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demonpiratehuntress · 7 months ago

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they make you cry

featuring - Zoro x F!Reader, Ace x F!Reader, Kaku x F!Reader, Law x F!Reader, Luffy x F!Reader, Sanji x F!Reader, Usopp x F!Reader

summary - sometimes you just can't handle the things they say/do

warnings - angst, fluff, hurt/comfort

taglist - @kabloswrld

a/n - this took forever to write, and I'm sorry! had to fight my writer's block real hard to get this out ☠️ some of them seem rushed and im sorry about that too!

ZORO

Zoro could be mean, you knew this when you started dating him. He didn't mince his words, nor did he sugarcoat anything. Especially when he was angry, that's when he could be the cruelest. You just never expected to be on the receiving end of that cruelty.

You were just trying to help, honestly. You thought it might be a nice gesture if you wiped his swords clean for him while he napped, and you thought he'd appreciate it. But the moment you dropped them while putting them back and woke him up, it was like something had possessed him.

"What the hell are you doing?" He demanded, sitting up and looking at you, his eyes hard.

"I'm sorry, I just wanted to clean them for you," you tried explaining yourself, hoping he wouldn't be too angry. Hoping he would calm down and stop looking at you like that.

"Why would you think that?" He scoffed. "I clean them myself, there's no need for you to do it. There's no need for you touch them at all, actually."

"I'm sorry," you apologised again, shrinking away and feeling hurt by his tone already.

"Just don't do it again," he snapped, "You don't know anything about swords. It wouldn't be such a problem if you were more like me and less like you."

"Less like me?" The tears filled your eyes before you could stop them. "What does that mean?"

"Nothing, just go away and let me nap."

And go away you did. You left his room with your eyes almost overflowing, hand covering your mouth to stifle the sob that was about to come out. You didn't understand what brought that on, why he had been so mean to you.

"(Name), wait-"

You ran off the moment his door opened again, trying to put as much distance between him and yourself as possible. You were hurt, so incredibly hurt, that you barely made it to your room before you broke down in tears, burying your face in your hands. You tried to calm down, you did, but his unprovoked verbal attack struck you right where it hurt the most, your heart. You didn't understand what he meant by "less like you", and you didn't think you wanted to. It was insult enough already.

A knock on your door startled you, and you quickly wiped your face to try and get rid of the tears but your eyes were still red and puffy. Which was immediately noticed by the swordsman when you opened the door, and he frowned.

"Were you crying?"

"What do you want?" You asked him, sniffing. "Did you come to insult me more? Maybe tell me again to stay away from your precious swords? Save it."

"I'm sorry," he interjected, taking you by surprise. He shifted nervously, not really knowing how to apologise but wanting to try because you meant more to him than he could ever say and he hated that he'd hurt you.

"Is that it?" You scoffed, about to close the door.

"No, no wait!" He stopped you, swallowing thickly and looking at the floor. "You know I'm not good with apologies. But I mean it when I say I'm sorry for what I said. You were just trying to do something nice for me and I snapped at you because I was in a mood. The stupid cook annoyed me earlier and I...didn't mean to take it out on you."

You crossed your arms, trying to look mad but you only looked sad and it tugged at Zoro's heartstrings, "Okay."

His expression softened, and when you allowed him he pulled you into his arms and hugged you, trying to show how sorry he was through his actions since he couldn't say it. He rubbed your back soothingly, pressing a gentle and apologetic kiss to the top of your head.

"But if you speak to me like that again, I'm throwing your swords into the ocean."

He chuckled, "Deal."

He spent the next few days making it up to you in various ways, either buying you a special gift from any island you stopped by, or hugging/cuddling you a little longer than usual, or teaching you some moves with his swords to prove he trusted you with them. Eventually, when his overbearing affection started worrying the crew, you had to forgive him.

ACE

The crew was celebrating a big win. Stopping by a nearby island, majority of the crewmembers could be found in bars and taverns, drinking their weight in alcohol. You were amongst them, not drinking as much but joining the merriment regardless. You smiled at the antics of your crewmates, who were trying to drunkenly flirt with woman around the room.

Your smile vanished the moment your eyes settled on your boyfriend, who was busy entertaining a crowd of younger women with the tale of your victory.

Now normally that isn't a cause for upset with you, but he tended to get a little overfriendly and even though you've spoken to him about it many, many times, he hasn't made an effort to stop his flirting - even if he didn't see it as flirting, those women certainly did. And that was the problem, he always let them think that and allowed them to get handsy with him.

You rolled your eyes, downing your drink so you could get out of here. When you lowered your pint again, the sight of one of their hands on his arm made you sick. Usually you would get angry and storm over there and break up the party, but today the sight brought tears to your eyes. It hurt you that he always did this, even when you'd asked him not to.

"(Name), where you going?" One of your crewmates asked you when they noticed you getting up. "It's still early!"

You forced a smile, trying to hide your glassy eyes, "I, uh-"

"(Name)!" Ace called you cheerfully, waving you over, "Come here!"

You frowned, then shook your head before turning and leaving the bar, letting the tears fall now that you were out of sight from the rest of the crew. Your vision blurred on the way back to the ship, but you somehow managed to get there without hurting yourself and broke down into quiet sobs as you sat on your bed and buried your face in your hands.

Sometimes it felt like you weren't enough for him, whether it was physically or emotionally. He could make you feel like the worst lover sometimes, like you couldn't give him what he wanted, even if he didn't mean to. You knew he had commitment issues, but you thought your relationship was getting more serious at this point.

"(Name)!" Ace burst into the room, looking worried. "Hey, why did you leave?"

You didn't answer, turning away from him and curling up into a foetal position facing the wall your bed was placed against. You couldn't look at him right now, not when the tears wouldn't stop.

"Baby?" He called again, the bed dipping beside you to indicate that he had sat down. "I know you're not asleep."

He reached out and gently touched your shoulder, urging you to turn around and face him. You sighed and shifted around, looking at him with a tear-stained face. His eyes instantly went wide and he flew into a panic.

"What happened? Did someone do something to you?"

"Ugh, stop it," you groaned, sitting up. "Don't pretend to care about me when you constantly do what I tell you hurts my feelings." Just mentioning it again brought the tears back, and you cursed.

He frowned when you said this, "But I wasn't flirting with them."

You gave him an exasperated look, "Do you ever realise that they consider it flirting? That they try to seduce you with all their little touches and stupid flirty smiles? No, you don't." You hastily wiped your eyes, now getting angry.

"I'm sorry-"

"No, Ace. You do this all the time. And it really, really hurts."

His expression softened, and he grabbed you and pulled you onto his lap with ease. No matter how mad you were at him, your body never fought his touch or embrace.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled into your hair. "I didn't realise they were trying to do that. I was so caught up in telling the story, especially the part where you took out all of those pirates, that I didn't see they weren't really interested. I'm sorry I'm so stupid."

The sincerity in his voice eased your mood, and you slowly stopped crying and pulled away to look at him, "Next time just ask me to come sit with you."

"I'll do better than that baby, I'll put you on my lap."

"You know that doesn't end well."

"On the contrary-"

You sighed and shook your head, unable to help the smile that formed on your lips. He really was an idiot, but he was your idiot and even if he did stupid things a lot of the time, you loved him very much.

KAKU

You and Kaku hardly ever fought, because he was a very patient and very reasonable man. He never gave you any reason to be upset with him, because while he was a ruthless assassin, to you he was an absolute sweetheart. The only problem was that he sometimes left for long missions, and you were left worrying about him at home and not knowing what was going on because he was deep undercover that he couldn't even contact you.

Like now, where he was working undercover as a foreman in Water 7. You had asked him once again if you could come with, seeing as neither of you knew how long he'd be away this time. But he refused, gently reminding you that he didn't want to put you in any danger and that your house - so far off the grid absolutely no one knew about it - was the safest place for you. You had no other option but to agree.

After many, many months spent worrying about him and struggling to sleep not knowing what's going on, your boyfriend stumbled in through the front door one night absolutely destroyed. You'd come down with one of his swords in hand - one that he kept around the house for you - only to stop dead at the sight of Kaku standing there. Actually, standing was generous. He was barely keeping himself off the ground, tall frame hunched over and trembling.

"Oh my god, Kaku!" You dropped the blade and rushed to his side, laying one of his arms around your shoulders so you could at least help him to the couch. "What the hell happened?"

"It's a long story," he groaned, laying his head over the back of the couch and closing his eyes. "Short version - the Straw Hats."

You frowned at his brief response, going to fetch your first aid kit - you'd learned after the first few times he came home that you'd need one - and bringing it back to him.

"I think I deserve an explanation," you pressed, sitting beside him and starting to tend to his more obvious wounds. "You owe me that much."

"I don't want to talk about it," he grumbled. "I'm sorry."

You didn't respond, and he cracked an eye open to see why. When he noticed how your eyes had become glassy and your bottom lip was trembling but you were biting it hard to stop it, his expression softened.

"Oh, honey."

He gently took the first aid from you and set it aside before bringing you into his arms, wrapping them around you securely. He pressed gentle kisses to the top of your head, ignoring the pain as he held you against his chest.

"I'm sorry."

"This is the worst I've ever seen you," you managed to get out, your voice small and hurt. "I had no contact with you for the longest time since you started working for them, and then you come back looking like this..." You couldn't help it, the tears just kept falling no matter how hard you tried to stop them.

He held you tighter, then moved one hand up to wipe your tears away, "But I came back, didn't I? I'm here."

You knew he was trying to reassure you, but it was difficult to be reassured when he constantly did this to you. You looked at him sceptically.

"Why would I ever risk dying?" He questioned softly, cupping your cheek in his large hand. "I have you to come home to, I don't put myself in a situation I don't think I can come out of." He kissed the tip of your nose, to make you smile like it always did. "Besides, did you ever think that maybe I like having you play nurse for me?"

You managed a small smile, warmed by his words, "Oh you do, huh?"

"Mhm."

"I guess I can forgive you. On one condition."

"Anything, honey."

"I'm coming with you on your next assignment."

"...I don't have a choice, do I?"

"Nope."

He sighed, but planted a loving kiss on your forehead, "If it will ease your mind, then okay. But you have to let me make sure your cover is safe too."

"Deal."

LAW

Law was a very complicated man, with a lot of baggage and trauma he liked to keep away from everyone else. He was reclusive, and he never quite expressed his emotions as healthily as he should. Most days you did your best to understand, to step back and be the more rational one. But sometimes his actions don't make sense, and he ends up hurting you a lot more than he thinks - or notices.

Take the last few days, for example. You two had grown quite close over the course of your relationship and he was now quite comfortable with you and showing you affection - although still privately. But ever since you'd met the Straw Hat crew and he'd been introduced to their smartest member, Robin, he'd been a lot more distant and a lot less affectionate. Like he was beginning to forget you existed.

You started to feel insecure about not being as intelligent as her and not having anything in common with your boyfriend. You'd never liked books, they paled in comparison to the adventures you embarked on on a daily basis. But now it had come back to haunt you, and in the worst way possible.

"Law, do you want to-"

"Not now, (Name)-ya," he didn't even look up from his work. "I'm just finishing some notes on something that Robin asked for."

"Oh, okay. Let me know when you're-"

"I will be heading to their ship shortly, she has a collection of books I would like to study."

"...Right. Okay."

You blinked back tears, knowing he would just get irritated with your emotional display. Turning away from him, you left the room to go get some air and maybe feel sorry for yourself. It did hurt, him immediately dismissing you for another woman, even if it wasn't romantic. He was spending less time with you, and more time with her.

"(Name)!"

Your face lit up, thinking Law had finally come to his senses. But when you turned around, you saw him making his way to the Thousand Sunny while Bepo was the one who had called out to you. And then you couldn't hold it back anymore; you burst into tears.

You usually didn't cry like this. You were good at keeping your emotions in check. It was a side-effect of being around the stoic captain so much - you'd learned how to control your own emotions. But right now, it was too much to bear and your insecurities and fears came crashing down around you, drowning you in sorrow.

"What's wrong??" Bepo asked worriedly, immediately pulling you into a hug. "Did something happen?"

"No," you hiccupped, "I mean, yes, but it doesn't matter."

Your eyes drifted to the deck of the Sunny, where Law was engaged in what looked like a meaningful conversation with the female devil fruit user. Sighing, you tried your best to wipe your eyes and gently pushed Bepo away.

"I'm okay, I just...I need to be alone."

As you walked off, Bepo followed your gaze and spotted the issue. He frowned, having also noticed that his captain had recently been preferring Robin's company over his own girlfriend.

"Captain!" The bear called, rushing over to Law and Robin.

"Not now, Bepo," Law dismissed him, returning his attention to the raven-haired woman.

"But something is wrong with (Name)!" Bepo protested, whoch was a half-lie, half-truth. There was something wrong, but it wasn't with you. He just knew Law wouldn't follow him back otherwise.

"What?" Law instantly felt worry start to fill him. "Where is she?"

"I don't know, I saw her just now, crying, and then she ran off."

Law frowned. He didn't like it when you cried. Not because it was irritating, but because he always got this weird, ugly feeling when you did. You should never have to cry, you should never have to feel pain. Instantly, he goes back to the Polar Tang but not to look for you. He just simply uses his devil fruit to get you back into his room, and when he does he feels guilty by the sight.

Your eyes are red and puffy and you're sniffing like you're sick, but you're not sick. You're avoiding his gaze and casting your eyes downward to the floor, unable to look at him. And you're hugging yourself.

"(Name)-ya," he calls, hoping to get you to look at him.

"I thought you were with Robin," you tell him quietly, the hurt evident in your small, vulnerable voice.

He frowns, "I was, but-"

"Then we don't need to talk about anything," you cut him off. "I'm fine, go bacl to your conversation." You can't help being a bit snippy, tired of crying and even more so of being sad.

"You have been crying," he argued, "That is my concern."

"Oh really?" You suddenly glared at him. "I didn't think you'd notice. But you didn't, did you? Bepo had to tell you, because you were so engrossed in your new girlfriend!" You scoffed, rubbing your face and getting up. "Leave me alone."

"No," Law blocked your path out of the room. "I want to talk about this. And...I want to apologise for hurting you." He paused awkwardly, never good with apologies. "I didn't mean to spend so much time with her and neglect you, I promise. I just kept losing track of time, and I got a little bit eager that someone else was interested in some of the same things I am."

"Yeah, I know," you mumbled, "I'm sorry I'm not that person. I'm sorry I'm not your ideal girlfriend." The tears started falling again, and the ache returned to Law's chest.

"That's not what I meant," he moved closer, "You are perfect just the way you are. I don't want you to be like me, I don't think I could date someone like me. I often wonder how you do it."

Your eyes widen at the vulnerable revelation, and that leads you to start listening to his sincere words and slowly calm down.

"If I neglect you like that again, please just tell me," he pleaded, taking your hands in his. "Don't suffer in silence, I don't like seeing how it's affected you. And I don't like being the reason you cry. So please, just talk to me when I hurt you. Pull me away from any conversation, throw my books, whatever. Just make sure I listen."

"Okay," you slowly smiled, nodding. "But you can't yell at me if I do."

He sighed, but felt relieved that he was forgiven, "I won't."

"Great. Now you owe me a lot of cuddles and even more kisses," you pout. "And double the amount of hugs."

"Done, done and done," he murmured as he leaned down to kiss you sweetly and gently.

LUFFY

If Luffy hasn't upset you in some way, you'd be suspicious. His carefree nature was bound to anger or frustrate you in some way or the other, and his tendency to overexert himself in fights often ended with you concerned for his health in general. He's never made you cry, because if there's one thing Luffy can do well it's keep his promises.

Until he meets Boa Hancock.

And you get it. She's gorgeous, she's powerful, she's a queen. She's everything a woman should be, and you can't help but feel envious of the attention she gets from men. Luffy doesn't really care for her looks, which is a little comforting, however she found the way to his heart and every time you guys met her on the ocean she had the nerve to throw him a huge feast. And your beloved, naive boyfriend always thought she was just being nice and gorged himself on her food, missing the way she looked at him longingly and not understanding her flirtatious advances.

But you understood them very well.

But as mentioned before, she's a powerful person. Not just because she's a devil fruit user, but also because she's a Warlord. You knew you couldn't piss her off in any way, for the safety of the crew, but she had no such qualms. It seemed she knew that you hated how much she attended to Luffy, she knew how much you hated her advances and how Luffy always ate whatever she offered. And she abused her title, doing it on purpose because she knew there was nothing you could do.

Most of the time it was just frustrating beyond comparison. But slowly it ate away at you, and one particular meeting had you excusing yourself in an attempt to escape what seemed like a suffocating situation.

Boa was once again on your ship - it seemed like she purposely sought it out just to see your boyfriend, and she probably did. Luffy was enjoying yet another one of her feasts, and she was sat right beside him. Touching his arm and saying sweet things to him like he didn't already have a girlfriend. Batting her eyelashes at him and offering him sweet smiles that would knock the socks off any man other than Luffy. Once again, he didn't seem to notice how uncomfortable it made you, and you felt your eyes brim with tears.

Maybe he did notice and just didn't mind. Maybe he did notice and actually enjoyed her attention like everyone else did. Maybe you had him all wrong in this particular situation. He had spent a long time with her on her island, after all.

"Excuse me," you mumble to no one in particular, rising from your seat and swiftly exiting the room. It was like you couldn't breathe, your throat burning as the tears started falling faster and faster, until you could barely see.

You were sure he hasn't even noticed you were gone. He probably hadn't even seen you leave. And that thought had you clinging to your pillow harder as you screamed into it, hot angry tears rolling down your cheeks in unstoppable waves. You were so hurt and upset that you didn't notice your room door swing open and a certain captain barge in.

"(Name)?" Luffy called, sounding confused. "Are you okay?"

You felt your body bounce a little as the overeager captain jumped onto your bed, but in your stubbornness you refused to look at him and turned away instead.

"Go away, Luffy."

Luffy was not used to hearing those words from you. Nor was he used to hearing the sadness in your voice, the way it cracked halfway, and the miserable sniff that came afterwards. He was not used to seeing you like this, so sad.

"What's wrong?" He tugged on your shoulder, trying to get you to turn back around to face him. "Are you sick? Is your stomach sore?"

"No, Luffy!" You sat up and yelled in exasperation. "I'm tired! I'm so, so tired okay!" You rubbed your face and curled up, thighs pressed tightly to your chest. "I'm tired of my boyfriend letting some other woman fawn over him with no boundaries. I'm tired of watching my boyfriend be sweet-talked and flirted with by some other woman. And I can't do anything, because she's a Warlord!"

Luffy's eyes went wide, and then he burst out laughing, "Are you worried about Hammock?" The incorrect name almost had you smiling, but you managed to keep your face stoic. "(Name), I only want you. You know that right?"

"Yes," you sighed, "And I trust you, Luffy. It's just...you never stop her and sometimes it makes me feel like I'm not enough. Like she does more for you than I ever could." Your gaze fell. "Sometimes I think you actually like her."

Suddenly his arms were around you and he was squeezing you in the tightest hug he'd ever given.

"I don't like anyone the way I like you, (Name)," he promised. "ANd I never will. You are the only person who makes me feel like this, and you do enough for me already. You cook for me! I bet Hammock doesn't even make the food herself. If it came to choosing you or her, it would always be you."

Your cheeks burned when he said that, and slowly a smile formed on your lips, "That's really sweet, Luffy. Thank you. I needed to hear that."

He nuzzled his face against yours affectionately, "I will remind you as many times as you want!"

SANJI

Sanji's most annoying habit tended to irritate you majority of the time, and every instance ended with you practically fuming and storming off after telling him off angrily. He would normally appease you with something sweet, or your favourite dish. In some extreme cases, both. But you never stayed mad at him, because he made it impossible for you to do so. You just never expected that one day the hurt would become too much for you to handle, and you'd react with sadness rather than fury.

The crew had been given the day off to explore another island. Everyone had split to do their own things, but the cook insisted on accompanying you because it was one of the rare times he got to spend alone with you for an entire day. So the two of you strolled through the vibrant town, enjoying the atmosphere and each other's presence.

That is, until Sanji forgot about your warning to not flirt with anyone on this island. He deemed it just being a gentleman, but you knew better than that.

When you caught him staring as your words faltered, you expected the usual bout of anger to flare within you. You were ready to tell him off again, a dozen insults coming to mind for that woman, when you felt a sharp pang in your chest instead. Your words caught in your throat, and a sorrow like nothing you'd ever experienced filled you.

Had he been staring the entire time you were talking to him? To make matters worse, he seemed to forget you were speaking and drifted over to the lady to compliment her dress.

You felt humiliated. No one here actually knew you two, but it was embarrassing that you couldn't even keep your lover's attention on you. Your cheeks burned, your throat along with them, and your eyes brimmed with tears. It was made worse when you glanced around at all the other couples, and found them happily clinging to each other and acting like they were the only two people in the world.

"What do you think, ma chérié?" Sanji's voice suddenly filled your ears. "Do you like it?"

You hastily wiped your eyes, trying to look like you did before, "Um, like what? Sorry, I wasn't listening..."

He didn't seem to notice the sadness in your tone or the forlorn expression on your face, he just barrelled on, "This pretty young woman's dress, what do you think of it?"

"A-are you serious?" You choked out, feeling the burning in your throat get worse.

"Yes! Doesn't it look nice?"

You couldn't take it anymore. You were hyperventilating at this point. Scared of being embarrassed further with your impending sobbing, you turned and sprinted as fast as you could away from the scene. He called after you, but you weren't listening.

He arrived at the ship at the same time you did, leaving you confused. You were about to push past him when he grabbed your waist, stopping you.

"Wait, my love, I'm sorry," he apologised, "Don't cry, please."

You smacked his hand away from your face, "No, don't. If you were really sorry, you'd stop flirting with every woman you see like I told you to! But no, you keep doing it." Your eyes watered again. "Do you have any idea what it's like? Seeing your own lover interested in someone else, not even listening to you?"

Sanji was speechless. He had no idea it affectef you this much, but he blamed himself for going on with it even when you told him not to.

"How would you feel if I flirted with every guy I saw?" You demanded.

"Oh no, please don't," he begged, heart sinking at the thought.

"But it's okay for you to do it?" You looked away, and his heart broke.

"I'm sorry," he apologised again, "I am, really. But I wasn't flirting with her, I promise! I was just asking where she got that dress because it looked so nice and I thought it would look good on you..."

Your eyes widened when you heard this, "Wait, what? Is that why you asked if I liked it?"

"Mhm," he smiled, "I wanted to get it for you if you did."

You were the speechless one now. All that time he had been thinking of you, and you'd gone and assumed the worst. Now you felt even more embarrassed, but for a totally different reason.

"Sanji, I-"

"No need to apologise, love," he immediately hugged you when it seemed like it was okay for him to. "I haven't exactly given you reasons to trust me not to flirt. But I promise, I am doing my best to not do it. I don't want to lose you."

He really was too cute to stay mad at, or even to stay sad about, and you ended up smiling and leaning in to kiss him.

"Fine, but do it again and I'm going to leave you for Zoro."

His face paled, "No no, ma chérie, you can't be serious! Love, wait! Are you serious??" And he followed you to your room, begging you to tell him you were lying.

USOPP

You were well aware that Usopp had had a romantic interest in a girl long before he met you. He would never tell you about her, but Nami and Luffy told you about her and what they knew about her relationship with Usopp. As far as you could tell, they had never done anything more than kiss once.

You felt like you were getting in the way of their relationship, and most days that thought just put you into an emotionless daze. You felt like you couldn't compare, because she seemed to be his first love. And as bad as this sounds, you started to feel like you were a relationship of convenience to him. Someone to keep him company while he longed for another.

"You know that's not true," Nami would reassure you when you confided in her. "He's not like that. He really loves you."

"I can tell he thinks about her sometimes," you argue, "And we don't know whether or not he imagines her in my place when we kiss or do anything remotely romantic. Who's to say he wouldn't go back to her if we somehow made it back to the East Blue?"

Nami couldn't give you the answer to that, and it hurt all the more. You tried not to let it get to you, you really did, but some days were worse than others. Some days you felt inferior, like you were not as pretty as she was, even though you'd never seen her. If he was so crazy about her to still be thinking about her months after he'd met you, he surely still loved her, right?

"Usopp, I have a question," Nami asked the sharpshooter one day.

"Uhhhh, no I did not borrow any money from you..." He replied nervously, eyes darting around the room.

The navigator's eyes narrowed, "We'll get to that later. Anyway, if we went back to the East Blue, what would you do? Would you want to rekindle your relationship with Kaya?"

Usopp's face paled, "What kind of question is that?!"

"Just answer!"

"I...I don't know!" He cried, then attempted to flee only to see you standing in the doorway, your eyes glistening. "(Name)-"

"I get it," you swallowed thickly, "She was your first love. I just wish you'd stop pretending like this relationship means anything to you." You turned and retreated to your room, locking the door and falling down against it, tears flowing freely.

You knew it was unfair. You knew he'd known her his whole life and you just a year. But you kind of hoped that since you'd actually developed what you thought was a meaningful, deep romantic relationship with him, he wouldn't have to think about it. You kind of hoped he would just choose you, simple as that. And you know it was unfair to him, and selfish of you. But you couldn't help it.

"(Name)!" The sharpshooter knocked on your door. "Please let me in!" He sounded panicked, like he did before you all went into a fight.

"Go away, Usopp," you yelled, but the pain in your voice was too clear for him to ignore.

Normally he would give up. He does that very easily. But when it comes to you he doesn't stop, and he never will. He hates leaving you on your own, especially when you're upset and even more so when he's the reason you're upset.

"Please, baby," he pleaded, "Let me explain! I never said I would! Please, just open up. Let's talk about this!"

"You can say what you want through the door," you told him, "Otherwise we don't talk at all." And yes, again this was unfair to him, but again you couldn't help it.

"I know what you must be thinking," he immediately started, "And you're wrong. Yes I used to love Kaya, and yes we almost had a relationship, but that was clearly not meant to be. Because I met you, and I fell in love with you, and I can't imagine loving anyone else now that I know what it feels like to love you." He paused for a moment, thinking of what else to say, and then, "You're the love of my life now, and I know that it will stay that way even if we were to somehow end up back in the East Blue. You are my girlfriend now, and I only ever want or think about you. Please believe me, it'll only ever be you."

Hearing all of this slowly calmed you down, and you didn't even notice when the tears stopped. His sincere, loving words hit you right where you needed them the most, and you stood up to open the door.

"You mean all that?"

"Yes," he looked like he was on the verge of tears himself. "Please don't break up with me."

"Oh, Usopp," you laughed and wiped your eyes, "I could never do that. Especially not after such sweet words. You're stuck with me."

"And hopefully always will be," he added, immediately hugging you and almost crushing your bones. "I'm so sorry (Name), I'm sorry I made you cry!" And then he actually started crying.

"Usopp..."

3K notes · View notes

bratbarzal · 6 months ago

Text

Let It Happen (LH43) 1/3

Pairing: Luke Hughes x Fem!Reader

WC: 17k

If you're ready, all I mean is we could go, I've never craved someone's attention as much as yours.

General Warnings: an almost unbearable amount of sarcasm and snark, even more idiotic shenanigans, many affectionate empty threats of murder/violence, fluff, mentions of golf 🤢, cursing and I'm pretty sure that's it for this half

A/N: in line with the general consensus lmao this has been split, part two will be posted as soon as it's finished (lol) but it's best read as one whole fic, it isn't a multi-part situation really!! it was originally supposed to be my submission for the eras tour fic challenge (hence the graphic I'm too attached to to change) but took a different direction to the song I was given, and I missed the deadline, and I pretty much listened to the secret of us exclusively while writing this whole thing. also dropping an overwhelmingly summery fic in december might actually be my brand. keep your eyes peeled for a christmas fic in july.

very special shoutout to shea @sleepretreat I made a random comment one day that luke gives seth cohen energy, and she fanned that flame like a full time job. ily shea!! I hope this lives up to any expectations and I owe a lot to your instigating!!

AS ALWAYS!!! never proofread!! I'll probably get around to it when the thought of a spelling mistake keeps me awake at night. and also!! please let me know what you think I am like a teeny tiny little plant that can only thrive under the constant shower of validation and you don't want me to wither and die do you? (I’m kidding) (I’m not)

You kind of, sort of, think you might hate summer.

You haven’t always felt this way, though. Growing up, it had always been your favourite time of the year.

No school? Check.

Going on vacation, sometimes multiple, all expenses covered by your parents? Double check.

Getting to do all the cool things you don’t have time for in the school year with all your friends? Concerts, festivals, beach days, bonfires on the evenings. Check, check and check again.

But 4 years ago, your whole world as you knew it was torn apart, and summers have never been the same, since.

A season that was once filled with light and companionship, never ending plans and joviality, became darker - isolated, getting yourself out of the house even if everyone else was busy, driving just to drive and making the best of your own company.

School ended up becoming your escape, especially since you had started college - your studies and the chaos of Greek life distracting you from the calamitous state of your home life, making new friends that became like family and sticking to them like glue, where possible, clingy and possessive to the point of ruin, almost - and so the lack of it in the summers now actually sends you into some sort of warped spiral.

It’s manageable in the winter and spring, the breaks no longer than a few weeks at a time, but going home for summer is somewhat of a nightmare.

It’s hard to go back, hard to ignore the mess your mind has become when it’s just you and your mother - or, you, your mother and whatever bottle of pinot she’s 3 glasses deep into at any given time of the day - and you’re sat in a house that’s a cold reminder of the warmth that once filled it.

But when Ellie - your best friend since moving to college, the girl who took the sister part of sorority sister to the next level at all possible opportunities over the years - found out you’d put your name down to be the caretaker for your sorority house instead of going home, she had put her foot down on your summertime sadness session.

Which is how you end up moving into her family home - spending the first few weeks integrating yourself into their routine while trying to grip desperately onto some form of your own - trying not to get too used to the feeling of such a big family when you know it won’t be forever.

You braid her little sister’s hair everyday, kick a soccer ball around with her little brother when he needs someone to stand in goal, wash the dishes with her mom, talk sports with her dad, and before long, you blend like a chameleon into their dynamic.

You pick up a summer job at the country club to cling back onto your independence. Your commute provides the solitude and quiet you‘ve grown accustomed to in the years before, a bus journey through town with headphones on, watching the scenery and admiring the greenery until you get to work, donning your navy blue polo and tucking your little notepad into your hip apron as you serve tables at the clubhouse restaurant and bar.

It’s a much needed escape from Ellie, if you’re honest.

You love that girl with all your heart, appreciate her housing you more than you’ll ever be able to say, but if you have to hear her sit and mope about how hopelessly in love she is with Jack Hughes for even a second longer, you’re going to vomit. Or scream. Or both.

Jack and Ellie grew up together - their families close, Ellie’s dad best friends with Jack’s uncle, or something - and she’s been into him since he had teeth missing - a point she loves to hammer home when it comes to you always listing that as one of his (many, if it’s up to you) cons. Considering his job, and the fact he already lost one, not too long ago, a toothless boyfriend seems like a massive ick, if you’re honest.

But Ellie is beyond reason when it comes to him. She worships the ground he walks on - talks about him non-stop, messages him every day, regales you with stories you, awfully, but realistically, couldn’t care less about - and it’s the only real problem about living with her.

Even beyond the summer, you two had shared a room your first two years in college, still live in the same house - and it’s a year round problem.

But being unable to escape, having your days tied to close to hers, and knowing that it’s bound to be worse with proximity, Jack back in Michigan for the summer, himself, she’s starting to drive you up the wall.

It wouldn’t bother you if you had never met Jack, but the two of you don’t exactly get along. He’s rude, and self-absorbed, and had looked down on you the first time he ever laid eyes on you, and you really shouldn’t let it get to you, but you do - the thought that your best friend is in love with an asshole, and that she won’t let you hear the end of it.

Won’t stop whining about how he’ll never feel the same, or that she can’t handle another summer of biting her tongue, of being around him, feeling the way she does, and not being able to do anything about it.

She deserves better.

Ellie has a heart of gold, and she deserves someone who handles it with care. If Jack Hughes doesn’t like her back, that’s his loss - but you’re kind of getting sick of telling her that.

Getting through a whole summer of it is going to be hard, you think, but it’s better than the alternative. Better than being entirely alone. So you put on a brave face, use work as your escape in the same way you usually do with school, and avoid blowing your top for as long as you can, suffering through the late nights and heart to hearts where Jack is the sole topic of discussion, and bask in the good stuff.

In the chaos of her siblings, in the closeness of her family, and the way they’ve welcomed you with open arms.

This summer could be okay, you’ve just got to give it a chance.

Luke Hughes loves summer.

He loves being back home in Michigan, spending his days out on the lake, or making the trip out to parade around Ann Arbor, catching up with all his college buddies, making the rounds at all the UMich sporting events he now gets a VIP pass to thanks to his last name.

The routine of it all is familiar, and warming, and it restores a sense of normality that playing in the NHL for the past year has so brutally ripped from him, already.

He had enjoyed starting his summer overseas - making the team for the world championships and competing beyond the abysmal end to his rookie season - had enjoyed the time away from his brothers, if he’s honest. Quinn and the Canucks making it a few rounds into the playoffs, and Jack back home recovering from getting surgery on his shoulder - and it’s the latter he needed the reprieve from.

He does love living with his brother.

Jack looks after him in ways he’ll never really be able to make it up to him for. He always has, Quinn has too, but ever since Luke got drafted to the Devils, Jack has helped him adjust to the chaos of his career without much fuss or hardship.

And he really is grateful for that.

But, God, can he be annoying.

Especially when it comes to his infatuation with his best friend, Ellie.

Jack and Ellie have always been close - despite the fact she’s Luke’s age - and grew up thick as thieves, spending summers together, especially when the family moved to Michigan, and Ellie’s family were just on the other side of town.

He’s always been obsessed with her, even if it hasn’t always been love - but these last few years have been different. Like a switch flipped in his head when Jack saw what Ellie was like when he came to visit Luke in his freshman year of college.

A version of Ellie that was no longer just his - no longer exclusive to their summer bubble, and lived in a world beyond lounging by the lake and hanging out with the Hughes family.

A version of Ellie who liked partying, liked schmoozing and charming everybody she came into contact with, liked being the centre of everyone else’s attention, not just Jack’s.

And it’s that version of Ellie that has driven Luke’s brother crazy, which has, in turn, started to drive Luke crazy. He talks about her non-stop, and it was those much needed weeks away in Czechia that almost had Luke forgetting just how stupid his brother has gotten about the whole thing.

Until he came home to Michigan, and Jack, in all the commotion with his shoulder, with ending his season early and starting his summer off alone, has worked himself into such a stupor about the whole thing that merely a week into his return, he has driven Luke up the wall.

He’s grumpy, all the time - which leads to him being snarky, all the time. He huffs and puffs around the house so much Luke is starting to think he might need an inhaler, and he really can’t take any more.

Not when he’s making such a show of his irritation, stomping around with heavy feet and slamming doors that don’t need to be shut in the first place.

“What crawled up your ass and died there?” Luke frowns as he follows Jack into the kitchen upon his return from therapy, holding out for the doors he swings open with a little too much vigour so that they don’t swing back into his brother’s slinged-shoulder. “I thought the physio is going alright?”

“It is,” Jack huffs, storming over to the fridge and yanking it open, the jars and bottles in the door clanking together in a way that makes Luke cringe. “I’m fine.”

“Tell that to all the hinges you’re testing the limits of.”

“Don’t start with me, Luke, I’m not in the mood.”

“You just said you’re fine.” Luke rolls his eyes as he starts to scroll through his group chat with his friends from college, trying to check who said they might be free today to get him out of this vicious circle.

“It’s nothing.”

“Clearly not.” It’s interactions like this that confirm to Luke just how annoying Jack has become - because what reason does he have to be so evasive? Luke is handing him the opportunity to air out his grievances on a silver platter, and he’s rather slam cupboards and create creases in his forehead from frowning 24/7.

“Fine, it’s Ellie.”

Luke wishes he never bothered asking, although he has been wondering why he’s been seeing way less of her already this summer. He had figured Ellie was away with family until he saw her at the gas station the other night - had watched from the car as Jack had what seemed like a heated conversation by the entrance.

“She’s refusing to hang out with me.”

“Has she said why?” Luke asks, although he doesn’t really care. He’s just asking to get it out of the way in the hopes that Jack talking about it might lighten the load, might make his own life a little easier.

It’s the bitter muttering of your name that captures Luke’s full attention, his neck audibly cracking at the speed in which his head shoots up, no longer caring what could possibly be going on with the boys in the group chat.

“She isn’t going back to whatever fiery hell pit it is that she comes from for the summer, and she’s staying with Ellie’s family, therefore Ellie isn’t staying with us.”

Luke hasn’t heard your name in a while. Not since he left college last year, not since he got caught up in the whirlwind life in the NHL, when a schoolboy crush on a girl he interacted with once in his entire college career became the least of his worries.

But one utterance of it has his spine straightening, just like it would have done just over a year ago.

You’re in Michigan. You’re at Ellie’s, on the other side of town. You’re barely two degrees of separation from him.

“Why can’t Ellie bring her here?” Luke asks, throat dry and voice breaking so subtly that he hopes Jack doesn’t notice. That could be fun. Would make up for the hell his brother has been putting him through since he got here.

Maybe a little glorious sunshine might finally get you to notice his existence. He wouldn’t mind third wheeling Jack and Ellie if you were there, too. It would give him the perfect opportunity to prove he’s worthy of your attention - too shy and too scared to do so, back in college, but he’s different, now. Confident, almost. More sure of himself.

“She hates me.” Jack huffs, “Last time we met she was giving me the stink eye all night.”

And of course it would be his brother to ruin his plans, yet again. You’ll probably hate him, too - a hatred so strong for Jack that it seeps through his entire bloodline, because Luke of all people knows he can be annoying like that.

“Trust me, she probably doesn’t care enough to hate you,” Luke scoffs, not realising the spool of information he’s just given Jack to unravel.

“You know her?”

“We had a class together. I know of her.”

Not the truth, but not exactly a lie.

Luke knows a lot about you. It’s borderline creepy, the observations he can still remember, even after so long.

He knows you like only like coffee if it’s iced, had seen you with too many clear plastic cups to count, had watched plump lips chewing at straws by the time you had finished the drink. He had even, one time, tried to zoom in on a picture of your order printed on the side in one of his many states of delusion where he had been trying to build himself up to ask you out.

He knows you can hold your own in an argument, had watched you debate with the best of them in your business comms class, has watched you shoot down most guys that approach you with a sharp tongue and even sharper wit, and has watched you take down a frat guy or two, usually in defence of your sorority sisters - who Luke noticed you’re the most protective of.

He knows you match your perfume to the colour of your outfit, had notice you smelled citrusy like lemons in yellow, floral like roses in pink, sweet like candy in purple, and clean like fresh cotton in blue.

He knows the pieces of hair that frame your face curl when wet from the rain. Knows you used to volunteer at the pool on the weekends it was open to the kids of the community, would teach them how to swim. He knows you listen to Taylor Swift and has heard you humming just about every song of hers he knows.

But he doesn’t really know you - not on the level Jack is assuming, when his eyes widen and hope flashes across his crystal irises.

“You know how I’m your favourite brother?”

“No,”

“And I let you live with me all year?”

“My name’s on the lease.”

“Maybe you could talk to her for me?”

Luke sighs, shoulders heavy and eyes rolling practically to the back of his head. “I already told you, I don’t really know her like that.”

“C’mon, you could at least try! I’m dying here, Luke! She’s hogging all of Ellie’s time, and she won’t give me the time of day if I try!”

If only Jack knew how much time you’d ever given Luke, he wouldn’t be asking him such an absurd request.

You’re so out of his league, it isn’t even funny. He probably couldn’t convince you to light a candle in a power cut, much less to give his annoying brother a shot to prove himself.

“You’re wasting your time, Jack,” Luke responds, “I’m gonna meet Dylan at the club. No, you can’t come.”

And by the time Luke makes it out to his car, he’s relieved to have ditched that conversation, entirely. He knows what’s waiting when he gets home, what his brother is going to be like for the next few months to come, but a temporary relief is all he needs.

He had already been planning on getting a few late morning holes in at the club, and meeting up with Dylan had been a white lie, needing some alone time away from Jack’s incessant whining to think about how he was going to survive the summer - and seeing you on your break, perched on the edge of the fountain in the courtyard by the clubhouse bar, basking in the sun and talking with your co-worker, he feels like he might have just struck gold.

Since when do you work here?

He supposes since you decided to spend your summer with Ellie’s family - it only makes sense. Ellie doesn’t live too far from the club - not as close as the lake house, but closer than Ann Arbor, at least. She’d worked in the club shop last summer, even when Jack insisted he’d pay for whatever she needed while she was staying with them - had said it was nice to pass the time with something else while they all went off doing whatever - and he assumes you’re doing the same.

It’s the first time he’s seen you in a while, outside of coming across your pictures on his Instagram feed occasionally, or the flash of your figure in Ellie’s stories.

He had thought that, after the year he’s had, he’d be over schoolboy crushes like this - would be over the way his breath catches just at the sight of you, over the way the hairs on the back of his neck prick up and stand to attention, over the way his throat goes dry as he watches your eyes crinkle from afar, watches your lips curve up into a heart-stopping grin.

But it’s like he’s picked up straight from where he left off at the end of his college career, pining after you from afar with hearts in his eyes and feet that start to shuffle at just the thought of approaching you.

If he’s going to do this, though, he needs to be clever about it, he thinks.

Approaching you on your break, limited to the amount of time he can use to put his point across, wasting yours, doesn’t seem like something that will work.

Which is how he finds himself bypassing you completely and walking straight into the bar, offering a friendly nod to the guy stood at the front of house, and letting him point him toward the right section to be served in.

It isn’t long before you’re in front of him, sidling up to his booth, and he had almost forgotten how pretty you are up close. Hair clipped up with loose strands framing your face, chewing at your plump bottom lip as you scribble on your notepad to get your pen to work. And your honeyed voice settling deep in the pit of his stomach, warmth spreading throughout as you introduce yourself, like he has no clue who you are, and tell him you’ll be his server, “What can I get for you?”

“Five minutes of your time?”

The Luke that spent his college years obsessing over you might have stuttered - his voice might have broke, squeaked or choked in your presence - but while his throat does feel a little dry, he’s able to maintain his cool now, even when you look up from your scribblings to meet his eye. Maybe he can do this. Maybe he has matured.

His heart might jump in his chest, his mouth might tingle, his spine might stiffen, but he holds your gaze, hoping if you see a reflection of confidence that you might give him the time of day.

He’s seen you interact with guys before, has familiarised himself with the ten-foot walls you have in place, has seen others fold and try find a long way around, but he thinks that maybe matching your energy is the way to break through.

Who doesn’t love a shortcut?

Your eyes narrow back at him as pouted lips form around a response, looking him up and down before tilting your head, and coming back with, “I all of a sudden feel the need to inform you we do have security here,” you point the tip of your pen to the entrance, where he was greeted on the way in. “I meant a drink.”

“Water’s fine,” his gaze flickers to the movement of your wrist as you click the other side of your pen, not even writing it down. “Maybe with a side of conversation?”

“I’ll go get your water,” you offer a smile, and the insincerity of it does little to cool his bravado, even if you head off with mutterings of why do I always get the creeps?

He watches you as you make your way over to the bar, not creep-like whatsoever, and he channels the nerves that sneak up on him, now that you’re distanced, through fiddling with his fingers on the table, pinching at the tips of them when you glance back over your shoulder, probably telling the girl behind the bar just how lucky you were to once again get the weirdo in your section.

It surprises him how little he cares, possessing more of your attention now than he ever has before, and if he could tell the Luke from two years ago, who spent every shared Principles of Marketing class ritualistically watching you chew on the end of your pen, that he’d be able to make eye contact without dribbling and breaking out into full body sweats, he’d have lost his mind.

He embodies a strange level of dislocated arrogance that manifests itself in his body language, sinking into the booth with arms outstretched across the back, a dangerous smirk teasing the corner of his mouth when you return, placing a pitcher of water down on the table and a glass with ice.

“I’m Luke,” he tells you, placing a hand on his chest and doing his best to ignore the thudding he feels beneath it. “Hughes. Jack’s brother,” and when you look back over to him with a raised brow, he adds, “Ellie’s Jack.”

“And who’s Ellie?” You ask with a tilt of your head, your voice dripping in teasing sarcasm.

“Funny,” he quips, biting back the urge to call you what he actually means. He can hardly call you cute, you’d probably pour that water straight over him. “I went to UMich, we had a couple classes together.”

Your eyes narrow again, and he knows it’s an intimidation tactic, a way to make him feel smaller than he’s acting, shrinking him down to a version of himself you can stamp your authority on, but he finds himself being resilient for once, carrying on like he isn’t affected.

He is. Massively, in fact. Just not in the way you probably want. Your indifference drives him in a way that presses into his spine, an inner voice pleading, notice me, I’m breaking through!

“Bauman’s class, Business Comms, you sat in the second row, I sat in the third, you dropped your pencil one time and I-,”

“I know who you are.”

So he’s been yapping on at you for no reason? Fantastic.

He can’t let his momentum slip, though, so he forces the corners of his lips into a victorious smile, and counters, “So you know I’m not a creep.”

“You literally memorised my seat in a class from 2 years ago, so…”

“I have a good memory,” he’s quick to defend, fighting the urge to let his eyes linger on your pouted lips.

“Right,” you roll your eyes, “What is it you want, again?”

“I came to talk about Jack and Ellie.” He nods to the other side of the booth, and has to roll his shoulders so that his chest doesn’t inflate with misplaced hubris when you shuffle into the seat with a huff, discarding your notepad to the side as you level him with another raised brow.

“What about ‘em?”

“About how they’re hopelessly in love with each other and doing nothing about it.”

“You got hopeless right. What’s that got to do with us?”

Us. Oh, he likes that.

“I’m thinking they need a little shove in the right direction. And maybe we could be the shovers.”

You presses your lips together in faux-apology, a lopsided, patronising, adorable frown taking over your expression. “No can do, I don’t shove, I’m a pacifist.”

“A nudge, then?”

He isn’t giving up easy, no matter how much sarcasm you try to throw his way. You wouldn’t have sat down if there wasn’t something about this situation that irks you, too.

If Ellie is being only half as annoying as Jack is, he knows that you’re having a bad time of it. And you’re supposed to spending her summer with her - it can’t be easy, having your friend constantly pining over someone and refusing to do anything about it, if anything, making it your problem.

“Are you here to eat or annoy me?”

“Both,” he smiles, “I just figured a problem shared is a problem solved, and all.”

“How profound.”

“C’mon, you sat down, you at least agree they’re into each other, and I know you’re staying with her this year, so I know you’ve been getting the same grief I have.”

“I’ve been on my feet 4 hours, I wouldn’t look too deep into me sitting down.”

“Jack’s been moping around about her for years, I can’t listen to it anymore, he’s all, she’ll never like me back, this, and, I’ll never find a girl like her, that,” he whines, imitating his brother’s voice in the most annoying, high pitched tone he can muster, “I can’t take one more breakdown of her snap stories, especially not if it’s all summer if she’s not gonna be staying over, I’m gonna lose my mind.”

“How supportive,” the sarcasm in your bite does little to hide the beginnings of your smile, your glare softening into what he hopes is the start of some sort of bond, a shared feeling of exasperation. Finding your footfall in common grounds.

“It’s relentless, we can’t go a single conversation anymore without him bringing her up,” he sighs, slumping into his seat, finally giving in to all the ways this is starting to grate on him. “I don’t get why neither of them do anything.”

“Yeah,” you sigh, too, relenting a little. “She talks about him so much it kind of makes me nauseous.”

“How supportive,” he mimics, nerve endings set alight when your eyes meet his over the table, and narrow in a different way, almost appreciative, almost respectable.

“Can it, Hughes,” you scoff, “Me even entertaining this conversation right now is support enough, I’ve had it in my ear for months about how she doesn’t know how she’ll make it through another summer.”

“That’s what I’m saying. If we can get them together this summer, then we’re both better off. No more whining or crying or earaches for either of us.”

“I’d hope you didn’t make your way out here with the mere promise of no more earaches, Luke.” He tries not to preen at the way you say his name. “What’s in it for me?”

“You and Ellie can stay at our lake house.” He suggests, straightening up before he leans onto the table, elbows extending so that he can rest on them, “It’s closer to the club than her family’s place, it’s gotta be better than having her siblings running around you all the time, I can even drive you to work when I’m free, if you want?”

You blink at him slowly, as if to say, and? “So I can stay at your glorified frat house, and you can be my chauffeur?” You ask with an unimpressed raise of your brow, before letting out a humourless scoff of, “What more could a girl want to do with her summer?

“What do you want?” He asks, leaning further forward.

“To go back to work and not worry about strange guys propositioning me, funnily enough.”

Luke laughs, a deep, breathy laugh that rises from the depths of his chest and comes alive in an almost-bark, and he doesn’t miss the way your eyes flicker to his mouth when it comes out.

This is fun.

There’s no way he’s letting you leave this table without agreeing - just the thought of one more singular interaction keeping him on his toes.

“Why don’t we make it interesting, then?”

“It’s about time you tried.” The quiver of your lip tells him everything he needs to know - and that’s without the entertained glint in your eye that accompanies it. You’re enjoying this, just as much.

“We could make a competition out of it.”

“A competition?” You ask, with a curious tilt of your head.

There it is, he thinks. Interest: piqued. He practically has you in the palm of his hand. Who would ever have thought, the way to a sorority girl’s heart would be a friendly little wager?

“Whoever actually gets them together, wins.”

It’s all he can think of in the moment - petulant and part-planned, but it seems to be enough.

“Wins what?” You lean onto your elbows, your gaze levelling his as he mirrors your positioning, having to slouch a little further forward in his seat to meet your pretty eyes.

“Whatever you want.” He doesn’t intend it to come out as low as it does, doesn’t realise how close the two of you have gotten over the table, but he sees the flicker of something cross your features as your head tilts again, eyes still locked on his as yours begin to narrow, still just as pretty even when they’re glaring at him.

“It’s what you want that concerns me.”

“Don’t worry your pretty little head over it,” he jibes, watching the way your lips part in preparation of another witty comeback. “What do you say?” He asks, not giving you the chance, seeing the way it makes your skin crawl that you weren’t quick enough, for once. “Are you in?”

You heave out a sigh, shoulders slumping - a tell-tale sign that you’re about to acquiesce - and Luke starts to feel his chest puff out in victory. This feels like a shut-out. It feels like the best performance of his life.

“You’re gonna make me regret this, aren’t you?”

“Oh definitely,” he smirks, eyes tracking you as you lean back into the booth, retreating from him in defeat, a hand running through your hair as he promises, “You’ll warm up to me soon enough, though.”

“I can’t see that happening.”

“I can,” he shrugs, leaning back too. “I’ve been told I’m inevitable.”

Luke can remember, like it was yesterday, the first time he ever saw you.

Freshman year, the week he moved into his dorm at Michigan, Jack had sent him across campus to check in on how Ellie was getting on. He had arrived with some extravagant gift basket in tow, plastic wrapped, a giant blue bow tied around the top and an assortment of snacks inside, and was left knocking for at least five minutes before you showed up.

“Please tell me you’re not another stripper-gram.”

If his throat hadn’t gone so dry all of a sudden, he thinks he would have had more wits about him to have questioned the use of another - a concept that had stuck in his head for weeks until he caught wind of a story of pledges for Pike being sent around campus and forced to lure girls to their house through way of humiliating song.

But God, you were pretty.

Siren eyes narrowed toward him, glossy lips pouted pensively, long lashes blinking impatiently as you awaited some kind of response that didn’t come in the form of an open, drooling mouth.

“I’m Luke.”

“Right.” You had sighed, pretty eyes rolling at him. “You’re blocking my door."

“Oh, I’m-,” he stuttered, immediately stepping to the side for you to come forward and insert your key into the lock. “Does Ellie live here?” He asked, confusion etched into his features as he watched you swing the door open, turning in your place to look him over again.

“Depends who’s asking.”

“I’m Luke.”

“So you’ve said.”

“I know her.”

“Clearly.”

“This is her basket.”

“Does she need to sign for it?”

“No, I-,”

“I’ll make sure she gets it, thanks, Lu!”

And when you had taken the basket from his hands, he had been too distracted by the way your skin brushed against his to properly respond, or worry if you had called him that as a nickname or had already forgotten his name, entirely.

He then spent days thinking about you, looking for you - at parties, in the campus coffee shop, online, despite not knowing your name - trying to commit to memory the way your eyes had sparkled when looking his way, until his first Business Communications class.

He had been a little early, first week nerves playing out and his constant craving for positive validation coming to the forefront, and was watching the door waiting for the professor to arrive. He had been slouched in his seat, chin in the palm of his hand, foot tapping rhythmically against the floor, and he had almost given himself whiplash when you walked in.

He learned your name from there, learned a lot just from watching you in that class, but never really captured your attention.

And if the Luke that has been driving you to work every few days, who has been living with you for the past two weeks - who sits around the same dining table, laughs at the same jokes cracked when you’re all lounging around the house, sits out under the same sun, drinks from the same carton of orange juice in the morning - could tell the Luke that sat pining after you all that time, all the little ways in which he’s captured your attention lately, he’d probably have an aneurysm.

When you and Ellie moved in, Luke had been the only one allowed to touch your stuff - and there’s a part of him that knows it was mainly because you enjoyed watching him work like a packhorse, hauling your cases up the stairs and dropping them in front of you with a huff, but there’s a larger, more delusional part that thinks you preferred him to the others, maybe even trusted him.

He’s taking credit for how quick you’ve adapted to the dynamic of the house, too. Of all the different faces coming in and out - Quinn’s friends, Jack’s friends, his friends, sometimes even his parents. If you’re around, you’re pleasant. You abide by house rules, some of them stupid, but set by the brothers so long ago that they just work now - like no phones outside of your rooms so that you can be more present. You insert yourself comfortably into conversations, you form your own relationships with everyone - you and Quinn trade book recommendations, you and Jack bicker while Ellie mediates. You do your fare share of chores - laundry, dishes, cooking, even.

And he’s so caught up in just sharing space, just being around you, even, that for those first couple weeks, he forgets why you even agreed to be there in the first place.

At least, he forgets the incentive part - because he watches mindlessly as you interfere in Jack and Ellie’s dynamic, without a care in the world for the fact that it means he’s losing.

He watches you push one of them out of the way to claim whatever seat at the table or in the car forces them to sit beside each other. He watches you taunt Jack to just the right point where Ellie interferes, coos at him protectively and he melts into her affections. He watches you agree to plans he knows you wouldn’t in a million years follow along with, just to get them together - and all he can do is admire how easy you make it seem.

He admires when you come out wakeboarding with the group, when you let him fasten you into a vest and don’t flinch when his fingertips brush against bare skin. Watches you bite your tongue over the fact you just got your hair blow dried - a fact you have no problems relaying back to him when he drives you to work the next day, and you’re muttering in his passenger seat about lake water giving you frizz - just so you’re not dampening the mood.

And when you agree to tag along to the golf course on your day off, despite the fact it’s so close to work if could be considered triggering, and you stick by Luke’s side so that Ellie can feign some sort of incompetence until Jack takes it upon himself to correct her form.

You stand by Luke’s side, the two of you watching with mirrored expressions of almost-disgust as Jack wraps his arms around Ellie’s body, and send a shiver down his spine when you lean in for only him to hear as you say, “I’d ask if you’ve put any more thought into what you want out of our bet, but I so have this in the bag.”

The bet.

Luke hasn’t thought about it since that day in the restaurant, if he’s honest, but he had known what he wanted then.

He’s hardly going to tell you, now, though.

If he’s ever going to take you out on a date, he doesn’t really want to force your hand - not that he has a chance, he’s fallen so behind with this Jack and Ellie thing that it isn’t even funny.

He needs to up his game, if only for the fact that you’ll no doubt catch on to his lack of efforts, soon.

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” he taunts, because it’s what he does best, “I have a few tricks up my sleeve.”

“And how long do you plan on keeping them up there?” You call him out so easily, tilting your head when his eyes meet yours, mischief highlighted by the sunshine that speckles in your irises.

“Maybe I’m luring you into a false sense of security,” he shrugs, “Maybe I’m letting you do all the heavy lifting so I can swoop in when those weak arms get tired.” He pokes at your side, basking in the way you scowl like you pertain any sort of threat to him.

He has you figured out, by now.

“I didn’t have you pegged as being lazy, Hughes.”

“You spend a lot of time thinking about me, huh?”

“You wish,” you scoff, shoving when he dares to get too close, and it’s when Luke is biting back a full-blown grin that Ellie comes back over.

“This sun is crazy, I think I left the sunscreen in the locker room and Jack’s nose is going all red, would you come back with me?”

You smile sweetly at your best friend and agree, only glaring at Luke over Ellie’s shoulder when she’s distracted with saying her brief, temporary goodbyes to Jack, and once you’ve turned and made your way over to the cart, he lets his eyes linger on your figure as you retreat.

The soft sway of your ponytail, the expanse of smooth skin along your legs, he’s completely hypnotised, and he needs to pull himself together, he thinks.

He tries to regain focus as he and Jack work their way through the next couple of holes, caddying their clubs around without the cart, and chatting mindlessly until Jack sighs heavily, like he’s been waiting to bring something up.

“I want to take Ellie out on the boat tomorrow,” He states as Luke tees up, resting on his club as he squints against the sun to watch his little brother, “Just the two of us, so we can talk about stuff.”

“Sounds riveting,” the disinterest in Luke’s tone is amplified by the lack of attention he’s giving overall, looking out across the green and trying to measure his swing before he takes it. “Have fun.”

“I was thinking I’d need your help for it to work.”

“I’m not being your boat-butler again,” Luke scoffs, mind immediately going to all the times their parents would make Jack take Luke out with him and his friends, and all the times he was made to wait on his older brother hand and foot to make up for crashing his hang-outs.

“I’m not asking you to tag along,” Jack scoffs, “You third-wheeling would be the ultimate buzz-kill. I thought you could be of use elsewhere.”

“You’re making whatever it is sound so fun.”

Luke takes his swing, driving the ball and watching it soar to his desired point with a hand shielding his eyes from the sun. Jack watches too, stepping to Luke’s side to measure how far from his own ball it lands.

“Nice,” he mutters appreciatively as the two of them load their clubs into their stand bags. “I need you to keep Regina George busy, distract her or something, she’s stuck to Ellie like glue, it’s beyond annoying.”

If only he knew, Luke thinks, a worry in the back of his mind about how his brother owes more to you than he even realises.

“You worried she’s gonna make her see sense?”

Jack swats at his arm and rolls his eyes.

“I’m worried she’s gonna ruin the good vibes like she usually does and I won’t be able to bite my tongue from saying something and looking like the asshole.”

Distracting you isn’t the worst thing he could be doing with his time, Luke thinks. It’s not like he has to go all out, you’ll no doubt be hanging out around the house and the two of you can hang together. All he has to do is keep you off your phone. Shouldn’t be too hard. You’ve adapted pretty well to mimicking the guys when it comes to staying off theirs.

It ticks off the box of trying to fight for a scrap of your attention. With no one else around, you’ll have no choice but to entertain his company.

And it puts him in front of your little race - lending a helping hand to Jack’s plans to talk to Ellie is surely the same as getting them together. It’s all falling so perfectly into his lap. He isn’t being lazy.

But he can’t let Jack know that, so he heaves out a sigh and offers a slow shake of his head for dramatic effect. “Fine,” he groans, “But you owe me. Big time.”

You’re starting to find it harder and harder to pretend like you don’t want to be at the Lake House.

If you’re being honest, you don’t entirely know why you’re even trying to keep up pretences, but using your disinterest as armour has become like second nature over the years, and you’re hardly going to stop now.

Even if there are already so many little things about being there that are starting to wear you down.

Quiet, early mornings, for one - birds chirping just outside your open window, sun rays pouring in through sheer curtains that flow in the slight breeze, that light feeling that blows through your chest when you’re sat out on the deck behind the house with a fresh cup of coffee, looking out over the still lake and basking in the peace of it all.

And even when it’s not so peaceful, when the kitchen is full of bodies swerving around each other to try and throw together some sort of breakfast spread - pastries and fruit, bacon and eggs, various boxes of cereal on the counter. Quinn had even made a whole batch of pancakes one morning, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t come down every day since hoping to see him donning that same frilly apron that Cole had draped around his waist and working his magic with a pan.

You’ve never really been a part of such a full house. You had been an only child for so long - and by the time your parents split, and it was just you and your mom, on the days she wasn’t already at work when you got up - and were so ingrained in your own routine in the morning that you think you might actually need the chaos to function better. The rush of bodies, the arguments over who drank the last of the juice, the bickering over who’s turn it is to do the next grocery run - it’s a kind of entertainment you haven’t been privy to in a long time.

Being kind of disconnected from everything else isn’t as bad as you thought it would be, either. You’re not attached to your phone, checking socials to see what everyone else is doing, to see if your dad has sent any messages yet this summer, and you find yourself connecting a little more with the people around you and leaving your family stress on the back burner. You’re more focused on what’s in front of you, and your relationships with other people. With Ellie, with some of the guys in the house, with your friends at work, even.

And it’s nice to be closer to work too. You don’t have to rush around trying to make the bus - Luke has been keeping his word and driving you to the club most days, and where he can’t, either somebody else has offered, or you’ve just ridden one of the bikes in the garage that the boys said were free to use - the helmet hair is an easy fix when you have access to the locker rooms.

It’s an adjustment, for sure, getting used to being in a full house. Especially this one - with a constant revolving door of faces, friends of the brothers switching out week by week to come and stay, departing just as you’ve started getting to know them with a promise of dropping by again soon.

So far, you’re almost at double-digits for the names you’ve had to memorise. Some of them you were already familiar with, guys from Michigan who you already knew or knew of, but others were more Jack or Quinn’s friends that you’d never had the pleasure of meeting before now.

Cole Caufield being one of them.

He had arrived a couple of days after you and Ellie moved yourselves in, closer to Jack than the other two brothers, you had noticed, and was going to be staying longer than any of the other visitors - having his own designated room in the house, similar to you girls.

You like Cole - he’s good fun, can take a joke unlike his supposed best friend, and has the kind of smile that almost gives you a buzz whenever it’s flashed your way. Your first few interactions with him were seemingly pleasant, despite Jack constantly in his ear with a hardened glare pointed your way and no doubt unsavoury words uttered. Cole would just shrug him off, laugh, meet your eyes and drop a wink your way - a gesture you’d usually squirm and cringe at, but Cole kind of pulls it off.

He joins in when you chirp Luke, too - which, if your honest, is your main source of entertainment since arriving, so your interactions with him grow day by day.

You haven’t really spent any one-on-one time with Cole yet, though. You were hoping to, before he left to visit home for the weekend - for no other reason than to get the scoop on something you’d happened upon at work last week - and had planned on asking him to hang out on your day off. But with Cole now gone for a few days, Jack and Ellie off doing god knows what, Quinn and Luke working out wherever, you have no choice but to spend your free Sunday lounging around the house, trying to find something to suppress your growing boredom.

You start with your nails, painting them a summery orangey-red and doing your toes to match, then do your laundry, abiding by house rules that you rotate the loads between the machines, and fold out whoever’s clothes were last in the dryer and place them in the hamper on the side.

You’re hoping you haven’t had to fold Jack’s underwear but you decide to live in blissful ignorance - trying to identify the load based on the rest of the clothing in there is impossible when they all share, so it kind of works in your favour.

You FaceTime your mom for almost an hour, getting an update on what she’s been up to with work, and giving her updates on how your summer is going, trying to focus on your time at the club and Ellie so she doesn’t worry too much again that you’re spending your summer in a house filled with boys.

And by the time Luke and Quinn come back from their workout, you’re in the lounge, 50 pages deep into a book you really couldn’t care less about, but there’s something in you that refuses to beg one of them for company, so you suffer in silence.

Even when Luke does join you, throwing himself down onto the opposite side of the couch you’re occupying and pushing your feet off his side like it’s his sole purpose just to annoy you.

“I was comfortable there, asshat,” you frown, lifting your feet back into their previous position and using one to give him a light kick to his thigh.

“Yeah, well, I hardly want your feet all up in my business while I’m trying to relax,” he sighs, sinking into the cushions with hands clasped behind his head, biceps flexing and tightening the arms of his t-shirt in a way that momentarily catches your eye. You’re thankful for his closed eyes, chewing at the inside of your cheek as you divert your attention back to the mundane words on the pages in front of you.

“And yet here you are when there are 2 other couches.”

“Yeah, well, I know how much you like to be near me.”

You try to ignore him, pulling your feet a little closer to your body and focusing back on the book, but it’s hard when Luke has such a presence. You feel the little looks he keeps sending your way like a physical touch, and the couch shifts with every slight movement he makes, so when he constantly shuffles, you start to think he wants your attention.

Of course he wants your attention. This is Luke Hughes.

“Are you just sitting down here to annoy me?”

He lights up, like he’s just been waiting for you to ask, and shuffles in his seat to face you, fully, bouncing in place like a puppy being teased with a tennis ball.

“I’m actually trying to distract you, if you must know.”

“Bold of you to assume you have enough of my attention to be distracting in the first place,” you scoff, trying not to react to the way he smirks in your peripheral, the words in front of you all blurring together. If you were actually focused on them, you’d have lost your place, already.

“I think you pay more attention to me than you’d like to admit.”

“That’s some ego you’ve got on you, Hughes,” you narrow your eyes as you look above the edge of your book, “Is that what you spend that big NHL paycheque on, charisma classes? How to flirt for dummies?”

“Oh, is that what we’re doing? Flirting?”

Damn. You walked yourself right into that one.

Sometimes biting back at Luke comes like second nature, words first, thoughts after - and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t like it that way. It’s easy, the back and forth, and you can’t really think of an instance with him where you’ve sat in a lingering, awkward silence. You’ve really grown to hate silence, lately.

“You wish.”

“You think I’m charismatic,” he teases in a sing-song voice, knocking at your knee and wiggling his eyebrows when you glare at him.

“I think you’re an idiot.”

“You’re not gonna ask what I’m distracting you from?”

“I don’t really care,” you lie, eyes darting back down and diverting the attention he so desperately craves away from him.

“Jack wanted to take Ellie out on the boat.” He says, ignoring your attempts to ignore him - pushing your buttons like a full time job. Like an operator for your last nerve.

“Good for her.”

“Alone.”

“No shit.”

“To ask her out.”

“Whoop-de-doo.”

“Whoop-de-,” Luke straightens up, like a whack-a-mole with his head positioning itself over the top of your book, and you kind of wish you had one of those soft mallets right about now. It would be so satisfying to bonk at his head, you think. “What do you mean, whoop-de-doo, is this not what you agreed to be here for? To get them together?”

You scoff, flicking to the next page of the book in feigned disinterest. “He isn’t asking her out today.”

This is the exact something you had wanted to talk to Cole about - whispers in the staff lounge at work earlier in the week doing the rounds would imply otherwise, but your main source is kind of a gossip, and you’re not entirely sure of their reliability, despite the few degrees of separation to the subject at hand.

Mutterings of Jack and Cole and their little country club connections.

You can hardly ask Luke of all people if his brother is as much of a man-whore as everyone is making out. Cole was a safe bet - he’d probably just tell you straight up what they’re up to, wear his pride like a shining gold medal. He’s upfront about his promiscuity, at least. Luke is more protective. Of himself, of his family, you’re not entirely sure. There haven’t been as many whispers about him.

“How could you possibly know that?”

“Because he’s a spineless idiot,” you retort, eyes flicking up momentarily to take in his furrowed brow. “No offence,” comes out of nowhere, and you surprise yourself with the instinct to lessen the blow of your words for the first time in forever.

“None taken, he’s only my flesh and blood,” Luke huffs, “You’re just jealous I’m winning our bet.”

“Sure,” you drawl, eyes widening to emphasise the sarcasm as you make a point of angling your head to the next page, like you’ve taken a single word in for the past five minutes. “He’s been talking to one of the girls from work. There’s no way he’s doing that and asking Ellie out, unless he’s completely brain dead.”

And when you look back at Luke, that furrowed brow has shifted into a full blown frown, pouted lips and eyes cast down as if he’s trying to figure everything out in his head.

It’s probably the pout that has you cushioning your words, once more.

“Again, no offence, I doubt it’s in your DNA.”

“How do you know?”

“I’m no bio student but I don’t think there’s a genetic marker for being a fuckboy.”

“No, about him talking to one of the girls at the club. He didn’t tell me that.”

Why does he have to sound like that? Let down and unsure, quieter than you think you’ve ever heard him. It’s like the tone he carries goes straight to your fingers, clasping the book closed without marking your page - because what business do you have carrying on that charade?

“Do you guys tell each other everything?” You ask as you throw the book until it lands on the coffee table with a gentle thud, shuffling until you’re sat against the arm of the couch with knees bent in front of you, giving him your undivided attention and feeling guilty that it might not be enough.

“I thought we did,” he scratches at the back of his head, nervously, “He literally told me yesterday he was taking her out to talk about stuff, why would he make a point of asking me to keep you busy if he’s not serious about asking her out?”

“You don’t want to hear my answer to a question about your brother not being serious.”

“Who’s the girl?” He asks, ignoring your comment despite the slight ghost of a smile you see flash into the corner of his mouth.

“Jessica, she works at the pro shop, apparently they’ve been texting all summer.”

You know for a fact that since you’ve started paying attention, you’ve seen Jack on his phone a lot for a guy who chirps you for your own screen-time, and who has enforced the house rule of no phones outside your room like a prison guard yells out no touching at visitation. So it sort of checks out. You’ve tried to sneak a peak, but he’s protective of his stuff like a yappy little dog with attachment issues at the best of times, so you haven’t really put too much effort into it.

“There were a few people talking about it in the lounge at work the other day,” you shrug, “One of the girls talking about it is Jess’ best friend, so not exactly from the horse’s mouth, but I don’t think she’d be spreading lies about her friend around like that.”

“Can you find out?”

“You ask that like I haven’t been trying.” That gets a full smile, a small chuckle that lifts his shoulder, even, “I was gonna grill Caufield about it but he’s gone. But I know you guys have plans when he gets back tomorrow, so if you want to take Cole I’ll hack away at the grape vine at the club?”

“Does this mean we’re teammates?”

“No. It absolutely does not.”

Hacking away at the grapevine is really a lot more like plucking absentmindedly at an overgrown patch of grass when it comes to workplace gossip.

By the end of your shift, you’re leaving the club with a fist clutched full of loose blades, fingers stained green from the amount of information people were willing to ‘fess up.

Liam who works behind the bar had overheard a conversation where Jack had mentioned Jessica, but could only give you useless tidbits, like how he had to stop by the shop for a new putter, and Jess had been the one to ring him up.

Hardly incriminating, but you had a feeling it would be a small piece of a way larger puzzle. That, and guys are notoriously useless at gossiping, there’s definitely more to that story than Liam could even comprehend in his tiny man brain.

Cassidy who works at the front desk had seen Jack and Jess talking in the main lobby last week, definitely flirting, she had said - with hair flips and giggles galore - and way too familiar to be new.

Much better.

Paola who has the alternative shifts in the pro shop was more than willing to take up ten minutes of your time ranting how Jess’ work is never fully done when it comes to a handover, and she spends half her time on her phone. Kiran, who works the bev cart every Monday, said Jack is always one of the most charming in their golfing group, so it’s no surprise if he is exchanging texts with girls from the club.

You get dirt from most corners of the place, and it leads you all the way back to your station, to reservations set for the restaurant, where tonight’s list - unfortunately a shift you’re not set to work, although you very much question the serendipity of that - has Jack’s name down at 7pm. A table for 2 in the back corner, shielded from prying eyes and intimate.

And if it weren’t for the fact you’ve already worked a full shift, you would consider staying just to get the full scoop.

You know Ellie isn’t going to be the one sat across from him, she’s been sending you pictures all day of her various hauls for her quiet night in. New paints and pencils, a sketchpad, some candles - she has all intentions of working on her watercolour technique.

So it has to be for him and Jessica.

Imagine his face, you think, picturing wide, panicked eyes as you roam up to his table to take his order. He’d actually crap his pants.

But, it’s another set of eyes that you picture when you start to enjoy the scheming a little too much. The sad, teary eyes of your best friend, when she finds out the guy she’s been hung up on for half her life, who she has all but convinced herself isn’t interested, and is - absurdly - ‘far too good’ for her - yeah, right - is dating other girls while taking her out on not-so-platonic boat dates only the day before. A boat date that she had come back to your room, flung herself onto her belly on the bed, and kicked her feet as she gushed all about it.

So you make your way back to the house after a long day, and resign yourself to the fact that you’re going to have to, yet again, get all your information on Jack’s date second hand.

You primed Cara, your colleague in the restaurant, to keep an eye out, and she promised to send updates on her breaks, and you have been holed up in yours and Ellie’s shared bedroom trying to keep her busy when there is a persistent knock at the door, and a mop of soft, curly brown hair pokes in before his eyes meet yours.

“Hey, Luke!” Ellie chimes, cheery and all too blissfully unaware of the potentially horrific circumstances you’ve stumbled upon. “You need to borrow my conditioner again?”

You scoff from your position on the bed, watching a slight pink hue flush up Luke’s neck.

“What? No,” he denies, running a hand through his hair and seemingly frowning a little at the way it feels. “I’m going to the store, wondered if either of you needed anything?”

“Nah, thanks, we’re good,” Ellie smiles, attention diverting straight back to where she’s drawing in her sketchbook, missing the way Luke widens his eyes and tilts his head as if to encourage you to take him up on his offer.

“Can I come with?” You shuffle from your position on the bed, swinging your legs out from beneath you and over the side as Ellie looks back at you.

“Sorry, I didn’t realise you wanted something.”

“Someone’s got to show the poor guy what’s what on the haircare aisle, El.”

And you’re thankful that Ellie has settled herself in for the evening already by 6:45, showered, pyjamas on, otherwise she might have tried to tag along, too, just for something to do.

You swipe her phone before she can notice and hide it under your pillow before you leave, thinking it might reduce the risk of her getting bored and texting Jack, or, worse, checking his location.

A trip out gives you the chance for you and Luke to debrief each other on your findings of the day - or, as it turns out, just you, because Luke Hughes might be the worst information-gatherer on planet Earth.

Finding his life’s niche in hockey is fortunate, because he definitely wouldn’t cut it as an investigator.

“He just said he didn’t know anything,” Luke shrugs of his earlier encounter with Cole, and you try not to gape at him in disbelief as he fiddles with the screen in his BMW, scrolling through the interface in search of the nearest store.

You swat his hand away with a scoff, typing in a destination, “And you believed him?”

“Was I not supposed to?”

“You’re about as useless as a chocolate teapot, Hughes. What is it with guys and gossip, are you all really that dumb?”

“That’s the address for the club,” he points out, ignoring your jibe as he starts driving.

“Well done, you can read.”

“Why?”

“Because, thankfully, one of us is a good detective.” You snark, “Jack’s there.”

“So?”

“He’s on a date.”

“No he isn’t,” Luke frowns, attention momentarily taken from the road as he looks over at you. “I’ve been with him all afternoon, he would have told me if he had a date, tonight.”

“Oh yeah? Where’d he say he was going when he left, earlier?”

He hadn’t been home when you got back from work, but that had been around an hour ago. You figured if he was sneaky enough to book into the restaurant when you’re not working, he’d have his wits about him to avoid you, entirely. Whenever the two of you cross paths, you can’t help but try get on his last nerve, and he’s hardly going to want to start his evening in a foul mood.

“To get his hair cut.”

Jesus Christ, you think, he’s so lucky he’s cute.

“You’re so clueless. He’s at the lounge with Jessica, the girl I told you about yesterday.”

“And what are we supposed to do about that?”

“We’re gonna supervise. And maybe interfere, if necessary.”

You don’t really have a plan, but it seems like the right thing to at least get a look in as to what the hell Jack thinks he’s doing, especially if you’re going to carry on with this whole plan of getting him and Ellie together. If he’s seriously entertaining other girls while making out to Luke that he only has eyes for Ellie, your plans might have to change. You’re not sure if Luke will be on board with the new path you’re willing to take, but you’ll be happy to kill his brother on your own.

“Interfere?” Luke’s eyes are wide, but he keeps them on the road, fingers flexing against the wheel. “I just came out for chips to make nachos, not play spies!”

“Cara’s working tonight, she said she’d keep an eye on them for me. I bet if I cover her hosting shift on Friday she’d sabotage their date. We’d just have to sit back and watch.”

“Oh,” Luke’s brows furrow, as if it’s taking any consideration at all to mess with his brother. “You really are an evil genius.”

You try not to think too hard about who’s been spewing that rhetoric already in his ear, and instead you smile when he casts his eyes your way, proud and pleased.

“Thank you.”

It takes another 15 minutes to get to the club, considering Luke’s best Driving Miss Daisy impression, so their date is already underway by the time Cara is ushering you to a booth in the far corner, where you can see Jack’s table, but he shouldn’t be able to see yours, and agreeing to play along.

“Can I get you guys any drinks?” She asks as she hands over two menus, and you’re too interested in trying to gauge the vibe at the other table while Luke looks over his.

“Two diet cokes, shaved ice, no lemon,” he says, and you can’t help but frown at the way the specificity of that order rolls so easily off his tongue. That’s your order.

“Any food?”

“Could we just get some nachos, please?” You ask, sliding your menu across the table without even looking, not wanting to give Luke too much of a chance to peruse his own out of fear you’ll be here all night. “And extra picante on the side.”

“Extra guac, too,” Luke adds as Cara scribbles the instructions on her notepad, “And some of those chicken tenders, and extra ranch. And maybe some fries. Yeah, chilli fries. And breadsticks.”

You level him with a glare, already proven right in your decision not to give him too much time to think about what he wanted. He’ll order every appetiser on the menu, if given half the chance.

“Thanks, Cara, that’s everything.”

“Sure thing, should be around fifteen minutes. They only just ordered,” she points her pen back to Jack’s table, where Jess is leaning onto the table and Jack is leaning back in his seat - heavy on the distance but even heavier on the eye contact. That little shit.

“Does he have any allergies?” You lean onto your own table to ask Luke, quirking a brow up when his eyes darken in response, mischief swirling in his emerald irises.

“Absolutely not,” Cara interjects, “I’m doing this so you cover my job, not make me lose it.”

“Let me guess, he ordered the steak, medium-rare?” Luke asks, and she nods, hesitantly. “Char it.”

“Won’t he complain?”

“He’ll just grumble to himself about how tough it is. It’ll put him in a bad mood. That’s what we want, right?”

“Yeah,” you confirm, nodding your head to ease Cara’s worries despite what you really want is for Chef Michael to poison the cut, entirely. If Jack Hughes wants to play with your best friend’s heart, you’ll play with his gut. But you can settle for burnt meat. Luke can work some sort of magic with that, you think, convincing Jack of all people that any first date that resulted in him coming home all sour-puss and sulky should never result in a second. “Bad mood. Bingo.”

“Fine,” Cara grumbles, “But if he even thinks about asking for a manager, you’re covering my next 3 Fridays.”

She storms off to the kitchen, and you and Luke simultaneously sink into your seats, attention immediately diverted back to the table in the opposite corner of the room.

“We should have kept the menus,” Luke mutters from across the booth, “Could have hidden behind them.”

“What are we, children?” You snark, “You can’t think of any more creative ways to stay hidden?”

“I heard PDA makes people pretty uncomfortable,” he leans onto the table, dropping you a wink when you glance over out of the side of your eye, “We should make out to throw everyone off the scent.”

“In your dreams, Hughes.”

Luke sort of envies the charm you hold over people.

The way you can convince people to do your bidding with a mere flutter of your eyelashes or a flash of pearly teeth and a glimmer in your irises.

He has trouble, sometimes, skirting around his honesty or hiding his intentions - and he knows that’s not a bad thing, knows that being clear and truthful is an admirable trait, if anything - but the way you persuade others to bend to your whim with intricate white lies based on observations you’ve made or intel you’ve gathered is a praiseworthy level of genius.

It had taken such minimal effort for you to get Cara on side, to convince her that being a little clumsy is hardly grounds for her termination, and spilling a little of Jack’s drink close to the edge of the table - close enough that it drips onto his pants and Luke can see the steams of frustration exuding from his brother’s skin from all the way on the other side of the restaurant - or bumping her hip on the edge of their table every time she passes are really just harmless irritations, not likely to cause actual complaint.

You had used the mere tone of your voice to convince Liam from behind the bar to squeeze a little lime in Jack’s water, knowing just from observing him back at the house that he hates the taste, face curling in disgust at even the slightest hint of it, and Luke had watched your eyes gleam in delight every time Jack took a sip of his drink and tried not to spit it back out, seeking much needed reprieve to swallow down the world’s toughest steak cut.

You’d even worked your magic on him, pouting your lips when the food had arrived at the table, and he had initially declined to share his chicken tenders with you - your grumblings at him ordering enough to feed the five thousand fresh in his memory, but so easily wiped away by the soft, sad look in your eyes, and your whining of, “But I didn’t realise how hungry I’d get. Plotting and scheming is hard work, Luke.”

You ended up eating half, but he could hardly complain - you were doing the heavy lifting out of the two of you.

He was sitting back and enjoying the show - enjoying your company, if he’s honest. Enjoying the way his gangly limbs would sometimes knock into yours under the table, enjoying the way he kept getting little nuggets of information out of you while you were distracted, sipping at your coke and making little comments about yourself, about your life, without even realising you’re doing it.

And an unplanned, pseudo date ends up being the first time he thinks he’s had a glimpse at the real you.

The you who knows more about hockey than you’ve ever let on before, who comes back to his stories with contextual questions about the game, even has references to a few games of his back at Michigan, and keeps the conversation flowing despite your feigned disinterest, and a constant gaze cast his brother’s way.

That would usually drive him crazy.

He’s experienced it so often that he has come to expect it, people only entertaining his company to acquire the attention of his brothers, but that’s not what you’re doing. Not really.

You pay more attention to Luke than you’d ever let on.

You ask him about his time in Ostrava at the beginning of summer, even though he’s only mentioned being overseas once while you’ve been staying with him - an offhanded comment from Quinn at breakfast that you must have taken on. Ask him about all the food he tried while out there, when he mentions he doesn’t like picante, and you use it as a springboard to talk about what sort of spices he does like, or if he’s the type to try things or stick to what he knows.

You ask him about being the youngest sibling, and it stems from an offhanded comment Luke had grumbled about always being the last to be clued in on stuff, about how Jack had probably confided in Quinn about his extracurricular activities at the club, and didn’t trust him enough to let him in on the fact he’s going out on dates. You ask if he usually figures things out himself before he’s told them, if that’s what makes him so good at observing and analysing stuff, and he hadn’t ever realised he was particularly good at those things before you brought it up. But then you reference a day in class one time, where he had picked up on something in a textbook that you never would have figured out in a million years, and his heart leaps at the praise you don’t even realise you’re giving him.

You sandwich your perceptions in your usual snark, but he doesn’t miss the slight curve of your lips anymore when he bites straight back, knowing now that there is some part of you that feels the nip of his teeth, that acknowledges his existence beyond him being a speck of inconvenience in your peripheral.

And he gets a little carried away in that acknowledgement - stops paying attention himself to what is happening on the other side of the room and tries to focus on what’s in front of him; the girl he pined after his entire college career, sat sharing nachos and pretending not to know him at a level you so clearly do.

You must get carried away, too, because neither of you notice Jack’s date wrapping up until Luke catches him hand his card over to Cara.

He’s lost count of how long the two of you have been at the club, now - way longer than it takes to get chips from the store, that’s for sure - and all he does know is that if Jack catches either of you two here, after a night of mishaps, bad food, spilled drinks and Cara’s incessant clumsiness, he’ll know who’s to blame.

“We better get out of here before he sees us,” Luke sighs, not entirely wanting to wrap up his time with you but knowing he doesn’t really have a choice.

“I’ve just got to pick something up before we head back,” you reply, edging out of the booth at the same time Luke does, “I’ll meet you out front just give me two minutes?”

“Be quick,” he tells you before you scurry off, and he flags down Cara, who tells him you already put your bill on your worker tab. He tells her to switch it to his, and that he’ll drop by tomorrow to pay it off, promising to leave her a good tip for her stellar services for the evening.

He waits where you asked him to, making sure to stick to the side of the entryway where he can duck for cover if his brother makes an appearance - but you show up first, skipping out from the staff lounge with a bag of tortilla chips in hand.

“Let’s go, Lukey boy!” He follows you out like a puppy on a leash, all the way to where his car is parked, almost bumping into you when you stop and turn without warning, stretching your hand out to him. “Give me your keys.”

“Are you crazy?” He snorts, “You’re not driving my car!”

“I know a shortcut!” You reason, stepping forward and making a grabby motion with your fingers, “We gotta beat Jack home, I just paid another server $20 to spill a whole drink on him before he leaves and he’s gonna be pissed. I want to see the meltdown back at the house and you drive like a nun!”

Luke doesn’t know why he gives in so easy - it could be the proximity, the way you’re so close you have to look up at him, eyes twinkling softly under the moonlight, voice carrying over to him like a siren song, or it could just be because he’s weak - but he hands his keys over with a roll of his eyes and climbs into the passenger side, sliding the seat back with a huff to accommodate his long legs and watching as you adjust the driver’s side, cringing at the way he’s gonna have to figure out exactly how he had it before.

You drive like a maniac, to the point where Luke has to screw his eyes shut as you use some back road, can hear the squelch of mud beneath his tires and squirms at the thought of having to take it to the car wash, tomorrow.

But you make it back to the lake house much quicker than if he were driving, he’ll give you that. So quick that you feel comfortable enough to turn to him once you’ve pulled up, in no rush to unbuckle and get out to get inside before Jack gets home.

“Just so we’re clear, this is a point under my name. You’re not claiming tonight as a win.”

Luke chuckles, turning in his seat to face you, features illuminated by the dim overhead light that turns on when the engine switches off and a slight flush of exhilaration to your cheeks. There’s no pretending you haven’t enjoyed yourself, not tonight. “But the steak thing was my idea?”

“If it weren’t for me, you’d be sat watching baseball and thinking he was getting a 3 hour haircut, you can’t seriously be trying to steal this from me, I thought you athletes had integrity!”

“You’re really keeping score?”

“You’re not?”

If Luke’s honest, he hasn’t really thought about your whole wager all night. He’s been too wrapped up in the idea that his brother had lied to him. Twice. And now his whole plan for the two of you all summer has potentially been messed up. But hearing you mention it, hearing you talk about it like it hasn’t been flushed down the toilet by his brother’s idiocy sparks something in him - excitement, anticipation. He doesn’t want to let this go.

“I actually think we made a good team back there,” he shrugs, eyes meeting yours to gauge your reaction to the thought of doing this together.

“You’re only saying that ‘cause you’re gonna lose,” you retort, eyes sparkling with those same sentiments he had just felt.

“Probably,” he acquiesces, “Also ‘cause you kind of scare me a little after tonight, last thing I wanna do is go up against you when you have the power to turn half the country club against me.”

You smirk, and his eyes are drawn to the plush curve of your lips, watching them as they form around the softly spoken words, “God forbid you can’t go a round of golf without your caddy breaking down.”

“Exactly.” He mutters back, glad to see your gaze is still zeroed in on him when he meets it again. He can feel the thump thump thump of his pulse in his ears, and takes a deep breath before proposing, “Partners?”

He cocks a brow and holds his pinky out over the centre console, and you eye the digit, sceptically, narrowing your eyes into a glare before raising them to meet his. “Fine,” you grumble, then hook your little finger through his and tighten it to shake, a slight yelp of surprise filling the car when he tugs, your lax arm giving way until your knuckle touches his lips and he kisses it.

“Ew,” you whine, snatching your finger back as he fills the space himself with a hearty chuckle, wiping it on his hoody in disgust. “That’s gross!”

“No take backs,” he smiles, victorious, with his chest puffed out, primed for you to swat at with the flex of your hand, and the two of you are only pulled out of the moment by the sound of tyres pulling up on the gravel behind you, both of you stumbling to unbuckle yourselves and climb out of the car.

Jack is exiting his own vehicle behind, and stomps down the driveway, shouldering past you until he realises who he has passed, turning back and looking at you with suspicion cast across his features.

“Where have you twobeen?” Jack asks, glancing a curious eye between the two of you before meeting Luke’s gaze, levelling him with an inquisitive glare.

“We went to the store for chips,” Luke holds the bag up, the crinkle loud enough for Jack to hear, and he feels an insurgence rising within him, spurred on by the way his brother is looking at him like he’s the one who should be ashamed of his actions. “Nice haircut.”

Jack runs a hand through his hair, surprise crossing his features in a brief flash at the call out, like he had never even expected Luke to notice his hair looks no different to the last time he saw him mere hours ago, like he would never even need to question his alibi.

“Oh, yeah, I got the day wrong. Went out for dinner instead.”

“On your own?” You ask from beside him, your presence giving Luke the kind of back up he very much needs right now, a new target for Jack’s narrowed eyes that takes the heat off of him a little, lessens the burden of lying to his brother - despite Jack being the one who started it, it doesn’t make Luke feel any less bad, doesn’t quell the need to word vomit and admit to all the ludicrous things he had done to ruin Jack’s night. “You end up having a little accident there, bud?”

Luke tries not to outwardly laugh as his attention is diverted to the wet patch that still soaks up the front of Jack’s pants, lips quivering as he presses them together, oblivious to the steam pouring out of his brother’s ears as he immediately gets riled up.

“One of your esteemed colleagues at the club apparently lacks hand eye co-ordination. Plus, some of us like our own company,” Jack scoffs, “Some of us can go an evening without the need to annoy anybody else.”

“It’s not news to me that you’re in love with yourself, dude,” you retort back, entirely unbothered by his jibes. “Bet you’ve got all sorts of riveting thoughts swirling around that ginormous head of yours, must keep you busy for hours on end.”

“At least I have thoughts, at least I’m not some airheaded-,”

“Hey,” Luke’s tone is authoritative when he calls out, stern and demanding, “Cut it out, Jack.”

“She started it!”

“She asked you a question,” Luke frowns, disappointed with how quick his brother had taken to escalating the situation, all in an attempt to deflect the attention from his own deception. He knows you don’t need him to protect you from Jack’s sharp tongue, knows you can very much defend yourself, but he needs to vent his frustrations, somehow, without causing a bust up on the driveway. “You could have just give her a straight answer without biting her head off.”

He feels like you’re a little closer, all of a sudden, and he doesn’t know it’s the slight brush of your arm against his or if it’s something else, something less tangible - but it warms him, all the same. Steadies the static thump of his heart in his chest at the thought of starting an argument with his brother out of nowhere.

“Whatever,” Jack rolls his eyes, “I’m going to bed.”

And as Jack turns, Luke sees your lips part, ready to send him off with the last word until a large hand clamps itself over your mouth, and your wide eyes meet his over the sides of his fingers.

He’s not sure why he did it, why he all of a sudden feels comfortable enough to cross the boundaries of purposeful touch, but he doesn’t entirely regret it.

Plush lips press mid-word against his palm, and your skin is soft, cheeks warming ever so slightly beneath his hand.

“You gotta let him go, there’s no use fighting with him tonight, it’s better to drag it out. Didn’t think I’d have to teach you about the beauty of the long game,” he says, voice low as he watches his brother retreat to the house, waiting until he’s safe inside to retract his hand. “Not like this, anyway.”

“Your brother’s an asshole,” you grumble, “Full offence.”

“No arguments from me,” Luke concedes, holding his hands as if surrendering to the fact, himself. “What are you gonna tell Ellie?”

“Nothing.” You sigh, stepping a little down the drive and toward the house before turning back to him. “We’ve got a lot of work to do, partner.”

There have only been a handful of times in your life you’ve ever been thankful for work coinciding with huge plans, but when the group had decided that they wanted to go see Zach Bryan play Ford Field, you had thanked your lucky stars you had been put down to work a full shift at the restaurant and wouldn’t be able to go.

Not only for the fact that he isn’t really your thing, but for the fact that you’re finally getting a full evening to yourself.

So far, in your time at the house, most evenings have been spent with everyone else - group dinners, game nights, movie nights, even a couple of girls nights with just you and Ellie scattered in there, but nothing on your own, yet.

You can’t wait. And with an empty house, you have a full pamper night planned. You’ve been stocking up odd bits on your trips to the store over the past couple of weeks - sheet masks, aromatherapy candles, you’ve even picked up some flower petals from the spa at the club, in the hopes that you might even treat yourself to a relaxing soak in the bathtub. You can play whatever music you want, make whatever food you want, sit wherever you want in the house, out on the deck, overlooking the lake with a book in hand and no chirpy voices in your ear all night.

You can’t wait.

The only downside is not having a ride home, but you haven’t finished too late. The sun will still be up for a couple of hours, and a walk in the simmering heat back to the house doesn’t sound like the worst thing in the world.

Your feet carry you with ease down the back roads, and you even make the journey without your headphones on, taking in the scenery, the blissful peace of your surroundings, so lost in the tranquility of it all that the sight of Luke washing his car on the drive when you get home dampens your mood as quick as a torrential downpour of rain, flash floods coursing through your evening and wrecking your plans entirely.

“What the hell are you doing?” You can’t help the bite in your tone as you approach, sneakers crunching against the gravel as Luke pauses the hose, looks over at you with the sun in his eyes, and you have to remind yourself he’s just ruined the one night you have for yourself before you get distracted by the fact that he’s shirtless.

“Washing my car?” he calls back, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in Detroit right now?”

Luke shrugs, and you have to will your eyeballs not to move any lower than his neck to watch his shoulders lift and drop, lest you get too caught up in the broad expanse of his chest and do something ridiculous like drool.

“Wasn’t feeling it.”

“You weren’t feeling a concert you guys haven’t shut up about for weeks, but you were feeling washing your car?”

He’s dead. When he’s finished with his car and he retreats to his room, you’re gonna smother him with a pillow and discard of his body in the lake. You’re not even gonna let him shower, first. That’s what the lake’s for.

He’s crapping all over your plans because he wasn’t feeling it?

“It needs cleaning,” he shrugs again, and you swear you’re gonna jump in and run him over with the damn thing, “In fact, you really should be helping me.”

There’s a small part of you that feels like the thoughts of violence are worryingly aggressive, but then a larger part of you realises he must have a death wish.

“How’d you get to that conclusion?”

“You’re the one who drove us through a swamp,” he scoffs, a pointed hand flung toward the body of his car, where the sides are lined with a thick layer of dried dirt from the other night, “You get it dirty, you clean it up.”

“As much as I would absolutely love to fulfil your pervy car wash fantasy, I have much better things I could be doing with my time.”

Or you did, until Luke rained all over your parade of solitude.

“Like what?”

“Literally anything but this.” You gesture at the show he’s putting on. The suds dripping from the roof of the car, the hose in his hand, the buckets scattered around the perimeter. “I need to shower, I just walked from the club and I-,”

A death wish might actually be an understatement.

Luke wants you to murder him in the most gruesome, horrific way you could possibly muster - he has to, because there’s no other explanation for why he’d turn the hose on, point it straight at you, and drench the front of you, entirely.

You can feel the fabric of your t-shirt dampening and sticking to your chest, and you scrunch your eyes shut to stop droplets of water slipping into them, thankful that when they open again, his own are looking back at you, and not any lower.

You’d really have a reason to kill him, then.

“You did not just do that.” You growl, glaring back at him with a clenched jaw as the fucker beams back at you, pressing the trigger once more in a short burst that fires straight at your chest, again.

“What, that?”

“You’re so dead.”

You drop your bag and launch for him, aiming to take the hose from his grip, but he fires it again out of sheer panic, the water spouting out from between your splayed fingers, cold and pressured, and it soaks the both of you, raining down as you grapple for the head and Luke remains unrelenting.

There are squeals and yelps called out into the misty air between the two of you, and you get to a point you can’t tell what sounds are coming from who, but you manage to wrestle the hose from his grip and point it straight at him as he jets away with a laugh that rumbles straight from his belly.

It’s the kind of laugh that elicits another, and you don’t realise until he’s circling back to you that the laughter is coming from you - giggling, even, as the two of you engage in a water fight like misbehaving children - and it isn’t long until all aggressive thoughts wash away with the suds that slip to the gravel, forgetting why you were even annoyed in the first place.

It shouldn’t be as fun as it is, but after the long day at work, and the tiring walk back, letting your guard down and engaging it a little mindless chaos seems to wake you up a little.

Your childish game gets Luke what he wanted, anyway, the two of you working together to clean his car when you realise he’s only running in front of all the parts that actually need hosing off and relying on you having bad aim to get the job done, and you figure getting your hands a little dirty is harmless when you’re already soaked through and in dire need of a shower.

And your pamper-plans of a bubble bath and self-care don’t entirely come to fruition, but Luke promises to make up for his petulance by ordering pizza and sticking a movie on, so you bite your tongue to refrain from voicing your initial complaints, and decide to just go with the flow, for once - he hasn’t exactly led you astray, yet.

You take a little longer in the shower than normal, with no one around to complain about hogging the bathroom or worry about them barging in unannounced, and you suppose that’s a small victory - one little luxury you get to cling to as you bask in the steam, letting all the tension slip from your aching muscles after being on your feet all day.

And once you’re out, hair dried just enough with a towel that it isn’t going to drip or soak your t-shirt, and you’re dressed in your pyjamas, you make your way downstairs, where Luke has already set up a plethora of snacks in the living room.

Nachos, popcorn, candy and drinks scattered across the coffee table as he relaxes on the couch, hair extra curly after his shower and an old Michigan t-shirt stretched tight across his now much-broader chest.

“Thought I’d wait for you to pick a movie,” he chimes up from where he’s sat, gesturing with a lazy point to the wall of blu-rays beside the TV.

“Did Netflix never make it to the Hughes household?” You scoff in disbelief as you take them all in properly for the first time. You’d seen them in your peripheral when you’d been hanging out down here, before, but actually looking at them up close, reading all the titles, seeing the sheer volume of how many there are, it kind of surprises you.

“We can look on Netflix if you want. They always take stuff off, though.”

You know. All your favourite movies get taken off of streaming, and you only ever find out about it when you’re really in the mood to watch them. As soon as you realise the wall is alphabetised, you know exactly where to look.

“That’s alright,” you shrug, stepping to the side as you track backwards, through M, L, K and J. “You guys are pretty analogue, I’ve noticed.”

“What do you mean?”

“The board games, the DVDs, the whole no phones around the house thing.”

“No phones around the house is common courtesy,” he chuckles, “But I guess we’re a little weird about the other stuff.”

“It’s pretty cool,” you shrug, spotting the DVD you want and sliding it out to assess the case. “It’s old school. Probably better for the brain. My little brothers can’t really function without an iPad and they’re 5, it’s freaky, like they’re haunted by the capitalist ghost of Steve Jobs or something.”

“I didn’t know you had brothers,” Luke frowns where you almost expect him to laugh, and you spin on your heel to face him. He has this look about him like he should have known that - like the two of you have ever conversed in anything other than sarcastic quips and scrunched up faces, or whatever attempts at flirting have been on his part.

“Technically they’re half brothers,” you shrug, “They live out in Philly with my dad and step mom, I don’t really get to see them much.”

“Didn’t know you were from Philly, either.”

“I’m not, my dad moved out there when him and my mom got divorced.”

It’s not something you really love talking about.

The few times you’ve tried, you’ve been shot down, patronising tones scoffing at how your biggest trauma is the separation of your parents, as if your whole world didn’t crumble down with the demise of their relationship, the demise of life as you knew and very dearly loved it.

“You don’t see him even in the summer?”

“Him and his family are on vacation in Europe for 6 weeks. England, France, Spain, Germany, the boys are into soccer so they’ll be out there until the Euros.”

You don’t miss the way Luke’s face scrunches at how you call them his family, and you’re not sure you’re ready for him to start pitying you, so you throw the DVD case toward him before you can second guess your choice.

Interstellar.

You hope he doesn’t pick up on why it might be one of your favourites. Especially not considering the topic of the conversation at hand. Something about the crippling regret Cooper has for leaving Murph behind plucks harmoniously at some unidentifiable strings deep within you, but you’re hardly about to admit that to Luke, of all people.

“I love this movie,” he smiles, almost surprised, as if he expected you to throw The Notebook his way. Maybe next time - he’d probably love that movie, too, if he gave it a chance.

“Me too. I love space movies.”

“Like Space Jam?” He asks as he pushes himself up, going toward the TV to set up the movie with the DVD in one hand and the remote control in the other.

“No, like movies about Space,” you say, throwing yourself down onto the same couch he just vacated and tucking your feet beneath you to get comfortable. “Although I guess Space Jam would technically fit into that bracket.”

“I didn’t realise that was a genre,” he chuckles.

“Not the scary ones, though, I don’t wanna be freaked out by space.”

“Is that like a thing? You just like any movie set in space?”

“I like anything about space, period. Movies, documentaries, books. Thinking about it makes me feel really insignificant.”

“Insignificant? Is that not a bad thing?” He asks as he makes his way back, settling into his side and angling his body toward yours.

“Do you ever think about how big the universe is, Hughes? It’s humongous! If I ever feel anxious or panicky I think about just how big it is and how I’m not even a speck of dust in the grand scheme of things. If I’m so tiny, how big can my problems actually be?”

“I guess that makes sense,” he seems to mull it over in his head, the thought of him even considering it and not making you feel stupid warms your chest - makes you forget just how much of yourself you’ve shared with him in the last couple of minutes alone, makes you worry less that you’re sharing too much. “I think I might be the opposite, though. Probably the youngest brother in me, I only feel better if I feel bigger.”

You think that might be why he’s always trying to one up you - sassy comments and inappropriate jokes galore. Not that you mind any of it, not really.

“What about you? What movies do you like?”

“You’re gonna be so shocked.”

“Sports movies?”

“Look at you, knowing me like the back of your hand.” He coos, nudging at your knee with his hand. “I’ll watch anything, though. We should take it in turns, whenever it’s just us,” he says like the thought of spending time alone with you has only just crossed his mind. “Picking a movie to show each other.”

You think there’s a lot of yourself in the media you consume. The movies you watch, the music you listen to, and sharing those things with Luke feels like giving him the only other key to a high security vault. It’s something you’ve avoided so far - letting him play his songs in the car, avoiding making any sort of pick in the group movie nights. It’s daunting, and it’s a lot of pressure, and so you don’t know why you agree with so much ease - a shrug, and a casual muttering of, “Sure, why not?”

The pieces of your dynamic slowly start to slot together, and you start to realise why you’ve been entertaining his company so often, lately. Why your mood so quickly de-escalated itself, earlier. Why you’ve found yourself curled up on the same couch as him, instead of literally anywhere else in the house, doing anything other than this. Why you’re so quick to agree to letting him access all these unseen parts of you.

And why you think he might be able to read your mind, after he asks, “Can I ask you a question?”

“Only if I get to ask one back.”

“What were you gonna do tonight, if you were on your own?”

Thank God, you think, your heart jumping at the thought of anything else he could have asked.

“I was gonna do a sheet mask and steal the bottle of wine Quinn stashed behind the laundry detergent.” You admit with a nonchalant shrug, the plans you had been looking forward to all day seeming mundane in comparison to this. “Why’d you stay behind? You love Zach Bryan.”

“I love sheet masks and stolen wine, too.”

Your lips curve up before you get the chance to huff at his non-answer, and you feel your throat go a little dry at the way his curve, too - the way his green eyes darken when they meet yours, and you feel like he’s looking straight through you.

It’s around half way through the movie that you realise how much you’re enjoying yourself - when you look over at Luke, and the light from the screen is still bouncing off the sticky white sheet plastered to his face, only just able to make out his round eyes through the little slit in the fabric.

You sip at your wine to hide your smile, and turn your attention back to the TV until Luke nudges at your feet with his, and your eyes meet over the tops of your bent knees.

“You tell anyone I did this, I’ll never speak to you again.”

Your laugh ripples through every inch of your upper body, rumbling up from your belly and manifesting itself in shaking shoulders, your smile wide and your sheet mask slipping out of place. “You can’t threaten me with a good time, Hughes.”

You spend the rest of the night trying not to think about how there might just be a tiny door in your heart, eking it’s way open for him to squeeze his gangly limbs into.

>PART TWO<

another a/n: I don't want to put a timeframe on when the next part will be posted bc as soon as I do that, my brain will revolt and it won't happen, but I'd love to know your thoughts in the meantime!!! I have a lot of the rest actually written, and what I don't have written, I have drafted, so it shouldn't be too long but!!! like I said no timeframe!! I've had a lot of fun with this dynamic, and hearing any opinions would mean a lot to me!!

this was my first time writing reader insert if you saw any instances of she/her where they shouldn't be, no you didn’t. I tried as best as I could to avoid using Y/N because it takes me out of it I don’t even remember if I put it anywhere but sometimes it's hard to get around I did my best ok!!!

#luke hughes #luke hughes x reader #luke hughes imagine #nhl imagine #nhl fanfiction #luke hughes fluff #my hearts going pitter patter pitter patter like I could throw up #need to post this before I fall asleep lmao #*writing

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yanadolls · 1 month ago

Note

Hi sweetie, can you write abt bllk boys getting jealous/possessive when the teammates try to be friends with reader, please??

NOT ALLOWED!

||| FEATURING: NAGI SEISHIRO, REO MIKAGE, ISAGI YOICHI, RIN ITOSHI X FEM READER

||| CONTENT: jealousy, fluff

ᯓ★

REO MIKAGE ౨ৎ

reo never claimed to be a calm guy, especially when it came to his lover. however, he was typically lenient with nagi whom was his best friend. he could easily put up with his whining, laziness, moodiness, and even carrying him around and forcing him to practice. but the one thing he couldn't handle was how clingy nagi could get with you- his precious girlfriend. the two of you weren't even necessarily friends!

"mh, y/n. can you not move? i'm gonna game over.."

nagi huffed when you tried to move from sitting on the floor, the tall man slumping half his weight on you while tapping away on his mobile game. he just found you comfortable, that's all. you were small and cute, and a very accessible resting chair. even if that was all nagi's intentions were, reo was quite literally tweaking out at the sight from across the room. his eye twitched a couple times, jealousy flowing through every single vein in his body.

'does he like my girlfriend?'

'oh god, what if y/n leaves me for him?! nagi's taller than me!"

'that stupid whiny baby just pisses me off sometimes! go rest on chigiri or something!'

'i'm gonna rip out every single strand of hair on my head if this goes on any longer.'

what made reo snap was when nagi sighed heavily, burying his face in your shoulder once he died in his game.

"mh. we should hang out sometime. you seem pretty cool."

nope, that was the final straw.

reo abruptly stood up, walking towards the two of you and practically yanking you out of nagi's hold, making him fall onto the ground. the white haired boy immediately went to complain, but reo shut it down.

"she's not going on a date with you, nagi! stop trying to steal my girlfriend from me!"

not even close to what nagi had said, nor what he was trying to do.. before he could say anything in retort, reo was pouting and dragging you out of the room, arm tightly wrapped around your waist. he kept that serious and gloomy look on his face as he walked out to his car with you. reo was going to keep you home for the next week, determined to keep you safe and sound from the sights of any men who may have wanted to steal you from him. the purple haired man would probably have a total breakdown if he saw you with another man ever again, especially nagi (even if he trusted his best friend deep down).

"babe? are you-"

"I'M NOT JEALOUS!"

♡

NAGI SEISHIRO ౨ৎ

"..."

nagi was silent, clutching his phone in his hand as he intently stared at the scene playing out in front of him. the one time he had decided to invite you to his practice game, reo took it upon himself to be a damn gentleman to you- opening doors for you, complimenting you, laughing and talking almost the entire time with you. of course, the rich man just wanted to get along with his best friend's girlfriend and make a good impression, but maybe, he was a bit too much without even realizing it..

"y/n, haha! it's no wonder nagi likes you so much, i totally understand it now. i really get it."

what the hell was that supposed to mean?

a pout came to the sleepy striker's face, an unfamiliar feeling washing over him. was this how it felt to be jealous? quite an annoying feeling, he thought. before he could stop himself, nagi was already walking towards the two of you, and without warning he hugged you tight from behind and tugged you against his chest, burying his face into your neck. right in front of reo.

"y/n..." he whined, "come.. don't want you to hang out with reo anymore. 'ts such a hassle to see."

"huh?" reo blinked, looking pretty confused by his best friend's words.

neither reo or you could say anything else before nagi gently took your hand in his, pulling you away from the now very puzzled man. nagi dragged you to the changing room before groaning in annoyance, cuddling you on the bench.

"baby, what was that-"

"shush. don't talk to reo anymore.. it's a pain to feel like this cus i like you so much. please only talk to me."

you couldn't help but smile- nagi was so cute, all pouty and jealous. you had never seen him get like this before, and you'd be lying if you said it didn't make you feel a bit more special; it proved that nagi really did love you a lot. your boyfriend could be a handful sometimes, but he was worth it at the end of the day. nagi kept you close to him, not letting you leave his embrace for the next hour. he wanted it to be very well known that you were his, and his alone.

♡

ISAGI YOICHI ౨ৎ

"tch." isagi clicked his tongue as he watched bachira get a bit too touchy with you. his stupid best friend knew exactly what he was doing- purposely trying to spike up the blue eyed man's jealousy for the hell of it. there was not real reason to do this, other than the fact it would be hilarious. bachira did know how to ragebait people pretty well..

"nyahaha! y/n, you're so cute!"

the hyper man spoke in a loud enough voice for isagi to hear, grinning ear to ear like a child on christmas. meanwhile, you were pretty confused since you had never met bachira prior to this.

"oh, um.. thank you."

"noooo problem! say, wanna hear a secret?"

bachira glanced over at isagi, who was silently raging, before leaning in to whisper in your ear, his lips dangerously close to your skin.

"isagi's about to be sooo mad~"

on cue, the egoist had marched up to the two, wrapping his arms around your waist and practically throwing you over his shoulder as you yelped in surprise. isagi glared at bachira with jealousy burning in his eyes, to which his best friend burst out laughing.

"we'll talk about this later, bachira."

"haha! whatever you say!"

isagi carried you out of the room, lips pursed in a straight line. he headed towards the exit to take you home- but not without glaring at any man who looked in your general direction, first.

"yoi! c-calm down, i'm pretty sure bachira was just trying to get a rise out of you!"

isagi scoffed, his fingers gripping your thighs a bit more.

"don't care. he should know better than to get so close to something that's mine."

isagi was a totally different person when he was on the field, and when he was jealous. the sweet, man friendly was no where in sight.

♡

RIN ITOSHI ౨ৎ

isagi was chatting with you, oblivious to the storm that was brewing inside rin. it was now hitting the 30 minute mark of your conversation with him, and deep jealousy was bubbling up inside your emo boyfriend. had the shorter man realized that you were rin's girlfriend? nope, not at all. if he had, he probably wouldn't have entered in your vision in the first place as he definitely didn't want to cause more trouble between him and rin, as the two already had a rivalry of some sort.

"y/n, was it? that's a pretty name." he said with tinted cheeks, giving you a kind smile.

"oh, thanks! i appreciate that a lot."

"y-yeah, no problem..!"

'i'm gonna punch his teeth in.'

the man seethed silently, glaring intensely at isagi. who did this irrelevant piece of trash think he was- getting all flustered around his girlfriend? he was putting him in his place, right now.

"move it, npc number five."

rin practically shoved isagi against the wall to get to you, wrapping his arms around you and darkly shooting a mean look at isagi, who was just recovering from the random act of violence.

"ow- oh, rin? are you two..?"

"she's mine, you moron. did you think your half baked compliments would seriously woo her? you're more pathetic than i thought."

isagi was used to his blunt and rude words at this point, but was definitely surprised by the fact you and rin of all people were dating. he immediately backpedaled.

"no! i wasn't trying anything, dude.. i just wanted to be friends."

"you can't do that, either. someone as bland and boring as you doesn't deserve to talk to her. don't go near her again."

isagi put his hands up in a surrendering motion, a bead of sweat on his cheek.

"bro, chill.. i wasn't planning on it."

isagi walked away, half embarrassed by the situation and half annoyed by rin's constant insults back to back. you simply giggled at rin's obvious jealousy, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

"aw, y'so cute when you're jealous."

"i wasn't jealous, idiot."

"whatever you say.."

♡

AN: this was sm fun to write! tysm for the request hunnie ^_^

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gldrushh · 3 months ago

Text

GUILTY AS SIN? | JK | PART 𝐈𝐈

"Jungkook remembered how to make his feet stay put and you learned that some things are worth the mess, that love sometimes comes too late, but longing never does."

→ Pairing brother in law! Jungkook x widowed fem!reader

→ Genre forbidden love! au, childhood friends to lovers, angst, smut, fluff

→W.C 17.10k

→ Warnings oc is going through it, Jungkook is a flirty menace, ceo jk, lovesick jk, simp jk, possessive Jungkook, jealous Jungkook, rich people lunch time!!, mentions of blood and injury, mentions of drinking, yoongi makes an appearance, he has no lines, namjin, yearning?, bathroom escapdes, silly banter, sexual tension kissing, making out, explicit sexual content, fingering, an almost handjob, penetrative sex, dirty talking, soft Dom jk, praising, creampie, bathroom sex, fluff (you don't even wanna know my definition of fluff), hoseok is a victim, minho is haunting the narrative as he should, angst (sorry girls It’s my brand 😝), doomed siblings

→ Playlist dress by Taylor swift, I can't be more in love by the 1975, in the woods somewhere by hozier, I can see you by Taylor swift, last words of a shooting star by mitski

→A/N Hii! Hello!! First things first: THANK YOU. Like, thank you in all caps lock. The love you all poured into Guilty as Sin honestly made me giggle to myself more than once. Every comment, message, share, and heart, It meant the absolute world to me. You’ve made this messy little story so much more than just words. You made it matter. And it was just so disrespectful of me to keep you waiting so long for a part 2 that wasn't really in my plans but yeah. Life got a little too unbearable, the plot bunnies misbehaved (you know how they are). But I really hope it’s worth the wait and not me just reheating my own nachos 😅😅 This is also most probably the last thing I'm gonna write for this story, at least for a long while. Thank you for reading. Thank you for being patient and most importantly,thank you for being kind. I love you and please do let me know your thoughts. Message me. Tell your plants. I'm all ears.

| PART 1 | PART 2 |

Mellow is the companion of church. Some would conclude that the church is composed for the quiet even.

They'd argue that it's different from sitting in the silence.

Silence is one thing and quiet is another. silence is an absence, they'd say. Quiet is presence, they'd add. Here more precisely, it's heavy and arcadian and holy.

There was something about the air inside here. Perhaps the solemn, how it was colossal, drenched in allegiance that made the world outside feel far-flung. It could be the height of the towering arches, the glow of candlelight flickering against stained glass, the low murmur of prayers threading through the smother.

The light is softer here too, filtered through the glass. Deadwood of crimson and gold painting benches and pressed shoulders. Candle flames sway slightly, flickering like they know secrets. Maybe they remember everyone who ever sat here in search of something they couldn't name.

You tell yourself this stillness is what you needed. That this space; sacred and slow would help clear your head. But the truth is, the quiet here doesn’t comfort. It exposes. Peels you open from the inside out.

You hear too much in it. Feel too much in it.

Even on days when you could still hear easy synchronicity. Hands clasped, laughter spilling into the cool air. Especially on days like these.

Or maybe you're mixing that up with something else. Something that has been coloring your days blue for a while now.

Something that doesn't pauses for holidays, doesn't make exceptions for birthdays, doesn't even bother to step aside for just one evening and let one breathe.Does not give way to leaded glass windows or the allay of a congregation. No, it lingers, seeps into places meant for worship, curls around the edges of pews and prayers alike. Certainly doesn’t soften on afternoons like these. Even though the flowers hadn’t wilted.

You hadn’t given it much thought.

Or rather, you had avoided thinking about it altogether.

Perhaps that is why, sitting here now—hands folded neatly in your lap, shoulders drawn tight—yet you feel it, heavy as ever.

Your mother-in-law had insisted you come, refusing to leave you alone, her soft-spoken request leaving little room for refusal. Mira had chimed in too, linked her arm through yours with a smile that tried to coax you back into the land of the living, or like she was letting you in on some joke only the two of you shared.

And so, here you were.

Church had never been a place you frequented, even when Minho was alive—he hadn't been particularly devout, preferring to spend bargaining his way through the sunday market and believing in the way the sky could shift from blue to violet in the span of a single evening—though you both had come when his mother had asked you to, of course, had sat beside him in these very pews, but never like this.

Not without him whispering some irreverent joke about heaven’s waiting list, about how maybe angels got bored too.

But now, you found yourself here more often.

If only because there was no reason not to because what waited you was a quiet apartment, a neatly made bed you hardly slept in and a day untouched by plans, by purpose, by anything remotely significant.

Also because you thought he wouldn’t be here.

Your mother-in-law had told you he wouldn’t be able to make it, had mentioned something about work, something about how he's not big on religion, much like his brother and oh, how you’d clung to those words. Let them blanket your nerves in fragile relief. One more hour. One more day of—knowing you wouldn’t have to see him today, that you could go on one more moment pretending you weren't aware of the inevitable, that you weren't unraveling at the seams every time you so much as thought about him.

That, that's why you had been skirting around him.

Maybe not consciously. At least, that’s what it looked like (You knew. Deep down, you knew.) But ever since that night—God, you really don't want to think about that or him in front of.. God without feeling like you're going to burst in flames. But its not exactly easy.

Not here, where the quiet literally wangles you into the deepest darkest of your thoughts. Thoughts that you're sure would.

Because the quiet here curls around your memories like smoke, drawing them out from where you’d hidden them. It coaxes them up your throat and behind your ribs until they’re a dull, burning pressure you can’t shake off.

You shift slightly in the bench. Mira breathes beside you, soft and steady. You press your palms flat against your lap, grounding yourself.

It hardly works. Especially not when he arrives. That strange, electric knowing. Like the air knows him. The space is an old convenient accquitance and adjusts around him.

The low creak of a door, the faintest hush falling over those nearest the back.

Late, quiet, slipping into the back like a ghost who had learned how to walk among the living, embodying every bit of the word 'handsome' in the most tailored of ways. Hair laid out in perfect symmetry. A ironed, muted blue suit hugging every bit of his perfect posture. Eyes so probing, so demanding of attention that you wonder why you ever got confused when everyday a new number of girls would approach you at school, especially at university for his number.

Then he had just been your doe eyed friend who you wanted to spare from heartbreaks. Not aware of the term-"heartbreaker" that had been given to him. Ironic, really.

Now you feel like you understand. You feel like you sense him before you see him. Sense every bit of his presence that you maybe had overlooked before. A shift in the air, the faintest murmur of acknowledgment rippling through the congregation.

Both Mrs Jeon and Mira are turned towards the figure, thier expression brightening in recognition, waving small hands at the figure that is approaching your way, pulse quickening with the footsteps.

No.

He said he doesn't do church.

He wouldn’t.

He wouldn’t sit—

The soft creak of the seat behind you made your breath hitch.

The older woman only smiled, a pleasant suprise. For her, atleast. "Jungkook-ah! You came! Oh, how lovely!"

She's sure the reason is that he is finally letting divinity in, you're sure you're losing yours.

You don’t turn but Mira does as she shifts beside you, knees bumping against yours to smile in greeting. Saying something about how her husband should learn a thing or two from him and give this a try, accompany her once in a while. A deep, warm chuckle in reply hits you square in the back of your head and your shoulders tense.

Low, rich, like warm amber poured over ice.

It lands like a bruise.

Pulses through, that gives away just how real and impossible and close it is.

You swallow hard, keeping your eyes downcast, determined not to react any more. You fix your gaze on the marble altar, on the golden flicker of votive candles.He’s behind you. Of course he is.

Because where else would he be, if not the one place you prayed he wouldn't?

Even as the sermon continued, voices rising in unison for prayer, you could barely hear them, could barely not feel your dirtiest secret behind you, close enough that if you leaned back even slightly, you might brush against him.

The service moves forward, and you try to focus. You try to listen. Tried to will your ears to listen, to stay anchored in psalms and promises and the choir’s distant swell. Just get through this.It couldn’t possibly be so difficult. No one knows. No one suspects a thing. The polished congregation kneels and stands with pedriocity and faith, unaware that your spine was stiff with a secret, that your breath refused to calm. Only you knew. Only he does. And that truth grips your tounge so hard there’s no way it’s ever slipping past your mouth.

But then a touch happens. As if maneuvering. A whisper of movement behind you, so faint it could just be the atoms you are made of shifting, a trick of your mind.

Light. Fleeting. Not direct. Not quite.

Just the faintest brush of fingertips against the ends of your hair that spilled over your shoulders, the softest, most cursory pull. Just a teasing pass, like he’s testing the silk of it between thumb and forefinger. There’s a pause, then the strand is gently looped once, slow and idle, as though he’s turning it over in thought.

Then released.

You freeze because what even is happening?

The answer to that is that it happens again. A lazy twirl of a strand, a slow release of the said strand.

Not enough for anyone to notice. Not enough to draw attention. But enough for you to feel it. Enough to make your skin prickle, your heartbeat stutter. He's been doing a lot of that recently.

You shift in your seat, pressing your hands tighter into your lap, back rod-straight, lungs stuck in a breath that wouldn’t come. The sensation was too distinct now, too exact to mistake.

It doesn’t stop. Another strand. A drag of fingertips. A near-caress.

What the fuck is he doing?

You don’t turn. You don’t react when you should have thrown him a warning glance—but that would mean acknowledging him. That would mean facing him.

And you didn’t know how to look him in the eye and not think about it.

His mouth. His devouring, worshipping mouth. The dammable sound of your name said like orison and profanity.

Didn’t know how to hear his voice and not remember the way how his lips shaped against your skin. Venal. Hungry.

Didn't know how not to follow the tattoos that ran through his sleeve and pretend that you haven't took your time exploring them. Aversly. Teasingly.

Didn’t know how to feel the weight of everything you weren’t supposed to want pressing down on you like a second heartbeat.

The way he had tugged your shirt up with reverence and bitten down like he wanted to leave a mark not even salvation could scrub away.

Do not react.

Do not move.

But he kept going. And the sermon blurred.

Gods, you were going to burn. You were going to hell. And he'd be there already, waiting with his hands in your hair.

When the sermon concludes, you stand too quickly, push your hair forward and Mira shoots you a look, her fingers grazing your wrist in question. You shake your head, offering her a quick, brittle smile before stepping toward the exit. You walked. Out of the stall. Out of the building. Out of your goddamn mind.

To your relief—you were still a perfectly coordinated bundle of cells when you were out. The sun hit you outside, sharp and sudden, dragging long shadows over the stone steps. You sucked in fresh air like someone who had been underwater too long.

The relief lasted long enough until Jungkook spoke under the sun casting long shadows against the stone steps. “I’ll drive.” Voice cutting through the polite chatter.

“Oh, that would be great, dear. Y/N, Mira, come on.” Your mother-in-law, oblivious, beamed, completely unaware that you had just spent forty-five minutes debating if setting yourself on fire in the house of God would be less painful than what had just happened.

The car ride should be easy.

It should be nothing. A short drive. A forgettable stretch of road between church and the Jeon family estate.

Should be.

But as you are pressed against the window, your coat bunched beneath you like a failed barrier, you want to either open the window for air or bolt from the moving car, with every inch of your skin crawling with awareness, tight and buzzing and flushed in ways that had nothing to do with the temperature.

The cabin is too quiet. Too warm. The low hum of the engine does nothing to drown out the sound of your heart, which feels like it’s beating directly into your throat.

And then there’s that scent again.

The scent of leather and something distinctly Jungkook curling in the closed space. A mix of his cologne—something dark and woodsy—and the faintest trace of laundry detergent, clinging to his shirt like it had no intention of leaving. It shouldn’t be so familiar, but it is. And that’s the problem.

“That sermon was lovely, wasn’t it?” Mrs. Jeon’s voice is light, warm, like freshly baked bread. The kind of voice that belongs in a home, not a car filled with tension so thick it could choke you.

Mira hums in agreement beside you. “It was.”

You blink, only now realizing how little of the service you actually absorbed.

“Of course,” Mrs Jeon continues, turning slightly in her seat, eyes alight with something rebuke, “not everyone was paying attention.”

You tense, breath catching, even when the accusation isn’t aimed at you. You feel it anyway.

“What?” He finally speaks, voice even. A little hoarse, like he hadn’t spoken in hours. Like his vocal cords were dry from silence and prohibition.

“Oh, don’t act like you don’t know, Jungkook-ah." his mother huffs, shaking her head. “You join for the first time ever in a while, sit in the back, and then spend half the time looking like you didn’t even knew where you were." she finishes with a scolding tone.

Jungkook exhales through his nose, hand tightening against the steering wheel. He doesn't argue.

Because It did seem so.

Mira, ever the enabler, bites her lip to stifle a laugh, glancing at you with barely concealed amusement.

You do not look at Jungkook.

You absolutely do not.

Mrs. Jeon, unbothered by the quiet tension thickening in the car, continues, “You know who else was praying a little too hard?”

Silence. No one answers with whatever self preservation they have.

Not because they don’t want to. But because they know better.

Because when Mrs. Jeon starts on church gossip, there’s no stopping her because apparently it's what it's best for.

She leans in, lowering her voice like she’s about to reveal something sacred. “Mrs. Kang.”

Mira gasps dramatically. “No.”

“Oh, yes.” A firm nod. “She was crying, dear. Again. Right in the middle of the third hymn.”

You blink. “Why?”

The older woman tsks, as if the answer should be obvious. “That husband of hers. You know how he is.”

You makes a thoughtful noise, tilting your head. “Didn’t he… move to Seoul?”

“Yes, but does distance stop a man from causing stress? I don’t think so.” You didn't think so too.

Jungkook exhales, long-suffering. “Why do you know all of this, eomma?”

His mother waves a hand dismissively. “Please, son. I hear things.”

Mira leans in. “Did she cry last week too?”

“Of course,” Mrs. Jeon replies. “But last week was because he didn’t call her for three days. This week, I believe he’s dating someone half his age.”

Mira sighs. “Men.”

You let out an involuntary snicker before you can help it. You don’t even know if it’s a real sound or something your soul exhaled out of disbelief.

Then, you make the mistake of glancing toward the front.

Because Jungkook’s eyes are on you.

Not on the road.

Not on his mother, who is still detailing the tragic love life of a woman you barely know.Not at the red light blinking in the distance.

His eyes are dark and unreadable, barely hooded, like he’s watching you and also thinking about the last time you were under him, gasping. Like maybe he’s remembering the way your nails looked against his neck. Or the way you said his name like a prayer, far more pledged than anything the pastor could conjure.

And every so often, you caught him.

The first time, you looked away immediately. The second time, you stared out the window so hard you gave yourself a headache. The third time, you stared back, even as something molten and dangerous simmers in the quiet between you.

His gaze held yours for a beat longer than necessary before shifting back to the road.

Every part of you was aware of him.

Of the way he adjusted his grip on the wheel. Of the way the veins along his forearm flexed when he turned. Of the way he never looked away fast enough.

Mira nudged you gently. “You okay?”

You nodded through the lie. "Fine."

Your mother-in-law again turned in her seat, smiling warmly. “I hope you’ll stay for lunch, Mira. We have invited the kims too. It’s been long overdue." The word ‘lunch’ doesn’t quite capture what’s waiting at the Jeon house.

Because it isn’t just lunch.

It’s crystal glassware, centerpieces too elaborate for a midday meal, and courses that require cutlery you don’t know how to use properly. It's a show that barely masks the subtle flex in it. A performance even, if you will, wrapped in linen napkins and wine pairings. And if you had to guess, this lunch isn’t just a friendly catch-up.

It’s Mrs. Jeon doing what she does best—playing politics with a smile. Maybe it’s her way of returning the favor after that party the Kims threw. Maybe she’s angling for something else entirely. But it’s definitely not casual.

She then adds as an afterthought. “We thought it would be nice to host something a little more intimate after such a wonderful service.”

“Oh, I’d love to.” Mira grins, relaxing against the seat. “Y/N, you up for it?”

You forced a small smile. “Uh-yeah. Yeah, of course!”

It’s automatic. Reflexive.

Because you can't say what you really want.

Which is to get out of the car.

To breathe. To clear the fog from your chest that smells like leather, and cologne, and fire.

From then, from the backseat, you had counted the moments until you could step into open air again and feel the crisp edge of early spring, the scent of freshly turned earth and blooming jasmine lacing through the quiet garden. The table was set beneath the sprawling branches of the old oak, where dappled sunlight filtered through on the delicate porcelain plates, silverware so polished it reflected the light, dishes, conversations lively and layered with subtext in the way rich families knew how to be.

You, too used to know the dance.

Used to let the brezzy hum of conversation wrap around you, used to nod along at the right moments, used to catch the way Minho would kick Jungkook under the table just to make him crack a smile.You remembered that.

Now, Mira sat beside you, her elbow jolting against yours as she reached for a serving spoon, her plate already filled to the edges.“Try this one,” she whispered, already loading her plate still like she hadn’t eaten in days. And then there was Yoongi—her husband—sitting with a plate he barely touched, scrolling through something on his phone until Mira shot him a look. He cleared his throat and slid it away.

Across from you, your mother-in-law delicately dabbed her lips with a napkin before resuming conversation about Mrs kang with a woman- namjoon's mother- who had grayer streaks in her hair that only painted the greater picture of elegance, her voice carrying that effortless ease of someone used to commanding a room. Someone who had enough money to command at all

Then there's Jungkook who sits two chair away from you, separated by separated only by a stretch of linen and eating irons. Jungkook who could barely catch up to Namjoon's enthusiasm about his dad dying, something about the shifting board members, something that should require Jungkook’s full attention."And now that my father’s out, the balance is shifting," Namjoon said. “We’ve got a chance to pull things clean, finally. The new proposal’s solid.”

Especially when his father speaks. "You’ve seen the numbers, Jungkook," His deep voice cutting through the low hum of conversation. “The deal’s been in discussion for months now. The board expects your response by next week.”

“I’ll look it over.” He acknowledged it with a slow nod.

"Not look over, son." His father’s tone was measured, but firm—the kind of voice that had always left little room for negotiation. "Confirm."

Jungkook exhaled through his nose, setting his wine down. "I won’t confirm anything without making sure it’s solid first."

He pauses. A glance. His father’s sharp gaze flickered over him, assessing. Not questioning—no, never questioning. Because Jungkook had earned his place, had spent years proving himself, had molded himself into the kind of son his father could rely on, because Minho never did.

Not that Minho ever needed to. Not that he ever wanted to.

Jungkook had understood that early on. That Minho had been different. That Minho’s place had always been elsewhere—with paint on his fingers and art in his head, with you curled into his side, laughing in a language he had willed himself to forget. And so it had fallen to him.

And Jungkook—Jungkook hadn’t minded. Not really.

Not when he could see the relief in Minho’s eyes every time their father skipped over him in business conversations, every time he looked at him liked he had birthed a catastrophe. Ambition morphed into inheritance and starry eyes jaundiced. Jungkook realized that this was what he was born for. That his older brother was a fool for denying everything that had been laid on a silver platter for him.

And because it had been easier than actually admitting that maybe he wasn't a fool at all. That maybe it wasn't the legacy he was born for.

Because every waking moment he finds himself tangled in the thoughts about what was right in front of him.

It had been days, yet it remained, stitched into him like something permanent—like the ink on his skin, like the weight of his own name.

It wasn’t just the memory of it. Not just the way you had felt beneath him, the way his name had left your lips in shuddering breaths. It was everything else—the before, the after. The way you had looked at him, wide-eyed and hesitant in the dim light of that unfamiliar room, as if realizing for the first time that he was capable of something like this. That he had spent years knowing, wanting.

Jungkook, who had spent years perfecting restraint, found himself breaking under the weight of it at only the sight of you that brought the memory of the night where he pretended you were his, like fever rushing through.

Because you would not look at him.

Because your eyes had skimmed past him all afternoon, slipping over him like he was nothing, like he hadn’t once been pressed against you, groaning into your skin.

And fuck if it didn’t drive him insane.

His fingers curled around the stem of his glass, his knuckles white as he brought the wine to his lips, stealing glances of you reaching for a pitcher of water at the same time as Mira, your fingers brushing, the smallest of startled laughs escaping you.

Soft. Effortless. Rivaling the intoxicity of the drink in his hand. He couldn't remember when it was the last time he heard it, only the withdrawals that came with it.

Jungkook exhaled sharply, setting down his glass before he did something reckless—before he let himself stare too long, let his thoughts slip into something visible, something impossible to ignore.

And then, as if the universe were intent on pushing him closer to the edge—you left, something he used to be best at.

You pushed back your chair, the scrape of wood against stone barely registering above the conversation which started with Mrs Kim going- “I should probably head home soon,” she said. "Joon's father probably running the househelp ragged by now.”

Namjoon huffed a laugh beside Jungkook, reaching for the hand resting on his thigh. “Let him. Maybe they’ll finally get him to stop redecorating the library every three months.”

Seokjin, seated beside him, shrugged. “Or maybe he’ll burn the place down and finally have an excuse to build that ‘modern masterpiece’ he’s been threatening to commission.”

Mrs. Kim sighed, exasperated but fond. “I wouldn't put it past him. He’s been threatening that ‘modern masterpiece’ since 2003.”

Mrs. Jeon clapped her hands together. “Oh, nonsense. Stay for tea at least. Mr Kim will be fine. Yoongi, you’ll take another pour, won’t you? Y/N, dear, why don’t you grab the set from the kitchen?”

"Of course. I'll be right back." you murmured, barely loud enough for anyone to catch, save for the ones listening too closely. Save for him.

Jungkook watched as you stepped away, disappearing through the doors of the house, something tightening in his chest.

The moment his hand closed around the stem of his glass again, Jungkook knew what he was about to do.

Would it be too obvious? Too stupid?

He doubted it.

Maybe it was reckless. Maybe it was childish. But as his grip tightened and the glass stem cracked beneath his palm, sending shards of glass and a sharp jolt of pain through his hand, he felt something darkly satisfying settle in his chest.

The table fell silent.

And all eyes fell on him. "I-I'm sorry. I didn’t realize." He cleared his throat and started to rise up from his seat.

Namjoon, the closest to him, attempted to reach for his hand and he instantly flinched. Just because the wound was intentional, didn’t mean it didn't hurt.

"What the hell, Kook? Are you okay?"

“Its nothing,” he muttered, jaw clenched as he pressed his uninjured hand to his palm, watching the thin trickle of crimson bead against his skin.

“Jungkook?” His mother’s voice came next to break through the quiet, sharp and immediate, her chair scraping against the stone as she pushed back. “Oh my god—what were you thinking? Do you need me to—”

“No,” he cut in, firm but even, already standing. “I’ve got it.”

Seokjin, looked up from beside his boyfriend, a just as suprised and bewildered expression taking over his face. The same one that mimicked every other person's that sat around the table, with Mira looking like she was going to choke on her food as she met his eyes before her husband smoothed a hand down her back.

"Are you sure? You don’t need any hel—"

"I'm okay, hyung. I said I got it." He said it with perhaps too much irration shimmering beneath his words and the table fell silent again.

Jungkook ignored them all.

He was already moving.

Already following.

Through the hallway, past familiar frames on the wall.

He finds himself checking his reflection in one, taking note of his hair that seem tousled and runs a smooth hand over them.

He finds you in the kitchen.

The afternoon light streamed through the windows, casting golden lines across the marble counters, across the soft fabric of your dress. You stood with your back to him, your hands grasping something—kettle, tray? Don't know.

You just know that you feel him before you hear him like you always do, the weight of his presence shifting the air, settling around you like something impending. You pretend you don’t notice. Pretend you’re too preoccupied with the cups in your hands, as if arranging over the same sets of cups for the fourth time will make it any more legible. It’s pointless, really—You had always known Jungkook, even in silence.

“Gonna keep avoiding me?"

It’s not exactly a question.

Not accusing, but certain. Because yes, you have. Not because you’re angry, not because you regret it, but because it scares you how little you do.

You swallowed. Still not looking. “I’ve been busy.”

He drawls out. “Have you?"

That makes you look up.

By this time you should have realized that it's always a mistake when you do that.

Because he’s leaning against the counter, a hand tucked casually in his pockets, sleeves still rolled up, collar slightly undone. And he’s watching you.

Not like at the table, where his expression had been smooth, unreadable or like that one time where you had been exactly where you are now and he was exactly where he was. Just then, it had been the same illegible look.

Here, in this quiet, his eyes are darker. He looks at you like he knows.

Its in the way his gaze dips, taking you in and how the amber light fluidly danced across your hair that framed your guilty face. So fucking adorable. "So busy you won't even look at me."

You hated how your breath hitched. Hated how you had no answer that didn’t sound like a lie.

You forced a slow breath and placed the napkins in the space left in the tray. "I've had a lot to do."

"No you didn't."

"I did."

"No you didn't, Y/N."

You force yourself to move, to wrap your hands around the tray, to act as if this conversation isn’t happening. “What do you want me to say?”

Instead, he pushed himself off the wall and came closer, close enough that the warmth of him touched your spine, close enought that you could see everything—the way his jaw tightens, the way his throat bobs when he swallows, the way his fingers twitch at his sides and when he finally spoke, it was low, just for you.

"Tell me you don't hate me. I can't go on like that." Has no idea how he has done that for years and has no intention to relive that ever again. He's a buisness man now. Buisness men learn from their losses and never give up profit.

Heat curled in your stomach.

Minutes passed. Too many, too few.

And he waits. He’s patient like that. He always has been.

But your eyes were drawn to something else entirely.

His hand.

The sharp contrast of crimson against his skin, fresh and glistening, pooling at the edge of his palm before dripping onto the tiled floor in slow, schemed drops.

You inhaled sharply, setting the tray down with a quiet clatter, your pulse kicking up. “What the—Jungkook, what happened?”

He didn’t answer right away, didn’t even glance at the wound. Instead, his eyes stayed fixed on you, dark and unreadable, watching the way you reached for his arm, fingers curling around his wrist, your touch careful and instinctive. Maybe it wasn't that bad of an idea, he thinks.

You turned his palm over, assessing the damage. A deep cut, but nothing catastrophic. "You're bleeding."

His voice was slow, aforethought. “I noticed.”

Your head snapped up, irritation flickering behind your concern. “What do you mean, you noticed? Why didn’t you say anything? You should’ve—”

Your breath catches, shifting your weight, as he steps closer, the space between you dwindling.

You try to ignore it. Try to recoil from it. Try to do anything but this. Because you recognized it now. This wasn’t about his hand.

Not really.

Not when his gaze flickered down to your lips in that moment.

Not when his fingers twitched at his side, like he was waiting.

Not when the air between you suddenly felt too thick, too warm, too charged. Too much like that one hallway.

You swallowed, cursed under your breath and forced your eyes away from his wound to take hold of the abandoned tray. You didn’t trust yourself enough with his. With him.

He seemed to revel in that fact.

His fingers brushed against your wrist in protest, dwadling, intentional. His head leaned in, lips grazing the curve of your jaw, just the lightest touch, just enough to rattle the glasses on the tray, just enough to summon a maelstrom of sensations.

Your hand flexed beneath his grip, and for a moment, the room felt smaller, quieter, like the world outside of it ceased to exist.

No. No. You reminded yourself of the straight stuff.

“Jungkook, let go. Everyone's ou—”

He doesn’t let you finish.

Jungkook’s breath ghosts over your cheek, his nose brushing against yours, the scent of him—sylvan cologne, something faintly sweet—pulling you under, drowning you in it.

He turns you, presses you back against the counter. His eyes are dark, searching of the surroundings for a moment before they are back on you. Then, so is the unrelenting heat of his mouth, catching your lips with his, slow and deep, like he had all the time in the world to corrade you.

His lips moved against yours, insistent, beguiling you to open up, to give him what he wanted. Because it had been days. Days since he had his first taste. Days since you have deprived him off it.

And so you did.

You gasped against his mouth, your fingers curling against the handle of trays, gripping, steadying yourself. He groaned at the way you responded, at the way you always responded, despite every calmour, despite every attempt to put distance between you.

You didn’t know who reached first, who needed more, who ached better—only that neither of you pulled away.

The kiss deepened, his uninjured hand slipping beneath the curve of your jaw, his thumb dragging against your cheek, his teeth grazing against your bottom lip. The wounded one curled around your waist. You gasped at the contact—at the warmth of his blood seeping through the fabric of your dress, staining the pale church blue with sin. You felt it against your ribs, hot and sticky. You didn’t care. You whimpered into his mouth, heat pooling low in your stomach, and that was all it took to prouduce a low, guttural noise in his chest, his fingers flexing against your waist, gripping, needing, wanting

And suddenly, the counter is the only thing keeping you upright. Your mind is spinning, lost in him, lost in this, in the fact that this is happening—

Here.

Now.

Where anyone could walk in.

“Y/N?”

Your heart stopped.

Jungkook froze.

Your mother-in-law’s voice was distant but getting closer.

Your breath hitched, panic flaring in your chest, but before you could pull away, Jungkook caught you again.

Pressed his lips to yours, stealing another kiss, this one shorter, sharper, like a punishment, like he was branding you with it as if he hadn’t already stained you with his blood, making sure you’d feel it long after he let go.

But he didn’t.

“Please” he breathed against your mouth, he kisses you deeper, hungrier. He drinks you in like he’s been starving, like he wants to ruin you.

Like he already has.

His tongue brushed against yours, hot and sure, and your stomach twisted, heat

licking at your spine. “Tell me you don't."

A voice—your mother-in-law’s, calling your name grows closer and semblance slams into you like a freight train.

Yet Jungkook stands untouched, refusing to let go, refusing to understand what's he doing, how it could end.

"Jungkook, stop—mhmm—Mom's coming!"

Your resolve is slipping.

Falling.

Gone.

And then, when you finally find your voice—

You don’t tell him to stop.

You whisper—breathless, aching, a confession and a surrender all at once.

“I don’t.”

Jungkook groans a curse and he's swift in the way he pulls away because it's only in a second away that another figure breezes into the space.

Your mother-in-law stands in the doorway, looking between you and Jungkook , her brows pinching in mild confusion.

“What was taking so long, dear?”

Jungkook is the first to move, straightening, rolling his shoulders back like nothing happened. Like his tounge wasn't down your throat.

You, though, find it hard to hide the compact it had on you. You're sure everyone in the room can hear how your heartbeats, can hear how it wants to get out of your constructing chest. Your wide blown pupils gaze roams everywhere and stops at the tray in your hands.

Yeah, right.

You start to speak. “I was just—”

But before you can finish with whatever you come up with, her eyes land on his still-bleeding hand that's making a mess on the once polished clean floors.

“Why haven’t you cleaned that up yet, Jungkook-ah?” she scolds, sighing. “You’re going to get an infection.”

Jungkook exhales through his nose, and swips his tounge over his kiss bruised lips. “I was going to."

“I’ll help him, mom. Why don't you take this?” you blurt out, too quick, too loud.

Your mother-in-law’s eyes flicker to you. Something unreadable passes through them.

Then, after a long beat, she nods, smiling. “Youre a sweetheart, Y/N. I'll take this.”

She steps forward, plucks the tray from your hands, and turns toward the dining room without another word.

The moment the door clicks shut behind her, the weight of everything crashes into you.

Your pulse was still erratic, your lips tingling from his kiss, your hands shaking as you turned to him.

You whirled on Jungkook, eyes blazing at his audacity.

"What were you thinking?"

You wanted to kill him.

Your fingers curl into a fist before you can stop them, and you swat his chest, your palm colliding against solid muscle.

He catches your wrist before you can pull away.

And before you could yank off, he pressed a kiss to your knuckles. Your breath stutters.

His eyes flicker down to meet yours, dark and knowing. His expression pleased. Deliciously so. Almost resembling the look that crossed over his face after he had made you come on his mouth for the second time, saying something along the lines of how he could stay buried—

Oh, shit. Uh, scratch that.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” you heave out.

His lips quirk. “Likewise.”

You inhale sharply, snatching your hand from his grip, grabbing his unsullied wrist instead.

“Shut up and come here.” you mutter, tugging him toward the hall.

Jungkook lets you drag him to the bathroom, silent, unresisting. He thinks if it's you he has to follow, he will, even to the ends of the world. Wherever you want.

For now it's the bathroom that was silent, except for the soft drip of the faucet and the sound of your own heartbeat thrumming in your ears. The space was impossibly small with him in it, the air thick with something that hadn’t dissipated even after your mother-in-law had nearly caught you both in the kitchen.

And the moment the door closes behind you.

You realize two things.

One: His hand is still shaking, still bleeding, still a mess of raw skin and recklessness.

And two: You really don’t trust yourself to be alone with him.

Yet you always found yourself in closed rooms. Closed bathrooms, for this instant. Only places you can afford being this close.

You turned the tap, watching as the water rushed down, steam curling into the air. Jungkook stood behind you, leaning against the sink, his injured hand still cradled in his other. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing strong forearms, tendons shifting beneath inked skin as he flexed his fingers experimentally.

The sight shouldn’t make your stomach twist the way it did.

“You’re a idiot." you muttered again, reaching for the first aid kit tucked behind the mirror cabinet.

Jungkook hummed, the sound deep, amused. "So, I've been told."

You turned, finally looking at him, and immediately regretted it. Because he was watching you. Again. Not passively, not carelessly—but like he was memorizing something, like he was still thinking about the way you had whispered I don’t against his lips only minutes ago.

Your throat tightened. You gestured toward the sink. “Hand. Under the water.”

He didn’t move.

Instead, his head tilted slightly, a slow smirk ghosting at the edges of his lips. “That an order, angel?”

You exhaled sharply, grabbing his wrist before he could make another smart remark, forcing his injured hand under the warm stream. He hissed at the contact, fingers twitching, but otherwise didn’t complain. Blood swirled in the sink, a diluted pink that spiraled down the drain.

You repeated, biting the inside of your cheek. “What were you even thinking?”

Jungkook’s voice was ceaseless, unfaltering. “That I wanted you alone.”

Your hands stilled, fingertips just barely brushing against his palm. His words lingered between you, weaving into the steam, settling into your bones.

Slowly, carefully, you lifted his hand out of the water, watching as droplets slid down his fingers, over the sharp lines of his knuckles. The cuts were shallow but jagged, the skin angry and raw, small flecks of glass still embedded in his palm.

Your chest ached.

You reached for a towel and dabbed carefully around the wounds.

This was ridiculous. He was ridiculous. But he was also In pain and a part of you has never liked him In pain. It reminded you of nights where he'd think too much about where he actually belonged. Something very candid. Something very raw. Something a child shouldn’t have to think. You had known how to bandage scraped knees and scuffed elbows. Knew nothing about those nights.

You refocused on his hand, plucking a pair of tweezers from the kit and leaning in, carefully pulling out the slivers of glass still buried in his skin. Your breath brushed against his wrist, your fingers gentle, your focus unwavering. Jungkook didn’t move, didn’t even flinch.

But he watched.

Watched the way your brows furrowed, the way your lips pressed together in quiet concentration, the way your hands trembled just slightly when his thumb twitched against your palm.

He inhaled deeply. "You're good at this. You always have been."

You ignored him, reaching for the antiseptic. “This is going to sting.”

Jungkook smirked. “You sure you don’t want it to?”

You pressed the gauze down harder than necessary.

Jungkook inhaled sharply, his good hand gripping the edge of the counter. “You're enjoying this, aren't you?”

“A little,” you admitted, pressing again just to make a point.

His laughter was quiet, but it was real.

You forced yourself to focus, wrapping a clean bandage over his palm, fingers tracing lightly over his knuckles as you secured it in place. His skin was warm beneath yours, solid, alive. You wondered if he could feel the way your pulse was hammering.

You sucked in a breath, finally, finally releasing him, stepping back like distance could fix what had already unraveled.

"This is reckless." You spoke, not knowing yourself if you meant his hand or him following you to the kitchen. "We need to stop doing this." You finished and looked up to gauge his reaction to your words, only to find that he was already staring.

Too close. Too secure. Too much.

You weren’t sure what you were excepting. Hurt? Regret? Guilt?

Definitely not the recap of what happened in the kitchen. Definitely not his good hand lifting. Again.

It’s imperceptibly, resolute. His fingertips brush your hip first, featherlight, a touch so barely-there that you almost convince yourself you imagined it.

Almost.

Until he grips.

Until he tugs.

And suddenly, you're slamming right against his unmalleable frame,

Your eyes fly up, locking onto his.

Jungkook’s gaze is unreadable, filled with something that makes your stomach clench. His hands plant themselves firmly on either side of you, caging you in.

“You tell me to stop,” he said quietly, “and I will.”

Your fingers tighten around his forearm.

You should.

But you don’t.

Because he shifted, tilting his head slightly, the smallest movement—one that said he’d do it again.

Kiss you.

Undo you.

His gaze flickers down, lingering on your parted lips. "Yet all you do is look at me like you want me to fuck you on this damn counter. And Jesus, angel, if it doesn't make me rock hard."

The crude words leave him like there’s no consequence to him. To you they rise goosebumps all over your body. For a moment, you try to convince yourself that it's a warning sitting heavy on your skin.

It shimmers through your mind, something about distance, about lines, about how you’ve already crossed too many. You could still say it.

You could still put an end to this before it tattered beyond repair.

But then Jungkook’s grip on your waist tightened, and suddenly, the ground wasn’t beneath you anymore.

Your breath caught as he lifted you. Effortlessly, hands firm, unwavering. The air shifted around you, heat rolling off him in waves, and before you could catch your breath, the cool press of marble kissed the backs of your thighs.

You swallowed hard, fingers instinctively curling into the fabric of his shirt. He settled between your parted legs, the warmth of his body bleeding into yours.

Your pulse thrummed, a frantic, uneven rhythm against your ribs.

"That," you breathed, trying to sound firm, trying to anchor yourself in reason, "sounds like a bad idea."

Jungkook exhaled through his nose, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. "It does."

And then he kissed you again.

It wasn’t fair, the way he kissed.

Like he knew exactly how to disentangle you.

Like he knew that every time his mouth met yours, resistance becomes a footnote.

His tounge moved with yours, fingers traced the edge of your knee, palms gliding up the sensitive skin of your thigh before finding its mark at your hip with a confidence that says its his anyways. A soft ache that doesn’t seem to matter anymore. He doesn’t move closer. He doesn’t have to.

The space between you is already non existence.

But his hands need to be closer. Preferably, inside so one of his hands slides higher, disappearing beneath the hem of your dress. Unhurried, exploring, teasing.

Your thighs tensed against his hips, heat coiling in your stomach, something familiar and overwhelming pressing at the edges of your ribs. His bandaged hand then found the small of your back, fingers splaying against your spine as if mapping you, tugging you still until you could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest against yours and the outline of his bulge against your thigh.

Your fingers curled into his shoulders, anchoring yourself, gripping onto something solid as his touch grew more confident, more certain when he found the wet spot forming on the lacy white material—so thin, so damn easy to tear—and something primal glinted in his gaze.

His lips dragged along the planes of your chin, the corner of your mouth, before he exhaled against your skin, voice hushed, but steady. "Still want me to stop?"

His answer was you pressing into his hands instead of pulling away, your breath catching when his fingers brushed higher, thumb pressed bolder and stroking slow patterns against your clothed fold, dragging his knuckles along the delicate fabric.

Your head tilted back slightly, your breath uneven, and Jungkook watched you—watched the way your lashes fluttered, the way your fingers dug into his biceps, the way your body responded to him, even without words.

He knew.

And he liked it.

His lips found your throat, his voice low, rough. "You should." A kiss, slow and deep. "You really should." Another, this one firmer, teeth grazing over your pulse.

A shiver rolled down your spine and desperation rolled on.

"Don't stop. Want your fingers." His cock twitched in his pants and he bit harder onto your neck. He thinks he's again gonna make a wreckage in his pants at the realization of you trembling for him.

"Good girl, angel. Already so wet for me." he breathed, and eased down your soaked panties from your thighs. His eyes glinting again when the thin white late is revealed to him. And god, when it slipped down, revealing glistening skin beneath, he exhaled something broken. "Fuck—have you been waiting for this? Is that what it is?" He wantons and bunches the fabric in his hand to tuck it in his pocket. You flush at the implications, at what he just did, at what he might do.

"Have you?" You dodge the question and he grunts, parting your folds with his thumb and forefinger.

"You have no fucking idea." His forehead pressed to yours, jaw clenched. "The idea of having you like this again consumed me. You consume me."

A soft whimper slipped from your throat, and he grunted again at the sound, his fingers pressing more firmly now, tracing, exploring, teasing you apart. "Did that charming mouth used to get you a lot of girls out there?" The question sounds like a taunt but tastes like lemon on your tounge. You don’t know why you ask it—why you let the thought slip past your lips when you could have buried it like all the others. Maybe now, with his hands on you, with the past and present colliding so violently in the space between breaths, the thought worms its way in.

If he had kissed someone the way he kissed you. If his hands had crammed the shape of someone else’s body. If, somewhere across an ocean, he had found something that didn’t taste like longing.

His fingers stilled. A sharp breath. A pause thick enough to drown in.

Then—he laughed. A low, disbelieving sound that sent a shiver curling up your spine. Not amused. Not really. More incredulous than anything, roughened at the edges with something else.

His bandaged hand tightened around your thigh, dragging you closer. "You think I’ve wasted this mouth on anyone else?"

His voice was low, velvet-soft but weighted, pressing into your skin like the heat of an open flame. Your stomach clenched.

"I don’t know." You swallowed, pulse fluttering against your throat. "I never heard anything, but—"

"But what?" His thumb dragged along your folds. “You think I’d let someone else have what’s yours? Thought I’d put my hands on someone else and think of anything but you?" The pads dig into your skin, his grip an demand for honesty because this is all he plans to give you now. The honesty that every time he tried to want something else, it was your voice in his head. Your name on his tongue.

Your lashes fluttered, the words sinks into your bones, pools at the base of your core. It terrifies you how much you like the way it sounds coming from his mouth—low aching, like it had been a curse, like you had ruined him without ever meaning to— how much you like the way him stressing every word with press of his fingers.

“I want things with you,” he said, the words dragging out of him like they’d been kept in a vault. “Not just this. Not just your body—though fuck, I’ll worship it until I’m in the ground.”

His hand stilled again, the stillness worse than movement, because now he was looking at you. Really looking. Voice softer now. Like he was afraid to let it live in the air.

"I want it all." He whispered. "I want every morning with your hair on my pillow. Every night with your hands on me." Your mouth parted, but no sound came out—just breath, shallow and stunned.

His fingers moved again, slow and reverent, his touch suddenly less about taking and more about giving. "Your clothes in my closest." Showing.

Promising.

Your head fell back against the mirror, your breath coming in sharp, uneven pants, every flick of his wrist sending another spark of pleasure shooting through your limbs.

"Jungkook," you gasped, barely able to form his name.

"Your name on every piece of paper that has mine." he kept going, his voice low, yet the way two of his digits slipped inside, slow, stretching, filling, setting a rhythm that had your thighs trembling wasn't exactly something you could keep quiet for. "Your moans in my ear that I'm gonna keep just for myself."

Your cunt clenched around him and head dropped to his shoulder in an attempt to muffle the sound. "Mhm. Fuck." Your body arched into him, chasing the fire that threatened to consume you whole. His pace quickened, his touch growing rougher, more desperate, as if he needed this just as badly as you did, as if he needed to become a devotee of the way you fell apart in his hands.

"Say it." He curled them just right, making a consistent squelching sound that bounced off the walls. "Tell me you want it. Tell me you want me." His mouth was scornful when it spoke but affectionate when it peppered kisses on the crown of your head.

"You know I do." Your voice was wrecked, barely more than a whisper against his skin, hips stuttering beneath his touch.

"Not enough." He growled, voice thinned by impediment, fingers curling again, slow and deep and your grip on him was the only thing keeping you from floating away.

"I—Jungkook—I" You broke off, a cry catching in your throat as he pressed and flicked. A merciless rhythm of knowing.

"Come on. Be my good fucking angel." He murmured against your hair, fingers pushing in and out of your slick hole with practiced ease, working you open, watching every shift of your body, every tiny gasp and shudder.

"I feel it," you breathed. "God, I feel it—I want you."

He too could feel how you seized against his fingers, how your breath started to come in short pants. "More." He husked. "I want you to lose it for me," his voice took a pleading note, his head dunking down, lips finding the curve of your jaw, his teeth scraping lightly before soothing the bite with his tongue. "Fall apart. Come on my fingers knowing what I want with you. Knowing you're it. Let go, baby."

And then he found that spot—the one that drove knuckles deep into your quivering cunt, curling and flicking, shattering you, the one that had your eyes rolling back, your breath catching in a sharp, broken cry as teeth dug unconsciously into his shoulders, hips shifting, chasing his touch, needing more and he felt the urgent need to bury his cock into you the next second.

“Right there, fuck—Jungkook,” you whimpered, eyes fluttering shut, lashes damp.

“Don’t stop. I’m—god, I’m gonna cum. So close. So fucking close.” Eyes stayed fixed on your face like it was a masterpiece made for him alone. The heat of your slick coated his fingers, the way your body clenched down around him driving a ragged curse from his throat.

Your orgasm hit with brutal force, crashing into you like a wave breaking at high tide, leaving you boneless, trembling, and Jungkook caught you, his arm wrapping securely around your waist, his lips pressing into the side of your neck, as if searing the moment into your skin.

As if he had no intention of letting you go. As if he never had.

"Beautiful girl." He mummered. "So fucking perfect when you come for me." He praised and pulled his two digits drenched with your essence out of your pulsating pussy to slide them into his mouth. Eyes closing when the taste of you settled on his tounge, reacquainting himself what has been taken hold of every inch of his mind. The appreciative hum that starts to leave his mouth gets lodged in somewhere in the middle when he feels your thighs wrapping around him, your front pressing against his cock that throbbed with the need to be lamented inside your salivating warmth.

He cursed under his breath, his control fraying at the edges. "Needy little thing." he growled, half in awe, half in torment. "Still aching for me?"

You blinked at him, all wide-eyed innocence, but your hips shifted again, grinding up into him in a way that had his jaw clenching, his breath turning ragged.

“I can feel how hard you are,” you whispered, voice barely there. “What if I want more?”

"Fuck," he gritted out, "I need to be inside you." He needs and his hands gripped your thighs, clutching you closer with the intention to rub against your bare, soused pussy. You felt the heat of him, the weight of the orgasm he had wrung from you with nothing but his fingers, the sheer presence of him pressing against you, and your pulse fluttered, a mix of nerves and overwhelming want.

His hand that you mended, hooks up your chin. You barely registered his words at first, too dazed, too lost in the lingering ache of pleasure still pulsing deep within you. But then—his voice, low and thick with something rekt, something wanting.

"Think we've got enough time?" He asks, shrugging a glance at his rolex. His hands traced over your thighs, palms spreading against flushed skin to bunch up the silk material of your blood stained church dress, the delectable longness of his erection pressing against you. And though it was phrased like a question, it sounded rather possessive and certain, as if the answer had already been decided.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, torn between reason and the undeniable heat pooling low in your stomach. "We'll have to find out." You whispered, teeth biting onto your lip as you grinded in response, letting you feel him—hard and urgent, straining against the fabric that abstracted you—until it didn’t.

Your fingers moved without permission, trailing down his stomach, feeling the taut muscle beneath the crisp fabric of his shirt. Lower still, to the belt that had been teasing you with its presence, the polished metal of the buckle cool beneath your fingertips.

Jungkook inhaled sharply when you undid it, the sound rough. His hands around you clenched, but he didn’t stop you. Didn’t pull away.

Didn’t want to.

You took your time, savoring the way his breath hitched as you worked open the button, the zipper, how his body tensed beneath your touch. And then—when you pressed your palm against him, feeling the full length of his need—his head fell back, his throat bared in a perfect, aching display.

God.

Your breath stilled in your chest.

He was beautiful like this.

Not just in the obvious way—not in the way the world saw him, sharp-suited and composed, the perfect image of a man in control. No, this was something else entirely.

You traced your gaze over him, over the column of his throat, over the way the muscles in his jaw tightened as he swallowed. Over the way he looked like he was waging a war against himself.

“Y/N,” he gritted out, his voice tight, strained, as if he were warning you.

Or begging.

But you only pressed a little firmer, fingers teasing, tracing, thumb swiping over his swollen tip that leaked with pre cum.

With a growl, his hand wrapped around your wrist, halting your movements, dark eyes snapping open to meet yours. "Fuck, baby. I'm not patient enough for this."

And then he was lifting your hips, guiding you against him, his tip poking at your entrance, making you let out a shuddering breath. He leaned in, his lips brushing over your cheek, feather-light, a stark contrast to the way his hands gripped your thighs.

"Let me feel you," he hiss, more plea than demand, his voice thick with restraint. "Let me have you all of you, angel."

And when you nodded—when you let him pull you to the very edge, let him replace his fingers with something hotter, heavier—your hands fisted in his shirt, nails biting into his shoulders as your breath hitched.

Jungkook groaned against your ear as he pushed himself all the way to the hilt, sworeing how he would never get enough of you, his fingers flexing at your waist as he stilled, letting you adjust to the sudden intrusion of his massive length, letting himself revel in the feeling of you wrapped around him like you always would in the sweetest of his dreams, like you did a certain night away. And from that moment he had wondered how had he ever functioned without this? How will he ever function without you if you keep yourself away from him?

Your hands slipped up, cupping his face, tilting him toward you until your lips brushed. “Move,” you whispered, voice barely there.

Slow at first, rolling his hips into yours, his mouth catching every broken sound that left you, his hands never stopping their worship of your body.

And when he felt his willpower leave him, when slow became desperate, when his name spilled from your lips like a prayer—he answered.

He met you in every way you needed.

It was urgent—messy and desperate and filled with everything neither of you could say out loud. Could only afford in hushed whispers and lips tracing sin on skin. Something he'd taken pain from you if it meant he'd get to kept this. Because it was better than nothing, better than those years when he wanted you with a desperation that should’ve dulled with time, with grief, with regret.

But it hadn’t.

It had only grown sharper.

It was too much. It was not enough.

The way he gasped softly as he pushed himself inside you—inch by inch, stretching you around him, your hands fisting his shirt like you couldn’t decide whether to pull him closer or push him away.

He pressed you further onto the counter, knocking over something ceramic that shattered on the tile, neither of you caring. The pace of his cock driving inside you turned desperate, driven by something raw, something that tasted too much like loss but felt too much like home.

Your fingers found his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan against your lips, his hands sliding up your back, pulling you closer, closer, closer. "Oh yeah! Fuck, just there!" You panted, hips snapping against his, encouraging him further as he outright pounded into you.

"You’re—fuck—so tight,” he rasped. “So warm. I knew it. You were made for me.” He highlighted with a squeeze to your boob, rolling your pebbled nipple between his digits. Your walls fluttered around him, still so tight, still taking all of him like you had been made to, eyes fluttering close when he gave it a pinch.

And fuck—he wanted to see that again.

“Eyes, Y/N.” he murmured, his voice rough, strained.

Your lashes lifted, glassy and unfocused, your lips parting around a soft gasp as he rolled his hips again, hitting deeper this time.

He smiled, dipping his head, lips brushing over your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. “That’s it, baby. Let me see you.”

You swallowed hard, fingers pulling into his hair. “Jungkook I can't—Too much!”

His grip on your waist tightened, his pace faltering slightly. “Shhh. I've got you,” he whispered, voice shaking. “You don’t have to do anything. Just take me.” He cooed, his head falling to the crook of your neck. His teeth grazed over your pulse, tongue following, lips dragging along heated skin.

The sensation sent a shiver rolling down your spine, sharp and electric.

Your back arched, pressing further into him, your thighs tightening around his waist. You could feel yourself spiraling, the coil in your stomach winding tighter and tighter with every roll of his hips, every deep, mind blowing thrust.

You felt full.

Overwhelmed.

Like you were going to break apart any moment.

Jungkook must have felt it—the way your nails dug into his skin, the way your breath stuttered against his ear—because his grip shifted, one hand slipping between you, fingers pressing against your most sensitive spot, rubbing slow, lazy circles.

Your body jolted at the added sensation, a sharp cry tumbling from your lips that he caught in his own.

And he smirked.

“My angel's so close, hmm?" he murmured against your mouth.

Your breath hitched, a whimper escaping before you could stop it. "Yeah—shit—yeah. Wanna come again. Want come so bad, Jungkook."

Jungkook groaned, his cheeks hollowing, brows furrowing like he was barely holding himself together. “Fuck, you sound so pretty when you do that.”

You were right there.

Jungkook felt it.

And he wasn’t about to let you go without making you fall apart for him.

His thumb rubbed faster, tighter circles, his thrusts rougher, deeper, his lips brushing over your ear, his voice low, wicked.

“You’re gonna come for me again,” he promised, panting. “Right here. Around me. Look at me when you do.”

The coil snapped, pleasure crashing over you like a tidal wave, your body tightening, then releasing all at once. Your vision blurred, your entire body trembling, your nails raking over Jungkook’s back as you moaned his name, breathless and undone. "Shit, that's right." He heaved.

His thrusts started to get sloppier, trying to constraint the sound of his hips slapping against yours in the tiled bathroom only while he pursued his own release. More urgent—less about control and more about instinct. He could only last so long with your pussy milking him for all he's worth.

"Fuck—baby," he rasped, voice wrecked, forehead pressed hard against yours, sweat-slicked and trembling. "I’m close… fuck, I’m gonna come. Gonna fill you up."

You found yourself nodding mindlessly, relating with the wretched appetite in his voice to be warmed up to within.

“Such a needy girl,” he murmured, voice rough as gravel. “So desperate to be filled, huh? You want all of it, angel?” His hand moved from your waist to your jaw, thumb swiping your lip like he was trying to soothe something uncontainable.

Jungkook's thrusts slowed into something deeper, deliberate, chasing every inch of you as he buried himself to the hilt and groaned, full-bodied and guttural, like it had been torn straight from his chest. His release hit him hard, cock twitching deep inside you, thick warmth spilling in hot waves as his fingers dug into your hips hard enough to bruise like he was trying to memorize you, like he hadn’t spent the better part of his life trying to memorize you in ways he had never deserved.

He didn’t stop—just kept grinding into you, riding it out, chasing the feeling of being so deep inside you that the world didn’t matter. His jaw clenched, eyes squeezing shut as he emptied every last drop, as if he could carve his name into you from the inside.

Like the years had never carved a distance between you, like nothing—no one—had ever come between this pull, this thing that always seemed to exist between you and him.

And yet, reality was creeping back in.

You could hear it—the soft murmur of voices beyond the door, the distant clatter of dishes, the low hum of conversation that you were supposed to be a part of.

The world you were supposed to return to.

You exhaled shakily, body still trembling in the aftermath, shifting against the counter, trying to gather yourself, trying to think. Your fingers curled weakly into his shoulder, and you felt it—his chest rising and falling against you, his breath warm against your temple, the quiet steadiness of him as he held you there, as if neither of you were quite ready to move just yet.The sweat cooling on his skin glistened where the low light caught it, and his nose nudged softly into your hairline, inhaling you like he wasn’t ready to let go yet.

"Still with me, angel?"

You hummed a airy "barely" and he kissed one, featherlight and sweet, dragging his mouth lazily toward your jaw. He was taking his time. He didn’t seem to care that your clothes were halfway off or that you were still tangled around him.

You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that, wrapped up in the quiet. You sighed, resting your head back on his shoulder, content and warm and glowing all over. The mirror behind you was fogged with breath, the air still thick with the scent of heat and sweat and him.

“We should go back now," you whispered and when you moved to slip away, his hands curled against your thighs, halting you in place. Not tight, not forceful—just there, just asking.

He shook his head, exhaling through his nose, his thumb brushing absentmindedly over your skin where he adjusted the hem of your dress after wiping the remnants of him with a tissue, doe eyes giving away the look a kicked puppy would have. “Not yet. Give me a minute."

Not yet.

Not don’t go. Not stay.

Just not yet.

And maybe that was why you didn’t move.

Maybe that was why you let yourself linger for just a second longer, your fingers smoothing over the collar of his shirt, tracing a wrinkle that your own grip had left behind. A pointless action, an excuse to touch, to feel the warmth of him for just another moment before you had to pretend like none of this happened. "Fine. I mean I wouldn't want to walk back smelling like sex and you."

Jungkook’s gaze darkened. His hands slid up, brushing over the curve of your cheekbone, his touch slow and sharp like satisfaction curling under his tongue.

“That right?” he murmured. “You smell like me?”

The question caught you off guard.

Too late. He was already drunk on it. He ducked down, nosing along your throat, breathing in deep with a groan like the idea physically did something to him. “Fuck. You do. You smell like me, angel."

You blinked, your fingers stilling against his shirt, your breath hitching in your throat.

Something darker lit his eyes—satisfaction painted in shadow. “Good.”

Your breath caught. “It’s good that I reek of you?” And definitely not the hottest scandal the neighborhood will get their hands on. Right.

He dipped his head, nose brushing your neck, lips skimming your pulse. “You should smell like me,” he whispered. “You should walk out there with your thighs dripping and my scent all over you. Glowing because you took every inch of me." he murmured, voice low and reverent. "Let them wonder."

You whimpered, helpless under the press of his mouth, the press of his words.

“I—” you started, but your thoughts tangled as he sucked gently at your neck, just above where your collar would hide it.

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze again, a smirk tugging at his mouth.

“Still want to go back?”

"Yes."

Jungkook studied you for a second longer, his eyes searching, tracing every inch of your expression, as if he was looking for something, as if he was still waiting for you to change your mind.

But you didn’t.

So he only exhaled, pressing his lips to your head. And then, finally, finally, he let you go.

You breathed out, fingers curling at the edge of the counter before you shifted again, moving to slide down—to plant your feet back on the ground, to leave but not before letting yours eyes drift to him for a second where he tucks himself in his slacks.

“Y/N.”

His voice was softer this time, but it stopped you all the same.

You barely had time to react before his fingers found your jaw, tilting your chin up, forcing you to look at him.

Your breath stilled.

Jungkook’s thumb brushed against your bottom lip, slow, lingering. And then, so softly, so quietly he asked—“when you walk out from here will you start avoiding me to the next Sunday again?"

Your brows scrunched up and you attempted to look away.

"Please don't, angel." He pressed his lips to where the crease formed for a brief moment.

And god help you, you wanted to listen.

The evening (6:25, you noted from your wrist watch) was quiet, the sky yawning open into a stretch of velvet dark, the stars distant pinpricks of light like secrets kept at a distance. You had always known the halls of the university to be full—full of voices, of conversations that layered over each other, of common stories and repeated gestures. Even today, it had been the same.

The evening air carried the last remnants of warmth, a hesitant shift between winter and spring that clung to the pavement, to the air, to you, you could feel reprieve take hold instead of a sort of suffocation.

You pulled your coat tighter around yourself, your breath curling in the cool air. The once-busy campus had emptied out, leaving only a handful of cars scattered beneath the flickering glow of overhead lights.Your heels clicked against the pavement, hurried, purposeful, as you wove between the cars, searching.

Hoseok was ahead, his figure easy to spot—relaxed posture, a casual sway in his step, his tan coat catching the dim light. It wasn’t hard to catch up with him. He moved like someone who never rushed, even when he should. But you still called his name, breathless from the rush.

“Professor Jung—Hoseok, wait up.”

His tailored blazer was unbuttoned, sleeves pushed up to reveal lean forearms, his usual crisp attire softened by the slight ruffle of his hair, undoubtedly from running a frustrated hand through it after a long day. His dark eyes lifted at the sound of your approaching footsteps, and when recognition flickered across his face, his lips curled into an smile.

"Ah," he mused, had just reached his car, one hand already on the door handle when he turned at the sound of your voice. His lips curved into an easy smile as he leaned against the frame. "To what do I owe the honor of you sprinting across the lot?"

You huffed, coming to a stop beside him, shifting the strap of your bag on your shoulder. “I think some of my test papers got mixed up with yours. I noticed a few of my poetry essays were missing, and I have a hunch they ended up with your psychology midterms.”

Hoseok made a thoughtful noise, rubbing his chin. “That… would explain why I was grading a sonnet on existential dread instead of cognitive behavioral theories.”

You sighed. “I knew it. I must have switched the stacks when I was in a rush earlier, I'm sorry."

“Don’t worry about it," he assured you, resuming unlocking his car. "I’ll check when I get home. Worst case, I’ll bring them to you tomorrow.”

You nodded, relief sagging through your shoulders. "Thanks, Professor Jung. You're a life saver. I planned to finish grading them tomorrow."

Hoseok made a mock grimace. “You work too hard.”

You smiled, shaking your head. “Says the guy who spent last night preparing an extra credit seminar.”

“That was different. That was for the kids who actually care about my class,” he countered, before nodding toward the nearly empty lot. “You’re headed home? Want a ride?”

It was harmless. A casual offer from a friend, from someone who had sat across from you in faculty meetings, who had lent you his pen more times than you could count, who had laughed with you over shared frustrations about students turning in assignments late. There was no reason to hesitate.

It had been a long day, longer than you realized. You would actually prefer it rather than waiting for the bus that always seems to be running late by minutes.

Yet the answer that came was.

"She's already got a ride." The voice wasn't yours. It had been the one you had come to realize that avoiding was futile, that whatever admissions it breathed into your ear ran deeper that you would have assumed, affected you more than you'd liked and you have started to come terms with it. The words weren’t sharp either, weren’t cruel, but they cut through the quiet with the ease of something unquestionable.

Hoseok’s brows lifted slightly as both of you turned toward the voice, towards the faint crunch of footsteps against pavement.

The raven haired man who had once been standing a few feets away, watching, was now stepping forward, minimizing the distance until he was right beside you, hands tucked into the pocket of his coat that was as dark as the night, the sharp cut of his jaw illuminated by the glow of the streetlights. His eyes didn't lock with yours as they usually would, instead they zeroed In on the psychology professor who was unaware of the sudden tension buzzing through the air.

What the hell?

“Oh, I didn’t realize you had someone waiting.”

You swallowed, grounding yourself. “Uh—yeah.” You cleared your throat. “Hoseok, this is Jungkook. My—" You cringed at how visibly you struggle to come up with words when the ardour of the man beside you pressed into your side. God, he was always so warm.

When Hoseok, ever perceptive, raised an eyebrow you snapped out of it and continued. "Minho's brother."

Hoseok glanced between the two of you, and his mouths part in understanding. Dots connect. His eyes glance at you with a look that says 'That Jungkook?' And you blink, 'That Jungkook.' All that you've ever told him about Jungkook making it clearer.

"Ohhh." He grins and extends a hand without hesitation, always one for politeness. “Well, nice to finally meet you, Jungkook. I'm Jung Hoseok. I first met Y/N at a masters program. Been friends since then."

Jungkook’s gaze flickered to the offered hand before he shook it, firm and brief. Just a little tighter than necessary, enough to make Hoseok chuckle under his breath.

“Oof. Strong hands,” he said, raising an eyebrow but otherwise unfazed.

"Nice to meet you." There was nothing outright hostile in Jungkook’s voice. Nothing overly tense but you still felt like you were caught between two frequencies—one warm and familiar, the other crackling with something dangerously unspoken.

Hoseok seemed to pick up on it. He glanced between the two of you again, the corners of his mouth tilting into something unreadable before he shifted his weight.

“Well, I won’t keep you if you're settled then,” he said easily, flashing you a small smile. “See you Tomorrow?”

You nodded, grateful for the out. “Yeah,

see you.”

Hoseok gave Jungkook a small nod before slipping into his car, headlights flashing on as he pulled out of the lot.

You exhaled slowly, shifting on your feet, resisting the urge to lean into him. No, you were supposed to question him first.“What was that? And what are you doing here?”

“What was what?” He hummed, his mouth no longer set in that stern shape, his hand slipping from his coat pocket to brush a stray strand of your braid that barely seemed to hold its own away.

You narrowed your eyes, looking around instinctively before back at him. “You know what.”

Jungkook took a slow step forward, not even bothering that you were out in public, the space between you shrinking, charged. His head tilted slightly, voice deceptively light, tounge pushing against his cheek; That little tell of his, a habit you learned and found more attractive that it should have been, a habit he did when he was displeased with something. Maybe even pissed. Or both. "Didn’t know you were that close with Hozook, angel."

You blinked, thrown by the sudden turn in conversation. “It’s Hoseok.” You scoffed. “We work together, Jungkook. I’ve known him for years."

His lips pressed together, as if that information did absolutely nothing to quell whatever had flickered across his face moments ago.

Then—he opened his mouth, about to say something else, when you cut in, tone flat, unamused, every word sharpened.

“You’d know that if you hadn’t ghosted me for years.”

Whatever he was about to say dissolved right there on his tongue. His jaw twitched once. His brows dipped slightly, something unreadable passing through his gaze—but he said nothing. Good.

After a beat, he exhaled, shaking his head before motioning toward his car when he noticed the thin layers of your clothing, a dress shirt paired with a half sleeved sweater. “Come on.”

You frowned, your feet hesitating. You should be walking the other way. Should be dealing with public transport, going through the motions of an evening that should have belonged to you alone. He wasn’t obliged to be a part of this. “You didn’t have to come pick me up.” you say, smoothing down the strap of your bag.

He shrugs and his hand reaches you, or most specifically your bag, fingers curling around the strap and taking in his fist. “I was in the area.”

You snort, unimpressed. “Right.”

Still, you don't protest when he opens the door for you for reasons you don't want to analyze. And when you slide into the passenger seat, you don't mind how natural it's starting to feel.

He drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting against his thigh. The city hums past you in streaks of gold and red, the kind of light that makes you feel like you’re inside a dream you once had and forgot the ending to. The faint murmur of the radio filling the space between you.

You’re both quiet for a while.

Then—“How was work?” he asks, without looking. His tone is mild, almost too careful, as if the question isn’t just about your day but about the right to ask.

It’s a simple question, casual, but the way he says it slows your thoughts. Like he’s trying, like he wants to know you again.

You shrug, shifting in your seat. “Fine. Uneventful. Spent half the day grading, the other half convincing students that deadlines actually mean something.”

He hums in amusement. “They don’t.”

You glare at him. “They do when I say they do.”

“Terrifying,” he muses, the corner of his mouth twitching.

You roll your eyes but it does little to conceal your own smile. “What about you?” It feels like you owe him the same curiosity.

Jungkook exhales through his nose, a slow, measured thing. “Had a meeting. Went as expected. Some numbers that needed fixing. Boring stuff.” You had always understood your husband's disdain for a life that was a repeat of listening to some guy talk too much, lose his temper when his ego would be on the line. But you had never known why Jungkook would prefer this or even why he wouldn't.

You look at him then, the sharp cut of his jaw, the way the city lights flicker across his skin in intervals—light, dark, light, dark—like the world couldn’t quite decide how to hold him. You weren’t sure you could either. Maybe you never asked enough questions, never studied every crease on his face liked you'd with minho and inspect it to hell.

“Sounds exhausting.”

“It is.” He steals a glance at you, quick, assessing. “Less exhausting now, though.”

But now that you do, now that you want to, you understand what he means.

It’s easy, this. Talking like this. Falling into a rhythm you hadn’t realized you still knew, one that had been untouched for years but still existed, waiting beneath the veneer. The intimacy of nothing in particular.

Jungkook has to force himself to focus on the road, fingers flexing again as he shifts gears.

If you scrutinize deeper, you'd also find that this—this slow glide through streets neither of you had named, the soft murmur of the radio, your shoulder nearly brushing his in the dark. This is what he’s always wanted. Not the secrecy. Not the stolen minutes behind doors that you had to double check if they are locked.

But this.

A ride home after a long day. A quiet conversation. The sound of your addictingly sweet voice in his car, in his space, in his life in a way that feels so woefully unpolished that it almost hurts.

“You’re not driving to my place.” Your voice pulls him back, your gaze sharp now, watching as the streets grow less familiar.

He doesn’t even pretend to be surprised at your realization.

“No.”

Your brow furrows. "Can you for once just drive me to my apartment without taking me to some place I don't want to go?"

"No."

That alone makes your fingers twitch where they rest in your lap.

You had spent so much time trying to untangle your own thoughts about him, about whatever this was turning into. Picking at it. Trying to name it. But Jungkook had been the picture of certainty. Unflinching. Unbothered. Like none of it had touched him the way it had touched you. Like he had already made peace with something you were still trying to name.Like he’d walked back into your life not to ask if he could stay—but to decide that he would.

Tonight, he seems different.

Its in the way his jaw tightens every time you shift in your seat, like he’s bracing himself. The way his tongue swipes over his bottom lip before he speaks, only to change his mind and stay silent. The way his gaze flickers toward you like he’s waiting for something.

You don’t know what to do with that.

Jungkook and hesitation have never belonged in the same sentence. At least, not since he came back.

You try again. “Where are we going, Jungkook?”

His mouth pressed into something unsure. Jungkook, unsure. It wasn’t something you were used to seeing now. It wasn’t something he looked when he pressed you against the kitchen counter, hadn’t sounded like this when he whispered his most cordial of dreams into the corner of your neck.

When he finally speaks, his voice is even, controlled. “Somewhere I want you to see.”

“That’s vague.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “It’s a surprise.”

Something about the way he says it makes your stomach pull tight.

Because you’ve seen Jungkook confident. You’ve seen him arrogant, smug, amused. You’ve seen him angry, cold, unreadable. But nervous? No. Not since he came back from a different life, not since he became the man that no longer fit into the spaces you had once saved for him.

And yet, right now, here he is. Inside, the space, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting against his thigh, fingers drumming idly like a song he hadn’t decided to play yet. It was a small thing, a habit from when he was younger—back when he used to tap against the wooden desks in class, always restless, always itching to move.

Some things hadn’t changed.

Some things had.

Your fingers curled against the fabric of your coat. “You’re being weird.”

"I’ve always been weird, angel."

"No you haven't." There's something defensive in the way you phrase these words. "Don't change the subject."

This time, he smiled—brief but real. It softened something in his face, something he so rarely let slip anymore.

“You’ll like it,” he murmured after a beat, voice softer now, like he was almost convincing himself of the same thing. “I think.”

Just turned down a street you didn’t recognize, the road quieter here, the buildings spaced apart, until he finally pulled up in front of a modest, modern structure with floor-to-ceiling windows and a single light illuminating the entrance.The kind of place you wouldn’t look at twice if you didn’t know what you were searching for.

You couldn't help but ask again. "Where are we? What is this?"

Jungkook cut the engine, but he didn’t move right away. His fingers tapped against the wheel once, twice, before he finally exhaled and turned to you.

"I bought this place," he said simply.

You blinked up at the building again. "What?"

His lips pressed together, eyes flickering away before he cleared his throat. "Just—come inside."

You followed him out, your steps slow as you took in the building, the way the large glass panes mirrored the stars. The sky leaned against the windows like it, too, wanted to press closer, to see inside. There was a sign by the entrance—simple, elegant script, almost shy in how little it asked to be noticed. You don’t recognize it, and that alone makes you reconsider.

Jungkook said nothing as he unlocked the door, the quiet snick of the key turning loud in the stillness. He held it open for you like always, but this time his eyes didn’t meet yours.

You stepped inside and the push of the door revealed —A gallery.

Not just any gallery.

Paintings. Everywhere.

Paintings stretched across every wall, soft pools of golden light falling over their frames. Each piece breathed color—bold, bruised, aching with emotion. Blue melted into umber, ochre kissed the edge of crimson. Every brushstroke pulled something raw from your chest.

You moved forward, like your body remembered the path before your mind could catch up. Your fingers hovered in the air, trembling as they traced the lines without touching them, as if the act of reaching alone might wear you.

All of it look like what had been painfully dear to you.

Your stomach twisted.

Because you knew this work.

You knew it. Not just the style, not just the way the colors lived together in layered silence—but the soul of it. The way it looked back at you. The way it knew you.

You knew the hand that had created it. Been the first and last one to hold them close to you.

You reached for the closest canvas, your vision blurring at the name signed at the corner.

Jeon Minho.

The name cleaved through you like a wave, cruel and kind in equal measure. Your heart twisted. Your fingers hovered over a piece, afraid to touch, afraid it might slip through your hands if you weren’t careful. It was his—all of it, the way he saw the world, the way he translated it onto canvas.

It was like standing inside his head again, like hearing him laugh through color, like stepping back into a time where his presence still existed beyond memory.

Your breath shook.

“This…” Your voice wavered. “This is his.”

He was watching you instead, hands in his pockets, shoulders tense like he was waiting for you to feel it before he explained it.

And you did.

God, you did.

In the farthest corner of the room.

Your feet carried you again, before your mind could catch up, before you could brace for the impact of what you were about to see.

The world blurred at the edges.

The painting was soft, muted in color, like it had been caught in the golden hour of a fading summer. Three figures sat at the edge of a dock, backs turned, feet dipping into a painted lake that rippled with every brushstroke.

Two boys who's curves of smiles you would know even from behind.

One girl who knew.

It was them.

It was you.

Your throat tightened painfully, a memory rising unbidden, curling at the edges of the canvas, spilling into the quiet of the gallery until it was no longer just a painting—It was then.

You were twelve the summer Minho decided that the best way to survive the heat was to sit at the edge of the lake until the sun stopped trying to kill him.

Jungkook had been the first to follow, feet kicking idly at the water, arms propped behind him as he leaned back, his oversized t-shirt damp from an earlier splash war that he had definitely lost.

You had been the last to sit down, cross-legged between them, tossing small pebbles into the lake just to watch the ripples expand.

It had been quiet, warm, easy. The afternoon smelled of earth and sun, of laughter spilling into the open air.

“Stay still, Minho!” you giggled, reaching over to press another blade of grass into his already messy hair.

“Why?” he huffed, cracking one eye open. “You’re ruining my masterpiece.”

“You’re ruining my masterpiece,” you shot back, grinning as you tucked another strand behind his ear. A few away, Jungkook sat cross-legged, watching the two of you with quiet fascination. He was younger then, still round-cheeked, his dark eyes wide and serious as he curled his fingers in the grass.

“Are you gonna put grass in my hair too?” he finally asked, tilting his head.

You paused, considering, then reached over and plucked a small daisy from the ground.

“Not grass,” you said, leaning closer. “But hold still.”

He did.

Even then, Jungkook had been good at that—at waiting, at being patient in a way that seemed too big for his age.

Carefully, you tucked the daisy behind his ear.

“There,” you murmured, sitting back.

Minho snorted, pushing himself up on his elbows. “Now he looks really ridiculous.”

But Jungkook only blinked, reaching up to touch the flower gently, like it was something delicate, something that had been given to him and him alone.

He didn’t take it out.

It stayed there like the three of you—trapped in summer light, forever twelve, forever laughing, forever somewhere time could not reach.

A quiet exhale broke the silence behind you. But the deep ache stayed spread through your chest, slow and unforgiving.

"He never showed me this," you murmured, voice barely above a whisper. "He painted it the year before he…" Jungkook hesitated, the words catching. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, his gaze tracing the familiar lines of Minho’s signature. "Before he passed."

Your chest constricted. The truth never stopped feeling like a knife.

From the first time since you stepped inside, you finally turned to Jungkook then, eyes searching, waiting for him to tell you why.

Why he had done this.

Why had he crushed that one devastating voice in your head that would make it's appearance timely—you are forgetting him. You are forgetting the exact way his laughter curled at the end. The domesticity of how his step fell beside yours. Those were slipping with every sunrise you surived without him. Dissolving like fog under the sun. You are forgetting your min min.

And one night, you'd wake up desperate, breathless, trying to recall the way he said your name but you wouldn't. And the guilt—God, the guilt—would sit on your chest.

Until now that Jungkook had gathered every fragment of Minho’s soul and brought it back to life. Not as a ghost. But as something immortal. As something known. Someone someone will always know. A hundred things rise to the surface. None of them make it past your lips.

Jungkook exhaled softly, running a hand through his hair before shoving it back into his coat pocket. His shoulders were drawn tight, but his voice was steady when he finally spoke. "I started looking for them a while ago. A month before I came back, maybe longer. They were scattered—some in old studios, some with collectors. A few were in storage, collecting dust. I tracked them down, bought back what I could."

He hesitated before continuing. "Hyung's anniversary is next month." The words felt heavy, like they were scraping raw against the throat of a boy who had never quite come to terms with losing the only man he's ever looked up to. "And I—" A pause, like he was choosing his next words carefully. "We—never really did anything, did we?"

You blinked hard, trying to push back the sting behind your eyes.

"No." Your voice was barely there.

A muscle in Jungkook’s jaw ticked. "I didn’t want this year to be like that. I wanted to do something. Do you like..this, angel? We could open this to the public too if you want. Show mom and dad."

Something rises within you, vast and unnameable—less a feeling, more a tide. It isn’t just the gallery. It isn’t just Minho.

It’s the echo of affinity stitched into every frame. The invisible thread that leads back to Jungkook.

It’s the fact that Jungkook did this. That he spent God knows how long making this happen, gathering Minho’s work, making sure his art wouldn’t just sit in forgotten portfolios, lost in the quiet corners of time.He unearthed what time tried to bury. Preserved what you feared was lost.

And the immensity of it—the quiet significance of what he’s saying, of what he’s not saying—hits you harder than you were prepared for.

The gallery holds its breath. Your pulse does not.

Slowly, carefully, you reach for his hand like you would in the dreamiest of dreams.

Jungkook stills.

His fingers are warm beneath yours, rough at the knuckles, tense. But he doesn’t pull away. Not from you. Never from you.

“Thank you,” you whisper. It doesn’t feel like enough, but it’s all you have. Like gratitude too big for language. Like grief softened into approbation. “This is—” Your throat closes, a breath hitching past your lips, eyes blinking away tears that had nothing to do with sorrow and everything to do with love."This is beautiful. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

Jungkook doesn’t speak, but something shifts in his face, something almost imperceptible. In a way that made him want to take this moment where you're looking at him like he had hung the stars back in the sky and bury it deep inside his ribs, somewhere no one could ever touch it.

And when he does speak, his hands intertwine with yours, eyes holding yours like gravity. "You're beautiful."

Your lips parted, caught off-guard.

A muscle of his cheek clenches. “I meant—your face is all red. It’s distracting.”

You smiled, watery and gentle, and he swore if he if he had even a silver of the talent his brother carried in the cradle of his hands, he would’ve painted you too.

With your face flushed from crying and the faint glimmer of laughter still clinging to your lashes. With your fingers looped between his like you didn’t even realize you were holding on.

He would’ve painted you in soft oils and pale light, your presence the only subject, the only truth. And maybe he’d leave a smear of color just beneath your eye where your tears had dried, like a signature only he could understand. Not even someone who could’ve looked at it years from now would have understood.

But Jungkook couldn’t paint.

Couldn’t even draw a straight line without it wobbling under pressure. He had no brushstroke to offer you, no canvas that could carry the weight of this feeling blooming in his chest like it had always belonged there.

So he squeezed your hand instead, pulled you into him and pressed a kiss to the crown of your head, repeating how you're so beautiful, how he wants to spend the rest of his life telling you so, how he will lay the world on your feet if you only just smile like that for him.

What he doesn't say is that he came back for this. He stayed for you. He'll always stay.

And how still, in the soft lull that followed, his mind—traitor that it was—pulled him somewhere else.

Back to the night he first listened to Minho’s voicemail.

He hadn’t planned to.

It had sat in his inbox for two weeks after Minho passed, unopened. Just a little notification bubble, small and silent, like it knew it wasn’t ready to be heard.

But that night, something in Jungkook had split.

Maybe it was the cold. Maybe it was the way the world kept turning like nothing had happened. Maybe it was just loneliness.

He’d climbed up to the roof of some rented building in Daegu, drunk off something cheap, the stars sharp above him, the world far below.

And he played it.

"Jungkook-ah." Minho’s voice cracked a little. Old, soft, raspy. Too gentle for someone whose lungs had been fighting him for years.Too familiar, too. The kind that had once read bedtime stories and yelled over bicycle crashes.

“I figured you’d be too pissed to pick up. Can’t blame you.” A soft chuckle, winded.

"I know it’s been a while. Years, actually." He waited, if considering whether it's worth a try or not before resuming. "Too long, huh?"

"I saw your name the other day. Don't even remember where. But it made me stop. Not that I got too much going on for me." Another shaky chuckle followed. "I don’t know what kind of life you’re living now. Maybe something busy. Maybe something brilliant. But if you’re hearing this… I want you to know I was proud. I am proud. Even when I was angry. Especially then, maybe. Even when I didn’t understand you. I watched you become your own person, and it scared the hell out of me. I didn’t wanted to see you turn into our father."

His voice wavered, raw and fraying.

"But you didn’t become him. You didn’t. And I wish I’d told you that sooner."

“Because you're my little brother. You always will be and I'm sorry I forgot that for a moment and I..I don’t know how much longer I’ve got so I had to tell you this." He paused, and Jungkook could almost hear the way Minho looked up at the ceiling when he was thinking. Like there was something celestial about regrets once they’d been said out loud.

"They don’t say it, but I can tell. I can see it in the beautiful brown of my wife's eyes."

Jungkook remembered pressing his palm against his chest like it could stop the ache. It couldn’t.

"Though it has dulled a shade ever since the coughing starting hurting worse. I suppose, I should be sorry for that too, but I don't want to die drowning in sorrys. I don't want to die regretting. Even if it kills me that I'll never hear your name in the news again, that I will never see her in morning light and think that heaven’s not far off."

He cleared his throat, like it hurt to speak. Maybe it did.

"I want to be content with all that I've had. With all that I've become. I want to be hopeful that the world will be kinder to her. To you. That you'd not spend your whole life outrunning ghosts."

Minho’s voice lowered, like it was just the two of them now. Like it had always been.

"I hope it’s not too late." I hope I'm not too late. "I hope—when the dust settles—you’ve still got something to hold onto. Someone. And I really hope she forgives you."

Silence stretched, one last time for minho, perhaps. For his little brother, it was the sound of his own breaking. He tried to hold his breath. Tried to stay still. But the pain didn't stay quiet. It raked up his throat, rude and coarse, until the first sob slipped out, ruptured and helpless. His hand, the one holding the phone, trembled violently. The other curled into a fist against his thigh, knuckles white, nails digging into his palm like that might stop the shaking.

It didn’t.

“I’ll be somewhere soft. Don’t rush. Just… be good. Remember your hyung. I love you, Jungkook-ah."

Static.

He pressed the phone harder to his ear, like if he clung to it tightly enough, Minho might speak again. That maybe—somehow—he could rewind, could stop it, could change everything.

Only static.

"The centre of every poem is this: I have loved you. I have had to deal with that." — Salma Deera, Letters from Medea (2015).

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tokoyamisstuff · 3 months ago

Text

Second Chance At Love Epilogue

Warnings: none, maybe slight mental health issues

A/N: sorry for the wait, writing fluff doesn't come easy to me... but damn, I am incredibly thankful for everyone that has been engaging with this fic! 💌 it's been a pleasure, and I can't wait to create more for you wonderful people! ✨️

[Six Weeks Later]

"Had a nightmare again?"

Mark's half-lidded eyes were locked on you, wiping his wettened lashes dry before nuzzling against your chest again. He had fallen asleep on top of you while cuddling on the sofa, seeming rather peaceful until suddenly he had started getting restless and whisper concerning things in his sleep.

Those present days his only trouble was an irrational fear that he might hurt you during one of his night-terrors, and yet he was also too anxious of losing you again to not be at your side 24/7. So he had taken on the habit to simply hold you in his arms as and forcing himself to stay awake, admiring and protecting you even throughout the whole night.

Most of the time he'd just randomly pass out due to exhaustion, just like it had happened earlier. It's a miracle how he can even be functioning on so little rest, but Mark kept assuring you he's had it worse before and sadly, you did take his word for it.

"Mhh..." He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to shun out the unpleasant memories haunting his dreams and instead concentrates on your heartbeat in order to calm his own.

You're alive. You're here with him. This is real.

"A true nightmare would be waking up and see you gone" your boyfriend mumbled shyly as his panicked breathing slowly evens out, trailing an absentminded path of kisses along your collarbone.

Sometimes doubt would overcome him, thinking this was too good to be true, that maybe he just completely lost his mind and made it all up in his head.

"Hey, I'm with you" you coo sweetly, planting a wet kiss on the crown of his head. It's like you always have the words he needs to hear on the tip of your tongue.

"I know, I know..." Mark's grip on you loosens a bit, although his hands remained possessively hooked to your body. "Thank you."

You try sitting up but a noise of protest drang to your ear, making you giggle as the man climbed on top of you, burying his face in the crook of your neck to inhale your scent.

"Mark..." His mouth plays with the shell of your ear, making a pleasant shiver run down your spine. You let out a sensual sigh, hands disappearing under his shirt to feel up his muscular chest, before softly pushing him away. "We're already late..."

Your boyfriend sat up, still straddling your waist as his eyes darted throughout the room, trying to look anywhere but your face. "Are you, uh...are you sure William is okay with me accompanying you to his birthday party?"

"He specifically asked me to bring you along" you snicker, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt to pull him in for another kiss. He practically melts when he feels his lips move against yours, even after all this time. He'd never get tired of this, of you.

Mark's face is adorably flushed when you finally break contact, and you poke his chest in a teasing manner, offering him a cheeky grin. "So don't worry too much, okay?"

"Alright..." he murmurs under his breath, letting himself dramatically plummet onto you again. "Ugh, this is gonna be so awkward..."

Indeed...

With the sheer endless rebuild and trying to figure out your boyfriend's place in this world, there wasn't really much time for you to have a long overdue talk with this world's Mark and his girlfriend Eve.

"We need to get it over with eventually, right? The party is a great opportunity."

Those past weeks have been rather eventful, and frankly a lot is still complicated.

You haven't even let him meet your parents yet, since it'd be hard to explain why the man you're dating looks exactly like your childhood best friend down to the last minicule detail. A long lost twin, maybe? Damn, Cecil better earns his taxpayer's money and come up with something - it's a exhausting to keep your relationship a secret as technically, your boyfriend shouldn't exist in this dimension.

But ever since he was officially allowed to stay and roam freely, he's relentlessly working to make amends for his deeds.

He once confided in you that he's afraid of his father- no, Nolan's return to earth - because even though it's not the same version that tormented him all these years, he was afraid to relapse and lose control at the mere sight of him.

But that's a worry for another day. One step at a time.

Initially Cecil wanted your Mark to become the Guardian's new leader, however that 'the strongest leads' mindset was too similar to Viltrum culture for his liking. Not to mention he has yet to earn their trust, and is still not completely mentally stable.

When he first joined the team, everyone was - and frankly, still is - pretty wary, if not downright hateful towards him. After everything they needed to endure because of the variants, it's no wonder really. And yet, up until now they managed to swallow their feelings and treating him polite and respectful, though distanced, which is more than he could dare asking for.

A small victory is that the knowledge he got from his own timeline proved useful against many foes to come. Like that he's already indirectly averted so many dangers and saved countless lives!

One would think that after defeating an enemy as ferocious as Conquest through shared efforts, the two Marks would get along by now, right? But actually they were far from it, neutral at best.

Cecil insisted that both Marks could share their identity as Invincible, down to having the same costume and all. You were surprised that the original Mark had declined, as it would've certainly worked in his favor to have more free time and less responsibility. Seems like he was against having a variant - with questionable morals at best - act in his stead. You got the sentiment.

Your Mark on the other hand was willing to accept whatever circumstances he was handed, as long as it meant that the two of you could stay together. Besides that, he didn't really care about anything else.

Much to your delight at least, he's slowly but continuously getting better, with the help of a therapist the GDA had provided. You're a little distrustful of anyone working for them, but they basically owned your boyfriend by now - and also, there's no regular therapist on this earth that would be able to unpack all of his issues.

All that counts is that it's working. He's been unrecognizeable compared to his former self, getting out of his shell lately and cautiously opens up to other people and experiences again. It's truly heartwarming to see him try to enjoy life again, because he deserves nothing less.

You were so incredibly proud of the progress he made, and would do anything to support this wonderful, resilient and kind man leaving his dark past behind.

One prolonged shower the both of you took together later, and you were almost ready to leave for the evening.

"At least in my empire didn't have to wash the dishes anymore" you hear him whine ironically as he rummaged the kitchen, making you snicker. "I was soaking them!" you said in a fake offended tone, but you knew he was just stalling. "We can do them together later. Let's go!"

Looking around your rundown apartment sure makes one wonder how luxuriously he probably lived in his world. You were just glad to afford anything to live alone, but this sure must be a downgrade for him. "Now that you finally get payed by the GDA we could affort to move somewhere nicer? I mean you basically live with me already."

"Don't overthink it, I was just trying to be funny." You sulk a little, almost smearing your lipstick while applying. "Yeah, we need to work on your humor too apparently..."

"You know I wouldn't trade this- you for anything in the world...we could be living in a trashcan and I wouldn't complai- woah..." As Mark stepped into the entrance area his jaw dropped at your getup.

His eyes couldn't stop raking up and down your form, admiring how your outfit highlighted your body in all the right places. Anything from the way you wore your hair over the necklace he got you with his first paycheck, it was a sight to behold.

The most important accessory however was the radiant smile that appeared on your face when you noticed his reaction, so warm and bright that it felt as if bathing in sunlight itself.

"Wow, you, uh...you look incredible."

Only now he realized for how long he has been staring, and your innocent smile turned into a wide, amused one as you noticed the effect you had on him.

"The compliment goes right back!" You wink at him and Mark swings an arm around your shoulder, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek. "How do I even deserve you?"

"It should be me asking that question" he insists, ignoring the way his stomach churns at the thought of meeting all of your friends. "Hurry up, before I change my mind."

7:20 pm and you're finally at the bowling alley, not even half an hour too late. A new record. And as you were soon told, the party didn't start until 10 minutes later - you were just given an earlier time since they knew Mark would be late in any dimension.

To be perfectly honest, you were surprised that William invited your boyfriend, yet kept quiet to not worry him any further. But a few weeks prior you tried to get them acquainted, and of course William had pestered Mark about his counterpart's fate - until the latter finally confessed having gruesomely killed him at his father's request.

You reassured him that it was William's fault for riddling him with so many uncomfortable questions, and that he shouldn't have asked if he can't handle the truth. Seems you were right at least, there's a reason they were best friends across so many timelines.

The two of you were the first to arrive, before the actual birthday boy even, and still you needed to coax your boyfriend - who was currently spiraling - inside like one would lure in a timid animal.

You could only imagine what went through everyone's mind as they entered one after anothe - especially since not only them, but also Amber and her new partner had come. Feeling the anxiety radiating off of him, you remained at your boyfriend's side, squeezing his hand ever so slightly to remind him you're not going anywhere.

"Kinda awkward, huh? The relationship dynamics are all over the place" William teased, before turning around and busying himself with playing. "Try to act like adults, I'm busy destroying all of you with my skills."

"You wish!" Eve seemed the least rigid out of all of you, jumping up and materializing a custom bowling ball as she joined the couple. At least she seemed approachable...you'd rather not want to be on the receiving end of such a powerful being's wrath.

To be perfectly honest, seeing the original Mark - your former and hopefully soon again friend - after all this time wasn't nearly as strange as you imagined it'd be. You were glad to see him of course, but other than that you felt nothing but a siblinglike bond between you - the heartache and unrequited love you had felt for so long had vaporized completely.

He wasn't your Mark after all.

A few drinks later the mood loosened up eventually - at least for those of you who could still be affected by alcohol.

"They seem to get along surprisingly well" Amber noted, taking a seat next to you and clinking her bottle with yours, before nodding towards the two Marks conversing in the background. "What are they taking about?"

"They're complaining about the animation of the new Seance Dog season, I think?" You roll your eyes and both of you break out in laughter. "It was the first thing he did after the whole war. Made me sit through the entire thing in one night."

"Glad to hear our world's Mark is not the only hopeless nerd" Eve commented as she joined you two, now effectively trapped in between Mark's ex and his current girlfriend.

You took a deep, shuddered breath, before trying to explain yourself. "Eve, hear me out, before you say anything, I didn't-"

"I know" she interrupted you anyways, shooting you a sympathetic look. "I think we all understand. No matter how crazy the situation is, I think we're used to stuff like this by now..." You huffed an uncomfortable laugh, but she was right wasn't she? "Amber and I have been through similar things not long ago. I had a crush on Mark when they were still together, but we talked it out and are still friends."

"Why would we even be mad?" Amber added, "You never acted on your feelings and respected our relationship with Mark."

"Still, it's just...weird, isn't it?" You're fidgeting with your fingers, eyes darting between your boyfriend and the floor. "I mean, I'm dating a different version of Mark, that's just-"

"But he's his own person. It's not like you're setting for him just because you couldn't get the original, right?"

"Of course not!" you blurt out mildly upset, though you had also once accused your boyfriend of using you as a rebound. "He's not a replacement. He's himself. Even though they look alike and share similar memories, my Mark is different in so many ways...I didn't even plan to, we just happened to fall for each other."

Yeah. It may have started wrong, but the two of you got to know each other beyond your unhealthy obsession for the concept of your other variants.

"I'm glad to hear that" Eve and Amber both lay a hand on your shoulder, proclaiming they're very happy for how things turned out for you and the alternate Mark...

...but were rudely interrupted by the TV volume increasing due to emergency news about a villain rampaging in a nearby city.

"Mark!" all three of you yell in unison, and both of them flinch at the sound and rush towards you.

"We may need to give them nicknames..." You chuckle at Eve's idea, turning your attention to your partner. "Maybe I should call you 'Sebastian' from now on, so we can distinguish you two better?"

"Whatever you say, babe!" he chirps like the lovestruck fool he is, before realizing what was going on. "Oh. I'll go take care of it!" He turns to the original Mark, determination present on his face. "You can stay with your friends."

"You mean our friends" the original corrects him, and both crack a appreciative smile at each other. "And I don't think so. How about we go together?"

"Sure!" his counterpart chants happily, giving you a last quick embrace from behind before going outside. "Should be quick work with the two of us, see ya soon!"

Later this night the two of you were entangled under the sheets, long since stripped of any clothing as you enjoyed the warmth of each other's body. Your boyfriend absentmindedly caresses your skin, raising goosebumps as his fingertips trace little paths across your curves.

"Sooo..." you ask curious, now facing him while you pepper countless kisses across his face. "Did you enjoy the evening after all?"

"You have no idea" he admitted, feeling as content with himself as never before. "It's been forever since things felt so...normal. Also..." His thumb gently stroke your cheek and you eagerly leaned into his touch. "Mark said that our- uh, his mom and brother want to meet me."

"Oh?" Seems like things were progressing even better than you anticipated. "Well, what did you say?"

"I couldn't object even if I wanted to. Opened my mouth and he directly cut me off by saying something like 'what's one more half-viltrumite to accept into the family?'"

"Yeah, sounds like them." You snort with laughter, tears of happiness forming in the brim of your eyes. "But I'm glad, really. There's so many good people who welcome you into their lives now. You are so, so loved, do you know that?"

Mark leans his forehead against yours, briefly closing the gap between your lips. "All thanks to you" he claims, his voice wavering with almost worship-like reverence.

"No, that was all you." He tends to take all the blame but rarely gives himself credit. After the tragic turn his life took, throughout all the pain and loss...in the end he chose to do what's right.

If anyone deserves a happy ending, it's him - and you will make sure he gets it.

"Do you think Angstrom will return one day?" You ask cautiously and in an instant your boyfriend has securely cradled you against his chest.

"Of course, that bastard is tough. Being driven by insanity does that to a man, I know what I'm talking about." His joke only caused you to frown, but the sanguine smile plastered on his face was contagious nonetheless. Not to mention you were too drunk and tired to argue anyway. "Don't worry. This time we're two Invincibles, and I'll make sure nothing happens to this world. It's my home now...because you are on it."

Mark proceeds to rub a soothing pattern between your shoulderblades, draping the blanket over both of you as he watched you slowly drift into sleep. He leans in to plant a last, lingering kiss atop of your temple, closing his eyes as well to indulge in this peaceful closeness.

"...maybe I should be thanking Angstrom, for making me meet the true love of my life..."

#invincible #mark grayson #invincible x reader #mark grayson x reader #alternate invincibles #multiverse #writing #reader insert #fanfiction

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lyrefromthesea · 11 months ago

Note

HELLLLLAAAAW THEEERRRE, LISTEN (or read), I've been thinking. THAT I LOVE UR WRITING A LOOOOT, and I've been waiting but before that, idrk if u take req rn so feel free to discard this request! anyway, back to main topic, I've been wondering how the hashira's would react to reader/their s/o, adoring their hands a lot, like i mean— obsessed with their hands, whether its holding hands in public (or privately, if the character does not really like showing affection in public), or maybe yk hold hands in bed HWGAHGAHWHS, maybe, something like soft nsfw, like with fluff! u get me? just the character, comforting their s/o when they get too tense during their sexual intercourse, andddddd more fluff if u want! thank u for taking ur time to read!!

Male Hashira x Reader - Hold my hands

author's note: my fever has killed me a few times during this post.

pairing: Tengen x reader, Obanai x reader, Rengoku x reader, Sanemi x reader, Giyuu x reader, Gyomei x reader

content warning: nsfw, sexual intercourse (Rengoku, Giyuu), mildly suggestive (Sanemi)

Tengen:

• who knows exactly what his hands can do to you and despite his teasing nature uses them for your comfort

• enjoys seeing you calm down because of his hands and though he doesn't want you to feel bad he certainly doesn't mind calming you down

he's been looking towards the sky for quite some time now, sitting under the tree with the person he adored most.

you were so strong, so sure of your actions-

and sometimes you felt insecure and the worry seemed to consume you. he understood it, he understood your fear of failure and the future that would follow.

that's why he had no problems consoling you when you needed it most, taking his time to sit with you in silence. words weren't needed in these times, only the comfort of his presence.

he allowed himself to glance down at you, feeling the tender touches of your fingers on his. you were strong, he didn't doubt that, but your body felt so fragile compared to his own.

the difference in the size of your hands proved it to him every single time. he knew you could protect yourself, but if you couldn't, he would be there for you.

"i think i'm feeling better." you said, your eyes finally focusing on his face instead of his hands. you had been touching and playing with his fingers for quite some time now, your hold on them decreasing.

"ya sure? you still look down." he answered, earning a hesitant nod from you. feeling your hand let go of him made him act, bringing his own hand up to the back of your head.

"i don't believe it and lying is not flashy in my eyes. let's stay a bit longer." you were quite surprised when he pressed your head against his chest, looking up at the sky again.

somehow he always knew what you needed, even when you didn't admit it. and with a gentle smile, as well as his hand running through your hair, you sunk into a deep slumber.

Obanai:

• who is surprised when he found out you were fascinated by his hands.

• someone like you adoring a feature of his? the mere thought made him blush when he was laying awake at night.

• who enjoys holding your hand just as much as you, often turning into a blushing mess.

he knew he wasn't as strong as most other hashira. he was smaller, physically weaker. of course it gave him one or two advantages, like a flexibility the tall males around him could only dream about.

yet he secretly found himself craving their strength - at least a part of it. he wouldn't complain about a bit more arm strength, but that would remain a dream of his.

the moment he found himself content with the lack of strength he possessed clearly came with you. you had been sitting next to each other, simply enjoying the time you could spend together. at least that was what he was doing, your mind had long drifted away.

he tensed up when he felt your fingers brush over his, holding his hand. your thumb brushed over his knuckles comfortingly.

he didn't dare look at you, only turning towards you when he felt you glancing, uncertainty rising inside you with his current expression. his hand reached out to you when he felt you pull away.

"i shouldn't have done that, i'm sorry." you said, trying to escape any rising feeling of shame. you just didn't expect him to hold your hand tighter.

"don't stop." he answered, his tone letting it appear much more like a quiet plead. surprise overtook you, quickly replaced by a comforting shyness.

your fingers interlocked with his once more, this time with switched positions. you felt goosebumps appear on your skin, your cheeks heating up.

"your hands are soft, [name].."

Rengoku:

• whether it's in public or at home, he enjoys holding your hand just as much as you like holding his

• however, one attractive thing he does is taking your hand after overstimulating you

"honey.." he pants, trying not to cum a second time from the way you were squeezing around him, body basically trying to milk him even in your current state.

it had started a few hours ago, when he came home from a long mission. he had missed you during his time in the snowy mountains, deciding that his arrival would be the perfect moment to show you how much he appreciates your body.

having to cum multiple times - first his fingers, then his tongue and now his cock - was just too much for your poor body.

of course Rengoku realized that, seeing you shake and tremble under him, small tears running down your flushed cheeks. you were still caught up in your orgasm, trying to even out your breathing pattern.

"it's okay, we're done. breathe, little flame." he panted, hands letting go of the sheets of your shared bed, sitting upright and looking down at you.

he didn't pull out, simply admiring your panting form laying on the bed. his hands snaked along your arms, holding your hands and pressing them into the matress.

feeling the warmth of his palm press against yours got your attention, a silent moan leaving your lips. "are you okay?" the question made you nod quietly, finally being able to register the world around you again.

"'m so sore.." you mumbled, watching the man above you laugh, squeezing your hands in response.

Sanemi:

• he absolutely loves it

• you clearly developed a liking to your hand and he's fully using that to fluster you

• taking you by surprise is his favorite

you've been standing in the kitchen, making sure all the medical herbs you've received were in their right place. you needed to make sure they're easily accessible when Sanemi came home injured.

in your concentrated state, you didn't notice the tall man approaching you slowly - lurking like a predator.

and then you shriek, feeling a slap land on your ass. out of reflex you leaned forward, your head quickly turning around to find Sanemi right behind you.

"missed me?" he teased, stepping closer until he was right behind you, hands placed on the counter on either side of you. he pressed his body against yours with a smirk, resulting in your face getting a lot warmer than before.

"Sanemi! you always do this!" you scolded him, trying to turn around from the sheer embarrassment you just faced or rather the excitement that pooled in your body.

"what can i say? can't resist you with a fine ass like that." he chuckled, letting go of the counter to squeeze your behind with his calloused fingers, earning a whine from you.

"and truthfully, i think you can't resist me either." hearing him whisper into your ear, hand traveling up your side, made you stare at the watch.

he was right, you couldn't resist him, nor could he resist you. besides, the herbs could wait for a while.

Giyuu:

• initially he was the one that liked holding your hands, it was the most simple form of physical touch he could come up with

• still a touch-starved man, WILL have his hands on you the whole time when you're making love.

• knows it gets you more exited, wouldn't judge you for it either, since he gets just as exited when he sees you

"Oh~ baby.." he gasped, head resting against the headboard of your bed. he watched you lazily bounce up and down his cock, trying to work yourself into ecstacy.

whenever you were sharing such passionate moments with each other, he could feel his fingers twitch with the need to hold onto your body - onto you.

they first slid up your thighs, holding onto your hips, guiding you to grind back against him. he loved the feeling of your warmth and he loved the reactions his hands could coax out of you.

he didn't miss out on the way your lips opened in a silent cry, begging to feel his hands run over your body, around your neck or anything else that allowed you to feel them.

and of course he'll answer.

"hold.. hold my hands.. i want to feel you.." he moans, letting go of your hips only to intertwine his fingers with yours, feeling your hips stutter.

he certainly knew how to exploit your weakness for his hands - especially since he was just as weak for you.

Gyomei:

• likes using his hands to calm you down

• they're like a security rope connecting the two of you when the situation makes uncertainty rise within you

"my dearest child, are you ready to serve as a hashira?" the soothing voice of master Kagaya usually managed to calm you down, but not today.

you sat in front of him, a private meeting being held between the two of you and a pillar of choice. naturally, you went with the one you trusted most - the stone pillar.

it would've been an honor to serve as a hashira, every demon slayer knew that, but being confronted with the choice of being one, you found yourself unsure.

the pillars were the strongest humans you had ever set your eyes on, you weren't sure if you could stand by their side.

lowering your head in shame, you were ready to decline the master's offer. however, you were stopped by the blind man next to you.

he placed a large hand on your back, the warmth seeping into your skin slowly calming you down, letting you think properly.

you weren't chosen without a reason, if the master wanted you to become a hashira, he trusted in your talent.

swallowing down your uncertainty, you nodded with little to no hesitance. "i'm ready."

next to you, still his hand on your back, Gyomei found himself smiling. if it was his presence you needed to make a decision, he'd gladly do this for you everytime.

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cherryxbooo · 6 months ago

Text

You’re my ideal type

Summary: A video from a year ago of Oscar talking about his ideal type went viral, making his fans wonder why he chose his girlfriend. This leaves y/n with a lot of questions herself.

Note: First time writing for Oscar! I kinda went with the flow. Let me know what you think! 😌

Reader x Oscar Piastri

Genre: fluff/angst

It was a beautiful, sunny day in Monaco. I was out with two of my friends, enjoying brunch together and soaking up the good vibes.

We spent hours talking, laughing, and joking around, overall it was a fantastic time.

Afterward, we decided to go for a stroll. That’s when we stumbled upon a gorgeous spot with an incredible view. For girls, that can only mean one thing: a photo session. And, of course, we took full advantage.

We snapped countless pictures of each other—exactly what I needed. I’d been wanting to update my Instagram feed, and I knew Oscar would appreciate a few of these too. A win-win situation if you ask me.

Hours later, we decided to head home. Parting ways was bittersweet, but we all had things to do.

When I finally arrived at the place Oscar and I shared, I immediately went inside, feeling my social battery completely drained.

I glanced at the clock and sighed. There were still a few hours to go before Oscar would be home. Feeling a little bored, I decided to tackle some household chores to pass the time.

Eventually, I finished everything and switched to full-on "bed rotting" mode. As I scrolled mindlessly on my phone, I remembered the stunning photos we’d taken earlier.

Sitting up, I started going through them, carefully picking out the best ones to upload to Instagram.

yourusername posted on Instagram!

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yourusername Days like these ☀️💐

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oscarpiastri Prettiest girl ❤️ by author

alexandrasaintmleux Gorgeous ❣️

yourusername Says you 💋

f1_dailylvr81 She's so girly coded love it 💅

fashionistaformula I can't be the only one thinking about that one interview of Oscar?

paistryln481 You're not alone, every time I see her I keep thinking about it

foryoutt16 Wait what? I'm lost, what happened?

cocosainzyy55 @foryoutt16 An old interview of Oscar when he was still in F2 resurfaced and he was talking about his ideal type and the description he gave matches nothing to his current girlfriend. People are suddenly bringing this up again, wondering why he didn't choose his ideal type.

foryoutt16 Oh damn that's rough...

The comments and likes flooded in, as they always did. Sometimes, I forgot that I was dating an F1 driver. It came with its own kind of spotlight.

But as I scrolled through the comments under my post, a few things caught my attention.

One comment in particular stood out: something about an old interview of Oscar.

Confused and curious, I decided to look it up. Little did I know, I was about to regret it...

My stomach twisted into knots as I watched the video, realization sinking in. Oscar described his ideal woman, and her characteristics were unlike ones I possessed. I felt a wave of insecurities and doubts wash over me, each word a reminder of how I didn't fit the bill for his ideal partner.

My heart sank with every word he spoke, describing his ideal woman's qualities, and every one felt like another reminder of how far off the mark I was.

I couldn't help but wonder, "Why did he choose me?" His words stung, and I questioned whether he settled for less than his ideal because he didn't have better options.

On cue, as if the universe was playing a cruel joke, Oscar returned home and called out my name. His voice echoed through the hallway, a stark contrast to the turmoil churning inside me. I hesitated, a mix of fear and confusion gripping me, as I debated whether to face him with this newfound knowledge.

He entered the room with a warm smile, oblivious to the storm brewing inside me. He greeted me with a gentle kiss on the forehead before starting to speak in sweet words.

"Hey babe, how was your day?" he asked, completely unaware of the recent discovery I made.

I forced a smile, trying to hide the turmoil inside as I replied, "It was fine," my voice trying to mask the disappointment and insecurity that bubbled up.

The words left my lips, sounding hollow compared to the usual warmth in my tone.

Oscar sensed the hint of falsity in my fake smile. His observant nature picked up on the subtle cues of my distress, and he recognized that something was off. Yet, instead of immediately asking about it, he chose to hold off, observing to see if I would bring it up.

Oscar wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me closer. He kissed my temple gently, his touch providing a temporary sense of comfort.

He knew something was bothering me and chose not to press, offering a moment of respite instead. "Do you want takeout?" he asked, his voice filled with tenderness.

I replied softly, trying to match his tenderness, "Sounds good." Despite my conflicting emotions, I didn't want to dampen the mood by revealing my insecurities.

"Takeout sounds great," I said, attempting to sound cheerful.

Oscar reluctantly let go of me, reaching for the phone to place the takeout order. In his absence, I seized the opportunity to sneak a look in the mirror, as well as to search for pictures of Oscar's ideal type.

I scoured the internet, comparing every aspect of my appearance to the images of his ideal woman. The comparison fueled my insecurities, amplifying the feeling of not measuring up.

My tears threatened to spill as I stood there, comparing myself to Oscar's ideal, but before they could, I heard Oscar's voice calling out.

"Y/n baby, the food will be here in twenty minutes," he informed me. I swiftly wiped away the tears before responding, attempting to hide the vulnerability in my voice, "Okay, thanks for letting me know."

Splashing my face with water to compose myself, hoping to hide any traces of my tears and distress. With determination, I dried my face and returned to the room where Oscar was, trying to mask my vulnerability.

After the food came, we ate together. I was quiet, it was mainly Oscar talking which was odd because normally it was always me talking and he would listen. We were currently cuddled up together after eating

Despite our cozy cuddle on the couch, my mind was preoccupied with worries. Thoughts like "What if he leaves me?" and "What if I'm not good enough?" consumed me.

Oscar noticed my distraction and asked if I was alright, concern in his voice. I replied, "Just tired," and although he didn't fully believe it, he decided not to push further.

Oscar spoke up once more, his voice soft and reassuring. "Y/n?" he began, his eyes searching mine.

"You know I love you, right? If there's anything bothering you, you know you can tell me," he emphasized, his tone filled with patience and support.

I nodded, attempting to hide the depth of my worries and insecurities. "Yeah, I know. I love you too," I responded, trying to sound reassuring.

The words felt heavy, knowing the weight of my unspoken fears.

A few weeks had passed since that moment of insecurity, and I had been avoiding Oscar, even though we lived together. I had made excuses to skip every Grand Prix, claiming I was too busy with work.

Yet, here I was, facing the mirror on the morning of a home race, feeling utterly unprepared. The interview weighed heavily on my mind, and I wasn't in the right state to face it.

Standing in front of my reflection, I looked at myself, thoughts of my inadequacy resurfacing.

Oscar entered the room, his gaze settling on me. He positioned himself behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and resting his chin on my head.

His presence brought both comfort and nerves as I stood in front of the mirror, still grappling with my insecurities.

He spoke softly, his compliment genuine and sweet. "I didn't know it was possible to be this pretty. You look amazing love," he murmured, his voice filled with affection.

I stepped away from him, the compliment not offering the comfort it usually would. My actions were distant, as if I was subconsciously putting up a barrier.

"Thanks," I responded distantly, my tone devoid of the warmth that usually accompanied my words.

The fear of his departure and my sense of inadequacy still lingered in my heart, casting a shadow over the moment.

Oscar seemed puzzled by my distant behavior, his confusion evident. Seeing right through my attempt to avoid him, he asked gently,

"Baby, did I do something wrong? Why are you avoiding me?"

His voice was tinged with concern, his eyes filled with hurt at my distance.

I quickly responded, trying to change the subject. "No, you did nothing wrong. Uhm, shouldn't you leave for the race?"

Oscar looked at me, his gaze lingering on me before reluctantly letting it go.

"Wait, weren't you coming with me?" he questioned, his tone hinting at his confusion.

I responded with a slightly busted attitude, "Oh, uhm, I'm not done getting ready yet. I'll come later, though."

It was a lie, and Oscar seemed to sense that something was off.

Despite the passing time, he decided to focus on his own preparations while stealing a moment to kiss my forehead before leaving.

I took a moment to muster my courage, realizing that Oscar didn't deserve being pushed away because of my insecurities.

With a deep breath, I prepared myself to face the day and attend the race, pushing through the weight of my doubts.

As the hours flew by, I found myself standing in the garage, watching from afar, torn between my worries and the desire to support him.

After awhile I decided to go to the restroom since I still had some time before the race started.

As I was walking, I heard voices behind me, and my name being mentioned caught my attention.

I stopped to listen, not that I meant to eavesdrop, but hearing my name made it impossible not to.

From what I could tell, these girls were likely McLaren fangirls. Well duh after all, they were dressed in papaya colors.

Girl 1: "It's crazy that Oscar is still dating y/n. She doesn't even fit his ideal type."

Girl 2: "I know, right? Like, she's not even close."

Girl 3: "Yeah, he must be leading her on or something."

Girl 4: "Or maybe she's in it for the fame and money."

Girl 5: "Oh, definitely. There's no other reason she would be with him."

The girls' laughter echoed in my ears, each comment like a punch to my heart.

Girl 2: "Seriously, you'd think he could do better than her."

Girl 1: "Yeah, she's not even that attractive compared to the other girls he's dated before."

Girl 3: "I bet he'll realize soon that he could get someone way better."

Girl 4: "Well, if the fame and money aren't enough, then he's definitely settling."

I couldn't bear to listen any longer, my tears streaming as I fled to the restroom, seeking solace to hide my distress.

Time slipped away as I stayed there, isolated, wrestling with my tormenting thoughts and self-doubts.

Meanwhile, the McLaren garage buzzed with pre-race energy, but Oscar couldn’t focus. His eyes darted around the paddock, scanning for any sign of you.

Anxiety churned in his gut as he spotted his teammate leaning casually against a workbench.

“Lando!” Oscar called, walking over briskly.

Lando glanced up, eyebrows raised. “What’s up, mate?”

Oscar hesitated before blurting out, “Have you seen Y/N anywhere?”

Lando frowned, clearly puzzled. “No, mate, haven’t seen her. Matter of fact, I don’t think I’ve seen her around for the last few races. Is everything okay?”

Oscar sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know, mate. She’s been so distant lately, and I have no idea what I’ve done to upset her.”

Lando’s expression softened, a mix of pity and thoughtfulness. “Could it maybe have to do with that video that went viral again?”

Oscar blinked, confused. “What video? That old F2 interview of mine? That was years ago! I was just joking in most of it anyway.”

Lando shrugged, giving him a pointed look. “Mate, you might want to check the comments under her recent Instagram post. I think that’s your answer.”

With a sympathetic pat on the back, Lando turned and walked off, leaving Oscar alone with his thoughts.

He pulled out his phone, his fingers quickly navigating to your profile. The comments under your latest post hit him like a brick.

“Oh no,” Oscar muttered, his stomach sinking. “No wonder she’s been distant…”

He mentally kicked himself, remembering that dumb interview where he’d been too cocky for his own good.

“I didn’t even mean half the stuff I said,” he whispered to himself, cringing at the memory.

Before he could search for you and explain himself, a crew member called his name, dragging him toward the car for pre-race preparations.

“Great timing,” he muttered under his breath. But he made a promise to himself: as soon as this race was over, he’d find you and make things right.

Meanwhile, back to you, the restroom break had taken longer than expected. The initial plan to kill time before the race started had backfired; now, a dull ache was forming in my head, and I couldn’t shake the feeling of unease creeping up on me.

I leaned against the sink for a moment, taking a deep breath. “This is ridiculous,” I muttered to myself, but the discomfort wasn’t going away.

Deciding it was best not to push myself, I pulled out my phone and quickly typed a message to Oscar:

Not feeling great. Heading back home. Don’t worry about me.

I hesitated before hitting send. He’d probably be confused or even concerned, but the last thing I wanted was to worry him.

With a sigh, I hit send and slipped my phone back into my bag.

As I stepped out of the restroom and headed for the exit, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt.

On the way, I also let Oscar's manager know I left, just in case he didn't check his phone.

I knew Oscar would notice my absence, but today, it felt easier to retreat than to stay and face everything swirling in my mind.

Little did I know, Oscar was already worrying.

The race had ended, with Oscar clinching a solid P4, just behind Lando. Though pleased with his result, his mind was elsewhere.

He wanted nothing more than to see you, to feel your arms around him, and hear you tell him how proud you were, just like old times.

But as he scanned the crowd, his hope began to waver. You weren’t there.

His manager noticed Oscar’s distracted gaze and approached him. “Looking for Y/N?” the manager asked gently.

“She left you a message. Said she wasn’t feeling well and headed home.”

Oscar’s jaw tightened, his heart sinking. You hadn’t told him the truth.

A mix of frustration and hurt bubbled to the surface. Without a word, he decided to skip the team celebrations and headed straight home.

When Oscar arrived, he didn’t waste a second. Dropping his bag by the door, he called out loudly. His voice sharper than usual.

“Y/N!”

You were downstairs in no time, a soft smile on your face.

“Oh, hey, Osc! You’re back early. How was the race?” I asked sweetly, trying to act normal.

But Oscar wasn’t having it. His expression was hard as he stared at you.

“You would’ve known if you didn’t leave,” he said, his voice laced with frustration.

Guilt washed over me, and you stammered, “I’m sorry, Osc. I wasn’t feeling well-”

“Cut the crap, Y/N!” he interrupted, startling you. His voice was raised, something he rarely did.

“When are you going to finally admit the real reason you’ve been like this? Tell me! I’m sick of it!”

I flinched but couldn’t blame him. He deserved an explanation. At the same time, I’d had enough, too. My emotions spilled out, my voice breaking.

“How would you feel if people kept telling you that your partner is too good for you? That you’re not good enough, that you’re too ugly, not their type, only with them for the money?!”

Tears streamed down my face as you continued.

“And yes, it’s about that stupid interview of yours! I can’t help it, okay? Call me dumb, call me a crybaby, but this is too much!”

By now, I was full-on sobbing, unable to meet his gaze. But before I could crumble further, I felt his arms wrap around me, pulling me close.

His voice was soft now, gentle. “Why didn’t you tell me, baby? I could’ve helped. We’re a team, remember?”

I sniffled, my voice trembling as I replied, “Those were your words, Oscar. I can’t take them back or change them.”

He sighed, his hand running soothingly up and down your back. “Babe, that interview was years ago. I was joking around the entire time. If you’d watched the whole thing, you’d see that.”

I shook my head, unsure, but he leaned back just enough to look at me.

“Since when is my favorite color pink?” he teased, a small laugh escaping him.

Despite yourself, you let out a small laugh, too.

“That's better,” he said, smiling.

“Listen to me. Everything I said in that interview wasn’t true. I was 18, tired, and didn’t even want to be there. I was just trolling to get it over with.”

I laughed again at his confession, finally meeting his eyes.

“There’s that pretty smile,” he said, his tone softer now. “I’m sorry you had to deal with that, but next time, talk to me, okay?”

I nodded, wiping your tears. “I will. I’m sorry for doubting you… for pushing you away.”

He smiled warmly, leaning in to peck your lips a few times.

“It’s okay, love. I get why you did it. But don’t you ever doubt yourself again, yeah? You’re the most beautiful girl in the world. If anyone doesn’t deserve someone, it’s me. How did I get so lucky, huh?”

He cupped your face, his thumb gently caressing your cheek before pulling you into a long, passionate kiss. When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“Don’t you ever doubt yourself,” he whispered. “You’re my ideal type. Always.”

I laughed softly. “Alright, alright, I get it.”

Suddenly, Oscar scooped me up into his arms, bridal style, making me squeal.

“Osc! What the hell are you doing? Put me down!”

He grinned, shaking his head as he headed toward the bedroom.

“Nope. Let me show my gorgeous girl how much I love her.”

And let’s just say, the night ended perfectly. From that moment on, I never doubted his love for me ever again.

oscarpiastri posted on Instagram!

Liked by landonorris, yourusername and others

oscarpiastri An amazing race to finish off the week. A big thank you to the entire team and the fans. Also a big thank you to my beautiful girlfriend for being the best support.

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yourusername So so proud of you Osc!!! Love you! 🩷

oscarpiastri Love you too pretty!

landonorris Well done mate 🙌 extra support is always great!

oscarpiastri Thanks man! You're right especially if she's just my type 😉

yourusername 🤭 ❤️ by author

lalalandnorris4you Oscar really gagged all of you haters purr 💅

frvrformulaonestan1 This is the cutest thing ever brb I'm going to cry 🥹

notyourfan481 Bro Oscar you don't have to lie we all know this ain't you

osclvy/n Girl stfu he isn't going to notice you ffs 🙄

lovelypeachlan4 You thought you did sum? Get out 👉🚪

yourusername posted on Instagram!

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yourusername A little recap of last week 🤍

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yourbffuser Looking like a snack 😋😍🥵

yourusername Love ya 💋🫦

oscarpiastri Gorgeous 😍

yourusername Love youu Osc 🥰

alexandrasaintmleux So so so pretty 😘

yourusername Says you beautiful 😉💕

lv4motorsports81 She's so pretty omd

manyyynorriz She's gorgeous, don't know what people were on about 🤨

banananorrispiastry81 🤢

nothingthelessnorris4 And you did this for what ☠️

piastrybakerlvr Move on he isn't going to notice you 🥱

lvlynorrisss4 Yet your comment didn't make any change to this world... Grow up 🤦‍♀️

The end

#f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 fic #oscar x reader #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri smau #oscar piastri fluff #oscar piastri au #oscar piastri angst

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strawberryg-cake · 13 days ago

Note

HIII i love ur writing ^_^ could i request a kazuha x reader where kazuha loves to tease the reader? nsfw or sfw is ok!!

✧. ┊ ⁭Thanks! I'm glad that you like my writings (⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠). In regards to your request, sure, I love Kazuha sm he's a cutie, here you have some headcanons of him teasing his partner (⁠ ⁠ꈍ⁠ᴗ⁠ꈍ⁠). This one will be mostly soft/fluff just like him. I hope you like it <3

✦ Category: Fluff, established relationship.

✦ Warnings(?): +18 just bc of one. But I still give the warning uh.

✧. ┊ ⁭POV:

"Kazuha is your partner, sometimes he can get playful, how would he tease you?"

‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

❀ Kazuha is the type of partner whose teasing is so soft it's almost imperceptible... Almost. But you, as his girlfriend, would notice right away—because most of the time, it's with you.

❀ He would say it so casually, in the middle of one of his usual compliments to you, just to see how you laugh or blush furiously.

❀ He would do this often when the two of you are alone. Actually, he would physically tease you when you're alone—brush his lips against yours and pull away just to see you pouting unconsciously. Adorable.

❀ Ah, Kazuha would have this habit of brushing your hair away from your face... then get closer and whisper one of his sweet words with the clear intention of making you flustered. Then, casually... he would plant a kiss at the top of your ear.

❀ "That was unfair..." you would say, looking away completely flustered. He would look at you like a man drunk in love and say, "Every reaction you give me makes me wonder if I'm really awake... You sure I'm not dreaming?" Your ears would turn red. "You're impossible, you know..." But you're smiling.

❀ Tease him back—come on—say something sassy when he doesn't expect it, and he'll look at you surprised at first... then stare at you with a playful look in his beautiful eyes. "What a cruel move... Shall I get ready for my comeback next time, my dear?"

❀ He enjoys making you nervous. Kazuha will casually get closer and kiss the corner of your lips. If you stare at him expecting a full kiss, he'll encourage you to give it to him—softly, of course—because this guy is the definition of a candy shaped as a person.

❀ He gets... incredibly possessive when it's just the two of you alone. "I'm the only one who gets to see you this way... Right?" He’s whispering in your ear while hugging you from behind. His lips would casually—not so casually—brush against your ear, and you’d turn red. "You're red again, love... If I continue, what other types of beautiful reactions would you give me?"

❀ He teases through kisses. He’ll be kissing you, the kiss gets deep, and you'll hear his whimper—a soft "Mm..." against your lips. And when he carefully bites your bottom lip... he’ll pull away. Just like he wasn’t stealing your breath a few seconds ago.

❀ When the two of you are in his bedroom or yours, under the sheets, no clothes—just skin to skin... he’ll tease you, because he wants you to say you’re his and only his. "I wonder what would happen if I kiss you here..." And he’ll begin to trail soft kisses on your neck, then your jaw, and stop at your lips. "You look so gorgeous... Even the stars couldn't compare." His forehead will press against yours, and he’ll blush—not softly, no—he’ll be so red when he whispers against your lips: "Go ahead, darling... Say you’re mine, just like I’m yours."

❀ You would say it. He would melt.

#genshin impact #genshin imagines #genshin x reader #genshin headcanons #kazuha fluff #kazuha x you #kazuha x y/n #genshin impact kazuha #genshin oneshots #kazuha x reader #kazuha #kazuha smut #kaedehara kazuha

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fairyysoup · 2 years ago

Text

i can see you

♫︎ i can see you - taylor swift ♫︎

pairing(s): steve harrington x fem!reader

summary: The secret history of your long and arduous relationship with Steve Harrington.

aka: the 5 times you pined over each other, and the time you actually did something about it

words: 17.6k (we're NOT gonna talk about it lol)

cw: explicit, smut, piv sex, flirting, making out, heavy petting, slight exhibitionism, oral (f receiving), fingering, marking, biting, steve harrington has a big dick, themes of infidelity/cheating (sort of), skipping out on dates, bad dates, steve steal-your-girl harrington, almost-kisses, jealous!steve, jealous!reader, possessive behavior, smoking, alcohol consumption, allusions to marriage but it's never actually mentioned, canon compliant, reader and steve are the same age, 5+1 things, songfic, angst, fluff, humor, hurt/comfort, pining, mutual crush, slow burn one shot, mild twist ending, begins in season two (1984) and ends in the 90s, high school, scoops ahoy era, family video era, waiter!steve, steve harrington (the eras tour), vignette, one instance of billy hargrove slander, original characters created for plot, inspired by i can see you by taylor swift, other taylor song inspo throughout bc i'm insane like miss swift

a/n: hi and welcome to ✨rose's mental breakdown✨ yes this song will be my number one on spotify wrapped bc i listened to it on a loop for five days straight while writing this. idk. anyways this is So Much and i'm tired of looking at it so if there are any mistakes i apologize. anyways whoever can point out the most taylor song references aside from the obvious titular one gets a doubloon

ALL OF MY WORKS ARE 18+ MINORS DNI

You brush past me in the hallway, and you don’t think I can see you, do you? I’ve been watchin’ you for ages, and I spend my time trying not to feel it…

Hawkins High, September 1984

He’s so pretty sometimes that it’s disgusting.

That’s really the only thing you think when you watch Steve Harrington sneak up on his girlfriend, Nancy Wheeler, and swoop her off the ground in front of her locker. From across the hall, your locker hangs open, your body turned halfway toward them so that you can pretend that you’re not staring.

You stare a lot.

It’s not exactly the hair, you think- everyone shits a brick about his hair, for some reason that you don’t understand. Yeah, it’s nice… but you like everything else about him, too. You like how sweet he looks when he laughs. You like the way that he holds himself and the way that he looks when he puts his hands on his hips and stands around like he’s directing the traffic around him. You like how much of a prince charming he is, really. It would surprise you if he doesn’t win prom king at the end of the year. They already call him King Steve, it’s not too far of a stretch.

You close your locker just as Steve kisses Nancy, in front of god and everybody in the C Corridor hallway. Steve’s arms wrap around Nancy’s petite frame and he dips her, like they’re in some sort of George Peck and Audrey Hepburn movie. Not that the place is much of a cinematic setting, though. Down the hall, the science rooms are doing their dissection units, so the whole place smells like formaldehyde and disinfectant, and you sort of feel like curling up into one of those dissection pans and dying, yourself.

That should be me, your brain screams. Me!!

It’s always been like this. You’ve had a crush on Steve since freshman year- the fact that he’s dating Nancy, who’s a year younger than him, doesn’t escape your jealous mind. You’ve been in classes with him for four years, you’ve admired him quietly, you’ve hoped and prayed that he somehow noticed you noticing him.

You don’t think he knows you exist. Four years- and now you’re both seniors, about to graduate, and he still doesn’t notice you. You should really stop caring, or stop trying, or stop… pining. Or something.

You hike your bag up onto your shoulder and juggle your books in your arms. The bell rings, and quite suddenly the entire hallway erupts into pandemonium (predictable, sure, considering everyone loiters around instead of actually getting to class on time). Kids fly around you in all directions to get to their next classroom. Nancy Wheeler ducks away from Steve Harrington, avoiding yet another kiss.

God, you wish you could kiss him.

Someone slams into your shoulder from behind, muscling past you to get to science lab 5, rat central. Your binder slips out of the stack of books in your arms and clatters loudly to the ground, just as someone walks past and kicks it across the floor.

“Fuck,” you spit, chasing after it. The back of your neck feels hot. For the first time in four years, you hope to god that Steve Harrington doesn’t notice you.

You duck around people’s legs, trying to grab at your binder, while not trying to drop any more of the books in your arms. Loose papers are starting to fall out of the binder as it skitters across the floor, and this is becoming more and more of a comedy of errors by the minute.

Your fingers just brush the corner of it before someone kicks it again.

“Do you mind?” you snap as they walk away, not even looking in your direction. Crouched close to the floor, you don’t matter. Maybe you could count that as a blessing, considering you don’t want to be perceived right now.

You finally just throw away all dignity and crawl across the tile floor- disgusting and dirty and covered in sandy grit, as though it hasn’t been cleaned all year- to get to your binder.

And you come face to face with a pair of white Nike’s. Ones that you know way too well, because you’ve stared at them every time they’ve passed you in the hallway.

Nonononono- You clench your jaw and then look up, way up, to find Steve Harrington towering over you.

He looks like he was about to just step around you, but then he notices you gazing up at him from all fours, and his hazel eyes lock on yours. You blink at each other for a second before he flushes, a pink blush breaking out on his cheeks and crawling up his neck, and he looks away quickly, but crouches down to grab your binder before your hand can land on it.

“Sorry,” Steve says quietly, gathering up the couple papers that had started to slide out of the folders inside. You sit back on your heels, your blood rushing in your ears, mortified. His big hands gently poke the papers back into the folder as they should be before he hands it to you. “Looks like you’re gonna be late to class.”

You scoff. “Look who’s talking.”

Steve’s eyes find yours again, and he’s finally so close to you that you can admire the little bit of green in them. You’ve never been close enough to notice before.

He cracks a lopsided smile, one that he uses to charm people, you know- you’ve seen him use it on teachers and cute girls alike. “I’m always late to the party. But I get there, eventually.”

“I hope so.” He cocks his head at you. He doesn’t know the real meaning to your words- or, at least, you don’t think he does.

I hope you don’t stay oblivious forever, Steve Harrington. I hope you get there, eventually.

You take your binder from him, but you pull your eyes away from his a bit later than you properly should. “Thanks, Steve.”

You get up and take off toward your next class, walking quickly so that you don’t come off like you’re lingering too long. But, halfway down the hall, you look over your shoulder at him.

Steve hasn’t moved, still crouched down close to the floor, with his head bent like he’s deep in thought. With his back to you, you can still see the pink flush on the back of his neck, peeking out above his collared shirt.

‘Cause I can see you, waiting down the hall from me, and I can see you up against the wall with me. What would you do? Baby, if you only knew that I can see you…

Hawkins High, April 1985

Prom season sucks. Always has, and always will.

Maybe it was your fault for hoping that Logan Sawyer, popular prick extraordinaire, was serious about wanting to take you to prom. He seemed serious enough, stopping by your locker during passing period and leaning over you as he asked you, his mega-watt smile making you blush. You’d counted yourself lucky- you didn’t think anyone was going to ask you, and people aren’t allowed to go to prom stag.

It took Logan two weeks to find a prettier girl to go with, though. You don’t know why it hurts so much. Maybe it’s because you wanted to believe that you were someone’s first choice, but it never quite seems to turn out that way.

You wipe your tears in the mirror, scowling at your puffy, bloodshot eyes. The bathroom next to the girls’ locker room in the sports wing is completely deserted at this time- the boys’ gym class is in session now, and you’re cutting into your lunch time, but you really don’t want to have to go and cry at a lunch table, in front of a bunch of your bitchy peers, who will inevitably make fun of you for it.

Sniffling, but slightly more composed, you head out of the bathroom. The sports wing is ridiculously bigger than any other wing of the school (typical of American public schools, to prioritize sports over every other department). The wing boasts weight training rooms, dance rooms, three separate gymnasiums, and a door directly to the football field, with the locker rooms on the farthest end to allow for easy access to the field. Connecting all of these rooms is the longest corridor in the building, which seems to run for half a fucking mile.

You’ll have to walk that half mile, because in order to get to the cafeteria, you’re gonna have to traverse the entire building. You might not get to eat much today, but it was a sacrifice you were willing to make. Maybe Mrs. Marshall will be kind enough to let you snack on a granola bar in your next class period.

Halfway down the long hallway, you feel the angry sting of tears behind your eyes again, and your face screws up in frustration. You stop, turning halfway back toward the girls’ bathroom, wondering if you should just go back in and allow yourself to cry some more.

Suck it up, you think to yourself, smacking at your tear stained cheeks. He’s not the guy you really want to ask you to prom, anyways.

You press your fingertips into your eyes to relieve the sting of tears, taking a deep breath. Being in high school is driving you crazy. At this point in the year, the teachers have given up teaching, the students have given up learning, and you’re basically just biding your time in a glorified babysitting service until you can inevitably grab your diploma and get out of here. You can’t wait for that time to arrive.

A door opens further down the hallway, in the direction of the cafeteria. You wipe your nose once and keep moving in the direction you were going, not wanting to draw attention to yourself, standing in the middle of the hallway having a breakdown.

Moving forwards, you keep your eyes on the ground. Once you hear the door that had been opened slam shut again, you figure that whoever it was has moved on down the hallway, and you lift your eyes again.

They have not, in fact, moved on. And you suddenly have the urge to turn and fucking run back into the girls’ bathroom, because Steve Harrington is bent over at the drinking fountain, directly outside the boys’ weight room.

What the fuck, what the fuck. You suck on your teeth, trying not to falter in your stride. Maybe he hasn’t seen you, and you can just pass him up. It’s fine, he hasn’t seen you crying.

Your mind backtracks to the beginning of the year, you fumbling your binder all the way across the hallway and ending up right in front of him, crawling toward him. Looking up at him and probably, most definitely, making him really uncomfortable.

You have English class together, where you sit at the desk closest to the door. He comes in late almost every day, so he passes by you every time. Some days he looks at your desk. On good days, he meets your eye. But he hasn’t spoken to you since that day in September, and you really shouldn’t hold out hope that he will.

You definitely don’t want him to notice you when you’ve been crying, your face is a mess, your hair is limp and you look bedraggled. You just want to fade into the background of your next class with whatever snack you can get from the cafeteria snuck into your bag, so you can stress eat it without any guff from a teacher (like you aren’t 18 and capable of deciding when you are and aren’t allowed to eat).

You keep your eyes down. If you don’t look at him, he doesn’t exist.

Except, Steve Harrington always exists, in the back of your mind, and in your periphery. He is impossible not to notice, as per usual. He really just draws the eye like a magnet. Try as you might, your eyes keep flicking up to take stock of him.

He’s wearing a uniform gray P.E. shirt and gym shorts that don’t leave a lot to the imagination, and you fixate on his thighs more than you should. He has sweat dripping down his neck, wetting his hair on the sides of his face and the seam of his shirt. It shouldn’t be attractive. He shouldn’t be attractive. With his face a mess. And his hair limp, and looking bedraggled. Truly, you make a priceless pair, being the only two people in the hallway.

We’re perfect for each other, a voice says in your head. And you manage, for the first time in an hour, to crack a smile down at your shoes.

He finishes getting his drink at the fountain, and you figure that he’ll just go back into the weight room and not see you. But, of course, luck is not on your side.

Steve Harrington looks at you. And you look away, quickly, acting like you hadn’t been staring at him. And in your periphery, again, you see him stretch his arms over his head, and then turn and lean against the cinderblock wall beside the door to the weight room, with his hands on his knees as though he’s catching his breath.

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

He does it so casually, and with the way he’s sweating and his face is flushed, you’re sure that he probably does just want to take a break before going in and lifting more weights. But something in the back of your mind says that the maneuver was too purposeful, immediately after he laid eyes on you.

It could just be wishful thinking on your part. You heard through the grapevine that Steve and Nancy Wheeler broke up in a nasty way just before winter break, and it doesn’t seem like he’s been interested in anyone since. He hasn’t dated anyone, hasn’t flirted with any girls or showed up at any parties. Nancy must have really broken his heart.

You know too well what that feels like, right now.

Nearing where he leans against the wall, you keep your head down and you plan on just passing by without any acknowledgement from him, same as it ever was. If he’s still carrying a torch for Nancy, you’re sure that he doesn’t want anything to do with you. You’ve nearly convinced yourself of it.

But then you hear your name called quietly, and it nearly makes you jump. You look over at him, thinking you’re just hearing things, but you look directly into a pair of hazel eyes again, and you feel yourself rocketing back in time to September.

You didn’t even think he knew your name.

You slow to a stop. It would be rude not to stop, right? “Uh… hi, Steve. You good?”

Steve Harrington looks you up and down, while he leans against the wall and breathes a bit heavily, like he’s out of breath. He peers at you through long eyelashes, looking impossibly inviting despite everything; the setting, your appearances, the way that you feel like dissolving into a puddle right in front of him. “Yeah, great. You?”

He’s scrutinizing your face now. You shrug, since he’s already seen you, and there’s no way to pretend you weren’t crying thirty seconds ago. “I’m fine. Just being dramatic, don’t worry about me.”

“When people say not to worry about them, it usually means that you should,” Steve muses. He looks coy, like he’s speaking from experience.

You sigh, stepping forward to get your own drink from the drinking fountain. “Logan Sawyer called off our date for prom.”

“Oh.” Steve pauses for a few seconds, watching as you bend down and take your drink, more silent than he usually is. “I mean… that really sucks. I’m sorry. But… Logan Sawyer?”

“Yeah.” You wipe your mouth, and then wet the ends of your fingers and use the cool water to rub at your stinging eyes again. When you’re done, you lean up against the wall beside him, letting your back settle into the cinderblock.

“The guy’s a fucking douche.”

“Tell me about it.”

“No, I mean it, I think it’s a good thing you’re not going to prom with him. He’s really shitty to girls.” You look up at Steve, who’s watching you with his arms crossed, with the most serious expression you’ve ever seen him wear. “I mean, the only guy worse than Logan is probably… I dunno…”

“Billy Hargrove?”

Steve laughs. Actually laughs. You’ve wanted to make him laugh like that for four years. His cheeks turn crimson and he grins down at his shoes, snickering like there’s way more to the joke he’s laughing at than you even know about. “Yeah. Yeah, he’s gotta be the worst.”

You chuckle, albeit with a sadder tone than he has. “Well, I’m not going to prom with either of them. So, I can count my blessings. I guess.”

Steve frowns, and he looks like he’s going to say something else, but you’re already turning away, not wanting to continue the depressing conversation about your lack of dates. Especially not from the one guy who you desperately want to go on a date with.

You get a few steps away before he takes a step after you, saying, “Wait. You, uh-”

You stop, and look back at him. He looks dumbfounded, his arm outstretched like he was going to try to grab you if you didn’t listen to him. When you frown, he steps back against the wall, bringing his hand up to run through his hair.

Oh . That’s a nervous tick. You know it, because you’ve watched him do it more than once in English, in front of the class during a presentation.

Steve looks down at his shoes, his brow scrunched in thought. He looks like he’s really trying to find the right words to say. In your head, a hopeful part of you imagines what those words could be. ‘Will you go to prom with me?’

Finally, he looks up at you resolutely. “You’ll find someone to take you to prom. I’m sure of it.” He nods a little, like he’s reassuring himself that he said the right thing.

You can’t help the smile that springs onto your face. It’s incredulous, of course, but he can’t know that. Keep trying, baby. You’ll get there, eventually.

“Thanks, Steve.” It’s the second time you thank him in the course of the year.

But what would you do if I went to touch you now? What would you do if they never found us out? What would you do if we never made a sound?

Prom Night, May 1985

The dress you’re wearing is sleek and a lot simpler than some of the more popular styles on the dance floor, but you like it more than you care to admit. You’d just grabbed it off the rack at Macy’s, and beyond that you didn’t want to go all-out for prom. It turns out that your lab partner, Gavin Connelly, needed a date, too. So, you’re here with him, because you knew that if you missed prom, you would probably regret it.

Except, well.

Gavin, stoned out of his fucking mind, is sitting at one of the tables, nursing a cup of punch, looking like he’s two seconds from falling asleep. You’ve taken to making the rounds and saying hi to anyone you can call a ‘friend,’ because you’re tired of just loitering next to him. Something tells you he didn’t want to even be here.

The speakers are playing ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart,’ and couples are swaying on the dance floor in a Bonnie Tyler-induced haze. At a loss for people to bother, you wander back over to your date to find his head plastered to the white table cloth.

You glance to the guy sitting next to him, a kid with glasses who you don’t recognize but who seems to know your date, because he’s just patting Gavin’s back. “Is he okay?”

“Oh, no, he’s dying.” The kid shoots you a sarcastic smile.

You nod, pressing your tongue hard to the roof of your mouth. “Well, if he wakes up, tell him I’m getting some air.”

Fuck this. Fuck prom. Fuck high school boys.

Your heels, which are killing your feet already, click loudly on the tile hallway floor as you exit the gym. The table where you can check your bag and coat are located at the other end of the hall, where everyone is supposed to enter through the door to the football field.

You can hear voices from the far end of the hall, and Bonnie Tyler’s voice fading out the further you get from the gym. You might never be able to hear that song again without thinking of your ruined slow dance opportunity.

As you pass by, someone coughs off to the left and you turn your head to see Steve Harrington, black tie and all, loitering in the shadows. You stop a few feet from him and squint into the dark.

You can’t believe it. He always seems to show up at the worst times. “What are you doing, skulking around?”

“I’m not sulking.”

You snort, stepping into the shadows with him. “No, skulk- like, sneaking around?”

“Well, I didn’t mean to sneak-” he looks over his shoulder at the gym entrance. “I’m just getting some air.”

“Funny,” you murmur. “I was just about to do the same thing.”

He eyes you, a lot like he did a few weeks ago in this same hallway, further up toward the other end of it. He takes in your hair, styled painstakingly to ‘perfection,’ or as close as you could approximate it, and your off-the-rack department store dress. You suddenly feel like you aren’t as pretty as you thought you were at the beginning of the night.

But then he meets your eye, and all those insecurities fade into the back of your mind. He’s smiling at you, and that can only be a good thing.

“So, uh…” Steve leans back against the wall, his hands in his pockets, “You found someone to take you?”

You press your lips into a tight line. You don’t really want to think about your date right now, but- “Gavin Connelly.”

“Who?”

You laugh, kicking the heel of your shoe against the ground with a soft clack. “Yeah. God, I wish I didn’t know him right now.”

“Why, what’d he do?” Steve sounds perturbed. You look up to find him scowling already.

“Oh, he just ate a pot brownie before he picked me up and passed out at one of the tables.” You finish with a tired giggle, shrugging at Steve as he peers at you with an annoyed expression. “Who did you bring?”

“Kelly Palmer.”

You know Kelly. She doesn’t say much, but she’s gotten a scholarship to a big art school. “Do you like her?”

“Yeah, she’s nice,” he says mildly. Unconvincingly.

You can understand the subtext. She’s not Nancy. When you look at his face, he seems tortured in the low light coming from down the hall.

“Guess I’m oh-for-two,” Steve adds after a pause. “Last year’s prom, Nance and I didn’t have such a good time, either.”

You nod. It seems like there’s more he wants to say, but he doesn’t. “I’m sorry,” you offer. You don’t know the ins-and-outs of Steve and Nancy’s relationship, aside from watching them suck face in the hallway five paces from you for a year and a half. “Prom sucks. High school sucks. These can’t be the best years of our lives, trust me.”

“Yeah, I hope not.”

“I just can’t wait to get out of here, you know,” you grumble, allowing your sour mood to come out a little more than normal. It seems like Steve is just really good at getting you to let your guard down. “I’m planning to go to Chicago for college. This is all just… you know, it’s just the starting point. What about you, any big plans?”

“Dunno. I didn’t get accepted to any schools, so I’ll just be getting a job here in town until something better comes along.” Steve shifts, his heel hitting the wall behind him. He looks disappointed when he says, “I think I made too many mistakes.”

You frown, chewing on your lip. “What do you mean?”

He gives you a heavy look, like he’s gearing up to say something important, something game changing- and then his gaze softens.

“You’ve got an eyelash.” He gestures to his own eye, like it’ll make you understand exactly where the loose one is on your face.

“Oh.” You falter, lifting your manicured hands and wiping at your undereyes. “Did I get it?”

“No, uh- here, I can-” Steve tentatively reaches forward, and you step toward him to let him touch your face.

Steve Harrington is touching your face.

His fingertip brushes your cheekbone, so featherlight you would barely feel it if you weren’t hyper aware of everything that he said or did. His touch glides across your cheek and toward your temple, and then he seems to keep it there, his hand hovering just over your skin.

Reflexively, your hand comes up to rest on his shoulder. You’re inches from Steve’s face, your eyes falling to his lips.

You could kiss him. You could live your fantasy, right now.

Steve’s gaze lingers on your face for a moment, and then he says, “You’re so beautiful.”

Your heart lurches in your chest. He doesn’t say that you look beautiful. He doesn’t say it conditionally, like it’s just for tonight. You are beautiful. Even when you’re crawling on all fours after your binder. Even when you’re crying, and your hair is limp, and you look bedraggled.

“Steve…” you whisper, inching closer to him.

“STEVE??!”

You jump away from him like he’s burned you, and peek around the hall corner to see Kelly Palmer standing outside the gym looking up and down the hall, searching for him. She looks lost, and sad, like he must have ditched.

She looks an awful lot like you just did, coming out of that gym.

You feel Steve’s hand where it had fallen to your wrist, dragging your attention gently back to him. You take his hand and squeeze it once, giving him a tight smile.

“You brought her here for a good time,” you say with your bravest smile. “Just don’t pass out at one of the tables on her, okay?”

Don’t be a douche. Don’t be like Logan Sawyer.

Steve swallows, and gives you a short nod. You think he finally got there.

You give a soft pat to the lapel of his suit jacket. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”

He touches your arm one final time before he slips around the corner, just as Kelly turns to go back into the gym. You watch him walk away, and you think to yourself, That’s the last time I chase after Steve Harrington.

Wherever there is, it’s not with you.

Steve loops his arms around Kelly’s waist and lifts her, earning a thrilled squeal as the silver taffeta of her dress glints blue in the light from the gym. You wait until they’ve disappeared back into it before you turn and high-tail it toward the coat check table.

And we kept everything professional, but something’s changed, it’s something I like. They keep watchful eyes on us, so it’s best if we move fast and keep quiet…

Starcourt Mall, June 1985

“Come on, it’s ridiculously hot outside,” your best friend, Shelly, groans as she pulls you along by the wrist. “I can’t believe they only have one ice cream place here.”

“I’m sure they have slushies at the-”

“Ice. Cream.” You know better than to argue with her.

Scoops Ahoy has a novelty nautical theme that makes you want to both laugh and break down in tears when you see it. The PA is playing a cutesy rendition of Drunken Sailor on accordion, and you think that if you keep looking at the striped wallpaper behind the counter, you might get literally seasick. In the mall. In landlocked Indiana.

Or… is it landlocked if it fronts Lake Michigan? It doesn’t matter. You’ll be in Chicago in two days, anyways.

You let Shelly drag you along until you look towards the front counter, and you see something that nearly makes you trip and face plant into Shelly’s fresh perm.

Even Shelly pauses. “Is that who I think it is?”

It’s something about the stupid little sailor’s cap and shorts, and that he’s so, so pretty in it, you think. It’s also something about how you have the perfect vantage point to watch him try and fail to flirt with the girl that approaches the counter to order. You’re enamored with him. There’s no other way to describe it.

You have half a mind to run away, after what you promised yourself on prom night over a month ago. You’d done good, you didn’t search for him in the halls, you ignored him in your last couple of class periods with him. You’d even been in the bathroom when his name was called at graduation.

But, here he is. Steve Harrington, absolutely obliterating his chances of getting a date with the girl ordering a sundae ahead of you.

Honestly, you don’t know what you’re waiting for. Maybe an invitation? A sign from god that today’s the day that you’ll make a move? Or maybe this is just a test of will.

You stop resisting Shelly’s attempts to drag you along, and straighten your spine. You can do this. Four years’ worth of pining won’t make a difference in whether or not you order a strawberry ice cream cone.

He’s even prettier up close, his rosy cheeks framed by sunkissed, wavy hair. When he sees you he stalls, going a bit wide-eyed and then seeming to realize he’s supposed to do his job. He leans heavily against the counter. “Ahoy, ladies! Would you like to set sail on this ocean of flavor with me? I’ll be your captain, Steve Harrington.”

“Uh-huh.” You stare at each other for a long moment. “How much do they pay you to recite that script?”

“Absolutely nothing, I do this for pure enjoyment.” You’re almost sure that he doesn’t. He pauses, a hand poised on his hip. “Too much?”

“I’d dial it back just a smidge. Maybe keep the ahoy and the captain thing and toss the rest.”

“Noted.” He nods slowly, his eyes fixed on you. “I thought you were going to Chicago?”

“I leave the day after tomorrow,” you shrug. “Still time for me to burn the place down, you know.”

“Well, I’m glad you stopped by,” Steve chuckles. “I could show you where the gas line is, then we’d all be in trouble.”

“Oookay.” Shelly gives you a curious side-eye, and then turns back to Steve. “Well, I’ll have a U.S.S. Butterscotch with a chocolate dipped waffle bowl, if you don’t mind.”

Steve tears his eyes away from you long enough to grin at Shelly. “Coming right up. And for you?”

You freeze, glancing up at the menu. It’s written in an infuriatingly cutesy code-language that you have to decipher. “Um. I’m still deciding.”

“All right, then. Just let me know, when you’re ready.”

Steve slips away to make Shelly her sundae, a heaping pile of ice cream and butterscotch syrup that looks like the fast track to a heart attack. You alternate between trying to comprehend the menu and being distracted by Steve in that stupid sailor’s uniform.

The script on the menu may as well be written in a foreign language. Blackbeard’s Delight. Treasure Island Turtle. U.S.S. Sherbet. The sizes are even harder to understand. Fathom. League. Nautical Mile. You don’t have the capacity to decipher it- your eyes are seeing the words, but your mind is traveling back to prom night, and feeling Steve’s finger on your cheek as you gear up to kiss him.

“Are you ready?”

“Mhm…” It takes you a second to zone back into the present moment, where Steve is standing in front of you, on the other side of the counter, waiting to take your order. He waits, with a patient smile on his face, while you blink dumbly at him.

What did you say? What did he say?

“I… um.” You’re sure you look completely out of it. Your eyes flick nervously up at the menu, that you still can’t fucking read. Shelly’s already gone to sit down with her sundae, the traitor.

“It’s kind of hard to understand, isn’t it?” Steve says quietly after a moment, dropping the phony customer service charade. “I hate it. I think we should just be able to say what our favorite ice cream flavor is and be done with it.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, still squinting up at the menu. Blackbeard’s Delight: blackberry swirl with blueberry syrup and a gold doubloon. “The fuck is a doubloon?”

Steve snorts, and reaches under the counter before bringing back a handful of gold foil-covered chocolate coins, which he dumps into your outstretched hand. “You want more? We get them wholesale.”

“I’m good,” you giggle, juggling the chocolate coins before they go cascading to the floor. “I think… I don’t… I don’t understand a thing on that menu.”

“What’s your favorite flavor of ice cream?” He leans forward to ask you, like it's a secret. Just between the two of you. His head bent a little to peer at you closely, so close that you can count the freckles on his skin.

You glance over your shoulder. Shelly is seated by the far wall, under a painting of a kraken, giving you an indignant look. When she notices you looking, she mouths an emphatic, ‘LET’S GO!’

“Don’t tell anyone,” you whisper, and Steve affects his gravest expression as he nods. “Strawberry.”

“A classic,” he grins. “Fan of sprinkles?”

“I can dig a few sprinkles.”

“Perfect. I think we have something up your alley.” He grabs a scooper out of the bin and twirls it once, just to show off. “Sex on the Beach.”

“What?” You don’t remember seeing anything about that on the menu.

He glances up to smirk at you before shrugging. “It’s strawberry ice cream with peach syrup. You’ll see.”

You keep an eye on his hands behind the glass partition, watching them put two scoops of strawberry into a medium sized carton. Completely unable to rein in your thoughts before they get away from you, you’re thinking about how good they would feel under your shirt. You follow a treasure map of freckles trailing up his arms, disappearing under the blue sailor’s shirt he wears. You want to kiss every single one of them.

You finally reply, “I guess I have to put my faith in your professional ice cream slinging abilities.”

“Oh, haven’t you heard?” Steve mutters sardonically as he squirts peach syrup across the two scoops of ice cream, giving it a golden sheen. “I’m the king of cream.”

You purse your lips as it takes Steve a second to realize what he just said. When he does, he snaps his head up to meet your eye in horror.

He opens his mouth to take it back, but you shake your head, holding back laughter. “Don’t ruin it.”

“I think it’s pretty much ruined already.” He turns crimson, blushing down at the half-made sundae as he rapidly shakes yellow sprinkles onto it. “I was doing so good, too.”

“Who says you aren’t still?” You give him a cute smile when he looks up through his lashes at you, still arranging toppings on the sundae. You’re not sure what happened between prom and now to change him so much, but it’s almost as if he’s… goofy. He’s less concerned with appearances, he’s more laid back and willing to make fun of himself.

You like it a lot.

You watch him plop two maraschinos onto one ice cream mound, and wedge a candied orange slice into the other, inverted, to look like a setting sun. As he passes it over the counter to you, he says, “Here you go, one Sex on the Beach. On the house.”

“What? No, I couldn’t-”

“I mean it. For overlooking my stupidity,” Steve insists. He gives you a meaningful look when he adds, “A million times over.”

“I’m not overlooking anything when it comes to you, Steve,” you tell him fondly, and drop one of the doubloons into the tip jar. It’s gaudy, gleaming artificially gold in the middle of the crumpled up dollar bills. “Hang onto that. You might be able to cash it in for a kiss someday.”

Steve blinks rapidly, leaning across the counter as you walk away. “After you come back from Chicago, right?”

You look over your shoulder, and you wink at him.

When you finally stop in front of Shelly, and you use your plastic spoon to dig into the adorable sundae that Steve crafted for you, you remember that you’d gone up to the counter with every intention of ignoring Steve and acting like you didn’t even know him.

You winked at Steve Harrington. You said you’d kiss him. You think back to the girl who was so afraid of Steve even noticing her, almost a year ago, and wonder where she went.

You look down at Shelly. She’d graduated a year before you, so she wasn’t there to witness every blunderous interaction you’d had with Steve in school. You never told her how in love you were with him.

Now, she looks up at you coyly. “So. Steve Harrington, huh?”

“Shut up,” you grunt, looking up and out at the food court outside of the Scoops Ahoy storefront. “As if you know everything.”

“Are you gonna try to make something out of that…” she gestures vaguely with her spoon toward the counter, “before school starts?”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” you say honestly, still poking at your sundae. “Anyways, I leave too soon for anything to really happen. What- I screw him tomorrow and then fuck off forever? It’s just wishful thinking, probably.” You finally take a bite of the ice cream, just to punctuate your sentence.

“Hm. Probably. How is that?” Shelly nods at the ice cream in your hand. “Looks pretty.”

“It’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted.” You’re being honest. Something about the peach syrup with the strawberry base literally evokes the flavor of a sunset. “They should give him a raise.”

Humming, Shelly stands and takes her half-eaten sundae. She nudges you in the direction of the door. “C’mon. We’ve gotta eat these before the next showing of The Breakfast Club.”

Steve watches you and your friend leave, with the wistful gaze of someone who just watched their greatest opportunity walk away from them. He never knew that it was possible to hate an entire geographic location, but he really wishes Chicago would get blown off the map in the next 24 hours.

The wooden partition doors slam open, and Robin’s head appears in the window to the kitchen. “The cream king? Do you want me to actually hurl?”

“I said, ‘the king of cream,’” he groans, digging his knuckles into his eye sockets. “Kill me, Robin. Load me into the freezer. Bury me at the fairground.”

“You think you’re valuable enough to displace that much ice cream?” Robin rolls her eyes, and with another loud thwack, her white board appears in the space behind her. “We don’t make anything called Sex on the Beach. This is a family establishment.”

“I made it up.”

Robin coos, “Aww. Be still my heart. You love her to the point of invention.”

Steve whirls around. “Love? Who said anything about love?”

“I did.” Robin uncaps her dry-erase marker and draws a tally mark under the side that reads, you rule.

“Uh, Robin,” Steve snaps, pointing at the board condescendingly. “I think you put that on the wrong side. I fucked it up.”

“Dingus. Please. As much as it makes me gag- and you know I gain immense pleasure from counting how often you screw up- I could practically hear her heart eyes.” She sets the white board down, begrudgingly. “I think you found the only girl alive who’ll find all this-” she waves her hand at him, “endearing. Who was she? Some ex of yours?”

“If only,” Steve sighs, shaking his head. When he turns back to the counter, his eyes land on the single chocolate coin glinting in the tip jar.

He scoops it up with two fingers and pockets it.

You won’t believe half the things I see inside my head. Wait ‘til you see half the things that haven’t happened yet…

Family Video, March 1986

The air conditioning nearly blasts you backwards into the parking lot. You don’t know why they need it blasting so hard at 7pm, in the middle of March. It’s not like it’s the height of summer- your spring break takes place earlier than the local school’s, but it just means that you get to beat the crowds when you come home to visit your family.

Of course, they love to send you to run errands. You end up picking up the groceries, and the housewares, and, on this occasion, the choices for family movie night.

This Family Video’s selection isn’t necessarily as extensive as the ones in Chicago, but it’s good enough. You enter the store, and it dumps you directly in front of a cardboard cutout of Phoebe Cates about to flash you. Family friendly entertainment, and all.

The TV in the corner is running the final scene of The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly- Ennio Morricone’s score plays dramatically into the empty store. There’s no one behind the counter currently, so you pull the list of videos your extended family members had all requested. The Breakfast Club. Camelot. The Birds. Pretty general selections for your family, but it seems like you’ll have to hunt them up on your own.

You’re wandering down the romance aisle, since The Breakfast Club was nowhere on the new releases or comedy shelves, when someone finally emerges from the back room. You see a flash of a head moving toward the front counter from over the top of a rack, and you take it as your chance to ask for help.

“Excuse me? Do you guys have any copies of The Breakfast Club, or-”

You stop short, choking on your words. Steve Harrington turns around to look at you, carrying a stack of VHS tapes perched under his chin, and holding a folded up piece of paper between his teeth.

You stare each other down for a second, before Steve gracefully spits the paper over his shoulder and onto the counter. “Hey, um… long time, no see?”

“I’d say.” You tilt your head. Funny how quickly your eyes will hone in on his lips, like searching for a target every time. “We always seem to run into each other like this. What happened to the ice cream gig?”

“Starcourt burned down,” Steve says, plopping the stack of VHS tapes down on the counter beside the paper he spit out. “Right around the Fourth of July, last summer.”

“So, right after I last saw you?”

Steve smirks to himself before he turns back to you. “Yeah. Like, a week or so after. Did you manage to burn the place down, after all?”

“I wish.”

You pause, taking the time to size him up. It’s amazing what the better part of a year will do to someone, inside and out. With a striped shirt and green vest, he looks much more relaxed and casual than he had at Scoops Ahoy. His hair’s a little longer, his eyes a little darker as they rake over you, in return.

You’re a little bit desperate to see what’s going on in his head, if it’s anything like what’s happening in yours.

You wish you could say that you tried to seek him out when you got back to town- a year ago, maybe you would have. But you’d pretty much given up on the idea of him, moving up to dating college boys who don’t string you along, who don’t wait until the last minute to finally try their hand at flirting with you. If he ever passed through your mind, it was with the attached hope that he’d found greener pastures than Hawkins, Indiana. Foolishly, you hoped that as long as you told yourself that he’d moved on, it would be true. And then maybe what could have been wouldn’t matter anymore.

You’d stepped back into Hawkins after half a year of college, the graveyard of all hope in your happily ever after, and you hadn’t even thought of Steve Harrington. Except, seeing him now, everything comes flooding back. All the days spent pining over him. All the close brushes you’d had with finally getting the ending you wanted.

You have to be honest. “You look good, Steve. You always do.”

Steve chuckles, tilting his chin down as he shoves his hands into the pockets of his light wash jeans. “Better without the sailor costume, right?”

“Aww, I liked the sailor costume.” You step closer so you can whisper, “I thought it was sexy.”

Steve peers down his nose at you, drawing himself up to tower above you at his full height. He tries to look unaffected, but you can see his ears glowing pink beneath wisps of golden highlights. “Watch it. You’re gonna give me an ego.”

“We don’t want that, do we?” You unfold the list of movies you’re here to collect, holding it up to him between two fingers. “Got any of these movies?”

Steve reads the short list, and nods to himself. “I know we have Camelot, but I’m not sure about The Breakfast Club. Let me check in the back?”

“I’ll be here.”

“All right- don’t get up to any trouble, though. I’ve got my eye on you.” He points at you coolly, feigning an authoritative expression. He tries to hide his smile, but the creases around his eyes give him away.

“I hope you do.” You try to appear casual as you breeze past him, but you have to fiddle with your jacket collar to hide their shaking. Still, you feel the sweep of his gaze on you like rays of sun on your skin. It frightens you how easily you can fall back into the old back-and-forth routine you established in high school- how he gets you to say things you never meant to voice, but that live in your head effortlessly.

Steve watches you disappear down the drama aisle before he takes in a huge breath of air and bolts toward the back room. Any and all coolness he was performing disappears like so much smoke. Slamming open the door, he nearly shouts, “Do you have a doubloon?!”

Robin startles, swinging around in her seat, looking away from her computer screen. “A what? Why are you yelling?”

“A doubloon, a f-fucking-” Steve looks quickly over his shoulder, out the door, and starts hunching over as he whispers, “a chocolate coin. Like one of those ones we had at Scoops, remember?”

“Why do you want a chocolate coin?” Robin squints at him. “Stop crouching like that, you look like Nosferatu.”

Steve hisses through his teeth, and he’s got a frantic edge to his expression that Robin doesn’t like. “Okay- remember that girl, the one who showed up at Scoops that time, and you gave me my one and only ‘You Rule’ tally?”

“No.”

“Great. Well, she’s here, and she told me if I gave her one of those chocolate coins she’d kiss me.” Steve shoves his hands through his hair, mussing up the already disheveled style. “Please, Rob, I can’t let her get away again. I’ve done it, like, a thousand times already.”

“Okay, Romeo,” Robin humors him, turning around in her seat. “So you’re saying this babe, who I very much don’t remember because you always struck out while we worked at Scoops, told you that if you bribed her with chocolate she’d kiss you?”

“Yes.”

“And you don’t think she was maybe joking?”

Steve opens and closes his mouth like a fish out of water. Truthfully, he hadn’t. He’d overlooked the idea that, after everything that had happened between you, you might just be joking about kissing him.

“You know you could use your actual charm to get a girl to kiss you?” Robin dips her chin, shaking her head like it’s obvious.

Steve frowns. As if he hasn’t already tried that. “Do you have any chocolate coins or not?”

Robin sighs exasperatedly. “I don’t think I’ve seen one of those things since we worked at Scoops. Sorry, bud. You’re out of luck.”

“FUCK!” Steve’s hand smacks the door as he heads out of the back room, making Robin scowl after him. She shakes her head as she turns back to her work.

Back out on the sales floor, the credits to The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly have finished, and white noise fills the empty space. Steve turns in a circle by the checkout counter, searching for you among the aisles.

Where did you disappear to, this time? A part of him dreads the answer. He was the one who fucked everything up- he shouldn’t have chickened out when he had the chance. He should have asked you to that fucking prom, but he was too scared to commit after what happened with Nancy.

If this is his last chance, he needs to make it count.

He coughs into the dead air, and says, “Looks like we’re all out of The Breakfast Club.” There’s a disconcerting amount of silence that leaves him cold, almost certain that you’ve left already, for the last time.

Then, you appear from behind the red curtain to the adult videos section.

Oh.

“Everything okay?” you ask sweetly as you approach, holding a couple tapes that you must have picked up while you shopped around. “I heard some yelling back there.”

“Oh, yeah. Just, uh… shelving issues.” Steve backs his way behind the counter. He repeats, “Sorry, I couldn’t find the movie for you.”

“I heard. I’m not worried about it.” You plop the tapes that you did find on the counter. “It was nice of you to look for me. Thanks, Steve.”

“Always.” Steve starts scanning your tapes; it looks like you managed to find the other films on your list, along with one for yourself. From the adult section.

You watch in amusement as you can see the cogs visibly turning in Steve’s head, while he stares at the front of the porn video you picked. Spring Break Sex Party II. Not that you’d ever seen the first one, but the cover of this one was suggestive enough- a bunch of drunk people naked on a beach, lying in a great big pile. Looks like fun, in your opinion.

You always love seeing Steve blush. The prettiest shade of pink colors his cheeks before he glances up at you. “Should I ask…?”

“It’s the closest thing to getting a Sex on the Beach, here.”

Steve chokes, and he scrambles for a response to that. “I- I was gonna ask for an I.D.”

“You know we’re the same age,” you deadpan.

“Y-yeah. I, uh- I know… I know that.” He hangs his head and pinches the bridge of his nose, his eyes tightly shut.

You wonder if this is what you looked like to him, that time in the hallway when he loitered by the fountain to talk to you. “Breathe, Steve.”

A blast of laughter leaves his mouth before he can swallow it. If only you knew how hard it actually is, to act like he’s not just fucking melting right in front of you. When he hangs on every word you say, and every other thought he has is about how badly he wants to tell Robin to get lost and take you in the back room. You don’t know how much he’s fixating on your curves and how they’d feel against him, how much he wants to taste every inch of your body. He’s practically vibrating in place with all his pent up frustration, and you’re here buying porn, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

Steve clears his throat, shakes his head. Christ. “Okay, well. You know that this is a sale item, it’s not for rent. You can return it within 10 days as long as the packaging hasn’t been opened.”

“I know.”

“Okay.” He’s still nodding as he puts it into the bag with the rest of your rentals.

“Are you always this affected by people buying from the adult section?” you ask mildly.

“Nah, usually I don’t care,” he replies without thinking.

“Good to know that you care about my taste in pornography,” you tell him with the most shit eating grin on your face, taking the bag from him. “I’m flattered.”

He makes a clumsy noise in the back of his throat, somewhere between a laugh and a grunt. He’s right back to working at Scoops Ahoy, fumbling every attempt at flirting, losing his cool at the sight of a pretty girl. It’s… humbling.

He’s sure Robin would say that he can always use more humility.

“It was good to see you again, Steve.” And just like that, you’re sand slipping through the cracks in his fingers.

Desperately, he tries to block the flow, closing his fingers around you in an attempt to keep you in his grasp. “Do you- uh-” He lurches forward, white-knuckling the counter like his life depends on it. You turn back towards him, an eyebrow raised at his sudden outburst.

You’re back in the school hallway, senior year. Crying over Logan Sawyer. Harrington is up against the wall by the drinking fountain. You want him to just say the words and ask you to prom.

“I mean… if you have the time, while you’re in town… do you want to go for a cup of coffee? With me?”

“Oh, Steve.” You sigh, and it’s the most heartbreaking noise he’s ever heard in his life. Soft sand, falling through his fingers, disappearing back the way you came. He already dreads your answer before it comes. “I wish… you know, if I had come in here and met you about a week ago, I would have said yes in a heartbeat. But I have to catch the train back to Chicago tomorrow. My break’s almost up.” You offer him a reassuring smile. “I’m just glad that you didn’t completely miss me, at least.”

“Right, of course.” Steve smiles back at you, feeling more like an idiot the longer this drags on. He’s like Sisyphus rolling that rock up the fucking hill. “I… I’m glad I got to see you, too. Maybe next time.”

Oh, it hurts. It hurts way more than you thought it would, to have to turn Steve down- after all the years pining for him through high school, after the time you turned him away when he would have kissed you. You think about kissing him, now. He would let you do it- he’s asking you out, and he looks so sad that you’re saying no.

You could. But wouldn’t it make saying goodbye this time even harder than it already is?

“Yeah. Maybe next time,” you tell him. You don’t want this to hurt more than it does. You truly hope there’s a next time, another year down the line when you run into him over winter break. Maybe you’ll find him at the Radio Shack.

Steve watches you leave, once again. Fumbling his chance, again. When the door swings shut behind you, Steve bends at the waist and drops his head against the countertop.

Typical Harrington. Late to the party, miss the girl.

“Well. That was… really painful to listen to.” Robin emerges from behind one of the shelves, crossing her arms. Gently, she adds, “On the bright side, I don’t think the chocolate coin would have mattered.”

Steve picks his head up, and he thwacks his forehead back down onto the counter.

And again.

And I can see you being my addiction, you can see me as a secret mission. Hide away, and I will start behaving myself…

Sur La Table Restaurant, Chicago, April 1991

You shake your umbrella out as you step into the warm foyer of, quite possibly, the most upscale restaurant you’ve ever set foot in. The carpet is deep, blood red, the walls a dark chestnut wood. The white covered tables are each spotlit within the otherwise dark dining room, and the atmosphere is flavored by soft piano and the quiet din of hushed voices.

You had been hesitant to accept Theo’s invitation to dinner- he seemed too stuck up for your taste, but when Shelly introduced you to him, you had to admit that the name of the restaurant piqued your interest. Sur La Table. Chicago’s premiere Michelin Star restaurant.

As you hand your umbrella over to the coat check clerk, you’re greeted by a smiling hostess. “What’s the name for the reservation?”

“Um… Theo Bowman. I believe he’s already here?”

“Yes, ma’am. Right this way.”

Theo stands as you’re shown to the table. Tall, with dark hair and a wide smile, he reminds you of someone you knew once, but you just can’t seem to place it. Then, when he towers over you to shake your hand, standing far closer than necessary, you’re able to pick it out from the recesses of your mind.

Logan Sawyer.

“You look nice,” Theo says pleasantly, and you chalk up your initial comparison to nerves, on your part. You don’t often let friends set you up on dates, so you’re a little bit out of your element as it is.

As you go to sit down, you admit, “I was so glad when you picked this place, I’ve always wanted to eat here, since I moved to Chicago.”

“It’s not the nicest place I’ve been,” Theo shrugs, taking the seat across from you.

Your smile falters, for a second. “Oh, no?” The water has already been brought to the table, you guess while he was waiting for you. You take a long drink.

“Nah, I’ve been to Le Bernardin, in New York. That’s fine dining.” Theo waves his hand at the upscale dining room. “This is… okay.”

“I see.” You lift your menu, hoping that he’ll do the same.

“Yeah, New York is so much nicer than Chicago, in my opinion,” Theo continues, fiddling with his napkin as he talks. “There’s a lot more to do. Have you ever been?”

You hope this is just his nerves talking. “No.”

Theo keeps talking as you stare at the menu in front of you, at a loss. It’s an a la carte menu, clearly, but extensive and all in french. Salade de poires pochées. Coquilles Saint-Jacques Gratineés. Filet au poivre vert. You’re scrutinizing the fine print of what all the dishes include when your waiter steps up to the table. You know when it happens, because Theo finally stops blathering about New York.

You break your eyes away from the menu to glance at the server’s waistline, at eye level with you. He wears a crisply pressed suit and tie, his hands clasped in front of his belt.

“Good evening sir, ma’am,” the server says in a hushed tone, to keep the volume of the dining room down. “Welcome to Sur La Table. I’m Steven, I’ll be serving you this evening. Before we begin, are there any questions about the menu?”

You peer up into the darkness to try to see Steven’s face. He’s standing just outside of the spotlight over the table, only able to be dimly lit from the indirect light reflecting from the tablecloth. Once your eyes adjust, they lock onto a pair of familiar hazel ones.

Oh my fucking god.

It’s got to be fate, or kismet, or some force of nature that keeps bringing you together like this. Steve Harrington’s face hasn’t changed in five years. Maybe he looks just slightly older, a little more filled out in his suit and tie. His hair is a bit shorter at the back but still that same shade of golden brown, neatly groomed and tidy for the formal atmosphere- but you can see it being tousled on his off days, still flopping across his eyes in waves. And those are the same lips you dreamt about kissing, the same eyes you admired in the school hallway, the same nose that you always wanted to grind o-

“No, I think we’re ready to order,” Theo announces, louder than necessary. You throw your gaze at him, your eyebrows raising despite your best efforts to remain calm.

Is he really going to order for you? Just like that?

“Well, I was going to ask-” you begin, wanting to get a little more specification on how the filet is made, when Theo cuts you off.

“It’s okay, I speak French,” he insists. Not that it makes a difference to what your question was.

You press your lips together in irritation and glance at Steve, who looks back at you stoically. You wonder if he recognizes you like you do him- it’s been long enough, and you’re sure that you look a bit different than you did the last time you saw him. And then you notice the creases around his eyes.

He’s playing it off well enough, sure. But Steve is doing that same look that he did there in the Family Video five years ago, trying to pretend that he’s not affected by you, swallowing back his smile. He sends you a knowing look that says, What a fucking douchebag, am I right?

Suddenly, this date just got way more entertaining. You give Steve a minute roll of your eyes, only enough for him to notice. Tell me about it.

“We’ll start with the Bordeaux,” Theo is already reciting to Steve as you settle back in your seat. Steve pulls a little notepad out of his jacket pocket and begins writing. “For an appetizer, the coquilles. Then for the main, I’ll have the canard montmorency, and she’ll have the mignons de veau.”

You watch Steve’s hand pause as he’s writing, and he looks to you. He raises his eyebrow, saying everything he needs to with the one gesture. Is that what you really want? “The veal?”

“No,” you say, digging your thumbnail into your palm, where it rests on your lap. “Actually, I wanted to ask about the filet. What brandy is the sauce made with?”

Steve smiles, leaning a little bit closer to you. “We use Courvoisier.”

“Great. I’ll have that, please.”

Steve nods encouragingly at you. As he jots down the order, he says, “Wonderful. I’ll get this to the kitchen for you, but before I can bring you the wine, I’ll just need to see the lady’s I.D.”

“Are you serious?” Theo snaps.

“It’s all right,” you murmur, hiding your face as you dip your head to fish your I.D. out of your clutch. “He’s just doing his job. Right, Steven?”

Steve meets your eye as he takes the card from your hand. “You can never be too careful.” You watch him smirk as he looks over your I.D., his eyes lingering on your name for a second before he hands it back to you. If there was any doubt in his mind that you are who he thought, it’s gone now. “Interesting. We’re the same age.”

You laugh. Probably a little louder than is respectable, but you can’t help it. Leave it to Steve Harrington to remind you of the time you bought porn from him, while you’re on a date.

You watch Steve write something else on his notepad, and rip the page out before folding it up. He tucks his notepad into his pocket as he says, “I’ll get this started for you. I hope you enjoy your evening.”

“Thank you, Steven,” you offer just as he starts to walk away.

Steve shoots you a sideways glance. “Always.”

Your heartbeat pounds in your chest as you turn back to your date. Theo looks disgruntled, but he just lifts his water to his lips.

“So,” you begin, “what do you do?”

“Marketing manager,” Theo says, with a click of his tongue. “For Bowman Wine & Spirits.”

“Oh,” you nod. “No relation, I suppose?”

“My father owns the company.”

“Right.” God, help me.

Across the dining room, Steve watches you over his shoulder. His jaw sets as he sees you, the girl of his literal dreams, sitting across from some idiot who doesn’t even know that you don’t order for your date without asking her what she wants first, you fucking weasel.

That’s all right. You seem to have the situation under control, for now. Steve watches you calmly sip your water, staring at your date but not listening to a thing he’s saying.

Steve sighs. He’s never been much of a schemer, but he’ll just make sure that you won’t leave with this guy if you don’t want to.

His fingers brush the note in his pocket, and he pinches it just as he passes the front of house manager, Taryn. Without breaking stride, he slips the note into her hand, heading toward the back hallway and down to the wine cellar.

As Steve passes by, Taryn unfolds the note he slips her, and raises one eyebrow at the request he’s written.

I can see you in your suit and your necktie, pass me a note saying, “Meet me tonight.” Then we kissed and you know I won’t ever tell…

Overall, you enjoy Sur La Table immensely. The restaurant itself, anyways. The wine is wonderful. The atmosphere is great. The food is exquisite.

You’re about to jump the waiter’s bones.

Theo got his second wind sometime after the scallops arrived, and you think he hasn’t paused for breath since. You’ve been calmly eating your food, while Theo tells you literally everything about himself. It’s the best case scenario you can see happening on this date. You enjoy the food, mumble a non-committal acknowledgement now and then, and Theo entertains himself with his own voice the rest of the time.

You’re gonna kill Shelly for setting you up with him, but that’s tomorrow’s problem.

Right now, you’re focused on finishing your glass of wine while he talks about camping, of all things.

“So we got up into the Rockies,” he’s telling you, gesturing with his hands like it’ll make you more engaged. “We ended up freezing our keisters off. No joke, I have frostbite scars.”

“That’s, um… that sounds like fun.”

“No, are you listening? I mean, it was terrible. We couldn’t move for, like, two days. And when the snow stopped we were so tired and cold, we almost died.”

You knock back the rest of your wine with one gulp, and say with a sticky voice, “Wow. A near death experience must have been really scary, I’m sorry.”

Theo frowns. “No- I mean… It wasn’t… it wasn’t near death-”

“You just said-”

“It was more like a serious inconvenience, you know. But we pulled through. I wasn’t scared. A little snow isn’t gonna kill me,” he laughs incredulously. “It was just-”

Theo stops as Steve approaches the table. You catch him giving the back of Theo’s head the most murderous look imaginable before slowing to a stop and plastering an easy customer service smile in its place. “How did you find everything this evening?”

“It was fine.”

“The food was wonderful,” you tell Steve reassuringly. Your date, on the other hand…

“Yeeeah, could we get the check, please?” Theo asks, finally looking up at Steve.

You watch Steve’s brow twitch, such a small movement you could have imagined it. “Certainly. But first-” from behind his back, he reveals two white gift boxes and places them on the table in front of you and your date, respectively. “We like to give each of our customers a signature chocolate truffle, as a token of our appreciation.”

Everything in you aches. “Oh, that’s nice. Thank you so much.” You look down at the box in adoration, thinking for a second that it might be the only time in your life that Steve Harrington gives you something similar to a ring box.

“I’ll be sure to have our hostess come through with the check,” Steve adds delicately, making a gracious exit. His finger just slightly brushes your arm as he passes by- a dangerous move, but one that nearly electrifies your entire body at the single touch. You shiver as he says, “Have a lovely night.”

You watch Steve walk away from you, and your heart sinks into your stomach. You want to chase after him. The 18 year old you, who almost kissed him on prom night, is trying to claw its way out of your skin and bolt after him.

When Steve disappears from view, you have nowhere to look but at your date. Theo opens the white box in front of him and pops a neapolitan colored truffle into his mouth. “Well, that was underwhelming.”

You don’t want to watch him chewing anymore, like a cow gnawing on grass. You sigh, running a frustrated hand across your forehead, and flip open the box in front of you. The top of it rears up like a clam shell, and you freeze, your fingertips suddenly sticking to the sweat beading on your brow.

You don’t have a neapolitan truffle- you have a single golden chocolate coin. You stare at it in shock for a second before you even notice the note pasted to the lid of the box.

Meet me outside- the door past the bathrooms.

“Aren’t you gonna eat yours?” Theo asks suddenly, as the hostess approaches holding the check.

Your eyes snap up just as your heart shoots back up into your chest. “I think I’m gonna save it for later.” You flash him a smile as you close the box swiftly and shove it into your clutch. “Do you mind if I hit the bathroom real quick?”

“No, go ahead. I’ve got it.” Honestly, it’s the kindest thing he’s done for you all night. You might have to thank him some day.

Once you’re out of your seat, you chase after Steve like a shot. Around a block of tables and into a tiled corridor, you walk past the kitchen doorway just as another server comes backing out, carrying a tray of dishes.

There’s a door at the end of the hall, labeled exit. You never actually thought you’d be escaping a bad date through the back door; the notion was too clichéed, you thought that sort of thing only happened in movies. But you find yourself nearly running past the men’s and women’s bathrooms, until your hands slam down on the bar of the back door and thrust it open into the wind.

The rain has picked up, more of a downpour than a light drizzle now. In your haste, you’d left your umbrella and coat with the coat check. Not that it would have been at all discrete if you’d gone to collect it before running towards the bathrooms.

The door clicks shut behind you, and you gaze around in the dark. The alley behind the restaurant is only partially lit by a yellow street lamp, making it even more difficult to find him than it was in the dining room. “Steve?”

You catch movement in the corner of your eye, and turn in the direction of the street lamp. Steve stands up from where he’d been sitting on an overturned crate- apparently the only accommodations the restaurant staff gets during a smoke break. The rain has already soaked into his hair, messing up the tidy style and turning it stringy, falling across his forehead, shining gold in the yellow light. He takes one last puff of the cigarette in his mouth before tossing it into the gutter, and he looks at you.

He sees you. And it’s all you’ve wanted since the day he first walked into your geography class, freshman year of high school. There’s been some kind of a magnetic pull between you two for years. Something keeps bringing you together, it’s just never been the right time. Until now.

Finally, you’re running towards him, and Steve’s arms finally come around you, pulling you against his body. Your hands find the back of his neck just in time for his lips to crash against yours.

You had lost count of the amount of times you watched him kiss other girls in the hallway in high school- not just Nancy, but any and every girl he attached himself to (for a while, it seemed like he couldn’t make up his mind who he was dating at any given moment). All you knew was that it was never you, and you wanted it to be so desperately that it consumed your mind half the time. He looked like a good kisser, and you fantasized about going up to him and testing that theory for yourself.

But you never expected that his lips would slide over yours with an urgency that you could feel through to your very core, probably even more desperate for your kiss than you are for his. Steve’s fingertips press into your body through the thin fabric of your dress, holding you firmly to him like he’s afraid you might disappear on him again if he doesn’t absorb you completely. Your mouth opens with a soft gasp, and Steve’s tongue against yours tastes like tobacco.

It happens so fast that you can’t even think- and you don’t really want to. You’re tired of thinking everything through, finding reasons upon reasons why it’s not a good time, why it’s a bad idea, why it won’t work. He moans into you, grabbing the side of your face as he stumbles with you to the wall, pressing you up against the side of the brick building.

You meet his moan with a whimper of your own as his hand slides down over the curve of your ass, and he hikes up the skirt of your dress to grab at your skin with abandon. There’s a ferocity in Steve’s kiss that you don’t know what to do with, like he’s trying to stake a claim to you right there in the rain, with no one around to see it happen but the moths in the street light overhead. Not that he needs to- he’s already got you. You already chose him.

Steve gives you room to breathe with a soft sigh, his forehead resting against yours. “Been wanting to do that since high school,” he admits, just loud enough for you to hear, before pressing a featherlight kiss just beside your mouth, and again to your cheek.

“Y-you fffucking-?” you gasp when he latches his lips around a sweet spot on your neck and sucks. “I had such a huge crush on you, Steve.”

“I know. I- I should have- I should…” Steve drops his head against your shoulder and groans when your nails rake against his scalp. “Fuck.”

He grinds his hips up against yours, biting your lip as the hard length of his cock presses up against your core. “Gonna fuck me in this alleyway, Harrington?”

“I’m seriously considering it,” he growls into your ear. His lips find yours again with a passion, his hand holding your jaw still. A hot breath escapes him, pouring over your skin and making you shiver. You’re lightheaded, so close to just letting him do it, too, when the back door of the restaurant swings open.

Steve still takes a second to pull away, a little too absorbed in kissing you to really care who sees him do it. If he had his way, he’d have everyone see that you’re his- that you belong with him, and have for a long time. He finally glances over his shoulder to see one of the cooks, Liam, walking off in the direction of the employee parking lot.

“Where did you get the fucking doubloon?” you whisper into his ear, sounding so fucking adorable that Steve can’t help the lovesick look he gives you.

He brushes his nose against yours. “I sent my manager on a treasure hunt.” You giggle, pressing your forehead up against his, and he can’t help but chuckle along with you. “I wanted to give you one at Family Video, that time.”

“I know,” you say, and he pulls back to look at your face. “I heard you yelling at your coworker in the back room.”

Steve snickers and turns red with embarrassment, hiding his face in the crook of your neck. You run your fingers through his rain-soaked hair, a content smile on your face as you feel him grin against your skin and shake with laughter. “Take me home, Steve.”

You don’t have to ask him twice.

What would you do, baby, if you only knew? That I can see you throw your jacket on the floor, I can see you make me want you even more…

The drive to Steve’s apartment downtown is made with light conversation and the heavy, heavy weight of his hand on your thigh, creeping up further with each mile. But aside from the implication of sex hanging in the air, it’s as easy as breathing, chatting about the night with him. Shitting on Theo.

“Did you notice the way he said coquilles,” Steve murmurs to you at a red light. “I thought he was gagging on something. He was just trying to impress you, you know.”

You grunt. Could’ve tried a little harder. “He didn’t even like them. He said he didn’t like shellfish,” you laugh in return as you lace your fingers through Steve’s. “Why the fuck would you order scallops, then?”

“The price.”

It’s sweet, talking to him all the way to his apartment building, just catching up like old friends. He tells you that he’s going to culinary school now, and he’s been working at the restaurant for a little over a year, just to pay the bills.

“Culinary school? Really?” you say, with a note of awe in your voice.

“Turns out I’m really fucking good at cooking,” Steve chuckles. “Who’d have thought? Maybe someday I’ll stop waiting tables and work back there in the kitchen.”

“I can see it,” you tell him softly. “I can see you being the world’s best chef. Three stars and everything.”

He scoffs, but a pink blush creeps up the back of his neck. “You have too much faith in me.”

“Those are fighting words, Harrington.” You wag your finger at him. “Throwing down the gauntlet?”

“You just want me to cook you something,” Steve tuts.

“Absolutely, I do.” You consider him for a moment, in the passing light of a streetlamp. “Am I that transparent?”

Steve tilts his head to eye you meaningfully, and he smirks. “Always have been, honey.” His thumb rubs a little circle on your thigh that has you squirming in your seat.

The first thing you see of Steve’s apartment is the kitchen, and beyond that the dormant living room, but you don’t get that far before you’re sidetracked. Steve throws his keys onto a drop station by the door, and pins you up against the refrigerator before you can even think to ask where to put your shoes.

Your clothes are still damp, your hair still pasted to your clammy skin. Steve’s lips are attacking yours and his hands are grabbing at everything he can touch, but it’s still not enough. He’s not able to feel all of you at once, and it’s driving him insane with every passing moment.

Steve roughly yanks his suit jacket off, throwing it onto the tile floor beside the kitchen island. “Lay down.”

“What?” you whisper to him as he kisses your neck, guiding you away from the side of the fridge. “Here?”

“Right here,” Steve states, not joking in the slightest. You wobble on your feet as you kick off your heels, but his hands on your hips keep you steady. “Been waiting too long for this- can’t wait anymore.”

“I- wwhuh-?” you gasp as Steve kneels in front of you, and your knees buckle involuntarily as he lays you down across his discarded jacket. Your hands grab his shoulders as you tumble backward, taking him with you.

He face-plants into your stomach with a noisy, “Oof.” Cackling, you run your fingers through his damp hair, as he laughs and shoves his blushing face further against your torso. Steve litters your stomach with kisses, giggling against you with a note of nervous energy. He’s adorable.

You pet your fingers down the side of his face and he leans into the touch. “Can’t even wait long enough to take me to the bedroom?”

“Well, I would have fucked you in the alley,” Steve points out as his fingers breach the hem of your skirt and find your panties. He tugs as he says, “Be thankful I even got you home.”

Your cheeks burn hot. You fidget, trying to press your thighs together to abate the throbbing ache between them. “Careful, baby. You’re starting to sound desperate.”

Steve pauses, his hazel eyes lighting up when they lock on yours. “Call me that again,” he requests, pressing a kiss to your ankle as he pulls your panties off your feet. He tosses them over his shoulder, but you don’t see where they land as he continues peppering kisses down your calf.

You hold his gaze. “Baby?” His eyes flutter, his lips parting as they drag up toward your knee. “You like when I call you that?”

“I like when you call me anything,” Steve admits. “But as long as you call me that, it means I’m yours.”

Your breath stutters in your chest. Steve Harrington is yours. It doesn’t matter if it’s just for tonight- what matters is that you have him now, and he wants you just as badly.

“You’re mine, aren’t you?” he murmurs quietly against your skin, his voice crackling with brimming need. He’s flushed, his cheeks pink and his hair drying in tousled waves over his forehead the longer he drags this out.

Nodding your head, you reach down to lace your fingers through his, where they’re bunching your skirt up around your hips. “Yes, Steve.” Always have been.

He turns his head and sucks a spot on your calf, just below your knee, resting your ankle over his shoulder. Still, despite your desperation, you nervously keep your thighs pinched together.

Steve tuts, “C’mon, baby, you’ve gotta spread your legs for me. You wanna let me see that pretty pussy, right?”

Still clammy and cold with rain, the air on your exposed skin makes you shiver almost as much as his sweeping hands do when they gently part your thighs. You let go, let him take control as you still and keep your eyes focused on his face, because looking anywhere else would remind you that this is real, and not a dream.

Steve sighs, “There she is. Y’gonna let me taste you, sweetheart?” He bats his pretty eyes at you in a way that makes your heart stop dead in your chest. He can’t keep his mouth off of you, even for a moment, his lips and slight stubble dragging across your skin as he says, “Been wanting to forever, you won’t even believe-”

“Please, Steve,” you start to beg before he even finishes his sentence. “Please, my god, I- I just- I just want you so much-”

“Sh-sh-sh-shh.” His tongue licks wet and hot against your inner thigh before he whispers, “I’ve got you, baby. M’not going anywhere, I’m staying right here ‘til you cum.”

You’re instantly hot all over, your blood fucking boiling beneath your skin and your wet dinner dress. Steve’s fingers dig into the meat of your thighs as he yanks you toward his face, the fabric of his jacket beneath you audibly zipping along the kitchen floor.

Steve dips his head, and his mouth closes over your cunt right at the same moment that yours falls open with a moan that won’t come out, because you’ve suddenly forgotten how to breathe. The noise stalls right at the beginning- your lungs stop working and you can’t seem to get them to start again, because Steve’s tongue is everywhere, dripping wet and gentle on skin that’s way too sensitive to handle it right now. Your hips try to jerk away from him in resistance, but he slams his hand down on them, holding you hard and still against the tile floor, his shoulders pushed up against the backs of your thighs to keep them open.

Steve takes a break just long enough to grin evilly up at you, because he’s been waiting for five years to tell you to, “Breathe, sweetheart.”

“Fffffuck,” you manage to spit out finally, your voice cracking on the word like it didn’t even really want to put in the work to make it happen. Your breath comes back into your lungs all at once, rapid firing with a dozen moans for punctuation. Steve’s lips quirk against you, and he rumbles a noise of satisfaction against your pussy that makes you jolt in his hold again. “Steve…”

He pulls off of you with a slow, slow stroke of his tongue over your clit, making you whimper high and tight in your throat. “That’s it, baby,” Steve whispers, his breath fanning across your slick cunt, his left hand leaving your hip so that he can drag his knuckles teasingly through your swollen folds. “Feels good, doesn’t it? Feels so right.”

Two long fingers sink into you with ease, stirring the need in you to have him just simply destroy you. You moan loud, your hand shooting out and wrapping around the leg of a bar stool for the kitchen island beside you.

“Poor thing’s just so sensitive, huh?” Your head arches backwards against the floor, your pussy clenching tight around his fingers as he curves them with practiced accuracy. Steve’s voice is a deep murmur, distant thunder rolling over your nerves, “Relax for me, honey. You’ve waited long enough, just let it happen. Let me give you what you want.”

His lips shine when you look down at him, your hand reaching to run through his hair. Stifling a whine that threatens to come out when he kisses your clit and bends his fingers within you, you stutter out, “J-just want… I- ha-ah! Just want you.”

Steve purrs. “I know.” The crisp white fabric of his shirt scrapes against your thighs, almost rough in comparison to his tongue flat on your pussy. You can hear the wet, salacious sound of his fingers pumping into you, pulling you toward the edge of oblivion. He hisses through his teeth, shaking his head slightly. “God, I’m so fuckin’ lucky.”

“Y-you-?” you manage a laugh, scraping your nails along his scalp lightly. “You’re lucky? You have n-no… fffucking idea-” You cut off with a sob when Steve wraps his lips around your clit, sucking long and hard enough that your leg twitches, your heel dragging up the back of his pristine white blouse. Your breathing picks up just as all your muscles lock down tight. “Jesus Christ-”

“There you go,” Steve praises as your orgasm shakes your body, your hand gripping his hair so hard that he groans softly into your damp skin. He doesn’t stop moving his fingers, lewd wet noises picking up and echoing through the quiet kitchen. “That’s a good girl. Mmm , felt so nice to let go, didn’t it?”

You don’t know if he really wants you to answer that- you’re still twitching, coming down from your high as he pulls his fingers from your spasming cunt and sucks them into his mouth. The pause gives you a gentle reprieve, sinking back onto his suit jacket beneath you. Then, his mouth finds your pussy again, his tongue delving deep into your entrance and laving up to your sensitive clit.

You gasp, throwing your hands down into his hair. “Steve-?!”

He moans in response. “Just needed to taste you some more, honey. Taste so fuckin’ sweet, I can’t get enough.” Steve relents, crawling up your body to hover his face over yours. “Still wanna see the bedroom?”

You nod excitedly, your hands finding his smiling face and stroking the hair away from his eyes. With a gentle kiss of his wet lips to yours, Steve gathers your still-wrecked body into his arms and carries you into his bedroom.

He’s struck by how blissful you are as he sets you down on his bed, so soft and inviting. He encourages your arms up, his hands finding the zipper of your wet dress and finally, finally, pulling it over your head so that he can see you. All your curves and edges on display for him, after all this time imagining what he couldn’t see with the naked eye.

“You’re so beautiful.” Steve repeats what he told you all those years ago at prom- he meant it then, and he means it now. Maybe even more this time, now that he’s not a stupid teenager, now that he finally has his head on his shoulders.

You shiver against him when he unclips your bra- black lace that matches the underwear sitting in his entryway. A possessive part of him rears up, knowing that you’d worn them to a date with some asshole who couldn’t treat you right, even for one hour of the guy’s miserable life. Steve dips his head and kisses your breast, so much softer now than he was before, feeling your heartbeat against his lips.

“Hey.” You gently tug him by his tie, loosening it and his collar. You look into his eyes, and his heart melts. “Where’d you go just now, sailor?”

Steve blushes, his eyes flicking down as you remove his tie and start unbuttoning his blouse. “Just thinking...” he trails off, eyeing you thoughtfully. “Just thinking I could have missed you again if I wasn’t careful.”

“Mmm,” you hum, your hands smoothing up his chest and over his shoulders to get his shirt off of him. It drops to the floor with a whisper. “I don’t think so. I think this was meant to happen, eventually.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You scrunch your nose cutely, in a way that makes Steve’s pants tighten even more uncomfortably across his hips. “We’ve run into each other too many fuckin’ times, baby. Karma’s on our side.”

He laughs. “Karma.” He shakes his head as he undoes his belt.

You quirk your brow at him as your hands fiddle with the fly of his suit pants. “Don’t believe me?”

Steve grunts, shifting to lean over you. “I’ll believe anything you say when you’re taking my pants off, honey. I’m easy that way.”

Your nails rake through the hair on his chest- you can’t keep your hands off of him now that they’ve got him. You trace over two blotchy scars, one on either side of his torso that mirror each other. “What happened here?”

He blows a puff of air out of his mouth, rounding his cheeks as he shrugs. “Some… animals decided I looked really tasty, at one point. I know, they aren’t very pretty.”

Steve’s brushing over it like it’s nothing. You search his face, and you decide to do the same. “Actually, I think it’s kind of hot.” You drag your hand up to lay flat over his chest. You whisper conspiratorially, “Plus, I think you look really tasty, too.”

Steve quirks an eyebrow. “Y’gonna bite me about it?”

“Probably.” You wink. “Most likely.”

Your gaze falls indiscreetly to his cock, hard and flushed, glistening with precum and curving up toward his stomach. Girls talk, especially when they’re all trying to one-up each other; you knew that he was big. You’d heard the rumors. You’d seen him wearing those tight fucking jeans all the time, and you didn’t have to have much of an imagination to figure it out.

Still. It’s… a little overwhelming. You reach out a tentative hand, lightly wrapping your fingers around his base. They barely meet. Jesus Christ.

He groans, and kisses you until you can’t speak, resting his weight on top of you until you sink gleefully into the mattress. There’s a smile on your lips that transfers onto his, happiness and ease still flowing between you even as he grinds his hips up against yours.

“Ready?” Steve murmurs softly into your mouth, stealing your breath when you feel his cock slide through your folds, hot and fat.

“Dunno,” you tell him teasingly, but there’s an edge of reason to your words. Your hips squirm and you feel him even worse, slippery with your arousal. You whine. “I think you might kill me with that thing, Harrington.”

“I’ll go slow,” he whispers, hoarse in the back of his throat, his voice already shaking. “I’ll make sure you feel every bit of it, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you agree as you reach to line him up properly. “I’m all yours.”

Steve gives a relieved sigh as he slides into you, his head falling heavily to your shoulder. His cock aches, his torso shaking as he tries to steady himself. “Oh my god.”

“Baby,” you coo, choking on a moan when he bottoms out. He’s so thick- your nails dig into his shoulder blades as you try to remember how to breathe. It’s certainly a big stretch to try to fit him, but you can’t help wanting more just as soon as he comes to a stop. You can feel him trying to hold steady, holding himself back as though it’s the hardest thing in the world for him to do.

Because it is. You can’t see it, the way that his brow is furrowed in concentration, his eyes screwed shut. He didn’t know it would be like this- that he’d be in danger of blowing it just as soon as he started.

Your heel digs into his ass, and he doesn’t know if you do it purposefully, but he almost whimpers.

You take a shuddering breath. “Please- please move, Steve, I can’t take it.”

Oh, you can’t take it? “You know what,” Steve says with a hint of strain in his voice, picking his head up to nuzzle his nose with yours, “I think you like me.”

You snort, and kiss him lightly. “What gave you that impression?”

“Y’so fucking cute.” Steve hums and sloooowly pulls his hips back, dragging his cock through your walls so deliciously that your toes curl. “Could be all those times you stared at me in class-” He watches your face as he pushes forward, until his hips are flush with yours and your head arches backwards against his sheets. “Could be when you nearly let me kiss you at prom-” Out. In. Steve runs his tongue up the length of your throat, and bites at your earlobe. He whispers, “Could be that you came on my tongue ten minutes ago.”

He picks up his pace, just a bit. Just enough to have the bed creaking under you with the rhythm, to have you moaning in tandem with him- needy and high pitched, leaping from your throat into the hot, sex-charged air.

Steve’s lips latch onto your neck, and he sucks hard. He eases up after just a couple seconds, dragging his tongue over the sensitive spot, but you know what he’s just done- he’s marked you, right where you won’t be able to hide it in the morning.

You want him to do it all over your body.

Your jaw goes slack and you’re losing all integrity. He’s even better than you imagined- sleepless nights wanting, hoping endlessly that you’d find yourself here, under him, couldn’t have prepared you for how perfect it feels. His hand finds yours and laces your fingers together, pinning it to the mattress beside your head, squeezing with every slow and purposeful thrust of his hips.

Steve’s cock finds your g-spot like it’s nothing, like he’s known your body for ages. He barely even has to try before you’re whimpering, raking your nails up his back and leaving long red trails behind.

Your teeth latch onto his shoulder and you bite, probably harder than you should, but you just can’t refuse the urge to mark him the way that he’s left his mark on you. He moans, a deep and boyish sound in your ear, as you drag your tongue along his shoulder, soothing the bite, tasting his sweat. The salt and the sweetness of his skin, mixed with the heady smell of sex in the room, have you losing yourself in him.

“Biter.” You hear him chuckle dangerously, rumbling along your skin while his nose skirts your jawline.

“You’re so good, Stevie-” you whine, hot pleasure rearing up in you like a tidal wave. “Oh, you feel so fucking good, I love- love how you feel inside me.”

Steve groans loudly into your shoulder, his teeth grazing your collarbone. You think he has a mind to bite you back- maybe he’d do it harder. You can see Steve drawing blood, when the mood suits him.

But his hand squeezes yours, his other sweeping broadly up your thigh and hitching your leg up further over his hip. “Yeah?” His voice is rough, bordering on a growl, “What’d’ya say we stay like this forever, huh? Just like this?”

His pelvis grinds up against yours, his pubes crushing against your clit making you gasp. Everything’s wet- your skin, his skin, the sheets. Sweaty bodies sticking and sliding against each other, your hips meeting his in the middle.

“Like this?” you gasp, your head reeling. His forehead presses against yours, and it’s just about the only thing bringing you back into focus. Steve doesn’t falter, keeping the same pace and rhythm while he watches you try to form a coherent reply. “Mm- I- I, hhuh-”

��C’mon, babygirl,” he breathes against your damp skin, “you can do better than that. You love my cock so much, you wanna keep it warm all the time? Wanna stay in bed with me forever, is that it?”

You nod fervently, your hands grabbing at his neck, his hair, his shoulder- anywhere you can touch. “Yes, yes. God, Steve, I- you’re gonna make me cum, shit-”

“I know it,” Steve murmurs, tugging your lip between his teeth and making you whine again. Your cunt pulses around him, and he hisses, his hand slipping on your thigh. “Love seein’ you all drunk on my cock- shit, you’re so gorgeous like this.” He pauses to kiss you, making you lightheaded, making you tug at his hair. “Y’look so pretty under me, baby. Pussy feels so good, I wanna stay here, too. I can see us doin’ this for the rest of our lives, huh? How’s that sound?”

How does it sound? You and Steve Harrington, together forever? Intertwined, knotted up with no way to lose each other, no disappearing and then reappearing years down the line?

“S’that a challenge?” you whimper shakily at him. “Throwing down the gauntlet?”

“I don’t think I could let you go, now,” Steve tells you firmly, his hand leaving your thigh so that he can grab your jaw possessively, his tongue darting out to trace gently across your bottom lip. “I’m never gonna let you go, baby.”

You wrap your legs around his waist. “I don’t want you to.”

“I hope so,” he whispers, his breath mingling with yours.

Steve kisses you long and slow when you cum. You swallow his moans when he does.

What would you? Baby, if you only knew that I can see you, oh, I can see you…

You almost think it’s a dream. When you rouse in the morning, you feel like you imagined it. But you’re surrounded by the scent of Steve, of musky cologne and sweat and sex, and maybe just a little bit of hair gel stuck to his pillows.

You flop over and stare at the ceiling. You’re alone in a king size bed, fitted with gray sheets and a few too many pillows. The other side of the bed is still warm, but your paramour is nowhere to be found. His bedroom is fairly stark, with a few little things arranged on the dresser top and clothes thrown around the floor. It doesn’t feel like a room he spends much time in, aside from sleeping and dressing in the morning.

You immediately think about what this all means for you. Whether he really meant what he said in the heat of the moment, if he really wants this to be a long-term thing or if it was just pillow talk. It doesn’t take you long to determine which one you want it to be.

There’s commotion on the other side of the closed door. You lean over the side of the bed, searching for something to put on before you just waltz out there naked. Ultimately, you pull on his blouse from last night.

You emerge from the bedroom squinting against the light in the room. The blinds in the living room are open, casting bright sunlight across the room and into the kitchen. You find Steve in front of the stove.

“Hey, there she is!” he announces happily. “Just in time for breakfast.”

Steve looks so comfortable in the kitchen, moving around quickly and efficiently, whereas you tend to blunder about. When you wander over to the island, you notice he’s already picked up his suit jacket, and laid it across the bar stool next to the one you choose.

Your underwear is nowhere to be seen.

You grin at his back, plopping down onto the bar stool. The metal is cold against your bare ass, nearly making you squeal and jump back up. “Is it a Sex on the Beach?”

He laughs gleefully. “Nah, if only. How was that, by the way?”

“The ice cream, or the porn?”

He turns to grin at you over his shoulder. “Both.”

He’s wearing glasses. Round wire frames that complement his face perfectly, making him look distinguished in his gray sweats and black t-shirt. Just like that, you’re spiraling. Suddenly, you’re picturing yourself being here, with him cooking breakfast in his glasses and PJ’s every morning, on and on into the future. Doing domestic shit, grocery shopping, dancing around in the kitchen at 3 am, kissing in the rain- well, you’ve already done that one.

But you can see it. That future, with him by your side, it’s right there. You just don’t know if it’s the one that he wants. You don’t really know how deep this runs for him.

Funny what just an accessory can do to your train of thought.

“Um.” You swallow. What was the question? “The ice cream was great. Still the best sundae I’ve ever had, by the way. The porn was bullshit, I didn’t get through twenty minutes. I just wanted to make you blush.”

“Brat.” He spins around, and plates an omelet right in front of you. You watch his face, tracing the easy smile he wears. “I hope you like it- but if you don’t, you better not say anything. I don’t think I could handle the pain of your rejection.” He looks up at you, hazel eyes shining gold in the sunlight. “You’re staring.”

“I-” you blink at him. You don’t fucking say. You open your mouth to ask- you want to ask what this is, what he feels, did he mean it. Do you want to do this again? Is this serious for you? Because it is for me, if you want it. You just don’t get that far.

“You’ve been staring since we were fourteen,” he chuckles, sliding you a fork.

That startles you. “Well,” you click your tongue. “I didn’t realize you were looking so closely.”

“Oh,” Steve shrugs, turning to place the pan in the sink. “Just since freshman year. When you read Juliet’s monologue in English class. Remember?”

You tilt your head. Vaguely. It was just a class project, where each person had to choose a Shakespearean monologue to recite in front of the class. You thought he only even became aware of you senior year.

Romeo, doff thy name, And for that name which is no part of thee, Take all myself.

“Are you telling me,” you say, palms flat on the counter as you peer at him incredulously, “you’ve liked me just as long as I’ve liked you?”

“Told you I’d get there, eventually.”

Your brain refuses to compute. You stare at his back, his tousled hair, and want to yank him toward you and squeeze him like one of those fucking squeaky toys that you get at the pet store. The ones the eyes pop out of.

Steve turns to you with a smirk, leaning across the counter to mirror you. He reaches forward to trace the mark he made on your neck, still tender, while mocking your pout back at you. His eyes crease at the corners, like they always do when he’s trying to be coy.

“Eat your breakfast, baby. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

(I see you, I see you, baby.)

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fanfiction #stranger things #roses*

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almostwisegalaxy · 1 month ago

Note

Hi! Can you write about the reader being Si-eun's younger sister (either one year or a few months younger) who used to be bullied in school but never talked about it? She doesn’t confide in Si-eun or their mother until one day when she comes home from school, and this time she really breaks down in front of Si-eun.How would Si-eun react, and how would he deal with this as her brother? (I’m looking for a platonic/angst-to-fluff kind of story.) Thank you so much for your hard work!<333

Up to two

Yeon Sieun x Sister!reader platonic story Part 2

In this story the reader has a shy character and is 14 years old.

..................................................................................

The sky was pouring a fine, almost invisible rain over the city, but Si-eun felt it weighing on his shoulders like a wet blanket. He had come home earlier than usual from high school, abandoning the gray corridors of the building where the boys shouted to exist. Their voices, their postures, their fury... it all exhausted him. He found neither warmth nor comfort in their gazes, not even a shadow of what he unconsciously sought: a sincere connection.

But at home, there was Y/N.

The door had closed silently behind him. The lights were dim in the small apartment, as if even the electricity thought twice before imposing itself too much. And there, on the sofa, sitting cross-legged, Y/N looked up at him. Immense eyes, dark and bright, curious but silent. She said nothing. She almost never said anything. But she looked at him as if he were the whole world. He wasn't the whole world. He was a broken boy who had never learned to love anything but silence. Yet, with her...

"Ddeul-kkot," she whispered.

It was their secret word. A trembling flower. A whispered idea to say "I waited for you" without anyone understanding. He dropped his bag without a word and walked towards her. She held out her hand. He took it without hesitation. Her small, warm palm was the only thing that brought him back to himself.

Yeon Si-eun was not a big brother like the others. He hadn't learned how to be one. He hadn't seen his father love, nor his mother forgive. He had only seen absences, closed suitcases, silences heavy like ceilings that were too low. But Y/N had appeared one day. So small. In the arms of a man who was their father to both of them, but who wasn't really anyone's father.

And since then, she was his.

She would sometimes lie down against him in the bed that was too big for one person. He never said anything. He let her do it. She would snuggle against his back or his chest, depending on the night. He could feel her breath, light, almost regular. He didn't fall asleep right away. Sometimes, he would lie there, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling, wondering why his heart was beating so fast, so painfully.

When she was there, he breathed better. He would let his hand slip into her hair, caressing it slowly, as if to say, "stay a little longer." She didn't speak. She didn't ask questions. She simply stayed close to him. And in this blurry and violent world, it was the only certainty he possessed.

They had their code. Simple words, often absurd. "Ddeul-kkot" for "I'm here." "Samak" for "say nothing." "Chik" for "I need you." No one understood them. And they didn't care. It was their refuge, their secret home between coded phrases, shared glances, silences woven like promises.

That day, after school, Y/N had waited for him. As always. She knew when he came home, even if he said nothing. She never jumped into his arms. She wasn't one of those clingy children. But she stayed there, sitting up straight, calm, with that small smile that existed only for him.

"You look sad," she murmured an hour later, as they lay side by side. She had come, naturally. Like every night.

He didn't answer right away. The ceiling was blurry. The streetlights cast an orange glow on the faded plaster.

"It's nothing."

She turned her head towards him. He felt it. And he sighed.

"I wish you had been born somewhere else. That you had a real father. A mother who loves you. That you weren't stuck here, with a brother like me."

She remained silent for a moment, then, slowly, she slipped her hand into his.

"But I'm happy here."

A tear rolled down Si-eun's temple. He didn't stop it. He never cried in front of others. But with her, he no longer wore a mask. He was no longer the strategist of the class, nor the boy who was hated for his coldness. He was just a boy who loved his little sister more than he had ever loved anyone else.

Y/N was not like other children. Not because she was shy or reserved, but because she knew how to observe. She understood adults without speaking, thwarted lies with a gentle smile, manipulated situations without seeming to. It was her strategy. A calculated gentleness. A mastery of silent attention. A gift she used to make people underestimate her, always.

But not Si-eun. He knew. He had seen her do it. He had even seen her pretend to cry so that a teacher would let her out of class, just to bring him his forgotten notebook. He had said nothing. He had just looked at her with silent respect.

One day, she had told him:

"You don't need to fight with your fists. You could win with silences."

He had looked at her for a long time. She had lowered her eyes, a little embarrassed. She wasn't good at long sentences. But she thought them intensely. And he understood them before she finished.

Y/N was not popular. No one really liked her. The neighbors murmured. The schoolmates avoided her gaze. But he, Si-eun, looked at her as one looks at a rare star. She was all he had, and all he wanted to protect. He had never desired something with such gentle obsession. He thought of her every moment. Wondered if she was okay, if she had eaten, if someone had hurt her.

He had the impression that if she disappeared, the world would suddenly go out. There would be nothing left.

And she, with her silent way of slipping her hand into his, of resting her head against him without asking anything, knew all this. She didn't say the words. But she lived them. And that was enough.

That night, before falling asleep, she whispered to him:

"Chik."

He smiled, his eyes closed. He squeezed her hand a little tighter. She was there. And so was he. For tonight, that was all that mattered.

---

Flashback – 13 Years Earlier

That night, it was raining.

Not a peaceful rain. A driving, aggressive rain, as if the sky itself wanted to collapse onto their dilapidated building. Si-eun, almost five years old, was sitting in his tiny room, one arm in a cast, a flickering desk lamp illuminating his worksheets. He didn’t understand everything he read, but he kept going. It was his method for stifling the screams.

Because in the living room, the world was burning.

“YOU BROUGHT THAT KID HERE LIKE IT WAS NORMAL?!”

“She’s MY DAUGHTER! She has nowhere else to go, what did you want me to do?!”

“And me? And our son? Does he deserve this? Does he deserve this SHAME in his own home?!”

Shame.

That word had lodged itself like a thorn in Si-eun’s heart. A shame. A daughter born of a mistake. An error screamed through the walls. He heard her name — not Y/N, not yet — spat out with hatred, tossed around like garbage they no longer knew where to throw.

And in that din, another sound. Tiny. A rustling. A stifled breath.

Si-eun stood up. Slowly. As if moving in a dream. He crossed the hallway — his small steps muffled by the worn rug — and stopped at the living room doorway.

No one.

Except a baby carrier forgotten at the foot of the sofa. Placed there like a cumbersome bag.

He approached. In the dim light, he saw large, wet eyes fixed on him. No tears were falling. But she was trembling. So small. Too still. As if she already knew that making noise was dangerous.

She wasn’t crying.

She didn’t dare.

He picked her up in his child’s arms, clumsily, his cast scraping against the fabric of the baby carrier. She didn’t move. Just a small sigh, a kind of silent relief. As if she knew he wouldn’t reject her.

He went back to his room. He closed the door. He locked it.

When the banging came, he didn’t answer.

“Yeon Si-eun, open up! You can’t do this, damn it!”

“You have no idea what you’re doing! This isn’t YOUR PROBLEM!”

He wasn’t listening anymore.

He sat on his bed, Y/N against his chest, and began to breathe softly. She did too. He felt her heart, a tiny beating drum, against his own.

He was only five, but he understood. This baby, no one was expecting her. No one wanted her. Except him.

She was his now.

***

They didn’t talk much. Neither of them.

Y/N had that silence born in the womb of abandonment. And Si-eun, he had learned very early that words were used to lie or to hurt. So they lived together, without unnecessary chatter.

But their gestures spoke for them.

When she learned to walk, it was to him that she reached her arms.

When she had nightmares, she would crawl out of her room, drag her blanket into his, and he would hoist her onto his bed without a word. She would snuggle against him. He would place a hand on her head. They would sleep like that.

Always like that.

“Do you think the stars are watching us?” she had asked him one day, her voice hoarse with sleep.

“Maybe.”

“And if we told them our secrets? Would they keep them?”

He had smiled. A rare, fragile smile.

“I think they would listen to you. Not me.”

“You’re a star too. But one that’s forgotten how to shine.”

He had turned his head, surprised. She was already blushing, hiding under the covers.

He had said nothing. But he hadn’t forgotten. Ever.

There was no gentleness in the house. There were only the sounds of breaking dishes, fleeting glances, chronic absences. But between them, there was an invisible cocoon, built in silence and simple gestures.

He tied her shoelaces in the morning.

She brought him water when he coughed at night.

She often fell asleep in his arms.

He watched her sleep. Sometimes, he told himself that she was the only thing that proved he had a heart.

They had invented their own language.

Because real words were dirty, misused, dangerous. So they had created others. Ddeul-kkot. Samak. Chik.

“Ddeul-kkot” to say: I’m still here.

“Samak” to say: Don’t talk about it. It’s okay.

“Chik” to say: Stay.

One day, he had been beaten up at school. A group of older students. He had refused to cry. He had come home, collapsed in the hallway. His bag torn. Blood on his shirt.

She was five years old.

She had knelt in front of him, her small hand on his chin to see his swollen face.

“Chik,” she had said.

He had nodded, his teeth clenched. She had stayed with him all night. She didn’t talk much, but she stayed.

Always.

The tenderness between them was discreet, but visceral.

When she cried, he would place his hand on the back of her neck and pull her against his chest.

When he was angry, she would place hers on his and whisper: Samak.

***

They had rituals.

In the evening, he would open his blanket for her. She would slip in, as naturally as could be, and snuggle against him. Sometimes she would rest her head on his chest and listen to his heart.

“It beats fast,” she would say.

“It’s because I think too much.”

“Do you think about me?”

He never answered. But he would gently stroke her hair, and she understood.

When he came home from middle school, his gaze empty and his knees scraped, she didn’t ask questions. She would go get the first-aid kit. She would dab a cotton ball on his wound, blow gently, and say:

“You won, huh?”

He would nod. Sometimes not. But she wouldn’t ask for more.

One day, he had cried. One night. He had broken down. He had sat at the foot of his bed, unable to breathe, his fists pressed against his temples.

She had woken up.

“Si-eun?”

He hadn’t answered.

She had slipped out of bed, sat down in front of him, her small hands resting on his knees.

“Do you want me to sing?”

He had nodded, almost imperceptibly.

And she had sung. An invented song, clumsy, with lyrics that didn’t rhyme. But he had breathed. He had held on.

A memory. Precious.

Once, she had fallen at school. A boy had pushed her head against a locker. When Si-eun had come to pick her up, he had seen the red mark on her forehead. He had asked what had happened. She had smiled.

“He said I was weird. So I showed him that weirdos can bite.”

He had chuckled. Just a little. A short, shocked, but proud laugh.

“You’re dangerous.”

“Like you.”

He had taken her hand. She had squeezed it tightly.

They never said “I love you.”

It wasn’t necessary.

Because every look, every gesture, every silence said better than words: You are my only person.

And in that cracked house, in that world of held-back blows and cold violence, they had invented something rare: an indestructible tenderness. A pact without oaths.

Si-eun wasn’t born to love. He hadn’t learned.

But Y/N had given him, unintentionally, the only thing he had never had: a reason to stay.

And she, without saying it, without ever asking, had shown him what it was to be chosen.

Not out of duty. Nor out of obligation.

But because he couldn’t do otherwise.

---

First Year – Eunjang High School

The wind at Eunjang felt alien.

It whipped Yeon Si-eun’s face like a constant slap, reminding him with every step that he was no longer home. Far from the city he knew. Far from the alleys where he had learned to endure. Far from Su-ho, from Beom-seok, from everything he had wanted to protect — and failed.

Su-ho…

Just thinking of his name made his stomach clench. The images returned unbidden: his friend’s body, slumped, eyes half-closed. The screams. The blood. The metallic glint of a bat. The echo of his own heart beating too fast, too loud. Too late.

The transfer to Eunjang had been imposed. A decision made by adults who claimed they wanted to “protect him.” But no one had asked Si-eun if he wanted to run.

And above all, no one had asked him if he was ready to be separated from her.

It was a rainy Saturday, again. It often rained on important days, like a signal. A way for the world to mark pivotal moments.

He was returning from the high school library, bag over his shoulder, his mind tired, his heart drowned in silence. He didn’t like this new environment. Too many unfamiliar smells, too many gazes he didn’t yet understand. And that gang, invisible but omnipresent, like a constant threat lurking in the corridors, ready to erupt.

He had barely placed his hand on the doorknob of his student housing when something shifted in the air.

A presence.

He cautiously opened the door… and saw her.

Y/N.

Sitting on the small bench against the wall. Her backpack against her crossed legs. Her chin resting on her knees. She was waiting for him.

The shock was so great that he said nothing right away.

She raised her head, and her eyes shone softly.

“Ddeul-kkot,” she whispered, a smile playing on her lips.

And then, he smiled too. For the first time in a long time.

A discreet smile, almost stolen from the pain. But a real one.

“You came all by yourself?” he asked, quickly closing the door behind him.

She nodded. No pride, just a matter of fact.

“It’s not safe, Y/N. It’s far.”

“I know.”

He sighed, approached, and crouched down in front of her.

“You could have gotten lost. Which bus did you take? Have you eaten?”

She held out her hand to him. He took it. The simple contact brought him back. It always did.

“I wanted to see you.”

He didn’t answer. He sat down next to her. She rested her head on his shoulder. As if she had done it all her life. And in reality, it was almost the case.

They stayed there for a long time, without speaking. He made her fried rice with the leftovers he had. She ate it slowly, as if it were a feast.

And when she was finished, she glanced at him sideways.

“You’re sad,” she said.

He didn’t deny it.

“Su-ho… is still in a coma.”

Silence. She had never met Su-ho. But she knew. She read his silences like others read books.

“You can talk to me,” she had said. “Even if it’s hard.”

But he said nothing.

She didn’t insist.

On Fridays or Saturdays — depending on his class schedule, depending on travel — they would meet. Even if it was just a call. Even if it was only twenty minutes.

But some nights, she would make the trip.

She would arrive with a plastic bag containing kimbap she had made, or a box of tteokbokki bought at the convenience store near their old neighborhood.

“It’s not very good,” she would say.

“It’s fine,” he would reply. “You came, that’s the meal.”

They would eat side by side. Sometimes on the floor, legs crossed. Sometimes sitting on the too-narrow bed. They spoke little. But when they did, it was always true.

“I saw you smile with someone the other day,” she said one evening.

He raised an eyebrow.

“Were you following me?”

“No. I saw it in a photo from your school. He had a weird smile. Not like usual.”

“He’s a boy from my class. His name is Park Humin.”

“Do you like him?”

He hesitated. Then nodded.

“He has secrets, like me.”

She smiled softly.

“Then he must be kind.”

She wasn’t jealous. Never. But she wanted to understand those who approached her brother. Because for her, no one was as precious. And anyone who entered his world had to be worthy.

***

Then, one day… she didn’t come anymore.

A Friday. He waited for her. Nothing.

He sent a message. No reply.

Saturday. Nothing.

He worried. Of course. But she had had exams before, school obligations. Maybe she was just busy.

The following weekend, he made ramyeon for two. He let it cool.

The third weekend, he didn’t make anything at all.

She hadn’t given any news.

He had waited. Sent a simple, short, worried “Are you coming?”

She had replied hours later: “I’m tired. Samak.”

And then, nothing more.

No Saturday either.

He had taken the train one Sunday morning. An impulse. A contained panic. He had walked to their building. The apartment was locked. He had waited in the hallway. Two hours.

She hadn’t come home.

When she finally replied, that evening, it was to say: “Sorry. I went to sleep at a friend’s house. I needed to… get some air.”

He felt his stomach clench. Y/N had never slept at anyone’s house. She didn’t like it. She said other people’s houses “breathed wrong.”

But he didn’t insist. He didn’t have the right to insist.

And she… she kept silent.

And yet, he knew she was okay. Not because he had seen her, but because he still felt the invisible thread between them. She existed. She was breathing. But she was drifting away.

The last time she had come, she was wearing flesh-colored tights.

Almost invisible.

But he had seen them. Of course, he had seen them.

Y/N had never liked wearing tights. She said they “itched her legs.” But that day, he had noticed the artificial line at her ankle. He had noted the tension in her movements. She scratched discreetly, glancing at her legs when she thought he wasn’t looking. And that day, she had kept her jacket on, even in the warmth of the room.

And then, when he had accidentally placed his hand on her ankle, she had flinched.

He had looked up. She had smiled at him, too quickly.

“I’m just tired,” she had murmured.

He had believed her.

Because he wanted to believe her.

Because he was scared too.

And she, she had closed herself off.

She didn’t want him to see. Not now. He already had too much to bear.

***

She looked at herself in the mirror every morning, her fingers tracing the marks that were slowly fading.

The bullying was brutal. Not always, but often. There was blood, screams. Not just words, sneers, whispers that soiled the air. Sometimes a shoulder bump in the hallway. A hand brutally pulling her hair. A poisoned remark.

But above all, there was the isolation.

The certainty of being alone.

She said nothing. She told herself she was strong. She told herself that as long as she could walk to him, everything was fine.

But she had begun to doubt.

And one day, she had told herself that she didn’t deserve to be a burden to him. Not him. Not Si-eun. He had fought for too many things, too many people.

She told herself that if he knew, he would break. He would return to that violence she had always dreaded in him. She had seen that flame, one day, when a man had raised his voice at her in the street. Si-eun hadn’t even hit him. But the man had fled. Cold with fear. Before his gaze.

And Y/N had known: her brother didn’t need to shout to destroy.

He just needed to decide.

She didn’t want him to decide to hit for her.

She wanted to be strong, as strong as him.

So she hid the marks.

She had fallen silent.

And she had stopped coming.

But the distance between two silences, however long, cannot erase bonds woven with such care.

Even in his too-narrow bed, even in the heart of Eunjang’s violence, Yeon Si-eun still sometimes dreamed that she pushed open the door. That she said “Ddeul-kkot” with that small smile.

And even if he didn’t know it yet…

He was going to discover the truth.

And that day, the world around them would change again.

---

There was something almost gentle in the uproar.

Yeon Si-eun walked slowly behind Humin, Hyun-tak, and Juntae, their voices bouncing off the damp brick walls of Eunjang High School. Humin was laughing too loudly, as always, slapping Hyun-tak’s shoulder with every sentence. Juntae, in his own way, was talking about absurd things, a plush toy in his bag and bright ideas in his head.

They weren’t like Su-ho. Not like Beom-seok either. There wasn’t that invisible thread, stretched taut between them, made of survival, silence, and unspoken wounds.

But they were there.

They fought together, shared the injuries, the retorts, the silent glances in the hallways. They got each other out of trouble, waited for each other after class, placed drinks on tables without a word when one of them seemed on the verge of collapse.

And sometimes, Si-eun thought: maybe this is it. Another version of friendship. Simpler. Less torn.

That day, they were coming out of a small confrontation with students from another high school. Nothing too serious — a stupid settling of scores, an exchange of blows, a few bruises stinging under their uniforms. They were dirty, tired, laughing to forget.

He didn’t feel like laughing. But he smiled, a little.

Because they were alive. And in this school, that counted.

They had stopped at an old, half-abandoned café. Humin was tapping on his phone, always halfway through posting something or looking for a joke. Juntae was scribbling on a paper napkin, focused like a child. Hyun-tak stood a little apart, his back against the wall, his eyes narrowed.

That’s when Si-eun took out his phone. A reflex. An old habit. To see if Y/N had replied to his last message. Just a “you okay?” sent two days earlier.

No reply.

He sighed.

Then, almost without thinking, he opened their shared messaging interface. They had been using a family cloud for a long time. She would sometimes upload drawings, photos. Silly screenshots.

And there… he saw the folder.

Named “School,” simply.

He had never paid attention to it.

He opened it.

The first photos seemed ordinary. Class notes. A teacher’s remark. A schedule.

Then.

An image.

Blurry, taken from the side. Y/N, sitting alone in a classroom. Behind her, two girls are laughing, their faces turned towards her. A hand is visible, holding a pair of scissors, like a silent threat.

Another photo. Her locker. The door twisted. Papers thrown inside. Insults scrawled on the pages of a notebook.

Then a video. Ten seconds. A girl pushes Y/N against a wall. A voice is heard: “You’re not so tough when your brother’s not around, are you?”

And another one. Y/N in tears, but without a word. She holds her bag against her like armor. Her knees are dirty. She’s bleeding a little at the elbow.

He no longer remembered his breathing at that moment.

Only the sound his heart was making. Dull, immense.

He had locked his phone, without saying a word.

He had stood up abruptly. His friends had looked up.

“I have to go,” he blurted out.

Humin watched him go, surprised, but said nothing. Juntae just smiled softly, then went back to his drawing. Because they knew too, without asking questions.

He had run to his housing. Taken the train. Swallowed the stations without seeing them. His fist was trembling. His jaw was clenching.

It had taken him three hours to arrive at Y/N’s door.

She had opened it.

He said nothing at first.

Neither did she.

But when he held out his phone, screen lit, and their eyes met…

She had lowered her gaze.

“It’s not what you think,” she murmured.

But her voice was trembling. Too much.

He took a step back. Just one.

“Why… didn’t you say anything?”

She hadn’t known how to answer.

“Y/N, why didn’t you tell me anything?”

He repeated. Louder. His voice was breaking. Tears welled up in his eyes, without him being able to control them.

“Why did you let me believe everything was okay? Why did you stay alone? Why did you lie to me?!”

She backed away, her back against the wall. He saw her silhouette tremble. Her fingers gripped the fabric of her skirt.

“Because you were going to break,” she whispered. “I didn’t want you to break again…”

And then, he cried.

Really. Openly. Without shame.

Not the discreet tears he had learned to hide. Not the usual silence. No.

A raw grief, a heavy, exhausted, ancient sob.

He had collapsed on the floor, his hands over his face, unable to speak, to scream, to breathe. He was crying for her, for him, for everything they had gone through alone when they could have been together.

She had knelt down, timidly. And she had slipped her arms around him.

She hadn’t said she was sorry.

Because there were no words for that kind of pain.

Just gestures.

He held her close for a long time. Until his tears dried. Until his breathing calmed down.

Then, without asking, he took her hand.

“You’re coming with me.”

“But…”

“You’re coming. Now. You’re not sleeping alone anymore. It’s over.”

She didn’t protest for long.

She followed him.

***

The Housing – After

She had gotten into the habit of always placing her shoes in the same spot.

Of putting her bag against the left corner of the room. Of sitting on the edge of the bed when he was cooking. She didn’t talk much. But she was there.

And he, he checked her messages. Her clothes. Her elbows. Her silences.

He didn’t ask questions anymore, not right away.

But every night, he watched her, as if to make sure she wouldn’t disappear.

She was recovering slowly. She still had nightmares. Sometimes, he would hear her half-crying in her sleep. Then he would place a hand on her back, and she would fall back asleep.

One morning, she had slipped a note on the table:

I’m going to try to get better. For you. But mostly for me.

He had read it. And he had cried again. Discreetly, this time.

They had gone through hell, each on their own.

But now, they had decided to walk together.

And even if the world around them didn’t change…

The inside, it had begun to heal. Step by step.

---

The day Si-eun decided to talk to their parents, he hadn’t slept a single minute the night before.

He had sat on the edge of his bed, phone in hand, heart heavy like lead. He dialed their father’s number first. He knew it was the easy way out, but starting with him would be simpler. Or at least, less brutal.

The old man picked up with a tired voice. He didn’t say anything kind. Didn’t ask about his daughter.

— You know why I’m calling, Si-eun simply said.

— It’s about Y/N, I assume.

— You knew. You knew what was happening to her. And you did nothing.

There was a silence, then a sigh, like air leaking out of something long sealed shut.

— I’m ashamed, Si-eun. But...

— You don’t get to be ashamed if you keep doing nothing, he cut in.

He wasn’t shouting. But his voice sliced through, firm, sharp like a blade dulled by too many years.

— You and Mom—you’re responsible. You abandoned her. I did too, at first. But not anymore.

— What do you want? For me to crawl to you on my knees? You want money?

— Exactly. I want you to pay. For her therapy, her classes, everything she needs to live without lacking anything. This isn’t a favor. It’s your duty.

He didn’t wait for a response. He hung up.

Their mother, though, had been harsher. Less ashamed. Less compassionate.

— You’re overreacting. That girl is always whining. Do you really think it’s not her fault she got rejected?

He stood up. Grabbed his stuff. Slammed the door on his way out.

They would never live with her.

Y/N knew that. She hadn’t even asked.

In their new student apartment—a slightly bigger two-room unit, poorly insulated but warm—she could finally breathe for the first time in ages. At her new all-girls school, she was no longer “Si-eun’s sister” or “the weird girl from class 2-4.” She was just Y/N. A regular teenage girl. With colorful flashcards, earbuds glued to her ears, a backpack too big for her frame.

And little by little, she became herself again.

The real Y/N.

The one Si-eun had known when she was a baby.

He still remembered. She’d learned to walk and talk almost at the same time, barely over a year old. Out of necessity. She followed him everywhere, two stubborn little steps behind. Always calling out “Oppa! Oppa!” in every room.

She didn’t cry. That was beneath her, even back then—by her own baby rules. But she would sulk. Over nothing. Just to get her brother’s attention. So he’d pat her head. Give her his last cookie. And even now, at almost fifteen, she still sulked. When he forgot her favorite bread. When he told her to sleep earlier. When he spent too much time with his friends instead of her.

He loved it.

Not the sulking itself. But what it meant—that she had that gentle, bratty spark again.

He often thought: she came back.

But the journey had been long.

And for her to return, he had to face the worst.

He found the proof of her bullying “by accident.” An old chat window left open. Screenshots she had probably meant to delete, but hadn’t found the courage to erase. Degrading photos. Mockery. Insults disguised as jokes. Public humiliation.

He spent hours reading everything. Sorting it. Holding himself back from screaming. From breaking things.

Then he confronted their parents. Filed complaints. Notified the school. Sent warnings to those responsible. One of the bullies even changed schools after that. He wasn’t doing it for vengeance or pride—he wanted change. He didn’t want this rotten system to ruin anyone else like it had ruined her.

He also convinced Y/N to see a therapist. A gentle young woman with round glasses and a slow voice who never pushed, never insisted. Eventually, Y/N began to talk. A little. Then a lot.

And one day, she laughed. Not loud. But a real laugh. That of a carefree child.

They lived their routine like an old couple in exile.

Breakfast together—or not. Arguing about the dishes. Sharing the heater in winter. Listening to music together. Staying silent when memories grew too heavy.

But the balance was there. Fragile. Uncertain, yet real.

And then one day, came the Hyun-tak incident.

They were coming back from the supermarket, arms full of bags, when they ran into Humin, Juntae, and Hyun-tak at the street corner.

Y/N froze instantly.

Humin, true to form, shouted too loud:

— OH! Si-eun! Is that your sister? Hey little sis, you’re super cute—

But she had already turned and walked away. As expected, Si-eun dropped the bags and went after her.

He knew her: it wasn’t shame. It was fear. She didn’t like strangers. Not yet.

He calmed her down. Brought her back. And she reluctantly agreed to return and say hello. From a distance. No words. Arms crossed.

And then, it was Hyun-tak, surprisingly, who stepped forward first.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t reach out. Just handed her a cold drink, wordlessly, and sat beside her on the sidewalk like they’d known each other forever.

Y/N blinked. Stared. Then took the drink.

Humin looked stunned, like “What? Even I got ignored!”

And Hyun-tak, that smug calm kid, just smiled with the arrogant pride of someone who had accomplished an Olympic feat.

From that moment, he became the one she tolerated the most. Not that they talked much. But he understood her silences. And Y/N… she trusted him. Just like that. Instinctively.

(They fall in love afterward, but that's a whole other story.(⁠´⁠∩⁠｡⁠•⁠ ⁠ᵕ⁠ ⁠•⁠｡⁠∩⁠`⁠))

(The story is right (⁠☞⁠ ͡⁠°⁠ ͜⁠ʖ⁠ ͡⁠°⁠)⁠☞ here )

That evening, Si-eun came home with a light heart.

He watched his sister place the drink carefully in the fridge like a rare treasure, and she muttered:

— At least he’s not as loud as the others.

— Should I tell him you like him?

— Don’t you dare touch my social life, oppa.

He laughed. She fake-pouted.

And in that exact moment, he knew they had survived.

Not just physically. But truly.

They had walked through darkness.

And now they moved forward, side by side, like before. Two kids in a world too big, but strong enough together to stand tall.