#second drawing in a row with the window thing

[heart-shaped-sprinkles]

Sixth gift for the selfship summer surprise, now for @kaydwessie! Happy very late anniversary :D

[emmiesoverthemoon]

i’ll make you lose

pairing: lee felix x reader

word count: 10.6k

summary: you wanted to tease your cute nerdy tutor. how could you not? he looked like he short circuited whenever you both made eye contact. well, as it turns out, untouched nerds do it best.

tags: flustered felix. university au. implied friends to lovers. flirting, teasing. unprotected sex, dry humping, oral (f recieving). enjoy

this is my longest work yet. safe to say i got carried away lol.

You sat at the long, rectangular desk in the lecture hall, your fingers lightly tapping against the surface as the professor’s voice floated in the background. Your mind wandered, the jumble of equations and formulas in front of you blurring into abstract shapes. The announcement that your professor had just made, however, cut through the fog in your thoughts, and it was only then that the full meaning of their words sank in.

Felix. Lee Felix.

He was going to be your tutor. You had heard the rumors. Felix was brilliant. His grades were flawless, and his understanding of the material was unparalleled. He had the kind of intellect that earned him respect from professors and peers alike. The kind of intellect that made people expect perfection from him in everything he did.

But as much as Felix was known for his academic prowess, there was another side to him that never failed to catch your attention. He had this nerdy charm that was impossible to ignore. The way his tousled hair always seemed to fall into his eyes no matter how much he tried to push it back, the way his shy smile made him look both endearing and just a little out of place in the sea of confident university students. He was smart, yes, but there was something almost adorably awkward about him that always made you want to push his buttons.

“Felix will meet you in the library after class,” the professor continued, oblivious to the mischief stirring in your mind. “He is more than capable of helping you grasp these concepts, so please do not hesitate to reach out if you need assistance.”

You had to bite back the grin threatening to spread across your face. Felix would be your tutor? Oh, you could already imagine how it would go. You would be sitting there in the quiet, academic setting of the library, surrounded by endless shelves of books, and all you would need to do was drop a few playful comments and watch him squirm. Felix was too polite, too aware of how smart he was, and you knew that his discomfort would only make him more adorable.

He would try so hard to keep the focus on the subject, to make sure you understood every little detail. But you? You would make it impossible for him to stay composed. You could already hear his voice wavering, see the flush creeping up his neck when your teasing got to him.

You were going to enjoy every second of it.

With a sly grin, you gathered your things and headed out of class. Your mind was already turning, plotting exactly how to push his buttons in all the right ways. He was going to be your tutor, but that didn’t mean you were unallowed have a little fun while you learned, right?

The library was, as usual, a quiet sanctuary, with the scent of paper and ink filling the air as students hunched over their textbooks. Your ears were filled with the distant clicking of keyboard keys as other students desperately attempted to finish their assignments on time. You found an empty table by the window, settled into a chair, and waited. Your heart beat a little faster than usual, not from nerves, but from the anticipation of what was about to unfold. You were going to have Felix all to yourself, and the idea was enough to make you smile to yourself, just a little.

Minutes later, Felix entered, his presence immediately drawing your attention. He had a large backpack slung over one shoulder, and his eyes scanned the room, moving quickly over the rows of tables. When his line of sight finally landed on you, he froze, looking just a little startled, like he hadn’t expected you to be so... ready.

“Hi,” he said, his voice soft and careful as he made his way over. “Sorry I’m late, I—uh—had to finish something for another class.”

You nodded slowly, watching him as he set his things down on the table, arranging them with a precision that made you wonder how long he had spent perfecting the art of being neat. “No problem,” you said, your voice light, casual. “I was just looking forward to some... expert tutoring.”

Felix blinked at you, a faint frown tugging at the corner of his lips. He pushed his glasses up his nose, his fingers fumbling with the straps of his bag. “I—I wouldn’t call myself an expert. I just know the material,” he said quickly, glancing down at his notes, avoiding your sharp eyes.

You leaned forward just slightly, watching him. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Felix. They say you have all the answers.”

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, eyes flickering nervously as he finally looked at you, a little too long this time. “Well... I try to. But, um... math is... you know, it’s not—uh—difficult once you understand it. It’s not subjective.” He trailed off, almost as if he was trying to convince himself more than you.

You tilted your head, your smile widening just a fraction. “Hmm... so you are saying it is easy for you?”

Felix looked like he might crumble under the weight of your gaze. His fingers twitched, reaching for his pencil as if to busy himself, but his hand stopped just shy of it, his posture growing even more tense. “It’s... I mean, it’s not hard. Once you—”

“Once you focus,” you interrupted, your voice casual, but there was an undercurrent of something more. “And make sure your student focuses too, right?”

Felix cleared his throat, visibly flustered now. He nodded rapidly. “Yes, yes, exactly. If we just focus, it’s really easy to get through it.” His voice wavered slightly, but he quickly recovered, trying to mask the nervousness that was slowly creeping in. “So, um... let’s get started with this first problem. It’s all about understanding the process.”

You rested your chin in your hand, leaning slightly forward again. “Of course. But... I'm curious. What do you do in your free time, Felix? When you’re not, you know, tutoring, being cute, and getting perfect grades?”

Felix blinked, caught off guard by the question. “I... uh...” He hesitated, his face turning a deeper shade of pink. “I just... I like to study more. Or... play some video games. Just to relax.”

You grinned, sensing the opportunity for more teasing. “Video games, huh? That’s... interesting. I would have never pegged you as the type.”

Felix opened his mouth, then closed it again, clearly unsure how to respond. His fingers drummed nervously on the desk, and you could see the tiny tremble in his hand. “I—uh—it’s just a hobby,” he said, the words coming out much faster than he intended. “It helps me unwind.”

“Mmm,” you murmured, eyes glinting. “I can imagine. You must get really into it. I bet you lose track of time... just focusing on the game.”

Felix was trying so hard not to react, but it was obvious he was flustered. His shoulders were tight, his cheeks flushed, and he avoided looking at you for a moment. “I mean, yeah... sometimes. But that’s not the point right now,” he mumbled, more to himself than to you.

You leaned back, still smiling. “No, of course not. You’re here to tutor me. I get it.”

But the way his voice cracked slightly when he spoke—that was definitely the point.

Felix took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves. His fingers slid over his notebook as he adjusted his glasses again, the motion a bit more frantic this time. The uncertainty was still there, evident in the way his shoulders stiffened as he tried to get his thoughts together. He focused on the material, but it was clear that the presence in front of him made it harder to stay on track.

“Alright,” he began, his voice more confident than before, though there was a slight edge to it. “This problem is about differential equations. First, we isolate the variable—”

You interrupted him, your voice light and teasing. “Mm, sure, but are you sure you want to go straight into all that? I mean, you’re looking awfully cute trying to explain this.”

Felix froze mid-sentence, the words catching in his throat. His hand, still gripping his pencil, trembled slightly. He glanced up at you, flustered. “I... I’m just trying to make sure you get it.” His voice was tight, but there was an unmistakable vulnerability to it, like he was unsure whether you were joking or being serious.

You leaned back in your chair, letting your eyes trace over his flustered expression. “I know, I know. You’re just so diligent,” you said with a smirk, your inspective eyes never leaving his face. “It’s kinda adorable, to be honest.”

Felix’s cheeks turned a shade darker. He cleared his throat, awkwardly glancing at the notebook, his focus now split between the problem in front of him and the teasing grin on your face. “Okay, well,” he stammered, his voice faltering. “Let’s just get through this first part, okay? The first thing you do is... uh, you isolate the variable, and then...”

“You know,” you interrupted again, raising an eyebrow, “you’re really good at this. I don’t even need to take notes. I’ll just watch you talk about math. You’re cute when you get all serious.”

Felix’s eyes darted up to meet yours, then quickly flicked back down, his face growing hotter. “I—uh—I think it’s better if you take notes. You’ll remember it better that way.”

You grinned, enjoying how much you were making him squirm. “Oh, but it’s more fun this way. You’re cute when you’re flustered. Besides,” you leaned forward slightly, “I think I’d rather pay attention to you than whatever’s on the page.”

Felix opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. He swallowed thickly, his fingers nervously tapping the pencil against the desk. He couldn’t seem to keep his eyes on the equations now, not when you were looking at him like that. “I... I don’t think that’s the best idea,” he finally managed, his voice sounding almost strained. “We need to focus.”

“Focus, huh?” you mused, eyes sparkling. “Well, I’m sure I could focus... if you weren’t so intriguing.”

He was clearly struggling to maintain his composure. His gaze flickered between his notes and you, like he was unable to decide which was more important. “I—I’m trying to stay on track here,” he said, voice a little more forceful this time, though it was still laced with uncertainty. “But, uh... just, just try to take notes. Please?”

You smiled, leaning back in your chair with a teasing glint in your eye. “Alright, alright, Felix. You’re the boss. But I’ll admit, it’s hard to take notes when my tutor is so... distracting.”

Felix’s jaw tightened, his fingers curling around his pencil. “I—uh—I’m not trying to distract you. I just... I want you to understand this,” he said quickly, his tone a little more defensive now.

You nodded slowly, your expression shifting just enough to let him know you were still in control of the situation. “Sure, Felix. Go ahead,” you said, your voice almost too sweet, too calm. “I’ll listen, I promise.”

But there was no mistaking the underlying amusement in your voice, the way you were watching him with that knowing smile, making it almost impossible for him to keep his focus. Felix’s pencil shook slightly as he attempted to continue, but his words came out stilted and unsure. “Okay, so... when you—uh, when you solve for the variable, you—”

You leaned forward just a little, your voice soft but pointed. “You’re so good at this, Felix. Really. But I’ve got to wonder...” You let the words trail off, watching the way he stiffened under your gaze. “Do you get this flustered all the time? Or is it just me?”

Felix froze, his face turning even redder as he quickly tried to look away. “I’m—uh—I’m not flustered,” he muttered, but his voice was weak, lacking the usual certainty.

For the first time, you saw a flicker of something else in his eyes—an edge, maybe, or a challenge. His hand gripped his pencil more firmly as he looked down at the page, his voice quieter but still undeniably more confident. “I can focus,” he said, his tone sharper than before. “Let’s just... finish this.”

“Alright,” you said, your voice softer now, almost intrigued. “Let’s finish it, then.”

“Okay,” he began again, though his voice was steadier than before, still tinged with that edge of determination. “Let’s go over it again. After we’ve isolated the variable, you need to—”

You interrupted him again, this time leaning forward, just slightly. “Felix,” you said, your tone laced with playful mischief, “do you always look this serious when you’re teaching? I mean, you’re making me think you have a secret life as a super serious tutor.”

Felix blinked, clearly thrown off by the sudden shift in your tone. He adjusted his glasses with a nervous gesture, but this time, the flush creeping up his neck wasn’t as obvious. “I—I’m just trying to make sure you understand,” he said, though there was an almost defensive quality in his voice now. “It’s not easy to explain this stuff if you’re distracted.”

You raised an eyebrow, letting a small smirk play on your lips. “Distracted? Me?” you asked, feigning innocence. “I’m completely focused on you, Felix. But you know, your whole ‘serious tutor’ vibe is... kinda working for me. It’s almost too cute.”

Felix’s eyes flicked to you, then quickly away, a small breath escaping his lips. His hands clenched around the pencil, a slight tremor running through him. “It’s not cute,” he said quickly, his voice sounding a little more forced now. “This is important. I need you to take this seriously.”

“Of course, Felix,” you purred, leaning back in your chair as you watched the way he shifted in his seat. “I am very serious. I’m just wondering... do you always get this uptight when you talk to girls? Or is it just me that gets under your skin?”

Felix’s eyes widened, a flicker of something almost daring in his eye before he quickly looked back down at his notes. The flush deepened in his cheeks, but there was a shift in his posture—a subtle but noticeable one. “I’m not uptight,” he said firmly, though the force behind his words caught you by surprise. “I’m just focused on making sure you understand the content. That’s all.”

You smiled knowingly, pushing your luck a little further. “Hmm, is that what it is? You’re not uptight at all? Because it sure looks like I’m getting to you, Felix.”

Felix’s jaw clenched, and for a moment, you thought he might snap at you. But then, he took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, his fingers loosening their grip on the pencil. “It’s just that... I know this stuff inside and out,” he said, his tone a little quieter but still confident. “I don’t want you to struggle with it, okay?”

You tilted your head, your smile softer now, though your eyes never left his. “I’m sure you don’t want me to struggle,” you said, your voice low, “but maybe... just maybe... you’re a little more interested in making me struggle in other ways.”

Felix’s face flushed, his expression faltering for a split second before he regained his composure. His gaze flicked to yours again, but this time, it lingered a fraction longer than before. “I... that’s not what I meant,” he stammered, his voice betraying him. “I just... want you to do well. Is that so hard to believe?”

You smirked, enjoying the way he was floundering just a bit. “No, Felix. It’s not hard to believe at all,” you said, your voice dripping with amusement. “I just find it interesting that you’re so focused on me doing well. What about you? You’re doing a great job. I’d say you're pretty good at this whole tutoring thing.”

Felix shifted, clearly flustered. His usual calm demeanor was beginning to crack, and he was no longer avoiding your line of sight. The hesitation was still there, but it was starting to feel like he wasn’t as afraid to face you anymore. “It’s... it’s not about me,” he said, voice still uncertain, but no longer as shy. “It’s about you learning, okay?”

There was a brief moment of silence, and you noticed the change in his posture—how he sat up straighter now, shoulders back, a subtle shift in his body language. His attempt at maintaining composure was no longer about simply getting through the tutoring session—it was about something else, something you couldn’t quite place.

You tilted your head slightly, watching him closely. “Alright, Felix,” you said, your voice softening just a little, “I’ll let you get back to the problem. But I’m starting to think that you’re not just tutoring me anymore. There’s a little something else going on, huh?”

Felix cleared his throat, his staring flicking to his notes for a second before he straightened up, more resolute this time. “Just focus on the material, alright?” His voice had a firmness now, an edge to it that hadn’t been there before. He now carried a commanding energy that you would be lying if you said you hated it.

For the first time, you felt a shift in the dynamic. The shift in the air was palpable—subtle yet undeniable. Felix was no longer just the shy, uncertain tutor, fumbling through every explanation with a nervousness that was, at first, endearing but now seemed out of place. No, there was something different in his demeanor now—something almost challenging. The softness he had shown earlier, the gentle hesitation, was slowly being replaced with a quiet firmness, and you could feel it in the way his eyes met yours. Steady. Calculated. Unwavering.

You couldn’t resist pushing just a little further. It's just so fun!

“So, Felix,” you said, a teasing tone slipping into your voice, “is this how you always talk? All serious, no fun? Because I think you'd be a lot more interesting if you let go a little, you know. Just a thought."

Felix didn't even flinch this time. His gaze held steady, the faintest spark of something deeper hiding behind those eyes. There was an edge to his voice, a subtle, almost imperceptible shift that you had not noticed before. “I can be fun when it matters,” he replied, his tone surprisingly assured. “But I’m not here to entertain you. I’m here to help you get it. If that means I need to stay focused, then so be it.”

You raised an eyebrow, momentarily taken aback by the calm intensity of his words. “Oh, I know,” you said with a feigned innocence, leaning back slightly in your chair. “But it’s funny, don’t you think? How you try so hard to keep it all together. Makes me wonder... if you’re trying to impress someone with all that focus.”

Felix’s posture stiffened, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. His fingers, still gripping the pencil, twitched as if he was about to speak, but instead, he cleared his throat, and a brief silence settled between you.

“I’m not trying to impress anyone,” he said, the words deliberate, slower this time. “I’m here to do my job. To help you. Nothing more.”

A smirk tugged at the corner of your lips as you studied him. “Mm. Sure. But I can’t help but wonder, Felix,” you said, leaning in just a little closer, “does all this effort to be so... perfect make you feel better? Or is it just the way you think people expect you to be?”

The words hung in the air for a moment, and you could see Felix’s jaw tighten. His eyes, previously avoiding your peering ones, now locked with them. There was something different in the way he held himself now, something new in the way he stood his ground.

“I’m not perfect,” he said, his voice low but strong, a subtle challenge laced in every syllable. “And I don’t need you to think I am. I’m just doing what I have to do.”

Your gaze softened, the teasing edge still present but now tempered with something else. Felix’s composure was beginning to shift, the walls he had built starting to crack, revealing something more—a strength, a quiet assertiveness that had previously been hidden.

“Alright, Felix,” you said, your tone slipping into something more genuine, less playful. “But I have to admit, this... side of you? Didn’t see it coming. I like it.”

Felix inhaled slowly, his eyes still fixed on you, but now there was a quiet confidence in his aura. He set his pencil down, his movements deliberate, and you watched as he leaned forward just slightly.

“I’m not the nervous guy you think I am,” he said, his voice steady, no longer stumbling over his words. “And I’m not here to let you get away with everything, either.”

The change in his tone caught you off guard. There was no hesitation now, no nervous stammering. Felix, the tutor you had been teasing so relentlessly, was looking at you with the kind of quiet authority that made your pulse race.

Your smile faltered for a second, a small surprise flickering in your chest. “Well,” you said, your voice softer now, “guess I’ve been underestimating you.”

Felix’s deep eyes never wavered, and the corner of his lips curled into the faintest of smirks. “Maybe you should stop,” he said, his tone teasing now, but there was an undeniable edge to it. His voice dropped low, firing quick heat straight to your chest, “You might just find out that I’m not so easy to read.”

You swallowed, your heart picking up its pace at the challenge in his voice. There was a new tension in the air now, a quiet storm brewing between the two of you. And for the first time, you wondered just how far this teasing game could go.

The study session had dragged on, the numbers blurring into a haze that you could no longer focus on. Felix’s voice was a calm cadence, his explanations intricate yet smooth, but your mind had long since wandered. The air between you had thickened, a subtle charge building, lingering just below the surface. You stretched your arms overhead, an exaggerated motion that only further fueled the unspoken tension between you.

“Felix,” you drawled, your voice languid as you settled back into your chair, letting your eyes settle on him. “I think I’ve earned a break, don’t you think?”

Felix glanced up, a flicker of hesitation in his eyes before he smoothed it over with a quick smile. “A break?” he repeated, his tone light but the gleam in his eyes betraying the small flicker of interest. “For what exactly?”

You leaned back, the chair creaking beneath you as you tilted your head, assessing him in that way that made him uncomfortable without him even realising it. “I’ve been listening, Felix. Really listening. And you’ve been talking non-stop about equations. It’s only fair I get a little reward for being so studious.”

Felix’s lips twitched at the corner, but he didn’t break. “Reward? I didn’t realise listening was an activity worthy of prizes.” There was a playful bite to his words now, as if he were starting to realise just how much you were enjoying this.

You let your smile linger. “Oh, but it is,” you replied, leaning forward just enough to close the space between you two. “I’m being patient. I’m being good. And that, Felix, deserves something in return.”

The words came out with just enough sweetness that it almost sounded genuine, though the challenge behind them was unmistakable. Felix blinked once, twice, his brow furrowing as he processed it, before he straightened slightly, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion. “And what exactly would you want as a reward? Another lecture on algebra?”

You couldn’t help but laugh at that, rolling your eyes. “Nah, I think I’ve had my fill of that for the evening. Maybe you could entertain me instead?” You let the word entertain hang in the air between you, casual but heavy with implication.

Felix hesitated, a momentary falter before he regained his composure. “Entertain you?” He leaned forward, now more intrigued than flustered. “I think you’re the one who’s been doing the distracting here.”

Your lips quirked at that. “Oh? You think so?” You shifted slightly, your body angling toward him in a way that felt just a touch too close. “I’m just sitting here, Felix. But it seems like you’re the one who can’t quite keep his mind on the equations.”

Felix’s gaze sharpened, though there was a faint flush creeping into his cheeks. He cleared his throat, trying to play it cool. “I’m focused,” he said, his voice even, though the tension in it was palpable. “And I’m not the one who’s been looking at the clock every five minutes.”

You let out a dramatic sigh. “I’m just trying to learn, Felix. I can’t help it if your genius is just... so distracting.”

His eyes flickered at the word genius, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Distracting, huh?” He paused, then leaned forward, lowering his voice just enough to make your heart race. “Maybe you’re the one who’s distracting me. You’ve been distracting me from the very beginning.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the shift in his tone. Felix wasn’t just playing along anymore. He was starting to push back, and it felt different—more deliberate, more confident.

“Oh really?” you murmured, the words slipping from your lips with a mix of amusement and challenge. “How exactly am I distracting you, Felix?”

Felix’s lips quirked into a half-smile, the self-assurance growing in him like a steady wave. “Well, for one, you won’t stop trying to flirt with me. I’ve been trying to focus on these problems,” he gestured to the scattered equations on the table, “but all I can think about is how much you enjoy messing with me.”

The words were out before you could stop them, a laugh escaping you. “Flirting? Me? I’m just being friendly, Felix.”

“Friendly?” he repeated, eyes narrowing as he leaned closer, so close that you could feel the heat from his body. His voice lowered, edged with something darker. “You’ve been pushing me ever since we started. Don’t act like you don’t know what you’re doing.”

You swallowed, but the smile never left your lips. You weren’t expecting him to bite back this hard, but you liked it. “So, what?” you teased. “Am I a little too much for you?”

Felix didn’t flinch, not this time. He matched your gaze, leaning in just enough to close the gap, his voice a low murmur. “Maybe you are. But maybe I like it that way.”

Your breath caught, his words hanging in the air like a promise you were unsure if you wanted to acknowledge it just yet. Felix, the shy, smart tutor, was not so shy anymore. He was unafraid to meet you head-on, and that shift was more intoxicating than you would like to admit.

“Well,” you said, your voice breathy, the teasing edge still there but softer now, “I’m starting to think you might like the distraction, Felix.”

He paused, and for the first time, you saw the flicker of hesitation in his eyes. Then, with a smirk that was all confidence, he leaned back, his posture changing entirely. “Maybe I do,” he said, his voice even, his gaze still holding yours, “but I’m not sure you’re ready for it. You think you've got me all figured out, hm?”

You couldn’t help the subconcious reaction in you—your smile widened, and the challenge grew thicker in your chest. “Oh, I don’t need to figure you out. I already know what buttons to press. It’s just you're a little more... unpredictable than I thought.”

Felix���s eyes narrowed, his expression now a perfect mixture of amusement and something else—something sharper. “Unpredictable?” he repeated, his tone lowering. “I think you’re the unpredictable one here. You’ve been pushing my buttons from the start. But now...”

His voice took on a teasing, almost dangerous edge. “Now I’m starting to wonder how far you’re willing to push before you realise you might’ve gone too far.”

“You think I’ve gone too far?” you asked, your voice soft and mocking, and not doing very well at disguising how your heart skips beats when his voice drops in the way it has. “I’m just getting started, Felix.”

He leaned even closer, his voice now a near-whisper. “Then you’d better be careful,” he said, the words so close to a challenge that you couldn’t quite tell where the game ended and something else began. “Because if you keep pushing me, I might just let you go too far.”

For a moment, you both stared at each other, the air thick with a tension neither of you seemed willing to break.

“Well,” you said, leaning back, your voice back to that teasing edge, “looks like you’re the one distracting me now, huh?”

Felix smirked, leaning back in his own chair, but there was something in his posture now—something that made you realise he hadn’t been flustered at all. “You’ve been distracting me all this time,” he said, his voice steady. “But I think you’re right about one thing—you’re just getting started.”

You blinked, caught by surprise at the intensity in his voice. You were uncertain what had just shifted, but something between you had changed—Felix wasn’t just the shy, nervous tutor anymore. He was playing the game, and he was playing it well.

You barely made it through another page. Felix had resumed his explanation, something about polynomial division, but your thoughts were no longer tethered to the textbook. They wandered—to the way his fingers drummed lightly against the table, to the slight rasp in his voice when he became too focused to notice. He had not looked flustered since that last retort. In fact, it felt as though you were the one squirming now, each shift in his gaze a little too assured, each silence weighted with implication.

“You done spacing out again?” he asked, lifting his eyes just as yours trailed down the slope of his jaw.

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “Was not spacing out. I was contemplating the deeper meaning of poly-whatever division.”

Felix gave a slow nod, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Right. Deep. Like a spiritual experience.”

You exhaled a light laugh, chin propped in your hand. “You know, for someone who spends his nights talking to himself on Discord, you’re getting real confident.”

He blinked. “Wait—how do you know I—”

“I have ears,” you said simply. “And the guys talk. You all aren't exactly quiet.”

Felix stared at you, momentarily thrown. Then, in a move that felt strangely bold, he leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Okay. If you’re gonna mock the way I unwind, you’ve gotta at least try one of my games.”

“Try one?”

“Yeah. Come to my place. Pick a game. Let’s see if you’re any good.”

You raised a brow, amused by the casual offer—more amused by the confident glint in his eyes. “Is this a trap?”

“No,” he said, standing and stretching, his shirt riding up just slightly to reveal a sliver of pale skin. “But if you lose, you have to stop pretending you’re not interested.”

“And if I win?”

Felix paused at that, considering you with a gaze that lingered too long to be platonic. Then, with a crooked grin: “You won’t.”

You followed him out, the air charged in that low-simmer kind of way, the silence between you growing more alive with each step. His apartment was only a few minutes’ walk off campus, small and cozy, the kind of place that smelled faintly like cologne, old textbooks, and lavender laundry sheets.

“Shoes off,” he called as he moved toward the living room, kicking his own beside the door. “And no cheating.”

You stepped inside, eyes sweeping the space—books stacked on shelves and windowsills, a mess of cables near the desk, and, of course, a massive monitor glowing faintly in the dim light.

You turned toward him slowly, lips curling. “This is... alarmingly nerdy.”

He handed you a controller. “I know. You gonna keep talking or you gonna lose?”

"Put your money where your mouth is, Felix. Try me and find out."

You sat on the edge of his low couch, controller in hand, your knees drawn close and posture too poised for someone allegedly ready to relax. Felix, in contrast, looked perfectly at home—hoodie sleeves shoved up to his elbows, one leg tucked under the other as he navigated the menus with muscle memory. His jaw was set, eyes flicking over the screen, the pale glow catching on his cheekbones, that singular beauty which softened every time he forgot to guard it.

“Alright,” he said, voice casual as though he had not just invited you into his domain. “Simple practice match first. No stakes. You just gotta learn the controls.”

“I know what a joystick is,” you replied, shifting beside him, your shoulder brushing against his lightly. “I’m not a caveman.”

“No,” he said, glancing sidelong at you. “Just an academic liability.”

You made a sound of mock offense, elbow nudging his arm. “Wow. The ego on you.”

“I learned from the best.”

“Oh, so I taught you arrogance?”

Felix smirked, his eyes not tearing from the screen. “You’re an excellent role model.”

You were not entirely paying attention to the tutorial. Your fingers moved, but your thoughts trailed elsewhere—the rise and fall of his breath beside you, how his hands moved on the plastic controller with such nimbleness, the way his voice dipped low when explaining something technical, the subtle rasp that crept in the longer he talked.

“Here—hold A and rotate here. Like this.” He shifted, his hand coming over yours before you could react, guiding your fingers carefully. His touch was light, but deliberate, and far too warm.

You glanced at him.

He didn't move away.

“Okay,” you said slowly. “So... this is your master plan? Lure girls into your apartment and seduce them with thumb placement?”

Felix’s ears flushed red immediately. “What? No—no. That is not—”

“Mmhm,” you hummed, feigning deep thought. “Honestly, it is kind of working. But you should pace yourself, you know? Not every girl likes it rough on the joystick.”

He sputtered. Actually sputtered. “That is not—You—God—”

You grinned, victorious.

“I knew you were a menace,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face.

You tilted your head toward him, gaze lingering. “Still think you can handle tutoring me twice a week?”

Felix exhaled slowly, his expression unreadable now—focused, perhaps, or maybe just attempting not to combust. He turned his attention back to the screen, but not before murmuring under his breath:

“Barely.”

The practice round ticked down to its final seconds, the countdown flashing across the screen like a warning bell. The room around you was thick with warmth and shadow, your shared laughter from earlier settling into something quieter now—something edged.

Felix sat forward with that same focus as before, fingers loose on the controller, brow furrowed, jaw taut with effort. You watched the light flicker across his features—the soft glow of the monitor catching in his lashes, gilding the curve of his cheekbone. He hadn't even noticed how close you were.

But you had.

You tilted your body just enough that your thigh brushed his. “So intense,” you murmured. “Bet your heart rate goes up when your health bar drops.”

He huffed a soft laugh. “You talk too much when you're losing.”

“You're cute when you pretend this game matters.”

He finally looked at you. Not a glance, not a flicker—looked, head turning toward you fully, slow and unreadable.

“I'm cute?” he asked, tone deceptively mild.

You leaned in, feigning casual, letting your lips hover just near his ear. “Adorably so. Like a sweet little overachiever who's never had anyone play dirty with him before.”

Felix’s breath hitched. You felt it more than heard it.

He turned back to the screen, but his voice had shifted—lower now, smoother, each word curling with quiet intent. “Let's make this interesting.”

You tilted your head, eyeing him. “Go on.”

He pressed a button—your character flailed helplessly on-screen.

“If I win…” he said slowly, “you have to tell me exactly what kind of thoughts you have when you look at me, when you listen to me.”

Your grip on the controller tightened and your heart lurched, were you that obvious?

“What do I get if I win?” you asked, trying not to sound too breathless, too flustered.

Felix’s smirk curved like something dangerous. “Then I want to hear the same thing. Just... slower.”

“Alright, fine. But one more warm-up. Need to level the playing field.”

He answered with a chuckle and a soft shake of his head. The 'rematch' button was selected.

Competitive silence hovered in the air longer than it should have.

Your character lay defeated on the screen, the soft flicker of pixelated flames the only movement in the room. Felix had not moved either—still leaned forward, still watching you, though his gaze had shifted. Less playful now. More precise. Like he had studied the moment, found the crack in your composure, and was waiting to press into it.

You shifted where you sat, suddenly aware of the heat in the room, of how close his knee was to yours, how low his voice had gone and how it still echoed in your skin. His eyes dropped—briefly—to your mouth. Then rose again.

“So,” you said, clearing your throat. “That was a warm-up, right?”

His lips curved, slow and wolfish. Not a smile. A promise.

“Practice,” he corrected. “That was just practice.”

And then—he sat back.

Not away from you. Into himself. Like something in him had settled. His posture eased, but his presence intensified, like the air between you had suddenly thickened.

He resumed the game, eyes still on the screen, voice low and smooth. “Ready to actually play?”

You blinked. “What was I doing before?”

He clicked a button. The screen glowed. “Losing. Distracted. Making it too easy.”

“You're—”

“Still winning,” he cut in, and this time the look he gave you was direct, calculated. “But now… now I want to see what you're like when you stop pretending that you 'don't care'.”

You felt your stomach drop and flutter all at once.

Felix shifted again, closer this time—close enough that you could feel the press of his thigh against yours, the heat of him radiating through the minimal space between you. And then his voice came again—just behind your ear, thick as honey and impossible to block out.

“No more practice,” he murmured, the lowness of his voice shooting heat straight to your gut. “Show me how good you really are.”

You exhaled slowly and reset your grip on the controller, forcing your shoulders to loosen, your jaw to unclench. You had teased him first. This was just payback. You could handle it. It was still just a game.

But Felix was no longer playing the same one.

He didn't fill the silence between rounds with jokes or quips anymore. He didn't glance at your screen. He didn't need to.

He stayed close. Still and aware and quiet—except for that voice.

Not even a full sentence. Just fragments, murmured in that devastating octave, as if they slipped out of him without effort. Too casual. Too effective.

“Focus,” he whispered, as your thumb slipped on the analog stick again.

You swallowed hard.

“You're holding your breath,” he said next, voice lilting downward like a slow descent into something dangerous. “Is it me?”

You turned your head toward him—your mistake.

Because his eyes were already on you. Lazy, unreadable, and far too warm. His gaze flicked to your lips for half a second before he leaned in, so close you could feel the shape of his breath against your cheek when he spoke again.

“Tell me what you hear.”

Your pulse kicked hard against your throat.

“My voice,” he murmured, lips barely moving, “or your thoughts?”

You blinked, rapidly turning to look back at the screen, face burning. He had guessed. Or no—known. Felt it in the way you tensed. The way your thighs pressed together, just slightly, when he got close enough to speak low.

He smiled, soft and dangerous. “Thought so.”

You fumbled a combo. He leaned back, hands never leaving his controller, the heat of him still very much present.

“You keep teasing like you want me to lose,” he said. “But I think you want me to win.”

“I do not,” you said too quickly, too sharply, and he laughed—quiet, deep, the sound dragging along your spine.

“Then concentrate,” he said. “You're about to lose again.”

And that would be right, you did.

He paused the screen.

This time, he did not gloat. He set the controller down and turned toward you with a steady, almost clinical curiosity—like you were a riddle he was determined to solve.

“So,” he said, voice gentled back into a hush, “what exactly is it?”

You blinked. “What?”

He leaned in again, this time letting his mouth hover near your ear, not touching, just close enough that your breath hitched.

“The pitch?” he asked. “The rasp? Or is it just knowing I'm using it on purpose?”

You could not answer. Not right away. He waited.

Still.

Quiet.

Patient.

And then, softly—“Tell me everything. You lost the bet. You owe me that much.”

You hesitated—just a moment, but it was enough. The truth sat heavy in your chest, and you could feel it like a secret you had tried to keep hidden. You knew why he made your breath catch. It wasn’t just the voice. It was how it wrapped around you, how it hit those places you tried not to think about.

But now that he had cornered you—his eyes steady, voice calm, as if he knew—you could hardly breathe without him seeing right through you.

You blinked quickly, trying to steady yourself, but it did not work.

“I think,” you started, your voice a little too tight, “I think it’s the way you speak when you’re not... trying.”

Felix’s lips quirked, like a secret he had not expected you to admit.

“You mean when I’m casual?”

“Not casual,” you forced out, your heartbeat picking up. “When you’re—” You tried to think of the word, but it was impossible. “When you’re barely trying at all. Like you're not even aware of how much you're—" You stopped yourself, eyes narrowing. “You're affecting me. You’re just… too good at it.”

Felix leaned back, lips curling in amusement, eyes locked on you like a challenge. He wasn’t going to let you off easy. You were playing this game now.

“So, you like it, then? My voice?”

You shot him a look, half-rolling your eyes. “That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

“Mm. But I think you can say it louder.”

“You’re pushing it,” you warned, voice low, but Felix knew—he knew exactly what he was doing. You could see the way he leaned closer, just enough to make your pulse spike, his eyes twinkling like he was the cat and you were the mouse.

And then he spoke again, his voice darker this time—sweeter in its low rumble.

“You like it when I’m casual, right? When I don’t even try to make it sound like I’m saying it for you. That’s the part you’re not telling me, isn’t it?”

You swallowed, trying to look away, but you couldn’t. He had you in his grip now—his voice, his words, everything about the way he knew. And he was right. You couldn’t stop yourself from reacting to it.

But he had no plans of letting up.

“Or is it something else, hmm?” Felix’s voice lowered even further, an almost unbearable, husky murmur. “Do you like it when I speak just like this? Like I’m giving you everything you don’t want, but you can’t pull away.”

You sucked in a breath, trying to maintain some sense of control. “You really think you know that much about me?”

He grinned, that teasing flicker in his eyes returning. “I do now.”

And then—he did it again. His voice, barely above a whisper—“Focus. You’re still distracted.”

You flinched, shifting uncomfortably, and then—just to push back—you threw him a glance, daring him.

“You know,” you said, voice dropping in challenge, “I think you like knowing how much it gets to me.”

Felix froze, his gaze sharpening. The edge of something dangerous settled between you both.

“Is that so?”

You didn’t flinch this time. You met him, eye for eye. “You’re not the only one who can play this game.”

“Prove it,” he said, his voice lowering to the kind of hunger that made your breath hitch. “Let me hear it. Let me hear what really gets you worked up.”

And that—that was the final challenge.

You leaned in, close enough that your words came out soft, teasing, barely more than a whisper.

“You really want to know?” You paused just a beat. “I think it’s the way you think you have all the answers, but you’re about to lose.”

Felix laughed, dark and quiet, but there was something heavier in it now. His fingers, light and steady, brushed the edge of your knee. “Is that so? Somehow you still think you’ve got the upper hand. That's bold of you.”

You tried—you really tried—to stay focused, to force your eyes on the controller, the animations of the pause window, anything. But every second, Felix’s voice seeped into your skin, his words curling around your senses like smoke. It was intoxicating, heavy, and too much.

You could feel your pulse quicken, the rhythm of your breath growing shallow. His voice, so warm, so rich, pressed against your ear, vibrating through your bones. Each word he murmured was like a wave, pulling you deeper into his orbit.

"Felix," you whispered, barely able to contain the way your breath hitched in your throat. “Stop... teasing."

A grin tugged at his lips. He knew. God, he knew how much he was getting to you. The bastard knew exactly how his words made you tremble inside, the way his voice curled around you, making it impossible to think about anything else.

“I’m not teasing, sweetheart,” he replied, his voice a lazy drawl, thick with satisfaction. “I’m just making sure you’re paying attention.”

You couldn’t deny it. You weren’t focused on the game anymore—not even close. Every syllable that slipped from his lips was a distraction, a pull, a magnet that made your body feel like it was on fire. It was as if his words had their own gravity, pulling you under, drowning you in the sound of him.

“Focus,” he whispered again, his breath ghosting over your ear, making your skin prickle, your whole body flush. He was so close now, too close, and yet it wasn’t enough. You wanted more. You needed more.

You felt his fingers brush over your wrist, light and teasing, sending jolts of electricity shooting up your arm. He knew exactly how to touch you, knew exactly how to get you to react. His fingers were like fire against your skin—deliberate, slow, dragging out the tension.

“You’ve already lost,” Felix murmured, his voice thick with a kind of wicked amusement. The words sank into your chest, heavy and final, but there was something in his tone—something low and dangerous—that made your stomach flip. “You just don’t want to admit it.”

Your throat went dry as the heat in your body intensified. The screen was just a blur now. Your eyes could barely focus on it. Your whole world was Felix—his presence, his scent, his voice dripping with authority. His words, coated in that delicious, teasing edge, twisted in your mind and made your body react before you could even think about it.

And then—finally—you gave in.

“Okay,” you breathed out, voice barely a whisper, but it was enough. “I lost. You won.”

Felix’s breath shuddered out, a soft exhale of satisfaction. He didn’t move right away, didn’t rush to claim his rightful victory. No, he took his time—because he knew, and you knew, he didn’t need to rush. He had you exactly where he wanted you.

His fingers traced the line of your wrist, slow and deliberate, his touch sending shivers across your skin. You couldn’t tear your gaze away from him. The tension in the room was palpable, a heavy weight pressing down on you, and you could feel the heat between you building, curling in your gut.

Felix’s voice dropped even lower, a velvet murmur that practically slid under your skin. “I knew that was coming, I told you you wouldn't win, remember?” he said, his lips close enough that you could feel the breath against your ear. The words were a command, wrapped in satisfaction and something darker—something you weren’t sure you were ready for.

He leaned in closer, his lips brushing over your ear in the most maddening way, his voice practically dripping into your ear. “But it’s not over yet, sweetheart. You’re still here. Still with me.”

You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t think. You were lost in the sound of him, the way his voice felt like a touch, like a caress. You wanted him to stop, wanted him to give you space, but the truth was—you didn’t want him to stop. You didn’t want to fight it anymore. Every inch of you screamed for him to keep going, to make you lose again, because losing meant he’d take more, and you’d give him more.

He took his time, waiting. Watching you squirm. Watching the way your chest rose and fell, the flush on your face. He was savoring this—savoring the way he had you wrapped around his finger without even touching you.

Felix’s lips brushed your ear one last time. “Do you want me to stop?” he murmured, his voice laced with that same wicked teasing. “Or do you want me to make you lose all over again?”

Your body was trembling in desire, the answer so close to your lips that it nearly slipped out on its own, but you were still holding back. You still wanted to fight. But when his fingers brushed down your arm again, slow and deliberate, the touch igniting your skin, you knew.

This was no longer a game. This was something else.

And you were far too gone to turn back.

“Yes,” you breathed, unable to hold back any longer, the word slipping out in a breathless rush. “I want you to win.”

Felix let out a low, satisfied chuckle, the sound dripping with so much pleasure you could barely stand it.

“Good, then let’s see just how much you can handle," Felix chuckled darkly, and in that moment, everything changed. The teasing was gone. The games were over. He moved with purpose, his lips crashed against yours, the kiss hungry and desperate, as if he had been waiting for this moment. His hands gripped your hips, lifting you as he pulled you into his lap, not once breaking away from your lips.

His body was firm, hard, and you felt every inch of him pressed against you, his desire unmistakable. It was like electricity crackling between you, sparking the need, the hunger you’d been trying so desperately to control.

Your thighs bracketed his, your hands gripping his shoulders like a lifeline as you subconciously rocked your hips down against him. The thick, hard length of him pressed up between your legs, and even with both of you still clothed, it felt obscene—too good, too much. Every movement dragged your against your aching core, the rough texture of denim making you gasp, tremble.

Felix’s hands gripped your hips tight, fingers digging in like he needed to ground himself. “Fuck,” he groaned, his voice dark and wrecked, like gravel dragged across velvet. “Do you feel what you’re doing to me?”

You nodded, breathless, hips rolling down again just to hear that sound leave him. His head dropped back against the couch for a moment, jaw clenched, lips parted. You could see how hard he was beneath you, how much effort it took to let you keep control.

But you never really had it—not with the way he looked up at you now, eyes dark, mouth curling into something hungry. “Move for me, baby,” he said, voice dropping even lower, like a secret whispered straight to your spine. “Let me feel you.”

You obeyed without thinking, grinding down against him in slow, aching circles, chasing friction, chasing heat. His breath caught, hands tightening as he guided your rhythm—deliberate, delicious. Every roll of your hips dragged a new sound from him, low and broken, and it made you feel powerful—until he growled.

“Enough teasing,” he muttered, and before you could blink, he sat up, chest flush to yours, arms locking around your waist.

Now it was him rocking up into you, grinding hard enough to make your breath stutter, your back arch. You clung to him, whimpering at the new angle, the intensity.

“You’re gonna make me lose it,” he hissed against your throat, voice cracking with restraint. “Keep grinding like that, and I’ll come just like this. With you on top of me, clothes on, moaning my name.”

He buried his face in your neck, teeth grazing your skin, and you could barely hold on. There was no air, no room, nothing but the heat of him, the way his hips met yours again and again, perfectly, mercilessly.

You were soaked. Shaking. Seconds away from shattering.

He whispered in that wrecked, perfect voice—“I don’t know how much longer I can take this.”

You could feel your pulse racing, your body betraying you with each passing second. You wanted more—wanted him to take you, claim you, make you lose all over again. You needed him to show you just how far you could go with him.

“Then take me,” you breathed out, the words slipping from your lips without thought. You wanted him, wanted everything he was offering. “I’m already yours, Felix. Do what you want with me.”

His eyes darkened, a predatory gleam flashing in them as he heard your words. The smirk on his lips deepened, as if he had been waiting for you to finally admit it—to finally give him the green light to take control completely.

Without a word, Felix flipped you both, placing you beneath him with a precision that sent a rush of heat through your body. The world around you seemed to fade into nothingness, leaving only him—his touch, his voice, his body against yours.

He paused, hovering above you for just a moment, his chest rising and falling with each labored breath. His eyes searched yours, a silent question in them—one you didn’t need to answer. You had already given him every word he needed in the moment. He was in control now, and you were more than willing to let him have it.

“Good girl,” he praised, his voice a velvet growl that made your skin prickle. His lips crashed down on yours again, this time with an intensity that stole your breath away, the kiss hard, demanding, as if he needed you just as badly as you needed him. After he had stripped you down to your panties, his hands roamed freely, touching you with a hunger that made you ache.

His lips trailed down your neck, nipping at the soft skin there, then trailing down to your chest, where he focused his mouth on your breast, rolling his tongue around your nipple, and his left hand attending to your other breast, kneading the supple skin.

His right hand moved lower, slipping under the waistband of your panties to trace his fingertips ever so lightly through your folds.

"Look at you, so eager. This wet for me, already?" He murmured against your skin, moving away to stare at your pussy, to which he dragged his tongue across his lip. If you weren't embarassed yet, you certainly were by now. "All I've really done is talk to you. You want this that badly? Where did all that biting confidence from this afternoon go, hm?"

You barely managed to muster a reply before his hands fled their posts to lift your hips, to allow for his teeth to catch the elastic of your panties and drag them down to your ankles and tossed to who knows where. He tossed them with his mouth. That image would be engraved in your brain forever.

Wordlessly, he dove straight in.

His tongue moved with a slow, devastating precision—savoring every inch of you as though you were a delicacy he had waited lifetimes to taste. Each stroke was skillful, hungry, and maddeningly thorough, his mouth worshipping you with an unrelenting hunger that bordered on reverence. His hands gripped your thighs, fingers digging into the softness as he spread you wide for him, holding you open as though he couldn't bear to lose a single moment of access.

When he moaned against you—low, rough, trembling with need—it reverberated straight through your core. The sound alone nearly broke you.

You shamelessly let out moans, huffs, and groans as needed, you were helpless beneath the weight of his mouth, and he only smiled proudly against you—tongue flicking over your clit with wicked precision, then sucking hard enough to make your vision go white. You cried out, hips jolting, thighs beginning to close around his head in a desperate, overwhelmed instinct.

You shattered with a sob, your release tearing through you fast and violent, your body trembling as the orgasm overtook you—but he did not stop.

He held you in place, relentless and devoted, licking you through it with obscene focus, tongue fucking you slowly, deeply, while your body broke apart beneath him. You were unraveling in his hands, and still—he kept going until your twitching had slowed to a stop.

When he finally pulled away, his chin was slick, his lips glistening. “You taste like a fucking dream.”

You moaned, your hands clutching at his hoodie before he leant up so he could strip it off, revealing smooth, pale skin stretched over lean muscle, his chest heaving with restraint. His eyes were molten, locked on yours as he tugged your thighs apart with strong hands, settling between them once again like he belonged there—because he did.

You barely had time to catch your breath before his fingers replaced his tongue—two of them sliding deep inside you, curling just right, hitting that perfect spot that made you cry out. He worked you open with smooth, steady strokes, watching you unravel under his touch, his thumb drawing slow, tight circles around your clit while his free hand pushed your shirt up to bare your chest.

"You’ve been so good for me," he murmured, his voice thick with desire. "But I want to hear you say it again. I want you to beg me."

Your heart raced, your mind spinning with the control he had over you. You could feel the fire building inside you, your breath shallow and fast as you fought to keep yourself from completely losing it.

“Felix, please,” you gasped, eyes glassy with need. “I want your cock inside me. I need it.”

"That's it, who am I to deny such a pretty plea like that?"

He pulled back, his fingers slipping from you, wet and glistening as he reached down to undo his belt. His cock sprang free, flushed and thick, veins prominent along the shaft. You reached for him, but he caught your wrist, pinning it beside your head.

He lined himself up, nudging at your entrance, dragging the head through your slick folds until you were trembling with anticipation. Then, with one slow, merciless thrust, he filled you.

You gasped, nails digging into his back as your walls stretched to accommodate him, the pressure overwhelming in the best way. He paused only a moment, letting you adjust to the size of him, before drawing his hips back and slamming into you again.

“Relax, breathe,” he murmured, pulling back slightly, only to thrust deeper, his breath ragged against your skin. “I’ve got you.”

He groaned as he buried his face in your neck and set a punishing rhythm, each thrust deeper, harder, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the room.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, meeting him thrust for thrust, the angle perfect, the drag of his cock inside you enough to make your vision blur. His hand snaked up to your throat, fingers curling there—not tight, just enough to remind you who was in control.

“You’re mine,” he growled into your ear, biting the lobe. “All of you. Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped. “God, Felix, I’m—”

And when the words finally slipped from your lips, breathless and raw, Felix’s eyes darkened with triumph. “Good girl,” he muttered. “I knew you were mine.”

He shifted, hips grinding against yours as he fucked into you, stroking that sweet, devastating spot again and again until you were sobbing with the need to come. His thumb found your clit again, circling fast and merciless now, pushing you to the brink.

And then you were falling—your body clenching around him, stars exploding behind your eyes as your second orgasm ran through you like fire. Felix didn't stop, chasing his own high, thrusting into you through your climax until his rhythm broke and he spilled inside you with a shudder and a curse.

He collapsed onto you, both of you panting, slick with sweat and trembling from the aftershocks. The tension had finally broken, but you could feel it lingering, the heat between you not quite fading. Felix didn’t seem in a rush to pull away. His gaze lingered on you, and you could see the soft smile tugging at his lips, the same man who had been bold, teasing, and oh so confident moments ago, now softened by the shared intimacy.

“You lost, by the way,” Felix murmured with a playful smile, his fingers tracing over your lips. “And I’m going to make sure you remember that. You were so embarrassed under me.”

“I thought I was supposed to be the one flustering you,” you said softly, voice not quite steady, betraying the remnants of your earlier surrender.

He tilted his head, curls falling over his brow. “You do. Constantly.”

You let out a breathless laugh, shaking your head. “Yeah, but you like it now.”

“I liked it before,” he murmured. Then, quieter, as though it startled even him, “I liked you before.”

The air shifted.

You blinked up at him, smile faltering—not in discomfort, but in the way something deep in your chest tugged, slow and aching. “You… mean that?”

Felix looked at you like he had studied you for days, like you were an answer to something he never wanted to say aloud. “I'm not very good at pretending,” he confessed. “Not with you.”

There was no teasing in that. Just truthful, soft, and raw tenderness.

Your hands found his cheeks, thumbs brushing the warmth of his flushed skin. “You really have the worst timing,” you whispered, trying to smile. “Saying stupid sweet things when I'm still technically trying to beat you.”

Felix smiled back—crooked, lopsided, unfairly boyish. “Then lose. Again. On purpose this time.”

You leaned upward, just close enough to feel his breath catch against your lips. “And if I do?”

His eyes dropped to your mouth. “Then let me make it worth your while.”

You kissed him slowly, like the match had burned down, like the game had ended, and only the wanting remained.

guys pls lmk if the long stuff is too much,,,,, i keep getting carried away LOL thx for reading allat

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[losermuse]

CW: non-mc!reader, high school au, angst, unrequited love, hurt/no comfort, insecurity, jealousy, self-hatred, written in first pov, ventfic, unreliable narrator, cliche plot WC: 4.0k

Average. Ordinary. Second best. The plain Jane.

That’s what I am, what I’ve always been. The person who blends into the background, who smiles when I should, laughs when it’s expected.

But never stands out.

So it’s the question of the century: how did I even end up being friends with her? She’s everything I’m not—charismatic, funny, effortlessly pretty, the kind of girl who walks into a room and immediately captures everyone’s attention. The apple of his eye.

I can still remember the first time I met her. It was in the third row, right next to the window. I was awkward, unsure of myself, quietly existing in the corners of the classroom, trying not to draw attention to the fact that I was just another face in the crowd. And then she sat next to me. She was my seatmate, so I guess it was inevitable.

At the time, I couldn’t help but wonder if she had been assigned to me out of pity. After all, who would choose someone like me to be their friend? But she didn’t need a reason. She just…liked me and that was enough.

Initially, I thought it was some kind of fluke. She smiled at me, made small talk, and suddenly, I wasn’t alone in that space. Slowly, I found myself pulling away from the walls I had built around me, allowing her to see parts of me I kept hidden. 

It wasn’t pity in the end. She genuinely wanted to be friends. She didn’t have to choose me, but she did anyway.

Then he entered the picture. Caleb, he was just a name at first, the guy everyone in school seemed to talk about. Star player of the high school basketball team, a natural athlete with a reputation for being both skilled and effortlessly charming. I remember hearing about him long before I saw him. People always flocked to him like he was some kind of magnet.

But when I finally saw him for the first time, it felt like everything seemed to slow down. He wasn’t just a name anymore; he was real. You couldn’t miss him from the way his tall frame moved through the hallways with confidence and the easy smile that never seemed forced. He was the perfect definition of the boy next door. It was clear he wasn’t just someone special to the school, but to her too.

She practically glowed when he was around. I didn’t need to see the way they exchanged jokes or how he called her “pipsqueak” to know she’d known him longer than I had. She was comfortable with him more than I could ever be. And I…well, I was just the audience, watching them from the sidelines. 

It wasn’t like Caleb ever really saw me, at least not in the way I wanted. But then again, he wasn’t the type to make anyone feel invisible. We were both part of her world, after all. So, every once in a while, he’d acknowledge me in passing—small, casual things like a wave in the hall or a brief nod when he saw me sitting next to her at lunch. 

Nothing that stood out. Nothing that made my heart race. But it was enough to make me feel like, maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t entirely forgotten. Maybe he noticed me because he noticed her, and I was simply there, part of the package.

Yet in the end, that’s all it was. A fleeting acknowledgement that never lasted long. Two sides of a perfect coin. Best friend since childhood. 

This is their story, not mine.

—

The school was decorated for Valentine’s Day, with the usual red hearts, streamers and cheesy banners hanging from every corner. It wasn’t anything extravagant, just enough to make the day feel special. It wasn’t a day I particularly looked forward to, but there was something about the way the entire school buzzed that made everything feel a little bit different.

Students milled around, exchanging cards, gifts, and the usual classroom chocolates. I couldn’t help but watch, half-detached as the holiday played out around me. 

I wasn’t expecting anything. Not really. After all, it was just another Valentine’s Day. Nothing more, nothing less.

Then Caleb appeared.

When he finally approached, I saw that familiar smile already on his face. Even in the crowded hallway, he had a way of drawing attention. He reached her first, his grin widening as he handed her a box of chocolates.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he said, his tone warm, like this was second nature to him.

She laughed, taking the box without hesitation. “Thanks, Gege. You always know the best ones.”

And just like that, it was the same as always. A tradition between them, something unspoken yet expected, like a habit they had no reason to break.

As she tucked the box under her arm, I noticed her phone swinging gently in her hand. Dangling from the corner was a small green apple keychain, bright and shiny like something picked straight out of a cartoon—playful and fresh, just like her.

I might’ve looked away if Caleb hadn’t shifted slightly then, drawing my eyes to the large red apple charm clipped to his bag. Not the same, but unmistakably a pair. Her green and his red—like they were meant to match, opposite but complementary.

The kind of detail that didn’t just happen. The kind of charm you didn’t buy alone.

I looked at them, then back at the apples. Something sour began to rise in the back of my throat, and I swallowed hard, pretending it was nothing. Just keychains. Just a coincidence.

Before I could fade into the background, she turned to me with a playful grin.

“You forgot this.”

I blinked as she handed me a small box of chocolates. The same kind she had been giving out all day.

“I figured you’d want one too,” she continued, her eyes bright. “Even if you’re not into all this Valentine’s stuff.”

I took the box, a little unsure of how to feel. It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate it—she was always thoughtful—but something about it felt hollow, like it could’ve meant for anyone. Just another gesture, wrapped up in politeness. Still, I smiled back and took them.

“Hey,” he said, his voice a bit warmer than usual. “I didn’t forget about you either.”

I froze, surprised. He reached into his bag and pulled out a small, familiar red box—the kind of chocolates I’d seen at the store and always picked up for myself but never expected anyone to remember.

“I remember you saying you liked these,” he continued, offering the box with a casual shrug. “So, here. Happy Valentine’s.”

I stared at the box for a second, unable to believe what was happening. Caleb, the one who never paid me much attention—had remembered this one small detail. The world around me seemed to shrink, and I couldn’t find the words to respond immediately.

“Thanks,” I finally managed to say, my voice quieter than usual. I quickly looked away, suddenly aware of the heat creeping up my neck, my pulse racing.

As I held the chocolates, still reeling from the fact that Caleb had seen me, I could feel the weight of her presence next to him. She had already caught his attention again, her laugh filling the space between us as she leaned into him, brushing her hand against his arm.

And just like that, I was back to being a background character in their routine, holding chocolates, a small token that didn’t change anything.

—

It has been a week, and the tension I had tried to push down only grew stronger.

There she was, her usual energy heightened, practically bouncing into the cafeteria the next morning. “Come on!” she said, dragging me by the arm before I could even get a bite of my lunch. “You have to come watch Caleb’s game with me! It’s his biggest match of the season, and he’s asked us to be there.”

I hesitated. I wasn’t exactly a sports fan, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was just a third wheel. They were practically inseparable, and the thought of watching Caleb, the one person who made my heart do flips without even trying, while she was there at his side… well, it made my stomach twist.

“You know I don’t really like watching sports,” I said weakly, trying to pull my arm back, but she wasn’t having it.

“Oh, come on, don’t be like that!” she insisted. “It’ll be fun! You’ll see. He really wants us to come!”

Before I knew it, we were heading to the gym together, my resistance fading with every step. I couldn’t escape it now.

As we found our seats in the crowded bleachers, the energy buzzed all around us. The game was intense, and the gym filled with the roar of excited fans. But despite all the noise, it felt oddly quiet for me.

There he was, in his element on the court, pulling off play after play, and the crowd was eating it up. I couldn’t help but watch him. He was so…perfect on that court. His confidence, his skills, the way he seemed to shine no matter where he was—it was undeniable.

And then I glanced over at her.

She was watching him too, her eyes glued to him as if no one else existed in the world. Her laughter echoed in the stands every time he scored. She cheered him on, high-fiving the people around her, her whole world revolving around him.

A sharp, unfamiliar sting twisted in my chest, something cold and suffocating, as if green tendrils had coiled around my heart, tightening with every passing second. It was jealousy. I knew it. I couldn’t deny it, no matter how hard I tried. But I didn’t have the right to feel it. They were friends—childhood friends. 

When the game finally ended, Caleb walked off the court, a wide grin on his face. His team had won, and the crowd roared with excitement. She was already on her feet, clapping, her face lighting up as she made her way toward him.

I felt a wave of discomfort wash over me. I stayed seated, hesitating, unsure if I should follow her. I wasn’t sure I wanted to witness whatever came next. I knew it would be the same as always: her congratulating him, them laughing together, the same dynamic that had been in place for years.

And sure enough, as soon as Caleb reached her, they shared a moment that felt like it was pulled straight out of a rom-com movie. He grinned and with a playful nudge, lifted her into a quick hug, laughing.

“Great game!” she said, her voice bubbly as always.

“Thanks,” Caleb replied, his voice warm as he released her, his eyes meeting hers in that familiar way.

I stood there, watching them, the jealousy gnawing at me harder than I wanted to admit. It crept in slowly, the green tendrils seeping through the cracks of my heart, winding their way around it, squeezing until it felt like I couldn’t breathe. I tried to push it down, tried to ignore the way it twisted inside me, but it was impossible. The jealousy was there, growing more than ever.

And I couldn’t escape it.

At that moment, Caleb’s gaze shifted, landing on me where I stood off to the side. His expression softened as he began making his way over, leaving her behind in the crowd of well-wishers. I braced myself for what was coming—another small, casual acknowledgement, just like all the others.

“Hey,” Caleb greeted, his voice as easy as always. “You enjoying the game?” 

“Yeah, it was great,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. I forced a smile, hoping he wouldn’t notice the tightness in my chest. “You played really well.”

“Thanks,” he said, casually leaning against the bleachers. “I’m glad you could make it.” He gave me a small, almost nonchalant grin, and I could feel the air between us growing thinner. “You should come to the next one too. The more the merrier.”

I nodded, but inside I felt like I was shattering. His smile didn’t mean what I wanted it to. He was just being nice, casual. Like we were… just friends. That’s all it was.

Just friends.

—

I hate this.

Jealousy and I have become acquaintances. 

It wasn’t always like this. At first, it was just a passing stranger, brushing against my shoulder whenever I saw them together. A quiet, fleeting thing. But over time, it settled in, got comfortable. Now, it lingers beside me like a shadow, whispering in my ear every time he laughs at one of her jokes or drapes an arm around her.

I should be used to it by now. I tell myself I don’t mind being the extra in their story, the one who watches, who listens, who smiles at all the right moments. But jealousy knows better. It sees the way my heart twists when he looks at her like she’s the only one in the world. It feels like the ache that never quite goes away.

And the worst part? Caleb is kind. So when he turns to me with that easy warmth, when he asks if I’m okay or flashes a smile just because—I almost believe it. I almost let myself think I matter, not just because I’m standing next to someone who does.

But jealousy just laughs. Because we both know the truth.

He notices everyone.

And that’s exactly why he’ll never really see me.

I almost wish he were mean. That he’d ignore me completely, never sparing me a glance. Maybe then, it wouldn’t hurt as much. Maybe then, I could convince myself I never cared in the first place. But he isn’t. He’s warm, thoughtful, and good. And that’s what makes this so much worse.

Because how do you let go of something that was never yours to begin with?

—

The rain started without warning, a sudden downpour that sent students scattering in every direction. Laughter and shrieks echoed through the courtyard as people huddled under jackets, sprinted for buses, or shared umbrellas.

I stood beneath the awning outside the school doors, watching the water hit the pavement in relentless sheets. She had left earlier for practice, and I had no umbrella, no ride—just an excuse to linger a little longer.

“You always get caught in the rain, huh, Sunshine?”

My breath hitched at the familiar voice, low and amused.

I turned, already knowing who I’d see.

Caleb stood a few feet away, one hand tucked in his pocket, the other holding an umbrella at his side. Stray strands of damp hair clung to his forehead, his school blazer slightly wrinkled like he had just pulled it on without care. 

I scoffed. “That’s a dumb nickname.”

He smirked. “Says the one who never remembers an umbrella.” Then, without waiting for permission, he took a step closer, tilting his umbrella just enough to cover me. “Come on, I’ll walk you.”

I hesitated. But the cold air bit at my skin, and it wasn’t like I had another choice.

So I stepped in.

It should’ve been fine. Normal. We had walked together plenty of times before, always because of her. The thought sat heavy in my chest, an unspoken truth I tried to ignore.

The space under the umbrella was small. Too small. The scent of his cologne mixed with the rain, something warm and clean that made my stomach twist in ways I didn’t want to acknowledge.

We walked in silence, the rhythmic patter of raindrops filling the gaps where words should have been. It wasn’t an awkward silence—he never seemed to struggle with those. To me, though, it was suffocating, heavy with everything I’d spent so long trying to ignore.

Caleb hummed thoughtfully. “You always overthink everything, Sunshine.”

I glanced at him. “And you don’t think enough.”

He grinned. “That’s why we balance each other out.”

I bit the inside of my cheek, willing my heart to settle. We didn’t balance anything. I was just—there. A background character in his life, a passing moment he’d forget by tomorrow.

Then, just as casually as everything else he did, he reached out.

“Hold still,” he murmured.

Before I could react, his fingers brushed against my forehead, tucking a damp strand of hair behind my ear.

The touch was light, but it sent a bolt of something sharp and electric through me. The world shrank down to just that moment, just that sensation.

I could say it. Right now.

The words were right there, lodged in my throat. Three small words waiting to slip out.

But I swallowed them down before they could ruin everything.

I wanted him to be indifferent so bad. To treat me like I was just another face in the crowd, someone easily forgotten. But he didn’t. He was Caleb. Kind, thoughtful, always saying just the right thing, doing just enough to keep me hoping.

By the time we reached my house, my clothes were still dry, but my heart was drowning.

He smiled, completely unaware of what he’d just done to me. “See you tomorrow.”

And then he was gone, walking back into the rain, while I stood there, watching, waiting, wishing—soaking in everything I could never have.

– 

That moment under the umbrella should have meant nothing. Just a momentary act of kindness. A small thing.

To him, it probably was. A simple gesture, something he’d done countless times without thinking.

But for me, it was the moment I realized something ugly had settled inside me. Something that stretched beyond just longing or jealousy.

It was envy.

Because she had everything.

Everything I ever wanted.

Not just Caleb, though that stung more than I wanted to admit. It was the way she moved through life—effortlessly. She was always the centre of attention, always the first choice and always the one people gravitated toward. She didn’t have to fight for anyone’s affection. She didn’t have to wonder whether she was enough. She simply was.

She was loved without question. She was accepted, admired, and celebrated.

And me?

I was the girl who blended into the background. The one whose laugh was too quiet to be heard, whose smile was lost among the crowd. The one who always had to fight to be noticed, but when she was, it felt like an afterthought.

And it had always been like that. I had always been the second best—but now? Now, it was so much worse. Every time she smiled at him, every time they shared a joke or a look that I couldn’t understand, the resentment inside me only grew. I wanted to scream, to shake her, to force her to see that I existed too, that I mattered too. But I couldn’t. She was my best friend. And so, I kept my mouth shut.

It wasn’t just about Caleb anymore. It was about everything.

It was about the way she lived in a world where everything was handed to her, where she didn’t have to second-guess her place in anyone’s life. The way people respected her for being who she was, while I was left wondering what I was doing wrong. What made me less than her?

And I hated her for it.

I hated the way she made it look so easy. I hated how every compliment she got felt like a punch to the gut. I hated how she never questioned her worth. 

I couldn’t even give myself the comfort of believing I was worthy of anything.

So, I pulled away.

Not because I was hurt or heartbroken. Not because I couldn’t stand seeing them together. But because I was angry. Angry at her, angry at him, and most of all, angry at myself for constantly standing by and letting them have everything I wanted.

I avoided her calls, stopped texting back right away, and made excuses when she asked if I wanted to hang out. I found myself making plans to be somewhere, anywhere, but with her. And when she did manage to drag me somewhere, I was quiet. I’d say as little as possible, smile only when necessary, and just... disappear into the background.

It was easier that way. Less painful.

I started isolating myself. Avoiding her meant avoiding Caleb. And avoiding Caleb meant less of the painful, gnawing feeling that clawed at my chest every time I saw them together.

The worst part was that she didn’t notice. She never did.

She was so used to being the centre of attention, so used to everyone loving her, that the subtle shift in our dynamic went completely unnoticed. She never realised that the space between us had grown wider, that my silence wasn’t just me being distant—it was me retreating from a world I no longer wanted to be part of.

It was suffocating. 

I couldn’t let her see. I couldn’t let anyone see how much it hurt. Because if I did, they’d know the ugly truth. That I wasn’t just a background character in their story. I wasn’t just plain.

I was jealous. And envy had become my constant companion, my closest friend.

And I wasn’t sure how to let go of it.

–

Caleb’s graduation was the moment I had been dreading and expecting all at once. The school gymnasium was decorated with streamers and balloons, the air was filled with pride and excitement. The graduating class stood at the front, Caleb among them, ready to speak as the valedictorian. He had earned the title, of course—everyone expected it.

As he stood at the podium, his easy smile and effortless charm seemed to fill the room, the crowd hanging on every word he spoke. I watched from my seat in the crowd, alongside her, face beaming with pride. So much for distancing myself. She was proud of him, and so was I, in a way. After all, he was her best friend, the boy who had been part of her life for as long as I could remember.

Caleb’s speech was inspiring, warm, and heartfelt. He spoke about friendships, dreams, and the future, words that made everyone in the room feel like they were part of something bigger than themselves. When he finished, the crowd erupted in applause, and she was already up from her seat, rushing toward him.

My eyes followed her, knowing exactly what would happen next. She was always there for him, and he, in turn, was always there for her. The bond between them was undeniable, visible to everyone. They had been friends for years, but sometimes, it felt like more than just friendship. I couldn’t help but feel like an outsider, a silent witness to the connection they shared.

And then, it happened. She reached Caleb, her smile wide, and before anyone could say anything, she leaned up to kiss him on the cheek. The crowd cheered, and Caleb smiled in return, a look of fondness in his eyes. It wasn’t anything new. It wasn’t anything special—at least, not for them.

But for me, it was like a dagger in my chest.

I wasn’t jealous. I am not jealous.

I told myself it should’ve been fine. I had walked with them before, watched them interact, and laughed at their jokes, but this moment? This one was different. This one hit harder than I was prepared for. The way they looked at each other, the ease in their gestures—it was a reminder of something I’d never be a part of.

When Caleb pulled away from her, his eyes scanned the room. I could feel his gaze, and for a brief moment, our eyes met. But unlike the usual moments when he would smile, wave, or make some casual comment, this time, he simply looked away, his attention already drifting toward someone else.

No acknowledgement. No wave. Nothing.

I swallowed hard, fighting back the sudden wave of emotion. It should’ve been normal. He was just being Caleb. Kind, friendly, the same as always. But in that moment, the silence felt like a slap.

She was glowing from the attention she got from him and turned back toward me with a smile. I couldn’t bring myself to return it. I just looked at her, at the way she was so comfortable with him, and the heaviness in my chest made it harder to breathe.

I wasn’t part of their world. And deep down, I knew that was never going to change.

I stood up from my seat, moving slowly, hoping to blend into the crowd. My heart pounded in my chest, not from excitement, but from the sharp sting of realising that no matter how many times I told myself it didn’t matter, it did.

I had no place in their story. They didn’t need me. I was always going to be a side note in the narrative that was unfolding before me. The quiet, unnoticed figure in the back of the room while they moved on to bigger things.

And I would remain there, in the background, just like I always had.

Forever. Always. Unnoticed.

[heartfullofleeches]

I Dream of Raw Meat

Yan Delivery Man Drabble

TW: Gore, Consumption of Raw Meat

-

It's 4am.

There's an ice cream truck outside your bedroom window.

Sweat glues your body to the mattress. A whisper of chiller weather calls to you, slipping through the cracks of your fragile mental state.

You can't pinpoint the precise moment your feet betray your restless mind- carrying you out of bed, down the long, twisting hallways of your home. Phasing right through the ajar front door. Bare skin slaps against the asphalt as your brought closer to the truck, towering steel walls imposing over you like a skyscraper.

A poster containing an extensive list of products often is the first thing your mind is able to comprehend. The photos advertising said items, are not. Rows upon rows of censored out squares, but the similarity don't stop there.

Red. As far as the eye can see. Its pink in some areas, grayish in others. Photos relating to the latter, the contents appear to be mushier and past its prime, but undertones of its original hue poke through the holes of its current state.

Text beneath each photo fares no better- No, that isn't right. Between garbled letters and scratches in the truck's paint, a single word stands out among the rest. Your mind fills in the blanks for those you cannot decipher.

"Chocolate dipped meat."

"Meatshakes."

"I want to meat you."

"Meat on a cone."

"Can you meat me?"

"Tripple scooped meat."

"My name is meat."

"Meat, meat, meat, me-"

You will your eyes closed. Howls from your abdomen echo into the eerie, silent night. It feels like you haven't eaten in months. Your knuckles rap against the closed window of the truck, lips moving of their own accord.

"Meat."

The truck rocks with the force of its window whisking open. Darkness pools out like tar. Somewhere through darkness, a hand reaches out. It vanishes into thin air as you take your purchase from it- Your wallet still sitting comfortably were you left it on your nightstand.

A whopping scoop of strawberry ice cream grounds the ice cream cone in hand. Heart shaped spinkles scatter across its surface. The deformities of many of the bundles of sugar draw them closer to depictions of anatomically accurate versions of the organ they mirror.

Eyes devouring the treat before you have the opportunity, you lend in for a bite. The first bite is sweet, a mouthful of sprinkles guiding you through the undertones of something sinister. The second tastes like a penny, warmed by the heat of your skin. Ice cream drips down your face, sticking to your lips in stringy, gooey clumps.

The third tastes like beef that could've used a few more minutes on the stove, a rich, iron flavor mingling with the sear of a charred slab of meat.

You bite down on something hard.

Digging through the melting cream on your tongue, you pull the foreign object free.

Its a tooth.

You look down at the cone.

It states back.

-

You wake up in a cold sweat.

Your mouth is dry, devoid of any taste. You scrub your teeth with the pads of your thumb just to make sure. You let go of the breath you held as they come back clean.

That dream. That same damned dream. It haunts you on days when...

Throwing your blankets aside and tossing on your shoes, you race for the front door - tripped up by haste and your own untied laces. Self sabotage brushed aside, your fingers wrap around the door handle in the nick of time. Just to see him inches from the door of his truck.

"Hey!"

The man freezes. He turns to you, that colossal, monstrous build of his trembling like a leaf in the wind. His head snaps between you and his truck, unable to decide which to run towards. You cannot read his expression from the collar of his thick white coat covering the lower half of his face. The bill of his hat masking the rest.

You tip toe around the package left at your doorstep, goosebumps prickling your calf from the cold air wafting from it. With every step, the man grows larger. Fists clenched, you remain determined. You needed to know. The question that's been on your mind for weeks now.

"Why have you been delivering fresh meat to my doorstep at four in the morning for the past month?"

It isn't the cheap stuff either. The cost of groceries seems to be rising by the day. You were so hungry. The cuts were packaged too professionally to be the work of a deranged cannibal. You hoped. To your luck, everything turned out to taste like what you were used to, if not higher qualities. Beef, pork, lamb. There was even venison at some point. All red meats.

"I asked my neighbors, but they all said the same thing. I appreciate it, but I think you have the wrong address. I'm sure whoever it belongs to must be pissed by now."

The man stiffens at that word. Appreciation. Rummaging through his pocket, he sticks a hand out to you as he kneels - like a someone showing a frightened animal they mean no harm. He places something on the ground, darting for the door of his truck before you can protest. The engines roars to life- and he's gone. The only traces of his presence being the tire tracks on the road and the present he left you.

Its a rose. Made of raw meat. "Petals" held together by am assortment of toothpicks.

[kumkaniudaku]

Smooches

Summary: First kisses are on the menu for Terry and Patrice.

Pairing: Terry Richmond x Black!OC (Patrice Ellis)

Word Count: 5.6K

Warnings: None

First kisses were as integral to young people's lives as their first words and first steps. In all their variations, they carried memories to keep for a lifetime if one was sentimental enough to tuck them away deep in the recesses of one's mind. 

When Terry was 8, he kissed a girl named Carmen during a summer in New Orleans. He couldn't pick her out of a lineup at 18, but he would always remember how her lips tasted spicy as if she'd just finished a bowl of jalapenos before she found him at the park to play house. He didn't want to kiss her, but he was the daddy, and she was the mommy. They had to make the game realistic. Carmen later told anyone who would listen that she was his girlfriend, and for about two weeks, he went along with the bit until she found some other boy to make the daddy, and he was just a memory. He didn't mind. Her lips were too spicy, and he was going back to Fayetteville anyway. Her loss.

Patrice's first kiss came years later and as a deliberate choice during day camp the summer before high school. Anthony was a tall, slender, biracial boy who was as close to Patrick from B5 as she could get. They both volunteered as counselors in training and found the one window of unsupervised time to touch lips behind the slide while they were supposed to be watching a group of six-year-olds play. While Patrice found the experience magical enough to begin dreaming of wedding dresses and fall ceremony dates, Anthony considered the quick peck a blip on his radar. The next day, he kissed another girl he later made his girlfriend. Her first and last kiss as a budding teenager was clouded in devastation. She couldn't allow it to happen again. 

On a charter bus cruising down the interstate toward Orlando, Florida, full of rowdy teenagers and not enough adult supervision, Patrice sent text messages to her best friend, Napheesa, while seated next to her boyfriend. Boyfriend. A week later, the reality of dating Terrence Richmond still hadn't set in. Not even as he held her free hand while staring out of the window at nothing in particular. In random spurts, his thumb would gently caress hers, sending the butterflies making a home inside her belly into a frenzy. She had to get that kiss. 

PheePhee: Y’all shld do it @ the park tonite!

Patrice considered the proposition before turning her head to look at Terry peacefully enjoying the scenery. He hadn’t said much outside of morning pleasantries and asking if she wanted a snack from his bag, which she declined for the moment. The rest of their three hours inside a rolling daycare were spent in relative, content silence. She turned back to her phone and smiled. 

Mizz Richmond: ok. but we gotta get far away from ms. peterson. she’ll tell my mama. 

PheePhee: Tht wont b hard. She cnt walk dat fast lol

A giggle slipped from Patrice’s mouth, drawing Terry’s attention from the world beyond rows and rows of talkative high school students. He watched her type with her free hand with a smile, admiring the sun’s insistence on making her even brown skin glow in early afternoon light. Girlfriend. In only a week, referring to Patrice’s new place in his life became as easy as saying his own name. What hadn’t come easy was pretending he didn’t daydream about the second they could turn middle school cheek kisses into the real thing. 

Sneaking away from the crowd was nearly impossible. Their parents were getting wind of a new kind of relationship, which left little room for privacy. He couldn’t liplock in five measly seconds of his mother turning her head to answer the phone. Terry wanted—no, Terry needed—the freedom of time to satisfy an urge he’d been keeping at bay since his junior year. Two hours and counting on a bus moving painfully slow gave him ample time to plan his approach. 

Scooting closer, Terry tried to take a peek at Patrice’s phone to no avail. “What are you laughing at?” he asked, curious about what kind of silly back-and-forth she and Napheesa were into from two rows away. 

“You’re so nosy.” Patrice admonished with a playful smile that invited Terry to mirror her expression. Her hand squeezed his tighter. For a moment, Terry considered taking his chances right then and there. “We were just talking about our outfits for tonight,” she lied. “We’re gonna wear pink.”

“That’s cute. I like you in pink.” And blue. Red, green, yellow – she encompassed the entire spectrum of light like no one he’d ever seen before. 

Terry offered Patrice his full attention, his gaze intently focused on the curve of full lips into an innocent smile before his eyes drifted up to meet hers. She shook her head and giggled. “You like me in every color, TJ. Last week it was blue! Make up your mind.” 

“It’s both. It’ll be something different next week, too.” 

Had Terry’s friends been privy to the googly eyes being exchanged two rows ahead of their loud-talking, crude, joke-telling boys-only club in the back of the bus, they would’ve added him to their roast session. Fortunately for him, only Napheesa was aware of their love fest. She sent a cheeky wink in Patrice’s direction before turning in her seat to rattle off one more text. 

PheePhee: yll so cute :). If you don’t do it tonite, u lame

Lame was a step too far. Shy? Maybe. Nervous? For sure. But, in high school, earning a reputation as "lame" could linger long after your four years came to their natural end. For a girl finally climbing out of the doldrums of relative obscurity, Patrice might squander all of her social cache if word got around that she was lame. Napheesa considered her playful taunting a success once they settled into their shared budget hotel room to plan pink outfits to cover for Patrice's earlier fib and plot a first kiss.

On the boy's side of the building, Terry listened to a room full of unwelcomed occupants concoct schemes for a weekend meant to reward good behavior. Borrowed cologne left a light sheen on his favorite gold chain as he studied himself in the mirror, trying to anticipate what Patrice might find worthy of a compliment and tuning out something Nate was saying about buying Napheesa a gift with a day of his food money. He didn't notice the stir his spritz of mature and aquatic smell good had created until the jeering started. 

"We got fuckin' Chris Brown over here," one boy commented, earning snickers from the others. 

Nate chimed in. "Nigga swear he somebody daddy!" 

"Uncle Terry, face ass!" 

Racing thoughts and a belly full of nerves turned typically calm Terry's ears bright red as a signal to all in his vicinity that a latent volcano was primed to erupt. Sensing the tremors of a blow-up, Corey stepped in to diffuse a situation going south as Terry turned around to dole out choice words.

"Man, chill out," he interjected, trying to laugh off the slow clenching and unclenching of his best friend's first. "Y'all niggas about to go play like a bunch of kids. Terry got plans for tonight." 

Nate cocked his head back in confusion. "We all got plans. We're going to the same place."

"You ain't planning to kiss your girl tonight. Y'all not cultured enough to…to capture the romance of such a time like this. You niggas don't read books and shit. Watch movies. Just hand in your pants all day being weirdos." 

"Nigga, that was one time!" 

Quick wit and a silver tongue helped wiggle Terry out of an explanation he didn't care to share. He'd thank Corey with a monetary reimbursement at the earliest opportunity. He had other thoughts on his mind. The last time he showed affection, they drew a crowd that lasted for days on end. This time, he'd move like vapors in the wind – barely perceptible until they're right in front of your nose. 

The conversation never returned to Terry's business; instead, they hopped from harmless jokes to their plan for when their entire senior class was dumped on sacred Disney ground and allowed to roam the park with other students from around the world. Shoddy blueprints for meetup spots, the perfect place to evade attention, and how they'd rub five nickels together to make a five-star meal followed them out of their hotel room, to the charter bus, and into a few rows at the back of their shuttle. 

Terry went in and out of listening to crane his neck, hoping he could catch a glimpse of Patrice. And that he did. A pastel pink tank top covering sunkissed brown shoulders gave him thoughts of a strawberry sundae on the hottest day of the year. Ms. Peterson's lack of attention allowed a slightly too short tennis skirt to bypass detection by everyone except Terry, who couldn't help but get a look at mile-long legs. She didn't break lively chatter with Napheesa and a few other girls, leaving Terry to stare shamelessly as she engaged without care. He had to kiss her. Through hell and high water, tonight was the night. 

Though seemingly distracted in a world of gossip and matching outfits, Patrice was on the same wavelength. She'd seen Terry well before he saw her, thanks to a keen eye from her best friend. The gold chain caught her attention first. It was her favorite accessory of his, especially when paired with an irresistible haircut and a white t-shirt that highlighted the deep tan of his late spring skin tone. A visual to pair with the fantasy made all the preparation worth it. 

As the bus careened to a stop with neither of them hip to the other's plan of attack, Terry watched Patrice file down the aisle behind Napheesa, still laughing and smiling without a clue in the world. 

Perfect, he thought to himself. The less time Patrice had to prepare and worry, the better. 

Corey regarded Terry's intense stare and impatiently bouncing knee with a laugh before pushing an elbow into Terry's arm. "You ready, man? You got until 2 in the morning to make it happen. How you gon' do it?" 

"Uh…" Terry hadn't considered much of the mechanics. He'd kissed before, but not with this much built-in pressure. He shrugged innocently. "I don't know. I guess I'll just…do it." 

A chuckle caught him off guard. "A'ight man. Not gonna lie, the thought process is kinda shitty, but you do you," Corey conceded. "You good?" 

Fear tensed every muscle in Terry's body, forcing him to respond to Corey with a stiff, unconvincing nod.

"Yeah, yeah," Terry offered too quickly to be anything close to the truth. "I'm ready. Yeah. I'm…good. I'm good." 

Long seconds passed as Corey examined Terry's eyes darting around and teeth leaving an impression in lips bitten to a near swell. "Right." He thought to leave things alone but couldn't help but offer advice. "Aye. Take a breath, bruh. Just like…" Corey's words tapered as he mimed an inhale and exhale for Terry to follow. 

Terry pulled in air and released it in one shaky whistle, nodding his appreciation for Corey's assistance before standing to his full height to exit the safety of private wishes into the uncertainty of action. 

Any sense of serenity Terry had worked to obtain and maintain was once again washed away when he saw their regular crew mixing and mingling as a singular blob of almost adults. Terry cursed to himself as he searched the group for a familiar high ponytail and gold hoop earrings. 

"TJ! I'm over here!" A sweet voice calling out his name produced goosebumps on Terry's skin. Again, she'd found him before he could find him. 

As he took long strides to join Patrice, all sense of time and space turned into a void with only her face as a guiding light. Terry gravitated toward her like a pirate to gold or precious metal to a magnet. He tried his best to look alluring during a journey that felt like a grueling walk through the Egyptian desert, not the short trek across aging asphalt.

Patrice stood wondering why Terry looked so focused and sleepy at the same time. Was he tired? Was something in his eye? Had he just woken up from a nap on the bus? And why was he looking at her mouth like–

"Oh, damn." 

Napheesa's astonished slip of the tongue spoke for Patrice, giving words to lips caught up in the rapture of sweet affection. She forced her eyes closed as Terry pulled her closer by the hips to add more pressure to an unexpected but welcomed peck. Her hands soon found his growing biceps, gripping softly to hold her steady in his embrace. 

They stood there, suspended in a moment that felt like forever despite lasting but a few seconds. Napheesa kept watch, soon joined by Corey, who used his slight body to shield them from rubberneckers too far outside their business. Napheesa scanned the immediate area, and once she noticed a chaperone seemingly headed their way, she loudly cleared her throat to alert the lovebirds. 

Slowly, Terry pulled away, leaving Patrice to hold her pucker with eyes still closed and a still buzzing, fuzzy brain that hadn't quite registered the moment's end. He chuckled before using his thumb to clean up errant lipgloss on the sides of her lips. He laughed while watching her eyes slowly flutter open. "Hey." 

"Hi." Patrice's greeting came in an airy sigh carrying a dazed smile like she'd just been knocked out and brought back into paradise. "Oh, you got a little," she started, pointing at the sticky strawberry gloss sheening his lips. "Let me get it." 

Terry allowed Patrice the privilege of cleaning up their happy accident, feeling so electrified by her undivided focus that he hadn't realized his hands were still glued to her waist. Not that either of them minded. He'd hold her close for the rest of the night, and she'd gladly find comfort in his arms if circumstances were different and his status as a student on a school trip didn't come with constant surveillance. 

They foolishly put all the rules out of their minds. Careful touches working to erase evidence of their eventful greeting drew attention to the known couple as Ms. Peterson walked closer to begin her speech on appropriate behavior. 

She adjusted her glasses and shook her head before speaking. "Terrence and Patrice, let's try to keep our hands to ourselves this evening, hm?" 

A deep skin tone kept the evidence of total embarrassment off Patrice's face as she sheepishly stepped out of Terry's grip. "Yes ma'am. Sorry." 

"Will do," Terry answered, not feeling guilt or shame for his actions. "Won't happen again." It wouldn't happen again in front of her or any other adult. But to say he wouldn't jump at the chance to turn a simple kiss into something even more exciting if given the space and opportunity was a lie.

"Thank you, kindly," Ms. Peterson answered, her curt smile daring either of them to step out of line again. "Now, let's get into a few rules. Number One: don't act a fool in here. Number Two: Refrain from acting a fool inside these people's park." 

Rules 3 - 10 were more of the same; variations on how not to embarrass a staff already running on fumes to finish another tiring school year and reminders to remain vigilant if some unrecognizable face attempted to lure them away from the group. Terry and Patrice tried to look engaged, nodding as if deeply concerned about remaining perfect pupils and not imagining the next opportunity for an all-consuming kiss. 

Pockets of chatter from uninterested teenagers antsy to get inside Magic Kingdom's gates cut Ms. Peterson's droning speech short, resigning her to the fact that someone would end the night in deep trouble no matter what she said. 

She sighed and dropped her arms in defeat. "Just…please don't die or get abducted. Come back with all your limbs or at least a really good excuse for us to tell your parents. Stay close until we get through the turnstiles."

Terry, Patrice, and the Francis High 2010 senior class could agree to those conditions. 

Side by side and giddy as pigs cooling their skin in mud, blossoming lovers fought hard to maintain a healthy distance within the crowd. Their respective friend groups, an uneven but familiar group of boys and girls, made plans without consulting the others. They only realized their mistakes once they stopped to regroup just beyond the gates. 

"Wait, we're going to see the castle first then Fantasyland to get gifts. Where are y'all going," Napheesa asked in confusion. 

Nate chimed in. "Don't nobody wanna see no damn castle, girl. We goin' to TomorrowLand." 

"They're literally right beside each other." Katrina's intrusion earned confused looks that momentarily ended the bickering. She kissed her teeth and shrugged. "I'm just sayin'." 

"Don't say nothin' else," Corey chided before redirecting his attention to the rest of the girls. "Look we got all night to see the castle. Why can't we catch the rides while the lines are short?" 

Alexandria, a late entry to the group, kissed her teeth. "Because don't nobody care about Space Mountain! That shit lame!" 

Another round of infighting drew attention from other teenagers, leaving Terry and Patrice as the two mediators for the group. They sighed in tandem. 

"Alright, alright. Let's just split up." The bass in Terry's voice startled everyone into submissive silence, waiting for him to elaborate. Patrice shot Napheesa an annoyed look to convey how badly she'd mangled their carefully thought-out plan. Her friend mouthed an "I'm sorry" as Terry continued. "We'll do all the Tomorrowland stuff by ourselves, y'all do your thing, and we'll meet up in the middle for food and fireworks in two hours. We can figure out the rest after that." 

"Yes, sir, Major Payne, sir," Robert joked, earning laughs from the group and a tense side eye from Terry that he did his best to ignore. Tensions still ran high between them. If he wanted to return to the hotel without knowing what the ground felt like, he knew that was his one pass for the night. 

Napheesa giggled her way back into the spotlight. "Okay, cool. Let's meet at the Winnie the Pooh ride at 11:30. Y'all know how to tell time, or y'all need a reminder?" 

Laughter from the girls elicited annoyed grumbles from a group of guys who had had enough of intelligence jokes at their expense. They quickly waved her off and started in the opposite direction, leaving Terry behind to say goodbye. 

He leaned in for a kiss on Patrice's cheek, murmuring, "I'll see you later," before turning to join the boys with an easy jog. 

Patrice watched her Prince Charming disappear into throngs of fantasy loves and thrill seekers, reclaiming her earlier daze with a wide grin that made her girls coo 'awww' in chorus. 

"Y'all are so cute," Alexandria commented after a soft sigh. "When y'all get married, can I be the flower girl?" 

"You'll literally be like 20-something," Katrina retorted. 

Napheesa scoffed as she began walking toward the castle. "You really think they gon' wait that long? She already misses him now. Let's go before she chases after him." 

Chasing after him was a fleeting thought Patrice elected not to satisfy in favor of following her friends off toward the closest fairytale. The urge she couldn't push away was the unrelenting thought of his lips on hers. 

It followed her to a spirited photo in front of Cinderella’s Castle when Katrina’s hand on her lower back brought back the spark she felt when Terry’s fingers trailed along the single bits of exposed skin on her sides. When she shook the flashes of electricity away, they left only to come back stronger with the stomach-flipping experience that was the Mad Tea Party attraction. As her friends tested the limits of the spinning tea cup whipping ‘round and ‘round with reckless abandon, the flutter in her stomach, sure to induce vomit in any other circumstance, mimicked the butterflies reminding Patrice that she was alive to experience the culmination of her personal friends to lovers young adult novel. She’d flipped a page. She’d been kissed on purpose with no indication that the boy on the other end would run away from their hidden spot behind the slide and choose someone else. 

Terry wouldn’t dream of running away from Patrice. While she enjoyed the company of lively young women somewhere nearby, he was caught up in unshakeable daydreams about the next time they’d be face to face. In his attempt to surprise her and remove any possibility of doubt, he’d surprised himself. Terry had no clue he’d gripped with such desire to turn Patrice’s face into a monument to leave gifts of affection for all time. While she thought about him in every giggle and smile in her direction from a cute but ultimately meaningless boy, he couldn’t shake the need to have her around, not just for a chance to hold and be held, but also to have his best friend back. Jokes were less funny when she wasn’t nearby to share them. Screaming on Space Mountain missed a tinge of spark without Patrice joining him in excitement from the adjacent seat. The Carousel of Progress needed her historical commentary to cut through the mind-numbing boredom he experienced with a group of boys disturbing the peace for fun. Food didn’t smell as good without her pulling him toward the turkey wing stand. 

But, as soon as the longing began to overtake their ability to have fun, the clock struck fifteen minutes past 11 to release Patrice from the whimsy of Winnie the Pooh’s adventures and deposited her into the adjoining gift shop for her to search for Terry in every passerby. 

“If they don’t show up in 5 minutes, I say we go eat without them. They can call if they get lost.”

Napheesa made her announcement to a collection of Piglet, Tigger, Eeyore, and Winnie plushies without looking up to verify if Patrice was listening. 

Patrice twirled a necklace between her fingers, trying to play it cool. “Okay,” she answered with no conviction. “That’s cool. I guess we can do that and I’ll text them or something.” 

She hoped she wouldn’t have to. If the most magical place on Earth was real, she could wish upon a star and think Terrence into existence. While she did her best to clear her mind by browsing, Terry and his posse of goofy, loud, and silly friends clamored into the gift shop, causing a ruckus. Napheesa, Alexandria, and Katrina groaned their disapproval of the six boys pushing and shoving their way into the shop. Patrice might have joined them if not for the sight of Terry robbing her of any ability to find an angry bone in her body. 

Chaste hellos replaced the hug. They wanted to avoid extra eyes, so they jumped right into conversation. Terry wordlessly stepped next to Patrice while the others went to find victims to annoy and picked up a stuffed Winnie for inspection. “We gotta get my boy some pants.” 

His silly observation dissolved Patrice into sweet-sounding giggles that immediately invited him in. 

“Sometimes you gotta make space for all that food,” Patrice giggled. “You should know as much as you eat! You talking about yourself, Pooh!” 

Terry tossed the stuffed toy into the air and caught it with ease. “I’m Pooh, huh,” he asked, the wheels turning in his head. Patrice hummed her agreement. “Bet. Then you’re Piglet. You got that little squeaky voice and the whole liking flowers thing in common.” 

“You can never just say something nice. My voice is not squeaky,” Patrice laughed. 

“My bad, Piggy. We’ll keep it at the flowers, then. Cool?” 

Patrice mulled over the compromise and smiled. “That’s cool, Pooh.”

“Blah, blah, blah. Nigga can we eat!”

A tender moment shared in the center of the buzzing store was quickly cut short by an impatiently annoying Nathan itching to grab a meal that fit his dwindling budget. Twin screw faces flashed in his direction made the boy lift his hands in surrender. “My fault, I’m just say-” 

“Damn, Nate. We get it. We comin’!” Patrice’s attitude amused Terry and sent Nate scrambling away with a displeased mumble under his breath. 

When he was out of dodge, Terry placed the toy back on the shelf and extended his hand for Patrice to grab. “C’mon. I’ll pay for this one.” 

Their fingers slid together with ease and never separated. Not during a spirited late-night dinner at The Friar’s Nook, not as Mario sang Braid My Hair on the stage near Cinderella’s Castle, and certainly not during the beginning of a spectacular fireworks display capturing everyone’s attention. 

Bursts of blue, yellow, red, and purple light erupted across a pitch-black sky, turning the expanse of darkness into a colorful display of awe-inspiring magic over the castle’s highest point. While the others murmured ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ at the sheer spectacle of it all, Patrice melded herself into Terry’s side, looking up at the show from his eyes. He was content with consuming the wonder of Michael Mouse until he found a dainty set of fingers turning his face away from the excitement. 

“Hm,” he hummed, smiling down at Patrice. 

She didn’t answer with words. Harnessing strength from some unknown source, Patrice used tired calves to push her body up on toes aching from overuse and press her lips against Terry’s. 

They fell into an easy rhythm like seasoned partners, maneuvering the ebbs and flows of physical intimacy like people twice their age with even more experience. A quiet back and forth of unspoken ‘I love yous” shared between bodies supercharged with emotion became wrapped in movie-worthy enchantment. Terry and Patrice wanted more of each other. They needed more. Even as Terry’s arms moved to hug Patrice closer and her arms found a home on his shoulder, they craved more. 

“Oh damn.” 

Napheesa repeated her earlier shock as she elbowed Corey to join in on observing all they’d worked so hard to orchestrate. 

Standing in a crowd of strangers and friends alike with fireworks bursting like friendly bombs overhead, Terry and Patrice locked lips for the second kiss of their young relationship. The need for oxygen paled compared to the need to taste each other. Fear and trepidation were long gone. With no room left for Jesus, Terry and Patrice had never felt more alive. 

“I love you,” Patrice whispered against his mouth, still trying to keep the sparks alive. 

Terry offered similar sentiments after two quick pecks. “I love you, too.”

Finally pulling away left them breathless and giggling as the end of the presentation neared. Their noses rubbed as a truce to take a break and enjoy the night without adding a third session to the list. 

Fortunately, promises of a romantic nature could be broken without consequence. A third kiss was too perfect to pass up while they waited in line for The Haunted Mansion. Then, the need to end on an even number opened the gate for a bevy of smooches before they returned to their respective hotel rooms high on life. 

The next morning’s excursion to a water park to escape the Florida heat, they picked up where they’d left off, finding time for quick pecks by the wave pool and in the lazy river while Terry pushed Patrice along in her lime green floaty. Dingy carpet, arcade games, and subpar fried cheese couldn’t keep them from each other between rounds of laser tag and pop-a-shot. Kisses skillfully hidden from authority figures before bed on their final night still couldn’t satiate their appetites. 

Though eight hours on the road forced them into a brief intermission, they emerged hotter and heavier after hurrying through conversation with Deidra and Marvin in hopes of borrowing the car keys to cart Patrice home. 

In the parking lot of a dimly lit McDonalds, they put aside lukewarm fries and spicy Sprites to add touches of tongue to their new favorite hobby. Back-to-back phone calls from Leon and Rosalyn separated them prematurely, pulling them away from their private oasis to begrudgingly end the best weekend of their young lives. 

Rosalyn heard the car roll into the driveway in the early minutes of another Law and Order episode and the Sunday sunset but chose to stay put in favor of resting for the first time all evening. The engine shut off, the booming bass from the radio went silent, and doors opened then shut without much fanfare. If not for the murmur of conversation with giggles peppered into the breaks, she would’ve stayed put. But curiosity got the best of her despite her attempts to stay focused on the television. 

Peering through the curtains with much of her body hidden in shadows, Rosalyn caught the beginning of renewed energy in what Terry and Patrice assumed was a safe moment. 

Excitement coursed through Terry’s veins as he pressed his body weight into Patrice’s torso to trap her against the passenger door and brought her hands to the back of his head. “Gimme a kiss,” he murmured into her collarbone as he kissed his way to her cheek. “I need another one.” 

“No, you don’t,” Patrice teased, intending to grant his request. “Come get it.”

Terry answered the tease on command, dragging kisses from Patrice’s cheeks to her lips without missing a beat. Soft pecks morphed into slow kisses teetering on the French variety until roaming hands gripped Patrice’s backside and caused her to yelp in surprise. 

Patrice giggled a girlish, “Stop it!” earning a laugh from Terry. 

“You really want me to?” 

“No,” she answered before leaning in to kiss him again. She pulled back and bit her lip. “I liked it.” 

From what Rosalyn could see, an intervention was necessary to keep two crazy kids from going too far in the driveway. She chose to spare Patrice the embarrassment of her mother appearing at the front door and flipped the porch light on as a warning. Patrice’s entire body tensed in Terry’s embrace before she wiggled out of confinement to collect her things. Terry took the hint and resumed his duties as a gentleman to carry her suitcase up the short flight of steps. 

“I can come pick you up in the morning if you’re still goin’ to school tomorrow,” Terry offered as he pressed the front doorbell for Patrice’s convenience. 

She smiled. “I call shotgun.” Her failed attempt at being flirtatious made them both laugh. “God, Napheesa might be right. I am lame!” 

“Nah, you’re perfect.” Terry’s compliment came with twinkling eyes filled with an emotion Patrice couldn’t quite place with her limited knowledge. He grabbed her hand for a kiss but stopped short when a squeaking bike announced Junior’s presence. 

He abandoned the two-wheeled vehicle in the yard before it could come to a complete stop and immediately assumed the role of younger brother and chief agitator. 

“Get a room or something. Gross.” His kiddie reprimand came with a grimace as he pushed between them to unlock the front door and enter the crisp air conditioning. 

Rosalyn made her appearance with a deliberate walk past the storm door, waving with a smile. “Good to have you home, P. I didn’t hear you pull up. Hi, Terry! Thanks for dropping my baby off. You’re so sweet.” Exaggerated happiness instantly piqued Patrice’s curiosity, but she remained quiet. 

“Ah, it’s no problem,” Terry answered, suddenly bashful. 

His last functioning brain cell reminded him of Patrice’s suitcase. He rushed to move the bag inside before hurriedly turning to the girl whose tongue had become his favorite dessert over the weekend. 

Terry reached out for a hug for Patrice to return, both of them making a show of maintaining the appropriate amount of distance to appease an amused Rosalyn. 

“See you tomorrow,” Patrice mumbled into Terry’s shoulder. 

“Yeah. I’ll pick you up.” Pulling away, he took one last look at her pretty face, resisted the devil on his shoulder clamoring for one more kiss, then turned to acknowledge Rosalyn again. “Tell Mr. Ellis my dad said the garage is ready for the playoffs whenever he wants to stop by.” 

She nodded. “I’ll let him now, sweetheart. You drive safe now.” 

Both ladies watched Terry hurry down the front porch steps to his car to avoid awkwardness in their conversation triangle. When he was out of the driveway, Patrice quietly closed and latched the door. 

“HeymamaIthinkI’mjustgonnatakeallthisstuffinmyroomberightback.” The entire sentence came out in a mess of words pushed together for one incomprehensible sentence. 

Rosalyn chuckled as Patrice rushed past her with all her luggage in tow. “Alright then, Petey. You want some red velvet cake? I can cut you a slice.” 

Patrice mumbled something that sounded like she could go for a bit of sugar with a trail of wind creating a gust of cool air behind her. 

Letting what she’d seen and heard go was an option for Rosalyn. She could allow her daughter to live in la la land for a little longer, peacefully thinking her mother hadn’t been privy to her displays of affection moments earlier. Or she could have the conversation she’d been putting off since she noticed two innocent teenagers shifting their relationship toward something more romantically involved. 

“P! How about I bring the cake to you?” 

A door down the hallway creaked open. “Okay. That works. Thank you!” 

Nodding, Rosalyn took a deep breath and sent a silent prayer to God. She’d chosen the tough route and would need all the Lord’s support she could get.

------

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[scenerthv]

WHEN THE WORLD IS QUIET | PJM

PART ONE

playboy!Jimin x fem!reader

genre: university au, angst, smut, fluff

SYNOPSIS ! (what the story is about is in that link!)

word count: 3.2k

*ੈ✩‧₊˚🎐

There are a lot of things you’ve gotten good at avoiding since you started university.

Noise was one thing. You don’t go out of your way to attend parties, you don’t linger in chaotic study lounges, and you definitely don’t sit in the center of lecture halls where everyone’s packed together like concertgoers getting ready to scream their lungs out.

You’ve learned how to keep your head down, how to move without drawing attention, and how to find the small silent places in a world that never stops spinning.

That’s why your mornings always look the same.

8:00 a.m. You go to your favorite cafe and get yourself a vanilla latte.

8:15 a.m. Walk across campus, headphones in, avoiding eye contact.

8:35 a.m. Slide into your usual seat in the lecture room. Second row, left side, one seat from the edge. Safe and peaceful.

8:50 a.m. Lecture begins.

Simple. Predictable. Yours.

Until today.

You’re only five steps into the lecture hall when you spot it.

Someone’s sitting in your seat.

Well in your row. The window of empty space you’ve claimed quietly, week after week, is no longer empty. There’s a backpack slouched carelessly on the floor, legs sprawled out across the carpet, and a shoulder dipped over the backrest like the chair’s doing him a favor by existing.

You nearly stop walking.

Because even from behind, the silhouette is unmistakable.

Park Jimin.

And you? You’re officially screwed.

You know the name. Everyone does. Jimin is the kind of boy whose reputation enters a room before he does. He’s beautiful. The kind of beauty that feels like a dare. The kind of attention you don’t want, but still catch yourself glancing at.

Rumor says he’s slept with at least three different people from this class alone. Possibly more. And he hasn’t so much as glanced in your direction all semester.

Until now.

You consider leaving. You could take a different seat, even if it means sitting in the back with the loud breathers and laptop-typers. You could walk right out, fake a stomach ache, and skip class entirely. You could do literally anything other than walk down that aisle.

But your hands are already wrapped around your vanilla latte. Your bag is digging into your shoulder. And your professor doesn’t tolerate tardiness.

So, you walk.

Five steps. Then ten.

The closer you get, the more you feel his presence. His hair is pushed back in waves that look too good to be accidental. He’s dressed in a black crewneck, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a thin silver chain resting against his collarbone.

He turns when you pause beside him, a lazy smirk curling at the corner of his mouth.

“Didn’t think anyone else sat in this row,” he says. Voice low. And it sounded like the start of something you didn’t want.

You glance at the empty seat beside him. Then at him. Then back again.

“They don’t,” you reply softly. “But I do.”

His smirk deepens.

“Then by all means,” he says, gesturing grandly. “Join me.”

You sit without another word.

You feel him watching you.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚🎐

Jimin doesn’t speak again. Not right away at least.

But he doesn’t need to. He leans back in his chair like he’s at home, legs spread wide, thumb dragging idly over his phone screen. Every so often, you catch the faintest shift in his posture, a tilt of his head, a glance in your direction, a finger twitching, like he’s watching you without looking too obvious about it.

He is not subtle. And you are not impressed.

You try to focus on your screen. Lecture slides are beginning to fill with bullet points, market trends, economic theory, something about supply chain analysis. You type methodically, just fast enough to stay ahead of your professor’s rhythm.

Jimin doesn’t type at all.

In fact, you’re not sure he’s opened a single document.

You hear him yawn softly next to you and wonder for a moment, what it must be like to glide through university with that kind of ease. Not careless, but untouchable. One where things fall into place just because of who you are.

You sometimes wished you had it that easy.

“Hey,” he murmurs suddenly.

You glance over, reluctantly.

He’s still facing forward, voice pitched low so only you can hear. “You type really fast.”

You blink. “That’s what you interrupted me for?”

He shrugs, smile barely there. “It’s kind of hot.”

Your lips press into a tight line. “Don’t talk to me.”

He grins wider. “You keep saying that, but I’m starting to think you don’t mean it.”

You turn to him now, fully, letting your expression speak louder than words. “I do.”

He lifts his hands in surrender, amused. “Alright, alright. I’ll be good.”

He’s not.

Ten minutes later, he offers you a piece of gum. You ignore him.

Five minutes after that, he drops his pen. Then takes yours.

When you try to snatch it back, his fingers brush yours. Warm. Deliberate.

You jerk your hand away like he’s fire.

“Touchy,” he whispers.

“Annoying,” you whisper back.

His smile is all teeth and trouble.

And you hate the way your stomach twists.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚🎐

You barely survive the rest of the lecture. You managed to keep your notes clean, your face neutral, and your limbs tucked safely into your side of the desk. But it’s harder than it should be.

Jimin doesn’t do anything, not really. He doesn’t flirt in an obvious way or say anything overtly inappropriate. But he’s there, radiating heat, confidence, and attention like it’s second nature. Like he was born to be noticed.

And you?

You are trying desperately not to fall into his bubble.

You pack up quickly after class ends. Laptop closed. Notes stacked. Coffee cup tossed in the recycling bin. You don’t say goodbye. Don’t look back. Just move.

But you don’t even make it to the hallway before you hear it.

“Hey! Wait up.”

Your shoulders tense before you turn.

He’s walking toward you, slow and lazy like there’s no rush. Backpack slung over one arm. That same teasing smile dancing on his lips.

You fold your arms. “Do you ever stop?”

His eyes sparkle. “Nope.”

You sigh.

“I’m Jimin,” he says then, holding out a hand like you haven’t known his name since your first semester.

“I know.”

“You gonna tell me yours?”

You hesitate.

Every instinct in you says no. That you shouldn’t give him anything. You’ve heard the stories, the rumors. Park Jimin is a lesson you didn’t want to learn firsthand.

But he’s watching you like he already knows the ending. And something rebellious stirs in your chest.

“Y/n” you mutter.

His grin grows. “Pretty.”

“You should go.”

“Only if you come with me.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“There’s a cafe across campus. Good iced coffee. Better bagels.” He shrugs. “I’m hungry.”

“And you think I’m hungry too?”

“No,” he says, head tilting. “But I think you’re interested in me.”

You narrow your eyes. Just how high is his ego?

“I’m not,” you say flatly.

He laughs under his breath, and it’s disgustingly charming. “Then I’ll see you next class, partner.”

You freeze.

“…Partner?”

He pulls out his phone, taps a few times, and turns the screen to you.

Group 4: PARK JIMIN, L/N Y/N

The class project. The one that lasts the entire semester. The one you were dreading.

Your stomach sinks. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“It must be fate,” he says, winking.

You stare at him for a long moment.

Then you turn around and walk away.

This time, you do look back.

Only once.

He’s still standing there, smiling like he knows something you don’t.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚🎐

You don’t think about Jimin for the rest of the day.

Well. You try not to.

You tell yourself he’s just like the background noise in the halls. Unavoidable, sure, but not worth tuning into. The kind of boy who floats through life with too many numbers in his phone and not enough sincerity in his voice.

It works. For a little while.

Until you check your email.

Subject: “Group 4 - Semester Project Guidelines”

From: Professor Lee

You skim the list. Timeline, expectations, deliverables. Midterm presentation. Final paper. Weekly check-ins. The same grueling structure as every other group project, but now with the added headache of Park Jimin.

You close the tab and exhale slowly.

You can handle this. You can stay professional. You can survive one semester of proximity without getting pulled into the whirlpool of his attention.

Probably.

Your phone buzzes.

Unknown number.

You hesitate.

Then unlock it.

** :

hey partner ;)

just read the email. u free this week?

You blink. Then frown.

Did he save your number? How did he even get it?

You:

How did you get my number?

Jimin:

class group chat.

ur profile pic is cute btw

You groan into your hands.

You:

We should meet to go over the project.

Jimin:

u asking me out?

You:

I will block you.

Jimin:

damn

okay okay

i’m free thursday after 3

You:

Library. Second floor. Study rooms in the back.

Jimin:

sounds hot

see u then.

You toss your phone onto your bed like it personally betrayed you.

This is going to be a long semester.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚🎐

Thursday comes faster than expected.

You arrive ten minutes early. You wanted time to pick a quiet corner, open your laptop, and steel yourself for whatever version Jimin decides to show up as.

You’ve seen him on campus since that first day. Laughing with friends near the art building. Leaning against vending machines like they’re props in a music video. Walking out of the business department with his sleeves rolled up and a girl giggling beside him.

He hasn’t noticed you again. Or maybe he has, and he’s just letting you think otherwise.

You pick a room with glass walls but enough distance from foot traffic to feel semi-private. You pull up the project brief. You outline a few tasks, researching presentation, slide formatting, and even sketch a rough schedule.

At 3:10, the door opens.

And there he is.

Late, of course. But somehow, still managing to look like he owns the place.

“Hey, scholar,” he says, sliding into the seat across from you like he’s been here a thousand times before.

You don’t look up. “We’re already behind.”

“Chill,” he says, propping his chin on his hand. “We’ve got time.”

You risk a glance.

He’s wearing a fitted white tee under a soft denim jacket, a chain around his neck, and an expression that says he’s more entertained by you than the actual assignment.

You shut your laptop.

“Let’s get something straight,” you say quietly. “I don’t care what people say about you, or how you act with them. This project matters to me. So if you’re going to flirt or screw around, go do it somewhere else.”

There’s a long pause.

Then he laughs.

“Damn,” he says, eyes shining. “You’re serious.”

You stare at him, unmoving.

“I like that.”

You blink. “You like that I don’t like you?”

“Kind of.” He leans forward, elbows on the table. “You’re not pretending. Most people do. Smile at me, laugh at everything I say, then talk shit the second I leave. But you? You’re honest.”

“I’m not being honest,” you mutter. “You’re just annoying.”

“Same thing.”

You open your laptop again.

“This is due in three phases. First milestone is a week from Monday.”

He nods, finally matching your tone. “Okay. What do you want me to do?”

You blink.

You’d half expected him to push back. Dodge responsibility. Fake an emergency. But he’s watching you instead, waiting for directions, like this actually matters.

“You’re good at presenting,” you say cautiously.

“Sure am,” he says with a wink.

You roll your eyes. “Then start outlining the first section.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You spend the next forty-five minutes working side by side.

To your surprise, he’s focused. Not perfect, but present. He asks questions. Types faster than you’d expect. Doodles a little in the margins of the shared doc, but nothing disruptive.

At one point, your knees brush under the table. You freeze. He doesn’t move.

You scoot your chair back slightly. He hides a smile behind his water bottle.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚🎐

When you finally wrap up the session, your head is spinning.

Because it went fine. Better than fine, actually.

And Jimin..he was still Jimin. A little smug, a little too pretty for his own good, but also unexpectedly thoughtful. Capable. Collaborative.

As you gather your things, he watches you quietly.

“Are you always like this?” he asks.

You glance up. “Like what?”

“Quiet.”

You pause. Then zip your bag.

“Only around people I don’t trust.”

His smile falters just for a second.

Then he nods. “That’s fair.”

You think that’s the end of it. You turn to leave.

But just before you reach the door, he calls out.

“Hey.”

You glance back.

You notice him hesitate before speaking, and then he quietly shakes his head. “Nevermind.”

You don’t answer.

You just walk away.

But your chest feels heavier than before.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚🎐

You don’t think about Jimin that night.

Not exactly.

It’s more like the memory of him clings to you. His voice low and smooth, his eyes cutting sideways with something unreadable, that ridiculous smirk when he caught you flustered. It settles behind your ribs, heavy but soft, like the feeling of knowing a storm is coming before the clouds even form.

And the worst part?

You can’t even tell if you’re annoyed or intrigued.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚🎐

The days after pass strangely.

Your paths don’t cross again right away. Not on campus, not in your shared lecture, not even by accident. He’s absent for the next class, and the seat beside you stays empty.

It should feel like relief.

But it doesn’t.

You try not to look at the door when it opens late. You try not to check your phone. You try not to notice how the second-row seat next to yours suddenly feels colder.

He messages you late that night.

Jimin:

sorry i missed class

had to meet w/ my advisor

what’d i miss?

You:

Not much. Notes in the drive.

Jimin:

ur an angel

i owe u one

You:

You owe me finishing the presentation on time.

Jimin:

oh come on

i was hoping u’d say dinner 😔

You stare at your screen.

You:

That’s not happening

Jimin:

not yet

You don’t reply after that.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚🎐

You meet again the next week to work, same room, same seats.

And it’s easier this time.

There’s less tension in the air. Less suspicion in your chest. You’re not sure if it’s him who’s different or if you’re just adjusting to the strange pull of his presence.

He still flirts. But it’s not aggressive. Not forceful. It’s light. Teasing. More like he’s testing the edges of your resistance than trying to tear it down.

And he’s annoyingly good at this project.

His ideas are sharp, and he’s articulate when he presents them. He’s not afraid of speaking, not hesitant about taking the lead and he listens when you challenge him.

Really listens.

Somewhere in the second hour, he starts chewing on the tip of a pen while thinking through a citation. You don’t mean to look. You really don’t.

But your eyes drift.

And your chest does that thing again. That traitorous, fluttering thing that makes your spine straighten and your jaw tighten, like you can scare the feeling out of your body if you’re stiff enough.

He catches you.

He doesn’t say anything. Just glances up slowly, meets your eyes, and raises a single brow.

You look away first, your cheeks heating up.

He chuckles to himself.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚🎐

The moment you realize you’re in trouble doesn’t hit you all at once.

It’s slow. Subtle.

It’s in the way you start dressing a little more carefully on the days you might see him. It’s in the way you think about what to say before you open the chat. It’s in the fact that his voice, his dumb, drawling, overconfident voice is now unmistakably stored in your head.

It’s in the fact that, even when you’re not around him, you still feel like you are.

You don’t like him.

You remind yourself of that every time he texts. Every time his knee bumps yours in the study room. Every time he tells you that you’re “different” and “smart” and “the only girl who talks to him like he’s not a goddamn Disney prince.”

You don’t like him.

But he’s becoming harder to ignore.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚🎐

The rain came suddenly.

You hadn’t planned to study. The week’s been long, the assignment is mostly done, and your bed is calling like a siren song. But Jimin texts you around 7 p.m.

Jimin:

hey

it’s pouring

power went out in my apartment

library’s still open, right?

You:

It is. You need help?

Jimin:

nah. just don’t wanna sit in the dark.

u coming?

You:

I wasn’t planning on it

Jimin:

come keep me company

promise i’ll behave

You:

That would be a first.

Jimin:

pls? 🥺

*ੈ✩‧₊˚🎐

You go.

You don’t know why. Maybe it’s the rain. Maybe it’s boredom. Maybe it’s the tiny voice in your chest that’s been curious ever since he first smiled at you in that lecture hall seat.

Whatever it was, you listened to it and went.

He’s waiting near the back tables. Hoodie pulled up, earbuds in, slouched over his laptop. He looks up when he sees you and smiles like he knew you’d come.

“Hey, scholar.”

“You owe me coffee.”

He chuckles. “Next time. Pinky swear.”

You sit beside him. Close. Closer than before.

The library is nearly empty, most students aren’t desperate enough to be here on a rainy Friday night and for once, the world does feel quiet.

Time stretches differently.

You work in silence for a while. Until your screens start to dim, your shoulders relax, and the only sound is the low hum of storm outside.

Eventually, you glance over.

He’s staring ahead, but not at his screen. His eyes are soft. Distant. Like he’s somewhere else entirely.

“Jimin?” you say softly.

He blinks and turns towards you.

He doesn’t smile.

“Can I ask you something?” he says after a beat.

You nod.

“Do you think people can change?”

You’re not expecting the question.

It sits heavy in the space between you.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “If they want to.”

He’s quiet.

Then, so softly you almost miss it.

“Even someone like me?”

You stare at him.

And for the first time, you realize that he doesn’t actually believe the answer.

But maybe he wants to.

The moment stretches too long.

You could say something. You could ask him why he’s asking. You could tease, deflect, ignore it completely.

But when the world is quiet and it’s just the two of you, alone in a forgotten corner of the library with the rain against the windows and the hum of electricity in the air, something shifts.

You don’t say anything.

You just reach out, gently, and hand him your last piece of gum.

His smile returns.

But this time, it’s different.

Softer.

Real.

And you think that you may have started to lose the battle you were never meant to fight.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚🎐

notes: haiiii !! i want to be clear that this is my first story I’ve written since.. 2021? So I apologize if its not the best right now, I’m a bit rusty lol.

I’m super excited to be starting this story. I was thinking about it and I think I’ll do maybe 5-6 parts, (7 maximum though). I hope you stick around for the story!

Likes, comments, reblogs, asks & feedbacks are appreciated. Thank you! <3

tags: @pjmxxjmdipity @osakis-gf @graydolan12

[mon-amorie]

‎ ‎ ‎ ... ‎ ( ‎ Hotline ‎ )

scene ‎ ─── ‎ on campus where anonymity breeds honesty, a late-night confessions app becomes your escape. a place where students anonymously share voice notes or texts about anything—stress, confessions, poetry, love, lust, loneliness—all sacred. naturally, you become drawn to a certain user, his words resonating deeply, almost bleeding through the screen. compelled by an unspoken connection, you send a reply

⠀⠀⠀⠀ ‎ ‎ ( pairing ) ‎ hyunjin x f!reader ‎ ( genre ) ‎ college au, slow burn, fluff, slight angst, academic burnout, profanity, contains mature content ‎ !mdni! ‎ ( wc. ) ‎ 28.7k ‎ / ‎ part two. ‎ back to nav.

゜・．・ note! ‎ ─ ‎ thought this was a super cute idea. got really into it (had to spilt it up in parts), so i hope you enjoyyy reading. please let me know your thoughts! took a while to finalize, so it'd mean a lot to me. lots of love, nana

‎ ‎ ‎"...and if we look at the second stanza, we’ll see how she contrasts grief with—"

You caught bits of everything, but held onto none of it.

Your mind had been elsewhere since morning, drifting in and out like radio static. The lecture, the notes, the faint scratching of pens. It all passed through you without actually sticking. You kept thinking about the bakery near campus, the unread emails piling up, the to-do list growing longer by the hour. It was all beginning to feel like too much, bit by bit.

The door creaked open. You payed no mind to it. But if you had, you might've noticed him.

A tall guy slipping in late, hoodie soaked dark at the shoulders. Damp hair curling onto his cheek. He didn't draw attention to himself, didn't offer excuses. Just eased into a seat a few rows back, his movements fluid, careful. His chest rose and fell, still evening out from the rush across campus.

You let your chin fall into your hand, your gaze sliding toward the window. The rain streaked sideways across the glass, soft but relentless. You let your eyes follow it, maybe hoping it would make things feel a little lighter.

"...so I'm going to give you the rest of the class as a study hall," your professor announced, barely fighting a yawn. "Catch up on readings, work on your papers. Just don't vanish."

A ripple of quiet relief passed through the room. Backpacks shifted. Chairs scraped. Someone whispered, "Bless," under their breath, followed by a soft chuckle. The projector clicked off, and in that dimmed silence, something inside you loosened.

You didn't wait.

As soon as the screen went away, your head dropped to your folded arms. Your shoulders slackened. Your grip on everything eased. The noise around you blurred into something soft and far away.

Barely a few seconds passed before—

"Yah, dead already?" came a voice, teasing but soft. A familiar one.

You didn't even lift your head. "Hey, Bin."

Changbin dropped into the seat to your left like gravity owed him something, juggling three bags and zero chill. His hair was damp from the rain, hoodie clinging to the curve of his neck. A paper coffee cup steamed between his hands, the scent curling faintly into the air around you.

On your other side, Chaeryeong landed with a theatrical sigh, like she'd rehearsed it. She slid her tote bag off her shoulder, reached across you, and gently shut your neglected laptop without a word.

"She's in mourning," she declared solemnly. "Fell in battle after that last psych quiz. May she rest."

"I salute you, fallen soldier," Changbin added, giving a mock salute.

You groaned softly, face still buried in your arms.

Chaeryeong grinned, already pulling a half-eaten box of pocky from her bag like it was part of her survival kit. "No, but seriously. You okay?"

"I'm tired," you mumbled. "And I've got like three papers due next week."

"Okay, but one of them's just a book response, right?" Chaeryeong offered.

You cracked one eye open, cheek still pressed to your sleeve. "The book is seven hundred pages."

Changbin let out a low whistle. "Yeah, no. Death sounds fair."

"Anyway," Chaeryeong said, grabbing her phone. "Can we talk about the girl who dropped a six-part rant on Hotline last night? All because her ex started dating someone from the chess team."

“I saw that!” Changbin perked up, popping the lid off his drink. “It’s so dramatic. Didn’t the girl cheat or something? And now she’s pissed he moved on?”

“She’s not mad he moved on,” Chaeryeong corrected, scrolling through her feed. “She’s mad he moved on fast and to someone who’s, and I quote, too niche. It’s so dumb.”

That earned a soft snort from you.

They both turned toward you, sensing the first sign of life.

“You use it, right?” Changbin asked, tone casual as he took a sip.

You blinked. “Use what?”

“The app,” he said. “Hotline. You’ve posted before?”

You shrugged, slow and noncommittal. “Doesn’t everyone?”

“Yeah, but you probably post those dramatic 2 AM voice notes,” he teased. “Like, ‘the rain reminds me of everything I never said to him’.”

You lifted your head just enough to glare at him. "God forbid a girl expresses her feelings."

He laughed, nearly spilling his drink.

Chaeryeong’s eyes flitted between the two of you, narrowed in curiosity. “Wait. Now I’m curious. What do you post?”

“I’m not telling you,” you said flatly, stretching your arms over your head until your spine cracked. “That defeats the point of anonymous.”

“Which means she definitely posts dramatic 2AM voice notes,” Changbin said smugly.

You rolled your eyes but didn't deny it. The conversation moved on without you, their bickering fading into background noise again.

The room buzzed with low conversation now that the lecture was on pause. A kind of collective exhale. Some students cracked open their laptops, pretending to be productive. Others leaned together in loose circles, whispering and laughing like this was a café instead of a half-lit lecture hall with forty minutes still left on the clock.

Behind you, a chair creaked.

Hyunjin sat slouched in his seat, hoodie up, pencil twirling loosely between his fingers. He hadn’t bothered with his laptop. Just a small sketchbook open on the desk, angled away from view. His bag sat untouched at his feet, the canvas edges still damp from the rain.

He’d slipped in late, quietly, after snoozing his alarm one too many times. Not that it mattered. He wasn’t the only one. He recognized most people in this class. Faces, names, friend groups that orbited each other in lazy, habitual loops. He didn’t talk to them. Didn’t need to.

After all, people only ever asked questions when you gave them answers first. And Hyunjin never did.

His gaze drifted over the room, not looking for anything in particular, until it landed on you.

You sat between two friends, head tilted, listening without really reacting. Like you were there, but not entirely present. Your fingers toyed absentmindedly with the frayed cuff of your sleeve. The kind of movement that said more than words. Like your brain was running in twelve directions, none of them clear.

He knew your name, though you’d never spoken directly. You were in his poetry seminar. Mondays and Thursdays, always a few seats ahead. Head bowed when tired. Notebook open and full when it mattered. He’d caught glimpses of your margin notes once, slanted in quick, neat handwriting. Thought about them later, for no reason at all.

He glanced down, sketchbook still open, finally letting his pencil move across the page. He didn’t try to define it. He just drew. Trying not to think too hard about the way you stared out the window like you were asking it a question. Like maybe you were waiting for an answer.

“It tastes like wood glue,” Changbin insists.

“You’ve eaten wood glue?” Chaeryeong shoots back, raising an eyebrow.

“Didn’t say that.”

“You implied it.”

Their voices curled around you like ambient noise. Familiar. Safe. Like the kind of background hum you’d grown up with in a house full of sound. You didn’t have to join in to feel like you belonged there.

Study group at four. Grocery run after. Need to text Mom back. I should drop that one class. Chae’s hair looks really good today. The bakery closes early. I should go.

Outside, a blur of students ran across the courtyard, three of them sharing one hoodie like it was shelter. In the back corner, a girl hummed quietly to herself, scrolling on her phone. Behind her, a guy slumped in his chair while his friend patted his back over a crush spiral. Small, silent scenes repeating everywhere.

And you sat there, wondering if anyone else in this room felt the way you did.

Chaeryeong tapped her fingers against the desk, looking thoughtful. “Okay, but wait. Do you think it’s possible to fall for someone just through words?”

You turned slightly, attention slipping back into the present.

“What, like texting?” Changbin asked, frowning. “Isn’t that just… long-distance?”

“Well, yeah,” she said, “but I mean on the app. Anons. No names, no faces. Just someone’s voice. Or their thoughts. The way they write.” She said it like she’d already fallen.

Changbin looked skeptical. “That sounds like catfishing.”

"I think it sounds romantic," she countered.

"You think free samples at beauty stores are romantic."

"And? Have you ever been handed perfume by a stranger who calls you 'miss' with a French accent? That's cinema.”

You laughed, eyes drifting to your desk.

Her question sat with you. Not just because of the app. Not even because of the weird ache you carried around like a second skin. But because lately, the idea of being seen without being looked at had started to sound like safety.

To be chosen, not for your academics or how you looked when you walked into class on a Tuesday morning, but for your voice. Your words. The kind of things you say when you think no one’s listening.

Maybe it was all the poetry readings getting to you. Or maybe it was just everything.

You rubbed your temple, the pressure pooling behind your eyes. And then, before you could overthink it—

“I think I’m burnt out.”

It’s not dramatic. Just quiet. Honest in a way that felt like a sigh. They both go still.

“Wanna skip next class?” Chaeryeong asked, chin in hand, voice casual but eyes flicking toward you with quiet concern. “You look like you could use a break.”

You glance at the clock, considering. “Don’t you guys have an exam after this?”

“So?” they say in sync, almost offended.

You huff a small laugh. “I think I’m just gonna stop by the bakery,” you say, sitting up and brushing your hair back from your face. “You two stay. I’ll grab something and bring it back.”

Chaeryeong frowns, clearly not sold. “You sure?”

You nod. “I need the walk.”

Truthfully, you need the air and the silence. The space to pull yourself back together.

Changbin pulls a crumpled bill from his pocket and slaps it into your hand. “Bring me an iced americano.”

“In this weather? I’m not your delivery service.”

“You offered,” he says smugly, ignoring the logic.

Chaeryeong grins as you turn to her. “I’ll take something flaky and not too sweet. Please? Oh, and maybe a batch of cookies if they’ve got any.”

“Damn, you hungry or—” Changbin starts.

“It’s for all of us, dumbass,” she mutters, elbowing him. He laughs.

You roll your eyes, but there’s warmth rising at the edges of your expression.

You stood, scarf in hand, wrapping it once around your neck. Phone tucked into your pocket. Outside, the rain’s picked up again. Steadier now, heavier. But there’s a comfort in it. Like if you just kept walking, maybe something in you would finally rinse clean.

Before you turned to leave, your gaze lifted just once toward the upper rows. That’s when you saw him.

Hood half-off. Headphones in. One earbud dangling. His phone glows dimly in his hand, thumb scrolling in lazy, distracted loops. The sketchbook still lies open beside him, spine bowed, edges curling slightly from wear.

You’re certain you’ve seen him before. In passing. In class, maybe. Familiar in the way foggy mornings are.

But you don’t stare. Don’t give yourself the time to linger. You miss the way he looks up, just briefly, as you step out of the lecture hall, offering the professor a quiet nod on your way out. His eyes follow the back of your head, watching the door as it closes behind you.

Then he exhales, shifting his gaze back down to the screen in his palm—

Only to catch his own reflection staring back.

𐪞

*ding*

The door chimed softly as you stepped into the bakery. A mid-morning lull. Only a few students were tucked into booths. Heads bowed, mugs cradled, music whispering through shared earbuds. The windows were gently fogged from the warmth inside, streaked by rivulets of rain. Soft jazz played low from a speaker near the display case.

The air wrapped around you like a blanket, rich with the scent of sweet dough and fresh espresso. Something about it made your shoulders loosen..

You exhale for the first time in what feels like hours.

The cashier, a boy with sleepy eyes and a polite smile, rang you up. Minho, his name tag read.

One iced americano. Two chocolate croissants. A small paper bag of cookies. You paused before ordering, hesitating at the register until the cold on your fingers convinced you to add a hot chocolate to the list.

“Here you go,” he said, sliding the bag and warm drink toward you with practiced grace. “Have a good one.”

“Thanks,” you murmured, clutching the bag like it held something more than food.

You found a booth in the corner, right by the window, and slid into the seat. The warmth from the pastries seeped through the paper bag, into your lap, grounding you.

Then your phone buzzed.

chae 🧡 — tell me u got the cookies ...

binnie — she want that cookie so effing badddd 

⤷  you — pls

you — got you both sweets, don’t be weird about it

chae 🧡 — french kissing you rn 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩

(you) loved a message.

binnie — bro probably forgot my drink

you — i literally got it, wdym

binnie — oh

binnie — ok nvm ily

⤷  chae 🧡 — LMAO?

binnie — wait, what pastry tho?

you — choco croissant

(binnie) and (chae 🧡) loved a message.

chae 🧡 — chessss, u know me so well

binnie — BLESS

jisung —  ….

jisung — nah nah that's crazy 😭

jisung — did i die or something why am i not in this drop

you — you're sick

jisung — ok but i'm not DEAD

binnie — u sound like a frail victorian child. get off ur phone bro

jisung — i literally just wanted to feel something 😞

you — we'll bring you soup tmrw chill

jisung — finally. one decent person in this grp, yall suck

chae 🧡 — hope ur door stays jammed and that the tissues are just outta reach

jisung — :'(

you — anyway

you — see y'all in ten

A smile tugged at your lips before you even realized it. You tucked your phone away, fingers still warm from the cup in your hand.

The first sip of your hot chocolate tasted like a delicacy.

And for the first time today, the quiet didn’t feel heavy. It felt kind. Like a small, unexpected pocket of calm had been carved out just for you.

𐪞

The low hum of your mini heater filled the quiet of your dorm. Soft, steady.

The mirror in the bathroom was still fogged from your shower, and a towel hung crooked on the hook, like it had given up halfway through the fall. The air smelled like your new body wash and the faint trace of laundry detergent from the pile you only half-folded before flopping into bed.

By the time you curled under the blanket, you were already halfway asleep. Hair still damp against the pillow. Your body didn’t feel tired so much as done. Like you’d been holding yourself upright all day and had finally set it all down.

It was past ten. Maybe closer to midnight.

The glow of your laptop still lit the far side of the room, casting shapes against the wall. But you weren’t at your desk. The assignments could wait a little longer.

Your phone rested beside you, screen dark. You unlocked it.

Hotline.

You hadn’t even thought about it. It was there, waiting. Your thumb hovered over the app like it knew the path before your mind caught up. Like muscle memory had guided you.

So, you opened it.

The interface bloomed onto the screen, slow and gentle. No ads. No noise. Just space. Dark blues fading into muted purples, then warm orange and soft red. An ombre that looked like dusk. The kind of palette that made you exhale without realizing.

The posts glowed in soft contrast. Little fragments of thoughts, floating like signals in the dark.

Your gaze drifted to the small mic icon in the corner of the homepage. You hovered.

And then, without really deciding, you pressed it.

‎ ‎ ‎user074320 • now (recording) — For a moment there’s nothing. Just the low hum of your heater filling the silence. "…Dostoevsky once said, ‘It is better to be unhappy and know the worst, than to be happy in a fool’s paradise’”

A beat of silence.

“…Which is dramatic as hell for a guy who’s been dead since the 1800s, but like, he was definitely onto something.”

You exhale a breath that’s half a laugh, half just tired.

“I don’t know. I had a decent day. Laughed at something dumb. Saw a cute cat. Ate a cookie that was probably 90% butter. Got rained on, but in a main character kind of way, so… cinematic points, I guess.”

Another pause, like you’re deciding whether to keep talking.

“Still came home and immediately face-planted into my bed like I’d been sprinting uphill for hours. Like my brain’s doing laps while my body’s trying to power down. I don’t even know what I’m carrying, but it feels heavy.”

*whirr*

“…Anyway. If you’re listening, I hope today felt a little less heavy for you. Or that you had a good hair day. Or at least, I hope the soup you had was hot. That helps sometimes.”

Tap.

You didn’t relisten. You just let it post.

Then set the phone down beside you, screen still faintly warm in your hand. Your eyes closed for a second.

The app refreshed on its own. Your note now quietly sitting on your profile, timestamped and anonymous. Below it, the familiar scroll of recommendations began to fill the screen, one by one. Posts you’d probably forget in a few hours. Little confessions floating around like fireflies in the dark.

You scrolled. Mindlessly, absently. Not really searching just… keeping yourself company. Then paused.

A profile caught your eye. Not because of the username or the nearly empty bio besides pronouns, but because of the profile picture.

A blurry painting of flowers in a vase. Not neat or delicate. Just color and chaos, all messy strokes like someone tried to paint a feeling instead of a thing. Curious, you tapped.

The first post loaded, dated today.

‎ ‎ ‎user024025 • 15h — opened my notes app to study and ended up writing poetry about someone who doesn’t know i exist. so anyway. GPA stands for girl please acknowledge me.

A quiet laugh pressed into your pillow before you could stop it. And before you knew it, you were scrolling.

‎ ‎ is it weird that i want someone to know me so well they can tell what kinda of day i’ve had just by the way i say “hey”?

if you see this: drink water. stretch your back. your spine’s not supposed to feel like that.

‎ ‎ accidentally caught eye contact with someone while trying to sketch them and now i need to change campuses.

saw a couple slow dancing under the overhang outside the library during the rain. no music. just the sound of puddles. when will that be me????

‎ ‎ i think most people don’t actually want to be saved. they just want someone to sit next to them in the dark and not try to fix it. just… be there. and lately, i think that’s all i want too.

saw my ex get rejected by my friend who works at the bakery. what a good day to be alive. 7/10 pastry tho.

‎ ‎ sometimes i want to be held. other times i just want to be understood. today i wanted both but settled for neither. next question.

love when the universe throws me a bone. like yeah, i saw my ex. yeah, they tried to say hi. yeah, i pretended to be deep in a phone call with my grandma. (i was on the calculator app)

‎ ‎ i asked chris if i was annoying and he said “no more than usual.” it’s the little things keeping me alive.

got my coffee and accidentally said ‘you too’ to the barista when she told me to enjoy it. yah i’m never showing my face there again.

‎ ‎ you ever meet someone and immediately know you’d write poems about them that they’d never see?

group projects should come with therapy vouchers. and snacks.

‎ ‎ had a staring contest with a cat on the way to class. pretty sure it cursed me. failed a quiz an hour later.

i don’t want fireworks. just someone who holds my hand in grocery stores and knows how i take my coffee and doesn’t let me spiral alone at night.

‎ ‎ some days i feel like i’m here. like really here. i ask people how their weekend was. i nod at the right times. i drink my coffee before the ice melts. and it’s fine. it’s all fine. and then there are days like today. where everything feels like i’m two steps behind myself. like i’m watching my life happen through a window i can’t open. i think what gets to me the most is how no one notices. or maybe they do and just don’t ask. sometimes i just want someone to ask me something real. not like “how are you?” in the way people say it when they’re already moving on. like: “what do you think about before you fall asleep?” or “what memory do you wish felt less distant?“ but no one really asks things like that. so i write it here. not for attention or pity. just in case someone reads it and thinks, oh. me too.

Your thumb lingered on that one a little longer than you meant to. The date, just two days ago, stood out.

They weren’t sappy love notes or petty school gossip. Some were funny, in that quiet, offbeat way that made you smile before you even realized it. Others read like scattered thoughts—tiny moments most people would overlook. A few felt heavy. Not necessarily poetic, just emotionally fluent.

And somehow, the mix made it feel real. Like the person behind them wasn’t trying to be profound, just thinking out loud. And you’d wandered into the middle of it. A stream of consciousness, left open.

You hadn’t noticed how long you’d been reading until the screen dimmed and your eyes blinked back into focus. Your phone had grown warm in your hand, the heat pressed lightly into your palm.

‎ ‎ ‎1:03 AM.

The rain still tapped steadily on the glass.

Your chest felt different. Still heavy. Still stretched from the day. But in that quiet corner of the internet, nestled between strangers and static, you felt a little less alone.

Something about his voice, even in text, made you want to stay just a little longer.

‎ ‎ ‎

‎ ‎ [Three weeks later, Monday morning]

‎ ‎ ‎

The sky looked bruised, grey bleeding into dull blue. Wind tugged at the edges of your sweater, fingers stiff as you clutched your phone and bag tighter, breath visible in the air. The walk to class felt longer today, like the world was resisting your movement, nudging you to turn around and call it quits. But you kept going.

It was early. Too early.

Streetlights flickered lazily overhead, and puddles scattered like shards across the sidewalk caught the faintest blush of light. Some students trudged past on foot. Others biked through the cold with determined misery, scarves trailing like battle flags.

You don’t remember what song was playing through your headphones. Just that it had faded into background noise by the time you reached the stone steps of the humanities building.

Inside, the contrast hit almost instantly. The stairwell was warmer, just barely. Echoes of your footsteps followed you up the narrow steps, and by the time you reached the second floor, the change in temperature was more noticeable. You pushed open the door to your poetry seminar, and warmth met you like a second skin. Soft. Immediate. A quiet relief.

The room was already half full.

You weren’t late, class hadn’t even started, but clearly, you weren’t the only one who’d chosen refuge here before the day officially began.

You made your way to your usual seat and set your things down slowly, your hands still stiff from the cold. Everything felt a little off-center. Not wrong exactly, just out of rhythm.

Lately, that feeling had been harder to shake. The kind of tired that didn’t come with yawns or heavy eyes, just a dull pressure that settled in your heart and stayed there. You were keeping up with your work. More than keeping up, really, but it still didn’t feel like enough.

And it followed you even now, as you sat there thumbing through your notes and pretending not to notice the unopened grocery list still sitting in your phone. Another reminder you’d snoozed: Buy Minho a birthday gift.

You’d been meaning to. Really. You wanted to find something personal. Something that said thank you without saying ‘thank you for giving me a pastry when I cried in your bakery and not making it weird’.

Because somehow, that moment, nearly a month ago, had turned into a quiet friendship.

You hadn’t planned to cry. You barely even remembered what tipped you over. Just that you’d walked in soaked from the rain, holding too much all at once. And Minho had noticed. Said nothing about your face or your silence. Just slid a pastry across the counter, as if to say it’s okay to fall apart here, and turned away like it was nothing.

But it wasn’t nothing.

Since then, he’d been… steady. Generous, even. Letting you help around the bakery during slow hours, never mind the fact that you didn’t have any real experience. Never asked much from you, just gave you things to do, space to exist. And somehow, that space he gave had started to feel like something you could lean into.

You liked that about him. The way he didn’t make kindness feel like a spotlight.

It was so different from what you were used to.

Your dad’s voice still echoed faintly in your ears from the night before. Something about your grades. Something about getting a “real” job.

You’d tuned most of it out after the first few lines, just enough to keep from getting pulled under. It wasn’t like you weren’t trying. He just had a way of making even your best efforts sound like placeholder. Like you were always one decision away from disappointing him again.

Still, despite all that, your thoughts drifted elsewhere.

To him.

He never said his name. Only posted every so often, like he didn’t want to be seen but couldn’t help sharing little pieces of himself anyway. You’d never liked a single post. Never interacted. But you read every one. Not because you had a crush, exactly. There wasn’t anything romantic about it. Just curiosity. Like watching someone through a fogged window and trying to make out the shape of them.

You were pulled back to the present when a gust of wind rattled the window behind you. Your pen paused mid-scribble. The clock ticked closer to the hour.

With a quiet sigh, you opened your laptop and notebook, settling in. Around you, the room had filled up fast. Low chatter. Laptop keys. The soft rustle of jackets being peeled off. You barely noticed when the door creaked open again.

He walked in, unhurried for once. Bag slung casually over one shoulder, cheeks still pink from the cold. Your gaze lifted just as he passed your row.

It wasn’t a moment, just a glance. Eyes met. But it caught him off guard.

Somewhere in his head, something slipped. You didn’t catch the subtle shift in his grip, or how he sat down with a stiffness he didn’t usually have. His face slightly redder than before.

The professor arrived a few minutes later, launching into the usual rhythm. Announcements, dates, some soft reminders about next week’s readings. The background noise of scribbling pens and laptop keys filled in the rest.

You let yourself tune in loosely, just enough to stay tethered, until—

“I want you to write something,” the professor said, her voice lifting over the murmur, “about someone in this class.”

Your head tilted slightly. That wasn’t the usual prompt.

“Doesn’t have to be literal,” she added quickly, grinning as a few groans rose up. “And it doesn’t need to be emotional or romantic, so don’t panic. Just something rooted in observation. The way someone carries themselves. A glance. A moment you noticed. Real or imagined, doesn’t matter. Just write.”

The room stirred with sudden interest. Chairs shifted. Voices rose.

You stayed where you were. It wasn’t that the assignment scared you. It was just that your brain couldn’t decide what emotion to land on lately, and the idea of having to funnel that through another person felt like a lot.

Then your professor clapped once, sharp and cheerful.

“Pair up. You don’t have to tell your partner who you’re writing about. But you do need to help them brainstorm.”

You blinked. That part hadn’t been in the fine print.

Chairs scraped. People turned to their neighbors, already half-laughing and claiming partners with ease. You glanced once to your right, then left, more out of reflex than expectation. Then—

“You,” your professor called, eyes meeting yours. “Still need someone?”

You gave a single nod, calm. She gestured past you.

“Hwang. You’re with her.”

Well, damn.

He didn’t move at first. Still a few rows behind, seated along the elevated stretch of desks. His fingers tapped a slow, barely-there rhythm on the edge of his notebook, like he was waiting to see if you’d look up first.

When you didn’t, he stood. Walked down the aisle with a kind of casual hesitation, like he wasn’t sure what to expect. And then just hovered.

You glanced up when you felt his presence at your side.

“Mind if I—?” He gestured toward the empty chair next to you, already halfway pulling it out.

You shook your head. “Go ahead.”

He sat a little too fast, the legs of the chair dragging with an unfortunate screech across the floor. Someone in front of you turned briefly at the sound. You didn’t laugh, but your smile almost gave you away.

Neither of you spoke right away. He glanced down at his notebook like he expected it to do the talking. It didn’t.

“…So,” he said after a second. “Poem. About a classmate.”

You nodded. He paused like he had more to say, then shook his head lightly. “You wanna go first? Or—wait. That makes it sound like I’m trying to dodge it.” He winced. “I just meant—”

You let out a soft laugh. “It’s fine.”

The professor had moved to the far end of the room, checking in with another group. Someone nearby kept clicking a pen like it was a nervous tic.

He gave a short nod, still unsure if he should be relieved or embarrassed.

The silence between you wasn’t tense, just unformed. Like the space before a new sketch, when the lines haven’t taken shape yet. You glanced at his notebook. He hadn’t written anything down either.

“Have someone in mind already?” you asked.

His eyes flicked up, then back to yours. “Not really. You?”

You tilted your head. “Still deciding if I wanna make someone up or not.”

That earned you a quiet smile. A real one this time. He nodded slowly, like he wasn’t expecting you to say that.

“I was thinking,” you added, “it might be easier to just write something loosely based. Not like ‘you wore a gray hoodie and sat four seats back on Thursdays,’ but more… the feeling someone gives you. You know?”

Your eyes flicked to him.

He looked at you a second longer than you expected, like he was still turning it over in his head. Then he nodded. “Yeah. That makes sense.”

It was hard to tell if he meant it or was just trying to sound agreeable, but the way he said it felt genuine. Careful, in a good way. Like he’d actually considered it.

You both drifted into writing, or at least the appearance of it. His pen hovered over the page more than it moved, tracing invisible lines that never quite landed. You caught him sneaking a glance at your notebook once, but you let it slide.

A moment passed before he added, like it had been sitting in his mouth too long, “I haven’t done a partner thing in a while. Sorry if I’m kinda…”

His voice trailed off, a hand waving vaguely like he hoped you’d fill in the blank for him.

“Awkward?” you offered, not unkindly.

His head snapped up, his mouth falling open in mock betrayal, but the spark in his eyes gave him away.

“I was gonna say a little out of practice, but yeah, that too.”

You smiled, just barely. “I don’t talk much in this class either.”

That seemed to ease something in him. His shoulders uncoiled, settling just a little.

“I’m Hyunjin, by the way,” he added after a beat, almost like the thought just caught up to him. Then, quick—“I mean, I know you know that. It’s on the roll call, obviously.”

You blinked, a soft laugh pulling out of you. “Yeah. I’ve heard.”

There was a beat where he probably could’ve moved on, but instead, he glanced at you, a little unsure. “Uh, what’s your name? I mean, I know it. But I—like… it feels different asking.”

You tilted your head, a slow grin tugging at your lips. “You already know it.”

“Yeah, but I wanna hear you say it.”

That threw you a little. You told him anyway, your name landing soft but certain between you. And when you did, he nodded, like he wanted to remember exactly how you said it.

“Okay. Cool.”

Class was still going on, but the two of you had slipped into this quiet side stream, slightly outside the flow of the room. Everyone else was still taking notes, listening to the professor, but it felt like you’d ducked into some parallel pocket of time.

You weren’t sure what you were going to write about yet. But maybe now, you had more to work with than you thought.

You glanced over at him. “What’re you majoring in?”

“Visual arts,” he said, scribbling absently in the margins of his paper.

That fit. His clothes weren’t loud or branded, but they looked chosen. Like someone who knew how colors worked or at least cared. You could picture him sketching on café napkins, or showing up to class with graphite smudged on his sleeve without noticing.

“You?”

“English,” you offered. “Not super surprising, since we’re here.”

He smiled, soft and easy. “It fits.”

It felt like the conversation might naturally end there, but then he surprised you by asking, “Do you write outside of class?”

You hesitated for a second. “Yeah. Sometimes.”

He nodded, a little too quickly, like he didn’t know what to do with his hands after asking. “Cool.”

“Do you?” you asked back, not teasing, just returning the energy.

“Yeah—uh, I do. Just for fun, though.” He shifted in his seat like he wasn’t sure where to put his hands. “Nothing serious.”

The quick glance he sent your way told you he wanted it to sound casual, but cared a little too much about how it landed.

You raised an eyebrow, like you were still deciding whether or not to believe him.

He reached for his water bottle like it was a prop he suddenly needed, unscrewing the cap, taking a sip, then pausing, realizing it was empty. He set it back down with overly careful precision, like that would somehow make the moment less awkward.

You gave him a look. “What was that?”

“What was what?”

“That. The whole…” you gestured vaguely toward the bottle, fighting a smile. “Was that supposed to be dramatic—?”

“No,” he said, sitting up straighter, ears just a little pink. “Forgot I finished it earlier.”

You nodded, feigning seriousness. “Right.”

That pulled a soft huff out of him, something close to a real laugh, but before he could say anything else, the professor called time. Pens dropped. Notebooks closed. Chairs scraped quietly against the floor as everyone started packing up, but for a second longer, Hyunjin lingered like he wasn’t quite ready to leave the conversation.

As he stood, he tapped the edge of your desk. Twice, quick and light. Just enough to pull your attention.

“I’ll… keep working on it,” he said, voice softer now. Somewhere between unsure and hopeful.

And then he headed back to his seat. Moving through the aisles, slipping back into his place like nothing had happened.

You watched him go.

Then turned to a new page in your notebook, and wrote the word: presence.

𐪞

“—I swear, he looked like he was gonna short-circuit.” You balanced a tray of clean mugs in your hands as you walked toward the dish rack. “He sat down so fast the chair made that god-awful scraping sound.”

Minho, halfway through dusting powdered sugar over a fresh batch of croissants, barked a laugh. “Please tell me someone clapped.”

“Almost. One guy turned around like he thought something fell. It was kind of tragic.”

He grinned as he moved the tray to the display case, sliding it in with practiced ease. The warmth of the bakery was a welcome contrast to the wind still sneaking through the door every time it opened. Outside, people passed with their shoulders hunched, while inside, the windows fogged gently around the edges. Jazz played low over the speakers, all saxophone and soft piano.

“What’s the guy’s name again?” Minho asked.

“Hyunjin.” you said.

Minho paused, hand still on the pastry tongs. “Wait—Hyunjin? Like, my Hyunjin?”

You blinked. “Your Hyunjin?”

He set the tongs down and leaned on the counter, eyes narrowing like he was putting pieces together. “Tall, handsome, kinda dramatic but pretends he’s not, draws a lot, goes quiet when he’s flustered?”

You stared. “...That’s weirdly accurate.”

“Oh my god,” Minho said, straightening with a wide grin. “You got paired with him?”

“I didn’t volunteer,” you said, laughing. “Our professor literally pointed at us like she was picking teams for gym class.”

Minho let out another laugh and shook his head. “That explains so much. He’s been off lately.”

You tilted your head. “Off how?”

He just gave a vague shrug and returned to wiping the counter. “Nothing. He just gets in his head. Keeps stuff to himself until he explodes in the most unhinged way possible.”

You raised a brow, amused. “So... normal?”

“Painfully.” He smiled as he passed behind you, bumping your shoulder lightly with his as he went.

That pulled a laugh from you, head ducking slightly as you dried your hands. “He’s... interesting.”

“That's a very polite way of saying what the hell is wrong with him.”

You snorted. “He wasn’t bad. Just... kind of awkward. But like, in a sincere way. Like he couldn’t help it.”

Minho made a face halfway between fond and pained. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

You shook your head, amused, wiping down the espresso machine as Minho poured steamed milk into a mug with far more focus than was probably necessary. The bell above the door jingled as another customer stepped in, and the two of you slid seamlessly into work mode. Greeting them, taking the order, moving like you’d done this together a hundred times.

You liked this part of the day. The quiet before the evening rush. The part where Minho didn’t hover, didn’t push you to talk, just let the conversation rise and fall as naturally as the light shifting across the tiles.

“I actually didn’t even say much,” you said after a pause. “Like, I wasn’t trying to be weird. But I think just existing near him stressed him out.”

Minho handed the latte to a waiting customer without missing a beat. “Sounds like he likes you.”

You blinked. “What?”

He shrugged, all fake innocence. “What? Who said that?”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t start.”

“I didn’t start,” he said, already grinning. “I’m just making an observation.”

“Well stop observing. We’re not in class.”

He chuckled, shaking his head.

The moment settled for a second. Minho’s voice cut through, quieter as he wiped his hands on a towel. “Did your dad end up calling?”

You didn’t answer immediately, hesitating. “…Yeah. Over the weekend.”

He glanced up. “And?”

You focused on the swirl of steam rising from the espresso machine. “Same thing as always. Asked about school. Then about jobs. Asked why I haven’t figured it out yet.”

“Ah,” Minho said, voice flat like a deflated balloon. “Classic hit single.”

That earned a faint smile.

As he moved past you to grab something from the lower shelf, he paused just long enough to reach up and pat the top of your head. Lightly, without ceremony.

“You’re doing fine,” he said.

You didn’t say anything. But your chest felt a little less tight than before. Suddenly—

The bell above the door slammed open with a jingle too violent to be casual.

“YAH— tell her she’s wrong!”

Changbin came barreling into the bakery like it was his second home, puffer jacket already half-off, finger pointed like he was delivering courtroom evidence.

“I didn’t even say anything yet!” Chaeryeong shouted as she followed behind him, nearly tripping over the doorframe with a bag of snacks clutched in one hand.

“No hello?” you asked, brows raised.

“Okay,” Changbin said, panting slightly. “You’re on the train. You offer your seat to someone. They decline. Do you sit back down or stand anyway out of guilt?”

“Sit down,” you said instantly.

“SEE?!” Changbin said, turning to Chaeryeong like he’d just won an Olympic medal.

She gasped. “No! You can’t sit after that. Now it’s awkward. Now they think you think they’re weak.”

You raised both brows. “You came here... to ask me that?”

“Obviously,” they both said in sync, like you were the slow one.

You blinked, then turned to Minho who just looked amused behind the espresso machine.

“Let me guess,” you said. “They’re ordering something now.”

“Croffle and a latte,” Chaeryeong said immediately. “Oh—and if you have the cinnamon twist—”

“We do,” Minho said, already writing it down. “And you owe her five dollars for emotional labor.”

The drama faded as fast as it came, the two of them now deep in an argument over which season of their favorite show was the best, half-bickering, half-laughing as they waited at their table.

Minho handed you a cup to pass over the counter. You called out the name.

A guy stepped forward to grab it. Young, most likely a student. Soft smile, the kind that aimed to be casual. He grabbed the drink, then slid a napkin across the counter. A number was scribbled on it.

Minho didn’t even blink.

His hand smacked down on the napkin so fast the customer jumped.

“She’s not collecting these right now,” Minho said, cool and unbothered, slowly dragging it back toward the espresso machine like it was a misplaced receipt, unnerving eye contact.

The guy blinked. Laughed awkwardly. “Uh... got it. Thanks.”

Once he was out of earshot, you turned, arms crossed.

“What?” he said, dragging the napkin off the counter and into the trash without breaking eye contact. “I’m protecting the peace.”

“You know that was insane behavior, right?”

“Just vetting the vibe,” Minho said.

“You crushed his confidence in one motion.”

“He’ll recover. Probably write a poem about it.”

You couldn’t even argue with that.

The jazz picked back up, the windows fogging further with the heat inside. Laughter spilled from the table where Changbin and Chaeryeong were now splitting the croffle and debating over who had the better music taste.

You turned back toward the counter just as Minho slid a drink in your direction.

“Didn’t ask for anything,” you said.

“Figured you needed one.”

You took a sip. Hot chocolate. Rich and sweet, still steaming.

“…You were right,” you murmured.

Minho didn’t look up. “Always am.”

𐪞

You dropped your bag by the door, kicked off your shoes without thinking. The air in your dorm was a bit cold, not enough to complain about, but enough to make you keep your socks on.

The lights stayed dim. Just the one beside your bed, casting a warm glow across the floorboards. You tossed your coat over the back of the chair, sleeves flopping to the floor, and wandered toward the kitchen corner to put away your groceries. One item at a time, methodical, like your brain needed something simple to latch onto.

What should’ve taken five minutes took thirty.

By the time you were done, your body felt heavier in that strangely comforting way. The kind of exhaustion that meant you were finally still. Showered. Fed. Sweats on. Nowhere else to be.

Your phone buzzed across the room, screen lighting up on your desk.

jisung: i think i left my soul in lecture today

you: it’s okay he didn’t grade that part

chae 🧡: was it the 75-minute slideshow with 300 transitions

binnie: WITH SOUND EFFECTS

jisung: bro the trumpet noise when he changed slides???

you: i thought i hallucinated that

chae 🧡: no that was real. i flinched

jisung: if he puts a slide whistle in next week i’m dropping out

binnie: no because the airplane sound? when the graph "took off"???

you: oh my god i forgot about that

jisung: i was THIS close to just standing up and leaving

chae 🧡: i think i actually blacked out during the bullet point explosion effect

you: no bc why did it sound like an m80 going off

jisung: he’s not making lectures anymore he’s making action films

binnie: i’m buying noise-canceling headphones just for this class

you: just raw dog the visuals?

jisung: survival of the fittest, every man for himself

chae 🧡: anyway whos bringing snacks tomorrow im not sitting through econ empty handed again

binnie: not me. last time my granola bar betrayed me

you: betrayed you how

binnie: the wrapper was SO LOUD i literally stopped mid-open because people turned around

jisung: rookie mistake u gotta open it during peak laughter, sound camouflage

chae 🧡: so true. snack acoustics.

you: they don’t teach you this in orientation

You laughed, a low breath of sound that barely rose above the hum of your heater. Flopped down onto your bed, pulling the covers over your legs, thumb still lazily hovering above the screen. The group chat was half comfort, half chaos. You didn’t need to contribute much. Just dropping in was enough.

You were about to close the app when another banner slid across the top of your screen.

‎ ‎ ‎ Hotline: New posts added to your recommendations.

Your thumb hovered.

You hadn’t checked the app all day. You hadn’t meant to forget it, but it had slipped beneath lectures, errands, and Jisung’s running commentary about how capitalism was killing his will to live. Still, something about the notification made your breath catch.

You opened it.

The interface bloomed into dusky colors. That soft blend of indigo and burnt orange. It always looked like a late evening sky. Quiet, fading.

You didn’t even need to scroll far. His profile sat right at the top of your feed, neatly slipped into your recommendations like the app knew.

Two new posts.

Your thumb hovered over the first one. It was time-stamped earlier that afternoon.

‎ ‎ ‎‎user024025 • 10h — i said something weird in class today. like i meant it to sound normal, and then it left my mouth and immediately committed social suicide. anyway. this is why i don’t speak unless absolutely necessary.

A soft laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it. Small, automatic. It was the kind of thing you might write down in your notes app just to get it out of your head. Something too stupid to share, but too real to delete.

Your thumb drifted down to the second post. It was newer. Less than an hour old.

‎ ‎ ‎user024025 • 32m — some days feel like static. everything buzzing, but nothing landing. couldn’t focus, couldn’t sit still. felt like i was glitching mid-sentence. but she didn’t flinch. just looked at me like i made sense anyway. smiled, even. like being a little off wasn’t the worst thing.

You read it once. Then again.

And again.

It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t dressed up like some people’s posts on the app. His words always landed that way. Like they’d been written in a rush, like he’d almost left them behind. They didn’t try to be anything. They just were.

Still, they stuck to you. They always did. And this one more than usual.

You wondered who he meant. The thought brushed against you so quickly you almost missed it. Something faint pulled at your chest. Maybe curiosity.

Your gaze flicked to the Echo button just below the post.

You knew how it worked. When you echoed something, it didn’t just show up on your feed. It stayed. The post would ripple, soft waves pulsing out from the original like a quiet thread tying you to someone you didn’t know. A notification would ping on his side, nothing detailed. Just a simple signal: someone had resonated. Someone felt it too.

Sometimes posts picked up echoes in layers, gentle soundwaves folding into each other. You’d seen it happen. The soft chime that followed, a sound that shifted with the mood, was never loud enough to interrupt but always just enough to feel. For heavier posts, it was a low, echoing bell. For lighter ones, a soft, upward chime that almost sounded like wind moving through glass.

It wasn’t something you usually did. Echoing meant it stayed. It would sit pinned to your own feed like a quiet mark you couldn’t take back. Lurking felt safer. Passing through felt easier.

But tonight, your thumb didn’t move away.

You tapped the ripple once. The animation bloomed gently, a soft wave that stretched outward and settled again. You tapped it a second time, just to feel the weight of it.

And before you could think about it too long, you followed him.

There was a space for a note, something small you could leave behind. People used it for quick thoughts, one-sentence replies that layered over time, quiet annotations shared between strangers. Most people said something. A word. A question. Sometimes whole sentences if they were feeling brave.

But you didn’t write anything. Just… something.

note to @ ‎user024025 • now — 🩶

Simple. Wordless. Nothing that could be misread. Nothing that could be traced.

You stared at it for a second longer than you should have, then locked your phone and set it face-down on the blanket next to you. The soft weight of it sat against your palm.

You turned onto your back and stared up at the ceiling. The quiet of your room pressed in around you.

You didn’t know what this was. You weren’t sure you wanted to. But still—you closed your eyes with a soft, aching pull in your chest and let yourself drift until the edges of it slipped away.

𐪞

If there was one thing that always brought Hyunjin back down to earth whenever his mind got the best of him, it was art.

Not in the lofty, vague way people often meant when they wrote about it in bios or pretended to feel in museums. He meant it literally. The drag of graphite across textured paper. The slight resistance of canvas under a brush. The weight of a pencil in his hand, familiar and grounding. The shift in the air when he locked into focus and the world got quiet. It was his reset button. Always had been.

In those moments, his thoughts didn’t vanish, but they softened. Became something he could sit with.

Tonight, he needed that quiet.

A half-finished still life sat before him, shadows and shapes slowly sharpening under the glow of his desk lamp. The warmth pooled across the page like a spotlight, soft and deliberate.

The dorm was calm, save for the low hum of a lofi playlist playing from Chan’s speaker. Some mix they’d agreed on ages ago. Chan sat across from him, hunched over his laptop like always, editing something with one earbud in and the other dangling by his shoulder. Comfortable silence.

Hyunjin had just showered. Damp hair clung to his forehead, shirt collar brushing against still-cooling skin. His knee bounced under the desk, restless and wired. He was trying to draw, really, but his mind refused to cooperate.

Exams loomed. Supplies were still unbought. Three still lifes were due before the week ended. And then there was poetry class. His pencil paused mid-stroke. He was genuinely considering skipping next time, just to avoid the fallout from earlier. From you.

God. You.

You hadn’t even done anything dramatic. You’d just talked to him. Looked at him with this kind of soft, steady ease like you weren’t afraid of what you’d find there. Like you saw something worth addressing.

And that alone had left his brain in the blender.

He slouched deeper into his chair with a quiet groan, hand scrubbing through his hair. “I need to get a grip,” he muttered to no one.

Chan glanced up but didn’t say anything. Just gave a barely-there nod like: same here, man. Then went back to editing.

Hyunjin leaned back, stretching his arms overhead. Tried to shake it off. It was stupid. He didn’t even know you. Not really.

You’d always been in the periphery. First in lit, then in poetry. He barely noticed you at first. But once he did, it was like your presence had carved out space in his brain without asking. The way you laughed with your friends. The way you only spoke when it mattered. The way you looked quieter when the sky was gray.

It made no sense. And yet, somehow, it made all the sense in the world.

That was just how his mind worked. Half artist, half hopeless romantic. He could fall in love with a passing glance, obsess over a fleeting moment, turn a single expression into a whole scene he couldn’t stop replaying. Not in a dramatic way. Just in that quiet, gnawing way where small things felt sharp.

He shook himself from the thought and returned to his sketchpad, shading aimlessly. Chan was still editing, head tilted in concentration. Their “working shift,” as they called it. Muted playlists, shared snacks, the comfortable rhythm of existing next to someone without needing to talk.

The quiet didn’t last.

His phone buzzed beside him, a soft chime that cut clean through. He blinked, set his pencil down, and reached for it, already feeling the shift in the air before he even looked.

‎ ‎ ‎ Hotline: You have 1+ new followers, Someone echoed your post, @ user074320 left a note.

Something about it made his chest tighten. Too specific to be nothing, too random to mean something. Still, curiosity tugged at him. So, he tapped the alert.

The post loaded up. His own words, floating under that familiar color gradient. There, near the top of the thread, was the new note: a single gray heart.

No text. No flourish. Just a symbol, still and quiet and maybe even a little sad. His finger moved without much thought, tapping the note, which led him to the profile that had left it. That’s when he saw it.

The profile picture.

A cat. One he felt like he’d seen before. Familiar in the strangest way, but just out of reach.

The bio was short.

‎ ‎ ‎ “brain and heart full” | she/her

Something about it felt… unfiltered. Not cryptic, not curated. Just quietly present.

He scrolled slowly, like touching anything too quickly might ruin the feeling. Posts littered the page, text entries and voice notes scattered like thoughts left behind. It wasn’t curated. It was lived-in. Like someone used the app the way it was meant to be used. Not to impress, but to exist.

His thumb paused over the most recent voice post. He pressed play without realizing. Silence first. Then a breath. A heater humming in the background.

Then—

"…Dostoevsky once said, ‘It is better to be unhappy and know the worst, than to be happy in a fool’s paradise.”

Hyunjin’s heart stuttered. His eyes widened, breath stalling. The voice was low, thoughtful. A little amused.

“…Which is dramatic as hell for a guy who’s been dead since the 1800s, but like, he was definitely onto something.”

He jolted, sitting back like the words had physically knocked him. His hand scrambled to pause the post, thumb shaky on the screen.

“Holy shit—” he breathed, heartbeat lurching in his chest.

He practically launched backward from his desk, pencil clattering to the floor. His whole body buzzed, caught somewhere between panic and disbelief. It wasn’t just hearing your voice, it was the way it filled the room. Close and clear, like you were standing right there beside him.

Chan looked up instantly, yanking out his earbud. “Yo? You good?”

Hyunjin didn’t answer. He was already pacing, dragging a hand through his hair as if it might ground him.

“Oh my god. Oh my god. I think I’m gonna pass out.”

Chan straightened, the humor draining from his face. “What? What’s wrong?”

Hyunjin spun toward him, wild-eyed, holding up his phone like it was a detonator. “It’s her. Chan, it’s her. She followed me. She echoed my post. She left the—” he shook the phone, as if words alone weren’t enough, “—the little gray heart thing.”

Chan blinked, trying to follow. “Who?”

“The girl. From my seminar. The one I told you about. The one I got paired with for the writing thing.”

Chan’s face stayed blank. “…Okay?”

“I don’t even know how to explain this,” Hyunjin groaned, pacing faster now. “I’ve been like… maybe-sort-of-definitely spiraling about her all semester and now, she’s read my posts. She followed me.”

The last part came out in full caps, despite the fact he meant to whisper it.

Chan just stared. “Wait, wait, wait. Let me see the profile.”

Hyunjin all but threw his phone across the room.

Chan caught it, his eyes darting over the screen. Two seconds in, his eyes widened. “Bro.”

“What?” Hyunjin’s stomach dropped. “What?”

“Isn’t that—” Chan pointed at the profile picture. “Isn’t that Soonie?”

Hyunjin stared, confused, his brain buffering.

And then—

“OH MY GOD.”

He snatched the phone back, squinting at the image. Soft orange and white fur. The smug little face. The faintest tilt of a cat’s head that screamed superiority.

It was Soonie. Minho’s cat.

Minho, who did not casually share cat photos with just anyone. Minho, who only sent Soonie pics to people he liked.

“She knows Minho?!” Hyunjin yelped, his voice pitching high in disbelief.

Chan looked like someone had just told him the world was a simulation. “No way. This is literally a crossover episode.”

Hyunjin dropped onto his bed like gravity had doubled. “I’m gonna cry.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m not. I’m emotionally compromised.”

Chan snorted, grinning now. He leaned over to glance at the profile again. “Soooo? What’re you gonna do?”

Hyunjin stared at the ceiling like it held answers. “I have no idea. But whatever I was gonna do tonight… that’s canceled.”

He sat up suddenly. “Wait. What if she knows it’s me?”

“Why would she?” Chan asked, barely phased.

“I mean, not all of them were about her, but like, some of the stuff I said…” Hyunjin started flipping through his own profile, eyes wide with horror. “What if it was obvious?”

Chan raised an eyebrow. “I mean, it’s not like you wrote her name.”

Hyunjin groaned into his hands. “Okay, but I was so specific. Like weirdly specific.”

Chan snorted. “You mean poetic.”

“It wasn’t even that poetic.”

He shrugged. “It was a little poetic. It just wasn’t subtle.”

“I wasn’t trying to be subtle!” Hyunjin dragged his hands through his hair, still spiraling. “I didn’t think she’d ever see it.”

“But she did,” Chan reminded him, tapping the phone. “She followed you. Echoed your post. Saw it, and didn’t run for the hills.”

Hyunjin peeked at him through his fingers. “Do you think she liked it?”

Chan shrugged. “She didn’t block you. That’s something.”

Hyunjin dropped his hands into his lap, head falling back in defeat. “This is worse than freshman studio critiques.”

Chan leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “Okay, but hypothetically if she does know it’s you, is that bad?”

Hyunjin hesitated.

Then shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe? Yes? What if she thinks I’m weird?”

“So? You are weird,” Chan deadpanned.

Hyunjin glared at him. “Thank you.”

“But like… endearing weird.”

Hyunjin rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. He sat up slowly, phone clenched in both hands like it might disappear. “I didn’t think she even noticed me. Like outside of class. I always thought she just—” He paused, his throat tightening unexpectedly. “I don’t know. I thought I was background noise.”

Chan watched him for a second, then asked, more gently this time, “How long have you been into her?”

Hyunjin’s shoulders slumped. “Since the start of the semester. She sits a few rows ahead of me in lit. Always looks like she’s about to say something but never does. I don’t know, she just—”

His voice trailed off as he glanced over. “Are you even listening?”

Chan hummed, pretending to jot notes. “Keep going. These are solid lyrics. You’ll thank me when you’re famous.”

“Shut up.”

But Hyunjin’s mouth twitched, the smallest smile breaking through the panic.

He was too busy staring at the screen again. Your profile open, your posts still lingering. The little bio, the voice note that he couldn’t stop replaying in his head, like his brain was trying to burn it into memory before it could disappear.

“And if she knows Minho…” He flung the phone onto his bed like it had personally offended him.

Chan didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, no chance. Have you seen that guy’s side profile—”

“Don’t say that,” Hyunjin groaned, dragging a pillow to his chest like he could physically shield himself from reality. “What if she read everything?”

“She one hundred percent did.”

Hyunjin buried his face in the pillow. “She knows I sketch people in class. She knows about my ex.”

Chan nodded solemnly. “You’re emotionally naked. Congrats.”

Hyunjin flopped onto his back, letting out a strangled sound. “I can never show my face in class again.”

“You have to show your face.”

“I physically can’t.”

“You’re literally writing a poem about her.”

“DON’T remind me.”

Chan lost it at that, laughing so hard he had to pull his hoodie over his face to muffle it.

Hyunjin just groaned louder, sinking deeper into the pillow, fully committed to his spiral. The room settled again. The kind of quiet that hangs when something real is about to surface.

“…Do you think she’d like me?” The words came out small, barely above a whisper, like Hyunjin wasn’t sure he wanted the answer.

Chan slowly lowered his hoodie, the grin softening. “Why wouldn’t she? You’re a good guy.”

Hyunjin didn’t answer right away. His thumb traced slow circles along the seam of the pillow, thinking, picking at the edge like it could offer a distraction.

“Yeah, but… I don’t know. What if it’s not enough?” His voice was steady, but there was a rawness tucked just beneath it. “What if I’m just this… collection of almosts?”

Chan tilted his head, his gaze steady but soft. “She sat with you. Talked with you. Shared something. Gave you her name. She even followed you.”

Each thing landed quietly, but with weight.

“She didn’t have to do any of that,” Chan added. “But she did. That’s something.”

Hyunjin looked at the screen again. That little gray heart sat there, faint and quiet, like a secret only he knew how to read.

Something cracked open in Hyunjin’s chest.

He exhaled, long and heavy, like he didn’t know how else to carry the feeling. “…What am I supposed to do with that?”

Chan stretched, grabbing the hoodie from his chair and tossing it to him. “You sit with it. You don’t freak out. And maybe…” He smiled a little. “Maybe you think about what you’d say if you weren’t trying to hide.”

Hyunjin caught the hoodie, turning it over in his hands like it could offer an answer. His eyes flicked back to your profile one last time, thumb hovering over the screen. He didn’t press anything else. Not yet.

But his mind was already rewriting what he might say.

𐪞

“I’m just saying, there’s definitely a hot guy behind that profile,” Chaeryeong insisted, grabbing a small basket as you both stepped into Lunevelle.

The plaza hummed with that easy, midweek kind of life. Lazy string lights swaying above patio chairs, low music drifting from a nearby café, the scent of roasted peanuts and expensive cologne tangled in the air. You tugged your sleeves over your hands, letting Chaeryeong lead the way as you filled her in on the Hotline situation.

Inside, Lunevelle gleamed in that curated, chaotic way: rows of glosses like tiny potions, shelves lined with serums stacked like artifacts, soft bursts of laughter as people swatched eyeshadows and debated undertones. It felt like stepping into another universe. One where real problems didn’t exist. Just hydrating primers and glitter.

“Someone who posts like that?” Chaeryeong said, slipping past a wall of toners with scary precision. "Definitely at least a 7.5. Minimum."

You raised an eyebrow, flipping a hand cream tester between your fingers. “You’re just inventing stats now.”

“Not at all,” she replied, scanning cleansers like she was decoding a map. “Guys who can write? Rare. Like, golden retriever who files taxes rare.”

You trailed after her, amused, as she turned a corner. Everything sparkled here. The floor, the lipstick rows, the mirror-lined shelves whispering buy it, you’ll be a better person. You picked up a random lip balm just to feel less like a bystander.

Chaeryeong stopped in front of a display of perfumes, eyes lighting up. “Wait. You need a signature scent.”

You blinked. "Do I?"

“Yes.” She spritzed a card and handed it to you like she was passing judgment. “You’re entering your mysterious era. Hotline boy requires olfactory intrigue.”

You took a cautious sniff and immediately recoiled. “Chae. This smells like expensive heartbreak.”

“Exactly,” she said, completely unfazed. “Emotional damage, but make it luxury.”

You choked on a laugh and reached for the rollerball version of your usual scent, dropping it into her basket.

Chaeryeong looped her arm through yours, steering you toward makeup like a woman on a mission. “Okay, but be serious. He followed you back. That’s basically a soft launch. You have to get married now.”

“That is not how any of this works,” you said, half-laughing.

She ignored you, already swatching lipsticks across the back of her hand with the intensity of a pro. “What’s his vibe? If you had to guess.”

You thought about it. “Quiet. Smart. Probably has good hands.”

Chaeryeong froze, halfway through swatching. “Pause. What do hands have to do with this?”

You shrugged. “Writers. Artists. Same difference. Nice hands.”

She blinked at you. Then burst into laughter so loud a worker down the aisle glanced over. “You are so gone,” she wheezed.

“I’m not,” you muttered, cheeks warming.

“Denial,” she said, adding a sheer gloss to the basket. “First stage of love.”

Then she found a heart-shaped blush compact and gasped like she’d discovered treasure. “Tell me this isn’t the cutest thing you’ve ever seen,” she said, cradling it like a newborn.

You peered at it. “It’s you. In makeup form. Small, dramatic, overpriced.”

She gasped dramatically, clutching it to her chest. “How dare you. I’m at least reasonably priced.”

Your laughter spilled over both of you as you wandered toward the mini skincare section. She picked up a travel-sized moisturizer and squinted at the label.

“Ten dollars?” she hissed. “It’s the size of a single Tic Tac.”

“Capitalism thrives on our despair,” you said dryly, tossing a mini sunscreen into the basket. “If I’m going broke, I’m dragging you with me.”

She grinned. “That’s the spirit.”

At some point, Chaeryeong slowed in front of a mirror, pretending to adjust her hair with exaggerated focus. You caught the flicker in her eyes. Strategic.

She wasn’t admiring her reflection. She was scanning.

You followed her gaze, subtle as you could. Near the cologne section, a guy was testing out a line of scents. Tall. Sharp jawline. Long black coat that moved when he did. A baseball cap pushed back over dark hair, revealing enough to catch your attention but not enough to give much away.

Chaeryeong elbowed you so hard you nearly knocked over a display of mini mascara wands.

“Target acquired,” she whispered, dead serious.

You raised an eyebrow. “Do you want me to wingwoman you or…?”

She waved you off, eyes still fixed on him through the mirror. “Please. I just want to observe from a safe, non-humiliating distance.”

“Oh, good,” you deadpanned. “Stalking. The foundation of every stable relationship.”

“Exactly,” she said, beaming. “Academia could never teach me this level of social maneuvering.”

You shook your head, smiling as you guided her away before she developed a backstory and assigned him a name. She kept sneaking glances over her shoulder like she was tracking a rare bird, nearly tripping over a stray basket left on the ground.

At checkout, she dumped both your hauls onto the counter like she was unloading a smuggled artifact. Travel-sized everything. A rollerball perfume. A suspiciously expensive blush you definitely didn’t need but had somehow ended up holding like it had chosen you.

“New plan,” she declared, nudging your arm as the cashier began scanning items. “Post-haul ramen. I’m starving.”

You blinked. “We were in here for thirty minutes.”

“And yet,” she said, solemn, placing a dramatic hand over her chest. “My body cries out for noodles.”

You stifled a laugh. “Fine. But you’re buying my drink.”

“Done.” She handed the cashier her card with flair, like it was her credit card and her resignation letter. “Just don’t tell Changbin. He still thinks I’m saving money.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the smile tugging at your mouth. Somehow, the stress of the week felt lighter, tucked between perfume samples and the promise of warm food.

Outside, the night had cooled.

The sky was clear now, the rain from earlier leaving the pavement damp and gleaming under the soft light of the plaza. Your bags swung gently at your sides as you stepped into the evening air, your breath misting slightly in the cold.

You weren’t even five steps out before someone collided into your shoulder.

Three figures.

You staggered slightly, blinking against the sudden blur, only to hear a gasp so dramatic it could’ve ended an episode.

"Changbin!" Chaeryeong cried, clutching her shopping bag to her chest. “We literally manifested you.”

Changbin looked vaguely alarmed. “That sounds… dangerous,” he said, laughing as he shifted back a step, giving you both room.

Chan was just behind him, hoodie zipped halfway, hands stuffed into his pockets like he’d been waiting to be amused. He gave a polite nod, eyes flicking to your bags.

Hyunjin lingered a few paces back. Shoulders slightly hunched. Hood up. His posture was looser than usual, but his hands were fidgeting with the sleeve of his coat, tugging at a thread that probably didn’t exist.

He looked like someone deciding between walking home or vanishing into the sidewalk now that you’d seen him.

You offered the group a sheepish smile. “Sorry for the collision.”

“All good,” Chan said easily, giving you a grin that felt familiar in the way coffee shops and study playlists were. He nodded toward the haul in your hands. “Retail therapy?”

“At its most expensive,” you joked.

“I regret nothing,” Chaeryeong added, shifting her shopping bags like she was carrying treasure.

Then her eyes lit up. “Wait, this actually works out. We were literally about to hunt for food.”

At the word, Changbin’s head snapped up like someone had summoned him by name. “Food?” he repeated, already halfway invested.

“Ramen,” Chaeryeong said with a nod, like she was offering a sacred truth. “Few shops down. Cozy, life-changing, slightly overpriced. Want in?”

You caught it in the corner of your eye. Hyunjin, still quiet, still standing just outside the circle. His fingers shifted on the strap of his bag, but his gaze flicked up at the mention of ramen. Not quite a smile. Just a flicker.

“I’m in,” Changbin said, already turning in the direction of the restaurant like a man with purpose.

Chan looked between you and the rest, hands still tucked into his hoodie pockets. “You guys mind if we crash?”

You shrugged, already smiling. “The more the merrier.”

“Perfect,” Chaeryeong said before anyone could second-guess it. She looped her arm through yours with flair. “Let’s go.”

So you did.

Just like that, you were all walking down the plaza together, a slightly chaotic little group drifting past late-night shops and glowing storefronts.

The ramen place sat tucked at the far end, half-hidden behind hanging lanterns and a dark wood façade. It looked like it belonged somewhere much fancier than a college plaza. The kind of place that felt secret once you stepped inside.

The door swung open with a soft chime.

Inside, the world shifted.

Warm air hit your face, thick with the scent of slow-cooked broth and toasted sesame oil. Golden light hung low from paper lamps, painting the wooden walls in a honeyed glow. Most of the noise stayed outside. This space held only hushed voices, the gentle clink of bowls, and the soft shuffle of slippers against floorboards.

Some tables sat open near the front, but the real charm was deeper inside. Alcoves tucked behind narrow dividers, each with a sunken table and thick floor cushions. It looked more like a dream than a college late-night dinner.

The hostess greeted you all with a soft smile, hands folded politely. After a few beats of mild chaos—mostly Chaeryeong trying to convince her that “five can totally squeeze into one booth, I swear”—you were led toward the back, past hanging noren curtains and a gently humming heater.

The floor dipped slightly into the recessed area, and the heat beneath your socks was immediate.

“Take off your shoes,” Chaeryeong whispered like it was a secret, already kicking hers off and sliding in with practiced ease.

You followed, stepping carefully over the threshold and tucking your shoes neatly to the side, the warmth of the floor making you relax without thinking.

The seating settled naturally, like a puzzle clicking into place: you in the middle, with Chaeryeong on your left and Chan on your right. Across from you, Changbin spooled out into his seat like a cat, already messing with the paper napkin holder. And Hyunjin slipped in beside him, careful not to jostle the table.

Somehow, it didn’t feel crowded. It felt intimate. The divider muted the rest of the restaurant, turning your corner into a private bubble of clinking spoons and soft lighting. The lamp above your table glowed amber, casting halos across every sleeve and half-shadowed smile.

As soon as you were seated, the chaos started again.

Changbin dove in immediately. “Okay, so explain to me how you almost broke Lunevelle, Chae.”

She exhaled dramatically, tugging at the sleeves of her sweater like it was part of the story. “I almost tripped because I was distracted by love.”

“Love?” Changbin raised a brow, clearly entertained. “What, did a highlighter call your name?”

Chaeryeong swatted his arm. “No, idiot. A guy. And how do you even know what a highlighter is?”

“YAH, I’m not illiterate—”

You snorted into your sleeve, the edges of your menu curling slightly in your hands. Their voices were overlapping now, sparring with ease and rhythm like they’d been doing this forever.

“You should’ve seen him,” Chaeryeong went on, eyes wide. “Tall. Black coat. Hair that looked illegal.”

Changbin gagged. “Illegal hair. Fantastic. I’ll alert the authorities.”

Chan chuckled low beside you, and you turned toward the sound, half-curious. He looked relaxed, arm resting on the low table, eyes squinting a little with the smile.

"Is he like this around you too?" you asked, tilting your head toward Changbin.

“Unfortunately.” Chan leaned into his palm, still grinning. “We’ve known each other too long. I can’t take him anywhere.”

You laughed under your breath, your thumb tracing the edge of your menu. “Figured. You two in the same major or something?”

Chan shook his head. “Nah. Different departments. Just found each other early. Stuck, I guess.”

There was something easy about the way he said it. Like it didn’t need to be deeper than that. And you liked that. The idea that some people just stayed because they wanted to, not because they had to.

“What about you?” he asked. “What’s your major?”

“English,” you said, fiddling with the corner of your napkin. “Technically literature, but same deal.”

“Ahh.” He nodded like something had clicked. “Explains the bookstore energy.”

You blinked. "The what?"

He gave a half-laugh, more like a confession.

“Bookstore energy. You know, like you’re always about to recommend a novel that’ll emotionally destroy me, but in a character-building kind of way.”

You stared at him, then cracked up, half-embarrassed. “I don’t know if that’s a compliment or a red flag.”

“Both,” he said easily, his grin widening. “But I mean it in a good way.”

You opened your mouth to reply, but before you could, another voice chimed in. Quieter, a little hesitant.

"What kind of stuff do you read?" Hyunjin asked.

Your eyes flicked up, surprised to find him watching you.

His fingers played absently with the hem of his sleeve under the table, and his voice, though soft, carried easily in the cozy space.

You tilted your head slightly. “A little of everything. Lately… mostly poetry, I guess.”

Hyunjin nodded slowly, like he wasn’t surprised. Like he’d already guessed that. Like maybe he’d been waiting to hear you say it out loud.

You tried not to think about how still he looked when he was listening. Or how the space between you across the table suddenly felt more noticeable than it had five minutes ago.

“And you?” you asked gently, because it felt right to return the question.

He shrugged, gaze dropping to the table. “Sketchbooks. Notebooks. Whatever fits.”

His voice was light, but the tension in his shoulders gave him away. Like he was trying not to sound like he cared too much about the answer.

You smiled, soft. "That's fair."

The conversation could’ve ended there. Should’ve, probably. But somehow, it didn’t.

Chan leaned in a little, his shoulder brushing yours. “You guys have the same poetry seminar, right?”

You blinked. "Yeah. How’d you—"

"Hyunjin mentioned it." Chan smiled innocently.

Your stomach dipped, just slightly. The kind of shift you feel before anything’s actually said. You glanced at Hyunjin. He didn’t look up. Just traced the edge of his chopsticks along the table, like they might draw a line he could disappear behind.

Beside you, Chaeryeong popped back into the conversation like she hadn’t just been arguing about the superior gyoza dipping sauce. “Speaking of tragic poetry—do you think Mystery Coat Guy is thinking about me right now?”

Changbin didn’t miss a beat. “He’s probably filing a restraining order.”

“You’re evil,” she said, launching a paper napkin at him with perfect aim.

You ducked your head, laughing softly into your hands as their voices tangled together again, warm and too familiar to fully tune out. Somewhere in the middle of all that, you risked another glance across the table.

Hyunjin wasn’t looking at you. But his hands stilled. Just for a second. Just long enough for you to wonder what that meant.

In the background, Chaeryeong had declared war over appetizers.

“I swear on my mother, Bin, we are not ordering plain edamame again—”

“It’s healthy!”

“It’s depressing!”

Chan raised a hand like a weary coach breaking up a team fight. “Split the order. Half gyoza, half… whatever Changbin’s weird health phase is.”

“I accept these terms,” Chaeryeong said, nodding solemnly like she was signing a treaty.

The waitress returned mid-laugh, clearly amused by the chaos, dropping off thick menus and a wooden clipboard for drinks. Changbin snatched the list with the determination of a man making history.

“Okay, team,” he announced, tapping it against the table. “We have a decision to make. Shots?”

You nearly choked. “Changbin. We haven’t even ordered food yet.”

“Exactly.” He looked dead serious. “Empty stomach. Maximum efficiency.”

“You’re going to pass out before the noodles even show up,” Chaeryeong muttered, raising an eyebrow.

Chan shrugged. “One round won’t kill us.”

You and Chaeryeong exchanged a glance. The kind that spoke in full sentences.

She sighed like she was giving in to fate. “Fine. One round. But we’re ordering actual food first before Changbin’s spirit leaves his body.”

Menus were passed. Orders were shouted over each other. Someone demanded extra broth; someone else lobbied for dessert mid-meal. The entire table fell into a kind of organized chaos that only made sense among people who felt safe with each other.

The heater against the wall filled the alcove with slow, gentle warmth. One by one, people started shedding layers. Chan shrugging out of his thick jacket, Changbin tossing his hoodie beside him, Chaeryeong stretching out her legs with a dramatic sigh as she slid off her fuzzy cardigan.

You pushed your sleeves up, tucking your legs beneath you, comfortably folded into the glow. The playlist hummed softly through overhead speakers. A slow roll of Japanese city pop, syrupy basslines and dreamy vocals giving everything that floaty, out-of-time feeling.

When the drinks arrived, a neat row of shot glasses and a bottle of soju that looked far too unassuming for what it was about to unleash, Changbin clapped once, loud enough to startle a nearby table.

“Alright! Round one, let’s go!” he declared, already pouring like an enthusiastic bartender with zero training.

“Wait—” Chan reached for his glass. “Drumroll. It’s law.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Drumroll!”

Chaeryeong immediately started smacking the table like she was in a percussion ensemble. You joined in, then Chan, the rhythm gaining speed until even Hyunjin caved and tapped a lazy beat with his knuckles, a half-hidden smile curling at the edges of his mouth.

Changbin raised his shot glass like he was about to deliver a campaign speech. “To retail therapy, ramen survival, and future mistakes we can blame on peer pressure!”

“Cheers!” everyone chorused, the clink of glass sharp and bright before the burn hit your throat.

It was smooth. Sweet at first, then sharp as it settled. You winced just slightly, and when your eyes flicked up, you caught Hyunjin watching you, the corner of his mouth quirking into something crooked and unreadable.

Food arrived in waves. Bowls of steaming ramen, plates of crispy karaage, glistening gyoza, and enough side dishes to make the table creak. Everyone leaned in, elbows bumping, sleeves rolled, stealing bites and swapping side-eyes when someone went in for seconds.

Somewhere between noodle slurps and laughter, Changbin struck with zero warning.

“So,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and leaning in like this was about to be classified information. “I’ve got tea.”

Everyone immediately went silent, heads snapping toward him. Even Chaeryeong lowered her chopsticks. “What level of tea?” she asked suspiciously.

Changbin looked around theatrically, despite no one in the restaurant paying them any attention. Then, in a voice so serious it could’ve passed for academic, he said, “You guys know Wooyoung, right? Works the front desk at the campus gym?”

Chaeryeong sat up straighter. “The Wooyoung? Trainer, flirts with everyone, weirdly good at dance?”

“Yeah, him.”

“Okay?” you said slowly. “What about him?”

Changbin exhaled, like this physically pained him to hold in. “Apparently, he got caught hooking up with one of the student coordinators. During a wellness event.”"

You choked on your water. “During?! Like, mid-yoga?!”

“Not in the class,” Changbin clarified, “but like, ten minutes before his scheduled shift. In the storage room.”

“No,” Chaeryeong whispered, scandalized. “The one with the mats?!”

“The very one,” Changbin said, solemn as ever.

Chan let out a sharp laugh. “Man really said mind, body, and soul.”

“And the worst part,” Changbin continued, lowering his voice even more, “is the student coordinator was already dating someone. Long-term. Like three-year relationship. Everyone thought they were going to graduate and move in together.”

“Nooooo,” Chaeryeong moaned, clapping a hand over her mouth. “You’re lying.”

“I wish I was,” Changbin said, looking deeply pleased with himself.

“Who told you this?” you asked, stunned.

“I have sources,” he replied cryptically, sipping his water like it was wine.

“You’re the worst,” Chaeryeong said, practically vibrating. “But also, give me names.”

“I value my life too much.”

“Coward.”

Laughter crackled around the table again, louder this time, more unhinged. The kind that makes your cheeks hurt and your chest feel warmer than the soju ever could.

As the buzz settled back into the glow, the playlist shifted. Something breezy and sparkling, the kind of upbeat tempo that made your feet itch to move. You barely had time to register it before Chaeryeong turned to you with a gleam in her eye.

“Come on,” she said, grabbing your wrist. “Dance break.”

“Wait—what—no, no—”

But she was already pulling you from the booth, into the small open space near the front of the restaurant where a few other diners were casually swaying in their seats. The lights blurred slightly from the alcohol and warmth, and the air pulsed with synths and sugar-sweet vocals.

Chaeryeong twirled you clumsily, both of you laughing like kids at a sleepover. You stumbled over your own feet, tipsy and too full, dizzy from the sudden movement and everything that had led up to this moment.

From the table, Changbin whooped like a proud father filming his child’s recital. Chan banged his hand on the table like he was front row at a concert.

And Hyunjin—

He wasn’t laughing, but he was watching. Smiling, yes, but not like he was entertained. Like he was remembering. His chin rested in his hand, hair falling slightly into his eyes, and for a long, steady beat, his gaze never left you.

You felt your pulse stutter. You almost missed a step.

When the song faded and you and Chaeryeong stumbled back, breathless and flushed, Changbin immediately shoved his phone in your face. “Behold: cinema,” he said, showing you the wobbly video. “You’re welcome.”

You lunged for the phone. “Delete it right now or I will throw it into the broth.”

“Justice for the arts!” he cried, holding it out of reach.

“You’re both insane,” Chan said, but he was laughing too, his face crinkled with warmth.

More shots were poured. More toasts shouted—to surviving exams, to not texting your ex, to chaotic retail purchases that may or may not fix your life.

It was one of those rare, glowing nights. The kind that doesn’t become a memory so much as a feeling. Soft around the edges. Warm at the center. A small collection of golden hours folded into the corners of your chest.

As the night wound down, shoes were pulled back on with lazy groans and wobbly balance, receipts were stuffed into pockets, and the group spilled out of the restaurant in a loose, slightly tipsy drift.

The air outside was sharp with the bite of early nightfall. It kissed your cheeks, slipping into the spaces left behind by the restaurant’s warmth, making you pull your sleeves down again without thinking.

Chaeryeong and Changbin immediately launched into a half-serious argument about the nearest convenience store.

“I know it’s down this way,” she insisted, already marching in the wrong direction.

“I have the map app open right now,” Changbin groaned. “Trust the system!”

“You are the system, and I don’t trust you,” she replied without missing a beat.

They veered off down the sidewalk, still bickering. Chan lingered behind with you, hands in his pockets, exhaling slowly like he wasn’t ready to break the night apart just yet.

He leaned a little closer, not enough to invade your space, just enough to make it easier to hear his voice. “Hey,” he said, casual. “Let me get your number? Just in case. Group stuff. Or whatever else.”

You smiled, a little flushed from the drinks, a little warm from the moment, and handed him your phone. He typed his number in, then added a little star emoji next to his name, holding it up like it was official documentation. “There,” he said. “Now I sparkle.”

As you slid your phone back into your pocket, something caught your eye. A flicker of movement just past the soft glow of the restaurant window. Hyunjin.

He stood a few feet away, just near a small flower stand tucked between the ramen shop and a dimly lit store. The bouquets were cheap, wrapped in plastic, cellophane crinkling in the breeze, but his hand hovered over them gently. Fingertips brushing along the edge of a petal like he didn’t even know he was doing it.

He looked distant, untethered. Like someone replaying the night in his head before it had even ended.

You hesitated. Then, before you could second-guess it, you walked toward him. “Hey,” you said softly.

He turned, eyes widening slightly, like you’d pulled him back from somewhere else entirely. His hair shifted in the breeze, falling into his eyes before he pushed it away with a lazy flick.

You held up your phone, the screen glowing faintly in the dark. “Mind if I get your number too?”

For a second, he just stared at you. And then he smiled. Not the polite one. Not the cautious, halfway-there version he gave most people. This one was quiet, almost shy.

“Yeah,” he said. “Of course.”

You passed him your phone, and he typed in his number slowly, like he wanted to get it right. His hands were graceful, slightly cold when they brushed yours as he handed it back. You glanced down. A little black heart sat next to his name.

From the corner of your eye, you caught Chan watching, a barely-there smirk tugging at his mouth, but you didn’t acknowledge it. Couldn’t.

Hyunjin tucked his hands into the pockets of his jacket, half-looking at you, half-looking away. “See you in class?”

“Yeah,” you said, breath catching in your throat. “See you.”

And for the first time that night, maybe for the first time since you met, he looked at you like he wanted to. Not like he was trying to figure you out, or keep a distance.

But like the space between you didn’t feel so uncertain anymore.

The others were starting to regroup down the street, Chaeryeong shouting something about chocolate milk while Changbin protested dramatically in the background.

You turned to go, but paused—glancing back over your shoulder. Hyunjin hadn’t moved. But he was still watching.

You jogged back toward the group, where Chaeryeong immediately looped an arm around your shoulders like you hadn’t just had a moment that rearranged the molecules in your lungs.

“Let’s go get milk,” she mumbled, sleepy and satisfied. “And water. Lots of water. I feel like a raisin.”

You laughed, letting her lean into you. But the laughter didn’t erase it. That hum in your chest, that electric thread stretched taut in the space behind you.

Still tugging.

Waiting.

As you walked farther down the street, the sounds of your friends blending into background noise, you heard quiet footsteps behind you. Chan and Hyunjin had fallen into step together.

Chan bumped his shoulder gently into Hyunjin’s, voice low but amused. “You gonna pretend that didn’t just happen?”

Hyunjin gave him a small, lopsided smile. “I’m not pretending anything.”

Chan nodded like he already knew. Then, softer, almost teasing. “She’s got bookstore energy, huh?”

Hyunjin looked ahead, expression unreadable, but the smile stayed.

“Yeah.”

゜・．・ hope you enjoyed! want to support?

part two • follow/reblog • leave a request • my other works

🏷️ ‎ @kkatsvy‎‎ ‎ ( ty for the support on starting this acc, love you sm )

[shaddork]

Cross posted on A03 under the same username! Here's a comprehensive list of all chapters and the summaries. Will be updated with each chapter. Current Total Word Count: 44,833

Chapter One - 4,107 Words

Jason Todd forgot a lot of things after the Lazarus pit's putrid green waters helped restore him back to life. He wished that Dick hadn't said that name, your name. Reigniting feelings and memories. As memories he thought were long lost start to return, can he continue to be in your life without dragging you down with him? Can he be in your life without you knowing who he is? He doesn't know, but he wants to try.

Chapter Two - 2,654 Words

At only nine years old Jason's caught crying outside by a strange girl.

Chapter Three - 4,707 Words

A camera flash catches Red Hoods attention, and it gives him the perfect excuse to go visit you.

Chapter Four - 2,659 Words

As children, you and Jason become quickly inseparable. Spending nearly every single day in one another's company, reading, drawing, going to school, all of it.

Chapter Five - 4,557 Words

Jason visits you for the second night in a row, finding lingering whispers of his past in your present.

Chapter Six - 3,325 Words

Math is not your strong suit, and through your teacher wanting you to get better, you and Jason make a new friend. A friend close enough that the two of you plan a surprise party for Jason’s tenth birthday.

Chapter Seven - 4,396 Words

Jason manages to ask your opinions on all the bats, and later, Tim and Stephanie drag him out to lunch with them

Chapter Eight - 2,259 Words

Jason's mother disappears, an eviction notice appears

Chapter Nine - 5,132 Words

Stephanie runs into you trying to save a puppy from a gutter

Chapter Ten - 2,398 Words

Jason is caught taking the tires off the batmobile, and Sammy gives you an action figure to protect you.

Chapter Eleven - 5,535 Words

Jason and Stephanie have a confrontation, Damian expresses concern, you extend an invitation to return after the painting is finished

Chapter Twelve - 3,078 Words

Jason goes on a “walk”. The walk ends up leading him to the outside of your window.

Chapter Thirteen - SOON

[florencebirdsong]

Happy Valentine’s Day!

I just saw you’ve opened your requests for this day, so I have a request ;)

Witch!agatha x innocent!human!fem!reader, after AAA, Agatha falls in love with an ordinary human and for the first time in her life she is clumsy when flirting and approaching reader - that's how special her crush on this human is-

I ADORE your writing

Happy Valentine's Day! Thank you so much for the request!!

This is less clumsy and more awkward and stiff but I hope you still enjoy. She's just a silly billy who doesn't know how to handle her emotions :)

And thank you!!! That means so much <3

Valentine’s Day Event 2025

Tags: very slight angst, hint of dominating Agatha, ficlet

Agatha’s presence fills a room. Her eyes see through everyone she meets. She skilfully navigates everyone that’s thrown at her. There isn’t a person who’s properly met her who hasn’t been left with a strong impression. Except you. She barely looks at you. You’ve only ever managed to catch her in the corner of your eye, but even then it could just be in your direction.

You can’t figure out why and any one you’ve been brave enough to ask hasn’t either. Some have even said that it’s a good thing. You don’t understand how. You ache with longing every time you see her sharp smile directed at someone else.

It takes the sixth social gathering in a row where she has interacted with every one but you to find the courage to ask. It’s one of the rare occasions where it’s held at her place and you take advantage of the fact that everyone seems to leave all at once.

It feels strange to linger when the host doesn’t acknowledge you but you draw on every bit of courage you have to stay.

“Not rushing out?” Agatha says from behind you.

You jump in surprise and whirl around. Her face is emotionless. Not even the usual amusement from scaring someone displayed.

“I wanted to talk to you,” you say, gaze stuck firmly on the floor.

There’s a very long pause before she says,

“Alright,” and gestures at the purple lounge.

Instead of choosing another chair she sits next to you. You sit ramrod straight in your nervousness and you can’t help casting a quick glance at her every few seconds. She’s so close. 

She has been before, technically. When talking in or group or accidentally brushing up against you but that never lasts long and it’s never been just the two of you.

Her gaze has wandered over to the window. A curtain has curled back just enough for a peak at the moon.

“Agatha?” you ask, valiantly trying to hide how nervous you are. She hums vaguely, eyes still looking out the window. Swallowing hard, you make yourself continue. “Why don’t you like me?”

Her head snaps towards you. “Excuse me?”

You try not to cringe. You knew it had been a stupid question and yet you asked anyway. Now you have to try and survive her sharp words. One of the few times she looks directly at you and you can’t even meet her eyes. It’s a major loss, especially with what’s about to happen, but you don’t think you’d be able to survive seeing the annoyance or hate in her eyes when she insults you.

You flinch in surprise when she grips your chin and forces your gaze to meet hers.

“Me liking you isn’t the problem,” she says. Her voice is low and you try to brace yourself. “The problem is that I like you too much.”

Her nails dig slightly into your skin and your eyes widen in surprise. You don’t even get a chance to think of a response before her lips are against yours. It’s not a feeling you’re familiar with but you lean into her warmth eagerly. Agatha makes an encouraging sound that has you melting. It’s not long until her hands go from supporting to pushing and you find yourself being slowly lowered to lay down on the couch. You follow happily until you realise where this is going. You put a hand on her shoulder to stop her. She pulls back with a raised eyebrows.

“Have a different position in mind?” she asks with the hint of a smirk.

“Yes- I mean no- I- ,” you force yourself to take breath. She’s overwhelming enough from across the room. Having her so intensely focused on you is disorientating. “I haven’t…done anything like that before.”

You swear her eyes darken.

“That’s alright,” she murmurs as she leans closer. Your eyes drop to her lips. “I’ve waited this long for you. I can wait a bit longer.” She moves her hands again but instead of pushing you to lay down she pulls you into her. “I’ll take of you,” she promises.

[satorusluver]

Priest!Geto x fem reader

Tags/warnings: smut, male masturbation, religion kink (?), reader is pale enough to visibly blush, idk if you saw this and are still reading you probably know what you're in for lol

Word count: lil under 700

A/N: idk what this is, I blame being possessed by a demon. Barely proofread bc I'm tired.

He couldn't allow himself to be alone with you again. He repeated that thought over and over again in his mind as he got through the sermon, trying and failing not to look at you sitting so prettily in the third row. Not in the first row as you had been for weeks prior. Not after what had happened.

No, now you sat in third row at the end closest to the wall, your hands folded neatly in your lap like the good Catholic girl you were. It was clear you were trying not to draw his attention, wearing no makeup and your most modest dress yet. And yet none of your efforts could make you any less beautiful to him, let alone any less tempting.

For all his discipline, Suguru found his eyes wandering over to you a second -no, third time. You didn't meet his gaze, a soft blush creeping up your neck until it reached your cheeks as you instead began inspecting the stained glass window nearest to you as though you hadn't seen it dozens of times before. Without his permission, an image flashed through his head of that lovely neck littered with marks of purplish red - marks left there by his lips. He looked away.

Suguru knew what you must be thinking of to prompt that blush. It was the same thing that had been haunting him since last Sunday evening when you were alone with him in his office, innocently helping him plan a program.

He'd relived every moment of it a thousand times since then. The unspoken longing that had been growing between the two of you for months, the attraction you both felt but both tried to ignore, how it all finally, finally boiled over the moment your hand brushed against his as you handed him the flyers you printed out, how your breath had caught in your throat and the very same blush you wore now stained your cheeks a dusty pink. Without thinking he'd leaned in, hesitating only a moment to see if you'd push him away when he got too close. When you didn't, he kissed you, and when you kissed him back? He felt something in him snap, years of resolve breaking as he pushed the guilt of his actions aside in favor of his all-consuming need to finally touch you.

He recalled, with more lust than shame, how his hands had roamed your body over your clothes like some horny teenager and not a man of God, how he'd groaned when you palmed him through his slacks. How his last shred of self-control had nearly cracked at that very moment and he'd come so close to just taking you on his desk then and there. How he'd sinfully pleasured himself to the memory at least three times this week and prayed for forgiveness afterwards, knowing he'd do it again anyway.

His shower had become a place of depravity, of stifled groans and slick sounds as his hand worked his thick cock at almost angry pace, desperate to get these sinful thoughts out of his head, to let his unholy need of you leave his body in thick, white ropes from the flushed tip of his aching cock and let the shameful evidence be washed down the drain as God's forgiveness washed away his sins. He'd done so this very morning before mass, hoping to rid himself of any carnal desires before your arrival. It hadn't worked.

It was not until the sermon ended and the congregation began to rise from their seats that you at last turned to face him, looking up from beneath your lashes with a gaze so wanton it made his cock twitch. You were just like him, weren't you? Burdened with the impossible task of resisting your need for him, filled with good intentions and yet despite it all, he was almost certain he would need only ask and you would follow him back to his office, should he be so inclined. Suguru sighed. There weren't enough Hail Marys in the world to rid him of the guilt for the sin he was about to commit.

[jitarossun]

Under the sunset

Summary : After a long day, Cain suggests you take your mind off things by going for a walk.

Pairing : Cain x reader 

TW : none! it’s only a chill time (just one Y/N used)

Words count : 3.5k

A/N : First time I write for Dating Killmulator, fell in love with this game thanks to a friend (hello @littlefrenchiestar). If you haven't played it yet and you like romance games, I recommend it, here's the link: Dating Killmulator, hope you’ll enjoy this fanfic :)

You twirl your pencil between your fingers, your eyes vaguely focused on your notebook covered with notes that you have already partially forgotten. The minutes drag on, each second seeming to weigh a little heavier than the last, and you find yourself letting your gaze drift to the window, where the sun is shining on the campus. Your thoughts wander, touching on recent memories, the assault, the arguments, the encounters, the strange days that follow one after another. Lost in your thoughts, you don't hear the professor calling your name several times, clearly seeing that you are lost in deep thought.

“Y/N?”

You absentmindedly play with the end of your pencil, drawing random lines on your paper without really paying attention, your gaze still fixed outside. The whisper of charcoal against paper is strangely soothing, almost hypnotic. Your mind wanders, carried far away from this classroom, far from the voices of the students around you, far from the incomplete shapes slowly coming to life on your paper. Everything seems to echo in your head without your conscious mind registering it.

“If you keep drawing so badly, I'm going to have to lower your grade, you know?”

The familiar voice abruptly snaps you out of your reverie. You look up, your heart beating a little faster than you'd like to admit, to meet Cain's amused gaze and the smile playing on his lips as he looks down at you.

“Leave me alone, Cain.”

He clears his throat, crossing his arms, feigning a serious expression, lowering his head to look at you over his glasses.

“It's Mr. Montgomery. I said no exceptions.”

You roll your eyes, the charcoal still suspended between your fingers.

“Okay, I got it, Mr. Montgomery.”

You emphasize the last name, your tone oscillating between exasperation and forced amusement.

A smile stretches across Cain's lips, a mischievous gleam shining behind his glasses.

“Perfect. I don't like repeating myself.”

He straightens up slowly, sliding a finger across the corner of your desk as if symbolically marking his territory.

“Nevertheless, you'll still come see me after class.”

He smirked and returned to the front of the classroom, facing the class, each student already preoccupied with more important things than listening to you talk. Some were talking and laughing, others were drawing, either carefully or just doodling.

And there you were, sitting in the front row, obviously the exact spot where Cain had placed you, as if he wanted to keep you within sight. Despite his presence, you felt strangely alone, and somehow you knew it wasn't such a bad thing. The last few weeks had been tumultuous enough that you appreciated the distance. Between Emily, who had literally exploded with anger, and José, whose jerkish attitude had left you bitter, you had your share of friendly tensions.

Fortunately, you have also met some great people. Cain, Abel, Florian... even Maya, who seemed to be a much healthier influence than the others. Well, if you ignored the fact that two of them were murderers whose pasts and current situations you knew nothing about.

Your thoughts were still drifting between these recent memories when Cain suddenly clapped his hands, signaling the end of class. His gaze fell on you, one eyebrow slightly raised, as if to make sure you weren't planning on slipping out.

As you watched the other students leave the room one by one, their conversations and laughter gradually faded away in the hallway, silence finally fell, heavy and palpable. You were alone, or almost alone, with only you and Cain left, leaning casually against his desk, arms crossed, eyes fixed on you with a smug expression.

You let out a sigh, finally raising your gaze to meet his. Someone had to break the silence. And, as usual, it was you who did it.

“What's the problem, Mr. Montgomery?”

You emphasized his last name a little too much once more, unable to resist the temptation to tease him. He deserved it, after all.

Cain smiles amusedly, shaking his head slightly.

“Oh, it's fine, class is over.”

“We're technically still in class.”

He lets out a slight laugh, one of those that sounds almost fake, as if he's mocking you as much as he is himself. Without rushing, he slumps down on the desk next to yours, crossing his legs and arms, his gaze already fixed on you, as if trying to read your mind.

“Are you okay?”

You squint slightly, trying to guess if he's being sincere or if he's hiding something behind the question. Or maybe a little of both, knowing Cain. You hesitate for a moment, the urge to lie to protect yourself clashing with the strange feeling of trust you've come to develop towards him.

“A little tired, but I'm fine.”

His gaze slowly moves down your body, scrutinizing every detail, every tiny movement, as if trying to decipher something you're not saying.

“I can tell.”

He replies with that smirk that always makes you feel like he knows something you don't. You roll your eyes, ready to retort, but he doesn't give you time.

“Want to go get changed and take your mind off things?”

His tone, sincere and almost concerned, catches you off guard. You stare at him, a slight dizziness of vulnerability washing over you. He knows you, probably more than you'd like to admit, while you suddenly realize that you don't know much about him. What you do know is mostly random tidbits gleaned from conversations with Giuseppe, his butler, and even those seem incomplete.

You could have refused. Maybe you should have. But you can't. So instead of making excuses or forcing a smile, you just nod. You accept.

“What's on your mind?”

“We could go to the park, get some fresh air, it'll do you good. And I'm sure you don't mind walking, seeing as you've been sitting in that chair all day.”

His words aren't particularly memorable, but you can't help the little laugh that escapes your lips. It's not so much what he said, or even how he said it. It's more the simple fact that he took the time to observe you, to think about what might make you feel better, and that he decided that, for one reason or another, it was with him that you should spend this time.

And even if you're a little reluctant to admit it, deep down you know that's exactly what you need right now.

“Okay, why not, I guess. It's the end of the day and there aren't any clouds, so I think we'll get a beautiful sunset.”

Cain took off his glasses, then unhooked the badge hanging around his neck and slipped it into his jacket pocket. You stood up slowly and looked him straight in the eye.

“So, can I call you Cain again?”

He didn't answer, just letting out a slight mocking sigh that echoed through the empty room as he headed for the exit. He seemed to expect you to follow him without a word.

And that's exactly what you did. You grabbed your bag, slung it over your shoulder, and took quick steps to catch up with him. Together, you walked toward the university exit, the cool air outside not far away.

You leave the university, the sun slowly beginning to set, tinging the sky with golden light. The coolness of the late afternoon immediately envelops you, a pleasant contrast to the stifling heat of the classroom.

Cain walked beside you, his expression half-teasing, half-serious. After a silence, he said in an almost provocative voice.

“So, tell me... besides daydreaming in class, what else do you do to pass the time?”

You smiled slightly, not really ready to open up completely, but appreciating the attempt at conversation.

“I'm saving my secrets for you.”

He laughs softly, shaking his head.

“Classic. You could at least tell me if you're the type to run or walk fast when you're angry.”

You think for a moment, your eyes lost in the trees lining the path.

“I tend to walk fast, but it depends... if I'm really angry, it often ends in a long silence.”

Cain nods, watching your reactions with interest.

“Interesting. And when you're tired, what do you do?”

You shrug, a little surprised by the question.

“I go to bed early, if I can. Otherwise, I try not to think about it too much.”

A silence falls, but it's no longer heavy. You walk side by side, simply.

“There's a silence there, does that mean you're angry?”

“Why? do you want me to be angry with you?”

“No, but it would make things more interesting.”

You shake your head, letting out a slight amused sigh. He looks at you sideways, the smile still playing on his lips.

“You're an idiot, Cain.”

His smile widens, as if he took your remark as a compliment.

The sound of your footsteps echoes softly on the cobblestones as you finally leave the tall university buildings and enter the shady alleyway that leads to the park. The air is a little cooler here, heavy with the scent of damp earth and cut grass, and you feel your shoulders relax a little, a sensation you clearly don't mind.

Cain, at your side, remains silent for a moment, his eyes scanning the surroundings as if he were discovering the place for the first time. You watch him out of the corner of your eye, noticing the way the soft light filters through the trees, casting moving shadows on his face.

His golden eyes catch the light like those of a predator on the prowl, the brown, slightly curly strands of his hair standing out against the light background of the trees. The regular crunch of gravel under your feet accompanies your steps as you slowly make your way along the dirt path that winds through the park.

You decide to break the silence between you, even though it's not necessarily uncomfortable.

“So, how was your day?”

“Oh, you know... pretty uneventful. I had to play teacher, pretend to be interested in my students' thoughts, and most importantly, make sure you didn't fall asleep in class.”

He turned to you to see your reaction to his words, but all you did was let a soft, gentle smile spread across your face, illuminated by the twilight.

“I guess you're glad we came out, then?”

He looked back at where he was walking, his arms swinging alongside his body in time with his steps.

“You could say that.”

You continued walking in complete tranquility, the park was rather quiet. It was getting late, and parents were probably already giving their children baths or helping them with their homework. There were a few passers-by here and there, but it was nothing compared to what the park could be like during the day.

The sound of gravel mingled with birdsong as your attention was drawn to some flower beds you were passing by. The petals swayed from side to side in the light breeze, making them look even more majestic.

Unconsciously, you continued to look at them, lingering on each one, analyzing them and wondering if you would like to have them in a bouquet at home.

“You like flowers, huh?”

Your gaze turned to Cain, who was still walking beside you, watching you observe the flowers intently but unable to help leaving you to your thoughts. You weren't surprised that he noticed this small detail, so you just smiled before answering.

“Well, who doesn't like flowers?”

“Oh, believe me, you'd be surprised...”

He looked at the flowers that lined the path on either side of you. He found your simple interest in them cute and amusing; it was a nice change from his everyday life.

“Are you going to pick some for me, gentleman?”

You cross your arms, a smile playing on your lips, one of those smiles you rarely show, but which you know has a way of making him react. Cain laughs, a light, almost surprising sound coming from him, echoing between the trees.

“Do you want me to?”

You pretend to think about it, raising your eyebrows slightly as if the decision requires real effort, when in reality you already have your answer. With a small hum, you finally nod, and without waiting, he heads toward the flower bed.

You watch him crouch down near the delicate stems, his slightly bent silhouette contrasting with his usual confident bearing.

He reaches out and picks several azalea flowers, their bright pink petals forming a delicate crown around their white centers. He examines it for a moment, his gaze almost lost in the delicacy of the petals before he straightens up and returns to you, the small homemade bouquet in his hands.

He smiles warmly at you and you can't help feeling a rush of warmth spread across your cheeks as he offers you the bouquet, looking straight into your eyes, his golden eyes piercing yours with something that doesn't leave you indifferent.

“Thank you, Cain.”

“You're welcome.”

There was a hint of a smile on his face as he did it, as if he was proud that he was doing something that made you happy.

“Let's keep walking, shall we?”

As the two of you walked, the sun continued to set, painting the sky in shades of purple, pink, and orange. Cain couldn't help but watch the sunset, his expression soft as he admired the view.

“You were right about the sunset being pretty...”

His voice was soft, tinged with a tranquility you hadn't seen since the day of the altercation with Caleb. He was resting in his room wearing that Christmas sweater, which you had found so cute at that moment. Just thinking about it made your face soften and your heart flutter, so much so that you forgot to answer him.

Your silence made him look at you, something you didn't notice, he chuckled slightly at that, but he didn't break the comfortable silence between you, he could see that you were lost somewhere in your memories, so he left you alone.

As you walked on in silence, you finally reached the center of the park, which opened onto a small paved square lined with benches and wrought-iron lamp posts, their black paint slightly chipped by time. In the center, a small fountain murmured softly, and just opposite, you spotted an ice cream shop, its colorful umbrellas contrasting with the green tones of the park.

You squinted slightly, your thoughts interrupted not by Cain's voice but by the sight of the little shop, remembering that it had been set up recently, following a decision by the city council to “modernize” the park. Despite the enthusiastic rumors of some students, you had never been there, always too busy or too preoccupied to stop.

Cain follows your gaze and, without even giving you time to look away and give him your best puppy dog eyes, he smiles and suggests what you had in mind, what you were waiting for.

“Want to go check it out?”

You bite your lip slightly, a little embarrassed at having been so easily found out and you shrugged, trying to look casual. 

“Why not... I've never been there.”

He didn't answer, and you headed toward the shop. It was perhaps a little late in the day for ice cream, and it wasn't particularly hot, but the idea of a little sweet treat made your mouth water.

As you enter, you immediately feel a slight chill run through you, the cool air from the freezers contrasting with the slight warmth still present outside. But you don't mind; on the contrary, the coolness is invigorating.

The shop is small but charming, with pastel-colored tiles covering the walls and fairy lights hanging from the ceiling, creating a soft and colorful atmosphere. The counter is filled with brightly colored ice cream tubs, ranging from raspberry pink to sky blue, each flavor giving off a sweet and intoxicating scent. Behind the counter, an employee in a white and pink uniform greets them with a professional smile.

Cain stops just behind you, slipping his hands into his pockets before tilting his head slightly toward you.

“Pick whatever you want. It's on me.”

“Aren't you getting anything?”

“No, not today, but that's no reason for you not to have some, so go ahead and choose.”

You approach the counter, your eyes scanning the different flavors before settling on a bright orange tub dotted with small pieces of fruit.

“I'll have a mango ice cream in a cone.”

The employee nods, quickly grabs a crispy cone and starts scooping two generous scoops of ice cream, their bright color contrasting nicely with the softness of the cone.

Glancing quickly at Cain, you notice that he is still watching you, a slight smile on his lips, as if amused by your choice.

Cain takes out his wallet with his usual nonchalance, paying before you can even protest.

“Thanks.”

You smile shyly at him, and he smiles back with a confidence that is much greater than yours, but you can definitely see that he's happy to make you happy.

As you step outside, the warm air of the park contrasts nicely with the coolness of the shop. You walk quietly along one of the tree-lined paths, the gravel crunching softly under your feet, until Cain stops in front of a wooden bench, a little out of the way, offering an unobstructed view of the sky beginning to turn shades of pink and orange.

Without waiting, he sits down, resting one arm on the back of the bench with his characteristic relaxed confidence, and looks up at the sky with a soft sigh.

You sit down next to him, placing the small bouquet of azalea flowers beside you and occasionally licking your ice cream, which is delicious. The intense cold melts almost instantly on your tongue, and you love the strong fruity flavor of the ice cream. You can taste the freshness of the mango subtly mingling with the slight bitterness of the crispy cookie. It's both comforting and invigorating, a simple but deeply satisfying treat.

“Want to try some?”

Your voice is soft and your tone gentle as you turn toward him and lift the ice cream slightly to bring it to his lips, not really giving him much choice.

He squints, amused by your boldness, then delicately catches the ice cream with the tip of his tongue, as if tasting a rare treasure.

His gaze softens for a moment, surprised by the coolness and intense sweetness of the mango, before a smile returns to light up his face.

“Not bad at all, you have good taste.”

You look at him and move a little closer to him on the bench, your shoulder almost touching his. You turn slightly towards him, enjoying the magnificent view you both have.

“Let's share it, if you like it too.”

Cain chuckled and watched you enjoy the ice cream as you held it out to him, gently stopping you with his hand.

“That's very kind, but I'll let you finish it. I got it for you, after all.”

You don't insist, but you sense that he wants this little moment to be yours, a little sheltered from the world, like a bubble he doesn't want to disturb. If only he knew how much it would have meant to you.

A soft, soothing silence falls between you as you slowly finish your ice cream. Sitting side by side on the old wooden bench, you watch the sun slowly sink behind the trees. Warm orange and pink colors light up the sky, painting a silent picture that seems suspended in time.

“So, tell me, did you enjoy the end of the day?”

You turn to look at him, but his gaze is fixed on the blazing horizon.

“Honestly? Yes. It was... calm, simple, and a little unexpected.”

He raises an eyebrow, then decides to turn to you, looking down at you from his slightly taller position.

“Simple, huh? Just you, me, a bench, and a sunset. Nothing more needed?”

“Sometimes the simplest things are the most precious.”

A comfortable silence settles in as the sky continues to glow, but your eyes remain locked on each other.

“Would you like to do this more often?”

Cain asked, almost as if it were a proposal, a little hesitant. Your stomach knotted a little, wondering if he had just asked you out on a date or if it was just a little get-together between friends. You swallowed, melting little by little under his gaze before nodding gently and responding in a voice no louder than a whisper.

“Yes.”

Cain smiled sincerely and looked back at the horizon. With a bold gesture and without a word, you rested your head on his shoulder. Either this was going to be the most awkward moment of your life, or it was going to be a lovely moment.

He doesn't move, even though he looks a little surprised, letting your head rest there, a tender smile forming on his lips. He tilts his own head slightly, his cheek resting against the top of your head.

The sky glows a little brighter as you both watch the sun disappear, you snuggled up against him, and him snuggled up against you.

[cvntoid]

roman on a busy train/elevator/something and doing things to you whilst everybody else is stood around, maybe you don’t even know him

Of course, he sits next to you.

It’s a long bus ride, considering. There’s probably another.. what? 20 minutes til your stop? And it’s surprisingly light; only a handful of bodies. This is when you like it best, stepping onto the bus and having your pick of empty seats, of empty rows. Just worrying about looking out the window with some headphones, nobody needing to sit next to you. In a pleasant turn of events, the entire back of the bus is bare - you choose a window seat back there, surrounded by emptiness; at least, you were.

He’s in a suit, hair slicked back. He looks vaguely familiar, but that’s a dime a dozen in New York. There are important people everywhere, recognizable faces. The single relief of not watching the news much is not recognizing any of them, not giving a shit. He has little more than a small briefcase, eyes flickering to you as he boards, the hint of a smirk on his lips. You look away and out the window, trying to shrink from his attentions. He’s kind of handsome, actually. Sharp features, deep-set, sleepy eyes. Long, gorgeous nose. He isn’t the worst seat-mate in the world, just… didn’t need to be one at all.

He settles himself without much incident, barely speaking a word or a sparing a glance before pulling his phone out and ignoring you.

Not so bad.

It takes a while, and truly, it’s by mistake - by happenstance, you glance over and catch the screen of his phone. It’s angled at your thighs, your legs in your skirt. His camera app. In one hand he surreptitiously takes a picture. His other hand is down on his own thigh, petting the head of his erect cock in his slacks, tight in that trapped fabric. The gasp that leaves your throat can’t be that loud, especially with the way you snap your attention back to the window, eyes wide, holding your breath, now. You freeze up - there are creeps on the bus, you get it. It happens. It’s not the first, last, or worse thing you’ve seen in New York in public or on public transport. But this is… this is a lot. Of course, you could yell, you could confront him and stand up and cause a scene. You know the driver would kick his ass off. You know you could. You can. Every second that ticks by is wasted, but… for some reason, you don’t. Your cheeks flush and your fingers tremble as you smooth your skirt self-consciously over your thighs, wondering if it’s making things worse.

When he tucks his phone away, you glance again out of habit, his movements drawing your eye. All you can discern is a smug little smirk on his lips as he tucks it into an inner pocket of his suit jacket. His cheekbones slice an attractive curve down into his jawline, a barely-there dusting of five-o’clock shadow.

It must be minutes - right? Seconds? Time warps in your panic, and it takes effort to release the tension in your muscles.

That’s when it happens. His pinky, stroking against the side of your thigh. He’s not even subtle about it; he pets his pinky finger there and then it’s more, his fingers crawling, slowly but surely. Hand on your thigh, and then edging between them, his gaze held calm, facing forward, your cheeks burning as you stare out the window.

Emboldened by your silence, the man’s fingers slide over the tender inside of your thigh, undeterred by the way you press them together just a little tighter.

You turn sharply to look at him, steeling yourself, and you even get as far as opening your mouth before he matches your gaze. He furrows his brow, dark eyes glittering as he fixes his face into the perfect mask of confusion, polite concern. He waits, fingers tickling deeper between them. He lifts those eyebrows, expectant. Bored. Annoyed by your silence, the way you need to remember how to breathe.

“You need something…?” he asks, voice clipped. Irritated. Impatient.

Impossibly, you shake your head, turning back toward the window, and his fingers continue to crawl to push and seek until he’s stroking up under that skirt, against your underwear. A thin, damp scrap of fabric separates your flesh from his fingertips as he rubs. It’s barely a moment after he reaches that soft, plush place that he’s pushing underneath the elastic, reaching your sensitive, shamefully wet cunt. He pokes between the lips, rubs around, finding his way idly like it’s a scenic journey he’s taking, no real goal but to feel, test, push against the bouncy, plaint flesh there.

As he makes his home in the slippery confines of your cunt, pushing one and then two fingers slowly inside, he takes your hand. You don’t need to turn and watch to know where it’s going - he pushes it against the line of his twitching, impossibly hard cock, guiding the way you rub him through his slacks. Slow. Controlled. You can feel the curve of his head, fat, the tender ridge there near the tip. He slides his fingers in, out, before settling into a rhythm that makes you gasp. He curls them, fully cupping your cunt and snickering to himself in a low, derisive way as you spread your thighs a little - just enough to allow him proper access, focusing so hard on staring out the window. His middle and ring finger nudge and grind and thrust against that sweet spot inside of you, like there aren’t other people, like you know him. Like you want it. The way he grinds his palm against you puts a solid pressure against your clit. He moves your hand a little faster against his own dick, sighing as he reaches to undo his zipper.

And then… his cock. Fat, thick, leaking. He wraps your fingers around it and guides your rhythm just the way he likes, all that rippling, firm muscle, the slickness at the tip of his cock helping wet it. He makes a soft noise in his throat and disguises it as a groan.

Despite yourself, you rock your hips - just a little. Just a little, because - oh, fuck - are you really this turned on? Really this fucking desperate for some entitled stranger to finger-fuck you on the bus, wrist flicking as he fucks his fingers into you just a little harder? His cock makes an obscenely wet noise as he drips over your knuckles, and suddenly he’s not guiding you at all - it’s you, all you, rolling your hips subtly and stroking his cock, thumbing the slit as he leans his head back in your peripheral vision, shuddering. He hums, almost a whine in his throat, and your cheeks are so fucking red they burn.

“That’s real fuckin’ cute,” he whispers. So low, so quiet you think you may have imagined it, except he laughs again - a breath. A stab. And oh - that can’t be you, tightening up on his fingers and squeezing your thighs together, closing your eyes and leaning your head back as he manipulates your poor cunt into squeezing around his knuckles, and all that pillowy, plush, molten heat around him has him fucking into your harder, faster. Milking you clean of it, your shivery little gasps. In your grip, his cock engorges and he yanks his fingers out of your cunt to reach swiftly behind your head, tangling his wet fingers into your hair as he guides you. “Down you go - just fucking do it.”

He shoves you down over his cock, and can’t you just resist, can’t you just push off of him, slap him, scream? Can’t you? He rolls his hips up and a deep, rolling grunt issues up from his chest, subdued, his cock pulsing over your tongue. He shoots into the back of your throat as he forces you there, choking, drooling over his balls, over the open fly of his expensive slacks. He keeps his fingers in your hair with a grip that stings, that makes you whine softly as you try to swallow around him. After a few last, emptying twitches, he allows you to pop off, catching your breath and wiping your wet eyelashes, your mouth.

The bus comes to a stop moments after, and he rises up from his seat, all put away and smirking. He makes sure to catch your eye, lifting his eyebrows as he brings his fingers to his nose, winking. “Thanks for the ride,” he mumbles.

[endwersed]

Snippet Sunday

I made some good progress on the next chapter of my Sterek High School AU call it off today (1000 whole words!) so to celebrate, I thought - why not share a little snippet 😄 Hope you guys enjoy!

-

His dad tries to talk to him, of course. Most mornings he comes into Stiles’ room just as dawn is breaking through the cracks in the blinds, barely even looking surprised to find Stiles already wide awake. He will sit on the edge of a creaky bed and put his hand on Stiles’ shoulder, squeezing around brittle bones as he peers down to where Stiles won’t meet his eye.

How are you doing – he will always ask. Is there anything I can get for you – he will always offer. You know you can talk to me about anything – he will always remind.

But Stiles does not want to talk. He does not want to hear what his dad will have to say. His world is falling to pieces all around him, his heart shattered into jagged little atoms that hide underneath his stretched thin skin, shards that cut deeper and deeper scars every single day that he does not let himself speak to Derek, and he knows, he just knows, that all his dad will have to tell him is that this is for the best, that he has made the right choice, that he has done the right thing.

The ache of the best part of his life being so abruptly ripped away does not feel like the right thing. But that is something that he can never, and will never, share with the black and white mortality of his father.

Today is not a good day. Really, he hardly even remembers the last time that he had a good day. Or he tries not to remember, at least. It is getting late already, a beautiful sun setting just outside his window that he will not draw the curtains to gaze at, another crisp and cool winter day wasted in hours of total silence, another day spent rotting from the inside out from the safety of his bed.

He lies there, in sheets that need a good wash and a body that needs a good shake, and he stares up at the ceiling, eyes red and raw as he blinks up to nothing at all. He can hear his dad puttering around downstairs, in the kitchen to work on a dinner they both already know Stiles won’t be able to stomach, and he zones into that sound, distracts himself with the noise of simmering pots, chopping knives, the repetitive open and close of a refrigerator door as his dad forgets more than one ingredient in a row.

A ringing doorbell cuts sharply through all of that ordinary clatter. Stiles’ heart skips a beat inside of his chest.

It feels as though his breath is stuck all the way down in his burning lungs as he listens intently to his dad’s footsteps, making little haste as he pads placidly through the house until he reaches the hall. The snick of the front door comes next, the swing of it open to reveal whoever stands outside, whoever has waited so patiently on their porch, but no greeting follows right after. There is no cheerful hello or easy return.

Instead, there is only a long, dragging silence where nobody speaks. Seconds, and seconds, and seconds of it. The tension crawls underneath Stiles’ skin even from all the way upstairs.

Eventually, it is the person outside who speaks first.

“Sir,” he says. “Can I… may I come in?”

-

No pressure tags ❤️ @hedwig221b @honestlydarkprincess @lucky-bishop @patolemus @seaweed-water

[brightlight-dazzlingeyes]

out of my league | pedri gonzalez [part i]

🎓 synopsis: You got into college hoping to reinvent yourself, to leave the “loser” label behind. But months in and nothing’s changed – then you see him. Pedri González, the guy who couldn’t be more out of your reach. You’re sure he’ll never notice you, but maybe, just maybe, you two have more in common than you realized. And maybe, just maybe, he’s been looking your way too. tags: self-doubt, nerd and jock trope, love triangle, you're not like other girls, mutual pining. (written in 2nd person but no mention of yn) | (around 3.8k words) | masterlist |

part 1

You walk into the lecture hall, shifting your weight from foot to foot, clutching your bag strap tightly. Students swarm in around you, talking, familiar voices calling out to each other, laughter echoing off the walls. You scan the seats, looking for an empty spot – but, more importantly, looking for an empty spot where it might be easy to casually say hi to someone, where you might manage to start up a conversation without feeling like you’re forcing it.

No luck. Everyone else seems to have a seat next to someone they know, pairs and small groups filling up rows, bags and books claiming seats before you get a chance to. Finally, you slip into a seat near the back, opening your notebook and hoping that, if nothing else, maybe the professor will start early and save you from the heavy silence between you and everyone else around.

Class begins, and you make yourself busy with notes, trying to ignore how easily the others settle in. You catch part of the conversations: plans to go out, complaining about an exam, and one girl a few seats over talking about her internship in a confident voice that makes you feel smaller somehow. 

It’s silly, childish even, to still be waiting for something to change, still half-hoping someone might come along and say, “Hey, you look like you’re new here,” or “We’re grabbing coffee after this, wanna join?” But you know better – things like that won’t happen for you. So, after class, you head to the café down the street, at least there you can sit alone in peace.

As you order your coffee, you try to shake off the familiar feeling of disappointment, reminding yourself that college isn’t some high school movie where everything magically falls into place. It’ll come with time, you tell yourself.

You take your coffee to a small table near the window, trying to focus on the hum of conversation around you rather than your own thoughts. Then, out of nowhere, you notice him.

Pedri.

You’ve seen him before, of course. His face practically wallpapered half the university’s Instagram page. Pedri González, the football prodigy, popular on campus with that effortless charm. Today, he’s leaning against a counter, his order in hand, scrolling through his phone. He’s so close you almost look away instinctively, but something keeps your eyes on him – maybe the way he seems so at ease, so comfortable in a way you can’t seem to find for yourself.

And just as you think that, he glances up, catching your eye. A flicker of recognition crosses his face, and for a split second, you swear there’s something like a smile directed right at you.

You suddenly hear a voice from behind – high-pitched, bubbly, and unmistakably familiar. Melanie, his influencer girlfriend with the flawless face and perfect body, skips up to Pedri with such an enthusiasm that it makes your stomach twist.

“Pedri!” she squeals, throwing her arms around his neck. He looks a bit startled at first, but then his expression softens, and he wraps an arm around her, shifting his coffee to avoid spilling it. “I’m holding coffee,” he laughs, his voice low and easy. “Calm down.”

She pouts, tugging at his sleeve in an exaggerated, cutesy way, her voice taking on a pitch that gets on your nerves. “You didn’t wait for me!” she says, drawing out the words with a look of playful hurt. Her expression is almost too perfect, like she’s used to performing for an audience – and for all you know, she might be.

Pedri just shakes his head, still smiling. “Alright, alright, next time I’ll wait,” he says, clearly charmed. That gentle look in his eyes makes your heart sink. Here he is, so warm and patient with her, someone who seems worlds apart from you.

You look down at your coffee, suddenly feeling invisible again. You decide to make your way to the door, head down, hoping to slip out of the café without a second look from anyone. It shouldn't be too difficult. But in your haste, your bag catches on the edge of a chair, and you feel a sting as something sharp nicks your finger. You wince, glancing at the tiny cut forming on the tip of your finger, and that’s when you hear her voice again.

“Oh my god, are you okay, honey?” Melanie’s voice rings out, unexpectedly dripping with concern. You look up, realizing that she’s talking to you.

“Oh! Uh, yeah, yes,” you stammer, raising your hand to show her the barely-there cut. “It was just… a tiny cut. Really, it’s nothing. But thanks for asking.”

Pedri’s face shifts from curious to concerned as he sets his coffee down and digs around in his pocket. “Hey, hey,” he says as he pulls out a small band-aid and holds it up with a smile. “Don’t worry, I got you.”

He comes closer and carefully grabs your injured finger. His hands are warm, and he’s so close that you can smell the faint hint of his cologne. Your cheeks feel like they’re on fire. You try not to make eye contact, so you look up at Melanie instead – only to find her lips pressed into a tight line, her eyes narrowed. She looks absolutely furious.

You pull your hand back as soon as he finishes, tucking it away like it’s something you shouldn’t have shared. Your heart is pounding, and for reasons you can’t quite understand, you feel a knot of nerves in your stomach.

“Umm, thanks,” you say, glancing from Pedri to Melanie and back again. “I… yeah, okay. Well, bye then.”

Without waiting for either of them to respond, you spin on your heel and head for the door, practically stumbling over yourself in your rush to leave. 

part 2

It happens one afternoon when you’re at the library, tucked away in a corner, lost in your notes. You’re not really expecting anything – it’s just a quiet day like any other. You’ve been at it for hours, and it’s one of those days where everything feels like it’s blurring together – but you need to keep going. Finals are coming up, and organic chemistry isn’t about to let you off easy.

In front of you, a group of students has taken up a whole table, their textbooks and notebooks sprawled across the surface. You’re aware of a little rustling, some light laughter, then whispers that rise just enough for you to catch a few words.

“Just ask her!” one of them says, and you notice a nudge from one person to the next, like a gentle push to do something. You ignore it, but then, after a pause, you hear a voice close by.

“Hey.”

You glance up, slightly startled, and there’s Alexia standing next to you. You recognize her from thermodynamics – she’s that person who always seems to understand things when the rest of you is lost. You didn’t think she’d remember you, let alone approach you.

“Oh, hi,” you manage, trying not to sound as surprised as you feel.

“We’re, uh, actually about to grab lunch,” she says, gesturing to the group sitting around the table. “And… well, we were wondering if you wanted to come with us?”

You look over and realize that the rest of the group is watching with interest. 

“Oh… sure, that sounds nice,” you say.

The next thing you know, you’re sitting in a little restaurant, the sound of salsa music filling the air and the table scattered with plates of tacos, chips, and guacamole. You’re squeezing around a table just big enough for the six of you.

“So, did anyone actually get the last question on the problem set?” Diego asks, looking around the table.

“Don’t even talk to me about that one,” Ana groans, reaching for a chip. “They’re just trying to mess with us. Like, sure, a totally realistic scenario in the real world, right?”

Arthur smirks, shaking his head. “Weak. I got it. Want me to explain?”

“Oh, please, Mr. I-Got-It-On-The-Fifth-Try,” Andrés scoffs. “Don’t act like you didn’t guess half of it.”

Laughter rises around the table, and you catch Alexia rolling her eyes at Arthur. “He totally guessed,” she whispers, leaning in, and you smile, realizing you’re laughing too, genuinely. There’s no awkwardness, no need to carefully plan out every word.

Then Alexia groans beside you, rolling her eyes. "Ugh, the most annoying people on campus just walked in."

You follow her gaze and spot Pedri and his friends entering the restaurant, laughing loudly and drawing attention, moving with confidence.

"Oh, do you mean the most famous?" Ana teases, which sets off a laughter around the table. They’re clearly all in on the joke, sharing knowing glances.

You feel your cheeks warm, trying to hide that you're blushing. Just a few hours ago, the thought of being in that group had felt like the ultimate goal, some idealized version of what college life should be. You’d thought everything would change, that you’d somehow become a different person overnight. Now, you look at them again, at their loud voices and carefree attitude, and something about it feels... less shiny. Less like what you actually need.

This time, he doesn’t look at you. Pedri and his friends settle at a table on the other side of the restaurant. It’s strange – you’re both here, sharing the same space, yet you might as well be in different worlds.

For the first time, it doesn’t bother you. There’s a quiet satisfaction in knowing that you don’t need to be over there, part of his world, to feel like you belong. You turn back to your own table, the conversation picks up right where it left off, and you dive back in, laughing along, feeling more settled than you ever imagined you would.

part 3

You’re standing in Ana and Alexia’s tiny dorm room, surrounded by piles of clothes, makeup scattered across every available surface. Alexia’s leaning in close, brushing eyeshadow onto your eyelids while Ana adjusts the straps of her dress on your shoulders. The room feels so cramped, and your pulse is racing – this party is supposed to be huge, half the campus will be there, and just thinking about it makes you feel like you’re looking down the edge of a cliff. Your palms are clammy, and every now and then, you catch yourself wondering if maybe you should back out.

When Alexia pulls away to get a good look, you finally muster up the courage to ask, "Do I look... pretty?" The words come out quieter than you intended.

Alexia squints at you, considering. "What? Yeah, of course! Maybe…” She leans closer, tapping her chin, “maybe just take your glasses off."

Ana reaches over, carefully slipping them off, and both of them stare at you. Your heart skips a beat. Why did they pause like that? Why haven’t they said anything?

“Actually, you know what,” Ana says, laughing as she slides your glasses back on. “Let’s keep them on.”

Your stomach drops, and you immediately start overthinking. Does that mean you look… weird without them? That the glasses are hiding something? You’re seconds away from spiraling when Ana laughs again, picking up on your panic.

“No, no, it’s not that! Really!” she says, putting a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “I just think the glasses suit you. They make you look like… you, you know?”

You take a breath, looking at yourself in the mirror. “Sometimes, I feel like people don’t even look at my face,” you say quietly, almost more to yourself than to them. “Like… am I ugly or something? Just be honest.”

Alexia shakes her head, leaning in with a smirk. “The problem is not that you’re ugly. Because listen – you’re not.” She tries to keep a straight face but can’t hold back a grin. “It’s just… you have this really scary resting face. Honestly, it took us months to gather up the courage to talk to you. You looked like a total psycho!”

Your jaw drops, and then Ana starts giggling, and before you know it, all three of you are laughing so hard you’re practically gasping for air.

By the time you and your friends arrive, the place is buzzing – every corner packed with groups chatting, laughing, flirting, leaning close in half-drunken conversations, snapping selfies that will likely look more like a blur tomorrow. It's surreal, looking out over the room and recognizing faces – people you've seen day after day in the library or sitting across from you in classes.

You glance over at Alexia, who’s already chatting with Ana, while Diego and Andrés are joking around, nudging each other, making it look like they’ve been friends for years. It feels good – safe, even – knowing you're with people who know your quirks and still want you here.

For a second, you catch sight of Pedri and his friends across the room. They’re their own universe, laughing, leaning back casually against the wall, looking like they know everyone and everything.

The music grows louder, bass pulsing through the floor, and after a few songs and a couple of drinks, the air feels thick, almost stifling. You slip out onto the balcony, breathing in the cool night air, grateful for the silence.

A few moments later, you hear footsteps. When you turn, Pedri is standing there, leaning against the doorframe with that familiar half-smile.

“Hey! Finger-cut girl! Escaping too?” he says, nodding back toward the chaos inside.

You laugh, rolling your eyes. “Yeah, needed a break. It’s… intense in there.”

He steps forward, looking out over the city lights beyond. “It’s kind of crazy, all this,” he says, gesturing toward the noise and chaos inside. “Sometimes I just want to get away for a while, you know?”

You blink, caught off guard by the depth of his words. You’re both a bit tipsy, sure, but it doesn’t feel like enough to explain why he’s opening up like this to you. It’s almost… intentional.

You want to keep the conversation going, to say something meaningful back. Tonight, you’re really trying to be friendly, trying to bridge that gap that always feels so hard to cross. But it’s not easy for you. It’s like something physically tightens in your chest whenever you’re around people – every word feels like you’re tiptoeing on the edge of saying too much.

Still, you take a breath, gathering the nerve to open up, even if it’s just a little. “I get it,” you say, surprised at how steady your voice sounds. “Sometimes it feels like everything’s moving too fast, and you’re just… stuck, trying to catch up.”

He looks at you like he’s really hearing what you’re saying. His expression softens, and the usual cockiness in his eyes is replaced with something quieter.

He agrees, “Exactly.”

For a moment, you both stand there, the noise and music from inside a distant hum. Then he leans on the railing beside you.

“You look different tonight,” he says, his voice lower, almost as if he’s sharing a secret. “Good different.”

You roll your eyes, trying to hide how much his words make you blush. “It’s just makeup and a nice dress.”

He shakes his head, his eyes still on you. “No, it’s more than that. You look… happy.”

You’re not sure how to respond, caught between laughing it off and letting his words sink in. You look up, meeting his gaze, and suddenly the closeness between you feels electric. His eyes flicker from your face to your lips, and for a heartbeat, you’re frozen, feeling that rush of anticipation.

There’s a pause as you both just look at each other, and in the dim light, you notice something unexpected – he’s actually nervous. The way he glances down at his hands, how he shifts slightly, like he’s unsure of himself.

Your heartbeat picks up as he leans in, his breath warm against your cheek. When his lips finally meet yours, it’s gentle at first, tentative, like he’s testing the waters, waiting to see if you’ll pull away. But you don’t. Instead, you let yourself sink into it.

Just as you’re starting to forget where you are, his hand slides down your back, fingers trailing lower, and it’s like a switch flips. You pull back, reality rushing back in as you catch your breath, and he looks at you, confused.

You look down, noticing your lipstick, or, well, Alexia’s lipstick smudged on his lips, “You have a girlfriend,” you say, your voice a mix of anger and disbelief. “Why would you do this?”

He hesitates. “I don’t. Not anymore.”

“Since when?”

“Uhmm… listen, we’re about to break up. Any day now. I’m just trying to find the right time.”

“Oh my god,” you groan, stepping back.

He sighs, like he knows how this sounds. “She kisses other guys too, it’s fine, we have an open relationship.”

You fold your arms, skeptical. “Okay… maybe start with that next time. I still don’t feel like I can trust you, and I’m pretty sure she hates me. Either way, I don’t want any drama.”

Pedri laughs, trying to look nonchalant. “Drama? Me? I’m the chillest. There’s no drama with me.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You just told me you’re in the middle of breaking up, and I don’t even know what that means.”

He rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. “Okay, okay, I get it. Sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Well, I like thinking,” you say, your voice sharper than you intended. “You should try it. It’s really good – it lowers your chances of hurting people.”

Pedri opens his mouth, maybe to defend himself, but instead, he just nods, an apology in his eyes. And though you can see that part of him wants to win you over, there’s a quiet recognition there too. He knows he messed up. The music shifts, someone calls your name, and before either of you can say anything more, you turn and walk back into the noise, leaving him standing there.

part 4

It’s a random Tuesday when you find yourself in a situation straight out of a cheap comedy. You’re just minding your business, walking back to your dorm with an armful of snacks you impulsively bought after a long day of exams. But right as you turn the corner of the hallway, your foot catches on a loose bit of carpet. In an effort to keep from falling, you stumble forward, dropping your snacks everywhere – chips and candy scattering across the floor like confetti.

As you scramble to gather everything, trying not to laugh at your own clumsiness, you realize you’re not alone. Just around the corner, you hear voices. You freeze, quickly recognizing one of them as Pedri’s. And the other... Melanie.

You lean down, staying out of sight and pretending to reach for a stray bag of chips, hoping to avoid drawing attention. But as their conversation grows louder, your curiosity gets the best of you.

“You don’t understand,” Melanie’s voice is strained, dripping with frustration. “We have something big, something real. We’re building a future here!”

Pedri sighs, his tone more tired than angry. “Be honest with me – are you even still in love with me?”

There’s a beat of silence, followed by her dismissive laugh. “This is bigger than some little crush, Pedri. We have stability. What kind of future do you have with her? You two have absolutely nothing in common!”

You bite your lip, cheeks heating up. Could they be talking about you? You’d get up and leave if you didn’t feel like you’d definitely be noticed now. You’re basically a hostage in your own hallway.

Pedri’s voice grows firmer. “This isn’t about her. It’s about us, Mel.”

She scoffs, and you can practically hear her rolling her eyes. “You two aren’t going to last a month. Just wait. You’ll come crawling back to me.”

At that, she storms off, heels clicking sharply. Pedri steps out from behind the corner a moment later and catches sight of you sitting there, wide-eyed and completely flustered, with a bag of chips crushed in your hand. There’s a split second of mutual shock before he bursts out laughing.

“Oh god,” you mumble, utterly mortified as you scramble to stand. “I swear I wasn’t eavesdropping. I… I was just… my snacks…”

Pedri grins, shaking his head. “You know, I think this might be the best thing that’s happened all day.”

He holds out his hand to help you up. “Need a hand with that?”

You take his hand, still flustered but grateful. As he helps you gather up the rest of your snacks, you both start walking down the hallway toward your dorm room. It feels easy – surprisingly comfortable, considering the circumstances. The small talk flows without much effort, and Pedri seems genuinely happy to be talking to you.

“So, what’s your course again?” he asks, glancing over at you with that warm smile that makes you a little nervous.

“I’m studying chemical engineering,” you say, trying to sound confident, even though you’re still a bit flustered from your earlier clumsiness. 

Pedri raises an eyebrow, clearly surprised. “Oh, so you’re smart, smart, huh?” he says with a grin. “I didn’t take you for a genius.”

You laugh, a bit shy but glad he’s not being too serious. “Well, I’m smart in the sense that I know how to memorize a bunch of formulas. I wouldn’t call it genius-level.”

He chuckles, clearly impressed. “I don’t know. Sounds pretty smart to me.”

You shrug, glancing at the floor. “Well, I know, it sounds super boring, but I kind of like it. I guess I’m just really into figuring out how stuff works.”

Pedri looks amused. “So you’re, like, a chemical wizard, huh?”

“Something like that,” you joke, trying to downplay it.

"So..." Pedri seems to want to start a serious conversation, looking at you with a slightly hesitant expression. "About what you heard... and about the kiss..."

You immediately shake your head, feeling your heart race. "We don't have to talk about any of it. Really."

Pedri pauses, confusion flickering on his face, as if he’s hurt by your response. "Are you sure?"

You look at him, trying to keep a straight face. "I have social anxiety."

He stares at you for a moment. "You seem fine talking to me."

You sigh dramatically, though you can’t quite hide the smile tugging at your lips. "I'm freaking out inside, trust me."

"That's okay," he says, his tone softening. "Alright, then maybe we can talk about other stuff? Maybe I can walk you to your room again some other times? What about that?"

You think for a second, still a little unsure but feeling the warmth of his easy-going demeanor. "Umm... yeah. Other stuff sounds nice. Walking sounds... okay."

Pedri raises an eyebrow, clearly teasing now but with a playful glint in his eye. "Can you handle walking and talking?"

You pause for a beat, then nod with a little more confidence than you actually feel. "I can handle!"

➜ Next Part

[armpirate]

Until You're Mine || Choi San | Ch. 19

MASTERLIST Previous || Next

Pairings: Mafia!San x fem!reader

Genre: smut, angst, fluff, obsession, mafia love

Warnings: dom!San, sub!reader, explicit language, mention of drug and guns, violence, rough sex.

Summary: San, a notorious and feared mafia boss, has always lived in the shadows of power and violence. When an ambush leaves him wounded and on the run, he finds refuge in an empty event hall. Inside, Y/n, a rising star in the world of event planning, is nursing her own wounds -a career on the line after a confrontation with a powerful client. The last thing she expects is for her night to take a dark turn when San stumbles into her life, bloodied and dangerous.

Despite the fear and uncertainty, Y/n can't turn away. She helps him clean up, binding more than just his wounds in the process. What begins as an intense, chance encounter spirals into a dangerous obsession. San, used to being the hunter, becomes fixated on the one woman who dared to help him, even in his darkest moment. Meanwhile, Y/n, caught in the mystery of that powerful man, finds herself tracking his every move, unable to shake the dangerous allure of his world.

Neither knows that their fascination with each other is mutual. In a city teeming with danger, power, and deceit, their secret obsessions will pull them deeper into a deadly game -one where love, power, and obsession intertwine, and nothing is as it seems.

Chapter duration: 20 minutes

Chapter warnings: Explicit language, teasing, smut, unprotected sex

The metal door hissed shut behind them, locking out the warmth of the apartment and sealing them into something colder, realer.

The underground garage was dimly lit, shadows stretching long across polished concrete. Rows of sleek vehicles sat in still silence, but San didn't hesitate. He moved with unflinching purpose, the click of his boots echoing like a countdown.

Y/n kept pace beside him, her arms folded, eyes sharp. She didn't ask where they were going. Didn't demand answers.

She just followed -silent, steady, unshaken.

And San felt it in his chest, like a second heartbeat.

He reached the matte black car near the far wall, thumbed the remote, and the locks clicked open. The headlights blinked once, a brief flash of light that caught the edge of his profile -jaw clenched, gaze straight ahead.

He opened the door for her, a wordless gesture. Not polite. Possessive.

Y/n slid inside without hesitation, the leather seat cool beneath her. She didn't even glance at him.

San circled to the driver's side and got in, the engine growling to life beneath his palm. No music. No words. Just the low hum of the car and the press of something between them: tension, heat, whatever this thing was becoming.

He glanced at her once before pulling out into the night. She was already watching him, and she didn't look away.

That... that made his knuckles tighten around the steering wheel before he'd even touched it.

The blacked-out car slid to a stop in front of an unmarked building on the outskirts of the city: no signs, no windows, just reinforced steel and silence. The night air was colder here, sharp and biting as San stepped out first, scanning the area with a glance sharp enough to draw blood.

Y/n followed.

She didn't ask where they were. She already knew that wasn't just a warehouse, it was one of his places. Off-grid. Hidden from the city, from the authorities, from the world. The kind of place where secrets were kept and bodies never got found.

As they entered, two men stood by the door. One was tall and broad, clearly armed; the other, leaner, with sharp eyes that flicked from San to Y/n and then quickly away, sensing her weight in the room.

No one questioned her presence. They knew better.

Inside, the warehouse opened into organized chaos: boxes stacked high, tables cluttered with weapons and gear, flickering monitors against the far wall. San didn't hesitate. He walked like he owned the ground, like gravity bent for him, and Y/n stayed close, her heels echoing behind him.

One of the men stepped forward with a grim face and a nod.

—Boss. He's not here.

San stilled. His jaw ticked.

—But we found this.

The man handed him something wrapped in a black cloth. San unfolded it slowly, revealing a single item: a silver ring: twisted and half-burned, the symbol engraved on it warped but still visible. A wolf's head.

Y/n watched from behind him. She didn't speak, but she felt the change in the air. Whatever this was, it wasn't just a clue.

It was a message.

San's thumb brushed over the edge of the ring, eyes narrowing. For a moment, he said nothing. Then, he turned his back to the table and walked away, down the hall behind the warehouse office. Y/n followed without being asked.

The corridor was narrow, dimly lit with humming fluorescents. At the end, he stopped. Leaned against the wall, jaw tight, fingers still wrapped around the ring.

She stood a few feet away, arms crossed, quiet.

He looked at her like he was seeing her again for the first time.

—Most people wouldn't have made it past the front door tonight —he muttered, voice low—. Let alone stood there like it was nothing.

—Should I have screamed? —she tilted her head, her gesture faking innocent, but also radiating a cockiness in her that was new for him— Most people wouldn't have dared to kidnap the boss of the city, but I did —she shrugged.

He let out a quiet scoff, shaking his head. Of course his woman was nothing like he'd expect from anyone else. Despite her gentle and kind exterior, the darkness she kept buried radiated once he looked close enough. Which made her even more dangerous.

—What I meant is... I just... figured you'd at least ask what this means.

—I know what it means —she replied—. It means someone wants to get a reaction from you.

His gaze darkened.

She took a slow step closer.

—But it didn't work —she added.

Another step. Now she was within reach. He looked down at her, the hallway too quiet, too full.

—You're not scared of me? —he asked, voice softer this time, testing, searching for something.

Y/n's lips parted in a slow smirk, her tone dipping into a purr.

—No —she stepped closer, barely inches between them now—. I'm turned on by you.

San didn't breathe. Her fingers slid up the lapel of his coat, smooth and deliberate.

—The guns, the silence, the way your men look at you like you're the only law that matters... yet you look at me that exact same way. Like I'm the only law that matters —her hand curled into his collar—. You think that scares me?

San grabbed her wrist, not to push her away, but to steady himself. His grip was tight. Possessive.

—You don't know what you're playing with —he warned, voice rough.

She leaned up, her breath brushing his mouth.

—I'm not playing.

His head tipped forward like he was going to kiss her -hard, rough, claiming-, but he didn't. Instead, he pulled away just enough to stare at her.

—You're going to be the fucking death of me.

She smiled.

—Then I hope it's slow.

And somehow, in that dark hallway, surrounded by everything dangerous and wrong...

they both knew, this wasn't lust anymore. It was never lust. It was devotion.

Mad, fucked-up, beautiful devotion.

San had disappeared into a back room with two of his men, voices low, sharp, too far for her to make out but close enough to know something had shifted.

Y/n wandered slowly through the open space of the warehouse, part of her cataloging the layout, part of her deliberately letting the quiet settle. She wasn't there to get in the way, but she wasn't going to pretend she wasn't thinking either.

The table she stopped at was cluttered. Papers, files, schematics. Someone had left them in a rush. Maybe assuming she wouldn't understand.

But she did.

Her eyes moved quickly, scanning pages half-folded, highlighted. A name jumped out first.

Isham Mathews.

The logo beneath it, a stylized phoenix curling around a serpent, made her heart stutter for a second. She'd seen that before.

Not here.

Not in San's office.

In her own.

At work.

Two weeks back, a client had come in looking for a full-service package for their luxury brand, at some point they even asked for exclusivity. Her company handled high-profile accounts all the time, and the request hadn't raised alarms then, just like she wasn't surprised by the entitlement to demand her service. It had been pushed through quickly, barely reviewed. She remembered the name now.

Isham Mathews. Charming. Soft-spoken. Clean suits and expensive smiles. He had complimented her obsidian necklace.

Y/n's fingers tightened around the edge of the file.

Because now she was staring at a document that listed Isham Mathews under "person of interest."

Below his name: Suspected intel laundering, arms distribution, unconfirmed connection to The Lisbon Fire. A red circle over his photo.

Enemy.

She straightened.

That wasn't just a coincidence. San hadn't just been watching her for fun. Someone else had been trying to get close to her, too. Trying to use her. Her breath left her in a slow, steady exhale. Not panic. Not fear. Just a new understanding. She was a pawn, and she hadn't even known it.

—Y/n.

She turned sharply at the sound of his voice. San stood a few feet away, his expression unreadable, but his eyes dropped to the paper in her hand, and in that instant, she saw it. The shift. He hadn't meant for her to find that, but he also wasn't surprised.

—You knew —she said, voice calm, almost distant—. You knew he came to me.

—I suspected when Wooyoung caught his men asking around about your company —he said—. Now I know.

She looked down at the file again.

—You didn't stop it.

—No —he said simply.

—Why?

San stepped closer. Slowly.

—Because I wanted to see what he wanted from you.

Her head tilted.

—And what if he got too close?

His eyes darkened.

—He didn't.

—But what if he had? —she insisted, there was silence on his side as an answer. Y/n exhaled through her nose, steady. Her gaze didn't waver— So I'm a liability.

—No —San said—. You're the fucking reason I'm ten steps ahead.

The silence between them pulsed. And for the first time, Y/n realized it wasn't just about obsession, it wasn't about control. It was about war. And somehow, she was already in the middle of it.

Y/n simply sighed, fixing her eyes on him.

—So, to get ten steps ahead, you put me in danger?

San looked up, as if scandalized by what she was saying. His frown deepened the longer he looked into her eyes, noticing the loss of trust for a second.

—You weren't in danger.

—How do you kn...

—Because the second you had been in danger, that fucker would've ended with a bullet in his skull —he interrupted her, not flinching for a second—. The second he had gotten too close, I'd have made him regret ever laying a finger on you. Everyone in this city knows you're off limits, and god pray whoever doesn't follow that —before she could realize it, he was too close. His cologne flooded her nostrils—. You're mine. In every sense of the world. You're mine to worship, mine to adore, mine to fuck, mine to control. But you're also mine to protect and make sure you're safe. You're mine, which means no one looks in your direction until I allow them to.

Looking over her head, San was able to catch the curious glances from some of his men in their direction. He held her hand before continuing, fingers wrapping around her wrist to get her somewhere private.

The room San had led her into was quiet, too quiet. No screens, no voices in her ear. Just the heavy pulse of fluorescent lights overhead and the low buzz of electricity running under the walls. Some kind of office tucked inside the warehouse, stripped bare except for a desk, a few monitors, and the lingering scent of steel and smoke.

Y/n stood near the door. San paced.

His jaw was clenched, one hand buried in his hair, the other balled into a fist that relaxed only to clench again. There was something contained about the way he moved, like if he didn't keep walking, he might explode.

Y/n didn't speak at first. She just watched.

But he did.

—You don't understand what I'm protecting you from —he said finally, not looking at her.

—Maybe I don't want you to protect me —her voice was even—. Stop trying to protect me.

He stopped for a few seconds.

She stepped forward.

—Let me be part of it.

That's what did it. That sharp pivot of his body. The silence that thickened like a storm cell about to split wide open.

—Do you have any idea what you're saying? —San's voice dropped, dark and low.

—I do —she didn't flinch.

He stalked closer, slow but lethal.

—This isn't some game, Y/n. You think you're ready because you handled one file? Because you didn't scream when you saw a gun? —he stopped just in front of her, his presence a wall of heat and fury and restraint.

—So, getting me close to an enemy isn't dangerous all of a sudden? —she cut him off.

—You don't know what I've done to get here. What I've done to stay alive.

—I don't care.

—You should.

She met his eyes without blinking.

—But I don't.

A breath caught in his throat. She saw it: the flicker in his expression, the muscle in his jaw twitching like he was trying not to feel what her words did to him. And then it was there again, the tension that had started in his hidden office, followed them through the garage, into the car, and now pulsed between them like a third presence in the room.

—Y/n —her name came out rough.

She reached for him anyway, fingers grazing the hem of his jacket, sliding up to press flat against his chest. His heart was racing.

—You said you've done terrible things —she whispered, stepping even closer—. So have I. The difference is, I don't have the harsh looks that give them away.

His hand caught her wrist again, but not like before. This time it was harder, desperate. Like if he didn't stop her, he'd break. Their faces were close, too close. His breath hitched when hers touched his lips.

—You keep pushing me —he murmured.

—I want you to break —she whispered.

And then it was almost a kiss. Almost.

His nose brushed hers. His lips hovered, parted. His fingers gripped her like he was at war with himself. And still... they held back. Because they both knew, when that line broke, they wouldn't stop.

Not this time.

So San stepped back. Barely. Breathing hard. His hands were still on her. His voice was raw.

—Not here. Not now.

Y/n's eyes burned into him.

—Then take me somewhere you won't stop.

And that... That nearly undid him.

Their lips met in a furious dance, a collision of desire and devotion, pouring into it every want he had tried to contain as he drove to his place. His hands, now tangled in her hair, pulled her closer, deeper into the kiss. She could taste the cigar on his tongue, the dark, intoxicating flavor of him. She moaned, her body pressing against his, feeling the hard length of him through the thin fabric of her t-shirt. He responded with a groan, his hands moving to her hips, grinding her against him, a silent promise of what was to come. The city below them faded away, the world reduced to the two of them, lost in a storm of passion that threatened to consume them whole.

San's breath ragged from their intense kiss, and he suddenly broke away, his eyes gleaming with a dark promise.

—I need you —she managed to gasp.

—I need you, too —he growled, his voice a raw, primal thing.

He didn't wait for a response, instead, he scooped her up, backing her up against the wall next to the entrance door, his body pressing against hers, pinning her in place. His hands, those powerful, calloused hands, cupped her face, tilting her head up to meet his gaze.

—Look at me, Y/n —he commanded, his voice a low, husky rumble—. I want you to look at me all the time when I'm not kissing you.

His lips crashed down onto hers, his tongue invading her mouth, exploring, tasting, claiming. His hands moved, one tangling in her hair, the other moving down to grip her ass, pulling her flush against him, and immediately causing her to moan out loud during the kiss. She could feel him, hard and ready, pressing against her belly. He grinded against her, a slow, deliberate motion, a silent promise of what was to come.

—You feel that, angel? —he murmured against her lips, his voice laced with a dark satisfaction— That's what you do to me. You make me fucking insane.

San's hands moved to the hem of her pants, his fingers tracing the edge, a soft, teasing touch that sent shivers down her spine.

—I've been dreaming of this, Y/n —he confessed, his voice a low, intimate whisper—. Of you, under me, around me, screaming my name —he pushed his hand down, his fingers brushing against the edge of her panties—. I'm going to make you feel so good, angel —he promised, his voice a dark, seductive purr—. I'm going to make you come so hard, you'll forget your own name—he slipped under her panties, his fingers finding her wet, ready. He groaned, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure—. Fuck, Y/n —he hissed, his fingers moving in a slow, steady rhythm—. You're so ready for me, aren't you?

He captured her mouth in a searing kiss, his tongue mimicking the motion of his fingers, a silent, explicit promise of what was to come.

San, with a growl that was equal parts hunger and reverence, scooped Y/n up into his arms, carrying her towards his bedroom. The penthouse was a symphony of luxury, but his bedroom was a masterpiece, a sanctuary of opulence and desire. The four-poster bed dominated the room, draped in rich, velvet curtains that shimmered in the soft glow of the bedside lamps. The air was filled with the scent of sandalwood and the faintest hint of her perfume, a heady combination that made his heart pound in his chest. He laid her down gently, his eyes never leaving hers, in a way to give her all the comfort she could look for.

He stepped back, his gaze roaming over her body, a slow, deliberate perusal that made her squirm under his intense scrutiny.

—You're beautiful —he murmured, his voice a low, husky rumble.

He reached out, his fingers tracing the neckline of her t-shirt, a soft, tantalizing touch that made her gasp. He leaned down, his lips following the path of his fingers, his tongue darting out to taste her skin. He could feel her heart racing under his touch, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

Slowly, he took it off, with it being followed by her jeans, his fingers brushed against her thighs as he pulled it down, baring her to his hungry gaze. He groaned, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure, as he took in the sight of her, her body flushed and ready, her eyes filled with a desire that matched his own. He leaned down, his lips finding hers in a searing kiss, a silent way to try to calm down her nerves, always giving her something else to think about. He broke away, his eyes never leaving hers as he reached for the zipper of his pants, a slow, deliberate motion that made her bite her lip in anticipation. He stepped out of them, and, while still standing, he unbuttoned his shirt to take it off, his body bare and ready, a sight that made her breath hitch in her throat.

Y/n herself could hear the loud gulp in her throat when he moved his boxers down, and never before in her life she had ever felt so attracted to a man.

He crawled onto the bed, his body hovering over hers, his eyes filled with a possessive hunger.

—You're mine —Y/n managed to whisper before he could.

He leaned down, a smirk curving up his lips before finding hers in a kiss that was both tender and fierce, a confession of the passion he had been holding back just for her. He broke away, his lips trailing down her body, a slow, worshipful path that made her arch into his touch, taking off every fabric that could come in between his wish to touch her. He reached her breasts, his hands cupping them, his thumbs brushing against her nipples, a soft, teasing touch that made her moan. He smiled, a slow, predatory curve of his lips. He leaned down, his lips finding her nipple, his tongue darting out to taste her, to tease her, to worship her. He could feel her body responding, her hips arching into his touch, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. He smiled, a slow, satisfied curve of his lips, loving every little response he managed to steal from her. He moved down, his lips trailing down her body, his hands following the curve of her hips, her thighs, her calves. He reached her feet, his lips finding the arch, his tongue darting out to taste her, to tease her, to worship her. He could feel her body trembling, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. He moved back up, his body hovering over hers, his eyes filled with a possessive hunger.

He took less than a few seconds to reach out for a condom on the nightstand, wrapping himself with the latex to settle between her legs once more. He reached down, his fingers finding her, stroking her, teasing her, worshiping her. He could feel her body responding, her hips arching into his touch, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. San broke away, resting his forehead against hers just to be able to watch her up close, his eyes never leaving hers as he positioned himself at her entrance, his body ready, his heart pounding in his chest.

—Are you ready? —he murmured, his voice a low, husky rumble.

She could only nod, her voice stolen by the intensity of his gaze, the raw passion that radiated from him like a physical force. He smiled, a slow, predatory curve of his lips, before kissing her back again as he pushed into her, feeling her tightness envelop him.

Y/n's nails dug on his shoulders as she felt a burning pain for a second, managing to let out a silent whine as she tried to let go of the slight pain. He paused, allowing her to adjust, his gaze locked onto hers.

—Breathe, angel —he whispered, his voice a soft caress—. You're doing so well.

Y/n nodded, her eyes never leaving his, as she took a deep breath, feeling a mix of discomfort and pleasure. He took a few seconds more, before he saw the way her body relaxed under his. Only then, San began to move, his strokes slow and steady, his body trembling with the effort to maintain control.

—Talk to me, Y/n —he urged, his voice a low rumble—. Tell me how it feels.

—It's... —Y/n bit her lip, her eyes fluttering closed—. It's... it's intense —she gasped, her fingers digging into his back—. I can feel every inch of you.

San groaned, his hips picking up a slow, steady rhythm.

—Fuck, Y/n —he hissed, his body tensing as he fought to hold back—. You're so tight, so perfect.

Y/n moaned, her body arching into his, her nails raking down his back.

—San, it's... it's too much —she panted, her body trembling.

—Too much? —San immediately slowed down, concern etched on his face.

Y/n shook her head, a small smile playing on her lips.

—No, not too much —she clarified, her voice a soft whisper—. Just... overwhelming. In the best way.

San smiled, relief flooding his features. He leaned down, his lips finding hers in a soft, tender kiss.

—I've got you, angel —he murmured, his voice a low promise—. We'll take this as slow as you need.

He began to move again, his strokes taking an even slower movement, as he waited for her to guide him to move faster. And when she did, when she felt like she'd be going insane if she didn't feel him completely, his body started rocking against hers. Y/n moaned, her body arching into his, her fingers tangling in his hair.

All of her fantasies, everything she had dreamed of weren't a blurry image in her head. They were a reality threatening to consume her whole and make her addicted.

—San, I... I think I'm going to... —she gasped, her body tensing.

San groaned, his hips picking up a steady rhythm, his body tensing as he felt her tighten around him.

—Cum for me, angel —he urged, his voice a low growl—. Let go.

Y/n screamed, her body convulsing as she came, her nails digging into his back. San followed soon after, his body tensing as he emptied himself into her, his lips capturing hers in a searing kiss. They stayed like that, their bodies entwined, their breaths mingling, as they came down from their high. San pulled back, his eyes filled with a soft, tender love.

—Are you okay, baby? —he asked, his voice a soft caress.

Y/n smiled, her eyes shining with unshed tears.

—I'm perfect —she whispered, her voice filled with emotion.

San smiled, his heart swelling with love and pride. He leaned down, his lips finding hers in a soft, tender kiss.

The room was quiet, save for the soft hum of the city bleeding in through the tinted windows.

San lay on his side, head propped up by one hand, his other lazily tracing invisible patterns along the curve of her bare spine. Y/n was curled into him, half-draped across his chest, her fingers resting just above his heart like she was claiming it. Neither of them spoke for a while. There was nothing to say that hadn't already been carved into skin and breath and whispered curses between gasps.

—You're dangerous —she murmured against his collarbone, voice heavy with sleep and satisfaction.

San huffed a quiet laugh, his lips brushing her temple.

—You're the one who bit me.

—You liked it.

—I'm still bleeding.

She smirked without opening her eyes.

—Then don't tempt me next time.

His hand slid up to cradle the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair, gently pulling until she tilted her face toward him. Their eyes met: tired, warm, still burning.

—You wreck me —he said, softer now.

No games. No mask.

—You watched me for months —she replied, just as soft—. You were wrecked before I ever touched you.

San laughed again, but it was quieter this time -fond, raw.

—God, I'm so fucked.

She smiled against his chest.

—Good. Because I won't be the only one fucked up because of you.

For a moment, all the chaos outside -the warnings, the danger, the blood- faded into something distant.

In that room, there were only them. Tangled sheets, tangled hearts, a slow descent into something neither of them could come back from. And neither of them wanted to.

Taglist: @a-tiny-thing , @brown88

[delicrieux]

𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 & 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐥𝐞 | endless oneshots (winter edition)

pairing—regulus black x reader genre—angstyyy summary—a moment shared in the living room word count—3.4k

masterlist. ☕. reqs are open!

the wall distracts you. the great family tree of the noble house of black. on their velvet sofa you find yourself quite small faced with the vastness of the room – in front, the magnificent tapestry of a lineage woven into time and into objects, like a permanent impact; in back, the frost covered windows, and further still, the late afternoon glow of the sun burning the whole of london. you imagine, briefly, yourself painted in. your small portrait and your name. you long for it in moments; you know no other wish. the shape of you has been made for this only.

how tedious. how meticulously exact the needlework must be to look appealing. how with your wand you can only return the inner lapel of regulus’ coat to its pristine condition and begin again. each time, the frustration threatens to spill through bitten lips. an uncaring loop thrusts through skin and hits bone. you give up, almost, with the silver thread coiled around your fingers like a hair. r. a. b. shouldn’t be too hard, should it? three letters only, sown by hand, a small, meaningless claim to a coat he already owns. as if he can’t recognize his things, how silly. by the seventh poke you wonder if this odyssey has any significance to it. why grapple to capture a tempest in a teapot? you could easily weave it into existence with magic.

it would still be a kind gesture, a thoughtful one. an affectionate one, even, if regulus cared to look – see the tired hands, the waxen expression, the lapel grasped so tightly. the look you’d give for a second because you couldn’t bear to be more honest than that. i did it for you, please wear it and think of me.

but no, it must be done by hand, else the magic won’t work. something about labor, the repetitive loop and pull that sows in more than letters. fixes more than thread. such a potent protection, only from what you can’t say. in a blood-warm waters of a dream, you puzzled over a crystalline cave in search of something precious, only you couldn’t recall what. in april of next year, regulus will die there, and you’ll never know. but he’ll wear the coat with his initials woven by your hand, and that will be enough.

you don’t look up when he enters, but you recognize the footsteps. regulus is never direct, at least, not with you. he’ll circle the tapestry and then circle the windows and circle the coffee table and then he’ll have nothing left to admire so he’ll admire you. sit beside, throw a glance at your pious work and draw, with his eyes, the shape of your profile. think, perhaps, of a branch of the family tree from his portrait to something that doesn’t yet exist, or the rose-bush pattern of the couch and how one branch connects his shoulder with yours.

“what are you doing?”

“making sure you don’t lose your things,” what a non-response, as if he’s known to misplace objects or articles of clothing. regulus can be careless, but never to warrant worry over useless matters such as this. he has many coats, and can purchase just as many if not more, and if petty, he can pilfer from sirius and row because the silence had grown too loud, “don’t make fun of me, it has to be hand-stitched or the enchantments will fade."

"i was never going to," he says, a faint twitch of amusement about the mouth. regulus always likes that you take his jokes seriously or his comments too light. that, from anyone else, you'd hardly even register. it makes him special, perhaps. as though only he is worth the recognition, or you desire him to have it, "...is this my birthday gift?"

"birthday, don't make me laugh," you mumble, biting the inside of your cheek, "would hardly be appropriate. it's a christmas gift."

"christmas." is the offhanded response. a statement, an assessment, but without judgement. only regulus can wield that so cooly. can live in between worlds that should not overlap. androgyne in tone and disposition, and the sound of it, your name, sweet as any chocolate. you glance up and smile wryly, "oh."

"oh indeed," you utter, and the final, hesitant thread is plunged to the fabric. his initials gleam as freshly cut silver. you offer him the needlework, "there." pride fits in your mouth like a candy well liked, sweetens the tone into something likely mocking, "not bad, is it, regulus? or perhaps you think hand-stitching is out of fashion and outdated, a lost art of our aristocratic roots."

regulus doesn't respond. his touch is a cautious one. fingers slide gently across the intricate curve of his initials and trail it upward to the collar and you pretend not to notice. regulus must always inspect things like an artist inspects his pieces. with a certain amount of scorn and longing.

"if it's for christmas," regulus says quietly, still running his fingers along the letters, "do i need to return a gift to you?"

you stop yourself short of giving the response that is right at the tip of your tongue. the verbiage is odd. instead, "return?"

"yes. to match, or rather, one that compliments. does such a custom matter much?"

"ah, well," it does, of course it does. such gifts are not for two sides. they're something sacred for one side only. he's not nimble with his fingers nor patient enough to wield a needle. he'd quit before the first draw of blood on cloth from his useless hands. he could magic it, but that would feel like a lie. what is this offer, or is it a suggestion? an implication? more daring than the look he gives you, certainly. no, he couldn't possibly imply something so domestic. regulus is not the type. so it can only be you reading too much. a stanza where there should be none, "you'd ruin my coat."

"naturally," regulus doesn't smile, not even to go along with his deadpanned tone, as though he could think of no better possibility, but you know better, or at least you tell yourself this. you do; how his head tips slightly towards you, the steady gaze, and the quirk of his brow, it's a rare breed of expression he dons only to you, when he can't bring himself to a more chaste form. you could spend hours sorting every fraction of difference, so keen they are to the point that you swear they must exist. you wouldn't be surprised if someone else says they see nothing,"... a handmade gift for a handmade gift. just for you."

"for me," is all you can muster in response, perhaps hoping you'd hear it clearer, and less vague and silly, in your mouth than his. he has given you presents. lovely, but impersonal. his brother shows more interest even if he has none for you. sirius hears but regulus listens and then willfully picks things everyone would like to receive. the ideal gifts, never with heart or consideration, yet you wear them proudly to hide your bitterness, because such attention is not unwanted, and neither is this. regulus is not incapable of more but his more is reduced to a subtle nothing, like a glance at the tapestry and a thought.

"...the needle's sharp." is the offhand observation, "you're bleeding."

regulus's concern is odd and undefined; you're not the most affectionate of friends. the fondness shared, the gentle jibes, are for you, really, because how else can you convince yourself you're happy. or to soothe the aching of that pesky hope, the wish and want of the moon reflected upon water. your gaze is steady. your hand is steady, "see how much i care?" and you hold up your middle finger with a smile, "i bleed for you."

he does look at it. his lips quirk into a ghost of a smile. "do you." he says, and returns to you, the trace of a frown on his face as though he's grown distressed with such a gesture, and like an adult will scold their pet for bad behavior, says, "really, that's quite silly. no, worse. don't do such unnecessary things to your pretty hands."

pretty, he says, and how easy would it be to mock him or put him in his place with a joke and a teasing word or two. is he making fun of you again? it's only an insult when delivered to the point. and it would feel worse when he isn't, when he's just offering a compliment in a strange sort of way.

"doesn't hurt that much." you say with a confidence unshaken, and the wounds are so meager they're not even worth healing. they'll dry and close before he can lift his wand for episkey or conjure a bandage. but they'll remain, for a day or two, as proof of your diligence. the methodical elegance that comes from creating a handmade gift. you'll look at your hands and know they have worked to protect him.

it hurts a bit more when he reaches for them. if you really did want to press, he'd insist or, with a haughty glare, defy you and prove the strength of his own silly pride, but he only asks, and then, does so with such tenderness you would think he held glass and not your injured hands, the result of a restless task meant for his comfort. your fingers stings the slightest against the brush of his fingertips, calloused and slightly cold, "...you've always been a fool."

"only when it matters," you say softly.

when he says your name, he lingers on the last syllable, with the tilt of his head and the curious narrow of his eyes. to pick apart and discern. to wonder. only briefly, like all his attentions, does the hand linger. the expression you want is not one he'd be willing to show so clearly, not even in the warmth of the dying light.

"stop saying ridiculous things." regulus says after a pause. he won't, however, release your hands. they remain there in his grip, unmoving and together.

"learn to take a joke," you answer.

he leans forward. "make it funny and perhaps i will."

"funny," you can't say a thing to that, yet you've thought up many. later, when he is asleep and his pale face is illuminated by the moonlit night, you'll recite all the things you could not.

"got nothing else to say?" a quirk of the lip. joined hands, fingers intertwined, though not so securely. loose enough that if the mood strikes or a strange sentiment overcomes him, he'd break them apart and away.

"oh, plenty," you can't keep your face straight, and so your smile is quick to return, "i’ve only taken pity on you. did you miss the sound of my voice already?"

"very presumptuous, aren't we," he glances aside, "and really, so outlandish. the nerve. you have the nerve."

"i suppose i do." you squeeze his hand lightly, "nerve. candor. the quality that earns a great admirer."

"or the ire of all who know you best," he tilts his head to the side, glances quickly at you, and with a surprising amount of assertiveness, curls his fingers tighter around yours, "i appreciate that you'd like to share your charisma but some people don't consider charm to be a particularly laudable virtue."

"that's such a bad lie that i might as well be told you don't think i'm charming at all, not in the slightest. and oh, there we are, what a pout. you're entirely predictable."

"and you entertain me, still."

"you're the one that holds my hands hostage," you note wryly, wiggling your fingers slightly.

regulus doesn't have a quick response for that. at most he offers the roll of his eyes. doesn't let go, simply presses. let's a drop of your blood stain his skin. when he speaks again, he's grown thoughtful, "...hostage, yes?"

"...oh, do stop that," a pause. the silence lingers, "no, that's quite unfair."

"do you think so or not?"

your pulse throbs loud enough to deafen you. it is a foolish question and the answer is a clear enough indication of what you think. what motive could he have? to delight at the humiliation of your confession or to watch you tangled in a lie you clearly don't believe? the truth is so obvious it's untactful to inquire about its validity.

he sounds so serious as his thumb brushes along the dips and hills of your knuckles, "well? your answer? or is a minute not enough to think of something witty?"

at this, you frown, "regulus." and it comes quiet, like a warning.

"thought it came naturally to you. such creativity."

he has grown to be cruel sometimes. most times, rather, when it suits him to be. a petty, petulant thing not yet ready to leave its comfortable shell and grow beyond, "you must be eager for me to release you," he adds. a bitter afterthought.

"are you done?" you ask.

"what shall you do with your hands once they’re free?" he wonders, "sow something for sirius? he’d be wrecked if he didn’t receive a gift like mine."

"regulus." you repeat with a frown, "don't."

"why not?" he blinks.

"a gift doesn't mean anything if it's a gift for the masses."

"well, it'll be custom, i imagine," he says, "with his initials this time."

"regulus," a third time you've said it, a sharp tongue to cut, "stop it. you're being mean."

his eyes are cast downward, expression impassive. "if this is what it takes to get you to respond, then perhaps i am."

this isn't the game. the one where he'll pretend not to care so as to observe how you'll react. it is the type where you'll act cold enough he'll hesitate. then he'll carelessly expose himself so the hurt can be delivered with ease. an offense so great you'll seek the sweet relief of exile.

"i made it for you," you utter, barely a whisper, "no one else."

"is that so."

"if you don't want it, i won't force you to keep it."

"no, i like it," his expression has remained the same, if not with a certain lack of conviction, a flat tone you want to interpret as some half lie, but you don't. instead you nod. a half-hearted turn of your head before meeting his eyes.

"a bit possessive, don't you think? getting so cross over a made up problem?" you inquire.

"made up, huh?" you like the inflections of his voice, and even in his reluctance he maintains them, the gentle flow, the steadfast determination to the subject.

"mhm."

"thought it was logical to assume. you're friends."

"i have a different gift planned for him."

"different?" he clarifies.

"quite," you say, all sorts of bitter, "a broom cleaning kit."

that, at least, seems to somewhat appease him. and regulus settles, ever so slightly, his brow a faint twitch. the motion you always want to trace with your fingers, and map along until you memorize every curve and line and plane of his face.

he adjusts your hands again, idly thumbing over the slope and curve. he is thoughtful again, contemplative and somber and nothing more. a lingering fear clings to the curve of his mouth, "do you ever wish you could disappear?"

the question has no context, and it strikes you as the type that never did, with a subtle heaviness he is familiar with the implications of. it is only in a selfish way that the fear occurs. his isolation, perhaps. or he must assume that all others can share a similar loneliness, though only in different quantities.

"do you?" you ask instead.

"perhaps. sometimes. maybe not." he does, you think, look as though he often considers running away to somewhere no one else is aware of him. or if he's not wanted there, then elsewhere. somewhere remote and a touch fantastical. a desperate escape from family tradition, from being the second born son. a desire, or rather, absconding from responsibility. to be far and forgotten; to live a life you believe would bring you some semblance of peace and happiness, though not enough for the longing to subside and never enough for him to admit to it. no, regulus would first die than admit it out loud.

admit the envy he has for his brother. admit to wonder if anyone would look for him if he was to disappear.

you would. even if the rest wouldn't, you would. and if they did, how angry it'd make them if you refused to quit searching. it strikes you suddenly and without remorse, as if you've been pushed into a pile of snow. it's him you were searching for in your dream.

"no, then?" his voice shakes you away. your expression had frozen over, had it? how rare it is, to see worry worn so openly in the shape of those brows.

"sometimes," you answer honestly, though you're never quite sure where that might be. a growing, restless worry expands in the pit of your stomach. as though your nightmare is not so far from becoming reality. that one day, you'll search for him to the edge of the earth only to never find him again, "you aren't thinking of leaving, are you?"

he's taken aback by your expression. "of course not," he reassures, and he seems as though he means it, "i'm only indulging hypotheticals."

"alright."

"are you okay?"

"sure. yes. yes, absolutely."

regulus peers at you closely, scrutinizing, the gesture intense and pointed in its nature. and he returns to tracing the veins on your skin, a practiced art. a light tickle that has you shivering, not that you'd want to move away. never from him.

you hear him, soft and hushed. perhaps it is more suited to the intimacy of the moment and not that he's become ashamed. a faint, lovely mumbling that you would like to indulge forever if possible, "i'm really not going anywhere." he brings your hand to his lips after a moment of hesitation, like he needs the courage, the comfort. an earnest reassurance in a form of a small kiss as if it were his own insecurities at play, "here's okay. here's more than enough."

you nod. whisper, when you realize how close the two of you have become, "yes, stay here."

"...you as well."

"i will."

"wouldn't want to run around looking for someone who's meant to stay within my sights, anyways."

and it is you that laughs a little too hard to seem genuine, "as though you'd do such a thing."

he answers with a confidence unshaken yet poorly disguised by the restraint shown, "i don't plan on ever losing sight of you."

your eyes meet and hold, but neither will ever confess to be the one who glanced away first. for different reasons, perhaps, and no less of a humiliation. no less difficult to accept. the sight of him is too difficult to bear; the hair framing his face and the gentle hue of pink that grows steadily redder the longer he holds your gaze. he drops your hand first, and you resist the urge to run your fingertips down the sharp of his jaw and feel the softness of his skin or tug his bottom lip and hear the shuddering intake of air. to feel what can't be expressed, at least, not so simply.

you can't blame regulus for not wanting to admit it. he's shaped by his surroundings, has grown up in a family that doesn't permit affections. he doesn't know the structure of i'm sorry or thank you or i love you. but if only for a second, surely, he can try to imitate. you treasure each of his clumsy syllables and failed tries because he has never attempted anything of this sort for anyone else. the success doesn't matter, because he is earnest, at least to the degree of his own understanding and limit, and it's easier to say what's painful in silence.

or, maybe, nothing's difficult when the sun's nearly gone. when the window pane burns pink and white, and when the stars appear through the haze of fog and snow, and you think of the future, with him, but as the heirs of two prominent houses together, and it feels like a fairy tale that way, not quite real. so long as you imagine it with a dreamy detachment, you can convince yourself it doesn't matter further than a wish that will never come true.

because you've never learned to say i'm sorry or thank you or i love you, either.

thank u for reading <3