#it was always for them. because they were everything. and without them you are nothing at all. even if they dont know you.

[vitoriadior]

ANTI-HERO

Clark Kent x Chubby!Reader

(Synopsis) Where you're insecure because you think Clark wants Lois because she's smaller than you, when you don't know that Clark Kent can lift up literally ANYTHING.

Request <3. Masterlist— REQUESTS OPEN

I look directly at the sun but never at the mirror

It's like you've always lived inside a body that spoke before you. You were always "the nice one," "the one with the pretty face," "the good friend," but never "the one I'd want to kiss," "the one I'd want as a girlfriend."

Ever since you were little, shopping wasn't as exciting. You didn't go for the cute clothes, you went for what was your size. You learned to disguise your discomfort with jokes. It's not always like that, clergy. Like any girl, you have your moments when you feel pretty. Until that little voice that interrupts you when you feel that way, that reminds you "don't get excited."

So, when you admit to yourself that you have a crush on your coworker Clark— You classify him as handsome and cute to you. But, as always, impossible. Because even though it makes your guts churn and his face light up without meaning to, you know that always, for as long as you can remember, it's been impossible.

There's no doubt about what you feel. That's crystal clear. You love the way he laughs, the way he walks, the way he talks to others. You love thinking every night before you go to sleep about an alternate universe where he finds you pretty. Where you're his and he's yours. Sometimes, sometimes you really think maybe there's a chance—just maybe you could seem even a little bit cute to him.

But you live with that cruel little voice whispering to you, "What if he realizes I like him... and makes fun of me?"

"What if he looks at you with pity?"

"What if he smiles at you just to be polite?"

Besides, how can he possibly like you when he spends so much time with her? Lois Lane. You see him there... the boy you like, smiling, talking, walking beside Lois. And it's not that she's done anything to you. It's not that you want to hate her. But it hurts. It hurts like when you hit a place where you're already hurt.

Suddenly, everything you've been trying to ignore comes back to haunt you: that you don't have her body type. That you're not like her. That she's much smaller than you, and that you'd probably never be looked at the same way. And the worst part is, you're not seeing him do anything wrong. You sigh and return to your desk, your eyes sad, your hands searching for warmth in your coffee cup.

Meanwhile, Clark continues talking to Lois. His hand is scratching the back of his neck, embarrassed. "Do you really think she likes me?" He tries not to sound too excited when he says it, but he can't. Lois rolls her eyes, smiling.

"Jimmy says he heard her saying that to Cat," Lois shrugs. Clearly they were talking about you, Clark Kent's famous crush. Not to mention, the strongest man in the world. "Don't be a coward and ask her on a date today" She pats him quickly on the back.

Clark is determined: Today he's finally going to ask you out, and there's nothing—literally nothing—that can stop him. Jimmy bet Lois twenty bucks that he wouldn't, but Lois is sure he will.

All those times your stomach churned because you saw Clark too close to Lois, it was because of this: because he likes you and is too clueless about love to know what to do. Always asking Lois, "Should I ask her out today?" or "Have you seen her? Do you think she'll say yes?

At dismissal time, all the employees of the Daily Planet are descending the building's stairs because the elevator is being serviced. They're a bunch of adults eager to get home, and you're smothered among them, struggling to move. Before you know it, someone's elbow accidentally pushes you, and you trip over someone's foot, twisting your ankle on the stairs. God, first you have to see Lois and Clark, and now this. What a day.

You're limping through reception when you finally reach the top floor. You feel your ankle swollen, but your desire to get home is so urgent that you don't even bother to look at it. Not far away are Jimmy and Clark. Jimmy beckons Clark in your direction, and Clark doesn't hesitate for a second to appear at your side.

"Hi! I wanted to—" Clark doesn't even finish the first line of his script called "Ask Your Crush" that Jimmy and Lois had written for him when he notices your pained expression, then your way-too-swollen ankle.

"Oh, hi Clark." You blush when you notice Clark's eyes on your foot. Damn, of all the conditions you could have imagined him approaching you. "It's—"

"Are you okay? Does it hurt too much?" Clark swallows hard and looks at you with genuine concern. You blush even more. Don't worry about me, don't make me believe you like me. You tell him it's nothing, that you'll put on a cold compress at home. But he stubbornly shakes his head. "A cold compress? I don't think that'll be enough. You should go to the doctor."

You sigh. "I would. But I don't think I can get a taxi to take me to the doctor at this hour. And I'm clearly in no condition to walk to a clinic—" You don't even finish your words. Clark Kent, Clark Kent, your crush, Clark Kent, the boy of your dreams. Clark Kent with his bright eyes and charming smile is carrying you princess-style.

"Then I'll take you to the clinic." Your face is a mess, as red as a strawberry, and your voice is so embarrassed, pleading with him to please put you down. How embarrassing! He probably thinks you're as heavy as a— "Heavy? You don't weigh anything."

Maybe you wouldn't believe Clark if it weren't for the ease with which he lifted you off the ground, and the calmness on his face as he held you in his arms. As if you weighed the same as a feather. Bless Clark Kent for being so cute, blessed be the planet of Krypton for making him super strong.

You feel like it was all a dream. Have you seen in movies, when the prince always carries the princess? As a child, you were told not to even dream about that. That if you continued like that, no one would want or even be able to carry you.

Clark Kent is definitely not just any guy. He's the guy

You've never liked weak guys. Clark is the opposite of weak.

always been the type of girl who's afraid of others noticing how heavy you could be. But Clark already knows how heavy you are, and to him, you're not even heavy. He's Superman; of course, to him, you weigh the weight of a pebble. In a different image, Clark could even carry you on his shoulders. Or you could sit on his face, and he wouldn't have a problem. He wouldn't have a problem even if he didn't have super strength.

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[dark-night-hero]

「What Was Left to Bloom」 Caleb

       ↳ In which you were childhood friends. Lovers. But now as the grand hall glittering with banners, he announces his betrothal to a princess. He never looks in your way, not even once. Yet you still flinch when he says honor above desire.

The hall glittered like it had swallowed the stars.

The banners lined the high stone walls, royal blue and burnished gold, their threads shimmering with every movement of the chandeliers. Nobles filled the room in waves of silk and armor, murmuring in the language of politics, toast and hidden glances.

You stood at the far end of it all, tucked in the shadow of a carved pillar, half hidden behind a servant’s path. You hadn't meant to come, not really. But your feet had carried you here, anyway. Quietly. As you always did, when it came to him.

Caleb stood at the center, flanked by his knights and high councilors, his posture perfect as ever. The Duke of East. Commander of the Crown's Guard. Future husband of a foreign princess, sent from the West to end a war.

He looked every inch the man they needed him to be. He always had. And he didn't look at you. Not once. But you watched anyway.

Watched the way his hands stayed still even as the crowd erupted in cheer. Watched the way his jaw tightened, just barely, as the princess, elegant and unfamiliar, offered her hand. Watched the way he lowered his eyes only to the scroll as he read his vows aloud.

"By the grace of the Crown, and for the good of the realm, I pledge myself to this union. Not for desire, but for honor." That was the moment you flinched. No one saw it. Not really. But it happened. Like a pulse in your throat, sharp and deep and final.

You had always known this was how it would be. That Caleb would choose the path of righteousness, of sacrifice. That he would do what needed to be done, because someone had to. Because he'd spent his entire life protecting people from pain. Even if it meant becoming a vessel of it himself.

But it still hurt.

So you didn't cry. You didn't make a scene. You just stood there with your hands folded quietly in front of yo. Until one drifted, unconsciously, down to your stomach.

It was still early. No one else could tell. But you knew. And the weight of it made your spine feel too fragile to stand beneath the chandelier's gold.

You waited. Just a little longer. Hoping and praying that he would look. That he would find you. That some part of him would still search the crowd for the girl he once kissed under the tree. For the woman he would whispered promises to under breathless moonlight.

But his eyes never found you. So you left.

You slipped out before the final toast, through the servant halls and into the cold air outside the palace gates. You didn't stop until you reached the old cottage at the edge of the dukedom. The place he once brought you to feel free when you came with him into the duchy. Where you'd whispered about building a life. One without war. One without titles.

That night, you packed nothing but silence. But before you left, you wrote him a letter.

Caleb,

I heard what you said tonight. 'Not for desire, but for honor.'

You've always known the difference better than I have.

I know you didn't choose her. I know you chose peace. You chose your people. You always do.

But I need you to know something. I'm leaving not because I hate you. But because I love you too much to stay and become something else you have to carry.

I'm expecting. I wanted to tell you. I wanted you to look at me and just know. But you didn't.

Maybe it's better that way.

They'll be alright. They'll have my name, not yours. They don't need your title. Just your heart. And I'll tell them one day that you gave that to the world, even when it cost you everything.

I hope it's enough.

I love you. I always will.

But I won't let this be your undoing.

You'll be a good duke. A husband. A leader.

You always were meant to be.

Yours once, (Your Name)

You sealed it. Held it. Pressed your lips to the edge like you were kissing a goodbye. And then you dropped it into the fire.

The flames took it without hesitation. Just like the world took him.

You left that same night, before the snow could fall. No carriage. No escort. Just your hand at your stomach, and the memory of a boy who once told you that if duty were not real, he'd choose you every time.

You believed him. Which is why you never made him choose.

-

Caleb had never believed in love forged at court.

He'd seen too many alliances built on strategy, too many handfastings stitched from political desperation rather than any true desire. So when he was told, ordered, to marry the Western princess in exchange for peace, he didn't expect kindness.

But she surprised him. Not with softness. But with clarity.

"You know why I'm here." He said plainly, voice crisp like frost. "They're offering me to your kingdom because they believe I'm worthless." She answered and he didn't argue. She was right.

She lifted her chin and studied him. Not with challenge, but calculation. "Do you know what I want, Duke Xia?" Caleb leaned forward, hands folded atop the council chamber table. "Revenge."

That made her smile. Small. Sharp. Sad. "Yes." She replied. "I want justice for the disgrace they forced me to carry. For the man that was forced to watch me became a war trophy and do nothing about it because everyone deemed me unworthy of the throne."

Caleb met her gaze. Steady. Unflinching. "Then I will help you take it." The princess blinked. For a moment, she said nothing. "But in return." Caleb added, his voice low. "Do not expect my heart. It was given long ago and it still belongs to her."

"The commoner." She said, without hesitation. "The one the court whispers about." He inclined his head. "Yes."

She didn't sneer. Didn't scoff. Instead, she leaned back in her chair and folded her hands delicately in her lap. "Rest assured, Duke. I have no use for your heart. I have someone waiting for me too. If he's still alive by the end of this game, I'll return to him. That is the only vow I intend to keep."

Caleb nodded once. "There's one more thing." He said. "When the time comes, I will take her into the duchy. She will live safely, untouched by this farce. Any slander, any name. If it touches her, I will consider it an act of war."

The princess didn't blink. "Then I suggest you act fast. Because you have enemies who would rather see your world burn than watch you be happy."

So as the night of the engagement came, Caleb stood beneath the blinding lights of the grand hall, surrounded by the echo of clinking goblets and hollow applause. Everything smelled like flowers and polished metal and power.

It was supposed to be a victory. But all he could think about was you.

You in that sun drenched orchard where he first touched your wrist and thought of forever. You barefoot in the rain with mud on your hem, arguing with a merchant about fair prices while he watched, arms crossed, hopelessly taken. You who never asked anything of himm but who he would have given everything to, if the world had allowed it.

He had tried to send word. Tried to reach you before the ceremony. But something or perhaps someone, was keeping you from him. Every message sent returned unanswered. Every rider sent out reported only silence. And the longer the hours stretched, the more he felt the panic curl beneath his ribs.

As he said the ceremonial vows beside the princess, his voice didn't waver but something inside him cracked. The words tasted like ash. "I pledge myself to this union. Not for desire, but for honor."

When the final toast rang out and goblets clinked like bells of war, Caleb turned fast, desperate and scanned the crowd. But you weren't there. Not in the corner where you always stood, half behind a pillar. Not near the stairwell. Not by the doors. Not anywhere.

He'd hoped, even against reason, that you might come. That you'd let him find your eyes just once. That you'd see him, and know that this was all temporary. But you were gone. And for the first time in years, ever since becoming the duke, the commander, Caleb Xia felt fear press down against his lungs.

The moment the final guest turned their back, he summoned his closest aide. "Find her." He said. "Find her now." The man hesitated. "She's-" Caleb's eyes snapped to him, colder than winter steel. "Then look again. Burn the map if you must. I don't care how long it takes or what it costs. Bring her to the duchy. Quietly. Safely."

But it was already too late. By the time his riders reached your old cottage, it was empty. No footprints. No carriage prints in the dirt. No belongings. As if you had vanished from the world without a trace.

As if you knew he would come for you and made sure he never could.

Caleb stared out the window that night, long after the embers died in the hearth. The engagement had served its purpose. The world believed the lie. Peace had been signed. No war would come, at least not now.

But the only name on his lips was yours. He whispered it once, to the cold glass.

He would not marry the princess. That was never the plan. One year and a half. That was the deal. But the days stretched longer without you. The weeks colder.

And he began to wonder. If you had already chosen never to return.

-

You arrived just after dusk.

The lanterns had already been lit, casting a warm, honeyed glow over the village's narrow paths and stone worn homes. It looked almost exactly the same. Smaller than you remembered. Softer, maybe. But not forgotten by time.

The old mill still turned. The baker's window still fogged with morning flour. A few children ran barefoot through the puddles left by yesterday's rain and someone was singing down the road a lullaby that hadn't changed in twenty years.

You were home. Or at least, back where it all began.

The cottage at the edge of the forest had been abandoned but it didn't take much to settle in. A little cleaning. A few mended curtains. A garden patch revived from the dead.

The neighbors remembered you. Old faces with more lines around their eyes but still the same warmth in their smiles. They didn't ask questions when you said you were staying. Just brought fresh bread. Herbs. Cribs, though you hadn't said anything.

You thanked them anyway. And most days passed quietly just like that. The ache in your chest never fully left, but it dulled, worn into something familiar, like a stone smoothed by years of riverwater.

And sometimes, when the wind shifted just right, you could almost hear your own laughter echoing across the fields. Younger. Brighter. Back when your hands were calloused from climbing trees and your only worry was whether or not Caleb would beat you to the blackberry bushes again.

The tree was still there. The one you always went to. With roots that curled like old fingers and branches wide enough to shelter two young dreamers from the sun.

It was where you first kissed. Messy, surprised, and full of promises no child should make but did anyway. This us where you taught him how to string wildflowers into a crown. Where he sat there the night the knight came, cloaked in black and silver, to tell him the truth. That his blood was noble, that he belonged to a world of titles and things far too heavy for someone so good.

You held him through that. And later, he held you through worse. It had always been the two of you. Until it wasn't.

And now, you sat beneath that same tree, fingers brushing the bark, whispering stories you had no one left to tell. You didn't bring flowers. Just your memories. Because that was all this place needed. It didn't belong to the man he became. Not the duke. Not the commander.

This tree, this patch of sky belonged to you and Caleb, as you once were. And even if he would never sit beside you again, this place would always hold the shape of him.

Your stomach ached when you thought of him too long. Not just from the child, growing steady within you, but from grief. Because this time, when you looked back. You couldn't go with him. You could only carry the love with you. So you did.

One memory at a time. One breath at a time. One quiet, aching heartbeat after another.

-

It started like any other day.

The sun crept in through the cottage windows, warming the floorboards where the cat liked to nap. You were peeling fruit on the porch, legs tucked under a wool blanket, humming an old lullaby you didn't realize you still remembered.

The baby kicked once, hard enough to make you gasp. You smiled and pressed your hand to your belly. "Impatient, aren't you?"

You didn't expect it to happen so soon. But then the pain struck low and deep. A bolt through your spine that stole your breath. You doubled forward, the bowl falling from your lap, fruit scattering into the dirt. Another wave hit. This one sharper. More final.

The neighbors came running when they heard you cry out. They carried you inside, laid you on the old bed. You tried to stay calm. You had always been good at that but the truth was, you were terrified. Not of the pain. But of doing this alone.

The contractions came harder. Quicker. The midwife's hands were steady. The women around her whispered soft prayers. But all you could do was grip the edge of the headboard and wish.

Wish he was here. Wish his hand was in yours, like the first time he held it under the tree. Wish you could tell him it was okay. That you understood. That you still loved him.

You bit your lip hard enough to draw blood. But you didn't scream. You never did.

You pushed when they told you to. Breathed through the fire in your ribs. Gritted your teeth when the world tilted. And then. A cry. Sharp. Piercing. Alive.

The midwife laughed through her tears. "It's a boy." You were shaking when they laid him against your chest.

He was tiny. Warm. And quiet once he settled into your heartbeat like he knew it already. His fingers curled around the edge of your nightgown.

And something in you cracked open. You cried then. Not from pain, but from something older. Something deeper. He had Caleb's eyes.

You kissed his forehead and whispered his name. A name you chose long ago, before the world pulled you both apart.

You wished Caleb could see him. But when you looked outside, the world was still and golden. And the tree stood silent in the wind.

And you told yourself it was alright. Because this child, this love had bloomed. And it was alive.

-

The sky was bleeding.

Ash and smoke clung to every breath, thick enough to choke. Caleb's side burned where the blade had caught him. Shallow, but punishing. Still, he pushed forward.

There was no time for hesitation. Not when the lines were falling. Not when they had come sooner than expected. Not when peace had collapsed with a single arrow through a messenger's throat.

He ducked a strike, drove his blade into the gap in another knight's armor, and turned in time to catch his men regrouping. His second in command shouted something at him but Caleb didn't hear it.

All he heard was your voice.

All he saw, in flashes between the blood and dust, was the way you used to smile when he failed to catch fireflies. The way you leaned against the tree with dirt on your nose and laughed like you belonged to the wind.

He hadn't found you. He'd tried. Gods, he'd tried. But you'd vanished. As if the world swallowed you whole. And then the war came. He hadn't even had time to breathe.

But once this was over. Once this cursed border was sealed and the treaty rewritten in fire. He would find you. He would. Even if the world tried to hide you. Because wherever you were... That was home.

-

The mornings in the village always came softly.

The mist clung to the trees like a lullaby not yet finished and the dew caught sunlight just enough to make everything feel like it had paused, suspended in that golden hush between sleep and waking.

You were hanging laundry on the line when a tiny whirlwind of energy darted past your legs. "Mavius Caelum Asher!" You called out more fond than scolding.

A small laugh echoed through the garden as he ducked behind the old apple tree, barefoot and already covered in dirt despite it barely being past dawn.

You smiled. Every day, he reminded you of Caleb. The set of his purple eyes. The line of his shoulders. The way he furrowed his brow when he was thinking too hard about something. But it wasn't just the way he looked.

It was the way he moved. Purposeful, determined. How he already insisted on helping the other children. How he stood between the smaller ones when that older boy from the next town got too rough. How he offered you his last slice of fruit without a word, because 'Mama needed it more.'

He was almost three and already carrying the same kind of quiet nobility Caleb wore like armor.

You returned to the house just as Asher ran in before you, tugging at your skirt. "Mama, tell me again about the knight." You crouched beside him, brushing his windswept hair from his forehead. "The knight who fought dragons?" "No!" He giggled. "My knight. Papa."

You hesitated, just for a moment. Then smiled. "Ah, that one." You said, tapping his nose. "Let’s see... once, there was a knight so brave that even the other knights called him Commander. He had eyes like the sky at dawn and a heart so big he tried to protect the whole kingdom by himself."

"Did he win?" Asher asked, eyes wide. You nodded. "He always did. But not because he was the strongest. Because he believed that protecting others, even strangers was the most important thing in the world."

Asher's small hands curled into fists. "I'm gonna be like him." You ruffled his hair. "You already are."

He beamed at you, not knowing the weight behind your words. Not knowing that somewhere, far from this quiet house, his father was fighting a war that had stretched longer than anyone expected.

A war that you read about in town when you bought flour or heard whispered at the market. Hushed tones and trembling voices as wives and mothers clutched telegrams in their hands.

You didn't speak of it often. Not to Asher. Not even to yourself. But every night, after he fell asleep curled beside you, you stared at the ceiling and whispered the same silent wish. Please let him be safe.

Caleb didn't know about Asher. He didn't know about this cottage. But that didn't stop you from telling your son stories. From showing him what honor looked like. From planting a garden behind the house and naming the strongest sapling after Caleb.

Some nights, when the wind changed, you thought you heard his voice. Or maybe that was just the ache.

You stood by the sink as Asher played with a carved wooden sword just outside, chasing shadows and dreams. Then your hand slipped. Only for a second. A tremble. A dizziness that passed almost as quickly as it came.

You gripped the edge of the sink. Steady. But your breath didn't come right away. Not like it used to. You pressed a hand gently to your chest. Waited. Exhaled.

Just a fluke, you told yourself.

Then you looked outside, where Asher was still playing. He had his eyes and everything. His quiet strength, his resolve, the weight he carried even at three years old was his.

And just like that, you smiled again. Even if your days were beginning to slip shorter, this one… This one was enough.

-

The battlefield smelled of iron and rot.

Smoke clung to Caleb's armor like a second skin, thick and acrid, turning his breath into rasped curses as he pushed past the broken shield wall. The screams were dying down. The fight was nearly over. But his blade still shook in his hand. Not from fear, but from exhaustion.

Another kingdom subdued. Another treaty waiting to be inked in blood and ash.

He tore off his gauntlets, hands raw underneath. The war had dragged on longer than anyone predicted. Five years now, maybe more. Time blurred out here. Measured not in days, but in losses. In names.

He hadn't written in months. The letters stayed tucked in his saddlebag, untouched, half finished scraps meant for someone who never answered. He told himself you were safe. That you were somewhere quiet, far from the reach of title and crowns.

But the silence ate at him.

Each night, he dreamed of a place he never dared return to. A small cottage on the edge of a forest, a woman with tired eyes and ink stained fingers laughing as she stirred soup, the warmth of her touch as she reached for him in sleep. You.

He didn't even know if you were still alive. There had been no word. No name in the casualty lists but also no sign of you in the cities he passed. Every village he liberated, every province retaken, he looked for your face in the crowds. Never found it.

"Commander." Caleb blinked. One of his captains had approached, holding a bloodied helmet in one hand. "You're bleeding." The man said. Caleb glanced down. His side was torn, gash already seeping through his tunic.

He hadn't noticed. "Leave it." He muttered. "I'm fine." "Sir-" "I said leave it." The captain stepped back without another word.

Caleb sheathed his sword. Walked toward the ridge overlooking the valley below. The ground was scorched. The wind carried the distant cries of the wounded. But above it all, the sky stretched blue, painfully, impossibly blue.

Like your eyes when you were crying in his dreams. When you told him goodbye, even though you didn't say the word. A breeze passed. Caleb closed his eyes. Are you still out there?

He hadn't stopped thinking about you. Not once. Even when duty demanded all of him. Even when his betrothal turned to alliance and the alliance into war.

He remembered the day he gave you the necklace. The one his sister had left him. Remembered your laugh, your promise to keep it safe. He had given it to you before the title, before the world went quiet.

He wondered if you still wore it. If you ever told stories about him to someone else.

He never dared to wonder more than that. Because if he let himself think... If he allowed the truth in, the truth that maybe you had stopped waiting... He feared he would fall apart completely.

So he still fought. He still bled. Not for glory, not even for peace. This was no longer about that. But for a chance. A single chance that when all this ended, he could find you again.

And maybe, just maybe... He could finally come home.

-

It had been three weeks since the war ended.

The ink on the new treaty had barely dried when Caleb handed over the command sigil, set aside his title, and mounted his horse. No fanfare. No council meeting. Just quiet resolve.

He didn't stop for ceremonies. Didn't stop to say goodbye. Not even to the queen, formerly his betrothed who only offered him a knowing nod as he rode off. "Find her." She had said softly, her crown glinting in the sun. "While you still can."

And so he did. He crossed through forests scorched by battle. Through cities that barely remembered his face. Past the borders of the duchy, riding until the roads became narrow, familiar things. Roots of memory leading him back to the village that had raised him long before the title ever claimed him.

It was smaller than he remembered

The wind carried the scent of old bread and fresh rain. Lanterns hung from the windows like tired stars. A dog barked somewhere near the well. Nothing monumental. Just life.

But Caleb's chest tightened the moment he stepped onto the dirt path. Because this was where everything began.

The tree still stood near the rise. A little older. A little more bent. But it was there like it had been waiting.

He wore no armor now. Only a simple cloak, a travel stained tunic, boots scuffed by months of searching. He didn't want to be a duke here. Didn't want to be anything but a man looking for the person who once held his whole heart in two steady hands.

Some of the villagers glanced his way as he passed. But there was something in their eyes. Recognition, yes. But also something else. A hesitation. A flicker of pity. It unsettled him.

He pressed on, steps slower now. Almost reluctant. Like his body knew something his mind hadn't caught up to yet. Then... A jolt.

A small body crashed into him at the bend of the road. A child running too fast around the corner, stumbled backward and fell with a soft yelp.

Caleb instinctively crouched, reaching out. "Hey, are you-?" But the words died on his tongue. His eyes locked onto the necklace. It was simple. A silver necklace with a very familiar apple pendant. It had been his sister's. The one who died when they were children. Too young. Too soon.

The necklace he had worn for years in her memory until the day he pressed it into your hand, months before everything fell apart. "Keep it." He told you then, voice soft against your hair. "So you know that someone always carries you with them. Even if I'm not there."

His heart stuttered. "Where… where did you get that?" He asked, voice gone thin, too sharp. The child blinked up at him, wide eyed. Dirt smudged his cheeks. He looked no older than ten.

But it wasn't just the necklace. It was the eyes. Gods. His eyes. Dark, sharp and purple. Strangely gentle. The exact mirror of his own gaze in the mirror, years ago before grief and duty dulled the light.

Caleb's stomach dropped. His blood ran cold.

And all he could do was kneel there, frozen, watching this boy who looked like him, who wore the last gift he gave to the only person he ever loved and realize in a breathless instant. He wasn't too late. He had just lost more than he could ever take back.

-

Caleb barely got a word out.

He had reached forward, hand trembling toward the boy, the necklace, those eyes, that impossible familiarity when someone moved between them like a shield.

"Enough." A firm arm pushed the boy gently behind them. The older man stood tall despite his age, back straight, voice like a blade dulled by time but no less sharp. The village head.

Caleb remembered him as he stood up. His beard was grayer now, the limp more pronounced but his presence hadn't changed. This man had taught them how to mend traps when they were still children, taught Caleb how to tie fishing knots, watched over the village like a quiet sentinel.

And now, he stood like a wall between Caleb and the child. His child. "I need to speak with him." Caleb said, his voice soft but strained. "Please. I just-" "You need to leave."

"I came here looking for her." Caleb stepped forward again, heart hammering against his ribs. "I've searched every road, every town, every ruin. I've been looking since the day after the engagement ceremony. I know I was late, I know I should've found her sooner, but I-"

"Too late." The words snapped out of the village head's mouth like a whip. "You came too damn late, boy."

Caleb froze. The boy behind the man peeked around him, curiosity bright in his eyes. But there was something else in his stare too. Something quieter. Like he was studying him. Measuring him.

"I had no choice." Caleb said. "The war-" "And what about before the war?" The village head barked. "What about the months they spent waiting by the river? What about the letter they burned so you could keep your damn title clean of scandal?"

Caleb's breath caught. The village head's jaw clenched. "You should've been here when it mattered." "I'm here now." Caleb said, voice cracking. "I'm here now and I'm not leaving. You think I wouldn't recognize my own child?"

Silence. A heavy, suffocating stillness fell between them.

Caleb's eyes didn’t move from the boy. Not when his stomach twisted. Not when his pulse thundered. He saw it now, not just resemblance. Not just accident.

It was blood. His blood. And he had missed it. He had missed everything.

The village head opened his mouth. Then shut it. Regret flashed in his expression, quick and bitter. "Go." The man muttered, hoarse. "You don't belong here anymore." Caleb stepped forward again. "What do you mean by that? What do you mean-"

But before the old man could speak, a small hand tugged at his clothes. The boy. He slipped past the man's arm and stood in front of him and Caleb, tilting his head. "It's okay." The boy said softly like a secret. "You don't have to fight him anymore."

Caleb move forward without thinking then proceed to lower himself to the boy's eye level, chest tight with something he couldn’t name. The boy looked at him. Really looked. Long and slow and serious. Then asked. "Do you wanna come home with me?"

Caleb swallowed hard. The question shattered something in him. And suddenly, he couldn't speak.

-

The forest was quieter than Caleb remembered.

The old trail wound gently between the trees, dappled with late afternoon light. His boots crunched softly over fallen leaves and small twigs. Beside him, the boy walked in silence, his small figure steady as if he'd done this path a thousand times. Maybe he had.

Caleb kept glancing down at him. The boy's shoulders were squared, hands tucked into the frayed sleeves of his wool shirt. He looked forward the entire time, never once glancing up.

"What's your name?" Caleb finally asked, voice hushed. "Ash." His throat tightened at the name again. Ash. Our son. "How old are you?" "Eight. I'll be nine after the spring."

Caleb swallowed the ache that rose up. His jaw tensed. He almost asked if your birthday had passed, if Ash knew but bit it back. Instead, quieter, he asked. "Where’s your mother?" Ash didn't answer. He didn't even pause. Just kept walking.

They reached the edge of the woods. The cottage appeared just beyond the treeline. Small, sloped, half covered in vines but still there. Still standing.

A hundred memories surged all at once. The spring evenings spent on the porch. Your laughter echoing under a sky of fireflies. The time you argued over who could chop firewood faster. The way your body curled into his when the storms came. The softness in your voice when you first whispered I love you into his hair, like it scared you to even say it out loud.

Caleb slowed at the threshold, hand hovering just beside the door. But Ash reached forward and opened it first. The hinges creaked like they hadn't moved in weeks.

Inside, the air was still. Not stale, not foul. Just... Still.

The table was clean but dust settled in the corners. A few dried herbs hung from the rafters. There was a plate in the washbasin that hadn't been dried. A chair slightly off center from the hearth. A cup overturned near the window.

It looked lived in. And abandoned.

"Where is she?" Caleb asked again, his voice cracking slightly this time. "Ash- Where is your mother?" The boy didn't answer.

He walked deeper into the house. Past the kitchen, through the narrow hall. He didn’t look back but Caleb followed, heart thudding louder with every step.

The bedroom. The door creaked as Ash pushed it open. Everything in the room was familiar, too.

The quilt still had the same stitched pattern. The windowsill still held the cracked clay pot you insisted wasn’t worth throwing out. The wooden carving he made for you still hung crookedly above the bed.

But it was cold. Untouched.

The bed was neatly made. The fireplace empty. A thin layer of dust on the floorboards, just enough to tell him what he didn't want to know. "Ash-" He began. But the boy was already crouching beside the bed.

He reached under the wooden frame and pulled out a small box, smoothed by age and fingerprints. Then he stood and held it out.

"Mother left these." Ash said quietly. "They're letters. Mother wrote them before she died." Caleb blinked. The room spun. "What…?" "Mother said they were for you. In case you ever came back."

He didn't move. He couldn't. Ash stepped closer and pressed the box into his hands. Caleb took it with trembling fingers. The lid opened easily.

Inside were letters. Dozens of them. Some wrapped with string. Others sealed in wax. Your handwriting. His name scrawled again and again on folded parchment, in ink that looked faded from time, from tears, from waiting.

The air in his lungs vanished. "No." Caleb whispered, clutching the box tighter. "No, no, no-" He staggered backward until his legs gave out and he fell to his knees. "This! This can't be!" The box held to his chest like it could somehow undo what had already happened.

He tried to breathe. But he couldn't. He felt it hit all at once. The years you must've waited. The letters you wrote, not knowing if he'd ever return, look after you. The nights you sat by the fire, watching the window, holding onto hope that kept thinning with time.

He sobbed. Raw, broken. Ash stood silently nearby. His voice was soft, almost too calm.

"Mother died three years ago." He said. "Just after winter." Caleb shook. "I'm sorry." He rasped. "I didn't know-" He hold back a scream "Gods, I didn't know-" "Mother said not to blame you." Ash added, voice still even. "But mother cried a lot. When mother thought I was asleep."

Caleb wiped at his face but the tears wouldn't stop. He looked at the boy, his boy, still standing there with too much pain behind his eyes for someone so young.

"Your necklace." Caleb said barely. "It was mine. My sister gave it to me. I gave it to your mother. I-" "You're my father." Ash said simply. The words felt like a dagger and a lifeline all at once.

"I… yes." Caleb reached out slowly, hands shaking as he never stopped crying. "Ash-" "You can go now." Ash said. Caleb froze, his heart dropped for God knows how many that day. "What"

"You found the letters." The boy said, unmoved. "You got what you came here for. I give you what my mother told me give you. You can leave." "I'm not leaving you-"

Ash's voice rose, sharp and fast. "Then you should have come years ago! Mother waited for you. Every day, every time the sun came up. Even when mother never showed! Mother thought maybe you'd come with the next rider, or the next merchant, or with the rain. Mother waited for you and you never came!"

Caleb flinched. "I didn't know-" "You could've tried harder!" His boy cried. "You could've come before the war. You could've written. You could’ve done something!" The pain in his voice cracked something in Caleb so deep he didn't even know it existed.

"I'm sorry." Caleb whispered. "I'm so- Ash, I'm so sorry." Ash took a step back. Caleb knelt closer in front of him, voice shaking. "I didn't know. I thought I could fix things. I thought there would still be time. I didn't… I never imagined…"

He looked at his son. Really looked. So small. So strong. So much like you. "I should've come sooner." Caleb said. "And I'll never forgive myself for that. But I'm here now. And I'm not going anywhere without you."

Ash's lip trembled, just for a second. Then he took a step forward and let Caleb wrap his arms around him. It wasn't forgiveness. Not yet. But it was something.

And in that room, where love once bloomed and then faded, something new took root. Even in the silence. Even through the tears.

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025°

: one down, four more to go. I'll also update Heartbeat Protocol tomorrow... probably. This is actually the first time, I think, that I specifically wrote the gender of the reader since I always wrote a neutral one. Hope you don't mind. I mean, there's a child XD

[throttleheart]

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

Hiding

Pairing: Lando Norris x fem!Reader

Genre: angst with a happy ending

Word Count: ~9.2k

Summary: You & Lando have a big fight before a race. He crashes and you are left to figure out how can your relationship survive.

Masterlist

⸻

It started the night before the race.

Saturday. A day that should’ve ended in celebration. Or, at the very least, quiet comfort.

Lando had been on for pole.

Until the final corner of Q3 — just a slip of concentration, a tire off into the gravel. He lost the lap. Lost pole. Lost the mood.

Max locked in P1. Russell snagged second. Oscar, somehow, took third.

And Lando?

Fourth.

He hadn’t spoken much after quali. Just mumbled through the media pen, kept his head down in the garage. He didn’t even glance your way when you passed him his water bottle at the motorhome. The frustration hung over him like heat off tarmac.

So you tried to do what you always did.

Be the soft place.

Back at his apartment, you made dinner — roasted chicken with lemon and garlic, rosemary potatoes, grilled vegetables just how he liked them. You even pulled out those little candlesticks from the drawer. Set the table. Cleaned the counter. Let music play low in the background. Tried to make it feel like home. Like peace.

He walked in late, nearly eight-thirty, still in his team hoodie, hair flattened from his cap. He dropped his keys and bag by the door without a word.

You turned from the kitchen.

“Hey,” you offered gently. “Dinner’s ready.”

He barely looked at you. Walked straight to the fridge. Cracked open a bottle of water like you hadn’t spoken.

“I made your favorite,” you added.

He took a long drink, eyes on the fridge door. “I’m not hungry.”

Your heart sank a little. “You haven’t eaten since before quali.”

“I said I’m not hungry.”

There wasn’t anger in his voice. Just that flat, thin-edged coldness that cut sharper than a shout.

You tried again anyway. “I just thought you might want to sit. Unwind. Talk.”

That made him turn. Slowly. His jaw clenched.

“Talk?” he echoed. “About what? About how I fucked it today? About how Oscar outqualified me again?”

You blinked. “No, Lando. About anything. Or nothing. I just wanted to have a moment with you.”

He shook his head. “Why is that never enough for you? Why do I always come home to this pressure to perform for you too?”

The words hit like gravel under tires. Messy. Unexpected. Painful.

Your throat tightened. “I’m not asking you to perform. I just… I miss you. I tried to make tonight easier. Nicer.”

“Well, don’t,” he snapped. “Don’t try to fix everything all the time. It just makes me feel worse.”

You stood there, still holding the serving spoon. “I made dinner because I love you. Because I knew you’d be hurting.”

He scoffed and looked away. “Yeah, well. Love shouldn’t feel this heavy all the time.”

You opened your mouth to respond — then closed it.

He didn’t mean it. Not really. But he said it. And worse, he didn’t take it back.

He rubbed his eyes, tired and fraying at the seams. “I need to sleep. Big day tomorrow.”

Then he walked into the bedroom.

The door didn’t slam.

He just… shut it behind him.

And left you standing there, in the kitchen of his apartment, the dinner table glowing with candles no one would sit at.

⸻

You didn’t move for a while. You just stood there, eyes locked on the plates.

Steam still curled from the food.

Music still played softly in the background — a slow song, too delicate for this kind of ache.

Eventually, your body moved on autopilot. Blew out the candles. Covered the chicken. Put the potatoes in the fridge. Cleaned the knife you used to chop garlic. Wiped down the counter.

You only realized you’d left your car keys on the hallway table after you’d already put on your shoes and slipped into your jacket.

You stared at the table.

At the dark hallway that led to the closed bedroom door.

Your keys were just ten feet away. But he was behind that door — silent. Asleep, maybe. Or pretending to be. You weren’t sure which would hurt more.

You couldn’t go back in there.

So you left them.

And you walked.

⸻

The night air clung to your skin. Summer fading into fall — crisp enough to sting.

The streets were mostly empty, aside from the hum of far-off traffic and a couple walking their dog on the opposite sidewalk. You walked fast, arms wrapped around your ribs, every step sharp and brittle.

You told yourself not to cry.

You told yourself you were being dramatic. Sensitive.

You told yourself he was just tired. Stressed. Frustrated.

But none of those excuses softened the ache in your chest or stopped the sting in your eyes.

The tears didn’t come in sobs. They came slowly. Silently.

Hot streaks down your cheeks that chilled in the wind.

You sniffed once. Bit the inside of your cheek to keep your lip from trembling. Kept walking.

Block after block.

You passed a bus stop. A florist shop with its shutters down. A traffic light blinking yellow into the night.

And still the tears came.

Because you hadn’t asked for much. Just dinner. Just time. Just to be seen.

But he didn’t even notice when you walked out the door.

Didn’t text. Didn’t call.

And maybe that hurt more than the words he’d said.

Maybe that silence was the answer.

⸻

The walk felt longer than it should have.

Maybe because your feet ached in the shoes you’d rushed to pull on. Maybe because every time you thought you were almost there, another corner waited. Another stretch of street. Another minute in the dark.

Or maybe it was just the weight of what you were carrying. The quiet grief of it all.

Your hands were cold, fists buried in your coat pockets, keys to your own place slipping between your fingers with every step. The silence had turned into noise — your own breathing, the shuffle of your shoes, the occasional car in the distance. It all seemed louder than usual. Harsher.

You crossed the last big intersection. The red signal blinked on the pedestrian sign, but you didn’t stop. You didn’t care.

It wasn’t until your building came into view — familiar, a little run-down, but safe — that the trembling really started. A deep, sinking thing in your chest.

You sniffed again and wiped your cheek with the back of your hand.

Still wet.

Still crying.

You hadn’t stopped.

The keypad stuck for a second when you typed in your entry code. Your fingers fumbled. You let out a quiet, strangled sound of frustration — the first noise you’d made since the door closed behind you back at his apartment.

When it finally clicked open, you pushed into the stairwell.

It smelled like dust and someone’s burnt microwave popcorn. It always did.

The climb up to your floor felt like dragging yourself uphill through mud. Your legs were sore. From walking. From standing too long in his kitchen trying to make the night perfect. From holding yourself together.

You fished for your apartment keys, hands still shaking a little. Your breath fogged the hallway air. You didn’t bother wiping your cheeks anymore.

By the time the door swung open, you felt like a ghost. Not even angry anymore — just hollow.

The apartment was dark, quiet, still. You didn’t turn on the overhead lights, just the small lamp on the side table. Its warm yellow glow lit the living room in soft, sleepy gold.

You toed off your shoes, nearly tripping. Shrugged out of your coat and let it fall to the floor.

Everything inside you wanted to scream. Or crawl under a blanket. Or get in the shower and let the water burn until you felt something else.

But instead, you sat.

On the edge of your bed. In your clothes. In the quiet.

You stared at your hands in your lap.

Your palms still smelled faintly like garlic and rosemary. From the dinner he didn’t touch.

You closed your eyes.

And the tears came again — slow, steady, like the rain that hadn’t started falling yet but probably would. You didn’t sob. You didn’t shake. Just let them roll down your cheeks, soaking the collar of your shirt.

You’d tried so hard. To show up for him. To carry the weight when he couldn’t. To make the night soft when the world was sharp.

But he’d shut you out like it didn’t matter.

Like you didn’t matter.

And worst of all — you didn’t even slam the door when you left.

⸻

The bedroom door didn’t slam.

It clicked shut—soft, careful, like a secret.

But it still echoed like a gunshot in Lando’s ears.

He stood frozen just inside the threshold, back against the wood, jaw tight. The room was dark, moonlight painting long lines across the sheets. He didn’t sit down. Couldn’t.

His fists uncurled slowly. There was nothing to fight but himself now.

He felt like he’d been spinning all day. From the moment he hit the gravel in Q3, everything had spiraled. P1 was right there—his—until it wasn’t. George P2. Oscar P3. Max on pole, of course. And him? Fourth. Again.

The margin for error in the championship was razor-thin now. He knew what the press would say. What his critics would whisper.

Too inconsistent. Too emotional. Not a closer.

And maybe—maybe they were right.

He exhaled harshly and leaned forward, dragging his palms over his face. He hadn’t even touched the food she made. He could still smell it—rosemary, butter, garlic. Her attempt at making the evening better. Easier.

She’d tried to make things nice.

He remembered the way she looked when he walked in earlier—eyes soft, trying to be calm, to hold space for him even when he wasn’t making any for her.

“Will you have time after the race tomorrow?” she had asked him gently. “Just… a night? Just us?”

And that should’ve been a lifeline.

But instead, he snapped it in half.

“Maybe if you weren’t so damn needy all the time, I’d actually have the energy to come home wanting to see you.”

He felt sick now. The words echoed louder than any engine ever had.

She hadn’t fought back. She hadn’t cried in front of him. Just went quiet. Something behind her eyes shuttered. And then she started cleaning.

That should’ve told him everything.

But he hadn’t followed her. He’d just walked into the bedroom like a coward, like someone who didn’t deserve her. He told himself she’d cool off. Sit on the couch. Maybe throw on some movie she wasn’t watching. He’d apologize in twenty minutes. Or thirty. Or after his shower.

But the silence stretched on. Thicker. Heavier.

And eventually, guilt forced him up.

He cracked the door open quietly.

“Y/N?” His voice barely carried. He stepped into the hallway. “Love?”

Nothing.

The apartment was dim, only the kitchen light left on—warm, flickering, lonely.

He turned the corner and saw the table had been cleared. Plates washed, counters wiped. The napkins she’d folded for dinner had been neatly stacked again. The wine glasses rinsed, drying on the rack.

The food was untouched.

The effort she’d made—wiped away like it hadn’t mattered.

His chest went tight.

He glanced toward the couch. Empty. No pillows out of place. Her coat no longer hanging on the hook. Her bag gone.

Then his eyes flicked to the key bowl by the front door.

Her keys. Still there.

His heart stopped.

She walked.

She left on foot.

No coat thick enough for this cold turn in the weather. No shoes that could carry her far—she was wearing those soft flats, the ones she always said hurt if she walked more than a block.

And she left anyway.

He whipped out his phone, hands fumbling, breath catching.

He’d written a message already—I’m sorry. You were right. I was cruel. Please come back.—but hadn’t sent it.

He pressed send now. Waited.

The bubble stayed gray.

Not Delivered.

No signal. Or no phone.

He tried calling. Voicemail.

She’d turned it off.

She never turned it off.

His throat tightened as he sank down by the door, staring at her keys like they might vanish. Her charger was still by the couch. Her favorite hoodie—the one she always threw on after dinner—still draped over the back of the chair.

She didn’t even take the things that made her feel safe.

Just walked out.

Into the night.

He imagined her shoulders hunched against the wind, clutching her thin coat closed with both hands, hair whipping across her face, her shoes scuffing against the pavement. Quiet tears running down her cheeks—not the loud, cathartic kind. The quiet ones. The kind she let fall without wiping them away. The kind that hurt worse.

And she didn’t turn back.

She didn’t even wait for him to come out and fix it.

Because he didn’t.

He could’ve caught her if he hadn’t waited. Could’ve chased after her. But instead, he sat in the dark, too ashamed to move, and now she was out there—cold, alone, hurt.

Because of him.

Because he couldn’t hold space for the one person who always held it for him.

He rested his head back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling like maybe the answer was written there.

His voice cracked in the quiet.

“Please come back.”

⸻

Sunday Morning

You wake up with the kind of stiffness that doesn’t come from a bad night’s sleep — it comes from crying too long in one position, from curling in on yourself like a shield and staying that way because it hurt too much to move.

The couch cushion beneath you is warm, the blanket you grabbed at some point halfway through the night barely covering your legs. The thin cotton of your t-shirt clings to your skin, cold and wrinkled, and your limbs feel too heavy to lift all at once.

For a second, you don’t move.

You just listen.

The morning traffic outside. The soft creak of your apartment settling. The dull ache behind your eyes.

You sit up slowly, your neck protesting the movement. One hand drags across your face automatically, fingers catching on dried tears you didn’t even realize had fallen after you’d finally drifted off.

And then it hits you again — not in a sharp, jarring way, but like a bruise you forgot was there until something pressed against it.

The fight.

The look on his face.

The way he disappeared into the bedroom and didn’t come back out.

The dinner you made.

The plate you cleared.

The keys you forgot.

The cold, late-summer night air seeping into your too-thin coat.

The walk home, shoes biting into your heels, silence pressing on your chest like a weight.

You reach for your phone, lying face-down on the coffee table.

Still off.

You hesitate before turning it on. Part of you doesn’t want to know. Doesn’t want to see if he even noticed. If he cared.

The screen lights up.

A few missed calls. Two messages. One of them timestamped after 3 a.m.

Please just let me know you’re home safe. Please.

The lump in your throat returns instantly.

You press your lips together, hard. Staring at the screen like it might say something else if you look long enough. But it doesn’t. It just sits there, glowing faintly in your hand.

He noticed.

But not until after you were already gone. After your shoes were soaked from the pavement and your hands were numb and your tears had dried halfway down your cheeks. Not until you were already curled up here, in the quiet dark, trying to convince yourself you hadn’t made a mistake by walking out.

You stand slowly, barefoot on the hardwood, legs stiff and aching.

Your shoes are still sitting by the door, kicked off in a pile. The thin coat you wore is draped over a chair — not warm enough, not meant for the bite in the air that comes when summer starts giving way to fall.

You make it to the kitchen and stare at the coffee maker for a long moment, then decide it’s not worth it. Everything feels off. Like your apartment has too much space this morning. Like even your own breath echoes.

You wonder where he is now. If he slept. If he’s at the track already.

It’s race day.

And you’re not there.

He’s probably surrounded by noise and people and pressure. He’s probably putting on that same press smile he always wears — the one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes when something’s wrong.

You wonder if he’ll think about you when he walks to the grid. If he’ll remember your hand in his when you usually wish him luck. The way you always say, “Drive smart,” instead of “Drive fast,” because he already knows how to be fast.

You sit on the edge of the kitchen chair and let your head drop into your hands.

Because you don’t want to be angry anymore. You just want to feel like you matter to him the way he matters to you.

And right now, you’re not sure.

Not after last night.

⸻

You sit there for a long while, the quiet thick around you. Your phone buzzes again — a message from Lando. You don’t open it.

Instead, you glance toward the window, where the sky is a soft, pale gray. Late summer clouds drifting lazily, hinting at the crispness of fall yet to come. You pull your knees up to your chest and rest your head against them.

You feel like you’re split in two.

Half of you wants to throw on your shoes, drive to the track, and be there for him. To fix this — to remind him, and yourself, that what you have is bigger than a bad day or a heated fight.

The other half just wants to crawl back under the covers and hide from everything, from the tension, from the pressure, from the gnawing feeling that maybe you don’t belong in his world after all.

Your phone buzzes again. Another call.

You finally open the messages.

“I’m sorry. I was wrong. Please talk to me when you’re ready.”

Your heart stutters. You want to believe him. You want to text back, to say it’s okay, that you forgive him, that you want him to win today — for both of you.

But the silence feels too heavy. The hurt too fresh.

You take a deep breath and stand. Your bare feet meet the cold floor, and you shiver, realizing just how thin your coat was last night. You wrap your arms around yourself.

You know what you have to do.

You grab your coat, slip on your shoes — the same ones that hurt your feet on the walk home — and head for the door.

You need to see him.

Not just because of the race.

But because after last night, you both need a reminder that even when things get messy, you’re still there for each other.

And sometimes, that’s the hardest thing to say out loud.

⸻

You grab your coat, slip on your shoes — the same ones that rubbed raw against your heels the night before — and head for the door.

But you don’t open it.

Your fingers hover above the knob, and something in your chest folds in on itself. Not anger. Not even heartbreak.

Just… tiredness. The kind that settles into your bones when you’ve been trying too hard for too long.

You press your forehead gently against the door.

Because isn’t that what it’s always been?

You, rushing to forgive. You, swallowing the sting of words he didn’t mean but said anyway. You, stitching up the torn fabric of something he keeps pulling at.

You’ve stood in the paddock before with your heart quietly breaking. Smiled at cameras. Held his hand after podiums he didn’t think were good enough. Stayed quiet when his world demanded more of him than it ever asked from you.

But today — today you don’t want to go.

Not because you don’t care. God, if only it were that easy. If only indifference could replace the ache in your chest.

You care so much it hurts. That’s the problem.

You slowly peel the coat off your shoulders and hang it back on the hook. Kick off your shoes. Pad back into the living room on sore, quiet feet.

The morning light filters in, cool and colorless. You curl into the couch with a blanket wrapped around you like armor.

The TV remote feels heavier than it should.

But your hands know what to do — muscle memory from a hundred race days before this one. You find the broadcast, volume low. Familiar voices. Tire strategies. Grid positions.

P4. He’s starting P4.

You bite the inside of your cheek.

You should be there. Should’ve kissed his cheek before he pulled on his helmet. Should’ve smiled, told him “You’ve got this,” even if part of you wasn’t sure he did.

But you’re not.

And that silence is its own kind of message.

You don’t watch the pre-race interviews. You don’t want to see the way his eyes flick around, searching the crowd. You already know he’ll look for you.

You hope it stings a little.

Not out of spite — never that. But maybe a small part of you hopes that this time, he feels what it’s like to reach and find nothing waiting for him.

The race lights go out.

You pull the blanket tighter around yourself and whisper something he’ll never hear:

“Good luck.”

And then, you watch.

Alone.

⸻

The helmet feels tighter today.

Not physically — he knows it’s the same fit, same setup, same everything — but it presses down harder, like it’s holding more than just his head now. Like it’s holding in everything he hasn’t said, hasn’t let himself feel.

He blinks hard as he watches the crew swarm around his car. Everyone’s moving with sharp, practiced purpose, voices crackling through radios, tyres being warmed, wing angles being checked. He should be doing the same — syncing up mentally, running scenarios through his head.

Instead, it all just blurs.

His eyes keep sliding back to the edge of the garage, toward the place she usually stood. Arms folded. Soft smile. Quiet presence.

She’s not there.

His throat closes up for half a second. He shakes it off, flexes his fingers inside the gloves, breathes through it. He’s done this race-day ritual a hundred times. He can do it again. With or without her.

But his mind’s splintered.

P4 is doable. He’s overtaken from worse. But it doesn’t feel doable today. Not with the static in his head. Not with the echo of last night playing on loop — her voice, that silence that followed it, the way she didn’t look back when she left.

The engineer taps his shoulder. Strategy brief.

Lando nods, but the words don’t land.

They bounce off him like radio signals with no receiver.

He’s nodding at all the right moments. He knows that. He knows how to fake it. But inside he’s somewhere else. Still standing at the kitchen doorway. Still watching her back as she walked out.

Still wondering why the hell he didn’t go after her.

The pit lane starts buzzing louder now — engines coming alive. The grid forming. He steps out, suit zipped up, helmet under his arm, and everything outside his body clicks into motion. But inside? It’s just noise.

He straps in.

The car tightens around him.

Radio check. Tyre temps. Formation lap countdown.

He hears all of it — but feels none of it.

Because all he can think is:

She’s not here.

She’s always here.

And now she’s not.

And somehow, that’s what makes it feel like he’s already lost something today — and the lights haven’t even gone out yet.

⸻

The engine hum vibrated through his chest like a second heartbeat as he pulled into P4 on the grid.

Max on pole. George just ahead. Oscar to his right.

He kept his visor down longer than usual on the formation lap, trying to drown out everything but the car — the steering weight, the balance through corners, the cold bite of tyre temperature. But it wasn’t just the car he was fighting.

It was the static in his head.

The words he couldn’t unsay. The cold echo of a slammed door — not hers, but his, walking away from someone who needed him to stay.

You hadn’t answered this morning. Not his calls. Not his texts.

He told himself it didn’t matter — not now. But his gut burned hotter than the engine map he switched to just before lights out.

Lights out.

He got George off the line. Took the inside on Turn 2, swept into P3 clean. Then P2 by Lap 19 when Max ran wide. It should’ve felt good.

It didn’t.

Every corner was a loop of white noise and focus sharp enough to cut. The team radio crackled, relaying Oscar’s times — “Gap to Piastri, 2.1 seconds. Good pace. Let’s go get him.”

By Lap 47, the adrenaline was fire in his chest.

He was gaining.

Oscar ahead, less than a second. DRS open. Lando’s hands were steady on the wheel, jaw tight.

One move. One chance.

And then—

Oversteer.

Rear snapped wide. Correction too fast. Tyres locked. Car drifting. Gravel screaming beneath him.

Impact.

The barrier slammed back. A sickening crunch, the kind that vibrated up through his spine and stayed lodged in his throat.

His race was over.

And all he could think — before the radio even crackled to life — was that she wasn’t there.

⸻

The commentary was a blur in your ears — familiar voices you used to find comfort in, now muffled by the pounding of your heart.

You’d been watching the whole time.

Curled on the end of the sofa in his old hoodie, your phone face-down on the cushion next to you. You hadn’t touched it. Couldn’t. Not after everything that happened last night.

But you still watched. Of course you did.

You watched him climb to P2 with that ferocity he got when he was hurting — when the world got too loud and the only thing that made sense was speed and silence.

And you knew.

You knew the way he drove today — all risk, all edge — it wasn’t just about the race.

It was about you.

About what went unsaid. About all the things he didn’t have time for, didn’t know how to hold without squeezing too tight.

And then Lap 47 happened.

Your breath hitched the moment the camera cut to the onboard.

A twitch of the rear. A flash of gravel. That helpless slide.

And then the wall.

You flinched, hands flying to your mouth. “No, no, no—”

He was okay. The commentators said so. He got out on his own. Gave the thumbs up. The crowd even clapped.

But it didn’t matter.

Because you saw his helmet drop forward before he climbed out. Saw the slump of his shoulders. Not pain — not physical. But something heavier. Something cracked.

Your chest ached.

You should’ve gone.

But you couldn’t be the one always fixing it. Always running after the pieces he scattered when things got hard.

So you stayed.

And now, all you could do was sit there — staring at the screen, heart splintering — and wish that being in love with him didn’t hurt so damn much.

⸻

The race ends without him.

You mute the TV long before the podium ceremony. You don’t need to see Oscar spraying champagne or hear commentators dissecting the crash like it was just another technical error. It wasn’t just a mistake on Lap 47. It was a pressure cooker, and you could feel it long before the lights even went out.

You spend the next hour pacing.

Not because you’re waiting on him.

You tell yourself that again and again.

But every time your phone buzzes, you whip around like it might be him at your door.

It isn’t.

You open the window when the apartment feels too small, the hoodie you’re wearing swallowing your frame, sleeves soaked from where your fingertips keep nervously twisting at the cuffs.

Outside, the city glows like nothing’s broken. But inside, everything feels cracked open.

You should message him. You should ask if he’s okay — physically, at least.

But you don’t.

Because you’re tired of being the first to reach for something that feels like it’s always slipping through your fingers.

You light a candle just to have something warm in the room. Sit at the kitchen table — the one you never really use unless it’s the two of you. There’s still a tiny scratch on the edge of it from when he got too enthusiastic slicing sourdough. You almost smile.

Almost.

You stare at your phone for what feels like forever.

Then—

A soft knock.

You freeze.

It’s nearly 9 p.m.

The knock comes again — tentative, like whoever’s on the other side isn’t sure they should even be there.

You open the door slowly.

Lando’s standing there.

Hair slightly flattened like he’s run his hand through it a thousand times. Jacket zipped up to his chin. One hand in his pocket, the other holding nothing — no flowers, no apology, no shield. Just him.

He looks…tired.

But not from the crash.

From everything else.

“Hi,” he says, voice low and frayed. Like he almost didn’t trust it to come out.

You don’t speak. You just look at him. He looks at you.

And for a long moment, it’s just that.

Silence stretched between the doorframe and the guilt on his face.

“I shouldn’t have walked away last night,” he finally says. “I didn’t know you walked home. I didn’t know you left your keys. I—”

You swallow. The ache in your throat sharp.

“I watched the race.”

His shoulders fall. “Yeah.”

“You were chasing Oscar.”

“I was trying to outrun everything.”

You nod once, slow. “Did it work?”

He shakes his head.

“No,” he says. “It made it worse.”

You finally step back, opening the door a little wider. Just enough.

He doesn’t move immediately. He looks at you like he doesn’t deserve to come in.

Maybe he doesn’t.

But you also know what it took for him to show up.

So you let him in.

Not with words.

Not yet.

Just with a step. A breath.

And the tiniest tilt of your head toward the quiet inside.

He walks in like someone who’s been holding his breath for forty-seven laps.

And you — you shut the door behind him, not sure what comes next.

But for now, you’re both in the same room.

And maybe that’s where the healing starts. In the same way pain grows.

⸻

You lead him in without touching him. He toes off his shoes automatically, as if he’s been here a thousand times (he has), but tonight the movement looks unsure, like he expects you to say don’t.

You don’t.

He glances at the candle on your table. Vanilla and cedar. Soft. Safe. Wrong, maybe — because tonight doesn’t feel soft. But you left it lit anyway.

“Sit,” you say, nodding toward the chair across from yours.

He does. Carefully. Like sitting too hard might crack the air.

Up close you see the day on him: light graze across one wrist where the steering wheel snapped back in the hit, red pressure lines on his neck from belts, shadows under his eyes. He keeps his hands flat on the table so you can see them. You realize that’s deliberate.

He swallows. “I brought your keys.”

Your gaze flicks to his palm. He slides them across the table — the familiar ring, chipped orange tag, your car fob. The sight knocks something loose in your chest.

“I noticed them in the bowl after you left,” he says. “Didn’t…didn’t realize you’d walked until—” He stops, jaw locking. “Until I checked the hall cam and saw you go. No coat. Well—thin one. Not warm. And those stupid shoes.”

You huff out a humorless sound. “Didn’t feel the cold ‘til halfway home.”

“I should’ve gone after you.” His voice cracks. “I should’ve stopped you before you got to the door.”

You stare at him. “You should’ve eaten dinner.”

His eyes close. Slow. Painful. “Yeah.”

Silence stretches. You pick at the edge of the napkin you’d dropped there earlier. He watches your fingers like they’re the most important thing in the room.

Finally you say, “You texted.”

“I did.” He nods. “All bounced. Phone off?”

“Yeah.”

“Were you…were you done? With me?” The question is small. Terrified.

“No.” Your answer is immediate, quiet. “But I was done running after you when you shut the door.”

He sits with that. Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t defend.

“I get that,” he says at last. “You always come find me when I close up. I think I got used to it. Counted on it. That’s…awful.” He shakes his head. “You shouldn’t have to drag me back to us every time I spiral.”

Your throat tightens. “It’s not that I mind supporting you. I mind being treated like pressure when I’m trying to be a place to land.”

He looks up fast. “You are. You are that. I was just—” He exhales hard. “I was angry at myself and I threw it at you. And I hate that I did that, and now I crashed a car and nearly put it in the wall for good because my head was not where it needed to be, and all I could think mid-spin was you’re not here and that’s on me.”

You don’t realize you’ve stood until you’re moving. You grab a clean dish towel, dampen it, circle back and hold out your hand. “Let me see your wrist.”

He offers it without a word. Trust, quiet and unearned, but there.

You dab at the reddened skin. He flinches once. Doesn’t pull away.

“Hurts?” you murmur.

“Not as much as last night.”

You roll your eyes, but your thumb softens against his pulse. His shoulders drop an inch.

“I need a rule,” he says. “We do. No walking off. No doors shut until we say what’s real.”

You look up. “And no calling me needy when I ask for time.”

His answer is immediate. “Never again.”

You study him—searching for deflection, for race-face, for anything false. You don’t see it.

“Okay,” you say.

He lets out a breath he’s been holding since Lap 47.

⸻

Not Fixed. Starting.

You heat water for tea. He stands and helps without asking, moving around your kitchen like he’s trying to relearn a language he once spoke fluently. He opens the wrong cupboard first. You point. He smiles—brief, tired, real.

When the mugs are on the table, he curls his fingers around his like he needs the heat.

“I’ve got a car debrief tomorrow,” he says, eyes still on the steam. “And media. But after that…can I come back? Properly? No helmet. No excuses. We talk until we’re done.”

You don’t make it easy. “You showing up doesn’t erase the pattern.”

“I know.” He finally looks at you. “I’m asking for the chance to change it.”

You sit with that. Let him feel the wait.

“Come after,” you say at last. “Bring food. And apologize twice.”

He huffs out a wet laugh. “Deal.”

You slide his keys back across the table. “You’re driving.”

“For dinner?”

“For us time,” you correct.

His shoulders square, like the words put him back on a grid he wants to be on.

“Copy,” he says softly. “Us time.”

⸻

You both sip in silence for a while. The kind that isn’t awkward, but not quite comfortable either. Like you’re sitting at the edge of something and neither of you is ready to step forward just yet. The tea helps. It gives your hands something to do, your lips a reason to move without needing to speak.

He watches the rim of his mug. Then, without looking up, he says:

“I’m sorry.”

It’s soft. Like if he says it too loud, it might shatter between you.

You don’t interrupt. You let him go on.

“I’m sorry for snapping. For saying things that weren’t fair. For making you feel like your care was a burden. That was never true. I was spiraling, and instead of letting you help, I dragged you down with me.”

He finally looks at you. His eyes are red-rimmed now — not from tears, exactly, but from the exhaustion that comes after them.

“I’m sorry for all of it. For needing you and pretending I didn’t.”

You press your mug to your lips, mostly to stop them from trembling. The words dig deep, but not in a painful way. More like pulling out a thorn that’s been buried too long.

You set the mug down.

“I know things are hard for you,” you say quietly. “But I can’t be the only one carrying both of us every time it gets messy. You shut me out. You made me feel like I was just noise. And I didn’t know how to keep fighting for someone who didn’t seem to want me in the room.”

His shoulders cave a little. But he nods.

“I did. I pushed you out. And I regret it. I… I don’t want to be someone who only reaches for you when I’m hurting. I want to reach for you when I’m okay too. I want to be better.”

You study him. This isn’t just guilt talking. It’s something quieter. Like a door cracked open — not begging you to step inside, but offering to finally show you what’s behind it.

You don’t say you forgive him yet. But you do reach across the table and slide your fingers over his.

He goes completely still. Then, slowly, his hand turns palm-up and curls around yours.

It’s not a resolution. Not fully. But it’s a choice — to try.

You sit like that for a while. Mugs forgotten. Fingers loosely tangled.

Eventually, he asks, voice rasping, “Can I stay?”

You glance at him.

“On the couch?” he adds quickly. “Or I’ll drive home. Whatever you want. Just— I don’t want to leave things like this again.”

You squeeze his hand.

“You can stay,” you say. “But I pick the blanket this time.”

That earns the first real smile from him all night.

“Deal.”

⸻

You hand him the blanket from the back of the couch — the soft one he always teases you about, saying it looks like something your grandmother would knit. He doesn’t say anything this time. Just takes it with a small, grateful nod.

He lowers himself onto the couch like every movement costs him. The crash, the press conferences, the silence between you — it’s all settled in his shoulders. You know that look. He won’t sleep much.

You hover awkwardly for a second, half-turning toward the hall, toward your bedroom. But something keeps your feet planted.

“I’ll get you a pillow,” you say, already moving toward the linen closet.

By the time you return, he’s kicked his shoes off and sunk low into the cushions, the blanket pulled up to his chest. His eyes are open, staring at the ceiling.

You place the pillow beside him and linger a second too long.

“Do you want me to leave a light on?” you ask.

He looks at you. Really looks at you. And for a moment, he seems younger. Smaller. Not the Lando that everyone expects to be okay all the time. Just him.

“No,” he murmurs. “Just… stay for a second?”

So you sit on the edge of the coffee table, knees nearly brushing his.

“You scared me today,” you admit, voice quiet. “When I saw the crash, I couldn’t breathe. And then you didn’t get out right away and…”

You trail off.

“I know,” he whispers. “I scared myself too.”

His hand emerges from under the blanket. Hesitantly. Like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed. You don’t think twice — you take it.

It’s warm, calloused from years of racing, trembling ever so slightly.

You sit like that for a long while — his hand in yours, the dark wrapping around you both like a safety net. Eventually, his eyes drift closed.

You ease your hand away slowly and stand. For a second, you just look at him — the slow rise and fall of his chest, the wrinkle between his brows that stays even when he sleeps.

You pull the blanket up higher over his shoulder and turn off the last light.

Before you leave the room, you pause.

“I’m still here,” you whisper. “Even when it’s hard.”

He doesn’t answer — already half asleep. But maybe that’s okay.

You meant it more for yourself anyway.

⸻

The Morning After

When you wake, the apartment is still. A gentle, grey-blue haze filters through the curtains — that hazy, reluctant morning light where everything feels softer than it should. Your limbs are heavy, the kind of tired that doesn’t go away with just sleep. The kind that lives in your chest.

You stay in bed for a while, letting your eyes adjust, listening.

Nothing.

Eventually, you throw on your robe and pad into the hallway. The silence makes your heart skip — that irrational fear he might’ve left again. That this whole thing was a fragile, too-late apology wrapped in tea and exhaustion and not something that would hold in daylight.

But when you round the corner into the living room, you stop.

Lando’s still there.

He’s sitting on the couch with the blanket draped over his lap, hair a mess, hoodie wrinkled, and your old mug cradled in both hands. It’s probably cold tea by now, but he’s holding it like it anchors him.

He looks up when he hears your footsteps. His eyes are puffy, exhausted, a little bloodshot — but they soften when they find yours.

“Hey,” he says, voice scratchy.

You offer a small nod and lean against the doorframe. “Hey.”

“I didn’t sleep much,” he adds. Like he owes you an explanation. Like he’s afraid you’ll read too much into the bags under his eyes.

You nod again, arms folding over your chest.

“I didn’t either,” you say.

He watches you for a moment, and then gestures to the space beside him. “You don’t have to… but, if you want…”

You hesitate. Not because you don’t want to — but because it still hurts. Because it’s still raw. But you cross the room anyway and sit beside him. Not too close, not pressed against him. Just enough.

The silence stretches between you again — but this time, it’s gentler. Like it’s holding space, not keeping score.

He glances down at the mug in his hands. “I was gonna make breakfast, but I couldn’t find anything I wouldn’t set on fire.”

That earns a soft laugh out of you — not big, not bright, but real.

“Good,” you murmur. “I wasn’t ready to lose the kitchen too.”

He huffs a laugh, then sobers. “I don’t want to mess this up.”

Your breath catches.

“I know I’ve been selfish. I know I make it hard sometimes. But I’m trying. I want to keep trying. Not just say sorry when I crash into things — people. You.”

You look at him then — really look. At the sincere lines in his face, the bruise blooming faintly on his jaw, the worry shadowed behind his eyes.

“I don’t need perfect, Lando,” you whisper. “But I need you to show up. Not just when it’s convenient or when you’re afraid I’ll leave. I need you… before it breaks.”

He nods, slowly, taking that in. “I can do that. I will.”

A long beat passes.

He turns slightly toward you. “Can I ask something stupid?”

You raise a brow. “You’re Lando Norris. That’s kind of your brand.”

That draws a quiet, thankful smile. His eyes flick down, then up again.

“Can I hug you?”

You pause — not because you’re unsure, but because the question hits you somewhere deep. The version of him that’s here right now — this careful, vulnerable, almost boyish one — is so different from the defensive storm from two nights ago.

So you nod. Slowly.

And when he pulls you into his arms, it’s gentle. No pressure. Just warmth. Just arms around you like they remember exactly how you fit.

You lean into it. Not fully. Not all the way yet.

But enough.

And for now… enough is everything.

⸻

You stay in his arms longer than you planned. It’s quiet, but not uncomfortable. Just your head against his shoulder, your hand resting lightly over his heart — like you’re checking to make sure it’s still beating, still steady, still his.

And it is. It always was.

“I missed you,” he murmurs, lips brushing your hair.

You close your eyes. “You had a funny way of showing it.”

He flinches a little — not from anger, but from truth. His arm tightens gently around you.

“I know,” he says, and it’s not just apology in his voice now — it’s grief. Grief for what he almost lost. “You didn’t deserve that. Any of it.”

You don’t answer. Not right away.

Because you’ve heard the apologies before — in quieter tones, after bad races, in hotel rooms between travel days, when exhaustion made both of you fray at the seams. But this feels different.

Not like a quick patch.

Like something slower. Something earned.

Eventually, you pull back just enough to see his face. His eyes are searching, like he’s waiting for a verdict. Like he’d let you decide if today is a beginning or just the end delayed.

You lift your hand and lightly brush your thumb along his jaw, careful of the healing scrape there from the crash.

“You scared me,” you admit, voice barely a breath.

“I scared myself,” he replies.

You nod. Let the weight of that settle.

“And I know,” he continues, eyes never leaving yours, “I’ve made it feel like you’re the one always chasing me. And I hate that. I don’t want to be someone you have to fix, Y/N. I want to meet you halfway. I want to show up before I give you reasons to leave.”

Your throat tightens. You want to believe him. Part of you already does.

But it’s hard to unlearn disappointment. To untangle all the little ways you’ve swallowed your needs just to keep things from crumbling.

“You don’t have to have it all figured out,” you whisper. “I just need to know I’m not alone in this.”

“You’re not,” he says immediately. “Not anymore. Not ever again.”

He says it like a promise.

And for the first time in a while, it actually feels like one.

You nod again, slowly. Then lean into him, pressing your forehead to his shoulder.

“I made you tea,” you murmur. “You didn’t even drink it.”

He lets out a breath — almost a laugh — and rubs your back lightly. “It was cold by the time I could even hold it without shaking.”

You pull back just enough to smirk at him. “Want me to make another?”

He tilts his head. “Only if you’re having one too.”

“Deal.”

You stand, padding toward the kitchen. He follows after a moment, slower this time — not rushing, not trying to fix things instantly. Just there. Present.

And that, more than anything, feels like progress.

The tea steams between you both on the table. There’s still a lot to say. Still quiet between the cracks. But this morning, he doesn’t walk away. He holds the mug in both hands, like it matters.

And you hold onto the hope that maybe this time, things will be different — not perfect, not easy, but real. Repairable. Rooted.

Because he’s here.

And so are you.

⸻

You blow gently on the surface of your tea, watching the way the steam curls up and disappears into the soft morning light. Across the table, Lando is doing the same — eyes on his mug, jaw tight in that way you know means he’s thinking too hard.

It’s still quiet.

But it’s not cold anymore.

You take a small sip, letting the warmth settle in your chest. And when you glance up, he’s already watching you. Not intense or demanding — just… there. Like he’s grounding himself in the sight of you.

“I didn’t sleep,” he says, voice rough.

You nod. “Me neither.”

“I kept thinking you’d show up at the track,” he continues, his eyes dropping to the table. “And when you didn’t… that’s when it hit me. How badly I’d screwed it all up.”

You don’t say anything, because part of you still aches — not out of anger, but out of exhaustion. Emotional exhaustion, the kind that builds over weeks of being sidelined, made small, asked to hold everything together without being asked how you’re doing.

So instead, you reach for your tea again and let him talk.

“I panicked,” he admits. “Before the race, during it. I couldn’t focus. I kept thinking about what I said, how I left things. I was chasing Oscar and all I could think about was how I couldn’t even hold onto the one person who actually gives a damn about me when it’s not about podiums or press conferences.”

His voice breaks a little near the end.

You look at him fully now. Not guarded. Just quiet.

“I’m tired, Lando,” you whisper. “I’m tired of always being the one who makes room. Of being the one who stays calm when you’re under pressure, who understands every cancellation, every late-night call. And I get it — I really do. But sometimes, I just need to be more than an afterthought.”

“I know,” he says immediately. “I know that now. And it kills me that you even felt that way.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then:

“I don’t want to live a life that shuts you out,” he says. “Not anymore. I’ve been scared of messing up so badly that I forgot what I already have — someone who sees me even when I can’t win. Someone who waits. Someone who comes home cold and hurting and still gives me a second chance.”

You blink back the sudden sting in your eyes.

“I didn’t come home for you, Lando,” you say softly. “I came home for me.”

He nods. “I know. But I’m glad you let me in anyway.”

You stare at him for a long moment. And then — because the silence is soft again, because he finally looks like he means it, because you’re still allowed to care even when you’re hurting — you reach across the table and take his hand.

His thumb brushes over your knuckles, gentle. Grateful.

“I’m gonna be better,” he says. “Not perfect. But better. I want to be someone who meets you halfway. No more chasing. Just… choosing each other.”

And maybe that’s what you needed to hear all along.

Not a speech. Not promises laced in adrenaline.

Just him. Sitting across from you. Owning his part in what went wrong — and asking, softly, if there’s still a path forward.

You squeeze his hand.

“We’ll figure it out.”

He smiles. It’s tired. But it’s real.

It feels like the start of something worth rebuilding.

⸻

The tea sits forgotten on the table, cooling slowly. There’s something quieter now in the air — not tension, not regret, but something fragile and warm, like the moment after a storm when the air is still thick with the memory of it.

Lando shifts beside you on the couch, one arm stretched across the back, the other resting in his lap. You sit cross-legged, still curled into your robe, exhaustion tugging at your shoulders — not just from the night, but from the days before it, from the walking, from the weight of pretending you were fine when you weren’t.

He notices. Of course he does.

His gaze drops to your feet — bare now, marked faintly red around the ankles where your shoes had rubbed raw. His brows pinch.

“Your feet hurt?”

You glance at them, then give a tired little nod. “Yeah. I walked too far in the wrong shoes. Rookie mistake.”

Without a word, he reaches over and gently lifts your legs, guiding your feet into his lap. It’s so casual, so easy, like he’s done it a thousand times before — but it still makes your chest go tight.

You watch him silently as he settles in. He wraps both hands around one foot, thumbs pressing in slow, careful circles into your arch. His touch is steady, grounding — not romantic, not performative, just a quiet offering. Just care.

“You should’ve called me,” he murmurs, not looking up. “I would’ve come.”

“I didn’t think you wanted me to,” you say quietly. “Not after everything.”

He swallows hard, fingers pausing briefly. “I always want you to. Even when I’m an idiot. Especially then.”

You don’t reply. You just let your head tip back against the cushion, eyes fluttering closed, breathing out slow and even as his fingers move with purpose and precision.

After a few moments, he switches to your other foot. His thumbs move a little deeper now, easing into the sore muscles there, and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

“I forgot how bad you are at this,” you mumble, but your voice is soft, teasing.

He snorts. “Liar. I’m amazing. You’re just stubborn.”

You smile. The ache in your feet fades, replaced by something warm and safe. Something you haven’t felt in a while.

Then his hands slow.

He shifts again, this time drawing you closer, gently tugging at your legs until you’re half-curled into his side. Your cheek finds his shoulder, his arm around your back. It’s not dramatic, not even a question — it’s instinct, the way he pulls you close like he needs to hold you there, like he needs you to feel it.

The safety. The apology. The truth of it.

You melt into him, your legs still draped across his lap, his hand now resting on your thigh, thumb tracing idle lines through the fabric of your robe.

He dips his chin slightly, letting it rest atop your head. His breath is warm against your temple.

“I don’t deserve this,” he whispers.

“Maybe not,” you reply, voice barely audible. “But I still want you here.”

His arms tighten just enough, like that sentence alone could be enough to hold him together.

And for a long time, you don’t speak. You just sit like that — legs tangled, head on his shoulder, heartbeats slowly syncing — the world quiet for the first time in what feels like days.

Not fixed.

Not perfect.

But, for once, safe.

And in the quiet, that’s enough.

⸻

Masterlist

[formulafanfics13]

please do fic on the coldplay-ceo scandal with driver reader x rival. theyre in a championship fight , hates each other on public but a random concert exposed them on 4k!!!

Burn It All for the Camera - MV1

Masterlist

Summary They hate each other. That’s the version the world believes. Two rival drivers, locked in a brutal championship battle, barely able to look at each other without starting a fight. But one kiss-cam at a Coldplay concert blows it all apart. Captured in 4K. On the jumbotron. With the entire world watching. And now, the secret they’ve been hiding can’t be buried anymore. What begins as a slip turns into scandal. What was once private becomes a media storm. And underneath the chaos, two people who swore they weren’t in love are forced to admit that maybe they always were.

Warnings enemies to lovers, rival drivers, kiss-cam scandal, public exposure, concert setting, explicit language, sexual tension, emotional repression, hotel room confrontation, explicit content, emotional whiplash, reader is also a driver, angsty slow burn, championship fight, media chaos, grid reactions, emotional confusion, rivals x reader..

The last time you touched Max Verstappen was three weeks ago. Singapore. Hotel room. A single overhead lamp and the words “this never happened” whispered into your shoulder.

You’d walked away barefoot. Bruised. Quiet. He didn’t stop you. And that was supposed to be the end of it.

Because on track, you’re enemies. Championship rivals. Front page tension. F1’s golden prodigy versus its savage disruptor. Your name. His. One of you will win the title. The other will burn for it.

The media loves it. So do the sponsors. So does every desperate little TikTok editor cropping your interviews side-by-side like it’s war. You can’t stand him. And tonight, you’ve got tequila in your system and a Coldplay wristband on your arm and not a single fucking thought of him in your head.

Until you see him. Three rows away. Head turned. Cap low. Blue light flickering over that stupid, sharp jawline. You freeze. And he doesn’t.

He looks at you. Slow. Deliberate. Like he knew you’d be here. Like he’s been waiting. Your jaw tightens. He doesn’t break eye contact.

Your friend nudges you, tipsy. “Holy shit, is that Max Verstappen?”

You don’t reply. You just throw your head back and finish your drink.

The concert is already halfway in. Everyone’s sweaty. Euphoric. Screaming lyrics into the air like they mean something. Chris Martin’s voice soars across the stadium like a confession. You're mid-laugh when the screen flickers.

You glance up. The jumbotron is scanning the crowd. Couples. Friends. Kisses. The camera pans. One by one. A soft filter over everything. That romantic Coldplay sheen. A soundtrack of Yellow humming in the background.

Then? You. The crowd cheers. And then the camera pann... To Max.

You don’t react at first. Neither does he. The stadium is SCREAMING. The screens split you both, side by side, like some kind of cosmic joke. And it keeps going. Holding. Expectant.

You feel your chest tighten. He’s still looking at you. You could laugh. You could shake your head and mouth no fucking way. You could kill the moment with one eye-roll.

Instead you walk. Straight toward him. There are arms reaching, phones recording, your friend shrieking behind you. But you don’t stop.

He doesn’t move. You reach him. He’s standing there in that smug, silent way of his. Hoodie unzipped. Hair pushed back. Face unreadable.

You say nothing. Just lean in, grab the back of his neck and kiss him.

It’s hot. Too hot. Not sweet. Not polite. Not a crowd-pleasing little peck. It’s your mouth against his with months of rage and frustration and adrenaline baked into it. His hand comes to your waist like a reflex.

You bite his bottom lip just enough to make him flinch. The crowd loses it. You pull back. Breathe. And walk away.

It takes six minutes for the footage to hit Twitter. Twenty for it to be reposted by ESPN F1. An hour for the slow-motion edit to go viral on TikTok. By midnight, the BBC has an article titled "Coldplay Kiss-Cam Explodes F1 Rivalry Open."

You’re tagged in every thread. So is he. Your team rep calls. Twice. Your PR manager texts “what the FUCK”. Toto sends a voice note that’s just him breathing like he’s about to combust. Lando texts omg did you tongue him Charles sends a laughing emoji. Then deletes it. Then calls.

You don’t answer. Because you’re pacing the hotel hallway, barefoot again, wearing the same hoodie you swore you’d never touch. The one Max left three weeks ago. He never asked for it back.

Max texts at 2:03 a.m.

MAX: You couldn’t help yourself, huh?

YOU: Go fuck yourself.

MAX: You already did that, remember?

You don’t reply.

He calls. You answer. “Is this funny to you?” you snap.

“I didn’t plan it.”

“You didn’t stop it either.”

“You kissed me.”

“You didn’t pull away.”

Silence. You exhale, shaking. “This is going to blow up everything.”

“I know.”

A pause. His voice drops, low and quiet: “So come here.”

You freeze.

“You already kissed me in front of 60,000 people,” he says. “What’s one more mistake?”

You hang up. Then grab your key. Then walk out the door.

You don’t knock. Max opens the door before your fist can land. He’s shirtless. Of course he is. Hair messy, eyes tired, like he hasn’t slept either. He leans on the doorframe and stares at you like you’re the problem. Like you didn’t just break the internet together.

“You wore the hoodie,” he says.

You shove past him. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

The door clicks shut behind you. The room is quiet. Dim. Heavy. Neither of you speak for a moment. You sit on the edge of his bed, legs bouncing, nerves crackling through your chest. Max stands with his arms folded, watching you like you might break something. Or cry. Or kiss him again.

“You want to talk about it?” he asks.

You laugh. Sharp. Dry. “What’s there to talk about?”

“We kissed. In front of half the fucking world.”

You meet his eyes. “No. I kissed you. And you let me.”

His jaw flexes. “Same thing.”

“Not to your PR team.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “They’ll get over it.”

You stand. “No, they won’t.” You start pacing. “My team won’t either. Everyone’s freaking out. I’ve had four calls from my race engineer, two from my manager, and one from my mother.”

“I got a meme sent to me by Christian Horner,” Max says flatly. “It was a photo of us kissing, edited to say ‘enemy of the state.’”

You blink. “You win.”

He smirks. “Always do.”

You glare. “You’re not funny.”

“You’re not subtle.”

“Don’t.”

“I’m just saying,” he murmurs, stepping closer, “for someone who hates me, you’ve kissed me more than once.”

You don’t move. “You done?” you ask.

His voice dips. “No.”

Your breath catches. “You want me to apologise for it?”

“I want you to stop pretending it didn’t mean anything.”

You freeze. His eyes burn into you. “You said it was a mistake. Singapore. But you came back. And you kissed me again. And you’re wearing my hoodie.”

You shake your head. “This was supposed to be about winning.”

“Then why are you here?”

Silence. Your heart pounds. Max steps into your space. His voice is low, rough, but not cruel. “You can lie to everyone else. You can do the whole enemies thing. The fake smiles, the cold stares, the press conference shade. But not to me.”

You stare at him. “We don’t work. We fight.”

“Sometimes,” he says, “fighting is just foreplay.”

You let out a sound. A half-laugh, half-scoff. “You’re so-”

“What?”

“Infuriating.”

He leans in. “You’re still standing here.”

You’re so close your noses brush.

“Tell me to stop,” he says.

You don’t.

“Tell me this means nothing.”

You can’t. So you kiss him. Again. And this time, it’s worse. Because it’s not adrenaline. Not the rush of a stadium. Not the thrill of being watched.

It’s need. It’s hands on his chest. His fingers fisting your shirt. Your mouth opening like you’re starving. His breath stuttering when you tug his hair.

He walks you backwards, stumbling, until the backs of your knees hit the bed.

You fall. He follows. The hoodie is gone. So are your shorts. He kisses like a man on the edge. Slow, then messy. Careful, then cruel. Like he wants to ruin you just to piece you back together.

And somewhere in the middle of it, after the first gasp, before the second bite, you whisper, “We can’t keep doing this.”

Max pauses. His hand tightens on your thigh. His forehead rests against yours. “I know.” But neither of you stop.

Later, you’re tangled in sheets that smell like him. Skin flushed. Mouth sore. He’s on his side, arm draped over your waist. You should leave. You don’t. Instead, you whisper, “What now?”

He exhales slowly. “I don’t know.”

You nod. “The grid’s gonna eat us alive.”

Max grins against your neck. “Let them choke.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re insufferable.”

“You’re in my bed.”

You shove him lightly. “You’re impossible.”

He pulls you closer. “You’re impossible.”

Silence. Soft. Warm. Dangerous. “You gonna kiss me on the podium too?” you murmur.

“If you win.”

You smile. “If?”

He hums, cocky. “It’ll be close.”

And you know he’s right. Because on track, you’ll still fight. Still claw for every point. Still glare across parc fermé like you don’t know the taste of his skin.

But off-track? You’ve already lost. And neither of you care.

[nephynes]

PLAYBACK ERROR ── .✦ park jongseong

Sending sex tapes to their shared group chat was nothing out of the ordinary it had always been a thing between all of them and this time around Heeseung was just showing you off a little. But Jay won’t stop watching the video, in fact he can’t. He also can’t stop thinking about you.

➺ minors do not interact

➺ pairing: jay x afab reader | heeseung x afab reader

➺ wc: 25k

➺ content tags/warnings: SMUT, possessive behavior, filming sex tapes, jealousy, voyeurism, consensual non-monogamy, exhibitionism, obsession, power dynamics, toxic friendship, emotional manipulation, guilt, shame, unprotected sex, multiple partners, light coercion (negotiated), unresolved feelings, blurred boundaries, dominant behavior, aftercare, emotionally complex relationships, low impulse control, lots of yearning, suggestive language, complicated emotions, unhealthy attachment, mentions of enhypen’s jake and sunghoon. NOT PROOFREAD.

➺ a/n: it’s sincerely embarrassing how long it took for me to post this, the constant shifting of release dates? sigh, i’m sorry it’s late but please enjoy 💕

➺ nsfw tags under the cut

oral sex (m!receiving and f!receiving), fingering, penetrative sex, rough sex, voyeurism, overstimulation (light), edging (implied), begging, dirty talk, degradation kink, praise kink, possessive dirty talk, squirting, cumshot, light restraint, intense eye contact, emotionally loaded sex, consensual power imbalance, mutual fixation. let me know if i missed any.

Jay had always liked predictable things. Things like his mother's fresh flowers in a vase on the kitchen counter, or the exact way his father folded the newspaper every morning, the scent of breakfast always starting before his alarm could wake him. There was a steady rhythm to his life and most days, it made everything feel manageable.

He liked having clean socks, just like he liked dinner on the table by six and knowing where everything was without having to look for it. Jay wasn't the type to call it comfort, but it was.

Still, it wasn't exactly freedom.

At twenty three, he had a stable enough job, a savings account, a good wardrobe, and a car with a clean backseat. On paper, he was doing fine, better than fine in fact, depending on who you asked. His parents liked to remind him of that, always with a hint of pride threaded into their voices. "You're doing everything right, Jongseong" his mom would say, patting his arm. "There’s no reason to rush."

He actually never rushed, and maybe was part of the problem.

Heeseung always rushed. Jake stumbled forward and somehow always landed right where he needed to be. Even Sunghoon, with all his weird detachment and quiet moods, had at least gotten out, new job, new place, new city. Jay stayed behind in their hometown just thirty minutes away.

Not because he couldn't leave. He just...hadn't yet.

Maybe it was habit, or comfort, or even just fear disguised as logic. Whatever the reason, his clothes still hung in the same closet they had since high school. His cologne still sat on the same dresser and his life still felt paused, maybe tidy and organized, but still paused.

He didn't really get lonely, well at least not in any way he could admit.

Weekends were always reserved for the boys, Heeseung, Jake and Sunghoon. Sometimes they'd meet at the rooftop of Jake's apartment, sometimes a bar, but most often it was Heeseung's penthouse apartment—his place was nice, private and very adult. Jay would sit on the edge of Heeseung's expensive couch with a drink in hand, nodding along to their stories, laughing when it was expected, even when something inside him felt miles away.

He never said much or rather he didn’t need to. He'd mastered the art of watching without being noticed, like he was always listening, absorbing and filing things away.

And if there were fleeting or private moments where he caught himself imagining something more or something that didn't feel like waiting? He never lingered on them long.

He liked control and order, as well as being the one no one ever had to worry about.

Still, sometimes he wondered what it would feel like to finally fuck it all up. To ruin everything and run away somewhere far, but there were factors that would make that damn near impossible. Jay had grown up in Heeseung's gravity.

Looking back at the memories he had of his childhood always made his stomach squeeze.

The elementary school sports day, Heeseung took first in the hundred yard dash, and the teacher handed Jay a bright blue participation ribbon. In the middle school talent show, Heeseung strummed a very off key guitar and the crowd roared while Jay played a flawless piano piece and heard polite claps.

By high school, Jay had stopped comparing report cards and started memorizing the look on Heeseung's face whenever he won, which was always easy, unbothered even, almost like winning was his resting state.

It never felt malicious, but that somehow only made it worse. Heeseung didn't try to outshine him—he just did. Jay became the reliable shadow, he smart enough to help with homework, steady enough to drive home when the parties got out of hand and invisible enough that no one minded when he left early.

The years all blurred together and the hierarchy solidified into law, until the night Heeseung walked into Jake’s family barbecue with you on his arm.

Jay remembers the color of your dress from that night, you had your hair twisted into a clip, and a tiny mole at the corner of your mouth that Jay noticed and immediately pretended he hadn't

You were soft around the edges with a careful smile as you walked in hand in hand with Heeseung, said hi to Jake’s parents ever so politely, and laughed at a volume that made people lean in instead of turn around. Watching you felt like listening to a song he already knew by heart.

Heeseung had introduced you like it was inevitable, “This is my girlfriend, you'll love her.” And very unsurprisingly, everyone did. Jake had tried to charm you, Sunghoon had talked to you about music while Jay kept quiet, studying how your hand never left Heeseung's, thumb tracing idle circles as though it had always belonged there. If perfect was a person, it was you—effortless, luminous and absolutely taken.

In the months that came you became a fixture in Heeseung’s life sharing fries at three in the morning, cheering them on at pick up basketball, folding yourself into group photos with that same gentle certainty.

You and Heeseung fit together like two halves that had been misplaced and finally clicked again. So when he proposed nine months later on your anniversary dinner on the beach with the string quartet and the ring glittering like a dare, no one looked a tad bit surprised. Jake cheered, Sunghoon filmed on his phone and Jay clapped with everyone else.

Whatever tight, strange, unnamable feeling he felt that night was swallowed with the champagne.

Because Heeseung always gets there first, and Jay has never learned how to want something once it's already spoken for.

Sending sex tape type videos to the group chat was something that started way back in their freshman year of college, it was never anything cruel and never ever without permission, it was just something that became a quiet, consistent ritual between the four of them.

Jake always had the most enthusiastic submissions, all winks and filters and girls who giggled into the camera, flashing peace signs before their makeup smeared. Sunghoon's were rarer but dirtier, he had a thing for messy angles and dim lighting, like he wanted the tape to feel stolen and Heeseung? He had been the king.

Back in college, he practically ran the group chat, with a new girl every other weekend, a new clip that was always high quality, always enthusiastic. His videos were annoyingly polished, sometimes cut together with music, like he had a secret career in indie porn. The girls adored him, and it showed in the way they moaned, begged and clung to him like they'd forget how to breathe if he stopped touching them.

Jay shared the least, always a couple of grainy clips, mostly of girls going down on him and vice versa, never anything more than that. He didn't like seeing his own face or the feeling afterward, it made him feel like he was pretending to be someone who knew what to do with all that power. Most of his experience came with nerves, not dominance. So he stuck to low angles and silence and let the others fill the space.

And then came you.

From the moment Heeseung introduced you, everything changed. He stopped sending clips. Full stop. No blurry nudes, no grainy voice memos, not even a photo of your back in bed. At first, the others joked about it, something about him being "Whipped already?" or "Where's our content king?", but Heeseung just grinned, shrugged and didn't offer anything, not even a tease.

That was the sign, Jay thinks now. That was when he should've known just how deep Heeseung was in.

Which is why what's on Jay's screen right now feels like a mistake.

He's sitting on the edge of his bed, heart pounding like a bassline, the group chat still open on his phone. No message or caption. Just a thirty second video file from Heeseung.

He stares at the thumbnail for a long time. It's a bit blurry with just a flash of skin, the curve of someone's thigh, a warm-toned filter, but his throat goes dry the second he recognizes your hand and your ring.

Jay clicks it.

The screen goes black for a beat before the video begins. The first thing he sees is you completely naked and flat on your back in soft in peach-toned lighting. One hand flutters to your face, covering your eyes with a shy little giggle. The sound is sweet, breathy and vulnerable in a way Jay is so not ready for. The way your body shifts under the camera's gaze isn't self conscious, it's playful, like you're well aware of being watched.

Then Heeseung's voice comes teasing and way too close to the mic in Jay’s opinion. "Are you shy? Or are you just showing off that ring, baby?"

The camera zooms deliberately, toward your hand, the one still covering your face. Heeseung's fingers appear in the frame, gently tugging your wrist down and you let him. Jay watched the ring sparkle under the light.

"You want me to talk about the cut again?" "What did the guy say? Princess, right?"

Your giggle again, softer this time followed with a quiet little "mmhmm" as you blink up at the lens. Jay watches the smile spread across your face, it’s the kind that blooms slowly, like you're not even really thinking about it.

And that's the moment, like the exact second Jay realizes he's not supposed to be watching this. And it’s not because it's too intimate or because it's sex, it’s because of the way you look at Heeseung, like your whole world ends and begins with him.

It makes something in Jay's chest tightens.

Heeseung hasn't even touched you yet in the video, and Jay is already flushed down to his damn fingertips. Already pausing and rewinding, staring at the way your skin glows under that warm, bedroom light.

It's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen and it's not for him.

His stomach twists with something awful, he doesn’t even know if it’s shame guilt or hunger. All he knows is that the ring on your finger feels louder than anything else in the room. That soft little "mmhmm" loops in his ears even after he stops the video.

The video ends there with just your voice, your smile and the glint of the ring.

Jay exhales like he's been holding his breath for days but then he clicks play again…and again.

Watches the ring, your giggle, the way your knees curl slightly inward as you cover your face. It's cinematic to him, it’s so intimate in a way that doesn't even feel like porn. Like Heeseung filmed it for himself, not them, it makes Jay feel like he’s intruding.

He doesn't even notice the chat buzzing until Jake's message pops up, bright and completely irreverent.

Jake: bro wtf why would u end it THERE

Sunghoon: at least let us see you hit 😒

Jay blinks. Right. Them. The rest of the group. For a second, he'd forgotten this wasn't a private moment and that it was meant to be shared.

His thumb hovers over the play button again, but before he can hit it, another message pings in the chat, and it’s a new video—a one minute long video.

Jay clicks it with clammy hands, screen full.

The video starts with your laugh, so bright and unguarded. You're on your knees on the bed this time, hair loose around your shoulders, completely naked. Heeseung's hand is in the frame, curled gently around your jaw, guiding your face toward the camera.

"Say hi to the guys," he says, offscreen.

You look directly into the lens and smile. "Hi, boys," you say sweetly and playfully, almost like your entire body isn't on display, glittering with lotion or sweat or some dewy mixture of both.

Jay feels his lungs stop working.

You're so fucking perfect, more perfect than he ever imagined and the realization nearly knocks the wind out of him—because of course he imagined. Not in a graphic way, not exactly, he never even let the thoughts linger but that’s not to say they weren’t always there, at the edges. The idea of you, the softness of your voice, or the way you moved through the world like nothing could shake you.

But this? Seeing your skin, the fullness of your breasts, the way your thighs press together slightly as you smile into the camera like you know exactly what kind of power you're holding? It’s too much for Jay.

He's not even listening to Heeseung's voice anymore, saying something about how pretty you look, how sweet you're being. Jake sends another comment, something crude maybe. Sunghoon drops a laughing emoji.

The camera doesn't move. It stays on your face for a few precious seconds, just long enough for Jay to memorize every blink and breath of yours. You're still smiling faintly, flushed but unbothered, hair messy around your shoulders, gaze fixed sweetly on the lens when Heeseung’s voice comes again, "Lay back and spread your legs for me, baby."

There isn’t a thought behind your eyes when you do as Heeseung said, there’s also no shyness this time. You shift your weight delicately on your elbows, then lean back slightly on both of them. There's no rush or performance to your movements, it’s just you obeying Heeseung.

Your knees fall apart in the frame and the camera dips lower, Jay can’t even stop the “Fuck.” that comes out of the mouth if he tried.

You're glistening, and it’s impossible for Jay not to stare. It’s not from oil or sweat, but from slick, real arousal, dripping down your folds and shining under the bedroom light. Heeseung says something approving but Jay barely hears it over his blood pounding in his ears.

Your body looks so soft spread open and the image burns into Jay's skull.

He knows now, without a doubt, that this isn't the first take. That Heeseung has probably filmed you like this before, many times, cause you’ve let him and you’ve liked it.

Jay thinks God must be on his side when the third video drops in the group chat and he doesn’t even give himself time to think before pressing play.

"Do you want to touch yourself for me, baby?" Heeseung’s voice starts off the video.

You dip your head, lips parting in a little whine that makes Jay's cock twitch in his pajama pants. The camera captures the barest quiver of your shoulders before your hand hesitantly lifts toward your pussy.

But you don't go through with it. Instead, you drop your hand and arch your back, voice soft with need, "No...I want you to do it."

Heeseung chuckles, that deliciously smug sound Jay's heard too many times before, "Brat."

He swings the camera around just enough to catch your flushed face before turning it to himself for a second to look straight into the lens, "This is how she whines for me all the time, boys."

Jay watches as Heeseung props the camera up on the nightstand, angling it so perfectly that all Jay or anyone watching can see is how wet you are for your fiancee. You're laid out so prettily on the bed, back arched a little with your arms at your sides like. Heeseung's between your thighs again, but this time, he's taking his time.

"Relax, baby," he say loud enough for the camera to catch as he spreads your legs further by your knees. "You know I got you, right?"

You nod, breathless, eyes fluttering open for only a second before you close them again.

Jay watches your thighs shake as Heeseung's fingers stroke through your folds gently, coated in the wetness he's already drawn from you. Then he leans in and presses a kiss right above your clit, murmuring against your skin, "So pretty down here."

Jay swallows.

Heeseung's fingers begin to circle your entrance, teasing you with light pressure before slowly sliding two inside. You moan instantly and your hips shift up, your thighs already trying to close. Heeseung tuts softly. "Ah ah," he says. "Don’t do that, baby."

When you try again, when your hips shift and your hands scramble at the sheets like you can pull yourself away from the overwhelming pleasure, Heeseung laughs something quiet and amused and filled to the brim with the kind of easy confidence that only deepens Jay's gnawing resentment.

"You know better," Heeseung says warmly as his free hand presses your stomach down. "Let me take care of you."

Jay can't stop watching.

Your body melts under his words, under his touch. Heeseung curls his fingers just right and your moan breaks halfway into a gasp. Your hands fly to your face, but Heeseung coaxes them down, holding your wrist gently.

"No hiding. Don’t you wanna show them what you look like when you cum for me?"

You whimper his name, and he just shushes you, planting soft kisses on your thighs, thumb circling your clit slow and steady as his fingers pump deeper in your cunt.

"Good girl," he breathes. "My perfect girl. You take me so well, don't you?"

Jay's heart nearly stops beating. There’s just something about the way Heeseung loves you through it, he praises every reaction, he touches you like he's grateful for the chance to be in your presence.

Jay has never seen anyone look at another person that way before.

Heeseung leans down, lips brushing your inner thigh, and you're already shaking again. Your voice trembles with your words, "Hee, please", and Jay watches you dissolve all over again as Heeseung takes his time kissing lower, deeper, until his mouth replaces his fingers and your hands are gripping the sheets, trying to hold on.

The sound you make when he moans into you is so raw and Heeseung just holds you open, ignoring the way you try to squirm away. "I said no running," he says with a smile on his lips slick with your essence. "Be good. Let me have it."

Jay sees it all.

The way your legs tremble, your stomach tenses. The wetness that catches the light. The desperate, overwhelming pleasure that ripples through you until you're crying out, again, maybe for the third time, but Jay's lost count by now.

You're not even fully conscious of the camera anymore. You're no longer putting on a show.

This is real, that’s what wrecks Jay the most and he feels it before he can even realize it. That slow, aching throb in his pants. The way his traitorous hand curls near his thigh like it might move on its own. He shifts on the edge of his bed, heart pounding too loud for how quiet the room still is.

The screen hasn't gone dark yet cause the video loops back to the start after it ends. Heeseung's voice smooth, "Relax, baby."

Fuck.

He blinks, like maybe that'll clear his head, but all it does is make him more aware of how tight his pants are now. How warm his body is with familiar tension and how absolutely wrong it feels right now.

Because he knows Jake and Sunghoon are definitely not reacting like this.

They’d been normal and casual about it, the way guys are when they're impressed by one of their friends pulling something off.

They'd moved on by now, or were probably still joking around about how extra Heeseung was for sending three different videos. Jay hadn't even replied, in fact he couldn't. His phone is still in his hand with the soft glow of the screen painting his face and inside him, something is beginning to unravel. He should’ve swiped away after the first one, he shouldn’t hav estates at how easily you fell apart beneath Heeseung's hands and he shouldn't be feeling this way.

You're his best friend's fiancée.

His perfect girl.

His stomach twists again, because he knows this isn't what friends do and this isn't what normal feels like. It's something else, Jay doesn't know how to name it, all he knows is that it burns.

Jay can still feel the phantom vibration of the phone in his palm long after the screen finally dims, as if the video is calling him back for one more replay.

But eight viewings have already blurred together and a ninth won't clarify anything.

He sits in the dark, listening to the tick of the wall clock and the too-loud beat of his own pulse. Guilt sours the aftertaste of all the arousal. The last thing burned into his brain isn't even your body, it's the total trust in your eyes when you whispered "want you to do it" and the way let Heeseung's mouth pull such broken sounds from your throat.

A sound Jay has filed away under dangerous.

He showers cold, changes his sheets, tells himself it was a lapse and not a habit. Except he can still conjure the smell of your skin, maybe sun warmed cotton and lotion, like it's embedded in memory oil, maybe that’s what makes him save the very last video to his camera roll. By dawn he hasn't slept, but he's decided on two rules for when he wakes up. 1. Delete the video. and 2. Act normal.

Normal lasts exactly fourteen hours, all because Heeseung texted the group at 4 o'clock with—drinks at mine after work, bring whoever. Jay wants to beg off, say it's exhaustion, but habit is stronger. Five hours later, the elevator doors slide open on the fortieth floor, and the first thing he hears is your laugh echoing down the corridor.

He isn't prepared to be this close to you after last night.

You're barefoot in Heeseung's kitchen, hair twisted up, an oversized linen shirt buttoned only halfway, clearly Heeseung’s judging by the length. You're stirring something in a copper pot, while Heeseung circles behind you trying to snake a hand under the hem. You swat him on reflex, cheeks warm but smiling, "I'm cooking, behave."

Jay freezes in the entryway, he feels every pulse of blood in his body migrate south before ricocheting back to his throat. He does not need you three feet away after touching himself to the sight of you less than twenty four hours ago.

Heeseung spots him first, grins. "About time. Grab a glass."

Jay manages to nod, but then you turn and your smile is easy. "Rough day at the office?" you ask, and the casual concern in your voice makes the earlier images throb sharper in his skull. He mutters something about a report, keeps his eyes on the cutting board, not your legs.

Heeseung tries again, palm sliding beneath the tail of your shirt, fingers splaying over your hip. You hiss a breathy laugh and flick a wooden spoon across his wrist. "Hot stove, greedy hands. Later."

Jay notes the word later, thinking of how you'd begged for those greedy hands last night on camera. Tonight you're coy, blushing. Why? For whose benefit?

Jake's voice erupts from the living room before Jay can unravel it.

"Oh—Jay you’re here."

Jay glances over to the dining table and blinks. Jake is already sat on one of the chairs, some girl perched sideways across his lap, long legs draped like she's posing for a photo shoot. Jay doesn't even recognize her, but laughs at something Jake whispers and tips tequila into shot glasses lined on the coffee table so they must be familiar.

Just another new name Jay won't remember tomorrow. Sunghoon comes around the corner with lime wedges, offers Jay a silent chin nod that says welcome. Jay pours himself bourbon he doesn't want and slips onto a chair, throat dry even with the ice in his glass.

You slide a steaming serving pan of pasta to the center of the dining table and gesture for plates. For one disorienting second Jay imagines you sliding to your back instead, the way you did last night on his screen, shy smile aimed at him. He drags in air, blinks hard multiple times and forces the thought away.

Heeseung loops an arm around your waist, tugging you against him while you standing dishing food. His hand skims under the shirt again, fingertips teasing up your ribs, thumb brushing just under your breast, nothing crazy, but intimate enough that Jay's stomach knots. You elbow Heeseung with a laugh, still plating the food, whispering something Jay can't hear but guesses is not in for his ears.

He wonders when you started policing modesty. He wonders if Jake's girl will care when she sees the videos inevitably make the group chat. Mostly, he wonders what you would do or say if you knew exactly how many times he replayed the part where you were cumming on Heeseung's tongue.

The bourbon now tastes like punishment but he takes another sip anyway, eyes fixed on the slow glide of Heeseung's hand beneath your shirt, and tries and fails not to imagine it as his own. He focuses his eyes on your pasta at the center of the table—some creamy, lemony thing with herbs Jay can't name. Heeseung fills your plate before serving himself, and without pause or ceremony, he tugs you into his lap like instinct.

Jay watches how fluid the motion is. How your body curves into Heeseung's chest without missing a beat of your sentence. You're deep in conversation with Jake's girl, diagonally across the table, something about an art exhibition downtown. The two of you click instantly, or maybe you’re already friends? Jay can’t tell and he still doesn't know her name.

She's got one leg slung over Jake's thigh now, balancing a fork between her fingers as she talks, Jake doesn't seem to mind though. He's busy dragging the back of his knuckles up and down her bare thigh, more focused on the rhythm of that touch than the dinner in front of him.

Jay stabs a piece of pasta, chews slowly, forces himself not to look at the way Heeseung's fingers drift idly along the inside of your thigh beneath the table, and the table conversation rolls forward without him, ambient and mostly tuned out, until Heeseung's voice cuts in, full of smug warmth. "Jay should find someone, too. You're too picky, man. You ever think about letting her set you up again?" He thumbs toward you like it's obvious.

Jay doesn't have time to answer cause Sunghoon snorts beside him, tossing back his drink. "Not everyone finds love in nine months, bro. Some of us are still recovering."

Jay smirks into his glass as Heeseung waves him off. "Okay, okay, tragic, whatever. I'm serious though." He looks back at Jay. "You want her to introduce you to someone? Like she did with Jake and...what's her name again?" He whispers the last part but she hears anyway.

The girl across the table lifts her head lazily. "Sofi."

Sofi—Jay commits it to memory, tasting it more than the pasta he’s trying to chew.

"I didn't set them up," you say lightly, twisting noodles onto your fork, "I just invited her to a party. The rest is on them."

Sofi grins and tilts her head toward Jake. "We're just fucking anyway."

Jay nearly chokes on his drink at the way Jake's head swivels. "We are?"

There's a beat of stunned silence before Sofi shrugs as if she didn't just drop a weight on the conversation. "Aren't we?"

Jay watches Jake blink. For once, the easy charm slips a little. "I mean...yeah, but I thought—"

Sofi's already sipping her drink, completely unbothered. "Don't think too hard. It's fun. That's all."

The air shifts slightly with a ripple of something unspoken moving across the table.

Heeseung laughs first, a short and amused sound,. "Damn. Brutal."

You nudge him with your elbow, but you're smiling too. "Be nice."

Jay looks at you again, really looks this time. You're cross legged in Heeseung's lap, one hand steady on your wine glass, the other tucked into his loose grip on your thigh. Your collarbones peek out from beneath the draped shirt, your hair is curling near your neck from the heat of the kitchen, and your laugh is the softest thing in the room.

He doesn't know how you're real and he really doesn't know how the hell Heeseung got you. But he's starting to realize that maybe the part that scares him the most is that he doesn't even resent Heeseung for it—hejust wishes he could be him.

He tears his gaze away from you and lingers it on the rim of his liquor glass, swirling the last sip as the conversation hums around him laced with laughter. He watches Heeseung press a kiss to your temple, murmuring something that makes your eyes crinkle at the corners. Whatever it is that he said softens you and as if in reflex, he sees it soften Heeseung too.

Seeing a softer side to Heeseung has Jay remembering all the times he used to punch walls before he ever paused to breathe. The nights they'd get kicked out of bars because Heeseung couldn't keep his mouth shut and didn't care to try. Jay had watched his best friend throw fists over the dumbest shit.

Heeseung was the kind of guy who used to boil, walking around with a lit fuse, daring the world to light it, and then you walked into his life with eyes that didn't need to demand attention to own the room.

You never even tried to change Heeseung, maybe that’s what made it worse or real.

Jay remembers the first time he witnessed it. You and Heeseung had been fighting over some miscommunication. Jay had braced for the usual raised voice and harsh words that always followed with a clipped "you're overreacting" that came before the fallout between Heeseung and a girl.

But it never came. You'd just looked at Heeseung, not even with disappointment, but patience. And then you'd said his name so gently Jay thought it might break something. Imagine Jay’s stunned reaction when Heeseung actually stopped, took a breath and apologized.

Just like that.

Jay had stood frozen in the kitchen doorway, pretending to look at his phone, witnessing his best friend soften in real time, right in front of his eyes. And it wasn't a one off, like something Heeseung was faking to keep you happy. A pattern was forming, as if your presence just rewired him, as if being loved by you taught him a new language he never knew he needed to learn. These days, Heeseung was still sharp, still clever, but there’s no edge to him anymore, no spark waiting to blow.

Jay sets the glass down a little too quietly.

It's not just that Heeseung changed. It's why.

He changed because of you. For you, and he doesn’t even seem to resent it, on the contrary he looks grateful.

Jay shifts in his seat, suddenly too warm, his shirt clinging at the collar. He looks over at you again and you’re laughing softly now, your fingers absently combing through Heeseung's hair.

Jay can't stop himself from wondering—if you were his...would he be better too? Would you make him softer too? But he can’t let the thoughts dance around for too long cause the girl who changed everything will never be his. Regardless of how many years Jay had spent tailing Heeseung’s flame, talking him down from ledges, cleaning up his messes and covering for him when Heeseung couldn't even be bothered to lie to his parents.

There had been some kind of pride in it back then. In being the one person who could calm Heeseung down, being the only one he really listened to.

Now?

Jay watches from across the dinner table as Heeseung splays his palm across your stomach and says something low against your shoulder, soft as a secret. You don't flinch when he touches you or stiffen to look for permission. You just lean in like gravity's been pulling you there the whole time.

It's surreal to watch, because this version of Heeseung? Jay can’t recognize him. This man who doesn't need to dominate every room he walks into. Who laughs without sounding like he's sneering. Who lets someone else, that’s not Jay, see every unguarded part of him without putting up a fight.

And it's not performative cause Jay's watched him closely, maybe too closely. It's not an act to impress you or win points, Heeseung just genuinely wants to be better.

Jay remembers the first and only time he tried to joke about it, telling Heeseung he had gone soft. It was just the two of them at a bar, and Heeseung had laughed, sure, but then he'd looked down at his glass and gone quiet, a rare, thoughtful kind of quiet Jay never used to see from him. And he'd said, "I'm not soft. I just don't feel like fighting anymore. Not when I've got her to come home to."

The weight of it had stuck with Jay.

Heeseung wasn't scared of losing control anymore because you were the one holding the other end of the leash and he’d given it to you willingly.

Jay's throat tightens as he cuts into his pasta. He tells himself he's not thinking about the way you reached for Heeseung's fork earlier, like it belonged to you. He's not thinking about how Heeseung gave it up without a word and picked up yours instead, like it was so natural. He's definitely not thinking about the video still sitting in his camera roll and how different Heeseung had sounded in that too. The praise, the patience, the fucking adoration in his voice cause to him you were and are something so divine.

Jay thought he knew Heeseung better than anyone, cause he'd seen every shade of him—every explosion, every silence, every dark corner.

But he hadn't seen this not until you and for Jay, that might be the hardest part to stomach. That the best version of his best friend, the one with warmth and devotion and depth, was shaped entirely by your hands.

Jay thinks back to Heeseung's first mention of you and how it had sounded like a dare.

It was a Tuesday last year, the four of them jammed into a booth after work. He'd walked in thirty minutes late, loosened his tie, and dropped into the seat across from Sunghoon with that particular look in his eye, the look that meant he'd found a new game to win.

"Met a girl in the lobby of 74 Davies," he said, drumming restless fingers on the varnished table. "Client meeting, she was there with some architecture firm. Tall, smart, absolute fucking knockout. Biggest eyes I've ever seen."

Jake whistled and Sunghoon muttered something about Heeseung's never ending type, but Heeseung wasn't joking, he was intent and energized in a way Jay hadn't seen since college.

"She's playing hard to get," he went on, smiling at the memory. "Barely even looked at me. Gave me her card like she was doing fucking paperwork." He'd tapped the business card against his phone screen all night, repeating your name until it lodged in Jay's head like a tumor.

For weeks, every casual meet up bled into talk of the girl from 74 Davies. Heeseung reported every encounter, because of course he kept going back there. He went on and on about you, how you kept conversation civil but short, how once you'd laughed at something he said and then immediately caught yourself, lips pressing shut like you'd given away a secret.

"The most beautiful woman I've ever laid my eyes on," he'd insisted, serious as scripture. "I'm getting her. Watch me."

And true to his word, he did.

Two months later you strolled into Jake’s family’s backyard wearing a white sundress and an easy smile, greeting the boys like you'd known them in a different life. Jay remembered how suddenly the sky had felt too low, how the lanterns overhead seemed to snap into sharper focus with you standing beneath them.

From that night forward Heeseung's orbit shifted. He started leaving the office on time, cut his weekend parties in half, swapped whiskey for sparkling water when you had early meetings. He didn't boast about bonuses anymore, he calculated them quietly, like numbers in a private equation titled Her Future.

Jay saw the signs in the way Heeseung suddenly took certification courses he'd mocked before, started saying things like "equity split" and "portfolio diversity." All for you. So he could, as he'd phrased it once over late night ramen, "give her everything before she even thinks to ask."

And he had, the princess cut diamond glinting on your finger was evidence, a physical sum of every hour Heeseung spends working.

When Jay finally manages to come back from this thoughts the table has settled into warm hums of conversation with pasta bowls scraped clean. The city lights spill in from the floor to ceiling windows, scattering reflections across the glasses.

"I'm serious," Heeseung is saying, gentler than the words might suggest. "I don't want you running site visits once we're married. Too many all nighters, too many flights."

You pout fondly. "I love my job."

"I love you more," he counters, kissing your. "I'll work twice as hard so you don't have to."

Jay watches the soft debate unfold, there’s no venom, just that subtle push and pull that has defined you two since day one. You tease him about being a control freak, he teases you about being a workaholic, but beneath it is the unwavering certainty that either of you would bend the whole world if the other asked.

Jay wonders what that certainty feels like, wonders what it does to a man's pulse, to know someone's heart beats willingly in his hands. He wonders if that's why Heeseung's temper dissolved, maybe because anger is pointless when the thing you once fought everything for is suddenly offered to you, every day, for free.

"Tell him, Jay," you say, turning toward him, eyes bright. "Work is where I get all my good stories. I'd be boring without it."

Jay swallows, as your gaze pins him, friendly, oblivious to the reel of images playing behind his eyes—the way your body trembled under Heeseung's fingers last night, the soft gasp you made when you tried to scoot away and he laughed at you.

He clears his throat. "She'd die of cabin fever," he manages, voice almost steady. "You'd miss her stories."

Heeseung sighs with feigned resignation, nose brushing your hair. "Fine. We compromise. No red eye flights. And you start delegating."

You grin, triumphant. He kisses you again, a promise sealed.

Jay looks down at the ring, at the way it catches the chandelier light in sparks. It's a clean perfect circle, reflecting everything back. He wonders if there's a single inch of space for anyone else in that ring's reflection, or if it's all Heeseung, all the time.

Probably the latter.

He sets his empty glass aside, forces a smile when Sofi asks if he wants another round. In the laughter and low music and clink of cutlery, he sits with one more private truth, Heeseung didn't just find the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, he found the one thing that could quiet the noise in him, and now Jay has to live in the glow of that quiet, wanting a warmth that was never lit for him.

The conversation loops back around before Jay even realizes your voice is calling him back into the group.

"Jay," you say, leaning forward in Heeseung's lap to face him, balancing your glass in one hand. "I could actually set you up again, you know?"

He looks up, blinking. "What?"

"You said you were open to dating," you remind him with a tentative little smile, the kind that makes his throat tighten. "I actually have a friend I think you'd get along with. She's really pretty. Your type, I think."

He smiles, but it's hollow. You don't even know my type. He thinks

But yet you look so eager, like you’re so sure you're doing something good and Jay can't bring himself to say anything dismissive. You don't deserve that, not when you're gazing at him like you're trying to puzzle him out with soft eyes and the best intentions.

But something shifts in your expression, almost a frown. "Unless..." You hesitate. "Are you into guys?"

Jay nearly chokes. "What?"

Heeseung bursts out laughing behind you, arms tightening around your waist as he leans in to nuzzle your back. "Baby. You're so bad at this."

"I'm not bad at it," you say defensively, cheeks warm as you glare at him. "I just—he's so reserved, and he never brings anyone around, so I didn't want to assume—"

Jay waves a hand, managing a weak chuckle. "No. I'm not into guys."

You nod quickly, still a little embarrassed. "Okay. I just wanted to be sure."

Heeseung grins like he's enjoying every second of this. "Just bring the girl," he says to you, brushing a thumb over your jaw. "Jay can thank us after Sunghoon's promotion party tomorrow. Or tell us she's terrible and traumatized him forever."

You roll your eyes, but your smile returns, softer now. "You'll like her, Jay. She's sweet."

Jay nods but inside, there’s a low burn. You say "sweet" like that's something he wants, like that should be enough.

He wonders if you'd still say that if you knew how hard he’d came unto his own hand, watching the softness bleed out of you under Heeseung's mouth, how many times he hit replay just to catch the moment you gasped and twisted away only for Heeseung to catch you by the thighs.

You call that sweet, you even call that love and now you want to match him with some half baked idea of what you think his heart beats for?

He nods again, mechanically. "Sure. Bring her."

His pasta has gone cold now but he hadn't even noticed when he stopped eating.

The little get together ends the way most do in Heeseung's world, with golden lights, a dozen empty glasses lining the counter, and everyone pretending they aren't tired as they make their way towards the elevator. Jay stands by the door, slipping his shoes on slowly while you hug Sofi goodbye, murmuring something about texting her later. Sunghoon's got a lazy grin on his face, buzzed off the celebration and the compliments still echoing from his promotion.

Jake's halfway into a joke about driving home shirtless when Heeseung waves them all off, already pulling you back by the waist.

"Drive safe," you call after them, still breathless from laughter. Heeseung's mouth is on your neck the moment the door clicks shut. "Seung—wait—"

"You're so pretty when you're drunk," he mumbles, fingers sliding under your shirt, already tugging it up over your stomach. "Come to bed."

"I'm not even tipsy," you laugh, batting at his hands with the dish towel. You move toward the kitchen and he follows like a shadow.

Jay watches all of it while pretending to be checking his phone, jacket slung over one arm, feet rooted by the door longer than necessary. But he sees the way Heeseung backs you into the counter, arms snaking around your waist as you try to stack plates and reach for the sponge. You twist away, scolding him a little, cheeks flushed and mouth parted, while he presses his face into your neck and groans like it physically hurts not to take you to bed right then and there.

"You always do this," you say but your tone is light.

"And you always make it so hard to wait," he replies, unbuttoning your shorts anyway.

Jay leaves just before the shirt comes off or he hears too much, but he hears enough. Enough to know Heeseung got his way, with the faint sound of your laugh following him into the elevator. Something about "Let me finish the dishes first, please," and "You're such a brat when you drink," and Heeseung's dramatic hum echoing through the penthouse like this was the thousandth time he'd won this battle.

Jay stars straight ahead in the elevator mirror, jaw tight, fists clenched in his pockets, trying not to imagine how it ends after, cause he knows exactly how it ends anyway.

He leaves Heeseung's place with a headache blooming at the base of his head and the taste of something bitter sitting on the back of his tongue. The night hadn't even ended badly, everyone had laughed, teased, ate and drank, but something about it left him unsettled. He wants to blame the wine, or maybe the way Heeseung couldn't keep his hands off you, or maybe just himself.

It's past midnight when he gets in his car and the roads are mostly clear, with the city winding down as he begins the slow thirty minute drive back to his parents house.

Halfway across the bridge, his phone buzzes against the middle console, with a message in the group chat from Jake. A four minute long video, Jay taps it open at a red light without thinking.

The camera is a little shaky, propped up against what looks like a bunched up comforter, but it's clear enough—Jake is behind Sofi, fucking her hard enough to rattle the bed frame. Her face is buried in the mattress and held there by his hand, her muffled moans catching on every other breath. One hand grips her waist tight, dragging her back against him with every snap of his hips.

Jay watches for maybe twenty seconds before locking his phone, not because it's uncomfortable. It’s just hollow, empty even. Like he's expecting to feel something close to mild curiosity, but instead, there's nothing. Just static behind his eyes and the thought that maybe Jake's still mad about earlier, about Sofi casually dismissing whatever they were. Just fucking.

But Jay doesn't feel a thing, it’s not like when he watched your video. That had carved something raw and aching in his chest, made it hard for him to breathe.

This?

He tucks his phone down beside him and keeps driving, headlights catching the lines of the road while a new weight settles heavy in his chest. Not even porn from his friend can distract him anymore, especially when it's not you.

The rooftop bar is humming.

Warm lights hang from stringed bulbs like captured fireflies, stretched in rows between potted trees. There's champagne fizzing in every flute and a slow playlist curling around the sound of laughter and congratulations towards Sunghoon. The skyline glimmers behind him like it's clapping for him too.

Jay leans on the far side of the bar, jaw tight around the edge of a glass he hasn't sipped from in a while. His blazer's too warm for the weather, but he doesn't shrug it off. He's scanning the crowd, quietly, the way he always does, looking for you but trying not to.

The girl you tried to set him up with—Raye, is sitting just two stools down, legs crossed and laughing a little too loud at something Jake said. Her dress is bright, electric blue, blinding under the soft fairy lights. And her voice is high, cutting through the music every few seconds, like she doesn't understand the tone of the room should be soft and easy.

Jay stifles a sigh and looks away.

You'd been so excited about it yesterday but now Jay is definitely sure you don’t know him at all or his type. Raye is objectively pretty, sure, but not in the way that pulls something out of him, or in the way you are, with your low voice and thoughtful silences. There's nothing quiet about Raye. Not the way she talks, not the way she dresses, not the way she kept brushing her hand over his arm like they've known each other longer than the hour it's been.

He wonders what that means. What you think of him. That this—this—was your idea of someone he'd want.

Does he come off that simple? That obvious? Or worse, do you see him as someone who'd take whatever's handed to him and be grateful for it?

Heeseung appears with you a moment later, crown of hair tousled from the wind, arm slung casually around your shoulders as you two weave through the crowd toward the bar. He kisses your temple and hands you a drink Jay watched him taste himself before you break away from him and loop toward Raye, cheerfully asking if she's met enough people and if she's enjoying herself; she nods with a smile so wide it feels almost rehearsed, and when you glance toward Jay like you're trying to read his expression, he gives a small, polite nod.

You beam like that means it's going well, and Jay, as always says nothing. watching you break away from Raye just long enough to slide up beside him, your drink in hand, smiling like the evening is going exactly the way you planned.

"She's cute, right?" you ask, nudging your elbow gently into his arm. "What do you think of her?"

Jay glances at you from the corner of his eye, you're standing so close he can smell the faint trace of something sweet on your skin, maybe vanilla or whatever lotion you use that somehow always lingers longer than it needs to.

"She's...pretty," he says, cautious.

Your face lights up immediately. "You should ask her out," you say, already turning your head like you're about to call her back over. "I told you she's your type."

He opens his mouth. "Yeah, but—"

You don't wait, already talking again, a little animated but bright with excitement like this is your crush. "She said she's free next Friday. You should just do it, Jay. She'll love you."

And what's crazy about it is how much he actually wants to do it. Not because he likes Raye, he doesn’t. He doesn’t find her a tad bit appealing or even any of the generic compliments people throw around when they're not sure how to be honest. He wants to do it because you said it.

You, with your hand resting lightly on his arm and your eyes wide, hopeful. You, who he can’t seem to fathom saying the word no to, not when you’re asking him like this with that voice, that tone that sounds like you already believe in him.

It pulls something out of him he doesn't even want to acknowledge, but it’s like a bend in his spine or more like a quiet part of him that perks up whenever you're around, willing to do whatever it takes to stay in your good graces. Whatever you ask.

He wonders fleeting and bitterly if this is how it works on Heeseung too. Is that how you got him to change? All the violence and chaos in that man, soothed down to quiet kisses on your knuckles and a whole penthouse that practically has your name carved into its furniture? You asked and Heeseung listened? Changed?

Jay wonders what he might change for you, if you ever asked. Probably everything.

Jay sips his drink slowly, eyes wandering over your frame as you walk away back to your man, his ears catch onto the laughter that floats up from a group nearby. Raye’s somewhere in that crowd now, bright dress swaying, voice too loud with hands that move too fast. She's laughing at something Sunghoon said. Or maybe Jake. He can't really tell.

His thoughts drift back to you.He wonders, in the quiet space behind his ribcage, what kind of man he might've been if he'd met you first.

Not the jealous friend lingering on the outskirts of a love story that's already been written. Not the guy Heeseung trusted enough to show off your body in a flickering video, moaning his name. Not the second place finisher in a race he didn't even realize he was running.

But maybe someone better, someone you could've seen.

He thinks about the way you speak to people, all calm and soft. Even when Heeseung's being a cocky bastard or when Jake's being a menace, you keep your tone light, your energy collected, and somehow everyone falls in line around you without even realizing it. Your softness doesn't shrink you, instead it centers you and centers the people around you.

Jay imagines you talking him down from a bad day at work, he imagines your hands smoothing over his shoulders, your voice in his ear, quiet and sure, telling him it's okay, that he doesn't have to prove anything to anyone because he's already enough.

He's never had that, not really. He thinks about what it would feel like to want to be better for someone. Not for your praise, but just because being better meant being worthy of someone like you.

You could make him show up on time, make him less angry, less reactive. You'd ask him how his day was and he'd want to answer. You'd press a kiss to his cheek and he'd start looking at real estate listings he can't afford. You'd tell him you're proud of him and he'd believe it, really believe it, maybe for the first time in his life.

He could see it—a different version of himself, in your world.

Jay clenches his jaw and lifts his glass again, this time draining it.

You're back with Heeseung, resting your hand on his chest as he whispers something in your ear. You tilt your head and smile and Jay has to force himself to look away.

He doesn't need you to make eye contact with him right now, he fears you’ll see just how badly he wishes he were someone else.

Heeseung drapes himself around you like he's forgotten there's anyone else on the rooftop. His arm slides around your waist, his nose dips into the curve of your neck, and he presses a lazy kiss just beneath your jaw, possessive.

You're in middle of your sentence about the playlist Sunghoon put together, and you barely get the words out because Heeseung's mouth finds your cheek again, then your temple, then down toward your shoulder, like he doesn't care that you're trying to hold a conversation.

Jay walks over watching you shift, laughing under your breath and trying to swat Heeseung’s hands off without drawing too much attention. "Hee, stop, I'm talking—"

"I missed you," he mumbles, even though you've only been across the rooftop for ten minutes. His voice is sticky with affection and tequila. "Just one shot with me, baby. Come on."

"I already told you no." You smile at him but there's a gentle warning behind it. "I'm driving us home."

Heeseung groans dramatically, head falling back for half a second before he drops another kiss to your shoulder. "Then one for me," he says, reaching for a nearby tray, and that's when Jay steps in.

"I'll take it with you," Jay offers quickly, voice level.

Heeseung perks up, surprised and instantly grinning, like he hadn't even realized Jay was standing there at all. "Bro, now we're talking."

He grabs a second shot glass and slams both on the table beside them. You shake your head, amused but already sliding your arm out from Heeseung's hold to tidy the glasses he's scattered.

Jay takes the shot in one quick throwback, eyes not on the drink, not even on Heeseung, his eyes are on you but yours are on Heeseung, watching him with affection even when you're exasperated by him. Even when he's being clingy and tipsy and pulling you into his chest again like he can't stand to be without you for five fucking minutes.

Jay places the empty glass back on the table and clears his throat. The vodka burns on the way down, but it’s not half as bad as watching Heeseung press his lips to yours and mumble something against them that makes you bite your lip to stifle a laugh.

Jay can’t continue to stand this, maybe that’s why one shot turns into two. Then three. Then four.

Jay doesn't even realize how deep he's in until the sixth one is already sliding down his throat and Heeseung's laughing too loud, arm thrown around his shoulder like they're still eighteen and crashing people’s dorm parties. His breath smells like lime and tequila, and his words are starting to slur at the edges.

You stepped away toward the bar seven minutes ago, Jay’s drunk mind counted, you’re talking to Sunghoon's colleague about something he can’t make out but your voice lilting in laughter, eyes squinting in that way Jay has come to recognize when you're actually enjoying yourself.

Heeseung leans in, nudging Jay. "She's fucking gorgeous, isn't she?" His voice is hoarse now, tipsy and a little too honest. "I tell her every day. Think it annoys her."

Jay forces a smile, focusing hard on a water glass he doesn't remember grabbing. "Doesn't seem like she minds."

"She doesn't," Heeseung hums. "She likes it. She likes everything I do."

Jay takes another sip of water, but it doesn't help. His mind is fogged over, his skin a little too warm, his chest twisting cause he’s never seen Heeseung like this before you. Drunk or not, there's this tenderness that surrounds him now, so casually, like affection is second nature instead of something he has to be taught.

And Jay doesn't know if it's the alcohol or the months of watching the two of you, but something very bitter starts to rise in his chest. It's hard not to feel like he's living in the space between your smiles, waiting for scraps of attention. Watching Heeseung kiss you like he's starved, watching you take care of him like he's the only man in the room.

Heeseung taps the rim of his empty shot glass against Jay's with a lazy grin. "We should double date again. That thing we did last month? Remember?"

That was barely a double date, Jay remembers.

He also remembers how he got stuck entertaining the girl you'd set him up with while you and Heeseung spent half the night sneaking off to kiss in corners like you'd just met. He remembers how she wouldn't stop talking about her followers and her nail tech, and how all he could think about was how you were friends with someone like this.

Heeseung slaps his back, harder than necessary. "Don't look so tense. You need to get laid, man."

Jay scoffs lightly. "Working on it."

Heeseung leans in close again, mouth near Jay's ear now, eyes still on you across the bar. "Not like that. I mean laid the right way. The kind that fucks you up a little. The kind that makes you soft."

Jay swallows hard, gaze trailing after you despite himself.

The way you're standing now, you’re tilted a bit forward in those heels and that soft silky dress hugging your waist—Jay wonders what it must be like to be touched by you when you mean it. When it's not through a screen, or behind closed doors, or in a video he's watched more times than he'll ever admit.

The party starts to thin out.

It happens slowly, like the fizz dying from a glass of soda. The rooftop's breeze turns a little cooler. And still, Jay drinks.

His drink is sweating in his hand, and he's not even sure what's in it anymore. Tequila again? Something with citrus. Maybe gin, it doesn't matter. Heeseung's disappeared into some group of Sunghoon’s coworkers now, he’s shoulder to shoulder with Sunghoon now.

Jay watches him laugh too big, gesture too wide, nearly spill his drink all over someone's shoes and Jay finds himself smiling, because even now, Heeseung is so effortlessly charming. Even wasted.

But Jay doesn't feel like himself tonight and he hasn’t since the fourth shot.

Not since he caught himself staring at your necklace—at the way the little diamond settled right between your collarbones, gleaming soft and subtle like it belonged there. Not since you tucked your hair behind your ear and asked if he liked Yeseo. Not since he called her pretty, and you lit up like he'd just made your night.

Now you're standing alone by the railing, arms crossed against the chill, your phone lighting up in your hand. You tilt your head and glance back at the rooftop like you're looking for someone. Probably Heeseung.

Jay finishes what's left in his glass and sets it down too hard on the nearest table.

He doesn't ever do this, drink this much, or linger past the point of politeness, fantasizing about people he's not supposed to.

But tonight he feels too off, as if some switch has been flipped and there's no one sober inside him to turn it back.

He stays seated, but his eyes are on you again. You're looking at your phone again, replying to a text with your lip caught between your teeth. Then you smile and walk across the rooftop to Heeseung, who’s sat at another table now and looking too sober considering he’s drank more than Jay, probably even more.

Heeseung, as usual, pulls you into his lap. Your thighs go snug against his, arms draped over his shoulders, and Heeseung's got one arm cinched tight around your waist, the other vanishing slowly beneath the hem of your dress.

Jay looks away, or at least he tries to, he really does.

But it's like watching something too obscene and too beautiful to turn from. Like a painting you don't fully understand but know you're not supposed to stare at this long.

You giggle softly, almost trying to stifle it. And that sound is what does it. It's light, airy, a little shaky, and Jay recognizes it for what it is.

You're moaning.

And whatever Heeseung is doing under that dress that's making you squirm in the tiniest, most devastating ways is causing it.

Jay pours more of whatever is in the abandoned bottle on the table into his cup and swallows without even tasting it.

If he weren't drunk, he'd probably be embarrassed for still watching out of the corner of his eye as Heeseung mouths at your jaw and you whisper something into his ear. If he weren't drunk, he'd probably get up and walk to the bathroom or anywhere that didn't have this view in front of him.

But he is drunk, too deep into it now, getting stupid and slipping. Jake and Sunghoon joins his table and make fun of him a little, he laughs too loud at something no one said, knocks over an empty glass and leans in too close to Sunghoon next to him and mumbles something with no direction. Sloppy and entire out of character.

His face is flushed, throat hot, and his head's somewhere it shouldn't be. Somewhere between your sighs, and the soft movement of Heeseung's fingers, and the way your eyes flutter shut like you're trying to stay present but can't.

Jay takes another drink, convincing himself he’s not jealous, that he’s just tired and that when he wakes up tomorrow, he won't remember any of this.

He tells himself it's not anything cause he's just looking at the skyline, at the empty glasses on the table, at the soft gleam of the rooftop lights reflected in your jewelry. But his eyes keep dragging back to you, back to where you're squirming so slightly in Heeseung's lap that no one else seems to notice, and if they do notice they don’t seem to care.

Except him, maybe he even care too much. He wants to look somewhere else but that’s when he sees the change in your posture, you spine arches straighter and your body stiffens, you’re trembling a little, seeming like you’re holding onto something too big for your frame. Like maybe it could split you in half.

Jay blinks but watches how hard you bite your lip anyway.

Your fingers curl against Heeseung's shoulder, your chest lifts and then your eyes meet Heeseung's—wide and dazed. You look at him like he's just taken you apart, and Heeseung just smirks, relaxed and proud, as if this was inevitable.

Jay nearly spits out his drink. You literally cumming right there, silently with your teeth digging into the plush of your bottom lip, trembling just enough that Jay knows that Heeseung is really good at what he’s doing to you beneath the fabric of your dress. He clearly knows your body well if he can have you cumming like this within five minutes?

Jay looks around the table. Jake's leaned in too close to Sofi, saying something that makes her giggle. Jay hadn’t even noticed her all night, Sunghoon is halfway into another drink and the world is oblivious to watch just happened.

He watches Heeseung pull his fingers from under your dress, so slow and unhurried, you’d think he wasn’t on a rooftop with other people. He brings his fingers to his mouth, and Jay can see them glistening with your cum, he watches Heeseung lick them clean like a dessert plate, his eyes still locked on you.

And you just watch him, with your pupils blown, your skin flushed and your lips parted like you forgot how to breathe.

Jay looks away when his face finally starts to burn, something like nausea turns over in his gut. His pants feel too tight, and it's not just guilt—it's shame. Because whatever kind of man would sit here, drunk out of his mind, quietly watching his best friend finger his fiancee is not the kind of man he wants to be.

But God help him, if he could trade places with Heeseung? He would do it in a heartbeat.

Jay’s legs move him to stand up without his brain even agreeing, one second he's sitting there, flushed and fucked up over the sight of Heeseung's fingers slipping out from under your dress, and the next he's halfway to the bar slurring nonsense, and loudly offering a toast to something, to Sunghoon, to friendship, to your perfect tits maybe, he doesn't know.

It's like something snapped loose in him and then Jake starts laughing at him with Jay’s phone angled in his direction cause he's filming the whole thing. Jay doesn't care, he even poses and lifts his shirt, Jake jokes something about Jay finally letting loose, and Jay leans into it, tipsy and flushed, and he swears he can hear you laugh at him but he’s too far gone.

Sunghoon joins in, he usually wouldn’t but tonight he’s tossing out dry one liners and calling Jay a lightweight. He even fake narrates like he's a documentary host, "And here we see a rare, endangered Park Jongseong in his natural state—absolutely fucking wasted."

They all laugh, Jay laughs too and he’s not even sure why.

And then Jake says, "Yo—what's your password? I wanna airdrop this masterpiece to myself."

Jay blinks, sways a little on his feet, and like a complete fucking idiot mumbles the actual numbers of the passcode he never tells anyone.

Jake freezes. Then laughs again, louder this time. "No way you actually said it."

Jay grins, unaware, barely even conscious. His brain is sloshing in his skull, heart pounding like it's trying to beat out all the shame, the confusion, the whatever the fuck has been brewing in his chest since he saw that video.

The last thing he can make out is slumping onto the nearest chair, and Sunghoon's voice going quiet. Dead quiet.

And then Jake, too. Their laughter dies down all at once, like someone pressed the mute button on the show. Jay opens his eyes, just barely. The lights above blur into orbs. Shapes move in front of him—his phone, still in Jake's hand. Their faces, drawn now and no longer amused.

Sunghoon says something sharp. "What the fuck."

Jay barely even registers it.

The weight of the night finally crashes over him like a wave, and then…darkness.

Waking up to the dull thrum of sunlight coming in through the tall windows of Heeseung's penthouse should feel amazing, like it always does every other day. But today it's not cause there's a certain heaviness in your chest that keeps you from curling closer like you usually do. Most mornings, you wake up tangled in Heeseung's limbs, safe under the weight of his arm draped around your waist, the heat of his breath behind your ear, the softness in his voice when he tells you good morning. Usually, it's the best part of your day.

Today, you open your eyes and immediately feel the silence, the kind of stillness that doesn't feel peaceful, only quiet in a way that makes your skin prickle.

Heeseung is already awake.

You shift slightly, trying not to make it obvious that you're watching him. His eyes are open, fixed on the ceiling, brow furrowed. He's still holding you, but it's distant, almost automatic. His fingers don't trace your hip like they normally would. His chest doesn't rise with the same slow, steady rhythm. His jaw is tight.

You whisper his name softly, a gentle test and when he doesn't answer, your heart sinks a little more.

You can't say you don't know what's wrong with him right now cause you saw it happen in real time last night, you'd felt it, like the whole world tilted.

One moment you were laughing, snuggled into Heeseung's lap, watching Jake and Sunghoon record a messily drunk Jay for fun. You'd leaned back into Heeseung's shoulder, cheeks warm from wine and his attention, feeling light.

And then the air changed.

Jake had Jay's phone in his hand, just teasing at first, but then his laughter fell away. Sunghoon leaned over his shoulder and their grins faded. And you felt the tension tighten like a wire being pulled between them.

You didn't immediately know what was going on but when Sunghoon turned Jay's phone screen toward Heeseung and you felt his entire body go rigid beneath you. You felt the way his hand dropped from your thigh and the way the light in his eyes disappeared, replaced by something hollow and sharp.

You heard your gasp and moan come through the speaker of the phone and your eyes widened in shock, the video Heeseung had filmed of you and him was playing from Jay's phone, and it wasn't playing from the group chat, but from Jay's camera roll.

The video where you were spread out in your shared bed, moaning and whimpering from Heeseung's tongue. But it was favorited on Jay's phone.

Favorited.

You swallow, throat dry as you stare at the man you love lying beside you. You'd never seen his eyes go that cold or felt fear sitting in his lap before last night.

And even now, as the light of day fills the room, you're still scared. Not of what Heeseung will do—he's never laid a hand on you. But of what this means. What it did to him. What it's doing right now, as he lies there next to you, lost in the fallout.

You reach for him gently, fingers brushing his chest. His skin is warm under your touch, but he doesn't move or speak. The silence is the worst part.

Because if you're right, if what you saw last night was real, then Jay didn't just cross a boundary. He broke something sacred.

And Heeseung hasn't said a single word since.

You shift closer to him, your body curling around his like instinct, but it doesn't feel easy this time, it feels like pushing against a door that's slowly closing.

"Heeseung," you whisper again, your voice small in the stillness.

His eyes flick down to you this time, and you nearly wish they hadn't. There's so much in them—hurt, rage and worst of all disappointment...or shame? He looks like he's trying to swallow something jagged and it's catching on the way down.

You sit up on your elbow, searching his face for something to hold onto, maybe a ticker of softness or a sign he's still with you, but he just looks away and stares at the ceiling again.

So you try.

You kiss his chest once, twice, right over the spot where his heart beats slow and heavy. Then up his collarbone, his neck, his cheekbone. And finally, his forehead. He doesn't push you away, but he doesn't pull you in either.

"Please," you murmur, brushing your fingers against the side of his face. "Baby...talk to me."

It takes a moment, but then he quietly speaks finally.

"I love you," he says, voice hoarse. "Do you know that?"

You nod, immediately. "I know."

But the words don't comfort you the way they should. Instead, they coil around your chest like something tightening. Because you do know. You know how Heeseung loves you—with everything, in ways he never loved anything before. You've seen how it transformed him.

And still...last night.

The memory rushes in too fast and too sharp. Jay's drunk oblivious face before he passed out. Jake and Sunghoon's faces when they saw the video saved and favorited.

You should've felt violated. You should've felt angry. But you didn't.

Your breathing labors because you can't lie to yourself—not now. Not when you can still feel the aftershocks in your body, that heat simmering low in your stomach even as guilt claws at your ribs.

Because what you felt last night wasn't just shame or horror, it was arousal.

Your panties had already been damp from Heeseung fingering you in his lap. But when you realized what Jay had done, that he'd kept the video, it made you ache. Not for Jay, not even close, but for the knowledge that someone else wanted to watch you like that. See you fall apart the way only Heeseung ever has.

It's sick, it's wrong even but it's so real.

Your voice is shaky when you answer him again, softer this time, like the words might shatter on your tongue.

"I know you love me."

Heeseung finally looks at you fully now, like he's trying to read something in your expression—something true. But if he sees the guilt there, the heat behind your shame, he doesn't say it. He just stares for a long moment.

And then he asks, so quietly it nearly breaks you, "Why the fuck would he save that?"

Heeseung doesn't wait a minute for your answer, not that you even had one, he just stands abruptly, as if something inside him has snapped from stillness into momentum. One second he's lying beside you, and the next he's shirtless, barefoot, and halfway across the room, muscles tense beneath golden morning light, fury humming beneath his skin.

Your heart drops into your stomach. "Heeseung—wait," you say, scrambling off the bed, but he's already at the bedroom door.

"Wait—are you going to talk to him now?" you ask, grabbing your phone off the nightstand, hoping and praying your voice alone might ground him.

He turns to look at you, and the look in his eyes is like nothing you've seen before. It's just cold and controlled rage.

"He’s downstairs, right?" he asks.

You nod, hesitantly. "In the guest room. He passed out, and...Jake and Sunghoon brought him back here."

"Yeah." His jaw clenches. "Well, he's fucking awake now."

And he turns without waiting for another word from you. You feel your breath catch with panic rising so swiftly that it almost cuts off the air in your lungs.

This is not good.

You throw on your robe and tie it in a rush, the sash slipping through your trembling fingers. You're barely able to keep up as you trail behind him, your feet padding across the cool floors of the penthouse, phone still clutched in your hand as the time on the lock screen registers—12:08 PM.

You'd slept in but now you're all about to wake up to hell.

"Heeseung, baby—please slow down," you plead, trying to catch him as he storms down the stairs toward the lower level. "Just talk to me first. Please. I know you're angry, I am too, but you can't just—"

Your words are cut off by the sound of the elevator ding, you barely have time to glance toward the front door before it opens and Jake and Sunghoon step into the foyer, both looking like they haven't slept at all.

They see Heeseung first and they immediately go tense.

"Heeseung—" Jake starts, already holding his hands out. "Hey, man—slow down."

Sunghoon looks at you, then down the stairs, eyes widening when he realizes where Heeseung's headed.

"We just came to check if everything was okay."

"God—I knew leaving him here was a bad idea." Jake groans.

You can feel the slow dangerous shift in the air now, it seems everything that was held back last night is unraveling now. The tape. The favorites folder. The betrayal. The line that got crossed.

And Jay that's still unconscious in the guest room is about to wake up to the consequences.

You grip the railing, voice soft and urgent, aimed at your fiancé. "Heeseung. Please. Don't do something you'll regret."

But Heeseung doesn't slow down, he keeps walking and all you can do is follow him.

The door swings open so hard it slams into the wall behind it. You flinch, heart jumping into your throat, but Heeseung doesn't even blink, neither does he barge in or yell.

He stands in the open doorway of the guest bedroom, jaw tight, voice deceptively calm as he says, "Jay. Come out here for a sec."

The room is stifling. Jake exhales beside you, Sunghoon rubs his jaw and your stomach is in knots.

There's a shuffle of movement from inside the room, a rustle of blankets, a groggy groan before Jay appears. His hair is disheveled, his face is lace and puffy and he's still wearing his clothes from last night. He squints at the light in the hallway like it's trying to kill him, one hand pressed to his temple.

"Fuck," he mumbles, dragging his feet. "Did I black out?"

He sees all of you standing there with Heeseung at the front like a wall, the rest of you silent just behind him, and he gives a confused little laugh. "Why are you all staring at me like that?"

Jake looks down frowning while Sunghoon crosses his arms.

"I feel like shit," Jay mutters, scratching the back of his neck. "I was gonna head home and shower, but—"

He glances at you and smiles faintly. "Morning. You have any Advil or somethi—"

"Is there anything," Heeseung cuts in sharply, low and deliberate, "you want to tell me?"

Jay blinks. "What?"

Heeseung doesn't move, but his voice comes tighter now as he repeats himself, "Anything. You want to tell me."

Jay scoffs lightly, chuckling like it's a joke. "Bro, I'm too hungover for this—"

"I'm so fucking close to beating the shit out of you right now."

His voice isn't even loud but it hits like a punch to the gut, and the sound of it chills the whole penthouse.

Jay stiffens. "Wait—what? What's going on?"

Jake's voice breaks through, fed up and sharp. "Dude. Why'd you save the video?"

Jay blinks and opens his mouth to speak but Jake keeps going. "The video of them. Him and y/n. You saved it. Favorited it. On your phone."

Sunghoon groans under his breath, his face twisted in disbelief, like he still can't believe what he saw. "Favoriting it?" he asks, shaking his head. "Come on, Jay. You know that's not allowed. We don't save shit. That's—"

"That's my fucking fiancée," Heeseung seethes.

Jay's already going pale, confusion draining to horror as the pieces slot into place. His lips part again, but nothing comes out.

You can see the exact moment he remembers. The fog of last night lifts and the memory of Jake asking for his password and him drunkenly answering sharpens.

Heeseung steps forward. "You wanna tell me if you've done this before?" he says, voice dark. "Or is this the first time you've saved a video of my girl like some fucking pervert?"

Jay can't seem to form words, and for a beat, no one even breathes.

This isn't a joke or something they can just laugh off like a hangover conversation—this is real.

You step in front of Heeseung, heart hammering, trying to diffuse the pressure in the air before it combusts. "Jake, Sunghoon—" your voice is soft but urgent, "can you give us a minute?"

Jake hesitates, his jaw clenched like he doesn't trust leaving you here with this heat in the air. But you give him a pleading look, and Sunghoon touches his arm and nods once.

They both glance back as they leave—Jake's frown is tight and Sunghoon is visibly reluctant, but the door shuts behind them anyway, and now it's just the three of you.

Jay looks like a ghost.

You step in further between them, hands raised a little like you're afraid to touch either of them. Your voice trembles slightly. "Jay, just...just apologize."

Heeseung's scoffs behind you.

Your eyes look to him instinctively, and when they meet his—your stomach drops, cause there's no anger there anymore, but there is betrayal.

"An apology?" he repeats slowly, almost mocking. "You think that's gonna fix this?"

Your throat goes dry and you don't know what to say.

Jay finally speaks, voice barely there. "Heeseung...I didn't—I don't know why I—it wasn't supposed to be like that, I swear—"

But Heeseung is shaking his head. "You saved it," he says, his voice colder than you've ever heard. "You saved it. You kept it. You fucking favorited it."

"Heeseung—"

"I would never do that to you," he growls at Jay. "Never. You understand me? Even at my worst, I would never cross that fucking line with someone you love."

Jay looks so close to tears with the look on his face.

You're trembling so hard. "Please, Hee..."

He doesn't even look at you, his entire body is tense with fury, and there's no softness in his face at all. Not even for you.

Because this isn't just about what Jay did. It's about what Heeseung saw in your face last night, the panic, the guilt and the thing he won't say out loud yet—the flash of something else in your eyes when you saw that video.

Something that didn't look to Heeseung like rage at all and that's the part you're terrified he's already figured out.

You swallow, lips trembling as your gaze darts between them, Jay is frozen in shame, Heeseung is shaking in silent fury.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, so quietly you barely hear yourself. "I'm so, so sorry."

Heeseung's head turns toward you like he can't believe what he's hearing.

You step closer, hand reaching for his, "I di—didn't mean to feel that way—It wasn't anything, Hee. I promise."

He pulls away from your touch, voice full of anger, but not for you. "Can you see what you're doing right now?"

You blink, completely stunned, but he's already turning to Jay, his words are still aimed through him, about him. "She's apologizing. You see that? She's the one with her stomach in knots, and you're standing there like you don't even know what the fuck you did."

Jay opens his mouth to speak, but Heeseung doesn't let him. "I don't even know what I'm mad about anymore," he mutters, raking a hand through his hair. "I don't know if I'm more pissed that you saved it or that I can't stop thinking about why you did."

His eyes snap to Jay's, all fierce, sharp and devastating. "Was it just because it was her? Or because it was us? What was it that got you off, huh? The way she sounded, the way I touched her, the way she looked up at me like she'd die if I stopped?"

You flinch at his words and Jay goes even paler. Heeseung's voice breaks a little when he says, "You don't get to have that, man. You don't get to want what's mine. And she—" he finally looks at you, his eyes bloodshot and his voice wrecked—"she doesn't get to feel anything other than violated when she finds out you fucking kept that shit."

Silence should flood the room but it's not silence at all. It's your heartbeat thudding in your ears, the tremble in your breath and the sound of Heeseung's restraint cracking one sharp second at a time.

You're sure he knows now, he saw it in your eyes and he felt the signs of that sick thrill of heat curl in your belly when you saw Jay's phone from your skin alone. 

Heeseung looks at Jay for a long, unbearable second, with no rage in his face now, just something quieter but still dangerous.

Then, his voice comes low and controlled. "Do you want to fuck her?"

The question lands like a grenade at all your feet, and you feel the breath catch in your throat, heart slamming into your ribcage. Heeseung doesn't even look at you as he asks it. His eyes are stuck on Jay, waiting, and Jay looks like he’s about to faint, his face goes red from his neck to his ears, but still in the most deafening silence, he says the truth.

"Yes."

You nearly faint at his confession, watching how Heeseung doesn't even flinch or react at all, almost like he expected it. Jay looks like he just threw himself off a cliff, cause he knows there's no coming back from this, there’s no version of this moment that won't haunt him forever.

Heeseung runs a hand through his hair, exhaling slow, as if trying to cool something down inside himself that has no name.

He looks at you and your stomach drops, because the look in his eyes might be stoic but there’s something else swirling beneath the surface. Something darker and not entirely...offended.

You move to him carefully, shaking. "Heeseung," you whisper, your voice pleading. "I didn't know—"

But he cuts you off too softly for the moment. "Don't lie to me, baby."

Your lips part to argue, but the guilt is already clouding your eyes. Heeseung tilts his head, watching you closely now, as if he's studying you for the first time.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asks. "That it turned you on."

You gasp quietly, because there's not even a trace of judgment or disgust in his voice, it’s just curiosity.

"I—I didn't mean for it to," you say, and your voice breaks. "It just happened."

Jay is still frozen behind you both, but Heeseung's attention has completely shifted. His fists aren’t clenched, his jaw isn’t locked—and yet what he's not fighting isn't violence.

It's want.

He should be furious. He is. He's never been this furious. But somehow, buried under all that rage, there’s something more unhinged.

He steps closer to you until you’re looking up at him. "Do you even realize what you do to people?" he asks. "To me? I should want to beat his fucking face in. But right now...all I can think about is how fucking sexy you looked biting your lip in my lap while you watched yourself on his screen."

Your eyes widen.

"And seeing that shame in your eyes just now?" he breathes. "That made it worse. So much worse."

His hand comes up, wraps around your throat and you instinctively hold onto it with both your hands. “Seung…please.”

"You are mine," he says, eyes burning. "And the fact that someone else wants you like that should make me crazy. It does. But the fact that you liked it?"

He pauses.

"It's doing something to me I can't explain."

Your whole body is trembling from the heat of the situation at hand.

Heeseung turns you gently in his arms, until you're facing Jay again—who's still standing there like he's been struck by lightning, eyes wide, lips parted, completely frozen in place.

Your robe loosens cause Heeseung's fingers find the sash.

"Watch this," he says to Jay, low and dangerous and electric, his breath curling against your ear. "Since you like watching her so much."

The silk slips through the loop and your robe parts.

Your skin under your silk camisole and shorts is laid bare in the soft light of the penthouse morning, and you see Jay's eyes drag down before he can stop himself. You should be covering up, maybe even screaming at Heeseung but all you can do is shiver.

He’s pulling you against his bare chest, mouth pressing hot to your neck, tongue sliding just beneath your jaw.

"The live show's better," he breathes, and it's unclear who he's saying it for. You or Jay.

His hands are on your waist, caressing up, cupping your breasts under your camisole while you choke back a sound in your throat, heat burning through you like a fever, because Jay is watching and because Heeseung wants him to watch.

Because something in you wants it too. Your eyes lock with Jay's across the room and he looks wrecked.

Shame, arousal, devastation. It's all there, etched in his face like he's been cut open. He's breathing hard, but not moving.

And all the while, Heeseung's voice is in your ear, and his fingers make their way into your shorts and between your legs.

"Oh? You feel that, baby? You feel how wet you are right now? All from the way he's looking at you."

He kisses the side of your neck again, tongue flicking against your pulse, and your knees nearly give out.

"Wanna let him see what isn’t his?"

Heeseung hums, low in his throat like he already knows the answer. His hand dips lower, fingers parting your folds—slick and aching and shamefully eager under his touch. You whimper, body shaking in his grip, and his lips curve into a dark, knowing smile against your neck.

"Tell me, baby," he murmurs, slow and deliberate. "You want Jay to find out how tight your pussy really is?"

The question cracks like thunder in the silence of the room, it makes Jay flinch.

And you should deny it. You should be horrified, you should be pushing Heeseung away and running. But instead, your lashes flutter, breath stuttering, and the softest, most dangerous word slips from your mouth like it's been dying to be heard.

"...yes."

Jay sways where he stands. It's like he’s about to pass out again, his knees are about to give out. His eyes are wide and unblinking, lips parted, chest rising and falling erratically—completely overtaken by the sound of your voice, by what you just admitted with Heeseung's fingers still pressed between your thighs.

Heeseung chuckles darkly against your neck, dragging his tongue over your skin, clearly delighting in your answer—and Jay's reaction.

"Mm. Thought so." He squeezes your waist, one finger dipping into your entrance. "You wanna show him? Huh, baby? You want him to see how much of a slut I’ve turn you into?"

Jay makes a small, broken sound.

And you can't speak now. You can only nod—shaking, needy, impossibly wet and already grinding down into Heeseung’s fingers.

For some time, the only sound in the room is your whimpering. But then you feel Heeseung pull his finger out of you and his hand retreat, you don’t even have a minute to whine because the next to you know you land on your knees with a soft, broken whimper cause Heeseung pushed you. There’s more relief than shame in the way your thighs are still trembling from Heeseung's touch.

Your knees hitting the ground doesn’t shock you as much as when you lift your eyes, wide and glossy, and find yourself face to face with Jay’s bulge—the evidence of just how much he wants you too.

Jay's chest rises, then halts. His fists clench at his sides like he doesn't know whether to run or fall to his knees in front of you. His eyes are blown wide with disbelief, but it's not Heeseung's actions that makes his throat tighten—it's you.

It's the way you look at him like you're not even embarrassed or confused. You’re looking at him like you want to be on your knees for him, like you might’ve done this even without Heeseung behind you, his palm now resting gently on the crown of your head.

"She wants this," Heeseung says quietly, his voice curling into Jay's ears. "Go on, baby. Show him what I’ve taught you."

The most shattering part for Jay is seeing you smile at Heeseung’s words, it’s not wide or arrogant—it’s your usual soft smile, maybe a little nervous this time but it’s eager in a way that makes Jay feel like he’s drowning.

He wants to speak and finally say something but he can’t even conjure up thoughts now, not when your hands come up to his waistband and your fingers brush his skin a little, you even look up at him as if you’re asking for permission even though Heeseung’s already given it, you’re asking Jay for his.

And curse every lingering feeling of morality that wants him to tell you to stand up. He gives a nod so slight he barely knows he's done it.

You exhale a little, your fingers moving deftly, tugging open the button and zipper, and Jay is hard—so violently hard it's obscene. He swears under his breath, nearly buckling when your hand brushes him through the fabric, when your lips part just slightly and Heeseung whispers, "That's it, angel. Make him lose his fucking mind."

Jay doesn't know if this is real or if he's in a dream or a sin or some impossible in between, but he knows one thing for sure, right now—he’s entirely yours.

Your fingers curl around the waistband of his boxers, slowly pulling them down, eyes locked on yours like he can't believe what's happening. Then his cock springs free, heavy and hard in your hand, and you blink—stunned. You don't even mean to gasp, it just slips out.

Jay looks like he might collapse.

You glance up at him, wide eyed, and then over your shoulder—Heeseung is watching, gaze dark, mouth curved into something between smug and possessive.

"Big, right?" he asks, taking a few steps away from you and Jay.

You nod slowly, almost dazed. "Yeah..."

Jay nearly whimpers.

Heeseung hums, but then his voice lowers. "Bigger than me?"

You hesitate because you already know what he wants to hear, but you turn your head just enough to meet his eyes. "No."

Jay makes a choked sound behind his teeth—half disbelief, half arousal, like that one word ruined him.

Heeseung smirks, so satisfied. "Didn't think so."

It’s insane how the tension only builds from there—with your fingers around Jay’s cock and the air heavy with everything unspoken.

Jay is trembling now, ever so slightly.

He looks like he wants to say please, if only he could just remember how to speak.

You never really thought much about Jay in that way.

He was always sort of...quiet? Reserved. The sarcastic, dry humored one with the disapproving glances and button downs that fit just right. Someone who felt like a background character in the chaos of your life with Heeseung, always present, but never quite there.

He wasn't soft, just silent. Observing more than acting. Watching instead of wanting.

You honestly assumed he was a little prudish. Uptight, maybe, but sweet in that careful, boring way. And you never imagined that beneath all that stoic calm and barely there expressions, he was hiding a cock this girthy.

You look down at him again and it’s a lot, he can barely fit in your palm, just like Heeseung.

You don't realize how tight you're holding Jay until he jerks slightly in your grip, like he's feeling every thought running through your head—every ounce of disbelief and intrigue and reluctant arousal.

This time when you look up at him, it's not pity or shock or guilt in your expression.

It's hunger.

Hunger that bleeds through you as you take him into your mouth, wetting it with your saliva, giving little kitten licks over his tip that make him lose his balance.

He moans out from the back of his throat when you blindly reach for his hand and place it on the back of your head.

"Oh yeah, she likes that. She's telling you to fuck her face." Heeseung says out. Jay's eyes snap to him where he's now sat on the plush couch, the look on Jay's face is one of utter disbelief and it has Heeseung rolling his eyes and reiterating. "Fuck her face, Jay. She asked so nicely."

Jay doesn't know when his hips start moving, he thrusts them forward and feels himself glide into your throat. And when you don't even gag? You just wrap your fingers around his balls and squeeze? Jay loses his mind, grabbing your head with both his hands and thrusting more erratically into your mouth and throat.

"There you go." He hears Heeseung's encouragement but he can barely register it.

"Oh!—Jesus!" "Fuck! She doesn't gag?"

"Nope," the pride in Heeseung's voice doesn't go unheard by Jay.

You push back at his hips a little and he pulls out of your mouth, almost like he thinks you're pushing him off but you pump him with both hands, drooling down your chin already. "You can go rougher, Jay." You mumble, not even giving him a chance to respond before taking his cock into your throat again and grabbing his waist to force him deeper into your mouth.

Jay really does try to be gentle, really tries to not just use you, but your voice telling him to go rougher clouds all thoughts. He grips the back of your head with both hands and thrusts into your mouth, increasing the speed and relishing in the choked sounds you make for him.

"God—Sh—Shit." "You're gonna make me cum." He moans out, screwing his eyes shut.

"Isn't that the whole point?" Heeseung asks from behind him, "Or...you wanna cum...somewhere else?"

Jay's eyes roll back at Heeseung's words—the thought of cumming inside you makes him shudder. "N—No! Wait! St—Stop."

You pull off him dazed and a little confused, you look back at Heeseung with a little pout that makes him chuckle and look to Jay, "Why'd you stop her? She was having fun."

"I was having fun." You look up at him.

Jay swallows hard, trying to catch his breath, his hands  are hovering uselessly at his sides. "I just...I didn't want to cross a boundary," he mutters so unsure. His eyes flick between you and Heeseung, filled with hesitation and tension humming in his chest.

From the couch behind you, Heeseung lets out an amused laugh. You glance over your shoulder just in time to see him lounging back, one arm stretched across the top of the cushions, legs spread.

"A boundary?" His eyes sparkle with something between mockery and thrill. "Jay, you crossed a boundary the second you looked me dead in the eye and said you wanted to fuck her."

Jay flinches, mouth parting like he's about to deny it but he doesn't.

Heeseung's grin widens, and he tips his chin at you, his fingers crooking in a lazy beckon. "Come here, baby."

Your pulse skips as you stand slowly, the hem of your open robe brushing your thighs. Jay's eyes follow you as you turn to face Heeseung, stepping lightly across the room.

Jay watches, rooted in place.

The robe slips off your shoulders and pools silently to the floor. You hear Jay's breath hitch, sharp and involuntary. His eyes are fixed on every bare inch of you and he looks stunned, hands hanging at his sides.

"Fuck," he whispers, barely audible.

Heeseung hums approvingly behind you, his hands finding your hips and tugging you down gently into his lap. You straddle him, back to his chest, and his palms slide up your sides, possessive and slow.

His hands slide over your bare skin under your camisole as he lifts it off you, fingertips ghosting over your breasts before settling on your waist. His lips graze your ear, voice low and rough with amusement.

"Come have her, Jay."

Jay's jaw tightens, the hesitation in his eyes quickly giving way to something hungrier. You watch as he steps forward, his breath is shallow and his gaze fixed on where Heeseung's hands are now slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts.

Heeseung hooks his thumbs under the fabric, eyes never leaving Jay's face as he slowly drags them down your legs.

Jay drops to his knees, helping Heeseung peel the shorts off completely, his fingertips brushing your calves as he pulls them free. His touch lingers for a moment, almost reverent, then he looks up at you with a flushed face and his eyes heavy with need.

"Lay back, baby," Heeseung orders, guiding you with firm hands. "Head in my lap."

You obey without question, shifting onto the couch as Heeseung leans back, welcoming you into his hold. Your head settles in his lap, his hand immediately stroking your hair, fingers combing through gently. The contrast of his soothing touch and Jay's hungry stare makes your breath catch.

Jay's eyes trail over your body like he's never seen anything so perfect. Heeseung chuckles lowly, running a thumb along your cheekbone.

"Don't keep her waiting."

Jay leans forward slowly, palms braced on either side of your hips. You can feel the heat radiating off him, you can even feel how tightly wound he is. His hands finally touch you, they're tentative at first, then they get firmer and bolder as his lips part and his eyes flick up to meet yours.

"You sure?" he asks, voice hoarse.

You try to smile up at him, nodding. "Y—Yeah."

And you guess that's all it takes cause Jay immediately lowers himself between your legs, and Heeseung's hand never leaves your hair, holding you gently in place as Jay finally has you.

Jay settles himself between your thighs slowly, almost like he doesn't believe this is real. His hands slide under your knees, pushing your legs apart gently. The moment his mouth meets your warm it's hot and wet and he groans like he's already lost control.

"Shit—" he breathes, pulling back just slightly, his eyes wide and almost dazed. "She tastes...God."

You gasp when his mouth returns, tongue licking a stripe up your pussy folds, then circling your clit. Your hips twitch, back arching off the couch, and Heeseung chuckles from above, fingers still stroking your hair.

"She's a runner," he says fondly, his free hand resting on your stomach to try to keep you still. "Always tries to squirm away when it gets too good."

But it's not like Jay was going to let you go anywhere. He grips your thighs hard, pressing them apart and locking them in place with surprising strength. His becomes near frantic, tongue dragging over every sensitive spot until you're crying out, trying to push at his shoulders, but it's useless.

"Jay—wait—too much—"

He just groans into you, tongue flicking faster against your clit, and you cry out again, pressing your head back against Heeseung's thigh, your hand clutching at his shirt as you moan, "Heeseung—!"

Heeseung raises an eyebrow, laughing in disbelief. "Rude," he says, tugging gently on your hair to tilt your head back so you're looking up at him. "You're gonna moan my name when he's the one making you feel good?"

You whimper, eyes fluttering shut, and Heeseung smirks. "No, baby. Moan for him."

His tone drops lower, fingers tightening in your hair just enough to make your breath hitch. "Tell him how good he's making you feel."

Jay groans again at Heeseung's words, the sound muffled against your soaked heat and you have no choice but to give in.

"Jay—please—fuck, don't stop—"

Heeseung grins down at you, satisfied, as Jay continues to make out with your pussy like he would a pair of lips. It's as if he thinks or knows he's never going to get another chance.

Jay pulls back from your core, lips wet, chest rising and falling like he's struggling to breathe. Heeseung watches him with lazy amusement, fingers still tangled in your hair.

"Spit on it," Heeseung says casually. "Go on."

Jay hesitates for a second before obeying, a thick string of saliva landing right on your already swollen clit, making you flinch with a soft gasp. You immediately cover your face with both hands, heat rushing up your neck in embarrassment.

"Oh come on," Heeseung laughs, tugging at your wrists to pull your hands away. "You've done worse, baby. Don't get all shy now."

Jay's gaze flicks between your face and Heeseung's, his fingers twitching at his sides. "Can I..." he starts, "Can I use my fingers?"

Heeseung raises an eyebrow like he can't believe the question. "Don't ask me," he says, smirking. "Ask her."

Jay turns his eyes back to you, his voice suddenly gentler because it's you, more uncertain. "Can I?" he asks, his fingers trailing up your thigh. "Please?"

You nod, breath catching, and Heeseung hums behind you. "Such a good girl," he says, pressing a kiss to your temple, eyes locked on Jay.

Jay's fingers slide into you slowly, nearly devout, his mouth parting in shock at how responsive you are.

Jay can't believe this is real.

He's touched you before—innocent things of course, brief hugs, a hand at your back when you passed through a doorway, a brush of fingers when you handed him a drink, but this? This is something else entirely. His hand is between your legs, and you're so wet, so hot and clenching so tight around his fingers like your body wants to keep him there.

It feels like a dream. Like one of those late night, guilty fantasies he used to have before slamming the brakes on his thoughts. But there's no stopping to this cause you're whimpering for him, your head resting on Heeseung's lap, your hips rocking toward him like you need this.

Your lips part around a moan, soft and breathless, and Jay nearly loses it. "Ah! Jay—Fuck!"

He watches his own fingers curling inside your cunt, he's relishing how tight you are, and it's so much better than anything he ever imagined. Your body reacts to him so naturally and that sends a rush of heat through him that leaves him dizzy in his already hungover state.

"You're shaking," Heeseung speaks up from behind you. "What's the matter, Jay? You've got everything you wanted."

Jay blinks rapidly, his voice thick. "She's...so fucking tight." His eyes flick up to meet yours.

You moan again, gripping the couch cushion, and Jay thinks this is it—nothing will probably ever come close to this moment.

Jay's fingers curl just right and you suddenly lose it. "Oh my God!" Your back arches off the couch, a cry tumbling from your lips as you grab Jay's wrist in a panic, breath hitching with every stuttering pulse inside you. "No—no, not on the couch," you gasp, eyes wide and pleading, barely able to breathe through the tension building in your core from him damn near assaulting that spot he's found.

"Oh, you're gonna squirt, baby?" Heeseung sounds delighted, his hand stroking over your thigh lazily like he's so proud of you for unraveling like this.

You nod quickly, biting your lip and still trying to push Jay's hand away. "Please, Hee—not on the couch, I swear, please."

Heeseung chuckles, completely unfazed, watching the panic and pleasure twist across your face. "I can't believe you're thinking about the couch right now." He says as he gently pries your fingers from Jay's wrist, letting Jay continue freely.

"Come on, princess. Let it happen," Heeseung whispers leaning down and steadying you against his lap while Jay's fingers move faster inside you again, now insistent and determined.

Jay can barely think straight. You're about to cum all over his hand, and Heeseung is being so calm and teasing about it, he's holding you in place while Jay brings you there.

"Let go," Heeseung tells you, "don't fight it, baby. I'll buy a new fucking couch."

As much you tried, Jay is dangerously good at what he's doing, with a few more thrusts of his fingers and then brushing against that spot that has your screaming you cum. It's messy and comes with a sob, "Ahh! Jayyy!"

Jay feels it happen before his brain can even think of catching up. Your whole body jerks in his grip and your thighs tremble, breath caught in your throat as you cum. A hot, wet rush over his fingers, coating his palm all the way to his forearm, soaking the cushions beneath you.

"Fuck—" Jay curses, stunned, his voice hoarse and breathless. He doesn't stop moving, fingers still stroking through it like he's completely lost his mind, eyes locked on where you're dripping everywhere.

"Yeahhh," Heeseung laughs behind you, thrilled, both hands grabbing your thighs to shake them a little, guiding your twitching hips as the overstimulation takes over. "Let's make a mess, baby—that's it, give Jay the full show."

You're crying out, squirming uselessly in Jay's grip as your body keeps trembling and pulsing under his touch, slick coating your thighs, your stomach, him.

Jay groans, forehead falling forward, pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee, worshiping you. "Jesus Christ...this is insane..."

"I've never—" He starts, still breathless, his fingers slipping out slowly as your body flinches from the sensitivity. "I've never seen that in real life before."

You whimper, covering your face in embarrassment, your thighs still twitching in Heeseung's grasp.

"Oh baby," Heeseung grins behind you, wiping sweat stuck strands of hair from your cheek, amused as ever. "Jay's never made a girl squirt before. What do we say to him?"

You groan into your hands, but Jay watches, entranced, when you peek through your fingers and whisper, "Thank you, Jay..."

His heart pounds, stomach tightens. His name on your lips like that, your body trembling beneath him, soaked from something he did, it makes him feel drunk.

Jay's eyes are glued to the glistening mess of your pussy, your thighs shaking a bit as Heeseung strokes along them, drawing out your little shivers. Jay's fingers jerk at his sides, aching to reach for you again.

Heeseung watches him, then leans back comfortably, "So...you satisfied?"

Jay doesn't answer, he can't. His cock is straining painfully against his stomach, twitching with every breath you take and his silence says everything.

Heeseung's grin grows wider. "No?" He clicks his tongue. "Thought so."

"You wanna use that raging boner, or you gonna sit there like it's your first time all over again?" Heeseung's tone is light, but there's a challenge buried in it.

Jay's eyes find yours, wild and searching and you can't believe how much you want it, how fast your legs try to close only for Heeseung to gently hold them apart again with a little laugh.

His hands are on you before he even realizes it, pulling your hips towards him, so desperate to feel all of you again. His fingers fumble with his waistband as he pushes his pants and boxers completely off in one go. He grabs his cock and drags it over your folds again and again, finding that he's obsessed with the sound it's causing you to make.

His head drops back for a second and his eyes squeeze shut, he growls under his breath. "Jesus, Heeseung..."

You watch the hesitation fighting with the hunger in his eyes as he lines himself up, and just the head of hims cock pushing into your pussy makes you gasp.

"You're shaking," Jay says softly, almost to himself. "I haven't even—God, you feel so—"

Heeseung hums, gripping your waist and guiding you forward, closer to Jay. He groans, pressing in. The stretch burns, and you cry out, your nails digging into his forearm. The fact that you've taken Heeseung's bigger cock doesn't take away from the fact that Jay's is splitting you open right now.

Jay curses and he drops his head to your shoulder, breath hot against your skin and his head even grazes Heeseung's thigh as well. "I can't—I can't believe this—"

Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, pulling him deeper, and the sound you make when he's fully inside you is so high pitched and broken, it makes both men still.

Heeseung's grip tightens as he whispers, "Good girl...Look how pretty you are for him."

Jay can't move at first, the squeeze of your pussy is too tight around his cock. You're moaning and clutching him and it's because of how well his cock is filling you up.

Heeseung's voice is in your ear again, taunting and low. "You gonna let him make you cum again, baby? Gonna let him fuck you just right while I watch?"

You nod wildly, barely comprehending the words you're hearing. "Yes! Yes! Fuck me Jongie!"

That nickname, that damn nickname is what has Jay nearly losing it, he finally starts moving, slow and deep rolls of his hips that have both of you shuddering.

You can't stop looking between the two of them. Jay, flushed and desperate above you. Heeseung, calm and possessive above you, fingers stroking your trembling thighs.

"Heeseung..." you almost whimper.

"What is it, doll?" Heeseung asks looking down at your face. "You nervous now?"

Jay sees the way your lips tremble, watches the way your chest rises and falls in shaky little gasps.

"N-no...I want it. I just..." You glance at Jay again, eyes flickering down between your bodies, your legs twitching like you want to close them, from instinct, modesty, nerves? You have no idea.

"I—We don't have to—" Jay starts but Heeseung cuts him off with a laugh. "You're seriously gonna back out now?" He grips your hips, angling you just a little—just enough to make you whine. "After everything? Come on, Jay. You can do better than that."

Jay's eyes snap shut cause he can't even look at you, you're looking him like that.

Heeseung's tone drops into something dark and smooth. "Take her."

You gasp out again cause Jay obeys. He pulls out all the day until all that's left inside your clenching pussy is the bulbous head of his cock. Then he slams back in

"You're—fuck—you feel unreal," he groans, the words breaking apart in his throat.

You whimper at the force he starts using to fuck into you, clutching Heeseung's thighs behind you. "Heeseung—he's—ah—so big—"

"You good, Jay?" Heeseung's smirking. "Or do you need a minute?"

Jay can't even think, he's still pounding his cock into you and already feeling insane from it. His eyes trail over your flushed skin, the curve of your breasts, the tears threatening to spill at the corners of your eyes, the way your lips part with every ragged little breath.

His hands push at the backs of your knees basically folding you in half. "Nghh—Jong—Jongie!"

"Fuck—baby...Your pussy's so tight."

The word baby slips out before he can stop it, and your fingers twitch, clutching at the couch cushions like you don't know what to do with the sensation of his thick cock shoving in and out of you.

All you can do is cry out and arch your back as your try to kick your legs, but Jay presses them further into your chest. "Agh! You're so fucking pretty, Y/n." He starts babbling, "Pretty face, pretty pussy." He goes on and his words have you whimpering. "Jay—Jongie! Please don't stop!"

As your squeaking muffles into softer whimpers you notice Heeseung's gone quiet, you crane your head to look up at him and he's not even looking at your face, his eyes seem to be glued to the bulge moving up and down in your stomach, a testament to Jay's cock.

His jaw is tense and his tongue is pressed to the inside of his cheek. He finally looks at your face and watches your lips part with a gasp and moan from each brutal thrust—his girl falling apart so beautifully under someone else, and yet there's no anger in his expression.

It's all just heat, burning heat.

His hand slides up your ribs and spreads over your chest to cup your breast, but he still doesn't say anything. His thumb brushes your nipple, and you whimper, louder this time. "Mm—Hee."

Jay's hips start to lose rhythm, his eyes can't stop darting between your face and where his cock is deep inside you, your slick coating him every time he pulls out, only to push right back in with more pressure.

"God," Jay groans, "you feel like a fucking dream..."

You open your eyes, hazy and wet with tears of pleasure mixed with pain, to blink up at him. "Jay—"

He lets out a low moan, his rhythm breaking even further.

"You're moaning for me..." His voice cracks on the last word, and he leans over you a little, his forehead nearly touching yours.

You nod, crying out with every thrust. "It's so good—it's so good..."

Heeseung's gaze sharpens at your words, his hand trails down your stomach again, resting lightly just above where Jay disappears inside you, his thumb pressing into the soft skin.

Jay's eyes flick down and he swears under his breath, hips stalling for a beat.

You start to writhe and whimper. "Don't stop..." you plead, hips tilting up to meet his thrusts, with glassy eyes and desperate moans.

"Jay—please—faster..."

Your soft needy voice nearly knocks the wind out of him, he wasn't prepared for how this would feel, for the way you just moan his name like it belongs to you, for the way your body pulls him deeper, begging for more. He can't think straight anymore.

Jay's pace picks up, his grip even tightens it's sure to leave bruises, he's mesmerized by the way your breasts bounce with every thrust, the way your lips part in helpless moans. He truly feels like he's going insane, maybe that's why he opens his mouth and doesn't even think before he spews out the words.

"Fuck..." he growls, "you're spreading your legs for your fiancé's best friend like a little whore."

He really doesn't mean to say it, well at least not out loud. The words just tumble out like they've been boiling in him—dark, jealous, and aching, born from years of being second, from watching Heeseung have everything he never dared to want.

But now he has you right here and now, not only taking his cock but also begging for it.

Jay stills when his own words hit his ears, his eyes go wide and his heart slams in his chest.

Shit. What the fuck did I just say?

Silence fills the room for an awful horrifying minute. His brain scrambles cause his guilt and arousal are colliding. Because what right does he have? The audacity of him, like he's not the one who looked Heeseung in the eye not thirty minutes ago and admitted he wanted to fuck you.

And now here he is inside you, degrading you like you're the one who crossed a line. The hypocrisy claws at his throat, and his eyes dart to Heeseung expecting rage, maybe a fist in his face.

Your eyes widen, and to his shock you moan. The sound is soft and breath as your lashes flutter cause the words didn't shame you like he thought they would, they lit you up inside.

Heeseung's eyes flash and he finally reacts, but it's just a sharp inhale and a raise of his brows—pure shock.

He nods slightly and Jay reads that as permission, it's obvious by the way his fingers that had loosened their grip on your thighs now tighten again, his cock twitches inside you too.

He leans over, putting his full weight on top of you in a mating press as he continues to do talk to you. "You like that?" he whispers, moving again, slow at first but building up to the same pace as before, "You like letting me fuck you when you're his? Letting me say filthy shit while he watches?"

You nearly scream, your body writhing under him and it makes Jay groan.

"You've always wanted this, haven't you? Wanted me to fuck you." He's starting to get a bit delusional, he knows. He's projecting his feelings onto you, but just to hear you say it, maybe agree? Will completely undo him.

Heeseung's watching it all with his expression shifting between dark and aroused approval now, his hand sliding up to your neck, lightly cradling your jaw so your eyes can't leave Jay's face.

"Tell me," Jay damn near pleads, so obviously desperate now, you can tell by the way his hips start to snap sharper, "tell me you wanted this."

Your answer is nothing but a choked moan, your hands are scrabbling for Jay's back. "Yes, yes—Jay, I wanted you—I wanted this—"

He's so close to tears from your words alone, he doesn't even care that it might be just the haze of the sex that has you blubbering nonsense, he doesn't care that you might not even mean it—the squeeze and squelch of your pussy is too delicious for him to care.

"Oh my God—I'm losing my mind!" He groans, slamming his cock into you faster and harder, the air becomes thick with moans and grunts of feral need.

You start to shake and Heeseung sees your toes curl and he knows exactly what's about to happen, he knows watches Jay lean back off you only to grab you by your ankles and continue to fuck you like a rag doll, he uses your ankles to drag you faster unto his cock and you can't stand it. He's hitting deeper now and the tears have started spilling down your cheeks.

"Shittt! Ah—My pussy! It's so deep!"

You try to push back on his stomach but it's so useless, Heeseung even takes your hand away and presses his hand hard right over the bulge in your belly. You look up at him in shock, "Hee! No—!"

Jay grunts at the sight and his eyes roll back, but not before locking with Heeseung's for a split second, like he can't believe he's helping him make you cum. "She's close. Don't let her run."

"Oh fuck!" Jay mutters at the way your walls clench around him like a fucking vise, you're literally milking him for everything he's got, milking his cock of all his cum, all with your head thrown back and a sob that barely sounds human.

"F—fuck, she's so tight, I can't—" Jay chokes, his thrusts turning sloppy and uneven, "She's—fuck—she's cumming."

You are, shaking so helplessly and screaming as you cum hard on his cock, clutching his cock so tight he can't even move anymore. His hands dig into your thighs as his own orgasm creeps up on him.

Jay gasps, "Oh shit, I'm—I'm close—fuck—Heeseung—"

Before he can finish his sentence of whatever he was about to ask Heeseung for, Heeseung's already moving, reaching over, shoving Jay's hips back with force.

"Not inside my fiancée," Heeseung mutters, voice firm with finality, and Jay groans weakly as he pulls out, his cock twitching against your skin.

Hot, thick and long spurts of his cum land across your stomach, your chest, your thighs. Jay whimpers on seeing his cum land right on your perky nipple, his head drops forward in shameful relief, hands gripping the couch cause he's scared he'll fall.

You're so breathless and hazy, trying to blink up at them, and Heeseung just chuckles softly, dragging a thumb through the mess on your stomach like it's nothing new.

"Messy," he muses, then flicks his eyes to Jay. "You always cum this much?"

Jay can only shake his head cause he's panting too hard and already wondering how the fuck he's going to face either of you tomorrow.

The silence is thick and heavy in its lingering, Jay can't seem to take his eyes off you, you're laying limbless on the couch with the aftershocks still coursing through you.

Jay can't bring himself to understand how Heeseung is moving like nothing just happened, he's watching his best friend and he can't see any tension in his bare shoulders or heat in his eyes. He just gets up and disappears down the hall for a beat, and Jay's too afraid to speak.

Heeseung returns with a towel and crouches beside you, wiping the mess from your stomach with slow, gentle strokes, his fingers grazing your skin with something between affection and possession.

"You okay, baby?" His voice is soft now, almost fond.

You hum, barely, too fucked out to answer, but that's all he needs. He drops the towel to the floor, and sits your body up so he can lift you into his arms. Your limbs instinctively wrap around him, arms around his neck and legs around his waist, your eyes closing slowly as you bury your face against his neck.

Heeseung doesn't even look at Jay, but what was he expecting? A conversation right after? He just shifts you in his grip, one hand steadying your thigh, the other curling protectively around your back, and heads for the stairs.

Before he disappears up them, Heeseung pauses to glance back just once.

"See you later, Jay."

Then he's gone, carrying you upstairs with the same calm he'd displayed the whole time, leaving Jay alone, breathless in the sun filled room. Alone with his thoughts and the echo of your moans.

Heeseung didn't cut corners.

Jay should've known that, but seeing the candlelit restaurant he'd rented out, the long white linen table set with gold glassware and the curated meals being served  in front of him it hits him differently tonight.

Because this isn't for just anyone.

It's for you and Jay should've known Heeseung would go all out for your birthday.

But he didn't just plan a birthday dinner, he orchestrated an entire night with privates chefs, warm lighting and custom menus with your initials pressed into the paper. Even your friends look a little stunned when they walked in, whispering to each other with barely hidden smiles.

You look so happy right now, the dress you're wearing is soft and pale, sparkly enough to catch the glow of the light every time you move. It slips along your curves like it was stitched for your skin alone, delicate at the straps and hugging your waist in a way that makes Jay's breath catch, but not with lust or even longing. Just pure admiration.

You're beautiful and Heeseung is looking at you like he knows.

Jay watches the way Heeseung's hand never really leaves your body. Sometimes it's your lower back, sometimes your wrist as you pour wine, sometimes just the curve of your thigh beneath the table, but it's always there—quiet and assured.

Jake and Sunghoon are at the table, talking like usual. Jake's leaning back, talking to one of your friends to try and get with her—Jay guessed him and Sofi are over. While Sunghoon scrolls through something on his phone with a smirk. Neither of them had batted an eye when it became clear Jay and Heeseung stayed friends after everything. And if they did have something to say about it, they've kept it to themselves. They're just...the same, like nothing ever happened.

Jay's chest feels a little heavier tonight, though. As if he's holding a stone he doesn't quite know where to set down.

It's not regret.

That morning changed something. Not just between him and you, but also between him and Heeseung.

There isn't any bad blood or weird wedge. They still talk and laugh. They even went to the gym two days ago, but what really shocked Jay is that Heeseung hasn't brought it up since. In the three weeks since he fucked you on the couch with your fiancé watching, Heeseung hasn't spoken on it or even showed any signs of wanting to address it.

Jay has taken is as what it is—a one time thing, a single allowance and just something that will never happen again.

Heeseung didn't need to say that out loud. The next morning, after everything, all he said to Jay was, "You good?" and Jay nodded. That was it.

The unspoken boundary had rebuilt itself, gentle but final.

You're his.

And Jay is no longer pretending he wants anything else.

He takes another sip of wine, fingers loose around the stem. You're glowing in the candlelight, whispering something to your friend that makes you both giggle. He watches the way your earrings catch in your hair, how your smile crinkles the corners of your eyes.

Jay's not in love with you, he realizes that now. He was in love with the fantasy or the idea of you, the idea of the perfect girl who never belonged to him. The softness he thought he wanted, the sweetness he believed would complete him. But that day taught him something—he merely wanted you because he wasn't allowed to.

And now that he was give the opportunity, though once and fleetingly under someone else's rules, he knows now it's not what he needed.

Still, you were kind to him. Gentle, even in your submission and it'll stay with him but as a story instead of a scar.

Something only the three of you will ever fully understand.

Jay sets his glass down, leans back in his chair, and lets the music wash over him. He can now look at you not not feel that dull ache in his chest and you're radiant tonight—laughing too loud, leaning into Heeseung. There's something startlingly clean about how Jay feels watching you. What he feels most now is strangely peace.

He'd wanted you for so long in a way he never admitted, not even to himself. Although he remembers the weight of your hips from that day and the sound of your breath when you trembled.

It was the most intimate thing Jay had ever done, and somehow it wasn't even his. You still belonged to someone else, fully and without question.

Somehow...that made it all easier to let go.

He's not jealous now, watching you feed Heeseung a bite of cake. He's not bitter when you tilt your head just so, laughing at a joke no one else hears.

He got what he never thought he'd have, a glimpse and the man who gave it to him didn't punish him for it.

That might be the strangest part.

Jay shifts in his chair and picks at the condensation on his glass. The weight of what happened lives in him quietly, like a memory you don't touch too often and it doesn't even hurt.

He's not looking at you like he used to, that version of his wanting burned itself out, and something calmer has started to bloom in its place.

You're laughing at something one of your friends says when your eyes suddenly flick to his, the smile you give him is unexpected, it's soft and radiant like you don't even see a single shadow of the past when you look at him.

He smiles back with no tightness behind it or tension in his chest.

It's full of warmth, he's happy you're happy and happy that he somehow didn't lose Heeseung either. There was a window of time where he thought he might. That whatever happened that day would stain their friendship beyond repair, that it would wedge its way into every interaction until all they had left was silence.

Jay looks toward him now, watching the way Heeseung's fingers trace along the stem of his wine glass. His gaze hasn't left you for the past three minutes, and Jay leans over just enough to mutter with a teasing raise of his brow, "Don't you have a speech to make or something, lover boy?"

Heeseung blinks like he just woke up from a dream.

"Oh shit, right!" He clears his throat, but he's already smiling at only you.

"I had this whole speech written down," he starts, voice soft, "but then I looked at you just now and forgot all of it."

Jay chuckles as Heeseung stands abruptly, glass in hand, tapping it gently with a butter knife until the table quiets.

You turn toward him, blinking up with that same bashful joy that's been on your face all night, and Jay sees the way Heeseung softens when he looks at you, like everything else in the world dulls in comparison.

"I don't really like speeches," Heeseung says with a small smile, glancing around the table. "But I love her. So..." he rubs the back of his neck. "I usually just let my actions speak for me. But tonight's different."

He looks down at you then, his hand brushing your shoulder, and his tone dips into something so sincere it makes your heart skip.

"Because tonight is about you. And I just want to say...thank you. For loving me the way you do. For being patient when I'm difficult. For choosing me every single day even when I don't deserve it."

There's a hush at the table, and your throat tightens a little.

"You make my life better in every way. You're my best friend, my future, my reason to try harder. And if I'm lucky, like really lucky, you'll always let me love you the way you deserve."

You're already covering your face.

"Baby," he grins. "Don't cry yet. I haven't even said anything that sappy."

The table laughs gently, but Heeseung's eyes find yours again. "Some people," he continues more quietly now, "come into your life and make it louder. Crazier. More chaotic. You're not that person."

You smile, glass trembling just slightly in your hand.

"You made my life quieter. More peaceful. You made it make sense. I didn't know what that kind of love felt like until you."

Jay glances at you, sees your lip trembling, your friend patting your cheeks so your makeup won't smudge, and he can't help but grin.

Heeseung keeps going, voice glistening with emotion.

"You let me be soft. You let me be stupid in love. You let me fall apart sometimes and still believe I'm worthy of being yours."

He pauses, swallowing, blinking up toward the sky for a moment.

"So I wanted tonight to be perfect. Because that's what you've made every single day since you came into my life."

There's a pause before Heeseung lifts his glass of champagne.

"To the most beautiful girl in the world on her special day."

You're fully crying just glowing, quiet tears and trembling hands, the kind of joy that feels incredibly overwhelming. Your friends are clapping, laughing gently, someone's wiping their own eyes.

Jay claps too with pride and peace, because he means it, he raises his glass quietly and smiles, so full of gratitude that he was ever close enough to see what love like that looked like up close.

"But listen," he goes on, drawing everyone's attention in again, "as much as I love my fiancée..."

He pauses for a second and it makes you give him a suspicious squint.

"...I think I've finally reached my breaking point."

Mumbles starts to bubble around the table, but you groan cause you know what he's about to say.

"Heeseung—"

"I mean, there's only so many times one man can pretend not to notice curb rashes on every single one of his cars."

Your jaw drops. "I do not—!"

He shrugs innocently, sipping his drink and everyone is laughing now, you hide your face in your hands.

"So in honor of the love of my life, and her unique driving skills—" he glances toward the massive windows of the restaurant just as Jay can turn in the direction of Heeseung's gaze—a white Porsche rolls to a stop outside, shining under the valet lights with a huge cherry red bow on top.

Everyone gasps and phones come up immediately as your mouth falls open.

Heeseung holds your hands and bring you to your feet, holding you close as he brushes a kiss to the side of your head. "Happy birthday, baby."

He whispers against your cheek, really teasing,

"Dent this one all you want."

You laugh through your tears, wrapping your arms around him, completely overwhelmed. He pulls you into a hug as your friends cheer. Jake's already filming the moment while Sunghoon mutters "no way" and Jay grins.

"Oh my God! Let's go see it!" One of your friends squeals, pulling you from your hug with Heeseung and taking you outside.

Everyone rushes outside as chairs scrape against the wood floors, laughter bubbles up like champagne, feet shuffle, heels click but Jay doesn't move. He stays seated cause he just wants to stay in the moment

Through the tall windows, the camera and street lights flood in, your eyes are wide with your lips parted and your hands covering your mouth as you stare at the car where it's parked like a scene straight out of a commercial.

Your friends are squealing, pulling you forward and coaxing you to get in it. Jake's in awe and Sunghoon's filming it all.

Jay doesn't hear the footsteps that approach him but he feels the heavy presence immediately, that calm gravity Heeseung moves with, proving that he's never uncertain or shaken.

He stops beside Jay's chair and they both watch in silence for a second.

You're running your hands along the car door, laughing, solely illuminated under the street light. Heeseung watches you for a little longer before he glances at Jay.

When their eyes meet, there isn't any tension, but there's understanding. Heeseung holds his hand out and and Jay takes it immediately, their palms meet in a solid grip of some brotherly pull that's been theirs for years.

Heeseung leans in, voice just for Jay. "It's the least I could do, you know?"

Jay just watches him silently and Heeseung watches you. "...After all she's done for us."

Jay stills a little at that word. Us.

It hangs heavy, but not in a bad way cause it's just truth. The soft, solid truth of a shared memory, and a closed door.

Jay lets out a slow breath, eyes fixed on you in the distance, still being twirled by your friends in front of the car.

And he smiles. "Yeah, man," Jay says, his voice a little hoarse. "You did real good."

Heeseung just claps him once on the back, and heads out without another word.

Jay watches him go.

Watches the way you light up as soon as Heeseung steps into your eyesight. The way you run straight to him, not even thinking. He catches you, lifts you right off your feet, spinning you in a full circle while you squeal, your head tips back in laughter.

His hands are all over you as soon as he sets you down, in your hair, on your waist, cupping your face and he kisses you like no one else is even there.

Jay doesn't kid himself, he knows the car, the extravagant, gleaming car now parked outside with the ridiculous bow on it, isn't some twisted gift of gratitude. It's not Heeseung's way of thanking you for letting his best friend fuck you—far from it.

Jay knows Heeseung would've bought that car anyway.

It isn't a thank you. Jay interprets it as more of a promise or a reminder from Heeseung that you're his and that you always were.

Jay watches for a while, filled with peace and closure and maybe a little wonder. That's what love looks like, he thinks. That's what forever looks like.

"You're not gonna go see the car?"

Jay's head lifts at the sound of the curious voice, it cuts through the haze of his thoughts and pulls him back from where he'd been stuck watching Heeseung spin you around beneath the evening lights.

His eyes find the voice's source and for a second, he doesn't say anything.

Because she's absolutely stunning. Stunning in the sort of way that sneaks up on a person and crawls under their skin. Her features are soft, delicate almost, with wide dark eyes that study him openly from the far end of the table.

Jay blinks, then lets a slow grin pull at his lips, equally curios now.

"Nah, I've seen enough cars get gifted. You think I should go out and cry over it too? Maybe get inspired?"

She laughs, head tilting slightly with the sound and Jay watches the curve of her mouth, the soft flush to her cheeks. There's no awkwardness or pretense in her.

"Maybe," she says, eyes dancing. "Or maybe you just don't want to get up."

He leans back in his chair, still grinning with his eyes locked on hers now. "I swear I can't hear you that well from all the way over there." He pats the seat next to him purposefully. "Come closer. Help me decide if I'm just lazy."

There's a beat of charged silence but it fills with awareness instead of hesitation. Her gaze flicks to the empty chair, then back to him, and Jay watches as her lips curl into a knowing smile.

"Alright then," she murmurs, standing.

As she rounds the table toward him, Jay's heart kicks just slightly faster, not that he'd ever admit it.

For the first time in a long time, he's not thinking about you or comparing her to you. Like chasing the ghost of a moment that already passed.

She sits close enough now that Jay can see the delicate shimmer of gloss on her lips and the soft sweep of her lashes over her cheeks as she tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. Her perfume alone is distracting, but it's a distraction Jay welcomes.

"I'm Leseo, by the way," she says, offering her hand, and her voice is lighter now, but still holding that quiet self possession he's starting to memorize as her.

Jay takes her hand easily, warm skin against his, and says, "Jay." His thumb brushes her knuckles lightly, more out of habit than intent and he holds on just a beat longer than necessary.

"You a friend of the birthday girl?" he asks, tilting his chin in your direction where you're still outside, sat in the car now with Heeseung standing next to you by the open door.

Leseo nods. "Yeah, we've known each other for a while. College."

Jay hums, his grip still loose around her fingers.

"I'm one of Heeseung's friends," he adds with a lopsided smile. "Clearly."

She lifts a brow. "Oh, I know. Heeseung's friend."

Then her eyes dip to their hands and back up, playful amusement in her gaze.

"You gonna let go of my hand? Or do you this with every girl?"

Jay glances down and only now realizes he's still holding her hand in his.

And instead of letting go, he smirks and drops his gaze to their joined hands like he's just now considering it. "I could," he murmurs, voice smooth, eyes meeting hers. "But I don't want to."

He notices the corners of her lips twitch in response, a quiet breath of laughter escaping her nose as she doesn't pull away either.

This is already bordering on dangerous and it hasn't quite started.

You suddenly slip back into the room with a soft hum under your breath, muttering about lip gloss and pictures, digging in your purse distractedly as your heels click across the floor. "Where did I put—oh," you pause.

Your eyes lift and you freeze, lips parting a little. You eyes shift to Leseo's hand in Jay's, noting how close they are, how their heads are titled toward each other like their in some secret conversation with their faces too close and their smiles too flustered when they notice you standing there.

You whole face lights up. "No way..." you whisper, barely able to contain your grin, although you try.

But before you can say anything else, Heeseung appears in the doorway, eyes immediately seeking you out like always, cause to him you'd been gone for hours instead of seconds. His hand is already reaching for your waist.

But then his gaze lands on Jay and Leseo too.

Jay stiffens just slightly, glancing up to see Heeseung smirking too evilly, already opening his mouth to say something ridiculous, Jay is sure.

You spin on your heel, grabbing Heeseung by the lapels of his jacket. "Don't. Start." you hiss, laughing as you shove him back out of the room, both of you stumbling a little as he chuckles behind you, already peppering kisses to your cheek and neck to distract you. "Hee—! Stop, let's go!"

You can hear both Jay and Leseo laughing, trying to compose themselves but it's clearly the good type of flustered, the type that lingers like heat in your chest.

And just before the door shuts behind you again, Jay catches Heeseung pointing to his left hand, tapping his middle finger meaningfully with a big grin. Put a ring on it. Jay already knows and he rolls his eyes but with a grin of his own cause he's still holding Leseo's hand and her laugh is lingering in the air.

He can't stop looking at her, he exhales softly, glancing down at Leseo's hand still resting in his.

"You know," she says with a quieter voice, "I think our friends really love each other."

Jay looks through the glass at Heeseung cradling your face, kissing your forehead, and you smiling like there's no one else in the world.

"Yeah," he murmurs. "They really do."

Leseo shifts, her knee brushing thigh. "That what you want too?"

"Maybe," Jay says. His thumb brushes her knuckles.

"Maybe I just found it."

Leseo blushes, nearly beet red, as her lips tug into a soft smile. "I never even got to see the car."

Jay leans back slightly as his eyes gleam. "Wanna go see it now?" he asks. "I'll even open the door for you."

She laughs, standing slowly, hand still in his as he leads her to the door. Jay doesn't look back, at the last or all the could have beens.

And when Heeseung catches his eye through the glass when he almost reaches the door, he's grinning like he already knows, Jay just smiles back, lighter than he's felt in a long, long time.

He steps outside with Leseo, the cool night air wrapping around them and the low thrum of music still trailing from inside. For a moment, it feels like the world narrows to just them, but before he can say anything cheeky, you’re there reaching for Leseo and she beams, willingly releasing Jay's hand and letting you pull her into your circle of friends. She's swept away effortlessly, her laughter blending into the easy chaos of the small crowd.

A familiar presence falls into step beside him, silent at first and Jay doesn't have to look to know it's Heeseung.

Jay's eyes find you again, the way you tilt your head as Leseo excitedly tells you something, the easy way you reach for her hand and squeeze it. He wonders if you know how easy you make everything look, how effortless you make all of this seem.

"Didn't think I'd be into voyeurism." Heeseung speaks

Jay's head snaps toward him slightly, totally caught off guard. "What?"

Heeseung doesn't look at him cause he’s too busy staring at you.

"I've never been the type to want to watch," he says thoughtfully. "At least…not in person, you know?”

“But watching her...and you—it's different." His tone reflective. "It doesn't feel like watching, maybe more like seeing?"

Jay genuinely doesn't know how to respond, he feels like there’s a knot of confusion in his throat, he’s also just now realizing that this is the first time they've really talked about what happened or even what it meant.

But regardless, Heeseung doesn't press, he just stands beside him like normal

Jay breathes in deep, trying to find anything to say but there are too many thoughts and none of them fully settle into words.

"You wanna come back to our place tonight?" Heeseung's voice is so certain, like the question was inevitable.

Jay opens his mouth, but his gaze finds Leseo again. She's laughing at something you said, eyes bright, totally at ease. He hesitates, torn for a moment between whatever sense of normalcy he thought he had five minutes ago and this strange, magnetic pull he can't seem to resist.

"She knows," Heeseung says quietly, reading him all too easily. "Everything."

Jay stills. "And she's okay with it?"

Heeseung finally turns to look at him with a little mischievous gleamer in his eyes. "She could even…join?"

Jay's pulse stutters in shocking acceptance and anticipation. Because none of this feels wrong or even forced. And if he's being honest, the tension he might have expected...really never came, so he’s not mad or confused, he kind of just wants to see where this goes.

"Okay," Jay says finally. "Yeah. I'll come."

Heeseung nods once, and there's a flicker of something like arousal in his eyes. They fall into silence again, just watching you and Leseo, and when Jay’s eyes find Leseo’s, she’s already watching him.

She smiles so soft and knowing with a glint of excitement that has every last weight of doubt finally falling away from his body. It has him smiling back and wondering if he’ll be proposing to her nine months for now too, but that seems a bit farfetched for now, right?

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[paleunhee]

The baby that died..

PAIRING - CEO!Kim mingyu x reader!childhood bestfreind

Summary - mingyu saw her again after ten years—the girl who once laughed too loud, now quiet like winter; his childhood best friend, now a ghost of herself—so he stayed, and slowly, he began to draw stars around the scars he didn’t give her.

Genre: Angst ,grief, Healing ,Childhood friends to strangers to lovers·

Warnings: Miscarriage · Depression · Grief · PTSD-like symptoms · Mentions of car accident · Emotional trauma · Themes of loneliness, detachment, and recovery .

Author's Note (A/N): thank you so much for liking the first chapter so much , i am so grateful . i hope that you all like this chapter the same , and understand the pain and longing of it . hope you enjoy .

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chapter two

Sometimes I wonder if my heart remembers more than it should.

High school feels like a thousand years ago, like a life that belonged to someone else, but the softness he gave me — Mingyu — it still clings to the edges of my ribs. He let me be soft.

That’s the part I never forget. In a life where I was always being told to grow up, toughen up, do more, be more… he was the only place where I didn’t have to earn gentleness. He gave it freely.

He was warm. Brave in all the ways I was never allowed to be. I remember the time he yelled at my parents. No hesitation, no fear in his voice. He told them they were wrong — that I wasn’t theirs to control, to order around like some kind of puppet. I had never seen anyone do that before. Defend me like that. He didn’t care that he was just a teenage boy — he spoke like he was trying to unbreak me.

If I cried, he panicked. Not in an uncomfortable way. In the way someone panics when something precious gets scratched. He once told me if stealing stars from the sky would make me smile, he’d do it without blinking. God, I didn’t believe him… but I stopped crying anyway.

And I still think about it sometimes — how maybe, just maybe, if he had stayed… things would’ve turned out differently.

Maybe I wouldn’t have felt so alone.

Maybe I wouldn’t have become… this.

Because back then, when everything else was a disaster, he was the one thing that made sense. The only thing that felt like home. I was three years younger, but he never made me feel like I was just some silly kid following him around. He used to run from his class just to meet me at mine — said the walk home wasn’t the same without me. He looked at me like I held the sun in my hands. Like the sky would collapse if I ever stopped smiling.

I wish I could forget that look.

But I remember it every time I catch myself in a mirror and don’t recognize the face staring back.

And now… I don’t know if I want to see him again. Not because I don’t want to — God, I do. A part of me still aches to see the life I always believed he’d build. To see with my own eyes what I used to close mine and pray for. Mingyu smiling. Mingyu laughing. Mingyu getting everything he once whispered about under the stars with shaking hands and wild hope. He deserved all of it. Every dream. Every win. Every soft piece of happiness the world could offer. And somehow, knowing he might’ve found that — that he made it — it’s the one thing that still makes breathing feel a little less like drowning.

But I don’t want him to see me.

Because I’m not her anymore. Not the girl who used to throw rocks at his window just to say goodnight. Not the girl who used to run barefoot through the street to meet him, hair wild, eyes full of plans. I’m not even a full person anymore. I’m a memory folded in on itself. A shadow in a house too quiet. And he… He belongs to a world I don’t recognize now. One that’s full of light. And I’m scared that if he looks at me, he won’t see his childhood best friend. He’ll just see a stranger.

Or worse— He’ll see nothing at all.

I don’t remember being a child. Not really. Not in the way that matters. There are no warm memories to hold onto, no giggles under blanket forts or the soft lull of bedtime stories. Childhood, for me, was a performance. A constant rehearsal of perfection. Be good. Be quiet. Be better. My parents didn’t raise a daughter — they built a resume. I was a reflection of what they could show off at dinner parties, another trophy on their shelf of curated accomplishments.

And yet… in the middle of that cold, spotless house, where love was something to be earned, not given — he existed.

Mingyu.

He lived three houses down but somehow felt like my real home. He wasn’t like anyone else. His laugh was too loud, his dreams too big, and his hands always full of something he was building — a fort, a paper plane, a future. He had this sparkle, like life hadn’t taught him how cruel it could be yet. I used to watch him talk about wanting to see the world, about being someone, about making something that lasted. And his parents? God, they adored him. They believed in him. Encouraged him. Let him take up space.

It was like he was born to bloom, and I was born to stay small.

But he never made me feel small. He made me feel seen.

He used to sneak me out when I wasn’t allowed to breathe. Would tap on my window at midnight just to show me the stars. He used to say, “You’re allowed to want more, you know?” like wanting wasn’t a crime. I think, in some hidden way, I loved him even then. Or maybe I just loved how I felt when I was with him — free. Real. Human.

And then he got in. That scholarship. That dream school abroad.

I still remember his face, damp from tears, full of guilt and joy at once. He told me before he told anyone. His hands shook when he said it, like he was waiting for me to fall apart. But I didn’t. I smiled. I clapped. I told him he had to go. I made it sound brave — like I was proud — when really, I was dying inside.

Because I knew what was coming.

I knew what silence would feel like after him.

I knew that the only person who ever looked at me like I mattered… was about to leave.

And he did.

He promised he’d write. But he didn’t. Not really.

Life swallowed him whole, like it always does to people who are meant for more. And I was left behind in that same house, with the same people who only looked at me when I had something to offer. And when I didn’t… when I began to crumble… they called me lazy, ungrateful, dramatic.

“Other kids have it worse,” they said. “You have food on the table. Why are you always so sad?” As if sadness isn’t allowed unless you’re starving.

I was starving. Just not in ways they could see.

So, I stopped trying to explain. I just worked. Studied. Smiled. I became the good daughter again. The machine.

But machines break too. And one night… I just couldn’t take it anymore

So I drank. I wandered. I ended up with someone whose name I never asked. I didn’t care. I just wanted to feel something that wasn’t pain.

And then I missed my period.

And the lines were pink.

And my mother slapped me so hard my ears rang for days. She called me shameful, a stain, a mistake. She cried to her friends about how she raised a failure.

When I found out I was pregnant, I didn’t cry. I didn’t panic. I smiled. For the first time in forever, I felt like I was given something that was mine. Just mine. And when it came time to pick a name, I chose one that had part of him in it. Just a syllable. Just a whisper of "Gyu." I didn’t even think about it too hard. It just… felt right.

Stupid, right?

I told myself if my baby had even a piece of his name, maybe she’d be strong like him. Maybe I would be, too.

Maybe I could remember what it felt like to be the girl he believed in.

But names don’t keep people alive. do they ?

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Life in Seoul was different from the States. Louder, but maybe a little more peaceful in its own way—more familiar. It carried a kind of warmth, like a song you used to hum under your breath without even noticing. Mingyu sometimes thought it felt like nostalgia wrapped in sunlight. Like the kind of air that didn’t just fill your lungs—it hugged them.

And in this life, he had everything he once asked for.

He had the corner office. The skyline view. His own company. Stamped passports, photographs from rooftops in Portugal and rainy markets in Morocco. His dreams had grown and bloomed in real time. But no matter where he stood—whether it was under Tokyo’s neon haze or the Tuscan sun—his thoughts never really left the girl who used to wait for him under the gingko tree outside their school gates.

Y/N.

She was supposed to see all of it. That was always the plan. “This one next time—with her.” That’s what he’d think in every new city, every unfamiliar street, every postcard sky. He used to buy bracelets from each country. One for her, one for him. Wore his under his sleeve. Saved hers in a drawer. Someday, he’d find her. He was sure of it.

He tried. God, he tried.

He went back to her childhood house. A stranger lived there now—an old man who told him the family had moved years ago. Mingyu had smiled politely, but his heart dropped in his chest like a stone. He tried bookstores, rooftops, the beach where she once cried into his sweater when her dog died. He even showed up to a high school reunion once—awkward and overdressed—only to hear she’d shown up to one, years ago, and never again.

Maybe the universe was playing some cruel trick.

Maybe it was protecting them.

Eventually, he moved on, or tried to. Kept her safe in that quiet part of his chest where no one else could reach. He didn’t know what it was that made her stick so deeply in him. Was it love? Longing? Or just grief shaped like memory?

All he knew was—ten years later—he still couldn’t forget the way she used to laugh like summer tasted.

He tried to date, once or twice. Nice girls. Kind hearts. But every time they smiled, he found himself looking for her in their eyes. He hated himself for it. It wasn’t fair to them. So, he stopped.

He told himself he was content. Told himself he had peace. Told himself it was enough to be happy for her from afar, even if he never saw her again. But last week, in the bright artificial lights of a grocery store, the universe finally answered him.

There she was.

Ten years collapsed in one breath.

Her face was sharper now, quieter. But still hers. Still her. And for a second, he forgot the world. His heart beat so hard he thought the floor might tilt. He wanted to run to her. Wanted to pick her up like he used to, spin her in his arms and cry-laugh into her shoulder. Say, I found you, I found you, I found you.

But then he saw the child beside her. A toddler with sleepy eyes and soft fists clinging to the hem of her coat.

And Mingyu’s feet stopped moving.

Just like that, the warmth in his chest turned cold. He didn’t know why it stung so sharply. He should have been happy for her. A family. A child. The kind of love she always deserved. And yet, it felt like someone had closed a door he hadn’t even realized he was holding open.

She didn’t notice him. Not even when he called her name.

Not even when he stood right there.

She didn’t look at him like someone who had forgotten.

She looked like someone who had forgotten herself.

And maybe that was the part that broke him the most.

A week passed.

The grocery store encounter turned into a fog of “what ifs.” He told himself it was enough—that maybe seeing her happy, even from a distance, was the ending he needed.

But then… he saw her again.

It was late. He was leaving the office, caught in traffic near a small pharmacy on a side road. His driver slowed, and through the windshield, he saw her.

Same face. Same coat. Same… stillness.

But this time, there was no child beside her. Only a brown paper bag clutched in her hand and that same empty stare.

She looked… haunted.

Like someone barely breathing.

And before he could think, before he could weigh the logic of the moment, Mingyu threw open the car door and ran.

“Y/N!” he called, voice cracking across the dark street.

She didn’t turn. Didn’t flinch.

But this time… he was closer. Closer than he’d been in ten years. And this time, he wouldn’t let the moment slip.

“Y/N!” he called again, breathless now, something between a plea and a prayer.

She finally blinked. And for the first time in a decade— Her eyes met his.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶ ︶︶୨ ︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

You stared at him.

Eyes wide. Heart slamming. Breaths shallow.

For a second, it didn’t feel real—like your brain couldn’t compute the image in front of you. He looked… the same, yet older. More defined. Taller maybe. Tired maybe. Beautiful always. And it was him. Mingyu.

Your Mingyu.

Your feet refused to move. Your mouth refused to work. There was a thousand things you wanted to say—Where were you? I missed you. I’m not okay. Please don’t go again. But your throat tightened instead, burned like it had swallowed a star.

And then—God. You wanted to run. You wanted to hug him. You wanted to scream, "He's here!" to everyone on that street like some crazed woman begging the world to know joy still existed.

But instead, your knees weakened. Your vision blurred. Your breath caught like a fist in your lungs.

And a tear fell. Then another. And then suddenly, they all came crashing—falling like monsoon rain against a hollow rooftop, loud and sudden and merciless.

You were crying. Yes. You were crying.

You didn’t cry when your mother called you a disgrace. You didn’t cry when Mingyu left you behind with promises he didn’t even know he was breaking. You didn’t cry when you woke up in blood and silence and your baby girl wasn’t breathing.

But now? Now your whole body sobbed with grief. With longing. With the unbearable ache of everything you buried and everything you never said.

And he just stood there.

Looking at you like a man ready to fall on his knees if it would bring you back to life.

He didn’t know it—but you were dying long before this moment. And somehow, just by being here, he made you breathe again.

Before you could even think, your hand moved—pushed his shoulder. Not hard. Not cruel. But with everything you couldn’t say. Love. Anger. Grief. Pain that had no shape.

Then the other shoulder. And before you even realized it, you were in his arms.

You buried your face into his chest like it was your home. Like it was the only place your sadness didn’t feel shameful. And He held you like he was scared you'd break.

Like you were something divine and ancient, pulled from myths and prayers, and all he could do was hold tight enough to make sure you didn’t slip through his fingers again.

His arms wrapped around you like a promise. Firm. Warm. Familiar. So Mingyu.

And you let yourself stay there—breathing in that scent you didn’t know you remembered, feeling the weight of a thousand ghosts lift from your chest. You wept into his shirt until your sobs turned to soft, uneven breaths.

He didn’t rush you. He didn’t speak. He just held you like you mattered.

And when your tears dried up and you finally looked up at him, his gaze was already on you.

So close, you could see every detail of his face—the mole on his nose, the little crease that formed between his brows when he was overwhelmed.

He stared at you like you were a miracle. Like you were a story he never thought he’d read again.

Then finally, his voice, low and a little hoarse: “God… I thought I imagined you.”

You blinked, still stunned, eyes moist ,still catching up.

“I mean it. I looked for you. Everywhere. I even came back to your old place. Asked around. Went to that beach you always loved. I thought maybe I’d see you there, reading or just… being you.”

Your heart clenched at that. The way he said being you like it was some sacred thing.

“I missed you so much,” he said, his eyes flickering over your face like he was committing every feature to memory. “You just… disappeared.”

You didn’t say anything. Not yet. There was too much.

He smiled gently—uncertain, careful—like he didn’t know if he deserved to smile at you. “How have you been?” he asked. “I mean, really?”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came. You could lie. Say “I’ve been good.” But something about his eyes stopped you.

So instead, you said the only thing that came to mind. Something so soft, so simple it made his lip tremble.

“…Mingyu,” you whispered. “Oh, Mingyu… how have you been?”

He blinked like he hadn’t expected that. Like after everything—after disappearing, after leaving, after chasing his dreams—you’d still think of him first.

Of course you did. You always had. You didn’t know how not to.

He let out a shaky breath and gave a short, dry laugh. “You’re still the same. Still asking about me first.” His voice cracked a little. “I’ve been… alright. Busy. You know, life gets loud. But seeing you right now—” He paused. “It’s like everything got quiet again.”

You didn’t know what to say to that.

So you just looked at him.

And he looked at you.

There were oceans in between you. And years. And all the things you hadn’t told each other. But here he was, standing in front of you like a thread from your past had finally tugged hard enough to bring him back.

“I thought I lost you forever,” he said. “And I didn’t even know what that meant until now.”

You swallowed hard, quickly brushing under your eyes with your sleeve.

There were too many things you couldn’t tell him. About the baby. About the grief. About how close you came to not making it.

But instead, you offered a small smile. One that hurt to make.

“Well… you found me,” you whispered.

And he nodded, his expression soft, his eyes still dripping warmth like honey.

“Yeah,” he said. “I did.”

And for a second, standing there on the sidewalk with a bag of medicine in your hand and the past unraveling right in front of you

And for the first time in two months, breathing didn’t hurt.

For the first time, your chest didn’t feel like a graveyard of all the things you’d lost. You weren’t thinking about your dead baby. You weren’t drowning in the silence of your own empty soul.

Because standing there, with Mingyu in front of you, something inside you flickered— fragile, desperate, but alive.

Maybe it was foolish. Maybe it was just a moment. But for that one second… you felt grateful.

Grateful to feel anything other than grief. Grateful to remember that once, life had been more than pain. Grateful that he was still him.

And maybe, just maybe, seeing him made you want to try again. To live again. Even if it was only for a moment.

_________________________<3________________________________________________________________________________________________

next ch - soon..

thank you staying till the end , this chapter is for all of the ones those who are having hard time , who have lost somthing or themself . just know no matter how long is the night , morning always comes

☁️ 𐙚 . ˙ 𖧧 ₊ ˚ 🐇

[maikorian]

SORE IN ALL THE RIGHT PLACES      -      CLARK KENT

summary: what better way to make up to your girlfriend after wrecking her in bed than making her breakfast in the morning!

warning: implied smut, fluff

authors note: i wrote this half asleep at like 1 am so enjoy!

taglist: @karolamurdock @mollymal @yesshewrites1

word count: 1.7k

masterlist

When you wake up in bed alone, you can hear the distant sounds of sizzling from the kitchen. The sheets are tussled around you and barely covering your naked form. The sun is peeking through the sheer curtains that cover the windows.

The first thing that comes to mind when you wake up is that everything hurts.

And it's not the bad kind of hurting. It's the good kind. One that had your entire body trembling from how sore it was. Last night was blurry to say the least. You remember what led to your current predicament. A nice intimate candlelight dinner at home, drinking the cheap kind of wine that tastes somewhat mediocre and a drop dead gorgeous dress that had Clark salivating over you all night.

One tiny peak of the lace underneath the dress had Clark unraveling. He tossed you over the shoulder like you weighed nothing to him.  Clark was a hungry man last night. Eager to drink down your sweetness like a starved man. Then again he's always hungry for you.

He had you splayed out on the bed for hours. You can't even recount the amount of times you've spent crying out Clark's name as he ate you out without a care in the world. He didn't pay any attention when you tugged on his thick black locks of hair nor did he listen when you whimpered that you couldn't take it anymore. All his focus was on the golden honey  dripping between your legs.

He simply brushed off your words, mumbling something along the lines of “You can take it for me, baby. Just one more. I swear.” Clearly he didn't keep his promise. He didn't stop until your legs were shaking and your mind was gone. That's what he did to you with only his fucking tongue and fingers. They were absolutely soaked with your juices by the time he got up from his spot between your legs. Damn that inhuman stamina of his.

By the time Clark was lazily unbuckling his belt, you were all the way in cloud nine. “I'll take really good care of ya’, sunshine. m'gonna be so good for you. Please, sunshine.” That's what you faintly recount being whispered into your ear before Clark split you apart on his cock and battered your insides. Being the goody two shoes farmboy that he is, he makes sure you're okay with it of course. Making sure that you give him the full green light to continue his actions.

Hours drag on and you're filled to the absolute brim. Clark had your body contorted in more positions than you can count. Legs tossed over his shoulders, on your stomach, on your knees. The evidence of last night are soaked into the sheets. A part of the headboard is broken too. Clark must've gripped it too hard. Even some of the planks of the bed are broken. Great. More bed shopping. Another embarrassing walk to IKEA where you have to buy another ‘strong’ bed.

And that's at least everything that you can remember from last night.

Now, you're lying in bed weakly, every part of your body is sore and muscles aching. It felt so good yet so painful. The spot next to you is still somewhat warm. When you sit up, the sheets pool around your waist, revealing all the bites and bruises on your body. It's a good thing today is a Saturday because there is no way in hell you can cover up the lovebites littering your bare neck. No amount of foundation or concealer could hide it. In fact, you might end up finishing an entire bottle of foundation if you do.

You have lovebites all over your neck and collarbone. All of them ranging from shades of reds to blue to purple. Not only that, you had bruises that looked eerily similar to Clark's hands. At least they were on your hips and thighs. You wouldn't have to worry about covering those up.

Pushing the sheets to the side, you slipped on the closest piece of clothing to you. It just so happened to be one of Clarks shirts. The clearly oversized shirt on you dwarfed your frame. The hem reaching a little over your mid thigh. The fabric still  smelled like him. His cologne lingering on the article of clothing. It had a warm feeling fluttering in your chest.

You nearly fell from the bed if you didn't quickly grab onto the edge of the bed. Your legs were still undeniably shaking. It took you a few seconds to shake them back awake. God, he really did a number on you last night.

You stumbled up from the bed, using your surroundings as your crutch. There's music coming from the kitchen area. When you finally limp your way there, you found Clark standing in front of the stove. He's shirtless, only a loose pair of sweatpants covering his lower half. He has a frilly pink apron tied around him though. Adorable.

“Is that bacon I smell?” You mumbled, leaning against the kitchen doorway with a tired expression on your face. Clark perks up at the sound of your voice. “You have a sharp nose, sunshine. Made some pancakes for you too.” You push yourself off the wall, wrapping your arms around Clark's waist. Your hands tucked underneath his apron so you could feel his abdomen.

“Are you gonna continue to feel me up or are you gonna sit at the kitchen island while I make you my classic ‘I'm sorry’ breakfast?” Clark said while shooting you a cheeky grin. “Mhm, it's payback for last night. You did the same thing to me while I was cooking dinner.” Your words were slightly muffled since you had your face pressed into his back. He was so warm. A dream during the winter but an absolute nightmare when summer rears its ugly head. Your own human furnace.

“No I didn't. I just gave you some kisses.”

“You had your hands up my dress.”

“I was only checking the material.”

Clark's weak lies had you rolling your eyes but in a more endearing way. He couldn't keep his hands off you sometimes. “Oh, is that so? And how'd it feel?” Setting the nicely cooked bacon to the side that was extra crispy, Clark turned his body to face yours. “Material felt nice. But what was underneath it felt even better.” His voice was low, his tone causing deep vibrations to thrum along his chest. Fuck, hes hot.

He moved his hands to rest on your hips. The tips of his fingers barely grazing the hem of your (his) shirt.

“How ya holdin’ up, sunshine?” He softly muttered. “m'good, just a lil sore.” You were more than just a ‘little’ sore but you didn't want to make Clark feel guilty. In the corner of your eyes, you spotted the stack of nearly made blueberry pancakes. “You tryna make up for last night by spoiling me?” Clark chuckled softly at you. “Mhm, thats the plan. Is it working?”

You stand on your tippy toes to reach out and give him a peck on the lips. “Hmm, if it tastes good then maybe I'll forgive you.” A soft whine slips from his lips. He's pushing you back against the kitchen island. “Only a maybe? what's a guy gotta do for more than that?” He whispered softly. His hands slip under your shirt. His large rough hands feeling up the smooth skin of your thighs. It's taking everything in him not to get down on his knees again.

“A back massage or a nice hot bath. No messing around though.” Clark presses another kiss to your lips. “I can do both for you. It's a shame that we can't mess around. It's the best part.” Clark pulls away slightly to get a good look at your face. He still remembers the way your face contorted when he pressed on your sweet spot. So needy and wanting for him.

“We'll see. Pancakes first then bath time.” You sneakily grabbed a fork and took a bite of the pancakes. You moaned at the soft and fluffy taste. “God, these are amazing Clark. How the hell do you make em’ taste so good?” You muttered while taking another big bite of it. They're melting in your mouth. It tastes like heaven to you.

Clark basically glows at your praise. When it came to making breakfast, he's mastered all of it. “Ah, just some practice and love.” You couldn't help but snort a little. “You sound like my grandma.” You pointed out. “Am I at least a handsome grandma?” You tilt your head up to face Clark. Just like how your grandma would do it, you painfully pinched his cheeks. “Yeah, you're the handsomest grandma in the world.” You teased.

The smile on his face widened at your casual teasing. “You bet your ass I am.” He murmurs before leaning in for another kiss. Clark doesn’t stop at only one kiss. He has your body pinned between him and the kitchen island, leaving no room for you to escape. Not like you even care. Not when you have Clark's lips on yours.

Your arms wrapped loosely around his neck as Clark lazily makes out with you. His tongue swipes along your bottom lip, silently asking permission for more. You relent, parting your lips for him as he kisses you harder. “Is this part of your apology as well?” You mumbled in between kisses. “Is it working?” Clark grins, his hands easily lifting you onto the counter.

“A little.” Clark stands in between your legs. Hands resting on your waist comfortably. His kisses are heavy and ever consuming. It's the type of kiss that makes everything in your head fly away and leaves you forgetting your own name.

You know exactly where this is leading. His movements are more relaxed. Confident. His hand goes further up your. Exploring every inch of skin that you have to offer. “Fuck– Clark~ I'm still sore.” You whined, pulling away only to be dragged back into another kiss. You can't even fight back against it because of how good it feels.

“One round. I promise- Mh-” He's lying straight up to your face. One round to him means more than three. “I'll be really gentle, jus’ need another taste of you. Please, baby. Golly– I can smell ya’” Clark whines. You don't have the start to stop him when he pushes you flat on your back on the counter. You spot that glint of hunger behind his eyes and he's definitely not hungry for food right now.

He moves your legs with ease. Unwrapping your legs from around his waist and hooking them over his shoulders. “jus’ lay back, baby. All you gotta do is relax.” Now what kind of person would you be if you said no to that?

[miley1442111]

gone - m.robinavitch

summary: 4 months after the mass casualty and the incident that ended with your estrangement to your brother dr. robinavitch, you're finally on your last day. a surprise visit from gloria means everyone finds out and a certain doctor has to pull you outside for a chat.

pairing: michael robinavitch x sister! fem! doctor! reader (probs late twenties/ early thirties), little bit of jack abbot x reader at the end... ;)

warnings: general pitt themes, mentions of suicide, couples arguing, robby gets real mean, reader gets lowkey depressed... (everyone lives dw)

a/n: yall lmk if you want a part two that is full abbot x reader... ;) banners from my good friend @no-144444 !

The Pitt was quiet. Not in the sense that patients weren’t coming at you every five seconds. No. The people were quiet, your people. Dana had that pitying look as you walked in, a bag slung over your shoulder with Dr. Jack Abbot to your left, ready for your first night shift. Yes, you’d changed. No, you didn’t care what he had to say about it. Abbot was explaining the mechanism of some random procedure that he’d done the other day, one you’d shown interest in. You were listening, just not as hard as you possibly should’ve been. You were on edge. You didn’t want to see him, not one bit. But he was always around, always putting out a fire, always fixing something for someone else. Knowing your luck, he was probably pulling a double. 

“He’s getting some air,” Dana rolled her eyes, but that sense of concern never left her voice. She didn’t agree with what he’d done to you, but she still cared about him. “Said he didn’t want any visitors.” She sighed and shrugged. Jack let out a breath, shaking his head. You knew they were conflicted, fuck, everyone was. It was a war with sides, and it seemed not everyone had chosen yet. You let out a breath. You’re making this easier for everyone, you reminded yourself. One more shift. Jack gave you that pitying look, the one you'd seen from him a thousand times. He was the only one you’d told. He’d tried to convince you that staying would be worth it, but nothing could. You’d made your mind up and handed in your notice two weeks ago. You had an offer from another hospital, 40 minutes away from the PMTC, and you’d taken it. Not because you particularly wanted to, but more because you couldn’t take the pitying glances, awkward tension, and general shittiness of one attending doctor. It’s not like he would notice you were leaving, right? He probably would thank you for just doing the right thing and getting out of his hair. 

His shift had been torture. Everyone had something to say about you. You were doing well. You had saved x number of people’s lives that day. You had changed to nights and they missed you. He was fucked up for what he said. It made his head hurt and that little hole in his chest where you used to reside, bleed. Fuck, he missed you. His little sister, his fucking everything. He’d sworn to your parents, sworn he’d take care of you. And he fucked it up. The Pitt was torture without your bright smile around the place. Everyone either hated him, or kept him at arm’s length, and he couldn’t blame them. He’d lost it at you, in front of everyone. He wasn’t so surprised that you’d changed to nights, going over his head and straight to Gloria. She’d been happy to make the switch and hand Robby over some more students that he had to take care of. The night shift had gotten the better end of the deal, the best resident the entire building had seen in years. High patient satisfaction rates, high patient turnover rates, and popular with co-workers. You were the best. He’d let you slip through his fingers, and he had no one to blame but himself. Well, kind of Frank too. 

The roof was quiet. It always was. The air was unnecessarily crisp. He would go home, but then he’d be faced with every memory of you in his kitchen, in his bedroom, in his living room. That stupid photobooth photo strip on the fridge. Those fucking mugs you’d made together in the damn pottery class. He knew he’d have to just grow up and throw the stuff out at some point, but he didn’t want to lose those memories of you just yet. The way your nose scrunched when you laughed at his terrible art skills. The way you hugged him in the photobooth. The way you’d cheer and dance when you’d win in cards in his living room.

“Somethings going on with her,” Collins announced as she walked up beside him, staying on the safe side of the rail. “Jack knows what it is but won’t tell-”

“Shouldn’t you have left already?” he scoffed, his gruff voice lower than normal. She chuckled. He always had that tell. The defensiveness. The low voice. The silence. 

“Shouldn’t you?” she mused. He knew him. He’d dated him. He’d seen all the parts of him she was sure he’d tried to hide from you so he could play the big brother character to the best of his abilities, but you had a way of eroding people's fears of rejection and pulling their trauma out of them. She knew he could fly off the handle and get a little mad, but never thought him capable of what he’d said and done. “She’s already here and she’s getting to work. You could catch a glimpse if you go by the trauma rooms.” She shrugged. 

He shrugged, coming back over the barrier. “I don’t want to see her.” Lie. He wanted to see you more than anything. He wanted to talk to you. He wanted to apologise and try to make things better. He wanted to make you understand what was going through his head. He wouldn’t though, not after what he’d said. 

She scoffed. “Sure, you don’t want to see her,” sarcasm dripped from her words like honey. “You’re such a shit liar.”

He shook his head, pressing the button for the bottom floor. He hated when people could see through his bullshit. He’d lived a life of covering up his own feelings, and you were really the only person he felt comfortable being vulnerable with. You had shared history, shared fucking trauma from gorwing up in that godforsaken house together. Every time he saw you, he saw that little girl with pigtails and a toothy smile and he wanted to throw up. 

The Pitt was alive, even at night. Shen sipped his coffee obnoxiously, Abbot was constantly running back and forth between patients, Ellis was already mad from being the sacrificial lamb for whatever drunk patients had already sauntered in and vomited on her shoes, you were already focused on patients, helping out where you could and taking a breath whenever you had time. Robby lingered around the nurse’s station, trying to look busy when he was really just watching you read over charts. Dana rolled her eyes. 

“Dr. Robinavitch,” Gloria’s voice rang out over your shoulder and you jumped. She chuckled and clapped a hand on your shoulder. “Thank you for everything you’ve done for us here at PMTC, we wish we could keep you but you’re moving onwards to greener pastures, I don’t blame you,” she nudged you in the ribs. “Hand in your pass and locker combination to your attending at the end of your shift, yeah?” And she disappeared, leaving you with the biggest mess of all time. 

For just a second, you thought no one had heard. You thought maybe you could get away without the sad goodbyes and angry questions of why. Then everything erupted. Dana, Santos, Whitaker, Mohan, and Collins ran over, demanding a reason. You didn’t have a good one to give, other than the man standing 3 feet away from you with his head in his hands like your father used to do. More people swarmed around you, Shen and Ellis confused but intrigued as to why they were losing their newest and best resident. Panic rose in your chest and you really didn’t know what to say to their thousands of rational questions. Maybe you were being too rash. Maybe you were taking this all too seriously. Maybe this was all your own fault- 

A hand pulled you out of their circle and into the ambulance bay, the sun long since set. You barely caught a glimpse of your saviour until you realised who it was. 

You were face to face with Michael Robinavitch once again. Your stomach turned. You wanted to run away somehow, maybe take your chances with the hoard of angry co-workers inside, but something glued your feet to the floor and made your legs feel like lead. You just stared. He just stared. 

You’d been in a very similar position 4 months ago. 

The air smelt like blood and it turned your stomach. Mass casualties were always the most difficult to get through, but this had been hell on earth served to the Pitt on a silver platter. Finally you’d stepped outside, out of your fucking scrubs, out of your blood-soaked shoes, out of that hell-hole. Maybe you’d walk back to Robby’s place and start on some dinner for the two of you. Maybe you’d actually go back to your own apartment and get some laundry done. Maybe you’d go for a beer with the team. 

“We’re grabbing a beer if you want one?” Mateo offered, handing over a beer. You followed, your eyes on Robby. He had the soft, faraway look that often made you nervous, but right now you knew what it was about. The deaths. The expectations. The hurt and pain in that emergency department. 

You sat next to him and tried to push up to his side, resting your head on his shoulder. Keyword, tried. He brushed you off like you were on fire. You cleared your throat, trying to dispel the clear confusion on Abbot and McKay’s face. You leaned away, giving him some room. 

“Just fuck off,” he practically spat. Your heart dropped into your stomach and everything stopped. He looked around at the confused faces and let out one of those twisted chuckles, the ones that made bile rise in your throat. He always did this before a fight, this disappearing act with his emotions, until they became unbearable and he just had to shout them at you. Just like your mom. “Waste of fucking space human being.” 

Protests fell from almost everyone’s lips as he shook his head, that twisted laughter falling from his lips as you just watched him, hyperaware of every little movement and sound he made. He wasn’t just being mean, he was being awful. He wanted to hurt you for no good reason, and you’d be damned if you let that happen. You stood and left your beer on the bench, grabbing your bag and walking back over to the ambulance entrance and towards the staff car park. 

His laugh followed you, still wrong, still missing any of the warmth that reminded you of home. “Yeah exactly, walk away!” he shouted, and you stopped in your tracks. You whipped around, a finger pointed at him. “Oh, here she is!” he announced, that self-righteous smirk on his lips. 

“If you just wanted a rise out of me, you’ve got it. Stop making a scene at work,” you demanded, your voice curt and sharp. You couldn’t do this right now, not without falling to pieces. He rolled his eyes. “Seriously Mike, don’t do this right now.” 

He nodded, that condescending tone dripping from his words as he spoke, like he always knew better. “You’re a fucking bad sister and I should’ve never trusted you. You’re a waste of space with a loud mouth and a killer poker face. Congratulations, you saw me fall apart, you made me trust you with my emotions, and now it doesn’t matter because you’re just another cog in the fucking gossip mill. I thought you were better than that. I thought you were worth more than that. I guess I was wrong,” he shrugged, burying his hands in his pockets. “I’m done. I want you to get the fuck out of my life.” Abbot tried to put a hand on his shoulder, but he brushed it off. Robby had that sick smile on his lips. You felt like you were going to be sick. You felt 9 years old again after he’d missed his baseball game to pick you up from school because you were sick. 

You stared at him, eyes wide with tears dripping silently down your cheeks. “Mike, w-what-?” you could barely get a word out before he continued, and you looked at the faces of your friends. Fearful, shocked, disgusted. You didn’t know if it was for you or Mike. 

“You’re such a fucking liar, and of course, I believed it. I trusted you and you broke that trust, so I am so fucking disinterested in trying to pretend that you’re anything other than a deeply boring, deeply annoying person, with a propensity to seek validation from your superiors and peers too much. No one at the Pitt even liked you before they found out you were my sister, you know that right? You wouldn’t have even got the job if it weren’t for me,” he scoffed, then something dawned on him, and you felt that bile rise in your throat again. “This is what it’s about? Isn’t it? You just used me to get in on things and you’re so fucking scared of losing your new ‘friends’ that you’ll break all of our trust? Just like that? Fuck, have you no backbone?” He was just being cruel now, taking your biggest insecurity and throwing it in your face in front of everyone. Your fear of rejection. Your fear of being disliked and put into a box before you could explain yourself. “No wonder Miriam hates you.” 

You let out an unintentional sob at that. The hardest thing you’d ever been through, the worst night of your life. You called the cops on your sister and ran for 20 minutes to get to her when you thought she was suicidal. You’d done everything. You’d saved her life. You’d gotten there just in time, you’d kept her alive for the paramedics. She hated that her attempt had been foiled. She hated you for it. 

But she had kids now. She had a job she loved. She had a wife she loved. Yeah, maybe you were watching from the outside, but at least you were watching. At least she was alive. 

And of course he had to throw it in your face. Of course he had to hurt you with the one thing he knew would crumble you. 

You did. You crumbled. You sobbed into your hand as you walked away from the man that was supposed to love and care for you like he’d promised, and he looked at you like you were shit on his shoe, or less than that. 

You blinked back those memories and stared at him. He’d found out a day later that it had been a senior nurse who’d seen him have his breakdown in peds with Whitaker, that she’d spread it and Langdon had overheard and used it against him. You hadn’t even known. You hadn’t even known. It cut into him every time he remembered what he’d said, what he’d used against you, how he’d hurt you. It twisted his gut in a way he was unused to. He hated himself for hurting you in the way he did. He saw how you became more reserved, how you fell silent even when he wasn’t there, how that spark in your eyes that he’d fallen for, had somehow dissipated and been replaced by something hollower. Something less. 

“You’re leaving?” he asked softly, already blinking back tears. His voice was so different that it had been that night. “Y/n, you’re leaving?” he asked again, taking a tentative step towards you. You took one back, nodding your head. His heart broke again, he’d lost track of how many times. 

You let out a breath. “I’m just making trouble here, I just… I wanted to get out of everyone’s hair. You were right.” You admitted, your hands falling to play with the edge of your scrubs. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. You didn’t want to. You weren’t interested in seeing the fucking pride on his face when he realised he had finally driven you out. 

If you’d looked up you would’ve seen a broken man. You would’ve seen the tears in his eyes and the tension in his shoulders. You would’ve seen the regret. “Y/n,” he breathed out, soft and light, almost like a prayer. “I am so sorry for what I said,” he let out a breath. “And what I did, and how I did it, and everything else. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I believed Frank. I’m sorry I came after you in front of everyone. I’m sorry I said I was done, I’m not.I’m your brother and I shouldn’t have treated you like that and I know this isn’t good enough but I want you to hear it so you don’t think I hate you or something. I don’t. I miss you. I love yo-”

“Shut up,” you sighed. “Just shut up. You’ve said your piece Dr. Robinavitch, just let me leave with part of my dignity intact,” you scoffed, rolling your eyes. Your pain had turned into something else entirely in a matter of seconds. Bitterness. He didn’t get to stand there and whine about how much he misses you when he had psychologically ripped you apart in front of everyone 4 months ago, over something a literal drug addict told him. You swallowed down the venom you were ready to spit up and took a deep, calming breath. “Have a good life, Dr. Robinavitch, I hope it was all worth it.” 

And you walked back inside, ignoring the gaggle of people and their questions, ignoring the way patients looked at you like they knew what was going on, ignoring the idea of him. 

Abbot showed up at your side during a trauma, a 16 year old kid with a broken leg, arm, a bleeding head wound and, possibly a brain bleed, he was clearly a possible attempt victim. You were busy calling the shots, your hands working furiously over the kid, when a hand on the small of your back pulled you from your thoughts for a split second. A subtle ‘I’m here’ from him, reminding you to breathe, reminding you that caring is good, reminding you that it wasn’t her.

One more shift. One more shift and you’d be in a different hospital with different doctors and different patients.  No Abbot, but no Robby either. Surely that tradeoff could work? You and Abbot were close, of course, but… you wouldn’t stay just for him. Just for those lunchroom coffees and vending machine snacks. Just for those small smiles from across crowded trauma rooms. Just for these small moments when he reminds you that even in the midst of a code that hits too close to home and an emergency department divided, there was someone who was there for you, someone who cared.

the pitt masterlist

navigation for my blog

[dontrllycaretbh]

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Title: Crosscourt pt.3

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

Warnings: Dissociation, Identity, Imposter, Gaslighting, Emotional-distress, Crying, Self-loathing, Anxiety, Alienation, Loneliness, Memory-loss, Displacement

Summary: Quietly unraveling, Azzi begins following old UCLA teammates online. When Kiki and Charisma DM her, something in her shifts. She misses who she used to be. So when Kiki invites her to a UCLA party, Azzi goes—without telling Paige. The fallout is explosive. KK’s furious. Caroline’s confused. Paige is hurt. Azzi can’t explain, so she stays silent. And when Paige asks what’s happening to her, Azzi still says nothing.

Notes:comment pls , i love talking to yall. also sorry if this sucks , i just wanted to post something for u guys so i didn’t really edit like i usually do w the text and all.

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No one could tell anything was wrong. That was the worst part.

At UConn, Azzi Fudd was exactly who she was supposed to be: composed, elite, in love. She was Paige Bueckers’ girlfriend. UConn’s reliable sharpshooter. The face of the program next to the most beloved player in college basketball.

She hit her shots. She smiled in interviews. She laughed when Ice clowned her and let Caroline braid her hair while they watched film. She even kissed Paige back when she leaned over during stretches and whispered something dumb and sweet.

But none of it felt like hers.

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The first time Azzi let herself think about it, really think about it, was in the training room. The buzzy heat pads were on her quads, and she had ten minutes to sit there doing nothing. Paige was at treatment across campus. KK was in the locker room talking to Ice.

But some nights — when Paige was out with Ice or when Caroline was asleep across the hall — she pulled her laptop onto her bed, turned the brightness down, and typed with shaking fingers:

“UCLA women’s basketball 2025.”

“Pac-12 standings.”

“Kiki Hayes highlights.”

“Charisma Jackson postgame.”

She watched the same reel of Kiki hitting a dagger three and dancing back on defense about eight times. Not because it was amazing — though it kind of was — but because it felt like proof that the old world had existed.

@kikihayes_

Still there. Still at UCLA.

She hovered for a full minute before she tapped Follow. Then quickly locked her phone like it might explode.

She did the same with @charismaxjackson two days later. Just to see. Just to feel something real.

She didn’t expect either of them to notice. Or care.

But they did.

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Two days later, it started.

@kikihayes_

“yo… you just followed me?? 👀”

“u good?”

Azzi nearly dropped her phone.

She sat there for a minute. Heart pounding. Then typed back, casual:

Azzi: lol yeah

Azzi: just saw a clip of you the other day

Azzi: still cooking huh 😭

Kiki: always lol

Kiki: wait fr tho didn’t think u even remembered me 😭

Kiki: we barely talked even back then

Azzi: i remember

Azzi: you were funny as hell

Azzi: and you cooked me once in practice and never shut up about it

Kiki: LMAOOO i did tho

Kiki: wait… u in cali rn?

Azzi: nah not rn

Azzi: just… miss the vibe i guess

Azzi: y’all always looked like y’all were having fun

Typing bubble.

Kiki: we got a party this weekend

Kiki: westwood house

Kiki: nothing crazy

Kiki: u should come if ur ever in LA 👀

Azzi stared at it.

She didn’t say yes. Not yet. But she screenshotted it and saved the address.

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The next day, Charisma DM’d her too.

@charismaxjackson

“you following me was not on my 2025 bingo card 😂”

“what’s up fudd”

Azzi: nothing just checking in on old enemies 😭

Azzi: congrats on that last game btw you ate

Charisma: wow i’m flattered

Charisma: didn’t think u remembered i existed

Azzi: i remember everything

Azzi paused. Deleted that last line.

Rewrote:

Azzi: nah you were always a problem on defense

Azzi: hard to forget

Charisma: good answer

Charisma: u ever come back to LA? 👀

Azzi: maybe soon

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Later That Night – UConn Dorm

The room was quiet. Paige was brushing her teeth. The purple one. Always Paige’s favorite.

Azzi sat at her desk, staring at her phone. Kiki’s invite. Charisma’s messages. The flyer from that Westwood party sitting deep in her saved folder.

Something in her cracked.

She grabbed her old UCLA duffel from the closet. The one no one ever asked about. Stuffed it with clean clothes. Her beat-up Bruins hoodie that still fit like home.

She left her phone unlocked, in case anyone texted. But no one did.

Before she walked out the door, she glanced once at the photo of her and Paige on the desk.

She didn’t feel anything.

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The Uber dropped her two blocks away.

Azzi’s hoodie was pulled tight over her braids, the strings clenched in her fists like a shield. Her breath fogged in the cool Westwood night. The beat of bass-heavy music rumbled in the distance, somewhere up the hill. She could hear laughter spilling out into the streets — girls yelling, bottles clinking, shoes hitting pavement.

For a moment, she hesitated on the sidewalk.

Was she really doing this?

This wasn’t her life anymore. These weren’t her teammates. But her legs moved anyway. Like they remembered something her brain wouldn’t let her name.

The house glowed in pink lights, the windows wide open with silhouettes dancing inside. Azzi took a breath. Then walked in.

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The music hit like a wave. There were bodies everywhere — in the kitchen, slouched on couches, dancing on hardwood floors. Someone handed her a cup without asking. She took it, grateful.

And then —

“Yo… no way.”

She turned.

Kiki.

Dressed in all-black, gold earrings catching the light. Her smile hit like sunlight — crooked, curious, just a little surprised.

“You actually came?” Kiki grinned, grabbing Azzi’s wrist. “What are you doing here?”

Azzi laughed, nerves cracking like glass. “Told you I might be around.”

“Bruh, you’re wild,” Kiki said, pulling her in for a hug. “Come meet the girls.”

She dragged her across the room, past spilled drinks and thumping speakers. The UCLA team was huddled in the back — couches, chairs, someone’s lap. Charisma looked up, wide-eyed.

“Okay hold up — Azzi Fudd??”

Azzi gave a small wave. “Hi.”

“Damn, you’re taller in person,” Charisma said, standing up and giving her a once-over. “Didn’t think you had a party bone in your body.”

“She’s mysterious like that,” Kiki teased, handing her a slice of lime from someone’s drink. “Wanna do a shot?”

Azzi blinked. “Uh—”

“Too late,” Kiki said, tipping it into her cup. “Welcome to Westwood.”

And for the first time in weeks, Azzi smiled for real.

She was laughing. Like full-on, doubled over, breathless laughing.

Charisma had just told a story about locking a coach out of the gym and blaming it on a freshman, and Azzi couldn’t breathe. The music had shifted into old-school R&B. People were dancing. She was swaying a little herself, cup in hand, curls loose around her face.

Kiki was next to her, arm slung casually around her waist. “You look relaxed,” she said, nudging Azzi’s ribs.

“I think I forgot how to feel this way,” Azzi admitted softly.

Kiki didn’t push. Just clinked their cups together. “Cheers to remembering.”

And then—

The front door slammed.

“AZZI!”

The whole room froze.

Standing at the doorway, jaw clenched and chest rising, was Paige.

Behind her: KK, eyes burning. Ice, arms folded tight. And Caroline, looking somewhere between confused and horrified.

Azzi’s stomach plummeted.

Paige’s eyes scanned the room — landed on Azzi, still holding her drink, Kiki’s hand still on her back.

“Oh,” Paige said. “So this is what you’ve been up to.”

Azzi set her cup down. Calmly. Quietly.

“Paige—”

“You lied to me.”

“I didn’t—”

“You left in the middle of the night and didn’t say a word!”

KK stepped forward, heat in her voice. “You dipped on your team.”

“You been sneaking around, texting people who don’t even know you like that?” KK barked. “Why the hell are you even here?”

Charisma stood up, frowning. “Yo, chill. She’s literally not bothering anyone.”

“She doesn’t even go here,” KK snapped.

“Neither do y’all,” Kiki muttered.

Caroline stepped between them. “Okay, okay, can we all slow down?”

“She’s not supposed to be here,” Paige said, more to Azzi than anyone else. “You’re mine. We—this—none of it makes sense!”

Azzi’s hands were shaking now. But she didn’t back down.

“I’m not a possession, Paige.”

Paige blinked. The room stilled.

“I never said you were.”

“You just act like it,” Azzi said, voice steady. “Every time I try to breathe, you’re watching. Every time I try to feel something that’s not UConn-approved, you freak out.”

KK rolled her eyes. “It’s not about that. It’s about loyalty.”

“I’m loyal,” Azzi snapped. “I show up to practice. I kill myself in the gym. I do the interviews. I smile, I hold her hand under the table, smile like I mean it, and pretend we’re just two teammates who are close — even when I feel like I’m disappearing into someone I don’t recognize.”

Kiki and Charisma shared a quiet glance.

“And y’all are mad,” Azzi continued, “because I wanted one night to be around people who don’t look at me like I owe them something.”

The silence buzzed.

Caroline finally stepped forward. “Azzi,” she said gently. “What’s going on?”

Azzi looked at her. And she almost said it.

Almost.

But instead, she just said: “Nothing. I just wanted to feel like myself for a second.”

Paige’s voice was raw now. “And I don’t make you feel that way?”

Azzi met her eyes. And didn’t answer.

Kiki’s arm was still lightly resting around Azzi’s waist, but now her touch was more defensive. Protective.

Charisma shifted next to her, one brow raised, lips pressed in a thin line.

Paige’s eyes didn’t move. Her voice, when it came, was low — too calm.

“You ghosted me.”

“I didn’t—”

“You left. Without saying a word. I woke up and your bed was cold.”

Azzi swallowed. Her voice came out softer than she wanted.

“I needed some space.”

“Space?” Paige repeated, like the word offended her. “You mean you needed to lie?”

KK cut in, voice sharp and unrelenting.

“You’re out here partying with people who don’t even know you? While we’re at home trying to figure out if you’re okay?”

Azzi’s shoulders tensed. “I didn’t ask you to follow me.”

“Oh, so now it’s our fault for caring?” KK snapped. “You think you’re too good for us now? Too good for UConn?”

“I didn’t say that—”

“But that’s what you meant,” KK barked. “You’re chasing people who don’t know you. Don’t even like you like that.”

Kiki’s voice sliced through the tension.

“First off,” she said slowly, “maybe don’t speak for us.”

The room felt like it shifted. Paige’s jaw tightened. KK looked ready to pop.

Azzi felt her pulse racing under her skin. Too fast. Too much.

Kiki looked down at her, voice low, firm. “You okay?”

Azzi nodded once, but her hands were shaking.

Paige finally broke the silence again.

“What is this?” Her voice cracked — not angry, but something deeper. “Why are you doing this to me?”

Azzi’s throat caught.

“I’m not doing anything to you.”

“You disappeared,” Paige said, stepping closer. “You changed. You’ve been quiet, distant, always in your head. You started following people you never talked about before. KK saw it. Ice saw it. I saw it.”

“And instead of asking me,” Azzi said, voice shaking now, “you pulled up with backup. Like I’m your enemy.”

Paige flinched. “You’re not my enemy.”

“Then stop treating me like one.”

KK let out a sharp exhale, stepping in. “You know what? Maybe we’re just done playing around. You’re either with us, or you’re not.”

Caroline finally spoke up, stepping in between everyone.

“Okay, wait—hold on. This is not helping.”

“No,” KK snapped. “She’s acting brand new and no one’s saying it.”

“She’s allowed to feel weird!” Caroline said, voice rising. “Maybe she’s just figuring stuff out!”

“While lying to us?” KK shot back.

Caroline turned to Azzi, voice gentler. “Can you just tell us what’s going on? Please?”

Azzi looked at her. At all of them.

She wanted to scream: I don’t belong here.

She wanted to cry: I woke up in a world that doesn’t remember me.

She wanted to explain how she used to run Westwood. How Kiki was her training partner. How she and Charisma once got matching haircuts after an Elite Eight win. How she could still feel the ghosts of locker rooms that didn’t exist anymore.

Instead, she just said:

“I needed to remember who I was before everything got so… tangled.”

KK rolled her eyes.

“And who are you now? A UCLA fangirl?”

Kiki stepped in front of Azzi now, all chill gone.

“She’s more welcome here than y’all are.”

“Back off,” Paige snapped.

Kiki smirked. “Or what?”

Paige’s eyes burned. “Don’t touch her.”

“I’m not touching her,” Kiki said. “I’m holding her down. There’s a difference.”

Charisma nodded, arms still crossed. “You roll in here like she belongs to you. Maybe that’s your problem.”

The air cracked.

Azzi felt something shift in Paige — a wound ripping open. Something breaking.

Paige’s voice dropped again.

“We’re supposed to be a team.”

“We are,” Azzi said quietly. “But that doesn’t mean I stop being a person.”

Everyone froze.

The music, now off, left a hum in their ears. Just breath. Just eyes. Just weight.

Finally, Caroline spoke again. Soft. But firm.

“We should go.”

Paige stared at Azzi. “Are you coming with us?”

Azzi didn’t answer.

Paige’s voice cracked again. “Azzi.”

Still, nothing.

KK grabbed her jacket. “Let’s go.”

Ice was already halfway out the door.

Caroline hesitated, looking at Azzi one last time. “Text me if you need anything, okay?”

Azzi nodded. “Thanks.”

The door closed.

Silence.

Kiki turned to her. “You good?”

Azzi didn’t speak

Azzi didn’t speak for most of the flight back.

She sat in her window seat, forehead resting against the plastic, headphones on with no music playing. She stared at the clouds, the dark outline of the land beneath them, the shrinking distance between who she wanted to be and who she had to pretend to be.

No one sat beside her.

The UConn girls took up the row behind her, whispering in bursts, snickering once, loudly unwrapping gum. KK’s laugh rang out like a dare. Paige hadn’t spoken to her since the door slammed shut in Westwood.

When they landed, Paige reached for Azzi’s bag out of habit — like she always did — but Azzi grabbed it first and didn’t look at her.

That was the first unspoken blow.

There would be more.

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The next practice hit hard.

KK threw elbow screens like she was trying to break someone’s ribs.

Paige’s passes were too fast, too sharp. Ice didn’t say a word to anyone.

Azzi bit her cheek through all of it.

Caroline was the only one who made eye contact. And when she did, there was pity behind it. Like she didn’t know how to help, and was afraid of getting burned trying.

After a brutal scrimmage, Coach blew the whistle.

“Take five!”

Azzi collapsed onto the bench, grabbing a towel. She could feel the sweat sliding down her back, her lungs begging for air.

KK walked past her, loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Funny how you got all this energy now. Bet that party really filled your tank.”

Azzi didn’t flinch.

Paige looked over from the other bench, her face unreadable. But when she met Azzi’s eyes, something flickered: a warning. A dare.

Caroline muttered, “KK, drop it.”

KK turned on her. “Why? We all just supposed to pretend she didn’t vanish to go flirt with West Coast nobodies?”

Azzi stood up. Calmly. Towel still around her neck.

“You done?”

KK laughed, fake and sharp. “Oh, so now you have a voice again.”

“Yeah,” Azzi said, stepping forward. “And I’m using it to say: I don’t care what you think.”

KK’s brows raised.

“Oh, she bold now.”

“I’ve always been bold,” Azzi said. “Just been too polite to show it.”

Coach blew the whistle again, yelling something about focus. But it didn’t matter — the air was already ruined.

Paige stood up. Crossed the gym. Her voice was soft. But too soft.

“We need to talk.”

“Then talk,” Azzi said.

“Alone.”

Azzi followed. Not because she wanted to. Because she knew Paige wouldn’t let it go otherwise.

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The door shut. The silence was colder than the tile walls.

“You embarrassed me,” Paige said finally.

Azzi blinked. “That’s what this is about?”

“You left,” Paige said. “You didn’t tell me where you were going. You made me look like a fool in front of my teammates. My friends.”

“Your friends,” Azzi repeated.

“You let them touch you,” Paige said, voice shaking. “That girl — Kiki or whatever? She had her hands all over you.”

“I didn’t let her do anything,” Azzi snapped. “I was just… there. I was with people who let me exist.”

“I let you exist,” Paige said, stepping closer. “I love you.”

Azzi froze.

The words hit differently now. Too sharp. Too heavy.

“Do you?” Azzi asked, voice tight. “Or do you love the version of me you’ve built around yourself?”

Paige stepped closer, chest rising and falling. “Azzi, I’ve known you since we were fifteen. Since USA camp. You remember that? I’ve been with you through more than anyone else.”

Azzi swallowed hard.

“You didn’t even like me back then,” she said, half under her breath.

Paige’s laugh was bitter, short. “Yeah, well, you didn’t like anyone. But I always saw you. I always knew you’d be… you. And I stuck around anyway.”

Azzi looked away.

Paige’s voice dropped, lower now, the cracks more obvious. “You think this—us—is something I just made up? Like I dragged you into it? Like this wasn’t real?”

Azzi’s throat tightened. “I never said that.”

“You’re acting like it,” Paige snapped. “Like this whole thing is some illusion I forced on you. You think I don’t see the way you flinch when I touch you now? Or how quiet you’ve gotten? The way you’re pulling away from everything we built—together?”

Azzi was quiet for too long. Paige took a step back, like that silence burned.

“I’m not trying to control you, Azzi. I’m trying to hold on. Because this—” she gestured between them “—has been the one constant in my life since we were teenagers. And it wasn’t perfect, but it was real. And you’re acting like it’s disposable.”

Azzi met her eyes now, finally. And her voice was calm, but firm.

“No. I’m not saying it was fake. But… maybe it wasn’t mine the way it was yours.”

Paige blinked.

“What the hell does that mean?”

Paige’s voice rang through the quiet locker room, raw and unraveling. But Azzi didn’t answer.

She just stood there, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the floor — like the words were there, written in the cracks between tiles, if she stared hard enough.

But she said nothing.

Paige waited. One second. Two. Ten. Long enough for the silence to feel permanent.

Her breath caught in her throat.

“Say something,” she tried again, softer this time. Pleading. “Anything.”

Still, Azzi said nothing.

She couldn’t.

Not without breaking everything.

Paige nodded slowly, lips pressed into a hard line. The kind of nod people give when they finally stop hoping.

“Right,” she said. Her voice was brittle, like glass under pressure. She stepped back.

Her eyes burned, but her spine stayed straight. Barely.

“Tell me when you’ve figured it out,” she said quietly. “Because I’m done being the only one hurting in this.”

Azzi finally looked up — too late.

Paige was already walking away, her footsteps echoing across the tile like the sound of a door closing.

And Azzi stayed frozen where she stood.

Not chasing.

Not explaining.

Just listening to the sound of someone giving up on her.

And still saying nothing.

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[blushandfics]

WITHOUT YOU ꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱

you were late.

he doesn’t check the clock — doesn’t have to. he knows the rhythm of your nights better than his own pulse. the soft scrape of the fire escape, the two flickers of your hallway lamp before it steadies. the shape of your shadow under the door, the tiny pause you always take before unlocking it. it’s embarrassing how well he knows. domestic. stupid. but he knows.

tonight, nothing. no flicker. no squeak. the apartment stays still. he tells himself it’s fine. that you only lost track of time, that maybe the train ran late. but he knows gotham too well — and worse, he knows you: soft‑hearted to a fault, stubborn in ways you don’t even see.

he tried to find you first. streets you cut through when it’s late, alleys near the store where you buy cat food, the back entrance of that diner you like when you can’t sleep. even checked the tracker— the one you teased and slightly fussed at him about because you swore you could take care of yourself— but the signal was dead.

so he ended up here. boots dripping rain on your thrift store rug, cape hanging heavy around his shoulders. the water pools, dark stains blooming into the worn fabric you picked out last spring. everything smells damp.

the apartment feels smaller without you in it. still. too still. your plants by the window, chipped mug half full on the table, your keys in the little ceramic dish. everything here but you.

he’s been here longer than he’ll ever admit. waiting, pacing, scanning for anything— a note, a text left open on your phone, something to tell him why you’re not home at the time you always are.

batman doesn’t panic. batman stays cold, focused. but bruce wayne, the part he keeps buried under the armor, feels it anyway. the panic biting under the calm, the what‑ifs playing out faster than he can stop them. gotham isn’t kind to soft things.

then he hears it.. footsteps in the hall, a familiar rustle against the door. his muscles tighten, he doesn’t let himself move yet, not until he’s sure.

the lock clicks and your silhouette fills the doorway— soaked hoodie, hair plastered to your face, your arms wrapped around something small and trembling. you look exhausted and out of breath, but alive.

he doesn’t realize he was holding his breath until it slips out, ragged. relief hits so hard it almost hurts. but relief never comes out gentle from him — it comes out sharp, rough.

you flinch when you see him, your eyes going wide— fear flashing across your face before it melts into something softer. “jesus, you scared me.”

“where were you?” it comes out harsher than he means and you shrink a little, shoulders curling in. he immediately hates himself for it, but the fear is still buzzing in his veins, and he can’t quite smooth it out.

“i—” you glance down at the kitten in your arms, gentle. “i was looking for him. he got out.” he steps closer, cape shifting around him, the shadows following.

“i waited,” he says, quieter now, but still edged. “you were gone longer than usual.” your brows knit, lashes dripping rainwater. “you… waited?”

he doesn’t answer to that. just looks — at the kitten, at your wet hair, at the faint tremor in your hands you probably don’t even notice “you shouldn’t go into places like that alone,” he grinds out. his jaw flexes, there’s more he wants to say.

“i know,” you murmur, voice thin. “i just… i couldn’t leave him.”

the rain outside fills the silence between you, soft and steady against the glass. your eyes meet his, something fragile and raw flickering there.

“next time,” he forces it out, voice cracking just enough to betray him. “call someone. don’t do that alone.”

“okay,” you breathe. quiet. barely there. the kitten mews, tucking closer into your chest. “you were really here the whole time?” you ask again, almost teasing, but your voice wavers at the end.

he hesitates. the truth sits heavy on his tongue. “yes.”

he doesn’t give you enough time for you to think about it before continuing. “go dry off,” he mutters, voice rough. “before you get sick.”

you nod, making your way to your bedroom. as you pass, you lean in just enough to press a small, fleeting kiss to the edge of his exposed cheek, barely brushing the damp cowl.

“thanks for caring, bat,” you whisper, soft and a little breathless.

you keep moving toward the bedroom without looking back.

he doesn’t say anything — just stands there, watching your shadow disappear down the hall. and for a moment, the apartment feels warm again… ♡

[heldbybarnes]

hi! if i may walk you through this…

tfatwas!domestic!bucky with “there may be something there that wasn’t there before” beauty and the beast vibes, sam and joaquin watching as you wear his dog tags, kiss his cheek goodbye, and just watch him be totally whipped and in love with you, and you changing the way he looks at the world/treats people

~ 🩵

omfg, take me on this walk every day!

----------

Sam notices it first.

Not the dog tags—though those are hard to miss, glinting silver and soft against the edge of your collarbone like they were always meant to rest there. No, it’s the way he looks at you when you wear them.

Bucky Barnes has seen a lot of things. Horrors, miracles, the endless stretch of time. But nothing stops him in his tracks like the sight of you in his old, sun-faded army tags and a sleepy morning smile.

You’re standing in the kitchen now, barefoot, humming something under your breath as you stir coffee. One of his shirts hangs off your frame, too big in the shoulders, the sleeves rolled sloppily up. The tags clink gently when you shift, when you tiptoe to reach the sugar, when you lean over to pour his mug the way he likes it—dark, with a little honey, just how you learned to make it without asking.

You move around him like you know he’s there even when he’s quiet. As if his presence hums through the floorboards, like it lives inside your lungs now.

You kiss his cheek as you pass, the barest brush of lips on scruff. “Hot day today,” you murmur. “Don’t forget water.”

And just like that—he forgets how to breathe.

Behind him in the doorway, Sam nudges Joaquin with an elbow. They’re halfway in, halfway out, trying not to disturb the scene they’ve clearly walked in on.

“There it is again,” Sam mutters, grinning.

Joaquin blinks. “The ‘I’d fight a thousand wars just to hold her hand’ look?”

“Exactly that one.” Sam lets out a low whistle. “Damn. This guy’s gone.”

Bucky turns, brow raised, voice still half-distracted. “You guys need something?”

“Yeah,” Joaquin deadpans. “A mop for all the emotional puddles you’re leaving around the apartment.”

You roll your eyes fondly. “They’re jealous,” you say softly, slipping a hand across Bucky’s lower back before you retreat down the hall. “It’s okay, Buck. Not everyone can handle domestic bliss before 9 a.m.”

He watches you go, gaze fixed, dazed. He only seems to remember his surroundings when Sam claps him on the shoulder.

“You’ve got it bad, Barnes.”

Bucky just shrugs and grabs his gear. “She makes it easy.”

And that’s what changes everything.

It’s not just love—it’s how he loves. How you make him want to be better without asking him to be.

You never demanded softness from him. You simply created a world where he could put his armor down. And somewhere along the way, that quiet permission became something sacred.

You didn’t fix him. You just held space for the parts of him that didn’t know how to heal.

Now, Bucky lets people go ahead of him in line at the market. He smiles at kids on the street. He’s the one who brings snacks to team meetings and makes sure Sam eats lunch. He helps the elderly man in 3B change his porch light every month.

It’s like something cracked open in him.

And from it bloomed gentleness.

You tug the dog tags out from under your collar as he slips his jacket on and walk over, thumb brushing the metal before lifting your eyes to his.

“Be safe today.”

He nods. “Always.”

And then—because he’s Bucky, and you’ve taught him how to be brave with his heart—he cups your jaw and presses his forehead to yours for just a second. “You’re my favorite part of the day, you know that?”

Your smile is slow and sure. “You say that every day.”

“‘Cause it’s true every day.”

Sam watches with an open mouth as you both part like it’s nothing. Like that level of intimacy isn’t enough to set him on fire.

When the door shuts behind you, Sam huffs. “You are so whipped.”

Bucky doesn’t even blink. “Good. She deserves it.”

Hours later, after a mission and two cracked ribs, Bucky makes it home bruised but alive. He doesn’t say much when he walks in, just drops his bag by the door and walks straight to where you’re curled on the couch, book in hand, blanket across your lap.

You don’t ask what happened. You don’t even speak.

You just open your arms.

He folds into you like gravity itself was pulling him down, cheek pressed to your sternum, metal arm anchoring around your waist. You hold him like a prayer—steady, quiet, eternal.

“I’m okay,” he whispers eventually, only half for you.

“I know,” you murmur, fingers moving through his hair. “You came back.”

He nods. “Always will.”

The next morning, Joaquin finds himself back in the kitchen while Bucky makes pancakes, a dish towel slung over his shoulder and his hair tied back lazily. You walk in halfway through, kiss his temple, and pinch a bite off his plate.

He doesn't even flinch. Just hands you the syrup.

“Domestic suits you, man,” Joaquin says eventually, blinking at the whole scene.

Bucky glances up, a little amused. “Didn’t think it would.”

“You’re different now,” Joaquin adds. “Softer.”

Bucky looks at you—still in his shirt, still barefoot, still wearing his tags like they’re your favorite accessory.

He smiles. “Nah. I’m just finally myself.”

A week later, they’re all on a rooftop—watching the city fade into dusk—and Sam nudges Joaquin when he spots you leaning against Bucky’s chest, your fingers tracing the edge of the dog tags absently.

“There may be something there that wasn’t there before,” Joaquin says, repeating it half like a joke, half in awe.

Sam watches as Bucky presses a kiss to the top of your head, and you just melt into him like the world is soft and good.

“Yeah,” Sam says, more to himself than anyone. “Hope.”

And maybe love didn’t save Bucky Barnes. But it sure as hell gave him a reason to come home.

[cherrywriterrr]

closer r.c

✵ warnings: angst angst angst, kissing, language, the L word!!!

✵ words: 4k

✵ previous

his door clicks shut behind you. the music downstairs becomes a muffled hum, just the bass vibrating through the floor, nothing clear, nothing loud enough to distract you from the fact that you’re here. in his room. again.

your breath catches. it’s cleaner than you remember. but it still smells the same. something like cedarwood and ocean breeze detergent, like him. and god, it makes your chest ache.

he stands by the bed while you hover near the door, both of you caught somewhere between saying everything and saying nothing.

his fingers twitch by his side before he clears his throat and mumbles “uh—your… your diary.”

you look up.

he walks over to the bed, lifts the pillow on the right side—your side—and pulls it out, worn and familiar, soft blue leather still creased from all the nights you fell asleep on it. all the nights you didn’t know he was holding it long after you were gone.

he hands it to you gently. like it’s fragile. like you are. you take it. your thumbs graze the edges before you flip it open, a small nervous breath falling from your lips. and then you see them. highlighter marks. dozens of them. circled dates. underlined words. your messy handwriting surrounded by his desperate need to hold on to something.

on one page, you wrote about the first time he cried in front of you he highlighted “he didn’t say anything, just buried his face in my neck. i think that was the first time i realized he was more boy than monster.”

another, circled three times in gold ink, “i think i’d let him ruin me if he asked. maybe i already did.”

you flip more. a smiley face drawn beside a line you forgot writing “rafe told me my laugh makes him feel normal. i didn’t tell him his laugh makes me feel alive.”

your heart is pounding. your hands shake just enough for him to notice. you don’t look up yet. you just whisper “you read all of it?”

his voice is hoarse when it comes. “every night.”

your fingers still over a torn edge, lips parting but no words coming out, not right away. you finally lift your eyes, voice small. “why?”

he’s already watching you, not blinking, not breathing too much “closest thing i had to you.”

your heart caves in again, in that same soft place he’s always known how to hurt without meaning to.

you blink, flipping to the back. pages you thought were blank—now filled with darker ink, heavier strokes, different handwriting. his. you glance up “you… wrote your own things here?”

he rubs the back of his neck, like he’s nervous, like being known too much might break him. “uhm… on the last pages. yeah.”

his voice drops even softer, like it’s something sacred “read them… home.”

you close the diary gently, fingers brushing the edge like it might burn if you held on too long. it feels heavier now. like it’s soaked in everything you never said. everything he never could.

you place it carefully on his desk before looking at him “you said we needed to talk,” you say, your voice calm but laced with something unsteady. “so… talk.”

he nods slowly, jaw clenched like he’s trying to hold everything in—every version of you he still sees when he closes his eyes, every word he’s rehearsed but never had the nerve to say until now.

“you just… drifted,” he says finally, voice raw. “you started slipping away from me and i didn’t even realize it until it was already happening. you weren’t calling anymore, or showing up to the marina, or answering my texts.”

you stay quiet.

“and it fucked me up,” he says, firmer now. “i thought—i thought i did something. or said something. i replayed every second of every last conversation trying to figure it out. like maybe if i just found the moment it all cracked, i could fix it.”

your chest tightens. he laughs, bitter and breathless. “and when i couldn’t, i started being mad at myself. and at you. because you didn’t even say goodbye. you just vanished and expected me to be fine.”

his eyes are glassy now, hands gripping the edge of the desk like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

you step forward, slowly, even though it hurts “it wasn’t really you,” you say softly. “it was us.”

he scoffs, shaking his head. “don’t do that.”

“rafe—”

“don’t fucking do that,” he snaps, louder now, voice trembling. “don’t say ‘us’ like we both ruined it the same way. like we were equally to blame.”

you flinch but don’t turn away “we were destroying each other,” you say anyway, because it’s the truth. “we weren’t sleeping. we were fighting over nothing. i felt like i was bleeding for you and you didn’t even notice.”

his face twists, pain flashing across his features “that’s not fair,” he breathes. “you were everything to me. everything. and yeah, i didn’t always know how to say it right, or show it the way you needed, but fuck—don’t stand here and tell me we were just burning down.”

“we were,” you whisper. “you just didn’t see it yet.”

he steps back like you hit him. and god, you wish you had something softer to give him. but all you have is what’s left. what’s honest. what hurts.

you look down. your voice comes out quiet, like it’s afraid to be spoken aloud, but you say it anyway “i know we were best friends,” you begin, your throat tightening, “but it wasn’t healthy anymore. i couldn’t breathe. i felt like i was drowning and trying to save you at the same time.”

he turns away like it physically hurts to hear.

“i loved you,” you add, barely audible now. “but it wasn’t the kind of love that made me feel safe. it was the kind that made me feel like i was breaking open just to be close to you.”

he laughs. it’s bitter and sharp, a defense mechanism dressed in cruelty “yea?” he scoffs, spinning around. “fucking best friends—that’s all you saw in me, huh? a friend you had to save and then leave?”

his voice cracks on that last word. he doesn’t try to hide it “you think i didn’t feel it?” he goes on, stepping closer. “you think i didn’t notice how you looked at me like i was some fucking broken bird you just had to fix before you moved on to something easier?”

you shake your head, but he doesn’t let up.

“you called me your best friend like it was some badge of honor, ike it explained why you let me fall apart in front of you and didn’t stay long enough to help me pick it back up.”

your bottom lip quivers, and he sees it, sees the effect he has, but he’s spiraling now and can’t stop.

“you left me,” he says, barely above a whisper. “you left me, and then i kept reading your diary like a fucking addict just trying to remember what it felt like to matter to someone.”

he rubs a hand over his face. his chest is heaving now “you wrote all those things about us—about me—and then you just disappeared. you kept saying ‘we were just friends’ but none of it felt like just friendship to me. not one fucking second of it.”

you don’t know what to say. because he’s right. it wasn’t just friendship. not to him. not to you, either. but you were so scared of the fire you’d built together, you ran from the burn.

you swallow, voice shaking “i didn’t leave because i didn’t care,” you say. “i left because i didn’t know how to be near you without losing myself.”

his eyes drop to the floor. like if he looks at you any longer, he might fall apart completely.

you take a step closer, arms folding tightly across your chest to keep them from reaching for him “i couldn’t save you,” you whisper. “and it was killing me to keep trying.”

his shoulders rise with a silent inhale “you didn’t have to save me,” he says, looking back up, eyes burning. “you just had to stay.”

“yeah, okay,” you say, voice bitter, voice broken. “and who the fuck was gonna save me, rafe?”

the name hits heavy. you don’t say it often anymore. but when you do, it’s like a trigger. a match thrown onto gasoline.

“you wanted me to stay?” you laugh, sharp and humorless. “stay with me then. stay with me through the nights i couldn’t sleep because i was too busy wondering if you were alive. stay with me when i cried so hard my chest ached and you didn’t even notice.”

he looks at you like you’ve just ripped the air from his lungs.

you shake your head, voice rising now, eyes burning “you think you’re the only one who hurt? the only one who lost something? you were so wrapped up in your own pain you didn’t even see mine. you just needed and i gave and gave until there was nothing fucking left.”

he stares at you, jaw clenched, nostrils flaring—and then he explodes “i would’ve!” he shouts, voice cracking in the middle. “me! rafe! i would’ve saved you!”

he takes a shaky step forward, finger pressing into his chest like he’s trying to convince both of you “i wanted to save you. i wanted to be there. but you didn’t let me. you never let me. you treated me like a project and then blamed me when the parts didn’t fit the way you wanted.”

his voice drops, something thick and jagged creeping in, like he’s choking on everything he didn’t say before “you think you’re the only one who was breaking?” he whispers. “you were all i had.”

you were each other’s whole fucking world. and no one taught you how to handle that without setting fire to it.

“that’s not fucking true,” you snap, too fast, too defensive. “you had other people, rafe. other friends, other—”

“no,” he growls, cutting you off so hard it’s like a slap. “you were not just my fucking friend, do you understand that? do you?”

your breath catches.

his eyes are wild now, glassy and dangerous and full of everything he’s been burying for too long “who else was there,” he spits, stepping closer, “when my parents divorced? when my dad started bringing rose like she hadn’t already ripped my whole fucking family apart?”

his voice cracks, but he pushes through it, louder, messier “who sat in the driveway with me for hours when mom locked herself in the bedroom crying? who climbed through my window at two in the morning when i was losing my shit and pretending i wasn’t? you. always fucking you. no one else.”

he’s right in front of you now, and it feels like the room is caving in with every word “i didn’t have a mom most nights. dad was always drunk or gone. sarah had john b. wheezie was a kid. i had you. you knew everything. every ugly, broken part of me. and you still held on—until you didn’t.”

your throat burns, heart hammering so hard it hurts.

“you left,” he whispers, voice unraveling. “and you keep saying you were my friend, like that’s all it was. like it didn’t mean everything to me. like you didn’t mean everything to me.”

and then quieter, shaking “so don’t stand there and tell me i had anyone else. because when you left, i didn’t just lose a friend. i lost home.”

your jaw tightens, heart splintering, because it’s not that simple; it never was “i didn’t want to leave like that,” you say, the words tumbling out rough and uneven. “i didn’t plan it, rafe. it wasn’t some big fucking escape plan, it just—i couldn’t breathe anymore. i couldn’t sleep, i couldn’t be around you without feeling like i was drowning.”

he flinches, but you keep going, voice rising.

“you needed me so much, and i wanted to be there, i did, but i was breaking. you were spiraling and pulling me down with you and i tried so hard to keep us both afloat, but—i was nineteen, rafe. nineteen. i didn’t know how to carry both of us.”

his mouth parts, but nothing comes out. his hands tremble slightly at his sides.

“i never stopped caring,” you add, softer now. “but caring wasn’t enough. not when it felt like loving you meant losing myself.”

silence again. he swallows hard, his voice barely above a whisper “fuck,” he says. “i get it. okay?”

you look up, startled by the rawness in his tone.

“i didn’t then,” he goes on, eyes glassy. “but i do now. or at least, i’m starting to. it doesn’t make it right, it doesn’t make it hurt less—but… yeah.”

his voice breaks, a breath caught in his chest like something lodged dee “you left. and it shattered me. but i know now you weren’t just trying to hurt me. you were trying to survive me.”

his eyes flick up to meet yours “and that… might be the worst part.”

“don’t say it like that,” you whisper, a little too fast, like you can stop it—like you can pull the words back into his throat before they finish tearing you apart.

but he’s already shaking his head, bitter smile twisting at the corner of his mouth “no,” he says, more to himself than to you. “it’s true. it’s fucking true.”

his voice is unraveling, raw and exhausted. “i mean—i fuck everything up, right? it’s what i do. i ruin good things. you were a good thing. maybe the best one. and i still made you feel like you had to run just to stay alive.”

you step forward, but he won’t meet your eyes.

“i get mad too easy. i say the wrong shit. i shut down or blow up or disappear. i get jealous. i get scared. and you—god, you were so patient with me. for so long.”

his voice cracks again, like a fault line opening wide “but in the end, it wasn’t enough. i wasn’t enough. and i hate that i did that to you. i hate that i’m still doing it now.”

his hands run through his hair, fingers tangled like he’s trying to physically hold himself together“i don’t blame you,” he mumbles. “for walking away. i never did.”

you want to tell him he’s wrong. you want to tell him he was never not enough.

he exhales hard, like he’s been holding it in for years “okay. fuck,” he mutters, pacing a step back before stilling again, eyes dark and locked on yours. “i’m gonna say this once. because i’m already scared enough as it is.”

your breath catches.

he swallows thickly. his voice low, shaking but sure “i don’t see you as a friend. not just a friend. never did.”

he says it like it’s a confession that might damn him, like it’s the one thing he swore he’d never admit but can’t keep in anymore “i think i realized it too late, or maybe i always knew but just—didn’t think i deserved it. didn’t think you deserved someone like me, like this. so i kept it in. i played the best friend role. but it was never that for me. not really.”

he laughs under his breath, no humor in it “god, it was so much more. every day. every night you’d call or show up or laugh at something i said and i’d feel it, in my chest, in my fucking bones. and i kept pretending like it wasn’t killing me that you didn’t see it.”

his voice lowers to something quieter, shakier “you were the only thing that ever made me feel like i could be good. that maybe i could get better. not the coke. not the fights. just you.”

he looks at you, helpless, like the words came too late. like he doesn’t expect anything back. like he just needed you to know.

you stare at him. blink once. then again “and the other girls?” your voice isn’t loud, but it slices through the room. “rafe, you had girls while we were still… friends.”

the word sounds bitter now. hollow. not enough for what you really meant. not enough for what he just said.

his jaw ticks. “when?” he steps forward. “when exactly, huh? when you had a boyfriend?”

you don’t answer. can’t. he scoffs, bitter. “right. exactly.”

and then it hits you. hard. deep in your chest, like a wave that crashes too fast for you to breathe. he never looked at anyone when you were alone. not once. every girl you saw him with—every blurry memory of someone on his arm, someone clinging to him at parties, at the club, in town—had only happened when you had someone else. when you’d been wrapped up in someone who wasn’t him.

fuck.

you sit down, or maybe your legs just give out a little. because you remember now—every time you came crying about your boyfriend, about your confusion, your fears, your heartbreaks—he was there.

and then he’d vanish for a bit. and then you’d hear about some girl. and it always stung, but not enough for you to question it, not until now.

your heart starts to race “rafe,” you whisper. like saying his name might explain something.

he just shakes his head. not mad anymore. not smug. just hurt “yeah,” he says. “you think i didn’t notice how fast you forgot about me when someone else held your hand? i was just the friend. the one who got to watch.” he laughs once, low. “so yeah. i fucked around. but only when you weren’t mine to stay loyal to.”

you blink, heart pounding in your chest, eyes wide and unsteady “i… i didn’t know,” you whisper, voice barely holding together “i—i don’t know what i thought.” your words stumble out, full with confusion and regret. you never realized how much he was holding back

“exactly,” he says, too fast, too sharp. like he’s been waiting for you to say those words, like he’s been choking on them. “you didn’t think.”

he stops. breathes in. breathes out slowe “but… i didn’t either.”

his voice drops, softer now, the heat draining out of him like he’s exhausted from holding it in for so long “i didn’t think about how much it was hurting you. how it must’ve felt watching me spiral and act like you didn’t matter when you were the only person who ever actually did.”

you look at him, chest aching, lips parted like you want to interrupt—but nothing comes out. he doesn’t let you speak anyway.

“i loved you.” his eyes flick to yours, raw and open. “i love you. still do. and not the way you love your best friend or someone you’re supposed to love out of habit or guilt. not like that.”

he steps forward just a little, slow, like you might disappear if he moves too fast “i loved you when i was sober, and i loved you when i wasn’t. i loved you through the silence, through your boyfriends, through the months you didn’t call. even when i was being a complete asshole—i was in love with you.”

he runs a hand through his hair, like it helps him stay grounded, like he’s barely holding himself together “and i should’ve said it. fuck, i should’ve said something instead of pushing you away, instead of acting like it didn’t kill me to see you pull back. i should’ve been better. i should’ve been better for you.”

his voice wavers, cracks a little “but instead, i made you feel like it was your job to save me. like you were supposed to hold me together while i kept falling apart and dragging you with me.”

his hands ball into fists at his sides “and i hate that. i hate that i did that to you. that the only person who ever made me feel safe, i turned into someone who couldn’t even look at me anymore.”

you’re quiet. both of you are. there’s just the sound of your breathing and his, all uneven and heavy like the weight of everything unsaid is still sitting between you.

and when he looks at you again, his voice is barely above a whisper “i’m sorry. i should’ve loved you better.”

your mouth opens like you’re about to say something, but nothing comes out. just the sound of your breathing—shallow, uneven, your lungs trying to keep up with your heart as it slams against your ribs like it’s begging to get out. your eyes blur. he just… stands there. waiting.

and then it happens. your throat tightens. your lips tremble. and the tears fall, slow and silent, streaking down your cheeks like they’ve been waiting too long to be released.

because it hits you all at once. he wasn’t trying to be your friend. not really. not in the way you thought. he wasn’t just being kind because he was a good guy, not in the way people usually mean that.rafe never did anything for show, never overplayed his part or showered you in exaggerated words or meaningless promises.

he just… did things. small, soft, stupid little things.

carried your books without asking. kept your favorite lighter in his pocket even when he quit smoking. held his breath when you cried, like inhaling might make it worse.

always kept the side of his bed cold because you liked it that way. bought that cherry bracelet because you liked cherries, even though he swore he didn’t notice jewelry. showed up when no one else did, not because he had to—but because he didn’t know how not to.

you thought he was just being sweet. just a good friend. but that’s all he knew. he didn’t have a guidebook for how to say i love you without ruining it, so he did the only thing he knew how to do—be there.

and fuck. you broke his heart thinking he never tried.

you finally blink, and your voice comes out hoarse, breath hitching. “all those times… you weren’t just—” you cut yourself off, shaking your head slowly, eyes wide and wet as you look at him.

he doesn’t say anything. but his eyes… god, the way they’re locked on yours, it says everything.

no. he wasn’t just being nice. he was loving you. every fucking day. quietly. unconditionally.

your hands tremble as they lift, halfway between reaching for him and holding yourself together.

your voice is cracked glass, “you were trying to show me… and i never saw. never saw it, not really—”

your breath hitches, breaking down mid sentence, “i feel horrible, rafe. fucking horrible. i didn’t think about that, i—i—i—”

“hey,” he cuts in, stepping forward, voice low and strained, like it hurts to interrupt you but he can’t bear to hear you tear yourself apart “it’s okay. i know. i know it wasn’t the best—”

“no,” you snap, the word barely holding shape through the tears in your throat.

you shake your head hard, like if you shake it enough you can reverse time, undo it all “fuck, stop. don’t do that. don’t try to make it okay just to make me feel better.”

your voice cracks again “i loved you too.”

he freezes. the air halts. everything in the room stills.

you don’t stop. you can’t. it’s pouring out now “i love you too, rafe,” you whisper, stronger this time, like a truth you should’ve screamed years ago “i think i always did. even when i didn’t understand what that meant. even when i called you just my best friend and pretended that was enough.”

you look at him through the tears, eyes begging for him to see you now—finally, really. your chest rising and falling in uneven waves.

“you deserved more than how i left you. more than confusion and silence. i know that now. and i just…”you break again, “i just don’t want it to be too late.”

he’s on you in seconds. hands on either side of your face like he’s scared you’ll disappear if he blinks. his breath hits yours, warm and rushed and trembling “say it again,” he whispers, voice shredded. his thumbs brush your jaw, his forehead nearly touches yours. “please,” softer now, like a prayer.

your voice shakes as much as your knees “i—i love you, rafe.”

that’s all it takes. his mouth crashes into yours, not rough but urgent. like he’s been holding his breath for years and you’re the air. like every moment he went without you was penance.

your fingers fist into his shirt. he kisses you deeper, fuller, pouring everything into it. years of silence. years of pretending.

“i love you,” he mumbles against your lips, over and over. between breaths, between gasps “i love you so much.”

his hands slide into your hair “i’m so fucking sorry—i should’ve told you sooner, i should’ve done everything differently, i’m sorry—”

your lips part like muscle memory, like home, even tho it’s the first time. and god, if this is what forgiveness feels like, you’ll take the heartbreak a thousand times over.

✵ taglist ✵ masterlist

tags 🏷️ @rafesbabygirlx @rafesteddy @httpsdrewstarkey @qversazex @meetmeintheemeraldpool @babygoddam @eunivalaa @belle101200 @pillowprincess4him @rgrimesr @abireichstein

[eyekoninurarea]

and because i can't sleep, have a small, scrapped, your idol idea. this is for the sodani and cami freaks.

suggestive content under the cut

It started small, just a few scattered comments from faceless accounts saying you were nothing more than KATSEYE wannabes. You laughed it off at first, light-hearted and amused.

‎‎“It’s a compliment, honestly.”

‎“Thanks! I'm flattered you think we’re even worthy of imitation.”

‎‎You clapped back with grace, smiling like it didn’t sting. But when that didn’t silence them, the attacks got uglier, more personal.

‎‎They came for your bond with the girls. Said Hana always looked like she was one meltdown away from quitting. Called Amara aggressive and unstable. Claimed Rina looked high in every fancam. Labeled Cami a slut for the way she dressed and moved.

‎‎And then came the ones for you. The cruelest ones.

‎‎“Stop pretending to be a man.” ‎

“A man without a dick.”

“You’re confused. Pick a side.”

‎‎They mocked your style, your stance, your walk. Said your dancing was too masculine, too aggressive. Said you were trying too hard to be something you’d never be. That your queerness was an act. That your body didn’t belong to the identity you claimed.

‎‎Your brows twitched.

‎‎What? Just because you shop in the men’s section, suddenly you're up for public dissection? Just because you wear sweatpants low and hoodies cropped, that means you don’t know who you are?

‎‎No.

‎You were petty. And maybe a little unhinged. But you knew exactly who you were.

‎‎So you planned something. Carefully. Quietly.

‎‎Gray sweatpants. Sports bra. Cropped hoodie with one sleeve off the shoulder, hood up, neck tattoo peeking. You looked like heat in human form.

‎‎The camera was angled low. The red lighting cast sharp shadows on your back, painting your muscles like brushstrokes. And you danced.

‎‎The first video went live on SIREN5’s official page.

‎‎A cover of “All Night” by BTS. Familiar. Safe. Until it wasn’t.

‎‎Your movements started fluid and feminine: kneeling, gliding, curling your body into soft curves. Then came the sharp shift: a sensual arch of your back, ass high, moving like a feline in heat. You flipped over in one smooth motion, rising to your knees with startling grace, then ground your hips into the floor in a rhythm that left little to the imagination.

‎‎The fandom exploded.

‎‎This was the first time they saw you move like that, move with such deliberate femininity. There were thousands of retweets before the hour was up.

‎‎And then, you dropped the second video.

‎‎This time: “Under the Influence” remixed by you, your own guitar solo layered over the beat. The choreo was original. The camera never left the floor.

‎‎All floorwork. All you. Until Cami came into frame.

‎‎Every arch, every grind, every hip roll was calculated, powerful, devastating. So painfully in sync with her.

‎‎No captions. No statement. Just movement. You didn’t need to speak when your body could say everything louder.

‎‎The internet lost its mind.

‎‎Within minutes, your name was trending worldwide. Edits were being made, fancams were flooding timelines, gray sweatpants sold out in every size. You’d made your point without ever typing a word.

‎‎Let them choke on it.

‎‎Little did you know you'd also choke on your words soon after.

‎‎Your girlfriends were both busy that day, they were scheduled to perform in a major stage and you figured that it'll slip through their fingers and they wouldn't notice what you hand just posted. but you forget how crazy the internet can be.

‎‎You stepped out of the shower to find 3 missed calls from Sophia, 1 from Daniela, and multiple messages from both that made you run cold.

‎‎Sophia:

‎you thought we wouldn’t see that?

‎oh baby.

‎just wait til we get home.

‎Daniela:

‎keep the sweatpants on.

‎i want to be the one to take them off.

‎you're in trouble.

‎Your mouth went dry.

‎You expected the comments. The chaos. The edits that slowed down your body roll frame by frame like it was national treasure footage.

‎What you didn’t expect was both your girlfriends to not only see it, but respond.

‎The next ping makes your heart trip.

‎Sophia sent a video.

‎Your thumb hovers. You hesitate. Then press play.

‎It’s low-lit. Hotel mirror selfie. Her makeup’s smudged from the stage, lips still red and glossy, glitter catching under her eyes. She’s in nothing but a robe, one shoulder dropped, phone in hand.

‎“Since we’re posting thirst traps tonight,” she says in a low, honeyed tone

‎“I thought I’d remind you who you belong to.”

‎She turns slowly. The robe slips. You see the curve of her back, the top of her thighs. Your jaw goes slack.

‎The next message comes before your brain can even restart.

‎Daniela sent a video.

‎You tap it with shaking fingers.

‎Daniela’s in her dressing room, wearing the black mesh top from the final encore. She’s sitting on the counter, legs spread just enough to make you whimper. Her voice is a whisper, sinful and smug.

‎“Tell me, baby,” she says, dragging her fingers slowly up her thigh, “was the show for her, or for us?”

‎You drop your phone.

‎It buzzes on the floor.

‎

‎Sophia:

‎you wanted attention? you got it.

‎don’t cum until we get home.

‎

‎Daniela:

‎and don’t you dare take those sweatpants off. i’ll know if you did.

‎

‎The next few hours are hell.

‎You're restless, pacing. Everything you do; cleaning your room, folding your clothes, brushing your hair, feels heavy and pointless under the weight of waiting. You ache. You’re soaked through three pairs of underwear and your hands shake every time your phone lights up.

‎Twitter is on fire. And you make the mistake of checking the group chat with your bandmates.

‎Amara:

‎ur dead meat

‎Cami:

‎I regret everything

‎Hana:

‎i told you to delete it before they saw

‎Rina:

‎sophia’s about to do a whole tedtalk on discipline while daniela drops her sword like it's a kdrama finale

‎

‎Your phone buzzes again.

‎A single message from Sophia.

‎“Open the door in five. And be ready.”

‎You nearly trip running to unlock it.

[cbeargyu]

lettre pour toi 💌 partie cinq

summary: a shy high school senior accidentally slips a love letter into the wrong locker, thinking it belongs to her crush park sunghoon — but instead, it ends up in the hands of lee heeseung, a notorious delinquent who takes the letter seriously and declares them a couple on the spot, starting an unexpected and chaotic love story.

pairing: lee heeseung x fem!reader

genre: high school au, romance, fluff, crack, slowburn, light angst.

warnings: delinquent!heeseung, possessive behavior, kissing, stolen first kiss, mild language, emotional tension, misunderstandings, power imbalance.

wc: 2,3k

taglist: @immelissaaa @teenagecheesecakereview @mtaegukk @diameuwu @dongsikeomma @hooline @mokakao28 @tunafishyfishylike @littlesevenkoo @bluetyunhour @lassiie @brwondolly @firstclassjaylee @tinyteezer @stormlit-pages @whoisgami @geniejunn @fics-lovebot @abxszzz @mxxninthesky @yunlazia @st4rg1rlies @lizzykitty123 @meowmeowjang @h4niyahcar @seungsoftly @yenienha @berryzoo @miraeluv @cutehoons02 @lovingchrissturniolo @partyinthebackroom @princesspeachicedtea @heeseungissm @reep04 @mymayaship @itaehynz @sea-moon-star @matchacake2 @hrtsformark @alisonjames-blogspot @kerbearpriv @ohmysionnzies @bluetyunhour @heelovesmeknot @whoisgami @yktvvnihb

previous letter💌 next letter💌

masterlist 🎀

lunch was quieter than usual, or maybe it just felt that way because your thoughts were too loud. your legs were moving, but your mind was elsewhere, tangled in everything that had happened that week, heeseung’s words echoing again and again in your head, “i’ll probably make you cry one day.” they weren’t kind. they weren’t romantic. they weren’t the type of things a girl wanted to hear from her boyfriend. and yet… here you were, being led to the cafeteria again by the same boy who said them.

he waited for you outside your classroom like he always did now, leaning casually against the wall, dark eyes dragging slowly from your face to your friends. yoojung didn’t need to be told. she nudged hyojung and sighed, stepping aside when heeseung approached.

“she’s having lunch with her boyfriend today,” he said flatly, like it was routine. not up for debate.

you could feel your stomach coil the moment you sat down in front of him. the table between you felt too small, the distance too close. you barely touched your food. your spoon scraped the tray twice before you gave up entirely. you weren’t even aware you’d already finished your grilled potatoes until a soft clink made you glance up.

heeseung had moved his tray forward. he’d taken the rest of his grilled potatoes and dropped them silently onto yours.

your eyes met for a second. there was no teasing grin, no smug smirk just a calm, unreadable expression on his face as he went back to picking at his rice like nothing happened.

“you should eat more” he said.

just that. like it was the most obvious thing in the world. like the idea of sharing his food with you wasn’t a big deal. but it was. it was. your chest tightened at the gesture, unsure if it was kindness or something else. why did someone like him even notice something so small?

you stared at the potatoes, at his chopsticks, then at him, his sharp profile, his slightly messy hair, the way he wore his shirt loose and casual like nothing mattered. everything about him screamed contradiction.

and just as you were processing it, heeseung reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. without even looking up, he extended it to you across the table.

“we’ve been dating this whole time,” he muttered. “but i don’t even have your number. kind of weird, isn’t it?”

your lips parted slightly, surprised. you hadn’t even noticed that until now. among all the chaos, the pulling and pushing, the awkward silences and stolen glances, you never exchanged numbers. hesitantly, you took his phone and opened the contacts.

you typed your number slowly, thumbs trembling slightly under his gaze. you hesitated before saving it, because that name at the top?

girlfriend ❤️

you blinked. then frowned a little. sure, he’d been calling you that. sure, he technically was your boyfriend now. but it still felt... strange. like the word didn’t belong to you yet. like it hadn’t been earned.

so, without thinking too deeply, you backspaced the label and typed in simply:

heeseung

a second later, your own phone buzzed in your pocket. you pulled it out and saw an unfamiliar number on your screen, paired with a message that read:

heeseung: save my number

you looked up just as he took a long sip of his drink. there was a hint of a smirk on his lips, like he was trying to act cool but couldn’t help being a little proud of himself.

“that was me,” he confirmed. “now add me back. and be ready for saturday.”

“saturday?” you echoed.

he nodded, poking around his food like it was nothing.

“we’re going on a date,” he said. “first one.”

your fingers froze on the screen.

a date?

he said it so casually, like it was nothing special, like it was just something boyfriends and girlfriends did. but your heart was pounding all over again. your face flushed, hands nervously clutching your phone under the table. you’d never had a boyfriend before. never had a first date. and now, your first date was going to be with lee heeseung.

the boy with the sharp tongue and softer gestures. the boy who confused you, cornered you, and yet… kept finding ways to get closer.

you bit your bottom lip, trying not to smile. trying not to let him see how nervous the thought made you.

but somehow, you knew he already knew.

the rest of lunch passed quietly, but not in a bad way. heeseung didn’t talk much, just ate steadily, occasionally glancing up to see if you were still chewing or just staring blankly at your tray again. every so often, he would nudge something closer to you, an extra bite, his drink, even an unopened dessert cup like he was silently reminding you he was paying attention, in his own way. and it wasn’t just the food. it was how he leaned forward slightly when you spoke, how he didn’t check his phone once, how his knee brushed against yours under the table and didn’t move away.

still, your thoughts were tangled. your chest ached with confusion. everything felt surreal. the guy you’d written a secret love letter for hadn’t even read it. and the guy you never meant to give it to was now planning your first date. it wasn’t a bad dream… but it didn’t quite feel like a fairytale either.

when you got back to class, your friends noticed. they always noticed.

the atmosphere between you three had shifted. yoojung and hyojung were unusually quiet, giving each other looks that said “should we ask?” and “is she going to tell us anything?” you pretended not to notice, packing your things with trembling fingers as the final bell rang. and just as you stood up, yoojung stepped into your path.

“will he walk you home again?” she asked, crossing her arms tightly.

you hesitated for a second. then nodded slowly.

“yeah… he will wait outside.”

hyojung let out a sigh, deep and tight in her chest.

“you know, people are starting to talk more than before,” she said, glancing sideways like she didn’t want to admit it. “they think you’re… serious about him.”

you flinched. your eyes dropped to your shoes, and your hands tightened around your books.

“i didn’t mean for it to get serious,” you whispered.

“but it is,” yoojung cut in, frustration lacing her tone. “he’s not like other guys, y/n. you saw what chaeyeon and mina said. and yet… you’re letting him drag you through the school like a prize.”

her words stung more than you expected.

“he’s not like that,” you said, your voice softer. “...not all the time.”

they looked at you like you were making a mistake.

and maybe you were.

when the three of you stepped outside, the sun had dipped a little lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the pavement. you should’ve expected it, but still, your heart dropped the moment you saw heeseung standing near the school gate, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the entrance.

he was waiting.

again.

yoojung groaned under her breath, and hyojung squeezed your hand before stepping aside, giving you space. your stomach twisted as you walked toward him, hesitant steps echoing across the concrete.

“you’re late,” he said bluntly.

“i was with my friends,” you mumbled.

“and i’m your boyfriend,” he reminded you. “i come first now.”

the possessiveness in his voice made your chest tighten, not out of fear, though it was there, but out of the undeniable pressure of being someone’s person. you didn’t know how to carry that weight yet.

he didn’t wait for your response. he just reached for your wrist, wrapped his fingers around it gently but firmly, and began to walk. you almost stumbled trying to keep up, and part of you wanted to pull away, but you didn’t. not because you liked it… but because you didn’t know what would happen if you resisted again.

and then… you passed them.

his friends.

jungwon, jongseong and... jaeyun.

they were leaning against the fence, laughing about something stupid, a half-crushed energy drink at their feet. the moment they saw the two of you, they straightened. the air shifted. like a pack sensing tension.

the silent agreement you two had made not long ago, buried and forgotten in the chaos of your new relationship. you thought it wouldn’t matter anymore. that maybe it had been erased from both your memories.

but clearly, it hadn’t.

heeseung didn’t notice at first. but the moment he saw your expression shift, your shoulders tense, your eyes dart back to jaeyun, he turned his head slowly.

he saw it. the silence. the way jaeyun didn’t say a word. the way you looked shaken.

his eyes narrowed, jaw flexing ever so slightly. he didn’t speak. not yet. but you knew he would. sooner or later. he wasn’t the type to forget something like that.

and you… you weren’t sure how long you could keep the silence intact.

the sun had long dipped behind the buildings, casting a dusky glow over the edge of the city as neon lights flickered to life around them. the group stood outside a dimly lit convenience store, the sharp scent of gasoline and fried food floating faintly in the summer air. bags of chips rustled in someone’s grip, the glass door swinging open and shut with every passing customer.

jaeyun leaned against the wall, arms crossed, trying to stay casual. jungwon was mid-laugh over something jongseong had said, something that wasn’t really funny, but still loud enough to fill the air with distraction.

and then there was heeseung.

he hadn’t said much since they left school. hadn’t smiled. hadn’t even really looked at the others. he was sitting on a low wall outside the shop, one leg propped up, his hands twitching with the same kind of restlessness he always had before a fight. except this time, it wasn’t fists that were about to fly, it was words. and maybe, just maybe, something worse.

he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, jaw clenched, and broke the silence with a voice rougher than usual.

“give me one.”

jaeyun looked up.

“huh?”

“a cigarette.” heeseung didn’t meet his eyes.

“i thought you no longer smoked”

“i do now.” heeseung finally looked at him then eyes dark and sharp, like two blades glinting under a low light. “so hand it over.”

jaeyun fumbled for his pack, handed him one without a word, and lit it for him. the moment the flame touched the cigarette, heeseung took a long, slow drag, the tip glowing like a warning light. smoke curled between his lips as he exhaled, the tension thickening in the space between them.

jungwon and jongseong were halfway through the shop door when heeseung spoke again, voice low.

“you’ve been staring at her.”

jaeyun froze.

the words weren’t loud. but they were heavy. cold. each one dropped like a stone in still water, and the ripples were immediate.

heeseung turned his head slowly, eyes locking onto jaeyun’s like a predator catching movement in the dark.

“don’t fucking lie to me. you think i don’t notice?”

jaeyun opened his mouth, then shut it again. his throat moved as he swallowed hard.

“i don’t-...”

“you look at her like she’s yours.” heeseung’s tone didn’t rise. it didn’t need to. the calmness was worse. more dangerous. “so tell me, how do you know her?”

jaeyun shifted uncomfortably, back pressing tighter against the wall.

“it’s nothing... really.”

“‘nothing’ doesn’t make your whole body stiff when she walks by.” heeseung leaned in, cigarette between his fingers, still burning slowly. “‘nothing’ doesn’t make you freeze like a goddamn deer every time her eyes meet yours.”

he paused, his voice dipping lower.

“so i’ll ask one more time. where do you know her from?”

jaeyun looked away. heeseung followed his gaze with a tilt of his head, studying him like he was trying to crack open his skull and read his thoughts directly. when he didn’t get an answer, his expression shifted.

he stood up slowly, towering slightly over jaeyun now, even if they were the same height. he brought the cigarette to his lips again, but he wasn’t enjoying it, it was a leash. a way to keep himself from breaking something.

“you think i’m stupid?” he asked, voice like smoke and ash. “you think i haven’t seen that look before? i’ve had guys try to go behind my back for less. don’t make me turn this into something it doesn’t need to be.”

jaeyun’s hands curled into fists at his sides, but it wasn’t in defiance. it was frustration. guilt. and shame.

because heeseung was right.

he’d been reckless with his eyes. too obvious with his silences. and now he was cornered — not just by the boy in front of him, but by a secret he didn’t want the others to know.

the truth wasn’t about you, not completely. it was about chaeyoung. about the stupid way he still wanted her to look at him like more than just a friend. about how he thought picking a fight with the guy she was talking to would make her jealous. it didn’t. all it did was get him suspended for two weeks and humiliated in front of the school.

and now, you were the key to blowing it all open. because if heeseung found out what you knew — even just that small, fragile detail of their history — it would crush what little image jaeyun had left.

before he could answer, the convenience store door flew open again. jongseong stepped out first, snacks in one hand, cigars in the other. jungwon followed, cracking open a soda and tossing it toward jaeyun without a word.

heeseung didn’t move.

didn’t smile.

didn’t even blink.

he just inhaled the last of his cigarette, eyes still burning into jaeyun’s face like he was engraving the suspicion directly onto his skin.

as he exhaled, he flicked the cigarette to the ground and crushed it under his heel.

“we’ll finish this later,” he muttered under his breath, barely audible over the crunch of chips and soda fizz.

jaeyun knew exactly what that meant.

and it terrified him.

[herweirdass]

watch the headboard, baby | clark kent

synopsis: clark loses control and accidentally breaks the headboard during sex, but you stay on top—literally. i just love sub clark omg.

you had him under you again — where he belonged.

his big body sprawled across your bed, muscles loose, mouth parted, already breathless like you hadn’t even really started. the man could bench buildings, but you so much as breathed heavy against his throat and he was whining.

the best part? he loved it.

“hands where i can see them,” you murmured, running your palms slowly down his chest. “and don’t get cute.”

clark smirked. “yes, ma’am.”

he obeyed, resting his wrists by his head, fingers fisting the pillow. you knew he could lift you with one pinky, but he was always so careful. always so still when you told him to be. and tonight? he looked wrecked already — cheeks flushed, chest rising fast, thighs trembling under your knees.

you rolled your hips against him slowly, just to tease.

his breath caught. “fuck—”

“mm. already?” you smiled, dragging your nails gently down his stomach. “and here i thought superman had stamina.”

“i do,” he said, voice tight. “just… not when it’s you.”

you bit your lip, amused. “don’t fall apart too fast, baby. we’re not even close to done.”

he whimpered, actual whimpered, when you sank down on him fully. your head tipped back, breath catching in your throat, because no matter how many times you did this, it never stopped being good — the stretch, the burn, the weight of him inside you. every inch made to fill you up just right.

you leaned forward, palms flat on his chest, and started riding him slow. deliberate. taking your time.

he was falling apart already — eyes half-lidded, lips slack, those strong hands clutching the pillow like it was his only lifeline.

“you look pretty like this,” you said, breath brushing over his jaw. “all big and helpless. you like it when i make the rules?”

his hips bucked a little before he caught himself. “yes,” he whispered. “you feel so good. can’t think.”

you tilted your head, riding him deeper, harder now. “don’t think baby.”

he moaned — loud and desperate.

and then—

CRACK.

everything stopped.

you blinked. slowly looked over your shoulder.

a chunk of the headboard had snapped clean off — splinters in the wall, cracks down the frame. it looked like someone had driven a sledgehammer through the top panel.

you turned back to clark, who was staring up at you like a kicked puppy.

“…clark.”

"i got excited," he mumbled.

"you broke the damn bed."

he winced. "i can fix it?"

you arched an eyebrow. "with what, laser vision?"

“i didn’t even notice i was holding on that tight…”

you sat back on his thighs, crossed your arms, and stared at the busted headboard.

“…that’s the third bed this year.”

“i can buy you another one—”

“you’re damn right you can.”

you leaned back over him, hands pressed to either side of his head, and kissed him hard — all tongue, heat, and a low warning hum in your throat. when you pulled back, his lips were red and kiss-swollen, eyes dazed.

you smirked, then leaned down, mouth brushing his ear.

"and if you ever break a headboard again, the only thing you'll be allowed to hold onto next time is your damn knees."

he choked on air. "wait, what—?"

but you were already rolling your hips again, slow and steady, like nothing had happened. except this time, you pressed your palm to his chest and pinned him there.

“no questions, pretty boy. hands back. mouth shut.”

he obeyed without hesitation — arms back, fists gripping the pillow like his life depended on it.

and this time, you rode him slow, cruel, intentional — listening to every gasp and tremble, watching his knuckles turn white. the only sound in the room was his ragged breathing, your name under his breath like prayer, and the slow creak of the half-broken bed beneath you.

[flowersandskeletons526]

"How Else to Prove That I'm Devout" - KPDH polytrix fic (part one)

Brain rot go brr. Angst be upon ye. Also known as putting Mira in the guilt blender. Enjoy!

------

Mira liked meet and greets. Usually.

Most of the fans that came to the events were amazing, always so ecstatic to see the band and talk to their idols even if only for a few seconds. Sometimes they got the ones who tried to reach across the table, got a little too touchy during pictures or asked personal questions edging towards the more severe side of parasocial relationships, even one fan that had to be whisked away by security after making some off-color comments to Zoey early on in Huntrix’s rise to fame. But that was more or less a workplace hazard when you had your face plastered across half the world. They were all aware of it and they had people and procedures to handle those situations as they arose. 

The little happy moments outweighed all the bad for her. Young girls with streaks of pink in their hair gushing over how cool her costumes were and how badass she was, whispering the swear word to hide it from their parents standing off to the side. The boy with shaky hands held close to his chest telling her that he just got accepted into dance school and her choreography was his inspiration. The quiet teenager with hardened eyes like hers who confessed cutting contact with a less-than-loving family, because if she could come from the same situation and find strength outside of it, then so could they. 

That last instance was just after their first nationwide tour. She would never admit how hard she cried about it the second she was alone.

Mira didn’t mind the press. Usually.

It was another workplace hazard. Things got misconstrued or taken out of context. Her past was occasionally pried into a little deeper than she liked. Luckily the interviewers and reporters she interacted with were mostly respectful, and Bobby and the girls were always there to shut down any that weren’t. It was better than the horrific tabloid culture Zoey described from the United States. 

However, it wasn’t always inescapable. 

It was their first real public appearance after the hell that was the Idol Awards, after about a month and a half of dodging speculations and invasive inquiries and trying to keep Bobby from having a stroke due to the stress. He set it up to be easy for them, to Mira’s eternal gratitude: a couple hours signing autographs and talking to fans, taking a few pictures, releasing new merch and teasing at upcoming concerts. Not that there were real solid plans for a performance any time soon.

No one would admit it, but a major reason for it was so Mira, Rumi, and Zoey could show their faces as a united front. They could only quell the breakup rumors for so long without actually showing proof that they were false. The girls knew that they were closer than ever, and so did Bobby, to an extent, but half their fanbase couldn’t look past the Takedown performance and still feared they were broken beyond repair.

Currently, Mira’s only fear was that someone would call her out for running a little too fast to the car. She smiled and waved to the mob of fans and reporters and photographers following them, did everything she could to look normal and not let on exactly how fucking exhausted she was. She was the last to get there as always, staying behind Rumi and Zoey to create a barrier, a shield between them and anyone in the crowd who might have ill intentions. That was her place: protecting them from the very beginning of their story.

But it meant there was nothing creating a barrier for her, and Bobby was occupied talking to another person on the PR team, and a small event meant a small security presence, and all of that compounded made it disturbingly easy for a sleazy looking man with a selfie stick and a live stream to come running up to her. 

“Welcome back, my fellow detectives!” he was saying into his phone camera. “I’m Investigator Scotty from Idol Investigators, covering Huntrix’s first public appearance after the Idol awards! I’m here with Mira, lead visual and choreographer! Mira, how are you feeling seeing all these fans still showing up after your last performance?”

She barely remembered to fix her face in time, plastering on her camera-ready smile that Celine had drilled into the three of them a lifetime ago. She was allowed to be a badass, but she was not allowed to be an asshole. 

“It’s amazing to see everyone,” she gushed. “We’re always so happy to get a chance to talk to our fans.”

She didn’t like the emphasis he’d put on the word still. It made her plant herself squarely between him and the open door of the car.

“And we are all, of course, very happy to see you,” the streamer said with an over-exaggerated smile as he panned across the crowd. 

Someone touched her back, and she wasn’t sure if it was Rumi or Zoey but she felt all their concern and confusion radiating from the simple pressure of a hand planted over her spine. She made eye contact with a pair of security guards near the venue doors. They nodded once and started making their way through the crowd as the streamer continued talking.

“So, my subscribers want to know-” Ugh. “-if you have any response to your brother’s recent comments.”

Her brother?

Mira’s heart stopped in her chest. Her blood ran cold. The world went silent, save a high pitched ringing in her ears and her own hammering pulse. She heard herself chuckle but she wasn’t sure if she was in control of her own mouth anymore. 

“Excuse me? My brother’s comments?” she repeated, a biting edge infecting the words. 

“We obtained an exclusive interview with your brother after footage of the Takedown performance was released-”

There was footage of that night?

Before the questioning could go any further, the security guards grabbed the streamer under his arms and swiftly carried him away. Just as he began spouting off about freedom of the press, Bobby came around to usher Mira into the car and climb in after her, shutting and locking the door behind them. The driver sped off without having to be told. 

Rumi and Zoey were on her in a heartbeat with an arm around her shoulders and a hand on her knee. 

“Are you okay?” Zoey asked almost frantically. “Who was that guy?”

“Mira, what did he say to you?” asked Rumi. 

She didn’t answer. Instead, she stared straight ahead at Bobby sitting across from them, furiously typing on his phone.

“Bobby.”

“I’m looking, I’m looking!” he promised. “What show did he say? Idol Investigators, right? Where have I heard that before?”

“Wait,” said Zoey, “isn’t he that guy who has cease-and-desist orders from, like, three different bands?”

“Yes! That’s him!” He clicked on something and began scrolling. “Well, he’s popular in the United States.”

“He would be popular in the United States,” Mira grumbled.

“Mira!” Rumi hissed with a pointed glance towards Zoey.

Zoey made an uncertain noise in the back of her throat. “No, she’s right. Celebrity news is very sensationalized over there, it’s actually a really big problem.”

Bobby frowned at his phone. “Mira, I think he was just trying to get a rise out of you. I don’t see any…” His face paled. “Ah. Okay, um… Oh, jeez.”

Mira stuck her hand out. “Let me see.”

“Mira,” Rumi began warningly.

“Give me the phone.”

“Bobby, do not give her the phone!”

“Bobby!”

Part of her felt bad watching the poor man glance between them, torn between Mira wanting to deal with her own family drama and Rumi death-glaring the both of them to leave alone whatever ridiculous comments were made. In the end, Bobby closed his eyes and just stuck the phone out towards them. Mira got to it first, opening the chosen video with one hand and holding Rumi back with the other, ignoring her leader’s protests of “You’re only going to get upset” and “Whatever they have to say isn’t worth it!”

Her brother’s face filled the screen. Just the very sight of him sent so much anger and pain coursing through her veins that she almost crushed the device in her hand. 

It opened in the middle of the stupid streamer speaking behind the camera. “-and I am here with Huntrix choreographer Mira’s brother-”

“Do not mention my name,” her brother snapped in that dumb fake uppity accent he’d spoken with since they were children. 

“Here with Mira’s brother. So, sir, you’ve seen the video of the infamous Idol Awards performance?”

“Have I seen it?” He chuckled smugly. Mira wanted to smash his face in. “No. No, I have not watched the footage, but I’ve heard more than enough about it. And I am only speaking on it now so you paparazzi types will stop harassing my parents for a statement.”

Of course, he was. Anything to make her look worse while retaining his distinction of the perfect dutiful son.

“I’m an investigative journalist,” the streamer corrected. “And what is your statement?”

Mira gritted her teeth as her brother rolled his eyes. “If my sister is involved, an extremely public fight like that does not surprise me. I am, however, obligated to commend her manager. The way he spun this as an elaborate stunt is a public relations miracle. That is all I am willing to say on the matter. Now please, kindly, leave my family out of this mess.” 

“Okay, that’s enough.” Rumi snatched the phone away and closed out of the video before handing it back to Bobby. 

Mira stared at the floor. If she was involved, a public fight wasn’t surprising? What the hell did that even mean? And the way he said public, like it would’ve been fine if the whole thing had just happened behind closed doors instead. That’s what always made him so much better than her, wasn’t it? She refused to uphold their family image, refused to tone it down, refused to be anything but authentically herself every single second of her life. 

Something hateful and dark blossomed in her chest. What right did he have to say anything about this? He didn’t even know what happened!

But then again, neither did she. Not really. Rumi had told her and Zoey the very basics: Takedown started playing and there were demon copies of the two of them and that’s why everyone thought there was a fight. She didn’t give any more details, and the look in her eyes when she told them, the way her voice cracked, how she’d unconsciously covered her patterns… Mira knew not to push further. But now there was this footage of it…

“Mira.” Zoey’s voice brought her back to reality. She looked up into wide, anxious black eyes. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Mira said, her voice steady and blunt. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Rumi and Zoey shared a look. “The things he said-”

“Fuck him. I don’t care what he thinks.”

She could see all over their faces that they didn’t believe her, but they didn’t pursue it. Bobby, to his credit, also took the hint and quickly changed the subject to the more positive success of the event. Mira tuned out the moment he said the word “trending.”

Rumi kept a hand on her knee the entire ride home.

When they reached the penthouse and said goodbye to Bobby, Mira headed straight for her room. She heard Zoey start to call after her, only for Rumi to quietly shut her down. Mira almost wished she hadn’t.

She stripped out of her clothes and tossed them unceremoniously in the corner of the room before changing into her pajamas. It didn’t matter that there were still several hours of daylight left. Sitting on the edge of her bed, she grabbed her phone and opened a search engine. She typed Huntrix into the search bar.

The first suggested search was “Huntrix Takedown live.”

Mira closed out of the app, powered her phone all the way down, and stashed it away in the very back of her dresser drawer for good measure. She didn’t sleep that night.

The next morning, she was up and moving with the sunrise. It was strange, being the only one awake in the penthouse. Usually Rumi was the first one up, making coffee or tea for the three of them or workshopping a song in her room, quietly singing or strumming her guitar as Mira passed her door. All she heard now was the soft patter of her own footsteps.

She didn’t bother with coffee or breakfast. She’d get that later, and Zoey liked it when they ate meals together, anyway. Instead, she changed into workout clothes and headed straight for their home gym a few floors down in the building. Past all the machines and free weights was a small section of punching bags and sparring dummies and racks of various weapons. Bobby gave them a weird look when they requested that be put in, but Mira gave some bullshit explanation of martial arts being conducive to better dancing and Celine - fuck her - had backed her up at the time, so he accepted it, albeit still a bit suspiciously.

She picked a wooden staff off a rack and stepped into the center of a mat. At first, she simply moved with it, spinning it in long, smooth motions like she had when she was first learning to use her weapon. It didn’t have the same weight or balance, of course, but she just needed something to move with in the moment. It was calming. Just her in the quiet, the low swish of the staff cutting through the air, falling into her body, distractions herself from-

With my sister involved, a public fight doesn’t surprise me.

Her staff struck a sparring dummy square in the neck. Every muscle in her body tensed. He didn’t know what he was talking about. He wasn’t there.

She struck a body blow.

They hadn’t spoken in years. He had no idea who she was. He never did.

Strike the head, the ribs, jab to the solar plexus.

It wasn’t her on that stage. Whatever it was that Rumi faced, it wasn’t her. It wasn’t her! He wasn’t there!

Flinging the staff aside, Mira roared in frustration and tackled the dummy off the mat and onto the concrete floor. She started punching over and over with all her strength, imagining it was her brother beneath her fists instead of foam and plastic. It was a hit for every disapproving stare, every lecture on maintaining the family’s reputation, protecting their societal standing by erasing everything that made Mira Mira, until they erased her from their lives completely. A hit for every time her brother should have supported her but didn’t, every time he basked in their parents’ praise while she was slowly but surely forced out. 

And now he had the nerve to do this? To go on some stupid invasive paparazzi channel and fuck with the family she made for herself? He didn’t have any right!

Mira closed her eyes and hit harder and harder until she couldn’t feel anything, could only hear her pounding heartbeat and the thud of the punches, could only hear-

“Mira! Mira, stop!”

Rumi’s voice rattled her for only a split second, just long enough for her to misjudge a punch. She slammed her fist at full force into solid concrete. 

Mira fell back clutching her wrist, her hand already starting to bruise, gritting her teeth to make a growl out of a scream. The fallen sparring dummy was stained red with the blood dripping from her split knuckles. She bit down on a curse as Rumi and Zoey, still in their pajamas, fell to their knees on either side of her. 

“What the hell, Mira!” Rumi asked in exasperation, more worried than angry. “What were you doing?”

She refused to answer. She didn’t know how. How could she possibly explain, “I was imagining killing my brother because he brought up the worst day of our lives,” without sounding insane? She just kept her head down and her eyes off Rumi’s expectant stare as Zoey gingerly took her wrist.

She inhaled sharply through her teeth. Zoey loosened her grip. “Sorry,” she mumbled. She turned Mira’s hand over and looked up at Rumi. “It looks broken.”

Rumi rubbed her temple and sighed heavily. “I’m calling Bobby.”

“Do not call Bobby!” Mira hollered, but Rumi was already on her phone across the room, speaking quietly so Mira wouldn’t overhear. 

Despite not having it on speaker phone, Mira heard the scream from the other end of the line clear as day.

“Mira did what?!”