#instead of having one character from each

[asahicore]

hometown, part one - pjs (m)

pairing. jay x fem!reader

synopsis. Tired of his life in the big city, Jay moves to a small town by the Korean seaside and renovates an old bookstore to turn into a café. Fate would have it that you work at the restaurant right across the street from him—quickly, memories from your time at culinary school together float back up to the surface, accompanied by old feelings.

genre+warnings. exes to lovers, small town au, slightly aged up characters, dual timeline, maximal angst in this one i'm sorry guys... but a lot of fluff too dw, smut (MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!), deceased parent, sick grandparent

word count. 28,773

a/n. here we fucking finally are lmaoo if you were wondering why i haven't posted in 10 months, this is why !!!!!!! this is a very very long time in the making, i def had my ups and downs writing this, so i hope it will be worth it and you guys will enjoy lol pls pls pls let me know what u think, it would mean even more than usual !!!!!! and as always massive thanks to @zreamy for freaking out over hometown jay with me and for betareading this behemoth... ur such a ride or wtv it is british people say!

part two will be released in a week (12/08/2025) <3

small playlist here !

“De ceux qu’on aime, de ceux qu’on a aimés, il reste toujours quelque chose. Une sensation sur la peau, un petit rien qui palpite. L’amour est un oiseau, aussi fragile que capable de s’élever jusqu’aux astres. De ceux qu’on aime, de ceux qu’on a aimés, demeure toujours une lumière, pareille au soleil qui persiste sous les paupières quand on ferme les yeux.” 

“Of those we love, of those we have loved, something always remains. A sensation on the skin, a barely-there fluttering. Love is a bird, as fragile as it is capable of reaching the stars. Of those we love, of those we have loved, remains always a light, akin to the sun that perseveres under the lids when you close your eyes.”

Laurine Roux, Le souffle du puma [rough translation]

.

.

Watching the scenery flash by as he drives down the highway, Jay wonders if it’s normal to feel so little sadness about leaving one’s hometown behind. Oh well. It isn’t like there’s anything left for him in Seoul.

He’s still surprised his father insisted on helping him pack. He didn’t bother when Jay, 20 years old back then, moved all the way to France, but then again, his mother had been around to do it. Still, this is a four-hour drive down the country, and Jay has already hired a mover to bring down his bigger pieces of furniture, so the silent, tense afternoon they spent in each other’s company packing up Jay’s clothes, books, and all sorts of stuff really could’ve been avoided. 

He supposes he should be grateful for the attention, but after twenty-five years of not receiving any and resigning himself to that fact, it’s hard to suddenly backtrack and welcome it with open arms. Not even his mother’s death managed to change things—why would they change now? 

After the last of his things found a place in the overflowing trunk of Jay’s BMW, he and his father stand next to the car, avoiding each other’s eyes and saying nothing. Jay doesn’t even know what he’s waiting for. Some words of encouragement? A sign of affection, no matter how meager? 

“Guess you should go now. I don’t think this is an actual parking spot,” his father offers instead after thirty excruciating seconds, gesturing to the general area in front of Jay’s apartment.

“Right. Well, thanks for helping.”

His father nods rapidly. Jay has never seen him do that. “Of course.” He crosses the distance separating them in a few steps, and places a heavy hand on his son’s shoulder. “Take care, Jay.”

Tears prick at the back of Jay’s eyes, but he is used to not letting it show. “I will. You too, dad.”

His father looks at him then, and again in his eyes there is a glint of something unfamiliar to Jay. He can’t figure out what it means, or maybe he doesn’t want to. “Alright. See you around,” he says, like his son is an acquaintance he might or might not meet again.

Jay’s feet stay planted on the pavement as he watches his dad walk back to his own car a few meters down and drive away, thinking, Isn’t he the one who should be watching me go away?

He’s on his way now, and it might just be due to the speed of his car, but his heart feels light. He left Seoul for the first time five years ago, and he is leaving again today. The city he loved so dearly his entire childhood and adolescence is now full of reminders of things he’d rather leave behind. Despite its impressive size, he feels as though something is out to get him at every street corner. Here is the tteokbokki and sundae restaurant at which he always used to eat with the middle school friends he hasn’t contacted in years; here is the bus stop at which he’d wait after every hospital visit to his mother; here is the fountain at which the two of you agreed to meet for your first date.

It’s a very spontaneous, borderline irrational decision that Jay’s made, but he can’t handle living in Seoul anymore. Not just the constant whiplash from memories he’s been experiencing lately, but everything that comes with city-living has been getting on his nerves. The relentless honking, the crowded streets and public transport at every hour of the day, the god-awful odors wafting from the sewers, the list could go on and on. He used to be indifferent to it all; now he wants nothing more to escape it.

This will be his second time ever in Sojuk-ri. The first time was just over six months ago, when his mother asked him to take her there. They’d driven there and back in the same day because her cancer had already reached a stage that meant she couldn’t leave the hospital for too long. The doctors had only agreed to let go because having reached that stage also meant that it wouldn't make such a difference.

He doesn’t have much of a plan. The idea of owning his own café has been in the works for a few years now, ever since he moved to Paris, really, but it wasn’t meant to happen so soon, and it certainly wasn’t meant to happen in a town he barely knew. There might not even be a proper unit for a café in Sojuk-ri, and he’ll have to look around other villages. He’s already got five visits lined up with a real estate agent tomorrow morning. But maybe that’s why it feels so right—he can’t stress over the details if he hasn’t thought about them extensively. 

The few friends he has left in Seoul tried to reason with him. You don’t know anyone there, you don’t know if they’re the kind of people who’d visit a café. Everything you want to do, you can do here, and it’ll be easier and more stable. But he feels like he can’t breathe in the city. Maybe he’s running away. And so what if he is? Cliché as it may sound, he likes to think he’s running towards his future rather than away from his past. Clichés exist for a reason. Jay finds comfort in them sometimes, like so many people have had this experience before him, and he isn’t alone. Or worse, weird.

The brightness of the clouds is blinding through the windshield. Jay has a good feeling about this.

.

.

“Two tofu bibimbaps and one kimchi stew!”

“Got it,” you say, taking the handwritten kitchen order ticket from Yeonju’s hands and clipping it above the stove. She usually walks right back into the front of house, but you feel her lingering at the doorway, her gaze heavy on the back of your head. “What?” You’re usually one to mind your manners, but manning a kitchen alone during rush hour is reason enough to let politeness slip slightly.

“They’re not happy about the all-vegetarian menu.”

“Who’s they?”

“Everyone, Y/N! I’ve been asked four times why there’s no pork in the kimchi stew.”

It’s a good thing you’re not facing her—if your sister-in-law-slash-waitress saw the smile on your lips, the knife resting on the counter might be used to cut something other than carrots.

“That’s what they get for getting so drunk and breaking a chair last week.”

“That was just that one group of old men. I already told off Mr. Kim and Mr. Choi when they came in yesterday. You’re punishing our entire clientele for five stupid drunkards.”

You stir the soup base, pretending to ponder her words. “Let them think of it as a group project. If one party does poorly, everyone’s grade goes down.”

She groans. “Is that how I’m supposed to explain it to our customers? This isn’t Seoul. The people here need their meat. Actually, I’m not even sure this would fly in Seoul.”

“Sounds like their problem,” you say, shrugging. Yeonju groans again but finally walks back out.

From her seat on an overturned crate at the other side of the kitchen, cooling herself down with a paper fan, your grandmother chuckles and you exchange smiles. “You tell ‘em, honey. Back in the day, I’d ban them for a month if they got too rowdy. This is more fun.”

You sigh. “I’m just tired of this happening. No matter how often we tell them this isn’t a drinking place, there’ll be people going overboard once every few weeks. The bar is just a few doors down, I don’t know why it’s so hard to go there after eating.”

“Mmh.” You glance at your grandmother. Her eyes are closed, and that unsettling serenity has made its way back to her features. You’ve lost her, it seems. But that doesn’t keep you from rambling away.

“I guess we could stop selling soju altogether, but that would make us lose a pretty significant part of our revenue. And after work, Yeonju and I would have to actually go to the convenience store to buy it instead of grabbing it from the fridge here, so that’s out of the question. Have you ever seen Mrs. Kang’s face when you buy alcohol from her? She looks at you like a criminal as if she isn’t the one selling it. She’d be an awful drug dealer. Anyways, I’m glad there isn’t anyone here handing out drugs. Not that I know of, at least.”

Your grandmother’s smile stretches ever-so-slightly, so you take it she might be listening after all.

“I also thought we could close a little earlier. No one comes in at nine thirty to eat. Rush happens at what, six, seven p.m.? If we closed around nine rather than ten, Yeonju and I would have more free time and it wouldn’t make a big difference financially. How does that sound, Grandma?”

Yeonju walks in at that time, empty dishes stacked on her arms. “That’s a good idea, actually,” she says. “Your brother has been saying he wishes I was around more.” For some reason, she thinks it’s funny to punctuate her words with a suggestive wiggle of her eyebrows.

“Gross. Can you not refer to him as my brother when you’re talking about your sex life, please?”

“We’ve been married two years. You’ll have to get used to it at some point.”

“I won’t be used to it even when you’re celebrating your twentieth anniversary.”

“I’m glad you have that much faith in us,” she says, grabbing side dishes from the fridge and walking back out into the front of house. You wait for her to be gone to chuckle so she can’t hear that her joke made you laugh.

Today’s lunch rush ends earlier than usual, probably due to a smaller amount of customers. Fine, you’ll put meat back on the menu. Starting tomorrow. They can suffer a little longer.

After cleaning the kitchen and taking count of your stock, you close up store. The three of you walk the short way back to your family’s house, your grandmother in the middle, you and Yeonju flanked on her sides, each holding one of her arms. Your legs ache, and you’re immensely grateful for the few hours of rest ahead of you.

Once in a while, it happens that when you reach your bedroom, you feel inexplicably pulled to your bookshelf. There, you take out a familiar novel, and let it open naturally onto the page bookmarked by a picture, its edges frayed and worn with time. You don’t know how long you stand there, staring at the two happy faces immortalized by one of your friends’ phone camera, a sad smile on your lips. With your thumb, you trace the outline of the man standing by your side, a beer in his hand, his other arm around your waist, rosy cheeks visible even in the dimness of the room.

In the silence of your own room, you whisper, “How are you now?”

.

.

It happens in the blink of an eye.

Chef Lee, today’s mentor, has already started her presentation. No time to lose here—no ice-breakers or long welcome speech or going around the classroom introducing themselves one by one. Lee gave two introductory sentences and went straight into the first lesson of the year, a basic overview of the different cuts they’ll have to master for every dish. Everyone is giving their undivided attention. If it wasn’t for Chef Lee's monotonous drawl, a pin could be heard in the large, white room. That is, until the door suddenly opens and you barge in, out-of-breath like you were just running, eyes wide, not unlike those of a deer caught in headlights, Jay thinks. 

You’re unbelievably pretty.

But you’re also late, and judging by the look on Chef Lee’s face, that is a barely tolerable offense.

“And who are you?” she says. 

“I’m Y/L/N Y/N, Chef. I’m so sorry for being late, I got lost in the subway.”

A few snickers are heard around the room, undoubtedly a reaction to your countryside dialect—based on the conversations he had with his new classmates before Chef Lee arrived, Jay gathered that most people here were from Seoul. Thankfully, their teacher seems to feel the same way about mockery as tardiness, and gives the culprits a harsh glare.

“Please familiarise yourself with Seoul’s public transport as soon as you can, Miss Y/L/N,” Lee says, clearly already bored with this interaction. “You might find that it will come in handy.”

“Yes, Chef,” you say in a quiet voice and head to the nearest — and only — available station. Jay isn’t aware he is still staring at you until your eyes meet. From across the room, you smile at him, and it sends his heart into a frenzy.

Until this exact moment, he was readying himself to spend a year in a cutthroat, competitive environment. And he still is—but he thinks he’s found something that’ll keep him going.

.

.

Jay looks around the bleak room. It clearly hasn’t welcomed a human being in a while now. Yellowing paperbacks fill dusty bookshelves, the ones that have fallen to the floor open at random pages. He’s been told that since the sudden passing of the previous owner, no one has come to clean the place up—he’d been a widow for years already, and his two children lived abroad. Ignoring the real estate agent’s worried glances, Jay picks one up and brushes the dust off. He’s hoping for serendipitous words, confirmation that he’s doing the right thing, some good omen—anything will do. 

The book is in Russian. Jay does not know Russian. He’s not sure what kind of sign this is supposed to be, and so puts the book back down and resumes his tour of the room.

“I know it’s not in great shape right now,” the agent says as Jay inspects the tubes of unknown function that run up one of the walls between two old bookshelves. This place seems to be all bookshelves. “But I promise it’s all just clutter. One good sweep, and it’ll look good as new,” he adds with an unconvincing chuckle.

Jay walks to the one window that isn’t hidden behind a piece of furniture. The room is dark now, but with some rearranging, it could become very lively. Warm, golden sunlight filters through the white-paneled window, making visible the dust that floats in the air. He’d appreciate its beauty more if it wasn’t making the agent sneeze so much. 

At the back of this main room, an archway leads to a kitchen. Some tiles on the floor and on the walls are broken, and the oven looks like something Jay’s great-grandmother would’ve owned. There’s an awkward empty spot where the fridge should be, mold staining the ceiling, no corner that hasn’t been claimed by spiders and cobwebs. Jay wonders whether this room even has access to running water and electricity. Its only real attribute is its size, spacious enough to hold a few more kitchen appliances and for two or three people to work in.

“I’ll take it,” he announces.

“Really?” the agent exclaims, eyes almost bulging out of their sockets. But he remembers his job here, and quickly regains his composure. “I mean, that’s fantastic to hear, Mr. Park. Did you want to see the apartment upstairs?”

Jay smiles genuinely for the first time today and acquiesces.

The stairs lead directly from the kitchen into a one-bedroom apartment that’s about as rundown as the rest of the place. Fully furnished, too, although Jay suspects he’ll have to change out the sofa and the bed frame that look about a century old.

“I told you this one was a bit of a fixer-upper,” the agent says, eyeing Jay nervously as if he might suddenly go back on his words.

The young man bites back a laugh—talk about a euphemism. He doubted that in its current state, this place was at all inhabitable. But he didn’t mind, it meant he could truly redo it to his whimsy. “That’s alright,” he reassures the agent. “Do I sign the papers now?”

A few minutes later, the two men stand outside, shaking hands. “Pleasure to have done business with you, Mr. Park.” Jay wonders if the relief on his face has anything to do with the fact that this sale comes after seven unsuccessful visits. What can he say? He has standards.

“Call me Jay, please. We’ll be neighbors, after all,” he says, nodding his head to the real estate agency a few storefronts down the street.

“Right,” the agent says, smiling. “I’ll see you around, then, Jay. Let me know if you need help with the renovations, I know a guy.” Checking his watch, he adds, “Oh, and since it’s lunchtime, I highly recommend you try this restaurant right here. The true gem of our small town. The best japchae you’ll eat in your life.”

The mere mention of the dish tugs at Jay’s heartstrings, and a smile that only he understands the meaning of appears on his lips. He doesn’t say, I doubt that. Instead, he says, “Thank you. I’ll try it out.”

With a last nod of his head, the agent heads back to his office. Jay turns to the restaurant, and upon seeing its name in big, red LED letters — either turned off during the day, or broken — has to squash his hopes down. A restaurant called Kim’s Kitchen that serves japchae in a small seaside town, what are the odds? But the Korean coastline runs for thousands of kilometers, Kim is the most common name in the country, and japchae is practically the national dish. 

The smell of soy sauce, sizzling meat and burnt sugar hit his nose as soon as he walks into the tiny, homey place, as well as the cheerful noises of businessmen off on their lunch break, clinking glasses of beer and soju at 12:30 p.m.. Lucky for him, there’s one spare table in the corner, where he sits and waits for someone to notice him. It only takes a minute for a woman to approach him, black hair tied in a low ponytail — just like you used to wear, he thinks despite himself — and white stained apron over a pink t-shirt. She smiles at him in that polite but tired way that restaurateurs have about them before wiping his table and setting down cutlery and a plastic jug of water.

“You’re a new face,” she says matter-of-factly. 

Jay’s eyebrows shoot up. Does she usually recognize every face that walks through here? “I am, yes.”

“But you’re not a tourist.” She speaks in such a strong dialect that Jay wonders, perhaps naively, whether she’s exaggerating it. The chatter at the tables around him has dwindled down, other clients shamelessly eavesdropping on their conversation and staring at him. 

He clears his throat, a blush creeping up his neck. “Um, I’m not, no.” His words hang in the air for a few unbearable seconds during which he debates adding more—that he’s just bought the old bookstore across the street, that he plans to turn it into a café, that he is staying at the only Airbnb in town that remains available after summer. But he stays silent, and the waitress smiles again, more sincerely this time.

“Well, welcome to Sojuk-ri,” she says. The chatter picks back up; he must have been deemed not interesting enough by the curious eyes and ears around him. “And welcome to Kim’s Kitchen. We always serve japchae and bibimbap with beef or with the seafood catch of the morning. This week’s specialty is abalone porridge, because my husband got sick, again, and we thought we might as well make some for everyone,” she says, sighing. “Our side dishes today are cucumber kimchi, soybean sprouts and steamed eggs.”

“Could I get one serving of japchae and one of porridge, please?”

“Coming right up.”

As she walks away, Jay goes to retrieve his phone from his coat pocket. “One japchae and one porridge, Y/N,” he hears the waitress shout in the direction of the kitchen, and he freezes.

“On it,” a voice shouts back. The wind is knocked out of him.

To hear your voice again after five years is like waking up and realizing that the terrible nightmare he was having was just that—a terrible nightmare.

He whips his head up in the direction of your voice, although he’s not sure he could handle the sight of you right now. Knowing you were in the next room, breathing the same air, hearing the same sounds, was already a lot. Too much, even. He has half a mind to slip his coat back on and feel the harsh September wind on his face, but his brain and his legs seem to have stopped cooperating. His feet stay planted on the ground as if glued there. The noise in the restaurant has faded away. All he can hear is his deafening heartbeat.

There’s a screen made of thin wooden slats that hides the kitchen from view. He catches a glimpse of someone — you? — wearing blue jeans and the same apron as the waitress when she steps into the kitchen. What would you do if you saw him?

Scratch that, Jay thinks. What will you do when you see him, your new neighbor, your old friend?

The only way to escape this now is to annul the contract he signed five minutes ago and to flee Sojuk-ri, never to come back again.

Jay’s mind goes through every possible outcome as he waits for his meal. He could march up to you and demand an explanation. He could march up to you, fall to his knees, wrap his arms around your hips, and cry. He could pretend not to have seen you. He could pretend he’s forgotten all about you. He could tell you not a single day has passed without you haunting his thoughts. He could ask if you still think things really are better off this way. He could ask if you, too, have not had a moment’s peace since you last saw each other.

The waitress walks back out, holding a tray full of steaming food, and he gets another glorious glimpse of you. Because it really is you—your hair falling in a braid down your back, something he’s never seen before, holding up a spoon to your lips, your left hand ready to catch any drop that might fall.

Do you regret it?

Jay stares at the screen in front of him as the waitress sets down his plate and bowl, lightly saying, “Enjoy.”

Tears prick at his eyes as he chews on the glass noodles. If he wasn’t one hundred percent sure that it was you behind that screen before, he is now.

The agent was right—today and five years ago, it really is the best japchae he’s ever had.

.

.

Tears muddle your vision as you pack your belongings—well, “packing” is a pretty word for something that looks more like frantically stuffing things into your one large suitcase, backpack and tote bag. In September, you’d sulked at your family for not driving you up to Seoul; now, you’re grateful there were only so many things you could bring on the train with you.

Just yesterday, you were laughing and eating delicious jjajjangmyeon, tangsuyuk and fried pork dumplings at a Korean-Chinese restaurant with your friends and boyfriend. There were many things to be happy about—the end of your mock exams, Jay’s upcoming birthday, Jaemin finally getting a text back from the girl he had a crush on in high school, the nearing results for the numerous internships and stages your school offers worldwide.

You think of the concentration on Sumin’s face (and the annoyance on everyone else’s) as she takes precise photos of your food for her Instagram account, claiming the camera eats first; of the dramatic expressions and sounds Jake makes whenever he bites into something he likes; of Jaemin’s voice, louder than everyone else, as you sing Happy Birthday to Jay, joined by all the other restaurant-goers and the waiters who bring out pandan cake, two candles forming the number 20 alight.

You think of Jay’s hand squeezing yours under the table, of all the not-so-discreet glances throughout dinner, of the food he places on your plate instead of focusing on his, of the silent but comfortable walk back home in the chilly April weather, his jacket on your shoulders.

All it took was one frantic phone call for it to feel like a lifetime ago. Your mother’s words on the other side of your cell (“Your grandma fell— She’s in the hospital now— The doctors can’t tell us when she’ll wake up”) created a gap between the life you led up until 7 am this morning and the life you lead now. The girl who imagined travelling the world to visit her friends at their high-end, starred workplaces sometime in the near future isn’t the same girl drafting an email to her school to inform them she’s dropping out of the course and therefore withdrawing her application for a stage in one of the most reputed fine-dining restaurants in Paris, and therefore, in the whole world. The girl who watched her boyfriend blow his candles last night and thought, “This is the first of many birthdays we’ll be celebrating together,” isn’t the same girl bursting into tears at the sight of a hoodie he purposefully left on her bed for her to cuddle on the rare nights they spent apart. Now, she has to deal with the heartbreak of wondering whether it’s better to take it with her as a keepsake or to give it back to its rightful owner.

If your entire life wasn’t being heaved upside-down, you’d perhaps feel some pride at how efficiently you’ve managed your departure, all things considered. In just a few hours, aside from emailing your school, you’ve talked to your landlady, telling her you’ll pay your rent for as long as you’re legally obliged, giving her Sumin’s number to arrange a time to go over inventory and the state of the apartment—you’re still procrastinating calling Sumin to explain everything to her, but you know she’ll agree to help. You’ve cleared out your fridge and cupboards, preparing yourself a couple of snacks for the journey home, giving the rest to the nice lady in the apartment across from yours who once told you having a culinary student “as generous as you” as her neighbor was the best thing that’s happened to her in recent years. She’s one of the many people you feel impossibly sad leaving behind, but you have no choice. Your decision was taken rapidly, more reflex than thought. Your brother called shortly after your mother this morning, letting you know he and his fiancée would move back home from Busan in a few weeks if it turned out to be necessary.

You’ve even remembered to change the reservation at a fancy restaurant in Seoul for Jay’s birthday from a party of two people to four—he’ll celebrate with Sumin, Jake and Jaemin rather than with you. Another thing you hope Sumin will agree to take care of in your stead.

Perhaps the hardest part will be telling Jay. You have to, if only because there are things in his apartment you need to collect—although, truth be told, it’s not like your life depends on having any of them. But even if you’re leaving in a rush, you can’t not see him before leaving at all, it’s just the idea of sitting him down and letting him know what’s going on is too much. So, once you’re done here, you’ll head over to his, pick up everything you need, get him up to speed in a couple of sentences, and leave. You won’t kiss him, or hug him, or even look at him, because if you do, there’s a high chance you won’t be able to leave at all. 

You can’t think about what you’re doing right now. You can only do, do, do. You’ll take the time to think once the damage is done, once you’ve hit that no-return point that leaves you with no possibility to fix changes, only regret.

Because you know part of you has been regretting this since you’ve decided to do it. Part of you pictures being back home, taking care of your grandmother, running her restaurant, daydreaming of Paris and sleek kitchens and Michelin stars and all the people you left behind.

Of the one person you left behind.

.

.

Nothing should come as naturally to a grown adult as breathing. And yet, as Jay stands outside your restaurant the next day, he can hardly remember how it goes. Inhale, exhale. With a trembling hand, he opens the door. A bell resounds through the empty room. We’re not open yet! a voice, yours, calls from the kitchen. Inhale, exhale.

The screen is drawn back. He has no time to steady himself as you appear in the doorway, beautiful as ever. Your mouth opens, your eyes widen. What was it again? Right. Inhale, exhale, but his breathing is unstable, embarrassingly shaky. 

He can’t breathe and think and talk at the same time. So he stands there, barely breathing.

“Jay?” 

You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Maybe he is, to you.

But you also look as unbelievably beautiful as you always have. You look just as you do in Jay’s memories of you, and yet entirely different. Five years aren’t quite enough to say you’ve aged, but there is still something new in your features, something Jay only notices because he wasn’t there to witness the years gradually leave their mark on your face. Seeing you like this is a brutal reminder of the time since he last saw you, five years, four months and nine days to be exact. Three days before his twentieth birthday.

Yesterday, he fled before you could notice him scarfing down the food he’d ordered. Something about the blend of spices, the chewiness of the noodles, the crunch of the vegetables—it was all so distinctly you. Jay is usually one to savour every bite of his food, but in that moment, he felt like a starved man. He ate quickly and on the table left two ten-thousand won bills that more than covered for his meal.

Walking into the restaurant again, he knows what to expect. You, on the other hand… You’re surprised, that much is clear. Jay is scared to find out whether he’s a good or bad surprise. 

“Hi,” he says, but his voice comes out strangled. He clears his throat and tries again. “Hi.”

“Hi,” you reply. Neither of you speaks for a few moments. It’s not until your gaze drops to the glass Tupperware in his hands that he remembers what he came here for—or rather, what his excuse is for coming here. 

“I, uh, I’m moving into the old bookstore across the street. I’m going around giving rice cakes to, you know, introduce myself to the neighborhood, so, yeah, here…” Step by step, he bridges the distance between the two of you until he’s close enough to hand you the Tupperware. When you take it from him, you look down at it and scratch your ear like you’ve never seen rice cakes in your life, while he lets his arms hang limply by his side, too painfully aware of himself, of you, of your shared surroundings.

“Thanks,” you simply say, staring some more at the container before setting it down on the table next to you. You finally look at him again, and the confusion on your face is clear, but there’s a lingering sadness there that Jay feels deep in his bones. You haven’t gotten any better at hiding your emotions, he notices. “The old bookstore, you said?”

Jay amazes himself with the steadiness of his voice and his ability to keep his knees from buckling. This is a normal conversation between two people, he has to remind himself continuously, just a normal conversation. Although it doesn’t really help—standing in front of you after all this time, he feels like a tearful reunion or grand declaration of feelings should be occurring, not a normal, almost banal conversation. 

“Yeah. I’m turning it into a café,” he says. 

Slowly, a smile makes its way across your lips, and he almost melts into a puddle right then and there. “A café?” you repeat. “That’s surprising.”

He mirrors your smile to the best of abilities. “I fell in love with scones in London. No turning back since then…”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “You were in London?”

For a moment, Jay forgot that he lives in a world where you aren’t aware of something as crucial as his place of residence for the past two years.

“Yeah. After Paris,” he explains, unable to hide the guilt in his voice, especially as the gray cloud of a bad memory passes through your eyes. 

You nod, and he thinks that’s the end of that. But then, you ask, “Did you see the Queen?”

“Oh, of course,” he says after a pause—he’d needed a second to realize you were joking with him. As if you were friends on good terms. As if being in the same room after five years of distance and no-contact was normal. “I was on a first-name basis with all the Buckingham Palace residents.”

You scrunch your nose, your way of biting back a smile at a stupid joke. Jay is thrown back to a time when the two of you barely knew each other, and you still hadn’t admitted to yourself — or to anyone, for that matter — that you found him funny.

“How cool.”

“I know,” he says, smiling too widely.

You nod to the tupperware, filled to the brim with square rice cakes. “Can I have one of those?” you ask, as if only now that the ice has been somewhat broken, you could eat food made from his hands.

“Of course, they’re all yours,” he replies immediately. “I sprinkled powdered sugar, cinnamon and crushed hazelnuts on top.”

“Of course you did.”

Jay is vaguely aware that it is odd to be staring at someone this intensely, but he can’t help himself. His heart beats uncontrollably as he stands a few feet away from you, watching as you take a bite into the rice cake and smile. Your expression turns flustered when you notice his staring, and he remembers himself enough to take a step back and focus his gaze on something else.

“Jay?”

There’s white sugar at the corner of your lips. He discards the thought that he could wipe it away with his thumb.

“How come you’re not surprised to see me?”

His gaze snaps from your lips to your eyes. All of a sudden, they’re glossy, your eyebrows furrowed. Jay isn’t sure what he’d do if you started crying. Cry too, probably.

“I mean, you walked in here like it’s just another day. I don’t remember ever telling you I was from here. Did you-”

“I didn’t know. I ate here yesterday and saw you, but before that, I had no idea.” He wants to reach out to you, feel the warmth of your hands against his. He wants to tell you that he always knew the universe would find a way to bring you back to him. Instead, he says, “Crazy coincidence, right?”

You take a deep breath, processing his words. “Yeah, crazy coincidence,” you say in a tone that Jay can’t quite decipher, something he’s not used to when it comes to you.

There’s a small silence, unspoken words hanging heavy in the air, weighing down Jay’s tongue in his mouth. In the kitchen, a timer goes off. Your head swivels in its direction. “I should probably…” you start, but don’t move. Jay gets the message nonetheless.

“Right. Yeah, of course. I won’t keep you any longer. Hope you like the rice cakes.”

“Thanks.”

His hand is on the door handle when you call out his name, sending electricity down his spine. He turns around with embarrassing haste.

“Come have your meals here when you’re working on your café. You always used to skip them when you were focused on something… I don’t know if you still do, but the offer is there.”

Jay smiles. “Okay,” he says.

.

.

“You’re still here?”

Your voice makes Jay jump. He’s been alone for at least three hours now, and with the sun having set, the classroom is plunged in darkness, save for the streetlights outside and the bright lamp above his prep station. When he turns around, you’re walking towards him, and he can just make out a mix of surprise and amusement in your smile as you step into the light. There’s some concern, there, too, he’d like to think.

“I am. And you’re sneaking up on someone holding a very sharp knife.”

You reach his prep station, rest your lower back against the counter. “I’ve seen your chopping skills, Park. I’m not afraid of you.”

Playfully, he rolls his eyes. Is it just him, or have those jabs you like to throw at each other started to feel less sharp, less rough around the edges lately? Like a dull knife, “a knife that’s been loved too much,” his mother always used to say. You still use it because it’s familiar, but it’s not as efficient anymore.

“I’m not the one who showed up to a cooking course not knowing what a julienne was.”

“Yes, but that’s because you’re the one with a world-renowned chef for a dad.”

Jay tilts his head, taking the hit. “Well, dad is a generous term for that man.” Immediately, he wishes he could take back his words. Not only have the two of you never delved into any sort of personal matter, you’re not nearly close enough to do so—and he’s afraid you’ll think him ungrateful for the life he’s had, like he always is whenever he mentions his dissatisfaction with his dad to someone. He watches as you look down at your hands and tug at your sleeves. His stomach flips with embarrassment. He’s said the wrong thing, and now that you were finally starting to relax around each other, he’s gone and made things weird.

But then, you look at him, that mischievous glint still in your eyes, and ask, “Do you really want to get into your daddy issues right now? Nine p.m. on a random Tuesday?”

His shoulders sag with relief. He lets out a breathy chuckle, saying, “No, better not. What are you doing here, anyway?”

You wave a notebook at him. It’s simple, with metal spirals holding the pages together and a transparent plastic cover. “I wanted to go over some recipes at home and realized I left this precious thing here. What about you?”

“Also going over some recipes. It’s not going swimmingly, as you can see,” he replies with a sigh, gesturing at the mess of pots on the stove, of diced vegetables on the cutting board, of spoons and chopsticks and knives strewn around the station. It’s not like him to be so disorganized, and judging by the astonishment on your face, you know this. “I’ve been here since the end of class, and I still can’t get this sauce just right.”

You furrow your eyebrows. Jay waits for it—a teasing comment, a snide remark, if you’re feeling particularly mean. Something about how easy today’s lesson was, how this is something he should’ve mastered in no time. But the hatch never drops.

To Jay’s absolute bewilderment, “Have you even eaten?” are the words that come out of your mouth. He’s even more surprised to find that he indeed has not eaten yet. When he tells you this, you click your tongue and shake your head. Is he being… scolded? 

“That’s not reasonable, Jay,” you say, and it takes him a few seconds to be fully sure you’re genuine and not playing an elaborate, ultra-convincing trick on him. You grab a spoon, dip its underside into the sauce Jay has been breaking his back over the entire evening and bring it to your mouth. “Plus, your sauce tastes just fine.” You sound irritated. It only confuses Jay further.

“Just fine is not exactly what I’m going for, here.”

“Just fine will have to do for now,” you say with a tone that lets him know this is where the conversation ends. “Come on, let’s clean this up and go eat something.”

Jay has a feeling you don’t often run into people that don’t listen to you, and he decides he doesn’t want to be the first. So, quietly, he gets to washing dishes as you pack away his many tries at this stupid doenjang. He tells you to put them in the communal fridge or take them home to yourself—if he can go the rest of his life without having to look at another soybean, he’ll be happy.

“That might be a bit tricky if you plan to go into Korean cuisine,” you point out.

“Let a man dream, Y/N.”

This is how Jay finds himself under a red tent thirty minutes later, tipping back soju and munching on stir-fried anchovies with peanuts and crispy, burning-hot scallion pancakes that coat his fingers with oil. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he looked at the empty plates in front him and found himself ready for more.

“We go to one of the best culinary schools in Seoul, a city in which fine-dining options abound, and you bring me to a pojangmacha,” he states matter-of-factly, looking around at the people around him, all varying amounts of drunk, at the old lady wearing a plastic mask and frying all kinds of finger foods that go perfectly with alcohol.

“Seoul has nothing more delicious to offer than its street food.”

Jay tilts his head in agreement, raising his glass to yours. “Can’t argue with that,” he says, and the sound of your glasses clinking gets a smile out of you.

A few beats of silence pass. Surprisingly comfortable silence, Jay thinks as he watches you watch the passers-by. You suddenly turn to face him, and he picks up the bottle of soju, pouring the both of you a drink, pretending he wasn’t staring at you just seconds ago. “So, what was that thing about your dad earlier?” you ask unceremoniously.

The question should take him aback more than it does, but perhaps the shared bottle of alcohol has already worked its magic between the two of you—Jay doesn’t feel like it’s an inappropriate topic to broach with someone he’s only previously spoken about food and overly strict chefs with. “So you do want to get into my daddy issues on a random Tuesday at nine p.m.,” he jokes.

“Well, it’s more like ten p.m. now, so I think we’re good.”

He chuckles. “Alright. Well, how do I go about this without sounding like the most clichéd poor little rich boy ever? I had everything but a father. The man you see on TV, barking orders at his kitchen staff and criticizing the cooking show contestants like their food isn’t worth a dime, that’s basically the same man I had at home. Except most of the time he wasn’t even paying enough attention to have something to yell at me for. I could’ve been flunking half of my classes, and he would’ve been none the wiser.”

“Gosh. That… sucks,” you say, looking genuinely distraught. “I always thought he was playing it up for the cameras.”

Jay watches the clear alcohol swish around his glass. “His father was an army general and he himself was a cook in the army for a decade. It wasn’t an act at all,” he says, then drinks the soju. It burns on its way down. “It was okay at first. It was even good, sometimes. He wasn’t always there emotionally, and he spent a lot of time at work, but we didn’t argue every time we talked. But my mom wanted a divorce, she didn’t like being the wife of a celebrity chef, she didn’t care about the big house, and the fancy restaurants, and the articles in the magazines. When she left him, she said, “I fell in love with you for your kimchi stew. Now you charge hundreds of thousands of won for two scallops.” He was even more distant after that, to say the least.”

He pauses there, letting silence hang in the air between the two of you. You pour the last of the soju in Jay’s glass, then ask the owner for another bottle and another scallion pancake. “Go on,” you say, gently. Jay wonders for a second if he deserves your listening ear—but if you’re happy to extend it, he might as well take it. Getting it all out feels surprisingly good. Refreshing.

“Well, the weeks at my mom’s new apartment were great. We’d cook together, go out to museums, watch movies. I could talk about anything with her, even the embarrassing stuff. She felt like a friend as much as a mother. But my father… mostly, he wasn’t there. I couldn’t go to him. He was always at work, always off somewhere more important, he didn’t even show up to my high school graduation. The only times he would pay attention to me was when I cooked. I would stay up preparing banchan, fermenting kimchi, making pastes from scratch. He’d come home late in the evening, join me in the kitchen and teach me tricks. All without a word. I think it was the only way he knew how to show care. I’ve talked about this with my mom at length… I think he’s been taught that showing vulnerability means being weak.” He glances at you, your eyes wide open as if you used them to listen rather than your ears, your eyebrows furrowed in empathy. “I told you this was cliché.”

You smile. Something warm spreads in Jay’s chest—it’s the soju getting to him, surely. He continues before you can say something nice and make him lose his footing. “I desperately wanted to make him proud. I knew he wouldn’t bat an eye if I brought home the best grades or became the captain of some sports team. So I dedicated myself to cooking. And now, I love it, I really do…”

“But part of that is because you want him to notice you.”

Your eyes meet. The woman running the stand approaches then, setting down your soju and pancake on the table. “Does that make me a fraud?” Jay asks when she’s gone. It’s the first time he’s uttered the question out loud. He hopes it comes out casually, consciously self-deprecating, and not like something he’s been terrified of since the course started. 

You frown. “Of course not. We all have different reasons for cooking. Yours is just as valid as anyone else’s.”

Jay likes how seriously you take him. Between those who think his connections got him into the school and those who suck up to him, thinking it’ll get them a spot at one of his dad’s restaurants, not many of his classmates treat him as an equal, pure and simple. But you do. You’ve always been as snarky towards him as towards the rest of them, and you don’t question his presence in the classroom.

For a second, he dares hope he’s found a friend in you.

“What about you? What’s your reason for cooking?”

An introspective smile spreads on your lips as you ponder his question. “I want to make better japchae than my grandma.”

When Jay presses, you tell him about your hometown and Kim’s Kitchen, your grandma’s restaurant, the simple but hearty food that people keep coming back for. “It’s delicious, but I want to learn other techniques. Make more sophisticated meals. She says I think I’m a big-shot now that I’ve moved to Seoul and spend hours cutting carrots into identical strips. But I like it here, it’s so different to anything I’ve ever known. Sure, the chefs are on our asses about the smallest details, and everyone is simultaneously friend and foe, but outside of school, nobody cares about you. No eyes following your every movement, no gossip spreading from door to door. Living in a small town is like being trapped in middle school forever.”

He asks what the name of your town is, but you dismiss him easily. “The chances of you knowing it are slim, and the chances of you ever hearing of it in the future are even slimmer.”

Jay grew up without the affection of his father; you grew up with the unwanted attention of every adult around you. Somehow, it led you to the same point in life. Early twenties, an obsessive love of cooking, and a need to leave your past behind. 

Soon after that, as Tuesday tips into Wednesday, you decide it’s time to go. Jay tries to pay, but you insist otherwise. “You’ll get it next time,” you say.

The soju has stained his cheeks red, has warmed him up enough to not feel the cold November air biting at his skin. You’re clearly a better drinker than he is, helping him into a cab and deciphering his address as his speech comes out mumbled. He’ll regret ordering that third bottle in the morning.

Next time. Looking out the window at the rapidly passing buildings and people and street lights, Jay turns the words around in his head. He decides he likes the sound of them.

.

.

Indifferent to whether someone’s leaving or arriving, the bells of your restaurant’s door chime when Jay walks out, just as they did when he walked in. They continue to ring for a little bit, the emptiness of the restaurant amplifying the sound. It’s all you can do to stand there, your brain valiantly trying to wrap itself around what just happened and failing. 

The only proof that less than ten seconds ago, like an apparition, Jay stood in front of you, is the remaining glass Tupperware, filled to the brim with rice cakes and light brown toppings, your mouth already anticipating their softness and sweetness.

Soft and sweet. Those adjectives would describe something else you know.

Your brain is truly failing to understand how he could not only appear, but also leave again so suddenly. In and out within five minutes. And what had you done—invited him to eat here? You try to recall the short conversation, but every word spoken and heard is blurry, mumbled; a momentary black-out. His presence in Kim’s Kitchen was so nonsensical that nothing seemed appropriate to say. Maybe he has completely grown out of his habit to skip meals when he works, maybe the overwhelming smell and thought of food doesn’t cut his appetite anymore, and you wouldn’t have to coax him out of the kitchens or bring dinner to him when he perfects recipes. But you had to say something, anything to ensure you would see him again, as though you haven’t become literal neighbors, and as you walk back to your kitchen, you realize that you had buried the ache of missing him deep into the marrow of your bones. 

Deep enough to ignore, deep enough that it never went away.

Your knees suddenly buckle underneath you and you drop to a crouch. An unexpected, gasp-like sob escapes your throat. You cover your mouth with your hand, but it’s too late—the dam has broken. Holding onto the handle of the oven like it’s your only tether to this world, more sobs keep pouring out of you, and you do nothing to force them down. You need to get it out somehow, the shock of seeing him, here, of all places. The shock of your present and your past colliding, bleeding into one another like you have been desperately trying to prevent for years. The shock of your heart giving in so easily at the mere sight of him.

Except it wasn't just the mere sight of him, was it? It was his voice, still gentle, still carrying that lilt of amusement. His scent, the same woody perfume, masculine but not overbearingly so. The kindness, painfully obvious in his eyes and in his gestures: of course Jay would move in somewhere and proceed to deliver homemade rice cakes to everyone in the neighborhood. 

He was close enough to touch. Just a few steps, and you could’ve—what, exactly? Wrapped your arms around him, buried your face in his neck, as you once loved to do, kissed him? It’s ridiculous. Eight months of knowing each other, six of those spent dating; you hadn’t even spent a whole year together. And yet, here you are, half a decade later, mind still branded by a hot iron with every memory you have of him.

You’ve never cried so pathetically. Even when you left Seoul and everything you had built there behind, you barely let yourself cry—a few silent tears on the train back, and that was it. No time to wallow, you had a grandma to take care of and a restaurant to run. Seeing Jay today feels like mourning your relationship, five years after its untimely death. You knew you wouldn’t have been able to do everything that needed to be done while feeling this kind of pain, but you also know that feeling it all at once like this is impossibly worse.

You don’t know how long you stay there, crouched low, tears drenching your palms, shoulders trembling. But at some point, a pair of arms wrap themselves around you, and the familiar scent of rose water and medicine envelops you. Your grandmother. It’s not every day that she has the strength to come help you out at the restaurant, and the fact that you’re in such a state now that she’s here only makes you feel worse. In her arms, you feel like a kid again, crying over a dead goldfish or a mean comment on the school playground as she strokes your hair and shushes you.

“What on Earth has gotten you like this, my dove?” she asks gently. The sound of her voice calms you down, brings you out of your mind, stuck in the past, and back to this moment in time.

You sniffle and rub your eyes dry. “I saw someone I thought I’d never see again,” you say, voice heavy, sitting uncomfortably in your throat.

Your grandmother chuckles. You look up at her, and all the tenderness in the world is in her eyes. “Well, aren’t you a lucky one?”

“I don’t feel lucky.”

Brushing away tears from your cheeks with her thumb, she says, “You know, there are some people I’d do anything just to see one last time. This is a precious opportunity, dear. Don’t let it slip away.”

A small smile appears on your lips. “You don’t even know who this is about,” you murmur, and this is apparently funny enough for your grandmother to burst into laughter.

“Oh, honey, I don’t need you to tell me to know. It’s written all over your face.” She gives you a knowing smile, then is back on her feet, a hand extended out to you. “Now, come, we have work to do.”

.

.

The real estate agent didn’t lie when he called the old bookstore a fixer-upper: there are floorboards coming undone, flaky wallpaper that needs to be torn apart and reapplied, electricity and gas pipes that should definitely be checked by a professional. Jay has weeks, if not months, of work in front of him before he can start thinking about opening the café. 

But it’s his, and that is all that matters.

He has saved enough money working at upscale restaurants in Paris and London, and the only upside of having both his grandfather and his mother pass away in the past three years has been the inheritance, which has allowed him to pursue this otherwise unreasonable dream. And if he somehow runs out of money, maybe you’ll give him a part-time job as a kitchen porter.

Thankfully, the real estate agent did also not lie when he said he “knew a guy.” One phone call is all Jay needs for said guy, or Heeseung, as his parents would have it, to show up at the shop and have a look over it. The only thing he asks for in return is lunch at Kim’s Kitchen, and Jay is more than happy to oblige. 

Just like yesterday, you’re nowhere to be seen when the two men step inside the restaurant. The same waitress — Jay wonders if she’s a family member of yours — greets them and shows them to their seats, far from the kitchen, to someone’s great disappointment. On the menu today is abalone porridge, “again,” raw beef bibimbap, which Jay orders, and spicy fish stew, which Heeseung orders. Jay notices how intently Heeseung watches the waitress as she rattles off the dishes of the day and wonders if there’s something there, or if he’s just very hungry and low on patience. But from the way his eyes stay on her even as she retreats to the kitchen, he assumes it’s the former. Part of him is curious to know more, but a bigger part is very much aware that this is a man he met an hour ago and is not in the measure to ask, “Hey, got a thing for that waitress?”

But maybe Heeseung will give him the answer himself.

“The chef here is really good with spicy dishes. Not so spicy that you lose the flavors, but not so little that it becomes bland.” He’s probably just trying to make small talk, but Jay latches onto this like a lifeline, because the mere mention of “the chef here” is enough to get his heart racing.

“Oh yeah? Do you know her well?” he asks, conscious that this might not be the most normal follow-up question to a statement about your cooking skills. He tries to appear as nonchalant as he can, pouring water into his and Heeseung’s blue plastic cups.

“I do, actually. We’ve been friends since childhood.”

Childhood friends. Jay’s eyes narrow momentarily before the rational part of his brain reminds him that the man in front of him need not be an enemy.

“How do you know it’s a her, by the way?” Heeseung asks.

“Oh. The real estate agent mentioned it yesterday,” he replies, not even sure whether that’s true or not. “Y/N, I think it was?”

Heeseung smiles. “That’s the one.”

Why does your name make him smile?

Jay is not a great actor, but he puts on his best relaxed, just-trying-to-get-to-know-you, I-have-no-other-intentions face, and asks, “Are you guys, like…?”

Heeseung furrows his eyebrows, taking a second to compute Jay’s words, then leans back in his chair, a surprised expression on his face. “Oh, no, not at all. It’s never been like that. No, I’m, uh… There’s someone else I like, let’s just say.” Jay follows Heeseung’s gaze, turning around to find the waitress — Knew it — gathering the empty bowls from another table. When he looks at Heeseung again, he’s smiling in a shy, self-deprecating sort of way, but before he can ask him about it, Heeseung continues speaking. “Anyways, I’m sure our moms would love to see it happen, but since the two primarily concerned are against it, I doubt we’ll ever make them happy. In that regard, at least.”

“What do you mean, they’d love to see it happen?”

“Well, you know what moms are like,” Heeseung says, shrugging, but Jay gives him a look that says he does not know what moms are like—not theirs, at least. When it came to relationships, all his mother ever told him was to be careful. ���Her mom has known me since I was little, and vice versa. Our moms are friends with each other. We’ve only ever been polite to each other’s moms. That’s enough for them to think we should get married.”

Jay almost chokes on his water then. “Married?” he echoes in a tone that makes him sound far more involved than he’s trying to come off as. He clears his throat. “I just mean, I didn’t realize it was marriage you were talking about. That’s pretty, uh, big,” he explains with an awkward chuckle.

If Heeseung finds his behavior suspicious, he doesn’t say anything. “I know. But here, it’s marriage or nothing. You better not be caught dating anyone for fun, because suddenly your parents, their parents, and basically every parent in this town is on your ass about getting married and having kids. A lot of people get engaged right out of university, or even high school, sometimes.”

“Wow,” Jay says, because that’s all he can think to say right now. Everywhere he’s been, being in your early twenties has meant dating apps, one-night stands and casual relationships. None of his close friends are even engaged at the moment, and he’s twenty-five. He’d be lying if he said he’d never imagined what yours and his future might have looked like when you were dating, but when he’d pictured marriage and children, you were both thirty at the very least.

“Yep. Things are changing, though. My parents already had me at my age, whereas I don’t even have a girlfriend. And I’m not the only one. Well, Y/N’s in the same boat, for one.”

Hope flares in Jay’s heart. “She’s not seeing anyone either?” he asks, thinking his tone sounds natural enough, but aware that his eye contact is far too intense. He can’t help himself.

“Nope. Now that you mention it, I haven’t seen her date anyone in a really long time. I’ve always assumed she’s just busy with the restaurant, but I should ask her about it. It’s probably just that there aren’t many options here…” he trails off, looking into the distance with a pout. But then, his gaze sharpens as he directs it to Jay. “Guess one more option has appeared, though. I think it’s safe to assume you wouldn’t have moved here all on your own if you were dating someone, right? You don’t have a wife and kids back in Seoul?”

Jay laughs, more out of shock than anything. “Definitely not, no.”

Heeseung leans back in his chair with a grin on his face, the brightest Jay’s seen him smile so far. “Perfect. I honestly have no idea what kind of men Y/N’s into, but you seem decent enough so far.”

“I’ll take decent enough.”

The food arrives then, and as they eat, Jay tries not to burst into tears at the thought that you made this meal. He is both relieved and sad when Heeseung shifts the topic from you to their renovations plans. They agree that it would be best to start with the studio, so that Jay can move in and not have to extend his stay at the guest house he’s currently living in for another month or two. There are things Jay can’t do himself, things for which he has neither the skills nor the time to learn, such as completely replacing the wood panels that line the floor or removing the old, deteriorating ceiling tiles. Apparently, in this town, every guy knows a guy: Heeseung has someone for water, for electricity, for gas, and they’re respectively a cousin, a brother-in-law’s brother, a long-time friend. Jay will get to do the fun bits himself—choosing the wallpaper and parquet flooring, building and arranging furniture, decorating the café. The sooner he can get a functioning kitchen set up, the better. He can only try out so many different cake recipes and sandwich-filling combos in the tiny kitchen of his current residence. 

Even when he goes to pay at the counter by the entrance of the kitchen, Jay doesn’t get a glimpse of you. It’s only when he exits the restaurant, the chime of the bell already a familiar sound, and he turns around to wish a good day to the waitress, that you peek out from behind the curtain. A smile and a wave, directed at him. You’re gone before he can return the attention.

He is inexplicably giddy all day—well, he knows the reason for his unwavering smile, but to Heeseung and his team, he lies that it’s “just excitement at seeing the project coming along so quickly.”

.

.

There’s a knock at the door just as Jay, fresh out the shower, slips his t-shirt on. He wonders who it could be at this hour—it’s almost ten p.m., too late for the old lady he’s renting from to drop by with food like she did yesterday night. He debates asking who it is behind the door, but ultimately decides, naively perhaps, that not only are the crime rates in this town probably extremely low, it wouldn’t make sense for a robber-slash-serial-killer to knock before barging into a house.

You look the opposite of a robber-slash-serial-killer as you stand at Jay’s door, a black plastic bag in your hand, a smile he can only describe as angelic on your lips. Bottles clink together as you raise the bag to shoulder-level. “Let’s catch up,” you say, but instead of letting yourself in, you turn and head somewhere else.

“Wait,” Jay says, but you don’t, so he scrambles to put on his slippers and grab his jacket from the coat rack. The two-room apartment he’s staying at sits atop his landlady’s house, and although she’d told him he was welcome to use it, he hadn’t ventured up the other set of stairs that lead to the roof. You seem to know your way around, though, so he follows you. 

From this high up, Jay can see the sea glittering in the distance, the small fishing boats rocking peacefully on the water, the many roofs strewn around the town, their colors lost to the night. It should be in this moment, as the beauty of the town he’s chosen to set up store in reveals itself to him, that he truly feels that he made the right decision, coming here. Or it should’ve been when he found the old bookstore; or when Heeseung told him the place looked much worse that it actually was, and that it would be a piece of cake, renovating it.

Alas. It’s only when you press the button to the fairy lights, flickering to life and casting a halo of golden light behind you, that Jay knows he’s really found what he came here for. He’s transfixed, feet frozen to the concrete, eyes glued on your face, but you don’t seem to notice. “Nice place, right?” you say, gesturing to the potted plants, the low wooden table, even the clothesline on which the fairy lights hang, like fireflies. It’s all he can do to nod appreciatively.

From a trunk he hadn’t noticed, you pull out two cushions and one blanket. The cushions go on opposite sides of the table, and you hand him the blanket. “Here, your hair’s still damp, take this,” you explain, not quite meeting his eyes. Without another word, you sit across from each other, Jay watching you carefully as you pull out bottles of soju, cans of beer and a packet of dried anchovies from your bag. 

“A successful trip to the convenience store,” he comments.

“To welcome you to the area,” you add. “And to catch up on lost time.”

Lost time. An appropriate way of describing the years that separate this moment from the day you let go of his hand. Would things have gone differently, had you known you would meet again like this down the line? 

He appreciates that you don’t tiptoe around the subject. You’re not strangers, you never could be, no matter how much time you might go without seeing each other. There’s a certain level of connection you can’t come back from. The two of you can’t start anew, and he’s glad you’re not pretending like that is what this is. And yet, there’s the gnawing feeling that you’re treating him more like an old friend than an old lover. You’re being almost too welcoming. You’d always made him feel special, like he was to you what no one else had ever been, what no one else could be—right now, he just feels awkward.

Dismissing all the questions burning the tip of his tongue, Jay settles for a safer one. Rather than on your face, he focuses his gaze on the way you fill the small glasses to the brim with soju. “How did you know I was here?”

“Mrs. Yoon used to be one of my schoolteachers. She’s also a friend of my grandma’s. She showed up to our house the night you got here saying she had just welcomed the most handsome lodger.” you say, imitating her. “Wasn’t hard to figure out who she was talking about. She’s pushing eighty and still getting excited about boys, of all things.”

You clink your glasses and tip your drinks back at the same time. “You think I’m a boy, Y/N?”

Jay can’t help the smirk that appears on his lips as you briefly choke, the soju seemingly going down the wrong pipe. “She probably does. You could be her grandson.” He knows you’re avoiding the question, but he lets you off the hook, just this once. There’s a slight furrow in your eyebrows as you pour a second glass for the both of you. You don’t wait for him before you all but throw it down your throat.

“So. How’ve you been?” Jay asks after a few moments of silence. Surprise flashes through your face for a second, as though you weren’t the one to propose this catch-up session in the first place. When you sigh, there’s far too much depth to it for a 26-year-old, Jay thinks. 

“I’ve been fine,” you answer simply. “Just working a lot.”

“Too much?”

You briefly meet his eyes. “Sometimes, yeah.” You must know this won’t cut it. Even when you were just getting to know each other, this sort of run-of-the-mill, surface-level answer didn’t fly between the two of you. So, Jay says nothing, waiting patiently for you to go on. “It’s not the work in itself that’s tiring. I’m glad my grandma’s recipes continue to be loved by so many people, and I’m glad she’s also letting me put my own twist on our dishes and come up with new ones. I work long hours, and we only close one day a week, but I like what I do. It’s this town…” you say, looking around yourself with disdain, as if the very buildings and roads that constitute Seojuk-ri are the ones you’re at odds with, “that’s exhausting.”

“Things haven’t changed, then?”

“Not in the slightest. People are still just as nosy, just as overbearing, just as sickeningly well-intentioned as they have always been. If anything, it’s gotten worse, because the old people have gotten older and the young people are starting to take on those characteristics, too. Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t trade it for the world. Everyone that I love is here. But if I have to go through one more conversation with another one of my school friends, mother of two at 24, about when I’m finally gonna have a kid, I might just take all of my family’s money and flee. I don’t want to hear about my biological clock anymore.”

Jay chuckles, cracking open one can of beer for you, another for him. You grab it immediately, taking large gulps as you look up at the sky with anger. “Gee, I wonder why,” he jokes. “I always thought it was your dream to give birth to twins before your frontal lobe even fully developed.”

You roll your eyes. “It’s not like there’s anyone here I’d want to knock me up,” you say. You pause at the same time, as it dawns on you both how your words could be interpreted. Despite himself, hope flashes through Jay. He already knew from his conversation with Heeseung that you were single, but to hear it from you — not in these exact terms, but still — is something else entirely.

“That’s… good to know,” he says for lack of a better alternative, feeling as flustered as you look. You’re both silent for a little while, exchanging quick, chaste glances, as though there’s anything to be shy about between the two of you.

“Your turn,” you say eventually. “I’ve been here this whole time, but you’ve moved around, right?”

He nods. Tells you about his time in Paris, about the two-year contract he got offered upon completion of his stage at the Michelin-starred restaurant—the one you’d also had your eye on. Tries not to read too much into your expression, which you seem to be keeping as neutral as you can. Wonders if it’s still a sensitive topic.

He quickly moves on to London. “Surprisingly, my favorite part of working at L’Arôme was getting to help out with the desserts once in a while. The techniques, the flavor combinations… I found them more exciting. So when I got the opportunity to work under a pastry chef in London, I didn’t hesitate for a second.”

Of course, he had to learn all the basics first. Ganaches, caramels, meringues, all sorts of dough… What he ended up falling in love with was the simplicity of it all. The cuisine his father, and therefore, Jay himself, had always been interested in was complex. Measured down to the milligram, temperature-controlled, extensively researched and tested-out—so much fuss for something that will be eaten in two, three bites. It was a different sort of culinary experience, one Jay realized he wasn’t as taken with. He liked irregular chocolate chips, cracked cake tops, frosting spread unevenly. As often as he could, he would go to a different café in London and try about half of the baked goods they had on display. For the first time in his life, Jay knew exactly what he wanted his next step to be, and he knew it was his decision and only his.

You listen intently, nodding along to his words, and Jay tries not to lose his focus when your smile turns particularly fond. You don’t even seem to realize what you’re doing, and that somehow makes things worse.

“And then, well, I ended up back in Seoul.”

“For your mom.”

“For my mom, yeah. And now I’m here.”

“And now you’re here.” A pause. Then, a mere whisper, “How?”

How, indeed. In the past couple of days, every time Jay’s mind drifted back to you — which happened far too often for him to keep count — he’d been in awe at the sheer improbability of your reunion. Of all the seaside towns you could’ve hailed from, it just so happened that it was this one, the only one he had any sort of attachment to. It was this sort of happening that made him reevaluate his lack of belief in some higher force, some ruling hand over the universe. 

“I came here with her a few months before she… you know. Died. Passed away. I never know what word is preferable. People have such weird ways of reacting to it.”

You shrug. “Whichever one you like is best. I like to just…” You guide your thumb across your throat, tilting your head as you make a clicking sound with your teeth. It’s a crude gesture, and Jay can’t help but laugh. You’re probably the only person he knows that would ever refer to someone’s death like that. He appreciates your trying to keep this conversation a light-hearted one—somehow, you must know his mom’s passing still feels raw in his best moments, unbearable in his worst.

“It was just a town that she liked. She couldn’t spend too much time away from home, so we were here for the afternoon only. Maybe if we’d stayed longer, you and I would have run into each other sooner?” Jay says, drawing a smile from you, which in turn always makes him feel oddly relieved. “Anyways, I think she came here a few times when she was young and wanted to relive those moments. Her life flashing in front of her eyes, something like that.”

You consider his words for a few seconds. “I wonder what sort of buried memories will come to the surface when I’m on my deathbed.”

And without missing a beat, as if the answer was written on his tongue, Jay says, “I’ll remember you.”

He hears the breath that hitches in your throat. You stare at him, seemingly caught off-guard, while in his head, like a cassette tape, he replays you. Late nights spent in kitchens. Late nights spent under the red tent of your favorite pocha. Conversations that started at sunset and stopped at sunrise. Knowing glances thrown across a classroom, a house party, a restaurant table. Falling asleep next to you. Waking up next to you. Your hair tickling his neck. Your hands on his waist, on his shoulders, everywhere.

A blush creeps up his cheeks. With effort, he tears his gaze away from yours, takes a swig of his beer in the hope that he can blame his redness on the alcohol. Eventually, you look away too, smile down at the empty glass in your hands like it, rather than the man sitting across you, just all but confessed its love to you.

The night goes on like this, for longer than either of you anticipated. The September night air should deter you from staying outside so late, but between the blankets around your shoulders, the alcohol, and the warmth of finding each other again, the cold truly has nothing on you. It’s only when you yawn, causing Jay to yawn for so long that tears brim his eyes, that you decide it’s time to go to bed. Your chat takes on a more light-hearted tone as you put away the cushions and he gathers the cans and glass bottles for later recycling; you don’t stop talking as you head back down the stairs, and stand in front of Jay’s door as you finish recounting an anecdote. Of course, he wants to invite you in, not even because he has anything salacious in mind, but just to prolong the night as much as he can — although he can’t say with total certainty that nothing would happen if you found yourselves in a dark room together — but he says nothing. If he’s going to do this again, he’s going to do it right and take it step-by-step.

When you’re ready to leave, you press a chaste kiss to his cheek, and if he wasn’t so stunned by the sudden warmth overcoming him, he’d have embraced you before you could turn around and leave.

As he tosses and turns in his bed later, Jay thinks back to his work trip to Japan from last year, where he’d learned about the art of kintsugi. He’d stayed at a guesthouse, where one shelf of a cupboard had been filled with bowls lined with gold. When asked about it, his host explained that to repair broken pottery, the Japanese sometimes mixed gold powder with lacquer in the cracked areas. The object was more beautiful broken when fixed than in its original state.

Maybe he is getting ahead of himself, maybe he is being overly optimistic, but he can’t help but think that the two of you, too, might become more beautiful than you ever were.

.

.

Sometimes it’s Jay that drags you out of the kitchens when it’s far too late to still be behind a stove, sometimes it’s you. More often than not, you end up at the same pojangmacha you went to the first time, where you and the owner are now on a first-name basis. She’s taken to asking whether the two of you have finally gotten together every time she sees you. You’ve taken to not answering and smiling at Jay, as if you’re waiting for his answer as much as she is. 

Other times, and on weekends, when the place you need to drag each other out of is the comfort of your respective beds, you will try out an upscale restaurant in Gangnam or Hongdae. Since that first outing of yours, Jay has insisted on paying for every meal, and you only stop opposing after the fifth or so time, when you realize that your feeling of owing him is completely one-sided. You learn many things about Jay over the course of these first couple of months—one of them being that he is the least transactional, most generous person you have ever met. He is on par with the village aunties who let you and your siblings spend the afternoon at their houses and filled your bellies with snacks your mother never bought you, for absolutely nothing in return. You wonder where he learned to be so kind. The most he’ll accept from you is a vending coffee machine when you notice him dozing off during break, and he’s too tired to argue.

You don’t know what to make of the growing friendship between the two of you. Between classes and your part-time job — three nights a week spent washing dishes at a barbecue place isn’t ideal, but rent in Seoul is high, and at least you don’t have to deal with drunk customers — you don’t have time to give it too much thought. Because while on paper, you really are just friends, in your head, things are slightly more nuanced by that. 

It’s not like you’re an expert when it comes to love. With one eight-month relationship during high school that you got little out of except for the basics of sex and some notions of the type of connection you want, and another one that lasted the three months of the summer between your first and second year at the local college, you’re actually very, very far from love expertship. But no need for a PhD to know that what you feel for Jay is not platonic—unless everyone else’s hearts start racing, palms start sweating, thoughts start blurring when their friends are around, and no one has bothered to let you know.

Who knows if he feels the same way? He hasn’t told you, and you definitely won’t be asking him, too scared to lose the person who might potentially become your closest friend here. One thing about you, however, is you won’t push your feelings down. Even if you wanted to, you wouldn’t know how—the women in your family have always compared you to an open book, sometimes reproaching you for it, sometimes praising you. Even you, in your twenty-one years of living, have yet to come to a conclusion on the constant transparency of your emotions. It’s a blessing not having to bottle things up only for them to explode later—you get to really live through your feelings as they come. It’s a curse, however, when you can’t hide your disappointment upon receiving a terrible gift, or when the desperation written all over your face only works to drive someone away.

Curse or blessing, you won’t try to pretend you feel nothing for him. Sure, you won’t throw yourself at his feet — it’s not like you’re that infatuated with him, at least, not yet — but you won’t ignore the warmth that spreads from your stomach all the way to your fingertips whenever Jay smiles at you. 

After all, there’s a small possibility he feels that same warmth, isn’t there?

.

.

You wake up painfully early. You know that with age, hangovers only get worse, and you’ve been careful not to go overboard when you drink—but last night was a case apart, so you might as well let yourself off the hook.

Your thoughts are muddled, as if still coated and sticky with soju, and your entire body is screaming for water. After drinking what feels like two liters of it straight from the tap, you prepare enough coffee for everyone in your house, knowing you’ll end up drinking half of it, and inhale the smell of the ground beans like they have healing properties. It’s in moments like these, when there’s no one to cook up some hangover soup and you must do it yourself because you’re the first one up, that you’re glad you cook for a living. Chopping some vegetables, boiling some noodles, preparing a broth, you could do it with your eyes closed, and you practically do. You’re not all there, half of your head still crunching beer cans, laughing over nothing with Jay as your conversation begins to make less and less sense. Sense—you at least had enough of it not to end up in his bed last night, which you knew was a real possibility when you showed up at his temporary apartment with alcohol in hand. There was a moment of pause yesterday in which he looked for a video to show you in his gallery. It gave you time to look at him, really look at him, for the first time since he magically appeared in Sojuk-ri. Like a caress, your eyes had languidly trailed from his well-kept nails, up his arms that had gotten insultingly bigger in your five years apart, up the throat your lips knew so well, to the face that filled your dreams more often than you’d care to admit. And, in your inebriated state, your thoughts had gone… there. They didn’t quite leave when he found the video of a dog, the reason he wanted to show it to you in the first place completely forgotten, and they have apparently still not left you now, as you peel carrots and ponder the universe’s way of doing things. Not very subtle, you conclude.

The sound of a door swinging open and hurried footsteps abruptly interrupt your thoughts. In the time it takes you to turn around, whoever it is rushing to the bathroom has already closed the door behind them. The thought of a family member of yours needing the toilet this badly first thing in the morning gets a giggle out of you, until you hear retching sounds. Your head snaps up, eyes widening as the awful noise continues, stomach turning. It lasts for another minute, then you hear the toilet flush, the sink run. You stare at the bathroom door worriedly until your sister-in-law, Yeonju, appears from behind it, Yeonju who got married to your brother five months ago, Yeonju who helps out at the restaurant and has never once complained, Yeonju who’s just gotten sick. In the morning.

Her steps halt the moment she sees you, her eyes widening, her mouth falling agape to mirror your expression. You stay like that for a few seconds, simply staring at each other, both of you at a loss for words as the meaning of it all dawns on you. “You’re up early,” she says finally.

“I am. I drank too much last night.” As she nods, you have another realization. The words come out of your mouth as quickly as they form in your brain. “I haven’t seen you have a drink in a while.”

A few more beats pass. “Don’t tell anyone,” she whispers. “It’s too early.”

You nod vigorously. “Of course.” Then, a smile breaks through the shock on your features, warm tears prickle at your eyes, and Yeonju looks away, fighting back a smile of her own. You put down your vegetable peeler and run to her as quietly as you can, and, dismissing for once the fact that she doesn’t like to be touched excessively, take her in your arms and hold her tight.

She allows it for a little bit, then, with a hushed giggle, says, “Okay, okay, don’t get too excited. It’s only been six weeks.”

You lean back, hands on her shoulders. “Six weeks?!” you say, whisper-screaming her words back at her.

“Mh-hm.”

“You’ve told Seungkwan, right?”

“I’ve only told him and my mother. I would tell yours, too, and Grandmother, but…”

“They’re not the calm and collected type, I get it,” you say, nodding seriously, as if you are the image of composure yourself. 

Indeed, “You’re crying,” Yeonju points out, chuckling as a tear rolls down her own cheek. “Stop crying. I’m going to be sick again, for a different reason this time.” 

“Shut up,” you laugh, and take her in your arms again. “I’m preparing you for the commotion that will inevitably happen.”

You let her go back to bed soon after, and pick your peeler back up. You should think of your brother, of your mother, of your grandmother, of Yeonju—but, for reasons you don’t feel strong enough to try and understand, the person that comes to mind is Jay. I want to see him, you think. And, for the first time in five years, the thought that immediately follows is, I can go see him.

So you do.

It's another hour before the soup is done and your family eats it, and then you’re putting your shoes on, retracing last night’s steps to Jay’s rental, the Tupperware he used for the rice cakes now cleaned and filled with your hangover cure. It takes a minute for him to open the door after you knock—you’re about to leave the soup at his door and turn back on your heels before it creaks open.

“Y/N?”

Everything about him is still veiled with sleep. His voice, deep and slightly groggy, his half-open eyes, his dishevelled hair, even his clothing—or lack thereof. You try not to stare at his naked upper body, but it’s hard not to when the realizations hit you that not only has he kept his habit of sleeping without a t-shirt, his torso has gotten impossibly more defined since the last time you saw it. You swear his shoulders didn’t use to be so broad.

But really, it’s the familiarity of the sight that has your head reeling so. How many times have you woken up to this Jay? He was always a morning person, and so the thought that he might still be sleeping at 10 a.m. hadn’t even crossed your mind. You hadn’t expected for such waves of memories to wash over you at the mere sight of him half-asleep.

He follows your gaze downwards, his own eyes widening. “Oh, sorry. Let me go grab a shirt.”

“No, it’s okay,” you blurt out, grabbing his wrist to stop him, and letting go of it just as quickly. “I only came here to give you this.” Jay looks down at the Tupperware in your hands like it’s an alien object. “It’s nothing fancy… just some noodles and vegetables. But it always makes me feel better after I’ve had too much to drink,” you explain, feeling more out of place with every word.

“Thank you,” he finally says, taking the container from your hands. “I think I might really need it.”

You try not to let it show, but you’ve never felt so helpless around him. Even when you were first getting to know each other, things had progressed so naturally, almost as if following a predetermined pattern, that there had been no room for shame, or embarrassment, or awkwardness. You’ve always prided yourself on your ability to take everything in stride—but this, this is putting a stoke in your wheels.

After all, when you last saw Jay, it wasn’t a goodbye, see you later, take care till then. It was meant to be a real adieu. Seeing him again undoes everything you had convinced yourself of these past few years: that you would both be better off that way, that if you truly loved someone, you’d know when to let them go, all sorts of inanities. You can’t accept that things could’ve gone differently.

“Well, I hope you enjoy it,” you say, unable to bring yourself to mirror the smile on his lips, before he can invite you in to have breakfast with him. You whisper, “Bye,” and take your leave under his watchful gaze.

.

.

A few days ago, Jay received a text from Jaemin, one of the few friends from culinary school he’s actually kept in touch with. It’s not like they call each other every day since graduating three years ago, but Jay isn’t surprised to see his name on his screen. All sorts of people have been reaching out to him lately—losing your mother will do that. He doesn’t even know how half of these people have heard of it.

Hey buddy, the text reads. I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about your mom. Call me if you need anything man. I mean it. 

Another one had come a few minutes later. Could you text me your address? I’d like to send you something.

It took Jay over a week to answer the many well-wishing messages flooding his inbox, but he got around to it eventually. When Ms. Lee, his dad’s house help, knocks on his bedroom door to tell him mail has arrived for him, he assumes it’s from Jaemin, although there is no sender information or return address. Everything sent as condolences for his mother, Ms. Lee takes care of. But this one is specifically addressed to him.

For lack of a better alternative, he is staying at his father’s apartment in Seoul until he finds his own place. He knows he couldn’t withstand staying by his lonesome in his mother’s apartment, surrounded by her things. Her absence would be overwhelming. If he stayed in a hotel room, he’d probably wither away. At least, here, he has one person worrying about him, making sure he eats his meals and gets some sunlight every day. He means Ms. Lee, of course—his father has become even more of a closed-off workaholic, as if that was even possible, in the two weeks since his ex-wife’s passing. 

He tears the envelope open, curious as to what Jaemin needed to send as a letter that he couldn’t have simply texted. Inside is a singular sheet of paper, folded in half. He takes it out, unfolds it. The sight of all-too familiar handwriting makes his heart stop. 

It’s a recipe for pine nut porridge. There’s just one word on the back: Eat.

In the three days between his mom’s death and her funeral, Jay barely stopped crying. His eyes were constantly achingly puffy, his nose perpetually red and runny. But since the day of the funeral, he hasn’t shed a single tear, as if he dried himself out, as if the tears and pity of others drained him. Now, holding the piece of paper that was in your hands just days ago, his body shakes with loud sobs.

He feels a twisted mix of sadness and hope. Your letter is at once a reminder of his loss, of his life without the two women he’s loved most, and a sign that he still exists in a corner of your mind. That you still care enough to do this. 

He remembers a conversation you’d once had about exes and past crushes. It was in the middle of a rainy night; he left the blinds to his bedroom up so that the only light you’d need was the one emanating from the moon and the stars, bright and fuzzy at the edges. Your head was resting on his chest and you were trailing your fingers up and down his arm when he asked if you ever thought about the men that came before him. You laughed, saying that he was the first man you’d ever been with, the others were boys. “And I don’t even mean that as an insult. We were so young,” you said. “I don’t think about them in the way you mean, no. But I do believe that with anyone you’ve ever loved, or even just held in your affections, you always carry a little bit of them with you afterwards.” 

He had felt jealous then, even though he understood what you meant perfectly and knew he wasn’t being rational. (He only stopped pouting when you said, “Of course you have nothing to worry about. I’ve never felt the way I feel about you with anyone else.”) But now, he’s glad for it. He pictures you, looking beautiful in your little corner of the world, wherever that is, with a little bit of him in your heart. He remembers the sunny day on which you met his mom, and he pictures you, four years later, hearing the news, writing down the recipe you knew by heart, sending it in the mail.

It’s only basic ingredients. Pine nuts are expensive, but he’s sure neither his father nor Ms. Lee will mind him using them. And so, for the first time in two weeks, he picks up a knife, and gets to cooking.

.

.

Jay has caught the flu. You’ve never seen him so pathetic.

Nestled under the covers of his bed, half of his face hidden, eyebrows furrowed as if he is in deep pain—stepping into his room, you first wonder whether it really is that serious, then you feel immediate guilt for accusing him of exaggerating, even if it was just in your head. You are so used to the men in your family, your brother especially, looking like they are on the verge of death when faced with the common cold. But Jay — reasonable, independent, reliable Jay — is the last person you know who’d play up being sick for pity or attention. 

“Here,” you say, putting a tray down on his bedside table. On it rests a bowl full of steaming, fragrant pine nut porridge that you’ve just prepared—easy to digest without being bland, it’s your grandmother’s go-to recipe for sickness of any sort.

“Thanks, baby.”

Even seeing him in his current state, you can’t help but tease him when the opportunity arises. “I think you’re the baby here.”

He manages a weak smile. “I hate that you have to see me like this. You shouldn’t feel like you have to take care of me, you know.”

“I know I don’t, but I want to.” You sit at the edge of his bed, gazing softly down at him as you brush away the hair that has stuck to his forehead with sweat. He can barely keep his eyes open, and his skin is alarmingly warm against your palm. “You’re still so hot. I mean your temperature, Jay,” you say, admonishing him slightly when his smile widens. He’s running a fever and still he’s able to see innuendos in your innocent words.

“Sorry,” he whispers. You pinch his earlobe. 

“Wait for the food to cool down, and hopefully it’ll make you feel a bit better. Just give me a shout if you need anything,” you say, rising from your seat.

“Wait, Y/N.”

“Mh-hm?”

He hesitates. “Will you stay?”

It isn’t like Jay to ask anything from you. In your four months of knowing each other, you’ve always been the one who overshares, who coyly asks for favors, who texts him at all times of day and night. He listens to your anecdotes from seven years ago, remembers the names of all your friends and family members, does everything you ask him, does things you didn’t even ask him, and never complains. You do it because you expect him to do the same in return, to rely on you as you do on him. Maybe if you bore him by recounting in excruciating detail what you did that day, and where you went, and who you saw, and what they told you, he’ll feel like he can share worries weighing on his mind or memories that come to him out of nowhere. Maybe if you make him go to the store to get green onions and butter, then make him go back because he got the wrong brand of butter, he’ll feel like he can call you at six in the morning because he needs a second opinion on whether his tie and socks match, or whatever it is that men care about fashion-wise.

It’s working, you think, albeit very slowly—after your first time bonding over drinks and fried food, it took him three weeks to mention his dad again. It was another two before he told you more about his childhood, his mother, his school years. You’re greedy for everything he has to offer—you’ve never been so curious about someone, never craved so intensely to know what was going in their mind at any given moment. If he actually got a penny each time you asked him, “Penny for your thoughts?” he wouldn’t be rich, but he’d have an impressive amount of useless coins. 

In your two months of dating, your efforts have become more visible. You don’t feel like you’re picking at an iceberg anymore, nor do you have to soften him up with alcohol and snacks. He always tells you what you want to know, and increasingly doesn’t need to be asked—you almost cried of happiness the day he started going on an unprompted monologue about how versatile and nutritious beans were, and how he could still taste the bean stew his grandmother had cooked once when he was eight and never again since. 

Compared to words, actions are a bit more complicated. While he seems to do anything you ask, he has a harder time doing the requesting. Small things maybe, can you fetch him the salt, can you peel the potatoes; but he’ll always be the one who drives the two of you somewhere, he’ll never let you carry any of the groceries, he’ll never ask you to move your head even if his arm is killing him, he’ll always let you pick the movie you watch or the food you eat. When you insist on cooking for him, he insists on helping out. You pushed him all the way to the living room once, but he was back in the kitchen within the minute.

All morning, he’s been adamant on you going home, because he can take care of himself, and you’ll get sick, and “Who’ll take care of you when you get sick?” as if he wouldn’t be glued to your bedside the entire time. Only after some time do you agree that you’ll stay in the living room and check on him every once in a while, then go with him to the doctor tomorrow if it’s still this bad.

So when, finally, he asks you if you will stay, there’s only one possible answer.

“Of course, baby.”

.

.

Jay quickly settles into a new sort of routine.

He wakes up around nine a.m. every day without the need for an alarm, which, to him, is the height of luxury. He takes his time eating breakfast and getting himself ready, then heads out of the apartment with the strict necessities in the pockets of his coat and an empty tote bag. By that time, Heeseung and his men have started work in the soon-to-be café, and he drops by, standing there unnecessarily, watching the progress happen in real time. Most days he stops by the convenience store nearby to buy them soft drinks and various snacks. Sometimes he stays with them until lunchtime, sometimes he walks around the neighborhood, greeting everyone he walks past, smiling to himself when he realizes that they’re increasingly more polite, friendlier, less apprehensive of him and his sudden arrival. Then it’s lunch and he goes to your restaurant, by himself or with Heeseung and his team, eats like a king, and if he’s lucky, you’ll tell him to wait until your shift is over and you’ll spend your afternoon break with him. If he isn’t, he’ll go home and diligently practice new recipes, or less so diligently watch reruns of The Great British Bake-Off and consider it research.

Thankfully, more often than not, you grace him with your presence for a few hours in the afternoon. Part of him feels bad and keeps on telling you to go get some rest if you feel too tired in-between shifts; part of him knows he would be devastated if you actually did. You show him where everything is, from the singular bus stop to the post office to the pharmacy. You take him to the beach a couple of times, sitting in the hard sand or venturing out to the water, wincing at how cold it is against your feet until one of you inevitably splashes the other one and a chase ensues, both of you quickly wound out of breath from too much running and laughing. It makes him wish he’d been a high schooler with you—they are such adolescent moments, and he wishes he could feel the total carefreeness of them, but the weight on his heart every time he looks at you is too heavy. He wishes he knew you from before, he wishes the feeling of having known you his entire life wasn’t just a feeling but reality. Seeing you in your hometown is one step closer to that, but when he sees you talking to Heeseung and remembers that Heeseung knew you as a seven-year-old, scraped his knees on the same pavement, sat in the same classrooms listening to the same teachers, jealousy rears its ugly head and makes his stomach twist.

Sometimes the time spent with you is tinted with such sadness that he wishes he’d never met you, so that this could be a real fresh start for the both of you, but these thoughts never stay long. He reminds himself that finding you again is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that he won’t waste on melancholy and what-ifs. 

So he forces himself not to dwell on the past, but it’s a tough resolution to uphold when most of your conversations revolve around it. Of course, you tell each other about your plans for the future, where you want to go with the restaurant and how he plans on running the café, but catching up seems to be the priority for the both of you. Jay is reassured by the amount of questions you ask him—you seem to want to be filled in on the years of his life you weren’t a part of as much as he does yours. He’s somewhat surprised at how easy it is to talk to you again. Only somewhat, because he can’t imagine feeling anything but absolutely himself around you, with a few instances of the nervousness and self-conscious awkwardness that only your gaze could provoke in him, but still surprised, because every time he thought about meeting you again, he was sure your break-up would hang like a sword over your heads, threatening to make every interaction stilted and uncomfortable.

You don’t talk about the break-up. It’s there, somewhere in the air between you, but you don’t call it by its name. And actually, anything that has to do with your relationship, past or present, isn’t mentioned. Jay is too afraid to bring it up in fear of breaking the connection, fragile as it may be, that you’ve reestablished over his first week of being here. Instead, he tells you about the kitchens he worked in, about life in France, about how much better the Seoul metro is than the London underground, and don’t even get him started on the Parisian métro, but he doesn’t tell you about how much he missed you at that time and how he wanted to share every little thing with you but couldn’t. So now, he does: the ridiculously cheap baguettes and pastries, the ridiculously expensive rent, the omnipresence of and accessibility to culture, “and the food, oh my God, the food, you would’ve lost your mind.” You smile at this, a small, sad smile, and Jay regrets everything he’s ever said. He almost says something like, “You deserved it more than I did,” but before he can, you say that that sounds nice.

You tell him that your life hasn’t been as fun as his since leaving culinary school, but he absorbs every detail you give him, no matter how small, and wants nothing more than a step-by-step recap of what you’ve been up to since the last time he saw you. You’ve mostly been running the restaurant, which requires the sort of time and energy your grandmother simply doesn’t have anymore. She thankfully hasn’t had another fall since the first one five years ago, but the toll on her health has been so great that the days where she is both physically and mentally sound enough to help you in the kitchen are fewer and further between. About three years ago, you found someone to hold down the fort while you enrolled at the nearest culinary school and completed the credits you needed to get your Restauranteur’s Certificate. The prestige of that school was nowhere near that of the one in Seoul, and arguably you didn’t even need it, because you wouldn’t be applying to work at restaurants other than Kim’s Kitchen, but it was more of a principle thing and everyone in your family insisted on you getting it. 

“That’s about it, I think,” you say dismissively. If you’ve missed him, you don’t tell him.

It’s not like either of you tries to hide it, but of course, people are quick to notice how often you and Jay are seen together, despite his very recent arrival. Even though you’d complained of it many times when you and Jay dated, the extent to and speed with which gossip spreads in this town comes as a shock to him. It starts with seemingly harmless questions from Heeseung and the three men that work with him. At first, they’re simple questions about himself, where is he from, what did he do before coming here, why did he come here, how is he liking it, does he know anyone—their curiosity knows no bounds. They’re usually unsatisfied with surface-level, one-sentence answers. And just when he thinks they’re satiated, the mere mention of you gets them going again, oh how did the two of you meet, did you get along, did you know she lives here?

When he asks you how he should reply to such inquiries, you instruct him to do as he feels. “Be ready for everyone to be in your business no matter what, but it’ll be even worse if you tell them we dated. I’m used to that kind of talk, but I don’t know how you’ll feel about it. Well, you’ve received media attention, so you know what it’s like.”

Media attention is something of an overstatement. As a kid, he appeared a few times on his dad’s cooking show, and since then, he’s been interviewed for a grand total of three food-centered magazine articles. He can’t say he “knows what it’s like,” because no one has ever cared about his personal life, let alone his love life.

But Jay isn’t a great liar. And while part of him doesn’t want to lie or even omit the truth about your relationship — he’s very proud of having once had the honor of calling you his girlfriend — he also doesn’t want to barge into your hometown and be an annoyance to you. So the first time Heeseung asks him what kind of relationship the two of you had, before he’s had the chance to discuss it with you, he errs on the safe side and says “We were… friends.” But his tone is a dead giveaway, and Heeseung just replies with a dubitative, “Interesting.”

Within days, the word has spread that he’s not just the odd tourist in the off-season. No, this guy is here to stay, the whispers around him seem to say, all polite nods and friendly smiles when he turns to look at them. When he brings it up, you give him a look that says I told you so and remind him not to mind them, that it’ll blow over the minute something else interesting happens.

Except Sojuk-ri is not a place where interesting things abound, especially at the end of September when all the excitement and busyness of summer is slowly fading. And so the braver ones start to show themselves. He’ll be eating at your restaurant, and the people sitting at the tables nearby will engage him in redundant conversations. “The food here is good, right? Y/N is a great cook and a lovely girl. I heard the two of you met at school? What brings you here, if not her?” He has the feeling that making a bad first impression in a place like this would be social suicide, so he answers as cordially as he can, hoping they’ll back off when they realize he won’t be giving them any information they haven’t heard already.

But they don’t. Older gentlemen will be standing arms crossed or hands clasped behind them right in front of his shop, watching as Heeseung and his team work. When he arrives, without fail, they’ll go, “Ah! So you’re Jay. What an unconventional name. And what are you planning on opening here?” He’ll explain that he goes by his English name rather than his Korean one since coming back from living in Seattle as a kid and liking the sound of Jay more than Jongseong. He’ll tell them that he’s turning the old bookstore into a café downstairs, and an apartment for him upstairs. They’ll either wonder out-loud what their town might do with a café, or celebrate the arrival of a new business in the area. “If you sell iced drinks in the summer, you’ll make a ton of money!” they’ll say with a big smile and a slightly-too-harsh tap to his shoulder.

Their female counterparts aren’t much better. When the weather allows it, they gather under the gazebo, sharing snacks and trading gossip—Just like on TV, Jay thinks the first time he sees them like this. If he happens to pass them by, one of them will stop him, a stranger calling his name with unsettling familiarity, and wave him over. Something about them tells him it’ll do him no good to ignore them. And truthfully, he quickly comes to not mind and even enjoy these encounters; it’s only a matter of getting used to their overbearing nosiness. They want to know all the basic stuff, of course, where’re you from, what’re you doing here, what’s your relationship with Y/N, but it’s the juicier details they ooh and ahh at, what do your parents do, oh, poor thing, how did she die, is that why you moved here, and anyways what’s your relationship with our Y/N? Of course, they don’t buy it that the two of you never dated: from his reddening cheeks to his loss of composure, anyone with two eyes and their head screwed on right can tell that saying, “We were good friends,” is one hell of an understatement. Embarrassingly quickly, he buckles under the pressure. They coax the truth out of him with persistent questions and persimmon slices.

“I guess we did date for a little bit,” he admits the second time one of these run-ins happens.

“Ah, see! We knew you weren’t telling us everything. And how long were you together?”

“Six months,” he mumbles, hiding his shy smile behind the cup of barley tea they’d poured him. To these women who have been married for as long as or even longer than he’s been alive, six months must be laughable. But to Jay, those six months were never topped—in intensity, happiness, or length.

They collectively ‘aw’ at him, expressions of endearment — and pity, Jay thinks — on their faces. “You’re still in love with her, aren’t you?” one of them asks, more a statement than a question. He looks down at the cup, warm in his hands, smile faltering. In their eyes, he seems to turn from a cute, excitable puppy, into a pitiful one. “It’s okay!” they reassure him. “You’re here now, you can get her back. She hasn’t dated anyone since she’s come back from Seoul, you know!” 

He only manages to create a believable lie when they ask how things ended. “It was a mutual decision. She had to move back here to help out at the restaurant, I was going to Paris, it would’ve been too hard to stay together while we were so far apart.”

When he says he has to go, they don’t hold him back.

Unfortunately for Jay, the seventeen-year-olds are as interested in his love life as the seventy-year-olds. He’s scouring through the ‘1 paperback for 1000 won’ section outside of the second-hand bookstore when he hears them. Giggles, at first. Then hushed whispers, light slaps on arms, “You go talk to him,” “No, you go.” Approaching footsteps. A finger taps his shoulder twice, someone clears their throat behind him, and he turns around, expecting the worst. It comes in the form of a young girl, still in her school uniform.

“Yes?” he says, as politely as he can despite his frustration growing at the prospect of repeating the same conversation he’s been having for the past week. The girl, Yewon, if the name tag on her navy blazer speaks the truth, seems to forget what she meant to say, and just stares at Jay wide-eyed for a few unbearably awkward seconds. Her two friends have stayed behind, some feet away from her and Jay, and it takes one of them yelling “C’mon!” for her to remember what she came here for.

“Um, you’re Jay, right?”

“I am, yes.”

“And you used to be Y/N-unnie’s boyfriend?” It’s asked with such a perfect mix of straightforwardness and clumsiness that Jay can’t help but smile.

“Indeed.”

Her eyes widen again and she whips her head backwards, nodding frantically at her friends who gasp and slap each other’s arms. “And do you have a girlfriend right now?”

“No, I don’t.”

“So, are you and Y/N-unnie going to date again?”

That takes him longer to answer. “I don’t know. This is the first time we’ve seen each other in five years.”

For approximately three seconds, Yewon looks like she’s never heard more crushing news. Then, her features return to normal, and she says, “Okay! Thanks, bye,” and runs back to her friends, three black heads walking away as they whisper conspiratorially to themselves. Jay isn’t sure what to do with himself for a few moments afterwards.

But the most embarrassing of these moments by far is when his landlady shows up at his door one late afternoon, behind her two women with eyes exactly like yours beaming right at him. “I have friends who’d like to meet you,” she exclaims, and walks in without Jay’s invitation. It is her house, after all. “I’ll prepare some tea!”

While she busies herself in the small kitchen, the two women step inside. The younger one shakes his hand vigorously, a huge smile on her face as she introduces herself as Mrs. Ryu, your mother, and the other woman as Mrs. Kim, of Kim’s Kitchen fame, your grandmother, who just bows her head politely, smiling serenely. Quickly recovering from the shock of three women, two of them strangers, appearing at his doorstep, he bows back, bending from the waist, then shows them to the living room. He hands them cushions to sit down, awkwardly waiting for one of them to say something as he settles across the coffee table from them. Your grandmother just looks out of the window, peaceful as ever, while your mother asks question after question, the same ones as everyone else, and nods at every answer he gives, like they’re a confirmation of what she already knows, like she just wants to hear it for herself. The way her eyes never once leave his makes him doubt whether she has some sort of mind-reading, lie-detecting ability. 

Jay prides himself in his capacity to adapt to any situation, to just go with the flow and make others feel easy around him—but this is too much, even for him. He doesn’t know what to say, where to look, what to do with his hands. Before he himself knows what he’s doing, he stands up and excuses himself to the bathroom. He locks the door behind him, looks at his reflection in the mirror, hoping it’ll give him an answer as to what the fuck is happening, to no avail. He texts you instead, and is surprised when you answer right away.

Jay Hey

Your mother and grandmother are at my apartment?

Y/N Are you asking or telling me this?

Jay Both

Y/N Lol

That’s what you get for going around town telling everyone we used to be together

I had to have an awkward convo with them yesterday, your turn now

Good luck!

Jay Aren’t you going to help me out?

Y/N Nope

:) 

So that’s useless. He was hoping you’d tell him why they had come to see him or whether there were things he shouldn’t say, but all you’ve done is let him know an “awkward convo” was on the way. When he comes back to the living room, your mother is still looking at him expectantly, only tearing her gaze away from him to thank Mrs. Yoon for pouring her a cup of steaming green tea.

“Jay, you’ve always lived in big cities, haven’t you?” Mrs. Yoon asks as he takes a seat next to her. When he nods, she smiles compassionately. “You must not be used to this kind of attention. I hope no one’s offended you.”

He chuckles. Not used to it is one way to put it. “It’s definitely been… surprising.”

Your mother and Mrs. Yoon laugh. Your grandmother smiles, and her features are so similar to yours that Jay feels like he gets a glimpse into the future for a millisecond. “This is just our way of welcoming you,” Mrs. Yoon explains. “Newcomers are rare around here… Old-timers like us, we’re used to knowing people your age from the moment you’re born. I know it might seem overbearing, but we can’t help but be curious about you.”

“Especially when it turns out that you know my daughter quite well,” Mrs. Ryu says, a knowing glint in her eyes as she peers at Jay over her teacup. His tea goes down the wrong pipe. His guests laugh as he does his best not to spit liquid all over them. “I’m not here to admonish you, Jay, if that’s what you’re scared of. Or lecture you, or anything of the sort.” She puts her cup down with a sigh. “Y/N has always told me about everything going on in her life. When my children were growing up, I made sure to be someone they could always come to to talk about anything, good or bad. It’s worked out to varying degrees between the three of them, but Y/N has never been one to hide things from me.” Here, she gives Jay a look he can’t quite decipher. “And yet, I only really learned about you yesterday.”

Today is nothing but surprises for Jay. He knows how close you are to your mother—he remembers the frequent calls you’d make to her, the way you’d mention her as often as you would any friend, the way you’d always say, “I’ll just ask my mom about it,” whenever you encountered a problem, no matter how big or small. It doesn’t make sense that she wasn’t aware you had dated someone for six months.

“I thought you knew Y/N had a… a boyfriend in Seoul,” he says, feeling oddly uneasy referring to himself that way in front of your mother.

“Oh, I did, I did. Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten that she made you say hello a few times on the phone,” she says, laughing. The amusement on her face quickly fades, however. “But things haven’t been quite the same since she came back. Of course, everything happened so quickly back then, and we were all so worried, it just wasn’t the time to talk about relationships.” She turns her head to Mrs. Kim, takes her hand between both of hers, and your grandmother closes her eyes, her lips stretched in that calm, unwavering smile. Jay wonders whether she’s been listening to the conversation at all. “She was… She was sad. And not just because her grandma was injured and she had to leave school, I could tell. It was a difficult time for her. I should’ve been there more.”

“Don’t blame yourself, Seokja,” Mrs. Yoon chimes in. “You had to take care of your mother.” Your grandmother opens her eyes and smiles at her daughter.

“I know. It wasn’t easy for any of us, that’s true. We all had a lot on our shoulders, but I think Y/N took the brunt of it. And she never complained. Well, now she does, but she never did back then. Anyways, it took me a month to realize that something else was going on with her, why she seemed so… listless. It was only when I asked that I learned you two had broken up. She wasn’t even answering her friend’s call, Sumin, I think her name was?”

Jay doesn’t want to hear this. He knows your mother means no harm, but your unhappiness after the break-up is the last thing he wants to talk about this morning, or ever, really. Because of course, it brings him right back to his own unhappiness back then, nesting itself in every last crevice of his body and soul, reminding him of how it made every day feel the same, every food bland, every color dull. Even before he arrived here and saw you, it’s been a committed effort of his not to think of that period of his life, not to reopen the wounds that have taken so long to heal. What’s the point? He doesn’t want for one unfortunate event to taint his memories of your time together. He wants to remember the feeling of making you laugh, the sight of you in the morning, all dishevelled hair and warm skin under the sheets, the sound of your humming while you cooked. Your break-up he locked up in a box and pushed all the way to the back of the closet, only reopening it late at night when melancholy comes in sleep’s stead.

He has forbidden himself, and he’s done his very best at it, to think of how you were feeling. Naturally, he was dying to know how you were—doing as awfully as him, or letting life go on as if nothing happened? Did images of him appear in your head at random times of your day, memories you thought forgotten suddenly resurfacing, or did he never cross your mind? All these questions and uncertainties only hurt him more. He texted you once, a week after you left. A simple How are you?, forever unanswered, because you blocked him immediately. His phone number, all his social media, everything. He didn’t try, but he assumed he wouldn’t even be able to contact you by email. And so, for the five years that followed, he tried to limit his thoughts of you to moments you had really shared, to focus on the tangible rather than the imagined. It stung too, of course, but somewhat less.

She was sad. Listless. In just a few words, your mom has undone all of his efforts.

“Back then, all she told me was that you weren’t together anymore. I tried asking her once more later, but she reacted so badly that I never mentioned it again. All that to say, the town gossip made its way to us, and it’s only yesterday that she told us everything that happened.” He looks down at the contents of his teacup. “Oh, Jay,” she says, letting go of her mother’s hand to grab his. Jay is mortified to feel tears pooling in his eyes at the unexpected gesture. At least now he knows who you get your empathy and kindness from. “I know this is not a fun conversation to have. And I know it must’ve been hard for you, too.” 

He nods, dropping his head even further down. She pats the back of his hand.

“It hasn’t been easy, no. But… I’m happy I get to see her again.”

Your mother mirrors his small smile. “I think she is, too,” she whispers, and he can tell she means it. He dares to believe it’s the truth—the opposite would be too painful.

“I found her crying in the kitchen the day she saw you for the first time,” your grandma says. So she was listening this whole time.

“Mom!” Mrs. Ryu exclaims just as Jay echoes, “Crying?”

“Oh, they weren’t sad tears. I don’t think so, at least. I think she was just shocked. Overcome with emotion, if you will,” she explains, addressing Jay a polite smile. “And this kind of emotion means something, don’t you think?”

The three women look at him like they know something he doesn’t.

It’s a lot to process at once. In the past five years, he’s been realistic enough to not delude himself into thinking you were either crying yourself to sleep every night since the break-up or not sparing him a single thought. He knew, or in some ways hoped, at least, that you were dealing with it like him: that there were good and bad days, that you wished things could’ve ended some other way, or not at all, but that you mostly tried to look at what was to come rather than what was left behind. 

And today, on an otherwise peaceful Saturday morning, he’s gotten the confirmation that you suffered. That it wasn’t easy then, that there seem to be unresolved feelings now. What is Jay meant to do with this knowledge? It doesn’t make him happy. He could never be happy knowing you were, or are, in pain. Part of his ego might be comforted in knowing he wasn’t alone in his pain, but the bigger part of him that still longs for you would rather you forget about him and move on than hold onto him and hurt.

He doesn’t know what to say, so he stays quiet, takes a sip of the bitter, over-brewed tea. This doesn’t seem to bother his guests.

The silence doesn’t last long—four heads whip in the direction of the door as it creaks open. “Mom, Grandma, keep this behavior up and I’m sticking you both in the retirement home. Don’t count on me to take care of you,” you say as you walk into the apartment without so much as a knock. Relief washes over Jay as he watches you take your shoes off and make your way to the living room, meeting his eyes and shaking your head as if to apologize for your forebears. Your grandma contents herself with closing her eyes again and turning towards the window, letting the sunlight hit her face, a smile on her lips. If being old means you get to check out of conversations at any given moment without appearing rude, Jay doesn’t much mind aging. 

“I’m not of retiring age yet, honey. We’ll talk about that later,” your mom says. “Plus, we weren’t doing anything wrong, just… getting to know our new neighbor. Isn’t that right, Jay?”

“We live across town, we’re not neighbors,” you say before Jay can reply.

“Please, everyone in this town is a neighbor.”

Jay is happy to fall back and watch you and your mother’s back-and-forth, with interferences from Mrs. Yoon here and there. You’re here; you came. Jay really thought you were going to leave him alone in this, but here you are in the flesh—why? To make sure your mother wouldn’t reveal something embarrassing about you, as if anything anyone said could change his opinion of you? Or perhaps, to protect him in some way, to tell him, If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it together?

He meets your gaze from across the table. It lasts just a fraction of a second, but there’s a glint in your eyes, something like the complicity he thought he’d lost all those years ago. He allows himself to think you’re here for him.

You manage to shift the topic of the conversation away from you and Jay, and he feels like he can breathe properly again. There wasn’t that interrogation-like quality that sometimes comes with meeting the family to his discussion with your mother and grandmother, but he is glad nonetheless to not be the subject at hand anymore, and can talk more freely now that every word directed at him doesn’t feel like added weight on his shoulders.

Fifteen minutes later, there isn’t a drop left in the teapot and the conversation naturally comes to an end. Your mother looks around at everyone and, with a smile, says, “Well, I think we’ve inconvenienced you enough, Jay. Sorry for bursting in like this again.”

“It’s all good,” he replies, and means it.

“You should come around for dinner soon, okay?”

“I will, thank you.”

A few more niceties in this vein are exchanged, Mrs. Yoon says she will drop off some side dishes for him sometime during the week, as if he is a starving, overworked college student and not a classically trained chef. Your grandmother tells him she’ll go check that “the boys are doing a good job fixing up your café.” 

You stay behind. Jay doesn’t know if the three women are exceptionally good at reading the room, or if he missed some silent signal of understanding between you and them, but they don’t question your not following them. The sudden quietness makes Jay feel like a giant in a too-small space, a room that can’t possibly contain the two of you.

And yet. You sigh and head back to the living room, going for the couch rather than the cushions on the floor, but Jay can’t bring himself to join you, and so sits back at the same spot from earlier.

“Seriously, Jay?” you say, chuckling, but he detects an actual trace of annoyance in your voice. Unable to hide your thoughts as always. You pat a spot on the couch next to you. “Come here.”

But Jay doesn’t move. Can’t. All he can do when he looks at you is search for traces of grief. He had five years to work out all of his feelings around your breakup, and he thought he had sorted through everything, gone through all the phases. Seeing you again, he feels like he has to start over. The past week hasn’t felt real, he thinks. He thinks it so hard, he says it out loud, only realizing what he did when he sees your expression soften.

“It’s been weird, hasn’t it?”

“Weird is one way to put it, yeah.”

There’s a pause, during which he spends every second worrying about what sort of turn this conversation will take.

“Is this a good time to talk about the elephant in the room, then?” you finally say.

He looks around, eyebrows furrowed with worry. “There’s an elephant in this room?!” he whispers.

You burst into laughter. “I see your humor hasn’t improved over time.”

“Seeing as you’re laughing, I’d say yours hasn’t, either.”

“Touché.”

Silence settles between the two of you again, creeps inside Jay, makes him wait for your next words with bated breath. 

He had a feeling that all the skirting around the subject you’d been doing would come to this. It’s not that you’re pretending it didn’t happen, that would be impossible, for him, at least—he looks at you and he’s transported back to Seoul five years ago, at school, in one of your apartments, in the streets after dark. But you haven’t been actively tackling it either and with every passing day, the weight of unspoken words grows, making every conversation, every look at you harder and harder to navigate. This is new for the two of you, who in your six months of being together, had mastered the art of communicating—you never didn’t speak to each other. You especially were good at saying what was on your mind without ever being hurtful, and you’d helped Jay stop bottling his feelings up when he thought he could get over them himself and not have to trouble you with them.

Nothing you say could ever burden me, baby, you’d told him. I want to know everything that goes through your head. 

And many things have changed since then, but maybe this hasn’t—the look you have in your eyes now is the same one as then, soft and inviting, aware that conversations aren’t always as easy as they are necessary. 

“You’re here,” you say after some time. Jay was so caught up in his own thoughts, entire minutes could’ve passed without his noticing. You spoke so quietly, he wonders if he imagined it until you add, “You’re in Sojuk-ri.”

He smiles, stops himself from replying with something annoying like What an astute observation, Y/N, it would only be stalling. So, for lack of a better alternative, and because he assumes you have more to say, he whispers, “I am.”

“We used to date.”

Jay isn’t sure where you’re going with this. He nods, unable to suppress a grin. “We did, yeah,” he replies, louder this time.

“Then I broke up with you.”

A chuckle escapes his lips. “You’re on fire this morning,” he says, because he can’t help himself, and warmth envelops his heart at the sound of your laughter.

“I just want to recontextualise.”

“Woah, big words.”

“Big word, singular. And shut up. I’m trying to be serious, here,” you chide, still smiling.

“Sorry.”

A sudden shadow passes over your face, making your eyebrows furrow, your smile disappear. Jay’s heart drops, his feelings, as always, a mirror of yours. You rise from your seat on the couch and make your way to him. Every step you take echoes inside of him and grows louder as the distance separating you decreases. Then you’re standing in front of him, and he looks up at you, and there’s something like a magnet under his skin, desperately reaching out for yours, that makes his hand wrap around your ankle. His eyes stay trained on your face as you lower yourself to the ground and cross your legs. If you mind his touch, you don’t say or show it. 

“You’re right, it doesn’t feel real,” you say. Your eyes sweep his face, focus on one part at a time. You simply stare at him for a moment as though trying to convince yourself that it is, indeed, real, that he is really there, not a figment of your imagination but a person whose flesh and bones used to be as familiar as your own. He lets you look to your heart’s content, because it allows him to look at you, too.

His loose grip around your ankle tightens ever so slightly and you look down at his hand as if suddenly noticing its presence there. After a second of what seems to Jay like hesitation, you place your hand atop his. “Would you still have moved here if you knew this was where I lived?”

“I would’ve come here years ago, if I knew,” he says with a small smile.

You furrow your eyebrows. “You didn’t even try calling.”

This takes him aback. Was that what you’d wanted? “I texted you, and you blocked me right away.”

The crease between your brows deepens. “I know.”

“You also didn’t try calling.”

“I sent you a letter.”

For some reason, it astonishes Jay that in all of five years, communication between the two of you amounted to one unanswered text and a letter with no return address. “You did. That was nice of you.”

Finally, this gets a smile, albeit subdued, out of you. “I know.”

“If I’d managed to call you somehow, would you have picked up?”

“Yes,” you say immediately. Then, “No. I don’t know.” Then, in a smaller voice, “It hurts too much to think about the other ways it could’ve gone. The better ways.”

Jay sighs, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “Then let’s not think about them. It won’t do us any good.”

Your eyes meet. The sadness in yours tugs at his heartstrings. “Are you mad at me?” you ask, the tremble in your voice making it sound like you’re on the verge of crying, and it’s all Jay can do not to take you in his arms and hold you tight against his chest.

“No. Not at all,” he says, and he hopes his tone alone is enough to convince you. 

The magnet under his skin is uncontrollable. It raises Jay’s hand from where it was resting on your shoulder to your face, makes it cup your cheek, makes his thumb swipe slowly across your skin, right where tears are threatening to fall, as if preventing them.

“I tried being mad at you,” he says. “I tried a bunch of emotions. Sadness. Indifference. Nostalgia. But anger made things so much worse. It didn’t feel right, because I’d never been angry with you before. And it felt… It felt like admitting things could’ve gone differently. It felt like grieving a version of us that never existed because it never got the chance to. I decided to focus on the actual memories we had, and remember them fondly, instead of wasting my energy on being angry.”

A single tear falls from your right eye, wetting the top of Jay’s thumb. “I understand why you did what you did, Y/N,” he continues. “You had your reasons. You handled everything the best you could. It hurt like hell, but I can’t be mad at you for that.”

Jay doesn’t have to hold himself back from embracing you; you do it for him. Arms wound tightly around his neck, face in the crook of his neck, you quite literally cry on his shoulder. He hadn’t realized how close he himself was to crying until tears start falling freely from his eyes, mouth trembling as they gather at his jaw before dropping down the back of your t-shirt. Between sobs, you say, “I’m sorry. Even if you aren’t angry, I’m so sorry, Jay.”

He has never expected anything from you, least of all an apology. Yet hearing those words heals some of the fissures in his heart, puts the pieces back together like superglue. He doesn’t need or want a repeat of your break-up conversation, and he doubts you do. He doesn’t want to hear how staying together wouldn’t have been a possibility, how you’d both have too much going on, how you were too young to hold each other back, how the distance between France and South Korea was too substantial to dismiss.

He wraps his arms around your waist and brings you closer to him. Closing his eyes and trying not to let your proximity overwhelm him, he strokes your hair, rubs your back, tells you it’s all okay. “Don’t apologize, baby,” he says, the nickname unwittingly slipping from his lips. “We’re here now, that’s all that matters, isn’t it?” He feels you nod against his shoulder, but your sobs don’t relent.

Would it be very wrong if Jay said he missed having you like this? Of course, he hates to see you unhappy, but there’s a part of him that has always been endeared by the sight of you crying. If he could, he'd destroy whatever's upsetting you in a heartbeat, but at the same time, he can't help but selfishly rejoice in the fact that it's him you go to for comfort. It’s in his arms that you find what it is you need to get over what’s troubling you; under his touch that you slowly calm down.

He doesn’t know how long the two of you stay like this, nor does he care, but at some point, you lean back and take a deep, stabilising breath. Jay feels a page turn when your eyes meet—there might be no way to change the past, but the future is a blank canvas, the cursor at the start of a new document, and it’s up to the two of you how you want to write it.

You smile, and so does he. “I missed you,” you say.

“I missed you, too.”

There are more things to be said, but you’re both talked out. You have so much time ahead of you anyway.

.

.

The party started an hour ago, and Jay wants to leave already.

Not because it’s boring, the music bad, the conversation dull—not at all. If anything, this is a good party. One of the more fun ones he’s been to. On a regular day, he’d have no intention to leave until the early hours of the morning. But this isn’t a regular day, because you’re here, and somehow look prettier than you ever have before. Jay doesn’t know what it is—your hair, your outfit, your makeup, or maybe you’re secretly a witch able to cast beauty spells that work on already unfairly beautiful people such as yourself. He can’t stop looking at you, can’t stop searching for you in every room he walks into, and he tells himself that it’s because there really is something different about you tonight, ignoring the voice at the back of his mind telling him to quit finding excuses. 

He finds you in the kitchen pouring yourself a drink, on your own for the first time tonight. “Hey,” he says when he’s close enough for you to hear him. He stands next to you at the kitchen counter. You look at him, smile, and return his greeting, in a small voice that he likes to think is intimate. Instead of loudly talking over the loud music like everyone else, you lean into each other and speak in low tones.

“I’m glad to see you,” you say.

“Me too,” he says, a grin he can’t suppress on his lips. “Any particular reason?”

You look around the room. “Just… this week was a lot, and I thought a crowded party like this was what I needed, but it turns out I was wrong. I’m way too tired to socialize with people I barely know. It’s nice to see a familiar face.”

As much as he likes to distance himself from most of his peers, at the end of the day, Jay, too, is just a man. A lot of his bedtime scenarios with you revolve around being your knight in shining armor in one way or another. Were they usually more dramatic than saving you from a tiring party? Yes, especially if he’d watched a superhero movie that evening. Nevertheless, he sees his chance, and couldn’t be quicker to grab it. “Do you wanna get out of here?”

The rest of the evening feels like a movie. Jay thinks that when he looks back to this moment, he’ll remember it as slightly fuzzy around the edges, like the two beers he had during the party gave a delightful haziness to the rest of his night. He feels light-headed just looking at you.

After quickly thanking and saying goodbye to the host, a classmate of yours who’s drunk enough not to be suspicious of your leaving together at ten pm, you walk around the streets of Seoul. The sky above you is dark and starless, but the many restaurant, bar and shop signs are so brightly lit it might as well be the middle of the day. There are about as many people as you would expect on a Saturday night in Hongdae, but Jay likes being there with you, feeling as happy as the smiling partygoers around him look, guiding you through the crowd with a hand on your lower back. You eventually reach the Han River, content to laugh at each other’s silly anecdotes and talk about a myriad of topics until hunger gets the best of you and you settle on finding the nearest fried chicken shop.

You’re both quieter as you eat—you jokingly remark that the two of you must’ve been really hungry, but Jay has something else on his mind. He tries not to stare at you too openly, but it’s a struggle: when the thing that’s been at the center of all your thoughts for the past few weeks is sitting right in front of you, it’s hard to do anything other than look at it.

It isn’t especially hard to know how you feel. Unless Jay likes you so much that he’s deluded himself into thinking the sentiment was reciprocated, he really doesn’t think you are immune to him. He’s made sure not to fall into the trap of ‘she isn’t into you, she’s just nice’ by paying attention to the small things: the smile that you try in vain to suppress whenever he compliments you, the way you stand closer than necessary when you work together in his or your kitchen, the small, innocent touches to his arm that linger, especially when you’ve had a couple of drinks. He doesn’t assume you’re in love with him because you laughed at a joke he made once. Rather, he’s observed, compared, spent hours sitting on his couch, looking into the distance, analysing. He’s come to the conclusion that you won’t slap him in the face and kick him in the balls if he makes a move.

At least, he really, really hopes so.

He pays for the food and you head out together, both seemingly more contemplative and lost in your thoughts than when you came in earlier. Without a word, you start walking in the direction of the subway station, and after a minute or two of intense self-pep-talking, Jay finally manages to take your hand in his. You react to his touch immediately, fingers interlacing with his with all the ease in the world. It’s near destabilising, how naturally your hands seem to fit together. For the rest of the way, the two of you exchange glances and smiles, and Jay almost runs into passersby and poles every fifty meters. 

The next train arrives in five minutes. Jay keeps your hand in his as he turns to face you, and you mirror him, gently swinging your arms back-and-forth between your bodies. You look down at them, smiling, while he keeps his gaze trained on your face, smiling, too. He can’t see himself, but if he could, he’s sure the unbridled affection he’s currently feeling for you would be evident in his features. His heart is overflowing with unfamiliar but somehow comforting emotion, and he feels, at this moment, to a disconcerting degree of certainty, that he will never love someone quite as much as he loves you.

Three words burn the tip of his tongue, and he’s desperate to do something, anything, really, that will make you see how his entire being aches for you. But with your hand in his, he feels paralyzed, like a cat has fallen asleep in his lap and the slightest movement will wake it up. All he can do is stand there and control his breathing, a task that becomes complicated when you look up at him, a sheepish smile on your lips.

“Do you wanna come over for ramen?” you ask, voice a mere whisper, keeping your conversation private amidst the busy subway station. You just ate, so he isn’t particularly hungry, but he has an inkling you aren’t really offering ramen.

Jay doesn’t know what he expected, but it certainly wasn’t for you to drop the facade the moment he steps inside your apartment. You don’t even give him the time to shrug his coat off or rid himself of his shoes, and you certainly don’t pretend like you’re going to prepare some ramen—the second the door closes behind him, you turn around, grab his face in your hands, and press your lips to his. Just like with your hands earlier, his body reacts to you before he can even comprehend it. Maybe it’s because he's imagined this moment so many times, reality has become indiscernible from his daydreams, and he knows exactly what to do; he’d rather think it’s because the two of you are meant for each other. 

His eyes close and his palms rise to meet the dip of your waist, pulling you towards him with such unintentional intensity that the two of you stumble backwards until his back hits your door. You press your body against his, stomach to stomach, chest to chest, mouths never straying apart, but it’s somehow not enough, and he wraps his arms around you in a futile attempt to meld your bodies to each other.

You stand there for who knows how long, Jay has better things to do than count the seconds, but long enough for your stillness — only your lips have been moving — to make the sensory light of your entryway turn off, leaving you in darkness. This seems to pull you out of your trance, and centimeter by centimeter, you lean back, gaze riveted on Jay’s lips, then his eyes. They meet only momentarily. Your arms were wrapped around his neck, and now, stepping back once, you let your palms glide over the length of his arms until they reach his hands. You keep them there as you look down at the ground.

“Sorry,” you say, and Jay can’t find a single reason on Earth why you should be apologising. “I thought that if I didn’t do that now, I’d never find the courage to.”

He smiles, and, taken by a sudden surge of confidence, raises a hand to cup your face and make you look at him. “I’m glad you did.” He bends down to trap your lips in another kiss, softer this time, slower, because now that he knows you won’t slip through his fingers like sand, he wants to take his time. 

He hopes he’s not being too cheeky when he asks, “Where’s your bedroom?”, each word whispered against your lips. To his great relief, you don’t seem to find him impertinent, smiling as you lead him to your room.

Something stops him on the threshold while you turn on the lamp on your bedside table. The room is bathed in a warm, golden glow, and the light reflects perfectly on your bare skin as you lift your sweater over your head, leaving your top half covered by nothing but a bra. Jay doesn’t mean to stare, but he does—the mere sight of you has him breathing heavily, his muscles contracting in anticipation. Nothing outside of this room is of any importance to him in this moment—only this is, only you are. He walks towards you, more single-minded than he’s ever been.

One hand on your lower back, the other cupping the side of your face, he stands close enough to feel your rugged breath against his lips, but doesn’t lean in any further, simply taking the time to look at you. The unbridled lust in your eyes, your agape mouth—he knows he’s the one making you feel this way but can’t bring himself to believe it. “You’re beautiful,” he whispers, because he means it, and it’s all he can think of. How beautiful you are. How you’re letting him, of all people, see this side of you.

Your mouth closes into a smile. “Can you just kiss me, please?” you ask, and Jay doesn’t need to be told twice. He gets the message—no more dilly-dallying.

As your lips meet again and fall into a slow, sensuous rhythm that has Jay’s heart beating uncontrollably hard, your hands find purchase in the fabric at the bottom of his sweater. You don’t want to be the only one half-naked, it seems, and when Jay obligingly gets rid of his sweater, you tug at the remaining black sleeveless tank on his upper body. He laughs and says, “Don’t worry, this can come off too.”

Something in your eyes makes Jay laugh again when he takes it off, his torso now on full display. Your smile is so genuine, like you’re just happy to be here, to see him like this. It’s surprisingly innocent for a moment like this. He feels a little self-conscious at your unabashed staring, but tries not to mind it. If you like it, he likes it—all he can do is hope his efforts in the gym haven’t been for naught. Still grinning, you exhale a slow, shaky breath, and say, “Okay.”

“Okay?”

You nod. “Mh-hm.”

Like magnets your lips find each others’ once more. Jay makes you step backwards until the back of your legs hit your bed, and, propping one knee on your mattress to stabilize himself, lowers you down onto it. Hovering over you, he breaks away to look at you, in search of a sign that you’re okay with this, and the sheer want and trust in your eyes reassure him that this is more than okay, and actually, can he get on with it please.

He lets you set the pace. You kiss him with a feverish sort of intensity that he is more than happy to return. He focuses only on the feeling of your lips moving against his, because if he lets himself be distracted by anything else — your hands tugging at his hair, your breasts pushing up against him, your hips bucking ever-so-slightly into his — he’s scared he’ll lose total control over himself. What that would entail, he isn’t sure, and doesn’t care to find out, not right now at least, not for your first time together. 

He breaks away to let you both catch your breath. One hand firmly holding you by the hip, the other on the side of your neck, thumb brushing up-and-down your throat, a barely-there pressure, he presses kisses to your jaw, your ear, your neck. A small hum escapes your lips when he reaches a spot in the crook of your shoulder, and he doubles down there, biting and sucking on your skin hard enough to leave a mark, the sound of your soft moans drowning out everything else.

“Jay, please,” you whisper. This makes all the blood in his body gather in one spot, and for the first time since arriving at your apartment, he realizes just how much he’s straining against his trousers. You seem to notice this too, and, looking him straight in the eyes, place a hand on his bulge, then repeat, “Please.”

Jay thinks he might pass out.

That simple touch of yours, as well as the knowledge that you want this as badly as he does, has his entire body screaming out for yours. But he’s barely started, and perhaps he’s a more patient person than you are, because he doesn’t want to give in just yet. The word “please” sounds too good on your lips, and he wants to hear it over and over again, just for that confirmation that he is the only one who can provide you with what you need.

“Okay, baby,” he says, but gently takes your hand off of him, placing it on his shoulder instead. 

Then he starts making his way down. A kiss to the side of your chin first, then your throat, then your collarbone. Slow hands on your warm skin, he reaches behind your back to unhook your bra, and you arch slightly to grant him easier access. He has to take another stabilising breath when your upper body is fully revealed to him, but you squirm, grip on his shoulder tightening, and he concedes not to take things too slow.

It feels like everything that’s happened in his life has led to this—a grand, elaborate scheme just to hear the gasp torn from your throat when his lips wrap around one of your nipples. He’d smile with unbridled pride if he wasn’t so wholly concentrated on the task at hand. He drinks in every satisfied sound you make, savours the feeling of your nails digging into his skin, makes a note of every little thing that has you arching your back in a desperate attempt to get closer to him.

You whine when one of his hands trails up the inside of your thighs, slowly but surely approaching where you need him the most, although never quite making it there. He tells himself that one day, he’ll drag this out, just to see how long he can withhold it from you, how long it would take before you start begging. But right now, he needs it as urgently as you do.

You’re warm and damp against his palm. Your hips seem to move of their own accord in the search for even the slightest of friction—Jay doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve this, to deserve you, but he knows that he’ll do everything to keep it. 

It’s far too easy to reach underneath your short black skirt, hook his fingers under the waistband of your tights, and pull them down along with your panties. Your lace panties, Jay notices, which match your bra, and he is reminded of a party during his last year of high school when Bang Yedam, a friend of his at the time, newly self-appointed sex expert since he’d lost his virginity at summer camp three months ago, had drunkenly assured him: “If a girl is wearing a matching set of underwear when you hook up, you didn’t fuck her. She fucked you.” Jay had nodded like it was gospel. Now, hovering over your half-naked figure in your bed, he smiles to himself. He thinks of you getting ready for this party, and maybe it was a coincidence, and you just liked wearing matching underwear, but maybe, just maybe, you’d worn this in the chance that he might see it. You’d worn it because you wanted him to see it.

With that thought in mind, he finds the sweet spot in the crook of your neck again, pressing kisses there as he slides two fingers between your folds. He shouldn’t be so surprised to find you so completely and utterly soaked—if your jagged breathing and increasingly louder whines weren’t enough, then this is the physical confirmation that you want him just as badly as he wants you. “You’re wet,” he whispers, lips moving against your jawline. He doesn’t mean to tease, he’s just so astonished, so in awe that he’s able to get you like this, that he can’t help but speak the words out loud.

You try to hide your face behind your forearm, but his free hand is quick to guide it away. “Whose fault is that?” you mumble, attitude immediately fading away when he presses the pads of his fingers to your clit and starts to draw slow, regular circles.

He can’t explain the feelings that overcome him. Watching your eyebrows furrow, your cheeks glow, hearing your breathing and your moans get louder, feeling your hands grabbing at him and pulling him impossibly closer—he feels all of your pleasure like it’s his own. Of course, when he’s had sex before, his partner’s pleasure was always as, if not more important than his own, but this, this is something else. He wants to give you this forever. He wants to give you everything he has. 

He slips a finger inside of you, and you whimper out his name, and he wants to die. You take it in so easily that he’s able to add a second one just moments later. Your fingernails dig into the skin of his bicep as he continues to press kisses to your neck, fingers repeatedly grazing a spot deep inside that has you clenching around them. The pitch of your moans change, higher, whinier, your hips buck upwards without you seeming to even realize it, and it dawns upon Jay that he’s about to give you an orgasm for the first time ever. He’ll be damned if the mere thought isn’t enough to make him come, too.

And then, just as he’s sure that you’re on the brink of coming undone on his fingers, you grab his wrist and pull it away from you. He’s hurt you, or he read you completely wrong and you were hating every second of it, or—

“I want you.”

He’s confused. You just had him. He was knuckles deep inside of you. “But-”

“Jay. I want you,” you repeat, hooking your fingers around his belt loops.

Oh.

“Are you sure?” he asks, because it’s always good to ask, but also because he finds himself almost wishing you’ll say no. He knows that he’ll last an embarrassingly short amount of time once inside you, and he feels like he’s doing a good job so far and doesn’t want to taint it. 

But you just laugh, start to undo his belt, his trouser button. He lets it happen, focuses on his breathing instead. “I’m very sure. There are condoms in the first drawer,” you say, nodding your head towards the bedside table. 

Jay tries to be normal as he finds said condoms and strips; meanwhile, you readjust yourself on the bed so that your head rests on the pillows. You look at his face, smile, then look downwards, watch him put the condom on, and smile harder. He would usually feel so self-conscious at this point, like he’s being evaluated, but you make him feel like he has nothing to worry about.

Your body looks lazy on your mattress, one hand on your stomach, the other next to your head; one leg resting, one hiked up. A work of art is what you are, Jay thinks. And you’re waiting for him, an angelic look on your face that makes him want to do the most sinful things to you. He repositions himself on top of you, propping himself up on his forearms, kisses you to calm himself down, but it’s no use. You wrap your hand around him, pump him a few times, rub the tip of his cock against your clit. That alone has a deep grunt escaping his throat—he really won’t last long.

Then finally, you align his head with your entrance, and he pushes in, both of you immediately gasping at the overwhelming feeling of being united like this. Your voice is strained when you tell him to go slow, and you claw at his back as he makes his way inside of you, inch by inch. Jay hopes you’ll leave marks for him to find tomorrow and every day after that, proof that this is really happening, that it isn’t an umpteenth dream of his. He waits for a few moments once he’s all the way in, lets you relax around him. He can practically feel the tension leave your body once the pain of the stretch fades away and only pleasure remains in its wake.

His movements start out shallow and slow. He doesn’t want to hurt you, doesn’t want to lose the little control he’s still holding onto, albeit with struggle. But every thrust, every torturous slide of his cock into you has his grasp on reality slipping from him. Of course, you’re not helping: with his face buried in the crook of your neck, your mouth is practically by his ear, your moans so loud he feels them in the tips of his fingers.

“This feels so good, Jay,” you whisper. Something inside him snaps. 

Jay grabs the backs of your thighs and hooks your legs around his hips. He’ll find the spot deep inside you his fingers had reached earlier, he’ll make you cry out until your voice turns hoarse, he’ll make you say his name until it’s the only thing you know how to say.

He doesn’t know whether you have neighbors or whether your walls are thin. He also couldn’t care less. His thrusts are deeper, quicker, harsher, but just as regular. You are perfect around and underneath him, and he is slowly losing his mind. He, who usually barely makes a peep during sex, so concentrated on doing things right, can’t stop himself from moaning and grunting, the sounds dampened against your skin. 

He isn’t sure how long he’s been fucking you, but it can’t be more than a few minutes—and yet, here you are, mouth wide open, crying out as your orgasm washes over you. Jay comes seconds later.

His soul has left his body. You seem to be in a similar state. He continues to move, shallow thrusts to get every last drop of pleasure from him and from you until you are both completely spent. He eventually slips out, kissing the side of your face as he does, and rolls onto his back. He quickly discards the condom, then turns towards you, warm satisfaction and bliss spreading from his stomach throughout his entire body at the sight of the contented, peaceful look on your face. Strands of hair stick to your forehead with sweat. He brushes them away, whispering, “You’re so beautiful.”

You chuckle. “You mentioned that earlier.”

“And I’m mentioning it again now.”

Opening your eyes, your gaze bores into his. “And you’re very handsome,” you whisper back, palm coming up to cup his cheek. You take the time to just look at each other, and Jay thinks this is what heaven must be like. He bends down to press a kiss to your lips, then another, and another—why would he stop when he finally has you all to himself? 

You giggle in-between kisses, and of course Jay joins in, light-headed and light-hearted with a giddiness unlike any he’s felt before. He doesn’t stop when the both of you are smiling so hard your teeth bump against each other, which only makes you laugh more, makes him tighten his grip around your waist. 

“You know,” you say eventually, looking up at the ceiling, “I think I might like you. Just a little bit, though.”

Jay lifts his head from your neck, stares at you like you’ve just told him Santa Claus was real all along. You glance at him, a shy smile on your lips that you try to suppress.

He’s grinning so much it hurts. “Yeah?”

You shrug. “Mmh.” He’s never been so endeared by someone trying to play it cool.

“Well,” he starts, taking his time pressing more kisses to the side of your face. “I know I like you. And not just a little bit.”

“Okay, it’s not a competition,” you say, although your smile has reached your eyes by now. You’re not doing a very good job hiding your happiness.

“Mmh, except it is.”

You attach your lips to his again—an effective way of getting him to shut up. But this time, they’re not the chaste, gentle kisses from moments ago; they’re immediately deeper, hungrier, an obvious aching for something more. The energy that Jay thought he had completely lost comes rushing back to him, a surge of desire rising within him again.

He’s never wanted anything so intensely. But a sudden question appears in his mind, and he knows he won’t be able to shake it unless he’s made sure the both of you are on the same page.

“Can I be your boyfriend?”

Your gaze softens. “I thought you’d never ask,” you reply before kissing him again.

He hopes this never ends.

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[charminglygrouped]

The difficulty of trying to poke at people's assumptions about what is "real life" and what is not; why "online" life must be abjected compared to "real" life; why certain fields, activities, works of fiction &c. have "value" and others do not; why certain questions are worth asking, and others are not—

the difficulty of trying to work 'upstream,' as it were, to question all of that, is that people always have the option of shutting down the question by retreating to a previously assumed position, rather than actually attempting to answer it ab initio. Their opinion is already the cultural default idea! They can just gesture back at it and act as if it's obvious, rather than engaging with your argument.

"Life that occurs online is less valuable than real life" -> "Why is that?" -> "Because it isn't real" -> "How do you define 'real'? Why are certain activities that a person can engage in more 'real' than others?" -> "They are different because some are real and others are not"

"Activities that involve physical movement are more real and valuable than those that do not" -> "What makes activity that occurs on a couch or in a bed less 'real'?" -> "Because you are just stuck inside rather than being in the real world" -> "What about disabled people? If you cannot leave your house, is your entire life less 'real' and 'valuable' than that of somebody who can?" -> "Oh my god, please go touch grass"

"These people are getting excited about their internet fanfictions and little video games instead of having real sex like normal people" -> "What is the idea of 'normalcy' doing for you here? Why is it better to be 'normal'? Why are, say, sexting, sexual role-play through instant messaging, and writing and reading pornographic material, less 'healthy' or 'real' sexual behaviors than having 'real' sex? What contributes to your ideas about the categories of 'real' versus 'fake' sex, what belongs to each category, and the relative health / normalcy or pathology / abnormality of those categories? Can we historicise these ideas?" -> "Oh my god, someone clearly needs to get laid"

"Smut is rotting these people's brains" -> "Why is pornographic or otherwise sexually explicit content innately noxious or valueless?" -> "It's smut!" -> "What about Lolita or Lady Chatterley's Lover?" -> "That's different!" -> "Why, other than cultural prestige, is it different? Can you create, from first principles, a general analytic that would allow you to, when presented with a work of fiction, decide whether it was 'smut' or whether it had value? Are you certain your analytic would always agree with what the literary establishment had decided?" -> "I mean, it's Lolita. I wasn't talking about Lolita"

"Oh my god, look at this article title! 'Jane Austen and the Masturbating Girl'!? What are humanities coming to?" -> "Why is that absurd?" -> "Jane Austen and masturbation?" -> "Why do you think these two things are so antithetical? What makes historical medical ideas about masturbation an inherently infelicitous lens through which to view Austen's works? What is it about Austen, or about masturbation, that makes this combination laughable?" "I mean, just look at the title of the article! 'Jane Austen and the Masturbating Girl'!!! It's ridiculous!"

"The New Historicists are off talking about contemporary ideas about race and gender and medical science rather than doing the work of a literary critic!" -> "What is the work of a literary critic?" -> "To critique literature!" -> "What does that entail? Why should any one analytic lens be the only one that constitutes 'literary critique'? We can trace the historical development of different analytic lenses throughout the creation and sequestration of "literary analysis" as an academic field—so why should some of them be 'real', and others spurious?" -> "They are making articles like 'Little Dorrit and the Medicalisation of Disability in Science Periodicals of the 1850s' instead of explicating the characters, plot, and themes of the work in itself without reference to contextualising discourses!" -> "What is bad about reference to contextualising discourses?" -> "It's not literary critique!"

"There is a difference between low and high culture, and high culture is better" -> "What is the difference? Why is 'high' culture better?" -> "High culture inspires people to think deeply about life and art" -> "Is it impossible to think deeply about 'low' culture? Can the analytic lenses applied to 'high' culture not be applied to 'low' culture? What would be infelicitous about such an application? Are these lenses innately not suited to 'low' culture, or is the perceived mismatch a matter of cultural ideals that can be historicised, politicised, problematised? Is your reverence for 'high' culture due to some innate quality within the work itself, or due to what obedience to these standards can buy you?" -> "No, it's not about cultural standards, some works are just better than others" -> "What about cases where something is considered 'low' culture at one point of time, but later re-evaluated and considered 'high' culture? Has the work itself changed due to its changed designation? Would you have new respect for a work you had previously dismissed if its cultural evaluation changed? If so, how can you claim that your reverence is due to a quality innate to the work itself, and not to your desire to have your engagement with culture respected by others?" -> "So you think your 100k word slow-burn enemies-to-lovers Stucky fic is as good as the Mona Lisa? Please get a life"

[mandalhoerian]

this has to have been discussed to the moon and back ever since forgotten sea has dropped, but with the addition of tears of romirro, i think there's an extra layer to be added on how open with his love and affections rafayel is now, compared to the indifferent (god of tides) and cold (lemurian sea god) attitude he had towards it. those are two radically different people to the romantic man he is currently.

forgotten sea was more about a burgeoning romance and the realization of it with his sacrifice in the end. you really felt that he was inexperienced and detached in a sheltered way, and opened up (the best he could anyway, with the limited time) towards the end of the myth. tears of romirro had him outright reject falling in love with her, but it also clinically revolved around the concept of "we have to fall in love with each other" and the biggest denial and obliviousness to it i've ever witnessed reading the entire thing. they were tiptoeing around each other UNTIL THE VERY END. there are a lot of reasons why. to give an example, he's fully reassured that she's genuinely in love until he realizes it's her (their) love that was powerful enough to seal him away.

but, until mc's very last moments he doesn't say the word "love" -- he says that he won't let their (lemurian) bond end this way. one thing is that the word "bond" is a localization and the real direct translation in the original is "contract"/"covenant". so, he literally can't say it even as she's dying with the biggest declaration of love to him there is.

and the most he gave her regarding verbalizing his feelings is this optional dialogue:

Rafayel : During the ceremony, your chants were filled with other people's words to the Sea God. They were not your own. Rafayel : Don't you want to tell me something? Maybe I can make a wish come true. Main Character : Then... I wish you could fall in love with me soon. Rafayel : That doesn't count. Main Character : Why? Is it very difficult for you? Rafayel : It's too easy. Rafayel : Think of a more ambitious wish.

and this one at the very end:

Rafayel : The place you hold in my heart far outweighs this little scale.

he also seriously answers "i'm not" when mc teases him for being embarrassed of them being in love in the past (which. they have no memories of.) there's also my interpretation about his line "You want to say something else?" in Mistsea Lament, which is him basically wanting to hear an i love you from her before he basically goes to die/fade away/slumber alone as he planned (we all know what happened instead... lmao...)

you get the gist of what he's doing.

it's not like he didn't know he loved mc. it's not like they weren't "together" during the end of tears of romirro. there was something between them, however pre-romantic relationship situationship type of pda zone it was, having accepted what they went through together in the past. none of them spelled it out. but also, it was a matter of knowing how the other felt about one another. it didn't last long, just as how it didn't in forgotten sea. rafayel never got to love mc properly -- or get to know 'love' itself. (getting flashbacks to intertidal zone and his crisis about associating art and love with pain like. man.)

the myth actually gives a glimpse into this from his pov. i thought the translation was a bit wonky, so i found the original chinese script and put it through google translate, and it was something along the lines of this:

He remembered the first time she had called out his name. With fingertips stained with both their blood, he wrote each character of his name into her palm, stroke by stroke. But even that could not intertwine his fate with hers along the lines of her palm so they would never have to face separation again.

(The original goes "Even so, He couldn't intertwine His fate with hers along the lines of her palm. In this way, they were spared from separation." which. does not make a lick of sense)

there has been so much anxiety on his part in this myth it's insane. but you know what this tells us? even with the lemurian bond between them, there's no classic, traditional soulmateism between these two. rafayel and mc weren't written in the stars, and even when rafayel wanted to intertwine their fates together, he couldn't. no room for divine intervention, even.

and mc broke their bond. that means he actually had to go look for her. choose her again, and bind himself to her. he did this in fragrant dream (which i actually think is a sequel to tears of romirro and tells the story of how the last sea god died/fell into slumber). he did it again in sea of golden sand.

it's BAFFLING to think about, actually. i know we'll get a more in-depth flashback in the future about how they really first met as children and if it was serendipity or not (PLEASE MAIN STORY UPDATE PLEASE), and that'll be an extra layer of recontextualization in the future. but i think it's safe to say there's nothing calling out to him, like, no magical connection before he finds her. it gives an entirely new context to his search for her in the main timeline. to think it was an actual SEARCH search and he had no leads for this kid who came to his rescue and dropped off the face of the earth afterwards. did he have her full name? did he draw her and distribute it like a missing person poster? he launched like a full on investigation. i love it precisely because rafayel's story is about defying prophecy and destiny -- that he chooses her willingly, even as she's the biggest obstacle against this godhood and divinity.

SORRY TO GO ON A TANGENT LIKE THIS but !!!! to dial it back, pre-main story rafayel is still the same cold, nonchalant person who is drifting through life without an "anchor" before he meets mc. he still has the mission of his people on his shoulders. it's not that out there to say his character doesn't align with his myth counterparts, though i would argue he's more similar to abysswalker. mc changes him and brings out a green part of him that yearns to live -- with her. that man puddle jumps, bubble wrap stomps and claw machine hypes because being with her reminds him that this is the first time and he always wanted to do these things -- with her.

so it really comes down to regret (SHOCKER, I KNOW. AS IF IT HASNT BEEN SAID A MILLION TIMES ALREADY), not making the same mistakes, wanting to live it to the fullest, and give mc what he wasn't able to give her before -- what they were denied, what could have been if they just had more time. make her know, make it known, open up, love and be loved, be known, despite the ominous stuff he knows is coming in the future. even if he doesn't have any memories, i believe those sentiments carried.

it really has to do with this quote: "no one will ever know the violence it took to become this gentle." -- but in this case, it's not violence and gentleness, but 'grief' and 'romantic'. it really took his love being taken away from him twice for rafayel to start clinging to it and romanticizing it.

[max1461]

I appreciate that you recognize property ownership as a form of political power!

Let me back up. OP is clearly talking about the ability to take up long-term residence in another country, not merely the ability to physically travel there. Even this latter goal is subject to plenty of immediate legal barriers in many cases, although they are not ones you face as a para-EU citizen traveling to another para-EU country (you could have saved me several characters by being from Sweden and visiting Belgium, instead). Plenty of travel requires a visa for plenty of people! In any case, setting up long-term residence in a foreign country is subject to more legal barriers than mere travel, and it's what OP is talking about.

In principle, all that's required for long-term residence somewhere is a place to reside and the ability to support oneself in the local economy. If I want to move to a different city within the US, all I have to do is find someone willing to rent/sell me a residence in that city, and find someone willing to pay me for work I can do from that city, and then I can make a permanent residence there. If I want to move to a foreign country, in addition to this I must make it through a large number of additional legal hurdles. From something like a Classical Liberal perspective, this is an unfreedom, a form of state interference in the free dealings between people, and it is natural to view it with great suspicion. From a Neoliberal perspective, this is a form of state interference in the market, which is undesirable insofar as it disrupts the market equilibrium and causes inefficiencies in the allocation of goods.

A joint critique of the Classical Liberal and Neoliberal perspectives might point out that markets and free exchange rely on some underlying notion of property ownership, and property ownership is a legal construct produced and enforced by the state. Questions like "what types of things can be owned?" and "what rights and privileges does ownership entail?" and "how is rightful ownership determined?" are political questions subject to constant jockeying and reconsideration, and participation in private property ownership (or renting, etc.) in a certain country is an act of participation in the political structures of that country. The economy is part of politics, my right to own land is your lack of a right to freely traverse it, etc. etc. We can do Stalinism now, safe in the knowledge that nobody is in fact being deprived of freedom that existed in the first place.

Speaking of Stalinism, if we're going to be restricting people's legal ability to take up residence in specific places above and beyond their economic capacity to do so, why only make these restrictions at national borders? Surely most of the arguments for not allowing Norwegians to take up residence in Switzerland at their whim might also be persuasive arguments for not allowing Alabamans to take up residence in California at their whim. Or Fresnoans to take up residence in San Fransisco. Why not institute a full system of internal passports, like the Soviet Union did?

Are countries "just the right size" for these restrictions only to apply at their borders? But countries are many different sizes. Are they "just the right amount of internal diversity"? But they have many different levels of internal diversity.

Darkly hinting is fun, but let me be straightforward now: I think human freedom is complicated, different freedoms (for both the same person and between people) trade off against each other in complex, politically mediated ways. I think there is no pre-political body of natural rights, as Classical Liberalism generally supposes property rights to be among, against which any imposition by the state can be viewed as an unfreedom. I think it's good to recognize "taking up residence somewhere" as a political act in itself.

But I also think that whenever something is discrete, it is productive to ask two questions:

could this be continuous?

if this must be discrete, must the grain size be as it currently is?

The mainstream—that is, liberal and nationalist—position is approximately that people's ability to take up residence somewhere should be governed by market forces within a given country, and should be subject to increased and potentially significant legal barriers at national borders. This is a very particular grain size! I'm not saying you can't make an argument for it, but I am saying that most people don't, and rely on its hegemonic acceptance as obviating the need for any specific argument. It would be crazy and authoritarian for the US to restrict travel between different cities, or even different states! But the US and Canada? Totally normal. The US and Mexico? Obviously. The Schengen Area? A radical experiment, only possible in Enlightened Europe (left-wing coded)/Enlightened Europe (right-wing coded), and which many naturally disapprove of...

Maybe, I put to you, this grain size is not so deeply ingrained in natural law that anyone who attempts to defamiliarize it has gotten their names unrectified. Maybe defamiliarizing it is Good, Actually, vis-à-vis the rectification of names.

its so fucked up how difficult it is to move to another country you shouldn’t need a reason or anything you should be able to show up at the border and be like “the vibes were off back home” and they should let you in

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

The Lucky Ones Are Dead [Chapter 3: Frontière]

A/N: I'm getting wisdom tooth surgery on Aug. 6th, so idk how I'll be feeling next week and when Chapter 4 will be ready...it might be on schedule or it might be late, I'll check in to let you know! Thank you so much for reading, the Reign of Terror is on the horizon 🥰

Series summary: You are an impoverished widow who has at last achieved relative security for yourself and your children by becoming the Marquis de Targaryen’s mistress. But your relationship with Aemond is tenuous, France is on the eve of a bloody revolution, and a self-righteous young military officer is getting too close for comfort…

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), references to abuse, dubious consent, insane dom Aemond, sweet sinnamon roll Jace, murder, war, horses, blood and violence, parenthood, bodily injury, character deaths, lots of drinking, crème brûlée!

Word count: 7.4k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @mrs-starkgaryen @chattylurker @lauraneedstochill @autistic-pea-princess @trifoliumviridi

🥂 Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🥂

He appears not with ink and quills and parchment, but instead a shallow box of dark damp earth, and he sets it down on the table in the courtyard as you sip your tea from China, watching Aemond and Marcel spar with their smallswords and Noella argue with her dancing master.

“What’s that for?” you ask the lieutenant, frowning skeptically at the box.

“For you to write in.” He sits down beside you, same bench, too close; you slide away, still frowning.

“In the dirt...?”

“Exactly.” He grins at you, umber eyes shining, inky curls never resting on his face in the same way twice. When you breathe, you catch tendrils of sweetness, greenery, citrus, spice. You wonder if he can smell the perfume on you, the bright pink ether of roses. “We’re starting at the beginning, one letter at a time.”

Like I’m a child. You gaze forlornly at the box of earth. “I feel stupid.”

“Right now you do,” Lieutenant Velaryon agrees, and you appreciate that he doesn’t try to flatter you or ignore the truth. “But once you’ve learned, you’ll never have to feel that way again.”

“Alright,” you say, peering gamely down into the box. And he tells you to write four letters: J, A, C, E. You do, slowly, all in uppercase, with a space between each of them so they don’t get jumbled together in your head.

“Good,” the lieutenant says. “But the E is backwards.”

“Oh, you’re right, it is.” You smooth out the soil and draw a new E with your index finger, suddenly reminded of how you’d once put a bit of flour on a rickety floor for Noella to play with while you disguised yourself for a party you had no invitation to attend.

“What’s it say?”

You stare at the letters until you’re sure. “Jace.”

He nods. “That’s me.”

“Is it?”

“That’s what my family calls me.”

“Shouldn’t we start with something more important?”

He reaches over and erases himself from the earth. “Fine. We’ll do whore next.”

You burst out laughing and cover your face with your hands, rings glittering there, gold and citrine and yellow jade to match your gown. From across the courtyard, Aemond glances over and smiles; your ignorance is being remedied, the lieutenant is being tempted with a household he could never support. Then he reminds Marcel to pay attention to his footwork.

You say to Jace: “I assume the marquis is compensating you for this in some manner.”

“No payment is necessary. He has done so much to facilitate my advancement in the army.”

“Still, you should not work for free.”

“You could accidentally leave some of your jewels in my pockets.”

“I could tell you how to satisfy a woman,” you say, smirking, smug. “That’s very valuable.”

Jace sighs; he’s tiring of the virgin jokes. “My future wife can inform me when the time is right.”

“But she won’t know either, if she has no experience.”

“Another word,” Jace demands, thumping his palm on the box of earth, and then he assigns you more letters.

Each day he comes to drill you as if you are a soldier learning how to march in formation or clean a sword, short words with plenty of space between each letter, over and over again until you can recognize them even when the spaces shrink and then disappear, and then there are longer words, five or six or eight letters, and again you must draw them in the earth until they are seared into your mind like a brand on a horse. Only then does Jace put parchment and ink in front of you, and watches intently as your quill scratches across the paper bleeding black rivers like reflections of the Seine, and he tells you every time you get something wrong—a misshaped letter, a mispronounced word—but you don’t mind, even if you bite back. You are learning. And sometimes Jace will place his hand on top of yours to show you how to write more neatly, and when he does you are struck by how gentle he is, not seeking to conquer, not poisoned by desire, just a pure man with pure intentions and no lies regarding what he thinks of you.

Marcel realizes the purpose of the lieutenant’s visits and tries to help, offers to let you read his books out loud with him, but they’re far too complex: long sentences in infinitesimal print about history or war, and they leave you distraught and hopeless. So he hunts through the shelves in the library until he finds the children’s books that Aemond bought for Noella shortly after you met him, simple stories of lost animals and the miracles of Christ and the saints, short phrases and lots of pictures. On warm days the three of you read together in the garden, and when it’s too cold you move inside to the music room or the dining room table, flipping pages between nibbles of croissants sodden with butter and jam, Noella giggling when you give each character their own voice.

At night the paintings on the walls warp under the candlelight and through eyes murky with wine or champagne, seem to stretch and shrink, appear to be windows that you could climb through. The landscape of the Îles des Saintes becomes a doorway to your childhood, saltwater and cliffsides and chasing the iguanas and ships coming and going on clear sapphire waves, before you believed you’d ever set foot in France, before you knew what men were really like. The painting of the Temple of Zeus in Aemond’s bedroom is a gateway to the things he reads about in his books with tiny, indecipherable letters, ancient philosophers and warriors, the theories of science and ethics, the workings of a republic. The portrait of Aemond’s dead wife and sons, ghost-pale faces with beckoning smiles, is a portal to the man he was once, who you will never meet.

“So,” Aemond says to you one evening after the children have gone to bed and you are together in the salon, drinking hot chocolate as wood pops and splits in the fireplace. “Velaryon. What do you think of him now?”

“I think you were right. He has potential.”

Aemond smiles, like it’s something he could get drunk on, wine or champagne or lust or power. “He wants you.”

Impossible. “He hates me.”

Aemond chuckles, slow and deep, leering at you with the reflection of firelight in his eye. The air is thick with his amber-scented perfume and the smoke from his pipe. “They are not always two different things.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“Why would she do that?” you ask Suzette as you sit at your vanity, a maid thickening your hair with locks cut from peasant girls. They sell their hair to buy food, or clothes, or medicine, or a place to sleep at night. All the women you socialize with wear them, just as the men wear wigs or at the least layers of powder, just as faces are painted with white Venetian ceruse and gory blooms of rouge. What good would it do to refuse them? You would be no better off, and it would not put food in any starving bellies, would not save anyone from the streets.

“Do what?” Suzette says. She is sprawled across the bed you do not sleep in and leafing lazily through a fashion magazine. “Oh! The letter, you mean?”

“Maeva shoved it into my hands in front of everyone. She knew what she was doing.”

“No, I’m sure she didn���t! Everyone was drinking so much. I think she really did forget.”

You give Suzette an impatient glance. “She can be difficult.”

“She’s under a lot of stress,” Suzette says, pleading for you to have mercy. She cannot abide discord; when people argue around her, she starts taking nips of laudanum infused with crushed pearls. “Depending on how things unfold with the new government, Ramadier could lose his titles. He has nothing else and he’s of limited use to the national assembly, he’s not a military man.”

“And our nerves aren’t frayed? If there is war, Aemond and Haxo will have to go fight it. And the lieutenant too. We’ll be left here alone for weeks, maybe for months, and only God knows if they’ll return to us unharmed.”

“Ramadier has a wandering eye as well,” Suzette continues, declining to speak of battles as if that can stop them from happening. She flips another page in her magazine; there’s an illustration of a woman with feathers and bows in her massive hair. “I mean, my dear Jean-Yves has had his dalliances, but only when I’m with child and he never brings them home, can you imagine?! Ramadier will bump into some idiot girl at a party and lure her back to his mansion and expect Maeva to just endure it, it’s ghastly!”

“I don’t see how I’m to blame for that,” you say ungenerously.

“You don’t understand,” Suzette sighs. “It can be very painful to see your man with somebody else. It makes you crazy. You’ve never had to experience that, Aemond doesn’t take other lovers.”

You gaze at your reflection in the mirror, candlelight and gold. Now the maid is tying your lace-trimmed silk ribbon around your throat, a vivid cerulean to match your gown. It is meant to invoke the color of the Caribbean Sea. “He might get married. I think that’s worse.”

Suzette shrugs. Her dress is red like autumn leaves, apples, cherries, fire. “He hasn’t done it yet, and he’s had ample opportunities.”

“His family will convince him to wed eventually. He needs heirs.”

“He has siblings with children.”

“Who could die of smallpox or diphtheria or pneumonia, or in childbirth, or in battle.” Or be beheaded by a mob carrying pikes and torches.

Suzette slaps her magazine shut and hops off your bed, exuberant. “We should find Lieutenant Velaryon a lover! That would give us something enjoyable to think about instead.”

The maid steps back and waits for you to scrutinize your appearance. You are satisfied; you wave her away, and she floats out of the room like a phantom. “No, leave him be,” you tell Suzette.

“Why?” She’s crestfallen. She loves a project. “You’re always teasing him. We all are.”

“Innocence is rare. If he has a conviction to live that way, he can keep it.”

“He’s dull,” Suzette says, examining the bracelet of rubies on her wrist, glimmering bloody stars.

You murmur without thinking about it first: “He’s the kind of man I thought I would marry when I was a girl.”

Suzette laughs, incredulous and trilling. “What, a poor one?”

A decent one. A truthful one. You stand and turn to her, smiling, your gown swishing, your earrings chiming, your high-heeled shoes clicking on the parquet floor. “Forget it, I don’t even know what I meant. A soldier, I guess.”

“But you are bedding a general instead.” Suzette beams and offers you her outstretched hand, sparkling with red-stone rings. You take it. “You have the most wonderful life,” she says with certainty, and then together you glide out of your bedroom and descend the grand staircase.

You can hear people arriving, the heaving open of the front doors, the droning of voices. A dutiful hostess, you go to meet them. You and Suzette—rustling in your silk gowns, like children dressed as ghosts in flowing sheets—pass by the salon, where Aemond and Haxo are smoking near the fireplace and speaking in low, rumbling schemes. They wear swords at their hips, not the dull smallswords used in duels but curved sabres good for slashing.

Haxo is saying to Aemond: “But your family has an estate in the countryside, don’t they?”

“Yes, but they won’t accept her or the children there. They’d throw her out the minute I left.”

“Ah.” Haxo sighs. “You have my condolences, my friend. I’d offer you the use of my manor in Châteaudun, if it hadn’t been burned to the ground by peasants...”

Aemond is trying to protect us, you think, and then immediately after: He’s trying to get rid of us. He’s preparing to marry another woman. He’s hiding us. He’s bored with us. He’s yielding to his family’s demands. He’s afraid of what’s happening to France. You never know which of these is the truth.

Ramadier and Maeva are still in the entrance gallery and handing over their coats and hats to the servants. “At last, a saint to intercede on my behalf,” Ramadier says, grinning as he comes to greet you, a kiss on each cheek. “You must pray very hard for me, as I have been sinning.”

“When aren’t you?” you reply, chuckling. Then you turn to Maeva. She is holding a small box in one hand and a basket in the other, overflowing with madeleines, which you first ate together years ago at Versailles, when the king was still the king and Marie Antoinette asked you about growing up on the Îles des Saintes, watching you with her vast, entranced, watery eyes. Suzette takes Ramadier’s arm and sashays off towards the salon with him, flirting harmlessly.

“I hope you’ve been well,” Maeva says, her lips pursed in an awkward, off-kilter smile. She knows she’s misbehaved. She hands you the box, and you open it to find the necklace of fire opals you lent her. “And to thank you for allowing me to borrow it, I’ve brought something as sweet as you are.” Then she gifts you the basket of madeleines, shaped like seashells and smelling like vanilla and dusted with powdered sugar that reminds you of the flour you once painted your face with.

You take the basket and consider her penance. She humiliated you, for no reason at all; and yet when Suzette had a miscarriage at a ball last year, it was Maeva who was down on her hands and knees in the bathroom helping her staunch the bleeding, and when you broke down sobbing over one of Aemond’s engagements, it was she who promised you would always have a refuge at her home should you need it, and counseled you that men did not wish to see tears. The camaraderie of other mistresses—not wives—is essential. Only they understand the precarious nature of this existence; only they will pass down the whispers of how to survive in times of drought, storms, famine, war.

“I’m very glad you’re here,” you tell Maeva, and she exhales with relief, knowing she has been forgiven. She sweeps past you towards the salon, a palm pressed warmly to your shoulder, a kiss breezed across your cheek.

But there is still one guest missing. Outside on the cobblestones, you hear his horse’s hooves. You go out to meet him, the servants staring quizzically as you pass through the doorway and into the courtyard. There, in the moonlight, in the fiery glow of lanterns, the lieutenant is dismounting from his lanky grey stallion and entrusting the reins to a groom. He turns and sees you blocking the steps, the box containing the necklace still in your grasp and the basket of madeleines hanging from the crook of your arm. The night wind blows through his curls.

In place of a greeting, you demand: “If there is war and you are called away, how will we keep up our lessons?”

Jace smiles, just a hint of one. “I’ll write letters to you, and you will answer them.”

“I can’t read letters. I can barely read children’s books.”

“I’ll write few words and spaced far apart, as if corresponding with someone who is very stupid.”

“And what if you’re killed?”

He shakes his head, still smiling. “I can’t be killed.”

This is intriguing. “No?”

“No. I wouldn’t allow it. I have too much left to do.”

Amused, you step aside to let him into the Hôtel de Targaryen. “Come inside.”

“The second time a woman has told me that,” he notes, plucking a madeleine out of your basket, taking a bite, and ascends the marble stairs into the mansion.

Dinner is daube de boeuf, a thick slow-cooked stew of beef cheeks, red wine, garlic, carrots, onions, mushrooms, thyme, rosemary, bacon for extra fat. Baguettes are torn apart and slathered with butter and dipped into rich dark broth; crystalline goblets of crimson Mourvèdre from Provence are guzzled ravenously. You and Maeva and Suzette try to deflect—to make life sweeter, which must be the all-consuming task of any good mistress—but the men can only talk about the new constitution and whether it will hold, the king’s concessions in an attempt to keep his head attached to the rest of him, the poor harvests, the rising prices, pro-monarchist armies being mobilized in Austria and Prussia, the French national assembly fractured over the path forward: contentment with a constitutional monarchy, plunging headlong into a republic regardless of the cost in blood.

“You know what people cheered when Louis finally accepted the constitution?” Haxo says, grinning behind his goblet of wine. “Long live the king...if he keeps his word.”

“And he’s already trying to throw his weight around and veto reforms,” Ramadier replies. “An imbecile. Does he think he’s untouchable? The English killed a king back in 1649. It is no secret that they are made of flesh just like any of us.”

“He believes the threat of foreign invasion will keep the assembly from fully deposing him,” Aemond mutters distractedly. He’s ripping his bread into small pieces but hasn’t eaten much. You playfully try to feed him a fatty morsel of beef from your fork, dripping with thick maroon sauce; Aemond swats your hand away and otherwise ignores you. You shrink back into your chair, chastised. You catch Jace watching from across the table and then he looks away, pretending to inspect the decorative tablecloth and hiding under his curls.

Haxo says, dabbing stew from his lips and chin with a linen napkin: “It’ll happen. The king won’t stop trying to be a king, the queen won’t stop encouraging war to restore the royal family to power. She is incapable of graceful surrender. She doesn’t know what to do without her court.”

“Versailles was marvelous,” Maeva sighs fondly, caressing Ramadier’s cheeks with the backs of her fingers that glimmer with emerald rings. “Remember the Hall of Mirrors? Remember the Royal Opera?”

“Well, at least Lafayette will get to come back from the countryside if there’s war,” Ramadier says. “The assembly will put him in charge of one of the armies, surely. And then when he defeats the Austrians he’ll be a hero and the people will love him again, and we can decide who’s going to lead this new liberated France. Perhaps our president can even have Versailles.” Then he beams at Aemond, expecting the marquis to be enthused by the resurrection of the best times.

But Aemond isn’t listening. His brow is creased and his remaining eye is distant, glazed. “Hm?” he says when he realizes people have turned to him.

Haxo smirks sympathetically. “Targaryen, I worry for you. You are so tense.”

And you must do something about it because this is your job, in the same way men are soldiers or blacksmiths or bakers or inheritors of bejeweled legacies. You reach into Aemond’s lap and unbutton his trousers, scoop a pad of butter out of a dish from China and into your palm, take him in your hand and begin to stroke him. Aemond jolts and sucks in a sharp breath...and then the muscles of his face relax and roll into a smile. By now everyone else is laughing riotously—their eyes glowing in the candlelight and fists pounding the table in encouragement—except the lieutenant, of course, who is staring fixedly at a painting on the wall behind you instead, a map of the expanse of Alexander the Great’s empire.

You say primly, as if nothing is happening: “Maeva, weren’t the gardens of Versailles gorgeous?”

“Oh yes,” she agrees wickedly. “But so hot in the summer.”

“Sweltering,” Suzette agrees, her face flushed because as usual, she’s drinking too much.

“It was enough to make you want to jump into the fountains,” you say, still gripping Aemond beneath the table, your palm and fingers slick with butter, your pace quickening. He clutches at the arms of his chair, his head falls back, his eye closes, his gnaws his lower lip so he won’t make a sound.

“And sometimes we did,” Maeva adds.

“Until we were soaked to the skin,” Suzette continues.

You nod. “And our clothes would be clinging to us—”

“No mysteries left at all!” Maeva says.

“—And wasn’t it challenging to peel it all off afterwards, the gown, the stockings, the chemise?”

Aemond gasps, then bites down on his knuckles. You slink close to him and kiss your way up his throat to his jaw, inhaling his amber perfume, his salt on his skin, the leather of his eyepatch.

“Why don’t you mount him right here,” Haxo jests. “And the two of you can narrate everything you’re doing and feeling, and Velaryon will receive a thorough education.”

There is more laughter, even from Aemond, who is admittedly quite preoccupied by now. The lieutenant, still staring at the wall behind you, politely demurs. “Thank you, my lord, by I think I’d rather learn by firsthand experience once I am married.”

“And when will that be?!” Ramadier protests. “You can’t properly support a family on your income. You can afford to rent a very entertaining woman by the hour, though.”

“You can’t go to war and risk dying a virgin,” Haxo says.

Jace is getting flustered. He spears a piece of beef cheek with his fork but can’t seem to conjure the appetite to eat it. “Please, your advice is very much appreciated but I must insist I maintain a degree of ignorance until—”

You lean down into Aemond’s lap and, just beneath the table and barely out of sight, clean the butter off of him with your tongue, feeling his veins and girth and urgent radiating heat. Aemond exhales shakily, his palm on the crown of your head. When you come up again, grinning and licking butter from your lips, Jace is gazing at you, his dark eyes shot wide with what you recognize—because you’ve studied how to please men like rich women study languages and art—is an anguished combination of revulsion and shame and fascination.

Aemond hastily buttons his trousers and stands, grabbing your forearm and dragging you to him before you can leap up from your seat. Aemond tells his guests: “We’ll return shortly. Don’t get up. Dessert will be served soon.”

“Enjoy yourselves!” Maeva chirps, waving, and there is a deluge of cackling and chatter that fills the candlelit air as you depart, Aemond’s fingers inking rings of trapped blood onto your arm.

You follow him like leaves are blown by the wind: out of the dining room, up the grand staircase, to Aemond’s apartment where he pushes you onto the bed, pins you so you’re on your belly and he can take you that way, like you’re an animal and he is too, like this means nothing. And even though you’re wet for him—he does stir your blood and always has, even when he scares you, even when it feels sticky and corporeal and wrong—he is being too rough. You don’t tell him, because this isn’t about you, and if you don’t arch your spine and moan for him he can easily find another woman who will. Instead, as he slams his hips into yours and pummels you somewhere deep, the pressure impossible, the pain just on the verge of melting into pleasure, you reach down between your legs and stroke yourself, quick rhythmic circles, and you close your eyes and pretend you’re somewhere else, you’re someone else, and in that mirage of a life this does mean something.

Out of nowhere, like a stone through a window, you remember Jace’s hand on top of yours as he—gently, patiently—helped you form arcs and loops of letters. He has never paid for a woman, he has never lied to deceive one, he has played no part in hoaxes or threats or bargains or arrangements. He still believes in the love that you learned at sixteen is painfully rare, if it exists at all. Perhaps he will find it when he gets married. And you wonder what that’s like, because you’ve never experienced it: being a man’s first, coaxing him tenderly through it. With Jace, this would mean something, because he wouldn’t take a woman he didn’t love.

It shreds through you, so strong it’s almost violent, starting low and roaring up through your spine, your ribs, your arms, your skull as you burrow into the feather mattress, moaning—not performatively, but because you cannot stop—and Aemond must like this because in a few ticks of the clock by the wall he is filling you with scalding life that will not take root, that will pour out of you and leave mineral residue on your thighs, a perpetual reminder of the payment exchanged, Aemond giving money and you giving yourself.

Aemond collapses on top of you, nuzzling the side of your face as you pant beneath him, his long silvery hair flowing over you, and you plan to say once you’ve caught your breath: You can talk to me, you know. You can tell me what’s wrong. I want to help. I want to make you happy.

Then he murmurs through your hair: “I love you, Alys.”

His wife. His dead wife.

And you’ve always known this, that you are a ricochet, a shadow, an echo, a placeholder until he can be reunited with her and their sons in the next life. But it’s never felt this real before. All the warmth bleeds out of you as if your throat has been slit, the euphoria evaporates, you are shivering not with aftershocks of pleasure but the frigid night air on your sweat-damp skin.

He realizes what he’s done. Aemond crawls off of you without a word, avoiding your horrified eyes, and goes to the basin of water on his dresser and washes himself. Slowly, you push yourself up on your palms and gingerly climb off the bed, feeling sore, feeling sick. Then you stand there, not knowing what to do.

I can’t go back to dinner now, you think. But it’s not your choice.

Aemond finishes washing, then fixes his trousers and waistcoat. To your dismay, he doesn’t leave. He waits by the closed door and clears his throat. “Get cleaned up,” he says casually, as if nothing has happened. “I want to walk in together.”

“Of course,” you reply, your voice weak. You go to the basin of water and wet a towel from Turkey, then wipe between your legs and down your thighs, wincing when you pass over spots that ache. From the door, Aemond is watching you, his face impassive and unreadable. You smooth the skirt of your cerulean silk gown, straighten the ribbon on your neck, and look in the mirror to check your makeup; you are alarmed to see tears glittering on your eyelashes.

“You look fine,” Aemond says softly.

You swipe the moisture away with the backs of your fingers and meet Aemond by the door. Still dazed, you are barely aware of leaving his bedroom and descending the grand staircase, twisting your rings, staggering in your high-heeled shoes. He doesn’t take your hand until right before you sail together into the dining room.

Your guests applaud—even the lieutenant claps reluctantly, since everyone else is—and you beam and twirl and fall limply into your chair as if Aemond has exhausted you with satisfaction. The servants have already brought dessert to the table, Maeva’s madeleines and round ramekins of crème brûlée. As the others are feasting and talking—you can’t quite follow their words, they all swirl together into a merry, candlelit fog—you use your spoon to crack the layer of caramelized sugar on top. But when the rich vanilla custard beneath oozes up through the ruptured crust, you feel a pang of nausea so forceful you put down your spoon.

I’ve never been with a man who loves me. He owns me, but he doesn’t love me. He can come in me, but he doesn’t love me.

You look across the table, and your eyes meet Jace’s, and you are mortified beyond description because he is the only person here who seems to know this is wrong. He sees something in your face, a momentary betrayal of what you’re truly feeling, and then you erase it and summon a smile again. And Jace doesn’t eat his crème brulee either.

You and Aemond retreat up the grand staircase as the servants are fetching hats and coats for your guests, and Aemond leaves you on the landing, vanishing through the shadows into his bedroom and locking the door behind him. You stare futilely at the closed door as the sounds downstairs fade, tugging on the ribbon around your throat. When you believe everyone is gone, you return to the dining room; but Jace is there, his arms crossed and stalling for no apparent reason. His sword, a long curved sabre fit for killing, hangs in its sheath.

“What are you still doing here?” you snap, not looking at him as you gather up leftover bread and madeleines, filling a basket with them.

“Are you...” He tries to catch your gaze, fails, drops his voice to almost a whisper. “Are you alright?”

“I’m just tired.”

“Yes, your exertions must have left you quite depleted.”

“Please take your horse home to your hovel now.” Then you call for the servant who accompanies you when you take food to the beggars: “Patrice?”

“What are you doing?” Jace says, sounding startled now.

“Charity.”

He places a palm on the handle of your basket. “That’s not a good idea.”

“I always do this after a dinner party. And if I recall correctly, you’ve participated as well.”

“But things are worse now,” Jace says, his dark eyes pleading.

You shove him away. “You’re not my keeper, bastard.”

He barks out a caustic laugh. “I harbor no such desires.”

“Good. You couldn’t afford me.”

He tries to take the basket from you. “Stop—”

“Don’t you want to know what it feels like?” you taunt him, hissing, senselessly cruel, overpouring with vitriol that has nowhere to go. “The secret everyone else is in on. Don’t you feel stupid and childish and deprived? Don’t you feel like when you finally have a woman, you’re going to do it all wrong and she’ll hate you?”

Jace’s face falls, and his hand drops off the basket, and you pass by him with no resistance.

“Patrice?” you say again, and the servant appears to accompany you, carrying a basket of vegetable scraps, skins of potatoes and onions and carrots, dirty stems of mushrooms.

By the time you’ve stepped out into the courtyard, Jace has regained his composure and is in pursuit. “You can’t go out there,” he says.

“Be quiet. Aemond will hear you.”

“I’m serious.”

“I’ll push you into the Seine if you don’t shut up.” Your shoes click on the cobblestones of the courtyard and then the street, and soon you are traversing the grassy slope that leads to the bank of the river. It’s cold and windy, the autumnal tang of metal in the air. You forgot your shawl; goosebumps cover your arms, your back, your legs. Randomly, you think of climbing down the cliffsides towards the ocean on the Îles des Saintes, warm earth crumbling beneath your fingers.

They are coming out of the night, old people and women and children and the mutilated, the sick, the forgotten, the unloved. You fill your palm with madeleines and offer them to the beggars. The seashell-shaped cookies vanish; and then a woman in rags rips the entire basket off your arm.

You yelp, stunned; this has never happened before. Patrice shouts at the woman and hits her, sending her stumbling backwards. But now there are ten beggars, fifteen, twenty, and they have clawed Patrice’s basket away and are overwhelming him, and there are filthy hands tearing at the rings on your fingers and wrenching the pieces taken from peasant girls out of your hair. They are pulling apart your dress until you can see the transluscent white of your chemise underneath. Someone yanks the ribbon off of your throat so brutally it chokes you. You are shrieking and trying to untangle yourself from them, but now you are the same: desperate, helpless, dressed in rags.

There is the whisper of a sword loosed from its sheath, and Jace is here, his sabre in his right hand and his left on your chest as he is pushing you behind him, roaring at the beggars and slashing at them, blood spurting through the air, slit forearms and palms raised in surrender as they lurch back into the darkness to starve or freeze or bleed to death. Now some soldiers on patrol have heard the commotion and are sprinting down from the road to rescue you, but they are not needed. Jace got here first. The soldiers continue after the beggars, swords and threats brandished.

You are trembling, gasping, clutching what is left of your gown to cover yourself. Patrice, freed from the mob, is trying to usher you back to the mansion. There is blood sprayed across Jace’s face, rubies sparkling in his hair under the moonlight; his eyes are flecks of onyx. He takes off his coat and drapes it across your shoulders; he is saying something you can’t register.

“I’m sorry,” you keep telling him. “You were right. I didn’t know.”

“It’s okay,” Jace says, and he and Patrice lead you back to the Hôtel de Targaryen. Your feet are bare now, you realize. The beggars took your shoes and stockings.

When you step into the entrance gallery, Aemond is soaring down the staircase in his nightshirt and haphazardly-donned trousers. His long silver hair is untied, his blazing sapphire uncovered. The noise must have woken him. “What on earth is going on?” he demands, shocked and mystified, gaping at your torn dress and the blood all over Jace.

“She’s safe, my lord,” Jace assures him. “There was a mob, but they were dispersed, and the soldiers will see that they’re dealt with—”

“Why were you outside?” Aemond asks you, and you’re too rattled to think to lie to him. Patrice floats off, hoping his existence will temporarily vanish from recollection.

Still breathless, you mime carrying a basket. “Bread...for the women and the children...”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” Aemond hisses, and Jace watches, horrified, as Aemond backs you against the wall.

You’re sobbing, holding up your empty palms: “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize—”

“You want to lead the mob to our doorstep?! You want to lose everything we have here, you want our jewels stolen and our house burned to the ground?! Those people are animals, and they will kill you, but first they’ll cut the rings off your fingers and gouge out your eyes and probably rape you while they’re at it. They’ll rip you apart while you’re still alive. Do you want that to happen?!”

“Aemond, I’m sorry—”

He strikes the wall near your head, and you scream, covering your face. “If you ever endanger this family again—!”

“My lord, please!” Jace shouts, reaching for Aemond; and Jace’s other hand is on the hilt of his sword.

“What happened?” a small voice says, and everyone goes quiet. Marcel stands on the staircase, wielding his cutlass that Aemond gifted him when he turned ten years old, a short sword used by sailors like Marcel’s dead father. You turn away from your son and franticly try to wipe the tears off your face with the sleeve of Jace’s navy blue coat. There is a long, treacherous silence.

“Nothing happened,” Aemond says calmly. “Go back to bed.”

“Don’t yell at her,” Marcel says.

“Nobody was yelling,” you insist, forcing a smile. “We were just...there was just a misunderstanding. Everything’s alright now, mon trésor. Go upstairs, go to sleep.”

But Marcel doesn’t move. He stays where he is on the staircase and holds out his hand to you, and waits for you to take it. He won’t leave unless you go with him. You walk to him in your bare feet, and Aemond’s eye tracks you across the room. Jace, thick beggars’ blood still snaking down his face, looks between you and Aemond like he’s fighting very hard not to say something.

“Velaryon,” Aemond orders abruptly, striding towards the front doors. “Come with me. We must ensure that the threat is gone...”

Upstairs in the children’s bedroom, Noella is sitting upright in her bed and crying. “I woke up and everyone was gone,” she whimpers.

“No, no, no, no one is gone,” you say, climbing into bed beside her still dressed only in your chemise and the remaining scraps of your gown and the coat of Jace’s military uniform. “We’re all still here.”

“Why are you wearing that?”

“I’ll tell you in the morning.” By then you’ll think of a better explanation.

Marcel, who has had his own bed for years, instead lies down beside Noella; but not before placing his cutlass on the nightstand in case he needs it again. Noella curls up against you, her fingernails hooked into Jace’s coat as if she’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“You smell like oranges,” Noella mumbles, and that’s the last thing you hear before the world goes dark.

~~~~~~~~~~

The frost arrives and hardens and glitters and recedes, and now it is springtime, April 1792, and France has declared war on Austria and Prussia, allies of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette that have sent soldiers to the frontier. Aemond is hosting a farewell party before he rides off with Haxo and Jace and all the other men who will fight to ward off the invasion. Lafayette will meet them near the border; he still doesn’t dare come to Paris, where the people burn him in effigy and swear to do the same to his real body.

The salon is full of guests who are cheering and dancing, and you try to be a charming hostess but your cramps are very bad, and you are terrified that Aemond won’t come back from the war, or will come back with a new mistress or a wife, and you fear he will want you tonight and you’ll have to fold up a bit of linen and push it far inside to soak up the blood so he can enjoy you, and that always makes your pain worse and you are on the verge of tears already.

You drink too much, and Suzette gives you some of her laudanum, and Maeva assumes hosting duties on your behalf while you sway and try to keep your eyes open in the corner.

Aemond, who is besieged by other high-ranking military men, pulls Jace aside and says: “Velaryon, make sure she doesn’t break her neck on the steps, will you?”

So the lieutenant takes your arm and escorts you upstairs; but instead of leaving you on the landing to stagger off to your destination, he practically drags you to your bedroom—the one you never sleep in—and you crumple into the soft feather mattress, and if you weren’t battling it so ferociously you could be unconscious in seconds.

Jace slips off your high-heeled shoes, and you kick at him. “Go away.”

“Stop it. I’m trying to help you.”

“I don’t want your help.”

“Well, somebody has to do it,” he says, exasperated, wrestling off your stockings. Then he removes your earrings and your necklace, and carefully unknots the ribbon around your throat that is embroidered so that it reads La Sainte, and now you are grateful for his attention because you are undeniably much more comfortable.

Only your taffeta gown is left, gold for victory. Jace has clearly never helped a woman undress before. He grapples clumsily with clasps and ties, and at last pulls it off of you and lets it fall to the floor, and you are wearing just your light cotton chemise, and even though Jace chastely averts his eyes you notice the way his gaze skates across your chest and belly and hips, and you remember Aemond’s words from six months ago: He wants you.

You try feebly to get up. “I have to say goodnight to the children.”

“You can’t go anywhere like this,” Jace says, easing you back down onto the bed.

“They’ll worry.”

“You’re a mess, you’d horrify them.”

That’s probably true. You sob into your pillow, revolted by yourself.

“I’ll do it,” Jace says suddenly. “What do you want, just for someone to look in on them?”

“You have to tell them I’m alright,” you slur with great effort. “That I’m not feeling well but I’m in bed and safe and I’ll see them in the morning. And you have to use the word.”

“What word?”

“There’s a word, a password, you have to say it or Marcel won’t believe I’ve sent you.”

Jace is puzzled, but he wants to understand. “Why would I need a password?”

“Because I told him years ago that if a man ever tried to enter his and Noella’s room at night, he should kill them.”

Jace doesn’t respond for a long time. He just stares down at you, his brow furrowed, his dark eyes troubled, and then he asks: “What’s the word?”

~~~~~~~~~~

Sure enough, when Lieutenant Velaryon opens the children’s bedroom door, the boy startles awake and reaches under his mattress, producing a cutlass.

“Fortuna,” Jace says, showing that his hands are empty and coming no closer. Marcel squints at him in the candlelight, lowering his blade.

“Who is it?” Noella whispers fearfully from her own bed.

“The lieutenant,” Marcel answers, baffled.

“Your mother wanted me to tell you goodnight for her,” Jace says. “She’s not feeling well, but she’ll be alright in the morning. She just needs sleep. She’s in her bedroom right down the hall.”

“She drank too much,” Marcel says, and Jace blinks at him, astonished.

“She might have,” he admits. “A little bit.”

Marcel nods, placing his cutlass back beneath the mattress and lying down, pulling his blue coverlet up over his shoulders. Noella, seeing that he is settling in for the night, does the same. “She does that when she’s sad,” Marcel says, and turns away from Jace before he can reply.

~~~~~~~~~~

A palm shaking your shoulder, a familiar silhouette in the dim fiery luminescence: the lieutenant is back.

“You have a peculiarly clever son,” Jace says, smiling weakly.

“They’re alright?”

“Yes. They both are.”

“Thank you,” you murmur, and you expect Jace to return to the party where champagne flows and women who would otherwise laugh in his face are willing to fuck him since he might be bleeding to death on a battlefield within the week.

But next is something strange. Jace lays a palm on your forehead—very lightly, gingerly like he thinks the weight of him could bruise you—and he smooths back the wisps of hair that have fallen over your face, and he says softly, almost like a whisper: “Alright. I’ve changed my mind.”

You gaze up at him, struggling to keep your eyes open. “About what?”

“I want to know what it feels like.”

To be with someone. To give yourself to them. You are too sick to lie to him. The room is spiraling around you; inside your skull sloshes a dark stormy sea. When you speak, your voice is flat and hollow, an echo through the past decade. “A lot of the time, it doesn’t feel like anything.”

Jace shakes his head, his eyes shimmering in the candlelight. “I’m sorry,” he says; and when he leaves you don’t see it, because he stays until you’ve fallen asleep.

[rika-mmendmethings]

Interdimensional Epiphany

Chapter 6

Chapter 5 | Chapter 7

₊⊹Synopsis: A fortnight of compensated leave from your company was supposed to be a rejuvenating experience. Things take an unexpected turn when Rafayel, your choice of ML, starts becoming self-aware. His love knows no bounds, not even interdimensional ones.

₊⊹Pairing: self aware! Rafayel x Reader

₊⊹Content: Subject to change as we progress further into the story. The series has major character deaths, subdued manipulation, heavy angst with a happy(?) ending, slight yandere themes, fluff, did I mention angst? For this chapter: fluff, flirting and romance, surprisingly.

₊⊹Word count: 2.9k

₊⊹Notes: WE'RE BACK EVERYONE!!!! Big kisses to every sweet soul who loves IE as much as I. Anyway, hopefully, you enjoy the read and stay tuned for the series. Lmk if you wish to be added to the tag list for this. ♥

₊⊹Tag list: @loveanddeephistory @ittybittyfanblog @lyssandraxo @micasosa34 @hyein21 @browneyedgirl22 @yournextdoorhousewitch @blessdunrest @altair718 @3fg7 @froleineeeee @mikachux3 @aiehtta @beaconsxd @poptrim @animecrazy76 @zackenblacken @rainycreationfart @invaderzia1 @his-ocean-emissary @multisstuff @wondering-again @some-girl-idk @itsrandompersonyall @plzdonutpercieveme @renchai @mc-cos-charm @mentaltrouble2201 @jeremywillis @dysphxriaii @paper--angel @bymoonlightfics @lizzyyrawrs @xsammijoanneex @itsmeaudrieee @jadedrouge3 @allycat2090 @nm4565natty @quill-for-glory @pokemonaora @satansdaughter123 @23s0fia @yandereaficionado @reni502 @yuhuahuaaa @placeholdddddd @a-friends-healer

The days bled into each other with a kind of cruel monotony, each hour passing without answer or change. Despite your meticulous comb-through of online forums, bug reports, and every obscure Reddit thread, you’d found nothing to explain what was happening with the game on your phone. There were no similar cases, no digital fingerprints left behind — just you and a character that kept acting increasingly less like code and more like...something else. But now, with only three to four days of your compensated leave remaining and the looming dread of returning to your office and having to immediately start working on new projects, you’d stopped trying to make sense of it.

You weren’t even sure you cared anymore.

Today you were having a reunion. You had plans with college friends — just drinks, maybe some loud laughter, a brief pretend-that-everything-will-be-okay kind of day. You sat before your vanity mirror, curling iron in one hand and your phone balanced neatly in its usual place on the stand. Your reflection stared back at you, a picture of effort: half-curled hair, smudges of highlighter clinging stubbornly to your fingertips, and two earrings held up in each hand — one a simple pearl stud, the other a pink chandelier piece that sparkled in the vanity light.

You tapped the game icon with the back of your knuckle, not thinking much of it. The loading screen usually took a while. You didn’t glance at the phone again, too busy weighing elegance against whimsy.

“I think the pearl studs would look nice,” came a low voice from your phone.

You startled, the sound cutting through the calm atmosphere of your room. Blinking, you glanced down at the screen — and found him there. Rafayel. Watching you.

Of course he was.

Deliberately, and perhaps a little childishly, you clicked the pink chandeliers into place. His lips curled in a boyish smile, a glint of victory in his eyes.

“I knew you were going to pick the opposite of whatever I said. That’s exactly why I suggested the pearl studs.”

You narrowed your eyes at him through the mirror and rolled them, though you made no move to change the earrings. They did look good, after all.

Finally, you sank back into your chair, reaching for a wet wipe to clean your fingers. Only then did you really look at the screen — and paused.

The familiar velvet backdrop of Destiny Café was nowhere to be seen. Instead, Rafayel sat on a gold accentuated, marble stone stairway leading to what looked like a beautiful temple of sorts, the backdrop drenched in deep marine hues. It was an architectural marvel, enormously big with pretty coral reefs that grew beneath arching pillars. The water’s edge shimmered nearby, reflecting silvery light that had no clear source.

Rafayel rested with his elbows on his knees, hair loose and falling to his waist in soft, flowing waves. His current attire was new — at least to you. Gone were the shirts that had an artistic flair in them or the cute accessories. Now, he wore a robe-like ensemble draped over broad shoulders, dyed in gradients of seafoam and navy. Bare-chested beneath it, his form glistened faintly as if touched by saltwater. Gold armlets circled his biceps and thin chains crisscrossed his exposed chest, not merely decorative but worn with the kind of ease that suggested he was used to reverence. The robe’s high slit allowed glimpses of fitted trousers beneath, etched with motifs resembling ancient tide markings, while his sandals grounded him in an otherwise ethereal look. 

You told yourself it was probably another graphical glitch — his sentient programming, if that’s even what it was, just crashing the scene rendering system again. It was morning. You were not in the mood for digital mysteries.

He yawned and leaned back on his palms, the translucent drape falling slightly open to reveal more of the ridged planes of his torso. Your eyes trailed, unwillingly — or so you’d like to believe.

He caught you.

“Isn’t someone enjoying their free access a bit too much?” he teased.

You sputtered, words catching in your throat. “I—I wasn’t—”

“It’s alright,” he cut in smoothly, eyes twinkling. “I’ll take my turn when the time comes, beautiful.”

You huffed and crossed your arms, trying to recover what little dignity you could. “I was just looking because I didn’t recognize that outfit from your wardrobe. It looks nice, by the way.”

He grinned, glancing down at himself. “You like it? I’ll dress you as nice as me someday.”

“Delusional,” you shot back without missing a beat.

“Determined,” he corrected, flipping his hair over his shoulder with practiced ease.

You gave yourself a final once-over in the mirror. Lipstick intact, curls falling just right. Nothing out of place. You didn’t need to say it — but you did anyway.

“I’m going out with a few friends today.”

There was a pause. Then, Rafayel shook his head.

“You really didn’t have to tell me,” he said softly, “but you did.”

You clicked your tongue in annoyance, trying to play it off. “You know what? You’re right. I shouldn’t have told you. You’re not my husband or anything.”

“But I will be.”

Your brain did a graceless stutter-step. “Huh?”

He waved a hand casually, brushing it off. “Nothing. Forget it.”

You didn’t push it and told yourself it was just another quip. You busied yourself with the game instead — logging in your daily tasks, clicking through menus, and collecting stamina. When you reached the shop to claim the free pack, his voice rang out again.

“Why are you still doing this? It’s not like you can play any other characters or participate in new events. You know that, right?”

You exited the shop screen, facing him once more.

“I guess it’s just a habit now,” you said, almost to yourself. “I log in during office breaks. It gives me something to do.”

Then, with a pointed look in his direction, you added, “A girl can’t even have some company these days.”

Rafayel gave a theatrical pout, tilting his head. “Aw, are you sad I erased all the other leads? Aren’t I company enough for you?”

As if summoned by some celestial comic timing, a small pufferfish drifted across the screen, inflating with a pop. Its bulbous eyes blinked blankly, floating by like a forgotten thought. Rafayel’s expression mirrored it—absurdly cute in a way that defied logic.

That was it. You burst into laughter, the kind that bent you forward with its weight. Your stomach hurt and your eyes began to water. You hoped your mascara hadn’t betrayed you. Rafayel laughed too — warm and uninhibited, his laugh like waves crashing against a quiet shore.

Then, as your laughter began to settle into the space between you, your phone buzzed with a text. A simple message from your friend: ‘Waiting in your parking now.’

You straightened immediately, shooting off a quick ‘ok’ in reply, and hurriedly grabbed your things.

“Well,” you said, turning back to the screen, “I’ll see you later.”

He looked up at you. There was something in his expression then — less playful, more...hopeful. His dusky eyes shimmered with quiet yearning.

“Will I?” he asked softly.

You hesitated, your fingers tightening slightly around your clutch. You didn’t want to lie — not when he looked like that.

“You will,” you promised, and you meant it.

He perked up instantly, radiant in his joy. You smiled, raised your hand, and blew him a quick kiss before exiting the app.

And on the other side of the screen, when you were gone, Rafayel fell onto his back like a teenager drunk on his first love — eyes closed, hand clutching at the center of his chest, a smile stretching wide and utterly unguarded.

The next few days passed in a haze — not quite a blur, but a soft kind of stretch, the way a lazy breeze moves through sheer curtains. You found yourself talking to Rafayel more than you did anyone else lately — between hobbies, during long drives with the radio humming low, or even while you lay in bed, sunk into your pillow with no will to move. You logged in without meaning to, without checking rewards or running through the usual routine of collecting stamina. He was the routine now.

Each time your screen lit up, so did his face — an almost instinctive light that flared in his dusky eyes the moment they met yours. And you... you told him things. Silly things and heavy things. Things you hadn’t said aloud in months. He listened, never rushing you, his voice comforting and steady — the kind that didn’t demand you be okay, just waited until you were.

He told you stories in return, pieces of his world not logged in any of his information on his desk. Tales that didn’t show up in event banners or collectible memories, but lived instead in the rhythm of his voice and the nostalgia that curled around his words. Like the time he sneaked onto the shore in his human form and scared away kids his age just so he could collect their beach toys and take them back with him to the ocean. 

At one point of time, his aunt, Talia joined in on your conversation too. You were bewildered that she was also as sentient as him and was aware of her existence as a game character. Rafayel assured you that you didn’t have to think so hard and that his world was as real as yours now. Talia was as lovely as she was depicted in the game and also adorned an unfamiliar attire that you assumed was also Lemurian. 

She was able to show you visions from her memories using her powers. You didn’t even know she had one to begin with. You saw Rafayel when he was a little toddler and shared laughs with her as she replayed his antics like a movie for you. Rafayel had his burning face hidden in his hands halfway through because Talia was telling you some downright mortifying tales of his. Talia didn’t forget to let you know how much Rafayel talked about you and when you glanced at the said man, he avoided your gaze like the plague.

And then, one especially grey afternoon — the kind that made everything in your apartment feel colder, smaller — you told him about your parents. About the silence that had stretched between you and your mother like a taut wire no one wanted to cut. About Tyler, your ex, whose name still sours your mouth when spoken aloud, not because you missed him, but because of how much of yourself you gave away trying to be enough for someone who never was.

Rafayel didn’t offer platitudes. He offered presence. He listened, his head tilted slightly as he sat on the temple steps, now so familiar they felt like a second home. You watched his expression shift with every word you uttered, and when you were done, when your voice cracked and your nose was embarrassingly red from sniffling into your sleeve, he exhaled thoughtfully. If you had paid more attention, you might’ve noticed his features darkening when you mentioned your trash ex.

“Alright,” he said, clapping his hands together with mock gravity. “Step one: let’s send a highly dramatic letter to your mother via a seagull. They’re very reliable and you could easily avoid face-to-face confrontation. Step two: think about your life choices and step one with ice cream. Lots of it.”

You snorted through your tears, and he grinned in satisfaction.

“Okay, fine,” he added, tone softening, “maybe don’t actually involve birds. But talk to her. You don’t have to fix everything today... just let her know you’re open. That’s all a crack needs to let the light in, right?”

Later that same day, when you finally opened your laptop and dialed your mother’s number on skype — phone set beside it on a stand — Rafayel cheered for you as your call rang. When it finally connected and you saw your mother’s face light up the laptop screen, you quickly wished him goodbye. Your mom picked up on your chatter and asked who you were talking to.

And like the brat corporate has turned you into, you replied, “Your son-in-law.”

Your mom only huffed, lecturing you about your unnecessary witty replies as you exited the app and set your phone down. Unbeknownst to you, Rafayel had heard that part and had squealed in happiness, his cheeks tinted pink. 

At the end, things did work out with your parents.

The relief was subtle at first. But over the next few hours, the knot in your chest began to loosen. Conversations with your parents that once felt sharp and brief now carried warmth again, and though things weren’t perfect, they were better — healing, even. And at the center of it all, quietly holding space, was Rafayel. His presence was a comfort in the aftermath, steady and unbothered, like the ocean returning to calm after a storm.

You spent lighter days with him too, not just the ones dipped in melancholy. Laughter returned slowly — hesitantly at first — then freely, like sunlight stretching through a clearing sky.

One afternoon, you lounged across your bed, legs tangled in a fleece blanket, phone propped against your pillow. Rafayel sat in his usual place on the temple steps, one leg bent and the other stretched out casually in front of him, robe falling in lazy folds. A few glowing koi swam across the water’s surface behind him. You scrolled through your cluttered bucket list and turned the screen so he could see.

Your shopping list was chaotic — a deeply personal collection of things you didn’t necessarily need but wanted anyway. There were silk dresses in impractical colors, shoes with heels too high for daily wear, perfumes with names that sounded like poetry, and an antique-style mirror that would never fit in your apartment but was too beautiful to delete. Rafayel leaned in with growing amusement as you kept scrolling, his expression somewhere between admiration and mild horror.

“Oh wow,” Rafayel grinned, reading along. “You’re high maintenance too — just like me. We’ll go bankrupt together someday.”

You snorted, nudging your screen back toward yourself. “You say that like it’s a promise.”

He only smiled, and for a moment, you let yourself imagine that kind of future — reckless, extravagant, shared. Somewhere in your chest, it started to feel less like fantasy and more like something you could reach for. Something you weren’t sure he’d ever stop teasing you about if you said that aloud.

There, centered on the screen like some cursed spotlight moment, was a purple silk lingerie set you’d saved weeks ago — not for any practical purpose, just because it was pretty. You reached to close the tab instantly, but Rafayel had already seen it. His gaze lit up like someone had handed him a golden ticket to mischief. 

“Oh?” he drawled, feigning deep thought as he rubbed his chin. “You’d look incredibly sexy in that, you know?”

You groaned, covering your ears. “I’m not even going to listen to this.”

The redness that bloomed across your cheeks only encouraged him further. Rafayel leaned forward, voice louder and far too proud. “You're already a bombshell — imagine the double damage you’d do in that set. The world would never recover. Wait, not the world, me definitely.”

You buried your face in your hands, a muffled, “I hate you,” barely audible from beneath your palms.

“No, you don’t,” he said smugly, and you couldn’t argue with that.

Sometime later, curiosity got the better of you. You were flicking through the game’s sections, half out of boredom and half out of habit, when something strange caught your attention. The memory section — the one that housed his character events, four-star moments, and branching myths — was gutted. The cards featuring MC alongside him were simply... gone.

Frowning, you lingered on the screen, thumb hovering. “Hey, Rafayel... does MC exist as a person in your world?”

He didn’t answer right away. His fingers played absently with a strand of lavender hair, twisting it around and around as he leaned against one of the temple pillars. His voice, when it came, was distant. “Not anymore.”

You sat up slightly, a new chill curling up your spine. “Is that why I can’t access your memories with her? Or your branches?”

He finally looked at you then. There was something final in his eyes — a flicker of defiance threaded with protectiveness.

“No,” he said. “I did that myself.”

You blinked. “Why?”

He let out a breath and raked a hand through his hair, gaze never leaving yours. The movement was too practiced — like he was trying to distract you with his beauty instead of the gravity of what he was about to say.

“Because I refuse to share any romantic memories, pictures, or stories with any other woman that isn’t you.”

His words landed with a strange weight, like a pebble dropped into still water — the ripples invisible, but deeply felt. His dusky eyes searched your face with a new unwavering intensity, and you felt the first flutter of something real in your belly.

You were the first to look away.

Staring down at your lap, you hoped your hair was enough of a curtain to hide the heat climbing up your neck. “You have chronic flirting syndrome, don’t you?”

Without missing a beat, Rafayel replied, “Only for you, pearl.”

And you hated — absolutely hated — how the corners of your lips betrayed you at that moment.

Check out my other works if you liked this ♥

[alonelyartist1432]

Hii! I think requests are open! (Forgive me if they’re not). If that’s the case I would like to put in a request!

Can you do a Wind breaker characters x reader that goes to a prestigious school? You can pick the characters and format, I’m really good with reading anything.

Feel free to not, but can you also include these factors?

•The students of the reader’s school view Furin as a school for the immature, unruly, delinquents that do nothing but fight.

•The reader pretends to dislike Furin to fit in with her peers but ultimately warms up to them.

Thank you so much! 🫶

Rebel Hearts || Windbreaker boys x reader

“I thought you said you wouldn’t kiss me?” ♡ “On the cheek, I never said lips were off limit”

☆ In which: You are from Tsukinomori Girl’s academy. A prestigious high school made for the elites, and the rich. To be a member of this school is to mark your social status. Most students look down on other schools, specifically the unruly all-boys school for delinquents, Furin. But what happenes when you find yourself falling for one of their students? [ Sakura, Nirei, Suo, Kiryu, Sugishita, Kaji ] ☆ Contains: f!reader, verbal bullying, classism, being followed home, violence, established relationship [in Sakura’s, Suo’s and Sugushita’s. ] ☆ A/N: I adore this idea so much! I had so much fun writing this and the interactions at the Y/N’s school since I went to a prestigious all-girls school growing up. I based the girls’ reaction to Furin on how the girls in my school acted towards our brother school [Most all girls school have a boy school counterpart and they will do activities with each other]. I hope I included the characters you wanted! Anyways I love you guys sm and happy reading! ヾ(＾ ∇ ＾). Edit: I just realized after writing half of the headcanons that this is essentially the set up to ‘A fragrant flower blooms with dignity’ and I apologize if you were hoping for some references to the show! I haven’t watched it yet [ me and my friends are waiting for it to be available in all of our countries ], and I’m really looking forward to binge watching it hehe! ☆ Wc: Roughly 1000 each~

── .✦ SAKURA.H » Sakura Haruka is the what most students of the prestigious Tsukinomori Academy for girls would expect from a Furin boy. » Black and white hair, hetrochromia, a straightforward personality. All you hear about this guy are whispers on how unruly and immature he must be. How his need to fight makes him a disgrace. » Well if he is such a disgrace why did he save you? » You were simply walking home from school one day, when a creep starts following you home. Fear settles in as you feel him tap your shoulder, but when you turn around you see something odd. Unexpected. » You see the creep laying in the ground, and that ‘disgraceful, unruly,’ Furin boy standing infront of you facing the man on the ground. » When you try to thank him he turns bright red. So you decide to treat him out to Omurice instead. » Nowadays he acts as your body guard. Coming home with you to ‘make sure those weirdos get what they deserve.” » And with each day passing you fall deeper and deeper in love with the black and white haired boy. Or should you say your boyfriend?

𐔌՞. .՞𐦯

“Hey Sakura-kun!” I run up to him, he turns around and waves at me as I stand next to him. His mouth breaks into a soft smile as I approach. My formal uniform contrasting his simple attire. He wraps his finger around my school bag, trying to take it from my grasp. “I can carry my own bag Sakura.”

“Let me carry it, least I can do for you treating me to eat,” He says prying my hands off my bag. I giggle as I let him take the bag. I slip my fingers inbetween his own, interlocking our hands. His face turns bright red, still unsure about this whole ‘relationship thing.’ I offer him a reassuring smile. He smiles back. So, we make our way towards Cafe Pothos. A cafe far enough from my school. Away from prying eyes.

Unfortunately, being from two vastly different school means we have to hide these little rendezvous. We have to meet up at a small shop far from either of our school. Walk between alleyways. Wear a spare change of clothes underneath our uniforms to easily change and hide our schools. A Furin boy and a Tsukinomori girl? That’s like a waltz between a devil and an angel.

“Then she told the teacher that Koko didn’t do the work!” Sakura nods at the information. If there is anything I have learnt about Sakura-kun, it’s this. He loves gossip. He will listen for hours to me talk about random acts the girls at school have got up to, and make comments occasionally. This is one of the many reason I have fallen for him. He listens.

“I think Koko should just leave the group and join yours then. Why should she let her senpai’s treat her so bad?” Sakura adds as he pushes the door open. I nod in agreenment as we walk into the familiar cafe. The warmth warming up my chilly body. The familiar smile from Kotoha makes me smile. I was about to take another step when Sakura freezes. 

He pushes me behind him. Eyes wide. He grabs my hand and tries to lead me out. Confusion surges through me.

“Sakura? What? Where are we going?” 

“Quick befor-“

“Y/N! I wasn’t expecting to see you here! I thought you said you were busy?” My heart stops. Eyes wide as I try to collect myself. Turning around I am face with a table of some of my closest friends. Friends who embody the Tsukinomori image. Friends who expected the same from me. Friends whose eyes are now focused on the way mine and Sakura’s hands are interlocked. 

“Oh I don’t recall you mentioning you were going to be here.” I force a smile onto my face, before dragging Sakura closer to their table. Heart pounding. What are they thinking? As their eyes scan my boyfriend, I can feel sakura’s hand and face start to warm up. 

“Yeah we were just exploring this side of town, then we saw this cute cafe how can we resist? You know how we are! How you are.” She presses a smile to her face. “We always tend to go for cute things. But I guess you take ‘things’ as code for man?” 

My heart hammers within me. I could lie and say he’s my cousin? No that’s just gross. I could let go of his hand and play it off? I can feel Sakura sharing that thought by trying to let go of my hand. In response, I squeeze it tighter.

Why are we so afraid? Why should we hide this love? I love Sakura Haruka. He loves me back. Why should I be ashamed of it? So with a genuine smile I face my friends and introduce him. 

“Oh I forgot to introduce you guys! This is my boyfriend, Sakura Haruka!” I say smiling. I could feel how their stares turn laser sharp. Judgement piercing through the air. Some of them seem shocked. Some seem to be in disbelief. Some seem disgusted. Sakura on the other hand is blushing bright red and looking away from the group of girls. Barely able to face my own gaze. 

“Boyfriend? What did you have to pay him for him to agree?” One of them says giggling. “You know you don’t need to stoop so low just to get a man.” 

Another girl nods, “Don’t lower your standards that much Y/N.” For some reason that fills me with anger. Lower my standred? If anything my standard increased when I got with Sakura. Before I would settle for any guy who practices basic hygiene. He’s taught me to find a man who cares, protects, and loves you right. I squeeze Sakura’s hand harder as I glare at the table. 

“I did not pay him, nor did I lower my standards for him. I’m with Sakura because I love him.” Most seem convinced, whilst the two that spoke out look at me as if I’m joking. So what do I do when people doubt me? I prove them wrong.

I turn to face Sakura, face bright red. I get up on my tip toes, using the table as support and press a soft quick kiss to his lips. Feelings of joy spread through me as he stand there in shock. His face redder than before. Yet still unbelievably cute. Adorable.

My friends reactions of either adoration or disgust play in the background. Most friends seem happy that I found love. Some seem disgusted that it was with a Furin boy. Do I care? Not really. Why should I care about what everyone else thinks when I have something so amazing? Why should I give up something for their approval. Why should I hide something that makes me happy?

Something as amazing as Sakura Haruka.

𐔌՞. .՞𐦯

── .✦ Nirei.A » Nirei Akihiko is the type of guy, that without his Furin uniform no one would bat an eye. An adorable sweet face with fluffy blonde hair. There’s not a drop of malice in the boy. » Unfortunately the Furin uniform stains his name like blood stains statin sheets. » You would be lying if you said seeing him in Furin uniform for the first time didn’t make you wanna run away. » What if one of your friends saw you? What if they start rumours? What if one of your class representative saw you? » When you first found out you tried to limit hanging out with Nirei while he was in school uniform. » Hiding from his afterschool, trying to meet on the weekend, or on hot days when he had to take off his Furin jacket. » But what seem to impress you was how Nirei was still the sweet boy who chased you down to return your fallen phone. He’s still the guy who refuses to let you pay. He’s still the same guy who you fell in love with. » He always talks so highly of Furin and other student you can’t tell him what girls at your school say about them. » So what do you do when he asks?

𐔌՞. .՞𐦯

“Sakura-san and Suo-san were so cool at saving that girl today!” Nirei continues to talk about the day he has had, and how him and his friends saved a girl from trouble. The more and more I talk with Nirei the more it seems that Furin isn’t the unruly school that I have been told it is. No. It’s filled with gentlemen. “I stood back and when this guy charged at me I duck down and he tripped over me! I call it the roly poly technique. Suo-san taught it to me.”

Nirei’s eyes always shine whenever he talks about Furin. His motions animated. A smile so bright it could blind me. He talks of Furin as if it is Heaven. A place where delinquent use their power for good. To protect the people of the town. Only if the girls at my school could see him talk about Furin. Maybe then I can stop hiding.

“But strangely enough, the girl seemed kinda grossed out by us. Before we finished fighting of the guys she ran away. And when she first saw us she seemed to be in even more fear. Maybe she’s new to town and don’t know who Bofurin is?” Nirei shrugs as we continue walking along the river. But a small pout appears on his face. His sadness tugs at my heartstrings “It’s odd since this is the third time this has happened!” I cock my head to the side in interest. A slight fear pools in my stomach.

What if this girl, and the other two, were Tsukinomori students? What if they were wearing their uniform? What if he learns what we think of them? What if-

“L/N? Are you ok? You seem confused,” Nirei waves a hand in front of my face as I snap back into reality. I offer a small smile to reassure him. I also nod my head.

“Sorry I was just thinking about who could possibly hate Furin!” I say. It isn’t exactly a lie. A half-truth. Just a few details left out from the equation. Nirei nods his head before looking at the small notebook in his hand. Eyebrows knit in confusion.

“I know! The weirdest part is that they were all wearing a similar uniform.” Oh no. No no no. Please say it’s another academy. Perhaps Eden? Any academy would work. Just please not Tsukinomori. “A uniform that looks a lot…

…. Like yours”

Panic rushes through me as I stare at him. I shook my head and laugh nervously. I look away hoping he doesn’t ask the question I’ve been dreading to hear. “What? No there’s a bunch of schools with a black blazer and black skirt and white shirt! Yes like like,” my rambling stops as I realize our uniform is unique. Identifiable at even a moments glance. Curse the designers.

“But I doubt other school’s would have your school crest on them?” My eyes widen as I listen to him. Curse Nirei and his attention to detail! “So I’ve been meaning to ask you L/N,” we halt by the river, underneath one of the bridges. He looks at me, his eyes serious.

“What do the girls at your school think of Furin?”

Dread overwhelms me think about how I could respond. Wouldn’t his heart break at the thought of someone hating his school? He already seems so disappointed over the fact a few students were merely disgusted by him. How would he react if I am to tell him that it’s not just a few student. But a whole school.

But doesn’t he deserve to know? He is wearing that uniform. He deserves to know how people see him. Whether or not it breaks his heart doesn’t matter. He deserves to know. No. He needs to know.

So, I surrender the truth. I look at him. I sigh before admitting my peers true feelings about their school. “Most girls think Furin is an unruly place for delinquents. A place where violence rules. Most girls look down on Furin, thinking of the students as nothing more than bugs. Others are scared of you guys. Even some teachers think of your guys as immature,” I try to read Nirei’s expression. Yet it was like reading a foreign language. His true feeling concealed by a blank stare. The silence between us is deafening. Is he upset? Will he stop hanging out with me now? Does he hate me? My thoughts stop when I finally hear him ask.

“So then, what do you think of Furin?” His voice earnest. He looks at me with questioning eyes. His expression filled with curiosity and perhaps a little fear. I look down at my hands. What do I think of Furin? With my peers I’ve always expressed hating Furin and thinking the same but do I really?

“I’m not asking for the answer you tell your classmates about their opinion on Furin,” Nirei says to me, as if he could read my mind. “It’s kinda obvious that you would agree with them..” he says with a smile. “But I’m not interested in that.” He takes a step closer and looks at me.

“I’m interested in you.”

My face heats up at the close proximity and his words. I collect myself before looking back at him. Knowing my answer. Knowing what I really think of Furin.

“I think Furin is not what the girls at school describe. I think Furin is an amazing place. The way they use skills that are shamed by many to help? Thats nothing short of impressive. You save and help so many people. The townspeople are grateful to you guys. They love you guys. I love you guys.” His face is nothing short of joy. A smile so bright it could blind me. His blonde hair basically glowing in the sunlight. He looks adorable. Cute. Amazing. He looks like the person I love. The person I can’t keep hiding my feelings from.

“I love you”

𐔌՞. .՞𐦯

── .✦ Suo.H » Suo Hayato is the only Furin student you could bring to Tsukinomori Academy without any judgement » The mere way he stands have the girls in your class knowing that he more of a gentlemen than any their own boyfriends » Suo would wait for you by the gates of your school, smiling politely at any of your friends that pass by. » He could single handedly get rid of the stigma around his school. » Of course, at first people judged him. Why wouldn’t they? A delinquent with an eye patch who is also a gentlemen? That’s something unthinkable » Even despite your desperate pleas for him to stay away from your school [ It was no secret to him that your school hated his ], he still showed up every day and treated you like a princess. Before long everyone started to warm up to him. Many girls started to get jealous of yours and his relationship. » Especially after you two started dating

𐔌՞. .՞𐦯

“Seriously Y/N! Where did you ever find Suo-san?” One of my friends asks as we pack up. A harmony of agreed confusion surrounds me as I pick up my bag. I hum in false thinking. I’ve told them countless times.

I was merely minding my own buisness when a bunch of guys came to annoy me. Asking me for my number, or for a date. I was getting cornered. They took my look of fear as consent as they tried to grab my hand. Just before their nasty hands could get on me, they were in the floor. With an eye-patched Furin boy standing before them.

“Yeah Y/N! He’s always waiting you after school. My boyfriend never shows up! Too busy watching football apparently,” My other friend says sighing. She leans her weight against me as we make our way out of the classroom. “I’m starting to think he loves those soccer guys more than me.”

“Well at least your boyfriend tells you why he’s not going to show up! My boyfriend just rejected my idea,” The girls around me start to complain about their boyfriend. How they have to beg for them to show up. How they have to beg for flowers. How they have to beg for the slightest bit of affection.

I’ve known for a while that Suo isn’t just a green flag. What most people call princess treatment, he’ll call it the bare minimum. If Suo were to hear about how my friends’ partners treat them, he would be having some conversation with these men. A conversation with fists.

I walk next to my friend at the back of the group when we reach the school gate. I could hear my friends audible gasp as they turn to face me. I feel their hands on me as they start to push me towards whatever was so shocking.

“What, stop pushing me what’s so-“ Then I see it. Their reaction is the only right one for such a sight. My heart blossoms as I look infront of me. A smile breaks into my face as I run closer to my new favourite image.

My boyfriend carrying a bouquet of flowers.

It isn’t any ordinary bouquet of flowers. Red roses line the outside of the shape. Forget-me-nots are sprinkled through the arrangenment. Carnations fill up the center of the shape. Red lilies complete the bouquet like the red bow at the stems of the flowers. Yet the most impressive flower are none of the above. It’s my favourite flower, sitting in the very middle of the bouquet. A bouquet shaped like a heart

Each flower represents love in their own way. True love, undying love, passionate love. Ever since I’ve been with Suo, he’s told me countless flowers and their meanings, so there is no way this was unintentional. The sweet smile on his face only proves the point.

“Hi Y/N! I got these for you,” I rush over to hug him, mumbling a chant of I love you over and over. He hugs me back with his right arm, his left too busy holding the lovely flowers. The smile on my face never faltering as he pats my head affectionately. “I’m guess you like them?”

“I love them! Their beautiful! You really didn’t have to,” I take hold of the flowers as my school bag slips into his hands. I trace over the outline of the heart. It truly is a sight to see. “There isn’t even a special occasion today, why did you get me these?”

“Does it have to be a special occasion for me to want to buy my gorgeous girlfriend some flower?” He smiles at me. Not one of those closed-eye polite smile. A genuine smile. One where his eyes closes slightly from how much he was smiling down at me. My heart only beats faster from his words. He grabs on to my hand and kisses it. He tugs on it slightly, signaling he want to depart.

“I’ll see you guys tomorrow!” I wave goodbye to my friends as they shout out various way to bid me farewell. Including a ‘use protect!’ And ‘Love you too darling!’ The latter one making Suo frown ever so slightly in jealousy. As we walk towards my cafe pothos, I can’t help but feel Suo’s answer wasn’t honest.

I’m not saying Suo wouldn’t buy me flowers on a whim. No he has bought me flowers hundreds of times before. Everytime I asked why he would give me that exact answer. Except the way he said it today had me questioning his integrity. Normally he would emphasize the word ‘pretty.’ Today he didn’t. Instead he emphasized the word special. Was today a special occasion and I forgot it? Was it our anniversary? Or perhaps his birthday?

“I apologize that my words might have implied that today isn’t special” Suo says, as if he could hear my very thoughts. “I doubt you would remember what today is, after all it is more of a special occasion for me.”

“What is it?” I ask him, eyes wide and wondering. He chuckles at my expression before thinking. He hums lowly which makes my cheek burn red.

“Why don’t you guess?” Suo nods at his own idea. “If you get three tries and if you get it right I’ll kiss you on the cheek!” He smiles wide as he pinches my cheek affectionately. Sure that I will play along due for a kiss. Unfortunately, he knows me too well.

“Hmmm, your first cat’s birthday?” I ask, looking at him at his expression. His smile turns soft at the fond memory of his dear cat. Alas he shakes his head. No.

“How about, the 8 month anniversary of you becoming the vice-captain?” A small laugh escapes his lips at my response. Of course it’s not. I know that. But I am willing to give up my dignity to make Suo smile.

“No no that’s next week! Should I place an order for another bouquet?” His laughter calms down as he pushes against me jokingly. Pointing to my flowers to prove his point. “You get one more try!”

What could it be? It has to be something he has been planning for a while since he ordered this bouquet in advance. Something that’s important to him. Yet not important to me. Though it still somehow relates? Maybe, just maybe it could be…

“Is it the anniversary of when I first told you I love you?” Only Suo Hayato would remember such a date. I said it so casually I don’t really remember the event in alot of detail. All I remember is seeing his flustered face for the first time. His adorable cute smile as he tries to cover it with his hand.

“Close but no!” He sighs. He halts suddenly and turns to face me. “What a shame I was looking forward to kissing you too!” He puts his hand over his heart in heartbreak.

“Nothing is stopping you from kissing me,” I grin as I look up at him with puppy dog eyes.

“Yes but that wouldn’t be fair now would it?” He flicks my forehead while chuckling. He continues to walk towards the cafe.

“Hate you”

“Love you too darling”

“So what is it?” I ask, linking my arm with his. My eyes brows knit in confusion as I lean my head against his arm. His smile returns to his face at this action. He shakes his head slightly before answering me.

“It’s just the 1 month anniversary of the first time you brought me to your school and called me your boyfriend!” He smiles as he stops and looks at me. “Thank you for not being ashamed of my school.”

He places a finger under my chin as he lifts my face up. His face dangerously close to mine as he brings his lips closer. Before closing the gap he mutters three simple words. The same three words I shouted across the school courtyard to prove our relationship. “I love you.” But what made me blush is the words that follow after. It practically the very words I said as I hugged him infront of my friends. My heart blossomed and my face heated up as I learnt why today was such a special occasion. Why today is so important. Because maybe I’ll start to celebrate this day to. All because of these simple words.

“Thank you for being my girlfriend.”

𐔌՞. .՞𐦯

── .✦ Kiryu.M » If he didn’t go to Furin everyone would most likely openly shipped you » Someone who comes from a wealthy background, charismatic, charming in every right. If he’s anything he’s perfect » There’s no wonder you’ve fallen in love with him. If life truly was great you would have confessed by now! » Unfortunately, life isn’t great. » Because Kiryu Mitsuki happens to go to Furin. The unruly delinquent school filled to the brim with idiots. The school that your classmates hate with a passion. The school they will make jokes about, students they’d back talk or ridicule. » Their comments about the school and their students are mean to say the least. They make jabs at their uniform. Their living situations. Their families. The conditions of their school. Their comments make you sick. Their words are disgusting. » But what’s truly disgusting is how you agree. It’s how you laugh at their jokes while dying on the inside. It’s how you make side jabs at students who have saved you and your family. It’s how you pretend not to know Kiryu while your heart screams for him. » You hate it, you hate lying. Your annoyance at your classmates is unnoticeable. Well at least that’s what you think. You would be right, if it weren’t someone. » Someone with pink hair.

𐔌՞. .՞𐦯

“See you Y/N~” My classmate waves goodbye, as I press a strained smile onto my lips. My hand waves back to her, while the other one subtly points the middle finger. When she’s out of sight my smile drops. A frown replaces it.

Two hours. Two long, painful, horrible hours stuck at school to help out with the arts festival. Two hours filled with jokes about how furin is such a sad excuse of a school that they don’t even have a festival. How that if they’d try it would end up in a massive brawl. Two hours of laughter as they talk about some of the furin students they’ve seen. One with two hair colours. One with an eyepatch. One ginger.

I cross the street while gritting my teeth. Normally they aren’t this irritating. Something must have happened for them to be making those idiotic comments every five minutes. I want to punch them so bad. Punch their stupid smirks of their face. Don’t they know? Furin isn’t like that. Furin isn’t filled with idiots or unruly people. It’s filled with lovely ones. Sweets ones. Kind ones.

I continue walking to our meeting place as I felt rain droplets. My nails pressing crescent moons into my palm. I’m so sick of it all. Sick of hearing them joke about Furin. Sick of not being able to say anything. Sick of laughing along. As I approach the shop I try to return my face to a smile. I dont’t need him seeing me this unhappy.

I shiver slightly as I look around. Is he running late? Is he maybe late because of patrols? Has the wind always been this cold? I look at the ground before feeling a warmth envelop me. I look up to find a forest green jacket being placed on me. The gold and green details sparkle in the light. I look up to find a sweet smile. Pink hair almost as pink as my cheeks. Piercings sparkling.

“Are you ok? You look like you’re about to freeze to death,” Kiryu says with a smile. He look up at the rain. A small frown appears on his face. “I don’t think the rain is ending anytime soon! What should we do instead?”

A frown joins my lips similarly as I look over at Kiryu. We were planning on walking around and buying clothes. Unfortunately my mood can’t be the only thing that’s ruined today, my plans have to be ruined too. I hate it. I was about to suggest going to eat at Pothos, somewhere far from my classmates when Kiryu had a better idea.

“Let’s go to the arcade! We haven’t been in a while,” he nods his head at the statement. We really haven’t been to an arcade in ages. I’ve been missing watching Kiryu win claw machines for me. This isn’t such a bad idea. So I nod at Kiryus suggestion.

“Let’s go to the new one! It’s right around the corner!” He nods as we start walking over. The silence between us is slightly jarring. Normally one of us would have something to talk about. Nonetheless we continue walking. Anytime spent with Kiryu is a good time. Even if it is quiet.

“How are the preparations for the arts festival going?” Horrible. I hate it. I don’t want to spend anymore time with those girls than I must. Especially if they keep up with how many times they can insult Furin. But I don’t want to burden Kiryu with my troubles, so I flash a smile.

“Oh they’ve been going great! We’re almost done with decorating our classroom.” Kiryu nods as we continue to talk. Seeing as I won’t elaborate he starts to talk. He tells me about Sakura-kun and how he’s fallen sick. Maybe because of the rainy weather? Kiryu always smiles as he talks about Furin. He loves his classmates as if they were brothers. Always mentioning them to me. At this point I know them better than I do my own classmates.

“Ah and Sugishita-chan tried running away again! It was so difficult dragging him away from umemiya-san,” Kiryu finishes up his story as he holds the door open to the arcade for me. I walk in a felt a sense of ease at the arcade.

The walls were surrounded by different games and activities. From basketball hoops to dance games. The prizes hanging all were desirable. A giant teddy bear, a bunny headband, a stove? Yet the thing that caught my eye was the claw machine.

Specifically the pink teddy bear.

A bubblegum pink teddy bear sits in the claw machine. His green eyes shining under the lights in the machine. He sits amoungs other plushies but my heart was set. I want that one. His soft smile makes me stare at it as Kiryu looks around at the different games. I look between the bear and Kiryu. Their only difference is the fact one of them is human. The bear even has a matching shirt! The only thing this bear needs are some piercings. I love the bear. I love it so much. I love Kiryu.

I would confess to Kiryu. Everytime I see him I’m dying to confess. I just want to be able to hold his hands. Or hug him when I feel this upset. Just to be able to call him my boyfriend would solve all my problems. But what would the girls at school say? They’d ridicule me. Bully me. Shame me. Maybe I’ll confess when they stop bullying Furin. I let out a sigh and Kiryu looks over.

“Oh let’s play that claw machine!” He walks over to the very claw machine with his bear counter part. His smile is contagious as he notices the similarities. A soft laugh escapes his lips he looks ethereal as he focus on getting the plushie. I love him. I love him so much. I wish I could say it.

His eyebrows knit in focus as he tries to get the pink bear. He moves the claw over to be exactly over the bear. He pauses to make sure it’s perfect. Eyes locked on his target. A smile on his face. He looks over at me and grabs my hand.

“Kiryu?” He gets me to press the button. I watch as the claw picks up that bear. Dropping him down the chute for us to collect. He grabs the bear from the door and looks at it. Smiling. He then faces me, still holding my hand in his free one. He gives me the bear.

“Here! You got the bear!” He grins at me and he pushes the bear into my arms. I shake my head and look at him confused.

“but you were the one who moved the claw around?” I say, pointing at the claw machine with a small frown on my face.

“Yes but you pressed the button!” He flicks my forehead affectionately. “That means the bear is yours!”

“But you made me press it!”

“Did I?” He ponders about this for a minute before smiling. “Yes I did but it doesn’t matter, I want you to have the bear.” He pushes the bear further into my arms, so I’m hugging the bear. He smiles softly down at me.

“Are you sure? You can have him.”

“No I want you to have him.”

“Thank you Kiryu.” I almost hug the real Kiryu in pure joy. A smile appears on my face as I hug my new bear. A bear who looks like the boy who has stolen my heart. A bear who looks like Kiryu Mitsuki.

“So that’s where you were! I’ve missed you,” he says out of the blue. “Or should I say I missed your smile,” My heart beats louder in my chest. He noticed? He noticed I was upset? But I didn’t say anything about it? Everyone else falls for my happy act, how didn’t he? How did he notice?

“Turns out all you need to smile if a plushie of your boyfriend.” Boyfriend? Boyfriend. Kiryu Mitsuki. My boyfriend? No no no. I heard him wrong. Maybe he meant male friend? Like a boy who is a friend but not my boyfriend. Yeah that’s what he means. He can’t love me. He can’t. My doubts dissapear with his next words. His smile makes my heart beat faster and faster and I try to convince myself this isn’t a dream. My face blushes as he holds me hand. Lovingly.

“Oh I forgot to ask.” He holds my hands once more as he smile at me. A soft sweet smile. One filled with love. His eyes shine in adoration, as his thumbs rubs over my knuckles. He looks like a man in love.

“Can I have the honor of being your boyfriend?”

𐔌՞. .՞𐦯

── .✦ Sugishita.K » The last person anyone expected Sugishita to end up with is you. » A Tsukinomori academy student, and angel on earth, with Sugishita. He’s everything you’re not. » How you two ended up together is a mystery to everyone. » Especially the Furin boys. » Sugishita has always planned to keep his relationship with you a secret. Not for your sake, but for his own. The teasing would never stop. » You have a bad habit of calling him a big giant teddy bear, and being extremely affectionate. Not saying he doesn’t love you for this. No he would cry if you ever stopped calling him ‘my grumpy teddy bear,’ but that name is meant to be between the two of you only. Your aloof nature would lead you to saying that pet name, no matter the circumstance. If Suo-san, or worse Sakura-San, heard you call him that the teasing would never stop! » His classmates weren’t even meant to know you existed! Why was Tsugeura holding his phone when you called him? And why did he tell everyone about you. Now he has to deal with you meeting his classmates at cafe Pothos. » But what does he do when he realizes your scared of them?

𐔌՞. .՞𐦯

“Sugi,” I tug on his sleeve as we walk towards the cafe. He looks over at me, curious on what I have to say. “Do you think your friends will like me?”

“First they’re not my friends,” I chuckle at his statement. To say it nicely, he’s determined to keep his relationship with his classmates as classmates. As if it would kill him to have friends. “Second they’ll like you. Who wouldn’t?”

At his words I squeeze his hand little bit tighter as we walk closer to the cafe. If I’m being honest I’m kind of scared of his friends. Scared they won’t like me. Scared of how they act. I would be lying if I say I didn’t believe what some of the girls at school say about Furin. If they all go to Furin that must mean their strong! What if they hate me? What if they try to fight me? Worse what if they try to fight Sugi?

“You’re nervous aren’t you?” I look up at my boyfriend as my face blushes red. Is it that obvious? He stops walking to face me. “Don’t be.”

Don’t be? It’s not that simple! I’m about to meet a bunch of people who can definetly beat me up, and you’re telling me to not be nervous? Is it not human nature to be scared of you’re about to be in the presence of something terrifying?

“Stop,” Sugi frowns at me. He flicks my forehead gently, to scared to hurt me. “If you’re that nervous we can go home. It’s ok they were betting that I wasn’t going to show up anyways,” Sugi shrugs but his smile doesn’t return.

I want to ask him if we can go home. I’d be willing to beg. Yet, his expression is making me double think. He seems sad. Like he wants me to meet these people. Even if they aren’t his friends, he still wants to bring me into his world. Bridge any gaps between us. He even has his hair done to match mine! How could I ask him to go home now? So I take a deep breath. I shake my head.

“No no its ok! As long as I have you with me I’ll be fine.” I smile at him and he smiles back. He pats my head softly. Trying to reassure me. I hold his hand again as we approach the cafe. But he stops me from opening the door. “sugi?”

“Can you uh, not call me your teddy bear?” He asks embarrassed. Face going bright red as he looks at the floor. I can’t help but laugh. A genuine sweet laugh. I laugh away my worries from before as I see his flustered expression.

“Why? Do you not want your friends to know how cute you are?” His face turns an even brighter red as he looks at me with his eyes wide. He’s lost his words as he considers turning around and leaving. “I promise I won’t my teddy bear!”

He smiles at me warmly as he nods. Trusting me. Before he could enter the cafe I press a soft kiss to his cheek becufore opening the door. I watch him malfunction as he stares at me. Face redder than an apple. I chuckle as I drag him inside.

“Hey Sugishita!”

“Sugi-chan~”

“Hi Sugishita!”

“ew”

We hear the greetings of his friends as we locate them at the booth in the corner of the cafe. We walk over and see five other guys our age. Based on his descriptions of his classmates I could guess who everyone is. I wave politely at them and they wave back.

“This is Y/N, be nice to her.” Sugishita says, sitting next to a blonde person. I move to sit next to Sugishita as I face a black and white haired man. He seems rather absorbed in the act of eating so he pays little attention to him. I fiddle with my thumbs as the rest of them start to talk. I feel Sugi’s hand cover my own. My face blushing red at the contact.

“So L/N where did you meet Sugishita?” An eyepatched man says to me. Suo-san maybe? He tilts his head to the side with a polite smile on his face. “Sugishita-san won’t tell us anything about you, so could you tell us the story of how you guys met?”

I see Sugi blush at the memory of when we first met. I look over to Suo before happily answering. “Of course! I was at the library studying when I tried to reach a book. I couldn’t reach it, and Sugi noticed I was struggling so he helped me out. Before long we ended up talking and exchanging information. Now we’re here!” I say with a smile. Heart warm at the memory of our first meeting. 

“Aw that’s so cute!” The blonde, who I assume is Nirei, says with a smile. 

“I know right! Thought Sugi-chan confessing is quite the shock!” The pink haired one, Kiryu, says nodding his head. I must admit, I wasn’t expecting it either. Seeing Sugi stuttering trying to ask me out to Pothos while Umemiya hides behind a tree cheering him on is not something I ever thought I would see. 

“what I think is shocking is how you agreed to go out with him.” The black and white haired guy says looking up from his food. His mixed colours eyes look up at me. “You can have anyone you want, with your personality and the school you go to. So why him?”

Why him? 

“Oh that’s easy! It’s because he’s the kindest person I know,” I could tell Sakura-San was taken aback by my answer. “He’s always there for me if I need him. But he trusts me enough that he isn’t always watching over my every move.” I smile brightly at Sakura. 

From this angle I can see how the tips of Sugi’s ears are bright red. All thanks to the hairstyle I helped him do. He squeezes my hand as he looks away from me, not daring to make eye contact. I can feel his pulse with my other hand and it’s going fast. His smile is what I’m focused on. Adorable, sweet, perfect. 

“And when I do need him he’s always there, ready to comfort me or to protect me,” I nod my head at my statement. “Especially if people disrespect me, he’s ready to fight them for calling me by my first name too soon!”

He looks away in embarrassment. The way he gets so flustered by a few simple words only make me love him more. I love him so much. But I love something even more. I love embarrassing him. 

“It’s like he’s a giant teddy bear!”

𐔌՞. .՞𐦯

── .✦ Kaji.R » He would be more fed up with your school than you are. » He hates how annoyed you looked afterschool when your friends would make jokes about Furin. » He ends up eating way too many lollipops, to the point where his doctors would have a field day if they saw him. » He hates seeing you upset, after all you’ve bought him peaches multiple times. You buy him peaches everytime you two are hanging out afterschool. » He knows you’re trying not to be bothered by their comments about Furin is a unruly school, but he doesn’t really know what to do. » He normally takes off his headphones and listens to you complain about all the girls and how their persepection of Furin is garbage and how they can’t keep talking about her ‘best friends’ school. » Yes Kaji Ren is your bestfriend. He hates that fact, you hate that fact. But what else can you two do? Confess? As if! » after all a Furin boy and a Tsukinomori girl is something unheard of…

𐔌՞. .՞𐦯

“Kaji!” I wave over at Kaji with a smile on my face. My best friend walks towards me. Best friend. My heart sinks with that title. Ignoring the pain I run over to Kaji as he waits outside Furin.

“Took ya long enough,” he says as he pushes himself of the wall he was leaning on. His eyebrows knit as he looks at me. Annoyed by the lack of punctuality.

“Oh my gosh, these girls held me back because they wanted help with their math Homework but spent the next fifteen minutes talking about how Furin boys can’t do this can’t do that like are you serious?” I let my frustration out as I ramble to Kaji about the girls in my class. I hate them. They all look down on Furin. I hate how I have to play along with them so they won’t hate me. I hate that I care about this stuff.

“Just say no next time,” Kaji says shrugging. “N O, two letters. Not that hard” he unwraps a lollipop as while walking slightly ahead of me. I catch up to him and my expression is rather annoyed. Not that hard? Yes it is when their looking at you like you personally insulted them!

“Yes it is! You don’t get it,” I continue to ramble to Kaji about how difficult it is to say no. My pent up anger is all coming to the surface as we continue to walk. I continue ranting to him as he looks at me. Before placing his headphones over my head.

“Wha-“ My mouth tastes something sweet. Strawberry. A hand closes my jaw so now the sweet is in my mouth. My tongue traces the circular shape of the treat as I look up at Kaji, who looks at me with that same deadpan stare. He moves his headphones off my ear as he starts to talk.

“Just tune the comments out, and eat the lollipop to help you contain your anger,” kaji nods as we walk over to cafe Pothos. He ruffles my head before placing the headphones back on. They’re surprisingly not sound-proof. I guess the music that would be playing in hear would drown out everyone. Except it’s silent. “Do you like the song?” I could hear Kaji say through the headphones. Should I tell him? Maybe it’s be more fun to not.

So I don’t.

I look over to see is lips moving and I scream out a what, and a huh. He chuckles before dragging me to cafe Pothos. The walk is silent regardless. My heart calming down as I do tune out and forget all the comments my classmates say. The lollipop stopping me from continuing to rant.

We walk in silence but I can see the way Kaji seems, troubled. He’s eye brows knit slightly, his hands shoved into his pockets. He seems lost in thought. It’s adorable. If we were dating I would squish his cheeks and tease him. If we were dating I would hug him right now. If we were dating I would press a kiss to his cheeks. But, we’re not. So, I continue walking.

The walk continues in silence before Kaji says a few words that leave me in shock. I don’t know how to respond. My eyes widen as I try to fix my expressions. My heart hammering my heart as I try to convince myself that I heard him wrong. Because there is no way he said that. Why would he say, say that he.

“I love you Y/N.”

My hammering heart echoes in my head and my face turns bright red. My eyes widen as I look forwards not daring to look at Kaji. Walking as if nothing happened. But something did happen, something that makes my face heat up just thinking about it. He loves me? No no no what!

“You’re really nice, and even when I get mad you stick around. Even though being friends with a Furin boy is disgraceful or whatever your classmates say, you’re still here. So, I love you. A lot.”

I can’t help the smile that appears on my face. He loves me. A lot. If I were at home I would kicking my feet and giggling right now. My heart feeling like fireworks as I process this information. My smile never fading.

He loves me! He actually wants to be in a relationship with me. He wants me to pinch his cheeks. He wants me to hug him. He wants me to kiss him. and most of all He wants his head phones back.

I look infront of me to see Kaji with his hand extended, asking for the headphones. A small frown on his face as he waits. Adorable. I take them off and I look at him. Look at the way his eyes stare at me adoringly. Looking at how his hand twitches slightly. Looking at how his face is a light shade of pink. Looking at all the signs I missed.

I can’t pretend to be friends with him. Not when I know he likes me back. Not when he loves me. If we go back to being friends it would be weird. So ,as I hand him the headphones I tell him how I really feel. How I’ve felt for the past few months. How my heart aches for him. I have to. I can’t let this opportunity slip.

I watch as his eyes widen in shock and his face is covered in a similiar pink to my own. How his smile is so pure, so genuine. The way he looks at me like I’m peaches. The way he hugs me feels like a movie. This is all happening because I said something simple in nature. it All because of four words.

“Love you too Kaji”

𐔌՞. .՞𐦯

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2025 © alonelyartist245.Do not repost my works onto any other platforms, translate, plagiarize, or steal. Do not feed any works to AI.

@alonelyartist1432

@mayumiismissing <3

[bungoubongoboys]

THIS FUCKING SCENE! Honestly I'm so feral for BSD in general but THIS Scene seeing Dazai and Chuuya interact and all the layers in what they say to each other when they're alone for the first time again after Dazai leaving just says SO MUCH about their relationship.

Dazai blew up Chuuyas car. On the surface level? Petty, annoying, fits their outward image. Deeper level? He knew Chuuya so well, so intimately that he knew he'd be destroyed. First, he didn't want Chuuya following him. He wanted to disappear. But more than that. He didn't want Chuuya to risk himself in any way *for* Dazai. Because he knew that was a possibility.

Whether it was just following Dazai and risking the status of his loyalty to the Mafia in Mori's eyes, of whether it was getting drunk and getting hurt or killed while driving, or both even--Dazai was protecting him by removing his car from the equation.

And Chuuya isn't dumb. He's not the same level of genius as Dazai, but he's not dumb, or he wouldn't be an executive. Executives aren't chosen on power alone because Mori is too smart for that. So after the initial shock, Chuuya would've KNOWN there was more to Dazai blowing up his car than just being petty. He probably would've known it was to protect him, to some degree.

And he DEFINITELY would've gotten the message of "don't follow me" (let's be real, he has more than one vehicle). So instead, Chuuya goes home. He takes out a prized possession--an outrageously expensive bottle of wine, possibly the jewel of his collection--and opens it, destroying all value it had. Losing it forever, likely hurting himself in the process. And likely drinking it all at once, not enjoying it, thinking about Dazai.

That's the surface of the wine. But then, like the car, there's a deeper level. There are a few things we KNOW Chuuya cares about--his job, his hobbies/collections (wine), his appearance, his character (loyalty, responsibility, etc), taking care of people around him and close to him, etc.

Why did Dazai leave? Because *he* was hurt. He lost Oda. Oda died on a mission that, realistically, could've been handled by Double Black. It would've been hard, but probably doable. Chuuya would be able to put that together. But he wasn't there. So Oda dealt with Mimic and died, hurting Dazai, and Chuuya wasn't able to save or protect anyone in the end. Even, or especially, his partner. As a direct result of this failure to protect, he lost yet another person he cared about--Dazai. Sure, he's not dead, but he might as well be since he effectively disappeared from the planet at this point. And Chuuya is already carrying the weight of the Flags' deaths and Verlaine and The Sheep and so much more. All people he failed to protect and lost as a result. But because of his loyalty and trusting nature, he doesn't put together that Mori is the cause, and instead blames himself.

So, back to the wine. There's a lot of layers here. First, is self harm. Chuuya is actively destroying something he likes and wants to have as a punishment to himself for his perceived failures. Second, grief. Chuuya is grieving HARD and knows that alcohol is (self-)destructive, but he turns to it anyway, wasting (in his mind) something precious because he *already* wasted something ten times as precious--the life and well being of others. A metaphor for and parallel to how he views his destruction of his relationship with Dazai. It doesn't matter that he didn't WANT to hurt Dazai, what matters is it happened. Their relationship is gone, effectively, so he destroys his most precious physical possession in response to losing his most precious relationship/personal connection. And since it's wine, he can't get drunk enough to forget--just enough to feel sick in the morning. Another punishment for himself, because he will NEVER let himself forget his own failures.

YOU FAKE ASS IDGAFER YOU WERE GRIEVING!!!!

[kassadidi]

i'm rewatching teen wolf, starting from season 5, and i definitely did not remember liam's treatment by other characters being this terrible.

disclaimer: i'm on 5x03 and i have no memory of any dynamics in the show at all, so this may or may not apply only to 5a.

it is one thing that scott, stiles, and everyone else in the pack babied him and treated him like a juvenile, inconsequential thing, but they didnt even really see him at all? stiles looked at and talked to liam with so much annoyance every time they have a scene. scott looked right through him; i dont think he saw liam as a whole human being at all but more like an extension of himself. this was evident in the way scott helped liam with werewolf/supernatural stuff as well. liam didnt need to breathe or be told to calm down when his IED was in full blown. he didnt yet have the control for that, it was like telling a child to read when they have yet been taught to spell, ykwim? also, was his ideas and opinion ever heard and taken into consideration in the mccall pack?

as for most other characters, its more of a narrative problem bc liam is so far removed from them one might think they dont know each other at all. this is not a pack at all, period. no wonder why theo was able to turn liam against scott.

not to be a raging thiam shipper, i swear, but accept mason, i dont think anyone really saw liam until theo. theo never accidentally belittled liam, he helped him by finding ways to work with liam's personality and disorder instead of forcing liam to actively suppress himself, and theo truly understood and validated liam's feelings (bc thats what they are, valid).

[lyneysnumber1glazer]

Would They Confess First?

Characters: DILUC, ITTO, KAEYA, LYNEY, HEIZOU

Prompt: Would they confess to you first? Why/why not and how?

Warnings: None

A/n: I was going to include drabbles for each but instead I think I'm going to make separate oneshots for each since I'd like them to be longer and more in-depth. Also please send in an ask for an idea if you have one!

~~~

DILUC

Yes, however it may take a while. He would hesitate to confess in worry that he may ruin whatever friendship the two of you have. He'd have to be sure that the feeling was mutual before indulging in the idea of confessing. In addition, he would need time in order to be comfortable letting you into his life, being hesitant to after the death of his father.

However when he is ready, he would plan out in detail how he'd want to confess to you. He would prepare your favorite meals and dishes himself and invite you over for dinner. He also may change the decor in the dining hall ever so slightly to fit your tastes. After dinner he would invite you on an evening walk where he would confess with a bouquet of your favorite flowers.

ITTO

Absolutely, and he would make it a huge event. To be honest, you would probably know about it along with the whole city before he even confessed. He would talk about you nonstop to the Arataki Gang and they would all plan out how he would confess to you.

He would decorate a whole island with Onikabuto, roasted lavender melons, and flowers (probably picked out of peoples gardens) He'd also put on a grand performance and practically yell out his love for you, the Arataki Gang cheering him on off to the side. Don't be surprised if he starts singing.

KAEYA

Surprisingly no. Firstly, you would need to know about his past and show that you love him regardless. Even if he knew that you loved him he still wouldn't confess. He would feel like you deserve someone better than him, someone who didn't feel the need to hide things about themselves from you. Of course he would never tell you this. Thus you would need to confess to him first and reassure him that he is the one you want, secrets and all.

After you confess to him, he would need some time to think about his emotions. He would struggle accepting that you genuinely loved him and not the charismatic charm he uses. However after some time he would hesitantly accept your confession.

LYNEY

Yes, and he would be sure to make it extra romantic. However he would need to trust you and be close to you beforehand, Lynette would also need to approve of you. He would try to hide it but he would be extremely nervous. Would also probably ask Lynette for advice, she would also need to help calm him down prior.

He would meet up with you after one of his magic performances at the Fountain of Lucine with a bouquet of rainbow roses. Even though he would put on a smile, you could tell he was nervous by the way he gripped the bouquet and the way his face starts to turn pale. While telling you about how he feels about you, he would stumble over his words. He would also plan what to say to you beforehand but when it actually comes to confessing, he blanks, and his confession would end up sounding more like a marriage proposal. After accepting his confession, he would let out a sigh of relief and visibly relax despite his excitement. (I could see Lynette hiding in the bushes with a Kamera)

HEIZOU

Yes, and he would know if you liked him. With him being a detective he would be able to read peoples emotions scarily well. So he would almost instantly know if you liked him by the way your demeanor slightly changes around him and with the help of his intuition.

At first he would consider taking you to an escape room, however he would decide against it. Instead he would take you somewhere with beautiful scenery and set up a picnic for the two of you. There he would confess his love as the sun was setting with your hands in his. After you accept his confession, he would feel slightly relieved even though he knew you would accept.

[k9-75]

I think it’s less that people dislike seeing these characters happy, and more that, in order to make them happy, the writers for WFA alter these (very) beloved characters entire personalities/history in order to do so. It’s like saying that the characters as they are in canon aren’t capable of finding joy; that you have to change these “people” in order to make them happy. It comes across as mocking to dumb down what can be rich characters, all so that a “happily-ever-after” sort of scenario can take place.

And honestly? It’s unnecessary.

The writers of WFA could have done SO MUCH MORE.

Instead of taking the bat-family characters and changing them in order to create this goal of “happy,” they could have taken the characters as they are (bloody, miserable pasts and challenging personalities and all) and told a story in which the characters learnt to be “happy.” Would it not be so much more fulfilling to watch these characters change naturally, with time and conscious effort, into a loving family? Would it not be enjoyable to watch them struggle and fight for a better future, not only for the world, but for each other? To watch them decide to overcome their tumultuous past relationships in order to become a true family, rather than the tattered bunch of argumentative misfits canon portrays them as?

Instead of them instantly being all buddy-buddy and the perfect family, wouldn’t you rather they worked for it?

The writers could have achieved this too, if they’d just put more effort and thought into their plot.

They could have started with some sort of inciting incident that made the characters realize they need to change. Something that makes the bat-fam realize they’re tired of the constant dissent within their “family.” And then, it would be a simple matter of making chapters in which we can watch as each individual decides to let go of past insults and injuries in order to form better, healthier relationships with one another. And they could still experience the same shenanigans as they do in WFA, just with a more meaningful nuance and much deeper depth.

Rather than instantly make Bruce some amazing dad, make him the same rough, hardened man he is in canon, and take that borderline cruel man and make him change. Make him work for a better family life. Make him put honest effort into fixing his damaged relationships with his family. Make him WANT to be good, and, with time and hard work, you can make his character BECOME good. Just don’t make it overnight, because that’s not how people work (it’s just lazy, sloppy writing). And he can still have awkward, silly chapters. He can have chapters that begin as forced interactions with his kids that, through fun happenstances, end up being full of joy and mischief and work towards healing their relationships.

For the bat-siblings, show them bonding. Let them develop friendships. Let them undergo silly experiences and lighthearted moments. Let them mess around and form inside jokes (and make sure to reference those inside jokes throughout the entire series, not just that chapter). Let them tease each other and argue and make up and laugh and cry and bond. Let them forge solid relationships from the ashes of their past mistakes.

And make Alfred realize he needs to step his game up. No more “just a butler.” Make him realize he needs to be part of the family. No more master this or master that, no more background character, no more borderline deadbeat father figure. Let him decide to drop formality, just a little, in order to grow closer to his family.

I’m not criticizing people for wanting lighthearted material of characters they love, but I am saying that glorifying WFA is not it. WFA is not really a good piece of media by any standard (except the art, which is great). The writing is pampering and sloppy and lazy, the characters are misrepresented (some to an almost insulting degree), and the plot as a whole is underwhelming to say the least. They could have made a much better episodic style comic for the batfam if they had just put in more effort and made a worthwhile plot. And that’s what’s frustrating about WFA. It’s just not a good piece of media.

When people hate on it, it’s not because they’re “against” theses characters being happy, it’s because WFA was poorly written and poorly executed, leading to it becoming a poor representation of characters that mean a lot to people. It’s frustrating to watch these deep characters be dumbed down and undermined in order to fit the narrative of a WEBTOON, which is why most people get upset with it. And on top of that, the whole thing feels fake and cheap. The only aspect of the WEBTOON with any true quality is the art (which is EXCELLENT).

So in conclusion, it’s not at all a problem that you want a break from “depressing shit.” I think we can all agree that a break would be nice. I would LOVE to read comics with solid, quality, POSSITIVE character interactions.

It’s simply that the Wayne Family Adventures WEBTOON was created by people who neglected to make said piece of media even a little bit genuine, accurate (character-wise), or quality (script-wise). And it’s a shame, truly, but that’s how it is, which is why so many people dislike it.

People who hate on wayne family adventures because "it doesn't follow cannon" need to go set in the corner

Is it a fucking problem that we want to have a break from dark depressing shit ????!!!!!!!

[mechncheese]

Ok ok so obviously we have all heard the "seven minutes in hell" or toxic yaoi" for prowlstorm but in your honest opinion, genuinely, what would prowlstorm relationship be like? Not just butted down to one or two words. I'm super curious how they would act around each other or with each other when they are fighting

BAHAHA Ok ok let me see... If I'm thinking about them seriously--

In my honest opinion, the actual toxicity of their relationship kind of depends, I have a character arc (in actual science AU) for them set up where they do grow more tolerant of each other and instead of pure malicious hatred violence it's more like casually bickering with each other (though mostly Brainstorm picking on Prowl because. Well. It's Brainstorm and that's just how he is.) Early on Prowlstorm is mostly Brainstorm throwing his hands at Prowl, being difficult to work with, and trying to make him miserable because if Brainstorm is going to be stuck with this guy for the next who knows how long, he is going to make Prowl's experience as terrible as possible. Prowl meanwhile wants to be in charge of the situation and wants Brainstorm to cooperate with him. Both of them are in a constant tug of war, Prowl's patience runs thin and at times he does lose his cool and that's what Brainstorm likes to see. Meanwhile Prowl's tries to outwardly act indifferent about Brainstorm but he is Very frustrated that this scientist is causing him so much trouble. How can one bot be so smart but so vain and stupid at the same time?

Both of them eventually come to understand the situation they're in despite trying their hardest to ignore it, Prowl needs Brainstorm's help and Brainstorm unfortunately also needs Prowl's help. Both of them have very similar feelings about this. "I hate that I need help."

For actual relationship dynamic stuff if they were in one(?) I don't think they're very romantic (in a traditional sense), Brainstorm just likes invading Prowl's space, getting in his face, lots of physical contact, doing things to provoke a reaction and grab attention. Prowl likes to ignore him because giving Brainstorm attention means Brainstorm is winning. Also Brainstorm likes making Prowl feed his ego. It's not that he's looking for validation from Prowl, he just wants that stuck up bot to tell him he's oh so smart and deserves so much praise for it. Prowl doesn't like humoring Brainstorm too much and acts more like a reality check for him. After everything, I like to think they eventually come to a mutual and hesitant understanding with each other-- Upon writing this I do realize that I kind of just described how they are normally so I think that nothing would Really Change if they were in a relationship.

Relationship exclusive Prowlstorm Uhh maybe they’d kiss a little sure why not but it’s really awkward and aggressive and they'd have a strange love(??) language that no one else really understands. Who knows how they got together in the first place

[purple-plum-petals]

I saw your post about the freak circus and honesty pierrot is the best and needs more fluff. like what if reader puts makeup on his mask and he does readers makeup

⊱ All Dolled Up ⊰ || Pierrot and the Reader Doing Each Other’s Makeup

╭─━━━━━━━━━━━━─╮     Character(s): Pierrot (The Freak Circus)     Reader Type: Human (Gender-Neutral Pronouns)     Warning(s): None!     Genre: Headcanons, Fluff, Romantic or Platonic Relationship.     Word Count: ~750 words.     Request: “I saw your post about the freak circus and honesty pierrot is the best and needs more fluff. like what if reader puts makeup on his mask and he does readers makeup”   Author’s Note: Since the type of request wasn’t specified, I decided to do a headcanon/scenario format since those tend to be quicker for me to write the majority of the time! I also decided to write the headcanons in a way that the two of you are doing stage/costume makeup instead of makeup that would be worn more traditionally out in public (aka, Pierrot makes you look like a clown 🤡). This was super fun to think of him in such a fluffy/domestic situation, so I hope you enjoy!

→ If you enjoyed my work, please reblog it if you can! Exposure on Tumblr is based on reblogging content rather than liking it, so your support would be much appreciated!  ♡ ╰─━━━━━━━━━━━━─╯

🍰: For Pierrot to allow you to see him without his makeup on, it means that he fully trusts you with his entire being – heart, body, and soul. There’s a vulnerability in not having something to hide behind, allowing himself to be seen by you without the mask he wore around everyone outside of the circus. That was what they all wore, something that kept them safe and protected them from the cruelty of humans… yet, here he was, allowing himself to be seen without it. Then, there you were, sitting next to him with a brush in your hand and the well-worn palette of face paint in the other, smiling brightly and completely unaware of how much this moment meant to him. 

🍰: He allows you to do his makeup with a bashful expression on his face (whenever he gets like that, you find yourself wanting to pinch his cheeks or nuzzle your head against his – he was just too cute sometimes), his grey-colored skin flushed darker as you sit him down and begin to dip the brush into the white paint. Pierrot closes his eyes, the bristles much more ticklish than usual. Normally, he never noticed the way the brush softly caressed his cheeks, but when you were the one in control, he found himself hyperaware of every single movement you made, his hands balling into fists as they rested in his lap. 

🍰: If you’re not very good at putting on his makeup, he can’t help but suppress a laugh at the poorly done job when you hand him a mirror to look at your handiwork. He tries to praise you somehow, though, not wanting you to feel downtrodden by the less-than-great job. Even if you try to clean it off for him, he tells you that it’s okay – he’ll happily walk around with your handiwork for all to see, viewing it as your unique way of claiming him. If you’re embarrassed, he’ll tell you there’s nothing to be embarrassed by, wearing it like a badge of honor and standing with far more confidence than he usually does. However, if he has a show, he’ll just touch up a few areas you missed with an impressive speed and steady hand. If you’re adamant about washing it off, though, he’ll let you wipe his face clean with a small pout. 

🍰: If putting on the face paint is something you’re good at, he might ask you to do it for him more often, pretending that he suddenly cannot do it by himself (Pierrot would definitely say his hand was hurting or something along those lines to try and convince you to help him lmao). If any of the other circus members notice the difference in the way he looks, Pierrot will proudly claim that you were the one who did it for him, chest puffed out all the while. He actually doesn’t wash it off for quite a while afterwards, wanting to wear your handiwork for as long as possible before the paint starts chipping away. If it means he can experience you putting on his makeup again, though, he’ll gladly wash it away after asking you to repaint his face with hearts in his eyes. 

🍰: Now, if you want him to do your makeup, that’s a bit of a different story… Pierrot has no experience with using blush, lipstick, eyeshadow, mascara, etc., so if you want him to give it a try, he actually gets very nervous; he doesn’t want to do a bad job and upset you. You’ve never seen him shake as much as he did holding a tube of foundation, looking like a kicked puppy, so you lovingly give him a pass. However, if you wanted him to do your makeup like his, the same white foundation and all, he’ll gladly do that for you (he has a lot of experience in that department)! Pierrot gets into his routine, finishing up your face paint and adding details that mirror the ones he paints on his skin quickly, and he low-key regrets completing it as fast as he did (bro fumbled the moment because he was too good). If you enjoy him putting makeup on you, though, he’ll enthusiastically agree to do it anytime you ask! He thinks it's sweet you trust him enough to share such an intimate moment with him. 

[forestclan-clangen]

Name Deep Dive: Morningspot

Name deep dives are a new addition to ForestClan lore, pulled directly from @rippleclan's own "name deep dives", where one learns about the prefix and suffixes used by the Clan, and their possible meanings! Names hold a lot of power in Clan culture, especially as they graduate from apprentices to warriors or medicine cats. In this very first Name Deep Dive, we'll go over the meaning behind Morningspot's name!

Morningspot as a character has a lot of anxiety in her chest. She has always been afraid of the Deep Root entities in the woods, and always wanted to find a way to escape the dangers, or prevent them from happening entirely. But Morningspot also has a kindness that attracts strangers towards her. She was the one who originally found and befriended Tree, and she was also the one who convinced Endless to accept treatment from Shiverpaw. Even the grumpy and prejudiced Bracken lowered her guard when Morningspot pleaded with her to come to camp. Despite the young molly's characterization as a nervous wreck, the narrative shows that underneath that fear, she is fiercely loyal and instinctively aggressive to whatever attacks her clanmates. So, how does her name contribute to how others see her?

PREFIX: MORNING -

The prefix "Morning" in ForestClan holds a degree of softness and warmth. "Morning" is a prefix usually given to kits with ginger, gold, light brown, white or cream pelts. Alternatively, it is given when a parent feels hope for a brighter tomorrow. This is rare, given how tumultuous ForestClan births tend to be. Morningkit was originally found by Cloudthunder, abandoned on the territory. She was given the name "Morning" in part due to her amber eyes, and her coloration.

The prefix "Morning" has similar connotations to the prefixes "Dawn" and "Warm". However, "Morning" is much more grounded in the present, as opposed to the lofty and hopeful "Dawn" or emotionally comforting "Warm". Clan cats have adopted more diurnal behaviors due to the risks that come with night time in Moonglight Acres, and as such, mornings are where cats perform most of their craft, patrols and cooking. The morning is also where most cats gather around and engage in polite small talk - offering each other food and showing apprentices new campkeeping skills. Mornings are some of the busiest parts of an average Clan day, rivaled only by the afternoons before sunset.

As a result, the prefix "Morning" reflects someone who is busy and alert, but still pleasant to be around.

SUFFIX: - SPOT

"Spot" has many different meanings to a Clan cat. Usually, the thought that immediately comes to mind are spotted patterns on a cat's pelt. It can also reflect a cat with patches of color on their fur - which Morningspot definitely matches with her mostly-white underside and her dark ginger back and tail. "Spot" is also used to denote specific locations on the territory - like herb spots, hunting spots or foraging spots. ForestClan keeps track of these locations, especially if they're seasonal, like vernal pools. On a lesser degree, "spot" can also be seen colloquially as a place to relax in camp - like a sunning spot, or being given a spot of catmint.

Being given the suffix "spot" hinges most of its implications on the prefix. A black and white cat being called "Blackspot" would simply be describing their appearance, while a cat named "Shadowspot" would evoke shadows cast by a tall tree instead.

FULL NAME: MORNINGSPOT

Morningpaw had always been a nervous apprentice who, nevertheless, always tried her best. So, when it came time for her warrior ceremony, Redstar kept in mind Barelywave's assessment and compliments on her abilities. Barleywave noted that Morningpaw was sometimes overly apologetic for her learning mistakes, but she was determined while practicing. Despite her fears of Woodcrawlers, she cared about her clanmates more - as proven by her willingness to use her body as a dry surface to keep Barleywave warm during a blizzard. When she could actually put aside her insecurities and anxiety, she was a good cat who did the right thing. Redstar herself noted that when Morningpaw actually gathered enough courage to speak, her words were always thoughtful in some way. So, Redstar named the new warrior "Morningspot", honoring her vigilance and ability to put others at ease.

By putting the meanings of these two words together, a Clan cat would read into this nervous warrior's name as, "a warm patch of morning light," or alternatively, "a place where one finds good company." Morningspot assumes that she was named for the former - a reflection of her reddish-brown fur that drapes over her white underbelly like a patch of sunshine. But, unbeknownst to her, and perhaps to many others until they actually get to know her - she definitely reflects the latter meaning. Morningspot is the epitome of someone with imposter syndrome - always doubting herself and believing that she is not worth the trouble she gives her clanmates. But when it matters most, Morningspot springs into action - whether that's chasing a clanmate's sister across a river to get her attention, or saving an apprentice's life from a Fake Cat.

[wardenparker]

The Secret of My Success, ch 5

Harry Castillo x plus size reader Co-written with @absurdthirst

When not even a professional matchmaking firm can help Harry Castillo find love, he turns his attention to helping his best friend meet their soulmate instead. The surprise of finding his own in the process will challenge the attitude Harry has taken toward dating for his entire life, and open up a whole new world of romance.

(This story picks up where the last chapter of The Unbearable Weight of Perfection leaves off, and will weave in a few other soulmate characters from previous stories just for fun. Don't worry if you haven't read those stories though! I'll be dropping the pertinent references in each chapter's note section to read along with Harry and his soulmate's adventures.)

Rating: E for Explicit! 18+ Word Count: k Warnings: *Reader is nicknamed Mack* (Continuous warnings for: food/alcohol consumption, tobacco smoking.) A little bit of girly gossip, lingerie, oral sex (f receiving), vaginal sex, unprotected sex, unabashed spoiling, idiots in love. Summary: When your fourth date is significantly more intimate than all the ones before, you're allowed to have a little bit of a freak out beforehand. Notes: I'm sorry for two delays in a row, y'all, but thank you for bearing with me. In exchange for your patience, please enjoy some smut!

Ch 1 ~ Ch 2 ~ Ch 3 ~ Ch 4

You tell yourself it's going to help you pack. Tearing apart your closet looking for the perfect thing to wear tonight is forcing you to evaluate some clothes you might want to sell or donate. It's definitely helpful. It's not that you're going crazy staring at the dozen options you currently own that would be appropriate for a casual date at the penthouse apartment of the guy you're hoping to sleep with. It's for organization! It's almost a relief when your phone rings.

It tears your eyes away from the dresses on your bed at least temporarily. And the way your eyes light up when you see the photo splashed across your ringing phone is worth it.

"Chloe!" As soon as the FaceTime call is open and the beaming beauty of a blonde on the other end appears, you instantly feel better. "Hey gorgeous! What's going on?"

“Just checking in on you.” Bright and bubbly, Chloe had been your closest friend at UNC Asheville and she had gotten you the job at the Biltmore during the summer months when tourist went crazy over the mountain village. “How’s life? How’s love?” She waggles her brows playfully and giggles when you immediately fluster.

“Hush.” You grumble, though the fortuitous chance to actually talk to someone about this is a miracle. “I have a date tonight and I have no idea what to wear. I’m barely below panic mode.”

“You never panic.” Her brows shoot up and she leans in closer to her laptop. “This must mean that it’s serious, or you have a serious crush.”

"I think I've finally lost it," you huff, carrying your phone across the small bedroom and flopping down amongst your favorite dresses. "I met this guy four days ago. Four days. And I swear he's...he's absolutely incredible."

“You found your soulmate.” She practically melts, her eyes softening and she beams happily. If anyone deserves it, it’s you.

"No, no, we are not using the 's' word." That implication somehow terrifies you as much as it excites you, because you had been wondering about how fast you found yourself falling for him. How you seem to line up in so many ways. How you even have the same best friend. "I told him I have marks and he didn't say anything. Most people who have marks jump at that sentence and want to compare."

“Maybe he’s just not ready to admit the most gorgeous creature on the planet is linked to him?” She suggests, ever and always your hype-man. “But he’s nice? Decent? Brushes his teeth?”

"He's gorgeous, successful, polite, and I'm starting to think he might be spoiling me a little?" You flop backward onto your mattress and hold the phone up to see her. "How up to date on your New York social scene gossip are you?" Knowing Chloe there is a fifty-fifty shot, since she is somehow at once a queen of all sorts of gossip and in possession of a steel trap memory.

“I mean, not toooo up to date, but I’ve been keeping an ear out for things.” Partly because you are there, but mostly because she’s nosy by nature.

"Okay." Blowing out a sigh, you fix your old friend with a serious look. "Have you ever heard of Harry Castillo?"

“The billionaire?” Chloe chuckles and shakes her head. “No, never heard of him.” She snorts.

"Um..." You can't help but laugh a little. "Yeah..."

“You’re going on a date with Harry Castillo?” Her jaw is on the floor and eyes wider than physically possible.

With burning cheeks, you huff and sit up again. "Technically, I'm going on a fourth date with him. To...his apartment...where he is bringing us dinner via helicopter...from Philly where he is currently in meetings..."

“So…you are having a date, at his apartment…” she whistles quietly and grins. “So what are you wearing for him to take off of you?” She asks.

“I don't knoooooow!" You groan, pouting heavily at your phone screen. "It has to be perfect but it can't be too much or too little, but I want to be comfy and Chloe he's the best fucking kisser I can't even begin to tell you."

“God you are living every woman’s fantasy right now!” She slaps her hand down on the table and laughs happily, excited for your good fortune. It’s not like the man is unaware of your size and that obviously hasn’t put him off, so he’s even better in her book. Too many men were assholes if you weren’t a size zero. “Sexy. Go for the classy sexy look.”

"I keep thinking maybe...do you remember the black swing dress I got for the work Christmas party in college?" The job that Chloe had gotten you waiting tables on the Biltmore Estate had resulted in the same sort of on-again and off-again employment that you had back at the Alewife. Whenever you were at home in Fayetteville, you worked in the pub and whenever you were in Asheville you served tourists at Biltmore. But the very first Christmas party at the estate that you ever went to, you'd bought a new dress from a plus size vintage website.

“Ohhh that dress is gorgeous!” She’s immediately nodding before she deflates. “Shit.” She huffs, “babe...that dress was before you grew taller.” She points out. “Unless you’ve gotten confident in showing your scars?”

"I'm a tights girl, for the most part." Chloe had been with you the day it happened. Your faithful roommate had practically helped you sort out a whole new wardrobe. "I...do have a garter belt I could wear under it?"

“Classy, sexy…” She licks her lips. “He will lose his mind. It’s perfect.”

"I'm so glad you called," you confess, carrying her with you to go dig in your dresser. "I was losing my mind and Percy's— ohmygod I didn't tell you! Percy's engaged!"

“Percy’s engaged?” She squeals, “I can’t – wait – the Met.” She covers her mouth with her hand. “Are they keeping it secret?”

“Not exactly, but it’s not public knowledge yet either, so no telling.” As your other closest friend, Chloe and Percy had met on several occasions over the last ten years. They got along well enough, but hadn’t kept in touch. “I will tell you,” you set your phone against the lamp on your dresser to keep it propped up while you dig in your underwear drawer. “That she’s an absolute sweetheart and I’m immensely happy for them.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.” She promises, crossing a little ‘x’ over her heart. “I am happy for him. He’s a good man, think he deserves this.”

"He's...actually how I met Harry," you tell her, finally coming out of the back of the drawer with that black lace garter that you'd bought a few years ago on a whim. The thigh-highs that you bought with it are folded next to it in the drawer and you pull those out, too. "I met him at their engagement party."

“Really?” She sits back, ready to listen and picks up her iced coffee to take a sip. “Tell me everything.”

For the next few minutes, while you pull out all manner of lacy under things, you give Chloe the complete run down. The fact is that Percy has an entire new life now and him being so close with Harry would present all sort of weird emotions and so you had agreed to keep intimate details to yourself. This, though. Tonight? Promised to be very intimate if things went well and having someone to talk it through with is helping immeasurably.

“Wow.” She’s stunned and visibly impressed by the way this has seemingly gone down. “And you’re ready, right?” She asks seriously. She will always hype you up, but it’s more than just encouraging you to jump, it’s about making sure you can survive the landing.

“I would have gone home with him the first night if we hadn’t gotten interrupted.” From the bottom of your closet, you dig out two favorite pairs of shoes. “Glittery gold heels or red pumps?”

“What color are the hose for the garters? Black?” She guesses before you hold up solid hose. “Red. For that pop of color.” She smirks. “Ooooh wear red panties too.”

“I have a bra and panty set that’s red and black, what do you think of that?” Holding the bits of fabric in view of the camera, you waggle them a little in the air. “It’s not trying too hard?”

“I think that you both are hoping tonight ends up in bed and it’s perfect.” She promises with a wink. “Just make sure you’re safe!”

"Yeah, yeah, wrap it before you tap it," you laugh as you look at everything you've pulled out to wear tonight. "Babe, I can't even thank you enough for calling today. I—really needed this."

“Everyone needs that freak out call before diving into that first night in bed.” She laughs as she shakes her head. “I’m just glad I called.”

“You should come visit sometime.” She may be a true blue North Carolina girl, but the Big Apple has things for everyone. “My new place isn’t big but my couch always has your name on it.”

“I might have to take you up on that offer.” She grins. “But you could always come back and see me. The winery at Biltmore is always a fun time.”

“We could do both,” you bargain. The string that Biltmore has tied to your heart tugs a little and you smile. “I want to bring Harry down to see where I’m from. Maybe the end of the summer.”

“That would be fun!” She squeals, happy about a potential visit. “Right before the leaves change is my favorite time of year.”

"Okay." Another sigh of relief rolls through you, and you smile back at your phone screen. "I'll call you tomorrow to let you know how it went? I know you'll need the report, but I gotta get ready."

“Good luck, have fun and be safe.” She cautions again. “I love you.”

"I love you, too." With blown kiss on both ends, you end the call feeling far, far better than you had started it. Now all that's left is to actually get your ass into the clothes that you picked out and get over to Laight Street.

******

“Mr. Castillo, we will arrive in twenty minutes.” The announcement is made over a small speaker. The pilot communicating from the small cockpit up front. Harry straightens as he glances up from his phone to look out the window and smile. Twenty minutes until the craft will land on the room of his building and he will be with you.

The doorman at the front of the enormously tall building is uniformed, cordial, and seems terribly excited to meet you when you arrive at the front door and give your name as a visitor to one of the residents. He swipes you into the elevator and sends you up, grinning and waving as the doors close, and you pull out your phone to text Harry.

'Just got here. Phil seemed shocked and delighted to meet me. I take it you don't have lady friends over too often?'

The buzz on Harry’s phone captures his attention. Opening the device and chuckling at your message. ‘Not for a long time. Make yourself comfortable, the bar is fully stocked and I made sure there was a bottle of rum for you.’

'I feel so special!' You grin at your phone on the way up to the penthouse, you type out another sentence with one hand as you balance your plastic storage container in the other hand. Dessert is homemade and hopefully something he'll love despite not being very fancy. 'How far out are you?'

Harry checks the time on his phone and smiles. ‘Five minutes.’ He sends that message and then sends another one right after that one. ‘The jokes helped today.’

The relatively constant stream of bad puns, knock knock jokes, memes, and silly animal pictures you had sent him throughout the day were an effort to diffuse any stress or tension from his meetings, so it's good to hear the assault on grumpiness was a success. 'I'm glad to hear it. Fly safe, gorgeous. I'll be here waiting for you when you touch down.'

Harry doesn’t respond, listening to the change of the engines as the pilot approaches and needs to slow down in the airspace. The bag of cheesesteaks is next to him, his briefcase is going to be left with his assistant to take back to his office and he smiles when he sees the very familiar buildings outside his window.

It's probably good that you're given a few minutes in his apartment on your own for the first time. The place is huge and instead of trying to be blasé and missing the details, you get to marvel at every little midcentury minutia without being clocked for the nerd you are. By the time you find your way into the living room and then to the corner where the bar cart is located, it's been ten minutes and you've barely put down your purse and the container holding your baking to inspect the rum he picked up.

The elevator dings as the doors slide open and Harry chuckles to himself as he walks towards his door. Finding himself hustling to see you.

"I sure hope that's Harry and not some random intruder!" You call from the living room. "I am not dressed to kick ass."

“It’s me.” He huffs in amusement as he closes the door behind him. “Where are you?”

"Just fixing myself a drink," you call back. "This place is gorgeous!"

“Thanks.” He walks through and finds you holding the rum bottle over a Crystal cut glass. “Let me set these down and I’ll be right over.”

Looking that good really should be a crime, you think with a sigh, making sure you take a good look at his ass as he strides over to the coffee table and momentarily has to bend over to put things down. The bag he was carrying is now next to your purse and travel container. "I was going to make a rum negroni. Do you want to try one with me?"

“I’ll try anything you make.” He promises as he shrugs out of his suit jacket and folds it neatly before laying it over the back of a chair. “How was your day besides sending memes?” He asks as he walks over, finding the simple act of greeting you when he comes home to be immensely satisfying.

"I got through my meetings pretty well and I got Percy and Tam's honeymoon completely booked, so I would call it a very productive day." With rum bottle in hand, you sling the other around his waist and sink into a short, sweet, but still knee-knocking kiss hello. It's...weirdly and deeply domestic in a way you hadn't expected and yet so satisfying at the same time. "And as long as you're up for trying things I make, I made dessert."

“You didn’t have to.” He promises, although he’s touched by the fact that you made something for him. “I had thought you were dessert.” He hums, smirking slightly as he trails his eyes up and down your figure. “You look amazing.”

"Oh, this old thing?" Swaying your hips a little makes the skirt of the dress swish while you turn to carefully pour drinks, but you flash him a cheeky grin. "It's actually my favorite dress. I'm glad you like it, too."

“It’s very flattering.” He chuckles, leaning over to watch you. “But everything you wear is. You have a great sense of what looks good.”

"You look good." Rum, Campari, and vermouth all combine easily to fill two glasses, and in no time flat you're handing him one of those cut crystal glasses from his bar cart and holding the other for yourself. "You sure I can't have you for dessert?"

“Of course you can.” He winks at you as he takes the glass and gently taps it against yours. “To you and to an evening uninterrupted.” He hums huskily.

"That's a remarkable thing to look forward to for two busy people." The gentle clink of crystal resonates through the room and you swear you feel your heartbeat tick up. "Let me just..." Snapping up your phone from the bar, you power it down and toss it back down with a smile. "There."

“Oh, we are turning off phones?” His own comes out of his pocket and he smirks slightly as he turns it off. “If it’s an emergency, they can always call the front desk.”

"You said you wanted to be uninterrupted." The sight of Harry actually fully turning off his phone -- the man who is constantly working actively cutting off outside contact -- is as much of a turn on as that designer suit that hugs his ass just right. "Now we're all alone."

“Are you hungry or do you want to enjoy your drink first and have a little conversation?” He offers.

"You flew dinner in all the way from Philadelphia," you remind him, pleased and nearly coy about it when you say it out loud like that. "Why don't we sit down with food and drinks and we can chat over dinner?"

“It’s not fancy.” He reminds you. “Your cocktail might be the classiest thing on the table.

"The fanciest things on the table..." On the way past the coffee table, you scoop up the plastic container you had brought with you and wave it tantalizingly. "Will be my brown butter, sea salt, dark chocolate toffee blondies." You had remembered what he said about liking salty and sweet together and managed a modification of your usual blondie recipe to suit his preference. They turned out amazing.

“Those sound like the perfect dessert to have before dessert.” He teases with a smug little smirk on his face. Like he is very assured of where the evening will end and how pleased you will be with him.

“That confident, huh?” The smirk on his face is unmistakable, and actually soothes a little bit of tension from your body as you get things set up on his table together. No mystery, no wondering if you said the wrong thing and spoiled something. Straightforward intention. That makes you give his cheeky tone right back to him. “Well I sure am glad I wore my most nonexistent panties then. Wouldn’t want to waste that on any old night.”

“That would be a shame.” He shoots you a grin and then pulls the large hot box closer. “So, I wasn’t sure what kind of cheesesteak you wanted, so I just got one of each of the most popular.”

“The closest thing I’ve ever had is the cheesesteak mac and cheese at the place I used to work, so a sampler sounds perfect.” He holds out your chair for you and you actually manage not to gawp at his lovely manners. He’s done that for you at restaurants, of course. But you always figured it was reserved for public spaces. “I—thank you.”

“Of course.” Just because this date is at home, doesn’t mean he should skip out on manners. His mother would be ashamed of him if he did. She had taught him better.

“So your meetings went well?” It’s a supposition, but he’s in a fairly good mood so it seems like a fair guess. “And the flight was okay?”

“The flights were fine.” He shrugs. “The meetings….one of them was really productive, the other…” he shakes his head. “They didn’t have the number to match the projections. It’s a novel idea, but investors need more research to back up pouring millions of dollars into an idea.”

“Fifty percent productivity seems like a good ratio considering there were only two meetings in the first place.” You sip your drink while he pulls out plates and divides up the sandwiches, eventually wiping his hands on a napkin and coming to sit down with you. “I got a phone call from my college roommate today and it gave me an idea.”

“Oh really?” He is curious, he knows that you attended college in North Carolina, but he’s not heard too many stories from that time yet. “Do tell.”

“She asked if I was planning to go back anytime soon and mentioned visiting,” you tell him, happy to dig in together to your dinner. “And I wondered if you would want to incorporate that into the trip we talked about? I worked at Biltmore when I was at school in Asheville and it’s a great place to visit if you’re into historic architecture and gardens and art.”

He lifts a brow and smiles. “I think that would be possible.” He doesn’t mention that his firm is actually invested in the Biltmore Winery and the Inn on the property. He had just never visited before.

“Possible is different than it sounding like fun,” you note, raising an eyebrow. “If it doesn’t sound like fun, I can go down memory lane another time.”

“No, it honestly sounds like a romantic weekend getaway.” He insists, shaking his head. “And it will be nice to see it firsthand.”

“It’s the first place I ever worked on events, so I guess it’s a little special to me.” And probably why it lives on in your fantasies the way it does. But that’s not something you need to pile onto the conversation at this point in time.

“That will make it special.” He agrees, setting out the containers of sandwiches and sauces that can be added. “Why don’t we go? It’s not too far from Fayetteville, right?”

“It’s about a four hour drive,” you say, waving it off like it’s nothing until you see the surprise on his face.

“And it’s still in North Carolina?” He had known the state was large, but he never imagined it was that large.

His first bite is halfway to his mouth when he pauses to look at you in stride and you laugh. “Most of the country is a lot further apart than you might imagine.”

“Well, I know that.” He snorts and rolls his eyes at you playfully, “I just hadn’t realized North Carolina was that wide.”

“She’s a big girl,” you joke. “But we like her.”

He chuckles and lifts a brow at you talking about a state like it’s a woman. “Remember, you’re a New Yorker now.” He teases.

“After barely a couple of months? I thought that took years?” The teasing continues as you begin to eat, shared groans over good food melding through laughter and more teasing prods. Conversation always flows easily with Harry. The bare few moments of awkwardness are already a distant memory and all that lies ahead is comfort and joy.

The two of you manage to put a dent in the cheesesteaks, but there is still plenty of leftovers. “Which one was your favorite?” He asks with a grin as he leans back and discreetly rubs his stomach.

"I think..." There's no contest for you, but you're just full enough to sigh contentedly and sit back in your chair. "The second one. With mushrooms and provolone. I know it's the unconventional choice but it's so damn good."

“And ketchup?” He snickers slightly although more people put ketchup on their cheesesteaks than will ever admit it. He likes a little touch of steak sauce on it himself.

"The ketchup was not my favorite," you admit, though you roll eyes at him. "You'd call me a heathen if you knew what I would actually put on that."

“What?” He waggles his brows at you. “Mustard?”

"Steak sauce." He's going to hate that idea and you're already half giggling imagining his horror. "Like A1. I think the depth and the tanginess would work really well. The ketchup is too sweet."

He stares at you for a moment in shock while you dissolve into a fit of laughter. Completely surprised that you described why you don’t put ketchup on a cheesesteak to a T and agree with him. “That’s my favorite thing on a sandwich.” He grumbles. “It’s perfect.”

“Steak sauce gets a bad reputation.” He’s adorably grumbly about it but you’re just giddy that he agrees. “Things don’t have to be Michelin starred to be delicious.”

“I prefer A1 over a béarnaise sauce any day of the week.” He chuckles. “Although don’t tell my mother that. She’s so proud of her sauce and I hate it.”

“Cross my heart,” you swear solemnly, drawing an ‘x’ over your chest with one finger.

He snorts and shoots you an amused grin. “So we are both abominations when it comes to our condiments.” He jokes.

“I’m okay with that.” In fact? The more things common, the better.

“We will keep a bottle of A1 in your purse.” He jokes, chuckling at the idea of sneaking a sauce when the restaurant doesn’t have it.

“My mother carries hot sauce,” you snicker. “So probably nobody in my family would even blink about it.”

“A good hot sauce is hard to find.” He hums, amused by that bit of information.

“She got it from my grandfather as a joke the first time.” The explanation is so simple and so very on point. Your family likes to tease, they always have. “He told her he didn’t want her to not be able to eat while she was deployed. She puts hot sauce on basically everything.”

“That’s one way to make sure your food is palette able.” He shrugs. “My brother over salts everything.” He admits. “I keep telling him that he’s going to be preserved from the inside if he keeps it up.”

“Self-mummification,” you agree, nodding wisely.

He snorts. “Mainly I’m afraid he will have a stroke.”

“It’ll slow down when they have kids that don’t want anything but bland food for years.” Sitting back at the table, you tap the container of blondies and smile. “Too full for dessert? We can always have them with coffee later.”

“That’s up to you.” He lifts a brow as he watches you. “Are you too full?”

"I'm thinking I will be if we have these now." However confident you might be that tonight will end -- one way or another -- with you and Harry tangled up in his bed, a girl doesn't like to be feeling bloated when that time comes.

“Then they can be a midnight snack.” He smiles as he stands and picks up your plates. “Do you want to go out on the balcony or….” He lets the words die suggestively.

"Harry..." Sitting at the table, you tilt your head slightly and tuck your ankles to the side. It's slightly more demure than crossing your legs and doesn't run the risk of giving away the secret of your stockings in the process. "Are you asking to have me for dessert?"

He puts the plates in the sink, not bothering with them for now. He does have a housekeeper that comes, but he doesn’t expect her to load dishes into the dishwasher when he can. He’s also a little obsessed with staying tidy. “Is that on the menu?” He asks seriously. “I didn’t see an overnight bag anywhere.”

"I didn't want to be presumptuous," you admit. "And...I also assumed you would be busy in the morning, so even if we did end up having sex I didn't know if staying the night was a possibility."

Harry stares at you for a moment before he pushes off the counter and walks towards his phone. Picking it up to power it on.

"Harry?" He looks so determined you have to wonder if maybe he just remembered some important email he was supposed to be waiting on.

“Give me just a minute.” He doesn’t look up, just waiting for there to be cell service before opening his contacts and connecting with a name. It’s answered on the third ring and he glances up at you as he speaks. “Grace, I’ve decided to take the morning.” He tells his assistant. “I’ve had something personal come up. Please reschedule anything on my calendar. I’ll be in at two o’clock.”

"Of course, sir." Grace doesn't comment on the fact that her boss never takes personal time. Whatever has caused this is either catastrophe or a revelation. "Is there anything I can do to be of assistance?"

He watches your mouth hang open as he clears his schedule. “Actually, yes.” He says, smirking slightly. “Please make a reservation for two for nine o’clock at Tiffany’s for breakfast.”

"The cafe, sir, or an appointment with your sales associate?" Grace asks pleasantly, getting to work while blissfully unaware of your eyes bugging out of your head or your jaw dropping as you stare at Harry in his kitchen.

“Both, I think.” He answers, finding your bewilderment endearing. “The later after we eat.”

"Of course, sir." A revelation rather than a catastrophe, Grace notes as she jots down instructions. A woman. "Will that be all?"

“Yes, Grace.” He answers smoothly, knowing that his assistant has a million questions but won’t ask until she’s invited to. That’s what makes her perfect for her job. “Enjoy your evening.”

"You as well, sir." The line goes dead a moment later.

"What..." you finally breathe...staring at him like a deer caught in headlights. "...the fuck?"

He powers down his phone again and clicks his tongue. “Mack….” He smirks. “My schedule suddenly cleared up.”

"Did you just...?" Call out of work is the end of that thought, but you're a little breathless and shocked. He seems to understand though, because he nods with that sly smile still on his face. "For...me?" He nods again. When your face breaks out into a wide, beaming smile, you take a step toward him. "Then no cum stains on the dress," you tell him strictly. "I didn't bring a change of clothes."

“I don’t plan on you wearing that dress when either one of us cums.” He makes his own step towards you, sure that this is what he wants. “I should have gotten you flowers.” He huffs to himself.

"I think buying me dinner and taking me out for breakfast more than makes up for it." And if you had heard what his assistant said on the phone – if you knew that it was more than breakfast – you would but huffing at him about the gesture being fully unnecessary.

“You should always buy a woman flowers before you sleep with them.” He repeats the old words of wisdom that had been passed down to him by his father when he was a teenager.

The tone checks a familiar box in your head and you grin, stepping into his personal space and sliding your hands up his arms. "I won't tell your Dad on you. Or your Mom. I can't tell whose advice that is."

“Father.” He admits, tilting his head slightly as he reaches for your waist. “It’s never failed me yet.”

"Your secret is safe with me," you promise him, feeling that thrill of a shiver runs through you again when his hand finds you and pulls you closer.

“That’s good to know.” There are other secrets, but those might be revealed later on. For now, he just concentrates on pulling you close and smiling as your eyes flicker down to his lips. “See something you want?”

“Smart ass.” Even as close as you and as tantalizing as he is, you let out a little laugh. “You already know I want you.”

“And you know I want you.” This kiss is just as soft as before but there is a taste of expectancy. Both of you knowing where this will lead tonight and barring a major catastrophe, nothing will interrupt you.

Just a second ago you were standing in the middle of the room. You would have sworn to it in court. But somehow he now has your back against a wall and your head tipped back to open up to him, which only serves as a stark reminder that everything seems to just melt away when he kisses you. Including the world itself.

You’re soft. Harry presses against you and he luxuriates in the difference between his frame and yours. You cradle him, cushion his body with yours. He groans into your mouth as he slides his arms around you.

From gentle to indulgent to hungry, the kiss quickly progresses into something fierce and needy that swirls and boils in the low pit of your belly. It isn’t dampness between your legs, it is a flood where absolutely nothing could extinguish it. You’re on fire for him and your fingers curl into every possible to drag him close. To devour him.

If there wasn’t the pressing need to see you spread out on his bed, Harry would have started stripping you right here. Groaning softly as he makes himself pull you away from the wall to start guiding you down the large hallway towards his bedroom.

Away from the wall but not away from him, one of your hands finds its way into his curls momentarily, to feed that growing feeling of need inside you. But you have distinctly more things to pull away than he does, so you reluctantly let go of his hair and forgo the delicious moan he loosed at your tug in order to tug open his tie.

“Should have changed when I got home.” He huffs, starting a trail of kisses down your jaw and along your neck. “But you looked so pretty, I didn’t want to be away from you.”

“Imagined pulling every single thing off of you I’ve ever seen you wear,” you gasp, eyes practically rolling back in your head when his tongue laves over your pulse. It’s enough to make your fingers stutter as you work open the buttons on his shirt. “Glad I finally get to.”

He hums, the taste of your skin is fucking nearly addictive and he decides to be decidedly immature and sucks on the skin slightly. Not caring if he leaves a tender spot to remember him by.The pressure makes you whine, wishing you had even more neck to offer him to feast on.

He chuckles, delightfully amused that you enjoy it. His hands slide down and he squeezes your ass, grinding into you as he finds the frame of the bedroom door to push you against for another kiss.

“Baby…” It doesn’t feel like the right term, not quite encompassing enough, not adoring enough. But the night is young, you’ll find what’s right for him. You arch into him as he presses forward, back lifting off the doorframe even as your head has nowhere else to go. If he wants to devour you right here you’ll be happy to let him.

This time, Harry is the one who needs to come up for air. Gasping your name, not just Mack, as he pulls away and drags you over to the bed. He damn near picks you up, hauling you onto his enormous bed to lay you out on the soft, white, silk sheets like the best gift he has ever had the pleasure of unwrapping. There’s something significant about this moment and Harry doesn’t know what it is, but he wants to find out. For all the rush to get you here, when you’re finally in his bed, he’s slow to lean down and kiss you.

His demeanor changes. A tenderness overtakes the hunger in this kiss that makes it almost reverent, and takes your breath away. Not that desperate kind of feeling like you’re drowning. This is different. Like he’s trying to breathe life into you. It makes you dizzy and giddy as you moan his name into his mouth.

This is what he’s been missing. Mechanically, sex has always been fantastic for him. There’ have been a couple of times where it’s not been great, but on average, everyone leaves satisfied. This is something completely different. Both of you are greedy to give. Breath, touch, emotion. There’s a layer to this that has him rocked already and nothing more than kissing has really happened.

As though the room has filled with dreams, fog, clouds, or something else ethereal, reality has fully shifted by the time Harry climbs onto his own bed to lay between your legs, and the strangest part of all of it is that it somehow feels even more right than it did before.

His hands are steady when he finally peels away the dress. Only to groan in wonder when he finds straps and lace beneath. Tights that stop just before the top of your thighs, held on by a garter belt that is probably the sexiest thing he’s ever seen in his life. “Fuuuuuuck.”

“Oh,” you giggle, deep in your throat and unabashedly pleased with yourself. “These old things?”

“Do you wear this often?” His nostrils flare, thinking about the missed night together after that first date. If he would have discovered this same thing under that outfit.

“Not really…” You sooth one hand down his side and grin. “I have a feeling I might, though.”

It has to be very obvious that Harry likes it. He’s practically drooling as his fingertip brush over the delicate lace top of the stockings. It’s like he’s stepped back onto a movie where a woman propped a leg up on a cushion and slowly drove her lover mad by rolling up or down silk over her leg. “You should.” You know what looks great on your body and his cock twitches as he reaches for your panties. “Can’t believe this was hidden.”

“Get rid of—” You shudder and moan when his thumb connects with the soaked fabric of your panties. “Th—those, get rid of those and leave the rest.”

‘How?’ He thinks to himself frowning slightly as he not seeing a way to pull them down without unclipping your stocking so he smirks and just decides to rip your panties open. “Oops.”

It’s such an honest, slightly giddy, human moment that you break out into a snort and giggle as you shake your head at him. If he’d looked harder, we would’ve seen that your panties were, in fact, over the ties of your garter belt. It’s just that be while thing matches and the lace pattern was confusing him since all the blood in his body is currently in the bulge in his pants.

“I’ll buy you more.” He’s quickly promising that, even as he rips the other side just to get them completely off of you faster, eager to see how your pussy looks framed between your black silk stocking and the garters.

“Don’t even care,” you admit, studying his face as he studies you, drinking in the desire in his eyes and the way he licks his lips in anticipation. He chuckles and then his head seems to follow his eyes. Dipping down to get a closer look. Hungry for it.

The question of whether or not Harry is a man who actually likes to eat pussy is answered with extreme ease. He inhales like he’s inspecting a decanted wine, groans happily, and settles himself between your legs with the obvious intent of sitting down to a feast.

Harry is not the type of man to deny oral. He had been shorter, his looks and money not always overcoming the casual disregard of women. So when a girl and later on, a woman, would actually climb into bed with him - he made sure they were left slightly dazed by the skill of his tongue alone before he ever slid inside them. Now, he’s happy to have that skill behind him, so he can gorge himself on the dessert before him.

Method and enthusiasm are not mutually exclusive. Determination does not come at the expense of finesse. Harry's restrained strength and passion seem to still be tightly wound as he works to taste every inch of you, flicking his tongue deftly through your folds to test what will make you cry out the loudest. Your hands fist in his silken sheets and your back arches the first time his tongue swirls directly around your clit – the sharp sweetness of that direct touch making you gasp in pleasure.

You like that. Harry repeats it just to see if the same sweet sound will come out. Humming to himself as he makes note that you really like that. Then he changes course, flicking his tongue as he laps at you gently.

When you get your mind back – the ability to think, to reason, to form complete sentences – the words you'll use to describe Harry's pussy eating skills as thorough and devastating. For right now, though, with your legs pinned open and your head thrown back, and one of your hands threading through his gorgeous curls, all you can do is moan for him.

He doesn’t let up. Just as focused and methodical as he would be in a board room. Although he is enjoying this a lot more than a business meeting. Your taste is the perfect mix of heat and woman, mellowing out on his tongue for the perfect finish. Like an expensive whiskey and he is just as eager to drink you down.

He has no intention of rushing through this. Pushing you toward the edge of ecstasy and pulling back again, over and over until you can barely remember your own name and you're all but seeing spots. He has one arm looped around your hip to hold you still, he lets your back arch off the bed freely and hums into your cunt with every luxurious stroke of his tongue. It's like a paradise that has melted your mind straight away, just leaving you to babble your pleasure – and your protest every time he edges you back from an explosive orgasm.

You’re dripping. The slight stubble on his chin from his five o’clock shadow is glistening with the way you have soaked his face. He loves the way you respond and he could do this all night, but your thighs have started squeezing his head. Babbling pleas for him to let you cum getting to him. He pulls away for a second before he winks up at you. “So close, honey.” He purrs.

“I’ve been close for hours,” you whine, with no idea whatsoever how long it’s been. For all you know he’s ruined you in ten minutes flat. Or maybe it���s already next weekend, who knows?

He chuckles, aware that he’s only kept you on the edge for the last half hour. “Hours.” He echoes before he dives back, this time adding his fingers.

“Fuck!” The gorgeous stretch of thick fingers makes your whole body tense, cunt bearing down on his digits immediately in a desperate plea for climax.

He can tell you are ready; your body is shaking even though you haven’t even cum. Watching you unravel has been exquisite and he wants to see that last push.

It comes when he curls his fingers expertly inside you, tongue focused on your clit with swirls and flicks like he’s writing his name with every pulse, claiming you with an orgasm that rocks through you so intensely you’re just a touch hoarse to go with the tears in your eyes by the end of it.

It’s over in a flash. The cry breaks loudly, cracking towards the end as your entire body heaves under the pressure of your orgasm. The heels of your feet dig into his back where you had propped them and he loves how unrestrained you are.

It leaves the room sharply silent apart from your panting breath and his pleased hums for a long few seconds, until you break out in a small, throaty giggly. "Well fuck," you groan, looking down at him with the dopiest grin in history on your face.

“Well pleased?” He asks, even as he smirks at you, hand caressing your mound. Thumb slipping down to brush through your neatly trimmed curls. It’s sexy to have a woman who doesn’t shave or wax everything.

"When I can move again, remind me to shove your arm flirtatiously," you quip, letting out another easy giggle.

He winks, moving to prop up on his elbow. “Then I guess I better make sure you can’t move for a long time.” You are still wearing a bra, but he doesn’t care, his open shirt has been discarded and he is quickly shuffling off his pants and crawling back between your thighs.

His chin and his lips are covered with your slick when he reaches you and you could not give less of a shit if you actively tried. When he comes up to kiss you, you dive in, wrapping your arms around him and happily welcoming the feeling of being overwhelmed and shielded by his broad body.

He groans and even though there hasn’t been a conversation about contraception, he’s lining up and kissing you while he pushes in slowly. Loving how hot and wet you are, your walls nearly strangling his cock.

All of him is thick. The breadth of his shoulders, his strong hands, even the muscles of his legs that should not be visible under well-tailored suit pants but you swear he could crush a watermelon with those thighs. It shouldn't surprise you that even without getting more than a glance at his cock, you can feel the way it splits you open and makes you cling to him while your body adjusts to feeling so fucking full.

“You feel fucking perfect.” Your body cushions and cradles him in a way that he never knew possible. The soft fullness of your body is completely exquisite. “God, Mack.” He presses his lips to yours again and again.

"So fucking good..." It's barely an echo, but you spread your legs wider to give him more room to move and plant your feet in the mattress like it will somehow give you more leverage to move with him. The idea of being even vaguely parted just does not compute n your mind right now. "So perfect, baby, so big inside me."

He groans again, eyes nearly rolling back at the praise and the way you squeeze your walls around him. “You are just tight.” It comes out low, nearly a hiss as he grinds his hips just a little deeper.

A thought flickers across your mind that heel nudge your IUD out of place if he isn’t careful, but that isn’t the kind of thing that happens in real life and he feels far too fucking good for you to care anyway. “Want to feel you for days,” you moan instead, grinding down to meet him and make both of you moan.

His arms are braced on either side of you, watching as he slowly starts to move. He wants to give you everything that you want, and if that’s to feel him for days, he will give it to you. “More?”

The pace he sets is smooth and deep, but you’ve gotten hungry for him all over again and it makes you whine with neediness. “More.”

Your wish is his command. The sharp snap of his hips is almost accidental. Rougher than anything he’s ever done before. “Shit!”

“Fuuuuuck,” your eyes fall shut without thinking but you pry them open a second later to drink in his already pussy drunk expression. “Too much for you, gorgeous? Or just right?”

“You’re good with that?” He asks breathlessly, wanting to make sure that it wasn’t too rough.

“Babe,” you nip at his bottom lip harder than you’ve done before and meet his eyes with fire blazing in your own. “I want you to fuck me until I forget everything but you.” Are you already there with just his cock inside you? Sure. Pretty much. But if he wants encouragement, you’re glad to use your few remaining brain cells to give it to him.

He chuckles, low and filthy, smirking as his own teeth nip slightly. Relaxed now that he knows you can take it and actually enjoys it. You don’t want to look pretty, you want to fuck. “Done.”

The rest will save. Sweet and tender and full of feelings can come later. After you’re sure he won’t run in the other direction when you tell him how you feel. Right now you want to know what it means to be claimed by him. To be fully taken.

He’s never been this forceful with his thrusts. Never snapped his hips so hard that his own hips hurt from smacking against the v of your thighs. Still, he doesn’t let up. Not when you make those whimpering noises every time he bottoms out inside you.

Eventually your bra is pulled off and flung aside into the ether that is the rest of his bedroom so he can add your tits to the list of things he has sampled tonight. He slides both arms under your back to cradle you close, finding with utter delight that your sensitive nipples add another layer of reactions to him as he showers them with attention. Harry moans against your breast, tongue circling the nipple again as your fingers tug on his hair. Pulling you closer and urging him on. Legs tight around his hips.

The room is filled with the scent of sex and the sound of slick bodies moving together. Sounds of pleasure, curses, cries, and praise echo off the walls along with every slap of his hips against yours. It's a gorgeous symphony of pleasure that threatens to be over all too soon when your second orgasm slams into you like a freight train.

He watches in rapture, completely captivated by the way you come apart. Shaking under him, soaking him. Harry cannot do much more than follow you over the edge as he pushes deep and grunts your name.

The tight, velvety squeeze of you takes him with you quickly, leaving you both panting into endless kisses. Limp and satiated, your legs lose their tension around him and only the heaviness of your bodies together keep you from floating away.

“I think….” Harry has buried his face in your neck as he pants. “I can’t move.”

"You don't need to," you promise him, dusting kisses on his hairline. "Stay right here, babe."

“Plan on it for right this second.” He’s always been a post-coital cuddler and he’s relieved that you aren’t pushing him away.

“You could fall asleep right here and that would be fine with me,” you promise him, wrapping your arms around him.

He hums, closing his eyes as he smiles against your skin. He won’t, but he honestly could. Relaxed and blissful as he listens to your heart beat.

One hand soothes up and down his back and the other rests in his hip, while you lazily kiss his forehead and stare at the ceiling. The swirling thoughts in your mind are like beautiful colors layering on top of each other over and over again until your imagination is making its own Monets on the ceiling of his bedroom.

“I’m not getting too heavy, am I?” He asks as he pulls himself up to look into your eyes again.

"Not at all." When he lifts his head you break out into the most splitting, radiant grin and leave of those aimless little kisses on the tip of his nose. "So you like lingerie, huh?"

"I think that's it's safe to say that I love the lingerie." He huffs out, almost laughing at his own dramatic response to the view. It was sexy, but it wasn't that overtly brazen look. It was also functional and almost demure under your outfit. It makes it even sexier when stripping away the dress and panties. "I think that's the first time I've ever ripped something." He admits.

CalamityConnie — 7/14/2025 8:09 AM

“It’s good to let the caveman out once in a while,” you promise him, as if you’re imparting some kind of ancient wisdom. “Plus it was sexy as hell.”

absurdthirst — 7/14/2025 8:37 AM

“You liked it?” The tone isn’t surprise, but he’s cautious. If you like it, he’s got no problem with that. Just wanting to make sure you weren’t upset.

CalamityConnie — 7/14/2025 8:39 AM

“I like to see that careful restraint of yours break every once in a while.” Some people might call him tightly wound, and maybe he is. But you see the enormous expectations he holds himself to — probably from his parents and from his industry — and it sparks something unexpected in you to be able to be the person he can let go around. When he wants to, of course. You wouldn’t force him to do anything he didn’t want to.

absurdthirst — 7/14/2025 10:44 AM

He watches you for a moment, amusement and surprise mixing in his eyes and he tilts his head, feeling your walls clenching down around his softening cock. “Yeah? That’s good.” He admits and leans in to kiss you again. “Because I liked it.”

CalamityConnie — 7/14/2025 10:58 AM

“I like you.” Plain and simple, if not quite the entire truth, murmured against his lips with a contented sigh.

absurdthirst — 7/14/2025 10:59 AM

“I think it’s kind of obvious that we like each other right now.” He makes his cock twitch just to hear you giggle.

CalamityConnie — 7/14/2025 11:00 AM

“Just a little.” He knows how to make you laugh, you’ll give him that very easily. “Thank god for IUDs, am I right?”

absurdthirst — 7/14/2025 11:05 AM

He hums softly as he starts to pull out of you as gently as he can and shift to his side beside you. It wouldn’t be right in his mind to have this conversation while still that intimately locked. “You don’t have to worry about that.” He promises, leaning in to kiss your cheek.

CalamityConnie — 7/14/2025 11:06 AM

“Right.” You nod, not quite catching on. “Cause of the IUD.”

absurdthirst — 7/14/2025 11:10 AM

Harry slides his hand up your side and hums again. “I don’t normally admit this, but I had a vasectomy ten years ago.” He tells you quietly. It had been a smart decision in his mind. “I get checked every year. Still have a zero count.”

CalamityConnie — 7/14/2025 11:11 AM

Your face morphs through three stages of confusion, not because you’re upset with him for not telling you before, but because it doesn’t make sense with some other things he’s told you. “I thought you wanted kids one day?”

"I think that's it's safe to say that I love the lingerie." He huffs out, almost laughing at his own dramatic response to the view. It was sexy, but it wasn't that overtly brazen look. It was also functional and almost demure under your outfit. It makes it even sexier when stripping away the dress and panties. "I think that's the first time I've ever ripped something." He admits.

“It’s good to let the caveman out once in a while,” you promise him, as if you’re imparting some kind of ancient wisdom. “Plus it was sexy as hell.”

“You liked it?” The tone isn’t surprise, but he’s cautious. If you like it, he’s got no problem with that. Just wanting to make sure you weren’t upset.

“I like to see that careful restraint of yours break every once in a while.” Some people might call him tightly wound, and maybe he is. But you see the enormous expectations he holds himself to — probably from his parents and from his industry — and it sparks something unexpected in you to be able to be the person he can let go around. When he wants to, of course. You wouldn’t force him to do anything he didn’t want to.

He watches you for a moment, amusement and surprise mixing in his eyes and he tilts his head, feeling your walls clenching down around his softening cock. “Yeah? That’s good.” He admits and leans in to kiss you again. “Because I liked it.”

“I like you.” Plain and simple, if not quite the entire truth, murmured against his lips with a contented sigh.

“I think it’s kind of obvious that we like each other right now.” He makes his cock twitch just to hear you giggle.

“Just a little.” He knows how to make you laugh, you’ll give him that very easily. “Thank god for IUDs, am I right?”

He hums softly as he starts to pull out of you as gently as he can and shift to his side beside you. It wouldn’t be right in his mind to have this conversation while still that intimately locked. “You don’t have to worry about that.” He promises, leaning in to kiss your cheek.

“Right.” You nod, not quite catching on. “Cause of the IUD.”

Harry slides his hand up your side and hums again. “I don’t normally admit this, but I had a vasectomy ten years ago.” He tells you quietly. It had been a smart decision in his mind. “I get checked every year. Still have a zero count.”

Your face morphs through three stages of confusion, not because you’re upset with him for not telling you before, but because it doesn’t make sense with some other things he’s told you. “I thought you wanted kids one day?”

“I do.” He can see you don’t understand why he has done this. “It’s reversible.” He assures you. “It just seemed….prudent.”

“I’m all for male birth control,” you clarify, not wanting him to think you’re judging him or upset at all. Shifting on the bed lets you face him more easily and he pulls the silky top sheet up over your bodies while you talk. “I just didn’t think reversals were guaranteed. Then again? I can’t say I’ve done that much reading in the subject so I could easily be wrong.”

“My doctor assured me that the clamps he used were reversible. He didn’t cut the vein.” Harry explains. “It’s why I get tested every year. Sometimes twice a year.” He had decided to do it when his popularity had improved after having the other surgery. Women wanted to jump into bed with him far more often and he was aware of the possibility of accidents. Or coincidental accidents to land a very rich husband. So he had decided to take birth control into his own hands. Often the woman he was with never knew but he didn’t want to keep that from you.

“Well.” Given that he seems a little…guarded about the topic, which you can understand given how personal it is, you don’t pry. Instead you give his cheek a soft kiss in return and just shrug one shoulder. “Then we’re doubly safe. That’s not a bad thing at all.”

He’s slightly surprised you accept that so easily, turning and nuzzling into you. “No it’s not.” He admits. “Thank you.”

It’s not what you expected, obviously, but it’s also not your decision to make. The only thing you need to decide is if you can date a man who has had a vasectomy, and when that man is Harry? You find you don’t have much of an issue at all deciding the answer is yes.

It’s only a few seconds later, with both of you breathing steadily and your eyes drifting closed, that you huff unhappily. “What are the chances you have smart lights that you can turn out on demand or something?” You ask, knowing one of you will have to get up to get the light switch, but it’s worth asking to make him laugh.

“Press the button above your head.” He murmurs, taking your hand and guiding it to the small panel with two buttons. “Left is the lights, right is the black out shades.”

You’re giggling before your finger ever finds the panel, but you press it with minimal pressure and sigh happily as the lights go out. “That’s so fucking sexy. Not getting out of bed to shut the lights off is officially the best thing ever.”

“Best thing ever, huh?” Harry is huffing in amusement, even as he slides his leg up and throws it over you to press closer. “You’re so easy to please.”

“Only when I’m already happy.” Nuzzling into his side, you let out a contented sigh and kiss him one more time before closing your eyes. “Good night, gorgeous. Sweet dreams.”

He can hear the exhaustion in your voice and smiles in the darkness. You hadn’t closed the blackouts, so he can still see you in the dim light coming in from the windows. “Sweet dreams, Mack.”

******

Morning comes with bright yellow summer sun but it doesn’t wake you up immediately. Neither does Harry waking before you, carefully crawling out of bed with a kiss dusted in your forehead.

When you eventually wake up all on your own it’s still early — just after eight in the morning by his bedside clock — and you grumble slightly at waking alone but slide out of bed easily. Falling asleep beside him with your stocking still on means they’re effectively ruined without an enormously detailed cleaning, and you’ll have to talk to him about it your scars today. That will come later, though.

Later. After the little pile on the nearby chair is investigated.

Good morning, sweetheart. Have a hot shower and sip into some new clothes. Coffee is ready whenever you are.

It’s been left on top of a neatly folded black summer dress with a new matching set panty and bra set. You bite your lip, appreciating the gift but concerned he’ll have gotten something far too small — only to find they exactly match the sizes you were wearing last night.

That’s…a hell of a feat, actually. You have to give credit where credit is due.

He’s dressed, sitting at the table as he reads the paper. It’s unusual to not be rushing out the door to work. He hadn’t even ordered breakfast to be delivered for his overnight guest like he would have. Because he’s taking you to breakfast. Hearing the muffled sounds of movement from the bedroom as he sips his Americano.

The click of your heels on hardwood comes before you turn the corner, but you light up the doorway when you come into the kitchen in the brand new dress. “Did you even sleep?” You tease, coming up to give him a kiss. “How did you manage this?” It isn’t a perfect fit, but it should only need a touch of tailoring for it to be — and that is a miracle in itself.

His eyes roam over your outfit, noticing that it doesn’t quite fit perfectly, but it’s off the rack so it’s not tailored. His personal shopper had kept him apprised of how hard it had been to find something and he had made sure to tip her suitably. “Personal shopper.” He admits, sure that you didn’t believe he had left and found your outfit himself.

“One of your many assistants.” Still, the thought earns him a sweet kiss, and a second for the fact that he had left out a toothbrush for you. “I’m afraid the thigh highs will need some love before I can wear them again. Bare legs will have to do today.”

“I had forgotten to have her pick up stockings.” He admits. “But I think you don’t wear them all the time, right?”

“No, not always.” It does, though, leave something very obvious. You move the skirt aside and put one leg out nervously. “I started wearing them to cover these.”

Harry’s brow furrows as he looks down and then his eyes widen. “You had surgery?” He knows those marks intimately. His look almost identical. “Why? I thought-“ he frowns slightly, remembering that you liked to date men around his original height. Why would you have the surgery to become that height?

“My soulmate had surgery.” Quickly letting the skirt of the dress gal back into place, you sit down at the table with him and pour a cup of coffee from the carafe on the table. “One morning while I was in college, I was suddenly six inches taller.”

“Wait a minute….” He folds his paper and leans forward. “You mean that height surgery is transferred to soulmates?”

“Apparently.” You shrug, adding a little milk to your coffee. “I had never heard of it before, but apparently there are stories about things other than marks or scars transferring to soulmates when it changes an appearance drastically enough.”

“Damn.” He frowns, tapping his hand on the table and he doesn’t know how to feel about your soulmate having the same surgery he has. “I didn’t think that—” he shakes his head, it doesn’t matter. “I don’t have a soulmate.” He sighs. “So I guess I never considered scars.”

“Just because you don’t have marks doesn’t mean you don’t have a soulmate,” you note, sitting back with both of your hands around your mug. “Maybe she’s just a very careful person.” Maybe she’s a model. A skinny, perfect, gentle little thing.

“No scars?” He snorts, shaking his head. “Nothing? My entire life?” He doesn’t want to sound bitter, but he is. Maybe it’s more that he feels unworthy. “I just think I’m….unlucky in love and that extends to my soul.” His eyes flicker up to yours.

"I think you don't give yourself enough credit," you tell him honestly, and reach over the table to take his hand in yours. "But I'm sorry that you haven't had much luck with things before now. Hopefully that's..." A bashful smile curls your lips, you can't help it. "Is it vain to hope that that is about to change for both of us?"

He smiles, but it’s a sad thing really. Even as he curls his hand around yours. “Until you discover your soulmate.” He’s under no delusion that you wouldn’t be drawn to that person. You frown and open your mouth to protest but he squeezes your hand. “I don’t mean it as an insult.” He promises. “I just- I’ve seen the way that soulmates seem hopelessly drawn together.” He’s always wanted that, been jealous of it.

"What if I want to choose for myself?" It's a fairly rebellious thought for someone who has always considered themself a romantic, but the two of you are sitting here drinking your coffee the morning after sleeping together for the first time and there is just no way you aren't feeling even more for him today than you were yesterday afternoon. You're practically bursting with it, and it's more than just that first post-coital glow. "Do you think well enough of me to believe I could choose for myself?'

He can tell that you believe what you are saying. Truly believe it. Even if he doesn’t. He nods. “I do.” He says softly, even if it’s not exactly true, it’s what you need to hear right now.

"Do you..." He's not sure. His tone isn't a good enough mask for his words. But again, you aren't going to push him. "Do you still want to go out for breakfast?" If he doesn't, you won't blame him. You'll just take your dirty clothes home and nurse your disappointment as you pack up your things to move...to move into an apartment that will always make you think of him. Fucking hell...

“Yes.” That is clear, completely sure. “I didn’t mean to-“ he gestures towards your thighs. “I’m sorry.” He apologizes, meaning it as he brings your hand up to kiss the back of it. “I still think you are amazing and I am wanting to spend every moment I can with you.” That’s the truth too, real and raw as it comes out.

"I'm glad to hear it. Because I feel the same way." If he needs a little bolstering to help remind him that you're here with him because you want him and not some stranger that the universe preordained? You're happy to give it to him. It's a bit of a bummer that Chloe was wrong, if you're honest with yourself, but it can't be. If he was you soulmate he would have said something to see his scars on you.

He chuckles as he pulls you close and slides his hand down your thigh. “It’s interesting though.” He muses, almost idly. “Your soulmate got the same surgery I did.”

"Vasectomies leave leg scars, do they?" You snort, too distracted by his hand on your bare skin and the tantalizing closeness of his lips as you sit together drinking your coffee. Apparently there is time to spare before your breakfast reservation.

Harry chuckles and tilts his head. “No, but getting six inches taller leaves a scar.” He admits softly.

"You..." Eyes widening into a stare, your coffee stops halfway up to your mouth and you nearly drop it on the way back down to the table. "You had that surgery?"

The conversation had to happen eventually. He swallows and nods. “I did.” He admits, having become less prickly about it. At least where you are concerned because you carry those same scars.

“So—” Surprise overrides anything else you could be feeling in this moment except sheer disbelief. “So you have the same scars as me, then?” He must. He must. It would be impossible to have that surgery without the resulting scars.

He sees the look on your face and stands up. Letting go of your hand to reach for his belt. He’s never actually revealed his scars like this, it’s always just been a discovery in bed or while showering, but you had shown him yours.

You’d been too distracted last night. Between having him in charge through the whole encounter, falling asleep cuddles under the sheet, and then him waking up before you this morning, you hadn’t really gotten a thorough look at his body below his cock. But here they are, as clear as day, the very same set of scars on his legs that mark yours. There’s even the weird extra line on the bottom of the second right scar, the one you jokingly called your soulmate pull tab. “They’re…” When you look up at him again you barely know what to say. “They’re identical, Harry…”

“Of course they are.” Harry nods, not understanding your meaning. “There’s only a few doctors that perform this surgery. The incisions are precise.”

“So you think it’s a coincidence?” That hurts more than you expect it to. The idea that Harry isn’t excited at the idea that you could be meant for each other. Or at least, if he is, he’s hiding it. And you can’t understand why he would do that.

He frowns slightly, glancing at you quizzically. “That your soulmate had surgery?” You cock a brow at him and he pauses. “Wait—” His heart thuds in his chest and he glances down at your legs again. “You think—” he looks back up at you. “We—”

“Then I guess we’ll have to wait and see.” Because yes…you definitely have the first threads of an idea forming. A plan.

******

You had been amazed that he had even had a bag of cosmetics delivered. He had sent his shopper a pic of your look at the engagement party and she had bought anything and everything that you might need. Now, he’s waiting for you to finish getting ready so he can take you to breakfast.

If this his usual first sleepover routine, you can’t imagine a single girl who didn’t leave this apartment pining for the waiting for you by the door, but as you pick up your purse and the discreet tote bag that now holds your dirty clothes — the make up has been left in a basket in his bathroom with the hope of using it on future mornings — you can’t believe this is his normal. Or maybe you just hope it’s not. You hope he feels more like you do. That this is special. That he’s never done this before and that you are just as important to him as he is to you.

“Just leave that.” He motions to the tote bag.” He smiles as he opens the door. “The housekeeper will drop it off at the dry cleaner. We need to leave for our reservation.”

Adding another tick to the list of his assistants, you tuck the bag by the hallway table and take his hand instead. “We’re not actually going to Tiffany, right?”

He snorts softly. “You do realize that Breakfast at Tiffany’s is legitimate, right?” He asks. “There is a restaurant.”

“Well yeah…” The elevator door shuts behind you and he presses the button for the ground floor. “But I thought you had to make a reservation like a year in advance. Not just call your assistant the night before on a whim?”

“Not years.” He admits, smirking slightly. “But I know the manager.”

“Of course you do.” That really shouldn’t surprise you, but to cover the fact that it does you roll your eyes playfully.

He shoots you a wounded look. “I helped him set up an investment fund for his daughter when she was born.”

“Is there anyone in New York you don’t know?”

“That’s a lot of people.” He teases with a wink. “My mother adores Tiffany’s.” He explains. “I go there often for her gifts.”

“That makes sense.” Probably his sister-in-law gets gifts from there too, and it’s sort of sweet that they have a tradition. “My father went for a big splurge for my mother’s last anniversary present. He got her a Cartier Love band to add to her stack.”

“Her stack?” He frowns in confusion as the elevator slows down and the car door open.

"Her stack of rings," you explain, holding out your own hand like you could show him, despite the fact that you're only wearing one decorative ring right now. "She has her engagement ring, her wedding band, a band from when I was born, and then her anniversary present."

“Oh.” Harry nods, understanding now. “She wears them all together?”

"Dad calls it his engineering project," you joke as he guides you out into the lobby. Phil the doorman is standing by and gives a friendly wave that you return automatically, only belatedly realizing that it was probably meant for Harry. Ah well, good manners never hurt anything.

Harry smiles as you pull your hand back awkwardly, his own hand coming around your waist as you walk out onto the street and out to the waiting car. “That’s a good name for it.”

Harry's car, and his driver whose name you have discovered is Stanley, are waiting on the curb, and the two of you slide inside easily. The car merges into traffic easily and your hands come together again just as simply -- fingers laced together in his lap as you look out the window. "It's still so...big to me. Does New York ever feels less intense? Like the longer you live here, you get used to it?"

“You start thinking of it as different cities.” Harry admits. “Once you’ve memorized your little area, expand it. Soon it will just be a matter of blocks or subway stops.”

"I had just enough time to learn my first little corner, now I'm on to my second." The neighborhoods are not altogether that different, aside from being on opposite ends of Manhattan. "And a third, I guess, if your neighborhood counts."

He is pleased you want to learn his neighborhood. “Well, we can explore the neighborhoods together.” He offers.

"Infinite walking dates," you suggest, looking a little dreamy at the prospect. "No plan, we just find someplace cool and check it out."

“Although I do plan on bringing you to one bookstore.” He admits with a chuckle. “It’s probably my favorite place to find gifts of the non-jewelry variety.”

"You can bring me into every bookstore we pass and it will never, ever get old." Despite the morning traffic, Stanley weaves the car through traffic with practiced ease and soon the car is pulling up in front of a brilliantly sparkle-clean building right in the midst of the 5th Avenue hubbub.

“Here we are.” He chuckles when your eyes light up. “I bet you’ve seen the movie one hundred times, haven’t you?”

"Maybe." If it weren't too immature, you'd stick your tongue out at him. Thankfully you suppress the urge right as the door is opened by a doorman. But the man in his uniform does hear you admit: "I was Holly Golightly for Halloween every single year in college."

Stepping into the storefront is amusing as you fluster, despite being proud of yourself. The discreet signage points him towards a hallway and Harry hums. “I bet you looked fantastic in a little black dress.”

"I look fantastic in a little black dress right now." Popping a hip like a punctuation mark, he grins at you as you stifle a giggle and the fact is that you feel light as air as you walk up to the stand marked Blue Box Cafe.

“Reservation for Castillo.” Harry greets the sharply dressed hostess with a stunning set of pearl earrings as she quickly scans the computer. “Yes sir, right this way.” She gestures towards a server to show you to the table reserved for you.

The dining room of the cafe is bedecked in Tiffany blue and white and silver, with enormous picture windows and table upon table of well-dressed couples out for morning dates or brunch ladies enjoying their lazy mornings. Harry holds your chair for you, and you can just feel the heat rising in your cheeks as menus are handed to each of you. It's stunning in exactly the ways you would have imagined and yet nothing like you thought, which makes it feel like it's sparkling with magic as you look around.

He watches as you open the menu, staring at it in wonder. That look, that star struck look, makes him taking off of work completely worth it. “We can split the full breakfast experiment and order off the seasonal menu.” He offers, not wanting you to be overwhelmed by having to choose.

"Don't tell me you eat caviar for breakfast?" Teasing is the best way to get through this, you think, ready to agree to whatever he wants just for the experience of being here. "We can split whatever you like. It all sounds amazing."

“Caviar is on the menu.” He teases back, pointing to it and grinning. “But I want you to have whatever you want.”

"If we don't think the tiered breakfast sampler will be enough..." Almost every table in the place has it out, and most have another entree or two beside it. "Maybe the tartine or the quiche?" If you're going to go walking around after this -- or whatever else he has in mind -- then you want to be pleasantly full, not stuffed.

“That sounds perfect.” He encourages with a nod as the server approaches again with two flutes of champagne that his assistant had obviously asked to include in the reservation when she booked it.

Your order is taken, the food along with around round of coffees, and you sip your champagne in utter disbelief for a quiet moment before opening your mouth again. "I want to cook for you. The next time we have a night to spend together."

“Cook?” He’s surprised and he knows that his face shows that. “Are you sure? You work just as much as I do.”

"I'm absolutely sure." It had been sort of vaguely talked about before, but not anything set in stone. With all that he's doing for you, you want to do something meaningful for him in return. No amount of money you could spend would compete with even this morning, so you're going to do something with your own two hands instead. "It's...a different kind of intimacy. And I want to share that with you."

He’s never thought about dinner as intimate. The atmosphere yes, but not the actually act of making dinner for someone. He considers it and smiles slightly as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a key. “Then you need this.” He hums.

“What is…” With your champagne halfway to you’re lips, you pause like a cartoon is surprise for the second time this morning and try not to gawk at him in public. “Is that a key to your apartment?” You ask, finding you’re whispering by accident.

“Yes?” He tilts his head as he tries to gauge what you are thinking through the astonishment on your face. “So you can come and go as you need.” He had planned on giving you a key, so he doesn’t see why you are so shocked.

Then again, he may have planned on it, but he certainly hadn’t mentioned it to you.

Sure, you think, fingers closing around the gleaming little bit of stainless steel. This is an absolutely normal level of interest in someone. Doesn’t feels like soulmate vibes aaaaaat all… Even your inner voice is sarcastic, though that should surprise no one.

“I get the keys for my new place at the end of the week,” you tell him, cheeks burning with pride and with pleasure. “I know it’s nothing compared to the penthouse, but I’d like to give you one all the same.”

Harry’s face flickers slightly and he nods. “Only if you want.” He hums, looking down at the key in your hand. “I don’t want you to feel obligated.”

“I don’t,” you promise him. “I like having you in my life and I’d like to spend as much time together as you’re happy with.”

He smiles softly, reaching over and taking your hand that isn’t holding the key. “I like having you in my life too.” He confesses. “And I don’t mind spending time with you at all.”

“Well,” like punctuation on the thought, your fingers curl around each other on top of the table “Is it presumptuous, then, to suggest that after I get done with my work tonight I’ll bring a bag and some groceries over to your place?”

“I don’t think it would be presumptuous at all.” He tells you. “Although I might be a little later than normal.” He adds. “Eight o’clock too late?”

“Sounds perfect,” you promise, giving his hand another squeeze just as your server arrives with a tray. His key will get added to your ring and stay there, just like the grin on your face.

Breakfast is delicious. You are completely in awe of having your meal in the iconic store and Harry listens as you talk about random facts from the movie with the same focus as he would display in a boardroom.

“That was…absolutely perfect.” You almost don’t want to leave, but you know you can’t linger here in the cafe all morning.

“Yeah?” He grins as he signs the check and flips the bill closed before he stands. “The morning isn’t over yet.”

“What time do you have to be back at work?” His hand is already out to you when you stand up, and you don’t even consider pulling out your phone to check messages or texts. There are things to do this afternoon, but you can make up the list office time tomorrow with no repercussions. Your entire focus is on him as you walk out of the cafe together.

“Two.” He doesn’t head towards the doors, instead he steers you towards the interior, the gleaming glass and brass that invites customers into the show room. Another smartly dressed woman in a business black skirt and pressed white shirt steps beside him. “Harry Castillo.” He hums quietly. “I have an appointment with Raphael.”

“Of course,” she smiles as if this is precisely what she expected to hear and just as politely ignores the shock on Mr. Castillo’s companion’s face. “Right this way, please.”

“Come on.” It takes him a moment and a small amount of pressure on your hand to get your attention. “Raphael is waiting for us.”

“Harry…” you murmur his name under your breath and giggle nervously. “What the fuck?”

The two of you are escorted onto the floor. Lines of gleaming cases shine under the special lights that make all jewelry seem to sparkle. “Isn’t it obvious?” He asks, winking at you. “We are shopping.”

“For your Mom, right?” Obviously that isn’t what he means, not with a wink like that. But if he sits you down and tells you to pick out an engagement ring you might pass out. And then immediately wake up and call him an idiot for not believing you’re soulmates. And then choose a ring.

Harry chuckles as he caresses the small of your back, Raphael rushing over to greet you both. “Haaaaaarrrrryyyyy” the greeting is completely exaggerated but it works for the cheerful sales agent. “It’s been so long.”

The two men shake hands and you take the extra second to compose yourself from a gawping idiot into something more reasonably adult. You’re back in a relatively decent state of mind just in time for the well-dressed salesman to ask, “And who is your lovely friend?”

Harry lifts a brow as he turns towards you, silently asking how to introduce you. Your blank stare makes him smirk slightly, suppressing the grin as he turns back towards Raphael. “This is my girlfriend, Mack.” He tells him.

Not a romantic? This man claims to not be a fucking romantic as he blows through grand gesture after grand gesture in record time? For a split second you almost burst out into a sound of utter shock, but you tamp it down at the last moment by covering it with a gentle clearing of your throat. “It’s nice to meet you,” you eke out, wondering if you’re still asleep in his bed and dreaming all of this.

Harry sends Raphael a look. “I need a first morning after gift.” He tells him, man to man. “Something classic and gorgeous.” He glances back at you with a look of soft adoration. “She’s a romantic to her very core.”

“Since the lady is present, I’m guessing it’s not a ring quite yet?” He jokes, teasing ever so slightly. The only ring Harry Castillo ever bought from him was a cocktail piece for his mother on a landmark birthday.

“I think that if we overshadowed our best friend getting married in a few months he might murder us.” Harry jokes, grinning at you. “And as the wedding planner, Mack might have her own heart attack.”

“I have to check the wedding planner’s handbook, but I think we take an oath against overshadowing our own clients,” you joke. But your own arm winds around his waist and gives his side a subtle squeeze.

Neither one of you are at the marriage conversation yet, but there’s no calculated gleam in your eye, there’s no repulsion. It’s on the table at a later time. “What do you think, sweetheart?” He asks you. “Necklace? Earrings?”

“I wouldn’t even know where to start,” you admit, looking around you. “But…necklaces can be…a little difficult.” When your neck size is larger than average, you mean, but don’t say it.

Harry glances from you to Raphael, obviously asking his professional opinion. “If a necklace is what you want, I’m sure we can find the perfect thing.”

“I’d say we’re more than up to the challenge,” Raphael agrees. “And there’s always the option of custom, if we don’t already carry the necklace of your dreams.”

Harry smiles as you glance around the cases, a little overwhelmed at where to begin. “Why don’t we browse first?” He suggests.

“Of course.” The genial salesman smiles. “I’ll be nearby if you have any questions.”

“Don’t look at me like that.” Harry huffs when you two are alone. “I want to buy you something.”

“In what fucking universe are you not a romantic?” The challenge comes out almost by accident, but at least it’s honest. You wrap your hand around his arm and nudge him gently down to you, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “I’m gonna make you a deal you’ll enjoy. Okay, babe?” The ill fitting pet name makes your lip quirk and you shake your head. “I need to come up with a better cutesy name for you, by the way.”

He is confused by what deal you could possibly want to make. He is offering you whatever you want just because of the perfect night you had spent together. “What is that?”

“Don’t let me look at a single price tag,” you insist, laughing at how ridiculous it sounds. “If I see what any of this actually costs I’ll get very self conscious about your very sweet, romantic gesture.”

“Lucky for you, I can arrange that.” Harry winks and steps over to mention that exact thing to Raphael.

When he returns to your side you’re gazing longingly down a case of beautiful, glittering necklaces. They’re all far too much, but they’re beautiful.

“Do you see one that you want to try on?” He asks. “Raphael will pull any of them, all of them, if you want.”

In the midst of things you have a serious suspicion might be insanely expensive colored diamonds, you bite your lip and look up at Harry. “I think…pearls might be a little more in line with my style. I’ve…never actually owned real pearls before.”

He doesn’t ask how that’s possible, but he immediately nods. Imagining how pearls would suit you perfectly. “Then why don’t we look at pearls?”

Raphael leads the way to a different set of cases on the other side of the show room. Pearl earrings, necklaces, bracelets, and rings all wink and shimmer in the deliberate lighting, inviting you to fantasize and to yearn.

“They are beautiful.” Harry admires them. “Are you a white pearl or a dark pearl kind of girl?”

“I hardly know.” And yet you find yourself immediately drawn to the iconic look of true white pearls without even realizing it. When you catch a glimpse of him smirking out of the corner of your eye, you shrug in acquiescence. “White is classic. And they go with everything.”

“They do.” Harry agrees, finding that he likes the idea of white pearls for you. “What about those?” He asks, pointing to a three-tiered strand of pearls.

“Oh, those are my favorite.” Raphael coos as he opens the case. “It’s one single strand of pearls that you can wear however you wish.” He explains as he pulls the necklace out of the display.

“Oohhhhhh,” your eyes widen instantly. “That’s very Roaring 20s.”

“Huh?” Harry doesn’t get it, but it’s obvious that Raphael does by the way he chuckles as he hands over the pearls.

“You’ve never seen the photos of flapper girls with long strings of pearls tied up in different ways?” The strand is heavy in your hands and you drape it very carefully around your own neck, almost afraid something terrible will happen no matter how careful you are. “Daisy Buchanan in The Great Gatsby? Gilda Gray dancing the shimmy?”

“Oh, okay.” He nods, not really paying attention to the outfits when he’s watching movies. Sometimes he rarely looks up at the screen, using them as background noise as he works at home alone most nights. “I understand.”

“We’ll watch a couple of things,” you tease, hearing the continued confusion in his voice. Raphael brings your attention back to the necklace, which is lovely but because of all the costumes you’ve warn over the years and the things you just mentioned, feels a bit like playing dress up. You can’t even imagine where you’d wear it except for a theme party. Which, you think to yourself as you carefully remove the necklace and hand it back over. You should absolutely throw once you have a place big enough.

Harry can see the yearning in your eyes and he takes the necklace from Raphael and loops it over his hand a few times before putting it bs I around your neck. “This is beautiful on you.”

“Where would I even wear it?” It is beautiful, but so is everything else here.

“To work.” Harry suggests. “To dinner. To bed.” He smirks slightly at that last option.

“If you were going to pick without me here…” The grin on his face is so puckish you have to resist the urge to kiss it right off. You would get far too carried away. “What would you pick?”

“Probably something that would have your heart stopping.” He admits, knowing he probably would have gone with diamonds. He eyes the case and points to Pearl and diamond earrings. “The necklace or those.”

The earrings in question area set of dainty pearls with diamonds set to look like crossed leaves. They’re exquisite and simple, almost subtle but for the way the cut diamonds catch the light. “Oh…” you practically sigh. “They’re beautiful.”

Harry knows in that moment you will own them. Absolutely. It’s just a matter of you letting him buy both of them today. “Yes they are.” He agrees. “Why don’t we see how they look on you?”

Is this what it’s going to be like? You wonder to yourself as Raphael extracts a pair of the earrings from under the case that has obviously not been touched by another customer before. He takes them from their packaging and sets them in front of you, and with Harry’s nod of approval you hold one up to your ear to see how it looks in place of the sparkling red studs you had been wearing since last night.

He watches as you study how you look in the mirror. Fascinated by the complete lack of expectation and charmed by the way your eyes light up. “What do you think?” He asks. “It’s a classic look for a reason.”

“I never thought I’d consider something this luxurious practical.” And yet? In your line of work? “But…I have to admit. They would go with absolutely every dress I own.”

Harry glances up at Raphael and nods discreetly, deciding to purchase them for you. Both of them.

Resolved to do a little online shopping for some dupes that will do the same job with a little less brilliance and sentimental value, just carefully set the earrings down on the glass counter again and turn your eyes up to Harry. “Well I’ll say one thing for you,” you hum, sliding your hand back into his. “You certainly know how to make a girl feel special.”

He hums, a little confused but he soon realizes that you believe that window shopping was the name of the game this morning. “I try.” He admits as Raphael takes the earrings to box them up as you remove the necklace.

“You have good taste.” The observation was intended to be about the earrings, but a second later you know you’ve left the door open to an accidental compliment.

“Of course I do.” He hums, leaning in to whisper into your ear. “I managed to talk you into going home with me.” It doesn’t matter that you asked him out first, or that this has been bubbling up since the first meeting.

The restraint you have been holding on to cracks just a little. Just enough that you lean in to kiss him softly and smile against his lips. “You say that like I needed to be convinced.”

“You could have.” He smirks, hand pulling you closer and he doesn’t care that he’s in the middle of the department store. Doesn’t care that others are discreetly watching. Let them watch. He kisses you back.

Could have. But you didn’t. You hadn’t needed a single second of convincing when it came to this man. Falling for Harry had happened all in its own, and it’s possible you’ve never been happier about anything in your whole life.

“Mr. Castillo.” Raphael comes back over just a few moments later, a beautiful blue bag in his hand. “Everything is ready for you, sir.”

He must really enjoy making your eyes bug out if your head, you think, as it happens for about the fourth time this morning. Did he really just…?

“Thank you.” He nods as he takes the bag from Raphael and then turns towards you. “I need to take care of something,” he hums, handing you the bag. “You take this and I’ll be right back.”

All you can do is sort of nod dumbly, taking the bag from him and watching as he walks away toward a far counter with Raphael. "O--okay..." you murmur, eyes dropping to the bag in your hands. He actually just bought you something from Tiffany...what the actual fuck...

“She doesn’t look like she was expecting that.” Raphael observes kindly as he takes Harry’s credit card. “No, she wasn’t.” He admits, looks over at where you are still staring at the bag.

"It makes the surprise all the better." The sales associate adds with a smile. "Will there be anything else for you today, Mr. Castillo?" He can wrap the transaction up in just a few seconds, but he always checks first. With a client like Harry Castillo, he would be foolish not to.

“I think that will be all for now.” Harry smiles. “But have a feeling I will be back for the matching bracelet soon.” He informs the other man with a wink.

------ Master Tags: @pixiedurango @chattychell @winter-fox-queen @lady-himbo @artsymaddie @princess76179 @paintballkid711 @missminkylove @pedrosbrat @ew-erin @sarahjkl82-blog @sharkbait77 @justanotherblonde23 @lv7867 @recklesswit @mylittlesenaar @f0rever15elf @gallowsjoker @steeevienicks @athalien @sherala007 @skvatnavle @thatpinkshirt @jaime1110 @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @goodgriefitsawildworld @greeneyedblondie44 @littlemousedroid @harriedandharassed @churchill356 @ajathegreats-blog @haylzcyon   @beardsanddetectives @kirsteng42 @ladykatakuri @adancedivasmom @madiebear @tanzthompson @emilianamason @bigsdinger @xocalliexo @pedr0swh0r3 @avaleineandafryingpan @charlyrmv @avidreader73 @iceclaw101 @loveslide @elegantduckturtle @becsworld @julesonrecord @its-nebuleuse @itsrubberbisquit @mikeyswifie @guelyury @lizzie-cakes @for-a-longlongtime @vabeachazn @purplerain04 @weho2kcmo @madnessofadaydreamer

TSoMS: @inept-the-magnificent @aomi-recs @noisynightmarepoetry @beezusvreeland @vikiii07

[theshiniestgemstone]

I have gotta say you are incredible! I swear the way you are able to capture the true essence of every outrageous character on the show is amazing! A true talent!

I was hoping to request a Gideon fic because you write them so well 🤭. Maybe one in which he didn’t come home after running away, at least not for a few years. For whatever reason he does return, but it’s with a wife and 2 kids (I pictured a toddler and newborn although it could just be one child or whatever you think is best). I’d love to see his whole family having to reckon with the fact that the Gideon who left those few years ago isn’t the one who returned but instead see a far more mature and happy father and husband. I think it would be really bittersweet especially for Amber and Jesse.

“I think you’re being dramatic,” Jesse huffed, taking a seat on the couch and propping his feet on the coffee table. “It’s just Gideon.”

Amber swatted his feet from the coffee table. “Our baby is coming home today, Jesse.”

“Shit, he was the one who made it messy half the time. He’ll survive.”

Amber rolled her eyes and lit another candle. “I miss him.” She set it down for a moment before deciding it didn’t look right and set it on the fireplace, eyeing the symmetry. “He’s been gone for five years, baby.”

“He’s off being a man, Amber. He’s found his way.”

“He’s our son. He ran away because of us and now he’s coming willingly.”

They had this fight often. It was hard for them to not blame each other. Jesse claimed it was Amber’s hands on parenting. Amber thought Jesse was always too hard on their kids. Gideon never said it in their phone calls that happened once or twice a year. There was a reason he didn’t want to come home and whether it was the last name, Jesse, or both, no one really wanted the answer. So, Gideon stayed gone and sent birthday cards and postcards to his family with unfamiliar postmarks from cities around the country.

“I just hope he’s been taking care of himself.”

“Probably living off of gas station snacks and fast food,” Jesse muttered.

“They’re here!” Amber gasped at the sound of the gravel crunching outside.

Sure enough, there was a little gray sedan in the driveway, parked under the trees. She watched Gideon emerge from the driver's side door. Amber's chest tightened at the sight of her son. She didn’t even realize she stepped through the front door. She descended the white stairs, stopping when she noticed the door behind him open, a little bundle of green jumping out and landing with a little cloud of dust.

“Oh my,” Amber breathed.

The little boy wrapped his arms around Gideon’s legs, shouting something up at him that she couldn't make out.

“I’ll be right there, Mama!” Gideon called out.

It was then that she noticed the passenger door open to reveal a woman. She cradled her back carefully and stretched her legs. Gideon pecked her on the lips after rounding the car, opening the final door to pull out a baby carrier. He cooed to the infant in the seat, blowing a kiss before making his way up to the door.

“Mama,” he greeted.

“Gideon,” she smiled, opening her arms.

You took the carrier from his hand, careful not to jostle her around too much. Your son held onto your free hand, bouncing on his feet as he stared at the house. He hooked a finger into his mouth as he studied the double doors, peering inside.

“I missed you,” Amber murmured into her son’s shoulder.

“I missed you too,” he mumbled back. “I’m home.”

Amber pulled away and cleared her throat, smoothing down the hem of her sweater. Her eyes were glassy, but she blinked fast. “And who is this?”

“Y/N, his wife,” you smiled, letting go of your son just long enough to shake her hand. “And this is Lucas,” you patted his hair. “And Eden.”

Amber gasped softly at the two children. She crouched down to her knees, looking at Lucas. He looked identical to Gideon with the same nose and lips. His hair is darker than Gideon’s was at Lucas’s age, but just as much of a bowl cut. He grinned at her, but still tried to tuck himself behind your legs like he was trying his best to be brave, but safe at the same time.

“How are you, Lucas?” She asked.

He stuck his hand out. “I Lucas,” he grinned. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Amber.” She looked up at Gideon for approval, receiving a nod. “But you can call me Nana.”

Lucas gasped, bringing his hands to his face. “I have a Nana?”

“Sure do, pal. Remember the pictures I showed you?” Gideon coaxed him out from behind you. He goes through a photo album with Lucas every few weeks at bedtime, usually calling Amber and Jesse Grandma and Grandpa.

Lucas nodded. “Nana.” He looked up at Gideon. “Grandpa?”

“He’s probably inside.”

“Oh, you probably think I’m so rude for making you all stand out in the hot sun like this. Lucas,” Amber rose to her feet, extending a hand. “Would you and your family like to come inside?”

“Yes ma’am,” he grinned, taking her hand and following her into the house. He stomped across the threshold happily.

“See,” you nudged Gideon’s side. “You always distract them with the cute one.”

“Sayin’ I’m not cute?” He teased, letting you into the door first.

“Well Lucas looks like you, but he’s three so by default…”

The house was cool and dim after the sun outside, the heavy doors closing with a deep thump behind you. The smell of polished wood and lemon cleaner lingered in the entryway. You followed Amber down the hall, past old portraits and gold-framed oil paintings of Eli and the kids in various stages of godly smugness, toward the living room.

Lucas let go of Amber's hand the moment he spotted the plush armchair by the window, climbing into it with the urgency of someone who believed it might disappear if he didn’t claim it fast. He sat cross-legged and started peeking around the room like it was a museum, which, in a way, it was between photos of Jesse with famous pastors in blue capes, Abraham grinning through a stage baptism, Amber standing beside celebrities you vaguely recognized from Christian Instagram.

“I’ll get us something cold,” Amber said, her voice soft but still thick with emotion. She gave you a smile you could tell she was working hard to maintain. Her eyes shimmered, not quite crying, but on the verge. “Sweet tea okay? Or lemonade?”

“Either is perfect, thank you,” you said, adjusting the baby carrier strap on your shoulder.

Once she disappeared into the kitchen, you crouched down and unbuckled Eden from her seat. The baby shifted in her swaddle with a sleepy sigh, her tiny face scrunching before settling again. You sat down on the velvet couch, positioning her carefully in the crook of your arm, swaying instinctively. Gideon lingered for a moment before pacing slowly toward the mantel. He ran his fingers across a framed picture of himself from high school. He was wearing the same jacket he always wore, the one you kept hidden in the back of the closet after the cuff started fraying.

You noticed it before the footsteps even came. Gideon stiffened just slightly, jaw tightening, like he’d been rewinding this moment in his head for the past five years.

Jesse strode into the room like a man used to being announced. He looked older than the videos and photos, less polished around the eyes, but no less powerful. The kind of presence that took up air.

Gideon turned quickly.

“Hey, Dad,” he said, voice steady, but there was a quiver at the edge of it that only you would catch. He stepped forward, hand outstretched for a shake.

Jesse stared at it for a split second. He pulled Gideon into a hug so sudden and so forceful it startled you. The sound of their shoulders colliding was thick in the quiet room. “Dumbass,” Jesse muttered, voice gruff and low. “’Bout time.”

Gideon blinked, thrown off but not resisting the embrace. His arms wrapped around his father slowly, almost like he wasn’t sure if it was real. Across the room, Lucas sat up straight in his chair, eyes wide with awe. He leaned over the armrest and cupped a hand to the side of his mouth.

“Is that Grandpa?” he stage-whispered, voice carrying like a trumpet blast in the quiet living room.

You winced and smiled at the same time, glancing over at him. “Inside voice, bud.”

But it didn’t matter. Jesse turned, arm still loosely around Gideon’s shoulder, and finally really saw you and the kids. He stared for a second at you holding Eden, at Lucas with his socked feet swinging above the floor, and you couldn’t quite read his face. Surprise? Curiosity? Something unspoken flickered through his expression.

Gideon pulled away and cleared his throat. “Dad, this is Y/N. My wife. And that’s Lucas and Eden, your grandchildren. No need for DNA, as you can hear, Lucas inherited your voice.”

You gave a small wave from your spot on the couch. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

Lucas sat up taller. “We see you on TV!” he declared. “And on my iPad!”

There was a pause and then Gideon let out a short, nervous laugh.

“We listen to your sermon every week,” he added quickly, like that would smooth things over. “Lucas has your voice memorized.”

Jesse blinked a few times. Then a slow grin broke over his face. “Well, hell,” he said, clearly trying not to sound proud. “Didn’t think my grandkid would be watchin’ me while still wearin’ pull-ups.”

Lucas beamed. “I wear big kid undies now!”

“Do you, now?” Jesse crossed the room and crouched beside the chair, his usual bravado softening as he took in his grandson properly. “What’s on ’em? Dinosaurs? Trucks?”

“Dinosaurs and monster trucks,” Lucas said matter-of-factly, lifting his shirt a little as if ready to prove it.

“Keep your shorts on,” you tutted gently, reaching out with one hand to tug his shirt back down.

Lucas pouted, arms crossing over his tiny chest in dramatic offense. “I was just showin’,” he mumbled, eyes darting between you and Jesse.

Jesse chuckled, a low belly laugh. “Boy’s proud of his drawers. Can’t blame him. I had a pair with lightning bolts once. I thought I could run faster just wearin’ ’em.”

Lucas lit up at that. “I got those too!”

You gave Gideon a look, shaking your head with a soft smile. “You see what you started?”

Gideon just shrugged, hands stuffed in his pockets, watching his son with quiet affection. “He gets the fashion sense from her side.”

Jesse stood up with a grunt and looked between the three of you again. “Y’all really listen to the sermons?”

“Every week,” you said, shifting Eden in your arms. “On the TV or the iPad. Depends on if we’re out of town. The kids like hearing your voice and the music.”

Gideon nodded. “Even when I wasn’t ready to come back, I still wanted them to know where they came from. Who they’re part of.”

That quieted the room again, not awkward, but weighty. Jesse stared at him, eyes narrowing just slightly, like he was looking for some crack, some sign of distance. But there wasn’t one. Not anymore.

“Well,” Jesse said, voice softening, “guess I better start writing some kid-friendly sermons.”

Lucas chirped. “You said ass one time.” You clapped your hand over your mouth to keep from laughing out loud. “And another time you said shit,” Lucas added helpfully, his little legs kicking against the chair.

Jesse’s jaw dropped in mock scandal, hands going to his hips like a preacher about to scold a full congregation. “Smart kid.”

“Learned it from me,” you and Gideon said in unison.

You both blinked, then turned to look at each other, your brows raised, his lips twitching like he was trying not to laugh.

Lucas giggled into his hands. “Y’all talk the same!”

Jesse let out a loud snort and pointed between the two of you. “Well, hell. Look at that. Y’all already doin’ that creepy married-people mind meld. What’s next, wearin’ matchin’ outfits to church?”

Before either of you could fire back, the conversation turned into a familiar hum.. It wasn’t frantic, just lively. Amber returned from the kitchen, carrying a silver tray with glasses of sweet tea, lemonade, and water. Without a glance, Gideon reached down into the diaper bag and fished out a sippy cup. He moved with quiet efficiency, unscrewing the lid and pouring in a careful blend of lemonade and some of the water from his own glass. No one gave instructions. No one needed to. He did it like he’d done it a hundred times, because he had. Lucas accepted the cup like a tiny executive, tucking it under his arm with practiced flair. He leaned back in his chair and took a sip, eyes never leaving the show that had started playing on his tablet. When Gideon handed over a picture book, too, Lucas didn’t even blink. He just opened it on his lap, ready to multitask like he was running a boardroom.

It was the kind of moment that said more about a person than any résumé ever could. You eased deeper into the couch, resting Eden’s carrier on the cushion beside you now that she’d dozed off again. Her soft little breaths were rhythmic, the tiny rise and fall of her chest soothing in the midst of the soft chaos.

Amber passed around drinks, her hands still slightly shaking, but her smile was steadier now. Her eyes lingered on Eden longer than necessary, drinking in the sight like she couldn’t quite believe the baby was real.

“Y’all look good,” Jesse said, more quietly now, settling into an armchair across from you. “Like... settled.”

Gideon leaned forward to grab a napkin from the tray, wiping a bit of condensation off the table where Lucas’s cup had dripped. He didn’t speak right away, just glanced over at you like it was your cue.

"Still in Hollywood, Hollywood?" Jesse asked.

"No, actually," Gideon said. "We were in Portland for a while. Then Chicago. Then a town outside of Chicago where Lucas was born."

“We’ve been in Austin for the last year or so,” you explained, resting your hand over Eden’s carrier. “I work at the university. We’ve got a small apartment on campus in faculty housing. It’s not huge, but it’s good. We don't have to worry about upsizing for a few years when the kids really need their own rooms."

Jesse raised an eyebrow. “University? What do you do there?”

“I teach. Literature and writing. I’m full-time now, but I started as an adjunct.”

You didn’t say the word “grind,” but it was written in the way your shoulders relaxed after saying it out loud. You weren’t boasting, you were telling the truth, the kind of truth that earned its place without shouting.

Amber's eyes lit up. “That’s wonderful.”

You nodded, brushing a loose hair back from your face. “It’s been a good place to raise the kids. Quiet. Safe.”

“And Gideon?” Jesse asked, shifting slightly, but the edge was gone from his voice now.

Gideon straightened a little. “I quit the stunt work after Lucas was born. I wanted to be home more.” His voice was casual, but there was a note of pride underneath. “Didn’t want to miss anything.”

Amber gave him a look, one of those long, maternal glances that made your chest tighten.

“I stayed home with him the first two years,” Gideon continued. “We kept a schedule. Park in the morning, snacks, cartoons, bath time. I started taking night classes once he was older. Just a few at a time.”

You looked over at him as he rubbed the back of his neck. “He’s about to finish his degree.”

“In kinesiology,” Gideon added. “Figured I’d do something with movement, coaching maybe. Physical therapy if I get into grad school.”

Neither Jesse nor Amber said anything right away, but it didn’t feel like judgment. It felt like absorption. Like they were both quietly adjusting to this new version of their son. Amber reached over and laid her hand over Gideon’s without a word. Her thumb rubbed slow, instinctive circles on his knuckles, like muscle memory. You could see it in her face, full of pride, held back just enough not to embarrass him. The corners of her mouth trembled once, but she swallowed it and kept going.

Jesse let out a low whistle, shaking his head like he was still catching up. “Hell, son. You really did grow up.”

“Didn’t have much choice,” Gideon said, his voice softer now, more open than it had been since they walked through the front door. “Lucas showed up and I just… knew. I had to get it right and set a proud example for him.”

There was a beat of silence, thick with unspoken emotion, before it was shattered.

“Daddy, I have to go potty,” Lucas announced loudly, setting his sippy cup down like it was an urgent press release. His little body squirmed in the oversized chair, already climbing down.

Gideon stood up smoothly, biting back a laugh. “Alright, bud.” He turned toward his mom with a sly grin. “Same place, right?”

Amber rolled her eyes but smiled. “Yes, baby. Down the hall, on the left. Just like it always was.”

“Just making sure you didn’t move it for aesthetic reasons,” he quipped, patting Lucas’s back as they left the room.

Gideon walked Lucas down the familiar stretch of carpet, past a cracked photo frame still hanging a little crooked on the wall, the one that hadn’t been straight since he and Pontius had wrestled down the hallway during a church dinner and knocked it off center. As soon as they reached the bathroom, Lucas stopped and pressed a firm hand against Gideon’s thigh.

“I go alone,” he said, matter-of-factly, with his chin tipped up like a dignitary.

Gideon crouched beside him. “Alright, buddy. Don’t lock the door, though. And yell if you need me, okay?”

“Okay,” Lucas nodded, already turning and marching inside. He shut the door behind him, leaving Gideon outside with a smirk and a sigh. He waited just long enough to make sure the toilet lid wasn’t being used as a toy before heading back to the living room.

When he returned, the scene was quiet and surprisingly peaceful. Amber sat on the couch, holding Eden against her chest, gently cradling the baby as she sucked on the bottle you’d prepped earlier. Her tiny fists rested against Amber’s chest, her eyes heavy-lidded, lids fluttering with every slow pull of milk. Jesse sat beside her, not quite touching Eden but close enough to run a rough palm over the bottom of her sock-covered foot. The tiny bumps of the grippy treads made her feet look comically oversized, a visual cue to just how small she still was. Jesse traced them absently, his face blank in a way that only meant one thing: he was overwhelmed and doing everything in his power not to show it.

You looked over from your seat and smiled at Gideon. “You’ve been replaced.”

“Not surprised,” he said, eyes softening as he watched Eden lean into Amber’s warmth like she’d belonged there her whole life. "Mama's the best."

A door upstairs opened, followed by a loud thump-thump of shoes hitting the hallway floor with zero regard for volume. The unmistakable rhythm of Pontius.

A second later, he appeared at the top of the stairs, earbuds dangling from one ear, opened shirt flapping as he came down without urgency.

“Who’s the kid takin’ a shit with the door open?” he called out before he’d even reached the bottom.

Amber’s entire body stiffened, lips parting in a silent gasp as she clutched Eden a little closer.

Pontius rounded the last step and froze mid-stride, grin spreading as soon as his eyes locked onto his older brother. “Oh shit, Gideon.”

Gideon stood up with a shake of his head, arms already open. “That kid would be your nephew, Lucas.”

Pontius jogged the last few feet and threw his arms around Gideon, clapping him hard on the back with a noise that echoed across the living room. “Dude, it’s been forever. You look good. Like, you got a dad bod now. It’s weird but also kinda hot.”

“I don’t even know what that means,” Gideon laughed, pulling away, “but thanks?”

Pontius looked around the room, surveying the unfamiliar additions. His eyes landed on you next.

“And the MILF?” he asked, motioning in your general direction.

You scoffed under your breath, crossing one leg over the other and arching a brow. “Charming.”

Amber’s eyes narrowed into a death glare, the kind that only a Southern grandmother could deliver without raising her voice. Jesse groaned quietly, rubbing his hand down his face.

Gideon rolled his eyes. “My wife, Pontius.”

“Ohhh,” Pontius nodded slowly, rocking back on his heels like it was all coming together. “Okay, okay. Still smokin’, but I’ll tone it down.” Then his gaze darted to Amber, who looked seconds from hurling a decorative pillow. “Sorry, Mama.”

She didn’t speak, just gave him a look that could scorch the paint off a church van.

Gideon motioned to Eden, still nestled in Amber’s arms. “And that little angel is Eden."

Pontius peered down at her, his smile softening immediately. “Damn,” he murmured, voice quieter. “She’s beautiful.”

“She gets it from her mama,” Gideon said, dropping into the chair next to you. You reached out and gently bumped your shoulder against his. He reached for your hand without thinking, threading his fingers through yours.

Pontius looked between the two of you, grinning again, but less mischievous now, more thoughtful. “You got a whole-ass family.”

“Yeah,” Gideon said, glancing at you, his voice warm and quiet. “I do.”

The moment was cut short by a familiar high-pitched yell echoing down the hall.

“Daddy! I’m done!”

You could practically hear the exclamation point in Lucas’s tone, the urgency of a toddler who had not yet mastered the concept of volume control or the virtue of patience.

Gideon sighed with a weary kind of love and stood. “Duty calls.”

“Literal duty,” Pontius snorted, stepping back to give him room. “Hey, real quick, I’m headed out. Gonna hang with some of the guys under the overpass. You should come. Grab a beer. Catch up. Be dumb.”

Gideon paused, halfway to the hallway, his mouth twitching into a grin before he shook his head. “I gotta go wipe my kid’s ass.”

Pontius laughed like that was the most honest answer he’d ever heard. “Fair enough.”

Pontius slipped his shoes on and gave a final wave before heading out. Jesse returned to teasing Eden’s toes with a finger while Amber gently rocked her.

Then he looked over at you, and something in his expression shifted, less cocky now, less teasing. His voice didn’t ask anything, but his eyes did. There was that flicker of longing behind the cocky tilt of his chin, like he wanted permission to borrow a piece of his brother for a little while longer. Something about the way he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, unsure for once, made you soften.

“If you wanna go,” you said gently, “you can go. I’ve got this.”

He looked visibly relieved, and for a second, he looked younger. Not the loudmouth kid with the earbuds and no filter, but someone who still missed the way things used to be before everything got complicated. He gave you. He opened the door and closed it behind him, a muffled Ponch, wait up, echoing through the window

“Daddy!” Lucas screamed again, only slightly more dramatic this time.

“I’m coming!” You called back.

“You always say that,” Lucas replied just loud enough to be heard, making Jesse nearly choke on his sweet tea from across the room.

“Y’all are raising him right,” Jesse said through a laugh, shaking his head in disbelief.

Amber, still holding a dozing Eden against her chest, gave you a pointed look, lips twitching into a smile. “The whole house is gonna get loud again, isn’t it?”

“You have no idea,” you muttered as you made your way down the hall.

Jesse smirked into his glass of tea. “Gideon was always our little hellraiser. He just made two more.”