutters something under his breath, eyes wide like he's seeing something the rest of the room can't. Then—

A violent slam of the keys.

The audience flinches.

He starts playing again, erratically, pounding the piano with discordant noise. His head jerks to the side. He mutters again, louder this time. Words you can't make out. Security rushes the stage. The video ends in chaos, with the camera shaking, audience gasping.

You stare at the screen long after it's gone black.

"That's why," you whisper.

Jiyoon nods slowly. "That's why he lives like that now."

Neither of you speak for a long time. There's just the hum of the microwave clock ticking forward, the faint buzz of the fridge, the afterimage of that video burned into your mind.

Heeseung isn't just a recluse. He's a man who was once made of music—and then unraveled by it.

The video plays again in your head when the screen's long since gone black.

Heeseung's face in that last shot—wild and glassy-eyed, haunted—lingers like smoke. Even with the dinner gone and the dishes rinsed, even with the taste of bulgogi faded from your tongue, it clings to your ribs.

Jiyoon breaks the silence first. She sets her laptop down with a sigh and rubs her forehead like she's trying to will away her own stress.

"Anyway," she mutters, "my manager's still a raging bitch."

The shift in topic feels abrupt, like someone slammed the door on something unfinished. You blink and turn your head, trying to meet her halfway.

"She moved my report to a different folder this morning and then cc'd her manager asking where mine was," Jiyoon grumbles, tossing a chip in her mouth. "Like she didn't just put it there herself. I swear she's trying to build a case to get me fired."

You hum a vague sound of sympathy, but your eyes are unfocused. Your thoughts are half in that concert hall, half in that penthouse closet, all tangled up with things that don't make sense yet.

Jiyoon squints at you, crunching slowly. "Hey. You okay?"

"Yeah," you say, blinking hard. "Sorry. I just..."

"You look tired," she says gently. "Like tired-tired. Go to bed."

You nod. "I will. Just—gonna change first."

She lets you go, and you disappear into your room, clicking the door shut behind you.

The quiet hits fast.

You peel off your jacket, your jeans. Change into your sleep shirt. The light on your desk is soft and yellow, and you go to your tote bag by instinct, unzipping it without thinking.

You freeze.

Your fingers reach the bottom of the bag.

You check again.

Then again.

Your journal's not there.

You turn the bag upside down—shake it, even though you know how pointless it is—and the only thing that falls out is a used lip balm, your wallet and your bus pass.

You drop to your knees beside the desk, rifling through the bag's compartments. Check under your bed. In your drawers. You dig through the laundry pile.

Your breath quickens. Your pulse starts to speed.

A whole year and a half. That's how long you've been writing in that journal. Every scattered thought, every tiny win, every loss, every panic attack, every private daydream. It's not just a notebook—it's you. You wrote yourself into those pages, over and over and you can think is; it's gone.

You dart back into the living room, voice already strained. "Jiyoon—have you seen my journal? The brown one?"

She looks up from her phone, blinking. "Journal? No. Did you leave it at the library?"

You shake your head too fast. "No—I had it with me. I know I had it with me. I wrote in it today, I always put it in the tote after, I—I—"

She sits up straighter. "Okay, hey. Don't panic. Maybe it slipped out on the bus?"

You clutch your arms, stomach turning. The thought of it sitting there in some grimy bus seat, left behind, already flipped through by strangers, your handwriting exposed—your insides exposed—makes you sick.

Your throat tightens.

"Hey," Jiyoon says, getting up now, her voice softer. "It's okay. We'll retrace your steps tomorrow, alright?"

But you're already crying. Not big sobs—just quiet, stunned tears, the kind that sting as they fall, the kind you can't stop once they start.

You laugh bitterly through it, pressing your palm to your mouth. "It's stupid," you mumble. "It's just a journal."

"It's not stupid," Jiyoon says, crossing the room and pulling you into a hug.

You close your eyes. Her office clothes smell like starch and soy sauce and the bad perfume her coworker probably wears, but her arms are warm and solid around you.

Still, your heart aches like something's gone missing.

And somewhere—somewhere else—those pages are no longer just yours.

*•*•*

You don't even realize how much weight you've been dragging until it starts to leave marks—under your eyes, behind your ribs, along your spine.

It's been a whole day without it. Twenty-four hours without your journal and you're already unraveling. Not crying anymore—just dulled out. The kind of sadness that makes everything taste like paper, feel like static.

Jiyoon tried her best. She really did. She even called in sick that morning just to help look. Said her manager could go chew on gravel, she didn't care. She pulled you out of bed, made you drink an iced coffee, and walked with you back to every single place you'd been.

You retraced your steps with her hand on your shoulder the entire time—gentle, like you'd break.

Back to the library. Back to the plaza where you sat for five minutes waiting on the bus. You even got on the same damn route, asked the driver if he'd seen a brown journal with an elastic band and too many taped-in receipts.

Nothing.

Just a kind smile from a man who said he was sorry and wished you luck.

So when Friday comes around—when you have to drag yourself out of bed again for the penthouse job—you feel heavy. Disconnected. You brush your teeth with your eyes half-closed. Tie your laces without bothering to double knot them. You're not crying, not even angry, just—

Faded.

You leave the house a little past nine. Jiyoon waves from the couch but doesn't try to stop you. She knows money talks, even when you're too tired to listen.

You arrive at ten sharp like always. Same hallway, same elevator ding, same code punched into the keypad.

The door opens.

And the stillness inside hits you harder than usual. Not just quiet—vacant. Like the walls themselves are holding their breath.

You don't bother kicking off your shoes this time.

You walk in and turn toward the kitchen to get the supplies—straight to the cabinets under the sink—and that's when you freeze.

There.

On the counter.

Your journal.

You stand still for so long the air starts to pulse in your ears cause it's open. Pages parted like a secret mid-sentence. And the breath that's been caged in your lungs for a whole day catches halfway up your throat.

You move closer. Like if you blink too hard it'll vanish.

It's turned to that entry. The one you wrote after cleaning here the first time—where you wrote about the towels and the light and the strange emptiness of a life lived up high and alone. The part where you called him lonely.

Your eyes track the handwriting in the margin. Small. Neat. Slightly angled.

An arrow is drawn from the word lonely and next to it, in ink that definitely isn't yours:

you have no idea.

Your throat goes dry.

You run your fingertips over the words—his words—like touching them will make them make sense. But they don't. Not really. They just buzz in your chest like something secret and sad and suddenly real.

He read it. He read it.

And not just read it—responded.

You sink into the nearest stool, heart hammering, holding the journal like it might slip away again.

This man—this ghost of a man, the one who hides behind silence and rules and perfectly folded towels—he read you. And then he left this like it wasn't a confession. Like it wasn't a crack in the wall you didn't think you'd ever see.

"You have no idea."

You don't.

But for the first time, you think you want to so you tear a sheet from the back of your journal. The lines are faint blue, the edge ragged where it rips. You stare at it longer than necessary—like the paper's going to change its mind about letting you say what you need to.

Your hand shakes as you write it, "I didn't mean to be invasive, just honest."

You don't sign it.

You fold it in half once, then again. Then you slide it under the coaster on the marble coffee table—tucked, but not hidden. If he wants to find it, he will.

And then you're out the door. Before 4, for the the first time not caring about the rule.

*•*•*

When you get home, Jiyoon's door is locked. You knock once, then try the handle. Still locked. "Jiyoon," you call. "Let me in." Nothing, so you knock harder. When she finally opens it, her hair is a mess and her cheeks are a deep, guilty pink. She looks like she just sprinted a mile and saw God somewhere in the middle of it.

You know what she was doing but you don't care, you just brush right past her and drop your journal on her bed like it's a live grenade.

"He read my fucking journal," you hiss, turning on your heel. "He wrote in it." "What!?" Jiyoon gasps, not even trying to play it cool. "That's where you left it?!"

"I didn't mean to!" "Wait—he wrote in it? Like, wrote wrote? Pen to page?" You nod, pacing like your bones are electric. "He responded to a line I wrote about him being lonely. Just—drew an arrow to it and wrote 'you have no idea.' Like what the fuck is that even supposed to mean!?" "That's—" She stops. Blinks. Then starts again, because of course she has to. "That's kind of hot," she says, lips twitching.

"Jiyoon!" "Okay, okay! It's fucked up, but it's also..." She trails off, thoughtful. "It's kind of giving tortured artist. Haunted tower. Piano-playing ghost with emotional constipation." You flop onto her bed, face buried in your hands. "I feel violated. But also like...I violated him first? Is that weird? I feel like we both got naked and didn't mean to."

"That is the weirdest metaphor you've ever said," Jiyoon mutters, but there's affection under it and you're about to respond but then your phone rings. Shrill and loud against the padded silence of Jiyoon's room. You check the screen and it's Cee. You answer it with a sigh. "Hello?" "What the fuck is wrong with you?" He barks immediately. "Did you leave before 4?" Your stomach drops. "Yes, I did, but—"

"You had clear fucking instructions! You don't leave before 4. Ever."

"I had to. I was done, I—" "I don't give a shit," he snaps. "From now on? You clean for him every day. That's what he wants." You blink. "Every day?"

"Every. Fucking. Day. Starting tomorrow." The line goes dead. You lower the phone slowly and Jiyoon's looking at you like you just told her you're moving to Mars. "You're cleaning for him every day?" You nod, feeling numb. She whistles. "Guess you better start folding towels in your dreams."

You flop back on her bed again, journal beside you, limbs heavy and brain scrambled, because somehow this man has read your secrets, insulted your towel folding, haunted your thoughts and gotten you trapped in a daily cleaning contract. You stare at the ceiling, heart a mess of beats. You truly have no idea what the hell you've gotten yourself into, just like Heeseung wrote.

*•*•*

You hate today. Not in the throwaway I-hate-Mondays kind of way, but in that deep, simmering, "I'd rather get hit by a bus than scrub your already-clean floors for six hours" kind of way. It's Saturday. Saturday. And you're supposed to be doing anything else. Sleeping in. Going to the corner store with Jiyoon in your pajamas. Sitting in silence and mourning the part of yourself that used to be a free woman.

Instead, you're here. The penthouse again. Cold and looming and weirdly beautiful in a way you hate to admit. It's only 9:30. You're early and you could wait. You should wait. But something reckless and slightly unhinged is buzzing in your blood—maybe it's the journal thing, or the fact that he read every single thing you've ever written about yourself. You don't know.

You just know that this time, you're not waiting. You take the elevator up. No code. No warning. Just your footsteps, soft and slow, echoing across the marble as you step into the penthouse and then—you stop. Dead.

Because there's someone already down here, in fact two someones. One of them, you recognize as the man you saw leaving that day—now unmistakably a doctor of some sort, clipboard in hand, every movement clinical and restrained. He's sitting next to another man. A man who's— Oh fuck.

Shirtless.

Barefoot. Wearing only a pair of jeans that hang low on his hips like they're barely there at all. Lee Heeseung, the one on all the pictures and posters in the haunting closet, the one from the articles you saw.He's not a ghost or a shadow upstairs. He's definitely real and he's here, laughing at something he just said, a low warm sound that breaks the silence—and then cuts off the second he sees you.They both stare and you can't help but stare back cause your brain short-circuits because not only is he real—he's gorgeous. Devastatingly beautiful in a way that feels cruel. Sharp jaw, dark hair a mess, skin golden and soft in the morning light and then the audacity of the amused curl of his mouth as he takes you in.

The doctor doesn't laugh at Heeseung's joke, he just closes his clipboard with a hard snap, locks the files into a black case with practiced hands, mutters something clipped to Heeseung, and walks past you like you're air. You don't move, not because you don't want to but because you can't. And now Heeseung just stands there, right in front of you, 6 feet away. Shirtless.

As if this is all some sort of routine, where he expected you to show up early to catch him sitting there. Then he speaks. Voice low, smooth, maddeningly calm. "You're early."

You blink, stunned mute. He cocks his head slightly. Barely.

"Is this how you always barge into my home?" You open your mouth but you have to close it again because no words will come out.Because all you can think is holy shit. Not only is he not old, like Jiyoon said, not only is he not some weird piano hermit ghost—he is breathtaking. And apparently, deeply unbothered by the fact that you've just witnessed whatever strange intimate evaluation that was.

"I—sorry," you finally manage, voice rough to the point of shame. "I didn't think—there was someone—upstairs, usually—" Heeseung raises an eyebrow, clearly entertained. "You didn't think as I didn't think you'd be here before ten, hmm?" You bristle, flustered and mortified and somewhere under all that, burning. "I'm just here to clean." He smiles at that and it's not kind, it's not mocking either. Just... knowing, he's got that look—the kind that says he's already pages ahead in your journal entry for tonight, already memorized the lines, already knows exactly how this ends.

"Good," he says. "Then clean." And he walks past you—slow, easy, barefoot steps—disappearing back up the stairs without another word. Leaving you there, alone with your rage, your humiliation, and your heart pounding so loud in your chest it echoes in the silence. What do you do now? You clean. Of course you do. That's what you're here for, and you already showed up thirty minutes earlier than you were supposed to, so now you're finishing faster than usual—dusting the shelves with extra care just to stall, organizing the rows of books he never touches, wiping down the marble countertops even though they don't look like they've been used in days.

And all the while your brain won't stop looping back to your journal on his kitchen counter, to the handwriting in the margins that isn't yours, to the arrow pointing right to the word lonely and the quiet weight of you have no idea written beneath it.

It's unfair, you think, the way he's just living in his architectural digest penthouse, barefoot and cryptic, while you're pacing through his living room, trying not to wonder how much of your life he's read. You almost forget the weight of it—almost—until he's suddenly back.

You hear him before you see him, the soft sound of his footsteps against the dark wood floor, and when you turn, there he is.

Coming down the stairs like a fucking problem you can't afford to have, still barefoot, still in those jeans that hang too low on his hips, but now in a loose linen shirt that he didn't even bother to button all the way.

It's distracting, infuriatingly so. You don't even want to think about how hot he is—because it's wrong, and messy, and also, you're still mad.

He sees you before you can pretend you weren't watching him descend like some kind of fallen angel with unresolved trauma, and for a moment, he says nothing. Just stands there at the bottom of the stairs, head tilted slightly, his eyes unreadably deep, like he's trying to pin you to the spot with silence alone.

Then he turns, walks toward the closet in the hallway—the one with the photographs and trophies and that signed, rolled-up poster of his own damn face—and you stare after him without meaning to, without even trying to be subtle. There's something about the way he moves, like someone who hasn't had to explain himself in years, like someone who only speaks when the silence becomes too loud to tolerate.

You don't expect him to come back out and walk straight toward you and you definitely don't expect him to stop right in front of you to speak.

"Do you always sit in my chair when you psychoanalyze me in your journal?" His voice is even, smooth, and just sharp enough to make your jaw clench. There's something teasing in it, mocking maybe, or maybe just observant, but either way—it makes your chest tighten.

You straighten where you sit, looking up at him without flinching. "You had no right to read my journal."

He doesn't flinch either.

"You wouldn't read a strange book you found in your house?"

And that's what throws you—how casual he says it, how unbothered he is by the violation, like it was never that serious to begin with.

In your head, you're screaming. Not because you're scared, but because it's almost worse that he read it without hesitation. Because that journal was yours, it was everything. A year and a half of pain and boredom and loneliness and softness and tiny bursts of joy that you didn't know where else to put. Little poems about love you've never felt. Sentences that barely made sense to you at the time. Half-finished stories and full-bodied grief. And now he knows. Maybe not all of it—but enough.

You bite your tongue before your mouth runs wild, but your thoughts are already racing.

He read it. He read all of it, probably. God, did he see the poem you wrote about the boy who only existed in your dreams? Did he read the list of things you want to do before you die? Did he see the part about wanting someone to ask you how your day was, without needing a reason?

You want to be mad. You are mad. But under that is the hot sting of embarrassment, the helplessness of being seen without warning, without consent.

He's still watching you, expression still unreadable.

You blink hard. "It wasn't for you."

"I figured."

You exhale sharply through your nose. "Then why did you—"

He cuts you off without cutting you off. His voice is softer this time. "I found your note."

That makes your stomach turn.

You remember the note. I didn't mean to be invasive, just honest.

You didn't even think when you left it. You just wrote it and ran. And now he's standing here, bare feet planted firmly on the floor, chest half-exposed, staring at you like your truth didn't scare him off at all.

"I don't think you're invasive," he says. "You were just... honest, like you said."

That word again.

And suddenly you're not sure what this is anymore—what he is. Because he's not yelling. He's not smug. You don't even think he's trying to humiliate you, he's just standing there, calm, casual—as if this is routine, as if your journal wasn't a goddamn blueprint of everything you never said out loud. As if he didn't drag his pen under the word lonely and scrawl you have no idea in the margins, careless, cruel, and so absurdly calm about it.

You really don't know what to say but you guess your silence must say enough, because his eyes soften just enough to sting.

"People don't usually stay when I'm honest," He says it like it's already written in stone, something that happened, not something he's choosing.

You just sit there, unsure if you're still furious or if your heart just broke a little for a man you don't understand at all.

You really want to ask him why he wrote in your journal, why he felt comfortable enough to reply to it like you were in some kind of conversation. You should get up and walk out, slam the door for good measure, remind him you're the help and he's a man who's too comfortable living above the rest of the world, shirtless and half-smiling at things that should have been private. But instead, you're still sitting there.

And instead of leaving, you ask, "What's with the whole coming at ten and leaving at four thing?"

He blinks.

It's not the question he expected, maybe not the one you expected either, but it's already out in the air now and hanging between you like mist.

He exhales through his nose, shifting his weight slightly as he leans a hip against the back of the chair across from you. You watch the movement—too closely—and hate how your eyes keep catching on the little things: the curve of his collarbone, the faint line of a vein down his forearm, the way he smells faintly like vanilla and clean linen. You force your gaze back up to his face.

He doesn't answer right away.

Then, after a moment, he says, "I just thought six hours was enough time for you to do what you needed."

It's almost clipped, controlled.

"And..." He pauses, eyes flicking to the side, as if choosing his next words carefully. "It's better for you if you follow it."

You blink. "What do you mean better for me?"

He shrugs one shoulder, nonchalant but not exactly casual. "You walked in on something you weren't supposed to see this morning."

Your mind flashes back to that moment—the doctor, the manilla folders, the way Heeseung was sitting on the chair laughing to himself with no shirt on and then suddenly not laughing at all.

Your throat feels a little dry.

"You mean the doctor?" you ask carefully.

He nods once. "Yeah." Then, quieter, "There are... things I deal with. Things I don't need anyone witnessing."

It's not quite a warning. Not quite a confession either. It floats in the space between.

You shift in your seat, uncertain. "So the schedule is more for... your privacy?"

He lets out a sound that's almost a laugh but not quite, low and humorless. "Sure. Let's go with that."

There's something in the way he says it that tells you he doesn't really mean it—not entirely. Like there's more he could say if he wanted to, but he doesn't.

Still, you nod slowly, even though you don't really understand. Even though the idea of spending six hours in a place that holds your most personal words hostage is suffocating.

Even though his presence is starting to feel... electric in the worst and best way.

And then, after a beat, you ask softly, "And what happens if I don't follow it?"

He looks at you.

Really looks at you.

And for a second, something shifts. The air between you turns thicker, heavier. You can feel his eyes like heat on your skin.

"I don't think you'd want to find out," he says, voice low and quiet, but not threatening. Just true.

And you believe him.

Not because you think he'd hurt you. But because there are some parts of him—some stories, some shadows—you haven't earned the right to touch yet.

You don't answer.

You just hold his gaze until it feels like it burns and then drop your eyes to your hands and stand up to walk away, walk towards the door

He straightens then, subtly, pushing off from the chair like the moment's passed. You don't know if you're relieved or disappointed.

"Of course a person as beautiful as you would write so heartbreakingly beautiful." It's low. Almost to himself. Like he didn't mean to say it aloud.

But you hear it.

And it feels like your ribcage cracks clean in half.

You turn—just slightly, just enough to look at him over your shoulder. He's not even watching you. He's looking down at the floor, one hand resting loosely on the back of the chair like he hadn't just broken you open and left you bleeding all over his expensive floors.

"What did you ju—" you almost ask but he's already cutting you off. "You're done for the day, right?"

You barely nod, fully facing him now, bewildered.

"Then you should go."

You turn around and walk slowly, legs a little stiff, journal heavy in your bag, chest heavier still.

And as you move past him, toward the front door, he doesn't say anything else.

He just watches you go.

You walk home like your body isn't yours, it feels like your bones are made of sound, the way you hear everything but can't feel a single step. Your bag is even heavier than it should be for some reason.

The door to your apartment creaks as you open it. Warmth hits you in the face. Jiyoon's music is loud—some upbeat synth-pop song she always plays when she's cooking—and the smell of garlic and oil and something spicy wraps around you like a familiar blanket. But you don't step in right away. You stand in the doorway a little too long, still wearing your shoes, still holding your keys in one hand like you forgot what they're for.

Then she turns. She sees you.

And she freezes.

The music doesn't. But she grabs her phone and hits pause mid-chorus, eyebrows already pulled together in the way they do when she's bracing herself for gossip. "You look... feral."

You blink. "What?"

"Your face," she says, pointing a wooden spoon at you. "It's giving war-torn romantic heroine. What happened?"

You close the door behind you. You walk inside. You don't know where to begin.

So you say the first thing that spills from your mouth.

"I saw him."

She doesn't need clarification. "Him?"

You nod.

"Lee Heeseung?"

You nod again.

She gasps so loud the spoon hits the floor.

You don't laugh. You can't.

"He was shirtless," you add quietly, like it's something illegal.

Jiyoon makes a noise so high-pitched only the dead could hear it.

"No. No. No," she says, rushing over and grabbing both your arms like she's checking for a pulse. "You have to tell me everything. And I mean everything. Did he talk to you? Did he breathe near you? Did he smell good? Does he look weird? Did you black out? Are you still alive? Blink twice if you need CPR."

You let out a long breath, barely a laugh. "He was laughing with some man. A doctor, I think. He was barefoot. Just jeans, low. He didn't even look at me at first. Just kind of... existed."

You don't realize how tightly you're gripping the edge of the counter until your knuckles start to ache.

"Then he did see me later when he came back down, I was sitting. In that chair I said I always journal in. And he just... stared. Then he disappeared into that hallway closet with all the photos and came back out without something, and I watched him the whole time like a creep." Jiyoon looks winded. "This is already the best thing I've ever heard."

"He asked me if I always sit in his chair when I psychoanalyze him in my journal." Her eyes explode. "No."

You nod. "Yes."

"What did you say?"

"I told him he had no right to read it."

"Did he deny it?" You shake your head slowly. "He said—and I quote—'you wouldn't read a strange book you found in your house?'" Jiyoon puts her whole body on the counter, like gravity's too much. "This is sick. This is sick. I can't believe you're living out the plot of the exact kind of emotionally unstable literature you always say you hate." You let your head fall next to hers. "I'm going to have to switch some of my classes."

She lifts her face, blinking. "Wait, what?"

"I can't keep going in the mornings. Not if I'm cleaning for him every day. The only opening left in my schedule is evening sections and some online ones, and I'll probably miss my favorite professors class."

"You love that class."

"I know."

"I don't know if you can tell but you're kind of acting like it's worth it"

*•*•*

You wake up feeling weirdly... eager. Which is insane in your opinion. It's cleaning. You're going to clean for six hours in a house where the walls are silent and the air feels kind of tight, and maybe—maybe—he'll come down again. Maybe he won't. You tell yourself it doesn't matter. You dress in your usual oversized tee and leggings, but you switch your sneakers for the cleaner pair, the ones without scuff marks. You spend longer on your face than necessary. Just moisturizer, a little concealer—nothing obvious. Just in case. You tell yourself it's just habit. You tell yourself a lot of things.

You get there at 9:57. By 10:02, your coat is hung up and the cleaning supplies are laid out in their usual corners. The house is quiet—same as always—but now it's a different kind of quiet. Now you know who it's holding and it makes you all irrationally aware of everything.

You start with the mirrors.

Not because they're dirty. They're not.

But because they reflect the hallway, and every time you glance up, you can see the top of the stairs.

By 11:17, you've vacuumed every rug on the main floor. Nothing.

By 12:04, you've re-organized the kitchen drawers. Again. Not that he'd notice. You don't even know if he uses them.

By 12:58, you're dusting frames that don't need dusting, glancing at the ceiling like footsteps might fall out of it.

By 1:45, you've convinced yourself he's not coming down. That yesterday was a one-off. That he's upstairs doing whatever rich, complicated people do—brooding maybe, like some Austenian shut-in. You try to laugh at yourself for even caring but it sits low in your chest. He's just a man, you only even met him once.

So why does it feel this weird? You're so distracted you almost forget to check the pantry. You always check the pantry. And when you finally do, you find it's already been stocked. Someone else did it.

Maybe him.

Your stomach turns and don't know why. By 3:50, you're packing your things, fingers slow on the zipper of your bag. By 3:56, you're glancing around the room like it might give you a reason to stay longer. By 3:58, you hear it.

Footsteps that make you freeze. And there he is.

Heeseung. Descending the stairs like it's nothing. Like he didn't make you wait all day without knowing you were waiting. He's wearing another linen shirt—this one in charcoal—and it's loose over his frame, the top two buttons undone. His hair is a little messy, like he's been lying down or pulling his fingers through it and, he's barefoot again. He smiles.

"Hey," he says, voice warm in that slow, easy way. "You're still here." You swallow. "Not for long."

He steps down the last stair. "How was your day?" You blink at him. It takes a second for your voice to catch up. "I spent it here. You tell me." His brows lift a little. Not offended—more amused. He shifts his weight and leans against the banister.

"I missed my favorite class."

"You're a student? And you missed a class? Because of this?" You glance down at your hands. They're still a little red from scrubbing tile. "Yeah."

He's quiet for a second. "Have you had dinner?" You start to say no—but your stomach betrays you before your mouth can lie. It growls. Audibly. Your eyes go wide and he laughs at your expression. "Sit," he says, already turning toward the kitchen. "I'll make something."

You blink. "What? No, that's not—" He turns to look at you over his shoulder. "Sit." And there's something in the way he says it that has you obeying, hesitantly still. The counter's cool beneath your palms as you lower yourself into the chair, eyes tracking his every movement. He moves so naturally in the kitchen—opens the fridge with one hand, pulls down a skillet with the other, all casual familiarity and soft clattering sounds. It smells like garlic again. Butter. Something fresh.

"What are you making?" you ask.

He shrugs. "Something edible. Hopefully."

Heeseung's cutting vegetables like he's done it a thousand times. He slices a tomato without looking down, throws it into a pan, then adds something else from a jar. The sizzle is instant.

You lean forward. "Do you cook for all your maids?"

He pauses, halfway to the sink. Then he glances at you, a slow grin spreading across his mouth. "You're barely a maid."

"Excuse me?"

He shrugs again, that same lazy charm. "Have you seen the state of the guest bathroom?"

You laugh—actually laugh, the sound startling even to you but you catch yourself wondering why you're not offended he just insulted your cleaning skills. You watch his smile grow wider and somehow, in the scent of sautéing herbs and low music playing from the speaker he must've turned on when you weren't looking, it feels normal. Almost. Except not at all. Because when he sets the plate down in front of you, you look up to thank him—and he's already watching you. Eyes soft and focused.

And for the first time all day, your chest doesn't feel so tight.

You dig in and it's stupidly delicious, making your eyes go wide again, mouth still full. "Okay.

That's insane."

Heeseung chuckles, taking a bite of his own.

You point your fork at him. "You made this? Just now?"

He nods, watching you intently. It doesn't take long before the plates are empty—yours cleaned down to the sauce, his barely touched—and there's music playing from somewhere in the house, something soft and unfamiliar, all instrumentals and quiet piano.

You're both still sitting at the counter, opposite ends, your elbows propped up, legs curled beneath the stool. He's lounging with his long body twisted toward you, shirt sleeves rolled up, one hand holding a wine glass he hasn't taken a sip from yet.

The conversation has slowed into something looser now—easier. He asked what books you've been reading lately. You asked if he's always this good at cooking. He pretended to be modest and then very much wasn't.

And then you ask, "Why every day?"

He looks at you. "Why did you suddenly want me to come clean every day?" There's a beat of silence. Heeseung's gaze drops to the rim of his glass, the edge of his thumb skimming around it once, twice.

"When I saw your note," he says finally, voice lower now, "I didn't know what to do with it." He lifts his eyes, meets yours.

"I knew you weren't going to come again until the day after next. And it made me... restless. Waiting for a reply. Not being able to ask."

You inhale, slow and careful.

"And then I read your journal."

You stiffen a little, but he doesn't apologize. He doesn't even flinch.

"I didn't read all of it," he adds, leaning forward, closer. "I swear. Just some pages. A few entries. And one poem."

You stare at him.

He sets the glass down. Both elbows on the counter now. His fingers lace together.

"I read this line—" he begins, eyes on yours, "Your silence filled the house louder than your voice ever did."

You're stunned like your brain can't comprehend he's reciting your poem word for word.

He doesn't even blink. "I memorized the gaps in your sentences like scripture. I waited for the ending, but all you left was air."

Your mouth opens—just barely—but you can't speak.

"There's still a teacup on the windowsill. There's still a sweater on the hook. There's still a ghost in the shape of you that lives in the room where you never said goodbye."

You whisper the final two lines without thinking.

"And I still set the table for two, like a fool. Like you might remember that you left me starving."

His lips part—just slightly. Your voice had gone soft at the end, cracking a little, like it didn't want to be said out loud. And maybe it didn't. Maybe it never was.

You didn't even think it was that good. You wrote it half-asleep. You'd forgotten you even. "I needed to know," he says, not looking away, "who could write something like that."

You're quiet for a long time. "You shouldn't have read it."

"I know."

"I didn't write it for anyone to—"

"I know," he says again, voice quiet now. "But I couldn't help it. I wanted to meet the person behind it. I wanted to see if you'd look at me the way your words did."

The room is suddenly very still.

You don't know what to say. You don't know if there's even language for the way your body is reacting. There's heat in your throat, under your skin, behind your ribs. You should leave. You really should but instead you ask, "Do I?"

His brow creases. "Do you what?"

"Do I look at you that way?"

He doesn't answer your question, not with words anyway. Just studies you with that same unreadable stare, something flickering behind his eyes that makes it hard to breathe.

And then, as if someone's pressed fast-forward on the moment, he shifts his weight back and clears his throat softly. "Do you play any instruments?" he asks, voice casual, like he didn't just memorize one of the most vulnerable things you've ever written.

You blink. "What?"

He shrugs, gaze dropping to the counter. "You write. I assumed you like music."

"I do," you say carefully. "I like listening more than anything. I used to sing."

He hums, smiling faintly. "Used to?"

You sigh, deflecting. "It's different when people are watching. When you're older. The recorder was more forgiving."

That gets a real laugh out of him. He tilts his head, grinning. "The recorder?"

"Yes, and I was a prodigy. First chair in third grade." You press a hand to your chest dramatically. "The youngest to ever play Hot Cross Buns with such emotional depth."

He snorts and leans closer like he's about to say something else, but the next thing you know, he's not across the counter anymore—he's beside you.

You don't know exactly when he moved, maybe it was when he stood up from the stool to put the plates in the sink, still laughing about the recorder joke.

His elbow brushes yours. His shoulder is an inch from yours. You feel his presence like heat—radiating and dangerous in the best possible way.

And somehow, you're still laughing. You're still talking about childhood instruments and music you like and whether jazz is romantic or just sad in a pretty way. He teases you for not knowing any Miles Davis and you tease him back for quoting poetry like a teenage girl with a Tumblr account.

It's light. Easy. It's so different from the static in the air earlier this week, from the careful distance you both tried to maintain. But now...

Now his hand brushes the counter beside yours. And your breathing changes. And the silence feels like a held breath.

You don't look at each other—you're still talking, kind of. But your voices are softer now. Lower. A little slower.

And then it happens.

Your eyes meet.

His face tilts just slightly toward yours, making your breath catch.

His hand twitches like he wants to reach for you and doesn't. His eyes drop to your lips. He leans in, just a little—just enough that the space between you crackles—and you feel yourself tilting too, breath hitching, mouth parting.

And then he pulls back, all too quick and 

sudden. He clears his throat, looks away, stepping back so abruptly he almost knocks over the stool that was next to you.

You flinch at the sound.

"I—" he starts, then shakes his head, jaw tight. "You should go."

Your stomach drops.

"I didn't mean to—" he breathes out, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You don't have to come tomorrow. Go to your class. I'll tell your manager."

You stay frozen for a second, eyes wide, lips still tingling with something that didn't happen.

And then you nod, slow. Trying not to show how much you're shaking. "Okay."

He doesn't say anything else.

You leave quietly.

But your pulse pounds in your ears all the way home and in the haze of it all you don't take the bus home.

You don't want the rush of it—the closed windows and stale air and elbows brushing yours. You want air, real air, the kind that cools your skin and cuts through the confusion curling heavy in your chest. The heels of your sneakers hit the sidewalk harder than usual. You don't notice until your toes ache.

You can still feel it. The almost of his mouth on yours. His voice whispering poetry that used to belong to no one but you. The way he looked at you right before he pulled back—like he could drown and not care.

You don't realize how far you've walked until your phone rings, sharp in the quiet. You check the screen and it's Cee. You sigh, thumb swiping across the glass.

"Hello?"

"Hey. Where are you right now?"

You blink. "Uh... on my way home. I finished cleaning—he told me not to come tomorrow, so—"

"Yeah, well, change of plans," he cuts in, voice tight, clipped. "He called. Wants you in tomorrow."

You stop walking. "What?"

"That's what I said. Twenty minutes ago, he told me you weren't coming. Five minutes ago, he said make sure you do."

Your grip tightens around your phone. You glance down at the pavement, cracked and worn, your shadow stretched long in the streetlight. "That... doesn't make sense."

"Welcome to my fucking week."

You don't know what to say. You try to remember exactly how he said it. You don't have to come tomorrow. You can take your class.

He said it like a kindness. Like a favor.

Or maybe—maybe it was a trick. A test. Maybe you failed.

The line is quiet for a moment. Then, softer—softer than you're used to from him, like he has to chew it first before he can let it out—your manager says:

"Hey. Is everything okay over there?"

Your breath catches.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean..." A pause. "He hasn't done anything weird, right? Or tried something? You'd tell me, yeah?"

You blink again, hard. It feels like stepping off a curb you didn't see. Your lips part, your heart kicks—because no, he hasn't. But he almost did and you're starting to think maybe it would've been fine if he did. Maybe it would've been more than fine.

"No," you say quickly. "Nothing like that. He's... he's not like that."

"You sure?"

"Yes." You don't hesitate. "I don't want to quit."

There's silence on the line. You can hear him exhale.

"Alright," he says finally. "You're there again at ten. Don't be late."

You nod, even though he can't see you. "Okay."

He hangs up.

You just stand there. A low breeze rustles through the trees, brushes cool fingers against your neck.

He asked for you. After almost kissing you and pulling away—after telling you not to come tomorrow—he called and asked for you. Your pulse flickers hot beneath your skin as your mind raced with questions.

Was he testing you?

Did he think you wouldn't come back?

You suddenly realize your mouth is dry, your throat tight. The stars feel too bright above you. Your phone buzzes in your palm, a silent reminder that something has shifted, again.

And for better or worse, you'll be seeing him tomorrow.

You don't even bother to take your shoes off when you get in the door.

The front door slams behind you harder than you mean it to, and Jiyoon—sweet, perceptive, too-curious Jiyoon—is immediately shouting from the kitchen, "Is that you? Are you okay? You've been gone forever, I was about to—"

"I'm fine!" you yell back, already halfway down the hall. Your voice cracks halfway through the word. You don't even try to fix it.

"Wait—" Jiyoon appears around the corner, wooden spoon still in hand, some ridiculous song playing from the speaker behind her. "Wait, wait, what happened? Did you see him again?"

You keep walking.

"Did he—?"

"I'm fine," you repeat, softer this time but not gentler. "He said I don't have to come in tomorrow, so I'll probably go to my class."

"Oh my god, what does that mean?" she laughs, stepping after you. "Did you finally tell him off or did he—?"

"I'm tired, Jiyoon," you mumble, hand on your doorknob. "So tired."

She crosses her arms. "You look like you just made out with someone in a Jane Austen novel."

Your face goes hot.

"I love you," you say, deadpan. "But I need to be alone right now."

She gasps dramatically, "You're hiding something! You always say I love you when you're hiding something—"

You shut the door in her face.

Lock it.

Lean back against it.

Your heart is still thudding too loud in your ears.

You sink down to the floor, journal already in your hands before you even realize you've moved. Your fingers tremble when you unscrew the cap of your pen. You press it to the page.

And for a moment, you just sit there, not even writing.

Just breathing.

You write, He said I write beautifully.

Then, slower, He said he felt restless about not getting a response.

And then, He pulled away.

The ink smudges beneath your fingers. You don't wipe it away. You just keep writing, your handwriting more frantic than usual, trailing across the page in swooping spirals and crooked curves. You write about the way he looked at you—so real and intense it felt like it burned. About how close he was, how you could feel the heat of him.

About the poem.

How he remembered every word.

How you finished it together.

And when you're done, you stare at the page—like maybe it'll give you answers. Like maybe it'll tell you what it means when a man like Heeseung tells you not to come, then calls your manager like he can't bear not seeing you.

You close your journal.

And press it to your chest.

You crawl into bed, still in your jeans, feet hanging off the edge, journal clutched to your chest like a heartbeat you don't trust to stay steady on its own.

It takes everything in you to peel yourself away, toss the journal aside, and dig out your laptop from where it's tangled in yesterday's laundry on the floor. You log into your evening class with exactly thirty seconds to spare, camera off, mic muted, chin propped against the heel of your palm.

The professor's voice starts droning through your headphones—soft, monotone, familiar—and for a second you think maybe you can do this.

And then your eyelids get heavy.

You blink hard.

You scribble your name into the attendance chat and pretend like you're absorbing something, anything, while your mind floats right back to—

That linen shirt hanging open just enough to see his collarbones. His voice, low and steady, reciting your words back to you like scripture. The smell of garlic and rosemary from his cooking still clinging to your hair. The way he moved closer without you even realizing. The moment before the kiss that never happened—the way your heart caught on the edge of it.

You shake your head violently, try to refocus. The slide on your screen says something about semiotic theory. You don't know what that means. You don't care what that means.

You're so screwed.

Your professor's voice fades into a low buzz, and you press your palm to your cheek harder, like maybe pressure can keep you conscious. It can't.

The laptop screen glares into your face. The chat scrolls with questions you don't have the energy to fake-read. You close your eyes just for a second.

You tell yourself it's only for a second.

Just one.

Just—

You jolt awake six minutes later to your professor asking, "And how might this apply to authorial intent, Y/N?"

You blink, brain empty.

You type in the chat: Sorry, my mic's not working.

And you thank every god that ever existed for mute buttons.

*•*•*

You find yourself hovering just outside the penthouse door, hesitating.

Your fingers are curled in a loose fist, suspended midair like they've forgotten how to move. You've stood in this exact spot every day for about a week now, but this time—this time you're unsure. The same polished floor under your shoes, the same towering door with its sleek gold handle and silent weight, but something about today feels different. You feel different.

You almost turn around.

Almost.

But then—voices. Muffled, low but distinct, curling around the edges of the thick door.

You lean in without meaning to, breath held as if your body knows this is a moment you're not meant to be part of. You recognize his voice first, Heeseung's—light, teasing, a tone you've come to know well, though it still unsettles you how easily it affects you. The other voice is lower, older maybe, with clipped words and a sternness that makes your stomach tighten. It must be the doctor from the other day.

"No," the doctor says, firm and quiet. "Now isn't the time to have a new person around every day. You know that."

There's a pause. You hear something creak—maybe a chair.

"It's fine," Heeseung replies, far too casually. "Nothing's happened. She's just cleaning. It's fine."

"She's not just cleaning."

There's silence. A long one. And then—Heeseung's voice again, softer. "Maybe she's good for me."

You freeze. You don't know what they're talking about exactly, not in full, but the heat that rushes to your face is impossible to fight. Good for him? What the hell does that mean? And why does it make your chest feel like it's caving in? Before you can hear anything else, the door swings open, making you stumble back just in time, blinking up at the man who steps through—tall, with sharp eyes that land on you and skim over every inch of your body like you're being scanned. He doesn't say hello, he doesn't smile just like last time. Instead, he mutters something—so low you barely catch it but the edge is there, sharp enough to wound. Something about "distractions" and "too young" and "another mistake."

You step aside without responding, your mouth suddenly too dry to speak. He walks past you with a slight shake of his head and a long sigh, like your very existence is a burden.

And then—

"Didn't think you'd come."

You turn back around.

Heeseung's standing in the doorway, barefoot again, hair still damp like he just showered, dressed in a loose gray shirt and soft black pants that cling to his hips in a way that makes your head fog. He's smiling—nothing too wide, just soft, like a secret meant only for you. Like he's genuinely happy to see you.

You open your mouth to say something, anything—but he's already speaking again.

"About yesterday," he says, stepping aside so you can walk in. "I'm sorry. I overstepped."

And the whiplash? It's instant. Because wasn't he the one who told you not to come today? All quiet and serious and guilt-stricken after nearly kissing you in his kitchen? Now he's soft again, familiar again, and it throws you completely off.

"You don't need to apologize," you say quickly, almost defensively, as you walk inside.

"I do," he says, just as fast. "I really—"

"No, Heeseung." You stop and turn to face him, heart in your throat. "You really don't need to apologize."

He opens his mouth again, brows furrowing, about to insist—but your voice cuts through the air before you can stop yourself.

Quiet. Barely a whisper.

"You didn't have to stop either."

Silence, all heavy and immediate. Heeseung just stares at you. Still and looking stunned. His lips parted like he wants to speak but the words haven't caught up to his brain. His eyes search your face slowly, like he's not sure if he heard you right—or if you meant to say it out loud.

And maybe you didn't.

But you did.

And there's no taking it back.

The door clicks shut behind you before you can even remember stepping inside.

Heeseung doesn't move at first. Just stares at you like he's not entirely sure you're real. Like maybe he conjured you up somehow. His eyes stay on your mouth a little too long, and you try not to notice the way his chest rises and falls, slow and controlled, as if he's reminding himself how to breathe.

Then you say it again. Softer this time.

"You didn't have to stop."

It hangs in the air between you. Heavy, reckless and unapologetic.

Heeseung blinks once. His expression doesn't change, but something in his eyes shutters. He exhales through his nose—shaky—and drags a hand through his hair, the curls still slightly messy from sleep or stress or something in between.

"That's inappropriate," he says, not unkindly. More like he's trying to draw a boundary he doesn't even believe in.

And the words sting. Maybe more than they should. Maybe because you were just beginning to feel something real stirring between the two of you—something outside of your job, your journal, your blurring lines. You freeze. Your mouth opens but nothing comes out at first, and it's too late anyway. He's already turning from you.

The confused hurt in your eyes stops him in his tracks, but only for a second. He looks back at you—and really looks. Something passes behind his eyes, quiet and aching. Regret maybe or worse, restraint. You watch his jaw flex, as if he's chewing on something bitter, swallowing all the things he'll never allow himself to say.

Then he's stepping away. A slow, deliberate retreat. His footsteps are soft against the stairs as he disappears up them without another word.

And just like that, you're alone. Again.

The silence is incredibly deafening.

Your hands are still trembling.

They have been ever since you left his place. You could barely wipe the kitchen counters without your fingers missing the edge. The dishes were spotless before you even realized you'd scrubbed them twice. Your head was everywhere but here, rerunning that moment—that look in his eyes, the cold withdrawal of his body after your quiet, desperate confession.

And he never came back down.

You didn't know what you expected, but it wasn't this.

The day drags, and when the clock finally blinks 4:00, you practically flee. Your phone's already to your ear by the time you hit the elevator.

"I can't do this anymore," you say as soon as Cee picks up.

He sounds startled. "Do what? Are you—what happened? Are you okay?"

"Nothing happened. I just—" You press your fingers to your temple. The weight of everything suddenly lands all at once. "I don't want to clean for him anymore."

He's quiet for a second. Then, softer, "Did he do something?"

"No. I just..." You sigh. "It's better this way."

And you think that's the end of it.

But the second you step into the building's reception, the front desk clerk—neatly pressed shirt, neutral expression, his name tag slightly askew—glances up from his computer. "Miss," he says, "Mr. Lee is asking for you upstairs."

You freeze.

Your mouth goes dry. "I—I was just up there."

He nods once, polite. "He asked me to let you know."

You hesitate.

Everything inside you says don't go. That this is how it always begins—with soft invitations and good intentions and doors that don't close fast enough behind you.

But your feet are already moving.

The elevator ride is silent, save the rush of your pulse in your ears. And when you push the door open, Heeseung is there, leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed. Waiting.

You can't read his expression.

"I figured you'd quit," he says. Not accusing. Not even upset. Just matter-of-fact, like he'd already prepared for it.

"I am," you say. "I think it's for the best."

There's a beat.

"I don't want that."

You scoff before you can help it, stepping inside, letting the door close behind you with a soft hiss. "I'm not even sure you know what you want."

You don't even realize you're walking until you're standing in front of him, so close you could count the lashes framing his eyes if you weren't too scared to look directly into them. There's something in his face—some falter in his composure—that makes your chest feel too tight.

He doesn't move.

So you do.

Your fingers curl into fists at your sides, your heart hammers, and then—you're kissing him.

It's a mess of a thing. Sudden. Brash. Tipped forward on hope and recklessness. Your lips crash into his like a question you don't want answered and—

Nothing.

He doesn't move.

Your lips are on his, but he's frozen. Unresponsive.

The rejection burns so fast it chokes you, and you start to pull back, humiliated—but something in you makes you whisper to him, "Please," you almost sound broken. "Please kiss me back, Heeseung."

That's all it takes.

The air leaves his lungs like he's been sucker-punched. His hands are on your face instantly, his mouth catching yours like he's been starving for it. Like the moment he tasted you, he remembered how badly he wanted.

And this time, he answers the question

His mouth is on yours like he's finally allowed himself to breathe. You're not sure who moves first after that—him or you—but the space between you disappears completely. His hands are in your hair, on your waist, gripping your hips like he needs the reminder that you're real and here and kissing him back just as desperately.

And when he pulls away to look at you—face flushed, eyes dark and confused—you whisper again, barely audible, "Heeseung..."

That does it for him because you can swear you see the moment something in him breaks. Suddenly he's not hesitating anymore, like the sound of your voice cracked through whatever restraint he'd been clinging to, and now it was all unraveling.

He's swallowing the soft sounds you make, capturing every gasp, every whimper, like he needs to devour them, and his mouth is hot and insistent as it trails down your jaw, your neck, his teeth grazing the delicate skin like he's trying to mark the moment there.

You gasp when he lifts you without warning, your thighs instinctively wrapping around his waist, your arms around his neck. You can feel his heartbeat through his shirt. It's erratic—wild—matching yours nearly beat for beat.

He sets you down on the kitchen counter like you weigh nothing, the cool marble biting at the backs of your thighs through your jeans. His lips return to yours before they begin their descent again, brushing over your collarbone, down the slope of your chest. His fingers find the hem of your top and pause, glancing up, breath hitching.

You nod.

That's all he needs.

He peels it off gently—too gently for the look in his eyes—and when your bra joins the growing pile of fabric, he's silent for a second. Just watching you. Then he exhales something like a curse and leans in, pressing slow, reverent kisses down your sternum, the curve of your breasts, dragging his teeth lightly, sucking your nipple into his mouth, making you shiver and arch into him.

Every time you whimper, he presses closer.

Every time you moan, he groans softly against your skin, like your sounds undo him.

And just when you think your legs might give out from how tightly your body is wound, he lifts you again. Not onto the floor—but down, off the counter, and turns you gently, pressing you forward. You gasp softly as your hands meet the marble again, your heart stuttering.

Your jeans are tugged down with unhurried hands. Your underwear follows. You're so exposed. Breathless. And behind you, Heeseung lets out a shaky breath that sounds almost like a prayer.

One of his hands smooths over your lower back. The other grips your hip. "God forgive me," he whispers.

You don't know how to stay quiet—not when his mouth is trailing behind you, kissing the backs of your thighs, the curve of you, everywhere—and when he finally leans in, when you feel the first sweep of his tongue, your entire body jolts forward like he's short-circuited something deep inside you.

"Heeseung—" It leaves your mouth like a sob.

He groans in response, tightening his grip around your thighs, but his pace doesn't falter.

And all you can do is press your cheek against the cool counter, eyes fluttering shut, biting down on your own hand as he ruins you slowly.

Intimately.

He watches you unravel with so much intensity from beneath you, it's like he's trying to imprint every detail into memory. His tongue maps out every inch of you, teasing and tasting places you never realized could make you feel this way—until he finds your clit again. Instinct takes over; your hips roll down against his mouth, and he responds with a low hum, gripping your thighs to hold them open just enough to tilt his head and drag his tongue lower once more. "Spread your legs for me baby" He whispers it in a way that has you thinking you'll do anything he says, as long as he says it in that voice.

Suddenly and surprisingly, he shoves his tongue deep inside you while using his fingers to rub tight circles against your clit. "Hee—Ah!" You're moaning and whimpering so uncontrollably, the whole thing has your legs trembling where you're stood. You're convinced if he wasn't holding you up himself you'll collapse from the pleasure and pressure of it all.

His tongue is incredibly relentless, slurping you up, not even caring that he's drooling down his chin with your essence, "Wait! W-Wait!" You cry out suddenly.

"What? What? What's wrong? Did I hu—" His words cut through to you as he gets up off his knees where he was, but you're cutting him off and pulling him for another deep kiss, hopping yourself up on the counter again. Heeseung kisses you back like he's starving—like you're the first thing he's ever been allowed to want.

Your hands are in motion before you can think. Clumsy, eager, pulling his shirt halfway out from where it's tucked into his sweats, feeling the heat of his stomach beneath your palms. You moan into his mouth and his hands squeeze your thighs in response, hard enough to leave a mark.

He doesn't stop you when your fingers find the waistband of his sweatpants. If anything, he kisses you harder. His tongue sweeps into your mouth like he owns it—owns you—and you're letting him. Begging for more.

Your hands are shaking when you fumble at the button of his slacks, but you manage to get it undone, your fingers brushing the trail of skin that dips below the waistband. Heeseung lets out a sharp, broken sound against your mouth—fuck—his head tipping forward, forehead resting against yours as you palm him through the fabric.

You weren't ready for how hard and heavy he would be in your hand. It was like the length of him just went on and on.

You feel the twitch beneath your palm and gasp, and his breath stutters like he's seconds from losing it.

"Jesus—" heeseung grits, his voice deep and wrecked. His head tips back, neck exposed, throat bobbing, you've never seen someone come undone like this.

He's panting now, hips shifting forward like he needs the friction, like your hand is the only thing anchoring him.

"Is this okay?" you whisper, breathless, your voice barely steady as you trace him again, bolder this time.

His eyes find yours, blown wide and unreadable, lips parted. "You're gonna kill me," he breathes, but he nods. "Don't stop. Please take it out, please."

Your hand moves again, more confidently now, doing as he says, and his mouth crashes into yours mid-moan—swallowing it whole, like he can't bear the sound of his own unraveling.

And when he groans into you, deep and guttural and feral, you feel it between your legs—hot and pulsing and near unbearable.

He grips your hips like he's trying to anchor himself—like you're the only thing holding him together. He's dragging you to the edge of the counter and pinning your hand behind you, it has you feeling dizzy—the way he has you pinned there, at his mercy.

Before you can pull away to look down at where you have your hand wrapped around him, he's picking you up off the counter yet again, carrying you and setting you down on the couch, ever so gently.

Heeseung is panting into your mouth, your bodies pressed flush—his chest against yours, your legs wrapped around his waist. The fabric between you is suffocating. His sweats are halfway down his hips, your jeans are already abandoned on the kitchen floor, along with your panties, your composure, and any shred of dignity you once clung to when it came to him.

He's got you caged between his body and the couch. One arm braced beside your head, the other skimming down your side until his fingers are slipping between your legs again. You jolt, gasping against his lips, forehead pressed to his as his fingers slide through the mess he's made of you.

"Fuck—" you whisper, clutching at the back of his neck.

"So wet for me," he murmurs, his voice nothing but gravel and smoke, his thumb teasing your clit in slow, deliberate circles that make your spine curl. "You're perfect like this...I knew you'd come back."

You moan again, louder, desperate, rocking against his hand—your whole body begging for him.

His mouth finds yours again, kisses sloppier now, and then he's gripping himself, lining up with your entrance, breath hot and uneven against your cheek.

And then—

"Rina," he breathes.

You freeze for half a second.

It's soft—tender as a whispered prayer, effortless as a breath, a name escaping his lips before he even realizes it.

But your brain doesn't quite catch it—not fully. You're too far gone. Too overwhelmed by the stretch of him nudging at your entrance, by the unbearable heat of his body, the quiet, feral groan rumbling from his chest.

You blink, dazed. "What...?"

But the next second, he's pushing in.

And everything else disappears.

Your body arches, mouth falling open around a choked cry as he fills you in one slow, devastating thrust.

The stretch burns in the best way, and Heeseung moans something guttural, animalistic, like the moment he's inside you he's forgotten his own name too.

"So tight," he groans, nuzzling into the crook of your neck as he holds himself there, buried to the hilt. "Fucking heaven."

Your fingers claw at his back, your mouth finding the shell of his ear.

"Heeseung—move. Please—"

He pulls back, just enough to slam into you again, and you swear the stars tilt. His rhythm is brutal, relentless, every thrust stealing the breath from your lungs, and you're sobbing now—moaning into his mouth like you've lost your mind. Maybe you have.

Maybe he has.

Because he's whispering things you can't quite understand—fragmented pieces of something almost sweet, almost unhinged.

"My perfect girl... only mine... waited so long—so long—Rina..."

You hear it again. Clearer now, but you're too gone to stop. Too full of him to question it. Your body writhes beneath his like it's what it was made for—like he's been carved into your DNA.

And you don't know what he means but something about the way he's holding you—possessive, reverent, frantic like he'll die without you—sends a chill up your spine even as you're unraveling around him.

Where they meet—the madness and the need—you don't know where you end and he begins. But you're already lifting your hips to meet his just to chase your high. You're pretty sure you're drooling now and by the way he looks down at you a smiles you know he likes what he seeing "You're so beautiful" "So tight wrapped aroun—" He keeps silencing himself with strangled moans, pulling back and sitting up, too overwhelmed to even remember he hasn't apologized for already being on the edge.

"I'm gonna c—" "Oh fuck fuck fuuuuckkk" He drawls on and on, you can feel your release coming too, in fact it almost feel like you're going to pee. "Don't stop! Heeseung! Fuck!" You moan loudly, yanking him down into a sloppy kiss before pushing his hips back, his cock slipping wet and twitching from your cunt. Without pause, your fingers find your clit, working it in savage, relentless circles, each one followed by a sharp slap that makes your thighs jolt. "Fuck—shit!" you cry out, body arching as a hot stream shoots from you, splattering across his stomach and chest.

His breath catches—eyes blown wide, chest heaving—watching you lose control all over him "You're so sexy". You haven't even caught your breath when he suddenly takes over again, letting the mess spill from you as if your trembling doesn't matter, pushing you down and driving himself deep into the pulsing aftermath still rippling through your body.

"Cum on my cock again, please" "Need you to, Rina—Fuck! I'm so close!" He's mumbling half incoherent half desperate and your overstimulated self doesn't seem to hear the alarm bells ringing in your head at the name he just called you again.  You're already on the brink again, trembling and aching for it, and when it finally crashes through you, it's because Heeseung drags it out with no mercy. He pulls out, cock dripping, and fists it furiously as he paints your stomach—but he doesn't let your cunt stay empty. Two fingers slam back into your soaked hole, curling deep and fast, forcing you to squirt all over his wrist as he talks you through it with a low, filthy grin.

You're both trembling.

Sweaty skin pressed to sweaty skin. Harsh breathing. The deep, ragged quiet of two people who forgot where they were, who they were, what any of this even meant. He slumps forward, collapsing into you with a half-groan, half-laugh, and you let your fingers drift up his spine, your body humming with aftershocks.

You don't say anything and neither does he, not for a long, long moment.

Then he pushes up, slowly, gently—his hands sliding beneath your thighs as he lifts you off the couch. You whimper softly from the sensitivity, clinging to his shoulders.

"Come on," he says, voice raw and low. "Shower."

Your limbs feel like water, but you nod, letting him carry you. He walks the both of you to the massive bathroom like you weigh nothing—like you're still something precious in his arms—and sets you down on the warm tile floor. The shower clicks on, hot water spraying against his hand as he checks the temperature, then guides you under it with him.

The moment the water hits you, you shiver—more from the way he's looking at you than the heat. His gaze doesn't drop once. Not when he's rubbing gentle soap over your skin, not when he's rinsing between your legs with careful fingers, not when he presses a kiss to your shoulder like an apology he's too afraid to say aloud.

He doesn't speak until you're both out, towel-wrapped and damp.

"You okay?" he asks quietly, toweling off your hair with surprising tenderness.

You nod. And you don't stop him when he pulls one of his T-shirts over your head—soft and oversized, falling to your mid-thigh. You don't stop him when he pulls on a pair of boxers for you either, or when he leads you to the guest bedroom, the sheets cool and clean beneath your bare legs as you crawl under them.

He climbs in next to you, his body warm beside yours, and without a word, he pulls you close, wrapping an arm around your waist like it's muscle memory.

There's no more heat. No more tension. Just his heartbeat against your back, his breath slow and steady in your ear and you fall asleep like that, in his clothes, in his bed, in his arms. Not thining about the name he whispered.

*•*•*

You wake up before Heeseung does.

There's no buzzing alarm, no sunlight breaking through the blackout curtains, but your body jolts upright anyway—like your soul remembered what your mind didn't.

Panic grips you first.

Jiyoon. She's definitely called. Probably texted. Maybe even filed a missing person's report.

You twist in the sheets, trying not to disturb the weight draped over your waist. Heeseung's arm. Heavy, possessive, warm. His hand is splayed over your hip like it belongs there.

You freeze. Your breath catches in your throat.

What did I do?

Your heart's racing as you carefully, carefully peel his arm off of you, shimmying toward the edge of the bed. You manage to get one leg off, then another, tiptoeing like a thief in the early morning hush—

"Why are you sneaking out?"

You squeak.

Spinning around, your hands instinctively fly to your chest, but you're still wearing his shirt. You breathe a little but then freeze again when you see him. Heeseung is propped up on one elbow, hair mussed, eyes half-lidded and heavy with sleep. His voice is low and scratchy—one of those voices that somehow sounds like velvet and gravel all at once.

You stare. And then it hits you—like a freight train right between the ribs. Everything he did to you. Every moan he pulled from your lips. The way he tasted. The way he touched you like you were something sacred and sinful at the same time. You gasp, clapping a hand over your mouth like you can trap the memory there.

His brow lifts just slightly, eyes crinkling with amusement. "What am I gonna do with you?" he mutters, flipping back onto the bed with a sigh, one arm flung over his eyes. "You're trouble."

"I have to go," you say quickly, eyes darting to the door. "My friend is probably freaking out, she didn't know where I was—"

"Okay," he murmurs, voice muffled beneath his forearm. "But can I get a kiss?" You blink, feeling your heart stutter. Then, slowly, you cross the room again, padding back to the side of the bed. His arm lowers just enough to watch you. When you lean down, brushing your lips to his, he hums—like he's been waiting for that exact moment.

But just as you try to pull away, he grabs you. You yelp, landing on top of him with a soft thud as his hands anchor you by the hips. "Heeseung—" He kisses you again and t's not a chaste goodbye kiss this time. It's deeper, hotter—his lips moving slow and sure against yours, like he has all the time in the world. His tongue licks into your mouth, and you melt against him without thinking, your fingers clutching the soft fabric of his T-shirt over his chest.

You whine into his mouth. "I have to go..." He nips at your bottom lip, soothing the sting with a soft kiss before pulling back just enough to breathe. "Come back," he whispers. "Tonight. Seven o'clock."

You're blinking at him, breathless. "To... clean?" He shakes his head once, lips twitching. "No. I'll cook." You can't help it. You smile. It's shy and warm and completely helpless. "Okay," you whisper.

He lets you go then, but not before placing one last kiss on your cheek, right beneath your eye. "Don't be late."

You close the door to the guest bedroom behind you, twisting the handle slowly so it doesn't make a sound, like he might stir just from the click, not that he could even be asleep again. Your heart's still thudding, though softer now, your body still warm from how he held you—not just last night, but moments ago. You feel him on your skin. Between your thighs. In your mouth, even. You pad into the hallway, feet silent against the floor, and the penthouse feels even bigger in the morning, stretching out wide and echoey. Sunlight slips in through the tall windows of the living room, golden and faint, catching dust in the air.

Your clothes are everywhere. A trail—your bra laying on the kitchen floor with your jeans close by, your shirt hanging from the edge of a barstool like some kind of white flag.

You sigh.

You gather them quickly, cradling the bundle to your chest. But when you unfold your shirt—well, what's left of it—you remember the exact moment he took it off, how he looked at you like you were some forbidden fruit he'd gone too long without, you hadn't even realized he had ripped it. It's unsalvageable.

So you just... don't put it on. You slip your bra back on, then shrug his black shirt over it. It swallows you, soft and warm from sleep. You wiggle into your jeans next, the ones he peeled off of you. Your hands tremble as you do the button up.

Last thing—your phone. You search the couch. Nothing. Under the cushions. Still nothing. You check the kitchen counter, the bar, even crouch down to peek under the sofa. "Come on, come on..." Then finally, mercifully, you spot it near the edge of the carpet, half-tucked under the dining chair. You dive for it like it's oxygen and fumble to unlock it.

Ten missed calls. Three voicemails. Twenty-two messages.

All from one name. You don't even get a word out when you hit call—Jiyoon answers on the first ring. "You bitch." You wince. "Oh my god," she cackles. "You bitch. Where were you? Don't tell me—no, no actually, tell me everything right now."

"Ji—"

"You slept with him, didn't you? You fucking whore. You got that psycho dick, didn't you?! Tell me. Was it good? Was it crazy?!"

You cover your face with your hand, crouching down behind the kitchen island like you're trying to hide from the embarrassment sinking into your bones. "I'm coming home," you say weakly, voice still raspy from sleep and... everything else.

"Oh," Jiyoon says, tone shifting slightly. "I'm not home right now. I'm covering a shift for my lazy coworker. But I'll be back later—wait, wait, is he still there? Are you still there? What's he doing?"

"Jiyoon."

"What?"

"Bye."

You hang up.

Still pink-faced and hot, you shove your phone in your pocket, tug on your sneakers, and walk to the elevator with your head ducked low—like the doors might open and the walls themselves would whisper what happened between them. You're not sure how to feel. Still floating. Still wrecked. But you know you'll be back by 7.

*•*•*

You unlock the door to your apartment with shaking fingers, pushing it open slowly like you might find the night before still waiting for you on the other side. But it's empty, cause there's no Heeseung here. No soft piano notes echoing from hidden corners. No whispered "be back by seven." Just your little apartment, lived-in and warm and smelling faintly of vanilla from the candle Jiyoon must've lit last night. You step inside, close the door behind you, and lean back against it for a second. Just to breathe. Your body aches so deliciously and shamefully. Your lips are sore. Your thighs. Your heart.

You change into something soft and oversized before dropping onto your desk chair and logging into your online class, the kind of class that requires so much effort to focus on even when you haven't just had... whatever that was. The screen lights up. A professor you don't care about is already talking, already droning on about something you're not registering. You blink at the slides. The bullet points. You try. Really, you do. But your brain?

It's busy. Because it won't stop showing you his face in the dark. The way he hovered over you, lips parted, skin burning hot against yours. The way he touched you like you were something he needed to know. Memorize.

The way he whispered—low and wrecked—"Rina." You flinch.

It hits you all at once. You'd been so caught up in the moment, too far gone to process it then. But now? Now it loops. The way he said it. Like a prayer. Like a confession. Rina.

Who the hell is Rina? You shift in your seat, open a new tab, and hesitate. Your heart is racing again—not the good kind this time, as your hands tremble over the keyboard. Then you type it in regardless,

Lee Heeseung Rina

The search bar blinks at you. You hit enter. And there it is.

The very first result is a glossy thumbnail from three years ago. Heeseung in an interview, seated on a sleek navy couch, wearing black slacks and a gray button up sweater and a white shirt beneath it. He's smiling. That breathtaking smile you've only seen a few times up close, so effortless and disarming. You click the video.

The host laughs and leans forward. "Come on, Heeseung. Everyone wants to know. Who's Rina?" Heeseung chuckles, mouth tugging up at one side. You sit a little straighter.

"She's my first love," he says. "And probably the only one I'll ever love like that." The crowd awwws and your heart cracks like glass under pressure, you have pause the video. So she was real. A real woman.Someone he loved so deeply he admitted it on camera—publicly, permanently. Your throat closes up. Your chest tightens. He called you that name. Did he think of her while he was—. You don't even finish the thought. Instead, you search harder. Scroll deeper. You need to know what she looks like. If you look like her. If this is some messed up ghost-of-an-ex situation.

Another video pops up—this one titled "Behind the Scenes | Seoul Symphony Ensemble (ft. Lee Heeseung)"

You click it. The footage is candid, grainy. Heeseung's younger here, maybe only twenty or twenty-one, still too beautiful for it to be fair. The camera follows him backstage as he leads a film crew through the dim corridors of a concert hall. Then he stops, turns to the camera. "Come here," he says with a quiet laugh, gesturing to the next room. "You have to meet her." The camera jostles slightly as they follow. Heeseung walks up to a sleek, glossy black grand piano and runs his fingers across the keys. "This is Rina," he says, like he's introducing a person. His voice is reverent. Almost loving. "She's been with me since I was thirteen. She's...kind of everything to me."

You freeze.

The camera zooms in slightly. Heeseung brushes dust from the piano's surface with his sleeve, smiling at it so softly it hurts. "She's my first love." You sit there, staring, mind blank and full all at once.

Rina's not a person.

Rina's a piano.

A fucking piano. A part of you wants to laugh at your delusion but you don't, instead you just sit there.  Eyes glued to the screen. To him. To the way he's speaking—not to the camera, not even to the crew—but to the piano, like it's something alive. Like it's someone he's missed. Someone he still longs for in the softest, most ruined parts of himself. And that name—Rina—sits different now in your head. Not like a rival. Not like someone he's still in love with. But like... a memory. A feeling. Something that made him whole when the world couldn't.

Rina is his piano.

You let the video run, sound turned low, just watching him—barely twenty two, still beautiful, still broken. The way he presses one key gently and listens. How he says, she's been with me since I was thirteen. How he adds, she's my first love like it's a secret and a confession all at once. Your heart folds in on itself. Because in a way it makes sense now. The way he said your name last night, the way he whispered Rina instead—like he couldn't tell the difference. Like in his mind, in that haze of need and obsession and closeness, you had become something sacred. Something he hadn't let himself love in years. Something he used to play like music. And he'd touched you the same way—with reverence and hunger, as if trying to figure out where you end and he begins. You press your palm to your chest, like maybe you can settle your heartbeat if you hold it hard enough.

He doesn't see you as a replacement. You're not her. But in that moment, you think he felt something he hadn't in a long time. Something pure. Something familiar. Something maybe even terrifying. Heeseung, in his fractured, beautiful, obsessive mind, didn't just mistake you for his piano, he associated the moment—you—with what he once felt when he played Rina. And maybe he's so far gone he doesn't even realize he did it. And maybe you should be scared, but all you feel is this deep, warm ache in your ribs that won't go away. You close the laptop, completely forgetting about your class, and press your fingers to your lips. They still tingle from kissing him and you feel your stomach turn with excitement for the night to come.

*•*•*

You hear it before you see her. The clatter of her keys on the counter. The heavy sigh. And then, sharp—like a bullet of disbelief,  "YOU BITCH." "OH MY GOD." You don't even turn. Just let your eyes flutter shut and mentally brace for it. "You absolute filthy little minx," Jiyoon hisses, storming into the hallway in her work flats and crumpled apron, "Don't even try to deny it—I know you did it." "I'm not denying anything," you mumble, turning slowly to face her. She's halfway through unzipping her jacket, eyes wide, expression scandalized.

Your entire face bursts into flames. "Jiyoon—" "Oh my God, you did sleep with him." She points at you like she's witnessing a war crime. "You have sex hair. You're literally glowing. What the hell is that shirt? Wait—don't tell me." She takes a dramatic step back. "Is that his shirt?" You tug the hem instinctively. "It's just... something I had to wear. Mine got—um. Ripped." She stares at you. Blinks once. Twice. Then screams. "Oh my GOD. He ripped your clothes off? That's—like—that's premium movie-level sexy violence."

You bury your face in your hands. "Please lower your voice." "You didn't even text me last night!" she cries. "Do you know how worried I was? I thought he locked you in a cage or something!"

"I was busy," you say, voice strangled. "You were BUSY getting ravenously destroyed," she says, flopping onto the couch like the dramatics are too heavy for her legs. "Okay. Tell me everything. Don't leave out any of the details. Did he talk? Was it intense? Slow burn? Did he like—say your name all rough and gravelly or was he like, all quiet and crazy about it?" You hesitate.

You want to tell her and you almost do, but something about that moment—about everything that happened last night, the hazy weight of his body pressed against yours, his breath in your ear, how he held you like you were a prayer and a ghost all at once—feels too delicate. Too personal. You can't even begin to explain the shift you felt inside yourself, let alone the strange ache in your chest when he said that name. You swallow, keeping your voice light. "It was... really good."

Jiyoon lifts a brow. "That's it? Good?" You shoot her a look. "I'm not giving you a full play-by-play." She gasps. "So it was insane." "I'm gonna be late," you deflect, brushing past her to grab your phone. "I told him I'd be there at seven." "Ugh. Seven is such a romantic time."

"What does that even mean?" "Like. Not too early, not too late. Right in the middle. Candlelight o'clock." She wiggles her eyebrows. "You gonna let him feed you and then fuck you again?""Jiyoon."

"You are. Oh my God. Are you shaving again or are we doing stubble and surrender tonight?" You groan. "I can't talk to you about this." "Yes, you can," she says, pulling her hair into a bun. "We signed a roommate agreement, remember? Emotional nudity clause." You smile despite yourself. "Just wish me luck, okay?" She softens then, eyes scanning your face. "You like him." You hesitate, fingers pausing on your necklace clasp. "I don't know what I feel," you say truthfully. "It's... fast. Messy." "You don't do messy."

"Exactly." Jiyoon walks over, squeezes your shoulder. "That shirt looks hot on you, by the way. Like dangerously I-was-just-fucked-by-a-mentally-ill-man hot." "Thanks, I think."

"Be safe. Don't let him tie you to anything unless there's a safe word. Call me if he tries to perform an exorcism." You laugh, heading for the bathroom door. "You're gonna fall for him," she calls behind you. "You already are, huh?" But you don't answer, because you don't know that yet, and if you do, you're not ready to say it out loud.

You check the time again when it's 6:38 PM. Your reflection in the bathroom mirror stares back at you—doe-eyed, glossed lips parted slightly, a tiny knot of nerves cinched beneath your ribs. You smooth your hands down your dress for the fifth time, whispering to yourself under your breath like it might change something. "Okay," you murmur. "Just dinner. It's just... dinner." With Heeseung. At his penthouse. In a dress you specifically picked to walk the very fine line between I wanted to look nice for you and I definitely didn't spend two hours trying on everything I own. A dress that clings at your waist and floats at your knees and makes you feel pretty but also exposed. Not in a bad way, just... in a way that makes your skin feel watched. Known.

You hesitate in the doorway, staring down the hallway toward the stairs. And then you groan. "Nope. No way I'm taking the bus." You can already see it—you standing sandwiched between strangers, one arm clutching the overhead bar, the other yanking at your skirt, trying not to breathe too loud. You can feel the wrinkles forming just thinking about it. You'd show up looking like a disheveled little sandwich and Heeseung—Heeseung with his white linen shirts and leather watchbands—would tilt his head and maybe smile and maybe not say anything, but you'd know. You open your phone and call a cab.

It feels ridiculous. Extravagant even. But the moment you sink into the backseat, cool leather beneath your thighs and the city lights blinking past your window like slow breaths, something quiet settles inside you. You take a long, shaky inhale. Heeseung's face comes to mind. The way he looked last night—flushed and breathless and so terribly hungry for you, like you were the first and last thing he'd ever wanted. The way he whispered your name. Except—it wasn't your name. Not the first time. Your fingers tighten slightly on your bag and you push the thought away. You already made peace with it—told yourself it didn't mean anything. Not really. You'd seen the videos. You know what Rina is. And in some strange, abstract way, you think maybe you understand what happened better than you should.

Maybe he sees things in fragments—maybe he feels things in them too. Maybe last night, you reminded him of something he loved once so deeply he carved a home for it in his bones. And maybe tonight, you want him to start carving space for you instead. You glance atthe time on your phone, 6:53. Your stomach flutters. Are you nervous?

God—yes. Your knees won't stop bouncing, and your fingers keep picking at the edge of your dress. But you're also... excited.You don't know what's waiting for you on the other side of this ride—don't know if dinner will be awkward or sweet or laced with something heavier—but it feels like something real. Something different. And that terrifies you. Because you've never been looked at the way he looked at you last night. Not like you were music.

The cab pulls up to the building. You pay with shaky hands, thank the driver too softly, and walk inside. The elevator ride is a blur of breath-holding. The ding at the top floor even sends a jolt through your chest. And then you're standing in front of his penthouse door, your hand hovering, not sure whether to knock or just—. It's not locked. The knob turns and you step inside, closing the door behind you with a soft click, and you're met with... silence. You take one hesitant step forward into the quiet space. It's too quiet. The air feels still in a way it didn't the last time you were here—when it was thick with the scent of his skin, his hands, your gasps and moans echoing off the walls like confessions. Now it's like the space is holding its breath again.

"Heeseung?" you call, your voice barely above a whisper. You glance at the clock on the wall, 7:01. You chew on your lip, glancing around. The kitchen looks untouched. There's no trace of movement, no clatter of pans or scent of dinner in the air. There's a single light on in the far corner by the bookshelves, casting golden shadows across the couch where he held you just hours ago, his mouth in your hair and his arms locked around your waist like he was afraid you'd disappear. You exhale softly. "Heeseung?" you try again, louder this time, taking cautious steps farther in. Still nothing.

And then it hits you—you don't even have his number. You came here like some wide-eyed idiot with your heart between your teeth, expecting him to just be there, waiting, arms outstretched. It hadn't occurred to you that he might not hear the door, or might be upstairs, or might have changed his mind entirely.

God. You sink down onto the arm of the couch and try not to panic. You won't text Jiyoon—not yet. She'd tease you mercilessly and then probably tell you to go snoop in case he was sleeping with other people or something absurd. You don't want to snoop. You just want to see him. You shift in your seat, smoothing your dress again, tugging at the edge of it and check the time again, 7:06. You blink, already feeling defeated and ready to leave but then a sharp loud sound echoes from upstairs that has you snapping your head towards the stairs. There's another thud—louder this time—followed by a crash that sends a sharp jolt through your chest. Something shattered. And then, unmistakably, screaming. Blood-curdling. Ragged. Like pain clawing itself out of a throat too raw to hold it anymore.

Your breath snags. Your heart kicks into high gear. Your body's moving before your mind can catch up, instinct overriding hesitation as you bolt through the living room, past the grand piano, toward the stairs. Breaking every rule you were given when you first started working here, but that's the last thing on your mind.

He's upstairs. That's him—him screaming.You take the stairs two at a time, heart pounding, fingers scrambling against the banister. When you reach the top, there's only one door that makes sense—tall and black, you sprint to it, chest heaving, and try the handle.

Locked.

Your fist slams against it before you can think. "Heeseung?!" There's no response—just another crash, something metallic this time, like a stand being thrown, maybe a chair. Your knuckles are pulsing against the wood. "Heeseung, open the door! Please!" Still no answer. Just a chorus of garbled words—frenzied, nonsensical, frantic.

"They changed the notes—don't you hear it? It's all wrong, out of key, they're inside the piano! Stop watching me! The rhythm's bleeding, I can't—" Another crash. "It's too loud in here, too loud in my head, make it stop!" Your blood runs cold. Something primal flickers inside you—panic morphing into something sharper, braver. You back up, brace your shoulder against the frame, and throw yourself forward.

Once. Twice—

CRACK.

The door flies open, and you stumble into the absolute chaos, the first thing you see is the floor, and at the center of it all; a piano or what's left of one. Splintered wood. Torn wires. Ivory keys cracked like teeth knocked from a skull. You recognize it instantly. Rina.

There more glass and splintered wood than floor beneath her. Crumpled sheet music. A chair lying on its side. Blood. Blood like paint streaked across the wooden floor, thin trails leading to—

Him. Heeseung.

Standing in the center of it all like a broken monument. There's a deep gash across his forearm, blood still dripping sluggishly onto his hand and down his knuckles. His chest rises and falls too fast, ribs pushing sharply beneath skin that gleams with sweat. His hair sticks to his face. His eyes—wide, unseeing, glazed with something far away and chaotic and terrifying—don't register you at first. He's breathing like he's drowning.

You try to speak, to talk to him, but your throat won't open. He moves before you can. Quick, jerky. Like his body's not entirely his own. He spins, stares at the wall like it's speaking to him, fingers twitching at his sides. "They changed the notes," he mutters. "They changed the fucking notes." His voice is shredded. Raw. Like he's been screaming for hours. Maybe he has. You take one step closer, and your heel lands on a snapped piano key. It clicks beneath your foot like a trigger. He whips around, eyes on you now, all wild, unhinged and unfocused. "Who are you?" he rasps.

You freeze. The question slices clean through you. Your mouth opens, but your voice won't come. Heeseung stares, pupils blown so wide you can barely see the brown. His hands curl and uncurl like he's not sure if he wants to reach for you or strangle you. "Who are you?" he repeats. "Why are you watching me? Are you one of them?"

Them? Your heart stutters. "Heeseung..." you whisper, finally finding your voice. "It's me." But he flinches like you've struck him. You take another step and watch as he instinctively steps back. "No," he whispers. "No—Rina? I'm so sorry. I hurt you. You were perfect and I ruined you. My perfect girl. Please forgive me." Your breath catches.

"It's okay, it's okay." You don't know where it comes from. Maybe instinct. Maybe desperation. Maybe the way his voice cracks like the word is a wound. "I forgive you," you say, voice steadier this time. "I came back for you." His mouth parts and his whole body stills. You can see the thought slotting into place behind his eyes, crooked and trembling and fragile. But it settles. "...Rina?" You nod. "I'm here."

He walks toward you slowly. So slow. Like every step might set him off again. And still, you don't move. His bloodied hand lifts, fingers brushing your cheek—his touch clumsy and too hard at first, like he doesn't remember how to be gentle. But then it softens. His palm cups your jaw, and he leans in so close his breath skates across your lips. "I knew you'd come back," he murmurs. Your throat tightens and swallow around the ache, allowing him to press his forehead against yours. "I'm here now."

"Don't leave," he breathes. "Please don't leave me again. The music stops when you're gone. It stops and I can't breathe, I can't—"

"I'm not going anywhere," you whisper. He leans back just enough to look at you. The way he's looking now—it breaks you, because there's no rage or wildness. Just pure, shivering exhaustion. He's unraveling at the seams, and you're the only thread keeping him together. "I want to play," he says softly. "Let me play you."

You nod. And when he tugs you toward the mangled piano, you follow. It's barely standing. The legs are cracked. One pedal's missing. The keys are uneven—some bloodied, some broken. It shouldn't work. It shouldn't sound. But he sits on the shattered bench, breath hitching, and gently pulls you onto his lap.

You settle there, straddling him, your dress bunching slightly against the rough edge of the wood. Your hands brace on his shoulders. His arms wrap around you, drawing you closer. And then—fingers trembling—Heeseung presses his hands to the keys. The sound is... haunting. Off. Warped. But he plays anyway. A melody, jagged and soft. A lullaby with broken bones. The piano cries beneath his touch, but he keeps playing. For you, because of you, it all makes your chest ache for him, you even feel your eyes sting. And all you can do is hold him, let him pour whatever's left of himself into the broken body of his piano—into you.

Because right now, in this room thick with blood and chaos and ghosts, you're the only thing anchoring him to earth. The music tumbles out of him in discordant bursts, crooked and aching like his mind, like his body—like whatever this is between you. And you swear, you'd let him play you forever. But then his fingers slip, not from the broken keys, but because your breath stutters against his jaw. He stills, drifting one hand away from the piano to find your waist instead, the other continues to play, the curve of your back—and then he's holding you so tight you feel the blood from his arm soak warm through your dress.

You don't flinch.

He tilts his face up, searching yours. Your lips part, not for words, but for the way his mouth captures yours the second you breathe in. It's so so desperate. A kiss that tastes like iron and sweat and the kind of madness that wants to be known, wants to be seen.

You whimper into him, clutching at the front of his shirt, and his hands are already moving—shaky, hurried, needing—grabbing at your dress, dragging it up your thighs as if he doesn't care it's stained now, doesn't care it's soft and new and something you wore for him.The keys beneath you clatter with each shift of your hips, and his fingers fumble at the zipper on your side like it's fighting him. He groans low in his throat, kissing you harder, tongue sliding hot against yours as if he's trying to crawl inside of you—trying to disappear there, to lose the noise in his head.

"You came back," he gasps against your mouth. "You really came back—" You nod, breathless, eyes wet, thighs tightening around his waist. "I told you I would." He tugs the dress down your shoulders, hands smeared with red, smearing it onto you, painting you with it. It sticks to your collarbones, your arms, a fever-warm trail of devotion and ruin, but you don't stop him.

He's kissing you like he needs this to survive, like he'll lose his mind all over again if you pull away. Your fingers thread through his hair, and he groans at the way you pull, his mouth moving from your lips to your neck, your jaw, your shoulder—biting, tasting his blood smeared there, claiming. You tremble. And then his hand is between your legs, cupping you through your panties, a low, reverent moan tearing from his chest when he feels the heat there. "For me," he mutters, delirious. "You're like this for me."

"Yes," you breathe, rolling your hips into his hand, nails clawing at his back through his shirt. "Only for you." He groans again, like the words unmake him.

Your dress is halfway down your body, straps hanging off your arms, and you're so tangled together that it's hard to tell whose limbs are whose. He continues kissing you then like a vow. Like salvation. And everything else—the broken piano, the screaming from earlier, the sharp pain in your back from the cracked lid—fades to nothing. The music stutters beneath you—sharp, erratic keystrokes like a hymn being pulled apart at the seams.

But he doesn't stop playing. Even as his bloody fingers slip over the ivories, even as his other hand bunches your dress up around your hips, even as you gasp into his mouth and his teeth catch your bottom lip hard enough to sting. You're still straddling him, thighs trembling on either side of his lap, and he's shifting beneath you like he can't get close enough, like the distance between your bodies is an insult to the devotion he's shaking with.

"Heeseung," you whisper, breath hitching as his hand slides between your legs, the fabric of your panties clinging to you wet and ruined. "Please—" "Shh," he hushes, mouth dragging down your neck, blood and spit slick on your skin. "It's okay, it's okay—I got you, baby, I got you—" His fingers tremble as he pushes the fabric aside, clumsy and rushed, and you flinch when his knuckles brush over you. He groans against your throat, hand gripping your hip like he might break it, like it's the only anchor he has.

"Fuck, you're so warm—" he pants, "—I missed you so much, I missed you—" You don't know if he's talking to you or to her, to Rina, to whatever memory he's tangled you up with—but you can't bring yourself to care. Not when he's freeing himself beneath you with frantic hands, moaning under his breath as he fumbles himself through his sweats, panting into your collarbone like he's on the verge of falling apart. And then he's there. Thick, flushed, already so hard it makes your head spin. He grips your thighs, pulling you up just enough—just enough to align—and then sinks you down onto him in one ragged, choking breath.

You cry out, clenching around him, thighs shaking. Heeseung's head snaps back, a guttural sound ripping from his throat, and his hands clamp down on your hips like he's afraid you'll vanish again. "Oh my God—" he gasps, "—move, baby, please, come on—come on—"

He's twitching inside you already, so sensitive, so overwhelmed, but he's begging for more. Encouraging you, pushing up into you while his hands guide your hips, while his fingers—still stained with his blood—return to the keys beneath him, pressing out that same broken melody. You try to move—hips rising, sinking—but it's messy. Desperate. Your thighs burn, your breath hitches, and your forehead presses to his as he whispers, "Just like that, just like that—don't stop—don't stop—" The piano groans beneath you both. His legs tremble. Your panties are barely hanging on, twisted and soaked, caught somewhere between you, and still—still—he keeps playing.

Keeps playing through the rise and fall of your bodies, through the wet slap of your hips, through the breathless moans and the ache and the madness. He's shaking beneath you. His mouth finds yours again, swallowing your sobs, blood smearing from his wrist to your waist as he holds you tighter—deeper—closer.

"I knew you'd come back," he whispers, forehead to yours. "You always come back to me." You can't answer. You can only cry out his name, again and again, as the notes beneath you unravel into chaos and crescendo Your fingers claw at his shoulders as you rock against him, pace faltering with every thick thrust. The bench groans beneath your bodies, protesting under the weight of it all, but you don't stop. Neither of you could if you tried.

His hands are all over you—up your back, into your hair, clawing at your waist like he doesn't know where to hold, just that he has to hold somewhere.

The piano is completely forgotten now. The keys he was so desperate to press—abandoned mid-chord, half-played notes frozen under bloodied fingertips. But Heeseung's mouth is moving and he's moaning something. At first it's a whisper, hoarse and uneven, barely above the wet sound of your bodies meeting again and again. But then—clearer, louder— "Y/N... oh my god, Y/N—" You halt for a second. Barely. Just long enough to catch your breath. To hear him. Your name—your name, not his pianos—spilling from his lips like prayer, like apology, like it's the only thing anchoring him to reality.

Heeseung's head drops to your shoulder, and he's panting your name again, so sweet and unguarded it nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. "Y/N," he gasps, "you feel so good, baby—fuck—so good—" It's like he sees you now. Really sees you. And his hands are softer now, less frantic, still trembling but reverent in how they hold you—his thumb brushing your waist, his other hand cradling your jaw as he lifts your face to his.

Your noses bump. His eyes search yours like he's never seen anything more precious. "It's you," he whispers, almost awed. "It's really you..."He leans in, kissing you like the world's finally slowed down, like he's finally returned to it. To you. And when you move again—hips grinding, slow now, deeper—he moans your name into your mouth, over and over like it's his undoing. Each syllable spills from him shakily, soaked with disbelief and want and something that almost sounds like worship.

Your hands find his cheeks, thumbs stroking where the dried tears have clung to his skin, and when you whisper his name back, soft and breathless, he shudders. Heeseung's forehead presses to yours. You feel him twitch inside you, thighs clenching around him as you both near that terrible, beautiful edge again, and he breathes your name one last time— "Y/N, I'm—fuck—I'm gonna cum, baby, please—stay with me—stay—" Your hips stutter. His hands seize. And then everything splinters—. Your name tears from his throat in a ragged moan, your own lips parted in soundless release as your body collapses forward, curling into his chest like instinct.

Heeseung's arms close around you immediately. One low on your spine, the other twisted into your hair, as if he can press you into him hard enough to keep you there forever. Your pulse throbs everywhere. Between your legs, in your throat, under your tongue. Heeseung is trembling beneath you, arms loose but shaking, chest heaving like he's run for miles and only now stopped to breathe.

He's still inside you. Still in you, cradled and connected and caught in the softness of what just happened. No piano. No ghosts. Just this.You shift slightly, just to catch your breath, and he shudders around you with a hoarse gasp. His head drops to your shoulder, face buried in the crook of your neck. You stay there a while. No words. No need. Just the sound of the wind against the high windows, the echo of your breathing, and the quiet creak of a broken piano bench holding two too-lost people.

Eventually, his fingers twitch against your waist. "Y/N," he breathes, voice scratchy and soft. You hum, stroking the sweaty strands of hair back from his temple. Your touch is gentle, slow, grounding. He lifts his head—eyes glassy, wide and wet around the edges. You watch them drop down, settle on the stains between you, the faint blood still smudged across his hands and chest. He catches your wrist.Brings your fingers—still trembling—to the mess of red streaked across his ribs. The open cuts from earlier have mostly clotted, but the wounds are still fresh, angry-looking, like they're still listening to the madness that tore them open. He presses your palm there, over his heart.

"This body..." he whispers, eyes still downcast. "It belongs to too many ghosts." Your chest tightens, but you don't pull away. Instead, your fingers spread gently over the damp skin of his chest, pressing softly, reverently. You guide his gaze up to meet yours. "It belongs to me tonight," you murmur, voice quiet but sure. "It's okay, Heeseung. I've got you."

He blinks hard and for a second, something in him flickers. Something soft. Almost boyish and safe. Then his forehead presses against yours again. He leans into the cradle of your hands like he's never been touched this way before—like he doesn't know what to do with it. "...Don't let go yet," he whispers. "I won't," you promise. "Not tonight." Heeseung's head is resting against yours, your hand still pressed to his chest, when he whispers it. So faint, it's nearly lost in your breathing.

"...Call her." You pull back a little, brushing your nose against his cheek. "Hm?" He blinks slowly, like the exhaustion is hitting him all at once. "Phone's somewhere here, on the shelf by the metronome. Just—tell her it's bad, she'll come." You stare back into his eyes cluelessly,

"My nurse".

You nod, slipping gently off his lap. He groans softly at the loss of you but doesn't stop you. Doesn't move at all, really—just tilts his head back against the edge of the bench, hair damp with blood sweat and tears. You find the phone where he said it would be, swipe up, and call the nurse. She picks up after one ring. You tell her to come and you don't have to say much more—she must be used to these calls by now. And as you're hanging up, you hear him say it behind you, low and soft, "Thanks... for coming upstairs."

You turn, heart squeezing. He's still sitting there, shirtless and smeared in blood, legs parted like he couldn't stand if he tried. But he's looking at you—really looking—and something about it makes your breath catch in your throat.

You walk over. Kiss his forehead. Then slip into the bathroom for towels, water, and cleaner. By the time the nurse arrives, you're back upstairs, on your knees by the piano, gently gathering the shattered ivory keys and splintered wood into a pile. You've scrubbed some of the blood from the floor, though the stains are stubborn. The piano looks gutted—her insides exposed, wires torn and twisted like veins. Your heart aches again. Not for the piano. But for him.

Heeseung, who stayed downstairs. Who let someone else tend to him while you tried to do what you could for the mess he left behind. You hear footsteps coming up the stairs, then his voice—calmer now, hoarse, but steady. "Leave it." You glance over your shoulder. He's standing there, freshly bandaged, a clean shirt half-buttoned and hanging loose on his frame. The nurse must have left quietly.

"I'm still your cleaner, remember?" you say lightly, trying to ease the air. "Let me do my job." His lips twitch. But there's something softer in his eyes now—something closer to sorrow than amusement.

"You're more than that." You pause and look down at the broken keys in your hands. "I know."

And he comes to you—sinks down beside you on the floor, still moving slowly like he's holding his bones together by sheer will—and rests his forehead to yours again. Neither of you says anything else, you just sit in the wreckage of something beautiful. Together.

*•*•*

It's hard to say how much time has passed. Days, maybe. Weeks. The kind that blur together, quiet and golden at the edges, like light filtered through gauze. The scar on Heeseung's arm is healing well—just a thin red seam now, barely visible when he rolls his sleeves up. He doesn't try to hide it anymore.

You're downstairs today. The sun is dipping low and warm across the windows, lighting up the dust motes dancing in the air. The piano stands rebuilt, restored—not the same one from upstairs, but something new. Something you picked out together.

You're sitting beside him on the bench, your knees touching. Heeseung's hands are guiding yours across the keys with quiet patience.

"No, baby, focus" he murmurs, laughing when you hit the wrong note again. "That's an A, not a G."

"I am focused," you argue, shoulders tensing in mock defense. "I just—I forgot which finger goes where." He leans closer, brushing his lips against your temple. "The one I showed you. Your third finger. C'mon. Try again." You exhale, pouting a little as you reposition your hands. Heeseung watches you with a softness that folds itself into the corners of his smile.

You press the keys again. It's still wrong. You groan dramatically. "Ugh, why is this so hard?" And he can't help it—he grabs your chin and kisses you mid-pout. Quick and warm. The kind of kiss that says you're the most precious thing I've ever ruined myself for.

Your lips curve into a grin beneath his. He chuckles. "You know what I think?"

"Hm?"

"I think you just like messing up so I'll kiss you."

You nudge him with your shoulder. "Maybe." Heeseung leans in again. A little slower this time. A little deeper. Then his hands return to the keys. And so do yours.

You sit like that a while—two shadows against the shine of the piano, laughter and missed notes echoing softly in the room. And if someone were to peek in just then, they might think it's a simple thing. A boy and a girl, and a piano between them. But it's not. It's an anchor. A promise. A world rebuilt from ash and ghosts and broken music.

And maybe you never learned to play perfectly, but he never stopped telling you you were the most beautiful song he'd ever heard.

➺ taglist-

@immelissaaa @fancypeacepersona @inawonderfulworld @usuallyunlikelyfox @starry-eyed-bimbo @strayy-kidz @mheretoreadff @bloomiize @xoenhalover @mamuljji

©️ nephynes 2025

all works are pieces of original fiction, do not repost, translate, or adapt without explicit permission.

[finallychaoticeffigy]

Yandere boyfriend x reader

When he finally realized he's wrong for controlling you

You were crying. He hated seeing you cry. He missed your giggles, you being sweet to him. This is all his fault. If only he was a good boyfriend to you this wouldn't have happened. You ran away but he caught you.

You were his angel. When you ran away from him he felt depressed. He knew he would die without you but he didn't realize how much he really really needed you. He courted, stalked you for 6 years and when he finally have you he didn't let you free. He wouldn't let you work. He wanted you to depend on him.

You have no idea what he's been going through when you were gone. His always been possessive, controlling to the point that he would lock you up. How dare he. He blames himself for being so stupid. He punished himself for it, he couldn't even eat thinking that you were all alone , probably crying because of hunger. He would punch himself, heck he even started cutting. He couldn't get a wink of sleep knowing you're still not by his side. He deserves it all for controlling you.

He wasn't religious or anything, but when you ran away and he had no idea where you are he prayed to God that please... please let his pretty darling Y/n be ok and please let him find her. This time when he find you, he'll be better.

You deserve better. So he'll be better.

He would do anything and everything for you, except give you up for others. No way, you're only his. He would never let you go.

God must have felt pity for him because the very next day, one of his men finally found you.

"Please don't lock me up again... I hated it. Please just let me go" you wailed, unable to stop the emotions that flooding through you.

"Shhh...Baby Im sorry.... Im so so sorry for being a bad boyfriend to you... How dare i let you feel that way" he couldn't control his tears anymore the feeling of guilt is eating him up, others view him as a strong cold hearted man. But you really are the only one who could bring this side of him. You could really crush him so hard with just one look of sadness and coldness.

"Am going to give you space ...if that's what you need, but am not going to break our relationship Baby"

He never hurt you physically. He would rather die than lay a fist on you. He could kill anyone who hurts you, even girls. But he hurts you so much emotionally, by taking away your freedom and he would change that.

Your confused now. He'll really let you do things freely now?

"R-really?" You asked wiping away your tears

Fuck you're so cute. He just wanna eat you and love you. But no he needs to restrain himself. He wan-... No... He want and need your love, trust and he need you to feel free around him. Because he loves you, and he wants to put yourself first before him. He promised to be better.

"Really baby...Im so fucking sorry for doing shits in the past"

[sirgiggles]

The voices are screaming

Graves x TF141! Reader

CW: gender neutral reader, canon typical violence, capture, betrayal, manipulation, needles, drug abuse

When you first meet Commander Graves for assistance in erasing General Ghorbrani, you don't really know what to make of him. He's easy going, but still gets business done sternly and most of all, clean.

It takes you a little to get used to his relaxed nature that is somehow paired with a no bullshit attitude. Surprisingly, you come to like his way. He keeps things light, takes some of the edge off.

So when you meet him once more in Las Almas, you are delighted. Despite what Ghost and Soap say, you find Graves an ideal leader and coworker, someone you have no problem getting along with.

However, you wouldn't have ever thought that he had also taken a liking to you. Unbeknownst to you, Graves wants you by his side. And Graves always gets what he wants, even if he already planned on betraying you and your team from the start.

He is a dog with a bone, and if he considers you a part of that bone, you better start praying.

-

You don't expect his betrayal after the oil rig; are tired, worn out and cold. Everything on your mind is a warm shower, a good rest and maybe a drink with the team. Your tired mind doesn't really comprehend it at first, but then everybody starts yelling and slowly, you catch on.

It's hard to believe the man in front of you, who you've fought and celebrated with, had late conversations on transports with and most of all, looked up to with that special, undying kind of trust, is betraying you.

You don't want to hurt Graves, nor his shadows, even as Alejandro gets taken down. When Ghost and Soap involve themselves and the firing starts, it's already too late. You don't register the Shadow standing in your blind spot until it's too late.

When the handle of the man's rifle rams into the back of your head it's already too late. You see Graves staring at you with a disturbingly satisfied expression as you fall and your team makes a run for it. Then, the world goes dark.

-

When you wake up, the cold is gone and, oddly enough, your pain is limited and dull. It doesn't take you long to realize that your cell is dry and warm. You aren't tied up, instead laid down on a firm cot, with a slightly scratchy blanket draped over you. It's not ideal, but still, the care they treat you with doesn't match what usually happens when somebody gets captured.

Quickly you find out, that they took your gear and stripped you to your fatigues. They are still a little clammy, but the bone deep cold is gone. Your head is swimming and buzzes with a dull pain. Distantly you wonder if it's because they drugged you.

There's little time to dwell on it when Graves steps in, just a few minutes after you gain your bearings. He seems relaxed and friendly, not behaving like he should after what he pulled off. When you angrily inquire about his motives he smiles and you in that sweet and charming way that has always made your ears burn.

"You're lucky we got ahold of you when we did." He assures you like he actually cares and it's so easy to believe him. You can't recall the interaction at the gate, but you vaguely remember Alejandro and Soap disagreeing with Graves, before all hell broke loose.

It's easy to lean into his soft touches when he checks your wounds and fills you in with what happened. You're tired, hurt and not quite clear, so when Graves talks, you nod along. It does make sense, you find.

"Shepherd pulled them off, because they don't have clearance. We do, and we have Valeria; we were so close to cleaning up this mess. Only reason they would fight back is..." He pauses and rubs your shoulder comfortingly. "...because they're involved. I'm sorry."

He assures you again and again that he doesn't blame you, that he believes you, when you try to messily explain you didn't know about what they were involved with. When he's done he calls one of his men to bring you some food and slowly helps you eat. When your pain flares up, he carefully injects you with something, painkillers he says, and convinces you to lie down, take a little rest..

You find yourself glad that he helped you when he did, that he sensed your confusion and kept you out of this trouble. Tiredly you nod along to Graves talking about taking care of it all and you under his wing. He wants you for the company and you need a team now. Even with your head swimming you can agree with him, because as always, he keeps it light and easy.

Even when you heal up, you don't mind the medication that he makes sure you take regularly, because the buzzing in your skull never gets better without them. Neither do you mind that Graves keeps you off records, and off the field, always by his side, at his desk, in his arm's reach. Soap and Ghost might still be after you, it's for your safety, he explains to you one sleepless night.

On rare occasions you miss your old team and it's those times that your head badly hurts again. But Graves, no Phillip, is always there, holding you close and talking you through your episodes. He tugs you close to him afterwards, hands you a painkiller and whispers reassurances in your ear until you fall asleep surrounded by his warmth.

You're glad to have him, even think you love him. With time, the fear leaves and you adjust well, ever happy that he saved you when he did.

"Prone to manipulation" your file had warned in your psychological evaluation, good thing he saved you from 141 when he did, who knows what might have happened to you in dishonest hands...

[itsaintmebabe]

pastel pink

୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ pairing: oscar piastri x ballerina!reader

summary: oscar goes to a performance of swan lake and falls in love with the lead dancer who has no clue who he is or how formula one works

notes: this is just silly and kinda a celebration of 8 podiums in a row for oscar!!!

୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ masterlist / social media au / fc: luna montana

liked by yourbff, user13 and 56,792 others

yourusername first show tonight!!!

view all comments

yourbff pls don’t break another toenail tonight i’m not emotionally ready to hold your foot again

↳ yourusername you’re acting like it wasn’t the most intimate moment of our friendship

yourmom hope you remembered to pack extra tights and snacks! dad’s already crying btw

↳ yourusername tell him to hydrate. it’s only act I

user9 you better flutter those arms like your rent depends on it

↳ yourusername joke’s on you it actually does 😭

user13 32 fouettés? in this economy?? ur braver than the troops

user28 swan lake opening night? girl this is basically ballet coachella

user12 i will be seated. i will be crying. i will be pretending to flap my arms in the lobby after

balletdirector just don’t fall off the stage this time and we’ll call it a win

↳ yourusername once again i fall ONCE and suddenly it’s my brand

liked by user86, user18 and 620,864 others

op81updates oscar seen with some other drivers at the royal opera house in london for opening night of the royal ballet’s performance of swan lake

view all comments

user19 do you think he knows what a fouetté is or is he just clapping when others clap

user24 big day for annoying people

user26 i saw him at stage door after the performance w some of the other drivers and it looked like lando was trying to hype him up to talk to the girl who played the lead?? idk her name tho sorry 😭😭

↳ user9 lando was 100% like “bro just say she was sick on stage” like he’s not helping at ALL

↳ user13 that might be @/yourusername???

↳ user3 IT IS Y/N

user7 i KNOW he googled “what to wear to the ballet” 30 mins before arriving

user16 r u joking i’m literally going tomorrow the universe hates me

yourusername just added to their close friends story!

liked by oscarpiastri, yourbff and 62,398 others

yourusername i blacked out in act 2 but the audience clapped so yay

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yourmom i screamed so loud when the curtain dropped i think the elderly man next to me flinched. beautiful job sweetheart

↳ yourusername thank u for not tackling anyone on the way out x

user31 you did not have to eat the role like that… but you did… for us

user21 omg this is the girl that lando was trying to hype oscar up to talk to

↳ user3 the way he’s just lurking in the likes like babe SAY SOMETHING

↳ user17 no cause i get i wouldn’t know what to say either she’s gorg

user43 bro saw her in act I and activated drs on his heart

↳ yourusername what is drs and why does it sound like a medical procedure

↳ user37 HELP SHE HAS NO CLUE

yourusername just added to their close friends story!

liked by oscarpiastri, yourbff and 129,994 others

yourusername chat what is drs help a girl out

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user12 deserved a trigger warning for the drive to survive jumpscare ngl

yourdad this the same aussie lad your mum mentioned? do i need to google him?

yourbff she's 3 google searches away from building a model of an f1 car in her flat i’m scared

user29 she’s asking what drs is while oscar is probably spiraling in a group chat like “do i explain it or do i stay mysterious”

oscarpiastri DRS is one of those things that’s easier to explain in person. over coffee. maybe tomorrow?

↳ yourusername ok yeah that sounds good!

↳ user64 i’m sorry WHAT

↳ user7 wait he kinda ate that up

yourusername just added to their story!

liked by oscarpiastri, user38 and 683,842 others

yourusername monaco for a little, barcelona soon!

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user59 i know that back…

yourbff girl if this is who i think it is you better tell me before the group chat burns down

user48 you have the life of a 2007 Barbie movie protagonist. i’m so proud of u queen

user36 THAT IS OSCAR. WE KNOW THAT BACK. STOP THIS.

↳ yourusername oscar who?? my pilates instructor’s name is ben tho

↳ user21 oh she hates us

user81 don’t care if this isn’t confirmed. this is MY headcanon now.

liked by yourusername, mclaren and 1,482,048 others

oscarpiastri rest week

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user34 okay they are barely even hiding it anymore

charles_leclerc monaco is good for the heart i see

user15 do you think we wouldn’t recognize the hair?? WE FOLLOW HER TOO OSCAR.

user21 this the same girl from the stage door rumor??? bc if so 👏🏼 good 👏🏼 for 👏🏼 you 👏🏼

lando i help you pick a perfect caption and yet its now two words wth

↳ oscarpiastri someone didn’t like your caption very much sorry

↳ lando she’s changed you, you used to listen to me

↳ oscarpiastri 🤷‍♂️

↳ user37 SHE????

nicolepiastri would love to meet your new friend in barcelona if she’s going

↳ oscarpiastri mum please

yourusername just added to their story!

liked by oscarpiastri, mclaren and 921,632 others

yourusername barcelona!

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yourbff “barcelona!” girl that’s a man

user92 girl just tag him at this point we're EXHAUSTED

user38 so you’re going to the spanish gp right???

hattiepiastri how did you make my brother look cool for once

↳ yourusername i think it might just be part of my talent imma try to get him out of the athletic shorts next

↳ hattiepiastri oh thank god

user12 the way oscar was like the first like oml

alexandrasaintmleux can’t wait to meet you this weekend!!!

↳ yourusername me too!! <3

user18 y/n who’s your fav driver??

↳ yourusername i think his number is 81 or 18 idk tho

↳ oscarpiastri ha ha very funny

yourusername just added to their story!

liked by oscarpiastri, yourbff and 897,926 others

yourusername still tryna figure out all the rules but my love won!!!

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user59 “my love” YEAH OKAY THIS IS NO LONGER A SOFT LAUNCH

user37 you posted this and my jaw literally fell off its hinges

oscarpiastri baby where did you get the third picture

↳ yourusername your mum loves me

↳ nicolepiastri let me know if you want me to send any more love!

↳ yourusername OFC I DO

↳ oscarpiastri oh my god

↳ user9 BABY????

user41 i signed up for ballet content now i’m emotionally invested in an australian man winning car races???

user13 this caption is giving “I don’t know what a gearbox does but I will kiss him post-win”

liked by yourusername, lando and 1,932,984 others

oscarpiastri great result with great company in barcelona

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user61 great result? i’m gonna need you to define “great” because this is LIFE-ALTERING

lando glad it worked out because my favorite part of this whole thing was at stage door when you said “hi” and then stood there blinking at her for 15 seconds

↳ oscarpiastri that’s rich coming from someone who once said “bonjourno” to a ferrari exec

user76 she’s glowing. he’s glowing. i’m sobbing.

user93 they showed y/n during the race broadcast and had the “oscar piastri’s partner” thing and i literally jumped up from my couch

yourusername you should be covered in champagne more often

↳ oscarpiastri baby please 😭

↳ user48 bro is abt to get pulled aside by his pr manager

[tteotlma]

breathe you in

Dead,, needing to SMELL your lover to be okay????– GETTOUTTA HEREEEE

joel miller x reader imagine 2kwc

TW: 18+ MDNI; nsfw, post-panic attack intimacy, intense emotional vulnerability, scent as grounding, emotionally driven sex, power dynamics (consensual), begging, praise kink, desperate and talkative!Joel, soft domination, slow grinding, unprotected sex, deep emotional dependency, cockwarming adjacent energy, physical clinging, overstimulation potential

a/n: Also i’m def trying to bring back the casuality of what used to be posting on here…. There are many layers to this, which i could talk abt all day, but for now  Bc i still love Joel, so very much 

Imagine it’s late at night, you and Joel have gone to bed. You’re wrapped in the heat of your shared duvet, blanket tucked under your chin just how you like it. Joel had fallen asleep with his arm wrapped tightly around you, but that was hours ago, and… a man’s gotta spread. He’s sprawled out on the bed beside you, both fast asleep. 

Suddenly, the bed creaks with an aggressive shake, and loud mumbling turned panic fills the room. You’re ripped from your sleep when the sounds of his gasps break through your dream barrier, and you realize Joel must’ve had another nightmare. 

Throwing the blanket off your body, you sit up and reach over to touch his face, soft shushes leaving your lips. 

“Hey, hey,” you cooed, “Joel, Baby—” You tried to pacify his cries, warming your hand against the curve of his jaw as you leaned into his side of the bed. He was frantic as he looked around the room, trying to reorient himself. 

“Sweetheart,” getting on your knees, you move to straddle one of his legs, trying not to become frantic. “It was just a nightmare, look at me.” This had come out more stern than previous, and it seemed to break through whatever trance Joel seemed to find himself in. 

His sounds softened as you continued to coax his attention towards you. Soon, the only sound that left his lips turned into heavy breathing as his hand shakily grasped your wrist against his skin. His eyes widen as he finally turns to look at you. 

Cupping his face in both hands, you lean in, “Just Breathe—” his eyebrows curled, a hand on his ches,t “In and out,” your chest mimics your words. 

“I—I—I—” He tries to talk, but you gently hush him.

“It’s okay; you don’t have to talk; just…” The hand on the center of his chest pressed deeper against the warmth of his shirt, silently reminding him where to focus. His hand came to rest atop yours, and he nodded. You locked eyes, and you noticed his pupils were blown wide. 

You stay like that, still and close, for what feels like hours, though only minutes pass—as he slowly pulls himself from the fog of his nightmare.  Then, without a word, his eyes drop to his lap. One hand drifts to your hip, the other settling at the bend of your arm, his chest still rising and falling in uneven waves.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he whispers, voice rough and low. 

You hook a finger beneath his chin, gently guiding his face to yours. “For you,” you whisper, tucking a stray salt-and-pepper curl behind his ear, “anything.”

Your thumb grazes his cheek, tender and steady as you hold his face in your hands. You lean in, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead.

The hand on your hip slides to your lower back, his palm warm and deliberate as he draws you into his chest. You go easily, folding into the hug, your cheek resting against the curve of his neck. He holds you there, solid, quiet—like the act of touching you is the only thing keeping him grounded. 

His face finds the crook of your neck while your chin rests on his shoulder. You feel him breathe you in. At first, it’s subtle and slow, his nose brushing your skin, chest rising against yours as he inhales deeply. He sighs.

Then he does it again. Slower. Longer. His nose drags across the slope of your neck, and his breath leaves him shakier this time.

You feel the edge of his teeth when he speaks, his voice low against your skin, the rough scrape of his stubble trailing higher as he nuzzles along your jaw. You tilt instinctively, baring more of your neck. His hand slides up your spine, fingers splayed, holding you firmly against him.

His lips hover near your skin—not quite kissing, but close enough to make you shiver. The coarse drag of his stubble follows the curve of your jaw as his nose nudges higher. You tilt again, offering more without thinking.

That’s all it takes.

His mouth finds your pulse. One soft kiss. Then another. Then one just beneath your ear that lingers a little too long.

When you turn your face toward his, his eyes drop to your mouth.

And then he kisses you.

It starts slow, careful, almost hesitant. His lips part against yours, and one hand moves higher on your back, holding you steady. The tension breaks when you sigh into him and your fingers tighten in the back of his shirt.

The kiss deepens. His mouth moves over yours like he’s hungry for it, like this is the only way he knows how to speak. His hand comes up to cradle your jaw. His tongue brushes yours, coaxing, tasting. You whimper softly, and he groans into your mouth like the sound unravels him.

Like, he’s not just kissing you.

Like he’s trying to hold on to the only thing that, to him, feels real. 

“Every time I breathe you in, I want more.” He pulls back, eyes hooded as he stares at your now swollen lips.

“Please, baby… let me have more.” He kisses the corner of your mouth, slow and warm, watching the way your chest heaves beneath him. He sees it—the way your breath catches, the flicker of doubt in your eyes—and he doesn’t wait.

“Only if you want it,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along your jaw. “I’ll take my time. I’ll be gentle. Just… I need to be close. Closer than this.”

Another kiss, softer this time, pressed just below your ear.

“I don’t want to fuck. I want to feel. Want to be in your skin and know what it’s like to come home and mean it.”

He rests his forehead against yours, breathing you in again like it’s the only thing that calms the storm in his chest.

Your hands come up to cradle his face, thumbs sweeping across the stubble at his cheeks. You nod slowly, silently, teeth caught between your lips—and that’s all it takes.

Joel exhales like he’s been underwater, like he’s just come up for air. He shifts his weight and turns you both over in one smooth motion, laying you gently beneath him. His hands don’t leave your body, not once, as your thighs part instinctively to cradle his hips. He settles there, warm and solid, his full weight pressing you into the mattress. His chest hovers just above yours, his forearms braced on either side of your head, eyes locked on yours like he’s still asking for permission, even without the words.

He leans in, kisses you again—slower this time. His lips are warm and sure, his breath steadying against your cheek. He kisses you like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear the second he looks away. His hips roll forward, a slow drag of pressure right against the heat between your legs, and your back arches to meet him.

Even through the layers, you can feel the thick weight of him, already hardening as he grinds against you. The pressure is deliberate, controlled, but needy. Like he’s not chasing pleasure, but grounding himself in it.

"That’s it," he murmurs into your mouth, voice thick. "Just wanna feel you, baby. That’s all I need."

He shifts again, just enough to work one hand down between your bodies, tugging at the waistband of his sweats. You feel the soft brush of his knuckles against your stomach as he pushes them low, and then you reach for him too, helping him slide them off. The soft sound of fabric rustling fills the space between your breaths. When his cock presses against your bare thigh—hot and heavy—you both shudder.

“Take these off for me, sweetheart,” he breathes, thumb hooking into the waistband of your shorts.

You lift your hips, and he pulls them down slowly, carefully, like you’re something breakable. His hands linger on your thighs when he tosses them aside, calloused palms dragging back up the insides until you’re spread open for him again.

He settles between your legs and lines himself up, the thick head of his cock dragging through your folds, already wet and aching. One hand rests at your waist, the other steadying himself against the mattress.

"Tell me if it’s too much," he says, voice barely above a whisper. "I’ll stop. I swear. I’ll stop if you need me to."

You shake your head immediately, breathing hard.

"Don’t stop, Joel. I need you."

He presses forward slowly, easing into you inch by inch. The stretch steals the breath from your lungs, your fingers curling into the muscles at his back as he sinks deeper. His body shudders above you when he bottoms out, buried completely.

“Fuck—Jesus Christ,” he groans, the words broken against your neck. “You feel like heaven. So warm… fuck, you’re takin’ me so good.”

He stays there for a moment, unmoving. His body presses flush to yours, his hand slides under your back, palm flat between your shoulder blades like he’s holding you there, grounding both of you. When he starts to move, it’s slow, deep, grinding strokes that have you gasping softly beneath him.

Each roll of his hips pulls a quiet sound from your throat. Your body clenches around him, clinging, wet, and pulsing as you fall into his rhythm.

“Needed this,” he whispers. His voice is hoarse, raw. “Felt like I was gonna fuckin’ lose it tonight.”

His forehead presses to yours as he keeps moving inside you, languid, like you’re the only thing tethering him to reality.

“You’re the only thing that feels real right now.”

He holds you so close. One hand cupping the back of your head, the other gripping your thigh, spreading you wider, deeper. His mouth grazes your temple, your jaw, and your lips between every breath.

“Only time I can breathe is when I’m buried in you.”

Your legs tighten around his waist, your heel digging into the curve of his ass as you pull him in harder. He groans, thrusts faltering for half a beat before he finds his rhythm again, slightly rougher now, more desperate.

His mouth drops to your shoulder, breath shaking against your skin.

“Let me cum inside you,” he pants. “Wanna feel you wrapped around me when I cum.”

Your answer is a whimper, your nails dragging down his back. He kisses you again—messy and open-mouthed, tongue sweeping against yours like he needs to taste every part of you.

“Let me give it to you, baby—let me fuckin’ give it to you.” He thrusts hard with each syllable. 

You nod, eyes fluttering closed, thighs shaking. His thrusts grow more frantic, deeper, like he’s chasing the edge with every desperate breath.

"That’s it," he groans. "That’s it, darlin’. You take me so fuckin’ well—always do. My good girl."

He spills inside you with a broken, guttural moan, burying his face in the crook of your neck as his whole body trembles above you. You feel every twitch, every pulse of release, warm and deep and grounding.

"Thank you," he whispers into your skin, over and over, voice crumbling. "Thank you. Thank you. Didn’t know how much I needed this until you. Until you."

He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t move except to press soft kisses to your neck, your jaw, your cheek.

“Gonna hold you now, alright?” he murmurs. “Just wanna hold you for a while. That okay, baby?”

You nod, barely able to breathe.

He wraps his arms around you, pulling you into his chest like he’s afraid to let you go. And for a long time, neither of you says anything at all.

--

a/n: pls don't let another one flop -- REBLOG TO SUPPORT <3

[ilovolderman]

Movie Night

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: Sam tries to gather proof of your secret relationship with Bucky during a movie night.

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: humor, fluff, secret dating, sam losing his mind, one shared blanket

A/N: this can be read as a standalone even though it's part of a series called "You Said What". it doesn't necessarily follow a specific order, but if you want to check out the other parts, here they are: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9 thanks for reading, i hope you like it :)

Sam Wilson was back on his BS.

Not because he wanted to be. No. He had to be. This was about justice. About truth. About the undeniable, unquantifiable, deeply suspicious sense that you and Bucky Barnes were absolutely, definitely, one hundred percent... up to something.

He didn’t have hard evidence. He didn’t even have medium evidence. What he had was vibes.

And the vibes? They were criminal.

It all started on a Wednesday.

The group had planned a “Chill Movie Night.”

Sam arrived early, armed with snacks, a color-coded emotional tracking spreadsheet, and a high-end mood ring that Tony insisted was “useless but fun.”

Everything seemed normal. Steve was fluffing pillows like a dad trying to avoid confrontation. Peter was arguing with the popcorn machine. Natasha was already asleep on the couch. (Open-eyed, somehow. Very concerning.) Tony was making a cocktail out of four liquids that were definitely not FDA-approved.

And then you walked in.

Sam’s eye twitched.

Behind you, Bucky entered. Smirking. Carrying your favorite takeout like some kind of emotionally supportive boyfriend ninja.

“Hey, guys,” you said sweetly, flopping onto the couch. Bucky sat beside you, a respectable distance away.

Until Sam blinked.

And suddenly, somehow, your knees were touching.

EXHIBIT Q. KNEE TREASON.

Sam clutched his soda like it was the last thing anchoring him to reality.

The movie choice? A romcom. Obviously. The plot? Two idiots pretending not to be in love. The irony? Painful.

Sam watched you both. Not the movie. You giggled during the fake-dating scene. Bucky smirked.

Your eyes met for exactly 1.3 seconds. You looked away like your life depended on it.

Sam scribbled in his notes. Tony leaned in, whispering, “Are you actually watching the movie or doing telepathy?”

“I’m watching a conspiracy unfold in real time,” Sam whispered back. “...Of course you are.”

On screen, the protagonists shared a dramatic, rain-soaked kiss. On the couch, Bucky passed you a napkin. You took it without looking. No words. No thank you.

EXHIBIT R. EMPATHETIC NAPKIN TRANSFER.

Sam wrote “co-dependent, probably share a soul.” in his notes.

It got worse. At some point  Peter complained about the cold. Tony threatened to install a fireplace. Someone, probably Steve, bless his Midwestern heart, tossed a blanket over the couch. You grabbed one end. Bucky took the other.

Normal. Harmless. Unremarkable.

Until Sam realized there was only one blanket.

And two people under it.

A suspicious amount of shoulder contact was happening beneath that polyester monstrosity. Too much shared body heat. Too much calm.

Sam squinted. “Why are they always so synchronized?” Steve, confused: “Who?” Sam: “The blanket goblins.” Steve: “...Are you okay?” Sam: “NO.”

The movie played on in the background, but you and Bucky were no longer paying attention. Instead, you two were quietly leaning into each other, aware of Sam's eagle-eyed attention from across the room. The couch creaked as Bucky shifted slightly closer, his arm brushing against yours, and you bit your lip to keep from smiling too widely.

"Do you think Sam's lost it yet?" you whispered, voice low, just enough for Bucky to hear.

Bucky grinned, but didn’t look away from the screen. "Oh, he’s spiraling. I can feel his brain cells popping one by one."

You let out a tiny snort, trying to hold back the giggle that was threatening to escape. “He's so obvious. He keeps glancing over every two seconds. Should we give him a little more to work with?"

Bucky raised an eyebrow, his lips curling in a barely contained smirk. “You want to really mess with him?”

“I don’t know. Maybe we should let him stew for a bit longer.” You shot a playful glance at Sam, who was practically glaring at you two from behind his soda. "He’s getting all worked up for nothing."

Bucky leaned in a little closer, his breath warm on your ear as he whispered, “Let’s make him regret not having a seat next to us.”

He shifted slightly, just enough that your knees brushed against each other. The small touch seemed so innocent to anyone else, but Sam’s narrowed eyes locked onto the subtle movement, his hand hovering over his notebook like a hawk waiting to strike.

Your lips quirked into a mischievous smile. You did your best to make it look like a completely natural movement as you accidentally rested your head against Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky, of course, played along beautifully, his arm casually draping over the back of the couch behind you, so close that your bodies were practically melting into each other.

“You okay?” he asked in the most nonchalant tone, but the teasing glint in his eyes was hard to miss.

You blinked, putting on your best innocent face. “Oh, yeah. Just—just—getting comfy.” Your hand brushed against his as you adjusted yourself, and you quickly squeezed his fingers once before letting them fall.

Your eyes flicked over to Sam, who was visibly straining to stay calm, his hand twitching over his notebook like it was a lifeline. You could practically hear his thoughts racing: This is it. This is definitely it. They're in on it.

You smiled sweetly, letting your voice drop to an exaggerated whisper. “I think I might be too comfortable.”

Bucky’s smirk widened, and before Sam could even react, he casually pulled his jacket sleeve over his hand, as if it was the most normal thing in the world, and gently brushed his fingertips against your knee. The slightest contact. Barely a touch.

Sam’s eyes narrowed so sharply that it looked like his face might implode. He scribbled something aggressively in his notebook. You could almost hear the frantic ticking of his mental clock. *Evidence: They are physically close. Touch. Note: Is this normal?

You stifled a laugh, shifting just a little to let your body lean more into Bucky. “You know,” you said, voice syrupy sweet, “I could really get used to this.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, shifting just enough that his shoulder brushed against yours, and his hand accidentally found its way to your lower back. “Well, lucky for you,” he said with mock sincerity, “I’m just that kind of guy. Always happy to offer some… support.”

You grinned, fighting the urge to burst into laughter. Instead, you pressed your palm into his chest, just enough for the world to think it was a casual adjustment. But oh, you knew. You knew what was happening.

Sam was now glaring at you both with a level of intensity that could melt steel.

Bucky turned his head toward you, but just enough so Sam could definitely see. He made eye contact, and his lips curved into a teasing grin, one that said, I know you’re watching.

You raised your eyebrows in challenge and tilted your head as if asking, What are you going to do about it, Sam?

You caught a glimpse of his expression, then leaned closer to Bucky. “I swear he’s about to pull out a flowchart,” you whispered, lips curling into a mischievous grin.

Bucky bit back a laugh. “Let him. He’ll need it for all this groundbreaking evidence.”

Sam’s eye twitched.

You and Bucky both leaned back, relaxing into each other, casually oblivious to the total chaos you were unleashing. Sam sat back down, utterly defeated, furiously scribbling in his notebook. He couldn’t even look at the screen anymore.

Then, the movie ended. The lights came on. You yawned. Bucky stretched.

And Sam watched in horror as Bucky casually — casually! — helped you into your jacket like it was 1952 and you were going steady after a sock hop.

You whispered something to him. He grinned. Then you both said you were leaving at the same time, but separately.

Bucky went out the back. You left through the front.

Sam looked at Natasha.

“Did you see that?” She didn’t even open her eyes. “Nope.” “Lies.” “You need a nap.” “I need the TRUTH.”

Tony sipped his weird drink. “I give it another week before they start sharing shoes.”

Peter, from the kitchen: “Wait, do they not already?”

Sam screamed into the void.

Later that night the rooftop was quiet, blanketed in the soft hush of city sounds far below. A gentle breeze tugged at the edge of the blanket draped over your shoulders as you curled into your usual corner, legs tucked beneath you. Fairy lights flickered lazily overhead, casting warm glows over Bucky’s face as he joined you with two steaming mugs of hot chocolate.

He handed one “Cheers to another successful psychological operation,” you said, clinking the mugs.

“To Operation: Gaslight, Gatekeep, Girlfriend,” Bucky replied solemnly, taking a sip. He immediately burned his tongue and winced.

You giggled, taking a much more careful sip. “You know Sam’s going to start cross-referencing our foot placement on the couch with moon phases, right?”

“Oh, definitely,” Bucky said. “I bet he’s already got a red string board with little thumbtacks that spell ‘LIES.’”

You leaned into him with a contented sigh, resting your head on his shoulder. “We are going to hell.”

“Matching outfits,” he said. “I already ordered the shirts.”

You burst into laughter, nearly spilling your drink. “Bucky.”

He just smiled, wide and soft and unguarded in the dim rooftop light, and wrapped an arm around your shoulders, tucking you into his side like you belonged there—and honestly, you did.

A beat of silence passed. The kind that wasn’t awkward. The kind that felt like a warm exhale, like a secret just between the two of you.

You smiled into your mug, letting the words settle. The city shimmered below you. The stars above blinked like they were in on the secret too.

“I like it up here,” you murmured.

“I like you up here,” Bucky replied, pressing a gentle kiss to the side of your head, right at your temple, like he was memorizing the shape of your joy.

You turned your face toward him, bumping noses a little in that silly, clumsy way that always made him smile. “You’re being very sweet. Should I be worried?”

He shrugged. “Just making sure you know.”

“That you like me?”

“That I’m crazy about you,” he said, and then, quieter: “Even when you’re fake flirting with me to drive Sam to madness.”

You grinned. “Oh, babe. That’s not fake.”

Bucky blinked, then broke into a grin so dopey and full of love it made your chest ache.

You clinked your mugs together again, just because.

Meanwhile Sam was crouched on the roof of a building, squinting through a comically long-lensed pair of binoculars that Tony swore were “state-of-the-art.”

They were not.

They were the opposite of helpful.

They had a cracked lens, fog on the inside, and occasionally made a sad whining sound like they missed retirement.

Still, Sam stared across the distance with the desperate determination of a man on the brink.

Through the foggy lens, he saw… two tiny blobs.

Two indistinct, cozy-looking blobs huddled on the rooftop of Avengers Tower, gently illuminated by twinkle lights that only added insult to injury.

He couldn’t see their faces. He couldn’t read lips. He couldn’t tell which blob was Bucky and which was you.

“Come on, do something,” Sam muttered, adjusting the focus knob. Nothing changed. He flipped it the other way. The blobs got blurrier.

He smacked the side of the binoculars.

They shut off.

He swore loudly and rebooted them.

Inside his earpiece, FRIDAY chimed in, unbothered: “Would you like me to send a drone for closer surveillance?”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “No. That’s what they want. Then they’ll know I’m watching.”

“They already know you’re watching.”

“I have to catch them, FRIDAY. Not just feel it in my soul.”

Another blob shifted.

Sam gasped. “Movement. MOVEMENT.” He turned the dial again. Still nothing but murky shadow-people. “Are they... hugging? Is that a hug? Or... is one of them standing up? Oh my god, is Bucky proposing?!”

A long pause. Then, FRIDAY dryly: “Sir. They are literally just drinking cocoa.”

Sam groaned and flopped backward onto the gravel roof, his limbs starfished dramatically like a war hero brought low by cuddle-based crimes.

“This is torture,” he moaned. “I’m three buildings away, I’ve got frostbite on my kneecaps, and I’m watching two potato blobs make suspiciously synchronized cocoa movements.”

“Shall I remind you,” FRIDAY said gently, “that you volunteered for this?”

“I VOLUNTEERED FOR TRUTH. AND JUSTICE. AND—” Sam sat up suddenly. “Wait. Are they... did that blob just touch the other blob’s blob-arm?”

“I have no idea, sir.”

“Oh god,” he whispered. “They’re holding hands. I feel it.”

“Or one of them is adjusting a blanket.”

Sam made a noise like a teakettle dying. “It’s the vibes, FRIDAY. I am being spiritually attacked.”

A car honked below. Sam yelped and dropped the binoculars. They hit the ground, bounced once, and rolled off the edge of the building with a dramatic clatter that absolutely ruined the "stealth" part of the mission.

Sam stared at the edge.

Then at the sky.

Then at his empty hands.

“FRIDAY, I’ve lost visual.”

There was a beat.

“Sir, you never had it.”

Back at Avengers Tower, on the actual rooftop you snuggled closer to Bucky, sipping your hot chocolate, utterly unaware of the storm raging in a man's soul several rooftops away.

Actually, no—you were very aware.

You nudged Bucky. “Wanna bet where Sam is right now trying to spy on us?”

Bucky grinned. “Roof of that tall brick building with the busted vent.”

You blinked. “How do you know?”

“I waved at him like ten minutes ago.”

next part

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[keithyp00]

•·.·´`·.·•• You're Lying (and other things Sam won't stop saying) ••·.·´`·.·•

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f!reader

Warnings/Tags: language, mild suggestiveness, comedy, romance, light-angst, found family, slow burn payoff, excessive teasing, established relationship, Sam being annoying

Trope: Everyone thinks you're not really dating. You are. No one believes you.

Word Count: 2.0K

Author Note: Guys this is just like my last one, this is to help me mentally prep for an AP exam tomorrow morning so if this is bad I am so sorry. But I hope you enjoy this nonetheless <3

Please do not copy or translate any of my works. Thank you!

You and Bucky were dating.

Like- really dating.

In the 'he's seen you at your absolute worst and still kisses your cheek like he doesn't look at you any differently' kind of way. The 'you keep an extra toothbrush at his place and he makes your coffee how you like it without asking' kind of way. The 'he pulls you into his lap during team movie nights and smiles against your shoulder, murmuring words into your ear like it's not the most dangerous thing he could do' kind of way.

And no one believed you.

Especially not Sam.

"Oh, come one," he said, flatly, as he walked in on you and Bucky curled up on the couch. "This again?"

You blinked. "We're watching Pretty Woman, Sam."

"You're spooning."

"We're affectionate."

"You're not even kissing! He's probably just cold. You know he runs cold. Like a cyborg space lizard or something."

Bucky growled. "Cyborg space-?!"

"Right," Sam interrupted. "Sure. Keep telling people you're dating. I'll be over here living in reality."

You buried your face into Bucky's neck. "I hate him," you mumbled.

"You love him," Bucky corrected with a sigh. "You just want him to validate our relationship."

"I want him to believe in our relationship. There's a difference."

Sam, in the kitchen, called out: "I don't!"

Bucky flipped him off without looking.

~~~~~

The problem wasn't that you and Bucky didn't act like a couple.

The problem was that you didn't act like a normal couple.

You didn't post mushy selfies. You didn't wear matching shirts. You didn't coo pet names across conference tables. You just... existed. Comfortable. Quietly in sync. The kind of romance that felt more like a heartbeat than a firework.

Too subtle for people like Sam Wilson, apparently.

"You didn't even kiss when you got back from that mission," Sam pointed out, a few weeks later. "She was gone for five days, man."

Bucky, polishing a knife, didn't look up. "I kissed her afterward. In private."

"See, that's the problem! You hide it. Makes it look fake."

"I'm sorry," you snapped. "I didn't realize our love life was for public broadcast. Want us to livestream the next one?"

Sam looked delighted. "That's a strong reaction. I hit a nerve. This is faker than Tony's allergy to gluten."

Tony called from down the hall: "It's real, you bastard!"

~~~~~

At first, it was funny.

Then it got exhausting.

You weren't insecure about your relationship- Bucky made sure of that, every day, in a dozen quiet ways. He cooked for you. Kissed your temple. Held your hand under tables. Brushed his thumb along your jaw like it was the most precious part of you.

But still. No one believed it.

Not Nat, who called it "convenient physical proximity."

No Clint, who claimed he'd never seen you kiss with tongue (as id that were a valid benchmark).

Not even Steve, who offered a gentle "Are you sure he's not just emotionally dependent on you?"

It all came to a head one night at a bar.

You'd just finished a mission and everyone was letting off steam. Sam leaned against the bar counter beside you, a shit-eating grin on his face.

"So," he started. "You and Barnes still 'dating'?"

You narrowed your eyes. "Yes."

"Hmm. Okay." He sipped his beer. "So if I leaned in and kissed you right now, he wouldn't deck me?"

You stared at him.

"Try it," Bucky said darkly from behind, voice like cracked gravel.

Sam smiled. "Still not proof."

Bucky grabbed your hand. "You want proof?"

"Bucky-" you warned.

"No, no. He wants a show. Let's give him one."

He yanked you flush against him, hand cupping your jaw, and kissed you.

Not a polite kiss.

Not a we're-dating-I-swear kiss.

A I-know-every-inch-of-your-mouth-and-I-love-you kiss.

Hot. Possessive. Unapologetic.

You melted into it, clutched his shirt, kissed him back with something that sounded like a whimper because Jesus.

When he pulled away, Sam blinked. "...Okay. Damn."

"Believe us now?" Bucky raised a brow.

Sam blinked again. "Not really."

You grabbed a pretzel stick and stabbed it into the foam of Sam's beer. "I hope you step on RedWing."

~~~~~

Even after that, the teasing didn't stop.

Because of course it didn't.

"You probably practiced that," Sam said a few days later.

"What?"

"That kiss. You planned it. Just to throw me off."

Bucky rubbed his temples. "You are the most annoying man I've ever met."

"You're just mad I cracked the code."

"There is no code!"

You yanked open the fridge, pulled out a tub of frosting, and started eating it with a spoon. "I actually cannot live like this."

Sam pointed at the spoon. "See? No real girlfriend would let her boyfriend see that."

"Bucky bought me this frosting."

Bucky looked like he was about to get up and beat the shit out of Sam if he didn't start walking away.

~~~~~

Eventually, you gave up.

Let them believe what they wanted.

You and Bucky still kissed behind closed doors, curled together on the couch, whispered sleepy confessions after long days.

Until-

One night, you got sick.

Really sick. The kind of body-aching, fever-drenched flu that turned you into a grumpy, sniffling, corpse with a bag full of used tissues beside your bed.

And Bucky took care of everything.

He brought you soup. Rubbed your back. Helped you shower when you were too weak to stand. Brushed your hair out of your face. Slept beside you even when you told him not to.

Sam stopped by to check on you and walked in on Bucky holding your hand while you slept, forehead pressed to your wrist like he was praying.

He backed out slowly.

Didn't say anything.

Didn't tease.

Didn't breathe.

The next morning, there was a small gift basket on your nightstand.

From Sam.

With a card.

"Okay. You win. He loves you. I won't say another word. P.S. Please don't tell anyone I'm capable of this level of sincerity. I have a rep to protect."

~~~~~

You- of course- showed Bucky the card.

He smirked. "About damn time."

You kissed him with a smile.

And this time, no one questioned it.

~~~~~

The peace lasted exactly five days.

Five beautiful, uninterrupted days.

No teasing, no smug side-eyes, no Sam accusing you of being part of an elaborate CIA cover operation. Just you, Bucky, some early morning kisses over coffee, and one blessed evening where you somehow convinced him to slow dance in the kitchen to 40s music.

And then Sam broke into your new apartment. One you thought would give you full time peace compared to the Avengers compound.

(he claimed he "used the spare key." You knew he just picked the lock.)

"Morning, lovebirds," he smiled brightly, leaning against the doorframe like this wasn't the worst intrusion since Ross kissed someone else while he and Rachel were on a break.

You stared at him over Bucky's shoulder, still wrapped in his hoodie with sleep-mussed hair and a mug of tea between your palms. "It's 7:13 a.m."

"I brought bagels."

"And chaos."

Sam strolled in. "And relationship advice."

Bucky looked up from the couch, dead-eyed. "Why?"

"Because now that I know you two are the real deal, I gotta make sure you stay real."

You rubbed your temples. "We're not a gas leak, Sam."

"No, but you're both stubborn and weirdly avoidant and emotionally repressed, and frankly, I'm impressed it took me this long to be needed."

Bucky mumbled, "I'd rather be waterboarded."

Sam ignored him and slapped a notebook onto the table. "Step one: scheduled communication check-ins."

"Oh my god-"

~~~~~

You tried ignoring him.

Didn't work.

Because Sam became relentless. He started showing up with couple's quizzes.

Brought you a deck of 'relationship conversation starters.'

Installed an app on Bucky's phone called 'LoveTracker.'

("It's like Find My iPhone, but romantic," he said. Bucky installed it in twelve seconds.)

And worst of all- he documented everything.

"Bucky," he'd say mid-mission, "when was the last time you complimented her non-physically?"

You stared at him. "Non-physically?"

"Yeah. Like her intelligence. Or her moral compass. Or how she hasn't murdered me yet."

Bucky rolled his eyes. "I call her my girl every morning."

"That's possessive endearment, not a compliment."

"I tell her she's smarter than Tony."

~~~~~

Somewhere around Week 3 of Sam's Unsolicited Couples Therapy, something unexpected happened.

He stopped being annoying.

(Okay, no. He was definitely still annoying.)

But... he also started being kind of helpful.

Like the night you and Bucky got into your first real fight.

It wasn't explosive. Just sharp. Quiet. Full of jagged silences.

You'd been on back-to-back missions, and Bucky had started pulling away. Fewer cuddles. More brooding. Less talking. You tried to be patient- God, you tried- but when he snapped at you for asking what was wrong, it all unraveled.

"I'm trying to help," you said, voice trembling.

"I didn't ask for it," he muttered.

The room froze.

You didn't cry.

You never cried in front of him.

But that night, you shut your bedroom door behind you and curled up alone.

Bucky didn't come in.

Not until morning.

But Sam came over first.

~~~~~

He found you on the balcony, hoodie pulled over your knees, cold tea forgotten beside you.

He didn't say anything at first.

Just sat down next to you, offered a granola bar.

Then, quietly: "You know, when Sarah gets mad at me, I do this thing where I pretend I'm not scared I'll lose her. But I am. I always am."

You looked over. "You think Bucky's scared?"

Sam tilted his head. "That man loved you like it's gonna be taken away from him. Like he's holding something he thinks he shouldn't have. So yeah. He's scared."

You didn't cry.

But you breathed.

And it helped.

~~~~~

Bucky apologized that afternoon.

He stood in the doorway, fists clenched, breathing hard like it took everything in him to walk in.

"I'm sorry," he said. "For being a coward. For making you feel like you weren't wanted when you're the only thing I ever want."

You looked at him.

He stepped closer. "I never learned how to let myself be... this happy. It scared the hell out of me. But not as much as losing you."

You opened your arms, and he came apart in them.

That night, Bucky fell asleep with his hand on your heart.

And you whispered, "You're safe with me."

~~~~~

The next morning, Sam dropped off muffins.

"I told you you'd fight eventually," he said smugly.

You grabbed the muffins and shut the door in his face with a smile.

~~~~~

Over time, you adapted.

You didn't expect Sam to be a normal friend, he didn't know how to do that. But you did start to appreciate him as a part of your life. Your weird, overinvolved, chaotic platonic marriage therapist.

He became your sounding board.

Your crisis texter.

Your sarcastic but loyal brother figure who threatened anyone who looked at you funny and called Bucky 'lover boy' just to watch him twitch.

One night, you all sat around a campfire during a retreat mission. Quiet stars. Crickets. Steve snoring faintly in the background.

Sam looked over at you both.

"You know," he said, voice softer than usual, "you're actually really good together."

Bucky looked at him. "Took you long enough."

"Yeah, yeah. Shut up. But I mean it. You make him more human," he said to you. Then, to Bucky: "And you make her feel protected without caging her."

You blinked.

Bucky squeezed your hand.

Sam threw a marshmallow at you both. "Don't get soft on me. I'll revoke my own compliment."

~~~~~

Months later...

You stood at the edge of a field after a joint mission, hair tousled, laughing with Bucky as he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

Sam walked past, muttering into comms.

"She's in love, he's in denial, and I'm still unpaid for all their therapy."

You smiled to yourself.

You were real.

You were loved.

And you had the most chaotic friend group in the world.

Which honestly... was kind of perfect.