#Applied Physics Lab

[idontmindifuforgetme]

I thought you liked physics ?

yes I do. I love physics. I love it bc I was raised by a brainiac engineer mother who taught me to see math as fun from a very young age. and sometimes it pisses me off bc I don’t understand concepts immediately and my ego is HURT but then I humble myself and learn it and I’m back to adoring it again

[spockvarietyhour]

Detective Sheppard

[tchaikovskym]

im at this point in life where i cannot simply shrink my CV to one page. i have to leave out crucial information

[radioactive-worm-on-string]

All I’m saying is that it’s tragic how very intelligent students are forced to drop out and made feel stupid because some professors feel the need to make their courses so intense that one needs to study 50-60 hours a week, while they just need rest to function, but would have no problem understanding the material if they just had to study 40 hours a week, the actual fucking guidelines for what full-time studies should be.

[bare1ythere]

This has been such a "this might as well just happen" term I'm going to spontaneously combust

[tatmanblue]

KSC-20240815-PH-JBS01_0060 by NASA Kennedy Via Flickr: Technicians align, install, and then extend the second set of solar arrays, measuring 46.5 feet (14.2 meters) long and about 13.5 feet (4.1 meters) high, for NASA’s Europa Clipper spacecraft inside the agency’s Payload Hazardous Servicing Facility at Kennedy Space Center in Florida on Thursday, Aug. 15, 2024. The huge arrays – spanning more than 100 feet when fully deployed, or about the length of a basketball court – will collect sunlight to power the spacecraft as it flies multiple times around Jupiter’s icy moon, Europa, conducting science investigations to determine its potential to support life. Photo credit: NASA/Ben Smegelsky NASA image use policy.

[proximacentaurib]

My physics final being at 9 AM on a Saturday is absolutely diabolical

[jaeyuniversal]

nonsense - s.jy

pairing: loser shy tutor!sim jaeyun x outgoing tutee fem!reader

synopsis: you're loud, confident, and a little too good at making shy boys squirm. your only issue is you’ve always hated physics—until you meet your painfully shy tutor, jake sim. he’s awkward, brilliant, and blushes every time you call him cute. so naturally, you flirt. hard. at first, he stammers and short-circuits, but as study sessions stack up, jake starts to change. maybe it’s the way you lean a little too close or how he starts to flirt back (badly, but adorably).

featuring: jake sim of enhypen n maki from &team!!

genre: college au fluff!!!

warnings: jake has his first kiss, making-out?? kind of. a bit of jealousy, jake is just a super cute loser. lowercase intended ◡̈

playlist: nonsense by sabrina carpenter & soft spot by keshi

wc: 2.411k

a/n: i fear i will ride the loser jake wave forever! i love nerdy men <3 btw this is not proofread...

you’ve always hated physics.

not because you didn’t get it — okay, maybe a little because of that — but mostly because it was boring. theories and forces and laws. rinse and repeat. you weren’t failing physics. not exactly.

you were, however, spending an uncomfortable amount of time squinting at your textbook wondering how the hell you’d gone from memorizing song lyrics in under a minute to barely remembering newton’s third law. you told yourself it wasn’t that bad. then your lab partner dropped out, and your professor kindly suggested that you “seek out support.”

support came in the form of jake sim.

quiet. polite. a little too handsome for his own good. glasses-wearing, formula-spouting jake, with a habit of ducking his head when people talked too loudly. you’d seen him around campus before — usually alone, sometimes reading while walking (impressive), always in a hoodie two sizes too big, and baggy jeans that he almost steps on. 

you’d think he was popular, but those thick framed glasses always resting on his perfect nose made you think otherwise. 

your meet-cute wasn’t the typical coffee-spill-and-eye-contact thing. it happened last semester, during an elective you were both in: intro to astronomy. you’d been running late one day, flustered and frantic, only one seat left in the lecture hall. next to him. you took it.

he didn’t even glance up.

not until halfway through the class, when you leaned over and whispered, “sorry if i’m invading your orbit.”

he looked at you like he didn’t get the joke. (he didn’t.)

but later that day, you got an anonymous compliment on the university confessions page. “to the girl who sat next to me in astronomy and said something about orbits… you kind of wrecked mine.”

you knew it was him. and you never forgot.

───

“you don’t have to hover,” jake mumbled, eyes focused on the problem set in front of him.

“i’m not hovering. i’m observing… like a particle. you know, in motion.”

“that’s not… how particles work.”

you smiled to yourself. “i was hoping you'd say that.”

he flushed immediately. jake didn’t handle flirting well. hell, he had never even felt the touch of a woman, nevertheless flirted with one. 

you’d learned this by session two. if you got too close, he got tongue tied. if you complimented him, he’d practically glitch. it was fascinating. like a physics experiment, but cuter.

“what happens when you apply an external force to a closed system?” you asked, tapping your pencil.

he looked up slowly, suspicious. “depends on the force.”

you leaned in, gaze playful. “what if it’s me?”

he froze.

“y/n,” he said quietly, “you’re not even trying to learn right now.”

“that’s where you’re wrong, mr. sim.” you leaned back in your chair, spinning your pencil between your fingers. “i’ve been learning a lot.”

he narrowed his eyes, skeptical but intrigued. “like what?”

you met his gaze, serious now. “like how you pretend you didn’t notice me in astronomy last semester. even though you did.”

jake stiffened. his pen slipped from his fingers and rolled across the table.

“i—i didn’t—how did you—”

“i recognized your handwriting,” you said softly. “from the confession post.”

his face went scarlet.

you tilted your head, a smile tugging at your lips. “you called me orbit girl.”

jake looked like he wanted to disappear into the earth’s mantle. “i didn’t think you saw that.”

“i did. i screenshotted it.” you shrugged casually, then added, “still have it.”

he looked like you’d just told him you’d been keeping a shrine in your closet. but beneath the panic, something else flickered — hope, maybe?

“…why didn’t you say anything?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

and there it was. the plot twist.

you dropped your eyes to your notebook, fingers idly brushing a corner.

“i was going to,” you said. “but you never talked to me again. i figured you weren’t interested.”

jake looked stunned. like he’d just missed the punchline to his own joke.

“no! i mean– um…i wasn’t not interested,” he said quickly. “i just didn’t think someone like you would ever…”

“what?” you said, raising a brow. “flirt with their physics tutor?”

jake swallowed hard. “like me back.”

there was a beat of silence. you reached across the table, nudging his pen back toward him.

“you’re cute when you’re nervous, jake” he blushed and wrapped up the tutoring session, brain too flustered to continue talking about his second favorite subject (you’re his favorite). 

───

you asked around for jake’s number which proved to be very difficult. 

no one had it.

so, you did the only thing you could think of. you went to every cafe within a 15 mile radius of your campus, hoping to find the shy boy.

your mission to find him ended up taking longer than anticipated, misjudging how many cafe’s surrounded decelis. you’ve been to 23 and counting, not once finding the fluffy haired boy with glasses way too big for his adorable face. 

as you walk into the twenty-fourth cafe, you think you see him. striped shirt, slightly messy brown hair, around 5’9ish. you walk up to him, tapping on his shoulder when someone behind you calls your name.

“y/n?”

you whip your head around to be met with those big, dark hazel eyes you adored so much.

his plump, heart-shaped lips were wrapped around the straw of his green grape ade, softly biting the plastic. his head was strewn to the side, resembling a golden retriever. 

“i found you!” you happily cheered as you made your way to the little table he was at. 

“f-found me? were you… looking? for me?” he stuttered which made you giggle. 

you fondly smiled at him, “yeah. i was.”

after you ordered an iced mocha, you guys sat in a comfortable silence until you spoke. 

“so,” you said, stirring whipped cream into your drink, “what’s a physics genius like you doing tutoring me when you could be dating someone who understands quantum mechanics?”

jake almost spat out his coffee.

you smiled sweetly. “kidding. kind of.”

“i—i don’t think I’m a genius,” he mumbled. “and I’m not — uh — dating anyone.”

“oh, i know,” you said casually, resting your chin on your hand. “campus gossip moves fast.”

jake’s eyes widened. “wait — what do you mean? what gossip? about me?”

you laughed. “relax, jake. you’re just a bit of a mystery. tall, soft spoken, brainy, never goes to parties. people notice.”

he stared at you like you’d told him he was famous.

you sipped your drink and shrugged. “i noticed.”

the cup trembled in his hand.

“…thanks?” he said, though it sounded more like a question than a statement.

you leaned forward. “you say that like you don’t believe me.”

jake’s mouth opened, then closed again.

he was still trying to respond when the barista called out your name, signaling your pastries were ready. you winked at him on the way up and when you turned back, he was still watching you, straw halfway to his mouth, like he couldn’t believe any of this was real. 

───

you had your feet up on the seat across from you, swinging gently as you skimmed your notes. jake sat across from you, hoodie sleeves shoved up to his elbows, manspreading with his textbook open on his lap.

you knew what you were doing when you stretched, your shirt riding up slightly as you leaned across the table to reach a pencil. you knew jake saw. his eyes darted down and back up so fast it was like a reflex.

“everything okay?” you asked sweetly.

“fine!” he said, voice three octaves too high. “great. normal. yup.”

you laughed, tossing your pen down. “you know, if we were measuring awkward tension in this room, we’d have to switch to the richter scale.”

jake groaned and dropped his head into his hands. “why are you like this?”

“because it’s fun watching you short-circuit.”

he peeked at you through his fingers, a lopsided grin starting to form. “you’re evil.”

“i prefer charming.’”

there was a beat of silence. then, softly—

“you are.”

your smile faltered. just for a second. “what?”

jake met your eyes, cheeks still flushed but voice steady. “charming.”

you blinked. it was the first time he’d said something like that without tripping over his own tongue.

“…jake sim,” you said, narrowing your eyes. “are you flirting with me?”

he shrugged — shrugged — with fake nonchalance. “maybe.”

you stared at him.

he stared back.

and then — his pencil rolled off the table and he smacked his head on the edge trying to catch it.

“still me,” he groaned, face down on the table. “still a loser.”

you couldn’t help it. you laughed so hard you nearly fell out of your chair. he was cute and adorably clumsy. exactly. your type. 

───

the next session, you came in with your usual confidence. playful comments. flirty glances.

but jake didn’t fold this time. (immediately).

in fact, when you were about to lean over to grab his calculator, he reached past you and did it first. smooth. like he was testing you.

“looking for this?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

your eyes narrowed suspiciously. “who are you and what have you done with jake?”

he smiled — cocky, but still nervous. “maybe i’m learning.”

you tilted your head. “is this some physics thing? like, building resistance?”

“more like acceleration,” he said softly. “you keep pushing. i’m picking up speed.”

you stared at him.

he immediately panicked. “i mean — not in a creepy way — i just meant—”

you cut him off with a smirk. “careful, jake. you flirt like you solve equations — painfully accurate.”

he blushed again, but this time, he didn’t back away. instead, he looked at you for a long moment, then leaned in a little, just enough to make your breath catch.

“you said once that you noticed me before,” he murmured.

“yeah,” you said slowly.

he smiled, shy and genuine. “i think i’ve been noticing you for a lot longer.”

you forgot how to breathe for a second.

and then he bumped your knee under the table, awkward as ever. “anyway, we should… probably go over magnetic fields now.”

you grinned, heart racing. “god, you’re such a loser.”

“your loser,” he said quietly.

and somehow, that was the smoothest line of all.

───

the tutoring session was going fine.

that is, until maki showed up.

you were in the library lounge, halfway through a problem on thermodynamics, when a voice interrupted.

“y/n?”

you looked up. riki maus (known as maki). same year, tall, charming, objectively hot in that annoying way that made girls forgive him for talking through labs.

“hey,” you said, blinking. “didn’t know you were on this floor.”

jake went completely still next to you, pen frozen mid-equation.

maki barely glanced at him. “i was just heading out, but i had to say hi. you doing okay with physics? i tutor sometimes too, you know.”

jake’s grip on his pen tightened.

“oh?” you asked, amused. “you tutor now?”

maki shrugged. “not officially. but i could make time. for you.”

you opened your mouth, ready to tease him back, but jake’s voice cut in first.

“she already has a tutor.”

maki blinked, like he’d just noticed him. “right. sim, yeah? you’re in physics lab.”

“yeah,” jake said, still quiet, but there was an edge now. “i’ve got it covered.”

you turned to jake, brows lifting slightly. was he… tense?

maki grinned. “no offense, man, but i’ve heard tutoring y/n is more like surviving her. you sure you can handle it?”

jake stood.

you blinked. jake stood.

he was taller than you remembered. towering over maki, still in his soft hoodie and baggy jeans, but standing like something had clicked. like a switch had flipped.

“i can handle her,” he said, voice even. “better than anyone else.”

maki raised his hands. “okay. chill, bro.”

he gave you one last glance and walked off.

you looked up at jake. he was still standing, chest rising and falling like he was trying to keep it together.

“jake?”

his eyes met yours. there was something in them you hadn’t seen before. something fierce.

“do you like him?” he asked.

you frowned. “maki? god, no.”

he exhaled like he’d been holding his breath. stepped closer.

“because i don’t like seeing guys like that flirt with you.”

you tilted your head, heart starting to pick up. “jealousy doesn’t suit you, sim.”

“i know,” he said quietly. “but you do.”

and then he kissed you.

you didn’t expect it. not from him. not like this.

not with his hand cradling your cheek so gently it made your heart ache, not with the way his lips pressed to yours like he’d been waiting for this moment for weeks — months — forever.

your breath caught. he was warm. steady. his lips moved with surprising confidence, slow at first, then deeper, more certain as you kissed him back.

his other hand found your waist, pulled you in, grounded you. like he was afraid you might disappear if he let go.

your fingers curled in his hoodie, body leaning into his. he tilted his head just slightly and kissed you like a man who had solved the formula for gravity and decided to fall anyway.

wanting to deepen the kiss, you moved your thumb to his jaw, signaling him to open his mouth wider.

he (hopefully) got the hint and slowly but surely slotted his tongue right against yours. he wanted to memorize every part of you and figured he should start with your mouth.

it was as if your lips and tongues moved in perfect synchronization. like puzzle pieces.

when he finally pulled back, it was only enough to rest his forehead against yours.

you both stood there, catching your breath.

“…wow” you said, dazed. “what the hell, sim.”

he stared at you. blinked. once. twice. “w-was it okay? did i — do it wrong?”

silence. 

he spoke again, “that was kinda.. my first — um — my first kiss…” 

you let out a disbelieving laugh. “what do you mean that was your first kiss??? you kissed me like you’ve been rehearsing it in your dreams.”

he looked away. shy. “…maybe i have.”

you narrowed your eyes. “wait. have you?”

he winced. “that was a joke.”

it was silent for a hot minute.

“…mostly. i—i never really get close to pretty girls because i don’t— well i don’t go out. so. um. yeah…” 

you grabbed his hoodie and pulled him closer until your lips were right in front of his plush ones. “stop speaking nonsense and kiss me again, sim.” 

he didn’t hesitate. just smiled at you and slammed your lips on his. he kissed you like he was finally where he belonged.

and maybe he was.

because nerdy physics tutors?

yeah. they might know the laws of motion — but now he knew what it felt like to crash into you.

please reblog if you enjoyed this cute lil fic ! it helps a lot <3

[ @jaeyuniversal ] prod. 250508

[youthguk]

Entropy | jjk (m) | one-shot

College AU | Fuckboy Jungkook x Physics Student Y/N 

“The universe tends toward chaos.” You thought that only applied to black holes and entropy equations — not boys with lip rings and midnight eyes. You were wrong. 

genre: smut, one-shot, college AU, fuckboy!jungkook, explicit sexual content, strong language, alcohol consumption, casual hookup, reader is sexually inexperienced but very willing, Jungkook is fully feral and obsessed

Wc: 10k

author's note: your feedback means the world to me. 🖤

The second law of thermodynamics states that the universe naturally tends toward disorder. That every system, left to its own devices, will eventually fall apart.

You never thought it would apply to people, but by the third week of finals season, everything begins to decay.

Not in any spectacular, cinematic way—no dramatic breakdowns in the hallway or rain-soaked monologues—but in smaller, quieter disintegrations. You begin to lose the will to care whether your iced coffee is more milk than caffeine. Your drawers become a graveyard of crumpled hoodies and socks that don’t match. Your planner, once color-coded with obsessive devotion, now lies somewhere under your bed, abandoned and blank.

Entropy, you think. The tendency of systems to slide into disorder. You remember the diagram from second-year thermodynamics: the universe’s cruel, inevitable drift toward chaos. You’d once found peace in it. A kind of comfort, knowing it wasn’t your fault when things fell apart. It was just nature.

These days, you’re not so sure. You stand in front of the mirror in your dorm’s bathroom, toothbrush hanging from the corner of your mouth, hair piled into a loose, too-honest bun that makes your ears look uneven. You’ve been wearing the same oversized MIT hoodie for three days straight. Not because it means anything to you—you didn’t even apply there—but because it smells like clean laundry and covers the fact that your bra is somewhere inside a laundry basket you no longer have the energy to dig through.

You look exhausted. Not dramatically so, but in the way that makes people hesitate before asking you for anything. You’ve started getting that look in the lab, in lectures, even from your professors: the quiet, pitying glance that says, You’re doing too much, and it’s starting to show. And still, you keep doing it.

Physics doesn’t reward soft emotions. It rewards answers. You know how to calculate momentum, how to model projectile motion, how to explain wave-particle duality to a room full of distracted undergrads—but you don’t know how to mourn something that was never truly yours. You don’t know how to feel cleanly. You only know how to function.

You open the bathroom cabinet, close it again, stare blankly at your own reflection. Your eyes are ringed in fatigue. Your lips are chapped. Your last kiss was over a month ago and didn’t even taste like goodbye.

You don’t miss him. Not really. He was nice. Predictable. Gentle. He always held your hand like he was asking permission. But the moment he ended it—voice calm, like he was discussing his meal plan—you didn’t feel heartbreak. You felt relief.

And maybe that’s worse. Your phone buzzes on the sink. You glance down and see Hyeri’s name.

Hyeri: *I swear to god if you ghost me I’m breaking into your room.*Hyeri: *Put on a dress. He’s throwing a party.*You: *Who.*Hyeri: *Jeon fucking Jungkook.*You: No thanks.

Your thumb hovers over the keyboard.

There it is—that name again. A name that lives in the background of your life like ambient noise. Jeon Jungkook: a boy you’ve never actually spoken to, but whose existence seems to follow you in ways you can’t explain. Shared classes. Group projects. Dorm parties where he arrived shirtless and left with a girl on his arm. Mutual friends who describe him with exasperated fondness. A smirk that belongs on someone far less academically average.

You’ve never had a reason to care about him. Not really. Except for that one night at the start of second year, when you sat across from him at a friend-of-a-friend’s birthday and watched him lick whipped cream off his thumb while explaining something about SEO strategy. You’d gone home that night and googled what the hell SEO actually was.

You’d forgotten about him after that. Or tried to.

Until your best friend started playing matchmaker in group chats you weren’t in. Until the campus gossip pages kept posting blurry photos of his arms. Until his name started appearing in conversations he wasn’t even part of, and every girl said the same thing:

Jeon Jungkook fucks like it’s a contact sport.

For a brief moment, you let yourself imagine what it would feel like to be tackled by him, but quickly buried that thought beneath a mountain of coursework, equations, and meticulously organized lab notes - all those neat, contained systems that made sense.

Hyeri: Come. Please. One drink. One dance. You’re not allowed to rot in that hoodie forever.

Chewing your lip, you glance from the worn hoodie to your reflection, then finally to the door. Maybe this isn't about Jungkook, or even your ex - maybe it's simply time to feel something real before summer consumes what's left of you. With a quiet sigh, you make your decision.

You: Fine. But if it’s weird, I’m faking a panic attack and leaving.

✧.*✧.*✧.*✧.*✧.✧.

You don’t know when the universe started to unravel.Maybe it was the breakup. Maybe it was that lab partner who kept messing up your simulations. Maybe it was all the times you sat through lectures with tears threatening at the corners of your eyes and no one noticing, not even once. But tonight, it feels like something bigger. Like the universe itself has decided to press its thumb against your spine and push.

Entropy unfolds around you like a slow dance. The universe's natural descent into disorder feels inevitable tonight as you stand before the mirror, half-heartedly curling your lashes. Mascara won't fix the exhaustion in your eyes, won't erase the weeks you've spent hiding from your reflection. You barely recognize the person staring back at you anymore.

Hyeri’s outside your door, already half-drunk, yelling through the crack like she owns the world. “If you’re not out in five minutes, I’m breaking in and dressing you myself!”

You shout back a profanity, then drop your towel and step into the dress she brought you. It wasn’t made for physics students. That much is clear. It’s navy satin, too short to be safe and too tight to be responsible. The neckline dips like a threat, the fabric clings like it knows something you don’t. You smooth it down your sides, catching your reflection by accident — and then not looking away.

Your hair’s still wet from the world’s fastest shower. You didn’t bother with foundation. Just a bit of liner, a swipe of something sheer on your lips. You look like someone you don’t quite know. Someone who might dance. Someone who might say yes to something reckless. The zipper sticks halfway up your back, and when you reach to fix it, a strand of hair slips free and falls across your face. You look messy. Unpolished. A little chaotic.

A laugh escapes your lips as you realize that in your disheveled state, you've finally aligned with the universe's natural tendency toward chaos.

There’s a knock at the door. “I swear to god, Y/N—”

You open it before she can finish, and Hyeri shuts up mid-rant.

“Holy shit,” she breathes.

You grab your bag. “Don’t say anything.”

“Okay,” she says, eyes wide, “but if Jungkook doesn’t try to kiss you tonight, I’m checking him for a concussion.”

You roll your eyes, but your stomach flutters with a newfound awareness - the whisper of satin against skin, the cool night air dancing across your thighs.

Following Hyeri through the dimly lit stairwell and into the waiting Uber, you can't help but notice how different the city feels tonight. Summer lingers in the air, heavy with possibility, as if the universe itself is contemplating what kind of chaos to unleash. For once, you're ready to embrace whatever comes.

✧.*✧.*✧.*✧.*✧.✧.

You smell the party before you hear it. It’s not unpleasant — not the kind of sour, suffocating stink of undergrad dorm parties you’ve long since grown out of. No, this one smells like summer. Like too-sweet alcohol and chlorine and night air that clings to bare shoulders. There’s music, loud enough to rattle the pavement beneath your heels, bass bleeding through windows too big to hide the chaos inside.

Jungkook’s house is exactly what you’d expect from a rich boy with too many friends and too little restraint. Modern, massive, perched on a hill just far enough from campus to feel forbidden. The front door’s already wide open. People flow in and out like blood through a vein. Someone’s laughing on the porch. Someone else is making out against the railing. You pause before going in.

Hyeri’s already halfway up the steps, turning back when she notices you hesitate. “Don’t look like you’re here to study. Shoulders back. Chin up. You look hot as hell.”

You follow her inside. The temperature rises immediately. The music hits your chest in waves, something fast and rhythmic that people pretend they know the words to. There’s a sheen of sweat on everyone’s skin, cups half-empty and already sticky with fingerprints. Lights pulse in warm golds and deep reds, designed to make everyone look better than they are.

You keep your eyes low at first, weaving through bodies, careful not to bump into anyone. You’re not used to being seen. Not like this. Not in something this tight, this short. You feel the way the fabric pulls across your hips, how it shifts with each step. You’re suddenly aware of the line of your thighs, the exposed stretch of your back.

The weight of someone's stare draws your attention upward, and there he stands: Jeon Jungkook, watching you with deliberate intensity.

Slouched on the arm of an expensive couch, drink in one hand, tattooed fingers curled around plastic like they’ve never had to hold anything heavier. He’s wearing a black button-up — open halfway down his chest, sleeves rolled to his elbows — and a pair of dark jeans that might as well be a crime. His lip ring catches the light when he smirks at something one of his friends says, and his head tilts just slightly — because he’s looking at you.

You almost miss it, the way the smirk dies and reforms into something slower. Sharper. His gaze lingers, dips — not in a crude, hungry way, but in a way that makes you feel scanned. Like he’s logging every inch of skin, every tilt of your body, every second you hold eye contact.

His expression remains neutral as his gaze lingers, drinking in every detail of your presence. The intensity of his stare follows you across the room as Hyeri pulls you toward the kitchen, chattering about shots and mixers while reminding you to "hydrate between drinks, you nerd." Even through the press of bodies and pulsing music, you can feel the weight of his attention like a physical touch.

The kitchen is a chaotic display of solo cups and liquor bottles, with fruit swimming in something that promises tomorrow's regret. You grab a drink more for something to occupy your hands than anything else, the cold plastic a flimsy shield as cherry and vodka touch your lips.

When Hyeri tugs at your hand with an excited "Come dance!", you pause. The familiar heat of his gaze draws your attention back across the room. He's standing now, drink still in hand, and when your eyes meet, his lips curve into a smile that's neither cocky nor practiced. It's something more dangerous - slow, curious, possessive - as if he's already seen how this night ends. As if the universe itself has chosen its preferred form of chaos.

✧.*✧.*✧.*✧.*✧.✧.

You lose Hyeri somewhere between the kitchen and the music.

She disappears into the haze of bodies with the kind of confidence you’ve never been able to fake—throwing her arms around someone you don’t recognize, laughing too loudly, swaying like she’s part of the beat itself. The living room’s been cleared just enough to form a makeshift dance floor, though calling it that feels generous. It’s a swarm. Sweaty, uncoordinated, pulsing with bass and alcohol.

You hover at the edge for a moment, half-expecting yourself to turn back. But your feet don’t move. You feel warm. Lightheaded. A little less real with every second. And you know, before you even look again, that he’s still there.

He doesn’t approach like he’s chasing something. He approaches like he’s already caught it.

You feel him before you see him—something magnetic pulling at the corner of your awareness. Then you turn your head, and he’s suddenly beside you, crowding your space without brushing you once. His shirt clings to the lines of his chest. His breath smells faintly of whiskey and mint.

“Didn’t know physics majors danced,” he murmurs, not loud but close enough that the words slide against your neck.

You don’t flinch. “Didn’t know business majors could form full sentences.”

That earns a laugh. Low. A little sharp. He doesn’t look away. The song shifts, something slower, bass-heavy, almost liquid in the way it pours over the crowd. His hand doesn’t touch you—not yet—but you feel his presence pressing in, daring you to move first.

“You wanna?” he asks, a single word softened by the tilt of his mouth. It’s not polite. Not romantic. But his tone says he already knows the answer.

You shouldn't dance with him, but nothing about tonight has followed any semblance of reason. When you nod, he steps behind you, eliminating all space between your bodies. His hands find your hips with casual precision, thumbs brushing the exposed skin between your dress and thighs - not quite inappropriate, but enough to make your breath catch and spine straighten.

You let the music guide your movements, following pure instinct rather than practiced steps. The weight of his hands sets your rhythm, his grip subtle yet firm as heat radiates from his chest against your back. He stays silent, letting his touch speak volumes - possessive, intentional, marking.

When his lips graze your ear, he murmurs, "You're not what I expected."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Your voice emerges unfamiliar - soft, low, wrapped in heat.

“I don’t know,” he says. “You just… move like you’ve been pretending not to want this.”

You lean back—not into him, not quite. Just enough to let your head fall against his shoulder, enough for your cheek to brush the edge of his jaw.

“Maybe I have,” you whisper.

That makes him exhale through his nose, a near-silent sound of disbelief.One of his hands slides lower, fingers dragging down the side of your thigh through your dress, subtle under the colored lights. You don’t stop him. Don’t even flinch. You’re past that now—past logic, past caution. You gave up control the second you walked through the door. Your hips roll against his, slow, testing. He curses under his breath.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters.

You smile, dizzy with the rush of power you didn’t know you had. “Good.”

The beat slows again. He doesn’t move. Neither do you. You're suspended there, in the strobe-flecked dark, wrapped in the tension of something neither of you is ready to name. You can feel the way his body hardens against yours. The restraint in the way he keeps his hands from wandering farther. The storm gathering behind his eyes.

And then someone spills a drink, somewhere close, and the moment fractures just enough for you to step away.

You walk toward the back door without a word. Toward the warm night air, toward the sound of water, toward the next inevitable collapse in this universe gone fully to chaos.

Behind you, Jungkook follows.

The patio is cooler, but it doesn’t help. Not really.

You step out into the night air with your plastic cup still clutched in your hand, the condensation sliding between your fingers. The hem of your dress clings to the backs of your thighs, slick with sweat and static, and your pulse hasn’t slowed since the dance floor. You try to blame it on the alcohol. On the heat. On the music still throbbing behind you.

Not on him. You don’t dare glance behind you. You don’t have to. You already know he’s there. The pool glows in blue and gold, lights flickering beneath the surface like someone bottled the stars and poured them into water. A few people are floating lazily, limbs draped over inflatable chairs, laughter drifting up like smoke. The jacuzzi hums beside it, steam rising from its surface, soft and almost cinematic. Someone’s speaker plays a slower song now—trance-like, sensual, too low to sing along to.

And there he is again. He emerges from the shadows like the night belongs to him. Still shirtless, only now his skin shines with a sheen of sweat. His boxers ride low on his hips, exposing just enough to make your mouth dry. His chest is cut, stomach taut, tattoos black against golden skin. A towel slung over one shoulder. That stupid, crooked grin.

“You look hot,” he says. His tone is casual, but his eyes aren’t. They’re scanning every inch of you, unhurried. “You should cool off.”

You take a slow sip from your drink. “What, in there?”

He nods toward the jacuzzi. “It’s basically mandatory.”

You raise a brow. “I don’t have a swimsuit.”

Neither does he, clearly. He steps closer anyway. “Neither do I.”

Before you can respond, Hyeri appears beside you with a shriek, nearly stumbling as she tugs off her dress in one motion. Her red bra and matching lace panties flash under the porch lights like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Come onnnn,” she whines, laughing, already halfway into the water. “It’s just underwear! No one cares!”

“I care,” you mutter, gripping the hem of your dress like it’s the last thing tethering you to reality.

“Then stop being so uptight,” she says—and with no warning, she shoves you forward.

You stumble with a yelp. The cup flies from your hand. Your knees buckle as hot water surrounds you, silk dragging against your skin, heavy and clinging. You surface gasping, soaked from head to toe, hair plastered to your forehead.

“Hyeri!” you snap, voice shrill, but she’s laughing too hard to answer.

Someone whistles. Someone else claps. Jungkook’s smirking as he lowers himself in across from you, water sloshing up over his chest. He leans back, spreads his arms wide across the edge, like this is his throne and you’ve just been delivered to it.

And your dress—god, your dress. The satin is ruined. It sticks to your stomach, your thighs, your chest. The neckline’s slipped almost indecently low, and you know without looking that the fabric is nearly see-through now, the curve of your bra showing underneath. You tug at it beneath the surface, cheeks flaming.

“It’s not that kind of party,” you mutter, voice tight.

But he’s already watching you like it is. “You’re overdressed.”

You shoot him a look. “Not anymore.”

He smiles, slow and lazy, and leans closer. “Then lose it.”

You hesitate. But the water is warm, the music hazy, the alcohol swimming in your bloodstream like a tide. And your dress is clinging like second skin, dragging with every breath. You sigh. Slide the straps off your shoulders. Shimmy out of the fabric under the surface until it floats around you like a drowning petal. You drape it over the side without ceremony.

Now it’s just you in your bra and underwear. Bare legs. Wet skin. Nothing left to hide behind. And he’s watching you like he wants to ruin you with just his eyes.

Conversation rises around you—someone retells a wild hookup story, someone else splashes a drink over the jets—but none of it registers. You can feel Jungkook's thigh brushing yours beneath the water. His hand finds your knee. Slides just above it.

You breathe in. Let it happen. The moment holds like that. Suspended. Like a physics problem with no solution—just two bodies and friction and heat, variables with too much potential energy, waiting to snap.

Then someone splashes. Water flies up into your face, and you blink hard, flinching.

“Shit,” you mumble, rubbing your eye. Your contact is out of place—stinging, burning, blurring your vision.

"Everything okay?" Jungkook's voice softens with concern as he moves closer.

"Just got something in my eye," you manage, blinking rapidly.

He pulls himself out of the water in one fluid motion, muscles glistening as he reaches for a towel. "Bathroom's inside - I've got eyedrops upstairs. Plus something dry you can change into."

The offer hangs between you. Water drips from his hair down his neck, his soaked boxers clinging to his frame as he extends his hand. You pause, just for a moment, before accepting both his help and what it implies.

The hallway is quiet—eerily so after the chaos of the party below. The music becomes nothing but a muffled hum, thudding through the floorboards as if the house is holding its breath with you. Water drips from your hair to your bare shoulders, your bra clinging uncomfortably to your skin beneath the oversized towel Jungkook threw over you. The soaked fabric of your underwear sticks between your thighs as you walk, your steps squelching against the hardwood.

He walks just ahead, shirtless and dripping, his boxers clinging to every muscle of his thighs. His back is broad, his tattooed arm flexing as he opens a door on the left, pushing it open with casual ease.

“Bathroom,” he says, flicking on the light. “Eyedrops are in the cabinet.”

You step inside. The air is cool, the tile colder beneath your feet. A dim light above the mirror flickers before settling into a soft glow. You avoid looking at yourself in the mirror—you already know you look like something undone. Makeup smudged. Hair clumped into wet strands. Skin flushed from heat and embarrassment and him.

You open the cabinet, find the eyedrops instantly. Your fingers tremble as you tip your chin back, blinking the liquid in. The sting fades slowly.

When you lower your gaze, he’s leaning in the doorway, shoulder against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. He doesn’t speak. Just watches. Like he’s cataloging every movement, every breath, every second you give him.

You clear your throat. “Thanks.”

He nods. “Didn’t want your eye falling out on my watch.”

You laugh, quiet. “So thoughtful.”

“I am,” he says, straightening. He steps toward you, slow. Measured. “You should let me show you.”

Your pulse skips. “Show me what?”

His eyes dip. “How thoughtful I can be.”

You roll your eyes, but it’s weak. Your body’s already reacting, legs stiffening slightly, breath catching when he stops in front of you, close enough that the heat of his skin warms yours. The water still dripping from his hair catches the light.

“You’re wet,” he murmurs, glancing down.

“Sharp observation.”

He hums. “Not just from the jacuzzi, I think.”

Your eyes snap up. His are burning now—darker, lower, slow-burning coal beneath thick lashes. His voice dips.

“You gonna let me dry you off?”

You don’t answer.

He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “Or should I make you wetter first?”

Your knees threaten to give out.

He steps back before you can respond, smirking like he already knows he’s winning. “Come on,” he says, holding out his hand. “I’ll give you something dry to wear.”

You hesitate. You shouldn’t. You know what this is. But you take his hand anyway.

The bedroom is dim, lit only by a lamp in the corner and the moonlight spilling through half-closed blinds. The air is warmer here. Softer. And everything smells like him—spice, skin, shampoo. The bed is rumpled. There’s a hoodie thrown over a chair, a single black ring on the nightstand, and a half-empty glass of water.

You stand awkwardly at the edge of the room, arms crossed tightly over the towel. He crosses to a dresser, pulls out a black T-shirt and a pair of soft-looking sweatpants, both oversized. He tosses them to the bed and turns to face you.

“You can change here,” he says. “I’ll be good.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You don’t even believe that.”

He grins. “No. But I like hearing you say it.”

You glance at the clothes, then at him—and slowly, deliberately, your fingers move. The towel slips from your grasp, pooling at your feet. The air changes, caught between breath and silence—suspended, reverent.

His eyes drag down your body in a slow, devastating sweep. Your wet bra clings to your chest, nipples clearly visible beneath the sheer fabric. Your underwear is nearly transparent, stretched taut across your hips, the waistband twisted from the way you shifted under the water. Your skin is flushed, dotted with goosebumps. You don’t cover yourself.

He doesn’t move. For a moment, he just stares—mouth parted, throat working as he swallows hard. His cock twitches in his boxers, and the fabric can no longer hide it.

You speak first.“Thought you were gonna be good.”

His gaze lifts—slow, hungry. His voice is hoarse when he answers. “I lied.”

He sits on the bed, legs spread wide, his cock hard and obvious beneath the wet fabric. He leans back on his hands and looks at you like he already owns you. “Come here.”

You move towards him with slow, measured steps, each movement drawing his gaze along the curves of your body. Your soaked bra clings to your skin as you approach, and when you finally stop before him, his exhale is strained with barely contained desire.

He tilts his head. “Can I touch you now?”

You nod. It’s barely a breath.

He reaches forward, hands sliding up the backs of your thighs, then over your hips, thumbs brushing the waistband of your underwear.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” he murmurs, eyes flicking up. “You don’t even know.”

“I think I do,” you whisper.

And he grins, wild and crooked and starved. “Good girl.”

His eyes are on your mouth when you breathe.

“Come here,” he says again, voice husky, deeper than it was downstairs. There’s no playfulness in it anymore. Just want.

You step forward, letting your knees brush the outside of his. He doesn’t move. Then, slowly, deliberately, you lift one leg over his thigh, then the other, and lower yourself into his lap.

The second your hips meet his, you feel it — the hard line of his cock pressing against the thin cotton of your panties. You both freeze. His breath stutters, jaw flexing as his fingers curl into the sheets beside him. He looks up at you like you’ve just ruined him.

“You feel that?” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. “That’s what you do to me.”

Your cheeks burn, but you don’t look away.

He reaches for your waist, fingers spreading wide as he guides you gently — forward, then back. The friction is slow. Torturous. His cock slides along the soaked crotch of your panties with every pass, dragging over your clit in a way that makes your thighs twitch.

“You’re soaked,” he whispers, like it’s a confession. “You’ve been wet since the dance, haven’t you?”

You open your mouth to argue, but it comes out a moan instead.

His hands roam. Over your waist, your ribs, thumbs grazing the undercurve of your breasts. He doesn’t touch your nipples — not yet. He’s savoring. Mapping you like something rare and sacred. Your fingers dig into his shoulders for balance, and he lets his head fall forward, lips grazing the slope of your neck.

“You smell like heat,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your pulse. “Like you’re meant to be fucked.”

The air leaves your lungs in one sharp exhale. He sucks at your throat once — soft, then harder — enough to leave a mark. Your hips grind down harder by accident, and he groans into your skin.

“God, baby,” he breathes, voice crumbling, “I want you to ride me just like this. Slow. Fuck—just like that.”

You drag your hips again, letting your soaked panties rub over his cock, and his fingers dig into your hips hard enough to bruise.

“You like that?” you whisper, breath shaking.

He looks up at you, hair falling into his eyes, and smiles like the devil.

“You have no idea.”

He rolls his hips up into yours once, sharply. You gasp.

“Wanna feel you come on me like this,” he mutters, pressing a kiss beneath your jaw. “Make a mess all over my lap. Let me ruin these pretty little panties you wore just for me.”

You whimper. His cock pulses beneath you, hot and thick and aching against your soaked center.

“Say you want it,” he whispers. “Say you want me to fuck you.”

“I want it,” you gasp, breathless. “Jungkook—please…”

And he groans, deep and raw.

“I’m gonna take my fucking time with you.”

You don’t realize how hard you’re breathing until he stills you.

His hands slide beneath your thighs, gripping them firmly, and with a strength that shouldn’t feel as gentle as it does, he lifts you. You gasp as he lays you back across the bed, your legs draped over the edge, your hair fanning against the pillows like you were made to be framed like this—bare and gasping beneath his stare.

He follows you down slowly. Drops to his knees like it's instinct. Not cocky. Not rushed. Like he’s been waiting to kneel here since the second he saw you. Your thighs tremble as he presses them open, fingers leaving faint imprints against your skin. He slides his palms under your knees, pushing them farther apart, and for a second, he just looks at you. At the damp curve of your panties, the way the fabric clings, the way you shift slightly under his stare like the heat between your legs has turned unbearable.

“You’re fucking perfect,” he breathes.

His hands grip the waistband of your panties, and you lift your hips without thinking. He peels them down slowly, watching them drag over your skin like he wants to memorize every inch. When they reach your ankles, he tosses them somewhere behind him—but his eyes never leave you. Then he leans in.

The first touch of his tongue is almost too soft to process. Just the tip, a teasing flick across your clit that makes your entire body jolt. You clutch at the sheets, your back arching when he does it again—firmer this time. He groans the second he tastes you.

“God, you taste so fucking good,” he murmurs, dragging his tongue from your entrance all the way up. “How the fuck do you taste like this?”

Your thighs twitch. He presses his palms against them to keep you open, steady, and lowers his mouth again.

This time, it’s not soft. His tongue laps at you with purpose, flattening against your clit in slow, deliberate strokes that make your legs tense and your fingers curl. He moans against you like he’s the one being pleasured, and the vibrations send shocks through your entire body.

You cry out. It’s instinctual—your hips trying to buck, your hand flying to his hair. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t let you run. He wraps an arm around your thigh, holds you down, and slips two fingers inside you without warning. Your moan is wrecked.

The stretch, the heat, the way his tongue moves faster now—circling, pressing, teasing just to the edge of pain. It’s too much. Not enough. Everything. Your head falls back against the mattress.

“Jungkook—” It’s a whimper, broken. “Oh my god…”

He groans again, tongue working faster, fingers curling inside you like he knows exactly where to find you, exactly how to press until you’re gasping like you’re drowning.

“That’s it,” he rasps against you. “Fuck, baby… let me feel you come on my mouth. Right here. Come for me.”

The pressure builds with each movement of his tongue, your body trembling on the edge as pleasure coils tight and hot within you. When release finally comes, it hits you like a wave — back arching, thighs shaking, lips parting in a cry you can’t control. You feel yourself pulse around his fingers, your orgasm ripping through you in hot, wet pulses that make you sob his name.

He groans low against you and keeps going, tongue flicking as your body shudders, milking every second out of it, chasing every last twitch of pleasure until your hips collapse and your legs fall open. He finally pulls back, face glistening, lips swollen, pupils blown. You’re panting and he stares at you like he’s just won a war. And then—without giving you a second to recover—he grips your thighs and says, voice rough, “Get up.”

You blink, dizzy. “Wha—”

“Mirror,” he says. “Now.”

You’re still catching your breath when he grabs your wrist. Not harshly. Not with force. Just enough pressure to tell you you’re not going anywhere. Your skin is hot, oversensitive, your thighs still twitching, and he’s already pulling you upright like he hasn’t just made you come with nothing but his mouth and two fingers. You follow, unsteady on your feet, your knees weak. Your bra is twisted around your chest, half-askew. Your hair’s stuck to your neck. You feel undone.

And he’s still hard. You catch a glimpse of it as he steps in behind you — the thick outline of his cock straining against the wet cotton of his boxers. You must’ve soaked through his lap earlier, because the front of them is completely dark, clinging to every inch of him. Your throat goes dry.

“Come here,” he murmurs, breath hot against your ear, already steering you toward the mirror in the corner of his room. Full-length. Gold-rimmed. Slightly fogged at the edges from the humidity of your bodies.

“I can’t—” you start, still dazed, and his hand cups your jaw from behind.

“You can,” he says, soft but firm. “You’re not done. Not yet.”

He stops you just a step in front of the mirror.

“Look,” he tells you. His voice is low, breathless now. “Look at yourself.”

You do and the girl in the reflection is… not you. Her lips are swollen. Her bra half-off. Her thighs gleaming. Her chest rising and falling like she’s been running for hours. You can see Jungkook’s frame behind you—tall, shirtless, flushed—his arm reaching around your waist, the other pressing flat against your lower back.

Then his hand slides down. Over your stomach. Your panties are gone. You’re bare for him, wet and pulsing and still aching from before. His fingers dip between your legs again.

You gasp. Your head drops forward—but his voice sharpens, right against your ear.

“No. Eyes up. Watch.”

You do. You watch the way your mouth falls open when two fingers slip back inside you, slow and deep. Watch the way your body rocks forward slightly, forced to brace against the glass as he curls them perfectly, his palm dragging over your clit just enough to make your knees buckle.

He wraps his other arm around your waist to keep you upright.

“Good girl,” he whispers, lips brushing your neck.

Your hips twitch. The angle is too perfect. Too much. Every thrust of his fingers sends you crashing forward against your reflection, breath fogging the glass, lips parting with every ragged moan.

“Look how pretty you are when you fall apart,” he murmurs. “You see that?”

You nod, barely. He pumps his fingers harder. Deeper. You feel them hit that spot again, and your entire body shudders. His hips are pressed to your ass now, his cock grinding against your skin with every movement, leaking through his boxers as he fingers you mercilessly.

“You like being watched?” he growls, voice breaking. “Like seeing yourself like this?”

You whimper. “Yes…”

“You wanna come again, don’t you?” His fingers slam into you harder now, knuckles wet, your slick echoing obscenely in the quiet. “You wanna do it while you’re looking me in the eye?”

You lift your head and meet his gaze in the mirror.

And that’s what breaks you. You cry out, loud and raw, body shaking against his, pressed full-length to the glass as your orgasm rips through you again — messier this time, faster, overwhelming. Your legs quake. His fingers never stop. He holds you through it, one arm locking you in place as you fall apart a second time in front of yourself, because of him.

Your breath fogs the mirror in quick, shallow pants. He finally pulls back, wet fingers sliding free with a low, satisfied groan. He looks at you in the mirror—flushed, panting, nearly gone—and leans in to press a slow kiss to your shoulder.

“I could watch you come all night.”

And somehow, you believe him. He pulls back just enough to let you breathe. The mirror’s cooled now, the glass smeared with your fingerprints and fog, the reflection a blur of tangled hair and sweat and wrecked pleasure. Your thighs are shaking. Your skin is damp. You feel like you’ve melted and there’s no putting yourself back together.

Jungkook turns you gently, hand on your waist, guiding you like he’s still not done claiming you.

The backs of your knees hit the mattress, and you let him push you down until you’re flat on your back. Your arms fall limp beside you, and for a moment all you can do is stare up at him. His chest is heaving. His skin is flushed. His cock — thick, red, twitching — strains beneath the cling of his boxers, soaked and sticking to every outline.

Then he hooks his thumbs in the waistband. You can’t look away. The cotton peels down slowly, catching on the head of his cock. He frees it with one hand, and it slaps up against his stomach, flushed and dripping. Your breath catches.

You’ve seen porn. You’ve read things. You’ve imagined. But nothing could’ve prepared you for the sight of him — him— standing between your knees, eyes dark, cock hard, and so clearly turned on by you. Your thighs press together instinctively. He sees it and smirks then climbs onto the bed. He doesn’t ask. He just leans over you, one hand sliding beneath your back, the other tugging the straps of your bra off your shoulders. You lift your arms without thinking, too far gone to hesitate, and he slides it down and off, tossing it carelessly to the floor.

Your breasts spill free, heavy and flushed and still damp from sweat.

He freezes. Just for a second. “Jesus fuck,” he breathes.

His hand comes up, fingers splayed, and he cups one breast gently, reverently, like it’s something sacred. His thumb grazes your nipple. You shudder.

“You’re unreal,” he murmurs. “So fucking soft… I’ve been staring at these all night.”

You laugh breathlessly. “You haven’t even seen them until now.”

He leans down, presses a kiss between them. “Didn’t have to. I just knew.”

And then he’s straddling your hips, cock in his hand, eyes dark as sin.

You watch, completely still, as he spits into his palm, slicks it over his length, and nestles the head of his cock between your breasts.

Your stomach tightens. He reaches down, gently lifts your hands, guiding them to your own body. “Hold them together for me.”

You obey. Press your breasts around him, the weight of them closing snug around his cock. His breath stutters.

“Just like that,” he whispers. “Fuck—just like that.”

And then he starts to move. It’s slow at first. The head of his cock slides up, nudging under your chin, wet with pre-come. You gasp as it drags back down, gliding slick between your breasts, your skin burning with friction and arousal and humiliation, but god, it turns you on more than you thought possible. You’ve never done this before. Never even thought about it.

But the way he moans? The way his eyes fall half-lidded, hips starting to stutter as he watches his cock disappear between your breasts? It wrecks you. Your thighs press together again. You can feel the wetness leaking out of you — fresh, sticky, proof that even after everything, your body’s still begging.

“Fuck, baby,” Jungkook groans, one hand gripping the headboard for balance, the other fisting your hair. “You have no idea what this does to me.”You whimper.

“Look at you,” he pants. “Tits so fucking perfect. Taking all of me. You’re so good—so fucking good—”

The head of his cock taps your chin again, your lips, your throat. You open your mouth on instinct, and he moans loudly.

“You wanna taste it?” he growls. “Wanna suck the tip while I fuck your tits?”

You nod, breathless, and tilt your head just enough to catch him on your tongue the next time he thrusts up. The sound he makes is filthy. His hips falter. His jaw clenches. The hand in your hair tightens.

“Fuck—fuck, I’m not gonna last like this,” he chokes out. “You feel too good. You’re so fucking hot like this. I could come all over these perfect tits and still not be done.”

You whine while he pulls back.

Not because he’s finished — but because he’s holding on. Barely. And because he hasn’t even been inside you yet. He’s panting above you, knees sunk into the mattress on either side of your waist, sweat beading down his chest as his cock pulses between your breasts. The tip is slick, flushed red, twitching with restraint. His eyes are locked on the mess he’s made of your body — your breasts shining, lips parted, your entire body still trembling beneath him.

But you’re not done. You should be. You’ve come twice, your legs are jelly, your skin is hypersensitive — but none of that matters. Because the longer you stare at him, the more you realize that this isn’t enough. Not yet. Not until you’ve had all of him. Not until you’ve tasted the way he’s falling apart.

Your voice is gone. Your mind’s gone too. All you can feel is heat — liquid and pulsing, low in your belly and behind your knees. You want to be good for him. You want to be filthy for him. You want to know what he tastes like. You want to feel his cock on your tongue.

So you shift beneath him. Lift your hands to his thighs, fingers sliding up slowly, dragging over the thick muscle until you reach his hips. He watches you with hooded eyes, breathless, lips wet and parted. You look up at him. And then — without a single word — you stick out your tongue. The way his expression breaks…

“Holy fuck,” he whispers.

His hand comes down, cradling your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as he stares like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

“You want to suck me off that bad?” he asks, voice rough. “After everything I’ve done to you?”

You nod. Keep your tongue out. Your eyes never leave his. He growls.

“Say it,” he whispers, thumb pressing into your chin. “Be a good girl. Tell me what you want.”

Your voice is hoarse. Desperate. “I want your cock in my mouth, Jungkook… I want to suck you until you lose it. I want to feel you on my tongue, in my throat. I want to taste all of you. Please…”

His jaw clenches. His hips jerk forward instinctively, the tip of his cock brushing your bottom lip.

“Fuck, you’re gonna kill me,” he mutters. “Open your mouth.”

You do and he guides himself in slowly, head pressing past your lips, the taste of salt and musk blooming over your tongue. You groan softly, and he shudders.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, hand slipping into your hair, wrapping it around his fingers like reins. “Fuck, baby. Look so pretty like this.”

You hollow your cheeks, take him deeper. Inch by inch, tongue curled beneath the shaft, your lips stretched wide. His cock slides in heavy, hot, and you let it, eyes fluttering closed as he presses against the back of your throat.

He hisses through his teeth. “God—fuck, your mouth…”

You moan around him. The vibration makes him groan, hips rolling forward just slightly — enough to make you gag softly around him. Your eyes water. You don’t stop.

Your fingers curl around his thighs. You suck him hard, wet and steady, letting spit drip down your chin, letting it get messy, wanting it to get messy. You want him undone. You want him to lose control.

“Fuck, just like that,” he pants, voice cracking. “You’re so good. You’re fucking perfect.”

He begins to move. Not roughly. Just slow thrusts of his hips, sliding his cock deeper with every pass, using your mouth like he’s been dreaming about it for months. His hand holds your hair tight. His stomach flexes. You can feel him trembling. You flatten your tongue. Let him fuck into your mouth. He starts muttering now — barely coherent.

“Shit… you’re gonna make me come—your fucking mouth—baby, I’m gonna—”

But then he pulls out. You gasp, mouth open, spit trailing from your lips to the head of his cock. He’s shaking.

“I can’t,” he breathes. “Not yet. I need to be inside you.”

You’re still panting when he leans down to kiss you. It’s not gentle. He licks into your mouth, like he can’t bear the space between you anymore. Then he reaches for the drawer.

Pulls out a condom and looks down at you like you’re the only thing in the universe.

“Lie back,” he says. “Let me fuck you right.”

You’re already open for him when he returns. Laid bare, legs parted, lips swollen, chin still shining from spit. Your body aches in the best way — used, touched, ruined — but it’s nothing compared to what you feel when you watch him roll the condom on. His chest is heaving. His thighs are flexed. And his cock, flushed and twitching in his grip, looks almost angry with need.

He climbs between your legs slowly. Like he’s in control. But you can see it now — the tension behind his smirk. The tremble in his breath. He’s been on the edge since you got on your knees, and he’s barely holding on.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice rough and low. “All spread out for me. Wet as fuck. And you still want more?”

You nod, breathless and he grins. Then lowers himself, his cock brushing against your folds — not pushing in yet, just slapping it lightly across your entrance.

Once. Twice. A third time, with a wet sound that makes you twitch.

You gasp, hips jerking. “Jungkook…”

He groans. “You hear that? That’s how wet you are for me. All this for my cock, baby?”

You whimper. “Yes. All for you.”

He drags the head of his cock through your folds, slow and filthy, coating himself in your slick. Then he holds himself there — right at your entrance — and still doesn’t move.

“Tell me you want it.”

“I want it,” you breathe.

He growls. “Nah. Say it right.”

You whimper again, voice breaking. “Please, Jungkook… I want your cock. I want you to fuck me. I want to feel you inside.”

He exhales like you’ve punched the air from his lungs. “Good girl.”

And then he pushes in.

It’s slow. Torturous. You feel every inch — the stretch, the pressure, the way your walls cling to him. You gasp, head falling back against the pillows, thighs trembling as he slides deeper.

“Fuck,” he groans, his voice guttural. “You’re so tight. So warm… shit—like you were made for me.”

Your mouth falls open. “You feel so good, Jungkook… so fucking big…”

He growls at that — hips pressing all the way in until he’s bottomed out.

“Yeah? You like this?”

“Yes,” you pant. “You fill me so good, I—I can’t think—”

“You don’t need to think,” he breathes. “Just feel.”

Then he starts to move. Slow thrusts at first — deep and deliberate. His hips rock into yours with precision, dragging his cock against every sensitive spot inside you. His body presses into yours with heat and weight and intent, chest nearly touching yours, forearms braced on either side of your head.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he murmurs. “Tight little pussy taking all of me like that.”

You moan — helpless, wrecked, desperate.

“Say it,” he whispers. “Say it’s mine.”

“It’s yours,” you breathe, voice trembling. “It’s all yours, Jungkook…”

“Say no one else fucks you like this.”

“No one. Just you—only you—”

He groans loud at that, pace faltering for a beat before he starts pounding harder. He fucks you like he’s trying to leave a mark. Every thrust hits deeper, sharper, hips slapping against your ass. His hand slides up to your chest, gripping one breast, squeezing until you gasp. His other hand tangles in your hair, pulling just enough to tilt your head back.

“You wanna come for me, baby?”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Please…”

“You gonna let me watch you fall apart again?”

“Yes—fuck, please, Jungkook—”

He shifts, changes the angle, and suddenly every thrust is grinding against your clit just right. You cry out, back arching, thighs trembling. You’re so close. So fucking close.

“Come for me,” he growls. “Come all over my cock, baby. I wanna feel you tighten around me—come like you fucking mean it.”

And you do.

Your orgasm hits like a supernova — legs locking around his waist, mouth falling open in a scream. Your body pulses around him, walls clenching so hard he nearly loses it with you. He fucks you through it, whispering filth in your ear the whole time, praising you, owning you. When you finally come down, panting and wrecked, he kisses you like he’s starving but he’s not done yet.

You’re still pulsing around him when he pulls out. You gasp, empty in an instant, your body twitching from aftershocks. He kneels back for a breath, staring down at you like he’s trying to burn the image into memory — your legs splayed, your skin flushed, your mouth swollen and wet with the ghost of his name.

And then he flips you fast. You land on your stomach with a surprised moan, face sinking into the pillow, arms collapsing beneath you. Before you can breathe, he’s behind you again, spreading your thighs with greedy hands, pressing his cock between your folds.

“Fuck,” he growls, dragging himself through your slick. “You look so good like this.”

He grabs your hips, lifts you slightly, and pushes back in with one rough thrust. You cry out. Your fingers clutch the sheets. He doesn’t give you time to adjust. He just fucks into you—deep, fast, like he’s finally letting go. The sound of skin against skin fills the room, wet and sharp, paired with his ragged moans and your helpless gasps.

“Oh my god,” you whimper, spine arching. “Fuck—Jungkook—yes—”

“You like this?” he snarls. “You like getting fucked like this? Bent over like a toy?”

“Yes,” you pant, no shame left. “I love it—I love your cock—don’t stop—”

He laughs, breathless, feral. His hand slides up your back, tangles in your hair, and pulls. Your back arches instinctively. The burn in your scalp shoots straight to your cunt. You moan like it’s oxygen.

“Good girl,” he growls. “Take it. Take all of it.”

He thrusts harder, faster. Every stroke knocks a sound out of your throat. Your body jolts forward with the force of it, and he only pulls you back harder. And then suddenly his palm lands on your ass, hard and hot. You jerk. Whine. Grind back against him.

“Oh, you like that?” he grits out. “You want me to spank you while I fuck you?”

“Yes—yes, please, Jungkook—”

Smack. Again. Your ass stings, skin heating under each slap, but it just makes everything worse — your walls clamp around him, another orgasm building before you can even prepare for it.

“You’re gonna come again, aren’t you?” His voice is sharp now, breathless. “Fucking dripping. So messy. You love being used like this.”

“I love it,” you sob. “I love it—I love being fucked by you—please—please, Jungkook—”

He grabs both your wrists and pulls them behind your back, holding you open while he slams into you, deep and fast, until your vision goes white.

“Come again,” he orders. “Come for me. Let me feel it.”

And when you do, it hits harder than before — your body convulsing, vision tunneling, mouth dropping open in a silent scream as your pussy clenches tight around him.

“Fuck—fuck—I’m gonna—”

He groans loud, one final thrust punching deep into you and then he’s coming. Hard. You feel it — the way his whole body tightens behind you, the heat spilling into the condom as he presses as deep as he can go, panting against your spine, voice raw. He holds there for a long moment. Breathing. Trembling. Then slowly, gently, he loosens his grip on your wrists. Brushes a soft kiss over your shoulder. Collapses beside you.

The room is silent now. Just two bodies, sweat-drenched and sore, trembling from everything they weren’t supposed to feel. Your body’s gone heavy. Limbs lax. Muscles aching in the best way. You’re still on your stomach, hair matted to the back of your neck, thighs sticky, lungs slow to catch up. The sheets are wrinkled beneath you. The whole room smells like sweat and sex and the kind of satisfaction that seeps into the bones.

And then he touches you again. A hand slides along your hip — warm, calloused — trailing over the curve of your ass and down your thigh. Then it shifts. Moves up. His thumb grazes the underside of your breast, and his mouth follows a heartbeat later.

“Jungkook,” you murmur, voice soft, half-dazed.

He doesn’t answer. He just mouths at your nipple, lazy and slow, tongue swirling in wet circles while his hand cups the other breast and gives it a greedy squeeze. You gasp. Your back arches instinctively. He hums low in his throat like you're dessert.

“Thought you were done,” you whisper, eyes fluttering.

He pulls off your nipple with a wet pop. “I’m never done with you.”

You whimper. Laugh. Try to turn your face away — but he follows. Crawls up your body, kisses you deep and messy, his hand still palming your breast while his tongue slides into your mouth like he owns it. His lips are sticky, hot. You taste yourself on them.

And you melt all over again. His fingers dig into your ass next. Squeezing. Spreading. Possessive.

“You know,” he rasps, breath fanning over your ear, “I could fuck you like this every day.”

You laugh again — breathless, flushed. “Yeah?”

“Every fucking day.” He groans. “You’d let me, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” you breathe, turning your head slightly, kissing his jaw. “You fuck so good…”

He moans. “You make it easy. Being inside you is like… holy fuck, it’s unreal.”

You roll onto your back, too lazy to fully fight him off. He’s still kissing your chest, dragging his mouth from one nipple to the other, circling slow. His tongue’s warm. Wet. Wicked. Every touch makes you twitch. And your voice—when it comes—is low and teasing.

“You gonna get off on my tits again, or let me put some clothes on?”

“Don’t you dare,” he mutters, pulling back only slightly, eyes dropping to the mess of your ruined panties on the floor. He picks them up with two fingers, holds them hostage. “I’m keeping these.”

You blink at him in shock. “Jungkook.”

He grins. “For science.”

You snort, still breathless. “That was…” You exhale hard, letting your head fall back. “So fucking needed.”

He grins. “Anytime. I’m very committed to supporting women in STEM.”

You laugh — fully this time. He tosses you his hoodie, then shimmies into his boxers like he isn’t still half-hard just watching you move. You stretch slowly, aching all over, before sitting up and tugging on your dress without underwear. His eyes darken. And then, before you leave, you do it — that final little flick of power he never sees coming. You hook your finger in your mouth. Suck it slowly. Loudly. Let it pop free. Then glance back at him over your shoulder with a sweet, filthy smile.

His jaw drops. He groans. “Oh my fucking god.”

You smirk. “See you around, Jeon.”

And just before you slip out the door, he mutters under his breath, half-wrecked:

“…I’m so fucking in trouble.”

.

.

.

part 2

your feedback means the world to me. 🖤

[chogiwow]

the law of unintended consequences. | jake sim (part one)

→ posits that actions often have unforeseen and unanticipated effects, which may be positive, negative, or neutral, that are not part of the actor's original intent. MASTERLIST | PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4

pairing: astrophysicist jake x assistant reader

genre: co-workers to lovers

wc: part 1 – 20k

warnings: slowburn, topics of abandonment issues, jake has his first kiss, makeouts, some touching (that's as far as it goes), cheesy ass astronomy rizz :'D

a/n: dividing this into 2-3 parts bc tumblr fuck you and your 1000 blocks limit

one. 

you are not supposed to be here.

you have zero qualifications in astrophysics, no background in quantum mechanics, and absolutely no business being inside one of the country’s top space research facilities.

but you’re just a desperate graduate looking for a job.

when you applied for an assistant role at a science institute – thinking it would involve scheduling meetings, filing paperwork, maybe even making coffee – you did not expect to end up working under a literal genius.

seriously, you thought you’d be running small errands. and here’s the thing. you’re good at what you do, you’re good at the whole administerial part of the job. you’re needed to print copies of the meeting notes? done. you need to coordinate with the finance department because sunghoon somehow submitted last year’s budget instead of the current one? you already emailed them. jay forgot about an important board meeting? no, he didn’t. because you added three reminders to his calendar and physically dragged him out of the lab when he tried to pretend he had “urgent research” to finish.

you keep this place functioning, to whatever extent you can. you are efficient. you are essential. you are the one making sure the right documents reach the right people in the chaos that is everyday and the coffee machine’s up and functioning.

but the moment anyone in the lab starts talking about science stuff? you might as well be a hamster in a quantum mechanics lecture.

seriously. it’s like your brain just taps out.

you’ve been working here for months, and you still don’t know what these people actually do. you know it involves space and big words and a lot of coffee-fueled all-nighters. but the second someone starts explaining their research, it’s like you’re staring into the abyss.

you’re basically surrounded by insufferable nerds who talk about wormholes and black hole singularities like they’re discussing the weather. it’s like walking into a foreign country where the language is pure equations.

the worst part?

not all of them are entirely insufferable. some are just too passionate for their own good, their conversations looping endlessly in circles you can’t follow. if anything, you’re the fish out of water here.

take jay, for example. he’s not that bad. in fact, he’s one of those hot nerds who knows he’s hot – but doesn’t flaunt it. sure, he runs a hand through his hair a little too often when you’re around, throws you that lopsided smile when you hand out research papers you don’t understand, and occasionally offers you free coffee when you pass by his workstation.

but he’s also the guy with an endless arsenal of space puns and the world’s worst pick-up lines.

so yeah, not entirely insufferable.

sunghoon is more moody, more reserved, always hyper-focused on his work. he doesn’t bother with small talk, barely acknowledges your presence unless necessary, and when he does, it’s usually with a furrowed brow and a clipped “can you move?” when you accidentally block the whiteboard. he’s a bit of a jerk in your opinion, but jay seems to swear by him, assuring you that his friends have been literal losers since university, never even having dated anyone at all and that he just needs time to warm up to someone. you believe him because it's believable.

but leading this entire team of genius lunatics?

dr. jake sim.

jake sim is brilliant. annoyingly brilliant. the youngest astrophysicist to be leading major research on gravitational waves and exoplanets. the golden boy of the lab. the guy who talks about space-time distortions the way normal people talk about the weather.

jake sim is also hot – surprise (not really). he completes the trio of jay and sunghoon – the hot trio of the lab. everyone knows it. every assistant and secretary in the building has fun batting their eyes and twirling their hair at them. but while jay flirts back and sunghoon ignores it, jake… doesn’t even notice.

jake has a quiet, brooding edge to him. he always wears his glasses – except when he slides them off to rub a tired hand over his stupidly handsome face, his black hair somehow fluffy yet perfectly in place. you’ve often found yourself staring, wondering what kind of haircare routine produces that level of effortless perfection. (“papaya extract shampoo,” jay tells you later.)

even when he’s frowning, he looks like a lost puppy. he’s not intimidating per se, he’s just … not a very socially apt person you’ve met. and that’s saying something because the first month you joined, sunghoon avoided you like the plague. you thought you had done something to offend him but turns out, as jay informed you later, sunghoon’s just very awkward around new people.

jake sim is a genius. a literal, world-altering, lab-coated prodigy whose brain works at speeds the average person can’t even comprehend.

he is also, unfortunately, a menace to basic workplace efficiency. you’ve learned this the hard way.

because for all his brilliance, jake has zero awareness of his surroundings. he’ll abandon pens in entirely different departments, walk off mid-sentence because he’s already three equations ahead in his mind, and somehow exist in a state of constant near-calamity – like a human science experiment teetering on the edge of disaster.

which is where you come in.

you, the assistant who keeps his world running. the one who reminds him to eat. the one who nudges a coffee into his hands before he even realizes he needs it. the one who subtly rearranges his misplaced files, retrieves his lost stationery, and – on more than one occasion – has saved his life by yanking him out of the way of an incoming cart of hazardous materials.

you do all of this seamlessly. efficiently. and completely unnoticed.

because jake sim doesn’t know your name. not really.

you’re just the person who hands him reports and dodges his absentminded shoulder bumps in the hallway. the one he thanks without looking up, too engrossed in his work to register you as anything more than background noise.

which brings you to now.

standing outside his office, gripping a file filled with research you don’t understand, mentally preparing yourself to not make a fool of yourself this time.

you take a breath. knock. no answer.

you knock again. still nothing.

maybe he’s not here? maybe you can just leave the file on his desk and escape unnoticed—

the door suddenly swings open. and you immediately take a step back, startled.

jake blinks down at you, clearly pulled out of deep thought, his glasses slightly askew, lab coat unbuttoned.

he doesn’t say anything. just stares.

and for the first time, you’re really seeing him up close.

his sharp features. the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw from too many sleepless nights. the way his hair falls slightly over his forehead.

yeah, this man has no business being this attractive.

you open your mouth, but words fail you.

jake glances at the file in your hands. then back at you.

“are you lost?”

what.

“no,” you say, straightening. “i—i work here.”

jake frowns, clearly trying to recall if he’s ever seen you before. he has not.

“…right.” his gaze flicks down to your name tag. “y/n.”

holy shit, it’s at this moment that you realise, this man has no idea who you are. he doesn’t know who his assistant is.

regardless, you nod, offering the file like it’s a peace offering. “dr. lee said to give this to you.”

jake takes the file from you, barely glancing at it before flipping through the pages. silence. you shift awkwardly, waiting for him to acknowledge your existence beyond just your name tag.

“this is wrong.”

…excuse me?

you blink. “what?”

jake flips the file around, showing you a page filled with numbers and diagrams that might as well be ancient hieroglyphics to you. “these calculations. they don’t match the expected parameters.”

your brain short-circuits. “uh… okay.”

jake sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “did dr. lee give this to you?”

“yes.”

“did you change anything?”

you gape at him. “do i look like i know how to change a single digit in that mess?”

jake finally looks at you properly, as if realizing you are, in fact, the last person who would alter high-level astrophysics data. then, to your absolute horror, he scoffs. somehow, that’s more insulting to you, the fact that he’s just now realising that you’re an assistant and not a fellow colleague or intern or junior. really, it was just a sign of realisation, but why did it piss you off?

“fair point.”

he steps back, gesturing for you to come in. “i need to cross-check this. you might as well wait.”

before you can protest, he’s already walked back to his desk, completely expecting you to follow.

here’s another thing about you. you’re efficient, yes. you keep the schedules running like a well-oiled machine. you manage people, deadlines, and occasional office chaos with ease. you have your occasional run-ins with the high tech coffee machine, but you compensate with the packets of instant mixes. you clock in and out of work on time, you don’t butt your nose where you’re not required. you sit quietly in those boring meetings, stifling your yawns but its not like many people notice you anyway. you are definitely efficient at what you do.

but you’re also... clumsy.

not in a way that actively disrupts work (you swear). just in a way that has you constantly bumping into desks, tripping over air, and somehow finding new, creative ways to spill coffee on yourself. you blame it on your flat feet – probably. but the truth is, you’ve simply made peace with your gravitational challenges.

it’s something that has plagued you since an early age where you’d be slipping off swing sets or bumping into tables or accidentally rubbing the eraser too hard across your notebook page, causing it to rip right through the middle. but it's alright, it’s not a life threatening… disorder, you’d suppose.

and for the most part, no one notices.

except that one time jay did when you tripped over a computer wire. he snickered so loud, half the office turned to stare at him. you ran away in a blushing mess before he could turn it into a full roast session.

you're standing in jake sim’s office with the hesitation of someone who just walked into an active minefield. but it’s always this way when you need to go into his office.

his office is… exactly the way you had seen it in your initial days of work.

not in the normal executive kind of way – no sleek, intimidating decor, no minimalist furniture that screams i’m too rich to function. no, jake’s office is chaos disguised as a workspace.

the walls are lined with whiteboards covered in scribbled equations – formulas, diagrams, and the kind of notes that make your brain hurt just looking at them. books are stacked in precarious towers, some open, some closed, all of them filled with words and symbols that might as well be hieroglyphics. a crumpled hoodie is draped over the back of his chair, and an abandoned coffee cup sits dangerously close to the edge of his desk, a faint ring staining the surface underneath.

there’s a rhythm to the disorder, though – like his mind works too fast for his space to keep up. you’ve known jake to be someone who knows exactly what he is doing and you have no doubt this is all just an organised mess to him. he’d probably be able to tell you in alphabetical order where all his things were. you knew the moment you saw him maneuvering himself through this trash pile of a room with the ease of a cat, that he knew exactly where everything was.

but you did your part as a good assistant and helped clean up his desk once in a while. nothing much, just stacking the reports in different piles, labelled ‘to be read’ or ‘needs review’ with coloured sticky notes for his sake, making sure his pen stand has a decent amount of working pens and sharpened pencils, bookmarking pages of books he left open on his table and stacking them in another corner of the desk, making sure the dust is cleaned off and no stains of coffee cups remain on his workspace.

it smells faintly of coffee, whiteboard markers, and something else – something subtly clean, like fresh laundry, though you doubt he even has time for things like that.

and in the middle of it all is jake sim himself, hunched over his desk, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose as he scans a file with sharp, calculating eyes. he absently pushes his glasses back up, muttering something under his breath.

you catch the words “data inconsistencies.”

you have no idea what’s wrong with the numbers on the page, but based on his frown, they seem to have personally offended him.

you shift your weight from one foot to the other, trying not to focus on the dim office lighting casting soft shadows over his face.

which, objectively speaking, is unfairly attractive.

in that disheveled genius way – like he hasn’t slept in days but could still win a magazine cover shoot by accident.

not that you care. obviously. you’re just here to do your job. your very normal, very non-physics-related job.

and then, in true you fashion – disaster strikes.

it happens fast. one second, you’re standing still, being the picture of professionalism. the next, your foot catches on something – probably your own dignity – and suddenly, the ground is rushing up to meet you at an alarming speed.

you don’t even have time to process your impending doom before a firm hand catches your wrist, steadying you just before you faceplant into the floor.

for a brief, shocking moment, you’re pressed against jake sim’s side, gripping his arm as if your life depends on it.

because it does.

you look up – eyes wide, breath caught – and find him staring down at you, completely unfazed, those damn glasses of his slightly crooked over his nose bridge. his grip is steady, warm, but impersonal – like he just reacted on instinct before immediately moving on.

and then — "dark matter interactions shouldn’t be this inconsistent," he mutters, releasing you as if the whole thing was a minor inconvenience.

you just nearly wiped out in his office, and he’s already back to contemplating the mysteries of the universe?!

you gape at him as he casually flips a page, frowning at the numbers again, like he hadn’t just saved you from a mild concussion.

"uh—thanks?" you manage, still trying to steady your heartbeat.

jake hums in response, not even looking up. "watch your step next time."

unbelievable. it’s official.

this man has zero self-awareness.

two.

jake swears on his life he had kept the papers on the ‘dark energy survey’ report on his desk last night before he left.

yet, as he stands in his office now, staring at the very-much-empty surface where they should be, his jaw tightens.

he exhales through his nose. okay. no need to panic. maybe they got buried under the mess.

he starts shifting through the stacks of books and scattered notes, moving one pile to another area of controlled chaos. but the more he looks, the more it becomes evident – those papers are gone.  

and he needs them. now.

biting his cheeks, he squats on the floor, peering under his desk but nothing. not the report he was looking for. maybe he kept it somewhere else, somewhere away from the mess on his desk just to be sure that they were in a more accessible place. but where? there’s not a single nook and cranny in his room that could possibly meet that standard, it’s all just piles of papers and charts and books.

his desk drawer?

a quick survey of that yields nothing but two dried up pens, some loose sheets he had scribbled rough calculations on and an empty paper cup.

fuck, where the hell did he put that report?

with a frustrated sigh, he runs a hand through his already-messy hair, striding across to the middle of his room and casting a wary glance all around. a muscle in his jaw twitches as he stares at the scattered disaster zone that is his office.

he has checked everywhere – under the desk, between stacks of papers, in his desk drawer (twice), even inside an old laptop case for some godforsaken reason.

nothing.

this doesn’t make sense. he left it right here – unless he didn’t.

he presses his palms against the desk, eyes squeezing shut for a second. he’s tired. maybe he just—

"are you okay, or are you plotting an intergalactic war?"

jake's head snaps up.

you stand at the doorway, arms crossed, eyebrows quirked in amusement. you’re holding a different set of documents, clearly in the middle of your usual rounds, but now you’re just watching him suffer.

"i’m fine," he says flatly.

"uh-huh. that’s why you look like you want to launch yourself into a black hole."

jake pinches the bridge of his nose. "i lost something." he’s seen you before, weren’t you the person from yesterday? the one who tripped over air?

you hum, stepping inside. "what?"

“the dark energy survey report.”

at that, you pause. a flicker of something crosses your face, like you’re remembering something.

jake notices. “what?”

“nothing,” you say automatically. then, a second later, “wait. you’re sure you left it on your desk?”

“yes.”

“you’re sure sure?”

jake glares. “i don’t say things i’m not sure about.”

you give him a look, like you find that highly debatable, but instead of arguing, you shift the documents in your hands and tilt your head in thought.

"because," you start, "i came in yesterday to drop off a memo from dr. lee, and i remember seeing your desk. it was already a disaster zone, but i don’t think that report was there."

jake frowns. "that’s impossible. i was working on it last night—"

and then it clicks.

his expression shifts, frustration turning into something more like realization.

“oh,” he says.

“oh?” you echo.

jake straightens, rubbing his jaw. he had been talking to jay and sunghoon about data discrepancies in the report yesterday. they had moved to the adjacent lab to compare notes on a new simulation model—

shit.

"i think i left it in lab c," jake sighs, already making a beeline for the door. "i took it with me while discussing—"

"—dark matter inconsistencies, right?" you finish dryly, following him out.

jake doesn’t acknowledge that. but you’re right.

as jake strides toward lab c with you trailing behind him, you take a moment to process the absurdity of this situation.

you are an administrative assistant. your job is to schedule meetings, file reports, and occasionally wrestle the coffee machine into submission.

yet, here you are, following the lab's star astrophysicist on a quest for lost paperwork like you’re in some sort of intergalactic treasure hunt.

lab c is as chaotic as you expect it to be. desks cluttered with scattered notes, half-drunk coffee cups balancing precariously on top of stacks of journals, whiteboards filled with scribbles that look more like encrypted messages from an alien race than anything remotely comprehensible.

jake wastes no time. he scans the room, eyes sharp, movements precise. you, on the other hand, stand uselessly by the door, because let’s be honest – you wouldn’t even know what the report looks like if it smacked you in the face.

he mutters under his breath as he sifts through a pile of books, pushing aside a crumpled hoodie and a few loose sheets. “it should be here…”

“you know, for a genius, you’re pretty bad at keeping track of your own stuff.”

jake shoots you a look. “i have a system.”

you snort. “a system of losing things?”

he doesn’t dignify that with a response. instead, he bends down, checking under a table. you take this as an opportunity to glance around the lab, pretending like you’re helping even though you don’t know what you’re looking for.

then you spot it. a thick, spiral-bound stack of papers shoved to the very edge of a side desk, partially covered by a takeout container.

“uh… dr. sim?”

“what?” he asks, voice distracted as he pulls open a drawer.

you point. “is that it?”

jake follows your gaze, and for a second, he just stares.

then, with a slow exhale, he walks over, picks up the report, and flips through the pages.

“…yeah.” he sighs, a muscle in his jaw flexing. “this is it.”

you cross your arms, grinning. “you’re welcome.”

he glances at you, eyes narrowing slightly. “you didn’t actually do anything.”

“excuse me? i found it.”

jake shakes his head, turning his attention back to the report. “if you weren’t distracting me, i would’ve found it faster.”

your mouth falls open. “oh, i’m sorry – who was about to tear his entire office apart thinking it had magically disappeared?”

jake ignores you, already skimming through the contents like the numbers and graphs hold the secrets of the universe.

you roll your eyes. this man is impossible.

and it's a fact you make known very clearly when you’re in the break room, muttering under your breath about how a simple thanks would have sufficed, but no, jake sim is a dumbass with his head up his–

“woah, woah y/n, you know you don’t really mean that,” jay interrupts your rant with a smile that shows that he’s clearly enjoying this, “what did the man ever do to you?”

what did he do to you?

“well for one, he didn’t even know i existed until yesterday–”

“give him a break, he’d probably forget his own name with all the things that go around in that brain of his.”

“–and then he scoffed at me when he realised i’m just an assistant–”

“i don’t think he meant any offense.”

“and then today, he didn’t remember me of course and when i helped him find that damn report he didn’t even thank me!”

jay lets out a small laugh. “he was probably just too relieved that he found it. he’s been stressing over that for a while.”

you squint at him. “what are you, his boyfriend?”

your pout is completely involuntary, but jay, the traitor, just smirks knowingly.

he raises an eyebrow, clearly holding back laughter. “not yet. but hey, if he keeps ignoring you like this, i might have a chance.”

you groan, dramatically flopping onto one of the break room chairs. “i swear i’m going to lose my mind!”

jay snickers, settling into the chair across from you. “you’re being a little dramatic.”

“oh, am i?” you lean forward, eyes narrowing. “because i don’t think i am. i think this is a completely rational response to being treated like a piece of office furniture.”

jay bites back a smile. “so you’re saying jake treats you like… a chair?”

“no! worse! at least a chair gets sat on – it has a purpose!” you throw your hands up. “i’m like… i’m like an extra paperclip. you know? just there, completely overlooked, until one day he might need me for something and then immediately forgets i exist again.”

jay blinks. “that is… oddly specific.”

“because it’s true!” you shoot up from your seat, now fully committed to the metaphor.

jay opens his mouth, but you’re already spiraling.

“three months – that’s how long i’ve been working here as his assistant, but he didn’t even know my name!” you don’t why it bothers you, you didn’t expect everyone to know your name here, but that damn jake sim just… got on your nerves for some reason.

“last week, when he bumped into me in the hallway. i swear, jay, i could have been a ghost. no ‘excuse me,’ no ‘oh, my bad,’ nothing! i could’ve been a gust of wind for all he cared.” you throw up air quotes. “just a mild inconvenience in his trajectory.”

jay hums. “maybe he just didn’t see you—”

“i was wearing a bright red sweater, jay.”

jay coughs to hide a laugh. “okay, fair.”

“oh, and this morning? i held the elevator door open for him. you know what he did? he walked in, pulled out his phone, and scrolled on it the entire time like i was the automatic door button.” you gasp. “oh my god, i’m not even a paperclip. i’m a goddamn elevator button – just pressed when needed and ignored otherwise.”

at this, jay actually doubles over laughing, wiping at his eyes. “y/n, i’m begging you, please breathe.”

you exhale sharply, arms crossed, foot tapping against the floor. “i refuse.”

jay grins. “so you’re telling me you’re this upset because he, what, didn’t grovel at your feet for holding a door open?”

you scoff. “i’m not asking for groveling! i’m asking for basic human decency! a thank you! a nod! a brief moment of eye contact! something to prove that i’m not just an inanimate object in his world! to at least memorize his own goddamn assistant’s name!”

jay leans back in his chair, arms crossed. “so basically… you want him to notice you.”

you freeze.

jay’s smirk deepens. “ohhh.”

“no.” you point a warning finger at him. “don’t even go there.”

“but we’re already here.” he has a shit eating grin on his face which you want to slap off, “why is this bothering you so much? i swear i can’t remember you being this antsy when sunghoon avoided you in your first month.”

you scoff at that, a dry laugh following.

why? because you’re his goddamn assistant, not sunghoon’s.

“okay, what about last month? he walked into the office looking like a lost child because he forgot his laptop charger. guess who lent him one?”

jay winces. “you?”

“yes! and do you know what he said to me? ‘oh, you have one? cool, thanks, man.’ ” you pause, scowling. “man, jay. man.”

jay laughs. “okay, that’s a little rough.”

“i’m not done.” you hold up a finger, eyes ablaze. “lunch break. he was on the phone, right? kept checking his watch like he was late for something, totally zoned out. he dropped his damn wallet right in front of my salad.”

jay whistles. “and let me guess…?”

“i picked it up, ran down four flights of stairs because the elevator was taking too long, found him outside, and handed it to him before he even realized it was gone.” you cross your arms. “do you think he looked at me? do you think he was even the slightest bit aware that he nearly walked into financial ruin?”

jay grins. “what did he say?”

you deepen your voice in the best jake impression you can manage. “‘oh, sick, thanks, dude.’ ” you slap your hands on the table. “dude.”

jay is fully laughing now, shaking his head. “wow. okay. that is… a lot.”

“right?” you throw yourself back into the chair, hands dramatically covering your face. “i’m literally the human equivalent of an undo button. always there, fixing things, never noticed. just a—”

“a paperclip?”

“exactly!”

jay smirks, taking a sip of his coffee. “you could just stop helping him, you know.”

you scoff. “and let him walk around with a dead laptop, no lunch money, and a general lack of survival skills? please. he’d die within the week.”

jay snickers. “so you want to help him?”

“no, i just…” you hesitate, glaring at the table. “it’s not fair that he gets to be so careless and people like me have to pick up after him.”

jay tilts his head. “people like you?”

“people who actually pay attention,” you mutter, running a frustrated hand through your hair. “it’s so easy for him, you know? he gets to waltz through life, forgetting names, misplacing things, just… assuming everything will work out for him. and the worst part? he’s right. because someone like me is always there to make sure it does.”

jay watches you quietly for a second. “y/n…”

you shake your head, standing up and grabbing your coffee. “whatever. it’s fine. it’s not like he’s doing it on purpose.” you glance at jay. “and no, before you say it, it’s not because i want him to notice me. it’s just…” you sigh. “it’d be nice to feel like i exist.”

jay gives you a knowing look but doesn’t push further. “well. if it makes you feel better, i notice you.”

you snort. “wow. how reassuring.”

but even as you joke, there’s a tiny, sinking feeling in your chest.

because deep down, you know – jake sim will never notice you the way you want him to.

okay, now that shouldn't be a problem. because the way you put it, anyone would conclude you have a thing for him, but that’s not it. because you don’t mention to jay how when you were just a week into the new job, you had spilled coffee all over yourself, and jake sim had been the one to hand you the spare hoodie in his arm.

it had smelled like laundry detergent and something vaguely citrusy. clean. warm.

you don’t tell jay how, back then, you had hesitated before taking it, surprised that the lab’s most brilliant astrophysicist had even noticed your minor catastrophe.

“here,” he had said, casual, like it was nothing. like it was just a reflex.

and maybe it had been.

because when you had stammered out a “thank you,” jake had already turned away, scrolling through his phone.

like you weren’t even there.

like handing a coffee-stained assistant his hoodie was just another thing on his long list of unconscious habits – like losing reports, misplacing wallets, or forgetting names.

just another thing he would never think about again.

and you? you had worn that hoodie for the rest of the day. then, after work, you had folded it neatly, walked up to him in the break room, and said, “hey, thanks again for this.”

and he had blinked at you. blinked like he had no idea what you were talking about.

“oh,” he had said after a beat, glancing at the hoodie in your hands. “right. cool.”

that was the first time you had felt it – the quiet, sinking realization that in jake sim’s world, you were just… background noise.

that was three months ago.

now, you’re still here, still stuck in the same loop, orbiting his chaotic existence like some unnoticed planetary body, pulled in by the sheer force of his gravitational field but never quite seen.

and it’s exhausting.

you sigh, dragging a hand down your face. jay is still watching you, amused but not unkind. “are you done spiraling?”

you groan. “i hate you.”

“no, you don’t.”

you glare. “no, but i might start.”

jay snickers, pushing his coffee toward you like some sort of peace offering. “here. take a sip before you actually implode.”

you roll your eyes but take it anyway, muttering under your breath.

jay grins. “so, what’s the plan?”

you blink. “plan?”

“yeah.” he leans back, crossing his arms. “clearly, you’re at your limit. are you going to keep playing office paperclip, or are you finally going to make jake sim realize you exist?”

you scoff, your eyes narrowing. “and why would i need to do that?”

jay hums, tilting his head like he’s studying you under a microscope. “y’know… i think this might be deeper than just wanting to be ‘noticed.’”

you narrow your eyes. “the hell does that mean?”

he taps his chin. “i mean, it’s kinda funny, isn’t it? how personally you take this?”

you scoff. “i do not take it personally.”

jay gives you a look. “right. which is why you’re two seconds away from stabbing a straw through that coffee cup.”

you immediately release your grip, only to cross your arms instead. “i just think it’s rude, that’s all. i do so much for him, and he doesn’t even know my name? it’s basic decency.”

jay nods, way too agreeable. “mhm. basic decency. has nothing to do with, say… i don’t know… a deep-seated need for validation?”

your jaw drops. “excuse me?”

“or,” he continues, as if he didn’t just hit you with psychological warfare over morning coffee, “maybe even something more?”

you blink. “more?”

jay grins like he’s just won the lottery. “yeah. like romantic feelings.”

you almost choke. “i—what—no—”

jay shrugs. “i mean, it would explain a lot.”

“oh, shut up.”

“i’m serious! if this were just about office politics, you’d be annoyed for, like, a day. maybe a week. but this?” he gestures vaguely at your entire existence. “this is an obsession.”

you point a finger at him. “i hate you.”

he smirks. “no, you don’t.”

you take a deep breath, trying not to lose your mind. “for the last time, jay, i do not like jake sim.”

jay leans forward, smirking. “then prove it.”

you blink. “what?”

“prove it,” he repeats. “if this really isn’t about your feelings, then let’s run an experiment. let’s make jake see you.”

of course the scientist proposes an experiment; you roll your eyes. “that doesn’t prove anything.”

“it proves everything,” he counters. “because if you really don’t care, then it shouldn’t matter how he reacts.” he tilts his head, eyes gleaming. “right?”

you hesitate.

jay takes that as his victory. “great! i’ll draft a game plan.”

“wait—”

too late. jay is already pulling out his phone, typing something with way too much enthusiasm.

you exhale sharply, rubbing your temples. this is a terrible idea.

but the thing is… you do want jake to see you. even if it’s just to prove – to yourself – that you don’t care.

right?

three.

you know, you don’t think you entirely mind that jake doesn’t know your name yet. you don’t think you would have cared so much. but then, once in a while, you’d catch him having lunch with jay and sunghoon and actually laughing – an act that makes him look younger than he is – a charming smile settling on his lips or chatting with a fellow colleague who he calls by their last name and it makes you realise that you’re probably not as important to him as these people are.

like, come on, he brushes shoulders with the top scientists of your country while you’re here, sitting behind a reception desk, manning phone calls and printing reports. of course he doesn’t care about you or your existence as a whole. but then it’s small things he does like thanking you absentmindedly when you hand him a report, not even sparing you a glance as he flips through the pages.

or humming under his breath when he passes by your desk, like he’s so comfortable in the space that he doesn’t even realize you’re there, like you’re just part of the background noise.

it’s never outright cruel. never intentional.

it’s just that jake sim, in all his effortless brilliance, has never had to make space for people like you.

and why would he? you’re not on his level. you never have been. you bet if you disappeared tomorrow, he wouldn’t even notice.

the world would keep spinning, jake sim would keep working, and someone else would take over the dull, insignificant tasks you do every day. your existence in his orbit is incidental – a means to an end, a faceless cog in the well-oiled machine of his career.

and yet, you notice him. even when you don’t mean to. even when you don’t want to.

you notice the way his sleeves are always rolled up to his elbows, his watch gleaming against his skin. the way his brows pinch together when he’s deep in thought, or how his hair falls into his eyes when he’s exhausted, too overworked to care.

you notice the way he speaks – smooth, confident, magnetic – and how everyone around him seems to hang onto every word like it’s gospel.

you notice the way he never fumbles. never hesitates. never second-guesses himself.

because that’s just the kind of person jake sim is.

and you – you are just the kind of person who will never be enough to matter to someone like him. but then he does things that make you doubt your reservations about him.

like, there was the elevator incident.

you were balancing a precarious stack of documents when you rushed to catch the closing doors, only to wince when they slid shut right before you got there. you sighed, shifting your grip on the papers, when you suddenly heard a soft ding – the doors sliding back open.

jake was inside, one hand on the door button, barely sparing you a glance as he scrolled through something on his phone.

you stepped in, mumbling a quiet, “thanks.”

he hummed in response. nothing more. no conversation. no recognition. just the soft whirring of the elevator and the occasional sound of him scrolling.

it was so small. so insignificant.

but you still felt yourself standing just a little straighter, just a little warmer, for the rest of the day.

and then, there was the pen.

you weren’t even sure when it started, but at some point, you began keeping track.

jake had this habit – whenever he borrowed a pen, he never returned it to the original spot. he didn’t even seem to notice he was doing it, always too focused on whatever was in front of him to realize he’d left the pen somewhere completely different.

so, naturally, you started leaving extras.

just subtle little things – placing an extra pen near his usual meeting spots, sliding one closer to him during group discussions when you were pretending to sort paperwork nearby. you never expected him to notice. you weren’t even sure why you did it.

until one afternoon, when you sat at your desk, rummaging through your drawers, only to realize you’d somehow misplaced your pen. you sighed, about to get up for a new one, when something was set down beside your elbow.

a pen.

you looked up, startled.

jake was already walking away. didn’t even spare you a glance, his attention on the tablet in his hands.

you stared after him, the pen warm from his hold, the weight of it heavier than it should have been.

it was probably nothing. probably just a reflex.

but you still use that pen for the next two weeks straight.

then there was the tripping incident.

now, it’s established that you can be clumsy, not dramatically so – no full-on disaster movie falls – but you do have a tendency to bump into things. desks, chairs, open cabinet doors that definitely weren’t open when you last checked.

and, of course, corners. corners were your worst enemy.

one day, you were hurrying through the hallway, files stacked high in your arms, when – bam. your hip slammed into the sharp edge of a desk, hard enough to make you wince. the papers wobbled dangerously in your grip, and you cursed under your breath, already anticipating the bruise that was definitely going to form.

you didn’t think anyone noticed.

but the next morning, when you walked into the office, there was a strip of foam padding stuck neatly along the desk corner.

your brows furrowed.

it was subtle – so subtle that if you weren’t you, if you weren’t someone with a running list of all the places in this office that had betrayed you, you probably wouldn’t have noticed.

but you did.

and later that day, when you caught jake in the break room, he was patting the foam as if ensuring it was stuck on there properly, absentmindedly nodding to himself as if he had confirmed what he was inspecting, then promptly left without sparing you a second glance.

you didn’t say anything.

didn’t bring it up.

but as you passed by the desk, running your fingers over the softened edge, something in your chest ached. just a little.

so jake sim did notice you – but not as an individual, just someone he thought might be having a hard time and because he is kind, he did what he could. it didn’t matter who the recipient of his good intentions was.

hence, you do what a good assistant does. because at the end of the day, you’ve seen jake work – you’ve seen the passion he pours into it.

so if he forgets to eat, you quietly step away from your desk, heat up the extra sandwich you packed for him from the cafeteria, and place it on his cluttered desk, clearing a small space first. a gentle knock on the wood to get his attention, a silent reminder to eat.

if he’s scribbling on the backs of old reports, running low on notebooks and clean sheets, you take a trip down to inventory, restocking his supplies, stacking them neatly within reach.

if his desk is drowning in coffee cups and crumpled post-its, you quietly dispose of the trash, leaving only the essentials behind – his laptop, his research papers, the single pen he never seems to lose (because you always make sure it’s there).

if he forgets where he placed his whiteboard markers, you don’t say anything – you just pull a fresh set from your drawer and slide them onto his desk before he even notices they were missing.

you’ve just been there, silently observing and noting things – like the way his brows knit together in deep concentration, or how he absently chews on the cap of his pen when he’s stuck on a problem. how he spaces out sometimes, staring at the whiteboard like it holds the answers to the universe itself, only to snap back to reality when you clear your throat to get his attention.

you know that he prefers black coffee in the morning but switches to tea in the late afternoon. that he always loses his glasses, only to find them perched on top of his head. that he hums under his breath when he’s deep in thought, a quiet melody that never quite forms into a song.

you notice everything, because that’s just what a good assistant does.

and that, apparently, is a problem. or so jay states. hence, the first step in jay’s ‘game plan’? make jake feel your absence.

“you’re too available,” jay had said, stirring his coffee with a smug little smirk. “jake doesn’t notice you because you make his life too easy. you’re like air – essential but invisible. so what happens when air gets sucked out of a room?”

“…people die?”

jay gave you a flat look. “no, they panic.”

and so, the plan began.

it’s such a tiny step, but it bothers you nonetheless because not only would this be disrupting jake’s routine, it’d be disrupting your perfect track record of a ‘good’ assistant.

but jay somehow manages to convince you. and you like the utter fool you are, give in, because hey… maybe it wouldn’t be too bad to disprove jay’s theory of your alleged feelings for jake. the need for validation? yeah, we’ll talk about that later.

today is the day you start, and you start small. it’s the little changes that usually go unnoticed.

you don’t remind jake about his 10 am meeting.

it’s a minor detail, barely even a test, because technically speaking, it’s not your job to remind him – it’s just something you’ve always done, anticipating his tendencies to get lost in his work. normally, you’d give him a heads-up around 9:50 am, watching as he’d nod absentmindedly, only to scramble up five minutes later when he finally processed your words.

today? radio silence.

at 10:07 am, sunghoon enters the meeting and frowns.

“where’s jake?” he turns to jay. his friend shrugs but hides the smile behind his cup of coffee.

meanwhile you’re glancing sneakily at jake’s door, slightly ajar and you can see him engrossed in something. your eyes glance at the time; 10:07 am. fuck, what if actually forgets he has a meeting? should you do something? is this going too far?

but you don’t have to worry because a few minutes later, there’s a thud, followed by a rushed shit, and then, a disheveled jake sim barrels past your desk, tablet clutched to his chest, hair a little messy from how he clearly just ran a hand through it in frustration.

his eyes flicker to you – just for a second. you’ve already gone back to pretending to be very busy typing nonsense into an email draft.

it works. he huffs under his breath and rushes to the meeting.

okay you should feel awful, but then you catch the tail end of jake’s coat disappearing behind the lift door and you can’t help the snicker that leaves your lips. surely, nothing could go wrong, right?

there’s one person who seems to be enjoying this more than you though: jay is having the time of his life.

like, actually. he hasn't had this much fun since the last office christmas party, when someone spiked the punch and sunghoon tried to fight the vending machine.

because watching jake sim fall apart over the smallest inconveniences? absolutely hilarious.

the moment you agreed to his plan, jay knew it would be gold. but even he underestimated just how much of jake’s daily functioning depended on you. it’s like watching a toddler suddenly realize their velcro shoes don’t tie themselves.

jake doesn’t realize something is wrong at first.

he barely makes it to his chair before the department head gives him a pointed look.

“you’re late.”

“i—uh—” jake swallows, trying to catch his breath. his tablet is still locked, his notes are disorganized, and when he flips open the file he brought, it’s yesterday’s report.

shit.

“right. sorry.” he forces a sheepish smile, scrambling to pull up the right document. across the table, jay lazily spins a pen between his fingers, watching with barely concealed amusement.

jake barely registers it – he’s too busy trying to recover. it’s fine. he’s got this.

except… something about this morning feels off.

and not in the way most of his chaotic mornings do. he just doesn’t know why. he just assumes his morning is…off. which, fine, it happens. he’s had late nights before, maybe he’s just tired.

jay had told you this would work.

in fact, he was so confident in his plan that he even grabbed a front-row seat to witness the destruction firsthand (he was already attending this meeting, but the man likes to gloat sometimes.)

and man – jake does not disappoint.

from the moment the meeting starts, jay knows this is going to be good.

jake looks off. nothing too obvious – just little things, things that someone like jay (who has spent years around him) can pick up on. the slight furrow of his brow. the way he keeps adjusting his notes, like something feels wrong but he can’t quite place why.

and then – the moment of realization.

jay almost chokes on his coffee when jake subtly pats his pockets, confusion flickering across his face.

oh, here we go.

he watches, barely holding in his laughter, as jake double checks – where, usually, there would be a pen. his pen. the one that miraculously appears every time he loses it, as if the universe itself conspires to keep him functional.

except today?

the universe (or rather, you) has left him to suffer.

jake blinks. blinks again. then, with the air of a man experiencing an existential crisis, slowly reaches for sunghoon’s pen instead.

sunghoon, understandably, looks at him like he’s lost his damn mind.

jay snickers and grabs his phone.

jay park [10:14 am]: what did u doooo jay park [10:14 am]: he looks like a lost puppy rn lmfao jay park [10:15 am]: deadass just patted his pockets like he was expecting something to magically appear there?? 

he glances up again, and – oh god, jake’s still buffering. he’s not even listening anymore, just staring at the table like it personally offended him.

all this over a pen? damn, maybe you were underestimating yourself, jay thinks, because there is no way you were just a paperclip, not if jake’s been this dependent on you.

jay is loving this.

four.

jake doesn’t notice things. not in the way people expect him to.

he notices equations. the subtle patterns in star systems. the way gravitational forces interact in ways most people don’t care to understand. his mind is built for that – patterns, logic, science.

but people? not so much.

back in university, he was dubbed a genius. a prodigy in astrophysics. someone who could map out entire celestial mechanics in his head but would somehow still forget his own birthday if no one reminded him.

the way jake relies on logic, structure, and predictability – because it’s safe. because he understands it. because people? people don’t make sense. they’re inconsistent. they leave. they change their minds. they say one thing and mean another.

but science? science is constant. a star will always burn out the same way under the same conditions. a planet will always follow its orbit. gravity will always exist.

as a kid, he preferred numbers over words, equations over feelings. when the other kids ran around the playground, playing tag or arguing over who was “it,” jake was perfectly content with his space books, tracing the orbits of planets with his fingers, memorizing the speed of light just because he could.

he learned early on that he wasn’t good at reading between the lines. that when someone said ‘i’m fine’, they didn’t always mean it. that people expected you to just know when they needed something, when they wanted comfort, when they wanted you.

jake never knew. so he stopped trying.

science was easier. there was no guesswork, no hidden meanings. an object in motion stays in motion unless acted upon by an outside force. simple. predictable. the universe followed rules, and if jake studied hard enough, he could understand them. he could map them out, make sense of them, never be caught off guard.

but people? people made no sense at all.

and maybe that’s why, when he gets to work and sees that his desk is missing something so stupidly small – a cup of coffee, nothing more – he feels a flicker of something he doesn’t like.

a glitch in the system.

it doesn’t matter, he tells himself. it’s coffee. he can make it himself. he’s a grown adult with multiple degrees. a missing cup of caffeine should not throw him off.

and yet. jake stares at the empty space on his desk.

a week ago, he wouldn’t have noticed. wouldn’t have even thought about it. he never questioned why it was there in the first place, never thought twice about the sticky notes, the extra set of markers that magically appeared when he misplaced his own, the last-minute reminders that kept his schedule from turning into chaos.

he never questioned it. and that, apparently, was the problem.

because for the first time, he has to ask. and he really, really doesn’t want to.

jake debates it, which is insane. why is he overthinking this? it’s a simple request. a normal interaction. but something about it feels… weird. off-balance.

because asking means acknowledging. and acknowledging means admitting that he noticed.

his eye twitches. and after five full minutes of warring with himself, of sneaking glances at you like some kind of cornered animal, he finally forces himself to get up. jake clears his throat as he approaches your desk, hands shoved deep into his pockets. he doesn’t understand why this feels so monumental – why his stomach is twisting over something as simple as coffee.

you’re typing away, entirely focused, but the moment he gets close, you pause, sensing his presence.

your head tilts up, meeting his gaze with that same neutral, professional expression. “need something?”

jake opens his mouth. closes it. shifts on his feet.

this should not be hard. he’s faced oral examinations with award-winning physicists grilling him on quantum mechanics. he’s derived entire theorems on celestial dynamics with nothing but a whiteboard and a bad marker.

"hey," he starts, voice coming out a little too stiff, a little too rehearsed.

you hum, still typing. "what’s up?"

jake exhales. this is ridiculous. just say it.

"i was wondering," he begins, slow and deliberate, "if you could maybe—"

he pauses. rethinks. he doesn’t need coffee. he’s perfectly capable of getting it himself. this is a completely unnecessary conversation. maybe he should just—

you finally glance up, raising a brow. "if i could maybe…?"

jake swallows. why is your stare so expectant? god, this is awful.

he squares his shoulders. "if you could maybe—uh—get me a coffee?"

and you? you don’t even react. no smirk. no teasing. no indication that you know this is sending his pride into a tailspin.

“oh,” you say simply. “sure.”

and then – you go right back to typing.

jake waits. waits.

…that’s it? no acknowledgment?

he stares, baffled, as you finish whatever you’re working on before standing, grabbing your phone like this is just another task.

“i’ll be back in a few minutes.”

jake watches you walk away, his brain short-circuiting. he stares.

something in his brain glitches. for a moment, he just stands there, stuck in some kind of existential paradox.

this isn’t how he thought this would go.

not that he’d planned it out – he’s not that irrational – but he was at least expecting… something. a pointed look. a smug remark. some kind of acknowledgement that this was a thing.

because it was, right?

but you just – left. like it was normal. like it was nothing.

jake blinks, still rooted to the spot. his fingers twitch at his sides, his mind racing through a series of half-formed thoughts, none of which are useful.

this should be a relief. no teasing. no drawn-out conversation. no questioning. just a simple "sure" and the problem is solved.

so why does he feel weirdly unsatisfied?

he exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair before dragging himself back to his desk.

fine. whatever. he got what he wanted. he’ll just sit down, work, and forget this happened.

simple. logical – except it’s not.

because now – now he’s waiting.

not actively, of course. he’s working. or at least, he’s trying to work. but for some godforsaken reason, his mind keeps drifting to the sound of approaching footsteps, to the faintest movements in his periphery.

it’s ridiculous. he knows that. he’s not that dependent on routine. it’s just coffee.

when you finally return, setting the cup down on his desk with a quiet thud, he doesn’t mean to react.

but his head snaps up immediately, eyes locking onto the cup before flickering to you, his brain processing entirely too fast for his own good.

same lid. same brand. same order.

how the hell—

"you got the right one," he blurts before he can stop himself.

you blink at him, expression unreadable. "yeah. that’s the one you always drink."

jake stares.

you say it so easily, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

like it’s just fact. like he’s the one being weird.

and maybe he is, because something about that – about the casual certainty in your voice – makes his chest feel tight in a way he doesn’t understand.

"right," he mutters, looking away. "of course."

you don’t say anything. just nod, turning back toward your desk.

jake watches you go, fingers wrapping around the cup, the warmth grounding him.

he doesn’t know why this feels significant. but somehow, it does.

you, on the other hand, mask your smile behind your hand, making sure you don’t spare him a glance as you take your seat again, eyes focusing on your screen, but you’re secretly enjoying your little victory.

and maybe your little win seemingly makes your happiness evident because jay seems to have caught on to your little smile and quiet humming as you load more paper into the printer later on.

“what’s got you humming?”

you blink at jay, feigning innocence. "huh?"

jay narrows his eyes like a detective who knows exactly when the suspect is lying. "you’re humming. and smiling. while printing documents. no one’s ever been this happy about office supplies."

you shrug, deliberately casual. "maybe i just like my job."

"oh, sure. and i’m the next ceo of nasa," jay scoffs, crossing his arms. "no, you’re definitely smiling about something else. spill."

you roll your eyes but can’t stop the small grin from creeping back onto your lips. "it’s nothing. just… a small win."

jay’s gaze sharpens with intrigue. "a small win? against who?"

you pause, realizing that if you say it out loud, it becomes real. but you can’t help it – you’re feeling a little smug. "jake."

jay’s eyebrows shoot up so fast you half expect them to launch into orbit. "oh? oh? do tell."

you bite your lip, pretending to be focused on aligning the printer paper. "i think he finally noticed."

jay leans in, practically vibrating with excitement. "noticed what? that you exist? that you’re cute? that you’re literally the only reason he functions? because if so, then this is big news—"

you wave a hand, shushing him. "not that dramatic. just… the coffee. he asked me for it today. like, actually asked."

jay goes still, then blinks. "no."

"yes."

"no." jay looks personally offended that he wasn’t there to witness it. "you’re telling me jake sim – the human calculator who forgets basic human needs – actually acknowledged the loss of his coffee?"

"and that i was the one providing it," you add, feeling very pleased with yourself.

jay lets out a low whistle. "damn. that’s practically a confession in jake language."

you chuckle. "i know, right? and the best part? he was so awkward about it. like, visibly struggling to form a coherent request. it was beautiful."

jay looks like a proud parent. "i knew my plan would work."

you snort. "you had a plan?"

"of course! i told you, jake needs to experience loss to appreciate things. he’s like a tragic space hero who doesn’t realize what he has until it’s gone. but now? now he’s thinking about it. which means he’s thinking about you."

you roll your eyes. "don’t be ridiculous. it was just coffee."

jay gives you a look. "uh-huh. and yet, you’re humming like a disney princess who just got her magical moment."

you huff, turning back to the printer, but the warmth in your chest remains. you won’t admit it to jay, but it does feel like a small win. because for once, jake noticed something about you. and even if it was just coffee, it was your coffee. your absence. your presence. you.

the thought makes your stomach flutter a little, but before you can dwell on it, the door swings open.

and, of course, in perfect comedic timing, jake himself walks in.

you and jay freeze.

jake pauses mid-step, eyes flicking between the two of you, and immediately, you feel caught. not that you were doing anything wrong, but the way jay is grinning like a devil on your shoulder and the way you definitely look suspicious does not help your case.

jake frowns slightly. "am i interrupting something?"

"no," you and jay say in unison – too quickly, too forcefully.

jake’s frown deepens. "…right."

jay, ever the agent of chaos, suddenly smirks. "hey, jake, buddy, pal. how was the coffee this morning?"

your soul leaves your body.

jake blinks, caught off guard. "what?"

jay nods toward you. "the coffee. did it taste better? sweeter, maybe? like the hard-earned fruits of personal growth?"

you shoot jay a look that could incinerate a small planet, but he just grins wider.

jake, meanwhile, looks completely baffled. "it… tasted the same?"

jay sighs dramatically. "ugh, you’re hopeless."

jake looks at you now, confusion clear in his expression. "what’s going on?"

you scramble for an escape. "nothing. jay’s just being weird. as usual."

jake’s eyes narrow slightly, but he doesn’t push further. instead, he just shakes his head, muttering something about how he "doesn’t have time for whatever this is." then, to your surprise, his gaze lingers on you for half a second longer before he turns and leaves.

as soon as the door clicks shut, jay explodes.

"did you see that? he lingered! that was a lingering glance!"

you groan, dragging a hand down your face. "jay. stop."

"oh, no, no, no. this is happening. i can feel it. the great jake sim has been rattled."

you shake your head, but you’re smiling. "don’t you have that meeting with kang soon? are you sure you should be dawdling?"

jay waves a dismissive hand. “pfft. kang can wait. this is much more important.”

you roll your eyes, shoving a stack of papers into his hands. “go. before he chews you out again.”

jay huffs but takes the papers anyway. “fine. but mark my words – this is just the beginning.”

you snort. “of what?”

jay grins, backing toward the door. “of jake sim’s inevitable downfall.”

before you can throw something at him, he slips out of the room with a dramatic twirl, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

you exhale. jay is ridiculous. insufferable. an agent of chaos in the worst way.

but still… your fingers drum against your desk.

jake had lingered. just for a second. just long enough to make you wonder.

you shake your head, clearing the thought. it’s nothing. probably just your imagination.

probably.

five.

jake never really thought about his assistant.

sure, he knew you existed in the same way he knew his office had walls or that gravity kept him tethered to earth. a presence. a constant. background noise.

his research came first. always. anything outside of equations and astrophysics was just static.

which is why, when his inbox suddenly becomes a nightmare of unread emails, cluttered with everything from seminar invites to missed project deadlines, he stares at the screen in horror.

since when did his inbox look like this?

he scrolls. and scrolls. and scrolls.

the last time he checked, his emails were organized. neat little folders, color-coded labels – everything in its place. now, it’s chaos. absolute chaos.

his brows furrow in mild horror and yet again, he gets this feeling, like the earth’s off its axis, like his curated life is suddenly off kilter. 

he looks up, and across the room, eyes peeking through his door that is kept ajar. you sit there today, in a navy blue sweater, your hair pushed back neatly, your glasses reflecting the glare off your screen you’re currently frowning at.

was this also something you used to do for him? or did his inbox suddenly decide to get a mind of its own and go batshit crazy on him? no, that doesn’t make sense, unless he was hacked which would definitely be a cause of national concern to a certain extent—

he jolts in his seat, a gasp leaving his lips as you suddenly move away from your desk, standing up with a stack of papers. he positively feels his heart skipping a beat as he realises you’re walking to his door.

sure enough, there’s a knock a second later and if you notice the way his voice cracks when he tells you to come in, you don’t comment on it. instead, you look at him like you meant business.

oh god, you didn’t notice him looking at you, right? technically he wasn’t really staring more so than contemplating—

“dr. sim, the finance department dropped a reminder to submit your financial budget, here’s the budget form,” you hand him the stack of papers you had been carrying, “i’ve filled out the general stuff, you just need to put in the project details and all the technical stuff.”

he flips through the pages and sure enough, you’ve filled in the general details like you mentioned in your neat handwriting. the letters sit right on top of the blank lines and he recognises your penmanship right away. he’s never noticed before, but you do have a nice handwriting.

“oh and about your emails, there seems to be some sort of technical error. i noticed that some of your filters were disabled and the auto-sorting wasn’t functioning properly. it must’ve reset or something when the system updated last week.”

jake blinks at you. “wait. filters?”

you tilt your head. “yeah? you know, the ones that sort your emails automatically? important updates, admin notices, junk mail, things like that?”

jake stares. “i… had those?”

you pause, narrowing your eyes slightly. “yes. you did. i set them up for you.”

“oh.” a beat of silence. jake shifts uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck. you, on the other hand, exhale sharply, planting your hands on your hips. here he was, a grown ass man, unaware of his own email settings. but what’s more infuriating to you right now is the way he’s clearly looking at the mess of his inbox with the expression of a child faced with university level physics.

and it's really unfair because your brain actually has the audacity to chant a small ‘cute’ inside your head.

no. no. absolutely not.

you refuse to acknowledge whatever strange, fleeting thought just ran through your brain.

because jake sim is not cute. he’s frustrating. he’s a genius, sure, but in a hopelessly oblivious kind of way. the somehow-can-manage-quantum-equations-but-not-his-own-inbox kind of way. the so deep in his own head that he barely notices when you’re cleaning up the mess he leaves behind, kind of way.

except… he’s noticing now.

you clear your throat, shoving away any ridiculous thoughts. “right. anyway, i can help reset everything, but you’ll need to go through some of these emails yourself. some require your direct response.”

jake tears his eyes away from his screen, blinking at you. “wait, so my emails weren’t always like this?”

you give him a look. the kind that says, oh, you poor, oblivious man.

“no, dr. sim,” you say, tone patient but mildly exasperated. “i used to sort them out for you.”

jake stares. “you did?”

you nod. “yeah. you know, filtering out spam, organizing your schedule, responding to minor inquiries.” all the things that apparently, no one else on this team can do without suffering a minor breakdown.

jake opens his mouth, then closes it. then it opens again. his head tilts slightly. “wait. you did all of that?”

you resist the urge to pinch the bridge of your nose. “dr. sim,” you say, very slowly, “what did you think i was doing all this time?”

jake, to his credit, looks vaguely sheepish. “i don’t know. admin stuff?”

you exhale, looking up at the ceiling like you’re asking the universe for patience.

“your inbox has over five hundred unread emails.”

he visibly recoils. “five hundred?”

“yes. and you have three missed deadlines.”

jake stares, running a hand down his face. “oh my god. i’m going to get fired.”

you shrug. “probably not, but kang will definitely strangle you.”

you take one look at the mild look of panic settling on his face, the ways his lips part open and his eyes fixate upon you like he’s constipated all of a sudden, and you realise that you’re going to have to save him again. so much for making yourself scarce.

“well,” you sigh, dropping your hands, “i can go through it and fix the filters again, but you should probably clear things out manually first. you have a lot of backlog.”

jake slumps back in his chair, groaning. “i don’t have time for this.”

“tough luck. you’re the one who ignored your emails for a week.”

jake groans again, scrubbing a hand over his face. his hair is slightly disheveled now, strands falling over his forehead. you refuse to acknowledge the way your fingers twitch with the urge to push them back. nope. absolutely not.

instead, you cross your arms and tilt your head. "look, dr. sim, i can reset everything, but you need to at least check the important ones. you know, like the ones from kang before he marches in here and reconsiders your employment."

jake peeks at you through his fingers, mumbling something that sounds suspiciously like i should’ve never updated the system.

you sigh. "i'll go through them with you."

his hands drop, eyes snapping to yours. "you will?"

damn it. the hope in his voice makes something in your stomach twist. this isn’t supposed to happen. you’re supposed to be pulling away, making yourself scarce, not signing yourself up to hold his hand through his self-inflicted disaster.

but you sigh again, already regretting it. "yes, but only for today."

jake beams. actually beams. like you've just told him you're personally funding his next research project.

and oh, that is dangerous.

because the realization sneaks up on you, quiet but insidious: he looks really good when he smiles like that.

your brain promptly malfunctions.

jake, oblivious as always, is already turning his chair to face his computer. "okay, okay. what do we start with?"

you stare for a second too long before shaking yourself out of it.

get it together.

right. his emails. that's what you should be focusing on. not the fact that your stupid heart is doing something stupid again.

so you square your shoulders, push away the ridiculous heat rising to your cheeks, and step closer to his desk – because unfortunately, you are nothing if not professional.

even when your chest feels like it’s betraying you.

by the time the sun starts dipping below the horizon, casting a warm orange glow into the office, you realize with a dull sense of horror that you are still here.

still here. still working.

because, of course, jake spent the entire day buried in his research, completely unaware of the absolute mess waiting for him in his inbox. and now, after work hours, you’re forced to stay behind, sorting through the wreckage.

you shoot a glare at the oblivious man, who is hunched over his desk, frowning at his screen as if he’s personally uncovering the secrets of the universe. his sleeves are rolled up, glasses slightly askew, completely absorbed in his work.

annoying. but also, kind of impressive.

you clear your throat, rapping your knuckles on his door. “dr. sim, did you know that your inbox is starting to resemble a warzone?”

jake barely looks up. “mhm.”

“there are emails in here from last year.”

he finally blinks, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “wait. what?”

you deadpan. “last. year.”

jake stares. “that’s not possible.”

“would you like to see the one from july 2024? it’s an invitation to a seminar. that already happened. that you missed.”

a horrified silence settles between you. jake leans forward, mouth slightly open, and for a second, you think he might actually pass out. “holy shit.”

you snort, shaking your head. then, sighing, you gesture toward his screen. “okay, come on, let’s start deleting the ones that don’t matter. at this rate, your inbox might actually implode.”

jake groans again but does as you say, clicking through emails with the enthusiasm of someone undergoing dental surgery.

an hour later, the two of you are still sitting in his office. you’re perched on the chair across from him, legs crossed as you scroll through his inbox, muttering complaints every now and then (why do you have thirty unread emails from the astronomy board? what is so ‘urgent’ about a faculty brunch?).

jake, on the other hand, is desperately trying to keep up, deleting and archiving whatever you tell him to. he’s drowning in emails and vaguely wondering if he should just… never check his inbox again.

the sky outside has darkened, streaks of orange and pink melting into deep blue. the office feels different at this hour – quieter, softer. there’s a warmth from the sunset filtering through the blinds, casting long shadows across the floor.

you’ve never been alone with jake like this before.

not that it matters. because all you’re doing is working. but still.

you steal a quick glance at him.

he’s different when he’s not hyper-focused on research. a little less untouchable, a little more human. his brows are furrowed as he reads through an email, one hand resting on his chin. his glasses have slipped down again, and without thinking, he pushes them back up with his knuckle.

you look away.

get a grip.

meanwhile, jake is having a bit of a crisis.

because, apparently, you’ve always been this efficient.

like, okay, he knew you were capable. obviously. you’ve been his assistant for months. but watching you now, the way you go through emails like a machine, fingers flying across the keyboard, perfectly organized with your neat little color-coded tabs—

he’s a little bit in awe. and maybe a tiny bit alarmed.

because how the hell did he not realize before that you basically ran his life for him?

the sun is starting to dip, casting a golden hue through the blinds, stretching long shadows over his desk. jake leans back, rubbing his eyes, only to glance at you and—

he sees you. for the first time in three months, he’s actually looking at you.

your sweater hangs slightly off one shoulder, the shirt underneath only slightly wrinkled, your hair a little messier than it was earlier, strands falling out of place.

and you look… exhausted.

not in the dramatic, world-weary way that some of his colleagues do after pulling all-nighters, but in a quieter, more subtle way – like you’ve been running on autopilot for so long that you don’t even notice it anymore.

jake frowns. has it always been like this? have you always been like this?

his gaze flickers back to your screen, where you’re still typing away, making quick work of the disaster that is his inbox. there’s a slight crease between your brows, your lips pressed together in quiet concentration. you’re meticulous, efficient – almost too efficient, and that thought unsettles him in a way he can’t quite explain.

“you should go home,” he says before he even thinks about it.

you glance up, startled. “what?”

“you’ve been here all day,” he says, shifting in his seat. “it’s late.”

you blink at him, then glance at the clock on the corner of your screen. the numbers glow back at you – 7:47 pm.

“oh,” you murmur, tilting your head. “i guess it is.”

jake waits for you to start packing up, but instead, you just roll your shoulders back, crack your knuckles, and go right back to typing.

he stares. “did you – did you not hear me?”

you don’t even look up. “i heard you.”

“then why are you still working?”

you pause at that, finally looking at him. there’s something almost amused in your expression, like really? you’re questioning my work habits?

“i still have emails to sort through,” you say, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

jake presses his lips together. right. of course. because of course you wouldn’t just drop everything and leave, because if you did, then who would make sure his inbox didn’t look like a post-apocalyptic wasteland?

and that thought sits a little too heavily in his chest. it's just that, he doesn’t get it.

he clears his throat, looking away. “still. you don’t have to do it all tonight.”

you shrug. “it’s fine. i don’t mind.”

for some reason, that irritates him more than it should.

jake doesn’t understand why. it’s not like you’re doing anything out of the ordinary. from what he can deduce from your conversation earlier this morning, you’ve always been the one keeping things together, making sure nothing slips through the cracks. that’s your job.

you could probably come back tomorrow and sort through the remaining emails. it’s not like they’re going anywhere.

but for the first time, he wonders – do you ever get tired of it?

his fingers drum against his desk. the golden light from the window glows softer now, settling into deep orange hues. the air between you is quiet, save for the occasional click of your keyboard and the distant hum of the office beyond his door.

and then, without thinking, he says, “i didn’t realize you did all this.”

you pause mid-keystroke, glancing at him. “did all what?”

“this.” he gestures vaguely to his laptop, to the neatly categorized folders, to the once-chaotic inbox now halfway tamed under your careful hands. “you keep everything running. i didn’t realize how much you—” he stops himself, brows furrowing slightly. “—how much you do.”

you blink at him. and for the first time all day, you seem caught off guard.

then, a slow, knowing smile tugs at the corner of your lips. “oh, dr. sim,” you say lightly, tilting your head, “have you been taking me for granted all this time?”

jake bristles, straightening. “that’s not what i meant.”

you laugh, shaking your head. “relax, i’m kidding.”

but something about the way you say it makes his stomach twist.

because maybe you are joking. maybe you don’t actually care that he’s never paid much attention before.

but he cares. and that realization unsettles him more than he’d like to admit.

you turn your attention towards the screen again, biting your lip as you skim through his emails, occasionally frowning like you’re personally offended by his disorganization.

jake watches you for another moment before looking away, tapping his fingers against the desk.

his chest feels… weird. like the earth’s still off its axis. like something’s shifted in a way he doesn’t quite understand.

and for the first time, jake wonders if maybe – just maybe – it has something to do with you.

six.

the only times jake has thanked you have been in passing. like when you hand him a report, his fingers brushing against yours but his gaze still focused on his screen. a clipped "thanks" thrown out as he scrolls through equations and research notes. thoughtless, automatic, routine.

so you don’t expect it this time around.

you don’t think much of it at first.

jake walks in, looking as harried as ever, his hair slightly tousled from the wind outside, one hand holding his laptop, the other gripping his usual coffee. business as usual.

except — there’s a cup of coffee in his hand. no scratch that, there’s two cups of coffee in his hands. 

he stops in front of your desk, looking mildly uncomfortable, like he’s second-guessing his own existence. and then, without a word, he sets the second cup in front of you.

you blink. “uh. what’s this?”

jake clears his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “coffee.”

“no, i know it’s coffee, dr. sim.” you stare at the cup suspiciously. “why is it on my desk?”

he looks at you like you just asked him to solve a quantum mechanics equation without a calculator. “because… i got it for you?”

you squint. “why?”

jake pauses. his jaw tightens. then, with the energy of a man barely holding onto his dignity, he mutters, “because you – helped. with the emails.”

you swear to god, it physically pains him to say it. but holy shit, because not only did the jake sim get his own coffee today, he got one for you – his assistant, for the first time in three months.

you decide to let him off the hook. for now. “well. thanks,” you say, taking a sip, trying not to let the heat rising to your cheeks show.

jake mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like no worries, before retreating to his office.

you watch him go, mildly amused.

“oh-ho-ho, what do we have here?”

you don’t even flinch as jay suddenly appears beside you, arms crossed, sunglasses perched on his head like he’s about to make an investigation.

you sip your coffee. “don’t start.”

jay ignores you. “jake sim. buying coffee. for someone else. this is history in the making.”

you sigh. “jay.”

he leans in dramatically. “do you know how many years i’ve known that man? years, y/n. and not once has he ever walked into a room and thought, ‘huh. let me get someone coffee.’”

you roll your eyes. “it’s not that deep.”

jay gasps. “oh, but it is.” he lowers his voice, like he’s about to tell you a government secret. “listen. the man barely remembers to eat unless someone reminds him. and suddenly he’s bringing you coffee?”

you pause. jay grins, catching the flicker of hesitation on your face. “see? see? something’s happening in that stiff little brain of his.”

you shake your head. “he’s just… acknowledging that i exist. that’s all.”

jay snorts. “oh, my sweet summer child.” he takes a slow sip of his own coffee, eyes twinkling. “first, it’s coffee. next thing you know, he’s showing up at your desk randomly with some dumb excuse just to talk to you.”

you raise a brow. “that’s oddly specific.”

jay grins. “call it experience.”

you roll your eyes, but as you glance toward jake’s office, where he’s staring at his screen, brow furrowed in concentration…and you wonder.

just a little. because hope would be something too dangerous in this situation. you’re still just his assistant, and this is a one time thing because you helped him last night. so you don’t hope. not yet.

and maybe it's a good thing too.

it starts with a joke.

well, technically, it starts with jay’s complete inability to keep his workspace from looking like an archaeological dig site.

you’re standing by his desk, watching as he fumbles through the mess that is his workspace. papers are stacked in precarious towers, there’s a half-eaten granola bar that has somehow been buried under a pile of sticky notes. a coffee cup with a lipstick stain, even though jay does not wear lipstick.

“you live like this?” you ask, eyebrows raised as you survey the mess.

jay, utterly unbothered, leans back in his chair. “organized chaos.” why does everybody around here insist on working in conditions not far from that of a pigsty?

you shake your head, crossing your arms. “you know nasa once had to recalibrate an entire spacecraft because someone forgot to convert metric to imperial?”

jay snorts. “imagine being that guy.”

“i’d simply launch myself into the sun,” you deadpan.

jay cackles. “real talk, though, you think the sun would just vaporize you instantly, or would you have, like, a second of awareness?”

you hum, dramatically thoughtful. “i dunno, but if i ever get fired, i might test it out.”

“technically—”

you blink as a third voice enters the conversation.

jake stands a few feet away, arms crossed, brow furrowed like you just presented an incorrect equation.

you were not expecting him to be here.

“uh—” you freeze, awkwardly shifting. jay’s eyes gleam with amusement.

jake clears his throat. “technically, you wouldn’t be able to launch yourself into the sun.”

silence.

“…what?” you blink, trying to process what is happening.

jake continues, oblivious to your slowly dawning horror. “you’d just end up orbiting around it. earth is already moving at about 30 kilometers per second, so unless you counteract that velocity exactly, you’d just—” he gestures vaguely. “miss.”

you stare. jay lets out a low, entertained whistle.

your face burns. “i—” you struggle to find words, feeling an overwhelming mix of why is he like this and oh my god he really just did that.

your fingers twitch against your arms. you open your mouth. then close it. then open it again—

nope. nothing. no words. just the slow, creeping realization that this guy has actually just fact-checked your joke.

it wasn’t even a good joke.

your face heats. “wow,” you mutter, focusing very hard on the floor. “thanks for the physics lesson.”

jake nods, completely oblivious to the fact that you are currently plotting your own orbital escape.

jay presses his lips together, struggling.

you let out a breath, shaking your head. “anyway. i have work to do.”

and then you walk out. not in a dramatic, stormy way – but in a stiff, awkward, nope, i’m out kind of way.

jake watches you go, confused. “what’s with her?”

jay grins, leaning back in his chair. “dunno, man. maybe she just needs some space.”

jake doesn’t get the joke. nor does his oblivious ass understand why his assistant is suddenly treating him like an afterthought?

of course this buffoon doesn’t understand. all he’s thinking of is last night and the way you had tiredly bid him goodnight before parting ways in front of the building, your figure growing smaller by the second. his offer to drop you to the nearest bus stand dying on his lips the further you walked away.

and this was a pivotal moment for him because jake? he doesn’t offer rides to people.

in fact, he doesn’t even think to do things like that – until last night, when he’d spent an extra two seconds debating whether he should insist, before realizing that no, that would be weird.

so instead, he had done something else.

this morning, after getting his usual coffee, he’d bought yours too. granted, he didn’t know your order, but he’s sure he’s seen you around with a cup of your own around the office, still he doesn’t really know your order. so he gets you a sweeter variation, a stark contrast to his bitter drink, because in his mind, he’s thinking about this in a logical way.

and you had accepted it, for that matter, sipping on the drink like you actually enjoyed it. so he had been right, you did like sweet drinks. noted. noted?

regardless you had reacted, albeit subtly. a blink. a pause. a slightly surprised but polite, “thanks.”

jake had left it at that, feeling oddly accomplished.

and now? now you’re walking away from him like he’s some malfunctioning algorithm, and it’s annoying.

he frowns, turning to jay, who’s still grinning like an idiot. “seriously. did i do something?”

jay hums, dramatically thoughtful. “i dunno, man. maybe she just needs some space.”

jake stares. “you already said that.”

jay just snickers. “yeah. and i’ll keep saying it until you get the joke.”

jake does not, in fact, get the joke.

but for some reason, he wants to. and this realisation is soon going to turn into something that’s going to keep bothering him till he’s forced to actually take note of it.

it happens at precisely 12:48 pm.

jake glances up from his screen when you hover by his desk, clipboard in hand.

“i’m taking an extended lunch today.”

his fingers pause over his keyboard. “…extended?”

you nod. “yeah, probably won’t be back for another hour and a half.”

jake blinks. “that’s… longer than usual.”

“yeah,” you say easily. “something came up. but don’t worry, you don’t have anything scheduled and i’ve completed the reports on my end, so it’s not going to affect work.”

jake doesn’t know why that information bothers him, but it does. his brows furrow slightly. “okay.”

you nod once, then turn to leave.

jake stares at the empty space you just occupied, something tugging at his brain.

why did that exchange feel weird? no, not weird, just… different. off.

his fingers hover over his keyboard, but he doesn’t start typing.

jake doesn’t even realize something is wrong until his stomach twists uncomfortably.

he frowns, checking the time. 2:13 pm. lunch had passed. and he hadn’t eaten.

he blinks at his screen, but the numbers on it blur. his focus has shifted, derailed by something he never thought would be an issue. food.

it’s not like he forgot to eat. okay – maybe he technically did, but that’s beside the point. the real issue here is that he never needed to remember, because you always reminded him.

or, if you noticed he was too caught up in work, you’d just… bring something back for him. something simple, easy to eat at his desk – half the time, he didn’t even ask, and yet there it was. a sandwich. a salad. once, a soup that he never even mentioned liking, but somehow you had known he was in the mood for something warm.

it had become routine.

no, actually, it had become a given. and today? today, you walked in, set your bag down, checked your emails – like normal – but you didn’t say anything.

didn’t ask if he ate. didn’t bring anything back. didn’t even look at him properly before sitting down to do your own thing.

nothing.

jake’s fingers twitch over his desk. his jaw tightens slightly. something about this whole situation sits wrong.

because this isn’t normal.

this morning, he even bought you coffee. he didn’t know your exact order, but he had put in effort. that meant something, right? even if you didn’t react much when he placed it on your desk, he thought – hoped – it at least counted for something.

so why does it feel like it didn’t? and why does that bother him?

he does something drastic. he actually walks up to your desk – the second time already this week – and clears his throat.

“hey um…” a small glance at your id card dangling around your neck, and he feels insanely embarrassed because wow, how the hell does he not remember your name, “y/n?”

you’re not going to lie, you totally saw him stumble right now, and it doesn’t help that he’s looking at you with those big brown eyes again, his hand shoved inside his coat pocket, the other rubbing the back of his head. no! you should be upset at him right now, not fawn over his boyish charms!

you glance up, fingers pausing over your keyboard. “yeah?”

jake hesitates.

he doesn’t actually know what he wants to say. he just knows he wants you to look at him a little less indifferently.

“i…” his voice catches slightly. he clears his throat. “can you, um. get me something to eat?”

your expression flickers – just for a second. not enough for jake to read properly, but enough that it feels like you’re choosing your words before speaking.

then, finally, you ask, “what do you want?”

jake pauses.

because – what do you mean, what does he want?

you always just know. you’ve been working together long enough that you order for him without asking. that’s part of why he never bothers remembering himself – he doesn’t have to.

this is new. this is wrong.

“uh…” jake stalls, grip tightening slightly on his pen. “the usual?”

you blink at him, unimpressed. “what’s the usual?”

jake freezes.

oh. oh, no. what is the usual?

his mind scrambles for an answer, rifling through vague memories of you setting food on his desk, but the details blur together. sometimes it was a sandwich. sometimes something with rice. one time, there was pasta. but were those his actual usuals, or just random things you decided to get him?

did he even have a usual?

jake, for the first time today, has to confront a horrifying fact: he has never actually learned what he eats for lunch.

because you always handled it.

and now you’re sitting there, staring at him, waiting for an answer – an answer he doesn’t have – and suddenly, jake feels something unfamiliar coil in his chest: panic.

he’s never been in this situation before. he’s used to having control, to knowing exactly what he wants and when he wants it. yet, somehow, in this one specific instance – a completely mundane scenario involving food, of all things – he’s at a total loss.

how had he not noticed this before? how had he gone this long without realizing he didn’t actually know what he ate every day? how had he become so reliant on—

jake blinks. his own thoughts slam into him like a freight train. because that’s exactly what’s wrong, isn’t it?

he’s used to you. your reminders. your routines. the way you anticipated things before he even noticed them himself.

and for the first time, it feels like you’re deliberately withholding that from him.

why?

jake swallows, forcing himself to think logically. there has to be a reasonable explanation for this. maybe you were too busy to stop and get him something. maybe you had your own things to deal with today. maybe you just forgot.

but then again – you never forgot.

so what changed?

seven.

it was jay’s idea really.

the whole pulling away subtly but not-so-subtly thing. the make-him-notice-you’re-missing plan. and it was working.

you knew it was working because the moment you walked out of jake’s office after that awkward exchange, you felt his stare linger. the hesitation in his voice, the way his fingers twitched slightly when you asked what he wanted – like the concept of having to ask you for something was completely foreign to him.

that was a win, right? so why did it feel so…

you press your lips together, stirring your drink absently. across from you, jay chews on a fry, watching you with far too much amusement for someone who wasn’t the one actively carrying out this ridiculous scheme.

“you look like you’re thinking too hard,” he comments, popping another fry into his mouth. “which is kinda concerning, considering all you’re doing is eating a sandwich.”

you glare at him. “shut up.”

jay snorts, leaning back against the booth. “what’s got you so conflicted? it’s working, isn’t it?”

you don’t answer right away. because, yes – it is working. you can tell by the way jake hesitated before asking you to get him something to eat, by the way he actually looked at you instead of just expecting you to handle things like always. you made him notice the absence.

“…it feels kinda dumb,” you admit finally, picking at your sandwich. “i mean—think about it. it’s lunch. it shouldn’t be that big of a deal, right?”

jay raises a brow. “you say that, but let me remind you of something. he didn’t know what his usual order was.”

you groan, rubbing a hand over your face. “don’t remind me.”

“no, no, let’s actually sit with that for a second,” jay continues, clearly enjoying himself far too much. “the guy has had you getting his meals for months and never thought to ask what he was eating. that’s not normal, dude.”

“i know,” you mutter.

“so what’s the problem?”

you sigh, rolling your cup between your palms.

“the problem is that it shouldn’t take something like this for him to notice me.” the words feel heavy in your mouth. “it’s stupid, isn’t it? i shouldn’t have to pull away for him to realize how much i do for him. like, why does it have to be some big, strategic thing? shouldn’t he just… care?”

jay quiets at that. for all his jokes and teasing, he’s not oblivious – not like jake.

after a moment, he leans forward, propping his arms on the table. “you’re right,” he says, voice softer than before. “he should care. he should’ve noticed a long time ago.”

your stomach twists.

“but,” jay continues, tapping a finger against his drink, “that doesn’t mean this isn’t necessary. i know it sucks, but think about it – would jake have ever thought about this on his own? would he have ever realized how much he relies on you if you hadn’t started stepping back?”

you hate that the answer is obvious.

“…no,” you mutter.

jay nods. “exactly. he’s used to things just… happening. you’ve made his life so easy that he doesn’t even have to think about it.” he smirks slightly. “and now? now he has to think about it. because it’s not just about lunch. it’s about you.”

you stare at him, fingers tightening around your drink.

you sigh, pressing the rim of your cup to your lips but not drinking. the ice clinks softly inside, melting into the coffee, much like your resolve seems to be melting into uncertainty.

“has he always been like this?” you ask quietly.

jay raises a brow. “like what?”

“with his assistants,” you clarify, glancing at him. “has he always been like… this?” you don’t say oblivious or careless, but jay understands anyway.

he studies you for a moment, his usually amused gaze flickering with something more serious. “i don’t know all the details, if i’m being honest. i never really paid attention to his working relationships.”

you press your lips together, turning your cup in your hands. “but you knew there were others before me.”

jay exhales, dragging a hand through his hair. “yeah,” he admits. “there were others. none of them stuck around for too long, though.”

that makes your stomach twist.

“why not?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

jay hesitates. not because he doesn’t know the answer, but because the answer isn’t his to give.

“jake’s not an easy person to work for,” he finally says, choosing his words carefully. “he’s particular about things, but not in a way that makes sense to most people. he’s not demanding in the usual way – he doesn’t expect people to read his mind, but at the same time… he does. he assumes things will get done. not because he asks, but because that’s how it’s always been for him. he doesn’t really think about the ‘who’ behind it all.”

you swallow hard.

“and the others?”

jay shakes his head. “they got frustrated. some quit because they felt unappreciated, others just decided it wasn’t worth it. no hard feelings, no big fights. just… people coming and going. but you?” he tilts his head at you. “you stuck around.”

you let out a small, humorless laugh. “it’s only been three months, maybe i’ll quit too.”

you won’t. for reasons more than one, the first being that you have student loans to pay. the second…maybe that’s a thought better left for later.

“maybe,” jay says, but his tone isn’t teasing. it’s contemplative. “or maybe you’re different.”

you look up at him then, brows furrowed. “different how?”

jay leans back in his seat, arms crossing over his chest. “you actually care about him.”

the words sit heavy between you.

of course you care. that was never the question. the question was whether or not he cared. whether he even saw you as a person rather than just another name in a long list of people who handled things for him.

you exhale slowly, staring down at the condensation forming on your cup. “that’s stupid, isn’t it?”

jay tilts his head. “what is?”

“that i care about someone who barely notices me.”

there’s no pity in jay’s gaze. no smugness, either. just quiet understanding.

“it’s not stupid,” he says. “but it is a little sad.”

you swallow around the lump in your throat. “why do you think he’s like that?”

jay exhales through his nose. “i think jake has spent so long expecting people to leave that he doesn’t think much about why they stay. or if they do, it’s just a matter of when they’ll go. he doesn’t attach himself to people easily. i don’t know why, exactly, but i have my guesses.”

you nod, understanding that there’s a past here that isn’t yours to pry into. it doesn’t quench your curiosity though, because what really made jake into this oblivious, unintentionally selfish person? you haven’t known him long, but you’ve seen enough.

how he declines invitations to after work hangouts, how he’s never lurking at other people’s desks, cooping himself up in the confines of his own room, doing his own work. how he barely ever leaves that room unless absolutely necessary. it’s just work, work, work for him.

jay watches you for a moment, then leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. “let me ask you something now.”

you blink. “okay?”

he gestures toward you. “why do you look up to him so much?”

you open your mouth, but no words come out.

because the truth is, you do look up to jake. or at least, you used to. maybe, in some ways, you still do.

he’s brilliant, that much is undeniable. he makes decisions with sharp precision, moves through life with a confidence that is enviable. he commands a room without even realizing it, and people naturally gravitate toward him.

and maybe that was part of the reason why you held on for so long. because you wanted to believe that he was someone worth believing in. worth staying for.

but what happens when the person you admire the most doesn’t even see you?

you lower your gaze. “i don’t know.”

jay hums, as if he expected that answer.

“well, maybe it’s time he starts looking up to you,” he says.

the thought sends a strange feeling through your chest.

because what if, after all this time, it wasn’t about you chasing after jake’s attention? what if it was about him realizing that you were someone worth keeping up with?

you exhale, setting your cup down with a quiet clink. “so, what now?”

jay grins, the mischief returning to his eyes. “phase two, obviously.”

you shake your head, laughing under your breath. “you’re ridiculous.”

“trust me, jake’s already starting to notice you y/n,” jay says, taking a sip of his drink. “so? you in?”

you glance down at your phone, at the list of unread emails waiting for you. and you think about jake – his hesitation earlier, the way he had to actually ask you about lunch. how for the first time, he seemed to realize that you weren’t just an extension of his routine.

deep down, you hope he’s right.

and it’s already started – jake is thinking about it. about you.

you just don’t know it yet.

jake had been off all day, and he knew it.

it had started with lunch. or rather, the strange lack of it – the missing familiarity, the offhanded nature of it, the unsettling realization that it hadn’t been waiting for him like usual. and then when you did get him something, it wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t right either. not that he could even say what ‘right’ was anymore. that part gnawed at him the most.

he had spent the better half of the afternoon distracted, shuffling between meetings and emails while the thought sat at the back of his head, growing heavier by the hour. it wasn’t about the food. it was never just about the food.

he leaned back in his office chair, pinching the bridge of his nose.

why was this bothering him so much?

his usual? what even was his usual? how long had he stopped deciding that for himself? at what point had he gotten so used to you taking care of it that he didn’t even remember?

the realization was suffocating.

jake had never considered himself someone who relied on others – not in any way that mattered. he was independent, capable, and self-sufficient. at least, that’s what he had always told himself. but today proved otherwise.

somewhere along the way, he had gotten used to your quiet presence. the way you smoothed things over without him having to ask. the way you knew things before he did, handled them before they became problems, and – somewhere in the middle of all that – became something constant.

and now, the moment that balance wavered, he felt like he was losing his footing.

the evening dragged on, the weight of the day pressing against his temples as he sat at his desk, staring blankly at his computer screen. he should go home. but even the idea of leaving felt exhausting.

then his phone rang.

jake glanced at the caller id. mom.

he hesitated for a second before answering. “hey.”

“jakey,” his mother’s voice was warm but laced with something tired. “i was just checking in. it’s been a while.”

he sighed, rubbing his temple. “yeah, sorry. work’s been crazy.”

there was a pause. a small one, but enough for jake to feel the unspoken words on the other end. he knew that pause.

“you’ve been eating, right?” she asked. “you sound off.”

jake nearly laughed, though there was nothing funny about it. his grip on the phone tightened.

“i’m fine.”

“jake.”

he clenched his jaw. the weight in his chest grew heavier.

how was it that this one conversation, this one question, managed to make everything worse? it wasn’t like he had told her anything. it wasn’t like she knew that something as stupid as lunch had been haunting him all day, or that he was suddenly questioning things he had never thought twice about before.

he exhaled sharply. “mom, i said i’m fine.”

another silence. then, softer, “you always say that.”

jake shut his eyes.

for a second, he was six years old again, sitting at the kitchen table, picking at his food while his mother sat across from him, pretending like everything was fine. like they weren’t waiting for someone who wasn’t coming back.

he barely remembered his father’s face, but he remembered the absence. the lingering silence. the way his mother never cried in front of him, but he knew she wanted to.

“people leave sometimes, jakey,” she had told him once. “even when they don’t mean to.”

jake had spent his whole life pretending that it didn't affect him. that it didn’t shape the way he saw the world, the way he kept people at arm’s length. that it didn’t make him hyper-aware of who stayed and who didn’t.

but now, sitting in his empty office, with the remnants of an unremarkable lunch sitting in the trash, he was starting to think it had affected him more than he ever wanted to admit.

“jake?” his mother’s voice pulled him back.

he swallowed. “yeah, i’m here.”

“i won’t push,” she said gently. “but you know you can talk to me, right?”

he let out a breath. “i know.”

a few more words were exchanged, mostly her telling him to take care of himself before she hung up. jake set his phone down on his desk and stared at it for a long moment.

he didn’t know what was worse – the fact that he felt like he was spiraling over something so insignificant, or the fact that it didn’t feel insignificant at all.

with a heavy sigh, he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against his hands.

what the hell is wrong with me?

eight.

jake is not in a good mood this morning.

it’s evident in the way his jaw is clenched, the way his morning greeting to you sounds even more clipped and indifferent than usual and it’s apparent in the way he slams his door shut behind him.

you’ve seen him like this before – just once – in an intense mood all day, brooding over a particularly complicated issue at work. so you ignore the slight pang in your chest when he barely looks at you before shutting himself off in his room.

you give him space.

you go about your work, responding to emails, organizing the files on his desk, and making sure everything is in order for the meetings he has later. but throughout the day, you can’t help but glance toward his closed office door. there’s a stiffness in your posture whenever you walk past it, an awareness that you’re treading around a storm, waiting for it to pass.

it doesn’t.

by lunchtime, you hesitate before grabbing your own food. jake still hasn’t come out of his office, and you know him well enough to know he probably hasn’t eaten. the memory of the previous day – his offhanded question about lunch, the way he seemed oddly thrown off by you not bringing it – lingers in your mind. maybe that’s all it is, you reason. he just needs to eat.

so you order his usual, the one you’ve memorized without thinking. but when you place it on his desk, he barely glances at it.

“not hungry,” he mutters.

that’s it. no thank you, no acknowledgement. just a dismissal.

it stings more than it should. you don’t push him, simply nodding before stepping back. but something about the way his shoulders are tense, his fingers gripping a pen too tightly, makes you hesitate.

“are you okay?”

it’s a simple question, but it’s a mistake.

jake looks up at you then, and for the first time all day, he really looks at you. his expression is unreadable, his gaze sharp in a way that feels like a blade pressing into something delicate.

and then he scoffs.

“you don’t have to do that.”

your fingers curl around the tray you had got his food in. they clutch at the edges of the plastic, digging into your skin, imprinting a mark physically much like the way jake’s next words do in your chest.

you blink. “do what?”

“act like you care.”

the words hit like a slap. you open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

jake doesn’t stop there. “i don’t need you to hover. i don’t need your pity. i don’t need—” he exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair before shaking his head. “just stop.”

you freeze. there’s something deeply frustrating about this moment – because you don’t understand, because you don’t know what’s going on in his head, because you’re just trying to help. but jake is looking at you like your presence alone is suffocating him, like you’re an inconvenience, like he wants to push you as far away as possible.

pity? he thinks you’re pitying him? is your gaze so misconstrued that he’s actually letting himself believe that someone like you could pity him?

but whatever it is that jake wants, it works.

you don’t say anything. you don’t argue, don’t snap back, don’t ask why he’s being an asshole for no reason. because really, what would be the point? you can’t help him, not with whatever impossible problem he’s been staring at all day. you’re not a genius like him, not someone who understands physics or engineering or whatever the hell he’s stressing over.

you’re just his assistant.

you nod once and leave the room, ignoring the way your stomach twists uncomfortably.

the afternoon drags on. you’re quieter than usual, working diligently and keeping to yourself. jake doesn’t seem to notice. or if he does, he doesn’t care.

jay drops by at some point, leaning against your desk with a knowing look. “he’s in a mood today.”

you exhale through your nose. “i noticed.”

jay tilts his head. “you good?”

“i’m fine.” it’s the easy answer, the one that doesn’t require unpacking anything. you don’t want to talk about how frustrating it is, how useless you feel, how much it actually bothers you when you know it shouldn’t.

jay doesn’t press, but he gives you a small nod of understanding before heading to jake’s office. you hear them talking – jay’s voice lighthearted, trying to ease whatever storm jake is caught in. but jake’s replies are short, clipped, his irritation barely restrained. eventually, jay gives up.

by the time evening rolls around, the tension hasn’t lifted.

you’re finishing up paperwork when you hear jake’s office chair scrape against the floor. a moment later, he steps out, his phone pressed to his ear. you don’t look up, but you can hear the strain in his voice, the way it’s unusually tense.

“no, mom, i told you—” a pause. “i don’t know. i haven’t thought about it.”

your pen stills against the paper.

jake exhales sharply. “because i don’t have time for this.” his voice drops lower, something more raw seeping into the cracks. “it doesn’t matter. he made his choice.”

silence.

and then, a barely audible, “i don’t care.”

your chest tightens.

you glance up, just for a second, but the look on jake’s face is unreadable. he’s standing rigid, shoulders tense, his grip on his phone almost painful. whatever his mother is saying, it’s digging under his skin, unearthing something you can’t begin to understand.

you don’t look away fast enough.

jake notices. his eyes flick to yours, and for a split second, something flickers there – something vulnerable, something tired. but then, just as quickly, it’s gone.

he turns on his heel and walks out.

you don’t follow.

jake is still in a bad mood when jay finds him.

he doesn’t know why he agreed to go out for drinks. maybe it was the way jay had looked at him after stopping by the office earlier, or maybe it was the unbearable silence of his apartment that he didn’t want to sit in alone. either way, now he’s here, sitting across from jay and sunghoon at some bar downtown, nursing a whiskey he’s barely taken a sip from.

he’s been fidgeting with his glass for the past fifteen minutes, watching the condensation trail down the sides, listening to jay and sunghoon talk about something he’s barely paying attention to. their voices sound distant, like they’re underwater, and everything around him feels just slightly off-kilter, like he’s caught in a strange in-between where he can’t fully ground himself. he feels like an outsider looking in on his own life, watching himself sit here, going through the motions.

jay nudges him. “you good?”

jake blinks. “yeah.”

sunghoon snorts. “you look like you’re about to throw yourself off a bridge.”

he rolls his eyes, but it’s weak. he takes a sip of his drink, wincing at the burn. “just tired.”

jay doesn’t buy it. “it’s work, isn’t it?”

jake exhales sharply through his nose. that’s the thing—it’s not just work.

it’s the way his day has felt completely off-kilter since this morning. no scratch that, it's been this way this entire week.

it’s the way he couldn’t focus, no matter how hard he tried, the way his own office felt too cold, too empty. it’s the way his lunch tasted like cardboard, even though you had gotten it for him like you always did. the way you had placed it on his desk so carefully, so deliberately, and yet it had felt… wrong. bland. like something was missing, and he couldn’t figure out what.

it’s the way he had snapped at you.

his grip tightens around his glass. he hadn’t meant to. he had been frustrated, overwhelmed, his thoughts eating him alive, and you had just – been there. and he had let his irritation get the best of him. he doesn’t even remember what he said exactly, just the way your face had shifted, the way something in your expression had dimmed before you had looked away and left him alone.

had he hurt you? the thought unsettles him more than he’d like to admit.

“i don’t know, man.” he leans back, staring at the amber liquid in his glass. “people are so fucking unpredictable.”

jay raises an eyebrow. “where’s this coming from?”

jake shakes his head. “just—” he exhales. “you think you know someone, you think they’re a certain way, and then suddenly… they’re not. and you don’t know when it happened, or why, or if it was always going to happen and you were just too blind to see it coming.”

there’s a brief pause. then sunghoon says, “sounds like someone’s got abandonment issues.”

jake scoffs. “that’s not what i—” he stops himself. clenches his jaw. takes another sip of his drink. it burns down his throat, but it doesn’t drown out the thoughts spiraling in his head.

jay is watching him carefully. “you want to talk about it?”

jake doesn’t answer immediately. he should say no. he should shut it down, brush it off, make some joke and move on. but something about tonight, about the weight pressing down on his chest, makes him want to keep talking. so he does.

“my dad left when i was six.”

it’s abrupt. unprompted. but neither jay nor sunghoon say anything, just let him speak.

“one day he was there, the next he wasn’t. no warning. no explanation.” he exhales, shaking his head. “i remember my mom sat me down and told me he wasn’t coming back, and i didn’t get it at first. i thought—maybe he was just on a long trip. maybe he’d call. maybe—”

he swallows hard. “but he never did.”

the words hang heavy in the air. he doesn’t know why he’s saying this. he doesn’t talk about his dad, ever. but something about tonight makes it easier. maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the exhaustion, maybe it’s the lingering feeling of wrongness from earlier today. maybe it’s the way your face had fallen when he snapped at you. maybe it’s the way his chest has felt empty since then.

jay sighs. “that’s rough, man.”

and jay means it. because in all the years that he’s known jake, he’s never told them up front of his issues. sure, they’ve picked up some hints of it, how he barely talks about his family, how there used to be a picture frame in their old dorm room with only him and his mom, how he sparingly mentioned his family and even then, not a word about his father.

they had wondered, but never pried. some things are better left alone unless ready to be tackled.

sunghoon, uncharacteristically serious, says, “that’s why you’re like this, huh?”

jake frowns. “like what?”

sunghoon shrugs. “like you don’t trust people to stay.”

jake doesn’t respond. because what is there to say? he’s not wrong.

he glances down at his phone, at the unopened messages from his mom. she had called earlier, left a voicemail. he knows what she wants. it’s the anniversary of the day his dad left. she always calls on this day. but he hasn’t called back yet. he doesn’t know if he wants to.

his mind flickers back to you. the way you had looked at him after he snapped. the way you hadn’t said anything, hadn’t fought back, just accepted it and left.

had you expected it from him? had you seen it coming? had he proved you right?

jay’s voice pulls him out of his thoughts. “you ever think that maybe you push people away before they can leave?”

jake stills. something inside him twists. because – he doesn’t. does he?

he thinks about the way you had stayed, despite everything. how you had shown up, day after day, putting up with his moods, his silence, his sharp edges. how you had gotten his lunch, even when he had barely acknowledged you all morning. how you had tried, always tried.

and how he had snapped at you anyway.

he rubs a hand down his face. he suddenly feels exhausted. the weight on his chest has only gotten heavier.

“maybe,” he murmurs, barely audible. “maybe i do.”

neither jay nor sunghoon push further. they just let him sit with it, let him stew in his own thoughts.

jake exhales slowly, the realization sinking in like a stone in his stomach.

he doesn’t know why he feels like he’s already losing something he didn’t even know he wanted to keep.

[communistkenobi]

I was looking for a book recently on an online storefront and was recommended a book written by a physicist about the history of humanity. this was a popular press book that was not intended to be read by other academics, but it reminded me of this niche genre of books, with experts from the physical sciences writing about human behaviour or history or what have you. Could you imagine coming across the inverse? A popular press book that purported to explain physics written by a historian?

There is some deep imbalance in how public perceptions of “general intelligence” seem to work - those in STEM are generally recognised for their competence, expertise, and intellectual acumen, and this recognition can be generalised, that at some level a demonstration of your expertise of eg astrophysics is a demonstration of your abilities of investigation writ large, that you have figured out some central underlying element of science that allows for basically limitless intellectual extension to any field or subject. A physicist can write a book about human history and be taken seriously by the general public on the assumption that physics is more difficult to understand than history, so any lower domain of investigation is open to them. The reverse is often not extended to a lot of the social sciences, particularly the theoretically-heavy social sciences; theory is just making bullshit up at the end of the day, it has no real practical application because any questions about the philosophy of thought or knowledge - how did we come to know what we know and under what conditions do we know these things - is just the indulgent wankery of people who can’t find a real job.

And of course it would be silly to insist that because you have read Hegel, an infamously difficult thinker, you know how to interpret the lab print-outs of electrochemists - I don’t want this goofy concept of general intelligence to be applied everywhere, I want it to go away entirely, but its current uneven applications across scientific fields indicates a broader problem with public conceptions of expertise and knowledge.

This probably has something to do with anti-communism on some level - social science is not generally regarded as “real science” (in no small part because social science is often the field of bureaucrats, and while animosity towards bureaucrats is deeply sympathetic, I suspect the reasons for this animosity are not themselves scientifically grounded), that while there is a public understanding of “objective facts” that exist prior and external to human interpretation, the politics of knowledge are hegemonically oriented around liberalism, to such an extent that any critique of the assumptions of knowledge are viewed as a dogmatic denial of reality done for the purposes of political infiltration and brainwashing. And I don’t feel totally unqualified to say this, given that this is basically the de facto response from students encountering Marxism for the first time in university. “Marx is too dogmatic” may as well be inscribed above the doors to lecture halls. Hell, Jordan Peterson made a nice little public career for himself railing against “post-modern neo-Marxism,” a phrase so nonsensical that the fact he was not immediately and permanently laughed out of the public arena for saying it is an indictment of how politically illiterate we are as a society!

And the infuriating thing is that a lot of social science scholarship (not just from the US but especially from the US) is complete horseshit, just pure evil garbage motivated solely by a desire to justify the fact that we do really need to keep killing tens of thousands of people a year to keep this whole party going. Every sociologist who calls themselves a “methodological individualist” is contributing to the long-standing tradition of eugenics scholarship but is too craven and vain to admit to this. If you had to describe the sum-total of the social scientific scholarly output of the west in a word, it would be ‘mysticism.’ Because it is the case that anti-colonial, anti-imperial, and anti-capitalist investigations of the political-economic conditions of the world have produced social scientific knowledge on par with the discovery of the atom, but it is not treated as such. “It is right to rebel” is not just a moral claim about violence but a scientific summary of human history.

But I think it is precisely this reactionary state of affairs that makes people devalue the social sciences as an actual site of legitimate investigation, that understanding the historical trajectory of ideas or the political conditions of life are valuable pursuits for any just society. Because social science deals with the social world, the political conditions under which the social world is investigated and understood are themselves bound up in questions of political and economic power. But this equally extends to the physical sciences - I know at least in environmental sciences, there is an ever-growing reckoning with climate change as an imminent threat to all life on earth, and environmental scientists cannot avoid talking about the political conditions of our planet even if all they want to do is study a river. Genocide is measurable in soil samples taken in the American continent. The separation of the environmental from the social is itself a historically contingent arrangement of knowledge.

But this is infuriating to even complain about because I don’t want to sound like an entitled academic or ego-bruised professional. I have no desire to start a faculty war with the STEM fields. I feel secure in my own expertise. I do not want anyone to “recognise my greatness” I am just profoundly lonely in this whole affair. and it just so happens that we exist in terribly anti-intellectual conditions for the most cruel and ugly reasons possible, and so we (me, I) have to suffer seeing books on sale claiming to give a general account of human history written by a physicist

[stellar-skyy]

FAMILY (OF SORTS) — Platonic Fatui Harbingers & reader.

i. SUMMARY: The Fatui Harbingers have a soft spot for Arlecchino's child. ii. CONTENT WARNINGS: None! iii. NOTES: STRICTLY PLATONIC, headcanons, fluff, parent!arlecchino, house of the hearth!reader, all of the harbingers are reader's weird aunts and uncles, gn!reader, they/them pronouns used, 1.6k words. iv. A/N: the fatui are just a dysfunctional found family and i will die on this hill. shoutout to @romaritimeharbor for listening to my rambles about this idea 🫶🫶 also pierro and pulcinella aren't here because i could not think of anything to write for them :')

All of the harbingers knew about Arlecchino’s child; the one that appeared in Fatui Headquarters stuck to her side, eyes cast to the floor. They all saw the way that Arlecchino had held a soft grip on their shoulder, guiding them through the halls with the gentle touch of a parent from the gentle hands of a monster.

The Knave always swore she didn’t play favourites, but from an outside view it was clear that they held a special place separate from the rest. Anyone could see the way they appeared so much more frequently by her side. They were permitted to sit in on meetings, following her like a shadow. Some of the Harbingers guessed that she had picked them to be her successor; that their frequent shadowing was training them to take over once she was gone. Others joked about Arlecchino’s apparent soft side taking over. Whatever the reason, time went on, and the Fatui saw more and more of them.

All of them varied in their opinions of them—some indifferent, some fond—but the Harbingers all cared for them in their own ways.

⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

Columbina simply adores them. They’re just so small and cute, so tiny and fragile! Admittedly, her idea of ‘tiny’ is rather skewed—applying to anyone she deems weaker than her (notably, this label also gets given to Capitano and Tartaglia, despite their larger size and physical strength. The Damselette is truly an enigma.)

Whenever Arlecchino allows her to watch over them, she is delighted. She has a penchant for pet names, so ‘angel’, ‘my sweet’, and ‘lovely’ are all more commonly used than their name. Sometimes there’s a ‘baby’ or ‘bub’ if she’s feeling particularly affectionate, but no matter the name, it is always dripping with sweetness. She’ll sing to them too, to calm them down or get them to sleep. Her voice is gentle, laced with as much love as she would show her own child.

Some Fatui believe Columbina is a woman formed from hollow sweetness; that behind the lazy smile and soft voice, lies a callous and unfeeling heart, but her insistence on singing them to sleep comes from a place of genuine affection.

When they have to return home, she’ll kiss their cheeks and sweep them into a hug, making them promise to visit her soon.

⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

The fact that Arlecchino would tear out his throat with her bare hands if he dared to look at them the wrong way is the only thing stopping Dottore from roping [Name] into one of his experiments. Even then, he can’t help but investigate them a bit. Nothing extreme—please put the knife down, Knave—just some simple trials to see how they work. A quick strength assessment, a test of their reflexes, enough to judge the effectiveness of the House of the Hearth’s training.

The segments all had different opinions of them, varying from Prime’s general indifference to some of the younger segments fondness towards them. The latter were less likely to try to trick them into the lab—not that Arlecchino would allow them anywhere near it without strict supervision—and instead focused their efforts on convincing them to help mess with the rest of the Dottores. They proved to be an excellent partner in crime to thoroughly ruin the older segment’s day.

Despite his assertion that he won’t harm them, Dottore tends to be the one Arlecchino trusts least around her child. His unwillingness to get on her bad side doesn’t stop her from insisting Columbina or herself accompany them whenever they visit his lab.

⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

Tartaglia loves them. The days he gets to see his siblings are few and far between, so he’s always eager to play the older brother for them, and for any other House of the Heath kids that stop by. In fact, whenever any of the children visit, he makes sure to buy them plenty of sugary treats and candies before quickly sending them back to their Father.

(Arlecchino was not happy the first time this happened. It didn’t stop him from doing it every time, though.)

He was the first to convince them to call him Uncle, a feat that he bragged about to the rest of the Harbingers. This small incident would inadvertently lead to a petty competition to see who their favourite is, an event that would quickly spiral out of control with bribery and promises coming from all sides.

⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

Sandrone is very particular with who she allows in her workshop. When the rare guest was allowed inside, they had to follow three simple rules: do not touch anything, do not move unless I tell you to, and do not talk to me while I work. When [Name] first stumbled into the room, she was prepared to discourteously shoo them out the way she did whenever Tartaglia poked his head in to see what she was working on. But after some extensive begging, she relented and sat them down in a corner to watch her work. 

Even if she is far less fond of them as some of the other Harbingers, she still audibly squeaked the first time she was called Aunt Sandrone. This was covered up with a cough, but nothing could stop the warmth blooming in her chest. It was the first time a living creature had addressed her with such a familial title; some of her synthetic creations had a habit of calling her Mother, but this was a living, breathing person.

After they started calling her that, she quietly told them they were free to visit when she was working—provided they did not interfere with anything. 

⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

As much as he denies it, Scaramouche has a big soft spot for kids. He’ll swear up and down that he doesn’t care for them at all, but he treats them noticeably gentler than he treats any other member of the Fatui. Arlecchino once caught them huddled against him, using his wide-brimmed hat to shelter from the rain. She never let him forget that moment—the fearsome Balladeer, who notoriously never let anyone close enough to touch him, allowing her child to use him as an umbrella.

They remind him a little too much of the young boy he once considered his family. Whenever he spends time with them, there is something inside that both urges him to protect them in the way he couldn’t protect that child, and warns keep them at arm’s length before they betray him too. But his endearment towards them prevailed, and he begrudgingly allowed them a place in his heart.

Unlike Columbina’s affectionate pet names, the only nicknames Scaramouche gives them are ‘kid’ and ‘brat’, depending on his mood. On good days, they might even get called by their name, though it is a rarity. He cares for them, truly. In his own, strange way.

⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

Capitano is the best at giving advice out of all the harbingers. He is much more down to earth than Columbina and Dottore, and far less cynical than Scaramouche and Sandrone. He’ll let them ramble about their frustrations freely before offering gentle suggestions on what they should do to help. Even if they aren’t looking for a solution, he’s patient enough to hear out their thoughts, however jumbled and incoherent they may be.

He also likes teaching them skills he deems important for a young person to know. These include cooking—Tartaglia is not allowed to join them in these lessons after he almost burnt down the kitchen trying to ‘help’—as well as sewing and mending clothes.  

⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

Pantalone never would describe himself as parental. He never cared too much for kids; he hadn’t enough patience to deal with constantly crying babies or needy toddlers. Arlecchino’s child was thankfully far above that age, so they were less unbearable to deal with.

He was quite happy to spoil them with extravagant gifts and treats to win their favour, but the most effective way he does so is simply spending time with them. Trips to luxurious restaurants for lunch, allowing them to shadow him while he works. He also likes to give them advice—completely unasked for—about life, and relationships. Unlike Capitano however, his advice is of a much less helpful; he has a habit of advocating for blackmail for solving problems.

In exchange for a box of the most expensive pastries in Teyvat, he got them to call him their favourite uncle in front of Tartaglia. The miniscule dent in his funds was worth the look of betrayal on the younger Harbinger’s face.

⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

Signora easily took the longest to warm up to them. When she first met them, it was easy enough to label them as Arlecchino’s brat and move them from her mind. But they kept appearing, in and around the headquarters. At first they were always glued to the Knave’s side, but eventually Signora began to see them wandering alone through the halls. She took note of them—not out of any attachment to them, only out of self-preservation knowing that if Arlecchino found out her child landed themself into trouble while she was close by, it would be her funeral soon.

The sense of obligation faltered when she started to grow fond of them. They were irritatingly innocent, a rarity within the Fatui. Something about the spark in their eyes reminded her of when she was young—when she still had warmth in her heart and blood in her veins. For the first time in centuries, her frozen heart began to thaw with care towards another person, and begrudgingly, she began to accept that they were not as unpleasant as she once believed.

reblogs and comments are appreciated! ♡

[velnoni]

just like the other ask i love love love! ur interpretation of ford. i need more almost religiously. can we have more hcs involving romance and maybe a little nsfw stuff?

Romantic Ford Headcanons

ask and ye shall recieve.

Will absolutely flush if you kiss his hand, especially in public. He finds something like that mischievous, but lowkey will not complain, merely grumble softly to himself. Morning kisses are a bonus and have helped him adjust to a more slow paced life.

Pet names. Perhaps a shortened version of your name if your name is long enough. My dear, honey, handsome/beautiful. In his journal, he'll refer to you as the love of his life.

Head scratches or foot/back massages. Both of you, when overworked, appreciate them so so much. Ford will greatly appreciate it when you coax him out the lab, into your lap, and run your hands through his peppered hair. He makes a noise stuck between a groan and sigh, and in no time, his breathing evens out. When he does it for you, he will often offer it after a crappy day at work. Cue the extra fingers working magic and applying pressure in all the right places.

It could be said he can make edible meals, but he's no Gordan Ramsey. So when he comes home to you making a home cooked meal, he can't help but fall for you harder. To be able to sit down, eat, and not worry if the food is poisonous...it's enough to make a grown man cry. His favorite recipe might be a spaghetti dish.

Get this man some jelly beans, and he'll be a happy lad.

Play any nerd board with him and Dipper, and you will see his eyes turn into hearts, which should be physically impossible. Finds your facial expression cute when you're stuck on something.

Stargazing on the roof of the Mystery Shack is a must, and he never gets tired of speaking of the stars with you. When you told him about the new horoscopes that sparked a new conversation.

Expedition dates are great, but local diner hangouts always feel more intimate with you. Ford may or may not have stolen a french fry if you weren't looking...perhaps Stan is rubbing off on him.

It's not something you know, but once considered, finding out a way to allow you to see colors humans normally can not perceive like Bill once did for him. But ultimately decided against it.

Random gifts from Ford can range from receiving a flower, clothes that don't stain, or a new creature he found in the wild.

*nsft under the cut

Surprisingly quite sensitive. If you rake your nails against his skin, he'll shiver and try to push you off. But keep doing it, and you'll get a whimper out of him.

If you kiss each finger, naming what you like about him or how you'll screw the daylights out him alongside licking them, please expect said fingers inside of you tonight.

He likes grabbing you by the waist and might give a teasing squeeze if feeling brave. He's smug when he does so. On days when you're both alone, you might feel him wrap his arms around you with a little surprise pressing up your backside. Will always ask for permission to go forward.

The kind of person to see you doing something in your natural habitat and get aroused from it. Reading a book? Biting a pen? Covered in mud from helping Mabel with her garden that was raided by suspiciously handsome men with gnomes riding them? He finds it unbecoming of a scientist to fall folly to such primal instincts but will grab your hand when you're alone and stare at you with a slight desperation.

Kiss sessions can go for a good while with some groping. He prefers to be in control, but if you whisper for him to lay beneath you and say his full name, you'll have the old man putty in your hands. Nibble on his ear and that'll earn you six fingered smack on the butt. His ears are really sensitive you've realized...suspiciously so.

If you point that out and keep asking, Ford might one day ask you to stick your tongue in his ear. And if you ever do this while palming his erection in his pants he'll cum early much to his embarrasment. He could never live down the shame but will always come back for more.

He's a fan of blowjobs since they're easy to clean up and really enjoy when you give them to him at a slow pace. He likes the buildup. He doesn't mind returning the deed. He finds your expression and moans quite invigorating.

There's a slight possibility he might be into sounding. Don't ask how he figured that out but he's too shy to bring it up right now.

Praise kink. It's practically endless! Smart, handsome, gorgeous, sexy, silver fox, cutie pie, fantastic, how are you so good at this, good job, keep doing that, etc.

Likes watching/being watched while masturbating. Bonus points if you walked in on him. Once you did and he came like a hormonal teenager, face beet red and glasses cloudy.

Slow and steamy sex is something he prefers because he likes to watch you come undone under his watchful gaze but there are times where he'll feel spontaneous and rile you up throughout the day so you pounce him in privacy. Conniving fella. Have enough stamina to hold you up & hammer you against the wall but prefers a bed.

"Stanford..." You whispered in a low voice as you rearranged yourself behind him. Ford tensed at your voice, feeling his soul jump as your naked arms slide underneath his own, linking together against his chest. "Y-Yes, my dear?" He asks when he remembers to respond to you. He wanted to look at you, kiss your lips, taste you on his own, and have his hands roam every inch of your body. Especially considering your very naked body in question was pressed against his back side. But he didn't.

He steeled himself to your provactice antics and touched the buckle of his belt. He hears you chuckle into his ear, the softness of your lips when it makes contact with his earlobe. Then his cheek and the side of his neck where that wretched tattoo resided. Oh... He couldn't help but sigh and think mentally he was much too old for this. But as if you read his mind, you cupped the pompous bulge that was quite evident through his corduroy pants. You gave it a gentle squeeze and waited.

"More..."

"More what?"

His voice is now a whisper. His Adam apple rises as he swallows his saliva. "More, please." He could feel himself come undone when you call him a good boy. Tonight is going to be one of those nights.

[torturedreid]

The Perfect Formula

BARTENDER SPENCER

word count: 1265

warnings: drunk reader

The BAU’s bullpen had been transformed for the night, a rare occasion where work was on pause, and celebration took center stage. Strings of lights sparkled around the desks, and a large Bluetooth speaker on Derek’s desk blasted Garcia’s eclectic mix of holiday classics and ‘80s pop. The mood was relaxed, the team scattered around the room with glasses in hand, laughing and unwinding. A makeshift bar had been set up on the break room counter, cluttered with liquor bottles, mixers, and fresh fruit.

You leaned against the counter, watching as Spencer Reid stood at the center of it all, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, meticulously measuring liquids into a shaker. His tongue poked out slightly as he concentrated, and his cheeks were flushed a light pink, either from the heat of the room or the attention he was drawing from the team.

He’d taken charge of the cocktails after Morgan joked that Reid’s genius might finally be put to use for something other than criminal profiling. What had started as a tease quickly turned into a spectacle, as Spencer muttered to himself about ratios, volumes, and chemical balances while precisely measuring ingredients.

“Spence, you could just eyeball it, most people just pour and pray,” you teased, resting your chin on your hand as you watched. “It’s a party, not a chemistry experiment.”

His eyes flicked to yours, wide and flustered. “Eyeballing it would risk an imbalance in flavor profile, which could ruin the entire drink. It introduces too many variables. Cocktails, especially something as classic as a Daiquiri, require precision. The ideal ratio is two parts rum, one part lime juice, and one part syrup. Deviate from that, and you throw the balance off entirely.”

“Sounds pretty straightforward,” you said with a shrug, obviously joking, but of course he didn’t understand that.

“It’s deceptively simple,” he countered. “The ratio is easy to remember, but the variables compound quickly. For example, the dilution from the ice adds approximately twenty percent water to the final mixture, so you have to account for that when calculating the initial ingredient volumes. And then there's the acid-to-sugar ratio in the lime juice and syrup, which needs to fall between 1.2:1 and 1.6:1 for optimal flavor.”

You stared at him, blinking. “Did you just…math a cocktail?”

Spencer smiled faintly as he reached for a lime. “Of course. Math is the foundation of mixology.”

He began squeezing the lime, pausing briefly to weigh the juice on a small scale he’d brought over from the lab. “The average lime produces about 30 milliliters of juice, but that can vary depending on the ripeness and size. Too much acidity and the drink becomes harsh. Too little, and it tastes flat. This lime gave me 28 milliliters, so I'll adjust the syrup accordingly to maintain balance… for the record, this isn’t just a cocktail. It’s a daiquiri. The original recipe was created by Jennings Cox in the last 1800’s, and its simplicity makes it particularly vulnerable to imprecision.” 

You couldn’t suppress a laugh. “You really are a genius, you know that?”

Spencer glanced at you, his face flushing deeper. “I’m just applying basic principles of chemistry and physics,” he said, his tone modest but his expression pleased.

“You’re applying science to make a party drink,” you teased.

“And doing it perfectly,” he replied, with a rare bit of sass, pouring the lime juice into the shaker.

You watched as he added the rum with his standard precision, using a jigger to measure out 60 milliliters before pouring it in. Then came the syrup, which he poured slowly, his eyes narrowing as he calculated the exact amount to offset the slight deficit in lime juice. Finally, he added ice, giving the shaker a firm tap before picking it up and shaking with a smooth, practiced rhythm.

The clink of ice against metal filled the room as his arms moved fluidly, the muscles in his forearms flexing, exposed from where he’d rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. You tilted your head a little, unable to look away as he focused entirely on his task.

“Spencer-” you started, your tone teasing.

“Not yet,” he interrupted, holding up a finger without breaking his rhythm. “If I stop shaking too soon the drink won’t chill properly, and the dilution will be uneven.”

You smirked, waiting until he finally strained the drink into a glass. He slid it across the counter to you, looking up with a mix of anticipation and nervousness.

“Here,” he said, his voice soft. “Let me know what you think.”

You took a sip, letting the tartness of the lime and the smoothness of the rum wash over your palate. It was perfect- bright, balanced, and refreshing.

“Spence, this is amazing,” you said, meeting his gaze.

His lips quirked up into a small, bashful smile. “Really?”

“Really,” you confirmed, raising the glass in a mock toast. “To Spencer Reid, cocktail extraordinaire.”

He chuckled softly, his blush deepening and he turned to prepare another drink. 

--------------------------------------------

Hours later, the party was in full swing, but you found yourself repeatedly drawn back to Spencer’s bar. Each time he made you something different- a Margarita, a Negroni, an espresso martini- explaining the history and chemistry behind each one as he worked. You found it endearing, and hot, even as your head began to feel pleasantly fuzzy from the alcohol.

“Another, please,” you smiled, sliding your empty glass across the counter.

Spencer raised an eyebrow, his hands hesitating over the bottles. “That’s your fourth drink,” he said cautiously.

“And every single one has been delicious,” you replied, leaning on the countertop.

“Maybe you should slow down,” he suggested, his tone gentle but firm.

“Come on, Spencer,” you sighed, pouting dramatically. “You’re the barkeep here. Don’t leave me hanging.”

He sighed, relenting as he began preparing another cocktail. “You know, alcohol inhibits your prefrontal cortex, which is responsible for decision-making and impulse control.”

“Yeah, yeah, science boy,” you said, waving him off. “Just make the drink.”

By the time you finished that one, the world felt slightly tilted, and your laugh had become louder, less contained. You stumbled against the counter, giggling as Spencer reached out instinctively to steady you.

“Okay,” he said firmly, taking your glass from your hand. “That’s it. You’re done.”

“What?” you protested, looking up at him with puppy dog eyes. “No way, I’m fine!”

“You’re drunk,” he replied, his voice soft but unwavering.

“I am not drunk.”

“You just called me a wizard and asked if we could open a bar together,” he pointed out. “No more drinks for you. You need water.”

“But Spence,” you whined, swaying slightly.

“Water,” he repeated adamantly, guiding you to a nearby chair and handing you a glass of water. “Drink this. You’ll thank me in the morning.”

You took the glass with a dramatic sigh, slumping into the chair. “You’re no fun.”

He crouched down in front of you, his elbows resting on his thighs, his eyes warm and concerned. “I’d rather be no fun than let you drink yourself into a black-out.”

“Fine,” you grumbled, sipping the water. After a moment, you added, “But you’re still cute when you’re bossy.”

Spencer froze, his eyes widening as his face turned a deep shade of red. “I-uh-”

“Relax, genius wizard,” you said with a lazy smile. “It’s a compliment.”

He stood quickly, muttering something about getting a snack. As he moved behind the counter again, you couldn’t help but grin. Even in your inebriated state, it was fun watching the famed Dr. Spencer Reid unravel.

[okkotsuus]

"COLLEGE! AU" ー tabieitaken 🪽

features: tabito karasu, eita otoya, kenyu yukimiya

contents: college au, friendships, polycule jokes, jealousy/competition, very messy headcanons, 0.8k

notes: since my lovely @cheralith has tabieitaken stuck in my head at all times... this is literally just me talking at the wall

ALL

they're all in the same frat (alpha tau omega) and ended up rooming together after their first year in an apartment a few minutes off campus. tabito is the primary name on the lease, but yuki handles most of the stuff with their landlord (otoya just forks over money every month).

every friday, without fail, they all get together to do something, whether it be movies or dinner.

their apartment was decorated by yuki and karasu; but otoya is the one who most often brings home decor for the apartment (usually it's something stupid he bought).

they actually don't cook very often, like in terms of full meals, yet they are still an ingredient house iykyk.

one time, otoya accidentally hotboxed the bathroom and yuki went to take a shower and almost died.

despite how popular they all are, they refuse to host parties because their building is mainly elderly folks and they would feel horrible for them having to deal with hammered college students.

tabito and otoya went to highschool together and met yuki in their freshman year through the frat.

despite their differences, they are all actually extremely intelligent.

TABITO KARASU

3rd year biomedical engineering major.

tabito, despite literally never speaking in class except when called on, is very well known.

takes extremely elegant and detailed notes for every lecture: no matter how fast the professor is talking.

somehow always locked in, even if he's extremely hungover from an event the night before.

the kind of guy who really only talks to people unless they talk to him first or he's tipsy.

has never failed a class, he's extremely intelligent.

he has this very specific ritual he does before every single exam where he sleeps with his notebook under his pillow (it's so stupid but it has never failed him).

plans to go into biomedical engineering to design medical devices that put less of a strain on the patient (e.x. streamlining insulin pumps or making pacemakers less intensive)

actually extremely passionate about his work, got in on a full-ride for his essay which was his planned thesis for grad school.

works as a lab assistant in the school's medical research facility.

EITA OTOYA

3rd year political science major.

if you actually see otoya in class, it's rarer than getting struck by lightning: double credit if he's sober and awake.

despite this, somehow everyone in all his classes knows him and he knows everyone's names (it's bc he's a lurker).

the pledge hazer, he is so annoying; but he's never malicious about it like some of the guys are.

he smokes or takes edibles, constantly has some fruity vape on him at all times. he swears he can stop whenever he want (he cannot).

originally planned to take a gap year but his mom almost beat his ass for even suggesting it so he chose the major he thought was the easiest.

he doesn't know it yet, but he will end up going to law school to be a criminal prosecutor trust.

despite his horrid attendance, his grades are pretty good (lowest is a 82%), he's one of those smart kids that could be a genius if he just applied himself.

works at the local dispensary and as a barista on the campus cafe.

KENYU YUKIMIYA

3rd year fashion design and business management double major.

he wants to end up with his own clothing line, but he is actually horrible at sewing so it's kind of funny. he's only good at the designing part fr

literally everyone's hallway crush, everyone knows him and all the freshmen have a thing for him at some point.

the kind of student that all the professors like, even the typically rough ones that seem to hate everyone (he's a kissass and he knows it).

perfect attendance unless he is ill to the point of physically unable being to go to class.

academic validation kid, struggled hard his freshman year when everything wasn't easy peasy anymore like it was in high school.

partial-ride, about half of his tuition.

he became an ra for the free room and board his second year but ended up hating it so he didn't do it this year.

really good grades, but not as good as karasu's even though he tries harder (it really pisses him off)

works as a freelance model/actor and at the local movie theatre

⚜️ ㅤ okkotsuus ㅤ 25

[curlyberrrry]

✨️✨️✨️Poppy Playtime AU Headcanons✨️✨️✨️

(May update/add more characters as I go)

~Harley Sawyer~

🧪Loves dark chocolate (dark like his soul)

🧪Also black coffee (bitter like his soul)

🧪Neurodivergent, is probably the least social person in the whole building

🧪Is very quiet when walks, tends to indirectly scare other employees like he just teleported out of nowhere

🧪Didn't have the best childhood, heavily attached to Elliot during the Young Geniuses Program, gotta love the found father trope right guys ?

🧪Doesn't like physical touch unless he initiates it, this also applied to Leith until their relationship became more “complicated”

🧪Personal space ? Good luck cause whether he does it on purpose or not, he'll find a way to make someone as uncomfortable as possible, ironically hates when it's uno reversed on him

🧪A lot of people are terrified of him, his outbursts are infamous

🧪Despises pickles (we all know this) Leith will mess with him by randomly placing pickles in his lab, not the ones in jars but whole pickles, bro almost went into cardiac arrest (in a spare lab coat pocket, in a drawer, on his chair etc.) 🥒

🧪Has had other employees attempt to flirt with him (who are brave enough) but usually gives the cold shoulder

~Leith Pierre~

🥃Heavy smoker

🥃Fond of old fashioned cocktails

🥃Has a collection of colourful ties, wears them a lot to keep up a “friendlier persona” around the kids (Harley says they're ugly, Leith likes to blindfold him 😏)

🥃For a man of his stature, he gets scared easily, hence the “do not scare Leith Pierre” signs around the factory, he definitely flinches during jumpscares in horror films (again Harley being a bitch will tease him for it), will use Boxy to dispose those who disobey that particular rule

🥃Huggy is the perfect security and Leith treats him as his own personal attack dog (like Yarnaby for Harley)

🥃Sometimes is harsh towards Sharon but genuinely likes her company, he just has no patience most of the time

🥃Loves to yap a lot, very prideful, will tell horrific dad jokes

🥃Usually is calm, however, any incidents that involve the company's bank taking a hit will literally set him off, when by himself, he'll throw a small tantrum in his office (there's a few cracks on his desk from repeated hits)

🥃Idolised Elliot, doesn't realise he's trying to be like him

~Eddie Ritterman~

🖊Went prematurely grey due to genetics

🖊Has a bad leg and uses a cane to keep his body weight off it

🖊Whenever Stella lets her hair fall down from her messy bun, it gets him every time

🖊Will literally have teabags in his pockets (not just because he's British) as he's picky with his tea, won't drink the tea the company offers on lunch breaks

🖊Will smack and has smacked Harley with his cane during their “disputes”, Leith has put both of them in time out corners for 10 minutes at a time or longer until they both apologise (stubborn bastards)

🖊Has a notebook in which he writes down the important things from his conversations with Stella, usually to help him get her gifts, leaves random items in her office like a secret admirer lmao 💘

🖊Similar to Harley, he doesn't socialise too much, he's only there during meetings with the other higher ups or hiding in his office crunching the numbers (such a business man)

🖊Judges people based on their handwriting

🖊Hopeless romantic around Stella, covers it up by being icy and nonchalant

~Stella Greyber~

🪀Probably the nicest out of the four and the most approachable

🪀Adores the kids at Playcare, will accept drawings from them

🪀Has a bit of anxiety, tends to shut down whenever someone blows up at her

🪀Likes to put on a playlist for the kids, they choose the songs

🪀Surprisingly very good at piano and can sing

🪀Tries to forget what actually happens at Playcare when kids are chosen to go “home”, the guilt eats at her everyday

🪀Knows it's Eddie who leaves her random gifts, pretends to be oblivious 

🪀Allergic to cats, won't stop her though from petting them, is that person to pet every stray cat on the street regardless of where it’s been

🪀Gives everyone flowers on Valentine's, even Harley, which he begrudgingly accepts to get Leith off his ass 🌹

🪀When she's alone, she always has to have some noise in the background, like a radio, due to her being used to being around kids, sitting in silence makes her uncomfortable