#touch screen for vending machine

[welcometogrouchland]

NEW APARTMENT BABY!!!

[cnvendingmachine]

coffee vending machine# tea coffee vending machine# coffee vending machi...

[sixeyesonathiel]

yearning nerdjo x shy reader, fluff & humor.

a/n: this is so embarrassing bc this is literally how miserable i am irl.

satoru is down so bad it’s starting to rot his brain. like. visibly. tangibly. his leg’s bouncing under the desk like it’s on fast-forward, the heel of his sneaker thudding rhythmically against the floor tile like a metronome set to desperation. his fingers are drumming nonsense rhythms onto his scratched-up laptop case like he’s trying to decode the algorithm of your absence—tap-tap-tap, pause, tap-tap, like morse code for where is she. his eyes—red-rimmed behind silver-rimmed glasses with one slightly crooked arm—keep flicking to the lab’s entrance like he expects you to materialize in a puff of soft pink mist.

his hoodie’s three days old, and it shows: the sleeves stretched from him pulling them over his hands, the fabric bunched at the elbows. his white t-shirt underneath has a tiny ketchup stain from wednesday’s lunch. the keychain you gave him—blue enamel cat, chipped at the ear—dangles off his pencil pouch like a beacon. his code’s running fine. tabs are hyper-organized. debugging queue nonexistent. he even fixed suguru’s late-night python spiral that nearly bricked the department printer and summoned the wrath of the IT gods.

but it doesn’t matter. because you’re not here.

he’s been looking. he’s always looking.

in the hallway, in the cafeteria, in the reflection of vending machine glass. he leans his stupid giraffe neck around corners like he’s expecting a spontaneous reveal. he scopes out lecture halls he’s not even enrolled in, notebook in hand just in case. every time he hears the soft shuffle of flats in the distance, his head snaps toward it like a bloodhound. he’s started recognizing the rhythm of your steps versus every other pair on campus. your soft-soled shoes tap lighter. more deliberate. his ears practically perk up when he hears a backpack zipper. once he dropped his pen and nearly dislocated his neck looking up, thinking it was you.

and every time it’s not you, his expression glitches—eyes dimming, mouth tightening like his soul just flatlined. it's pathetic. it's art.

he sits sideways in group study like he’s waiting for you to pass by the window. laptop askew. chair half-turned. a ridiculous image—this lanky nerd in a grey hoodie and cargo pants with one pant leg caught in his sock, white wires tangled in his ears and dark under-eyes that make him look like he’s been stress-coding in a cave. (he hasn’t slept. not really. he keeps replaying the way you laughed that one time you dropped your highlighter. it echoes like holy scripture.)

his glasses are smudged. he keeps adjusting them, even when they’re fine. his knuckles are red from resting his chin on them too hard. he keeps fidgeting with your keychain when he’s not typing. thumb brushing over the worn metal, like he’s afraid it’ll disappear if he doesn’t keep touching it. a nervous tic disguised as reverence.

“dude,” suguru says, from two monitors over, voice dry, hair tied up in a lazy half-bun. “you haven’t scrolled in thirty minutes.”

suguru’s slouched in his chair, hoodie sleeves rolled to the elbows, rings tapping against his thermos. his screen's frozen on a meme. he hasn’t blinked in five minutes.

“maybe she’ll walk by,” satoru murmurs, eyes locked on the frosted glass wall outside the lab, hunched forward with his chin on his palm, as if willing your silhouette into existence.

“you said that an hour ago.”

“maybe she’s shy today. maybe she’s building up the courage. maybe she dropped her student ID and fate’s guiding her back here. what if the universe is lining up our pixels right now, suguru? what if—”

“she’s shy every day.”

“and that’s what makes it beautiful,” satoru sighs, dreamily. he stares out the window like a man in a tragic romance film. “she’s mysterious. like a foggy horizon at sea. you don’t know what she’s thinking, and that’s the best part. she could be plotting world domination. she could be drawing cats in the margins of her notes. it’s art.”

suguru groans into his hoodie sleeve.

and then like a glitch in the matrix. like god reached down and clicked “unmute” on the simulation—you pass by.

no footsteps. no warning. just a blur of your jacket sleeve on his left peripheral, and he flinches so hard he nearly spills his water bottle. the water sloshes. he slaps the bottle upright. you’re so close. the scent of your shampoo—jasmine and something warm, like vanilla and late-night bookstores—floods his senses. his head whips around before he can even think, pupils blown wide behind his crooked glasses, mouth parted like a cartoon character seeing a pie on a windowsill.

your gaze meets his.

not one second.

two.

wide eyes. startled. curious. the slope of your brows twitch upward slightly, and your lashes flutter—a beat too long, like a reflex or a stutter in time. your lips part just slightly, like you meant to say something—but don’t. your fingers tug at your sleeve, pulling it over your knuckles in that way you always do when you’re flustered. a half-step pause. your mouth twitches, just barely, like you might’ve smiled. then your gaze drops, your shoulders stiffening as your pace quickens, like you’re embarrassed to have looked at all. your fingers curl tighter around your binder. there’s a sticker on it he hadn’t noticed before.

and that’s it. you’re gone.

satoru slaps both hands over his face and releases a sound that is one part gasp, one part squeal, one part glitching modem.

“oh my god,” he whispers. “oh my god, she looked at me. TWO SECONDS, suguru. TWO. that’s statistically significant. that’s a scientific breakthrough. that’s… that’s eye contact with depth. it had nuance. it had arcs.”

“you’re not well.”

“no, listen. the way her eyes flickered? like she wasn’t sure if she should look away or say something? and her lashes twitched, just a bit. like she was nervous. did you see her hand? she pulled her sleeve down. she only does that when she’s flustered. i know. i’ve studied her. i’ve got timestamps. i’ve got spreadsheets.”

“you’re insane.”

“i’m in love.”

satoru slumps in his chair, limbs sprawling dramatically, glasses askew. he exhales like he’s just seen god. his knee knocks into the desk. his sock has a hole in the toe. the corner of his laptop screen catches the light and reflects a faint shimmer onto the ceiling, and it feels, to him, like stars. his fingers are still frozen mid-air, clutching the keychain like it’s the only proof the moment happened.

“i’m gonna marry her,” he says. “drop out, become a florist. i’ll propose with baby’s breath and carnations—those are her favorites, don’t ask me how i know. maybe a little lavender tucked in. something gentle. delicate. a bouquet that says ‘i know your soul.’”

“you need help.”

“i’ve named our cats already. ichigo, milky, and toblerone. toblerone’s the shy one. milky’s chaotic evil. ichigo wears a little red bow tie. we’ll live in a little flat above a cafe and drink lavender lattes. she’ll wear soft sweaters. she’ll draw comics on sticky notes. i’ll iron her lab coat. it'll be perfect.”

“she doesn’t even know your name.”

“wrong,” satoru says smugly, lifting a single finger like he’s presenting hard evidence. “she knows me as the guy who always looks left and right like a cracked-out meerkat. that’s recognition. that’s brand awareness.”

“romantic.”

“don’t be jealous just ‘cause she didn’t look at you.”

“she’s cute, i guess.”

“NO.” satoru jolts upright like he’s been electrocuted. “DON’T even THINK about perceiving her. your eyes? shut them. your brain? turn it off. opinions? delete them. she’s too good for this world. if anyone’s going to romanticize her, it’s me. with accuracy. and passion. and nuance. only i’m allowed to think she’s cute. and i do. constantly. it’s my full-time job.”

“fine, jeez.”

“say she’s ugly, then.”

“what?? no??”

“exactly. you can’t. because she’s perfect. ethereal. a goddess walking among midterms and overpriced coffee. and she blinked slow, too, did you notice? it was like… like a signal. maybe morse code. she’s trying to tell me something. she’s reaching out. spiritually. through kinetic energy and eye twitches.”

suguru closes his laptop with the tired resolve of someone preparing for battle.

satoru, still glowing with delusion, goes back to staring at the glass wall, head tilted, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

“she looked left,” he murmurs. “that’s my side. she always looks left.”

he swears his hoodie still smells like you.

[jkwrites-m]

Daddy Kookie (3)

Pairing: idol!Jungkook x female reader

Genre: childhood lovers to exes to lovers, parents au, smut, angst, fluff

Word Count: 8k

Summary: After Jungkook dropped all contact, Y/N was left broken - and pregnant. Seven years later, fate brings them back together.

Warnings: MDNI, Explicit, 18+, smut, angst, abandonment, young (teenage) pregnancy, resentment, anger, heartbreak, cursing, struggle, co-parenting, long distance, growth, comfort, vulnerability, domestic, resistance, fighting/arguments, fear of reattachment, time skips, bad flirting explicit: praising, kissing, missionary, oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex, flirting

A\N: hiii bbys 🫶 i am (tentatively) 80% done writing for daddy kookie

MASTERPOST ♡ MASTERLIST ♡

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═══════

I didn’t expect the message when he landed.

Jungkook: Wheels down. First thing I saw was a vending machine that had banana milk and I thought of you. I know you hate it. But I smiled anyway.

I didn’t respond.

But I smiled, too.

He sent a picture of his hotel room next. A messy corner, a pair of AirPods, a hoodie on the floor. Nothing special. Except it was.

Because it meant he was thinking of me.

Of us.

That night, he FaceTimed just before Eun Ae’s bedtime.

Her face lit up when she saw him.

“MR. KOOKIE!!”

He grinned like she’d just handed him the stars. “There’s my girl.”

I watched from the kitchen, one hand wrapped around a mug, the other pressed against my ribs where my heart felt too big for my chest.

He read her a bedtime story- one she picked out herself. She held the book up to the camera so he could follow along.

He stumbled over the voices.

She corrected him, dramatically.

They laughed.

I felt like I was watching something sacred I wasn’t allowed to touch.

After the call ended, I found myself staring at the empty screen like it had more to say.

The next day, he texted both of us good morning.

Jungkook: Hope today’s full of soft things and fewer meetings.

Jungkook: for Eun Ae- Don’t forget your snack. Eat the grapes. Not just the crackers.

She giggled when she read it.

“I like him,” she said casually.

My throat tightened. “Yeah?”

“He’s funny. And he knows I don’t like raisins. That’s cool.”

I nodded, fighting the part of me that wanted to cry.

Because this? This felt like the part I never thought she’d get.

A dad.

A person.

Someone who stayed.

And I hated how easy it was to get used to it.

═══════

By the third day, he called at lunch just to see what she was eating. She showed him her juice pouch and half-eaten sandwich. He pretended to cry dramatically about the lack of crusts.

“You cut the best part off!” he whined.

“You’re a crust,” she said, unimpressed.

He laughed so hard, she laughed harder.

Later that night, after she was asleep, he called again.

Just for me.

He looked tired. Makeup-free. A hoodie pulled tight around his head.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey.”

Neither of us said anything for a second.

Then he whispered, “You looked really beautiful the morning I left.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

“I know you didn’t say anything,” he added. “But… you let me stay.”

“I did.”

“I just wanted to say thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“I do.”

I stared at him through the screen.

“You look tired.”

“I am.”

“Go to sleep.”

“Not yet.”

He didn’t ask for anything else.

Just watched me.

Just stayed.

And I let him.

For an hour.

Without speaking.

Just breathing.

Like maybe this wasn’t a screen between us.

Like maybe the world was a little bit smaller when he was on the other side.

═══════

Tour life was supposed to be a blur.

And it was.

Call times. Sound checks. Hair and makeup. Interviews I barely remembered giving. Airports I couldn’t name. Cities that blurred together through tinted windows and hotel glass.

But no matter where I was, what time zone, what country…

I called her.

I called them.

Every single day.

Sometimes twice.

Sometimes three times.

Didn’t matter if I’d just come off stage dripping in sweat with an hour of sleep. I’d FaceTime and wait for that little beep that meant she’d picked up. That meant Eun Ae would come into view with bed hair and peanut butter on her cheek and a smile big enough to make me forget how tired I was.

“MR. KOOOOOKIE!!”

She always screamed it.

Always made me laugh.

She told me what she ate, what she wore, who she sat next to in school. She told me what color her mood was and what new word she learned and that the moon was her favorite planet because it followed her home.

I wrote every word down.

Had a notebook I kept just for her.

Eun Ae: Day 5. “Do bees have moms?”

Eun Ae: Day 9. “I drew you in my picture. You have big ears but it’s okay.”

I’d stay on the call until her eyes drooped and she rolled into her stuffed tiger.

Sometimes Y/N would come on after.

Sometimes not.

I didn’t push.

But when she did… God.

Her voice in the dark was the only thing that made this feel real.

She’d tell me about her day. Her boss. Her stress. Her coffee order. Her favorite new nail polish.

And I’d listen like every word was a verse.

I didn’t flirt.

Not really.

I didn’t want to break this.

Didn’t want to scare her.

I just… showed up.

That’s all I knew how to do now.

And in the quiet moments, when the lights went down, the crowd noise faded, the crew packed up and the hotel room settled, I stared at my screen and whispered:

“Goodnight.”

Even if she’d already gone.

Even if it was just me.

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

“Goodnight, baby.”

And sometimes, I swear…

I could still hear them say it back.

═══════

I wasn’t expecting much from the panel.

Just another industry event. A half-full auditorium. Stale coffee. Small talk with men who thought “event coordinator” meant I arranged party balloons.

But I’d been invited to speak- one of five women in venue management across the region. I had notes, a blazer I hadn’t worn since college, and a pit in my stomach that only grew deeper the closer I got to the podium.

I hadn’t told Jungkook about it.

It wasn’t a secret.

I just… didn’t think he’d care.

He had a stadium full of screaming fans in Singapore last night.

My keynote about budgeting for backline crew wasn’t exactly Billboard material.

But the morning of the event, while I was brushing my teeth with a knot in my throat and lipstick half-smeared on my palm, my phone buzzed.

Unknown Number: There’s something for you in the lobby. Happy Panel Day.

I stared at the screen.

My stomach twisted.

I almost didn’t go.

But I did.

And when I got to the front desk of the building, there it was.

A vase full of wildflowers.

No roses.

No lilies.

Just crooked stems. Sun-warmed color. Survivors.

And a note, scribbled on plain hotel stationery.

“First time I saw you, you were holding a bouquet of these. You’d just moved and it was your first day. You said they reminded you that growing was hard- but still worth it. You’ve been growing ever since. I see you. I remember. - JK”

I didn’t cry.

Not right away.

I carried the flowers to the greenroom, set them next to the bottled water, and stared at them like they’d speak first.

They didn’t.

So I did.

I sent him a picture. Then a message.

Y/N: Thank you. You remembered.

He replied almost instantly.

Jungkook: I remember everything.

I should’ve closed my phone.

But I typed again.

Y/N: It’s nice. Being seen.

Three dots flashed on the screen. Then stopped. Then flashed again.

Finally:

Jungkook: I’ve never stopped seeing you.

I didn’t know what to say to that.

So I didn’t say anything.

Not until the panel ended and I stepped offstage to applause, blinking under the house lights.

I checked my phone again.

One new message.

A voice note.

I almost didn’t play it.

But I did.

His voice filled my ear.

Soft. Breathless. Like he was recording in the dark.

“You looked incredible today. I know I couldn’t be there. But I’m proud of you. I hope you felt it. Because you should. You should feel proud every day. You’re… everything I wish I’d been brave enough to love right the first time.”

I closed my eyes.

The tears came then.

Quiet and fast and real.

Because it wasn’t just the words.

It was the fact that this time, for once,  he was saying them when it mattered.

When I needed them.

Not too late.

Just… in time.

═══════

She was humming when I picked her up.

Big skip in her step. Hair falling out of her pigtails. Glitter marker smeared across both hands.

“Hi Mama!” she beamed, leaping forward like I’d been gone for a year and not just six hours.

“Hi baby,” I said, catching her as she wrapped her arms around my waist. “Did you have a good day?”

She pulled back, nodded furiously, then shoved a folded piece of paper into my hand.

“I drew our family.”

I blinked. “You did?”

“Uh-huh! It’s us. Me. You. Mr. Kookie. And Kookie Tiger.”

I unfolded the paper.

Crayons. All the colors. A stick figure with my hair. A smaller one with pigtails. A third with a lot of black swooped across his forehead and stars drawn around his head. The stuffed tiger was hovering next to him, smiling.

My chest squeezed.

“You even drew Mr. Kookie’s earrings,” I said.

“He has sparkly ears,” she explained. “And he’s tall. And he always says my name right even when the internet is bad.”

I knelt down.

“Baby… what did you say when the teacher asked who that was?”

She blinked at me.

“I said it’s my daddy.”

The air left my lungs.

“Oh.”

“She asked me if I had one. And I said yes. I have Mr. Kookie. He’s my daddy and he’s on the phone a lot, but he always says goodnight. Even if I forget to say it back.”

I didn’t know what to say.

So I said nothing.

We walked to the car in silence.

That night, I sat on the couch and watched her fall asleep on the video call- phone propped up, stuffed tiger under her chin, cheeks pink and eyelids fluttering.

Jungkook whispered, “Goodnight, my little star,” before ending the call.

He didn’t even know I was still listening.

When the screen went black, I stayed in the hallway for a long time.

Just watching.

Listening to her breathe.

And thinking.

About the way her arms flew open when she saw his face.

About the way her smile bloomed when he laughed.

About how fast she’d drawn him into her world.

And how easy it would be to follow.

═══════

It came in the middle of the night.

No warning.

Just a notification.

Video Message: Jeon Jungkook

I was still awake.

Still replaying Eun Ae’s words.

Still watching the ceiling breathe.

I almost didn’t open it.

Thought maybe it was another bedtime moment. Another drawing. Another “Hey, I miss you.”

But it wasn’t.

It opened with static.

Then a soft flicker of lamplight.

His hotel room.

The camera was set up on a chair.

He was sitting on the floor, cross-legged, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows. No makeup. No filter. Just him.

He cleared his throat.

And then he said:

“This is something I wrote right after I left. When I couldn’t stop thinking about you, but didn’t have the guts to reach out. I never recorded it. Never sang it out loud. But I found the notebook last week. And it still sounds like you.”

He picked up a guitar.

His fingers shook a little.

Then he started to play.

It was rough.

Unfinished.

But it was us.

Every word.

Every verse.

Lyrics about sidewalks and wildflowers.

About long-distance silence.

About the girl he loved before he knew how to love.

I pressed the phone to my chest halfway through.

And I cried.

Hard. Quiet. Shaking.

Because he didn’t have to do this.

Didn’t have to open this wound. Didn’t have to let me see what he never showed anyone.

But he did.

Because he meant it.

Every second.

When the video ended, I sat in the dark for a long time.

Longer than I meant to.

Then I opened our thread and typed one message.

Y/N: I’m proud of you. We are.

The dots blinked on screen.

Then stopped.

Then blinked again.

Jungkook: I love you.

I didn’t reply.

But I whispered it into the room.

Not for him.

Not for anyone else.

Just for me.

Just once.

“I love you too.”

═══════

I’d been outside her door for four minutes and twenty-seven seconds.

Not that I was counting.

Okay- I was.

I’d rehearsed this moment in every city. Every country. Every hotel bed where I lay awake listening to her voicemail on loop, wondering what it would feel like to knock again.

To be let back in.

I was sweating through my shirt. Holding a bag full of small gifts I picked out like a man on a mission- stickers for Eun Ae. Bracelets. A tiny globe. A t-shirt with a cartoon tiger on it. A notebook for Y/N. Local coffee she once told me she missed. Wildflower seeds. And a letter.

I hadn’t given it to her yet.

Didn’t know if I would.

I raised my hand.

Dropped it.

Raised it again.

Then knocked. Soft, twice, like muscle memory.

The door opened before I could breathe.

And there she was.

Hair pulled back. No makeup. A sweatshirt I’d left years ago wrapped around her waist like she forgot it wasn’t hers. Bare feet. A guarded expression that just slightly melted when her eyes landed on mine.

I opened my mouth.

Nothing came out.

She raised one eyebrow.

“Took you long enough.”

I huffed a breath. Half-laugh. Half-collapse.

“You counted the seconds too?”

She didn’t answer.

But she stepped aside.

And I walked in.

Her apartment hadn’t changed.

Same chipped tiles. Same coat hooks. Same coffee smell.

Except now it had toy dinosaurs on the counter and a child’s jacket hanging beside her own. And a pair of little shoes by the door.

She caught me staring.

“She’s at school.”

I nodded. “I brought her something.”

She gestured toward the table. “You can put it there.”

I set the bag down gently like it might explode.

She moved to the kitchen.

I followed her with my eyes, not my feet.

She poured coffee.

Sipped it once.

Then leaned against the counter and said, “You look tired.”

“I am.”

“You look good too.”

I blinked.

“So do you,” I said, too fast.

Her lips twitched.

Not quite a smile.

But not not a smile either.

Silence settled between us like something sacred.

Then I took a step closer.

“I missed you.”

She didn’t flinch.

“Good.”

That made me pause.

“Because I missed you too,” she said.

Something cracked in my chest.

She took another sip. Set the mug down. Then walked past me, slow and steady, until she reached the table.

She picked up the bag.

“You got her another tiger shirt?”

“She calls me Mr. Kookie. I figured it was time to commit.”

She laughed. Soft. Real.

I could’ve cried.

But I didn’t.

I just watched her.

Watched her fingers run over the handles of the bag.

Watched her shoulders drop by a fraction.

Watched the smallest piece of her let go of something she’d been gripping for too long.

“You’re staying for a while?” she asked.

I nodded. “If you’ll let me.”

She turned.

Met my eyes.

And whispered:

“I think we both know I already have.”

═══════

It was weird how fast it became normal.

Him being here.

The sound of the front door unlocking at 3 p.m. right after Eun Ae got dropped off from school.

The way she sprinted down the hallway yelling “MR. KOOKIE!” like she hadn’t seen him the day before.

The way his jacket hung next to mine now.

I told myself not to overthink it.

He wasn’t staying over. That was the rule.

He left at night. Always.

No lingering. No wandering into my room. No lines crossed.

But every morning, he brought coffee.

Every night, he made dinner.

He loaded the dishwasher like he’d done it a thousand times. Played background music from his phone while he stirred pasta. Let Eun Ae sit on the counter even though she wasn’t supposed to.

He laughed when she dropped carrots on the floor.

Groaned dramatically when she told him she liked Yoongi’s part better than his in a song.

He helped her with homework, even when the math confused him.

He held her hand crossing the street.

He braided her hair one morning - terribly - and she wore it proudly all day.

And at night, when she fell asleep on the couch, he’d carry her to bed with the same careful touch he used when we were kids sneaking out at midnight.

I pretended I didn’t see it.

Pretended I didn’t melt when I caught him humming the song he wrote for me under his breath.

Pretended it didn’t feel right- him here.

Like he’d never really left.

Like this was the version of us we were always supposed to be.

But I still didn’t let him stay.

He’d gather his things by the door, hoodie over one shoulder, keys in hand.

“Thanks for dinner,” I’d say.

He’d nod. “Thanks for letting me cook.”

And every time I watched him walk down the hall, I’d wonder why I didn’t ask him to stay.

One night, I found him asleep on the couch.

Eun Ae had already gone to bed.

I came out to grab my laptop and there he was, curled up with a storybook half-open on his chest. His mouth slightly parted. Eyelashes brushing his cheeks.

He looked younger.

Softer.

Like someone who still had pieces to offer.

I pulled a blanket from the armchair and covered him gently.

He didn’t stir.

I stood there a moment too long.

Then whispered, “You’re doing better.”

And walked away before I said more.

═══════

She held my hand the whole time.

We walked out of her school building and she didn’t even hesitate- just latched on like it was something she’d always done.

Her backpack bounced. Her little braid was crooked. And she talked so fast I barely caught half of it.

“Okay so today we got cupcakes and they were chocolate but the frosting was vanilla and I don’t like vanilla but I ate it anyway ’cause Mr. Peters said no wasting. oh! and I told Maddie I was gonna go to the zoo with you and she said that’s cool and I said duh because you’re cool and she said cool people wear leather jackets and I said you have a lip earring so you win.”

I blinked. “You said what?”

She giggled. “Never mind.”

We stopped at the park first. She made me push her on the swing for twenty full minutes. Then the slide. Then the monkey bars, which she insisted she was a champion at, only to fall dramatically into the sand.

I caught her. She laughed harder.

We ate sandwiches under a tree. She stole my chips.

Later, we went to the library.

She picked three books. I picked one. She said mine was boring and I said hers were brilliant and she looked at me like I’d just given her a trophy.

Then came the bakery.

She marched to the counter, slammed two crumpled dollars on the glass, and said, “One tiger cookie and one smiley face for my daddy.”

I froze.

The cashier smiled.

My heart did something I don’t know the name for.

When we sat down, I asked her- quietly, gently- “Do you know who I am?”

She took a big bite of her cookie and nodded.

“You’re Mr. Kookie. But you’re also my dad.”

I couldn’t speak.

“I think you are,” she said, licking frosting off her fingers. “You look like me. You smile like me. You laugh like me, y’know?”

I blinked fast.

“Are you okay?” she asked, suddenly concerned.

“Yeah,” I whispered. “Just… happy.”

She grinned.

Then reached over, tiny fingers sticky with sugar, and grabbed my hand again.

That was it.

No fanfare.

No tears.

Just a six-year-old who already knew love when she felt it.

═══════

When we got back to the apartment, she tugged me to the living room, pulled out a coloring book, and curled up beside me like she belonged there.

And she did.

Y/N stood in the hallway, watching us for a long time.

She didn’t say anything.

But when I met her eyes, I knew.

Something had shifted.

Not just in me.

Not just in our daughter.

But in her, too.

═══════

It was getting too easy.

Too natural.

Too good.

He knew how I took my coffee now. With oat milk. One sugar. No questions.

He made it before I got out of bed, without staying the night. He’d come by early, just to start the day with us. Pretended it was for Eun Ae. We both knew better.

He made space without asking.

Claimed a drawer.

Bought the kind of cereal she liked and refilled it when it ran low.

Cleaned without being told.

Listened when I vented. Laughed when I snapped. Stayed when I went quiet.

It was good.

And that’s what scared me most.

Because I remembered what good felt like before it broke me.

Tonight, the apartment was quiet. Eun Ae was asleep. The dishes were done. The lights were low. It was just the two of us on the couch, a movie playing, barely watched.

He sat close.

Not too close.

But enough that I could feel his warmth seeping through the space between us.

I was curled in the corner, legs tucked under me. He had his arm resting along the back of the couch, fingers inches from my shoulder.

Neither of us said anything for a long time.

Until I did.

“What do you want?”

He turned.

“Right now?”

I nodded.

He didn’t hesitate.

“You. Still you.”

My breath hitched.

It wasn’t said with expectation. Or desperation. It was just the truth.

Like it had been sitting in his chest for years, waiting to be named.

I looked at him.

Really looked at him.

The curve of his jaw. The dip beneath his eye. The scar on his lip that only showed when he was tired. The way he always looked like he was about to ask permission, even when he wasn’t saying anything.

And I wanted to kiss him.

God, I wanted to kiss him.

But I was still afraid.

Afraid that if I let myself want it - really want it - I wouldn’t survive losing it again.

I shifted.

Closed the space between us.

Let my hand drift to his.

He looked down.

Met my eyes.

And leaned in.

Just enough.

Just close enough that his breath hit my cheek.

I held mine.

Then I pulled away.

Stood up.

And whispered, “Goodnight.”

I didn’t look back.

Didn’t see the way his shoulders dropped.

Didn’t hear the breath he let out when the door to my room clicked shut.

But I felt it.

All of it.

Pressed tight against my ribs.

Too full to carry.

Too heavy to ignore.

Too late to stop.

═══════

He was gone before I woke up.

No text. No call. No mug on the table with a bad pun on the side.

Just quiet.

And a note.

Folded once.

Tucked beneath my coffee cup like he’d hoped I’d find it before I noticed he wasn’t here.

I stared at it for a long time.

Didn’t touch it.

Didn’t want to.

Because I already knew.

It wasn’t an apology.

Wasn’t a plea.

It was him- leaving something behind.

Eventually, I picked it up.

His handwriting was messy. Familiar. Like he’d written it fast, before he could change his mind.

Y/N,

I’m not writing this to ask for anything.Not forgiveness. Not answers. Not even hope. I just needed to say a few things. Without waiting for the right time. Without hoping you’ll say anything back.

You’ve always been better than me. Stronger. Smarter. Braver. You kept going even when I disappeared. You kept your heart beating while mine hid behind silence. You didn’t need me. But I need you to know. I always needed you. I just didn’t know how to say it.

I still don’t, sometimes. But I see you now.

Not just the girl I loved. But the woman you are.

The one who raised our daughter alone. The one who learned how to laugh without me. The one who still makes my chest hurt when she smiles.

I’m not here to fix the past. I’m just here now. And I’ll keep being here. Even if it’s just as someone who brings coffee and folds laundry wrong and says the wrong thing at the wrong time.

I’m here because I love you.

Not the memory. Not the version of you I broke.

You.

Right now.

If that’s all I ever get to say- fine. But I meant it. And I’ll mean it every time you wake up and I’m not at the door.

Always,

JK

I read it three times.

Then a fourth.

Then I folded it back the way he’d left it. Carefully, like it might tear.

I didn’t cry.

Not this time.

I just placed the letter inside my notebook. Poured my coffee. Sat at the table with my feet tucked under me.

And breathed.

Because for the first time in years, I didn’t feel like I was waiting for someone to come back.

He already had.

═══════

She asked me when we were brushing our teeth.

One of those moments where your guard is down, where the day is done and the world is quiet, and suddenly your six-year-old asks a question that guts you.

“Why wasn’t Daddy Kookie here when I was a baby?”

I froze.

The toothbrush in my hand stopped mid-circle.

She stared at me in the mirror, foam on her chin, eyes wide and waiting.

Not angry.

Not sad.

Just… waiting.

I rinsed my mouth. Toweled her clean. Sat us both on the edge of the tub like we were about to plot something secret.

And then I said the words I’d been avoiding for six years.

“He didn’t know how to stay.”

She blinked.

“But why?”

I breathed deep.

“Because we were young. Because we were scared. Because sometimes people don’t know how to do the right thing, even when they love you.”

She frowned.

“He left because he was scared?”

“Yes.”

“Did he stop loving us?”

“No,” I said immediately. “No, baby. He didn’t stop. He just… forgot how to show it. For a long time.”

Her little mouth twisted, processing.

Then she asked, “Are you still mad?”

That one took longer to answer.

“Yes,” I admitted softly. “Sometimes.”

“But you still let him come over.”

“I do.”

“Because you love him?”

I looked down.

At her small feet swinging under the tub’s edge. At her tiny fingers curled in her lap.

“I don’t know,” I said.

And that was the truest thing I could say to her.

She nodded, like that made sense.

Then leaned into my side and rested her head on my shoulder.

We sat there for a while.

No more questions.

No more stories.

Just silence.

And the quiet strength of a little girl who somehow already knew that love didn’t have to be perfect to be real.

═══════

She confirmed it.

I don’t know how I knew.

Y/N didn’t say it.

Eun Ae didn’t say it.

But something in the air shifted- subtle, sharp. Like the sound of a glass cracking under pressure before it actually breaks.

Eun Ae looked at me different the next morning. Not bad. Not cold.

Just… clearer.

Like she’d connected something in her head. Like the puzzle finally made sense.

We were sitting at the table. She was eating cereal.

And she said, “I think Daddy Kookie just didn’t know what to do when I was a baby.”

I blinked.

She took another bite.

Then said, “But it’s okay now. ’Cause you’re here. And I like when you make the dinosaur eggs.”

I smiled, because what else could I do?

But inside, I was splitting open.

Y/N passed by behind her, brushing her hand gently across Eun Ae’s hair.

Our eyes met.

She didn’t look away.

And I knew.

She told her.

I didn’t sleep that night.

Didn’t go to the hotel either.

I just walked.

I ended up at the river, hoodie pulled up, air sharp in my lungs.

I sat on a bench and opened my phone.

Scrolled through our message thread.

Watched a couple of the videos Eun Ae had sent - her singing off-key, showing off her school shoes, giggling uncontrollably while calling me “Banana Kookie.”

Then I opened my Notes app and stared at a blank screen.

I wanted to say something.

To her.

To Y/N.

To anyone.

But what could I say?

That I’d earned it?

That I understood?

I didn’t.

I just felt sick.

Guilty.

Heavy.

Like I’d been borrowing time I didn’t deserve.

The sun came up and I was still there.

Still writing nothing.

Still waiting for a peace I wasn’t sure would ever come.

By the time I made it back to their apartment, my chest was tight with apology.

I didn’t even knock.

I texted.

Jungkook: Can I come up?

A pause.

Then:

Y/N ❤️: She’s waiting for you.

I swallowed hard.

Stepped into the elevator.

When the door opened, Eun Ae was already running down the hall.

She launched herself into my arms like she’d never questioned me. Like she didn’t care about mistakes or time or what I should’ve said six years ago.

“Daddy Kookie!”

Two words.

So loud I couldn’t miss them.

And they hit harder than anything I’d ever heard.

I closed my eyes.

Held her tight.

And whispered back:

“Hi, baby.”

═══════

It started with something small.

They always do.

He offered to pick up Eun Ae from her sleepover and take her to the museum Sunday morning. Just the two of them. Said she’d been begging to go and she’d love the new dinosaur exhibit.

He said it casually. Smiling. Warm. Hopeful.

And I froze.

“Just you?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said, still smiling. “I figured you’d want a break.”

A break.

Like that’s what I’d been doing this whole time- waiting to clock out.

I set down the dish I was washing a little harder than necessary.

“I don’t need a break.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly, confused. “I just thought-”

“You thought you could just pick up like nothing fucking happened?” I snapped.

The words came sharp. Loud.

He blinked.

“No,” he said carefully. “I thought I could help. You’ve been doing everything for years-”

“Because you weren’t here!” I cut him off.

Silence.

Then he stepped back, hands raised slightly, voice lower now.

“I know I wasn’t.”

“Do you?” I said, breathing hard. “Do you really understand what that did to me?”

His face shifted, not anger, just ache.

“Y/N…”

“You left,” I said, voice cracking. “You didn’t just leave me. You blocked me. You fucking vanished. You didn’t wonder if I was okay. You didn’t care. I was pregnant and alone, and every day I woke up and hoped maybe you’d remember-”

“I did remember,” he said sharply.

“Not enough.”

He swallowed.

“Not soon enough,” he admitted. “But I never forgot.”

I crossed my arms, cold all over now.

“I still don’t know how to forgive you,” I whispered.

He looked at me like I’d pulled something out of him he wasn’t ready to name.

“I don’t know how to forgive me either,” he said.

And that-

That stopped me.

Because there was no defense in his voice.

No plea.

Just… shame.

Heavy. Real.

He looked away. Then back.

“I think about it all the time,” he said. “What I missed. What I ruined. What she could’ve had if I’d just been better. You… you could’ve had a different life. And I ruined that too.”

“You didn’t ruin me,” I said softly. “But you broke something. And I’m still finding the pieces.”

He nodded. Slow. Like that hurt more than yelling ever could.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” he said. “I’m just asking you to let me stay while you figure out if you ever can.”

I looked at him.

And for once, didn’t know what to say.

So I didn’t.

I just walked to the bedroom door.

Opened it.

And whispered, “I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

His eyes widened.

“I won’t leave.”

“I mean- ” I hesitated. “Stay. But don’t go to the couch.”

═══════

I followed her.

Not because I expected anything.

Not because I thought this would fix it.

I followed her because I’d follow her anywhere.

She didn’t look at me when she closed the door to her bedroom. Just stepped to the window, tugged the curtain slightly, checked the streetlight like she needed the outside world to stay still for one night.

Then she turned.

Met my eyes.

And in that moment, I knew.

This wasn’t forgiveness.

This wasn’t closure.

This was her choice.

Right now.

Not because she owed me anything. Not because I deserved her.

But because she wanted me.

Still.

She crossed the room slow, her bare feet silent against the hardwood floor. The air between us crackled with the weight of unspoken words, of years apart, of mistakes and regrets. I stood there, rooted to the spot, my heart pounding in my chest like a drumbeat calling her name.

She lifted the hem of her sweatshirt over her head, tossing it aside without a second glance. 

No fanfare. No tease. 

Just skin. 

Real. Warm. Familiar in ways that made my breath stutter. 

I stepped forward, my hands shaking more than I wanted them to. 

She didn’t stop me. 

Didn’t rush. 

Just let me reach for her. 

My fingertips brushed her waist, my palm cupping her cheek. Our eyes locked, and in that silence, I saw everything- the pain I’d caused, the love she still carried, the question of whether we could ever truly come back from what I’d done.

Then-

She leaned in.

And kissed me.

Soft.

Certain.

Like the space between us had finally run out of time.

I kissed her back, pouring every ounce of regret, every whisper of longing, into that touch. Let her press me into the edge of the bed, her hands sliding beneath my shirt, her nails scraping my skin in a way that felt both punishing and forgiving.

I whispered her name against her jaw, my lips brushing the delicate skin there. She moaned quietly, her hips tilting into mine, a silent plea for more. 

I wanted to give her everything- to make up for every missed call, every unspoken apology, every night I’d spent wishing I could take it all back.

With a gentle push, I flipped her onto the bed, her hair spilling across the pillow like a halo. She looked up at me, her eyes dark with desire, but also something else. A vulnerability that made my chest ache. I kissed her again, slower this time, savoring the taste of her, the feel of her lips against mine.

I kissed my way down her body, tracing the lines of her collarbones, the curve of her breasts, the dip of her stomach. Her skin was soft under my lips, her breath hitching as I sucked gently on her nipples, teasing them until they pebbled against my tongue. 

She arched into me, her hands tangling in my hair, her moans filling the room like music.

I kissed her hips, her thighs, my fingers brushing the edges of her panties. She was already wet, her scent intoxicating, a reminder of how perfectly she fit me, how perfectly I fit her. 

I hooked my fingers into the lace and slid them down her legs, tossing them aside without breaking eye contact.

“Jungkook,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

I didn’t answer. 

I couldn’t. 

Not yet.

Instead, I settled between her thighs, my hands resting on her hips as I kissed her inner thighs, my breath ghosting over her core. She squirmed, her legs falling open wider, inviting me in. I teased her, my tongue tracing lazy patterns along her folds, my lips brushing her clit before pulling away.

“Please,” she begged, her fingers digging into my shoulders.

I smiled against her skin, then finally gave her what she needed. My tongue plunged deep, lapping at her eagerly, savoring her taste, her sounds, the way her body trembled under my touch. 

I fucked her with my mouth, relentless and worshipful, my fingers joining in, sliding inside her as I sucked her clit into my mouth.

Her orgasm hit her like a wave, her body arching off the bed, her cries echoing through the room. I held her there, drinking her in, my tongue never stopping, even as her body shook with release.

When she finally stilled, I kissed my way back up her body, my lips brushing hers softly. 

“I love you,” I whispered, my voice hoarse with emotion.

She looked at me, her eyes shining with unshed tears, telling me to keep going without saying a word.

I didn’t need to be told twice.

I kissed her deeply, our tongues tangling as I positioned myself between her legs. She was still trembling, her body open and willing, her trust in me a gift I didn’t deserve. 

I pressed the head of my cock against her entrance, teasing her, my lips never leaving hers.

“Jungkook,” she murmured, her hands gripping my shoulders.

I thrust into her slowly, savoring the way she enveloped me, the way her walls clenched around me like a promise. She gasped, her head falling back, her chest heaving as I filled her completely.

I held her there, my forehead resting against hers, our breaths mingling. 

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

She wrapped her legs around my waist, pulling me closer, her lips brushing mine. “Show me,” she whispered.

I began to move, slow at first, each thrust deliberate, each withdrawal agonizingly slow. I kissed her, touched her, praised her, my hands roaming her body as I fucked her with a desperation born of years of longing.

Her nails dug into my back, her moans growing louder, her body meeting mine with equal fervor. I sped up, my hips snapping against hers, my cock pounding into her relentlessly. She was tight, so tight, her walls milking me, her clit rubbing against mine with every thrust.

“Kook,” she cried, her body tensing as she neared the edge again. “I’m-”

“Cum for me,” I growled, my voice rough with need. “Cum on my cock, baby. Let me feel it.”

Her orgasm ripped through her, her body convulsing around me, her cries filling the room. I followed, my own release crashing over me like a wave, my cock pulsing deep inside her as I whispered, 

“I love you,” against her neck.

We lay there, tangled together, our hearts pounding in unison, our breaths slowly syncing. I kissed her shoulder, her cheek, her lips, unable to stop touching her, unable to stop apologizing.

She curled into me, cheek pressed to my chest.

I wrapped my arms around her and held her like I never had the chance to before.

And when she whispered, “Don’t leave,” into my skin-

“I’ll never leave you again,” I promised, my voice thick with emotion.

I kissed her forehead and said:

“I couldn’t if I tried.”

═══════

The sun woke me before he did.

It stretched through the blinds like a whisper, soft and gold, warming the blanket tangled around my legs.

His arm was still draped across my waist.

His nose was tucked behind my ear.

And the rhythm of his breath was the calmest thing I’d felt in years.

I stayed still for a long time.

Not because I was afraid to move.

But because I didn’t want to.

Didn’t want to break the spell.

Didn’t want to face the real world when this one- this quiet bedroom, this borrowed peace- felt like something I could actually believe in.

Eventually, his fingers flexed against my hip.

A slow inhale. A stretch. A groggy hum.

Then-

“Morning,” he whispered.

“Mm.”

“That’s all I get?”

I smiled against his skin. “You’re lucky I’m giving you that.”

He chuckled.

The sound vibrated through me. Calming. Familiar. Right.

I rolled over to face him. His hair was a mess. His smile wasn’t.

“You hungry?” I asked.

He nodded. “For food, yeah. Also for you.”

I snorted and smacked his chest. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m honest.”

In the kitchen, I pulled out pancake mix. He tried to steal it. I smacked his hand with a spatula.

“You’re not allowed to mess these up,” I warned.

He raised his hands in surrender. “I only flip when I’m told.”

“You’re lucky I’m letting you eat.”

“I already ate,” he said with a wink.

I threw a towel at him.

We laughed.

Really laughed.

The kind that felt like it came from a version of us that still believed in soft mornings and shared sunlight.

He burned the first pancake.

I made fun of him.

He blamed the pan.

I called him a liar.

He kissed my cheek when I wasn’t looking.

And for a second…

For one suspended moment in the middle of a too-quiet apartment with pancakes on the stove and sunlight through the blinds-

I forgot we’d ever been anything but this.

I didn’t say “I love you.”

He didn’t ask.

But when he reached across the table and took my hand…

When his thumb brushed over my knuckles like he could still feel me from the inside out…

I knew he already knew.

And I knew that someday…

I’d say it again.

And I’d mean it.

═══════

Eun Ae came home from her sleepover mid-morning, bouncing through the door like she hadn’t slept at all and telling stories at a mile a minute.

“Daddy Kookie!” she shouted when she saw him, dropping her backpack to barrel into his legs. “You missed everything! They had a movie and pizza and a game and I won and I told them you’re my dad and they said you’re famous and I said ‘Duh’- ”

He picked her up and spun her once.

“Whoa, slow down! You’re gonna run out of breath.”

“I already did!”

I laughed from the kitchen.

═══════

We spent the afternoon at the park.

Eun Ae insisted on sitting between us on the swings. Then made us race. Then sat on Jungkook’s shoulders for the entire walk back.

He carried her like it was nothing.

She fell asleep on the couch before dinner even started.

We let her stay there.

Jungkook helped me plate the food, just something simple. Rice. Fried eggs. Kimchi from the corner store.

We sat on the floor in front of the coffee table, legs crossed, sharing chopsticks.

“I’ve missed this,” he said.

I glanced at him.

“This?”

“This… life. This ease.”

I didn’t answer right away.

But I reached out.

Took his hand across the table.

He didn’t flinch.

He just laced our fingers together like it was natural.

Like we hadn’t fought. Like we hadn’t broken.

Like maybe - somehow - we had always been coming back to this.

═══════

I almost didn’t say it.

Almost kept pretending we had forever- that my time off didn’t have an end, that the clock wasn’t winding down on this borrowed miracle of a life.

We’d had a good day.

A perfect day.

And I didn’t want to ruin it.

But when I saw her brushing her teeth beside me- head tilted, foam at the corner of her mouth, one of my old shirts hanging off her shoulder, I couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“Y/N,” I said quietly, setting my toothbrush down.

She looked at me in the mirror.

Not startled.

Just waiting.

I stepped into the hallway as Eun Ae’s door clicked shut behind us. She was already asleep, full from dinner, exhausted from laughter. Safe.

“Can we talk?” I asked.

She nodded, drying her hands.

We sat on the edge of her bed. Not touching. Not tense. Just… not easy.

I cleared my throat.

“My break ends in a week.”

She didn’t look at me.

“I know.”

“I have to go back to Seoul.”

A pause.

Still no eye contact.

“I know that too.”

I swallowed hard.

“I’ve been thinking…” I hesitated. “I wanted to ask if you’d ever consider moving there. You and Eun Ae.”

That did it.

Her head turned sharply.

“What?”

“I mean- not right now,” I said quickly. “Not even soon. Just… if it’s something you could ever see. For her. For you.”

She stared at me.

Like I’d just kicked the legs out from under a table we’d been building together.

“Jungkook…”

“I’m not asking you to decide anything,” I said, softer now. “I just- I want to be a father. Fully. I want to come home to her. To you. I’m not asking for marriage or moving in. I just want to know if - someday - you’d think about it.”

She stood up.

I froze.

She walked to the window.

Opened it.

Let the night air in.

Then whispered, “You waited until everything felt good to say this.”

I didn’t respond.

“Do you know what it feels like to hear that the second I trust you again, you want to take me away from everything I rebuilt?”

“I’m not trying to take you,” I said quietly. “I’m trying to give us somewhere to grow.”

Her shoulders tensed.

And just like that, the perfect day was gone.

═══════

I didn’t sleep.

Not even for a second.

I stared at the ceiling while he breathed beside me- slow, steady, unaware that my mind was tearing itself apart in real time.

Seoul.

I shouldn’t have been surprised.

But I was.

I thought we were safe here. In this apartment. On this couch. In this version of life where things were small and quiet and real.

But maybe that was naive.

Because Seoul meant everything we weren’t.

Cameras.

Schedules.

Airports.

Secrets.

Distance.

It meant the version of him that ghosted me. The version of him that chose ambition over love and couldn’t even say goodbye.

I watched him sleep for an hour before I finally moved. 

Slipped out of bed. I walked barefoot to the living room and curled up on the couch with a blanket and a hundred racing thoughts.

═══════

By the time the sun rose, my chest ached.

When he padded in wearing a hoodie half-zipped, hair wild- I was still curled there, staring at nothing.

He sat on the floor beside me, quiet.

Then:

“I’m sorry.”

I turned slowly.

“For what?”

“For saying it last night. For how I said it. For not asking if you were ready.”

I nodded once.

Then said the thing I’d been avoiding for hours.

“What happens when the spotlight comes back on?”

He blinked.

“What?”

“What happens when the fans scream louder than me? When you’re booked for twenty hours a day and Eun Ae forgets what your voice sounds like? What happens when I ask for more and it’s inconvenient?”

His face fell.

“I’m not that person anymore.”

“But you were,” I whispered. “You were, and I forgave you for me. But now I have to protect her. And I don’t know if I can trust you not to break her heart the same way you broke mine.”

He looked down.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t fight.

Just… let it hit.

“You want me to move across the world for you,” I said, voice shaking. “And I’m still trying to figure out how to stay in the same room as you without crying.”

That one landed.

Hard.

He looked up.

“I don’t want you to move for me. I want you to move because it might give us a chance to build something together. For her. For us. But I’m not asking you to pack a bag.”

I closed my eyes.

“I’m asking you,” he continued softly, “to think about it.”

I stood.

Backed away.

Then said- because it was the only thing I could say:

“I need space.”

He nodded.

“I’ll pick her up from school,” he said gently. “You rest.”

And then he left.

No door slam.

No fight.

Just quiet.

Too quiet.

═══════

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These characters are fictional and do not represent any real-life individuals. Their likeness is used solely for visual inspiration and does not reflect the actual person or their story.

═══════

Posted: 06/29/2025

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[matcha3mochi]

PROTOCOL | II Pairing: Doctor Zayne x Nurse Reader

author note: here is a continuation to chapter 1 ehhe! it's pretty lengthy bc i wanted it to be a bit slowburn!! pls enjoy reading this!! 🥰🥰

wc: 6,057

chapter 1 | chapter 2 | chapter 3

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

The break room is cold in that quiet, clinical way the Institute has perfected — impersonal, sanitized, almost echoless. The overhead lights haven’t fully brightened yet, casting the room in a blue-toned wash, soft and sterile like twilight filtered through glass. The polished black tables reflect that icy glow, while the vending wall on the far side hums softly to itself, a standby menu scrolling across its touch-sensitive display.

You sit tucked in the back corner, alone.

The chair is angular and unforgiving beneath you. One foot rests flat on the ground, the other curls under your thigh, a habit you haven’t shaken since nursing school. A half-full cup of synth-coffee sits to your right. The steam has faded, but the scent—slightly metallic with that faint bitter burn of artificial mocha—lingers like breath on a mirror.

You stare at the glowing screen of your datapad, but the words blur, bleeding into each other as your focus drifts.

You’re thinking about yesterday.

You hadn’t planned to say anything. You were going to let the moment pass, the way you usually do. Swallow it. Move on.

But then your voice left your body in that corridor — a soft, cracked “thank you” that felt like handing him a scalpel with both hands.

And Zayne had taken it.

Without flinching. Without dodging.

“I don’t tolerate incompetence. That includes false accusations.”

The words had echoed through your skull all night, louder than the post-op monitors, louder than the tired thoughts telling you not to think too hard about it.

Because something about it was personal.

And you don't know what to do with that.

The door hisses open.

You don’t look up at first — just sip your coffee out of reflex. Cold now. Awful. Your fingers tighten around the cup.

But then you hear the steps.

Measured. Precise.

Not the soft shuffle of a tired nurse or the clumsy stride of a resident.

Hard soles. Deliberate gait.

Dress shoes.

You glance up.

And your pulse stutters.

Zayne.

Of course.

He walks in like the room was built around him. His coat is immaculate, fastened high against the sharp lines of his navy vest. His dark hair, slicked back, catches the low light in a clean shine. No loose strands. No wrinkles. No rush. His silver-framed glasses rest perfectly across the bridge of his nose, catching a pale glint from the dispenser wall as he approaches it.

He doesn’t glance at you.

Not yet.

His right hand lifts — long, pale fingers tapping the interface with exact precision. The vending screen changes. Options shift. You watch the flick of his eyes as he reads, scrolls, selects.

Then, he pauses.

Just for a second.

His gaze shifts — almost imperceptibly — toward your table.

Toward your cup.

Then back to the panel.

He taps again.

Same coffee.

The same selection you picked.

You freeze, fingers still curled around your own cup.

The machine hums. A faint hiss of steam. The scent sharpens — familiar, acidic, chemical cocoa — and your heart kicks harder for reasons you don’t dare name.

He retrieves the cup, wraps his fingers around it with clinical ease.

Turns.

And walks straight toward you.

Not toward the counter. Not toward the sink or the exit.

You.

Your breath catches. You glance down, adjusting your datapad like that’ll make the moment more casual.

But it doesn’t.

He reaches the table.

Then, without a word, he pulls out the chair across from you and sits.

Effortlessly. Quietly. Like this is normal.

It isn’t.

Zayne doesn’t sit in shared spaces. He doesn’t pause. He doesn’t drink coffee with people like you — like anyone.

But here he is.

The silence is total.

The vending machine slips into standby again. Your datapad dims.

You don’t know where to look.

He rests his coffee on the table. One hand wrapped loosely around the cup, thumb tapping once — slow, absent. His other hand rests on his thigh, fingers lightly curled. He doesn’t cross his legs. Doesn’t lean back. His spine is straight, posture alert even when still.

You watch him from beneath your lashes, suddenly hypersensitive to everything: the low drone of the vent system overhead, the sharp lines of his profile, the way his glasses fog slightly from the cup’s remaining heat.

You’re the first to speak.

You have to.

“Didn’t expect to see you in here this early,” you say softly, voice caught between conversational and cautious.

Zayne doesn’t look at you. He lifts the cup to his lips, sips once, then sets it down again with near-silent precision.

“I’m early every day,” he says.

His voice is smooth. Low. But there’s none of the edge you’re used to. Just… quiet.

You shift slightly in your chair, your foot brushing the floor again.

“You don’t usually sit.”

“There’s no rule against it,” he replies.

You let out a soft huff of breath — not quite a laugh, but close. Typical Zayne.

Then, your eyes fall to the cups. Identical. Still steaming.

And you ask, because you have to:

“Was the coffee a coincidence?”

He doesn’t hesitate.

“No.”

He turns his head toward you, and his eyes catch the light — that pale, strange, hazel-green that shifts with every blink. They lock onto yours. Direct. Unwavering.

Your breath catches in your throat.

He isn’t smiling. He never does.

But something in his expression has… loosened.

Not relaxed. Just not braced.

You stare at him for one second too long.

Then you lower your eyes.

You pick up your cup again, take a slow sip — still bitter, still bad — and set it down just to give your hands something to do.

The silence grows again, but this time it doesn’t feel like space between strangers.

It feels like waiting.

It feels like noticing.

You glance at the time.

05:56.

You rise first, datapad tucked under your arm.

He stands too.

No word, no signal. Just synced movement.

You both move toward the hallway — the bright, humming artery that leads to Surgical Wing 3 — and fall into step beside each other.

No touch.

No talk.

But your arms swing close enough to brush. Your footsteps mirror.

And in that moment, as the blue-tinted hall stretches before you, you feel it again.

It’s shifting.

And neither of you is stopping it.

The hallway that leads to Surgical Wing 3 is long and silent, its glass walls streaked with faint reflections from overhead lighting that shifts in a subtle gradient from soft blue to white as the morning cycle begins.

The floor panels illuminate faintly with each footstep, lighting up a path that fades behind you as you move, side by side with Zayne, through the sterile stillness of pre-shift hours.

There is no one else in the corridor yet — no distant voices, no patient transport carts squeaking on linoleum, no ambient chatter from medtechs — just the steady rhythm of footsteps, yours and his, falling in perfect unison, echoing softly off metal and glass.

You can hear your own breathing in the hush, feel the quiet hum of recycled airflow through the ceiling vents, and sense the slight change in temperature as you both approach the threshold to OR Prep Bay 3.

When the doors part with a gentle hydraulic sigh, the chill of the prep room brushes against your skin, sharper and more precise than the hallway air, laced with the clean scent of sterilizer, latex, and something faintly chemical — the smell of readiness.

The light inside the prep bay is cooler, harsher — not unkind, but surgical, designed for alertness rather than comfort. Bright white strips embedded in the ceiling cast faint shadows across the sterile metal trays and brushed steel walls, giving everything a slightly clinical glow that feels both otherworldly and exact.

You move toward the sink in silence, your scrubs already folded neatly into the disposal chute, the ID tag at your chest deactivated now that you're entering sterile space.

Your hands begin their familiar rhythm under the hot water — fingers interlaced, nails scrubbed, wrists turned beneath the flow — the sound of water hitting steel the only thing filling the air between you and him.

Zayne is just to your right, slightly behind, though you see him in the mirrored reflection ahead of you. His movements are measured and precise, like everything he does, from the way he folds his sleeves to the way he ties the back of his mask. His posture is impossibly straight, but not rigid — more like control honed down to a molecular level.

You don’t speak.

You don’t have to.

The silence is no longer unfamiliar.

You finish scrubbing before he does, and as you turn to the glove tray, you reach instinctively for your own — but pause when he steps forward, his presence suddenly closer, quieter, different.

Zayne holds out his hand toward you, fingers slightly spread, palm up, offering his glove to you — not in command, not out of impatience, but with something that feels almost... deliberate.

You blink, caught off guard.

He wants you to glove him.

That’s new.

You hesitate only a second, then take the glove from the tray and begin sliding it over his hand. Your fingers skim the inside of his wrist, feel the slight warmth of his skin through the barrier, and though he doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch or shift, you feel the subtle stillness in him — not tense, not frozen, just waiting.

You glance up, your eyes meeting his, and for a moment, it feels like neither of you are wearing masks at all.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, his voice low and composed, but lacking its usual sharpness, the edge of precision softened into something almost thoughtful.

You nod, unable to stop yourself from holding his gaze a second longer than necessary, then pull away to glove your own hands with slow, focused movements, your breath caught somewhere between control and something far less professional.

The doors to Surgical Theatre 04 open with a gentle hiss, spilling cold, filtered air into the prep bay. You step through first, and he follows without a word.

Inside, the theatre is fully lit, sterile and silent except for the ambient hum of equipment already online. The overhead operating light casts a white halo directly onto the center of the surgical table, where the patient lies under sedation, chest prepped and draped, vitals steady in pulsing green and white on the monitor to the right.

Your boots click softly as you cross to your station, hands poised at the ready, your position closer to him than usual — not by much, but enough for your right shoulder to nearly brush his left whenever either of you leans in.

He doesn’t reposition you.

You take your place and begin the final checks without needing instruction.

The circulating nurse calls status, logs the procedure start time, and begins the countdown. You barely hear her.

Zayne pulls his mask up, adjusts his gloves, and then meets your eyes with a slight tilt of his head.

“You’re assisting directly today,” he says quietly, his voice audible only to you beneath the drone of equipment.

You feel a rush of something low and warm settle in your chest — anticipation, nerves, pride. Maybe all three.

“Yes, Doctor,” you respond, steady.

He turns back toward the table.

You hand him the scalpel.

Your gloved fingers brush his.

He takes it with quiet grace, then leans in.

The first incision is clean, his hand unwavering.

The surgery unfolds in calm precision.

The tension in the room is different than usual — not the tight, brittle focus that often accompanies complex cardiovascular procedures, but something more fluid, more attuned. Every time he requests a tool, your hand is already in motion. Every time the vitals adjust, you’ve already seen it before he does.

And each time your hands pass close or your arms graze lightly, there’s no tension, no recoil.

Only awareness.

At one point, he leans in to examine the bypass entry point more closely, and you adjust your angle to accommodate without thinking. His shoulder touches yours — a light, barely-there pressure — and for the first time, he doesn’t move away.

“Compensated narrowing,” he murmurs, more to you than anyone else. “Do you see it?”

You lean in, eyes scanning the site. “Yes. Stable rhythm holding.”

“Good,” he says, and when he glances sideways, you catch it — the faintest crease at the corner of his eye, visible even above the edge of his mask.

The procedure ends without complication.

The graft is sealed. The incision is closed.

And in that final moment, as the instruments are cleared and the monitors begin their post-op logoff, you both step back, simultaneously, in a perfect mirror of each other’s movement.

You strip off your gloves. He does the same.

You remove your mask, careful and slow.

He turns toward you.

And then, without warning — without force — his hand brushes gently across your upper arm. A passing touch. A small thing.

But it lingers like a fingerprint burned into the air.

“You handled that flawlessly,” he says.

Four words.

Measured. Clear. Soft.

Your throat tightens around the answer you want to give. Your heart is loud in your ears, and your body — trained for stillness — wants to lean closer, just a little.

But he’s already turning.

Already leaving.

His steps retreat into the prep bay, the door closing softly behind him.

And you stay there, in the quiet, bathed in the afterglow of white surgical light, heart pounding in the echo of something you can no longer ignore.

The line between you didn’t blur.

It moved.

And now, you’re standing on the edge of it — and wanting more.

The walk from Surgical Wing 3 to the central cafeteria is longer than it needs to be.

Every footstep feels too loud on the white-polished flooring, each step echoing slightly down the otherwise quiet corridor. The afternoon shift has already begun, which means the halls are sparse — just the occasional nurse passing by with a datapad in hand, or a lab tech deep in a call, none of them paying you any mind.

Which is good.

Because your thoughts are racing.

You’ve stripped out of your surgical scrubs, pulled on your soft-blue undershirt and coat again, but somehow your skin still feels hypersensitive — like it remembers the brush of gloved fingers along your arm more vividly than it should. Like your body hasn’t yet caught up to the fact that the moment has ended. Or maybe it hasn’t.

You handled that flawlessly.

The words had sounded so simple in the OR. Straightforward. Unembellished. But the weight behind them, the way he said it — quietly, deliberately — made it feel less like feedback and more like recognition. The way someone speaks when they’ve been watching you more closely than you realized.

You press your thumb into the corner of your datapad as you walk, using it like a grounding anchor, but it does little to settle the way your stomach keeps knotting and untying itself.

Zayne had touched you.

It was nothing — a simple brush of the arm. Not clinical. Not commanding.

But deliberate.

And that’s what unsettles you most.

Because Zayne doesn’t do anything by accident.

You sit at the corner table by the floor-to-ceiling windows, the quietest part of the cafeteria, away from the soft clatter of trays and the low murmur of conversation that still lingers near the center aisles.

The natural light, filtered through the building’s UV-diffusing glass, casts a cool, sterile wash over the steel-framed furniture and polished concrete floor. Beyond the windows, Akso’s rooftop medical drone pads glint in the gray afternoon haze, veiled behind high-altitude clouds that never quite break.

Your tray sits in front of you with carefully chosen simplicity: one protein-focused meal pack, a ceramic bowl of rehydrated soup—thin and vaguely orange, still steaming slightly—and a hydration vial placed just above the utensils, unopened. The contents of your meal are bland. Standard issue. But your body doesn’t want flavor right now. It wants quiet. It wants something to do with your hands while your mind continues spiraling around everything that happened this morning.

You take a slow spoonful of soup and bring it to your lips, the warmth a temporary distraction. The flavor is muted, barely there, more heat than taste, but you sip it anyway, staring down into the gently swirling broth like it might offer clarity.

It doesn’t.

Your fingers tense slightly around the bowl’s rim. Your shoulders are still drawn tight, your jaw set even though the tension should’ve passed hours ago. But it hasn’t—not since the moment Zayne said “You handled that flawlessly,” and certainly not since the soft, impossible brush of his fingers on your arm as he walked past, unhurried, unaffected, like he hadn’t just upended something inside you with a single, silent gesture.

You hadn't meant to sit alone, but it was the only thing you could think to do—put distance between yourself and the memory of that moment. Breathe. Sort through the rush of emotion threading through your chest like wire: gratitude, confusion, tension, and that quiet pull that had been building between the two of you in ways you’d tried very hard not to name.

You take another bite, slower this time, the spoon pausing halfway to your mouth as your gaze unfocuses. The room hums gently around you—conversations a few tables away, the distant hiss of the food dispenser, the occasional soft squeak of shoes on polished tile—but none of it really reaches you.

You’re somewhere else entirely.

You don’t hear him at first.

Not until the sound of a chair scraping against the floor in front of you breaks through your thoughts—not harshly, not jarring, just enough to pull you back to the present with a low, precise sound that seems impossibly louder than it should be.

You lift your eyes.

And Zayne is standing there.

Tray in hand.

Expression unreadable.

Your body freezes before your mind catches up.

He’s still dressed from earlier—no coat this time, just his crisp, fitted charcoal vest and long-sleeve undershirt, sleeves neatly rolled at the forearms, every line of fabric as pristine as it was this morning. His posture is impeccable, as always, but there’s something in his stillness—some subtle suspension of breath—that tells you he’s waiting.

“Is this seat taken?” he asks.

His voice is lower than usual, quiet in a way that feels intentional—like he’s stepping into your space and trying not to break it.

You stare at him, your heart leaping into your throat. For a moment, you can’t answer.

Then you blink, once, and shake your head slowly. “No. Go ahead.”

Zayne nods, then sets his tray down with measured care—just a hydration vial and a sealed nutrition bar, untouched—and eases himself into the seat across from you. Not stiffly. Not with arrogance. Just... present. Purposeful.

You watch him settle, every movement controlled. He doesn’t immediately unwrap his food. He doesn’t speak again. He simply sits, hands resting lightly on either side of the tray, fingers interlaced, as though content to let the silence speak first.

You glance back down at your soup.

Suddenly, your appetite falters.

You stir the surface of the broth with your spoon, aware of how loud the sound seems now—the faint scrape of metal against ceramic, the slight clink as the edge of your spoon taps the side of the bowl. You bring another mouthful to your lips and sip, slower this time, more conscious of the moment than the food.

Across the table, you can feel him watching you.

Not intrusively.

Not assessing.

Just… watching.

Your hands tremble slightly as you set the spoon down. You fold them together, fingertips pressing lightly against the back of your wrist to steady yourself.

You’re not used to this version of him.

You’re not used to being seen like this by him—unarmored, unguarded, off-shift, soup steaming quietly between you and the man who, until recently, barely acknowledged you unless it was to correct something with clinical detachment.

But now—he’s here.

Just present.

And something inside you stirs with that realization, warm and unsteady.

Zayne shifts slightly in his seat, one elbow resting loosely against the table’s edge as he lifts his hydration vial and unscrews the cap with the same methodical ease he brings to surgery — no wasted movement, no sound beyond the soft click of the seal breaking.

He doesn’t drink from it yet.

Instead, his gaze flicks toward your tray again, eyes narrowing just slightly.

You don’t realize you’ve stopped eating until his voice breaks through the quiet space between you, measured and low, not sharp, but direct.

“You’ve barely touched your food.”

You blink, startled not by the observation itself — he’s always been hyper-aware of his environment — but by the fact that he said it aloud.

You glance down at your tray, then at your hands, one resting on the edge of your bowl, the other idling near your hydration pack, fingers curled against the table. You hadn’t noticed how still you’d gone, how your spoon has been resting in the soup for minutes now, the surface gone still and glossy.

You lift your eyes to meet his.

He isn’t staring.

He’s watching.

There’s a difference.

You shrug once, trying to make the gesture feel casual. “Wasn’t that hungry.”

His brow furrows — just slightly, just enough to crease the skin between his eyebrows — but he doesn’t push.

He’s silent for another breath.

Then, quietly, he sets the hydration vial down again. The soft plastic clinks lightly against the tray.

His hands rest loosely on either side of it, fingers long and still, as though weighing whether to speak again. You expect him to drop the subject — deflect, return to silence, maybe shift back into professional mode and let the moment dissolve between you.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he leans forward slightly.

Barely a tilt.

But enough.

“You haven’t had a full break since pre-op,” he says. “Not during the procedure. Not after.”

It’s not a reprimand. There’s no judgment in his voice. If anything, it sounds like something closer to concern — but filtered through the only lens Zayne allows himself to speak from: observation, fact, precision.

You lower your gaze to your bowl again, then lift your spoon with a quiet sigh and take another small bite — more for his sake than yours.

The soup is lukewarm now.

Still bland.

Still forgettable.

But you swallow it, and when you glance up, you catch the faintest shift in his expression — something soft at the edges, as if the act of you eating, however reluctantly, has eased a knot in his chest that he hadn’t realized was there.

You tilt your head slightly, watching him with quiet curiosity. “Are you keeping tabs on me now?”

The words aren’t accusatory. There’s no heat in them — just a quiet teasing edge, barely audible beneath your fatigue.

Zayne’s gaze flicks up to meet yours again, and for the first time in this conversation, his eyes don’t feel unreadable. They feel intentional.

“I observe everything in my environment,” he says.

“But not everyone,” you reply.

There’s a pause — full, stretching — and then he does something you’ve never seen him do so openly:

He exhales. Slowly.

Not out of frustration.

Not out of impatience.

But release.

And when he speaks again, his voice is softer still.

“I notice when people push themselves past the point of usefulness,” he says. “When they forget they’re human first.”

You don’t have a response to that.

Not right away.

Because there’s something about the way he says forget they’re human that sticks to your ribs. Something that feels less like a statement and more like a quiet confession — like he’s not just talking about you.

You study him carefully now — the faint shadow beneath his eyes, the way his collar sits perfectly pressed against the curve of his throat, the line of tension that still coils in his shoulders even now, even here, in a moment that’s supposed to be restful.

He never rests.

Neither do you.

And maybe that’s what this is.

Maybe that’s why he’s here.

“I’m eating,” you say at last, voice low, half a breath above a whisper. “See?”

You take another spoonful, slower this time.

He watches you eat it.

Not with skepticism.

Not with scrutiny.

Just... watching.

And when you glance up again, you see something unspoken settle into his expression — not approval.

But ease.

Relief.

He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t shift his tone.

But something in him relaxes.

And for the next few minutes, neither of you speak.

You eat in quiet intervals.

He drinks his hydration vial.

And the space between you — this fragile, tentative thing — begins to stretch open, just enough to hold something neither of you are ready to name.

The hallway stretches ahead of you in cold symmetry — long, white-paneled walls interrupted by glass doorways and mounted vitals screens, each one flickering with pale green and orange readouts. Nurses cross in measured steps, carts hum as they pass, and the air smells faintly of antiseptic, recycled air, and the trace of fresh gauze.

You move through the space with your arms full — seven patient files in total, three datapads, and two hard-copy charts that required a physical signature, all stacked against your chest with surgical gloves tucked between pages, and a capped marker balanced precariously on your thumb. The edge of one clipboard digs lightly into your forearm. The datapads are beginning to slip. One tilt, one wrong step, and the whole stack is going down.

You should’ve made two trips.

But you didn’t.

And now, as your shoulder bumps lightly into the corner of a console and the top datapad slides half an inch, you bite down a soft curse and try to adjust your grip without losing everything.

Your steps slow as you approach the central junction — a bright, open space between wings where staff tend to cross paths. The lighting overhead shifts here, warmer in tone but harsher in intensity. The ceiling is higher. The footsteps louder.

You round the corner.

And stop.

Because he’s there.

Zayne.

Standing with one hand tucked loosely into the pocket of his white coat, the other wrapped around a closed folder, spine straight, posture as exacting as ever. He’s speaking to another physician — someone you don’t recognize — and his tone is low, focused, his head tilted slightly as he listens.

He hasn’t seen you.

Not yet.

You debate turning back. Just for a moment.

Then the datapad on top slides again, and you snap your arm upward to stop it. Your pen clatters to the floor.

The sound echoes more than you expect.

Zayne’s head turns.

And his eyes land on you.

You freeze, one foot forward, the files braced awkwardly against your ribs.

There’s a pause — not long, just the length of a single breath — and then, without breaking rhythm, he finishes whatever sentence he was in the middle of, closes the file in his hand, and steps away from the conversation.

He walks toward you with that same precise cadence — calm, unhurried, but direct — the way he walks toward an operating table. Like he knows exactly what he’s going to do when he gets there.

You straighten instinctively, arms tightening around the stack, not sure what to expect. You’ve worked with him long enough to know he notices everything, but you’re not prepared for what happens next.

He stops in front of you.

His eyes flick down to the overloaded files.

Then, without a word, he reaches out.

One hand slides under the stack, fingers brushing yours only briefly — a whisper of contact, warm through your glove — as he lifts half the files from your grip and settles them against his own chest, perfectly aligned.

You blink.

Your fingers curl tighter around what’s left, heart skipping a beat not from the weight you’ve lost, but from the weight of the moment.

He doesn’t meet your eyes right away.

Instead, he adjusts the edge of a slipping datapad with his thumb, his face unreadable as always. Then his gaze lifts — sharp, pale, and steady.

“You were going to drop them,” he says, as if this explains everything.

Your mouth opens, then closes again.

You’re aware, suddenly, of the eyes on you — two nurses lingering near the supply cabinet, one technician pretending to review a vitals chart a few feet away, all of them caught in that rare phenomenon:

Zayne Li, helping someone.

Not ordering or correcting. Just helping.

You force yourself to speak, even though your throat is dry.

“I had it,” you say, quieter than you mean to.

He raises one eyebrow, faintly — not in mockery, not even in doubt. Just a flicker of expression. The most subtle I don’t think so you’ve ever seen written across someone’s face.

“You had too much,” he replies simply.

And with that, he turns.

Begins walking toward the central station.

Your feet move to follow before your brain catches up.

You trail beside him, heart pounding, fingers still tingling faintly where they’d brushed his. Your thoughts are racing — trying to make sense of what just happened — while behind you, the whispers begin.

You pretend not to hear.

At the main terminal, he sets the files down gently, aligns them with the edge of the station. He doesn’t linger and doesn’t speak again.

But as he straightens, his hand brushes the edge of the chart — yours — and with a subtle motion, he pushes it slightly closer to you.

Your eyes flick to his.

And he’s already looking at you.

Something that says: I saw you struggling. I stepped in. And I don’t want you to say thank you.

You don’t.

But your chest feels full.

You nod once, silent.

And he turns, disappearing back down the corridor without another word.

But this time, you don’t need one.

Because he spoke clearly enough without saying anything at all.

You’re walking down Corridor 7B in the recovery wing, the overhead lights casting long diagonal shadows across the clean floor tiles — a cool gray intercut by slow-moving vitals monitors rolling past. Outside the sealed patient doors, quiet beeping pulses in steady time, each one another heartbeat of someone just barely held together.

But your mind is somewhere else.

It’s still with him.

Zayne.

Three days have passed since he took the files from your arms without ceremony, walked beside you like it was nothing, and handed off half your load without saying anything more than “You had too much.”

And maybe he meant the charts.

Maybe he didn’t.

You’d thought about it more than you wanted to. You hadn’t mentioned it to anyone — not when a junior nurse asked what he said, not when you caught him glancing at your chart during rounds, and definitely not when you caught yourselfwaiting for it to happen again. For something to break the glass of how things used to be.

But it didn’t.

Not exactly.

Instead, it just kept happening in smaller, quieter ways.

The way his eyes would flick toward you first in the briefing room, even if he was addressing the group. The way his posture relaxed just slightly when you entered the same space. The way he stood a fraction of a step closer than before — not close enough for anyone else to name it. But enough for you to feel it.

It was a shift.

And like all things with Zayne, it was precise, quiet, and intentional.

Now, as you step into the surgical wing, your gloves snap into place with a soft, satisfying stretch. The prep nurse hands you your mask, and you pull it up as you push through the double doors of Surgical Theatre 05, the room already prepped and sterile under the white flood of focused overhead light.

The theatre is cold, as it always is — a sterile kind of cold that sinks into your arms, your collarbone, your breath. The table in the center gleams beneath the surgical lamp, already set for the vascular repair ahead. Vitals monitors to your left scroll patient data across translucent screens, glowing faintly blue and green. The faint scent of antiseptic and powdered latex clings to the air, sharp and familiar.

He’s already there.

Standing at the head of the table, reviewing the patient’s history on a suspended holodisplay, the text casting pale light across the sharp lines of his jaw. His mask is still tucked beneath his chin, gloves already on, eyes scanning the data with the same ruthless focus that’s made him infamous across three wings.

You step up to your station, opposite him.

He doesn’t look at you right away.

But you know he knows you’re there.

You feel it in the subtle pause in his hand.

The quiet shift in his stance.

The change in the air.

You adjust the tray beside you, fingers curling briefly around the surgical scissors, your breath steady, your pulse not.

You’re supposed to focus.

But all you can think about is that moment in the hallway. His hand brushing yours. The silence that followed. The way he didn’t explain it — because he didn’t have to.

And then the door slides shut behind you.

The nurse calls time.

And the procedure begins.

Zayne stood calm and composed as always, his surgical gown crisp, his sleeves rolled to his forearms, his gloves fitted perfectly—but you felt his attention on you, steady and unrelenting, even when he wasn’t looking directly.

The procedure was clean and efficient, every movement practiced, but there were moments—subtle, unmistakable—where his arm brushed yours and didn’t pull away, where your hands passed a tool and lingered a fraction too long, where his voice dropped slightly when he said your name, low and deliberate, like it wasn’t just a cue but a tether.

And when the final suture was placed and he peeled off his gloves with that same fluid control, he looked at you—not a glance, not a scan, but a look that held for half a second longer than it should have, enough to make your heart stutter in your chest and your breath catch behind your mask.

He left the room without another word, and you let yourself exhale only once the door slid shut behind him.

The silence didn’t last.

Kira, one of the surgical nurses, leaned in under the hum of the post-op sterilizers, her voice pitched low, but not low enough to feel casual. “Okay, I have to ask,” she said, not looking at you as she wiped down the tray.

You didn’t stop moving, but your pulse ticked upward.

“Ask what?” you said, too flat.

She glanced sideways. “Does Zayne like you or something?”

The words dropped like a scalpel onto your chest—sharp, clean, surgical. Your hands slowed on instinct, your fingers tightening slightly around the metal edge of the tray.

“What? No,” you said, too fast, too soft.

She gave a low laugh, not mocking, just incredulous. “He doesn’t even make eye contact with most people, but with you? He’s practically magnetic.”

You tried to scoff, to redirect your focus, but the heat was already creeping up your neck beneath your collar, because you’d been thinking the same thing every night since that first quiet brush of his hand on yours.

You turned back to the counter, stripping off your gloves and rinsing your hands under cool, sterile water, watching the way your reflection shifted in the steel panel above the sink—how your own eyes betrayed you, wide and uncertain, remembering every look, every almost-touch, every moment he stood beside you without saying anything but somehow saying everything.

Kira joined you, her tone softening. “He looks at you like you’re not just another nurse on rotation. And I’ve worked with him long enough to know that’s not how he treats anyone.”

You didn’t answer right away. You couldn’t. Because everything she said echoed what you’d been avoiding, pressed tight against the inside of your chest.

You whispered, “I don’t know what it is,” but the words felt like a lie the second they left your mouth.

Because whatever was happening between you and Zayne—it was quiet, yes, and subtle, always—but it was real, and it was changing everything, whether you were ready to name it or not.

taglist: @destinysrequiem @sylusgirlie7 @lalaluch @januke

[juliettejwnewinesa]

Here me out doing the lipstick trend with whc1&2 boys 😏

💋 Na Baekjin He’s on his way to some shady business meetup, clean suit, ice-cold expression—until he glances at a window and sees a bold lipstick mark on his neck.

“…” Instant jaw clench. He dials you. “You think this is funny?” But there’s a pause. A long one. Then, quietly: “Next time, do both sides. Let them know I’m owned.” Doesn’t wipe it. Intimidating + marked = unstoppable combo.

💋 Si-eun He’s walking into a seminar. Sees a faint coral smudge on the corner of his jaw in a glass panel. Immediate panic.

“Oh my god.” Rubs it with his sleeve. Fails. Rummages for tissue. Fails harder. Texts you: “You did that on purpose, didn’t you…?” You send a 🫶. He exhales, defeated. Later: “Next time, aim lower. I’ll pretend I didn’t notice.”

💋 Ahn Suho Grabs coffee. Notices the barista avoiding eye contact. Sees a red stain just below his throat in the chrome counter.

“…oh” His ears flush red. But his expression doesn’t change. He sends you a photo of it. No caption. Just silence. Then: “Wait at home. Don’t change.” When he walks through the door, he pulls his hoodie off— “Your turn.”

💋 Seongjae At the club with friends, full swagger. Until someone points and laughs:

“Hyung, your girlfriend gave you her signature, huh~” Lip print on his collarbone. Glowing under neon. “You little…” Looks like he wants to scold you. Doesn’t. In fact, he adjusts his shirt so more skin shows. “If I’m yours, show ‘em properly.”

💋 Juntae He’s in line at a quiet bookstore when he sees it in his phone screen— a soft pink kiss mark on his cheek.

“Ah… what do I do…” Rubs at it. Makes it worse. You get a shaky selfie with: “I’m doomed.” You reply: “You’re cute.” He keeps blushing the whole day. Doesn’t delete the photo.

💋 Humin In the middle of basketball practice, someone says:

“Yo, who bit your neck?” He runs to the mirror. Crimson lip mark right at the base of his neck. “She really did that before practice?” Rolls his eyes, but doesn’t wipe it. Even pulls his collar down more.

💋 Hyuntak/Gotak Running errands, totally unaware. Until an old lady gives him a look. He checks his reflection. A faint kiss just under his ear.

“What the.” Rubs it. Doesn’t come off. Mutters under his breath: “You’re lucky I like you.” Later, pins you to the counter and whispers: “Next time? Lower. Bare skin only.”

💋 Beomseok At school, standing around like the loner he is. Until he sees a bright lipstick stain on his throat in the vending machine’s reflection. He freezes. Then slowly… smiles.

“Good. Let’s see who dares to touch me now.” He doesn’t wipe it. Doesn’t speak of it. But that night, he grabs you hard and murmurs: “You should’ve left more.”

[pinkpurplesunrises]

Heartbeat in Two - the short story - Alexia Putellas x Reader - mentions of heart attack /  implantable cardioverter-defibrillator - read with care

Hospitals had a certain smell. Bleached. Cold. Hollow.

Like the building itself was trying to erase whatever had happened inside it. You'd gotten used to it the way someone gets used to waking up at 3 a.m. Begrudgingly, never quite at peace. Familiarity didn’t soften it. It just made the weight more expected.

You were 27. That was still young, right?

But sometimes you felt like you were made of glass. A careful structure of routines, pills, follow-up appointments and numbers on monitors.

Your heart had been failing you since the day it attacked itself. Six years ago. A heart attack at 21 had left you with a scar that ran deeper than anything medical reports could capture. It had changed you. It had taken things. Not everything. But enough to make the world feel like a little less of a promise and more like a wager.

That implantable cardioverter-defibrillator, embedded just below your collarbone, was both savior and prison. A silent guardian, waiting to jolt your body back when it forgot how to live.

Football had been your life once.

Not as a pro. No, you weren’t born for the spotlight. But you loved the game with a kind of ferocity that didn’t need cheering crowds to validate it. You played with fire in your veins and joy in your muscles. Until that six-minute blackout. Six minutes of nothingness. When you woke up, football had become something you watched from the sidelines.

So you adapted. You worked behind the scenes. Athletic trainer, sometimes physio. Invisible but vital. It let you touch the game without letting it crush you. Most days that was enough.

But then came that night.

2:17 a.m. on a Thursday. You remembered the exact time because the fluorescent clock above the emergency reception desk hadn’t moved in what felt like hours. You were curled on the edge of a stiff waiting room chair. Hoodie zipped up to your neck. Hands curled around a bottle of water that had long since gone lukewarm.

You’d been there since 9 p.m. Your heart had skipped three times in one hour, followed by a fainting spell. They’d done all the tests and told you to sit tight 'just in case.' You knew the drill. The long wait. The dull ache of dread you’d gotten used to pretending you didn’t feel.

The vending machine had eaten your coins. Refusing to release the sad packet of pretzels you hadn’t even really wanted. Your water bottle was empty. And you suddenly felt the hot sting of tears that had nothing to do with thirst or snacks. You were just tired. Tired of your body. Tired of trying to feel normal when you were anything but.

Then you noticed her.

She was sitting three chairs down. Still. Quiet. Hoodie drawn up, like she was trying to disappear into it. Her arms were folded tight across her chest, but her fingers kept moving. An anxious rhythm. Tapping against her sleeve. No makeup. No entourage. Just a woman alone in the sterile glow of the waiting room lights.

You didn’t recognize her at first. Her head was down. Her features shadowed. But there was something about her stillness, the quiet way she held her fear, that made you look again.

She must’ve noticed you staring, because her gaze lifted. And your breath caught.

Alexia Putellas.

Even without the braids, without the kit, you knew that face. You’d seen it lit up on stadium screens. Splashed across headlines. Etched into the dreams of little girls with cleats and big hopes. But here, stripped of all that glory, she looked… breakable.

Her eyes, red-rimmed. Her jaw clenched so tightly you could see the muscle twitch.

Still, she spoke first.

“You okay?” she asked softly.

You blinked. Startled out of your daze. Of all things she could’ve said.

“Does anyone ever answer yes to that here?” you replied, voice flat but not unkind.

A flicker passed through her expression. Half a smile. Half something else. Solidarity, maybe. Or the briefest moment of recognition that pain was its own language.

“I guess not,” she murmured.

You didn’t say anything after that. But you didn’t look away either.

She shifted slightly, moved one seat closer without fanfare or explanation. Her thigh nearly brushed yours.

She didn’t ask for space. You didn’t offer it.

The silence stretched. Not uncomfortable. Just dense with things neither of you were ready to say. In that moment, it felt like two worlds had quietly collided in the middle of all that clinical stillness.

You didn’t know what she was waiting for. And she didn’t know what you were running from. But for now... for a brief flickering moment... neither of you were entirely alone.

And maybe that was enough.

It had been a week since the hospital.

You hadn’t expected to see her again. That kind of moment. Shared grief. Late-night silence. It was usually a one-time thing. A flicker of connection that disappears as soon as the fluorescent lights stop humming. You had filed it away, like you did with so many things. Tender. Unexpected. And ultimately unfinished.

But a week later, there she was.

You’d just come off a long morning session. Players recovering from minor injuries. A new rehab schedule to tweak. Your third coffee rapidly losing its ability to keep you upright. You were in the rehab wing, tucked into a shadowy corridor near the stretching mats. Checking your notes on a clipboard you didn’t even need to carry anymore. A nervous habit. Like pretending to look busy would protect you from something.

You heard footsteps first. Slow, measured. Then a voice behind you.

“You work here?”

You turned, startled. She stood there like she’d always belonged in the frame. Hands in the pockets of a dark coat. Hair loose around her shoulders. Face open in that quiet, observing way she had.

“Mostly,” you said, recovering. “Sometimes I pretend I don’t so I can steal the physio’s coffee.”

That pulled a real smile from her. Wide. Soft. You saw it touch her eyes this time.

“Well,” she said, stepping closer, “I won’t tell.”

She didn’t explain why she was there. You didn’t ask. It didn’t matter. She leaned against the wall beside you, and for a moment, it was just… comfortable.

Familiar, somehow.

After that, something unspoken shifted.

She texted you two days later. How she got your number? You have no idea.

You still pretending not to work there?

You smiled at the message longer than you probably should have.

Only when the coffee’s good. Why, you planning a heist?

Maybe. But only if you’re my accomplice.

And that was how it started.

It wasn’t dramatic. No thunderbolt. Just slow, soft unfolding.

Texts. Then coffees.

She liked her espresso short and bitter. You liked yours drowned in milk and cinnamon.

She teased you for it. You told her she was a caffeine purist with no soul.

Coffees turned into walks. Parks mostly. Empty streets on rainy afternoons. Once, a bookstore where you spent more time reading the backs of covers to each other than actually buying anything. She never tried to be impressive. Just present. Attentive. Like you were a page she wanted to read slowly, without skipping ahead.

Walks turned into dinners. Casual at first. Pizza at a tucked-away place neither of you had tried. Then a Vietnamese place where she accidentally ordered something too spicy and tried to play it cool while drinking two full glasses of water in under a minute. You laughed so hard you almost choked.

Sometimes the conversations went deep. Family. Career. The things that haunt you late at night.

Other times, they were surface-level. Films. Bad reality TV. Her hatred of olives. You learned she hated the feeling of socks on wet tiles. That she used to cry over losses even when no one else did. That she read poetry sometimes but never admitted it out loud.

But then came the silences.

The dinners that turned into walks back to your flat door. The pauses that lingered in the air like the last note of a song.

Not awkward. Just full.

Like two people carrying too much but not ready to name it yet.

And still, you didn’t tell her about your heart.

You told yourself it wasn’t time. You told yourself she didn’t need to know. But deep down, you knew the truth. You were afraid.

You were afraid of the way people changed when they found out.

You’d seen it before. The hesitation. The softening. The pity that clung to their words like static.

How do I love someone whose body might betray them at any moment?

How do I plan a life with someone who might not make it that far?

So you stayed silent. Not out of dishonesty, but defense.

You didn’t want her to flinch.

But what you hadn’t expected... what disarmed you completely... was how she never asked you to explain yourself. Not once. Even when you turned quiet. Even when you pulled away just slightly on days you felt fragile. She never prodded. Never tried to fix you. Never pushed for a version of you she imagined.

Alexia never seemed afraid of the deep things. She just treated them like sacred ground. Walked around them with the reverence of someone who knew what it meant to be hurt and to keep going anyway.

Sometimes, you caught her watching you when you weren’t speaking. Not with curiosity, but… understanding. Like she sensed you were holding something. But she trusted that you’d offer it when you were ready.

You were beginning to think she might stay.

And that terrified you more than anything.

Because what if she saw the whole truth and decided it was too much?

But even as the fear gnawed at you, a thought kept echoing in the back of your mind, small but persistent.

What if she doesn’t leave?

What if we don’t pretend?

Not to be fearless.

Not to be perfect.

Just to be here. Honest. Unhidden.

Two people with scars.

Two people with something unspoken growing slowly between them.

And for the first time in years, your heart did something strange.

Not skip. Not stutter. Not ache.

But swell.

Like it wanted to try again.

It happened during preseason.

The kind of day that seemed harmless on the surface. No heavy drills. No sprints. Just movement assessments and light conditioning. The air buzzed with early-season chatter. The crisp sound of cleats against turf. The low thud of medicine balls hitting mats. You’d run this exact session a dozen times. Maybe more. Muscle memory.

But the sun was cruel that day. An unrelenting heat pressed down over the pitch like a second skin. Thick and punishing. You weren’t even playing. Just guiding the drills. Correcting posture. Offering water breaks. But you’d skipped lunch. Just coffee and adrenaline. You told yourself you’d eat after. That you were fine.

You always told yourself that.

And maybe part of you wanted to believe you could live like the others. Like your body wasn’t always ticking on borrowed time. Like you weren’t a heartbeat away from a blackout.

You ignored the warnings. The low hum in your ears. The slight dizziness when you turned too fast. You smiled through it. Gave instructions. Clapped encouragement.

You forgot.

And your body reminded you.

It was instant.

A white-out behind your eyes. Knees buckling before you could register the fall. The pitch tilted sideways. The edges of the world curling in, and then... darkness.

Like a curtain pulled closed.

When you woke, it was violent.

A gasp, like being ripped out of water. Your chest seizing. Your vision scrambled and your limbs shaking. Nerves twitching like puppet strings.

You couldn’t hear anything at first.

Just static.

Your whole body felt like it had been struck by lightning... because, in a way... it had.

The defibrillator had done its job. Again.

You blinked hard, trying to make sense of shapes and colors around you. Hands on your face. Warm. Familiar.

Then your eyes found hers.

Alexia.

Her face hovered above yours. Hair falling forward in a messy curtain. Her mouth was moving, but you couldn’t hear the words yet. You saw panic, raw and unfiltered, etched into her features. Her eyes wide and red. Tears streaking down her cheeks. Her chest rising and falling like she couldn’t breathe right.

And then, finally, her voice broke through.

“... you’re okay, you’re okay, just stay with me... please...”

You wanted to speak. To tell her it was fine. To tell her this wasn’t new. That you’d come back before. But your mouth wouldn’t cooperate.

So you stared at her. At the way she clutched your face like it was the only thing keeping her tethered. At the way she looked more scared than you felt.

You were used to this.

But she wasn’t.

You passed out again in the ambulance.

When you woke again, the light was softer. Dimmed. The steady beeping of monitors beside you was oddly comforting. Like an old, annoying friend keeping you company.

You were in a hospital bed. Wrapped in layers of white and the smell of antiseptic. Your chest ached, sore from the defibrillator's shock. There was a dull pressure in your skull and a needle taped to the back of your hand. But you were alive.

And she was there.

Alexia. Curled in the plastic chair next to your bed like she belonged there. Her hoodie wrinkled. Legs pulled up beneath her. Hair a mess. She looked like she hadn’t slept.

When your eyes fluttered open, she moved instantly. Sat up, eyes searching yours like she was afraid they'd disappear again.

“You’re back,” she breathed, relief rushing through her voice.

“I… didn’t mean to scare you,” you said, your voice rasping. Dry. “This… happens sometimes.”

She didn’t say anything right away. Just looked at you. Her jaw clenched like she was holding something in. Something sharp and aching.

You forced yourself to meet her gaze.

“I should’ve told you,” you whispered. The words felt like lead. “About my heart. The defibrillator. All of it.”

There was a beat of silence. The kind that seemed to stretch across lifetimes.

Then she shook her head. Eyes shining.

“I would’ve stayed anyway,” she whispered back.

Her hand found yours. Fingers trembling, but steady when they wrapped around yours. She didn’t look away.

“You scared the hell out of me,” she added, her voice breaking at the edges. “But I’m still here.”

You blinked hard against the tears that threatened to come.

“I’m not used to people staying.”

“Well,” she said, a ghost of a smile at the corner of her mouth, “get used to it.”

And in that moment, something cracked open between you. Quietly, without fanfare. No grand declarations. Just a promise, passed between fingers and heartbeats, in the silence of a hospital room.

That no matter how fragile your body felt, no matter how much fear tried to claw its way in…

You weren’t alone anymore.

[luvst4rc0r3]

Loser!Jinx x Reader Headcanons

Jinx wasn’t just a loser—she was the loser. The kind who sat in the back of the class doodling in her notebook instead of taking notes, who always had a random bruise from doing something stupid, and who somehow had a negative GPA but could explain the entire plot of an obscure 90s anime no one had ever heard of.

She wasn’t exactly hated at school, but she was weird, loud, and unpredictable, which made people avoid her. Except for Vi, who was always yelling at her to “Get your shit together, Powder,” and Sevika, who only tolerated her because Vi forced her to.

Then there was you.

The first time Jinx saw you, she short-circuited. She was just trying to make it through another miserable day of Algebra when you walked into the classroom, and suddenly, math didn’t exist anymore. All she could think was:

“Oh no.”

You were effortlessly cool—new to school, good at everything Jinx wasn’t, and way out of her league. But you were nice. Too nice. The kind of nice that made Jinx go home and kick her feet while screaming into her pillow because why would you ever talk to her unless you were planning to ruin her life?

- The first time you talk to her, it’s because you sit next to her in Algebra.

You: “Hey, do you have a pencil?”

Jinx, panicking: “Wh—uh—I—yeah—no—I mean—” (frantically digs through her backpack, pulls out a crayon).

You: “…Thanks?”

Jinx: “Yeah! Totally! I only use crayons, actually. Pencils are a government conspiracy.”

You: “Oh? Tell me more.”

She thinks you’re messing with her. But you don’t laugh. You actually listen. And when she rants about whatever nonsense is currently living rent-free in her head, you just nod along like she’s making sense.

She falls in love immediately.

- Jinx is the type of loser who spends all her time online, plays obscure indie games, and has a concerning amount of conspiracy theories about random things (like why the school vending machine is always out of strawberry soda).

- She is hopelessly, painfully, pathetically in love with you. Like, full-blown kicking her feet and giggling into her pillow kind of crush. She doesn’t even try to be normal about it.

- If you so much as glance in her direction, her brain short-circuits. Immediate blue screen of death. Malfunctioning Jinx noises.

- She swears she’s being subtle, but the entire school knows she’s down horrendously bad for you. Like, it’s embarrassing. Vi has tried to stage an intervention. Sevika has bet money on how long it’ll take before she faints in front of you.

- If you actually talk to her? Oh, she’s done for. Stammering, tripping over her words, probably dropping whatever she’s holding. You could ask her the simplest question, and she’d be like:

You: “Hey, do you have a pencil?”

Jinx, sweating bullets: “Uh—uh—uh—uh—I—pen—yes—no—I mean—I do? Maybe? What’s a pencil?”

- She definitely stalks your social media. She has your entire posting schedule memorized, knows all your interests, and tries to bring them up in conversation to impress you—but it just makes her sound insane.

Jinx: “Soooo… I heard you like frogs.”

You: “What?”

Jinx: “Uh. Frogs. Y’know. Ribbit.”

- If you compliment her, even as a joke, she will take it to her grave. Like, you could say, “Hey, cool jacket,” and she’ll wear that same jacket every day for a month straight.

- One time you called her cute. She has not recovered.

- She tries to act cool around you, but she’s the type of loser who fumbles everything. Drops her phone. Walks into doors. Trips over air. It’s a miracle she hasn’t spontaneously combusted yet.

- If you so much as smile at her, she’s writing about it in her diary like it’s the most life-changing event to ever happen.

“FEBRUARY 8TH, 2025. 3:47 PM. Y/N SMILED AT ME. I CAN DIE HAPPY NOW.”

or

“February 8th, 2025. 3:47 PM. Y/N TOUCHED MY ARM. I CAN NEVER WASH IT AGAIN.”

- Jinx, in her head, planning out all the ways she could confess to you: Writing you a love letter? Making a mixtape? A grand, romantic gesture?

- Jinx, in reality: “I like your face.”

- If you start liking her back? Oh, she’s doomed. Malfunctioning. Exploding. Game over.

People still don’t understand how you two work, but at this point, it doesn’t even matter. You and Jinx are in your own little world, and honestly? It’s kind of perfect.

- You keep hanging out with her. At first, just in class, but then at lunch, after school, texting late at night. She stops feeling like a loser when she’s with you. She starts hoping.

- The first time you realize you like her back, it’s because of something dumb.

You’re at lunch, sitting with her, Vi, and Sevika. Jinx, being a disaster, spills her drink all over herself. Instead of being embarrassed, she just goes, “Guess I’m drinking it the hard way.”

And something about the way she owns her weirdness makes your heart do a stupid little flip.

- The first time you flirt with her, she malfunctions.

- The first time she realizes you like her back, it breaks her brain.

It happens after school. You’re both walking home together when you grab her hand, lacing your fingers through hers like it’s nothing.

She nearly trips over her own feet. You just laugh and squeeze her hand tighter.

Oh no, she thinks. Oh no, oh no, oh no.

She’s never going to recover from this.

(She doesn’t want to.)

Random Cute Couple Things:

- Jinx is the kind of girlfriend who will 100% steal your clothes.

Not just hoodies—everything. She once showed up wearing your jacket, your socks, and your backpack, and when you pointed it out, she just went, “Yeah, and?”

The worst part? She looks stupidly cute in your clothes, so you can’t even be mad.

(You started “accidentally” leaving extra hoodies at her place just so she’d always have one of yours to wear.)

- She gets insanely clingy when she’s sleepy.

Jinx isn’t really a cuddler during the day—she’s always bouncing off the walls, getting into trouble, dragging you into her weird ideas. But the second she gets tired?

Good luck getting up.

She’ll wrap herself around you like a human koala, mumbling something about how “you’re warm and smell good” and refusing to let go.

(You’ve accepted your fate. You live here now.)

- She makes the dumbest bets just to get kisses.

• “Bet you can’t solve this riddle. If you lose, I get a kiss.

• “If I make this paper ball into the trash can, you have to kiss me.”

• “Okay, rock-paper-scissors, best out of three—winner gets a kiss.”

You caught on pretty quickly and just started kissing her before she could suggest a bet. It completely breaks her brain every time.

(She still tries, though.)

- She doodles all over your stuff.

If you lend Jinx a pen, it’s over—your notebooks, your arms, even your homework will be covered in little scribbles.

Sometimes they’re just random sketches. Other times, you’ll find little hearts with your name inside them.

(She denies drawing them. But the blush on her face says otherwise.)

- She absolutely loves when you play with her hair.

She pretends she doesn’t care at first—shrugs it off, acts like it’s whatever. But the second you start running your fingers through her hair, she literally melts.

(If you braid it, she’ll leave it in all day, even if it looks ridiculous.)

- She’s always touching you.

• Holding your hand? Obviously.

• Leaning against you when you’re sitting together? Yup.

• Linking pinkies just because she can? Of course.

It’s like she needs to be physically connected to you at all times.

(If you ever pull away too soon, she’ll dramatically gasp and go, “What, you don’t love me anymore?!”)

- She makes up the dumbest excuses just to hang out with you.

“Babe, I need your help with something.”

“What is it?”

“I dunno, I just wanted to see you.”

And honestly? You wouldn’t have it any other way.

I love Jinx

I want sleep

[skmhlml]

😁 please make Jacob Alden Lurking for love

🩸 Jacob Alden x Reader — General/SFW Headcanons 🩸

📷 Jacob first notices you through the camera lenses, of course— watching silently, his eyes glued to the screen whenever you appear.

📷 He’s fascinated by how real you seem compared to the people around him. You’re different. Genuine. He watches for subtle expressions, changes in tone— studying you like an intricate piece of art.

📷 At first, he rationalizes his obsession: he’s ‘just monitoring for security.’ But soon, he memorizes your schedule, your habits, your laughs. He smiles when you smile— completely alone in the dark

📷 If you ever stop by the security office, he becomes twitchy— trying to appear normal while his heart pounds like a jackhammer.

📷 He’s extremely neat, in an uncanny way— everything in its perfect place. He notices if you touch or move anything, and he doesn’t mind, he treasures it.

📷 He leaves small things for you to find: your favorite snacks in the vending machine, sticky notes with little encouraging messages typed neatly and unsigned— all ‘coincidences.’

📷 Jacob genuinely believes he understands you better than anyone else— even better than you know yourself.

📷 He can be incredibly gentle, soft-spoken, and respectful on the surface. But his emotional investment runs disturbingly deep.

📷 You might feel his stare before you see it. He always seems to know where you are.

📷 If you get upset or cry, he becomes eerily calm— laser-focused on what upset you so he can eliminate it. Whether that means comforting you or getting rid of the person who hurt you…well.

📷 He’s the type to remember tiny details you mentioned only once— what flowers you like, how you take your coffee, the way you hate loud noises.

📷 Jacob watches you sleep through grainy camera footage. not always, just when he’s feeling lonely. Which is often.

📷 He keeps a private, offline folder of footage you appear in your smiles, your sighs, your quiet moments. He watches them like comfort tapes.

📷 You might receive anonymous letters written with eerie precision, containing details no one else should know. He thinks it’s romantic— you’ll see it that way soon.

📷 He fantasizes about you needing him. About you falling apart and him being the only one there. Not maliciously, but with the desperation of someone who has no concept of boundaries.

📷 Jacob isn’t overtly manipulative— he doesn’t lie or gaslight, not exactly. But he plants ideas. Gentle nudges: “That friend of yours seemed dismissive,” or “I don’t think they care like you do.”

📷 He likes to isolate you emotionally — not because he hates others, but because he genuinely believes they don’t deserve you.

[sakumz]

a/n : BRO I LOVE THIS SERIES SO MUCH I can't wait for hero x to get more screen time!! he's kinda ooc here ig

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[ hero X x reader ]

____________________________________________

your desk was planted next to x, no one including you knew he was the number 1 hero, he too has no idea of the previous number 1 hero being you. the previous rose to the top and then dipped after a month of holding the title, they even disappeared without a trace, everyone assumed they died.

" wow what a record! you missed the meeting but here, I took notes for you, " you hand him the papers as you got up with your cup of coffee.

" y/n is so cool, she even covered your butt earlier when boss was mad at you, " hearing his co-worker comment, he can't help the small smile tugging on his lips.

" hey I'm going for a walk, wanna come? " x obeys, catching up to you as you hold the door. he had the urge to snap his fingers at the camera but to his surprise, the ground beneath you was pooling with black, slowly creeping up the walls and then reaching for the camera, showing black on the screen of whoever checks the camera.

" don't be scared, " you look over him. a gentle smile present on your lips.

" I'm not that strong anymore, " you step out first with him following behind.

the walk was quiet, you both stumble upon a vending machine, watching as his eyes sparkle at the familiar drink, he offers to buy you one as well. you accept, dragging him along to a nearby bench to drink and relax.

" what are your thoughts on hero x? " he asks as he stares ahead.

" he's cool, though I do wish he'll save me, would be nice to see his pretty face up close, " his ears burns slightly at your words.

" you've got some power there earlier, were you a hero? " hearing the sounds of trash cans colliding and the sound of a young girl shouting, you got up immediately.

not so far from the bench you and x were sitting on, there was an alleyway. you know better to mind your own business but seeing how his question just had to be a coincidence to this incident, you just had to show off. he follows behind you, you step forward, touching the brick wall, black seeps from your fingers to the walls, growing bigger and further to the perpetrator. the black summon, touches his shadow, engulfing the man and then a void was summoned, sucking the man in and almost anything around it. the girl ran forward as you quickly closed the void the moment the perpetrator was in. your powers disappeared when you lift your finger from the brick wall, the kid you saved ran next to you, catching her breath from the run.

" you did well, kiddo! " you crouched down, patting her head as she looks at you when she finally calmed down.

" are-are you the primordial shadow hero, nyx? " her eyes sparkles as x remains quiet, watching the exchange.

" that's right, keep it a secret for me, would you? " you wink as you stand up, she nods and bid you farewell, running away.

you look over at x, you can't help but smile.

" well? "

" so you're the previous number one hero, nyx. why'd you stop becoming a hero? " he stands still.

" people don't trust nyx enough, I can barely transform into my hero self due to the lack of trust and besides people don't believe in nyx anymore... I was lucky to still hold the power, thanks to a little trending clip a friend posted the other day, " you shake the man. for the first time, you hear the man chuckle.

" I'll place my trust in you, hero nyx, " he pats your shoulder as he starts walking back to the office building, leaving you to stand still at your spot. did he just laugh and smile? but the glow on your wrist, shows your trust value increasing.

" weren't you with y/n, just now? " the same co-worker question as he takes his usual seat.

you came back, running towards x. you couldn't help but wrap your arms around his neck, engulfing him in a hug and burying your face in his hair.

" your words really made me happy, thank you, " you pull away, going back to your table as the same co-worker stares and points.

" what!? are you two dating now?! " the attention draws back to you when they notice that x was no longer in the room. oh how you wished you could summon your void and teleport yourself elsewhere.

this sounds very oc-centric but after brainstorming the idea of a primordial shadow user where they can manipulate not just shadows but darkness and anything deeper than reality chatgpt gave the idea of how reality manipulator X can make the garden pretty with the snap of his fingers while the primordial shadow user steps forward, touches the ground and just destroys it.

heroes are built by trust but I'd like to think reader here was very trustworthy with their powers, leading them to first place but because of rumours about how their black powers kinda look like villains corrupted by fear, people stop trusting them, weakening them to the point they can't transform, only using a little bit of power from time to time then a friend recently posted an old clip, gaining some trust for our reader hero nyx, people don't have to fear because they have hero x.

[kxsagi]

stop we’re both bllk lock girls. :33

anyways can i request seeing ex bf isagi (ended on good terms) during his break from bllk v. u20 match. then yall realize there’s something still between the two of you so you decide to give it another shot and yall go on the best date everrrrrrrr

#isagigirlforlife

“𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐜𝐞”

a/n: #ISAGIGIRLFORLIFE FRRR

i love him sm it's not even funny. in my head, we've been dating since december 2020 (which is when i started reading the manga)

(header art credits go to _266hr on Twitter)

shibuya was buzzing. 

neon lights dripped down the buildings like electric rain, and the crowd pressed against you in waves, laughing, shouting, moving with the current of the city. you adjusted your scarf against the winter chill, clutching the small bag of taiyaki you just bought. the warmth of the pastry barely made it past your fingertips. 

you weren’t really thinking about him. not really. 

sure, you heard about him a lot recently because of his famous U-20 goal, his name slipping through the cracks of conversations, a commentator mentioning how he took a break from his soccer career after such a big match. but you didn’t dwell. you told yourself you wouldn’t. that part of your life was over. 

until it wasn’t. 

because there he was. 

at the edge of the crossing, right beneath the giant screen looping a music video, stood isagi. 

black beanie low over his forehead. hands buried in the pockets of his hoodie. same slightly awkward stance, weight leaned on one leg, like he was waiting for the world to slow down and meet him at his pace. but it was the eyes that gave him away, the same deep blue that once made you forget entire conversations. and right now? they were locked on you. 

your feet refused to move. 

his didn’t either. 

the crosswalk light changed, and people rushed between you. bodies blurred the view, but neither of you budged. it was only when the last straggler passed that isagi took a single step forward. hesitant. almost unsure. which was funny, really, because you’d never once seen him hesitate before. 

“hey,” he breathed out when he was close enough for you to hear. his voice was quieter than you remembered. or maybe just softer. 

“hi.” your throat tightened. “you’re back.” 

he nodded once, his eyes scanning your face slowly, like he was memorizing it all over again. his gaze lingered on the loose strand of hair by your cheek, the slight chapping of your lips from the cold. 

“for a few weeks.” 

“just visiting?” 

“... yeah.” 

the corner of his mouth lifted in a ghost of a smile. you recognized the look in his eyes, it was the same one from the night you sat on your bedroom floor, breaking up between hushed voices and lingering touches. ending on good terms. whatever the hell that meant. 

“wanna walk?” he asked, voice low. 

and you should’ve said no. 

because you were supposed to be over him. 

but instead, you nodded. 

𐙚

the streets were still restless, but somehow, it felt quieter with him next to you. 

“so you really took a break?” you asked, glancing at him. 

he shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. “more like i’m on break.” 

“ah, i see.” 

his lips twitched. “mmm, you should’ve seen the headlines. people thought i had an injury or something.” 

“oh, i did.” you grinned slightly. “someone sent me the article.” 

he glanced at you from the corner of his eye, his mouth parting slightly like he wanted to ask, who? but instead, he just hummed. 

you both stopped in front of a vending machine, the neon glow painting your skin. you watched as he fished out a few coins from his pocket. you were about to protest – you didn’t want anything – but then he pressed the button for the same drink he used to get for you. the one you always said tasted like liquid sugar, but secretly loved anyway. 

he didn’t say anything when he handed it to you. he just held it out. 

like muscle memory. 

𐙚 

you didn’t know how long you walked. the neon lights turned softer, the crowds thinning as you wandered into quieter streets. you stopped at a small park, finding a bench beneath a lonely street lamp. 

and that’s when it happened. 

the part where you both realized you were still idiots for each other. 

“i missed you,” he murmured first, low and barely audible. 

your fingers went still around your drink. the words made your throat tighten. your heart stutter. 

“yoi…” you started, but he shook his head, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. 

“no. let me.” he exhaled slowly, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “i thought i was fine, you know? that i needed the break. the space. the time. but no matter where i was – the weight room, the soccer field, in a dorm with other guys, playing in front of 20,000 people – everything just… felt off. i couldn’t even figure out why for the longest time.” 

he tilted his head slightly, and his voice was quieter when he added, “and then i saw you tonight, and it made sense.” 

your breath hitched. 

“you were the thing that was missing.” 

he glanced down at his hands, then back at you. “so. if you wanna give this another shot… i’m here. for real this time.” 

the weight of it hit you all at once. the memories, the ache, the longing. the nights you told yourself you were over him. the nights you knew you were lying. 

and you could’ve made him wait. made him work for it. 

but instead, you leaned forward. and kissed him. 

his lips were warm despite the cold, familiar in the way your heart remembered them. he kissed you softly at first, like he was testing if you’d disappear. and when you didn’t, he exhaled sharply against your mouth and pulled you closer. 

his hands cupped your face, fingertips brushing behind your ear, threading into your hair. the kiss deepened, slower and heavier, and when you finally pulled away, you were both a little breathless. 

𐙚

the date that followed felt like a fever dream, but the best kind. 

he took you to a hidden dessert café, the kind you’d always gushed about, but never got around to visiting. he ordered the matcha parfait you used to love, and you teased him for still knowing your order by heart. 

then you ended up at the arcade, where he somehow managed to win you a giant stuffed cat on his first try. you held it with a mock pout, accusing him of making it look too easy, but he just smirked and said, “i’m still showing off for you, huh?” 

you rolled your eyes. but your cheeks were warm. 

after that, you both wandered into a 24-hour bookstore. the kind with dim lights and floor-to-ceiling shelves that made you feel like you were in a different world. you read the back covers of random novels, picking the most absurd ones to make him laugh. and you succeeded every time. 

and when you were both tired from walking, you ended up at a convenience store, sitting on the curb with a bag of snacks between you. you shared a pack of strawberry pocky, lazily alternating bites until your hands brushed more than once. he didn’t pull away. neither did you. 

𐙚 

when he walked you home, he stood outside your door for a moment, hands tucked into his pockets. 

“so… tomorrow?” he asked, almost shy. 

you smiled. “and the day after that.” 

he grinned slightly, eyes crinkling at the corners. 

and when he kissed you again, slower this time, you knew. 

there was no more leaving. no more breaks. 

just him. and you. 

and everything you were ready to be. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[fruitjoos]

be a good girlfriend

part one

contains: smut, please do not read if you are a minor!

—

you and patrick were spending the weekend in art's dorm for a much anticipated movie night.

patrick had excitedly brought back a supernatural film he'd been raving about, and the plan was simple: you'd handle the popcorn, and art was supposed to get the drinks. of course, art had grumbled about this arrangement. "why do i have to do anything when it’s my room and my tv we’re using?" he'd complained, rolling his eyes.

as art flicked the light switch off, signaling the start of the movie, you resolved not to nag him about neglecting the drink duty. however, the popcorn quickly turned into a dry, choking hazard. barely able to swallow, you coughed and spluttered, forcing art to pause the movie before the production company logo even appeared.

“babe,” you whined, your voice rasping, “i’m so thirsty! the popcorn is killing me. please, i'm begging you.” you clutched at art’s shoulder with desperation.

patrick groaned dramatically from the other side of art. “we’re never gonna watch the fucking movie,” he muttered.

“shut up,” you snapped, turning your pleading eyes back to art.

art sighed theatrically and rose from the bed. “fine, i’ll go get some drinks from the vending machine,” he conceded, grabbing some bills from his wallet and tossing it onto his desk.

“i love you!” you yelled as he closed the door, mumbling a yeah, yeah in response.

“okay, we’re alone,” patrick said, turning to face you with wide eyes and raised brows, “let’s make out.” he smirked.

“no, you freak. he's right outside the door,” you tossed a few pieces of popcorn at him. undeterred, he crawled toward you on his hands and knees, his eyes smoldering with desire. “like that’s ever stopped us,” he murmured, kissing your lips. “you’ve jerked me off while we were sleeping in the same bed,” he mumbled against your mouth, the heat of his breath mingling with yours. “so stop pretending to be the good girlfriend you’re not.” his words stung, a sharp contrast to the softness of his touch.

“what?” you retorted, stopping his chest before he could lean in again, momentarily stunned by his brutal honesty. the weight of his accusation hanging heavily in the air between you.

he quickly retracted to his original spot, your heart pounding as the door creaked open. glancing over at you, he saw the confusion in your eyes as art spoke. what had he said wrong? his mind raced, replaying the words he thought were witty, the ones he was sure would make you smile and call him stupid, maybe even laugh. but now, doubt gnawed at him, a sinking feeling settling in his chest.

"okay, blue gatorade," he said, forcing a smile as he tossed the bottle to patrick, who caught it effortlessly. "and water for my sweet girl," he added, his voice softer. he leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips before placing the cold bottle in your lap.

"thank you," you mumbled, barely audible, your eyes avoiding his as you leaned back against his pillow.

as the movie flickered across the screen, you shifted, trying to find the most comfortable position on his full-size bed. finally, you settled on laying flat on your stomach, your legs lightly kicking against the headboard. your head rested in art’s lap, as he sat in the space between you and patrick leaned against the wall. the blanket sprawled across them.

you were a good girlfriend, you kept reminding yourself, the thought looping in your mind like a mantra. he’s just a bad friend. okay, maybe you had jerked him off that one time, but it was just once. a mistake. girls make mistakes sometimes. who was patrick to tell you what kind of person you were? the irritation flared within you; patrick, who could barely tell his left from his right, had no right to judge you.

the movie’s dialogue faded into the background as your thoughts consumed you. you could feel the warmth of art’s body, his fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on your shoulder.

you are a good girlfriend.

you slipped your hand underneath the blanket covering art's lower half, your fingers tracing a delicate path up his thigh. the warmth of his skin sent a shiver through you, a thrill that made your heart race. art cleared his throat, the sound almost imperceptible over the movie's dialogue, but you felt the tension in his body.

he grabbed a pillow, placing it strategically between himself and patrick, creating a makeshift barrier to shield your actions from view. the intimacy of the moment was intensified by the secrecy, a silent agreement hanging in the air between you and art. his leg muscles tensed under your touch, and you could sense his effort to remain composed.

he tried to make sliding down his gym shorts appear casual, making it seem like he was smoothing out the perfectly unwrinkled blanket. you pulled your hand back out, and brought it up to your lips, spitting out a gob of your sticky saliva right into your palm, cuffing your hand to be sure you don’t spill any of it.

your hand found its way back to his shaft. he jumped at your cold touch as you pumped his dick at a steady pace. the thick meat warming up between your fingers. you gazed up at him, his eyes glued to the screen. “you like the movie?” you whisper. “mhmm,” he gulped. you squeezed him in your palm, “fu–yeah, i love the movie.”

patrick's attention was abruptly drawn to the weird exchange unfolding beside him. his gaze drifting towards the subtle, yet unmistakable, rustling beneath the blanket. as he cautiously lifted his eyes, they collided with yours. you were already staring at him, a mischievous smirk plucked at the corners of your mouth.

he silently scoffed, turning back to the movie. small whimpers left art’s throat as you tugged on his now rock solid cock. up and down. shlick, shlick, shlick. now that patrick knew what was going on, you could be as wild as you wanted to be, making it known that he wasn’t apart of the fun.

you ducked your head under the comforter, slapping his thick, hot cock on the heart of your tongue. spit drooled from your mouth as you swallowed him through your supple lips. art’s mouth hung open with his eyes closed, not caring how crazy he looked to anybody else watching. his brows furrowed from the pleasure of your warm, velvety tongue slurping him up. you licked and slobbed, making a popping noise as you came up for air.

you pushed the blanket from both you and art. exposing his glistening boner, covered in spit. he scolded you, shouting your name, embarrassed as if neither of the people in the room haven’t already seen it.

“what the fuck?” patrick said, shaking his head. irritation rather than confusion etched across his face. he wasn’t confused at all. “shut up,” you straddled art’s waist, kissing and rocking your clothed pussy against his bare cock, “i need to fuck you so bad,” you breathed out, tilting his head back to kiss his lips.

“patrick’s in here,” he clenched his teeth, pressing down your hips to stop your movement. “he can join if he wants,” you smirked, leaning back on the bed to pull off your shorts and underwear, giving patrick a clear shot of your sopping cunt. “or he can sit there and watch. like the good friend i know he’s not.” you said, mocking his words from earlier, climbing back on top of art.

you and art both waited on his response, breathing heavily.

[malsmind]

file/information —

hacker!matt desperatly has to find a way to hack into

popular!reader's phone again.

file-warnings: stalking, male and female masturbation

you sat in the cramped lecture hall, the faint hum of the projector overhead mixing with the rustle of notebooks and the occasional cough from someone a few rows back. it was a typical tuesday morning at college—intro to programming, a class you only half-paid attention to because the professor’s monotone voice could put anyone to sleep. your phone buzzed on the desk, screen lighting up with a text from a friend about some party this weekend. you smirked, tapping out a quick reply, oblivious to the pair of eyes watching you from across the room.

matt slouched in his seat near the back, his hoodie pulled low over his forehead, hair spilling out in messy strands. he kind of looked like every other guy to be honest. he didn't dress in any 'weird' or 'nerdy' way, but there was something sharper in the way his blue eyes flicked toward you. he wasn’t just some slacker coasting through college. matt was a hacker, the kind who could dismantle a system in his sleep, and he’d been trying to crack into your phone for weeks. not that he hadn't done it before, he's hacked into your phone and other devices multiple times, but recently, your phone’s security was tighter than usual, probably because apple had sent you a warning when matt wasn't careful enough with hacking into it last time. some custom encryption he couldn’t quite unravel, and it was driving him up the wall.

the reason why exactly it was making him go insane was because last night, when he went to touch himself, knowing after a long day and a night out you'd shower, maybe even find relief in touching yourself as well, he was left needy and frustrated when your phone kept kicking him out. no mater what he did, your phone just wouldn't cooperate.

he chewed the inside of his cheek, spinning a pen between his fingers as he watched you scroll through your screen. he’d tried phishing links, brute-forcing your password, even sniffing the campus wifi for vulnerabilities—nothing worked. it was starting to feel personal, like your phone was taunting him. then, last night, hunched over his laptop in the living room of the house he shared with his brothers, the idea hit him: if he couldn’t hack it, he’d break it. get you a new one. slip in a backdoor before you even turned it on. his lips had curled into a grin at the thought, a little twisted but undeniably clever.

now, he just needed an opening. class ended, and you shoved your stuff into your backpack, slinging it over one shoulder as you headed out. matt followed at a distance, hands in his pockets, blending into the crowd of students spilling into the hall. he caught sight of you by the vending machines, fishing coins out of your jeans to grab a soda. perfect. he ambled over and “accidentally” bumped into you just as you turned around. your phone slipped from your hand, clattering to the tile floor with a sickening crack.

“shit, my bad,” matt muttered, crouching down to pick it up before you could. the screen was shattered, spiderwebs of glass radiating from one corner. he held it out to you, his expression all apologetic, but inside, he was buzzing. “damn, that looks rough. still work?”

you took it from him, frowning as you pressed the power button. nothing. just a dead, black screen. “great,” you sighed, “there goes my whole life.”

“m' sorry..” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “i’ve got an extra one back at my place, though. new model, still in the box. you can have it if you want—save you the hassle of dealing with the repair shop.” his tone was offhand, like it was no big deal, but his pulse ticked up a notch waiting for your answer.

you hesitated, eyeing him for a second. you’d seen matt around—quiet guy, always tinkering with something in the lab—but you didn’t really know him. still, a free phone was a free phone. “yeah, okay,” you said finally. “that’d be awesome, thanks.”

he flashed a lopsided grin, leading you across campus to his place. he dug through a drawer, pulling out a sleek, unopened phone box. “here,” he said, tossing it to you. “all yours.”

you caught it, tearing into the packaging while he leaned against the desk, watching. what you didn’t know—what you couldn’t know—was that he’d already cracked it open days ago, slipped in a custom firmware with a remote access trojan buried deep in the system. camera, mic, everything—he’d have it all. you powered it on, the screen glowing to life, and started setting it up, oblivious to the way his fingers twitched slightly, itching to get back to his laptop.

“looks good,” you said, pocketing it. “thanks..”

“nah, don’t worry about it,” he replied, shrugging. “just glad it’s not going to waste.”

you left, and he waited a few minutes before locking the door, rushing up to his room and booting up his rig. the monitor flickered on, lines of code scrolling as he connected to the backdoor he’d planted. your camera feed popped up, grainy at first, then sharpening as you walked into your dorm room across campus. he leaned back in his chair, heart pounding a little harder than he’d admit, watching you toss your bag onto the bed and kick off your shoes. nothing special yet, just you being you, but the thrill was in the control. he could see you whenever he wanted again.

later that night, he couldn’t sleep. the room was dark except for the blue glow of his screen, the hum of his pc fan the only sound. he pulled up the feed again. you were in bed, the soft light of a lamp casting shadows across your walls—posters, a cluttered bookshelf, a half-dead plant in the corner. you’d changed into an oversized t-shirt, hair messy, scrolling through the new phone he’d given you. then, the phone started moving in a way that made him sit up straighter, turning up the volume of his headset. matt saw the expression on your face, hearing the small whimpering noises slipping past your lips, and knew what was going on behind the screen.

he'd been waiting for it all night..

matt’s breath hitched. he shouldn’t—he knew that somewhere in the back of his head—but the line was already blurred, and he was too far gone to care. he unzipped his jeans, hand slipping inside as he watched you shift, the shirt riding up slightly to expose the soft skin of your perfect tits. "shit—" matt hissed, his grip tightened, movements slow at first, eyes locked on the screen. your room smelled like lavender, he imagined from what he'd seen trough your camera so far, from that candle you always burned. he pictured the way you’d gasp if you knew, and just as his thoughts wandered to what your reaction would be if you knew what was going on behind the little screen you held in your hand, you moaned, wet sounds of your fingers working on yourseld echoing. he thought about what those moans would sound like if he was the one pulling them out of you, the thought sending a jolt through him.

the feed stuttered slightly as you picked up your pace, fingering yourself, but matt reloaded the page, keeping you in frame, fresh and in perfect quality. his hand moved faster, rougher, the sound of his breathing filling the silence of his room. "fuuuuck, y/n—"he whimpered pathetically, watching you as you bit your lip, breathing heavily as you tried to hold back your moans, and he groaned low in his throat, imagining the heat between your legs, the wetness clinging to his fingers instead of yours, the slickness he couldn’t see but could guess at. "fuck—fuck—fuck..." matt gasped out, body tensing up as cum hit his knuckles, hot and sticky, as he finished, chest heaving, eyes still glued to you lying there, oblivious, reaching your orgasm in synch to him without even knowing.

he wiped his hand on his shirt, leaned back, and smirked at the screen. “so fuckin' sexy..” he muttered to no one, already thinking about tomorrow, and the day after, and the many more days he'd watch you touch yourself, doing it with you.

@loser41ifee GAVE THE IDEA FOR THIS! (i hope i did a good job cause omg this took me way to long to actually start writing.)

series link

taglist

—

@backwardshatnick @sturniolosymphony @sturns-mermaid @realzula @courta13 @sturnzzlovee @chrissweetheart @sturniolosymphony @sturniolo1trips @freshsturnzx @sturnslutz @sturrrrnslvt

[croisants]

New Coach (3) - End

Part 1, Part2

Tyler didn’t sleep much.

Not because of nightmares this time—but because of possibility.

Someone else believed him. Someone else saw it. That changed everything.

He replayed every conversation with Vance in his head. Every sidelong glance from Ethan. Every word Shane had said.

He was missing something. But not for long.

---

The next morning, Tyler walked into school already scanning.

He wasn’t just surviving anymore. He was watching.

And that’s when he saw it.

A girl—senior, maybe. He didn’t know her name. She was arguing with Coach Vance outside the admin office. Her voice was hushed, sharp. His was calm, as always. Too calm.

Then she stormed off.

Tyler ducked into a corner by the vending machine and watched as Vance stood there for a moment… then looked around and slipped a key into the side panel of the trophy case.

It clicked open.

He pulled something out. A folder. Slim. Labeled.

CONFIDENTIAL.

Vance glanced around again and walked down the hall.

Tyler didn’t breathe.

A minute later, someone appeared beside him.

“You saw it, didn’t you?”

Tyler jumped.

Shane.

Leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed, like he’d been waiting there the whole time.

“How long were you—?”

“Long enough,” Shane said. “He shouldn’t be touching those files.”

“What do you think it is?”

“I think,” Shane said, turning to walk, “it’s time we find out.”

---

That night, Tyler came back.

He waited until the janitor locked the east wing and the last car rolled out of the parking lot. Then he slipped in through the cracked window by the art room—just like Shane said he used to do at his last school.

He moved like he’d done this before.

Heart pounding. Backpack slung low. Black hoodie. Gloves.

The hall lights were off, just red emergency bulbs glowing in the corners like watching eyes.

He made it to the trophy case.

His breath caught.

The same keyhole.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a bent bobby pin. Not perfect, but it was something. He knelt and started working.

Click.

Turn.

Nothing.

Click.

His palms were sweating now. The hallway stretched out like a tunnel behind him.

Then, behind the glass—a flash of light.

A phone screen.

And a voice:

“Took you long enough.”

Tyler jumped back, heart hammering.

Inside the open trophy case area—Shane sat cross-legged on the floor, flashlight pointed at the file in his lap.

“What the hell?” Tyler hissed.

Shane looked up with that same unbothered smile.

“Figured you’d come. Thought I’d save you the trouble.”

“You already got in?”

Shane held up a thin piece of bent metal. “Lock’s trash. Took thirty seconds.”

Tyler shook his head. “You could’ve told me.”

“I wanted to see if you’d actually do it,” Shane said. “Guess I was right.”

He slid the file across the floor.

Tyler opened it.

Inside—printed emails, redacted reports, and a staff transfer document.

Coach Owen Vance.

No photo.

No signature.

And under “previous employment”?

Redacted.

Tyler looked up.

“This is real,” he whispered.

Shane’s smile widened, just enough to say, "Yes. Keep going. Dig deeper."

And so Tyler did.

---

Tyler flipped through the rest of the file, fingers trembling.

Nothing made sense.

Names blacked out. Pages missing. Lines of text whited out completely.

It wasn’t a folder—it was a trailhead. A mystery waiting to be unraveled.

“Why would they hide this?” he murmured.

Shane stood, sliding the folder back into his bag with the care of someone handling a weapon.

“Because Vance isn’t supposed to be here.”

Tyler looked at him.

“You really believe that?”

Shane met his eyes. Steady. Certain.

“I believe people like him don’t just show up without reason. And if you don’t pull the thread now…” He shrugged. “It’ll strangle you later.”

Tyler didn’t sleep that night.

Not out of fear.

But purpose.

For the first time, it felt like the curtain was lifting.

He didn’t know he was standing on a stage Ethan had built just for him.

---

Tyler was buzzing the next morning.

Not with adrenaline—but with focus.

The folder. The redacted documents. Shane’s certainty.

It wasn’t just paranoia anymore. It was a case.

He’d been hunted. Gaslit. Humiliated.

Now he was hunting back.

---

Ethan sat by himself at the lunch table, like always. Head down, earbuds in, tapping quietly at his laptop.

Tyler walked straight toward him.

Shane had said not to move too fast. Wait. Gather more.

But Tyler needed to see something in Ethan’s eyes. Needed to see him flinch.

He dropped into the seat across from him, hard.

Ethan didn’t look up.

“Nice morning,” Tyler said, voice flat.

Ethan paused his music. “Sure.”

“You know,” Tyler went on, “it’s weird. How someone like Coach Vance shows up out of nowhere. No background. No files. Just power.”

Ethan blinked. “Okay.”

Tyler leaned in. “Know what’s weirder? Seeing your name show up in the same places. Same times.”

Ethan smiled faintly. “That sounds like a conspiracy.”

“I broke into his file.”

That made Ethan finally look up.

His eyes weren’t scared.

They were curious.

Interested.

Amused.

“You really did that?”

“You tell me,” Tyler said. “Since you are him.”

There was a pause.

Then Ethan leaned forward, voice soft.

“You sure you want to do this here?”

And that was the trap.

Because behind Tyler, a voice snapped:

“Mr. Stanton?”

Tyler turned.

Ms. Kellerman.

Tray in her hands. Eyes narrowed.

Ethan sat back and pressed his fingers to his temple.

“Sorry, Ms. Kellerman. I think Tyler’s going through a lot right now. I was just trying to help.”

Tyler stood fast. “He’s lying!”

“Tyler,” she said, stepping forward slowly. “What are you doing?”

“He’s not who you think he is! He’s Coach Vance!”

Ethan flinched perfectly. “Please stop.”

“You think I’m crazy?” Tyler snapped. “Look at him! Look at his face!”

Kellerman grabbed his arm. “That’s enough.”

He looked down.

Everyone was staring.

Phones out.

Laughing.

Recording.

And Ethan—sweet, fragile, harmless Ethan—rubbed his eyes like he might cry.

---

Later, Tyler sat outside the nurse’s office, head in his hands.

He didn’t know how Ethan did it.

The timing. The tears. The perfect expression of victimhood.

But it worked.

Again.

He was losing.

And Ethan hadn’t even touched him.

Then, the nurse gave Tyler a juice box and a counseling referral.

He didn’t take either.

He just sat in the hallway, knees up, staring at the scuffed tile like it might tell him what to do next.

He’d had him.

Right there.

Ethan should’ve cracked.

Instead, he made Tyler look insane.

Again.

---

It was dark by the time Tyler got outside.

The campus was empty. The wind was sharp.

But Shane was waiting—sitting on the low concrete wall outside the gym, hoodie pulled over his head, like he’d never moved.

He didn’t say anything when Tyler approached.

Didn’t ask what happened.

He just said, “You ready to stop playing defense?”

Tyler sank down next to him, silent for a long beat.

Then, “He flipped it on me. Like I was a kid chasing shadows.”

“You’re not,” Shane said. “You’re chasing something real. But you’re doing it out in the open. That’s how you lose.”

Tyler looked over. “Then what do I do?”

Shane pulled something from his bag.

A folded blueprint.

Of the school.

He unfolded it slowly on his knees.

“There’s an old access stair under the south wing. Leads straight into the coaching office. No cameras. No keys needed. Most people don’t even know it’s still unlocked.”

Tyler stared.

“You’ve been planning this?”

Shane smiled. “No. I just know how to find pressure points.”

He tapped the corner of the map.

“We go in. We pull everything. His computer. His drawers. His backup drives. We don’t guess anymore. We know.”

Tyler’s hands curled into fists.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s take him down.”

Shane grinned like a wolf.

“Then we go in Friday night.”

---

That night, Tyler lay awake, staring at his ceiling.

He had the map. The plan. The one person he could trust.

For the first time in weeks, it felt like things were falling into place.

He didn’t know they were falling around him.

One step from the edge.

Exactly where Ethan wanted him.

---

Friday night.

No lights in the school. No cameras rolling in the south wing. Just silence and shadows.

Tyler and Shane slipped through the broken side gate at 10:17 p.m.

No one saw them.

Shane carried the map. Tyler carried a crowbar, just in case.

They didn’t speak much. The plan was tight. Clean. Shane made sure of that.

They reached the south stairwell.

Just like he said—no alarm. The rusted door opened with a groan and a puff of old dust.

They descended into the dark.

---

The office was colder than it should’ve been.

No photos. No plaques. Just a desk, a laptop, and a filing cabinet with a padlock Tyler popped with a single twist.

They moved fast.

Shane dug into the drawers while Tyler scrolled through the laptop.

“What are we even looking for?” Tyler whispered.

“Anything he didn’t want found,” Shane muttered. “Emails. Staff forms. Video files.”

Tyler scrolled deeper—and stopped.

One folder.

Untitled.

He clicked.

Inside were only two files.

One was a photo.

A still shot of Ethan, standing in the school hallway—timestamped.

The second...

A picture of Shane.

Same hallway.

Same timestamp.

Tyler froze.

His throat went dry.

He glanced at Shane—who hadn’t noticed yet, still flipping through folders.

Tyler clicked the metadata.

The files were fake.

Generated.

Planted.

He looked back at Shane.

Shane looked up.

And for a split second—Tyler swore the corner of his mouth twitched.

A smile.

But it was gone before it landed.

“Find something?” Shane asked.

Tyler shook his head slowly.

“No.”

---

When they left, Tyler felt different.

Not angry. Not afraid.

But... off-balance.

Like the ground was shifting beneath him.

Like maybe he didn’t know who was standing next to him anymore.

---

Tyler couldn’t stop hearing it.

That line.

“Not the type to make moves on his own.”

It echoed in his head, over and over, like a whispered refrain he couldn’t shake.

He remembered when Coach Vance had said it—quiet, deliberate, after a late-night drill when the gym was empty and the lights buzzed faintly overhead.

“That kid Ethan? Always hiding at the back of class. Stays quiet. Doesn’t make waves. Not the type to make moves on his own.”

Vance had said it like it was fact.

But now—days later—Shane had said the exact same thing.

Tyler remembered it clearly. He had been ranting about Ethan while he and Shane at the cafe, calling him weak, passive, fake.

And Shane, calm as ever, had replied:

“Not the type to make moves on his own.”

Same words.

Same rhythm.

Same voice?

No. That couldn’t be. Shane’s voice was deeper. Warmer. More relaxed.

But it felt the same.

Too much.

Too close.

---

They were walking the outer loop of the track field after school. Shane was talking about a possible lead—something about hidden footage on a PE server. Tyler wasn’t listening anymore.

He was watching.

Not the words. The rhythm.

The way Shane walked—confident, quiet, with a little swagger at the corners.

The way he paused before delivering certain lines.

It was all so... calculated.

Too polished.

Like someone playing a role.

Tyler slowed down.

“You remember that thing you said about Ethan?” he asked.

Shane looked over, casual. “Which one?”

“That he’s not the type to make moves on his own.”

Shane chuckled. “Still true, isn’t it?”

Tyler forced a nod.

But something turned in his gut.

He remembered Vance’s voice saying those same words. Remembered the gleam in his eyes. The way he’d dropped that line like a match on gasoline.

And now Shane said it too.

Word for word.

---

That night, Tyler pulled out the notes he’d been keeping. Names. Times. Quotes. Moments that didn’t add up.

He highlighted the phrase—both times.

He circled them.

Then he wrote, in all caps:

**WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU, REALLY?**

---

The next morning, Shane met him like always. Smiling. Confident.

But Tyler couldn’t stop watching him like a stranger.

And when Shane looked away for just a second—

Tyler whispered under his breath:

“I think I know your face.”

Shane didn’t hear it.

But he would.

Soon.

---

Tyler didn’t sleep.

He didn’t spiral either.

Is Shane really new Ethan? Coach Vance, Now Shane?

He planned.

If Shane really was who Tyler now feared he was… he’d eventually slip. He’d say something he shouldn’t know. React too fast. Fill in a blank that only Ethan could recognize.

All Tyler had to do was feed him the right detail.

So he picked one.

---

In gym class, freshman year, Ethan once faked an injury during a running test. Everyone had laughed. Tyler had laughed hardest. Ethan limped off the court, face red. Two hours later, someone found his name scrawled in Sharpie on the back of the bleachers.

It was a dumb story.

But only Ethan remembered it.

---

That afternoon, Tyler waited until they were alone again—him and Shane, sitting near the outdoor stairs, like usual. Shane was picking apart a protein bar with surgical focus, eyes on the track field.

Tyler played it casual.

“You ever fake an injury to get out of a test?”

Shane looked up, smirked. “What kind of test?”

“Running,” Tyler said. “Mile run. Freshman year.”

Shane gave a breath of a laugh. “God, yeah. Back at my old school, I limped so bad the nurse thought I tore my calf.”

Tyler nodded slowly.

“So no one wrote your name on the bleachers after?”

Shane blinked.

Just for a second.

Then smiled.

“Wish they had.”

Tyler’s heart skipped.

That pause.

It was nothing.

It was everything.

---

Later that night, Tyler replayed the conversation in his head.

The phrasing.

The timing.

The pause.

Shane had hesitated like someone caught between memories—like he’d almost said “I thought you did” instead.

Tyler scribbled a new line across his notebook:

SHANE ISN’T NEW.

And underneath it:

HE’S PLAYING ME.

---

The Camera (Can't) Lies

Tyler spent his Saturday morning alone at school.

He’d told the janitor he left a jacket in his locker. No one questioned him.

He waited until the hallway was clear.

Then he set the camera.

An old camcorder—grainy, bulky, but reliable. Tucked into the air vent above the east academic wing hallway. Perfect angle. It would capture the entry doors with a timestamp.

If Ethan walked in at 7:52, and Shane showed up behind the gym at 7:58—on the opposite side of campus—he’d have them.

Or he’d have him.

---

Monday came like a storm.

Tyler barely blinked through first period.

At 7:51 a.m., he positioned himself near the gym stairs.

At 7:58, Shane arrived.

Hood up, all confidence.

“Ready to break the system again?” he asked, offering a casual grin.

Tyler forced a nod.

Inside, his pulse was thunder.

---

Lunchtime.

Tyler slipped into the janitor’s closet, locked the door, and pulled out the camera.

Fast-forwarded.

7:50… 7:51…

7:52.

There—Ethan.

Clear as day, walking through the east entry doors. Head down. Hoodie up. Backpack over one shoulder. Small frame. Maybe 5'9" at best.

Tyler stared.

Fast-forwarded.

7:58.

There—Shane, appearing behind the gym.

Different entrance. Opposite side of the school. And Tyler had been there the entire time.

Shane was tall. Broad. At least 6'2". There was no mistaking it.

It was impossible.

Unless...

They were the same person.

Tyler blinked hard, scrubbing backward on the footage.

7:52—Ethan. Small. Slouched. Thin.

7:58—Shane. Confident. Strong. Towering.

That wasn’t a disguise. That wasn’t a trick of posture.

That was a transformation.

Ethan and Shane weren’t just the same person.

Ethan had changed his body.

His height. His build. His presence.

Tyler’s blood went cold.

There was only one explanation.

He wasn’t crazy.

He wasn’t paranoid.

Ethan was a shapeshifter.

Tyler laughed.

A small, cracked sound that almost frightened him.

He had him.

He finally had him.

---

Until the knock came.

Slow.

Measured.

Tyler turned.

Coach Vance stood in the doorway, arms folded, eyes like steel.

“You digging for ghosts, Stanton?” he asked quietly.

Tyler swallowed. “I saw him. I saw—”

Vance stepped into the light.

Smiling.

“You’re getting close.”

Tyler froze.

“What?”

Vance leaned down. His voice was soft—softer than it had ever been.

“I let you see it.”

Tyler’s blood ran cold.

“You—”

“I wanted you to know. Just not yet.”

Then he turned, calm as ever, and walked away.

Leaving Tyler with shaking hands, a blinking screen, and one undeniable truth:

He was never the hunter.

He was the game.

---

He can't wait longer.

Tyler stood outside the principal’s office with a USB drive in his palm.

The camcorder footage was on it.

Two files. Two appearances. One impossibility.

He clutched it like it was a sword. A lifeline. The truth.

He had asked for a private meeting. Said it was important. Urgent. About Coach Vance.

Principal Avery had agreed.

Ms. Kellerman would be there too.

Good.

He needed witnesses.

---

Inside the office, they gave him space at the front desk.

“Go ahead, Tyler,” the principal said gently.

Tyler nodded, breath shaking.

He plugged in the drive. Clicked play.

First: Ethan, walking through the east hall entry at 7:52 a.m.

Then: Shane, meeting Tyler at the gym at 7:58.

“See that?” Tyler said, pointing to the timestamps. “He can’t be in two places at once. Ethan and Shane—they’re the same person.”

The adults leaned in. Silent.

“Look at the body types,” Tyler said. “The walk. The way they look at people. It’s all the same.”

Kellerman raised an eyebrow. “But they’re clearly different. One’s tall. The other isn’t.”

“That’s the point,” Tyler said, voice rising. “He changes. He’s a shapeshifter!”

Silence.

Not awe.

Just... discomfort.

Principal Avery folded his hands. “Tyler. This is serious. Are you suggesting your classmate—Ethan—and Coach Vance are... supernatural?”

“I’m showing you proof!”

He turned back to the screen.

But something was wrong.

The Shane footage—it looked… different.

Smoother. Cropped tighter.

The timestamp was gone.

His stomach dropped.

“No—wait—this isn’t the right version—” he stammered, clicking wildly.

“I think that’s enough,” the principal said.

Kellerman frowned. “Tyler, are you manipulating school footage?”

“I didn’t—no—someone changed it!” Tyler spun. “It was him!”

And then—

The door opened.

Coach Vance stepped in.

Calm. Collected. The model of professionalism.

“Everything alright?” he asked.

Tyler pointed. “You’re him! You’re Ethan! You’ve been playing us all!”

But no one moved.

No one flinched.

Vance looked to the principal. “Maybe it’s time we discussed next steps for Tyler.”

The adults nodded.

Tyler backed up.

No.

No, no, no.

The footage was gone.

His proof was gone.

And Vance—Ethan—stood there, perfectly untouchable.

---

Minutes later, Tyler stumbled into the main hallway.

His head was spinning.

He wiped his face, still shaking.

Then stopped.

Shane was sitting on the bench just outside the front office.

Waiting.

Hood up. Calm. As if he’d been there all morning.

Tyler froze.

He looked back at the office.

Then quietly stepped to the door.

Peeked in.

Principal Avery. Ms. Kellerman. An empty chair.

Vance was gone.

No exit. No hallway movement. No footsteps.

Just gone.

Tyler turned back.

Shane looked up.

“Didn’t go well?” he asked, casual as ever.

And this time, the smile was different.

Not friendly.

Not sympathetic.

Knowing.

The kind of smile that came from someone who’d already seen the outcome.

Who’d designed it.

Tyler blinked.

His breath caught.

Vance was just in that room.

Shane is here now.

They never passed each other.

Unless…

There was nothing to pass.

Because they were never two people at all.

The posture. The eyes. The stillness in Shane’s shoulders.

It’s Vance.

It’s always been Vance.

It’s always been Ethan.

Tyler turned, shaken.

He didn’t say a word.

Shane just sat there.

Still smiling.

---

Tyler didn’t speak to Shane all week.

He smiled when he had to.

Nodded when it was expected.

All the while, the original SD card burned in his jacket pocket like a secret weapon.

His ace.

His checkmate.

---

Friday. Game night.

The gym buzzed. Packed house. Everyone was there.

Perfect.

He had the footage loaded. Time-stamped. Clean. Unedited. Proof.

The projector was set. AV tech gave him control.

This was it.

---

Tyler took center court just before the game started. Lights dimmed. Spotlight caught him mid-step.

He make sure Coach Vance.. or Ethan, or who the fuck is he, still sit on the bench.

“Before we play,” he said into the mic, “there’s something I need to show you.”

Confused murmurs. Curious faces.

He hit play.

7:52 — Ethan entering the east hallway.

7:58 — Shane behind the gym.

Two places. Six minutes. One impossibility.

Gasps. Confusion.

“This,” Tyler said, “is proof. Shane, Ethan, and Coach Vance—are the same person.”

He turned toward the bench.

But Coach Vance was gone. His clipboard left on the chair. Whistle still hanging from the hook.

Tyler blinked.

Then from the bleachers—

Shane stood.

Arms folded. Calm. Watching.

Tyler pointed. “That’s him! He was just on the court!”

People looked between the court and the bleachers.

Vance wasn’t there. Now Shane was.

Then the lights flickered. Just a moment. Tyler lost sight.

And when they returned— Shane was gone.

Tyler spun.

Ethan sat near the top row with his favorite gray sweater. Small. Nervous. Watching the screen like everyone else.

Tyler’s breath caught.

He looked between them. Looked for cameras. For witnesses.

Everyone was murmuring now.

“He was just there—” “Wasn’t that Coach Vance?” “Wait, is he saying the coach is that kid?”

Tyler pointed again.

“He’s all of them! You’re not seeing it!”

But they were. Exactly what Ethan wanted them to see.

One face. Then another. Then another.

Never together. Never overlapping.

Enough distance to make Tyler look insane.

The screen changed. Footage of Tyler sneaking into AV. Digging through lockers. Talking to himself in the hallway.

“Wait—no—this isn’t—”

“Tyler,” Ms. Kellerman called. “I think that’s enough.”

Security moved.

The crowd watched. Phones recorded.

Tyler’s voice cracked.

“You’re all the same person…”

But to them?

He looked broken. Unstable.

Because Ethan had pulled off the perfect finale.

Three masks. One actor. Zero witnesses.

They led Tyler out slowly. Eyes followed. Mouths whispered.

And Ethan—whichever face he wore now—watched it all.

Still here. Still safe. Still in control.

---

Epilogue: The Stage is Set

Life at school went on.

The final game day passed. Tyler Stanton didn’t show.

Some said he transferred. Others said he was institutionalized. A few whispered he cracked under pressure.

But no one really knew.

And eventually, no one really cared.

Coach Vance still ran practices like a general.

Shane still hung by the gym doors, charming anyone who walked by.

And Ethan?

Still sat in the second row of chemistry with his favorite gray sweater, quiet as ever.

No one questioned it.

Why would they?

They were all different.

They had to be.

---

What really happened?

At late night, after that final game, Tyler sat alone in the nurse’s office. Waiting to be picked up. A stomach ache, they said. Maybe a panic attack.

He stared at the floor. Not crying. Not moving.

Then the door opened.

Coach Vance stepped in.

No clipboard. No whistle. Just him.

He closed the door behind him. Locked it.

Tyler didn’t look up.

“Go away.”

Vance didn’t move.

“You were right,” he said quietly.

Tyler lifted his head.

Vance stood and cross his arms. Calm. Steady. Watching him.

“I wanted you to know,” he added. “That you weren’t crazy.”

Tyler swallowed hard. “Then why—why make me look like I was?”

Vance tilted his head.

“Because no one believes a story when it’s told too late.”

And then—

He changed.

Right in front of Tyler.

His posture shifted. His jaw reshaped. His eyes sharpened. His hair darkened. Shoulders narrowed.

Shane stood where Vance had been.

Then—blink—and he was Ethan.

Then back to Vance.

Each switch seamless. Effortless.

Tyler trembled.

“Why… why are you showing me this now?”

Coach Vance smiled.

“Because it’s more fun when someone knows the game… and still loses.”

He turned and walked to the door. Unlocked it.

Before stepping out, he glanced back one last time.

“Goodnight, Tyler.”

And then he was gone.

---

Coach Owen Vance, Shane, and Ethan still attend their occupation at school.

Because he didn’t need to disappear.

Not when the truth was unbelievable.

He was still here.

All of him.

And no one would ever know.

Or maybe, he is around us...

---

End.

[jkwrites-m]

Popcorn

Part 5 - Mall Rats

Pairing: Jungkook x female reader

Genre: smut

Word Count: 1.6k

Summary: In an empty theater, Jungkook and Y/N shared stolen touches and teasing glances, turning a quiet movie into electricity.

Warnings: MDNI, Explicit, 18+, kissing, cursing, slight dom!Jungkook, public sex, unprotected sex, riding, oral (m. receiving), deepthroat

A/N: WOW I did not expect all the love on Welcome Home. tysm bbys 🫶

MASTERPOST ♡ MASTERLIST ♡

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The mall’s fluorescent lights flickered overhead as Jungkook and I strolled past the movie theater, the scent of buttery popcorn wafting through the air in waves that made my stomach growl softly.

The buzz of vending machines hummed in the background, echoing through the mostly quiet hallway. There weren’t many people around. Just a couple walking out of the theater and a lone employee behind the counter, lazily checking their phone.

Jungkook shot me a cheeky grin, his eyebrow piercing catching the light just right. There was something about that grin- like he already knew what I was thinking, like he was two steps ahead of me in a game I didn’t realize we were playing.

My heart skipped.

I knew that look.

It was the same one he gave me when he was up to something, when his mind was already dancing through trouble and temptation.

My breath caught just slightly. It was always like that with him- one look and the air between us changed. Charged. My chest tightened with that familiar blend of anticipation and curiosity, the sense that something was about to happen, and I didn’t want to stop it.

“Wanna see a movie?” he asked, his voice low, dipped in mischief, like the question was just a suggestion for something much more.

His dark hair framed his face perfectly, a few messy strands hanging just above his lashes. His hands disappeared into the pockets of his jeans, and the tattoos trailing down his forearm peeked out from under the edge of his sleeve like whispers of the wild things he wasn’t saying yet.

He looked so effortlessly good it was unfair. Every part of him radiated that cool, unbothered energy that made it impossible to look away.

“Sure,” I replied, tilting my head, playing along, even though I knew full well this wasn’t really about the movie.

His smile deepened, and without hesitation, Jungkook reached for my hand, lacing our fingers together. The touch was soft but electric, like static.

The way he held me made the rest of the world fall into a blur. He tugged me toward the ticket counter, his grip steady, and bought two tickets for the next showing, something random and forgettable, but neither of us cared what it was.

We had five minutes to spare. Enough time to make it.

At the concession stand, he ordered a large popcorn and a soda to share, his tone teasing when he asked if I’d be “stealing all the good pieces.”

As he handed me the drink, his fingers brushed mine just a second too long, and I felt it again- like everything around us had gone quiet, like we were standing in the eye of something unspoken.

The cashier gave us a knowing look, one of those amused glances people gave to couples who couldn’t keep their hands or eyes off each other. I ignored it. Jungkook didn’t. He smirked.

We made our way to the entrance, stepping into the darkened theater. The hush inside swallowed us whole. The only light came from the flickering screen that played pre-show ads and soft trailers, casting bluish shadows across the plush, empty rows. The air was cool, the kind of stillness that made everything feel suspended in time.

To my surprise, the place was completely empty.

Not a single soul in sight. Just us.

Jungkook paused for a second, letting his gaze sweep over the seats before turning back to me with that signature grin: lazy, confident, dangerous.

He tugged me gently up the steps and toward the very back row, his hand never letting go of mine. It was so quiet I could hear the soft thud of our sneakers against the carpeted steps.

“All ours,” he murmured, leaning in, his breath warm against my ear, his voice lower than before.

A shiver ran down my spine.

The moment felt suspended. Thick with the weight of unspoken things. The kind of quiet that wasn’t really quiet at all, because every second screamed with possibilities.

He sank down into the corner of the back row and gently pulled me down beside him, tucking me close into the crook of his arm like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I could feel his heartbeat through the fabric of his shirt, steady and close.

The movie hadn’t started yet.

The screen was still rolling through slow, boring trivia questions, but neither of us were watching. His thumb traced slow circles over the back of my hand. His knee brushed mine, warm and solid. Every small touch felt amplified in the dark, every glance stretched into something more.

It was quiet. Intimate. Ours.

Once the movie started, neither of us paid attention. Jungkook’s hands were already roaming, his lips brushing against my neck. His touch was deliberate, hungry, and I felt my body respond instantly. His fingers traced the curve of my waist, his lips whispering,

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” against my skin. I shivered, my pulse racing as his hands slid lower, his touch bold and unapologetic.

“Jungkook,” I whispered, my voice trembling, “someone might come in.”

He chuckled, low and rumbling, his breath hot against my ear. “Who’s gonna come in, baby? It’s just us. The whole theater is ours.” His words sent a thrill down my spine, and I leaned into him, my lips seeking his.

Our kiss was fierce, desperate, our tongues tangling as his hands gripped my hips, pulling me closer. His touch was everywhere. Cupping my breasts, squeezing my ass, his fingers tracing the hem of my skirt. I moaned softly into his mouth, my body aching for more.

Suddenly, he pulled away, his dark eyes burning with desire. “Get on your knees,” he commanded, his voice rough and commanding.

My heart hammered in my chest, but I didn’t hesitate. I slid off the seat, my knees hitting the sticky floor, the scent of spilled soda and popcorn mingling in the air.

Jungkook’s eyes gleamed with approval as he undid his belt, his pants falling open to reveal his thick, throbbing cock. My mouth watered at the sight of him- veins pulsing, his length impressive and demanding. I licked my lips, my gaze locking with his.

Slowly, teasingly, I took him into my mouth, my tongue swirling around the tip. I heard him groan, his hands tangling in my hair, his fingers gripping tightly.

“Faster, baby,” he urged, his voice tight with tension. “I need more.”

I obliged, taking him deeper, my lips sliding down his length. I bobbed my head, my tongue flicking against his sensitive skin, savoring the taste of him. But Jungkook was impatient, his need overwhelming.

With a growl, he grabbed my hair, guiding my head down forcefully. I gagged, my eyes watering, but I didn’t stop. He thrust into my mouth, fucking my throat with abandon. It was rough, primal, and I loved it. His hands tightened in my hair, his hips snapping forward as he took control.

“Gonna cum, baby,” he warned, his voice hoarse.

I moaned around his cock, my hands gripping his thighs, my nails digging into his skin. He exploded in my mouth, his seed hot and salty, and I swallowed, savoring the taste of him. But he wasn’t done. With a rough tug, he pulled me up, his eyes burning with desire.

“Sit on my dick,” he commanded, his voice brooking no argument.

I straddled him, my dress bunched around my waist, the cool air of the theater brushing against my skin. He guided me down, his cock sliding into my wet heat, filling me completely. I gasped, my head falling back as he thrust upward, his hands gripping my hips.

“Ride me,” he growled, his voice demanding.

I began to move, my body rising and falling on his, the sound of our skin slapping together echoing in the empty theater. But Jungkook was impatient, his need too great. He took control, his hands guiding my movements, his thrusts becoming more urgent, more relentless.

“You’re too slow, baby,” he panted, his voice thick with desire. “I need this now.”

He pounded into me, his cock hitting my G-spot with every thrust. The pleasure was overwhelming, building to a crescendo. I cried out, my nails digging into his shoulders, my body trembling on the edge.

“Jungkook!” I screamed, my voice echoing in the empty theater as I climaxed.

My walls clenched around him, milking his cock. He followed suit, his seed filling me once more, his grip on my hips tightening as he groaned my name.

We collapsed against each other, our hearts pounding, our breaths ragged. The movie played on, forgotten, as we came down from our high. Jungkook’s arms wrapped around me, his lips brushing against my forehead.

“Fuck, that was good,” he murmured, his voice satisfied.

I smiled, snuggling into his embrace, the scent of his cologne mingling with the theater’s stale air. “What… what was that about?” I asked, my voice shaky.

Jungkook chuckled, his fingers tracing patterns on my back. “Just a little something to tide us over until the next adventure.”

I laughed, my body still buzzing with satisfaction. The mall held so many secrets, so many possibilities. And with Jungkook by my side, I was ready to explore every single one.

As the credits rolled, we sat in comfortable silence, our bodies still entwined. The theater, once a place of entertainment, had become our playground, a witness to our passion.

What other secrets did this mall hold?

What other adventures awaited us?

I couldn’t wait to find out. With Jungkook, every moment was an exploration, every touch a discovery. And I was eager to see where this journey would take us next.

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These characters are fictional and do not represent any real-life individuals. Their likeness is used solely for visual inspiration and does not reflect the actual person or their story.

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Posted: 06/13/2025

[writingforstraykids]

Missing Home

Pairing: MinChan

Word Count: 1306

Summary: When Chan begins to withdraw and stay late at the studio, Minho senses something is wrong. One night, he finds Chan tearfully scrolling through family photos, and Chan finally breaks down, admitting he deeply misses home.

Warnings/Tags: Emotional hurt!comfort, angst, fluff, homesickness, soft!Min

do not repost, translate, or plagiarize my works in any way here or on other platforms. ©️writingforstraykids 2024 -

The silence had been there for days. At first, it was subtle. Chan was still smiling, still nodding along in conversations. But the laugh didn't quite reach his eyes. The usual spark, his endless, resilient energy, seemed dimmed, like someone had slowly drawn the curtains over his heart without telling anyone. He wasn’t talking much. Not even to Minho.

And that, more than anything, unsettled the others.

“You’re okay?” Minho had asked him on the second day, sitting beside him on the dorm couch while Jisung played something overly dramatic on the PS5.

Chan’s answer had come with a tired smile. “Yeah. Just tired.”

That was all…But Chan was always tired. And still, he always made space for others - except now, he was retreating. The studio had become his shelter again, as it had during their early trainee years when everything felt like too much. So, Minho let it go. For a while.

Until it was two in the morning and Chan still hadn’t come home.

Minho had fallen asleep, curled up sideways on his bed, the sheets tangled around his feet and the lamp still on. A soft alert from the phone screen blinking beside him was what roused him - Changbin’s message.

Hyung’s still at the studio. He’s not answering again.

With a sigh and barely a moment of hesitation, Minho pulled on a hoodie of Chan, pushed his messy hair back with one hand and his glasses back onto his nose, and grabbed his car keys.

-

The building was quiet this time of night. All the hustle of voices and laughter from practice hours was long gone. Only the hum of vending machines accompanied Minho’s footsteps as he made his way down the hallway.

He didn’t knock. The studio door creaked open slowly - and there he was.

Chan was sitting on the floor, not even in the chair, his back propped against the couch in the corner. The only light came from the computer screen and the phone in his hand. On it, Minho saw a familiar blur of photos: family pictures. Old ones. New ones. Berry as a puppy. His younger brother's graduation. Christmas from three years ago - their second as a couple.

Chan didn’t even look up at the sound of the door. He just kept swiping. And his eyes…Minho’s chest twisted at the sight.

Tears shimmered silently in them, clinging to his lashes, refusing to fall. His mouth was pressed into a tight line, and his shoulders were tense as if he were holding everything in with a string that could snap at any moment.

Minho didn’t speak right away. He walked over and sat beside him gently, letting their shoulders just barely brush. Then, without pressure, he lifted a hand and let his fingers curl lightly over Chan’s shoulder. “Hey, Channie.”

Chan blinked once, then again. He didn’t turn his head. But Minho saw the way his bottom lip trembled.

“What’s been bothering my love lately, hm?” Minho asked softly, thumb brushing the fabric of Chan’s shirt as if grounding him with the smallest touch.

For a moment, he didn’t answer. Then, suddenly, it all crumbled. “I just…” Chan’s voice cracked, barely above a whisper. “I just really miss home.” The words hung in the air like a broken melody.

And then came the sob. Small, guttural, the kind that had been building for days and didn’t know how to come out until now.

Minho turned toward him immediately, wrapping an arm around his waist and pulling him close.

Chan didn’t resist. He just curled into Minho’s side, face buried in his shoulder, one hand still holding his phone as if afraid to let go of the images.

“I miss them so much, Min,” he whispered. “I miss mum’s voice and dad’s dumb jokes and… and Berry’s paws tapping on the kitchen floor when she knows it’s time for breakfast. I miss sitting at the back patio with a blanket even when it’s cold and watching the trees move. I just… I miss it.”

Minho didn’t tell him not to cry. He didn’t offer clichés about how he wasn’t alone or how lucky he was to have the members here. He just held him tighter. “I know,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to Chan’s temple. “I know you do.”

Chan’s tears dampened his sweater, but Minho didn’t care. He leaned his cheek against Chan’s head, listening to his breathing stutter and even out in slow waves.

“I keep thinking I should be used to it,” Chan said brokenly, pulling back just enough to look at him. “But I’m not. I thought I was. But lately everything’s just been… heavy. I’ll be in the middle of arranging a track and then I hear something - like a laugh that sounds like my sister's, or a guitar chord that reminds me of home - and I just stop. I can’t even breathe properly for a second.”

Minho took the phone gently from his hands, setting it on the carpeted floor beside them. “You don’t have to be used to it. Missing home doesn’t mean you’re weak.”

Chan looked at him, eyes swollen and red, lashes damp. “But it makes me feel like I’m not enough. Like I can’t even handle this anymore.”

Minho shook his head immediately. “You’re more than enough. You always have been. Missing something doesn’t make you less—it just means you’re human. I miss my parents and the cats all the time even though I visit them regularly. You've been away from home for years now, Channie. You haven't been home much ever since you became a trainee…Of course you miss it.”

The silence that followed was thick, but not uncomfortable. Minho tucked Chan’s hair back gently, combing through the curls with his fingers. “Do you wanna go back for a bit?” he asked, voice quiet. “To Australia. Even for a weekend?”

Chan hesitated, then shook his head. “Not yet. I don’t think I can leave right now.”

“Okay,” Minho said without judgment. “Then we bring home here. Somehow.”

A small laugh escaped Chan, wet and hoarse. “How do we do that?”

Minho looked thoughtful. “We start by getting you into bed. You’re not writing any more music tonight.”

“You’re so bossy when I cry,” Chan mumbled, sniffling.

“I’m bossy all the time. You just notice it more when you’re emotionally compromised.” Chan smiled faintly - and Minho’s heart warmed at the sight of it, even if it was a little sad around the edges.

They stood up together, Minho brushing off Chan’s hoodie and retrieving his phone. Before they left, Minho bent down and picked up one of the studio’s old Polaroids stuck to the wall—a picture someone had taken years ago of the group all in matching hoodies during a winter practice. Chan had that wide grin, mouth open mid-laugh, eyes turned into crescents, arm around Jeongin’s shoulders. Minho stuck it into Chan’s hoodie pocket. “Here. For the road,” he said.

Chan glanced at it, then looked at him. His hand slid into Minho’s, squeezing it as they walked out together into the cold early morning.

-

Back at the dorm, Chan didn’t say much. He didn’t have to. Minho guided him gently to bed, pulling off his hoodie and handing him a clean shirt. When Chan sank into the mattress with a sigh, Minho slipped beside him and wrapped his arms around his waist.

Chan turned toward him instantly, forehead pressing against Minho’s collarbone. “You always know when to find me.”

Minho closed his eyes and whispered into his hair, “Because I’ll always come looking for you, darling.”

And for the first time in days, Chan fell asleep not in the studio, not in a chair hunched over his laptop, but wrapped in the quiet warmth of someone who saw every piece of him - broken, burdened, beautiful - and stayed.

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