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julietsf1 · 27 days ago

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The Girl From APM - Arthur Leclerc x Reader

summary: They met at a gala. He was rude, she was done. It should’ve ended there. But the universe — and Charles Leclerc — had other plans (10.8k words)

content: slow-burn, mutual pining, enemies to friends to lovers, a little tequila, a little lime, a lot of longing

AN: hi angels! sorry for my long disappearance! I've moved to a new apartment which I am so happy about!! lots of arrangements but now finally some time for myself again :) something different today as I saw Arthur Leclerc in front of the carrefour the other week and he looked ridiculously fine IRL oh my daaays!! also got a Charles, Lando and some other non F1 stories coming this week as well! LOVE YALL

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You are not from Monaco.

Not really.

Not in the sense that the locals are, born sun-kissed and fluent in four languages by the age of ten, moving through designer storefronts like it's church, and treating royalty like old classmates. But you're learning. Quickly. And you like to think you're not doing too badly.

It's been three months since you moved.

Three months since you folded yourself into this silken, surreal world like a note into an envelope, signing your new life with a hopeful little flourish.

And today, in particular, feels like a small reward. A golden ribbon of a day, stretching long and sun-soaked across the Riviera, where even the breeze feels curated. You walk along the harbor with Charles, a cone of hazelnut gelato in one hand and your sandals clicking softly along the cobblestones.

He’s already halfway through his second scoop. Some ridiculous mix of lemon and mango because “the sourness balances the sweet,” he claims, although he’s been grimacing through every bite.

“You’re so stubborn,” you laugh.

“And yet,” he says, dramatically licking the edge of the dripping gelato, “I persevere.”

You roll your eyes. “A true hero.”

Charles is easy company. Like a well-worn paperback -- familiar and beloved and a little bent at the edges. You met him during your second week at APM Monaco, at a luncheon for some of the brand’s key ambassadors, where he arrived late, still in race gear, and charmingly out of breath.

He’d called you la gentille tornade, the sweet tornado, after watching you glide between VIPs with an easy grace, all warm smiles and soft-spoken French.

Since then, he’s been something of a big brother. Always checking in, always offering advice. You don’t have many people like that here yet, and you treasure it.

You pause at the edge of the dock to admire a passing yacht. Charles follows your gaze.

“She’s beautiful, no?” he says, gesturing to the boat. But then, after a beat: “My brother would probably say it’s too flashy.”

You glance at him. “You have a brother?”

He gives a small, lopsided smile. “Arthur. Younger. Taller. More moody.”

You laugh. “Oh, I think I saw something about that! Isn’t he joining APM too?”

Charles nods, but it’s subtle. A flicker of something crosses his face -- hard to catch unless you're looking for it. You are.

You tilt your head. “Is he also a driver, like you?”

And there it is. The pause. Not long, but long enough to feel it. The briefest stiffening of posture, the slight narrowing of eyes.

“Yeah,” he says finally, voice lighter than it was a second ago. “He is.”

You don’t press. You never do. Your whole life you’ve been the kind of person people tell things to without realizing they’ve said too much which means you’ve also learned when not to ask.

So instead, you offer a bright smile and lick your gelato. “Well, I hope he likes French television galas.”

Charles snorts. “That's this week already isn't it?”

You nod. “He’ll probably be invited too, I guess. All ambassadors are getting a table.”

“God help us,” he mutters. “He’s going to sulk the whole night in a tux.”

You giggle. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He groans. “You don’t know him yet.”

You twirl a little, letting the breeze catch your sundress. “Well, maybe he’ll surprise us. What are you wearing to the gala, by the way?”

Charles raises his eyebrows. “Just a simple suit. Don’t tell me you’re going full couture.”

“I work in luxury,” you reply primly. “It’s in my contract.”

“I thought your contract just said smile at clients and drink too much champagne.”

You grin. “Pretty much.”

He bumps his shoulder against yours. “You’re the luckiest person in the world.”

You finish your gelato as the sun dips lower, casting gold over the water. There’s a peace to the air here, a kind of easy stillness that only exists on slow afternoons like this, when the world feels soft-edged and almost generous.

…

The dress is Elie Saab. Midnight blue. A scatter of beadwork like constellations across sheer tulle, with a neckline that dips just enough to whisper without shouting. The kind of dress that makes strangers glance twice and women in PR nod approvingly. The kind that cinches in the waist like a secret and makes you feel — for a fleeting, flickering second — like maybe you do belong in Monaco after all.

Your driver arrives five minutes early. Jean-Luc, middle-aged, always a little bit too serious, but you like that about him. There’s comfort in people who take their jobs seriously, and tonight, you need all the comfort you can get.

“Bonsoir, Mademoiselle,” he says, opening the car door for you. You thank him softly and slide in, smoothing the gown beneath you.

The ride is quiet. The kind of silence that isn’t awkward but anticipatory. The city lit up like a necklace around the coast, winding through the dark like something from a perfume ad.

When the car pulls up in front of the venue, the light hits just right. You step out into a scatter of flashbulbs, mostly aimed at others but catching you in the corners. You smile anyway. Graceful. Understated. A little shimmer of mystery.

Charles is already there. Of course he is. He’s standing by the APM table with Alexandra, radiant in something silver and backless, and laughing with a group of other ambassadors.

“Regarde qui voilà,” he says, eyes lighting up when he sees you. “Our princess has arrived.”

You curtsy dramatically, making Alexandra laugh.

“You look stunning,” she says, kissing both your cheeks.

“As do you,” you reply, and you mean it.

You greet the rest of the table, dipping in and out of conversations like a practiced hostess. You love these nights, honestly — they remind you of everything you used to dream about when you were still living in that cramped flat in Paris, watching gala footage online while eating toast for dinner.

One of your favorite clients is seated just a few tables down: an older Parisian woman who buys sapphires like they’re candy. You excuse yourself to go say hello, gliding through the crowd with a flute of champagne in hand, keeping your smile ready and your laughter soft.

You stay longer than expected. There’s a warmth to her company. A sort of familiar flamboyance, like an aunt who gives you perfume samples and life advice in the same breath. You lose track of time.

Until—

You return to the APM table. And someone is in your seat.

You blink. Politely, of course.

He’stall, for one.

Sharp jawline. Crisp tux. An expression like he’s only half-paying attention and prefers it that way. You recognize the slope of the nose. The shape of the mouth. There’s a similarity, undeniably.

Arthur.

You step a little closer, voice gentle. “Excuse me! Sorry! I think that was my seat, is it okay if I sit here again?”

He doesn’t look up immediately. And when he does, it’s slow. Deliberate. His eyes are cool, unreadable.

“There’s no place card,” he says.

You blink. “No, but it is actually assigned though! I work for APM—”

“It’s a table,” he says mildly. “Not a throne.”

Oh.

Okay.

You offer a smile, the kind that’s more teeth than warmth. “Noted. Still, I was sitting there before.”

He sighs. Not dramatically. Just enough to let you know he’s annoyed. And then, finally, moves one chair over without a word.

You sit. Slowly. Delicately. Like you’re lowering yourself into enemy territory. The air between you has cooled by several degrees.

Charles leans forward from across the table, smirking. “Ah. So you’ve met.”

“Briefly,” you say, sipping your champagne.

Arthur doesn't answer. He’s watching the stage.

Charles nudges him. “This is the one I told you about. Client development. The really nice one.”

Arthur lifts an eyebrow. Barely. “She seems charming.”

You shoot him a look. “And you seem delightful.”

Charles groans. “Please, please don’t fight at the gala.”

“No promises,” you mutter.

The evening continues; speeches, awards, slow rounds of applause. The food is forgettable, the wine isn’t. You spend most of dinner catching up with Alexandra, who leans in at some point and whispers, “He’s not usually like that, you know.”

You raise a brow. “Then how is he usually?”

She grins. “More grumpy.”

Still, Arthur is not all bad. At one point, he notices your champagne glass is empty and gestures for the waiter.

“One for her too,” he says, then turns back to the stage.

It’s not much. But it’s something.

Later, when the evening winds down and people begin trickling out in glittering clusters, you excuse yourself to head outside. Your driver is already waiting.

The stairs down from the venue are steep, carved stone and poor lighting, and just as your heel catches on the hem of your dress, a hand reaches out.

“Careful.”

You glance up.

Arthur. Holding out a hand. No expression on his face. Just… offering.

You hesitate. Then place your hand in his.

It’s warm. Steady. A little rough around the edges. He helps you down slowly, not saying a word. At the bottom, he releases your hand like it’s made of glass.

You glance at him. “Thank you.”

He nods once.

You open your mouth to say more — something witty, maybe, or kind — but he’s already turning away, adjusting the cuff of his shirt, retreating like the tide.

…

The morning is bright in that peculiar Monaco way; the sky a soft wash of powder blue, the sea glittering like a lie, and everything else too lovely to be taken seriously. You arrive at the photoshoot early, as always, with a coffee in one hand and your phone buzzing in the other.

The terrace has been cleared for the session. White parasols bloom above wicker lounge sets. There are racks of jewelry glinting under diffused light, chilled Perrier lining a tray, and two stylists already fussing over the set like worried mothers.

Charles, of course, is late. But Antoine is not.

He greets you with his usual sleepy grin, camera slung low around his neck. “How’s my favoritte manager? Woke up early to see us shoot your content?”

You smile, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Such a nice idea of you guys to do some more organic promotions! Your pictures of Charles are always so good.”

“You should join us more often! Charles never praises me like this.”

You tilt your head. “Are you trying to flatter me into staying?”

Antoine shrugs. “A little.”

You laugh, taking a long sip from your coffee. “Tempting.”

By the time Charles arrives, you’ve already reviewed the lighting setup and briefed Antoine about the key pieces from the collection. He waltzes in wearing linen and sunglasses, croissant in one hand, coffee in the other.

“Did I miss anything?”

“Just catching up with Toine,” you say.

He kisses your cheek in greeting, then collapses into a lounge chair with the sort of theatrical sigh only Charles Leclerc can get away with.

“So lovely to meet your brother the other night by the way,” you say after a beat, adjusting a necklace on the velvet bust.

Charles stills. “He was a bit rude, wasn’t he?”

“Mmhmm.”

He grimaces. “I’m sorry. He’s…” he trails off, looking for a word that doesn’t sound like a pain in the ass.

“…Complex?” you offer.

He smiles faintly. “Let’s go with that.”

“I’m sure he’s lovely once he warms up. If he ever does.”

Charles sits forward. “He’s just used to people liking him for the wrong reasons. Or not at all. I think… sometimes he assumes the worst before giving people a chance.”

You blink at him. “Do I seem like someone who judges people by their last name?”

“Not at all,” he says. “But he is a bit stupid sometimes.”

You smile, touched. “Well, I’m just happy there’s at least one very lovely Leclerc brother in my life.”

“Two,” Antoine calls from across the terrace without missing a beat. “Lorenzo’s a gem.”

You laugh, lifting your hands in surrender. “I haven’t met him yet! Can’t say.”

Charles looks up, grinning. “You’re not wrong though. I am the best one.”

“Maybe you should just redo the meet with Arthur, that would be fun, right?” Antoine says enthusiastically, eyes flickering between you and Charles.

And then — you feel it. That shift in the air. That strange, almost cinematic pause.

Charles is smiling too much.

That’s your first clue.

He does it subtly — the kind of smile people give when they’re pretending something isn’t happening. You’ve seen that smile on hosts who know the risotto has been burnt but insist dinner is going beautifully.

And then there’s Antoine. Who doesn’t bother to pretend at all. He’s grinning like the cat that got the cream, the keys to the penthouse, and your credit card.

You shift your weight. Slowly.

“What,” you say cautiously, “did you two do?”

Charles lifts his coffee cup to his lips in what can only be described as an evasive maneuver. Antoine lifts both hands like he’s been falsely accused. The tension stretches like ribbon between them.

You narrow your eyes. “Tell me you did not.”

“Did not what?” Charles says quickly, which is the exact phrase guilty people use before fleeing a crime scene.

Antoine, for his part, is clearly enjoying himself far too much. “We merely said it would be a shame if two elegant people who enjoy good conversation and moonlight walks never… ran into each other.”

You stare at him. “That’s oddly specific.”

Charles winces. “Okay, fine. Maybe I mentioned to Arthur that we were shooting here today.”

You blink. “Mentioned.”

“Yes.”

Antoine chimes in. “And maybe you said he should stop by here too.”

Charles shrugs. “Only in passing.”

“In passing,” you repeat. “You passingly mentioned that we be at a private terrace photoshoot. At eight in the morning. Picking out your couture jewelry and he should join?”

Antoine snorts. “It was a strong passing.”

You groan, dragging a hand down your face. “Charles.”

“You liked him,” Charles says defensively.

“I did not!” you protest.

“Not yet,” he insists. “But I’m sure you will.”

“I barely spoke to him at the gala—”

“That’s why this is such a good idea,” Charles says breezily.

You spin to Antoine. “You helped him with this?”

Antoine shrugs. “Charles offered me Beef Bar take away tonight. I fold like a deck chair.”

You cross your arms. “We have work to do. I planned a whole shoot for you just to turn it into a trap.”

“It’s not a trap,” Charles says, alarmed. “It’s… a casual, unsuspicious opportunity to let things unfold naturally.”

“In the most unnatural way possible.”

And then, like prophecy made inconveniently real, you hear it.

A car door slamming shut. Two sets of steps — slow and distinct — approaching along the stone path behind the terrace.

Your heart sinks. You freeze like someone who just remembered they left the stove on.

“Tell me that’s not him,” you whisper.

Charles whistles innocently. Antoine lifts his camera, as if preparing for a wildlife documentary.

You turn. And there he is.

He steps onto the terrace like the sunlight isn’t something that applies to him. Olive green shirt, jaw set, keys still twirling in his fingers — and when his eyes land on you, his whole body seems to stiffen by one barely perceptible degree.

You cross your arms. Instinctively.

He stops just short of the seating area and frowns, first at you, then at Charles.

“You said you needed a lift.”

“I do,” Charles says, too quickly. “I mean—I did. But I forgot we still had a few more looks to shoot.”

Arthur’s brows inch up. “You forgot?”

“Yeah,” Charles says, glancing nervously at Antoine. “A couple more shots. The bracelets. And… the rings.”

Arthur blinks. Slowly. Then turns toward Antoine, who is pretending to adjust a reflector with the same commitment an actor gives to dying onstage.

You glance between them, narrowing your eyes. “Wait.”

Charles smiles too brightly. “Since we’re shooting a bit longer, and you’re already here, I thought maybe you could take her home.”

You whip around. “Excuse me?”

“It’s on his way!” Charles says, holding up his hands like a peace offering. “She lives five minutes from you.”

Arthur lets out a breath. “You could’ve just told me this was a setup.”

“It’s not a setup,” Charles insists.

Antoine mutters, “It’s a light suggestion with automotive implications.”

You turn to Arthur. “I can call a driver.”

“I’m already here,” he says, tone unreadable.

You bristle. “Well, don’t sound too enthusiastic.”

“I’m not,” he replies.

You grab your bag a little harder than necessary. “Great.”

“Perfect,” he mutters, turning back toward the stairs without waiting.

You follow, jaw tight, trying not to stomp like a child. Behind you, Charles calls out, “Have fun!” and you resist the urge to flip him off with the delicate hand that wears your nicest APM ring.

Arthur doesn’t speak as he opens the car door for you. It’s the bare minimum of politeness, performed with the detached energy of someone passing a stranger a napkin at a café.

You slide into the passenger seat and stare straight ahead, arms crossed.

He gets in. Adjusts the mirrors even though they’re already perfect. Puts the car into drive. Doesn’t look at you.

After a minute of tense silence: “You weren’t supposed to be there,” he says.

You scoff. “Yeah, I got that vibe.”

“I mean it. I didn’t know.”

“Neither did I, apparently,” you mutter, glancing out the window. “Charles has been watching too many movies again.”

Arthur huffs. “He thinks he’s subtle.”

“He’s really not.”

Silence settles between you again, heavier this time. There’s something coiled in the air — not quite anger, but irritation layered over misunderstanding. Like both of you are reacting to ghosts that haven’t been properly introduced.

You sigh. “Look, if this is awkward, we can just not talk.”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” he replies.

You turn your head sharply. “Wow. Okay.”

He glances at you, then back at the road. “I meant—I just don’t have anything to say.”

“You’re so fun.”

He presses his lips together. “Maybe I don’t enjoy small talk.”

“Maybe you don’t enjoy people.”

He says nothing. Just changes gears. Smoothly. Cleanly. As if he’s already learned how to move through life without needing to explain himself.

And maybe that’s what annoys you most.

That you can’t read him.

That he doesn’t let you.

Because usually, you can. You’ve made a career out of reading people. Clients, guests, partners, hosts, you always know how to tilt a smile, how to offer the right word at the right time, how to sense what people need before they realize they need it.

But Arthur?

Arthur is a locked door in a hallway you didn’t ask to walk down.

Eventually, the silence breaks. Not out of comfort. But because you can’t help yourself.

“I do admire how you hold the door for me,” you say, watching the streetlights blur against the glass. “And helped me down the stairs the other night. Very gentlemanly of someone who seems to actively despise me.”

He exhales, contained. Like someone who’s learned to speak carefully, if at all.

“I’ve had time to practice,” he says after a moment. “When you’re the one people don’t expect anything from, you get good at the quiet stuff.”

You blink, turning your head. “Is that how you see it?”

He shrugs. Too casually. Like he’s tossing the comment into the air just to get rid of it.

“You’re friends with Charles,” he says. “That’s usually enough for people to assume they know me.”

You snort softly. “Right. Because God forbid anyone come near you without making it about your last name.”

He doesn’t answer. Just shifts into second gear and keeps his eyes on the road.

You glance out the window again, but your voice comes without thinking:

“You’re not Charles’s brother to me, Arthur.”

He glances sideways. Not fully, just a flick of his eyes. “No?”

“No,” you say, crossing your arms. “You’re just kind of an asshole.”

That lands. A beat of quiet — and then, he laughs. Low, warm, and involuntary. It slips out before he can catch it, and you glance at him just in time to see it settle into the corner of his mouth like a secret he didn’t mean to tell.

“Fair enough,” he says.

The tension shifts. Doesn’t vanish but bends slightly, like metal held too long in a flame.

He pulls up to your building, parking neatly along the curb without asking if this is the right place. It is.

Neither of you moves for a second.

Then he reaches for your bag, already handing it over before you ask.

You pause with your fingers curled around the strap. “Thanks.”

“For the ride?” he asks, dry.

“For not letting me fall on my face in heels the other night.” You tilt your head. “Could’ve let me suffer.”

He glances at you finally, and there’s a flicker of something behind his expression.

“Tempting,” he says.

You open the door. The hinge creaks faintly. Neither of you moves to say anything more.

Then, because silence never quite agrees with you, you glance over your shoulder, one foot already on the pavement.

“Enjoy the rest of your morning, Arthur.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just rests one hand on the wheel, elbow on the door frame, like he’s somewhere else entirely.

Then: “Sure.”

You close the door behind you.

And that’s it. No smile. No wave. No friendly nod.

Just an unremarkable end to a remarkably strange drive with a man who, for all his detachment, still reached for your bag before you could.

As you head up the steps to your apartment, heels tapping against the stone, you wonder if maybe you were wrong.

Maybe he doesn’t despise you.

Maybe he just hasn’t made up his mind yet.

…

You don’t date.

Not because you’re emotionally unavailable or jaded or secretly in love with a long-lost childhood best friend. You’re just... busy. And good at being on your own. And, if you’re being honest, not particularly enchanted by the idea of someone mispronouncing your name over Negronis while bragging about their portfolio.

But people, friends, colleagues, your mother on every single phone call, keep insisting that the right person isn’t going to climb through your window like a Disney prince. That you have to put yourself out there. Try. Meet someone.

So, you said yes. To Maxime.

Maxime, who had nice enough shoes and a passable smile and worked in logistics, which sounded tolerable at the time.

You arrive at Maison Gigi five minutes early, because old habits die hard. You’re wearing your just in case he’s actually nice dress — a black silk wrap that dips a little at the back and makes your arms look excellent — and a pair of earrings that glitter like they’re pretending not to be expensive.

Maxime is late.

By eight minutes. And then three more.

When he arrives, he kisses both your cheeks too quickly and sits without pulling out your chair.

You make a mental note.

“You’re prettier than your photos,” he says as he folds his napkin. “Don’t see that very often anymore.”

You smile. “Thanks. I guess.”

He grins, unaware it was a jab.

You order sparkling water. He gets a Gin & Tonic and spends five whole minutes describing how the one at Cipriani was better.

By the time the bread arrives, he’s asked how many serious relationships you’ve had, whether you live alone, and if you’ve ever considered getting lip filler “just to define the Cupid’s bow.”

You drink your water and pretend it’s vodka.

Halfway through your seabass, you glance toward the terrace, thinking it might be a good time to fake a phone call. Or a family emergency. Or sudden food poisoning. Anything, really.

That’s when you see him.

Arthur Leclerc.

He walks onto the terrace with that signature, infuriating grace — linnen button up, one hand in his pocket, the other casually gripping a bouquet of pale roses and eucalyptus. As if he just robbed the most angelic florist.

He’s speaking to the hostess. Then he sees you.

And he stops.

Not completely. Just long enough for the pause to say something. His eyes meet yours — and something flickers in them. Recognition, amusement, something a little mean.

He laughs — just once, low and brief — then follows the hostess to the empty table directly beside yours.

“Well, well.”

You blink slowly. “Of course it’s you.”

His mouth curves. “Don’t sound so excited.”

“I’m not.”

“I can tell.” He scans the table. “Date night?”

Maxime shifts on the opposite side of the table. “Who’s that?”

You take a sip of your water. “An acquaintance.”

Arthur’s date appears behind him: tall, lean, slick-backed ponytail and an expression like she’s been forced to attend a work function. She slides into her chair and pulls out her phone before even glancing at the menu.

Arthur doesn’t sit. He lingers beside the table for a second longer, eyes still on you. Then, with all the subtlety of a man setting a trap he wants you to see, he turns to the waitress and says—

“Actually, would it be possible to join the tables?”

You blink. “Sorry?”

He gestures between the two setups, eyes wide with mock innocence. “They’re practically touching already. Might as well make it official.”

“Are you serious?”

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

You open your mouth. Close it again.

Maxime offers a short shrug. “Sure. I don’t mind.”

Of course he doesn’t.

The waitress hesitates, then starts dragging the tables together with a smile and the weary efficiency of someone who has seen far weirder things in Monaco.

Arthur sits beside you. Not opposite, not across — beside. Close enough that your chairs nudge. Close enough that you can smell something crisp and faintly woody on him.

You don’t look at him.

“Nice dress,” he says, after a moment.

You cut him a glance. “Is that condescension or charity?”

He tilts his head. “You really don’t accept compliments well.”

“I accept them fine. Just not when they’re served with smugness.”

He smirks and leans back, arm resting along the edge of his chair. Which now overlaps yours.

You see Maxime straighten across you.

“So you two… know each other?”

Arthur answers for you. “Hardly.”

You hum. “Wish it was even less.”

Arthur presses his lips together, amused.

His date is now scrolling Instagram with one finger and sipping her wine without ever making eye contact with anyone. She looks stunning. And entirely uninterested.

Arthur notices. He glances at the untouched bouquet on their table. Then, with all the lazy elegance of someone who’s about to do something both thoughtful and infuriating, he reaches for it — gently plucking a single red rose from the center.

And without asking, without a word, he places it beside your plate.

You stare at it.

Then at him.

Then back at the rose.

Arthur leans slightly toward Maxime and says, tone light, “You didn’t bring her flowers?”

Maxime blinks. “It’s just a first date.”

Arthur hums. “All the more reason for a good first impression.”

You exhale through your nose. “Is this part of a new strategy to get under my skin?”

“No,” Arthur replies, shrugging. “That was just a fun bonus.”

You glance at the rose again. It’s fresh. Soft petals, still slightly closed. A perfect center.

You don’t pick it up. But you don’t move it away either.

For a while, the four of you sit like that. The world presses on: waiters weaving through tables, the low hum of live music drifting in from the bar, ice clinking in highball glasses.

Eventually, the noise at the table dips — Maxime focused on his steak, Arthur not filling the space for once.

You’re picking at what’s left of your main when Arthur shifts slightly beside you, elbow brushing the edge of your chair.

“How’s the date?” he says, just low enough that only you can hear.

You glance over. His expression isn’t smug now — just neutral. Curious, maybe.

You shrug. “Not the worst night of my life.”

He softly smiles. “That’s encouraging.”

You smile, despite yourself. “How’s yours?”

Arthur glances at his date, who’s now checking her watch while sipping her wine like it’s her third choice that day.

“Uneventful,” he says.

And then, quietly: “Could be worse.”

You nod once. “Well. At least the food’s good.”

Arthur glances at your plate. “You barely touched it.”

“Appetite died somewhere between 'what's your shoe size' and the phrase ‘how many bed partners have you had.’”

That earns a quiet snort from him.

At the far end of the table, Maxime is now leaning toward Arthur’s date, gesturing with a little too much confidence as he launches into a new topic — something about investment ratios. The blonde is making polite noises, phone finally tucked away, her expression fixed into a smooth, unreadable mask.

Arthur follows your gaze. “They seem to be enjoying themselves.”

You hum. “Maybe we should let them have the rest of the night.”

He arches a brow. “Don’t tempt me.”

You let the comment settle.

A beat passes — not awkward, but unexpected. Neither of you is trying, and that’s what makes it disarming. The sharpness between you has dulled a little. Or maybe it’s just shifted — honed into something quieter, subtler, less performative.

You glance at him sideways. “I thought you didn’t do small talk.”

“I don’t.”

“So what’s this, then?”

Arthur sips his wine. “Unavoidable.”

You exhale a soft laugh.

He doesn’t look at you, not directly. He just keeps that lazy posture, arm draped over the back of his chair, fingertips grazing the space near your shoulder.

“Anyway,” he adds, “I wasn’t trying to embarrass you.”

You pause. “The rose?”

He nods once.

You look at it, still resting beside your plate, velvety and deep red and slightly tilted in your direction, like it’s been watching this conversation unfold with quiet amusement.

“I know,” you say.

Another pause.

“It's kind of sweet,” you add.

Arthur’s gaze flicks to you. Just briefly. But it lingers a half-second longer than it should.

Your water glass is empty. He notices. Doesn’t comment, but reaches toward the nearby jug and refills it halfway before settling back again.

Across from him, his date lets out a gentle, slightly rehearsed laugh at something Maxime has said. She adjusts the strap of her dress and leans in.

Arthur doesn’t seem to notice.

“Not exactly how I thought this dinner would go,” you murmur.

“That makes two of us.”

You glance down at your napkin, smoothing it with your fingers.

He shifts. “You heading home soon?”

You nod. “Probably.”

“I’ll walk you out.”

You blink. “Oh?”

He doesn’t explain. Just pushes his chair back and glances down at you, hand reaching toward the back of your chair.

You hesitate for a second, but he’s already moving — fingers brushing the curve of the seat as he gently helps you up. His other hand picks up your coat from where it’s been folded over your bag.

And then like it’s the most normal thing in the world he holds it open for you.

You slip your arms through the sleeves in silence, your skin brushing his as he eases it up over your shoulders. His movements are smooth, practiced, quiet. Not performative.

Not for show.

Maxime looks up suddenly, clearly clocking that you’re leaving. He shifts in his seat, trying to recover the thread of something he must’ve dropped a while ago.

“You heading off?” he asks, voice too loud for how little he’s mattered in the last thirty minutes.

“Yeah,” you say. “Early morning.”

He nods, leaning back like he’s trying to seem unfazed. “So... maybe I’ll see you again?”

Arthur’s hand rests lightly against the back of your coat, steadying you as you adjust your bag. You don’t look at him, but you feel it. That presence. Quiet but definite.

You glance at Maxime. “Maybe.”

He gives you a tight smile. “You’ve got my number.”

“Sure do.”

And that’s it.

Arthur’s already stepped aside, guiding you gently past the table with a hand barely grazing your shoulder blade. He doesn’t say a word as you walk out together, leaving Maxime blinking behind you like someone who missed the plot twist entirely.

Outside, the air is cooler than before, tinged with salt and whatever perfume clings to the night. You pause just shy of the curb, glancing at your phone.

“My car’s just around the corner.”

Arthur nods, hands back in his pockets. “Then I’ll leave you to it.”

You’re not sure why it suddenly feels strange, standing there in the quiet with him.

Your car rounds the corner. You turn toward it, then back to Arthur.

“Thanks,” you say. “For the rose. And the coat. And the... whatever that was.”

He shrugs. “Anytime.”

You don’t say goodbye. Neither does he.

You just get in the car.

And as it pulls away, you glance into the rearview mirror and there he is.

Still standing where you left him, hands deep in his pockets.

…

There are two kinds of gyms in Monaco.

The first kind is where people wear sunglasses on treadmills and film themselves doing Bulgarian split squats.

The second kind — the kind you specifically asked Charles to recommend — is not that. Or at least, it isn’t supposed to be.

“FitFactory,” Charles had said. “It’s normal. No influencers. No DJs. You go in, you sweat, you leave.”

So this morning, you pull on your nicest Alo Yoga set — blush pink, full-length, thumbholes included — and fill your matching bottle, because coordination is a small kind of control. A mood booster, really.

And you walk to Larvotto feeling tragically optimistic.

Until you see him.

Arthur Leclerc.

Leaning against the lockers.

White towel around his neck. Black T-shirt damp at the collar. His face flushed in that maddeningly attractive post workout way.

He’s looking at his phone. Hair pushed back. headphones looped loosely around his neck.

Then he looks up.

And sees you.

He straightens slightly, clearly just as surprised as you — though you watch him recover faster. Of course.

He blinks. Then smiles, slow and smug, like he’s trying to decide if this is real or a fever dream.

“Well,” he says, tossing his towel into his bag, “if it isn’t Monaco’s pinkest woman.”

You stop. “Oh, for God’s sake.”

“I’m flattered you followed me here.”

You raise a brow. “Believe me I would have sprinted away if I knew you were here.”

He tilts his head, that crooked smile already forming. “All right, fair. But what’s with the full pink situation today?”

You glance down at your set — soft blush from top to toe — then meet his eyes, unbothered. “Coordination builds morale.”

He hums. “You look like a strawberry.”

You shrug. “I happen to love strawberries, thank you very much.”

His grin grows. “Of course you do.”

You motion toward his cheeks. “Well. Look who’s accidentally matching me.”

He laughs under his breath. “Is this your subtle way of flirting?”

You smile. “If it were, you’d know.”

He grins. “Noted.”

You walk past him toward the mats. Toss your bag down. You expect him to keep walking — to head out the way he was clearly planning to — but instead, you hear the quiet thud of another bag hitting the floor.

You glance up. Arthur sits down beside you like he owns the mat.

“You’re done,” you say flatly.

“I am.”

“So go home.”

He leans forward, stretching lazily. “Cooling down.”

“In the women’s section?”

“It’s unisex.”

You stare. “You were literally at the door.”

“And now I’m here, cherie”

You look away, lips twitching in spite of yourself. Unfortunately.

Arthur lies back, popping one headphone back in. Arms folded behind his head, posture entirely too relaxed.

You side-eye him. “Let me guess. Adele?”

He nods. “All I Ask. Better than any preworkout.”

“You’re broken.”

“I’m serious.”

“She’s devastating.”

“Exactly! That’s why. Sad music is the best for gymming.”

You lie back too, ponytail fanning out across the mat, pulse beginning to settle. “I’m not in the mood for existential cardio today.”

He hums, eyes closed again. “So why come?”

You shrug, the motion subtle as you lie back against the mat. “I miss feeling strong.”

That quiets things.

For a beat, it’s just the muffled thrum of someone’s bassy playlist in the weight section, the soft exhale of air conditioning, the distant clink of dumbbells.

Then he turns his head toward you. Just one glance, slow and deliberate.

“That makes sense,” he says.

You don’t know what to do with that, the gentleness of it. How unguarded it sounds. So you do nothing at all. Just close your eyes and pretend this is routine. That silence is normal between you two.

A moment passes.

Then, softer, like he’s speaking more to the ceiling than to you: “Monaco’s small, apparently.”

You let out a faint huff. “Apparently.”

Another pause. Then, with zero warning, he says, “Do you actually like Maxime?”

Your eyes snap open. “Seriously?”

He doesn’t look over. Just lies there, like he’s asking about the weather.

“No worries,” he says easily. “Just curious.”

You sit up slightly, stretching one leg out across the mat. “Not really.”

He props himself up on his elbows. “Then why waste your time? You are a busy woman, right?”

You glance at him, but there’s no challenge in his expression. No bite. Just a quiet question, laid bare between you.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “Everyone keeps saying I should try. That I need to get out there more. That the right person won’t just materialize one day.”

He watches you carefully, like he’s trying to figure out what part of that you actually believe.

“Maybe they’re wrong.”

You blink. “About what?”

“About needing to try so hard. I think it just happens one day when you don’t expect it.”

His gaze doesn’t waver. There’s something in it that throws you off-balance, not quite sympathy, not quite sarcasm. Something close to understanding.

“It’s the same for me. I also go on dates already knowing she’s not the one, hoping I’ll be proven wrong. With the right girl you just know, it’s different.”

You hold his stare, and for the first time, it doesn’t feel like a dare.

Just two people. Sitting in a gym. Wearing too much pink and not enough armor.

You exhale a soft breath. “You’re surprisingly philosophical for someone who listens to Adele during ab circuits.”

He grins. “She’s a muse.”

You snort. “You’re unwell.”

He lies back again, smug and unbothered. “Takes one to know one.”

You smirk. “Touché.”

…

You’re tired.

A specific form of silk-laced exhaustion that settles behind your eyes after twelve hours of pretending to be slightly more charming than you feel.

Your heels click against the cobblestones as you pass the flower stand that’s just starting to close, the petals half-wilted in the July heat. You’re fishing your phone out of your bag, already composing a mental list of things to forget until tomorrow, when—

“Look who’s out of the office before midnight.”

You look up, visibly shaken.

Charles is grinning, of course. Draped in weekend denim and that effortless posture of someone who’s never had to rush a day in his life.

Next to him stands Alex, all grace and sunglasses even though the sun’s nearly gone.

And Arthur.

Arthur, whose laugh you must have heard first, though you’re only registering it now. He’s standing with his hands in his pockets, head tilted slightly, eyes already on you like he knew you were coming.

You slow as you reach them, tucking your phone away. “How is it you are everywhere these days?”

Charles smirks. “Summer break, baby! Enjoying my rent this month.”

“As if you pay rent.” You laugh.

“I am seriously worried about the hours you’re making, how is it nearly 9PM already?” Alex says with a frown.

“I survived. Barely. But my assistant reminded me I’m not allowed to perish before the Monday debrief.”

Charles snorts. “Corporate martyrdom.”

But Arthur hasn’t said anything yet. Just watches you with a look that’s difficult to read — not indifferent, not exactly fond. Somewhere in between. Studied.

“Hi,” he says, finally.

You smile, soft and unguarded. “Hi.”

It’s strange, how that single word feels suddenly heavier than the rest of the conversation. Like it lands somewhere deeper. Warmer.

The four of you begin to walk, but it’s not long before the spacing shifts — Charles drifting toward a shop window, Alex distracted by something across the street. You’re left side-by-side with Arthur, not by design, but by some subtle gravity that’s starting to feel familiar.

He says nothing at first, just walks beside you, steps even with yours, eyes skimming the buildings as they turn golden in the falling light.

“I saw your campaign today,” you say, voice casual but purposeful. “The new one. The watch close-up was a little dramatic, but you looked handsome.”

Arthur turns his head slightly. Just enough for you to catch the flicker of surprise — and then something gentler.

His cheek colors, almost imperceptibly, but you catch it.

“Thanks,” he murmurs.

You glance sideways, amused. “Blushing?”

“It’s warm out.”

You hum. “Right. Must be the sun, at 9PM. Or maybe compliments just throw you off.”

“I’m not used to them from you.”

“Am I making you shy?”

He huffs a quiet laugh, and for a moment, it’s easy, lighter than it’s ever been.

And just like that, the tension thins. For a moment, the two of you walk in easy rhythm, the kind of quiet that doesn’t need filling.

You pass a fountain bathed in the last of the sun, the spray catching amber light. Monaco is winding down. Fewer people on the street now. Just the shuffle of steps, the scent of pastry dough cooling in bakery windows, the hush of something private between the two of you.

“You always walk home this way?” he asks.

“Nice scenery,” you say. “Helps clear my head.”

He hums, glancing over. “You should do it more often.”

After a beat, he nods toward a storefront with a sleepy golden retriever curled in the window. “You’re a dog person, right?”

You blink. “Yeah... I am.”

Arthur keeps looking ahead, a little too nonchalant. “Figured.”

You narrow your eyes. “How’d you figure?”

He lifts a shoulder. “I don’t know. You just seem like the type.”

You snort. “What type is that?”

“Someone who secretly carries treats in her handbag.”

You laugh, but the question still lingers behind your teeth. He didn’t guess that. Not out of nowhere.

And then, almost too casually, he adds, “Charles mentioned something about you wanting a rescue.”

You turn your head sharply. “Did he?”

Arthur’s jaw twitches — the tiniest tell.

You don’t call him out. You just smile, a little too knowingly. “You two talk about me often?”

He doesn’t answer, but the silence is enough. He’s not smug. Not flustered. Just caught.

And when he finally does speak, it’s quieter. “He said you’ve been thinking about names.”

Your smile softens. “I have.”

Arthur nods, eyes fixed ahead now, like he’s trying not to press.

“I was leaning toward something French,” you say. “But I also kind of like the idea of naming her after a pastry.”

His lips twitch. “Like… Brioche?”

You grin. “Don’t judge. Brioche is adorable.”

He lets out a soft laugh. “Of course.”

You glance over again, this time lingering. He looks different in this light. Less calculated. Less aware of how he’s perceived. Just a boy walking beside you, saying too little and giving away too much.

And something about that makes your heart ache a little.

But not in a sad way.

Just in the oh, I didn’t expect this kind of way.

You slow as you reach your building, the familiar stone steps painted gold by the setting sun.

Arthur stops with you, just slightly to the side, hands still tucked in his pockets.

“Thanks for the company,” you say.

He shrugs, eyes flicking to yours. “Didn’t mean to. It just sort of happened.”

“That’s the best kind of thing.”

You hesitate, the moment stretching just wide enough to step into.

And you do.

“You can walk me again sometime,” you offer, voice lower now. “If you want.”

He tilts his head, almost like he’s studying you. “Yeah?”

You nod. “I mean, Monaco’s small. And I run into you all the time anyway.”

That makes him laugh, a quiet, honest sound.

You take a step back toward the stairs. He follows just slightly, and before you can retreat entirely, you lean up and press a kiss — featherlight and instinctive — to his cheek.

It lands just beneath his eye, where his skin is still a little pink.

Arthur goes very still. Like something inside him paused to catch up.

You pull back slowly, your eyes meeting his. The air feels different now, charged, but not heavy.

“I’ll see you around,” you say softly.

Arthur blinks once, then twice. And then he smiles — small, real, slow.

“You will.”

You climb the steps, hand grazing the railing, not looking back until you reach the door.

…

There’s something in the air, lavender tangled with engine smoke, sea breeze sticky with heat, that makes everything buzz a little louder. The kind of atmosphere where even the shadows wear cologne.

You don’t usually do clubs. And you definitely don’t do them alone.

But when Alexandra texted you two hours ago saying, “Just come. It’s casual. Charles says it’s basically just everyone from karting acting like idiots,” you said yes.

Mostly because she added: “You can borrow the red Sandro dress. It makes your legs look stupid good.”

So now you’re here. In the dress. And the heels. Walking through the velvet ropes of Jimmy’z like you belong here — which, technically, you kind of do. Charles had your name added to the list.

Inside, the bass is already vibrating through your teeth. There’s a fog machine going off in the corner. A bottle girl walks by holding a flaming sparkler.

You spot Alexandra before she sees you, curled into a booth on the far side of the room, next to a man you assume is Carlos (based on the hair, mostly) and a woman you don’t recognize. She’s talking animatedly to Alex, gesturing with a cocktail straw.

You approach just as Alex looks up and lights up like she won the lottery.

“You came!” she shouts, standing up to pull you in for a hug.

She smells like citrus gin and too-expensive perfume.

“I almost didn’t,” you admit.

“Well, thank God you did. I’m outnumbered by motorsport and testosterone.” She waves you toward the booth. “Come sit.”

As you slide into the booth beside her, Alexandra immediately drapes an arm around your shoulders like she’s waited all night for this.

“There she is,” she says, grinning. “The one and only.”

Then she gestures across the table. “This is Rebecca — she’s with Carlos. Works in fashion. Rebecca, this is the girl from APM I’ve been telling you about. My future sister-in-law.”

You laugh, surprised. “Wow. That escalated quickly.”

Rebecca’s eyes light up — piercing blue, framed by a halo of soft curls. “You should’ve heard her earlier. You are as gorgeous as she said you’d be.”

“Alex,” you groan, but she only squeezes your arm.

“It’s not my fault,” she says. “You look unreal in the red dress. I had to brag.”

Rebecca smirks. “She’s not wrong.”

You like her instantly. There’s an ease about her, confident, yes, but kind. The sort of person who would wait to drive off until you are inside.

Next to her Carlos is sipping something expensive and staring blankly into the middle distance.

You tilt your head. “Is he okay?”

Rebecca snorts. “He has this a lot, don’t worry. Carlos. Earth to Carlos.”

He blinks, then turns slowly. “Huh.”

Alexandra howls. “Carlos, for the love of—”

Somewhere behind you, someone screams “I’m not doing that unless you carry me!” followed by a crash.

You turn around just in time to see a guy in a backwards cap — who you can only assume is Lando — slipping on a tray of ice cubes while another guy films it, hysterically laughing. Probably George, judging by the neat button up and pinstriped trousers.

Alexandra sighs. “I’m so sorry in advance for everything that’s going to happen tonight. They are always like this when they’re all together.”

Someone is doing the robot in the middle of the dancefloor.

“…is that Charles?”

Carlos, still half-lost in his drink, lifts it in salute. “You should see him when there’s a live band.”

Before you can ask what that means, a tall guy with sharp cheekbones and a gentle blink like he’s still catching up slides into the booth. He tucks a strand of hair behind his ear, then offers a crooked, apologetic smile.

“Hi. Oscar.” he says, nodding to you before sitting down at the table. “Sorry I’m late. Have I missed anything besides interpretive dance?”

Rebecca lets out a soft laugh, her eyes bright. Alexandra grins and nudges him with her elbow, clearly fond of him already.

The table hums with low, easy chatter. Someone orders another round. Carlos eventually resurfaces from whatever quiet spiral he’d been in and launches into a heartfelt argument about the best burgers. Rebecca counters with a story about a chef in Milan who swore by adding peas instead of tomatoes.

The night softens. And for the first time all week, you’re not watching the clock.

You’re two sips into your cocktail when Alexandra leans in again, eyes sly.

“Look who just got here.”

You blink. “Who?”

She nods across the room.

You follow her gaze.

And then you see him.

Arthur Leclerc.

He’s leaning against the bar beside Charles, sleeves rolled up, hair tousled like he’s been running his hands through it. There’s a faint flush to his cheeks and a slightly amused look on his face.

You don’t even have time to pretend you weren’t looking before he glances up and catches your eye.

And, of course, he winks.

You groan softly.

Alexandra smirks.

“Don’t,” you say.

“Too late.” she says, already linking her arm with yours. “Come say hi.”

Alexandra doesn’t wait. She drags you through the crowd, weaving past elbows and champagne flutes, laughter folding in around you. And Arthur doesn’t look away — not once — as you make your way toward him.

“Bonsoir,” Alexandra says brightly, kissing Charles on the cheek. He pulls her in to say something you don’t catch.

You stop in front of Arthur.

He straightens a little, gaze dropping down the length of you before returning to your face — and staying there.

“You’re…” he starts, then pauses, the corners of his mouth tugging. “Somehow even more beautiful than usual.”

The words land low in your chest, like a match struck in velvet. You mean to say something — to throw back a comment, make a joke, anchor yourself with the familiarity of deflection. But nothing comes. Your mouth opens, then closes, and for once, you let the silence live.

He steps closer as his eyes dip over your dress and back up again.

“Do a spin,” he says, voice low.

You blink, startled. “What?”

Arthur lifts one hand, loose and casual, the ghost of a grin playing at his lips. “Show me your dress. You look stunning.”

So you do.

Not dramatically, not like you’re putting on a show, but slowly, carefully, letting the silk sweep around your legs as you half-turn on the spot. Your hand slides along your hip as you move, more for balance than performance, though you feel the heat of his gaze tracing every inch.

When you come back around to face him, something has shifted. He’s no longer smiling.

Not entirely, anyway.

There’s still a pull at his mouth — but his eyes, those eyes, have darkened slightly, soft and locked on yours

He leans in. Not so much invading your space as inhabiting it. His voice when it comes is quieter than before. Just low. Just meant for you.

“Don’t act so shy,” he murmurs. “Not when you look like this.”

And then, barely a breath later, his hand finds your waist.

The touch is light — featherlight — but it lands like gravity. The pad of his thumb grazes the fabric of your dress, a quiet hello written in the space where your body curves. You feel it in your spine. In your throat. In every place that’s ever wondered what this might feel like.

He smells like warm bergamot and something a little deeper, wood, maybe, or leather. The kind of scent you don’t notice right away, but later find on your own hands and wonder how it got there.

Your fingers lift before you’ve decided to move. They find his collar, crisp and just slightly askew from the heat of the crowd, and smooth it back into place.

“You don’t look too bad yourself,” you murmur, only barely able to hold his gaze.

He doesn’t move. Not yet. Just watches you, his expression unreadable in the half-light, as though trying to memorize this exact version of you. The pink in your cheeks. The way your lips part like you’re going to say something more but don’t.

Your heart drums fast. Too fast. You wonder if he hears it. You almost want him to.

…

It starts with Charles dragging you onto the dancefloor.

One moment you’re standing by the booth, cooling down with a half-finished cocktail, and the next he’s tugging at your wrist, all flushed cheeks and breathless laughter. “Allez! On danse!”

You try to protest but the music is pulsing and warm and far too good. Someone has shifted the playlist to something shamelessly nostalgic, all thumping basslines and sweaty joy. And Charles is a surprisingly good dancer for someone clearly three drinks past his limit.

So you dance.

And you laugh — the kind of laugh that bubbles up from somewhere physical. Rebecca joins for a bit, Oscar is there too, doing something that vaguely resembles choreography, and even Carlos has snapped out of his quiet trance, nodding along from the edge of the crowd like a sleepwalking club king.

You don’t know how long it goes on for. Just that the lights swirl, the music climbs, and somehow — somehow — you keep finding yourself closer to Arthur.

You don’t mean to. Not deliberately.

But every time you spin, every time you fall back into the rhythm, he’s there. Somewhere on the edge of your vision. Smirking from the booth. Sipping his drink by the bar. Sliding past behind you like a slow, orbiting moon.

And then, all at once, he’s not just near.

He’s there.

A hand brushes the small of your back. You turn. Arthur. Standing beside you now, dancing in that effortless, casual way that makes it look like he doesn’t care.

You raise your brows. “Didn’t take you for a dancer.”

He leans in, voice low against your ear. “I make exceptions.”

Your heart stutters.

Before you can reply — “Shots!” someone yells.

Lando, naturally.

He’s halfway onto a velvet bench, waving a napkin like a victory flag as two waitresses arrive with trays. Tequila. Dozens of them.

Oscar stares at them like he’s witnessing a crime. “I’m going to regret everything,” he mumbles.

You’re laughing as Lando thrusts a shot into your hand. “To making Charles dance like a divorced uncle at a wedding!” he cheers.

The group howls.

You’re mid-laugh when a hand curls at your waist.

It’s familiar now. The shape of it. The ease. And the warm weight of his palm, anchoring you just enough to still the world for a second.

You turn, breath catching, to find Arthur already close.

The kind of close that makes your pulse skip. That makes sound dull and the light tilt.

He’s looking at you with a glint in his eye, just this side of trouble.

“Want to help me with my shot?” he says, low enough that only you can hear.

You blink. “Your shot?”

He raises the glass and a torn salt packet between two fingers. His expression? Barely contained mischief.

“Come on,” he says, “I’ll talk you through it.”

Before you can protest or agree he steps in even closer.

“Hold still.”

Then, soft as anything, he bends toward your neck.

His lips graze just beneath your jaw — a featherlight kiss, deliberate — hot and slow. Just enough moisture for the salt to stick, but too much heat to ignore.

You go still. Entirely. Your breath catching in your chest like something hooked.

Arthur pulls back an inch, and his eyes flick up. He sees it. How still you’ve gone. How wide your eyes are. And he smiles like a secret.

“Just there,” he murmurs, and sprinkles the salt onto the spot he just kissed, watching it cling to your skin.

You open your mouth to ask what the hell just happened but he’s already moving.

“Now,” he says, more softly, reaching for the lime wedge, “open.”

Your lips part before your brain can even process the command.

He gently tucks the lime between them. The pads of his fingers brush your lower lip as he does.

Then he pauses. Right there. Inches away.

And his eyes catch yours — clear and gleaming.

“Careful,” he says, smiling lazily.

You blink. “Why?”

He leans in, eyes dancing. “You keep looking at me like that and I’m going to forget we’re in public.”

Your heart thuds — once, hard.

He bends again, slower this time, and his lips brush your skin first, almost like a question. Then his tongue follows — warm and deliberate — dragging a hot, slow line over the delicate curve just below your jaw.

The contact sends a tremor through you. It's not just the heat, or the pressure, it's the absurd intimacy of it, the way your skin prickles in response.

A sound escapes before you can catch it. soft, involuntary, somewhere between a gasp and a sigh.

You suck in a breath, spine locking in place. Your fingers curl reflexively into your dress.

Arthur tips his head back, downs the shot with that maddening ease, and then leans in for the lime. His mouth brushes yours as he bites into it, the citrus tang sharp in the air, his breath warm, not a kiss, but not not one either.

And then it’s over.

But your skin still hums.

You’re left standing, reeling, skin burning like a fire lit just beneath the surface.

He swallows, tongue sweeping briefly across his lower lip, then grins down at you.

“You’re really cute when you try to act unbothered,” he says.

You scoff. “I’m not.”

“No?” His brow lifts. “So this is you naturally flustered?”

You cross your arms, shifting your weight, but the heat still lingers at your collarbone. “It was just a shot.”

He chuckles — quiet, cocky, low in his throat — and tugs you in again by the waist, easily, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“That little noise you made?” he teases, voice rough at the edges. “Might be my new favorite sound.”

You can’t answer. Your brain won’t give you words.

Arthur draws back slightly, his gaze lingering for just a moment too long. He looks like he might say something. Maybe something stupid, or soft, or—

“Putain, je vais vomir.”

The words slice through the music, slurred and loud and unmistakably French.

You blink. Arthur blinks. You both turn.

Charles is standing a few feet away, clutching the edge of a table for dear life, his expression caught somewhere between awe and horror.

“Je rigole pas,” he insists, eyes wide. “Je vais vraiment vomir.” (“I’m not joking. I’m really going to throw up.”)

Lando wheezes with laughter. Alex looks mildly alarmed. Someone shouts for water.

You stare.

Arthur turns, sighs like a man aging in real time. “Of course he is.”

You blink. “Wait, is he—”

“Yep.” Arthur groans, and glances back at you, rueful. “Duty calls.”

You nod slowly, still breathless, your skin still singing.

He leans in one last time — his voice a murmur against the shell of your ear.

“Don’t disappear.”

You watch him go, reluctantly, honestly, and the second he’s gone, your fingers lift instinctively to your neck.

The spot still tingles.

…

The car hums softly through the still streets of Monaco, headlights cutting through the early dawn like silk.

Charles is slumped against the window in the backseat, lips slightly parted, one arm draped over Alexandra’s shoulder like he lost control of his limbs an hour ago. She’s half-asleep, face pressed against his collarbone, her sparkly heels kicked off and tucked beneath the seat.

Up front, it’s just you and Arthur.

He’s driving with one hand on the wheel. The other rests on your thigh — warm, firm, steady. His thumb strokes slow, absent circles over the fabric of your dress, so light it could almost be imagined.

You haven’t said anything about it. Neither has he.

But you feel every brush like it’s a lit match dragged across your skin.

The city is quiet. Streetlights flicker gold across cobblestone. A bus dozes at a stop. A cat weaves through the shadows. The kind of moment that feels suspended in amber — like if you speak too loud, it’ll all crack.

Arthur glances over at you once.

You don’t look back. Your heart’s already beating too fast.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low.

You nod, still watching the shadows. “Mm. Just tired.”

He hums. His hand tightens slightly when you shift.

“I’m sorry about Charles,” he says after a moment. “He’s an idiot. Especially when he drinks.”

You laugh under your breath. “He’s always an idiot. Don’t worry.”

Arthur smiles. You can hear it without turning.

“That’s fair,” he murmurs. “Still. You didn’t deserve to have your night end like this.”

You glance sideways, and catch the profile of him in the streetlight. The curve of his jaw. The faintest flush still lingering on his cheeks. He’s focused on the road, but there’s something else under it — that pull that’s been between you all night. Maybe longer.

“You’re driving me home, sounds like a great end to me,” you say softly.

There’s a beat of quiet. Then, his thumb presses a little more deliberately into your thigh — just once.

You shift in your seat.

The air between you thickens.

He pulls into your street too soon. The tires crunch softly against the curb, the engine purring low before cutting off entirely. Your apartment glows softly up ahead, washed in early dawn light — a sleepy kind of golden.

Neither of you moves.

Then he reaches for the door handle and gets out. Walks around. Opens your side.

You step out, and your hand finds his without thought.

It’s warmer than you remember.

He doesn’t let go as he shuts the door behind you.

Your shoes click lightly against the steps as you walk toward your door, his fingers brushing against yours with every step. You can feel him close — not just physically, but in the air around you, the quiet press of something heavier than what’s been said.

At your doorstep, you pause.

You turn.

Arthur’s standing just behind you, one hand sliding instinctively to your waist. His thumb brushes against your ribs. His eyes meet yours.

And stay there.

A silence stretches. The quiet of the night wraps around you like a blanket. The air is thick with all the things you both want to say but can’t.

His eyes dip to your mouth.

Your breath catches.

Then you move — slowly — rising to your toes.

The first press of your lips to his is featherlight. Testing. A peck more than a kiss.

But his grip on your waist tightens.

And then he kisses you back.

And this time, it’s not careful. Not measured. It’s hot and deliberate, his mouth parting against yours with a quiet hunger that coils low in your stomach. He tilts his head just slightly, his free hand rising to cradle your jaw.

You sigh into it, helplessly, fingers curling into the lapel of his jacket.

Arthur pulls you closer. His nose brushes yours. Your lips part again, and it’s slower this time — more languid, more sure. Your mouths move like they’ve done this before in a dream you forgot you had.

He tastes like lime and champagne. His hand anchors you at the hip like he doesn’t want to let go.

The kiss deepens. It's a little greedy now, a little breathless until the whole world feels like it’s wrapped around this one, impossibly good moment.

Then—

A mechanical whirr slices through the quiet.

The car window slides down.

“ARTHUR,” Charles groans in the sloppiest French you’ve ever heard. “C’est pas le moment pour flirter, j’ai envie de mourir…” (This is not the time to flirt, I want to die…)

Arthur freezes. His forehead still rests against yours, and for a moment neither of you moves — just caught in the laugh building behind your teeth.

You break first.

A soft, giddy giggle slips out of you, and Arthur smiles too, eyes still locked on yours.

He brushes his thumb gently across your waist. His voice drops to something quieter, something warm.

“Night,” he murmurs, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You nod, still slightly breathless. “Night, Arthur.”

He gives you one more kiss on your forehead — this one quick — then takes a step back and jogs to the car.

The window is already rolled back up. Charles is asleep again.

But Arthur?

Arthur looks over his shoulder just before he slides back into the driver’s seat.

And for the second time tonight — you catch him watching you like he’s been doing it for longer than you realized.

…

The café is quiet — that post-party hush where even the espresso machine seems to steam more gently, as if nursing its own hangover.

You’re already at the corner table, sunglasses on, a cappuccino cooling between your palms. Charles slides into the seat opposite you with a grunt and a grimace, his hoodie pulled so low over his head it might as well be a blackout curtain.

Antoine follows more gracefully, camera bag slung over one shoulder, fresh as if he hadn’t spent the night dodging partygoers to capture candids in impossible lighting. He nods at you, lifts two fingers toward the waiter, and sits.

“I’m never drinking again,” Charles mutters into the wooden table.

You lift your cappuccino to your lips, smirking behind the rim. “Right. That’s your fourth time saying that since April.”

“I mean it this time.”

Antoine lets out a quiet laugh, glancing up. “You also said you were going to learn to cook.”

Charles lifts a hand, index finger raised in weary protest, but doesn’t dignify it with a response.

The server returns with Antoine’s espresso and an orange juice for Charles, who receives it like an offering from the gods and sips slowly, eyes closed— just as the bell above the café door rings.

You glance over your shoulder. And there he is.

Arthur.

Gray T-shirt. Wind-tousled hair. Sunglasses hooked into the collar. Hands in his pockets, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with them.

Charles straightens up a bit, blinking like he’s trying to determine if he’s hallucinating.

Antoine looks between the two of you, then back at Arthur.

Arthur nods at the table, casually. “Morning.”

Charles stares. “What are you doing here?”

Arthur’s eyes find yours, warm. “She invited me.”

You sip your cappuccino. “Figured it’d be good to get some real food into you.”

Charles blinks again. “You two… text now?”

Arthur slides into the chair beside you like it’s nothing, like this has always been normal. His knee brushes yours. Doesn’t move.

Antoine takes a sip of his coffee, wisely staying silent — but his expression is all observation.

“I don’t remember anything after Oscar was spinning on the floor like a Beyblade,” Charles mutters, rubbing his temple.

“That was before the shots,” you say.

Arthur smirks. “Yeah, way before.”

Charles groans. “Oh god. Don’t tell me I did something embarrassing.”

You and Arthur exchange a glance.

“No more than usual,” Arthur offers.

“Perfect,” Charles sighs.

A moment of silence falls. Antoine pulls out a roll of film and threads it into his camera. The sun filters in through the café window, catching Arthur’s hair just so, and you’re suddenly aware of how calm it feels now. How natural. How easy.

Arthur leans in slightly. His voice is quiet, only for you.

“You’re really going to pretend last night didn’t happen?”

You glance sideways, hiding your smile behind the rim of your cup. “You mean Charles puking or you kissing me?”

His lips curve. “You kissed me first.”

“Really?” You tease. “Doesn’t sound like me.”

“You kissed me first,” he teases, leaning in, “but I’m very happy to return the favor.”

His fingers brush beneath your chin — gentle, steady — coaxing your face toward his.

His lips are warm and gentle against yours. His hand stays beneath your jaw, steady and gentle, and the slight pressure of his fingers makes your breath catch.

You feel it in your stomach first, that fluttery pull that tightens low and lingers. His mouth is soft, his skin smells like clean soap and something familiar you can’t name, and for a moment, you forget where you are.

The rest of the world recedes, the clinking of glasses, the murmur of other tables.

It’s just this.

When he pulls back, it’s only a breath of space. Enough to see the quiet gleam in his eyes. Enough to know he means it.

You blink once. Smile.

And so does he.

Charles, still staring down into his juice, mutters something under his breath. “I swear, I black out one night…”

You reach over and gently clink your mug against his glass. “Then consider this your morning recap.”

Arthur laughs under his breath, watching you with that same soft look from the night before.

Charles pretends to gag. “I hate it here.”

Arthur bumps your shoulder. “I don’t.”

Your smile lingers a second longer than it should.

#arthur leclerc #arthur leclerc x reader #arthur leclerc x y/n #arthur leclerc fluff #arthur leclerc fic #Arthur leclerc one shot #arthur leclerc imagine #f1 one shot #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #charles leclerc

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itoshiexx · 1 year ago

Text

running your fingers through their hair

you are now reading... LENA'S 1K MILESTONE EVENT FIC!

↳ itoshi rin, michael kaiser, reo mikage (separate) + cafuné (n.) - running your fingers through the hair of someone you love

notes: omg hi guys! i'm freaking ALIVE!!! i know i've been terribly inactive but life as a recently graduated lawyer has been INSANE and i barely have time to breathe, let alone write. regardless, i was able to finish this after some struggle, and i really hope you guys like it! cafuné is a brazilian word and it's something i love very much, so thank you anon, @kyukiss and @etoiile for the request and sorry it took so long ♥

event masterlist

Itoshi Rin

“you remind me of a dog, you know?”

rin’s eyes shoot open with your unexpected words, and you receive the harshest glare you’ve ever witnessed on his face when it came to you.

“excuse me?”

his tone is supposed to be threatening, but his voice is slightly laced with sleep, so it sounds a lot more like a whine. you snort a little bit, pausing your ministrations on his head, where your fingers run through his hair.

“not in a bad way, baby. i just mean you’re like a puppy when you want my attention,” you giggled a little, and if rin didn’t love the sound so much, he would have berated you.

“that’s absolutely not true.”

“it is, though. you came back from practice all tired and grumpy, and the first thing you did was put your head on my lap because you wanted me to run my fingers through your hair. you didn’t even showered, rin.”

“i did shower! on the locker rooms!”

you smile mischievously. “oh, i thought the dampness was from sweat. i was about to call you out for being stinky.”

rin’s grimace worsened, and a pout formed on his lips. you couldn’t resist the urge to squish his cute cheeks together. god, he was so adorable it tugged on your heartstrings. how was that even possible?

you lowered your head to give him a quick kiss, and although rin tried to deepen it, you pulled away fast, grinning once again. he knew what was coming even before you said it. “you’re also like a puppy when you trail after me around the house. a lost puppy.”

his groan reverberated through the whole apartment, and rin shoved your hands away from his face, scowling. “i fucking hate you.”

“no, you don’t.”

“i hate you. i’m serious.”

you giggled again. “so why didn’t you leave my lap then?”

his eyes met yours, and you kind of relished in the furrow of his brows. it made his pout even cuter. “…what.”

smugness radiated off of you, because you knew rin — your rin — like the back of your hand. and if there was an universal truth in the world, it would be that the younger itoshi was down bad for you. enough for him to stay despite your shenanigans that always got on his nerves.

“i said, if you hate me, then why didn’t you leave my lap?”

his mouth opened, but no retort came out. he gaped like a fish for a few seconds before groaning again, turning his body so that he could hide his face on your stomach. you laughed at his childish behavior, knowing it was one of the reasons you loved him so much. not many people were able to see this vulnerable side of him, and you were glad to be one of them.

“shut up.”

“yeah, yeah. you big baby.”

comfortable silence engulfed the both of you, and rin remained hidden on your stomach as you picked up the book you were previously reading, wanting to continue the story. though your left hand was suddenly tugged to lay on your boyfriend’s head.

“keep going,” he murmured, “…please?”

a gentle smile took over your features, and you were quick to run your fingers through his dark, silky strands. rin sighed softly, content with the affection you gave him — as if your angelic hands could take away every doubt swirling on his mind and wipe off the tiredness from his sore body.

“of course,” you said. and your mind completed silently: i’d keep going forever if it made you happy.

perhaps you were down bad, too.

Michael Kaiser

contrary to popular belief, michael kaiser was not a bad boyfriend.

despite his huge ego, his narcissistic tendencies and his extravagant yet somehow rude personality, he wasn’t the type of guy to treat his partner poorly. in fact, he was a very attentive boyfriend, always doing his best to make sure you were happy and healthy.

or maybe it was just you. who knows.

whatever his reasons were, you relished the fact he took such good care of you, even if he wasn’t physically present because of away games — because michael was very good at making people notice him. whether it was with a bouquet of your favorite flowers delivered to your job, a nice breakfast cooked before you woke or even a small note of love professions.

however, nothing really compared to having him there, with you, flesh and bone.

especially on those days you just felt so miserable you wanted to disappear.

“liebling? you okay?”

it was one of kaiser’s rare day offs, and all you wished for was to spend some much needed quality time with your boyfriend. though, this wasn’t possible due to your job, one you liked having despite michael saying he could support the both of you financially.

but the day at work just sucked. like, a lot. it was that kind of day where things go from bad to worse in a matter of minutes, and when you swear it can’t get shittier, it does.

you were exhausted and emotionally drained. the whole drive back to your shared apartment you were holding back tears, and the dam broke the second you heard kaiser asking you that.

“whoa!” the blonde exclaimed when your bodies collided on a tight hug. “what is it, engel? what happened? did someone hurt you?”

his worried tone just made you sob harder, and kaiser rubbed his hands on your back, trying to give you some comfort. he started to sway your bodies together while humming, doing everything to calm you down.

eventually, your sobs died down, and your boyfriend carefully brought you to the couch, making you lay on top of him; head on his chest. he started to gently scratch your scalp, running his long fingers through your hair.

“you feeling any better?” he asked in a low tone.

“yeah. thank you, mikka.”

the blond only hummed. “do you… want to talk about it?”

you had to stifle a giggle. god, he was so cute. even when he sucked at talking about feelings, he always made an effort for you.

you slowly shook your head. “jus’ had a really bad day. but it’s okay now.”

his eyes softened impossibly, and you nearly swooned at the sight. “yeah?”

michael kissed your forehead, and kept threading his fingers among your locks in a gentle caress. you smiled, because it was all you really needed to be comforted.

“yeah.”

Mikage Reo

reo’s body collapsed on top of yours, effectively knocking the air out of your lungs. you should have been used to it by now, really, since he’d always do that after you finished your smexy times, but sometimes it still caught you off guard.

“reo, you’re heavy,” you groaned, teasing him. “get off me!”

“give a guy a break, will you?” he whined. “i’m tired.”

your giggle reverberated through his body, and reo repositioned himself to lay his head on your chest, hugging your waist tightly as if to never let you go. he’d rather lose all his fortune before he let that happen.

“is mr. athlete getting out of shape? i didn’t know this light exercise could make you so…”

your boyfriend interrupted you with a groan. “babe!”

you raised your hands in mock surrender, giggling again, and reo thought maybe he didn’t really care about your teasing if it meant seeing you this happy. he loved you in all your versions, but carefree was his favorite one.

“sorry, baby. i’ll make it up to you, yeah?”

before he could make a suggestive joke, his breath hitched in his throat when your soft hands started caressing his hair, gentle fingers threading through his purple locks making him sigh. it was so unfair, he thought, how you managed to disarm him with just a small touch, reduce him to putty in your palms with a little gesture of affection. some of his friends said he was a fool in love, and reo couldn’t agree more.

your love made him silly, but he didn’t hate it. he could never hate anything about you. all mikage reo was able to feel was love, love, love, an emotion so strong it nearly overwhelmed all of his senses, making him forget about all his worries and responsibilities — heck, even the whole world. and he didn’t mind if the world burned as long as he could keep you safe and away from the flames.

“what are you thinking about?” the whisper of your voice echoed the walls of your shared bedroom.

“what makes you think i’m thinking about something?”

though reo couldn’t see you, he knew you rolled your eyes.

“it’s usually how the human mind works, honey,” you answered, your wit making him stifle a laugh. “besides, you’re always so chatty, talking my ear off—”

“hey!”

“—so it always concerns me when you get quiet.”

the heir sighed, letting the silence linger a little longer to recollect his thoughts. reo usually didn’t have a hard time expressing himself with words, but sometimes his heart swelled so much it made it hard to think. so, pretty much every time he was with you.

“it’s just… i’m thinking about how i never really believed in past lives and reincarnation. i never really believed in soulmates, either,” he said, and you paid attention to every word. mesmerized by the wonder in his voice and even more by the sparkle in his purple eyes when he averted his gaze to yours.

“but when i think about you, love… when i see you in my arms or when i rest in yours, i’m sure you are my soulmate, and that we were together in every lifetime. it’s always been you. it will always be.”

your chest swelled with love for the man laying in your embrace, and you tried to hold back the tears from falling. god, he was everything. you didn’t even know what you did to deserve a lover like mikage reo, but you were far from complaining.

you gave him a chaste kiss on the forehead, trying to convey even a fraction of the love and adoration you held for him, and looked back to caress his face. then, smiling with the world in your eyes, you answered:

“it’s always been you, too.”

4K notes · View notes

aajjks · 5 months ago

Text

The Boy (I)

synopsis. All he ever wanted was someone to love.

pairing: yandere!brahms doll jungkook x fem!nanny reader. ft. Cha eunwoo.

genre: 18+ horror, smut, angst and yandere.

warnings. 18+ YÁNDÈRÈ, dàrk thèmès, dïstúrbíng thèmès, mèntïóns ôf à míscárrïàgè, yn ïs brókè & hórny, dóll, erríe thèmès, únsèttlíng thèmès.

wc: almost 3000.

fic note. Please keep in mind that this fanfiction is the exact copy of the movie from the same name “the boy” (2016) so if you find any similarities, that’s on purpose. Also viewer discretion is highly advised.

note. OH MY GOD, HE’S HERE.. this is everything and I have worked really hard on this so don’t let this flop and I’m really nervous… BUT if you want to be tagged, please reply under this post only. PLEASE ENJOY AND SHARE YOUR FEEDBACK. OH MY GOD OK???

•••

You’re scrolling through job listings on your phone, your eyes glazing over the endless options.

Babysitting, waitressing, house cleaning..

none of it seems even remotely appealing, and none of it pays nearly enough to escape your mess of a life.

Why the fuck does your life have to suck so much?

As you keep looking, you almost roll your eyes at the ridiculous job offers, but then, your eyes flicker when you see this one.

This is the most weirdest thing you’ve ever seen on the Internet so far.

But you find yourself intrigued so you click on it.

Live-in nanny position. High pay. In Busan.

You blink, not quite believing it. Busan? That’s hours away from Seoul.

You could use the distance. You could definitely use the money.

But a nanny job? You squint at the screen, a laugh escaping your lips. A nanny? To take care of some kid in a big house somewhere far from your current mess?

It sounds too good to be true.

And it sounds hilarious.

You tap on the message from Alina.

Allie:

I found something for you. Live-in nanny job. High pay. Busan.

This is weird because you’re looking at the same mall for it’s like the universe wants you to have this one.

You laugh out loud.

you:

Are they serious? Who needs a nanny for a kid that badly?

Alina texts back almost immediately.

Allie:

Trust me, Yn. It pays enough to start fresh. You need this. And yeah, they’re serious.

You shake your head. A nanny job. You don’t even like kids. But the thought of getting away from everything..

the mess of your relationship, the toxic memories of Min Jae, the grief from losing your child—

it’s tempting. Hell, you need it.

you text back before you can second-guess yourself.

You:

Fine, I’m in.

The money is too good to turn down. You don’t have a real family to keep you tied down. Alina’s your best friend, but she’s too busy with her own life.

And the salary? You look it over again.

5 million Korean won per month.

Five million. For what? Looking after a kid? The job sounds too good to be true. And you can’t help but laugh at how ridiculous it all is.

You really hope this isn’t some scam. But the thought of the money, of freedom… it makes you push past the doubt.

You need to take this.

•••

You honestly don’t know what you’re doing but the next day you find yourself driving.

You might regret this, but what’s the point in looking back now you’ve been through a lot of shit anyways?

You drive down to Busan, with your luggage and it feels like an eternity. But you’re not complaining.

The farther you get, the more you feel like you’re shedding the weight of your past life. like you’re heading toward something that doesn’t have Min Jae’s name written all over it.

When the massive house finally comes into view, you stop dead.

You’ve heard of the Jeon family, everyone in Seoul has, but you didn’t expect a mansion that large.

The house looks like something straight out of a gothic horror movie.

Cold, imposing, almost too perfect.

You ring the doorbell, echoing through the hallway like it belongs to another century. It takes a few seconds for someone to answer, and when the door finally opens, you’re greeted by a woman in her early fifties.

“You must be Yn,” she says in a voice that’s a little too calm for your liking. “I’m Jeon Ji-seon.”

“Umm yeah, HI! I’m… yn. Kang Yn..”

You smile, trying to keep your composure.

“I’ll show you inside,” she continues, stepping aside. “Please, come in.”

You walk through the door, and as soon as you step into the house, the silence hits you.

The place is huge, far too big for just a couple of people. And it’s cold, like the air here has been frozen for years.

Ji-seon leads you down a hall that feels way too quiet. You don’t even know why, but your skin prickles as you walk behind her.

“Come, this is the boy,” she says, opening a door to a sitting room.

You glance around, expecting to see some child, maybe a little too spoiled, maybe a bit over the top.

but what you find is… not that.

It’s a doll. A life-sized doll sitting on the couch, its eyes too wide and too real. It’s sitting there like a person, and you can’t help the chuckle that slips from your mouth.

“This is JK,” Ji-seon says, her voice soft, almost motherly.

“The boy you’ll be looking after.”

You blink, unsure whether you’ve heard her right.

“Wait, this is… this is the kid?” You can’t help yourself. The laughter bubbles up again, louder this time. “A fucking doll? You want me to look after this?”

This is not even a kid, but this is a doll..

Ji-seon’s smile doesn’t falter, but you can see a flicker of something in her eyes.

“Yes, JK needs care. He’s like a child, in many ways.”

You laugh again.

The idea of it is absurd. Who would hire a nanny for a doll? And who would pay five million won a month to do it?

You can’t resist a glance back at her. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No,” Ji-seon says, her voice unflappable. “He requires attention. He’s very… sensitive.”

A sharp chill runs through you, but it only lasts a second before you shake it off.

“Uh-huh. Sure,” you mutter under your breath. “Okay, I’ll take care of the… kid. Whatever.”

Ji-seon doesn’t seem bothered by your sarcasm. She just nods, smiling softly.

“You’ll be well compensated, yn” she adds. “And Eunwoo will be overseeing everything. He’ll make sure you’re doing it right.”

You don’t like the way she says your name like she’s already familiar with you.

“Eunwoo?”

“His name is Eunwoo. He checks on JK. He’ll be checking on you as well,” she explains, her gaze a little too intense.

You try to stifle a yawn. This whole thing is weird. And for the amount of money they’re offering,

it’s almost too weird.

And then, as if on cue, a man enters the room. He’s tall, dressed in a sleek black suit, his eyes cold and assessing.

“I’m Eunwoo,” he says in a deep voice that sends a shiver down your spine.

You blink. For a second, you think you’ve seen him somewhere before, but you push the thought away.

“I’ll be overseeing things here,” he continues, not bothering with pleasantries. “Make sure you’re following the rules.”

You squint at him. “Rules for taking care of a doll?”

Eunwoo’s smile is sharp, almost predatory. “You’ll learn soon enough.”

You’re about to ask more questions when Ji-seon interrupts.

“Remember the doll can actually speak a few words so don’t be freaked out about that, JK is capable of crying and sometimes even complimenting.”

What the fuck?

“Eunwoo will show you around. He’ll tell you what’s expected of you.”

You glance at Eunwoo, who watches you closely, as if evaluating every inch of you.

“I’ll be back later,” he says, before turning and walking toward JK, adjusting the doll in a way that makes you shiver.

You feel like you’ve stepped into some strange, twisted world. But you try not to let it show.

You need this job.

After all, you’ve got five million won to make.

The house feels too quiet as you stand there, trying to process everything.

You walk around, pretending to look busy while your eyes are fixated on the doll, JK, sitting perfectly still on the couch.

You can’t help but feel like you’re under some kind of microscope.

How could anyone need a nanny for a doll?

you think, your thoughts dripping with sarcasm. But then you remind yourself that you’re here for the money.

Five million won.

That’s what you keep telling yourself to push down the absurdity of the situation.

Eunwoo’s movements seem calculated as he adjusts JK’s position on the couch.

You don’t know why, but his actions feel almost… gentle, like he’s handling something fragile.

It’s unsettling.

You swallow, trying to mask the unease creeping into your stomach.

“Right,” you say, trying to force a grin as you break the silence. “So, what exactly am I supposed to do with… him? Do I play with him, or is he more of a… I don’t know, a silent companion?” Your tone is light, as if you’re joking, but it feels strangely hollow.

But he doesn’t seem to find your joke funny.

What a weirdo but at least he’s got a pretty face.

Although he looks very familiar… you just can’t put your finger on why you have probably seen him somewhere but you’re not sure at this point.

Eunwoo doesn’t respond at first, his gaze locked on the doll, then finally, he mutters, “You’ll interact with him when it’s required. He has specific needs. You’ll figure it out.”

His voice is colder than you expected, but it’s a different kind of cold— more like a warning than a suggestion.

You shift uncomfortably, looking over at JK.

. The doll’s porcelain eyes are wide open, locked onto you in an unnerving way, and you fight the urge to laugh at how absurd the whole situation is.

How could anyone possibly think this thing is alive?

“Got it,” you say, forcing a smile, trying to make light of the situation. “I’ll treat him like a… like a kid, right?”

Eunwoo’s eyes snap to yours, a brief flicker of something unspoken passing between you two.

“You’ll take care of him,”

he says, and you can feel the weight of his words sink in, much heavier than you expected.

His gaze lingers on you for a beat too long before he nods, as if ensuring you understand.

Ji-seon reappears, smiling pleasantly, and her presence brings a sense of eerie calm to the air.

“You’ll be fine here, yn. Eunwoo will help you get settled. We just need you to follow the routine.”

You nod, trying to sound agreeable. “Of course. No problem.”

She leads you down a hallway, her heels clicking on the polished floor as she motions toward a door.

“This will be your room while you’re here. Make yourself at home.”

You step inside, and your breath catches. It’s bigger than any space you’ve ever lived in before. bigger than your tiny apartment in Seoul, bigger than anything you’ve ever imagined.

The room is sleek, minimalist, and pristine, with soft, neutral colors that almost feel too perfect.

Rich people are ridiculous but at least you get to live in a really nice room and a literal man just to take care of a fucking doll. life is being nice to you at least.

At the far end of the room, there’s a large window with a view of the sprawling estate grounds, but it’s not the view that catches your eye.

It’s the family photos.

They’re everywhere— on the walls, on tables, in frames.

At first, it seems normal, just a rich, respectful family showing off their prized memories.

But then you start noticing things. In one picture, there’s a child, a little boy who could be no more than five or six. His features are strikingly similar to JK’s.

sharp Bambi eyes, a mole under his lower lip, and a smile that mirrors JKS.

It’s unsettling, the way the child looks so much like the doll, so much like… him.

In one photo, the child is sitting on a chair beside a younger version of the doll, his tiny hand placed possessively on the doll’s shoulder.

The similarities between them are too eerie to ignore.

You feel a slight shiver creep up your spine. What the hell is going on here?

you want to ask about this but you decide to let it go.

“How strange,” you murmur under your breath, though you’re not sure if you’re speaking to the doll or to yourself.

You force yourself to look away from the photos, but it feels like they’re following you.

You walk over to the desk, where another photo sits—this one of the couple holding hands with the child, all three of them beaming at the camera.

And again, the resemblance between the child and JK is too uncanny. It’s like they’re trying to prove something, some perfect image of family that feels staged, artificial.

A sudden knock on the door interrupts your thoughts, and before you can answer,

Eunwoo enters.

He doesn’t wait for permission, just steps inside, his eyes immediately scanning the room before they rest on you.

“Get settled. We’ll talk later,” he says, his tone clipped and direct.

You give him a forced smile, trying to keep your nerves in check. “Of course. Thanks, Eunwoo.”

“But where are Mr. and Mrs. Jeon?”

He nods, his gaze lingering on you for just a moment longer than comfortable.

There’s a flicker of something unreadable in his expression, but then he turns and walks out without another word.

“Didn’t you read in the advertisement? They have to go on a business trip to the states and they need you to take care of…. JK.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

The air in the room feels dense, thick with unspoken things. You can’t shake the feeling that you’re being watched, monitored, like a subject in some twisted experiment.

You move to the bed, setting your bag down, and glance back at the photos.

The resemblance between the doll and the child is enough to make your stomach turn.

You try to push the thought out of your mind, but it sticks with you. What kind of family is this?

You pull out the piece of paper Eunwoo gave you earlier.

The list of instructions. It’s simple, even ridiculous at times. But the last line sticks out to you, making your heart skip a beat:

1. Do not leave him alone for extended periods.

• JK requires constant companionship. Never leave him for more than an hour at a time. If he is left alone for too long, you may hear him calling out for attention, sometimes saying things like “stay” or “hello.”

2. Talk to him regularly.

• Speak to JK as if he were a real child. He understands more than you think and benefits from daily conversation. You may hear him respond in his own way, even if it’s just a faint whisper of words like “pretty” or “hello” that seem to come from nowhere.

3. Do not ignore him.

• If JK’s eyes are on you, he is expecting attention. Never leave him in a room alone without acknowledging him. If you do, you might hear him softly say “stay” or something equally unsettling when you’re out of sight.

4. Maintain his appearance.

• Clean JK daily, especially his clothes. Ensure his hair is brushed and neat, and that he is positioned properly. If you don’t care for him properly, you may hear him complain.

5. Do not place him out of sight.

• Always keep JK within your line of sight. If you leave the room, take him with you, or he will become distressed. If left alone for too long, you may hear him calling out, perhaps asking for you in a low, soft voice.

6. Respect his space.

• Do not move JK without carefully considering his position. He prefers to be seated in his chair or on the couch—never leave him lying down for long. You may notice him suddenly changing positions on his own if you don’t follow these guidelines.

7. Follow the daily routine.

• A structured schedule is important for JK’s well-being. The routine is as follows:

• Morning: Greet JK. Talk to him about your day.

• Afternoon: Engage in activities with him (reading, conversation, or watching TV together). He might ask you things like “pretty” or “play” when he wants to interact.

• Evening: Ensure he is settled before you sleep. You may hear him say “stay” if you don’t give him a kiss goodnight.

8. Do not let him become distressed.

• If JK begins to look upset or agitated, stop what you’re doing immediately and comfort him. You’ll know he’s upset if his eyes seem unfocused or if he “stares off” for too long. At these times, you may hear him say things like “hello,” reaching out for attention.

9. No visitors unless approved by us.

• Do not invite anyone into the house unless we have specifically authorized them. This includes friends, family, or strangers. JK may also react to unapproved visitors by whispering, “go away,” or “stay,” in a chilling voice that’s hard to ignore.

10. Follow all of JK’s instructions as they are given.

• While he cannot speak in the traditional sense, his needs will make themselves known. You must be attuned to his behavior and respond accordingly. This includes listening for his soft, eerie phrases like “stay” or “pretty” when you least expect it.

11. Always keep his room organized.

• JK’s environment must remain tidy. His room should be cleaned and arranged according to how you find it each day. If you don’t, expect to hear him muttering things like “stay,” as if reminding you of your duties.

12. Never speak ill of him or treat him disrespectfully.

• JK is a special member of the family. Disrespect or neglect will not be tolerated. You may hear him call out to you in a hurt tone, saying “why” or “pretty,” if he feels abandoned.

13. If you feel discomfort or fear, contact Eunwoo immediately.

• Eunwoo is to be your point of contact should you feel overwhelmed or need assistance. He is also here to make sure everything is running smoothly. He may even contact you if he notices JK has been more vocal than usual, or if things seem off.

14. In case of an emergency, stay calm and follow the procedure.

• If anything unusual happens, contact us immediately. Keep calm and ensure JK is safe. During these moments, JK might cry out, or ask you “why” or “stay” in a soft voice, leaving you with an eerie feeling of being watched.

15. Do not attempt to move or alter JK’s appearance without prior approval.

• His positioning, attire, and overall state must remain as it is unless told otherwise. This is crucial for his well-being. If you disobey, JK might say things like “don’t” or “stop” under his breath, which you’ll hear clearly when the house is quiet.

16. If you need to leave the house, make sure JK is placed safely in a position to rest.

• Ensure he is seated comfortably before leaving. If you are gone for more than an hour, contact Eunwoo to check on him. You might also hear him call out faintly, “stay,” as if trying to hold you back.

17. Keep your emotions in check around him.

• JK can sense emotional changes. If you are feeling upset or disturbed, try to manage it before interacting with him. He may respond with a quiet “pretty” or “hello,” as if trying to comfort you, or, more chillingly, he might ask you, “stay.”

18. Remember: JK is not a doll.

• Treat him as you would any living child. He may not look alive, but his needs are very real. If you treat him like an inanimate object, you may hear him cry softly, pleading for attention, and saying “stay.”

19. Always give him a goodnight kiss.

• Before you sleep, you must give JK a kiss on the forehead. It’s a requirement for his comfort and peace of mind. If you forget, he will become unsettled, and you might hear him whisper, “stay” or “please” in a voice that feels too real for comf

You look over at JK. The doll’s unblinking eyes stare back at you, and for a moment, you almost think it’s smiling.

The money is still the only thing keeping you here. Five million won. But the unease crawling under your skin refuses to let go.

“Umm well these instructions are quite… haha… ummm… thorough…”

Eunwoo looks at you and he almost looks annoyed by you.

“Obviously. People like you need thorough instructions. You have to make sure that you follow each and every one of them or we will deduct your salary.”

What a little bitch he is.

“Yn you can go to your room now I can take care of him right now and keep the set of instructions with you and read them over again and again until you can remember them. Good night. The dinner will be on the dining table so eat whenever you want.”

•••

The next morning when you wake up, you realize that you didn’t really get much sleep last night because your head is pulsing, but you barely have time to breathe when you hear the older woman call out your name and there is a knock on your door.

When you finally compose yourself and dress up, you rush downstairs and you see the couple with the brooding, butler guy.

“Ummm good morning.”

Ji-seon and Jeong-hwan sit you down in the grand living room, the air thick with a seriousness that immediately puts you on edge.

You’re seated across from them, the doll, JK, still in his usual spot on the couch, eerily quiet as always.

The room feels colder now, as if the warmth has been sucked out of the house overnight.

“We have to leave for an extended period,” Ji-seon says, her voice smooth but with an undertone of finality.

She’s holding her hands in front of her, fingers laced together, her perfectly manicured nails catching the light.

She’s dressed as if she’s about to attend a gala, the elegance radiating off her like a fine perfume.

Jeong-hwan nods beside her, his expression unreadable, his posture stiff.

“We’ll be in Europe for business,” he says, his voice calm but firm,

“and we won’t be back for a few months. Maybe longer, depending on how things go. But we need you here, yn. You’re crucial to this arrangement.”

You blink, not sure what to make of the sudden reveal. You were told they were going away for a short time, but this? This feels different.

You glance at Eunwoo, who’s standing by the door, arms crossed, looking like he’s barely keeping his composure.

He’s so serious you almost want to fuck him.

His eyes are intense, unwavering, but there’s something else there too. something you can’t quite put your finger on.

Ji-seon leans forward, her eyes locking onto yours.

“The job isn’t just to care for the house, or to clean up after us. It’s to take care of JK while we’re gone,”

she says, her voice unwavering, almost as if she’s testing you. “

“We’re trusting you with a very special task. We have rejected 25 Nannie’s before you but something about you stood out.”

You feel a strange knot tighten in your stomach. “Right. I understand,” you say,

Though you can’t help but question how anyone could need someone to look after a doll like that.

Eunwoo’s gaze flicks to you briefly, a warning lingering in the way his lips press together. It’s subtle, but it’s there.

Jeong-hwan speaks up again, his tone cold, almost stern.

“You’re to follow the rules exactly as they’re written, and there will be no exceptions. JK needs consistency. He’s… special,” he adds, his words leaving a strange, unsettling weight in the air.

Why the fuck does everyone keep on saying that it’s almost starting to piss you off and you’ve been here for a day?

You frown, your mind reeling from the bizarre nature of their instructions.

“Special?” you ask, glancing nervously at JK, who’s still as ever on the couch, eyes wide and staring.

“What do you mean by that?”

Ji-seon’s expression softens slightly, but there’s a sharpness behind her gaze that makes you hesitate.

“What we mean,” she begins, her voice careful but insistent.

“is that JK, has particular needs. He requires attention, affection… care. You’ll need to spend time with him, talk to him. Don’t leave him alone for too long. You understand?”

You nod, unsure of what to say. You can feel the tension rising in the room, the weight of their expectations pressing on your chest.

Eunwoo shifts, stepping further into the room as if to emphasize his role.

“And I’ll be visiting, here to make sure everything goes smoothly,” he adds, his voice is smooth, almost too calm.

“If you ever have any issues or doubts, I’ll be here to help. Just… keep him company. That’s all we ask.”

You bite your lip, your thoughts racing. You never imagined this job would be anything like this.

The money was appealing, but now, the reality of it is setting in— and it’s starting to feel far too strange,

too unnerving.

“You’ll be fine,” Ji-seon says, offering you a smile, though it doesn’t reach her eyes.

“We’ll be back when we’re done with business, but until then, please make sure JK is well taken care of. He’s very important to us.”

Jeong-hwan stands, his suit sharply pressed, and gives you a small bow of his head.

“Take care of everything. Follow the rules, and everything will go smoothly.”

You nod, trying to remain composed, even though everything inside of you is screaming for a way out.

The money.

That’s why you’re here. That’s why you’ll stick it out.

But as you glance over at Eunwoo, his unblinking stare fixated on you, you can’t shake the feeling that you’re being drawn into something far deeper and more dangerous than you ever imagined.

The door closes softly behind Ji-seon and Jeong-hwan as they leave, and you’re left standing in the silent house with JK and Eunwoo.

And as soon as the door closes, there is a mechanical sound leaving the doll.

“pretty, pretty, stay… stay.”

And for the first time ever, you got serious shivers down your spine.

“Nice.. JK seems to like you a lot.”

What the fuck have you gotten yourself into?

•••

I watch you, every move you make, every breath you take.

Your body, so unaware, so oblivious to the presence of the one who truly owns you.

You laugh, that soft sound echoing through the room, and I can’t help but let my eyes linger on the curve of your neck, the way your lips part when you exhale.

You’re beautiful.

But it’s not just your beauty that calls to me. It’s the way you touch the doll. Your fingers graze his face, your movements slow, almost hesitant.

You don’t even realize it, do you?

You’re already giving him a piece of yourself, even if it’s just a touch. But it’s not for him, is it?

No, it’s for me.

You think you’re in control, that you’re simply playing a role, but I can see the way your body betrays you.

The way your hands shake just a little when you adjust him, how your breath hitches when you think no one’s watching. You want him, want me, more than you’re willing to admit.

I can feel the heat radiating from you, the tension in the air thickening with every second you linger in that room.

You don’t know it yet, but every time you speak to him, every time your skin brushes against his, you’re inviting me in. You want to be touched, you crave it.

Your body, so starved for affection, desperate for someone to care, to see you.

I see you. And soon, you’ll feel me.

You’re not just taking care of a doll. You’re taking care of me.

The doll is just a way to keep you close, to watch you, to savor every second of your vulnerability.

You don’t realize how deep you’re sinking into this.

Every time you move, every time you shift, it’s like you’re drawing me in closer, pulling me into your world.

Your eyes flicker toward the doll again, and I can almost hear your thoughts, wondering why you’re drawn to him so much.

You want to feel him. You want to touch him.

But what you don’t know is that the only thing you’ll feel is me. The only thing you’ll touch is me.

I let out a quiet breath, my fingers curling into a fist as I watch you through the shadows. You’re perfect for this. You’re perfect for me

And the longer you stay here, the closer you’ll get to me, to the things I want from you.

You’ll beg for it soon enough.

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teenidlegirl · 3 months ago

Text

. ˚ ꪆ　　. . .　　miguel jealous of jeff the land shark　　౨ৎ

miguel can’t believe the anomaly in front of him.

a little shark with… legs.

jeff the land shark, according to the records lyla provided. accidentally stumbled upon another universe while venturing around an alleyway searching for food.

the little creature was quite amusing to him. tiny arms and legs, cute black beady eyes, and a big old mouth that takes most of his face. the shark simply stares up at him with those beady eyes, a bright smile on his face with his tongue sticking out happily.

“you gotta admit he’s adorable.” lyla magically pops by his shoulder, in awe of the little shark.

well… the little guy is kinda cute, miguel thought.

jeff sniffs around, getting a sense of this strange place until his tail starts wagging. miguel’s eyebrows furrowed at that, a bit skeptical. suddenly, he runs and jumps around miguel’s office.

“¡ay coño, no!” miguel curses and tries to catch him but ultimately fails since jeff is a literal bouncing ball.

“nom! nom! nom!” jeff exclaims excitedly, jumping around.

“this is amazing.” lyla chuckles, recording the incident with her phone. “just wait until she sees him.”

that causes miguel to stop in his tracks. oh he knows exactly who lyla is referring to. you, his loving wife who loves cute animals, would go batshit crazy if you ever saw jeff.

“don’t let her in here—”

“too late.” lyla winks with a smirk then disappears as you enter the office with a loving smile that always melts his heart.

“hola, osito. how are you— OH MY GOD!”

well, shit.

your screaming startle jeff a little but ultimately smiles when he sees you, tail wagging more excitingly.

miguel sighs, holding out a cautious hand. “mi amor, espera—”

“EEEEE!” you squeal excitingly, rushing past your husband and straight towards the cute baby shark on the desk with your arms wide open and jeff happily jumps into them.

your husband, on the other hand, stands there with a dumbfounded expression as you spin around in glee with jeff in your arms. totally not feeling abandoned by his wife. this is probably the happiest miguel has ever seen you. although the sight is heartwarming, he can’t help but pinch the bridge of his nose and let out a sigh. he spoke too damn soon.

“oh my god!” you squeal happily, squeezing the baby shark in your arms. “you’re the cutest fucking thing ever!”

“nom! nom!” jeff smiles at you.

“what’s your name?”

“his name is jeff.” miguel cuts in, still lowkey kinda bothered that you’re still haven’t looked at him this entire time. he can’t ignore the achy feeling in his chest the longer he stares.

you can’t help but snort because that reminds you of an iconic phrase from a comedy movie you like.

“hi jeff, you’re mine now.”

the baby shark nods, smiling. “mrrr!”

“you’re not taking him.” miguel approaches, hands on his hips.

now you finally look at him but with a lowkey pissed off look he instantly recognizes. “of course i’m taking him, bye.”

“you can’t take him! he’s an anomaly!” he tries to reason with you as you’re already walking away with the baby shark. “he’ll start glitching the moment you walk out of here.”

“well then give him a watch.”

“no.”

“pretty please.”

oh for fuck’s sake.

ultimately, miguel does give jeff a watch. mainly so he doesn’t piss you off. also because of those gorgeous beady eyes of yours that he can never resist and make his knees weak.

although he’s skilled in masking his true feelings, miguel still can’t deny that achy feeling in his heart as he watches you walk away with jeff in your arms, cooing and smiling at the tiny guy. for the first time, his wife completely ignored him. no hug, no kiss. a tiny shark creature got all of that attention, not him.

at first, he thought it was temporary. you’d spend time with jeff, get to know him and gush about him since he is adorable after all, then he’ll be sent back to his correct universe and you will return to your husband who desperately misses you.

oh the dumbass was so wrong.

due to your pleads and despite his complaints, you continue hanging out with jeff and miguel is not super thrilled about it. before, you used to visit HQ to see your husband. now, you’ve come see that damn shark and spend the entire day with him. hang out in miguel’s office, wonder around the society, eating together in the cafeteria. it pissed miguel off a lot. this little shark is getting all the attention from his wife and not himself. of course miguel denied it and pretend he doesn’t care, that you simply just adore the little guy and there was nothing much to it.

but it never stops! even at home you babble about how adorable jeff is, talk about the things you do together, and wish he would live at home with you. oh miguel is a big grumpy bug, pouting when you aren’t looking because deep down he is jealous. is he jealous of a baby shark? yes. will he ever admit it to you? no, absolutely not. but after denying it for a while, miguel admits to himself. how could he not? the amount of time you spend with jeff only left a little for miguel. he misses how much you babbled about him just like the way you are with jeff now. he misses having your attention, now being replace by a damn shark.

a baby shark stole his wife.

what a fucking joke.

but the truth is, he misses you.

now here he is, staring at the multiple screens with a scowl like usual. the clicking of heels reaches his ears and he instantly knows it’s you. instead of turning around and greeting you with a loving smile, miguel continues looking and swiping through the screens.

“hi, osito.” you greet him sweetly, approaching his side and giving his arm a gentle loving squeeze.

he only lets out a low hum, not meeting your gaze which makes your brows furrowed slightly in confusion.

“what’s up?”

“nada.” his flat tone confuses you more.

gently tugging him by the bicep, you try to make him face you but miguel remains firmly in place.

“miguel, what’s wrong?”

“nada, just busy.” he shrugs off your hand, making your heart ache a little. “why don’t you go find your pet? bet he misses you.”

he’s referring to jeff. also, the jealousy in his tone doesn’t go unnoticed. you let out a soft, sad sigh. you know you’ve been spending much time with jeff recently. honestly, you can’t help it because he’s just an adorable little guy. but you’re aware of these actions having consequences on your relationship. you’ve notice the sadness in miguel’s eyes when you venture off with jeff. it’s a little stab to the heart to hurt him like that. jeff may be adorable but you love miguel more than anything or anyone, he’s the love of your life. you can’t blame him for feeling jealous and upset. lately, you been dialing back time with jeff so you’d be with miguel but he’s been putting some distance between you as well. it hurt and only motivates you more to fix this little problem.

“precioso, mírame pro favor.”

damnit, you plead so sweetly like that makes his knees weak.

finally, miguel turns to look at you and his eyes widen seeing your sorrowful ones. practically making him feel guilty for acting so cold, distant, and basically an asshole towards you. he’s about to spill out apologies but you beat him first.

“i know i’ve been spending so much time with jeff and i’m sorry for making you feel ignored. i did get carried away and didn’t realize i was hurting you until later on, i’m sorry.”

fuck, he feels extra guilty. your sorrowful tone and eyes makes his chest ache. he appreciates your apology and already forgave you in a heartbeat yet miguel still feels like the bad guy here.

“i’m sorry too, mi reina.” he raises a hand to cup your cheek, heart fluttering when you lean into his touch. “for being an asshole, distancing myself. that hurt more than anything.”

you offer a sad smile. “just know i’ll always love you and you can always tell me how you’re feeling. okay?”

miguel nods, appreciating your caring words. “siempre, tu tambien amor.” bending down, he captures your lips with his in a soft kiss which you happily reciprocate.

“nom! nom!”

the cute familiar sound makes you and miguel turn to find jeff sitting on the desk smiling at you both. the sight melts your heart, including miguel’s now that he isn’t bothered by his presence.

“my baby~” leaving miguel’s hold, you approach jeff with open arms and he happily jumps into them.

for once, miguel smiles at heartwarming sight. seeing you so happy and caring with the baby shark warms his heart. you never mentioned about babies before but you definitely have motherly instincts towards jeff, caring for him as if he’s your baby. sure, it’s quite amusing caring for a literal shark yet jeff is adorable. besides spidercat, spider-plushie, and mayday, jeff is definitely one of the cutest things miguel has ever seen.

turning to face miguel, you find him smiling which warms your heart. with a smile, you walk back to your husband with jeff in your arms. the little shark smiles at miguel.

“mrrr!” he suddenly jumps into miguel’s arms, who is caught off guard for a moment but quickly catches him.

“awww he likes you.” you smile.

“well… i can’t really blame you, he is cute.” miguel admits, meekly smiling at the baby shark in his arms who smiles at him.

“mrrr!” jeff pokes his broad chest.

miguel’s brows furrowed for a sec. “what?”

the baby shark continues poking his chest.

“he wants a suit.”

“seriously?” miguel’s brows rise in surprise and amusement. “alright, we can make him one.”

jeff shakes his head and pokes his chest again. “mrrr.”

“ohhh he wants your suit!”

“my suit?” miguel looks at him and he nods happily. “por dios.”

eventually, miguel gifts jeff with a mini version of his suit. the two stand side by side, both clad in red and dark blue. jeff beams and twirls in his new suit excitingly. a mini version of the iconic spiderman 2099. the adorable sight melts your heart completely.

“aww my precious babies!” you snap a pic of them.

miguel rolls his eyes but smiles, cheeks flushed.

had to welcome the newest member to the society properly.

jeff also became his unofficial adoptive son thanks to your a thousand pleads (lets pretend jeff isn’t kate and gwen’s pet in this). back at your shared apartment, there is a whole cabinet dedicated to all of jeff’s favorite snacks and drinks. a tiny water bowl with his name on it near the kitchen island. in one corner of the living room, there is a little (dog) bed for him where jeff takes occasional naps. your home is conditioned to jeff’s needs whenever he visits and miguel isn’t against it, rather happy to see the little shark in his home and making his wife happy.

one day miguel found you and jeff in the kitchen making dinner. the baby shark helps you with grabbing whatever spices, vegetables, or utensils you need. it’s a usual routine for you two and miguel loves walking in to find you both.

“hi, osito. dinner is ready.” you greet your husband with a kiss.

miguel kisses back, leaving a hand on your hip. “gracias mi amor.”

“it was jeff’s idea to make tamales tonight.”

“mrrr!” jeff exclaims happily from the counter, smiling.

“great choice, jeff.” miguel smiles at him.

the baby shark smiles then jumps onto miguel’s arm, who catches him with one arm while the other is wrapped around your waist.

another night miguel comes home late from a tough mission, expecting you to be awake like usual because most times you wait for him despite his pleads for you to sleep, he calls out your name but no answer which leaves him confused a little. entering your shared bedroom, miguel is about to call your name again until he finds you and jeff asleep, cuddling in bed. jeff is snuggled against you and your arms are wrapped around him as you both doze off. the sight melts miguel’s heart. his precious wife peacefully sleeping with the baby shark in her arms.

“preciosa…” miguel whispers as he leans over and leaves a soft kiss on your forehead then covers you and jeff with the sheets, quietly shutting the door to not disturb your slumber.

miguel loves his little family.

⠀⠀✸⠀⠀note.⠀⠀the suit idea is inspired by this cute artwork! btw this is a repost. if you saw this last week, no you didn’t lol.

©⠀TEENIDLEGIRL⠀♡⠀don’t plagiarize or repost my work

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awrkive · 6 months ago

Text

NEIGHBOR BLUNDER, pt. 4 — JJK

in hindsight, you should have seen it coming. had always known your luck – or lack of it, thereof – and the universe's meticulous plan of your downfall made it easy for you to get tangled up in a series of unfortunate events, which presents itself as the neighbor that lives across from you, jeon jungkook.

PAIRING jungkook x (fem) reader

GENRE r18+ (fluff, angst, smut) MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

CHAPTER WORD COUNT 17.1K words

CHAPTER WARNINGS/MISC neighbor!jk, bsf!jimin, accountant!oc software engineer!jk, jk and jimin are chaebols lol, minjoon boyfriends <<<<3, mature language, alcohol consumption, misogyny 🫤, club fight... but also lots of screaming into your pillow moments part 2, oc goes twenty different emptions in like..one hour (my babyy😖) and uhhhhhh the biggest warning of them all: jungkook pov and the ending😖

NOTES pls pretend you didnt see that post earlier,, it was a testament to my failure lets forget about it anyway WE ARE SOOOO SOO BACK!! hope you guys enjoy this one and as usual, let me know what you think and lets chat!!

[ SERIES MASTERLIST ] // [ MAIN MASTERLIST ]

“I’m coming home!” Were Jimin’s first words as soon as you answer his facetime invite.

With eyes barely open, you push your face deeper in the plush of your pillows, groaning.

“Jimin, it’s six am.”

“And?” Jimin dismisses. “We ought to celebrate!”

“I’m not even up yet.”

“So, you hate me.”

You let out a grumble, this time snapping your eyes fully open to see Jimin’s brow arched your way, his attitude reaching you even when you're a thousand miles apart. Classic Jimin.

“You’re a drama queen, and for the record, I got everything covered. Octagon, VIP area, 1 am. Dress slutty. Have fun, loosen up. Go crazy.”

“O– kay ,” Jimin says, chuckling in amusement at your flat tone with your deadpanned face. “God, I just can’t wait to go back. You will not believe all of the shit I’ll be telling you once I get there.”

You prop your phone on your nightstand and begin to stretch on your bed. “You better tell me you have Italian men’s IGs to refer to me.” you joke. Sleep is slowly starting to fade away from your system. Glancing at the wall clock from across the room, you take note it’s almost time to get ready for work.w

“Please,” he rolls his eyes. “As if you’re gonna respond when they do send you a DM.”

That earns an abrupt laugh from you. “I do respond, though.” you giggle. You stand up from the bed, carrying the phone with you as you head to the living room to prepare your breakfast.

“Babe, you’ve responded to two out of ten men I referred to you, and you ghosted two, by the way.”

You look at him in shock. “What, you supported me!”

“Still, though… ugh, the Wooseok guy still asks about you, by the way. It was literally so awkward when we met at that– I forgot, but it was a party.”

You cringe internally, and it probably translates to your face because you hear Jimin laughing from the other side of the line. Shaking your head, you tell Jimin, “Nope– not gonna feel sorry. He was weird as fuck, and I genuinely think – still to this day – that he’s a fury.”

Jimin’s expression morphs into distaste. “Yeah, no, I wouldn’t be surprised if that was true based on the stories you told me but I swear to you he felt like a normal person to me when we first met.” You and Jimin both gave each other a knowing smile; pursed lips and a scrunched nose, already getting where both your heads are at. But Jimin swerves to the next subject smoothly, “Anyway, I see your apartment’s all fixed, considering you’re there.”

You light up at the mention and nod. Looking around, you can’t help the smile that spreads over your lips, thinking that finally, it’s all okay now. Like nothing even happened.

“Oh, yeah. It actually is.” you say, enthusiasm apparent in your voice.

“You know you could’ve stayed at my place, right?”

You give him a dismissive wave of your hand, despite smiling still, appreciating the offer regardless. You know you could’ve and that he wouldn’t have minded, but, “Yeah, no, I didn’t want to impose.”

That earns an instant eye roll from Jimin, followed by a scoff, “You’re literally my blood sister.”

“I know! But remember when I had to stay over at your place for three days earlier this year because of some gas leak…” you bring it up, “I swear this complex is out to get me.”

“You need to move out.”

The impassive look you give him is almost warranted.

“And you need to give me a new job for that.”

Jimin snickers. “... which would be quite ironic because I don’t even have one in the first place.”

You know it’s a bummer subject but since he mentioned it, anyway, you decide to ask, “How’s the training going, by the way? Pretty sure Ms. Lim has blown up your phone over the course of your absence.” Ms. Lim is the PR head of their company, and Jimin instantly sours at the mention of her name.

With a grimace, he completely shuts down the subject. “I don’t even wanna talk about it.”

You give him a sympathizing smile before Jimin picks up the conversation with a more not-so-bummer subject. He asked you how work has been, and he told you all about the places he and Namjoon went to in Italy. He asked about your thing with Taemu, and you could only give him a sheepish smile, one that he chastised you for because “how dare you keep slutty information from me!” . You almost feel bad because it wasn’t that at all, but because you didn’t want to dig deeper into your own grave, you decided to change the topic and talked about how you two are going to spend the night later on when you meet, and soon, you had to end the call so you can catch your bus.

Jimin has always told you you’re a bad liar. You couldn’t lie even if your life depended on it. But you do it, anyway, even though many instances have already proved the notion right, and one of them presents itself now.

“Sol, I have a question.” You feel bad for your lip as you have to nibble on it for what seemed to be the nth time for the day, treading on your thoughts lightly as Sol turns to look at your side to acknowledge you.

She casts one last glance on her computer before saying, “Is it controversial?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, ask Junhwi,” that earns an eye roll from you instantly, making Sol snicker a quiet laughter. “Kidding. What is it?”

You’re currently on your lunch break, and what’s the harm in talking about a few things in your head that’s been keeping you up all night these past few days?

“Okay…” you begin, making sure to look around and confirm nobody’s listening. They probably are not and couldn’t care less either. “So this happened to a friend.” you say, as if putting out a disclaimer, gauging Sol’s face for a reaction.

There wasn’t much. She just raised an intrigued brow, “Uh-huh.”

How do you even begin?

“So… she’s kind of talking to this guy,” you start, furrowing your brows, actively thinking about your choice of words. Your friend hums and you continue, “Then one time, this guy sort of like– she’s not exactly sure, but he kind of… tried to kiss her?” You didn’t mean for that to sound so unsure.

With the way Sol’s brow has arched way more at that, you imagine she’s noticing your hesitance in speaking about this in the first place.

“How do you kind of try to kiss a person?”

“Like, they were hugging. Or whatever–” you try to not let yourself be too descriptive, but in the process of that, pictures of that night come flashing in your head. Against your better judgement, there’s heat that creeps up in your cheeks when you get your next words out, “The guy just, uh, swooped down for a kiss. I mean, he was supposed to go for a kiss. But then the girl– my friend– dodged it. So basically, nothing happened.”

“Why? She doesn’t like him?”

“That…” Sol probably didn’t mean to but she definitely catches your tongue with the question. You lean back, blinking at her. “I… hah . That’s the… thing. I think… she likes him. But she’s not sure. I think she’s having second thoughts… but to be honest I think she has a crush on the guy but she’s trying to pull herself away from it but then she can’t do it because things are starting to feel a little different.” You let out one heavy puff after you spit the monologue out in one breathing. If Sol was already looking at you weird a few seconds ago, you’re now convinced you’ve unknowingly grown another head behind you. But you continue anyway. “... what does all of that mean?”

“O… kay,” She says, sounding a little uncertain. She turns her body to you now completely. With the way she scoots her chair closer to you, leaning forward and hunching to be in your earshot, you realize she’s actually just become more invested. “Babe, you have to walk me through this like I’m five. So you and this guy are talking, you have a crush on him, and then he tried to kiss you, but you dodged it. Right?”

“Yeah! Something like that–” and upon realizing that you walked into a trap without even that much effort coming from her, your eyes widen while your friend just grins at you like she knew that was coming. You shake your head vehemently. “Wait, no, no, no. It’s not me.”

Sol rolls her eyes. Your shoulders deflate.

You see, Jimin is always right about everything. When he told you you suck ass at lying and you should never try it, he was just looking out for you. And why are you so surprised when these past few weeks, all your lies have blown up right in your face? And at the most inconvenient times and places too, at that – if seeing Jungkook at Jimin’s mom’s birthday party and seeing him in your company’s elevator is anything to go by.

“Alright, it’s me.” you say with a defeated tone.

Sol stares at you with her squinted eyes. “You whore. Who’s the guy?”

And how are you supposed to say it’s Jeon Jungkook, the one who’s like seven floors above you, the son of the president of the very company you’re currently working in right now, and the interim CTO as of the moment and then expect her to believe you?

So you shrug, shaking your head. “It’s not anyone you know.”

“Well, thank god! I don’t know anyone who’s decent enough to date any of my friends!” You’re about to thank the heavens when you thought she wouldn’t dig too much into that, but then she adds, “Show me a pic.” She excitedly huddles closer to you, looking right at your phone on your desk.

Well, no.

“Nah, that’s not relevant to the issue at hand. And… the whole thing’s not even serious–” A blatant lie, but you carry through, “And the… almost-kiss happened, like, two days ago and I’m still–” you cut yourself off with a pained groan, which makes Sol look at you with concern. You purse your lips into a thin line, then. “We were actually drinking at his place together. So we were both kind of drunk? Though that was me mostly. I’m thinking, maybe, I misjudged the whole thing or worse, I just imagined it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. That’s way too elaborate and your feelings about this feels way too real to just come from an imagination. You said he tried to kiss you, right?” She grazes you with a gentle nudge on the arm.

“Maybe?”

“What do you mean, maybe?”

“I don’t know. It was just weird. I swear he tried to kiss me, but I could be wrong. I couldn’t think of reasons for him to try to do that. And I don’t even know why I avoided it in the first place.” You say with a frown, and then sighing when you realize your own thought process doesn’t make any sense.

“Well, what happened after?”

You grimace. “I told him we should probably sleep,” You remember him carrying you to his bedroom – and as per your shameless request, at that. You intentionally leave that out because even you cannot comprehend what it meant. Why did Jungkook do all that? And did he , really? Or you just somehow deluded yourself into thinking that there is more to his actions rather than what they really are on the surface? “He was just like… he laughed it off, then that was the last of it. I slept in his room alone, and the morning after, I went out because he wasn’t there anymore. Went to work early.”

Sol gasps. “Oh brother…”

Your heart begins to hammer at her tone.

“What.”

“He hasn’t reached out after that night?”

You wince, and not because of what she thinks it’s for.

“He actually did,” Sol looks at you in question, rightfully so. You nibble on your bottom lip before elaborating, “So a few days before that happened, he bought me a couch cushion. And then he texted me if I wanted it because I didn’t bring it with me when I left his apartment.”

You can see Sol’s confusion beginning to draw on her face. “I’m sorry, he bought you a what?”

“A cushion.”

It takes her a few seconds to form a response. “You know what, I’m not even gonna ask why. But you know what I’m very certain of right now?”

“... what?”

“You should’ve married him on the spot.”

“What?”

Sol snickers an overjoyed laugh, clearly pleased with herself at your incredulous reaction. “No, it totally makes sense, trust me. But okay. Then what happened after? What did you say to his text?” You stare at each other for awhile, with Sol smiling brightly, obviously expecting you to say something good. You grind your teeth to avoid cringing as you brace yourself for what’s to come, and as if realizing that from your face, Sol frowns. “Oh my god, don’t tell me you haven’t replied to him!”

You can’t help but wince. “Would you hate me if I confirm that?”

“Oh my god.”

“Yeah…”

“Well, damn. I can’t help you.”

“Ugh…” You groan, bringing your palms to your cheeks, pouting at her, feeling sort of defeated at this point.

Sol dramatically holds one hand out, giving it an upward flick as if to tell you you’re being ridiculous for not seeing a point so clearly soon. “Obviously, this guy likes you! That man wants to fuck you ten ways to Sunday but also wants to wife you up and pay your mortgage in straight cash as well as your water and electricity bills. And he’d most likely set up your nonexistent kids’ trust funds the first month into the marriage because he just wants to make sure.”

Your jaw drops. “Okay…? Now you’re doing too much.”

She rolls her eyes in response, as if what she said is a totally normal response.

“You’re dense, it’s crazy. You couldn’t think of a reason why he tried to kiss you? Listen, why would you want to kiss someone? Because you like them. Of course he likes you! And he asked you about the cushion because he probably didn’t want to bombard you with questions about what happened the previous night. It shows he still wants to keep whatever it is you have going on.”

You sigh, seeing her point. “I… know.”

“You don’t wanna make a move? I mean, you seem to really like him.” Sol says, looking at your face. You give her a slight nod, feeling that there’s no use denying that.

But…

“I can’t, though.” you say, pursing your lips.

Frowning, Sol tilts her head in genuine confusion. “Why?”

“Because he’s…” you try to think of any adjectives to describe Jungkook. He’s… charming. Kind. Smart. Funny, in his own little way. So down to earth. Handsome. Pretty. Tall. Really… big– muscly in all the right ways. But those things are not helpful to justify your case on why you don’t want to pursue… whatever it is you two have going on. Because as much as the sole memory of him holding your waist while he leaned down to your face caressing your cheeks in the way he softly did, his cologne wafting your senses into dysfunction, he’s still someone that you just can’t get involved with. “He’s just really out of my league.”

A few beats. Then, Sol raises her eyebrow.

“That’s it?” Sol asks, “That’s the big reveal?”

“... Yeah?”

“Honey, a man can never be out of any woman’s league.”

“I–” you crack a chuckle, rolling your eyes but smiling anyway. “I know what you mean. But he’s genuinely really out of an average person’s league, I’m telling you.”

“What, does he have a Nobel prize or something?”

You laugh, nudging Sol. She mirrors your laughter.

When you settle down into silence again, you tell her, “He’s a… he’s really nice and sweet, though he doesn’t have a Nobel prize–” you roll your eyes playfully when Sol laughs again. “But yeah, I don’t know. I’m still… confused about my own feelings. I’ve always had a crush on him ever since I first met him, and I just always kind of shrugged it off? But ever since that night… I’ve been feeling weird. And I haven’t talked to him, haven’t replied to any of his texts yet. You know how non confrontational I am and it gets really bad, but I just genuinely don’t know how to approach this. The whole thing is confusing.”

Sol gives you a sympathetic smile. “I get that.”

Nodding, you continue speaking your thoughts, “You know the thing about nice guys… it’s that, they’re so nice that you can’t figure out if you just put yourself into a deep psychosis where they care about you more than they do with other people. And it’s like, yeah, it’s nice that he’s sweet, but what if he’s just like that with everybody?”

“You mean you think he also tries to kiss everybody?” Sol quips.

You chuckle. She got you there. “Come on.”

“Okay, I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it!” Giving you a gentle pat on the shoulder, Sol gently says. “I think what you need to do right now is just be honest to yourself first. Really try to figure out if you like this guy romantically or not.”

“That’s the thing, I just genuinely don’t know. I like the idea, maybe?”

She nods. “Then just enjoy the flow for the meantime? I do think there’s something in there, though.”

“Really?” you didn’t mean to perk up at that but you did, anyway, making Sol smile, even though she doesn’t point that out.

“Of course I won’t know completely. Unless you show me this guy…”

You laugh, shaking your head. “I’m sorry about this gossip turned into bummer stuff. I know it’s depressing.”

“I don’t mind,” She shrugs coolly. “You listen to my boy problems all the time. And Jimin can suck on my plastic dick but you’re my best friend too.”

Your laughter becomes louder, but you tone it down just as instantly, slapping Sol lightly.

“Anyway, speaking of the devil, he actually invited you to come along later. We’re going for drinks at the Octagon.”

“Ohh,” Sol says in intrigue. But then she pouts sadly. “I wanna go. But Junhwi and I have a thing later,” You’re quiet for a while. When Sol sees your expression– your very bad attempt at a neutral expression– she rolls her eyes, knowing what you’re probably thinking. “Don’t even start.”

“What! I didn’t even say anything.”

“It’s a work thing.”

“Sure.”

“I don’t like the way you’re looking at me.”

You laugh. “Whatever, Sol.”

She rolls her eyes again. “Whatever, too. Drink your hearts out, by the way.”

You shrug. “Nah, I’m probably not gonna drink that much.”

“Jimin, I’m starting to feel dizzy”

Jimin laughs, stepping closer to you while still swaying his body to the music playing in the club. He looks at the tequila in your hand – your third one for the night in the span of an hour… and thirty minutes? He tried to stop you from getting it, but you swore you can handle it and you can, you know you can, but maybe you’re not too sure about that anymore as you’re beginning to feel a little light on your feet.

“What happened to you saying you weren’t in the mood for drinking tonight?” He arches a brow.

You groan, sounding more like a whine. “What’s up with these tequilas! If I get alcohol poisoning, is the club going to pay for it?”

“They won’t. I’ll have to haul your ass to the ER myself.”

“You can’t even do that because I know you’re three drinks away from tripping on your face.”

Jimin rolls his eyes playfully. “No, I’m not. Unlike you I don’t have the tolerance of a freshman college girl,” He gets a hold of you when he’s closer, linking your arms together to guide you to your table, where you left Namjoon as per his insistence for you to enjoy yourselves on the dancefloor and catch up. Jimin said his boyfriend is actually leaving soon the next two days, so they’re making it count every hour, you guess. “Come on, I need to introduce you to someone. I’m pretty sure he’s arrived now.”

You halt on your steps and look at Jimin alarmingly. “Who is it? I told you I’m hitting it off with Taemu these days.” The lie sits heavy on your tongue but Jimin calls bullshit right away.

“Is the hitting it off in the room with us when you just told me you literally do not care like just awhile ago?”

You let yourself follow Jimin’s steps as you mumble, “Fine.”

Maybe the tequila had let your tongue slip that information. Great. Now you can’t use Taemu as a shield when Jimin asks about your lovelife.

But anyway, it’d be good, right? Meeting other people tonight? It’s been long since you dated somebody. And it would definitely be good for you if you talk to them as soon as now to forget certain things. Certain things like a certain somebody with the long, fluffy, brunette hair whose eyes speak the language of the moon and whose smile gives you the feeling of seeing ten puppies and twenty kittens all at once but at the same time makes you want to whip all your hair out because he casually does things like make your heart hammer in your chest at an abnormal pace by one, brief touch and then try to kiss you and laughs it off when you dodge it and tell him you’re sleepy. Like he doesn’t mind that you may want things to go… slow.

But fuck. You’re supposed to avoid thinking about him. Not tonight. Not when Jimin’s apparently introducing you to somebody.

You’re not into rebounds or shit like that, and you’re not cruel to use somebody to move on from someone else – but maybe it’s only a matter of time before you dig your own grave too deep by prisoning yourself in the specific thoughts of a certain someone and you’d find it too late to move on.

So, yeah, it’d definitely be a good thing to meet and talk to other people right now.

And you’re sure whoever Jimin is having you meet with tonight is nice, anyway.

From afar, you can see your table and the familiar figure of Namjoon’s figure facing towards your direction. You’re about to wave so he can see you and Jimin approaching but you notice another frame across his seat. Namjoon and the unknown person (who is judging from the back is definitely a man) is presumably the one Jimin is meaning to introduce you to, and your best friend mentions it right away beside you.

“Oh, that’s him!” Jimin yelps, excitement filling his words. You look at him and before you realize it, you’re already near the table. You’re just about to ask who it is, forgetting to do so during your walk, when Namjoon suddenly gestures to you both in recognition; dimples showing even in the dim lighting as he smiles at you two. He glances back at the guy in front of him, who as a result, turns his body to look in your direction.

And what. The. Actual. Fuck.

How many times – how many fucking times are you going to see Jeon Jungkook in the most inconvenient places?

Can you somehow make yourself disappear at the speed of light? Did Einstein ever figure that out and the US government just fabricated a lie that he implied that very act was contrary to the law of Physics so people don’t attempt it?

Because as of now, you could have used that trick.

Jungkook looks stricken in his seat for a solid beat until Jimin comes crashing into him, greeting the man enthusiastically.

“Jeon Jungkook, the man himself!” Jimin says, spreading open his arms, grinning widely. You can see Namjoon smiling at both of them, and you watch as Jungkook stands up from the couch to meet Jimin’s half-hug. Jimin pulls back a little. “I thought you wouldn’t make it tonight.”

Jungkook chuckles, giving Jimin a light pat on the back. “Nah,” he says with a grin. “I wanted to make time to see you.” You try not to linger on the way his biceps subtly flex under the slim long-sleeve tee he’s wearing, its sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing a hint of the veins tracing his forearms. It draws your attention to your ensemble – a sparkly cropped halter top that leaves much of your midriff exposed, paired with a mini skirt. You’ve seen each other in towels before, sure, but somehow, being around each other like this feels different… no?

“This is __,” Jimin says, gesturing to you and looping an arm through yours to pull you closer. “You know her.”

Your eyebrow shoots up, and you instantly look at Jimin in quiet surprise. Before you can say anything, Jungkook lets out a deep chuckle. The sound drawls your gaze back to him, and for a second, your eyes meet.

“I’m Jungkook, by the way,” he extends a hand towards you. His voice is… quite charming when he adds, “I heard a lot about you.”

You hesitate for a moment before taking his hand, unsure if it’s just the alcohol coursing through your system or something else entirely, but the second his sizable hand engulfs yours; a warmth shoots straight to your cheeks. His grip is firm yet gentle.

You swear the handshake lingers a beat too long.

“Good things, I hope?” you quip, managing a small smile despite the odd flutter in your chest.

“Lots of good things.” Jungkook replies with a nod, his gaze steady.

“Yeah?”

His eyes don’t waver, and somehow, you find yourself holding his stare longer than you intended until he arches a brow slightly, the subtle expression earning a small, involuntary tug on your lips. Jungkook doesn’t miss that and mirrors the gesture just as indiscreetly, head dipping in a barely-there nod to respond to you.

“Yeah.”

“I’m glad, then,” You turn to look at Jimin to avoid letting the moment stretch further, unintentionally picking your voice up an octave higher – a small nervous habit because there was something that flashed on Jimin’s face witnessing both your and Jungkook’s interaction. “Anyway, I’m so glad we finally met! Jimin’s always mentioned you to me and all that stuff. Hey, Jimin, this is great! Joon, you guys know each other?” You say, desperate to divert the attention and glancing at Namjoon.

He nods with an easy-going smile. “Yeah, we went to the same post-grad uni together in Cali.”

Jimin perks up and slides over beside Namjoon, who immediately drapes an arm around him in a half-hug, letting him lean against his shoulder. “Jungkook’s actually the one who introduced us.” Jimin says, glancing fondly at Namjoon.

You blink in surprise. “Really?” Awkward as you may feel about the whole thing, you’re also genuinely surprised about the new information. You think you remember Jimin saying somebody introduced someone to him when he and Namjoon started, but you didn’t think it was his cousin.

“Yep,” Jimin nods, and Namjoon chuckles softly beside him.

The two of them are now comfortably seated on the couch, leaving the only open spot directly across from them. Before you can decide whether to sit or keep standing, Jungkook gestures subtly toward the available seat, his expression unreadable. You step forward hesitantly, only to realize he’s following right behind you.

Suddenly, you’re hyper-aware of his proximity. Fuck. Even though he isn’t sitting that close, the scent of his cologne – clean, warm, and annoyingly alluring – wraps around you like a second presence. Why does he always have to smell good? You try not to fidget as you glance back at Jimin.

Your best friend grins as he leans on his elbows, looking between you and Jungkook. “I’ve always wanted you two to meet, you know? This is perfect! I was trying to keep it a surprise.”

“Oh, it’s a surprise alright.” you mutter, forcing a laugh.

“Pleasantly surprised.” Jungkook adds, his tone light, though the way his lips quirked upward makes your heart race.

Jimin laughs and there’s a tinge of evilness to it, and you know full well he did this intentionally. Why, you don’t even know. He’s just like that for no reason. You’re gonna kill him.

“You’re still staying at Hannam, right, Jungkook?” Jimin asks suddenly.

You freeze on the spot, and you hope no one notices.

Jungkook takes a moment before answering, his voice calm and casual. “Yes, still there. Why?”

Wait… what?

Jimin nods. “Surprised you’re managing there. Thought you wouldn’t last a month.”

Namjoon laughs. “Yeah, Yoongi hates that place.”

Beside you, Jungkook lets out a soft laugh. “Nah, it’s fine for now.”

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, trying not to let your surprise show. He’s lying – and you know you told him straight up to not tell Jimin about you two knowing each other yet, but you didn’t know he’d make good on his promise. It’s a small thing, but it makes your chest tighten in ways you’re not ready to unpack.

Surprisingly, the conversation starts to flow easily among the four of you. Jungkook asks Namjoon about his work in Italy, and at first, you find it hard to engage in it casually because you can’t shrug off the fact that you’re in such a casual setting with your co-worker– and not just a regular co-worker at that, but an executive at your company; but the relaxed atmosphere starts to chip away at your tension. Jimin cracks a joke, breaking any unease, and soon you’re laughing along, listening as he shares his own experiences in Italy as well. Jungkook jumps in with his own joke you can’t even recall now, and the sound of his laugh is infectious enough to make you smile.

Switching between fruit punch and water helps ease the lingering buzz of tequila in your system, though it doesn’t fully clear your head.

“Fuck,” Jimin suddenly hisses, grabbing everyone’s reaction. “Need to go to the bathroom.”

The words feel like confetti in your ears; the sun is up again, and the gates of heaven open upon you.

“I’ll come with you!” You blurt out, sounding overly enthusiastic. You feel the stares of Jungkook and Namjoon but you choose to ignore them, focusing on Jimin instead.

Your best friend sends you a suspicious look, but after a pointed stare and a forced smile on your end, he relents. “Alright.”

When you stand up, you make a misstep and you stumble a little on your feet.

Concerned sounds erupt from both Namjoon and Jimin, but before they can do anything, an arm shoots up around your waist, with another one wrapping around your wrist to steady you.

It’s Jungkook. The warmth that suddenly surrounds your skin is Jungkook – seated by the edge of the same couch you’re on, he managed to quickly catch you mid-fall.

“Here.” He murmurs, almost a whisper, helping you stand up straight.

You blink, stunned at the warmth that envelopes you at that moment.

“T-thanks.” you stammer when he lets go, the sudden absence of his touch leaving your skin colder than you expected. You shake off the feeling, glancing at Namjoon and Jimin to gauge their reactions, but they just look like usual when they see you’re okay.

“It’s fine,” Jungkook smiles gently, sipping from his drink. A non-alcoholic beer, you suppose. He gestures to the cleared space in front of him, and you awkwardly stand up, taking a few steps while trying not to graze him. He’s polite enough to avert his gaze, sparing you further embarrassment when you quite literally have the front of your body going all up on his face while you maneuver past the table.

“Careful next time!” Jimin teases lightheartedly, interlocking his arms around you when you get near him. “We’ll be right back.” he adds, glancing at the guys as you both walk away.

Once you’re out of earshot, you pull Jimin at a corner and grab his arm tightly. “Oh my god, Jimin,” You start, looking around one more time. “That was my freaking boss!”

As if not understanding the weight of the situation, Jimin rolls his eyes. “He’s not your boss, he’s just some guy.”

“Some guy who happens to be an executive at the company I work in? This is the most awkward night of my life!”

“Babe, I know that. But just try not to think so much about it. It’s just Jungkook – we’re all out here as friends. You and he didn’t meet here as coworkers or whatever. It’s not a big deal.”

“To you , but to me this is just… not…” you trail off, fishing for the right word. “.... appropriate.”

A groan escapes Jimin’s mouth at that, and you know your wording was a bit exaggerated but you can’t help it. This whole thing is insane. You can’t believe you’re meeting and you’re hanging out with Jungkook in the presence of his cousin who also happens to be your best friend.

“Okay, you know what? Try to think about it like this: that guy right there–” he points to the general direction of your table, then looks at you seriously in the eyes. “That’s not your interim CTO. That’s just a guy I grew up with very closely who I used to order around when he was a baby.”

“Jimin.” you roll your eyes at him.

He insists. “No, really, that’s true! Just think of him as some sort of friend, please? I’ve been really wanting for you guys to meet and anyway, it seems like you like him and he likes you! Why worry about anything?” He takes your wrists and gives you the best puppy eyes ever he always sports when he wants something, and this time you let out a defeated sigh.

Thinking of Jungkook as Jimin’s younger cousin does help put things into perspective– it’s a bit of mental gymnastics, sure, but it works. Suddenly, the idea of meeting him in a nightclub doesn’t seem so strange. And you really do appreciate Jimin’s excitement about your meeting. After all, as he put it, having his Favorite Person On Earth (which, according to a very reliable source: you) and his Favorite Cousin meet is a big deal for him.

“Okay, fine. But just know if this happens to you – like imagine meeting up with Ms. Lim at a nightclub – I’ll be laughing at your damn face.”

Jimin snickers a laugh, and you both continue your way to the restroom.

“But you know what I think?” he suddenly says, breaking the silence.

You raise a brow at him in curiosity. “What?”

He grins mischievously. “What you said earlier – it’s inappropriate but hear me out. Jungkook is exactly your type.”

“Excuse me, what? ”

“No, okay, listen!” He raises his palms as if to plead his case and begins listing every trait that apparently aligns Jungkook with your type. “He’s a tech guy. He would usually wear glasses – and don’t even try to deny again that you don’t have a thing for it, girl – and he’s objectively attractive, as far as straight men go.”

With every word, your jaw drops a little more.

“What are you even talking about?” You ask, utterly dumbfounded.

Jimin squints at you, feigning suspicion. “He has my genes, __, you don’t think he’s attractive?”

“First off,” you start, rolling your eyes, “that would mean I find you attractive, which is gross and absolutely not true. You’re like my brother,” Jimin only laughs, clearly entertained, so you double down. “Second I don’t exclusively date tech guys, okay? Jesus Christ. And I definitely don’t have a thing for men in eyeglasses. What is wrong with you.”

Jimin just stands there, squinting his eyes more at you with that infuriatingly inquisitive expression. You do your best to hold a neutral face under his scrutiny.

“You got that pondering look,” Jimin concludes with a victorious smirk. “You’re totally thinking about it!”

You gasp, scandalized. “You’re unbelievable, Jimin. That’s your cousin and my boss!–”

He bursts out into laughter. “I’d say something about how defensive you’re getting, but I’m too drunk and really need to pee.”

You swat at his arm, following his steps anyway. “You’re such a bitch sometimes, you know that?”

Your best friend throws you a teasing glance. “For the record, Jungkook’s only thirty. Not that old, in case you were wondering.”

“Oh my god, for the last time, I am not thinking about your cousin!” You swear you’re gonna kill him, and then yourself.

“Boohoo. What, you can’t date your friend’s relatives?” Jimin muses with a teasing tone.

“Yes, Jimin, it’s called boundaries,” you snap. Jimin still wouldn’t drop the malicious gaze, making you groan. Just how far is the restroom here? “Seriously, that’s completely unethical. I would never date any relative of yours, let alone if they’re my boss.”

Jimin starts cackling, clearly enjoying how worked up you are. “ Unethical ? Come on, you’re gonna get punished for premarital sex, anyway. Might as well date your boss while you’re at it.”

You hate that he’s so damn funny, even when he’s being a complete pain. Despite yourself, you can’t help but laugh at his ridiculous retort.

“Fuck off. I hope your bladder explodes.” you mutter.

Jimin’s laughter echoes around you, but finally, the restroom comes into view.

“Relax,” he says between chuckles. “I’m only joking. Jungkook h—”

Before he can finish, someone barrels into you – quite hard that you almost fall on your feet.

Instinctively, you let out a hurried, “Oh! I’m so sorry—”

“Watch where you’re fucking going, bitch.”

The words take a second to register. Your shoulder throbs where they collided with you, but before you can react, Jimin steps forward.

“Excuse me?” your best friend snaps, his tone sharp.

The stranger doesn’t miss a beat, sneering as he looks you up and down. His gaze lingers far too long on your chest, making your stomach churn.

“I said what I said.” he replies, completely unapologetic.

“Hey, that’s not cool, man. Just apologize to her, you hit her pretty hard.” Jimin says, positioning himself slightly in front of you as though to shield you from the man.

“What are you, her boyfriend?” The man scoffs. “The little princess slut needs her knight and shining armor—”

Your patience snaps. “What the hell did you just call me?” You demand, stepping around Jimin.

The man smirks and takes a step closer. “What are you gonna do about it, slut?”

Jimin grabs your arm, trying to hold you back.

“Back off, man. I’m calling security.”

The tension in the air crackles, and you can feel the adrenaline surging in your veins. “Let go, Jimin,” you mutter, pulling free from his grip. You take a step forward, looking the man dead in the eye. “You think I’m scared? You get all up in our personal space calling me names and you think we’ll run for our lives after, huh?”

You watch as the smugness gets wiped out of his face instantly. He doesn’t form a response right away, just gawks at you as if he can’t believe you’re facing him off. Your brows shoots up at him.

This is the problem with assholes. They think they can intimidate you, especially men, but when confronted, they go back to their shells looking dumb as fuck.

“You slut. Do you know who I am?” The man raises his hand, shoving your shoulder hard enough to make you stagger.

At this point, you’re fuming. What the fuck is this guy’s problem?

Before you can retaliate, Jimin lunges forward, pushing the man back, just as he forceful as he did to you. “Don’t fucking touch her!” Jimin yells, his voice rising above the growing murmur of the crowd. “This is straight-up harassment and you can fuck off when the security kicks you out of here. Fuckin’ pussy.” With that, Jimin tugs your arm, already turning on his heel to go to the opposite reaction, ready to leave. But all of a sudden, the other guy goes for a punch, and it lands right on Jimin’s cheek.

You gasp audibly.

Onlookers get more intrigued, and you don’t have it in you to think straight when your brain decides to go in between two men fighting. In the hopes of getting Jimin out of the way, you step in only to get elbowed on the jaw by the stranger when your best friend swings at the guy back; your reflexes not fast enough to avoid it

You can’t focus on the pain when panic arises upon the growing scene before you.

“Jimin, stop!” You exclaim, trying to grab the back of his shirt. But the stranger only retaliates, and the whole thing is starting to blow out of proportion.

“Hey! What is going on here?”

You whip around to see Namjoon striding toward the commotion, his expression a mix of concern and frustration. Relief floods through you as he reaches you just in time to pull Jimin away. Two security guards arrive on the scene, stepping between Jimin and the man to break up the fight.

“What is your problem, man?” Namjoon scowls at the guy, wrapping his arm around Jimin. You hurry to them and help him assist your best friend, holding his shoulder.

“Ask him and that fucking girlfriend of his. It’s that bitch’s fault! Do you even fucking know who I am?”

Your eyes widen at the accusation.

You gape at him, incredulous. “Are you kidding me? You ran into me, started cussing me out, shoved me two times and punched my frie—”

“Enough!” one of the security guards cuts in, his tone firm. He turns to the man. “Mr. Yang, please step aside so we can sort this out.”

Jungkook appears just then, his gaze scanning the scene with confusion. “What the hell happened here?”

“Jungkook.” you sigh at the sight of him, getting a second rush of relief upon seeing both him and Namjoon here.

Jungkook steps closer to you, looks at your state, and instinctively hovers an arm around your waist, concern growing on his face. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you say quickly, glancing at Jimin. “But he’s not.”

“Jimin got into a fight,” Namjoon explains, his voice tight. “I’m taking him to the hospital. Can you handle this?”

Jimin groans in Namjoon’s arms. “Oh my god, Joon, I’m literally fine—” Jimin rolls his eyes when his boyfriend only looks at him with a deepened frown.

Namjoon looks at Jungkook again. “Can you take care of this for me, Kook? I’ll drive both of us to a hospital nearby. __, I’ll take Jimin there first before driving you home. Is that okay?”

Although not unusual, your eyes widen at the offer. You quickly shake your head to decline.

“Oh, no. It’s fine. I’ll grab a taxi or something… just please take Jimin to the hospital first.”

“Don’t be silly, it’s dangerous–” Before Jimin could say the words, Jungkook speaks.

“I’ll take her,” All three of you look at him and he doesn’t even faze. “I took my car and I didn’t drink tonight so I’m okay to drive. __, just tell me your address.”

Your head shakes vehemently. You’ve already been a big nuisance thanks to that asshole back there who’s talking with security.

“It’s okay, Jungkook. I really don’t want to bother–”

“It’s not safe for you to be alone right now, __,” he says with a frown, and he sounds so sincere that it makes you bite your lip to prevent saying any protest again. He does have a point. “Joon, you can go. We’ll talk it out with security in the meantime.”

“Alright, thanks, man.” Namjoon pats his shoulder. “Take care of her, okay? She drank a lot.” He informs Jungkook who just nods. And then off they go after Namjoon talked for a while with the other security.

You want to face-palm yourself.

Soon, a man in uniform approaches you and Jungkook. As if in reflex, Jungkook steps closer to you.

“Mr. Yang said you said some – what he called, “abusive language” – to him, Miss. Is that true?”

Your eyebrows crease in confusion as you look at “Mr. Yang” in disbelief.

“No, I didn’t. He was the one who started calling me names and swung at my friend first.” You defend, upset.

The security just looks over at you impassively with an almost monotonous voice, as if talking to you is a nuisance and taking too much of his time. “He said your friend threw the first punch. Mr. Yang is a valued customer—”

“I’m sorry, but aren’t I and my friend customers too? We–”

“There’s no going around it, miss. Your friend started a fight and you initiated a commotion which is prohibited in this place, especially in the VIP area. Mr. Yang is currently talking to his lawyers to press charges against you and your friend.”

Press what now?

“Press charges?” Jungkook can’t help but butt in. He changes his stance beside you and you see exactly how the security backs off a little, the boredom on his face while talking to you seconds ago slipping when Jungkook continues to say, “Did you hear what she said? Mr. Yang started the fight with verbal intimidation and made it physical. The other guy, her friend, just retaliated. How are you purposefully glossing over that detail?”

“Sir, Mr. Yang just told the story–”

“You mean his side of the story. Aren’t you supposed to ensure everyone’s safety here? Or does being a valued customer excuse harassment and violence?”

The security completely falters under Jungkook’s stare and words.

And you grow livid.

“Excuse me, sir,” You start, stepping out to get closer to him. You keep your voice leveled when you speak further, “I’m gonna tell you this more time. He, Mr. Yan or whatever his name is, started the whole thing. He bumped into me hard and I have the shoulder pain to prove you that. I said sorry, even though he should’ve said it too, but then he didn’t and started to cuss me out instead and called me names . My friend stepped in because he was trying to intimidate me physically and verbally. He threw the first punch, and my friend just retaliated,” you said with conviction, not shaking even once. When the security opens his mouth to say something, you beat him to it. “And tell your valued customer that if he wants to press charges, I’ll be speaking to my lawyer, too. And I’ll be filing a complaint against this establishment for failing to handle the situation appropriately.”

You don’t look back as you turn on your heel and head straight to your table. Jungkook’s footsteps follow closely behind, and you hear him call your name, but you don’t acknowledge it. Instead, you grab your purse and head toward the stairs leading to the ground floor, your mind set on leaving.

It’s been a long time since you felt so blatantly underestimated by a man. It happens at work occasionally, but having a woman supervisor helps that situation a bit. Still, though, you can’t help but be bitter whenever it happens. No matter how vocal you are, no matter how often you advocate for yourself, there’s a grim inevitability to it. They’ll still see you as less, as though your words carry less weight, your stance holds less power.

The thought burns at you, frustration rising like a heat wave under your skin, and there’s a dull sense of helplessness that settles heavily in your chest.

“__, hey. Stop walking so fast.” You hear Jungkook say behind you but despite his words, he still manages to catch up.

“You can go, Jungkook. I’m calling a taxi.” You say, voice leveled. You know it’s irrational but you can’t get out of your head the image of the security backing off when Jungkook began speaking to him. As if his opinion matters more than yours. The anger is misplaced, you know, but you just need a little bit of space.

“I told Jimin I’ll take you home, so I’ll take you home.” Jungkook insists and his voice is firm as well, but there’s softness around the edges. You feel it in the way he gently takes ahold of your wrist to halt you from walking. At this point, you’re already outside the establishment.

“I don’t want your help.”

He physically recoils, and you feel instantly bad just right after you say it.

Okay, maybe that was too much of an overreaction.

Still, though, while Jungkook lets go of your hand, he doesn’t relent.

“I’m not trying to be insistent for no reason, __. I want to take you home because you’re drunk and I don’t know if you’re safe especially when a guy just harassed you back there.”

Pressing your lips into a thin line, you turn your gaze away, feeling the telltale tremble in your body that comes right before tears. Your eyes sting faintly at the corners, but you force a sharp, steady breath into your lungs. As much as it stings to admit it, Jungkook has a point.

You’re surprised you’ve managed this far with your mind clouded by too much tequila. And while you keep telling yourself you’re not afraid of that jerk back there, the thought of walking out alone at this hour leaves a knot of unease in your chest.

Turning on your heel, you avoid Jungkook’s eyes when you look at his general direction and say, “Okay.”

“Okay,” he repeats, gauging your face. “My car is right there.” He says, pointing toward the opposite direction.

The walk to the parking lot is quiet and tense, so to speak. You avoid walking beside Jungkook and he may have understood that you want space in the meantime, as he lets himself walk ahead of you, only looking back occasionally to check if you’re still following.

When you get inside the car, Jungkook begins the engine as soon as you both settle yourselves in your seats.

“I’m sorry.” He suddenly says in the middle of the road.

You look at him, eyebrows furrowed. “For what?”

“I’m just sorry.”

You let out a sigh.

He’s just trying to be there for you, for some reason. He doesn’t need to, but somehow he does.

You look away, fixing your gaze at the scene on the window pane. “I’m just… I just feel angry. That asshole was calling me all sorts of uninspired, misogynistic names and even pushed me twice. And then the security came to me with that bored expression and impassive tone telling me all about that guy pressing charges, not even bothering to hear me out, completely negating me, then you stepped in and suddenly he’s scared? Apparently, your words matter more than mine, and all because I don’t have a fucking penis. How fucking stupid,” You say in one breathing frustration reeking. You take a sharp breath again and massage your temple. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean– it’s not your fault, Jungkook. You don’t have anything to be sorry for. I’m… being mean and taking everything out on you. I just… the whole thing was just really fucked up and men irritate me.”

Jungkook glances at you and back at the road again. “I… understand. I’m still sorry for stepping in. I didn’t mean for it to look like I was… doing things for you. I was just really surprised when he said the guy is pressing charges.”

You throw your head back on the seat. “I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t… think you were trying to be a hero or anything. It’s just really annoying when men only listen to men. It’s fucked up.”

He hums. “Do you wanna press charges? You can also file a lawsuit. You could.”

“A lawsuit? We’re gonna end up in civil court and I’m most probably going to lose. When I said earlier I’m talking to my lawyers, that means all the law students I barely know of in my department,” you think that was funny, but Jungkook just looks at you for awhile with furrowed brows.

Okay, well, no that was not really funny. It was quite depressing.

“If you want, and I don’t want you to take this the wrong way– I can help you with it. Get you a lawyer or something. He also assaulted Jimin, so you definitely have a case.” Jungkook says as if he’s offering you some street food along a store you passed by randomly. You notice the caution in his voice though, the way he worded his suggestion, completely putting it out as if it’s up to your choice.

You appreciate that. You don’t like it when people step in for you, fight your battles for you . You have a backbone of your own and you can defend yourself in most circumstances – and you believe Jungkook’s pure intentions of just… offering some kind of… genuine help. Because he’s your friend and you would do this to a friend as well.

It’s not charity, you tell yourself.

“Thanks… I’ll tell you when… I want it.” You offer him a small smile.

“You sure?” You nod your head. Jungkook doesn’t look like he’s entirely convinced, but he drops the subject anyway. “Alright.”

The car ride was as quiet as it could be, and the stillness of dawn makes you think about the turn of events earlier. It wasn’t ideal, the way everything turned out. You don’t feel any ounce of remorse about what you said to that asshole because he deserved it for being a dick unprovoked, but too much alcohol clouded your judgment and you and Jimin could’ve acted… entirely differently in the situation.

As you rest your head on the window again, you feel a pang of regret.

It’s always so… hard to deal with the consequences of your actions. There’s a part of you who wishes you didn’t throw more wood into the flame leading to the fight. Some part is guilty of bringing Jimin into a physical fight. Then, there’s embarrassment.

You’re not a violent person and you try to stray away from violence overall if you can help it. While Jimin has always been protective over you especially when you go out at night for obvious reasons, you rarely get into physical fights. It didn’t help that Namjoon was there, too. As well as Jungkook. The two knew you both drank a lot, especially you. Jungkook was there beside you when you were flatly getting negated by the security, getting threatened by pressed charges for being unruly.

It was embarrassing. And even more so when you snapped at him moments ago, despite him doing nothing wrong.

You feel like absolute shit.

“Sorry you had to deal with… all of that.” You murmur, swallowing the lump in your throat.

Jungkook’s voice, laced with genuine confusion, cuts through your thoughts. “What?”

“For everything, I guess,” you continue, forcing a smile that feels off. “Bet you didn’t expect to drive a drunk woman home after she and her best friend got into a fight.” It sounds like a joke, but it’s a hollow one. Every moment with him tonight feels like you’ve just embarrassed yourself over and over.

You hadn’t realized how close you were to your complex until Jungkook suddenly stopped in the familiar parking lot. You’re about to unbuckle your seatbelt, but your head’s a little dizzy, and you fumble with it a little. Just as you start to move again, Jungkook speaks.

“I don’t mind doing anything for you, __. I hope you know that by now.”

The words stop you mid-motion, and you glance up at him, regretting it immediately. His gaze is intense, and no matter how much you will yourself to look away, you can’t. He lowers his eyes to your hands before leaning in slightly, unbuckling your seatbelt from your waist down with ease. His scent fills the air, making your breath catch in the briefest of moments. “Wait for me.”

You’re a little confused but stay still as Jungkook gets out of the car and walks around. When he opens the passenger door, he offers you his hand. “Can you walk just fine?

You don’t know how you manage to form an answer somehow. “I– yeah. Sure,” you stand up from your seat and get out of his car, but despite your words, you feel the gentle pressure of Jungkook’s hand on your lower back, guiding you. Nibbling on your bottom lip, you mumble a soft, “Thanks.”

He hums in response.

The walk to your apartment isn’t long, but it felt like it dragged on forever with Jungkook so close by your side. The chilly air didn’t help either when you’re not exactly dressed for it. When a gust of strong wind blew, you felt yourself shiver, and Jungkook must have noticed because, without a second thought, his arm moved closer, closing the hairsbreadth gap of his skin and yours, now wrapping around your waist to shield you from the cold.

You didn’t expect it, and neither did he.

He makes a move to pull away, about to put distance between you, but when you glance at him, maybe with a hint of alarm or desperation, he seems to understand. Jungkook keeps his arm around you as you both continue walking.

Did your face scream “Please don’t take your hands off me” ? Because even now, as you’ve arrived at your apartment, taking the steps towards your apartment units, he still doesn’t let go.

Even when you reach your porch, his arm is still there, holding you close.

“We’re here,” you say to break the silence. You look up at him, and you spent the entirety of the last five minutes or so trying to avoid looking in his direction that you just now discovered he’s been sporting an easy-going look on his face, as if the whole thing is as… natural as it gets. “T-thanks for driving me home, Jungkook.”

He nods, “You’re welcome.”

You take a step back, and just as the distance grows between you, you feel a strange hesitation, as though part of you doesn’t want the moment to end. Jungkook’s hand lingers for a second longer on your back, like he doesn’t want to let go either.

You give him a small, reluctant smile, and he returns it just as gently, looking so serene with his casual fit and his soft hair, hands now buried in the pockets of his jeans. His presence feels magnetic like neither of you is ready to say goodbye yet.

“Good night,” you say, giving a timid wave.

“Sweet dreams, __.” He smiles, and the sound of his chuckle makes your heart flutter. It’s so light, so easy – like everything feels right in this moment. Like everything that happened earlier was merely not part of reality. He makes you feel so… safe and warm.

God, have you seriously deluded yourself into thinking you didn’t like this man in a very non-platonic way?

You turn, about to reach for your keys, but then you hear his voice again, calling your name. You almost spin around too quickly, feeling a bit embarrassed by the sudden motion.

It’s like you were completely expecting him to just call you.

Your eyes meet his in a gentle stare, his voice soft and warm like honey when he asks, “Can I come inside?”

Jungkook asks, letting the words slip out before he can second-guess them. He’s been bothered since the car ride – by the way your jaw flexed, the way your fingers kept pressing into your shoulder like it ached. You never said anything, of course. You wouldn’t.

Of course you wouldn’t. Jungkook knows by now that you don’t particularly like it when you’re being… doted on.

But still. It’s late – around 3 a.m. and creeping into morning – and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to sleep knowing you’re the least bit comfortable.

He just wants to know if you’re okay.

You open your mouth to speak, but then suddenly, a clink echoes in the quiet of the dawn over the complex.

“Wha– aw!” You wince as your keys slip through your fingers, landing directly on your foot with a dull thud.

“Hey,” Jungkook automatically sinks down on one knee to pick up the keys, arm shooting right up around your waist to keep you grounded when he saw you were about to trip. His brows knit together as he looks up at you, wincing in discomfort. “You okay?”

You lift your foot slightly, balancing yourself against his shoulder. “Yeah, I’m fine— just buzzed. Sorry,” you mumble, but the words slur together. Jungkook had noticed you’d been drinking way before he arrived at the club, but now he realizes just how hard you’d been fighting off the dizziness. “I need to get out of these shoes.”

Jungkook stands back up on his feet, handing you the keys. He stays close, keeping his arm around you, hovering just enough to catch you if you fall out of balance again.

He watches as you try to unlock the door, but your fingers fumble over the keys, switching between them absentmindedly. With each failed attempt, your frustration grows, your huffs becoming more pronounced. Jungkook waits patiently, standing beside you, until he hears it—

A sob.

“I’m sorry,” your voice trembles. “I–I can’t find my keys,” you try to get the words out in between your silent cry, and Jungkook is so surprised to see the tears dropping down your cheeks that he doesn’t fully process the whole thing together. “And— and my jaw and my shoulder and my toes hurt. And I’m drunk. I don’t know. I’m really—” you’re interrupted by another snob, so you quickly wipe away at your eyes, turning away from Jungkook. “I’m really drunk.”

Jungkook gently calls your name, and he doesn’t know what comes over him. It almost felt like reflex when he reached for your face, cupping your cheeks; your tears wetting the palm of his hands. Jungkook catches them with his thumbs before more of them even fall, your skin warm beneath his touch. When you look up at him, your glassy eyes reflect the soft glow of the streetlights, and you look so heartbreakingly sad that Jungkook feels an almost physical pain to his gut.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “Let’s get you inside, yeah? I’ll take care of the rest. Do you want me to do it for you?” He doesn’t expect it, but you nod your head, quietly sniffing when Jungkook continues to wipe your tears with his thumbs, soothing you in the best possible way he knows he can.

You hand him the keys, and his fingers linger against your cheek just a second longer before he turns to the door, finding the right key with ease. He doesn’t say anything about your tears, doesn’t press you to explain. You wouldn’t want to tell him things right now, not when you’re obviously feeling quite… vulnerable. He doesn’t know if it’s just all your mixed up feelings dwindling down into sadness – because you did go through a lot tonight.

Jungkook has never seen you cry before, but when he saw the tears falling from your eyes, it left a dull ache that settled deep within his chest. You’re always so full of life, so quick to smile, to joke, to fill the space around you with something bright and wonderful. Seeing you like this, shaken and unguarded, stirs something deep in him. Something instinctive.

So he knows by now you don’t like getting taken care of, in a way, but Jungkook lets himself act on the want and need to do it, anyway. Even if you pull back away from him again the next day. At least he gets to be sure you’re okay.

He unlocks the door and looks back at you.

“Thank you, Jungkook.” Your voice is steadier now, in Jungkook’s relief, but your tear-streaked cheeks still twist something inside him.

“It’s fine,” Jungkook says softly and keeps a careful arm around your waist when you push open the door, seeing that you’re still walking a little wobbly. He watches you closely, especially your shoulders and face. “Your body still hurts?”

You give him a small, tired smile. “Uhm, I think it’ll go away soon. But I need to ice my jaw.”

When you cross over the threshold, you pause, hesitating.

Jungkook was just about to ask you if you really want to let him in because you didn’t explicitly say he could – but when you turn back to look at him, your eyes are clouded with worry. “Please don’t judge me if my place is messy and if I pass out because again, I’m really drunk. It’s not super obvious right now but I already cried in front of you for no particular reason and I’m embarrassed about that so if you want to, you can totally just leave and I won’t bother you ever again. I’m sorry that you had to do all this. This all seems like a huge bother and I’m taking so much of your time—”

Jungkook blinks.

“__.”

The way you jumped from one thing to another, the way your eyes darted everywhere but his – it’s a dead giveaway. Drunk you is a whole rollercoaster, and Jungkook doesn’t even try to fight the small, exasperated smile tugging at his lips.

God, he just… he just wants to hold you through it all.

“It’s okay,” his voice is warm. “Don’t be sorry, hm?”

You bite your lip and it takes you a while to respond before you say, “... Okay.”

The living room welcomes you both and Jungkook takes a quick look, smiling at the sight.

“You have a nice place.”

“I know,” your voice is thick with the remnants of the night, your steps slightly uneven as you move towards the couch. “It was even nicer before, but they had to repair it a week ago because of the…” you trail off, distracted, your fingers fumbling with the strap of your heel as you settle down.

Jungkook nods understandingly, quietly watching. He sees you maneuvering your legs to better see your shoes, and the action makes your skirt ride up, catching his attention for a split second. He decides to redirect his focus.

“You have ice?”

“Freezer,” You murmur, lips pressed into a thin line and brows furrowed in frustration. You let out a small hiss when the strap doesn’t successfully come off your ankle. Jungkook can tell you’re distracted, even when you add, “Oh, you don’t have to ice me, by the way, I can just—”

Before you can finish, Jungkook walks over to your direction. In one swift motion, he kneels before you, his hands effortlessly replacing yours. His fingers are warm as they brush against your ankle, and he feels your breath hitching when he unfastens the strap and slides your heels off.

“What did I say, __?” He keeps his voice quiet and firm, “I don’t mind doing things for you.” He gently sets both your feet down then places your shoes next to it neatly. “I know you don’t need my help. But just this one night, okay? Can you let me do that for you?”

The weight of his sincerity presses against your chest, rendering you momentarily speechless. His eyes hold something deep, something unspoken, something that makes warmth bloom low in your stomach.

You blink at him.

“Oh. Uh… okay.” you breathe, looking up at him slowly as he rises to his feet. “Sorry.”

It sounds sheepish and Jungkook feels the sudden urge to… he doesn’t even know now. He’s never been in the position of feeling so many different things all at once. He felt a little piece of his heart get shattered when he saw you cry earlier but now it’s warm again at the sight of you so… soft. And kind of small.

Jungkook exhales softly, the corner of his lips quirking as his palm finds your cheek. It was maybe some sort of self-indulgence when he leans down and strokes your skin, thumb tracing delicate circles. He watches as your lashes flutter under his touch. “No saying sorry. Let me take care of you.”

He lets go of you, a slight feeling of disappointment washing through him when he had to break away from the physical contact, but your body hurts and he wants to help soothe it a little bit.

Moving toward the kitchen, he doesn’t take too long going through your freezer and returns back shortly with an ice bag and a glass of water in hand. He offers the latter first, waiting patiently as you drink before settling beside you on the couch.

“Where does it hurt?” Jungkook asks. You move a little to the side to give him room, and he doesn’t really think too much about it when he drapes his free arm around the backrest of the couch, unconsciously crowding you in.

“H-here.” You tilt your face slightly, pointing to the right side of your jaw. Jungkook hums in acknowledgment before pressing the ice against your skin with meticulous care. You flinch at the initial cold, and he murmurs a soft apology, adjusting his touch until the chill soothes rather than shocks.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

The silence between you lingers, but it isn’t awkward – it’s something softer, something unspoken that settles comfortably between you both. And it gives Jungkook the perfect excuse to take you in wholly.

From this proximity, every delicate feature of yours demands his attention. The way your long lashes flutter under the glow of the fluorescent light, casting faint shadows against your flushed cheeks. He notices the subtle scatter of glitter on your skin, remnants of your makeup catching the light just right, making you look like you’re glowing – no, like you’re shining. Ethereal.

Then, his gaze traces the gentle slope of your nose, following its path down to the perfect dip of your cupid’s bow – sharp, delicate, almost frustratingly beautiful. And then, of course, there’s your mouth. Jungkook has always been drawn to it. The soft, glossy curve of your lips, the way they pout ever so slightly even when you aren’t speaking. They look inviting, almost begging to be kissed, and for a brief, reckless second, he wonders what it would be like to be the one to answer that silent call.

God, you’re so pretty. It almost hurts.

Jungkook swallows hard. He shouldn’t be thinking about that. Not now.

“Jimin tells me I’m either an annoying or quiet drunk,” you suddenly say, snapping Jungkook out of his trance. “I think I’m being a little bit of both tonight.”

He finds himself chuckling at your words. “I’m alright with both.”

You let out a quiet huff, and he readjusts the ice, noticing the slight tension in your shoulders.

“Your shoulder still hurts?” Jungkook asks, his fingers hovering just above your bare skin.

You nod, and when he gestures to the ice bag, you take it without hesitation, pressing it back to your jaw. There's a quiet curiosity in your eyes as you glance at him, but you don’t say anything. Jungkook shifts beside you, sitting more upright.

“Lean in for me,” you scoot closer. Jungkook guides you against him, settling you between his arms. You’re unusually quiet, pliant in a way that makes something stir in his chest. “This okay?” he murmurs into your hair, trying – failing – not to focus on the warmth of you against him, or the way your scent lingers in the air between you.

You hum in response, a soft, content sound.

Jungkook smiles against your head.

”Let me know if this hurts or not, alright?” You nod against him, and Jungkook lets his fingers trace over the curve of your shoulder, searching for the tension. The neckline of your top makes it easy for his hand to settle against your skin. “Here?” he murmurs, pressing gently.

The soft gasp you let out catches him off guard. It’s barely a sound, but he feels it – feels the way your body reacts beneath his touch. His breath hitches for just a second before he swallows, grounding himself.

“There,” You sigh softly. Jungkook watches as you close your eyes, indulging in the feeling of him hitting the right spot.

He watches, almost entranced, as your face softens with relief.

Massaging sore muscles is nothing new to him – he’s done it for himself countless times after boxing, approaching it with the same methodical precision every time. But this? This feels different. The quiet sounds you make, the way you lean into his touch, like it’s the most natural thing in the world – he has a feeling they’ll linger in his mind far longer than they should.

He steadies his voice. “No swelling or bruising, so that’s good,” he murmurs, fingers working over your shoulder, relieved to find that himself.

You may not have wanted his help tonight, but Jungkook can’t shake the thought that the stranger at the bar deserves consequences. Maybe he should talk to Jimin about it.

He files the thought away – until your voice pulls him back.

“Where’d you learn this?” you ask, your tone lighter now. “It feels good. And I think you’re actually making me feel better.”

Then you grin at him – soft, a little dazed – and Jungkook just melts.

How you always get him to feel twenty emotions at once.

“I box sometimes. My trainer taught me this.” Jungkook tells you, something he realized he hasn’t shared with you yet. Which he loves doing.

“Oh. You box?” You inquire, craning your neck to look at him with curious eyes.

Jungkook smiles down at you and nods. “Sometimes. It’s just a little hobby I picked up a while ago.”

“Ohhh. That’s really cool.” Then you yawn, shifting even closer. “I envy people like you. I ran a 5k once and couldn’t move for two days.”

“I like moving,” Jungkook responds truthfully. Absent-mindedly, he also lets himself fall back on the couch until you’re both very lax against the sofa. “I sit a lot with my job. So I feel the need to balance it out.”

“I guess that makes—” It’s drowned with another yawn. Jungkook looks down at you as you curl up against him. “Sorry.” You smile at him, prompting Jungkook to chuckle before taking the ice bag from your hand. His hand travels from your shoulder to your waist as he stretches his other hand out to place the bag on the coffee table across from you.

“You’re sleepy.”

“I’m so drunk.”

“You’re a sleepy drunk,” Jungkook grins when you don’t argue. “Your shoulder okay now?”

You jut your bottom lip out. “I think you need to massage it a little bit more…”

Jungkook takes note of the playful tone lacing your words, finding himself chuckling at the thought of you just liking the massage. He doesn’t really mind.

“Alright. But don’t sleep on me just yet.” Jungkook says, resuming his rubbing on your shoulder joint. He knows that soon, you have to change out of your clothes, remove your make-up, whatever women do before going to bed.

“I know…” you trail off.

As minutes pass, Jungkook forgets all about the massage, his hands alternating between gentle caresses and light squeezes over your shoulder. His touch grows slower, more absentminded, and at some point, he realizes the weight against his chest has shifted— you’ve fallen asleep on him.

He stills for a moment, absorbing the warmth of you pressed against him. It’s… nice. More than nice. A quiet contentment settles over him as he carefully brushes his fingers through your hair. When a few strands fall across your face, he instinctively tucks them away, only for you to stir slightly at the movement. Jungkook freezes, but instead of waking, you burrow deeper into him, your face pressing against his chest, your breath warm through the fabric of his shirt.

A small smile tugs at his lips. He takes a moment just to look at you – your peaceful expression, the way your lips part slightly in sleep, the soft rise and fall of your breathing. You’re not new to falling asleep on him; it happened just last week at his place. And just like then, he thinks you look impossibly adorable. Mostly pretty. Even prettier now. He isn’t sure how that’s possible, but somehow, you make it look effortless.

Jungkook exhales, shaking his head lightly. You have no idea, do you?

He lingers a second longer before deciding he should move you somewhere more comfortable. He doubts you’d want to wake up on the couch, still in your clothes from the club, make-up untouched. You didn’t exactly give him permission to enter your bedroom, but he figures you’d prefer that over being left out here without a blanket.

Carefully, he lifts you into his arms, cradling you effortlessly as he navigates your apartment. The layout is similar to his, but everything feels distinctly you – cozy, warm, lived-in. He nudges your bedroom door open with his foot, relieved to find it unlocked, and gently lays you down on the soft mattress. He debates for a second whether he should help you change into something more comfortable but quickly dismisses the thought. Boundaries.

Instead, he simply pulls the green comforter over you, tucking you in with quiet care. He’s just about to step back when you shift slightly, a small murmur escaping your lips.

“Kook?”

Your voice is faint, laced with sleep, and Jungkook immediately moves closer, sitting at the edge of your bed. He doesn’t expect it when your hand reaches out, fingers grazing his cheek before resting there, your touch warm and featherlight.

“Are you real?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper, dazed and dreamy.

Jungkook’s heart stumbles. He swallows, then gently takes your hand in his, pressing it against his skin. “I am.”

You hum in satisfaction. “Good.” Then, in a move that completely disarms him, you squeeze his jaw slightly, fingertips lingering in something almost like admiration. Your gaze, still hazy with sleep, flickers over his features before you breathe, awed, “You’re so pretty… how?”

Jungkook exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head at your sleepy honesty. Because this isn’t the first time. You’d said the same thing that night at his place, too.

Does that mean you really think so? Or is it just a drunken habit of yours?

But none of that really matters when he finds himself murmuring, with quiet certainty, “You don’t know how it feels looking at you, __.”

There’s no response, and when Jungkook glances down, he realizes you’ve already drifted back into sleep. He stays there just a moment longer, taking in the peaceful sight of you, the way the dim light makes your features look even softer.

You look like a dream. And Jungkook isn’t sure if he ever wants to wake up from this.

There’s a thundering ache in your head when you start gaining consciousness after you wake up, eyes squinting at the light coming through the windows.

You pat around for your phone and turn it on when you find it somewhere nestled between the tangled sheets, seeing Jimin’s texts on the lockscreen.

cuntress #1 [8:00am]: did u get home safe cuntress #1 [8:05am]: i got discharged from the hospital btw joon was just being dramatic i only got cuts cuntress #1 [3:10pm]: i trust that jungkook drove u home well and alive but if u dont respond in the next 30mins i’ll send a raid team

“Jesus,” you said after reading Jimin’s last text. You glance at the time and see it’s 3:20pm. “Fuck.” Slapping a hand on your forehead, you realize just how much you slept.

Before agonizing over that, you reply to Jimin first before he actually sends a raid team. You don’t ever know when he’s serious.

You [3:21pm]: dont send a raid team what the fuck

You open the camera app to snap a picture of yourself, but you nearly doubled over when you saw your reflection. That’s why your face felt so sticky, because you still have your make-up and clothes on from last night.

You groan but take a quick picture to send Jimin anyway.

Throwing away your phone on the mattress, you throw your feet over the floor to initially go straight to the bathroom, but then your eyes catch sight of the glass of water with a pill of Advil beside it.

Oh.

Ohhh. Right. Jungkook was here last night… he asked if he could come inside your apartment and you must’ve said yes because you can remember him sitting on your couch, icing your jaw, then massaging your pained shoulder for a little while before…

That’s when your memory doesn’t serve you well.

You don’t know how you got into this bed at all.

You take the glass of water and Advil, anyway, popping the pill into your mouth and drinking. You were just standing up when your doorbell rings.

Confused, you wonder who it might be. You aren’t expecting any visitors, that’s for sure. But then you remember Jimin’s words and suddenly grow nervous that he might have actually had a raid team come your way. Whatever the hell that meant.

As you step in front of your door, you hesitantly twist it open, only to be met with none other than… Jungkook.

“Thank god,” you let out a sigh of relief. Jungkook raises a brow, rightfully confused. You give him a dismissive wave. “I thought you were Jimin’s raid team.”

“A what?” Jungkook asks, obviously baffled.

“Don’t worry about it,” you say as you take a look at him. He’s in his white button down minus the tie and trousers. It’s funny though because he’s wearing his sliders… so you assume he probably just got back home from the office. It’s only then that you notice the pot in between his hands. “What’s that?”

Jungkook glances down. “Porridge. Thought it’d help with the hangover.”

Your eyes widen at the mention.

“Oh, that’s really thoughtful. You didn’t have to…” you trail off but Jungkook only smiles and extends it to you.

When you take it in your hands, Jungkook says, “It’s still hot, so be careful.”

What you wanted to ask was if he cooked it himself – which looked like he did, but what came out was: “You just, uh, got back from the office?”

He nods.

Then, you stand there for awhile, finding yourself a little awkward just waiting for the other to say something until you both speak at the same time.

“I’ll get going, then—”

“Do you want to come in—”

You both stop speaking, looking at each other in surprise until Jungkook chuckles.

“You were saying?” He asks.

You shake your head. “I asked if you wanted to come inside but you must be busy. Thank you for the porridge, though. I really appreciate it.”

“I’m not doing a lot today,” Jungkook says with a dashing smile, inserting his hands in his pockets. “Are you inviting me over?” He adds with a teasing lilt to his voice.

You shy from his gaze. “If you want to… we can share?” You raise the pot in your hands, giving him a timid smile.

“I’d love to.”

Basically, it’s the second time Jungkook will be inside your home. But you weren’t completely sober a few hours ago when he did it for the first time, so technically, it did not count. Now that you’re free from the daze of alcohol, though, with a raging hangover as a testament to that, you’re nervous as you lead Jungkook along the way.

“You woke up just now?” Jungkook asks.

“Yeah…” You place the pot on the dining table and realize for the second time you’re still wearing the clothes from last night, probably looking like a mess right now. You’re thankful Jungkook doesn't mention it. You saw your smudged makeup earlier while taking a picture for Jimin, and you definitely don’t look your best. “Sorry, I just need to change out of these clothes first. Please sit here.” You gesture toward the chair you pulled out, which Jungkook gladly came towards. When he sits, you offer him a small smile before heading to your bedroom.

In swift motion, you strip yourself off the skimpy outfit you’ve been in since the last twelve hours or so, hastily removing your make-up with a quick wipe and rinse, pulling your hair in the neatest ponytail you can manage and finally change into the first decent shirt you find in your closet and paired it with some denim shorts.

When you return to the dining area, you see Jungkook setting down some bowls on the table. You head toward him, about to express your thanks, but he turns around and, with a slightly surprised tone, says, “You’re wearing my shirt.”

It doesn’t sound accusatory, in fact, Jungkook is smiling at you, eliciting a warm feeling within your chest.

His words don’t register as quickly as they should have, but when you glance over at the shirt you’re wearing, it’s indeed his. It occurs to you it was the shirt he lent you awhile ago when you stayed over at his place. It must’ve ended in your bag when you were packing up for your return to your own place.

Heat rises to your cheeks as embarrassment sets in. You remember saying you’d return it ASAP, but here you are, casually wearing it at home. “Oh, I'm sorry. I didn’t even notice— I'll go change—”

“It’s fine, __. You can keep it, or not, if you don’t want to,” Jungkook muses. “You don’t have to change out of it.”

His casual response only makes you feel more flustered under his gaze.

“... Thanks,” you manage to say. After a pregnant pause, you clear your throat and gesture at the food on the table. “Should we eat? Or… I mean, do you even want to eat right now? I know it’s only, like, three pm…”

“I didn’t eat for lunch, so this will do. I make a really good hangover porridge.” Jungkook says with a chuckle.

“I can’t thank you enough.”

Jungkook hums softly, and a comfortable silence settles between you as the sound of your spoons clinking against the glassware fills the air. After your first bite, you can't help but compliment him on the porridge – it’s definitely the best hangover cure you’ve ever had. You can't help but think that he's just good at everything, like always.

It’s as if he doesn’t not know how to do something. You almost fear he's getting close to being perfect, and what’s even more surprising is that he does all of this for you without you ever having to ask. And when you mention it, he acts like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

And that kind of freaks you out.

But, at the same time, it also makes you feel guilty.

“I’m really sorry about last night…” you start. You don’t remember every detail, of course, but you can vaguely remember the fight that broke out and how Namjoon had to interfere with the security. And because you were drunk, Jungkook had to drive you home and take you inside your own home because you probably were so wasted. It’s not your proudest moment, and the apology is something from your heart when you continue, “Jimin and I pregamed at his place before we went to the club, so even before you came to our table we were already drunk off tequila that time. Not a good reason, of course. So I’m really sorry for causing you a lot of… inconvenience— anyway, did I uh— say or did something last night?” you turn meek under his gaze, nerves wracking. Jungkook’s brow shoots up, and when he doesn’t instantly say no, you sigh. “Oh my god, I did.”

“No, you didn’t,” Jungkook quickly denies, interrupting the impending spiraling thoughts in your head. The only vivid pictures in your head right now were the events in the club, even the moment when Jungkook drove you home is blurry, and you could only tie fragments together poorly. “Don’t worry about it. You were drunk and you fell asleep on me when I helped you with your shoulders. I brought you to your bedroom.”

You stare at him, trying to see if he’s purposefully missing out on some detail. But Jungkook’s expression is as neutral as it gets, just looks at you like how he usually does. Soft, fond. Something like that. You can’t even pinpoint it.

“Well, I’m still sorry anyway,” you let out a heavy breath. “Jimin tells me I’m a super annoying drunk and he’s right and he should’ve really stopped you from volunteering to take me back home.”

“You really like saying sorry, don’t you?” Jungkook teases, but there’s something to his tone that says he’s being half-serious. “I really don’t mind. I wanted to take you home, and we’re neighbors, anyway.” He shrugs.

You nod your head. “Why… I don’t remember much about last night but why did you lie back there? To Jimin? When you said you’re still staying at Hannam.”

Jungkook halts from eating and silence stretches out until he says, “I had a feeling you wanted me to.”

You purse your lips. “I can’t even say I didn’t because I really did want you to,” you sigh again. There were so many things you did last night that you kind of regret now. It’s really just endless favors from Jungkook now, huh? You hate feeling… indebted. And you hate that you feel like you’re bothering him so much. “Things got so hectic and I didn’t have time to tell him about, uh, how we know each other and all that and I… I still haven’t told him, you see.”

“You know,” Jungkook starts, and you adjust yourself on your seat because he sounds serious this time, not like the usual easy-going, lighthearted tone he always uses with you. “I’m okay with whatever you wanna do. It’s your call. But I’m not sure why you’re trying to hide it from him. I don’t think he’s going to care that much that we already knew each other even way before he introduced us.”

You swallow the lump in your throat.

The thing is, you know Jimin is not gonna care – you know that well. But Jungkook also doesn’t know that you already told Jimin about him the very first day you met him. Jungkook doesn’t know that you told Jimin about this crush that you have on this new neighbor. And you’re not ready to tell Jimin that guy – the neighbor, unit 446, was actually his cousin.

Maybe you’re overcomplicating things too much, but you’ve always been afraid of confrontation unless you have a solid, fool-proof plan backing you up. You’re gonna tell Jimin eventually, just not now. But…

“I feel bad about it. Sorry– if you wanna tell him, you can—”

“Hey, I’m not doing anything you don’t want me to do.” Jungkook cuts you off, looking at you sincerely.

You frown. He’s way too nice.

“You’re so…” you trail off, realizing that you don’t really know what to follow it up with. Jungkook is so… nothing. Blank. You come up with a blank. And not because you feel that way about him – it’s mostly because there’s so many things to describe him with.

And all you can think of is that you have the urge to come up to him and wrap your arms around him and thank him for being this patient even though you don’t feel like you deserve it.

Jungkook leans in, a playful smile tugging at his lips. “I’m so what?”

It’s just going to be a friendly hug. You think to yourself. Yep. Just a friendly hug and nothing more. Friends can hug, right? Like, no malice whatsoever. Jungkook is not gonna think you’re trying to make a move on him; it’ll just be you expressing your gratitude.

So you go for it, throwing your inhibitions away.

Who even cares at this point.

“Can I hug you?” you blurt out, nervously staring at Jungkook, feeling your cheeks heat up at the way he’s looking at you right now.

His smile widens, and you don’t fully expect it when he responds with a simple, “Yes.”

You stand up from your seat and round the table to go over Jungkook who pulls himself back and stands, arms opening up to welcome you when you unceremoniously wrap your own around his waist.

“Sorry,” you say when you bump roughly against him, but Jungkook only chuckles, and you feel the vibration through his chest when he does. His arms circle around your shoulders, making you snuggle against his chest. Probably self-indulgence at this point because his chest is so… big and warm and he smells good and he’s actually letting you hug him so… why not? “This is nice.” you say after awhile.

Truthfully, you initially planned the hug to be just a quick one, but it feels way too tight to let go. And you really don’t want to break away… and by the way Jungkook doesn’t say anything against it, you assume he’s just as into this as you. Probably.

“I know.”

You hide your smile against the fabric of his dress shirt.

And somehow, you stay like that for longer than what… thirty seconds? Just hugging in the middle of your dining table without saying anything.

You tighten your arms around Jungkook, and you almost let out a sigh of relief when Jungkook begins caressing your back.

“You’re really small.” Jungkook says suddenly.

“Can you not ruin this moment, please.”

He chuckles, and you feel him resting his head against the crown of your head.

And the moment suddenly feels way too familiar…

“Jungkook,”

“__,”

Jungkook chuckles against your hair, squeezing a little on your shoulder.

“You first.”

You shake your head. “No, you first.”

“Ladies first.”

You frown, even though he can’t really see it. “Really?” you deadpan.

“Really.”

The lightheartedness of the moment doesn’t really deter you from the sudden melancholy that washes over you.

Truthfully, you feel conflicted. You have been for a while now. You don’t know exactly what you feel about him, and Jungkook’s actions don’t help. Sometimes, it feels like you can’t breathe whenever he’s near because you’re so mesmerized, but there are also times – a lot of times in fact – that you feel like he’s your safe space. Like right now. It sounds deluded even in your head but you think his arms feel a little too… home-y. Like you belong right there.

Then there’s the guilt of being this… way. You’re so confused you don’t even know what you’re doing at this point. You push and pull. He almost kissed you and you swerved just in time to make up some lame excuse about being sleepy. He took you home because you were drunk and brought you hangover porridge right after he got out of work because… because what?

“Why?” you whisper, the sound barely there. Like you didn’t even mean to let it out.

“What do you mean, why?”

You shut your eyes close. “Why do you… why do you do this?”

The question feels weighted, and it is. You can’t see Jungkook, and maybe you’re thankful for that because there’s vulnerability in your uncertainty that you don’t want to show him.

You feel him pulling up his chin from the crown of your head, and when he lets go of your shoulders, you only tighten your hold around him. Partly because if he breaks away from the hug, he’ll look at you and see you.

“You do these… things. You’re so nice. And you’re so sweet. You take care of me as if–” you stop yourself. “I don’t know, Jungkook. You confuse me. Why? Why do you do this?”

“__, can—” Jungkook tries to let go again, eager to make you look at him.

“No. Listen, it’s taking everything in me to be calm right now. I’m embarrassed and I don’t want you to see my face.”

You hear Jungkook letting out a sigh.

“Why do you think so?” He says after awhile, finally setting his arms around you again. But this time, the other one is around your waist, and you try to not think too much about how he’s gently rubbing your waist right now.

You really don’t like the fact that you like it too much when he does that. Even hate it more that he himself seems to like doing that.

“I can think of a few reasons.” you tell him.

“What are those?”

Thank god you’re having this conversation without seeing each other’s faces. You’ll combust if it was the other way around.

“Well, maybe… you’re just inherently kind and you just like helping people.” You lamely say, and even you don’t believe that.

Jungkook lets out a chuckle anyway, disbelief painting his voice when he responds, “You think I do this to everybody?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“It’s nice you think of me like that. But no. I don’t do this to everybody, __. I don’t offer my place when someone’s apartment gets flooded, and I don’t cook them hangover porridge right after I get off work.”

You bite your lip. “Okay… then you’re just a really good friend, then.”

Jungkook stops rubbing your waist. And you feel him freezing.

His tone is almost incredulous when he says. “You think it’s because you’re my friend.”

That makes you break away from the hug quickly. You take offense at the disbelief on his face, and you make sure to glare at him for that.

“What do you mean by that? Are you being a snob when we’re literally hugging—”

“No, __, god—” Jungkook cuts you off. He grabs you closer again. Gentle. Putting his hands on your waist, he looks into your eyes with a deep sense of sincerity and eagerness. “You really think I do things like this to my friends?”

You try to look away, but Jungkook’s hand travels from your waist to your cheek, making you look at him. You feel trapped, but there’s no feeling of suffocation from it. You like it, in fact.

“Well. Jimin would let me stay at his place whenever. Just not in his bedroom, though.”

“Fair,” Jungkook says. His eyes cast their gaze down from your eyes to your lips. And you’ve been in this position before, but unlike last time, you don’t particularly feel like running away. “I’m glad you’re my friend. But I was thinking that… by now you must’ve realized I don’t only see you as that.”

Maybe somewhere in your heart and mind, you expected that. Maybe you didn’t. Maybe you can still play dumb right now and tell him you don’t know what that means but for the record you’re not playing dumb, you are just this dumb and you don’t even mean that in a self-deprecating way. Just self-aware.

But Jungkook’s words couldn’t be clearer.

He likes you – is what he meant.

“Is it weird that we’ve only really known each other for a month… but I can already see the wheels turning in your head,” Jungkook muses when you don’t say anything. A small smile tugs at his lips, then, “You don’t have to say anything soon. If you’re not comfortable with this, I can stop. You just have to tell me.”

You open your mouth. “I— I…”

But you find yourself drawing a blank.

“I like you, __, if it’s still not obvious.” Jungkook reiterates, more explicitly this time.

Oh my god.

You open and close your mouth like a fish in a tank, finding words to be unavailable in your head at the moment.

You feel Jungkook shift on his feet. “You can think about it. I’m not gonna push… but I’ll be here if you want me to.”

“Jungkook.” You finally say his name, but it feels like the air has thickened around you.

Your fingers instinctively bunch the fabric of his collar, pulling him just a little closer. It’s not enough to throw him off, though; he remains steady, his gaze locked on yours, patient as always.

Always so patient. It makes your chest tighten.

“Yeah?”

The words are there, swirling inside you, desperate to break free. You know exactly what you want to say to his confession – you’ve imagined it, thought about it. It would be so easy, so fucking easy to say it. To tell him you feel the same way, to let him know you want this just as much. The words are right there on the tip of your tongue, practically begging to spill out.

But all that comes out is a soft, unsure, “Can you wait for me?”

It’s not what you wanted to say. It’s not enough. But it’s all you can manage.

Because even though it feels easy, even though you can almost taste the possibility of it, you know deep down that you’re not ready. Not for this. Not for the weight of it all – a relationship, a commitment you’re not sure will work.

It’s like standing on the edge of a cliff, nature pulling you in for a dive, the wind howling in your ears. You can feel the adrenaline, the rush, the pull to just jump. But you’re unprepared, no harness to catch you, no guarantees. You know that falling means you’ll crash. You’ll hurt.

“I will.”

Jungkook’s voice is calm, almost too calm, and he smiles at you. It’s gentle, the kind of smile that makes everything feel... safe. And for some reason, despite the fear swirling in your chest, you believe him.

You decide, against everything in you that’s scared shitless, to trust him. To trust that maybe, just maybe, he’ll be there when you’re ready just like he promised.

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