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foxtrology · 2 months ago

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blue velvet (9)

harry castillo x reader

series

word count: 20k

warnings: no y/n, 28 year age gap, female reader, fluff, smut. unedited, all mistakes are mine.

There was a pot on the stove that kept boiling over. Just slightly. Not loud. Just that soft hiss of starch against metal, the kind of domestic sound that didn’t register until it had already left a mark.

She didn’t hear it at first.

She was folding laundry with her knee pressed against the side of the couch, a towel slung over her shoulder like it had something to say. The loft was quiet in that way it always was midafternoon—humming the floorboards, the occasional rustle of the lemon tree Harry insisted they drag inside for the winter, and the thrum of traffic seven stories down.

The water hissed again. Frances yowled in protest from her perch on the windowsill, tail flicking like a metronome for the restless. She blinked. Stood. Moved the pot. And then just…stood there. Hands on the lip of the stove, steam brushing her face like something personal.

It had been a year. Almost to the week. The wedding had taken place on a day that smelled like sea salt and rot. The kind of day that came with folded napkins and teeth behind every smile.

Lucy had walked down an aisle she didn’t own in a dress that tried too hard, and Harry—Harry had stood beside her like an act of defiance. Unshaken. Solid. Watching with his hand on her thigh, his mouth at her ear.

A year later, and she still remembered the champagne glasses sweating in her hand, the way Francesca had said, “You look like a movie star who burned down the studio,” and the way John—her John, in that unreal, tragic, strange little way—had looked at her like she was a ghost he couldn’t place.

She stirred the pasta absentmindedly. It had gone soft. Mushy, really. Harry would pretend to like it. He always did. The front door creaked open. Not loudly. Just that familiar, specific sound of the lock catching on the wood, followed by the low thud of his shoes on the threshold.

“Baby?” he called.

“In the kitchen,” she said, already scooping the noodles into a bowl.

Harry’s tie was loose. His hair wind-blown in a way that meant he’d walked home despite the driver’s offer. His coat was slung over one arm like it had betrayed him. He kissed her cheek. Barely a breath.

Then stared at the bowl. “This is a crime.”

She smiled. “It’s mushy.”

“It’s illegal.”

“You’ll eat it.”

“I’ll love it.”

And he did. Of course he did.

Ate the whole thing with the quiet stubbornness of a man who would go to war for a dish he hated, if only because she’d made it. She sat across from him, legs tucked under her, chin in hand. Watched him eat like she didn’t already know the way his mouth turned down when something was too salty, or the way he hummed slightly when something reminded him of a childhood he didn’t talk about.

He looked up at one point, eyes narrowing. “You’re staring.”

“You’re handsome.”

“I'm old.”

“You’re both.”

Harry Castillo, in his mid-fifties and no longer quite the young thing of Wall Street he'd once been called, leaned back in his chair and said, “You’re ridiculous.”

“Say that again when I’m in your bed later.”

He did not reply. But he finished the pasta. And kissed her wrist when she took the bowl away. The thing about Harry was that he didn’t lie. Not to her. Not even when it would’ve been easier. He told the truth like it cost something, but he paid anyway. Which is why the silence—lately—felt off. Not a big silence. Not a dangerous one. But a different one. Something about the way he left the office a little earlier. The way he turned off his phone at dinner.

The way he started locking the drawer of the old walnut desk they kept in the corner of the loft, the one that used to hold little more than spare charger cords and two unread novels. She didn’t think he was cheating. God, no. But doubt was like that. Slippery. Ugly. It didn’t arrive with sirens, just whispers. Just a look. A turn of his head. A glance that didn’t land.

She sat on the edge of their bed that night and stared at her reflection in the old freestanding mirror he'd bought her for no reason at all.

“You’re spiraling,” she said softly.

Frances, watching from the dresser, blinked once like agreement.

“Shut up,” she added.

Harry had started taking more meetings lately. More calls. And yet the numbers weren’t climbing. There were no new acquisitions. No press releases. Just long stretches of time he wouldn’t account for and a new, hushed kind of warmth when he came home.

It was beginning to rattle her.

Worse—she hated that it did. She was not someone who unraveled. Not someone who paced or spiraled or stared at their partner’s phone like it owed them something. She had survived a father who defrauded an entire generation of investors, who buried her under the weight of his name, who taught her that silence was safer than truth.

She did not fall apart. And yet. Harry left his watch on the bathroom sink the next morning. It wasn’t like him. The man wore it like armor. She stared at it while brushing her teeth, foam in her mouth, wondering what it meant.

By the time she padded barefoot into the kitchen, he had already made coffee. Two mugs. Hers a little lighter, with cream. His bitter as sin. She accepted the cup in silence. He kissed her temple.

Then added, “You wanna come in with me today?”

She blinked. “To the office?”

Harry shrugged. “You’re bored.”

“I am not.”

“You’re going to alphabetize the pantry again. That’s the last station before madness.”

She snorted. “You hate when I come in.”

“No, I hate when the interns flirt with you behind my back.”

“And then you stare them down. Making them run off, scared.”

“Exactly.”

He set the mug down. Looked at her. Earnest. Crooked. “Come with me.”

So she did. She changed into black pants and one of Harry's long sleeve button ups. Left her hair down. Wore the earrings her fiancé had bought her in Rome, even though they pinched.

The car ride was quiet. She stared out the window. Harry’s hand was on her thigh. Thumb brushing slow.

At the office, people paused when they entered. Everyone at his office knew Harry was with her. How could they not? The Carrie Roth article hit every part of the world. And once her problematic family was posted about online too, everyone knew her.

And here she was. She sat in his office on the couch, curled with a book she didn’t read, watching him work. He didn’t speak much. Just glanced at her sometimes like she was gravity. Like she was the reason the pen moved. It should’ve settled her.

But it didn’t. The weirdness grew. Little things. He changed the password on his laptop. He started carrying something in his pocket—tucked, hidden, checked on when he thought she wasn’t looking.

He left earlier one day and came back smelling like pine. Not cologne. Not sweat. Just...forest.

“You okay?” Maya asked over coffee the next week.

She nodded.

“Harry weird?”

“No more than usual.”

Maya blinked. “But something’s off.”

She stirred her coffee. Stared at the spoon.

“I don’t think he’s cheating,” she said quietly.

“Jesus.”

“I don’t. I just—he’s hiding something.”

Maya’s face softened. “Maybe it’s good.”

She scoffed. “Nothing ever is.”

But Maya said nothing. Just squeezed her hand.

That night, Harry came home with a new plant. For the rooftop.

“Why a rosemary bush?” she asked, watching him try to wedge it between their second lemon tree and the aloe.

“Because it’s hardy.”

“That’s a weird word.”

Harry wiped his forehead. “You’re a weird word.”

She kissed his shoulder. Later, she found him standing on the rooftop long after dark, hands in his pockets, staring up at the string lights like they were a message he didn’t understand.

She stepped behind him. Wrapped her arms around his waist.

“Tell me what’s going on,” she whispered.

Harry turned. Looked at her.

And said, “Soon.”

Which made her want to scream. The next day was uneventful. Which made it worse. She alphabetized the pantry again. Found herself staring at the junk drawer. Pulled it open. And saw it.

A small, velvet box. Dark blue. Tucked beneath a stack of contracts. She didn’t touch it. Didn’t breathe. Just closed the drawer. Backed away. Stood in the middle of the kitchen and let her heart thud against her ribs like a warning.

By the time Harry came home, she was on the couch, blanket up to her chin, a book in her lap and nothing in her head. He paused.

“Hey.”

She looked up. Smiled.

“Hey.”

He crossed the room. Sat beside her. Touched her knee.

“You okay?”

She nodded.

Then said, quietly, “I found it.”

Harry blinked. Then laughed. Not loudly. Just…relieved.

“I was going to do it tomorrow,” he said.

She stared at him. At the man who had buried empires with a line of his mouth and now looked like he was afraid she might shatter. He reached into his coat pocket. Pulled out the box. Opened it. The ring was old. Gold. Worn. His mother’s.

“Say something,” he said softly.

She didn’t. Not right away. Just…looked at it. Then looked at him. “You asshole,” she whispered.

Harry’s mouth twitched. “I know.”

“You’ve been making me crazy.”

“I was nervous.”

“You? Nervous?”

He shrugged. “You matter.”

She touched the ring. Touched his hand.

Then said, “Yes.”

Harry exhaled. Like a man coming home. He slipped the ring on. Then kissed her like salvation. Frances yowled in protest. They didn’t care.

Outside, the lights on the rooftop flickered. Inside, time folded quietly. And for the first time in her life— She believed in beginnings. She wrote it in her journal that night—beginnings—underlined once, then again, as if repetition might root it into something permanent.

She wrote it after Harry had fallen asleep beside her, one hand still curved around her waist, the other resting lightly against her thigh like a promise.

He slept like a man who had survived war and still dreamt of it. She watched the way his brow twitched, the way his mouth softened in the dark.

He’d said I don’t snore earlier. He absolutely snored.

It was two in the morning when she turned off the lamp. The ring on her finger felt too big and too right all at once. His mother’s. Worn and beautiful and chosen.

They didn’t tell anyone right away. Not even Maya. For two full days, it was just theirs.

They woke up the morning after he proposed and didn’t go anywhere. Stayed in bed too long, drank coffee under the covers, ordered lunch from the Thai place with the curt delivery guy Harry tipped like he was royalty. She wore one of his shirts. He didn’t even button his. They read. Fell asleep again. Read some more. She forgot what time was. Forgot the way doubt had once lived in her like rot.

She didn’t feel like a woman who had been abandoned by a mother who faked a passport and fled to Mallorca. She didn’t feel like a woman who had a father in prison for crimes she could recite backwards. She didn’t feel like a woman who had a brother buried in a suit he never wanted. She felt—quiet. And loved. And new.

On the third morning, Harry poured her coffee and said, “When do you want to tell people?”

She raised an eyebrow. “People?”

“Maya.”

“Ah. The entire world.”

He handed her the mug. Kissed the top of her head. “Start there.”

She didn’t plan it out. Maya came over for wine and beloved snacks—rosemary crackers, three cheeses, one sliced peach—and as they sat on the floor of the loft, toes under the coffee table and Frances curled into a resentful ball beside the ottoman, she casually held up her left hand.

Maya blinked. Then blinked again. Then launched herself across the floor, nearly knocking over the Manchego.

“No. No—no. You’re kidding. You’re fucking joking. You’re a liar. You’re—”

“Maya.”

“You’re engaged?!”

She nodded. Smiled. Bit her lip. Maya stared at the ring. Then at her. Then at the ring again.

“It’s perfect,” she whispered. “You’re perfect. He’s—I mean, he’s old, but he’s perfect.”

She laughed. Maya tackled her into a hug. Frances made an undignified noise and slunk away.

“When did he ask?”

“Two days ago.”

Maya gasped. “You held it in for two days?! You sociopath.”

“I wanted it to be ours for a minute.”

Maya nodded. “Okay. That’s allowed.”

Then—softer—“You deserve this.”

She swallowed. Maya brushed her hair back from her face.

“Hey. Look at me.” She did. “I’ve known you through some shit,” Maya said. “Some bad men. Some worse men. Some god-awful years. But this? You and him? This is the realest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Her throat tightened. She reached for her wine glass. Maya stopped her. “Wait.”

“What?”

“Let me ask before I explode.”

She smiled. “Ask what?”

“Can I be your maid of honor?”

She burst out laughing. “You’re not even gonna wait for me to ask?”

“No. I’m taking initiative.”

“Yes. You’re my maid of honor.”

Maya grinned so wide her face went pink. “Yes!” Then paused. “What are we doing? When’s the wedding? Are we eloping? Are we doing City Hall with a dress that makes him cry? Are we renting a house in the Alps? Do I have to wear heels?”

She smiled again. “We’re doing a vineyard. Harry owns one. In Europe. He bought it ages ago. Says it’s quiet and private.”

Maya blinked. “You’re gonna be Mrs. Castillo on a vineyard in Europe?”

“Apparently.”

“I love you. I’m going to cry.”

“And I'm going to cry with you.”

“Also I need to start working on my speech.”

“You have a year.”

“Oh, honey,” Maya said, pulling out her phone. “That’s barely enough time.”

Harry did not like the idea of a wedding planner.

“I don’t want a stranger touching our day,” he said.

“Our day,” she smiled, like she couldn't believe it.

“Yes. Our day.” Harry leaned down and kissed her cheek.

He was annoyingly good at logistics, which meant he somehow became the one who coordinated flights, worked with the vineyard’s staff, hired a local florist, and made a spreadsheet that was both terrifying and perfect. She took over the invitations. They wrote them by hand. On real paper. With real pens. At the kitchen table, elbow to elbow.

“Do people even open mail anymore?” he asked, flipping through the stack of thick cream envelopes she’d bought in Brooklyn.

“They will if it’s from us.”

“Arrogant.”

“Confident.”

He smirked. “God, I love you.”

“Write that in your invitation.”

He started with his star's invitation. To his sister.

Isidora, the card said, in his uneven, blunt handwriting. You once said I was born angry. You weren’t wrong. But I’m less angry now. Maybe because I’ve found someone who makes me feel like I don’t have to defend myself just to exist. I’d like you to come. I’d like your husband to come. The girls too. She wants them there. I do too.

She watched him sign it. Watched him hold the pen like a weapon until he relaxed. They addressed the rest together. Francesca and Luca, obviously. Danny of course. Sadie would try to pretend it was just a business trip, but she’d bring three backup dresses and a portable steamer.

James and his wife, who had quietly become their favorite people. She remembered James hugging her at Harry’s birthday and saying, “I’ve driven that man for fifteen years. I’ve never seen him happy until you.” That was it. Ten people. No cousins. No plus-ones. No press.

Well—almost no press. Because someone at Forbes caught wind of it. Some intern probably noticed a shift in the property record, a flight manifest, and Harry’s purchase of three dozen linen napkins from a French wholesaler.

Sadie called in a cold sweat. “I can’t spin this,” Sadie said. “I can’t even contain it.”

“You don’t need to,” Harry replied. “We’re not hiding.”

“But—”

“No but.” His voice dropped. “They can write whatever they want. But this is ours.”

Later that night, as she folded guest favors into cream tissue paper—little jars of local honey and sprigs of dried rosemary—Harry wrapped his arms around her from behind.

“You doing okay?”

She nodded. “It’s a lot.”

“I can make it less.”

“Don’t you dare.”

He kissed the side of her neck.

“I want it to be beautiful,” she murmured.

“It already is.”

She turned in his arms. “I want it to feel like the start of something. Not the end.”

Harry brushed her hair back. “You are the beginning.”

They sat on the couch with the list between them.

Location: check.

Guests: check.

Music: no playlist yet.

Food: Mediterranean, with her aunt’s lemon pasta on the menu even though the aunt had been dead for ten years.

Vows: unwritten.

Dress: unknown.

That's when she decided to start going dress shoping. Harry insisted, “You deserve the best. Go take the credit card and break something.”

In Paris, she found a dress that didn’t sparkle but whispered. That slipped like water. That felt like herself, if herself was allowed to be worshipped for one entire evening. She texted Harry a single photo of the fabric—a blur of ivory silk in a windowpane of morning light. He texted back: I’m not ready.

When she returned, he waited at the arrivals gate with a bouquet of peonies and a driver who knew not to speak.

Back in New York, the loft felt like it had expanded. Like the rooms were waiting. She started sleeping in one of his shirts again. The oldest one. The one with frayed cuffs and a faded logo from a failed tech company Harry had once invested in, then dismantled for parts. He caught her in it one night. Didn’t speak. Just crossed the room and kissed her like she was fire and forgiveness. The next morning, they made pancakes. She burned the first two. He flipped the rest.

“Do we have to write vows?” she asked, watching syrup pool at the edge of her plate.

Harry nodded. “I do. You can freestyle.”

“I’m going to write them.”

He grinned. “Make them dirty.”

“I’m going to make them holy.”

“You’re already holy.”

She threw a piece of pancake at him. He caught it. A week later, her vows still only had the words, You make me want to stay. That felt like enough. But she kept writing. On napkins. On receipts. On the back of old journals. The vineyard sent updated photos—golden light, neat rows of vines, white stone buildings that looked carved into the land. Harry studied the photos in bed.

Then murmured, “You’ll look good against this.”

She rolled over. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m obsessed with you.”

“I know.” She kissed his chest. Listened to his heartbeat. Slept like someone waiting for something soft.

They mailed the invitations in person. Walked to the postbox together in the rain, Harry holding the umbrella too high, her scolding him the whole way. They mailed ten envelopes. No more. No less. Each one sealed with a quiet kind of faith. They stopped for pastries after. Harry bought two. She stole half of his. He didn’t complain. He never did. Not when it came to her.

By the time spring stretched its way toward the city again, the lemon tree on the rooftop had bloomed. Small white blossoms. Sharp scent. Hope. They stood beside it one night, glasses of wine in hand, watching the sun slip behind the buildings.

Harry said, “Do you ever think about the ceremony?”

She nodded. “Every day.”

“What do you see?”

“You. Waiting.”

He kissed her temple. “And you?”

She looked up. “What do you see?”

He touched her face. “The only thing I’ve ever wanted.”

The wind stirred. The city below buzzed like a secret. And for a long, long moment—There was nothing else. Just them. Just light. Just beginning.

Her wedding dress hung at the far end of the closet. A white garment bag, thick and expensive-feeling, with a gold zipper and a hand-lettered card pinned to the hanger. Her name, in soft cursive. A florist’s ribbon threaded through the loop. Harry walked past it every morning.

And every morning, he paused. He never touched it. Never peeked. Not once. He had a quiet, almost reverent fear of it. Like it might vanish if he looked too closely. But he saw the curve of the hem tucked near the floor. The tiny bow of the ribbon. The card with her name. And it did something to him.

Made his heart slow. Then stutter. Made the coffee in his hand feel warmer. The morning light feel softer. It was a silent, constant reminder—he was marrying her. Her. The woman who burned toast and kept rearranging their fridge magnets to spell out the most random words she could think of. The woman who let Frances sleep on his side of the bed, then teased him for sleeping like a corpse. The woman who made him believe in love again. His future. Right there. In the corner of their shared closet.

Sometimes, when she was still asleep and he was getting dressed, he’d glance at it, just once, and mutter under his breath, “Jesus Christ.”

Not out of nerves. Just out of disbelief. He was really marrying the love of his life. Because this—this quiet life, this rooftop lemon tree, this woman asleep in his bed in one of his t-shirts—was everything he’d stopped believing he could have.

She still visited him at work. Despite herself. She hadn’t wanted to work at the office. Had resisted. Loudly. She didn’t want to be “the girl who sits at a desk outside her fiancé’s door and color-codes paperclips.”

But then boredom crept in. So did curiosity. And the understanding that if she wanted a certain kind of cheese served at their wedding, she had to email six Italian vendors, not two. So she showed up one Tuesday with her laptop and a sharp opinion on chair rentals. And never really left. She didn’t have a title. Didn’t want one. But she took meetings when she felt like it, made suggestions Harry actually listened to, and once rewrote an entire pitch deck because “I couldn’t sleep and you were doing it wrong.”

She’d deliver lunch, too. Sometimes in brown paper bags. Sometimes in Tupperware. Once in a pastry box labeled FOR THE ASSHOLE IN SUITE A. She dropped it on his desk and left without a word. Harry opened it. Smiled. And ate every bite.

His staff watched her like a myth. Not because she was intimidating. But because she was the only person Harry Castillo had ever let into his orbit without pretense. He didn’t bark at her. Didn’t interrupt her. Didn’t ignore her when she curled up on his office couch to read or asked if he’d printed the seating chart. He listened. He smiled.

He sometimes shut his laptop mid-email just because she asked, “Want to go get coffee with me?” And when she did stay home? She wrote her vows. Or tried to. It was harder than expected. Not because she didn’t know what to say. But because every time she tried to pin it down, her words felt too small.

How do you explain I love you so much it makes my hands shake in a way that doesn’t sound like you stole it from a Hallmark aisle? She sat on their couch one afternoon, curled under an old throw blanket in one of Harry’s sweatshirts—gray, frayed, warm from the dryer. Pen in her mouth. Blank page in her lap. Frances on the windowsill, twitching her tail every time a pigeon got too bold.

The sweatshirt was her favorite. It still smelled like his cologne. Or maybe just his skin. She wore it when she missed him, even if he was only five floors away. She chewed the end of the pen, then sighed. Crossed out the sentence she’d just written. Tried again.

You make me feel like I belong somewhere. Not in a house. Not in a city. In a person. In you. Too vague. Too soft. Too—

She groaned and let the pen drop. She needed air. Tea. A distraction. She padded barefoot into their bedroom. Reached for the socks in the laundry basket and noticed it—something crumpled, sticking out from beneath the drawer where Harry kept his extra notebooks. Half-tucked, like it had slipped and never been picked up. She bent down. Pulled it free.

A single piece of thick white stationery, creased in half, faint coffee stain at the top. His handwriting. Slanted. Rushed. She didn’t mean to read it. But she did.

Vows — Draft One (throw this away)

I don’t believe in a lot of things. Not God. Not fate. Not soulmates. But I believe in you.

I believe in the way you look at me when I’m tired and unkind and still trying. I believe in the way you steal my socks and burn my toast and make me laugh when I’m too far inside my own head to find the door out. I believe in how you love me—loudly, recklessly, like I’m not a man who’s ruined everything he’s touched.

You make me believe in things I didn’t ask for. And I want to wake up next to you until my back goes out. I want to read beside you until my eyes give up. I want to argue about dish soap and sing badly in the car and die knowing you knew every version of me and didn’t flinch.

I love you. I’ll love you when we’re old. When we’re boring. When no one knows our names anymore. I’ll love you when I forget to say it.

I’ll love you always. Even after.

–H

Her chest stuttered. She sat down on the edge of the bed. Read it again. Read it a third time. By the end, her hands were shaking. She didn’t cry. Not really. Just pressed the page to her chest and whispered, “Of course I’ll marry you.”

Later, she tucked the draft between the pages of her journal. Didn’t tell him. Not yet. She liked the idea of hearing whatever version he landed on without knowing. But she also liked knowing that he’d written that. That he’d meant it. That even the vow he’d thrown away felt like a liturgy. That night, he came home late. Jacket slung over his shoulder. Eyes tired. Shoulders tight. She met him at the door. Wrapped her arms around him. Didn’t let go.

He let out a breath against her hair. Kissed the crown of her head. “What’s all this?”

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

“I just missed you.”

Harry smiled. “That’s a crime, you know.”

“What is?”

“Being this in love with me.”

She laughed into his chest. “You’re such a menace.”

“And you’re stuck with me.”

She didn’t answer. Just kissed his jaw.

He groaned. “God, you’re gonna wreck me in that dress.”

“You haven’t even seen it.”

“I don’t need to.”

He walked past her into the closet, started unbuttoning his shirt. Paused. Glanced at the dress bag.

His voice went quiet. “I saw your name on the tag today.” She stepped up behind him. Slid her arms around his waist. “I see it every morning,” he added. “Makes my heart do that annoying thing.”

She smiled. “Thump?”

“More like oh fuck, I’m going to cry.”

She kissed his back. Felt him relax. He held her hands over his ribs. They stood like that for a while. Breathing together.

Spring turned to summer. Summer turned to countdown. The vineyard sent updates. Rows of vines stretching green under the sun. White tablecloths delivered. The chef confirmed. The cake finalized—lemon, of course. She picked her shoes. He picked the wine. Maya picked her dress and cried in the group chat. Francesca wrote a toast that involved both the stock market and Harry’s record achievements. Luca offered cigars. Danny offered to keep the peace along with Sadie.

The final week arrived like a wave. And through all of it—through the stress, the softness, the boxes that kept arriving and the seating chart that kept changing—Harry stayed constant. Steady. Warm. The kind of man who took her hand during a chaotic phone call and squeezed it once. Who let her steal the sheets every night and still tucked her in. Who whispered, “I can’t wait to see you walk toward me,” when she was brushing her teeth.

He wasn’t like other men. He never had been. Because when he looked at her, it wasn’t with hunger. It was with reverence. And when she looked back—

It was home.

The rain started like a joke. A single droplet. Then a few. Then the kind of summer downpour that felt sudden even when it wasn’t. New York in June didn’t apologize. The city had no warning systems for softness. Just clouds and concrete and a kind of cinematic surrender.

She loved it. Always had. That thick, humming kind of rain, heat bleeding through it, streets glistening like film stills.

They were already running late. The car had hit traffic, some construction detour with a single blinking light and a cop who didn’t care who Harry Castillo was. He hadn’t said a word about it. Just let his hand rest on her knee while they idled, watching people dart between puddles, laughing and shrieking and slipping on corners that hadn’t been dry in hours.

He looked good that night. Really good. White dress shirt, sleeves pushed up just enough, dark pants that sat perfectly on his hips, the soft graying scruff. His hair was damp at the temples. He smelled like salt and cedar and that cologne she’d asked him never to stop wearing.

She wore a black slip dress that clung a little, in the way silk does when it rains, and a pair of earrings Maya had talked her into. Her umbrella had snapped in the wind earlier that week—cheap bodega plastic—and she hadn’t replaced it. Harry had his own. Big. Dark blue. Old enough to have been repaired at least twice.

When James, Harry's driver, finally pulled up to the curb, Harry slid out first. The rain was heavier now. He didn’t hesitate. He opened the umbrella with one hand, turned toward her with the other, and held it at that particular slanted angle that kept every drop off her—even if it meant soaking the entire right side of his own jacket.

“Harry,” she said quietly, glancing at the growing damp patch on his arm.

He didn’t blink. “Walk.”

So she did. He kept his stride slow. Steady. Let her take his arm like they were on some old movie set. When a gust of wind caught the edge of her dress, he shifted closer, shielding her with the bulk of his body. They looked like money and history and something romantic you didn’t quite believe until it was in front of you.

The restaurant sat tucked beneath the overhang of a building that had been there forever. Brick. Low lighting. The kind of place that didn’t advertise, didn’t seat walk-ins, didn’t trust Yelp. They’d come here a hundred times. Probably more. The host knew her drink order. The chef sent them things “off menu.” One of the waiters always asked about Frances.

They hadn’t been back since the proposal. She’d wanted one last dinner here before they flew out. One last night before vows and vineyards and their honeymoon in Lisbon and waking up with a different last name.

Harry reached for the door first. Shook off the umbrella. Opened it for her, like always. And that was when she saw them.

Lucy. And fucking John. At the host stand. Talking. Laughing. And, for just a moment, not noticing them. Lucy looked exactly the same. That too-long fringe. That half-smile that never quite matched her eyes. She was wearing something tan and soft and undoubtedly expensive. She turned slightly—laughing at something John said—and that’s when she saw them.

Lucy's eyes landed on the ring. His mother’s ring. The one Harry kept in a drawer she’d once been told not to open. Lucy stared. The smile faltered. Then—quietly, calculatingly—she turned fully to face them.

“Harry,” Lucy said, voice slicing through the room like the clink of cold silverware. “Wow. This is a surprise.”

Harry didn’t flinch. Just placed a gentle hand at the small of his fiancé's back and said, without looking at Lucy, “We’re late.”

John, smiling awkwardly, stepped forward. “We’re just visiting. Up for a friend’s reunion. Saw this place on a list and figured—”

“You could afford it?” Harry said, voice dry as dust.

John flushed. “Hey, now. I got a job.”

Lucy smiled tightly. “My father brought him on at the company. Construction management. We just bought a house in Chatham.”

“Good for you,” Harry said, voice so flat it might as well have been printed.

She said nothing. Just watched Lucy. Lucy watched her back. Their eyes met. And Lucy’s gaze dropped—to her dress, to her shoulders, to her ring on her left hand. It lingered.

“That’s...quite a ring,” she said finally. “I recognize it.”

Harry’s jaw shifted.

Lucy continued, lightly, like she wasn’t sharpening a knife. “Didn’t you say nobody was ever going to wear it again? That it wasn’t for public?”

Harry’s voice was quiet. Cold. “I said it wasn’t for you.”

The silence was swift. Even the host blinked.

John cleared his throat. “Guess we didn’t get an invite to the wedding, huh?”

Harry turned to him then. Smiled. Just slightly.

“You didn’t get one because you weren’t wanted.”

John’s mouth opened. Then closed. Lucy’s eyes narrowed. And that was when the maître d’ appeared. Harold. Mid-sixties. Glasses pushed up his nose.

“Mr. Castillo. Miss. Your table is ready.” He didn’t even glance at Lucy. “Apologies for the delay. We’ve kept it waiting. Wouldn’t dare seat anyone else.”

Harry nodded. “Of course.”

He touched the small of her back again, guiding her forward. They didn’t say goodbye. She didn’t need to. He didn’t need to. Their silence said enough.

The booth was tucked in the back. Candlelit. Quiet. Familiar. Harry didn’t speak for the first full minute. Just reached for the wine list, handed it to her without asking, and then drummed his fingers once against the white linen tablecloth. She stared at him. He stared back. And then—slowly—he smiled.

“That was terrible,” she said, laughing before she could stop herself.

Harry nodded, smiling, trying not to laugh with her. “It was terrible.”

“She saw the ring.”

“She’s always wanted something that wasn’t hers.”

“She looked like she wanted to bite it off my hand.”

“She can try,” he said, “but I’m faster.”

She laughed again. He didn’t. He just looked at her. Really looked. And then leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, fingers brushing hers.

“I like you in the rain,” he said.

She tilted her head. “Why?”

“Because you love it. And it puts you in a good mood.”

She blinked.

He shrugged. “And because I get to get wet shielding you.”

She laughed. “You're an idiot.”

“Your idiot.”

They ordered the usual. The wine they always liked. The burrata with the peaches. The pasta with saffron. The steak, rare, because Harry swore medium was for quitters.

The waitress—Jess—winked at them as she dropped off the plates. “I’ve already told the chef. He’s sending dessert. Congratulations on your engagement, again.”

“Thank you,” she said, cheeks flushed.

Harry nodded once. His hand was still on hers.

“I want to be out of here before they eat their first course,” he said, very seriously.

She smiled. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Only in defense.”

“Of?”

“You.”

She went quiet and smiled. He let that sit. By the time dessert came—some fig tart thing she didn’t even order—she had forgotten all about the host stand. Because Harry had leaned in again.

And told her, in that gruff, quiet voice that always hit her somewhere low in the chest, “Seeing that ring on your hand might actually kill me.”

She smiled. Soft. Lethal.

“Then it’s doing its job.”

They walked out an hour later. The rain had stopped. The streetlights cast everything in gold. Harry opened the umbrella anyway. Held it above her head, just in case.

“Old habit,” he muttered.

She slipped her arm through his. They walked to the car like the world hadn’t tried to dig up old ghosts. Like love was the only thing that had survived. Because it was. And it always would be.

Lucy didn’t finish her drink. The stem of her wine glass had been pressed between her fingers for too long—skin warming the Sauvignon, knuckles pale from the grip. She wasn’t listening to John anymore. He’d been talking about something—renovations, tile samples, maybe the way her father had offered him more work. She couldn’t recall.

Her gaze had drifted, caught somewhere near the front of the restaurant, where the door still lingered open just enough to let the evening draft roll in. Where Harry and the woman he's going to marry, walked out of the restaurant. The air smelled like wet concrete and wood polish. It reminded her of something old. Something half-remembered. Her nails tapped softly against the glass. She kept seeing it. The ring. That ring. Harry’s mother’s ring.

The one he used to keep locked in a drawer with a tarnished clasp, buried under tax returns and a folded menu from a restaurant that didn’t exist anymore. Lucy had found it once. Early on. When they were still new and reckless and playing house in his penthouse like they didn’t know it was going to burn.

She’d slipped it onto her finger, the way anyone would, the way a girl tries on an outfit she doesn’t think she’s earned. She remembered standing in the mirror. Turning her hand this way and that. Admiring it in the soft hallway light.

He’d seen it. He hadn’t smiled. Hadn’t even looked at her with anything resembling fondness. Just a slow, flat, “Put that back.” And she had. Because it hadn’t belonged to her. It was too heavy. Too real. It had memory in its shape, in the way it sat on her hand like judgment. Now, years later, she'd seen it again.

But this time—

On her. The girl. His girl. The girl who Lucy called a child. In her words 'You brought a child to my wedding.'

Lucy had felt it like a crack along her spine. The sick sort of click when reality shifts a little to the left and you realize you've been left behind without anyone needing to say it. She tried not to watch them walk out. Really, she tried.

John was saying something again—probably trying to fill the space, bridge the chasm that had opened the second Harry’s voice slid across the room like ice. Something about how they must be excited to be heading to Europe soon. Something about Harry’s “usual table” being available when they come back.

But Lucy didn’t care. Her eyes were on him. On Harry. Through the glass, she could see them in profile—him holding the umbrella just slightly off-center, his right shoulder soaked. Always the shoulder. Always the goddamn coat. The same one she used to tease him about, said he looked like a detective in a French movie.

And her. She looked older now. Not aged, just... solid. Like she'd grown into her own skin. Same soft jawline. Same thoughtful mouth. The kind of beauty that didn’t need permission. Her dress clung to her in the rainlight. Her hand slipped naturally into the crook of Harry’s arm.

And the ring—That ring—caught in the glow of the streetlamp like a quiet fuck you. Lucy exhaled slowly. Her chest felt tight.

“Do you think it’s real?” she asked suddenly, cutting into John’s monologue.

He blinked. “What?”

“Them,” she said, voice softer now, like she was trying to convince herself she didn’t already know. “Their relationship. Their wedding. Do you think they are actually going to go through with it?”

John paused. Sipped his wine. Then, slowly, said, “It looks like it.”

Lucy nodded once. Didn’t look at him. She watched the umbrella close as Harry opened the car door for her. Watched her slip inside, glancing back just once with a grin. Not at the building. Not at the window. Just toward him. Her future husband.

Like she knew he was watching.

“You okay?” John asked, voice cautious now.

Lucy didn’t answer right away. She ran a finger along the condensation of her glass, drawing a small circle, then another. Finally, she said, “Do you remember the night of our wedding reception?”

He blinked again. “Which part?”

“When she showed up. With him.”

John sighed. “Yeah. Hard to forget.”

Lucy looked at him now. “Do you remember what I said to her?”

“You were upset.”

“No,” she said, sharper. “Do you remember what I said?”

John hesitated. Then nodded. “You called her a child.”

Lucy looked away. Back toward the window.

“They’re going to France,” she murmured. “That vineyard. The one he bought before the market crash.”

“How do you kno—?”

“Because I asked once,” she said. “Back then. When I thought maybe I could make a life with him. Asked if we’d ever get married somewhere quiet, somewhere real.”

“And he said?”

Lucy smiled tightly. “He said he didn’t believe in weddings.”

John didn’t speak. Because he knew. He knew it now too. That Harry Castillo had simply been waiting for the right person. Not a woman who understood appearances. Not a girl who grew up in a house that held grudges like trophies. Not someone like Lucy.

She watched as the car disappeared down the avenue, taillights slipping into the current of the city. The server came by with their entrees. She didn’t eat. Just sat there, napkin folded in her lap, staring at the ring on someone else’s finger burned into the backs of her eyes. Because she knew what that ring meant. And she knew that when Harry had looked at her, he had never been capable of the softness she saw when he looked at her.

That wasn’t regret. It wasn’t bitterness. It was something colder. Something closer to envy. Because Lucy, for all her knowing, all her proximity to wealth and power and privilege—

Had never been loved like that. And now she never would.

While Lucy, back at the restaurant was reeling at her table, the couple she was thinking about had just arrived at their loft

The rain had slowed to a whisper against the windows, the kind of hush that made the rest of the world feel like it had stepped back to give them space.

She toed off her shoes by the door, barely speaking. Harry didn’t, either. But the air had changed. Something tight lived in the silence now—something hungry. It shimmered between them, thickening every breath.

He locked the door behind them without looking away.Then—slowly, deliberately—he stepped toward her. One hand still damp from the umbrella, the other hanging loose at his side. His shirt was rumpled, clinging to him in places where the rain had soaked through. The cuff of his right sleeve was pushed up, exposing his forearm and the hairs at his wrist.

She watched him. Harry watched her back. Like a man who had held back for too long. He touched her first. Just a hand to the side of her neck, fingers curling under her jaw like he was steadying her. His thumb brushed the soft hollow beneath her ear, and she let out a breath like it had been trapped in her chest all evening.

Then he leaned in. Kissed her—not gently. Harry's mouth landed on hers like possession. Tongue parting her lips, thumb tilting her chin up to give him more. He kissed her like a man with patience but no more restraint. Like someone who had memorized the taste of her and still couldn’t get enough.

When he finally pulled back, their breath mingling in the space between them, he murmured, “You have no fucking idea what you do to me.”

She smiled, lips kiss-swollen. “Show me.”

His eyes darkened. He stepped forward—pressing her back until her spine hit the wall. Then he kissed her again. And again. And again. His hands moved now—everywhere. Cupping her face, then sliding down to her waist, then gripping her ass hard enough to pull her hips flush with his. She gasped when she felt him—hard against her stomach, straining through his slacks.

“Been like this all night,” he muttered into her neck. “Watching you walk around in that dress. Smile like that. Touch me like it’s nothing.”

“Harry—”

He grunted. Bit down softly on the edge of her shoulder. She whimpered.

“You think I don’t know what you’re doing to me?” he growled. “You think I don’t know you’re wearing that fucking ring and looking at me like you want me to lose control?”

Her breath hitched. He pulled back just enough to see her face.

“You like it,” he said darkly.

She nodded. “Yes.”

He exhaled like that answer hurt. “You’re gonna kill me, baby.”

“Then die,” she whispered, “on top of me.”

That was it. He dropped to his knees. Right there. In the middle of the loft. No ceremony. No warning. Just his large, calloused hands curling around her thighs as he shoved her dress up past her hips.

“Fucking hell,” he hissed when he saw what was underneath. “No panties?”

“Didn’t want lines.”

“I fucking love you.”

He leaned in. Bit the inside of her thigh. She gasped.

“Hold onto the wall,” he said, voice guttural.

She did. Hands braced behind her. Eyes wide. Then—His mouth. His mouth. It met her with such greedy precision that she nearly collapsed. Tongue flat against her clit, then curling. Then flicking. Then sucking.

And he moaned into her. Like this was the meal he’d been starving for. His grip on her thighs was bruising in the best way—anchoring her to him as he feasted. And feasted. No mercy. No slowing. Just Harry—on his knees, devouring her like she was the only thing on this earth that could save him.

“Harry,” she whimpered, knees buckling.

He groaned. “Say my name again.”

“Harry—oh—fuck—”

He sucked harder. She came apart. Loud. Clutching his hair. Whole body trembling like she’d been struck by something divine.

He kept going until her thighs twitched. Until her breathing stuttered. Until she whimpered, “I can’t— please—”

Then he kissed the inside of her thigh, his lips slick, facial hair damp. He looked up. Eyes blown.

“You taste like heaven,” he rasped. “Like mine.”

She didn’t remember how they got to the bedroom. She remembered him carrying her. Holding her like she weighed nothing. Like she was something precious and burning and fragile all at once.

He set her on the bed. Didn’t follow immediately. Just stood there for a moment. Looking down at her.

Then he stripped her first. Slid her dress off over her head. Then he stripped himself. Button by button. She watched every piece fall. Watched the shirt drop from his shoulders—broad and solid, with arms that still made her ache. Watched the undershirt come off. Watched his stomach—soft, comforting, familiar—bared to her like a confession. He caught her looking. Paused. She sat up on her elbows. Reached out. Touched his stomach.

“I love this part of you,” she whispered.

He swallowed. “You’re gonna ruin me,” he said again.

Then pushed his pants off. His cock sprang free—thick, heavy, already leaking. She sat up fully now. Reached for him.

But he shook his head. “No. Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because I need to be inside you. Now”

He knelt on the bed. Spread her legs gently. Like an offering. And then—

He slid in. Slow. Careful. But deep. She gasped. He grunted, jaw clenched, trying not to lose it.

“God, you feel good,” he breathed. “Every time. Every fucking time.”

She moaned. He began to move. Not fast. But with purpose. Like every thrust had a message. Like he was trying to say I love you with every inch of his body. He kissed her neck. Her jaw. Her shoulder. Her breast. Every part of her he could reach.

“You’re mine,” he growled into her skin. “You’re going to be my wife.”

“Yes,” she gasped.

“You belong to me.”

“Yes.”

“And I’ll spend the rest of my life proving you made the right choice.”

He fucked her harder then. Rougher. But still careful. Still worshipful. His hand came between them, rubbing soft circles against her clit. His mouth never stopped moving. Kisses. Praise. Obscene promises.

“Gonna make you come again,” he whispered. “Gonna feel you squeeze my cock and lose your mind.”

She did. Hard. Arching up. Crying out. Clutching his back with nails that left marks. And he came with her. With a shout. A groan. A final thrust so deep it made her see stars. He collapsed on top of her.

Sweaty. Spent. Still inside. They didn’t move. Just stayed like that. His body heavy over hers. Her fingers combing through his hair.

She whispered, “I love you.”

And he—still breathless—murmured against her shoulder, “I’d burn the world down for you.”

She smiled. Pulled the sheet over them. Held him tighter. He didn’t fall asleep immediately. Just stayed inside her, even as his cock softened, holding her like she was the only thing tethering him to earth. Because maybe she was.

They should’ve been asleep. The sheets were tangled. The air warm with sex and sweat and something sacred. He was still inside her. Slowing. Softening. Breathing hard against her shoulder. The weight of him grounding her. Wrapping her in heat.

But Harry Castillo wasn’t done. Not even close. Because when she shifted—just slightly—he growled. Low. Animal.

“Again,” he rasped. “Need you again.”

She blinked up at him. Eyes still hazy, lips parted. “Harry—”

His hand slid down her thigh, lifting it over his hip. The movement pressed his cock deeper again—still there, still thick, still very much a presence. He kissed her jaw. Her mouth. Bit her bottom lip.

“Don’t care how tired you are,” he whispered, voice like smoke and sin. “You’re not getting up until I make you cry again.”

She whimpered.

He smirked. “Yeah. There she is.”

Then he pulled out—just enough to make her gasp—before slamming back in with a force that stole her breath.

“Oh my God—”

“Not God, baby,” he growled. “Just me.”

Her nails dug into his shoulders. He welcomed the sting.

“Harry—fuck—”

“You feel that?” he grunted, hips snapping into hers. “Feel how wet you still are for me? How your pussy won’t let me go?”

She nodded, moaning. “Y-yes—”

“Fuckin’ knew you were made for me.”

He leaned down. Kissed her throat. Her collarbone. Bit the edge of her breast until she arched into him.

“Your body’s so perfect,” he murmured. “So soft. So fuckin’ mine.”

Then rougher, “Look at you. Dripping on my cock like you want me to fuck a baby into you.”

Her eyes flew open but she moaned. Loud. “Harry—”

“Yeah,” he growled. “Bet you’d take it. Bet you’d let me fill you up and beg for more.”

She whimpered—louder now. And he lost it. He flipped her onto her stomach in one motion, like it was nothing. Grabbed her hips. Pulled her back. She barely had time to gasp before he was inside again—deeper now.

From behind. One hand on her lower back, the other in her hair. Her cheek pressed to the sheets. Her mouth fell open. And Harry fucked her. Harder. Rougher. Still in control. But wild. Every thrust was a statement. This is mine. You’re mine.

“Look at you,” he growled, panting. “Back arched. Ass bouncing. Taking this cock like you were fucking built for it.”

“Please—Harry—I’m gonna—”

“Do it. Fucking do it. Let me feel you fall apart on me again.”

She shattered. Came around him like she’d never come before. Screamed into the mattress. He grunted—loud—and slammed in once more, spilling inside her with a groan that sounded like something ancient, like something only she had earned. He stayed there. Deep. Still. Then he moved again. Slow. Shallow. Because he wasn’t done.

“You can come one more time,” he said low, filthy and sweet. “Gimme one more, baby. Just one more.”

She shook her head, crying now—not sad, just overwhelmed. And Harry kissed the back of her shoulder.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

Then—again. His fingers slid between her legs.

“Shh,” he cooed. “One more for me. Be a good girl.”

And she did. God help her, she did. She came again—wrecked, sobbing into the pillow, body trembling, legs useless. He kissed her spine as she collapsed fully, lowering both of them to the bed without ever leaving her. He curled around her from behind, one arm tight around her middle, his cock still buried in her.

“You’re so fucking good to me,” he whispered.

She couldn’t answer. She just breathed. He kissed her shoulder. Her temple.

“You still with me?”

She nodded. Barely.

“Good,” he whispered. “Because I’m not letting go.”

Then—softer still—

“I’ve been waiting my whole life for someone to let me love them like this.”

And she melted in his arms. Because Harry Castillo wasn’t just wild in bed. He was devoted. Feral. Tender. Vulgar. Romantic. Hers. Forever.

The room smelled like sex and sweat and skin. The sheets were soaked. The pillows half-off the bed. The lamp still glowed low, casting soft golden light across their tangled limbs. She laid boneless, breath shallow, eyes closed. Floating.

Harry didn’t move for a while. Just held her. One arm wrapped around her ribs, the other under her head, fingers stroking her hair like he was still grounding himself. He kissed the back of her neck. Then her shoulder. Then just breathed her in.

“You alive?” he asked softly, voice rough with exhaustion and something quieter.

She hummed. That was all she could manage. He smiled into her skin.

Then shifted, slowly, carefully, slipping out of her with a groan that felt more reverent than lustful. He sat up, rubbed his hands over his face, and let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh.

“You destroyed me.”

She snorted, eyes still closed. “You did all the work.”

“I stand by what I said.”

He leaned down. Brushed her hair off her cheek. Kissed the corner of her mouth.

“Stay there,” he murmured. “Don’t move.”

She didn’t. Didn’t want to. But she heard him pad barefoot across the room. Heard the soft creak of the bathroom door. The rush of water. The gentle thud of the cabinet opening. When he came back, he was holding one of their thick white towels—her towel. The one she always stole from the linen shelf. The softest one.

He crouched by the bed. Wiped between her thighs first. Gentle. Slow. Not clinical. Loving. She flinched, still sensitive. “Sorry,” he said softly. “I know. I know, baby.”

His fingers were careful. Thorough. Once he was done, he tossed the towel into the hamper by the door and scooped her up like she weighed nothing. She made a sleepy sound of protest.

“You need a shower,” he whispered. “Just a quick one. Then you can collapse on me again.”

She let her head fall onto his shoulder. Nuzzled in.

“I’ll carry you the whole way if I have to.”

“You already are,” she mumbled.

He kissed her temple. “Spoiled brat.”

But he carried her into the bathroom anyway. The steam had already filled the space. The shower was on—warm, not too hot. The kind of perfect he knew she liked without asking. Always had. He stepped in with her still in his arms, only setting her down when the spray hit their skin. She gasped slightly. The water soaked her hair, slid down her back.

Harry reached for the shampoo first. He did this slowly. Like a ritual. Poured it into his palm, worked it through her hair with strong fingers, careful not to tug. He massaged her scalp. Tipped her head back under the water. Watched the suds slide away. Then the conditioner. Then the body wash. All without saying much. He just washed her. Took care of her. Worshipped her in the most mundane way possible.

“Arms up,” he said quietly.

She obeyed. He washed her underarms, her stomach, her thighs. When he knelt to do her legs, she touched his hair. Twisted a damp strand between her fingers.

“You don’t have to do all this,” she whispered.

“Yes I do,” he said simply.

Then kissed her knee. When she finally blinked, she realized he’d already washed himself, too. That he’d done it fast—efficient—because all his focus was on her.

They stepped out together. He wrapped her in a towel. Rubbed her dry. She giggled when he got to her hair.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “This part never goes well.”

“You’re better at it now.”

He smirked. “Practice.”

Once she was dry, he walked her into the bedroom again. The sheets were already changed—he must’ve done it in the two minutes she wasn’t looking.

“I was very efficient,” he said when she blinked at the bed.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re welcome.”

He helped her into pajamas—his shirt, of course. The one she loved. The old one with the faded lettering and a frayed collar. Then kissed the top of her head.

“Go sit,” he said. “I’m making tea.”

She padded barefoot into the kitchen. Curled onto the couch with a throw blanket. Frances blinked at her from the windowsill, unimpressed, then curled back into a ball. Harry moved around the kitchen like a man on autopilot. Filled the kettle. Pulled out her favorite mug. Tossed in a tea bag. Herbal. Soothing. He added honey. Carried it over without spilling. Then—because he always did—he sat beside her and waited for her to sip first before resting a hand on her thigh.

“Good?” he asked.

She nodded. “Perfect.”

He leaned back. Let out a slow breath. His body ached. She could tell. He shifted like a man twice his age but smiled like a teenager in love.

“You okay?” she asked softly.

He nodded. “My back hurts. My thighs are killing me. I might never walk right again.”

She snorted.

“But I’m so fucking happy.”

She looked at him. And believed it. The soft light from the kitchen made the gray in his beard shimmer. His eyes were softer now. Barefoot. In sweats. Damp curls pushed back. The kind of man no one saw like this except her. She curled into his side. He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her into his chest. They didn’t talk for a while. They just breathed.

Until she said, “You didn’t have to change the sheets.”

“I couldn’t let you crawl into a crime scene.”

She laughed against his shoulder.

He kissed her forehead.

After a while, he stood again. Scooped her back into his arms with a groan. “One more trip.”

“To the bed?”

“To heaven.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re so dramatic.”

“And you’re in love with it.”

He set her down on the clean sheets. Climbed in beside her. Pulled the blanket up. Wrapped himself around her like armor.

When the light clicked off, she whispered, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For all of it.”

He pressed a kiss to the back of her neck. And whispered, “I’d do it a thousand times.”

Then, “Sleep, baby. I’ve got you.”

And she did. Always.

Two days passed the way all sweet, strange days do when something big is waiting on the other side of them—quiet, deceptively slow, marked by the kind of soft rituals that feel like a pause before a life shifts.

She had spent most of the time barefoot in their loft. Doing what, she couldn’t exactly say. Folding things that didn’t need folding. Opening drawers. Staring at her wedding dress bag and then walking away. Sometimes she just stood still in the middle of the kitchen like a clock trying to remember what its hands were supposed to do.

Harry had been...Harry. Brooding, purposeful, half-distracted but not with her. Never with her. If anything, he moved around her more like a shadow that kept checking in—running a hand down her back when he passed, kissing her temple without a word, standing behind her when she stared into the fridge like she’d find answers in the shelves.

The day before their flight, she caught him repacking one of the carry-on trunks. A serious crease between his brows. Like the positioning of the charger cables might determine the entire outcome of the wedding.

“You know it’s all going in the same jet,” she said, wrapping her arms around his middle from behind.

“Incorrect,” he murmured. “This is the jet with you in it. That means it has to be perfect.”

She pressed her cheek against his back. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You knew that when you said yes.”

She smiled into his shirt. “I did.”

He turned then. Tipped her chin up. “Everything’s going to be perfect.”

“I don’t care if it’s not.”

He kissed her, slow and soft. The morning they left New York was gray in the way June sometimes is—low clouds that made the air feel suspended. The kind of overcast that made the world seem quieted, as if someone had turned down the volume knob.

Frances was already gone.That part had been surprisingly hard. Harry had insisted on delivering her himself to Danny’s sister on the Upper West Side. He’d said he didn’t trust anyone with their girl, not even the concierge they knew by name. Only Danny’s sister got the greenlight.

And even then, he’d grilled her on feeding times, her window perch, what she liked and didn’t like when it came to brushing. Frances hadn’t even looked back when they left.

“She didn’t even care,” he said in the car afterward, arms crossed, sulking like a man twice her size had just been personally rejected by a cat.

“She knows we’re coming back,” she had said. “She’s not mad.”

Harry didn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “You always do that.”

“What?”

“Make me feel less stupid about caring.”

“You’re not stupid. You’re in love.”

He glanced at her then, eyes warm beneath the sharp set of his brow. “Yeah. I am.”

They arrived at the airfield just past noon. The sun had finally come out—split the clouds like something divine and golden had changed its mind about withholding.

Her dress was carried aboard by Harry himself, the garment bag over one arm, his other hand steady at the small of her back like he could shield her from gravity.

She hadn’t seen him sleep the night before. She had, once or twice—through the blur of her own nerves and the quiet hush of early morning—but he always seemed to be awake. Reading something. Checking his watch. Watching her like she was the steady thing keeping him from unraveling.

The jet smelled like leather and cedar. Her dress was hung with reverence in the back cabin. A hook installed just for it.

“You packed everything?” she asked, curling into one of the leather chairs while the staff moved quietly behind them, prepping for takeoff.

“Everything,” he said. “Three times.”

“I still feel like we forgot something.”

Harry sat across from her, eyes steady. “We didn’t.”

“You sure?”

“I’ve waited my whole life for you. You think I’d let packing be the thing that ruins it?”

She felt her throat tighten. “You’re being sweet.”

“Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation.”

“You might get an ulcer.”

He smirked. “I'd get anything for you.”

They buckled in as the engines kicked up, a low hum that turned quickly into a roar. Harry didn’t look away from her. Not once. She watched out the window as New York disappeared beneath the clouds. Slowly. Then all at once.

The flight to Avignon was smooth. Long, but quiet. She slept part of the way, curled under a soft gray blanket with her legs folded up beside her and her head on Harry’s thigh. He didn’t move. Just kept a hand on her arm, thumb stroking the skin absentmindedly. She could feel the heat of him even in her dreams.

When she woke up, he was reading. His glasses were low on his nose—only for the plane, only for her. The frames were dark, delicate, and completely at odds with the man who wore them. She reached up, gently pushed them up the bridge of his nose.

“Hi,” she murmured.

His hand found her hair. “You slept.”

“So did you.”

“Nope.”

She sat up slowly. “Harry—”

“I don’t sleep on flights.”

“You’ve been on flights your whole life.”

“Still don’t sleep.”

She frowned. He leaned in. Kissed her forehead. “I’ll sleep when you’re my wife.”

They arrived in the afternoon. The vineyard shimmered like something half-plucked from a dream. Olive trees lining the drive. Grape vines in perfect rows. A light breeze that caught the lavender just right and made the entire hillside smell like peace.

The house was old. Stone. Weathered in the way that made it beautiful. Her name had already been added to the door plaque beside his in the study. Harry had done it the week before. Quietly. Without asking. Just...made it true.

Their guests would arrive in staggered groups over the next two days. For now, it was just them. And the quiet. And the land.

And the kind of light that made time feel like it had slowed to the pace of breath.

She kicked her shoes off by the front door, again. Looked out at the land from their bedroom window. Harry stood behind her. Didn’t say a word. Just wrapped his arms around her middle and let the sun warm both their faces.

“I love you,” she whispered.

“I love you too,” he said back.

Later that night, they walked the grounds barefoot. She carried a wine glass. He carried a lantern.

The staff had lit candles in mason jars along the gravel path toward the altar. The view overlooked the valley—mountains in the distance, the sun setting like something spilling gold across the whole world.

He didn’t let go of her hand the whole walk. Not once. They stood where they’d say their vows. The chairs were empty. The flowers not yet placed. But it already felt full. Like something had bloomed there already, invisible but pulsing.

“You nervous?” he asked softly.

She shook her head.

“You?”

“No.”

She looked at him. He was staring at the valley. Then down at her.

“I’ve never been more sure.”

She touched his face. “Good.”

He leaned in. Kissed her once. Twice.

Then said, low, in that way that only she ever heard, “You’re it for me.”

She smiled. So did he. Then they walked back. Slowly. Past the grapes, past the lanterns, past the soft hum of France settling in for the night. And in the main house, as she curled into him under an old quilt, the world stilled again. It was happening. Finally. And it felt like everything had been building to this. To them.

The next morning began with the sound of crates being unloaded.

It was early—not so early that the sky was still dark, but early enough that the hills around the vineyard were cloaked in that quiet, silvery mist that always seemed like it should come with piano music.

She woke before Harry, not by much, and not for long. He followed shortly after, groaning at the stretch of his back as he stepped out of bed barefoot, in nothing but his boxers and the scowl of a man who slept five hours and drank half a bottle of wine the night before.

“Is there a reason someone’s banging around outside like it’s a construction site?” he muttered, raking a hand through his graying curls.

She was brushing her teeth already, barefoot in the bathroom, one of his T-shirts hanging off one shoulder. “Cake,” she said through a mouthful of mint foam.

“Cake?”

She spat, grinned. “Wedding cake.”

His expression didn’t shift, but she could see something soften in the set of his mouth. Something like amusement. He leaned on the doorway, arms crossed, watching her like a man who still couldn’t believe she existed.

“We’re really doing this,” he said quietly.

She wiped her mouth on a towel, turned, and walked to him. “You say that like I’m going to back out.”

He kissed her forehead. “I’d still chase you.”

“I know.”

They made their way downstairs slowly, the kind of slow that came with time. Their rhythm had fallen into something domestic, something patient and known—she pulled the French press from the counter while he opened the windows, muttering something about how the air smelled different here, like crushed rosemary and old rain.

Outside, a delivery van had parked near the side garden. The pastry chef and two assistants were unloading a multi-tiered, half-finished cake into the house kitchen, careful and focused. Another vehicle was idling further up the dirt road—full of crates, ingredients, imported oils, things she’d never remember the names of but that Harry had probably signed off on himself.

From the porch, she watched as a young chef—barely twenty-five—stepped out of the second van, wiping his hands on his apron like he’d just completed something sacred. He looked nervous. The kind of nervous that said he’d heard of Harry before.

Harry leaned against the doorway beside her, sipping his coffee. “That kid looks like he’s about to shit himself.”

“Be nice,” she said, bumping her hip into his. “Not everyone’s immune to your face.”

“My face is fine.”

“It’s the eyebrows.”

He snorted. “Here I was thinking you liked them.”

“I tolerate them. The nose makes up for it.”

He glanced at her sideways, smile just barely there. “That so?”

She kissed his jaw. “That’s so.”

By noon, the place was alive.

The vineyard staff moved around them like the quiet hum of honeybees—setting up wooden trellises, moving chairs and lanterns, arranging tables under the olive trees with casual expertise. The arch where they would stand had been wrapped with early greenery and a few starter blossoms, soft ivory and pale green. By the end of the day, the rest of the flowers would come in—wild roses, sweet peas, clematis, jasmine. It felt like something slowly unfurling.

Harry stayed close all morning, rarely more than a few feet away. Sometimes he gave orders in that clipped tone of his that made people obey without asking questions. Other times, he said nothing—just stood behind her with a hand in his pocket, watching her talk to the florist or adjust the seating chart again for the fifth time.

“You know it’s the same people no matter where you put them,” he said, glancing over her shoulder while she squinted at the paper.

“But the energy matters.”

He made a noncommittal sound. “Maya doesn’t care if she’s on the left or the right.”

“She might.”

“She won’t.”

She looked up at him. “Are you going to complain about me being meticulous now?”

He bent low. Kissed her cheek. “I’d rather you plan it than me.”

“That’s what I thought.”

He lingered behind her, arms slipping around her waist, face pressed to her shoulder. “You smell like coffee and lavender. I love it.”

“You smell like me.”

“You’re welcome.”

By the time five p.m. rolled around, she had already changed into a soft linen dress and pinned her hair up. She’d been in the sun all day, laughing with the staff, fussing with the tables, stealing sips of Harry’s wine when she thought he wasn’t looking.

Harry had swapped his shirt twice. He was in a dark linen button-down now, sleeves rolled to his elbows, sunglasses perched on top of his head, and a look on his face that said don’t talk to me unless you’re her.

But when the car that held Isidora and her family pulled up, something in him broke open.

It was subtle. No fanfare. Just a shift—like someone had reached into his chest and unknotted something that had been tangled too long. His back straightened, but not with tension—with something closer to hope.

She touched his arm gently. “She’s here.”

He nodded once.

Isidora stepped out of the car with her husband first—Luis, tall, clean-shaven, polite in a gentle, almost invisible way. Then the girls spilled out.

Yvette was the older one, maybe ten. Dark curls, sharp eyes, already unimpressed by the gravel drive and her baby sister’s endless chatter. Shiv was younger—seven, maybe eight. All limbs and laughter, skipping ahead like she’d already claimed the vineyard as her playground.

Harry stood still. She watched his face closely. He didn’t blink.

Isidora was the last one out. She wore a cream linen set and the kind of sunglasses only elegant younger sisters could pull off. She looked more Paris than Spain these days. But when she took them off and smiled at Harry, the years fell away.

“Hello, brother,” she said.

Harry cleared his throat. Looked down. Then stepped forward. It wasn’t dramatic. Just real. They hugged.

And it was awkward at first—like they’d both forgotten how—but then it changed. She saw it in the way his shoulders dropped. The way his hand pressed against his sister’s back. The way her eyes got glassy but she didn’t say anything.

Luis nodded politely to her. “You must be the woman who made this possible.”

“I guess I am,” she said, smiling.

Shiv ran straight up to Harry and tugged on his hand. “Are you the grumpy uncle?”

Harry blinked. Looked down. Then slowly crouched to her level.

“Who told you I was grumpy?”

“Mama said you never smile.”

He tilted his head. “You think that’s true?”

Shiv considered it. Then grinned. “You’re smiling now.”

He chuckled. Soft. Rare. Yvette stood at a distance, arms crossed. He looked at her. “You too cool to say hello?”

Yvette shrugged. “Maybe.”

He stood. Walked to her. Ruffled her hair with one large hand.

“You’ll warm up,” he said. “Everyone does.”

That night, the house felt full. She made tea. Harry lit the fire outside, even though the air didn’t really call for it. The girls sat on the stone steps eating little plates of cheese and olives. Luis helped one of the vineyard staff bring in a crate of wine. Isidora wandered the garden with her, talking about how strange it was to see her brother laugh.

“I forgot he could,” Isidora said, sipping her wine.

She glanced over at Harry. He was pouring juice for Shiv, sitting on the low stone wall like he’d always been someone’s tío.

“He’s different with you.”

“He’s still himself,” she said.

Isidora smiled. “That’s what I mean.”

When everyone had gone to their rooms, she found Harry alone in the study. Shirt unbuttoned at the throat, a glass of wine in his hand, one leg hooked lazily over the arm of a chair.

“You did good today,” she said.

He looked at her. “You brought them here.”

“You brought the wine.”

He set the glass down. Pulled her into his lap. She fit perfectly there. Always had. He pressed his face to her collarbone. Breathed deep.

“They’re good kids,” he murmured.

“They love you already.”

He didn’t respond. Just held her tighter.

After a while, he whispered, “Thank you for not letting me die alone.”

She blinked. Then pressed her lips to his forehead.

“You were never alone,” she said softly.

He didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. Because his arms never loosened. And the house smelled like rosemary and wood smoke. And she was home.

Morning came on a soft breeze. She woke alone—Harry had gone out early, something about making sure the florist didn’t leave the arch lopsided—and the sheets were still warm where he’d been. His side smelled like him, a mix of cedar and old soap and something sharp that always lingered on his collars. She reached for it, just for a second, fingers curled into the pillow. Just holding the shape of him.

Outside, it was quieter than usual. The kind of quiet that wasn’t emptiness, but expectation.

She stood slowly, still wearing one of his T-shirts, and padded barefoot toward the window. The air outside had turned golden, honeyed and soft, the morning light spilling across the gravel drive and down the sloping rows of vines. She could already hear movement near the west lawn—footsteps, soft laughter, a crate being set down.

More flowers had arrived. Delphinium, roses, foxglove, narcissus. Creams, blushes, blood-wine purples. The staff carried them like offerings, careful hands delivering stem after stem to tables and corners and vases lining the stone walls.

She opened the window, breathing it in. Then heard a knock. When she turned, Harry was standing in the doorway, hair wet, fresh from the shower, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, that familiar grumpy furrow to his brow that usually meant something had gone not quite to his liking. But his eyes softened when he saw her.

"You didn't eat," he said, stepping inside. A small white plate in his hand—toast, sliced fruit, a folded napkin tucked beside it like he’d rehearsed the delivery.

“I was going to come down.”

“You didn’t.”

She smiled, taking it from him. “Thank you.”

He grunted, kissed her temple. “Eat all of it.”

“I will.”

“You say that, and then I find toast crusts hidden in your napkin.”

She grinned, dragging him down for a proper kiss. “I’ll eat all of it. I swear.”

He gave a satisfied nod but lingered at the edge of the bed, watching her eat like it was the most fascinating thing he’d seen all morning. “They should be landing soon. I told James to send a text once they’re on the road from the airstrip.”

She nodded, mouth full of melon.

He paced a little, adjusting the cuffs on his shirt.

Then, awkwardly, “I, uh…I talked to the jeweler.”

She looked up.

He cleared his throat. “For you. Since… y’know. I proposed with my mother’s. You deserve another ring for our ceremony.”

She set the plate down. “Harry—”

“I picked something simple. I thought about doing something bigger but…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “You’re not a chandelier kind of girl.”

“No,” she said quietly, “I’m not.”

“So it’s just… plain. Platinum. Thin. But it’ll sit under hers like it’s been waiting.”

Her eyes stung.

“You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” he said, with that steel certainty he always saved just for her. “You’re not marrying a man who half-asses the details.”

She smiled, stood, pressed her face to his chest. “I got you a ring, too.”

“You did?”

She nodded. “It’s hidden in my vitamin bag.”

He snorted. “Of course it is.”

The guests began to arrive one after the other, small groups of them stepping out of the long black cars Harry had arranged—private, simple, efficient. James and his wife first, polite and beaming. Then Sadie from PR, surprisingly flushed and holding the hand of a short-haired woman with wide eyes and perfect posture. Francesca and Luca followed, both look older now—Luca had grown into the kind of lanky that made the bride smile. Francesca had new bangs. They hugged her like family.

And then, finally, Danny and Maya. Still pretending they weren’t together, which was more transparent than ever now that Maya was wearing Danny’s sweatshirt tied around her waist and Danny kept touching her back in that absent, protective way men do when they’ve already decided she is mine.

Harry didn’t comment on it, of course.

Just shook Danny’s hand and gave Maya a rare smile that was almost fond. “You both made it.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Maya said, hugging her tightly.

Everyone scattered to their respective rooms—Harry had insisted everyone stay on the vineyard itself, a cluster of small stone guesthouses scattered like pearls across the slope. No one argued. It was impossible to want to be anywhere else.

She and Harry wandered through the grounds as more chairs were delivered, more linens unpacked, more glassware unwrapped.

At one point, she caught him adjusting a table setting himself, muttering under his breath about forks being off-center.

“You’re not allowed to be this controlling on your own wedding weekend,” she teased.

He glanced up. “This isn’t controlling. This is precision.”

She stepped closer. “You’re a menace.”

He let her loop her arms around his middle, despite the eyes of the staff nearby. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, let his hand linger on the back of her neck.

“You’re marrying this menace.”

“I know,” she said softly. “Gladly.”

The day passed in golden slowness. There were wine tastings with James’s wife, who had a secret palate and guessed each vintage without looking. There was a plate of thinly sliced jamón and marinated olives that she ate with Maya in the shade of a cypress. Harry disappeared once or twice to check on the chef’s preparations—“I don’t trust anyone with garlic but myself”—but always returned, like his body couldn’t go too long without orbiting hers.

By late afternoon, the long outdoor table had been set for the pre-wedding dinner. A single taper candle at each seat. Vines coiled along the center. Plates so clean they caught the light like mirrors. It looked like something from an old painting—simple and reverent.

She turned back toward the house to change when she felt it. That familiar shift in the air. The way it always felt when he was behind her, without a sound. She didn’t turn around. He touched her wrist lightly.

“Come upstairs with me.”

She blinked. “Why?”

“I need to show you something.”

“Harry—”

He leaned in, his mouth close to her ear, voice quiet. “It’s not a trick. I promise.”

She followed. They climbed the stairs together slowly.

The sun had begun to dip. Shadows stretched long across the hall. One of the windows was open—grapes growing just outside, still ripening. The hallway smelled like warm linen and something sweeter, something herbal, probably from the candles she’d unpacked the day before.

His room was at the end of the corridor. One of the guest rooms no one had touched. She stepped inside first. Then stopped.

The bed was made—neatly, precisely. Her pillow was on one side. His on the other. Their usual comforter. A candle lit on the nightstand. The soft cotton robe she always wore folded at the end of the bed. On the dresser, a photo of her and Frances, taped to the mirror, slightly crooked. And there, next to the sink in the adjoining bath—her toothbrush, set beside his. Her skincare already on the counter.

She looked at him.

“I can’t sleep without you,” he said quietly.

Her chest ached.

“But we’re not supposed to see each other the night before.”

“I know.” He stepped in, gentle. “We won’t.”

She gave him a look.

“I mean it,” he said. “Lights off. You on your side. Me on mine.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“I won’t even breathe too loud.”

“You’ll snore.”

“I’ll apologize in the morning.”

She stepped into his arms. He held her like the world was ending.

Like tomorrow was already here.

“You ready?” she whispered.

“I’ve been ready since the second I saw you on those steps.”

“You hated me that day.”

“I didn't hate you. I wanted you that day.”

She smiled into his chest. “Shut up.”

“Sue me.” He kissed her hair, breathing in. Then whispered into the top of her head, “We’ll turn off the lights. I just need to know you’re there.”

“Okay,” she said.

And it was.

The evening light slipped through the window like gold silk. The guests laughed faintly down below. The vineyard held its breath. And upstairs, in a room built just for one night—just for them—he kissed her one more time.

Then let her go. Just for now. Because tomorrow was the wedding. And she would be his. Forever.

The sun began to slope low across the vineyard, bathing everything in that kind of old gold light that made skin glow and stone blush. The tables had been set hours ago—linen napkins folded into soft half-moons, polished silverware gleaming under the trees. Vines wrapped the legs of the chairs. A single taper candle burned at every seat, the flame flickering against the soft hush of the countryside.

She stood barefoot at the edge of it all, a glass of white wine in one hand and a curl of her hair caught behind her ear. She hadn’t put on anything dramatic. Just a soft blue dress that hit mid-calf and clung gently to her back every time the breeze rolled in. The neckline scooped low, square and delicate. She’d let Maya braid the crown of her hair an hour ago, with two wildflowers stuck haphazardly in, as if plucked by accident.

Harry had watched the whole process in silence from the porch. Now, he was behind her.

“You look like a goddamn Botticelli painting,” he murmured, his hand coming to rest on the small of her back.

She turned her head slightly, just enough for her smile to find him."Big words for someone who claims they can't spell Baroque."

"I can spell it. I just can't stand it."

"You’ve got drama with Baroque now?"

He just shrugs. She laughed quietly, letting her fingers brush the back of his hand. He wasn’t dressed up either—linen trousers, a white shirt open at the neck, sleeves cuffed up his forearms, the smallest hint of the bullseye tattoo on his hand visible when he reached for his wine. His hair was still damp from the shower, pushed back messily, with a single unruly curl falling toward his brow. The kind of disheveled that made her feel something between her legs.

His nose was sharp. His jaw shadowed with gray scruff. His mouth looked perpetually like it was thinking of something sharp to say, even when he wasn’t. She wanted to kiss him every time she looked at him.

“You keep staring,” he said under his breath, not looking at her.

She sipped her wine. “So do you.”

He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “That’s because you’re mine.”

She didn’t say anything back. Didn’t have to.

Instead, she slid her fingers into his—warm, calloused, familiar—and walked with him to the table, where their people were already gathering like a soft orbit.

Maya had kicked off her sandals within five minutes of sitting down. She was nursing her second glass of rosé and kept adjusting the tiny wildflower tucked behind her ear like it personally offended her every time it drooped.

Danny, sitting beside her, had rolled his sleeves up to his elbows and had the kind of farmer’s tan that came from refusing to wear sunscreen. He was slicing bread with the laser focus of someone trying not to say something emotional.

Across from them, Francesca and Luca were already bickering softly over whose turn it was to pass the olive oil. Francesca had braided her hair into a tight coil at the base of her neck and was wearing a silk slip dress that made her look like she belonged on an old Italian postcard.

Sadie was seated near the end, arm draped casually around her girlfriend’s shoulders, the both of them in loose linen and dark nail polish. Sadie kept making quiet commentary about the table setting—“I’m going to steal these napkin rings”—and her girlfriend just hummed agreeably while popping cherry tomatoes into her mouth like popcorn.

James and his wife had taken the seats closest to the head of the table, both of them glowing with the kind of married contentment that came from years of knowing which wine went with which kind of cheese. His wife had brought a notebook with floral sketches in it. James had brought a bottle of port older than their hostess.

Isidora was seated at the other end, flanked by her two daughters—Yvette, who was asking the waiter whether there would be dessert, and Shiv, who was wearing one of Harry’s old baseball caps, was trying to convince everyone she was drinking champagne when it was apple juice.

Harry, predictably, didn’t sit until everyone else had. He made two rounds first—checking the wine, adjusting a seat cushion, muttering something to the waiter about the temperature of the plates. She didn’t interrupt him. Just watched. Quietly. The same way she always did when he slipped into that mode—that obsessive, precision-focused place where care and control bled into each other until he’d exhausted both.

When he finally dropped into the seat beside her, he exhaled like he’d been holding his breath all day. She reached for his hand under the table. He squeezed once. Then twice. Then didn’t let go.

The first course was something light—melon and prosciutto with a drizzle of local honey and a crumble of something sharp. Harry picked at it with a faint frown, eyes narrowing every time he hit a bite that didn’t feel cold enough.

“You’re judging the food,” she whispered.

He didn’t deny it. “It’s pretense until the lamb arrives.”

She snorted.

“I’m serious.”

“You’re a menace.”

“You picked me.”

He turned his head and kissed her temple. Soft. Familiar. Like it was already habit.

Maya gave a toast somewhere between the bread course and the grilled vegetables. She hadn’t warned anyone. Just stood with her glass and cleared her throat dramatically.

Harry leaned over to her and muttered, “She’s going to make me cry.”

“You won’t cry.”

“I absolutely will.”

Maya raised her glass. “I wasn’t going to say anything tonight. I was going to save my speech for tomorrow. But then I realized I’d already cry too hard at the ceremony and possibly forget how to speak, so—here we are.”

Danny passed her a napkin without a word. She took it.

“I’ve known her since she was sixteen. She was angry and sharp and stubborn and half-feral, and I adored her immediately. I knew she was going to grow into something terrifyingly good.”

She shifted, glass trembling slightly.

“I didn’t know she’d find someone who deserved her.”

Harry blinked once. Stared hard at the table.

“But you do,” Maya said, voice softening. “You see her. And you let her be seen.”

She looked at her then. “You love him like it’s a fact of nature. Like gravity. Like breath.”

Then at Harry. “And you…you are still a terrifying man. But you’re kind to her. Gentle. Devoted. And I’ve never once doubted you would protect her.”

Harry raised his glass. Didn’t speak. Just nodded once. Just smiled. That was enough.

Everyone drank. Dinner stretched into the soft dark. The sun sank lower, and the candles began to glow brighter. The temperature dropped slightly. Luca ran inside to grab sweaters. Francesca wrapped herself in a shawl and pretended she wasn’t crying during Sadie’s accidental heartfelt comment about love being a quiet thing. Harry barely ate his potatoes. She stole them. He noticed. Didn’t comment. Just pushed the rest of his plate toward her.

“You’ll be too full for dessert,” he said.

“Not possible.”

“Bold statement.”

She smirked. “I’m marrying you. I have to be bold.”

That earned her a faint smile, crooked and warm.

He leaned in. “You’re gonna kill me in that dress tomorrow.”

“You haven’t seen it.”

“I don’t have to.”

She nudged his foot under the table. He nudged back. Gentle. Comfortable. By the time dessert arrived—tiny pear tarts with sugared herbs—Harry’s hand had wandered to her thigh under the table, casual, unmoving. His thumb drew slow circles just above her knee.

She turned to him at one point, whispered, “You good?”

His answer was quiet. “Best I’ve ever been.”

They lingered longer than they meant to. The wine bottles emptied. Shiv fell asleep in Isidora’s lap. Yvette asked if she could braid her aunt’s hair. Danny and James smoked cigars near the fountain while Francesca and Sadie argued about floral arrangements. Maya retold the story of the proposal twice—once for Luca, once for Sadie’s girlfriend, both times with more dramatic flair than was strictly necessary.

Harry stayed beside her through all of it. Never far. Always within reach. At one point, she leaned into his side, tucked her head under his jaw, and he exhaled into her hair like it had been his plan all along.

“You tired?” he murmured.

“A little.”

“Want to sneak away?”

“Not yet.”

“Okay.”

He didn’t press. Just kissed the top of her head. Eventually, the guests began to peel away—slowly, reluctantly, like children being called inside after playing too long in summer light. Francesca said goodnight with a low bow and a wink. Maya tackled her into a hug. Danny just looked at Harry and said, “She’s the best thing you’ve ever done.”

Harry nodded. “I know.”

And when they were finally alone—just the two of them, the candles low, the air thick with the scent of warm sugar and cut rosemary—Harry didn’t say anything at first. He just pulled her into his chest. Held her there. She let herself be held.

The sky was dark now. The stars blinked low over the hills. Somewhere in the distance, an owl called once. Then again. Harry’s heartbeat thudded slow and steady beneath her ear. She didn’t want to let go. She didn’t have to. They walked back to the house in silence. His hand never left her back. And when they climbed the stairs together, passed the still-open window and the soft curl of incense from the hallway table, she stopped outside the room where she wasn’t supposed to sleep.

Harry opened the door first. Then turned. Held it for her.

“Lights off,” he said, voice low. “No funny business.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You think I’m the one who starts it?”

He smirked. “You are.”

“Bold.”

“True.”

She stepped inside. He followed. And that was it. The night before the wedding. Their last as fiancés. And it had been simple. Beautiful. Mundane. Just them. And their people. And the kind of love that didn’t need proving. It had already been lived. And tomorrow—It would be named.

And then the sun rose. It came in slow, spilling across the vineyard like honey over warm bread—thick, golden, unhurried. The kind of light that filled rooms before sound did. The kind that didn’t wake you with urgency, but with the quiet certainty that something mattered.

She felt it first against her cheek. The warmth of it. Then the weight behind her—the long, anchored line of Harry’s body still curled into hers, solid and warm, one arm draped heavily around her waist, the other tucked beneath her pillow like he’d buried part of himself under her just to be sure she wouldn’t vanish. His breathing was slow. Deep. The kind that only came with rare sleep.

She shifted slightly. The bed creaked. Harry made a low, half-conscious sound, somewhere between a hum and a growl, and pulled her closer. His nose brushed the back of her neck. He always did that. Always found the softest part of her and stayed there. She closed her eyes again.

Just for a second. Let her fingers slide over his forearm, the veins and hair and warmth of it. He smelled like skin and sun-dried cotton and the faintest hint of the cedar soap he insisted on traveling with because “other soaps makes me itch like a bastard.” She loved him and his sensitive skin. God, she could stay here forever. But she wouldn’t get the chance.

Because that was when the door slammed open. “Motherfucker!”

She jolted. Harry didn’t. He just grunted. Then, lazily, “Close the door, Maya. You’re letting the bees in.”

“No,” Maya snapped, stomping across the room. “You’re letting tradition die in its sleep.”

“Maya,” she tried, barely able to speak through a sleepy laugh, “what the hell are you doing—”

“Dragging your romantic, traitorous ass out of this bed like a proper maid of honor, because you’re getting married in four hours and you slept with the groom.”

“She didn’t sleep with me,” Harry said, not opening his eyes. “She just slept.”

“Same bed,” Maya hissed. “That’s sacrilege.”

“Calm down, we didn’t elope.”

“She’s wearing your shirt.”

“It’s her shirt now.”

“I’m going to scream.”

Harry finally cracked one eye open. His voice was a husky murmur. “Do it outside.”

Maya pointed at him like he was a cat that had brought in a mouse. “You. Don’t move. Don’t even think about sneaking a kiss. If I see you near her before the ceremony, I’m cutting off your coffee supply for a year.”

Harry’s mouth curved. Not quite a smile. Just the slow, crooked pull of amusement he saved for the few times someone entertained him. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“You don’t.”

He stretched. Long. Deliberate. The sheets fell low on his hips.

Maya immediately turned around, groaning. “Disgusting.”

“Don’t look then.”

“Oh my God.”

His bride was laughing now. Fully upright, one hand in her hair, the other gripping the edge of the blanket like it might shield her from Maya’s wrath. Harry hadn’t moved to cover himself. He never did. But his fingers brushed hers beneath the sheet, one last anchor before the day really began.

“I’ll see you later,” he murmured, low enough that only she could hear it.

“You better.”

Then Maya was yanking her out of bed like she was still nineteen and late for something she didn’t remember signing up for. She kissed Harry’s forehead quickly, then let Maya drag her down the hall barefoot, groggy, her legs still loose with sleep and the aftertaste of closeness. The room Maya brought her to was enormous. The biggest sun room she's ever seen. Old stone walls. Exposed beams. Soft French light. And everywhere—everywhere—was care.

The dress was hanging from a brass hook in the corner, the ivory fabric spilling like cream onto the fainting couch beneath it. Her shoes were lined up in a row on a woven mat, with backups beside them. Skincare was arranged by order of application. Her makeup bag—packed by Maya—was open and blooming with options. A mirror stood tall in the corner, flanked by two vases of fresh lavender. A tray sat near the chaise with three linen napkins, two pitchers of water, and an untouched espresso.

Maya crossed her arms, smug. “You’re welcome.”

She blinked. Swallowed. “You did all of this for me.”

“Of course I did.”

She turned slowly in the room, taking it all in. The candle Maya must’ve lit an hour ago. The playlist humming softly in the corner, instrumental, slow. The card on the nightstand that said you’ve already won in Maya’s handwriting.

“I love you,” she said.

“You better. You’ve turned me into a monster. I ordered a clothing steamer. A steamer. Do you even know how ugly those things are?”

“You’re my maid of honor.”

“Damn right I am.”

The next hour passed like water through fingers. She sat in a chair while Maya curled her hair and told her stories about a wedding she once attended when she was a child in California where the bride caught fire (not dramatically, just enough to lose her veil). They laughed through mascara. Drank espresso. Argued over lip liner colors.

Every now and then, she touched the sleeve of Harry’s shirt she was still wearing and smiled. She hadn’t taken it off yet. Couldn’t quite make herself do it. She kept looking at the dress. It didn’t feel like the dress. It felt like a door. And she wasn’t sure what would be on the other side once she stepped through it. A knock at the door breaks her thoughts. Harry’s voice, muffled.

“Can I come in?”

Maya froze.

“No! No!”

“I have her breakfast.”

“You can pass it through the door like you’re in some tower.”

“Christ.”

There was a pause. Then a tray appeared, gently nudged through the barely cracked door.

Maya snatched it like it might explode. “Thank you, goodbye, she’s mine now.”

“I could bench press you,” Harry muttered.

“I could poison the appetizers.”

Then she slammed the door again and turned to find her grinning.

“He’s ridiculous.”

“So are you,” Maya said, setting the tray down. “Eat. Or I’m feeding you like a baby goat.”

She lifted the lid. Toast. Eggs. Two slices of roasted tomato. A cup of tea with cream. And—folded neatly under the napkin—a note. She saw it immediately.

Maya raised a brow. “He’s nothing if not dramatic.”

“Give it.”

Maya handed it over to the bride. She unfolded it slowly, thumb brushing the edge of his handwriting—blunt, sharp, all angles and pressure. It wasn’t long. Just this:

You slept with your leg over mine all night.

You drooled on my chest.

You still looked like peace.

In a few hours, you’re going to walk toward me and I’ll stop breathing.

You are the only thing I’ve ever truly wanted.

Don’t be nervous.

You’re already mine.

—H.

Her throat closed. She folded it back. Pressed it to her chest.

Maya didn’t ask what it said. Just leaned over and kissed the top of her head.

“You okay?”

She nodded. But her hands shook. Not with fear. With knowing. This was really happening. She was marrying a man who would spend the rest of his life making her feel like a choice, not a default. A man who still watched her like she was something he didn’t think he deserved. Who whispered I’ve got you in the dark and meant it.

A man who never once flinched at the truth of her—That her father had ruined lives and called it ambition. That her brother had folded under the weight of it and never gotten back up. That her mother had boarded a plane in the middle of the night and never sent a letter. That her name came with apologies. That her survival came with guilt. Harry had never asked her to apologize for any of it.

Only said, once, in a whisper, “You didn’t cause the storm. But you’re the one who walked out of it.”

She breathed in. Looked at herself in the mirror. And slowly began to unbutton the shirt. The dress slid over her body like a promise. Ivory. Heavy. Beautiful. It didn’t sparkle. It didn’t shout. It whispered. Like the life she was stepping into. She turned slowly in the mirror, fingers brushing the soft silk. Her hair was curled down her back. The earrings glinted. Her hands were steady. Her heart wasn’t. Because it was full. And when Maya came to stand behind her, brushing imaginary lint off her shoulder, she saw it too.

“You look like the beginning of something.”

She met Maya’s eyes. Smiled.

“I feel like it.”

The ceremony would begin soon. But for a few more minutes— She stood still. Let herself feel the quiet. Let herself hold that note to her chest, eyes closed, one hand on her heart. And in the distance—

Down the slope of grapevines and chairs and string lights—

Harry Castillo was waiting. And he was trying not to fidget. Which, now at fifty-six, with a reputation for stoicism that terrified executives and made junior associates piss themselves, was saying something.

He was already dressed. It wasn’t complicated. A dark suit—deep charcoal with a faint texture you could only see up close. No tie. Crisp collar. One button closed. Clean shave. Polished shoes. A watch on his wrist she’d gifted him on his birthday, the inscription hidden on the back: This is the only time I want you to keep track of. His hair was still damp from the shower. His sleeves were rolled to the wrist, not an inch higher. He’d redone the buttons twice. They were perfectly aligned now, of course, but he kept glancing down at them like something had shifted when he wasn’t looking.

James stood nearby, sipping a small glass of white wine that Harry hadn’t offered.

“You’re pacing,” James said mildly.

“I’m not pacing.”

“You’ve walked that length of stone floor seven times.”

“I counted eight.”

Danny leaned against the arched doorframe of the study. His tie was loose—he hadn’t bothered to fasten it yet—and he was chewing on the end of a toothpick like he’d been born in a Western.

“You nervous?” Danny asked.

“No.”

“You look nervous.”

Harry shot him a look. Danny shrugged, easy. “It’s good. Means you give a shit.”

Harry didn’t reply. Just exhaled through his nose and checked the small paper in his breast pocket—again. The final version of his vows, folded once, worn at the crease.

James wandered to the window. “The chairs are all set. Florist’s finishing the arch. I think Sadie yelled at the pastry chef.”

Harry blinked. “What about the garland for the chairs?”

“Done.”

“The wine labels?”

“Lined up.”

He turned. “The music cues?”

Sadie appeared then, slipping through the side door with the quiet assurance of someone who managed entire legacies in heels and silk blazers. “Handled. We even tested the speakers. Twice.”

Harry opened his mouth. Sadie held up a hand.

“Whatever it is—don’t. It’s done. All of it. If you so much as try to adjust a candle, I will drug you.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You can’t speak to me that way.”

“I’m your publicist. I have to speak to you that way.”

Danny snorted. “She’s right.”

Harry looked at them all—Sadie, James, Danny—and for a moment, the weight of it hit him. This wasn’t a press event. This wasn’t a deal closing. This was his wedding. His.

And she was upstairs. In a room he wasn’t allowed to enter, surrounded by women who knew more about serum and chiffon than he ever would. She was probably scowling at a mascara wand. Or reading something to calm her nerves. Or laughing too loud. Or looking at herself in the mirror like she didn’t quite believe this was real. Like she didn’t know how much it cost him to ask her to believe it. He swallowed. Checked his watch. Then turned toward the door that led outside.

“Where you going?” James asked.

Harry grabbed a small folded envelope from the side table. “I’ll be back in five.”

The vineyard stretched wide. The vines were in full bloom, green and humming, the earth warm and soft underfoot. He walked slowly. Deliberately. The breeze tugged at the open collar of his shirt. The sun was warm but not oppressive. He took the long path. The one that curved behind the main rows, past the slope where the kitchen herbs were grown, toward a quieter, less manicured corner. The dirt was dry here, the stones old. The kind of place you didn’t landscape. You left it wild. Let it remember.

He stopped at the fence post that was painted blue last summer, for no reason other than she liked the way it looked. Then crouched beside the vines. And pulled out the letter. It wasn’t long. But it was his:

To my mother,

You didn’t get to meet her. You would’ve liked her. You would’ve seen it. The way she looks at me. The way I look back. You once said I wasn’t made for quiet things. Turns out I just hadn’t earned one yet.

I’m getting married today. She’s younger than me. She’s smarter than me. She drives me insane and makes me calm in the same breath. And she found that ring in a drawer I swore I’d never open again. I’m giving it to her. Because no one else ever should’ve worn it.

You said I was born angry. But today, I’m not. Today, I’m grateful. You got me here. Even if you didn’t mean to. I hope you can rest now. I’m going to try.

—Harry

He folded it again. Tucked it between the roots. Brushed his fingers over the soil like a benediction. Then paused. Because something else was already there. A scrap of paper, half tucked beneath the next row over. Smaller than his, paler. Folded once. He reached out slowly. The name stopped him.

Teddy.

He didn’t touch it. Not at first. Just stared at it. Let the wind move around him. Then, carefully, he opened it. Her handwriting. He knew it. Every curve. Every sharp edge. It wasn’t dated but you could tell it was written recently. Just this:

Hi. I don’t know if I believe in these kinds of things. But today, I needed you to know. I’m okay.

I’m marrying a man who doesn’t flinch when I tell the truth. I’m marrying someone who knows where I come from and stays anyway. I wish you could’ve met him. You’d like him.

You’d pretend not to. But you’d watch the way he makes coffee. The way he touches me like he’s afraid I’ll leave. The way he folds my laundry when he thinks I’m not looking.

He’s stubborn. And smart. And he sleeps on the left side even though he hates it.

I miss you every day. I wish you’d stayed. But I’m staying. For both of us.

—Your sister

Harry sat down. Right there in the dirt. Bent over, elbows on his knees, jaw tight, shoulders still. He didn’t cry. But his throat ached. He folded the note again. Put it back. Where she had. Two notes, side by side. His and hers. For ghosts.

He stayed there a long time. Not saying anything. Just breathing. Letting the wind move. Letting the silence settle. Letting the weight of it all—grief, love, history—press into the earth where it belonged. Then, finally—He stood. Straightened his jacket. Checked the time. And walked back. When he reached the edge of the main house, James was waiting.

“You good?”

Harry didn’t answer right away. Just nodded once. James held out a boutonniere. Small. White. A little crooked. Clearly done by his bride.

“She’ll kill you if you forget it.”

Harry pinned it to his lapel without comment. Then glanced toward the path that led to the arch. He exhaled. Rubbed his hand over his mouth. “Let’s go.”

The chairs were full now. The guests were seated. The sun was beginning to shift behind the cypress trees, the light going soft and golden, the kind of light photographers prayed for and poets wrote about. The musicians began to play.

And Harry Castillo—Formerly the most unshakable man in New York, the one with the steel mouth and the colder eyes, the one who had once said love is for idiots—

Stood at the altar. And waited for the woman who changed everything. The sky held its breath. The vineyard had quieted, hushed under the weight of what was about to begin. The chairs were filled, but no one was speaking. The wind moved slow. The leaves barely rustled. Even the sun seemed gentler, like it was trying not to interrupt.

Harry stood still. At the top of the aisle, near the arch they’d built together with quiet hands and too many revisions, he stood in his dark suit, one hand curled loosely in front of him, the other brushing the edge of his watch. His brow was tense in that familiar way—creases drawn deep between his eyes, like he was already enduring something. But his mouth was soft. No scowl. Softer than anyone had seen it in years.

The first to walk were his nieces. Yvette and Shiv. Small flower crowns, bare feet in the grass, baskets held too tight in their small hands. Yvette looked unimpressed, carefully sprinkling petals like they were tax documents. Shiv took the whole thing more seriously than anyone—biting her lip with concentration as she scattered pink and white blossoms across the aisle like breadcrumbs in a storybook.

Harry blinked hard.

Then harder when Shiv grinned at him as she passed and whispered, “You look nervous.”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Maya followed. Chin up, eyes bright, holding a small bouquet like it owed her rent. She looked proud. Not of herself. Of the moment. Of her best friend. Of the history she’d lived through to get here. She nodded once at Harry as she passed, as if to say don’t fuck this up. Then Isidora. She moved like a woman who knew her brother had spent his whole life angry and finally wasn’t. She gave him a look that meant nothing and everything, then took her place beside Maya near the front isle..

And then. Then—Her.

The dress wasn’t extravagant. Not like the ones you see on Bridezillas. It didn’t glitter. Didn’t pull the eye with beading or boning or a train meant to make a statement.

It was silk. Ivory. Slipped like water across her skin. Sleeves to the wrist. A subtle, impossible plunge at the front that made his chest seize. The back was low. Low enough to see the line of her spine. The dip of her waist. She walked with her ballet heels, hair pinned but loose at the edges, skin glowing like the moment belonged to her.

Which, of course, it did.

He exhaled once—too sharp. Tried to catch it. Failed. Then blinked. Then blinked again. His throat went tight. His jaw twitched. He hadn’t cried in thirty years. Not when his mother died. Not when his father left. Not when he’d made his first million or his first hundred. Not when he burned the business down and rebuilt it again from ash. But this? Watching her walk toward him—He broke. Quietly. Without fanfare. Just a single tear that slid down the sharp cut of his cheek. She saw it. Of course she did.

Because when she walked, she didn’t look around. Didn’t wave. Didn’t scan the chairs. She walked like she had a target. Like he was gravity. Like she didn’t believe in aisles or arches or ceremony but still—somehow—believed in him. And he watched her the way men watched miracles. She stopped just in front of him, bouquet clutched in both hands like it was anchoring her.

“Hi,” she whispered.

“Hi,” he rasped, voice broken glass and breath.

They didn’t touch. Not yet. But it was like their bodies leaned, instinctively, as if the air between them wasn’t enough anymore. The officiant cleared her throat—gently, politely, like she’d seen a thousand of these and still understood how sacred the beginning was.

“If you’re both ready,” she said, smiling.

They nodded. The ceremony wasn’t long. They’d agreed on that. Just what needed saying.

The officiant began with something simple. A few words about love, about timing, about the way people come into each other’s lives not to fix them but to hold them steady while they fix themselves. About how choosing someone every day is a decision made quietly and relentlessly.

Then it was vows. She’d insisted Harry go first. And he had. He pulled the paper from his pocket. Smoothed it once. Cleared his throat. Then looked at her. Not at the crowd. Not at the trees. Just at her.

“I wrote this so many times I forgot what the first version said. You remember. You found it.”

Laughter stirred behind them. She smiled, eyes glinting.

“But this one—I meant this one. Every word. Every pause. I don’t believe in soulmates. But I believe in choice. And I choose you. Every morning. Every minute. I choose the way you look at me like I’m not broken." Harry sniffles softly.

Another tear comes down his eye. She wipes his softly with the back of her hand.

"I choose the way you burn toast and then claim it’s on purpose. I choose the way you let me be quiet. I choose the way you don’t let me stay there too long. I choose the night you found the ring. I choose the look on your face when you said yes. I choose the version of myself that only exists when you’re near."

She gets choked up with tears. If she hadn't decided to work that party at the Met, she wouldn't have met him. Her husband.

"I choose you. I will always choose you. Even when I forget how to say it.”

He folded the paper. Hand shaking slightly. And stepped back. She was still staring at him like she was memorizing something. Then she reached into her bouquet. Pulled a small folded card from between the stems. And began.

“I wrote this in a journal. Then on a napkin. Then on the back of an old receipt. I didn’t think I’d ever get it right. But maybe that’s the point. There’s no right way to say, you saved me. You didn’t fix me. You didn’t try. You just made space."

Harry smiled tearfully.

"You made it okay to be someone who lost things. A father. A mother. A brother. You never asked me to stop carrying them. You just offered to carry some of the weight with me. You did it by refilling my coffee without asking. By letting me yell about spreadsheets. By tucking the blanket around my ankles without waking me. By brushing my hair back when I pretend to be asleep."

So many nights where she would fall asleep on the couch and wake up in bed. Wrapped in his arms.

"You did it by loving me like I’m something worth staying for. And I will stay. I will choose this. You. The morning breath. The quiet. The stubbornness. The loyalty. The attitude. I will take all of it. I will hold it in my palms and call it home."

Sniffles were heard throughout their limited guests.

"Because that’s what you are. You are home.”

When she looked up—Harry had stopped blinking again. But he was still breathing. Barely. The officiant smiled. Wiped at her own cheek.

“By the power vested in me—”

Harry stepped forward. Hands at her face. Mouth against hers. They kissed. Not hard. Not hungry. But full. Anchored. Like something settled. Like a promise made without needing words. The crowd laughed. Soft. Startled.

The officiant raised a brow. “I wasn’t done.”

Harry pulled back just enough to murmur, “I was.”

She laughed. Shaky.

The officiant sighed, half-smiling. “Then let it be known—before I could say it—that you are husband and wife.”

Maya cheered. Francesca whooped. James clapped once, solemn and proud. Isidora didn’t cry, but her jaw trembled. Harry didn’t look at any of them. He looked at her. And only her. She pressed her forehead to his, fingers sliding up to his jaw.

“You cried,” she whispered.

“Shut up,” he murmured.

“I’m keeping that forever.”

“Put it in your vows next time.”

She kissed him again. Gentle. Final. Everyone stood. Chairs scraped softly. Champagne popped somewhere off to the side. The sun dipped behind the hill just slightly, brushing everything in a layer of light that looked painted.

And Harry Castillo—once the coldest man in any room—wrapped his arm around the woman he loved and walked down the aisle like the only thing that had ever made sense was her hand in his.

Because it was. And it always would be them.

Mr and Mrs. Castillo.

TAGLIST @foxfollowedmehome @glitterspark @sukivenue @hhallefuckinglujahh @wholesomeloneliness @bebop36 @maryfanson @aysilee2018 @msjarvis @snoopyreadstoday @woodxtock @lasocia69 @jakecockley @just-a-harmless-patato @romancherry @southernbe @canyoufallinlove @aomi-recs @ivoryandflame @peelieblue @mstubbs21 @eleganthottubfun @justgonewild @awqwhat @xoprettiestkat @prose-before-hoes @indiegirlunited @catnip987 @thottiewinemom @rainbowsock4 @weareonlygettingolderbabe @hotforpedro @petertingless @lemon-world1 @jasminedragoon @algressman16 @la-120 @totallynotshine @joelmillerpascal @inesbethari @peedrow @escapefromrealitylol @mrsbilicablog @lunpycatavenue

#harry castillo #harry castillo x reader #materialists #materialists fanfic #harry castillo x you #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal x y/n #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #the materialists fanfic #the materialists #harry castillo fanfiction #harry castillo fic

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wildestdreamsblog · 7 months ago

Text

The Story of Us

Pairing: Mahwa Character!Min Yoongi x Reader

Summary: You wake up in the body of the second female lead in a manhwa, determined to rewrite your fate. No longer willing to be trapped in unrequited love for the elusive main lead, Min Yoongi, you set out to change the ending of the story. But leaving him behind isn’t as simple as you thought. As the lines between fiction and reality blur, the narrative begins to shift in unexpected ways—Yoongi, who was once only devoted to the main female lead, starts to see you in a new light. Can you escape the cycle of heartbreak, or will you find yourself entangled in a love story you never asked for?

or in which Yoongi found out you aren't from that world and refuses to let you leave.

Warnings: Yandere behavior, Obsessiveness, Possessiveness, Manipulative behavior, Mention of death, If you’re not 18+ please, PLEASE, do not interact. Be mindful of the warnings. Let me know if I miss anything.

A/N: Happy 6k to me!!! It's finally here. Those who already read the unedited fic know the scenes I added here... I went crazy again and wrote additional 3kish words. I hope you enjoy!

“Does self-love mean nothing for you?”

You commented lightly at the second female lead as you flipped the page. In your hand was the manhwa your friends were gushing about. They went on and on about how dreamy the main lead was for weeks and how annoying the second female lead was until you finally gave in and went to a bookstore one late night. The cover was unassuming, a mere illustration of a man with dark hair and a milky white skin. Despite the chatters of the few customers, it was like it all went silent when you held the manhwa in your hand. You had no rationale as to why you were staring so hard at the main lead, nor why you felt a jolt of electricity when you traced your finger on his face.

The sudden and inexplainable zap of electricity was enough for you to put the manhwa back to its shelf where it belonged. You had enough for today, you thought. It must be your late nights that finally got to you. You turned and started to walk away when you heard someone called your name.

“Are you not going to buy that?”

You blinked owlishly, turning to look your surroundings before realizing that the voice had come from behind you where an old woman with a pleasant smile on her face stood. You didn’t hear her walk, sure that it was only you in that section of the bookstore.

“Excuse me?” you asked in confusion with her sudden question.

She offered you a smile before reaching for the manhwa you were touching moments ago. “This. Are you not going to buy this?”

You glanced at the book in her hands, the cover innocuous enough—a pale-faced man with dark eyes, his expression unreadable, a haunting sort of beauty that seemed to shimmer under the dim light of the store. The same man whose face had burned into your mind the moment you’d traced your finger over it.

"Huh?" you muttered, not entirely sure what to say. "Oh, no... I—" You fumbled with your words, caught between politeness and that unsettling pull you couldn’t deny. “I’m just looking.”

She tilted her head slightly, her smile never wavering, but there was something deeper there now—an unreadable warmth and perhaps... a warning? "Such a shame. This is the last piece," she continued, her fingers running over the cover with a tenderness that made your heart race. "Are you sure you don’t want to enter his universe?"

You stared at her, perplexed. The bookstore was quiet again, save for the soft hum of the air conditioning and the distant murmur of other customers. But it felt like there was something else in the air now—something heavier. More alive.

As if on cue, your phone buzzed in your pocket, breaking the strange tension that had settled between you and the clerk. You fumbled it out, your heart still racing. It was a text from one of your friends: "Did you finally get the manhwa? He's sooooo hot, right?!?"

You looked from your phone to the manhwa and there it was again. It was like something was calling you to touch the book. On the other hand, your flight or fight instinct had never been this high, urging you to walk away as soon as possible. The old woman’s gaze never left you, her expression still serene, as if she knew exactly what you were thinking. The tension between you felt palpable, like a tether was drawing you back to the book, back to the man on the cover.

"You know what, dear," she continued, her voice now almost conspiratorial, "since we're almost closing, it’s on the house. Let me wrap it up for you."

When you asked her why, it was a line you should have taken in face value.

She said that reading this will change your life.

All that was how you found yourself on your bed with the manhwa and feeling bad for the second female lead. Okay fine, she was not exactly kind. She was a bit bitchy and the typical rich kid who fell for her childhood friend who of course, fell for another woman below their stature. She devised devious ways to get the main female lead out of their lives which only managed to push Min Yoongi, the male lead character, away from her. She wanted him so badly, and she had nothing else to cling to. In the end, he left her alone when all she had was him.

She was left alone, Yoongi gone from her life, and all she had left were her schemes and bitterness. You couldn’t help but wonder what she could have been if she had just let go. If she had let him go, instead of holding on so tightly that she suffocated herself.

She wasn’t a villain, you told yourself, though you knew she was far from a saint.

It wasn’t that you were defending what she did. It was just that you felt for her, strangely. You had no family of your own too, and maybe that was why you held on to your friends. You thought that if you were as pretty and as wealthy as her, then you wouldn’t spend all your time and energy pining after Yoongi. You thought about her—so pretty, so polished—and you wondered, If I were her, would I have acted the same way? If you had that beauty, that wealth, that presence, would you still feel this same deep ache for someone who couldn’t love you back? Sure, he was all that. He was handsome, smart, and so manly. For a while, it was just the two of them in their little world until he met the female lead. But then again, if you were her, you would let them be and look for someone who would love you as you were. Surely, there was someone out there for her. You wondered if it would be easy to just walk away, you thought. But then, you didn’t know what it was like to have everything and still lose the one thing that mattered most. To feel like there was no one left who could make you feel whole.

The story was so intriguing with the right amount of suspense that kept you up all night. Despite you being a non-mahwa reader, you could not bring yourself to stop reading until you reached the ending.

The words of the final chapters echoed in your mind as you read through them. Yoongi’s happiness came at her expense, and as you turned the page, you saw the final blow: She died. She died because Yoongi decided to save the main female lead from drowning instead of his childhood friend. Just like that. No grand redemption, no change of heart. She was gone. “Of course, she dies,” you murmured in annoyance as you flipped the page. “Was that really necessary for this Yoongi to get his happy ending?”

You put the manhwa down on your chest and looked up at your bedroom ceiling. You felt tears forming in your eyes and before you knew it, they were streaming down your cheeks and onto the manhwa. “Poor you. You deserved better,” you whispered as sleep took you away.

You didn’t remember falling asleep, but the next time you opened your eyes, it felt like you were in a dream. More precisely, you woke up to a familiar room. You just couldn’t place it yet where you saw this room before. You sat up from the most comfortable bed you had ever been on, your eyes roaming over the whole room. Where were you?

You looked down and noticed that you were wearing a silk sleepwear…You didn’t own this. In fact, you never liked it because you couldn’t afford it. Did someone dress you in this? Were you kidnapped?

Panic surged through you like a wave, a cold knot tightening in your stomach. The thought alone pushed you to stand up quickly, your head turning rapidly to every corner of the room when a mirror across the room caught your eye. You walked over, unsure of what you were even looking for, but the reflection that met you made your heart stop.

Holy shit.

You froze in front of the mirror, your breath caught somewhere between disbelief and panic. The face staring back at you was undeniably familiar but was definitely not yours. It was her—the woman from the manhwa.

Your hand lifted slowly, as if drawn by an invisible force, and touched your cheek, tracing the delicate curve of your jaw. The reflection mimicked your every move, except there was no mistake: it wasn’t you. This version of you was flawless—her skin porcelain smooth, her lips full and painted in a soft, understated pink. You blinked hard, willing the image to change, but it remained the same, impossibly perfect.

And then it hit you, harder than any realization should have: You were in her world. You were in her body. You were the second female lead.

What the fuck was this dream?!

You pinched yourself, willing yourself to wake up from this peculiar dream where you were not you, and instead, you were someone of a fictional character. All that it did was reddened her fair skin. You truly tried not to panic, but no one and nothing could have ever prepared you from waking up in someone else’s body! More so of a fictional one. Similarly, you knew this could not be possible. You must have been dreaming.

You were just dreaming…right?

The knock on the door snapped you out of your stupor, your mind reeling as the panic tightened its grip.

“Miss? Sir Yoongi is here to see you,” the voice outside the door called, timid, hesitant.

You blinked, the words barely registering at first. Yoongi? No. No, no, no. Your heart dropped to your stomach, and the world around you seemed to tilt at an impossible angle. You opened your mouth to respond, but all that came out was a shaky, disbelieving breath.

"Y-yoongi?" Your voice sounded strange, foreign in this body, yet with an edge of authority, the voice of someone accustomed to being looked at, obeyed.

“N-no. Why?”

“T-to visit you, Miss. He went straight here from the airport after his three-month work in New York,” she explained with a terrified tone in her voice as though one wrong word would upset you. It did upset you upon horrifying realization that you were in the first chapter of the manhwa. He was coming to see the second female lead, the one who would only ever be a part of his life for the briefest, most painful moments. The one who would disappear when the main female lead entered the picture, leaving behind nothing but heartache and regret.

This was the moment—the beginning of her unraveling. The beginning of your unraveling.

You stumbled back from the mirror, almost tripping over the hem of the silk nightgown that clung to your skin. It felt wrong. This wasn’t your body. This wasn’t you. You couldn’t be her. You couldn't.

But there you were—she was—standing in front of a mirror, and it was your face that stared back, the same face that would soon be abandoned in favor of the main lead. The face that would die tragically, just as Yoongi chose someone else.

A cold sweat broke out on your skin as you pressed your hand to your chest, feeling your heart race, the pulse throbbing in your throat. The maid outside the door was waiting. She was waiting. Yoongi was waiting.

“Miss? Are you coming?” The maid asked again, sounding more nervous now. “Sir Yoongi is waiting.”

You felt your legs walked to where the door was as though they had a mind of their own, as though they were simply following the plot where you had to face her childhood bestfriend, as though you had no choice in this. The door creaked as it slowly opened, and the maid stepped back with a small, nervous bow. “Miss,” she murmured softly, her eyes flicking between you and the hallway.

There he was. Yoongi. Standing in the hallway, waiting for you.

His broad back was turned to you, his focus was on the huge window overlooking the garden below. His hands were in his pockets. You couldn’t help but notice the bags of designer clothes and jewelries beside him. It was always like this. Yoongi would spoil her with everything, his love a quiet promise wrapped in material things. His affection was given in expensive packages, just because he missed her. It was a thing the main lead, Yoongi, and her had for the longest times. He spoiled her rotten, and in turn, she loved him unconditionally until he realized that it wasn’t her love that he wanted. It was someone else’s.

You felt your chest tighten as you stepped forward, closer to him. And then, slowly, he turned around, his gaze landing on you, his eyes sharp and calculating, as though he was seeing you for the first time. He was just as handsome as you'd imagined, his sharp features bathed in the soft light of the chandelier overhead. His expression, however, was unreadable—his usual aloofness on full display. He had on a simple black jacket, the sleeves rolled up slightly, revealing his forearms.

He was standing there, just as he had been in the manhwa—distant, untouchable, and perfect. The kind of person who seemed to have everything. Everything except the one thing that would make him whole. His lips curved into a faint smirk, the usual aloofness settling over him like a second skin. Yoongi. So damn confident. So certain of himself. Yet there was something flickering beneath that exterior, something you couldn't place.

He took a step toward you, his gaze unwavering, and for a moment, everything felt too heavy, too real. The space between you both seemed like an eternity, but somehow you couldn’t move. You couldn’t breathe.

He raised his brows when you remained motionless – so dissimilar to how the second female lead threw herself in his arms in the first chapter. “What?” he said, his voice a quiet challenge. “Didn’t you miss me?”

His words hit you like a cold wave. Didn’t you miss me?

The phrase was so familiar, but it made you flinch. It was the same thing he had said to her. The second female lead. Her. The woman you had now become. You opened your mouth to respond, but nothing came out. Your breath caught in your throat, the weight of his gaze leaving you paralyzed. How were you supposed to feel? What was the right answer?

Yoongi’s smirk deepened as he took another step closer, his presence commanding the space between you both. He wasn’t giving up.

“Aigoo,” he muttered, as though your silence had amused him. “Is my princess mad at me?” He reached out, cupping your cheeks in his hands and squishing them gently, his thumb brushing across your skin in a familiar, playful gesture. “I promise I won’t be away for that long again, okay?”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. My princess. Mad at me? It was just like the manhwa. Just like how the second female lead had fallen for him—how she’d craved his affection, how she had convinced herself that he was the only one who could make her whole.

How could she not fall for him? How could she not love him when he was this—this?

See, who wouldn’t fall for that? You understood the second female lead for falling in love with him, or why she did all those terrible things when he suddenly withdrew all his affections from her. But maybe…you could change the ending. Maybe you could find a happy ending of your own away from him. You could choose differently. You could walk away. You could find your own path, away from him, away from this tragic loop. Maybe—just maybe—there was a way for you to have a happy ending. Not the one written in the manhwa, but one you could choose. One where you didn’t lose yourself in the love of a man who could never return it.

What if you and him could all have your separate happy endings?

But also, what if this was just a dream where you’d wake up later and be in your own bed?

It was almost a week later when you realized that this wasn’t a dream. Despite repeatedly pinching yourself, you still couldn’t wake up from this nightmare. You hadn’t gone out of your room since Yoongi visited, and all messages and calls from him were promptly ignored.

You couldn’t even rule out that you were actively going insane because there was no way that this was now your reality. Something inside you was telling you to do something. It was urging you to fight, to survive, not matter how difficult it would be. It was proven when he visited you and you had no control over what happened. However, you also noted that you could do things somehow differently like not hugging him when he visited, or not being affectionate to him.

There were canon events, yes. There were things that should happen as were already dictated by the manhwa. But you also had a will in this story. And if there was a chance that this was your new reality, then you would do absolutely everything to make sure that you end up living.

You had to be smart. You had an edge, you surmised. You read the entire manhwa and you knew what was going to happen. You knew what to anticipate. And the next scene? The next scene was where Yoongi met the female lead and it would be in a charity ball you and him were attending.

You were dressed to the nines, your makeup was impeccable. Around your neck was one of the second female lead’s extravagant necklaces. The dress that she chose was immaculate, a light-colored floor-length gown that would later on be ruined by the female lead’s accident in the ball. You looked down from the unfamiliar eyes staring back at you in the mirror as your maid informed you that the car was waiting downstairs. You got this.

You weren’t used to her life of extravagance and you could feel a shot of anxiety pumping in your veins as the car neared the event. You could see reporters and cameramen lining up to capture the entrance of the wealthiest of the wealthiest. Nothing in your life could have prepared you for this. You were not a confident person…but she was. You only needed to get through this night and then slowly let the events happened. You would let the two of them fall in love with each other like it needed to be.

“We’re here, miss,” your driver announced, meeting your eyes from the rearview mirror. You took a deep breath and counted to three.

1…2…3-

The door opened and just when you opened your eyes, there he was.

Camera flashes illuminated the scene from his back, yet his focus was on you. His hand was outstretched, waiting for you to reach for it. But damn it, Min Yoongi was impeccable. Just like you, he was dressed to the nines with his tailored dark suit and his brushed up dark hair. He was the epitome of what a main lead should look like. Still, you couldn’t fault both the main and second female lead for falling in love with that face. If only you weren’t trying to stay alive, then you would most probably fall for that face, too.

Too bad you were trying to stay alive.

The weight of the moment settled heavily on your chest as you stared at his outstretched hand. The flashes of the cameras were relentless, their bursts creating a kaleidoscope of light and shadow that painted Yoongi's face with an almost ethereal glow. His dark eyes bored into yours, and for a split second, the world seemed to pause.

You hesitated, your hand hovering just out of reach. This was one of those moments, wasn't it? One of the canon events you couldn’t avoid. Taking his hand was expected, a necessary step to ensure the night unfolded as the manhwa demanded. Yet, the knowledge didn’t make it any easier.

“I don’t think you can hide from me now, princess,” Yoongi’s voice was soft but firm. In fact, there was no annoyance in his tone, only a quiet patience as though you didn’t spend the past days dodging him in every turn.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to push past the whirlwind of nerves. You had to remember who you were now—or at least who you were pretending to be. She wouldn’t falter, wouldn’t hesitate. She was poised, confident, the kind of woman who could command a room with a single glance. She was a woman who knew the power she had over society.

Plastering on a polite smile, you placed your hand in his. His fingers were warm, steady, and for a moment, the contact felt grounding. You couldn’t help but notice how his hand completely engulfed yours, how he made your hands seemed dainty in comparison to his. He helped you out of the car with a practiced grace, his touch lingering for a fraction longer than necessary. You didn’t want to dwell on the fact that you felt the same electricity that you did when you first touched the manhwa.

“Shall we?” he asked, his voice low enough that only you could hear it.

You knew you had no choice as he guided you up the grand entrance. This was a canon event. The canon event leading up to their meeting. You had to play your part if you wanted to not experience dying in her body.

The flashes of cameras almost blinded you had it not been for Yoongi’s broad back that shielded you from them. The two of you stopped in the middle to smile for the camera, a PR thing Yoongi had to do for his company. His hand rested on the small of your back, gently pushing you closer to him. You knew what would happen like the back of your hand, and just as written, one of the reporters asked him to define his relationship status with you.

She’s the most important woman in my life.

“She’s the most important woman in my life,” Yoongi declared with unwavering sincerity, his deep voice resonating through the flashes and murmurs of the crowd. As he looked down at you, his lips curved into that signature, disarming smile—the kind that could melt even the coldest of hearts.

The ball was just as grand as you imagined. It was apparent that the rich spared no expense in this and you couldn’t imagine that you would experience this in your life. Yoongi’s gaze lingered on you, an unreadable expression flickering in his eyes as he watched you take it all in. There was something almost amused about the way he observed you, though he said nothing. It was almost comical to him how you were impressed with this when the friend he knew practically grew up in this extravagance. You were in awe at the intricate details, the food and drink being served, and the expensive jewelries that would be auctioned tonight.

“What do you want me to bid for?” Yoongi asked, his voice low and smooth as he tipped his wineglass to his lips, his dark eyes not straying from you.

You let out a short chuckle, already knowing what to say. “I want that old ring the Queen once owned,” you answered monotonously. It was the most expensive item in the auction, and exactly the kind of thing the second female lead would desire. You, on the other hand, felt that it was ridiculous to desire something that was given by someone who dearly loved the Queen. Yoongi merely lifted his dark brow before nodding his head.

As always, her will was always his command– until it wasn’t.

The bidding war for the final piece, the ring, didn’t take that long as Yoongi continuously bidded ridiculously high amounts that the businessmen could not keep up with the younger man. Yoongi didn’t even flinch as the bids shot up. He stood there, effortlessly cool, his back straight and shoulders squared, his eyes locked on the auctioneer like a predator stalking its prey. The others tried to keep pace, their offers becoming desperate, their faces flushed with a mix of anger and humiliation as Yoongi continued to raise the stakes, his voice cold and assured as he increased his offer without hesitation.

In the end, Yoongi won. And it showed with the way he turned back to you, that same smirk still dancing at corner of his lips.

This was it.

This was the moment.

Yoongi was walking to you, his expression still that of a triumphant victor as he made his way to you. You couldn’t help but keep your eyes to him. The way his dark eyes were trained on you was captivating and you were captivated. It was as though you were the only one in this room to him, like all other people could disappear and he wouldn’t even blink. In fact, you were too captivated that you almost forgot what the next scene was.

But just as was written by the author, a waitress tripped, your light-colored dress now splashed with red wine, a stark contrast. The sound of glass breaking, the accident itself, was enough to silence the whole ballroom. Your mouth hanged agape as you looked down at your dress, and then slowly, you lift your eyes to the waitress.

Your eyes met the female lead’s. Hers was comically wide as she continuously apologized to you, her expression that of panic as her manager and more people flocked to where you were.

“What happened?” Yoongi’s voice was sharp, his usual calm replaced by a low, controlled edge. His hands clasped your arms with a firm but steady grip, his gaze darting between your face and the ruined fabric of your gown. The pristine, light-colored dress was now stained with crimson, the deep red wine soaking into the fabric and spreading like an ominous bloom.

Your eyes flicked back to the waitress—her—the female lead. Just as the manhwa dictated, there she was, the unassuming heroine, standing in front of you with wide, tear-filled eyes. Her cheeks flushed crimson as she stammered apology after apology, her hands trembling as she bent down to pick up the shards of broken glass at her feet. You saw her flinched.

“I—I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to! Please forgive me, Miss!” she pleaded, her voice shaky and sincere. The panic on her face was painfully familiar. You’d read this scene before. You knew every word, every gesture.

And yet, being in it now, living it—felt different.

Your dress was ruined, yes, but more importantly, this was the moment. The one where Yoongi, the ever-distant, untouchable main lead, would first notice her. Where his protective instincts would be stirred, his curiosity piqued by her clumsy, honest nature. This was where it all began—their love story.

Except right now, he wasn’t looking at her. He was still looking at you

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice quieter now, his brows furrowed as his thumb lightly grazed your arm, checking for any sign of injury. There was no recognition in his gaze for the woman kneeling at your feet, no acknowledgment of her presence.

You blinked, caught off guard. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. By now, he should have been helping her, offering her a reassuring smile, gently lifting her to her feet. That was what the script demanded

But here he was, his focus entirely on you.

“I…” Your voice faltered as your mind raced to adjust. You needed to steer this back on track. The story needed to progress, or everything could spiral out of control. “I’m fine. It’s just the dress,” you said, forcing your tone to be light, dismissive, as though the ruined gown didn’t matter.

Yoongi’s lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze hardening. “It’s not fine,” he said, his voice firm. He turned, his sharp eyes landing on the waitress. The poor girl visibly flinched under his scrutiny, her hands freezing mid-motion as she tried to gather the broken pieces.

“It was an accident,” you said quickly, stepping forward and placing a hand on his arm to stop him. “Yoongi, it’s fine.” Your words were deliberate, almost desperate. You needed him to look at her, to notice her, to play his part in the story.

He hesitated, his jaw tightening, but at last, his gaze shifted to the waitress. There it was—that flicker of recognition. The moment his eyes softened, his expression melting into something less severe.

“Are you hurt?” he asked her, his tone still carrying a note of authority, but the sharp edges were gone. This was it—the moment you’d been waiting for.

The girl shook her head quickly, her cheeks turning an even darker shade of red. “N-no, sir! I’m fine. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Enough,” Yoongi interrupted gently but firmly. He crouched down, his movements slow, deliberate, as he began picking up the shards of glass alongside her. The room seemed to collectively hold its breath, all eyes on the enigmatic businessman lowering himself to help a clumsy waitress. “Be careful. You’re going to hurt yourself,” he said with a much softer voice. His gaze lingered on her face, and it was apparent that you were now forgotten.

And there it was—their first connection. The moment the story truly began.

You exhaled slowly, stepping back as the crowd around you began to disperse, the murmurs of the guests returning to their usual buzz. This was how it had to be. You just had to step back now and let their love story grow.

You reached the balcony and you thanked heavens that you were alone. You breathed a sigh of relief, both for the gratitude that you were alone and for surviving that scene. You were looking up at the stars when you felt a suit jacket landed on your shoulders, safely engulfing you with warmth and against the cold night.

You turned, not knowing who to expect but he was definitely not it. You didn’t even know who he was.

The handsome man met your eyes before flashing you a charming smile of his own that was enough to disarm you. “What a shame…”

You blinked, confused by his sudden appearance, your heart still racing from the scene inside. "What is?" you asked, voice quieter than you'd intended, as your eyes darted back toward the ballroom doors.

"That your dress was ruined," he said smoothly, his tone playful, though his eyes seemed to hold something more—curiosity, maybe, or perhaps something deeper. "You were the most beautiful girl there. You managed to catch everyone’s attention when you entered the room– including mine."

Sputtering at his confidence, you felt your cheeks heated up from his statement. “Were?”

The side of his eyes crinkled as he looked at you. He couldn’t believe that the elusive and untouchable you were giving him the time of the day. You were always in Yoongi’s orbit, and everyone knew how powerful his family was. It was always the two of you in your own little world, and Yoongi was seldom far from you. It was the reason why suitors couldn’t reach you. No one needed the Min Yoongi for an enemy.

It was safe to say that the relationship between the two of you were always a question mark to the onlookers. In the world of the rich, the two of you should have been long engaged if that was the case. And a chance that Yoongi was far from you was not to be wasted. And so, he took the chance.

“You still are,” he breathed honestly. He couldn’t take his eyes off of you. You were so magnificent and he understood why Yoongi was similar to a guard dog when it came to you. He extended his hand to you. “I’m Kim Taehyung.”

You only had to wait, but the waiting got boring. When you’d read the manhwa, the pacing had felt seamless, the love story unfolding with a rhythm that kept you turning the pages. Here, however, their love story took time.

It turned out that not only were you bored, but you were also extremely wealthy in this life. You rationalized that it would be okay to enjoy her life just a little.

Leaning on the balcony railing, you released your fifteenth sigh of the day, staring blankly at the sprawling estate below. Behind you, the ever-dutiful maid hovered, hands clasped nervously in front of her. Her expression flickered between concern and trepidation, as though bracing for one of the infamous tantrums her mistress was known for. Lately, though, you’d given her nothing of the sort—no sharp words, no impatient outbursts. That, in itself, seemed to unsettle her.

However, another sigh from you finally prompted her to ask you what was wrong.

Her eyes widened, startled by the question. “I… I suppose I’d pay off my family’s debts,” she admitted, voice small. “It’s been weighing on us for years.”

“How much?” you asked, your tone casual, as though inquiring about the weather.

“Three million,” she murmured, her cheeks coloring as though the very amount embarrassed her. “But I couldn’t possibly—”

“Consider it done,” you interrupted breezily, waving off her protests. “Next?”

“Maybe…I’d go to Paris?”

You nodded, your eyes gleamed as the spark of inspiration ignited within you. A brilliant, slightly impulsive idea. “That’s perfect. Grab your passport.”

It turned out that Paris was also someone’s favorite place.

You were sitting in a café one late afternoon, willing the time to pass by quickly so you could return to your life as evidenced by your poor attempt at reading a book when the chair in front of you was suddenly occupied. With your peace suddenly gone, you looked up and met his eyes. He was smiling at you, his dark hair brushed away from his face, so dissimilar to how formal he looked when you met him.

“We must stop meeting like this.”

He chuckled at your expression before he leaned in on the table. “In Paris, of all places. I have to say, this is starting to look like fate.”

Who was he exactly?

You tried to rack your brain of his scenes in the manhwa, and you had been ever since you met him in that ball. He wasn’t supposed to be in the scene…or was it possible that that happened behind the scene when the focus wasn’t on you, but on Yoongi and the female lead?

“Do you believe in fate, Mr. Kim?” you titled you head in curiosity, looking at him intently for any sort of familiarity that may come your way.

“I do and I don’t. I think that fate is an abstract concept that no man can ever define. There are some things that we are just too powerless to stop; and there are some things that we are too powerful to accept,” he stated with a smile on his face. “You’re here because of fate, Y/N. Don’t you think so?”

“What?”

Taehyung chuckled and patiently waited as the waiter placed his cup of hot chocolate on the table. “I think that you’re fated to be here at this exact moment.”

“What are you saying, Taehyung?”

“I’m saying, have dinner with me tonight.”

It was your second week in Paris when curiosity finally got the better of you. On the other hand, you could say that the past few days were one of the most interesting days of your life. You never knew that that little dinner with Taehyung could result to you gaining a true friend here. He was interesting, quirky, wise, and full of life. You also learned that he went to the same school as the original second female lead and Yoongi attended, and that he could never befriended you before because Yoongi was always with you. He offhandedly noted that it was so rare for him not to be with you when before, wherever you went, he would follow. Speaking of the character that you assumed, her phone—your phone now—sat untouched on the marble nightstand of your hotel suite. You’d avoided it so far, reasoning that it felt like rifling through a stranger’s diary. But tonight, as the soft glow of the Eiffel Tower illuminated the room, you gave in.

Plugging it in, the device vibrated to life, and a flood of notifications lit up the screen. Your jaw dropped slightly as you skimmed through the endless stream of missed calls and messages. Most of them were from Yoongi.

“Of course,” you muttered under your breath, scrolling through the list. There were texts, voicemails, and even some emails from him, all timestamped over the last two weeks.

His messages started casual enough, asking you where you were and if you were still avoiding him. He even stopped by the mansion only to find out that you weren’t there, let alone in the country. Not one in your mansion could tell him where you were despite his endless threats. As days passed by, however, his tone shifted to frustration.

I’m not kidding anymore. If I don’t hear from you, I’m coming to find you.

I am hiring a team to find you, princess.

His final message was dated today.

I do hope you remember that it is my birthday today. We always celebrate it together. We’re not gonna stop now just because you’re hiding from me.

You stared at the phone for a moment longer, the screen dark now but somehow still demanding your attention. Should you respond? What would you even say?

The phone vibrated in your hand, the screen lighting up with his name. Your stomach did a little flip, but you shook your head firmly. No. You weren’t going to answer. It was better this way—for him, for you, for the storyline. Yoongi belonged with the female lead, and the longer you stayed out of their orbit, the better. If you wanted to live, you had to do the opposite of what the second female lead did.

Instead, you grabbed your jacket, ready to explore the city some more with Taehyung. Paris was too beautiful to waste time fretting over a fictional man’s messages. Let Yoongi wait.

But just as you opened your hotel room, there he was with his signature stoic face, his dark brow raised. He pointedly looked at your phone, his name on the screen. He had his phone on his ear, while you had yours in your hand. You were literally caught red-handed ignoring his calls.

He ended the call with a deliberate tap and tucked his phone into his pocket, his gaze never leaving yours.

“Going somewhere?”

“What are you doing here?” you asked, shocked at his sudden appearance. He was supposed to be with her. The story said that he was supposed to be with her, celebrating with her, saving her from any other accidents or situations she found herself in. You did your part by staying the hell away from them….so why was he here?

Yoongi tilted his head slightly, his gaze narrowing. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” His tone was calm, but the edge was unmistakable. He stepped inside as though he owned the place. He didn’t ask for permission, didn’t wait for an invitation. He was just… there, filling the room with his presence like he always did. “And Paris, of all places? You’re more predictable than you think, princess.”

“I-I mean, I didn’t think you’d notice,” you stammered, your voice barely above a whisper, already regretting how ridiculous it sounded.

“What? How could I not? You literally disappeared on the face of the earth. You think I wouldn’t notice when you disappeared? When you’re not there?”

The intensity in his gaze left you momentarily stunned, your thoughts scrambling for coherence. “Y-you’re not supposed to be here…” you muttered, more to yourself than to him. Your disbelief bled into your words, your mind struggling to reconcile his presence with what you knew—or thought you knew. “The story says you’re supposed to be with her. This isn’t—this isn’t how it goes.”

“What story?”

You blinked owlishly, realizing what you’d said. “Huh? Nothing!” you exclaimed a little too quickly, waving your hands as if to physically push the moment away. “Anyway! Happy birthday!” you added, your voice unnaturally bright, hoping to distract him.

His squint deepened, a mix of curiosity and frustration flickering in his eyes. He clearly didn’t buy your deflection, but he let it slide—for now. Without a word, he crossed the room to the small bar cart in the corner, casually pouring himself a glass of whisky.

The tension in the air was thick as he swirled the amber liquid in the glass, his movements deliberate. He raised the glass to his lips, his gaze never leaving yours. You could practically see the wheels turning in that intelligent brain of his as he sized you up. After taking a slow sip, he finally spoke, his voice low, “Glad you remember my birthday, princess.”

Okay, fine. You were at loss. How were you supposed to know what you should say? This was not in the manhwa! Yoongi was basically going off-script!

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Instead, you turned your gaze to the door, silently willing him to leave. But Yoongi didn’t move. If anything, he seemed more determined, his presence as unyielding as ever.

“Fine,” he said after a long moment, his voice quieter now, almost resigned. “If you won’t come back, then I’ll stay. Paris is nice this time of year, isn’t it?”

He stuck by you like a shadow and he all but bought the entire hotel floor. He was adamant on spending every moment with you. The most baffling part? He still kept in touch with her. He called, he texted, he checked in on the female lead—but here he was, right beside you, refusing to leave. It made no sense. To add confusion to the mix, Yoongi kept on shooting dark glares at your phone whenever it chimed from Taehyung’s messages and he felt himself getting irritated. He wondered who was brave enough to message you when no one used to before except him.

You had been away for him for just a short time and yet, he felt like you were so far away already, like something shifted, like your entirety changed. It was like you were not the best friend he used to have.

You looked down at your phone as soon as it chimed again and you couldn’t help but chuckled at the silly selfie he took with a duck. You were too engrossed in your phone that you missed the way Yoongi gripped his utensils. You and him hadn’t spent time together since you were so busy evading him and now that he finally caught up with you, your attention was somewhere else.

Why were your attention not on him?

Who was stealing your attention away from him?!

Was this how you punished him because of his current fling?

The sound of Yoongi’s sharp exhale pierced the air, and you glanced up just in time to see his fingers grip the edge of his glass with more force than was necessary. His jaw was tight, his eyes narrowed—not at the phone in your hand, but at you. He didn’t say anything, but the silence between you both was thick with something unspoken, a tension you had been drowning in since he followed you here.

It wasn’t that you wanted to ignore him, but the truth was... you didn’t know how to deal with this version of Yoongi. The one who wasn’t following the script. The one who was here in Paris, beside you, watching you laugh at Taehyung's ridiculous duck selfie like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“What’s so funny?” Yoongi’s voice was quiet, but it was sharp. He didn’t bother to look at your phone. Instead, his gaze stayed locked on your face, his eyes a shade darker, deeper than you remembered them being.

You blinked, momentarily stunned by the sudden shift in his mood. “Oh, nothing, just a ridiculous selfie from my friend,” you said, still chuckling to yourself. “He’s with a duck.”

“He?” His voice held a dry amusement, but there was an edge to it that made you uncomfortable.

You could feel the subtle tension thickening in the air, like the weight of a storm about to break. Yoongi's question hung between you like a spark in dry tinder. You shrugged, pretending to be casual, though the hairs on the back of your neck stood on end. "Yes, he. My friend Taehyung," you said, not looking up from your phone.

But you could feel Yoongi’s eyes boring into you, every syllable of his next words like a tightening coil. “Taehyung,” he repeated, his voice cold and deliberate, as though testing the name on his tongue. His grip on his glass had tightened to the point where his knuckles were white, but it didn’t stop the slow, calculated sip he took, his gaze never leaving you.

The way he said his name made it seemed like your friendship with him was a mistake, a simple blunder on your end that shouldn’t have happened. It did feel like you stepped on a live mine, and you wondered why you were feeling like this when from what you knew about his character in the manhwa, Yoongi was a pure person. However, right now he felt like a dangerous one.

What were you supposed to do?

“You’re thirty now,” you said instead, steering the conversation away from an unfamiliar territory as you placed the phone facedown. The two of you were having brunch in a famous restaurant and you were thoroughly enjoying the croissant moments before the conversation turned sour.

He regarded you for a moment, fully aware of how you this was your sad attempt at changing the subject until he decided to put you out of misery. He nodded, waiting for you to make your point.

“You’re not getting any younger-”

He raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. “What’s the point of this conversation, princess? You’re starting to sound like my grandma." He paused, as if savoring the thought. "By the way, she keeps asking for you. Says, and I quote, ‘her favorite grandchild never comes to visit anymore.’ Not even a phone call. Meanwhile, I’m still here, the actual grandchild, and I get nothing."

His glare was sharp, but there was no real venom behind it—just the familiar teasing edge that made you both roll your eyes and laugh, despite yourself.

“W-well! I’m just concerned that you won’t have a wife and any children of your own and that you’d grow old alone! I’m just a friend expressing concern over her best and oldest friend…” you rationalized. Fine, you were having fun teasing him while nudging him in the right direction. Yoongi was fun to mess with, you thought, if he was being himself and not the confusing and quite off-putting mood he was in a while ago.

You thought that he would react the way you anticipated him to, that he would get defensive and after which, hopefully, that he’d go back to their love story.

He did none of those things.

Instead, Yoongi leaned in, his manly scent permeating. He tucked a stray strand of your hair behind your ear, all while looking at you. “Why are you saying that I’ll be alone when I have you?”

You blinked, trying to process what Yoongi had just said. His voice, low and warm, carried a weight that wasn’t there a moment ago. You wanted to laugh, to brush it off like the teasing banter you two always shared, but the way his dark eyes held yours made it impossible. “I have you for always, right, princess? You’re not going to leave me for someone…beneath us, right?”

What?

His words seemed like he was pointing to another thing, like what he was asking you was a promise to be set in stone and not a mere assurance on his part. What was the real second female lead to say in situation like this?

“O-of course! We’re best friends! N-now let’s get out of here. I saw this beautiful necklace in that shop. It’s going to look beautiful on her. Maybe if you buy her that, then she’d forgive you for spending your birthday away from her,” you joked to deflect him, standing up and gathering your purse to escape the situation you found yourself in before he could even blink.

Think, Y/N. Think.

You gripped the stem of your wine glass, staring blankly at the flickering candle in the center of the table. The plot was veering off course, drifting further from the original narrative you knew by heart. Yoongi wasn’t supposed to be here with you, his steady presence upending the delicate balance of the story.

The main lead wasn’t supposed to stay by your side like this

Across the room, Yoongi was speaking with one of his father’s acquaintances, his posture relaxed but exuding the quiet authority that came so naturally to him. It gave you a few precious moments to breathe—and to think.

Ever since Paris, Yoongi almost never let you out of his sight. He would spend every free time of his with you. You couldn’t even refuse because he would get so suspicious. His best friend never said no to him, he knew that. Your previous actions of distancing yourself from him resulted in him latching on to you. What could you do to push him in the right direction which was to be with her?

What was the next canon event?

And then it hit you.

The company gala. The turning point. That was when he would bring her, the female lead, into the lion’s den. His family’s icy disapproval, their sharp-edged words of disdain, and their outright rejection of his choice would culminate in a dramatic declaration. Yoongi would stand by her side, rebel against his family, and announce that she was the one he wanted to marry.

It was a pivotal scene. A non-negotiable in the grand arc of his story.

You exhaled shakily. If you could just steer him toward that event, everything will fall back into place. You just needed to figure out when it was happening now that the timeline was unraveling in ways you couldn’t predict.

You just had another problem, though. The man that was now walking back to you was acting like someone who had his heart set on another, so unlike the Min Yoongi from the manhwa who only had eyes for her. His attention was unwavering, but it should not have been pointed to you but to her. The way his gaze softened whenever he looked at you, his refusal to leave your side—it was all wrong. None of it fit.

“Sorry about that,” Yoongi’s voice broke through your thoughts as he returned to the table. He slid back into his seat, his sharp eyes scanning your face. “You okay? You look… distracted.”

You forced a smile, waving a hand dismissively. “I’m fine. Just lost in thought.”

“About what?” He tilted his head, genuinely curious, and the warmth in his gaze made your stomach twist. He did hope that your attention was not being diverted by someone he didn’t even want to mention. He couldn’t even understand why the thought of you with someone else didn’t sit right with him. He couldn’t understand why he had this urge to remove the pest away from you.

“Doesn’t you company have an annual gala? I was thinking of what to wear. When is it again?” you asked, taking a sip of your drink to hide your nerves.

He was looking at you as though deep in thought, as though you were forgetting something. He tilted his head to the side, “You know it’s always in December. You always choose your dress a year in advance, princess,” Yoongi said, his voice laced with mild curiosity. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms as he studied you. “Why? You’ve never been one to care much about those kinds of things before.”

Your breath caught at his words. You always choose your dress a year in advance, princess. The familiarity, the ease with which he said it, threw you off. That line—it didn’t belong here. Not in this timeline. Not in this version of the story where your role was supposed to be temporary, a placeholder in the grand narrative between him and her.

“Right,” you said, forcing a light laugh that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Guess I forgot for a moment. Been busy, you know.”

Yoongi didn’t buy it. His gaze sharpened, a hint of amusement mingled with curiosity. “You? Forget? That’s not like you.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his posture relaxed but his eyes piercing. “What’s really going on?”

The intensity in his gaze made your stomach twist again. Stay calm. Don’t let him see.

“Nothing’s going on,” you said, a touch too quickly. You took another sip of your drink, using the motion to avoid his eyes.

“Anyway, December’s coming up fast, and I’m guessing you’re planning to bring her, right?” You kept your tone light, as if the question didn’t weigh heavily on your chest.

Yoongi’s expression shifted, the smirk fading as his brows furrowed slightly. “Her?”

You swallowed hard. “You know… the one you’ve been calling and texting all the time.” You gestured vaguely, hoping to seem indifferent. “The woman you’ve been—well, I thought you were planning to introduce her to your family at the gala.”

Yoongi smiled again, but this time, it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Let’s see, princess.”

“Admit that you had fun,” Taehyung teased you as he drove you home.

You couldn’t help the smile that crept across your lips. Against all odds, you’d genuinely enjoyed yourself. You did have fun. You always thought that movie dates were boring and full of cliché, but not with him. With Taehyung, everything felt effortless—light and uncomplicated, like breathing.

“Fine,” you conceded with mock reluctance, your tone carrying the weight of faux irritation. “It was a fun…”

“Date,” he finished smoothly, his eyes glinting with amusement as your voice trailed off.

Your cheeks burned at his audacity, the straightforwardness of the word stealing your ability to respond for a moment. A "date"? Could you even call it that? The way your heart fluttered betrayed any argument you might have tried to form.

You glanced away, fidgeting with the strap of your bag as thoughts tangled in your mind. Was it okay to feel this way? To bask in fleeting moments of happiness when the life you were living wasn’t truly yours? When you were still determined to set things right, to restore the balance of a narrative that had gone astray?

So caught up in your musings, you barely noticed the car slowing to a stop in the estate’s driveway. The towering grand doors loomed ahead, a stark reminder of the world you’d return to the moment you stepped out.

“Thank you,” Taehyung’s voice pulled you from your thoughts. It was quiet, genuine, and when you turned to look at him, his face was softer than you’d ever seen it.

“For what?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“For being here,” he replied simply, his gaze holding yours.

The weight of his sincerity pressed against your chest, making it harder to breathe. Before you could respond, he leaned in, closing the distance between you. The world seemed to slow as his hand moved to cup your face, his fingers brushing against your skin with a tenderness that made your heart stutter.

Your breaths mingled, your eyes fluttering shut as his lips hovered so close to yours it was almost unbearable. You could feel the moment hanging on a fragile thread, teetering on the edge of something irreversible.

The room’s golden hues seemed to dim as the sound of the car horn echoed through the driveway, shattering the fragile intimacy between you and Taehyung. You jolted back, your heart pounding in your chest as if caught in an act of betrayal—though you hadn’t technically done anything wrong. Yet.

Taehyung sighed, his expression softening as he glanced toward the car behind him. “Looks like your knight in shining armor doesn’t know how to wait,” he said lightly, though there was a hint of tension in his voice.

You managed a shaky laugh, your hand gripping the strap of your bag tightly. “He’s just… overprotective.”

“Right,” Taehyung said, leaning back in his seat. His eyes met yours, warm and understanding, but with a flicker of something else—something that made your chest tighten. “Still, I meant what I said. Thanks for tonight.”

Before you could respond, the honk came again, sharper this time, as if Yoongi were making a point. You turned to glance at his car, the sleek black exterior glinting under the estate’s lights. Even from this distance, you could feel his piercing gaze locked on you.

“Goodnight, Taehyung,” you said hurriedly, fumbling with the door handle.

Taehyung smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes this time. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

You stepped out of the car and started toward the grand door, the cold evening air biting at your skin. Yoongi’s car door slammed shut behind you, and the sound of his footsteps was a quiet storm approaching. You didn’t dare look back, your heart a riot of guilt, frustration, and confusion.

“Princess,” Yoongi’s voice cut through the quiet, smooth and controlled, but laced with an edge you couldn’t ignore.

You stopped in your tracks, turning slowly to face him. He was already close, his dark eyes scanning your face like a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. His suit was immaculate, as always, but there was an undercurrent of tension in his posture—shoulders just a little too stiff, jaw a little too tight.

“You’re back late,” he said, his tone deceptively casual.

“I went to see a movie with Taehyung,” you replied, keeping your voice neutral.

At the mention of Taehyung, Yoongi’s gaze flicked past you to the car that was now idling at the end of the driveway. You followed his line of sight and felt a pang of unease as his expression shifted. His brows raised slightly as he studied Taehyung through the window, his head tilting just enough to convey an air of quiet disdain.

And then he smirked—a slow, deliberate curl of his lips that sent an unfamiliar shiver down your spine. It wasn’t the Yoongi you were used to seeing. In that moment, he was something else entirely: sharp, commanding, almost cruel. The kind of presence that demanded submission without a word.

“What did you say his last name was, princess?” he asked, still watching Taehyung with that same unsettling smirk. His tone was light, but there was something in it—something dark—that made your heart beat faster.

“Kim?” you replied thoughtlessly, your mind too preoccupied with wanting to escape the tension. “Why did you ask?”

Finally, he turned his attention back to you, his gaze softening just enough to make the moment feel surreal. The shift was so subtle, so practiced, that it left you second-guessing the sharpness you’d just seen. He reached out, his arm sliding around your shoulders with an ease that felt both natural and calculated.

“No reason, princess,” he said smoothly, steering you toward the grand doors of the estate. “Just… curious.”

The warmth of his arm contrasted sharply with the coldness that lingered in the air. It was disarming, the way he could shift so easily between roles—between the man you knew and the one you weren’t sure you ever wanted to meet again.

As he guided you inside, you cast one last glance over your shoulder. Taehyung’s car hadn’t moved, the figure inside still watching. You couldn’t see his face, but you imagined the tension mirrored your own.

When the doors shut behind you, the weight of Yoongi’s presence beside you grew heavier. His hand rested lightly against your shoulder, his touch far gentler than the unease simmering just beneath the surface.

"Don’t you have better things to do than come to my dress fitting? Like, I don’t know, actually run your empire or something?" you asked, stepping out of the fitting room with a huff.

Yoongi sat sprawled on the plush sofa, one arm draped lazily along the backrest, a glass of champagne balanced effortlessly in his other hand. He looked utterly at ease, as if this boutique was his second home and not a place he had followed you to.

He shrugged, “Well, we can’t have you running away from me again, can we?”

“For the last time, I didn’t run away! I was in Paris because croissant sounded nice that day-”

“Sure, princess,” he agreed condescendingly. Yoongi’s gaze swept over you, lingering a moment longer than you expected. “On the other hand, you look immaculate in that dress,” he said, his voice low and smooth. “You’re going to make the rest of the gala feel underdressed.”

Heat crept up your neck at his words, but you quickly masked it with a scoff. “Flattery doesn’t suit you, Yoongi. Save it for the boardroom or—better yet—for her.”

He raised an eyebrow, swirling the champagne in his glass as if you hadn’t just tried to divert the conversation. “Her?” he echoed, tilting his head with mock curiosity.

You rolled your eyes, refusing to meet his gaze. “Yes, her. The one you met in the previous ball? The waitress? The one you’ll be introducing to your family at the gala, remember? Does she ring a bell?”

“We’re still talking about that?” Yoongi asked, his tone laced with amusement as he leaned back into the plush sofa. The glass of champagne in his hand tilted slightly, catching the light as he swirled the golden liquid. “Why are you so invested in my relationship with her?”

“I’m just concerned and curious as a friend.”

He chuckled softly, setting his glass down on the table beside him. “Curious, huh? And here I thought you were just jealous.”

Your eyes widened in disbelief. “Jealous?”

Yoongi leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, his gaze never leaving yours. “You keep bringing her up. You’re obsessed with the idea of me introducing her to my family, of me texting her. You sure this isn’t just about you not wanting to share me?”

Your face burned, and you turned away, pretending to adjust the dress in the mirror. “You’re ridiculous and I refuse to discuss this further,” you muttered. “I’m going to buy this!” You announced before stalking back to the fitting room to avoid wondering about why your heart was skipping a beat and why you shouldn’t venture into that.

You were huffing as you tried to reach for the zipper behind you when the curtain suddenly opened and Yoongi stepped in, making the room felt impossibly small. You instinctively turned your back to him, clutching at the unzipped dress as though a protection against whatever this was.

“What are you doing here?!”

Yoongi leaned casually against the side of the fitting room, his smirk firmly in place. “Helping you, obviously,” he said as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“I don’t need your help!” you snapped, tugging at the zipper yourself but struggling to reach it.

“Doesn’t look like it,” he said smoothly, taking a step closer. His fingers brushed against yours as he gently moved your hand away. “Relax, princess. I’ll take care of it.”

You froze, your heart pounding as his hands moved to the zipper. His touch was surprisingly delicate, his fingers grazing your back as he carefully pulled the zipper up. The sound of the zipper seemed deafening in the silence.

“There,” he said softly, his voice low and close to your ear. “All done.”

You were about to turn around when he stopped you. You met his dark eyes through the mirror, and the intensity in his gaze held you captive. His hands lingered lightly on your shoulders, warm against the smooth fabric of the dress. There was something unreadable in his expression—a mix of curiosity, amusement, and something far deeper that you couldn’t quite name.

“You’re very beautiful, princess. Do you know that?” he whispered, resting his chin on your delicate shoulder.

“Yoongi, what are you doing?”

He was quiet for a moment as though in contemplation whether to say what he wanted to say. Like in the manhwa, Yoongi was calculating. He never did anything without a reason, one of which would benefit him. “I had a nightmare the night after the ball,” he finally confessed, his voice low and almost distant, as if recalling something that lingered in his mind. “We were on the yacht. I think it was a party. You were there… She was there. I was there. And the yacht… it slammed into a rock. The two of you were thrown off.”

If he felt your body went rigid, he didn’t mention. He never broke eye contact, his arms around your waist as he told you of his dream. The one exactly what happened in the manhwa– the one where the main lead chose to save the main female lead first, only to find out the it was already late for the second female lead.

His body was so close that you could feel the slight tremble in his arms as he spoke, his fingers grazing your waist with the same careful intensity.

You met his gaze in the mirror again, and something twisted in your stomach. There was an almost predatory look in his eyes, but there was something else too—something far more vulnerable, raw. He didn’t break eye contact, and his grip on you tightened just slightly, as though he wanted to hold on, as though he was afraid you’d slip away.

“In my dream,” he continued, his voice barely a whisper, “I saw you die because I saved her first. It felt so real, like I was remembering something that already happened.” He paused, and you felt the weight of his words sink in. “Why would I save her first when I know I can’t lose you?”

“It’s just a dream…” you tried to console him. How could he remember something that happened in the ending? Was the barrier between the characters and the plot weakening? What was changing? And how could you go back to your own world when he was holding onto you so tight as though if he looked away, you’d disappear?

“It is, right? It’s not going to happen... I’ll make sure of it.”

December came.

It was the month you were both dreading and anticipating. You were almost at the end of the story, and so far, you did your absolute best to let their love story unfold without a second female lead antagonizing it. You did your part by staying away from them. One problem though, the male lead was not acting like he was written in the manhwa. He was not acting like a man in love should be to her. Instead, he was out there sticking to you like

It was safe to say that Min Yoongi went rouge.

You did not know what to expect in the annual gala. You no longer have the upper hand. You were in the blind as though you were a real character and no longer a reader. You feared that the longer you stayed in this fictional world, the more likely that you’d be incorporated in the story and no longer as a second female lead that could just easily disappear.

You needed answers on how to escape from this fictional world. Answers eluded you. Worse still, so did the only person who seemed to see you for who you were. Taehyung. Since that night, not once did Taehyung answer you calls nor respond to your numerous messages. You tried asking your trusted staff about him, but even they were mummed. It was only your closest maid who whispered to you what transpired and how Taehyung’s budding business empire had crumbled overnight, crushed under the weight of lawsuits—tax evasion, fraud, and other accusations you couldn’t fathom. The news left you hollow. You hadn’t seen this coming. The man who had been your one source of normalcy, the one who made you feel like a real person instead of a pawn in someone else’s story, had disappeared into the shadows of scandal. You thought to yourself that maybe you really didn’t know him at all and that it was best to just focus on how to once and for all, leave this universe.

But who could you ask?

You continued anxiously tapping your heels on the marbled flooring, observing the guests. You were in the corner, trying to hide in the shadows so you could freely look for her. He would be bringing her, right?

Where is she?

Your eyes scanned the room again, trying to keep your presence hidden in the shadows. The guests were mingling, lost in the glitter of conversation and champagne. Laughter bubbled up in the air, but none of it felt real. Not like it should have. None of this was real, in fact. This was a fictional world where you were stuck in.

You wondered what would happen if you stopped playing her role. But before you could dwell on that thought, the door opened again, and you stiffened. You were expecting to see the main female lead, yet instead, it was Yoongi. The man of the hour. He entered the room and all the guests he passed greeted and congratulated him for setting another record in his empire, yet his eyes always returned to you. Where was she? This was not supposed to be like this. Yet, you knew in the back of your mind that something integral changed. You were in denial about how you no longer had control over this, that you might as well be truly in the story now, no longer an observer, no longer able to hide behind the pages of the manhwa.

You stepped back involuntarily, no longer feeling the courage you had faked for so long. You lost control. You had to find a way out. However, when you slipped away and turned the corner, you bumped into an old, yet dignified woman. You bowed in apologies when it dawned upon you.

You have seen her before.

Slowly, your eyes lifted to hers. You knew her. She was the woman who gave you the manhwa… How was she in this world?!

Your mouth hanged agape as the corner of her lips lifted, her eyes crinkling when she saw the dawn of recognition on her face. “I told you reading it will change your mind.”

“It’s you,” you whispered, taking an unsteady step back. Your eyes darted over her, as if trying to piece together a puzzle that didn’t belong in this world. “H-how… How are you here? What’s going on? Y-you have to help me. Why am I here? How can I leave?!”

She studied you for a moment, her gaze steady, unreadable. “You’re here because someone wants you here, dear.”

“I don’t want to be here! I want to go back.”

Her head tilted slightly, her calm demeanor unwavering. “But why? What do you have in your old life that you so desperately want to return to? Aren’t you alone there? Didn’t you have no one to love you?”

“That’s not the point!” you shot back, a tremor running through your voice. “And it’s not different here. No one loves me—no one even knows the real me.”

Her smile deepened, a glint of something—mischief, perhaps?—in her eyes. “Ah, but who do you think was desperate enough, filled with enough sorrow, to pull you into this universe?”

Your breath caught, confusion clouding your mind. “I… I don’t understand.”

“When she died,” the woman began, her voice lowering, as if unveiling a truth long buried, “the manhwa ended. But did you think the characters would simply cease to exist? No, dear. They continued, burdened by the pain of their story. Yoongi was devastated. He regretted everything—every word, every choice, every moment that led to her death. He mourned her. His sorrow was so great, it transcended the story’s limits and reached you.”

Your head spun. “Me?” you repeated weakly, disbelief dripping from your voice.

“Dear, you are her. Just in a different universe. It’s the reason why you sided with her, why you felt for her, why her character called on you, why her pain felt like your own. You are her.”

“I don’t want to be her,” you said, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t choose this. Please—just send me back to my own universe.”

The woman sighed, her expression softening, though her eyes retained their strange, knowing glimmer. “The only way out,” she said slowly, “is through. The manhwa will only release you when its story ends. And you know how it ends, don’t you?”

A cold realization began to settle in your chest. “When he marries the female lead,” you murmured, dread weaving through every syllable. Your words hung in the air, heavy and final.

The sharp sound of footsteps echoed down the corridor, breaking your trance. You barely had time to gather your thoughts before a familiar voice cut through the suffocating stillness.

“There you are. I’ve been looking for you. What are you doing here?”

Yoongi’s low, commanding tone sent a jolt through you, but it was his grip—firm but not harsh—as his hand closed around your arm that made your breath hitch.

You turned to face him, his dark eyes locking onto yours. They were intense, holding a darkness that made your stomach churn. Something simmered beneath his composed exterior, something unsettling.

“How long have you been standing there?” you asked, your voice unsteady.

His lips quirked into a small, unreadable smile. “I just arrived, princess,” he said, the pet name rolling off his tongue like silk. “What are you doing here? Alone?”

“I…” You hesitated, your mind racing for an excuse. “I was just talking to—”

When you turned back, the old woman was gone.

Your heart sank, panic surging through you. The corridor where she had stood moments ago was now empty, as though she had vanished into thin air.

Yoongi frowned, his grip on your arm tightening slightly. “Talking to who?” he pressed, his voice dropping.

You forced yourself to meet his gaze, but the weight of it was crushing. “No one,” you said quickly, your voice barely above a whisper. “She must’ve left before you got here.”

Yoongi looked down at you, his expression calm, his gaze steady. Yet, something about the way he held himself—the deliberate gentleness, the faint curve of his lips—made unease coil tightly in your chest. A part of you whispered that this tenderness was a mask, that he wasn’t as naïve or benign as he seemed.

But then he smiled.

It was a tender smile, soft around the edges, and for a fleeting moment, your doubts dissolved like mist under the morning sun.

“Let’s get back to the party, princess,” he said, his voice a soothing balm against the tension humming in your veins. “Your parents arrived.”

Your steps faltered. “My parents?”

The mention of them sent a jolt through you. They were a peripheral presence in the story, barely more than a footnote in the manhwa’s narrative. They were always overseas, managing their company, distant figures who left their daughter to fend for herself. Their absence was a plot device, a catalyst for your dependence on Yoongi.

But now, they were here.

“W-why are they here?” you asked, your voice trembling despite your effort to steady it.

Yoongi stopped walking, turning to face you fully. His expression didn’t change, but there was something unsettling in the way his eyes softened, like he was trying to calm a skittish animal. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, his tone quiet yet resolute.

The words only made your pulse quicken. He offered his arm to you, his demeanor so effortless, so composed, as though he hadn’t just upended everything you thought you knew about the storyline. “Shall we?”

Were you imagining things, or were the guests’ gazes lingering just a little too long as you and Yoongi re-entered the ballroom? Conversations paused, eyes flickering in your direction, a murmur of whispers spreading like ripples across the sea of elegantly dressed attendees.

Yoongi, as always, was composed. His hand rested lightly on the small of your back, guiding you through the crowd with an ease that belied the tension curling in your chest. You tried to focus on the glittering chandeliers, the music, the familiar opulence of the space, but the weight of the stares made it impossible.

“There’s our little girl!”

The warm, dignified voice cut through the hum of the crowd, pulling your attention to its source. Your mother stood near the edge of the room, resplendent in a gown that rivaled the grandeur of the occasion. Her face lit up with delight as she strode toward you, arms outstretched.

“Y-you’re here…” you stammered, shock rendering you momentarily immobile as she pulled you into an embrace. Her movements were graceful yet firm, as though she’d been waiting for this moment.

“Of course, we’re here,” she said, stepping back to study your face, her smile warm but tinged with something calculating. “Why wouldn’t we be? It’s not every day that our dear daughter gets engaged.”

Your heart raced, panic rising as you tried to process what was happening. “I… I don’t understand,” you managed, your voice trembling as you looked between your parents and Yoongi.

Yoongi stepped closer, the warmth of his hand on your back turning into a subtle yet firm pressure. His voice dropped to a low murmur, meant only for your ears, as his sharp eyes held yours in an unrelenting gaze.

“It’s all been arranged, princess,” he said softly, his words almost tender but laced with steel. “Your parents and mine have been discussing this for some time. They thought tonight was the perfect opportunity to make it official.”

Your heart pounded in protest, the world around you narrowing to just him and the enormity of what he was saying. “I didn’t agree to this,” you said, your voice trembling but resolute. “This is wrong! You don’t want this, Yoongi. You have her. And I—”

“You what?” he interrupted sharply, his eyes narrowing. “You have Taehyung?”

“No!” you snapped, shaking your head. “This isn’t about him. This is about them deciding for us. This is about tying your life to mine when you don’t even want to!”

He tilted his head slightly, his smirk returning but without any real humor. “Who says I don’t want to?”

“Yoongi—”

“Look, princess,” he cut you off, his voice soft but commanding. “We just have to act like we’re going along with this. Just pretend. Can you do that for me?”

Your breath caught, and you searched his face for some hint of his true feelings. But all you found was a calm determination that left you more uncertain than ever.

The murmur of the crowd reached you, the polite applause growing louder as you turned toward the center of the room. Yoongi extended his hand, his posture exuding confidence and charm as he guided you toward the raised platform where your parents and his waited.

The spotlight followed the two of you as you ascended albeit reluctantly, every step feeling heavier than the last. The room seemed to hush, the weight of their expectations bearing down on you.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Yoongi began smoothly, raising his glass in a toast. His voice carried easily, commanding the attention of the entire ballroom. “Tonight is a special night, not just for our families, but for me. I’m honored to announce my engagement to this incredible woman beside me, my childhood best friend, the only woman who have never left my side. I cannot live without her, and soon, I’ll never have to.”

The applause erupted, deafening and overwhelming. You felt trapped, the walls closing in as Yoongi turned to you, his smile perfectly composed for the crowd.

“Shall we make it convincing, princess?” Yoongi murmured, his voice low and unreadable, carrying a weight you couldn’t quite place.

Before you could respond, he cupped your face with a gentleness that felt at odds with the deliberate precision in his movements. His touch was warm, grounding, yet it sent a jolt through you—a mix of dread and something far more dangerous.

Your breath hitched.

Never in your wildest dreams did you think Min Yoongi—the composed, untouchable Min Yoongi—would lower his head to capture your lips. Even more unthinkable was the way his kiss shattered every expectation, unraveling something deep within you.

Yoongi kissed like a man starved. His lips moved against yours with a consuming intensity, a hunger that left no room for hesitation. It wasn’t gentle or tentative; it was deliberate, almost punishing. He took and took, claiming you with every movement of his mouth. His tongue brushed against yours, coaxing and demanding at the same time, leaving you breathless.

His free hand cradled your face, tilting it to him as if to ensure you couldn’t escape—not that your body seemed capable of responding. Your knees felt weak, your heart thundered in your chest, and the noise of the crowd faded into an inconsequential blur.

For a moment, there was only him.

The crowd erupted into applause, the sound jolting you back to reality. The cheers and whistles surrounded you, the noise pressing in like a tidal wave. You blinked, realizing that your hands had gripped the fabric of his jacket, as though anchoring yourself to him.

Yoongi pulled back slowly, his gaze locking with yours. His eyes were dark, burning with something you couldn’t decipher. His lips curled into a faint, triumphant smile, as if he knew exactly what effect he’d had on you.

You barely had a moment to catch your breath before he took your hand in his. The velvet box you hadn’t even noticed being opened now sat empty in his other hand. And then, before you could process what was happening, there it was—a massive diamond glinting on your finger, its size almost blinding under the ballroom lights. It was familiar. How could it not when it was the same ring he won in the auction?

Why did he have this now? When was this entire fiasco prepared?

Your chest tightened as you stared at the ring, the weight of it feeling heavier than it should have.

Yoongi raised your hand, pressing a kiss to your knuckles, his gaze never leaving yours. To the crowd, it was the perfect picture of a devoted fiancé. But to you, it was something far more unnerving.

“You wear it well,” he murmured, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

The applause swelled around you again, the sound nearly deafening as you tried to steady your racing thoughts.

This wasn’t part of the story. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

But Yoongi, ever the master of control, seemed to have rewritten the script entirely. And you were left standing in the middle of his narrative, unable to tell where the performance ended and the truth began.

The evening air outside was cool and calm, a sharp contrast to the warmth and chatter of the grand party you had just left behind. As the crowd dwindled and the night settled, Yoongi offered you his arm, escorting you toward his sleek black car. His movements were unhurried, deliberate, and his dark eyes lingered on you for a moment longer than usual.

The night seemed to be endless. You were never left alone even for a moment. You wanted nothing more than to lie down and plan your next step. You had to, or else you were stuck here.

“I’m sorry I missed your speech,” you said as the car pulled away from the glowing mansion. “I’m sure it was great.”

He glanced at you, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “That’s fine. You’ll always be here to hear my next speech anyway.”

You returned his smile, but it was brittle, not quite reaching your eyes. Had your plan succeeded, this would be one of your last moments with him. You’d return to your world, leaving this Yoongi—and this universe—behind. The thought tightened something in your chest, but you pushed it aside.

“I’m sorry about the sudden engagement, princess.” His voice was soft, laced with what sounded like regret, but his eyes told a different story. “My hands were tied. Our families went behind our backs, and I couldn’t do anything about it.”

Lies. All of it.

What you didn’t know was that Yoongi had orchestrated everything. He had whispered into the right ears, pulled strings behind the scenes, and crafted a perfect storm to ensure this engagement would bind you to him. He didn’t care what the truth was, whether or not you were from this world. He cared about one thing only—keeping you by his side.

Something in him had shifted the moment he realized how easily you could slip away. The very idea of losing you—to this world, to Taehyung, to anything—was unbearable. It drove him to actions he never thought himself capable of, cruel and unapologetic. Taehyung was out of the picture now, his budding empire crushed under the weight of scandal. Yoongi had ensured that, and he felt no remorse.

What mattered was you.

You offered him a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes because if what you were planning was successful, you’d return to your own world and he’d be left in this universe. Yoongi quietly offered you a champagne as the driver smoothly drove back to the mansion.

“Are we celebrating something?” you asked, eyeing the sparkling liquid.

“Just…for always, princess,” he said softly, the words carrying an undertone you couldn’t quite place.

You hesitated, but took the glass, sipping the sparkling liquid. The conversation flowed effortlessly, a dance of shared humor, mutual interests, and a surprising depth of understanding. With each exchange, you were reminded of why you had felt drawn to Yoongi in the first place. For all his intensity and mystery, he was undeniably charming, and being with him felt easy in a way you hadn’t expected.

The spirit of alcohol definitely made you forget about the ruckus that happened tonight. If he said that he didn’t have anything to do with it, who were you to question him when he was characterized in the manhwa as someone who was good?

Your conversation with him was fun. It was grounding.

Until the world began to tilt.

Dizziness crept over you, subtle at first but quickly overpowering. Your fingers loosened around the champagne flute as your head grew heavier, and before you knew it, your cheek was pressed against his shoulder.

“Yoongi…” you murmured, your voice weak as you leaned against him.

He steadied you, his hand moving to cradle your head as you slumped against his shoulder. “It’s alright,” he said softly, his voice carrying a note of finality.You tried to sit up, to stay awake, but your body refused to cooperate. Everything blurred together, and then, there was nothing.

Yoongi’s hand moved to steady you, his touch gentle as he adjusted your position so you rested more comfortably against him. He looked down at you, his expression unreadable, before shifting his gaze toward the driver.

“To the airport,” he instructed, his voice calm but firm.

The driver nodded without hesitation, changing course.

Yoongi turned his attention back to you, his jaw tightening as he studied your sleeping face. He’d heard everything earlier—the old woman’s cryptic words, your desperate plea to leave, and your determination to escape this world.

It all made sense. The nightmare that brought terrors in his heart really happened. You died because of his foolishness, because he chose someone else over you when he knew he couldn’t survive a world without you. It had been like living his worst nightmare all over again, the fear of losing someone he wasn’t ready to let go. But this time, he refused to let it happen.

He wasn’t a religious man, but your presence in this universe felt like a miracle—a second chance, no matter how strange or impossible. Whether you were the original her or not didn’t matter. You were here. You were his.

And he wouldn’t let you leave.

His gaze darkened, his grip on your hand tightening slightly.

“You’re not going anywhere, princess,” he murmured softly, more to himself than to you.

The first female lead was no longer his focus. She was gone.

Now, it was you.

And Yoongi would do whatever it took to keep you by his side—even if it meant tying you to him so tightly you could never untangle the threads.

#bts fic #yandere bts #bts yandere #min yoongi fic #min yoongi x you #min yoongi x reader #min yoongi x y/n #yandere min yoongi #daniella 6k celebration #bts fanfic

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bambisnc · 3 months ago

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( ➴ ) 𝑝𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌 ⋆ a beautiful riddle

𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝖽𝖽𝗅𝖾; 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗎𝗇𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾, 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒

### . STARRING ⌢ bf!y.jw ⋆ drabble + fluff (?) + 0.6k // unedited + use of "baby" + reader is a little Insecure/worried + 💏💏 ˖ ✧

𝓍𝗈𝗑𝗈 ─── won fic debut hai >3< this has been drafts since foreva :/ + queuing this n going Straight to sleep if theres typos pls lmk + [FILE.ZIP]

“you keep backing away.”

a string of curses loops in your head at the observation — most of which are directed at your own self. you’re more than well aware of the fact that there’s no one to blame but you for ending up in this situation.

yang jungwon’s gaze is steadily locked onto yours. you hate the effect that the simple action has on you.

it’s quite literally the bare minimum but it has you barely even being able to bring yourself to meet his eyes, your body curling into itself like you could actually disappear under the weight of his attention.

he’s right, of course. you only realize it after he actually puts it into words, but you’ve managed to back yourself up against the wall completely.

it’s not as if you’re scared, obviously, but something about this — about him — is overwhelming in a way you aren’t prepared for.

(also, the way your heart is racing at the proximity is decidedly not helping.)

“and you won’t even look at me.” his words are as straight to the point as always. your boyfriend’s never been one to beat around the bush, after all.

you scramble to think of excuses. the absolute least you can do is attempt to defend yourself, “it’s not like that–...” but you trail off, not really knowing where and how to start explaining.

“then what is it like?,” he tilts his head slightly, expression unreadable, “i don’t want to force you into doing something you don’t want, baby – you know that, right? but you have to talk to me. i need to know what’s going on with you.”

what’s going on with you? oh, not much. you’re just in the middle of a mild (read : full blown) crisis.

you can understand where jungwon's coming from.

one can only avoid so many of their boyfriend’s attempts to kiss them before said boyfriend starts getting suspicious.

it’s not like you don’t want him to kiss you.

you do. you really, really do.

based on the scenarios you’re constantly plagued with, of him teasing kisses along your jaw, your neck, the corner of your mouth; the trail finally ending with your lips on his…, that’s clearly not the issue.

you blink, shaking your head to bring your focus back to the present only to find that jungwon is somehow even closer now. his arm is braced against the wall beside your head now, his eyes still resolutely fixed on you.

…

the thing is … you’re scared.

scared you’ll be awkward. scared you won’t be good at it, not good enough. scared it won’t be the way you imagine, that it’d be messy, clumsy, disappointing.

and really, you know it’s stupid.

first kisses aren’t supposed to be perfect anyways, are they? there’s bound to be some … complications.

“it’s more than fine if you want to take things slow.” he’s always been rather perceptive, hasn't he? “we don’t have to do anything if you aren’t-”

but before he can finish, before the subtle worry in his voice can settle—

you kiss him.

… there are no fireworks. no birds singing, no spontaneous confetti.

and yes, it’s a little rushed, a little shaky.

but it’s real.

his breath stutters for only a second before he recovers, hands finding your waist, pulling you closer. the warmth of his lips is soft against yours, sending a wave through your system.

and — oh.

maybe you had nothing to be worried about, after all.

𐙚 . regulars : @chrrific @jessxxxfwd @evanesceki @soobundle1009 @weedatthegasstattion @flipitkickit ⋆

[@bambisnc] 2k25

#ㅤㅤ[ 📋 ⋆ 𐙚 ]#enhypen #enhypen x reader #enhypen jungwon #enhypen fluff #yang jungwon #yang jungwon fluff #jungwon x reader #yang jungwon x reader #enha x reader #enhypen imagines #enhypen scenarios #jungwon fluff #jungwon #kpop x reader

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pbaz7 · 3 months ago

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FINDING PEACE IN YOU: PART 4

paige x azzi

warnings: sexual content

word count: 12k

A/N: I struggled bringing my plot to life on this one for some reason. It’s not terrible but it’s definitely not my best work😭 also it’s completely unedited because I was being harassed so be warned lol. Let me know what you think and happy game day!!!

—————————————————————————

Azzi wasn’t one to dwell too much on social media—she knew better, she barely even used it. But she’d be lying if she said she hadn’t been on it a little more recently; and that the posts after Paige’s first away game in Minnesota hadn’t gotten her gears turning.

As she scrolled through her timeline there were pictures and videos of the team walking into a club to celebrate their first win of the season. Paige looked amazing—her blonde hair wavy and slightly tousled, a confident smirk on her lips, her jewelry shining from the camera flashes, her outfit fitting her perfectly. It was the kind of pictures that would’ve had Azzi playfully rolling her eyes a few months ago, when she’d just met the blonde, knowing how easily Paige could get who she wanted. But now? Now, it just made her stomach tighten.

What really caught Azzi’s attention was how many women were lingering around in the pictures.

Some were just fans Others were players from the Lynx, people Paige probably knew. But of course there were the ones who stood a little too close in the group pictures. The ones whose eyes lingered when Paige wasn’t even looking in videos.

What the hell am I doing?

Azzi knew better than this. She definitely wasn’t insecure, and Paige had given her a reason to doubt her. Still, something unsettled her. Maybe she just missed her, or maybe it was the way the past had taught her to be wary even when things seemed great.

As Azzi scrolled through the posts, her expression remained unreadable. She wasn’t upset—not really. Paige hadn’t done anything wrong. Still, that didn’t stop the small, unfamiliar feeling creeping up her spine. Something she wasn’t used to dealing with.

Jealousy.

Muttering a few words under her breath, Azzi locked her phone, then immediately unlocked it again and scrolled to Paige’s contact. She wasn’t about to sit here playing detective when she could just call her.

The phone rang three times before Paige picked up, her voice coming through with a slight, telltale sign of tipsiness. The background quieter than Azzi expected.

“Wassup, gorgeous?”

Azzi felt the tension in her shoulders ease, just slightly. “What are you up to?”

“M’ just at the hotel bar with Arike, Lyss, DiJonai, and some random stragglers,” Paige said, her words lazy, like she was comfortably slouched in a chair somewhere.

“I thought you told me you were going to be at the after-party for most of the night?”

“Yeah,” Paige sighed. “Wasn’t feeling it for real.”

That had Azzi pausing. Paige wasn’t exactly the life of the party, but Azzi knew she wasn’t one to turn down a good time, especially after a win.

“Way too many people,” Paige added, almost like she could sense Azzi’s thoughts. “Too much going on.”

Azzi hummed in understanding, letting the last of her unnecessary overthinking fade away. Paige had already left the club. She’d opted for a quiet drink instead.

“What you doing, gorgeous?” Paige asked, her voice a little playful now.

“That’s the second time you’ve called me that in less than a minute.”

“‘Cause you are,” Paige said easily.

Azzi shook her head, unable to stop the small smile tugging at her lips. “Are you drunk?”

“Prolly,” Paige admitted with a quiet chuckle.

“You’re probably drunk?” Azzi repeated.

“Mhm,” Paige hummed. “But not like bad drunk. Just a little tipsy maybe.”

Azzi leaned back against her bed, relaxing now that she’d heard Paige’s voice. “So, you ditched the after-party to sit at a hotel bar with Arike and them and be kinda drunk?”

Paige laughed. “I ain’t ditch it for real. Just…left. Like I said…too many people. Too much going on.” She paused, then added, “’Sides, I’d rather be on the phone with you. Can’t do that at the club.”

Azzi rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t stop the warmth that was spreading through her chest. “You’re smooth when you’re tipsy, you know that?”

“I’m smooth all the time, don’t play with me.”

“You gonna go up to your room soon?” Azzi asked.

Paige made a noise that sounded like she was stretching. “Yeah, probably. You tryna tell me to go to bed?”

Azzi smiled. “Maybe.”

Paige exhaled dramatically. “Damn. You don’t even wanna talk to me?”

Azzi bit her lip, shaking her head at Paige’s antics. “Go to bed, P.”

Paige huffed out a soft laugh. “Ight lemme just FaceTime you first.”

Azzi rolled her eyes but said, “Okay.”

Two seconds later, her phone lit up with an incoming call. She swiped to answer, and Paige’s face filled the screen, her expression already a lazy, lopsided grin. Her hair was slightly tousled, and the dim lighting of the hotel bar cast soft shadows across her features.

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “What are you already grinning about?”

Paige shrugged, still smiling. “Nun.”

Azzi wasn’t convinced. “Yeah, right.”

Paige finally focused in on Azzi’s demeanor, eyes narrowing just slightly before she tilted her head and sat up slightly. “Why you look stressed? You good?”

The question caught Azzi slightly off guard. Even through a screen, even slightly drunk, Paige still noticed everything. That alone made something in Azzi's chest loosen.

Azzi exhaled softly, her lips curving into a small smile. “I’m great now.”

Paige licked her lips, the intent in her gaze changing. “What, I made you feel good huh?”

Azzi wanted to roll her eyes, to deny it, but she didn’t just raised her eyebrows.

Paige sighed dramatically as she sant further into the booth she was sitting in, her voice a little softer now. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too.”

Before she could say anything else, Paige glanced up at someone offscreen. A second later, Azzi heard a voice in the background. “Who you talking to?”

Paige’s grin was huge when she said, “My girl.”

Azzi froze.

Her girl?

They hadn’t made anything official, hadn’t even had that conversation yet. But Paige said it so casually, like it was already a fact, like there was no doubt in her mind that Azzi would be hers eventually. Azzi’s stomach did a ridiculous flip, her heart picking up speed, but before she could even process it, Rickea suddenly appeared on the screen, taking the phone out of Paige’s hands.

Rickea was definitely drunker than Paige, her expression exaggerated as she pointed a finger at Azzi. “You stole my wingwoman.”

Azzi blinked. “Hm?”

Rickea groaned, waving a hand in the air. “You got her pussy whipped. She wouldn’t even look at nobody else tonight, let alone talk to them so I could get with their friend. Awful night for me. Zero outta ten.”

Azzi let out a soft laugh, clearly amused. “I’m… sorry?” The words came out more like a question than an actual apology.

Rickea shook her head, then leaned in closer to the screen, lowering her voice to a supposed whisper that wasn’t even close to quiet. “Imma tell you a secret.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow, already bracing herself.

Rickea glanced around then whispered loudly, “Paige needs to get laid. That girl been tense for weeks.”

Azzi’s mouth fell open slightly, caught between shock and stifling a laugh. Paige, on the other hand, was immediately reaching for the phone with an exasperated, “Alright, bro.”

There was a brief shuffle before the screen shifted, and Paige was back. “Ignore her.”

Azzi tilted her head slightly, a teasing cadence in her tone. “So, you don’t need to, quote-unquote, ‘get laid’?”

Paige squinted at her through the screen, lips pressing together like she was trying to figure out how to respond. “I ain’t say allat,” she admitted, shifting in her seat. “I’m just saying I’m not tense or nothing, you know?”

Azzi hummed, clearly unconvinced. “Mhm.”

Paige narrowed her eyes. “Why you say that like you don’t believe me?”

“Cause I don’t.”

Paige let out a dramatic sigh, shaking her head. “Man, y’all love painting me as this sex deprived, miserable person.”

Azzi laughed at this. “I mean… Rickea said you’ve been tense for weeks. Weeks, P.”

Paige scoffed. “Rickea don’t know what she’s talking about.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “So you haven’t been tense? What you don’t want me?”

Paige huffed, shifting in her seat. “Nah like, obviously, I want—” She stopped, shook her head, and started again. “I mean, if you was here, then yeah, maybe—” She groaned, running a hand down her face. “Nah, what I’m trying to say is—”

Azzi bit her lip, amused. “Go ahead. Take your time.”

Paige shot her a glare through the screen. “You’re annoying.”

Azzi grinned. “And you’re deflecting.”

Paige exhaled. “Man, shut up.”

“I’m just saying, you sounded real confident telling people I’m your girl, but now all of a sudden you don’t have anything to say?”

Paige groaned again, running a hand through her hair. “Why you gotta bring that up?”

“Because I liked how it sounded,” Azzi admitted.

Paige paused, her expression shifting. “Yeah?”

Azzi nodded. “Yeah.”

Paige let out a breath, her lips curling into a slow smile before she said, “Bet.”

Azzi rolled her eyes, shaking her head as she changed the subject. “You need to rest and drink some water before your flight tomorrow.”

Paige frowned. “I’m tryna keep talkin’ to you, though.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “You can talk to me in your room.”

Paige squinted. “Why you keep tryna send me to bed?”

“I’m not,” Azzi said–she definitely was, she could tell Paige was tired and would crash within 10 minutes of being in her room. “You’re just in public, and I don’t wanna filter what I say.”

Paige stilled for a second, like she was processing what that meant, then Azzi watched her scramble up from her seat so fast it was almost impressive.

Azzi smirked. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Paige, already halfway out the bar, just said, “Hold that thought,” before the screen went a little dark.

Azzi heard the shuffle of movement, followed by Paige’s voice calling out to her teammates, “I’m goin’ to bed.”

In the background, Rickea and Dijonai immediately started booing. Paige just laughed, the sound a little muffled, and then Azzi saw her moving toward what looked like the elevators.

Azzi was about to say something when she heard a voice—someone stopping Paige. “Hey, can I get a picture real quick?” the person asked. “We were at the club with y’all earlier.”

Paige sighed quietly but stopped, clearly obliging. “Yeah, yeah, for sure.”

Azzi watched as Paige posed, the flash going off before Paige mumbled, “No problem.” With that, she finally stepped into the elevator, the doors shutting behind her.

The call cut in and out until Paige stepped off the elevator and into her room, shutting the door behind her. She looked down at her phone, her lips curling into a small smirk. “Wassup.”

Azzi smiled at her saying, “Hi again.”

Paige chuckled as she kicked off her shoes, her movements a little sluggish but still controlled. “How was work today?”

Azzi leaned back against her pillows, watching Paige through the screen. “It was good. Just scheduled appointments and check-ins, nothing too unexpected.”

Paige smiled at that. “That’s good. You eat?”

Azzi hummed, nodding. “Yeah.”

Paige propped up her phone, adjusting the angle before stretching her arms over her head with a small groan. “Good, what’d you have?”

Azzi smirked at the domesticity of it all. “You checking up on me now?”

Paige rolled her eyes. “Man, just answer the question.”

Azzi hummed. “I had some salmon, rice, and veggies earlier. Happy?”

Paige grinned. “Very. Proud of you for eating real food.”

Azzi scoffed. “What does that mean?”

“You be playin around sometimes, acting like coffee is a meal.”

Azzi shrugged. “Sometimes it’s all I need to get through the day.”

Paige gave her a pointed look. “If I said that, you’d give me a whole lecture about what my body needs for like twenty minutes.”

“That’s different.”

Paige scoffed. “It’s not.”

Azzi crossed her arms, leaning back against her pillows. “It is, though. You’re an athlete, you burn way more calories than me. Your body literally needs more fuel.”

“Doesn’t mean you can just run on caffeine and sheer will?”

Azzi smiled. “It’s been working so far.”

Paige gave her a pointed look. “Mmhm. Until one day, you just randomly fall out.”

Azzi rolled her eyes. “Alright, that's dramatic.”

Paige shrugged. “I’m just saying, don’t let me catch you slipping. Imma absolutely pull the ‘I told you so’ card.”

“Noted.”

Paige grinned, satisfied. “Good. Now, did you drink water too, or am I about to be disappointed?”

Azzi sighed dramatically. “Yes, Paige, I drank water.”

Paige grinned. “Damn, look at that—sexy, responsible woman over there. Drinkin water and shit.”

Azzi rolled her eyes. “Shut up.”

Paige just laughed, grabbing the hem of her shirt and pulling it over her head before walking out of frame.

Azzi immediately frowned. “Where’d you go?”

A few seconds later, Paige reappeared on the screen, now wearing a pair of shorts and a sports bra. She smirked as she sat down. “What, you tryna get a show?”

Azzi tilted her head slightly, eyes flickering over Paige’s toned frame before humming. “Maybe.”

Paige let out a low chuckle. “You gotta pay for allat.”

Azzi played into the joke, as she bit her lip. “What’s the going rate these days?”

Paige’s jaw dropped dramatically. “Wowww. That’s crazy.”

Azzi smiled. “I’m just trying to be an informed customer.”

Paige leaned closer to the camera. “Ahh, so you tryna make a purchase?”

Azzi tilted her head, pretending to think about it. “Depends on what’s all included in the package.”

Paige let out a low laugh, licking her lips. “Premium service. Real exclusive type service.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “How exclusive we talking?”

Paige’s grin grew, her tipsiness making her bolder. “Like… only available for one person, kinda exclusive.”

Azzi hummed, playing along. “And what if I want a trial run before committing?”

Paige sucked her teeth, shaking her head. “Nah, this ain’t no free sample situation. You either all in or not at all.”

Azzi’s voice is a little softer when she says, “I tried to remember? You stopped me.”

That brought a shift in Paige’s expression. Her smirk faltered, turning gentle as her eyes searched Azzi’s face. She nodded slowly.

“I did,” Paige said softly. “I was just tryna respect you gorgeous.”

Azzi’s features softened in return, her voice sincere. “And I appreciate that.”

Paige smiled at her, eyes growing heavier. “Tell me about your day?”

Azzi settled further into her bed, adjusting her phone as she watched Paige’s face relax. “You sure you’re not going to fall asleep on me?” she teased.

Paige let out a soft chuckle, already nestling into her pillow. “Nah, I wanna hear you talk.” Her voice was quieter now, more at ease. “Just tell me about your day.”

Azzi smiled at that, something warm settling in her chest. “Alright.” She thought for a moment before starting. “Well work was good—mostly just check-ins and scheduled appointments like I said, nothing too crazy. I had this one client who swore they were dying over a minor sprain, though.”

Paige let out a sleepy laugh. “Mmm. You saving lives out here, huh?”

Azzi smirked. “Always.”

Paige hummed in response, eyes slipping closed but her lips still curved in a small smile. Azzi kept talking, telling her about little moments from her day—her workout that morning, grabbing coffee, the book she’d started reading. Paige would mumble something here and there, making it clear she was still listening, even as her responses got slower.

Eventually, Azzi heard Paige’s breathing even out, her face peaceful on the screen. Azzi just watched her for a moment, the sight of Paige so relaxed making her chest tighten in a way she wasn’t ready to unpack.

Softly, she whispered, “Goodnight, Paige.”

Paige stirred just enough to murmur back, “Night, Az,” before fully drifting off.

Azzi smiled to herself, shaking her head fondly before ending the call, letting herself relax into bed as well.

…

The next time Paige and Azzi saw each other was the day Paige returned to Dallas. She had just picked up Lukas from her mothers house, the little boy practically bouncing in his seat in the back, a bright grin on his face as he was excited to see his mom after being apart for so long.

As they drove down the familiar Dallas streets, Lukas chatted about everything from starting school in the fall to the new toy he wanted that his uncle showed him.

Paige pulled up outside Azzi’s clinic, shifting the car into park as she glanced at Lukas through the rearview mirror. The little boy was peering out the window, his small brows furrowed in curiosity.

“Where are we?”

Paige unbuckled her seatbelt, stretching her arm over the passenger seat as she turned to look at him. “We’re picking up Azzi.”

At the mention of her name, Lukas immediately went quiet, mumbling out a quiet, “Oh.” His tiny fingers messed with the strings of his hoodie, and a faint pink dusted his cheeks.

Paige caught the reaction instantly, smirking as she tilted her head. “Oh?” she teased, dragging the word out.

Lukas shifted in his car seat, suddenly hyper focused on the straps across his chest. “Nothin’,” he mumbled, eyes darting away.

Paige chuckled. “You excited to see Azzi?”

There was a pause before Lukas gave a quick, almost shy nod. “She’s nice,” he admitted quietly.

Paige’s smirk softened into a smile. “Yeah, she is.”

She unlatched her door and turned back to him. “You gonna come inside with me or just sit there looking shy?”

Lukas hesitated, his little legs swinging. “I’ll go.”

After helping Lukas out of the car, Paige took his hand and led him up to Azzi’s clinic. When they got off the elevator the same receptionist from last time looked up, offering a polite smile. Paige returned it with a small nod.

Azzi was waiting for them just past the desk, standing with her hands in her pockets. Paige gave her a quick once over taking note of the white button up that was slightly undone and the heels Azzi had on.

Maybe it was the fact that they hadn’t seen each other in days, or maybe it was something else entirely, but the moment Azzi stepped toward Paige, the hug that followed felt different.

To anyone watching, it would seem like nothing more than a warm embrace—Azzi’s arms wrapping around Paige’s shoulders, Paige’s arms circling her waist. But to them, it felt like something else entirely.

Azzi melted into it just a little too much, the weight of her body pressing against Paige’s completely as she let out the smallest sigh against her hoodie. Paige felt the way Azzi’s fingers curled slightly against her back, how the warmth of her breath tickled her neck.

Paige, in turn, held on just a second longer than necessary, her lips brushing the curve of Azzi’s jaw as she whispered, “Wassup, beautiful?”

Azzi stiffened for half a second, just enough for Paige to notice, before she pulled back, keeping her expression neutral.

Their eyes met.

Lingering.

Reading each other.

Their eye contact lasted long enough that the receptionist cleared her throat softly, a subtle reminder that they weren’t alone.

Paige smirked as she shifted her weight, finally glancing away. Azzi, on the other hand, bit the inside of her cheek, schooling her expression before turning her attention down to Lukas, who had been watching the interaction with his wide, curious eyes.

Azzi crouched slightly, offering the boy a warm smile. “Hey, buddy,” she greeted, her voice softer now.

Lukas, still flustered from before, rocked on his heels before shyly mumbling, “Hi.”

Paige watched the exchange with amusement, her heart beating a little faster than it probably should have been.

Azzi stood up, her gaze flickering to the small bowl of candy on the receptionist’s desk. She grabbed a piece, then turned to Paige with a silent question in her eyes, lifting the candy slightly in Lukas’s direction.

Paige let out a quiet laugh, nodding. “Yeah, he can have it.”

Azzi grinned and crouched again, holding the candy out to Lukas. “This is for you.”

Lukas’s eyes widened slightly, his shyness momentarily replaced with excitement as he reached for it. “Thank you.”

Azzi chuckled. “You’re welcome.”

Paige watched the exchange shaking her head. “You tryna win him over with candy already?”

Azzi smirked, glancing at her. “Is it working?”

Paige looked down at Lukas, who was now inspecting the candy like it was a prized possession, his tiny fingers gripping it tightly. “Yeah… definitely.”

Azzi turned back toward the receptionist, giving her a small wave. “Goodnight, Kelly,” she said with a smile.

“Goodnight, Dr. Fudd. Paige,” Kelly replied, her tone slightly teasing as she subtly glanced between Azzi and Paige.

Azzi rolled her eyes but smiled before following Paige and Lukas toward the elevator. As the doors closed, the three of them stood in comfortable silence, Lukas still clutching his candy while sneaking glances at Azzi.

When they got outside, Paige immediately reached for Lukas’s hand, keeping him close as they walked to her car. Azzi attempted to open the passenger door but Paige stopped her and with her free hand, she pulled open the passenger door for Azzi.

Azzi arched her eyebrow but smirked as she slid into the seat. “A real gentle woman,” she teased.

Paige snorted. “You’re welcome.”

Once Azzi was settled Paige shut the door for her and turned her attention to Lukas, opening the back door and lifting him up into his car seat. She stepped back, watching as he carefully buckled himself in, his small hands fumbling with the straps.

“You got it?” Paige asked.

Lukas nodded, determined. “Mhm.”

Satisfied, Paige shut his door and made her way around to the driver’s side, sliding in behind the wheel.

For the most part, the car ride was quiet as they drove to Paige’s house. She wanted to give Azzi time to wind down, having heard how draining her days can be sometimes. Azzi didn’t seem exhausted, but she wasn’t rushing to fill the silence either. She simply gazed out the window, her body relaxed in the passenger seat.

In the backseat, Lukas had talked himself out for a bit. He stared out the window, occasionally kicking his feet as he took in the sights passing by. Every now and then, he’d say something random—commenting on a car, a dog he saw on the sidewalk, or just mumbling a thought that popped into his head.

Paige, of course, always responded, laughing at his little observations or answering his occasional questions. One hand was lazily gripping the wheel, the other resting on the gear stick, fingers drumming lightly against it.

Eventually Azzi glanced down, noticing the movement before subtly reaching over. She slid her hand over Paige’s, fingers curling around her wrist for a second before tugging it toward her lap. Paige let her, exhaling a quiet chuckle as Azzi interlaced their fingers, resting their joined hands on her thigh.

Neither of them said anything. Paige’s thumb brushed against Azzi’s skin absentmindedly, and Azzi just let herself enjoy the warmth of Paige’s touch. It was simple, but there was something grounding about it. Something comforting.

A few minutes later, Paige pulled into a spot near a small café, glancing in the rearview mirror. “You hungry, little man?”

Lukas perked up immediately, nodding. “Yes!”

Azzi chuckled, shaking her head. “Didn’t even hesitate.”

Paige smirked, already knowing the answer before she asked. “Figured I’d stop now so he’s not up too late.”

Paige ran inside and ordered some grilled chicken wraps for all of them, and a fruit cup for Lukas. As she pulled back onto the road, the smell of the food quickly filled the car, and Lukas hummed in satisfaction from the backseat.

“That smells so good,” he mumbled, his voice sleepy but happy.

Paige grinned, glancing over at Azzi. “See? Man’s got priorities.”

Azzi smiled, giving Paige’s hand a small squeeze. “Can’t argue with that.”

As Paige pulled into the garage, the car had barely come to a complete stop before Lukas was already unbuckling himself. The second the lock clicked, he swung the door open and bolted inside, his small feet pattering against the floor as he rushed to reunite with the toys he had been separated from while staying at his grandmother’s house.

Paige chuckled, watching him disappear into the house. “Big head didn’t even say bye,” she mumbled.

Azzi laughed as she stepped out of the car, stretching her arms above her head before following Paige inside.

As soon as Paige set the food down on the island, she turned to Azzi and pulled her in by her waist. Azzi barely had time to adjust before Paige’s lips were on her neck, pressing slow kisses against her skin.

Azzi exhaled softly, her arms winding around Paige’s shoulders as she tilted her head, offering more access. Paige hummed against her skin, trailing her lips lower, taking her time as if she was reacquainting herself with the feeling of having Azzi this close again.

Azzi sighed at the sensation, her fingers threading through the hairs at the nape of Paige’s neck, nails scratching lightly. “Missed me, huh?” she teased, though her voice came out softer than intended, reflecting just how much she was feeling it too.

Paige smirked against her skin, pressing one last open mouthed kiss beneath Azzi’s jaw before whispering, “Maybe a lil.”

Azzi pulled Paige toward her lips, her voice a soft whisper against the small space between them. “Liar,” she whispered before closing the distance, pressing their lips together.

Paige melted into it, her hands tightening around Azzi’s waist as she let herself sink into the warmth of Azzi’s mouth. It had only been a few days, but it felt like forever. She could feel Azzi smiling against her lips, could feel the way her fingers curled into her hair.

Just as the kiss was about to deepen, Paige heard the sound of small, hurried footsteps making their way toward the kitchen. Her instincts kicked in and with a quiet sigh, she tugged playfully on Azzi’s bottom lip before pulling back, smirking when she saw the way Azzi’s eyes fluttered open, a little dazed.

Azzi exhaled, blinking as if she was snapping herself out of it. “You’re evil,” she whispered.

Paige grinned, stepping away just in time for Lukas to come sprinting into the kitchen, completely oblivious to what he had just interrupted.

Paige glanced over at Lukas, who was bouncing on his feet, eager to eat dinner. “Go wash your hands so you can eat.”

Lukas nodded and dashed toward the sink, stepping onto his little stool that was positioned for him to reach the faucet. He hummed quietly to himself as he scrubbed his hands, focusing intently on the task at hand. Paige smiled at him before turning her attention back to the food, moving everything to the table,

As Lukas finished washing his hands, he hopped off the stool and walked over to the table, his eyes scanning the seats. “Ma, can I sit there?” he asked, pointing to the seat next to Azzi.

Paige laughed, raising her eyebrows at Lukas's sudden preference for the seat next to Azzi. "Go ahead," she said. She pushed his food over toward that spot, smiling as Lukas happily scooted into the chair beside Azzi and began to dig into his food.

Paige handed Azzi her food before sitting across from her, offering a small smile. Azzi’s lips quirked into a smile of her own as she murmured, “Thank you.”

The dinner started with easy conversation between Paige and Azzi, filled with them talking about the past few days and plans for the upcoming weekend. Lukas chimed in here and there, his voice cutting through the conversation with random, innocent comments or questions. It felt effortless—comfortable, even—until Lukas suddenly stopped, looking up at Paige with a serious expression on his face.

Paige was in the middle of talking to Azzi about her game on Sunday when Lukas suddenly cut in, his voice serious. "Ma, I got a question," he said, pausing with his kids-wrap halfway to his mouth.

Paige looked over at him, raising an eyebrow. "Wassup?"

Lukas set his wrap down. "Can I have a girlfriend yet?"

Paige’s mind raced, her face briefly going blank before she recovered. She was prepared for a lot of things, but not that—certainly not from her freshly four-year-old. She glanced at Azzi, who was struggling to suppress her laugh.

Paige cleared her throat, trying to keep her voice steady. "No, buddy," she said, simply.

Lukas looked a little bummed, his small brows furrowing. "When can I have a girlfriend?"

Paige nearly choked on her own laughter at the sheer seriousness in his voice, but she composed herself, trying to act like it wasn’t the most absurd thing she'd ever heard. "Dude, why are you asking? You're, like, four."

Lukas just shrugged, his cheeks turning a little pink as he looked down at his plate. Paige couldn't help but laugh, shaking her head. "16, maybe," she said, figuring that might be a reasonable answer for when he'd actually be ready for a girlfriend.

Lukas looked up at that, trying to do the math with his fingers, clearly confused. After a few moments, he looked back at Paige. "How many years is that?" he asked earnestly.

Paige took another bite of her food, smiling despite herself. "Twelve," she answered casually.

Lukas stared at her for a moment, his small brows furrowing in thought. Then, in his innocent, matter-of-fact way, he turned to Azzi and asked, “Excuse me. How old will you be in 12 years?”

Paige froze for a second, her wrap halfway to her mouth. She glanced at Azzi, whose eyes widened in surprise at the unexpected question.

Lukas stared up at Azzi, his blue eyes wide and serious, still waiting for an answer. Paige squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, trying to come up with a way to explain this to her four-year-old. She put her food down and let out a quiet sigh, then looked at Lukas. "Lukas, buddy..." she trailed off, clearly struggling to find the right words.

Lukas looked at her expectantly, waiting for a response from one of them. Paige gave up trying to come up with a more tactful response and just went with the straightforward answer. "You can't date Azzi, buddy."

Lukas blinked a few times, then scrunched up his face. "Why not?"

Paige sighed, glancing over at Azzi, who could see how much Paige was struggling. With a soft smile, Azzi finally spoke up. "I'm a little too old, Luke.”

Lukas looked between the two of them as he tried to make sense of it all. “Even in twelve years?”

Azzi let out a soft laugh, her eyes crinkling as she smiled at him. “Yes, even in twelve years.”

Lukas let out a thoughtful “Oh,” and nodded slowly, accepting the answer as fact. But he wasn’t done yet. He then looked at Paige. “Ma, do you like Azzi? She’s not too old for you right?”

Paige blinked, once again caught slightly off guard by the abrupt shift, “Yeah, I do,” she said with a soft smile.

Lukas tilted his head side to side. “Like… like like?”

Paige chuckled again, reaching for her glass of water. “Yes, Lukas. Like like like.”

Lukas hummed thoughtfully, his spoon full of fruit paused in midair as he mulled it over. Paige watched him for a beat, a small hint of nervousness in her smile. “Is that okay with you?”

He shrugged, already turning his attention back to his plate like the weight of the conversation hadn’t even touched him. “Yeah,” he said casually, scooping up another bite of fruit. “She’s pretty.”

Paige blinked, then burst into quiet laughter, glancing across the table at Azzi—who was doing a terrible job of hiding her smirk behind her water glass.

“Well,” Azzi said playfully, leaning an elbow on the table, “guess I’ve got son approval now, huh?”

Even though Azzi was addressing Paige, Lukas nodded through a mouthful of food. “Mhm. You can stay.”

After that, the rest of dinner was pretty uneventful—filled mostly with Lukas’s nonstop chatter, bouncing from one random topic to the next now that he had food in his stomach. Paige and Azzi let him lead the conversation, throwing in playful questions to keep him going.

But even as they talked, Paige couldn’t help but notice the way Azzi’s foot kept brushing against her leg under the table.

Once dinner was cleared and Lukas had finished the last of his water, Paige stood and stretched. “Alright, time for bath and pajamas,” she said, nodding for Lukas to follow her.

He grumbled in protest but still grabbed his toy car and trudged after her toward his room.

Azzi smiled at them before catching Paige’s eye. “I’ll hop in the shower while you do that,” she said softly.

“Sounds good.”

…

When Azzi finished her shower, she oiled and detangled her hair before pulling it into a messy bun on top of her head. She slipped into one of Paige’s old college shirts—the UConn logo stretched across the front with the number 5 on the back.

She padded downstairs, the sound of laughter greeting her before she even reached the bottom step. As she rounded the corner, she paused in the archway, smiling at the sight in front of her—Paige and Lukas were tangled up on the living room floor, both laughing like crazy.

Lukas was squirming beneath Paige’s hands, squealing through fits of laughter. “Ma! Stop, stop! That tickles! I gotta breathe!”

Paige grinned, completely unbothered by his protests as she continued to tickle him. “Nah that’s what you get for splashing me in the tub!”

Azzi leaned against the wall, her heart softening at the sight.

Lukas finally managed to roll on top of Paige—she let him, of course—and he immediately launched his counterattack, his tiny hands moving clumsily as he tried to tickle her sides.

“Ha I got you now!” he declared, his grin huge.

Paige exaggerated her reaction, squirming under him as she laughed. “Ahh! No, not the tickle monster!”

Through her playful flailing, she caught sight of Azzi standing there, leaning against the archway. Her smile softened the moment she saw her, eyes flicking to the UConn shirt hanging comfortably on Azzi’s frame. It was an old one—faded lettering and all—but it looked ridiculously good on her. Paige smirked, eyes trailing over Azzi for way too long before she scooped Lukas up with a grunt and stood.

“Alright, go play with your toys for a bit. I gotta go shower.”

Lukas nodded, already halfway to his favorite corner of the living room, which was packed with cars, a mini ball and hoop, and a table with art supplies all over it.

As soon as his back was turned, Paige crossed the room toward Azzi. Without saying anything, she grabbed her hand and tugged her around the corner and out of sight. Azzi let herself be pulled, curiosity dancing in her face—until her back met the wall gently and Paige stepped into her space, hands on both sides of her waist.

Paige mumbled, “You look good in my shirt.”

Azzi tilted her head, smirking now. “Do I?”

Paige nodded, eyes flicking down her body briefly before meeting Azzi’s again. “Yeah… too good, honestly.”

Azzi bit back a smile, her hands sliding up Paige’s arms. “Maybe you should let me borrow your clothes more often.”

Instead of responding Paige just leaned in, pulling her into a kiss that was deeper than usual, her lips lingering longer as she gently pressed Azzi against the wall again.

Azzi melted into it for a moment before murmuring against Paige’s lips, “Thought you were going to shower.”

Paige smirked, lips brushing over hers again. “Five more seconds won’t kill me.”

Azzi grinned. “You gonna be thinking about this the whole time you’re in there aren’t you?”

Paige’s thumb dragged lazily across her side. “Absolutely.” With that Paige smiled at Azzi and gave her one more quick kiss before she went upstairs to shower.

Azzi’s stomach was still warm from Paige’s kiss as she wandered into the living room, her fingers absentmindedly playing with the hem of the shirt. She sank into the couch, exhaling softly into the quiet. Lukas was still off in his corner, mumbling to himself as he attempted a spin move, and for a moment, Azzi let herself get lost in everything—how comfortable this all felt, how unexpected it was, how easy it had become to want this.

She was so wrapped up in her thoughts, she didn’t notice Lukas approaching until he was standing in front of her, holding out a picture book with his hands. “Can you read this to me please?”

Azzi smiled as she took the book from him. “Of course I can.”

He didn’t say anything as he climbed up beside her, settling close. Azzi waited for him to get comfortable, letting him wiggle around until he was satisfied with his spot. Then she opened the book across both their laps and began to read, her voice smooth as she brought the story to life.

Every so often, she’d pause to point something out—“What do you think that is?” or “Look at that face, silly, huh?”—and Lukas would grin, nod, or offer a quiet answer. His responses were soft, but they came quicker with each page, his comfort growing right alongside his curiosity.

By the fifth or sixth page, Lukas was fully leaned into her, his head gently resting against her chest. Azzi didn’t say anything about it. She just shifted the book slightly, adjusting to his weight as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

When Paige came back downstairs in her usual shorts and a sports bra, she froze just before she entered the room. Her eyes locked onto the couch—and for a second, she genuinely felt like she couldn’t move.

Lukas was curled into Azzi’s chest, his small body tucked against her like he belonged there. Azzi’s arm was wrapped loosely around him, the book still open in her hand as she read in a quiet voice. Lukas’s blue eyes fluttered, heavy with sleep, but still trying to hold on to her words.

Paige felt her throat tighten, breath catching as something sharp and soft cracked open in her chest. The sight hit her so hard she had to press her lips together to keep them from trembling. Her eyes stung, but she blinked quickly, swallowing the emotion down before it could rise too far.

She took a steady breath and stepped into view, her voice softer than usual as she asked, “What’s going on in here?”

Lukas didn’t even look up, just waved her off with a sleepy hand. “Sssh, ma… she’s reading to me.”

Azzi bit the inside of her cheek to hold back a laugh, while Paige chuckled under her breath. She crossed the room and sank onto the couch next to Azzi, her arm naturally stretching along the back behind her shoulders.

Azzi glanced sideways at Paige for a second, and they shared a look. Once again a blink longer than it needed to be.

Then Lukas shifted and looked up at Azzi expectantly. “You stopped.”

Azzi smiled, eyes still lingering on Paige before turning back to the book. “Right. Where were we?”

Lukas says easily, “The elephant.”

“Right the elephant, thank you.”

Azzi finished the story and Paige sat quietly beside her the whole time—fingers tracing absentminded patterns along the back of Azzi’s neck. It started out casual, innocent even, but as the pages turned and Lukas leaned heavier into Azzi’s side, Paige's touch grew more purposeful, more tender.

When she noticed that Lukas had fully fallen asleep, his little breaths even, Paige leaned in closer. She pressed an open-mouthed kiss just beneath Azzi’s jaw, then another along the curve of her neck, her voice barely a whisper as she murmured, “You’re really something, you know that?”

Azzi exhaled softly, her eyes fluttering closed for a second. Paige smiled against her skin and whispered again, lower this time, “You keep doing shit that makes me wanna give you whatever you ask for..”

Azzi turned her head just slightly, enough for their noses to brush. “You’re not making it easy to stay still right now.”

“Good,” Paige whispered, her lips grazing Azzi’s. “Wasn’t trying to.”

Paige pulled Azzi into a soft kiss, her hand slipping gently along Azzi’s jaw as their mouths moved together slowly. Their tongues met and lingered, tracing one another’s with a quiet kind of desperation. When Paige finally pulled back, her smile was laced with something fuller—adoration, maybe.

“You’re amazing,” she whispered against Azzi’s lips, still close enough to feel her breath.

Azzi blinked, eyes searching Paige’s for a moment before replying just as softly, “You’re amazing.”

Paige exhaled, a content sigh leaving her as she rested her forehead briefly against Azzi’s, not wanting to move. She finally pulled back, eyes flicking to Lukas. “Alright,” she murmured, “Imma take him to bed.”

Azzi nodded. “I’ll meet you in your room.”

Paige stood up and scooped Lukas into her arms, the little boy still sound asleep, head resting against her shoulder. She carried him upstairs, her steps quiet and practiced. Once she reached his room, she gently laid him down, tucking his blanket around him before turning on his night light by the bed, and the one in the bathroom connected to his room—just like always. She stood there for a moment, watching him, brushing a hand through his blonde hair before quietly stepping out and closing the door behind her.

Paige walked into her room and found Azzi sitting on the bed, eyes focused on her phone. The moment Azzi looked up and saw Paige, she set it aside without hesitation. After shutting and locking the door Paige moved toward the bed, standing between Azzi’s legs, looking down at her with a soft smile.

"Thank you for reading to him," Paige said, her voice sincere. "You didn't have to do that."

"You don't need to thank me for being a decent human," Assi teased.

Paige smiled at her, her heart softening. Before she could say anything else, Azzi reached for Paige's hand, tugging her gently onto the bed so she was hovering over her. Paige smirked down at her. “Wassup?”

Azzi’s gaze remained steady as she looked up at Paige, a hint of curiosity in her eyes. “Did you sleep with anyone while you were gone?”

Paige looked a little shocked at the question causing a slight pause before she answered. “Um..no…?”

“Why not?”

Paige shifted slightly, her eyes searching Azzi’s face to figure out where her mind was. Eventually Paige let out a small sigh saying, “Look I like you Azzi. A lot. And I realized that pretty early on. So I guess I just didn’t wanna disrespect you, your time, or the energy you’ve given me. It didn’t feel right.”

There was a quiet weight to her words, and Azzi felt a warmth stir inside her as she processed what Paige had said. The honesty between them always seemed to draw them closer.

Azzi answered back, “It sounds childish to say, but...I like you a lot too,” she admitted, a small but genuine smile forming on her lips. “And I’m probably going to regret saying this, but I can’t get you out of my head most days.”

Paige smirked, just as Azzi knew she would, but Azzi wasn’t done yet. “I just—I really can’t get hurt again, Paige,” she said, the vulnerability in her voice cutting through the small space between them.

Paige’s expression softened, her blue eyes warm as she gazed down at Azzi. “I wouldn’t hurt you, Azzi.”

Azzi’s eyes searched hers. “You don’t know that,” she replied quietly, her heart still a little heavy with the weight of past experiences.

Paige’s smile was gentle as she leaned in closer. “I do,” she said with quiet conviction. “Azzi, I have a son. This is about to be my 7th year in the league. I’m ready to slow down, have consistency in my life... in Lukas’ life.” Paige paused for a second before adding, “And I’m not about to lie to you, maybe four months ago I couldn’t say all this, but this past week away from you kinda showed me where I’m at mentally. So I'm telling you, you don’t need to worry about allat. I got you.”

Paige's words washed over Azzi, and for the first time in a while, she let herself feel hopeful that maybe, just maybe, this was something different. Something real. With a small smile Azzi connected their lips gently.

It deepened as Azzi pulled Paige closer, her hands wrapping around Paige's shoulders, urging her down, wanting to feel her weight on top of her. Paige hovered over her, their chests pressing together, the heat of their closeness growing as they kissed with a quiet urgency. It was slow, but every kiss seemed to carry the weight of the last few days they'd spent apart, the longing finally being given room to breathe.

For a few moments, they lost themselves in each other, their kisses messy yet perfect. Their lips moved against each other in a rhythm that somehow felt new and familiar at the same time. Occasionally, one of them would sigh softly, a breathless sound that only seemed to deepen the connection between them. Each touch, each shift of their bodies, felt like a reaffirmation of something they haven’t said yet.

Paige’s hands had drifted to Azzi’s neck, gently pulling her in closer, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath her fingertips. Every so often, one of them would pull back slightly, just enough to catch their breath, their foreheads resting together, eyes fluttering open to gaze at one another.

Paige’s breath hitched when she heard Azzi slightly moan into the kiss causing her to slowly move her lips to Azzi’s neck, pressing a soft kiss there before returning to her mouth. “I missed this,” Paige whispered between kisses.

Azzi smiled against Paige’s lips, her hands tracing the outline of Paige’s jaw before pulling her back in for another kiss. “Me too,” she murmured, her lips capturing Paige’s with a different intensity.

As the kiss grew heavier, Paige slowly broke from Azzi’s lips, her mouth trailing down the curve of her jaw, pressing wet open mouth kisses until she found that spot on her neck that she knew Azzi liked. She attached her lips there, sucking gently before soothing it with her tongue, her breath hot against Azzi’s skin.

Azzi let out a quiet, involuntary sound—half sigh, half moan—as her fingers curled into Paige’s shoulders. “That feels good,” she mumbled, her head falling back to give Paige more access.

Paige smiled against her neck, lips brushing over the spot she’d just kissed. “Yeah?” she whispered, her voice low, full of quiet satisfaction at Azzi’s comment. “Swear I been thinking about this—about you all week.”

She nipped gently again, her hands smoothing up and down Azzi’s side. “Missed you so much,” she murmured into the warm skin of her neck, letting the words linger as she started to suck gently on Azzi’s neck again..

Azzi’s breath hitched, and she whispered, “Paige…”

Paige immediately paused, pulling back as her eyes searched Azzi’s. “You okay?” she asked softly, already easing off her, assuming they needed to slow down.

But Azzi shook her head and reached for her, fingers curling around the back of Paige’s neck as she tugged her back down, closer. “No, don’t…I didn’t mean stop,” she said, her voice breathless. “I just—God, I just wanted to say your name. It felt good.”

Paige smirked, her lips brushing against Azzi’s jaw as she leaned in again. “Mmm ok,” she murmured before kissing down her neck again, slower this time. Her hands slipped beneath Azzi’s shirt fingertips dragging along her warm stomach, tracing the lines of her sides.

Azzi’s fingers tightened slightly around Paige’s shoulders as she whispered, “Take it off.”

Paige once again paused, pulling back just enough to see her face, her hands still resting on Azzi’s ribs. Her voice was gentle, steady. “You sure?” she asked, blue eyes locked on Azzi’s brown ones, no pressure in her tone—just a quiet promise to Azzi that they could wait if she needed.

“Yes,” Azzi said, barely above a whisper. “I want this.”

Paige nodded and slowly lifted herself off of Azzi, her hands gliding down her sides as she moved. Azzi shifted fully onto the bed, her back resting against the pillows. She peeled off the UConn shirt—the one that smelled like Paige, the one she secretly didn’t want to give back.

Paige's gaze swept over Azzi’s bare chest, quiet and steady. Her blue eyes had dilated so they appeared darker, but the look she gave Azzi was soft, almost reverent. Like she was seeing something sacred.

Climbing back over her, Paige leaned down and whispered, “You’re so beautiful, Azzi.”

Azzi smiled up at her, a little breathless already. “Thank you.”

Paige shook her head, her voice even softer now. “I’m for real… I’ve never seen anyone like you.”

Azzi didn’t say anything this time. She just smiled and pulled Paige into another kiss, her fingers threading into the back of her hair. The kiss was slower now, full of everything that had been simmering between them for months. Azzi pulled back slightly, her lips brushing against Paige’s as she murmured, “Did you lock the door?”

Paige smiled. “Course I did.”

Paige lifted herself slightly, her eyes never leaving Azzi’s as she reached for her sports bra and tugged it over her head, tossing it aside. Warm light from the bedside lamp caught the lines of her body, casting soft shadows across her toned muscles. Azzi’s breath hitched, her eyes flickering over Paige—seeing her for the first time.

Paige dipped back down, her lips brushing over Azzi’s jaw before trailing lower—pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses down her neck, across her collarbone, and then to the top of her chest. Her hands stayed on Azzi’s sides, thumbs moving in gentle, slow circles as she explored the new territory.

Azzi exhaled sharply, her fingers flexing against Paige’s back as her body arched into the touch. “Paige please…” she whispered, breathless and quiet, her voice catching on the edge of a moan.

Paige smiled softly against her skin, not saying anything—just letting her lips speak for her as she sucked along the curve of Azzi’s chest, her skin warm and flush against hers now. Every shift of Paige’s body, every lingering kiss, the way her tongue swirled around her chest, made Azzi whisper her name again and again, like she was afraid the moment would disappear if she didn’t hold onto the fact that it was Paige.

Paige’s mouth moved with purpose now, nipping and sucking gently at Azzi’s skin, leaving behind little pink-ish purple trails like a map of where she’d been. Her hands slid down Azzi’s sides, fingers curling and squeezing every so often—grounding them both in the moment. Each time she dipped lower, she let her tongue soothe where her teeth had marked.

Azzi’s breath caught again when Paige’s tongue traced her nipple, her back arching into the feeling.

“You sound so beautiful,” Paige whispered, her voice horse. She kissed the words into her just below her ribs, trailing them with her lips.

Azzi’s fingers found Paige’s hair, gently tugging as her eyes fluttered closed. Her heart was racing in her chest—not just from the way Paige was touching her—it was the way she was seeing her.

Paige looked up at her, her lips stilling for a moment as she whispered, “You okay?”

Azzi nodded, lips parted, her fingers tightening just slightly in Paige’s hair. Paige held her gaze for a moment longer, then slowly trailed down a little lower. Her mouth moved with care—pressing open-mouthed kisses, leaving behind soft marks that only Azzi would be able to see.

When Paige glanced back up, Azzi was already looking down at her—her brown eyes vulnerable, but filled with admiration. Paige paused, brushing her lips against her skin one more time before quietly asking, “Is this okay?”

Azzi nodded again, but Paige didn’t move. “I need you to say it’s okay for me baby.”

Azzi let out a quiet sigh, swallowing down the emotion that bubbled up. “Yes… yes, it’s okay,” she whispered, her fingers still in Paige’s hair. “It’s good. You’re good.”

Paige kissed her way slowly back up Azzi’s body, taking her time—savoring every inch, every sigh she pulled from her. When their lips met again, it was slow as Paige coaxed Azzi into relaxing, her hand sliding into the boxers she slipped on.

Her hand found Azzi’s clit, fingers brushing lightly as she began to trace slow circles against her wet center. The touch was soft, but the effect was immediate—Azzi’s breath catching, her body tensing slightly beneath Paige’s.

It had been a while so her senses felt heightened, her body already teetering between wanting more and struggling to keep up.

Paige felt it too—the way Azzi arched into her touch, the way her tongue pushed further into her mouth but her lips faltered at the edges. She pulled back slightly, just enough to rest her forehead against Azzi’s, her fingers still moving in gentle circles.

“Too much?” Paige whispered.

Azzi shook her head, her eyes half-lidded. “No,” she whispered. “It’s just…it’s been a long time.”

Paige nodded as she continued her movements. She watched Azzi closely—the way her chest rose and fell, the way her lips parted with each quiet breath. Paige leaned in and pressed a kiss to the edge of Azzi’s jaw, her voice warm.

“You look so beautiful right now,” she whispered. “So, so pretty.”

Azzi’s fingers curled in the sheets for a moment, her body shifting beneath Paige’s as she exhaled a shaky breath before saying, “You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true,” Paige said with a faint smile, nipping lightly at Azzi’s neck before soothing it with her lips. “And you sound even prettier. You don’t even know what you’re doing to me right now.”

Azzi let out a soft laugh at that, but it faded into a soft moan when Paige’s fingers dipped down towards her entrance slightly before moving back up. “You’re making it really hard to think straight,” Azzi whispered.

Paige grinned against her skin. “Good. Lemme just make you feel good then.”

Azzi looked at her, eyes warm—she reached for Paige’s face, her fingers brushing her cheek. “I missed you while you were gone”.

Paige smiled and leaned into her touch, kissing her palm softly before whispering, “I missed you too. So much.”

With that, Paige dipped her head again, her lips starting to trail lower.

She continued to move slowly against Azzi’s clit, her fingers tracing delicate circles, as she felt the way Azzi’s body began to shift beneath her. Azzi’s breaths grew shorter, her soft noises turning into quiet whimpers that were harder to hold back.

Her hips shifted, chasing the warmth of Paige’s touch, and Paige felt it. Paige glanced up through her lashes, a small smile on her face. “That feel good, baby?”

Azzi nodded, her brows knit together as she exhaled shakily. “Yeah… yeah,” she whispered, almost breathless. “Fuck—Paige, I…” Her voice trailed off into another soft sound as Paige’s fingers dipped just a bit lower—not quite sliding in yet, but close.

Paige’s lips curled into a soft smile, brushing another kiss along Azzi’s stomach as she whispered, “You’re so responsive…I love how your body’s talkin to me.” She slid her fingers near her entrance again, grounding Azzi with her palm against her side.

Azzi’s fingers found Paige’s hair again, tugging gently as her back arched into her. “You’re driving me crazy,” she whispered.

“I haven’t even started,” Paige chuckled. “I been thinking about this—about you—every night.”

Azzi let out a breath that was almost a moan, her head tilting back against the pillow. “Please stop teasing me,” she whispered.

Paige smiled curling her fingers in the boxers Azzi had on, her eyes meeting hers in a silent question. Azzi answered by lifting her hips slightly, giving her the go-ahead. Paige peeled the fabric down Azzi’s legs, tossing it aside before her gaze dropped—and lingered.

All Paige could muster was a quiet, “Damn,” her eyes taking Azzi in completely—the way she was already dripping for her.

Azzi blushed under the attention, a small smirk tugging at her lips, but she didn’t look away. Paige pulled back just long enough to tug her shorts and boxers off, letting them fall beside Azzi’s so she wouldn’t be the only one bare.

Then she leaned down towards Azzi’s center, her eyes soft as they scanned Azzi’s face. “This okay?” she asked, her voice quieter now, more serious.

Azzi nodded without hesitation. “It’s more than okay,” she said, her voice reflecting her excitement slightly.

Paige nodded giving Azzi one last lingering look before she dipped her head down and pressed a soft open mouthed kiss to Azzi’s center. The warmth of her mouth made Azzi’s breath hitch and her stomach flutter. Her fingers tightened around the sheets.

Paige felt it—heard it—and looked up at her again, her expression gentle but searching. “You good?” she asked softly.

Azzi nodded again, this time slower, her hand brushing against Paige’s shoulder. “I’m good,” she whispered. “Amazing.”

Paige nodded gently, her hand’s brushing along Azzi’s thighs as she leaned back down, mouth returning to Azzi’s center. She kissed there slowly—once, then again—each movement tender and slow, letting Azzi melt into the rhythm.

Then Paige shifted her position slightly, hooking Azzi’s legs with her arms. She dragged her tongue up and down slowly a few times causing Azzi’s breath to hitch, her fingers tightening in Paige’s hair. It wasn’t desperate, she just needed to hold onto something to stop herself from making unnecessary noises.

Paige smiled into Azzi softly. “You’re doing so good,” she whispered. “Taste so good baby.”

Azzi let out a soft sound at that, her cheeks flushed, eyes fluttering open to look down at Paige. There was so much emotion in Azzi’s chest, it felt like it would spill over.

After hearing Azzi’s reaction, Paige started to lick at her with a little less reservation now, circling her tongue at any part of Azzi she could reach. “Been wanting to take care of you like this for a long time.”

Azzi’s hand slid into Paige’s hair again, pushing her closer. Whispering “Mmm–then don’t stop. Keep going just like that.”

Paige dipped back down, her lips and tongue moving in tandem, like she was committing every inch of Azzi to memory. Paige would’ve thought she was the one losing herself in it, completely undone, if it weren’t for the continuous sounds slipping off of Azzi’s lips.

Tiny gasps when Paige would dip her tongue into her entrance. Whispered sighs. Her name falling out in a broken moan, now and then, said so softly it made Paige’s heart ache in the best way.

The warmth in Paige’s stomach bloomed, rising into her chest and pressing against her ribs. She hadn’t expected to feel this full—like she could float away from how much she felt in this moment. She glanced up at Azzi, her wet lips still brushing softly against Azzi as she whispered, “You sound so beautiful, baby…”

Azzi’s eyes were hooded now—couldn’t open them further if she wanted to. “Oh fuck baby—feels so good,” Azzi whimpered, voice barely there. “You feel so good Paige…”

Paige’s lips curved into the softest smile. “You don’t even know what you doing to me right now,” she murmured. “Never wanted to take my time like this. Could stay in here forever.”

Paige kept moving, her tongue and lips still working in perfect rhythm, like she knew exactly what Azzi needed—like her mind had already memorized every little response, every sigh and plea that Azzi gave her. She stayed patient, even as Azzi’s body started to arch, her hips shifting restlessly, trying to push Paige closer.

Azzi’s fingers tightened in Paige’s hair, her breathing ragged as her body started to tremble beneath her. Paige looked up, her mouth still attached to Azzi as their eyes met.

For a moment, they just held the gaze—Paige’s blue eyes dark, full of awe, and Azzi’s low and hazy with everything she was feeling. Azzi’s lips parted, as if she was about to say something but a soft sound slipped out that wasn’t quite a word, but Paige understood it anyway.

Azzi’s voice cracked as she whimpered out, “I’m so close…”

Paige didn’t speak—she just gave a soft nod, never breaking eye contact as she dipped her tongue fully into Azzi’s entrance, letting out her own sigh at the contact.

Azzi’s breathing caught again, her lashes fluttering, but she didn’t look away. Even as her body moved desperately into Paige’s mouth, she kept her gaze on blue eyes, like Paige’s eyes alone was the only thing steadying her.

Paige moved her thumb gently across Azzi’s ribcage, a silent kind of comfort as she worked her tongue into her.

Even though barely a word had been said, everything about the way Azzi reacted for Paige, the way she breathed her name like it was sacred, told Paige more than words ever could.

Azzi’s lips parted on a shaky breath, her fingers gripping at the sheets now, trying to hold herself together. The feeling was overwhelming—Paige’s mouth, her hands, her presence. Her body was humming, too warm, too full, and instinctively, her head tilted back slightly, eyes fluttering shut to escape how much she felt.

But Paige’s hand slid gently up her side, squeezing gently.

Azzi opened her eyes to see Paige shaking her head no, barely a motion.

Don’t look away.

Azzi let out a soft, broken noise, her gaze locking back onto Paige’s. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her throat bobbing as she swallowed hard, her expression completely undone.

Paige never broke her rhythm, her own heart thundering at the way Azzi was starting to fall apart beneath her. But she didn’t rush—didn’t chase the end. She moved like she had all the time in the world, like every second mattered. Like Azzi deserved to be worshiped, not just fucked.

And Azzi—God, Azzi—she was unraveling. Her breath got stuck every few seconds, broken gasps and whimpers slipping out as Paige continued her path, eyes never leaving hers for long. Her hands had found their way to Paige’s now, interlacing them as she squeezed periodically.

Another lick. Another gentle stroke of her tongue. And still, Paige watched her without looking away.

Azzi’s eyes were glassy, lips parted, completely breathless until she was a trembling puddle beneath Paige, her body taut with feeling, unraveling as she cried out quietly. The pleas slipped from her as Paige helped her ride out her orgasm, the soft sounds of Azzi's lips echoing through the room and settling in Paige’s chest like a heartbeat.

Azzi’s hands gripped Paige’s shoulders now, her voice cracking with the way she whispered her name—over and over, like she didn’t know what else to cling to. And Paige, eyes still watching Azzi come undone, felt something bloom and break inside her all at once.

She’d never seen someone so beautiful. Never heard anything that made her feel like this.

Azzi was flushed and breathless, her eyes glassy and full of something that went beyond pleasure.

Paige kissed up Azzi’s body slowly, whispering quiet praises until she reached just beneath Azzi’s ear. “God, you’re so perfect.”

Azzi let out a small, broken sound in response, her hands sliding down to cup Paige’s face—pulling her into a kiss.

Their mouths moved in sync, like neither of them wanted to let go of the moment—like they were trying to memorize each other completely with just their lips. Azzi’s hands stayed on Paige’s face, thumbs softly stroking her cheeks and Paige melted into it, one hand pressed to Azzi’s side, the other tangled in her hair that was no longer pulled into the bun.

Between kisses, they whispered—barely-there words, soft sighs of names and praises that faded into the warmth between them. Nothing loud. Just the kind of quiet that held weight, the kind that wrapped around them.

As their foreheads touched, breaths mixing, chests still rising and falling in uneven rhythm, something settled in both of them.

This was different. This was home.

They didn’t say it out loud. Not wanting to put too much pressure on the other, but they both felt it. In the way Paige looked at Azzi—like she was the only thing that existed—and in the way Azzi held onto Paige—like she never wanted to let her go.

The two of them stayed like that for a few hours that night, wrapped in the quiet comfort of one another. As the night stretched on, they took their time to learn the rhythm of one another, the way their hearts beat when they were close, the little sounds and touches that made them both want more. The world outside seemed distant, like it didn’t matter anymore.

Every kiss, every whisper, every laugh when Paige said something that rolled off her tongue a little too easily felt like a tiny piece of something beautiful being woven into the fabric of their connection.

…

When Azzi woke up the next morning in Paige’s large bed to the sound of her alarm, the first thing she did was smile. Her brown eyes glowed with contentment, her gaze light as she was met the pillows beneath her. The sun streamed gently into Paige’s room, casting warm light across the space. She could slightly hear Paige and Lukas downstairs, though their voices were muffled, not able to travel far enough in the large house.

Azzi reached for her phone, checking her schedule for the day. After taking a moment to stretch, she pulled herself from the comfort of the bed, her body still warm from the night before.

She made her way to Paige’s closet, grabbing some clothes she had left here the last time she stayed over. When she walked into the bathroom she smiled to herself, thinking back to when she had playfully joked about how tangled her hair always was whenever she left Paige’s place. To her surprise, the next time she came over, Paige had bought her the exact hair products Azzi had in her own bathroom, a thoughtful gesture that had made Azzi laugh and tease Paige for a few days despite the blonde refusing to believe she was a “simp.” The memory brought a lightness to her chest, and she shook her head, feeling a warmth in her heart that she didn’t quite know how to put into words.

Azzi was looking at herself in the mirror when she heard what sounded like Lukas letting out a screech of laughter and she felt a strange sense of peace settle over her. It was a good morning. And, despite the busy day ahead, for once, Azzi didn’t mind. Everything felt a little lighter today.

Once Azzi had gotten ready for her day, she grabbed her heels from Paige’s closet and carried them downstairs with her. As she stepped into the living room, she expected to see Paige, but instead, she only saw Lukas. He was lying on the floor on his stomach, his head propped up with his hands as he stared at the TV screen. His blue eyes were wide, not blinking as he watched Bluey.

Azzi couldn't help but laugh softly, the concentration on his face was too much. She stood there for a moment, attempting to see if the little boy would finally blink, before quietly walking toward the kitchen.

She found Paige in there, humming softly to herself as she made coffee, the early morning light catching the edges of her blonde hair. Paige’s back was to her, so Azzi leaned against the doorframe for a moment just watching her.

There was something about these moments, something about the simplicity of it all, that made her feel at home.

“Good morning,” Azzi said softly.

Paige turned around, a smile instantly forming on her face. “Good morning,” she replied, the sun making her squint a little. Paige motioned with her head for Azzi to sit at the island.

Azzi smiled as she walked over and sat down. Paige was quick to follow, placing a plate in front of her with turkey bacon, avocado toast, and eggs.

Paige leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to her lips. “Eat.”

Azzi laughed, her fingers brushing against Paige’s as she took the coffee, the warmth of the drink and Paige’s attention filling her with a sense of contentment. Paige grabbed her own plate before sitting down next to Azzi.

Azzi couldn’t help but notice how similar their portions were. With a small grin, she picked up one of her pieces of avocado toast and a few strips of turkey bacon, transferring them onto Paige’s plate.

Paige raised an eyebrow at her. “You need to eat, Azzi,” her voice was teasing and gentle as she said it.

Azzi smiled as she crossed her arms on the counter. “I am eating, but you need to eat more,” she replied with a playful grin knowing how much it annoyed Paige.

Paige rolled her eyes but she still had a smile on her face as she picked up a piece of bacon and took a bite. “You’re annoying.”

Azzi just laughed, watching Paige for a moment before grabbing a bite of her own food. “I know.”

Once they were finished eating, Paige cleared their plates and set them in the sink. “You need me to take you to the office?”

Azzi grinned as she stood from the counter, moving toward Paige and pulling her into a kiss without answering the question. Their bodies pressed against the cool granite of the countertop as the kiss deepened for a brief moment before Azzi gently pulled away. “It’s okay, Ben’s outside,” she whispered.

Paige nodded. She reached for Azzi’s hand, helping her balance as she carefully stepped into her heels. Paige’s eyes lingered on Azzi, her heart fluttering a little as she took in the sight of her. “You look too good,” she mumbled, shaking her head in disbelief.

Azzi couldn’t do anything but laugh at this. “You say that every time you see me before work…anytime you see me period actually.”

Paige licked her lips and smirked at Azzi. “Cause what you tryna look good for if I’m not there?”

Azzi just rolled her eyes playfully, adding, “Whatever.”

The two of them made their way toward the front door. Paige opened it, revealing Azzi’s driver waiting in the grey natural stone driveway. Azzi was about to lean in for a kiss goodbye when suddenly, the sound of little feet pattering against the floor rushed toward them.

Lukas came running up, his small arms wrapping around Azzi’s waist in a quick hug. “Bye, Azzi!” he said with a big grin.

Azzi was surprised but grinned at him. She gently squeezed his face with one hand, causing him to make a face. “Bye, Lukas,” her voice filled with affection.

Lukas released her and bolted back toward the living room, calling out as he ran, “Back to Bluey!”

Azzi laughed as she watched him disappear back around the corner. When she turned her gaze to Paige, she caught the soft, awestruck look on her face. Azzi didn’t point it out. She just let Paige have the moment.

Instead, she stepped closer, wrapping her arms loosely around Paige’s shoulders, brushing their noses together as she leaned in. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I have to go gorgeous.”

Paige’s smile spread slowly, her hands slipping around Azzi’s waist. “I got practice in a lil bit, but I’ll text you after, okay?”

Azzi nodded, resting her forehead against Paige’s for just a second longer before they shared a quick kiss.

Then Azzi pulled away, walking toward the car with a small smile still on her face as Paige stood in the doorway, watching her go.

#pazzi #paige x azzi #pazzi fics

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deunmiu-dessie · 1 year ago

Text

(unedited) simon loves you, he's just not the best at showing or saying it.

"no, simon. you don't-," you swallow thickly and forcefully pull your wrist away from his grip. "- you don't get to leave and come back when it's convenient for you." your lips are set but they wobble, teetering with the storm of emotions brewing within you. "i'm done trying. i can't do, whatever this…this twisted game is between us." [i’m sorry.]

he's been silent your whole talk, he seems so stoic as if the conversation is a hassle- like he could care less; and maybe he could. you can never guess what simon was feeling. he was like an impenetrable wall, unwavering— even for you; it left you feeling alone most days.

your eyes flit over his face, hoping to see something, anything that would make you second guess what you were saying. but as usual, he’s unreadable; and tears well up in your eyes as you continue, your voice trembling with a mixture of something akin to pleading and sadness. "i've given you countless chances, simon. i've allowed you to come and go as you please, hoping that one day you would realize the love i have for you. but i can't keep living in this constant state of uncertainty, never knowing when you'll decide to leave again." [no more, never again will i leave you. i swear it.]

you take a deep shuddering breath, trying to steady yourself, but the pain in your chest hurts fiercely. it steals your breath away, and flushes your cheeks with heat. "i deserve better than this, simon. i deserve someone who will be there for me, someone who won't treat me like an option. i can't keep waiting for you to change, to finally see my worth." [i see you. i love you with every breath that i take. until my lungs give out.]

your words hang heavy in the air, you wait for him to say something, to tell you that he loves you, that he’ll do anything to get you to stay. say something, you think. "i've spent too long trying to make this work, trying to convince myself that your attention is enough. but it's not. it's never been enough." [say something! tell her you love her, that you'd die for her. say something, simon.]

a singular, angry and furstrated tear escapes, tracing a path down your cheek. "i deserve a love that is whole, that is unwavering. i deserve someone who will fight for me, who will choose me every single day. and if you can't be that person, then i have to let you go." [don't say that, please. i love you.]

your brows furrow and your chin sets, your hands coiling into fists. tears flow in rivulets down your cheeks and you lift one fist and hit his chest weakly. “say something, you coward.” you utter, your other fist raises to hit him once again. “i hate that i love you so much, i hate you for being the only thing that i think about. i hate you simon.” [i love you, so much that you're the only thing i think about. i love you _____.]

your punches get heavier but he's unmoving, a tic starting in his jaw. in a sudden burst of frustration, you shove at him, your lips pressed tightly together, and your cheeks burning. yet, he remains motionless, his gaze steady and unwavering. “say something, damn it!” you wail, preparing to hit him again, however, his large hands swiftly seize your raised fist before you can and he pulls you into his chest, cupping the nape of your neck and engulfing you in…him. "i love you."

and you know you shouldn't but you melt in his arms, go completely slack, and cry harder. “then say that.” simon presses a kiss to your temple, and you freeze at the tremble of his lips, his chest rumbling as he speaks again. “i love you so much.” and just like that, he reeled you back in, just like he always does; and it felt like coming home. the familiarity of his touch, the warmth of his embrace, it all felt so right, as if you were finally where you were meant to be.

but you knew that as soon as the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, that the cracks in your situationship would begin to show. and part of you can't help but think that maybe, just maybe, you were fated to live this exact bittersweet cycle with simon until the end of time.

my eyes were sweating a little when i was writing this ngl

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bunny-1111 · 9 months ago

Text

Did I stutter? Theo Nott x fem!reader

Description: With the Christmas ball approaching, you can’t stop daydreaming about Theo. But when Pansy reveals that he’s been quietly chasing off your suitors, you’re left questioning his true feelings. When confronted, Theo’s possessiveness comes to light—but will he finally ask you to the ball?

Genre: Angst, slow burn, romance Warnings: Slight possessiveness, mild language

Word count: 1.9k

Part 2, here

Unedited and unread

reblogs, likes and comments appreciated my loves <3

...

The Christmas ball was a yearly sensation.

When the autumn leaves were long covered by the deep snow of winter, was when you knew it was not far off.

As you sat in the great hall across from your friends in a daydream, imagining Theo all dressed up in a three-piece suit, your mind slipped into mush as you dreamed about his hand placed delicately on your waist, moving you through the steps of a waltz.

"Hello, earth calling. Are you even listening to me?!" Pansy clicked her fingers to pull you attention back into focus

"Sorry, you were saying?" you rush, flustered by your own thoughts.

"Yeah, I was asking if you want to go to Hogsmeade this afternoon?" she continued.

"Oh sure" you agree, you eyes now glued to your plate, trying to pull your mind away from him

"we'll join you, yeah" Draco casually adds

"No!" Pansy quickly exclaims

"what, why not?" replies Draco his voice high and whiney

"Because, girls day, only, we're gonna try find some dresses for the Christmas ball" inisted Pans

"we are?" you question

"we are." she states

"Oh Merlin, I hate this ball bullshit" Enzo adds, throwing his fork down

"Couldn't agree more, Enz" says Theo softly

"Yeah, Theo it must be so annoying having every girl in every house ask you to the dance, gosh you boys are insufferable" ranted Pansy

Oh, that's right, the unpleasant reminder that you and Theodore have no romantic relations and you can't do anything about the girls who swoon over him, Merlin. Why do they all have to be so desperate for him? Why can't they just leave him for you? Why can't something happen between you two why can't h-

"Come on let's go get ready for Hogs" She interrupts your self-destructive thoughts, now dragging you along back to the dorms.

As you shiver into your scarf, the cold air bites at your lips, the snow filled streets of Hogsmeade bring a sense of quickness in turns of just how soon the ball is.

"I expect someone should ask you to the dance soon" Pansy says linking her arms in your as you walk together, shopping bags in your free arms.

"Thanks, Pans, you too," you smile

You're met with unusual silence from her, so you give her a small shove, a gentle nudge, saying, spit it out.

"Well, Draco's asked me to go... I've said yes" she carefully says

"Pans! When, why didn't you tell me? This again, I thought you said you and Dray were really done this time?" You ramble, eyes wide with passionate protection for her

"I know, but like his gonna let someone else take me, I wouldn't want him to go with anyone else take me either, it's just like you and-" she starts

"Don't finish that sentence alright, you and Draco dated, Theo and I nothing" you huff

"Oh yeah, then why is he going around threatening any guy who even considers asking you." her tone

Pansy’s words hit you like a bludger to the chest, forcing the air out of your lungs. You almost stumble your steps, but she keeps her arm linked with yours, pulling you along as if she hadn’t just dropped a bombshell

“What are you talking about?” you ask, trying to sound casual, but your voice betrays you, cracking at the end.

Pansy raises a brow, glancing at you like she’s holding the world’s best secret, and you’re not in on it. “Oh, don’t play dumb. It’s been happening for months.”

Months?

Theo, your Theo, going around and threatening people from asking you to the ball? That doesn’t make sense. He barely looked at you when you weren't all together, always composed, acting as though your presence didn’t make his eyes soften as you wished they would.

But then again, you have noticed that boys, nice boys, that is, had stopped approaching you after a while. You chalked it up to bad luck. You and your friends did have a certain unapproachability. The rumors swirled about Theodore Nott being unattainable, uninterested in any romance, but he never gave any indication that he’d be willing to defend you, much less ward off potential suitors.

“yeah right, that can’t be true.” Your denial comes out weaker than you intend, the words sitting heavy on your tongue.

Pansy giggles like the school girl she is. “Sweetheart, believe what you want, but I know a possessive bloke when I see one. Trust me, Draco’s the same way, just less… subtle.” She waves her hand dismissively, but her eyes hold a knowing glimmer, irritating you. Like she has insight into your life that you aren’t aware of yourself.

You shake your head, trying to process everything. “But why wouldn’t he just—”

“Ask you himself?” Pansy finishes for you, her voice lilting, almost teasing. “Oh, come on, you know Theo. He’s about as emotionally available as a cursed lock. He probably doesn’t even realise what he’s doing half the time.”

“But pans, months?”

Pansy shrugs a nonchalant gesture that tells you she’s probably been keeping this from you for a while. “Look, I didn’t say anything because I thought you’d figure it out, and honestly, it’s kind of fun watching him sulk whenever someone gets too close. Merlin, the way he glares could melt the snow.”

You let out a breath, the cold air burning your lungs as you try to wrap your mind around it. Theodore Nott, the Theo who lives in your mind, your friend of years, the same Theo you desperately want to yourself, had been quietly chasing off any competition? It feels surreal, like a dream you’d conjured in the midst of one of your daydreams in the Great Hall.

But if that’s true… then why hasn’t he made a move? Why hasn’t he said anything to you?

As if reading your thoughts, Pansy squeezes your arm. “Don’t overthink it. Boys are complicated, especially our boys alright, even when they think they’re being clear. Maybe he’s waiting for the right moment, or maybe he’s just an idiot.”

You laugh, a short, breathy sound that fogs up the air around you. “Yeah, idiot sounds about right.”

Hogsmeade is bustling with students, all of them chattering about the upcoming ball, dresses, dates, and everything in between. You glance at shop windows, your eyes trailing over elegant gowns and shimmering accessories, but your mind is miles away, stuck on a certain brown-haired Slytherin boy who, apparently, has been harboring some very mixed signals.

By the time you make it back to the castle, your hands are full of bags, and your head is full of unanswered questions. Pansy is still chattering away, something about her dress and how Draco better match her, but you can barely focus.

You keep replaying her words over and over again. Theo’s threatening people? Why wouldn’t he just ask me? The thought sends your heart into a frenzy, and no matter how much you try to convince yourself, it’s nothing, that maybe Pansy is exaggerating; you know deep down that she’s probably right.

It isn’t until the next morning at breakfast that you catch sight of Theo, sitting at the Slytherin table with his usual quiet confidence. His hair is slightly tousled, like he couldn’t be bothered to comb it properly, and his tie is crooked, but it doesn’t matter—he still looks effortlessly good, as always.

Your heart does a little flip as you watch him, your mind racing with everything Pansy told you. Should you say something? Ask him if it’s true? Or would that be too forward? Maybe you should just wait it out, see if he says anything first…

But before you can make a decision, Theo glances up and locks eyes with you. It’s a brief moment, but it’s enough to send your pulse skyrocketing. His expression is unreadable, as usual, but there’s something in his gaze that makes your stomach twist.

You quickly look away, focusing on your plate, but your thoughts are a mess. Could he see it all on your face? Are you accidentally showing what you didn't have the courage to say?

The rest of the day passes in a blur, and by the time evening rolls around, you’re no closer to figuring out what to do. Pansy, of course, is no help—she just keeps teasing you about it, making cryptic comments about how Theo’s going to “make his move” eventually.

You’re not so sure.

It’s not until later, when you’re heading back to the common room after a long day of classes, that you run into Theo. Literally.

You’re not paying attention, too caught up in your own thoughts, and you bump right into him as you turn the corner.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t—” you start to apologize, but the words die in your throat when you look up and realize it’s him.

Theo’s standing there, hands in his pockets, his usual calm, unreadable expression in place. But there’s something different about him tonight, something that makes your heart race.

“Hey,” he says, his voice low and smooth, sending a shiver down your spine, as his hand lays on your shoulder, steading your place in front of him

“Hey,” you reply, trying to keep your voice still, but it’s a losing battle.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. The silence stretches between you, heavy with unspoken words and tension.

Before you can make a decision, Theo breaks the silence. “You’re going to the ball, right?”

The question catches you off guard, and you nod before you can stop yourself. “Yeah, I am.”

His eyes darken slightly, and he takes a step closer. “With anyone?”

Your heart skips a beat, and for a second, you forget how to breathe. Is this it? Is he finally going to ask you?

“No,” you manage to say, your voice barely above a whisper.

Theo’s gaze stays locked on yours for a long moment, and then, finally, he says, “Good. Keep it that way.”

And just like that, he turns and walks away, leaving you standing there, your mind spinning.

You stand frozen in place, his words echoing in your mind. Good. Keep it that way. It’s a simple sentence, but the way Theo said it, with that intensity in his eyes, sends your heart into a tailspin.

What did he mean by that? Was it a warning? A request? Or something else entirely?

You shake your head, trying to clear the confusion, but it’s no use. Theo’s always been hard to read, but this feels different—like there’s something just beneath the surface that you can’t quite grasp.

"No Theo wait!" you call out before he gets too far

His body swiftly turns around waiting for you, typical Teddy, of course he makes you run after him.

When you finally reach him all you can manage is "I don't understand."

"what's not to understand, darling," he says softly almost sympathetic

"Have you stopped guys from asking me, personally?" you say so quickly you didn't even have time to realise what you had just asked

"Yes. I have" he replies immediately

"wh-what?" you mutter out

"Did I fucking stutter? Anyone asks you and you tell me" his tone stern and meaningful, inching closer and closer to you, "alright"

"alright" you agree in a small voice

"Good girl" he smiles as he tilts his head, before walking off.

well, what the fuck now.

Author Note: I've been feeling so unsure about my writing lately, I've been struggling to produce good work. I have been so flat out at work that by the time I get home, I'm writing at like 2am, so it just turns out shit... and I get too tired to finish it properly like this one, but I just wanted to get something out. Ugh, I'm sorry. anyway hope you try to enjoy this one, I will get back to my confident writing soon, I hope lol love youuuuuuu, B.

Part 2, here

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mydearestbeloved · 4 months ago

Text

#?.4 [Chapter Concept]

Sung Jinwoo/Trial Player!Reader

Content Warnings: Implied Yandere, a little NSFW, and severely UNEDITED

⚠️ SPOILER ALERT to my "Trial Player"-AU

[Masterlist🦋✨️]

Jinwoo knew he shouldn’t be like this. Knew he shouldn’t feel like this.

But the thought of you—so warm, so utterly his—made something feral and possessive coil in the depths of his being, something darker than mere love, something that whispered never let go.

And so, he didn’t.

The night had been a haze of tangled limbs and breathless gasps, of you crying his name in a way that made something inside him snap. He’d poured himself into you, marking you in every way imaginable—his lips, his hands, his teeth, his seed. He had worshiped you, devoured you, taken you apart piece by piece only to put you back together again in his arms.

Now, hours later, the room was dark, save for the faint silver glow seeping through the curtains. The moonlight catching a loose strand of your hair, fallen across your cheek. With a careful touch, he brushed it back, you shifted slightly, your body instinctively curling closer into him. The night had settled into a deep, velvety quiet, the only sound in the room the slow, measured breathing from your parted lips, a soft rise and fall of you against him. The air still carried the remnants of heat from earlier—the sheets tangled messily around your legs, the faint scent of sweat and desire lingering in between.

Jinwoo lay beside you, propped up on one elbow, watching. His other arm draped possessively over your bare hip, fingers tracing lazy, unreadable patterns into your skin. His bare skin pressed against yours, the warmth of your body feeding the hunger inside him that never seemed to wane. Not even now, after having you in the most intimate way possible. The urge to wake you, to claim you again, was strong. Instead, he pulled you closer, as if that could somehow fuse you to him

It should have been enough. The heat of your body, the scent of sweat and something deeper—something his—still clinging to the air from the hours spent tangled together. But it wasn’t. His hunger never truly left, only lulled into a temporary, unsatisfied slumber.

You shifted slightly in your sleep, burying your head further into the pillows, baring the delicate line of your neck to him, like an offering.

His eyes—no longer their usual soft grey but glowing with that eerie, all-consuming purple—fixated on the sight. The slow pulse beneath your skin. The place where he could feel your very existence beating against his lips if he only leaned forward.

And so, he did.

"I want to be the only one by your side," he whispered, his voice so low, so raw, it nearly blended into the dark, lips barely grazing over the sensitive column of your throat. "I don’t like it when you smile at someone else, whoever it may be."

His fingers trailed up, tracing the curve of your waist, as if mapping out the edges of what was his.

“Your warmth—I want it all for myself, even if it’s already on the tip of my fingers. Everything. Every little thing about you."

The tip of his nose brushed against you, breathing in your scent—his scent now, as it should be. His lips dragged over your skin, just enough pressure to make your sleeping form sigh softly. His grip tightened on your waist. The violet glow in his eyes deepened.

"Am I cruel to be happy that you’ve completely forgotten your past?" His voice was nearly a growl now, fingers pressing into your skin, pulling, holding you closer—as if you’d ever slip away. "That I wish your family didn’t exist if it meant you’d remember them and want to go back? To leave this world—"

His jaw clenched. The very thought made something ugly and monstrous claw at his insides.

"—to leave me?"

He didn’t even realize his teeth had grazed your pulse until your body stirred slightly, a faint whimper leaving your lips, but not in pain—never pain. His entire being burned with the need to sink into you again, to mark you, to make sure you never even considered a world where he wasn’t by your side.

Ridiculous.

He knew this obsession of his was absurd. But logic meant nothing when it came to you.

His fingers hovered over the base of your throat, as if tempted to tighten, to make you wake up with his name on your lips, to watch the haze of sleep in your eyes melt into something more carnal. But he held himself back. He always did.

His violet gaze remained locked on you, memorizing every breath, every twitch of your lashes, the way you just fit against him. You had no idea just how deeply you’d unraveled him.

Jinwoo closed his eyes and pressed the last lingering kiss to your pulse, feeling it thrum steadily under his lips again. His grip finally eased, if only a little. He forced himself to relax, to bury the storm inside him before you woke and saw too much.

Because if you ever tried to leave—

No.

He wouldn’t let you.

The morning came too quickly.

Jinwoo’s brows furrowed as his hand slid over the warm spot where your body had been. The sheets still carried the faint traces of last night—of you, of him, of the way he had claimed you, over and over.

But the absence of your warmth, absent from his embrace, left him feeling bereft.

The thought alone made his muscles tense, his eyes snapped open.

You weren’t in bed.

The absence sent a flash of irritation through him, but he quickly swallowed it down, pushing himself up. His senses reached out.

When shadows came into contact with the fluttering warmth, he caught it—the scent of food, the faint clatter of dishes.

Kitchen.

You were in the kitchen.

His tension eased, replaced with something else.

You were still here.

Jinwoo ran a hand down his face, exhaling sharply before throwing off the covers. He rolled out of bed, sitting up on its edge, running a hand through his tousled black hair before standing.

He didn’t bother dressing, only pulling on the first thing he could reach—his discarded pants from the night before—didn’t even bother pulling up the zipper entirely. Barefoot, he followed the scent of breakfast. His steps soundless as he made his way out of the bedroom.

The sight that greeted him in the kitchen was enough to make his restraint snap like a thread pulled too tight.

Bathed in soft morning light, standing at the stove with an easy sway to your hips as you hummed a quiet tune, seemingly unaware of the way his gaze darkened, fixated on you like a predator who had just spotted its prey.

You stood there, completely at ease, drowning in his shirt. It was massive on you, the oversized fabric simply hung loosely off your frame on one shoulder, the collar slipping down just enough, teasing the bare skin underneath. The sleeves were bunched up at your elbows as you flipped something in the pan. The hem barely covered the tops of your thighs.

But then—

Your arm stretched up to reach something from the higher shelves, and the white fabric rode up. Not even the faintest traces of undergarments in sight.

Jinwoo stilled.

Just for a fraction of a second, but it was enough.

His jaw tightened as his eyes zeroed in on the unmistakable sheen between the smooth expanse of your thighs—the proof of last night, of him, still there, glistening from where he had made sure to fill you until you had nothing left but his name on your lips, marked you so thoroughly that you still carried him even now.

A low, dangerous growl rumbled in his throat.

In the next second, his arms were around you, pulling you flush against his bare chest. The heat of his skin seeped into yours, his wandering hands spread over your stomach and breast.

You didn’t startle, only hummed in acknowledgment, leaning into him, utterly unbothered before tilting your head to look up at him, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Morning, sleepyhead.”

Jinwoo didn’t answer. He dipped his head, nuzzling into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, sighing in content. Again, you smelled like him. You smelled like his.

When his lips found that spot on your neck again, his teeth scraped your pulse, not enough to bite. Your body instantly melted against him, and he could feel the way you trembled slightly under his touch.

Then, you giggled.

That same sweet sound that drove him insane.

“That tickles.”

His fingers twitched against your waist. Did you really not know what you were doing to him? Or were you teasing him?

Then you tilted your head slightly, exposing your throat just a little more. Trusting. Unaware.

Or maybe—

You already knew.

And that thought—that realization—sent something utterly delighted snapping inside of him.

His lips were on your throat again, lingering, tasting, branding. He felt the way your body tensed before relaxing completely, surrendering to him so easily.

If you knew…

If you really knew just how deep his obsession went—

Would you still look at him the same way?

Would you still stay?

Jinwoo's grip tightened.

"Silly Jinwoo."

…Ah.

Truly, what a fool he was.

As you turned in his arms, your half-lidded gaze met his, and something flickered in your eyes—

Always, when it came to you.

You smiled, slow and sweet. Indulgent.

So maybe you did know.

How utterly ruined he was for you.

Maybe you had known all along.

His breath caught as your fingers traced his jaw, your touch feather-light, but intentional.

“Silly, silly Jinwoo,” you murmured, that sly curling at the edges of your lips.

You leaned in, your own lips brushing against his ear.

“Do you really think I’d want to be anywhere else?”

And as his lips slotted back on yours—

“Happy birthday, My Jinwoo.”

End Note:

I'm in the middle of exam week, again. However, I couldn't resist the Jinwoo cravings in the end. 🥹

Happy birthday to our beloved Shadow Monarch and to everyone who celebrate this day with him! 🎉🥳🎂🎊

May this rough sneak peak of future Trial Player AU be a gift from me to you. 🎁🦋✨️🤍💛🖤💜

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sugary-strawberry-shortcake · 11 days ago

Text

Where You Are, I’m Home

a Kim Taehyung one shot.

Summary:

After a long year serving in South Korea’s elite Special Duty Team, Kim Taehyung finally comes home—to her. The girl he left behind. The one who waited. But while their love is still there, so is everything the military changed in him.

A/N: this is so foreign in comparison to what I usually post. But I had to do so for the 13-year-old girl inside of me who‘s obsessed with BTS. Is it impossible for me to get concert tickets after their break? Yeah. Will I stop fantasizing? Never😓

btw this is romance so no platonic at all.

TW: ptsd mentions, men being disgusting, no smut (I would never write that) but mentions of them having done it, also I do not know how the military is like it’s just my imagination :)

Still unedited! Sometimes I used different narratives oops

And I will continue Blossom reverse, just going through drafts :)

The morning air was biting cold despite the spring sun trying to climb over the rooftops, pale gold light sifting through clouds like fingers reaching gently for something long-lost. Y/N waited just outside the security gates, her hands shoved into the sleeves of her oversized cardigan, her heart beating louder than the wind.

He was supposed to arrive around 8:00 a.m.

It was 7:53.

The young woman shifted on her feet, the white soles of her sneakers scuffing against the ground. Her body was still, but her mind wasn’t. She could still hear his voice from the last phone call three nights ago — deep, gravel-lined from exhaustion and distance. Even then, even through the crackling line and all the military-coded short phrases, he still said:

“I’ll be different when I come back, jagi. Not in a bad way. Just… older. Don’t be surprised.”

She didn’t fully understand what he meant. She had visited him, yes, a few times — brief weekends that vanished in a blink. And there were nights she’d fall asleep with her phone on her chest, his voice the last sound in her ear, muffled by static and time. But now, it was different.

Now, he was coming home for good.

The woman didn’t cry. Not yet. But her chest was tight — like something had been wound inside her since the day he left, and now it was slowly, painfully starting to unwind.

The base gates opened.

And then she saw him.

Uniform pressed. Boots shining. That familiar black beret angled perfectly atop his head — a symbol of what he’d endured, what he’d survived. But none of that struck you as hard as him.

Kim Taehyung had always been beautiful — honey skin, sleepy eyes, voice like velvet and thunder. The man of her dreams. But now…

Now he was different.

Broader shoulders, thicker arms that stretched the fabric of his uniform tight across his biceps. His jawline had hardened, more angular than she remembered, more man than boy now. His expression was unreadable — composed, still, almost too still.

Until he saw his girl.

His steps paused — just for a second. His gaze fixed, sharp as a blade and soft as a whisper. Then the world seemed to tilt forward as he crossed the distance between you in long, silent strides.

Y/N forgot everything you’d planned to say.

“Taehyung—” she breathed, but the sound broke, and before you knew it, you were running.

Your shoes slapped against pavement as you flung yourself into him — arms wrapped tightly around his neck, your face burying in the crook of his shoulder. He caught you effortlessly, one strong arm wrapping around your waist, the other cradling the back of your head like something precious.

He didn’t say a word at first.

His grip was crushing. His body was warm. Hard. Solid.

And you were trembling.

“I missed you,” you whispered into his uniform. Your voice cracked on the second word.

You felt him exhale. Slow. Heavy. Like it had been trapped in him for months.

His mouth pressed into your hair.

“I missed you more than I knew how to say.”

You clung to him tighter. Your small frame curled into his, swallowed whole by the man he’d become. It was still him — your Taehyung. The one who used to leave little sticky notes on your mirror with doodles of tigers and kisses. The one who laughed with his whole body, and sometimes stayed up at night just to watch you sleep.

But something deeper lived behind his eyes now.

You felt it when he pulled back just slightly, just enough to look at you. His eyes roved over your face like he was trying to memorize it from scratch. His fingers touched your cheek like they couldn’t believe you were real.

“You’re still so small,” he murmured, voice like a low hum in your chest.

You smiled, blinking fast. “And you’re… not.”

His lips twitched into the ghost of a smile. “Military food,” he said flatly. “Push-ups. And crawling through mud for eight hours.”

You laughed — watery and breathless — and leaned forward, resting your forehead against his. “You really did change,” you whispered.

He didn’t deny it.

There was a long, quiet moment between you, full of everything neither of you could say out loud. Things he’d seen. Things he’d endured. The shadows under his eyes weren’t just from sleepless nights — they were born from things that would never make it into songs or interviews.

“You okay?” you asked gently.

“I am now.”

That answer came without hesitation. And the way he looked at you — intense, unwavering — made your stomach flutter and your eyes sting.

He looked at you like you were the only familiar thing in a world that had gone cold and violent.

Then his hand cupped the back of your neck, firm and possessive. His body shifted closer — his chest pressing against yours, your head tucked right beneath his chin, and he just held you. Like time had stopped.

“I don’t want to let you go,” he said, voice low. “Not for a second.”

“Then don’t.”

The air around you thickened. There was a new tension there now — not just reunion, but longing. Deep and physical. Your fingers clung to his collar, nails grazing the base of his neck, and he let out a breath that trembled slightly.

“I used to dream of this moment,” you said, soft against his skin. “And now you’re here, and I don’t even know what to do.”

His answer was a murmur, rough at the edges. “Let me take care of you. The way I’ve been dreaming about for months.”

Your pulse jumped. Your cheeks flushed. He leaned back just enough to look into your eyes, and the expression he wore was one you hadn’t seen before. Mature. Grounded. Possessive.

There was no boy left in him.

Only the man he’d become.

The man who came back to you.

________

The apartment was full — not loud, but full.

Namjoon had arrived first, clapping Taehyung on the back with that signature dimpled grin, his hair still regulation-short, his posture just a little straighter now, like the military hadn’t fully left his spine. Jin followed not long after — not in uniform, but carrying his usual brand of calm chaos with a grin that masked the months of waiting and missing and enduring.

And in the middle of it all, quietly orchestrating dinner in the background, was you.

You weren’t supposed to be seen.

Not on camera. Not in selfies. Not in the live. You moved like a ghost in your own home — barefoot, in soft jeans and a plain sweatshirt, your hair pulled up in a loose bun as you helped the quiet staff from the company set up drinks and arrange the food.

You’d spent the day preparing for this.

They were going live on Weverse. For the fans. For their brothers. For the first time since discharge.

And you?

You were the hidden heartbeat between them all. Taehyung’s secret girl, his quiet refuge — the one person who’d loved him before the beret and the camouflage and the harsh, freezing nights crawling through drills no one would ever know about.

From the kitchen island, you watched them get ready.

Taehyung in black — a loose cotton shirt that clung just enough to hint at how wide his chest had gotten. Hair pushed back, exposing the sharper cut of his face now. The tattoos on his hands were more visible than ever. So was the faint shadow beneath his eyes.

He was laughing with Namjoon, but you saw it. The stiffness that sometimes crept into his smile. The alertness behind his eyes.

“Five minutes, hyung,” a staff member called.

Namjoon nodded. Jin, ever casual, grabbed a bottle of water and cracked it open, flopping onto the couch beside Taehyung like he’d never been gone.

You moved to hand the plates to a staff assistant, smiling gently. But as you turned, the corner of the tray was accidentally jostled, and you flinched—not from the tray, but from the sudden, hard elbow of one of the staff brushing against your face, too fast and unintentional.

A sharp sting bloomed across your cheekbone.

“Oh! I’m so sorry—” the staff gasped, reaching out instinctively.

You quickly shook your head, hands up. “It’s okay, I’m fine—”

But he was already watching.

From across the room, Taehyung’s head snapped in your direction. His smile faded instantly. His body stilled. The conversation fell to static behind him as his gaze narrowed, jaw tightening like stone.

The room didn’t notice. But you did.

His hand curled slightly into a fist on his thigh.

He couldn’t say anything. Not on live. Not with cameras about to roll. But the look he gave the staff member — dark, piercing, quiet — made your skin prickle. He didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Just stared for a beat too long, until the staff member backed away instinctively.

Namjoon called his name, drawing him back.

“Tae? You good?”

His voice didn’t change. He leaned back into the couch, nodded once. “Yeah.”

But you knew that tone.

Low. Clipped. Unforgiving.

You finished setting the last cup of tea beside the snacks and retreated into the hallway just as the live countdown started. The screen lit up.

🟢 [LIVE] — Namjoon and Taehyung have joined.

The chat exploded.

He smiled for the camera. Laughing beside Namjoon, joking with Jin as he leaned into the frame from off-screen. But the tension in Taehyung’s jaw never fully disappeared. His hands were loose now, yes, but his energy — it was taut. Watchful. Every now and then, his eyes would flick to the hallway — where he knew you were.

He answered questions — talking about training, about missing the members, about what it felt like to finally shower without twenty other men around.

At one point, Jin teased him.

“I feel like if we fought now, you’d probably kill me,” Jin laughed, nudging Taehyung.

Taehyung’s eyes flicked over lazily. But his grin was different — a slow, shadowed smirk.

“I’ve been to scarier places than that, hyung.”

The way he said it — quiet, measured — made the chat explode with laughing emojis. But Namjoon looked over for a second longer, brows furrowed, like he heard something under the joke.

The live rolled on.

Laughter, soft chaos, a few serious moments where they talked about missing the fans, about Jimin and Jungkook who’d be next to come home, about how quiet the dorm had felt without all of them together.

Namjoon answered a fan who asked what they missed the most.

“Honestly?” he said. “The silence, sometimes. But also — the noise of us together.”

Taehyung nodded once, then added, “And seeing the same person’s face every night for months — it makes you appreciate the face you actually want to see.”

Namjoon gave him a look. “Was that aimed at someone?”

Taehyung only smirked again, his eyes sliding to the hallway behind the camera.

⸻

By the time the live ended, you were standing just past the corner of the hallway, fingers clutching your phone, your heart still beating too fast from the way he’d looked after you earlier.

The moment the camera turned off, the entire room sighed.

Staff moved quickly to pack up, conversations overlapping. Jin stretched, yawning.

“I’m gonna go. Gotta record early tomorrow.”

Namjoon gave you a brief, soft smile as he passed you in the hallway. “Thanks for the food, Y/N.”

You nodded, bowing slightly. “Of course.”

But Taehyung was already pulling on his jacket, voice low. “Let’s go.”

You blinked. “Should I—should I say goodbye—?”

“No.” His hand found your wrist, firm but not rough. “They’ll understand.”

You looked once over your shoulder — Jin had raised a hand in a wave, half-smiling. Namjoon gave you a nod.

But Taehyung had already turned, pulling you gently but insistently toward the elevator.

You followed. Silently. The ache in your cheekbone long forgotten, replaced by the tension radiating off him in quiet waves.

Only once the elevator doors closed, cutting you off from the world, did he finally move.

He turned.

One hand slid up to your face — careful, warm. His thumb brushed against the place you’d been hit, and his eyes searched yours like they were reading something only he could see.

“Did it hurt?”

You shook your head, voice small. “It was an accident.”

He didn’t say anything. His jaw clenched once.

Then he leaned forward — kissed your cheek, right where the pain had bloomed.

Soft. Reverent.

His arms wrapped around you — possessive, grounding. “Let’s go home.”

The car rolled into the long private driveway as the gates glided shut behind them, the quiet hum of tires over the smooth concrete echoing in the soft Seoul dusk. Taehyung had one hand on the wheel, the other resting on your thigh, thumb brushing absentmindedly over your jeans as you leaned against the seat—calm, but thrumming with unspoken energy.

As the mansion came into view — all clean lines, soft lights through tall windows, and that familiar ivy climbing the front pillars — he exhaled.

Home.

———

He parked in silence, engine purring once before cutting off. Then he turned to you, eyes dragging over your face like he was taking inventory of your soul.

You smiled softly. “It’s just us now.”

He didn’t answer. He just reached for you and kissed your forehead.

Inside, he dropped his duffle by the door.

And froze.

There, in the center of the open living room, right above the sunken couch — was a massive white banner strung across the stone wall in perfect lettering:

“Welcome Back Tae 💜”

Below it, on the table, a line of plush BT21 figures stared up like a tiny cheering squad — TATA front and center, wearing a tiny paper beret you’d cut out yourself. Beside it, his favorite wine. A fresh vase of white tulips. And the faintest scent of sandalwood candles lingering in the air.

Everything was clean. Warm. Ready. The bed was made. Slippers laid out. The lights dimmed low.

He stood still for a moment.

Then turned toward you.

His voice came out low, hoarse with emotion. “You did all this?”

You nodded, cheeks warm. “Of course. You’ve been gone. I wanted your first night home to feel like… home.”

His lips parted, but no words came. Instead, he crossed the space between you and pulled you into his arms — not with urgency, but with the aching weight of someone who hadn’t touched softness in too long.

His hands were warm against your back. His mouth lingered at your temple. And when he breathed your name, it was almost reverent.

“God, I missed you.”

You smiled into his chest. “I noticed.”

Later, after wine and soft music and laughter that came easier with each hour, it shifted — somewhere between the second glass and the last flicker of candlelight. His voice dipped lower. His eyes never left yours. And when he reached for you — slowly, wordlessly — you didn’t hesitate.

⸻

The sheets were tangled and half-slipped off the bed, your body curled loosely on your side, one leg stretched across the cool linen as your arm draped over the pillow he’d recently occupied.

You were quiet. Bare. Asleep.

And he was watching you.

The sky outside had deepened into a navy velvet wash, the stars faint behind the tinted windows. From where he sat — back against the headboard, one arm behind his head — he could see every inch of you lit by soft bedside lamp glow. Your skin warm, your hair mussed. A tiny line between your brows, like you were dreaming.

So delicate. So small.

He’d seen you like this before, hundreds of times.

But now…

Now, everything was different.

Something primal stirred in him. Not lust — not only that — but the heavy, possessive protectiveness that had sunk into his bones since the military. The training. The missions. The way it’d changed how he breathed, how he saw danger in everything.

How he now understood just how fragile the world could be.

And how much he could lose.

You stirred, shifting slightly.

A sleepy hum escaped your throat as you blinked up, lashes fluttering before your eyes found him.

“…You’re staring,” you murmured, voice thick with exhaustion, but amused.

He gave a small, lazy smile. “You’re beautiful when you’re wrecked.”

Your brow twitched in sleepy offense. “Wrecked?”

“Mm.” He reached out, brushed a strand of hair from your cheek. “You look like someone who’s been thoroughly missed.”

You huffed. But your cheeks flushed pink as your arm slid lazily up to rest over his abdomen, your fingers grazing the ridges of his stomach, the firm rise of his chest.

“Yeah well,” you mumbled, eyes half-lidded, “You didn’t exactly come home with restraint.”

He chuckled. It was the first time in months he’d laughed that quietly. “No,” he agreed, tilting his head, “I didn’t.”

You cracked one eye open. “You were kind of rough.”

His gaze darkened for a second, but not dangerously. “You didn’t complain.”

You smirked, eyes fluttering closed again. “Didn’t have a reason to.”

He reached out, letting his fingers trail lightly over your bare shoulder, your neck, down the curve of your back until you shivered faintly.

A pause.

Then your voice, soft: “You… really did miss me, huh?”

Taehyung’s voice was quieter now, his palm resting fully against your back. “You have no idea.”

You shifted again, turning just enough so your head was pillowed against his chest, your fingers splayed gently across the firm muscle there. You traced one invisible line across him, like mapping the difference.

His breath caught a little at the contact — more from the intimacy than the sensation.

“You’re stronger now,” you said softly, your voice almost childlike in the dark. “You changed.”

He didn’t respond right away.

Then, his arm curled around you, anchoring you closer.

“I had to,” he said. Simply. Quietly.

You tilted your chin, looking up at him through your lashes. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Your voice was innocent. Light. But not empty.

His gaze dropped to yours.

And for a second — a full, weighted beat — he just looked.

Then he let out a breath, not heavy… but slow.

“Not yet.”

And you didn’t press.

You just tucked your head against his chest again, your fingertips trailing over his heart as if to memorize it.

And he held you tighter — like if he let go, the world might take you too.

_______

The sound of laughter spilled out of the dining room like music from a house that had been quiet too long.

Dinner was set in the garden-facing room, the long wooden table full with homemade food, half-finished bottles of makgeolli and soju, and the echo of six voices layered with history. Candles flickered in the center, catching the edges of glassware and grins.

Jimin and Jungkook had arrived an hour ago — freshly discharged, freshly free, their energy explosive and familiar. Jungkook had crushed Y/N into a hug before she could breathe, lifting her off the ground in a whirl of excited laughter.

“Noonaaaaaa—!”

“You’re going to break my ribs,” Y/N wheezed against his shoulder, giggling.

“Worth it!”

Jimin had been more composed, though his hug had lingered. Soft. Gentle. Like he was still grounding himself.

“It’s been too long,” he whispered against her hair. “You didn’t forget me, right?”

Y/N had swatted at him with a mock scowl. “As if I could.”

Now they were all together again — Namjoon at the head of the table, Jin beside him, Jimin and Jungkook across from each other, and Taehyung…

Right beside Y/N.

His hand rested on the back of her chair, fingers brushing the top of her spine occasionally. Not enough to draw attention, but enough to make her stomach flip every time.

She was talking with Jungkook now, her arms folded on the table as she grinned at him. “So,” she teased, “how was it? Which one of you cried first?”

Jungkook narrowed his eyes. “We don’t talk about that.”

Jimin snorted into his glass. “You mean you don’t.”

“Hyung—!”

Namjoon chuckled. “Honestly, I thought Jungkook would be the military muscle boy again, but—” he tilted his head toward Taehyung “—this one came back with shoulders.”

“Oh yeah,” Jin added, raising his brows dramatically. “You could balance a whole tray of drinks on his back now.”

Jungkook pouted. “Hey! I still got my muscles!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jimin teased, poking Jungkook’s bicep. “Still a golden maknae.”

“Who’d win in a fight now?” Namjoon mused, resting his chin on his hand. “Jungkook or Taehyung?”

Silence.

Then chaos.

“No way he could take me,” Jungkook declared.

Taehyung didn’t move. He just tilted his head slightly, eyes gleaming. “Wanna test that theory, bunny?”

Jimin burst out laughing. “He’s not kidding. He could break your spine with that stare alone now.”

“Chill,” Taehyung said, voice dry. “I’m a civilian again.”

You leaned your head against Taehyung’s shoulder, giggling. “Please don’t break anything. I just cleaned the house.”

The group quieted for a beat.

Then Jungkook leaned across the table. “Y/N, are you still baking?”

You lit up instantly. “Always. Now that Tae’s home, I can start again.”

Taehyung turned to glance at you, his voice teasing but warm. “You’re going to fatten me up, aren’t you?”

“That’s the plan,” you said proudly. “I already have a new menu just for you. Lemon honey chiffon, your favorite, and I’m testing a persimmon tart.”

His smile softened. “I missed your food the most.”

“Military food was that bad for you, huh?” Jimin asked, leaning in.

Y/N made a face on Taehyung’s behalf. “He wouldn’t even talk about it. Just gave me this haunted look.”

“It was inedible,” Taehyung muttered. “They called it curry. It was glue.”

Everyone laughed.

You nudged him lightly, your voice playful. “Good thing you’re back in civilization now. Let me take care of you, okay?”

He didn’t say anything for a second. Then his hand gently squeezed the back of your neck, thumb brushing your skin.

“I’m counting on it.”

“Ugh, get a room,” Jungkook grumbled, dramatically covering his eyes.

“We have one,” Taehyung said coolly.

“YA!” Jin and Jimin shouted in unison, and the table erupted.

Eventually, the conversation turned to other things — promotions, comeback ideas, Yoongi’s discharge date. The group slowly quieted into warm, easy tones, the comfort of years spent together folding into every gesture.

At one point, Namjoon brought up something Taehyung had said in a recent live.

“You really said you hate childish people now?”

Taehyung nodded calmly. “They exhaust me.”

Everyone stared at him.

“You were the most childish one here,” Jin deadpanned.

“Facts,” Jungkook added. “You once cried because your snack fell on the floor.”

“Once?” Jimin choked.

“I evolved,” Taehyung said with a smug shrug.

Y/N pouted at him from her seat, hands coming up in mock offense. “So what, am I childish now?”

His eyes flicked to her, narrowing with playful threat. “Don’t push it.”

She stuck her tongue out at him.

Then reached up to squish his cheek, teasingly. “Don’t be too grown-up and serious, Mr. Military Man.”

But before she could get a proper hold, he caught her wrist mid-air — fast, firm, one brow raised.

“You forget how much stronger I am now?”

You gasped in outrage. “Let go!”

He smirked. “No.”

You pouted harder, lips trembling in exaggerated pain. “Oppa… you’re bullying me in front of your brothers.”

“You’ve been bullying me since I got back,” he murmured, pulling her hand to his lips and pressing a kiss to her fingers, slow and deliberate.

The table went silent.

Then Namjoon broke into a sigh. “We’re literally right here.”

“You two are the worst,” Jin muttered.

“Seriously, just get married,” Jimin said under his breath, sipping from his cup.

Y/N only leaned against Taehyung’s shoulder, victorious, as he wrapped his arm around her with a sigh — his hand resting right over her ribs, pulling her in like she was his.

Which she was.

______

It was a weekday afternoon, bright and mild, the sky above Seoul a lazy shade of blue. The streets weren’t crowded — just enough to feel alive without pressing in too close. You walked hand-in-hand with him, your steps light, your skirt fluttering with every breeze like petals across pavement.

You looked like spring incarnate.

Floral midi dress in soft yellow, little ribbons tied at your sleeves, sandals that made no sound. Your hair was pinned in a way Taehyung liked — soft, girlish, sweet. You were glowing. Laughing. Asking him if he wanted gelato from the corner place you always dragged him to before he left.

He wore sunglasses and a black baseball cap pulled low. A simple tee. Loose jeans. Mask. To anyone passing, he looked like any tall, faceless boyfriend doting on his tiny, radiant girlfriend.

But to Taehyung, it felt different now.

Everything did.

He’d gotten used to analyzing his surroundings. The shift of footsteps. The angle of parked cars. The sound of voices layered in a crowd. He hadn’t meant to keep doing it after discharge — it just stayed with him. The SDT trained his eyes to see threats before they were threats.

He still couldn’t stop calculating exit points every time they turned a corner.

You’d just pulled away, walking toward the gelato cart with a soft “Wait here,” and he nodded, watching you float toward the vendor.

You smiled brightly at the ahjussi behind the cart, pointing at the mint chocolate flavor like a kid, the little purse in your hands bouncing with each step.

Then Taehyung’s smile vanished.

His eyes locked on a man about twelve feet down the sidewalk — tall, in his 30s, standing near a lamppost with a phone in hand.

But not using it.

He wasn’t looking at his screen.

He was watching you.

Too long.

Too directly.

Taehyung stepped forward once. Then again.

His heart beat differently now — not fast, but cold. His hand clenched inside his pocket. The muscle in his jaw twitched once as his body shifted between the man’s line of sight and your figure.

The man noticed.

Looked away.

Too late.

When you turned back with a smile and two cups of gelato, Taehyung had already stepped close, took both in one hand, and curled his free arm tight around your back, guiding you quickly away.

“Wha—? Tae—?”

“Not here.”

His voice was low. Controlled. He didn’t say anything more until you were two streets over, near a shaded alley with no one watching.

He let go of your arm, breathing slow and sharp through his nose.

You looked up at him, frowning. “Hey. What happened?”

He didn’t answer. His head tilted, scanning, shoulders still tense.

“Tae.”

His eyes flicked to you finally. Still dark. Still locked in that place only soldiers understand.

“There was a guy. Back at the cart,” he said flatly. “He was staring at you.”

You blinked. “…Okay. I didn’t even notice—”

“I did.”

He took a deep breath and leaned against the brick wall behind him, setting the gelato aside on the bench.

You stepped closer, voice careful. “Tae… it’s just Seoul. People stare sometimes.”

“It wasn’t normal staring.”

“You mean, like…?”

“Like he wanted something.”

Your lips parted slightly at the way he said it. There was no hint of jealousy in his voice. Only danger. Calculation. Something hard and cold behind his eyes.

You placed your hand gently on his chest, feeling the tense pull of muscle beneath your fingertips.

“You okay?” you asked.

He hesitated.

Then scoffed under his breath. “You really think you can be out in the world acting like nothing’s wrong?”

You blinked at him. “What’s wrong?”

He looked at you, and his voice was low. Real.

“You don’t know what I’ve heard.”

The air between you thinned.

“I spent a year around nothing but men,” he continued. “No privacy. No filters. Just hours of hearing how they talk. How they think. About women. About what they want to do. About what they have done.”

You were quiet.

“They don’t think women are people. Not really. Just things. Toys. Disposables.”

He looked away, jaw tight. “I never showed them your picture. Not once. I kept it in a zip pocket at the bottom of my duffel, inside a wrapper, hidden under soap. Because I was scared someone might recognize you. Find you.”

You touched his wrist.

He didn’t move.

“You were the only thing I wanted to protect,” he said softly. “They talked about their wives, their girlfriends, the things they’d do if they ever saw certain idols in real life. Your name almost came up once and I felt my entire body go cold.”

“Tae…”

“I didn’t want you to ever be in the same sentence as the way they talked. And now—out here—some guy looks at you for too long and my whole fucking brain goes back there.”

You stepped in.

Wrapped your arms gently around his torso, your cheek resting against his chest.

His arms came around you immediately, his hands curling into the back of your dress, clutching you not like a lover—but like something sacred.

You didn’t speak. Just let him breathe.

After a moment, he pulled back slightly, brushing your hair from your eyes.

“You’re too soft for this city.”

You pouted. “I’ve lived here longer than you.”

He half-laughed, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“You’re sweet. You talk to strangers. You wear ribbons in your hair and floral dresses and smile at old men selling chestnuts like they’re your grandpas.”

You looked up. “You’re making it sound like a crime.”

He sighed, then pressed his forehead to yours.

“It isn’t a crime. It’s why I love you. I just… I’ve seen how fast the world can get ugly.”

You cupped his jaw gently. “So let me be soft. You can be strong. I’ll bake the tarts, you fight the ghosts.”

He closed his eyes, smiling faintly. “Deal.”

You paused, then grinned up at him. “So… what was it like, being locked up with only men for a year?”

His brow lifted. “…Loud. Smelly. Violent.”

“Did they talk about feelings?”

“Not unless it was followed by ‘shut up, loser’.”

You laughed softly.

“Bet you missed touching a girl.”

His gaze dropped to you, suddenly darker. “You have no idea.”

You flushed.

He leaned in closer, whispering at your ear.

“You’re the only softness I had left. Don’t ever underestimate how badly I needed you.”

Your breath hitched.

Then he kissed your temple. Once. Twice. His hand still firm on your waist like he was anchoring himself to the only thing real.

That night, the bedroom was dim and warm — moonlight slanting through gauzy curtains, casting soft shadows across the wall.

The sheets were half-kicked off the bed, your legs tangled with his, your body resting against his chest as your breaths slowed together. It wasn’t urgent this time. Not hungry. Not frantic like that first night.

This time was different.

Slower.

His mouth had explored you like a hymn, like a melody he’d forgotten how to hum. Your skin remembered him — every line, every pause, every breath.

He didn’t talk much. Just held you close, moved with care, touched you like you were the only soft thing left in a world full of stone. And when it was over — when the tension in his body had eased and yours had melted — he kept his arms around you like a cage made of comfort.

You ran your fingers lazily across his chest, lips brushing his shoulder.

“You okay?” you whispered.

He kissed your hair. “I am now.”

You fell asleep not long after.

But he didn’t.

Not yet.

_____

2:13 a.m.

You woke to the sound of movement.

Not the usual kind — not shifting blankets or sleepy murmurs.

This was sharp. Gasping.

You turned.

Taehyung was sitting upright at the edge of the bed, hunched over, his elbows on his knees, one hand buried in his hair, the other clenched tight on the sheets.

His shoulders rose and fell like he couldn’t catch his breath.

“Tae?”

He didn’t answer.

You sat up slowly, the sheets falling off your body, heart hammering now — not from fear of him, but for him.

You crawled across the bed and knelt behind him, arms gently wrapping around his back. You pressed your cheek between his shoulder blades.

He flinched. But only slightly.

Then exhaled.

It took a while before he spoke. His voice, when it came, was barely audible.

“There was a call. During drills. Fake scenario… supposed to be a simulation. But something went wrong. A real threat alert went off. Border movement.”

You stayed quiet, listening.

“I was closest to the line. They handed me live rounds. Told me I might have to shoot. Just like that.”

You tightened your hold, your face buried against his spine.

“I didn’t. Nothing happened. But the silence after that? The waiting? That’s what messed with me. That moment between breathing and shooting… I think I’ve been stuck there ever since.”

You turned his face gently toward you, crawling around to his lap, straddling him slowly — not to seduce, but to anchor.

He looked at you like he didn’t know where he was.

You cupped his cheeks softly. “You’re home. You’re safe. I’m here.”

His eyes watered, but the tears didn’t fall.

He leaned forward until his forehead pressed against your chest, arms wrapping around your waist, breathing in your scent like it might pull him from the battlefield still living behind his eyes.

And it did.

Eventually.

⸻

You heard the front door open with a click.

It was mid-morning. He’d gone to the gym after breakfast — the one you insisted he try out, clean, private, just a few blocks away.

You were already in the kitchen, the scent of browned butter and cinnamon thick in the air. A tray of raspberry almond croissants cooling beside you, powdered sugar melting into the ridges.

You wore an apron over a soft tank and cotton shorts, your hair up again, music playing faintly on your phone.

When he walked in, the scent hit him first.

Then he saw you.

His pace slowed. His bag dropped by the door.

You turned with that signature beam — pure, unaffected joy — and held up a plate.

“Chef’s pick of the day. I demand a taste test.”

He stepped forward, eyes flicking over your flour-dusted cheeks, your bare legs, the way your smile could still make his chest ache.

“You’re going to kill me with sweetness.”

You smirked. “That’s the plan. You’re getting too handsome, you know. ARMY’s gonna riot. You need to eat more croissants. Just a little chubby Taehyung. For safety reasons.”

He raised a brow, playing along. “Oh? And if I don’t?”

You gave him a dramatic sigh. “Then someone’s gonna steal my boyfriend.”

He stepped up to you, slid one hand around your waist and the other to your jaw, thumb brushing the apple of your cheek.

“Don’t know how I’m supposed to feel,” he murmured, “when every guy in Seoul wants to steal my girl.”

You bit your lip, cheeks pink.

He leaned down, kissed your forehead.

And in his mind, a quiet monologue drifted through:

There are still days I wake up expecting the alarm. The cold floor. The sound of boots and orders and men screaming over drills.

But then I open my eyes… and she’s here. Soft skin. Sweet voice.

She smells like vanilla and sugar and peace.

I don’t know what I did to deserve her, but I’ll protect her with my life. Even now. Especially now.

She’s the only thing that brought me home fully.

And I’m never letting her go.

He kissed you then. Long. Quiet. Gentle.

You fed him a croissant between kisses.

And he stayed close the entire day. And longer.

#taehyung #bts army #bts imagine #bts imagines yandere #bts #bts fanfic #kim taehyung #jungkook #angst #fluff #bts fluff #bts angst #bts x reader #bts x y/n #kim namjoon #jimin #bts jin #yoongi #hoseok

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jjkbambi · 2 months ago

Text

roommates luigi mangione x reader 18+

smut summary your roommate luigi has been dealing drugs out of your house for or the past year and a half!!!??

warnings long ass intro, goodgirl-ish stereotype, jealousy, Angst, seriously long arguments, makeup/high sex, unedited, fingering, pussy eating, slapping, UNEDITED seriously

“hey, you live with pep, right?”

you blink, caught off guard. the question wasn’t unusual; the coffee shop was just a few blocks from campus. luigi liked to joke his only experience with roommates was sharing a house with frat boys and their girlfriends—unsurprisingly, they were the ones who usually came by. always with a package he left behind or cash they owed him.

never pretty, single girls.

you knew rebecca was single because she dumped her boyfriend at your birthday party last semester—caught him cheating and, according to campus lore, beat the shit out of both him and the girl. there was blood on the wall for weeks.

“you mean luigi?” you clarify.

“we were study buddies during undergrad. loved him,” she says, rummaging through a leather tote. she pulls out a pale pink envelope, his name scrawled across the front in careful cursive. “ran into him the other day and totally forgot to give him this. would you mind?”

you pause. the envelope feels too personal.

“you should give it to him yourself,” you say, too fast. “he’s throwing a party for the game tonight. you should come.”

“you’re so sweet. but i don’t know. i haven’t talked him in forever and so much has changed…” you feel a storm of something strange wash over you. a part of you didn’t want her to come to the party and you couldn’t place a finger on why. “is he still seeing that humanities major?”

“no, i don’t think so,” you say, trying to sound casual, even though your heart is already betraying you. pride tugs at your voice, holding it steady.

“oh. thank god,” she says. “pep’s always been so nice, but i can never tell if he’s just nice to everyone, you know?”

you’d never lie to a girl about your hot roommate’s love life—especially not just to protect your own feelings. even if they’re louder than they should be.

louder than they should be?!??! god, what were you even saying? your voice echoes in your own head, tiny and unsure. before you can spend another second replaying it, beautiful, blue-eyed rebecca leans over the counter and slides the envelope toward you. her fingers brush yours—intentional, maybe. she’s still smiling.

“listen, if i don’t make it, you’ll give it to him, right?”

maybe it was the optimist in you. maybe it was just a slow evening. or the retrograde. but ultimately, you smile—tight-lipped but genuine—and suddenly, you’re playing matchmaker. pretending your heart isn’t thudding, pretending you’re just being helpful.

the sky’s already gone purple by the time your shift ends. you smell like espresso and sweat, and your hair’s half-falling out of its bun. you don’t bother fixing it.

by the time you get to the house, the party’s already full; bass pulsing through the floorboards, bodies pressed together in the living room, and the back door swinging open every few minutes to clouds of smoke and laughter.

luigi’s posted up in the kitchen, adidas hoodie half-zipped, sleeves pushed up, a red solo cup dangling from his fingers like an afterthought. his hair’s a mess in that deliberate way, eyes sharp but warm when they land on you.

“you’re late,” he says, but he’s already moving to pour you a drink. something just a little sweeter than what he gives anyone else.

“had to close,” you say, sliding the envelope from your pocket and holding it out. “rebecca dropped this off for you.”

the brown-haired boy takes it, glancing at the cursive with a flicker of something unreadable. “cool, thanks,” he mutters, shoving it into a drawer without opening it.

you frown when he slides the envelope into the drawer like it’s junk mail. “you’re not going to read it?”

luigi glances at you, then at the drawer. “read it?”

“yeah,” you say, stepping closer. “i don’t know. it just seems like something she… put effort into.”

“y/n,” he huffs a soft laugh. “it’s not that kind of letter.”

you tilt your head. “what kind is it?”

“business,” he says. “boring stuff.”

“rebecca doesn’t seem boring.”

“she’s not. but this is,” luigi says, slipping his specialty drink into your hand—all sugar-sweet, just the way you like it.

“i’m glad you think so,” you watch him carefully as you continue your sentence, “cause i invited her over tonight.”

he tilts his head at you. “what? why would you do that?”

you shrug, trying to sound breezy. “she said you two were close. that you used to study together.”

a pause. too short to mean nothing, too long to not mean something.

“right, uh…” he tilts his head and tries to come up with more fulfilling response. “i guess i had a lot of study buddies that year.”

“okay well,” you frown at his lack of excitement. “she seemed nostalgic about it. she obviously misses you. she still calls you by your nickname and everything.”

the brunette watches your expression as he leans a hip against the counter, close now—close enough that you catch the faint smell of weed hiding underneath his signature cologne. he smiles playfully.

“so you figured i’d be thrilled to see her again? y/n, what would we even talk about?”

you’d been undergrad together, but never really together, not the way rebecca might’ve been. you wonder: were they hooking up? the story about the thought of rebecca, a dance major, seeking out robotics captain luigi mangione for help seemed strange. but who knows? there were always elective classes, chance meetings, and volunteer opportunities.

theories racketed your brain. she was his type obviously. she was everyone’s—confident, beautiful, the kind of girl who didn’t need to try to be the center of the room. the kind of girl people orbited around. the kind he’d probably want to be around—loud, magnetic, always laughing.

regardless, it wasn’t your business. you and luigi were roommates. friends, more or less, and only because the lease said so. crossing that line, even in conversation, felt weird. invasive. risky.

“don’t be a dick,” you say. “she seemed excited to see you.”

luigi raises an eyebrow. “to what, rekindle our academic bond?”

you roll your eyes. “i thought you’d be at least be little grateful i scored you a pretty date.”

“right, y/n,” he drawls out. “i’m so grateful you went out of your way to reunite me with another one of my study partners.”

“she’s gorgeous and she’s single.”

luigi watches your face carefully. “she put you up to this?”

“here i thought you were all about having a growth mindset,” you point out.

luigi sighs before another eye-roll. “i’m growing tired of this conversation. stop doing favors for people you don’t know.”

“you know, i think that’s why you’re still single.” you say, taking another swing of the sugary alcohol. “you’re close-minded.”

“i’m still single because i know what i want,” he corrects. “and you’re one to talk. you haven’t brought a guy home since you moved in.”

“don’t lump me in with you. i don’t bring guys home because i’m classy.” you say, though he was right. you weren’t seeing anyone. you just wanted to give off the impression that you were.

the brown-haired boy raises both his brows, amused. “alright then, who?”

you straighten. “i’m not telling you.”

“you get to pimp me out to strangers and i don’t get to know who you’re seeing?”

“oh, lighten up, i’d kill to have a love letter handwritten and delivered. it’s romantic!”

luigi shakes his head. “she owes me cash, y/n. it’s not a love letter.”

you feel your shoulders drop a bit, but maintain your stance. “no one decorates an envelope like that for a business transaction, luigi. give her a smile, at least.”

“if i give her a smile, do i get to know about your secret little love affair?

“it’s not like that.” at all. hopefully, rebecca could coerce him into a couple more drinks and he’d forget about this interaction completely.

“just you’re just hooking up, then? is he coming out tonight?”

“it doesn’t matter,” you give him a playful wave—desperate to end your lie—and start making your way up the stairs, but not before throwing a glance over your shoulder. “i’ll be right back. i need to change.”

“hurry back down,” luigi barks after you. “you’re seven drinks behind!”

you don’t go looking for him when you come back down.

the lights are low now, pulsing to the bass, and the house is full—warm with bodies and laughter and the smell of weed curling out through the open windows. you hear his voice somewhere, low and easy. you don’t look for rebecca but she’s here, you know it. you can feel them together somewhere in the room—close, magnetic, like a glittering coin on the pavement you have no interest in picking up.

jack—one of luigi’s older friends—spots you before you can pretend you’re just passing through. he was tall, and had just recently started a fancy press job in new york. he barely came back down for holidays, so you couldn’t help but notice him in your kitchen. he leans against the counter, tequila in hand and a half-smile already pulling at his mouth like he was waiting for you.

“y/n,” he says, eyes flicking over you, slow. “thought you’d locked yourself in for the night.”

“i tried,” you say. “someone threw a party under my house.”

“right, forgot, luigi’s infamous for being inconsiderate.” he pours you a drink without asking. “but if it gets you out here looking like that, i’m not mad about it.”

you blink, surprised, but not. jack’s always had that look about him, like he enjoys pushing a little past the line just to see what you’ll do.

“new york taught you how to flirt?”

he grins, offering you a brand new red solo cup. “no, those lessons were learned at harvard. i’ll can tell you all about it outside if you’d like.”

you glance away, take the drink. you can feel luigi somewhere behind you now, his presence like heat on your back.

“he letting you off your leash tonight?” jack presses, tone light, but there’s something sharper under it. “or is this a jailbreak?”

you huff a laugh, lifting the cup to your lips. “what leash?”

“c’mon,” he says, cocking his head. “you two play it off well, but you’ve got the kind of orbit that doesn’t happen by accident.”

“we’re just roommates,” you say.

“sure,” jack smirks. “and i’m a priest.”

before you can come up with something clever to toss back, a voice cuts through the conversation.

“oh my god, there you are!” rebecca practically bounces up to you, her face lighting up like she just spotted her favorite celebrity. she hugs you before you can even react, nearly knocking the drink out of your hand. “i couldn’t find you anywhere. this is amazing! thank you sooo much for inviting me!

you blink, surprised but trying not to show it. you haven’t seen rebecca this excited since, well… ever. how’d she get this drunk this quickly? had you really spent that long changing?

“careful, you’re gonna choke her out,” jack says, replacing her life-threatening grip with arm slipped around your waist, hovering close enough to make you feel the heat of his touch. you stiffen but don’t pull away, unsure if it’s because you’re actually okay with it or just frozen in the moment.

“sorry, sorry, i get handsy when im drunk,” rebecca says, eyes bright. you think back to your birthday party and agree silently. “don’t worry, jack, i have no plans on stealing your date.”

he leans in close, voice warm. “guess i’ll just have to hold on tighter, then.”

“date?” the word cuts in like a hook—low, sharp, unmistakably amused.

you glance up. luigi enters in behind rebecca, hands shoved in his pockets, the faintest tilt to his mouth like he’s trying very hard not to look annoyed. or worse: interested.

“i didn’t know you two were close,” luigi continues, eyes skimming over you and jack like he’s filing something away.

god. you were never going to hear the end of this.

“we’re not,” you say too quickly.

“yet,” jack adds, easy as anything, his arm still resting a little too comfortably around your waist.

you open your mouth, but before you can respond, rebecca gasps dramatically beside luigi.

“oh my god, pep, you’re so nosy,” she teases, looping her arm through his like it belongs there. “let them flirt. it’s cute.”

you blink, surprised, but try to play it off. jack chuckles. luigi doesn’t.

jack shifts, clearly picking up on the tension, and attempts to pull you away, “we were just headed out for a smoke, actually, so—”

“she doesn’t smoke,” luigi says, like it’s some sort of fact he’s decided for you.

you feel your face sink a bit, embarrassment flashing hot under your skin. really? this is how he repays you? cock-blocking you after you set him up with miss fucking pennsylvania?

“what? no, i—”

luigi cuts in, eyes steady, eyebrows raised like he’s already caught you in a lie. “you what?”

you falter. you don’t. you never have.

jack glances between you two, clearly catching on. “hey, it’s not a big deal,” he says, hands half-up in peace. “just thought you might wanna come out back. talk. chill.”

luigi’s mouth twitches, but it’s not a smile. “talk. chill. sounds thrilling.”

rebecca snorts as glances between the three of you, like she’s clocking something—then leans in, stage-whispering, “if i didn’t know any better, i’d say someone’s feeling a little left out.”

jack holds up his hands in mock innocence. “it’s just a cigarette, pep. not a proposal.”

you shift, caught somewhere between wanting to defend yourself and wanting the floor to open up and swallow you whole. “i—i’ve tried it before. once.”

luigi raises an eyebrow. “and that makes you a smoker?”

you glare at him, embarrassed. “no. i didn’t say that.”

“then why the hell are you trying to impress him?”

jack steps closer now, his voice calm but firm. “look, if there’s a problem here, we can talk about it.”

but luigi doesn’t respond to jack. his hazel eyes stay locked on you, cold and unreadable. “upstairs bathroom light’s been on for the last half hour,” he says, his voice casual, but it cuts through everything. “again.”

you pause, caught off guard by the sudden shift. “what?”

“it’s messing with the breaker,” he says, more pointed now. “you wanna help me fix it, or do you need more time with him?”

your face flushes deeper, but you don’t know what to say. you glance at jack, who’s looking at you, a little frustrated but still giving you space to make a decision.

rebecca tries to cut in with a forced smile. “okay, okay, let’s not make this a whole thing,” she says, giving luigi an exaggerated pat on the arm. “you’ve got ‘house duties’. go before the place falls apart. both of you.”

you take a deep breath, torn between the need to stay and the undeniable pull of getting away from this mess. reluctantly, you turn to follow luigi.

he doesn’t look back, but you can feel the weight of his presence as he heads toward the stairs. you follow, hesitating, trying to ignore the feeling of eyes on your back.

the door clicks shut behind you, and for the first time tonight, it’s just the two of you.

“you’re being mean,” you finally say, voice tight. “i set you up with the ten of tens, and you repay me by embarrassing me in front of jack?

“embarrassing you?” he repeats in disbelief. “are you serious?”

“i would’ve never done that to you!” your voice comes out sharper than you mean it, laced with something like betrayal. “i wouldn’t humiliate you in front of someone i knew liked you.”

“yeah?” he bites back, his fawn-colored eyes darker than ever. “well, maybe if you actually paid attention, you’d realize he doesn’t just like you. jack’s been circling you for months.”

“what the fuck are you talking about?” you snipe. “and even if that were true, who cares? we were just talking.”

“you don’t see it,” he says, shaking his head, furious and exasperated all at once. “you never fucking see it.”

“see what?”

“he’s not subtle, and he’s definitely not harmless. he’s just waiting for you to be dumb enough to give him a shot.”

“so what?” you say. “he’s not the first guy to flirt with me, luigi.”

“he’s the first one you let,” he argues.

you throw your hands up. “jesus, who cares? he was talking to me. you know, like people do at parties. i wasn’t naked in his lap.”

“could’ve fooled me.”

that’s it. the last thread of patience snaps.

“you’ve got a real talent for making me feel like shit,” you say, each word heavy with hurt. you’re not crying. you’re not giving him the satisfaction of breaking down. but god, does it feel like he just ripped something out of you.

you don’t wait for him to say anything else. you turn on your heel, walk straight to the door, and shove it open with more force than you meant. the sound of it slamming behind you feels louder than it should, final in a way you weren’t prepared for.

he doesn’t follow.

. . .

the house is silent for days. luigi’s always been out earlier than you, and you’ve mastered the art of avoiding him—turning your head just in time to not catch his eye, slipping out the door when you hear his footsteps getting too close. there’s a strange comfort in the silence, in not having to confront what happened. but the silence is bound to break eventually.

he starts leaving little things behind. a hoodie on the couch, a mug in the sink, his shoes at the door. it’s like he’s trying to find a way to be around without being around, but it’s only making it harder for you to ignore him.

you can feel him watching, though he doesn’t say anything. you’re aware of every shift in the air, every time his footsteps get too close to your door. the air in the house gets heavier, filled with all the things neither of you are saying.

days pass like this: him and his quiet little offerings, and a stream of overly confident ex-frat guys making appearances at your coffee shop. you’ve been spending more time at work more than ever.

one afternoon, a girl—polished nails, perfect ponytail—leans over the counter and says, “hey, are you luigi’s roommate?”

you groan internally. “yes.”

she slides a thick envelope toward you. “can you give this to him?”

you should say no. it’s on the tip of your tongue. but instead, you nod once and slip it into your bag.

the house smells faintly like weed when you get home—soft and sour, like it’s sunk into the walls. you don’t think much of it until you knock once on luigi’s door, step in to drop off the envelope and. he’s on the floor, shirtless, back against his bedframe like he’s been there for a while. his curly hair is a mess, sticking up in soft waves like he’s dragged his hands through it too many times. his eyes—bambi-colored, warm and red-rimmed—find you instantly.

he blinks up at you like he wasn’t expecting to ever see you again.

“you’re home,” he says, half to himself.

you glance at the envelope you just dropped on the desk. “don’t get too excited. it’s just another envelope.”

the brown-haired boy blinks, confused, slow to react. “wait—can you just—”

“already did my part,” you cut in, stepping back.

“can you just talk to me?” he says. it’s not demanding. it’s quiet. weirdly soft. “yell at me. call me a dick. something.”

you shake your head. “we’ve argued enough.”

he stumbles closer, barefoot and slow, like he’s trying not to spook you. “y/n, come on, i didn’t mean to—”

“then why did you do it?” you cut him off, but the frustration that floods your voice doesn’t quite match the hurt you feel.

you just want him to apologize. you shake your head, trying to make sense of the confusion swirling in your chest. “i don’t you want me to say, luigi. that i felt humiliated? that i was standing there trying to have a normal conversation, and you acted like i was doing something wrong? like i was—i don't know—cheap or something?"

luigi frowns. "i would never say that.”

"you don’t have to," you snap. "the look on your face said it. the tone in your voice said it. everyone could hear it."

"i just didn't want him near you!”

“why does that matter?”

“it just does, okay?”

you cross your arms over your chest. “that’s not an answer, luigi.”

“i know… i know, i’m sorry i’ve been a mess, and i made you feel like shit, and i’m sorry,” he begins quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. “but you have to understand… it’s not easy for me to say any of this. i’m not used to feeling like this.”

you glance at him, not quite following what he’s getting at. “feeling like what?”

he takes a slow step forward, eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that almost feels like it’s burning him. he’s close enough now you can smell the remnants of whatever he’d been smoking—and hell, he was right. you really weren’t a smoker. you feel yourself shrink underneath the cloud, eyes studying his tired face.

“feeling jealous. feeling… like i was losing something i couldn’t live without. when i saw you with jack, smiling at him, it… god, it just hit me,” he says, his voice strained. “and i couldn’t stand it. the way you looked at him—it’s like i wasn’t even there anymore. like i was invisible to you.”

you stare at him, processing everything, and it’s like the weight of his words hits you all at once, but your pride refuses to let you soften just yet. “so what? you thought humiliating me was the answer? making me feel like shit in front of jack and rebecca.”

“no,” he says quickly, his voice raw. “god, no. that was never the plan. i just… i don’t know what the hell i was doing. i just saw you with him and my head—” he stops, shaking his head, clearly frustrated with himself. “i wasn’t thinking straight. i know it’s no excuse. i fucked up. but i want to fix it. please, y/n, i want to fix this.”

“i don’t even know what to say to you,” you murmur, your voice quieter now, but your arms still crossed defensively over your chest.

he steps forward again, desperation in his eyes. “you do, though. you do. i swear to god, i never meant to make you feel like this. i’ve… i’ve been an idiot. i don’t know how to fix it, but i can’t stand seeing you like this. i can’t stand knowing i’ve hurt you.”

“i’m sorry, y/n.” he continues, his voice dropping even lower as his arms come around to embrace you, “i know i messed up. but i care about you, more than i can say. i didn’t want him looking at you like that, not when you’re… so much more than that.”

you’re quiet for a long moment, letting yourself nuzzle into his warmth. “you should’ve just said something,” you say softly, the edge still in your voice, though it’s starting to fade.

“i know. i wish i had. i just didn’t know how to handle it. i didn’t want to mess things up between us.” his voice drops to a whisper. “but i can’t stand the thought of you thinking i don’t care.”

you look away, feeling the weight of everything swirling between you both. “i don’t know, luigi. i’m still pissed.”

the brown-haired boy exhales sharply. “yeah, i get that. i do. i’m not asking you to forgive me right away. but…” he hesitates before he pulls himself off of you, his voice almost embarrassed. “but maybe we can try… i was thinking maybe we could just to smoke, for now. just to calm down. and then we can talk more.”

your brows lift.

“you’re trying to bribe me into forgiving you with weed?”

luigi laughs under his breath. “no. maybe. i don’t know. i just… thought maybe we could use a pause.”

you eye the joint warily. “i’ve never smoked before.”

“i know,” he says gently. “and you don’t have to. just stay here with me.”

and somehow, you do. you sit on the edge of his bed while he lights up, still shirtless and stupidly pretty in the soft light. he takes the first hit, exhales slow, then offers it to you.

you hesitate.

“it’s okay,” he says, voice dipped in something tender. “you don’t have to be cool about it. i’ll talk you through.”

you take it. breathe in. cough, a little.

luigi grins. “cute.”

you narrow your eyes, but the minutes slip by quietly, and the high starts to settle into your limbs—warm, slow, like honey. the anger that once pulsed sharp behind your ribs begins to dull at the edges, softening into something you can’t quite name. he gently guides you closer to him on the bed. as you both pass the blunt back and forth, the tension is still there, but it’s lighter now, less heavy. his skin brushes yours—bare and warm—and you feel the heat of him even through the haze.

“you know,” luigi says softly, his voice low, like he’s afraid to break the moment. “you’re pretty all the time.”

you glance at him, brow arching.

“but when you’re mad at me…” he trails off with a small huff, running his fingers down the line on your chin. “it’s a problem. because i still wanna kiss you. even when you look like you want to kill me.”

you roll your eyes, trying not to smile, but it’s a losing battle. “you’re just saying that because we’re high and in your bed.”

“nah,” he says, and this time his voice drops even lower, more serious. “i’ve been thinking it since sophomore year.”

“i think you’re confusing me with someone else.” you laugh. “we didn’t know each other sophomore year.”

“what do you mean?” he frowns. “that was the first year you worked at the coffee shop.”

“sure, yeah,” you agree. that was correct. but you two didn’t even know each other until halloweekend junior year. “how would you even know that? you don’t even like coffee.”

“you’d never remember me,” luigi adds quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. “i’d just sit there and try to study. you were always there, like… humming to yourself behind the counter. or talking to old people like they were your best friends. i don’t know. you just—made everything feel more fun.”

you stare at him, processing.

he shifts closer, just slightly. the bed dips. his shoulder brushes yours again. you don’t pull away.

his fingers find your hair, brushing it back from your cheek, so gentle it makes your chest ache. “i’m sorry for being a dick,” he says. “at the party. before that. all of it. i didn’t know how to say any of this. and i didn’t want to screw it up.”

“you kind of did,” you say, but there’s no bite to it. just truth.

“i know.” his thumb traces lightly along your jaw. “but if there’s still a chance… i want to try.”

your heart skips. the weed makes everything feel softer, but the clarity in his eyes is real.

“can i kiss you?” he asks, voice low. nervous.

you hesitate for just a second. then you nod.

and when he leans in, it’s slow. he’s giving you every second to pull away. but you don’t. your eyes flutter shut and his mouth finds yours, warm and tentative, until the kiss deepens with something that feels like all the things he never said. you melt into his warmth, one hand on his bare chest, the other tangled in his curls. his hands are everywhere, tracing the curve of your back, sliding under your shirt.

you gasp into his mouth as he quickly finds the softness of your hip, pulling you closer and tugging your leg over him so the heat of your core is against him. shaky breaths escape you as his lips travel up your neck.

“y/n, hold on,” luigi murmurs, his body feverish beneath yours as you feel his raging bulge poking into you with every small movement you make. “are you sure?”

“yes.” you were misty-eyed and barely breathing but completely sure, your arms wrapping around his neck, teasingly scratching his back with your nails. “you don’t have to be so careful with me.”

the brown-haired boy lets out a short laugh as he leans in for another kiss. “don’t say shit like that,” he murmurs.

you weren’t usually this confident. but other than this weekend, you couldn’t picture luigi as anything other than sugar sweet.

“or what?”

“or i’m not gonna be able to control myself.”

“control yourself?” you repeat, feeling a hazy laugh escape your lips without reason. “luigi, you could never hurt me.”

“yeah?” luigi hums. “you sure you can take it?”

“i want to,” you say, overconfident. “i want you, luigi.”

and before you could even adjust, he was on top of you, his tongue down your throat as you pressed yourself into him, feeling his hard cock against you.

you gripped his bicep as his two large fingers found your heat, giving you no time to adjust. he moved with precision and purpose, thrusting and curling as you were forced to look into his brown eyes.

“good girl, so wet f’me,” he whispers. eyeing you down, admiring the wet patch he’s created through ur panties.

“that’s all for me, yeah?” he continues airily. he swipes his fingers across the waistband of your panties, letting it catch and snap lightly against your butt. you gasp, and he grins, pleased with himself. “or did you wanna call up jack one more time? make his fuckin’ night?”

“no,” you hum. “i only want you.”

“good girl,” he murmurs into your skin as he begins to kiss down your body. he harshly rips the fabric of your panties off your body.

you pout. “those were expensive.”

“i’ll buy you anything you need,” he says. “just let me have my way with you.”

helpless and impatient, you whine, when he spits against your core, lubricating his movements so he can abuse every one of your senses. his tongue darts inside your weeping cunt, moving freely with the oozing wetness that gushes over, moaning with every sweet gasp that escapes you.

“luigi," you writhe, fingers grappling blindly at the curls that lay matted against luigi’s forehead. "please please please.."

his response is muffled against your pussy as he licks every ounce of arousal that your cunt provides, spurred on by the fruitless push of your heels into the mattress and the tightening of your thighs around his skull. he's eager to make up for lost time, sealing his lips around your clit for the last time so that your spasming, legs locking into a momentary paralyzed position until he's pressing palms into your dewy thighs and forcing them farther apart to delve further into his meal.

you can’t help but let out a whimper when he pulls his mouth off of you, dragging you to the edge of his bed by your ankles. “luigi,” you cry out, helpless.

“don’t be a brat,” he says before throwing. a hard smack to across your face. “i’m gonna give you exactly what you need.”

tugging at his sweatpants down, letting them fall, and pushing his boxers down just enough for his huge veiny cock to sit up hitting his stomach.

your heart races at the sight of him, you already know he’s gonna stretch you out. he loves the look of fear in ur eyes as u take him in. without any warning at all, he starts ploughing his massive cock into ur soaked innocence. you scream at the impact, tears welling in your eyes as he fucks you with no remorse.

your legs unconsciously wrap around his waist. his hands grip onto your hips tightly, surely leaving bruises for you in the morning. you feel a slap come down on your ass cheek, you let out a sharp moan, and another hard slap makes you writhe in pain.

“where you goin’?” he retorts, somewhere between playful and arrogant. “don’t run from it, baby, you said you’d be a good girl f’me.”

“luigi, fuck, hold on—” you cry out when he goes in deeper.

“fuckin’ take it, quit complaining.” he gripes before taking your tit in one hand, teasing your nipple in between his fingers.

you shiver at the sensation. “luigi!”

“just like that,” he grunts. “scream on my cock like that, sweetheart. let the neighbors know.”

he put his whole body into fucking you, tightened his grip around your throat and leaned down to whisper in your ear, pushing you further down and you squirmed underneath him.

"you want me to fill you up, huh?" he says, voice low and filthy. "want me to come inside you?" his thumb finds your clit, putting the slightest pressure as he circles slowly, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

you can’t answer, not with words. just a desperate whimper as your legs lock tighter around his waist, hips rolling up to meet him. "come on, princess,” luigi coos. "don’t make me do all the work. least you could do is tell me what you want.”

"p-please… luigi. i can't—” you whimpered, tears pricking the corners of your eyes—not from pain, but from sheer, ineffable need. your inner muscles clenched desperately, trying to pull the orgasm out.

“poor pussy probably never felt this good, huh?”he groans into your ear, you writhe against him once more.

“s’close,” you cry out, finally. “want you to breed me.”

luigi moans at the request, flipping you over as you let out moans that got muffled by the pillow, a handful of your hair around his fist as you closed your eyes in pleasure, your fists gripping the sheets to try and anchor yourself as he whispered in your ear. every thrust, truth and praise. such a good girl for me... you're mine... this pussy's all mine... no one's gonna fuck this pretty girl like i do..." until you become undone around him, his own cum mixing with your juices as your cunt clenched around him.

luigi’s body sinks into the mattress beside yours, the bed dipping gently beneath him. the air is thick with the scent of sex and weed—hazy, intimate, almost golden in the low light. it clings to the sheets, to your skin, to the quiet between you. but there’s no regret. no leftover ache. whatever had fractured between you hours ago feels far away now, softened by touch and breath and the comfort of being near each other again.

you’re still staring up at the ceiling, letting the moment settle into something that feels like this—peaceful, but maybe a little fragile. then, almost without thinking, you ask,

“so… if this didn’t work, what was your backup plan?”

luigi lets out a quiet laugh, like he’s caught off guard. “you think i had a backup?”

“you always do,” you tease, shifting slightly to look at him.

he hesitates, glancing at the ceiling like he’s deciding how much he’s willing to share. then, finally,

“i wrote you something.”

you blink. “like a song?”

he snorts. “jesus christ, no.”

“oh.”

“don’t look so disappointed, it was just as corny,” he says. there’s a pause, then a soft laugh from his side of the bed. not mocking. nervous.

“i, uh…” he continues, and he’s already blushing, you can hear it in his voice. “it was a letter. i wasn’t gonna show you unless i had to. like, absolute worst case scenario.”

you shift, propping yourself up on one elbow so you can see him better. “you wrote me a love letter?”

he makes a face. “no, i wouldn’t call it that.”

you turn to face him, amused. “what would you call it?”

“something i’m gonna throw away as soon as you fall asleep.”

you pout, turning fully to face him now. “what, it wasn’t romantic?”

“that’s not what i said,” he mutters. “it’s just… you said that thing in the kitchen. about how you’d kill to have someone write you a love letter.“

you meet his gaze, a little shocked by how tender it is, how much sincerity he’s not even trying to hide.

“wait,” you say, heart beating a little faster, “where’s this letter?”

he looks away, obviously flustered. “uh… probably buried at the bottom of my backpack somewhere.”

you narrow your gaze. “you’re lying.”

he turns toward you with a smile, but it’s more like a nervous grin. “yeah, well… if you’d seen it, you’d understand why.”

you pout immediately. “it doesn’t matter what it says. it’s my first love letter.”

the fan hums its tired rhythm above you, steady and slow. beneath the blanket, your fingers find his—softly, like a thought half-formed, like instinct.

“you seriously not gonna let me read it?” you ask eventually.

he doesn’t answer right away.

“maybe not tonight,” he says.

you nod, and that’s fine. it’s more than fine.

you stretch your arm across the space between you, hand resting just barely on his chest. his heart beats steady beneath your palm. real. ordinary. a little fast.

“hey,” you say softly.

he looks at you.

“don’t lose it.”

“the letter?”

you nod.

he watches you for a long second. then says, “i won’t.”

ask-box officially re-opened!

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