#wanting to belong and be a part of something bigger. reaching for a 'you' that is too overwhelming to see the start and end of

[liuhsng]

─────⋆˚࿔ ⋆ eyes on me ( lhs ! ) — part 1

✩ˎˊ˗ enhypen masterlist

⤷ pairing — heeseung x fem!reader

⤷ part 1 | part 2 ⤷ word count — 13.7k ⤷ based on this and this by my lovely anons ⤷ permanent taglist — open !

⤷ a/n — as promised, here it is, i fear this might be one of my best works yet… and definitely the longest. part 2? i’m already writing it as we speak. the last fight between heeseung and the reader was heavily inspired by moonstruck (iykyk), and i really poured so much into this one. enjoy reading, loves—i hope it hits all the right places in your heart 🤍

⤷ warnings — idol au, idol!heeseung, dancer!reader, slowburn, enemies to lovers trope-ish, emotionally awkward heeseung, emotionally constipated reader, cold!reader, loser!heeseung, whipped!heeseung, heeseung’s down bad, reader does not care that he’s famous, miscommunication (so much miscommunication), hurt/comfort undertones, fluff (eventually), heavy angst

✩ˎˊ˗ summary — as a rising dance prodigy, you're no stranger to idols—you’ve trained with them, performed behind them, and watched some fall from grace when the spotlight turned harsh. so when you’re cast as one of the dancers for enhypen’s newest comeback, you already know what to expect: long nights, hard work, and an idol or two trying to get in your pants. lee heeseung, you decide, is exactly that kind. smiles too easily. stares too long. he sees you once and falls all at once—messy, quiet, and stupidly soft. or, where you think he’s everything you should avoid, and he thinks you’re everything he’ll never deserve—but still wants anyway.

You were panting, chest heaving, sweat trailing down your temple as you leaned against the mirror—fingertips grazing the cold glass to keep your balance.

The song you’d been replaying for nearly an hour echoed faintly from the speaker still running in the corner of the room, but you’d long tuned it out. The only thing you could really hear now was your heartbeat and the silence that always came after giving everything.

It wasn’t even your scheduled session.

Not really.

With Le Sserafim on pause before their next comeback and your calendar suspiciously clear, you found yourself gravitating to HYBE’s third practice room on the fifth floor.

Same old lights. Same scuffed flooring. Same drawer in the corner where you kept your charger and your lip balm—your unofficial locker in a room that wasn’t really yours but somehow felt like home.

You pushed off the mirror with a sigh and padded across the studio, footsteps soft against the wooden floor as you reached the familiar drawer.

Your phone sat inside, screen lighting up with two messages from Yunjin and one chaotic selfie of Chaewon in the groupchat you never muted.

yunjin [8:00 P.M.]: tell me why i just heard you’re at the building practicing again, girl sleep

chaewon [8:00 P.M.]: we miss you bitch come downstairs after ur possessed dance session

You cracked a grin despite yourself.

Being under HYBE was never the dream—but dancing was. Always had been. And when Le Sserafim debuted and you got scouted as part of the core backup team, something clicked.

Not just because the girls welcomed you like you’d grown up with them—dinners after rehearsals, borrowed hoodies, inside jokes—but because for the first time, your work felt like it belonged to something bigger.

“Should’ve debuted,” people often said. “You’ve got the talent. The look. The stage presence.”

Maybe you did.

But the contracts? The rules? The never-ending line of expectations and media training and image polishing?

You loved the spotlight, not the cage it came with.

So you danced. You lived. You stayed free.

Grabbing your phone, you wiped the back of your hand across your brow, tying your hair back into a loose bun and tossing your water bottle from one hand to the other as you headed toward the center of the room again. Just one more run-through. You weren’t tired—you were wired.

You tapped the playlist again.

Until—the door clicks open.

You pause mid-step, halfway through a turn.

Your brows furrow, already annoyed. This room was empty for a reason—booked by staff, reserved for registered dancers. If someone forgot to check the schedule again, you were not in the mood.

But then the door swings fully open, and Lee Heeseung walks in.

Baseball cap, all black sweats, and a water bottle tucked under his arm like he owns the place.

You recognize him immediately, not because you follow ENHYPEN—god, no—but because you’ve seen him around enough. Stage rehearsals. Passing glances in the hallway. One of HYBE’s golden boys.

The second he steps inside and hears the track echoing through the speakers, he freezes.

Eyes wide. Shoulders stiff. Like someone just pressed pause on his whole system. His gaze slowly scans the room—until it lands on you.

And for a second, he looks like a deer caught in headlights.

You glare instinctively. “This room’s booked.”

“Oh,” he says, like he’s only now realizing you’re real and not part of some fever dream. His voice is soft, almost breathless—like you startled him more than you should’ve.

He doesn’t move.

You shift your weight onto one hip, fixing your posture as you cross your arms over your chest. His eyes follow every movement, slow and wide-eyed, like he’s trying to memorize the moment. Your brow arches higher.

“…Are you lost?” you ask coolly, tone laced with dry amusement. “Or are you just staring for fun?”

Heeseung blinks again, visibly short-circuiting. “What? No—I mean—uh, sorry. I didn’t know anyone was still using the room.”

You roll your eyes, unimpressed, turning your back to him as you stride toward the speaker setup. Your phone’s still tucked into the little drawer beside it. You tap the screen to shut the music off mid-chorus, and the room falls into a painfully loud silence.

From behind you, his voice comes again—hesitant, awkward. “You were… practicing, right?”

You shoot him a look over your shoulder. “No shit.”

He flinches slightly—not from offense, but from the sheer tone. Like he’s never been spoken to like that in his life. Like no one’s ever looked at him like that—like he was in the way.

His lips part, stunned. You watch his mouth open, close, open again like he’s buffering.

You sigh. “Do you need something?”

“I just—uh. I have practice. After this. With the group. Here.”

You stare at him flatly. “…Congrats.”

Your phone finally detangles from the charger and you tug it free, slinging your towel across the back of your neck as you gather your things without urgency. You don’t rush, but every move says this conversation is over.

Heeseung doesn’t move out of your way.

He just stands there, eyes tracing the motion of your hands as you zip your bag shut.

His gaze follows your every motion, like your movements are a routine he can’t quite catch the rhythm to. There’s something almost boyish in the way he stands—hands at his sides, weight shifting between his feet, unsure if he’s allowed to speak again.

You don’t give him the satisfaction of eye contact.

You feel his stare burning into your back, heavy and annoyingly curious, as if he’s trying to figure you out like a puzzle someone dared him to solve. But you’ve played this game before. With idols who smile too easily. With eyes that linger too long.

You toss your bag over your shoulder, grip your phone in one hand, and walk past him without a glance.

The scent of his cologne barely reaches you—a subtle, clean warmth—but you ignore it like you ignore everything else about him.

Heeseung turns slightly as you brush by, part of him wanting to say something—anything. Maybe an apology. Maybe a compliment.

But you’re already out the door.

And behind you, Lee Heeseung stands frozen in the center of the practice room, watching the space you left behind like he’s never been dismissed that fast in his life.

The steam from your ramen curled lazily into the air, untouched and slowly going cold as you sat hunched over the dining table, poking at the noodles with your chopsticks.

The soft chatter of your friends buzzed from your phone, propped up on a half-empty water bottle in the center of the table.

Yunjin was in her usual spot on her bed, animatedly talking with her hands as she ranted about the upcoming concept, while Chaewon nodded along beside her, munching on what looked like a rice cracker.

“…and if they make us do that choreography again, I swear to god I’m filing a complaint,” Yunjin groaned dramatically, falling backwards onto the mattress. “My knees weren’t made for this. I’m an idol, not a gymnast.”

“You’re just mad you have to wear those boots again,” Chaewon snickered.

Yunjin gasped, pointing at the screen. “Don’t expose me like that!”

You didn’t respond.

You barely even blinked—chin resting in one hand, the other absentmindedly swirling your chopsticks through the broth.

You weren't even listening, really. Your mind was still in that practice room, rewinding and replaying something you refused to admit got under your skin.

“…Hello?” Yunjin’s voice cut through your fog. “Earth to (Y/N)?”

Nothing.

“(Y/N),” she called again, louder this time, leaning closer to the camera. “Are you even with us right now?”

You blinked and finally looked up. “Huh? Oh—sorry. Sorry, I wasn’t—yeah.”

Chaewon tilted her head. “You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

You shook your head quickly, lips pressing into a thin line. “No, it’s nothing. Just… tired, I guess.”

Yunjin raised a perfectly sculpted brow, not buying it for a second. “That didn’t sound convincing at all. Spill.”

You sighed and dropped your chopsticks, leaning back in your chair. “It’s not even a big deal.”

“That’s what people say right before they drop the good shit,” Yunjin said, crossing her arms.

Chaewon chimed in, “Come on. You’re never like this.”

You hesitated, then finally muttered under your breath, “…I just—bumped into someone earlier.”

Yunjin perked up. “Who?”

You sighed, scrunching your nose as if the memory physically pained you. “That deer-looking member from ENHYPEN.”

Chaewon immediately burst out laughing, nearly dropping her snack. “You mean Heeseung-sunbaenim?”

Yunjin’s eyes lit up like a fire had been lit under her. “Wait—Lee Heeseung? That Heeseung??”

You groaned, dragging your palm down your face. “I didn’t even do anything. He just… walked in. Stared at me. Looked like he forgot how doors work. And then tried to talk like he wasn’t mentally glitching the whole time.”

Chaewon snorted. “That’s so specific.”

“I thought he was gonna pass out when I asked if he was lost,” you muttered, slumping forward dramatically. “Why do idols act like no one’s ever spoken to them like a normal person?”

Yunjin snorted. “Because they’re so used to everybody praising them and giving fake smiles. One real sentence and they malfunction.”

You laughed, dry and amused. “Amen to that.”

Chaewon, who’d gone quiet for a moment, suddenly spoke up. “Well… I mean, Heeseung-sunbaenim’s pretty notorious around here.”

You blinked. “What do you mean by ‘notorious’?”

Yunjin clicked her tongue and shot Chaewon a look. “Unnie.”

Chaewon just shrugged with a guilty smile, like she realized a little too late that she opened a door you were definitely going to walk through.

You narrowed your eyes. “What did she mean by that?”

Chaewon held her hands up innocently. “Nothing! I mean—I just meant… well, it’s really not my story to tell.”

You stared at her flatly. “You already started the story, might as well finish it.”

She sighed dramatically and leaned in closer to the camera, as if anyone was around to overhear. “Okay, fine. But lower your expectations—it’s just… you know how it is in the building. People talk.”

You nodded once, wordlessly. She took that as her cue.

“Well,” she began slowly, her voice dropping a little, “he’s kind of… known to be a—I don’t know—player, I guess?”

Yunjin shifted uncomfortably but didn’t interrupt this time.

“There was this whole thing a while back,” Chaewon continued, eyes flicking down like she didn’t want to make it a big deal. “Rumors said he used to date one of the backup dancers from a different group. And, um… it didn’t end well.”

Your expression didn’t change, but your fingers stilled against your water bottle.

“Didn’t end well?” you echoed.

Chaewon bit her lip. “Word is he ghosted her after a few weeks. Left her totally heartbroken. Like—treated her like she never existed.”

You raised a brow. You weren’t one to believe in gossip, but… these weren’t just random trainees or building buzz.

These were your girls. They never lied to you. Never exaggerated unless it was for comedic effect. And they weren’t even speaking with drama in their voices—just quiet caution.

Yunjin finally sighed and folded her arms. “Look, we’re not saying he’s evil or anything. But just… be careful, okay?”

“Careful?” you scoffed. “Yunjin, I threatened his life with a single look. I think I’m good.”

“Still,” she said, chin propped on her hand. “Guys like that? They love a challenge.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue. You hated that they might be right. Hated more that part of you had noticed the way he looked at you—like you were choreography he couldn’t quite learn but desperately wanted to.

Chaewon tilted her head. “So… are you gonna see him again?”

You blinked. “God, I hope not.”

You reached for your water again, swirling the bottle absentmindedly. “I mean—I just bumped into him. Literally. Once. So yeah, I hope not. Let’s leave it at that.”

Yunjin leaned in closer on camera, resting her chin in her palm. “Well… you’re contracted to us. Technically. So unless Heeseung-sunbaenim suddenly joins Le Sserafim, I think you’ll be safe.”

You snorted. “Right? If he pops up in our choreography, I’m quitting.”

“Bold of you to assume he wouldn’t volunteer for that,” Chaewon said under her breath.

You groaned, dragging your hand down your face. “Okay, can we not do this? He was barely in the room for five minutes and he was already glitching like I punched him with my eyes.”

Yunjin gave you a look. “You kind of did.”

You rolled your eyes, slumping back in your chair. “Whatever. It’s not like I’m ever gonna see him again. I’ve got enough going on.”

Yunjin tilted her head knowingly. “You’re only this defensive when something’s getting to you.”

“Getting to me?” you scoffed. “I’ve dealt with idols before. He’s not special.”

“Mm-hm,” Chaewon hummed, clearly not believing you.

“I’m serious,” you insisted. “He’s not even my type.”

You weren’t exactly sure how you ended up in this situation.

One minute you were running choreography drills for Chaewon’s solo part, and the next, you were seated stiffly in a cold conference room across the HYBE annex building, sipping on watered-down coffee like your future wasn’t being casually decided in front of you.

You sat silently as two managers—one from Le Sserafim’s team and one from ENHYPEN’s—talked over each other across the glossy table, voices overlapping in between manila folders and open schedules.

“We’re short one female dancer,” ENHYPEN’s manager said, flipping through pages.

“It’s a center piece too. A lot of exposure. We need someone who can hold their own without relying on the main members to carry the dynamic.”

“She’s perfect for it,” your manager added without hesitation. “She already has chemistry with the camera, she’s sharp, precise—and she’s worked alongside the girls long enough to adapt fast. She’s ready.”

They kept talking like you weren’t even there.

Your elbow was propped up against the table, chin resting on your hand as you tuned them out somewhere between “urgent casting call” and “we’ll handle the paperwork.”

All you could think about was this:

You were about to work with hormonal male idols. For a solid month.

And one of them just so happened to be the infamous deer-eyed flirt you had the misfortune of meeting barely 24 hours ago.

You’d heard the rumors. You weren’t new to this industry. You just never thought you’d be getting paid to be around them.

But god, the paycheck.

ENHYPEN wasn’t just big—they were everywhere. If you signed on, it would double your rate. Triple it, even. And it’d look good on your record. So good.

You sighed, finally tuning back in to the sound of your own name.

Both managers had turned to look at you, expectantly.

You blinked, eyes flitting between the two of them. Their faces were hopeful. It wasn’t like you had a million options.

You mumbled, “Yeah… I’ll do it.”

Cheers erupted immediately. The ENHYPEN manager clapped his hands together, standing to shake yours. “Knew you’d say yes. Great call—seriously. You’re saving us.”

You gave him a tight, polite smile, shaking both their hands with the enthusiasm of someone who just signed a deal with the devil. You adjusted your blouse, brushing invisible wrinkles from your skirt as your manager smiled at you.

“You can go now,” she said warmly. “We’ll finalize the transfer.”

You bowed slightly. “Thanks.”

As the door clicked open, your shoes echoed lightly against the tiled hallway floor—and you stopped short.

There they were.

Seven heads turned the moment you stepped out. ENHYPEN, all seated against the wall outside the conference room like they’d been waiting for their turn—or your decision.

You didn’t even let your gaze linger long enough to tell. You simply dipped your head in a short bow and kept walking, barely glancing their way.

But you felt it.

The same eyes from last night locked on your back again like a magnet—quiet, unblinking, and far too curious for your comfort. You pretended not to notice, walking right past like he was part of the wallpaper.

As soon as the door swung closed behind you, the hallway fell into silence.

Jake leaned over, nudging Heeseung with an elbow.

“Hey,” he said casually. “What was that?”

Heeseung blinked like he was just coming out of a daze. “Huh? Sorry—yeah. What?”

Jake raised a brow. “You good?”

Heeseung cleared his throat and looked down at his hands. “Yeah. Just tired.”

Jake didn’t believe it for a second, but he let it slide, leaning back against the wall with a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Right. Tired.”

Heeseung only smiled in return—soft, distracted—and fiddled with the rings on his fingers as if his thoughts were too loud to sit still.

His thumb brushed over the silver band on his index like it could help him, but it didn’t help much. Not when his mind was still stuck on you.

The manager’s voice called out, sharp and professional, “ENHYPEN, let’s go. We’re starting the prep meeting.”

Heeseung stood, brushing imaginary lint off his jeans before quietly following the others into the room—head down, heart louder than it should be.

You, on the other hand, were on the verge of a very quiet breakdown.

Your steps echoed through the hallway of the HYBE building as you made your way toward Le Sserafim’s practice room. You pushed the door open a little too fast, and the moment it swung wide, five sets of eyes snapped toward you like you’d triggered some kind of alarm.

“Whoa,” Yunjin blinked. “You good?”

You ran a hand through your hair and didn’t answer. Instead, you walked straight past the mirror and started pacing near the center of the room, your brows furrowed in thought.

Kazuha stood up first, moving toward you with a gentle hand reaching for your arm. “Unnie… are you okay?”

You blinked down at her, lips parted, and then forced a tired smile as you licked your lips and sighed. “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just—I have another schedule right after this stage, so…”

The girls exchanged glances, the air shifting with curiosity.

“What do you mean?” Eunchae asked, already scooting closer beside you on the floor like she was preparing for a full story.

Kazuha guided you to sit in the middle with them, and you gave in, sinking onto the practice mat as you exhaled again, hands resting on your thighs.

“I was offered something,” you said slowly.

Chaewon’s eyes narrowed slightly, protective by nature. “Offered what?”

You looked at her, then glanced down. “I was hired… for ENHYPEN’s upcoming comeback.”

A chorus of squeals and gasps broke out instantly.

“Unnie, what?!”

“No way—”

“That’s huge!”

“You’re gonna be in the center??”

Sakura clapped her hands together. “Isn’t that a great thing? That’s such a big opportunity!”

You gave her a pout. “Unnie, won’t you miss me?”

She laughed, crawling over to drape her arm across your shoulder. “Of course I will! But that doesn’t mean I’m not proud.”

“You’re gonna kill it,” Yunjin said, pointing at you with certainty.

“I mean, we’re still in the same building,” Eunchae added with a small giggle. “It’s not like you’re moving countries.”

You groaned, throwing your head back dramatically as you let your hands fall into your lap. “Yeah, but I’m gonna be working with Heeseung.”

Sakura blinked. “Is that… such a bad thing?”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t need to.

You just slowly turned your head and sent a pointed look toward Chaewon, one brow raised like a silent accusation.

Sakura’s eyes widened instantly. “Wait—you told her?”

Chaewon raised both hands in mild defense. “Okay, well—she bumped into him last night! Practically had him shaking in his boots. What was I supposed to do, not say anything?”

Yunjin leaned back on her palms, letting out a low sigh. “To be fair, it’s just a rumor. About Heeseung-sunbaenim, I mean. No one really knows what happened with that backup dancer. It could’ve been blown out of proportion.”

Sakura sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose like she was the only adult in a room full of unhinged daughters. “Still… Heeseung-sunbaenim? That’s not exactly the kind of name I like hearing next to yours.”

You exhaled loudly, falling back onto the wooden floor with a light thud. “What am I even gonna do?”

“You’ll survive,” Chaewon said, grinning down at you as she leaned forward on her knees. “You hate male idols. So I’m guessing you’re safe.”

You gave her a flat look from where you were sprawled out. “I do.”

Yunjin shrugged. “She really does.”

“I mean,” you went on, dragging your hand over your face lazily, “they’re loud. They reek of fabric softener and expensive cologne. And most of them only train hard when a camera’s on.”

“Damn,” Eunchae muttered with a small laugh.

“And they all flirt like it’s their job,” you added for good measure, removing your hand off your face and staring at the ceiling. “Which, I guess… it kind of is.”

Chaewon raised a hand in mock prayer. “May the gods protect Heeseung-sunbaenim.”

You sat up slowly, shoulders sagging. “I mean, it won’t be that bad. Right?”

Kazuha patted your back gently. “That’s the spirit.”

“Exactly,” you nodded. “I’ve worked with guys before. I can be civil. Just gotta stay professional.”

But beneath all the teasing, all the nervous tension, and the semi-unfounded panic, you were trying your best not to wonder what working beside him would really be like.

Because no matter how much you insisted otherwise—the look in his eyes—the way he’d stared at you like you were some kind of glitch in his system.

You remembered it a little too well.

You sat cross-legged on the polished floor of the massive HYBE practice room, surrounded by six other girls—all dancers like you, all chatting quietly as they stretched, refilled water bottles, or scrolled through their phones between warmups. Despite only meeting earlier this week, you already liked them.

Maybe it was the familiarity in movement. Maybe it was the shared exhaustion.

Or maybe it was the way everyone kind of understood how tiring it was being in the shadows of the spotlight without actually resenting it.

You leaned back on your palms, listening to one of the girls, complain about her past contract. “I used to be assigned to TXT for their last few comebacks,” she sighed, brushing her bangs out of her eyes.

“But with ENHYPEN blowing up like this? I couldn’t even breathe during rehearsals.”

Another dancer, laughed. “Girl, be serious—it’s not even TXT’s fault. You just like sleeping.”

The group chuckled and you smiled, nodding along. “No, I get what she means though. These kinds of projects get intense. One delay and everything collapses.”

“Exactly,” One of them said, holding up a triumphant finger. “See? She gets it.”

Even one of the choreographers nearby, who was mid-conversation with another coach across the mirrors, looked over and grinned. “She couldn’t survive another world tour. This is her redemption arc.”

That earned more laughs from the dancers, and the room softened with warmth again.

Then a new voice piped up from your right. “So, (Y/N), who did you used to work with?”

You glanced over. Another dancer, tilted her head curiously. “Like… which group?”

You shrugged, casually stretching your arms. “Ah—I was with Le Sserafim.”

Immediately, someone gasped. “Wait, really? Is it true they’re super kind? Like, off-cam too?”

You smiled automatically, fondness slipping into your voice before you could filter it. “Yeah. They’re honestly the sweetest. Super hardworking. It was… fun working with them. Like, really fun.”

“Aww,” someone said, and another sighed dreamily. “See, I knew they were angels.”

You laughed under your breath, tucking your hair behind your ear—just in time for the door to swing open with a solid click.

The entire room paused.

And in walked the seven boys you were assigned to work with for the next four weeks.

The same boys you’d passed in the hallway. The same ones from all the stages, the headlines, the insane fan energy. And the same group that just so happened to include him.

You stood automatically with the others, muscles tight from both habit and something else.

“Good morning!” their manager called behind them.

“Good morning!” the dancers and choreographers chorused back, all polite smiles and tiny bows.

The boys followed suit, each dipping into a respectful bow before scattering around the mirrored room—bags being dropped, jackets shrugged off, water bottles set down with practiced ease. You bowed too, forcing your body to stay neutral.

Your eyes found him immediately.

Lee Heeseung.

He moved like he belonged in the center of the room. Not because he demanded attention—but because his presence pulled it. Effortless, fluid, camera-ready even in joggers and a hoodie.

His hair was silver now.

Freshly dyed. Still glinting slightly under the overhead lights, strands catching the soft fluorescent white like moonlight turned solid.

He was scanning the room—just like you were—and the moment your gazes met, it was instant.

Sharp. Heavy. Lingering just one second too long.

You blinked.

So did he.

Then he quickly looked down, fumbling with the strap of his bag like it suddenly became a Rubik’s cube. You rolled your eyes to yourself and turned away, muttering under your breath as you took a step back toward the center.

“Well. This is gonna be great.”

You muttered it mostly to yourself as you adjusted the hem of your loose tee, tucking it into your joggers while quietly making your way to stand beside the other dancers near the wall.

The mirrors across the room stretched from end to end, reflecting the hum of quiet excitement as both groups began gathering in clusters.

And even from across the room, Heeseung’s ears burned. Because even if you weren’t looking anymore—he still was.

You stuck beside one of the girls you’d spoken with earlier, both of you choosing to hover just slightly farther from the others—close enough to listen, far enough to not be the center of attention.

Not yet, at least.

“Alright, let’s get started,” Jungwon’s voice rang out gently over the low murmurs, ever the natural leader. “Hyung, they’re all here.”

One of the choreographers clapped his hands together in the center of the mirrored room, stepping forward with a wide smile. “Perfect. Good morning, everyone!”

A chorus of polite greetings echoed back.

“We’re all here today to begin blocking for ENHYPEN’s upcoming comeback performance,” he continued. “Congratulations to the group, by the way—this one’s big.”

Everyone clapped.

The dancers. The choreographers. Even a few stylists and managers along the back wall clapped and grinned, nodding toward the boys with pride.

You clapped too. Briefly. Quietly. No emotion behind it—but polite enough.

“Let’s start with greetings,” the second choreographer said, motioning toward the group. “Boys first. Formalities matter, okay?”

With that, Jungwon took half a step forward, his signature dimple flashing as he smiled like it was second nature. “Okay, okay. One, two—connect!”

The rest of the group snapped in sync: “We are ENHYPEN!”

It earned a few amused reactions from the dancers around you—some cooing at the professionalism, others just watching with quiet admiration. They really were idols through and through.

“I’m Jungwon,” he said warmly. “I’ll do my best to keep up.”

“Jay,” came the next, a sharp bow and his eyes flickering briefly toward you and the other girls. “Thank you for working with us.”

“Jay,” came the next, a sharp bow and his eyes flickering briefly toward you and the other girls. “Thank you for working with us.”

“Sunghoon,” said the next, voice cool, expression unreadable.

Then came: “Sunoo! I’m looking forward to dancing with you all.” followed by his signature grin.

“Ni-ki,” the youngest nodded, already swaying slightly like he couldn’t stand still. “Please take care of me.”

“…Heeseung.”

You didn’t realize you’d turned slightly until your eyes locked on him—and once again, he was already looking.

Hard.

You could see the tightness in his jaw, the awkward twitch of his fingers as he bowed slightly, his voice just a pitch softer than the rest. “Nice to meet you.”

Heeseung’s eyes trailed after you long after the boys stepped back into line.

His ears were burning.

He couldn’t even pretend to look somewhere else. Not when you were standing like that—posture sharp, head high, exuding confidence like it was woven into your skin.

The way you carried yourself—like you already owned the room. And maybe, maybe that was what made him feel like he forgot how to stand.

“Your turn, girls,” one of the choreographers said, gesturing toward your side.

The girls began one by one. Bowing politely, offering soft greetings.

“Hi, I’m excited to be here.”

“Looking forward to working with everyone.”

“Hope we’ll all get along well.”

You stepped forward, just enough. Bowed once—sharp, respectful, effortless. When you lifted your head, your voice was even, steady.

“I’m (Y/N),” you said. “Please take care of me.”

Simple.

Straight to the point.

And Heeseung was gone.

He stared—eyes wide, lips parted ever so slightly. Your name hit him like it echoed, like it attached itself to his spine and rewrote his posture.

“(Y/N),” he mouthed, almost unconsciously.

His fingers moved without thought—tugging at the top of his ear where the skin felt like it was on fire. He rubbed the shell of it, trying to focus, to breathe, to not look like a complete idiot.

But it didn’t help.

Jay, standing next to him, leaned in just enough to whisper without breaking formation. “Dude.”

Heeseung blinked. “Huh?”

“You’re staring like you’ve never seen a girl before.”

“I’m not—”

Jay snickered, looking ahead again. “Your ears are literally red.”

Heeseung didn’t respond. Just kept fiddling with his earring, swallowing once. Twice.

Then, like even that felt too revealing, he let his hand drop to his side and instead started tugging at the sleeves of his oversized sweater. The cotton bunched in his fingers as he pulled them low—hiding his hands, letting the ends fall just enough to brush against his palms.

His gaze never found you again. Not directly.

He kept his eyes somewhere safe—like the mirrors. Or the floor. Or the vague corner of the room that wasn’t currently occupied by the girl who now had a name. A name that rolled around his head on loop like a song he couldn’t shake off.

You raised a brow at his odd behavior.

Heeseung wasn’t exactly subtle. It was like watching a deer try to pretend it wasn’t cornered.

Before you could dwell on it, one of the choreographers clapped their hands sharply, recentering everyone’s attention.

“Alright! Let’s jump in,” she said, spinning back toward the room’s center. “We’ll be starting with the title track first—‘Bite Me.’”

There were a few audible reactions to that.

Jake nodded, lips quirking.

Sunghoon crossed his arms, unreadable.

“Oh no,” he whined, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. “Don’t tell me it’s another dark concept. I was made for cuteness!”

One of the other choreographers laughed. “You’ll survive, Sunoo.”

“Barely,” he muttered.

“We’re leaning heavy into the vampire theme,” the choreographer continued, pacing slowly as she spoke.

“Dark, dramatic, a little seductive. Think… elegant, but dangerous. Intense, but controlled. It’s a visual-heavy piece, so expression work is just as important as the movements.”

Another coach jumped in, voice sharper, more technical. “Blocking and formations will start today, but we’ll ease in. Dancers—you’ll be working close. Touching will be part of this. We’re not going cutesy here.”

You blinked, processing.

“Did she say seductive?” one of the girls whispered beside you, stifling a laugh.

You sighed, arms crossing as you tried not to react, eyes flicking briefly toward the group across the room.

Heeseung was still fiddling with his sleeves. Still avoiding your gaze. Still pretending to be very, very invested in the floor.

You exhaled slowly through your nose.

“This comeback’s all about energy,” the choreographer said firmly. “That tension between danger and desire. We want chemistry. We want heat. If it doesn’t feel electric, it’s not working.”

Fantastic, you thought dryly.

Someone from the staff behind you quietly passed out water bottles and printed choreo maps.

“Partners will be finalized in a few minutes,” the head coach added. “But today, we’re just learning formations. Take mental notes of who moves where—chemistry’s part of the selection process.”

You nearly flinched.

Because just the word partners sent something uneasy crawling up your spine.

You didn’t know if it was nerves or dread.

You exhaled slowly, reaching up to move your hair from your shoulders, pulling it back into a loose ponytail as if the movement would also push away the anxiety building in your chest.

“Alright,” Jungwon clapped his hands once, the sound clean and polite. “Let’s find space so we can stretch first. Coach said to keep it light for now.”

Around you, everyone shuffled into place.

The music started low, steady from the mounted speakers—an instrumental beat pulsing soft but cold, fitting the vampire concept too well.

You padded toward a space near one of the other dancers, taking your mark as your arms loosened at your sides. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught movement.

Jay and Heeseung stepped into the spot diagonally across from you.

A few feet away.

Just far enough to notice.

Silver hair. Pale under the lights. A tall frame you could not ignore if you tried—and you really, really tried.

Heeseung moved precisely, even when doing something as simple as a forward fold. Every stretch, every posture, even the subtle turn of his wrist as he reached upward, had the kind of practiced grace that only came from years of muscle memory.

And fine, maybe the way the hem of his sweater rose a little to reveal the curve of his waist was—not an eyesore.

He bent forward, long legs folding in near-perfect symmetry, and you hummed to yourself in thought as you copied the motion, fingertips brushing your sneakers as you leaned into the stretch.

You closed your eyes briefly.

He’s not ugly, your brain offered helpfully.

But it wasn’t about looks. Never was.

You didn’t trust the type. Not the idol charm. Not the carefully curated appeal. Not the ones who knew they were beautiful and acted like it was a favor to the world.

Still, you found yourself peeking again, through the fall of your lashes, just in time to see Heeseung adjust his sleeves and glance up—and this time, his eyes nearly caught yours.

You turned away before they could.

You reached upward on cue as Jungwon led the next stretch, voice light and encouraging from the center.

“Arms up,” he said, demonstrating. “Inhale, and—fold. Let’s warm up your legs and lower back.”

You followed the rhythm, letting your body fall back into instinct.

Jungwon’s voice carried steady through the room as he guided the group through the last stretch. “And exhale slowly—come back up.”

Everyone rose from their positions in a wave of motion, quiet exhalations filling the space like a shared breath.

The choreographers moved to the front again, clapping once to gather attention.

“Alright, now that everyone’s loosened up,” one began, “let’s talk a bit more about the concept before we get into teaching.”

You rolled your shoulders back, settling into a comfortable stance, arms crossed loosely as you listened—nodding every so often, even if most of it passed over your head like background noise.

“‘Bite Me,’” the head coach repeated. “We mentioned earlier—vampire concept, but we’re going deeper. Think power. Think seduction. There’s a desperation to the choreography, like you’re drawn to each other, pulled in and pushed away again.”

You blinked slowly.

“Now, before we assign partners,” another choreographer chimed in, “we’re going to teach the first part of the chorus. Just to see how the movement flows. Chemistry matters—and it’s easier to feel that when we see you do it alone a few times first.”

Alone.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

“Everyone, shift to formation, please,” the head choreographer instructed. “We’ll teach the base steps first, no pressure, no full-out yet.”

You moved into place with the other dancers, falling naturally into a slot near the right. The ENHYPEN boys were mirrored on the other side of the room—learning the same steps, taught by a different coach with half the mirrors angled toward them.

The music started again.

Slower this time. Stripped. Just beat and breath.

And then the first movements were demonstrated—an arch of the back, a turn on the heel, a downward drag of your hand down your neck and chest. A flick of the wrist. A step forward with intent.

You weren’t a stranger to dancing in close contact—but this was different. Every move screamed tension.

Everything about it screamed closeness, heat, the kind of near-touch that burned more than actual skin-on-skin.

Still—you adapted fast.

Even without a partner, your movements flowed smoothly. The twist of your body, the precise lines of your arms, the slight drop of your head when instructed to lean back with your neck exposed—

“Nice, (Y/N),” one of the choreographers called out, eyes sharp as she passed you. “Try leaning your head back just a bit more. Let it feel surrendered.”

You nodded quickly, making the adjustment as you repeated the movement again from the top. Fingers ghosting your collarbone, chin tilted higher this time, lips slightly parted with the breath it took to move like that.

You caught your own reflection in the mirror.

And for a moment, even you did a double take.

You hummed under your breath and went back to hitting the formation, silently wondering how the hell you were going to do this with actual physical contact involved.

And across the room, Lee Heeseung was spiraling.

He couldn’t look away.

Not really.

He tried—god, he really tried—but you were in his peripheral vision like gravity, like something pulling him in every time you moved with that sharp, fluid control.

There was no faltering in your rhythm. Every drag of your hand, every arch, every twist of your body—it was like your bones knew the beat before the music even dropped.

And it was doing things to him.

His jaw clenched. So did his hands, tightening into loose fists at his sides as the choreographer called out the next set of steps.

Heeseung had a half-mind to listen. The other half was firmly rooted in the sight of you dragging your palm over your throat with your eyes closed.

Jake, next to him, didn’t even look up as he sighed. “Stop acting like it’s the first time you’ve seen a girl besides your mom,” he muttered under his breath.

Heeseung whipped his head toward him with a scowl, voice low. “Shut up.”

Jake raised both hands in mock surrender. “I’m just saying. You’re being so obvious right now.”

Heeseung glared for another beat before turning back toward the mirror. He adjusted his footing, shook out his arms, and tried to fall into formation again—but it was impossible.

Because now the music was picking up, and the choreographer’s voice cut across the room sharply—

“Focus! Don’t just mark it—move like it means something.”

He bent his knees slightly, timed the flick of his hand to the beat. But then came the next count—hips sliding forward, one arm curling behind the neck as if gripping something—or someone.

And his eyes flicked to the other side of the room.

To the way your neck tilted back like surrender. The way your lips parted ever so slightly with the breath it took to dip into the move. The sheer ease of it.

He blinked.

His thoughts were so loud he nearly missed the cue to step again. He silently begged the universe to make it stop.

Or not.

He didn’t know what he wanted anymore—does he want to be paired with you or not?

Because, on one hand, if he was—he’d combust. On the spot. Sweaty palms. Shaky voice. Couldn’t make eye contact for days.

On the other hand—if he wasn’t, he might die anyway.

The thought made him exhale sharply through his nose, dragging a hand over his face as the song faded out and the choreographer’s voice came in again, too chipper for the tension in his bones.

“Alright,” they said. “I think we’re ready to try that with partners now.”

A collective groan passed through the room.

Everyone drifted from their positions, regrouping in the center of the studio. The casual chatter returned—water bottles uncapped, someone fixing a hair tie, another adjusting the waistband of their sweatpants.

“Actually,” the assistant choreographer interrupted, stepping forward, “line up by height first. Let’s just get a visual.”

Sunoo blinked. “Are we back in high school?”

You barely suppressed a laugh, biting the inside of your cheek as a few dancers giggled around you.

But when you realized where you were standing once the line shifted into place—right at the front—you frowned almost instantly.

You exhaled slowly, arms folded over your chest as the choreographers paced the length of the line, murmuring notes between each other.

Occasionally, one would glance up, pointing briefly at a pair as if mentally bookmarking the duo. Once they reached the end of the line, the head coach nodded.

“Alright, back to the side please. We’ll start pairing off.”

Everyone shuffled away again, some more eager than others, some already whispering guesses. You stayed quiet.

“Let’s get this over with,” the choreographer continued, scanning the clipboard in their hand. “The sooner we find working chemistry, the better. We’ll try each pairing for a few counts, take notes, and go from there.”

You leaned against the wall, towel over your shoulder, fingers nervously tracing the hem.

“Heeseung.”

Your head turned.

He stepped out from the crowd smoothly, all quiet confidence and long strides. His silver hair glinted faintly under the studio lights, and despite the way his sweater clung to his back with sweat, he moved with ease.

He stood in the center of the room like he was born there, and maybe he was.

The choreographer tilted their chin. “Let’s see the male part from the top. Just walk us through it alone.”

Heeseung nodded, rolling his shoulders out as the music cued.

He moved like water—sharp but fluid, clean but emotional. Every movement was deliberate, every beat executed with the kind of skill that only came from years of muscle memory. You couldn’t deny it.

He was good. Really good.

The choreographers scribbled something down as he finished the last beat, chest rising and falling lightly.

You hummed under your breath.

“(Y/N).”

Your eyes flicked up. You pushed off the wall without a word, making your way toward the center as Heeseung stepped aside instinctively, giving you enough room to take your mark.

You dropped your towel, exhaled, and rolled your wrists once.

Your steps hit beat-for-beat with the track. Smooth twists, steady isolations, a sharp flick of the wrist here, a dragged palm across your jaw there—every motion etched in muscle and instinct. When you tilted your head back for that final count, eyes fluttering shut, it felt like electricity humming down your spine.

Even Heeseung blinked.

The choreographers paused. Whispered again. “Heeseung. Step in.”

He did. Hesitantly. Carefully. At least three feet away from you.

Laughter erupted from the other side of the room.

Jungwon scoffed playfully. “Hyung, what is that? A long-distance relationship?”

Heeseung scratched the back of his neck sheepishly, the tips of his ears already red. “Just… giving space.”

“You won’t be giving space when you’re doing the actual choreo,” one of the choreographers said dryly. “Move closer.”

Heeseung inched forward—half a step. Barely noticeable.

“Closer.”

Another half-step.

Heeseung’s mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. “…Right.”

You nodded once, sharp and simple, then turned your attention to the choreographers. You needed to keep it together—focus. You’d done harder routines than this. You’d worked with idols before.

But none of them had stood next to you like this.

None of them had made your skin crawl in a way that felt more like heat than discomfort.

You barely registered Heeseung fidgeting again, fingers tugging at the ends of his sleeves like they might hide the way his hands wouldn’t stop twitching. You didn’t even look at him.

The choreographers, clipboard in hand, were murmuring something. Their voices low, but not low enough.

“She’s a full foot shorter, but I think it looks great on camera.”

“Yeah, there’s contrast—but not awkward. They match. Perfectly.”

“I think this could work.”

You said nothing and let it slide.

Because if you were going to do this—you had to act like Lee Heeseung’s existence didn’t crawl up your spine like static. That his height didn’t make you feel cornered. That the word match didn’t make your stomach twist uncomfortably.

You straightened your posture.

Heeseung cleared his throat softly beside you.

The choreographer clapped once, “Alright. Let’s walk through it slowly first—no music yet. Get into your first position.”

You both nodded. You stepped back into formation, facing each other with about a foot of space between. Heeseung took one breath in—then another. You didn’t dare look at him.

“On my count.”

One. Two. Three.

You started slow, like instructed—bodies circling, moving around each other.

The first few steps had you moving away from him, then pulling close again. As the count hit, you slid your hand up—just under his chin, fingers hovering at the edge of his jaw. Your eyes flicked up briefly, catching the slightest flicker of hesitation in his.

Heeseung inhaled—shallow and sharp.

Still, he leaned in, just like he was supposed to. The distance between your faces cut down to mere inches. You could feel the heat radiating from him, smell the faint scent of cologne and fabric softener and nerves.

You dropped down—one knee softly touching the floor.

Your hands moved slowly up from his hip to the hem of his shirt, grazing the fabric there, before trailing higher, across his abdomen, tracing a path to his chest.

His jaw clenched, but his arms remained at his sides like he was afraid to move too early.

You heard the choreographer’s voice again, distant but present.

“Nice. That’s good. Keep going.”

Heeseung finally reacted—just in time for the next cue.

He moved his hands to your waist, gentle but firm, fingers curling against your sides as you rose slightly from the kneel.

The contact startled you more than it should’ve, even though it was expected. You glanced up instinctively—only to find him already looking at you.

His gaze dropped immediately, like he got caught.

You cleared your throat and placed both hands on his shoulders, grounding yourself, letting the last beat echo in silence between your bodies.

You could hear everything—the beat of your own pulse, the slight shift in his breath. His fingers still rested on your waist, not too tight, not too loose. Just there.

Holding you like he was still figuring out if you were real.

The choreographers finally broke the silence.

“Alright, not bad. Let’s do that one more time. Try to make the connection feel more intentional.”

Heeseung beat you to a response.

“S-sorry,” he muttered quickly, bowing slightly. “That was on me.”

The second choreographer chuckled under her breath. “You’re being too careful, Heeseung. This is a dance, not a bomb you’re diffusing.”

Heeseung gave a sheepish laugh, scratching the back of his neck. “Right. Got it.”

His ears were already red.

You just raised a brow at the way he looked everywhere but at you.

“Places,” the coach clapped once.

You rolled your shoulders, exhaled through your nose, and stepped into formation again. Heeseung followed, a breath deeper this time.

The beat kicked in, and this time—he was different.

Gone was the awkward fumbling. Gone was the frozen posture and hesitant touch. He moved with rhythm. With ease. With intent.

Every shift of his body matched yours, every brush of his fingertips felt steadier. More confident. The moment your hand ghosted up his chest again, his jaw clenched—but not from hesitation.

He arched into it this time. Deliberately.

When you circled him, he matched the pace with a slight smirk playing on his lips, eyes sharp. There was no sign of the awkward boy from five minutes ago.

Only the performer. The idol. The center.

Your hands slid across his shoulders. His gripped your waist—not tentative, not light—just firm enough to make your breath hitch for half a second.

You weren’t expecting that. You were not expecting him to suddenly be good at this.

The last beat hit. Your chest close to his. Breaths heavy. The song faded out.

And just like that, Heeseung stepped back. Not far. Just enough.

Enough to breathe again. Enough to stop looking at you like he forgot how to speak.

The choreographers clapped slowly.

“That,” one of them said, beaming. “That was it. Excellent. You two have great chemistry. This might be a breeze.”

You nodded politely, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. “Thank you.”

Heeseung did the same, his voice calmer this time. “Thank you.”

But when you turned to walk back to the side of the room—Heeseung followed.

Not close enough to be weird, but close enough for you to hear him exhale softly when he caught up. Close enough for your skin to still remember the imprint of his hands on your waist.

You sat down without looking at him.

Lee Heeseung was everything you didn’t like about male idols: too pretty, too confident, too adored. You’d heard the whispers, the quiet little stories shared in half-jokes around company dinner tables.

The dancer he used to date.

The heartbreak. The ghosting. The way she supposedly cried in the hallway of the studio one night before switching agencies altogether.

You shook your head. You had no business even thinking about the way his grip had felt—firm, steady. Like he’d done it a thousand times but had only now started to mean it.

You didn’t care how steady his hands were. Or how he watched you like he was trying to memorize the shape of your silhouette.

You didn’t care.

Except he was still looking.

You could feel it—his gaze hot on the side of your face. Not cocky, not smug. Just curious. Like he didn’t understand what just happened either.

From the corner of your eye, you saw movement. Sunoo plopped down next to Heeseung with all the grace of a cat, glancing between him and you like it was nothing.

Then, casually, he patted Heeseung on the back.

“Hyung, you didn’t trip,” he said, voice light. “Proud of you.”

“Thanks,” he mumbled, barely registering the words. His reply came on a delay. “I, uh. Yeah.”

You kept your expression unreadable. Your towel still pressed to your neck. The choreography hadn’t even reached the hardest part yet, and already—your limbs felt heavier than usual.

This was going to be a long month.

It had been two weeks.

Two weeks of long rehearsals. Late nights. Sweat-slicked skin and sore muscles. Two weeks of fine-tuning footwork and syncing counts to the breath.

Two weeks of him.

Two weeks of Lee Heeseung glancing at you when he thought you wouldn’t notice. Two weeks of him acting like you’d shatter if he so much as stepped too close.

Two weeks of slow, stuttering hands on your waist when the choreography required it—and apologies mumbled under his breath every time your eyes met.

You were in the middle of running through his solo transition in the second verse—just before the chorus kicks in again. It was one of the more intimate moments in the choreography. One that required connection. Chemistry. Conviction.

Which was currently nonexistent.

You stood in position, the rest of the dancers fanned out behind you in a wide semi-circle as the music paused.

In front of you, Heeseung exhaled hard.

His hand fell from where it should’ve rested on your hands, and the choreographer clapped once to cut the tension.

“Heeseung,” one of them sighed. “Focus.”

“Sorry,” he muttered, rubbing his palms on his sweats. “I just—can we run it back one more time?”

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. Barely.

The choreographer waved a hand at the sound tech, who restarted the instrumental from the top of the chorus.

As everyone began shifting back to position, you crossed your arms and turned to him.

“Are you okay?” you asked, voice flat but biting.

Heeseung flinched at the way your words landed—like ice across his skin. Your voice wasn’t harsh, but it held no warmth either. No softness. Just clean, sharp indifference.

Heeseung blinked at you, startled. “What?”

You stared at him for a beat longer. His silver hair was tied up today, loose strands sticking to his forehead. His chest rose and fell like he was mid-marathon instead of just missing a step.

“Because I’m not going to carry this part on my own,” you added, voice still calm. Cold. “This is your choreography.”

He blinked, jaw tightening ever so slightly. “I never said you had to.”

“Then act like it.”

That made something in his face shift—like the words cut deeper than intended. His smile dropped entirely. A faint frown formed between his brows as he looked down at his shoes.

But you were already walking back to your mark, not sparing him another glance. Ignoring the way his eyes followed you.

Jay nudged him lightly with an elbow, “You’re overthinking it, bro.”

Heeseung didn’t answer. Just inhaled. Exhaled. Rolled his shoulders.

The music started again—bass thumping low, count-off syncing everyone back into motion.

He moved with more control this time. You could tell he was trying. His footwork was cleaner. Timing sharper. But the second verse solo was his moment. And he knew it.

So when the cue came—the one where you stepped behind him, hands skimming lightly down the length of his arms—he stepped forward too early.

Not by much. Barely half a beat. But it was enough to throw off the rhythm. Enough that your hand missed his shoulder completely and hit air.

The head choreographer raised a hand, halting the music mid-beat.

“Take five,” they said, sighing as they turned to the sound tech.

Everyone scattered instantly, water bottles and towels in hand. Some of the other dancers stretched quietly in the corner, a few whispering about the mistake under their breath.

You pressed your lips together, jaw tight as you reached for your towel.

Heeseung hadn’t moved from his spot.

Jay clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Relax. It’s fine.���

But Heeseung didn’t look relaxed. Hands on his hips, sweat lining his jaw, hair a mess from the constant movement—and still, his eyes flicked to you.

Just once.

Just long enough to catch the way your gaze slid past him like he didn’t even exist.

He swore something cracked in his chest.

Heeseung looked at himself in the mirror—chest rising and falling, expression pulled tight with something he couldn’t name. Was it disappointment? Embarrassment? Whatever it was, it felt heavy.

He walked away slowly, grabbing his phone off the floor and padding out of the room with barely a sound. His head hung low, lips slightly parted as he exhaled shakily.

He turned the corner and made his way to one of the vending machines stationed near the end of the floor. Neon lights flickered faintly above as he crouched slightly, scanning the QR code on the machine’s screen with his phone.

A soft beep.

A second later, a familiar thunk as the bottle of banana milk slid down the chute.

Heeseung grabbed it, twisting the cap with one hand. He took a long gulp, only to cough right after—choking slightly from the rush of cold liquid.

“Are you seriously an idol?”

He turned, startled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. You were leaning against the wall, arms crossed, expression unreadable. The pale gray concrete made your figure stand out sharper, fiercer.

“Uh—” He cleared his throat. “Yeah. I mean. I guess. Practice kept getting held up because of me so I just—needed a break. I’m… sorry.”

You scoffed, pushing off the wall with one shoulder.

“Stop apologizing and focus,” you snapped. “You’re dragging everyone down with you.”

He blinked, stunned by your bluntness—still unused to anyone speaking to him like that. Not his members, not the managers, never anyone outside his circle.

“I’m trying, okay?” he muttered, voice lower now, like the words hurt to admit.

Your brow twitched.

You stepped toward him—slowly, purposefully.

Heeseung tensed, eyes wide. You stopped just a few inches away, close enough that he could see the slight sweat sheen on your cheekbones, the fire in your gaze.

Heeseung was tall, but the way you looked up at him made him feel small.

“Then try harder,” you bit out. “People are just trying to do their jobs. People who actually care.”

He opened his mouth to defend himself—but the words caught in his throat as your finger jabbed into his chest.

“I don’t care if you’re tired, or nervous, or whatever this is,” you snapped. “If you’re gonna be in the center, then act like it. Earn it. Not just for yourself.”

You stared at him a second longer. Heeseung didn’t even breathe. And then you pulled away with a scoff, shaking your head as you turned on your heel.

He didn’t say a word. He just stood there—silent and still, banana milk cold in his hand.

And only when you were completely gone—your footsteps echoing down the hall—did his head drop again, shoulders slumping like the weight finally cracked through.

He blinked fast, hoping to stop it. But his eyes were already stinging.

Jaw tight, thumb absently fidgeting with the plastic bottle cap as his other hand wiped at the corner of his eye with the sleeve of his hoodie.

Heeseung sniffed once.

He was the center of the comeback. And he was falling apart over one dancer who probably hated his guts.

And yet, all he could think was—you’re right.

Heeseung sniffed again, the burn behind his eyes finally dulling as he blinked rapidly and wiped at them with his sleeve. Another shaky exhale. Then another.

Until he felt composed enough to not look like he’d just had a breakdown beside a vending machine over a girl who barely said two nice words to him.

He dragged himself back to the practice room, the hallway suddenly feeling too short, too bright, the hum of the aircon too loud in his ears.

The moment the door slid open, all heads turned.

Heeseung kept his gaze down, refusing to meet any of their eyes. Not Jay’s. Not Jake’s. Not yours.

Especially not yours.

He padded in quietly, setting his half-finished banana milk and phone down beside his bag like nothing happened. His face was mostly hidden behind the sleeves of his sweater again, his silver hair falling slightly over his forehead, damp with sweat.

“Positions, everyone!” one of the choreographers called out cheerfully, clapping their hands twice as they stood near the mirror.

You watched him move.

He didn’t hesitate this time.

He stepped into the center of the room, right where he belonged. His jaw was set now. Shoulders straighter, feet firmer, like he was holding himself together with everything he had.

Your fingers curled slightly at your sides as you took a step forward, trailing behind the others who were getting into position. Your eyes didn’t leave him.

Not once.

You watched as he stood there silently, hands flexing and unflexing by his thighs. Like he was waiting to be told what to do. Like he was afraid to mess it up again.

And then his eyes flicked up—just briefly. Not even a full second.

But they met yours. Red-rimmed and soft.

Your heart twitched against your will.

“Alright,” the choreographer said, clapping again. “From the top of the chorus. Everyone ready?”

You nodded along with the others and moved into place, still watching him.

Still unsure why it suddenly felt like you couldn’t breathe right.

As the music began to hum from the speakers again, you shifted forward, placing yourself behind Heeseung—just like the choreography required. You noticed the slight tremble in his fingers. The way he inhaled through his nose like he was bracing himself.

And maybe it was stupid. Maybe you shouldn’t have felt anything at all.

But you leaned in slightly and muttered, just loud enough for him to hear, “Don’t mess this up.”

It wasn’t mean. Not sharp. Not scolding.

But Heeseung didn’t lift his gaze. Didn’t say anything in return.

Just gave the smallest nod—like he was afraid even that would be too much. His eyes fixed straight ahead, shoulders rigid but steady, jaw ticking faintly as the music started again.

And this time, he didn’t stumble. He remembered the counts. The shifts. The way your hand was supposed to trail across his chest, the way he was supposed to hold your waist just tight enough to keep the tension.

Heeseung danced like he had something to prove. Like proving it would mean something to you.

The second the last beat hit, a wave of cheers erupted from the room.

“Nice! That’s it!”

“That’s the energy!”

But not a single sound came from Heeseung. Not even the usual, breathless laugh he let out when he nailed a routine. Not even the bright smile that usually curved his lips when he got praised.

Instead, he let go of your waist slowly, barely brushing your arm as he stepped back.

Eyes still downcast, expression unreadable.

He reached for the hair tie at the back of his head, quietly tugging it free. His silver bangs fell into his eyes again, and he swept them back absently with one hand, a habit so practiced it didn’t even look intentional.

Then he turned without a word.

Heeseung walked across the floor, sneakers making barely any sound on the hardwood as he crouched beside his things.

He grabbed his phone, sat down with his back against the mirrored wall, and stared at the lockscreen like it would give him something to focus on.

Your brows furrowed slightly as you watched from a few steps away, towel still hanging from your neck. The cheers died down, but you barely noticed. Your eyes were still on him.

Not because he was Heeseung, but because he looked—small.

Small in a way that didn’t make sense on someone so tall. Small in the way someone looks when they’re trying not to feel something too loud.

And you hated it.

You hated the way your hands twitched at your sides. You hated that he wasn’t smiling. That he wasn’t doing that dumb, nervous laugh anymore. That he didn’t even look proud of himself for finally getting it right.

"Why does he have to look like a kicked puppy," you muttered under your breath, rolling your eyes before wiping at your face with your towel.

Because you didn’t feel bad.

You didn’t, right?

“Alright, take five and we’ll break down the transitions,” one of the choreographers called. “If anyone needs water, now’s the time.”

You made a move to walk toward your own bag, but your eyes—again—betrayed you.

Heeseung was still sitting. Same spot. Same posture. Thumb hovering over his phone but never typing anything.

Jungwon passed by him with a water bottle and a small pat on the shoulder. “Good job, hyung.”

Heeseung looked up with a tight smile. “Thanks.”

He didn’t smile for real, and that’s what got you.

Because Lee Heeseung always smiled.

Until now.

And it was all because of you.

It was nearly midnight.

The halls of the HYBE building had gone still, that hushed kind of silence reserved only for the end of long days and overworked idols.

You were curled into one side of one of the couches in the lounge area, legs folded underneath you, your bag slumped beside you like it was just as tired.

Your phone glowed in your hand, thumb scrolling mindlessly through Instagram. Not liking anything. Not even looking, really. Just passing time. Trying to breathe.

The last two weeks had been a lot. And you didn’t know how to feel about any of it anymore.

You were about to shut your phone off when someone cleared their throat gently nearby. You looked up, blinking at the figure that stood in front of you.

Sunoo.

Ginger hair bouncing lightly, a hopeful, careful smile on his lips.

“Hi,” he said, his voice sweet and just a little unsure. “Can I sit here?”

You blinked once. Twice. Then nodded, gesturing to the empty space next to you. “Yeah. Of course.”

He plopped down beside you with a soft huff, his hoodie sleeves slipping down to his hands as he leaned back into the cushion.

“Hi, (Y/N)-noona,” he greeted, brighter this time. “How are you?”

You couldn’t help but smile a little—his energy was just that infectious.

“I’m fine,” you answered, voice softer than usual. “What about you? Shouldn’t you be at the dorms? It’s late.”

Sunoo laughed, brushing a bit of his hair from his forehead. “I stayed behind. Had to re-record some of my lines for Karma. I think I messed up a vowel or something—Jake-hyung said it sounded like I was crying.”

You let out a soft laugh, the tension in your shoulders easing just a bit. “Well, at least you got it done.”

He nodded. “Barely.”

For a moment, it was quiet again. Your phone dimmed in your lap, screen turning black.

Sunoo glanced at you from the corner of his eye, fingers fidgeting with the ring on his thumb. And then—very softly: “Noona… can I ask you something?”

You turned your head to look at him. His brows were drawn in slightly, lips pressed into a pout that made him look younger than he already did.

You nodded. “Sure.”

He hesitated.

“Do you hate us?”

The question landed like a pin drop in a silent room.

Your brows furrowed. “What?”

He looked at you this time. Really looked at you. “Me. The guys. Heeseung-hyung especially. You kind of… look like you do.”

“I mean,” Sunoo rushed to explain, hands flailing slightly, “it’s not that we want you to like us or anything! Well—I mean—it’d be nice, I guess, but—”

He huffed. “I just mean that you always look like you’re ready to run the second practice ends.”

You bit the inside of your cheek.

“I don’t hate you,” you said eventually. Quiet. Honest. “I just don’t know you.”

Sunoo nodded slowly, looking like he was trying to understand. “And Heeseung-hyung?”

You paused.

Then shook your head. “I don’t know him either.”

“But you… don’t like him.”

You let out a breath, turning your gaze away. “I don’t trust him.”

Sunoo’s mouth parted slightly, like he wanted to ask why—but something in your expression must’ve warned him off. Instead, he just tucked his hands into the sleeves of his hoodie and nodded slowly.

“That’s fair,” he said. “I just… I think he really wants you to.”

You looked at him, startled. “Wants me to what?”

“Know him,” Sunoo said, shrugging. “He sucks at it, obviously. Like really, really bad. But I’ve never seen him get so quiet around anyone before.”

You didn’t say anything.

Not because you didn’t have anything to say—but because you didn’t know what to do with that.

“Heeseung-hyung’s usually…” Sunoo twirled a finger in the air, searching. “I don’t know—composed? Effortless? He walks into a room and owns it. Like, even when he’s being a dumbass, he’s a confident dumbass.”

You snorted quietly despite yourself.

“But with you?” Sunoo tilted his head. “He gets all… careful. Like he’s afraid he’ll breathe wrong and piss you off more than he already has.”

Sunoo offered a small, almost sheepish smile. “I think you scare him. And I don’t think that’s a bad thing.”

He let that settle for a second, fingers absentmindedly fiddling with the hem of his sleeve before he added, “But… it’s weird. Seeing him so hung up over something somebody said.”

You glanced at him, but he wasn’t looking at you. He was just gazing ahead, voice softer now.

“I thought he let go of that since I-LAND, you know?” Sunoo continued.

“All the doubts, the overthinking. He’s worked so hard to be… sure of himself. Confident in what he does, who he is. But you—” he paused, almost amused, “—you say one sentence and he looks like he’s about to rewrite his whole personality.”

You still didn’t say anything, because… what could you say to that?

Sunoo looked at you now, not accusing—just honest, open, like someone who’d seen the best and worst of the people around him and still chose to believe the best anyway.

“I just hope you let him in soon,” he said, voice steady. “And us too.”

You blinked.

“Heeseung-hyung’s really nice if you get to know him,” Sunoo added.

“A little dramatic. Kinda dumb sometimes. But he’s not the person people make him out to be.” Then, a small laugh escaped him. “You should see how many playlists he makes for songs he never finishes. Or how he hums when he brushes his teeth. It’s stupid.

You smiled despite yourself.

Sunoo tilted his head, smile gentler now. “Just… don’t write him off too quick, noona. He’s not perfect. But I think he’s trying.”

And for a moment—you didn’t feel like arguing.

“Anyway,” Sunoo said, standing slowly and brushing imaginary lint off his pants, “thanks for letting me sit here. I’ll see you tomorrow, noona.”

You nodded wordlessly, watching as he offered you one more smile before turning and walking off down the hall.

And when he disappeared around the corner, you leaned back against the couch and stared at your phone again.

Only this time, you weren’t scrolling.

Just sitting there. With your heart beating too loud in your chest.

And wondering why Lee Heeseung—of all people—wanted you to know him.

You sighed, dragging a hand through your hair and sinking further into the cushion behind you, head tipped back to stare at the ceiling.

Sunoo’s words echoed in your head.

“I think you scare him. And I don’t think that’s a bad thing.”

You didn’t mean to scare him.

You just didn’t know him.

All you knew was the rumor mill: that he toyed around with backup dancers. That he used to date one. That he left her crying and never looked back.

You knew he was a damn good performer. A strong voice. A face that pulled attention. A body that moved like water.

But who was Lee Heeseung when he wasn’t on stage?

You didn’t know. And you hated that not knowing was starting to bother you.

“Ugh,” you groaned, frustrated with yourself, grabbing your bag and slinging it over your shoulder.

You just needed air.

You paced down the hallway, letting your footsteps echo through the emptying building. The elevators were at the far end—but you slowed when you passed by another open lounge area, tucked to the side.

Three familiar voices. One unmistakable.

“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” It was Heeseung, his voice cracking mid-sentence. “Like—seriously. I feel like I’m ruining the entire choreography.”

“Hyung, you’re just stressed—” Sunghoon began, but Heeseung cut him off.

“It’s not just the choreography,” he snapped, quieter this time. “It’s her. I can’t even look at her properly without feeling like I’m gonna throw up. Or say something stupid. Or trip on my own damn feet—!”

There was a thud. Probably Heeseung slumping back onto the couch.

“She probably thinks I’m a joke,” he mumbled. “And maybe I am. I don’t even know why I care this much. But every time I see her, I just—”

A pause. A shaky breath.

“I feel like I’m messing everything up. And she hates me for it.”

You stood there, frozen, lips parted slightly as your fingers hovered over the strap of your bag. You knew you shouldn’t be listening. But you couldn’t move.

“Hyung…” Jay’s voice was quieter. Gentler.

“It’s not that deep—”

That was your cue.

You reached for the white AirPods hanging from the keyring on your bag, shoved them in like muscle memory, and walked—like you hadn’t just overheard the guy who’d been dragging his feet around you for two weeks quite literally crumbling over your mere existence.

The soft mechanical chime of the elevator landing saved you from having to hear anything else.

You pressed the button—twice, even though it was already lit up—and stared straight ahead, pretending you didn’t notice the way all three heads turned toward you as you walked past.

Heeseung sat up straighter in his seat, hurriedly wiping at his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie. He didn’t even try to hide it.

Jay and Sunghoon just looked between him and you silently, Sunghoon with a slow, barely-there shake of his head.

You didn’t look at any of them. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t say a word.

But Heeseung’s stare burned at your back—like he was silently willing you to turn around.

You didn’t.

You stepped into the elevator when it dinged and let the doors close in front of you.

But even as the floor shifted beneath your feet and the numbers ticked downward, you couldn’t shake the image of Lee Heeseung—shoulders hunched, eyes red, voice raw—murmuring that he was the reason everything was going wrong.

And all because of you.

It was barely past ten and the practice room was already flooded with artificial lights—white bleeding in, casting long stripes across the mirrored walls and polished floors.

The speakers hummed softly with the instrumental of ‘Bite Me’, looping from the top as you stretched in the center of the room. Your arms raised above your head, your body bending gently from side to side.

The black crop top you wore shifted with every breath, exposing brief slivers of your waist before you pulled at the band of your white sweatpants to fix it.

Your neck rolled to the side, hair slipping over your shoulder as you exhaled and let your muscles relax.

The door opened.

Your eyes flicked to the mirror.

Lee Heeseung.

Black oversized tee, light gray sweatpants that hung low on his hips, hair slightly damp like he’d just washed his face in a rush. But more than anything, you noticed the puffiness around his eyes—still red, slightly swollen. As if sleep had been a stranger to him last night.

He looked at you.

Just for a second.

And then immediately looked away.

Your mouth pressed into a line as he walked to his usual corner, dropping his duffel bag onto the ground with barely a sound. He didn’t say a word. Just crouched down and pulled out his phone like it held the meaning of life—eyes glued to the screen, thumbs unmoving.

Not even pretending to scroll.

Not even pretending to scroll.

Then let out a quiet breath and shook your head.

“He doesn’t even say hi anymore…” you muttered to yourself, barely audible over the light beat in the background. “God, he’s really that sensitive to me being in the room?”

You shook your arms out and turned away.

It stung. You weren’t gonna lie.

Not because you wanted him to talk again. Not because you needed him to smile at you.

But because now you knew. Now you’d heard it—his voice, raw and trembling, saying your name like it hurt to speak.

And still, he said nothing.

You shifted your weight to one leg, crossing your arms as you glanced at the mirror again. He was still sitting there. Same position. Same phone. Same silence.

It was almost pitiful.

Like a kicked puppy in sweatpants.

And you hated the fact that your chest twinged a little at the sight.

Your jaw tensed. You looked away again.

Because you didn’t know what to do with the version of Lee Heeseung who didn’t smile. Who didn’t joke. Who didn’t even pretend to look okay.

And a few feet away, Heeseung exhaled quietly—his shoulders sagging with the weight of something that didn’t seem to lift no matter how long he sat there.

He finally unlocked his phone. But he didn’t scroll. Didn’t tap any apps. Didn’t open messages.

Just stared at his homescreen like it might offer him answers.

The soft hum of the speakers continued. His gaze flickered—briefly, hesitantly—to the mirror across the room.

To you.

You weren’t looking at him.

Of course you weren’t.

You were stretching again, arms over your head as you twisted at the waist, back arched. You looked so calm. So unbothered. So… indifferent.

Like he didn’t exist.

Like you hadn’t told him off. Like you hadn’t jabbed a finger into his chest and practically told him he was worthless. Like you hadn’t shattered him with one glare and a scoff, then walked away like he was nothing.

And still, he looked.

Still, he watched you.

Heeseung swallowed the lump rising in his throat and leaned his head back against the wall, his phone still lit in his palm. A notification came in—a text from Sunghoon probably, or Jay—but he didn’t bother reading it.

He ran a hand over his face. Fingers pressing into the skin beneath his eyes.

He wanted to talk to you.

He wanted to explain.

But how the hell could he explain what even he didn’t understand?

Why your voice stayed in his head like a loop.

Why he couldn’t sleep until two a.m. replaying that moment in the hallway.

Why he felt like the air disappeared the moment you looked at him like that—like he was just another arrogant idol who didn’t care.

He bit the inside of his cheek.

And still, you didn’t even glance his way.

The tension in the room hung thick and unmoving until the studio doors creaked open again.

The two choreographers walked in—smiling, laughing about something that died the moment they caught sight of their two lead dancers. You, standing in the center, eyes distant. Heeseung, sat by the wall, eyes lower.

But both of you bowed anyway.

You straightened your posture and offered a polite greeting. “Good morning.”

Heeseung scrambled upright at the same time, tripping slightly over the strap of his gym bag before stumbling into a clumsy bow. “Ah—g-good morning!”

One of the choreographers blinked at the awkwardness before grinning, pretending not to notice. “You two look awake at least.”

They walked toward the mirrored wall, settling their tablets and notes on the low table. One of them looked up and waved a hand toward both of you. “Come here for a second?”

You nodded, not sparing Heeseung a glance as you walked over. He hesitated, then followed behind you. You could hear his footsteps. Could practically feel the distance he was keeping behind you. It was like his shadow didn’t even want to touch yours.

The four of you stood in a half-circle. You to the left, Heeseung on the right. Silence stretching so tightly between you, it might’ve snapped.

But the choreographers didn’t seem to notice. “How’s progress?”

You answered without hesitation.

“It’s going well,” you said calmly. “We’re still polishing the transitions, especially around the solos. Some of the blocking needs tweaking, but otherwise, everyone knows their parts and is keeping up.”

They nodded, taking notes on the screen of one of the tablets. “Good. And you, Heeseung?”

You didn’t look at him. But you heard the way he shifted his weight.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, uh… I’m okay. Just tired. Sorry.”

That awkward laugh of his was barely a breath.

Both choreographers chuckled kindly. “Tired’s normal,” one of them said, smiling. “But that’s not what we wanted to talk to you both about.”

You blinked, waiting.

They glanced at each other. “So, we’ve been reviewing the recordings. And while your initial chemistry was great, things have been feeling… well—tense.”

You froze. Heeseung did too.

“We just want to ask—are you both okay?”

“Yes,” you said immediately, not even letting Heeseung open his mouth.

Your voice was even, firm. Almost mechanical. “We’re just both equally tired. I want to apologize if that’s been noticeable.”

The choreographers didn’t seem entirely convinced, exchanging a quiet look before one of them tapped on the screen again. “We believe you. But we also had a small proposal we wanted to run by you both—especially before filming starts.”

You lifted your eyes. Heeseung did too—slowly.

“If it’s alright with both of you,” the choreographer began gently, “we’d like to request recorded video updates. Just the two of you. Every three to four days.”

Your heart stuttered once.

Heeseung blinked. “Just us?”

“Yeah,” the other said. “Not the group. Not the others. Just your partnership parts. The lifts. The proximity work. The stuff where chemistry matters.”

Your lips parted, but no words came out.

“Again,” they added quickly, “only if you’re both okay with that. It’s just that Heeseung’s got a lot of center time, and your blocking overlaps more than anyone else’s. If you two are more aligned—it’ll elevate the whole comeback.”

You stayed quiet.

Heeseung nodded after a beat. “Understood.”

Of course he’d agree.

You exhaled slowly and muttered, “That’s fine with me.”

One of them smiled. “Great. Then let’s aim for the first clip at the end of the week. You can find a free room or ask staff to reserve the small studio downstairs.”

They moved on, discussing timing and files and where to upload the clips, but you weren’t listening anymore.

Because out of the corner of your eye, you saw Heeseung’s head dip lower again—like the weight of his thoughts was pulling him into the floor.

And suddenly, it was you who didn’t know what to say.

You stood side by side. Silent. Cold. Strangers.

But at least now, you were strangers who had to see each other every three days.

Just the two of you.

And not even the floor could swallow you whole fast enough.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

The Bluetooth speaker let out a soft chime as you connected it to your phone, the dim lights of the small HYBE practice room casting long shadows on the polished floor.

It was past nine—long after most of the building had emptied out—and yet here you were, standing in the middle of the room with Lee Heeseung, the soft hum of your phone against the speaker being the only thing cutting through the tension.

Heeseung stood off to the side, stiff, fidgeting. His fingers pulled at the hem of his oversized black shirt, head ducked, silver hair messy and falling over his eyes like it had something to hide.

You sighed, fingers still hovering over your screen. “Do you still need to stretch?”

His shoulders jolted slightly at your voice, as if it startled him. He shook his head. “No—I’m good,” he mumbled.

You nodded wordlessly, walking to the center of the room. The mirror reflected both of you in silence—your posture poised, his shoulders tight.

You turned to face him, standing a few feet away, but it was close enough to feel the strange energy bouncing between you two like static.

“The choreographers want the clip by tomorrow,” you reminded, voice even. “So we’ll start from the chorus and end right after your solo, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Heeseung said quietly, nodding, eyes still trained on the floor.

You pressed play, the faint bass of ‘Bite Me’ bleeding through the speaker.

A few seconds before the pre-chorus hit, you bent down and hit record on the phone set up on a tripod near the door. You stepped back into position beside him. Neither of you said anything more.

When the music started, instinct took over.

You grabbed his wrist gently—guiding, not harsh. His hands ghosted over your waist, fingers barely grazing the fabric of your cropped shirt. He mouthed his lines, lips moving in sync with the playback. But he never once looked at you. Not once.

His eyes flicked up toward the mirror instead, fixated on some invisible spot beside your shoulder.

His jaw clenched when the choreography demanded he pull you closer—still not touching, still hovering like you were something fragile.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t break character. You simply moved.

Your hands ran smoothly down his arms as his solo started. His breath hitched—barely noticeable, but you felt it. His weight shifted forward, leaning into your space but never filling it. His fingers twitched against your hands, uncertain.

You hated how rehearsed it felt. Not the dance—he was still Heeseung, precise and sharp and painfully good. It was the distance. The wall he still held up between the both of you, even when the routine demanded that wall be torn down.

You didn’t look at him.

He didn’t look at you.

And the mirror watched it all unfold—two people dancing together, with nothing tethering them in place.

As the chorus faded into the next section, you stepped back—retreating to the side of the room, chest rising and falling as you shook out your hands. The music played on. You stood quietly, watching from your place near the wall.

Heeseung didn’t notice.

Or maybe he did, but he didn’t dare let it show.

He moved sharply—every step hit clean, every spin crisp. The silver of his hair caught the overhead lights as he moved, jaw tight, hands curling and releasing like he was trying to keep control. He landed the last beat perfectly, and yet—

As the final note echoed off the mirrored walls and disappeared, Heeseung just stood there.

Like he didn’t know what to do with himself.

Back to that stance from earlier—shoulders tight, legs firm but uneasy, hands nervously tugging at the hem of his shirt again. He panted softly, chest rising and falling as sweat lined his neck and forehead, strands of hair sticking to his skin.

You sighed.

Crossing the room in a few quiet steps, you leaned down and pressed the red circle on the screen of the phone, ending the recording.

Heeseung stepped a little closer.

Not enough to be beside you.

But enough to watch over your shoulder.

The recording finished playing with a quiet click. And then:

“…Again,” he mumbled, voice hoarse. “Please.”

You nodded—wordless.

You both moved back into place, footsteps soft against the hardwood floors. He took his position beside you, not too close, but closer than before—like maybe the space didn’t scare him as much now. You could still feel the ghost of his breath when he turned toward you.

Heeseung stood beside you again—not too close, but closer than before. Maybe the gap didn’t scare him as much now. Maybe he was just tired of being scared.

You sighed as the beat dropped and moved like you were taught, muscle memory taking over. Heeseung followed beside you, gaze locked on the floor. He didn’t look at you—not once—but he hit every beat, every count, every breath.

It was cleaner.

But it didn’t feel natural.

Everything—from the way your fingers ghosted across his frame to the way he rested his hands on you—felt stiff. Forced. Like two people pretending they weren’t holding back an entire war between them.

But neither of you said a word.

As the final note faded and the room fell back into silence, Heeseung went still—then slack again, like he always did. Shoulders dropping. Jaw clenching. Eyes cast down.

You walked over to the phone and pressed the red button.

The video stopped recording.

You stared at the screen, watching the last frame freeze—both of you caught mid-movement, frozen in a pose that looked closer than the reality ever was.

“…It’s better than the other one,” you mumbled, mostly to yourself.

Heeseung nodded once. Still not looking at you.

You turned your head. “Are you okay with this for today?”

There was a pause. He hesitated. Then nodded again, more slowly this time, fingers catching the hem of his shirt like he was trying to tear it in half just to keep his hands busy.

You nodded too. “Okay.”

Silence blanketed the room again as you saved the video and uploaded it into the shared iCloud folder that the choreographers had created earlier that week. The little blue bar filled up slowly, and all the while, Heeseung stood where he was—still refusing to meet your eyes.

You sighed softly and said, “It’s best if we pack up and get some rest, yeah?”

“…Yeah.” His voice was quiet, just a breath. He turned away, moving to where his things were neatly placed by the wall. He slipped his phone into his bag, capped his water bottle, and zipped it shut with trembling fingers.

You didn’t say anything as you grabbed your own phone, shoving it into your sweatpants pocket.

He glanced at you then.

Just once.

Noticing how fast you always packed up. How quick you were to leave.

Then, quietly—without a word—he padded over to the door. He opened it and stood there, holding it open, eyes cast toward the ground but his presence heavy with anticipation.

Waiting.

Waiting to see if you’d take the silent offer.

You stared at him for a second.

Just one beat too long.

Then you walked past him, mumbling a quiet, “Thanks.”

Heeseung only nodded, shoulders stiff as you stepped through.

Neither of you spoke as you made your way down the empty hallway, shoes echoing against the linoleum floors of the ground building. You scanned your fingerprint on the security pad, and the door clicked open.

He followed behind you.

You turned to him at the threshold, the soft whir of city wind brushing against your face.

Your voice was flat—but your eyes burned into him like they had weight. Like they had things to say that your mouth wouldn’t.

“Let’s do this again. There should be some improvements by next time.”

He nodded, but his eyes didn’t move from your figure.

Not even as you turned and disappeared into the night.

And when you were finally out of earshot—just gone far enough that he didn’t have to pretend anymore—Heeseung exhaled. The kind of breath that left with his shoulders.

His hand dragged through his hair, a frustrated sweep of silver strands falling over his eyes.

“…Yeah,” he muttered to himself. “Improvements.”

Still watching the door you vanished through.

He turned slowly then, walking past the main lobby toward the side of the building—toward the back exit he was supposed to use from the start. But instead, he walked with you to the front.

Even if you didn’t notice.

Even if you didn’t ask him to.

He just wanted to be near you for a little longer.

Even if it hurt.

⤷ read part 2 here !

⤷ permanent tagllist — @m1kkso

© 2025 liuhsng — reblogs are highly appreciated and please don’t hesitate to request some fics here if you want me to write anything !

[soupacool]

I legit could not tell you why. but so much music by little whiny white christian boys is like crack to me. it's got a funk to it and I do not mean musically I mean like a stinky stinky cheese that smells like feet (positive). I am aware that this is a character flaw but I refuse to change

[eraserbread]

nanami's not about to fight with u... he's just gonna show u who you truly belong to. read part 1 for context

"i'm not fighting with you, just get on your knees."

"ken, we have a houseful of guests-

he's shaking his head, tugging his zipper in a fateful swoop. you don't lie and say you weren't buzzing with the idea of what he'd do next, but it felt so wrong. now was not the time to be getting him off.

"i won't repeat myself." then his pants are down and he's easing his already-flushed cock from its confines. he's rubbing himself to his full potential right in front of you, so comfortable with you standing in front of him, wide-eyed and nervous.

luckily your kitchen is closed off from the rest of the house, but it's not completely closed. someone could easily pop their head into the arched entryway and see everything you're seeing. deep down you know kento wouldn't let that happen. he has the awareness of an anxious cat, so you trust him enough to get on your knees, crawling to close the distance between you two.

"i'm doing this because domination tends to make you mild-mannered," he explains briefly, voice tinged with a hint of arousal. "and that's what I need from you right now. do you understand?"

"mhm." you reply, looking up at him with silent doe-eyes. from this angle at his feet, he looks so much bigger. daunting and familiar. so beautiful... and all yours.

"relax your throat." he demands just before taking a handful of your hair and guiding you down the length of him. he's not easy to take in the slightest - your jaw burns, eyes screwed shut as you try to swallow back a gag.

then, a thunderous bout of laughter erupts from the other room and you fold -- gagging and choking all over his pretty cock.

he yanks you backward, face screwed up in distaste. "what did I just tell you?"

"'m sorry." you whine as he smushes your lips with his tip.

"if satoru walks in here and sees you like this, i will be extremely upset."

"'m sorry." you repeat, genuinely sorry and just wanting him inside of you again. he's barely gracing your lips, but every atom in your body is screaming for him. if you thought satoru was charming five minutes ago, you didn't even know who he was now. all you want is your husband.

"him and his righteous savior complex.. makes me sick." he mutters, mostly to himself. he has two big hands on either side of your head, squeezing like only he can. it's been too long together, he knows you're not a china doll.

so, he fucks your limp throat like he hates you, eye twitching as he watches your face go more flushed with each mean thrust he's delivering. you've never taken him like this, feeling the drippy tip of his cock at the base of your throat, giving you goosebumps all around his touch. you've never felt closer to him, yet so pained by every one of his movements.

it's like your entire mind goes limp. etched with scrawling versions of his name only. he's you can think about, all you can taste...

only when he's finally done and marked your stomach with his seed, does he help you up with a strong hand, just holding you close for a second until yours stops shaking.

he doesn't say a word, just watching your eyes as they stare back at him expressionless but teary and bloodshot nonetheless. he leans forward and kisses your forehead.

"sorry. you know i'll always love you."

you nod, because... yeah. same. that makes him smile.

and he guides you back to your party holding your hand, watching out for you as you take the seat next to satoru back. it's like he doesn't even notice your presence, he's far too preoccupied teasing utahime about some nameless story from the past.

once the party has concluded and kento is seeing them all out, does satoru stop and say something.

"poor, little nanami..." satoru stops just before he reaches the first step past the front door. ken regards him with a nod, leaning against the doorframe. "this is what happens when the lamb chooses a wolf."

"do i even want you to explain?"

satoru shrugs him off, throwing up in hand as a curt goodbye as he turns around. "she's too nice. it's sad to know you yelled at her... she was all teary-eyed and mellow for the rest of the night."

kento turns around, chuckling to himself as he finally shuts the front door. reveling in the quiet comfort of his home he thinks:

ha. did much more than make her cry...

[syluss-littlecrow]

massagers and misunderstandings

<sylus x fem!reader>

Haphazardly leaving your little toy in Sylus's room after your playtime wasn't part of the plan.

The good news is that the vibrator was in Sylus’s room.

The bad news is that the vibrator is currently in Sylus’s hands.

genre/warnings: smut, pwp, vibrator play x mirror sex, overstimulation, unprotected sex, sylus teasing the everloving shit out of you, breeding kink, (light) choking, dacryphilia, shit load of orgasms

w/c: 2.1k

a/n: shout out to the loml @rafsfishstick for helping me out with this and also giving me this fuck ass idea. Now y'all gna suffer with ME. you're welcome 🩷

Shit, shit, shit. Where is it?!

You've been flipping your whole bedroom upside down over an important missing device. You swore you kept it in the drawers of your room, or at least, you thought you did. 

Unfortunately, it went over your head that staying with Sylus for extended periods had you getting very comfortable with leaving your belongings around.

Including your vibrator. 

Well, Sylus didn't need to know about it. 

In your defense, it was lonely in the mansion without him. And when you did miss him while he was gone, you'd sneak into his room (not that he minded), lie on his bed and let his scent just engulf you completely. 

Well, you had your needs too. 

And usually you'd just keep your vibrator in your room within the mansion.

And unfortunately for you, this was not one of your usual times.

When the realisation hit you that you in fact did absentmindedly stash your toy hastily in one of his drawers during one of the nights when he told you he'd be away from town for a while, you bolted to his room, hoping, praying, that Sylus hadn't reached his chambers before you did.

The good news is that the vibrator was indeed in Sylus’s room.

The bad news is that the vibrator is currently in Sylus’s hands.

Fuck me, you think, a million useless excuses flooding in and out of your mind.

Maybe you could knock him out and snag the toy from his fingers.

Yeah, like that could ever fucking work with his level of reflexes. 

“Aren't you coming in, kitten?” 

His usual pet name sends goosebumps flooding your skin. 

“Good evening, Sylus”, you force a smile, trying to ignore the way he’s fidgeting with your vibrator. 

“This wouldn't happen to be yours, would it?” He asks, dangling the silicone vibrator before you. “I've never seen you use it before.”

You could smack the smug look off his face if you had the chance to, but for now, you force a smile, reaching out to take the device from him. 

“It's just a massager”, you lie horribly.

Of course he fucking shifts it away from your grasp.

He narrows his eyes at you and decorates his expression with a sharper smirk. 

“Right, because massaging devices look unassuming like this, and you happen to decide to have a little massage session in my room?” 

Fuck. 

There's no way out of this. 

His smirk fades. He puts an arm out to beckon you closer. 

His eyes reflect tints of something else, like a reminder that you're about to turn into his prey. 

And you can't help but always fall into his trap.

“Now, won't you show me how you use your little massager, sweetie?” 

You watch him twirl the vibrator between his slender fingers, touching and feeling the buttons on his fingertips. He has your legs spread apart in front of him at the edge of the bed. You’re carefully observing your partner as it takes him barely a few minutes to figure your toy out when it buzzes to life. 

“Don't look so scared, kitten. I'm not about to eat you”, the gaze Sylus is giving you says otherwise. Unfortunately, there's a twisted stem of anticipation that's slowly flooding your veins. You wonder what he's about to do to you, and it's getting you excited. 

He smirks when his gaze lands on the small damp patch of fabric on your pussy. He wants to make it bigger. 

Sylus grazes his knuckles against your clothes pussy, and it draws a gasp from you. 

“I have to say, sweetie, your little massager here has quite the strong vibrations”, Sylus teases. His arm curls around your legs, pulling you slightly closer to him, before he presses the buzzing toy on your clothed pussy. Despite the fact that you knew it was coming, you still jumped from the sensation instantly. 

You crunch your abdomen when you feel Sylus rolling the vibrator up and down your pussy, watching with sheer satisfaction at the way the dark patch on your pussy continues to grow darker and bigger. 

“How does it feel, kitten?” He asks with a smile, and you're not sure if you're getting soaked from the vibrator or from Sylus eye fucking you. 

“Tickles…” you force yourself to answer. You hear him hum from below, before your mind shuts off when he shifts the vibrator right to your clit, and applies pressure right there. 

But it's not enough.

You know he's fucking with you. He's teasing you–especially when he intentionally lowers the vibration to a dull buzz, taking away the build up, only leaving you whining for more. 

But at the moment where you're able to catch your breath, the vibration climbs in levels again, leaving you fisting the sheets and his shirt. Sylus removes his arm around your thigh, and hooks a slender on the damp piece of fabric, tugging it outwards.

“Should we get this out of the way, sweetie? It's bothering you isn't it?” 

You nod, still trying to regulate your breathing, your mind racing at the thought of Sylus being the one pressing your vibrator on your bare, wet, sticky pussy. 

He lets you close your legs to roll the panties off your hips, only to disappear behind you for a split moment. 

His husky voice rings in your ears. 

“Open, sweetie.”

You feel his fingers brush on your chin, and he gestures to you to face the front.

You're facing the mirror. 

The view of your legs spread open, the sight of your glistening pussy right before your reflection makes you swallow hard. 

Sylus’s finger slither down to your sopping folds, spreading your pussy open. 

“So fucking pretty for me, aren't you?” 

Your fingers clutch tightly against his shirt, the desperation for him to do just anything coming out as a beg when you whisper to him, “please, Sylus.”

His other hand switches on the vibrator once more, and he aims it right on your fucking clit. It makes you jump, and before you realise it, your orgasm hits you–white engulfing your vision, the pleasure shooting through your veins at lightning speed and your pussy uselessly and desperately clenching the air. Sylus captures your lips with his, eating your fucked out moans while he drags your orgasm out, rolling the toy in circles around your clit, collecting the sheer wetness with his fingers and vibrator.

He pulls the vibrator off you, at least, momentarily, to let you descend from your high. 

Sylus watches you through the mirror–you, in tears, a small puddle just under where you're sitting and just a creamy fucking mess your pussy is. 

“So this was what you were doing when I was gone?” 

He watches the way your ears turn red.

Sylus’s fingers keep you staring at him through the reflections.

“I got lonely when you weren't here…”

“Right. I'm sorry for that, sweetie. I should make it up to you, hm?”

You couldn't even proceed to ask him how before he lifts you onto his lap, and the view before you makes you swallow harder–his cock just resting against your bare pussy. 

His lips are pressed against the shell of your ear.

“If I told you that I crave so fucking much to just see you the moment I leave, would that leave your mind at ease?” 

“No”, you mutter, then gasp when he presses his dick along your folds, dragging his cock so painfully slowly against your pussy. “Nothing is enough if it's not you being here in the flesh.”

He chuckles–it feels warm and it spreads through all over your body. 

“Greedy kitten”, is all he replies before he stretches you open, taking the gorgeous sight of you completely falling apart for him as he fits his cock in you. 

“That’s a good girl for me. You're taking me so well. Fuck, look at you swallowing me up”, he groans, greedily wanting to just keep all the wet warmth for himself. 

It has been a couple of long weeks since he was gone, and fuck was his cock quite a stretch. He fills you up so fucking good every single time.

He listens to you sigh shakily, trying to adjust. He feels the way you're squeezing his thighs with your hand.

You feel so good around him. You feel so good for him. 

You hiccup when you feel Sylus thrusts his cock right into you again. You're so fucking overstimulated, your sensitivity climbing up in hundreds, but Sylus still trails the vibrator across your clit in pulses, making your head fall back against his shoulders, your moans bouncing off the walls of his room. It doesn't help that he's forcing you to soak in the sheer perversion of view that's presented before you. 

“You're squeezing me so much, kitten”, he hisses into your ears when he feels your pussy clench around him once more. He's in fucking heaven. 

But of course, he loves playing with his prey a little more. 

The moment he feels you start flutter, he lifts the vibrator off your clit. It makes you gasp.

Then he thrusts his hips upwards, pressing against your sensitive spots. You watch the way his cock just disappears in you, all the way in, and it's starting to make you light-headed. 

“Can your little vibrator make you make that face, kitten?” 

You see the tear stains that streak down your face, your eyes still watery. Fuck, of course it doesn't. 

“Maybe”, you answer shakily, and you watch his eyes fucking glow right before you in the mirror.

Sylus laughs.

“I guess I should change that, right?” He responds. His fingers are now on your throat, and his other hand lay flat on your thigh.

“Then I'd better make sure I make you see fucking stars. Fuck you hard and good, right?” 

His fingers tighten around your throat. 

Sylus is a fucking menace.

You don't even remember the existence of your vibrator. Not when Sylus is fucking the ever-loving shit out of you from below, and that you're watching it through the fucking mirror–every thrust detailed perfectly under the lights, his fingers cutting oxygen from you from time to time. 

He's forcing you to cum with his dick. 

And it's fucking working..

Much thanks to the horrible edging he's done to you, you're a fucking overstimulated mess–so sensitive and broken that when you're about to flood, you're begging him.

“Gonna cum, Sylus, please. I'm gonna cum so much. Fuckkkk-” 

It fountains out of you and pushes him out, spraying all over the mirror and the sheets. You don't know what Sylus is muttering in your ears but you know he's fucking slapping your pussy, more fluids spraying out to his satisfaction.

After the clear fluids, only the thick cream comes after, and Sylus doesn't hesitate to slide his cock back in, filling you up once more, cream settling and slicking down his shaft with every thrust. Your thighs are still twitching from how fucking good it feels.

“Have I told you that I adore ruining you so much? Because I do adore ruining you so much, sweetie”, he groans. His face contorts in pleasure so fucking beautifully in the mirror while he bottoms out in you, his cock twitching and letting thick streams of warm cum filling you up. He lets himself stay in your pussy for a second or two, before he pulls out, only a thin string of cum linking his cock and your pussy. 

Sylus forces you to watch his fingers once again pull open your pretty folds, and thick white seeps out of your hole in loads. 

You see him plant a kiss on your temple before he effortlessly scoops you up to wash up with him.

You swear you didn’t leave it in his room this time round. You learned your lesson. When Sylus had his butler change out the soiled sheets, you had pocketed back your vibrator and kept it in a safe part of your room so Sylus wouldn’t get his hands on it again. 

At least, that’s what you thought, because the vibrator seemed to have disappeared again. 

Shit, did you have to intrude into Sylus’s room again? Well sure, he was gone for a couple of days, so you used his bed for a couple of days…but you were sure as hell that you brought the vibrator back with you when you on the day Sylus came back. 

Unsuccessful with the search in Sylus’s room, you return back to yours, wondering if the mansion had just sucked up the vibrator into thin air. 

That is, until you see Sylus on your bed.

With your vibrator in his hands. 

[smutmind]

When It Doesn't Fit ft. Ryujin

Itzy Ryujin X BBC

Seoul gleamed like a circuit board under glass.

You watched from the 38th floor, forehead resting against the cold window. The city didn’t sleep—neon bled into haze, horns echoed off glass. It was almost midnight, and the sky hadn’t gone black yet.

This wasn’t just another road trip. It was a political stunt.

An NBA-KBL goodwill game, they said. Bridge two basketball cultures, they said. You were the poster boy. Six-foot-nine, MVP finalist, America’s most marketable savage in sneakers.

You'd barely stepped off the jet before cameras were in your face. And something had felt… off.

Too many smiles. Too many eyes that lingered.

Coach had warned you. “You’re the prize they wanna claim. You drop 40, they look weak. Don’t expect a warm welcome.”

But it wasn’t the opposing team you noticed watching you. It was their PR staff. Their assistants. One of the security girls at the press conference.

They looked… expectant. Like something was planned.

—

The hotel was too nice.

Private elevator. Champagne in a silver bucket. Suite big enough to shoot a commercial in.

You ate half a protein bar and stared at the untouched king bed. Sleep wouldn't come easy. Not here. Not with your instincts humming.

You checked your phone. No texts. Just a single message from your agent: “Play nice. This is bigger than basketball.”

You tossed it aside.

The air conditioning purred. You sat shirtless on the edge of the bed, rubbing tension out of your thighs. Ten-hour flight. Two-hour media wall. And something else—this low, crawling heat you couldn’t shake.

You poured water. Opened the balcony door.

And just as you turned to kill the lights—

Three quiet knocks at the door.

You pulled the door open, expecting room service.

Instead: five women. Silent. Poised. Beautiful.

ITZY.

Your brain hesitated. You recognized them from the press conference—now dressed in sleek neutrals, like they belonged more in a designer showroom than the hallway of your hotel. No entourage. No cameras.

They walked in without asking.

You stepped back. Blinking.

Yeji moved first, a cool nod like she was used to being first through doors. Ryujin followed, hands in her pockets, casual as hell. Lia glanced at the room, then at you, like she was measuring how much of it you owned. Chaeryeong’s gaze skipped your chest, then dropped fast. Yuna closed the door behind them with a soft click.

No one spoke for a full beat.

You reached for your shirt on instinct. “Uh... can I help you?”

Ryujin smiled, faint. “No need to act surprised. You knew something was coming.”

“I didn’t think it’d be this,” you muttered.

Lia walked to the window. “You’re the game tomorrow.”

Chaeryeong added, “They want you... tired.”

There it was. Clear, shameless. You stared. Not angry. Not scared. Just... stunned.

Yuna leaned on the back of the couch, arms crossed under her chest. “They figured if one of us could... keep you busy tonight, maybe you won’t drop forty.”

You exhaled. “This is a joke, right?”

Yeji stepped forward. “You get to choose,” she said, voice even. “One of us stays. The rest leave.”

Your jaw clenched. “And if I say no?”

Ryujin cocked her head. “You won’t.”

She said it too calm. Like she wasn’t guessing.

Your heart thudded once. Hard.

You looked at each of them. Five stares. Five bodies. Five different types of confidence.

None of them moved.

And you still hadn’t answered.

You crossed your arms. Let the silence stretch.

“I’m not choosing.”

Five pairs of eyes blinked. Subtle shifts. Yeji raised a brow. Lia’s lips parted, surprised. Chaeryeong looked down. Yuna smirked like she expected it.

Ryujin just stared at you. Blank. Focused.

“I don’t need help losing a game,” you said. “And I don’t need someone sent to my room to prove I’m human.”

Nobody moved.

You nodded toward the door. “We’re done here.”

Yeji exhaled and turned first. “Fair enough.”

No drama. No pushback. Just quiet footsteps and the soft snick of the door swinging open. One by one, they walked out.

Except Ryujin.

She didn’t flinch.

You glanced her way. “You forget how doors work?”

She stepped closer. Not enough to threaten. Just enough to be inside your air.

“You’re not scared,” she said. “You’re annoyed.”

You didn’t answer.

“I didn’t want to be part of it,” she added, gaze steady. “Not really. I volunteered because I wanted to see you up close. To see if the hype was real.”

You laughed, dry. “And?”

She looked you over—head to toe, slow and shameless. Then back to your eyes.

“It’s worse than I thought.”

You stared. She didn’t blink.

“I’ll leave if you want,” she said, voice calm. “But I’m not here to seduce you. I’m here because I want to find out what you’re like when nobody’s watching.”

Your heartbeat kicked, sharp.

Still shirtless, you walked to the table, poured water just to have something to do. “You expect me to believe this has nothing to do with the game tomorrow?”

“I don’t care about basketball,” she said.

You turned.

She stood in front of the window now, city lights painting her in neon glow. No makeup tricks. No media smile. Just Ryujin—low voice, loose stance, one corner of her mouth tugged up like she already had your answer.

“I’m not a fan,” she said. “I’m curious.”

You studied her. Long enough that the silence thickened.

Then you nodded once. Just enough.

Ryujin pulled one leg under herself on the couch, fingers laced over her knee. She looked at home. Like this wasn’t the penthouse suite of Seoul’s most expensive hotel. Like she belonged exactly here—with you watching her, trying not to want her.

You sat across from her, water untouched. Every breath a little shallower than the last.

“You really don’t care about the game?” you asked.

She tilted her head. “I care about what happens after.”

That landed heavy between you.

You leaned back. “Why me?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Because you don’t flinch.”

Her eyes dragged across your chest, slow and deliberate.

“Everyone else stares like they’re waiting for you to crack. You stare like you’re already picking out their weak spots.”

You smirked. “You’re analyzing me.”

“Mind if I ask you something?” she said.

You nodded.

“If I hadn’t said anything tonight… if I’d just stayed quiet, sat on this couch—what would you have done?”

You didn’t answer at first. Her eyes didn’t leave yours.

“I would’ve kept watching you. Trying to decide if I was imagining the tension.”

Ryujin smiled. “You weren’t.”

She stood, slow. Walked toward the minibar. You watched the shape of her move, too aware of how little stood between you and the edge.

She poured herself a drink. One finger trailed along the rim of the glass.

“You want one?” she asked.

You shook your head. “I want you to stop playing with me.”

She didn’t turn around. “Who said I’m playing?”

You rose, crossing the floor with measured steps. She felt you close—your height wrapping around her like heat. Her breath hitched.

You didn’t touch her. Not yet.

“You sure you didn’t come here to seduce me?” you asked, voice low.

She glanced over her shoulder. “I came to see what happens when I get too close.”

You stepped closer. Your chest brushed her back. She didn’t pull away.

But you didn’t push.

You let the tension coil between you, tight and humming.

And then you whispered against her ear:

“Keep going. Let’s both find out.”

Ryujin took a slow sip from her glass and leaned back against the counter. The hem of her sweatshirt rose slightly, showing just a slip of her waist. Her eyes lingered low, then climbed back to your face.

“I’ve never been this close to someone built like you,” she said.

You raised an eyebrow. “Tall?”

She smirked. “Tall. Big. American. Black.”

There it was—no filter, no apology. Just curiosity sharpened to a fine, gleaming point.

You held her gaze. “You’re wondering about the stereotype.”

She didn’t deny it. Just stared at your mouth like the answer might come from there.

“You think I’m going to confirm it?” you asked.

She stepped closer. “I think you don’t have to.”

Her voice dropped into something breathy. Something confessional.

“I’ve seen photos,” she said, almost like a dare. “Clips. I’ve heard things. But hearing isn’t the same as…”

She trailed off, eyes flicking down again, her lip caught between teeth.

You moved closer. Close enough that her breath hit your chest.

“And you think if I showed you, you’d be able to sleep tonight?”

Her cheeks flushed—just a flicker—but her stare didn’t waver.

“No,” she whispered. “I think it’d fuck with my head.”

You laughed, low and rough.

She stepped back just slightly, like the distance would help her breathe.

“You’re not even touching me,” she said. “Why does it feel like you already are?”

“Because you want me to,” you said. “And because you’re letting yourself wonder what it’d feel like.”

Her thighs shifted. Subtle. Wanting.

“You want to know how I got here?” she asked.

You didn’t answer. Just watched her—shoulders tight, breath measured, like she was about to jump or confess.

“I didn’t win anything by singing,” she said. “Not really. Not enough.”

She walked to the couch, sat like a dancer—back straight, knees tight, chin lifted. “But when you know how to move… how to look at someone like you already own the room…”

Her sweatshirt slipped off one shoulder. Intentional. Every move was.

“You don’t need to beg for deals,” she said. “You make them beg to sign.”

You stood across from her, arms crossed. “You saying you fucked your way to the top?”

She laughed softly. “No. I made them think I would. That’s all it took.”

She lifted her legs onto the couch. Turned sideways. Bent one knee toward her chest. It pulled her loose shorts higher on her thighs. Every inch was choreography.

“Sometimes,” she whispered, “I’d sit in a director’s lap just long enough to ruin his focus. Whisper things while adjusting my bra. Let fingers slide under a table and stop an inch too soon.”

Her eyes found yours.

“I never had to fuck anyone,” she said. “But I learned exactly how much power a body has—if you know how to use it.”

You stepped forward, slow. Sat across from her, knees nearly touching.

“And you think I’m one of them?” you asked.

She shook her head. “No. You’re not a man who needs tricks. That’s why I want to show you anyway.”

She shifted forward. Placed one hand on your thigh—not bold, not demanding. Just there. A test. Her nails grazed the fabric of your sweats.

“Let me show you what I’ve learned,” she said. “Not for a deal. Not for fame. Just for you.”

You didn’t stop her.

Her fingers slid higher. Her breath hitched.

And then she dropped to her knees between yours, slow as a curtain falling.

Eyes locked to yours.

Mouth parting.

Worship in her posture.

No more teasing.

No more pretending.

You stopped her before she could go further—fingers in her hair, firm.

Ryujin froze on her knees, eyes wide, breath short.

You didn’t speak.

Just leaned down.

And kissed her.

Hard.

It knocked the air from her throat. Her lips opened against yours, soft, then hungry. She melted forward, hands climbing your thighs, fingers curling into your skin like she needed to anchor herself.

You pulled her up by the waist, lifting her into your lap in one smooth motion. Her legs straddled your thighs, sweatshirt rising, skin hot.

She gasped as your hand slid up the inside of her shirt—tracing ribs, the undercurve of one breast. You palmed her through thin fabric, thumb circling her nipple until she moaned.

"You're not ready for this," you murmured into her ear.

"Try me," she whispered.

You slid your sweats down just enough. Her eyes dropped.

And widened.

She swallowed.

"Fuck," she breathed. "It won’t fit—"

"It will," you said, steady. "But only if you stop thinking and start feeling."

You pushed her shorts aside—no panties. She was soaked. She trembled in your lap, breath hitched, hips already shifting.

You lined up. Gripped her hips.

She whimpered as the head pushed against her entrance. Her forehead dropped to your shoulder.

"Too much," she whispered.

You kissed her neck. "Then take it slow."

She lowered herself, one inch at a time.

Her body rolled—slow, unsure, trembling. She gritted her teeth and rocked forward, trying to open wider. You held her still. Guided her hips.

"You want to impress me?" you said against her collarbone. "Then ride me like this is your debut stage."

Her laugh cracked—nervous, breathless. Then she moved.

She slid down further, tight heat dragging every inch.

She cried out—half moan, half disbelief. "I can’t—"

"You’re doing it," you said.

She buried her face in your neck, nails digging into your shoulders. Her hips rolled again, tighter this time. Rhythm building. Skin on skin.

She wasn’t graceful. She was raw. Messy. Desperate.

And it was beautiful.

You held her, lifted into each stroke, let her grind deeper, feel every impossible inch.

“God,” you muttered, voice low. “These are fucking perfect.”

Her mouth twitched into a breathless smile. “You like Asian flavors?”

You grinned. “Didn’t think Korean cuisine would feel this soft.”

She laughed against your mouth—then gasped as you rolled her nipples between your thumbs. Her whole body shivered.

“Oh my god—right there,” she whispered, eyes fluttering.

You leaned forward, mouth brushing the curve of one breast. “You ever let anyone taste you like this?”

She shook her head. "They never… touched them like they mattered."

“They matter now,” you growled.

You sucked one nipple into your mouth—slow, focused, teasing. She cried out, grinding harder on your cock as your tongue circled, teeth grazing gently. You switched to the other, wetter this time, letting her squirm in your lap while her thighs quaked around you.

“You feel everything so deep,” she gasped.

You pressed her down, full length inside her again.

“I want you to feel it in your chest,” you said.

Her lips trembled. Her fingers curled behind your neck.

You moved together—her riding, you thrusting up to meet her, both of you moaning now, louder, breath tangled. The wet sound of your bodies slapping echoed off the walls.

She arched back suddenly, hands braced on your thighs.

“Harder,” she whispered. “Please—I want all of it.”

You gripped her waist. Slammed up into her once. She screamed. Again. Again. Her tits bounced wildly with every stroke, nipples slick and flushed.

“You’re handling me like a fucking champ,” you groaned.

“I’m not done,” she panted. “I want to feel sore. Wrecked.”

You flipped her.

Flat on her back, legs hooked over your arms. You drove in again, deeper now, fucking her slow and hard, watching her face twist—pleasure, disbelief, surrender.

“Never had a black man fuck you like this?” you growled.

She moaned so loud it cracked.

“Never had one, period,” she gasped. “You're ruining me.”

You bent down, kissed her mouth, her neck, her chest—then bit softly over her nipple.

Her body was twitching, lips parted in a moan she couldn’t control, nipples shining from your tongue. Her thighs trembled every time you thrust up into her—deep, thick, stretching her wide enough to leave her gasping.

“Fuck,” she choked, hands pressed flat on your chest. “I—wait—something’s—”

You knew.

You felt it—tight around you, wetter than before, her whole core pulsing.

Then it happened.

Her hips jerked once—twice—and she screamed. Not a polite moan, not a staged gasp. A raw, guttural, high-pitched wail as liquid burst out of her and soaked both of you.

“Oh shit,” you said, eyes wide.

She blinked, dazed, and then looked down.

“Oh my god,” she gasped. “Did I—? I did—”

You both started laughing.

You wiped your face with your forearm, still buried inside her. “Jesus, Ryujin. I thought you were about to pass out.”

She collapsed onto your chest, giggling. “I might. That was—holy shit. Did I just… squirt?”

“You did,” you said, grinning. “Like a fucking geyser.”

She looked mortified. You kissed her anyway.

“Don’t be shy,” you murmured. “That was beautiful.”

She exhaled, messy and breathless, still smiling. “I’ve never—no one’s ever made me—”

You kissed her again. Softer now. She tasted like sweat and heaven.

Then she shifted in your lap, still breathless, and looked down between your bodies.

“You didn’t finish,” she whispered.

You shook your head. “Didn’t want to yet.”

Her hand curled around your jaw, pulling your face to hers. “Tell me how to do it.”

You blinked. “What?”

She grinned. “Teach me.”

She licked once, from base to tip—slow, deliberate. You exhaled through clenched teeth. Her tongue circled the head, then slipped over it like silk. Her lips followed—soft, warm, swallowing you inch by inch.

“Fuck,” you muttered, head tilting back.

She moaned around you, the sound vibrating through your length. Her pace was slow at first, hands resting on your thighs, eyes locked to yours. Every bob of her head was smoother than the last. Deeper. Greedier.

Her spit coated your shaft. She pulled back to stroke it, watching her own hand move with a little awe.

“You feel insane in my mouth,” she said.

“You’re making it hard not to finish.”

She smiled. “That’s the goal.”

She went back down—lips tighter, cheeks hollowed, tongue working every sensitive nerve. You watched her: ponytail swaying, jaw working, throat stretching around you.

You warned her once—voice rough, barely holding back.

“Ryujin, I’m close.”

She pulled off, breathing hard, mouth slick and red.

“No,” she whispered, climbing into your lap. “Not like that.”

You blinked, chest heaving. “What?”

She kissed you hard, then lined you up between her legs again.

“Inside me,” she breathed. “I want to feel it. All of it.”

You grabbed her waist and thrust up—deep. Her mouth fell open. She dropped all the way down with a shuddering moan.

“That’s it,” she panted. “I want to keep it this time.”

You gripped her hips, lifted her up, let her slam down again. Her body clenched around you, tighter now. Hot. Desperate.

You didn’t hold back.

Each thrust shook her. Her tits bounced against your chest. She was babbling now—broken Korean, breathy English, fingers clawing your shoulders.

You warned her again, voice rough. “I’m gonna fill you.”

“Do it.” she gasped. “Please—I want it.”

You came with a growl—hips locked, cock pulsing deep inside her. She cried out as the heat flooded her. Her nails left marks. Her breath staggered.

But she didn’t get off.

Not in the emotional sense.

Not yet.

She stayed straddling your lap, hips resting against yours. You felt her shift—just a little.

You flinched.

“Too much?” she whispered, eyes wide and innocent.

You nodded. “Sensitive.”

She rolled her hips again.

Your whole body jerked.

“Still so full,” she said softly, like it was a compliment. “Still hard enough.”

You groaned. “You’re gonna kill me.”

She smiled—and started moving.

Slow at first. Lazy. Just the barest grind.

Your cock was softening, but still thick, still inside her. Her warmth kept you there, her slick body teasing you without mercy.

Your thighs trembled.

“Fuck, Ryujin…”

She leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “You shouldn’t have let me stay.”

You blinked.

She kissed the shell of your ear. “You really thought I came here for fun?”

You opened your mouth—but she rolled again, deep. You gasped instead.

“I told you I volunteered,” she whispered. “What I didn’t say… was why.”

You were dizzy. Sensitive. Helpless.

She rode you with soft, deep strokes now, not fast, just steady. Every nerve in your cock lit up. Your whole body was trembling, too wrung out to fight it.

“You’re not playing tomorrow,” she said gently. “You’re not going to move.”

You tried to grab her waist, slow her down. She caught your hands and pinned them to your chest.

“You think you’re still in control?” she teased. “Sweet.”

Your hips twitched. You were barely inside her now—just the head—and she still worked you like she owned you.

“I made you come inside me,” she whispered. “Made you spill every drop. And now I’m keeping you here.”

You groaned. You couldn’t stop her.

“You’re twitching,” she giggled. “Are you gonna cry?”

You laughed—breathless. “You’re fucking evil.”

Her eyes softened. “You loved it.”

You did.

You hated how much you did.

She leaned down, kissed your jaw. “Sleep, starboy. Tomorrow’s game’s canceled.”

She kept moving. You couldn't stop shaking.

And then… you went under.

You woke to warmth. Soft skin. Bare thighs straddling your hips.

And Ryujin’s nipple brushing your lips.

You blinked, disoriented.

She giggled, already grinding slow, teasing, like she hadn’t just ridden you into unconsciousness hours ago.

“Rise and shine,” she whispered. “Literally.”

You groaned. Your body ached in places you didn’t know could ache. She rolled her hips, and you twitched—half hard, half helpless.

“Ten rounds,” she said softly, tapping her chest. “One for each time you finish today.”

She leaned in, slipped her nipple between your lips.

You sucked.

She moaned, arching against you, hand braced on your chest. “You ditch the game,” she whispered, “you get both tits and the rest of the buffet.”

You looked up, dazed. “You’re serious.”

“Totally.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What if I want just two rounds?”

Her smile turned slow and wicked. “Still worth it.”

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand.

You looked at her. Then at her chest, rising and falling against your mouth.

You grabbed the phone, turned it off.

Then stood up—naked, cock rising, muscles shaking.

She clapped, beaming.

And then—

A second knock at the door.

You froze.

It opened on its own.

Yeji stepped in first, hair loose, wearing nothing but a silk shirt and that same unreadable smile from two nights ago.

“Game’s canceled, huh?” she purred.

Lia followed, in boyshorts and a lace bra. “Good. Now we get to play.”

Chaeryeong peeked in from behind them, blushing, holding a tray of food—actual food—but her eyes said something else.

Yuna walked in last, stretched like a cat, wearing Ryujin’s discarded hoodie. She winked. “We brought dessert.”

You stood there stunned—naked, hard, marked by Ryujin’s bites.

And five idols stood before you, all in various states of undress, all with the same look in their eyes:

Hungry.

Ryujin leaned into your ear. “Full Asian course meal, starboy.”

Yeji blew you a kiss.

And the door clicked shut behind them.

----- m night shyamalan twist ahha

[twisted-broth]

A Human's Touch

Mr Gap x Reader

(Anything in bold is other world language)

It had been a while now since you had returned to the other world. It was hard to tell time here, but at least you knew that this was where you belonged. It was almost laughable to think that you once tried to leave this place.

You would never admit it, but you really owed a lot to the shit eating grin that always manages to pop up whenever you need him. Even now, with you life no longer in constant peril, he pops up somewhere nearby quite often. It could be from the crack of your closet, inside your bag, or a random hole in the wall that you swear wasn't there before. As annoying as Mr Gap was, he was probably the closest thing you had to a friend. He would even bring you things from the human world if you asked. For a price, of course.

You sigh as your "friend" holds one of your favorite books from the human world just out of reach. He was playing his favorite game again.

"Give leg." He demanded.

"Give foot." Was your counter offer. Most of your body parts would grow back, but it takes longer for bigger parts and more complex organs. Luckily there didn't seem to be a word in their language for liver or spinal column.

His expression twists for a moment, but the smile quickly returns. "Yes." He agrees.

The pain that radiates from your ankle would have made you pass out a few months ago, but now it only elicits a stifled grunt. You snatch the book from Mr. Gap's hand as he smiles at the newfound treasure that appears in his grasp. You sigh once more and put the book to the side before pressing an already bloodied towel to your ankle.

With the bleeding successfully stopped, there was nothing else for you to do but lie in bed while you waited for it to grow back. You spared a glance towards your new book, but couldn't muster the energy to read it. The isolation of this world had been wearing on you. You had been spending time with Mr Silvair and Mr Chopped lately, but there was another recent earthquake that blocked off your path to them. You had yet to find the time to search for a new one.

With an arm draped over your eyes, you fell back against your threadbare pillow. The covers rustled around you, giving away the presence of another with you.

"Why sad?" You opened one eye to look down at your covers. The face of Mr Gap blended in with the darkness above your legs. If he had a body, he would be nearly lying on top of you. The part of your brain that was still human couldn't help but think that some actual physical touch would be nice.

"I one. Sad. Friend not here." Elaborating on the concept of loneliness using a lexicon of 100 words wasn't really a task you wanted to undertake at the moment.

You had thought Mr Gap would either leave or laugh at you, but to your surprise he looked confused. "I here." He responded.

Now it was your turn to be confused. If you weren't mistaken, he seemed almost offended that you hadn't called him a friend.

"You friend?"

"Yes." If this language had some equivalent of 'duh', you imagined that would be what he would say instead.

All you can do in response is blink at him. You really never imagined that Mr Gap would hang around you because he considered you a friend. If anything, you thought he just saw you as a an endless stream of various body parts. "Thank you. I like friend."

Hesitantly, you lifted a hand to reach up and stroke his head. He looked mildly disgusted (which was often his expression anyway), but didn't react otherwise. His hair wasn't exactly pleasant to touch- it was greasy and weirdly damp in places- but at least it was something of what you had been missing. He continued to humor you, but you decided not to push your luck on how long he would allow you to continue touching him.

"Why touch?" He asked when you were done.

"Human like touch. Make sad go away." It wasn't exactly what you wanted to say, but you figured it would get the point across.

Hesitantly, one of his arms reaches out from beneath your covers. Your current working theory was that his arms just appeared whenever he needed them, but you haven't gotten around to asking him yet. Your positioning is a bit awkward, so he can't reach your head to return your pats. Instead, he pats you on the shoulder for a few seconds. His hands are cold and clammy, but those few seconds of touch are something you've been missing for a while.

You smile. Mr Gap could be annoying at best and cruel at worst, but it would seem that he does have a sweet side to him after all. You distantly wonder if some semblance of a normal relationship would be possible here. Unlikely, but it may not be as out of reach as you once thought.

"Thank you. You good friend." You said after a beat of silence. For a moment it appears like he isn't quite sure how to feel about your declaration. You don't imagine it's something people tell him often. After a second of thought, he returns your smile.

"Me good friend. You give heart?"

Well, you can work on that.

[haniette]

untouchable. // ln4

pairing l lando norris x fem!reader

genre | smut, angst, college au, enemies to ???

word count l 8.2k

warnings | no use of y/n, fratboy!lando, smut (18+) minors dni. (dom!lando, sub!reader, fingering, bathroom (mirror) sex, p in v, dirty talk, voyeurism, heavy degradation kink, semi-public sex, hair pulling, some cum play) possessive!lando, kinda mean!lando :(, pet names (baby, sweetheart, darling), kissing/hot makeout scenes, lots of tention, cursing.

(losely) inspired by: madison beer — make you mine, nessa barret — pornstar

summary: everyone called you the untouchable girl—too pretty, too bitchy, and too far out of reach. Lando didn’t believe in the rumors, didn’t want to believe it. so he set out to prove them wrong, and he did. just not in the way anyone would have expected.

a/n: omg.. it was my first time writing smut, and y’all.. i hope it’s okay 😭 also big shoutout to @norristrii for believing in me and making me finally post it, love you babsie 🧡 anyways, tell me if you’d like a part two or smth hehe~ hope you’ll enjoy !! ( ´ ▽ ` ).｡♡

You weren’t trying to make an entrance. Not really. It just kind of happened.

The sky was clear, the air cool enough for your coat to feel just the right amount of heavy on your shoulders, but warm enough that your legs, exposed in your perfect-fitting skirt, could still breathe.

First day of the semester—new campus, new faces. New everything.

You stepped out of the car and the world felt like it tilted for a second. Not because you looked back or hesitated, you didn’t. Every step you took was measured, as if you were walking a runway no one could see but you. The sound of your heels clicking against the pavement was hypnotic, like a warning before the storm. 

Your skirt was hugging your hips just right, and your sunglasses hiding half your face but none of your expression—bored. Distant, yet still slightly amused. You didn’t smile, not even once but still, heads turned. 

And when you reached the entrance of the college campus, it felt like the world held its breath. You weren’t in a hurry, you never were.

But the moment you walked through those gates, everything slowed.

There was a murmur. A ripple, like a stone dropped in a quiet pond. A girl laughed too loudly. A guy stumbled over his words. A group near the steps whispered and turned their heads, eyes widening, mouths barely moving.

You didn’t even look around to see who was watching. You already knew everyone was.

Every gaze on you was slipping under your skin like a shiver you couldn’t shake off. You were used to the attention, and the looks that never quite left you alone. But here, in this sea of strangers, it felt… different. Bigger, more intense.

Conversations stopped mid-sentence. Boys straightened up, and girls narrowed their eyes. They didn’t know your name yet but it didn’t matter. You walked across campus like it belonged to you—like they belonged to you—and everyone felt it.

You knew you were pretty. But there was something else about you, something more. A quiet confidence that was too much for them to just ignore.

After three days, they already knew your name. And after a week, they were saying it like it’s a dare.

Some claimed you transferred from a different elite private college in England, and others suspected that it had to be from another country. Rumors swirled like smoke, impossible to catch. Maybe your dad was loaded? Maybe you were a model? Or maybe you had a scandal back at your old school?

No one really knew the truth, and you never bothered correcting them. Instead, you walked into the class and sat alone—always early, always in the same spot, always with that faint scent of expensive perfume, and that don’t-talk-to-me aura.

By a week or two, the more complicated stories had already started. You didn’t give anyone much to go on—you were polite, sure, but still unbothered. 

Untouchable.

You sat at the front in every class, never late, always alert. Answered questions with a sharp tongue and a smoother voice.

The girls—they hated you on principle. Even the ones who wanted to like you, felt the heat of their own insecurity rise the longer you were near them. You weren’t loud, weren’t fake-nice. You didn’t beg for approval. You just existed—and that’s the part that stung the most.

You didn’t ask anyone to notice you, you just made it impossible not to.

They saw their boyfriends look at you a little too long, and observed how their exes stalked your socials and liked old pictures. You wore confidence like lingerie under every outfit—hidden, but felt.

And so they whispered.

“She’s such a bitch.”

“She thinks she’s above everyone.”

“Has she even spoken to anyone?”

“I bet she hasn't even given head to anyone in her life.”

“Probably just a pretty face with daddy’s credit card.”

But they still glanced, still had to double look. Still tried to pathetically copy your outfits, thinking no one would notice.

And the boys? That was a whole different story. 

They were bolder. Eyes raking over you like they wanted to strip you of that power.

“She's insanely hot.”

“Nah, she’s cold. Look at her, she doesn’t talk to anyone.”

“My homie said he tried to ask her out and she laughed in his face.”

“She’s such a fucking bitch. Thinks she’s better than everyone.”

“I heard she turned down Jake. Yeah, she told him to fuck off.”

“I’d still fuck her.”

You heard it all, the whispers in the halls. Noticed the glances in the library, the subtle shifts in group dynamics when you walked into a room. And every single time, you kept your chin up, eyes forward, lips painted in a color too bold for anyone else to wear at 9AM.

You knew what they thought, and you didn’t care.

They wanted you. Desperately and pathetically. Some tried subtle—a smile here, a compliment there. Some tried bold, “Hey, you free this weekend?” And every single time, you turned them down.

Once, one guy said you smiled at him after a class, and touched his arm, leaning in close. He told everyone that you were into him. But the truth was, you didn’t even remember his name. And the next time he approached you, you stared at him like he was something stuck to the bottom of your shoe.

After that, the rumors have changed drastically. Now it wasn’t just that you were pretty. You were unreachable, above all of them.

They called you the untouchable princess like it was an insult—but you actually liked it. It just felt right because none of them had a chance with you. They never did.

None of them, except him—Lando Norris.

The kind of a guy your old friends would have warned you about. The kind of a guy who didn’t chase anymore, because he didn’t have to. Girls came to him—fell for his accent, soft, chocolate colored curls, that stupid grin, and those muscles hidden under his hoodie.

You noticed him before he said a single word to you. Not because he was loud, not because he flirted.

He didn’t. And that was the whole point.

He didn’t gawk or shift uncomfortably like the rest of the guys. He just watched from the back row, those aquamarine eyes of his stayed locked on you, tracing every curve of your body, every movement you made. You could feel him studying you, but he never tried to approach. Never even gave you a hint of a smile. Most guys would have tried something—a wink, a subtle compliment. But not him. 

Lando seemed to be more of a silent observer—the kind of guy who liked to watch before making a move. The kind who liked to study what he couldn’t quite believe. 

You didn’t give him any reason to break his silence. Your gaze never strayed toward him. You didn’t need to—you were above that. Still, the tension between you and him was palpable, and you felt it. Every second you were in that lecture hall, that magnetic pull of him watching you from across the room.

And for the first time since stepping on campus, you felt it—that flicker. That little electric twinge at the base of your spine. Because he wasn’t trying to win you over. He was studying you, testing you. And that? That was far more dangerous than any compliment.

When lunch time came, you barely bothered with the cafeteria. Why would you? You weren’t some average college student who ate their meals at the same tables as everyone else. No, you had your own routine. 

You went to your favorite spot, a quiet bench by the trees at the edge of campus. The breeze was always perfect there, your skin kissed by the sunlight while you scrolled on your phone—every so often glancing up to see who noticed.

It was there you saw Lando again. He was with a group of guys, laughing a little too loud, but his eyes kept flicking toward you.

You watched him as he glanced your way, his gaze lingering. His friends didn’t notice, too caught up in their conversation. But you noticed, and for the first time, you allowed yourself to meet his eyes.

You didn’t smile, didn’t even acknowledge him. But you locked eyes for a split second, and he didn’t look away. There was something about the way he watched you—intense, intrigued, like you were a puzzle he couldn’t figure out. 

You felt that stare burn into you like a mark. And when you stood up to leave, the air felt even heavier. It was the first time you’d felt this kind of electricity, this tension between you and someone else. Not just because he was looking at you. Not just because he was intrigued by the mystery of the untouchable girl.

But because Lando wasn’t like the others.

He knew what you were. He didn’t try to approach—he watched, and something in his eyes told you he wouldn’t be satisfied until he had figured you out.

────୨ৎ────

For Lando, it should’ve been nothing—just another girl in a sea of faces. Another pretty one among hundreds of college students, all trying to stand out in their own way. 

But you? You were different.

Lando knew it before he even saw you. It wasn’t the beauty—he’d seen beautiful girls before. Hell, he’d had more than his fair share. It was the way the entire atmosphere seemed to shift when you first walked in. The murmur of voices dropped, conversations paused mid-sentence, and there was this subtle tension in the air—like the campus collectively held its breath.

He glanced up, his irritation already starting to build—he hated the drama, the unspoken competition among his friends, the way everyone seemed to lose their minds over a new girl. 

But then he saw you. Tall and graceful. Skin glowing in a way that made no sense under fluorescent lights. You wore confidence like a second skin, head high, eyes forward, never faltering. There was a quiet authority in your presence that didn’t need words. 

You weren’t looking for attention—but you got it, anyway. And fuck, that did kind of annoy him.

He watched you move through the hall like you owned it. Every step was deliberate, every motion sharp and controlled. You didn’t smile at anyone, didn’t even glance at the people who were already undressing you with their eyes.

“Oh, fuck me,” One of his friends muttered under his breath. “She’s a total 100.”

Lando snickered at his comment as he was used to the talk. He’d heard it all before. And the way every guy’s jaw dropped the second you walked into a room, the way they tripped over themselves just to be noticed by you. He’d seen it a hundred times. 

But surprisingly, you didn’t seem to care. In fact, you seemed to enjoy it—the way they wanted you, the way they tried so damn hard, but couldn’t even get a chance to look you in the eye.

He rolled his eyes. Fuck this.

By the end of the week, the rumors started spreading.

“She’s untouchable. No one’s ever gotten close.”

“I tried to ask her out. She laughed and told me to fuck off.”

“She’s just a bitch. Thinks she’s too good for anyone here.”

But the one that stuck? The one everyone repeated like it was the gospel truth—the untouchable princess.

Lando didn’t even know why it irritated him so much. It was just a nickname. Just three, meaningless words for him. Yet for some reason, he couldn’t shake it off. It crawled under his skin in a way he wasn’t used to. It was the way people were treating you like a myth—this perfect, untouchable creature who couldn’t be touched, couldn’t be reached.

And as much as he tried to keep his composure, he had to admit that he hated it.

There was no denying that Lando had his own reputation. Everyone on campus knew who he was: the loud, cocky frat boy who always seemed to be having fun, who lived for the challenge of pulling the next girl into his bed. But you? You were different. You didn’t care about guys like him—and that was infuriating.

He’d watched other guys try. Some were bold, others sweet, some obnoxious, and a few damn near desperate. But you never blinked. You never even acknowledged them—except for the rare moments when you’d look at them with that cold, almost condescending smile.

“You know, I tried talking to her the other day,” One of the guys complained, rolling his eyes at the mere thought of you. “And can you believe that she just looked at me and said, ‘I don’t think you’re worth my time.’ What a fucking bitch.”

Lando had heard the stories. Hell, everyone had. But the thing that got him wasn’t the stories themselves. It was the fact that you never gave anyone—anyone—a shot. You made it clear, in a way that was so effortless it was almost cruel, that you were above them.

That was what pissed him off so much.

One night, Lando sat with a few of his friends at the campus bar, listening to them debate how they might finally break through your perfect little bubble. 

“She’s a challenge,” One of the guys said, taking a swig from his beer. “No one’s gotten in. But I bet she’ll crack soon.”

Lando had been quiet. Too quiet, in fact. He didn’t know why he was even bothered by the conversation, but he was. He didn’t like the way they talked about you like you were some kind of conquest. He didn’t like how they dismissed you as just another pretty face, like they could wear you down if they just kept trying hard enough.

What made you untouchable, anyway? Was it your looks? Your attitude? The way you always seemed so goddamn unbothered by the world around you?

Fuck, he was tired of it already. Still, something about it nagged at him. And Lando wasn’t the kind of guy who backed down from a challenge—not even if that challenge was wrapped up in a cold, perfect, untouchable package.

By the time the first party of the semester rolled around, everyone knew you’d be there. It was like some kind of unspoken rule—you never skipped a chance to make an appearance, but you never really engaged either. You’d show up, stand in the corner in that definitely too short skirt and a tube top while casually sipping your drink, and making sure no one got too close.

And that’s when Lando saw you again. You were standing there, across the room, looking like you didn’t care about a single thing happening around you. Your friends laughed in the distance, but you were… separate. Like you didn’t belong to them. Like you belonged somewhere else entirely.

And Lando? Well, he wasn’t about to let this go on much longer.

“Hey,” One of his friends said, elbowing him. “Isn’t that the untouchable princess?”

Lando narrowed his eyes, watching you across the room. You hadn’t even noticed him yet.

“Yeah,” He muttered, his voice thick with annoyance. “Untouchable. Sure.”

Lando didn’t know what had possessed him, but before he knew it, he excused himself from his group and pushed through the crowd towards you. His mind was racing, irritation bubbling up in his chest. 

What the hell was he doing? He didn’t need to chase anyone—especially not someone like you.

But there was something in the way you stood there, pretty and untouched, like you were above everyone else. Something about it— about you—made him need to test it for himself.

────୨ৎ────

You were already tipsy when he found you. Not drunk—never sloppy—but softened. Loosened, like your walls had finally cracked, just enough to let something in.

You were in the hallway, lit by the low pulse of party lights and the bass thudding through the floor. The air smelled like cheap beer and sweat, but somehow, when you turned your head to look at him, all he could smell was your perfume. Warm, sharp, and dangerous.

“Looking for something?” Lando asked, leaning in like he already knew the answer.

You stared at him for half a beat before finally answering, “Privacy.” 

His brow rose, a smile wandering on his lips, “And you’re telling me that… why?” His eyes fell to your lips before looking back into your eyes, and biting his lower lip. 

He knew what he was doing.

After a moment of silence, you finally shot, “Bathroom. Now.” To which Lando’s eyes shined almost immediately as if he was anticipating you saying that. 

Then, you turned, slow and graceful, and walked into the nearest bathroom, his hands on you before the lock even clicked.

The second the door shut behind you two, the air went thick. His hand was at your waist, spinning you around, pressing you back against the counter so hard the edge dug into the skin of your thighs. It was like the pressure in the room doubled, the music from the party outside growing muffled, distant. Everything shrank down until it was just the two of you—just Lando, and that unstoppable pull he had toward you. 

You didn’t need to say a word. The moment you stepped into this space, the moment you looked at him with that gaze—he knew what you wanted. You were too pretty to hide it. Too perfect to pretend. And in here, with the door locked behind you? You couldn’t lie to him anymore.

“Fucking finally.” Lando muttered as he crushed his mouth against yours like he’d been waiting years for it, not just weeks. 

He kissed you like he hated you—like you’d pissed him off just by existing, and maybe you had. The way you walked around with your chin high, that bored little smirk on your face, pretending like nothing and no one could touch you. Well, now he was going to.

His hands were everywhere—gripping your waist, lifting you off the ground and slamming you into the sink. The cold tile of the counter pressed against your thighs, and you gasped, head falling back as your breath caught. Then he proceeded to slide his hands under your top, dragging them upward like he couldn’t decide what to rip off first.

His kiss felt as if he wanted to devour you, not just taste your lips. Like he could rip the pride out of you with his mouth alone. Lando’s tongue slipped inside your mouth, claiming you, leaving no space between you and him. His lips were bruising against yours—not soft, not caring. 

After finally pulling himself away from your intoxicating kiss, he slid lower, trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses along your skin like he couldn’t get enough of you. Lando grinned against the skin of your jaw, because fuck, he’d known it. Knew the rumors were wrong. Knew you weren’t some frigid little ice queen. You were fire.

“Been watching you,” He growled into your neck, lips hot against your skin. “Strutting around like some fucking queen. All the guys panting. You act like they don’t exist. You think you’re too good for them, don’t you?”

You let out a breathy laugh, cocky, smug. “Oh, but I am.”

He grinned against your throat. “Yeah? Let’s see then, shall we?”

His fingers tangled in your hair, yanking just enough to make your mouth open wider, lipstick smeared at the corner of your lips—already ruined, and he hadn’t even touched you properly yet. He stared at you like you were a prey, chest rising, jaw clenched.

And he could feel it now as he slid his hands under your skirt. The truth—no panties. You wanted this, had wanted it all along.

“Of course you’re not wearing anything under this,” He snickered, voice low and rough as his hand slid up your thigh. “You knew exactly what you were doing, didn’t you?”

You blinked up at him—breathless, already trembling. “Maybe.”

“Such a fucking tease.” He muttered, voice low, almost a growl. 

Your heart pounded. God, you couldn’t even pretend anymore. There was nothing but need, desperate and raw, coiling deep in your belly. You were so wet for him—every inch of you had been waiting for this.

You could feel his breath against your neck as he whispered low, his voice dark and rough. “You think I’m just gonna fuck you?” Lando paused, his  hands sliding over your stomach, up to your ribs, then down again to your thighs. “No, sweetheart. You’re gonna let me make you come first.”

His fingers traced the curve of your thigh—just a light touch, just enough to make you shiver. Then, without warning, his hand slid up between your thighs, his fingers dragging through your folds again, slow and deliberate, testing, teasing.

“God, you’re so wet,” He snickered, fingers gently brushing over your clit. “And all of this for me? For a guy like me?”

“S-shut up.” You tried to answer him while trying to hold yourself together as his fingers circled your clit again, a little firmer this time. 

You couldn’t help the shiver that ran through you, your hips involuntarily grinding back against his hand. 

“Oh, darling, don’t act like you’re not into this,” He teased, his voice dripping with that signature smirk. “You’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you? Wanted me to touch you.”

His thumb pressed down a little harder, dragging through your slickness, and you gasped, a small sound escaping before you could stop it. 

Lando smirked at your reaction, “You like that?” He asked, his voice low, and husky.

Your body answered for you—a tremor passed through you, and you had to grip the counter harder, trying to steady yourself as his fingers slid down, slipping inside you with one slow move. Your breath immediately caught in your throat. The sweet stretch of his fingers, and the pressure was just enough to make you gasp, make your body pulse around him.

“There we go,” He grinned, chuckling at how responsive you were. “So fucking tight. I bet no one’s ever made you feel this way. Bet they’ve all just fucked you without taking care of you, haven’t they?” You clenched around him, the words stinging even though you weren’t sure if they were true. 

Lando’s fingers worked you, pulling out, pushing in again, circling inside you, deep enough to make you ache, but never enough to break you—at least, not yet.

“Oh, fuck—” You moaned, sounding already wrecked.

“God, listen to you,” He groaned, scrutinizing your facial expressions, “You sound perfectly, and you feel so good,” Lando added, his voice turning rougher. “Tighter than I thought. Like you’ve been holding out for me.”

You could barely breathe, your pulse racing, and your hips moved involuntarily with the rhythm of his hand, desperate for more. You felt every flick of his fingers, every press against that one sweet spot deep inside you. You whimpered, soft and broken, and your hips rolled toward his hand instinctively—needy, just like he knew you were.

“That’s right, baby,” Lando whispered against your skin, lips leaving wet kisses down your throat. “Rub your perfect little cunt on my hand. C’mon, make it messy.” 

And you did—rocking back against him, desperate for friction, for anything. 

“I knew it,” Lando groaned, the corner of his lips lifing slightly, “Knew you weren’t some cold, untouchable princess. You’re a filthy fucking girl in disguise, aren’t you?”

Your voice was breathy, wrecked. “Yes—”

“Louder.”

“Yes! Fuck—” His thumb brushed against your clit, the pressure sending a jolt of pleasure through you, and you gasped. “Oh shit— Lan—”

“You’re getting close, huh?” His voice was almost a growl now, his hand moving faster, firmer. “I can feel it because you’re fucking soaked for me. Want me to make you come on my fingers? Want me to touch you until you can’t think straight, sweetheart?”

You nodded, desperate now, your body already trembling, the heat building in your core. You felt like you were on the edge, and he was the only thing keeping you from falling.

“Yes—yes, Lando— please!”

“Come for me then,” He demanded, his voice cold and commanding, but there was an edge of tenderness beneath it. “Show me how good my fingers make you feel.”

And with the last push of his fingers, you came with a strangled cry, your legs nearly buckling, pussy clenching so hard around his fingers it dragged a groan out of him. 

You collapsed against the counter, gripping it tightly as the orgasm ripped through you, your body trembling and pulsing as you came all over his hand. His fingers never stopped, though—still working you through it, gently, teasingly, until your hips jerked away from him, too sensitive to take any more.

You instinctively leaned forward, resting your head against his chest as the impact of your orgasm had caught up with you. One of Lando’s arms wrapped around your fragile figure, trying to ground you for the moment.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” He whispered, his voice rough, but there was something different in it now—something darker. “You’re fucking amazing, you know that? Could watch you all night long.”

Lando pulled his fingers out of you slowly, deliberately, watching the way your slick clung to them—thick and glistening under the low light of the bathroom. His chest rose with a sharp inhale, and you watched, breath caught in your throat, as he brought those same fingers to his lips. He didn’t look away from you. Not once.

He sucked the tips into his mouth, tasting you with a low groan rumbling from his chest — guttural, unrestrained, and so visceral it made your stomach twist.

“Fuck,” He breathed against his fingers, voice dark and reverent. “You taste just how I imagined—sweet and so fucking delicious.”

The praise struck something deep in you, heat blooming fast, sharp and needy. You squirmed under his gaze, lips parted, barely breathing as you watched him slowly pull his fingers from his mouth.

And then he brought them to your lips.

“Open your mouth.”

You didn’t need him to say it again. Your lips parted willingly, your pulse hammering in your ears as his slick-coated fingers slid inside. Your tongue wrapped around them, eagerly licking your taste off of him, eyes locked with his the entire time.

The way he watched you—so focused, and so possessive—made your whole body tense. There was nothing playful in his expression now. Only hunger. Only claiming.

He dragged his fingers back out with a deliberate slowness, lips curling into something wicked as he brushed a damp strand of hair behind your ear, voice lowering.

“Still think you’re untouchable?”

Your breath caught in your throat because right now, you didn’t feel untouchable at all. You felt owned.

While still recovering from the aftershocks, you could barely speak. But as you pushed away from his chest to look up at him, you managed to smirk—just a little.

“Maybe I’m just not easy.”

Lando chuckled, that wicked grin returning to his lips. He pressed his forehead against yours, body still flush against yours, but his hands never stopped roaming—touching, caressing, like he couldn’t get enough.

“Don’t worry, princess. You’re not easy, I’ll give you that.” He leaned in close, voice just a whisper against your ear. “But I’m gonna make you mine.”

In the split of the second, Lando turned you towards the sink, forcing you to face the mirror. The glass of the mirror fogged slightly in front of you from your breath, your palms flattening on either side of the basin to steady yourself. Your eyes met his in the reflection, wide, glossy, mascara already beginning to melt. Your reflection was already flushed, dazed—lips kiss-bruised, hair tugged loose.

“Look at yourself,” He murmured, “Pretty little thing. Bet you’ve never looked this messy before.”

The reflection in the mirror stared back at you. You already looked wrecked—lips swollen, eyes dark, cheeks flushed—and he hadn’t even fucked you yet. But he was going to. And oh, he was going to make a goddamn mess out of you.

Lando didn’t even have to pull you into place. You were already bending for him—hands braced on the edge of the sink, ass tilted just right, like your body knew what it was for before your mind caught up. 

You didn’t even get a chance to recover before you heard the rip of a condom packet, barely being able to register it over your own panting. Then, he was already lining himself up, one hand gripping your waist, and the other guiding himself to your entrance.

“Still so wet for me, sweetheart,” He chuckled, “You’re gonna take every inch of me, aren’t you?” Lando asked before he finally pushed into you—slowly, the head of his cock stretching you, making you cry out again.

“Fuck—” His fingers dug into your waist as he buried himself deeper, forcing a cry out of you as your body stretched to accommodate him.

For a moment, all you could hear was your breath—heavy and desperate, mingling with his. Your hands were planted on the counter, gripping so tightly you thought you might break the ceramic. But you didn’t care. In that moment, every inch of you in was focused on him—on his cock filling you up.

“Shit—so fucking tight,” He hissed under his breath. “Taking me so well, though. Look at that. Every inch.” 

He didn’t stop until he was buried inside you. The stretch was perfect—just enough to make your breath hitch, just enough to make you feel full, completely. He held still for a moment, grinding his hips into yours, letting you feel it, letting it burn a little.

“You okay?” Lando asked, voice suddenly quieter and tender as he leaned down to you. His eyes met yours in the mirror, gentle and caring, “Is it too much?” 

“N-no—” You answered as you shook your head frantically, desperate, breathless.

“Good,” He murmured, lips kissing softly your shoulder. “Because I’m not stopping.” 

And then he started to move. Long, slow thrusts at first—like he wanted you to feel every dragging inch as he slid in and out of you. 

You moaned loudly, and Lando lost it. His hands dug into your hips as his thrusts turned rough, desperate, each one slamming into you harder than the last. The sound of skin against skin filled the room, obscene and beautiful.

“You feel that?” He groaned, pounding into you, voice breaking. “That’s what being fucked feels like.”

You were too far gone to answer. Just moaned again, louder, hips moving back against him like you needed more. “Lan—”

“Say it again,” He growled. “Say my name like that.”

“Lan…” You gasped, eyes fluttering, mascara streaking down you cheeks. “God— Lando!”

His hand wrapped in your hair and he pulled your head up, forcing your gaze back to the mirror. “Look at you, sweetheart,” He murmured, “This is the girl everyone’s scared to talk to?”

You whimpered a noise that didn’t sound like it belonged to you. Not the cold, controlled, perfect girl everyone knew.

“But this is how I want to see you,” He whispered, hips snapping forward again. “Bent over, begging. Not walking past me like you don’t even see me. Not pretending you’re too good for this.”

You weren’t even pretending anymore. You were completely gone. Eyes glassy, mouth open, nails dragging down the edge of the sink. You whimpered, arching your back as your body took everything he gave and still begged for more. 

“I knew it. I knew you were gonna feel like this,” His voice was breaking now, hips snapping forward. “I’ve dreamt about it. Losing my fucking mind thinking about it. Every time I saw you walk past me in that tiny little skirt—”

Slap. His hand came down hard on your ass. You cried out, grinding back on him like you loved it.

“I knew I had to be the one to break you. Not just fuck you. But ruin you.” Your makeup was smudged, eyes glassy, drool collecting at the corner of your mouth.

“Look at yourself,” He growled again, one hand tangling in your hair once again, yanking your head up. “Eyes on the fucking mirror.” He forced you to watch. 

When you did as he said, you were immediately met with the sight of your mascara streaking down your cheeks, the red bite marks on your neck, the tremble in your thighs every time he drove into you.

“I look—” You gasped, not being able to form a proper sentence.

“Say it,” He snickered, “Tell me how you look, baby.”

“I… I look—” You blinked, eyes glossy from the tears that had gathered in the meantime. “Ugly.”

Lando smirked, lips brushing your ear as he slowed the rhythm—deep, grinding thrusts that made your whole body jolt. “Finally. Finally not so fucking perfect. But shit—” His voice cracked. “You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever fucking seen.”

As much as he didn’t want to, Lando had to admit that the rumors weren’t just a noise.

You were every bit as breathtaking as they said. No, not just pretty. Stunning, ethereal, and achingly divine. The kind of beauty that didn’t require introductions—it walked in before you did, settled into rooms before your name was even spoken. 

What pissed Lando off was that no one was exaggerating it. There was no illusion here, no inflated tale passed down in drunken whispers between boys at frat parties.

And the worst part? You knew it. 

You were the kind of pretty that hurt to look at too long. Everything about you was deliberate—every glance, every flick of your hair, every sharp curve of your smile. Even the way you told boys “no” had a certain poise to it. Like rejection was a language you were fluent in.

It was that confidence that infuriating, untouchable grace that made you impossible to ignore. Even now—half-undressed, flushed, breathless—that same air clung to you. Head tipped back, mouth parted, eyes glazed over from the intensity of his touch. You looked utterly wrecked, and yet somehow still composed, still powerful in your vulnerability. And that made Lando grit his fucking teeth.

Strands of hair that stuck to your skin because of the sweat, were now framing your face. Some were sticking out in wild directions from how tightly he’d gripped your hair moments ago. Your top slid down your body, and your bralette was tugged down just enough for your breasts to spill out. Lando’s hickeys and marks were littered across your chest, your neck, and your thighs as some silent reminders of the chaos between you, of how tightly he’d held you, how desperately he’d tried to burn himself into your skin.

You looked completely ruined. Yet still impossibly, maddeningly, gorgeous. 

Your legs were shaking, whimpering louder with each thrust. Lando leaned forward—chest pressing to your back, one hand snaking up to grip your jaw, forcing your eyes back to your own reflection.

“All that attitude, and that untouchable bullshit. But you’re fucking soaked, sweetheart. So wet that it’s pathetic. Where is that attitude now, huh?”

You didn’t answer—couldn’t. The words were lodged somewhere in your throat, drowning in the way your body was still twitching from the last orgasm he’d torn out of you. You weren’t sure if you could find your voice even if you wanted to because you were crying now—not sobbing, but tears had welled in your eyes, smudging your mascara, making streaks down your cheeks.

And it was beautiful.

“That’s what I thought,” He breathed, lips ghosting over your ear. “You’re not untouchable, that’s some bullshit. You’re just mine.”

His words felt like silk and gasoline, soft and destructive at once, setting fire to everything you thought you knew about yourself. And as he rocked into you again—slow, deep, possessive—the mirror gave you nowhere to hide.

This wasn’t the version of you the world knew, and this wasn’t the girl they whispered about in dining halls and locker rooms. This was the one Lando had—unraveling, trembling, bare in every sense of the word.

As Lando watched you fall apart again beneath him, he couldn’t help but smile. It wasn’t out of cruelty, but with the satisfaction that he’d gotten closer to something no one else ever would.

The sight of you like this—breathing heavy, lips kiss-swollen, eyes glossy—wasn’t supposed to exist. You weren’t supposed to exist like this. vulnerable. Letting him or anyone see you like this. But here you were, and it fucking wrecked him. 

If this was what you looked like when you were ruined, then no wonder no one could shut the fuck up about you. And now that he’d seen it for himself, touched it, tasted it, and felt it—there was no going back.

He slammed into you again, and again, and your walls clenched around him like you were close. The wet sound of your arousal echoed between you, loud and filthy and raw as your thighs trembled.

You moaned, loud, and broken. Your hips rocked back, chasing him as he leaned in, lips at your ear. “Tell me, baby,” He whispered. “Tell me you’ve been thinking about this.”

You nodded, but it wasn’t enough. He slammed his cock into you deeper—harder—and your mouth fell open on a cry.

“Say it.”

“Yes— Lando—fuck—I’ve been thinking about it,” You gasped. “Your hands— your dick— I wanted all of you—”

“I know you did,” He laughed smugly. “I felt it the second you walked in the room. Every fucking guy here’s been drooling over you, but you didn’t want them, did you?”

“No—” You managed to stutter.

“You wanted me. The one who wasn’t chasing you.”

Your head dropped forward, breath coming in short, shallow gasps. Hie was relentless now—deep and steady, thumb matching the rhythm on your clit until your legs threatened to give. 

“Please, Lan! Fuck, let me come—”

“That’s it, princess,” He whispered. “Come for me. Come while you look like this—crying, filthy, and drooling on my cock. Let them call you untouchable now.”

You came hard—body convulsing, mouth open in a silent scream, nails digging into porcelain like you might break it. Your moans filled the room, echoing off tile and mirror and the sound of skin slapping skin. Your whole body shook, muscles clamping around him like a vice. 

And as you were still gasping, limp against the sink, legs trembling hard, Lando wrapped his arm around your waist to keep you upright.

“Such a good fucking girl,” He murmured, “Taking it all, and letting me wreck you.”

When he came, deep and hard inside you, growling your name, he didn’t pull out. He just held you there, trembling, gasping, both of you sticky with sweat and slick and spit and the heat of the kind of sex that left marks long after it ended.

You both stayed there for a beat, panting. You couldn’t even find any strength to lift your head. Your legs were shaking, lips wet with spit. And when you finally raised your head up, you met his eyes in the mirror again. Still flushed, still gorgeous, even like this.

He leaned down, lips brushing your neck, voice low. “Yeah,” Lando muttered, like a confession, still holding you as if your were the most fragile thing in the world.

“Even ruined like this, you’re still the prettiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”

────୨ৎ────

Lando barely heard the words of his friends at first.

He was too far gone in his own head, back in that bathroom. 

His chest tightened with the memory. He barely noticed when one of his buddies kicked his foot again under the table. 

“Yo, Lando, you hear me?”

Lando blinked, dragging himself out of the fog of his thoughts. The conversation buzzed around him, a lazy backdrop to the one thing still on his mind. It was almost laughable.

The untouchable girl. The girl everyone else talked about like a goddamn riddle—like some unreachable prize. You walked past them all like you were a queen, and they were your peasants. Everyone knew your name but you never cared. You acted like you were above it all—and they let you, watching from afar, too scared to get too close.

But Lando? He’d made it past the walls you built. He knew the truth—you weren’t untouchable—you were just playing hard to get. A little game to you. But to him? You were ruined.

He could still feel you in his hands, your lips trembling beneath his. He could still smell your perfume clinging to his skin, the taste of your tears as he drove you to the edge of what you were pretending to be. Untouchable, but only because you were scared to admit you wanted it.

“Bro,” Said someone to his left, “You guys saw her last night?” Lando didn’t respond, just took a slow sip from his cup, eyes half-lidded as he leaned back into the couch, looking at them like they were all idiots.

“Seriously, she was there, and that skirt—fuck. She was clearly looking for attention.” He still didn’t look over. He knew exactly who they were talking about—you.

“Bet I could get her number,” Someone muttered. “Easy. Just gotta catch her alone.”

Lando snorted into his drink. He had you bent over a sink, tears down your cheeks, crying for his cock while you watched yourself fall apart. And they were still here, talking about how they might try and get your number.

Fucking idiots.

“She doesn’t even talk to people,” Another guy argued. “Dude, she shot Justin down in front of everyone. Just laughed in his face and walked away.”

Lando barely managed to hide his grin behind his cup. They still had no fucking idea.

“Someone’s gotta break the streak.” One of them said, stretching his arms.

“Shit, I’d take the risk. I’d fuckin’ die happy if she just spat on me.” Another replied, making everyone from the group laugh.

Everyone, except Lando. He was too busy replaying the way you looked with your thighs trembling, cum dripping down your leg. 

That memory hit like a drug, hot and thick in his veins. You’d tried to keep it together—of course you had. But he saw the way your eyes fluttered when he grabbed your chin. Heard the way your voice cracked when you whimpered his name. 

The voices of his friends slowly broke through again,“We need to do it,” Someone said, “Seriously. We’ve all been talking about it for weeks now. Someone’s gotta prove it.”

You had a funny way of making people go stupid. The moment you set foot on campus, the entire food chain reset. Boys barked, girls bristled, and the world tilted slightly in your direction like it didn’t know how to resist. And they still thought you were a fantasy.

“She’s such a fucking tease,” Another one muttered, “Walks around like she’s better than everyone. Bet she’s cold as hell in bed.”

Lando’s jaw tightened at those words. Wrong. You were a fucking fire. 

“I’d give anything to see that skirt hit the floor,” Another said. “Bet no one’s even touched her yet.” And at that, Lando finally laughed—a quiet, smug sound from deep in his chest.

“Told you,” The first guy said, grinning as he elbowed Lando. “He’s obsessed with her, but thinks he’s sneaky about it. Lando, when are you gonna do it, huh? Be the one to finally shut her up. Break the curse, mate.”

Lando leaned back, stretching out like a lion who’d already been fed. He didn’t say anything. Not yet.

“You need to do it, mate,” Another guy said, “C’mon, be the one to finally shut her up. Imagine what it’d be like.” In response, Lando just hummed while taking another lazy sip of his drink, letting them talk.

He didn’t need to imagine anything.

“C’mon, man,” One laughed, nodding. “It’s like she’s asking for it. Walks around with that short skirt and attitude, like she owns the place. There’s gotta be a way to crack her.” The rest of the group agreed, their voices rising with excitement, as if one of them was going to be the first to conquer the impossible. 

They all joked about it—how it had to be done, how someone needed to step up, take the challenge, and finally prove the rumors wrong. And through it all, Lando couldn’t help but smirk.

Because unlike them? He didn’t need to prove anything. He already had you.

And as if on cue, the front door opened, and there you were. You walked in like you owned the place—like you always did. 

Sunlight hit your skin just right—a golden sheen over every inch of you, glowing like the campus might as well have been your throne. You had your usual face on—blank and unreadable, your perfectly glossed lips slightly parted like you were always bored. 

And that fucking, black skirt. The way it barely covered your ass, a little too short for anyone’s comfort, showing off legs that seemed to go on forever. Of course he noticed the faint bruise near the top of your thigh, peeking out just below the hem. His bruise. He remembered placing it there with his own hands, his fucking name.

You moved through the crowd like you didn’t even notice them, your gaze focused, but not on anything. It was like you had a bubble around you, a forcefield that kept them at arm’s length. And Lando? He just smirked, slowly but deliberately. He wasn’t going to let them know anything, after all.

“Yeah, man,” One of the guys continued, his voice too loud, eager. “Someone’s gotta put their hands on her. I’m serious. It’s time to prove she’s not untouchable.”

The others nodded, excited. “You’re right. One of us just has to get close, ask her out, show her what she’s missing.”

Lando’s gaze never left you, even as you turned and walked past him. The moment was electric, almost suffocating, as your eyes flickered to his once again. And just like that, that slight blush crept up your neck—a quiet acknowledgment. Your lips curled into that small, knowing smile. And that? That was all the confirmation he needed. You might be untouchable to everyone else, but he had already claimed you.

Lando’s stomach tightened. His smirk was immediate, lazy, like it was second nature.

He let the moment hang, drew it out. Watched the way you walked away like nothing had happened, like the two of you weren’t still vibrating with the tension of it all. Like you hadn’t made eye contact while his cum was still drying on your thigh the night before.

“Damn,” One of the guys said, cutting into the silence. “She’s unreal. We really gotta get someone to prove it, man.”

Lando’s hand gripped tighter his phone, feeling that same familiar tug in his chest. They were still talking, and now it started to fucking irritate him.

He leaned back in his seat, chin tilted just slightly. His voice was low, easy, almost amused. “Yeah, well, I don’t think so,” Lando finally muttered, voice smooth and cold. “Did you guys forget already? She’s untouchable.”

The guys groaned, laughed, and swore like they thought he was giving up. But Lando didn’t even flinch. He didn’t need to explain anything. He just kept watching the path you’d walked, imagining you with your back arched, mascara running, breath hitching as you came apart around him, moaning his name.

Because the truth was—he’d already tasted you, and already ruined you. Basically, Lando had you wrapped around his finger.

And most importantly, he proved you’re not as untouchable as everyone thought.

© haniette | 2025, all rights reserved.

reuploads and likes are highly appreciated ♡

taglist: @norristrii @ernegren

[alohajix]

𝐎𝐮𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐓𝐞𝐚𝐦

Description: [Y/N] signed her son up for soccer to help him feel a little braver. She didn’t expect it to feel like she was the one learning how to start over. And she definitely didn’t expect the coach to start feeling like home.

Warnings: single parenthood, child anxiety, parental guilt, emotional vulnerability, fear of abandonment, slow-burn romance, eventual consensual smut (soft to intense).

Word count: TBD.

author’s note: this little mini-story is actually part of something a bit bigger! if you enjoyed part one, i’m planning to share the four other parts exclusively on my patreon as i write them. there’s zero pressure, of course—just knowing you’re here reading already means the world to me. but if you’d like to support my work even more and follow this story as it continues, you’ll be able to find the rest over there when they’re ready. thank you so much for reading. i appreciate you more than you know! 🫶🏻🫶🏻

Main Masterlist

Marked by Midnight’s Masterlist

***

Warnings: child nervousness, social overwhelm, parental self-doubt, references to past social exclusion, emotional tension, fear of letting someone in.

Word count: 3,748.

The field is busier than I expected. Parents already staking their claims with fold-out chairs along the sidelines, sipping from oversized thermoses, shouting to each other over the hum of kids in matching jerseys sprinting across the grass like it's the World Cup. My stomach pulls tight as I kill the engine, my hands still wrapped around the steering wheel like I'm not entirely sure if we should even be here.

I glance into the rearview mirror, catching Archie in the back seat, small hands fidgeting with the hem of his jersey again. He's been doing that since we left the apartment—rolling the fabric between his fingers like it might unravel if he stops. It's bright red, way too big on him. He'd wanted it that way. Said the bigger one felt safer. Like armor, he told me, with the kind of serious little face only a six-year-old could pull off. But looking at him now, all I can think is how small he really looks in it.

I let out a slow breath and glance toward the field again, already feeling the weight of every other parent who looks like they've done this a hundred times before. Like they belong here. Like they belong together.

I climb out of the car, shut my door gently, and walk around to his side. He doesn't move when I open it, just looks up at me with those wide, worried eyes I know too well. The same eyes I've seen every time we try something new. I crouch down so we're level, resting my elbows on my knees.

"Alright, champ... you ready?"

His feet swing nervously over the edge of the seat. His voice is so soft I almost miss it.

"Do I have to go with them by myself?"

God, how many times have I heard that question in one form or another? First days of school, new babysitters, birthday parties where he doesn't know anyone but me. The same fear, every time. The same knot in my stomach when I have to lie just a little to make him believe this time will be different.

I reach for his hand, curling my fingers around his.

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to," I tell him quietly, brushing a piece of hair off his forehead. "But remember what we said? About trying? About being brave enough to see if it feels a little better once you get started?"

He bites his lip hard enough to leave a mark, glancing toward the field. I follow his gaze, taking in the kids already spread out in messy clusters, parents shouting encouragement like this is the most important thing in the world. My throat feels tight just looking at it.

"I'll be right here," I add softly. "The whole time. You can look for me whenever you want."

His chin wobbles just a little, but after a second, he nods. It's barely there, but it's enough. I press a quick kiss to his temple, breathing him in like it might settle something in me, too. That familiar scent of shampoo and syrup and him. My safe place, even when I'm the one who's supposed to be his.

I hold out my hand.

"Come on. Let's go check it out."

He slips his hand into mine without saying another word, holding on tight. Tighter than usual. We start walking toward the noise. And even though I've already promised him it's going to be okay, I'm not sure I believe it yet.

The closer we get, the more it feels like my skin's been pulled too tight. Like every step drags me further into a place I'm not convinced we belong. Archie's fingers are sweaty in mine, small and tense, and I can feel the tiny tremble in them with every squeeze. He's walking slower now, half a step behind, like if he keeps dragging his feet long enough, maybe I'll turn us around and call the whole thing off.

I want to. God, I want to. But I don't.

We stop at the edge of the field, just shy of the first line of folding chairs. I shift my weight, standing tall enough to look like I know what I'm doing, even though the truth feels like it's unraveling by the second.

Parents are everywhere—chatting over the hum of thermoses being popped open, stretching their legs out toward the grass like they've claimed this territory a dozen times before. Some of them are wearing team hoodies. Some already know each other's kids by name. You can tell by the way they laugh like it's nothing new.

I tuck Archie in a little closer to my side, scanning the field until I find the group in red jerseys forming near the far goalpost. A man's standing in front of them, clipboard tucked under one arm, whistle hanging loose from his neck. His sleeves are already shoved up to his elbows, hands gesturing casually as he calls the group to attention.

"All right, Red Rockets, let's bring it in!"

The way he says it catches me off guard—not sharp, not impatient, not the way I expected someone to rally a group of six-year-olds on a cold Saturday morning. It's... soft. Confident, but not loud. Like he already knows they'll listen without needing to shout.

I feel Archie flinch just a little beside me, his body shrinking closer to mine like the sound spooked him. I glance down, smoothing my thumb across the back of his hand.

"It's okay," I whisper, even though I have no idea if that's true.

When I look back up, the man's moving. Walking toward the group of kids gathering into a loose circle in front of him. I catch the edge of his voice again—lower this time, more focused on the ones who haven't settled yet.

Archie stiffens all over again, frozen like he's deciding whether to bolt or hide. And all I can think is please don't shut down. Not yet.

I'm already running through my backup plan in my head—how to peel him off the sidelines gently if he refuses to move, how to keep my voice from cracking when I tell him it's okay, we can try again another week—when I catch movement from the corner of my eye. He's walking toward us. Steady. Unbothered. No clipboard this time, no whistle in his hand. Just easy steps like he's done this before. Like he's not in a rush to fix anything.

Archie stiffens even more, his little body locking up next to mine like he's bracing for impact. I lean down toward his ear, lowering my voice to that quiet, steady hum I've learned works better than anything else.

"It's okay, baby. Just breathe. I'm right here."

He stops a couple of steps away, leaving space like he knows better than to crowd us. His hands are loose in his jacket pockets, his mouth tipping into the kind of smile that feels... patient. The kind that makes it look like this isn't a problem to solve—it's just a moment to walk through.

"Hey there," he says, nodding once like it's the most normal thing in the world to approach strangers this way. "First day nerves?"

I shift my weight, pulling Archie a little closer to my side.

"Yeah," I answer softly, my voice rougher than I mean for it to sound. "We just moved here. Still trying to find our place."

He nods like that makes perfect sense. Like he's heard it before.

"'S a lot, isn't it?" he murmurs, glancing toward the field again like he remembers exactly what it feels like to stand on the outside of something. "Is that your little one, then? Number five?"

I look down at Archie, who's still clinging to me, eyes wide but curious now.

"Yeah. Archer. We... we call him Archie."

Harry crouches down slowly, resting his elbows on his knees. He doesn't reach for Archie. Doesn't try to pull him out of hiding. He just lowers himself to his level and lets his voice drop even softer.

"Hiya, Archie. I'm Harry. Coach Harry, technically, but that feels a bit too serious for six-year-olds, don't you think?"

Archie doesn't answer, but his grip on my sweater loosens just a little. His eyes flick to Harry's shoes, then to his face, then back to me like he's checking if I'm still here. Harry keeps going, easy as anything.

"Y'know, we've got a job open today," he adds with a quiet grin. "Someone needs to help me set up all those cones over there before the team comes in. Think you might be able to help me with that?"

Archie shifts his weight, biting his lip, and for a second I'm sure he's going to shut down again. But then—so small I almost miss it—he nods. Just once. Harry doesn't make a big deal out of it. Doesn't whoop or cheer or make it a moment bigger than it needs to be. He just leans back on his heels, pushes to his feet, and tips his head toward the pile of cones on the grass.

"We'll just be over here," he says to me softly. "Promise I'll bring him right back."

I stay frozen where I am, arms wrapped tight around myself like I might actually fall apart if I move too fast.

Archie follows him. Slowly, yeah—but he follows. Two tiny steps at first. Then one more. He's a full body length behind, but he's moving. Moving toward something without me. My throat feels like it's closing up just watching it happen.

I hover at the edge of the chairs, not daring to sit down. My eyes flick to the other parents spread out along the sidelines, already swapping stories about school pickups and carpool schedules like this is just another weekend. Some of them aren't even watching the field. Some are already halfway through their second cup of coffee, shouting out names like they've done this a hundred times.

It's strange, standing here alone. My arms wrapped around myself like I'm bracing for something, like I'm waiting for a punch that never comes. I glance up at the sky for no reason at all, noting the gray clouds stretching low and heavy over the trees at the far end of the field. One gust of wind, and it'll probably rain.

Of course, I didn't bring an umbrella. I didn't think that far ahead. I'd been too busy worrying about Archie. About whether or not I could even get him this far.

I shift again, pressing my tongue to the back of my teeth to stop myself from calling Archie back. My fingers itch to reach for him, to pull him out of the spotlight and hide him somewhere safer. Somewhere smaller. Somewhere where he doesn't have to try so hard. But I don't. I stay planted. I watch Harry kneel beside the pile of cones, picking them up one by one and laying them out on the grass like he's got all the time in the world. He doesn't even glance back to see if Archie's still following. He just... waits.

Archie shifts his weight from foot to foot, looking back toward me like he's asking permission without saying it out loud. My chest tightens, but I nod once, small and steady, like I'm not terrified he's about to fall apart in front of everyone. And then he moves again. Steps right up to the pile and crouches awkwardly, his little fingers fumbling to grab a cone. Harry leans in a little, points to a spot on the field, and Archie starts walking toward it, arms stiff like he's afraid to drop it.

I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. My throat stings with it. Like I've been holding that breath for longer than just today. It's small. So small. But it's more than I expected. I've seen people give up on him before. I've watched them get impatient when he freezes or takes too long to answer or hides behind me when they try to pull him out of his shell too fast. I've heard the tight, strained "it's okay, some kids just aren't social" more times than I can count. Always laced with that disappointed edge like they've already decided he's too much work.

I've seen the way they check their watches. The way they glance toward me with that half-frown, half-smile that really means "he's slowing us down." I've walked Archie back to the car more times than I can count with his head on my shoulder, whispering it's not his fault even when I know he doesn't believe me.

And every time it happens, I feel that weight in my chest. That bitter little voice in the back of my head that says see? This is why you keep your circle small. This is why you don't expect people to stay.

But Harry doesn't flinch. Doesn't push. He just lets Archie take his time, moving one cone at a time like there's nothing else to do today but wait for him to figure it out.

I glance down at the ground by my feet, kicking at the grass with the tip of my shoe like that might ground me somehow. It doesn't. All I can do is watch. All I can do is hope. I feel my heart catch in my throat because I already know I shouldn't let myself get used to that. He's just doing his job. And it's nothing. But the way it feels settling in my chest tells me I'm lying to myself already.

The rest of practice passes in a blur. I barely register what the other kids are doing. I don't hear a single word the parents around me say. I'm too locked in on Archie. On the way he stays close to Harry, watching every move like he's afraid he might miss something important.

And somehow, somehow, he stays. He doesn't run back to me. He doesn't shut down. He doesn't quit.

By the time Harry claps his hands together and calls the team in one last time, Archie's cheeks are flushed, curls sticking to his forehead, his little hands tugging on the bottom of his jersey again—but his shoulders aren't hunched the way they were when we got here. He's tired, but he's still standing.

I push off the fence and start toward the edge of the field, hugging my arms around myself again like it's going to hold me together for the next thirty seconds.

Harry crouches down to Archie's level again, says something low that makes Archie nod. Then he stands, turns toward me, and starts walking over with that same easy pace like we aren't two strangers standing on opposite sides of a life we haven't figured out yet.

"He did great," Harry says when he reaches us, nodding toward Archie like he means it. "Took a little warming up, but he stuck it out."

I swallow the knot in my throat, brushing Archie's hair off his forehead again.

"Thanks for being patient with him. I know he's... a lot sometimes."

Harry frowns a little—just for a second—like he doesn't like hearing that.

"He's not a lot," he says quietly, like it's a fact. "He's a kid. Kids move at their own pace."

And just like that, something in my chest pulls tight again. Because no one ever says it like that. Not without sounding like they're trying to convince themselves. But Harry says it like he actually believes it.

I shift my weight, blinking hard to keep my expression neutral. My mouth opens to thank him again, but nothing comes out. I chew the inside of my cheek instead, heat creeping up the back of my neck.

Before I can embarrass myself further, he clears his throat, rocking back on his heels.

"Listen, uh—would it be alright if I grabbed your number? Just in case we have to reschedule or... if Archie forgets anything?"

I freeze for a second longer than I probably should. I shouldn't. I shouldn't. That little voice in my head kicks in fast, warning me not to blur the lines. Not to give anyone even an inch closer than they need to be. But he's looking at me with that same steady patience I've watched him give to Archie all morning. Like I have a choice. Like he'll back off if I say no.

I nod. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, already unlocked to a blank contact screen. I take it carefully, fingers brushing his. His skin is warm. Calloused, like he works with his hands for real. I feel it all the way down to my wrist, like something I shouldn't notice but do anyway.

I stare at the screen longer than I need to. I could fake it. I could type a number off by one digit and let this stay exactly what it is. Professional. Detached. Easy to forget.

But my thumb moves before I can stop it. I type my real name—[Y/N]. My real number.

When I hand it back, Harry glances at the screen, then up at me again with that easy, unreadable smile.

"Perfect. Thanks [Y/N]." God help me, I don't trust myself not to read too much into it.

Archie shifts beside me, tugging lightly on the hem of my sleeve like he's working up to something. He's got that scrunched-up little look on his face—the one he gets when he's thinking too hard. His cheeks are still flushed from running around, curls sticking to his damp forehead, but his eyes are darting between me and Harry like he's trying to figure something out.

Harry tucks his phone back into his jacket pocket and gives Archie one last ruffle of his hair, starting to turn back toward the rest of the kids when Archie blurts it out—loud enough for half the field to hear.

"Mama... can Coach Harry come to dinner sometime?"

The words hit me like a slap to the chest. Quick. Sharp. Immediate. My stomach drops. My throat closes. I freeze.

Harry doesn't. He doesn't laugh. He doesn't flinch. He doesn't even blink, really. His smile doesn't falter for a second. He just crouches down to Archie's level again, his voice dropping low and soft, like it's just for him.

"Maybe one day, little man," Harry says, reaching out to tap two fingers lightly against Archie's tiny fist. "Gotta keep practicin' those kicks first, yeah? That's the deal."

Archie beams like he's just been promised Disneyland. I, on the other hand, feel like my face is on fire. My heart slams so hard I swear I can hear it in my ears. I glance around like I'm half-expecting someone to be standing there listening, but no one is. No one's paying attention to us at all.

Except me. Except Harry. Except Archie, who's already moved on like it's the most normal thing in the world to invite a complete stranger to dinner.

I clear my throat, tightening my grip on the strap of my bag.

"Alright, bud... let's grab your stuff."

Harry stands again, brushing his palms against his thighs like he's shaking off the grass. His eyes meet mine for one last second, and there's something there I can't quite name. Not teasing. Not pity. Just... something steady. Something that feels like he already knows I'm going to overthink this all night.

"See you next week?" I ask before I can stop myself, my voice tighter than I mean for it to be.

Harry nods, rocking back on his heels again.

"Wouldn't miss it."

And just like that, he's gone—turning back toward the pile of equipment like the last five minutes didn't knock the air clean out of my lungs.

Archie talks the whole walk back to the car. Little bursts of excitement tumbling over each other—how he kicked the ball once, how Coach Harry let him carry the cones, how next week he's going to run even faster. He's out of breath before we even make it across the parking lot, his tiny hand swinging in mine like all the fear from earlier never happened.

I keep nodding, making all the right noises, but it feels like my head is full of static. Like I can't get my feet back under me, no matter how many steps I take.

I get him buckled into his booster seat, double-check the straps even though I know they're fine. I lean in, pressing a kiss to his temple like I always do, breathing him in for just a second longer than necessary. He giggles, pushing at my face with one small hand.

"Mamaaa," he laughs, like I'm embarrassing him. Like it's funny. Like his heart isn't still tangled up in my hands the way mine is in his.

I shut the door quietly and lean back against the car, staring out at the emptying parking lot. Most of the families are gone already. The folding chairs are packed up, the chatter's faded, and the breeze is colder now than it was an hour ago. I wrap my arms around myself, digging my nails into my sleeves like that might stop the way my chest feels like it's caving in.

I don't know what I expected today to be. But it wasn't this. It wasn't the way Archie actually stayed. The way he looked—pink-cheeked and almost proud—for the first time in God knows how long. And it sure as hell wasn't the way Harry spoke to him. Or to me. Like we weren't some charity case. Like he wasn't performing patience for points. Like he actually... saw us. Both of us.

I shove my hand into my pocket, pulling out my phone before I can stop myself. My thumb hovers over the screen for half a breath too long before I swipe it open and scroll to my contacts.

Harry.

I lock the screen again and stuff it deep into my jacket like I can hide from it if I don't look too long.

"Okay," I whisper to myself, pushing off the car and moving toward the driver's side.

I'm already overthinking it.

***

@cloudyluun @gem1712 @dipmeinhoneyh @idk1990 @harrrrystylesslut @sparxx27 @likea-silhouette @fangirl509east @starryhaze-crystal @mads3502 @run-for-the-hills @twinklaei @belgianblondee @pbandnutella @maudie-duan @cat-loves-music @harrysgirl2003 @harrystyleshotwife @secretands-blog @dutchtheatrelore @angeldavis777 @idkidcfuboh @maddiesalvatore1839

[theskywithin]

Birth Chart Breakdown: Planets in The Seventh House

☉ Sun in the Seventh House You want them to see you fully, not just in the moments when you shine, but in the cracks between the light. You hope they recognize your quiet courage, the way you burn even when the wind tries to put you out. You ache for someone to stand in your fire without fear, to love the parts of you that feel too much, too bright, too alive. And beneath it all, you hope for this simple truth: that your light is not too blinding for love to stay.

☽ Moon in the Seventh House You carry storms beneath your skin, and you wonder if anyone will ever know how deeply they run. You want them to hold you when your tides rise, to steady you without asking you to silence your waves. There is a part of you that longs to melt into their chest, to let your softness show without fearing it will scare them away. You hope they will read your quiet emotions like a map, tracing every contour with care, making you feel safe enough to be fully felt.

☿ Mercury in the Seventh House You long for someone to hear the words you cannot speak, to understand the language that lives beneath your tongue. You want to feel them catch your fleeting thoughts like fireflies in the dark, lighting up parts of you even you forget are there. You don’t just want to be heard, you want to be understood in the way that feels like home, where you can stop explaining yourself and simply exist in the echo of their knowing.

♀ Venus in the Seventh House You crave to be chosen, not as an option, but as an instinct. You want to feel them reach for you like they’ve always known you were theirs. Not for perfection, not for performance, but for the subtle gravity of your being. You hope they will see beauty where you see flaws, desire where you feel doubt, and hold you like a precious secret they have no intention of letting slip away.

♂ Mars in the Seventh House You need to feel their fire meet your own. You don’t want quiet affection, you want intensity that reminds you of your own aliveness. You want their passion to collide with yours, to spark something uncontrollable between you. Beneath it all, you hunger for the kind of connection that doesn’t ask you to soften, but dares you to burn brighter together, until you forget where your flame ends and theirs begins.

♃ Jupiter in the Seventh House You hope they will grow with you, not just alongside you, but as part of the same wild expansion. You dream of building something bigger than either of you could carry alone, of sharing a journey that feels like the horizon is always just a little farther, a little brighter. You want them to believe in you, and with you, to look at your combined paths and say: yes, let’s go further, let’s go all the way.

♄ Saturn in the Seventh House You fear they might see your weight and walk away, afraid of the depths you carry. Yet, what you truly want is not to be light, it is to be worth the weight. You crave someone who stays when things grow heavy, who does not flinch at your complexities or your cautious heart. You want to trust that you can let them in without losing yourself, that your fears of falling short will be met not with judgment, but with hands that hold you steady.

♅ Uranus in the Seventh House You want to be seen in your wildness and still loved for it. You dream of a connection that doesn’t confine you, that leaves space for you to breathe, to change, to surprise even yourself. You hope they understand that freedom does not mean distance, and closeness does not mean captivity. What you want is someone who will run beside you, not to catch you, but to feel the wind of life as you both race forward.

♆ Neptune in the Seventh House You carry a dream inside you, a longing for a love that feels like it belongs to another world. You want someone to see you through the haze, to reach through the mist of your hopes and hold you with both hands. You know the risk, you know dreams can fade, illusions can shatter, but you still hope. Hope that this connection is not just a beautiful thought, but a living, breathing miracle.

♇ Pluto in the Seventh House You want to be seen beyond the surface, past the layers you’ve built to keep yourself safe. You want someone to look into the shadows of your soul and not turn away. You crave the kind of love that unearths you, that pulls you raw and trembling into the open, and still stays. You are terrified of this exposure, but more than fear, you hunger for it, because only in that depth can you feel completely, terrifyingly, alive.

🔭 Astrology isn’t a mystery. It’s a mirror. 📖 Let my book show you what’s already written.

[damneddamsy]

falling | joel miller x fem!oc (part v)

RECONSTRUCTION ALGORITHM—A process begins to build from the wreckage.

summary: Birthday dinners and blues, laughter over a crowded table—and Joel, caught between the past and something new.

a/n: are you ready for your prescribed serotonin boost :) are you reading to die :) are you ready to have your heart broken :) are you ready for pain :) if yes, it's here, and it's fucking good! can you spot where exactly I had a mental breakdown? virtual bear hugs for those who get it!

Joel had faced a lot of things in his life—clickers, raiders, shit ration food, the long, merciless stretch of empty roads—but this?

This might actually do him in.

He sat on the edge of the bed, hands braced on his knees, staring at the open boxes like they might bite. Three whole boxes. Packed full of baby clothes, soft and delicate, in shades too clean for a world like this—pale yellows, powder blues, faded pinks. Those colours didn't belong in this world anymore.

He exhaled hard, dragging a hand down his beard. It was just one of those things, one of those moments where life threw something at him he wasn’t built for anymore. Throwing a punch, taking a knife, breaking his nose—those, he could handle. But picking out a damn dress for a baby?

“This ain’t my thing, baby girl,” he muttered, glancing at Maya sprawled out beside him on the bed. She kicked her legs, fists flailing like she had strong opinions on the matter. The second he walked through the door, she’d lit up, beaming that wide, gummy grin at him like his very existence was the happiest thing in her tiny world.

Joel shook his head. “Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up. You ain’t the one stuck pickin’ through all this.”

He waved a hand at the neatly folded mass of tiny expensive dresses, bloomers, and booties, smelling faintly of time and soap. They’d been Leela’s once. That part stuck with him—the fact that these had once clothed her, when she was no bigger than Maya.

His rugged fingers hovered over the fabric, hesitant. Everything was so soft, worn down in the best way—not ragged, but loved. Clothes, to him, had always been practical. Denim, leather, sturdy boots. He’d spent years in a world where softness didn’t last, where anything delicate got torn up, dirtied, or lost. And yet, here it was. Preserved. A little piece of the past, kept safe.

He picked up a tiny white dress with a lace collar, holding it to the light. “This fancy enough for a birthday dinner?” he asked, squinting at Maya. “Hm, looks like your mama's dress, doesn't it? Just missin' those... buttons.”

She just cooed, kicking harder, wiggling like she might crawl right out of the blanket. He set it down and picked up another, something in a buttery yellow with embroidered flowers. Lighter, easier.

“This one. Like a pretty sunflower.”

Maya squealed like she agreed, flailing her arms toward him. Obviously sick of laying there, wanting to be up here with him.

He snorted. “You got strong opinions on style, huh? Don’t take after me, then. I ain’t got a clue.”

And yet, here he was. Doing this. Going through the whole process because Leela had asked him—because it mattered to her. The realization settled in, quiet and solid. He was doing this because he cared. About Maya, sure. But about Leela, too. Enough to sit here, sifting through baby clothes like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He shook his head, picking up a tiny pair of bloomers and setting them aside with the yellow dress. “Guess that’ll do. Don’t want you upstaging your mama.”

Maya gurgled in agreement, and without thinking, Joel reached over, scratching a hand over her belly, feeling the warmth of her through the fabric of her onesie. Happy, just because he was here.

And he was only here because Leela had asked this of him. After all, she was downstairs, turning the kitchen into a goddamn laboratory. She’d been at it since morning, long before he even peeled himself off the pullout in his living room. The kitchen light had been on when he woke up, spilling a soft glow onto the snow outside, and through the open window, he caught glimpses of her—stirring, measuring, dicing and slicing with careful, mathematical precision.

At one point, she’d pulled out a scale. A scale. Like she was preparing for an experiment instead of a birthday dinner. Her own birthday dinner, that is. The one Maria had specifically asked her to butt out of because then it'd be pointless. Don't think Leela caught that part.

He’d spent his morning like that—half-awake, watching her move through the kitchen with the kind of focus that made his chest ache. Maya was strapped against her in a sling, her dozing head tucked beneath Leela’s chin, and her mother’s long braid trailed past her back, swaying with every movement. She barely stopped to sit down.

And Joel—still groggy, still warm from sleep—just lay there, watching.

Watching from the outside. Watching a life that wasn’t his, but could be.

Maybe, in some version of things, he’d be sitting at that damn marble island with her, sipping coffee, watching her openly instead of from behind the glass. Maybe he’d be close enough to tease her about overcomplicating her own birthday meal, close enough that she’d smile that shy smile, but lean into him anyway, chin up for an apology kiss.

Maybe he wouldn’t have to wonder what it would be like—because he’d already know.

He exhaled sharply, shaking the thought off. Right. First things first.

He crouched down, dragging Maya closer to him over the bed, the buttery yellow dress draped over his arm. “Alright, darlin'. Let’s get this over with,” he murmured, slipping her tiny arms through the sleeves. She surprisingly went along with it without a fuss, blinking up at him, her round face curious, watching him.

Joel worked quickly, big fingers clumsy against the delicate buttons, careful not to tug too hard. “Y’know, you make this real easy,” he said to her, smoothing the fabric over her legs. “Your ma ever tell you that? Some little shits scream their heads off over this kinda thing.”

Maya just cooed, trying to catch her toes, like she knew she was being praised.

He snorted, lacing up her brown booties—useless, yet so adorable. “Don’t let it go to your head. You're still trouble.”

With a final adjustment, he lifted her, tucking her against his chest. She fit there like she always did, perfect and warm, her breath puffing against his throat. The second she was settled, her legs kicked in delight, hands curling into the collar of his shirt—habit, just like always.

Joel huffed, pressing a steadying palm against her back. “Beautiful girl,” he whispered, rocking slightly, just enough to keep her from getting squirmy. “Yeah, you are.”

Maya gurgled in response, gripping tighter, like she had any real strength to keep him there. Like she thought she needed to.

Joel didn’t move for a second, standing there, one hand spanning nearly the whole of her back, feeling the tiny rise and fall of her breaths against him. He arched his head to brush a kiss at her ear and turned toward the door.

Then he noticed it. The humungous closet doors were open.

It wasn’t like him to pry, but something about Leela always pulled at his curiosity. He glanced at Maya, as if seeking permission—she only pushed her lips into a pout—so he stepped inside.

Due to lack of better words in his dazed head: it was a rich woman’s closet. Joel had worked on plenty of houses back in the day, done high-end custom storage, and seen his fair share of luxury—but he’d never been around long enough to see it lived in.

Drawers lined one wall, sleek and built into the cabinetry. Rows of dresses, coats, scarves, bags, and belts filled another. Shoes—so many shoes—lined the shelves, some still wrapped in plastic, some broken in just enough to show which ones were loved. In the centre, a long glass table gleamed under the dim light, scattered with jewellery. Diamonds, rubies, and jade sat in their cases like they belonged behind some jeweller’s counter instead of lying out like an afterthought.

Maya made a soft, curious sound, leaning forward in fascination. Joel caught her before she could squirm right out of his arms. "Woah, kiddo."

His attention snagged on the dress draped over the table, carefully selected from the clutter.

Black. Velvet. Long-sleeved. Nothing flashy. No lace, no frills, no shimmer. Just smooth, short, heavy fabric, dark as ink, the kind that’d cling in all the right places. Understated, sure—but that only made it worse.

Joel swallowed, jaw tightening. Christ, that can't be it, can it?

But Leela didn’t dress up much. Hell, he was used to seeing her in practical things—thick holey sweaters, clean jeans, and overstretched socks. Even the night dresses she wore were simple, easy. Unbearably cute.

But this? This was intentional. This was her putting thought into it, picking something that would fit her like a fucking glove. Black so stark against her skin, those big eyes, her legs. And Joel—he needed to stop thinking about that immediately.

He shifted Maya in his arms, clearing his throat like that’d help steady him. She was still staring, as if equally entranced, her small hands flexing toward the diamonds glinting under the glass table. He sighed, pressing a kiss to her temple as he stepped back.

“Don’t even, sweetheart,” he muttered. “I ain't raisin’ no flashy tastes in you.”

She gurgled in protest, kicking her feet, and Joel took that as his cue to get the hell out of there.

Now mind you, the past two weeks had been a state of grace.

He didn’t know what else to call it—what else to call the way he found himself here more often than not, the way it felt more natural by the day. He wasn’t just some frequent visitor anymore or a guest, or that guy who'd come around to hover with his tools. If he wasn’t on patrol, he was here with them. Even after patrol, he still ended up on their porch, dropping his rifle and pack by the door before stepping inside like it was just a given.

Hell, it kind of was. A little 'honey, I'm home' moment, if he really brooded on it.

Breakfast. Dinner. Sometimes all three meals, if time allowed. And they’d sit together on the kitchen stools, him and Leela, Maya on either of their laps, silent but companionable, sharing the space like it had been carved out for them alone. They didn't talk about much, sometimes Joel would hit her with a 'back-in-the-day' spiel, or Leela would inform him what happened in her workshop, though most of it went over his head. He liked to listen hard when she spoke, especially when she gave so little. And each morning to come, each evening in leave, Joel would feel it—that want, quiet but persistent, tugging at him, already pulling him into the next day.

Even Leela was eating again. Not much, but enough. It relieved him that she hadn't entirely given up on herself. He noticed the way she still picked at her food sometimes, however delicious it was, pushing it around more than eating it, and he never said a word. Just let her be, let her do what she could. He’d take what he could get.

There were moments, though—times when she got stuck in her own head as if phantom hands had reached out, clawed in and dragged her back to whatever had put her here in the first place. He’d see it clearest when she nursed Maya, like something about it sent her spiralling inward, caught in something he couldn’t see. But he could pull her back to him. He quickly learned how.

“Hey.” His voice was always low, careful, like he was trying not to spook a horse. And then a distraction, a lifeline. “How about I get us a cut of lamb again tomorrow? Y’know, those meatballs you made last week?”

Her eyes would clear, focusing again. “Yeah. Koftas.” And that smile would come alive, trademarked in his name. “Did you like them?”

“Too much. Hits the spot.”

It helped that Leela was a stupidly good cook. It wasn’t about the skill or the recipes—though she sure as hell knew her way around those—it was the way she did it. The way she measured things down to the last goddamn granule, cut with a precision that could’ve put surgeons to shame. She had a scale drawn onto her chopping board, and every damn herb on her windowsill was labelled like she was running a test kitchen instead of a home. He thought about it sometimes and had to bite back a smile.

"Is there anything you can't do?" he'd asked her once while stuffing his face with generously salted roast potatoes he'd passionately complimented. "I dunno, deadlift three thousand kilos? Roofing? Fix a busted engine? I bet that's nothin' to you."

She'd laughed, aimlessly twirling her fork in her hands. "Hmm... I'm quite inartistic. I can't strum a guitar as well as you. I can't sing or dance either."

"I'll give you five days until you're a pro guitarist," he challenged playfully.

She tilted her head. “I don’t know, Joel. Now that I think about it, I might be a lost cause.”

He scoffed. “Bullshit. You learned how to do everything else, didn’t you?”

She shook her head, smiling. “Not everything. You make me sound like some superhero.”

Joel stabbed another potato with his fork. “Nah, I bet you’d pick it up fast.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.” He chewed, swallowed. “You got the... hands for it.”

Leela looked down at her hands, flexing her fingers like she could see what he meant. She had the prettiest fingers, long, soft, wide nails that would've graced those fancy designs once upon a time, and pale nerves coiling over lean bone. Jesus, he really was losing it.

“You say that like you’ve given it some thought,” she mumbled.

Joel just shrugged, lying through his teeth. “Not that much thought.”

Her mouth quirked, but she didn’t push. Just filled his cup with more water. “I still don’t think I could do it.”

“Why?”

She tapped the prongs of her fork against her plate. “I don’t know. I guess… it’d feel too good. And then I’d have to wonder why I spent so many years not doing it.”

Joel watched her, the way her fingers fidgeted, the way her eyes had gone elsewhere. He thought about telling her that was the whole damn point. That just because you hadn’t done something before didn’t mean you didn’t deserve to now.

Instead, he just said, “Well, if you ever change your mind, you know where to find me.”

She met his eyes, and after a second, she nodded. “Yes. I do.”

And the way she stated it—gentle, effortless, like it was unmistakable—had Joel suddenly very interested in his plate again.

Then there was little Maya. His ray of sunshine. Growing like a wildflower, changing in ways he barely had time to keep up with. And he was there to see it. More than that—he was there for it.

Like that day, sprawled on the living room carpet beside her, lying flat on his back while Leela worked at the blackboard nearby, mumbling numbers under her breath at miles per hour, the scratch of chalk entwined with the dusty warble of Merle Haggard on the record player. Just another quiet moment, another stretch of time folded in between everything else.

Until Maya grabbed at his hand.

Her fingers curled tight, her little voice rising in breathy coos, calling for his attention. And then—just like that, way too ahead of schedule—she twisted, flipped herself over onto her front, and grinned at him like she’d just conquered the goddamn world. All that, in scarcely three months. The kid's going to be a genius just like her mama.

“Shit!” Joel breathed, pushing up on one elbow. “Daggum, girl. C'mere. That was really good, baby, real nice. You're just perfect, aren't you?”

She grinned wider, pleased with herself, kicking her legs against the carpet. He lifted her right off and plunged her in the air, pulling out a happy squeal. He brought her all the way down to push three deep kisses into her bunched cheeks.

Leela turned, brows raised, eyes flicking between them.

“Finally rolled over, she's been trying for weeks,” he told Leela, laughing, out of breath.

“Oh,” she mouthed. “Rolled over?”

“Oughta get a picture or somethin’,” he muttered, still looking at Maya, pride swelling in his chest in a way he hadn’t expected. He ran a hand over her downy-soft hair. “It’s a milestone. Turnin’ point, as I say.” The pun slipped out before he could stop it, and he cursed Ellie in his head.

Leela just blinked at him. Like it hadn’t even occurred to her. And maybe it hadn’t. Because, later that night, without a word, she passed him a little silver digital camera and said he spent more time with Maya than she did.

Joel had caught her elbow before she could walk away. His voice came out quieter than he meant it to as he told her, “You’re doin’ a great job at being her mom. It's not just me here.”

It didn’t help, not the way he expected to. She just nodded, scooped up Maya, and left the room.

That was the thing about Leela.

She didn’t believe it. She didn’t think she was in a position to care for another person. Like she was still caught somewhere in between—stuck in the space between whatever hell had given her Maya and the life she was trying to build around her.

She didn’t even have to say it. Joel saw it.

He saw it in the way she tried. The way she forced herself to be soft, forced herself to hold Maya just right, forced herself to soothe her, talk to her, to touch her like it was second nature instead of something she had to teach herself from scratch. It was in the way she hesitated when Maya reached for her like she wasn’t sure she deserved to be needed. It was in the way she lingered outside the nursery door some nights, just standing there, like she was working up the nerve to go inside.

It wasn’t easy for her. But she tried. Joel marvelled at that, her patience despite whatever tormented her. And yeah, progress was slow, but it was there.

Joel’s boots scuffed against the freshly washed mat at the foot of the stairs—he’d done that himself, thanks for fuckin’ noticing—as he made his way to the kitchen. Leela was crouched in front of the oven, arms wrapped around her shins, her bottom lip tucked between her teeth.

He leaned against the doorframe, smirking. “Somethin’ wrong, or you just real interested in watchin’ bread bake?”

He barely had time to brace himself before the scent hit him—sweet and sugary, with a crispness that wasn’t quite like bread or cake, something lighter, airier.

Leela still didn’t look up. Whatever was in that oven had its hooks in her.

Joel pushed off the doorframe and stepped closer, bending just enough to peer in. White. Puffy. Looked like a cloud. “The fuck is that?”

“Pavlova.” Her voice was muffled against her knees.

He squinted at it. “Uh-huh. The fuck is that?”

She exhaled, shifting just enough to glance at him. “For Eton mess.”

Joel lifted a brow. “You just sayin’ words at me now, smartass?”

She huffed a quiet laugh, but there was something in her posture—the way she kept her nose tucked between her knees, fingers lightly gripping her calves. She was nervous.

“It’s meringue,” she admitted lowly, like she didn’t want to say it too loud in case that made it collapse in the oven. “It’s delicate. Needs to set just right.”

Joel straightened, rubbing at his jaw. “So it’s just sugar?”

Her mouth twitched the closest thing to a smile she could manage while preoccupied. “And egg whites.”

“Ah, so fancy sugar.”

“Trust me, you'll love it.”

He snorted, ready to argue—but then Maya leaned in against his chest, watching them with big, curious eyes, her tiny hands reaching for the oven knobs. She was getting handsier every day.

Leela finally turned, and for the first time, she really saw Maya, and took her in—the tiny white dress, the soft embroidery, the way her dark eyes blinked down at her with nothing but unfiltered, open-mouthed joy. No fear. No hesitation. Just love for her mama, plain and easy.

And just like that, Leela’s whole face softened. Melted, almost.

“Oh, Maya,” she breathed, reaching for her. “You look so pretty. Aw, my sweetheart.”

She scooped the baby out of his arms without a second thought, cradling her close, and tucking her against her shoulder. Her fingers ran through the fine baby hair at the nape of Maya’s neck, gentle, reverent, like she was trying to memorize her.

Then, before Joel even knew what was happening, she leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to Maya’s forehead.

Not him. Oh, never him. But he felt it anyway. It relaxed in his chest, warm and unwanted, curling into the space he’d been trying real damn hard to keep empty. Like a ghost of something he wasn’t allowed to want.

He forced himself to look away, exhaling through his nose, adjusting his stance like that might shake the feeling off. It didn’t. Because the truth was—he’d thought about it. Too much. Too often.

The way she tilted her chin when she looked at him, how her mouth softened when she spoke to Maya, the bare curve of her throat when she laughed—all of it had lodged itself in his head, taken up space like it belonged there. And the worst of it?

He’d imagined it. His own mouth against hers. Slow and deep, catching the breath between her words, pulling that softness into him, feeling the curve of her spine, the softness of her hair twisted into his fingers.

And it was fucking ridiculous. But it didn’t stop him from thinking about it. Didn’t stop the way his gaze snagged on the spot where her lips had just been, where his had been too—because yeah, he’d kissed that exact place on Maya’s cheek before. More than once.

That was different, though. Right? Had to be.

His hands flexed at his sides, restless, needing something to do. He settled on the island, finally taking in what was right in front of him.

And, Jesus. Five trays. At least.

Stacked and spread out across the counter, gleaming under the low kitchen lights. There was no rhyme or reason to it—roast lamb chops, some kind of stewed eggplant, rice flecked with peanuts and saffron, a whole mess of things he didn’t recognize.

Still, she was gonna lose her goddamn mind. Not because Leela had transcended her at her own game—but because she’d cooked her own birthday dinner. Like she didn’t know how to sit still, even for that, or that she couldn’t let people do for her the way she did for them.

Joel shook his head, dragging a hand down his beard. One of those things. Something about Leela that made sense and didn’t, all at once.

“I’m going to go get dressed before Maria gets here,” she said, finally pulling his attention back to her.

Then, casually, like it was nothing, like it didn’t send something tight curling in his gut, she added, “I laid something out for you, too. If you'd like to wear something nice.”

And then she was gone, disappearing down the foyer, leaving Joel standing there, staring after her like an idiot. Like a man in deeper than he had any right to be.

X

Joel had thought long and hard about what to get Leela for her thirtieth, and it had damn near driven him mad.

He wasn’t good at gifts. He wasn’t good at a lot of things, really—at knowing what people wanted, at knowing how to give without feeling like he was handing over pieces of himself. It felt impossible.

What the hell do you give someone who already has everything—even in the goddamn apocalypse?

Leela didn’t need anything. She had a home, one of the nicer, better-built ones, passed down to her like an heirloom. She had clothes, ones she patched up herself, sewn with delicate little stitches. She had music, kept safe on a high shelf, and books stacked in neat piles by the fireplace. She had cars, she had diamonds just sitting up there in a closet, and she even had her own plants thriving.

She had all that and more. So, yeah. He’d considered it all. Clothes. Music. Books. Lights. Pictures. A cat, even. Something that meant something. Significant.

And then, out on patrol, he’d found it.

A cherry tree. Growing wild, untamed, tucked between dense brush and the gnarled twist of maple roots. Dark fruit hanging low, the weight of them bending the branches, like they were waiting for him.

At first, he’d strolled right past it. Just a tree. Just cherries.

And then he’d stopped, brows furrowed. He’d remembered the way she wove them into her life. The careful little cherry embroideries, the tiny red-painted symbols on her sugar and salt tubs, the delicate pattern etched everywhere.

She loved them. Enough to keep them close. Enough to mark them as hers. And so, like a damn fool, he’d kneeled and plucked them.

In a few hours, he'd picked the whole thicket clean. He’d stuffed them into his jacket pockets, let them fill the space in his backpack, red staining the fabric, fingers sticky and sweet with their juice.

It had felt right at the time. He'd felt so proud of himself. She was going to love the shit out of this.

Now, standing by the front door, having Tommy and Maria say that they'd managed to acquire a goddamn Polaroid camera for her—yellowed with age, probably out of photo paper but still lasting—Joel felt like a massive fucking idiot.

At least their gift had value. At least it wasn’t perishable. But, she already has a digital camera, his conscience reasoned with him. Sure, but especially to her, it was the thought that counted. She wouldn't be out here, letting Joel borrow cashmere sweaters and luxury denim on the fly.

And then Ellie had showed off her gift—another layer of shit over his confidence—a handmade journal, stitched together with patience and effort, thick pages bound in soft, timeworn leather. Thoughtful. Meaningful. Her best friend, Dina, definitely had a hand in this. Ellie didn't have the patience to craft something this considerate.

And Joel was the one to talk—well, Joel had a box of cherries. Fucking cherries. Cherries he’d spent hours picking, his fingers raw, his back aching for two days straight. Cherries he’d plucked in pairs, stems still intact, trying to mimic the little embroidered ones she stitched into her life. He’d thought he was being thoughtful. Now, how the fuck was he supposed to compete with journals and cameras?

So he did what any man with an ounce of self-preservation would do.

He pretended they didn’t exist. Let them sit out on the little porch shelf where he’d left them, where he figured he’d grab them when the time was right. Except now, the time wasn’t right. Never will be. And he’d just let them sit there forever, let the cold creep into them, let them wrinkle and rot and become another thing he never got around to.

Better to just let everyone think he was a callous, inconsiderate bastard than actually admit he’d put his heart into something. Easier that way.

As Maria and Ellie jogged upstairs, loud and chattering, off to greet the birthday girl and Maya, Joel made his way into the kitchen—only to get cornered by Tommy’s knowing look. That damn eyebrow, he got that from their dad.

Joel ignored him. Busied himself with laying foil over that one lonely tray, the rhythm of his hands methodical, grounding. It wasn’t until Tommy leaned against the counter, arms folded, voice low and amused, that he finally spoke.

“I knew you hated sappy shit, big brother, but this is a new low.”

Joel exhaled slowly, flattening the foil more aggressively than necessary. “Not now, Tommy.”

“Not now,” Tommy mimicked in a baritone, shaking his head with a chuckle. “You couldn’t even get her somethin’ small? The girl was ready to let you move in, for cryin' out loud.”

Joel didn’t answer.

“Hell, Maya, at least?”

That one stung. He didn’t know why. And somehow, the thought of that bothered him more than the idea of disappointing Leela. Maybe because he could take being an asshole to her. Could brush it off, let her think he was callous, numb. That was easy, safe.

But Maya? She was just a baby. His little girl. This tiny thing with nothing in the world except her mother, who carried all the pain and all the worry, while Joel sat on his hands and pretended like he wasn’t thinking about them more than he should.

He pressed down on the foil harder, smoothing out creases that weren’t there. He could feel Tommy watching him, expectant, waiting.

“Right,” Tommy sighed, knowing what to expect. “I’m gonna go drain the lizard.”

He scowled, finally looking up. “That's some real dignified talk. Better tone it down at dinner.”

His brother just grinned with a playful salute, disappearing down the hall.

Joel stomped his way into the dining room, fists stuffed into his pockets. Not because he knew what the hell he was even looking for, but because he had to move. The ache in his chest was getting to be too much, and if he sat with it any longer, he might actually have to acknowledge it.

Leela had transformed the shit out of this dining room, and Joel took it all in. Candles flickered across the table, their golden light pooling over the wood, catching on the edges of intricate ceramic plates, and warming the dark corners of the room. The food that Leela had slaved away to make was spread out, lavish, rich, the kind of meal that had no business existing in a world that had already ended. As if this little town, this home, was untouched by the decay beyond its walls.

The blackened, humungous yard outside those slightly gaumed French windows—he ought to get around to that this week—was paved with a clean sheet of snow, and it was clear what lay under it. A manifold garden of some sort, from the cursive-letter markers sticking out from the ice. And a pond, maybe.

It was all so soft. Painstaking. Conscious. Like everything Leela touched.

A sudden thrum of light, breathless, girlish laughter echoed from upstairs, Ellie's the most rambunctious of the lot, obviously having fun with that new camera.

“Maya, smile...” Then later, “Ha-ha, she's got no fuckin' teeth!”

It flushed a small smile of his own at the sound. He hadn’t heard that kind of laughter in years. Not since Sarah. Not since the days when she and her friends had holed up in her room, voices tumbling through the walls, their shrill giggles slipping into his evenings, melding with his exhaustion, belonging there, like a part of his house itself.

Back then, he’d barely noticed it. In fact, he'd wanted them to shut the hell up so he could focus on paperwork. He’d never thought to savour it. And now? Now it pressed against the deepest crevices in him, brittle and aching, something he couldn’t touch without it breaking apart in his hands. It still hurt like hell.

And then, as dinner time neared, the big room filled out—oh, Joel hadn't meant to look. Hadn’t meant to let his eyes linger that way. Fuck, he forgot how Leela was going to be tonight.

No. He dragged his eyes from her, yet the image remained seared into his head.

But there she was, standing at the far end of the room, completely different and exactly the same.

That velvet dress—Jesus Christ, he needed air.

He’d known it’d be trouble the second he saw it. It fit too well, soft in places he shouldn’t be noticing, snug over her hips, floating around her legs bare, smooth, unfairly right there. Her usual braid was pulled back tight, but a few strands had already come loose, slipping against her cheek, catching at her collarbone, and softening her face. A thin strand of pearls nestled at her neck—simple, understated. Like she was one of those lunching ladies in country clubs, lugging their crocodile leather bags, and clutching their pearls. Fucking adorable now that it registered, she was probably dressed like what she'd seen her mother wear back then.

And in another life, a girl like her would’ve walked right past a man like him. Would’ve mistaken him for a valet. Would’ve never even looked at him. He should be thanking his stars that the world went to shit and brought him her.

Joel clenched his jaw, forced his gaze away, and focused on the room instead. Maya, the real star of the show, was being passed off between the rest like a pack of smokes, her little chubby arms reaching, everyone cooing, fussing over her pretty, new dress.

Everywhere except. Leela...

She had drifted toward the bar cart at the edge of the room, breaking out the good stuff. He glimpsed the label—vintage Pinot Noir, knotty French scramble and expensive as hell. Didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except that somehow, without even thinking, he’d ended up standing beside her.

And when she looked up—she smiled at him. Small, a little shy, the kind of smile that said she was nervous for no reason at all.

“Hi, Joel.” Her hand smoothed down her stomach as if flattening that cute little belly bulge, fixing something that didn’t need fixing. “Do I look okay?” she murmured, hesitant. “Is it too much? It is, isn't it?”

Too much? For him, fuck yes. Fine? Fine wasn’t even in the same goddamn ballpark.

So, he opened his mouth. Closed it. Nothing.

“No.” A beat. “You…”

Nothing again. He was drawing a blank. The words dried up before they even had the chance to form, like dust in his mouth.

It wasn’t like he was trying to be poetic about it, but there was nothing in his head that felt close to good enough. No simple word, no half-mumbled compliment that could measure up to her tonight.

Leela stood in front of him, shifting slightly, looking down, constantly pressing her palm over her stomach like she was suddenly self-conscious. She was always incredible. She always knew her way around things. That wasn’t news.

But tonight, she just...—his jaw tightened. He wasn’t even gonna let himself finish that thought. His throat worked as he opened his mouth again, ready to force something out, anything—

“God, this smells fucking delicious!” Ellie’s voice tore through the moment, shattering it.

Leela startled slightly, before blinking, exhaling a soft laugh, and looking away. And just like that, the moment was gone.

The next thing he knew, everyone had settled in, chairs scraping against the wood, good wine flowing, voices overlapping, the liquor kicking in, laughter beginning. The candlelight flickered against the dishes, the soft golden glow catching on deep greens, bright reds, and the spread of food that looked like something out of a damn painting.

Joel wasn’t even sure where to start, but Ellie had no such problem. She was going to town, her plate stacked high, fork stabbing into rice and lamb and eggplant, making a goddamn mess of herself.

Maya sat in her lap, eyes wide, fists curled into her mouth, watching every movement with a sort of blank curiosity, like she was studying some unknown species.

Joel almost smirked. Baby girl had better instincts than most.

Meanwhile, Maria was not having it. She sat back in her chair, arms folded, watching Leela with something sharp in her gaze.

“Why would you cook your own birthday dinner? I told you to let me handle it.”

Leela shrugged, reaching for Joel’s plate once more. He barely had time to grab his plate back before she was scooping more roast potatoes onto it. Christ. At this rate, she was gonna have him fattened up like a prize hog by the end of the night.

“I had to say thanks to all of you somehow,” Leela murmured, matter-of-fact like it truly was that simple. Like, it wasn’t the most Leela thing in the world. “For everything you did for Maya and me. Thank you.”

Maria sighed, shaking her head, but before she could say anything, Tommy beat her to it.

“Honey, there’s no thanks between family. You just take it and be happy about it.” His laugh was muffled by a sip of his wine.

Leela, in the middle of reaching for another serving spoon, paused. And Joel saw it—the way she responded. It was subtle. Not a gasp, not anything dramatic, but something small. The way her lips parted, just slightly, like she wasn’t sure if she should smile like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to. He let his own smile grace his face as he did.

Before he could think on it too much, he caught movement from the corner of his eye—Leela, still standing, still serving, still doing everything but eating.

Joel set down his glass with purpose.

“Sit down.” His voice was low, and firm, leaving no room for argument as he grabbed the spoon from her hand and dropped it onto a tray. “Eat. They're grown-ups, they can serve themselves.”

Leela sighed and sat. Finally. “Okay.”

Joel didn’t give her much choice, pressing the chair in behind her knees, setting her plate in front of her like it was law. He caught the flicker of hesitation, the way she lingered as if she had something else to do, something else to fix. But there was nothing left. The food was hot, everyone was fed, and she was out of excuses.

He scooped a little of everything onto her plate, careful not to overdo it, careful to leave out the eggplant. He didn’t know when he’d learned that about her, just that he had. And she didn’t object, just picked at what landed in front of her, moving the food around with her fork. She didn’t eat right away, not really.

Maria, Tommy, Ellie, and Joel had a rhythm. They talked over each other, ribbed each other, passed stories back and forth like well-worn cards, easy and unthinking. They'd raised a toast to the birthday girl, Maya's new dress, this astonishing dinner, Joel smiling for once—it felt… safe. Loud, but not in a way that grated. Just lived-in.

He wasn’t sure what she thought of all this. Maybe it was too much, too loud, too different from what she was used to.

Especially when Tommy, halfway through a sip of whiskey, nearly choked and gawked at her. "Wait, wait—back up. You didn't know turnin’ thirty was a big deal?"

Leela blinked, clearly lost. "Why would it be? It’s just… a number."

Tommy clutched his chest like she’d stabbed him. "Oh, Jesus. Joel, tell her. Tell her what happens when you turn thirty."

Joel wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, glancing at her, smirking. "Your knees start makin’ noises you ain’t never heard before. The hangovers last three to five business days. And suddenly—" he jabbed a finger at Tommy, "—this clown starts talkin’ about cholesterol like it’s the Grim Reaper."

Tommy pointed back at him, indignant. "It is the Grim Reaper! You think I like checkin’ my blood pressure for fun?"

Leela stared between them, unimpressed. "So, you’re telling me turning thirty means getting old and miserable?"

Joel shrugged. "Pretty much."

Tommy raised his glass. "Welcome to the club, darlin’. It’s all downhill from here."

Leela huffed a small laugh, shaking her head, but Joel could feel her eyes on him. Not in an obvious way—Leela wasn’t like that. But he could tell. The way she always tucked herself into the background, listening instead of talking, watching instead of stepping in.

Like she was still trying to figure out how all of this worked. How they worked. And Ellie, for one, was having the time of her life.

She jabbed a finger at Joel, like she was about to make some grand accusation. "I swear, it’s like clockwork! Dude’s got, like, five phrases in rotation. Seriously, he's some old Western cowboy stuck in a fucking time loop. It’s insane."

Joel exhaled sharply, already tired. “The hell are you talkin’ about, girl?”

Maria smirked, leaning in like she knew exactly where this was going. “Go on, let’s hear it.”

“That one didn't count. You ready? Okay, let's go.” Ellie straightened in her chair, cleared her throat dramatically, and then—“‘Ain’t my first rodeo.’”

Tommy barked a laugh. Maria made a face that said, damn, that was actually a good one. Joel just shook his head, but he didn’t argue.

Ellie pushed on with that wicked smirk. “‘Coulda told you that one.’”

That got Maria and Tommy good, they were already in fits. Joel sighed, reaching for his glass. Meanwhile, Leela pressed her lips together to keep from smiling.

“See? See?” Ellie counted on her fingers, riding the high. “‘You ain't gonna like the answer.’ Huh, Tommy?”

Tommy wiped at his mouth, shoulders shaking. “Shit.”

Joel took a drink, resisting the urge to bang his head against the table. That one was sadly dead on.

Joel scoffed, shaking his head, but Tommy only leaned forward, grinning wide. “Oh, oh, what about ‘Never said I was a good man’?”

Ellie, inspired, went for the kill. “Right, yes! And my personal favourite, ‘Shit’s fucked,’ obviously.”

That one did it.

Maria actually turned away, full-on wheezing hard. Tommy clapped a hand on the table, throwing his head back to roar out a laugh.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered, reaching for his whiskey. “Table’s turned against me.”

He flicked his gaze to Leela, watching her reaction—like maybe if she thought it was funny, it would be worth the humiliation.

She met his eyes over the rim of her glass, her expression unreadable for a beat, then—slowly, her lips curved. She took a sip of her water like she was trying to hide it, but he caught the way her eyes softened, the way she tucked her chin slightly, almost sheepish.

Leela finally spoke, her voice a soft, amused murmur. “I think they just know you too well, Joel. It's nice.”

Joel paused mid-sip, watching her as she turned back to her plate, finally taking a bite.

It was a simple thing, but the words sat with him. It wasn’t just that they were teasing him. It was the fact that she was here, part of it, taking it in, letting herself be in this moment. He realized then—that Leela had spent so much time holding herself apart, hovering at the edges of things, always wary. Not tonight.

Joel exhaled, shaking his head like he wasn’t entertained, even though the corner of his mouth twitched.

“Whole lotta talk for a bunch of ingrates,” he muttered. “Maybe I oughta keep my words to myself. See how y’all fare without my wisdom.”

“Your wisdom? Are you fucking kidding?” Maria scoffed, still wiping at her eyes. “Joel, the day we take life advice from you—”

“Will be the day the world actually ends,” Tommy finished, reaching for his drink. “Again.”

Ellie snorted, still looking way too pleased with herself. “Go on, old man. Say something profound.”

Joel didn’t dignify that with an answer, just took another sip of whiskey, glancing at Maya on Ellie's lap. That same warmth ravaged him for a moment.

But when he looked to his side again, his eyes found Leela. She wasn’t laughing like the rest of them—not outright. No sharp, teasing glances, no knee-slapping or head-shaking.

Just that same small, quiet smile, the kind that broke his fucking heart in two.

He wasn’t sure how long they looked at each other, just that he noticed how the candlelight softened her features, how her fingers smoothed over the rim of her glass absentmindedly, how her braid had loosened slightly throughout the night, one long stray wisp of hair curling by her shoulder. God, she took his breath away.

And then he noticed the table. Maria. Tommy. Even Ellie. Side-eying and smirking like damn fools.

Joel scowled, bracing himself. “What now?”

“Not a damn thing,” Tommy said, though the way he fought back a grin suggested otherwise.

Ellie waggled her brows. “Oh, no, you just—look really wise right now.”

Joel fought the urge to groan, letting his head tip back slightly. “No, really. Thank you.”

Leela shifted, clearing her throat, poking at her plate like she wanted to disappear into it.

Tommy looked like he had more to say, something locked and loaded, but before he could get it out, across the table, Maya started to fuss, her hands curling and uncurling toward the plates on the table, making that small, needy noise. Baby girl was the centre of attention, as always. She had a way of pulling eyes to her without even trying like the whole world naturally revolved around her.

But the moment Maria chimed in, her voice carrying easily over the table—“Maya, honey”—that was when it happened.

Her eyes snapped up, searching the table with a determination far too strong for someone so small. Her fingers flexed, hands opening and closing in that telltale way, reaching, waiting—and then Maria tried something else, something that shouldn’t have stood out, except—

“You wanna say hi to Joel?”

The second it left her mouth, Maya’s little head swivelled, locking onto him with that same urgency, that same expectation. Maya made a soft, almost questioning noise, like she was waiting for something, her arm stretching further, fingers still curling and uncurling.

He didn’t even think about it. Didn’t think about how much she knew him now. How his name meant something to her, how she was already learning that when she reached, he would be there.

“Ugh. But I just got you,” Ellie clucked her tongue, bouncing Maya slightly. “Can’t believe this, you're straight-up ditching me for a fogey. Breaking my heart, kid.”

“Guess she's just sick of you, kid,” Joel teased.

“Shut up.”

Maya squirmed, unsatisfied, her arm stretching further. Then came that stubborn cry, the kind Joel had long since learned to recognize—the warning before real tears, before she got herself all worked up.

And, well, he had tried to resist it before. Tried to tell himself to let her be, that she needed to settle on her own, that he wasn’t supposed to get her used to always having him right there. Didn’t matter one fucking bit. The minute those eyes got glassy, he was already reaching across the table.

"C'mere, baby girl," he muttered, hands steady as he lifted her from Ellie’s grasp. “There you go. Hi.”

She melted against him instantly, her warm little body pressing into his chest, a fist curling into the fabric of his shirt. He barely had time to adjust before she shoved both hands into her mouth, hiding that big, gummy grin like she was suddenly shy.

He chucked her chin. "Happy now?"

Maya let out a tiny giggle, then dropped her head forward against his shoulder, burrowing in, pressing her face into his collar like she wanted to disappear inside him.

"Yeah, that tracks," Ellie said, smirking. "Guess she just likes dinosaurs."

Joel only fed the fire. "I think it's my rugged good looks."

That drew out a few annoyed groans around him.

Ellie snickered. "Not that she’s got much to compare to, though.”

It was a silly joke. A throwaway line. She didn't know any better.

But Joel felt it shift the air at the table, quiet but undeniable, like the slow pull of a storm rolling in.

Leela’s grip on her fork tightened, her knuckles paling around the metal. It was barely a reaction. Just the barest pause. A slow blink, calculated and measured, like she was pushing something down, pressing it deep, locking it behind her ribs before it could surface.

But Joel caught it. He wasn’t sure what it was—not exactly. He only knew the way it felt. The way a sharp sense of awareness dug into the back of his skull, the way his chest clenched, like something inside him had just brushed against a wound he hadn’t known was there.

Maria noticed, too. She shot Ellie a look. Just a quick, subtle thing, but full of meaning.

Ellie’s chewing slowed, the realization dawning. "Shit. Sorry," she muttered, suddenly fascinated with her plate. “I'm so sorry, Leela. I wasn’t trying to—”

Leela’s voice was too even, barely managing the dismissive smile. “It’s alright, Ellie. It's nothing.”

It wasn’t. She was practically forcing this lie out of her mouth.

She pushed her chair back. “I’ll go... um, be right back.”

Joel caught the way she moved—not hurried, not frantic, just a little too controlled, like she was forcing herself not to make it obvious that she needed to get out of there.

He should’ve stood. Should’ve gone after her, said something, done something.

Maria was already moving. “Let me check on her,” she said softly, chair scraping against the floor as she followed Leela through the kitchen doors.

Joel exhaled, slow through his nose.

The warmth of the meal, the easy hum of conversation—it all dissipated like heat off an open plate, leaving only the scrape of utensils, the occasional clink of glass. The space Leela left behind stretched thin, like a too-wide gap in a picket fence.

Ellie exhaled, pressing the heel of her palm against her forehead. “I really wasn’t trying to… god, I have such a big fucking—”

Joel adjusted Maya in his arms who was busy combing fleece off the expensive cashmere on his chest. “Ain’t your fault, kid. 'S’all right. Just a touchy subject.”

He didn’t look at her when he said it. Just kept his eyes on the rim of his whiskey glass, watching the candlelight slice through the amber liquid.

Because it was the truth. It wasn’t Ellie’s fault. That didn’t mean he wasn’t wishing he could take back that moment, wipe it clean. Like smudging out a scuff on a wood floor—pretending it had never been there at all.

Ellie nodded, but her fork just scraped uselessly at the plate, pushing food around in slow, absent-minded circles. She curled in on herself, shoulders drawn tight.

Tommy cleared his throat, voice pushing for something lighter. “Think it’s time we brought out dessert, huh? Said it was some trifle or somethin’.”

The words hovered, waiting for someone to catch onto them, and keep the momentum going. But no one did.

Joel didn’t answer either. He just tipped his whiskey back, letting the burn roll slow down his throat.

“Ah, what the hell,” Tommy muttered, scratching at his jaw.

Joel barely registered it. His mind wasn’t here. It was behind that door, past the threshold of the kitchen, where Maria had gone.

He should’ve been the one to follow. But Maria knew better. Knew when to step in, when to let someone walk away without pressing.

And Joel—Joel just sat there, gripping his glass too tight, holding Maya closer, listening to the faint rattle of silverware, the flicker of candlelight, the distant creak of the floorboards in the kitchen.

The moment had died out. They just hadn’t called it yet.

X

Maya's nursery looked different now.

It used to be dim and quiet, a place half-lived in, half-abandoned—just a room with a crib shoved into it, like it didn’t belong there. Like she didn’t belong there.

Now, it felt like a home. A place meant for a child to grow. Soft, muted green stretched across the walls, warm in the glow of the low bedside lamp. Shelves lined with neatly folded onesies and tiny socks, stuffed animals tucked into corners like silent sentries. The window bench had been cleared of dust and laid out with a fresh quilt, facing the snowy street below—facing his house.

Joel rocked on his heels, shifting Maya higher in his arms as the low murmur of voices drifted up from downstairs. Goodbyes being said. Chairs scraping back. The door cracking open to the cool night air.

He should go. He knew that.

But hell, it was barely ten. He never left before Leela fell asleep—not until he was sure she was actually going to sleep. And that wasn’t for another couple of hours, at least.

Not that he was leaving anytime soon. Not unless he figured out a way to pry this little troublemaker off him.

Maya wasn’t having it.

He’d tried everything—rocking, pacing, humming low in his throat—but she refused to close those pretty eyes, just kept watching him, Her fingers patted at his chest, curling into his shirt. Then she'd reach up, clumsy and determined, fingers smushing against his nose, his cheek, his scruff.

Joel exhaled, shifting her slightly in his arms. "What's the matter, sweetheart?"

Maya blinked up at him, all big, dark eyes and stubborn little fists. He knew how much she loved conversing with him, even if it seemed deranged to talk to a fucking infant.

"You gonna let me put you down, or you plannin’ to keep me hostage all night?"

Maya made a breathy 'o' up at him, mouth parting in a wide, drooly grin. Like that would get her off the hook.

Joel snorted. "Yeah, that so?"

Another coo, this one higher-pitched, like she had a whole argument ready.

He shook his head, tired but amused. "Mhm. I'm convinced."

Joel sighed, lifting her up so they were at eye level, holding her by the armpits. Her legs kicked in the air, her chubby fists went straight to her mouth, and she tilted her head back, distracted by the warm glow of the nursery lights.

Too big. She was growing too damn fast.

He felt it in the way she relaxed against him now, her body stretching longer, heavier. Felt it in the way her head fit differently in the crook of his neck, in the way her fingers, once barely able to grasp his thumb, now had a grip strong enough to tug at his shirt.

It was frustrating. Fucking unfair. She'd only been in the world for a few weeks, and just when she was starting to fit perfectly in his arms, she was already growing out of them.

Joel swallowed thickly, staring at the soft roundness of her cheeks, the dark lashes fluttering against her skin. His fingers traced the slope of her back, feeling the tiny, steady rise and fall of her breath. How can you miss something that was not yet lost?

A lump pressed against his throat.

“You know I love you so goddamn much, right?”

It wasn’t much more than a whisper. A thought barely forced out past his lips. And yet—it felt so final. How long until he heard it back from her? Another year? Two years? Would he still be around when she said it to him?

Joel clenched his jaw, sighing. Hard as hell, saying it out loud. Felt damn near impossible, like something fragile, like something that wasn’t his to admit. Like if he said it too much, too often, he might have to face what it really meant. That he’d already taken responsibility for her, or if anything were to happen to her—

Maya let out a breathy giggle, legs kicking, fingers smacking against his cheek.

Joel blinked, barely catching himself before he smiled.

When he pulled her closer, she wriggled against him, pressing her small, warm face to his, her tiny palms patting at his chin, his nose, his temple. Soft puffs of air landed against his skin, clumsy, open-mouthed, like her own sloppy, little version of a kiss.

He let out a slow breath, shaking his head. This was really all he needed in whatever was left of his life. It seemed too easy to make it enough.

“Fine, you win this time,” he muttered, voice rough, thick.

Maya gurgled against his cheek, cooing, like she understood his plight.

He descended the stairs slowly, careful not to jostle Maya too much, hoping the rhythm might finally lull her to sleep. Her head lolled against his shoulder, tiny fingers curled into his collar again, but she was still awake, just blinking wide-eyed at the world.

Joel paused at the landing when he caught voices near the door—Ellie and Leela, still lingering. A strange sight, to be honest.

“Look, I really messed up back there and—” Ellie started, arms tight around herself, like she was bracing for impact.

Leela didn’t let her finish. Instead, she pressed something into Ellie’s palm—a tightly rolled set of charts. “Joel told me you love astronomy,” she said simply. “These belonged to my mother once. She was like you, too.” A beat. “They should go to someone who’ll actually use them.”

Joel shifted against the railing, watching as Ellie unrolled the top just enough to glimpse the faded celestial maps inside—one for each month, constellations inked in delicate, ghostly lines.

Her breath hitched. “Holy shit.”

Leela blinked. “Is that a good 'holy shit' or—”

Ellie nearly lunged forward—almost, but not quite. She caught herself, scratching the back of her head instead, a grin breaking through like she couldn’t hold it back. “Best fucking holy shit. Thank you.”

For a moment, she just held the maps, careful, reverent, like something fragile. Then she exhaled, shaking her head with a laugh—the kid really couldn’t believe her luck. “This is so sick. I’m gonna—I don’t even know, but it’s gonna be fucking awesome.” She clutched the charts to her chest, voice lighter than it had been all night. “Thanks, Leela. Really.”

Leela gave a slow nod, like she wasn’t quite sure what to do with the gratitude. She hesitated, then tested out a cautious, “Um. Have... fun.”

Ellie barely caught any of that. She whooped into the night as she left, the charts still hugged close. Oh, Joel was definitely not going to hear the end of this for at least a month.

Leela lingered in the doorway, lips parted, watching Ellie disappear down the street. Then, almost like she didn’t quite believe what had just happened, she slowly shut the door, pressing her back against it. Her hands lifted, covering her face, fingers threading through her hair. A breathy laugh escaped her—soft, disbelieving.

Joel caught the tail end of it, the faint curve of her smile before she tucked it away. Small. Quiet. Like she didn’t quite know what to do with it.

And hell, if that didn’t do something to him.

“I take it you enjoyed dinner then,” he said, his voice rough with amusement.

Leela startled slightly and hadn’t realized he was still there. Her eyes flicked first to Maya, softening instinctively before settling on him. The edges of that smile lingered—that wasn’t quite ready to leave yet.

She stepped closer, hand brushing over Maya’s back. “Little troublemaker fighting sleep again?”

Maya let out a big, sleepy yawn, eyes drooping but still resisting, gripping the fabric of Joel’s shirt like she could anchor herself awake. Stubborn baby girl.

Joel huffed, shifting his hold on her. “Like she doesn’t even need it.”

Leela hummed, tracing slow, absentminded circles against the baby’s onesie. Joel expected her to say something, but when he glanced up, he found her watching him—something different in her gaze. A glint, teasing but warm, something playful in a way he hadn’t seen before. It softened him in places he wasn’t prepared for.

Then she took a step back, and before he could think too much about it, she reached above the shoe rack, retrieving something small and wooden. A box.

Joel tensed the second he saw it. Goddamnit. Should've buried that thing in the snow.

She bit back a smile, shaking the box near her ear. “So, um… Tommy found this on the porch shelf,” she mused. “Told me you went through a lot of trouble to get it.”

Joel clenched his jaw, exhaling hard through his nose. He knew exactly what Tommy had done—ran his mouth just enough to make sure Joel would have to sit through this whole damn thing.

Leela tipped her head, all exaggerated curiosity. “I wonder what it is.”

“Yeah, real mystery,” Joel muttered, walking past her like he could simply exit this situation.

Instead, he focused on Maya, carefully easing her onto the soft padding of the playmat. The thing was space-themed—little planets and stars dangling overhead, catching the dim glow of the living room. Her tiny fingers curled around a plush moon, legs kicking as she let out a gurgled sound of delight.

Joel let out a quiet breath. This was fine. He could watch her do that. Much easier than watching Leela.

But there was no avoiding it, not really. Not when she was already lowering herself onto the couch, patting the cushion beside her. “Come, sit.”

He hesitated, looking away. He could’ve bif goodnight, walked out the door, and left her to open the damn thing by herself. He could’ve avoided this whole moment, let it pass, let it go.

With a great, defeated sigh, he sank down beside her, rubbing at the back of his neck.

Leela carefully slid the lid open, and the ruby cherries sat there, dark and glistening, their juices staining every inch of the wood. The smell of them hit the air—ripe, sweet, unmistakable.

She sucked in a breath, quiet but sharp.

Joel pressed his lips together, fighting the urge to explain himself. That it was dumb. That it didn’t mean anything. That it was silly. That he’d done it because—hell, because. Because he wanted to see her smile for him. Because he wanted to leave some sort of a mark on her special day.

But he didn’t say any of that.

Instead, he cleared his throat. “Thought you liked ‘em. It's not much, but...” yeah, it was from his heart. And he went on with a gruff, “Happy birthday.”

Leela nodded with a gentle laugh, but she didn’t say anything at first. Just reached in, plucking one between her fingers, rolling it like she wanted to feel every dip and curve of it before finally slipping it past her lips.

Joel tried not to watch too closely. The way her lips curved around the fruit, the divots on that pillow-soft skin stretching, before her tongue darted out to catch the juice. His throat bobbed with a dry swallow. God, he was going to lose it.

“Mm,” she moaned, shaking her head. “This is wonderful, Joel. Thank you.” She held up a sudden finger as if lit up by an idea. “How about a blackforest cake?”

He winked. “Right on, darlin'.”

He reached for one, too, grinning, chewing in sync with her.

Then he caught the way she twirled the stem between her fingers, that amused little gleam returning in her eyes, and he knew exactly what she was about to do. Oh, come on. Right now?

Leela quickly popped the stem into her mouth, brows furrowed in concentration.

Joel smirked despite himself. Fine. They were doing this then.

He followed suit, slipping the stem between his lips, tongue working it in practised motions—an old skill, long-buried, but still easy enough to find. A long time ago, he’d done this a hundred times over, showing off for Sarah, besting Tommy every damn time.

Sure enough, when he held the knotted cherry stem between his teeth, he arched a brow, only slightly smug. “How ‘bout that?”

Leela let out a muffled laugh, sticking her tongue out to reveal hers. Looser, messier, but still knotted. “You’re way better.”

Joel huffed a small, satisfied sound, settling back against the couch. “Oh, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet. Wait for it.”

She cocked her head, intrigued, and he felt it then—her undivided attention settling warm against him. That expectant little gleam in her eye.

Well, hell. No turning back now. He worked his tongue around the stem again, shifting it between his teeth, coaxing it into another trick—one a little tougher, one he hadn’t pulled off in years. One wrong move, and he'd choke.

It took longer, and she was watching him too damn close, like she was trying to map every movement, every small shift in his jaw.

Then, finally, when he held it back out—the knot was gone.

Leela gasped, surprised, hands flying to her mouth. “How?”

Joel smirked, slow and deep, feeling a ridiculous amount of satisfaction at her reaction. He tapped his fingers against his knee. “Sworn to secrecy.” Then, just because he could, he added, “It’s a Miller thing.”

She laughed, warm and unguarded, shaking her head. “So dumb.”

Joel chuckled along with her, feeling ten pounds lighter at that sweet sound.

Leela, still grinning, tossed another cherry into her mouth. And then another. And another. Until her cheeks puffed up like a damn chipmunk, lips barely able to contain the burst of juice dribbling at the corner of her mouth.

Joel snickered at her, shaking his head. “Jesus, girl,” he muttered, reaching out without thinking. His thumb swiped slowly and easily at the corner of her lip, gathering the stray stain. “Slow down. It’s all yours.”

And that should’ve been it. The moment she pushed him away. But.

Leela didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just watched him. Not startled, not uncomfortable, not embarrassed. Just… watching. Chewing. Observing. Curious.

Her lips, still slick with juice, parted the smallest bit, like she might say something, but she didn’t. And neither did he.

But instead of pulling back—God help him—his gaze flickered down, just for a second, tracking the spot where his thumb had been. And before he even fully processed what he was doing, he brought it to his mouth, pressing the tip between his lips, tasting the cherry juice there.

A big fucking mistake.

Because it wasn’t just the cherry. It was her. All Leela and sweetness. He'd imagined moments like this for hours on end in his lonesome.

It was the heat of her skin, the warmth lingering on his fingertip. A trace of something softer beneath the tartness of the fruit. Something that made his breath go tight in his chest.

Leela inhaled, shallow and quiet.

See, Joel should’ve drawn off her. Should’ve laughed it off or said something—anything—to keep this from tipping too far. He shouldn’t have let it get this far.

Because for a second, just a second, he allowed himself to imagine it—let himself fucking want it. Joel wasn’t a man who let himself have much. Wasn’t the kind who asked for more than what was given, especially when life loved to take so much away from him. Sarah, his softness, his humanity.

But this? This, he wanted. He wanted it so bad.

Not just in passing, not just in a way he could ignore, but in a way that curled deep in his gut, low and slow. In a way that had him tilting forward before he could stop himself, his breath hitching ever so slightly, just as any man would attempting to her, his hands grounding against his knee like that might steady him, like that might make this less surreal.

Because she was right there. Close enough that he could see the flicker of amber light in her eyes, the crease between her eyes, the way her breath had changed, softened, like she’d been expecting this.

Maybe she had. And maybe that should’ve been enough to make him stop. Because, Jesus Christ, what the hell was he doing? What was he hoping to accomplish? Kiss her? Laugh? Maybe for once not leave this home feeling like a drop-in?

Leela was younger, cleverer, and healing. She was light, and he was nothing but a warm, dark, empty void pressing down on her, on this moment, on the air between them, threatened to swallow any hope of life.

She wasn’t flinching. Wasn’t moving away. But God, she should’ve.

She should've punched him square in the jaw, woken him up from whatever dream he was walking. She should’ve recoiled at the smell of whiskey on his breath, should’ve been weirded out that he’d even dared to lean in, that some old, beat-up man thought he had any goddamn right to touch something as brilliant as her.

Because that’s all he was, wasn’t he? Worthless. Worn down. Hands stained in more blood than he cared to admit. A hardass heart that refused to stop beating.

And she? She wasn’t for him. She was for someone who could meet her in the daylight, who didn’t have to carry every sin, every regret, every ounce of grief in their bones. Someone who hadn’t done the things he’d done.

Yet, something pushed him on. Told him to take that chance.

His breath came rough, unsteady. The space between them felt impossibly small, thinning with every heartbeat, every second, every goddamn pull of the air between them—

Except—just then—

Leela’s shoulders dropped with a slow, measured breath, and instead of leaning in, closing the last bit of space, she leaned away.

Her voice was a sigh, not scolding, not sharp. Just beaten. “Joel.”

It settled somewhere in his ribs, dull and heavy. The truth of it. That this had been a mistake. That she was kind enough, maybe even foolish enough, to let him down gently.

He didn’t pull back fast—he had a little more dignity than that. But he did pull back, gritting his jaw, clearing his throat, nodding once like that had been nothing, like he hadn’t just let himself be stupid, let himself slip into the foolish idea that he could have this, even for a second.

Because he wasn’t that man. He never had been.

Silence stretched between them, heavy and brittle. Joel could hear the soft tick of the clock in the next room, and the low hum of the wind against the windowpane, Maya's soft, sleepy puffs from the playmat. He could hear his own breathing, slower now, measured, because he had to make it so.

Leela stared down at her lap, at the way her hands twisted against each other. Her shoulders had drawn in, tightening like she was trying to make herself smaller, and he hated that—hated that he’d put that look on her face, that he’d made her feel like this.

He tried to work his voice, to apologize, tell her that he'd leave and never look her way again. Nothing came out. Because, ultimately, in doing so, he knew he stood to lose Maya, too. And he just couldn't let that happen.

But, when she finally spoke, her voice wasn’t accusing. It wasn’t sharp or angry. It was just… hollow. Blank. Terrifying.

“I’m rotting inside, Joel.” Her fingers curled, nails pressing into her palm. “I can’t do anything to stop it.”

Joel frowned, something uneasy stirring in his chest. He waited, but she didn’t look at him. Just kept staring at her hands like they held something, some mark or stain, only she could see.

“It’s a good thing Maya needs you more. I'm glad she has you.” She let out a small, breathless laugh—except it wasn’t really a laugh at all. “She's better off with you than me. You're good for her.”

A fit of unexpected anger rose in him—not at her, never at her. He wanted to tell he she was wrong. That Maya was hers. That no matter what she thought, no matter how deep she believed the 'rot' had gone, she wasn’t something Maya needed to be protected from.

“Any longer, and I’ll sicken her with me. She’s so small and pure… the softest part of me. And I can’t bear to even touch her. To feed her. To just be with her. I'm so afraid...” Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, and then, quieter: “I think I might really kill her, Joel.”

Joel froze.

The words hit him like a stab to the abdomen, like a goddamn gunshot, something he wasn’t ready for but should’ve seen coming. He’d heard her say those words before, hadn’t he?

That night—Maya’s first bout of colic. He’d rushed up to her nursery, rubbing at her back, murmuring low nothings just to calm her down. The screaming had gone on for hours, splitting apart the thin walls, rattling through the house like something relentless and starving. When he'd hatefully asked her to pull herself together, blamed her for knowing nothing.

And Leela had been standing at the threshold, watching. Her hands limp at her sides. Hollowed out. She had whispered it then, too. I think I might kill her.

And back then, he had thought it was the average… exhaustion. Fear. That helpless kind of inadequacy that came with first-time mothers.

But that wasn’t it at all, was it?

No, this wasn’t about being unsure.

This was agony. That bitter edge, that raw, bleeding thing inside her. That feeling of being left to die in her own body. And she was still living in it, with that numbness within.

Joel swallowed hard, his pulse beating thick in his ears. “Leela,” he managed, rough and uneven. It was the first time he had ever said her name out loud, and it landed heavier than he knew how to carry.

She sniffled, fingers curling tighter into her palms.

“I disgust me,” she whispered. “I stain everything, I know this. I’d never forgive myself if I did it to you.”

He exhaled, slow and steady, because if he didn’t keep himself calm, if he didn’t keep himself grounded in this moment, he didn’t know what he’d do. What he’d say. He didn't trust his instincts anymore.

And Leela was still looking down, fingers twitching in her lap, like she could feel something crawling under her skin. If she dug her nails in deep enough, if she pressed hard enough, maybe she could carve out whatever filth she thought was still inside her.

Joel knew that feeling. The itch of it. The glare from his mind's eye.

He’d stood in front of a mirror after things he could never undo, scrubbing his hands raw, watching the way the clear blood seemed to seep deeper between his nailbed and fingertips, no matter how much water ran down the drain. But no, this wasn’t the same. Not even remotely.

Joel had earned his stains.

Leela had been made to bear hers.

The thought clawed at him, made his ribs feel too tight, his breath too shallow. Because she wasn’t talking in metaphors. Not really. Not the way he might have, not the way he sometimes felt it, an unbearable burden in his gut, an ache in his chest.

She was talking about it like it was real, like it was something rotting inside her body right now. Like it was fouling her up, stinking only to her.

Because it was. Because someone had done that to her.

He clenched his jaw, heat rising behind his ribs. He didn’t know how. Didn’t know when. Didn’t know the details, and Jesus, did he even want to? He'd lose his shit.

A part of him did. A part of him wanted to be the man he used to be, the man who wouldn’t ask questions, who would just take his rifle and hunt down whoever had put this look on her face, this disgust in her voice, this strife in her bones. If that was what she wanted...

He could still kill for her. He absolutely would, without hesitation. If she said it, he'd walk right out that door and make for the front gates. He could wipe those motherfuckers off the face of the earth, make them suffer, bleed, scream, and beg before he pulled the trigger. He'd done it before, to less violent people. Why not now? What were a few more bodies to him? Nothing but newer ghosts.

But really, what would that do for Leela? What would that change?

She had to wake up every morning in the body they left her with, haunted, festering. And worse—she had to live in the mind, unable to outrun the moments between the others, the life they had shattered.

She had to look at Maya every day and wonder if she was capable of being her mother. Wonder if she was capable of loving her, if she was capable of keeping her safe. How could she when couldn't even protect herself?

Joel wanted to tell her that she could. That she already did. But that wasn’t something his words would fix. Especially not his.

So he didn’t say it.

Didn’t say anything for a long time, just watched her, just took in the way her shoulders hunched, the way she trembled like the truth had broken something loose inside her, and now she couldn’t shove it back down.

His fingers twitched.

He wanted to touch her, wanted to ground her, but he knew better than to startle her. He was stupid, just not a fucking idiot. He knew the way the past could reach through time, could grab hold of you even when you were safe, even when you were far away from where it happened. And fuck, she was drowning in it, wasn’t she?

Drowning in memories she hadn’t spoken aloud.

He didn’t need to hear them to see them.

Because her eyes—those dark, gripping, hollowed-out eyes—were far away, looking at something else. Someone else.

A room. A face. Hands. A warning. A little help.

The moment he thought it, bile rose in his throat. He couldn’t know, not really. But he could imagine. And it made him fucking sick.

He knew, somehow, that she had spent months alone, trying to live past this, trying to bury it under silence, under time, under the thousand little ways she kept people at arm’s length.

Leela sniffled sharply, yanking herself back to the present, but she didn’t meet his gaze. Just wiped her nose with the back of her hand, her fingers curling inward again like she wanted to disappear into herself. Like she deserved to.

Joel wouldn’t let her.

Carefully—slowly—he reached forward, brushing the tips of his fingers against the back of her hand.

She flinched. A slight tremor. A barely-there shake in her breath. Fuck, it hurt him, too. That some part of her—some deep, instinctual part—still thought she had to brace herself for what might come next.

But she didn’t pull away.

He worked at her fingers, gentle, patient, until she let him unfold her hand from the tight, white-knuckled fist she had made. Her palm was damp, warm from being clenched for too long. There were crescent moon indents where her nails had pressed into her skin.

Without thinking, without hesitating, he laid his own hand over hers. Mangled beyond repair, scarred, spoiled, lost to time.

Leela finally looked up at him. Finally, he let him see her.

Her face was blotchy, her dark eyes rimmed red, lashes wet, and God, she had never looked more exhausted. More fragile. This girl, who could accomplish anything and everything, looked helpless.

And she didn’t believe him. Not a single thing he’d just said. Yeah, she was right not to.

Maybe he was stained. Maybe he was rotting, too. Maybe it was too late for him, too late for a man who had done what he’d done, lost what he’d lost, to be anything else.

But not for her. Never for her.

He brought her fingers to his lips, brushing them softly against her knuckles.

She made a noise—small, unsure and confused. But she didn’t pull away. God, she didn't pull away.

His grip tightened just slightly, cradling her hand in both of his now to brush another kiss, like it was a lifeline, like it was the only thing tethering him to this moment, to her. He let his forehead rest gently against hers, breathing slow, trying to keep himself from gripping too tight, from pulling too close.

"There's nothin’ left to stain or rot in me," he admitted. "Just a lot of space left for the two of you."

The words landed soft, like he hadn’t meant to say them aloud, like maybe he was trying to convince her that they were true.

And Joel—he knew what that felt like. To be left alone with it. To drown in it. To have no one there to pull you out of it. So he didn’t try to stop her. Didn’t try to fix what couldn’t be fixed. This time, he wasn't heading for the door.

All he did was stay.

Leela sucked in a breath, sharp and shallow, like she was trying to hold herself together, but Joel could already see it—she was already falling.

And he wasn’t about to let her hit the ground alone.

His fingers curled tighter around hers, his other hand coming up to the back of her head, his thumb brushing just barely along her hairline. He felt her shudder beneath his touch, felt the way her breath came uneven, quick and unsure.

Close enough that he could feel every tremor in her body, every sharp, shallow breath she took. But he didn’t shush her. Didn’t tell her to breathe. Didn’t whisper that it would be okay.

Because he wasn’t a goddamn liar.

And because this—this agony, this slow, rotting thing inside her—wasn’t something words could untangle. It wasn’t something she could be reassured out of, something she could be reasoned or comforted or willed away from.

It was in her bones. In her blood. It lived there, like a sickness that had no cure.

So what the hell could he say? What good would empty do?

All he had—all he could offer—was this. His hands around hers. His touch, light, present. The slow press of his forehead against hers, grounding, real, unmoving.

And he held her. Not tightly, not desperately—just enough.

Enough for her to know. Enough for her to feel, just for a second, what it was to be held and not taken.

To be seen and not used.

To be broken and not discarded.

Joel breathed out slowly, before pulling back just enough to see her. Leela didn’t move or speak, just watched him quietly. Hoping for something from him.

His palm lifted to touch her cheek. Not enough to startle, just enough to remind her he was still here. That he would be.

“Alright then, birthday girl,” he murmured. “I’ll put Maya to bed. See you in the morning.”

No reluctance. No more questions. No trying to make sense of whatever had just passed between them.

Because nothing had changed. And that was the point. Whatever had been said, whatever had happened—he wasn’t going anywhere.

Leela didn’t answer, but she didn’t need to. He caught the way her fingers curled into her palm gently like she was holding onto the warmth he’d left behind. There was a little curve that rested on the edge of her lips.

Joel didn’t look back as he left the room, didn’t linger in the doorway like he sometimes did. He just walked upstairs to Maya's quiet little corner of the world, enduring, sure, carrying her small weight against his chest.

Carefully, he lowered her into the crib, unfurling her fists from his collar. She stirred, a breathy sigh escaping her lips as she calmed into a deeper sleep.

Joel sighed, pressing his hands against the crib’s edge, but he didn’t move. He just stood there, staring down at her, at the impossible being that she was.

Warm, breathing, real. A perfect thing born from ruin.

Joel swallowed against the knot tightening in his throat. How the hell did something like her come from so much pain? From something that had swallowed her mother whole?

He didn’t know how it had happened. Didn’t know when he had stopped just watching from the outside and stepped into the mess of it. Didn’t know how someone like him—someone as stained, someone as wrecked—had ended up here, standing over something so goddamn perfect.

Nothing mattered because the truth was—he wouldn’t undo it. Wouldn’t take back a single second of this.

His breath ached with that same old, familiar twist as he reached down, brushing his fingers over Maya’s impossibly small hand.

She twitched, her lips parting slightly in sleep, and goddamn it—he felt it everywhere. Joel let a small grin pull at his lips as he curled his fingers around hers, feeling the faintest squeeze in return. Yeah, she was all his.

He sighed, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead. Once. Then again. Then a third time, lingering, his lips brushing over her fine, downy hair, drinking in the warmth of her, the scent of her, the sheer, impossible realness of her.

No, nothing had changed.

But somehow, everything had.

X

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[andvys]

The edges of your soul (I haven't seen yet) ⭐︎ chapter one

⭐︎ Welcome and Goodbye

Warnings: hurt/no comfort, angst, mentions of death, gore, post apocalypse, mentions of being drugged, mentions of SA (not actually happening here), allusions to sex trafficking, dark themes, mean!Steve, grumpy!Steve, grumpy x sunshine

Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader

Summary: Steve can't stand your presence, won't accept his friends' pleading to let you stay with them, nothing will change his mind, he wants you gone... he really does.

Word count: 7.5k

Author's note: first chapter ya'll, I know there isn't much action yet but trust me when I say it's gonna get wild in here. @hellfire--cult is my assistant as always, so don't forget about her, she proofreads AND she writes with me (don't listen to her)

⭐︎ series masterlist

⭐︎ prologue

☀︎

It’s not the nightmares that wake you from your sleep this morning, it’s not the lingering fear and the anxiety this world has brought upon you, it’s the silence, the ray of sunlight peeking through the curtains that Nancy had closed last night. The mattress is soft beneath you, the covers are warm, your hair is sprawled over the pillow under your head, smelling of shampoo, floral and sweet, a luxury in this world, to smell nice, to be clean, to wake up in safety, fully rested, you can’t remember the last time you woke up like this, you can’t remember ever waking up like this since the world has ended, and every day you find yourself missing your small apartment you left abandoned in New York. You wonder what happened to it, if it was one of the buildings that burned down after the big cities were bombed, when the government, the military still thought that the end of the world could be stopped, that the monsters could be stopped. 

You don’t look back a lot, there is no point to it, to grieve something that will never come back again but a part of you feels sad for the girl you were before the evil had spread, before you had to adapt to the ugliness this world has brought, before you had to accept that the real monsters weren’t the creatures. 

A sinking feeling takes over when you register the voices downstairs, loud and angry, filled with rage and hatred – hatred for you, for no reason at all. 

The lump in your throat grows, bigger and bigger each passing second. 

He doesn’t want you here, and it didn’t change overnight. 

You swallow harshly, and throw the covers off yourself, your feet hit the cold ground when you stand up. You look around the room, Nancy’s room, that she kindly let you stay in. You find the clothes she picked out for you, probably in one of the abandoned houses. You reach for the pants, a pair of denim jeans, you grab your belt and your thigh holster, surprised that it’s still on the desk where you had left it last night, a part of you expected Steve to take it from you and only give it back when you are by the gates and ready to leave this place, like he wants you to. 

It felt nice to be around people again, people your age, ones who didn’t turn you away or had ill intentions for you. Eddie and Nancy were sweet and welcoming, they provided food and a place to stay, they made conversation, the way people used to do before all this. 

It makes you sick, knowing you have to leave today, by yourself, to know that you won’t get a good night’s sleep again, to know that you won’t wake up so peacefully tomorrow morning – if there will be one for you. 

You throw the black shirt on, before you lean down towards the different pairs and sizes of shoes she had left here for you. They are different from your converse, which have too many holes in them already, the sole is wearing off. They used to be your favorite pair but it’s time to abandon them now too, you pick a pair of combat boots this time and tie the laces tightly. 

You stop by the bathroom first, to wash your face and brush your teeth, you drown out the angry voices that belong to Steve and Nancy, you know they are fighting because of you. She wants you to stay, he wants you to leave, he doesn’t care to hide his distaste. 

You stare at your reflection in the mirror, taking in the sight of yourself. You haven’t changed much, you think. Your hair got longer, you lost weight but that isn’t a surprise to you, you have gone days without food or even water, too many nights you struggled to fall asleep because of the hunger and the emptiness in your stomach.

A sigh escapes you, a sad one, you know what is waiting for you downstairs. 

“Steve, she is all alone, we can’t just let her go like that!” You hear Nancy say when you slowly make your way towards the staircase. 

“You know we have a supply limit. We rationed water and food for three people only, and now we would have to do it for one more?” Steve scoffs, and from what you have seen of him yesterday, you can imagine the look on his face and how he is crossing his arms over his chest, stubbornly. 

“No one else would take her in! Everyone left in Hawkins are old people who can’t even fend for themselves properly–”

“She didn’t ask to stay,” Steve interrupts, not allowing her to finish her sentence. “Besides, I give two shits about her, Nance.”

His words shouldn’t sting the way they do, he is nothing but a stranger, his harsh words shouldn’t even touch you… and yet they do. 

“What is wrong with you? You weren’t like this at all!” Nancy’s voice seems shocked, taken aback by the words that just left his mouth. 

You hear his scoff, his humorless chuckle, “oh really? I thought you weren’t like this either! Before you would have threatened a stranger with a gun to their head, and now you let some random girl just use our things and let her stay!?” 

“She seems nice, Steve!” 

A part of you wants to run down the stairs and break apart the fight, you never planned on staying, you never wanted this to happen, all you wanted was shelter for the night and a new map, you never meant for this to happen. 

You stand frozen in place, holding onto the railing of the stairs. 

“She ain’t going to replace Barb if that’s what you think.” 

Silence follows after, no words are spoken, nothing, just silence, for a minute or two. 

You know he’s hit a nerve, you know he aimed for the kill with that. It fills you with guilt, knowing that this is only about you, that your presence prompted him to throw something at her that he knew would hurt her. 

“You’re bringing Barb into this!? Are you seriously bringing back what happened to Barb?!” Nancy’s voice of disbelief rings in your ears. 

“I am not bringing anything back, all I’m saying is she is not a pet, or a doll to keep you both fucking company!” 

“She is a person!” 

“She is a nuisance!” 

You suck in a sharp breath, that one stung. You know you aren’t welcome here, you aren’t – weren’t welcome anywhere, it never really hurt to be turned away, so you won’t let it hurt now either. 

You start making your way down the stairs, slowly and quietly. You ignore the beating of your heart as you step into the hallway and make your way into the dining room to get to the kitchen where the silence is suddenly deafening. You step where they can’t see you and you take in the sight of both of them as they stand across from one another, he is leaning against the kitchen island, glaring at the girl that welcomed you with nothing but kindness. Her arms are crossed, her eyes are burning with anger and disbelief, but mostly with disappointment. 

“Wow Steve, you sure sound like your dad there.” 

You watch and wait for his reaction, you see the way he tenses up, the way he furrows his eyebrows and frowns at her, he huffs loudly and drops his arms to his sides, shaking his head at her. 

“See? She comes along and we fight, when we never fucking did this whole year!”

“How could there be any time to fight when we spent it grieving–”

Before she can say anymore, and reveal something that they might not want you to know about, you clear your throat and step into the kitchen, making them both snap their heads towards you. 

“You guys don’t have to fight because of me, I’m not staying here, that was never my intention. I was passing through, like I told you yesterday,” you tell him, looking at him only for a second, not wanting to look any longer and see the false pity. “I appreciate what you have done for me, Nancy. You and Eddie, you have done more for me than I could have asked for, but I’ll be on my way now, and out of your hair,” you mumble the last part to the man before you, who is avoiding your eyes now, choosing to look at the hardwood floor instead. 

“Good, got your map?” Steve asks, not caring about saying anything else to you. 

Nancy scoffs at him, clenching her fists, she shakes her head. She can’t believe what she is hearing, what he is saying, the hatred in his eyes he holds for someone he doesn’t even know, how he is ready to turn someone away and send them to their death, because this is what is waiting for you behind these walls. 

You nod your head and eye him slowly, his jaw is clenched, his eyes filled with something you can’t fully read, you see the disbelief in her whole expression – he hasn’t always been like this, the shock in her voice proved it, you wonder what happened to him, you wonder what made him so… cruel. 

“Yeah, I’m gonna go now–”

“What’s happening here?” Eddie’s voice interrupts you, he stops beside you, wiping motor oil off his hands with a dark blue bandana, he scans your faces, notices the tension in the room, right away. One look at Nancy and the deep frown and he knows what is happening. 

You can’t even open your mouth to answer his question before Steve beats you to it. 

“She was just leaving,” he glares at his friend, warning him with his eyes not to try anything, but Eddie isn’t like Nancy, he won’t fight, he won’t argue, he simply won’t listen to him. “Got the map, right?” He asks again. 

“You know what,” Eddie starts, already grinning at his friend. “I lost my last copy. And requesting one in the community takes a long while, which I already took care of. Callaway is preparing one but you know… gotta scavenge to find a good updated one and that ass is a fucking sloth.” 

Steve pushes himself off the counter, furrowing his brows, he purses his lips as he shakes his head in confusion, “what– are you lying?” 

“Absolutely not,” Eddie shakes his head, already stepping closer to you and wrapping his arm around your shoulder, not letting you go anywhere. “So, no. Sweetheart here can’t leave without a map. The only copy is the one for when we leave–”

Steve sighs again, probably for the tenth time this morning. 

“We’re not leaving.” 

“--And we’re not giving our personal map away so… until there is a spare one, she has to stay.” 

Your cheeks heat up when Steve glances at you, the hazel in his eyes darkens, the frown on his face deepens. You feel weird beneath his gaze, you don’t like this, you don’t like staying somewhere you’re not wanted but Eddie is persistent, Nancy is too, and you don’t want to be by yourself again, not yet. You can’t look into his eyes any longer though, or at his face, so you look down instead. 

Steve knows not to argue with Eddie, it’s no use, not with him, the look on his face tells him that Eddie is ready to bite his face off if he even dares to utter another word about you leaving. He still doesn’t hide his distaste for you, and he scoffs at his friends, looking between Nancy and Eddie, he shakes his head in disappointment, “you know, this is exactly what will get you both killed,” he grumbles before he storms past you and out of the house. 

Eddie murmurs words under his breath as he shakes his head, before he turns to you, noticing the frown on your face, the uncertainty. 

“Come on, you are helping me with something today.”

You finally look up again, glancing at him first, at the kind smile directed at you, the warmth in his eyes so different from the coldness in Steve’s. Nancy offers you a small smile too but the tears in her eyes aren’t hard to miss, the sadness in her features, the disappointment – maybe you should have left when he told you to. 

“I– um, I can find a map somewhere else, I’ll go–”

“No.” Nancy shakes her head, “you’re staying, that’s final.” 

“He doesn’t want me here,” you speak, your voice barely above a whisper. 

“I want you here,” she argues, shrugging her shoulders. 

“So do I.” Eddie nudges your shoulder, still smiling just as softly as before. “You’re staying until he– we’re ready to leave, we’ll go together when the time is right.” 

You don’t understand why they want you here so badly, why they even care as much as they do, you understand him more, better. 

You welcome their company with open arms though, appreciating it more than anything. You have been on your own for too long, you hated every minute of it, no matter how normal it became to you, you hated it, you don’t want it anymore. 

Eddie doesn’t wait for you to say yes – he won’t let you leave anyways, even if you insisted. 

“So… have you ever gone fishing?” Eddie asks you, beginning to lead you away when he hears Nancy’s soft sniffle, knowing she won’t want comfort or sympathy from him or you. There is only one she would want it from, but that one is long gone, so the only thing he or anyone can do is give her the space that she needs in moments like these. 

He shuts the door behind him.

-

The wind is soft against your skin, warm and pleasant, the sun shines down on you, bright and golden rays hitting the lake and the grass surrounding you, it doesn't feel like fall yet. There is a boat by the shore, slightly moving every time the waves slosh against it. 

Eddie is humming beside you, enjoying the warm day, the silence. It’s easy to forget what’s out there when you take in your peaceful surroundings and breathe in the fresh air. You remember the rotten smell in the first few months before winter came, you remember the dead birds on the ground, the apples that fell from the trees, infested by maggots, it was disgusting and you constantly had to wear a mask as to not gag after every breath you took of this rotten world. 

You feel sad every time you think of how you will never smell flowers again or grass after the rain, how you will never see a field of sunflowers again, even when a part of you always hoped that the one behind your house was somehow spared by this world – it would have to be a miracle and miracles are something rare nowadays. 

You wonder what this place looked like before, if any flowers grew surrounding the field in front of the lake, if it was filled with people in the summer, if any teenagers have snuck down here to throw bonfire parties, to jump into the water in the middle of the night, to share a first kiss, to come here to be alone, to cry, to enjoy the silence, to enjoy the view. 

Places that were once filled with people, are now abandoned, haunted with the sound of what once was, of something that will never be again. It’s not only the world that has changed, people have too. 

“Do you wanna try?” Eddie asks, pulling you out of your thoughts. 

“Hm?” You tilt your head to the side, furrowing your brows at the curly haired man before you. 

He chuckles, noticing the confused frown on your face, the lost look in your eyes. You were distracted, far away from here. 

“I know I’m handsome, didn’t think you’d be so distracted by my beauty,” he smirks and rolls his shoulders. 

You can’t hold back the giggle that falls from your lips, the playfully arrogant look on his face, the plastered smirk. You have only known him for a couple of hours, yet you can already tell that this man loves to tease people.

“I was actually distracted by my surroundings, I was wondering what this place looked like before… you know.” 

Eddie nods, his smiling fading a bit, he looks down at the rod in his hand, “it was nice, I mean it still is, considering everything,” he pauses, pointing at the big willow tree that was somehow left untouched by this new world. “Flowers used to grow right here though, lots of ‘em. Bet you would’ve loved that.” 

A smile grazes your face, you nod at him, “I know I would, there used to be this big field of sunflowers behind my parents’ house, it was beautiful. I got lost in it as a child though… once or twice.” 

Eddie chuckles at that, “or thrice?” 

You squint your eyes and smile sheepishly at him, making him chuckle again, “that’s cute.” 

You nudge his shoulder with your own, “you think me getting lost is cute?” 

“Hey, you’ve come a long way since then, look at you, traveling through the country without getting lost,” he teases, nudging you back. 

“Who says I didn’t get lost a few times? I might’ve taken one too many wrong routes and got off the path.” 

“Oh no, sweets,” Eddie shakes his head at you, “I think you’ve taken the right ones, they lead you right here and now you’re with us, you’re on the right path.” 

Eddie can see the bit of confusion in your eyes, like you don’t understand him, just like you don’t understand Nancy, he knows there must be reasons for that, he can’t even imagine them though. 

You look away from his warm eyes, to his arms, to the tattoos and the scars that linger on his skin, his hand is holding the rod tightly, his fingers are adorned with rings, you can tell that they are a part of him, just like the tattoos, every single one of them has a meaning. You look back into his eyes – Eddie is still a stranger to you but there is a certain energy around him, you can’t help but feel safe with him. 

“You are really kind, Eddie. You and Nancy, I appreciate that a lot.” 

The tone in your voice is sad, he can tell that much, he can see it too when you cast your eyes on the ground. 

“Hey, I think we could use some kindness in this world, don’t you think?” He smiles softly. 

Your lips curl upwards, you nod slowly, though you stay quiet for another second or two. 

“Steve doesn’t seem to share that opinion with you…” You murmur quietly, a little scared to touch that topic but still curious. You heard what Nancy had said to him, it left you wondering all day. “He is not very kind, and he doesn’t want me here.”

“He’ll come around,” Eddie says, shrugging. “Besides, we’re not staying either, as soon as the RV is done, we’re leaving, together.” 

Nancy had told you about it, about the community, a safe haven, somewhere far away, on the shores of California. Her family is there, her mother and her siblings, Mike and Holly, and other survivors who were led away from here by a man named Hopper. For months they hadn’t heard from them, didn’t know if they had made it there or not. Steve was positive that they had died just like everyone else did – but then, a few weeks ago, the radio station in their living room had finally given a signal, after months and months of waiting, it finally came to life, and through came the voice of Dustin Henderson, Mike’s friend. 

Eddie had started fixing the RV right after. He didn’t want to waste more time staying in Hawkins, in the small gated residential that is now only filled with a few old people who refuse to leave their homes behind, they will die here and they’re okay with that. Eddie and Nancy aren’t. 

“Nancy told me Nevada is your destination?” Eddie asks, continuing after you nod. “It’s on our way, we’ll go there together.” 

You like the sound of that, you like the thought of not having to continue your travels by yourself, because it gets quite lonely, sometimes unsettling. 

You want to go home, to your family, to your parents and your brother. You know that there is a great chance that they have left, that they have found some place else to stay but the last time you have spoken to them, when you were still able to call, when you were still in your apartment in New York, they were set on staying at the house. Your dad said that it was safe to stay, that gates and fences were built around the town, around the neighbourhood, nothing could come through. 

“I’d like that.” You wish you could smile, you wish you could believe it, but you know that Steve doesn’t want to leave and you can’t imagine Eddie and Nancy leaving without him. “Steve doesn’t want to leave though… why is that?”

At that, Eddie falls quiet for a moment, his back hunches, his lips curl into a frown, sadness flashes in his features. 

“He uh,” he pauses to take a deep breath, “he doesn’t want to leave his best friend, Robin.” 

When he looks up at you, he notices how you get lost in your thoughts for a moment, millions of questions flash before you, questions you want to ask but won’t, out of respect. You open your mouth a few times, though no words come out.

There is this feeling inside of you, that heavy yet hollow feeling that takes home in your chest that tells you everything you need to know, it’s a feeling you have mistaken for anxiety before, when you didn’t know yet what it actually was. 

“...Why isn’t Robin going too?”

Eddie hesitates, turning to look at the lake, he takes a few deep breaths, blinks as he stares ahead. 

“She uh, she wants to stay here.”

“Oh.” 

Eddie tries to smile, though it seems forced. 

“But you don’t want to, and neither does Nancy,” you point out, knowing that she can’t wait to get out of here. 

Eddie shakes his head, pressing his lips together as he breathes in, “no, I wanna be with my friends and my uncle.” 

“He’s in the community too?” 

Now he smiles genuinely, “yeah, he is there. Bet he is on a boat all day, catching fish for everyone. That’s something he always dreamed of actually, living by the ocean, going on boat tours, he never got the chance to before, when he wasn’t struggling with money, he was taking care of me… I can’t believe the world had to end for him to live a better life.” 

You smile sadly, you can see that his uncle means a lot to him, you can tell that he misses him strongly. 

“Yeah, well… life is weird, most people don’t fit into this world, most people are guided by fear and hatred now but… some have it the other way around, I suppose, as crazy as that sounds.”

Eddie nods at that, a soft chuckle falls from his lips as he looks back at the water, “honestly, this still feels like a fever dream.”

It did to you too, it felt like a dream you desperately wanted to wake up from, a nightmare like none you have ever experienced before. You don’t even remember what it was that made you realize that your old life was over, that nothing would go back to the way it was, that this was your life now and for always – perhaps it was the evilness that had awoken in most people you have encountered, or maybe it was the gruesome ways you watched people getting killed, or maybe it was the loneliness and the lack of life on the streets. 

You doubt that Eddie had changed much, you feel like he had always been this way, kind and openhearted. 

You wonder about Steve though, you have heard what Nancy said to him. 

“What uh, what about Steve? Was he always like this?”

“You mean was he always an asshole?” Eddie asks, chuckling. 

Your face flushes at that, and you quickly shake your head. 

“No, I-I mean–”

“Come on, sweetheart,” Eddie tilts his head, eyes flashing with amusement, “he is kind of an asshole but to answer your question, no, he wasn’t always like this, he was always protective but now it’s more than that, he’s… everything is a threat to him now, everything he doesn’t know is danger.”

“So… I’m a threat to him?” 

Eddie chuckles again, he shakes his head. 

“I don’t think you could look like one even if you tried. He is just wary, he’ll come around though.” 

You huff at his words, frowning a little, you’re well aware that people think you’re an easy target. Your experiences from the past, ones that happened not too long ago even, are proof of that. 

“Well, even if he saw me as a threat or anyone else for that matter, I wouldn’t blame him.”

Eddie furrows his brows, “this world, the monsters are the real enemy.”

You once thought so too, back when you were still naive, still untouched by this world. 

“There are worse things than monsters out there, Eddie.” 

There’s no smile on your face now, no softness in your eyes, the tone in your voice is serious. A chill runs down his spine, something about the way you said it, worries him. He wants to ask, he wants to know what you are talking about, though a part of him already knows the answer to that. 

“I–” Before he can utter another word, he watches the way your eyes widen as you touch his shoulder without forcing your eyes away from the lake. 

“You got one! I think you got one!” You point at the line that keeps jerking forward. 

“Oh!” Eddie jumps up, lifting the rod back up in the air, he starts pulling the fish up. His tongue pokes out between his teeth, a look of concentration taking over his face now. 

“You got it, you got it!” You clap your hands excitedly, making him chuckle beside you as you jump on the grass. 

“Alright,” Eddie murmurs, not even struggling against the strength that keeps pulling at the rod, “get the net for me, please.”

You bend down and reach for the net that he threw down earlier. You pick it up, and follow him to the shore. 

“You’re next, sweetheart,” Eddie grins at you, “gonna let you catch the second fish.” 

-

“That’s one big fucking fish! Good job, Eds!” Nancy exclaims with joy as she serves the big plate in the middle of the table. 

Steve looks up at Eddie to see if he is smiling proudly, instead he sees him scowling. 

“It… wasn’t me.” 

Steve and Nancy slowly turn their heads to you, to see you wiggling in your seat, excitedly. 

“I caught the mackerels,” Eddie grumbles as he reaches for the freshly baked bread, “she caught that one.”

Steve hides his surprise well, though he still looks at you as he sips on his whiskey before he reaches for the bowl of cooked potatoes. 

“Wait, you fish?” Nancy asks as she sits down beside you. 

You shake your head, smiling at your new friend, “nope! But I’m strong and I learn fast!” 

You ignore Steve’s sighs and his incoherent words that he grumbles under his breath. You look at him from the side though, catching him glaring at you. 

“I can tell!” Nancy chuckles as she turns to Eddie, “you’ve got some competition.” 

“I fucking know, Nance,” Eddie mumbles, pretending to be mad, like he didn’t cheer when you caught that fish. He turns to Steve, who not only fills his own plate but also Eddie’s and then Nancy’s. 

It’s a sweet gesture, one that shows you that he isn’t as heartless as he pretends to be. 

“Thanks man,” Eddie grins, to which Steve doesn’t even smile or look at him, he turns to you though, looking into your eyes intensely – no smile, no kindness, nothing. It’s hard to look past his cold behaviour, to take him in fully, he is so robotic and rude, even when he isn’t speaking to you, he is mean, you can’t see anything else but that. You don’t expect him to put dinner on your plate like he does for his friends, you are not welcome here in his eyes but you also don’t expect him to hand you the bowl. 

You reach for it, taking it from his hands, he immediately withdraws when your fingers touch his, like you are venom. 

“I can take you to the greenhouse tomorrow!” Nancy smiles as she picks up her fork, stabbing it into the steamed carrots. “I’ll show you our crops, we’ve got a lot of carrots growing, right now!” 

Steve glares at her, he wants you gone by the morning, he’s made it loud and clear when he came back earlier while you were out fishing with Eddie. 

Nancy ignores him, Eddie does too, he is too busy taking apart the fish on his plate. But you, you can’t unsee the disapproving look on his face, it makes you squirm in your seat, it takes away your appetite too. 

“I’m still surprised by how much food you have–”

“It isn’t much,” Steve interrupts you as he takes a bite of his food, his eyes practically pierce through your soul, making you cower. He acts like you will take away everything. 

Nancy’s angry eyes do little, she even kicks him under the table but he ignores her. 

“It’s much for someone who had nothing for months. Besides, I didn’t think that vegetables and fruit could still grow, there’s a lot of rotten land out there.” 

There is no regret or guilt in his eyes, he can tell that you hadn’t had much to eat, that yesterday’s dinner and all the food on the table tonight, is a real feast for you. 

“I’m sure there are other places out there that have more food, you’ll find your way there.” 

Eddie sighs loudly beside him, shaking his head, though to keep the peace at this table, he bites his tongue. 

Nancy leans back in her chair, she clenches her jaw, not hiding the anger she has got directed at him. 

“Yeah… I’m sure I will,” You murmur quietly before you pick up your fork and start eating, forcing the food down that you were excited for. 

He looks down at you, not blinking, not moving. You chew your food slowly unlike the night before. You tuck your hair behind your ear and pull the sleeve of your sweater over your free hand. There are dark circles under your eyes, like you haven’t slept in days – and you probably haven’t until last night, even that wasn’t enough to catch up on all that you have lost. You probably haven’t had a warm meal in weeks, maybe months. You probably haven’t felt safe since the day the world has ended. But he can’t care, he shouldn’t, it will only make things complicated, it will only do damage. 

“We will,” Nancy exclaims. 

“What?” Steve asks, forcing his gaze away from you. 

“I said, we will find a place like that out there, in fact we will find our way to California together, she is coming with us as soon as the RV is ready.” Nancy says with a loud and determined tone, not caring to go soft on him anymore. 

Steve slams his fork down, making you flinch. He stands up, nearly causing his chair to fall over. He grabs his gear that he threw on the coffee table earlier. 

“Where are you going?” Nancy frowns, also getting up. 

“To Robin. I can’t believe you two are still going on about this,” he scoffs, taking one last look at you before he storms out of the house, slamming the door behind him. 

You sit quietly, looking down at your plate, no longer feeling the hunger in your stomach. 

Nancy sighs loudly, she looks up at the ceiling, her jaw still clenched. She sits down again, and picks her fork back up. 

You lift your head and glance at Eddie, “is Robin…”

“The best friend who doesn’t want to leave the community, yeah.” He glances at Nancy, for only a split second, before he looks down again and continues eating. 

Nancy clears her throat before she looks at you, she knows you’re curious about her, about why she isn’t here, why she isn’t coming too. 

“Her parents are really strict, they don’t allow her to leave Hawkins,” she explains, hesitating for a moment, “and… Steve doesn’t want to leave without her, so…”

“Oh,” you nod in understanding, squinting your eyes as you look at his empty space. He is so angry, so hateful towards everything and everyone. “Is he… are they like in love or something?” 

Eddie laughs at that, shaking his head, “mmm… no… trust me, birdie’s type is more… people like you.” 

Nancy looks down with a smile and flushed cheeks. 

You tilt your head to the side, “oh… you mean non grumpy?” 

They both chuckle in amusement, the questioning and innocent look in your eyes is funny to them both. 

It takes you a moment to realize why they are so amused by your question, and you grow flustered once you understand. 

“...Oh!” 

That still doesn’t answer your question about him. 

“Now eat up, sweets,” Eddie says, gesturing to your nearly untouched plate, “forget that grumpy asshole.” 

Nancy looks down with wide eyes, taking a deep breath as she starts eating again too, “kinda hard to when he acts like this.” 

Yeah, it is hard to forget that man and his glaring eyes, the cold shoulder and the mean comments that are meant to drive you away as fast as possible. You know he is probably counting down the hours until you’re gone and he doesn’t have to see you anymore. 

Tomorrow you will be alone again, all by yourself, with no one to talk to, with no one to laugh with. You will be back on the road and you will turn around after nearly every step that you will take, you won’t have a warm dinner and a hot shower, you won’t have that feeling of safety, you won’t sleep again, you will spend another winter fighting for your life -- if you even make it that far.

So, you try, you try to forget him, you try to enjoy this moment with Eddie and Nancy, you try for as long as you can, even when it gets late and Nancy excuses herself to take a shower while you and Eddie clean the kitchen together. 

A comfortable silence settles between you both, you wipe down the counter while he washes the dishes. You can tell that he is thinking hard about something, you noticed that he always frowns really strongly when he gets lost in his own head. 

You grab a fresh towel and lean against the counter beside him, reaching for one of the washed plates, and you start drying it. 

“Can I ask you something?” He finally breaks the silence, and you know you’re about to find out what went on in his head. 

“Sure.” 

“Earlier you said that there are worse things than monsters out there,” he pauses and puts the sponge down, putting the washed cutlery on the counter for you to dry, he wipes his hands with the towel that was thrown over his shoulder and he crosses his arms over his chest when he turns his whole body to face you. “What’d you mean by that?”

A quiet ‘oh’ falls from your lips. You don’t answer his question right away, taking your time to finish drying the plates. Eddie doesn’t push you, waiting for you to be ready, and when you are, you turn to face him, as well. 

“I meant people.” 

He only raises his eyebrows at you. 

“People are bad, Eddie. You can’t even imagine what it’s like out there,” you sigh, not hiding the fear in your eyes. “People will do anything to survive, they will take anything they want, anyone they want…” 

His brown eyes that were previously filled with confusion and curiosity are blank for a moment, his eyebrows stay furrowed until your words fully dawn on him and his features pull into a look of shock, understanding. 

“Oh,” he whispers softly as his arms fall to his sides. 

“There are no rules out there, anyone can get away with anything. I’ve seen people kill others for cans of food, for ammo or water. I’ve come across people who didn’t take me in so kindly, all I got was stale bread and a cell to sleep in for the night and those weren’t even the worst ones.” 

Eddie frowns, he doesn’t open his mouth to speak, not knowing what to say yet. 

“I’ve heard rumors… of young girls and boys being sold, traded for weapons and other things. I didn’t want to believe it.” 

His face pales at your words, he shakes his head slowly, disbelief is written all over his face. 

You swallow the growing lump in your throat, take a deep breath, you try to ignore the chills that run down your spine still from that night. 

“A few days ago, maybe a week… I was looking for food at a gas station when a sick person snuck up on me, nearly ripped a hole into my head when it grabbed at my hair. I fell onto broken glass,” you pause to show him the wound on your shoulder, “that fucker nearly got me, I couldn’t reach my gun fast enough, I thought I was done for… Someone saved me, a man.”

Eddie swallows, bracing himself for what he is about to hear. 

“Scared me more than that sick person, honestly. I didn’t trust him, but he helped me, got me alcohol and bandages for my wound, and offered me water and food. He told me that he lived in a nearby community, that his wife and his kids were there too. I was naive. I was tired and desperate for shelter, I fell for it and I almost paid for my stupidity.” You pause, feeling your heart race from just telling the story. “I had a bad feeling but I still got into his car, and it only took two minutes for him to pull out a syringe. I knew right then and there what I had gotten myself into.” 

“Jesus,” Eddie whispers, eyeing you worriedly. 

“I fought, I-I don’t know how I got myself out of that one but I did.” 

You try not to think of the way you had almost lost that fight, how his hands grabbed at you, how scared you felt, how you thought that your heart was gonna jump out of your throat, how he nearly stabbed that needle into your neck if you hadn’t managed to kick your heel into his groin, buying you that time that you needed to get out of there and jump out of the moving car. 

“I ran into the woods, I didn’t want to get back into that town and risk him coming back for me… with more men. I was lost for days, at one point I thought that I wouldn’t find my way back out of those woods but I did, I made it out and I got here. Steve was the first person, the first man I stumbled into after that. I-I was a little scared… but he looked harmless compared to the one before, and even if he wasn’t, I would’ve taken him over anyone else.” You admit, looking down at your hands. 

Eddie is stunned, he doesn’t know what to say after all of this. He is shocked and horrified. He knew that people were cruel, even before all of this, but he never thought that they would turn into this. He looks down at you, sadly, he is glad that worse didn’t happen but what you went through was bad enough. 

“People are like that…?”

You nod, “yeah… it’s rough out there… when you’re alone.”

Eddie didn’t want you to leave before but now? He would fight Steve to make you stay. 

He places his hand on your shoulder, squeezing softly, he looks into your eyes, giving you a promising look, “you’re not alone anymore, alright? You’ve got us–”

“But Steve–”

“It doesn’t matter what he said, he wouldn’t let you out there either if he knew about this. He is not that cruel, I promise. You’re with us now and you ain’t leaving without us.” 

Eddie makes a promise, and you can tell by the look in his eyes that he won’t break it. 

“Okay,” you whisper, smiling softly at him before you turn away and pick up your task again. 

Eddie keeps looking at you though, with a smile that slowly fades and eyes that flash with sadness. He has only known you for one day but he couldn’t help but grow protective of you already, just the way he felt when he was still in high school and he took in all the lost sheep who were looking for shelter from all those hungry wolves. 

He won’t let you out there on your own, he won’t let Steve throw you out to the wolves who have gotten even hungrier. 

Eddie had dealt with so much guilt when he was dragged into this world two years ago. He had no chance of saving her, but he can save you. He knows you will die if you go out there alone, with or without a map. You can’t depend on your luck alone. It got you this far, but how much more is there for you to use?

And as he chats away with you again, to distract you and himself from the sudden fear of what else they might encounter once they leave the community, you two don’t hear the creak of the stairs as someone goes to their room after spending the last minutes perched on the kitchen’s doorway.

Someone whose eyebrows were furrowed in the middle with worry, with guilt. He didn’t know it was that bad out there. He didn’t know the monsters weren’t the only ones killing, and from what you told Eddie, the bite of a demobat seemed a far better outcome than being taken away by some random people for them to do, god knows what with you.

Steve’s heart was torn as he went into his room, sighing as he dropped his bag to the floor. He felt his stomach twisting with emotions, with nerves, with feelings that he couldn’t quite figure out at the moment. It was all too dangerous, everything was. But maybe now that Eddie knew how dangerous moving around was, the idea of leaving was no longer brought up to him.

And you… He wants to strangle you.

-

Your feet drag you down the stairs, rubbing your eye lazily as you try to wipe the sleep away from you. You kept thinking of the conversation with Eddie, and you wondered how in the world were you going to be in the same place as someone who just didn’t want you breathing their same oxygen. There was no way you could possibly stay a long time with someone like that. 

The smell of coffee filled your nostrils, something you just couldn’t believe you were smelling yet. Something you never thought you would smell ever again. Nancy must be awake, and you couldn’t wait to ask her what you could help with today, but the moment you crossed the kitchen’s doorway, you were surprised to see brown brushed hair, a broad back facing you, wearing a plain white t-shirt and some black sweatpants. 

Steve turned around, his eyes clashing with yours for just one second before placing a cup on the counter, filled with coffee.

“We have milk, but we save it. I can only offer black coffee and some sugar.” You were not expecting him to hand you coffee. You were not expecting a good morning from him at all, and for you, this gesture was his way of saying it.

“I– It’s okay…” Your hands grabbed onto the cup and then poured six spoonfuls of sugar, making Steve wince at the sight.

“God, just like Munson–” You heard him scoff as he turned away from you and your eyes looked at his broad back as you watched him pour coffee into his own cup. You immediately brought the cup to your lips as he turned to face you again.

“T–Thank you.” His jaw clenched for a second, taking a sip of his coffee at the same time you did. Silence filled the room and you could feel just how awkward everything was. What were you supposed to say now? Should you be the one to tell him you might be staying? That Eddie is not letting you leave? Your mouth opened only for his voice to interrupt you.

“If you are planning on staying here, you’ll have to do chores and tasks like we all do.” 

“Huh?” Your eyes widened as you looked at him. He was looking at his coffee as if it were the most interesting thing in the world before his sharp gaze turned to you.

“We shift our tasks daily. We don’t do the same thing everyday. Patrolling is a two men job–”

“You were alone that day–”

“Eddie had an emergency and it was time I had to go home anyways. There’s fishing, cooking, cleaning, gardening, patroling.” You were blinking absentmindedly at him as he kept talking and you couldn’t believe he was letting you stay. With conditions, but he was letting you fucking stay.

“Wait, are you serious?” Your voice was small as you asked the questions, “I can stay?”

“Who’s staying?” Nancy walked in, her hair a matter mess on her head, which made Steve scoff in disapproval, only for her to shrug at him as she went to get a cup from the cupboard.

“She is staying.” Nancy almost dropped the cup as she heard Steve’s words, her eyes widening as she looked at him and then back at you. “And you better not make me fucking regret this.”

His eyes were locked with yours and for some reason he felt a shiver running down his spine. Something that was telling him ‘you did the right thing’. He better have. Whatever just told him he made the right decision, better not fuck him over. Nancy turned to jump in excitement your way, smiling as she started to tell you what tasks you could take on, while you stared between her and him, not understanding what was going on yet.

Maybe he can convince you to stay, and maybe that is the key to making Eddie and Nancy stay. To forget the idea of leaving Hawkins. He can’t leave Robin. He doesn’t understand how Eddie and Nancy can easily leave her behind. He just hopes you don’t do the exact opposite.

God, he really does hope he did the right thing.

☀︎

taglist: @prettyboyeddiemunson @thesickestqrmydcll @tvserie-s-world @crispystarfishhottub @sophal22 @definitionwanderlust @talkativecarnation @mysticalwoolenfroglegs @ariesandwolves @mortqlprojections

[foreverdolly]

ೃ࿔ SAVAGE BONDS part 4 『 feyd rautha x atreides!reader 』

summary: destined to one another since conception, your very life belongs to feyd rautha. as a token of good will you are sent to the strange planet of giedi prime a week before your wedding ceremony, only to learn that it is far more hostile than you imagined it would be. a failed assassination attempt has tempers flaring and sparks flying when it is decided to be safer to sleep alongside feyd. you hate to admit it, but he has played the part of a "protector" better than the guards who were tasked to watch over you. whilst you have been dreading this union all of your life, feyd has been anticipating it. meeting you as children had left him awe-struck. . . and a bit obsessed.

warnings: !SMUT HEAVY IN FUTURE PARTS!, feyd is super overprotective in this fic and kills multiple people in your honor, blood and gore, it's a dark romance folks, political marriage, forced proximity, temporary unrequited love, a lil dubious consent in some scenes, there's a lot of talk about breeding, enemies to lovers (in your mind, not his), there's a "who did this to you" scene, knife play, blood kink, breeding kink heavy, lots of scent marking/marking.

there is a mild noncon scene in this chapter. read at your own risk or skip past it.

word count: 5.2k

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In that strange place between waking and sleep- that's where you currently existed. You made a home there, wading through the waters of confusion as the events of last night came flooding back to you. At first none of it felt real. It was all a dream. . . it had to be. 

But there was a foreign warmth beside you and something heavy weighing down on your chest, and while your limbs were numb with sleep you could still register that it wasn’t you. Not your arm. 

Not your warmth. 

So you opened your eyes and joined the land of the living once more. 

The mornings on Caladan were lovely. Light filtered through your curtains regardless of the frequent overcast, the sprawling farmlands vibrant and oh so alive all around you. Your childhood home was all blue-grays and greens. The halls smelled briney- slightly citrus during the spring and summer months. The air was always humid, despite the chill; moisture clinging to your skin and clothes. 

Feyd’s room was slate gray and black, slightly bigger than the one you had been sleeping in since your arrival on Giedi Prime. The air was acrid, the scent of iron so heavy in the air that it almost tasted sweet on your tongue. It was on your palate now, nearly causing you to gag when you took in a deep, steadying breath. 

You had wanted to go home the second you stepped foot on the industrial planet, if only because you despised change. You wanted your family, your horses, your ocean-side view. Now, looking back at how childish your home-sick reasonings were, you couldn’t help but feel naive. 

Not one, but many, had conspired against you. They had hopes that their pale prince would cut his losses and grow bored of you, but took it upon themselves to rid their hallowed halls of your presence. Anger began strumming through your veins, begging for release. 

You did not let the feeling take shape. Acting on hate alone would be your undoing, you knew that. Yes, you were not as strong as some of Geidi Primes weakest warriors, but you made up for it with your. . . inherited gifts. 

Your hand flew to your neck, hissing when your fingertips made contact with the tender skin. You groaned, your larynx screaming at protest. Did this mean. . . 

No. 

No, no, no.

You sat upright in bed, Feyd groaning as his arm was flung off of your chest due to your haste. Unable to process the reality that he had been touching you so casually, you instead focused on the fact that the noise you had just emitted sounded choppy. Garbled. Useless.

“My voice,” You started, eyes widening to the size of saucers as the words reached your ears. It was exactly as you feared. “I can’t use it.” 

You could barely speak normally, let alone be able to manipulate the Voice. How long would it take your throat to heal? A few days? A week? A month? It had only taken two days for a few of the Baron’s men to plan out their attack. Who knew when they would try to strike again? You were a sitting duck and you refused to die like this. 

“You won’t need it.” Feyd’s deep voice sounded beside you, the sheets rustling as his muscled body rolled over on the plush bed. 

You tried in vain not to be distracted by his naked chest- by the planes of perfectly toned abs and the swell of his biceps as he stretched them above his head. It was gross to be attracted to him; disgusting, really. 

Even in the light of day- if you could even call the murky gray that came in through the blinds light- the shadows seemed to pool around the bloodthirsty man. He wore them like a second skin. Had become them and learned to wield them at will. 

His face was once again spotless, no blood to be found on him from last night's activities. He had been utterly soaked just a few hours ago. It had dripped down his sword arm, his nightshirt clinging to his chest and shoulders. . . and he had washed it all away down the drain like the lives he had taken meant nothing. 

And it probably didn’t mean a damn thing to a man like him. Someone so used to reaping souls and shattering lives. 

Your chest swelled as you turned to face him, scooting as far back on the bed as you possibly could. When you had fallen asleep he was lounging on the couch. He must have slipped into bed once you were asleep, outwardly lying about the fact that he would put distance between the two of you. 

“I am not safe here.” You spat out, your broken voice still dripping with venom. 

He seemed bored, as if your worries were unfounded. “I will cleave the heads off of anyone that even looks in your direction.” He said simply. Not a threat but a crimson stained promise.

Gone was the starry eyed girl who saw nothing wrong with the galaxy. Your innocence had been stripped from you the second that the man’s hands had found their way around your throat. Your body finally seemed to register pain now that you were fully awake. Your back felt like hell- a purple bruise no doubt marring your skin where it had connected with the heavy dresser. And your cheek? You brushed your fingers over that spot next. It felt hot under your touch. 

“I can protect myself.” That was a lie. You could taste the horribly constructed fib on the tip of your tongue and it was bitter. Impossible to stomach. 

Feyd sat up on his elbows then, looking over your face. His eyes hardened on your cheek, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth when his eyes started to dip lower. How was it possible that anyone expected you to ever grow used to his presence? His eyes on you felt like a hot brand. You attempted to flinch away from him as his hand reached out for your neck, but he touched you anyway. 

“I should have savored that kill. Taken my time.” His voice was still gravely from sleep, but the anger was clear on his face. 

Seeing you like this, for whatever reason, enraged him. You didn’t want to know why. . . at least you told yourself that. A man like Feyd couldn’t possibly care for anyone and you doubted that he would ever be capable of such an emotion. 

“Do you truly take joy in murdering others?” You couldn’t understand him. There was no common ground between the two of you. He was a complete mystery to you. 

They hadn’t even been your deaths, and yet here you were, feeling torn about all of the blood that had been shed. Feyd had killed seven men last night. Were you really worth all of that? 

“I’m culling the herd,” He sat up then, his eyes sparking with a sick sense of delight that had your stomach roiling. This sounded like the ramblings of a madman.“They were weak, body and mind. Disobedient soldiers should always be purged. They were a disease, and I treated them as such.” The corner of his lip tugged up into a small smirk, as if he was reliving the moment that his blade cleaved through flesh and bone. 

“You went overboard on my behalf.” They would hate you more now. Those guards no doubt had loved ones, all of whom would be gunning for you now. 

“Would you rather I left them all alive? Given them a small slap on the wrist?” He was leaning in now, as if being closer to you would give him a better understanding of where you were coming from. 

The sheets wrapped around your limbs, acting like restraints as you tried to back away from him and his intimidating presence. You couldn’t help but feel as though he was sizing you up, questioning whether he could swallow you up in one bite. His eyes, lidded with sleep and hazy with something you couldn’t quite discern told you that he would eat very, very slowly. Your fingers twitched at your sides, his eyes narrowing as though he could smell your fear in the air that the both of you now shared due to your close proximity.

“No,” You hated that you were agreeing with him. “They would have found another way to kill me. I just hate that you had to make such a show of it all.” I hate that I couldn’t kill them myself. 

Who were you to decide if someone lived or died for their crimes? And yet. . . you were glad that they were dead. You couldn’t find it within yourself to feel sorry for them. They got exactly what they deserve, so why did you feel so awful about it? 

Because the “old” you would have begged for their lives to be spared. That sweet, innocent girl would have abhorred the blood and gore, which begged the question: who did that make you now? Has this place truly changed you so intrinsically in a matter of days? You hated the idea that you were adjusting to the environment. It terrified you.

Feyd could see the anger churning behind your wide eyes, no matter how hard you tried to mask it. You were beautiful like this, so accepting of his nature. . . and yet you still fought him. Still fought this. He adored you for it. Loved you for it. There it was again- that word. He let the phrase sink into his bones, settle inside of his chest. 

‘I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you. 

Look at what I can do for you. Let me kill again for you. Let me prove my worth. Let me have you. Let me taste you. Let me devour you until there is nothing left.’ 

He was so close now that the heat and smell of him was clouding your mind. Much like the smog outside, he was poisoning the air around you. The sheets tightened around your legs as you tried to kick them off of you, hellbent on escaping the bed and dressing for the day. You were starving, sore, and in desperate need of another hot bath. You still felt dirty after last night, like the stains hadn’t been completely washed away. 

He was looking at you with those eyes. God, his eyes. . . they were blue, bottomless pits and you were sinking. . . drowning. You found it hard to breathe while he was looking at you like that. He was assessing you with a heated gaze that unwillingly set your insides ablaze. His hands were suddenly on the sides of your upper thighs, the insides of his wrists brushing against them. You could feel skin against skin, your thin nightdress doing nothing to shield you from his touch. 

“You wanted them dead, I can tell.” And he smiled at that, a genuine one full of misplaced mirth. 

“I don’t want anyone to die.” Your tongue felt heavy in your mouth, so heavy that you suddenly found it hard to speak. 

“I didn’t take you for a liar, little Atreides.” His head tilted to the side as he licked his lips. He was so close to you that his tongue nearly brushed against your parted lips. 

And then he was pulling away, his warmth being ripped away from you far too quickly. Feyd left you on the bed as he sauntered over to his closet, unabashed of his half naked body- almost as though he was proud to show it off to you. His broad shoulders, toned back- it was well earned. It was the body of a warrior- of a killer. 

You had to remind yourself that he was a murderer, tearing your eyes from him. It was almost as though you couldn’t get enough oxygen. Your lungs ached as you realized that he had practically siphoned it out of the room with his commanding presence. 

He terrified you down to your very core. It was as though he was seeing your soul for what it truly was. . . 

And it was as black as his own.

The Na-Baron’s hand against the small of your back felt more like a collar than anything. You couldn’t help but wonder if that was how you appeared to others now, like nothing more than a pet. It was a silent show of ownership, as were his hardened eyes as he turned his head to glare at each and every guard that passed in the hall. Their familiar uniform had your knees buckling and your hands shaking. He must have felt those tremors, for his fingers tangled themselves into the fabric of your shirt, like he could anchor you to him. ‘You’re safe with me,’ the gesture seemed to say. 

The floor had been wiped clean of last night's massacre and it was almost as if it had never happened at all. You wished that you could delude yourself into believing that it hadn’t, but your aching bones were a constant reminder. An Atreides did not belong here. 

The distance that you craved was not something that Feyd seemed keen on granting. When you had finished bathing earlier, your skin scrubbed raw, you had found him lounging back against the bed, eyes trained on the bathroom door. His presence was stifling, as were the halls of this strange empire. They appeared to be tightening around you, reminding you of your lack of freedom. 

A canary in a gilded cage. 

“I’ve been filled in on the events of last night,” The Baron said as a way of greeting when the two of you found your way into the dining room. “You had your fun it seemed, nephew.” He didn’t sound angry, which was good you supposed. Then again, he didn’t sound very approving either. 

Feyd paused for a split second in the doorway, his lips pursing in confusion. You recalled him saying that the Baron always ate his meals in his own quarters. Your throat bobbed as Feyd’s hands urged you further into the room. Suddenly you were no longer hungry. Like a child, you wished that you could dig your heels in and refuse to make your way any further inside. While his nephew scared and confused you, Baron Vladimir Harkonnen was an absolute waking nightmare. From his pale, unattractive face to his plump, gluttonous build- even his eyes seemed completely void of any light. Your quivering worsened because you knew, even if Feyd wanted to keep you alive for whatever reason, that he would not disobey his beloved uncle. You would never expect that of him. If the Harkonnen wanted you dead. . . then so it shall be. 

“It was very enjoyable.” Feyd said simply, sitting down in the chair directly beside you. 

The Baron, at his spot at the head of the table, felt miles away. He was assessing the two of you, his gaze bouncing from your form and then to that of his nephew. It wasn’t until Feyd placed his arm over the back of your chair that he finally smiled. It looked more like a sneer than anything else, and all at once you wished to punch those teeth right out of his skull. His ill treatment of your father would never be forgotten, forced marriage or not. 

“You two look. . . close.” He concluded, folding his hands in his lap as he sat back. His dark robes hugged all of the wrong places- he was greed in the flesh. 

Feyd didn’t say anything, but he did lean in closer. It occurred to you that he was acting almost like a shield between you and his uncle. All at once your shaking stopped, your eyes flickering up to meet his face for the briefest of moments before you finally looked down at your plate. Again, the food did not appeal to your appetite. There were no fresh fruits or vegetables. Everything was brown, beige and white. The meals here were void of any color or variety and you found it fitting. 

“We slept together last night, as it should have been from the very beginning.” Feyd said, no room for arguments. His tone was final- absolute, even in the face of the one person that he answered directly to. 

Your cheeks were suddenly blazing hot as you realized how easily his statement could be misunderstood. Your lips parted, as though you could defend yourself and set the record straight, but the Baron was already nodding. He didn’t care either way. You were sent here to procreate, afterall. What the two of you did or didn’t do meant nothing to him. As the daughter of Duke Atreides you were nothing more than a pawn- a bargaining piece at best. Your blood boiled as you stabbed your fork into whatever meat had been served. It was all you could do not to brandish the small serrated blade that laid beside your plate and shove it through one of Vladimir’s overly assessing eyes. 

“I just thought that she might have wanted her own space before the ceremony,” He started, gesturing towards you. It was as though you weren’t even in the room at all. “But I’ll make sure that her things are brought to your room.” 

You did want your own space. Desperately. This whole situation felt wrong, and yet you were helpless. A few more days in your own room was nothing, really. Not when the two of you would be sharing a room for the remainder of your lives. 

“It’s our room.” Feyd corrected, using his free hand so that he could take a sip of his drink. 

His arm brushed against the back of your neck as he leaned forward ever-so-slightly so that he could place the cup back down on the table. The brush of his skin against yours sent a chill down your spine. 

“Very well. Your shared room.” And the Baron seemed pleased.

The cogs started turning in your head as you stared at that expression on his face. Was that gloating that you sensed?

He looked as though he had won. 

It would make no sense at all for the Baron to be so concerned with the status of your relationship, and yet there he had been, smiling as if he had bested you. Did he know something that you didn’t? It would be dangerous to voice the thoughts that you were having- unwise. Feyd was sure to take his uncle’s side on everything. At the end of the day you were little more than a warm, wet hole to breed. . . right? 

Your skin crawled, your breathing growing more and more shallow as the seconds passed. What would your mother do if she was put in a situation like this? The urge to talk to her was stifling, and yet you were here alone. You had no allies here. You had been left to your own devices. 

“You aren’t going to beg me to train with you today?” Feyd asked from the open door of the bathroom. 

He’d left it wide open while he changed, as if he was daring you to gawk and stare. You were too busy panicking to even care that he could very well be naked mere feet away from where you sat on the bed. The Baron was guilty of something, that you knew with certainty. You bit down onto your lower lip, staring blankly ahead at the wall as you became more and more consumed by your frightening thoughts. 

“What are you thinking about, little one?” His voice was right beside your ear and you jumped back, staring wide eyed at where he was kneeling before you. 

He stared up at you expectantly, waiting for you to tell him what currently had you so quiet. His uncle had been unusual at breakfast, more so than Feyd was used to. The Baron was a busy man, and the last thing on his agenda was to eat with his nephew and his bride-to-be. He was cautious, and yet he didn’t want you to know. He would handle your safety from now on, even if that meant going against those that shared the very blood that pumped through his own veins. 

The expression on your face had him leaning closer. You were so meek. . . so fearful. The need to protect you was overwhelming. How could someone ever want to hurt you? His eyes flickered over your bruises for the one hundredth time that afternoon, rage settling like lead in the pit of his stomach. 

“I’m thinking. . .” You started, eyes becoming glassy. “That I was sent here to die.” 

Feyd, for the first time in his life, felt helpless. He did not know how to calm you down. The man didn’t know the first thing about comforting someone, but the thought of leaving you to your own devices and panic had a gasp escaping his throat. 

“Do you not believe me when I say that I will protect you? Have I not proved myself?” Actions spoke louder than words, or at least Feyd had always believed that, and yet you didn’t seem to understand what he was trying to say. His actions weren’t enough. 

“You’re protecting me because you have to. I understand that well enough, but that doesn’t mean that something won’t happen. You are the enemy Feyd. My enemy.” You spoke with so much conviction and looked at him like you hadn’t just gutted him. 

Feyd felt as though you had physically slapped him across the face. The chase was fun, but this. . . this wasn’t you acting hard to get. This was you drawing a very clear line in the sand. You didn’t like him and perhaps never would. And maybe it made Feyd even more despicable than anyone ever thought possible, but part of him did not care. You could fight it all you wanted, it did not negate the fact that you belonged to him. It did not negate the fact that he cared for you. . .

Cared so deeply that it had him questioning whether or not he had ever really known joy or a true sense of belonging before now. 

“I am not them.” He rasped out, knowing that you’d understand exactly who he was implying. 

He was not like the others. He never had been. He had a penchant for cruelty and a talent for killing, but he would never hurt you for sport. He knew of Harkonnen men that battered their women simply because they could, but the mere idea of putting his hands on you made him want to sink his blade into his own chest and twist. How could he ever explain that to you? Put his emotions into words when you knew so little about him? How could he tell you that he’d been dreaming of you since he was a child? Vivid, prophetic dreams that left him lonely and impatient. 

“But you are.” There was a strange glint in his eyes that had your words leaving you in a breathy whisper. You were being vulnerable with him. Showing him your worst fears and letting him know that you currently had no more aces up your sleeves. The Voice was useless to you right now, and no matter how skilled you were in combat, it would mean nothing if you were up against an entire planet of people that wished you dead and silenced. You had kept the fear bottled in for three days now, and you had no one to confide in. 

You would regret this, you knew it with a surety that nearly had you choking on a sob. This information could be used against you. He’d make sure that you met your end the second that you birthed him an heir. . . 

So why did he look offended by your words? 

His plush lips parted, blue eyes widening for a second as he fully comprehended what you had just uttered to him. Having you as his would be sweet, yes, but it paled in comparison to the idea that you would eventually care for him in the same way that he did for you. It lit a fire inside of him, and he didn’t understand how to make you see. 

Feyd needed you to open your eyes and understand that he was not your enemy. He was the only person on all of Giedi Prime that was absolutely, without any question or doubt, on your side. He would burn the entire planet to ash if he had to. He’d serve his uncle’s heart on a silver platter and let you eat your fill if it meant that you would come to understand his level of utter devotion. 

You blinked and suddenly you were on your back, a small grunt escaping you as his calloused palm pushed against your chest, too fast for you to even register. He was on top of you, straddling your hips. The weight of him on top of you had your teeth clenching, your traitorous body reacting in a way that sickened you. Civilizations had worshiped at the feet of long forgotten Gods that weren’t half as beautiful and cruel as Feyd-Rautha. 

“You are my wife-” He started to speak, but you were quick to interrupt him, refusing to back down. 

“Not yet.” You seethed. 

Feyd couldn’t help but want to fight you on that, to challenge the unnecessary bite in your tone. If you were so hellbent on treating him like an enemy then so be it. He’d push you to a breaking point. He’d make you love and trust him. He’d show your true enemies such cruelty that you’d have no reason to doubt his convictions. 

And before he could reign in his emotions, before he could feel any guilt, he was lurching forward. Long fingers tangled themselves into your hair as his lips pressed against yours. Unyielding, he dominated your mouth, teeth sinking into your lower lip. He needed to taste you- your mouth, your blood. 

Sweat, tears, slick. He wanted all of it on his tongue. 

The years spent waiting and biding his time had been worse than he realized, for the second his lips pressed against yours he found it hard to stop himself. The need that coursed through him now was more powerful than anything else he had ever experienced. You yelped against his mouth in pain, trying your hardest to flinch back at the sharp pain in your lip. The mattress and his unyielding grip on you kept you from moving even an inch. He took advantage of that small sound, his tongue lapping at the roof of your mouth lazily, the salty iron of your own blood invading your senses. 

And he was everywhere. His weight was on top of you, his arms on either side of your head, his fingers buried in your hair- and you couldn’t get away. You tried bucking him off, hands grabbing at his training shirt so that you could try and pry him off of you. The muscles in your arms strained as you pulled, thighs quivering as you tried your damndest to flip him over onto the bed. You would not kiss him back. 

No matter how badly your instincts were telling you to give in. That voice in the back of your head was loud, but the sound of your own pounding heart in your ears drowned it out. Your body burned as he slid his hips down slightly, changing his angle so that he could grind himself against you. The friction sent a jolt of what felt like lightning shooting up your spine. It took all of your self restraint not to moan into his mouth, which would no doubt motivate him to push this even further. 

You felt him. All of him, even through all the layers of clothing that separated the two of you. He was hard, to what must have been a point of physical pain, over a mere kiss. His lips were unexpectedly soft on yours, far softer than the very few men that you had kissed in the past. They moved languidly against yours, and you wanted to be disgusted by the fact that he seemed to be enjoying himself immensely. 

You hated the part of you that craved this. You could deny it all that you wanted, but the dull ache between your traitorous legs told you what your mind could not: a sick part of you wanted this. Maybe it was the very same part of you that had wanted those guards dead. 

You should hate him. You wanted to hate him. You needed to hate him. 

And then his hands were sliding down the back of your neck, his lips sliding down the base of your throat- 

“Stop! Feyd, stop!” You finally found your voice, sucking in a breath of air. You felt dizzy, and yet your body was more alive than it ever had been. 

Traitor. You were a traitor to your family. 

He sat up then, eyes glazed over, his thick lashes casting shadows on the tops of his cheeks in the dim lighting. 

“Do you hate me?” He panted out, voice thick with an emotion that you couldn’t quite place. It was as if he could read your mind. 

“Yes.” You lied. This lie was even harder to swallow than your last for whatever reason. Maybe it was the heady look in your eyes or your swollen, well kissed lips. . . but Feyd knew you weren’t telling the truth.

“I’ll fuck you until you want me,” And his harsh, horrible words didn’t quite match the tender way he cupped your cheek. “And then you’ll want me so badly that you’ll love me.” 

He got off of you then, forcing himself away from you before he made a mistake. Today was not the day to claim you, not with the previous night so fresh on your mind. He would figure out a way to apologize for his loss of control later. For now he needed a change of scenery, preferably one that didn’t have a bed. . . or a couch. . . or a table. . . or a counter- 

“Pig,” You spat in his direction, quickly fumbling to straighten out your now wrinkled clothing. 

“Your training clothes are in our closet. Put them on.” He was still breathing heavily, pacing around the room with his hands on his hips. His cock was straining against the confines of his pants, begging him to turn around and finish what he started- make good on the promise he just made to you. 

“Are you crazy?” You screamed at him, lurching up from the bed as though you were going to attack him. 

Slowly he turned to face you, his features twisting into something that looked a tad bit like forlorn yearning. 

“Yes,” And he nodded, not denying the fact. “Yes I am.” 

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[saltynsassy31]

Full disclaimer, I have to read any of the fics written for Shockwave and the kids yet as I've been busy and off Tumblr for a bit for my own mental health lol

But I recently saw a photo of an abandoned carousel in some underground area filled with puddles and it reminded me of that one deleted scene from Detroit: Become Human where the Jerry's make a broken carousel work again for Alice and they all just watched her happily play on it as the world around them crumbled.

And, with that thought, it also reminded me of Shockwave and the kids and I simply HAD to write a small drabble fic of it. Sorry if it isn't accurate for the characters or the story already made, but I hope it's enjoyed regardless :3

And, I hope, with all the angst going on, this fluffy story will satisfy yall a bit XD

[This is the post I saw that inspired me to write this, if anyone wants a visual of the place: https://www.instagram.com/reel/DGog_W_vDiR/?igsh=b3FsYm50enJhM3ln ]

AU belongs to @keferon

Carousel

~☆~

As the days went by, the situation they all found themselves in was slowly starting to get far too real. It was fun, at first, running around abandoned buildings and scavenging for whatever they could find, spending time with their newly acquired aquatic dad friend who kept them safe and well fed.

But then things started to show up and it scared them. Shockwave tried to avoid the areas with the most floating bodies, the children having seen enough of that (and he hoped they hadn't seen any they would recognise), but every now and then something would float up and startle them. Other times they'd run into bigger problems while scavenging and they had far too many close calls for Shockwave's liking.

They tend to keep themselves entertained, for the most part. Shockwave only occasionally indulged. But, usually, he could simply gently float on the surface of the water and let the kids tire themselves out. However, they've become more quiet lately.

It was hard to tell what caused it. Could be a myriad of things, as listed before, maybe it was finally starting to dawn on them how the situation was far from ideal. Maybe it was the conversation they had with that Orca - Jazz, was it? Shockwave couldn't tell, and it bothered him.

He missed their lively chatter (it still happened, but few and far between). A part of him was starting to wonder if the humans who called him out on the fact that this wasn't normal behaviour for human children were right, a small pang of regret reaching the back of his mind.

But he shook those thoughts away. Now wasn't the time. Nothing about their situation was normal anyway, he was already providing more than enough for them to survive this cruel world.

Shockwave was aggressively pulled out of his drifting thoughts by an ear piercing screech that immediately put him on high alert.

“Guys! Guys! Look!” He heard Skids say. Turning to look at him, he followed where the boy was pointing at.

It looked to be some kind of fair or theme part, it was a little hard to tell. Half of it was submerged, but there were some areas in which the water had receded. Shockwave relaxed once he deemed the situation safe, but still gave a small scrutinising glare at Skids for causing unnecessary concern - which went, of course, completely ignored.

“Oh wow, it looks pretty banged up, huh?” Tc noted, crawling closer to the edge of Shockwave's back to get a better look.

“But there might still be some things left over. You know how much they tend to sell in these places? And now we can just snag them!” Warp argued, already getting excited at the thought.

“Do we really need more useless things to carry around?” Trailbreaker argued, the bag he carried strangely heavier on his back.

“There are other things we could do there.” Skids quickly chimed in. “We could check out some of the games they have.”

“Would there be any still working?”

“Carnival games easy to fix, Soundwave up to the task.”

They all turned to look at Soundwave, seemingly to silently fall into an agreement.

Warp turned to face Shockwave, clasping his hands together as he pleaded. “Can we go there? Pretty pleaaaase?” Before he could even answer, the others had joined them.

He wasn't going to say no. This was the exact type of fun distraction they needed, maybe it would help them go back to their usual, energetic selves. So the theatrics were unnecessary. Still, he couldn't help the small amusement it brought him. He pretended to think it over, as if he didn't already have their answer.

“Hmm, I don't know…”

Those simple words were enough to make them all Start to plead harder, making their eyes as big as possible, throwing promises he knew they'd never actually follow through.

That broke the façade he was trying to play up, causing him to laugh. “Alright, alright. We can go.” The kids erupted into celebratory cheers, hugging each other and jumping on Shockwave's back. “But don't stray so far where I can't reach you, okay?”

They all nodded, but he only had trust in some of them to actually obey his orders.

Regardless, he swam over to the abandoned park and waited until they had slid off of him before crawling over onto land. The ground was still pretty wet, so it made it easier for him to slide around and follow them, keeping himself to the more deeper puddles when possible.

He watched as they all went to different directions with their own, small group. Tc and Warp, always tied to the hip, ran over to some of the stands that still had some prizes hanging. Windcharger and Trailbreaker followed Damus as he ran to play some of the games that didn't require power to work. And Skids and Soundwave went…

Where did they go?

Panic immediately followed the realisation. Shockwave stood up straighter and began to spin his head around in search of the two missing kids. The others didn't seem to have noticed their absence, too enthralled in their own activity.

He was about to start calling when he heard a familiar boisterous voice call from not too far. “Guys! Over here! Come see what me and Soundwave just discovered!”

Immediately, all of the attention was on Skids who had a smile so wide Shockwave was worried he'd hurt himself with it. The others looked at each other briefly before making their way over, Damus hesitating a bit before putting down the fishing rod he held and following the rest.

Shockwave did so as well, to the best of his abilities anyway. The further they went, the tighter the space became and less water reached the surface for him to easily slide around. He wanted to voice his complaint of them going too far, like he had explicitly told them not to before coming here (and really, he thought Warp would have disobeyed first before Soundwave. Skids made sense, but him?) But before he could even think of what to say, Skids noticed his struggle and seemed to remember something.

“Oh, right! Almost forgot.” He jogged over to the mer shark and gently grabbed at one of his fingers to guide him elsewhere. “There's an opening that takes you directly to the area we found. You have to swim underneath some rubble, but it should fit you.”

The boy took him to some dilapidated attraction of the park, it was too broken to tell what it used to be, but it did create an opening that allowed Shockwave to fit through perfectly fine. “Just swim straight ahead and it should take you to the area, we'll meet you there.”

Immediately, Shockwave didn't like that idea, and he didn't need to voice his thoughts for the teen to catch on, his glare doing the job just fine. “It'll be fine, don't worry! It's not that far. Less than a minute, probably less than a second for you since you're so big you'll just have to slide in and out. Besides, there's nothing here, the place is completely barren.”

Shockwave was still unconvinced.

Skids took to pleading. “Please! It'll be quick, I promise you. And worth it too! It's the exact thing we've been needing, and Soundwave put a lot of work on it. I know you don't like leaving us alone for even a second, but give it a chance?”

They stared at each other for a moment, Skids making his eyes as wide and innocent as possible and Shockwave hoping the stubborn teen would dispel this idea with his glare alone.

In the end, Skids guppy eyes were far too powerful even for a great shak such as Shockwave. And the kid was right, wasn't this what he wanted for them to begin with?

He let out a heavy sigh of defeat and reluctantly agreed to it. “Fine. I trust you, but if anything shows up–”

“We don't engage with it and call for you, yes, I know. Now go! Soundwave is waiting!” Skids ushered Shockwave to submerge himself into the large opening with the wave of his hands and only joined back with the others once he could no longer see the large mer.

One relief Shockwave had was that the tunnel formed was large enough that he could easily turn around and pop back out if he heard any of the kids in danger, though it also lacked any proper escape for him as it only had one direction for him to go. Straight ahead or backwards. 

But Skids was right in saying the trip was short, he could already hear the muffled voices of his children. Soon enough, he found himself resurfacing, the lively chatter being the first thing his senses picked up on.

When the children heard the splash of water, they all turned to look towards the source of the noise, their excitement almost blindingly radiat in contrast to the dark, murky room they found themselves in.

The place was closed off by fallen buildings that created a sort of cave around them, plenty of fauna already making its home here. It was fairly empty as well, save for the large, round attraction in the middle of the room. It had horses stuck to poles inside it, a dim pink and gold decorating the whole thing, the paintings that littered it had long since faded and it was hard to tell what it once was.

“Okay, you're here, good.” Skids turned to Soundwave, who was standing next to what looked to be a control panel. “Soundwave, would you do us the honours?”

The other teen nodded, bending down to start pulling at some wires in place of pressing the buttons offered. Warp scoffed, crossing his arms and looking skeptically at his friend. “There's no power here, how in the world are you going to get it to work? I swear, if you brought us all the way here for nothing I–”

Before he could finish his sentence, a blast of music and light echoed loudly around the empty space, causing everyone to flinch back and cover their ears. Shockwave nervously looked around, worried that the loud noise might have attracted some unwanted attention. Once the shock faded, Skids ran up to Soundwave and gestured proudly at the now working carousel.

“Ta-da!”

“Wh…how is this possible!?” Warp questioned, looking at Soundwave for answers, to not only be ignored, but shoved around by the other kids who ran towards the attraction. “Seriously?! Is no one else even a little bit concerned on how this is possible?”

Tc placed a hand over his shoulder, bringing his attention to him. “Warp, just enjoy the miracle. When are we going to get another chance like this?”

Warp could only grumble. Tc was right, they wouldn't, not for a long time. That didn't mean he had to accept it though.

Shockwave watched as they all walked over and picked their favourite horse, Tc and Skids fighting over the same blue one before Trailbreaker broke their fight up and offered his to Tc, walking up to help Damus up and sit with him instead. Shockwave observed the way Soundwave continued to pick at the control panel and looked up at the other children, waiting for their confirmation that they were ready before clicking something and closing the panel. As soon as he did that, the carousel began to slowly move, the horses bobbing up and down in gentle motions, causing the kids to excitedly cheer.

Soundwave stepped on the moving platform while it was still picking up speed and sat on a random horse near Windcharger. Although not as vocal as the others, he was clearly enjoying it.

Shockwave couldn't quite get what was so entertaining about the thing. It was slow, even after it picked up some speed, and the music was painful to the ears. But that didn't quite matter, did it? They were happy, and they were having fun.

It clearly was something they knew about before the tsunami, before their civilization fell apart. A simple joy of life that they missed.

And, in a world dimmed by tragedy and destruction, where at every corner something threatens their very existence, isn't that all they could ask for?

So, in a small moment of peace, Shockwave let himself relax. He bent forward and rested his chin over his crossed arms and watched as his children sang along with the screechy music, bouncing on their fake horses and pretending they were in some high chase in their little imaginary world.

In this dreary reality, even the artificial light of a broken past could make it all worth it. 

[sitp-recs]

re - your last post, as a writer i find that to be an absurd take. people who write exclusively for validation probably shouldn't. if discovering your work is enjoyed and loved - just privately - is a dealbreaker for you, i think there are probably bigger issues that need to be worked through. the idea that we write fic for free and yet this discussion about "payment" through kudos/comments persists is so backwards and obnoxious.

sorry to tag you on this, obv you have nothing to do with op, but i just wanted to say - as a writer recs are a HUGE deal. to know that you liked something enough to share it with others is the biggest compliment for me personally. thanks for doing what you do.

I’m happy you reached out because this is a really interesting perspective. I definitely see increased messaging around comments = payment that pressures readers into thinking they are required to leave comments, and I agree that there are many layers to this convo that point out to a not-so-healthy relationship with fandom.

I find it hard to join this discussion not being an author myself, because I only have the privileged perspective. I understand how important feedback can be to boost newcomers and those who don’t feel part of the community. We all deal with insecurity in different ways and it’s hard to navigate a big fandom when you don’t have a group of friends to rely on. In the end the fandom experience is about a sense of belonging and it saddens me to realize that I might be part of the problem since my recs can only reach Tumblr and my ao3 comments are far and few in between.

It’s funny because my blog has always targeted other readers: at the beginning I didn’t even tag authors and did not expect them to find or engage with my posts. Over the years the recs became more and more personal, until I realized I was writing them for myself. Sure, they are love letters to the fic and might help more people find them, but at the end of the day this is my little therapy corner where I can let go and babble around to my heart’s content 🙏🏼 I’ve always been proud of this blog and seeing that post gave me mixed feelings about it for the first time, so thank you for your message!

Again, I think this discussion has many layers and I’m a bit wary to get involved being a reader, but I’d be curious to see how others feel about it…

[gyeomsweetgyeom]

[9:09 pm]

(cw: f!reader)

The sun had already set when Mark walks out of the bathroom. The frat house, his home away from home, his place of comfort... felt off. There was something in the air, a new scent, an unfamiliar sound. Something distinctly feminine and not any of the women he was used to hearing around here.

Mark gets dressed, he steps out of his room, he makes his way down the hall, his eyes narrowed with suspicion. Something is off... His steps are light as he walks down the hall. He passed closed doors, loud rooms, loud rooms and at the end of the hall there's a door that is mostly open, fratboy!Johnny's door. It's like Mark's spidey senses are going totally crazy. This is where the abnormal vibe is coming from.

He can hear Johnny laughing, he can hear him laughing, but he can also hear a distinctly female giggle. Then he hears a feminine voice and it's like a bucket of ice water, it's like hearing the sound of his alarm go off and feeling all the warning alarms going off in his mind.

He pushes the door open completely, "the semester is over. Isn't tutoring done?"

You and Johnny freeze. Mark barely pays any attention to your position, to how close the two of you are sitting, the fact that you're dressed nicer than you usually are. You sit up slightly, "I'm not here for tutoring, Mark."

His brows furrow further and it's then that he notices just how close you and Johnny are sitting, the cute dress you're wearing, pretty makeup, the way you and Johnny have your fingers entangled on top of his comforter. "This is totally mega weird," Mark shudders, "ew, it's like seeing your parents flirt."

"You interrupted us. You can't come in and just judge," Johnny states with an unamused look on his face.

"I'm just saying," Mark says as he raises his arms in faux defense.

Johnny ushers him out of the room while you stay seated on the bed. You never thought about how your presence would affect Mark. This was his home, he probably didn't want someone who reminded him of his schools and studies here. You get this sudden feeling of imposter syndrome, like you don't belong here, in the frat house, with Johnny.

You're sliding to the edge of the bed when Johnny turns around to face you. The smile on his face falls into a look of confusion, "Bee, what's wrong?"

You shake your head, hoping that you sound casual, "I've just been here for a while. I think I should head out now."

Johnny sighs, "alright, if that's what you want." He watches you as you reach for your purse and grab your phone from his pillow. He clears his throat, "do you actually want to leave or is it about what Mark said?"

"He didn't say anything," you deny too quickly.

"Bee, he didn't mean it like that. I want you here, alright? I like having you here," Johnny tries, his voice gentle and reassuring.

You turn to Johnny but you don't meet his eyes, too shy and too ashamed, "he should feel comfortable here. I'm in his home."

"He was being a little annoying piece of shit, Bee. He doesn't mean it like that," Johnny tells you lowly, stepping closer to you to cup your cheeks in his large hands. You feel almost all your stress start to melt away with his touch, "this is also my home and I don't want you to leave. If you don't want to hang out here, that's fine, but I'm not ready for you to leave or our date night to end. Where you go, I go."

Your cheeks got hot. How was it that after such a short amount of time, he could read you so easily? Part of you finds it a little eerie while another, bigger part of you finds it heartwarming. It's comforting to know that even when you feel ashamed or overwhelmed that Johnny doesn't need you to vocalize what you're feeling. He can understand you like you're the only person that's on the same brainwave as he is.

Your shoulders fall as the tension leaves your body. "I don't want to leave yet," you whisper, leaning into Johnny to rest your forehead against his chest.

He let's out a sigh of relief, kissing the crown of your head as the tension from his own body melts away with your soft, whispered words. He rubs your shoulders, "then don't leave. You can stay as long as you want."

[angel06babysworld]

I Blame the 6 Year Old

singledad!rafe x babysitter!reader

Chapter Seven

✿┈┈⨾𓂃𓈒𓏸✿┈┈⨾𓂃𓈒𓏸

She didn’t even hesitate.

Same time. Same place. Same routine that had quickly cemented itself as the most comfortable part of her week. She showed up like she always did—backpack over her shoulder, coffee already half gone, sneakers scuffed from the sidewalk—and walked up to his front door like it belonged to her.

But something was off the second she stepped inside.

Too quiet. No giggles echoing down the hall. No cartoons playing on low volume in the background. No trail of glittery hair ties and doll shoes leading to the couch.

She frowned. “Ellie?”

Nothing.

“Rafe?”

His voice floated in from the kitchen. “In here.”

She walked in and nearly froze.

There he was—leaning against the counter like he’d been waiting, sleeves pushed up, black shirt stretching over his chest, mug in one hand. He looked freshly showered. Hair damp. Barefoot.

And completely, totally unbothered.

She blinked. “Where’s Ellie?”

“With my mom.” Sip. Casual. “Left yesterday afternoon.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“Nope.”

She stared. “You always tell me.”

His mouth tugged into a slow grin. “You came anyway.”

Her backpack hit the floor with a soft thud as her arms crossed tight over her chest. “So what, you just… forgot to mention it?”

He set the mug down. “I didn’t forget.”

“Rafe.”

He tilted his head. “You’re not mad.”

“I am.”

“You’re smirking.”

“I’m glaring.”

He stepped forward, and suddenly the kitchen felt too small. “You’re here,” he said, voice lower now. “Which means I win.”

Her mouth parted slightly. “This was a game?”

His smile deepened. “I didn’t want to spend the morning alone.”

“You could’ve asked.”

“I like watching you get all worked up,” he murmured, eyes on her lips. “It’s cute.”

Her heart thudded. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re still standing in my kitchen.”

She turned, flustered, pretending to study the counter like it held all the answers. “So what exactly is the plan here?”

“I make you breakfast.” He moved around her, brushing against her arm just enough to make her shiver. “You act mad about it. We eat. Then you pretend you’re only staying because you feel bad for wasting your morning.”

“That’s a terrible plan.”

“It’s worked every Saturday so far.”

Her jaw dropped. “You’re—”

“Charming?”

She scoffed. “Delusional.”

He was already pulling down plates, completely at ease. “French toast?”

She hesitated. Then: “You’re lucky I’m hungry.”

“I’m lucky you came,” he said without missing a beat.

She didn’t reply. Mostly because there was nothing she could say that wouldn’t confirm he was getting to her.

The silence buzzed. Every small glance, every brush of his arm as he passed her the syrup or leaned over to grab a fork—each one felt bigger than it was.

They ate at the counter. She pretended not to stare when he pushed his sleeves up higher. He pretended not to notice when her knee accidentally tapped his under the bar.

“You know,” she said after a while, “this feels wildly inappropriate.”

He wiped syrup off his thumb with a slow shrug. “Only if you say it out loud.”

She choked on her coffee. “Oh my god.”

He grinned, absolutely no shame.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You like me ridiculous.”

“I like you silent.”

He leaned in. “That’s a lie.”

She flushed and turned away. “I hate you.”

“You wore my favorite hoodie,” he said, nodding at the one she’d stolen from the laundry room two weeks ago. “You knew I’d be home alone, and you wore that.”

“It’s comfortable.”

“It’s mine.”

She finished the last bite of her toast and stood, brushing off her hands. “I should go before you say something worse.”

He followed, leaning in the doorway. “Or before you say something you actually mean?”

She ignored that, reaching for her bag. “No Ellie, no job. I shouldn’t have even—”

“Don’t.” His voice cut in, gentle but solid. “Don’t pretend this wasn’t exactly what you wanted.”

Her throat tightened.

He stepped closer, until she had to tilt her head just slightly to keep eye contact. “You could’ve texted before you came. Could’ve asked. You didn’t.”

“Because I thought—”

“You hoped,” he corrected. “You hoped she’d be here. Or maybe you hoped she wouldn’t.”

Her voice barely came out. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wanted to see what you’d do.” His hand brushed the strap of her bag, like he wanted to tug her back. “I wanted to see if you’d show up just for me.”

She stared up at him. Heart pounding.

“Well,” she whispered, “are you satisfied?”

His eyes dropped to her mouth. Then slowly back up.

“No,” he murmured. “Not even close.”

tags: @amelialovesrafe @alyisdead @illumoria @blissfulbutterfliess @sydneysslove @sc04 @matthewswifeyy @meetmeintheemeraldpool @icversvoid @honeyinthesummer @dolli333 @lolabunnyworldss