#to his shadow... and in this case... him being the one to bring you light 🥺✨ and warmth... i think... this is the thought that makes me | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cosmoszyn · 3 months ago

Text

love, again | zayne.

synopsis: fate brings you into an unconventional way of reuniting with the man you used to love in your medical school—in your workplace during the freezing winter night, propelling you to be the most vulnerable you have ever been since losing him.

content: doctor zayne x senior doctor/pediatrician! reader, hurt/comfort, light angst, eventual romance, reunions

word count: 6,295

author's note: first time writing a piece after five years of slump...

cross posted in my ao3

“It’s a surprise seeing you here.”

Those are the first words that Zayne heard in the long, dead of the night. He swallowed thickly, mustering a soft, half-hearted smile, making eye-contact with those familiar eyes.

“I could say the same to you,” he replies following a soft nod to your presence, blinking at the bright overhead lights of the hospital’s reception.

You drink in the sight of your former junior, after years of being apart. Zayne seems to have grown a couple inches taller from the last time you saw him, his ebony hair still styled the same from his medical school days, albeit a bit more sharper now. He is clad in his usual dark coat over his similar toned sweater. He still wears the same deadpanned expression on his face, and yet you notice the reflection behind his glasses; you could see the uncertainty in his eyes.

You decide to shrug it off. “What brings you here, Dr. Zayne?” You ask. And the honorific before his name makes Zayne almost feel his heart break into two, realizing how formal the interaction is.

He opens his mouth to answer, but before he could, a meek voice greeting you formally cuts him off, “Good evening to you too Dr. Zayne,” the nurse slightly bows down to him before turning to you again, “Dr., as per our director’s directives, Dr. Zayne was the one who performed the surgery for our patient in room 325.”

You blink owlishly at the nurse to which she just stares at you curiously at your reaction, “Is that so?” The nurse nodded and you could feel the pace of your heartbeat quickening, both in nervousness and embarrassment. “I see,” you reply, wanting to clutch your chest in an attempt to calm yourself down.

Instead, you turn back your attention to the man you once adored, giving him a warm smile, “I didn’t expect that Akso Hospital would bring the Dr. Zayne to assist us here at Chansia Hospital,” you say, placing both your hands on the pockets of your lab coat.

Zayne lets out a soft exhale as a reply that sounded more like an attempt to chuckle, “Of course. How can I possibly ignore the situation here?”

“Still as tenacious as ever, I see,” you reply. “Nevertheless,” you continue, tucking a hair behind your ear, “We are very grateful that Akso Hospital aided us in this case.”

He merely nods in agreement, boring his eyes into yours. The intensity of his stare almost makes you feel small and embarrassed, especially with the nurse still around as the audience to witness the reunion of two almost lovers. You clear your throat, darting your eyes to the nurse and to Zayne, “How did the surgery go? I presume it was difficult?”

“Not necessarily,” Zayne replies, “This kind of surgery is quite common now.” His answer brings a brief smile to your face, “Well I am glad that Dr. Zayne was the one who performed the surgery to one of our younger patients, then. It brings me at ease.”

Your words bring a whirlwind of emotions that Zayne thought he had buried under his restless nights of overtime and paperwork. He can’t find the right response to say at your compliment, his words stuck in his throat as he basks in your presence. The bright overhead lights of the hospital highlighting the deepening bags under your eyes, your weary smile bringing fine lines, and the shadows from your glasses slotting on your nose bridge. And yet, he feels the familiar skip in his chest, the same one he had first felt when he met you in the halls of his university.

You shy under Zayne’s intense stare, instead turning to the nurse, “How is the patient doing now? He’s Dr. Lewis’s patient, right?” You ask. The nurse nods, “The patient is recuperating well in his room, Dr. His vital signs have been stable ever since and his guardians have been keeping an eye for his recovery. Dr. Lewis notes that he may be discharged after a couple more days.”

“I see. That’s perfect,” you reply. You muster a half-hearted smile to Zayne, one that doesn’t reach your eyes. Zayne notices. “Well, as I’ve said, it brings me comfort that Dr. Zayne could assist us in these trying times in Chansia Hospital,” you continue.

The nurse then takes a step forward, her arm outstretched to the hospital entrance with her head slightly bowing, “Dr. Lewis would like to extend his deepest gratitude to you too, Dr. Zayne. He brought me here to assist you to your exit,” she says.

Zayne shakes his head, “There is no need for you to assist me. Kindly tell Dr. Lewis that I too am thankful for the opportunity to visit Chansia Hospital again,” he replied monotonously. The nurse picks up the signal to place her arm back to her sides.

In his words, the nurse then nods, excusing herself from the conversation before turning her heel away to return to the nurse’s station. On the other hand, you hesitate. Taking note of how earnest Zayne looks in your stead, as if he wants to say something. And yet, his lips remained sealed.

“It was short-lived but I hope you enjoyed your stay here at Chansia Hospital,” you say, humor lacing your tone as if you’re just hosting a visitor at a hotel. “It was nice seeing you again, Dr. Zayne,” you muse him a brief smile and after another second in silence, you take the signal to give him one last nod, and turn around.

As your heels click through the tiled floors, Zayne could feel you physically slip away from his fingers one more time. And before he could even think about what to say for you to stay, his mouth runs faster than his brain or legs.

“Wait,” his voice echoes throughout the halls and he slightly cringes at the reverberation. The sound of your heels clicking pauses. He clears his throat and calls for your honorific and name. You turn your head back, peeking him over your shoulder. “Is something the matter, Dr. Zayne?” You ask.

He shakes his head, “I would like to accompany you for the rest of the evening. If it’s not much of a hassle.”

You turn your heel around in hesitation, cocking your head to the side in confusion, and for the first time in the evening, you almost laugh, “Dr. Zayne, surely you don’t think I’m a masochist for continuing to work at,” you spare a glance at your wristwatch, “almost 12 midnight?”

He blinks at you owlishly, slightly surprised that you weren’t working further. “I suppose not when I still see you making rounds at,” he glances at his wristwatch, “almost 12 midnight.”

You shake your head in amusement, a soft giggle falling from your lips and your hand covering your mouth in an effort to stifle them, “Still the same as ever with your humor, Dr. Zayne,” you exhaled, “Regardless, your company will surely bring me comfort as I gather my things at my office.”

Your laughter felt like heaven to Zayne. It was the same one that he first heard at the halls of his university as you deliver your experience being an intern at the Akso Hospital in your senior year of medical school while he was still in the starting line.

“Come,” you urge, nodding your head to the side, signalling him to follow you. You two continue to walk through the silent halls of the hospital, your heels clicking through the tiles followed by Zayne’s footsteps padding behind you.

You pause at a familiar door, turning its knob. Behind you, Zayne admires the contrast of the dull, sterile halls with the colorful stickers plastered on your white door, making your office seem more inviting than the other ones.

As you enter your office, you flip the switch on and turn to your desk, gathering the clipboard and the tablet on your table. Zayne follows suit, his eyes darting across, observing every nook and cranny. The rainbows, a smiling sun on the corner of the room, and the random animals and flowers painted on the walls almost bring a soft smile to his face. He takes note of the colorful toys littered on one corner atop of the vivid play mat and the glow in the dark star and moon stickers plastered on the ceiling of your office.

“I assume this isn’t the usual office you would expect from a doctor, yes?” You ask, feeling his gaze all over the room. He nods, “Although this is to be expected from a renowned pediatrician, the rather… brilliant colors still take me aback,” he replies, eliciting a chuckle from you. You place your clipboard and tablet into their respective drawers before locking them shut, as you gather your bag from your seat, you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, “Well now I am quite curious as to how your office looks,” you say. You remove your lab gown and replace it with a fuzzy coat and a scarf around your neck.

“It’s quite dull compared to yours,” he replies, rather quickly. You hum, “Is that so? Well I’d like to be the judge of that.”

You walk past him and he trails after you as you both exit the office, your fingers flickering the light switch off and shutting the door behind you. “Once I need a cardiac check up, I’ll make sure to visit Dr. Zayne then,” you say, glancing at him who is walking beside you, expecting him to have a small smile on his lips at your joke. Instead, you see him frown.

“That doesn’t seem to be a funny joke,” he replies. You furrow your brows at him but the faint smile still lingers on your lips, “Oh come on, you know a cardiac check-up doesn’t necessarily mean something negative,” you reply, nudging his arm with your elbow. The short contact could almost bring you to your knees like a teenager touching her crush for the first time. Zayne shakes his head disapprovingly, “You know you can visit my office without any agenda behind it.”

You almost halt at your steps when his words fall to your ears. Suddenly, everything came hitting you all at once.

The man standing before you is no longer the boy you first met in your university, when you’re almost graduating from medicine school. He is no longer the feeble adolescent boy who had difficulties making acquaintances so he sought refuge in you and your senior friends. He is no longer the man who comes to your apartment right after your residency has ended for the day, with worksheets and food in hand to ask assistance from you. Though you were quite sure back then that he didn’t need the assistance when he could quickly answer your questions, he just wanted to be in your presence.

Zayne has grown. He’s now a renowned doctor with his very own office and colleagues, who respect and admire him deeply. His shoulders broader than you remembered, the shadows of his muscles taut against the fabric of his clothes are evident and his stature more confident and intimidating now, his steps more sharp and certain, carrying the weight of countless lives he has saved throughout the years–as well as lives he failed to prolong.

You continue to stare at him, both in awe and surprise, realization sinking deep that everything has changed between you two. Zayne glances at you through his peripheral vision for the lack of your response, almost making you jump. You clear your throat awkwardly, “Is that so? Well I’d say I’m quite grateful that Dr. Zayne is welcoming me to his office.”

As you reach the reception of the hospital, you wave goodbye at the receptionist with a cheerful smile. The receptionist returns the same grin, wishing you a safe walk home and to see you tomorrow again. You nod at him in response before following Zayne who was standing a couple feet ahead of you, his head slightly turned to the side, waiting for you to catch up to him.

Stepping into the chill of the evening, you hold your arm closer to your chest and burrowing your nose close to your scarf, almost shivering, “Nights in Chansia City never get easier in the winter,” you comment, white smoke exiting your lips. You look both sides, taking the lead in returning home.

“Do you usually just walk home in the evening?” Zayne asks, trailing beside you, noting how the receptionist mentioned how you travel home by foot. You hum in agreement, “My apartment is not too far here. And I like to spend a few minutes in silence at the nearby park before I head home.”

Zayne merely nods at your response, his eyes focusing on the street ahead.

“How about you?” You ask, tilting your head at him, earning a glance from him. “Where do you stay here?”

He purses his lips before mentioning the hotel name.

“Oh, that’s a bit near where I live. Just a couple of blocks away. Do you just walk when you go to the hospital?”

He shakes his head at your query, “The hospital provides me a shuttle service in the morning. In the evening I just flag a cab.”

“I see…” You trail off, “Would you like me to assist you in flagging a cab? Though it would be difficult now considering the time–”

“There’s no need,” he cuts you off. “I rather enjoy your company.”

Those simple words elicit a shot of heat striking your cheeks, urging you to look away from him and focus on the white smoke exiting your lips. You could see Zayne smiling from the corner of your eyes, as if your reaction brings him joy.

“Besides, walking has plenty of benefits for your health. For one, it improves your cardiovascular fitness and your muscle endurance, and strengthens your bones and muscles. It also helps you manage your weight,” he continued, earning a laugh from you.

“You do realize I know those things too, right? We went to the same medical school, after all,” you reply.

“I just thought you forgot,” Zayne says with a deadpan expression on his face, but you were certain you saw his lips curl up in amusement for a split second.

“Hey! I don’t forget things that easily, you know!” You protest.

“Is that so?” Zayne hums, “Last time I checked, a certain someone forgot it was her finals if it wasn’t for me to remind her.”

“Unfair! That was years ago, Dr. Zayne! And I just got out of my training that day too,” you laugh.

Right. Years ago.

As you two reach the park nearby, you find an empty bench and plop down into it, the collection of ice in the seat seeping through your coat. Zayne follows suit, succumbing to his feelings and sitting beside you at the bench. You freeze at the slight brush of his coat against yours and the engulfing warmth that he radiates, but you shrug it off once again.

The thick clouds drifting across the moon give you two company in the frosty evening. And while Zayne’s hands remain warm inside the pockets of his coat, your fingers are trembling in your pockets. In nervousness or by the bite of the cold, you’re unsure.

It’s been years since the last time you two sat together in silence. From the usual scraping of pen against paper and the turning of pages from the books, it turned into eerie silence. Silence brought by lingering regrets and loneliness between you two. Silence from the falling out between two almost lovers. The drunken glow of the streetlights accompany the solitary moon as it watches you two attempt to catch up from the sorrowful past you two have run away from. The cold coffee you had ingested an hour ago now shoots up to your bloodstream, sending alerts to your brain that everything in this situation warrants a good long rest after. And yet, despite the heavy dose of caffeine in your system, you were sure that one vulnerable question from Zayne, you could crash into his arms and sob.

“How’s Greyson?” You ask, avoiding the tense silence to linger any further before it could escalate into mourning from the past that could’ve been. “He is doing well,” Zayne curtly replies, as if he was uninterested in talking about his male colleague to the woman he’s only loved throughout the years.

“I remember your silly disagreements with him. It would take your seniors to break you two apart from the debate and make you realize that you two were wrong,” you continue, huffing a laugh from the memory.

Zayne remains silent.

Clearly, he wasn’t buying your reminiscence of nostalgia to fill the night. Nevertheless, you couldn’t bring yourself to talk about the painful memory that transpired between the two of you.

“Do you always work overtime?” Zayne asks, breaking his streak of tranquility.

“Hm… These days I do. But I usually don’t. I’m just working on a research with Dr. Lewis recently. We plan to contribute and present it to our university in the upcoming alumni symposium for graduating students,” you reply.

“I see.”

“Mmhmm.”

Silence emerges between you two again, as if the universe was forcing the two of you to reconcile and face the troubled past together. Whether the universe was bringing you two together to write the closure to forever exit the chapter in your life or a new volume of your book, you’re quite uncertain.

“Have you…” Zayne starts and you continue to stare at your fingers fiddling atop of your lap, not daring to even spare him a glimpse. He inhales, “Have you been seeing anyone since our…” He does not dare continue finishing the sentence, afraid that once he does, vulnerability would engulf you two until you were sure you could collapse from it.

You, however, were taken aback by the sudden question, your eyes shooting up to him while his face remained stoic and focused on the flickering lamp post ahead of you, “Oh heavens no!” You quickly deny, “I am far too busy to start seeing other people. You know how it can be, Dr. Zayne.” You muster a nervous chuckle, a hand running to the back of your head, smiling at him sheepishly.

You could see Zayne’s adam’s apple bob up and down at his throat, “You can drop the honorifics,” he whispers. You blink up at him, “Pardon?”

He exhales, his mouth still hangs from the frost coiling in the winter air, “I hope that you drop the honorifics by now. We are no longer at the hospital and you are my senior. It would make no sense for you to continue calling me by my title.”

Especially when we had something together. He almost says.

“Oh,” you only say, dropping your gaze to your lap. “Okay, Zayne,” you humor him, the name falling from your tongue tastes foreign–like an old popsicle flavor from your childhood resurfacing from nostalgia.

“Okay,” he replies.

You purse your lips together, tilting your head upwards to appreciate the silhouette of the trees merging with the inky black sky. An exhale escapes your lips, white smoke exiting from it as your eyes trail carefully to each branch that intersects with one another. Unbeknownst to you, the man sitting beside you was also engrossed in watching–but instead of the same view across you two, he’s fixated in memorizing your features.

Studying every freckle, blemish, and mole on your face. Despite your features maturing, he takes note of how you still retain that youthful glow he remembers years ago from when he would just immerse himself in your presence in your apartment. He engraves in his brain the image of you beside him, as if he was enchanted by having you again, even if you’re at his arm’s length.

“How long have you been at Chansia Hospital?” He suddenly asks, not tearing away from your features.

You stay still in your seat, busy admiring the night sky, “After my first year of residency, I got an opportunity to continue it at Chansia Hospital. I’ve been here since then,” you answer.

“I see,” he replies. “How have you been faring throughout your stay?” He asked.

You hum and shrug, “The workplace is good, there’s little to no drama and office politics. And I really enjoy caring for the kids there, the hospital has exemplary facilities for the pediatric ward, which I absolutely appreciate. But we still lack the human resource for capable doctors, especially surgeons, which is probably why they requested assistance from Akso Hospital.”

There was a pause between you two. “Perhaps I could ask for a transfer at your hospital, then,” Zayne replies blankly, as if a sudden change in his career is nothing.

You giggle at his words, burrowing yourself into your scarf and a hand hovering your mouth, “I’m sure there is no way Akso Hospital would let go of you, Zayne.”

“Why not?” Zayne murmurs and you swear you heard the pout in his tone.

You snicker and the words tumble out of your mouth before you could even think, “Well if I was your boss, I just know for sure I wouldn’t let go of my most capable and brilliant surgeon.”

“Then don’t,” he counters rather quickly.

You turn your head to him, surprised at both your words from just a second ago, “Pardon?”

He adjusts in his seat, directing his body to your side and you could see the eagerness glimmering in his eyes, “Don’t let me go,” he says in a hushed tone. You barely heard it, if you weren’t mere inches from each other, you could mistake his voice for the howling of the wind. But you picked it up. And his eyes are round, shining the most genuine gaze you have ever seen from him. You could tell from his stare alone that his words carry the weight of a thousand suns.

And you know deep in your soul that Zayne would do everything in his lifetime to bring you home.

Bring you to him.

And you feel the guilt creeping up your throat.

You swallow and shake your head, breaking away from his trance.

You were sure you could crumble from the sorrow and regret seeping in your bones. After years of burrowing all of these unfamiliar feelings and vulnerability, everything started to surface in his mere presence.

“I’m sorry,” you begin. Zayne looks at you curiously, “For what exactly?” He asks.

And you’re undecided what to apologize from. For using his title? Not really. For seeing him accidentally in the hospital hallway? It’s not really your fault fate brought you two together in the most unconventional way possible. For agreeing to walk with you home? Perhaps. For saying that if you were his employer, you wouldn’t let him go? Could be, but not quite.

But none of those things quite possibly slot perfectly with the puzzle you want to complete.

“If only…” You start, breaking the silence, “If only life was kinder and easier to us years ago,” your voice breaks, “I just want to let you know that I wouldn’t have… Slipped you through my fingers.”

It was like your subconscious was talking for you.

Zayne darts his gaze from the lamppost who finally dimmed its light to his hands resting atop of his lap. You gulp, “Everyday I–...” You let out a shaky breath, “I wish you well. Especially in your studies,” you say, a soft smile in your features as you hold back the tears that are threatening to fall.

Even after all these years, Zayne doesn’t understand.

“I don’t seem to understand,” he verbalizes, glancing at you who has your arms wrapped around your body, protecting yourself from the cold. “How can you drop it so easily?” He asks.

How can you drop us so easily?

You pause in your ministrations, before letting out a shaky laugh, “You were an exceptional student, Zayne. You were going to be a fantastic doctor after you graduate, we all expected that. I mean, we all knew that. It was evident. And I–...” You trail off, “I was older. I was graduating med school when you were only at the starting line. I can’t take that away from you, you know that. You have your whole university years ahead of you and I don’t want to take that experience away from you,” you rambled, wishing you could shut up.

You purse your lips together and Zayne opens his mouth to protest but you continue, “I cannot be selfish, Zayne. I couldn’t bring myself to. I didn’t want to impose to you the regrets I’ve had in my years at med school.”

Zayne remembers.

One night at your apartment, lying supine side by side in your twin-sized mattress seemingly squeezed into the tight space, a book long forgotten on top of Zayne’s chest while his fingertips gently brushes against your knuckles beside him, while the soft hum of the AC accompanying the two lost souls in the midst of a warm summer night. You were talking about your failed romantic relationship in your years of medicine school, spending the latter years over a boy who couldn’t provide you with the security and comfort that you longed for. You ranted over how he failed as a partner, not leading enough in the relationship, and how you had to play several roles to make up for his lack of initiative.

You expected Zayne to be indifferent. Or perhaps angry. Maybe even frustrated at your ramblings. But you didn’t take into account how the weight in your bed shifted and he peers into your space, turning your chin to his direction with his thumb and forefinger and cradling your face. He didn’t say a word. And neither did you. You merely stay frozen in your position while he grazes his fingertips over your cheeks as if to say “It’s okay. I’m here now.”

Zayne remembers that night all too well.

“But you did not impose your regrets on me,” he replies confusedly. “I’ve had more regrets with the fact that we didn’t try rather than trying at all.”

He was right. You knew he was right. You could taste the bitterness and remorse from your tongue still lingering after years of trying to forget it all. You release a pitiful laugh, unsure what to even say at this point. How the conversation turned 180 degrees, you were floored.

And as you prepare the mental strength to leave, to finally burrow into the comforts of your home where your plushies would not judge you for sobbing into the sheets for the same man you have cried over for years, Zayne gently hovers his hand over yours that were resting on the small space between you two, and he speaks up, “Don’t you regret the years we wasted being apart?”

You dart your gaze from his hand laying on top of yours and slowly turn to his hazel green orbs. You could feel the tears welling up in your eyes as you muster up a tight-lipped smile at him, and you shake your head. “Not one bit,” you say.

Zayne was sure he felt his heart slowly shatter upon hearing your words. He retrieves his hand from yours and he slowly averts his gaze to his shoes, feeling the scrape of ice and concrete beneath the soles of his feet. You cringe at the lost of his touch.

“If it meant that it would bring you to today, the peak of your career and a successful name for yourself, I don’t regret it. Not one bit,” you continue, albeit shaky.

He swallows thickly, “I see.”

You nod, looking elsewhere than to gaze upon his genuine expression of dejection in his face. “Despite loving you with everything I have, I knew I couldn’t get in the way of your dreams,” you say. You inhale a deep breath, mustering up the courage to bring your hand on top of his cold ones, clasping around it tightly. He looks up at you, with a plastered smile on your face, “And whether or not things would’ve worked out, it doesn’t matter because I chose this decision to be in the future where you were successful. And I was correct, Zayne. I’d like to believe what I chose for us was right.”

You gulp, “I wanted to have a future where you were successful and thriving. I wanted to live in the future where I would see your name on news articles because of your expertise. And I suppose you could call me a coward for deciding to end our relationship for your sake but I had to. Because I loved you. So much so that I couldn’t afford to witness you lose. I…” You inhale a shaky breath, squeezing your eyes shut and your hand against his, “I love you.”

I love you so much to this day, that it physically hurts. You almost say. But you hold back. And you pull your hand away from him, settling it into your lap once again, where it belongs.

The begging in your voice as you explain your decision cuts through Zayne’s willful idea that you would come back and live through the years of what could have been.

Seconds ticked into minutes of silence and you could immediately feel the regret seeping into your bones as you admit the fears and the sacrifice you had to make for his future, unknowingly shutting out all of Zayne’s attempts to return back into your arms. And one thing is for sure, you could just never wrap your head around the concept that Zayne wanted to keep you in his life the moment he laid eyes on you and never let you go.

Zayne abruptly stands up and you turn your head to the side, not wanting to witness him walk away from your life. You clench your jaw, your hand clawing through your jeans in frustration as you inhale the icy air around you. You want to take all your words back, you want to break down all the walls for him and just embrace him and sob into his chest. You want to reach out to him, grab his wrist and ask him to stay. You want to ask him to come home to you. Anything that involves him back in your life you were sure you would be content.

You do nothing.

Zayne shoves his hands down his coat pockets as he lets out a shaky exhale, white smoke emitting from his actions. One heartbeat. Two.

You gulp, preparing yourself for waking up tomorrow with swollen eyes and zero energy, already imagining a life without him.

Zayne sighs, “You’re still stubborn as ever.”

You furrow your brows together, the insult distracting you from the tears threatening to spill from your eyes. “Excuse me?” You say, turning your head to look at him who still had his back turned to you.

You could’ve sworn you heard him laugh breathily. You click your tongue. “Is there a point to this, Zayne?” You ask, unsure where he is headed with his comment. You shake your head, “Or are we just here for the feeling of what we did and reminisce?”

Zayne takes a step to your side and faces you, earning a confused look from you. He gives you a soft smile and kneels in front of you, sending you into a frenzied state.

“Z-Zayne?! What the hell are you doing?! It’s cold!” You exclaim, placing your hand on each of his arms. “Stand up!”

He stays frozen in place, taking your hands into his, clasping both of it together. You watch him in confusion as he continues to cradle your hand into his, before he laces his fingers into yours, watching in awe at how his hand perfectly slots into yours, and before you know it, his lips hover into your fingers, pressing featherlight kisses into it.

You could feel the heat creep up your skin, the urge to pull your hand away strengthening.

But you don’t.

He pulls away from your hands and his lips turn into a small smile as he gazes into your eyes. “I did it already, didn’t I?” He murmurs.

You pause for a second, furrowing your brows together in confusion, before you ask, “Did what?”

“All the things you wanted me to become,” he replies curtly.

The creases between your eyebrows deepens.

“I accepted losing you, regardless of how I… dislike it so much. And you still express the same things you said years ago, of how you did not want to get in my way and desire me to be successful in my field. I have done it already, haven't I?” He asks, peering close to your forlorn expression.

You stay silent.

He huffs a laugh, “I may be just doing my job but you acknowledge that I’m successful in my field, did you not?”

“I don–”

“Only yes or no will suffice as an answer, my love,” he cuts you off. The nickname sends your brain into a frenzy, confused whether the man in front of you is truly your junior from your med school. “Well?” Zayne urges, tilting his head closer to you. You straighten your back, clearing your throat, “I believe I have acknowledged you are successful, so yes,” you reply rather formally, to which elicits a laughter from the man in front of you.

“With those factors into consideration, did you really think that I would let you go again?”

“Excuse me?”

He stands up to his full height, pulling you along with him albeit dazed from his actions. You feel like you could stagger and fall with how you could feel his heat and how close you are with him again after years of no contact. If it weren’t for him holding you up, you could’ve sworn you would’ve fallen to your knees.

“Before my travel here, I already asked Akso Hospital to take a week off for my vacation here with the girl I love at Chansia City,” he says rather straightforwardly. You blink owlishly at his words, confused at the turn of events, “I am sorry, Zayne but can you clarify to me what the hell is happening exactly?” You demand.

“Hm? I am simply taking back what’s mine,” he says candidly. He removes his hands from yours, placing one on top of your waist and the other cradling your face. “I would be a fool if I’d let you get your way again.”

You frown at his words, ignoring the way your body feverishly reacts to his touch, “What does that even mean?”

“If you think you can just push me away again, then you are mistaken. I have waited patiently for years for us. For you. While I still don’t understand why you pushed me away years ago, it doesn't matter anymore. I would rather have you in my proximity again than wait for you to stop being stubborn,” he answers, a soft smile gracing his face. He raises a brow at you playfully, “Because a certain someone would rather have the world stop spinning than admit that she is stubborn.”

“Hey!” You protest, ready to complain but the words die in your throat when he suddenly lunges forward until his breath fans your cheeks, the cold air grazing your rose-tinted skin. He presses you closer to his body, his hand gripping your waist firmly and the other one still caressing your skin. “Tell me you want me to come back,” he whispers, almost desperately. “I’d do anything to keep you in my life again. I no longer want to keep you at an arm’s length anymore,” he continues, his hazel green eyes boring into yours, as if he was trying to stare into your soul.

“Zayne…” You murmur, darting your gaze from his lips to his eyes.

“Just say it, darling,” he mutters, “You don’t have to do anything. We have all the time in the world to figure it all out together,” he assured.

You swallow thickly, the tears that were threatening to spill from your eyes finally break, and you are confused whether they were tears of despair, grief, or happiness. Perhaps it was all three altogether. Because finally, for once in your life, you are going to jump into uncharted territory and not think about anything anymore.

“Zayne,” you begin and he looks at you expectantly. You inhale a deep breath, glancing at his lips again before darting back to his eyes. The breeze of the winter air skimming through your bodies, the moon’s muted glow casting over the dispersing clouds, and the lamppost from across you two finally lighting up again, giving you brighter access to his features. And suddenly, it feels like everything around you disappears, as if you two are the only ones in the universe, holding each other so carefully. “Please stay here.”

He inches closer to your face, a smile gracing his lips, “Of course.”

And for the first time in years, he wraps his arms around you, his hands that were once cradling your face, now holding onto the back of your head and the other embracing your entire body and engulfing you in his heat, every fear in your body to wash and melt away.

And for once in your life, you are no longer sobbing into the sheets, lingering of sorrow and regret–but rather into the arms of the man who found you again, despite your attempts to rewrite history.

author's note: comments, reblogs, and likes are very much appreciated :") also didn't take into account the timeline that much! so if the ages are a bit wonky, ignore LOL

song inspirations: nike by frank ocean, stay here by surl, coming home by honne feat. niki, 18 by One Direction, maybe you are the reason by the japanese house

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violetrainbow412-blog · 1 month ago

Text

Shadows Beneath the Light [B. R.]

Bob Reynolds x Sorcerer!reader

wc: 5k

Summary: Valentina contacts you to conduct a complete team assessment regarding the mystical arts. But when Bob's turn comes, it turns out he needs more of your help.

masterlist part 2

warnings: mentions of mental illness, Val is a bitch, mentions of suicide, complicated childhoods, canon-typical violence, and The Void

After the final battle against Thanos three years ago, you had returned to anonymity. Like many other magic users, your participation was decisive but silent, deploying containment seals, opening portals, and shielding minds during the catastrophe. You were there when Strange momentarily fell. You were the one who stabilized the field during the most critical seconds. But no one outside the inner circle remembered your name.

Or so you thought, because two months ago, Valentina Allegra de Fontaine had knocked on your door bringing something that, more than a request, was a date with a time limit.

Some of the most powerful assets on the new team she was leading—you'd heard about them on the news, a ragtag group of broken soldiers and conflicted metahumans the government didn't know where to put—had begun to show signs of magical dissonance. Fragments of darkness that shouldn't exist, symbols they didn't remember writing, dreams that weren't theirs.

One person in particular worried everyone: Bob Reynolds.

You knew him only by name. Sentry. As powerful as the sun, immense strength, mental stability… debatable. An entity of light with a counterpart of absolute darkness: The Void. You knew just enough to accept the assignment with reservations.

Your job was to assess it and determine if there was any active magical intrusion in it or if the presence of The Void was stronger than they admitted. And if so... intervene.

So there you were now. Temporarily housed in the underground facility the team had been moved to, with a list of subjects to review, and restricted—but sufficient—access to do your job. You'd already examined Walker, Yelena, and Ghost. They had some residual blockages, but nothing that couldn't be resolved. You were surprised that, given the kind of life they led, they weren't worse off.

But when you finally got access to Bob, the protocol changed.

The room he was in was protected with physical shielding and containment charms you had designed yourself, just in case. You watched him for a moment through the one-way mirror, and he seemed simply human: sitting, hunched over, his face in his hands. Nothing about him screamed “cosmic entity.” Nothing, except what couldn’t be seen.

You noticed the air trembling around him, not from heat, but from energetic density. The aura surrounding the man wasn't magical, but it permeated you as if it were. His vibe was definitely heavier than that of his previous colleagues, and you understood why the CIA director was so keen for you to do something about it.

You didn't blame her, to be honest, because the world no longer relied on a group of scientists who could handle these kinds of situations, so magic seemed like a more sensible alternative right now. Fighting fire with fire... or something like that.

As you entered the room, the metal door slammed shut behind you. Bob raised his head, his blue eyes fixed on you with a mixture of bewilderment and curiosity. He looked... tired. Not physically, but emotionally drained, as if he hadn't slept properly in years. Even so, he straightened politely with a neutral expression, like someone accustomed to being watched without fully understanding why.

“Are you the one who’s going to… evaluate me?” he asked, his voice low but firm.

“I am,” you replied in the same tone, telling him your name next.

There was a table between the two of you, which made the place look like some kind of laboratory or a prelude to prison. He kept staring at you, somewhat confused.

“Are you a doctor?”

“It’s a different kind of evaluation,” you exclaimed, without offering any further explanation for the moment. He didn’t need to know everything. Not yet. “Just sit still, okay?”

He nodded obediently, and then you slipped your hand inside your cloak, pulling out a locket that you began to turn between your fingers. The movement activated a faint projection, almost invisible to the mundane eye: a network of golden lines unfolded around it, scanning its auric field. Your thumb brushed over a small sigil in the center of the locket, and a slight hum resonated as it detected dissonances.

You walked around him in silence. With each step, you traced runes with your fingertips, which flickered in the air before dissolving. It wasn't invasive magic, it was an ethereal diagnosis. But when you finally closed the circle behind his back, you felt it. A crack.

It wasn't an artifact, nor a curse. It was something ancient, something breathing within the folds of the soul of the man in front of you. As if something were stirring just beneath his skin, waiting to be acknowledged.

“You’re going to feel some pressure,” you warned gently, placing your fingers on his temples. He didn’t protest.

The technique was simple: channeled meditation through physical contact, an anchoring method the monks at Kamar-Taj used to detect hidden currents in the mind. But you weren't prepared for what you saw.

In a second, his consciousness opened like an abyss. You were standing in the middle of a devastated field, the sky crimson, the clouds shredded by black tongues that snaked out like rotten roots. And at the center of it all, a figure of smoke and shadow... looking back at you.

«Who are you?»

The voice was thick, raspy, and came from all sides. It was terrifying.

«What are you?»

«The Void,» he murmured simply.

«Are you a guest in this body? Do you serve some dark master or sorcerer?»

«Don't be stupid. I'm that thing everyone has inside... that thing they can't escape.»

An invisible weight pressed against your chest: it was hostile, painful. And suddenly the air froze. Not literally, but it felt like the world had stopped moving. A low, persistent buzzing settled in your ear. And then, everything was gone.

Now you were home. In the old apartment with walls cracked by moisture, where the floral wallpaper hung half-open and the light filtered in, as if the sun no longer wanted to shine.

“Mom?” you called. But it wasn’t your voice speaking, but someone younger, beside you.

The hallway smelled of stale lavender and burnt electricity. You remembered it. Every inch. Every crack in the floor. The way the air tasted was like something that didn't belong in the world.

“Mom, are you there?” you asked again. Your younger self sounded scared.

The sound of running water came from the kitchen. Your feet moved on their own. You knew what you were going to see, but you couldn't stop it. Void wouldn't let you. There she was.

She sat on the floor, eyes wide open, speaking to the griffin as if it were an ancient god. Her hands were covered in ink, or blood, or both. On the wall, clumsily scrawled, the same symbol over and over: an eye with a thousand eyelashes, weeping fire.

“I told you you weren’t real,” he whispered, not looking at you. “No one who loves me is born real.”

You froze. Your little self took a step back.

But the woman continued speaking, more quietly, like a twisted prayer:

“I dreamed of you before you existed. You were just a mistake I couldn’t erase.”

“Mommy…”

“If I close my eyes, you disappear. Do you want to see it?”

You wanted to run, stop her, hug her. But it all happened again.

The balcony door opened, with the exact creak of its rusty hinges. Then came the crushing silence. And then, the fall; the thud you never heard, but could still feel in your chest.

The Void appeared. Not in physical form. Not as a monster. Just a voice. A whisper like a blade:

«You remember everything, right? Every detail before your mommy left forever... »

You screamed. Not from pain, but from fury. From fear. From rage because he had no right to show it to you. Because you didn't know if he'd stolen it from you... or if it had always been there, waiting.

When the spell—the illusion, the psychic assault, whatever it was—ended, you returned to the living room, panting, your hands still on Bob's face. He was frowning, as if he'd felt the pull too, though he didn't fully understand it.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his guilt aching in your heart. He didn’t seem to be afraid for himself. He was afraid for you.

You took a step back, trying to regulate your breathing as you processed the shock of the sight. You looked up at the mirror, which reflected your image, wondering if anyone was on the other side watching the scene.

You were pale, as if you were about to throw up, and the man looked no better than you.

“You have something… very wrong inside you.”

Your whisper made him look down, embarrassed. He thought you were there to draw blood, perform some tests, or assess his physical condition. He didn't expect you to intrude on his mind like that.

“You can… Can you control it?”

“Sometimes. But there are other times when it controls me. And then I don't remember anything, and it's so… it's all so confusing.”

Several seconds passed in silence, the buzzing of the locket still vibrating on your wrist as if it were a residue of what you'd seen. When you left the room, still shaking, you said nothing; you didn't have to. The report was complete, you'd seen enough.

Later, in one of the complex's makeshift offices, you met with Valentina. You spoke in great detail about each team member's situation, going on at length when it was Bob's turn. Of course, you omitted details related to your vision. She listened more attentively than you would have expected. When you finished, she remained silent for a few seconds, as if digesting more than just information.

“Yeah, I understand all of this and I appreciate the work you did, but I need to ask you something.”

“Yes, what's wrong?”

“In this boy's case… Robert. What you're talking about inside him, that emptiness, that jumble of trauma and darkness… can it be fixed?”

You frowned, confused.

"What do you mean?"

“That's what unbalances him. That's what makes him dangerous. Can't it be extracted, sealed, purified…? With magic, spells, or whatever you use.”

You highly doubted she understood how the mystic arts worked, but you let it go. Instead, you tried to focus on how you could explain it to her.

“The emptiness inside Bob… isn't a curse that can be broken, or a creature that can be exorcised. It's not an external demon that can be sealed away with an incantation and that's it. It's part of him. As is his strength and his light. The problem is that his darkness isn't integrated; it's fragmented. Repressed. And when something that powerful is denied or hidden for so long, it finds its own way out.”

You paused to see if she was still with you. Valentina didn't say anything, but nodded expectantly.

“The mystical arts don't work like surgery. We don't extract. We accompany. We guide. We teach how to see what others prefer to ignore. There's a principle we learn from day one at Kamar-Taj: 'What you deny, subdues you. What you accept, transforms you.' Bob needs to learn to look at his shadow without being destroyed. To live with it without being consumed by it. It's slow, arduous, and not always linear work. There will be setbacks. But it's possible.”

Valentina crossed her arms, thoughtful.

"And can you do that with him? Help him through that process?"

You leaned forward, making sure your tone was firm.

“I can teach him techniques of emotional containment, breathing, mantras, symbolic anchoring. I can guide him through deep meditations that allow him to visualize and reconfigure your relationship with The Void. But I can't do it for him; it's a process he has to start on his own.”

“Okay, then start that training or whatever, as soon as possible.”

You blinked, puzzled.

“I don’t understand. You hired me to do a team assessment. To identify potential risks.”

“And you found one,” she replied bluntly, leaning in as if about to reveal an intimate confession. “Listen, this group is an experiment. A rehearsal. And if something goes wrong, it could cost me more than I’m already risking. So yes, I hired you to do an assessment, but also because I need solutions. Not just to identify problems, but to fix them. And Bob… well, he’s got tremendous potential. But he’s also very insane, do you follow me?”

You didn't say anything, you just watched her.

“What I want is simple: for you to help me rebuild him. To mold him so he can use his power without breaking. For it to learn self-regulation. For Sentry to appear when we need him, not when he collapses. I don’t want to throw away the entire project just because he has… this small flaw in his internal programming. Do you see what I mean?”

The coldness with which she spoke made your skin crawl. You'd met many dangerous people in your life, but few with that mix of pragmatism and disdain for humanity. Valentina wasn't interested in helping Bob. She didn't want to cure him, or understand him. She just wanted to harness his power. Use him… until he was of no use.

You cleared your throat before answering:

“I could do it, yes. But I don't know how long it will take.”

“You’re the only viable option I have right now, so I’m in no position to demand miracles, honey. Just results. I want you installed at The Watchtower so you can start working with Robert.”

You narrowed your eyes, gauging his tone.

“Is this an offer or an order?”

“I’m hiring you,” she murmured, almost condescendingly. “I don’t suppose you want to go back to that horrible apartment in the Bronx, do you? Why not put your talents to work on something that will really make a difference?”

You stayed silent for a second longer than necessary. Because you knew exactly what she meant by making a difference. And it wasn't saving Bob. It was using him. Taming him. Making him obey.

And if you didn't intervene... she'd probably succeed.

You pressed your lips together for a moment. Not out of fear. Not out of submission. But because something inside you—something older than your training, deeper than your vows at Kamar -Taj—stirred at the thought of leaving Bob alone with that darkness.

“Fine,” you said at last, in a low but firm voice.

Valentina smiled, satisfied, as if she had won a chess game that only she was playing.

“I knew you’d see the value in this,” she muttered, giving you an unnecessary pat on the arm before turning to leave.

You didn't say anything else. You watched her walk away, elegant and dangerous like an expensive poison. Then you lowered your gaze and let out the breath you'd been holding throughout the exchange.

She was wrong; you hadn't agreed for any trivial reason like the one she was suggesting. You did it because there was something in Bob you recognized.

That silent struggle, that shadow that threatened to swallow him up from within, was not foreign to you. And you thought that if someone had ever stopped to teach you how to look at your darkness without fear... perhaps you, too, would have taken less time to learn to live with it.

So, months passed. And it wasn't easy.

There were good days, when Bob could concentrate for more than an hour at a time, when his thoughts didn't fragment, when you could see him laugh—a little forced at first, more natural with time.

And there were bad days. Days when he woke up drenched in sweat, apologizing for things he couldn't remember doing. Days when The Void whispered in your dreams, looking for cracks to enter.

But despite everything, you began to find a rhythm.

At first, he didn't talk much. His words were few, but his ability to absorb knowledge was astonishingly quick. You, for your part, didn't dwell on long explanations or useless words either; you knew exactly what kind of discipline he needed to channel the chaotic energy that consumed him from within. You were neither his therapist nor his jailer, but rather that steady, silent buoy he could cling to when the internal waters threatened to drown him.

As the months passed, the closeness became inevitable. It wasn't a surprise that, amidst rigor and patience, a genuine friendship developed. You lived apart from most of the tower's tenants, and your interactions with them were sporadic and superficial. You spent most of your time studying, learning more, and finding new ways to help him find a balance that seemed elusive. Bob had become your most cherished project, that silent goal that kept you up until the wee hours, hoping he would achieve such a firm grasp that he would one day be worthy of occupying one of the sanctuaries.

That morning, the training room was empty except for the two of you. It was a routine you had established with discipline: getting up early, before dawn, to meditate and prepare your mind before leading him through his training.

“Being at peace with yourself is the key to learning,” you had once told him, with the gentleness of someone offering vital advice.

At the time, he'd found it absurd. Now, it was an essential part of his daily life.

You had carefully prepared the space: the floor covered with thin, noise-dampening mats, the walls reinforced with invisible layers of arcane protection that you had delicately and precisely inscribed yourself. In one corner, a small burner let the lingering scent of incense flow, a symbolic gesture that helped Bob achieve that meditative state, even though he swore he only liked the smell.

Bob sat in the center of the room, legs crossed, torso erect, palms open, exposed like tiny antennas capturing energy. He breathed slowly, following the rhythm you set with the soft jingle of an antique locket around your neck.

“Inhale… hold… exhale”

You sat across from him, replicating the same position. You watched him silently, noticing how that roaring mass of energy that once seemed to devour him was now contained just below the surface. Vibrant, yes. Threatening, perhaps. But controlled, enough for him to manipulate it and, above all, not let himself be consumed by it.

“Do you feel the flow?” you asked.

Bob nodded slowly with his eyes closed.

“Yes. I always… feel like he’s watching me. But now he’s not screaming anymore.”

You smiled slightly, with that mixture of relief and pride you felt when seeing his progress.

“That means he’s listening. You’re in control.”

He opened his eyes and looked at you with a mixture of doubt and hope.

“Do you think I could ever live without it? Without him.”

The question was profound, and you were slow to answer because the truth was complex. However, you chose honesty.

“I don’t think so. But you can live with it. Without fearing it, without letting it speak for you. Just like now.”

Bob looked down thoughtfully.

“It's different here than anywhere else. Here I'm calm, at peace… with you. If something bad happens, you guide me. But I don't know if I'll be able to stay that way in a critical situation or the face of a real threat.”

“That’s something you learn over time,” you assured him. “Look at yourself when we started and look at yourself now. Are you still where you are?”

He firmly denied it.

“You’ll get it. I promise.”

“How long have you been training to have the mastery you have now?”

Bob had begun digging into your private life a few weeks ago. It wasn't that you minded, but it was unexpected to have to talk about yourself with him. You were supposed to maintain the composure of a mentor, helping him reach his potential without getting emotional.

“Nine years”

His face lit up with amazement.

“It’s a long time.”

"Yes, but I'm dedicated to the mystical arts. With you, we're just seeking balance."

That seemed to comfort him a little. You could tell from the small smile he gave you.

“And you face demons and things like that? Monsters?”

“Sometimes,” you laughed, “Other times they are aliens, beings from other universes, dark wizards… it depends on the teacher who needs my help.”

“That’s so cool, ” he confessed with admiration.

Your cheeks flushed slightly, as his interest seemed almost endearing. You, too, had felt that fascination at first, but over time, you'd grown accustomed to it and were no longer surprised by it.

“Yours isn't bad either. Sentry, the being with the strength of a thousand burning suns...”

“Oh, but it’s no use if I don’t know how to control it,” he replied “It’s wasted power.”

“Where there is light, by law there must be darkness, Bob. We can't live any other way. The universe is meant to contain this duality in every particle that makes it up. You just have to know when to turn to one or the other.”

He nodded, processing your words seriously.

"How do you become so wise? Like you."

“I’m not wise, at least not in the way you think,” you said with a faint smile. “In fact, I’m extremely stupid. But that’s why I’m here. The key is to make mistakes and learn from them, to grow every day.”

“I hope my mistakes don’t cost anyone their life,” he murmured sincerely.

A heavy silence settled between you. Your mistakes had cost lives. They almost cost you yours.

“I hope so too. Otherwise, it would reflect poorly on me as a mentor.”

He didn't take it the wrong way, but instead used it as an opportunity to ease the tension with a little joke. You got up to get a Chinese teapot while he sighed, anticipating what was coming.

“Are we going to work with tea?” he asked timidly.

You nodded with a smile.

“How did you feel last time?”

“Scared and tired. My head hurt.”

“More or less than before?”

“Less. It was a little less.”

“You'll get used to it, it'll get lighter and lighter. Drink.”

The blend was a little lighter, with a deep, earthy aroma, hints of sage and star anise. Bob took the small cup you offered him and drank it in one gulp, despite the temperature.

The silence that followed was different: more attentive, denser. You had begun working with sacred infusions you learned at Kamar-Taj, prepared with ingredients that encouraged introspection. They were called "soft doors" because they didn't force violent visions or provoke chaotic hallucinations, but rather opened memories in layers, as if one were gently sliding into them.

You sat down in front of him and closed your eyes, feeling the energy of the place synchronize with his breathing.

“Don’t hold on if it gets dark,” you whispered. “Just watch. I’m here with you.”

He nodded, calmer, and closed his eyes.

The infusion began to take effect with the slowness of a tide rising without warning. Bob's shoulders relaxed, but his face became tense, as if something was tugging at him from within. His lips parted slightly.

“I’m… there again. In the white room.”

Keeping your eyes closed, palms open on your thighs, you focused on his words.

"Is it the same one as before? The one with the door without a handle?"

“Yes. But it’s ajar now… I don’t know if I want to look.”

“You don’t have to cross it. Just approach it.”

Bob nodded slightly, his breathing becoming uneven, but he didn't back down.

“There’s a shadow… its back is turned. It’s waiting for me.”

“It’s not real,” you whispered. “It’s a reflection of something that was. It can’t touch you here.”

“But it’s me.”

You had learned that most of his visions related to himself, his greatest regrets manifested in spectral form. His hands clenched on his knees, and sweat began to dampen his forehead. You didn't move, you remained stationary.

“What are you doing?”

“It's just there. But I feel like if it turns around… if I look at him… it'll all come back.”

The pressure in the air grew palpable, as if the shadow were taking control of the place. You took a deep breath and spoke to him in a low, firm voice:

“Then don’t look at him. Look around. What’s in that room besides him?”

It took Bob a few seconds to respond.

“Broken glass. It floats, as if something had exploded. But there’s no sound.”

“Can you touch them?”

He reached out a trembling hand, as if he really saw them.

“Yes. One stuck to my skin.”

“What does it show you?”

Bob shuddered, a low moan escaping his throat.

“My mother is crying in a chair. I'm hiding. She calls me… but I don't go.”

“It’s just a memory,” you said softly. “You can’t change it, but you can be present now. You’re not that child anymore.”

Bob swallowed.

“I don’t want her to cry for me again.”

“What comes next?”

The room began to oscillate as if it were liquid. Bob blinked several times, his breathing quickened, but he didn't come out of the trance.

“Can you leave the room?”

“There’s another door at the back. It’s bright, it has no shadow.”

“Do you want to go there?”

Silence. He hesitated.

“I don’t want to. Not yet.”

"Alright."

You let him breathe deeply for a while, until his chest calmed. You closed the energy circle with a subtle gesture, and his pupils stopped trembling.

“I’m back,” he said hoarsely and opened his eyes.

His fingers were damp with sweat, but he wasn't hugging his body like before. He didn't seem to be running away from himself.

"How do you feel?"

"Confused"

You watched him calmly.

“You did well, Bob. Very well.”

The silence returned, thick and heavy, perhaps reflecting on what he'd seen. Your sessions always left him mentally exhausted, but after a few hours of rest, the benefit outweighed the sacrifice.

Suddenly, he lay back on the linoleum, stretching his limbs and letting out a long, heavy sigh.

“What are you doing?” you asked, laughing.

“Come, lie down next to me.”

You hesitated for a moment, but finally settled down next to him.

“I've always liked lying on the floor since I was a kid. I did it when I needed to calm down.”

His voice was a whisper, barely a murmur.

“It’s hard growing up in a home that never feels like one, isn’t it?”

Bob nodded silently and then turned slightly to look at you.

“Can I ask you something?”

You hummed an affirmative response.

“It’s about the vision you had the first time we met, remember? Is it real?”

“Do you want to know if it happened?”

He nodded.

“Yes, it happened.”

You didn't want to elaborate, and he didn't press the issue. You suddenly felt exposed. Witnessing your mother's suicide wasn't a story you were keen to tell. But with Bob, the line between teacher and student blurred more than either of you wanted to admit.

You stared at the ceiling, wishing the silence would envelop them calmly.

Thus, in that cold room, where magic and pain converged, a bond began to form that would be much stronger than any shadow.

A few minutes passed without either of them saying a word, just the subtle sound of the wind blowing through the cracks in the window. The morning light filtered through in faint beams, creating irregular patches on the floor where they both lay.

“Sometimes,” you began quietly, as if sharing a secret, “I think our wounds are the source of our strength. Not because we desire them, but because they force us to find ourselves.”

Bob turned his head to look at you, and although his eyes still reflected the internal battle he was waging, there was a new spark in them: a flame that withstood the storm.

“It’s not always easy to see the light during chaos,” he replied, almost in a whisper. “But with you… I feel like I can try.”

You felt touched by his confession, by the vulnerability he displayed without fear.

Silence fell again, but this time it was a silence filled with meaning, as if it were the invisible bridge connecting you. You stood up slowly, helping him do the same. The years of training and suffering Bob had endured hadn't broken him; on the contrary, they seemed to mold him into something greater.

“Let’s get ready for today’s session,” you said, letting the warmth fall into your voice.

You began to prepare the place, calmly, being observed by him at all times.

“Do you think I can ever not be afraid?”

“Fear never goes away. You'll learn to live with it, to recognize it, and not let it paralyze you. And then you'll find your balance.”

“And when I can find that balance, if I ever do…” he began, his voice low, “Will I never see you again?”

You stopped to observe him.

“That's up to you. Spiritually, you won't need me. If it's about hanging out with a friend, then I'm always available.”

The word friend felt sweet on your lips. Bob was more pleased than he would have liked to hear your response.

“I like the sound of that.”

A faint glimmer of confidence lit his face. That moment felt like a small victory in the long battle you had both shared.

For a moment, everything seemed to stand still: the air, time, the invisible wounds that marked you. In that shared silence, you knew that, no matter what the future held, you had something unbreakable—a deep connection, a refuge amidst the chaos.

As you sat up, a slight change in the air caught your attention. A barely perceptible murmur, like a distant sigh or the rustle of a page turning, filled the room. It was a faint, almost imperceptible signal that made your senses tense slightly.

It wasn't time yet, but you knew it would soon arrive: a call you couldn't ignore, a shadow on the horizon... a door you'd soon have to open.

For now, the present was sufficient. Bob was here, with you, and that was enough.

tag list (thanks, pretty!): @littlemsbumblebee

#bob reynolds #sentry #the void #bob reynolds x reader #sentry x reader #bob reynolds fanfic #thunderbolts fanfic #bob reynolds x you #thunderbolts #the new avengers #the new avengerz #lewis pullman #thunderbolts fluff #bob reynolds fluff #sentry fluff #robert reynolds #robert “bob” reynolds

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sincerelybubbles · 4 months ago

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The Being (Un)Known \\ S. Reid x fem!reader

You never meant to orbit Spencer Reid, but somehow, you always do. The space between you is filled with quiet observations, lingering glances, and a tension that hums beneath every near miss. A brush of hands, a breath caught mid-sentence—small moments that build into something undeniable. It takes a near-disaster to bring you closer, but it’s the nights spent tangled in conversation, stolen glances over case files, and the weight of his name in your mouth that seal your fate.

12.1k, fem!reader. Slow-burn, lingering tension, quiet devotion, and Spencer being insufferably charming without realizing it.

CW: mutual pining, near-miss injury, brief emotional vulnerability, mild anxiety, excessive overthinking, cannon-typical violence, references to religion.

Spencer Reid is an enigma you never mean to chase, a sun you don’t realize you’ve been orbiting until the pull of his gravity is undeniable. He’s not someone you’re supposed to know, not really—he works in profiling, a world built on instinct and razor-sharp deduction, while you’re still buried in textbooks, an academy student trying to shape yourself into something worthy.

He’s only a few years older, but the distance between you feels vast, like a canyon carved by time and experience. And yet, no matter how often you tell yourself that he’s just another name, just another agent, you keep finding him. Or maybe—just maybe—he lets himself be found.

You don’t think much of it at first, the way your paths cross in quiet places—hallways humming with fluorescent light, libraries steeped in dust and silence, moments that seem incidental but never quite are. And then, without warning, that quiet fascination tilts your entire world:

It’s Spencer who speaks your name when SSA Hotchner asks for a student to shadow the team.

“It’s only a few cases,” he tells you, voice warm with something like certainty. There’s a rare kind of confidence in the way he smiles—small, knowing. “But Rossi and I agree—you’ve got too much potential to stay in a classroom much longer.”

“You’re sharp,” Rossi agrees, stepping in with the weight of experience, his approval easy but meaningful. “Play this right, kid, and you’ll be glad you did.”

Rossi’s words settle over you, weighty with promise, but reality is heavier.

Your first case comes fast—too fast. One moment, you’re standing in the bullpen with a crisp folder in your hands, the next, you’re on a jet with seasoned agents, listening as crime scene photos flick past on the monitor. It’s a triple homicide, the kind of case you’ve only studied in theory, where the victimology is murky and the suspect is still a shadow. The words feel clinical in the briefing, just patterns and deductions, but then you’re standing in a house that doesn’t feel like a crime scene yet, where someone left dishes in the sink and a jacket draped over the back of a chair, never to be touched again.

You swallow hard.

“Deep breath,” Spencer murmurs beside you, so quiet you almost miss it.

Your fingers curl into fists at your sides. You don’t want him to notice—don’t want anyone to notice—but Spencer’s eyes are too sharp, always catching things before they surface. You inhale, steadying yourself.

“This is different than the academy,” you admit, voice just above a whisper.

“It should be.” Spencer doesn’t sound condescending, doesn’t sound like he’s telling you anything you don’t already know. Just a simple, grounding fact. “But you’re still here.”

You are. And for now, that’s enough.

Slowly, you become accustomed to it. The days fly by while the hours drag on. \\

“Okay,” you tell the team, throwing your folders on the table to begin organizing them in the order you’ll present them. “JJ gave me four cases flagged as urgent,” you say, clicking the remote in your hand. The screen behind you flickers to life, displaying a title screen verging on too childish, nearly girly. You built the theme last night, sipping dregs of coffee, clinging to something that makes you feel human. A colorful border is enough to make you feel better about plastering victims' faces on a PowerPoint slide. “Each presents a significant threat, and each has something that warrants immediate intervention.”

CASE ONE: THE RITUALIST

You’re following the curriculum exactly, formatting how your professor told you to, but coming up with titles for the cases felt exaggerated, almost picturesque. You hesitated to do so last night, fingers flinching above your keyboard.

Your favorite professor, kindly answering your 3 am email, assured you it was natural. Par for the course. Identify the cases, give them a name to be referred to. It feels childish, she conceded in her response, but it’s what they want students to do.

“In Savannah, Georgia, three women have been found buried in shallow graves near the riverfront, all posed identically and dressed in wedding gowns.”

Emily crosses her arms, frowning. “That’s theatrical.”

“It is,” you agree, clicking to the next slide—a zoomed-in shot of the delicate lace on one victim’s gown, carefully arranged over stiff, lifeless hands. “The unsub is mimicking a local legend—one about a grieving bride who drowned herself in the river in the 1800s.”

“An emerging pattern?” JJ asks.

You nod. “The first body was found two weeks ago. The second, one week ago. The third, two days ago.”

“Which means he’s escalating,” Hotch observes.

“Yes. If the unsub continues following this timeline, we could see another victim within days.”

Morgan exhales, shaking his head. “A guy like this? He’s loving the attention. He’s not gonna stop on his own.”

“No,” you agree. “And if his rituals are as important to him as they seem, he won’t just pick random victims. He’s looking for something—someone—to fit his narrative.”

Spencer leans forward, fingers tapping absently on the table. “That level of organization suggests a highly controlled personality. He’s not just killing—he’s curating.”

“He’s hand-stitching the dresses, too. Each is perfectly tailored to fit the victims.” The thought leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. You switch the slide.

CASE TWO: THE FAMILY ANNIHILATOR

“In Tulsa, Oklahoma, three families have been murdered in their homes over the course of the past two days.” You keep your voice steady, clicking through the crime scene images—too much blood, overturned furniture, a dinner table frozen mid-meal. “In all of the cases, the father was restrained and forced to watch before he was killed last.”

A grim silence settles over the room.

Rossi rubs a hand over his jaw. “He’s not just taking them out—he’s making them suffer.”

Morgan exhales sharply. “Which means this is personal.”

“Possibly,” you say. “There was no forced entry in either case, which suggests the unsub is either someone the victims trusted or someone who knew how to manipulate his way inside.”

“A service worker, maybe?” Emily muses. “Someone posing as law enforcement?”

“That’s a strong possibility,” you admit. “And if the pattern holds, we’re looking at another family being targeted in a few hours.”

JJ’s expression hardens. “We can’t let that happen.”

The weight in her voice lingers as you switch to the next slide.

CASE THREE: THE PHANTOM ABDUCTOR

“Denver, Colorado,” you say, clicking to a map marked with four red pins. “Four people have vanished over the last five months—one woman, two men, and a child. No bodies, no forensic evidence, no trace of them after the moment they disappeared.”

Spencer tilts his head. “No pattern in victim selection?”

“None that we can see,” you agree. “Different ages, different backgrounds. The only common thread is that they all vanished from public places.”

JJ frowns. “Security footage?”

You shake your head. “In each case, cameras malfunctioned or lost power at the exact moment the victim disappeared.”

“That’s not a coincidence,” Hotch says.

“No,” you agree. “Which means we’re looking at an unsub—or possibly multiple—who is incredibly meticulous, well-prepared, and willing to wait for the perfect conditions.”

Morgan exhales. “Damn. If he’s this careful, we might not even know how many victims we’re missing.”

You nod, the reality of it settling into your gut like lead. You click to the final slide.

CASE FOUR: THE JANE DOE MURDERS

“Phoenix, Arizona,” you begin. “Five women have been found dead in the last six months. None have been identified.”

Emily shifts in her seat. “That’s a long time for that many women to go without names.”

“Exactly,” you say, flipping through the slides—malnourished bodies, identical scars along their spines. “We suspect the victims were held for an extended period before being killed. Medical reports indicate malnutrition and signs of prolonged restraint.”

Rossi exhales slowly. “Torture?”

“Maybe. But what stands out are these.” You zoom in on the marks along the victims’ backs—precise, deliberate incisions. “The wounds suggest medical knowledge. Someone who knew what they were doing.”

JJ’s face tightens. “He’s experimenting.”

“That’s the concern.” You glance at the team, your stomach twisting. “The unsub could still have others in captivity.”

A beat of silence.

Then, Hotch clears his throat. “Alright. You’ve presented four cases, all high priority. Now comes the hard part.” The part where you choose.

You inhale. Exhale. The weight of the decision presses against your ribs, but you don’t let it show.

“Take a moment,” Hotch says, voice even. “Decide which one we handle first.”

The room is quiet as you grip the remote a little tighter, eyes flicking between the slides, between the horrors laid out before you. Whichever case you choose, the others will wait. But not forever. You swallow hard and decide. The weight of it sits heavy in your chest, pressing against your ribs like a vice.

You shift your gaze between the slides still illuminated on the monitor—each one a tragedy waiting to unfold, each one a door closing on lives you’ll never be able to save if you don’t act now.

You exhale slowly, steadying yourself. How awful that the fate of lives rests on a test for a student. You know it’s important – they have to test you. You’re here because Rossi and Spencer see potential, kept around because, according to Hotch’s last report, you’re proving to be irreplaceable. Still, the decision feels too big to be handed off to you.

You have to make a case, despite. You bite your lip, wrinkle your nose. Tells everyone around you can see, signals they’re noting and remembering. “The Tulsa case,” you say, finally, voice firm, but not as even as you want it to be. “That’s where we go first.”

Across the room, the team absorbs your choice in silence.

Hotch nods once, expression unreadable. “Walk us through your reasoning.”

You click back to the slide, the images of two shattered families staring back at you. You resist the urge to look away. “The unsub’s pattern is clear. Three families, mere hours apart. If he keeps to his timeline, another family is in danger—possibly right now”

JJ’s jaw tightens, her fingers tapping lightly against the table. “And this isn’t just about killing them,” she adds. “The way he makes the fathers watch—it’s personal.”

“Exactly.” You glance at Spencer, who’s already nodding in agreement. “The level of control, the methodical nature—it suggests military or law enforcement training. Someone used to hierarchy, dominance.”

Morgan folds his arms. “Which means he’s not picking his victims at random.”

“No,” you agree. “If we can find the connection between the families, we can narrow down potential targets before he chooses his next one.” You click to the next slide, where the family structures are laid out side by side. “Right now, we have limited victimology, but the fathers were in leadership positions. One was a high-ranking bank manager, the other an attorney, the most recent one a sheriff.”

Emily tilts her head, considering. “A grudge? Financial ruin, a court case, something that connects them?”

“Possibly,” you say. “But we won’t know for sure until we dig deeper. And we don’t have time to wait for another murder to give us more evidence.”

Hotch doesn’t hesitate. “Agreed.” He turns to the team. “If we leave within the hour, we’ll be in Tulsa by tonight. JJ, contact the local PD and get us access to the crime scenes. Morgan, start looking into the victims’ professional histories—see if there’s overlap. Prentiss, work with Garcia to pull any major financial or legal disputes in the last six months. Rossi, coordinate with victim services—we need to talk to the families.”

Everyone moves into action around you, gathering files, pushing back chairs, murmuring in low voices.

Then, Spencer speaks, “You made the right call.” You glance up to find him watching you, head tilted slightly, something unreadable in his expression.

You swallow. “I hope so.” Because it doesn’t feel like the right call. It just feels like the least wrong one.

Spencer studies you for a moment longer, then nods, as if he understands something you haven’t said aloud. The decision is made.

You catch the guy — you’re with the best team in the world, of course, you do — and subsequently pass the ‘test’ JJ posed for you. This is the deal with your professors: aid in exchange for grades. It’s not totally unheard of, accepting an academy student onto a team for a brief trial to test-run them. Especially a student top of their class like you are.

What’s unusual is how long you stay on the team.

It’s long enough to catch more sightings of Spencer, scattered across the building, like watching a dove rest.

You don’t mean to linger, but you do. A moment too long, just enough to feel like a pause in a conversation neither of you started. His fingers drum against the ceramic of his mug—quick, controlled, an absent rhythm. You can’t help but wonder if he hears the world like that, like patterns waiting to be unraveled. Like music waiting to be played.

You scamper away, like a startled animal, afraid of what the mundane action awakens.

You don’t have time to be entranced by Spencer Reid. You really, really don’t, but you still feel the beginnings of it pool in your belly.

The air in the bullpen is thick with the low hum of voices, the shuffle of papers, the occasional ring of a phone cutting through the din before being silenced by a hurried answer. Stale coffee lingers in the air, curling around the sharper scent of printer ink and the faintest traces of cologne clinging to coats draped over chairs. It smells like exhaustion, like long hours pressed into fabric, like something too lived-in to ever be fully washed away. The air conditioning murmurs somewhere overhead, cooling the space unevenly so that certain corners feel frigid while others remain stubbornly warm, weighted by too many bodies moving too slowly.

You should be focused. You should be finishing the report in front of you, should be paying attention to the pages you keep flipping through but not actually reading. But instead, your gaze drifts, betraying you before you can stop it. Across the room, at the coffee station, Spencer stands with his back to you, one hand in the pocket of his slacks, the other wrapped loosely around a ceramic mug, fingers curled just slightly, resting on the smooth surface in a way that seems absentminded. His thumb moves in slow, methodical circles against the ridges of the cup, a rhythm so small and controlled that you might have missed it if you weren’t watching. If you weren’t, despite every part of you screaming not to, noticing. The fluorescent lights overhead cast a pale glow over the angles of his face, sharpening the cut of his cheekbones, catching in the strands of his hair that are just slightly disheveled, like he’s run his fingers through them one too many times.

He doesn’t look up.

Not at you, not at anyone. His focus is turned inward, lost somewhere else, eyes fixed on the dark surface of his coffee as if he’s reading something in it, tracing the shape of a thought that hasn’t yet fully formed. His brow furrows slightly, just enough for you to notice, and then his fingers drum once—twice—against the ceramic, a quick tap-tap before stilling again. A habit, you think. A rhythm he follows without meaning to, the kind of movement that comes from a mind that never truly rests.

It is only then, only in the moment before you force yourself to look away, that he lifts his head. Not in your direction, not searching for you, but simply breaking free from whatever thought had been holding him captive. His lips part slightly, as if he might say something, but no sound comes. He just breathes, slow and measured, before lifting the mug to his mouth, taking a small sip, swallowing in a way that seems almost careful, like he’s weighing the warmth of the liquid against the feeling of it settling in his throat. You shouldn’t be watching this. It’s too small, too insignificant, and yet you can’t help but be transfixed by the way something as simple as drinking coffee becomes a deliberate act with him.

You realize that you’re still staring but you’re struggling to stop. You need to, you really need to, but the impulse to look at him is strong. It’s beyond physical attraction — something in him calls to you. A hunger to understand him, to be near him, to listen to him talk. He soothes something inside of you just by existing, piques your interest without trying, captivates your attention and hardly notices.

You tear your gaze away, back to your report, blinking rapidly, but it’s too late. The image of him is already burned into your mind, curling itself around your ribs, slipping into the spaces between thoughts like ink seeping into paper.

You tell yourself it’s nothing.

But you don’t look up again.

The scent of rain clings to his clothes when he sits beside you. Not the sharp, metallic bite of a downpour, but the softer, earthier remnants of a drizzle that has already passed, leaving only damp fabric and the faintest trace of petrichor in its wake. His coat is slung over the back of his chair, sleeves still holding the ghost of the movement he made when shrugging it off, the fabric folded in on itself in a way that suggests he hadn’t given it much thought before sitting down. He smells like paper and ink, like something faintly sweet beneath it—maybe cinnamon, maybe something darker, warmer, something that lingers just long enough to make you yearn to lean closer, to breathe in deeply enough to decipher it. You don’t, of course. You force yourself to stay still, to keep your eyes on your screen, your hands resting on the keyboard even though you haven’t typed anything in at least five minutes.

Spencer doesn’t notice. Or if he does, he doesn’t say anything.

Instead, he flips open a case file, fingers moving fluidly over the pages, eyes scanning the text with a kind of quiet intensity that makes it look effortless. The silence between you is thick, but not uncomfortable. It is the kind of silence that settles rather than lingers, the kind that feels less like absence and more like something tangible, something with weight, something wet and dripping, something shared. You wonder if he feels it, too.

After a while, he shifts, just slightly, and the movement is enough to break the stillness.

“Did you know,” he says, without preamble, voice smooth and even, “that the human olfactory system can distinguish over a trillion different scents?”

You blink, glancing at him, and he’s still looking at the file in front of him, fingers tracing the edge of the page like he’s only half-aware that he’s doing it.

“A trillion?” you echo. You hope you hadn’t inhaled too deeply when he sat down, pray to a god you don’t believe in that you don’t smell, start to attempt to calculate the probability of him simply thinking similar thoughts to you about the rain. The roof has been leaking, the scent of the sky is impossible to ignore.

His lips twitch slightly, not quite a smile but something close to it. “Most studies used to claim it was around ten thousand, but newer research suggests it’s significantly higher. The brain can recognize scent combinations even in extremely small concentrations, which means—”

“That we’re capable of identifying more smells than we ever actually register.”

His head turns slightly toward you, just enough for his eyes to flicker up, catching yours for the briefest second before he nods. “Exactly.”

There is something about the way he looks at you in that moment—something unreadable, something lingering just beneath the surface—that makes your breath catch in your throat.

You glance away first. Spencer exhales through his nose, quiet, considering. He doesn’t continue with the tangent.

But the scent of rain still clings to him, even now. And for some reason, you can’t stop thinking about it.

After stretched moments, the scent of rain and dirt and musk and sweet lingering between the two of you while you try your hardest to get actual work done, Spencer clears his throat. “You know, you have a tell,” he says, voice thoughtful, not teasing.

You turn to him, brow lifting. “A tell?”

“Whenever you’re thinking about something but don’t want to say it, you press your thumb to your middle finger. Like you’re holding something between them.” His gaze flickers downward. Sure enough, you’re doing it now.

You exhale, glancing out at the room in front of you. “I didn’t realize you paid that much attention.”

Spencer smiles, small and knowing. Nearly sad, it twinges at your heart. The organ aches to leap out of your chest and fall into his hands. “I always do.”

The silence returns, but it’s different now. He’s looking at you like he’s already memorized the way your hands move, the way your breath catches, the way your thoughts betray themselves in the smallest, most inconsequential gestures. And maybe he has. Maybe you shouldn’t be surprised that he sees you so clearly, that he can read the shape of your hesitations as easily as words printed on a page. It’s his job, of course he does.

The weight of his attention sits heavy on your skin, not uncomfortable but warm, seeping into the spaces between your ribs, something close to reverence but not quite. You don’t know what to do with it.

So you do what you always do. You look away.

It’s nothing more than what he’s trained to do. You’ve noticed his habit of clinking his nails against his coffee mugs. Beyond that, ignoring your fascination with him, you know Hotch only ever sleeps on the plane after a case is solved, never on the way even though the rest of the team will if it's convenient. Emily has a cat that she never talks about, one she methodically lint rolls hair from off of her pants. JJ smoothes her hair when she’s happy. Morgan flares his nostrils often when he’s tired.

You all notice things, it’s natural. There’s nothing more to it than that. Spencer Reid isn’t watching you for any reason other than it’s a habit he’s developed to survive, to thrive, in this line of work.

The night outside is thick with the slow hush of passing cars, headlights dragging shadows across the pavement, the distant murmur of a city that never quite sleeps. The rain has stopped, but its remnants remain, clinging to the asphalt, to the scent of damp earth rising in waves from the ground, to the fabric of Spencer’s shirt, the faint musk of it curling in the space between you.

You curl your fingers tighter, pressing your thumb to your middle finger again, not even thinking.

Spencer’s breath shifts, barely audible, and when you glance back at him, his eyes are still on your hands, watching, studying, something flickering behind his expression—something unreadable, something you don’t think you have the courage to name.

“What is it?” He asks instead of taking the leap.

“What is what?”

He gestures at your hands, veins flexing at the movement. “What’re you thinking and not saying?”

You flounder for a moment, lost in what to say. I think you’re beyond attractive, I can’t believe you’ve been staring at my hands, can you tell how often I stare at your hands, did you know sometimes I fall asleep thinking about you, that I have your smell memorized, that I’m sure this means nothing and I just admire you as a person and there are definitely no fluttery feeling in my gut begging me to put my mouth on you? Also, do I reak? Are you spewing facts about smells, about something so unavoidable, because your desk is next to mine and I’m simply putrid?

“I’m allergic to oranges,” you blurt out instead.

Spencer seems shocked, blinking at you, mouth slightly open. You can see the pink of his tongue between his teeth, slowly pressing into the bone as he begins to smile, pinching the soft skin there in reflex. You hadn’t noticed it in detail before, but you suppose he does that often — bites the tip of his tongue when he’s fighting to keep that full-mouthed smile at bay.

“What?”

“I’m allergic. And Garcia gives one to me every week and Rossi noticed and assumed I love them so he’s started giving them to me, too, and, well,” you push back your desk chair and pull your drawer open. Orange scent wafts out, perfuming the air and making your nose wrinkle.

Sitting in the desk are five oranges, collected over the week, that you’ve been waiting on a clear office to throw away.

“You’re kidding!” Spencer cries, peering over your shoulder and snickering. “I thought you loved them, too. You always smell like them.”

“Oh, ew.”

Spencer waves you off, plucking the fruit from your desk and cradling them in his arms, “It’s lovely, don’t worry. Why didn’t you say anything? You could get sick.”

You swallow the lovely comment, feeling it hit the base of your skull and sink into your blood, warming you all the way down. “It’s only a problem if I eat them, nothing happens if they touch me. Shove a slice down my throat, though, and I break out in hives.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Spencer says, snickering and tossing the oranges away for you.

You make it through the rest of the evening. You get back to work. You pretend like none of it happened, like you didn’t just let him glimpse a piece of you that you didn’t mean to reveal. You tell yourself that it’s fine, that the moment is already dissolving into the rest of the day, folding itself into the pile of interactions that mean nothing, that don’t linger.

But later, when you’re in bed, staring up at the ceiling, you realize two things.

One—Spencer noticed your scent.

And two—he thinks it’s lovely.

“You lied, earlier,” Spencer tells you, hours later in the elevator.

“Hm?”

“About the oranges.”

“Do you want to see a doctors note?” You’re tired, struggling to remember what he’s talking about. You two are the last in the office usually — you’re just a student and Spencer is vocal about not doing much outside of work.

“No, I believe you’re allergic, it’s just not what you were thinking about.” He’s leaning against the wall of the elevator, golden hair illuminated by the fluorescent lights. It’s not the most flattering — the harsh lighting gives him a sickly complexion, deepening the dark circles under his eyes. Frankly, he looks nearly sick.

Frankly, he still looks so handsome that you feel slightly overwhelmed with it.

You decide to give him a piece of the truth to satiate him, knowing there’s not much use in lying to a seasoned profiler. There’s a reason why he’s only a few years older than you with years more experience under his belt.

“You freaked me out. I was thinking about how you smelled like the rain and cinnamon and then you started talking about smells. I thought I either smelled so bad that you couldn’t think of any other way to tell me or you suddenly learned how to read minds.”

Spencer chuckles, motioning forward with his hand as the door opens. You walk forward, keeping your head turned to the side slightly to catch how his eyes crinkle as she smiles. His eyes drift up and then down, a habit he has before he speaks when he’s tired, and then he pushes himself off of the wall to follow you.

“I mentioned it because I could smell you, but it’s not bad, I promise.”

“Reassuring.”

“I’m telling the truth!”

“Sure. Just say I reak and I’ll change my shampoo or something, promise!”

“Oh, please don’t,” Spencer pleads, laughing. “What will I do without your Pantene-y scent filling the office every morning!”

The safe house is supposed to be secure.

It’s supposed to be a temporary holding place, a nondescript home tucked into a quiet neighborhood just far enough from the city that no one should be looking. The doors are reinforced, the blinds drawn tight, the exits mapped and double-checked. A necessary precaution. A routine assignment. A night of keeping a witness safe until she can testify in the morning.

You tell yourself all of this, but none of it changes the sharp tug of unease curling in your gut.

You don’t let it show. Not when you check your watch for the third time in twenty minutes. Not when you shift your stance near the window, your fingers flexing at your sides like your body is already preparing for a fight you haven’t seen yet. Not when Spencer, who has spent the better part of the evening reviewing case notes at the kitchen table, finally lifts his head and looks at you like he’s about to ask what’s wrong.

“Nothing,” you say before he can speak.

He doesn’t believe you.

He tilts his head, studying you, eyes flickering across your face like he can read the tension there. Maybe he can. Maybe he has been for longer than you realize. You press your thumb to your middle finger, grounding yourself, and Spencer notices that, too.

You roll your eyes as you notice his noticing but say nothing, turning your attention back to the window. The street outside is still. Too still. The kind of silence that doesn’t settle right, that carries the weight of something unseen pressing against it. It makes your stomach twist.

Spencer shifts behind you. “The odds of an actual attack on a safe house are statistically low. Most unsubs won’t risk a direct confrontation in a location they can’t control.”

“Most,” you echo.

He hesitates. “There are exceptions.”

“And this feels like an exception.”

Spencer doesn’t answer right away, but the flicker in his expression is enough. The same unease that’s gnawing at you has made its way under his skin, too. He may not operate on instinct the way the others do, may rely on numbers and data and probabilities before action, but he isn’t blind to the feeling in the air—the one that says something is coming.

And then, something does.

The first gunshot cracks through the silence like a splintering branch, tearing the night open. The second follows immediately after, embedding into the window frame centimeters from where you were standing just seconds before. You don’t think. You move.

Spencer is already on his feet when you shove him down, his body colliding with yours as the two of you hit the floor. The room erupts into chaos—glass shattering, bullets puncturing drywall, the distant, terrified gasp of the witness as she ducks behind the couch. Your heart pounds, adrenaline splashing hot and fast through your veins as you press against Spencer, shielding as much of him as you can. He’s speaking, but you barely hear him over the sound of your own pulse roaring in your ears. The ringing of the gunshot so close to your head has left you dizzy and deaf.

“Move!” you manage to shout, grabbing his wrist and pulling him with you, keeping low as another round of gunfire splinters the table where he was sitting just moments before. You don’t know how many shooters there are. You don’t know where they are. But you know you have to get out.

Spencer doesn’t hesitate. His fingers tighten around yours, and together you bolt for the hallway, ducking as another window bursts inward. You shove him ahead of you, searching for cover, for an escape, for anything but the open target the living room has become.

“Basement,” Spencer says, voice sharp, focused. It warbles against your pulsing ears, barely understood. You’re mostly relying on lip reading and context clues. “We need to get underground.”

You don’t argue. You barely register the movement of your own body as you drag the witness with you, shoving open the basement door and practically throwing Spencer down the stairs before following, slamming it shut just as more bullets spray against the frame. Your breath is ragged, too loud in the thick darkness, the only light coming from the single flickering bulb overhead. The space is small, cluttered with storage boxes and old furniture, but it’s shelter. For now.

You’re still gripping Spencer’s arm. Hard. You can feel the hammering of his pulse beneath your fingers, mirroring your own. It takes effort to release him, to force your hands to unclench.

He doesn’t move away.

The witness is shaking, her breath coming in uneven gasps. Spencer kneels beside her, murmuring something soft, something steadying. You press your back against the door, listening for movement above, trying to piece together a plan while your body still thrums with leftover adrenaline.

Spencer looks up at you. His eyes are dark in the dim light, sharp with something between urgency and something else, something you don’t have time to name.

“They’ll breach soon,” he says, quiet but certain.

You nod, swallowing hard. The air is thick. The scent of dust and damp wood clings to it, mixing with the faint trace of Spencer’s cologne, something warm and familiar despite the chaos above. You focus on it, on the grounding presence of him beside you, close enough that you could reach out and touch the fabric of his shirt if you wanted to.

You don’t.

You grip your gun tighter.

“Then we make sure we’re ready.”

Spencer exhales through his nose, slow and deliberate, and shifts closer, just slightly, his shoulder brushing against yours. The contact is brief but solid, enough to remind you that he’s here, that he’s real, that this isn’t just a moment suspended in panic but something unfolding, something with weight.

The witness sniffles, drawing both of your attention back. Spencer softens his voice, murmuring reassurances, quiet, steady things meant to anchor her. You keep your focus on the door, ears tuned to the movements above, but some part of you latches onto his words, the cadence of them, the way they smooth over the jagged edges of the moment.

Another creak from upstairs. A shuffle of movement. Your fingers flex around your gun. Spencer glances at you again, expression unreadable in the dim light, but his meaning is clear.

Hold.

Wait.

And when the moment comes, move together.

Then the door bursts inward, and everything moves at once. Gunfire explodes, too close, too loud. You fire off two rounds before a sharp pain sears through your side, white-hot and immediate. The impact sends you stumbling back against the cold concrete floor, breath catching as a wave of dizziness threatens to pull you under.

Spencer is there before you even register falling. His hands are on you, pressing against the wound, urgent and shaking, his breath coming fast.

“You’re hit,” he says, voice tight, edged with something near panic.

You grit your teeth. “I noticed.”

Spencer doesn’t laugh. He just presses harder, trying to slow the bleeding, his fingers slick with warmth that doesn’t belong to him. He glances up, scanning the dark corners of the basement, the outline of the intruder slumping forward as your shots take effect. The danger isn’t over, not yet, but Spencer isn’t moving away from you.

“You’ll be fine,” he mutters, more to himself than you.

You try for a smirk but only manage a wince. “Worried about me, Reid?”

His jaw tightens. “Always.”

A crash echoes upstairs, heavy footsteps pounding against the floor. Reinforcements. You and Spencer exchange a glance, unspoken understanding passing between you. You both know that staying here is no longer an option.

Spencer shifts, keeping one hand pressed against your wound while the other reaches for the gun at his side. “We need to move.”

The witness, still trembling in the corner, looks between you both with wide, terrified eyes. “What do we do?”

You grit your teeth, swallowing the pain threatening to pull you under. “There’s a cellar door. Side of the house.”

Spencer nods sharply, adjusting his grip. “We go now.”

He helps you up, his arm sliding under yours, bracing you against him. The movement sends fire through your side, but there’s no time to dwell on it. The sound of approaching footsteps upstairs is growing louder, more deliberate. Whoever is coming isn’t planning to leave survivors.

The three of you move as quickly as you can, Spencer leading the way with his gun raised, the witness keeping close behind. The basement door groans on its hinges as you push through, emerging into the damp night air. The rain has started again, a fine mist clinging to your skin as you stumble forward.

Headlights slice through the darkness just as the first gunshot erupts behind you. Spencer pulls you down, shielding you as best he can while the FBI-issued SUV skids to a stop at the curb. The doors burst open, Morgan and Hotch emerging with their weapons drawn.

“She’s hit!” Spencer shouts, his grip on you tightening as the gunfire continues behind you.

Morgan doesn’t hesitate. He returns fire, his stance steady, controlled. Hotch moves to cover you and the witness, his eyes sweeping over your injury before snapping back to the fight. “Get her in the car!” he orders.

Spencer doesn’t wait. He all but lifts you into the backseat, the witness scrambling in after you. You can feel how his muscles strain to lift you, flexing and rolling as he lifts you as carefully as possible, refusing to allow you to help. The slam of the door barely muffles the chaos outside. Your breath comes in shallow gasps, the weight of adrenaline keeping you upright.It takes your swimming mind time to process that Spencer is curling the van instead of allowing you to move over. You should protest but your mind continues to jump around, straining to pay attention to the scene outside. Have they caught him? The witness is safe, she’s sobbing beside you, but is the rest of the team?

Then the passenger door swings open, and Spencer climbs in beside you. He’s breathing hard, his knuckles white where they grip his gun, but his eyes are locked on yours. “You still with me?”

You nod, though exhaustion is dragging at your limbs, pulling you under. “Still here.”

His shoulders sag, just slightly. “Good.”

Morgan jumps into the driver's seat and peels away from the curb, tires screeching against wet pavement. You glance out the window just in time to see Hotch and the rest of the team securing the scene, the last of the gunfire fading into the distance.

Spencer exhales, finally lowering his weapon, and turns back to you. “Let’s get you home.”

The jet hums beneath you, a steady vibration you feel in your bones. Most of the team is asleep, exhaustion weighing heavy after the mission. The overhead lights are dimmed, casting the cabin in soft shadows. You should be asleep, too, but the throbbing ache in your side keeps you from finding rest.

Spencer hasn’t left your side. He sits next to you, his book open but untouched, his fingers drumming against the cover in restless patterns. Every so often, you catch him glancing at you, eyes flicking toward your face, your side, your hands.

“You’re staring,” you murmur, not opening your eyes.

Spencer shifts. “I’m not.”

You crack an eye open, giving him a pointed look. “Reid.”

He presses his lips together. “I’m just… observing.”

You huff a quiet laugh, shifting slightly, wincing at the sharp pull of your injury. Spencer moves before you can stop him, adjusting the blanket draped over you, tucking it carefully around your shoulders. His touch is light, careful.

“You lost a lot of blood,” he says, voice soft but firm. “And, statistically, someone in your condition should be experiencing lightheadedness, muscle fatigue, and an increased need for rest. Your body is trying to compensate for the blood loss by increasing your heart rate, which is why you’re still feeling so warm despite the cabin temperature being nearly ten degrees lower than standard room temperature.”

You blink at him, half amused, half exhausted. “You always talk this much when you’re worried?”

Spencer huffs. “I’m not worried.”

“You’re quoting medical statistics at me, Reid.”

He shifts uncomfortably but doesn’t argue. “I just think you should be resting.”

“Then stop talking and let me sleep.”

A pause. Then, almost reluctantly, he nods. “Right. Okay.”

You sigh, closing your eyes, exhaustion creeping in. Just as your body starts to go heavy with sleep, you feel movement beside you—the soft rustle of fabric. Something warm drapes over your shoulders, heavier than the blanket.

You crack an eye open and see Spencer shrugging out of his jacket, carefully settling it around you.

“Spence—” you start, but he shakes his head.

“Just sleep,” he murmurs, voice softer now. “You need it.”

You don’t argue. The warmth of his jacket, the steady hum of the jet, and the quiet presence of Spencer beside you lull you under.

The last thing you hear before sleep takes over is the sound of him turning another page—not reading, just waiting.

The bullpen is buzzing with the familiar hum of keyboards clacking, quiet conversations murmuring through the space, and the occasional scrape of a chair against the floor. It’s one of those rare in-between days—no pressing cases, no jet waiting on the tarmac, just paperwork and coffee refills. A brief, deceptive calm before the inevitable storm.

You’re at your desk, fingers drumming absently against a stack of reports you’ve been meaning to go through for the past half hour. You should be working, but your attention keeps drifting—particularly to the desk across from yours, where Spencer is deep in thought, a book propped open against his keyboard. He’s not even pretending to do his paperwork.

You tilt your head, watching him for a beat. His lips move slightly as he reads, fingers tapping a rhythm on his desk, entirely lost in whatever tangent he’s found himself in. You fight a giggle.

“Should I be concerned that you’ve been staring at that same page for the last fifteen minutes?”

Spencer blinks, snapping out of his reverie. He looks at you, then down at his book, then back at you, brow furrowing like he’s just realized he’s been caught.

“I wasn’t—I mean, I was reading. But I was also thinking.”

You raise an eyebrow. “About?”

He hesitates, glancing toward his book as if debating whether to explain. Then, with a small sigh, he leans back in his chair, pushing his hair out of his face. “Did you know that the average person speaks about sixteen thousand words per day? But in reality, most of our daily conversations are filled with repetition, small talk, and pleasantries that don’t contribute much meaningful information.”

You blink at him. “So, what, you’re saying we all talk too much?”

His lips twitch. “Not exactly. Just that… statistically, most conversations are redundant. People say the same things over and over again, sometimes just for the sake of filling silence.”

You smirk. “And yet, you’re one of the most talkative people I know.”

Spencer narrows his eyes, but there’s amusement flickering there. “That’s different. I provide new information.”

You hum, pretending to consider that. “Debatable.” The joke dances on your tongue and you see the edge of a smile fight to peel its way across his cheeks.

Before he can argue, a coffee cup appears in your peripheral vision, and you glance up to see JJ setting it on your desk with a knowing smile. “Flirting through statistics again?” she teases before apologetically placing another file on your desk next to the coffee-offering and walking off.

Spencer clears his throat, suddenly very interested in his book again, while you just chuckle, lifting the cup in silent thanks, adding the case to your impending pile.

“Face it, Reid,” you say, taking a sip. “You talk a lot. Don’t worry, it’s endearing.”

He exhales, shaking his head, but there’s the hint of a smile playing at his lips. “You’re impossible.”

You grin. “And yet, you’re still talking to me.”

You turn back to your work, flipping through the pages stuck in your folder. You weren’t on the assignment you’re tasked with processing, the curse of being lowest on the totem pole, but the case is interesting enough. Still, you find your eyes skimming, fingers tapping on the desk.

“Now who’s zoning out?” Spencer asks. When you look up, he’s smiling at you.

“Sorry, I was just wondering. Were you saying that because you feel like our conversations are actually redundant?”

Spencer tilts his head, considering. “No. If anything, our conversations are anomalous.”

You arch a brow. “Anomalous?”

“Yes.” He shifts in his seat, leaning slightly toward you. “Most daily conversations consist of formulaic exchanges—small talk, routine inquiries, expected responses. But ours deviate. We don’t follow typical social scripts.”

You take another sip of coffee, fighting a grin. “So what you’re saying is… we’re special? Different? Not like other coworkers?”

Spencer huffs, clearly trying to fight back a smile of his own. “Statistically speaking, yes.”

You hum thoughtfully. “That’s a very fancy way of admitting you enjoy talking to me.”

Spencer opens his mouth, then closes it, before finally shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”

You smirk, leaning back in your chair. “You already said that.”

“I’m repeating myself,” he says, deadpan. “Which, as I previously stated, most people do without realizing.”

You burst into laughter, shaking your head. “See? Redundant.”

Spencer exhales, feigning exasperation, but you catch the way his lips twitch, like he’s barely containing his amusement. He glances down at his book again, but it’s obvious he’s no longer reading. Instead, his fingers tap absently against the desk, his gaze drifting back to you as if he’s waiting for whatever you’ll say next.

After a beat, you shift slightly in your chair, hesitating before asking, “If most conversations are menial and redundant, is there anything you’d actually like to know about me?”

Spencer’s fingers stop tapping. His head tilts slightly, eyes brightening with interest. “Yes.”

You blink, caught off guard by his immediate answer. “Oh. Okay.”

He leans forward, forearms resting on his desk. “What’s your favorite color?”

The question is so simple, so unexpected, that you laugh softly. “That’s what you want to know?”

He shrugs. “I like colors. They’re associated with memory and emotion. The colors we gravitate toward can tell a lot about how we perceive the world.”

You consider it. “Hm. Blue, I think. The kind of blue right before the sun sets.”

Spencer’s lips twitch, like he’s cataloging that information for later. “That makes sense.”

You raise a brow. “And yours?”

“Yellow,” he says easily. “Statistically, it’s associated with intelligence and optimism. But mostly, I just like how warm it feels.”

You nod, smiling. “That checks out.”

Spencer watches you for a beat before continuing, “Do you like to cook?”

“I can cook,” you say hesitantly. “Do I enjoy it? Debatable.”

His eyes crinkle at the corners. “So, a reluctant chef.”

“More like a survivalist cook,” you amend. “You?”

“I actually do like cooking. It’s methodical. Precise.”

You snort. “Of course, you’d say that.”

His lips twitch again. “What about books? Do you read for fun, or do you avoid it since we deal with enough research at work?”

You glance at the stack of case files on your desk before meeting his gaze. “I do read. But nothing… analytical. I like stories. Ones that pull you out of reality.”

Spencer hums, clearly pleased by that. “Escapism.”

“Something like that. What about you?”

“I’m currently translating a Russian novel written in the 16th century.”

“Ah. So you research at work and at home.”

Spencer hums, tilting his head to the side. “No, I think it’s still escapism. It’s something to focus on that takes just enough of my focus that I can let the world fade away. General novels don’t do enough to ‘pull me out of reality.’”

Your conversation continues, the questions growing deeper—favorite childhood memory, biggest irrational fear, if you believe in fate. The air between you shifts, still lighthearted but threaded with something more thoughtful, something lingering. Neither of you notice how much time has passed, how the rest of the bullpen has faded into the background. Neither of you seem to mind.

“Are you two actually planning on doing work today, or just nerding out over here?” Morgan saunters over, arms crossed, a teasing grin plastered across his face. “Seriously, I don’t think I’ve ever seen two people more excited to talk about words.”

You roll your eyes but play along immediately, sitting up straighter. “We’re conducting an in-depth analysis of human conversation patterns, actually. Very important work.”

Spencer nods solemnly. “It’s a highly valuable study in linguistic redundancy.”

Morgan snorts. “Right. And how many case files have you two managed to process between all this very valuable research?”

You glance at the untouched stack of paperwork on your desk. “Define ‘process.’”

Morgan barks out a laugh, shaking his head. “Unbelievable. You’re really letting him rub off on you, huh?”

Your grin falters, just slightly, something warm settling in your chest at the thought. You don’t want to just be letting it happen—you want to belong here, to be part of this team in every way that matters. And for the first time, it feels like maybe you already do.

Later that evening, Rossi hosts a team dinner at his house, a tradition that has somehow become a staple among the group. His kitchen is full of the warm scent of garlic and herbs, the clinking of dishes, the comfortable laughter of people who have seen the worst parts of the world together and still choose to sit at the same table.

When you arrive, the house is already brimming with conversation. Morgan greets you first, throwing an arm around your shoulders with an easy grin. "Look who finally decided to show up. We thought you might be hiding out, avoiding us."

You roll your eyes. "As if I could ever avoid all this chaos."

"Chaos?" JJ chimes in, nudging you playfully as she passes by with three drinks balanced between her two hands. "This is tradition."

Emily smirks, leaning against the counter as she sips her wine. "Some traditions involve singing. Others involve roasting marshmallows. Ours? A fine mix of sarcasm and psychological analysis."

“And food,” Rossi interrupts.

"And some of us even make an effort to discuss more elevated topics," Spencer adds, stepping into the kitchen with a book tucked under his arm.

Morgan groans. "Oh God, don’t tell me you brought a book to dinner."

"It’s not for dinner," Spencer says, offended. "It’s just something I was reading earlier. Did you know that communal meals have historically played a significant role in human bonding? Anthropologists argue that the act of sharing food helped shape early societal structures, reinforcing a sense of trust and cooperation."

You smile, all warm edges and fuzzy thoughts. "So what you're saying is, this dinner is historically significant?"

Spencer nods, pleased. "Exactly."

Morgan shakes his head. "Yeah, alright, professor. How about instead of a lecture, you help set the table?"

Rossi moves through the kitchen with practiced ease, stirring sauces and pulling fresh bread from the oven, effortlessly hosting while still engaging in every conversation. He waves you over at one point, nudging a wine bottle toward you. "Since you brought such a good one last time, how about you do the honors?"

You take the bottle from him, grateful for something to do, something to focus on besides the bubbling warmth of the evening settling under your skin. As you work the cork from the bottle, Spencer sidles up beside you, watching with quiet amusement.

"You know," he starts, "there’s actually a method to opening wine that prevents cork residue from contaminating the liquid."

You glance up at him with a self-conscious smile. "Is that your way of telling me I’m doing it wrong?"

His lips twitch, a near-smile. "Not wrong. Just… suboptimal."

You roll your eyes, finally freeing the cork and handing him the bottle. "Then, by all means, Dr. Reid, show me the optimal way."

Spencer takes the bottle, hands brushing against yours. You find yourself still looking up at him for a moment, fingers gently touching, a moment collapsing into itself. You watch as his pupils dilate, slightly, a normal reaction to eye contact and nothing further (a notion your body refuses to acknowledge, filled with the silly idea that maybe it’s attraction pushing his eyes open further to observe more of you). His mouth opens, ready to explain what he’s doing. But, before he can launch into an explanation, Morgan’s voice carries across the room. "Oh great, the nerds found each other again. Should we all just clear out and let you guys talk statistics over dinner?"

Emily snorts from where she’s leaning against the counter, sipping her drink. "Honestly, I’d pay to watch that."

You play along easily, shaking your head in faux exasperation. "We were having a very riveting discussion about wine physics, actually. Life-altering shit."

Morgan grins. "Yeah, I bet. What’s next, the molecular breakdown of garlic bread?"

Spencer straightens slightly. "Actually—"

You elbow him lightly before he can get started, and his mouth snaps shut. It’s the smallest moment, but it sends a ripple of warmth through you—this unspoken understanding, the ease of teasing him without making him feel small.

You’ve noticed before when the gentle teasing goes too far. When the team pushes a bit too much, makes him feel like a burden instead of a fountain of knowledge. The painful edge of it digs into your stomach more often than you would care to admit. A significant amount of your energy when talking to Spencer is spent toeing that line. You can’t help but tease but you never want to make him feel like his interests and knowledge are a burden.

Rossi chuckles, setting a tray of pasta on the counter. "Alright, everyone, grab a plate before the food gets cold."

The group disperses into easy movement, laughter trailing behind as plates are filled and seats are taken around the long wooden dining table. You settle beside Spencer again, your knees brushing under the table. The proximity is unintentional, but you don’t move away, and neither does he.

The meal is indulgent, the flavors rich and familiar, but it’s not the food that lingers—it’s the feeling. The warmth of being gathered around this table, among these people, feels sacred in a way you’re not sure you’ve ever experienced before. Like communion, like breaking bread with disciples who have seen you bleed and stayed anyway. You wonder if Spencer feels it, too, if he sees the holiness in shared meals and easy laughter, in the way the team fills the spaces between each other like stained glass fitted carefully into its frame.

You and this team have been through so much together — the rest more than you. The past months shadowing the team have been insightful, exciting, and have done more than anything else to solidify that this is what you want to be doing with your career. Beyond that, the time has been tough. Your grit, your ability to persevere and persist, and your skills, have been tested day beyond day.

Beyond the toughness though, you’ve found a home. Community. Family. You see through their exteriors to admire them, the people around you. It’s more than you could have ever thought it to be, this life. Before this, you’ve been floating. Drifting through life, living for exams and physicals and finals. Studying, working for a result you were unfamiliar with. Now, though, the taste of the life you’ve ground yourself to the bone for glistening on the tip of your tongue, you’re hungry. Starving for life to continue, salivating at the mouth for any and all opportunities to stay here, in this moment, with the team.

Conversations flow freely around you, a mix of teasing and genuine storytelling, warmth curling in your chest as you sip your wine and let yourself exist in this moment. Spencer doesn’t talk much, but he listens—really listens—his attention flickering between the voices around the table, occasionally back to you.

At one point, Rossi taps his glass, drawing attention. "Since we’ve got everyone here tonight, I’d like to make a toast. To this team, to good food, and to the fact that somehow, against all odds, we manage to stay sane."

A chorus of laughter follows, glasses raised and clinking together. You catch Spencer watching you again over the rim of his glass, something unreadable in his gaze. Not quite curiosity, not quite something else. Whatever it is, it lingers between you like the space between notes in a song—present, felt, but not yet fully realized.

You take another sip of wine, and the flavor sits heavy on your tongue, tart and deep, reminiscent of something older than yourself. You wonder if this is what devotion feels like—lingering in a moment you don’t want to leave, knowing that if you close your eyes, you’ll still hear the echoes of this laughter in your bones.

Spencer shifts beside you, his knee pressing just a little more firmly against yours. He doesn’t look away this time. And for the first time, you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, this is where you belong.

It starts over coffee, late in the afternoon when the sky has begun its slow descent into gold. The café is small, tucked between a used bookstore and a florist, the kind of place that smells like roasted beans and cinnamon, where the music is just quiet enough to let conversation breathe. You meet there often, sometimes after work, sometimes on weekends when neither of you have anywhere urgent to be. It feels like neutral ground—safe, familiar, but tonight, something feels different.

Spencer is fidgeting.

His fingers curl and uncurl around his coffee cup, tracing patterns in the ceramic like he’s working up to something. His gaze flickers to the window, the steam curling from his drink, your hands resting on the table. Anywhere but your face.

You sip your drink slowly, watching him with quiet apprehension. “You look like you’re debating something incredibly complicated.”

He huffs a breath, almost a laugh, but it doesn’t quite land. “I am.”

“Must be serious, then.”

“It is.” He shifts, finally—finally—meets your gaze, something fragile and certain flickering in the warm depths of his eyes. “Would you—” he stops, swallows, starts again. “Would you want to go to dinner with me?”

The words settle between you, weighty but delicate, like something precious placed carefully in waiting hands. You can see the way he braces for impact, his fingers tightening around his cup, his breath just a little too still.

You tilt your head, letting the moment stretch, just to watch him squirm. Then, softly, “In what way? A date?”

You are hesitant, voice barely audible. You’re scared to ask, feeling childish, the words tasting forbiddenly sweet on your lips. You tell yourself you can’t have been imagining everything between you two the past weeks — months, even. The lingering touches, the connection that sits at the base of your spine and ignites you with something far beyond holiness.

Spencer watches you for a moment before ducking his head. He looks shy, uncertain. “If that’s okay, yes.”

The words hit you in the center of your chest. You’re certain you’ve heard wrong for a full second, sure that he couldn’t possibly be confirming your wildest dreams.

“I would really like that.”

His shoulders loosen, just slightly. Relief unwinds in the smallest of ways—the way his fingers flex, the subtle shift in his posture. He nods, barely, taking a slow sip of his coffee like he needs to ground himself against the movement.

You don’t miss the small, pleased smile he hides behind the rim of his cup.

The evening of the date arrives, and your apartment is a disaster zone.

Clothes are strewn across your bed in varying states of rejection, your closet door hanging half-open as if it, too, is exhausted from your indecision. You tell yourself it’s not nerves—it’s just a normal dinner, just Spencer—but your pulse betrays you, humming under your skin like an electric current.

You tug at the hem of your sweater, second-guessing, then third-guessing, your reflection offering no clarity. A date. The word itself feels foreign on your tongue, weighty in your mind. The possibility of something more, something unknown, something irreversible—

Then, the knock at your door.

You exhale sharply, pressing your hands against your thighs like it’ll steady you, before crossing the room. You hesitate for just a moment, long enough to gather breath, then open it.

Spencer stands there, scarf wrapped around his neck, cheeks flushed from the cold. He’s holding flowers, wrapped in delicate brown paper, not random but deliberate, purposeful. His fingers tighten around them as his lips part, ready to explain, but you reach out first, brushing your fingers over the petals.

“They’re beautiful.”

His gaze flickers to yours, searching. “They, uh… they all have different meanings. I can tell you, if you want.”

Your chest feels warm, full. “I’d like that.”

He nods once, clearing his throat. “Well, the blue cornflowers—they mean ‘hope in love,’ and the lavender represents devotion. And the ivy, that’s for fidelity, and um—” he stops, shifting awkwardly—“I wanted it to mean something. To you.”

Your fingers tighten just slightly around the bouquet, breath catching.

“It does.”

The drive to the restaurant is wrapped in quiet conversation, the kind that feels like warmth on a winter evening. Spencer talks—of course he talks—his voice weaving through facts about the historical significance of first dates, how certain cultures believed that sharing a meal was an intimate ritual, a way of binding souls together.

“You’re romanticizing it,” you tease, studying the way the streetlights paint fleeting golden patterns across his profile.

He huffs a soft laugh. “It’s just history.”

“History can be romantic.”

He glances at you then, something unreadable settling in his features. “I suppose it can.”

You watch him as he drives—the way his fingers flex against the wheel, the small furrow between his brows when he concentrates. There’s something in the ease of this, in the soft lull of conversation and the quiet hum of the road beneath you, that feels like it’s teetering on the edge of something significant.

When you arrive, he moves to open your door but nearly smacks you in the face in his haste. He freezes, mortified, clears his throat. “Sorry.”

You bite back a laugh. “It’s okay. I appreciate the effort.”

The restaurant is intimate, the kind of place that makes everything feel softer—low candlelight, warm wood paneling, the steady murmur of quiet conversation. A flickering candle sits at the center of your table, casting shifting patterns along the surface, making everything feel just a little dreamlike, just a little surreal.

Spencer shifts in his seat, his fingers tapping once against the table before stilling. He exhales a quiet laugh. “This is… nice.”

You nod, the candlelight catching in his eyes. “Yeah. It is.”

The menu is filled with dishes just unfamiliar enough to make you both pause, debating choices. Spencer, of course, has read about half of them before.

“You know, the origins of risotto actually trace back to the Middle Ages. It was influenced by Arabic rice cultivation techniques brought to Sicily, and—” he stops himself, clearing his throat. “Sorry. I can, uh, get carried away.”

You shake your head, smiling. “I like when you get carried away.”

His gaze lingers, just a second too long.

The night stretches in slow, golden increments, conversation winding through shared stories, quiet laughter, the clink of silverware against plates. He tells you about childhood books that meant something to him, you tell him about the first time you realized you loved what you do. The space between you narrows, not in distance, but in something deeper, something quieter.

And then it happens.

The realization strikes like a bolt of lightning, sharp and electric. You want to kiss him. It isn’t a slow realization, isn’t something that builds over time—it hits all at once, undeniable.

The candlelight flickers, catching the sharp cut of his jaw, the way his lips move around words. His fingers curl around his coffee cup, knuckles flexing. Something about it feels holy.

You realize, suddenly, that you’re staring. That you’re leaning in.

Spencer pauses mid-sentence, blinking at you. “What?”

You exhale, a slow smile tugging at your lips. “Nothing.”

He watches you for a beat longer, his gaze searching, curious, like he’s trying to decipher something just out of reach. The air between you thickens, humming with something unspoken, something waiting.

But he doesn’t press. Instead, he picks up his coffee again, takes a slow sip, and when he speaks next, it’s with the same easy rhythm as before.

And you let yourself sink into it, into him, into the quiet certainty of being here, together.

The knock comes late. Too late for pleasantries, too late for anything but something raw, something that has been waiting to surface.

You aren’t asleep. Haven’t even tried. The air in your apartment feels too thick, the weight of the last case pressing into the spaces between your ribs, making every breath feel just a little too shallow. So when the knock sounds again, quieter this time but insistent, you already know who it is before you even reach for the door.

Spencer stands on the other side, hands buried in his pockets, his shoulders hunched like he’s been standing there for too long, debating whether or not to knock again. The dim hallway lighting casts shadows under his eyes, exhaustion lining his face, but there’s something else, too—something hesitant, something that flickers behind his expression like a barely-contained thought.

“Spencer?” you ask, brow furrowing.

He exhales, slow, measured, the way he does when he’s trying to pick the right words before speaking. “I—” He hesitates, shakes his head. “I don’t know why I’m here.”

A lie. You see it in the way his fingers twitch, in the way his breath stumbles. You see it in the way his eyes don’t quite meet yours, how they flicker toward your shoulder, your collarbone, before darting away again, like he’s afraid of being caught.

You step aside, let him in.

The silence between you stretches, thick and heavy, but not uncomfortable. It settles, wraps around you both as he moves past you, as he lingers near the kitchen counter without quite leaning against it, as you close the door and turn to face him.

You should say something. Should ask him why he’s here, why he looks like he’s spent hours convincing himself not to be. But the words don’t come. They tangle in your throat, unwilling to break the moment that is already unraveling between you.

Instead, it’s him who speaks first.

“I think about you.”

The words are soft, careful, but steady. Not a confession, not quite, but something close. Something that shifts the air between you, makes it sharper, makes it real.

You inhale, slow, deliberate, but it doesn’t steady you the way you hope it will. Your pulse jumps, a small stutter beneath fragile skin, and you know he sees it, knows he’s cataloging it the way he does everything.

Spencer exhales, a quiet, disbelieving laugh escaping him, and when he finally looks at you, really looks at you, there’s something unguarded in his gaze. “I think about you all the time.”

You watch as he sways slightly, like he’s resisting the pull, like gravity itself is urging him closer.

And then he stops resisting.

He moves carefully, like he’s giving you space to step back, to stop him, but you don’t. You stay rooted where you stand, watching as his hands hover at your sides, reverent, hesitant. His fingers flex once, a brief curl like he’s debating whether or not to touch you, whether or not to let himself have this.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, barely more than a breath.

You don’t.

Instead, you reach for him first.

Your fingers brush against his wrist, a featherlight touch, tentative, but it’s enough. Enough for him to let out a slow, shaky breath, enough for him to tilt his head, just slightly, enough for his hands—hovering, waiting—to finally settle at your waist. His touch is a whisper of warmth, hesitant, reverent, the weight of it barely there as if afraid that pressing too hard will shatter whatever fragile thing exists between you in this moment.

His skin is fever-warm beneath your fingertips, the heat of him bleeding through the fabric of his sleeves, seeping into your own. The air between you hums, thick with something unspoken, a tension so finely drawn it feels like it might snap at the slightest movement. You don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s him, maybe it’s you, maybe it’s the inevitable force that has been pulling you together for longer than either of you has been willing to admit. But suddenly, impossibly, there is no more space left to close.

He is close. Close enough that you can see the flicker of uncertainty in his gaze, the way his pupils darken like ink spilling into warm honey. Close enough that you can feel the tremor in his fingers where they rest against you, like he’s bracing himself against something too big to name. Close enough that his breath—uneven, shallow, shaking—ghosts across your cheek, the warmth of it sinking into your skin like an imprint that will never leave. His fingers flex—barely, just a little—but the movement is enough to send a ripple down your spine, enough to make your stomach dip like a held note in a song unfinished.

He exhales again, something like a laugh but softer, more fragile, like he can’t quite believe this is happening. Like he is standing at the edge of something vast and unknown, and for once in his life, he is hesitating.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper, almost swallowed by the quiet between you.

You smile, small and real, the kind of smile meant only for him. “Me either.”

Spencer swallows hard, his throat bobbing. His gaze drops—to your lips, flickers back to your eyes—searching, waiting, still holding himself back. The space between you crackles with electricity, the kind that comes before a storm, before the sky splits open and the world drowns in something relentless, inescapable.

You make the choice for him.

You lift your chin just slightly, tilt forward just enough, and that’s all it takes.

The first touch of his mouth to yours is hesitant, uncertain, the kind of kiss that feels like a question. A quiet, careful can I? rather than I will. His lips are warm, softer than you imagined, and his breath stumbles against yours as he presses just a little closer, as if afraid you might pull away. You feel it the moment something in him gives way, the moment the tension in his body unwinds and he stops second-guessing himself and simply lets go.

His fingers tighten at your waist, just barely, but enough to make you shiver. His other hand drifts, fingertips skimming up the curve of your spine like a whisper of a prayer, settling lightly at the back of your neck, a delicate anchor. He kisses you like he’s memorizing the shape of it, like he’s afraid he’ll forget how you fit against him if he doesn’t take his time.

He tastes like coffee, like exhaustion, like something sweeter underneath it all, something uniquely him. You drink him in, slow, deliberate, every second stretched thin and precious. The world has narrowed to this—his breath, his touch, the way he exhales so quietly when you sigh against his lips.

And then he pulls you closer, deepening it just slightly, just enough to steal whatever air was left between you.

When you part, neither of you move away. Your foreheads rest together, breaths mingling, still wrapped in the hush of the moment, still holding on, just for a little longer.

Spencer exhales, barely more than a whisper. “I don’t want this to be a mistake.”

You press your fingers against the back of his hand, grounding. “It’s not.”

Something eases in his expression. He nods, just once, before his fingers trace lightly over your jaw, tilting your face back up toward his.

And then, he kisses you again.

541 notes · View notes

pedgito · 1 year ago

Text

𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 | Joel Miller x reader

summary | a series of nights spent with a neighbor you find an unlikely connection with, sharing a similar interest to pass the time, it forms into something much more intense and suddenly, neither of you can deny it anymore.

content warning | no outbreak!joel, f!reader that is mentioned to have hair that can be pushed back but no exact length, descriptions of outfits, lots of w*ed smoking/consuming ed*bles, a quick mention of a burn, joel being a good neighbor, he's still the biggest girl dad, age gap implied but readers isn't specified, joel's not afraid to go for what he wants, most of the interactions happen while they're high so please keep that in mind when reading, lotsa boob worship, fingering, oral (m receiving), unprotected p in v, mentions of joel being sterile, strangers to friends to lovers. this was written over the course of a weekend don't look at me

word count — 8k

The first and only time you see him is when you’re moving in next door, trudging in the moving boxes on your own as he seems to ready up his own truck full of boxes, followed by two younger women who seem to be bickering at him and he bypasses them with a smug smile on his face—he’s older, so you came to your own assumption that it was probably his daughters.

That’s all you know about him.

Outside of the fact he drives a truck, works long hours, and that his name is Joel.

The girl with the begrudging smile and worn out converse called his name while you were throwing away your trash and trying to not seem like the nosey neighbor.

He comes, he goes. The roar of his truck is all you hear and you never really see him outside of an occasional swish of his curtains through your own windows, but occasionally you leave your trash can out by the curb longer than necessary and it magically appears at the beginning of your driveway.

Now, you don’t want to point fingers—but the only ones tucked away are his and your own, leaving the other neighbors to fend for themselves.

It’s a simple gesture, kind.

You want to thank him but you never get the chance.

You’re curious if he’s a night owl—lights staying on even into the early hours of the morning, shadows crossing around his living room that you can see from your bedroom window, tossing and turning most nights as you struggle and struggle to fall asleep.

You’ve learned methods to help, plenty—if you ever remember to charge your vibrator it was usually your first choice, a quick release of some of the built up tension over the day and you could eventually find it easier to fall asleep. But, your tried and true method was weed.

That was it. Sometimes you didn’t even need much—an edible to curb the anxiety that filled you, a puff or two at the pen you had stashed away in your bedside drawer, but most of the time it was occupying your mind with the work of rolling the joint before smoking it out your bedroom window that helped the best.

However, tonight was different.

You toss and turn and fling the blankets away that stick to your skin, the broken ceiling fan doing nothing to quell that muggy heat that was permeating in your house from earlier in the day—it just sat frozen, menacing and taunting at you. You search through the drawer at your bedside for the small tin case covered in stickers of various interests and things you enjoyed, kicking the sliding backdoor with your foot as you traveled through the living room to your kitchen and stepping out onto your back deck.

It’s still hot, but the breeze allows a noticeable difference.

You work quietly, hunched slightly over the railing and using the faint glow of the light hanging beside your backdoor, just finishing up rolling the joint as you bring it to your tongue and the distinct creak from the house next to you grabs your attention—the sliding door mimicking your own.

Your heart races and you don’t know why. It could be one of the girls, still strangers but somehow you find it easier to look that way if it was them—Joel was intimidating, the aura he carried within just a few seconds of a glance.

It is him, unfortunately—and suddenly you feel the need to hide your stash, tossing the tin box in the cheap plastic chair you bought when you first moved in. Tucking yourself away as you light the joint and bring it to your lips.

He’s being surprisingly noisy, chair scuffing the deck as he moves it around and you look at him curiously from across the way, a fence and several feet of grass dividing you both. You can see the mug clutched in his right hand and his left hand filled with a few various things. A phone, for sure—lighting up in his hand before he lays it on the table beside him, lifting a leg over the lounge chair in a straddle-like motion before he sits down.

And he does seem like a smoker, not that you have proof or theory—it was just the vibe, but as he lights the item in his hand and takes a slow drag you quickly realize there's not an ounce of nicotine in sight. It’s clear when he catches your gaze and his brow furrows slightly, noting the similar item tucked between your own fingers and you can’t help but laugh to yourself.

You don’t say a word. Neither does he. But, he does offer a weak smile when you grab the tin box from the chair, nodding in acknowledgement. Your entire body flutters to life for some weird reason that you will absolutely blame on the THC obscuring rational thought.

Thankfully, sleep comes easy after that.

–

But, it doesn’t stay that way.

Most of the time you stay tucked inside, especially on the days and nights when the heat wasn’t as ablaze as usual, but there is usually a day or two out of the week where you find yourself outside—sometimes you lounge, or pace, but it never fails that the moment you step foot outside your backdoor, Joel does too.

Once a week, rarely twice—though it does happen, both of you find yourself in quiet submission as you smoke and enjoy the peace, even with the constant click of crickets and lighting bugs that seem attracted to both of your houses, flying around your backyard in a small swarm.

And you wanted to keep your distance, not wanting to impose on his space but your two months into these unspoken nightly meetings when your cheap lighter finally decides to shit itself, offering nothing but dull sparks against your overworked thumb, trying and failing to light the end of the joint.

Joel had been watching, an amused smile growing on his face as you cursed and tossed the lighter into your yard out of frustration—you’d grab it later, whatever. Eventually you sigh, giving up on it for the night and turning to pack away your stuff before Joel is calling over to you from his side of the fence, heart dropping into your stomach at the sound of his voice.

“I got a light,” He offers, “if you’re interested?”

It’s definitely a question. A proposition. An offering.

You scratch at your brow and hesitate for a millisecond, not giving yourself enough time to debate your answer before you’re mumbling “Fuck it,” and taking the path down the steps and to the gate that separated your yards, watching as he stepped toward you all in the same breath, feeling so much more intimidating this close—the smell of him, musky and sweet. His hair was wet, too.

He took a shower, got dressed, and immediately decided to step back out into the humid heat of Texas summer.

You pluck the lighter from his grip with a soft tug, flicking open the top. It was a good lighter, not the crappy three-pack you bought at the gas station down the road—it was chrome, engraved with a JM, and soft to the touch. You admire it for half a second before you attempt to light the end of your joint, still tucked between your lips.

But, as fate would have it, you make a fool of yourself. It wasn’t that you couldn’t get it lit, but that the wind was being your worst enemy in a situation where you just wanted to smoke the goddamn joint and go to bed.

Joel puffs at the joint between his lips and breathes out the smoke through his nose before he huffs out a low laugh and nods in your direction, reaching his arms over the fence and beckoning with his fingers for you to hand the lighter back over. You nearly go cross-eyed as his hands come toward your face—much larger than your own and far better at keeping the flame strong, he peeks around his cupped palm and waits for the end to turn a bright orange before he pulls away and you eagerly pull the smoke into your lungs.

“Thank you,” You tell him, rubbing your bare feet into the grass beneath you, patchy and poorly cut from your own mow job, but you were working the best with what you had—even if it was an ancient lawn mower you snagged at a garage sale that only worked half of the time.

You didn’t like to ask for help, hated it. But, here you were, taking help from a stranger.

Well, neighbor.

It didn’t feel fair to call him a stranger anymore, even if you’ve only spoken a little under ten words to him.

“No problem, sugar,” Joel responds and your cheeks burn with heat, that distinct nervousness spreading throughout your body that couldn’t be mistaken with anything else, “curious, though—you ain’t ever thought about investin' in a good lighter?”

You shrug, tapping away the ash gently with your fingertip and taking another puff, “Why? My neighbor’s got a perfectly good one himself?”

Joel raises his brows in unison and smiles slightly, he laughs. It’s more of a lazy chuckle.

“I… have more. I just lose them a lot. Besides, they’re only like ten bucks a pack.”

You’re waiting for him to cut the conversation short and walk back to his chair, but he finds himself leaning, arms tucked and crossed over the fence, oblivious to how daunting this felt to you—the man you’ve been so helplessly curious about for months suddenly standing in front of you and interested, unbothered…not at all what you expected from him.

“Thanks for constantly moving my trash bins,” You tell him randomly, blowing the smoke out through your lips as you tilt your chin up, “I always forget.”

Joel makes a face, wordlessly offering an “I know,” with his eyes and you roll yours in return, following it with a laugh as you pop a hip out slightly, leaning most of your weight onto one leg and crossing your arms over your chest, suddenly remembering how bare you were under your thin top, assuming you’ve probably already given him quite the show already.

Though, Joel seems like the type of man to be nice enough not to point it out.

You perk up suddenly, asking the first thing that comes to mind.

"Can I ask a question?"

Joel nods.

“What’s the JM stand for? On your lighter.”

“Sweetheart,” The laugh shakes his entire chest, “come on now.”

From sugar to sweetheart—you were clearly making quite the impression on him.

When you don’t respond he answers your question.

“Joel. Miller. I figured that was obvious,” He says, stubbing out the end of his joint into the wood on his side of the fence.

“Oh.”

“It’s on the mailbox.”

Curious, you leave him for a brief moment to slip through the side gate of your yard and….yeah, sure enough.

“I swear I’m not always like this,” You tell him as you make your way back over, forcing away the smile that was creeping its way onto your face.

“Too bad,” He responds, carding fingers through his still slightly damp hair before running his open palm over his beard, scratching at his chin, “s’pretty entertaining.”

“O-kay,” You answer, sarcasm smothering your tone, “I think it’s my bedtime, Joel Miller.”

“Goodnight then,” He bows his head slightly, “neighbor.”

The tone of it makes you snort with a soft laugh, flipping him off as you depart.

Suddenly, Joel Miller doesn’t seem all that scary.

–

The next week is suspiciously quiet, to your surprise. You’ve opted out of keeping yourself inside now that you had a friend to keep you company, but when he doesn’t show up after a few minutes, you can’t explain why you feel disappointed.

Next week is the same, his house suspiciously dark.

You can’t pass judgment—he could be busy, tired, or there could be no reason at all.

But, the need in you is there—for what, you’re not even sure.

By the third week you’re ready with a peace offering, a truce.

That night his lights are on and he’s even moving around, somewhere in his kitchen you’re assuming, but instead of sneaking out into the backyard you’re crossing over your front lawn and into his, seemingly fresh mowed and smelling of wet grass, having been under mostly rain showers all night and you knock at his door.

You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until the door opens and you smile at the sight of him, sleep pants hanging low on his hips and his shirt slightly raised by his stomach. He looks exhausted, eyes puffy with sleep as he rubs at them with his knuckles, but he doesn’t look displeased at the sight of you—in fact, he almost smiles in response.

One rolled joint in your left hand, a second in your right. It’s a wordless gesture that makes Joel scoff in amusement and nod you inside of his home. His home. That you’ve never seen until now. You were in his house and it was the most casual thing in the world. You don’t linger for long, following him toward the sliding door to his backyard but the place feels…homey. Lived in. So much unlike your own and disorganized in a way that showed years of age and memories, pictures scattered along the walls and years of personal crafts that you couldn’t examine for as long as you wished.

“Sorry I disappeared,” He acknowledges the unasked question, even though it lingered on your tongue, “—got a huge job at work, getting the site ready has been a pain in my ass.”

You share the lounge chair, taking a seat against the part of the chair that was propped up while Joel opts for the end, giving you a comfortable amount of space to stretch out if you wanted but also, and maybe instinctively, trying not to pressure you into feeling like you had to share space with him.

“Can I ask?”

Like a goddamn broken record, Joel chuckles at that. Full and genuine as he lights the end of the joint and wordlessly helps you, the same cupping motion of his hands that you welcome this time, almost eagerly.

“Ya gotta stop askin’ that,” Joel says, “especially when you’re just gonna ask anyways.”

Well.

“I’m a carpenter. Long hours, got a bad sleep schedule ‘cause of it. Pays good, though.”

“Oh, that’s…”

“Not interesting at all, I know.”

“No—no, I mean. I don’t know what I was expecting you to say. That sounds…fun?”

“If you think busted knuckles and an achy back is fun—but I’m old, can’t really escape that.”

You laugh under your breath and inhale the joint between your lips, blowing it out as you speak.

“You are not old, Joel. Come on.”

“I’ve got two fully grown daughters in college and a 401k callin’ my name in about a decade.”

“So, what? Fifty five? Fifty six? You can do better than that.”

“You’re a little shit, you know that?”

You shrug at him, a satisfied smirk stretching over your face.

It’s a back and forth game you play for a while—nights spent at his house where you bicker back and forth, offering snacks and occasionally getting the royal treatment of dinner or a late-night breakfast if Joel was feeling too antsy to sleep.

He never flirts, really. Despite how you don’t cover up around him for his own sake, always showing up in your sleep clothes that barely allowed for any modesty or the summer clothes that clung to your body and hugged your curves, allowing his eyes to trace and outline all over your figure as much as he wanted to—and sometimes he did, catching his gaze on you for a brief moment before it fades.

But, the first crack in his hard facade comes over a late night meal of pancakes and bacon, grabbing the blueberries from his fridge as he fries the meat on the stove, his elbow bumping the fridge door and knocking the small plastic box of blueberries out of your hand and to the floor, a surprised yelp coming from your throat as you scramble to catch them all.

“Shit, shit—I’m sorry, that was my fault.” You apologize, picking at the blueberries that didn’t make it, shoveling them into your hand and Joel leans down slowly, kneeling as he scoops the tainted blueberries into his own hand and dumps them in the trash.

“My bad, baby—that was on me,” It flows off his tongue with ease and if he realizes he’s said it, he doesn’t acknowledge it, “damn grease popped at me—go on, sit down. I’ll clean the rest up and we can use up what’s left.”

You both enjoy your meal without a blip, not daring to address the slip-up—he peppers you with sugars and sweethearts and the occasional honey when you get a little too combative over a topic, but never baby.

The second time is less surprising and more of a comfort, if you’re being honest with yourself.

Again, struggling with his lighter—this time your hand is holding one of those sparklers you haven’t touched since you were a child—leftovers from the bunch that Sarah and Ellie, his two daughters had brought home over the holiday. You never came over, despite his insisting invitation and running into his brother Tommy on the way home the night prior to the Fourth of July. He'd insisted too.

It just won’t light—and Joel had made the mistake of getting a few of them wet when he’d cleaned off his deck that night and suddenly you’re wondering it’s just a dud.

You hover the flame, mind drifting as you watch the flame grow and you don’t realize you’re burning yourself until Joel is pulling the items from your hands, dropping you back down into reality as you feel the sting, the sudden burn to your thumb as Joel says something that you don’t quite hear at first.

“Sweetheart, you gotta pay attention—“

You look up at him meekly and he pulls you inside with a nod of his, turning on the cold water and pulling your hand under the stream.

“Where’d you go?”

You raise your eyebrows in question, the lingering high drifting off from earlier in the night.

“Oh—just, kinda spaced out, I guess?”

Joel rubs his thumb over yours gingerly and turns off the water, grabbing you a clean washcloth stuffed with a couple pieces of ice to soothe the burn for the time being.

“Baby, you really gotta be more careful.”

Your head snaps over to him as he threw a damp paper towel into the trash and watches the sudden realization cross your face—looking for uneasiness, fear, worry; but in an instant, your body relaxes and you shake your head.

“I promise. It won’t happen again.”

You see the way his lips part slightly, almost as if he’s gearing to add a, “Me too,” for a different reason, but it never comes.

Near the end of summer, you find yourself there again.

But, things feel different.

“So, I’ve got a surprise.”

Joel leans up at your words, arm resting over his knees as you plop the bag down on the table beside the chair—Joel looks slightly worried, eyes flicking toward you and back at the bag.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never tried edibles.”

“It’s not really my thing, sugar—”

“Joel, you’ve been smoking longer than I’ve been alive.”

“Now, you know that don’t mean a damn thing.”

You shake your head in fake dismay, slipping your hand into the bag to grab a few pieces.

One for him…a couple for you.

“Aren’t those supposed to be pretty strong?”

You shrug, “I think it depends. Person to person. I’ve never tried these before, but I’ve never had a bad trip, so…”

Joel’s eyes linger, finger poking at the small, cube gummy in your hand like a child discovering a new toy.

“Hey, we’re doing this together,” You offer as a half-assed comfort, “so if it sucks, it’ll suck for both of us.”

Joel doesn’t seem to need much convincing, though. He plucks the gummy from your palm and places it on his tongue, watching as you do the same and you chew, settling back on your palms at the end of the chair, feet outstretched and crossed in front of you as you stare up at the sky.

It was a Waxing Gibbous moon, not quite full but nearly there—it hovered over Joel’s house, just enough light to illuminate the space between you two. And you wait in comfortable silence aside from the low hum of music playing inside Joel’s house, dark inside now that he had turned off all the lights as you had followed him outside.

He always spent more time out here with you than he intended nowadays.

By a half hour, you find the idle conversation quickly divulges into things more obscure, your gaze lingering on the sky longer than you realize and Joel speaks to you softly, your heart pounding slowly in your ears.

“It ain’t going nowhere.”

You turn to him slightly, blinking a few times before you realize what he’s referring to.

“Oh. Well, obviously. It’s just pretty. I could stare at it all night.”

“Can’t blame you,” Joel responds, but his eyes are nowhere near the sky.

Oblivious, your gaze lingers upwards still, leaning back so far on your hands you feel yourself slip and yelp, only caught by Joel’s hands nearly a second short of a serious head injury.

“Come here,” Joel beckons, fingers wrapping around your bicep as he pulls you forward until your back is against his chest and he allows you to lean into him, feeling him clear his throat behind you as he keeps his hands a respectable distance despite how easily he’d move you into this position to begin with.

Commendable? Sure. Frustrating? Absolutely.

If you couldn’t feel the hard, solid line of his body at your backside it wouldn’t bother you so much. And the heat of his body, scolding to the touch like a furnace. He ran hot, that much you already knew just by a few faint touches before but this—it overwhelms your senses.

You try to distract yourself, noticing the carved out wooden statue of a cowboy riding a horse while it was rearing back, you squint your eyes before perking up with a sudden question.

“Where’d you get that?”

“Get what?”

You giggle slightly, tapping at his arm to grab his attention before you point in the direction of the statue placed by the stairs, “That thing.”

“Oh, that—I…made it.” He looks away with a sudden embarrassment as you quickly twist your head up to look at him in complete and utter shock—he scrunches his face up and dares to take a peek at you from his peripheral and his face heats up when he sees you looking so rapt.

“Joel, that is insanely fucking good.”

“Sweetheart—”

“Don’t sweetheart me,” You mock his tone, “how long did that take to make?”

Joel tries to think—it’s been years now. Sarah was barely out of grade school and he had just adopted Ellie, it was all a blur anymore with both of the girls in college now.

“A month, on and off between jobs. It’s just a piece of junk, really.”

“Joel, shut up.”

Joel can’t hold back the even bigger laugh that escapes him at your bluntness.

“It’s just a hobby.”

“A hobby you seem to be really fuckin’ good at.”

Joel shrugs and you decide to leave it be, relaxing back into his chest more comfortably, though his arm lingers more closely to your body, fingertips resting against your bicep that slowly start to move on their own, whether by Joel’s own conscious movements or just by nature of seeking touch. It’s a gentle trace, it tickles and you shrug your arm slightly to which he responds with a gentle squeeze.

By the hour mark you find that Joel hates when you ask about his statues or some of the homemade structures in his backyard—littered throughout along with an old playhouse that you can only assume belonged to his daughters, much outgrown and covered in vines and weeds, intertwined through cracks in the wood.

He hates it so much he actually tries to distract you with something else. Anything.

Unfortunately, nothing really works. So, he changes gears completely.

“What’s with the sundress tonight?” Joel asks suddenly, the playful lilt to his voice hidden behind a sudden need for authority over the situation. “Gettin’ all dolled up in the middle of the night.”

“It’s new,” You say with an eagerness, rubbing your finger over the silk fabric of the dress, “do you like it?”

“You really askin’ my opinion?”

Of course. I bought it for you.

“Do you have one?” You say instead.

“It’s nice,” He runs his pointer finger and thumb over the strap on your left shoulder that slips down, lingering against your skin as his palm covers the expanse of it.

His touch feels far away but so intense, head swirling with thoughts you can’t follow—there’s a primal need there, though. And you can’t tell if he feels it too. If it’s just the weed in your system or if it’s weeks and weeks of built up tension boiling over the edge.

This is the closest Joel has allowed you to be—he’s relaxed, his barriers are down and the hand lingering on your elbow is careful but explorative, his fingers trailing to the middle of your chest, flipping the small silver necklace around your neck under his fingertips, feeling so delicate. More importantly, he feels your heart, stretching the palm out wide and over your skin.

“Y‘alright?”

You nod and shuffle your feet, planting them on the end of the chair as you pull your knees up, the dress falling just at the apex of your thighs, barely allowing any modesty and if you spread your thighs even a half inch—

Joel breaks his eyes away, watching the slow rise and fall of your chest despite your rapidly beating heart.

“That heart of yours is racin’, sugar. Are you sure?”

Again, you nod. But, the subtle shift against him forces his fingers lower as you adjust yourself higher, ass pressed right against his groin and it does no favor for Joel, who’s fingers dip just below the fabric of your dress in the process, grazing down the center of your chest.

“You nervous or something?”

Nervous, no. Joel didn’t make you nervous anymore. The heat between your legs told you otherwise, and the need for touch was impossible to ignore and maybe just for a moment—just a second, you could let him. It would solve this ridiculous ache that had grown between your legs.

Joel seems so in tune with you and he sees the way your eyes are locked on his hand, unmoving but the half of his fingers tucked under the top of your dress.

“You don’t make me nervous, Joel.”

That wasn’t necessarily the question—and suddenly, you realize your misstep, looking up at him suddenly to catch the intense look on his face, almost like he was anticipating your gaze. His bottom lip is slightly parted from his top, face flush from the summer heat but his eyes are dark, follow the path of your face until it lands on his hand and then he speaks.

“What is it then?”

The way you press your thighs together at the sound of his voice, low and heated, spoken behind a gaze that made you feel small but admired.

Touch me. Make it better.

You don’t say it, it’s only a thought.

But, Joel is a mind reader. He never leaves your sight, but his hand moves on its own accord and squeezes your breast gently. His rough and calloused palm is a stark contrast over soft skin and if you would have made any sign of not wanting this, he would’ve pulled away.

Instead, your chest cants under his touch and your head nods without an answer to his question, because he already knew.

“Lemme see ‘em, sweetheart,” It takes little effort to pull the straps down your shoulders, his other hand pushing the fabric just below your breasts, allowing them free and Joel makes a soft, low noise behind you as he covers your chest with both hands, thumbs grazing over your nipples as they pebble under his touch, “that feel better?”

Not good. Not alright. Better—was he helping you? Was he soothing that ache he’d created?

“Y-Yeah, yes.”

He’s just as curious, squeezing the flesh in hands and occasionally letting his finger trace down your abdomen as your dress shifts and shifts until it’s barely a means to keeping your modesty over your lap, hands pressed down at the space beside Joel’s hips as you push yourself up until your head is nearly level with his, his hands squeezing your tits together as you sigh. He hooks his chin over you shoulder and watches, your eyes falling shut as you lean your head back.

“You need more?” He asks, “Tell me, baby—I’m right here.”

The baby rings through your head like a warning bell.

Once was an accident, twice a coincidence, three times…

Stop it. Stop it now and you won’t have to face the awkwardness after your high wore off and you both had a night to sleep and think and regret—but you find yourself nodding anyway.

Why was Joel any different from a random hookup? Other than being your neighbor, slowly coming to what you consider to be a friend, crumbling apart before you as he hikes your dress up over your hips and grips it tight.

You nod to his question.

“Take those off,” He speaks over your shoulder and you don’t need persuading, fingers hooking into the underwear clinging to your hips and down, over your ankles as you kick them away and almost instantly Joel’s hands are on your knees, spreading you wide, his palms squeezing at the inside of your thigh, “shit, look at that—“

He dips a finger down the center of your pussy, through the slick pool of accumulated pleasure and pulls away, shiny and glistening against his fingertips as he breathes against the shell of your ear, “All that just from me touchin’ you?”

You could answer—keep dragging out this game of cat and mouse that had started between you but instead you reach for his hand, placing it against your cunt as he cups it with his palm, dragging the two middle most fingers up and down the seam, circling over your clit briefly before they’re plunging inside of you with ease, aided by just how wet you were—your pussy throbs around his fingers.

Words are few and far between outside of the soft, mewling noises you make into the side of his face as your arm comes up and wraps around the back of his neck, yanking at the short hair at his nape and dragging your mouth along his cheek as you breath out in short huffs, his other hand coming down to circle at your clit with no preamble—straight for the kill and eager without saying it.

His grip is heavy, forceful as his fingers pump in and out of you pussy with little care, the soft squelch of your arousal around his fingers forcing the heat to climb to your face and you feel his jeans rutting into the backside, desperate for relief just as much as you but too selfless to speak up about it.

And you feel the crest in your chest, eyes squeezing shut as your pussy flutters around his fingers, a shout that is quickly muffled by Joel’s hand as it covers your mouth, the fingers still buried inside of you and working you through the aftershocks as he shushes you gently. Your body feels like it’s vibrating, legs shaking slightly as he removes his fingers and squeezes tenderly at the inside of your thigh, feeling the dampness from his fingers spread over your skin before they’re climbing their way up your body, along your skin until he’s bringing them to his mouth silently and cleaning them up like he’d made a mess of his meal, your eyes widen at the sight and you feel overtaken, flooded with desire that you can’t sit and suffer with any longer.

“Knew I was right in callin’ you sugar,” He teases, catching your face in between his fingers as you turn to kneel between his legs, “so damn sweet.”

His fingers tap at his thighs, rough denim under his fingertips to match his overworked, weathered hands and you can’t help but admire, knowing they had been buried inside of you a few moments ago and you bow your head, popping the button of Joel’s jeans as he casually reaches for your hips, kneading the muscle of your thighs as he watches, helping you situate his jeans far enough down his own thighs that you can slip your hands past his boxers, straining against the weight of his cock, hard and aching as it reached up toward his stomach.

“Sweetheart, you don’t have to,” He tells you, but you scoff slightly in amusement, not wanting to know how frazzled you look, half-lidded and bloodshot eyes under the moonlight, bare aside from the newly bought dress at your waist and Joel is most definitely still staring at your tits, his eyes dragging up to your face a few seconds too late, “I’m guessin’ we should of talked through this first but I just wanted to make you feel good—”

“You think I feel obligated?” Your eyebrow raises up slightly before you’re pulling his boxer down just enough that his cock springs out, bobbing away from his stomach slightly and you only allow yourself half a second to react.

He’s big, from root to tip you know it is the biggest you’ve ever had and you’re waiting for the cocky remark, the begging for compliments and thoughts that you hear so often during these halfway thought out hook-ups but this wasn’t that. It was weeks of build up, the tension line snapping under the weight of your unspoken desire for each other.

“Joel—”

“Don’t go boostin’ my ego,” He chuckles, “—not you, baby.”

You laugh softly and dip your head, feeling his hand curve over and through your hair, down your neck before it settles against the middle of your back and he brushes the stray hair from your face, allows his finger to rest behind your ear as you tilt your head and lick a long stripe up his cock, flicking your eyes up briefly to catch him staring, mouth closed and unnaturally stoic for a moment, like he’s holding his breath.

“Show me,” You plead with him, “whaddya like?”

You move down slightly to roll your tongue along his balls, the weight of it in your mouth as you suckle and feel his fingertips scrape gently along your skin, allowing a few moments of your own exploration before he’s wrapping his hand around his shaft and using the other to grip your chin and rubbing the tip against your half-open mouth, forcing a dribble of spit between your lips and letting it trail down the tip before he feeds his cock into your mouth, tongue spreading flat over the underside and keeping him in your eye-line before it’s nearly impossible, feeling him guide you down until his cock nudges the back of your throat with a slight sting, eyes watering.

“Look at that,” His voice is low, gruff as it rumbles in his chest, “makin’ it all fit in that pretty little moutha’ yours.”

You quickly realize that Joel enjoys watching you feel consumed by him, choking on his cock as your head bobs up and down with fervor, a gentle guiding hand against the back of your head as you breathe through your nose, feeling him nudge the back of your throat over and over and over until you find yourself fighting for air and oblivious to the symphony of curses Joel was spewing above you as his neck was tight, straining as he tipped his own head back against the chair.

And he looks too fucking good to pass up on. You rise, pulling at the collar of his shirt to grab his attention and his eyes open wide, his pupils blown out and dilated as he watches you move, biting at your bottom lip as you shuffled your legs over his hips to straddle him.

“Can you fuck me?”

“Can I—sweetheart, you sure?”

You give him a look of flippant disregard, too impatient to pace through the steps of sureness. But, Joel is focused suddenly, pulling your attention to him as his palm finds your face, cradling your cheek and rubbing his thumb over the shape of your lips.

“Don’t give me that look,” He tells you.

“Yes, Joel.” You answer him impatiently, “I just—I mean I don’t have anything, but…”

“You ain’t gotta worry about that,” Joel chuckles, “been out of commission for a while, sugar.”

You can’t help to release the giggle that bubbles in your chest at that.

He’d had kids, a family at some point—but that wasn’t his life now. He was a renewed bachelor, experiencing all the things he’d put on the back-burner to be a good and proper father. While this hadn’t been at the top of his list, or even anywhere on it really, you can see the happy satisfaction on his face with how comfortable he’s grown in the time you’ve gotten to know one another.

“Can’t tell,” You comment slyly as you lift up on your knees, allowing Joel to shift his jeans further down until they’re bunched sloppily at his ankles.

Joel rolls his eyes fondly, “Go on, baby.”

He watches, eyes following your hand as you grip his cock at the base, rubbing it along the center of your cunt, gliding through messy arousal and finding some excitement in the way he squeezes at your thighs a little too hard, fingers curling around the back of your knee as the head of his cock catches against your clit, again, again, barely allowing him to press inside of you until finally, a few harsh pleas balancing on his tongue that quickly dissipate as you sink down onto him inch by suffocating inch.

You breathe out slowly, watching Joel as he watches you, his eyes locked on the sight of his cock as it settles inside of you, only allowing the slow, gentle rock of your hips as you adjust.

His stomach flexes under your touch, fisting your hands into his shirt and lifting it out of the way before Joel gets the hint and strips himself completely, kicking his jeans off weakly as you sigh, squeezing gently as his shoulders and feeling his hands grip at your backside, into the soft flesh of your cheeks and you strip the wrinkled fabric over your head, tossing it somewhere behind Joel’s head as you fingers grip along the edge the bar of the chair above his head, lifting your hips in time with his movements as he keeps a firm hand on you, allowing soft puffs of groans to fall from his lips as your tits bounce with the frantic movement and Joel leans forward, capturing the side of your breast between his teeth, a gentle bite that causes you to squeak.

It’s quickly soothed by his tongue before he flicks it over your nipple, circling the peaked and pebbled nub before he’s sucking it between his teeth, eyes locking on yours from the depraved angle it allows you, still able to spot the few shining grays of his hair in this light. You card your fingers through his hair and arch your chest into his mouth, “J-Joel, maybe we should move this inside.”

He shakes his head, mouth still stuffed full with you as you moan out loudly when he smacks your ass in one gentle but solid swing and you want to blame his boldness on the dwindling drug in your system, but somehow you come to the conclusion that it was just Joel, unbridled and wanting. Of you.

“Not a chance in hell, sweetheart,” Joel disagrees as he pulls back, “no one gives a damn ‘round here, anyways.”

“Says you,” You laugh weakly, whimpering softly as he snaps his hips into you with sudden force, his hand reaching for the back of your neck to urge you forward, forgoing your body for your lips and it’s more intense than anything else going on around you—his cock stuffed inside of you, the fingers on your skin, it didn’t matter for that brief second of a first touch, kissing you sloppily as you moan into each other’s shared space.

“Well, I do—got this one neighbor,” He jokes, “nosey as shit but damn is she a good fuckin’ time.”

You gasp as he pulls you close, free arm wrapping around your back as he slips his tongue past your lips, using the opportunity as your lips part to devour you in an instant and you pull at the stands of his hair in turn, kissing him back with a harsh pressure that begs for more.

“M’not nosey,” You defend lamely, “just—fuck, curious, ya know?”

“Thank god for that,” Joel sighs, and your pussy flutters before squeezing around him, “oh, fuck baby—do that... do that again.”

You do, teasingly, watching as Joel curses under his breath and leans back, watching you move against him without shame, a hand pressing against your stomach to guide you to lean back slightly, “Look at that, sweetheart—makin’ a goddamn mess on me.”

The short, coarse hair at his groin is wet and sure enough, covered in the messy slick of you and mixed with the thin sheen of sweat that had covered both of your bodies in this sticky heat.

“You like the idea of gettin’ high and letting me fuck you?” Joel questions amongst the pound of your heart in your ears, the heat of his gaze quickly driving you toward the edge again. He chuckles, “Dirty—dirty girl. Was that what you’ve been plannin’ since the beginning?”

“Would’ve let you fuck me either way,” You admit, only a half-truth. You weren’t sure if you’d ever pluck up the courage had Joel not made the first move, but you’re damn sure glad he did anyways, “and with a cock like that, god—”

“Easy,” Joel warns, “givin’ me a complex the way you were looking at it.”

“It’s big, Joel.” You admit, pushing the stray hair that had fallen down over his forehead away and back into this messily quaffed hair, “You like knowing I can barely fit it all in my mouth, don’t—don’t act coy about it.”

He’s not—he’d been more than willing to allow you to choke on the girth of him until you begged for mercy, but given his normally gentle nature with you, he wasn’t going to take it that far.

Your brow drags up in a pinch, moaning as his thumb presses against your clit and circles, presses down gently, just the right amount of everything to drive you to near insanity. Your thighs squeeze against his own where he has you spread out, hands balled up into fists that punch gently at his chest.

“You’re right there, baby—gotcha, I gotcha.” He murmurs, watching you intently as you grip at the arm wrapped around your back to keep you upright, fingers digging into his bicep as you tip over the edge, legs shaking through the second orgasm he’s given you that night, squeezing your eyes shut so hard you start to see the flurry of stars in your darkened vision.

Your limbs give out shortly after, falling against his chest as he snaps his hips, just near the edge himself as he groans, grunts, breathing hotly into the curve of your neck and you rub at the little spot behind his ear that makes him chuckle, “Want it all inside,” You tell him through a cloud haze of need and pure desire, “can you do that, Joel?”

“Fill you up, sugar?” He asks, sounding a little taken aback, “If that’s—if that’s somethin’ you’re comfortable with.”

You nod eagerly and he loosens the reins completely, lifting one of your legs until you can plant a foot near his hip and he pounds into you, pulling back when he feels the impending orgasm grow in his gut, hot and intense. He watches as he comes inside of you with a few slow snaps of his hips.

“Shit,” He curses after a drawn-out silence, helping you move off of him and into a more comfortable position between his legs as he grabs lazily for his shirt, cleaning up the mess of your wet arousal against his skin and letting the spoiled shirt rest over his groin for modesty, breathing in slow, full breaths.

It’s been too long for him and he knows it.

Joel reaches for the dress that caught on the edge of the chair by his head and hands it over, watching as you slipped it over your head, legs still spread out over his own and he can’t help but draw his eyes to the sight of his come dripping out between your legs and he grins subtly, motioning you forward with a tired finger that you look at curiously before scooting forward an inch, thinking he may wipe something of your face, arrange a piece of hair back into place, but instead he’s slipping his ring finger inside of you and it forces a surprised gasp from your chest.

You laugh airily and swat his hand away, “Stop that,” You tell him.

“Just makin’ sure you don’t waste any of it, sweetheart.”

You snort, flipping him off half-heartedly as you reach for your underwear, standing up to pull it back up your hips and under your dress, swaying slightly on your feet after having been sat for so long.

You sigh, pushing your hair back with your hands, suddenly feeling sticky and gross in the aftermath and Joel seems to notice, slowly redressing himself as he stands.

“Why don’t you shower?” Joel suggests, leaving his jeans unbutton but pulled back up his hips. Shirt balled up in his hand.

You look geared to say no, but Joel sweetens the deal.

He looks at his watch, nearing two in the morning.

“I’ll make us an early breakfast,” He offers, shrugging with a lazy smile, “I mean—early early, because I know you’re probably starvin’. I know I am.”

“Only if you’ll make the blueberry pancakes.”

Of course that was the ultimatum.

“Deal, sugar—go get your ass in the shower.” He nods toward the house and you laugh, running away from the hand that pushes at your back.

So, maybe Joel wasn’t the scary neighbor you assumed him to be. But, you couldn’t deny the bursting affection that was growing in your chest for him and that was even more terrifying.

And when he serves up the pancakes to you, hair damp and dripping down your back and onto the shirt he’d lent you, a small square of pancake balanced on a fork that he feeds into your mouth, you feel it.

He's still shirtless, barefoot against his kitchen floor.

“We can—we can do this again, right?”

Joel smiles, looking down at the plate as he cuts off another piece.

“I’ve been waitin’ an entire summer to get the courage to do that, or even ask you on a proper date—we can do whatever you want, sugar.”

“Dates are overrated,” You shrug, “I like this better.”

“Good,” Joel grins, “least now I can mow that lawn of yours without feelin’ bad for asking.”

“Excuse you—I do just fine on my own,” You gasp with mock offense.

You’re lying—that mower was a piece of shit and Joel could see the way your face quickly melts into embarrassment, laughing quietly behind his fist.

“I like helpin’ out,” He tells you with a shrug, beginning to list off a few things he could help work on around your house, eyes drifting off as he went through the mental list, oblivious to the sudden closeness as you leaned over the counter and capture his lips, closed mouth with both of your cheeks puffed full of pancakes.

“You ramble when you’re high,” You tease him, “it’s adorable.”

Joel grimaces at the word but relents when he sees you smile, wide and spreading out across your entire face, snatching the fork from his hand while he’s distracted.

“So, same time next week?”

“Deal, sweetheart.”

Joel doesn’t care that you show up empty-handed the following week.

And frankly, neither do you.

divider creds: @saradika-graphics

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #joel miller smut #the last of us #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #pedro pasca #pedro pascal characters #my writing #um i have no reason other than pure horknee-ness

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skmhlml · 14 days ago

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Hello, I'm new here, hum.... May I ask a Burning Spice Cookie x Sweetheart wife reader Headcanons please !! No NSFW please...!!

Burning Spice Cookie x Sweetheart!Wife!Reader

🌶️ You’re his opposite in every way. Where he is rage, destruction, and smoldering bitterness, you’re all sweetness, patience, and light. You are the gentle breeze that tempers his wildfires.

🌶️ He calls you “little ember” mockingly at first—but over time, the nickname softens. It becomes something almost reverent. You’re the only fire he doesn’t want to extinguish.

🌶️ No one believes he has a wife— let alone one that could stand him. Rumors fly about you being a prisoner or cursed to love him. But the truth is simpler: you chose him.

🌶️ When he storms back from battle, armor still smoking, the first thing he does is find you. He won’t say he missed you— he’ll grumble, scoff, or collapse dramatically into your arms— but you know.

🌶️ He never sleeps peacefully unless you’re curled up next to him, hand resting on his chest. You don’t mind the smell of ash anymore. It’s his scent.

🌶️ You’re one of the few Cookies who remember what he used to be—a noble guardian of change. Sometimes, when he thinks you’re asleep, he’ll whisper regrets, old names, or half-formed dreams. You never interrupt. You just hold him.

🌶️ When you get hurt (even just a scratch), the world burns. He goes silent, eerily calm, and the destruction he unleashes after that is purely for vengeance. You have to coax him down gently—reassure him you’re okay.

🌶️ He doesn’t understand “quiet married life.” But he tries. He’ll bring you offerings like stolen treasures, cracked relics, or the ashes of your enemies (you told him you just wanted flowers, but he’s learning).

🌶️ You plant a little garden in the center of the battlefield he calls home. He scowls at it every day. Never admits he waters it with the steam from his hands when you’re not looking.

🌶️ Sometimes, you cook for him—sweet, spiced dishes that remind him of what his land once was. He claims your food is “unworthy of a destroyer,” but eats every bite and sulks like a child if you forget dessert.

🌶️ He can’t say “I love you.” It’s not in his nature. But he’ll do things like shield you from an explosion with his own body, or wordlessly place his Soul Jam fragment beside your pillow while you nap—just in case you need it more.

🌶️ If someone so much as raises their voice at you, he appears behind them like a shadow wrapped in flame. Doesn’t need to say anything. Just a look— and they’re running.

🌶️ He doesn’t trust most others. But you? You could ask him to stop a war, and he’d hesitate. That’s the most mercy he’s ever shown.

🌶️ Sometimes, late at night, he asks quietly: “Why do you stay?” And every time you say, “Because I love you,” his fire flares just a little brighter— like he’s burning away the doubt.

🌶️ When you sleep, he guards you like a dragon, sitting at the edge of the bed, sword in hand. Even in your softest, most peaceful moments, he believes the world doesn’t deserve you—and he’ll fight it off every night.

💬▾

“You act like the world is your enemy.”

“It is. That’s why I keep you close— so it can never touch you.”

(holding his hand): “You’re warm.”

(softly, almost shy): “Too warm?”

You (smiling): “Just right.”

“You don’t have to burn everything you touch, you know.”

(gruffly): “…You’re the only one I let touch me. Isn’t that enough?”

(teasing): “I bet the other Beast Cookies think you’ve gone soft.”

“Let them think that. They’ll burn all the same if they lay a finger on you.”

#burning spice crk #burning spice cookie x reader #burning spice cookie #burning spice cookie x reader cookie run kingdom #burning spice cookie x reader crk #burning spice cookie x you #burning spice #burning spice x reader #burning spice x reader crk #monster lover #beast cookie x reader #beast cookies

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nottswitch · 5 months ago

Text

— moondust ; part I

summary: as the school year starts, you notice a familiar presence in your life. mattheo riddle has never said a single word or made a sound in your direction, yet his shadow constantly lingers at the corner of your eye.

pairing: mattheo riddle x ravenclaw!reader

cw: hbp timeline, events might deviate from canon, mentions of cedric’s death, cursing, smoking, a lot of ravenclaw dynamics, hints at terry boot x reader

wc: 1.6k

a/n: the first part of this series that i’ve been thinking about for a while now. this one’s pretty short, sort of introductory. very excited to share it with y’all, it’s gonna be a wild and angsty ride. also, peep me bringing in ravenclaw representation (gotta do what you gotta do for house pride)

⟡ navigation ; m.lists ; mattheo m.list ; series m.list

The weather at the beginning of September is usually the biggest traitor. The sun seems to be beaming high up in the sky, pearly white mountains of clouds covering it for the briefest moment before it starts heating the air up again. And yet, the wind grows colder, invisibly, discreetly; you only notice when you walk out into the world in your usual skirt and a t-shirt, and then a sudden breeze makes you shiver and look for the nearest person you can snatch a cover-up from.

In your case, it’s Terry Boot. He’s already waiting, leaning against a large tree, arms crossed on his broad chest as he chats animatedly with Cho about something that only interests one of them, and it’s definitely not the girl. Cho’s eyes light up when she notices you approach, and she swats Terry’s chest to shush his endless rambling, pointing at you with her chin. Terry follows her gaze and grins, his eyes starting to sparkle with playfulness when he sees your annoyed face.

“Isn’t that a look, babe,” he drawls, teasingly, which makes you scoff and swat his arm, almost a repeat of Cho’s actions. You hug both of your friends, trying to ignore the way Terry’s hand lingers on the small of your back. You decided a while ago to simply dismiss it and hope it goes away, which so far has failed spectacularly. Worse than that, you’re about to do something that will undoubtedly fuel Terry’s delusions about his affections being reciprocated.

“Care to help, big boy?” you tease, a whiny undertone to your voice. You tug at the sleeve of Terry’s fleece shirt, and he chuckles, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, what’s that, huh? Caught the chill?” he asks, pretending to be surprised, even though his hands already reach for the edge of his shirt to pull it over his head. You roll your eyes and snatch the item from him, earning a short laugh from Cho and a smirk from Terry. His eyes roam over your body as you slide your arms into the sleeves, wrapping the fabric tightly around your front – the wind is really picking up now, yet the sun is still blissful and calm, blinding everyone’s eyes with its joyful brightness.

“So, how was the tutoring?” you ask Cho, pretending that Terry’s eyes aren’t currently fixed on your thighs, bare under the skirt, goosebumps covering your skin. Thankfully, he seems to get the hint (for now) and lifts his head up, focusing on the conversation at hand.

“Don’t even.” Cho snorts lightly at your question, her hands landing on her own hips in a manner that seems stubborn, enough for a passerby to think that the girl belongs to Gryffindor, of all houses. For you, it’s nothing but a sign that your usually sweet friend is annoyed, and pretty badly. “Third years are the worst!”

Terry chuckles somewhere from your side, as if it’s not the first time he’s hearing that, and it is very likely that it’s not. He stays silent, though, having enough decency to let Cho have her little rant.

“They are? Why’s that?” You raise an eyebrow, even though the answer to the question is obvious enough, judging by the way your friend glares.

“They have a Hippogriff’s ass for a head!” Cho whisper-yells, taking a step back, then forth, the memory of her students seemingly fresh and bothersome in her mind. You shake your head along with Terry, both of you amused by the fact that she got so riled up by some measly teens.

“Not a single thought in their stupid little heads,” Cho continues, looking up at the sky, groaning as her eyes get hit by a particularly strong ray of sunshine.

“Trust me, love, they do have thoughts,” Terry chimes in, a sly grin spreading on his lips. “And I know exactly the kind.”

The suggestion in his voice is hard to miss, making you and Cho wrinkle your noses in unison.

“Ew,” she mutters, pretending to barf. “I’m not getting anywhere near them ever again.”

As all of you laugh, you can’t help the strange, uneasy feeling that you’ve been caught up in ever since you stepped outside. You didn’t think much of it at first, the conversation with your friends being a great distraction, but it seemed to grow minute by minute. You think for a moment that you’re being paranoid; it’s not uncommon to imagine things these days, with the tensions in the Wizarding World rising every passing day. But soon enough, your doubts clear out – the source of your discomfort catches your eye as soon as you glance around.

Mattheo Riddle is sitting on the grass, a hand resting lazily on his propped up knee, the other one holding a cigarette at his mouth. His back is leaned against a tree, much like the one you’re standing next to, and his whole demeanor just screams ‘untouchable’. You swallow, quickly looking away before you get busted for staring, but Mattheo’s presence lingers thickly both in your mind and peripheral vision. It’s hard not to notice him; the aura he exudes seems to swallow the air around him within a radius of several miles. You’re almost glad you’re standing the furthest away from that tree; a step closer, and you’d easily suffocate or burst out in flames.

Unfortunately, Terry seems to be in tune with the smallest of your actions, his eyes drifting to where yours just were. As soon as they land on Mattheo, he lets out a scoff – it’s filled with disdain, and for some reason, you don’t like it. You barely hold back a frown, daring to look at Mattheo again. His posture hasn’t changed – he looks exactly like a statue carved out of marble, the only sign of him belonging to the living being clouds of smoke swirling around his head. His cold gaze is fixed straight ahead, and for a split second, you wonder what it would feel like to be its subject. A shiver at this thought is unexpected, yet it’s difficult to will it away.

“Some things never change,” Terry mutters under his breath, eyeing Mattheo pretty intensely. “Much like some people.”

Cho also glances at the boy, looking away as quickly as you do, but for an entirely different reason. You understand, you’ve always done – despite her constantly assuring you she’s over Cedric’s death, it’s clear that she isn’t, at least not as completely as she wants everyone to believe. The sight of Mattheo is a constant reminder of the person – the monster – that took the life of her first love. She’s been trying hard not to judge, her open mind being one of the prominent qualities that brought her to the house of Ravenclaw in the first place, but she’s still a person and a girl in love at heart, which is why you give her the benefit of the doubt.

And you really should, for your conscience is not clear either. You have to admit that back in your fourth year, you got caught up in the Mattheo Riddle hate train as well – it was too easy to latch onto the most obvious target and guide all your fears and anxiety at him, the son of the wizard who murdered an innocent classmate and a good friend of yours. You didn’t express your frustrations as openly as a lot of others, Terry included, who nearly got into a fight with Mattheo the next day after the Triwizard Tournament ended. But ever since, you have kept your distance from him, the quiet anger you felt at the start dissolving into the careful indifference over the course of the summer break and your fifth year. And yet, his presence has been a constant in everyone’s lives; he carried a certain emotional weight with him each time he passed by in the hallways, every time he sat in class, emanating heavily loaded energy from his usual seat at the back. It was impossible to escape him entirely, no matter how hard you tried.

A firm hand on both your and Cho’s shoulders brings you out of your thoughts. Terry’s eyes, etched with concern, dart between the two of you, then back to Mattheo, who seems completely unbothered, the bubble around him as impenetrable as a stone wall.

“Want me to go punch him?” Terry asks, a frown creasing the space between his eyebrows. “I can just–”

“No.” Cho sighs and puts her hand over his, trying to calm down the possibility of an outburst wafting from your friend in waves. “Let’s just go. It’s getting colder anyway.”

You nod, hoping that the situation won’t unfold into something Terry – and all of you, really – might regret later. It’s a well-known fact that messing with Mattheo Riddle has never ended in favor of the other person, and you definitely wouldn’t want to be caught in the crossfire. Terry huffs, but a look at your worried expression seems to soften the tension in his body. Reluctantly, his hands fall to his sides after giving your shoulder a comforting squeeze.

“Let’s,” he mutters, casting one last glare at Mattheo before throwing his arms around you and Cho, stirring you in the direction of the castle.

The wind starts howling louder, the tree crowns of the Forbidden Forest in the distance swaying from its force. A large purple cloud is closing in from the mountains, the sound of thunder rumbling through their peaks. Groups of students make their way through the courtyard towards the castle as well, chased away from the outside by the possibility of a storm. And yet, Mattheo never moves from his spot, his fingers ashened by the burned down cigarette stuck between them.

As you approach the familiar comfort of Hogwarts, you can’t shake off the feeling of someone staring right into your back.

#─ ꒰ 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚢 𝚔𝚒𝚛𝚊 ꒱ 📜 ˎˊ˗#mattheo riddle #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle x ravenclaw!reader #mattheo riddle x you #mattheo riddle x y/n #mattheo riddle angst #mattheo riddle imagine #mattheo riddle fanfiction #slytherin boys #slytherin boys angst #slytherin boys imagine #slytherin boys fanfiction #stars divider by cafekitsune #support banner by cafekitsune #moon divider by strangergraphics

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starryeyed-apple · 1 month ago

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making up after a fight - caleb

★ wc: 1.1k ★ content: angst, emotional hurt/comfort, some dark (romantic) imagery, mentions of toring chip, mutually obsessed CalebMC ★ masterlist ★ ao3

Caleb returns home late, his frame outlined by the entryway light you'd left on, just in case he came back tonight.

Stepping into the darkness of the living room where you wait, he slips off his Colonel's hat and long, thick jacket. Stripping himself of that mask which had made him unfamiliar to you.

He looks as exhausted as you feel, shoulders slumped with the lingering weight of your argument.

"Hey," Caleb calls softly when he sees the shape of you lingering in the shadows, the familiarity of his voice a beacon in the dark.

You pause, shifting in place where you'd been restlessly pacing, waiting up for a possible glimpse of him.

"Hey," you whisper, feeling the tension strung tight between you.

A brief moment of hesitation later, and you're crossing the room to each other, sinking into each other in the sweet rapture of your reunion.

"I didn't know if you'd want me here," Caleb murmurs, an uncertain mumble into your skin, nuzzling his face against your neck to try and get impossibly closer.

Sometimes it felt so wrong, to be so separated physically. You should be connected, always; veins attached, lifeforce exchanged, hearts beating as one.

Your fingers curl through his hair, nails gently scraping against his scalp, drawing a hum from deep within his chest.

"I always want you here," you murmur, hands moving down to span across the broad expanse of his shoulders, squeezing him tighter to you. His grip flexes and tightens on you in response. "I never want you anywhere else."

Caleb sighs, deflating with the sound, sinking so far into you that you nearly stumble to the ground. You know if you did, if you ever fell, he'd gladly fall with you.

"Good," he whispers, a catch in the natural rasp of his voice.

You let him rest in your embrace for a moment before gently nudging him back. Your lips twitch up at the dissatisfied whine climbing up his throat at being apart from you, but you don't let him get far. You would never let him stray so far away again.

Thumbs brushing under his eyes, you lightly trace the dark circles there, visible even in the low light still shining from the entryway.

"Come on." Dropping one hand away, the other finds his. Your fingers entangle with his effortlessly, an easy second nature as you tug him after you. "Let's get you to bed, baby."

The gentle glow of red that blooms across Caleb's cheeks in the dark almost has you pulling him into you again. But you stay strong, and he follows after you like a lost puppy. It's an utter reversal to your shared childhood when you were his little shadow, stuck to him like glue.

Now, he sits on the edge of the bed, eagerly following your loving direction as you undress him. His eyes, wide and transcendent as unexplored galaxies, follow your every move. As if you are the only world that existed in all of the dark, empty expanse of space.

Maybe you are. He'd seen that darkness—at least, more of it than the average man. He'd flown so high, seen it all, and come crashing down, burning through the stratosphere in his descent.

And still, he'd crawled home to you with every aching breath, clinging to you with the soil of his empty grave staining his fingertips.

Not a care for the worlds he'd seen, needing only the air of your earth to fill his lungs. You, nestled into his chest, filling the cavity and wrapping around his heart to keep it beating. Each and every pulse for you, you, you.

Caleb needed only your gravity to keep his feet moving, down the path that would wind back to you. Just as his own gravity had always captivated you, bringing you right back to him.

How lost you were without him.

What an empty, yawning abyss his chest had been without you.

Under the covers, your body wraps around Caleb's; limbs tangling, chest pressed to his back. Your arms encircle his broad chest, hands pressed over the fast, steady thrum of his heart.

Up, up, it races, then back down. Crashing so fast it was startling, and you press your cheek against his back.

You feel his heartbeat skyrocket again when your nails gently scrape against the thin fabric of his old shirt. The worn blue fabric that had sat in your drawer, well-loved and used often since you'd lost him. Now it was back where it belonged, hugging his skin in places where he'd grown even bigger, stronger.

His pulse spirals quickly back down again, and you don't need to see his face in the dark to know how it slackens just slightly. The unnatural furrow of his brow, the unnameable look passing through his eyes as he struggles against it, before it's all gone in a blink. Before he's fitting just a bit better into their mold.

You remember the burning sensation in your arm. How it had poured through your veins, eating you alive with desperation and possession, just as surely as it tried to erase you altogether.

It's a reminder of the argument that brought you to this point—your fear over his disregard for the danger he puts himself in, and his willingness to keep you at arms length from said danger.

Your hold on Caleb tightens.

His hand finds one of yours on his chest, stroking lightly along the backs of your fingers. Up and down, almost tickling at the barest hint of contact. He lifts it to place a chaste kiss to them.

"I'm here," he whispers, and you almost want to laugh at how he still knows exactly what you're thinking.

You know if you did laugh, it would twist. Bitter and angry, barbs to ensnare and burrow under your skin. Because even though your Caleb was still here, still in your arms, they wanted to take him from you.

But he was still here. You cling to the thought. Turn it into a mantra, until it evolves into a prayer.

Still here. Despite everything.

Still yours.

"I know."

But your voice catches, and Caleb presses a few more kisses against the back of your hand. Each kiss lasts longer, his lips adding more pressure.

Your body curls tighter around his, tangling yourselves further. Never again did you want to know where you were separated.

You wonder if he can feel your own heartbeat racing against his back, with nothing to calm you, to keep you in check.

The thought makes you angry again. It lessens only when his hand squeezes yours, before placing it back on his chest with your other one.

His heart was slow now, but it was still beating, and there was the prayer again.

Still here. Still yours.

"Rest, honey," he coos at you softly, and you relax on instinct; tight muscles unraveling, thoughts untangling.

"You'll be here in the morning?"

Caleb sighs, tracing old, familiar patterns along the back of your hand. It soothes you, and you melt into him.

"Always."

#caleb x reader #caleb x mc #caleb x you #lads caleb #lads x reader #lads fanfic #love and deepspace #lads caleb x mc #lads caleb x you #lads caleb x reader #caleb xia #lnds caleb #lnds caleb x reader #love and deepspace caleb

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ego13 · 2 months ago

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AFTER MIDNIGHT part. 1 – y.jm

PAIR ࿐ fem! reader x yu jimin. GENRE ࿐ pure angst/smut, detective, criminalistic. WARNINGS ࿐ murders, violence, semi-detailed description of corpses, references to child abuse/harassment, drug references, cheating, redflag!jimin, deception, complicated relationships, eventual smut, cunnilingus, kissing, impact play, misleading, praise kink, pet names (sweetheart , baby). SYNOPSIS ࿐ a series of suspicious murders have swept through a small town, raising it to its ears, which forces you to take up the case, not even suspecting that one of your "old" friends will return from the shadows. WORD COUNT 11,2k ࿐ PLAYLIST After Midnight ࿐

Jimin was holding her half of the headphones delicately, as if it were a secret she didn’t want the nobody to steal. The other half nestled in your ear, you leaned her head just slightly closer, lying it on her shoulder. The soft chords of "Sleepwalking" by Bring Me The Horizon drifted between you both, carried by the tiny MP3 player tucked in her hoodie pocket.

“We’ll always be together, right?” she asked, her voice quieter than the song, almost swallowed by the wind.

You turned to look at her. Her eyes were interested and serious, her dark hair tangled slightly from the breeze. There was something in her expression — an earnestness that made the moment feel like it was being carved into the wood beneath you.

“Always,” you said without hesitation, reaching out to pinky swear.

Jimin smiled then — bright, unguarded, and free. Your pinkies linked like the final note of a perfect song, sealed by laughter and that last chorus echoing in their ears.

"Why are you even asking me this? Is there something I don't know?" You asked with a ringing interest in your voice, clearly surprised by such a sudden interest in this kind of question.

"No... you know more about me than I do, even if I wanted to hide something from you, you would understand in the first moments," Jimin chuckled, clearly changing the subject, trying to avoid a direct answer to the question.

"You're right, so don't even think about hiding anything from me! I'll find out anyway," you giggled, turning your gaze into the distance, connecting the bright stars into small constellations in the clear sky with your gaze.

Noticing this, Yu smiled, she didn’t look at the stars, she didn’t need to, the brightest and most beautiful star in her life was now sitting in front of her, that's why her hand slowly crept up to yours, carefully intertwining your fingers together.

"Just... just suddenly, just suddenly, if something happens to me, will you promise to always remember me?"

The question made you look back at her, looking at her with eyes full of uncertainty. Why was she asking such strange things? The question was stuck in your head and you couldn't find the right words to answer, just nodding silently, taking a deep breath.

Seeing this, her hand tightened its grip on yours, smiling weakly as she brought it to her lips, leaving a few kisses on each of your knuckles as the last chords of the song slowly faded away.

The sound of wind faded. The song cut out.

Your eyes opened.

The room was dark except for the blinking light on her phone vibrating against the nightstand. Your head throbbed slightly — a dull reminder of falling asleep without eating. You blinked once before reaching the phone.

"Yunbin, Investigative Committee."

You answered, voice rough. “Yeah?”

“You’re awake! Thank god.” Yunbin’s tone was clipped. “Check your email. Right fucking now. It’s urgent.”

You sat up, rubbing the heel of her hand into her eye. “Can’t it wait until morning I have a fucking meeting with of Mr. Park tomorrow, if I don't get enough sleep I'll definitely spit in his face.

“No, this can't wait,” he said. “It’s him. We got new evidence. Check your inbox. The email with the archive is there. Password is the usual. Please don't delay. Let me know the second you open it.”

He hung up before you could say anything else.

You sighed, shoved the blanket aside, and dragged her laptop from under the bed. Fingers trembled slightly as you typed in her password — more from the chill than fear, or so you told yourself.

The email was already waiting. No subject. No text. Just an attachment named "SEASIDE_CASE_ARCHIVE.zip"

You clicked it. Entered the password. The archive opened.

There were four folders. Each named after a date. Each containing photos.

You clicked the first one.

The screen filled with images of a body — a young girl, no older than twenty, laid out in the sand. Her stomach was sliced open in a clean, straight line, the flesh parted but blood minimal, as if the cut had been made with professional precision. Her face was eerily calm. In her hands, arranged gently, was a small bouquet of white lilac.

You clicked through the other folders. The pattern repeated.

Four girls. All killed in the same way. All on the same spit of land by the sea — but each found in a slightly different spot. Their torsos opened. Their hands clutching lilac. There was no chaos in the scenes. No mess. Just death, arranged with cold care.

Your stomach turned.

The medical team had nicknamed the killer “The Reaper.” Well... you could see why.

There was nothing passionate or messy about the murders. Just clinical brutality. It didn’t look like rage. It looked like a statement. What was planned, damn, this bastard definitely has professional hands, you were willing to bet that the guys from the forensics team who have done more autopsies in their careers than you can imagine could do such a precise abdominal dissection.

You closed the last photo and sat still in the silence, the sound of the laptop’s fan the only thing filling the room.

Your phone buzzed again. A new message from Yunbin.

Yunbin:

Do any of the girls look familiar to you?

You:

No... I’ve never seen any of them before.

Yunbin:

Are you sure?

You:

One hundred percent. Why?

Yunbin:

All four girls were around your age. 15 to 18. No known family connections. Different backgrounds, no ties to each other on paper. But here’s where it gets strange.

You:

Go on.

Yunbin:

Three of them had registered visits to the same mental health clinic in Seoul. Same month. Same doctor. No details on the sessions — records sealed.

You:

What about the fourth?

Yunbin:

No clinic record... but get this — she was caught shoplifting from a pharmacy six months ago! Security footage shows her muttering to herself and holding a bouquet of lilac.

You:

White lilac? Same lilac?

Yunbin:

Exactly.

You:

So... he targets vulnerable girls?

Yunbin:

Looks that way. Victims showed signs of recent emotional stress — anxiety, insomnia, some hinted at suicidal ideation in personal journals or police interviews.

You:

How the hell does he pick them?

Yunbin:

That’s the question. There’s no digital link. No chatrooms, no shared devices, no obvious connection between them.

You:

And no one saw him?

Yunbin:

No witnesses. He moves fast. The bodies were all found within 24 hours of death. No defensive wounds either. It’s like they didn’t fight.

You:

Or couldn’t?

Yunbin:

Exactly! Autopsies show they were sedated before the incision. Carefully. Nothing messy.

You:

Listen... I need everything you have on that clinic.

Yunbin:

Already on it. I’ll send you the internal list of patients from the month they visited. Might be something there. Including staff rosters. Maybe someone slipped.

You:

Thanks. I’ll dig in.

Yunbin:

One more thing.

You:

Yeah?

Yunbin:

I was told that she, a woman, called the local clinic. She made a call to emergency services a week before the first victim.

You:

What did she say?

Yunbin:

The transcript’s short. She said: “He’s coming. He already took her. I saw it in her eyes.” Then hung up. The number is unavailable, geolocation cannot be calculated, apparently the phone is for one-time use.

You:

The owner of the phone could not be identified either?

Yunbin:

That’s what I'm trying to find out.

You:

Fine, going to sleep now, because I'm about to switch off. I'll meet you at the the office.

You set the phone face down on the desk and leaned back in the headboard. The screen still glowed faintly, casting a cold light across the room. Eyes burned from staring too long. The images from the archive were still there in the back of your mind.

The victims have no connection? This will need to be checked, because if this is really the case, how then do we even look for the maniac? How do we predict the next victim?

You closed the laptop. Stood up, your knees ached slightly from sitting too long. You pulled the curtains tighter and crawled back into bed without changing. The sheets were still warm. She lay flat on her back, eyes open in the dark.

Sleep came slowly, despite the mess that's going on in your head.

The alarm buzzed at 7:15. You slapped it off without even opening your eyes.

Body felt like it had been hit by a truck. You lay there for another minute, then rolled out of bed and dragged yourself to the bathroom.

You stared at herself in the mirror. Pale. Hair is a fucking mess. You looked like someone who hadn’t slept properly in days, and that... wasn’t far from the truth.

In the kitchen, you made yourself some black coffee and didn’t bother with breakfast. Just stood at the counter, sipping it in silence. Thoughts about what happened didn't leave your head. And that dream with Jimin, what was that all about?

You moved on autopilot — pulled on dark slacks, a white blouse, blazer, boots. Tied your hair back loosely. Slid the badge into the pocket, then her ID, then her USB drive.

Laptop in the bag. Phone charged. Everything is strictly according to the template by which you lived every fucking day.

You checked the lock on the door twice before leaving.

The hallway outside your apartment was quiet. Old floorboards creaked under your steps. You took the stairs instead of the elevator.

The city was waking up when she hit the street. Traffic already building. People on their phones, rushing to work, completely unaware that somewhere by the sea, four girls had died without a sound.

By the time you reached the corner, the noise and crowds were already too much. The city felt louder than usual. Head was still foggy. You made your way to the small underground garage behind the building and unlocked your jeep.

It was old, beat-up, but reliable. No tech distractions, just a manual engine and the low hum of the radio you never tuned.

You pulled out onto the main road, one hand on the wheel, the other gripping her coffee cup. And for a moment you thought about the dream again. The bridge. The music. Jimin’s face.

It hadn’t come out of nowhere.

She had been your best friend for years. From first grade to senior year, they were always together — school projects, sleepovers, summer breaks. You shared everything.

Then came the end of high school. Graduation. College applications. And suddenly, Jimin was just… gone.

No goodbye. No call. Not even a text.

Her number stopped working. Socials were wiped. Mutual friends knew nothing. A couple rumors floated around — that her family moved out of Seoul, maybe Busan or Incheon — but nothing solid.

Eventually, people stopped asking.

But the you hadn’t. You still remembered messaging Yu's old email once, months later, just to try. No response.

That bridge from the dream — it was real. It was the place they went when things were hard. When school got rough. When Jimin’s mom was drinking again. When they you both didn't wanted to go home.

And now, for some reason, her face was blurred. Vivid. Sharp. Like she’d never existed.

You shook your head and blinked at the red light. The GPS buzzed even though you wasn’t using it. Just out of habit.

You turned down the quieter side street that led toward the committee offices — a large gray building tucked between an old bank and a private security firm. You parked in the lot, engine off, and sat for a second with the keys in your hand.

Jimin had vanished.

No note. No warning.

Just like that.

You rubbed her eyes once more, then grabbed your bag and stepped out into the morning air.

The curtains did nothing to block out the morning light.

Jimin squinted, groaned, and rolled over — but instead of a pillow, her face pressed into a scratchy throw blanket that smelled like gin and the couch she’d passed out on again. Her head pounded. Her mouth was dry.

Footsteps padded softly across the marble floor.

"Jimin," a voice said gently, like someone trying not to start a fight before breakfast. "You need to get up."

She didn’t move at first. Just let out a grunt and buried her face deeper into the cushion.

"Jimin." The voice came again, firmer now. "Come on. I asked you not to drink last night."

She opened one eye and turned her head.

There she was — her wife, Chanyeol. Dressed like always in something understated but expensive, with a fresh blowout and no visible sign of age despite being ten years older. Perfect. Fucking rich.

Jimin sat up slowly, her spine aching from the awkward position she’d slept in. She tugged her shirt down, even though it was wrinkled and smelled like cigarettes.

"I didn’t plan on drinking," she muttered, voice hoarse.

Chanyeol walked over and handed her a glass of water. "No one ever does."

Yu drank it in one go. Her throat burned.

"You need to pull yourself together," her wife said, crouching in front of her, her tone still measured. "She’s on the way."

Jimin blinked. "Who?"

"My daughter," the woman said. "I told you yesterday. She’s coming for dinner."

Yu exhaled. "Right."

"She hasn’t seen you in weeks. Please, at least try to be presentable. Don’t make this awkward, for me especially."

Jimin pushed herself up and staggered slightly. Chanyeol caught her elbow, steadying her for a second before letting go.

"I’ll go to shower," Yu said. "Give me fifteen minutes."

She nodded, then turned to leave, heels clicking softly on the floor. At the doorway she paused.

"And Jimin," she added without looking back, "if you’re serious about that novel, maybe open the damn laptop today."

Then she was gone.

Yu stood in silence for a moment, staring at the empty glass in her hand. The penthouse around her looked like something out of a magazine — all glass, leather, and minimalism. Nothing in it felt like hers.

She made her way to the bathroom, turning on the water.

Jimin stood under the shower, arms against the tile, water beating down on the back of her neck. She didn’t move. Just let it run down her body in unsuccessful attempts to sober up.

The heat should’ve helped — burned away the hangover, the taste of stale alcohol, the fog in her head — but it didn’t. It never did. Her thoughts kept circling the same drain they always did.

The book.

She had the idea three years ago. A crime novel about a detective chasing a killer who left flowers in the hands of his victims. She wrote the first chapter in a single night, drunk off cheap wine and inspiration. It wasn’t perfect, but it had something.

Then came the offers. A stipend. A sponsor. A publisher who’d "keep an eye" on her progress.

And then came her.

Her wife.

They met at a fundraiser she wasn’t supposed to be at, dressed in someone else’s suit, pretending to belong. But the woman had noticed her — really noticed her — and something about being seen by someone with power and money had hooked Jimin.

It didn’t take long. The penthouse came next. The promises. Then the wedding.

And then the slow drift.

Now the book sat untouched on her desktop — a document opened more times than she could count, each time filled with more a fucking guilt than words.

And every time she thought about writing again, she heard his voice.

Chanyeol’s father. The chairman. The old bastard who’d never said her name once but never stopped talking about her.

"She’s a loser with a shitty book and a dream with a hole in her pocket."

"She’s using you to play artist."

"She wants the money, not the marriage."

Every time he visited, he’d shake his head like she was a stray dog the family hadn’t managed to kick out yet. And the worst part?

He wasn’t completely wrong.

Jimin had needed the money. She’d needed a place to stay. She’d needed someone to say "just write and don’t worry about rent."

She never lied about that. But somewhere along the way, she forgot how to write at all.

The water started to run cold. She didn’t flinch.

Her palms were wrinkled. Her eyes burned. The hum of the ventilation fan filled the silence.

If she didn’t pull herself together, the old man would be right — again.

And worse, the girl showing up for dinner would see it too.

Yu shut off the water and stood in the silence for a few seconds longer.

Then she reached for the towel.

She rubbed the towel over her head, slow and distracted. The bathroom mirror was fogged up, but she didn’t bother wiping it down. She was still standing there, bare feet on cold tile, when her phone started buzzing from the counter.

"HANA - TV EDITORIAL OFFICE"

She stared at the name for a second, then picked it up and answered with a low, dry, "Yeah?"

"You sound like shit," Hana said without missing a beat.

"I feel worse."

"Still drinking yourself sideways?"

"Got a better hobby in mind?"

There was a pause on the line. Yu leaned on the sink and waited, eyes on the fogged-up glass.

"I’ve got something," Hana finally said. Her tone dropped into that serious register she used when she actually had news. "Real shit. Not clickbait."

"Go on."

"You know Mokpo?"

Jimin blinked. "Yeah. Port city. South coast."

"Right. So... a guy I know down there — small-time fixer, drinks with cops — he just told me there’s movement on a hush-hush case. Local police are losing their minds trying to keep it under wraps. No official statements, but he swears there’s a serial involved. Four dead girls, all in different parts of the city."

Yu straightened a little. "Confirmed?"

"Unofficially, yeah. But the details…" Hana hesitated, then said, "They’re all staged. Same exact pattern. Surgical stuff. Like out of a damn screenplay."

Jimin didn’t speak for a moment.

"You’re not calling just to tell me bedtime stories."

"Nope." Hana sounded like she was grinning now. "I’m saying this is your shot. Material. Real, dark stuff. You wanna finish your silly book? Go look death in the face again. You used to be good at that. Before all this…"

She trailed off, but Jimin caught the tone.

"Before I sold out," she finished flatly.

"I didn’t say that."

"You didn’t have to."

Another pause. Then Hana softened. "Look. We both need a piece of cake. I need a segment for the docuseries we’re pitching. You need to write something that’s not an apology email to your agent. Let’s both stop drowning in this shit."

Jimin closed her eyes.

She could already feel the pull of it — the adrenaline, the story, the clarity she hadn’t had in years. She wasn’t dumb, she knew why murder called to her more than love ever did. There was no room for lies in a post-mortem.

"Where do I start?" she asked quietly.

"I’ll text you the fixer’s number. Name’s Minseok. He owes me. If you head down there, he’ll grease the doors."

Yu nodded slowly, towel hanging in one hand.

"And Jimin," Hana added, voice low now, "don’t fuck this up."

Call ended.

Jimin stood for a second, still dripping slightly, staring at her reflection through the steam. The fog was starting to clear.

She stepped out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, hair still damp and clinging to her neck. She moved quietly down the hall, the scent of coffee already drifting toward her.

Her wife was in the kitchen, setting the table with calm precision — warm bread rolls in a basket, little glass dishes with fruit and yogurt.

Yu cleared her throat.

"You clean up fast," she said without looking up.

"Didn’t have time to fall apart today."

The woman gave a soft snort — not quite amusement, not quite approval.

Jimin padded across the marble floor, pulling the towel tighter as she sat down. She’d usually throw on sweatpants or something loose, but there was no time, not with the idea burning in the back of her head.

"I need a favor," she said, cutting right into it.

Her wife finally looked at her. "What kind?"

"Money."

A pause.

"How much?"

"Enough to get to Mokpo. Couple nights in a motel. Bus ticket. Some gear. Call it two million won, give or take."

Her wife blinked. "Mokpo?"

"Yeah. I wanna clear my head. Change the scenery. That’s all."

Yu avoided her eyes and reached for the coffee, pouring herself a cup like it would distract from the lie.

"Thought you didn’t have any friends there."

"I don’t," Jimin said quickly. "That’s the point. No people, no distractions."

Before she could reply, heavy footsteps echoed from the stairs.

And then came him.

Mr. Nam.

Old money in a linen shirt, still somehow sharp at nearly seventy, with perfect posture and a permanent sneer. He didn’t even glance at Jimin as he walked in, just went straight for the fridge and poured himself a glass of water.

"Morning, Dad," her wife said politely.

"Hm," he grunted. He turned, saw Jimin, and finally acknowledged her with a dry look.

"Still drunk?" he asked.

"Morning to you too," she muttered.

He sat at the head of the table and took a sip of water, eyes flicking between the two women. "What are we talking about now? More ‘creative escapes’?"

Jimin exhaled, annoyed. "I said I wanted to go to Mokpo. That’s it."

"For what?" He asked, leaning forward. “A yoga retreat? One of those ocean-view writing camps?"

"She wants to clear her head," Chanyeol said carefully.

The old man chuckled. "Of course she does."

He turned his full attention to Jimin now, his smile thin.

"You know, I spent forty years building a company that pays people with actual skills. You’ve spent what — three years trying to write a book you won’t finish and draining my daughter’s account in the meantime?"

"Dad—" she started.

"No, it’s fine," Jimin said coldly, setting her cup down. "He’s not wrong."

She looked him in the eye, dead calm. "But I’m still going."

The man snorted again. "You’re gonna run to the coast, drink in some moldy motel room, and call it ‘research’? You’re not an artist. You’re a freeloader in designer socks."

Jimin didn’t flinch. She’d heard worse.

But her jaw tightened. "I’ll finish it. One way or another."

"Oh?" The man smirked. "Then stop begging for handouts. Go work."

Her wife stood suddenly, hands on the table. "That’s enough."

The old man shrugged, grabbed his coffee, and walked off like he hadn’t just spit on her entire life.

Jimin sat in silence. Her throat was tight, but she didn’t let it show.

After a few moments, her wife sat back down, quieter now.

"You really going to write this time?" she asked softly.

She looked up, her voice low.

"I’m not asking again."

She was quiet the whole time she packed. A cheap duffel bag, some old notebooks, charger, camera she barely used anymore, hoodie, jeans.

Chanyeol leaned on the bedroom doorframe, arms crossed.

"You're really going alone?" she asked, her voice low.

"Yeah."

"You’re not meeting anyone down there?"

She zipped the bag slowly. "No."

There was a pause. Then she asked, more gently, "Do you want me to book the hotel for you?"

Jimin shook her head. "I'll figure it out."

"I just— You don't really do well on your own, baby."

That stung more than she let on. She slung the bag over her shoulder and turned to face her.

"I need to try."

Chanyeol looked like she wanted to say something else — maybe ask her to stay, maybe tell her she was full of shit. But instead, she nodded once and stepped aside.

"Call me when you get there."

"Okay."

Downstairs, the old man was sitting on the patio with his paper and tea, pretending not to notice her walking out the door. She didn’t give him the satisfaction of a goodbye. Didn't deserve it.

The cab ride to Seoul Station was short, quiet. She stared out the window the whole time, sunglasses on even though the sky was gray. Her phone buzzed in her pocket — a message from Hana.

Hana:

Minseok’s expecting you. Meet him by the docks after 7pm. You still going?

Jimin:

Yeah.

She tucked the phone away and leaned back. Her head still ached from last night’s wine.

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, steady and cold. You stood near your desk, arms crossed, sipping coffee that had long gone lukewarm. Office was silent that was broken only by the soft sounds of Yunbin peeling off bits of tape and slapping photographs against the glass wall.

One by one, the victims appeared — grainy photos, close-ups of lifeless eyes, slashed skin, and lilacs.

"You sure you want these out in the open?" Yunbin asked without turning, "it's not the most pleasant sight, you know."

"Leave them," you said. "I want to see them when I walk in every morning, besides, i've seen worse."

He paused, glanced at her over his shoulder. "You're not sleeping, are you?"

You didn’t answer. Just stared at the newest photo he’d placed — a girl no older than seventeen, her body half-buried in wet sand, arms crossed neatly over her chest, fingers curled around the wilted lilac.

"Medical report says the cuts were done post-mortem," Yunbin said. "Stomach opened with something precise. Scalpel, most likely, but it's not certain, Yunho from the medical sector is still conducting an examination, the results will be out within a day."

You set your coffee down. "No defensive wounds?"

"None."

"So they were drugged?"

"Or just caught off guard. No signs of sexual assault. No robbery. No struggle."

You nodded, slowly processing.

"Victims don’t know each other. No online connections, no overlapping phone activity, no shared friends."

"Then how the hell is he choosing them?" you asked.

Yunbin shrugged. "Only common point is location. All dumped on that same stretch of coast, but spaced out by kilometers. Spit’s nearly eight kilometers long."

You walked over to the wall, looked at the photos again. "He wants them found."

"Obviously. Poses them like a fucking piece of art."

You tapped her nail against the glass. "And the lilacs?"

"White lilac means youthful innocence. In the old books, anyway."

"Jesus Christ," you muttered. "Fucking poet."

They stood in silence for a beat. Then he said, "You really don’t recognize any of them?"

You shook her head. "No. They’re all strangers."

He peeled the last photo from the file and smoothed it against the glass. The youngest. Maybe fifteen.

"Then maybe that’s the point," he said quietly. "They’re strangers to everyone. Nobody who’ll raise a fuss too soon. Easy to lose."

You stared at the girl’s face. Pale, half-lit by the camera flash.

"I want every missing persons report filed in that region for the past six months," you said. "Even ones that weren’t taken seriously."

"On it."

"And Yunbin," you turned toward him.

He paused at the door.

"Keep this in-house. No leaks. No press, I don't want some bastards from TV getting under our feet."

He gave you a small nod.

"Got it."

The door closed behind him, and you remained standing there, leaning against the edge of the table, examining each victim with a long-honed master's gaze.

The victims were not related.

But is it true?

Something made you reach for the file on one of the victims, opening the first page as if trying to find a catch in what was written.

"The victim's marital status... The father is an alcoholic, received a two-year sentence for robbery and fighting..."

It seemed that you had found absolutely nothing important in these lines, so you took the file of the last victim, but this time, opening it, your gaze instantly found the right line.

"The victim's marital status... Mother is an alcoholic, bad relationship with father after which he left the family, strained relationship with stepfather."

Fathers.

Perhaps there is a clue here.

And it was at that moment that you felt something click in your head. Reviewing the entire dossier for what seemed like the hundredth time, you began to understand something you had missed earlier.

All the victims had terrible relationships with their fathers.

How could you possibly miss this?

But that didn't matter now.

Taking a pen from the table, opening the cap with your teeth, you quickly wrote down the address of the last victim on a small piece of paper.

Yeosu, a city three hours' drive from Mokpo.

The hand grabbed the car keys lying nearby, as if a bullet flew out of the office. It seemed that you finally began to catch this invisible thread, and you had no right to lose it.

The rented Hyundai coughed as it climbed the hill toward the Investigative Committee building — a dull gray block of concrete with tinted glass and a security booth out front.

Jimin had one arm resting on the window frame, the wind tugging at her hair. She spotted Yunbin the second he stepped out — button-down shirt half untucked, lanyard around his neck, phone in hand.

She smirked and quickly pulled over near the curb.

"Yunbin!" she called out, snapping her fingers like she’d just remembered something. "Hey!"

He stopped, squinted toward the car, then took a step closer. His expression shifted from confusion to vague recognition.

"Jimin?" he asked.

"In the flesh. Hana’s friend. Fucking writer, remember?"

Yunbin looked at his watch, then at the sidewalk. "Right. She mentioned you might be in town with Minseok."

She leaned on the steering wheel. "Funny thing, I was just headed to the same coffee shop you’re probably walking to. Want a ride? I swear the air conditioning works better in here than it looks."

He gave the car a long, skeptical look, then shrugged. "Sure, I guess, I’ve walked enough today."

Yu grinned and unlocked the passenger door. "Hop in. First coffee’s on me."

As he climbed in, buckling up with one hand and glancing around the dashboard like he was checking for bugs, Jimin mentally took stock, easygoing, maybe a little overworked, but not the suspicious type. Getting him on her side would be no problem.

"Appreciate it," he said, settling in. "Didn’t expect to run into anyone I knew around here."

"I didn’t expect to end up here, either," she replied. "Small world, right?"

He chuckled lightly. "Or maybe Hana set us up."

"Wouldn’t put it past her."

They drove in silence for a few blocks. Jimin kept it casual, one hand on the wheel, eyes on the road, but her mind was already ten moves ahead — rehearsing how she’d ask about the case without sounding too obvious, wondering how close she could get to the real story without scaring him off.

"So," she said casually, "how bad is it in there? Everyone's walking around like there’s a bomb under their desks."

Yunbin didn’t look at her, just stared out the window. "Worse than that."

Bingo. Fucking bingo.

It seems that everything will be much easier than she thought.

The coffee shop was only a few blocks away, a corner place with dusty windows and a faded sign that read "24/7 Coffee." Jimin parked a little crooked, tossed the keys onto the dashboard, and followed Yunbin inside.

They grabbed a small table near the window. he ordered black coffee. Jimin asked for an iced americano, even though she hated the aftertaste.

"So," she said, stirring the straw like she cared, "what’s really going on out here? Hana made it sound like some true crime goldmine."

Yunbin leaned back in his chair and exhaled slowly. "Yeah. You could say that."

Yu kept her expression neutral, sipping through the straw. She didn’t want to push too hard. Let him talk.

"There’s been four bodies so far," he said. "All dumped on the same stretch of coast. Different spots, but the same pattern."

She nodded slowly. "The girls, right? I read something vague on some forum. Thought it was a hoax."

"It’s real," Yunbin said, his voice a little lower now. "Stomach cut open, organs left intact. No signs of struggle. Holding white lilac in their hands. No fingerprints. No suspects."

"And you?"

"I'm just the assistant, you know," he shrugged. "The real one doing the legwork is the lead investigator. She’s been glued to the case since the first body was found, I've been her assistant for two years now, I assure you, she's a pro at what she does."

Jimin raised an eyebrow. "She?"

"Yeah. Young investigator, moved down here six months ago from Seoul. Total hard-ass. Doesn’t sleep, doesn’t smile. Her name is—"

He didn’t finish. Yu's hand slipped on the condensation of her plastic cup and knocked it sideways, spilling coffee across the table.

"Shit," she muttered, fumbling for napkins.

He sat back, startled. "Hey, you good?"

She waved it off. "Yeah. Just... the cup slipped. What were you saying?"

"Her name. You probably don’t know her. She’s not exactly the social type."

"Try me."

He gave her a look. "Y/N."

Jimin froze mid-wipe. Her stomach twisted in a way she hadn’t felt in years. She forced a short laugh.

"No shit."

Yunbin nodded, sipping his drink. "You know her?"

She leaned back, staring past him, eyes unfocused. "We went to school together. Long time ago. Haven’t seen her in..." She trailed off.

"Small world, huh?"

"Yeah, I guess," she said, swallowing hard. "Fucking small."

She tried to act normal, pretending to clean the mess she’d made, but her mind was running circles. She looked up at Yunbin, forcing a smile.

"So... this girl, right," she said, her voice carefully casual, "what’s her deal? You said she moved here from Seoul?"

He nodded, leaning back in his chair. "Yeah. She got transferred a while ago. Some people say it was a demotion, others say she asked for it. She doesn’t talk about it."

She squinted. "How old is she?"

"Twenty five, but you know, she's the kind that looks like she hasn’t aged in ten years, but her eyes look like she’s lived three lives, after two years with her I can definitely say that she has seen a lot of shit, you know."

Jimin smirked. That sounded exactly like the you she used to know. But still... part of her didn’t want to believe it. It was too coincidental, too suspicious.

"She's like... well, she has a little scar under her eye, kind of quiet but sharp as hell, yeah?"

"That’s her," Yunbin said without hesitation. "She’s the real deal. Cold, maybe, but when she’s working a case. I swear she doesn’t even blink when looking at crime scene photos. Although, during all this time, I still haven’t gotten used to looking at fucking bodies that was teared apart, this shit still comes to me in terrible nightmares every day."

Yu didn’t respond right away. Her eyes drifted toward the window. The sound of cars passing by blurred into the background.

All at once, she was somewhere else.

Spring, maybe third grade. You sat cross-legged on the grass, a small smile tugging at her lips as she twisted little white flowers into a braid, slowly threading them through her hair. Jimin sat still, letting her do it, not because she cared how it looked but because it was your hands. Gentle, focused. Careful not to pull too hard.

"You look like one of those fairies in books," you had whispered, not even looking at her, too busy with the next flower.

Jimin had laughed. "Fairies don’t wear school uniforms!"

That memory hit harder than expected. She blinked and came back to the present.

She cleared her throat. "We were friends. A long time ago."

He raised an eyebrow. "Didn’t think she had any."

"She used to."

Yu took a long sip of her watered-down coffee and sat in silence for a moment.

"Yunbin," she said finally, "think you could introduce me to her?"

He looked at her for a second, then gave a slow, suspicious smile.

"Depends. You here for research… or something else?"

"Does it matter?"

He chuckled. "It might."

Yunbin was still smirking, but there was a note of caution behind it now.

"Look," he said, "I’ll be straightforward with you. She isn’t exactly the welcoming type. Especially not lately. She doesn’t like outsiders sniffing around, and if she gets even a hint that you’re here for your own reasons..."

Jimin crossed her arms. "I’m not trying to mess up her case! I just want to—"

"Finish your book. Get some dirt for your show. Yeah, I get it ever since you first appeared here," Yunbin cut in. "But let’s not pretend this is a clean visit. You’re not a cop. You’re not a journalist with credentials. You’re someone with a fucking unfinished book, and she’s not the same girl you remember."

Yu looked away, her jaw tense. "Then don’t introduce me to her. Just... give me a way to observe. From the edges, you know? I won't be tossing and turning right in the middle of things."

Yunbin paused, thinking. He scratched the back of his neck.

"I can introduce you to the guys from our team. It’ll give you some access—secondhand, but still better than nothing."

"It's better than nothing," she said quietly.

"But we should go now," he added. "She's out of town for the day. Went to talk to the family of the last victim."

Jimin blinked. "That last victim?"

"Yeah. A girl was found three days ago. Same setup. Same flowers. Her mother finally agreed to talk this morning. And she left at dawn."

She nodded slowly. "Then let’s go."

Yunbin stood up and tossed his cup in the trash bin, wiping his mouth with his hand. "Don't ask dumb questions, you will arouse suspicion ahead of time."

Yu raised her eyebrows. "I wasn’t planning to."

"Right."

The living room smelled faintly of old wood. A beige lace curtain swayed in the open window. You stood silently beside the upright piano, your elbow resting lightly on the yellowed wood, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

The woman sat hunched on the worn couch, hands wringing a damp tissue until it tore in her fingers. Her eyes were bloodshot and swollen.

"I still... I still can't believe it," she whispered, more to herself than anyone else.

You gave a brief nod. You didn’t write anything down yet. You just watched.

The silence lingered long enough to feel heavy before you finally spoke, your tone calm and.

"Mrs. Kang, I understand this is hard. But I need to ask some questions. About Minji."

The woman flinched at the name but nodded. "Okay."

"When did you start noticing a change in her behavior?"

"About six months ago. Maybe a little more. At first, it was small things — coming home late, locking herself in her room. But then..." She swallowed hard, voice cracking. "Then she stopped caring. She used to be such a good student. I never had to ask twice! And then her grades just... dropped. She started skipping school."

"Did she ever say why?"

"No," she whispered. "She never told me anything anymore. I asked, I begged. She’d just say I wouldn’t understand. She started wearing makeup I’d never seen before. Different clothes. And she’d come home smelling like soju."

You nodded, still not writing anything down.

"How was her relationship with her stepfather?"

The mother hesitated.

"Not good," she admitted finally. "They argued all the time. He’d try to talk to her like a father, but she’d shut him down immediately. Yell at him for stupid things. Like asking about her day."

"Did he ever hit her?"

The woman looked up, sharply. "No! Never! He’s not like that. He just… gave up after a while. Said she needed time. But I think she hated him. Just for being here."

You finally took out her notebook, flipping it open to a clean page.

"Did she mention any new friends? People you didn’t recognize?"

The woman shook her head slowly. "She stopped talking about her friends, too. I’d hear her whispering on the phone late at night, but when I asked, she’d say it was no one. I thought maybe it was just some boy. A phase."

"Did you ever hear any names? Maybe she was planning meetings with someone and mentioned it in passing?"

"No," she said, voice barely audible. "She changed her phone password. I couldn’t see anything. And now…"

She broke off again, her shoulders shaking. You looked at her, but didn’t move to offer comfort. You gave her space to cry without pity.

After a long pause, you asked quietly, "When was the last time you saw her?"

"Two nights before police found her," the woman said, eyes far away. "She was drunk again. Slammed the door on the way in. Yelled at me for cooking the wrong food. Then she locked herself in her room. I didn't even hear her leave that night."

There was a long silence again. You closed your notebook and stepped away from the piano.

"If you allow me, may I go into the girl's room?"

The woman didn't even raise her gaze, only silently nodding towards the elderly granny sitting next to her on the chair. Seeing this gesture, she stood up, took her cane and slowly walked towards you.

You followed the grandmother up the creaky staircase, the old wood groaning beneath her steps. The house was... dead quiet.

You reached the second floor, where a narrow hallway stretched in front of you. The grandmother turned toward the first door on the left and opened it slowly, letting you to enter the room.

"This is Minji's room," she said, her voice hoarse and filled with grief. "You can look, but... it's not much."

You stepped inside. The room was small but neat. A bed covered in faded pink sheets, a desk cluttered with half-finished homework, and a few stuffed animals scattered on the floor.

"She was always a good girl," the grandmother continued, standing in the doorway with her hands folded in front of her. "She never gave me any trouble, not like her father. But..." She paused, as if the words were too hard to say. "She was lonely. She used to cry, you know. Especially when she tried to reach her father."

You turned to face the grandmother, your expression neutral but her eyes sharp. "She tried to contact him?"

She nodded, her eyes watering. "Many times. She'd call him, leave messages. But he was always too busy, too angry to help. Always told her to stop bothering him."

"Did she say anything specific about that? About him?"

The old woman sniffed and wiped her eyes. "She... she just wanted him to come and pick her up once. She told me she was going to ask him to take her to Seoul. Said she couldn’t stand it here anymore." She swallowed hard. "That was the day before... the day she... well, you know."

You frowned, trying to piece it together. "So she asked him for help?"

"Yes," the grandmother said softly. "She sounded so desperate, like she was running out of time. But he just yelled at her. Told her she was being dramatic and to stop calling him." Her voice cracked. "She cried after that, poor thing. But she still called him. She called him the night before she..."

She couldn't finish the sentence. Her face crumpled as the grief overwhelmed her, and You felt a familiar weight in your chest. You couldn’t afford to feel sorry. You needed answers, not sympathy.

"I’m... I'm so sorry," you said quietly, though the words felt hollow. "Thank you for telling me."

The old woman gave a weak nod and stepped back. "I just wish he’d listened. Maybe if he had, maybe..."

"Maybe," you muttered, stepping back from the door. She gave the grandmother a final glance before leaving the room. She had all the pieces she needed. Now she just had to put them together.

Before leaving the room, you moved quietly toward the bed, your eyes scanning the surroundings one last time. Your gaze fell on the small diary that had been tucked under the pillow.

You reached down, careful not to make a sound, and slipped the diary under your jacket. It was a gut feeling, the kind that only years of experience could teach you. Of course you didn’t know what was inside yet, but it would be important.

You turned to the shelves filled with toys and felt your stomach tighten. One of the little bears, a soft, dusty pink, had its stomach torn open. The sight was... surprisingly terrifying, the plush fabric exposed, the soft cotton stuffing spilling out from the rough slit.

You stepped closer, her eyes narrowing as you crouched down to get a better look.

Your fingers brushed the torn edge of the bear’s stomach, your intuition didn't let you down, and your fingers felt something – something hard and unnatural. You carefully poked around inside, fingertips grazing a small ziplock bag that was tucked into the bear’s interior.

You didn’t know what was inside, but it was unmistakably suspicious. Drugs? Maybe. You didn’t want to jump to conclusions just yet, but the texture of the bag felt all too familiar. Poor girl, something was clearly wrong here, an ordinary child can't just go crazy one day. There's something there. Violence? Harassment? Possibly, given the strained relationship with her stepfather.

You pulled her fingers away slowly and stood up, you carefully placed that ziplock into your pocked. You wasn’t sure what this meant, but you knew it wasn’t a coincidence. This needed to get this tested — needed confirmation before you made any moves. It could tie into the case. Or it could be something else entirely. Either way, you was going to find out.

Finally you looked at the grandmother, who was sitting in the chair by the window, your hands still wringing the same tissue. You took a deep breath and walked over to her.

Without a word, you wrapped your arms around the old woman, holding her tightly. The moment was silent, but the weight of it was heavy. You could feel the pain radiating off her like a thick fog.

Your mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, but in this moment, you allowed herself to just hold the woman who had lost so much.

"I swear, I’ll find the bastard who did this," you said quietly, voice low but firm. "I won’t let him get away with it."

The grandmother nodded against your chest, her body shaking with quiet sobs. "Please," she whispered. "Make him answer for his actions..."

You didn’t speak again. Simply pulled away, your eyes catched the fragile hope in the old woman’s face. You had to get to work.

As you walked back to her jeep, you lit a cigarette, the familiar burn settling in your lungs. You leaned against the vehicle, took a long drag and let out a slow breath, staring at the road.

You pulled into the parking lot of the Investigative Committee’s office, the weight of the day heavy on your shoulders.

You couldn’t let yourself dwell on it though—not yet. There was work to be done.

As you entered the office, you was greeted by the sounds of laughter. Your team, including Yunbin, was gathered around the small conference table. They were clearly enjoying something — Jimin’s jokes, no doubt.

You paused for a moment, standing at the door and taking in the sight. Yu was seated comfortably, laughing along with them, her presence like a familiar part of the group, even though you had never given her that permission.

You hand gripped the doorframe for a second as the irritation boiled under you skin, but you quickly masked it. There was no point in showing your frustration. You wasn’t about to let anyone see how much Jimin’s presence bothered you.

You stepped into the room, eyes cool as they swept over the group. Yunbin’s face lit up as he turned to you. "Ah, Chief! You’re back. We were just—"

"Keep the jokes for later," you interrupted, your voice flat, dismissing the tension in the room with the sharpness of her words. "There should be no strangers here."

Yu straightened in her seat, a flicker of something crossing her face. Maybe surprise, maybe just the usual deflection. Either way, it didn’t matter. You wasn’t going to acknowledge you in front of the team. Not yet. Not like this.

"Got it," Yunbin said, still grinning but sensing the shift in the room. He quickly moved to gather some papers, trying to ease the awkwardness.

You took her usual seat at the head of the table, pulling out the diary she’d taken from Minji's room. She laid it on the table, staring at it for a moment before opening it carefully. The words seemed innocent at first, but soon turned into pain, which the girl poured out onto paper, in the hope that it would not hurt so much inside.

You could feel Jimin’s eyes on you. But you didn’t look up. You wouldn’t let herself be distracted. Not yet.

She stayed seated for a moment after you sat down, unsure if she should say something. The mood in the room had shifted completely. The others went quiet, shuffling papers, pretending to look busy. She hated the tension, but even more, she hated that you hadn’t looked her in the eye once.

She finally stood up, slowly walking over toward the desk.

"Hey," Jimin started, her voice low, careful, like she was approaching a wild animal. "Can we talk for a second?"

You didn’t lift her eyes from the diary.

"It’s been a long time, I know," she continued, hesitating. "But I think I can help. With the case. I have media connections, people who’ll talk to me, not the cops. I know how to handle this stuff."

The room fell completely silent. Yunbin looked up from his seat, lips pressed into a line.

You flipped a page in the diary with deliberate calm. Then, you closed the textbook, sat back in her chair, and looked at Yu like she was something you'd scraped off her shoe.

"You show up out of nowhere, ten fucking years later, like nothing happened," you said flatly. "You want to play detective now?"

"Listen, dear—" Jimin’s voice cracked slightly.

"Don’t fucking call me that," you snapped, standing up. "You don’t belong here. This isn’t a goddamn joke. These girls are dead. You’re not going to use this case to write your little novel or impress your TV buddies."

"I’m not trying to—"

"Get the fuck out of my office, Jimin."

The words hit like a hammer, and she blinked, caught off guard by the raw anger in her tone. It wasn’t just professional — there was pain behind it. Real, personal pain.

Yunbin stood up too, putting a hand on your shoulder.

"Chief," he said softly. "I know how this looks, but Jimin’s not a bad person. She might actually be able to help. We can control what she sees. Just give her a chance."

You didn’t look at him. Her jaw tightened. Her eyes stayed locked on her, who now stood frozen in front of the desk, her hands curled into fists.

"One chance," you said, voice cold. "You step out of line, even once, I’ll have security drag you out the fuck out of here."

Jimin nodded, swallowing whatever pride she had left.

"I won’t get in your way."

"You already did," you muttered, sitting back down.

The Jeep moved steadily, tires humming quietly beneath them. You drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting rigidly in your lap. Jimin sat in the passenger seat, her hands clasped together, thumbs fidgeting.

You hadn’t spoken in almost ten minutes.

"Thanks for letting me come," she said, finally breaking the silence.

No reply.

She glanced sideways. Your eyes were fixed on the road, jaw tight.

"I mean it. You didn’t have to. I know that."

"You’re right. I didn’t," you said flatly.

She exhaled a short breath, more like a sigh. "You’ve changed... a lot."

You scoffed. "You haven’t."

"No, I have," Jimin said. "Maybe not in all the right ways. But I’m not the same girl who ran off after graduation."

"You didn’t run off, Jimin. You disappeared."

The word hit hard. she bit the inside of her cheek, watching the waves crash far beyond the roadside barrier.

"My parents dragged me to Seoul without warning. It wasn’t planned, it just... happened. And I should have called. Wrote. Anything. I know."

Your hands tightened on the wheel. "And ten years passed."

You thought about what was said, it was all a complete mess, does she seriously think that she can show up after so much time as if nothing happened?

You fell silent, talking to Jimin about personal things is the last thing you need, because what if you get carried away again, fall head over heels in love again, no. There is a patrol of the spit by the sea ahead, and getting close to her is the last thing you need.

#gg x reader #girl group x reader #wlw #sapphic #kpop smut #aespa #aespa x fem reader #aespa x reader #girl group #girl group x fem reader #karina x fem reader #karina x you #karina x reader #yu jimin x fem reader #yu jimin x reader #yu jimin smut #sapphic smut #smut

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thewritingrowlet · 27 days ago

Text

The Spirit-lifter, ft. Red Velvet Seulgi

tags: nothing particular with this one

length: almost 14k

author's note: This is the continuation of The Heart-lifter, but it's not as sexually charged as that one anon's suggestion.

---

The weight of the cuffs in his hand feels different now. No longer a symbol of justice served: they are a stark reminder of the line he has crossed. Hyunwoo stares out their apartment window at the city lights, each one a potential witness to his transgression. He has let a thief go. Hell, not just let her go, but brings her into his life—into his bed.

The memory of Seulgi's tear-streaked face, the desperate tremor in her voice as she speaks of her past, still tugs at his empathy, but empathy is a dangerous thing for a police officer. A slippery slope that erodes the very foundations of his duty. Is this love, as they have so hastily declared, or a twisted consequence of his authority meeting her vulnerability? This very question gnaws at him, a constant unease that shadows the moments of tenderness they share.

“Oppa…” Her soft voice is heard from behind, but Hyunwoo dares not turn his head. “Oppa, are you okay?” she asks, concern carried with every word. He nods slowly, his mind racing with all kinds of thoughts, silence gripping him hard. “No, please, don’t lie to me. I know that look,” she counters, not convinced by his small gesture and tense body.

Seulgi wraps her arms around him from behind, her hands resting on his belly, offering comfort and warmth to ease his mind and body. “Oppa, please, say something…” she says, the soft voice contradicting the weight of her demand. Hyunwoo places a hand on hers, stroking the back of it with his thumb. “I’m alright, baby,” he says, attempting to hide his stress from her. “It’s just that, erm, my mind is taking me places,” he adds, hinting at the truth behind his turmoil.

Seulgi moves to stand before Hyunwoo, filling the small gap between him and the window, guiding his chin downwards to look him in the eyes. “Oppa, please, what is it? You know you can tell me everything, right?” she demands, growing frustrated yet understanding, wishing Hyunwoo would let her help carry the burden. Realizing there’s no other way but to tell the truth, he relents, letting his worry be laid bare before his lover’s eyes.

Hyunwoo takes a deep breath, piecing together an answer for his beloved. “The superintendent wants to see me tomorrow morning,” he begins, stringing each word together carefully. “Something about my... unorthodox handling of a recent case—your case.” Seulgi’s eyes turn glassy with unshed tears: the superintendent must’ve heard about Hyunwoo’s misconduct in handling her shoplifting incident, about him abusing his authority, and karma is out to get him.

“Will you… lose your job?” she asks, her voice shaking with thoughts of potentially being the cause of his downfall. Hyunwoo shrugs, as clueless as she is. “That’s definitely a possibility,” he answers. “Perhaps they’ll even send me to prison for failing to enforce law.” A heavy sigh flows out of her lips. “Law,” she mutters. “The only thing that separates us from the animals, or so they say.” A shiver runs down his spine, getting flashbacks to the first time he heard that phrase during his training period. “Yeah, precisely, and I’ve failed.”

The silence that follows Hyunwoo's words is thick with unspoken fear. Seulgi's grip on his arm tightens almost imperceptibly. "No," she says, her voice low but firm, the earlier tremor replaced by a sudden steeliness. "No, I won't let that happen. You did what you did because of me—because you understood. I won't let you face the consequences alone."

A new determination sparks in her eyes, pushing back the tears. "We'll figure this out. Together. What can we do? Is there someone we can talk to? Someone who would understand?" She searches his face, her gaze intense, seeking a solution, a way out of this looming crisis. The thought of Hyunwoo behind bars sends a cold dread through her, a feeling far more terrifying than her own potential arrest. “I think we can look for an attorney if that’s necessary. I think I still have that right,” he says, a sense of strength surging within at her supportive stance. “Give me the attorney’s number,” she says. “I’ll reach out to them myself if I must.”

Hyunwoo stares at Seulgi, a complex mix of emotions swirling within him. Gratitude, yes, and a profound sense of awe at her fierce loyalty, but also a pang of guilt. He, the supposed protector, is now being shielded by the very person he initially apprehended. "Seulgi-yah..." he begins, but the words catch in his throat. He doesn't deserve this, he thinks. “Yes, that’s me,” she repeats, a smile taking root on her features. “We can do this, oppa.”

Seulgi lifts his hand, her gaze glued to the cuffs in his hand. “Think of it like this,” she places a hand on the rigid cuffs, “we’re sharing the burdens of life as if we’re cuffed together with no other way but forward, and we move forward together—always together.” Hyunwoo’s lips slowly curl into a smile, her words reaching the deepest parts of his heart, the tenseness of his body gradually dissipating. “You’re right,” Hyunwoo answers, strength and determination to keep fighting surging within him.

Hyunwoo reaches out, his thumb tracing a line on her soft cheek. “You always know what to say, don’t you, baby?” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble, carrying emotions with every word. “I’m so lucky to have you in every sense of the word.” Seulgi presses a tender peck to his knuckles, a testament to the love for this man before her. “I don’t think it’s simply luck, though,” she counters. “It was fate, oppa. We found each other when we needed each other the most.”

She leans closer towards him, her gaze locked on his. “Besides…” she adds, her voice getting smaller, “the sex is amazing.” A soft chuckle escapes his lips, the first genuine laugh he’s had since receiving the summons letter this afternoon. In this moment, surrounded by a comfortable intimacy, the fear fades, replaced by a fragile yet tenacious hope. They have each other, and they are what each other needs.

Alas, the reprieve is fleeting. The memory of the superintendent’s summons lingers like a shadow in the corner of the room, a reminder of the storm that threatens their peace. Hyunwoo slowly, hesitantly, pulls away, his brow slightly furrowed with a sense of urgency. “We need a plan,” Seulgi suggests, her voice regaining the edge from earlier. He pecks her on the forehead, staying longer than usual, transferring the stress she has promised to help carry. “I don’t think there’s a ‘we’ here, baby. I mean, I can’t bring you to the superintendent,” he says. Seulgi’s eyes grow shiny, tears pooling and threatening to spill. “But… but I can’t let you go alone. Can I not wait outside or something?” she counters.

Hyunwoo cups her face in his hands, his thumbs gently wiping away the first tear that escapes. "Baby," he says softly, his gaze filled with a mixture of love and concern. "This is an official matter. It's about my conduct as a police officer. Your presence there... it could make things worse. They might see it as further evidence of my..." he trails off, unable to voice the word "failure" in front of her.

Seulgi shakes her head zealously, more tears dropping onto her cheeks. “Worse than you going alone? Worse than you possibly losing everything because of me?” she presses him further, her voice shaking with emotions. “At least let me be nearby. Let me be the first person you see as soon as they’re done with you, no matter what anyone says.” Seulgi grips his uniform hard, her knuckles turning white. “Please, don’t shut me out now, oppa. Did we not promise to face this together?"

Hyunwoo’s resolve erodes at the raw vulnerability in her voice. He knows she’s right and having her nearby would help, but his police-trained instincts keep screaming at him, urging him to make her stay at home. Weighing his options, he just looks at her—really looks at her—his mind racing with different scenarios that might happen if Seulgi is spotted near the headquarters.

Eventually, he can only sigh, conceding to the basic needs as a person: he’s going to take her along, even if she can’t directly see the superintendent. “The café,” he mutters. “You can wait for me at the café across the street.” Releasing the tight grip on him, Seulgi quickly wipes her tears with the back of her hands, relieved by him giving her the green light to be close to him while he faces the unknown. “I’ll be there, and I won’t leave until I see you step out of the building,” she says, determined and resolute.

The café across the street is small and unassuming, the kind of place where the aroma of stale coffee hangs heavy in the air. Seulgi chooses a table by the window, her gaze fixed on the imposing gray building that houses the superintendent's office. Each passing minute stretches into an eternity, filled with a gnawing anxiety that claws at her insides. She sips her lukewarm latte, barely registering the bitter taste. Her mind races, replaying the events of the past few days, the unlikely turn their lives have taken. From a desperate act of survival to an unexpected intimacy, and now, the looming threat of professional ruin for the man she loves with everything she has.

Minutes pass by, and Seulgi finally catches the police car that is assigned to Hyunwoo. “That’s him,” she thinks, her heartbeat growing quicker. Her fists clenches, gripping the end of her sweater, wishing she could give him a hug or a kiss before—

“Oh, he’s getting in…”

A small sob slips through her lips at the sight of Hyunwoo being greeted by a pair of men wearing a different uniform than him, their serious expressions cold and stern. “Please, be kind to him like he is to me.” Seulgi leans her head against the window, only able to watch helplessly while Hyunwoo disappears behind the two big doors in the front. “I love you, Kang Hyunwoo. I will always love you, no matter what happens today.”

All Seulgi can do is wait, watch, and pray for the man who is always able to lift her heart in the most unexpected ways.

…

The big, heavy doors close behind Hyunwoo with a solid thud, the sound piercing the quiet interior of the headquarters. As he’s escorted to the superintendent’s office, he catches some fellow officers stealing glances at him, murmuring among themselves and shaking their heads, accusing him of failure without saying a word. “No one else to blame but myself,” he thinks, making peace with his choices, even if they are perceived as incorrect.

One of the men escorting Hyunwoo knocks on Superintendent Park’s door, the sound of his knuckles on the wood chipping away at his persistence. The door opens slightly, a signal that Hyunwoo’s judgment is about to start. With an open palm, the officer gestures to him to enter, and after taking a deep breath to steel himself, Hyunwoo pushes the door, closing it behind him, his nostrils picking up the scent of Superintendent Park’s favorite essential oil from the diffuser on his desk.

“Kang Hyunwoo, Metropolitan Police Unit,” he introduces himself. “Ready to report, sir.” With a flick of his finger, Park signals Hyunwoo to come closer, straightening his sitting posture at the same time, his expression plain and unreadable. “Officer Kang,” he begins, his voice smooth but firm. “You are aware of the reason as to why you’re here, are you not?” Hyunwoo nods firmly. “Yes, sir, I am. It pertains to my handling of the shoplifting incident of Miss Kang Seulgi, a former celebrity,” he answers, keeping his voice steady, avoiding showing emotions. This isn’t the time to be vulnerable or sentimental. This summons is about facts, as cold as they may come.

"Yes, Officer Kang," Superintendent Park replies, his gaze unwavering. "Your report states that you apprehended Miss Kang Seulgi for shoplifting, yet no charges were filed. No report was officially lodged. Can you explain this discrepancy?" Park's voice remains calm, but there's an undercurrent of steel that sends a shiver down Hyunwoo's spine. He knows this is the crux of the matter.

Hyunwoo takes another deep breath, carefully choosing his words. "Sir, upon further investigation, it became apparent that Miss Kang's actions were driven by... extenuating circumstances. Severe financial hardship, coupled with a desperate need for essential goods." He pauses, gauging Park's reaction. "I exercised my discretion, sir, prioritizing a resolution that addressed her immediate needs while considering the... mitigating factors." He avoids mentioning the personal connection that has formed between them, knowing that would only complicate matters further.

“Is that so, son?” Park asks, his features relaxing by the minute. His body doesn’t look as tense, and his forehead isn’t furrowed as tightly. Hyunwoo nods slowly, keeping the truth of their connection tucked away in the depths of his mind. “Okay, so,” he continues, sighing briefly, “why did she pay her fine with your card?” The next question makes Hyunwoo swallow hard. “She… she didn’t have money, sir, so I… paid for it upfront, and she’s been paying me back little by little,” Hyunwoo answers, adding lies to mix in with the truth, playing a dangerous game with his superior.

“I see,” Park leans back in his big leather chair, “that’s quite the generous gesture for an officer apprehending a suspect, wouldn’t you agree, Officer Kang?” Hyunwoo forces himself to maintain his gaze locked on Park’s, his heart pounding in his chest. “With all due respect, sir,” he begins, his voice steady despite his racing heart. “I was trying to defuse the situation and ensure the well-being of those involved. Miss Kang was clearly in distress, and… I felt that letting her return the stolen goods and have her fined was the correct course of action,” Hyunwoo adds, offering an elaborate reasoning to support his stance.

Park leans forwards again, his elbows planted on the smooth surface of his desk. “Let’s cut to the chase, son, and be honest with me: were you or were you not biased towards Miss Kang Seulgi?” he asks, no longer interested in rhetorics. Hyunwoo takes a deep breath, mustering up the courage to answer truthfully as demanded. “Sir, I…” he trails off, unsure if he should simply confess that he was indeed biased towards Seulgi.

The silence stretches, thick and heavy with the weight of the unsaid. Hyunwoo's gaze flickers, a brief, involuntary glance towards the window, as if seeking Seulgi's presence for strength. Then, he forces himself to meet Park's eyes again, his jaw tightening.

“Yes, sir. I was biased towards Miss Kang,” Hyunwoo eventually admits, his tone low and measured. “I believe that my... sympathy for Miss Kang's situation did influence my decisions. However,” he rushes on before Park can interrupt. “My primary concern was that the situation could be resolved quickly and efficiently. I did not act with malicious intent, nor was I seeking personal gain.”

Hyunwoo ends his explanation, leaving the true extent of his “bias” unspoken, hoping that it’s good enough for Park. After all, the fate of his career, perhaps also his freedom, is in the hands of the superintendent.

“Sympathy,” Park echoes. “A commendable trait in a police officer, but if that very trait leads to a complete disregard of protocol… Then that is a liability, Officer Kang.” Park sighs, letting his head rest against the back of his chair. “Tell me one last thing, son: after all the things you’ve done when handling Miss Kang Seulgi’s case, what do you expect to happen to you?” Hyunwoo lowers his head, feeling the weight of the question, his life hanging in the balance. “I… I expect punishment, sir. Anything other than dismissal from my post.”

Park studies Hyunwoo for a long moment, his gaze intense and unreadable. The silence in the room is thick enough to cut with a knife, amplifying the weight of Hyunwoo's admission and his plea for leniency. Finally, Park leans back in his chair, a sigh escaping his lips.

"Punishment," he echoes once more, his voice softer now, almost contemplative. "Yes, Officer Kang, there will undoubtedly be consequences for your deviation from protocol. However..." He pauses, his eyes still fixed on Hyunwoo. "Your honesty, while belated, is noted, and your explanation... it suggests a degree of compassion that, as I said, can be valuable, if properly channeled." He reaches for a file on his desk, his gaze momentarily shifting away from Hyunwoo, leaving the young officer in a state of tense anticipation. The sound of the folder opening seems deafening in the quiet room.

“Officer Kang Hyunwoo, I hereby declare that you are temporarily discharged for one month for your failure to follow protocol. During that period, you will receive a 50% pay cut. Is there anything you’d like to address before I send you on your way?”

A wave of relief washes over Hyunwoo, so potent it almost buckles his knees. A month's suspension and a pay cut are harsh, but it’s not dismissal, and it certainly isn’t jail. He manages a shaky nod, his throat tight with a mixture of gratitude and lingering anxiety. "No, sir," he says, his voice hoarse. "I understand. Thank you for your... leniency." The word feels inadequate, considering the potential consequences he braced himself for.

Park observes him for another moment, his expression still unreadable. "Use this time wisely, Officer Kang," he advises, his tone softening slightly. "Reflect on your actions and remember the oath you took. The trust we hold is fragile, and it must be earned and maintained." He gestures towards the door. "You're dismissed." Hyunwoo straightens his posture, his legs feeling strangely weak but eager to leave, nonetheless.

As he turns to leave, a single thought dominates his mind: Seulgi. He needs to see her, to tell her. He hopes the news won't devastate her, knowing how much his job means to him, and how much she blames herself for his current predicament. However, he also understands that he can’t just see her at the café across the street—hell, it is across the street from the headquarters.

Having received his phone back from the guards, Hyunwoo is tempted to send her a text, but he’s promptly reminded about that particular case where a backdoor was installed on a suspect’s phone which allowed the police force to access messages and calls. “Fuck,” he curses silently, gripping his phone hard in frustration.

Hyunwoo heads out from the main doors, standing still in front of the headquarters, his gaze darting towards the café where Seulgi must be waiting for him. Eventually, he spots her: she’s leaning against the window, looking rather calm from where he’s standing. He quickly formulates a plan to show, not tell, Seulgi that he’s fine.

“I guess I can use a cup of iced latte.”

Hyunwoo straightens his uniform and hat, putting on a charade, as he crosses the street to reach the café. The little bell hanging on the door frame rings as he enters the establishment, punctuating his grand entrance that is meant for one person and one person only: the stressed woman in a terracotta sweater sitting by a window.

“One large, iced latte with less sugar, please,” Hyunwoo places his order, making sure his voice is loud enough for both the barista and Seulgi. “Of course, officer. Please, have a seat,” the barista replies, her finger pacing around on the small monitor before her.

Hyunwoo's eyes never leave Seulgi's as he places his order, the emphasis on "latte" and "large" deliberate. It's a small detail, a shared joke from a late-night coffee run a few days ago, a code only they would understand. Latte means no one is hurt. Large means things are okay. He hopes to God that she gets it.

Seulgi's gaze sharpens; her initial anxiety is replaced by a flicker of understanding. The corners of her lips twitch in reflex, a silent acknowledgment of his message. The tension in her shoulders eases slightly, but she maintains her composed facade, aware that they're still in a public space, under the watchful eyes of anyone who might be observing them.

The barista calls out his order, and Hyunwoo turns to pay, his heart pounding with a mixture of relief and anticipation. “Ah, thank you for the quick service,” Hyunwoo says out loud, drawing quite the attention of the café’s patrons to himself. “My cat will be missing me soon, and I appreciate how quick you were with my latte,” he adds, doing his best to get Seulgi to catch on to the signal lying beneath his words. “Tell your cat I said pspsps, officer,” the barista jokes, unaware of the true intentions behind his seemingly innocent sentence. “Of course, my cat is very friendly anyway.”

Seulgi's eyes flick down to her own hands for a brief moment, a small, almost imperceptible smile gracing her lips before she schools her expression back to neutral. “Cat means me, and this cat does miss him,” she thinks. The pieces click into place. She takes another slow sip of her latte, feigning disinterest in Hyunwoo's exchange with the barista.

Seulgi keeps her eyes fixed on Hyunwoo as he makes to leave the establishment with a cup of latte in his hand, she herself ready to bolt out and head home to see him in a more private setting. “I’m coming, baby. Wait for me, okay?” she thinks.

“Have a good day, madam, and always stay safe,” Hyunwoo greets her briefly right before exiting. Seulgi gasps slightly, not expecting to have an interaction with him here and now. “Y-you too, officer,” she replies quickly, the heavy beats of her heart bumping against her ribs, wishing she could just hug him here and now.

Seulgi waits for a while, allowing a few seconds to pass before gathering her bag. She stands up, her movements deliberately casual as she heads towards the exit. The bell above the door jingles again as she steps out onto the street, her gaze immediately locking onto Hyunwoo's. A silent understanding passes between them. They can't linger here, not so close to the lion's den. Without a word, they begin to walk in the opposite direction of the police headquarters—Hyunwoo to his unit car; Seulgi to the bus stop—their pace quickening with each step, the unspoken urgency of their situation propelling them away from the prying eyes and potential surveillance.

Hyunwoo reaches his unmarked police car, his eyes scanning the rearview mirror as he starts the engine. He needs to appear like any other officer heading out on patrol, but his mind is racing. He has to get to Seulgi as soon as his shift allows, to hold her and reassure her that they will face this together. The image of her worried face in the café window is etched in his memory.

Seulgi hurries towards the bus stop, her terracotta sweater doing little to ward off the sudden chill that grips her. Each passing car makes her jump, her mind hyper-aware of any potential surveillance. The relief of Hyunwoo's coded message is now overshadowed by a renewed sense of anxiety about the future. What will happen to him? What will happen to her? The uncertainty hangs heavy in the air as she waits for the bus, her gaze fixed in the direction Hyunwoo's car disappeared.

Seulgi presses the buttons on their door with urgency, her finger racing to get the door unlocked as quickly as possible. With a satisfying click, it unlocks, and she immediately pushes the door open, unwilling to spend one more second outside the safe space that is their shared apartment.

“Oppa!” Seulgi enters the apartment screaming his name, looking for the only person who can soothe her anxious heart and mind. “One second, baby,” he replies, his voice coming from the kitchen along with sounds of sizzling. She drops her bag on the floor, running towards him, seeking the comfort only he can provide.

Seulgi crashes into him from behind, her hands stacking on top of each other on his firm stomach, her face pressed against his back. “Oppa…” she calls to him in a whisper, her voice trembling, starting to break into tears. “It’s okay, baby,” he sighs—out of relief, not stress. “We’re okay, trust me,” he offers an assurance, but it does little in calming the sobbing girl.

Hyunwoo turns off the stove, the sizzling ceasing abruptly, and immediately pivots to face Seulgi, wrapping his arms around her tightly. He buries his face in her hair, inhaling her familiar scent, a small anchor in the storm of his own emotions. "Hey, hey," he murmurs, his voice soothing. "It's alright. I'm here." He rocks her gently, the way he does when she's had a particularly rough day.

"What... what happened?" she finally manages to choke out between sobs, her grip on his shirt tightening. Hyunwoo pulls back slightly, cupping her face in his hands, his gaze tender. "It's... it's not the best news, baby," he admits, his thumb gently wiping away her tears. "But it's not the worst either." He hesitates, gathering his thoughts, knowing he needs to choose his words carefully. "I've been suspended... for a month, and… I’ll be receiving only half my salary during the suspension."

Seulgi buries her face in his chest, crying out of control, smacking him with her fist repeatedly. Not out of anger, but rather out of regret and self-blame. All she wanted was safety and comfort during a tough time, but she’s brought him crashing down with her, and the weight of the guilt is crushing down on her.

Hyunwoo holds her tightly, letting her tears soak into his shirt. He understands the source of her anguish. She sees herself as the catalyst, the reason his life is now disrupted. "Shh, baby, shh," he murmurs, stroking her hair. "It's not your fault. I made my choices. I chose to..." Hyunwoo hesitates, the word "help" feeling inadequate. "I chose to do what I thought was right."

He pulls her back slightly, looking into her tear-filled eyes. "Listen to me, Seulgi-yah. My job is important to me, yes, but you... you are more important. A month will pass. We'll manage the pay cut. We'll get through this, together. This isn't the end, it's just... a bump in the road." He tries to sound reassuring, but the uncertainty of their future still lingers in the back of his mind. He just hopes his words can offer Seulgi the comfort she desperately needs.

“I’m… I’m sorry, oppa,” she mumbles, her voice barely intelligible because of the tears. “I-I’ll leave if you want me to. Just say the word and… and I’ll be out of here,” she adds. Hyunwoo shakes his head. Deep down, he knows that her leaving would devastate him. “No, baby, I don’t want you to leave,” he strokes her cheeks softly, “I don’t want me or you to be alone in this hard time.”

Seulgi plants her face in his chest once more, her arms wrapped tightly around him, as if afraid that he’ll disappear if she lets go. “I love you, oppa, and I’m sorry for everything,” she mutters, her tiny voice barely reaching his ears. “I love you too, baby, and I’m sorry for everything too,” he replies, his mind going back to the day they agreed to carry this burden together.

The memory of that day, the day they stood and agreed to face the odds together, solidifies Hyunwoo's resolve. He will not let this setback break them. He will not let Seulgi's guilt consume her. He will not let their shared dream of a life together fade.

He pulls back slightly, his hands framing her face, his gaze intense. "We made a promise, remember?" he says softly, his voice a low rumble. "We said we'd face this together, hand in hand. A month is nothing, Seulgi-yah. We'll get through it and come out stronger." He manages a small, reassuring smile, hoping it reaches her through the haze of her tears. "We have each other, and that's all that matters." He leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead, a silent vow to protect her heart and their bond, no matter what the future holds.

Seulgi slightly pushes back against him, asking to have some space to catch her breath. “I… I accept,” she says, wiping off the tears herself. “I will stay here and… and support you in every way I can.” A bigger smile blooms on their faces at this moment of mutual understanding and agreement to be each other’s rock. “Sounds great to me, my love,” Hyunwoo says, his heart flooded with gratitude and love for the woman in his arms.

The apartment feels different now, charged with a new kind of intimacy born from shared vulnerability. The mundane tasks of daily life take on a deeper meaning: cooking dinner, cleaning up, simply being in each other's presence. There's an unspoken understanding that they're both drawing strength from the other, preparing for whatever the next month may bring. The world outside may be uncertain, but within these walls, their love is a constant, an anchor that holds them down amidst the raging storm.

The month of Hyunwoo's suspension has passed in a blur of quiet intimacy and unspoken worries. They navigated the financial strain together. Seulgi's unwavering support has been a constant source of strength for him. Now, the morning of his reinstatement dawns with a mixture of anticipation and trepidation hanging in the air of their apartment. Hyunwoo lays in bed, the sunlight filtering through the curtains illuminating the familiar lines of Seulgi's sleeping face beside him.

A sense of normalcy, something they have both longed for, is finally within reach. Beneath the surface of his relief, however, a knot of anxiety tightens in his stomach. Returning to the force means stepping back into a world that now feels complicated, a world where his loyalty has been tested and his judgment questioned. He wonders how his colleagues will treat him, what his new assignments will be, and most importantly, how his relationship with Seulgi will be perceived in the eyes of the law and his peers.

“Good morning,” Seulgi greets him with closed eyes, her voice slightly hoarse from the sleep. “It’s that day, isn’t it?” Hyunwoo nods at her question, knowing what she’s referring to. “Yeah, it is,” he says. “I’m so rusty, though.” She chuckles, amused by his choice of words. “Don’t worry. You might be rusty, but you’re my rusty.” Hyunwoo laughs. The joke might be lighthearted, but the weight of the emotions behind the joke is anything but light.

Hyunwoo pulls Seulgi closer, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "My rusty, huh? I like the sound of that." He lingers in the warmth of her embrace for a moment longer than necessary, drawing on her strength before the day truly begins. The familiar comfort of their apartment, the soft light, and the quiet intimacy are a stark contrast to the rigid, public world of service he is about to re-enter.

He eventually pushes himself out of bed, the cool air hitting his skin. The uniform, freshly pressed and hanging on the closet door, seems to hum with a quiet authority he hasn't felt in a month. As he dresses, each button, each buckle, feels like a step back into a different skin. He glances at Seulgi, who is now sitting up, watching him with an expression he can't quite decipher—a mix of pride, worry, and an unwavering belief that steadies him. He knows this day is not just about his job; it's about proving that their unconventional bond can withstand the scrutiny of the world he serves.

“You’re going to be okay, right?” Hyunwoo swallows a gulp at her question, he himself uncertain if he is indeed going to be okay. “Honestly, I don’t know, but I’ll try my best. For us both,” he says, regaining the resolve he once had. “If you need anything, oppa, just call me. I’ll come running to the headquarters if I need to,” she offers, unwavering in her support for him. “No, that won’t be necessary, sweetheart.”

"I know," Seulgi whispers, her hand reaching for his, their fingers intertwining. "But I'll be waiting, and I'll be thinking of you every second." She squeezes his hand, a silent promise that transcends any physical distance or official protocols.

Hyunwoo finishes fastening his uniform, the weight of the badge now feeling heavier than before, not just with duty, but with the fragile hope of their future. He leans down one last time, capturing her lips in a deep, lingering kiss that promises his return. "I'll be home as soon as I can, my love," he murmurs against her mouth, a silent echo of the anchor she is for him.

Taking a deep breath, Hyunwoo prepares to leave, tapping around his body to check if he’s forgotten anything. Confident that everything is sorted, he begins to approach the front door. Not as a regular guy he has been for the past month, but as a police officer who is taking another chance at public service.

“You forgot something, oppa,” Seulgi calls to him. “Yeah? What is it, baby?” he asks, looking around him to check. “A piece of me, oppa,” she tucks her favorite hairpin in his back pocket, “something to remember me by. Something to remind you what you’re fighting for.”

Hyunwoo reaches back, his fingers brushing against the cool metal of the hairpin in his pocket. A warmth spreads through him, anchoring him to her even as he prepares to face the day. He turns to Seulgi, his eyes filled with love so profound, it almost hurts. "Thank you, baby," he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. "I won't forget."

Then, with a final, lingering look that promises his prompt return, Hyunwoo opens the front door and steps out. The click of the lock behind him sounds like the closing of one chapter and the hesitant re-opening of another. The familiar scent of their apartment, a blend of Seulgi's perfume and the lingering aroma of their favorite candle, fades as he descends the stairs, replaced by the crisp, cool air of the morning. He straightens his shoulders, the uniform feeling both heavy and right. The world outside awaits, and he knows that with Seulgi's piece of him tucked safely away, he is ready to face it.

“Kang Hyunwoo, Metropolitan Police. Reporting for reinstatement,” Hyunwoo says to the officer attending the administration desk. The officer grabs a folder with his name written on it, looking through some documents, her finger tracing lines along the papers as she reads each one. “Welcome back, Officer Kang Hyunwoo. Please head to the superintendent’s office, and after that, please head to the armory.” He nods firmly, the reality of returning to duty settling in his mind, his fist clenching with nerves. “Certainly. Thank you for the help.”

Hyunwoo turns from the desk, the polished floor of the main lobby stretching before him. Every familiar face he passes seems to offer a fleeting glance, a silent judgment he tries to ignore. He focuses on the superintendent's office, a destination that still carries the weight of his disciplinary summons. The scent of disinfectant and stale coffee, so characteristic of the building, fills his nostrils, a sharp reminder of the world he now re-enters.

He knocks on Superintendent Park's door, the sound echoing louder in his ears than it should. This time, there's no escort, no sense of impending doom, but a new kind of anxiety hums beneath his skin—the anxiety of the unknown. The door opens, and Park's face, as unreadable as ever, greets him. "Officer Kang," Park says, his voice devoid of any warmth. "Come in. We have some matters to discuss before your full reinstatement."

A shiver runs down his entire body, his mind racing with thoughts of these “matters” that need to be addressed before his actual return. “Yes, sir.” Hyunwoo stands before Park in a steady, proper stance of a police officer, and that is when a small laugh, feeling somewhat warm to Hyunwoo’s ears, escapes Park’s lips. “I remember the day I first met you when you were a rookie, son,” Park says. “Your eyes were basically aflame, burning with passion to serve the public.”

A thin smile forms on Hyunwoo’s face, rekindling the day when he was first initiated into the police force. “A rookie’s innocence, sir—typical, wouldn’t you say?” Hyunwoo replies, feeling a bit shy at the memory of his naiveness way back then. Park laughs, the corners of his eyes creasing, his posture relaxed. Such a stark contrast to his energy during their last meeting. “Typical, yes, but nice to see, nonetheless.”

"Sit, Hyunwoo-yah," Park gestures to the chair opposite his desk, his smile softening further. "No need for formalities among old acquaintances. Though, of course," his tone regains a touch of its professional edge, "this is still an official meeting." Hyunwoo takes the seat, the leather cool against his uniform, his gaze still fixed on Park, trying to discern the true intent behind this sudden shift in atmosphere.

Park leans back, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Your file shows a strong record before this, say, incident. Dedication, good instincts, but also, as we’ve seen time and time again, a tendency towards... unconventional solutions." He pauses, letting Hyunwoo absorb his words. "The department values integrity, Officer Kang, and adherence to protocol. However, it also values good judgment and, yes, even empathy." He picks up a pen, tapping it lightly on the polished wood. "So, let's talk about what we expect from you, now that you're back."

Hyunwoo straightens in his seat, ready for the parameters of his return. He understands this isn't simply a formality; it's a re-evaluation of his worth, his perspective, and his place within the force. "I'm ready to listen, sir," he says, his voice firm, conveying both respect and quiet determination.

Park leans forward, resting his forearms on the desk. "First, your return probationary period will last for six months. During this time, you will be under direct supervision, and any further deviation from protocol will result in immediate and permanent dismissal." He pauses, letting the severity of the statement sink in. "Second, we've had a request from the District Chief's office. You're being assigned to a new unit: the special one. One that deals with sensitive cases. High-profile individuals. Cases that require a delicate touch, and perhaps…” Park trails off, his eyes gleam with a look that might be a challenge, or a warning. "Unconventional solutions, which you’re awfully terrific at."

Hyunwoo takes a deep breath, the implications of Park's words settling over him. Six months under the microscope, a new, highly visible unit, and the implicit expectation that his "unconventional" approach, while dangerous, is precisely why they need him. He doesn't miss the subtle irony, or the weight of the trust—or perhaps the test—being placed upon him.

"I understand, sir," he says, his voice steady. "I'll do my best to meet those expectations." Park clicks his tongue, seemingly unsatisfied by Hyunwoo’s promise. “No, no, no. What was it you used to say when assigned to a new job?” he asks, looking for a specific answer.

Hyunwoo’s thoughts swirl in his head, his eyebrows furrowing, trying to remember what he once said, and a smile is starting to take form on Park’s face, eager to hear the old mantra. “Erm, I will excel in my duties, sir?” Park’s lips curve into a smile, finally getting the answer he desires. “Yes, that. I like it when you say it, Hyunwoo-yah.” Hyunwoo nods firmly, his resolve now firm like it once was, his straight posture a semblance of that very persistence. “Yes, sir. I will excel in my duties.”

"That's what I like to hear, son," Park says, his smile lingering. He rises, walking around his desk to clap Hyunwoo firmly on the shoulder. The touch is heavy, not entirely paternal, but loaded with expectation. "Now, go get your badge back, get your gear. Captain Lee is expecting you in his unit room on the fifth floor—and remember, excel." A pleasant shiver runs down Hyunwoo’s back, eager to excel, like his superior has commanded him to. “Excellence is what we seek, is it not, Superintendent?” he thinks.

Hyunwoo offers a crisp, respectful bow, a muscle working in his jaw, before he turns and strides out of the superintendent's office. The door clicks shut behind him, sealing off the conversation and the lingering scent of essential oils. The hallway, which had felt like a gauntlet minutes ago, now seems like a path. He doesn't glance at the other officers this time; his focus is singularly on the armory.

The heavy metal door of the armory swings open with a familiar groan. The smell of gun oil and polished steel is almost comforting, a scent of purpose and capability. The armorer, a gruff veteran with more years on the force than Hyunwoo has been alive, merely nods, already pulling Hyunwoo's service weapons—a long-barrel, automatic assault rifle and a handgun—and a set of holsters from a locked cabinet.

As he straps on his gear, the familiar weight of his sidearm settling against his hip, and the cool metal of his badge clicks into place on his uniform, a sense of belonging washes over him. He's not just a man trying to do right; he's Officer Kang Hyunwoo, the newly appointed personnel of the Special Police Unit, back where he belongs with the force.

A nervous shudder flows through him at the sight of the new assault rifle he’s been assigned to. The clean paint, signifying its minimal wear, and the bigger bullets in the magazine feel… daunting.

“What’s wrong, rookie?” the armorer asks, still using the same epithet from the past. “Nothing; just admiring my new toy,” Hyunwoo answers, trying to play it coy. The armorer scoffs, more playful than demeaning, slightly amused by his answer. “Your new captain wants you to start training with your new toy immediately, so you better get used to it.” Hyunwoo nods firmly, his fingers running along the length of the barrel. “Oh, I will get used to it alright,” he says, now finding the confidence he’s been lacking recently.

As Hyunwoo takes the assault rifle, its cold, ergonomic weight feels alien yet strangely familiar in his hands. This isn't the patrol weapon he's used to; this is for a different kind of war, a silent acknowledgement of the gravity of his new role. He checks the safety, the action smooth and precise, a testament to the meticulous maintenance of the armory. The armorer watches him, a flicker of something unreadable in his veteran eyes.

“You know I take good care of my toys, rookie,” the armorer quips, his weary eyes gleaming with playful boast. Hyunwoo chuckles. Out of all the men and women in the force, the armorer is the one he’s been the closest with, taking Hyunwoo under his care since day one. “I know, boss,” Hyunwoo quips back. “You might be old, but at least these things stay young on your watch.” The armorer huffs, his forehead furrowing, annoyed every time his age is brought up. “Just get out of here before I smack you.”

With his new gear secured, Hyunwoo makes his way towards the fifth floor. Each step echoes in the quiet hallway, a stark contrast to the bustling energy of the lower levels. The "Special Police Unit" office doors are unmarked by purpose, a symbol of their discretion. He pauses before one such door, taking a deep breath, the subtle feeling of having Seulgi's hairpin in his back pocket a grounding presence. He's ready to excel, to face whatever "unconventional solutions" Captain Lee is seeking out of him.

Hyunwoo knocks on the door a few times, but no immediate answer is heard. “Is no one in?” he wonders, looking around to look for clues, finding none. He knocks a few more times, this time a bit harder than before. “State your name,” someone from the other side demands. “My name is Kang Hyunwoo,” he introduces himself, and the door is opened for him, revealing a deceptively big room with men in black inside. “Kang Hyunwoo, huh? Well, welcome to the 131.”

The man who opens the door, dressed in a sharp, dark combat shirt that seems out of place for police headquarters, steps aside. Hyunwoo enters, his eyes quickly adjusting to the subdued lighting of the large room—well, it’s clear that this isn’t an ordinary office.

A long, sleek conference table dominates the center, surrounded by ergonomic chairs. On the walls, digital screens display complex network maps and blurry surveillance footage, their faint glow casting long shadows. Several other figures, dressed similarly in dark attire, are scattered around the room, some hunched over keyboards, others observing the screens with focused intensity. There is not a single uniform in sight.

"Take a seat, Officer Kang," the man who greeted him says, his voice smooth and authoritative, indicating the chair at the head of the conference table. "I'm Captain Lee Jungwon, and these are your new colleagues,” he gestures to the surrounding individuals, “we’re the 131. Our work here isn't about upholding public order on the streets, Officer Kang. It's about working in the dark to serve the light." Lee chuckles, rubbing his forehead while sighing, seemingly amused by something. “Whoever came up with that last line plays video games too much,” he quips.

Hyunwoo’s lips quirk in a small, involuntary smile at Lee’s self-deprecating humor. It eases some of the tension that has coiled in his gut since stepping onto this floor. He takes the indicated seat, placing his assault rifle carefully on the floor beside him, its black form a stark contrast to the sleek, modern aesthetic of the room. The other agents remain focused, their movements economical, their faces unreadable, a silent testament to the intense concentration their work demands.

“In the 131, we don’t go around calling people by their ranks; we just say their name as if we’ve known in each other for decades,” Lee adds. “So, Hyunwoo-yah, any questions right off the bat?” Hyunwoo’s eyes remain on the screen with the map of the country, intrigued by the dots and the lines connecting them. “What is that, captain?” he asks, gesturing to the map with his lifted chin. Lee turns around, pointing at the big screen behind him. “That? That’s the drug smuggling chain, and those dots are known warehouses that these scums operate out of. Oh, and it’s Jungwon-ie to you, Hyunwoo-yah.”

Hyunwoo steps closer to the massive screen, his gaze tracing the intricate web of connections. The sheer scale of the operation laid bare before him is staggering, far beyond anything he has encountered in his regular patrol duties. "So, these warehouses," he muses, "are they under surveillance? Have we got teams on the ground?" He can feel the familiar buzz of a case beginning to take shape, the thrill of the hunt sharpening his senses.

Jungwon leans against the table, observing Hyunwoo with a keen, assessing gaze. “Yeah, all of them are. We’ve been deploying agents to keep an eye on each one, and it’s almost time to go guns blazing.” Hyunwoo swallows a gulp, unready to hear such a revelation on his first day at this new unit. “Guns blazing, huh?” he mutters. Jungwon approaches his new teammate, resting his elbow on Hyunwoo’s shoulder. “We brought you here for your ability to come up with unconventional approaches, but your first assignment is to raid a warehouse with us,” he explains, his tone kind and patient.

"A warehouse raid," Hyunwoo repeats, the words tasting different than “arresting a shoplifter." This is familiar territory, just on a much larger, more dangerous scale. The adrenaline begins to pump, pushing out the last vestiges of his morning's anxiety. "Understood, Jungwon-ah. Any specific intel on resistance or defensive setups?" He looks back at the screen, no longer just intrigued, but actively analyzing.

Jungwon grins, a flash of approval in his eyes. "That's what I like to hear. We'll download the full operational brief onto your comms, but in short: heavily armed, well-funded. They don't play nice. We're hitting them before dawn tomorrow. You'll be part of the initial entry team, front line. Get acquainted with your new rifle, Hyunwoo-yah, because you'll be using it." He turns to a nearby console. "One of our intel specialists, Minho, will set up your comms and walk you through the details. He’s the guy over there," Jungwon points at a fellow operative who is fiddling with field laptops and radios.

Hyunwoo nods, the taste of impending action sharp and metallic on his tongue. This isn't the kind of 'excel' Park spoke of in abstract terms; this is raw, immediate, and potentially deadly. He turns towards the operative Jungwon indicates, a lean man with sharp features, his fingers flying across a keyboard. Minho looks up, his expression serious but not unwelcoming.

"Minho-yah, this is Hyunwoo," Jungwon states, his elbow still briefly on Hyunwoo's shoulder. "Get him set up. Access codes, comms, the full brief for Operation Sunrise." Minho offers a curt nod, gesturing to an empty workstation. "Follow me, Hyunwoo-yah. There's a lot to cover before your wake-up call tomorrow." Hyunwoo follows, the rhythmic tapping of Minho's keyboard already a part of the intense symphony of the 131. He is officially in.

The familiar click of the lock echoing in their apartment has never sounded sweeter to Hyunwoo. He peels off his uniform, shedding the weight of command and responsibilities of the 131. The day has been a whirlwind of intensity: new faces, a new unit, and the chilling reality of Operation Sunrise looming just hours away, but here, in the soft glow of their living room, that world feels distant.

"Oppa?" Seulgi's voice, warm and melodic, drifts from the kitchen. She emerges, wiping her hands on a dish towel, her eyes immediately finding his. A small, relieved smile touched her lips, mirroring the one that blooms on his own face. She doesn’t ask about his day—not yet. She just walks into his open arms, pressing herself against him as if reaffirming their anchor in the face of the raging storm outside.

They move through the evening in a quiet rhythm, a shared understanding of the precious hours they have. Dinner is simple but laced with an unspoken tenderness. Later, wrapped in each other's arms in the comfort of their bed, the world outside fades into insignificance. His fingers trace the curve of her spine, her breath warm against his chest. It is in that intimate stillness, just midnight, that the weight of his duty presses down on him again.

He shifts slightly, and Seulgi hums, snuggling closer. "I will start a new case before dawn," he murmured, his voice low, almost a whisper against her hair. "It's... big. A warehouse raid." He feels her stiffen imperceptibly. "Heavily armed. Front line." He waits, bracing himself for her fear, for the tears, but when she finally speaks, her voice is steady, though laced with undeniable concern. "You'll be careful, right, oppa? You'll come back to me in one piece, right?" Her hands find their favorite spots on the small of his back, just right over his waist. “Of course I will, baby. I will come home right after the operation is finished.”

Seulgi buries her face into his chest, her breath a soft, warm sigh against his skin. She doesn't need to ask for more details; the weight of his words, the mention of being heavily armed, and the description of this operation are enough. His promise, however, settles deep within her, a fragile shield against the fear that still gnaws at the edges of her mind. She tightens her arms around him, as if to physically hold him to his vow.

“Oppa,” she murmurs. “What do you need from me tonight—you know, before you head out and start shooting at… at… erm, guys.” Hyunwoo looks at her tenderly, touched by her selflessness to prioritize him before the big, likely very dangerous, operation. “If it’s not too much…” he begins, “I’d like to touch you, baby.” Seulgi nods, a soft, beautiful eye smile decorating her features. “Of course, oppa. Vanilla, perhaps?” she asks, her thumb making circles on his cheek. “Yes, vanilla.”

He pulls her closer, and in the familiar embrace, the tension that has been coiling in his stomach all day slowly begins to unravel. "Vanilla," a word that, for them, means far more than just a flavor. It is a shared language of comfort, a return to basics, a deep, gentle intimacy that always soothes his frayed nerves and grounds him in their love. It isn't about fireworks or wild passion tonight; it is about reaffirming their connection, drawing strength from the safety of their bond.

“I’m ready for you, oppa,” she whispers, guiding his hand towards her growing wetness. Seulgi moans softly as his fingers run over her sensitive area, touching her over the soft fabric of her pants. “Oppa, don’t tease me too much, please…” she mumbles.

Hyunwoo's breath hitches, the playful plea a spark that ignites a deeper need within him. He sheds the last remnants of his duty from his mind, focusing solely on the warmth of her skin, the soft sounds she makes, and the urgent desire to lose himself completely in their shared world. His hand moves under the fabric, exploring the damp heat he finds there, eliciting a soft gasp from Seulgi as she arches into his touch.

“I… I will smack you if you don’t put it in within the next minute,” she threatens, each word carrying her desire for something greater—something more carnal. A low chuckle escapes Hyunwoo, his amusement growing at the sight of her demanding want. “That won’t be necessary, baby,” he whispers back. “I want you so bad myself.”

He pushes forward, a soft groan escaping his lips as he finally buries himself inside her. The fit is perfect, a familiar homecoming that sends a wave of relief through him, melting away any lingering tension from the day. Seulgi gasps, her legs instinctively wrapping around him, pulling him closer, deeper. The rhythmic creak of the bedsprings becomes a silent testament to their shared need, their desperate desire for connection before the impending chaos.

They move together, a primal, ancient dance of two souls intertwined, each seeking and giving profound comfort, pushing away the looming danger for this precious, fleeting time. In the hushed darkness of their room, their lovemaking becomes a desperate act of reaffirmation, a silent promise to return to this sanctuary, to each other, no matter what tomorrow brings. When the last tremors subside, leaving them breathless and spent, Hyunwoo holds Seulgi tightly against him, their bodies slick with sweat, their hearts pounding in unison, a fierce, defiant beat against the quiet encroaching dawn.

Seulgi can only chew on her nails as she watches Hyunwoo prepare, her heart thumping at the sight of her better-equipped man. No longer is he a regular street policeman: he’s now a special operative within the force. She’s proud of him, yes, but just thinking about him being in the front line with bullets flying by, terrifies her beyond words.

“It’s amazing how you can act so professionally, as if you didn’t just try to put a baby in me,” she jokes, trying to steal his attention and distract herself from her worries. Hyunwoo turns his head to the side, showing her a calm smile, his hands still busy strapping things on. “Always quick with the jokes, as if I didn’t just try to put a baby in you,” he counters. Seulgi chuckles a little as her concerns gradually disappear. “You got me, oppa.”

Hyunwoo steps away from the closet, now fully geared, minus the firearms. He walks over to Seulgi, pulling her into a tight embrace, feeling the soft tremor in her body despite her earlier attempts at levity. He buries his face in her hair one last time, breathing in her familiar scent. "I'll be careful, baby," he murmurs, his voice rumbling low. "I promise. For you, and maybe for our baby."

The silence stretches, heavy with unspoken fears and profound affection. When the discreet vibration of his comms unit signals its time, Hyunwoo reluctantly pulls away. He takes her face in his hands, his gaze locking with hers, a silent vow passing between them. He gently presses a kiss on her forehead, lingering for a moment, then turns. As he heads for the door, he feels the familiar weight of the hairpin in his back pocket and the comforting presence of the strand of her hair over his heart—his twin anchors in the storm he's about to enter. He opens the door, the pre-dawn chill biting at the edges of their warm apartment, and he steps out into the silence of the hallway.

He steps into the cold silence of the hallway, the faint hum of the building's ventilation system the only sound. The warmth of their apartment and the soft scent of Seulgi, already seem miles away. Each step he takes towards the elevator feels heavier than the last, a steady march away from comfort and towards the sharp edge of duty. He presses the button for the ground floor, watching the numbers light up, counting down to the moment he steps out into the pre-dawn dark.

The police vehicle waits, engine idling, a dark, silent beast in the empty street. Inside, Jungwon is already in the driver's seat, his profile stark against the faint glow of the dashboard. "Right on time, Hyunwoo-yah," he says, his voice low and dry, lacking any humor. The atmosphere in the car is taut, charged with the quiet intensity of men preparing for battle. Hyunwoo slides into the passenger seat, the heavy weight of his rifle settling between his legs. He looks straight ahead, already mentally reviewing the operational brief, the world of his home receding into the distance, replaced by the grim reality of Operation Sunrise.

“Alright, let’s go!” Jungwon exclaims, banging on the roof of the vehicle, sending signals to those present to prepare for the worst while attempting the best. Hyunwoo closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths, erasing the lingering thoughts about Seulgi and the intimacy they shared, clearing his mind for the operation ahead. “Nervous?” Jungwon asks, noticing his new partner’s behavior. “Something like that,” Hyunwoo answers, sighing heavily. “I mean, I went from a street cop to a special ops guy. I think I have the right to be nervous.” Jungwon chuckles and sighs after. “Yeah, I think you do. First times are always nerve wracking.”

"So, how do you deal with it?" Hyunwoo asks, turning his head slightly towards Jungwon, a genuine curiosity in his voice. "The nerves. The first times." The vehicle begins to move, the low rumble of the engine a counterpoint to the quiet tension inside.

Jungwon glances at him, a faint, knowing smile playing on his lips, barely visible in the dim light of the dashboard. "You remember why you're doing it, Hyunwoo-yah. You remember the faces of the people you're protecting, even the ones you've never met, and then," he pauses, shifting gears as they pull onto the main road, the city lights a distant blur, "you just do your job. You trust your training, you trust your team, and you trust yourself. Everything else is just noise, and you’ll learn to shut it out." He turns his full attention back to the road, his grip firm on the steering wheel. “We’re going to be just fine, man,” Jungwon adds, offering assurance to Hyunwoo, his calm voice carrying genuine qualities.

The cars stop one block over as an attempt to be discreet, and the men cover the rest of the distance on foot, each person moving with purpose and fully understanding what to do and how to do it. The concrete pavement of the sidewalk creates echoes as their boots thump against it, the sound filling the dark that is silent otherwise.

“This is Gamma 1. Comms check,” Jungwon whispers into his radio, awaiting confirmation from his teammates. One person after another answers, whispering back their number and callsign—everyone but Hyunwoo. “Gamma 9, come in. Say something,” he demands. His captain’s voice snaps him out of his stupor, his eyes blinking rapidly as focus is regained. “Gamma 9, solid copy,” Hyunwoo finally answers. “Focus, Strider. This is not the time to fall asleep,” Jungwon reminds him.

"Understood, Gamma 1," Hyunwoo replies, his voice now crisp and devoid of any lingering hesitation. He takes a deep, steadying breath, feeling the cold metal of his rifle's foregrip against his gloved hand. The images of Seulgi and their apartment, which have flickered at the edge of his awareness, are consciously pushed back. His world shrinks to the immediate environment: the dark warehouse, the silent shadows of his team, the low static of the comms.

Jungwon's voice, relayed through the earpiece, is all business. "Teams are in position. Stone, Bone, report status." Muffled confirmations follow, along with a glint of a sniper scope that is seen on a nearby roof. "Gamma team, prepare for breach. On my mark." Hyunwoo drops into a low crouch, his eyes scanning the big metal door ahead, his training kicking in with an almost instinctual precision. The silence stretches again, broken only by the rapid thump of his own heart, a drumbeat counting down to the explosive beginning of Operation Sunrise.

“Mark!”

The slap charge blows the door open with a bang, the loud noise piercing the silent darkness, drawing the attention of those present from both sides of the operation. From other sides of the warehouse, sounds of shattered glass are heard, courtesy of the teams Stone and Bone, and one thing is clear now: the only way is forward.

“Flash out,” Jungwon commands. A couple of flashbangs are tossed around, disorienting those who get caught in the radii. Taking the small window of advantage that they have created, Gamma operatives begin moving, taking down the lesser-armed men around the perimeter.

Hyunwoo moves instinctively, his new rifle shouldering perfectly as he clears the doorway. The flashbangs' disorienting echo still rings in his ears, but his vision quickly cuts through the haze. He spots two figures, weapons raised, struggling against the blinding light. A quick, precise double tap from his rifle drops them silently. The familiar scent of cordite fills the air, a grim perfume of combat, reminding him he's truly back in the fray, deeper than ever before.

"Clear left!" Hyunwoo shouts, his voice sharp and controlled, sweeping his rifle around to scan for potential threat. Jungwon is a shadow beside him, moving with fluid efficiency, his own weapon spitting controlled bursts. They push deeper into the warehouse, the vast space dimly lit by emergency lights and the occasional muzzle flash. Boxes stacked high cast long, deceptive shadows, turning every corner into a potential ambush. The distant shouts and sporadic gunfire from Stone and Bone's sectors confirm the chaos has begun, solidifying their immediate objective: secure the perimeter, eliminate resistance, and find something to expose The Comrade and their pawns.

Hyunwoo takes cover behind a concrete pillar, peeking his head out slightly to see ahead, and his eyes widen at the massive threat in the back area. “Machine gun, machine gun, machine gun,” he warns his teammates, and they immediately take cover behind solid, less penetrable things. “Guardian, do you have visual?” Hyunwoo frantically asks for support. A confirmation rings in his ear; Guardian has his sniper rifle aimed right at the gunner. “Taking the shot,” he says. “Machine gunner down. I repeat, machine gunner is down.”

"Pushing forward!" Jungwon yells, his voice cutting through the comms. With the machine gunner neutralized, the immediate pressure eases, but the warehouse remains a labyrinth of danger. Hyunwoo sprints from his cover, his rifle sweeping, his eyes tracking movement in the oppressive shadows. Scattered gunfire still echoes from other sectors, indicating fierce resistance across the sprawling complex.

They advance systematically, clearing sections, checking behind crates and derelict machinery. The air is thick with the smell of dust, sweat, and something acrid – perhaps the lingering scent of chemicals from the drug operation. Suddenly, a figure darts from behind a stack of barrels. Hyunwoo's instincts take over, his finger already tightening on the trigger, but Jungwon barks a command: "Hold fire! Blue! Blue!" The figure, a young operative in dark tactical gear, spins to face them, his face smudged with grime but his eyes alert. "Yah," he pants, "we've got movement in the back. Heavy foot traffic heading towards the south end. Looks like they're trying to evacuate something."

“Stone team, listen,” Jungwon says to the comms, his voice laced with urgency and tension. “Prepare to engage; they’re coming your way.” Acknowledgments are heard through the comms, and the Gamma men make their way towards the back exit, hoping to pinch the bad guys between a rock and a hard place.

Hyunwoo moves with renewed purpose, his gaze fixed on the south end of the warehouse. The thought of them evacuating something crucial, possibly The Comrade himself or vital evidence, fuels a fresh surge of adrenaline. The metallic tang of anticipation fills his mouth. He can already hear the distant, muffled thud of footsteps rapidly approaching, accompanied by the clatter of what sounds like heavy equipment being dragged.

"Move! Move! Move!" Jungwon barks, urging the Gamma team forward. They sprint past towering stacks of crates, the shadows flickering around them, testing their discipline. The south exit looms ahead, a single, reinforced bay door that looks suspiciously quiet. Just as they reach it, the door suddenly snaps open, revealing a line of rifle barrels aimed at them. “Shit, take cover!” Jungwon screams, trying to get his teammates to look for safety in the face of immediate danger.

Bullets fly past them, and some are close enough to the point where Hyunwoo can hear them zipping over his head. His heart races, banging inside his chest, his breathing ragged and short. It is at this moment that he realizes he’s hiding behind a wooden crate, and before long, those gunners will try shooting through this crate to get him. In a state of panic, he sprints towards a concrete pillar that is similar to the previous one, hoping to be safe, but it was enough for one of the bad guys to put a bullet in his shoulder.

A searing pain explodes in Hyunwoo's shoulder, ripping through him and sending him sprawling against the cold concrete pillar. The impact knocks the wind from his lungs, and for a terrifying moment, all he can hear is the roar of blood in his ears, drowning out gunfire. His rifle clatters uselessly beside him. He presses his uninjured hand instinctively to the wound, his fingers coming away slick and warm.

"Strider! Status!" Jungwon's voice, strained with urgency, rips through his earpiece. Hyunwoo tries to respond, but a grunt of pain is all that escapes him. The world spins for a second, the dimly lit warehouse blurring, but a surge of adrenaline, cold and sharp, cuts through the pain. “Fuck—yah, cover Gamma 9!” Jungwon screams into the radio, trying to prevent his teammate from getting shot again.

The bullets continue to fly, impacting the pillar around Hyunwoo with sharp cracks, sending chips of concrete showering over him. He curls tighter, trying to make himself as small as possible, the pain in his shoulder now a dull, throbbing ache intensified by every jarring impact. Through the haze, he sees Jungwon’s shadowy form moving swiftly, laying down suppressing fire, forcing the enemy to pull back slightly.

Then, a heavy hand clamps down on his uninjured shoulder. "Can you move?" It's Jungwon, his face grim, eyes darting between Hyunwoo and the firing line. He doesn't wait for a full answer, already pulling Hyunwoo roughly but carefully back, away from the immediate line of fire, towards a larger, more secure barricade. "Gamma team, look to flank! Gamma 9 is down!" Jungwon yells into his comms, the urgency in his voice cutting through the ringing in Hyunwoo's ears. Hyunwoo grunts, forcing himself to his feet, leaning heavily on Jungwon, his vision still swimming, but the immediate threat of another bullet finding him spurs him onward.

Jungwon puts Hyunwoo behind a solid cover where he’s confident that he won’t get hurt again. “Hey, hey, stay with me, man,” Jungwon slaps his cheek multiple times, trying to get Hyunwoo to stay conscious. “I’m… trying,” Hyunwoo stammers, fighting the immense, searing pain on his shoulder. “M-medic… plea-please,” he begs. “They’re on their way, man. Just stay still for now.”

Hyunwoo presses his good hand harder against his shoulder, trying to stem the flow of blood, but it still seeps through his fingers, warm and sticky. His vision tunnels, narrowing to Jungwon’s grim face, then flickering to the distant flashes of gunfire. He can feel the cold creeping in, a dangerous numbness that isn’t just from the pain. He needs to stay awake. He needs to fight.

"Jungwon-ah..." Hyunwoo rasps, forcing his eyes open wide, fighting against the encroaching darkness, gripping Jungwon’s arm as hard as he can. “T-tell Seulgi, I… I love her with… everything I have.” Jungwon shakes his head vehemently, not entertaining his rambling. “Tell her yourself, man. You’re going to see her after this.” Jungwon grabs his radio, screaming into it, calling for medical help for his injured mate. “Fucking finally—hey, man, they’re almost here. Just stay with me for a minute.”

Hyunwoo’s grip on Jungwon’s arm loosens slightly, his eyelids fluttering, fighting the heavy pull of unconsciousness. The distant sounds of the raid, the shouts, the gunfire, all begin to fade into a muffled roar. He tries to focus on Jungwon's face, a blurred image against the chaotic backdrop, but the darkness is winning.

Suddenly, a new presence is beside them. Hands are on him, tearing at his uniform, and a voice, clear and concise, cuts through the haze. "Bullet's clean, through and through. Minimal arterial damage, but he's losing blood fast. Pressure here!" A tight, cold pressure clamps down on his shoulder, a different kind of pain, but one that promises relief. Hyunwoo grunts, a mix of agony and unconscious acknowledgment. He feels himself being carefully lifted, the ground shifting beneath him. He vaguely registers Jungwon's voice, now further away, giving orders, and then, the world finally dips into silent, velvet black.

Firm knocks are heard from the front door, and the loud sound stirs Seulgi from her slumber. “One second…” she mutters, dragging her feet towards the source of sound to greet whoever the hell is on the other side. She takes a look through the fisheye: there’s a woman in a police uniform at the door, the badge on her shirt similar to Hyunwoo’s. Seulgi rubs her eyes and tidies her hair, quickly removing signs of having just woken up.

“Good afternoon, officer,” she greets her, maintaining a straight face while her mind runs amok. “You must be Kang Seulgi, Kang Hyunwoo’s partner,” she says. Seulgi nods slowly, biting her lip nervously in reflex. “He has been hurt but is recovering. He asks to see you, so please follow me to the hospital,” the officer says, her voice nearly barren of emotions.

Seulgi's blood runs cold. The quiet hum of the apartment, which just hours ago was a sanctuary of shared intimacy, now feels hollow and vast. "Hurt... how badly?" she manages to ask, her voice barely a whisper, betraying the controlled composure she tries to maintain. Her earlier attempts at tidying her hair felt ludicrous, irrelevant.

The officer's eyes remain impassive, betraying nothing. "He's stable. The doctor will brief you fully at the hospital." She offers no further details, merely a slight tilt of her head, indicating the way. Seulgi swallows hard, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She grabs her phone, purse, and a sweater from the nearby hook, her movements stiff, almost mechanical. His promise to her—that he would come back in one piece—echoes in her mind, a fragile mantra against the sudden, overwhelming fear. Without another word, she steps out of her apartment, following the impassive officer into the chilling uncertainty of the afternoon.

The ride to the hospital is a blur of traffic and ringing silence inside the police vehicle. Seulgi stares out the window, but her mind is replaying snippets of the morning: the feel of his skin on hers, his warm embrace, and his hot release during their shared intimacy. Each memory is a painful counterpoint to the dread coiling in her stomach. The officer drives efficiently, occasionally glancing at her in the rearview mirror, but never offering comfort or explanation.

When they arrive, Seulgi is directed to follow a nurse to Hyunwoo’s room. As they walk together, the air in the hospital seems to grow colder and colder, forcing Seulgi to hug herself tightly, her sweater doing its best to block the cold. “He’s in this room,” the nurse points at a closed door at the end of the hallway, “please be careful around him; he’s injured, after all.”

Seulgi nods weakly, her gaze fixed on the closed door before her. She pushes the door open slowly, the soft click echoing in the quiet room. Her eyes immediately find him. He's pale, lying in the hospital bed, a pristine white bandage stark against his shoulder, a tube running from an IV drip into his arm. His eyes are closed, his breathing shallow, and for a terrifying moment, her heart stops. Then, just as tears begin to sting her eyes, his eyelids flutter open, and his gaze, though weary, finds hers. A weak, familiar smile touches his lips. "Seulgi-yah," he rasps, his voice rough. “I love you, baby.”

Seulgi instantly breaks down crying, crumbling under the weight of those four words that are otherwise lighthearted if said under any other circumstances. She puts her head on his chest, unable to bear the sight of him, usually so strong and steadfast, lying in bed in a hospital after getting injured in duty. “Baby…” he whispers, his hand searching for hers. “Please don’t cry. It’s not as bad as it seems,” he adds, trying to make the stress more bearable for her.

Seulgi sniffles, lifting her head slightly, her tear-streaked face finding his. "But... but you said you'd come back in one whole piece, oppa," she whispers, her voice thick with unshed tears. She holds his searching hand, her fingers trembling slightly as they interlace with his. His skin feels warm, reassuringly so, despite the cold hospital air.

Hyunwoo manages another weak smile, his gaze steady despite the fatigue etched around his eyes. "I mean, I did come back in one piece, baby. This is just... a minor inconvenience." He squeezes her hand gently, trying to inject some of his usual playful charm into his voice, though it's still rough. Seulgi lightly smacks him on the chest. “Very funny, Kang Hyunwoo,” she snarks, but a smile is starting to bloom on her tear-streaked face.

"See? That's what I like to see," Hyunwoo rasps, his weak smile strengthening slightly as her tears begin to subside. He looks at her, his gaze filled with a profound love that transcends the sterile hospital room. He then glances towards the door, his professional urgency flickering to the surface even in his weakened state.

“Did you see any of my colleagues out there?” Seulgi follows his gaze, looking at the door like him. “I mean, just… just the female officer who brought me here.” Her gaze returns to him quickly. “Why, is there anyone you’re looking for?” He manages a small nod. “My captain,” he says. “I’m just wondering if the operation was successful.” Seulgi sighs deeply, not entirely liking him still thinking about the operation. “Let’s not think about that right now.”

Hyunwoo manages a small, rueful smile, acknowledging her unspoken concern. "I know, baby, but... it's important. We were right in the middle of it when I went down. Jungwon-ie was covering me." He winces slightly as he tries to shift, the movement tugging at his bandaged shoulder. "Did the doctor or nurse say anything else?"

Seulgi gently places her hand over his, stilling his restless movements. "No, oppa. Just that you're stable, and that the doctor will brief me properly when they come." She squeezes his hand. "Please, just rest now. You're safe. That's all that matters to me." Her gaze is unwavering, a silent plea for him to let go of the mission for a moment and focus on himself. Feeling content in the knowledge that he’s loved and cared for, Hyunwoo closes his eyes, seemingly trying to get some rest. “You’re all that matters to me, baby,” he echoes.

Seulgi watches him, a fresh wave of tears stinging her eyes, but these are tears of relief now, not terror. She gently strokes his hair, her fingers tracing the contours of his forehead, pushing away the stray strands. The room fills with a quiet calm, broken only by the soft beeping of the IV machine and the rhythmic sound of Hyunwoo’s breathing, which slowly deepens as he drifts into a much-needed, pain-medicated sleep.

“Operatives Kang Hyunwoo and Lee Jungwon,” Superintendent Park says their names out loud in front of the crowd. “For your bravery and selflessness in service with Unit 131, I present you both… the Sentinel Star.” Claps, from both fellow officers and civilians in attendance, fill the field in which they are gathered.

Hyunwoo stands tall beside Jungwon, the crisp lines of his uniform a stark contrast to the hospital gown he'd worn just weeks ago. His shoulder still twinges, a constant reminder of the chaos of Operation Sunrise, but the pain is a dull echo compared to the pride swelling in his chest. Superintendent Park's voice rings out, clear and strong, acknowledging their names in front of the assembled crowd of fellow officers, uniformed dignitaries, and a scattering of civilians.

The Sentinel Star medal, cool and heavy, settles against his chest as Park pins it on. The applause that follows is deafening, a wave of genuine appreciation that washes over him. He glances to his left, catching Jungwon's eye. His captain's usual wry humor is replaced by a solemn pride, a silent acknowledgment of the crucible they had been through together.

In the sea of faces, Hyunwoo's gaze finds Seulgi. She stands near the front, her eyes shining with tears, a proud, tender smile blooming on her lips. He offers her a small, private nod, a silent reaffirmation of his promise to always come back to her. This medal isn't just for him; it's for them, for the life they're building, for the sacrifices they both make.

Stepping off the podium, Hyunwoo makes his way towards the crowd of civilians, and Seulgi is quick to find him. She crashes into him, hugging him tightly and peppering pecks on his face, not caring about making such an affectionate scene in public. “I’m so proud of you, oppa,” she declares without even the smallest trace of hesitation in her voice. “Thank you, love. I’m so thankful for you, you know.” Seulgi giggles, her cheeks tinted in a pink hue. “You’re so—wait, what are you doing?"

Seulgi can only look at him as Hyunwoo gets down on one knee, her mouth stuck open at the sight of a velvet box in his hand. “Kang Seulgi, will you marry me?” he asks, his voice calm yet emotionally charged. Tears—an abundance of them—begin to freely flow onto her cheeks, taken completely aback by the abrupt nature of his proposal. “Yes! One thousand times yes!” Seulgi exclaims, her voice shaking with emotions.

The crowd, which has momentarily hushed in stunned silence, now erupts into a fresh wave of cheers and applause, far louder and more personal than the commendation ceremony. Seulgi throws her arms around Hyunwoo, pulling him up from his knee, her joyful sobs muffled against his neck. He holds her tight, burying his face in her hair, feeling the tremor of her happiness and relief. The ring, now gleaming on her finger, felt heavier and more precious than any medal.

Later, as the crowd thins and the formalities begin to wind down, Jungwon approaches them, a rare, genuine smile gracing his lips. "Took you long enough, Strider," he quips, clapping Hyunwoo on the shoulder, careful of his still-healing wound. "Congratulations, Seulgi-ssi. You have a good one, even if he did get himself shot on his first day." Seulgi laughs, wiping away the last of her tears. "I know, Captain Lee, and thank you—for everything." Jungwon gives them a firm nod, holding back tears of his own at the sight of an emotional moment. “Again, congratulations, you two. I wish you good life together.”

That evening, after a particularly productive physical therapy session for Hyunwoo and a quiet dinner, the reality of their engagement truly settles in. The apartment is bathed in the soft glow of twilight, a hushed intimacy filling the air. Seulgi, who has been tracing lazy circles on his bandaged shoulder, looks up at him, her eyes soft with a mixture of tenderness and unyielding desire.

"You're a hero, you know," she murmurs, her fingers moving from his shoulder to his cheek. "My hero." She leans in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, a gentle invitation for something greater. "And tonight, my hero owes me some good sex." Her voice is a playful whisper, but beneath it, Hyunwoo hears the raw need, the unspoken relief that he is here, whole enough to be touched.

Hyunwoo chuckles, the sound a low rumble in his chest. "Is that so?" he rasps, his own desire stirring to life, his good arm pulling her closer. "Considering what I went through to get here, I'd say I've earned it." His fingers find the hem of her sweater, slowly gliding underneath, teasing her skin. This isn’t about comforting nerves or facing fear tonight; this is a celebration. A celebration of survival, of commitment, of a future they fight to secure.

Seulgi gasps as his touch spreads warmth through her. "Absolutely earned," she breathes, helping him shed his shirt, her gaze lingering on the scar tissue blooming on his shoulder. There is a moment of tender reverence as her fingers lightly traced the edge of the bandage. He pulls her down onto the bed, their bodies meeting with a familiar comfort, a deep sigh escaping them both. Their kisses grow more ardent, tasting of shared joy and undeniable passion. Hands explore, rediscovering familiar contours and secret places, each touch a testament to their enduring love and the vibrant life they now embraced without hesitation. The soft moans that filled the room were not of fear or pain, but of pure, unadulterated pleasure, a triumphant symphony of their engagement night.

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