#Adjustable Step Ladder | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

youthguk · 3 months ago

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✦ Encore | jjk (m) ✦

pairing: idol! jungkook x editor! reader

genre: smut, ex lovers, second chance au, angst with smut, toxic ex au

summary: You loved him before the lights, before the headlines, before he learned how to disappear.Now he’s back — older, hotter, famous — and this time, you’re the one calling the shots. But Jeon Jungkook doesn’t do endings. Only encores.

w.c: 10k

author's note: writing and creating stories takes a lot of time, and no matter how much i love doing this and jungkook, i would love your support and feedback 🖤

You’ve always known how to keep secrets. It’s a requirement—the requirement—of survival in an industry that trades on whispers, scandals, and carefully curated lies. Fashion is ruthless, a pretty monster wearing designer heels, and no one understands that better than you.

Two years of blood, sweat, and designer tears later, you've earned your throne at Vogue Korea. A glass-walled office overlooking Seoul's constellation of lights, your name etched in gold next to campaigns that make lesser editors weep with envy. You didn't just climb the ladder; you conquered it in six-inch heels.

They call you the Ice Queen of Editorial. Untouchable. Unshakeable. The woman who can stare down Korea's biggest idols without so much as a flutter of mascara-coated lashes. Your boundaries aren't just lines in the sand—they're walls of steel and glass, keeping your personal life locked away where it belongs.

You’ve been handed the crown jewel of assignments: the exclusive BTS cover story.

The kind of story that turns editors into legends. Or ruins them completely.

“You must be feeling the pressure,” Hyerin teases, nudging your elbow as you both stand by the studio coffee station. “If I had to face seven of the most beautiful men on Earth, I’d probably collapse.”

You smile lightly, perfectly controlled. “Luckily, fainting isn’t part of my job description.”

Hyerin laughs, tossing her silky hair back. “You’re seriously not nervous? Not even a little?”

Before you can respond, another voice cuts in—cool and sharp as glass.

“Y/N’s never nervous,” Kara says smoothly, sidling up with a carefully constructed smile. Her eyes skim over your perfectly ironed blouse, searching for any flaw she can exploit. “Even when she probably should be.”

You meet her stare evenly. “There’s nothing to be nervous about. It’s just another day at work.”

“Oh, sure,” Kara shrugs, delicately adjusting her blazer. “Just the biggest magazine cover of the year. With the biggest K-pop group in history. But you’re right—no pressure at all.”

You hold your tongue, refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing you flustered. Kara’s smile widens, eyes glittering dangerously.

“Don’t worry,” she says softly. “We’re all rooting for you.”

As she walks away, Hyerin gives you a sympathetic glance. “Ignore her. She’s just mad they picked you.”

“She’ll get over it,” you say calmly, taking a sip of coffee. But privately, you wonder if she ever will. Kara’s eyes feel permanently locked on your back, waiting for you to slip—and she’d love nothing more than to watch you fall.

You inhale slowly, forcing the tension from your shoulders as you remind yourself that Kara isn’t your concern today. No — your concern just stepped through the studio doors like he owned the light that followed.

So you lift your chin, smooth the edges of your expression, and bury the frantic thrum of your heart beneath that practiced, glassy calm you’ve spent years perfecting.

You feel Jungkook’s presence before you see him. Hear the chatter ripple across the set, feel the shift in the air. Turning slowly, you catch sight of him walking toward makeup, tTattooed fingers, midnight hair, confident smile charming everyone in his orbit.

He hasn’t noticed you yet, but your pulse already quickens. You haven’t been face-to-face since he vanished from your life years ago, choosing fame over what you once shared. Not even your closest colleagues know about your past—not Hyerin, certainly not Kara. To them, you’re the girl who can handle any celebrity without batting an eye.

But Jungkook isn’t just any celebrity. He’s your first heartbreak. Your only weakness.

And the moment his eyes find yours across the room, his casual smile fading into something raw and hungry, you realize secrets never stay hidden forever.

Not when every glance he sends your way feels like a promise—Encore. We’re not done yet.

Your breath catches painfully in your throat, stomach twisting into a knot so tight it leaves you dizzy. For all your polished composure, the sight of Jungkook still manages to unravel you like loose threads on a designer gown.

Seeing him again feels like reopening a wound you spent years pretending had healed. It floods you with memories you'd promised yourself to forget—quiet nights tangled in sheets, whispered promises that felt unbreakable, how he used to hold you as if you were the most precious thing he’d ever touched.

But then came the silence. Slow at first, then deafening. A text left unread, calls unanswered. You waited like a fool, convinced something must've happened, sure he’d reach out again and say everything was fine. But days turned into weeks, then months, and eventually you stopped counting—stopped waiting.

He'd left you in a silence louder than any goodbye could've been.

It still haunts you, that hollow uncertainty. All those unanswered questions, the ache of wondering why you hadn't been enough—why something that had been your entire world had apparently meant so little to him.

Even now, standing across a crowded room from him, you feel nineteen again, confused and heartbroken, questioning yourself: Was it you? Was it fame? Or was he just that good at faking forever?

Your hands tremble slightly, and you quickly clasp them behind your back, steadying your breath, forcing your expression back into neutrality. You are not that girl anymore. You're not nineteen, naive and waiting.

You're the woman who clawed her way up the ladder, who built herself from the ground up, and who refuses to be unraveled by Jeon Jungkook ever again.

Yet, as his gaze locks onto yours and his expression shifts—something fragile breaking beneath the confident mask—you realize you might not have a choice.

You're the woman who clawed her way up the ladder, who built herself from the ground up, and who refuses to be unraveled by Jeon Jungkook ever again.

You grit your teeth, straightening your posture defiantly. No, you're not going to fall apart because he decided to show up now, years later. It doesn’t matter how familiar his gaze still feels, or how your stomach flips traitorously when his eyes linger a second too long. It’s just shock, you reason. The surprise of seeing someone from your past. He means nothing now. He can’t mean anything—not after he left you drowning in unanswered questions.

And yet, as his gaze locks onto yours and his expression shifts—something fragile breaking beneath the confident mask—you shove down the dangerous impulse fluttering inside you.

Because you won’t allow it. Not today. Not ever.

But Jungkook tilts his head slightly, eyes darkening with an intensity you know too well, and you feel your carefully constructed resolve begin to tremble at the edges.

It doesn’t matter, you remind yourself harshly. You’ll never make the same mistake twice. Not for Jungkook. Not for anyone.

Still, the moment he takes a step toward you, your heart skips—just once. And you hate yourself for it.

And it’s terrifying how much your body still reacts, how tightly your stomach knots, how you feel yourself leaning backward without meaning to. You don’t even realize you’ve stopped breathing.

But just before he can get closer—

“Jungkook! Manager wants you in the briefing room, now!”

The shout cuts across the set, snapping him back to reality. He hesitates. A small shift of weight. A flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. Then he turns, walking toward the exit without another glance.

You make yourself go still, expression smooth, breath finally releasing. He’s gone again. And you hate how that emptiness still lingers in the space he almost crossed.

✦

The studio smelled like caffeine, expensive cologne, and urgency.

Light rigs hummed above, shifting shadows across white backdrops. Stylists darted like bees between racks of designer coats and racks of idols. The floor was a mosaic of garment bags, wires, coffee cups, and carefully controlled chaos.

And you were in the eye of the storm.

Clipboards. Checklists. The shoot brief folded neatly in your tote, annotated with sharp red edits. You’d been here since seven. Confirming the team, adjusting the timeline after a last-minute delivery delay, nodding politely through the photographer’s temper tantrum over lighting angles.

Professional. Polished. In control. Just like always.

Hyerin only nodded, already lifting her phone to send the message.

And then a shift. Subtle, at first. Not a sound, not a movement, but something in the air tightening, thickening — the kind of change you feel against your skin before your mind can name it. Like the slow drop in pressure that happens before thunder splits the sky.

You didn’t need to turn. You already knew.

BTS had arrived. This time, all of them. Fully, unmistakably, overwhelmingly present.

Voices lifted across the space. Polite bows, excited murmurs, stylists practically vibrating. You focused on your clipboard, eyes locked on the line that read: Group cover, final set — standing profile + seated variation.

You could feel it before you saw him. Like a magnet realigning in your chest.

Jeon Jungkook. The name alone was supposed to mean nothing now. Not here. Not in this room. Not in this life you built without him.

But your gaze lifted—just once, just for a breath—and there he was.

Dark hair, slightly damp. A black oversized tee clinging to his frame like it had no choice. Tattoos curling down his arm like vines. He was talking to one of the stylists, something easy in his body, but then—

His eyes found yours. Again.

And froze. As if the moment before seemed unbelievable to him, and now he got a confirmation that it was truly you who he saw before.

For one suspended moment, the studio blurred. Sound dulled. All you could hear was the low pulse in your ears, thudding like memory. His gaze didn’t flicker. Didn’t flinch.

It lingered. You turned away first. Professional, you reminded yourself. You could breathe later.

Behind you, a quiet voice laced with syrup and venom sliced through the air. “Well, don’t you look composed.”

Kara.

You didn’t bother turning. Her heels clicked as she approached, each step full of intention.

“I’d be shaking,” she continued, feigning casual amusement. “If he looked at me like that.”

Your clipboard didn’t move.

“I don’t mix work with fantasy,” you said coolly.

Kara laughed, bright and biting. “Right. Of course. You’re very composed.”

Before you could answer, the studio door opened wider, and the rest of the crew flooded in behind the members. Lights adjusted. Cables plugged. The moment passed.

But your stomach? Still twisted.

You didn’t have time for this. Not the memories. Not the questions. Not the way your breath still stumbled just because he was in the same room.

You crossed the set in brisk, deliberate strides, addressing the camera assistant without once glancing his way — you didn’t have to.

The air shifted again, electric with movement, and you felt it before you saw it. He was walking toward you. He wore that perfect, easy smile — all charm, all textbook idol — as if the cameras had never stopped rolling. But his steps were purposeful, and they were headed straight for you.

Still, you didn’t move. Behind him, Taehyung watched with a slight tilt of his head, a flicker of something unreadable tightening his brow.

“Where’s he going?” he murmured to Jimin, his voice low enough not to carry.

Jimin looked up from his water bottle, following the path of Jungkook’s steps.

“Who is that—” He paused. Squinted. His expression shifted slowly. “No way,” he muttered. “Is that… Y/N?”

Taehyung’s eyes narrowed as he got a better look. “Damn,” he said under his breath. “She really changed.”

“She doesn’t look like a college student anymore,” Jimin added, then whistled low. “She looks like she’d step on your throat for blinking at the wrong moment.”

Taehyung snorted. “And Jungkook’s walking straight toward her like it’s nothing.”

Jimin’s smile faltered, just slightly. “It’s not nothing,” he said, softer now.

The glance he shared with Taehyung was brief, but loaded — a silent recognition passing between them that didn’t need words to say what they already knew: this was going to get complicated.

Jungkook stopped just close enough for it to be plausible. Two colleagues. Two professionals. A friendly exchange in the middle of a crowded set.

But you felt the heat of him at your side. The static in the air between your bodies. The weight of five years in the space between his next breath and your silence.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he said. His voice was lower now. Smooth, familiar. Dangerous.

You kept your eyes on the call sheet in your hands. “Then maybe you should’ve read your shoot brief.”

He let out a quiet, amused exhale. “Guess I was distracted.”

You finally turned to face him, slow and deliberate. He looked at you like you were a memory he wanted to taste again. And you hated how much you felt it in your knees.

“Still pretending I don’t exist?” he asked softly.

You smiled—polite, cold. “You’re not that hard to ignore.”

He tilted his head, amused. “You used to say I was impossible to forget.”

You didn’t blink. “People change.”

Something flickered behind his eyes. The smile dimmed, only slightly. And you hated that it made your chest ache.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “They do.”

You stepped back first. Not because you were retreating—but because if you stayed, you’d say something you’d regret.

“We’re about to start,” you said, voice crisp. “Please get into wardrobe.”

He didn’t argue. But his gaze lingered like the brush of fingers on skin—something remembered. Something unfinished.

You turned on your heel and walked away. And behind you, Jungkook watched like he was seeing something he thought he'd lost forever.

You walk with your back straight, spine stiff, each click of your heels against the polished floor louder than the last. The studio spins in a blur around you—shutters firing, stylists buzzing, interns darting past—but your body moves like it’s on autopilot.

You don’t need to see him to feel the weight of his stare still pressing into your skin, hot and searching. Your lungs burn quietly, your heart hammering beneath the silk of your blouse in a rhythm that doesn’t belong to a woman in control.

You handled that well, you tell yourself. He didn’t rattle you. Not really. It was nothing—just a greeting. Just a ghost in designer boots. You didn’t flinch.

But your fingers still tremble as you slide the clipboard into your bag. And his scent—faint on the air, sandalwood and heat—lingers like a bruise. That voice you used to fall asleep to.

He said so little, but it was too much. Too soft. Too knowing. Too close to the edge of the past you buried under ambition and late-night edits and deadlines that couldn’t be missed. A past that still knows exactly how to make your mouth dry and your pulse quicken.

You exhale through your nose, slow and tight, pressing your thumb into your palm until it stings.

This isn’t college. This isn’t your bedroom at 3 a.m. waiting for his text. You are not that girl anymore. And he doesn’t get to reach into your life now just because he remembered how to say your name.

Across the studio, a pair of eyes followed your every step.

Kara leaned against a lighting rig, one arm crossed lazily over her chest, a paper cup of overpriced coffee in hand. She wasn’t watching the shoot, not really. Her gaze was fixed on you—your clenched jaw, your too-smooth posture, the slight tremble in your fingers as you adjusted your sleeve.

Her lips curled just barely at the edges. She didn’t say anything just sipped her coffee and tilted her head thoughtfully, like a girl already collecting dots to connect.

And when her eyes flicked over to Jungkook, now slipping into wardrobe, and then back to you. Something in her expression sharpened. She had nothing solid. Not yet. But Kara had always known how to smell blood long before the wound appeared.

✦

The shoot was already in full swing by the time you were called in.

High-key lighting flared against the matte white backdrop as the photographer directed the rest of the group into place. Jungkook hadn’t shot his solos yet — he’d been saved for last, as if they all knew the best tension builds slowly.

You were reviewing proofs on a monitor when the stylist approached you, breathless and mid-hustle.

“Sorry, Y/N—can you approve the jewelry for Jungkook’s third look? We’ve got the options prepped, but he wants to wear the chain without layering.” She didn't wait for a full answer, already turning back. “He’s in the fitting room.”

You don’t hesitate. Don’t sigh. You just nod once and follow, clipboard in hand, pulse tucked neatly beneath your professionalism.

It’s just another detail. Another decision. You’ve approved a hundred accessories today already but you haven’t approved him.

The fitting area isn’t private. Just a curtained nook off the main set, half-lit by dressing bulbs and cluttered with half-dressed mannequins and hangers heavy with sponsored silk.

And he’s there when you slip inside. Shirtless, silver chain dangling from his fingers, tattoos curling down his arm like they belong to a different man than the boy you once knew.

He looks over his shoulder the moment he hears you enter. His lips curve slowly, like this is a scene he’s played in his head a thousand times already.

“Oh,” he says. “They sent you.”

You don’t react. You’re too tired for games and too exposed for softness.

“Only because the chain needs editorial sign-off,” you say coolly.

He turns to face you fully, unhurried. Like the air between you isn’t thick enough to choke on.

“Then by all means,” he murmurs, offering the necklace like a dare, “approve me.”

You step forward without flinching, though every part of you wants to be somewhere—anywhere—else. The chain is cool in your palm. His hand is warm. The heat of his body radiates as you move into his space, standing just close enough to clasp the piece around his bare neck.

His skin smells like cologne and memory. Like summer and sweat and one a.m. phone calls you’ll never get back.

You keep your eyes down. Your fingers are steady as you drape the chain across his collarbones, lock it into place behind his neck. He watches you in the mirror and doesn’t blink.

“Still pretending I don’t affect you?” he asks, low enough that no one outside this curtain will ever hear.

You don’t look at him. Don’t let him win.

“You’re not that hard to ignore.”

He laughs, soft and sharp. It brushes the side of your cheek like smoke. “Liar.”

You step back; one clean motion with no hesitation. Your eyes scan the chain against his chest. Simple. Effective. Professional.

“It works,” you say.

He’s still looking at you. Not with smugness now, but something quieter. Studying the way your arms stay crossed. The way your voice never shakes, even when your throat does.

“You always liked this one,” he says, tapping the charm. “You said it made me look dangerous.”

“That was a long time ago.”

His smile shifts. “You still look at me like it’s not.”

You leave before you can answer. Let the curtain fall shut behind you like a closing door.

And you don’t breathe again until you’re halfway down the hallway.

The bathroom is cold and sterile and mercifully empty.

You close the door behind you, flip the lock, and let your clipboard fall to the counter with a dull clatter.

It’s only then—only then—that your shoulders drop.

Your hands brace against the sink, breath coming out in one sharp exhale like it’s been trapped under your ribs since you walked into that fitting room. Your reflection in the mirror is still composed, still precise… but your eyes are too bright, and your skin is too warm, and the chain you touched is still clinging to your fingertips like a memory you can’t scrub off.

The cold water against your wrists and temples helps clear your mind as you gather yourself in the bathroom. This is just another work assignment - he's just another subject to photograph. You've dealt with far more challenging situations than being near someone who once made you believe in forever.

With practiced efficiency, you touch up your lipstick and straighten your blouse. When you emerge into the hallway, your composure is flawless, your expression revealing nothing of the storm beneath. The studio has quieted now, with only essential crew remaining.

Light rigs now buzz on low. Laptops closed, garment bags zipped, coffee cups abandoned on carts. A few stylists linger in quiet conversations by the exit, voices hushed with the kind of fatigue that only comes after a perfect shot.

The hallway outside the dressing area is empty except for you and the steady hum of the hard drive transferring the final export. Metal and stale sweat linger in the air, a reminder of the day's shoot. You've maintained your composure perfectly throughout, every interaction calculated and professional.

But when you hear those footsteps approaching - measured, purposeful, unmistakable - your carefully constructed facade threatens to crack. You don't need to look to know who it is.

“Didn’t think you’d still be here,” Jungkook says, voice low behind you.

You glance over your shoulder. He’s out of wardrobe now, in a simple hoodie and sweats, hair still slightly damp from styling. His tattoos are half-hidden under the sleeves, but his eyes are all sharp edge and unfinished business.

You straighten. "Waiting on a drive."

He moves closer, maintaining a careful distance. "They left in a rush. Didn't even say goodbye." The words carry a weight you both understand - he's not talking about the crew.

"It was a long day," you reply, your voice measured.

"You always were good at making things efficient," he observes, a hint of something unspoken in his tone.

You turn to face him with your perfected expression - the unflappable editor no one dares to question. "Did you need something, Jungkook?"

His composure shifts, tongue pressed against his cheek. "I need to know why you're acting like we didn't matter."

The words land with the weight of years unspoken. You meet his gaze steadily. "Because you acted like we didn't."

The silence stretches between you as the truth of it settles. He doesn't deny it. "I didn't know how to end it back then. I was selfish."

"You were a coward," you reply, voice steady despite the burning in your throat. "A call, a text - anything would have been better than disappearing."

"I thought it would be easier if I let you hate me."

A bitter laugh escapes you. "Easier for who?"

He closes the distance between you until you can feel the heat radiating from his body, his familiar scent mixing with the dim emergency lights that line the floors. "I still remember everything," he murmurs. "Your old apartment with the mattress on the floor. How you'd cry over unfinished articles. The way you'd fall asleep against my chest like you belonged there."

You remain frozen, breath caught somewhere beneath your ribs as he leans in slightly, the air between you crackling with tension. "Do you remember any of it?" he whispers.

The memories flood back unbidden, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction. Instead, you tilt your head and deliver the words with practiced indifference. "You're five years too late."

You walk away before he can notice your trembling hands, and he remains rooted in place, torn between the urge to follow and the knowledge that he lost that right long ago.

✦

The suite smells like charcoal-grilled meat and takeout beer. The shoot’s over. The glamor is gone.

They’ve all crammed into Namjoon’s apartment for a late dinner, half-unwinding, half-rehashing the chaos of the day. Yoongi’s in the corner scrolling on his phone. Jin’s talking over everyone about how the lighting made him look “unfairly youthful.” But Jungkook hasn’t touched his food.

He’s nursing a beer. And he hasn’t said more than a few words all night.

Taehyung notices first.

“You good?” he asks, lazily tossing a cushion at him from across the couch.

Jungkook doesn’t look up. “Yeah.”

Jimin lifts an eyebrow. “You’ve been zoning out since we left the studio.”

There’s a beat of silence then Jungkook exhales and runs a hand through his hair. “She was really there.”

Jin, mid-chew, frowns. “Who?”

Jungkook glances at the ceiling, leans back, eyes unfocused. “Y/N.”

The name still tastes strange in his mouth. “She’s… she was our editorial lead. For the cover.”

Yoongi finally looks up. “Seriously?”

“She didn’t even flinch,” Jungkook mutters. “Like I never existed.”

Namjoon gives him a long look. “You expected a welcome hug?”

“No,” Jungkook says, quieter. “I don’t know what I expected. But not… that.”

He thinks of the way she stood—straight-backed, calm, like she’d stripped him from her system entirely. He thinks of her voice. How carefully detached it was. You’re five years too late.The line replays in his chest like a lyric.

“She looked good,” Jungkook says after a pause. “Better than before.”

“Better without you,” Yoongi says flatly.

Jungkook doesn’t reply. Taehyung sighs, sitting up. “It’s insane that you’re surprised. You ghosted her while fucking your way through rookie girl groups.”

“I didn’t—” Jungkook winces. “I didn’t mean for it to happen like that.”

“But it did,” Namjoon says, voice firm. “You left her. And you never gave her a real goodbye. You just vanished.”

Jimin shifts, arms crossed. “You think she forgot? That she sat around waiting while you made headlines with girls you didn’t even text back?”

“I was overwhelmed,” Jungkook snaps, frustration leaking out. “We were finally being notice, I was twenty, the world was on fire—”

“And she was in the middle of it with you,” Taehyung cuts in. “Until you acted like she was a phase you could leave behind.”

That shuts him up. Jungkook stares at the label on his bottle. His jaw ticks.

“She looked right through me today,” he says quietly. “Like I never touched her. Like she doesn’t still exist in my head every fucking day.”

Silence falls over the room. Then Jin sighs and pats his shoulder. “Well. Maybe now you know how it felt.”

✦

You hold the final print like it owes you something.

Not just a paycheck. Not just another spread to fill your portfolio. But proof that you belong here.

Vogue Korea – October Issue. The one everyone wanted to work on. And you got it.

The paper stock is matte heavyweight — no gloss, no gimmick. The cover design minimal: just the group’s name in clean serif and the issue title in metallic foil, whispering luxury. Echoes of the Future.

You flip through the pages like you haven’t already memorized the entire layout. But it still hits. The gravity. The precision. The power of it.

Each editorial frame is stripped to its bones — no backdrops, no props, no distractions. Just symmetry, shadowplay, and seven of the most photographed men in the world, captured like you’ve never seen them before.

Jimin in sharp Céline tailoring, wet hair pushed off his forehead, lips parted like he’s about to ruin someone.

Namjoon in a crisp Ferragamo overcoat and nothing underneath. Minimal styling. Maximum command.

Taehyung draped in silk Givenchy, silver rings on every finger, a single brow arched like a dare. Yoongi — Gucci and attitude. Seated. Unbothered. A king tired of his throne. Jin in a Bottega turtleneck with sculptural shoulders, the kind of silhouette only he could make feel warm. Hoseok’s frame wrapped in a monochrome Rick Owens layered set, gaze tilted away from camera — like he knows you’re looking. And Jungkook. Front and center. Mugler suit. Bare chest. One silver chain. Wet strands falling over his brow, a half-smirk caught between innocence and provocation.

You chose that shot. Pushed for it. It’s not about sex. It’s about control. Power. Presence.

There’s no overstyling. No theatrics. Just tension. The kind that doesn’t need words.

When you close the issue and step into the elevator of the JW Marriott rooftop lounge, your reflection catches in the mirror: off-the-shoulder Alaïa column dress in black crepe, Louboutin heels, lips painted the exact shade of silent danger. You look expensive. Untouchable. Editorial. Exactly how you planned it.

The party has already started by the time you arrive — hosted in the private event wing, high above Seoul’s skyline. Dim, golden lighting. Smooth jazz threaded with ambient house. Crystal glasses passed by silent staff in Tom Ford uniforms. Everyone here is someone.

Vogue doesn’t just launch a cover — it celebrates it. Especially one this anticipated. Especially when the entire campaign broke engagement records before it hit print.

And when the subject is BTS? The fashion world watches. So tonight isn’t just a party. It’s an affirmation. For the magazine. For the editorial team. For you.

You float through it with your usual ease — nodding to the creative director from Boucheron, chatting with the head of marketing from Dior Beauty, accepting compliments on the issue from half the room without blinking.

Until someone mentions it. “Did you hear BTS might actually show tonight?”

You maintain your composure, letting the champagne brush your lips as you smile with practiced nonchalance. The air in the room shifts subtly, and with the slightest turn of your head, you see him.

Jeon Jungkook. Walking in through the side entrance, flanked by two staffers and dressed in black-on-black: a Saint Laurent suit jacket left open over a silk shirt, sheer enough to tease the curve of his chest. No tie. Just skin, chain, stare.

He looks different tonight - transformed from both the idol whose image you curated and the ghost who haunted your hallway last week. There's something raw and deliberate in his presence now, a man who arrived with clear intent. His eyes find you immediately across the room, heavy with purpose, and you notice with a start that he came alone.

Namjoon had RSVP’d but sent a polite decline. You’d caught wind of Jimin flying out for a brand shoot in Tokyo. The rest were likely busy or deliberately laying low — as expected.

But he showed up, of all people, leaving you unsure whether to laugh at his audacity or grip your glass tighter.

Jungkook doesn’t approach you. Not at first. You feel his gaze like pressure behind your bare shoulder. But he moves slowly through the room — greets the Vogue team with a bow, gives the photographer a brief, easy hug. Accepts a drink from a server. Ends up near the bar with a woman you vaguely recognize from the Seoul fashion circuit — a model with collarbones sharp enough to cut glass, her dress barely skimming the line of decency.

She leans in when she speaks to him. Laughs too brightly. Touches his forearm once, casually.

He barely acknowledges the model's attention, his gaze fixed elsewhere in the room - on you. Through the evening, his eyes find you repeatedly, not with desire but with careful observation, like he's memorizing every detail. The looks fall into a steady rhythm, yet he maintains his distance while others gravitate toward you.

You’re halfway through your second glass when two men — suits, handsome, not strangers to the room — flank you near the edge of the terrace. One is from an ad agency you’ve worked with before. The other’s from an international menswear brand.

They talk shop. Compliment your dress. One of them offers you another drink before you can say no. The other leans in when he speaks, a little too close to your ear, and you catch the ghost of his cologne mixed with something slightly sour.

You offer your practiced, polite smile But you're aware of how their eyes follow the dip of your neckline like they’ve been given permission. One of them lets his fingers rest too long against your elbow. The other jokes, "Are all editors this pretty or are you the exception?" and doesn’t seem to care that you don’t laugh.

Your eyes drift across the room unbidden to find him exactly where he's been all evening, his steady gaze never having left you.

Jungkook’s grip on his glass is tighter now. The model beside him keeps talking, oblivious. He’s not listening. You know that jaw too well. The tension behind it. The twitch when he’s about to break.

You take another sip. Feel the flush of alcohol under your skin. Your vision gets softer at the edges, but the awareness sharpens. You know how this ends. You feel it humming beneath your ribs, hot and inevitable.

And when the man beside you brushes your wrist again — subtle, casual, entitled — you don’t pull away fast enough.

Without warning or spectacle, Jungkook materializes beside you with the practiced grace of someone who's spent years in the spotlight. His movement is fluid, deliberate - sliding between you and your unwanted admirers with a hand ghosting the small of your back. His body creates a subtle barrier, the gesture so smoothly executed that it appears almost accidental, yet the message is unmistakably clear.

“Didn’t realize I was late to this conversation,” he says smoothly.

You catch the flicker of recognition on the men’s faces. One of them steps back half a pace, suddenly less charming. The other adjusts his collar and offers a polite smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Jeon Jungkook,” the taller one says, offering a hand. “Didn’t know you were here.”

Jungkook shakes it. Calm. Collected. “Figured I’d say hello to the team who made the shoot happen.”

His eyes flick toward you, then back. “Though it looks like I should’ve come earlier.”

It’s almost nothing. Just a hint. A slip beneath the surface. But you hear it. Feel it in the weight of his voice. The way his hand stays just a fraction too close to yours.

Possessive. And yet — perfectly palatable for a crowd.

No one would question this display of protectiveness - the touch, the timing, or the implications. The men's faces fell as their evening plans crumbled, replaced by hasty excuses about drivers and text messages from L'Officiel. They melted into the crowd, leaving as quickly as they had appeared.

Jungkook watches them disappear into the crowd with that unreadable expression you remember from his early idol days. When he didn’t know how to speak with words yet — just stares.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you say, voice quiet, cutting.

“I know.”

“Then why?”

He shrugs. Still watching the crowd. “Didn’t like how they were touching you.”

“That’s not your concern anymore.”

He turns to face you then. Full. Real. And the look in his eyes is darker than the mood lighting.

“It never stopped being my concern.”

That does something to your throat. Tightens it.

You want to roll your eyes. Push him away. Instead, you take a half-step back and fix your dress strap.

“You can go now,” you say, coolly.

But his jaw tightens. That’s when you know you’ve hit something.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He says it so quietly. But it doesn’t feel soft. It feels like something pulled from the center of his chest.

You scan the room out of instinct. Too many eyes. Too much potential noise.

Jungkook notices. And he moves.He doesn’t ask.His hand brushes your wrist—light, guiding—and then he’s walking. Confident. Unbothered. Heading toward the side hallway just past the lounge bar, near the VIP exit where only staff and talent are allowed to pass.

You should stop him but instead you follow.

The hallway is quiet, dimmer than the rest of the event. A velvet rope keeps guests from entering, and a private elevator tucked at the end promises anonymity to anyone important enough to use it. You’ve seen it before. Watched stylists hustle idols through that door like ghosts, like secrets.

Jungkook stops just out of view.

The corner of the hall is shadowed, walls covered in gold-veined marble and muted hotel art. The muffled bass from the party barely reaches here. His back is to you.

He turns when you stop. And then he steps in.

Close. Too close. He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t raise his voice. But he towers.

The heat from his body sears into yours. His jaw clenches once before relaxing, like he’s trying to hold back a thousand versions of the same mistake.

“You know what they wanted from you,” he says, voice low. “And you were going to let them?”

“I wasn’t going to let them do anything.”

“You let them touch you.”

“You fucked half the industry,” you snap, too fast. Too exposed. “Don’t start pretending I’m the one who crossed lines.”

That lands. Sharp. But he doesn’t retreat.

“I haven’t loved anyone except for you.”

Your breath catches in your throat as the weight of his words sinks in, leaving you dizzy and unsteady.

You want to argue. You want to scream liar.But he’s looking at you like it’s gospel. Like the weight of that confession has been killing him slowly every night since. And god, he’s close.

You feel your body respond before your brain can stop it. The heat between your legs. The flush rising beneath your skin. The sharp, brutal ache that coils low in your stomach just from the way he’s standing there — like he’d throw himself between you and the world all over again.

You glance down — mistake. The open collar of his shirt frames his chest like it was designed for your hands. The chain you once clasped glints against his skin, half-damp from heat. You remember how he tastes. Wonder if he still does.

Your thighs press together instinctively as his gaze drops to notice the movement. The knowledge that he can still read your body's reactions makes your stomach twist with loathing.

“You have no right to be jealous,” you say, voice barely a whisper.

“I know.”

“You left me.”

“I know.”

Your heart is pounding. Your mouth is dry. And when he leans in just a little closer — breath brushing your ear, his voice raw and unfiltered — it takes every ounce of strength not to melt against the wall.

“You can hate me all you want,” he says. “But I still know how to make you come apart.”

Jungkook’s stare is heavy. Focused. Unflinching.

He says nothing for a long, charged second, and you hate how your body reacts to that silence — like it remembers something your brain is still trying to forget.

“You don’t get to act like this,” you say, and it comes out sharp, acidic. “You don’t get to touch me now and pretend it means anything.”

His jaw tenses, but his voice stays level. Quiet. Deadly calm.

“I’m not pretending.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes, shifting your weight — and that’s when he does it.

His hand slides down with deliberate intent, finding its target. He squeezes your ass with possessive familiarity, the firm pressure making your breath catch. Though you maintain your composure, your body betrays you - skin flushing hot, thighs pressing together as desire coils in your stomach.

“You’re disgusting,” you mutter through your teeth.

But he leans in, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear.

“You didn’t stop me.”

You shove at his chest, but there’s no real strength in it. Not when your knees feel like static and your pulse is hammering between your legs. Not when your own body is already betraying you, flooding with heat from the base of your spine to the ache you’ve been pretending doesn’t exist.

“You’re the one who fucked other people the second you got famous,” you snap. “Don’t come near me like we have unfinished business.”

“You think I don’t remember how you taste?” he breathes, low and lethal. “How your thighs shake when I—”

“Shut up.” You cut him off, voice breaking around the edge. “You’re pathetic.”

But his hand is still on you. Still burning through the fabric of your dress.

And now he's walking.

You're not sure when his hand left yours. You're not sure when your legs decided to follow. But you're moving. Toward the private elevator at the end of the hallway. It dings as it opens — discreet, slow, waiting for no one else.

“Don’t,” you say, half-hearted, hovering just outside the doors.

He steps inside the elevator and glances back, waiting with an unspoken challenge in his eyes.

“Unless you're scared,” he murmurs.

You could slap him. You should, but instead you step into the elevator with feigned composure, despite your trembling heels.

The doors close with a soft click, leaving you enveloped in thick, electric silence. His presence looms behind you, coiled and simmering, while you maintain your dignity - chin raised, gaze fixed steadily on the elevator doors.

Your mind races as the floors tick by, but you've already surrendered to whatever destination he has in mind.

You tell yourself it’s just physical. You’re tired. Your bones are tired. You've been carrying ambition like armor for too long and you want — god, you want — to feel something. Something that doesn’t require you to smile, or pose, or win.

You want to stop being the calculated editor, the polished image, the embodiment of perfection - if only for one night. And if it has to be Jungkook, the only man who ever witnessed you come undone, then so be it. After all, if he's determined to shatter your composure again, you'll make sure he crumbles right alongside you.

The car ride settles into a weighty silence, charged with unspoken tension that fills the space between you.

A stretch of velvet air between you, thick with all the things neither of you are brave or stupid enough to say.

Jungkook’s limo is absurd. Sleek black leather, blue LED trim humming at your feet. A built-in bar you ignore. Curtains drawn. City lights blur past the tinted glass as if the world outside has nothing to do with what’s about to happen inside.

You sit rigid, legs crossed. The dress has ridden up just slightly — the soft part of your thigh kissing cool air — and he notices.

He notices immediately. His hand moves with quiet confidence, as if remembering a familiar path. Fingertips rest briefly on your knee before sliding upward, his thumb drawing lazy circles where silk meets flesh.

Though you avoid his gaze, busying yourself by twisting your hair between your fingers, your body betrays you - thighs pressing together as his touch ventures into dangerous territory. The corner of his mouth lifts in a knowing smirk.

“I forgot how stubborn you are.”

You glare. “You forgot a lot of things.”

His fingers don’t retreat. He slides them just a breath higher, pulling the hem of your dress with them.

“You can say stop,” he murmurs, voice dropping low. “You know I’ll listen.”

You hate the truth of it, hate even more that you don't want to stop him. Your thighs remain locked together as heat builds between them, as if friction alone could erase what's about to happen.

He stays perfectly still, his touch a gentle reminder on your skin. Patient. Waiting. Your body responds to his presence with a familiar ache, your pulse quickening as it remembers his touch.

Through the window, city lights blur past while you try to steady your breathing. There's no denying what's about to happen - you knew it from the moment you followed him from that party.

Tonight, you’re not Vogue Korea’s untouchable ice queen. You’re just a woman.

Lonely. Starving. So fucking tired of pretending she doesn’t want to be ruined.

✦

The car stops in front of La Premiere, one of Seoul’s most exclusive residential towers — all glass, obsidian stone, gold accents that shimmer even at midnight. You’re not surprised. This is the kind of place you only enter if your name is a brand.

The lobby's marble floors echo beneath your heels as you follow him to the private elevator, where a thumbprint grants access to the upper floors. The doorman's familiar greeting only amplifies the tension crackling between you.

Your heart pounds against your ribs as the elevator climbs to the penthouse. The space unfolds before you - a stunning expanse of high ceilings and concrete walls, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a breathtaking view of Seoul's glittering skyline. But you barely register the luxurious details.

The moment the door clicks shut behind you, he presses you against the wall, his mouth capturing yours with desperate intensity.

He kisses you like a man starved, like he's been haunted by the memory of your taste. His hands roam possessively over your body while his tongue claims yours in a heated dance of desire. When an involuntary moan escapes your lips, his mouth curves into a knowing grin against yours.

“Still pretending you don’t want this?”

You shove at his chest, breathless.

“Still pretending you don’t want to be fucked?”

His laugh is dark. “You want to feel me inside you, don’t you?”

You don’t answer and he takes it as a yes.

He lifts you like you weigh nothing, carrying you down the hallway. You catch glimpses of modern art, black marble floors, absurdly expensive furniture you could write articles about.

But then...His bedroom.

Of course it’s massive. King-sized bed draped in jet-black sheets, one wall entirely glass, Seoul glittering behind it like a crown.

He lays you down. Stares at you for a second. Then bends. Presses a kiss to your shin. Your knee. Your inner thigh. You arch.

“You’re not going to tease me,” you spit, breath shaky.

“Oh no?” His voice is warm silk wrapped around something feral. “I think you’ve been begging to be teased.”

And then he’s peeling your dress up, up, over your hips, dragging it slowly, deliberately, like he’s unwrapping a sin he’s already claimed.

His hands never stop moving.

He spreads your legs with ease, dress bunched high at your waist now, the cold kiss of air meeting warm skin. You feel obscenely exposed and utterly alive — laid out against his sheets in nothing but a paper-thin pair of black lace underwear that does nothing to hide the heat soaking through.

And when his eyes land there, dark and molten, his breath catches.

“Fuck,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “You’ve always been unreal.”

You watch his throat move, swallowing thickly. His fingers trail from your calf to the inside of your thigh, slow and reverent.

“I’m gonna fuck you so good,” he murmurs, eyes locked on your heat like he’s watching a meal he’s about to ruin. “You’ll forget how to hate me.”

You don’t have time to snarl back before his mouth is on you again — dragging up your body, lips trailing over your stomach, your ribs, your bra. He finds your breast with one hand, slipping beneath the delicate cup, warm palm cupping it, squeezing just enough to make you gasp. Then his tongue is there, licking over your nipple through the lace, wetting it until the fabric turns transparent and your back lifts off the bed.

You whimper. Loud. And you hate that it sounds like relief.

His other hand finds your ass, gripping it with the kind of pressure that says mine, pulling you closer to the edge of the bed as he grinds down against you, clothed cock heavy and hot against your inner thigh.

He nips at your breast, tongue flicking, eyes on your face.

“Still pretending you don’t remember what this feels like?”

You pant, fingers buried in his hair. “Just fuck me already.”

But he’s not done teasing. He slides lower again, mouth kissing a path down your torso, tongue tasting your skin like it’s his.

When he reaches your panties, he pauses. Licks his lips.

“These need to come off.”

You lift your hips. He slides them down your legs, slow and smooth, like he’s savoring every inch of skin revealed.

And then he groans.

“Fuck, baby…” His thumb brushes over your slit. “You’re soaked.”

You glare. “You’re not special.”

He chuckles. “We’ll see.”

Then he kisses you again, deep and dirty, hand slipping between your thighs, two fingers sliding through your folds with ease, coating themselves in everything your pride is trying to hide.

He presses in — just one finger, shallow and slow — and you gasp into his mouth.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he breathes against your lips. “You really haven’t let anyone else stretch you like this?”

You don’t answer.

But your moan says enough.

He adds another finger. Curling them. Moving them just right.

“This is me preparing you,” he murmurs, voice all silk and sin. “I’m gonna make it good. Gonna make you cum on my fingers before I even fuck you.”

Your eyes flutter shut. “God, Jungkook—”

“I love when you beg,” he growls, “but not yet.”

You reach for him then, desperate, fingers tugging at his open shirt — sheer and slippery beneath your grip. You want to see him. Need to.

He feels it. “Patience,” he smirks, but he lets you undress him anyway.

Jacket drops first. Then that ridiculous silk shirt that slides off his arms like water. You make a sound low in your throat when you see him again, bare and sculpted and dangerous. Then he pushes his pants down, black slacks pooling on the floor, and all that’s left is his boxers — stretched tight over his cock, which is very obviously hard.

And huge. Your mouth parts. He sees it. Smirks again.

“Don’t act surprised,” he murmurs, leaning in. “You’ve had it before.”

His body covers yours, the warmth of his skin burning against you, his cock pressing hot and heavy between your thighs. He grinds once, slow, and you gasp — the length of him perfectly aligned against your soaked slit, dragging between your folds like he’s memorizing the shape of your desperation.

He doesn't push in yet.

Just teases. Rubs the head against your clit. Circles it. Slips down, catches your entrance, then pulls back again.

You bite your lip so hard it stings.

“Jungkook,” you pant, voice breaking.

He kisses your jaw, your neck, his voice low and smug and maddening.

“You’re gonna say please.”

You don’t say please.Not with your mouth.

But when you look down and see him reach for the nightstand drawer, tear open the foil packet with steady fingers, and roll the condom down his thick, veined length...Your mouth parts on instinct.

God.

You forgot what he looked like like this. Not just big — devastating. Long, hard, flushed dark at the tip, heavy in his own hand. Your core clenches around nothing, heat flooding your stomach.

You don’t mean to moan. But you do. His smirk falters for a split second.

“You’re still so easy to ruin,” he murmurs, fisting his cock, stroking once, lining himself up between your thighs. “I barely touched you.”

“You’ve been talking too much,” you whisper, chest heaving. “Shut up and—”

But the words die the second he starts to push in.

You gasp — your whole body tensing — and your hands fly to his shoulders, nails digging in hard.

He groans above you. “Shit—you’re tight.”

You feel the stretch like it’s the first time. A slow, thick pressure as he sinks in inch by inch. Every muscle in your body coils, thighs trembling, breath catching.

His mouth finds yours again — wet, open, filthy — kissing you through it, licking into your whimper like he’s feeding off your pleasure.

“Just breathe,” he whispers, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other gripping your waist. “I’ve got you.”

You do. You let him in.

And god, you hate how good it feels — to have him deep inside, to feel the way your body opens around him like it remembers exactly where he belongs.

When he bottoms out, hips flush to yours, he groans into your throat.

You’re both panting. Stunned. Then you move. Your legs wrap around his waist. Tight. Holding him there. His back arches into it, and he nearly chokes on his breath.

“F-fuck,” he stutters, voice cracking. “You’re gonna make me cum just like that.”

You grin, delirious. “Control yourself.”

“Impossible,” he groans, but he stays still, grinding his hips in slow, rolling circles, letting you feel all of him, the friction igniting fire where your nerves used to be.

Your hands slide down his back — hot, damp with sweat — and you whisper between shaky breaths:

“You feel so good, Jungkook… so fucking good—”

That does it. He starts to move. Slow at first. Deep. Letting you feel every inch drag through you, the way your walls flutter around him. He groans again — long and low — kisses you like he’s starving.

Then he leans back just enough to slip a hand between your bodies, tugging at your bra strap.

“Off,” he pants. “I want to feel all of you.”

You arch for him, and he peels the lace away, throws it somewhere behind him without a second glance. His mouth latches onto your breast immediately, tongue circling your nipple while he thrusts deeper now, rhythm gaining speed.

Your moan rips from your throat — helpless.

The room is filled with slick, obscene sounds. Wet kisses. The slap of skin against skin. His name. Your name. Every broken breath in between.

He fucks you like he never stopped wanting you. Like every other girl was just a placeholder. Like this is what he’s been chasing for years.

You meet him thrust for thrust, body to body, every part of you singing from the friction and the fullness.

“Jungkook—” you gasp, legs shaking around him.

He presses his forehead to yours, eyes shut tight.

“I’m close—fuck—I’m gonna—”

Your nails dig into his back. Your mouth finds his. Hot. Messy. Breathless.

And you both fall.

You cum around him with a strangled cry, legs locking, mouth open, his name your only word. He follows seconds later — hips jerking, body shaking, groaning into your mouth as he spills into the condom, both of you swallowed in heat and noise and everything you said you’d never feel again.

The room goes still except your breathing. And the heartbeat pounding between your ribs like a warning.

Your body is still shaking when he collapses beside you, skin damp and breath ragged, his palm pressed flat against your stomach like he needs to anchor himself to something that’s real.

Neither of you speak. Your lungs are too full of what just happened — of the heat still lingering between your thighs, of his scent on your skin, of the kiss still wet on your mouth.

And then he moves again.

You feel it before you see it — the subtle shift of his body behind yours, the press of his chest against your back, the way his hand slides down your stomach, lower, lower, fingers brushing over your still-sensitive slit with the softest, filthiest reverence.

Your legs twitch.

“Jungkook…” your voice is nothing more than a broken breath.

But he’s already hard again. His cock slides against your ass, hot and ready, nestling in the curve of your body like it belongs there. Like it never stopped belonging there.

“I can’t stop,” he whispers, voice husky and wrecked. “Not yet. I need more.”

You don’t argue because the truth is, so do you.

You feel the crinkle of another condom. The soft hiss of him rolling it on. And then he pushes in from behind.

This angle — lying on your side, body curled into his, his arm wrapped tight around your waist — it’s too much. Too deep. Too intimate.

You cry out softly as he fills you again, slower this time, his hips moving in lazy, grinding rolls that feel like velvet dragging through your core.

He groans low into your neck.

“Still so fucking tight. So warm,” he pants. “You’re made for me.”

Your hands scramble behind you, reaching for anything to hold. You find his hair, his neck, your fingers threading through damp strands and pulling him closer. His mouth finds yours again — messy, hot, upside down, your teeth clashing a little before they part.

The kiss is deeper than it should be. Slower. Desperate in a different way.

Like neither of you are trying to cum anymore. Like you’re just trying to stay here.

He fucks you like he’s drunk on you — like your body is a drug he’s been forced to quit and now can’t get enough of. His hand slides over your breasts, then down again, gripping your thigh to tilt your hips back, opening you wider.

You whimper into the pillow, moaning his name over and over, helpless.

“Feel so good, baby,” he murmurs, forehead pressed to your shoulder. “I can’t—fuck—I can’t stop.”

You don’t want him to, you’re shaking. Sweat-slick. Eyes wet.

You twist your neck just enough to kiss him again — messy, slow, tongues tangling mid-thrust, like your mouths can’t stay apart even now. His pace stutters.

You feel him start to lose it, his rhythm breaking as you clench around him, your walls pulling him deeper with every snap of his hips.

And when you cum again — this time quieter, slower, your body trembling as you squeeze your eyes shut — he goes with you.

He groans your name into your skin as he spills into you again, the rhythm fading into soft, tired rolls of his hips, your bodies still locked together under the sheets.

For a long while, neither of you move.

You just lay there. Breathing. Tangled. Spent.

He kisses your shoulder once. Light. Almost careful.

And then sleep pulls you both under — not out of comfort, but out of collapse. Because neither of you came here looking for peace.

You just needed an escape.

And you found it in each other’s ruin.

✦

Your eyes snap open before your alarm ever has the chance.

The room is quiet. Dim gray light filters through blackout curtains. The sheets smell like sex and sweat and a mistake you swore you'd never make again.

Slowly opening your eyes, you feel the weight of memories flood back.

The kisses. The way he moaned your name. His hands, his mouth, the sound of skin slapping skin. The taste of him on your lips. The way he said you’re mine without ever needing the words.

“Fuck,” you breathe, pressing your hand over your eyes.

You sit up slowly.

Your body aches in all the right ways and all the wrong ones — thighs sore, lips bruised, a pulsing between your legs that still flutters when you shift.

Next to you, Jungkook sleeps facedown. Bare, sprawled, shamelessly beautiful. The sheets only just cover his waist, one arm bent beneath the pillow, the muscles in his back stretching in long, carved lines.

Your gaze lingers on his sleeping form. He looks peaceful and unguarded, making him all the more dangerous in his vulnerability.

You bite your lip hard, fighting back unwanted feelings.

Your fingers twitch with the urge to trace the curve of his spine, but you stop yourself. Because you don’t have time for softness. You have work. You always have work.

Dragging yourself out of the bed, you start collecting your clothes — your dress crumpled in the corner, your heels under the chaise, your bra on the floor beside the door like a monument to your downfall.

When you catch your reflection in the bathroom mirror, you wince.

Mascara smudged. Lips bitten raw. Hair wrecked. You look like a woman who had a night.

And in less than an hour, you need to look like a woman in charge of the most powerful editorial campaign of the year.

You move fast. Cold water. Concealer. Lip balm. Breath mints. You finger-comb your hair and twist it into something sleek. But the problem isn’t the face — it’s the clothes.

Your dress is a dead giveaway. Wrinkled, short, undeniably last night.

You move to Jungkook’s closet. Rows of Saint Laurent, Givenchy, Alexander McQueen. Racks of custom suits and silky button-downs. Not a single item designed for discretion.

But then — a structured black blazer. Boxy, masculine, clean-cut enough to pass.

You slide it on. It swallows your frame. The hem falls past your thighs, hiding your dress completely. You roll the sleeves once. Twice. Pair it with quiet confidence and a pair of sunglasses from the entryway table.

You almost look like a Vogue editor again. You don’t let yourself look at him again.

You just close the door behind you, call a taxi, and vanish into morning traffic with nothing but your pride duct-taped together inside that blazer.

The office pulses with energy when you arrive, as your colleagues look up with warm, welcoming smiles.

“Y/N! Congrats again on the October issue—” “That cover is insane, seriously, you killed it—” “You must be exhausted after last night’s party!”

With a practiced smile, you offer polite thanks to your colleagues while trying to ignore how your skin still carries traces of last night - a mix of sex and his signature cologne. When an intern approaches with coffee, you accept it with silent gratitude, thinking you've almost made it through unscathed.

Until Kara appears.

“Wow,” she says, voice honeyed and loud. “You look… rough.”

The conversation halts like a car crash. A beat of awkward silence. Someone clears their throat.

Meeting her gaze, you watch as Kara's smile spreads across her face, predatory and sharp.

“Late night?” she adds, mock-innocent. “Or should I say… early morning?”

Without a word, you lift your coffee and stride forward, but she trails behind you through the main office hallway. As you approach the glass-walled door of your boss's office, it swings open to reveal your editor-in-chief - a vision of authority in sharp heels and an immaculate outfit, her penetrating gaze already assessing the situation.

Kara laughs softly and says, “She probably didn’t even go home. Just look — same dress as last night’s party. Slept over somewhere fancy, though. That’s not hers.”

Time seems to slow as your muscles tense. Your boss's calculating gaze sweeps over you, her expression as impenetrable as marble and twice as cold.

“Y/N,” she says. “My office. Now.”

Your stomach plummets as you head toward her office, acutely aware of Kara's self-satisfied smirk and the way she bites her thumb, savoring her apparent victory.

Your phone buzzes in your palm.

Unknown Number: That blazer suits you. But you’ll have to pay me back eventually. Preferably not in cash.

Your pulse quickens at the message, and you don't need to guess who sent it, you slip the phone into your pocket before knocking on your boss's door.

part 2

🖤

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whateveriwant · 1 year ago

Text

SFW Size Difference HCs with Simon

F!Reader, NSFW version

He loves to use your head/shoulders as a resting spot. All the time you’ll be cooking, sorting through the mail, etc. and he’ll come up behind you, wrap his arms around your waist, and place his chin on the top of your head to watch what you’re doing

After you drive his car, you always have to remind yourself to adjust the seat back for him. You can tell when you’ve forgotten because the next day his knee is all bruised after having bashed it against the steering wheel

You’ve discovered kissing him is easiest when you’re elevated somehow (e.g., sitting on the kitchen counter). Otherwise you have to work around tippy toes and neck strains

Of course, you’re no stranger to using step stools/ladders to grab something that’s high up. But now that you’re dating a literal giant of a man, he’s become your personal slave that you make fetch things that are out of your reach

That being said, don’t get on Simon’s bad side because he will use his height to his advantage. You mouth off at him? Have a bit of an attitude with him? Yeah, he’s hiding your favorite snacks on the top of the fridge

Because his hands are so much bigger than yours, you can never interlock your fingers together when holding hands. You just have to settle for palm against palm :(

Don’t even worry about your feet potentially getting tired around him. The moment you start to complain about your sore feet, he’s immediately picking you up and carrying you either bridal style or piggy back (I wanna be his lil backpack)

“His” jumper? Nay nay. Our jumper, because you’re constantly raiding his closet to wear his shirts/sweaters like dresses

His size makes him like a human furnace, so whenever it’s cold, you just need to shiver a little and he’s unzipping his coat to let you nuzzle against him

Every time you go to a restaurant that has high tables, he jokes about getting you a booster seat like a little kid (but he secretly finds it adorable when you kick your feet back and forth when they don’t reach the ground)

99% of the time, he’s the big spoon when you cuddle. And though he would never admit it, that 1% of the time when the roles are reversed are actually his favorite 🥺

Concerts are a blast for you because you get a great view from your perch on his shoulders. As for the people standing behind you, well… Let’s just say it’s a good thing your boyfriend knows how to fight

#simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley fluff #ghost cod #ghost mw2 #cod x reader #call of duty x reader #cod mw2 #call of duty #modern warfare 2 #female reader

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uncuredturkeybacon · 23 days ago

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𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚝 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which you coach her game and quiet her mind

part two - part three - part four - part five

You met Paige Bueckers on a Tuesday afternoon in late September, your sophomore year at Hopkins.

It’s open gym. You aren’t technically supposed to be in there—you’ve already finished your weight training hour and your basketball season doesn’t start until winter—but the hum of a bouncing ball is too rhythmic to ignore. There’s a familiar comfort to the hollow echo of sneakers and grit on hardwood, something that calls you in like a whisper.

You open the gym door quietly, backpack still slung over one shoulder, and that’s when you see her.

Blonde ponytail swaying. Wide stance. Shot pocket high. Paige freaking Bueckers.

You’d heard of her, of course. Everyone at Hopkins had. Varsity freshman starter. Handles like a string puppet master. Shot like a dream. Girl had already been ranked nationally, and people couldn’t stop talking about her like she was some prodigy out of a sports movie. You thought it was all hype.

Then you saw her move.

And the thing was—she wasn’t just good. She was smooth. Every step calculated, but casual. Every pivot like muscle memory. She dribbled like the ball owed her rent.

She doesn’t notice you at first. Just keeps shooting from mid-range, the ball sailing through net with that soft, cotton-candy swish. Over and over and over.

You step in farther.

She stops, finally turning her head slightly, eyebrows raised. “You lost?”

You blink. “No. Just… didn’t know anyone else was in here.”

She nods once, grabbing her rebound. “You hoop?”

You shrug. “Yeah. But I train more than I play now. Strength and conditioning stuff. I work with Coach Cosgriff sometimes.”

Paige bounces the ball slowly under one hand, studying you with that squint she always seems to wear. “So you're, like, a trainer-trainer?”

You laugh once. “A sophomore trainer. I’m certified in watching YouTube videos and correcting people’s forms at the gym.”

She smirks. “Sounds legit.”

“Totally. Olympic-level.”

There’s a pause. You think she’s gonna go back to shooting, but instead she spins the ball toward you with a flick of her wrist. You catch it without thinking.

“Rebound for me?” she asks.

That’s how it starts.

You don’t say much that first week. You mostly pass the ball back to her and correct her foot placement when she does too many fade aways in a row. She doesn’t seem to mind your notes. In fact, she listens. Eyes narrow, brows drawn together. She nods when you speak. Adjusts. Tries again.

By week three, you’re staying after school just to watch her shoot.

By week five, she’s asking you to run drills with her. “I need someone who won’t go easy on me,” she says. “You look like you play defense like a demon.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You calling me aggressive?”

She grins. “I’m calling you annoying. Like a mosquito.”

You end up training together every week after that.

It’s past 6:30 PM, and the gym lights are humming like they’re tired of you both. You’ve run suicides, jump-rope footwork ladders, and back-to-back spot shooting. She’s collapsed on the baseline with a towel over her face.

“You trying to kill me?” she mumbles.

You grin, stretching near her. “You wanna be the best or nah?”

She lifts the towel just enough to peek at you. “I was the best like three years ago.”

“Complacency,” you shoot back, rolling your eyes. “That’s the first sign of career death.”

She snorts. “You sound like a Nike ad.”

“I sound like someone who’s keeping your ass in shape.”

“Yeah,” she mutters, tossing the towel aside. “You do.”

There’s something unspoken in the air. The gym is empty. Just your water bottles clinking, the soft squeak of shoes as you shift. She looks at you a beat too long.

“You ever think about going into this for real?” she asks suddenly. “Training people?”

“I already am,” you say. “I’m applying to kinesiology programs. Sports science. I wanna do this for a living. Maybe NBA. Or… WNBA.”

“You’d be good at it,” she says, and there’s no teasing in her voice.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You make people better without making them feel like shit. That’s rare.”

You blink. She’s never said something like that before—not with that tone. And something flickers in her eyes like she didn’t mean to say it aloud.

“I’d want you to keep working with me,” she adds quietly. “If I go to UConn. Or wherever.”

“You planning on bringing me with you?” you joke, nudging her shoe with yours.

She doesn’t joke back.

“Yeah,” she says simply.

The dorms are stuffy and the air smells like ramen and underachieving. You moved in early because Paige wanted to start pre-season training before official practices began. You aren’t on the team. You aren’t on staff—yet. But Paige made some calls. And they made an exception.

You’re the one in her corner before the season even starts.

You run her drills. Chart her shot percentages. Track her fatigue, time her sprints, log every mile she runs.

But you also learn her.

The way she hums under her breath when she’s shooting threes. The way she swears under her breath when she’s not getting it right. The way she pulls at the hem of her shorts when she’s overthinking.

The way she looks at you when she thinks you’re not looking.

You see it more now. The lingering. The heat behind her glances.

And you’d be lying if you said you didn’t look too.

You’re lying on your back in her dorm room after a long night of training, the air between you quiet but charged.

“You ever think this… all of it… happened too fast?” Paige asks softly, turning her head toward you.

You meet her eyes. “Basketball or…?”

She doesn’t answer for a second. “Everything.”

You inhale slowly. “No. I think some things happen when they’re supposed to.”

She smiles faintly, shifting closer.

“And what if this—us—is one of those things?”

You glance down between you. Your hands are almost touching.

You don’t pull away.

Neither does she.

“Then I guess we’re right on time.”

It’s weird how easily your dynamic translated to college. She still listens to you. She still trusts your eyes more than anyone else’s.

“Step on your left harder after the spin,” you tell her during an individual session. “You’re floating too long. You’re not getting enough power.”

She nods and tries again. Nails it. Of course.

Afterward, she walks with you back to your apartment, as she’s been doing for weeks now.

"You coming to the scrimmage Saturday?" she asks, kicking a pebble down the sidewalk.

"Obviously. I'll be sitting next to Coach. Telling him what he's doing wrong."

She laughs and bumps her shoulder into yours. "You're cocky."

"I'm right."

“You’re something,” she mutters.

You don’t ask what she means. You don’t need to.

But you can feel it growing. The way she lingers when she talks to you. The way she watches you when you speak with someone else. The way she listens too closely. Stands too close.

And then it happens.

It’s after a game—a blowout win. You’re the last two in the practice gym, her icing her knee, you jotting down some movement notes in your tablet.

She asks, “Do you ever think about us?”

You stop mid-type.

“Us?” you repeat.

“Yeah. You and me. Not just trainer-player.”

You blink. Slowly. “All the time.”

She’s quiet, like that answer knocked the wind out of her. “So what do we do?”

You swallow. “We try.”

She smiles, soft and quiet. “Cool. So… kiss me?”

You walk over, heart thudding like you’re about to play in front of a sold-out crowd. But this moment—this kiss—is private. Gentle. A quiet victory.

Dating Paige Bueckers is exactly what you expected and nothing like you imagined.

She’s a goof. Always humming Drake songs and using you as a weighted vest when you’re trying to do push-ups.

But she’s also laser-focused, and sometimes that means 3AM texts. My jumper feels off, help. So you drag yourself to the gym with bedhead and bad breath, and she lights up like the scoreboard when she sees you.

The chemistry you have—on and off court—is unmatched.

“Let’s try that pin-down cut again,” you say during a workout. “But sell it harder this time.”

She wipes sweat from her brow. “Why don’t you just play defense on me? That’ll make it real.”

So you do. And she doesn’t get past you the first three tries. Fourth try, she fakes right and spins left—you’re gone.

“God, I love when you push me like that,” she says, out of breath, laughing.

You grin. “Yeah?”

She walks toward you, playful. “Yeah.”

Paige kisses you there, right in the middle of the gym floor, hands on your hips like you're her anchor.

And you are.

You always have been.

There are tough days. Days she doubts herself. When the pressure builds and she doesn’t want to talk to anyone but you.

“I’m not playing like myself,” she says one night, curled on your couch.

You rub her thigh gently. “You’re in your head. You need to come back to your body. You need to play with joy.”

She looks at you, teary-eyed. “How do you always know?”

You shrug. “I’ve always known you, Paige.”

There’s a long pause. And then she says, “I think I want to do this forever.”

“Basketball?”

“You.”

It’s not flashy. There’s no grand gesture. No candlelit dinner. But it’s her. And it’s you. And it’s exactly enough.

It’s senior year now. She’s a legend. You’re her official trainer.

And people still call you Bueckers’ shadow, but now it comes with respect. Because they see it now. That you’ve helped shape her, sculpt her, kept her balanced.

On her senior night, she gives a speech.

She thanks her coaches. Her team. Her family.

And then, looking right at you, she says, “And to the person who’s been here since day one… my first pass, my best read, my forever one-on-one partner—thank you for never letting me forget who I am.”

You don’t cry.

Okay. You do.

But so does she.

Later that night, she pulls you into her room, shuts the door, and murmurs against your mouth, “You were always more than my trainer.”

You smile into the kiss. “I know.”

The moment Paige Bueckers’ name is called, the world erupts.

But she doesn’t.

She just looks at you.

Not the camera, not the stage—you. With that look you’ve seen a thousand times since high school. The one that says we did it.

You’re already standing when she launches into your arms, nearly knocking you back into the row of chairs behind you. Her arms wrap tight around your neck, her face pressed to your shoulder, whispering through the noise, “Don’t let go.”

You don’t.

Not when she pulls back, eyes glassy, hands still gripping your waist.

Not when she walks up to the stage with tears in her lashes and your name on her tongue.

And definitely not when the cameras catch her glancing at you before every answer.

The draft is a blur of bright lights, cheers, cameras, and interviews—but you stay close. Just off-screen. Just like always.

Until the media starts asking questions that aren’t about her game.

“Paige, congratulations on being the number one overall pick to the Dallas Wings! Can you tell us who you brought with you tonight?”

She glances sideways to where you're standing in her shadow. But you know her well enough to read the decision flicker behind her eyes.

She’s not going to hide you. Not anymore.

She turns back to the mic, confidence radiating from her like warm sun. “That’s my person. She’s been with me since high school. Trains me. Puts up with me. Challenges me. Loves me. So yeah—she’s a big part of why I’m here.”

The reporters buzz.

“Who is she to you?”

Paige smiles softly. “She’s everything.”

You nearly choke on your breath backstage.

Paige’s suit jacket is slung over a chair. Her shoes abandoned by the bed. Her Wings hat perched crooked on your head.

She’s on her knees in front of you, chin resting on your thigh, dress shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, her fingers lazily tracing circles on your knee.

“You really said all that on national television?” you murmur, smiling.

“I’ve wanted to say it since we were seventeen,” she replies. “Since that day in Hopkins when you rebounded for me until I cried.”

You slide your fingers through her hair. “You know what this means, right?”

“That I’m your number one overall pick, too?”

You grin. “That, and now the whole world’s gonna know you’re soft for me.”

She leans up and kisses you—slow, full of promise. “Let ’em.”

You lie back on the hotel bed as she climbs in beside you. Her fingers tangle with yours like muscle memory.

“I’m scared,” she whispers eventually.

“Of what?”

“The league. The pressure. Failing.”

You squeeze her hand. “You won’t fail. You’ll figure it out. You always do.”

She turns to face you, nose brushing yours. “Stay with me through all of it?”

You press a kiss to her forehead. “Always. I trained you for this, remember?”

She grins sleepily. “Guess I’m stuck with you then.”

“No,” you say quietly. “You chose me.”

Her silence says everything.

And for the first time that night—long after the cameras stopped flashing and the confetti settled—you both breathe.

The sun’s barely cracked the skyline of Dallas, golden haze stretching long across the parking lot when Paige turns to you, duffel bag slung over one shoulder and her practice jersey half-tucked into her waistband.

“You sure you want to come?”

You raise an eyebrow as you slide into the passenger seat of her car. “Seriously?”

She grins, brushing a hand over your thigh before starting the engine. “I mean, you’re not on staff.”

“Nope. Just the person who got you to number one.”

She leans over at a red light and kisses your cheek. “Damn right.”

The gym is humming with controlled chaos when you arrive—assistant coaches shouting instructions, music blasting, rookies trying not to trip over their own nerves. Paige is handed her gear and directed to the locker room, while you find your way to the bench along the sideline.

You set your bag down beside you, pull out your tablet, and cross your legs. The gym smells like polished hardwood and sweat and the faintest trace of new opportunity.

And there she is—Paige Bueckers—tying her shoes like it’s still high school in Hopkins, rolling her shoulders, bouncing a ball between her legs like she doesn’t know every camera in the room is aimed at her.

Your stylus hovers, and you begin.

Hips tight in lateral slide. Right knee still drifting inward on push-off.

She doesn’t look at you once, but she doesn’t need to. She knows you’re watching. Studying. Calculating.

You catch her third turnover in scrimmage. The coach yells something—timing issue—but you know better.

Drifting right early on corner curl. Jumping the pass. Tell her to settle feet before turn.

The practice stretches two hours. Drills. Scrimmage. More drills. Water break. Media arrives toward the end, clicking cameras, calling out names. Paige answers politely. You watch how her smile fades when she turns away.

When it finally ends, she doesn’t even glance at the locker room. She walks straight to you.

“Alright, hit me,” she says, dropping beside you on the bench, water bottle tucked under one arm, legs wide and hands clasped between her knees. Her jersey clings to her back with sweat. Her hair’s pulled into a tight bun, a few loose curls framing her flushed face.

You smirk. “You sure? I’ve got five pages already.”

“Jesus,” she mutters, leaning over to peek. “You still do bullet points?”

“I upgraded. Color-coded now.”

She groans. “Please tell me red still means ‘sucked.’”

“Red means ‘must address immediately.’ But yeah, you sucked on a few.”

She tosses her towel at you. You duck, laughing. Then you glance down at your screen.

“You rushed your footwork on the baseline pick. Every time. You’re cutting the corner too shallow, and it’s forcing your hips to stay closed when you rise.”

“I felt that,” she says, nodding. “Couldn’t get any lift.”

“Exactly. Also—your right knee’s collapsing again on your jump stop. You need to slow down your load. Breathe through it.”

“Got it.”

“Scrimmage—third possession, you jumped the passing lane too early on the weak side. You overcommitted on a read that wasn’t there. That’s a high school mistake, Bueckers.”

She groans again, flopping back against the bleachers. “Ughhh. Be nicer.”

You smile. “No.”

She nudges you with her shoulder. “Anything good?”

You glance at her, the way her eyes are shining despite the exhaustion. You nod.

“You read the defense perfectly on that skip pass to Crystal. Footwork was clean, timing was elite. Also—your fake hesitation in transition off that turnover? Disgusting.”

She grins. “Filthy?”

“Filthy,” you confirm.

There’s a pause, one of those quiet pockets that only exist with people who know every version of you.

Then Paige stands.

“Come on. Let’s fix my corner curl.”

Half the players are already gone, heading toward the locker room or training room or their cars. But Paige pulls you to the far basket like it’s still your high school gym at midnight.

You don’t even hesitate. You grab a ball and toss it to her.

“Start at the top. Walk me through your cut.”

She moves to the elbow, begins her motion slow.

“Too shallow,” you call.

She adjusts. Again. Again.

“Keep your center low. You’re rising too soon.”

She adjusts. Again. And again.

You step closer, placing your hands on her waist as she resets.

“Watch your hips. You’re twisting before your feet are planted.”

Her eyes flick to you. “You watching my hips or checking me out?”

You give her a look. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“You sure?” she smirks, stepping closer, her hands ghosting your sides.

You push her shoulder gently. “Back to work, Bueckers.”

She backs up, laughing.

Across the court, Coach Koclanes is still talking to staff when he glances over and sees the way Paige moves differently with you. The way she listens more intently. The rhythm of it. The ease.

He watches as she finishes her last curl, catches the ball you pass her, and sinks it from the wing—net barely moving.

You jog to grab the rebound. She resets.

And he’s already walking over to her by the time she sinks another shot.

“Paige,” he says, calm but direct.

She turns, wiping her forehead. “Coach.”

He glances across the court, then back at her.

“She yours?”

Paige follows his gaze to you, where you’re dribbling the ball lazily between your legs and checking your notes again.

She swallows.

“Yes, sir.”

Koclanes raises an eyebrow. “Trainer or girlfriend?”

“Both.”

He watches you again for a moment then nods slowly. “She’s sharp.”

Paige smiles. “She’s the reason I’m sharp.”

Koclanes studies her, arms crossed. “Alright. Just keep it professional when it counts.”

“She always does. I’m the reckless one.”

He smirks. “I figured.”

You're sprawled on the couch, tablet in your lap, and Paige is sitting on the floor between your knees, her back against the couch as you gently press into her shoulders.

“How bad was I?” she mumbles, half-asleep already.

“You weren’t bad,” you say. “You were just out of rhythm. New system. New teammates. New everything.”

She sighs. “It’s weird. Being the rookie again.”

You thread your fingers through her hair.

“You’ll adjust. You always do.”

She tilts her head to rest against your knee. “Coach asked about you.”

“Yeah?”

“Wanted to know if you were my trainer or my girlfriend.”

You grin. “What’d you say?”

“I said both.”

You pause. “And?”

“He said you’re sharp.”

You tap her forehead lightly. “Told you.”

She laughs softly.“Thanks for coming today.”

“I’ll be at every practice I can,” you promise. “Always.”

Paige reaches back, wrapping one hand around your ankle. “Feels like we never left the gym back home.”

You smile.

Because you know, deep down, that no matter how far Paige goes—WNBA stardom, championships, international fame—there will always be a corner of a court, a half-lit gym, where it’s just you and her.

The next time Paige asks if you’re coming to practice, you don’t answer. You just give her a look from across your shared bed, tablet already charging, stylus clipped to your hoodie collar. She laughs like she already knew.

"You're such a nerd," she teases, stretching as she slides out of bed.

"And you're late to everything but the gym," you shoot back, already packing snacks into her duffel.

Inside the Wings facility, it's déjà vu—but with a twist.

Paige is looser now. She’s smiling as she jogs out onto the court for warmups. Still focused, still razor-sharp, but her eyes find you through the bleachers like you're her true north.

You're already scribbling notes.

Dribble height off the left—still inconsistent. No dip off the hip before the pull.

She looks smoother today. Reads are quicker. She’s calling out switches and catching mismatches before they fully form. You know she’s watched the film. Your film.

And it shows.

She has a strong scrimmage. Ten assists. Fifteen points. The gym buzzes every time she touches the ball. Coaches watch her like she’s the answer to every late-game possession. But she still looks to you when she’s subbed out, even for just a moment.

A raised eyebrow from you is all it takes to remind her, slow your footwork, release higher, trust the screen.

She does. Nails her next three.

After practice ends, some of the players linger around the half-court line, chatting and stretching. But Paige’s sneakers squeak straight toward you.

She slides onto the bench beside you, water bottle cradled between her palms, jersey clinging to her collarbone with sweat.

“Well?”

You pass her the tablet. “You tell me.”

She scrolls. “Less red.”

You bump your knee against hers. “Because you actually did your hip mobility warm-up this time.”

“Don’t out me.”

You smirk. “I’ll keep your secrets if you keep hitting those high-release threes.”

She hands the tablet back, mock-serious. “Deal.”

You open your mouth to say something else, but someone clears their throat just behind you.

You turn and see him—Coach Chris Koclanes. Arms folded. Neutral face. Calculating eyes.

“Mind if I steal you a second?” he asks—not to Paige, but to you.

You blink, then glance at her. Paige just smiles and gives a subtle nod. You stand slowly, brushing your hands on your sweats as you follow him a few paces down the sideline.

He gestures toward the court. “That was a hell of a session for Bueckers.”

You nod. “She’s a rhythm player. Once she finds her pace, she’s lethal.”

“She credited you yesterday. Said you’ve been training her for years.”

“Since Hopkins.”

“She listens to you.”

You shrug, cautious. “We’ve built trust. I’ve been in her corner longer than most.”

Coach tilts his head, studying you. “You ever worked in a professional setting?”

“Not officially. Internships. Assistant roles. Mostly freelance analysis. Paige has been my primary focus.”

“I noticed.”

You’re silent.

Then he says it, casually—like it’s not a thing that could change your entire trajectory.

“I’ve got a spot open. Player development. One-on-one focus. I want you on staff—assigned directly to Paige.”

You freeze.

“Wait... what?”

He doesn’t waver. “You’ve clearly studied the game. You’ve got rapport. She trusts you more than anyone I’ve seen her with. I want that. I want you working with her officially. You’d be listed as player development assistant, but your job’s simple. Keep her sharp.”

“I—I’d need to talk to her about it.”

“You can. But it’s her job now. Not college. Not freelance. You’ll be part of the system. You in or not?”

You hesitate for the first time in a long time.

You’ve always been by Paige’s side. Always in the shadow just outside the spotlight. But this… this would put you inside the machine.

And that scares you.

But then Paige jogs over, towel around her shoulders, hair a mess, and eyes locked on you.

“You okay?” she asks, sensing the weight of the moment.

You look at her.

At the girl you trained through injuries, through heartbreak, through the hardest years of her life.

At the woman she’s become.

You smile softly.

“Coach wants to hire me,” you say.

Her brows lift. “For real?”

“To train you. Officially.”

There’s a pause.

Then her hand slides into yours, quiet but steady.

“What are you waiting for?”

You show up fifteen minutes early.

Even though you’ve walked through these gym doors a dozen times with Paige, everything feels different now. Your name’s on the clipboard. Your badge is clipped to your lanyard. You’re not just the person she looks for in the crowd.

You’re staff.

Official.

You nod to Coach Koclanes as you pass him in the hallway. He grunts a greeting, mid-conversation with another staffer, but you catch the way he gives a tiny approving nod in your direction.

Paige’s locker is already open when you make it to the court. She’s sitting cross-legged in front of it, re-lacing her sneakers like she didn’t lace and unlace them five minutes ago just to get it right.

She doesn’t say anything. Just looks up and gives you the smallest smirk.

“You nervous?” she asks without looking up.

“Why would I be nervous?” you say, adjusting your tablet bag and trying to sound like your heart isn’t pacing like it’s game day.

“Because you look like you’re about to give a TED Talk instead of coaching me through curls and closeouts.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“That’s what I’m banking on.”

“Y/N?” Coach Koclanes’ voice calls from across the court.

You walk over. “Yes, Coach.”

“You’ll be shadowing the guards today. Track foot placement and timing—specifically the pick-and-pop sequences. If Bueckers misses any lift opportunities, I want it noted.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ll run her one-on-one this afternoon. After team breakdown.”

“Understood.”

He claps your shoulder once, short and firm. “Welcome aboard.”

You nod. “Glad to be here.”

Practice unfolds like muscle memory.

You stay on the sidelines during group drills—eyes sharp, clipboard scribbling fast, quiet enough not to distract but focused enough to clock the split-second decision Paige makes before her assist in a half-court set.

Hesitation dribble sets defender. Delay creates opening. Reinforce timing.

During defensive rotations, she switches too late once.

You make a note.

She knows.

On the next possession, she’s early.

By a beat.

You smirk down at your page.

Water break.

Paige jogs past you, towel around her neck. She slows just enough to pass a quiet, “How am I doing, Coach?”

You don’t look up. “Foot’s still sliding out on the stagger screen. Don’t let your heel lead.”

“Got it.”

She grins and disappears into the huddle.

You keep writing.

The court’s cleared of team chaos. Most of the players have filtered out, heading to the weight room or showers. Coaches flutter around, chatting about the next game plan.

You wait with two fresh basketballs and a short list of drills. Paige walks back onto the court, damp hair tucked into a fresh headband, sweat already drying on her skin.

She nods at your clipboard. “How bad is it?”

“Not bad. But I’m not here to tell you what’s good.”

“Of course not.”

You toss her the ball. “We’re going to fix the angle on your split step first. You’re hesitating mid-transition when you don’t need to.”

She shifts into position. “I only trust you to tell me that.”

You smile quietly. “Lucky me.”

The next thirty minutes are the closest you’ve felt to home since stepping into this facility.

You aren’t just watching her. You’re correcting, measuring, coaching her through every breath and pivot.

Her shoulders relax under your voice.

Your fingers brush her knee to adjust her positioning—not intimate, but familiar.

You step in behind her on a jab series drill, guiding her hips gently with your hands to show where her weight should be. She exhales through her nose, eyes laser-focused on the floor.

When she nails it three reps later, she grins over her shoulder at you.

“I forgot how it feels when it clicks.”

You nod. “That’s why we’re here.”

Another assistant watching nearby chuckles. “She listens to you better than anyone.”

You don’t answer.

You don’t have to.

You’re gathering your clipboard and packing up your notes when Coach Koclanes walks over again. Paige’s eyes flick toward you once, but she heads toward the weight room with a soft brush of her fingers across your arm.

It’s subtle.

No one else would notice.

But you feel it.

Coach stops in front of you, arms crossed. “That was a clean session.”

“She’s responding well to structure,” you say.

“No. She’s responding to you,” he replies. “That’s why I pushed to get you on staff.”

You nod. “I appreciate that, sir.”

He watches Paige across the gym, already laughing with teammates in the weight room.

“You keep this up, you’re not just gonna be her trainer. You’ll be a real asset to this team.”

You look at him. “I want to help them all. But she’s the one I know best.”

He nods once. “Then don’t let her down.”

You tighten your grip on the clipboard. “Never have.”

That night, Paige sits beside you on your apartment balcony, toes tucked under her, hoodie zipped halfway, her knees brushing yours.

"You were so locked in today," she says.

"So were you."

She leans over and places a kiss on your shoulder, resting her head on your arm. “You made today feel like home.”

You close your eyes for a second, listening to the hum of Dallas in the distance.

“You are home,” you whisper.

She doesn’t reply.

She just laces her fingers with yours and holds on.

You linger near the back wall, just behind the assistants’ bench setup as the players finish changing. Paige tapes her wrists in near silence, bouncing her knee the way she always does before big games. You know her tells like your own breath.

She looks up once and catches your eye.

You nod, once. A signal.

You're ready.

She blinks slowly and exhales. A signal back.

I know.

Paige Bueckers in crunch time is art. She’s calm chaos. She moves like music. The crowd chants her name before the buzzer even sounds.

You don’t celebrate yet. You just stand with the clipboard tucked to your chest, waiting for the team to return to the bench.

And then she jogs off the court, towel over her head, high-fiving teammates—and her eyes go straight to you.

No smile.

No show.

Just a look that says everything.

I needed you here.

You give a subtle nod, lips parting just slightly, and she closes her eyes for half a second like she’s sealing the moment.

There are reporters. There are lights. Paige answers questions about the debut, the crowd, the shots. One asks if she felt ready.

She pauses. “I was more than ready.”

“What helped you prepare the most for your first game?”

She tilts her head slightly. “Honestly? I’ve had someone in my corner for years. She’s always known what I need before I do.”

A subtle answer.

But you know who she means.

Another day, another practice and you and paige stay past practice to work on more one-on-one training.

She’s standing at the elbow, hands on her hips, jersey damp with sweat. You’re holding the ball. Clipboard tucked under your arm. Your eyes narrow as you step forward.

“Okay. Three reps. Elbow pivot into the dribble-drop. Inside foot. One step. Pull.”

Paige nods. You pass her the ball. She moves—sharp, clean, quick—but her foot lands too flat. You don’t say anything, just tilt your head. She stops, pivots back toward you.

“Too slow?”

“Too flat.”

“Again?”

You toss the ball again. She resets. This time, the movement slices. Sharp plant. Quick pop. Perfect arc. Net barely stirs. You smile, but you don’t say anything. She already knows.

DiJonai Carrington is leaning against the wall near the exit, pretending to be texting. She's not. She’s watching.

She nudges Arike Ogunbowale, who’s walking by.

“Tell me that’s not a couple.”

Arike squints. “You mean Bueckers and iPad Girl?”

“Y/N,” DiJonai corrects.

“Yeah, I mean… they’re always together. I thought she was just training her.”

“Sure,” DiJonai says. “But you ever watch them?”

They both look again.

You’re walking in a small circle as Paige mirrors your movements, copying your footwork in silence, like dancers in slow sync. She laughs at something you say. You roll your eyes but reach out to adjust her elbow softly.

Arike raises an eyebrow. “That’s not just training.”

“Nope.”

You’ve got the court from 7 to 8 a.m. before scheduled practice begins. Paige shows up five minutes early—iced coffee in one hand, her mouth already chewing a bite of banana.

You’re in joggers and a Wings tee, tablet resting on a folding chair, cones lined up like a blueprint for something more serious than just “a workout.”

“You’re in a mood,” Paige says, setting down her drink.

“You’re inconsistent on your left side release. We’re fixing it today.”

She groans. “That’s a lefty problem.”

“It’s a you problem.”

She steps into her shoes and points. “Tell me what to do, Coach.”

You walk through it together.

Left foot plant. Shoulder twist. Off-hand steady. Ball into motion.

You call out commands. She adjusts immediately.

Thirty minutes in, she’s drenched. You toss her a towel and a water bottle.

“Better,” you admit.

“I’m gonna crash before real practice even starts,” she huffs.

You smirk. “You’ll thank me mid-season.”

Paige grins. “I always do.”

“Is it true?” Maddy Siegrist asks during stretching.

“What?” Ty Harris replies.

“That Paige and Y/N have been together since college.”

Ty shrugs. “They’ve known each other forever.”

“I thought it was just a trainer thing,” Maddy mutters.

Ty grins. “Look again.”

Later, during team cooldown, Paige finishes her reps and jogs straight to you. Doesn’t even grab a towel first.

You hand her one anyway.

She dabs her face and says, “Can we run that pick split tomorrow? The one we talked about?”

You nod. “I’ll draw it up tonight.”

She nudges you lightly with her hip. “Add a note that says ‘tell her she’s brilliant’.”

You roll your eyes. “Noted.”

The gym’s closed. The team had morning practice and mandatory lift. Most of the players have left for the day.

You’re not supposed to be here. Not technically. But Paige had asked. Just thirty minutes, she said. Just to walk through that new screen sequence you diagrammed.

So here you are.

You both are.

No cameras. No coaches. Just the echo of sneakers on hardwood and the sound of Paige’s soft exhale as she resets for the fifteenth time.

You're seated cross-legged on the court with your notes spread around you like a campfire circle. She’s walking herself through spacing patterns and foot placement, talking aloud so you can listen for her rhythm.

She misses a step. You catch it instantly.

“Too wide on your pivot,” you murmur.

She sighs. “I felt that.”

“You’re rushing the top foot.”

She stops. Tilts her head.

“You know what helps that?” she says.

You squint up at her. “What?”

She walks over slowly, takes your hand, and gently pulls you to your feet. “You.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You want me to demo it?”

“No,” she says, slipping her arms around your waist. “I want a break.”

You laugh quietly. “Oh, so now I’m a human timeout?”

“You’re my entire recovery system.”

Her fingers hook into the waistband of your joggers. Her forehead presses to yours. Her body still humming from the workout, but her expression soft, flushed in a different way.

You lean in. Her lips brush yours once—slow, careful, reverent.

Then again—deeper this time, her hand rising to the back of your neck. She kisses you like you’re the rhythm she’s trying to memorize.

You sigh against her mouth.

“Oh my god—”

Both your heads whip toward the doorway.

Maddy is frozen, Gatorade bottle in one hand, gym bag slung over her shoulder, eyes wide.

You and Paige instantly take a step apart—hands dropping, space returning.

Too late.

“I didn’t see anything,” Maddy says, blinking. “Except I very much did.”

Paige groans quietly. “Mad…”

Maddy grins—messy, teasing, thrilled. “So… I was right.”

You rub the back of your neck. “Please don’t tell anyone.”

“Too late. They’re all going to scream.”

Paige groans louder, dragging a hand down her face. “God.”

Maddy holds up her free hand like a scout’s oath. “I’ll be cool. But like… this is kinda iconic.”

She starts to back out the door, already pulling out her phone.

“Ver—no texts!” Paige calls.

“I can’t hear you,” she says, vanishing around the corner.

Paige is curled up beside you on the couch, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, scrolling through the messages with an embarrassed smile.

“Maddy said she saw a spark fly across the court when we kissed,” she says.

“She’s being dramatic,” you mumble, stroking her leg.

“She also said we owe her wedding invites.”

You snort. “Tell her she’s not getting a plus one.”

Paige laughs softly, then sobers. “You okay with this?”

You glance down at her. “The team knowing?”

She nods.

You rest your hand over her heart. “Feels like they always did.”

She smiles again. Quieter. More secure.

“Yeah,” she says. “I think so too.”

The Wings take the game by six.

Paige finishes with 24 points and 9 assists, carving up the fourth quarter with her signature midrange feints and off-ball creativity. You watched it all from the second row behind the bench, scribbling down your notes in silence, even though you knew everything you needed to say could be told with just a look.

After the buzzer, she walks off the court with her arm draped over DiJonai’s shoulder—grinning, exhausted, and glowing in that way she only does when she’s earned it.

She doesn’t come straight to you like she normally would. She gives you a look—soft, quiet, later.

You nod. Clipboard tight in hand.

Because you both know what’s next.

She’s in front of the mic, jersey swapped for a Wings hoodie, hair damp, eyes focused. The media crowd is familiar now—reporters from local outlets, national sportswriters, and the occasional YouTube basketball guy with a small mic clipped to his collar.

She’s answered three questions already. All standard.

“What did you see on that final possession?” “How has your chemistry with Arike developed this early in the season?” “What’s been the biggest adjustment from college ball to the league?”

She’s smooth. Thoughtful. Never rehearsed, but always real.

And then it comes.

From a new face in the third row. Out-of-town badge. Small outlet, but a big voice.

“Paige—this one’s off-court. There’s been a lot of speculation online recently about your relationship with your player development assistant, Y/N L/N.”

You feel your stomach go tight, even from where you stand just off to the side.

“There are viral clips. Locker room comments. A lot of fans believe you two are more than just athlete and trainer. Do you have any response to that?”

The room doesn’t gasp—but it shifts. Everyone suddenly leans in.

And Paige?

She blinks. Once. Steadies herself. And answers.

Calm. Clear. Unapologetic.

“I think it’s interesting that when a male player trains with someone for years and builds trust with them, no one asks these questions.”

The room holds its breath.

“But when it’s two women, it’s suddenly public interest. People want a headline. A label. Something to screenshot.”

She pauses. Looks directly at the reporter. Not angry—just... resolute.

“Y/N has been by my side since I was fifteen. She's shaped how I play. How I think the game. Whether we’re running drills or sharing silence, she's never once wanted credit for what I’ve done.”

Paige turns her head slightly.

Just enough to catch you in her peripheral vision. She doesn’t smile. But her voice softens.

“So no, I don’t owe anyone a label. But I will say this. Whatever she is to me, it’s not just anything.”

Silence. Then cameras flash. Keys click. But no one says anything else.

You’re leaning against the cool concrete wall when she steps out.

She doesn’t speak right away. Just walks toward you, tugging her hoodie sleeves down like she’s trying to hide how tense her hands are.

You hand her a water bottle. “You handled that well.”

“I hated that,” she mutters.

You nod. “I know.”

She leans her shoulder into yours. “Was I too blunt?”

“No,” you say. “You were just... honest.”

Paige swallows, jaw tightening. “They’ll make it into something it’s not.”

“Let them try,” you say. “They still won’t know us.”

She looks at you now. Really looks.

“Do you wish I’d said more?”

You shake your head.

“You said exactly enough.”

Dallas Wings vs. Connecticut Sun

The crowd is loud before the game even starts.

It's not UConn-blue anymore — this arena bleeds orange tonight. Still, there are kids in Bueckers jerseys lining the front rows. Signs that say "Hopkins to Storrs to the League". A smattering of navy Wings hats in the crowd.

You keep your head down as you walk out of the tunnel with the coaching staff. No clipboard today — not your usual one. Today it’s a tablet. Branded Wings quarter-zip. You’re seated next to the coaches. Front row. You’re not just behind the bench anymore. You’re in it.

“It’s a full-circle night for Paige Bueckers — back in Connecticut, where she built her legend at UConn. But let’s talk about something fans might not know…”

“You mean Y/N L/N?”

“Exactly. She’s seated right there on the bench now. Officially added to the Wings’ player development staff this season, but unofficially, she's been Bueckers’ personal trainer and basketball mind since Hopkins High School.”

“I’ve seen it up close. She has one of the sharpest eyes for the game I’ve ever encountered. Doesn’t just do physical development — she reads the floor like a coach with fifteen years in.”

“And you’ll notice it tonight — every timeout, every free throw, every adjustment, Paige checks in with her. Watch for it.”

Timeout. Wings down by 5.

The team gathers. Coach Koclanes talks to the core five. But Paige doesn’t go to him first.

She walks straight to you.

“Every time I fight over the screen, they’re slipping the weak side,” she says, breath quick but eyes locked on yours.

You nod, tapping a graphic on your tablet. “They’re baiting you. Your stunt’s coming too early. Let them close the lane, then rotate.”

“Got it.”

“On offense, they’re loading strong side on you. Reverse it. Skip it before the trap comes.”

“Copy.”

She claps your shoulder once and jogs back to the huddle.

Behind you, one of the coaches mutters, “It’s scary how fast she processes.”

You smile. “She’s just wired that way.”

The arena quiets slightly as Connecticut sets up at the line.

You see Paige backpedal toward your end of the bench. The ref glances at her, but she makes it quick.

“They’re stacking corner help every time we swing,” she says.

You lean forward. “Because you’re not cutting sharp enough off the split. Give the help something to respect.”

She nods, jaw set. “Backdoor?”

You whisper, “Only if Arike clears. They’re watching her eyes.”

Paige jogs back on-court, whispering something to Arike as the free throw bounces off the rim.

The very next play — skip pass. Fake drive. Backdoor cut. Paige lays it in.

Your stylus marks the play with a bright green tag.

“And there it is. Every time she glances at the sideline, it’s Y/N she’s looking for.”

“And you know what’s incredible? They’re not even speaking full sentences anymore. It’s absolutely fluid. That’s chemistry you build over years.”

“There are players who have court vision, and then there are those with a court language. Bueckers and L/N speak their own.”

It’s close. Wings up by 2. Sun with the ball.

Timeout.

Everyone’s shouting. The crowd is on their feet.

But Paige walks directly to you.

“What do I do?” she asks, fast, fierce.

You point at the digital clipboard. “Let her take baseline. You don’t need the steal. You need the stop.”

She nods. “You sure?”

“Always.”

She gets the stop.

The Wings win.

And as the clock winds down and the buzzer sounds, Paige doesn’t jump. Doesn’t throw her arms up. Doesn’t scan the crowd.

She turns.

And she finds you.

She walks straight to you and pulls you in with one hand behind your neck, pressing her forehead against yours again—this time longer. This time with the world watching.

The locker room is buzzing with celebration.

Not wild. Not champagne-and-speakers. Just a grounded, satisfied kind of joy. The kind that comes when you win with poise. When strategy trumps talent. When Paige Bueckers gets the stop that seals the game in the city where she once built her name.

You’re standing off to the side, tablet in hand, quietly reviewing clips when you hear her voice behind you.

“Hey.”

You turn. She’s fresh out of the postgame cooldown, hair tied back again, towel looped around her neck. Her cheeks are still pink from the adrenaline.

“That cut worked,” she says, low so only you hear.

You nod. “Knew it would.”

“I’ll say it in every language if I have to,” she adds, stepping a little closer. “But thank you.”

You smile, voice soft. “You already say it in mine.”

She holds your gaze like she wants to say something else—but then a media assistant calls out, “Bueckers — press in two!”

She winks once. “Meet you after.”

The postgame presser is at full capacity. More media than usual. Because this one? This wasn’t just a win. This was a return.

Paige walks in wearing her warm-up jacket zipped to her collarbone, no jewelry, no flash. Just locked in. She slides into the chair beside Coach Koclanes, a bottle of water in front of her.

First few questions are standard.

“What did it feel like playing back in Connecticut?” “Did you hear the crowd reaction when you checked in?” “What were you seeing on that final defensive play?” “How do you feel still being undefeated at Mohegan Sun?”

She answers each calmly. Firmly. Head high. Shoulders square.

From a reporter in the second row—

“Paige, we saw a lot of sideline communication between you and your player development assistant, Y/N L/N. This isn’t the first time, but it was definitely the most visible. Can you speak to that relationship and how it affects your in-game decisions?”

A pause. The room quiets. Coach shifts slightly in his seat but says nothing.

Paige exhales once through her nose — not annoyed. Just... thoughtful.

Then she looks directly at the reporter and begins.

“Y/N isn’t just a development assistant. She’s my basketball brain outside my body.”

A few eyebrows lift. Cameras click.

“She knows my tendencies, my triggers, my adjustments. We’ve worked together since high school. Every version of my game — from Minnesota to UConn to the league — she’s helped shape.”

Another pause. The air is listening harder now.

“So yeah, we talk every timeout. Every free throw. Every off-ball set. It’s not just strategy. It’s trust.”

Her voice softens slightly.

“I trust her eyes more than film. More than instinct. She sees the angles I don’t.”

Someone clears their throat. Another reporter chimes in.

“There’s been public speculation that your connection goes beyond coaching. Are you prepared to comment on that?”

Paige tilts her head just slightly — and then gives the smallest smile you’ve seen all day.

“I’m prepared to say that what we have is ours. And whatever anyone thinks they see... I hope they understand it’s built on years of work, not just a few looks during timeouts.”

She shrugs once.

“If it looks like more, maybe that’s because it is. But it’s not for you. It’s for us.”

Silence.

And then, one lone voice, “Well said.”

You’re waiting just past the press hallway, tablet shut down, credential badge dangling loosely from your neck. Paige rounds the corner still in her team gear, phone buzzing in her hand, mouth curled into a small, tired smile.

She walks up slowly, voice low.

“You hear that?”

You nod. “Every word.”

“Too much?”

You shake your head.

“It was perfect.”

She steps in, arms sliding around your waist, and rests her forehead lightly against yours — again, the way she always does when the world outside is loud and this little pocket of quiet is the only thing real.

You whisper, “They’ll keep asking.”

Paige whispers back, “Let ’em. We’ll keep answering our way.”

#paige bueckers #paige bueckers x reader #paige buckets #uconn women’s basketball #uconn wbb #wnba x reader #dallas wings #lesbian #wlw #wuh luh wuh

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hanniebaeee · 1 month ago

Text

Delicate

Felix x fem!reader

Warnings: suggestive MDNI

Genre: established relationship, fluff

Summary: Felix isn't talking to you. It's Day 3, and you've had it. So you do what's necessary to get your bratty boyfriend back in order, and it is chaotic to say the least.

a/n: Short, but trying so hard to run from the writer's block lurking in the corner 😭

Never in your life did you think you'd be doing something like this. Never.

It was 2:15 am on day three of Felix’s silent treatment, and you were scaling the wall of the rickety old Victorian building like a lovesick ninja.

The things you do for love - or, more accurately, for your sulky little shit of a boyfriend, who was probably scowling at his phone right then.

The fight was stupid to begin with. Something about you laughing (too hard, according to Felix) at Changbin’s dumb joke about beating Felix repeatedly in a ‘Tekken tournament’. And Felix took this way too personally.

He was especially sensitive about his gaming skills being questioned. And now he has shut you out, ignoring your texts and calls (and cute puppy videos as well).

You had tried everything - apologies, flirty voicemails, even slipping a handwritten love note under his door. But nothing. He didn't even look at you, but that tiny delicate pout on his lips? Oh you'd notice it from anywhere.

Seeing you try so hard, Chris, the frat’s resident dad/Zen master, cornered you after day one, his voice all soft and diplomatic as he said, “Give him a day or two, yeah? Lix is just...in his feels.”

Ok, so, you respected that. The next two days. You did that.

Now at day three, and you were done waiting - hence the climbing. The window on the second-floor landing was your ticket in (because you knew the boys left it unlocked all the time). You were halfway there, your ladder not half as long as you thought it would be. So you were cursing the ivy you were clinging on - it was definitely not as sturdy as it looked in movies. You were one slip away from becoming a campus legend for all the wrong reasons, at this point.

Your fingers gripped the ledge, and you were hauling yourself up when, *BAM* - the window flew open (nearly taking your head with it), and Hyunjin’s head popped out like a damn jack-in-the-box.

"Hyunjin!!" You hissed, and he yelped, flailing so hard he nearly toppled out himself.

“What the fuck?!” he hissed back, clutching his chest like you’d given him a heart attack.

“Shh!!” you snapped, clinging to the sill for dear life. “You’re gonna wake the whole house, you idiot!”

“I’m the idiot? You’re the one playing mission impossible on our wall!” Hyunjin whisper-yelled, eyes wide, his hair a messy halo from whatever he was doing at this hour. “What are you doing?”

“Getting to Felix, obviously,” you said matter-of-factly. “Now help me in before I fall and die.”

Hyunjin smirked, because of course he does.

“Say ‘pretty please’ first.”

“I will shove you down the stairs,” you growled, but he was already grabbing your arms, yanking you through the window with surprising strength.

But momentum betrayed you both, and you crashed onto the hardwood floor - you were sprawled on top of him in a tangle of limbs. Your knee was in his ribs, his hands on your ass, and your chest to his face. And he had the audacity to grin like this was the best thing that has happened to him all week.

“Well, hello there,” he purred, voice dripping with that flirty gremlin energy he was infamous for. “If you wanted to climb me, you could’ve just knocked, I'm generous.”

You shove off him so fast, it made you dizzy.

“Get your horny paws off me, Hwang.” You said, scrambling to your feet.

You adjusted your hoodie, ignoring the way his eyes lingered on you. “Where’s my boyfriend?”

Hyunjin propped himself up on his elbows, still chuckling.

“Your boyfriend’s in his room, sulking like a kicked puppy.” he said, slowly rising to his feet, towering over you (and daring to take a step closer) with a grin.

You rolled your eyes, shoving past him as he called after you, “My offer stands!”

You turned around, batting your eyelashes at him, and said, “I'll remember that, Hyunjinnie!”

And he laughed as you creeped down the dimly lit hallway. The frat house was a maze of creaky floors and hallways, but you knew Felix’s room like the back of your hand. You saw that the door was open a little, and you slipped inside the dark room, heart pounding. Felix was sprawled across his bed, shirtless, sweatpants slung low on his hips, scrolling aimlessly. He didn’t notice you at first, his brows furrowed, lips pouty in that infuriatingly adorable way.

God, he was hot even when he was being a brat.

You cleared your throat and said, “So, you planning to ignore me forever, or what?”

Felix jolted, phone nearly flying out of his hands. You watched as he fumbled to switch on his bedside lamp and his eyes widened, then narrowed, that stubborn spark flaring.

“How’d you even get in here?”

“Climbed the wall,” you said, crossing your arms. “You’re lucky I didn’t break my neck.”

He scoffed, sitting up, the movement making the muscles in his chest flex in a way that was really distracting. “Why didn't you ask Changbin for help, hm?”

“Oh, real mature, Yongbok.” You stepped closer, hands on your hips. “What are you even mad about? Don't bring Binnie into this, cos I know it's not that.”

“It’s not about Changbin,” he muttered, avoiding your gaze. “It’s about you acting like I’m not enough.”

Your heart twinged, but you were not letting him off that easily.

“Not enough? Lix, I’m literally scaling buildings for you. If that’s not devotion, I don’t know what is.”

He glanced at you, and you caught the flicker of guilt in his eyes before he masked it with a scowl.

“Whatever.”

You’d had it. Marching over, you snatched his phone and tossed it onto the nightstand.

“Enough with the baby act. Talk to me.” you snapped.

He glared, but there was a heat in his eyes now, not just anger. “Why should I? You’re the one who -”

You cut him off by climbing onto the bed and straddling his lap before he could finish. His hands instinctively landed on your thighs, and you felt the shift in his breathing, the way his body reacted despite his stubbornness.

“You’re gonna listen to me now, Yongbok,” you said, leaning in until your lips were so close to his. “I’m sorry I hurt your feelings. But I’m not letting you push me away over some misunderstanding.”

His eyes darkened, fingers tightening on your hips.

“Yeah?” His voice was husky now, the pout replaced by something dangerous. “Prove it.”

Oh, game on. You closed the gap, kissing him hard, all teeth and tongue, pouring every ounce of your frustration into it. He groaned into your mouth, hands sliding up your back, pulling you closer. The fight was still there, simmering under the surface, but it was morphing into something else - something that had you tugging at his hair, his hands slipping under your hoodie, lifting it up to feel your skin against skin.

“Still mad?” you murmured against his lips, grinding down just enough to make him hiss.

“Furious,” he growled, flipping you onto your back in one swift move.

He hovered over you, freckles glowing in the soft golden light, looking like a goddamn dream despite the attitude.

“But you’re making it real hard to stay that way.” he whispered, and you smirked, hooking a leg around his waist. “Good. Now shut up and make up with me properly.”

The door creaked open just then, and Chris’s voice cut through the haze.

“Yo, Lix, you good? Oh - shit.” Chris stood frozen at the door for a moment his eyes fixed on you, before scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “Guess you two worked it out.”

“Get out!” Felix yelled and Chris literally scrambled out, and you could hear Hyunjin cackling in the background, before the door slammed shut. Hyunjin's loud screams rocked the house next, and you both lay there, eyes still on the door.

Felix sighed before looking back at you, a slow, wicked smile spreading across his face.

“Where were we?”

Tags: @moonchild9350 @velvetmoonlght @hwangjoanna @pixie-felix @sailor--sun @chancloud8 @captainchrisstan @hansmic @emilyywhyy @inlovewithstraykids @my-neurodivergent-world @nightmarenyxx @channie4lifeee143127 @lezleeferguson-120 @silly250 @pansexual-and-eating-pancakes

Divider: @saradika-graphics

#stray kids #skz #lee felix x reader #lee felix x y/n #lee felix x you #felix x reader #felix fluff #lee felix fluff #lee felix angst #felix angst #skz fluff #stray kids fluff #stray kids x reader #skz x reader

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nemo-writes · 2 months ago

Text

𝗮𝗯𝘀𝗼𝗹𝘂𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 I chapter three

(dr. jack abbot x nurse!reader)

⤿ chapter summary: a terrifyingly familiar presence breaches your last safe space, and now a simple and heartfelt gesture becomes a violation. in the aftermath, fear finally makes you reach out for help.

⤿ warning(s): stalking, panic attacks & unhealthy coping mechanisms.

⟡ story masterlist ; previous I next

✦ word count: 2.7k

The day begins the same way the last three have: 05:30, kettle on, one level tablespoon of Assam spooned into the infuser. While the water climbs toward a boil you unlock your phone, already braced for what waits. A fresh number—there is always a fresh number—has delivered its dawn bulletin:

Left at 05:01 yesterday.

Early bird. Porch light flickered twice—loose bulb?

Navy coat looks sharp against the fog, pretty girl.

They never mention the hospital, never a word about ORs or co-worker names. The watcher keeps to the edges of your private life, and somehow that makes the trespass worse. You capture a screenshot, block the number, and delete the thread. The image joins dozens of others in the hidden laptop folder named Archive—date‑stamped, time‑stamped, waiting for the moment you finally believe the police will do more than shrug.

Four‑minutes steep exactly. Mug warmed. First swallow. Routine: a ladder you climb every morning. Eggs scrambled ninety seconds, plate rinsed, shower seven minutes. Before dressing, you check the tiny motion‑sensor camera you mounted inside the apartment entryway two nights ago; its LED blinks a steady red reassurance. The matching camera on the fire‑escape window does the same. No motion alerts overnight. Still, you test the deadbolt twice and angle the hall chair beneath the knob until you return.

The drive is identical to yesterday’s and the day before—same streets, same mirror checks at every light. No car follows twice, but you look anyway. At 06:50 you badge through the employee entrance. Stepping into hospital feels like sliding into armor: fluorescent lights, antiseptic bite, the hum of vents. The messages have never followed you here.

You adjust your usual gray scrubs and square your clipboard. Pre‑op checklist in your left hand, suture cart in your right, you call out “sponge count zero” with the same crisp authority as always. But small hesitations creep in: rereading the cefazolin vial, tapping the clock twice to verify time‑outs.

Margot’s eyes track each pause. She eventually corners you by the blanket warmer.

“Nightmares?” she asks, voice low.

“Just the usual insomnia,” you answer, pinching your lower lip. A nervous habit. Your smile feels brittle, but it holds.

Fin notices too; his jokes grow louder, as though volume can fill the quiet shadow clinging to you. Jules slips extra Hershey Kisses into your scrub pocket. Even Dr. Garcia joins in by firing off sarcasm like covering fire whenever an intern looks as if they might ask why your phone stays face‑down on the desk, silent yet weighty.

Slowly but surely, the afternoon bleeds into evening.

You finish vitals, sign the narcotics log, and at 19:04 bypass the stairwell that leads to the roof—no silhouettes against twilight tonight. Instead you head straight for the lot, head down, keys ready.

The cameras in your apartment greet you with their steady red eyes when you arrive. Door locked, sweep performed—closet, shower, under bed—all clear. Only then do you change into a soft purple T‑shirt and loose pants. You have long since stopped parading around in your underwear.

The phone buzzes the moment the fabric falls over your head. New number:

Purple again. My favorite.

You freeze. Curtains closed, lights low—and still they see. Screenshot. Block. Delete. You drag the dining chair beneath the doorknob and place the kitchen scissors back on the nightstand, steel glinting like a talisman. Then, a mug of valerian tea, strong enough to taste like soil, goes down in three determined gulps.

Lying in bed, you count the protections: two cameras, one chair brace, scissors within reach, every screenshot archived. Routine is armor. Repetition is a prayer. You breathe in for four, out for eight, the same cadence you teach anxious PACU patients, and tell yourself that as long as the messages stay outside the hospital walls, the armor will hold.

Sleep comes in splinters, broken by phantom creaks and imagined footsteps. At 02:47 you wake up, heart sprinting, and check the camera feed: empty hallway, silent fire escape. Dawn is only a few hours away. Soon the kettle will hiss, the tea will steep for exactly four minutes, and another text will arrive—about a porch light or the time you start your car—but never about scalpels, never about sponge counts.

Despite the hour, you’re halfway through wiping down the already‑clean kitchen counter—busywork to quiet the apartment’s hush—when your phone vibrates. For once the screen doesn’t show an unknown number.

It’s Jack.

Haven’t seen you on the roof in a bit. Everything okay?

The text lands like a gentle hand on your chest. You swallow against the sudden tightness in your throat, thumb hovering. Finally you type back:

I’m alright—just busy. See you tomorrow?

Three dots pulse, then: Works for me. Sunrise tea?

He doesn’t mention anything about the hour or how you should be asleep and not messaging back. You’re grateful.

Sunrise tea, you confirm, and set the phone facedown.

Pacing the kitchen, you notice how full the fridge is: a dozen nearly‑dated eggs, chicken thighs you’d planned to roast, wilting cilantro, limes, onions, and two unopened cans of black beans. You haven’t cooked a proper meal since the messages started; take‑out cartons and tea have been enough to survive. Now the sight of real food sparks something steadier than dread—a need to do, to give.

An apology, you decide, should be edible.

You wash your hands, set the chicken on the board, and fall into the rhythm your muscles remember: trim fat, score skin, rub with salt, cumin, smoked paprika. Onions sizzle in the cast‑iron, releasing a sweetness that chases the apartment’s stale anxiety. Beans simmer with serrano and garlic; rice toasts before absorbing broth. Cilantro stems thunk under the knife; lime zest perfumes the steam fogging the window.

When everything’s done you portion a generous serving into a sturdy glass container, your favourite one: rice pilaf on one side, glossy black beans on the other, two pieces of golden‑skinned chicken nestled on top. Into a tiny jar goes some honey‑lime dressing. You label the lid in block letters—Jack—and slide the meal into one of your spare tote bags.

The apartment smells of cumin and toasted garlic, of normal life. The cameras still blink red, the chair still braces the door, the scissors still gleam, but cooking has threaded warmth through every corner. You finish the last dish, the one’s that’s for you, dry your hands, and stand for a moment in the quiet kitchen, breathing in the proof that you can still create comfort instead of just barricades.

Tomorrow at dawn you’ll climb to the roof, hand Jack the container, and share five minutes of sky. Routine will tighten around you again, one careful knot at a time—but tonight you fall back asleep with the scent of lime and cilantro on your pillow, and relief, thin but real, settles in your chest like steam escaping a cooling pot.

. . .

You arrive at the hospital just past sunrise, thermos in one hand, tote slung over your shoulder, and—for once—a real, living sense of calm beneath your ribs. Not the fragile kind you usually glue together with caffeine and a tight jaw, but something gentler, something earned. You even caught a pocket of golden morning light in the parking lot, the kind that made the hospital look almost soft at the edges.

Dr. Miller catches sight of you just as you pass the nurse’s station. He’s leaning against the counter, coffee in one hand, chatting with a pair of interns, but pauses when he sees you. His eyebrows lift, and he gives a slow, amused smile. “Well, you look dangerously close to content. Should I be worried?”

You huff a laugh, smoothing your coat as you badge in. “Don’t start rumors, Dr. Miller.”

He points at the canvas tote on your shoulder. “Big plans?”

You nod once. “End of shift.”

He doesn’t ask more, just grins, and you take that grin with you like a good omen. The rest of the day moves at a steady clip: vitals to log, meds to verify, a code yellow that resolves without anyone crying. You let yourself coast on the rhythm of it, not in that desperate, overcompensating way you usually do, but in a way that feels like a return to something—like an exhale.

You slip into the lounge at 18:45, already imagining the click of the container’s lid, the familiar smell of the garlic and cumin, the soft weight of it in your hands as you climb the stairwell to the roof. You open as the lights inside flickers to life, cold and blue, attention on the glass container exactly where you left it, lid on, untouched.

Except—no. Something’s wrong.

The lid is snapped shut, perfectly aligned. The container looks full. But it isn’t. You can feel it before you even lift it—something in the tilt, the balance. Your stomach lurches as you peel the lid off and confirm what you already know. The food is gone. Not spilled. Not disturbed. Not even a forkful left to scrape from the edges. Just... empty. Clean. Wiped down.

A rare mix of anger, rare but hot, pulses against your ribcage, but before you can storm out and demand answers, you feel the paper crumpled under the container. Your breath stops. It’s your note—the one you’d carefully taped to the top that morning: NOT FOR GENERAL CONSUMPTION. HANDS OFF GREMLINS, it reads in your blocky caps. But now that line has been crossed out in thick, decisive strokes. And underneath it, slanted and dark and horrifyingly familiar:

That was great, thanks pretty girl.

The world tilts. Your lungs forget how to work. You’ve seen that name before—only in texts, never spoken, never written. Anonymous. Cryptic. Repetitive. A whisper against your spine on nights when the lights were off and your phone lit up with unknown numbers. But this—this isn’t a text. This is here. This is your space, your name, your cooking, your boundary, and someone has walked right through it with ink-stained hands and a stomach full of what you made with care.

A hot flush crawls up your neck, floods your ears. You stagger back a step and catch yourself on the counter. The container slips from your hand and hits the lounge table with a muted thud. The silence in the room turns sharp.

Then, you shove the fridge shut. The door clangs and rattles in its frame. The room feels like it’s shrinking, like the air has gone sour, too full of other people’s breath. You snatch the note and crush it in your hand. Your teeth clench so hard your jaw pops. You don’t remember turning, but you’re already out the door, slamming into the corridor.

Fin is halfway down the hall with a tablet in hand. He startles and drops it when you barrel past. “Boss? Are you okay—?”

You don’t hear him. You don’t answer. The world has narrowed to one screaming thought: Find Gloria. Now. You need the Chief Medical Officer, need her badge, her keys, her authority. She can pull the security feeds. She can call the police. She can make this stop.

You’re moving before you think to move, feet pounding the tile, vision blurring at the edges. You don’t realize you’re shaking until your elbow clips the corner of the nurse’s station and jolts you. Jules tries to intercept you, her mouth forming your name in alarm, but you dodge past. Margot reaches out, grabs your arm, and for a second your momentum dies.

“What happened?” she demands, voice low, sharp, anchoring.

You look at her. You try to speak. Nothing. Just breathless silence. Then, rasping through a throat too tight to breathe, you say, “Need Gloria.”

She gets it instantly. Her eyes go cold. She lets you go. Already calling instructions behind you as you sprint toward the elevators.

Your fingers hurt. You look down and realize the note is still balled in your fist, crushed so tightly your nails have dug half-moons into your skin. The static in your head has turned into a roar. You feel cracked open, like your worst fear has been confirmed and now all your secrets are leaking out of you for the world to see. All this time, you thought if you could just hold on—just stay composed, stay ahead, stay vigilant—you could keep this from touching the parts of your life that mattered. But now it has. Now it’s here. The hospital was supposed to be your safe place, your fortress. But someone breached it.

The elevator doors open. Thankfully, nothing but an empty gurney is inside. You step in without hesitation, eyes fixed forward, spine locked. You don't even blink when the doors slide shut.

You get out the seconds the doors open and round the corner toward Administration so fast the world blurs, shoulders locked, chest heaving, pulse hammering in your ears so loud it drowns out thought. You barely register the sound of a door opening until a figure steps out from the consult room ahead—short but solid, dreadlocks brushing her shoulders, clipboard hugged tight to her chest.

You collide before either of you can brake.

Papers scatter like startled birds. A pen skitters across the tile and bounces under the nearest corner.

“Whoa—hey!” Kiara grabs you, steady hands catching your elbows before you fall.

“Slow down, honey,” she says, trying for lightness. “What—”

Then she sees your face.

Whatever was holding you together unravels in a blink. Your eyes fill, your mouth opens, but nothing coherent makes it past your lips. The crushed note slips from your hand, landing between you. The marker-scrawled name glares up from the paper like a fresh wound.

Kiara’s clipboard hits the floor beside it.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she breathes.

Her arms come around you before you can bolt or speak or even breathe. And the second she does, the sob rips out of you—gut-deep, involuntary, raw. You bury your face against her soft sweater and shake, fists twisted in the soft cotton, the fabric quickly going damp with tears. Your legs threaten to give. Kiara cradles the back of your head like she would a grief-stricken mother in a quiet room, voice low and steady in your ear.

“I’ve got you. You’re okay. Breathe with me. In, two, three…that’s it. Out, two, three.”

You try. You try to follow her rhythm even as your chest jerks, lungs refusing to cooperate, every breath full of glass. The hallway seems to narrow around you, fluorescent lights too sharp, voices too distant, the floor too unsteady beneath your feet.

You gasp, trying to speak—Gloria, fridge, note—but your tongue won’t work. The words hit the back of your throat and collapse.

Kiara doesn’t push. She doesn’t ask. Not yet.

She bends, scoops the note up from the floor, her arm never leaving your shoulders. Her eyes flick over the overwritten scrawl. Her expression goes from gentle to granite.

“Okay,” she says, voice gone iron. “We’re taking this to Gloria. Right now.”

It’s almost scary how easily she connects the dots without a single ounce of context. For now, you can only nod, your body still trembling, your mind clawing for control that just isn’t there anymore. But you’re not alone. Kiara keeps an arm firmly around you as she pulls her phone from her pocket, dials with one hand, presses it to her ear.

“Gloria? Yes, it’s Kiara. I have an urgent security issue. Clear your office.”

A pause. Then a quiet “Thanks.” She ends the call, squeezes your arm, and begins steering you gently toward the elevators.

“She’s waiting. Margot’s on her way too,” Kiara tells you as she guides you through the hallway.

You nod again, unable to speak, but this time it’s not empty. The words aren’t caught in panic—they’re being held for you, steadied. And for the first time since the messages started, since the stalking began, since the fear turned chronic and tight and unseen—something inside you loosens.

Not gone. But held.

Held by hands stronger than your own.

divider credit

#fanfiction #fanfic #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt fanfic #the pitt x reader #the pitt x you #jack abbot #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot x you #dr. jack abbot #dr. jack abbot x reader #dr. jack abbot x you #female reader #nurse reader #older reader #small age-gap

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mandoalorian · 1 month ago

Text

his body, her fury [bucky barnes x f!reader]

pairing: new avenger!bucky x f!reader

synopsis: tensions crackle as the mission to track down reed richards spirals into chaos beneath manhattan’s streets. with tempers flaring and powers unleashed, lines blur between enemy and ally—especially when instincts overpower intention.

word count: 6700

rating/warnings: 18+ explicit content, male masturbation, bucky has a steamy shower moment, canon typical violence/action, angst, bucky/sam still aren’t friends, enemies to lovers, details of injury, avengers tower fic, thunderbolts spoilers

masterlist

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The street was dead. Not the kind of dead that came with sleep or silence — the kind that buzzed with something wrong. Static in the air. Lights in the buildings overhead flickered like they were trying to whisper warnings.

“You sure this is the place?” John’s voice cut through the fog as he slung his taco-shaped shield over his back, boots clunking loudly against cracked concrete. “Because it looks like a dump.”

“It’s supposed to,” Bucky muttered from the front, barely glancing back. “That’s the point.”

You adjusted the strap of your tactical vest, the weight of your comms gear pressing against your shoulder. The tip you’d received from Valentina said there was energy movement underground — something not registered by satellites but pulsing with dimensional interference. And supposedly, Reed Richards had something to do with it.

“I’ve seen dumps with more personality,” Alexei grumbled beside you. “In Russia, we have garbage fires that are warmer than this city.”

You smirked in spite of yourself. “You talk a lot for someone who nearly tripped the last three sensors.”

“I am stealthy,” he replied, squinting ahead like a bloodhound in war paint. “You are simply not perceptive enough to notice.”

“She’s plenty perceptive,” Bucky snapped, stopping at a rusted manhole cover etched with what looked like claw marks.

John rolled his eyes. “Oh good, here comes your moody boyfriend routine.”

You stiffened.

“I’m not her—” “He’s not my—”

You and Bucky spoke at the same time, then glared at each other.

Bucky was already kneeling beside the manhole, wrenching the cover off with one gloved hand. You watched as he pulled at it with ease, managing to tear away something which would usually take a whole team of men and machinery. The scent that came out was metallic and wrong, like burnt ozone and bleach. He didn’t look at you when he said, “Stay in front of me when we go in. Don’t touch anything.”

“Why? Scared I’ll break something?” you shot back.

“No,” he said without blinking. “Scared you’ll get hurt.”

That stunned you more than it should have. You recovered fast.

“I can handle myself.”

“We’ll see.”

“Can we save the foreplay for later?” John drawled as he dropped into the opening. “Some of us are trying to save the world.”

You felt your eye twitch.

Alexei went next, grumbling something about “American sarcasm” and “no damn manners.” You followed, fingers tight on the ladder rungs, the cold metal slick beneath your gloves. When you landed at the bottom, ankle-deep in shadow and ancient water, you were surrounded by whispering pipes and humming machinery.

It felt like the underground had a heartbeat.

“Oh, gross,” you muttered, waving a hand in front of your face as the sewer air clung to your skin like rot. “Smells like Bucky’s personality down here.”

Behind you, a heavy thud echoed as Bucky dropped in, the metal grate clanging back into place above. His arm brushed yours, and you shifted away reflexively. “Cute,” he said dryly, brushing dust off his tactical vest. “I didn’t realise we were rating sewer systems now. Are you always going to be this pleasant on missions? Or am I just that lucky tonight?”

You shot him a glare over your shoulder. “Only when I have to share air with someone whose idea of charm is brooding and breathing too loudly.”

Bucky scoffed, stepping just close enough to brush your shoulder as he passed. His touch made a shiver crawl over you. “Lucky for you, I don’t need charm to get the job done.”

Your jaw tightened, pulse flickering. “No, just a personality like sandpaper and the warmth of a corpse.”

He paused, just a beat, then smirked — barely. “Still can’t stop staring, though.”

You scoffed, biting down the flush rising to your cheeks. “Only to remind myself what not to work with.”

Alexei, trudging just behind you, looked between the two of you with big, gleaming eyes. “Is this flirting?” he whispered—not quietly. “Because it kind of feels like flirting.”

John Walker snorted. “Lover’s quarrel,” he muttered under his breath, wiping sewer grime off his gloves. “They just need to kiss already and save us the tension migraines.”

“Say that again and I’ll show you a migraine,” you snapped, not even bothering to look at him. “I don’t have time to play babysitter to two men with over-inflated egos.”

“Two?” Bucky echoed, cocking a brow. “So I’m sharing that title now?”

“You’ve always been number one in my heart, Barnes,” you drawled sarcastically. “Right next to paper cuts and food poisoning.”

Alexei coughed to hide his laugh. “I like this team dynamic. It keeps me sharp.”

John grunted. “It’s gonna get us caught if you two don’t zip it. We’re not exactly stealthy when we’re bickering like high schoolers.”

“I’m not bickering,” you and Bucky said in unison, then scowled at each other like the very sound of being in sync was offensive.

Silence stretched briefly before Alexei whispered to himself, “Definitely flirting.”

You’d been walking for what felt like hours. The tunnels split and curved endlessly, coated in rust and algae, with flickering industrial lights above giving everything a sickly yellow tint. The deeper you went, the warmer it got. Not in any natural way — in a “maybe the Earth’s core is bleeding” way.

“This is a dead end,” John grumbled, shining his flashlight down a hallway that looped back into itself. “We’re wasting time. Probably a just bum’s hideout, and Val’s intel was bunk.”

“Valentina’s intel is never bunk,” Bucky said sharply, voice low and certain.

Alexei nodded vigorously. “She once told me to dig under a hot dog cart in Queens. Said I’d find contraband tech. I found a squirrel with a USB drive in its mouth. She was correct.”

John blinked, then scoffed. “Not what I meant. Why is that even a sentence?”

Alexei grinned. “She’s never wrong. Just like Bucky—sharp instincts. That’s why I listen.”

John snorted. “Yeah, well, maybe if Bucky grunted less and actually led like a human being, we wouldn’t be crawling through Manhattan’s sewer system like Ninja Turtles on a midlife crisis.”

Bucky didn’t dignify that with a response, but Alexei turned with a grunt. “You don’t respect him,” he said to John, stabbing a finger in Bucky’s direction. “This man saved the world.”

John raised a brow. “Yeah, and he also killed a couple dozen people before that. You forget about that part?”

You held your breath, waiting.

Alexei crossed his arms. “We all have skeletons. This one just happens to be a very efficient skeleton.”

You let out an involuntary snort. Even Bucky’s lip twitched.

“I’m checking this hatch,” you said quickly, pointing to a rusted grate high above. You stepped onto the ledge of a cracked pipe but the vent was just out of reach. You adjusted your footing, arms stretching — still not high enough.

“Here,” Bucky said.

You looked down just as he approached, silent again. His hands found your waist before you could object and suddenly — you were airborne. Lifted like you weighed nothing.

You gasped. “Warn me next time.”

“You would’ve said no,” he said simply, keeping you steady with terrifying ease.

His fingers were warm through the fabric of your tac gear. Steady. Strong. Too strong.

You wrenched the vent cover loose and peered through, catching only the stretch of more tunnel — until something flickered across your vision. A thread. A shimmer. An aura.

You froze.

It pulsed in slow motion, soft as a heartbeat. Blue. Cool. Controlled. Intelligent.

He was here.

You dropped down, landing hard on your feet, and Bucky steadied you again before you could stumble. You looked straight at him.

“He’s here,” you whispered. “Reed Richards. I can feel him. He’s close.”

The others tensed instantly.

“Where?” Bucky asked.

You pointed. “Past the wall. There’s another level above. I don’t know how to get there yet, but—he’s not alone. There’s… something with him.”

Bucky’s expression darkened.

“I knew it,” Alexei muttered, fingers twitching by his belt. “I felt something earlier. My toes were tingling.”

“You sure that wasn’t just mold?” John muttered.

“Silence, peasant,” Alexei snapped.

Bucky turned to the group. “Weapons ready. Eyes up.”

You exhaled slowly. Whatever was coming, you’d found him. The aura was unmistakable.

Reed Richards.

But if he was here, hiding beneath Manhattan�� why hadn’t he made contact?

And what — or who — was he hiding from?

Bucky’s hands had left you minutes ago, but you could still feel the imprint of them on your waist — like a brand. The way he’d lifted you — no hesitation, no strain. In his arms, you’d felt like nothing at all.

You hated that your heart had skipped when his fingers brushed your sides. Hated the way you felt warm where he touched you. Hated that he hadn't even looked winded, his jaw set, eyes scanning the dark with focus so precise it made you ache.

You shook it off.

Now wasn’t the time.

Reed’s aura pulsed just ahead, still faint but constant, like a low hum in your bones. You pressed your hand to the concrete wall beside the grate and narrowed your eyes, channelling out every voice, every footstep, and every mocking comment from John.

The path revealed itself slowly. A faint shimmer along the right wall. Not a doorway, but a structural weakness. Like someone had reshaped the building. Not broken it — just… bent it.

“I know where to go,” you said firmly, already stepping forward.

The team fell into step behind you. You didn’t need to look to know Bucky was closest. His steps were quieter. Measured. The aura around him buzzed, still dim and grey and sad and full of edges.

John, on the other hand, radiated loud red, all ego and bravado.

Alexei was harder to read — his aura shifted between an affectionate gold and bright, crackling blue, like he felt too much at once and had no idea how to rein it in.

“So,” Alexei started, peering around your shoulder. “This aura power… does it let you see through walls? Do you feel heartbeats? Emotions? Can you sense guilt?”

You gave him a side-glance. “Kind of. And yes. Sometimes.”

John rolled his eyes. “She’s not a damn lie detector.”

Alexei gasped. “Can you tell if someone finds me attractive?”

That actually made you smirk. “Unfortunately, yes.”

Alexei grinned and bumped your shoulder like an overgrown golden retriever.

“Let her focus,” Bucky said from behind, his voice sharper than before. Not cruel. Protective. “She’s tracking something.”

You exhaled again, steadying your steps. You passed the cracked grate and turned into a narrow corridor. The ceiling sloped low and the air smelled charged, like static and smoke. Reed’s aura was stronger here, along with another.

Hot, bright. Reckless.

Whoever was with him — they were nothing like Reed.

You stopped at the end of the corridor and placed a hand on the wall again.

“There’s a door here,” you murmured. “But it’s cloaked. They don’t want to be found.”

Bucky moved to your side. “But we found them anyway.”

You didn’t look at him.

“They’ll know we’re here now,” you said softly. “We’re close enough that the heat of their auras is radiating through the wall.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Heat?”

Alexei adjusted his grip on his shield. “That means fire. I am certain.”

You didn’t answer. You just stepped back, heart pounding, and nodded once toward the sealed doorway.

“You ready?” Bucky asked.

You hesitated. Then nodded again.

This wasn’t just about finding someone anymore. It was about what you might unleash when you did.

The door didn’t open so much as melt.

One second it was solid wall. The next, it shimmered out of existence, sucked inward and twisted like taffy before folding into nothing.

You all stepped back instinctively.

Then came the voice — low, calculated, smooth as wet marble.

“I was wondering when one of you would find us.”

Reed Richards stepped into the corridor like he’d been waiting.

He was around 6 feet. Unassuming at first glance — built strong, hair dark but silvering at the sides, and a moustache adorning his top lip. His suit was grey-blue, faintly glowing at the seams, moulded to his frame in a way that hinted at lab-engineered fibres. But his aura… it shimmered like quicksilver. Smooth and opaque. Too controlled. You couldn’t read it. Not really.

And that disturbed you more than anything.

Beside him stood a younger man. Blonde. Lean. Arms crossed over his chest, leaning with one shoulder against the melted frame of the wall, looking bored. His aura, unlike Reed’s, blazed golden-orange. Fire. Excitement. Recklessness. You didn’t need to know who he was to know what he could do.

Johnny Storm.

“Aw, man,” Johnny said, grinning at Alexei. “They sent the big guy from the Cold War. That’s adorable.”

Alexei puffed his chest out, entirely unbothered. “And you are fire boy. Like spicy little meatball.”

Johnny raised a brow. “Okay, what cartoon did you crawl out of?”

Alexei shrugged with a grin. “One where fire boy always loses to big, handsome Russian.”

“Enough,” Reed cut in, voice calm but firm. “You found us. Now what?”

You glanced at Bucky — he said nothing, expression unreadable. This was his op. But you knew better than to wait for him.

“We’re not here to bring you in,” you said, stepping forward. “We just want to know why you’re here. Why now. After all this time.”

Reed tilted his head, studying you like you were a thesis. “You’re new.”

“She’s not your concern,” Bucky snapped, finally stepping up beside you.

Johnny looked between the two of you and let out a low whistle. “Whoa. Is there—”

“No,” you and Bucky said in unison.

Alexei beamed. “There is tension. I love this.”

John stepped forward, impatient now. “Look, Richards, we don’t care what you’re doing. But if you’re planning something that puts New York at risk—”

“We’re not,” Reed said.

Johnny cracked his knuckles, literal sparks flying. “Depends on your definition of risk.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Then why hide?”

Reed hesitated — and that was the first real tell. A flicker. Not of fear. But caution.

“We’ve been watching what’s happening,” he said finally. “Valentina’s grip is tightening. Heroes are being drafted, monitored, muzzled. That’s not freedom. That’s control.”

“And what you’re doing—sneaking through Lower Manhattan—isn’t control?” John said.

Reed looked past him, eyes meeting yours.

“Control,” he said slowly, “is about fear. And power. You’d be surprised how easy it is to lose yourself in both.”

You felt Bucky shift beside you — a movement so slight you might’ve missed it. But you felt the tension spike in his aura. Like Reed’s words hit too close.

You didn’t like this. You didn’t like Reed’s blank aura. Or Johnny’s flippant confidence. Or the way Bucky kept himself between you and the others without even thinking.

“Valentina will want to speak to you,” Bucky said eventually. “You’ll come with us. Cooperate. Maybe you’ll get some say in your future.”

Reed’s smile was thin. “We’ll consider it. But first—”

From the depths of the warehouse, something groaned. A machine, maybe. A generator kicking to life. The sound trembled through the floor and sent a gust of warm air spiralling up the corridor.

Johnny rolled his neck. “Uh-oh.”

“Uh-oh?” Alexei echoed.

Johnny’s smile widened. “Yeah. That usually means you’ve overstayed your welcome.”

You barely had time to register the shift.

Reed’s eyes narrowed. A ripple — subtle, controlled — surged through the air. Energy, molecular, electromagnetic, something you couldn’t name. But you felt it in your bones. A warning.

And then everything exploded.

Johnny went first, launching into the air with a blast of flame that singed the warehouse ceiling black. Heat bloomed around him as he hovered, arms glowing like sunfire.

“You might wanna duck,” he shouted, and sent a fireball straight toward John.

Walker threw up his shield in time, catching the blast — but the impact sent him sliding several feet back, boots screeching across the floor. “Goddammit,” he muttered, shaking the singe off his arm. “I hate hotheads.”

Alexei roared, barreling forward like a battering ram toward Reed — only to be yanked back mid-stride by some force. His body twisted unnaturally for a moment, mid-air, until Reed flicked a hand and sent him crashing into a stack of metal crates.

You moved before you could think. Instinct. Training. Rage.

You sent out a wave — not full power, not like earlier with Bucky, but enough to shove Reed back into a wall. His body stretched and twisted as it hit, limbs warping and bending, like water trying to reform. He absorbed the blow with ease.

“Impressive,” he said, straightening. “But don’t overexert. I’m not the one you should be afraid of.”

“I’m not afraid of anyone,” you snapped.

Behind you, Bucky was a blur. He ducked a fire blast from Johnny, vaulted over debris, and slammed into the Human Torch with a tackle so powerful it knocked the air from Johnny’s lungs. They crashed into the scaffolding overhead, flames licking at Bucky’s sleeves, but he didn’t let go.

“Stand down!” Bucky shouted over the roar of heat. “This doesn’t have to end in a fight.”

“Too late!” Johnny coughed, blasting flame directly between them and launching Bucky back.

You turned in time to see John and Alexei regroup — Alexei’s suit was partially scorched, but he grinned like a lunatic, cracking his neck.

“I love this job,” he said, and charged again.

You focused on Reed, trying to get close — but he dodged like liquid, impossible to pin down. Every move you made, he anticipated, twisting out of reach.

The fight was chaos, fire and fists clashing in bursts of movement across the crumbling basement floor. Reed had stretched himself like a whipcord around Alexei’s limbs, trying to pull him down. John was ducking plasma blasts, while Bucky fought like a man possessed — until he wasn’t.

Johnny Storm roared overhead, his body engulfed in searing flame, eyes glowing like molten coals. He dove like a meteor, striking Bucky hard across the chest and sending him skidding across the floor, metal arm scraping against concrete, flesh side vulnerable. He didn’t get up.

Your breath hitched.

“Bucky!” you shouted, the sound tearing from your throat before you could stop it.

Johnny surged forward again, fire arcing from his palms.

“Get off him!” The scream escaped you like it had claws, primal and sharp.

Johnny didn’t even look at you — just raised a blazing hand, ready to strike Bucky again.

Something inside you snapped.

“He’s not yours to kill!” you yelled, voice shaking with fury. “He’s not yours!”

The air warped. A pulse of aura erupted from you like a wave — raw, hot, blistering with energy and emotion. Anger. Panic. Hate. Power.

It knocked Johnny sideways midair like a ragdoll, extinguishing his flames in a violent sputter. He crashed against a pillar with a groan. Your body seized up with power. Aura flared out in a violent, blinding wave. It knocked Reed backwards. Everyone felt it.

Your knees buckled.

You didn’t even hit the ground.

Strong arms caught you — cradled you against a broad, sweat-dampened chest. The scent of steel, warmth, and aftershave grounded you for a breath before the world tilted again.

“Hey—hey—stay with me,” Bucky’s voice was tight with panic. You were dimly aware of the fight pausing, of Johnny landing hard nearby, eyes wide with guilt.

“She’s out!” John barked.

Bucky lowered you gently, brushing a hand against your cheek, trying to keep you conscious.

“You did good,” he murmured, his voice hoarse. “You did good, okay? Stay with me, please.”

Everything spun. Your skin burned. Your powers roared in your veins, then flickered out like a dying match.

The last thing you saw before darkness took you was Bucky's face — tight-jawed, terrified — calling your name.

And then, nothing.

“Back off,” Bucky snapped, his voice like a razor.

He didn’t mean to sound so sharp — but Reed had taken a step forward, and that was too damn close. Too soon after you collapsed in his arms. Too close to the scorch marks still staining the floor.

Johnny’s flames had died down, but the air still shimmered with heat and tension. He held his hands up, guilty but defiant. “We didn’t know she’d react like that.”

“No one did,” Alexei muttered, hoisting his shield onto his back, eyeing your limp form with an expression unusually sombre for him.

John Walker hovered at the edge, his jaw tense. “Let’s get out of here.”

Bucky didn’t look up. He was kneeling beside you, one arm cradling your shoulders, the other checking your pulse for the third time.

Still there. Still steady. But faint.

“Are you okay?” he whispered under his breath, knowing you couldn’t answer. The question was mostly for himself. Because the longer he looked at your face — sweat-slicked, brow furrowed in unconscious pain — the more the ache in his chest grew.

You weren’t supposed to do this. You weren’t supposed to get hurt.

You were supposed to hate him. And yet, you saved him.

“Take a message back to Valentina,” Bucky finally said to John who was fingers were already tapping away on his comms device. Bucky rose to his feet with you in his arms. “Tell her this mission isn’t over. Reed Richards knows something. And we’re not done.”

Reed didn’t argue. His eyes were guarded now — calculating.

Johnny looked down, face lined with something close to regret. “I’m sorry,” he offered, voice quieter than usual. “Tell her I said that.”

Bucky didn’t respond.

He just walked past him, your body limp against his chest. John opened the door to the quinjet, letting him pass first. Alexei followed, his face unusually grim.

As they lifted off and the city shrank beneath them, no one spoke.

Not even John, who usually couldn’t shut up.

Alexei finally muttered, “She’s tough. She’ll bounce back.”

Bucky didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Because the weight of you was still in his arms, the scent of smoke and lavender still in his lungs, and the echo of your power still ringing in his bones.

But worse than all of that — far worse — was the fear he couldn’t shake.

That maybe this wasn’t just a mission anymore.

That maybe he cared too much.

The quinjet touched down on the Avengers Tower rooftop, all smooth metal and humming engines, but Bucky didn’t wait for the platform to fully lower.

He was out of the hatch before anyone else moved, your body still limp in his arms.

Bob was already waiting by the med bay doors, having been alerted mid-flight. His holographic display flickered anxiously in one hand, the other pushing open the door with too-human urgency.

“In here, in here,” Bob chirped, worry lining every word. “Vitals first. Lay her flat.”

Bucky did. Gently. With more care than anyone had ever seen from him.

Your hair spilt over the crisp white pillow. You didn’t stir. Not even a wince.

“Her aura’s stabilising,” Bob muttered, scanning your forehead with a soft blue light. “But she pushed too far. Power surge like that? Burned straight through her neural pathways. She needs rest. Fluids. Maybe—”

The doors slammed open.

“What the hell happened?”

Sam.

Storming into the room, panic written all over his face, breath short like he’d flown in from five boroughs over. His eyes locked on you, then flicked to Bucky, and rage bloomed.

Bucky stood slowly from your bedside. He didn’t flinch.

“She lost control,” Bucky said, voice low.

“You were leading the mission.” Sam’s voice cracked, tight with fury. “You were with her. You said you had her. What did you do?!”

“I didn’t—” Bucky looked away. His jaw tensed. “She overreached. Tried to protect us. The power backfired. I didn’t see it coming.”

Sam stepped forward, fists clenched at his sides. “You should’ve. You’ve known her powers are unstable, you’ve seen it up close, and you still let her throw herself into the fight?”

“She made the call.”

“She's not a soldier, Bucky. She's still learning.”

“She’s not helpless either.”

“She’s hurt.” Sam snapped.

The room fell quiet.

The hum of the machines. The steady beep of your heart monitor. Bob’s hands moved gently, measuring your oxygen levels and watching your brainwave fluctuations, but his eyes darted nervously between the men.

“She’s gonna be okay,” Bucky said finally, almost like a question. “Right?”

Bob nodded. “She’s strong. Just... drained.”

Bucky’s gaze dropped back to you.

Your breathing was soft. Uneven. And your hand twitched against the sheet — the only sign of life he could focus on.

Sam stepped forward again, his voice quieter now, but just as sharp. “This doesn’t happen again. You don’t get to act like her pain doesn’t cost you.”

Bucky’s shoulders stiffened. His voice was hoarse. “It does.”

And then he turned, heading for the door — because if he stayed a moment longer, he might say something he couldn’t take back.

Something like: I should’ve protected her first.

────✪────

The water roared as it slammed against Bucky’s back, hot enough to sting. But it wasn’t enough to wash away the gnawing feeling in his chest, the weight that settled into his bones every time his mind wandered back to the mission, to you.

His hands gripped the shower wall, fingers digging into the tiles as the steam surrounded him. He needed to feel something, anything, to get out of his head. The warmth of the water was almost painful, but it wasn’t the temperature that made his skin burn. No, it was the memory of your face, unconscious on that cold metal floor, your body limp in his arms.

It hit him in waves—how fragile you were, yet how strong, how... alive—but still so much like him. Like him in the ways you shouldn’t be, in the way you fought for others without thinking of yourself. And now, he’d let you fall. He’d let you suffer the weight of your own powers without catching you.

His breath caught. He dropped his head, feeling the cascade of water streak over his face. The guilt felt like a noose around his neck, tugging tighter with every breath. He had to save you, had to make sure nothing else happened to you—but it was too late.

The droplets ran down his body, the slickness of the water making his muscles ache as the steam filled his lungs. His mind drifted, despite his best efforts, to your face, your eyes. Those damned eyes that had read through him so easily. That moment when you said you were just looking at him...

It had driven him crazy. More than it should. More than it had to. He wasn’t supposed to be thinking about you like this.

And then, your last words: “He’s not yours!”

He was supposed to be focused. Protecting. But all he could think of was the way you held yourself, the way your body had felt when he lifted you into his arms, so delicate but strong. The tension between you when he touched you, when he lifted you up to the vent, when he fought alongside you.

He hated it.

But then, he hated how much he wanted it, too.

His hands ran down his face, brushing away droplets, but the heat of the shower only made him feel hotter. His chest tightened as his mind replayed those moments: the brush of your lips in the chaos, the wildness of your energy, the way your scent lingered in the air.

He couldn’t stop himself. His body reacted without his permission—his breath deepened, chest rising and falling in rhythm to his pulse. He gritted his teeth as his muscles flexed, suddenly aware of the way the steam clung to his skin, the slickness of his hands trailing over his hard abs in frustration.

He wished they were your hands.

He closed his eyes and tried to block it out, but the thought of you—of the way you looked at him, of how he wanted to touch you again—made his pulse spike, his body betraying him as he pushed away the thoughts.

“Fuck.”

The word escaped his lips before he could stop it, his hands slamming against the wall in frustration. He wasn’t supposed to feel this way. He wasn’t supposed to want you.

And yet, here he was, drenched in guilt, drenched in steam, drenched in something else entirely.

The water kept pouring over him. Cold in the places it hit the skin that hadn’t been touched by the steam. Hot where his body burned with thoughts of you.

His body, however, didn’t care about his guilt. It only cared about the heat, the desperate desire that pooled low in his stomach as his thoughts of you grew more intense. He tried to shut it down, tried to focus on the sound of the water, but it was no use. His body betrayed him. The ache between his legs was unmistakable.

He reached down, his hand trembling slightly as he touched himself, the rough motion a quick, desperate attempt to rid himself of the thoughts that swirled around in his mind. His heart raced as his hand moved, fingers curled around his length that was already achingly hard, thoughts of you filling every inch of his being. He imagined the way you’d feel beneath him, your breath quickening as his lips brushed against yours, your body pressed against his.

Bucky pumped at his cock with one hand, and used the other hand to steady himself against the slippy tile wall. This was wrong, this was so wrong. Bucky cursed your name under his breath, over and over again. He’d never felt this way before, not about anyone. And if you found out about this… God, the mere thought terrified Bucky.

But the more he imagined, the faster his hand moved, the pressure building until it became unbearable. He couldn’t think of anything else—just you. Your lips, your skin, your defiance and strength. The way you made him feel so alive.

With a low groan, Bucky came, the release overwhelming him. Bursts of his cum painted the tiles on the wall white and the tension in his body shattered like glass. He grabbed a washcloth to clean the mess he made and turned the shower off.

But as the high faded, so did the sense of relief. Guilt and shame flooded back, cold and heavy.

“Get it out of your system, Barnes,” he muttered to himself, voice rough, almost bitter. “You’re not some damn kid.”

But even as he said the words, he knew the truth. He wasn’t over you. He couldn’t be. He’d never be able to stop wanting you.

The hallway lights buzzed faintly as Bucky stepped out of the elevator and into the sterile calm of the med bay floor. His damp hair was slicked back, a dark shirt clinging to him like it didn’t want to let go of the heat still rolling off his skin.

He moved toward your room on instinct.

Bob was sitting beside your bed, hunched over a monitor, glasses sliding down his nose. He didn’t look up until Bucky’s boots scuffed the tile.

“She’s stable,” Bob murmured, adjusting a dial. “Vitals are strong. She just needs rest. Should wake up in a couple days.”

Bucky nodded once, silently. He couldn’t bring himself to look at you. Not yet. Not while guilt still twisted in his chest like a blade.

Bob glanced up at him. “You did everything right, you know.”

Bucky didn’t answer. He turned, jaw tight, and left the room.

Back upstairs, the tower buzzed with low voices and hurried footsteps. The tension was thick. People moving with purpose. Focus. Victory humming just beneath the surface.

The others had succeeded.

Yelena was the first to spot him as he stalked into the main briefing hallway.

“Bucky,” she called, jogging to catch up. Her short braid swayed as she fell into step beside him. “Valentina wants to debrief you. Alexei and John too. She’s… not thrilled.”

“Big surprise,” he muttered.

“She thinks you screwed the pooch.”

“She’s not wrong.”

Yelena paused, then nodded toward the security wing. “Sue Storm and the orange guy—Thing? They’re in Interrogation Two. Sam and Joaquin are with them. They’re cooperative. Friendly, even.”

Bucky arched a brow. “They just walked in?”

“They said they were waiting to be found.” She gave him a teasing glance. “Unlike your guy.”

He grunted.

Yelena’s voice softened. “Seriously, you okay?”

He didn’t answer. He just kept walking.

Inside the observation room, through the two-way glass, Bucky spotted Sam leaning on the edge of the table, mid-conversation with Sue and Ben Grimm. Joaquin was typing something into a tablet, and Ben was eating what looked like his third protein bar.

Sue noticed Bucky’s shadow at the door and offered a nod. Cool. Controlled.

He didn’t go in.

“Come on, Soldier,” Yelena nudged, jerking her thumb down the corridor. “Valentina’s waiting in Briefing Room C. She’s already got Alexei and Walker in there getting grilled.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose. As if the steam of the shower had done nothing to purge the fire still simmering in his veins.

Valentina always had a way of making everything worse.

And if she asked what went wrong…

He wasn’t sure he’d be able to say it aloud.

That you’d been the strongest one there. And that he let you fall anyway.

The briefing room was dimly lit, the air stale with the cold scent of old coffee and control. Bucky walked in to find Valentina seated at the head of the table like a queen bored with her kingdom. Legs crossed, tablet in hand, red lips pursed in mock interest.

John sat off to the side with his arms crossed, wearing that smug “I’m not responsible for anything” expression. Alexei, by contrast, was visibly restless, bouncing his knee and cracking his knuckles like a teenager waiting to be scolded by a parent he could probably snap in half.

Valentina looked up as Bucky entered, and smiled—not warmly.

“Well, look who survived the sewer.”

Bucky didn’t rise to it. “Get to it.”

“Straight to business,” she sighed, tossing the tablet down with a dramatic clack. “No apology. No explanation. Just straight-up Alpha Male Cold Shoulder. Your charm is truly wasted on national security.”

Alexei shifted, muttering under his breath. “Is she always like this?”

“Worse,” John replied.

Valentina ignored them. She leaned forward, her tone suddenly razor-sharp. “You had one objective: locate and safely extract Reed Richards. Instead, you lost control of the situation, engaged in a firefight with allies, and brought back nothing but an unconscious asset and a headache.”

Bucky’s jaw flexed. “They attacked first. Reed was lying low for a reason.”

“Don’t feed me lines like I wasn’t watching the feed.” She tapped the table, where blurred thermal footage flickered to life. “You lost control of the situation. The girl blacked out. Walker was flailing. Alexei was—well, Alexei-ing. And you?” Her gaze pinned Bucky like a needle. “You froze. You rushed to her instead of finishing the fight.”

“Because she was—” He stopped himself. Took a breath. “She was down. She needed help.”

“She is not your priority, James,” Valentina said flatly.

Alexei bristled. “Hey. She saved our asses. You weren’t there.”

Valentina’s eyes flicked to him. “And I’m not sure you belong there either, Red Guardian. This isn’t the Soviet circus.”

Alexei leaned forward, grinning with too many teeth. “You’re just mad because my team actually likes me.”

John smirked, but Bucky spoke over them. “The mission’s not over. We made contact. We know where Reed and Johnny are. We can work with that.”

“You lost the element of surprise,” Valentina countered. “And what you can work with is my patience—which is thinning by the second. Richards is slipping through your fingers, and I’m not sending the entire tower to clean up your mistakes.”

Bucky held her gaze. “Then don’t. Just send me.”

Valentina’s smile curled like smoke. “Oh, honey. That’s what I’m afraid of.”

A tense silence followed, broken only by the low buzz of the projector screen behind her.

Then, cool as ever, she stood and smoothed her blazer. “Debriefing’s over. Get her stable, regroup, and next time—try not to let your personal feelings compromise the mission.”

She walked out without waiting for a reply, heels clicking like gunfire against the floor.

Alexei muttered something in Russian.

John finally uncrossed his arms. “I hate that woman.”

Bucky didn’t answer. He was already heading for the door.

────✪────

The med bay was still, cloaked in sterile shadows and the low, persistent rhythm of machines beeping beside your bed. It was late—most of the tower had gone quiet hours ago—but Bucky stayed.

He sat in the chair beside you, elbows on his knees, hands clasped like he was praying. He’d changed into a dark hoodie and sweatpants, damp hair curling slightly at the ends from the shower. The exhaustion in his eyes ran deeper than the mission. His body was still, but tension hummed beneath his skin.

He watched the steady rise and fall of your chest, studied the furrow in your brow like you were fighting even now, even in sleep.

"I don’t know if you can hear me," he said finally, voice low and scratchy. "I’m guessing not. But I... needed to talk. And you’re the only one I think I can say this to."

He leaned back slowly in the chair, letting his head hit the wall behind him. His jaw worked as he tried to shape the next words, fingers flexing in his lap like he wasn’t used to speaking them aloud.

"You ever get tired of carrying ghosts?" he asked, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “'Cause I do. Every mission, every second of peace I get—it’s borrowed time. I used to think if I just kept going, if I kept fighting, the guilt would shut up. But it doesn’t. It just gets quieter. Trickier."

His gaze dropped back to you.

"I hated how loud you were, at first. You just... came in swinging. No fear. No filter." His mouth curved, faintly. "You called me an asshole before you even knew me."

He paused. Swallowed.

"And I miss it. I miss the way you rolled your eyes at me. The way you pushed every button like you were born to do it. You made me feel like I was still real. Like I wasn’t just the guy in the file. The weapon. The relic."

He reached forward without thinking, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek with calloused fingers. He stopped himself before his hand lingered too long.

"I don’t know what happened to you out there. I should’ve seen it coming. I should’ve protected you. But all I could think about was—was how scared you looked, right before you fell. I can’t get it outta my head."

His voice cracked slightly, but he cleared it before continuing.

"And now I’m sitting here talkin’ to you like you’re gonna wake up and start yelling at me again. But part of me hopes you do. That you wake up, call me a dick, and ask for food." A breath of a laugh. "I’d take that over this silence any day."

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees again, hands raking through his hair.

"You’re stronger than you think. Whatever’s inside you, whatever’s chasing you—I’ve seen people break from half of what you’ve survived. But not you."

Silence stretched for a few beats. Then, quietly:

"Come back, alright? I need someone to argue with."

And he stayed there, beside you, long after the machines hummed on and the world outside forgot how soft he could be.

────✪────

Sebastian Stan taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella @sunday-bug @wintrsoldrluvr @maryevm @mcira @monsteraddicts-world

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xiletay · 6 days ago

Text

Doctor’s Orders

TW: Injury, blood, mention of physical pain, mild medical scenes, hospital setting

Summary: a small accident lands you in the ER, while Billie is on shift. She ends up being the one to take care of you, both as your doctor and your girlfriend.

doctor!billie x reader

A/N: not sure this fic is any good but whatever, i just wanted to post something. oh and its my birthday lol

You didn’t mean for it to happen. You just wanted to be helpful, to do something nice for Billie and take a bit of the pressure off her. She already had so much on her plate, shift after shift, barely any sleep, surviving most days on caffeine alone. It was exhausting.

You had just moved into the new house together. Billie had started her new job at the hospital and you were busy with your own workload. The house was big, almost too big for just the two of you but it was finally yours. A place that symbolized your love, your shared life. A home that, once fully unpacked and settled, would be filled with light, love and beautiful moments.

You had two days off work and originally planned to get the house in order: unpack, clean, go grocery shopping. Billie had said she’d handle the more hands-on tasks. A few cabinets still needed assembling and the ceiling light in the living room had to be mounted.

“I’ll do it after work, baby,” Billie had said. But most nights she was far too exhausted when she got home. And you couldn’t blame her, of course not. You saw how hard she worked, how drained she was. You never held it against her. If anything, you were always telling her to just lie down and rest. Every time you saw the dark circles under her eyes or the way her body moved from sheer exhaustion, all you wanted was to take something off her shoulders.

You should’ve just left it. Billie finally had the upcoming weekend off. She would’ve gotten to it then. But you wanted to be a good girlfriend. You wanted to take care of it for her.

So you went to the garage and brought in the ladder, setting it up in the living room to install the ceiling lamp yourself. You thought your lack of skill would be the issue but in the end, it was your own clumsiness that betrayed you.

You were climbing up the ladder when your foot slipped. One wrong step and suddenly you were falling. You hit the floor hard, landing on your back with a thud, a strange, garbled sound escaping your mouth.

It took a moment to understand what had happened. You felt dizzy, the room spinning, your breath caught in your chest. A sharp pain stabbed through your back. You stayed on the floor, unmoving. Every small movement in your upper body hurt, your face contorted in pain.

You slowly lifted your head and glanced down at your leg. That’s when you noticed the scrape: bloody and raw. You must have cut yourself on the ladder during the fall. It stung but it wasn’t the worst of it.

This is a disaster, you thought, trying to sit up slowly, despite the pain. But it was clear: you weren’t in any shape to stand or take care of yourself.

You wished you could just shake it off but you knew better. Better to go to a doctor, get checked out, make sure everything was okay. Especially to rule out a concussion.

═══════✦═══════

This is how you ended up in the waiting room of the ER. The ticking of the clock on the wall keeps you grounded. The light is bright and you have a hard time adjusting to it, causing you to blink a few times.

Your name is being called and it takes a moment for you to realize they mean you. You lift your head and slowly rise to your feet. Each step feels heavy, small, cautious. A nurse greets you with a gentle smile and asks you to follow her.

Once you reach the room, she gestures toward the examination table.

“Please, take a seat,” she says kindly. “A doctor will be with you shortly.”

═══════✦═══════

Billie is just about to go on her break. Finally a moment to breathe, even if it’s just 10, maybe 15 minutes. Just enough time to grab another coffee even though it’s already her sixth of the day.

She’s thinking about you, like she always does during these rare quiet moments. About sending you a quick, loving message. Something simple. 'Just wanted to tell you I love you. Thinking of you. Knowing I come home to you makes all this bearable.'

She picks up the patient chart one last time, just to glance over it before she leaves the station.

And then her eyes land on your name.

No.

No way.

That can’t be.

═══════✦═══════

The door swings open abruptly, no knock, no soft warning.

Your head snaps up, too quickly and for a brief moment, the room spins. It takes a second before your vision clears and you can make out who’s standing in the doorway.

Billie.

She’s gripping the doorknob with one hand, the other running through her hair in clear frustration or maybe disbelief. She takes a deep breath, visibly trying to compose herself. There are dark circles under her eyes and her expression shifts from confusion to alarm the moment she sees you.

“Y/N— oh my god. Whatever you’re doing here? Are you okay?” she asks, her voice a little too fast, laced with panic, as she closes the door behind her.

She quickly crosses the room, pulling the rolling doctor’s stool toward you and sits down in front of you, already reaching for your hands.

“What happened, sweetheart?” You squeeze her hand gently, trying to calm her down with a soft smile.

“I just fell. Nothing too bad,” you say, brushing it off like it’s nothing, even though your body tells a different story.

Billie doesn’t buy it. Her eyes scan your face, full of concern. “I need more details, baby. Tell me exactly what happened. And where it hurts.”

You nod, letting out a small sigh. “My back hurts. And my leg too. I think I cut it when I fell.”

Without wasting another second, Billie begins examining you with practiced hands, her professional focus kicking in but you can still feel the emotion behind her movements. Her touch is careful, almost reverent. As she gently presses along your spine, you glance at her with a sheepish, innocent look.

“Okay, so… don’t be mad,” you start, your voice trailing off with a guilty smile. “But maybe I tried to mount the ceiling lamp.” You pause as her eyes widen slightly. “I know you said you’d do it but I just wanted to take some of the weight off your shoulders.”

Billie freezes for a second, her hands still on your back. Her entire focus shifts back to your face.

“Baby…” she says softly, the word barely a whisper.

She lets her hands fall to her lap and looks at you fully, the concern in her eyes now mixed with something else: relief. “You scared the shit out of me. I just saw your name and I expected the worst. My heart dropped.”

You lower your gaze for a second, guilt creeping in but before you can respond, she reaches for your hand again.

“I know you just wanted to help me. And I love you for that. But please… be careful. Promise me?”

You nod, a bit overwhelmed, and Billie brings your knuckles to her lips, placing a tender kiss there. Then she opens your palm and presses another gentle peck into the center.

She continues her examination, more carefully now, palpating along your spine, checking your reflexes, looking at the gash on your leg. Her face tightens slightly as she takes a closer look.

“So, good thing is, you don’t have a concussion,” she finally says, offering a small smile. “Your back is bruised, but not seriously injured. However, that cut on your leg? It needs stitches.”

You nod again, relieved it’s nothing worse. Honestly, you’re just glad Billie’s the one taking care of you. There’s no one you’d trust more.

“It could’ve been a lot worse,” she adds, reaching for supplies to clean the wound. “Once we’re done here, you have to slow down and get some rest. Doctor’s orders.”

You let out a dramatic sigh, rolling your eyes. “Perfect,” you groan sarcastically, then add with a teasing grin, “Good thing I have the best doctor at home. One who can baby me if I ask nicely.”

“Damn right,” Billie replies without missing a beat, raising an eyebrow. “Gotta make sure my wife stays healthy.”

You tilt your head, a playful spark in your eye. “Your wife, hmm?”

Billie meets your gaze directly, her expression shifting again, this time full of warmth and quiet certainty.

“Well,” she says, her voice softer now, “one day I’m gonna make you my wife. In my heart, you already are.”

Your smile falters for just a moment, not because you’re uncertain but because her words hit somewhere deep. You see the sincerity in her eyes and everything else, the pain, the fall, the hospital room just fades away.

═══════✦═══════

Thank you so much for reading🤍 I hope you enjoyed the story, even just a little! Any feedback, comments or just little thoughts are always super appreciated. ✨take care & tight hugs for you.

#billie eilish x reader #billie eilish fluff #billie eilish fanfiction #billie eilish imagine #billie eilish x fem! reader #billie eilish x female reader #billie fanfic #billie imagine #billie eilish fic #billie eilish oneshot #billie eilish x you #billie x reader #billie eilish #billie eilish x fem!reader #billie eilish x y/n #billie x fem reader #billie fanfiction #billie eilish angst

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rafesteddy · 6 months ago

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𝓻𝓪𝓯𝓮𝔂𝓼𝓬𝓾𝓻𝓽𝓪𝓲𝓷𝓫𝓪𝓷𝓰𝓼

𝙽𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚢 𝙻𝚒𝚜𝚝 | 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐦𝐚𝐬 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬

𝔻𝕒𝕪 𝔽𝕠𝕦𝕣𝕥𝕖𝕖𝕟: 𝔸𝕝𝕨𝕒𝕪𝕤 𝕄𝕚𝕟𝕖

𝙽𝙷𝙻!𝚁𝚊𝚏𝚎 𝚡 𝙹𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝!𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

❕Warnings Contain Spoilers ❕

warnings: rafe’s pov, reader’s pov, dark!rafe, possessive!rafe, obsessed!rafe, graphic violence, mentions of blood, rafe considers kidnapping the reader, rafe beats up his co-captain and ties him up, oral (male + female receiving), dark!reader, ownership kink, pet names, swearing, dirty talk, kissing, unprotected p in v, praise, rough sex, cum tasting

This is an ask from my baby starkeysbabygirl for dark NHL!Rafe 💋 thank you for your ask, hun!!! The premise is reporter!reader, Rafe’s ex, interviews him and the other captain ahead of Friday night's big game. Rafe can't help but see the spark between them, and he wants to let her know who she belongs to

Rafe’s POV:

The camera light flashes; a typical pre-game interview, but my heart is beating out of my chest. I lean back slightly, relaxing on my leather couch. My co-captain Nate laughs, elbowing me playfully, joking about something, but honestly, I can’t fuckin’ hear it.

My girl… Well, at least she was.

She’s stunning, polished, and professional. She glances at Nate, then me, her face unchanging, calm, and collected, completely detached as I’m losing my goddamn mind at the sight of her so close to me.

She adjusts the microphone clipped to her blouse… red. My favorite color, especially on her, and I can’t help but wonder if she remembers that.

It’s been six months since we broke up. Six long months, but each passing day only made my obsession worse. She had a jealous streak that drove me insane, questioning every woman I so much as glanced at from the ice. Blowing up my phone to the point of exhaustion on away games just in case I found someone else. I tried to reassure her I was loyal, but it was never enough. And that exhaustion I felt didn’t even begin to cover it. I was over it completely.

Eventually, I snapped. I told her I was over her and the drama, the fighting; I was done trying to convince her she was all I wanted. That day, I broke her—shattered her heart completely—and when she walked out the door, I told myself it was for the best.

Or, so I thought.

But the truth was she never really left… I started following her career from afar, curiosity getting the better of me. I selfishly wondered if she was as affected by our breakup as I was, but she wasn’t. That curiosity turned into something darker—something I didn’t even recognize myself.

She'd landed the gig at ESPN she’d been working for, climbing the ladder from short vlogs to TV interviews. Every interview, every appearance, every event—I consumed it all, taking what crumbs I could get. I even started showing up where I knew she would be, affairs I would have skipped before, all in an attempt to catch her eye, but I never did.

All I want is her. All I want is to be close to her. Tonight’s my fuckin’ night.

To her, it’s just some informal interview—a change from her regular rinkside report or studio sit down. But to me, it’s one step closer to getting her back; she’s sitting in my place, on my couch, sipping a glass of water from my cupboard. It’s like she’s coming home.

“Alright, gentleman,” y/n smiles, pulling me out of my mind. Her voice was honeyed and dripping with confidence. I shut my eyes, hanging my head momentarily, trying to collect myself as she continued. “The Winter Classic is one of the season's biggest games; the match-up is electric on its own. Fans are buzzing about the drama between you and the Kings. How are you both feeling tonight?”

My lips curl into a smile as she asks me a question; well, us—regardless, the attention had me feeling like I just snorted a line. Riding high off the attention I had been craving for for months. My fix finally met. “Excited,” I blurt out, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks as she cocks her eyebrow at me. “Focused… This is the kinda hockey you look forward to playin’.”

“Absolutely,” Nate adds, cutting in, stealing her focus from me in the process. Her gaze flickers to him, the corners of her perfect lips curling into a slight smile that I didn’t get. A sharp sting of jealousy stabs through my heart. My blunt fingernails dig into the armrests of my chair, trying to stay composed.

”And you, Rafe,” she sings as she looks back at me. Fuck… My pulse spikes as my name passes her lips for the first time in months. She hasn’t mentioned my name once in any interview, podcast, or vlog. "As one of the league's top performers, do you feel the pressure to lead your team tomorrow?”

I draw a deep breath, thankful that I hung on to her every word instead of focusing on the sound of her voice alone—like music to my fuckin’ ears. “Pressure is part of the gig. I’ve always thrived on it.”

She nods, living in my words for a moment. “Spoken like a true captain,” she praises. Her compliment hits me harder than it should’ve, but I can’t help but blush at her words.

The interview presses on as the tension between her and me simmers beneath the surface. Even Nate can tell, his eyes moving between us when her gaze hangs a little heavier on me.

And then, something shifts.

Her attention pivots to Nate; the scales of her focus weighing in his favor. My heart breaks with each smile, each glimmer in his and her eyes. I watch her fall through my finger again, right into his hands.

And Nate—that motherfucker—he’s eating it up, flirting shamelessly, and worse, she doesn't seem to mind in the slightest.

By the end of the interview, I had all but fallen apart. Nate stands up, rolling up the sleeves of his button-down shirt as he looks at her from across the room, no doubt eye-fuckin’ the shit out of my girl. I sip my coffee, observing her from across the room as she packs up her equipment, leaving my place with a little wave, nothing more, nothing less.

“Fuck, she’s stunning,” Nate hums. “Do you have her number?”

“No,” I press the word past my lips. Drawing a deep breath, I roll out my neck, trying to let his comments go.

"It’s alright. She probably has an IG account or somethin’. I'll just slide into her DMs. Probably safer that way anyway," he says with a smug smile, looking over with a wink like he’s talking to a friend, but that ship has fuckin’ sailed.

My jaw clenches tight, and every muscle in my body twists tight. I can’t let him see how much he’s getting to me… His words make me feel like I could lose my last shred of sanity.

Nate walks toward the door, slipping on his jacket. He digs his phone out of his pocket, sliding his finger across the screen before looking up at me again. “How do you spell her first name again?”

She’s probably gone by now. My hear’s racing. What the fuck am I doing? My mind pinballs between a dozen possibilities. What if it’s too late? What if she doesn’t want to talk to me? Do I take her? Take her, Rafe… What the fuck am I thinking? No… No. Talk to her? Yeah—Yeah, just talk. For now.

SCREECH.

She slams on the brakes as I stop her in the parking lot— thankful she parked in valet and not on the street, giving me a little extra time to get to her.

"Rafe?" She asks, her voice gentle and uneasy. “Are you ok-“

"Can we talk?" I cut her off with a breathless request, trying to sound calmer than I am as my heart pounds in my head.

She looks around the lot before turning her attention back to me. “… Sure.” She bends around, returning to the valet, before handing him her keys.

She walks toward me, doing nothing for my nerves as her jacket blows slightly with the breeze, the winter wind whipping her hair, making her look like a goddamn angel. My eyes stay locked on her, unblinking, not wanting to miss a moment as she clears the gap between us.

“What did you wanna talk about?”

"Upstairs…” I choke out. "Just for a drink."

We walk toward the elevator. The ride up is silent; tension between us, thick with unsaid words.

She walks into my apartment, stopping dead in her tracks.

The living room is wrecked. A lamp knocked onto the floor—glass shattered. Decorations are strewn and thrown to the floor. Sitting in the far corner of the room is Nate: tied to a chair, beaten face smeared with blood, his head hanging low.

She turns around, her trembling hand covering her lips, her wide eyes glistening with unshed tears.

Her gaze darts from mine to my hands. Shit… I look down, catching the blood; my knuckles split and broken.

“Y/n,” I start, and just as I do, her hand falls—from her smile.

She walks toward me, slow and deliberate, as my heart swells. Her heels click against the marble floor as she gets closer and closer. "Rafe," she hums, looking up at me through her lashes. "You did this for me?"

I draw a deep breath, looking down at her before me, completely overwhelmed. I don't know what reaction I was expecting or what thoughts went through my mind when I brought her back here, but a part of me knew this was what she wanted.

“I hated the way he was talkin’ to you,” I whisper.

She looks over her shoulder, taking in the chaos silently. Every piece of broken glass and a crimson streak of blood was just a reminder of how far I’d go, and still, for me, it was not enough. “I can't believe you did this for me,” she says the words weakly as a tear tumbles down her cheek.

“I’d do worse if it meant keeping you.”

She bites her lips, holding back her emotions. My stomach flutters as her hands slip into mine. “I missed you, Rafe. I think about you all the time,” she smiles.

“I can’t tell you how much I missed you… I’m sorry for following you—”

“I wanted you to,” she assures, giving me the answer I was hoping for.

"You started this career to be closer to me," I ask as I wrap my arms around her waist, pulling her into me, my voice slow and steady, “didn't you?" She takes a little breath, looking down at the space between us, smiling before looking back up at me, nodding ‘yes.’

"I was hoping we’d run into each other and I’d get to apologize for how I acted-”

"Stop," I interrupt, my voice hoarse and broken with feelings. "I don't care about that shit. I’ve been messed up since the day you left."

Her eyes blink as she looks up at me lovingly. I cup her cheeks in her hands, brushing away her tears with my thumbs. "You're mine," I whisper. "No one else's. Say it.”

"I'm yours," she breathes. I look out of the corner of my eye, watching Nate struggle against the binds, breaking up our moment, making my blood boil.

“Let me go take care of him. Yeah?” I rasp, and she smiles.

I step toward him slowly as he battles even harder, that cockiness that he had in the interview stripped away. “Rafe—Rafe… I don't know what the fuck is goin’ on, man. Just let me go.”

I kneel beside him, looking him in his eyes, ensuring he hears every word. “Nate… You fucked up, man,” I chide. “You pushed me… And if you do it again, you’ll find out just how far I can go, bitch. This is nothing…”

“I didn’t know, Rafe. Fuck—I didn’t know you were together,” he rambles as blood trickles out of the corner of his lips.

“You couldn’t feel it? Bullshit. I know you saw it. Stop fuckin’ lyin’ to me,” I hiss. “And you… What if Ally found out you were about to slip in my girl's DMs, huh?” I ask, my voice low and lethal. “What if your wife found out about that little Instagram model in Montreal? One word to her, and you’re done.”

Nate shakes his head ‘no’ fast, his bruised eyes pinched shut. “I’m not gonna say shit!” He huffs.

The second I untie him, he’s scrambling toward the door. A wicked smile twists on her lips as she looks back at me, hanging onto every word I said to him, the threats leaving my tongue nothing but foreplay to her. She turns on her heels, beckoning me with her dark gaze.

Y/n smiles at me, biting her lip as she looks down at the floor. My Boston College jersey lies in a pile of glass; the collectible frame knocked off the wall in the fight. She bends down, picking it up, giving it a few shakes before disappearing into my dark room.

I smile to myself, giving her a moment. I know what she’s gonna do. That’s my girl.

Walking toward my bedroom, I follow the trail of discarded clothes: her jacket, skirt, and that satin blouse I wanted to tear off, but this is so much better. I chuckle sleazily as I see her pretty red bra on the floor, my eyes lifting to my bed, seeing her sitting pretty on the edge of the bed, waiting for me.

Before I can even ask, she’s on her knees, crawling slowly toward me. My eyes roll back seeing her like this… Like a goddamn dream. I rip off the buttons of my shirt, tearing it off my shoulders as she kneels before me, pawing for my belt, tugging my pants around my ankles.

I wrap my fist around her hair, pulling after gaze away from my cock to my eyes. “C’mon, pretty… I remember what this mouth can do,” I mumble as my thumb brushes along her bottom lip.

She lays out her tongue, and I slap my tip against it, moaning at the contact. She wraps her lips around me, eyes fluttering shut like it’s all she needs. The vibrations of her pleasured sounds about sends me. I use the hold on her head to pull her into me, watching tears spring in the corners of her eyes again as my fat tip kisses the back of her throat.

Reader’s POV:

“Atta girl,” Rafe hums, his praise only fueling your frenzy. You bob up and down on his long cock as he guides your strokes. “You like that shit?” He breathes a sigh of relief as he watches you work his dick in your mouth.

“Suckin’ my dick with my name on your shoulders, princess… You know how many times I’ve thought about this? Fuckin’ dream girl,” he groans hazily between thrusts.

Rafe blows out a breath as you release his cock with a pop, causing him to let out a grunt for more, almost instantly eased by your fist, jerking him off. You can feel your wetness, trickling from your pussy, seeping down your inner thigh. "I can't wait to fuck you, princess."

You moan, feeling the weight of him on your tongue, Rafe’s precum swirling with your saliva, making your arousal pool in your panties. You lift his jersey slightly, giving him a glimpse of your round ass, a tiny number two embroidered on the back of your thong.

“Fuckkk,” he groans at the sight, tossing his head back; the salty taste of his precum intensifies as he cum in thick ropes, painting your throat. You wrap your hands around his body, nails scratching down his thigh, making his muscles clench.

Rafe’s cock throbs on your tongue, blood pumping in his shaft as you cup his balls in your hands, rolling slowly, not wanting him out of your mouth just yet.

“Co’mere,” he breathes as he helps you to your feet, pulling you to his lips. He kisses you deeply, walking back with you to his large bed, pushing you down before mounting you fast. “These panties… You fuckin’ kidding me,” he mutters against your lips as his thick fingers shove the satin aside, running up your soaked slit.

You start to rock with his thrusts as Rafe swallows your moans. He pulls away, pushing his fingers between his lips, sucking off your wetness, looking down at you underneath him.

“Hands and knees, princess,” he smiles.

Before you can comply, he grips your hips, flipping you over. You arch your back for him, and he grabs your ass, circling his hands before spanking you once, then twice.

He squeezes your curves, pulling you apart slightly, running his tongue from your clit to your entrance. You whimper as his fingers press against your aching pearl, tongue pushing into your soaked hole.

Rafe swirls his tongue and fingers with precision, eating you out from the back, moaning into your cunt as he laps up your arousal. His free hand tugs your panties to the side, using the hold to pull your warmth closer to his face, the man drowning in pussy.

”Rafe… Fuck. I’m close,” you whimper.

"Cum for me," he whispers between tongue flicks. You cum fast and hard, fluttering as your pleasure courses through your veins.

Before you can even come down from your high, he sinks into you, making you cry out, sliding into your sloppy core until his hips nudge your ass. He grabs your body, pushing his cock even further, making you bury your face in the comforter.

“Oh my god. Shittt,” he grunts as he circles his hips, his voice deep and dripping with sin. You lift your head as he pulls almost out, fucking back into your fast. “Tell me whose pussy this is, baby. Fuckin’ tell me…”

“Yours, baby,” you squeal, body shivering at the feeling of him buried to the hilt.

“That’s right…” He mumbles as he pushes the jersey up your back.

He rolls and snaps his hips into you, making the fat of your ass recoil with each thrust. He grabs your curves in his hands, spreading you wider, watching the way his thick dick gets swallowed up, wet, and sticky with your slickness.

He builds up to a punishing pace; the sounds of your wet skin slapping against each other fill his room. His fingers dig into your supple flesh as you start to meet him thrust for thrust, gasping as he hits that special spot, your heart rate frantic—your body desperate to cum around his big cock.

Rafe’s movements get a little rougher, his pace quickening. “Mpfhh… You’re gonna cum?” He groans, desperation clinging to his tone as he tries to hold back his pleasure. “Been thinkin’ about that feelin’ for six fuckin’ months,” he mumbles. “I know you are. Cum on my dick, princess… I need it—Fuck. I need it,” your eyes roll back in your head as your pleasure surges through you, crashing over you like a wave.

“Rafe, fuck-”

“That’s my fuckin’ girl,” Rafe pants, answering your cries as he throws his hips. “I’m gonna fill up this tight cunt. I want you dripping out of me tomorrow.” He reaches for you, pulling you back to his chest, pressing his face against your cheeks. “You’ll always remember who owns this pussy.”

Rafe’s body tightens as he grabs your face, pressing his lips against yours. “You're mine,” he whispers against your mouth as his body shudders, filling you with his heavy load.

His tongue slips between your lips as he rocks his hip, smiling through panting breaths, pushing his cum deeper and deeper. Tears of pleasure and happiness roll down your cheeks as he keeps you standing, your legs feeling like they could give way at any second. Rafe chuckles darkly, letting out a satisfied sigh at his cockdrunk girl. “Say it, baby…”

“I’m yours.”

#rafe #Rafe smut #rafe cameron x reader #my library ᝰ.ᐟ #rafe blurb 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹#kinkmas event .𖥔 ݁ ˖❄️˚. ᵎᵎ #hockey!rafe ִ ࣪𖤐.ᐟ #older!rafe ִ ࣪𖤐.ᐟ #dark!rafe ִ ࣪𖤐.ᐟ

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bunnytoba · 1 month ago

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perhaps an appropriately adjusted (step)ladder should help?

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saythenametotheworld · 4 months ago

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Long Story Short | n.jm (18+)

Na Jaemin—your best friend, the one person who’d always been there for you, comes to help you back to your feet again. But is it too late to finally see him for what he truly is?

Campus Confessions master list

Genre: childhood friends to lovers, slow burn, smut Pairing: Na Jaemin x afab!reader Warnings: sloooow burn, explicit sexual content Notes: 24k words. Part 5/5 of the Campus Confessions series, but can be read as a standalone fic. Listening to long story short by Taylor Swift. Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know them personally and do not claim they would ever behave like they were portrayed in this story.

playlist: long story short by taylor swift, friends by ed sheeran, clean by taylor swift

The school was packed. Students and visitors crowded the halls, their chatter and laughter echoing off the walls. The international high school science fair had taken over the campus, drawing in visitors and competitors from different schools—and different countries—but you couldn’t care less about any of it.

You checked your phone for the nth time, then sighed, shifting the cold cup of iced coffee in your hands. Your hand had started to numb, and your patience was running thin as you tapped your finger on the cup. The coffee was for Jaemin, something to hold him over until you both could finally leave and get proper food. But he was taking too long.

It was his birthday, and all you wanted was to take him to your favorite pizza place after he finished whatever student council errand had him running around. He had promised he’d be quick, but it had been twenty minutes since.

Just as you were about to text him, a pair of hands grabbed your shoulders from behind. “BOO.”

You jolted, the coffee slipping from your grip. The lid popped off upon impact, ice and liquid splashing onto your uniform. A sharp gasp left your lips as you turned to find Jaemin grinning, completely unbothered.

“Are you kidding me?” You gawked at him, arms lifted away from your body as the cold sank into your shirt. “Jaemin!”

His hands shot up in mock surrender. “In my defense, I didn’t think you’d scare that easily.”

“You jumped me!” You gestured at your now-stained uniform. “And now I’m soaked. Great. Happy birthday to you.”

Jaemin laughed, stepping back just as you raised your hand to smack his arm. “Relax. You can just buy me a new one.”

“Go buy yourself a new one,” you retorted, shoving the half-empty cup into his hand. You huffed, marching past him toward the school gates.

He gulped the remaining contents of the cup and caught up with you, while you tugged at your damp collar, scowling. “You took forever, my hand’s numb, and now I’m freezing.”

“Don’t you have a handkerchief on you, or something?” he asked, unzipping his jacket and draping it over your shoulders.

“I did have one,” you muttered, standing still as he adjusted his jacket on you and zipped it up. “But some guy needed it, so I gave it to him.”

Jaemin scoffed, shaking his head. “You really shouldn’t be giving out your stuff to just anyone,” he chided, patting your shoulders. “There. You’re good to go.”

The warmth of his jacket surrounded you, chasing away your irritation. It smelled like detergent and something distinctively Jaemin, something familiar. It wasn’t the first time he’d done something like this. Jaemin was always looking out for you and you didn’t think much of it.

Back then, you never really did.

The ceiling stared back at you, dull and lifeless, as your mind drifted aimlessly. Disconnected and meaningless thoughts swam through your mind—old conversations, half-formed ideas, fleeting memories. Until your eyes caught sight of the strip light clinging stubbornly to the edge of the ceiling, with its adhesive peeling away after years of being up there.

Jaemin had helped you put it up when you were sixteen. He’d almost fallen off the ladder, wobbling dramatically while you stood below looking unimpressed with your arms crossed. You’d given him hell about it, calling him useless for something he was doing as a favor. Your mom had scolded you after, shaking her head at how mean you were to a boy who was nice enough to help you out.

The memory made you smile, though it felt distant now. Back then, everything felt light and easy. Your only worries had been how to perfectly capture the grunge aesthetic you wanted for your bedroom.

A knock at the door cut through your musings, making your head snap in the direction of the door. You barely had time to sit up before Jaemin pushed it open, stepping inside like he owned the place.

He took one look at you and sighed dramatically. “It’s 10 a.m. Why aren’t you ready?”

“I am ready.”

He glanced at your bed, then at you—still in pajamas. “No, you’re not.”

“All my stuff’s packed,” you shot back, rising to your feet. “I just need to change and we’re good to go.”

Jaemin sighed but didn’t argue. Instead, he grabbed your bags, hauling them out of your room without waiting for you to catch up. After quickly changing, you followed him outside to where his car was parked at the curb.

Your mom and sister stood by the door, sending you off with a chorus of reminders. “Don’t skip meals,” “Call when you get there,” “Behave yourself.” You nodded along to each of them, half-listening, while Jaemin loaded your things into the trunk.

Then, just like always—like second nature—

You slid into the passenger seat without thinking. You pulled the seatbelt over your shoulder, and Jaemin draped a blanket over your lap just as you reached for the console to connect your phone. A lollipop landed in your palm at the same time you tossed his glasses from the dashboard into his waiting hand.

“The silver one,” said Jaemin, nodding at the other pair of glasses on the dashboard. You took the black ones and swapped them with the silver ones.

“Thank you,” he chimed, wearing them carefully and showing them to you. “Looks better, don’t you think?”

You grimaced. “It looks the same to me.”

Jaemin deadpanned, shaking his head as he started the engine. “Why do I even bother asking someone with no taste?”

“Excuse me? How dare you?”

Four hours passed with comfortable conversation and music, your voices occasionally singing along to the songs playing through the speakers.

At some point, Jaemin reached for the volume dial, turning it down a notch. “You’re lucky we’re friends,” he muttered, shaking his head.

You raised a brow. “Oh? What did I do now?”

“You put that song in the playlist,” he said, nodding at the stereo like it had personally offended him. “We’ve been over this. It’s a crime against my ears.”

You gasped dramatically. “Excuse me? This is a masterpiece.”

Jaemin shot you a look of pure judgment. “It sounds like a car alarm.”

“You have no taste.”

“And you have terrible taste,” he retorted. “It’s been in all of your playlists since high school. Don’t you get sick of it?”

Scoffing, you skipped to the next song—one you knew he actually liked, though you made a show of sighing as if it physically pained you to do so. “Better?”

Jaemin grinned. “Thank you so much.”

The rest of the drive was uneventful, filled with more playful arguments about music choices, lazy singing, and the occasional comfortable silence. By the time you reached the city, your playlist had nearly looped itself, and Jaemin was humming along without even realizing it.

“You know,” you mused, unbuckling your seatbelt as he pulled up to your apartment, “for someone who ‘hates’ my music, you sure know all the words.”

Jaemin clicked his tongue, feigning annoyance. “Unfortunately, exposure to bad influences does that.”

You stuck your tongue out at him before stepping out of the car. Jaemin parked in front of your apartment building and helped you carry your bags upstairs, unloading them and complaining about how heavy they were. You only scoffed, knowing he was just being dramatic.

“You have dinner plans?” he asked once everything was inside. You shook your head. “You should text the others. Let’s all have dinner together.”

“Yeah, let’s do that,” you replied, slumping on your couch.

You could tell he was stalling. Dragging things out with small tasks—checking if the appliances are plugged in, rearranging the shoes by the door, checking his phone without really reading anything. But eventually, he ran out of excuses.

Jaemin stepped toward the doorway, pausing with one hand on the knob. “Are you sure you’ll be fine?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

His expression didn’t change, but you could tell he didn’t buy it. “There’s still a few hours before dinnertime. Don’t you wanna go out and do something?”

“If you’re so worried, why don’t you just hang out with me until later?”

“Oh, I have to take my stuff to the dorms,” he replied, sighing as if he really was considering the idea. “Are you sure you don’t wanna live with the girls? Just so you’re not alone.”

“I’ll be fine, Jaemin.”

His lips pressed into a thin line, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to another like he wanted to say something else. But he didn’t. With one last glance, he gave a small nod and stepped out.

And then, just as the door was about to shut, his head popped back in. “Text me if you need anything.”

You rolled your eyes. “I know.”

Still, he hesitated. He paused briefly by the doorway, giving your apartment one last sweep. Then finally, finally, he walked away. The door clicked shut, and the silence that followed was deafening. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

Alone again.

You tilted your head back, resting on the backrest of the sofa and staring at the ceiling. It had become a habit at this point, staring at the ceiling and letting your mind wander anywhere and everywhere.

Six months had passed since the accident in Mykonos that left you with a few scars and a broken heart. Six whole months of healing and trying to reconnect with the person that you were before that summer. Seeing a therapist helped for the most part. You were able to talk about what happened, address your questions and confusions, and face the consequences of your actions. But it was useless for the emptiness that followed. The odd feeling of having a hole in your heart but not feeling any sadness or hurt about it. It was just… there.

This emptiness tends to be strong when you are alone. You hated it, but after six months of being a burden, of having people walk on eggshells around you, you couldn’t bring yourself to confide in anyone and tell them you hated being alone.

You stared at the boxes scattered across your living room, the remnants of your hasty move. The idea of doing something productive was almost laughable, but you pushed the thought aside. You were going to unpack. You would. And that would be something.

The process was slow at first as you sorted through the boxes. Old books, some clothes you hadn’t seen in ages, and trinkets you’d forgotten about began to fill the shelves and hang in the closet. It wasn’t the most exciting task, but it was progress.

Eventually, your mind began to wander as your hands kept working. You hadn’t realized how much bigger this new apartment was compared to your last one. It was the same building but the living room felt more spacious compared to your previous unit.

The layout was unfamiliar, and for a moment, you paused, your eyes drifting down the hallway to a door you hadn’t really noticed before. It led to a second bedroom. You hadn’t asked for it when you’d signed the lease—this new place was supposed to be temporary, just for this semester. You’d taken the break from college to heal, to recalibrate after the wreckage of the past summer. Now you were back and a small part of you felt like an alien in an unfamiliar territory. You hadn’t exactly figured out how to balance all of this—your old life and this new version of yourself.

You moved to the second bedroom, setting up the bed with the same care you’d given the first. The window in here was smaller, but it was cozy and had enough space for a few furniture and for moving around. It could be perfect for when your mom comes. Or, maybe it would just be a place for things you never used.

When you finally made it to the living room, the place was looking less like a chaotic mess and more like an apartment. You flicked on the TV, hoping some background noise would distract you from the heavy silence that seemed to follow you around. Sinking back on the plush couch, you entertained yourself with a show you’d been meaning to watch.

You didn’t realize you’d fallen asleep until loud, persistent knocks on your door jolted you awake. For a moment, you just stared at the TV, trying to make sense of the time and the situation. Then the knocks came again, this time with such force it sounded like they might break the door down.

Your heart rate quickened. You sat upright, momentarily disoriented, rubbing your eyes. Glancing at the clock, you saw that two hours had passed. You quickly got to your feet, shaking off the grogginess as you reached for the door.

“Who is it?” you asked, turning the knob and swinging the door open.

What greeted you was Jaemin’s panic-stricken face, his phone pressed to his ear, and his eyes wide as if he were on the verge of tears.

“Jaemin? What happened—” Before you could finish, he pulled you into a tight hug, squeezing the breath out of you.

“What’s going on?” you asked, suddenly nervous.

“Oh god, you’re gonna be the death of me,” he mumbled, holding you even tighter.

“Jaemin,” you said, trying to push him off, but he wouldn’t budge. “Jaemin, I can’t breathe!”

Finally, he pulled back, hands still gripping your shoulders as he demanded, “Where were you? Why didn’t you pick up?”

You blinked, caught off guard for a moment. You glanced at your phone on the coffee table, still buzzing because he was still calling you on his phone.

“Oh…” you trailed off, feeling suddenly guilty. “I fell asleep. I didn’t hear it.

Jaemin sighed, his shoulders sagging as he stepped back, rubbing the back of his neck. Before he could say anything else, the door swung open again, revealing the worried faces of your friends. The moment they saw you, relief flooded their expressions, and they practically lunged at you, whining and fake-sobbing as they pulled you into a dramatic group hug.

You caught Jaemin's eye. You gave him a quick, questioning glance, discreetly mouthing, “What's going on? Why are they here?”

Jaemin paused, then mouthed back, “This is all your fault.”

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion, but before you could protest, your friends were already dragging you back into the apartment, chattering excitedly, leaving Jaemin behind with his amused grin.

Dinner plans had taken an unexpected turn, and now your apartment was filled with the comforting chaos of your friends’ voices, laughter echoing from both the kitchen and living room. Jaemin and Renjun had taken over cooking duties, moving around each other with an ease that suggested they’d done this plenty of times before. You sat curled up on the couch with Karina and Giselle, half-listening to their chatter while keeping an eye on whatever Jaemin was doing near the stove.

“I swear, you almost gave me a heart attack,” Karina huffed, lightly smacking your arm. “Jaemin made it sound like you were unconscious or kidnapped or dead.”

“I was asleep,” you muttered, sinking further into the cushions. “Totally fine. He might’ve overreacted a little.”

“Overreacted?” Giselle scoffed. “You disappeared for hours, didn’t pick up a single call, and this is your first night back. Can you blame us for being a little overprotective?”

You pursed your lips, unsure how to respond to that. You weren’t trying to worry them. It just hadn’t occurred to you that they’d actually be this worried.

“I get it,” Karina said, her tone softer now. “I know it must be exhausting having people hover over you all the time, but you kinda scared us. We’re not trying to be dramatic, we just—” She hesitated. “We don’t want you slipping back into that place.”

You exhaled through your nose. “I was asleep,” you repeated, though your voice lacked conviction this time.

For a while, the conversation drifted to lighter things—Karina complaining about her new professor, Giselle filling you in on a particularly messy situationship she got tangled up in. But in between their stories, your mind wandered. You’d been back for less than a day, and it already felt like there was a spotlight on you. Like everyone was waiting for you to break again.

As Karina started a new story, you took the opportunity to discreetly lean toward her and lower your voice. “Okay, but... why is Renjun here?”

She blinked at you. “Oh. He kinda just... ended up in the group last semester.”

You furrowed your brows. “How?”

“Dunno,” she said, shrugging. “We all started hanging out more, and he just stuck around.”

“Jaemin was the one who pulled him in, I think,” Giselle added. “And then it just happened. You probably didn’t notice ‘cause, well... you weren’t around.”

Right. You hadn’t been around. It was a strange realization—like the world had kept moving while you were frozen in place.

Before you could dwell on it, Giselle suddenly perked up, her voice turning mischievous. “Hey, Renjun,” she called toward the kitchen, loudly enough to grab everyone’s attention. “How’s it feel to make food for the girl you used to like?”

Karina covered a laugh with her hand, while Jaemin snorted under his breath. Renjun, standing by the stove, exhaled slowly and shook his head, giving Giselle a look that was equal parts tired and unimpressed.

“I’m never gonna live that down, am I?” he muttered, turning to Jaemin instead of dignifying the question with a real response.

Jaemin only smirked, stirring the pot in front of him. “Nope.”

You wanted to sink into the floor. Giselle, clearly entertained, leaned closer to you. “Does it feel weird?” she whispered. “Having your ex-crush make you dinner?”

You shot her a look. “We’re not talking about this.”

“We should talk about this,” Giselle insisted, grinning. “We wouldn’t want things to be awkward. We’re fond of him, you see.”

Karina leaned closer and lowered her voice. “We like him more than Jaemin.”

“I can hear you,” Jaemin interjected, pointing the spatula at Karina.

Thankfully, they didn’t press on the matter. Dinner proceeded smoothly after that, filled with easy conversations, inside jokes, and the occasional teasing at Jaemin’s expense. The warm, comforting energy reminded you of what you had missed—of how much you had needed this.

By the time the meal wound down, everyone was full and content, slumping into their seats as Jaemin and Renjun made a half-hearted attempt to clear the dishes before eventually giving up. With a few reluctant groans, they finally dragged themselves toward the door.

“I expect an actual text back next time,” Jaemin warned, pointing at you as he slipped his shoes on.

You rolled your eyes. “Noted.”

Renjun only gave you a small nod before stepping out, and just like that, the apartment felt quieter. But not for long.

The moment the door clicked shut, Karina and Giselle turned to you with identical grins. “Sleepover,” Giselle announced.

You blinked. “What?”

“We’re staying over,” Karina said, already making herself comfortable on your couch. “You don’t get a say.”

And just like that, the night stretched on, filled with whispered gossip, bursts of laughter, and limbs tangled together as the three of you squeezed into your bed. There was something nostalgic about it—something safe. Maybe it was the way Karina absentmindedly played with your hair, or how Giselle kept making you both laugh until your stomachs hurt.

Either way, by the time sleep finally took over, you couldn’t remember the last time you had felt this at peace.

The first day of the new semester felt like walking into an old sitcom set. Same buildings, same people, same scenes playing out with minor variations. Even the air smelled the same, a mix of coffee, freshly printed syllabi, and stress.

Your first lecture was a blur. You spent most of it half-listening, jotting down random notes between doodles, and staring at the clock. Time moved in an odd way—too slow and too fast all at once. Lunch was better, mostly because it required no real thought. You walked through the crowded cafeteria, tray in hand, until you spotted your friends at a corner table. Karina and Giselle were talking, Jaemin was picking at his fries, and Renjun looked relaxed and refreshed.

Jaemin glanced up as you sat down. “Finally. Our esteemed scholar returns from the clutches of education.”

You stabbed a cherry tomato with your fork. “It’s syllabus week. I haven’t done anything.”

“And you still look like you’ve been through war,” Karina teased.

You hummed noncommittally, half-listening as they fell into conversation. Someone mentioned a professor who still hadn’t uploaded the syllabus, then the best study spots on campus, then somehow they were debating the worst seats to get in a lecture hall.

The minutes stretched. The sun outside moved slowly. You took bites of your food at an unhurried pace.

At some point, Jaemin turned to Renjun. “I can’t believe you’re still sitting with us.”

He didn’t even look up from his phone. “I can’t believe I’m still sitting with you either.”

“We adopted him,” Giselle said. “He had no choice.”

Karina leaned back in her chair. “We like him more than you, so he’s not going anywhere.”

Jaemin placed a hand over his heart in mock offense. “Wow. Right on my face?”

“Renjun doesn’t embarrass us in public,” Giselle pointed out.

“Not yet,” Renjun muttered, glancing at you.

The conversation continued with pointless yet oddly entertaining topics. Someone tried to recall the name of a movie but got it completely wrong. Jaemin made a terrible pun that Karina groaned at but Giselle immediately wrote it down for later use. You laughed a few times without realizing it.

And then, just like that, lunch ended. Trays were cleared, schedules compared, half-hearted complaints about afternoon classes exchanged.

The next few days passed pretty much the same. Classes, meals, occasional hangouts with your friends. Conversations stretched a little too long, and lectures felt like white noise in the background. It wasn’t bad, just monotonous. The world kept moving, even if you weren’t entirely participating.

Your schedule was light by design. Easing back into normal life was the goal, after all. But normal life turned out to be... dull. You sat through your lectures, watching the professors gesture at PowerPoints that no one was paying attention to, doodling in the margins of your notebook just to stay awake.

Somewhere in the middle of it, you befriended your seatmate, Eric. He was easygoing, quick with a joke, and effortlessly charming in the way some people just were. He had a habit of leaning in when he talked, his voice always carrying a hint of amusement.

“Did you get all that?”

“I think so,” you replied, shrugging.

“Great, can I see your notes?”

You glanced down at your page. A series of unrelated scribbles stared back at you. You slid your notebook over anyway.

“Wow,” he muttered, chuckling. “An abstract artist. Impressive.”

You glanced sideways at him, unable to suppress a chuckle at his comment. You tugged your notebook back. “You asked to see it.”

“You know, I think you might be the only person in this class who doesn’t look completely bored and sleepy,” he mused, lazily spinning a pen between his fingers.

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s an assumption.”

“Yeah?” He smirked. “What’s your secret? Other than practicing abstract art in your notebooks.”

“Complete emotional detachment,” you deadpanned.

Eric laughed, the sound warm and genuine. “I really really like you.”

You only smiled, assuming he meant it in a general, friendly way.

Meanwhile, Jaemin remained his usual self, looking after you in his own quiet way. He never outright asked if you were okay. He just walked back with you most days, keeping up a steady stream of conversation like he always had.

Today, he was talking about a new café that opened near campus. “They have this matcha croissant that’s supposed to be life-changing,” he said, stuffing his hands into his pockets as you walked. “I heard you girls are already planning a whole trip just to try it.”

“Yeah,” you nodded, glancing at him. “What about you?”

“I mean, I like croissants,” he shrugged. “But I feel like I’ll end up there no matter what.”

You hummed in response. Jaemin didn’t push. Instead, he switched topics, asking if you’d seen the latest episode of the drama you both started last year. You hadn’t.

“That’s tragic,” he sighed. “Now I have to pretend I don’t know what happens every time I talk about it.”

“You could just not talk about it.”

“That’s just impossible,” he said, shaking his head. “You know I don’t have that kind of self-control.”

You huffed a quiet laugh. The week passed before you knew it.

One evening, after another regular day of classes, you came home feeling drained. You went about your routine—shower, tea, maybe a TV show since it was Friday night. You had a good grasp of your plans for the night, until a simple misstep turned into a disaster.

You weren’t even sure how it happened. Did you trip over the edge of the rug? Lose your footing while stepping into the shower? Either way, one second you were moving, and the next, you were on the floor, hissing as a sharp sting shot up your ankle.

It’s not that bad, you told yourself. Just a little soreness. You managed to get an ice pack for it, and went to bed thinking it would be fine in the morning.

Except, by morning, it wasn’t. You were feverish, and the dull ache had worsened. Even shifting the wrong way sent a sharp pulse through your foot. You tried to get up and walk, but that proved impossible, so you decided to call the first person who crossed your mind.

Jaemin arrived not ten minutes later, equipped with some stuff from the drugstore and a takeout bag.

“What happened?” he asked as soon as he stepped into your bedroom.

“Just a little accident,” you said too quickly. “I’m fine, but it hurts to move.”

Jaemin’s face tightened as he examined your ankle, pressing on it just enough for pain to shoot through, making you wince.

He exhaled sharply. “Yeah, no. We’re going to the ER.”

“It’s not that bad. I just need rest and some ibuprofen.”

Jaemin gave you a look. “You also have a fever. We need to check if you broke a bone or something. I know you hate it, but you’re gonna have to deal with this because, honestly, you’re way too clumsy for your own good.”

The trip to the ER wasn’t exactly eventful, but it was exhausting. You sat through the usual process—check-in, vitals, waiting. When the doctor finally saw you, they examined your ankle, prodded at it, and sent you off for an X-ray, just to be sure.

“Good news, nothing’s broken,” the doctor announced when they returned with your results. “Just a bad sprain. We’ll wrap it up, and you’ll need to stay off it for a few days. But there’s something else. Your bloodwork shows low iron and glucose levels.”

You blinked. “Huh?”

“You need to eat healthier,” they said simply, setting the file down. “Skipping meals, not getting enough nutrients. It’s showing up in your results. We’re giving you an IV now, but you should be more mindful of your diet moving forward.”

You exhaled as the nurse set up the IV, already anticipating what was coming. Jaemin, who had been sitting quietly beside you, didn’t say I told you so, but you felt it in the way he glanced at you.

It was only after the doctor left that he spoke. “I called your mom,” he said, casual like it was nothing.

Your head snapped toward him. “You what?”

Jaemin raised an eyebrow. “I figured you won’t tell her so, I did.”

“I was gonna tell her,” you grumbled. “Eventually.”

He didn’t look convinced. Before you could say anything else, your phone buzzed in his hand. He glanced at the screen before handing it over. “That’s her.”

Sighing, you took the call. “Hey, Mom.”

“Oh, honey.” Her voice was warm with relief. “Are you okay? Jaemin said you hurt your foot?”

“I’m fine,” you reassured her. “It’s just a sprain. And some iron deficiency, apparently. No big deal.”

Your mom sighed on the other end. “Sweetheart, you have to take care of yourself. Are you sure you’ll be okay on your own?”

“I’ll be fine,” you said. “It’s just a sprain. And I’ll eat better, I promise. They gave me an IV. I’m allowed to go home after this.”

A pause. Then, carefully, she said, “I was thinking maybe one of your friends could stay with you for a few days. Just until you’re feeling better?”

You opened your mouth to protest, but she added quickly, “It’s just a suggestion. I’d feel better knowing someone’s there with you.”

You blinked. “Mom, I don’t wanna bother them like that.”

“I know, but…” she sighed. “Let me talk to Jaemin, sweetie.”

You glanced at Jaemin before handing the phone back to him. He took it without question, nodding along as your mom talked his ear off. You could only catch bits and pieces—something about making sure you eat, not letting you skip meals, and keeping an eye on your ankle.

Eventually, he hung up and turned to you. “So, good news. You’re not dying. Bad news. Your mom insists someone stay with you for a few days. And—” He paused for dramatic effect. “She volunteered me.”

You gave him a flat look. “You volunteered yourself, didn’t you?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Jaemin dismissed. “What’s important is that I am now your temporary live-in nurse. I expect full cooperation.”

You sighed, debating your options, which, realistically, were none. You could protest, but you knew Jaemin. He wasn’t going to leave you alone while you were limping around your apartment. And honestly? Maybe having him around wouldn’t be that bad.

“Fine,” you muttered.

Jaemin nodded. “Okay. I’ll take the couch.”

You shook your head. “No need. I have a spare room you can use.”

“Oh?” he said, pressing his finger to his chin in a thoughtful gesture. “That’s even better.”

You exhaled slowly, rolling your eyes as you shifted to get more comfortable in the hospital bed. Jaemin, without missing a beat, adjusted the pillow behind you, leaning in a bit closer than necessary. You could smell his cologne, fresh, woodsy, and all too familiar.

“I have rules,” you said, eyes fluttering shut for just a moment.

“Of course,” Jaemin murmured, sounding amused.

You felt his hand brush over your forehead for a second, checking your temperature, but it lingered there longer than usual. You let out a quiet sigh, more content than you'd been all evening. With Jaemin here, maybe things would be okay.

You were only 14 when Jaemin and his family moved in next door. At the time, you weren’t particularly thrilled by the idea of befriending some new kid just because your parents told you to. You were used to being on your own, and you didn’t really feel like spending your weekends babysitting someone. But, as parents do, they insisted, so you reluctantly agreed.

It would be easier if he wanted to be friends with you too. But you could sense that he didn’t. He was curt, somehow a little mean when he talked to you. So, despite your parents’ wishes, you didn’t put in the effort to really get to know him.

That was until one Saturday morning. The sun was a little too bright for your taste, but you went with your family anyway. The hike was supposed to be a fun family outing, the kind where you would all get some fresh air and maybe stop at the lake for some snacks. Jaemin had only just moved in for over a week, and he was quiet, reserved, completely out of place in the familiar group of your family and his own. You didn’t blame him for that, but it didn’t stop you from feeling annoyed when your mom pointed him out and told you to stick by his side.

It didn’t take long for Jaemin to get lost. Not that it was entirely his fault. He was a city kid, and the woods were a different world. He wandered too far ahead, distracted by something, and before long, he was out of sight. That was when you heard him calling out for help.

You should’ve ignored it, honestly. The adults would hear him soon and they’d help. But somehow, you couldn’t just leave him alone. So you went after him, with quick steps as you navigated through the trees, trying to track down the lost kid. You found him standing by a cluster of rocks, looking entirely confused.

“Hey,” you called, catching his attention. “What are you doing all the way out here?”

Jaemin turned to face you, frustration and relief etched in his expression. “I... I guess I took a wrong turn.”

With a sigh, you rolled your eyes, stepping forward. “Come on. I’ll take you back.”

He followed you without a word, your pace steady as you led him back to the group. It wasn’t long before the others found you, and the hike resumed without much delay. But Jaemin stuck to you for the rest of the day. You didn’t mind because he was quiet most of the time, so you didn’t need to talk to him.

After that day, Jaemin kept showing up. At school, he’d sit next to you in class, not because he had to, but because he didn’t know anyone else to sit with. At lunch, ,he would find his way to your table, and you’d have your usual back-and-forth, making jokes and laughing about things only the two of you found funny. He was a little quieter back then, but there was always something comfortable about having him around. You didn’t have to try to impress him, and he didn’t make things awkward.

In high school, Jaemin was the guy you called when you couldn’t reach the top shelf in the kitchen, or when your phone was broken and you needed help figuring out what was wrong with it. When your family’s car broke down on a trip out of town, he was the one who came over with his toolbox and somehow managed to get the engine running again. And when you told him your food cravings at 11 PM, he’d be the one to show up at your door with your favorite late-night snack, laughing about how you were impossible to please.

“Am I your slave? Why do I have to do this for you?” he’d complain, but you knew he didn’t mean it.

Jaemin was dependable, and you had always known that. He wasn’t just that. He was also the guy who could make you laugh even when you wanted to stay mad at him. He was good at cooking, always surprising you with something new in the kitchen. And when he’d show you his latest photos, you couldn’t help but feel proud. He was talented. He always managed to stay humble, even when people around him began noticing just how good he was at everything.

You never really told him he was your best friend. You didn’t need to. The way you bickered and joked around always downplayed the depth of your connection, but you both knew you were each other’s person. It was the kind of friendship that didn’t need constant reaffirmation. The kind that lasted because it was simply there, no effort required.

Now, as you sat on the couch in your apartment, Jaemin sitting nearby while you fumbled through a book you were reading, you couldn’t help but notice how little had changed. Jaemin had grown up, of course, he had. He was older now, more popular, more confident, a little more polished. But underneath all of that, he was still the same guy you’d met all those years ago.

Still the guy who could cook you a meal without breaking a sweat, making your favorite dish like it was the easiest thing in the world. Still the one who was always convenient to have around, no matter the situation. There was something strangely comforting about how much he hadn’t changed. He had grown, sure, but the essence of who he was—the one who showed up without being asked, who willingly and effortlessly took care of everything—was still the same.

Jaemin was annoyingly good at taking care of you. The first morning in your apartment, you woke up to the smell of something warm and savory, your stomach twisting in hunger before you were even fully conscious. When you managed to make your way to the kitchen in crutches, he was already plating breakfast, acting like he’d lived here all his life.

“You’re up,” he said, not even looking up from the pan. “Sit. Eat.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Isn’t this too much for breakfast?”

Jaemin set a bowl in front of you, a perfectly balanced meal that made your usual instant ramen diet look embarrassing. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. I thought you already knew that?”

You huffed but didn’t argue, mostly because he was right. And because the food smelled too good to resist.

For the next few days, Jaemin took over your apartment like a man on a mission. Since you couldn’t walk, he made sure everything you needed was within reach. He left water bottles and snacks at your bedside. He helped you move whenever you needed to get to the bathroom or the couch.

He had an almost annoying dedication to making sure you ate. Every lunchtime, without fail, he showed up at your apartment. You’d hear the front door unlock, and a few minutes later, he’d be standing in front of you, arms crossed.

“Did you eat?”

You’d roll your eyes. “Yes, Dad.”

Jaemin would glance at the table, checking for evidence. If he saw plates in the sink, he’d nod and remind you to take your meds before going back to campus. Sometimes just moving to prepare your own food was tiring, but you knew better than to try and lie to him, so you didn’t.

It was kind of nice. Annoying, but nice. But, of course, there were the embarrassing moments that came with having him around 24/7.

Like the time you walked into the living room, only to find him casually folding your clothes—including your underwear.

“Jaemin!” you shrieked, nearly tripping over your own foot.

He barely blinked, holding up a pair of lace-trimmed bras with a considering look. “Are these new?”

“Oh my god, drop them!”

Jaemin chuckled, but thankfully, he did as you said. “Relax. It’s just laundry. It’s not like I haven’t seen a bra before.”

Then there was the time you walked out of your room in the morning, still half-asleep, only to find Jaemin in nothing but a towel, casually walking out of the bathroom. You froze.

Jaemin, completely unfazed, rubbed his damp hair with another towel. “Morning.”

You closed your eyes shut, looking away dramatically. “What the hell?! Put some clothes on!”

He snorted. “Don’t like it, don’t look.”

“Excuse me? This is my apartment! I don’t need to see—” You cut yourself off before you could make things worse, groaning into your hands. “God, just—just go.”

Jaemin laughed as he padded past you toward the spare room. “Noted.” It was a nightmare.

When you were finally able to attend classes again, Jaemin always walked there with you. He made it look casual, stuffing his hands in his pockets and shrugging whenever you pointed it out. “What? We have almost the same schedule.”

You didn’t. And yet, every day, he was there, waiting for you to get ready, carrying your bag when he thought you looked too tired, making sure you got back home without a hitch.

Around the apartment, he was everywhere. You’d be brushing your teeth in the bathroom, and he’d be leaning against the doorway, scrolling through his phone like he had nowhere better to be. You’d be on the couch, flipping through channels, and he’d plop down beside you, stealing the remote.

When he cooked dinner, he’d make you sit on the counter, keeping you close while he moved around the kitchen like it was his. “I swear, if you don’t start eating better, I’m gonna move in permanently,” he’d threaten, flicking water at you when you teased him about being a housewife.

“You don’t have to do all this, you know,” you told him one evening, watching as he washed the dishes.

Jaemin didn’t look up. “I know.”

“Then why are you doing it?”

He glanced at you over his shoulder with a small, knowing smile on his lips. “Because I want to.”

You stared at him for a second before shaking your head. “Suit yourself. I’m not complaining about a clean house and good food.”

Jaemin just chuckled. “You can admit you like having me around. Don’t be shy.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. He was right, but he’d never catch you admitting that out loud. Not to his face at least.

Before you knew it, two weeks had passed. Your ankle had fully healed, and Jaemin—your self-appointed live-in nurse and housewife—was finally packing up his things. You stood by his bedroom door, watching him fold his clothes neatly in place.

“What are you doing?” you asked, trying to keep your voice neutral.

Jaemin hummed, tossing a hoodie into his duffel bag. “Getting my stuff ready. I’m moving back to the dorm by the end of the day.”

You knew this was coming. It wasn’t like he was living with you permanently. But for some reason, you didn’t like hearing it out loud.

The idea of your apartment returning to its usual emptiness made you uncomfortable. No more clinking in the kitchen in the early morning, no more stolen bites from your plate, no more Jaemin casually invading your space like it was his own. Loneliness slowly crept into your chest at the idea.

But you didn’t tell him that.

By the time you stepped out of the apartment, the morning sun was warm against your skin, and Jaemin was walking beside you like he had been doing in the last few days. It had become routine—leaving together, arriving together. For the past two weeks, Jaemin had been around every moment of the day, making sure you ate, getting you to class, sticking around like a permanent fixture in your life. And now, just like that, he was packing up.

You glanced at him, the strap of his bag slung over his shoulder. It felt strange, knowing he wouldn’t be there tonight, or tomorrow, or the day after that. The thought unsettled you more than it should. Trying not to dwell on it, you cleared your throat. “What’s the college dorm like?”

Jaemin scoffed. “Let’s see… bunk beds that creak every time you move. Paper-thin walls so you hear everything. People talking, snoring, doing… other things.” He grimaced. “Shared bathrooms, too. It’s an experience, to say the least.”

You made a face. “That sounds awful.”

“It is,” Jaemin confirmed, kicking a loose pebble on the sidewalk. “And my roommate? Dude never cleaned up after himself. I swear, I did all the work.”

“That sucks.” You hummed thoughtfully. “Must be nice having your own space for the past two weeks, huh?”

Jaemin shot you a look, catching on just a little. “I guess.”

“You guess?” You raised a brow. “I mean, you had a whole kitchen. A clean bathroom. Nobody snoring in the same room as you.”

Jaemin let out a soft chuckle. “Are you trying to make a point?”

“Nope. Just making conversation.” You shrugged, keeping your expression neutral.

He rolled his eyes, but there was amusement dancing in them. “Right.”

You left it at that, but something about the conversation must have stuck, because at lunch, Jaemin was still talking about it. He was talking when you joined them at the cafeteria, casually sliding into the seat next to him.

“What are you guys talking about?” you asked, although you already heard snippets of their conversation.

“Jaemin’s moving back to the dorms today,” Karina said, sighing. “We’re wishing him luck.”

“Why would you willingly go back?” Giselle added, incredulous. “Dorm life is hell. It’s literally just a shoebox with a bed.”

“And you can hear everything,” Renjun chimed in. “My friend used to hear his neighbor watch porn and masturbate at two in the morning.”

Everyone at your table groaned in unison. Giselle dramatically covered her mouth as if she couldn’t believe her ears. “That word in your mouth, Renjun? I can’t believe it!”

“What? Masturbate?”

You all groaned again. At this point, Giselle was fake-sobbing on Karina’s shoulder. “My sweet innocent Renjun. Jaemin, what have you been teaching my baby?” she pointed an accusatory finger at Jaemin.

“I’m literally half a year older than you,” Renjun deadpanned.

Your table was chaotic as usual, but your mind was elsewhere, focusing on Jaemin and the fact that he won’t be around after today.

And that afternoon after classes were over, you leaned against the doorway of the spare bedroom, watching Jaemin zip up his duffel bag. He moved around the room, gathering the last of his things, a hoodie hanging on the back of the door, his camera resting on the desk, a pair of socks he’d somehow left on the floor.

It was expected, of course. He was always going to leave. That was the deal. But standing there, watching him pack, you felt the reality of it settle in your chest in a way you hadn’t anticipated.

You sighed without meaning to. Jaemin didn’t turn at first, but when he finally did, he smirked. “Why do you look so upset? Gonna miss me when I’m gone?”

“I’m not upset,” you said quickly, arms crossing over your chest. “I was just worried you’d have a hard time when you’re back in the dorms.”

Jaemin huffed out a small laugh. “I’ve lived there since freshman year. I’ll survive.”

You knew that. You weren’t actually worried about him adjusting. He was fine there before. He’d be fine again. But would you? Would you be okay when the small ray of sunshine that had been brightening up your space for the last two weeks disappeared?

You hesitated. The words forming in your head felt too heavy, too exposing. You weren’t even sure you wanted to say them. And yet, before you could think better of it, they slipped out anyway. “You don’t have to leave.”

Jaemin paused, his hands holding the zipper of his bag. “What do you mean?”

You swallowed, shifting on your feet. You could leave it at that. Brush it off, pretend you meant something else. But he was already looking at you, waiting.

“You heard me,” you muttered, looking away.

Jaemin tilted his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I did, but I’m not sure I’m understanding it correctly.”

Heat prickled at your skin. This was exactly why you didn’t want to say it. He was just gonna tease you about it. Annoyed, embarrassed, and already regretting this, you huffed. “I said I want you to stay. Don’t go back to the dorms. Just go get your stuff and stay here.”

Jaemin laughed. “Oh, you want me to stay—” He trailed off as his eyes met yours. His amusement faded slightly when he realized you weren’t laughing. “You’re serious?”

You dropped your gaze, suddenly feeling ridiculous. “Yeah.”

“I don’t think you understand what it would mean if I stayed here,” he said softly, searching your face. “That means I have to live here with you, in your space. You’ll have to see me everyday until the semester is over.”

“I know that. It’s not like I’m doing this for free. We can split the rent and other bills. I’ll buy the groceries, you make sure to make food. I’ll lend you my linens and other stuff, you make sure they’re clean.”

“Why are you okay with this?”

You exhaled slowly, staring at the floor like the answer might be there.

Because the apartment would be too quiet without him. Because the past two weeks had been easier, and brighter, less mundane and less dull. Because you’d gotten used to him being there, to the sound of him moving around, to the way he always had something to say.

But admitting that felt like too much. So instead, you shrugged, forcing nonchalance into your voice. “Because I’m anemic and low on sugar. Someone’s gotta make sure I’m well-fed and healthy.”

Jaemin chuckled heartily, sighing as he gave you an affectionate look. He always did that when he found you cute or endearing, and it always annoyed you because it made you feel like a child.

“If you don’t want to then, forget it,” you huffed, rolling your eyes. “Go back to your bunk bed and dirty roommate, I guess.”

“Fine. I’m staying. But only because you forced me to,” he teased, opening his bag again and emptying it.

You stomped toward him, slapping his shoulder. “I did not!”

“Sure, you didn’t.”

You scoffed, annoyed and wondering if you could still take it back. But your heart is lighter now, more at ease. “You better not say that to the girls when they ask about this.”

“I don’t know,” he said in a sing-song. “I might. I might not.”

Living with Jaemin wasn’t all that different from when he was just temporarily staying over. It still came with the same pros: warm food every day, a perpetually clean kitchen, and the added bonus of a personal bodyguard whenever you had to walk home late. But, of course, the same cons remained—the casual half-nakedness, and the occasional mixing of laundry that resulted in you pulling one of his boxers out of your pile.

He changed the spare bedroom completely, swapping out your plain beddings for something that matched his aesthetic better—earthy tones and soft fabrics, the kind that looked straight out of a home decor catalog. He put up posters on the walls, ones he must’ve had in storage, and his toiletries now sat next to yours in the bathroom cabinet. It was still your apartment, but it was slowly becoming his home too.

For the most part, it was nice.

One evening, as you got ready to head out, Giselle came over, letting herself in as usual. She plopped down on your couch, watching as you moved around the apartment, gathering your things.

“Hey, did Jaemin leave already?” she asked, eyeing the shoes by the door—his shoes.

You glanced at her, then back at the bedroom door that was slightly ajar, revealing the edge of his neatly made bed. “Oh, no. He lives here now.”

Giselle blinked. “Permanently?”

“Yeah.” You pulled on a jacket, smoothing it out in the mirror. “He figured it was better than the dorms, so he just moved in.”

Giselle let out a low whistle. “Damn. I’m kinda jealous. I want a live-in housemaid who cooks for me every day too.”

You laughed. “He’s not a housemaid.”

“But still.” She crossed her arms, tilting her head in thought. “Isn’t it weird, though?”

“What?”

“Living with a guy,” she said. “Like, you’re a girl. He’s a guy. Isn’t that… I don’t know, weird?”

You made a face. “We’ve known each other since we were fourteen, Giselle. I don’t see him like that.”

“Huh.” She tapped a finger against her chin, thinking. “So girls and boys can really be just friends.”

“Of course. Why is that even an argument?” you chuckled, shaking your head.

“I mean, I always figured it was possible,” she mused. “But you guys aren’t just friends. You’re like…” She gestured vaguely, searching for the right words. Then, she snapped her fingers. “You’re soulmates. Platonic soulmates, but still soulmates.”

You snorted. “Soulmates?”

“Yeah. You guys are practically an old married couple without the romance.” She grinned. “It’s honestly kinda cute.”

You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t argue. Because, well, maybe she had a point.

The party was louder than you remembered parties being. Maybe it had just been a while, or maybe you were out of practice, but for the first hour, you found yourself unable to keep up with the energy around you. People moved in and out of conversations effortlessly, the music pulsed through the space, and the air was thick with the familiar mix of sweat, alcohol, and perfume.

It felt new again, being surrounded like this, caught up in the rhythm of a rowdy crowd. You sipped at your drink, letting yourself ease into it.

As you looked around, the memories of the past summer came registering into your mind’s view. The last time you'd felt this kind of buzz was that summer in Mykonos. You hadn’t thought about it much in a while, but now, under the neon lights and the noise, your memories brought you back to those days. Surprisingly enough, it wasn’t sad or upsetting to remember that phase. In fact, you almost laughed at yourself, recalling just how much fun you’d had back then.

You’d been reckless. Maybe a little foolish. Definitely unhinged at times.

Donghyuck crossed your mind, slipping into the memory as easily as he had slipped into your life back then. That summer had been a whirlwind, the two of you burning through it like a fire neither of you had tried to put out. You wondered how he was doing. If he ever thought about that summer. If he ever thought about you.

Before you could dwell on it for too long, a hand grabbed yours. It was Giselle, grinning at you as he tugged you further into the house. “Come on!”

“Where are we—”

Karina appeared on your other side, looping her arm around yours. “Drinking game. Let’s go.”

You barely had a chance to protest before they dragged you into a circle of students, their laughter and cheers carrying over the loud music and chatter. Someone handed you a shot. The game was in full swing—a card game of truth or take a shot.

You participated, not because you wanted to, but because you were already there. It carried on, drinks passing from hand to hand, each question peeling back another layer of someone's carefully curated image. You laughed as someone admitted to sending an embarrassing drunk text the night before, and winced when another revealed they had been caught sneaking a boy into their apartment by their roommate’s mom.

Then, it was your turn, which surprised you a little. You thought the chances of getting picked was low, given the large number of people participating in the game. But here you are.

“Who’s the last person you kissed?” said someone who was reading the card you’d picked, and the circle immediately leaned in, eager for the answer.

You hesitated, warmth creeping up your neck. The answer should have come easily, but instead, your mind drew a complete blank.

“Well?” Giselle pressed.

You shifted in your seat. “No one.”

That didn’t satisfy them. “Come on, be serious.”

“I am being serious,” you insisted. “I haven’t kissed anyone recently.”

The group groaned in disappointment, and someone called out, “Boring!” You only rolled your eyes, but before you could deflect, another question landed in your lap.

“What about your first kiss?”

You laughed, relieved it wasn’t about the present anymore. “That was back in high school,” you said lightly. “You probably wouldn’t even know them.”

But the moment the words left your mouth, your gaze flickered across the room, drawn almost instinctively to Jaemin. He was standing far across the hall, deep in conversation, laughing with his friends.

And then it hit you. Jaemin. Your first kiss had been Jaemin. A sharp gasp left your lips.

The realization knocked into you like a gust of wind, rattling your brain, unearthing a memory you hadn’t even realized you’d buried. The circle of people blurred into static noise as your pulse pounded in your ears. Without thinking, you rose to your feet.

“Hey! Where are you—”

“Bathroom,” you blurted, before turning and walking—no, running—out of the room.

You didn’t stop until you reached the garden area of the house, stepping into the cooler night air. The party still pulsed behind you, but out here, it was less stuffy, easier to breathe.

You held onto the edge of a patio table as you tried to process what had just resurfaced. How could you have forgotten something like that? How had it just slipped from your memory as if it never happened?

Jaemin had been your first kiss. Not some crush, not a random guy at a party. Jaemin.

The thought sent your brain into overdrive. It must have been casual, right? A stupid teenage thing. A dare? A joke? You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to summon the exact details, but all you got were flashes—his face close to yours, the stuffy in the air, the way he’d grinned afterward.

You let out a breath, feeling slightly light-headed. And then you heard a familiar voice calling your name behind you.

“Are you okay?” You turned, and there he was. Jaemin, stepping onto the patio, his head tilting slightly in concern.

You straightened immediately, forcing a neutral expression. “Yeah. Just needed some air.”

Jaemin didn’t look entirely convinced, but he didn’t press. Instead, he eyed you for a moment before asking, “Have you been drinking?”

You hesitated before nodding. “A little.”

He narrowed his eyes on you. “You know you’re not supposed to drink, right?”

You chuckled lightly, rolling your eyes just a little. “I’m allowed to drink, Jaemin. And besides, I’m all better now. I didn’t even need to go to rehab and I’m off therapy.”

Jaemin shrugged, stuffing his hands in hi pockets. “Yeah, but it won’t hurt to be careful. You don’t seem that well to me.”

You understood what he meant. While it was true that the events of that summer no longer haunted you, you hadn’t reverted back to your old easy-going, and happy self. This was probably just a phase, a transition period because blending back seamlessly wasn’t as easy as people made it out to be. But you knew in your heart that you were all better now, you were simply adjusting.

Silence settled between the two of you, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Just… lingering. There was something on the tip of your tongue, something you wanted to ask, but you didn’t.

Instead, you inhaled slowly, pushing the thought away. “I’m heading back in,” you said.

Jaemin nodded, stepping aside to let you pass. As you walked back inside, the memory of your first kiss still sat heavy in your chest. It was back now, no longer buried. And you had no idea what to do with it.

You had hoped that unearthing a memory as important as your first kiss wouldn’t affect your life. But it did, funnily enough. Now, you couldn’t look Jaemin in the eye or act normally around him. It was awkward, and you knew he could feel it too. He was just nice enough not to ask questions. Or maybe he knew he hadn’t done anything to cause this, so he wasn’t bothered at all.

You, however, were very much bothered.

As you sat on the couch, pretending to scroll through your phone, your gaze kept drifting toward Jaemin. He was vacuuming the apartment like nothing had changed, like you hadn’t just recovered a lost piece of your history together. Did he remember that night? Or had he forgotten, just like you had?

You could still see it so clearly now. Some summer party when you were sixteen. The two of you, shoved into a cramped closet for a round of Seven Minutes in Heaven.

“We’re not gonna do it,” you’d said immediately. “Obviously, we’re not gonna do it.”

Jaemin had shrugged. “Let’s just let the seven minutes pass and we’re out of here.”

“Yeah,” you’d agreed. But you’d been restless, hugging your arms around yourself, picking at the sleeve of your dress.

The closet had been stuffy, filled with the scent of old coats and lingering perfume. You’d had a few bottles of beer and cups of whatever mix of alcohol and softdrinks the jocks had concocted earlier. You’d been hot and light-headed. So when he shifted slightly and his elbow nudged your arm, you had looked up at him ready to snap and say something mean like you always did.

But you couldn’t. The words died in your throat when you were met by his eyes, striking in the glow of your phone’s flashlight, staring back at you. The same eyes that had always been so easy to read—except, for the first time, you weren’t sure what you were seeing.

“Just one?” you blurted before you could even stop yourself.

Jaemin moved to face you fully. “Just one,” he said, already reaching to cup your face and kiss your lips.

It was just one, as agreed. As soon as his mouth touched yours, something in you had caved. The kiss had stolen the air out of your lungs, and erased the rationality in your head. That one kiss had you gripping the back of his neck, fingers curling against his hair as you pulled him closer for more. His hands on your hips were firm, keeping you steady as you felt your knees go weak with the sensation of his lips.

It was just one kiss. But it was one hell of a kiss. And yet, somehow, you’d managed to forget it ever happened—until now.

“Hey.” Jaemin’s voice yanked you back to the present.

You blinked, vision coming back into focus. He was standing in front of you now, the vacuum off, watching you with mild concern. His hand was on your arm.

“Huh?” you said, stupidly.

His brows furrowed. “Are you okay?”

Panic flared up in your chest. His touch felt too warm, too familiar, and suddenly, it was all too much. You swatted his hand away, bolted up from the couch, and rushed straight into your room.

You told yourself it was no big deal. Just a long-forgotten memory, insignificant in the grand scheme of things. It shouldn’t change anything. It didn’t mean anything.

But no matter how much you tried to push it out of your mind, you couldn’t. It was like Jaemin had been put under a magnifying glass—every little thing about him suddenly too noticeable, too distracting.

Like the way his voice softened when he called your name. Or how his sweater sleeves were always pushed up to his elbows, exposing his forearms. Or the way he laughed, nose scrunching, eyes disappearing. Or, most annoyingly, how effortlessly attractive he was.

That hadn’t been a new observation, obviously. You always knew Jaemin was handsome. It was just a fact. But suddenly, it was something you were aware of in a way you had never been before. Suddenly, you were attracted to this handsomeness and it was infuriating.

The worst moment, by far, had been a few days ago. You had been curled up on the couch, scrolling through your phone, when Jaemin had stepped out of the bathroom—fresh from a shower, towel slung around his neck, with his messy damp hair falling over his forehead. And, of course, because the universe was cruel, he had been shirtless.

You hadn’t meant to stare, but you did.

It was impossible not to when his toned muscles were right there, his defined chest and abs on full display as he wiped at his hair. You knew he was ripped. You knew he had been going to gym consistently, putting in the work to maintain his physique. But you hadn’t given it any attention until right now.

He glanced up mid-rub, catching you staring blatantly with wide eyes. “What?” he asked, smirking.

“Nothing,” you blurted, whipping your gaze away so fast you almost gave yourself whiplash. Your ears burned. You buried your face back into your phone, scrolling blindly, hoping the ground would swallow you whole.

Jaemin just laughed, shaking his head as he walked into his room. But you were left with the horrifying realization that you had just ogled your best friend.

And it wasn’t just that. It was everything that used to be so normal, so second-nature.

The way he absentmindedly ruffled your hair, the way he leaned in close when talking, the way he smelled—clean, fresh, woodsy—a mix that smelled distinctly Jaemin. You found yourself noticing things you never paid attention to before. And the more you noticed, the more your brain kept circling back to that memory—of being sixteen, of being in that closet, of his lips on yours.

Jaemin noticed eventually. He noticed how you avoided his gaze, how you stiffened when he casually draped an arm over your shoulders like he always had. He noticed how you started keeping just enough distance between you, subtly leaning away when he got too close.

At first, he didn’t seem to think much of it—maybe just a weird mood, something that would pass. But when it didn’t, when you kept acting like a skittish cat whenever he so much as looked at you for too long, his patience finally ran out.

He caught you by the wrist one afternoon, stopping you just as you were about to escape into your room after he sat too close to you in the couch and you scooted away like you were terrified of him.

“Okay, what’s going on with you?” he asked, brows furrowed.

Your heart jumped to your throat. “Nothing.”

His grip was loose enough that you could pull away if you wanted, but his stare pinned you in place. “You’ve been acting weird.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said quickly. Too quickly.

Jaemin scoffed, giving you a look that said he wasn’t buying it for a second. “Yeah, okay,” he said, tone dripping with sarcasm. “If you’re just gonna act like I’m gonna devour you each time I so much as look at you, why did you ask to live together?”

“Live together?” you echoed, his choice of words making your brain short-circuit. “We’re not living together. We’re sharing an apartment.”

“Yeah, that’s what living together means. I— That’s not the point,” he stopped and sighed, letting you go and placing his hands on his waist. “What did I do? Tell me so I can apologize and we can get over it.”

Tell him? Tell him? How were you supposed to tell him that you’d just remembered your first kiss with him and it was making you all giddy and nervous when he was near? You couldn’t possibly say that to your best friend of all people!

You opened your mouth to argue, to deny, to brush it off, but luckily, salvation arrived in the form of your friends ringing the doorbell.

“That’s the girls,” you said, making a break for the door before he could stop you again. “We’re seeing Ningning today. I’ll be home late, so no need to make me dinner.”

Jaemin let out a frustrated sigh behind you. “Call me if you need me to pick you up.”

“I will,” you replied, but you didn’t look back. You definitely will not call him to pick you up.

Café dates with your friends were usually a safe space, a break from the chaos of college life. But today, your mind was still preoccupied, and no matter how hard you tried to be present, you kept zoning out, stirring your iced coffee with the straw until the ice had almost completely melted.

“You’re quiet today,” Karina noted, giving you a curious look.

You blinked, forcing a smile. “Huh? No, I’m fine.”

“You literally just sighed to yourself,” Ningning said flatly.

Giselle narrowed her eyes. “You’ve been acting weird since we got here. Spill it.”

You hesitated. Admitting this out loud made it feel too real. But the three of them were staring at you like interrogators, and you knew they weren’t going to let this go.

You exhaled, deciding to rip the band-aid off. “I’ve been thinking about something weird lately.”

Giselle leaned in, interested. “Weird how?”

You bit your lip, hesitating for just a second before blurting, “I just—” You exhaled sharply. “I just remembered that Jaemin was my first kiss.”

“WHAT?”

Their voices were too loud that it drew attention from the nearby tables. You winced, shushing them in a panic. “Hey, keep it down.”

“You just dropped a bomb on us, what do you expect?” Ningning whisper-yelled, looking personally offended that she was only learning this now.

Karina gaped at you. “Jaemin was your first kiss? How are you best friends with your first kiss?”

“I kinda forgot about it,” you admitted sheepishly. “It happened in high school. And I didn’t remember until recently.”

They exchanged looks, intrigue and disbelief dancing on their faces. Giselle was the first to recover. “Okay, wait. So, was it like, an actual kiss kiss? Or one of those lame pecks?”

You opened your mouth to answer but suddenly remembered just how intense it had actually been. Your face burned. Karina gasped. “Oh my god! It was a real kiss, wasn’t it?”

You groaned, dropping your head into your hands. “Can we not?”

“No, we absolutely can,” Ningning said, practically buzzing. “So? What does this mean? Do you—” she wiggled her brows, “—like him?”

“What? No!” you said immediately, way too defensive. “We were sixteen and dumb, playing seven minutes in heaven. I just— It’s weird, okay? It’s weird that I didn’t remember it, and now that I do, I can’t stop thinking about it.”

They exchanged another round of knowing looks. You hated it. “Guys, stop making me nervous.”

Ningning leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “Okay, but think about it. You’ve lived with Jaemin for how long now? Three weeks? And now is when you suddenly remember this? What if your brain suppressed it because it meant something?”

You gave her a deadpan look. “Yeah, I totally repressed my first kiss because I was secretly in love with Jaemin all this time. That makes so much sense.”

Karina tapped her nails against the table. “Actually, she has a point. You said you forgot it happened, right? But then all of a sudden, it just comes back out of nowhere? Why? What triggered it?”

You hesitated. “Remember last week when we were playing a game at the party? And you guys asked me about my first kiss?” They nodded. “Yeah, that’s when it came back to me. Now I can’t stop thinking about it. I’ve been acting all weird around him and he’s starting to notice.”

Karina’s eyes widened. “Oh my god, wait. What if the reason you forgot about it was because it would have changed the way you saw him back then? And now that you remembered it, you can’t unsee it because it’s been so long and he’s changed and you’ve changed and now he’s—”

“Hot,” Giselle finished, giving Karina a high-five after.

“Don’t say that,” you groaned.

“What? Hot?” Giselle snickered. “Why not? Jaemin is hot. Have you seen him?”

Karina grinned beside you. “Of course she’s seen him. They see each other 24/7 now.”

Ningning, just to fan the fire, said, “Bet he walks around shirtless after a shower.”

“Or when he gets back from the gym,” Giselle added, making all the girls oooh and fan their faces.

You stared at them, horrified. “You’re all insane.”

“Maybe, but you’re not saying we’re wrong,” Ningning said smugly. “Come on, babe. It’s okay to admit it. You like him. You want to kiss him again.”

“You guys are giving way too much meaning to something that happened years ago,” you insisted.

“Are we, though?” Giselle challenged. “Because we’re not the ones acting weird around our best friend over ‘something that happened years ago’,” she added, mimicking that way you spoke.

Karina tilted her head. "Yeah, why do you think that is?”

You opened your mouth to answer but came up empty. Because, ugh, they did have a point. It was just a kiss—one from years ago—but if it really was that meaningless, why were you spiraling?

“Wait, what about him?” Ningning prompted. “Does he remember that? Did he know that was your first kiss?”

Your stomach flipped at the question. “I’m not sure. I don’t think we ever talked about it.”

“What if,” Karina said, narrowing her eyes, “he remembers, but he never tried anything with you because he knows if you two cross that line, it changes everything.”

That thought sat uneasily in your chest. Giselle leaned back. “So. What are you gonna do about it?”

“Nothing,” you said immediately.

They groaned in unison. “You have to at least ask him,” Ningning urged.

“Why? That’s just gonna make things weirder.”

“What’s weird is that you’re spiraling over this instead of just asking,” Giselle pointed out.

Karina agreed. “Yeah. What if this is your ‘childhood best friends to lovers’ arc?”

You shot her a look. “This is not a K-drama.”

“But it could be.”

You let out a deep sigh, shaking your head. “Look, I’ll think about it, okay? But I’m not just gonna randomly ask him if he remembers a kiss from when we were sixteen.”

“You won’t have to,” Karina chimed. “We’ll help you figure out the perfect way to bring it up.”

You had a feeling you were going to regret this.

Giselle smirked, stirring her drink. “See, this is why I always say men and women can’t be just friends.”

“We totally can,” you countered.

“Sure, whatever,” she said, unimpressed. “But at some point in every guy-girl friendship, there’s gonna be a small phase where one of them saw the other romantically. Or, in your case, had a history of sharing something as special as a first kiss.”

Your friends began teasing you about it. You could only frown and say nothing. Because, for the first time, you weren’t entirely sure if she was wrong.

Mark Lee was the last person you expected to run into.

You had been walking back to your apartment, your mind still agonizing about your conversation with your friends. The moment you spotted him, standing by the trunk of a car and hoisting a duffel bag over his shoulder, you almost gasped.

“Mark?” you called out, making him glance at you.

His face lit up in recognition. “No way. Look who it is.”

You walked towards him, smiling. “Hi.”

He shut the trunk with a firm thud and slung his bag higher onto his shoulder, his eyes scanning you briefly. “It’s been a while. You still live here?”

“Yeah,” you said. “You?”

“Nah, I’m actually moving out,” Mark replied. “I graduated last semester.”

Your brows lifted slightly. “Oh. Congratulations. I almost forgot you were a year ahead of us.”

“Thanks.” He grinned, rubbing the back of his neck. “Feels weird, though. Like, I don’t think it’s hit me yet that I’m actually done with college.

“Four years of studying will probably do that to you,” you replied, chuckling.

“Four and a half for me,” he said, shaking his head.

You just nodded, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. A comfortable silence settled between you. It was nice seeing him, but now that you were talking to him, you realized you really didn’t have anything in common that you could talk about. You weren’t in the same circle of friends, nor were you particularly close. The only connection you had with him was Donghyuck.

“Hey, uh…” You saw hesitation flicker across his face before he offered a small smile. “I heard about Mykonos, Donghyuck and… everything.”

“Oh.” You froze, huffing a small laugh. “Yeah. That happened.”

“Are you okay?”

“Of course. I’m fine. I’m fine now. I wasn’t but, I am now,” you explained, not wanting to divulge more. You didn’t want to ask. You could’ve just left it at that—just another casual encounter with an old neighbor. But before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out.

“How is he? Donghyuck…”

Mark shrugged as if he was expecting you to ask that. “He’s fine, I think. He’s studying there and actually putting in the work to get good grades. We text here and there, and I saw him when I went home after graduation. He looks the same, still insufferable and an idiot, but… he’s okay.”

A strange feeling settled in your chest—something between relief and disappointment. Mark must have sensed something because he tilted his head slightly and showed a ‘calling’ gesture with his hand. “You wanna—?”

“No.” You cut him off before he could even suggest it. “It’s for the best.”

Mark let out a soft chuckle. “Alright. Well, I’ll tell him you said hi.”

You nodded. “Yeah. Thanks. Take care, Mark.”

“You too.” And just like that, another piece of Donghyuck slipped through your fingers.

When you stepped into your apartment, the silence was almost jarring. No sounds of Jaemin humming to himself in the kitchen. No sight of him sprawled on the couch watching something ridiculous. The place felt... empty.

For a second, you thought maybe he was out. Then, you spotted his shoes by the door and figured he must be sleeping. Good. You weren’t in the mood to interact.

You went straight to your room, shedding your jacket and tossing your bag onto the chair. The moment you entered the bathroom, you turned the shower on, letting the water heat up as you pulled off your clothes. Under the spray, you closed your eyes, tilting your head back as the warmth soaked into your skin.

Donghyuck.

It hasn’t even been a year, yet somehow, it felt longer than that. You used to be neighbors. It used to annoy you when Donghyuck brought girls over, when the sounds of them having sex echoed faintly through your walls. That was before you knew what it was like to spend an entire summer with him—before you knew what it was like to fall into something messy and thrilling and impossible to forget.

You exhaled sharply and shut off the water. It was enough to know that he was doing well. That he was living his life properly. You weren’t hurt by what happened anymore, surprisingly. But a part of you still wished you were able to talk to him before he left. You deserved a proper goodbye. Especially with the scars left by that fateful event.

“Tragic,” you muttered to yourself, rubbing the scar on your elbow.

The bathroom was still warm with steam when you stepped out, a towel wrapped loosely around your body. Water dripped from your damp hair, trailing down your shoulders, but you barely noticed. Your thoughts were still in the past. You needed something to calm your nerves. Maybe tea.

You crossed the hallway to the kitchen, moving straight to the overhead cupboard. You stretched up on your toes, fingers barely grazing the box of tea on the top shelf but you couldn’t get it. Annoying. You tried again, straining a little harder but then suddenly, something brushed against your back.

You stiffened, breath catching as you turned only to find yourself face-to-face with Jaemin. Or rather, face-to-chest.

He had stepped up behind you so quietly you hadn’t even noticed, one arm reaching past you to grab the tea. His other hand rested against the counter beside you, blocking you in without even realizing it.

Your gaze flickered up just as he glanced down, and that’s when you realized how close you were. He was close. Really close.

His face was just inches from yours, close enough that you could catch the familiar scent of his detergent mixed with something distinctly him. His chest barely touched yours, but you felt every shift, every breath. The towel around you suddenly felt too thin.

Jaemin held the tea between you, as if just now realizing the way you were staring at him.

But instead of taking it, you asked, “Do you remember the time we played Seven Minutes in Heaven?”

You caught the small shift in his expression. Surely he’d know which specific time you were talking about right? If he remembered that kiss at all, surely he wouldn’t be confused and assume you were talking about all the times you’d played seven minutes in heaven?

But his response came quickly and with certainty. “I do.”

Your eyes traced his features, noting the way his gaze flickered downward to your chest, a split-second slip before he caught himself and turned his head slightly, jaw tensing. Your chest rose with a shallow breath.

“Did you know that was my first kiss?”

Jaemin was still looking away, but you saw his throat bob as he swallowed. “I think you mentioned it,” he admitted.

Your fingers twitched before you lifted a hand to his cheek, your palm grazing the sharp line of his jaw before settling at the curve of his neck. His skin was warm beneath your touch, and his pulse was steady but strong.

“Then why did we both forget it ever happened?” you asked softly, eyes fixed on his lips, so close and so inviting.

Jaemin finally met your gaze. His lips parted as if to say something, but then he stopped. His eyes lowered, and when he looked at you again, his expression had changed.

“I didn’t forget.”

The words sent warmth through you. Your heart pounded in your ears as your fingers pressed lightly against his skin. Something about the way he was looking at you made it impossible to breathe, impossible to think. So you did the only thing your body seemed to understand at that moment—you rose to your tiptoes and kissed him.

Jaemin didn’t hesitate. His hands found your waist as he pulled you flush against him, his lips molding against yours, deep and persistent. Heat prickled at your skin, your fingers tightening in his hair as you tugged him closer for more. His grip on you was firm and possessive, and for a moment, nothing else mattered but the way he was kissing you back.

Then a voice in your head screamed at you to stop.

You pushed him away, breathless, panic creeping into your heart as your hands pressed firmly on his chest. “This doesn’t mean anything.”

The words came out fast and desperate, but it sounded more like a statement to yourself than to him. Jaemin backed away, studying your face as he nodded slowly.

“Okay,” he breathed, and you weren’t sure if he meant it because it was impossible to read the expression on his face.

Either way, you didn’t have time to dwell on it. You held your towel in place and walked away.

Jaemin didn’t argue. He didn’t try to stop you as you turned and hurried away, leaving behind the forgotten tea and the line you’d crossed to the point of no return.

The next morning, you did what any sane person would do—you pretended last night never happened.

You took your time getting out of bed, hoping that by the time you stepped into the kitchen, Jaemin would be gone. No such luck. He was sitting on the couch in the living room, looking relaxed and unbothered, like he hadn’t kissed you breathless in the kitchen less than twelve hours ago.

You ignored him. Moving around the kitchen, you focused on your routine—heat up leftovers, pour yourself some water, avoid looking in his direction. But you could feel his gaze on you, lazy and knowing, like he was waiting for something.

When you reached for a mug, his voice cut through the quiet. “The tea’s in the drawer. In case you want it.”

Your fingers twitched. You didn’t turn around, didn’t react, but you heard the insinuation in his tone, the meaning hiding between the lines. Still, you said nothing. You weren’t going to give him the satisfaction

Later that day, you met up with your friends at the quad, lounging on the grass as the afternoon sun dipped lower in the sky. The conversation was light and fun, and for a moment, you were free from the clutches of Jaemin’s infuriatingly charming grin.

That is until he came strutting in with Renjun, drinks in hand.

Renjun handed the drink one-by-one. He’d asked if you girls wanted something from the cafe while he was there, so you texted him your orders. But now that he was handing you the iced tea you asked for, you hesitated to accept it.

“I’ll have coffee instead,” you said, pushing the drink back toward him.

Renjun frowned. “What? But you asked for iced tea? Honey lemon, right?”

Yes, right. But that was before you knew he’d be coming back with Na Jaemin. “I changed my mind.”

Jaemin, who had been watching the exchange, chuckled under his breath. “You don’t want your tea?” You shot him a warning glare, but he only smiled. He took his coffee and held it out to you instead. “Here, you can have mine. I’ll take the tea.”

You didn’t want to take anything from him, but declining again would make it obvious. So you exhaled sharply and snatched the cup from his hand, ignoring the way he grinned. Then, just as you took a sip, Jaemin said,

“You sure you don’t want your tea? You seemed pretty desperate for it last night.”

You nearly choked. Your grip on the cup tightened as heat flared up your cheeks. Jaemin only sipped his drink, looking perfectly fine while you struggled not to just go ahead and strangle him.

Before you could say anything, Giselle, who had been oblivious to the tension, turned to the group with a casual, “So, what were you guys like in high school?”

Karina, clearly picking up on her intention, hummed in thought. “High school me? Pretty boring, honestly. I was too busy studying to get a proper life.”

“What? Don’t tell me you didn’t get kissed in high school?”

“I did, of course. But not as much as I wished,” Karina replied, shaking her head. “My first kiss was because of a dare.”

“So is mine,” Giselle added, glancing sideways at you. “It was with my crush, but I stopped liking him after because he was such a lousy kisser.”

Then she turned to Jaemin. “What about you? Do you remember yours?”

You froze, realizing right then what they were doing. They had promised to help you figure out if Jaemin remembered that kiss all those years ago. And judging by the direction of this conversation, this was the help they meant. Not that it was necessary anymore. You had already asked him yourself.

But you couldn’t exactly tell them that. So you stayed silent, waiting, heart pounding a little too fast as Jaemin leaned back on his hands.

And then, he looked right at you. “I don’t remember my first kiss, exactly,” he said smoothly. “I do remember kissing someone recently, though.”

Your stomach dropped. His words sent a jolt of something hot through your veins—half panic, half something you didn’t know you’d feel for your best friend. You stared at him, pulse thundering in your ears, as his lips curved into the slightest smirk.

You were going to kill him.

But not right now. You were gonna take your time and kill him with no witness. So for now, you kept your distance. Even as the day stretched on, even as Jaemin hovered near, you refused to acknowledge him. When it was his turn to talk, you busied yourself with your phone. When he laughed at something, you pretended not to hear. And when it was finally time to head home, you walked ahead, ignoring the way he naturally fell into step beside you.

He didn’t say anything about it. Not once did he call your name or try to slow you down. At the apartment, you swung the door open and stepped inside first, not bothering to hold it for him. You kicked off your shoes, tossed your bag onto the couch, and started toward your bedroom.

But then he called your name and that made your patience snap.

“What is wrong with you?” you huffed, gesturing at him.

Jaemin’s voice was teasing, “What? What did I do?”

You narrowed your eyes. “You keep bringing it up.”

Jaemin didn’t even blink. “Bringing what up?”

You narrowed your eyes. “You know what.”

He tilted his head, feigning innocence. “I really don’t.”

You scoffed, stepping closer. “The kiss, Jaemin. You keep hinting at it. You were so obvious, you might as well have just announced it to everyone.”

Jaemin simply shrugged, the smirk on his lips irritating you more. “I wasn’t obvious. You’re the only one who noticed.”

“Why were you doing it in the first place?” you demanded, stepping right into his space. “I told you, that kiss didn’t mean anything.”

Jaemin’s gaze flickered. He stayed quiet for half a second too long before he closed the gap between you. You stepped back, suddenly nervous at how close he was being. He kept at it, stepping closer while you stepped back until your back hit your bedroom door.

“If it didn’t mean anything,” he said, voice slow and teasing, “why are you so worked up about it?”

You didn’t have an answer to that, and he knew it. He was watching you too closely, too carefully, catching the way your lips parted, then closed again.

So you did what you always did when backed into a corner. You brushed it off. “Just forget it ever happened,” you muttered, looking away.

Jaemin studied you for a second, then exhaled through his nose. “No.”

“Yes!” you insisted.

There was a long pause. Then, he sighed like he wasn’t happy about it but was willing to let you have this. “Fine.”

“Good.” You turned back toward your door, gripping the handle with a sigh of relief. But just as you started to push it open Jaemin tugged your wrist lightly, just enough to make you turn slightly toward him.

Eyes gleaming mischievously, he asked, “Wanna do it again?”

Heat shot up your cheeks, exasperation and something dangerously close to exhilaration rushing through you despite the fact that you should have been pissed.“Stop,” you said, exasperated, shoving the door closed in his face.

“Oh my god, stop it,” you muttered, slapping your palm on his chest and shoving the door closed in his face.

Only to rip it open a second later.

Jaemin barely had time to react because you quickly grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him down, pressing your lips to his in a kiss that was deep, hot, and feverish. Jaemin responded instantly, hands firm on your waist as he backed you against the doorframe, tilting his head to deepen the kiss.

It was intoxicating, dizzying—the way he kissed, the way he held you like he’d been waiting for this. But just before the moment took over completely, you pulled away, catching your breath.

Jaemin stared at you, lips parted, chest rising and falling. You stared into his eyes, then at his lips, biting your own as you savored the lingering sensations he’d left behind.

“You liked that?” he teased, catching the way you were looking at him. Flustered, you swallowed and quickly stepped back into your room, locking the door behind you before you could do something reckless again.

You leaned against it, heart racing, lips tingling, your skin still burning from the way he touched you. Then you heard him chuckle softly on the other side before he rapped his fist on the door, the sound startling you.

“You kissed me first, alright?” he called out, and you could almost hear the grin in his voice. “So you better not skip dinner because of this.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, biting back a smile. Then, with a quiet groan, you slid down to the floor, pressing your hands over your face and kicking your legs in the air as you tried your best not to squeal.

You told yourself it wouldn’t happen again. But then it did. It started small, so small that it was easy to pretend it was nothing. Like that morning in the kitchen when you were making coffee, and Jaemin leaned against the counter beside you, too close, as always. He watched as you poured sugar into your mug, his gaze intent and knowing.

“That’s too sweet,” he commented.

You paused, the spoon clinking against the ceramic. “It’s not. You just like yours bitter and sad.”

Jaemin hummed in amusement, then he said, “I like my coffee bitter, but I’ve been told many times that my kisses are very sweet.”

You scoffed, taking the spoon out of your mug and turning to raise an eyebrow at him. “You telling me you’ve kissed lots of people isn’t really convincing me to kiss you again.”

“Oh, I’m not trying to convince you yet,” he replied, grinning playfully. Without warning, he reached out and brushed a strand of hair from your face. Then he leaned forward to press a soft peck on your cheek. “This is me convincing you.”

You stared at him, unimpressed, and took a step back with your mug. “Not working.”

Jaemin only smirked. You sighed, turning away to grab some bread from the overhead cupboard. The moment your fingers came up short, he stepped in behind you, reaching for it easily. You exhaled at sudden feeling of a deja vu.

He held it out casually. “Here.”

But when you reached for it, he pulled it back—just far enough to make you glare at him—before swooping in and stealing a kiss from your lips.

You froze, still gripping your coffee. Jaemin, meanwhile, took your other hand, placed the bread in it, and patted your head like nothing had happened. Then he walked away whistling, leaving you standing there, mildly annoyed.

You recovered quickly though, placing the mug and the bread on the countertop and trudging toward him with heavy steps. Jaemin noticed and turned to look at you with that stupid smirk he always had.

“Oh, hi. What are you—”

You grabbed his collar and pulled him down, cutting him off with your lips pressed firmly against his. It was deep and reckless, but only for a few seconds. When you pulled away, Jaemin looked shocked.

And then he smirked. “Oh,” he mused, tilting his head. “So now you’re playing my game?”

You scoffed, tightening your grip on his shirt. “What game?” you asked before kissing him again.

And from then on, it was like a challenge. In your shared apartment, in the moments in between, in the spaces where no one was watching—you both kept crossing that line, over and over again.

A stolen kiss behind the bookshelf at the library. A lazy makeout session in the empty hallway of your apartment when you both got home late. A whispered “You drive me crazy,” before Jaemin kissed you stupid against the fridge door one evening, his hands firm on your waist, your fingers tangling in his hair, neither of you stopping until the timer on the microwave beeped.

And through it all, neither of you ever talked about it. Because if you did—if you admitted how much you wanted it—you wouldn’t be able to stop. If you acknowledged what was really happening, you’d have to stop pretending that it was nothing. That it didn’t mean anything. And that was something you weren’t ready for.

And then there was that night on the couch.

It had started with an old movie playing on the TV, both of you sitting closely and sharing a blanket. Jaemin had his arm on the back of the couch, fingers idly playing with the strands of your hair. It was harmless at first, but then his fingers trailed down the back of your neck, light and slow, and you felt goosebumps all over your body.

You turned your head slightly to look at him, only to find that he was already staring at you. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were dark and focused. You opened your mouth to say something—anything—but Jaemin was faster. His fingers tipped your chin, tilting your face toward his as he leaned in.

The first kiss was soft, almost hesitant. But then you sighed into it, melting just enough for him to take control. His hand slipped to the back of your neck, and before you knew it, you were on your back, Jaemin hovering over you without breaking the kiss.

The movie was forgotten, its noise fading into the background as the sound of your shallow breaths echoed in the room. His kisses trailed lower, grazing your jaw, all the way down to your throat. You gasped when he found a spot just beneath your ear, his teeth nipping at it before soothing the bite with his tongue.

“Jaemin,” you murmured, your fingers slipping into the back collar of his shirt, feeling the warmth of his skin underneath.

“Mmh,” he hummed against your skin, not stopping.

His hands were already sliding under your sweater, warm against your bare skin. Your legs parted beneath him, your body arching into his touch before you could stop yourself.

And then when his hand dipped down to your lower abdomen, you tensed. Not because you didn’t want it, but because you did. Too much. Jaemin must have felt it because he paused immediately. His lips hovered over your collarbone, his breathing unsteady, before he finally pulled back just enough to look at you.

His voice was low when he asked, “Should we stop?”

You swallowed hard, nodding against your wishes. “Yeah. We probably should.”

Neither of you moved for a moment. His hands were still on you, your fingers brushing his back, and it would’ve been so easy to pull him back down, to let him keep going. But then he exhaled, forcing himself to sit up, and you followed, scooting to put a little space between you.

The movie was still playing, though neither of you paid it any attention. Jaemin ran a hand through his hair, glancing at you with a half-smirk, though his voice was rough when he spoke.

“We’re really bad at pretending this is nothing, you know.”

You let out a breathy laugh, shaking your head as you folded your legs beneath you. “You’re right. It’s ridiculous.”

And just like that, it was over. For now, at least.

There was a strange feeling in your chest lately, something you couldn’t quite put a name to. Like the rush of something new, conflicting with the pressure of something unresolved.

You had spent the past weeks trying not to think too hard about Jaemin, about the way your lips kept finding his, about how easy it was to pretend nothing had changed when, deep down, you knew everything had.

But pretending only worked for so long. Because no matter how much you tried to move forward, some things still followed behind you. Some things still had a hold on you, however faint. And just as you were starting to believe you had left it all in Mykonos, there he was.

Donghyuck.

Standing just outside the campus gates, hands in his pockets, bouncing lightly on his heels with an impatient look on his face, as if he’d been standing there for a long time now. He was waiting for someone, but the moment his eyes landed on you, his face broke into a wide grin.

And just like that, all the hesitation that had been creeping up inside you disappeared. You ran across the quad toward him. “Hyuck!”

His laughter was warm as you threw your arms around him, his embrace just as familiar as you remembered. He still smelled like summer—bright, musky, and reckless, even in the cool autumn air.

“I was waiting here expecting you’d ignore me,” he teased, pulling back to look at you. “I would’ve chased you down if you did, though.”

You rolled your eyes, stepping back, but there was no denying the way your heart ached a little. Not in the way it used to, but in the way that happens when you reunite with someone who once held every piece of you in their hands.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you at all,” you admitted. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you. Why else would I be here if not for you?” Donghyuck said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m not here to get back together or anything. Not that you were expecting me to.”

You let out a small chuckle, but he wasn’t wrong. That thought had never crossed your mind. “You wish I want you back, don’t you?” you teased, making him laugh.

“Do you have time? Can we talk?” he asked, motioning outside the gates.

“Absolutely,” you replied without missing a beat, following after him.

You walked from the campus to the nearby cafe where you ordered food and spent the first few minutes laughing and talking about stupid things. Then the conversation turned serious, which was not something that often happened between the two of you, but you listened to what he had to say anyway.

“I really, really wanted to stay and wait for you to wake up,” he began, referring to when you had a coma after being run over by a car. “But it was out of my hands and I haven’t been on my best behavior for the longest time so… that was the last straw. My parents were furious and Hyung had no choice but to send me back.”

You bit your lip, nodding. “I figured you weren’t allowed to contact me after that?”

“Oh, I wish it was only that,” he scoffed, shaking his head. “Because then I would have had chances to contact you in secret. But I wasn’t allowed any electronics at all. Not a phone, not even the computers at uni. I could only meet my friends at home and their phones are confiscated before they even step into the house.”

You winced. “That’s awful.”

He sighed. “You have no idea. I was going nuts! They put me in rehab too for my drinking problems.”

“You had drinking problems?”

“I have drinking habits that they didn’t like so they saw it as a problem.” He chuckled, flashing that boyish smirk you used to hate but had grown to love. “What about you? How are you doing? I heard you skipped a semester?”

“Well, moving on from something that major wasn’t exactly a walk in the park,” you replied, laughing at your own expense. You told him what had happened after that summer. How you came home heartbroken and sad. How you had to get therapy because you were showing signs of depression. How you moved on from it all but still didn’t know how to properly live the life you used to have before that summer. It was a six-month battle and it had been ten months since that fateful summer, but looking back on it now, it felt so much longer than that.

“I’m glad I came. I owed you an explanation, so I had to find a way,” he said, his voice softening. “And I wanted to see how you were doing.”

Something in your chest tightened. You had spent the past months wishing that fate would at least grant you this—closure, a proper goodbye. And now that it was here, it felt like a load was being taken off of your shoulders.

“I’m doing okay,” you said honestly. “And thanks… For coming, I mean. And for being safe.”

Donghyuck smiled wistfully. “I have Taeyong Hyung to thank for that. He convinced our parents to let me come. Told them I needed to ‘learn from the field.’” He made air quotes, then dropped his hands with a small shrug. “Truth is, he just wanted to help me see you.”

Your lips parted slightly, but before you could say anything, Donghyuck grinned. “Guess I’m still the guy who gets what I want, huh?”

You laughed despite yourself. “Looks like it.”

“Yeah. Not all the time now, though. Just sometimes.”

It was strange, this conversation. Maybe time really does heal everything, or maybe you were already healed on your own before today. Either way, as you sat there with Donghyuck laughing, catching up, and looking back on the wildest days of your youth so far, your heart felt lighter and the world seemed to shine brighter with his smile.

“That’s my ride,” he said at one point, looking outside the cafe. You followed his gaze and spotted Taeyong standing by the curb, leaning against the car, waiting.

You turned back to Donghyuck, feeling just a tiny bit sad that this chat was almost over. “Well. I guess this is it.”

He nodded, watching you carefully. “Don’t forget me, okay?”

You let out a breathy chuckle, shaking your head. “I don’t think I could if I tried. This scar right here spells your name out,” you quipped, pointing to the scar on your elbow which you got from the accident.

Donghyuck reached to feel it, his touch gentle and warm. “Sorry about that.”

“Don’t be,” you said, watching his solemn expression. “I got it after you saved me, so, thank you for this.”

Something passed through his eyes, something unreadable that he masked with a smirk. “Yeah. Not really exciting. I’m more used to leaving bruises on your neck than scars that don’t disappear.”

You rolled your eyes playfully. “Sucks to be you. You won’t be leaving bruises on this neck anymore.”

Donghyuck made a show of clutching his broken heart. “What have I done?” he whined, fake-crying.

That made you laugh, and in the quiet that followed, you reached forward and squeezed his hand, offering him one last comforting smile. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

“You too,” he murmured, squeezing your hand back.

As you both stepped out of the cafe, you turned to Taeyong, who gave you a small nod, like he knew what this moment meant to you. “Thanks,” you told him sincerely.

He didn’t ask questions, just nodded again and slipped into the car with Donghyuck. You watched them drive away with a comforting sense of fulfillment blooming in your chest. Then you noticed a presence appearing beside you, and you didn’t even have to turn to know who it was.

“You good?” Jaemin asked, peering down at your face.

You chuckled, linking your arm through his as you started walking. “I’m fine. We had our closure. He’s okay, and I’m okay. So I’m fine.”

“Good. I was just asking to make sure you didn’t break down crying,” he teased.

You scoffed, hitting his arm. “That’s right. Make fun of someone’s heart ache. Ha. Ha. Ha.”

Jaemin grinned, giving your hand a small squeeze. The moment passed, fading into the rest of your day.

You weren’t sure when it started feeling different. Maybe it was after the first time you grabbed him by the collar and kissed him. Or maybe it was in the moments in between, the ones that had nothing to do with kissing.

But the kissing didn’t stop. It was easy to blame it on your body. That was the logical answer, wasn’t it? You hadn’t had any action in a while, and now Jaemin was right there, warm and solid, tempting and willing. The way he kissed you made your skin burn, made your stomach flutter, made you crave more. It had to be that. Just chemistry. Just a reaction to touch and proximity—a biological response, if you please.

And yet, in the late hours of the night, when you lay in bed staring at the ceiling, it was never just the stolen kisses that stayed in your mind.

It was the way he always waited for you after class. The way he pulled you to the inside of the sidewalk when you walked together, his hand pressing lightly against your lower back. The way he noticed when you were exhausted and handed you a water bottle before you even asked. The way he listened intently whenever you spoke, no matter how insignificant the topic was.

Jaemin had always been like this. Thoughtful. Gentle. Attentive in ways no one else was. But now, it made you wonder, was it really just because you were his best friend? Or had he always seen you more than just a friend and you were just too blind, too caught up in your own world, to realize it?

It bothered you more than you wanted to admit. It followed you through every sneaky kiss, every whispered tease against your lips, every smirk before he kissed you breathless against some forgotten corner of your apartment. Until, one day, it became too much.

Jaemin was being especially affectionate that afternoon. Not in the usual teasing way, not in the way that led to secret kisses or knowing glances. He was just doting. Leaning close, brushing your hair back, tucking it behind your ear. Making sure you weren’t too cold, giving you his jacket before you even noticed the cold. He smiled at you like you hung the damn stars, his eyes soft and fond.

And you snapped. “Can you please stop acting like my boyfriend?” you blurted, voice sharper than intended.

Jaemin froze, his hands pausing in the middle of adjusting your sleeve. His brows lifted just slightly, before his expression carefully smoothed over.

“Right,” he said lightly like it was no big deal. But his hands dropped from you, and his gaze grew colder.

You expected him to say something else, maybe throw out a cocky remark, maybe push back. But he just stepped away, nodding like he understood, and left you standing there without another word.

And for some reason, that felt worse than if he had argued with you.

Maybe it was for the best. For the next few days, you and Jaemin kept a comfortable distance from each other. No more stolen moments hidden from other people’s eyes. No more lingering touches. No more knowing glances. You admit it was hard to get used to it, but it was better that way.

One afternoon, when the sun was gentle enough for you to hang out at the quad, and the atmosphere was just like every other day with the usual campus chatter, students huddled in groups, couples hanging out by the benches, laughter echoing from clusters of friends. You were walking with Karina, listening to her rant about an upcoming exam, when something caught your eye.

Jaemin.

He stood a short distance away, his hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie, a relaxed smile on his lips. Beside him, a girl laughed at something he said, her head tilting back slightly, short blonde hair falling over her shoulder. She was pretty—undeniably so. And Jaemin was watching her laugh—amused, warm, unbothered.

“Who’s that?” The question left your mouth before you could think twice about it.

Karina followed your gaze and made a noise of recognition. “Oh. That’s Minjeong.”

You blinked. The name was vaguely familiar, but not enough for you to immediately place it. “Minjeong?”

Karina turned to you, looking genuinely surprised. “You know, Winter? Jaemin’s ex. You seriously don’t remember?”

Oh. That Minjeong.

You remember her now. She was the girl he had dated last year, the one he had broken up with after a short while. You hadn’t paid much attention to her then—Jaemin had simply told you they didn’t see eye to eye, and you hadn’t questioned it. He never seemed all that affected by the breakup, so you figured it hadn’t been anything serious. But now, standing there watching them, a strange thought lodged itself in your mind. Jaemin lied.

Because right now, they looked like they were seeing eye to eye just fine.

You swallowed, looking away before you could overthink it any further. Karina, thankfully, moved the conversation along.

“By the way,” she started, narrowing her eyes slightly, “what’s up with you and Jaemin?”

Your head snapped toward her. “Nothing.”

She gave you a skeptical look. “Really? Because you two seem kinda distant lately. Did you fight?”

“No,” you answered quickly. Because technically, you hadn’t. “There’s no reason for us to fight.”

Karina hummed, unconvinced. “Okay. That’s even more suspicious.”

You frowned. “How is that suspicious?”

“Because you and Jaemin always come up with things to fight about,” she said simply. “If you’re not overly clingy, you’re fighting about something minor. It’s always one or the other.”

You exhaled sharply. “We didn’t fight. And we’re not distant. We’re just being… friends. Like usual.”

“Okay, let’s just say I believe that and you’re not very suspicious right now because I have a feeling you’d snap at me if I push your buttons,” said Karina, stepping back a little.

You rolled your eyes, brushing her comments aside. She wasn’t wrong. You and Jaemin were either attached by the hip or fighting, no in between. You bickered, pushed and pulled like it was second nature. But lately...

Lately, he had given you space. After what you’d said to him, after the way his expression had cooled and he had simply left, he had kept his distance. And somehow, that felt worse than all the arguments in the world.

It was cliché at this point. Your life wasn’t some rom-com flick, but it seemed to be thriving on predictable storylines. Like right now—just when you were struggling to figure out what to do about this whole mess with Jaemin, of course, someone had to show up to stir things up.

Admitting you were jealous was the last thing you wanted to do. Because doing so meant admitting that you liked him as more than a friend. And acknowledging that meant defeat. You didn’t like defeat. Love and relationships had defeated you several times before. You weren’t about to let it happen again.

And yet, there she was. Minjeong—Winter—whatever people called her now. She was pretty. Endearing. Adorable, even. The kind of girl that made it impossible to dislike her. And that just made it worse.

She was likable. Genuinely likable. You couldn’t even bring yourself to hate her, which would have been easier. But that didn’t change the fact that seeing her next to Jaemin made something twist in your chest

And Jaemin? He looked… happy? That smile, the way his eyes crinkled as he watched her laugh at something he said. It was the kind of look you’d seen a hundred times before, but right now, you hated it. Right now, you wanted to forfeit your pride, march over there, and pull him away from her.

Which was stupid. You were being stupid. You took a deep breath, shaking off the thought just as you passed their table.

“Lunch?” Jaemin offered casually, as if he weren’t sitting there with his ex.

You barely spared him a glance. “No, thanks,” you said curtly, your voice colder than you intended. You walked past him and went straight to your friends’ table.

Karina raised an eyebrow when you plopped down across from her, stabbing your fork into your food a little too aggressively. “So… that’s a ‘no’ to talking things out?” she asked dryly.

You exhaled sharply, refusing to look back at Jaemin’s table. “There’s nothing to talk about,” you muttered.

Karina hummed, clearly unconvinced. “Right. And I’m Beyonce’s daughter.”

You weren’t proud of it, but your mood had been awful all week. You snapped at Renjun over something trivial, ignored Jaemin’s messages, and couldn’t focus in class because every time you blinked, you saw her—Winter, laughing, tilting her head toward Jaemin like he was the most interesting person in the room. And Jaemin? He was eating it up.

You buried yourself in your studies, submitting assignments ahead of deadline, studying for quizzes, and doing advance reading. You used to hate presentations, but you were thankful for having one because you had something to keep your mind off of things.

But at the end of the day, when you were done with everything and fatigue was catching up to you fast, all you wanted was a familiar, comforting presence to keep you sane. Giselle and Karina were unavailable. Renjun might be free but you weren’t close enough to hang out with just the two of you.

Jaemin was your only choice. Not that it was because you were out of options, in fact, he’d always been the first choice. So when you finally caved and texted him, you were completely caught off-guard by his answer.

You: Are you free? Nana: No.

It was a simple response. Nothing inherently wrong with it. But it didn’t come with an apology, or an I’ll see you later, or even a What’s up?—just No.

And that stung, squeezing painfully at your heart. But what really did it was seeing him a few minutes later, leaving the library with Winter, laughing at something she said.

You were sitting on the steps just outside the entrance, waiting for Giselle, when you spotted them. Jaemin had his hands in his pockets, casual and unbothered, while Winter gestured about something, her voice cute and teasing. They stopped a few feet away, still talking, and you had a front-row seat to the easy, unhurried way Jaemin listened to her, the amused smirk tugging at his lips.

He looked like he had all the time in the world for her. Not even a few minutes ago, he had been too busy for you.

You sat there, gripping your phone, overthinking every possible meaning behind this moment. Had he chosen to spend time with her instead? Was he making some kind of decision without telling you?

And then, as if he could sense someone’s eyes on him, Jaemin turned his head, his eyes landing on you.

Your heart leaped to your throat. This was it. This was the moment where he’d see you, where he’d realize you were right there, waiting. Where he’d excuse himself and come over because that’s just what Jaemin would do.

Except… he didn’t. He looked at you, waved with a smile, then turned back to Winter and kept walking.

The impact was immediate, a slap to the face without ever being touched. You didn’t even realize Giselle had arrived until she waved a hand in front of your face. “Earth to you. Are you okay?”

You exhaled through your nose, keeping a neutral expression. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

You stood up, stuffing your hands into your jacket pockets, willing yourself not to look back. But Giselle had seen exactly what you had been staring at.

“Huh,” she mused as you both started walking. “Didn’t expect that.”

You sighed. “Expect what?”

Giselle jerked her chin toward Jaemin and Winter. “Them, hanging out again. I thought they ended things on bad terms.”

Your fingers curled inside your pockets. “You knew about them?”

Giselle shot you a confused look. “Of course, I knew. You did too. She used to give Jaemin hell for always hanging out with you.”

Your steps faltered. Right, there was that. If the two of them were together trying to rekindle their old relationship, of course, she wouldn’t want Jaemin hanging out with you. She used to hate it before, and she had no reason to like it now. Especially if she knew you and Jaemin had crossed the line.

But knowing that made you angrier. Why would he try to get back with his ex just days after being rejected by you? Was Jaemin always like this? Fickle and move on to the next girl as soon as he was done with one?

You knew you were overthinking things. You knew Jaemin wasn't that kind of guy. But the thought still made you seethe.

Jaemin was waiting when you got home. You barely glanced at him as you kicked off your shoes and tossed your bag onto the couch, your exhaustion amplified with irritation. You had spent hours at the café, helping yourself to a single drink, scrolling mindlessly through your phone, trying (and failing) to distract yourself from the mess in your head.

“Where were you?” Jaemin asked, his voice casual. “Had dinner yet?”

You didn’t look at him as you walked toward the kitchen. “Out. And I’m not hungry.”

Jaemin, of course, didn’t let that slide. “Out where?”

You opened the fridge, staring blankly at its contents. “Why do you care?”

Silence. Then, slowly, carefully, he said, “Are you mad? You sound mad.”

That did it. The way he said it like he genuinely didn’t know, like he couldn’t possibly fathom why you might be upset, snap the tiny thread holding your patience together. You shut the fridge door, finally turning to face him. “Why would I be mad, Jaemin?” you said, voice cool, almost mocking. “It’s not like I expected anything from you.”

Jaemin blinked, caught off guard. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You tell me.” You crossed your arms, your pulse hammering. “I asked if you were free. You said no. And then five minutes later, there you were, walking out of the library with your ex-girlfriend who used to hate my guts. Laughing, smiling, acting like you had all the time in the world.”

Realization dawned in his eyes, but he didn’t say anything, so you pushed further, your voice gaining an edge. “So forgive me for assuming I wasn’t worth squeezing into your very busy schedule, and getting mad about it.”

Jaemin exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. “Are you serious?”

You laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Oh, I promise you, I’m dead serious.”

“You’re mad because I was with Winter?”

“I don’t know, Jaemin, should I be?”

His expression darkened. “Oh, come on. You know what that was.”

“Do I?” You shot back. “Because from where I was sitting, it looked a hell of a lot like you choosing her over me.”

Jaemin stared at you, his jaw tightening. “That’s not what that was! You’re jumping into conclusion and it’s not fair.”

“Neither is you acting like I’m supposed to be fine with being ditched without so much as an explanation! You’re the one who acted like you’d literally combust if I so much as disappear from your sight, now you pick someone over me like I’m nothing?” The words came out louder than you intended, echoing in the small space between you.

The silence that followed was loud and suffocating. Jaemin took a step closer, his voice softer now, but no less intense. “You’re the one who told me to stop acting like your boyfriend.”

Your breath caught in your throat, but he wasn’t done yet. “And now, what? You’re mad that I did?” He tilted his head, eyes searching yours. “What do you want?”

You wanted to yell at him. To push him away. To tell him he was an idiot for not knowing, for not seeing. But you had to stop yourself. Because to answer that question, to say the words out loud, meant admitting the truth. And you weren’t ready for that.

So you did what you always did when things got too real. You turned away. “Forget it,” you muttered, moving to walk past him.

Jaemin didn’t let you. Before you could take another step, his hand caught your wrist, yanking you back just enough for you to stumble into him. His arms caged you in, backing you against the counter. “Jaemin—”

“Tell me.” His voice was low, his face inches from yours. His grip on your wrist wasn’t tight, but it was firm, keeping you there. “Tell me why you’re mad. Or I’ll make you.”

Your breath hitched at the promise in his tone. Your heart was hammering so loudly you were sure he could hear it. And then, before you could stop yourself, the words tumbled out. “I was jealous, okay?”

The second the confession left your lips, you saw the glint of relief in his eyes. His grip loosened, but he didn’t pull away. He just stood there, watching you with a smile threatening to tug at his lips.

Heat crawled up your neck. “You knew,” you blurted out and the smirk he was concealing finally revealed itself.

He knew and he just wanted you to say it out loud. Annoyed, you tried to twist out of his hold, but Jaemin was faster. He caught your face in his hands, tilting it up, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones.

“You’re jealous?” he echoed softly, like he needed to hear it again to believe it.

“Na Jaemin, I swear to god—” He didn’t let you finish. His lips crashed against yours, stealing whatever excuse, whatever deflection you were about to throw out. It wasn’t like the other times. It wasn’t teasing, wasn’t playful. It was urgent, consuming, an answer to every question you refused to ask.

You gasped, and Jaemin took the opportunity to shove his tongue into your mouth, pressing you further into the counter. One hand slid down, gripping your waist, the other tangling in your hair. You should have stopped him. Should have shoved him away. But instead, your hands found his shoulders, clinging to him like your life depended on it.

When he finally pulled back, you were both breathless. “You’re jealous,” he said again, softer this time.

You swallowed hard, your fingers curling into his shirt. “Shut up.”

Jaemin chuckled. “Winter and I… we—” He paused, searching for the words. “It’s not what you think.”

Your stomach flipped. “It better not be,” you scoffed, hiding behind the mask of nonchalance. Jaemin chuckled.

“I wasn’t choosing her over you.” His fingers brushed against your cheek. “We got paired for a group project and we’ve been working on it all week. Earlier when you texted me, we were heading out to submit it.”

You stared at him, still breathless, your mind scrambling to process what he just said. A group project. That was it? That was all it was?

The weight in your chest lifted so suddenly that you nearly laughed at yourself. The past week—your overthinking, your jealousy, the way you’d lashed out at him—had all been over something so stupid.

“Oh my god.” You shut your eyes, mortified. “You’re kidding.”

“Wouldn’t joke about this,” said Jaemin laughing. “I’m sorry, I should have explained it at least.”

You groaned, dropping your forehead against his shoulder. “I’m actually gonna die of embarrassment.”

He chuckled, his arms wrapping fully around you now. “Yeah? Well, you should know I’d never choose anyone before you. There’s no one above you, silly.”

“This is why you don’t have a girlfriend, Jaemin,” you chided, pulling back to glare at him. “You can’t just put me first over everything.”

Jaemin only smirked, his fingers tightening at your waist. “I don’t want a girlfriend. You’re all I want.”

“Don’t say that,” you muttered, burying your face in his chest. “What if I can’t reciprocate?”

“Well, you were jealous of me and my ex,” he murmured, his tone teasing, but there was something else underneath it—something smug, satisfied. “That’s a good start.”

“Oh my god, enough!” you huffed, pushing him away and trying to escape his hold but he was quick to lift you by the waist, setting you down on the counter.

Before you could argue, before you could even think of something to say that would salvage your dignity, Jaemin kissed you again, lips moving against yours with a heat that sent your mind spiraling. His hands held you firmly, one on your waist, the other cradling your face like he was afraid you’d pull away.

You weren’t pulling away. That fact alone should have set off alarms in your head, but right now, you didn’t care. Not about pride, not about the mess between you, not about the fact that this was probably the worst way to handle your emotions.

Just as you were starting to get consumed by the heat of his touch, Jaemin pulled away and you scoffed before you could even think twice about it.

“You’re so annoying,” you muttered against his lips.

Jaemin exhaled a breathless laugh, looking up at you with that handsome grin he always had on. “And you’re stubborn.” His thumb brushed over your cheek, his voice lower now, rough with restraint. “I thought you didn’t want me acting like your boyfriend.”

You swallowed, your heart beating wildly as you met his gaze. “I don’t,” you whispered, slipping your hand inside the collar of his shirt to rub his back. “But I still want you.”

Jaemin went still for a split second, his grip tightening. “Say that again,” he said—no, he pleaded, eyes glassy with desperation and desire.

“I want you, Jaemin,” you obliged, swallowing shyly.

His mouth crashed onto yours, all restraints melting away. The kiss was deeper, messier, a collision of breath and want, like he was finally letting himself feel everything he’d been holding back. You barely had time to process before he wrapped your legs around his torso, lifted you from the counter, and carried you across the apartment into his bedroom, his body hot against yours.

His hands skimmed down your waist, sliding under the hem of your sweater, palms warm against your skin. His lips moved down to your jaw, then lower, lingering at the soft spot beneath your ear. Jaemin groaned when you arched your hips against his crotch, his grip on your hips tightening like he was holding himself back—like he was still trying to be careful. But you didn’t want careful. You wanted reckless.

You tugged his shirt off, fingers tracing the smooth lines of his back as he pressed you down into the mattress. His lips were feverish, moving with a desperation that sent heat pooling low in your stomach. When he pulled back to look at you, his pupils were blown wide, his chest rising and falling like he was struggling to catch his breath.

“Let me.” His voice was rough, hand sliding down your thigh. “Let me take care of you.” His fingers found the waistband of your shorts, toying with the fabric like he was waiting for permission, but you just spread your legs wider.

He cursed under his breath before his lips were on your throat again, trailing lower, his hands already working to get rid of the last pieces of clothing you both had. Every touch was hot as he whispered promises against your skin—promises he was more than ready to keep.

He lowered himself, head disappearing between your legs. He took a sniff, nose pressing against your sex before he licked a stripe on it.

“Jaemin,” you breathed, your entire body burning with anticipation and want.

Jaemin responded by sucking at your cunt, making you gasp as the first bout of pleasure washed over you. He kept at it, lapping and licking, fucking you with his tongue while you writhed and moaned. You clutched your fingers at his hair, wanting so much to push him away, but you kept pulling his face closer for more.

He rose to meet your gaze at one point, with a smirk gracing his lips, making you lose your mind further because of how hot he looked.

“If you keep shouting like that…” he trailed off, leaning down to kiss your lips as his finger slipped into your sex. He kissed you again just when you were about to moan. “...the neighbors will hear and they’ll know.”

You didn’t care, but you covered your mouth anyway, biting your lower lip as well to make sure you weren’t too loud. Jaemin moved his fingers, in and out, curling and pressing, all while watching every shift in your reaction. When he pushed another finger inside, you failed to stifle a gasp, your hand flying to his arm and squeezing it tightly.

“Shh,” he shushed gently, kissing you once before he went down on you again. And he took his time, teasing, tasting, dragging out every moment until you were trembling beneath him, nails digging into his shoulders in a feeble attempt to not lose your mind at the mind-blowing orgasm that washed over you.

Jaemin kissed you again as he positioned himself between your legs, his manhood prodding your entrance. “Tell me you want this.”

Your hands found their way on his chest, feeling the firm muscles, the way his stomach tensed at your touch. You nodded, still dazed, already losing yourself in him.

“Use your words, baby,” Jaemin coaxed, his voice a little uneven now, like he was barely keeping himself together.

You reached to cup his cheek. “I want this. I want you, Jaemin,” you whispered, and his answering curse was swallowed by your lips as he kissed you again.

His lips on yours muffled the gasps you let out when he slid his manhood in—rough despite the wetness of your orgasm, stretching you impossibly wide. “You okay?” he asked, voice strained with concern.

You nodded quickly, overwhelmed, and he kissed you again, swallowing your soft whimper. “Relax for me,” he whispered soothingly. “I’ve got you.”

He moved with a patience that contradicted the way his body trembled against yours, like he wanted to take his time, like he was memorizing every sound and expression you made. His hands traced along your ribs, slow and reverent, before sliding down to your thighs, gripping them with just enough force to make your breath hitch. His movements were steady, his thrusts heavy as he pounded into you.

“You feel so good,” he breathed against your lips, his voice wrecked. “You drive me fucking crazy, you know that?”

You barely had time to respond before he kissed you again, deeper, stealing the air from your lungs. His hands slid higher, exploring every inch of exposed skin, setting your nerves on fire. When he started ramming harder, you let out broken gasps and whimpers, and that sound had him gripping you tighter.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmured, lips brushing along your jawline, his breath hot against your skin. “Tell me what you need, baby.”

You swallowed, eyes rolling back as you held onto him for dear life. “I don’t know,” you admitted in a ragged voice, but Jaemin just hummed, nipping lightly at the sensitive spot beneath your ear.

“Yes, you do,” he coaxed, straightening up on his knee and gripping both of you thighs as he tried to plunge in as deep as he could. “You want this.”

“Harder,” you managed to croak out, shutting your eyes as he drove you further into the edge.

Jaemin hummed, and you could picture the smirk on his lips. “Harder, yes?”

“Yes,” you sobbed, desire clouding your judgment. “Please.”

“I’ve got you,” he promised before obliging.

Every touch, every kiss, every reassurance had you melting beneath him. He was everywhere, and you wanted more of him. Needed more of him. He gave you everything. He kissed his way down your body, slow and reverent. Every time you gasped, every time your breath hitched, he murmured against your skin—

“That’s it, baby.” “You’re so beautiful like this.” “Let me make you feel good.”

And you did. More than you ever had before. And when he finally pushed you past the point of no return, you realized—he had always been there to catch you. You clung to him, nails digging into his shoulders as Jaemin exhaled a shaky breath, his forehead pressing against yours before collapsing above you.

The silence between you was jarring. It was the kind silence that didn’t belong in a space that had only ever been filled with teasing, bickering, and laughter. The sheets were tangled between your legs, your skin still warm from being touched by Jaemin. But the aftermath of the warmth that had consumed you moments ago was heavy.

Regret wasn’t the word—not exactly. But uncertainty sat heavily in your chest, and you hated it. You exhaled, staring at the ceiling, before finally voicing the question that had been gnawing at you since the haze of desire dissipated. “What now?”

Your voice came out quieter than expected. You turned your head to look at him. “Why did we do this? What if we ruined everything?”

Jaemin was propped up on one elbow, watching you, his fingers playing with the ends of your hair. He didn’t look the least bit conflicted. If anything, he looked like a man who had finally gotten what he wanted.

He smiled. “Baby, we were done the moment you kissed me in front of that fridge a few weeks ago. This friendship? It ended right then and there.”

You swallowed, trying to make sense of his words. “I never wanted to be friends with you anyway,” he added, voice soft but unwavering. “Did you forget that?”

You hummed. “Isn’t that kind of a betrayal, though?” You searched his face, looking for something—an answer, a reassurance, maybe even a reason to argue. “You’ve loved me all these years, and here I was, thinking you were my best friend.”

Jaemin’s eyes darkened, but not in the way they had earlier. This was something more profound. “I do love you,” he admitted. “But not all these years.”

Your heart lurched painfully. “What—”

“I liked you when we were younger,” he clarified, his fingers tightening ever so slightly around your wrist. “But we became friends, so I let it go. You were happy with other people, and I was happy being the one who stood beside you.” He exhaled, the tension in his grip loosening. “I only realized I loved you now. Not because I was waiting, not because I was hoping, but because tonight, you looked at me the way I used to look at you.”

Your lips parted, but no words came out. The way he said it, so simple yet so profound, left you at a loss. “You’re so cheesy,” you muttered instead, forcing lightness into your tone.

Jaemin only chuckled, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “That’s okay. I know you’ll love me anyway.”

It was sweet. He was sweet. And for a split second, you wanted to believe in the warmth of this moment, in the possibility that maybe you could finally have something good.

But then reality sank its claws into you, dragging you back down. You weren’t in the right headspace for this. Not now. Maybe not ever. Your heart still bore the scars of past failures, of love stories that had ended in ruins. You didn’t trust yourself to make this work, to not destroy something before it even had the chance to grow.

You couldn’t risk it. Especially not with Jaemin, your best friend, your emergency contact—the one person you knew would have your back no matter what happened.

The hesitation must have shown on your face because Jaemin’s expression shifted. He didn’t look disappointed. He didn’t even look surprised. If anything, he just looked patient.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmured, stroking your cheek. “You can take your time.”

Your throat tightened. “And if I never push through with it?”

Jaemin smiled, something achingly fond in his gaze. “Then I’ll still be here. And I won’t hate you for it.”

That was the thing about Jaemin. He never asked for more than you were willing to give. And somehow, that made you want to give him everything.

Jaemin didn’t hesitate when he asked for his right to act on his feelings. He promised he wouldn’t push too far, wouldn’t do anything you didn’t want, but he wanted to be able to touch you, hold you, kiss you when he felt like it. And for some reason, you didn’t push him away. Maybe because deep down, you liked it too much. Maybe because it was easier to indulge than to fight it.

So you let it happen. You let him linger closer, let his hands find yours whenever you were within reach. You let yourself fall into his presence, allowing the way he touched you to become something you expected, something you craved, even if you wouldn’t say it out loud.

Mornings changed first. You got used to waking up to the press of his body against yours, to the weight of his arm over your waist. He was always warm, always impossibly comfortable. Jaemin, who once used to be the one dragging you out of bed, now found excuses to keep you there.

If you tried to get up, he’d pull you right back, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face in your neck. “Five more minutes.”

You’d roll your eyes, and push at his chest, only for him to hug you tighter, murmuring something about how you smelled too nice for him to let go yet. You always huffed at him, but you never actually pulled away.

Jaemin took care of you in the smallest, most effortless ways. Your coffee was already waiting for you before you even asked. On mornings when you slept in, he’d slip into your room just to leave a cup on your nightstand, the smell of roasted beans waking you up before the sunlight even had the chance.

When you cooked together, he always found ways to touch you. Guiding you from behind when you stirred the pot, his hands sliding to your waist like it was second nature. He’d taste whatever you were making and hum in approval, then kiss the side of your head just because.

He always looked at you like that too, like you were something precious, something his. And you let him.

The little touches never stopped. A hand on the small of your back when he passed by. Fingers brushing your cheek as he tucked your hair behind your ear. When you got too focused, too lost in your work, he’d lean in and press a quick kiss to your cheek, just to remind you that he was still there. He did it so casually, so confidently, like touching you was as easy as breathing.

But it wasn’t just at home where things changed. At school, Jaemin was just as affectionate. He sat closer than usual, his knee bumping against yours under the table, his hand resting on your lower back whenever he leaned in to speak. He stole sips from your drinks, stole bites of your food, stole every excuse to touch you in ways that, had anyone been paying closer attention, would have looked like something far more than friendship.

But no one noticed. Because, to them, you and Jaemin had always been this way—close, affectionate, orbiting around each other like you were both integral parts of each other. No one questioned it when he pulled you onto his lap during movie nights at Giselle’s place because it was easier than sharing the small couch. No one batted an eye when he draped an arm over your shoulders at lunch, absentmindedly playing with your hair as he listened to Karina talk about weekend plans. Not even Giselle, who usually had a sharp eye for these things, suspected anything when Jaemin took your bag without a word and slung it over his shoulder, carrying it for you.

You could feel it though. The way Jaemin’s touches lingered just a second longer than they used to. The way he watched you when he thought you weren’t looking. The way he whispered your name sometimes, like it was something he was still getting used to saying with affection and love.

You caught yourself looking for him. When he wasn’t home yet, you listened for the sound of the door unlocking, for his familiar voice calling out to you. You never used to notice it before, but now, your shared space felt off without him in it. And when he was home, you never questioned why it felt better.

One night, you slipped up. You were half-asleep, curled up against his chest, the steady rise and fall of his breathing lulling you gently. And maybe it was the exhaustion, or maybe it was the warmth, or maybe it was just him, but the words tumbled out before you could stop them.

"Don’t go. I'll be lonely without you."

Jaemin stilled. Then his arms tightened around you, his lips pressing on the top of you head. "I’m not going anywhere."

And that was how you lived—entangled in something unlabeled, something neither of you tried to question or define. He didn’t ask for more. You didn’t push him away.

Nana: You’re fine with getting new housemates, right?

You frowned at your phone. You asked him to get groceries, and he’s talking about getting housemates?

You: No. Nana: Not even gonna ask who they are first? You: Doesn’t matter. The answer is still no. Nana: That’s unfair. You should at least meet them before deciding. You: It’s my apartment. I get the final say. Nana: you mean, OUR apartment.

You: I still get the final say. Nana: What if I just bring them over for a quick dinner? No pressure, just introductions. You: I don’t see how that changes anything. Nana: You might change your mind. You: I won’t. Nana: … Nana: So that’s a yes to dinner?

You sighed, already regretting your decision.

You: Fine. But it’s still a no. Nana: Noted.

About an hour later, you heard the front door open and close, followed by the unmistakable sound of Jaemin kicking off his shoes. You looked up, expecting to see him with, what? Two guys? A couple of friends in need of a place to crash? Instead, Jaemin stood in the doorway, grinning like a kid who had just done something he wasn’t supposed to.

In his arms was a fluffy cat with wide, curious eyes. Another poked its head out of the bag slung across his chest. And at his feet, a third cat rubbed against his legs like it had already claimed him as its personal human.

You blinked. “Jaemin.”

“Yeah?” he asked, completely nonchalant as he set the cat in his arms down on the floor.

You gestured at the trio of kitties now sniffing around your apartment. “What the hell is this?”

Jaemin crouched to scratch behind the ears of the one that had been circling his ankles. “This,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, “is Luna, Lucy, and Luke. Our new housemates.”

You stared at him. “Excuse me?”

Jaemin finally looked up, smiling at you in that sweet, boyish way that usually meant he had done something ridiculous but wanted you to let it slide. “They needed a home.”

“That’s not an answer.” You pointed accusingly at the one sitting on the couch now, making itself comfortable. “Jaemin, we never talked about getting a cat. Let alone three.”

“I know.” He stood, brushing off his jeans. “But a senior from our department is graduating and she couldn't take them home with her. She was looking for someone who could adopt them, and I was only gonna get one but then she told me they’re siblings and have to stay together. And I just can’t leave them, can I?”

“So you thought bringing all three of them home was a good idea?” you asked, pinching the bridge of your nose.

He stepped closer, lowering his voice to that soft, coaxing tone he always used when he was trying to win you over. “You love cats.”

“That’s not the point.”

“They love you already,” he continued. “Look.”

You felt something nuzzle against your leg. Looking down, you saw Luna—Luke? Lucy? Whatever—purring up at you, their big round eyes full of innocence. Your heart softened, but you refused to let it show.

Jaemin noticed anyway. His smirk was triumphant. “Oh, they are sooo staying.”

You sighed heavily, pouting with your shoulders sagging in defeat. “I hate you.”

Jaemin laughed, leaning in to kiss your temple. “No, you don’t.” Then he hugged you from behind, squeezing you gently as he watched the cats now making themselves comfortable in their new home. “So, should we get them matching collars, or is that too much?”

Your last semester of college came too soon, slipping through your fingers like the pages of a book you weren’t ready to close. Life moved forward whether you were prepared or not, and with it, your friends were the first to step into their next chapters.

Karina and Giselle walked the stage that spring, struggling to keep their caps in place as they jumped into each other’s arms. Renjun beamed as he shook hands with professors, looking a little smug in his honors sash. Even Jaemin, who always brushed off big moments like these, cracked a self-satisfied smile when his name was called. You cheered for them, clapped until your hands hurt, and posed for pictures, but there was no denying the way it felt watching them leave while you stayed behind.

The halls of NCIT felt emptier without Karina’s complaints about deadlines and Giselle’s dramatic reenactments of campus drama. But Jaemin was still there. He hadn’t packed up and left like the others. While everyone else dove headfirst into their careers, he stayed, taking time off instead of immediately stepping into the expectations waiting for him outside college walls.

His days were spent taking care of you, spending time with you, helping you with homework, and piecing together his photography portfolio, and somehow, you became the centerpiece of it.

“Look at me.” Jaemin’s voice was soft but insistent as he crouched in front of you, camera in his hands.

You huffed, tearing your gaze away from the book you weren’t really reading. “I am looking at you.”

He clicked his tongue. “No, you’re glaring at me.”

“Because you’re being annoying,” you retorted. Jaemin grinned, completely unaffected.

“Let’s try that again,” he said. You sighed but gave in, letting your eyes meet the lens, expression softening just a little. He snapped the photo immediately, and from the way his face lit up, you could tell he got exactly what he wanted.

“Perfect,” he murmured, flipping the camera around to show you.

You tried not to let it get to you, but there was something about the way he saw you, how his lenses captured you as someone important, someone loved.

The cats were an extension of the both of you, curling up on Jaemin’s chest when he sprawled on the couch, purring on your legs when you stood in the kitchen. Jaemin spoiled them rotten—Luna got her favorite sunspot by the window all to herself, Lucy got head pats on demand, and Luke had claimed Jaemin’s lap as his personal throne.

“Traitor,” you had muttered once when Luke chose Jaemin over you.

“They just love me more,” Jaemin had teased, scratching behind Luke’s ears with a smirk.

This was how things had been between you two. Ever since that night, the night you crossed a line you could never uncross, nothing really changed yet somehow, everything had.

Jaemin never held back anymore. He was more affectionate, more attentive, like he wasn’t afraid of pushing too far. He called you baby like it was the most natural thing in the world, pulled you into his arms whenever he felt like it, and pressed kisses to your forehead without hesitation.

He worshipped you in the privacy of your apartment, uttered your name like it would hurt him not to do so, touched your skin like you were the most precious thing he had ever touched, ever kissed, and ever laid his eyes on. He loved you in and out, and you basked in his attention, his affection, and his unwavering loyalty.

Maybe you should have stopped it, maybe you should have told him to slow down, but the truth was, you liked it. You liked how easy it was, how warm it felt. You liked not having to question what you meant to him anymore.

And Jaemin never asked for more than what you could give. He let you take your time, let you figure it out in your own way. So you spent the rest of the semester like that, somewhere between best friends and something more.

When your turn to graduate finally arrived, they were all there—Karina, Giselle, Renjun, Ningning, everyone who had been with you through the years. They cheered for you just as loudly as you had for them, but it was Jaemin who stood out the most. He was impossible to miss, holding your bouquet like it was his accomplishment, snapping pictures as if he were paid to do it.

The ceremony was long, the speeches were boring, but it didn’t matter. You had done it.

It wasn’t until the reception that Karina’s eyes narrowed at Jaemin when he leaned over to fix your cap. “Baby, your tassel’s on the wrong side,” he murmured, adjusting it before you could react.

Karina gawked. “Did you just—? Did he just call you baby?”

Giselle nearly choked on her drink. Renjun gave you a slow, knowing smirk. You felt your stomach drop.

“What?” Jaemin blinked, completely unfazed. “I’ve been calling her that since earlier.”

“You have not,” Karina accused.

“Yes, he has,” Renjun said, crossing his arms. “You guys just don’t listen.”

Giselle let out a scandalized gasp. “Oh my god. Were you guys—? Since when?”

“I’m gonna get more food,” you blurted, grabbing Jaemin’s wrist and dragging him away before anyone could interrogate you further. He let you, chuckling under his breath.

Later that week, when the celebrations died down and you were finally hauled the last box of your stuff outside your apartment complex, you glanced back at NCIT right across the street and thought about the years you had spent in this place, all the moments that had led you here.

The late-night cramming sessions, the spontaneous road trips, the heartbreaks, and the reckless decisions. Every piece of your college life was shaped by the people who walked it with you.

Giselle, Karina, and Ningning, your constants through every breakdown and triumph, who saw you at your worst and never let you stay there for too long. They made the ordinary feel special, turned bad days into bearable ones, and stayed no matter how messy life got,

Renjun taught you friendship and admiration. You haven’t heard from Yangyang for a long time now, but you’d never forget his cheshire cat smile and how he taught you to live in the moment. Jeno taught you patience and the importance of putting yourself first. What you had with Donghyuck ended before it had the chance to properly begin, but the memories of your youth will always have him in it.

Love in the eyes of a college student was everything and anything. It was stupid, it was dumb. It was exhilarating, it was euphoric. It was slow, it was fast. It was damning, but also freeing. Such are the highs and lows of college romances. At the end of it all, you leave it all behind and move on with your life.

“Baby!” Jaemin’s voice cut through your thoughts. You glanced over your shoulder, smiling at the sight of him waving happily and beckoning you over to his car. “Time to go!”

You took one last look at the campus that had been your whole world for the past few years, exhaling softly. Then you walked toward him, toward the future.

Because some things, you take with you.

You walked toward him, fishing your phone from inside your pocket. Jaemin leaned in to peer at your screen. “What are you doing?”

“Sending one last entry to Campus Confessions.”

“Campus Confessions? NCIT's confessions page?”

“Yes.”

Jaemin gasped. “You send entries to CC?”

“I do, sometimes,” you replied, getting into the car.

“For whom?” he pressed, sitting on the driver's seat looking perplexed and surprised. “Did you just send a last minute confession to a crush or something?”

“Start driving. We're way behind schedule as it is.”

“Unbelievable,” he muttered, but didn't argue. You smiled as you watched him seethe in his seat, driving the car away from the apartment complex.

To: NCIT Long story short, I survived. - x

[fin]

#jaemin smut #jaemin x reader #nct x you #jaemin fanfic #jaemin imagines #nct fanfic #nct x reader #nct dream #nct dream x reader #jaemin x you #jaemin fluff #nct dream fanfic #nct dream imagines #jaemin au #nct smut #nct dream smut #na jaemin

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gracie-eilish · 3 months ago

Note

8 💛

“careful angel”

draft # 13!!!

requests are closed

The sunlight spilled gently through the nursery windows, painting soft golden streaks across the walls as the early afternoon settled in. The whole room smelled faintly of lavender baby lotion and freshly laundered cotton. You’d washed every single onesie, every swaddle, every impossibly tiny sock over the past few days, folding them with a mix of care and disbelief that soon—so soon—they’d be worn by your daughter.

Seven months pregnant and deep into your nesting era, you’d organized every drawer, arranged every bottle, and lined the changing table baskets with folded cloths and burp rags with obsessive love. The room was already beginning to feel like hers. But today was special.

Today, Billie had a rare day off from the studio so, you were finally putting up some floating shelves on the wall.

You’d picked them out weeks ago, envisioning the little things you’d place on them—her ultrasound photo in a whitewashed wooden frame, a ceramic bunny from your own childhood, a tiny knit pair of booties Billie’s mom had given you, a framed candid of you and Billie at your baby shower, all smiles and glowing cheeks.

Billie stood at the wall with a drill in her hand and a smirk tugging at her lips. Her messy braid flopped over one shoulder, and she had a pencil behind her ear like she was auditioning to be your contractor for the day.

“Okay, Mrs. O’Connell,” she teased, holding the shelf up against the wall. “Remind me again why we can’t just slap this on with command strips and call it a day?”

You raised an eyebrow, perched on the glider and rubbing your belly with slow, instinctive circles. “Because I want our daughter to have a functioning skull, not a head injury by age one.”

Billie gasped dramatically, one hand on her chest. “Wow. That’s fair. But wow.”

“You asked,” you giggled.

“Yeah, yeah.” She shook her head, mock-offended, but she was already measuring.

The drill whirred a few seconds later, echoing in the cozy space. Billie took her task extremely seriously, pausing every few moments to adjust, check the level, re-check the measurements. You watched her, smiling like a fool, so in love it almost hurt.

“You checking me out again?” she asked without looking back.

“Obviously,” you answered without hesitation.

Billie smirked. “I should do DIY more often.”

“You should do everything more often,” you murmured under your breath, more to yourself than her—but she caught it.

She tightened the last screw, and once the shelves were up and level, she stepped back with a dramatic bow. “Your wall, my lady.”

You did a little clap, laughing. “Okay! Now for the fun part.”

You gathered the little photo frames, the teddy bear stuffy, the baby rattle that Billie had bought just because it was shaped like a tiny avocado and made you laugh so hard you cried. Then you turned toward the step stool.

Billie caught your arm immediately. “Whoa, hold on there. What do you think you’re doing?”

“Putting up the stuff,” you said, matter-of-factly.

“From… up there?”

You blinked at her. “Yes.”

She looked at the step stool like it had personally insulted her. “You are very pregnant.”

“I’m not climbing a ladder, Billie. It’s a step stool”

“I don’t care if it’s one step. You’re carrying our entire child. Let me do it.”

“I promise I’ll be careful,” you said as you stepped up, frame in one hand, bunny in the other. “Besides, you’ll be right here. Ready to catch me.”

“Always,” she said instantly, already stepping in close. “But still—careful, angel.”

You perched yourself on the stool and started arranging, biting your lip in concentration. Billie stood behind you, her hands gently finding your hips, thumbs brushing small soothing circles over the sides of your bump.

“Okay,” you asked after a moment, holding up a photo and tilting your head. “Here? Or more to the right?”

She squinted. “Mmm… left. But not too left. Like, soft left.”

You laughed. “Soft left? That’s not a thing.”

“It is in my artistic vision,” Billie said proudly.

You placed the photo and the bunny beside it. “Like this?”

Billie stepped even closer, resting her face on the side of your arm. “Oh yeah. Bunny’s judging us now. That’s the spot.”

You smiled, looking down at her. “You’re ridiculous.”

You reached up to adjust one of the little ceramic stars on the top shelf and felt her hands tighten on your waist.

“You okay?” she asked, voice gentle.

“Yeah. Just… looking at all of this.”

You stepped down slowly, turning to face her, a framed photo still in your hand.

“It’s really happening, huh?” you murmured.

Billie smiled softly. “It is.”

Her eyes flicked down to your bump, then back to your face. “I can’t wait to meet her.”

You swallowed thickly. “You’re gonna be so good with her.”

“I already love her so much I think I might explode,” she said, laughing softly.

“I mean… it’s kinda magical,” you whispered.

“It’s insane,” Billie corrected, brushing a piece of hair from your face.

You leaned into her, resting your head against her shoulder, breathing her in. Lavender and skin and Billie. The love of your life. The mother of your baby.

“I think she’s gonna love this room,” you whispered.

“She’s gonna love it because you made it perfect,” Billie said. “And because we made it together.”

You looked around the nursery—the crib in the corner with the soft canopy, the rocker in the nook with the plush blanket draped over the side, the shelf filled with all your love, piece by piece.

It was cozy. It was domestic. It was exciting.

And it was home.

Home for your little girl. Home for your family.

#gracie eilish #billie eilish #wlw #fanfiction #billie eilish x reader #billie eilish fluff #billie eilish fic #billie eilish x fem!reader #billie x you #billie eilish x female reader #billie eilish x you #billie eilish fanfiction #billie eilish smut #billie x reader #billie eilish x smut #billie eilish x y/n #billie x y/n #billie x fem reader

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godzilla-barbie · 1 year ago

Text

When Jake Met Polly

Jake 'Hangman' Seresin x Reader

Summary: Jake likes to flirt with his Air Traffic Controller or Jake Seresin has never seen When Harry Met Sally.

Warnings: Not much, fluff, flirting and refs to sex.

Note: This is just a short little idea i've had for agesss... reader has a 'name' but it's just her callsign, Polly, as in, short for Polaris. Ty to @hangmanssunnies i wuv u <3

“Hangman to Tower, I am coming in hot.”

You roll your eyes at the all too familiar voice that crackles through your radio, a smile pulling at your lips as you adjust your microphone and briefly throw a glance over your shoulder, just to make sure your commanding officer wasn’t lingering.

“Tower to Hangman. We are appalled at the gross lack of radio etiquette on display,” you respond. Barely a few seconds pass before you receive a reply.

“Come on, Polly, we've been working together for over a year now, what’s a little informality between colleagues?” Hangman says, and despite his jet only being a blip on your horizon still, you know he’s grinning.

“A commercial airline, Lieutenant.” You deadpan, your own smile growing as his laughter comes down the line. “You are cleared for landing, proceed to runway B,” you continue, not wanting him to have to ask again seeing as his approach was cutting it close already.

“Polly, have I ever told you that you’re my favourite Controller?” He asks as you watch him enter the pattern, and click your pen.

“Only every day we work together, Lieutenant.” There’s a beat of quiet as he expertly manoeuvres his jet toward the correct runway.

“And how sexy your voice is?” He goes on, sounding vaguely distracted.

“Once again, Lieutenant, this is not a commercial airline.” You respond, twirling your hair around your finger at his compliment anyway.

He doesn’t reply, and a shock of horror flickers through you as you watch the jet touch down once, something happening with his landing gear that makes the jet shudder, then seem to bounce momentarily before it drops back onto the tarmac and skids to a stop.

“Hangman, do you require the emergency crew?!” You ask quickly, eyes scanning the aircraft as it powers down fully. You wait tensely as the canopy pops up, and a broad figure jumps out, scrambling down the ladder, and once on the ground, he bends low to get a look at the problem.

“No, Polly, thank you. Seems the landing gear malfunctioned, must’ve been in a position to sustain damage once I landed…” his voice trails off, and you watch him straighten, and greet the ground crew who’d raced over to help.

“Glad you’re safe, Lieutenant. Tower out.” You say as he begins discussing with the crew, but briefly turns up toward the tower and raises a hand.

You let out a sigh of relief and settle back in your seat.

–

Around lunch time you make your way down to the tarmac. Hangman’s jet had been cleared off some time ago, and by now you know reports would have been filed, including your own, and his aircraft will have been taken in for inspection and repairs. You’re milling around the ‘crash’ site, inspecting the scrape marks left behind when you hear footsteps from behind approaching you.

“Can I help you ma’am?”

You know his voice immediately, but you know his face too, and when you at last turn back to him you’re graced by the sight of it, bright and unworried, despite the accident he’d had earlier.

“Oh, don’t mind me! I just watched someone bounce their jet off my tarmac earlier, just checking for potholes,” you tell him wrly. It takes a moment, but his face flashes with recognition and soon he’s taking a step towards you.

“Polly?!” Hangman asks, sounding surprised. You hum in response, then round on him.

“Where is it that you found your qualifications, Liuetenant? We should probably return them,” you tease him. Hangman only takes up a stance and stretches his arms out, his flight suit stretching desperately around his biceps as he does.

“Oh, Polly, if I’d known that was all it took to get you down here, I’d have started chipping bits off months ago,” he flirts shamelessly. You smile at him but don’t speak and after a moment, he drops his arms again, crossing them over his chest instead and blinking at you curiously. “What?” he asks.

Your smile grows, and you shake your head at him.

“Your terrible lines work better when I can see you, that's all,” you inform him, making him uncross his arms and laugh.

“I would say that’s generally the case, even if a guy ain’t me,” he replies coolly. You only shake your head again, and look back out at the expanse of tarmac ahead of you.

“Thanks to you getting your pilots lisence off the back of a cereal box, we’ve ruined our Sleepless in Seattle thing,” you say with a forlorn sigh.

When you look back at Hangman he’s frowning at you in confusion.

“Our what?” he asks. You roll your eyes and turn to face him fully at last, waving your hand as you speak.

“You know, our Sleepless in Seattle thing. We talk all this time, but never meet, and if we cross paths, we don’t realise it? It’s ruined now,” you accuse him lightly. Hangman hums, and seems to think for a moment.

“I get to be Meg Ryan in this situation, right?” he says, making you chortle.

“Well you’d have to be. No way I’d leave 90s Bill Pullman!”

“Well, what if we’re not Sleepless in Seattle? What if we’re more… When Harry Met Sally?” he suggests. You squint at him.

“Have you seen that film? I’m not sure that’s the implication you want to go for…” you ask him, making him falter for a moment.

“That’s the one with the emails right?” he responds unsurely. You laugh again, and shake your head.

“No, that’s You’ve Got Mail.”

“What the hell did I just suggest, then?”

You stare at him for a moment, and can’t stop yourself from grinning up at him.

“More or less not speaking for like ten years, but on the rare occasion we do meet up, we argue,” you tell him, watching him frown even deeper, and shake his own head this time.

“That would be kinda hard, considering you’re the voice in my head,” he says.

“Oh, so we’re doing Her now!”

Hangman fixes you with a deadpan expression and a slightly smirk.

“I don’t even want to know.”

You laugh at him, and begin walking, unsurprised when he immediately joins you, falling into step at your side. “So,” he begins again after a moment, peering down at you. “Despite playing hacky sack on your tarmac, you still gonna let me take you out?”

You falter briefly, but keep walking, this time glancing up at him.

“I didn’t think you were being serious all those times you asked me out,” you don’t bother hiding your surprise. Hangman looks back at you, squinting, and cocks his head.

“At this point I think you’ve shot me down more than Dagger combined, why would I not be serious?” he asks you, sounding oddly serious. You chuckle.

“Right, so, say if, I don’t know, Rooster got a few more hits on you, you wouldn’t leave me hangin’ would you?” you know you’ll say yes, but you can’t help but tease him a little longer.

Hangman raises an eyebrow at you and grins wide and beautiful.

“You? Never,” he says. “Mostly because I’m legally obligated to respond when you speak to me.”

You lift your own eyebrow and fix him with a wry smile.

“I like that in a man.”

Hangman laughs.

–

“I mean it, your voice is sexy,” Jake tells you once he’s sat back down from replacing your drinks. You can’t help but chortle and stir your cocktail with the straw.

“Really? Me telling you to line up and wait in the pattern gets you going?” you ask. Jake grins, but nods very seriously as he takes a short sip of his beer.

“Absolutely. I also like when you tell me about the weather and conditions, and direct me to land.”

Leaning forward with your elbows on the table between you, you put your chin in your hands.

“I liek when you flirt with me,” you begin, waiting for him to smirk at you before continuing on. “And you don’t realise my boss is in the room, so I just have to respond ‘roger’ and ‘acknowledged’ whenever you say something stupid,” you finish. Jake rolls his eyes and leans forward to meet you.

“To be fair, I’d probably be saying something stupid anyway,” he tells you.

You have to let out a laugh at that and finally lean back again.

“Oh yeah, that reminds me, are you ever gonna tell us all how to ‘bury a fossil’? You know, those things that you famously dig up and do not bury?” you tease, earning another eyeroll. Jake shrugs and copies your movements.

“I foretold Mav’s career comeback, didn’t I?”

You laugh again, but this time, get a good look at him sitting casually across from you, out of uniform and seemingly more relaxed than you’ve ever seen, or heard.

“I like your voice too,” you tell him at last, smiling a little at how he seems to preen at your praise. “Your accent is more pronounced face-to-face though, and you don’t sound like you’re performing all the time.”

Jake takes a sip of his beer and shrugs again.

“Can’t be Hangman all the time,” he says. You make a face.

“I like Hangman. He entertains me at work… but I think I like the guy who hasn’t seen When Harry Met Sally, and has a Fisher-Price pilot's lisence even more.”

Jake laughs and nods at you.

“Splash one,” he says before he leans in to you again. “Toddler’s generally have pretty good taste, in my opinion, they’re all about shapes and colours and boobs… can’t fault ‘em!”

You have to laugh and concede that at least, the two of you clinking drinks before you continue to flirt and chat for the rest of the evening.

When Jake drops you back at yours, you invite him inside, under the guise of lending him your DVD copy of When Harry Met Sally, but when he simply lingers in your living room, you start to consider other tactics.

“Jake?” you say, standing up from ‘searching’ your stack of DVD’s and facing him. “This is the part where you save me from admitting I don’t really own a physical copy of the film by having sex with me,” you inform him dutifully, watching as he straightens up and blinks at you. Then, he’s shaking his head, smiling, and taking a step closer toward you.

“I guess every good rom-com does have an earth shattering lie at its core, doesn’t it?” he steps closer, and this time, anchors his hands at your waist, tugging you into him a little more.

“Let's skip the conflict part and go straight to the happy ending, shall we?”

#jake seresin #jake seresin x reader #jake 'hangman' seresin #hangman x reader #jake 'hangman' seresin x reader #jake hangman seresin x reader #top gun maverick #jake 'hangman' seresin fanfic #jake hangman seresin #top gun fanfiction

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orphicmeliora · 19 days ago

Text

Secret identity au

You're what people call a walking disaster. You walk into a room, down a street, through a building, hell, even a park bench—anywhere at all—and it's almost guaranteed that someone, somehow, is getting hurt. Maybe a potted plant falls on a passerby. Maybe a toddler accidentally kicks you in the shin with a toy truck. Maybe a scooter mysteriously careens down a ramp and knocks over a vendor's hotdog stand. Either way, pain is usually involved, and statistically speaking, it’s either you or some other poor unfortunate soul caught in your gravitational field of chaos.

The worst part? Most of the time, it’s not even your fault. It’s like the universe itself has you on speed dial for comedic misfortune. Things just happen around you—doors swing open, drinks spill, ceiling tiles fall. Some say you’ve got a black cat’s luck. Others whisper it’s your evol to attract chaos like a lightning rod. Like some sort of cosmic magnet for near-death experiences.

Enter this Lumiere guy who shows up out of nowhere every time you need help. The masked man with a heroic streak and perfect timing. He always seems to be there the second you're dangling from a balcony, caught in a runaway shopping cart, or about to be squashed by a suspiciously fast-moving food delivery drone. He’s graceful, mysterious, and efficient—like if Batman had a Pinterest board full of soft lighting and silk capes. Naturally, you’re halfway in love. Because who doesn’t catch feelings for the guy who literally saves your life every 48 hours? The mask only makes it worse, honestly. What does he look like? Why won’t he take it off? Why does his voice sound like a lullaby dipped in espresso? It's all very stressful.

Anyway, fast forward. You're back from a long shift of not dying (you tripped, a ladder fell, long story), and you’re practically vibrating with excitement over your latest Lumiere sighting. So you do the most obvious thing: call your bestie to fangirl.

You're pacing in the hallway, phone pressed to your ear, animatedly relaying every detail ("I swear, his cape glowed when the sun hit it—no, I'm not exaggerating! And then he caught me—like, full-on princess-style caught me, I thought I was gonna die, but no, he just—ugh, the way he looked down at me, I swear—") when the elevator finally dings and the doors glide open.

That’s when you notice him.

You falter mid-sentence. “Hold on, I think my neighbor wants to murder me with his eyes.”

Xavier doesn’t even blink.

He’s standing a few feet away, waiting to get past you into the hallway, staring like you’ve personally offended his ancestors. As your words trail off, he levels you with the kind of look usually reserved for gum on expensive shoes.

You lower the phone slightly. “Uh…hi?”

Nothing. Just a sharp exhale through the nose and that judgmental, soul-piercing stink eye like you’re the human equivalent of elevator Muzak.

The man is wearing a plain white hoodie and sweatpants like he walked out of a moody fitness ad, and yet he exudes the same intensity as someone plotting world domination—or at the very least, filing a very strongly-worded HOA complaint.

You step aside as he brushes past, muttering something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like “loud.” The nerve.

Okay then.

You resume your call, lowering your voice only slightly. “I don’t know what this guy’s deal is. I’m not that loud. Maybe he’s allergic to joy?” Okay, maybe your voice carries, but you’re excited! You could’ve died! Again! Some people journal. Some people drink. You cope with high-volume storytelling and minor public disturbances.

And you’re just about to get over it when something weird happens. Just for a second, Xavier's hoodie sleeve slips up as he adjusts the grocery bag in his hand.

There’s a flicker of something silver peeking out from under the fabric. Thin, intricate. Almost…mask-like?

Wait.

No.

It can’t be.

Can it?

229 notes · View notes

admiringlove · 4 months ago

Text

➵ pairing. gojo satoru x fem! reader.

➵ summary. dumbledore, in his usual cryptic fashion, subtly nudges you and gojo toward a rather unconventional solution, leading to a daring trip to the ministry under elaborate disguises. there, amidst secrets better left undisturbed, you uncover truths that should have never been hidden in the first place—though, thankfully, the day isn’t entirely swallowed by impending doom, thanks to an unexpected moment of warmth with dobby.

➵ warnings. abusive family; neglectful family; panic attacks; mentions of vomit; mentions of blood; espionage; mentions of grooming; mentions of death; etc.

➵ genre. wizarding world au; academic rivals to lovers; enemies to lovers; angst; fluff; adventure; etc.

➵ word count. 14.9k.

➵ author's note. big thanks to @gojofile for proofreading, loml. taglist now closed. ty for reading!

➵ navigation. previous, masterlist, next.

"What took you so long?"

His voice comes from somewhere in the dark, even before you make it down the ladder. A low, easy drawl—almost indifferent, except it isn’t. Not really. You can hear it beneath the words, the undercurrent of something just slightly off, something waiting.

Your boots hit the stone floor with a dull thud, breath still uneven as you straighten, eyes adjusting to the dimness. The air here is thick, stale, but not unbearable. It smells like damp earth, like dust settled too long on forgotten stone, like something old, something secret.

"Nothing," you say, too quickly.

Gojo doesn’t press, but he makes a sound—a quiet, inquisitive hum—as he slips his wand out from the folds of his coat. A flick, a muttered incantation, and the passageway flickers to life, torches along the walls sputtering into a dull orange glow. The light doesn’t do much to make the place any more welcoming. The tunnel stretches long and empty ahead of you, its walls slick with condensation, shadows stretching unnaturally against the uneven stone. It reminds you of Hogwarts’ dungeons—cold, cavernous, like something meant to keep people out.

A shiver prickles up your spine, though the temperature here isn’t particularly freezing. If anything, it’s strangely temperate, a quiet, almost undisturbed kind of chill.

Gojo steps forward, and without thinking, you follow. You don’t know why it’s easier to fall into step beside him than it is to stop and think. Maybe because he moves like he’s been here a thousand times before, like he’s done this enough for it to be muscle memory, like it’s nothing at all.

"You know," he starts, voice echoing faintly in the narrow space, "in third year, my mother didn’t bother signing my Hogsmeade permission form."

The way he says it is almost offhanded, a careless remark, like a fact about the weather. But something about it makes your brow furrow slightly.

"That’s… not nice," you murmur, tilting your head, watching him from the corner of your eye.

Gojo only shrugs, hands tucked into his coat pockets, stride easy, unhurried. "I was fine. Sneaked in a few times with my cloak. Wasn’t too hard."

You blink, glancing at him properly now. "I remember seeing you, though," you say, hesitant, as if trying to recall something just barely out of reach. "You were there, weren’t you?"

"Sometimes," he admits. "But then I left my cloak at home during the winter holidays."

A beat.

You glance at him again. "Then what?"

Gojo exhales, a short, amused sound. "Then I got to spend my first weekend back ruefully watching Shoko and Suguru leave without me, like a complete loser," he says, tilting his head as if recalling the scene with some kind of detached fondness. "Used to sit near the staircase on the third floor a lot. And there’s that statue there, you know—the old witch with the one eye." He pauses, eyes flicking toward you briefly before looking ahead again. "You tap it with your wand, say ‘Dissendium,’ and it opens right up. Leads straight to Honeydukes’ cellar. Funny, isn’t it? How no one ever really explores the sheer mysteriousness of our school?"

There’s something vaguely smug in the way he says it. You roll your eyes, though there’s no real heat to it. "Losers, the entire lot of us, right?" you say dryly.

"Exactly," he says, flashing you a grin. The tunnel seems to stretch endlessly ahead, the faint glow of the torches casting long, wavering shadows against the damp walls. The air is heavier down here, close, but not unpleasantly so. You wonder how many times he’s done this, how many times he’s walked this passage alone, how many times he’s disappeared through some secret part of the castle no one ever thought to question.

"And that’s how I found it," he continues after a pause, glancing at you with something bright in his expression, something just slightly triumphant. "The One-Eyed Witch Passageway."

You hum, low and thoughtful, the sound barely carrying over the quiet shuffle of your footsteps against the uneven stone. The air is still, thick with the scent of earth and something old.

"Makes our job a hell of a lot easier," you murmur. Gojo laughs, the sound light, easy, threaded through with something unreadable. "It does, doesn’t it?"

But then, a pause. A barely-there hesitation, quick but noticeable, just long enough for you to catch it.

"How was your date with that Zen’in bastard?"

Your brows knit together, a slow, irritated furrow, even before you turn to glance at him. "First of all," you say sharply, "he’s not a bastard."

Gojo tilts his head, entirely unbothered, the dim glow of the torches catching in his white lashes, his mouth already curving in amusement.

"And second of all," you continue, "none of your business."

"Oh, come on," he groans, dragging out the syllables like a petulant child. "I told you about how my first kiss was, didn’t I?"

There’s something deliberately casual in the way he says it, something practiced. You don’t buy it for a second.

"Once," you say flatly, eyeing him with suspicion.

Gojo shrugs, loose and nonchalant, as if it doesn’t matter at all. As if it never did. "I don’t even remember it anymore," he adds, like an afterthought.

Your eyes narrow. "A senior kissing you when you’re in third year isn’t your first kiss," you say, voice suddenly quieter, weightier, sinking beneath the easy flow of conversation like a stone dropping into still water.

Gojo doesn’t look at you right away.

The tunnel seems darker now, the shadows stretching longer, the air thicker.

"It’s called grooming," you finish.

He shrugs, easy and careless, as if brushing off dust. "At least I got bragging rights."

You make a face, gagging lightly. "You’re insufferable."

Gojo clicks his tongue, shaking his head with the exaggerated disappointment of someone appraising a particularly dull painting. "And you’re a bore," he counters. "She was beautiful, I’ll have you know. Be happy I’m a gentleman and not giving you details."

You scoff, rolling your eyes. "I already know the details, you twat."

His head tilts slightly at that, like he’s waiting for you to elaborate.

"You gave me her figure details in inches, Gojo," you remind him, voice flat, unimpressed. "It was disgustingly pathetic how you knew her hips were thirty-nine inches wide."

His grin is slow, all teeth, entirely unapologetic. "Ah," he muses. "Good times."

“Ew,” you murmur under your breath as you and Gojo near the staircase at the end of the tunnel, your voice barely more than a whisper against the stone walls. The air here is thick, cool, carrying the scent of the damp earth. The flickering torchlights do little to soften the eerie stillness, the way shadows stretch long and lean against the uneven surfaces.

“Third floor, then?” you ask, your voice steady despite the unease settling in your ribs. “Near the courtyard?”

“Yes,” Gojo nods, already a step ahead of you. His voice is quieter now, more measured. “I suggest we go through the dungeons once we’re out. Just to be safe. Everyone’s at Hogsmeade anyway, except for the first and second years.”

You hum in agreement, keeping your steps light as you follow him up the spiral stairs. Dust swirls in the dim light as your boots press into the old stone, the air growing warmer the higher you climb. You blink, suddenly remembering something.

“Did you get a chance to look over my questions on that sheet?”

Gojo makes a small sound in the back of his throat, something between hesitation and acknowledgment. “Uh, yes,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, his usual confidence slipping for just a second. He glances over his shoulder at you. “Wait a minute. Let’s not talk about this here.”

You nod, tucking the thought away for later.

He reaches for the concealed exit, pushing it open with practiced ease. And then, you slam into his back. Hard.

“Satoru, what the hell is your—” you start, irritation lacing your voice, but then you see it.

Oh.

Professor Dumbledore stands before you, waiting, as if he has been expecting the two of you all along. His presence fills the corridor, not just because of his stature, but because of something else, something harder to name—an awareness, a knowing. His long robes, a shade of deep, muted grey, shimmer faintly under the torchlight, the silver embroidery along the hem and cuffs glinting with each subtle movement. His half-moon spectacles catch the dim glow, reflecting it, making his eyes—already so bright—twinkle with something unreadable.

A mischievous smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Gojo. Ms. [L/N],” he greets, voice warm, amused. The kind of amusement that feels layered, veiled, never quite revealing its source.

You swallow, stepping out fully from the passageway as the entrance seals behind you, the statue shifting back into place with a low, echoing groan. Your hands curl into your sleeves, an old habit, as you bow your head slightly. You don’t know why. The chill creeping up your spine tells you it’s better not to hold his gaze for too long.

“Worry not, Ms. [L/N], I won’t reprimand you,” Dumbledore says, his voice lilting as if this is all part of some long, elaborate joke only he is in on. And then, his attention shifts.

To Gojo. There’s a subtle change in the air. It is not unkind, but it is heavier, more deliberate.

“I received a letter from your father this morning,” Dumbledore continues, watching him carefully. “He wanted to know when your Auror applications will be going through. He says he wants them submitted a year early.”

You see it immediately—the way Gojo’s jaw tightens, the way his fingers curl into his palms. His skin, already pale, turns ghostly white before it flushes red at his knuckles, his nails pressing hard into his own skin.

It is silent. Painfully so.

Then, finally, Gojo exhales, measured and slow, like he’s forcing the tension out of himself before it can consume him.

“Sir,” he starts, his throat bobbing as he swallows. “I was hoping… if you could, that is… potentially delay my applications until next year.”

Dumbledore studies him for a moment, as if seeing through to something neither you nor Gojo can quite name.

“You don’t wish to graduate early, like your father expects,” the Headmaster states, rather than asks.

Gojo says nothing. Dumbledore nods, just once, slow and deliberate. “I’ll take care of it. Worry not.”

There is a pause. And then another shift—something quieter, something you almost miss. Dumbledore is watching you now.

You feel it before you look up. The weight of his gaze, light as a feather, sharp as a blade. And when you finally meet his eyes, something about the way he regards you makes your stomach twist. Not in fear. Not exactly.

But in anticipation.

“You know, Ms. [L/N],” he says, and his voice is light, but his words are anything but, “on the weekends, the Ministry does not keep the Head of the Auror’s Office in unless required for an emergency.”

You blink. “Sorry, sir?”

He does not answer. Not in the way you expect. Instead, he tilts his head, smiling in that knowing, infuriating way of his. “That’s almost always on-field, however, so I think you’ll be okay.”

Your brows furrow. You open your mouth to ask him what he means, but he speaks again before you can.

“I think four turns should do it, in the evening,” he muses, as if commenting on the weather. “Remember this, will you?”

And then, without another word, he turns on his heel and begins walking away, his robes billowing softly behind him. Just before he disappears around the corner, he winks.

You stand there, frozen, watching the empty space he leaves behind. Then, almost in sync, you and Gojo turn to look at each other.

Your brows pull together. “What?” you whisper, almost comically.

Gojo exhales, his entire frame unwinding slightly, as if he has been holding his breath. “My father…” he starts, voice quiet, unreadable. Then he lets out a dry, humorless laugh. “My father is the Head of the Auror’s Office.”

Your breath catches. Your stomach twists again.

“What?” you breathe, eyes widening. “But why did he tell me that?”

Neither of you have an answer. But something tells you that Dumbledore does.

The Room of Requirement molds itself around you the moment you step inside, the walls shifting, stretching, expanding into the space you need. The air is thick with the scent of parchment and candle wax, the quiet hum of magic lingering between the bookshelves and long wooden tables.

You waste no time. Stripping off your coat, you toss it onto the nearest armchair, fingers already tugging at the seams of your gloves before peeling them off. The moment they hit the table, you're moving again, weaving through the furniture with urgency, barely noticing the way Gojo lingers behind, watching you with something unreadable in his gaze.

"Alright," you exhale, steadying yourself as you press your palms against the longtable, eyes sweeping over the scattered notes, the books with their pages pinned open, the ink-stained parchments covered in hurried annotations. The evidence of your restlessness. "Let’s do this one by one. Dumbledore obviously knows something. He always does. But he wants us to figure it out ourselves, like some kind of twisted scavenger hunt."

"He gives me the heebie-jeebies," Gojo mutters, stepping further into the room, his hands buried in the pockets of his robes. "I get that he’s a legend, but I swear he’s worse than a ghost—always lurking, always knowing. He’s creepier than Moaning Myrtle, and that’s saying something."

"Myrtle’s actually kind when you get her to talk," you murmur absently, still scanning the mess of research before you, thoughts running ahead of you.

"She’s a banshee," Gojo deadpans, plopping himself down onto one of the chairs, his legs sprawled out in front of him. "And I don’t want you to refute that statement."

You roll your eyes, reaching for a drawer and pulling out a marker. Gojo watches the movement, his gaze flicking between you and the board, but whatever he’s thinking, he keeps to himself. The cap clicks off with a sharp sound, and you press the tip to parchment, circling names, scrawling notes in the margins.

A few names stand out. A few, Gojo disregards. He taps the table twice with the end of his index finger, a silent cue. "Let’s start with your questions. Hit me."

You fold your arms over your chest, the weight of his gaze heavier than usual. But you shake it off, letting focus take over.

"Question one: There are stories of ancient wizards who dabbled in dark magic but weren’t necessarily evil. What if we’ve just rewritten history to suit whoever was in power at the time?" You tap the parchment, narrowing your eyes at a particular passage. "So many Slytherin families, specifically purebloods, are made to look bad in these records."

"Suguru isn’t a pureblood," Gojo points out, brows knitting together. "He’s a half-blood."

"And the Ministry isn’t exactly a beacon of truth," you counter, voice sharpening. "In one of the books I skimmed through, it mentioned how the Ministry actively stopped Newt Scamander from dealing with the Obscurus in New York. That was in the twenties. Whether it's here or in America, they play by the rules they make, and those rules aren’t always for the greater good."

"We should go to the Ministry," Gojo muses, tilting his head back against the chair. "Dumbledore meant it too. I know it."

"Not yet." Your voice is firm, cutting through any room for argument. "I need to figure some things out first."

You flip through the parchment, finger tracing the ink-stained words before you press on. "Professor Fig told me blood magic was practiced for centuries. Even necromancy. But then, out of nowhere, sometime in the 1600s, it was outlawed. No reason given. Just erased from sanctioned magic. Why?"

Gojo exhales through his nose, shaking his head. "That doesn’t concern us. Blood magic isn’t being performed anymore. Trust me."

You arch a brow. "And you know this how?"

"There are… physical restrictions that come with it," he explains, slower this time, choosing his words carefully. "Suguru wouldn’t be able to withstand them. If he were performing anything remotely close to blood magic, he’d be either too frail to stand or dead. And he’s neither. Besides, at this point, only the Kamo family is officially documented for using blood magic."

"So it’s familial?" You pause, a thought creeping in. "That means you must have something too, yeah?"

He grins, insufferable as ever. "I’m one of the strongest wizards of our generation. But I can’t tell you what my techniques are just yet."

Asshole.

You resist the urge to throw the marker at him and turn back to the board instead, scanning the names again. "Alright. Next question. Grindelwald. It’s said that he created his own spells. Is that… possible? The history books only mention ‘forbidden spells’ in vague terms, nothing specific. If he was so dangerous, why isn’t there a single documented incantation of his?"

Gojo’s smirk fades, his expression shifting to something more serious. "Oh, there are records. Just not ones you can access." He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. "There are twenty-two spells he created, at least according to Ministry records. But they’re locked away in the restricted archives. Only higher-ups and select researchers can access them. And even then, only under extreme circumstances."

Your fingers tighten around the marker. "So the Ministry knows, but they don’t want anyone else to?"

"Pretty much," he shrugs. "But Grindelwald’s magic wasn’t about being ‘dark’ in the traditional sense. He was more political than anything—trying to make wizards the dominant race. This was all before World War II, mind you. I don’t think Suguru has anything to do with him."

You sigh, dragging the marker across the board to cross out Grindelwald’s name. But then, something clicks.

"Oh!" You turn abruptly, eyes wide. "I forgot to write this down earlier because I wasn’t sure about it. It was only mentioned in the footnotes of this ancient book I borrowed from the restricted section. Fig gave me a letter of approval, so Pince let me take it."

Gojo’s expression shifts. A flicker of something unreadable—gone before you can place it.

"Sukuna." You exhale the name, testing it on your tongue. "Sukuna Ryomen. I’ve never heard of him before. But from what I read, his entire existence revolved around one thing—killing the strongest wizards."

Gojo stills. His entire body goes rigid, his breath halting for just a fraction too long.

"Fucking hell." The words leave his lips, barely above a whisper.

You blink. "What? What is it? Does the name mean something to you?"

Gojo pushes himself up from the chair, striding toward the board, eyes dark with something bordering on disbelief. His fingers curl into his palm before flexing again, his breath coming sharper.

"Sukuna isn’t just an average dark wizard," he murmurs, almost to himself. "When he died, he didn’t just vanish. He sealed himself. Not in a body. Not in a ghost. But as something else entirely."

Your heart hammers. "What do you mean?"

Gojo turns, looking at you now. Fully. "You know about Horcruxes?"

"Only vaguely," you admit, feeling the weight of something shifting in the air.

Gojo exhales, running a hand through his hair, fingers tugging at the roots. "A Horcrux is an object where a dark wizard hides a fragment of their soul to become immortal. Sukuna… he didn’t make just one. Even making one is said to be one of the most difficult tasks known in the wizarding world. He made twenty."

The breath leaves your lungs.

"And no one alive is supposed to know that," Gojo mutters. "Except for a handful of people. I only know because I used to snoop through my father’s work as a kid."

A chill creeps up your spine. This—this is bigger than you thought.

“Do you think Geto… Suguru, is…” The words falter on your tongue, as if naming the thought will make it real. You look at Gojo, eyes wide, searching his face for any trace of certainty, any flicker of assurance that this is ridiculous, unfounded, impossible. But none comes. Your voice drops to something barely above a whisper. “Do you think he’s trying to contact or—”

Gojo exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head. His fingers twitch against the edge of the table. “Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t even know how he’d come to know about him.” His voice is quiet but taut, the syllables clipped, deliberate. “Nobody knows about him.”

He pauses, glances at the board, then at you. His gaze lingers, as if weighing whether to continue. And then, as though some invisible dam breaks, he scoffs, a short, bitter laugh. “There was a time I used to think about Sukuna a lot. About how someone so deranged was never killed, never thrown into Azkaban. How none of the so-called greatest wizards of their time ever thought to just put him in a cell, like they did with Grindelwald. Y’know, after that New York thing you were talking about.”

“Maybe he was too strong,” you say, and you barely register the words as they leave your lips, spoken like an afterthought, like something not meant to be heard at all.

Gojo is watching you now. Not just looking, but watching—observing, assessing, dissecting the thought that just slipped from you so easily. His silence is heavy, but you press forward, leaning against the desk, exhaling steadily. “We should try to explore this angle, you know.”

“There is no angle.” His voice is firmer now, more clipped. “It can’t fucking be Sukuna. Suguru has no way of knowing who Sukuna even is.”

“What if he does, Satoru?” You tilt your head, sinking into the nearest chair. The weight of this conversation is suddenly unbearable. Your fingers press against the bridge of your nose, rubbing slow circles, willing away the dull ache behind your eyes. “What if he found out? He’s practicing dark magic, isn’t he? What if this is all leading to something bigger?”

Gojo exhales sharply, his irritation manifesting in the way his jaw tenses, the way his hands curl into loose fists against the table. “You do realize you’re just shooting guesses in the dark, right?” His voice is different now, lower, edged with something like anger, but not quite. Something closer to frustration, closer to something deeply personal. His nostrils flare. “Don’t speak about Suguru like that. I won’t stand for it.”

“I’m not slandering him, I’m giving you a possible explanation—”

“Okay, how about we go to the Ministry then?” Gojo straightens, a challenge in his stance, in the sharpness of his words. “Check out the official records? There should be something about Sukuna, right?”

You stare at him, then shake your head, willing your heartbeat to slow. “Tell me more about him first. Before we go running into the Ministry.” A pause. “And don’t pretend it’s not dangerous for you to step foot in that place. We both know it is.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Gojo mutters, running a hand through his hair, dragging his fingers through the white strands in frustration. His shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath before he turns to the board, his back facing you. His silhouette is stark against the dim candlelight, broad and tense, and when he finally turns to face you again, his eyes are unreadable. He exhales, rubbing his temple. “I shouldn’t tell you any of this. If anything, it puts your life at risk.”

“Tell me anyway.” Your voice is steady. You tilt your head, watching him. “We’re in it now. The both of us. I’d rather my life be in just as much danger as yours is.”

Gojo looks at you, really looks at you, and something flickers in his expression—unreadable, soft and fleeting before it vanishes behind a carefully placed mask of indifference. He sighs.

“Sukuna’s soul was split into twenty pieces.” The words are measured, weighted, as though each one carries something more than just meaning. “Because his body was too powerful to fully destroy. Or die.”

Something shifts in the air between you, something uneasy, something that makes the space feel smaller than it is. You swallow, listening.

“There’s an old text,” Gojo continues, rolling his shoulders back, but his voice is quieter now, like the words themselves have the power to summon something dark, something long buried. “It suggests that if one wizard absorbs enough of his Horcruxes, they could become his vessel. A host for his spirit.”

A pause.

“I only know this because I was a curious child. And because I had a habit of sneaking into places I shouldn’t be.” His voice is flat, but there’s something beneath it, something carefully restrained. “And because when my father found me reading those papers, he threw me down the stairs.”

You blink. “I’m sorry—what?”

Gojo exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Focus on the important part, Fawkes.”

“The 'important part'?” Your voice rises, incredulous. “You can’t just tell me your father threw you down the stairs like it’s some passing detail, Satoru.” You stand now, hands bracing against the desk, staring at him. “That’s not normal, and we both know it after I fixed your gash last time!”

“I know it’s not normal, but for Merlin’s sake, can we—” Gojo exhales, pressing his fingers against his temple. Then, suddenly, his shoulders drop. The frustration fades, replaced by something else. Something almost… tired. He takes a slow step toward you, then another, until there’s only a foot of space between you. His voice is softer when he speaks next. “I’ll tell you all of it. Yeah? Just… after this is over.”

You hold his gaze. He is too close now, but you don’t move away. His eyes are still unreadable, but they hold something different now—something quiet, something unspoken.

“You cleaned me up once,” he murmurs. “I might need you to do it again.”

The words hang between you, suspended in the dim light. Your breath catches, just slightly.

You swallow, nodding once. “A-alright.”

"Anyway," he says, after a moment, turning slightly, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s not sure what to do with his hands. "We should—well, we should go to the Ministry like Dumbledore hinted. Not because you think Suguru has something to do with Sukuna, let's make that clear. But we can't just go like this."

There’s something in his voice, a sharpness beneath the casual tone, a weight to the words that makes your stomach tighten.

"What do you mean?" you ask, tilting your head.

Gojo exhales through his nose, pacing once before looking at you with something unreadable in his expression. Then, with a sudden decisiveness, he moves—shrugging on his coat, fastening the buttons with quick, practiced fingers. "Meet me by the Wooden Bridge in an hour."

You blink. "What?"

"And," he cuts in, already moving toward the door, "wear something dark. A black longcoat, if you have one. Nothing bright. No color."

Your brows furrow. "Why are you giving me fashion advice?"

A grin flickers across his face, something boyish and almost fond, but there’s an edge beneath it, a little wry. "Just do as I say." He steps backward through the door, the dim light catching in his silver hair. "This might just be the best espionage trip of our lives."

And with that, he's gone. The door swings shut behind him, leaving only the faintest trace of his presence in the air. You stand there for a moment, your pulse in your throat, staring at the space where he had just been.

Then, with a sigh, you grab your coat.

Dusk settles over the castle grounds like ink bleeding into paper, the last vestiges of light stretching thin against the horizon. The air is crisp, damp with the promise of nightfall, and the wind hums low through the wooden beams of the bridge. Below, the Black Lake glimmers in the fading light, a dark mirror swallowing the sky whole.

You stand at the edge, fingers curled over the railing, the cold seeping into your gloves. There’s something about the quiet that feels heavier than usual, pressing at your ribs, wrapping itself around your spine like a premonition. You tell yourself it’s just the wind.

Then, footsteps. Fast, deliberate.

You turn just as Gojo barrels toward you, his coat billowing behind him, hair a mess of silver and shadow. He’s breathless when he reaches you, but not from exertion—you know him too well. This is adrenaline. This is thrill biting at his heels, curling in his chest.

He catches your arm, his grip firm but not rough, and tugs. "Come along," he says, voice lower than usual, urgent. "We need to get a little farther in case anyone sees us."

You don't move just yet. "What exactly are we doing?" you ask, searching his face.

Gojo grins, and it’s that boyish, wicked thing—too sharp for something so pretty. The kind of smile that makes you brace yourself. "Time-Turner," he says, casually, like he’s talking about the weather. "You have one. We’re using it."

Your stomach drops. "I'm sorry, what?" The words come out strangled, an octave too high. "Right. Of course, Dumbledore said—"

"Four turns," he says simply, holding up four fingers before dropping his hand. "Then we Disapparate to London. Ministry of Magic."

You gape at him. "And they’re just going to let us in? Let us waltz through their bloody archives because you’re the son of the Head Auror and a pureblood?"

"No," he says, and this time his grin is something else entirely—mischief carved in moonlight, the gleam of a dagger hidden in silk.

It’s then that you notice what he’s wearing. You take a step back, looking him over. The white dress shirt, crisp beneath a waistcoat that fits just right. The tie, dark and neatly knotted. The glint of a pocket watch chain disappearing into the fabric. A briefcase, small but distinct, clutched in his free hand.

You blink. The words slip out then, half incredulous, half fascinated. "What in Merlin’s name are you wearing? Bloody hell, don't tell me we're—"

Gojo barks a laugh. "You’re quick," he muses, stepping closer, and you catch the faintest scent of cedarwood and parchment. He dips a hand into the inner pocket of his coat, pulling out a small glass vial filled with something murky, something viscous. "Polyjuice Potion."

Your breath leaves you in a whisper. "You’re brilliant."

He smirks. "Flattery won’t get me into your bed, Fawkes."

You roll your eyes, shoving his shoulder. "I’m surprised you even know how to Disapparate."

He winks. "I know a lot of things," he says, pressing the vial into your palm. His fingers brush yours, warm against the cold. "Here. Drink up. It'll make you look like my mum."

The wind howls through the bridge, biting at your skin. You swallow hard. Somewhere in the distance, the castle looms, but there’s no turning back now.

You grab the bottle. And you uncork it immediately, before downing the contents into your mouth.

The taste is vile. Thick and acrid, like spoiled milk curdled with copper, and it coats your tongue so thoroughly that you nearly gag on instinct. You swallow hard, forcing it down, willing it to stay down, and the moment it settles in your stomach, it begins.

It is not an instant transformation, but a slow, creeping shift, like ink spreading through water.

Your bones feel like they are stretching, skin pulling taut, reshaping itself over a frame that does not belong to you. Your hands tremble as they lengthen, the fingers too foreign, too unfamiliar. Something coils in your chest, slithering into the crevices of your ribs, a sensation of wrongness sinking into every cell of your being. It makes you nauseous, makes your head swim.

When you blink, Gojo isn’t Gojo anymore.

Well, he is, but he’s taller. Not by much, but enough to feel the difference when he looks at you. His eyes, no longer searing, electric blue, are duller now—gray, washed out, hollow in a way that makes your stomach turn. His hair, still white, is combed back neatly, stiff with gel, a too-perfect contrast to the man you know. It unsettles you.

Your breath stutters as you reach for your own hair. The strands slipping between your fingers are impossibly dark, a black so deep it swallows light. The sight of it sends something skittering through your veins—discomfort, unease, a whisper of something deeper that you refuse to name.

Gojo watches you, his expression unreadable, though you swear there is something caught in his breath, something unspoken hanging in the air between you. Then, as quickly as it lingers, it is gone.

"Okay," he says briskly, shaking off whatever had crept in. "Come here."

He moves in closer, so close that for a moment, you forget where you are. The heat of him is startling in the cold, the way his breath fans against your skin. He doesn’t touch you, not yet—his pale eyes flick down, catching the delicate gold chain around your throat. His fingers reach for it, grazing against the hollow of your collarbone before curling around the Time-Turner, pulling it toward him as if testing the weight of it between his fingers.

"Four turns," he murmurs, glancing back up at you. The space between you narrows, almost nonexistent now, but his voice is measured, deliberate. "That should be enough."

You swallow. His knuckles are against your chest now, and for a fraction of a second, his thumb brushes the side of your throat before he shifts, looping one arm around your waist—not to pull you in, not quite, but enough to steady you. "Don’t let go," he says, quieter now, something softer in his voice.

Then, without waiting for an answer, he twists the Time-Turner.

The world lurches.

A pull you've experienced way too many times before, a violent snap, and then—motion. Everything bends, warps, unspools. Time collapses inward, the fabric of it twisting, folding, rewinding. The air is thick, viscous, pressing in on you like water. A dizzying flicker of colors and shadows, moments folding over themselves, the sensation of falling in all directions at once. Your breath catches, your fingers grasp at whatever they can—his wrist, the sleeve of his coat, his waist, you don't know. The only thing you know for certain is that he is solid, unmoving, the only anchor in this storm of shifting time.

Then, as quickly as it starts, it stops. Your feet slam against the ground. The world steadies.

Gojo exhales sharply, blinking, shaking out his hands as if trying to rid himself of the sensation. His grip on you doesn’t loosen right away. You’re both breathless, rattled, as if something in you was just wrenched apart and put back together again.

Then he releases you, stepping back just enough to look at you properly.

"Alright," he says again, but slower this time, his voice a little hoarser than before. "Now, let's go."

You barely have time to process the words before his fingers wrap around your arm, and then, the sensation is immediate.

It is as if something has hooked itself behind your navel, yanking you forward, through, beyond. The world compresses, tightens, squeezes the air from your lungs until you are nothing but motion, spiraling through a space that does not exist. Your stomach twists, flips inside out, and just as suddenly as it begins, it stops.

You stumble. The bile rises instantly.

Gojo doesn’t pause. He grips your wrist and pulls you forward, through the crush of London’s morning streets, weaving effortlessly between pedestrians who pay you no mind. The sun is pale overhead, the air thick with the scent of damp pavement and petrol, and it takes all of your willpower to keep yourself from doubling over right there on the sidewalk.

"You alright?" Gojo asks, sparing you a glance, though he doesn’t slow.

You swallow hard, pressing a hand to your mouth. "I’m trying very hard not to vomit on your very expensive-looking shoes."

His mouth twitches. "Do your best. These are the only ones that fit."

The joke barely registers. You’re still reeling, still pulling yourself back into your own body when he steers you toward a grand stone building—HM Treasury. You’ve seen it before, but only from a distance. To the rest of the world, it is nothing more than a government building, its facade unassuming, its history unremarkable. But you know better.

The Ministry of Magic sits beneath it, hidden from Muggle eyes.

Your heart pounds.

Gojo leads you through the entrance, past marble columns and security desks where wizards blend seamlessly with their non-magical counterparts, their disguises impeccable. An elevator stands at the far end of the hall, and he pushes you into it without ceremony, offering the elevator boy a murmured word—something low, something clipped—but you can’t make it out.

You are still concentrating on breathing. The walls of the elevator seem too close, the floor shifting beneath your feet as it descends, deeper and deeper, into the earth. The sensation is dizzying, claustrophobic, and your throat burns with the effort of keeping everything where it belongs. You cough once, then twice, swallowing down the last remnants of nausea.

Gojo stands beside you, arms crossed, his face eerily neutral. Too neutral.

Then, with a sharp chime, the doors slide open. And there it is.

The Ministry of Magic sprawls out before you, vast and pulsing with life. The floors gleam beneath the glow of floating lanterns, and the walls stretch impossibly high, lined with enchanted windows that flicker between storm and sunshine. Wizards bustle through the halls, robes billowing as they move with purpose, their conversations a murmur of layered voices. The air is thick with ink and parchment, with the faint hum of magic woven into every stone.

For a brief moment, the entire place stills. Not in motion, but in focus.

The weight of a hundred gazes flickers toward you, sharp and fleeting. Recognition, curiosity, hesitation—all of it flashing across the faces of those who know who Gojo’s father is. Who know, perhaps, the woman beside him.

Then, as quickly as it comes, it is gone. The moment passes, and the Ministry moves again, indifferent, uncaring. You let out a slow breath. "Shit," you murmur.

Gojo’s smirk is barely there, but you catch it before he turns away. "Welcome to the Ministry," he says.

The Atrium stretches out before you, grand and gleaming, its polished floors reflecting the golden gates that guard the farthest elevator. The ceiling, impossibly high, is charmed to shimmer with a soft, otherworldly glow, casting long shadows that stretch and curl around the pillars. Wizards move in careful, calculated strides, their robes swishing as they pass, their murmured conversations lost beneath the distant hum of enchanted parchment shuffling through the air.

Gojo walks beside you, arm in arm, his posture impeccable, his expression unreadable. His hand, warm and steady, rests lightly over yours, as if it has always belonged there. A mere prop, an illusion of familiarity. Yet, the weight of it grounds you, keeps you tethered to this carefully crafted deception.

The elevator looms ahead, its gilded doors casting fractured reflections of the two of you as you step inside. It is empty.

A deliberate emptiness. No one follows. No one dares.

The moment the gates slide shut, Gojo hums softly, an idle, almost absentminded sound as he adjusts his grip on his briefcase. His fingers graze over the metal clasp, slow, deliberate. You can feel it—the shift, the careful way he molds himself into a shape that is not his own. When he speaks, his voice is lower, clipped, perfectly measured.

"Level Nine, please, Gregory."

The attendant, a thin, sallow-faced man, inclines his head immediately. "Yes, of course, Mr. Gojo, sir."

No hesitation. No second glance.

The elevator descends, the air thick with something unspoken, something heavier than just the enclosed space. Gojo is silent beside you, and you study him, study the way he moves, the way he exists within this borrowed identity. His fingers drift to his pocket, slipping out the watch. He checks it, movements languid, precise, before snapping it shut with a quiet click and tucking it away again.

You watch him. You cannot see him. You cannot see Gojo Satoru in the man beside you.

The realization unsettles you more than it should.

"Have a nice day, sir," Gregory says when the doors slide open, bowing his head slightly.

Gojo does not speak. He only nods, a simple, dismissive gesture, before stepping out, guiding you along with him.

The corridor ahead is dark.

Not dimly lit—dark.

An unnatural kind of darkness, thick and all-consuming, pressing in from all sides. The floor beneath your feet is slick, obsidian-like, divided by thin, pale lines that stretch endlessly forward, the only indication of where the ground begins and ends. If not for them, you might believe you were standing in nothingness itself.

Your grip tightens around Gojo’s arm, and he glances down at you. His gaze softens—just for a moment, just enough for you to catch it before he speaks.

"Department of Mysteries," he murmurs. His voice is quieter here, as if speaking too loudly might wake something lurking in the dark. "Every prophecy, every classified record, every secret the Ministry has buried… It’s all here."

You swallow, trying to ignore the way your pulse thrums against your ribs.

"People are killed here, too," he adds, almost absently, his eyes scanning the corridor.

"Oh." The word barely escapes your lips, and it is nothing more than a breath, a wisp of sound swallowed whole by the darkness.

Gojo hesitates. Just slightly. Just enough for you to notice. He looks left, then right. The careful surety in his steps falters. Your heart pounds louder.

"Are you…" You trail off, watching the slight furrow in his brow, the way his fingers tighten ever so slightly against your sleeve. "Are you lost?"

"Not lost," he mutters, still glancing between the paths ahead. "Just… not sure which way it is."

You exhale sharply. "That’s called being lost, dimwit."

Before he can respond, a voice cuts through the corridor, shattering whatever fragile cocoon of secrecy the two of you had woven around yourselves.

"Mrs. Gojo? I thought you were home today."

Your spine stiffens instantly, fingers twitching against Gojo’s sleeve. Slowly, carefully, you turn.

A woman stands a few feet away, walking toward you with the poised ease of someone who does not question your presence, does not suspect. Not yet.

She is young—not as young as you or Satoru, but young enough to still hold that quiet eagerness in her gaze. Late twenties, perhaps. Dark hair neatly tied back, a crisp white blouse tucked into an ironed skirt. She wears glasses, thick-framed and pastel pink, an odd contrast to the clinical formality of the rest of her attire. They suit her, oddly enough.

You try to speak, but your throat is tight. When the words finally come, they are stilted, uneven. "Y-yes, supposedly."

Your voice cracks. You clear it, forcing yourself to stand a little straighter. "I apologize. My throat is a bit sore."

The woman shakes her head, unfazed. "It’s alright," she says, adjusting her glasses. "I was hoping you’d look through my paper soon. The one I wrote. I sent a copy with my owl—"

Gojo interrupts her. Smoothly. Effortlessly.

"Dear," he says, turning to you with the air of a man who has done this a thousand times before, "I’m sorry to do this, but we really are in the middle of something urgent."

His hand finds the small of your back, his fingers curling there as if they have always rested in that space. As if they have memorized the way your body fits against his. It is a performance, and he plays it with the ease of someone who knows exactly how to make the world believe him.

"My darling is assisting me on a case," he continues, his voice calm, commanding. "I’m afraid we can’t stay to chat."

The woman stiffens, stepping back immediately. "So sorry, sir."

"I’ll see your paper soon," you add quickly, softer now, careful to maintain whatever illusion of familiarity she expects. Her eyes brighten, her lips curling into a small, pleased smile. You regret the words as soon as they leave you. She is far too delighted, far too expectant. You have just given her something you cannot give.

Gojo does not acknowledge it.

Instead, he turns his gaze toward you again, and you recognize the shift—the careful tilt of his head, the slight lift of his brow. He is setting the stage.

"Where are the archives, my dear?" he asks, voice deliberate. You know what he is doing.

And so does she. The woman is quick to interject, stepping forward again. "That way, sir. First entryway to your left."

Gojo inclines his head in acknowledgment, a satisfied glint in his gaze. "Thank you."

Then, without another word, he pulls you along.

You chance a glance over your shoulder. The woman is still watching, her expression unreadable. When she catches your eye, she waves, polite, expectant. You nod, just slightly, before disappearing into the darkness.

For a few minutes, the two of you walk in silence, the sound of your footfalls swallowed by the suffocating hush of the Department of Mysteries. The walls stretch high, black brick stacked upon black brick, endless shelves crammed with books and vials and ancient, dust-covered artifacts. There is no natural light here, only the weak glow of enchanted lanterns hanging from the ceiling, their golden flicker casting long, shifting shadows that distort as you pass beneath them. The air is heavy, thick with something old, forgotten, waiting. The corridors stretch in every direction, each turn identical to the last, a labyrinth designed to trap those who don’t belong. And yet, Gojo moves with purpose.

He walks ahead of you, his father’s long coat billowing at his ankles, his shoulders squared, his pace brisk and assured. There is no hesitation in his steps, no second-guessing. It’s unnerving, how he carries himself in this place, how he navigates the endless maze like he has walked these corridors before.

"You know where you're going?" you ask, voice hushed, brows furrowing. It doesn’t make sense—he shouldn’t know. But he does. You can tell. You can see it in the way he moves, in the way his fingers barely graze the books that jut out unevenly from the walls, in the way his head tilts slightly, listening for something only he can hear.

He doesn’t stop, only glances back at you with something like amusement curling at the corner of his mouth. "Remember when I said I have a knack for snooping?"

He smiles, soft and easy, but on his father’s face, it looks wrong. Unsettling. Like a mask stretched over the wrong bones. But then he exhales, a quiet, measured sound, and murmurs, "I have a Pensieve at home. You know, the thing you use to look at other people’s memories."

"Whose memories did you look at?" Your voice is quieter now, more careful. "Your mother?"

He hums, neither confirming nor denying, but you already know the answer. "My mother is the Head of the Research department in the Ministry," he says eventually, tone softer now, almost thoughtful. Then, when he notices your expression, he sighs. "Don’t give me that look—yes, that one. It feels like my mother is looking at me in disappointment."

"Technically," you murmur, "she is. Can't believe you never told me something that important."

He huffs a quiet laugh before shaking his head. "Anyway, I extracted some of her memories while she was sleeping."

There is no guilt in his voice when he says it. No shame. Just the calm, matter-of-fact tone of someone who has long accepted that certain lines will always be crossed. He tilts his head, thoughtful. "She worked on something regarding Sukuna years ago when my father required it, so it was buried deep. Hard to find. But I found one or two." There’s a glint of triumph in his eye now, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards. "So we can, technically, find our way to her old research."

Your breath catches, just for a second, before you mutter, "You're bloody brilliant." A pause. "Insufferable, but brilliant."

He clutches his chest in mock offense. "I don’t appreciate the insufferable part of that comment," he says, "But I’ll take it, darling."

You groan, feigning pain as you start pressing a hand to your chest to ward off nausea. "Oh, god."

He chuckles, quiet, almost genuine. But then, he stops. It takes you a second to realize why. He’s staring at you, his brows drawing together in something close to alarm. But it’s not you he’s looking at—it’s your hair.

"Shit," he breathes. "We're changing back."

Your stomach plummets.

Panic grips you, quick and unrelenting, and your breath stumbles, your chest tightening, filling too much, your limbs growing heavy with the weight of something you can’t control. Your fingers tremble at your sides. You blink rapidly, feeling the shift—bones reshaping themselves, skin warming, hair changing, pooling into its natural color. You feel it happen, but you can’t stop it.

He moves before you can react.

A hand around your wrist, firm, steady, pulling you towards the nearest shelf. The press of his body against yours, the heavy fabric of his father’s coat between you. He smells clean, crisp—something sharp, like winter air, something sweet, like honey. His grip tightens, anchoring you, steadying you. "We're here," he murmurs, low and careful. "Don’t worry. We're inside. We can Disapparate out. It's illegal, yes, but they won't know it was us."

"But they saw us come in—"

"They won’t know it was us." His voice is calm, but insistent. Your cries calm under the tone of his voice, as you try to breathe. "They won’t know it was two kids from Hogwarts impersonating two of the most important people at the Ministry of Magic."

His eyes change first. The dull, washed-out gray of his father’s gaze sharpens back into that impossible blue, that staggering, summer-sky brilliance. His cheekbones fill out, his jawline softens, the deep hollows under his eyes lift slightly. You watch it all happen in real time, like something unraveling, undoing itself.

You nod, swallowing down the remnants of panic. "Okay. Yes. We’re fine."

"We’re fine," he echoes, quieter now. His hands fall away from you, slow, reluctant. He looks past you, and you follow his gaze.

"Alright," he murmurs. "It’s just... through those doors."

He glances toward the shelves, his gaze landing on the double doors tucked into the shadows. They are deep blue, so dark they could be black, their surfaces smooth and cold-looking, as if the very material resists light. Wood or metal, you cannot tell. The air around them hums with something just beyond perception, something that makes the fine hairs on your arms stand on end. When Gojo takes a step forward, you follow without thinking, as if drawn in by the same invisible current.

He reaches for the doors, his fingers barely brushing the handles before hesitating. You both know better than to rush—Ministry doors, especially ones in the Archives, are not to be trusted. The moment stretches, silent and heavy, before he finally presses his palm against the surface and pushes. The doors give way with a near-soundless shift, swinging inward, revealing the yawning darkness beyond. You step through together, breath held, waiting for something to snap, for a hex to ignite the air, for something unseen to wrap around your ankles and pull you under.

But nothing comes.

Instead, the darkness swallows you whole.

The corridor outside was dim, but this—this is suffocating. The blackness is thick, pressing in at the edges of your vision, and for a moment, you feel like you've stepped into something alive, something that might close its mouth around you and never let go. Then, slowly, the room begins to take shape. The first thing you see is the glow.

It is in the center of the room. Soft at first, then impossibly bright, an eerie silver light spilling from a single, shallow stone basin. A Pensieve. Its glow reaches out, licking at the towering shelves lining the circular walls, illuminating their contents in thin, wavering light. Books—tomes so thick and ancient they look more like relics than texts—stand in orderly rows, their spines cracked and weathered. But it is not the books that pull at you. It is the shelves of glass vials, dozens of them, perhaps hundreds, each one filled with swirling memories suspended in liquid silver. A breath catches in your throat.

“Are Pensieves supposed to glow like that?” your voice barely rises above a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might disturb the unnatural light.

Gojo’s frown deepens. “No,” he says, his voice low, careful. “This wasn’t in the memory.” His eyes dart around the room, gaze flickering over the shelves, over the countless memories sealed away in glass. “This room was supposed to have records. Archives on dark wizards.”

You turn to him sharply. “What do you mean?”

“It’s been changed.” There’s something raw in his voice, something tight in the way he says it. “I was stupid to think it would be the same after all these years.”

“No, wait.” You reach for his arm before he can retreat into that dangerous space in his mind, the one where he shuts everything out. Your grip tightens as your eyes settle on the glass cases surrounding the Pensieve. Rows upon rows of memories, cataloged and stored. Vials lined neatly in place. The room is wrong, but the purpose remains the same. Information is here, waiting to be found. “Come with me.”

For a moment, he doesn’t move, only watches you, uncertain. Then he exhales, nods once, and follows.

The closer you get to the shelves, the more you notice the details. The labels on the vials, each one scrawled in a hand you don’t recognize. Some date back decades. Others, centuries. You skim the shelves, fingers ghosting over the glass, scanning names and dates, heart thrumming in your chest.

Then you see it.

“Look.” You reach upward, pointing to a vial perched near the top. It looks newer than the others. Unsettlingly recent.

Gojo steps closer, rising onto the balls of his feet to retrieve it. The glass is cool in his palm, the memory inside swirling restlessly as if aware it is being watched. His jaw tightens. “It’s from last week.”

You swallow. “What do you think?”

“We’re here anyway, aren’t we?” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Might as well.”

But you hesitate. Something in your chest constricts. “Wait,” you say, watching him carefully. “We don’t even know whose memory this is.”

His grip on the vial tightens slightly. “My mother’s the only one who spends this much time in the Archives. It has to be hers.”

“Or someone else’s.” Your voice is firmer now. Your mind is already moving ahead of you, calculating, predicting. If it isn’t his mother’s, it could be someone dangerous. Someone who might not want their memories seen. You reach forward and take the vial from his hand. “I’ll do it.”

He blinks. “What?” His expression shifts, his posture straightening, eyes narrowing. “Absolutely not.”

“Shut up,” you say, rolling the vial between your fingers. “You and I both know that if there’s something in here—something important—you won’t tell me everything.” You don’t phrase it like a question. You already know the answer. He will keep secrets. He always does. “So I’ll do it for us. Both of us.”

His mouth parts slightly, but he says nothing. You take it as permission.

Before he can stop you, you unstopper the vial and tip its contents into the Pensieve. The silver liquid spills and twists into its depths, and as the glow intensifies, you step forward.

His voice is tight. “Fawkes—”

“I know what I’m doing, Satoru,” you say, glancing back at him one last time before turning to face the swirling light. “I’ll tell you everything I find. I promise.”

The promise lingers between you, unspoken things coiling beneath it. You swallow, forcing down the weight of it, and then, you plunge your head into the water.

When you open your eyes, the darkness remains. It is thick, pressing in at the edges, refusing to recede even as you blink, as if light itself has no place here. The air is dense, heavy with something unseen, something remembered only in fragments. A presence lingers. You are not alone.

Ahead of you, a woman walks. Her figure is long, draped in a suit that is precise, expensive, tailored to fit the exact dimensions of her power. A long black coat flows behind her, weightless, unbothered by the movements of the air. She is tall—taller than you by an inch, maybe two. But it is not her height that makes her imposing. It is the way she moves. Each step is deliberate, unhurried. A woman who has never known the need to rush.

It is only when she turns slightly, just enough for the dim light to catch the strands of her hair, that you know for certain.

Gojo’s mother.

Her hair is darker than the void you’ve stepped into, so black it seems to swallow the faintest glow. It absorbs rather than reflects, as if made of something beyond human, beyond earthly. It is a kind of darkness that does not allow itself to be seen—it simply exists.

You follow her, though the memory resists you. The edges of it blur, flickering in and out like an old film reel. There is something fractured about it, something incomplete. As if even as she bottled this memory, she had not wanted to hold onto it fully.

You recognize the walls around you now, even through the haze. The archives. The same halls you had infiltrated not long ago, walking through them as if you belonged. But here, now, in the past, they are different. The same walls, the same sterile air, but the feeling is heavier. The moment is thick with something unsaid.

She steps out of the hallway and approaches a desk. The woman seated there—you recognize her from before, the one with the forgettable name. She glances up, hesitates, and then asks something. A question about research, perhaps, though the words slip from memory as soon as they are spoken.

Gojo’s mother does not answer. She does not pause. She does not acknowledge anything outside the path she has already decided for herself. A dismissal, barely a breath, and she moves forward.

The elevator doors slide open. She steps in. You follow, slipping inside just before they shut.

And then, for the first time, you are beside her.

She is standing still, facing forward, the way all people do in elevators. And yet, she does not look like anyone you have ever seen. She is impossible.

Her face is sharp, unreadable. Her eyes, when you dare to glance up at them, are endless. The same color as Gojo’s, but not the same at all. His eyes are full of something reckless, something alive, something dangerous. Hers are cold. Deep. The kind of ocean one does not swim in but drowns.

The elevator stops. She steps forward without hesitation, walking through you as if you are nothing, as if you do not exist.

And you run after her.

The space outside the elevator is unlike the rest of the Ministry. Here, the sterility fades. Color bleeds into the walls, accents of something warmer, something lived-in. A hallway lined with framed documents, quiet conversations murmuring behind closed doors. It is almost ordinary. Almost.

She does not stop to take any of it in.

People scatter as she passes, moving out of her way before she has to ask. Someone hands her a file. Another whispers something, a confirmation, a verification. She does not break stride. She flips the file open, scanning it with an expression so impassive that it may as well have been carved from stone. Her mouth tightens, only slightly, before she speaks.

“I want to meet this woman,” she says.

And then she is moving again, pushing open the door before her.

You expect a meeting room. A cold, lifeless space. Instead, you find something else entirely.

It is an office. Her office. And it is beautiful.

Mahogany shelves line the walls, filled with books that are worn from use rather than neglect. The desk is dark wood, heavy, ornate, carved by hands that understood the weight of the things that would rest upon it. Ivory accents run through the room, small and deliberate, a careful contrast against the dark. There are plants, impossibly green, their leaves stretching towards the light that filters in through the single high window. It is unexpected. It is not at all what you thought it would be.

And yet, none of it holds your attention for long.

Because she is not alone.

A woman sits across from her.

She is old. So old that the word itself feels insufficient. Her skin is pale, stretched too thin, the color of parchment left too long in the sun. She is brittle, you think, the kind of frail that suggests a single wrong movement might shatter her entirely. Her hair is silver, frayed, tangled into something that does not care for vanity. Her breath is uneven. She does not fidget, does not tremble, but she is not still in the way Gojo’s mother is. Her stillness is something different. Something waiting.

And then she looks at you.

No—through you. Past you. Or maybe into you.

It is a gaze that does not belong to someone of this world.

Her eyes are hollow and endless, the remnants of something that once saw more than human eyes were meant to. There is a flicker, a recognition that does not make sense, a knowing that does not belong to this moment. You feel it. A thing surfacing. A memory, lost and found all at once.

And then, without looking away, Gojo's mother speaks.

“Tell me what you know.”

Her voice is cracked, but steady. A whisper woven from something ancient. Something fragile. She steps forward. Her hands drop the file onto the desk. A sharp sound against the polished wood.

“Tell it to me,” she says. Her voice is quiet, but absolute. “In as much detail as you possibly can.”

A pause. A breath. And then, “Seer.”

You gasp, the sound sharp, swallowed instantly by the thick, stifling air of the room. It is too quiet. The kind of quiet that presses in, that weighs on your skin like wet wool. A silence that is not truly empty, but filled with something waiting. Watching. It coils around your throat, settles in the hollow of your chest, latches onto your ribs and refuses to let go. Seers are rare—so rare that they might as well not exist. True Seers, that is. And if this woman is one, if she is truly about to speak, then whatever spills from her lips will be more than knowledge. Her words will be law. Unstoppable. Absolute.

You step forward.

The memory shifts around you, edges curling in like parchment held too close to an open flame. The air warps, thickens, unsteady, like it might come apart at the seams. It feels like standing inside a living thing, a great beast breathing slow and shallow, waiting for the moment it will decide to wake. The light overhead flickers. The oil lamps on the walls dim, their glow eaten away by the shadows pooling in the corners of the office.

It is dark. But you see her, still.

Gojo's mother stands at the desk, straight-backed, utterly still, only the slight rise and fall of her chest betraying life beneath her skin. Her suit is pressed and sharp, her long black coat hanging open at her sides. She looks every bit the authority she holds, power stitched into the very way she breathes, the way people in the hallway had scattered before her like birds startled from a wire.

She is not afraid.

But the way she looks at the old woman across from her, the way her fingers press against the file on the desk, just barely—not enough to be called hesitation, but enough for you to see it—makes something twist inside you.

The Seer draws in a slow breath, her lips parting slightly. You can feel the shift in the air. It is almost unbearable, the tension, the sheer weight of the moment stretching so tight you fear it might snap.

But she does not speak.

“I mustn’t, Mirai,” she rasps at last, and her voice is like brittle paper, like old wood splitting beneath too much pressure. “I can’t.”

Your pulse stutters. Not because of her words, but because of the way Gojo’s mother reacts to her own name.

She straightens—not much, just a fraction—but enough that you notice the sharp inhale through her nose, the way the line of her jaw sets just a little tighter. She is unreadable. Utterly, terrifyingly still. But the weight of her presence alone is enough to strangle the last of the air from the room.

“Tell it to me,” she says. Her voice is even. Cold, but steady. “Or I will make sure there is no proof you ever existed.”

Something passes over the old woman’s face. Not quite fear. Something quieter. More tired. Her fingers tremble against the fabric of her dress, curling weakly before falling still.

For a moment, she does nothing. Then, slowly, she exhales.

“There is a prophecy.”

A chill sweeps down your spine.

The words are spoken so plainly, so simply, that it takes a moment for them to sink into your skin. But the second they do, the room feels smaller, as if the walls are pressing in, as if the air has grown thicker, harder to pull into your lungs.

The woman at the desk does not react. She does not move. But you do.

Your hands brace against the desk, knuckles white. You cannot look away, cannot breathe properly. Your heart is hammering in your chest, but you do not dare make a sound.

“Tell it to me,” she repeats.

There is a change in her voice. Subtle. But it is there. A shift so slight that no one else might have noticed, but you do. A thread of something not quite unshaken. A barely-there slip in the steel of her words.

The Seer’s gaze drops to her lap. She is quiet for so long you begin to wonder if she has lost herself again, if she has retreated into the fog of whatever place her mind resides in.

But then, she speaks.

“It will begin again,” she murmurs. “The war that was buried, the name that was feared. A name forgotten only by those foolish enough to believe it could be silenced forever.”

A slow exhale. The shift of fabric as the woman standing at the desk—Mirai—settles, barely, almost imperceptibly.

“The Dark Lord waits,” the Seer continues, her voice no longer quite hers. It slips into something older, something distant. “Scattered in twenty pieces, his whispers buried in stone and bone and blood. But the first has been found. A hand unknowing, closest to your son, holds what should have never surfaced, a heart still torn between shadow and light. He does not yet know what he carries, what it will demand of him, what it will make him become. But he will.”

Something in Mirai changes. Not in a way you can see—not yet—but you feel it. A quiet stillness, a shift in the air around her. The way her fingers press slightly against the desk, her nails barely digging into the wood.

Then, at last, she speaks. “What do you mean by ‘your son’? Is it my son?”

The Seer does not stop.

“Your son will know of it soon,” she says. “He will stand at the precipice, and he will try. He will try to save what has already begun to unravel. He will try to turn him back before he is too far gone. But the choice is not his to make.”

The room cracks. Not physically. But it feels like something has. The tension splinters, breaking wide open, and suddenly Mirai is moving before you can register it.

The chair scrapes against the floor. Her hands slam onto the desk.

She leans in. And her face, once so impassive, so eerily calm, is burning. Her nostrils flare, her shoulders squared, her glare searing into the old woman as if she could force the prophecy back into silence, as if she could take the words and bury them before they have a chance to root themselves into reality.

But the Seer does not flinch. She does not react at all. She simply breathes out, slow and steady, as if she has already seen this before.

“This war can be stalled,” she says, “but not undone. In a decade, it will come. The halls will burn. The towers will fall. And the old name, the one not spoken, will rise again, wearing the faces of the dead.”

The memory shudders. A slow, unnatural ripple, like the air itself is gasping, like the walls have begun to exhale. Then, without warning, it splits apart.

The wooden panels of the office tremble, thin fractures crawling up their surface, splitting like ice under pressure. The lamps flicker once, twice—then die, swallowed by the growing dark. The ground beneath you is no longer solid; it pulses, shifts, wavers between existence and something else entirely. A slow, sickening pull coils around your ribs, as if the world itself is unspooling thread by thread.

“No,” you whisper. It barely carries over the thick, suffocating silence.

Then the desk collapses inward, disappearing into nothingness. The chair follows. The Seer does not scream when she vanishes. She simply ceases to be. It rattles you.

Your breath catches. A sharp, painful inhale that never reaches your lungs.

“No,” you say again, louder this time, desperate now, scrambling forward even as the floor beneath you begins to break apart like shattered glass, splintering at your feet. The void swallows everything in its path—books, shelves, papers floating momentarily in the air before they, too, are claimed by the abyss yawning below.

You try to move, but your legs don’t feel real. Your fingers reach out, desperate, aching, grasping at nothing but air. The world is slipping through your hands.

“No, no, no, no,” you choke, reaching for the old woman, for the place where she once was. The void has taken half the room now. The walls are no longer walls. They are ribbons of white, unraveling, curling, dissolving into the nothingness that waits just beyond. The prophecy still rings in your ears. Your son will know of it soon.

“I need to know more,” you gasp. Your voice is raw, frantic, the words tumbling out as you reach for something, anything—something solid, real. “Wait, please—I need to know more!”

The darkness does not listen. It is faster now, tearing through the floor beneath you, and then you are falling.

A weightless, terrible sensation. Your stomach lurching, your arms flailing. The air is rushing past your ears, deafening, roaring, a howling void that swallows every sound but your own strangled scream. Your body twists, your vision blurs—everything is wrong, everything is slipping away.

And then, there are hands on you. Warm. Solid. Your eyes snap open.

You gasp, sucking in air so fast it burns. Your chest heaves, but your lungs—your lungs won’t work, they won’t expand, won’t take in enough, and the pressure is unbearable, crushing, as if something has its hands wrapped around your ribs and is squeezing, squeezing, squeezing. The world is still spinning. Still dark.

"Fawkes." A voice.

You can’t focus. Can’t breathe.

"Fawkes, I’m so sorry, but we’ve got to go," Gojo says, his voice urgent, panting lightly as he shakes you. "Breathe, please. Breathe."

But you can’t.

Your hands clutch at him, fingers twisting into the fabric of his robes, grounding yourself in the only thing still here, still real. You can still hear it—faint and slipping away—the prophecy, the Seer’s voice, the war that is coming.

Gojo’s grip tightens.

"Come on," he urges, voice softer now, but no less desperate. "Breathe."

You cup his face, your fingers trembling against the sharp lines of his jaw, your breath still uneven, still shuddering, still not enough. His skin is warm beneath your palms, solid, real, but it is not enough to ground you, not enough to stop the panic climbing up your throat. The memory, the prophecy, everything still clings to you, curling its fingers into the edges of your mind, refusing to let go.

“Satoru,” Your voice cracks. You shake your head, gasping, swallowing down the terror threatening to consume you whole. “I can’t. You can’t. You're not safe, something’s coming, and—”

His hands tighten around your arms, anchoring you to him. His eyes—brilliant, searing, endless—watch you carefully, tracing every flicker of fear in your expression, but he says nothing. Just nods. Once. Twice. Vigorously.

And then, footsteps.

The sound is distant at first, muffled by thick wooden walls, but it is growing louder, closer, steady, purposeful. Someone is coming.

Your breath stutters.

Gojo’s gaze flickers to the deep blue doors. You can hear it in his silence, the way his body tenses—he’s calculating, thinking, planning. Your fingers tighten in his robes, knuckles white.

“Fuck’s sake,” you choke out, voice barely above a whisper. “This cannot be happening.”

Your heart is hammering, your pulse a frantic, erratic rhythm against your ribs. You can feel his heartbeat too, steady but quick beneath your touch. He isn’t afraid. He never is. But you?

“Satoru,” you gasp, your words tumbling out too fast, too panicked. “What do we—”

But he moves before you can finish. His arms lock around you in an instant, and then—

A hook behind your navel. A violent yank. Again. You feel like screaming.

The world is gone. Or maybe you are.

Everything crushes inward, impossibly tight, impossibly fast, the pressure suffocating, wringing the breath from your lungs as the air folds in on itself. Your body is not your own; you are nothing but motion, spiraling through a space that does not exist, stretched too thin and compressed all at once. There is no sound, no breath, no thought—only the unbearable weight of being nowhere and everywhere all at once.

Your stomach twists violently. Again.

Impact.

The world slams back into place so suddenly that your body does not know how to catch up. You are moving before you realize it, stumbling backward, legs giving out beneath you. The nausea rises in a sickening wave, bile burning at the back of your throat.

There's softness, then. A bed.

You don’t know when you collapse onto it, but you are there now, hands clenching at the sheets, lungs heaving as you force down the overwhelming dizziness still clawing at you. The room is spinning. Or maybe you are.

Gojo is already moving. Already there. His hands press against your shoulders, firm, grounding.

“Wait here,” he says, breathless but certain. “I’ll get you water. And perhaps a bucket.”

You barely process his words, still too caught between then and now, between what was and what is.

He exhales sharply, shakes you—gently, but enough to make you look at him. His face is too close, his eyes too sharp, too searching. His hands are steady on you, unyielding.

“You’re safe,” he says, quieter this time. A declaration. A promise. His grip tightens, just for a second. “Yes? You’re safe. Breathe.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. You aren’t sure it would be true.

“I’m getting you water,” he says again, as if repeating it will make it real. “I’m not leaving you.”

“Dobby? Get me a glass of water, please?” Gojo’s voice cuts through the stillness, loud. A sharp contrast to the way your own breath comes in uneven and shallow gasps. He is already standing, glancing toward the door, his presence too solid for the space you are in. Your fingers tighten in the sheets beneath you, still trembling, still trying to catch up with everything that has just happened.

Your heart is racing. You force yourself to look around, to make sense of where you are.

The room is unfamiliar, but it doesn't feel that way.

Soft blue walls surround you, the kind of blue that belongs to open skies and endless horizons, the kind that should make you feel free but only makes you feel impossibly small. The air is still, warm, carrying the faint scent of something clean, something comforting—linen and citrus and something you can’t quite name.

And then you see it.

A tall, polished cabinet against the far wall, its glass doors gleaming in the dim light. Inside, gold glints in neat rows—Quidditch trophies, awards, accolades, too many to count. And next to them, stacked high on the shelves, books—worn, dog-eared, well-loved. Not just schoolbooks, but novels, too. Fiction. Poetry. Some you recognize, some you don’t.

Then, the photographs.

Frames are scattered across the walls, the shelves, the nightstand beside the bed. A younger Gojo grins back at you from behind the glass, his arm slung around Geto’s shoulders. Another frame holds the two of them again, but this time, Shoko is there too, laughing, mid-motion, her head thrown back.

Your breath catches, then. You see it. The entire group.

It’s another photo from Hogsmeade, from years ago. The first time you had all gone together, when things were simple, when things were whole. You remember that day. You remember the warmth of it, the laughter, the way the snow had clung to your robes, the way Gojo had stolen your butterbeer and refused to give it back until you hexed him into a snowbank.

It is the kind of memory that should feel distant, blurred at the edges with time. But standing here, looking at it, it feels closer than ever.

Too close. Your throat tightens.

And then Gojo is there again, crouching in front of you, his hands firm on your shoulders, steadying you, grounding you. His touch is careful, not hesitant, just sure. Like he has done this before. Like he has steadied you before.

“You’re safe,” he says, voice quieter now, more certain. “You’re at my house. We’re still in London.”

London.

You swallow hard, nodding quickly, too quickly. You force yourself to meet his gaze, and for a moment, you think you see something there—concern, maybe, but it's unspoken. Before you can place it, the door creaks open.

A small figure scurries in, and your breath hitches.

The House Elf is tiny, barely reaching Gojo’s waist, his ears too large for his head, his eyes impossibly big, impossibly round. He's kind of adorable as he carries a tray with careful hands, the glass of water balanced perfectly on top.

“Dobby did not know Master Satoru was to come home today,” the Elf says, his voice quick and light. “Or Dobby would have prepared Master Satoru’s favorite snacks—oh.” His gaze flickers to you. “Master Satoru has brought a guest.”

Gojo exhales, running a hand through his hair before reaching for the glass. He picks it up with easy familiarity, then turns back to you, pressing it into your hands.

“Here,” he says. “Drink this.”

You don’t realize how parched you are until the cool glass touches your skin. You wrap your fingers around it, still unsteady, still unsure, but you drink.

Gojo turns back to Dobby.

“Dobby, this is [Y/N].” He glances at you once before looking back at the Elf. “She’s my friend.”

Dobby hesitates at the threshold, his large, round eyes darting between you and Gojo, his spindly fingers curling at his sides. His ears twitch, flattening slightly, as if he isn’t sure whether he is allowed to step closer.

You manage a small, unsteady smile. “H-Hello.”

The Elf blinks. Then, with a quick, precise nod, he bows his head. “Hello,” he says softly. His voice is high-pitched, almost musical, but there is something careful in the way he speaks. “Are you alright? Would you like something to eat?”

You shake your head, glancing at Gojo beside you. The dizziness is fading now, but the weight of what just happened still sits thick in your chest, pressing down, making it hard to breathe. The room no longer spins, but your limbs feel unsteady, your stomach churning from the disapparation.

“My stomach feels like it’s being turned inside out,” you murmur, pressing a hand to your ribs. “I hate disapparation.”

“I got used to it after a while.” Gojo tries to smile, but it’s a pale, uncertain thing, barely there before it vanishes. Then, turning to Dobby, his expression sharpens. “Dobby, where are my parents?”

The Elf shifts on his feet, ears twitching again. “Master went to the Ministry of Magic,” he says quickly. “There was an alarm. People who looked exactly like Master Satoru’s parents were spotted at the Ministry. Both of them left in a hurry. They looked very worried. Very nervous.” He hesitates, his voice growing small. “It made Dobby scared.”

A chill creeps down your spine.

“So they know,” you whisper. “They know.”

You don’t even realize you’ve said it out loud until Gojo exhales, low and sharp.

“We’re so fucked,” you finish.

Dobby’s ears perk up at that, and his large eyes widen as he looks between you both. “Was it the two of you?”

Gojo stiffens. “Dobby—”

“If Master Gojo asks, I can’t refuse—”

“You mustn’t tell him,” Gojo interrupts, turning to face the Elf fully now. His voice is quiet, urgent. “You can’t.”

Dobby wrings his hands, shifting nervously. “But Master Gojo is my master.”

“And so am I,” Satoru presses. His voice is a whisper now, low, pleading. “Please. You can’t.”

You reach for him without thinking, your fingers brushing over his shoulder. He’s tense, his muscles drawn tight beneath your palm. You turn back to the Elf, your voice softer but just as steady.

“Dobby,” you murmur, tilting your head slightly to meet his gaze. “Think of it as hiding the truth. You’re not lying. You’re just helping us.”

Dobby fidgets, his long fingers twisting together, his small frame visibly trembling with the weight of the decision. The silence stretches, thick and uncertain.

Then, a nod. It’s small, hesitant, but it’s a nod.

The tension in your chest eases just slightly, and you exhale, long and slow.

“See?” you manage, offering the Elf a weary smile. “That wasn’t so bad.”

Dobby nods, his enormous eyes flitting between you and Gojo, his long fingers wringing together. “Dobby should make Master Satoru something to eat. Master Satoru mustn’t leave home without food.”

“Dobby, it’s really alright—”

“Dobby won’t take no for an answer, Master Satoru,” the elf insists, shaking his head with a quiet sort of finality. Then, turning to you, his expression softens into something almost warm. “I will pack something for Miss [Y/N] as well. She must eat later, or she will still feel sick.”

You don’t argue. There’s no use. You know better than to fight against the unwavering resolve of a house-elf. Instead, you offer him a small, tired smile, watching as he scurries toward the door, his little feet making no noise against the floor.

The moment he’s gone, Gojo moves. Swift and deliberate, he steps to the door, pressing it shut until it clicks into place. He lingers there for a moment, his hand still resting on the wood, his shoulders drawn tight. When he turns back to you, there’s something unreadable in his face.

“We have some time,” he says, glancing toward the clock mounted on the far wall. His voice is steady, but there’s an edge beneath it, a tension coiled so tightly it might snap at any second. “Tell me what you saw.”

Your fingers twist at the hem of your coat, fumbling over the fabric, the nerves settling deep in your stomach. “It’s a lot. I can’t—”

“Take your time,” he says, stepping toward you, his voice lowering. He sits beside you on the edge of the bed, his knee barely brushing against yours. “But you’re telling me all of it. You promised. It’s why I let you do it, anyway.”

You sigh, shaky and uneven. The memory is still raw in your mind, lingering like the afterimage of something you weren’t meant to see. The weight of it presses down on you, but Gojo is close, so close, and when you lift your eyes, he’s already watching you. His face is inches from yours, his gaze piercing, expectant.

You nod. You accept it.

For a moment, the two of you just sit there, caught in the stillness. You focus on the steady rise and fall of your breathing, the feel of solid ground beneath your feet, as if grounding yourself will somehow make this easier. And then, finally, you speak.

“The memory wasn’t stable,” you begin, voice quieter than you mean for it to be. “I could tell from the very start. It was your mother’s memory.”

Gojo’s brow furrows slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, it wasn’t stable,” you repeat. “Something was off. There was fog around the edges of it, like… like the memory itself was resisting me. Like she wasn’t ready for it. Like she didn’t want it to be real.”

He hums, thoughtful, before nodding for you to continue.

You swallow. “I followed her to her office. There was an old woman there with her. Really, really old. As old as Dumbledore, maybe even older. And she was a Seer.”

Gojo’s interest sharpens instantly. His head tilts, his ears practically perking up. “That’s surprising. Seers are rare. Real ones, anyway. Go on.”

“There was a prophecy.” The words feel heavy on your tongue, like saying them out loud makes them more real, more dangerous. Your hands curl into fists, pressing into your lap. “About everything that’s supposed to happen. I-I don’t know if I can—”

“You have to,” Gojo interrupts, his voice firm, cutting through your hesitation like a blade.

For a second, your spine stiffens, your breath caught somewhere in your throat. But then, slowly, he reaches out, pressing a warm hand over yours. The tension eases, just a little.

“You have to tell me,” he says again, quieter now, his grip steady, grounding. “We have to stop it.”

You exhale. Then, slowly, you begin.

“It will begin again. The war that was buried. The name that was feared.” Your voice barely rises above a whisper. “A name forgotten only by those foolish enough to believe it could be silenced forever.”

Gojo pulls away. He stands abruptly, his hand slipping from yours, his back going rigid.

“Sukuna. You were right. It's true,” he breathes.

You nod, your throat tightening. “The Dark Lord waits, scattered in twenty pieces, his whispers buried in stone and bone and blood. But the first has been found. A hand unknowing, closest to your son, holds what should have never surfaced. A heart still torn between shadow and light.”

The air in the room shifts, thickens. Gojo doesn’t move. He doesn’t blink. His entire body has gone eerily still, and for a moment, it’s as if he’s frozen in time.

Your pulse pounds as you force yourself to say it.

“He does not yet know what he carries, what it will demand of him, what it will make him become.” You swallow. “But he will.”

Gojo turns then, sharply, his gaze locking onto yours. There’s something wild in his expression—something bordering on horror.

“Suguru,” he murmurs.

Your breath shudders. You nod. “There’s more.”

His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t interrupt. You take another breath, steadying yourself before you continue.

“Your son will know of it soon. He will stand at the precipice, and he will try. He will try to save what has already begun to unravel. He will try to turn him back before he is too far gone.” Your voice drops lower. “But the choice is not his to make.”

The words linger. You know they do.

“This war can be stalled,” you continue, softer now, “but not undone. In a decade, it will come. The halls will burn. The towers will fall. And the old name, the one not spoken, will rise again, wearing the faces of the dead.”

Silence.

Gojo blinks at you, his expression unreadable. Then, finally, he exhales. A quiet, breathless sound.

“Holy fuck.”

You let out a shaky breath. “Now you know.”

Gojo drags a hand down his face, rubbing at the space where stubble would be if he ever let it grow. “There’s going to be a war.” The weight of it settles into his voice. “And I’m going to be at the center of it.”

“Looks like it,” you whisper.

He shakes his head, laughing softly—except it’s not real laughter, not really. Just disbelief, hollow and dry. He looks at you again, eyes sharp, assessing. “But we can stop Suguru.”

You nod, gripping onto that one certainty, that one sliver of hope. “Somehow. It’s possible. That’s all we need to know, right?”

Gojo stares at you for a long moment, then exhales, nodding once.

“That’s all we need to know.”

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