#Been obsessed with this song for years and now.... | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

norristrii · 4 hours ago

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I KNOW LOVE (NOSTALGIA).

“We started off friends, how you end up here next to me?” — After eight years, your friendship with Lando felt the same—until the bet. Fake dating was just a game, but the feelings weren’t. Somewhere along the way, the truth surfaced. It was never just friendship.

pairing. Lando Norris x childhood friend! fem! reader.

warnings. fluff, angst if u squint, 12,5k words, friends to lovers, fake dating, lando being menace, drinking alcohol, monaco gp 2025, pet names (sweetheart, darling, baby), a lot of teasing, possible grammar errors. PART ONE — NOSTALGIA.

music. I Know Love by Tate Mcrae ft. The Kid LAROI // Carry You Home by Alex Warren.

─── ONE MONTH LATER , may 2025

A MONTH PASSED, AND SOMEHOW, it felt like time had folded in on itself—like the years apart had shrunk, like the gap between then and now had quietly disappeared.

Nothing had changed, not really. Lando still remembered your favorite movies—the ones you had obsessively rewatched, the ones whose quotes you could recite without thinking, the ones that had always stayed the same. He still knew the exact spot where you were ticklish, still knew the food you ordered without needing to ask. And despite everything, despite all the time lost, despite all the ways life had pulled you both in opposite directions, it felt easy.

He was in your space just as often as you were in his, your things scattered across his apartment like they had always belonged there, his hoodies ending up in your wardrobe without either of you really noticing. It wasn’t forced, wasn’t awkward, wasn’t something you had to think about—it just happened, naturally, effortlessly, like the years apart had only been a long, quiet pause instead of a full stop.

And one day, you realized—you weren’t bitter anymore.

───

The soft hum of the song filled the space between you, slipping into the quiet like an old friend, like something familiar, something undeniably yours. It took only a second for recognition to flicker in Lando’s eyes—a glint of understanding, a knowing look, a memory shared in silence.

Your childhood song.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You sat perched on the kitchen counter, legs swinging slightly, watching the way his expression shifts—how nostalgia washed over him in waves, how all the years apart disappeared with the simple melody floating through the air. He leaned against the counter opposite you, arms folded, head tilting just slightly, amusement tugging at the corner of his lips.

Then, without warning, he moved.

His fingers wrap gently around your wrist, his grip warm, steady, certain—a pull that sent you forward, off the counter, into his space, into the rhythm of something you both remember but haven’t shared in years. He lead effortlessly, far too serious for something so simple, his movements deliberate like he’s guiding you through a real dance, like this isn’t just a moment caught between laughter and history.

“You’re ridiculous,” you breathed, smiling despite yourself, despite the way he’s taking every step too seriously, despite the way he spun you with exaggerated precision, despite the way the years apart seem to dissolve between the music, between the movement, between him and you.

Lando grinned, eyes bright, alive, holding onto this moment like it’s something worth keeping. “You love it,” he teased, pulling you closer, his voice low, warm, familiar.

“That’s surprisingly romantic coming from someone with a reputation like yours,” you murmured, the words slipping out before you can stop them, teasing but undeniably true.

Because yeah—he was a player. Or at least, that’s what the headlines said. Articles filled with speculation, blurry photos, flirty interviews that never seemed to lead to anything serious. A reputation built on fleeting moments and effortless charm, something you had never fully questioned but had always noticed.

Lando let out a scoff, shaking his head with that infuriating, reckless grin—the one that somehow manages to be both self-assured and unapologetically smug. “Please,” he huffs, crossing his arms over his chest, eyes gleaming with amusement. “I could make anyone believe I’m the perfect boyfriend.”

Your brows lifted slightly, unimpressed. “No one would buy that.”

His smirk deepened—too confident, too knowing, too dangerous in the way only he can be. “Everyone would buy that.” He paused for half a second, just enough for the tension to shift, just enough for a challenge to settle between you. “You wanna bet?”

Your smirk deepened, curiosity flickering behind your eyes as you leaned in just slightly, watching the way Lando held himself—unshaken, confident, like he already knew you wouldn’t say no.

“Fake dating?” you echoed, pretending to consider it, dragging the words out just enough to tease him. “That’s what you’re suggesting?”

His grin only widened, too reckless, too assured, like he had already won before the game had even started. “Give me this weekend,” he repeated, tilting his head slightly, amusement dancing in his expression. “By the end of it, the whole world will think I am the best boyfriend to ever exist.”

There was something entirely too entertaining about the idea—about the way he said it so easily, about the way he looked at you like this was the most natural thing in the world.

And the worst part?

You were so in.

The list had come together surprisingly fast—far too fast, actually, considering the absurdity of the situation. You sat across from Lando, leaning over the kitchen island, scribbling rules onto a scrap piece of paper like this was some kind of business deal rather than a completely ridiculous, impulsive plan.

Lando, of course, was fully relaxed, arms folded, eyes bright with amusement as he watched you work, barely contributing, barely questioning anything you laid out. It was almost infuriating, how at ease he was about this.

Rule one: In public, yes—but absolutely no couple behavior when no one’s watching. This is a performance, not real life.

He smirked at that, drumming his fingers against the counter. “So no cute little moments when we’re alone?”

You shot him a look. “Absolutely not.”

Rule two: PDA is allowed, but keep it minimal. Holding hands? Fine. Kissing? Only if necessary.

Lando hummed thoughtfully, pretending to consider. “Define ‘necessary.’”

“If someone asks us to prove it,” you reply instantly, not playing his game.

His grin widened, far too entertained. “Dramatic, public make-outs? Noted.”

You groaned. “That’s not what I said.”

Rule three: No backing out. Once you commit, you see it through. No half-measures, no suddenly deciding it’s too much.

Lando looked far too smug for his own good. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, I never back out of a bet.”

You ignored the way your stomach flipped at that. Ignored it.

Rule four: Don’t make it weird. Light touches are fine, casual affection is fine—but don’t, under any circumstance, make it weird.

“Me?” Lando said, pressing a hand to his chest like he was offended. “Making things weird? Never.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue.

And finally, rule five—the most important one: No real feelings. Absolutely forbidden.

A moment of silence stretched between you as the final rule sat there, bold, unchallenged, unchangeable.

Lando tapped his fingers against the counter once, twice, then flashed you that too-sure, too-effortless grin. “Easy.”

Just three days to survive.

─── friday: day one

The chaos of the Monaco Grand Prix was already buzzing outside—the hum of engines, the flurry of people moving through the paddock, the cameras waiting to capture every moment. This was the race, the crown jewel of the season, the one weekend where everything felt bigger, louder, more intense.

Lando’s navy blue McLaren pulled to a stop, the sleek lines of the car reflecting the early morning sunlight. The moment his hand hovered over the door handle, you stopped him—a quick, pointed reminder before stepping into the world that would now be watching.

“Fake dating, Lando. Fake.” Your voice was firm, low enough that only he could hear, warning him, setting the boundary before the cameras were on you, before the articles wrote their own versions of whatever this weekend would bring.

He didn’t argue. He didn’t tease. He just nodded, lips twitching slightly, something unreadable passing through his eyes before he stepped out onto the pavement.

Then, without hesitation, he stepped out, rounding the car with the kind of effortless confidence that came far too naturally to him. And when he opened the door for you, his hand was already waiting, palm up, steady, offering something that felt far too practiced to be anything but convincing.

“Yeah, fake,” he said, looking at you with that infuriating, too-sure smirk. “But real enough to make them believe it.”

The paddock was alive with movement—voices overlapping, the hum of engines in the background, cameras flashing, catching every moment. And right in the middle of it, you and Lando, walking hand in hand, stepping into a world that felt a little too aware of you.

You could feel the glances, the curiosity settling into the air, the way people stole quick looks before refocusing on whatever they were supposed to be doing. It wasn’t obvious, but it was there—the quiet stir of speculation, the beginnings of a story that hadn’t existed yesterday but suddenly seemed like something worth paying attention to.

Lando didn’t react, didn’t hesitate, didn’t even acknowledge the shift around you. He moved easily, the way he always did, his grip on your hand relaxed but firm guiding you through the maze of the paddock like he’d done a thousand times before—except this time, you were a part of it.

Then, just as effortlessly, he stepped into the McLaren garage, slipping into conversations with engineers, exchanging greetings like it was just another day. You barely had time to process it, barely had time to prepare before—

“This is my girlfriend, Y/n.”

It wasn’t forced. It wasn’t exaggerated. It was smooth, delivered with zero hesitation, like it was simply fact, like it was something real.

“So you’re the Y/n?” one of the engineers asked, a knowing grin tugging at the corner of his lips. You blinked, caught off guard by the phrasing. The Y/n?

“The one he’s always talking about.”

Your stomach flipped. Always? Lando talked about you? To them? You turned to him instinctively, searching for some kind of reaction—some kind of explanation. But, of course, he was already smirking, leaning back with that effortless confidence that made it impossible to tell whether he was actually unfazed or just pretending to be.

“Oh, yeah,” he said casually, too smoothly, like he had been waiting for this conversation. “They probably got sick of hearing about you ages ago.”

The engineer chuckled, shaking his head. “It’s not that bad.”

You went to his driver room with him, Lando moved with zero hesitation, pulling off his shirt and swapping it for the fireproof layer beneath his race suit like it was second nature—like you weren’t even there, like this wasn’t something to think twice about. And maybe that was the craziest part. Because for him, it was normal.

Unbothered, effortless, as if he had always changed in front of you, as if the past years apart had never actually happened. You leaned back against the wall, watching as he tugged up the sleeves of his suit, adjusting them, fixing the collar, smoothing out the fabric before finally meeting your gaze again—grinning like he had already planned whatever came next.

He stepped closer, voice too damn smug, too playful, too knowing, the kind of confidence that made it impossible to tell whether he was being serious or just testing his limits. The air between you shifted, charged with the same unspoken tension that had been building since the moment you set foot in the paddock. Then, with that infuriating smirk, he leaned in just a little too much, just enough for you to know exactly what was coming before he even said it.

“Kiss for good luck?” His tone was casual, teasing, like this wasn’t an outrageous request—like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You scoffed, shaking your head, but the way your lips twitched betrayed you. You were already smiling, already seeing through the act, already ready to shut it down before he got even more confident. “Don’t even try.” Your hand moved without hesitation, pushing his face away, forcing him to stumble back a step, laughter bubbling between the both of you.

He recovered quickly—he always did—but the grin on his face was even wider now, even more annoyingly smug than before, like he had already won something. Because that was Lando. All confidence, all recklessness, all charm. And Monaco had only just begun.

You stood at the edge of the garage, arms loosely crossed, watching as Lando settled into his car with the same effortless confidence he always carried. There was no hesitation in his movements—just precision, familiarity, a routine he could probably do with his eyes closed.

A light nudge against your arm pulled you from your thoughts, one of the engineers grinning as he tilted his head toward you. “Nervous for your man?”

Your stomach flipped at the wording—your man—like the whole thing had already been bought into, like it wasn’t even a question anymore. They believed it.

You blinked but recovered quickly, shaking off the moment, keeping your expression cool, unreadable. “I’m not,” you said, voice steady, effortless. “He knows what he’s doing.”

The session was about to start, tension hanging in the air like the calm before a storm. Lando sat settled in his car, fingers flexing briefly around the steering wheel, every movement deliberate, controlled. You stepped closer, watching as he lifted his helmet, the smirk already tugging at his lips before he even spoke.

“Last chance for that good luck kiss,” he murmured, voice laced with teasing as he slowly pulled the helmet over his head, visor still slightly raised, leaving just enough room for you to catch the glint of amusement in his eyes.

You didn’t hesitate, didn’t entertain it, just exhaled, shaking your head with a small laugh before reaching out and tapping the top of his helmet. “Go drive your car, Norris,” you said, your tone light but firm, cutting off whatever ridiculous response he was about to throw back.

He let out a muffled chuckle through the layers of his gear, adjusting his grip on the wheel, focus shifting as the reality of the session kicked in. And just like that, with a flick of his wrist and the hum of the engine, he rolled forward—onto the track, onto the moment where everything else disappeared except for the race ahead.

───

The sky had deepened into shades of orange and pink, Monaco settling into the golden haze of early evening. The day had slipped by faster than you realized—two practice sessions, hours spent lingering around the paddock, conversations blending into the hum of engines and movement. You hadn’t even noticed how much time had passed until now, until the weight of the day finally began to settle in your bones.

You sat back in the chair, watching as Lando packed up his things, casual, effortless, like this was just another weekend. But then—without thinking, without any hesitation—he reached for your hand as he spoke, fingers brushing against yours, slipping into the space that had already begun to feel too familiar.

“We can go," he said, voice easy, steady, like nothing about the moment was unusual. And even more instinctively—almost like muscle memory—you let your fingers intertwine with his.

The realization hit after—after the warmth, after the quiet certainty of it, after the way neither of you acknowledged it outright. It wasn’t dramatic, wasn’t exaggerated. It was just natural.

The quiet ease between you should’ve felt normal, should’ve just been part of the act, but Lando? He wasn’t going to let it be simple.

As you both stepped further out of the paddock, fingers still loosely intertwined, he let out a casual hum, glancing over at you with way too much amusement in his eyes. “You’re getting really comfortable with this whole girlfriend thing,” he mused, the teasing lacing his tone clear as day.

You scoffed, giving his hand a pointed squeeze before swiftly pulling yours away. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

His grin widened instantly, like he had already won, like your reaction had just confirmed something for him. “You literally held my hand back,” he pointed out, tapping his temple as if he had just cracked some kind of secret formula. “Instinctively. No hesitation. Just—bam—right into it.”

You rolled your eyes, stepping ahead slightly to avoid the smugness radiating off of him. “Maybe I was just making sure you didn’t trip over your own feet,” you shot back.

Lando laughed, a full, unrestrained laugh, shaking his head as he jogged a few steps to catch up. “Yeah, yeah. Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart.”

The car hummed steadily as Monaco’s streets blurred past, the golden glow of streetlights flickering against the windshield, painting the inside of the car in fleeting shades of warm amber. The city had settled into the quiet hum of evening, the rush of the paddock fading into memory, replaced by the steady rhythm of the drive. It should’ve been a moment to breathe, to regroup, to let the day settle.

But then—his hand.

It landed on your thigh like it was meant to be there, like there wasn’t a single reason to hesitate, like he hadn’t just obliterated every rule you’d barely had time to set. It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t tentative. It was casual, deliberate, the warmth of his palm sinking through the fabric of your pants, sending a sharp jolt of awareness straight through you.

Your breath hitched, heart hammering against your ribs before your brain could fully process the moment, before you could convince yourself it wasn’t a big deal. But it was—because this was the first day, because you weren’t supposed to blur the lines, because this wasn’t supposed to feel as natural as it did.

You turned toward him, brows furrowing, voice steady but pointed. “Lando.”

His smirk was already forming, the kind that told you he knew exactly what he was doing, that this wasn’t some absentminded action, that this was intentional.

“You’re breaking a rule,” you muttered, pulse uneven, fingers twitching by your side.

He glanced at you briefly, way too unbothered, before shifting his grip slightly on the wheel. And then—the audacity—he tilted his head, smirk deepening like he had already won whatever game had just begun.

“I’m not if you’re enjoying it too.”

The words sent heat straight to your cheeks, a reaction you despised, because there was zero chance he hadn’t noticed, hadn’t already clocked the way your breath hitched, the way you hadn’t immediately shoved his hand away.

You scoffed, finally snapping out of it, finally pushing his hand off your thigh with more force than necessary, shoving his arm like you were undoing whatever had just happened.

He chuckled, shaking his head as he settled both hands back onto the wheel, the smugness radiating off of him like he was thrilled with himself. “Alright, alright,” he mused, completely unfazed. “I’ll behave.”

The exhaustion from the day had settled deep in your bones, the weight of it pressing down as you stepped inside—his home, again. It wasn’t unfamiliar anymore. The way the lights spilled across the sleek countertops, the hum of the city just barely audible through the windows, the lingering scent of whatever ridiculous air freshener he had decided was the best option—it all felt far too normal now.

Lando wasted no time—dramatically collapsing onto the couch like he had just survived something traumatic, despite the fact that his day had mostly consisted of doing exactly what he loved. His limbs sprawled out lazily, head tilting back, an exaggerated sigh leaving his lips before he finally glanced over at you.

“I need cuddles from my girlfriend after a day like this,” he announced, stretching his arms toward you, voice half pleading, half teasing, the corners of his mouth twitching in barely restrained amusement.

You raised an eyebrow, arms crossing instinctively. “You’re still playing it?”

The amusement sharpened in his gaze, flickering bright beneath the soft glow of the living room lights. He wasn’t just playing it. He was thriving off of it.

“We’re off duty now,” you reminded him, voice firm, pointed, like you were establishing a clear boundary—like you were reminding him that this had limits, that it wasn’t supposed to bleed into moments like this.

But Lando? Completely unfazed.

“I’m committed to the role of your perfect boyfriend,” he mused, settling deeper into the cushions, fully embracing his own ridiculousness “That’s what a lot of actors do.”

You scoffed, shaking your head, because of course he was framing it like this—as method acting, as if that excused the fact that he wasn’t dropping the act when he should have.

“I think you just like having an excuse to annoy me,” you muttered, eyeing him suspiciously, refusing to give in, refusing to entertain the idea of indulging him.

His grin widened, eyes glinting with pure mischief. “Maybe.”

Lando didn’t move from his spot on the couch, arms still outstretched, still fully committed to the bit, eyes watching you like he was waiting for you to give in.

You didn’t.

Instead, you crossed your arms, narrowing your gaze slightly, exhaling slowly. “You do realize you’re taking this way too seriously, right?”

He tilted his head, considering that for all of two seconds before smirking again. “Or, maybe, I’m just really dedicated to my role.”

You let out a dramatic sigh, shaking your head. “It’s fake, Norris.”

Lando gasped, hand clutching his chest like you had just mortally wounded him. “Darling,” he breathed, shaking his head, mock betrayal dripping from every syllable, “Don’t say such things. It’ll ruin my motivation.”

You rolled your eyes, but the way his lips twitched, the way pure amusement flickered behind his gaze, told you exactly what he was doing—pushing, testing, seeing how far he could take this before you finally caved.

But you weren’t losing this round.

“You need motivation?” you echoed, raising an eyebrow.

He nodded. “Every great actor does.”

You scoffed, walking past him, pointedly ignoring the way his arms were still stretched toward you. “Then maybe go watch some method acting interviews instead of begging for cuddles.”

─── saturday: day two

The energy in the McLaren garage had become familiar now—less overwhelming, more comfortable, like you had started settling into the rhythm of it, the movement, the people. The engineers and mechanics no longer glanced at you with the casual curiosity of someone new; instead, they greeted you like you belonged there, like you had always been part of this world. Lando had mentioned it in passing the day before—how quickly you had blended in—but you hadn’t thought much of it until now, standing in the middle of it all, watching the final preparations unfold before qualifying.

Lando was focused, in full race mode, his demeanor shifting the moment he settled into pre-session rituals. His gloves tightened around his fingers as he flexed them, his visor propped up slightly as he scanned the monitors, listening to the soft murmur of his engineers running through the final details. He had been teasing, pushing the boundaries, finding every possible way to turn this into something more than just pretend. And if he could do it—if he could toe the line without hesitation—then so could you.

So, without warning, without thinking twice, you called for him. “Come here.” And the second the words left your lips, he obeyed, instantly, without hesitation, like it was instinct, like there wasn’t even a moment of questioning it. He stepped toward you, brows lifting slightly, almost amused, like he was waiting for whatever tease you had planned—but there was no tease. No build-up. No warning. Just action.

Your lips pressed against his, firm, decisive, deliberate, and for half a second, you felt him freeze—caught off guard. But only for that. Just half a second before he recovered, before he responded without hesitation, before he got away with it like he always did. His lips moved against yours with a practiced ease, like he had already anticipated how this was supposed to go, like he had already mastered playing this game. But this wasn’t just about the act anymore. At least—not to you.

You pulled away slowly, steady, keeping your expression unreadable as you exhaled, as you let the moment settle between you. “Good luck, baby.” The words left your lips with the same teasing confidence he had used so many times before—except now, you were the one in control. You were the one shifting the rules. You were the one pushing the boundaries.

His gaze lingered, flickering with something unreadable, something that wasn’t entirely just amusement, something more complicated. And that was the real problem. Because while Lando had spent the last two days playing games, teasing, testing, pushing—there was one crucial difference between you. You weren’t sure if any of this was real or fake.

Lando lingered for a second longer than necessary, eyes flickering with something undefined, something you couldn’t quite name. But then—like always—he recovered.

A slow, lazy smirk spread across his lips as he tilted his head slightly, like he was studying you, like he was dissecting the moment for every possible meaning. “Didn’t realize we were taking it to that level,” he murmured, voice just light enough to sound playful, but just sharp enough to suggest something deeper.

You shrugged, crossing your arms as the faint hum of the garage buzzed around you, voices calling out final adjustments, the tension of qualifying thick in the air. “Figured you needed the full boyfriend experience,” you mused, the edge of amusement curling around your words. “Besides, that’s how we do it, right?”

His smirk didn’t waver, but his gaze held yours—just slightly longer than it should have. Just long enough to make something settle in your chest.

“Right.”

The single word carried weight, wrapped itself around the space between you, settled into the air before he finally—finally—stepped back, tugging at his gloves, rolling his shoulders, slipping back into race mode.

“Guess I better win now,” he said casually, like the moment hadn’t just shifted something irreversibly, like none of it mattered more than the seconds ticking down to qualifying.

And dear God, that man set whole new track record a hour later.

The air around the McLaren garage was thick with energy, alive in a way that only happened when history had just been made. Engineers still stood frozen in front of monitors, eyes flickering over numbers that didn’t seem real, mechanics exchanged looks that held a mix of pride and awe, and team members clapped backs, shook hands, embraced like they had just pulled off something impossible. The roar of celebration spilled beyond the barriers, past the podium setup, past the paddock, into the entire racing world, because today—today, Lando Norris had done something unforgettable.

But through the chaos, through the wave of victory that swept over McLaren like an unstoppable force, he ran straight to you.

It wasn’t measured. It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t wrapped in hesitation or second-guessing. It was pure instinct—fast, decisive, undeniable. His suit was still warm, damp with sweat, his body humming with the adrenaline he hadn’t come down from yet, and the second his arms wrapped around you, pulling you in, holding you tight, it was impossible not to feel the sheer gravity of what had just happened.

His heartbeat was rapid, pounding against your own as the weight of the moment settled between you, as everything—the lap, the record, the significance of it all—pressed into your skin, wrapped around you like something you weren’t meant to forget.

“You are insane,” you muttered, voice barely audible over the cheers surrounding you, breath catching, arms curling around his back. Your grip tightened slightly, fingers clutching the fabric of his race suit, grounding yourself against the sheer scale of it all.

Lando pulled back just slightly, enough for his eyes to meet yours, his grin stretched wide, bright, undeniably victorious, the spark of triumph burning in his gaze. His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, but he was thriving, fully alive, standing there like he had just conquered everything.

“Fastest man in Monaco, baby,” he declared, voice charged, thrumming with adrenaline, so smug, but somehow—somehow—more real, more significant than ever before. His grip on you hadn’t loosened, not yet, not even as reporters hovered nearby, cameras flashing, microphones extending toward the newly crowned record-breaker.

And without thinking, without measuring your words, without checking if this was too far, the phrase slipped out—so natural, so easy, too easy.

“I love—”

The realization hit instantly, the weight of the words pressing down, and you pivoted quickly, mid-sentence, pulse hammering against your ribs. “I’m proud,” you corrected, shifting just enough to mask the slip, keeping your voice steady, controlled, pretending like it hadn’t happened.

Lando’s expression didn’t shift dramatically, but something flickered, something sharp, something you couldn’t quite read. His grip remained firm, his body still angled toward you, and though the podium ceremony was waiting, though interviews and celebrations were lined up, though the world was watching—he didn’t move.

The words barely reached you, his voice just a breath of sound against the chaos around you, but they landed sharply, unmistakably.

“I heard that.”

───

The intensity of the celebrations had finally settled into something quieter, something softer, but the energy of the victory still lingered in the air, wrapping around you both like it wasn’t quite ready to fade. Monaco had witnessed history today—McLaren had witnessed history today—and as the night stretched on, it was clear that no one wanted it to end just yet.

The podium had come and gone, the champagne had been spilled, and now, the final act of the night was unfolding: a team dinner, a moment to revel in what had just been achieved, one last chance to soak in the sheer gravity of setting a new track record in one of the most prestigious circuits in Formula 1.

Back at the apartment, you moved quickly, stripping away the remnants of the race weekend, replacing them with something sleeker, something more refined, something that suited the occasion.

Your mind was a whirlwind, flickering between thoughts too quickly to grasp—the record, the podium, the celebration, the kiss, the weight of Lando’s touch, the way something had shifted between you today. You hadn’t had time to process any of it yet—not fully—but the echoes of each moment still rang in the back of your mind, still lived in the spaces between each breath.

Now, standing by the elevator, waiting for the doors to open, you felt his presence—strong, grounding, undeniably familiar. Lando’s arm was draped easily over your shoulders, his grip loose but firm, his fingers brushing absently against the fabric of your dress, like the contact was thoughtless, instinctive. Maybe before today, it had been just that—just part of the act, just effortless banter, just teasing at the edge of something playful. But now? Now, you weren’t sure.

Tilting your head slightly, you glanced up at him, your voice carrying a teasing edge, but also something else—something that wasn’t quite light, wasn’t quite casual. “Don’t you think that celebration was too much?”

Lando chuckled, his body shifting slightly, adjusting his hold but not letting go, eyes flickering down toward you with amusement—predictable amusement, but something beneath it felt different.

“Baby, I just set a new record in Monaco,” he declared, tone confident, smooth, the smirk slipping effortlessly into place. “So no, I don’t think so.”

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head slightly. “And the kiss?”

There was the briefest hesitation, something unspoken curling at the edges of his expression. But before you could press him, before you could dissect the pause—he answered, simple, effortless.

“I was excited.”

The elevator doors slid open before you could respond, before the moment could linger too long, before you could ask the question you weren’t sure you wanted an answer to yet. The moment was broken—interrupted—but the thought remained, lingering in the back of your mind, refusing to let go.

Inside the apartment, Lando moved quickly—too quickly—changing into something equally polished but effortless in the way he always carried himself. Meanwhile, you stood in front of the mirror, fingers adjusting the fabric of your dress, smoothing over edges, trying to focus, trying to ground yourself in something other than the thoughts still spinning in your head.

Behind you, sprawled across the bed like he had no plans to move just yet, Lando lay there, watching you, gaze unwavering,

locked onto you in a way that made the air in the room shift slightly. The attention was undeniable, heavy, lingering, and you felt it fully—in the reflection, in the silence, in the way your pulse didn’t quite keep steady.

“You’re staring, my dear,” you mused, smirking into the mirror, your voice light, controlled, teasing even—but your pulse betrayed you.

Lando didn’t hesitate.

“Can’t I admire my beautiful girlfriend?” His voice was low, smooth, charged, carrying something deeper beneath the teasing edge, something that made your breath catch just slightly.

Lando’s words hung in the air, settling between you like a challenge, like an invitation, like something neither of you were entirely ready to define.

You held his gaze in the mirror, the corners of your lips curling into something amused, something teasing, something controlled—but your pulse betrayed you, beating just a little too fast, racing just a little too wildly.

“You’re really committing to this, huh?” you mused, shifting slightly, adjusting the strap of your dress, still watching him, still very aware of how his eyes hadn’t moved from you.

Lando chuckled, stretching lazily on the bed, but his smirk didn’t fade, didn’t waver, didn’t lose its edge. “What, admiring my girlfriend?” His voice was light, easy, but the weight beneath it was impossible to ignore.

You scoffed, shaking your head, turning slightly to face him. “You know, the more you push it, the harder it’s going to be for you to backtrack later.”

He hummed, considering that, tilting his head slightly. “You think I want to backtrack?”

───

The dinner had been nothing short of seamless, laughter spilling across the room, glasses clinking in celebration, conversations flowing effortlessly. McLaren’s team had bought into the dynamic between the two of you without hesitation—no skepticism, no questioning glances, just complete acceptance. In their eyes, you and Lando fit perfectly, a seamless pair that seemed to work as naturally as any other couple in the paddock. And that should have been comforting. That should have been proof that the game was working.

But the problem was—it wasn’t a game anymore.

Now, walking through Monaco’s streets, hand in hand, the city lights casting golden reflections against the pavement, the reality of the situation settled heavily between you. Lando’s grip wasn’t just for show, wasn’t just effortless muscle memory, wasn’t just playing pretend. No, his fingers curled around yours like he wanted to hold on, like it was instinctive, like it wasn’t something he had to think about anymore. Maybe there had been rules once—lines drawn, boundaries set, reminders that this was all part of something bigger than just the two of you.

But those rules?

Gone. Completely fucked. Every single one of them.

Then, out of nowhere, his voice cut through the quiet, casual but with a weight that hit you instantly.

“Y/n, you know you’re my type.”

You blinked, heart stumbling, stomach twisting into something dangerously close to real panic. No way. No way.

“I noticed, Lando,” you replied, keeping your voice even, steady, controlled—like you weren’t suddenly questioning everything.

But he shook his head, squeezing your hand just slightly, just enough for the warmth of his touch to register, just enough for you to realize that this wasn’t teasing, wasn’t banter, wasn’t pushing boundaries for the sake of the game.

This was real.

“No, I mean it, Y/n.” His voice was softer now, more deliberate, his gaze scanning your face, focused, serious, carrying an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. “You grew up into such a beautiful woman.”

Your breath hitched, just slightly, just enough for him to notice.

You felt his gaze linger on you, felt the way his thumb absently brushed against your skin as he held your hand, as he walked beside you through the quiet streets of Monaco, effortlessly pulling old memories into the present like they had never faded.

“I still remember that little shy girl you were,” he murmured, voice low, edged with something gentle, something careful, something that made your stomach twist in a way you hadn’t expected.

You exhaled, slow, measured, letting the words settle, letting them sink into the space between you like something undeniably significant.

“That was a long time ago,” you finally muttered, tilting your head slightly, offering him a sideways glance, watching for whatever he wasn’t saying outright.

Lando chuckled, shaking his head slightly, squeezing your hand just enough for you to feel it. “Not that long,” he mused, his smirk flickering briefly before it softened, before it melted into something that wasn’t teasing anymore.

“I guess,” you finally muttered, glancing at him, eyes scanning his expression, searching for something—for confirmation, for meaning, for whatever the hell had just shifted in this dynamic that had once felt so predictable, so contained.

Lando chuckled, shaking his head slightly, and then—without hesitation, without pretense, without playing into the teasing rhythm you had both mastered—he said it.

“You were always beautiful.”

─── sunday: day three

The early morning sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains, casting a warm glow across the hotel room, illuminating the undeniable reality of what had transpired in the past forty-eight hours. The energy of Monaco still lingered in the air, wrapping around the space between you both, pulling every moment from yesterday into sharp focus—the victory, the celebrations, the way things between you had shifted so irreversibly.

You stretched slightly, sinking deeper into the plush pillows, the warmth of sleep still clinging to your limbs, your thoughts slowly piecing together as the morning settled. But even through the haze of waking up, you felt it—his presence, the way Lando’s body rested beside yours, not hurried, not distant, not pretending that the closeness was something either of you needed to second-guess anymore.

And then, there was him—already awake, already invested in his phone, brows furrowed in that unmistakable way that meant he had discovered something worth dissecting. His focus was sharp, unwavering, and you couldn’t help but observe him for a moment, taking in the way his expression flickered through amusement and intrigue, the way he barely reacted to your movements as you shifted closer.

Finally, your voice broke the comfortable silence, soft, still tinged with sleep, but laced with curiosity. “What’s going on, baby?”

The term of endearment slipped out effortlessly, smoothly, like it had always been part of your vocabulary with him—like it wasn’t something you even thought about anymore.

Lando barely looked up, his grip on the phone firm, still immersed in whatever he was reading, his attention divided between scrolling through articles and listening to you. Then, with the simplest motion, he handed his phone over, lips curling into something amused but undeniably invested.

“Look at these articles,” he murmured, shaking his head slightly, eyes flickering back toward you as you took the device. “We are everywhere.”

You blinked, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you scrolled through the articles, headlines spilling across the screen in bold, dramatic fonts—each one dissecting every single detail of yesterday, of the celebrations, of the way the two of you had looked at each other like no one else mattered.

Lando chuckled beside you, stretching lazily, the smirk still resting on his lips, entirely unbothered by the attention, by the assumptions, by the fact that the internet had officially lost its mind over whatever the hell was happening between you.

“From fuckboy to wholesome boyfriend,” you muttered, shaking your head slightly, glancing over at him. “That’s quite the transformation, Norris.”

He grinned, eyes still flickering toward the screen, fully enjoying every moment of this chaos. “Well, I do pride myself on character development.”

You scoffed, scrolling further, your brows raising slightly as you read aloud another headline. “Lando Norris loves his girlfriend too much for love to be real.”

That earned a full laugh from him, deep and genuine, ringing through the hotel room, unfiltered in a way that made your chest tighten just slightly.

“You’re so fucked up falling for me, my dear,” you murmured, the words slipping out effortlessly, carrying that teasing edge—but this time, it wasn’t fully teasing.

It should have been simple—just another joke, just another throwaway comment to keep the rhythm going, to keep the tension wrapped neatly in the same playful game you had both mastered so well. But it didn’t feel like that anymore. Not when the air around you felt thicker, denser, charged with something undeniable. Not when Lando was watching you like this, like he was seeing something more, like he wasn’t about to laugh this off like every moment before it.

Lando chuckled, shaking his head just slightly, but the way he reacted—it wasn’t the usual deflection, wasn’t the expected brush-off, wasn’t him pulling back into safe territory. If anything, it was confirmation, quiet but certain, settling into the space between you with weight.

“Maybe I am,” he admitted, voice low, smooth, deliberate—undeniably real.

───

The paddock was alive with movement—mechanics darting from one side of the garage to the other, voices overlapping, data streaming across telemetry screens, the unmistakable hum of final race preparations filling the air. The energy was palpable, the kind of intensity that only race day could bring, where every second mattered, where every detail could be the difference between victory and disappointment.

But you and Lando? Utterly unbothered.

He sat casually on the counter, fingers lazily drumming against the smooth metal surface, his race suit hanging loosely around his frame, only partially zipped, the edges of his fireproof undershirt peeking through. There was no tension in his body, no hint of nerves, just that familiar ease—that infuriating confidence that made it seem like he had already won before the lights had even gone out.

“You should go,” you told him, nodding toward the car waiting in the garage, the vehicle that would soon carry him to the grid, to the battle, to the chaos that was about to unfold.

But Lando didn’t move.

Instead, he turned to look at you, his expression shifting, amusement glinting in his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching just slightly, just enough to tell you that he had already decided something before you even realized the conversation was happening.

“Not getting into that car without my good luck kiss.”

The words landed effortlessly, smooth, casual, like they had always belonged here, like this was just a normal part of his pre-race routine now.

Your breath hitched, just slightly, stomach twisting with something you weren’t quite ready to name, something that sat just beneath the surface of your amusement, something that made the air thicker between you.

You scoffed, shaking your head, crossing your arms. “You’re unbelievable.”

Lando grinned, shifting slightly, feet swinging as he leaned back against the counter, completely at ease. “I’m serious.”

You arched a brow, stepping closer, tilting your head just slightly, watching him carefully. “Since when do you need a good luck kiss?”

His smirk widened just a little, and for a second, you could swear his gaze flickered toward your lips.

“Since now,” he said simply, shrugging like it was the most obvious thing in the world, like this moment, this request, was completely normal—even though you both knew it wasn’t.

You knew—without a doubt—that this wasn’t something Lando was going to let you forget.

For the rest of your life, he would bring it up at the most ridiculous moments, reminding you, teasing you, dragging it out for dramatic effect, making sure that no matter how much time passed, you’d still hear about this exact second when he finally got what he wanted.

So you kissed him.

Lips on lips, soft, deliberate, careful yet certain, the kind of kiss that settled deep, the kind that meant something, the kind neither of you could brush off anymore.

And that bastard?

He was enjoying every second of it.

His hand stayed firm on your waist, fingers curling just slightly, grounding you, keeping you close, like pulling away wasn’t even an option anymore.

When you finally parted—when the moment lingered, stretched between you like something irrevocable—his lips curled into that familiar smirk, lazy, satisfied, completely pleased with himself.

“Thank you, darling,” he murmured, voice low, edged with amusement, with something else entirely.

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head, knowing—without a doubt—that he was going to be insufferable about this for the rest of your life.

Lando stood before you, his race suit fully zipped, gloves secured, and helmet cradled between his hands. The usual pre-race energy buzzed around the garage—mechanics making last-minute adjustments, engineers scanning data, the hum of voices layered over the sound of engines roaring to life. Everything was moving fast, everything was precise, everyone had a job to do.

And yet—amidst all of that—he came to you.

“Is it good?” he asked, referring to the fit his helmet already sitting on his head. His voice was smooth, steady, but there was something underneath it, something unspoken, something that made you realize he wanted your reassurance more than he was willing to admit.

You didn’t hesitate.

With gentle hands, you reached for the collar of his suit, adjusting it just slightly, making sure everything sat perfectly. Your fingers brushed against the edges of his helmet, tilting it just right, securing it with the kind of precision that wasn’t just about racing—it was about him, about making sure he walked out onto that track with nothing on his mind except the drive.

“Perfect,” you murmured, the word carrying weight, carrying meaning, carrying something undeniably proud.

Lando grinned, the corner of his mouth twitching with something warm, something easy, something that told you this wasn’t just about the race anymore—this was about you, too.

───

Lando had always had a way of turning moments into something unforgettable, of making sure every victory, every achievement, felt bigger than just a race—and today was no exception.

Two hours later, he stood on the top step of the podium, his race suit clinging to him, still damp with sweat and adrenaline, his helmet long discarded, curls slightly tousled from the rush of celebration. The sun reflected off the trophy in his hands, casting shimmering highlights over the podium, catching on the beads of champagne that had started to drip onto the cool metal surface beneath his feet. He was at the center of it all, the cameras flashing, the crowd erupting, the emotion surging through the circuit like an unstoppable wave.

The champagne bottles sat idly, waiting for their turn, for the explosion of joy that would come as soon as the formalities ended. But now? Now, the moment belonged to him—the British anthem playing through the circuit, the crowd roaring, every camera, every fan, every voice locked onto the driver who had just dominated the race. His team stood beside him on the lower steps, hands clasped in triumph, their faces painted with the sheer joy of seeing their hard work turn into something real, something victorious.

And you? Standing beneath the podium once again, surrounded by his team, the sea of orange alive with pure exhilaration, shouts of triumph echoing in the air. The energy was infectious, buzzing in your chest, pushing through your veins, filling you with something electric. But none of it truly registered—not the voices, not the clapping, not the flashing cameras. It was all just background noise to the one person you were focused on.

Lando’s gaze swept over the crowd briefly, soaking in the scene, reveling in the energy, before his eyes found yours—steady, certain, glinting with something smug, something so undeniably him. The slow curl of his lips sent warmth spreading through your chest, a reaction you weren’t prepared to admit, and yet, there it was. He knew exactly what he was doing, exactly the effect he had, exactly how this moment would settle into something neither of you could forget.

Then, effortlessly, he winked.

A smirk followed, stretching across his lips, settling into something infuriatingly triumphant, the kind of expression that said, I told you so without needing a single word. You could already hear the teasing that would come later, the way he would remind you of this moment, the way he would make sure it stayed with you longer than just today.

Your stomach twisted, a warmth settling deep in your chest, a realization creeping up that you had been right earlier—he wasn’t getting into that car without his good luck kiss, and now? Now, he was standing up there, watching you from the top step, knowing, without a doubt, that it had worked.

The champagne sprayed across the podium, shimmering under the bright circuit lights, cascading down the suits of the top three drivers as they reveled in the moment, in the victory, in the culmination of everything that had brought them to this point. The roar of the crowd was deafening, a mixture of cheers, applause, and celebratory shouts that echoed across the circuit, wrapping itself around the podium like a living, breathing force. The atmosphere was electric, buzzing with the kind of energy that only came with a moment like this—a victory earned, a dream realized, a legacy cemented in history.

Lando stood at the center of it all, completely unguarded, beaming, laughing as he turned the bottle in his hands, directing the spray toward his team below, toward the crowd, toward the chaos that had erupted around him. His eyes sparkled with something raw, something pure, something that hadn’t been clouded by doubt or pressure or expectation. It was just joy—unfiltered, unrestrained, the kind that made everything else disappear. The way he smiled, the way his laughter rang out, the way he held himself with that effortless confidence—it was something you hadn’t seen in a long time.

And that was when it hit you.

The tear slipped free, unplanned, unexpected, but undeniable. It wasn’t sadness, wasn’t regret—it was something deeper, something softer, something whole. Because watching him like this, seeing him in his moment, seeing him where he was always meant to be—it stirred something in you that you hadn’t fully processed before.

You had missed this version of him—the one who radiated joy, the one who didn’t overthink, the one who belonged here, on the top step of the most iconic race in the world. For so long, there had been questions, uncertainties, lingering thoughts about what could’ve been, what should’ve been. But now? Now, looking at him standing there, looking at the way victory settled around him so naturally, you realized something with absolute clarity.

Maybe, in some strange, bittersweet way, you were glad he had left all those years ago.

Because if he hadn’t—if things had unfolded any other way—he wouldn’t be standing here now. He wouldn’t be soaking in this moment, wouldn’t be gripping the trophy with hands that had fought so hard for it, wouldn’t be surrounded by the kind of triumph that had been years in the making.

And watching him up there, soaking in his moment, drenched in triumph, surrounded by everything he had worked for?

You wouldn’t change a single thing.

After the podium celebrations had settled, you found yourself tucked away in McLaren’s hospitality lounge, waiting for Lando to finish the rounds of interviews. The hum of conversation filled the space, mechanics and engineers drifting in and out, the scent of victory still lingering in the air.

With your phone in hand, you watched the interviews unfold, scrolling through clips as they surfaced, catching bits and pieces of his words between questions about tire strategy, race pace, and overtakes. But then—one particular question caught your attention.

“We’ve seen you and your girlfriend together in the paddock all weekend,” the reporter noted, voice smooth, curious, leaning in slightly. “Do you think she was the key to your success today?”

Your brows lifted slightly, interest piqued, your full attention now locked on the screen.

Lando didn’t hesitate.

His grin spread, easy and confident, amusement flickering in his eyes as he replied, “You mean my girlfriend was the key to my success?” He paused just slightly,

enough to let the words settle before he nodded once, firm, certain. “Definitely. She’s my lucky charm.”

And just like that, your stomach twisted, a warmth settling deep in your chest—because he said it like he meant it.

The reporter’s question had been straightforward, part of the usual post-race inquiries about what contributed to Lando’s success, but the weight of his answer settled into something deeper—something personal, something real.

His smirk softened, the usual post-race adrenaline still coursing through him, but now edged with something sincere. His posture remained relaxed, but there was a shift—a quiet moment of recognition in his expression, as if he was fully aware of the gravity of what he was about to say. He exhaled slightly, rolling his shoulders back before speaking, his voice steady and undeniably certain.

"I'm glad my Y/n is here with me," he said, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips, his gaze flickering toward the camera, as if the words weren’t just meant for the reporter or the audience—but for you, wherever you were, watching. "This win is for her."

The atmosphere in the room shifted just slightly, the laughter and chatter quieting for a beat, letting the words settle. His team, the journalists, the PR staff—they all carried on around him, but for that fleeting moment, none of them mattered.

Because it was about you.

And then, as if to cement the moment in history, as if to ensure you knew exactly what he meant, Lando’s smile widened, his fingers lifted in a small, casual wave, his expression holding that distinct mix of amusement and complete sincerity.

"I love you, baby," he added, voice light, but his gaze unwavering.

And somewhere—perhaps in the middle of the paddock, or tucked away in the McLaren lounge, or still watching through the glowing screen of your phone—you felt it.

The warmth.

It was ridiculous, really—how much he loved you. How much you lingered in his mind, how much the thought of you had settled into his bones like something he couldn’t shake, couldn’t ignore, couldn’t turn off even if he wanted to.

And the worst part?

He didn’t want to.

Not even a little.

Because there you were, always, in the back of his thoughts, in the quiet moments between races, in the adrenaline-fueled highs and the exhausted lows, in the way his hands absentmindedly reached for his phone just to see if you had messaged, even when he knew you hadn’t.

He was so fucked.

But then again—so were you.

Because for all the ways he thought about you, all the ways you ran through his mind like an unstoppable force—you were doing the exact same thing.

───

The music pulsed through the crowded room, a steady beat that seemed to sync with the rhythm of Monaco itself—an endless celebration, a city that never truly slept, especially not on a night like this. The race had come and gone, the results were final, but none of it mattered now. Here, in the heart of the victory party, the lines between triumph and defeat blurred into nothing.

Monaco was different from any other race on the calendar. Here, everyone celebrated. Whether they had stood on the podium, missed out by fractions of a second, or endured the brutal reality of a retirement, it didn’t matter. The atmosphere was infectious, drowning out thoughts of past regrets or future pressures, replacing them with nothing but laughter, music, and the electricity of the night.

And in the center of it all, there was you and Lando.

His hand found yours effortlessly, fingers curling around your wrist as he twirled you, spinning you into the sea of people before catching you again—firm, steady, his. His grip was easy, natural, and the way he pulled you back to him was completely unguarded, like holding onto you was as instinctive as breathing.

The flickering lights overhead bathed his features in golden hues, catching on the sharp angles of his jaw, illuminating the curve of his grin, the familiar spark in his eyes. He was glowing, alive, moving with an energy that wasn’t just post-race adrenaline—it was something else entirely. Something lighter. Something real.

And as the music swelled, as the world blurred around you, as his arms tightened around you just slightly, grounding you in this moment, in him, you realized something with absolute certainty.

This—this exact moment—was his favorite kind of win.

The music was loud, the air thick with celebration, bodies moving in every direction, laughter spilling into the night. Monaco had wrapped itself around you both, drawing you into the pulse of it, into the warmth, into the chaos that was somehow so perfectly right.

Lando’s hands were on you, strong and steady despite the way the champagne had settled into his veins, making everything feel just a little lighter, just a little easier, just a little too honest. His grip was firm around your waist as he swayed with you, his laughter bubbling up, uninhibited, raw, completely unfiltered.

“You know,” he murmured, his voice barely above the music, but close enough—close enough that it sank into you the way his touch did. “I think I might be a little bit in love with you.”

You laughed, shaking your head, because this was Lando—your Lando, messy and drunk and unbelievably obvious.

“A little bit?” you teased, tilting your head, amusement dancing in your tone.

His grip tightened as he pulled you in, so close you could see the way his pupils were blown wide, the way his expression softened just slightly, just enough to be real.

“Okay, fine,” he admitted, his voice lower now, heavier. “A lot Like, stupidly, annoyingly, completely, all-the-way in love with you.”

You didn’t have time to react before he spun you again, pulling you back just as fast, his grin unapologetic, his hands never leaving yours.

You shook your head, amusement flickering in your eyes, though the smile that tugged at your lips betrayed you. "You're drunk, Lando," you teased, brushing off the weight of his words, the confession woven into them.

But he wasn’t having it.

Without hesitation, he pulled you closer, his grip firm, his fingers pressing into your skin like he needed you to listen, like he needed you to believe him. His breath was warm against your cheek, his voice softer now, rougher, laced with something too real to be ignored.

“I mean it, Y/n."

He hesitated, his eyes searching yours, lingering for half a second longer than they should have, like he was waiting for something—some kind of reaction, some kind of reassurance, some kind of anything that told him he wasn’t just saying this into the night.

His fingers curled slightly against your waist.

"I don’t want this to end."

Your stomach twisted, your pulse stuttering as the meaning settled between you, hanging in the space neither of you had dared to touch before. But still, you asked, because you had to, because you needed to hear him say it even though you already knew.

"What?"

Lando exhaled sharply, shaking his head, his hold tightening as he finally let the words fall.

"This," he murmured, his voice lower now, heavier. "The bet or whatever it is. Us."

You took his hand, fingers lacing through his without hesitation, and guided him away from the crowd, weaving past the swirling bodies, past the laughter, past the electricity of Monaco’s endless celebration. The music pulsed behind you, but the further you walked, the quieter it became, the lights dimming, the chaos settling into the background until it was just the two of you, standing in the shadowed corner of the venue.

He let you lead him, no resistance, no questions—just quiet curiosity, just the steady grip of his hand holding onto yours like he wasn’t willing to let go. And then you stopped, turning to face him, exhaling a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, your heart pounding, your thoughts tangled, every word you wanted to say sitting on the tip of your tongue but refusing to fall into place.

“I don’t know what’s real and what’s just pretending, Lan,” you finally admitted, your voice softer now, rawer, laced with something too heavy for the moment, something too real. You swallowed hard, your fingers twitching against his, unable to look away, unable to pull back, unable to escape the way his gaze searched yours with that same intensity, the same depth, the same knowing. Because deep down, you already had your answer—you just wanted to hear him say it.

Lando’s expression didn’t shift, didn’t flicker with hesitation or uncertainty. If anything, he looked like he had been waiting for this conversation, waiting for you to bring it up, waiting for the chance to say what had already been sitting between you for far too long.

His grip on your hand tightened just slightly, grounding you, steadying you, keeping you present when your instinct begged you to run from whatever this was. “I don’t pretend anything since the first day, love,” he murmured, his voice carrying something firm yet gentle, something sure, something that left no room for doubt. The way he said it, the way the words fell effortlessly from his lips, sent something rushing through you—a realization, a truth, a confirmation of everything you had already known but refused to acknowledge.

Then, his thumb brushed against your skin, slow, deliberate, and he went further. “I mean, I want you to be mine,” he continued, his voice dropping just slightly, almost careful, as if it carried more weight than he knew how to hold.

His eyes searched yours again, not for permission, not for reassurance—just for the moment, just for you, just for the understanding that this wasn’t a joke, that this wasn’t something fleeting, that this wasn’t just part of the game. “Truly mine.”

Lando’s voice was lower now, rougher, heavy with something undeniable. The distance between you had disappeared, the warmth of him wrapping around you, drowning out the rest of the world, pressing into something real. His fingers curled against your waist, slow, deliberate, his grip not demanding but certain, like he was holding onto the truth of his words as much as he was holding onto you.

“I’ve never wanted someone so badly the way I want you, Y/n,” he murmured, his eyes locked onto yours, searching for any sign of doubt, any hint that you might pull away, might retreat into excuses, into hesitation.

The weight of the night pressed against your skin—the heat of Monaco’s endless celebration, the pulse of music vibrating through the walls, the distant roar of voices spilling over in laughter, in cheers, in pure adrenaline-fueled revelry. But none of it mattered. Not the party, not the race, not the noise—because here, in this quiet corner, tucked away from the chaos, it was just you and him.

Lando’s grip was firm, grounding you, steadying himself, his fingers curling against your waist like he was afraid the second he let go, this moment might slip away. His breath was uneven, his pupils blown wide, the remnants of champagne and excitement lingering in the way his chest rose and fell in shallow movements, in the way his lips parted slightly like he had more to say but wasn’t sure how to say it.

He wanted you. Needed you. Craved you in ways he hadn’t fully realized until now.

And you?

You were just as gone for him.

Everything—every single thing—had changed this weekend. What started as something simple, something playful, something undefined had shifted into this, into something so much heavier, so much more real than either of you had been prepared for. Every moment spent together had turned into something impossible to ignore, every fleeting glance now carried meaning, every touch lingered longer than it should.

All the years of pain, of hesitation, of uncertainty didn’t matter anymore.

He had changed. You had changed. But in a way, he was still the same. Still Lando, still the boy with the teasing smirk, with the wild energy, with the unfiltered laughter that had always drawn you in. But now, that same boy was standing in front of you, looking at you like you were the only thing in the world, like you were his like this moment meant more than any podium finish ever could.

Your chest tightened, breath shaky, fingers twitching slightly against his as you finally let the words slip, raw and completely unguarded.

“I’m yours, Lando.”

─── monday: the end ??

The headache was manageable. The weight pressing against your chest? Not so much.

Morning light filtered through the curtains, casting soft shadows across the room, painting everything in muted tones of reality that you weren’t entirely ready to face. The warmth of sleep still clung to your body, but it wasn’t enough to keep the creeping thoughts at bay. Not today. Not when everything felt different, when the ease of last night had been replaced with something heavier, something impossible to ignore.

Beside you, Lando stirred. Shirtless, tangled in the sheets, limbs sprawled across the bed like he hadn’t quite processed the morning yet, like he was still lost somewhere between last night’s celebration and the reality waiting outside these walls. His breathing was slow, steady, rhythmic in a way that should’ve been comforting—but instead, it gnawed at something inside you, pulling at the edges of a thought you weren’t quite ready to examine.

You could get used to this.

The sight of him, the warmth of him, the way everything about this felt natural, like it belonged. But at the same time, something inside you hesitated, wavered, pressed against the weight of knowing this wasn’t supposed to be real, wasn’t supposed to last.

You sighed, reaching for your phone, fingers fumbling across the screen as the device lit up, notifications flooding in like a wave crashing against the shore. And the second your browser opened, the world greeted you with stark reality.

Photos.

Everywhere.

You and Lando, caught in flashes, frozen in moments that weren’t meant to be dissected by the rest of the world, splashed across headlines with catchy phrases that barely scratched the surface of what really happened. But that wasn’t the worst part.

It was the interview.

It was the way he had said all the right things, played the perfect role, made everyone believe what they wanted to believe.

It was proof that the bet was over.

And that Lando had won.

He had convinced the world that he was the perfect boyfriend. Charming, devoted, unbelievably convincing. And maybe, just maybe, he had convinced you, too.

The thought twisted deep in your stomach, tangled in something uncomfortable, something terrifying, something you weren’t ready to unpack. Because if this was over—if this was all just part of the game, part of something meant to end—then what happened now?

Were you supposed to go back to being friends?

And if so…

Why did that feel like the last thing you wanted?

You moved slowly, almost too slowly, as if the weight pressing down on you made it harder to go through the motions. Packing your things should’ve been easy, mindless, routine—but instead, every item you folded, every piece of clothing you shoved into your bag felt heavier than it should. Like somehow, leaving this room, leaving him, leaving this entire weekend behind, was more than just the end of a bet.

Was it really over?

Was it supposed to be?

You swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the fabric in your hands, thoughts swirling faster than you could process them. After everything—the teasing, the lingering touches, the way his gaze had held onto yours like it meant something, like it was more. After last night, after his confession, after the way he had needed you.

But maybe that was all it had been—a moment fueled by champagne and adrenaline, by the high of the night, by the fleeting rush of Monaco’s magic.

You sighed, shaking your head slightly, convincing yourself that it was just that. Just drunk words. Just impulse. Just Lando being Lando. Just something temporary—something that shouldn’t matter as much as it did.

Just as your fingers brushed against the door handle, a firm grip wrapped around your wrist, halting your movement, pulling you back before you could take that final step. The warmth of his touch was steady, solid, anchoring you to the moment before you could slip away from it. Your pulse stumbled, your breath hitching as his fingers tightened, not harshly, not demandingly, but deliberately—as if he knew that if he didn’t stop you now, you might never stop yourself.

“Where are you going?” Lando’s voice, rough from sleep, carried a quiet intensity, a gravity that settled in your chest, made your stomach twist in a way you weren’t ready to acknowledge. He wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t making light of the situation. He was serious.

You swallowed, eyes flickering over his face, searching for something—an escape, an easy answer, anything that would make this moment less real. But nothing came. No excuses, no rehearsed responses, nothing to fill the space between you except the raw truth you had been trying to avoid since the second you woke up. “Home?” you answered, though it came out more like a question, uncertain, fragile, like the word didn’t belong to you anymore.

But Lando didn’t waver.

His grip tightened just slightly, his gaze steady, unwavering, knowing. There was no hesitation in his expression, no uncertainty in his stance, no doubt in the way he looked at you like he had already decided what this was, what this meant.

“But you are home,” he said, and the conviction in his voice hit something deep inside you, something you had tried so hard to ignore, something you weren’t sure you could fight anymore.

Because deep down, you knew the truth—you were home. After eight long years, after everything, after all the hesitation and uncertainty, you had finally found your way back. And it wasn’t just Monaco, wasn’t just the comfort of familiar places or the rush of the weekend—it was him. He was your home.

But admitting that felt too big, too terrifying, too final. So instead, you let the words slip out, sharp and deliberate, forcing a distance between you both before the moment swallowed you whole.

“You won the bet, remember?”

Lando’s expression shifted, the certainty in his eyes flickering just slightly, like he wasn’t expecting you to say that. His grip didn’t loosen, but something in his stance changed—a subtle hesitation, a brief flicker of something uncertain, something vulnerable.

“I don’t care about the bet,” he said after a moment, his voice quieter now, rougher, edged with something too real to be ignored.

You exhaled slowly, heart pounding in your chest, fingers twitching where his held onto yours. You wanted to believe him, wanted to lean into the warmth of his words, into the comfort of the truth they carried—but it wasn’t that simple. It was never that simple.

“Lando…” you started, but he didn’t let you finish.

“I didn’t win anything,” he murmured, shaking his head slightly. His fingers slid down to lace with yours, gripping tighter, like he needed you to understand—really understand. His lips parted, breath uneven, his gaze locked onto yours like he was afraid you were going to slip away, like if he let go, you would vanish completely. “Not if you walk out that door.”

And suddenly, the bet—the thing that had started all of this, the game that had set everything in motion—felt so insignificant compared to what this had become.

For eight years, you convinced yourself that losing him was inevitable—that people came and went, that feelings faded, that memories blurred into nothing more than passing thoughts that didn’t carry weight anymore. You had spent years learning how to live without him, how to ignore the way his name still tugged at something deep in your chest, how to pretend the absence didn’t feel so vast.

But standing here now, feeling the warmth of his grip against your wrist, hearing the quiet certainty in his voice, all of that fell apart. Because the truth was—you never really let him go.

“I let you go eight years ago,” Lando said, his voice low, rough around the edges, laced with something unshakable. His fingers curled tighter, grounding himself in the moment, in you, in everything that had come rushing back between you like time had never passed at all. “And I’m not letting that happen again.”

The words sat heavy between you, lingering in the space where doubt had once lived, where hesitation had once thrived, where every unspoken fear had kept you both apart for far too long. They pressed into the silence, into the quiet moment that felt too fragile, too raw, like any wrong movement might shatter the certainty building between you.

“I can’t lose you again, Y/n.”

But now?

Now, none of that mattered.

Because when he said it—when you felt it—it wasn’t just something fleeting, wasn’t just words tossed carelessly into the air. It was a truth, a choice, an impossible confession wrapped in quiet certainty, in undeniable finality. And that changed everything.

“I can’t lose you again,” he repeated, softer this time, voice dipping into something rough, something raw, something undeniable. The words were meant for you, meant to wrap around the air between you, meant to stay. He wasn’t just saying it for the sake of it—he needed you to hear it, needed you to understand that this wasn’t just impulse, wasn’t just adrenaline, wasn’t just the remnants of the night clinging to him.

He meant it.

And you did, too.

Because deep down, you felt the same.

You couldn’t lose him again. Not after eight years of silence. Not after everything. Not after the way this weekend had torn down every last wall between you, had stripped away the hesitations, had forced you to see what had been there all along.

Not when he was standing here, holding onto you, refusing to let go, refusing to let you slip away the way you had once before. Not when his fingers curled against your skin like he was terrified of losing this moment, of losing you, of losing everything all over again. Not when his presence swallowed you whole, when his warmth seeped into you, when every racing thought screeched to a halt under the weight of this moment, of him, of the realization that maybe—just maybe—this was exactly where you were meant to be.

The words sat on the edge of your tongue, lingering, heavy, tangled with years of emotions too vast to contain, too powerful to ignore. You had spent so long convincing yourself that time had changed things—that the anger, the frustration, the ache of his absence had chipped away at everything else, had left you with nothing more than resentment and a hollow space where love used to live.

But standing here, feeling the warmth of his fingers wrapped around your wrist, seeing the way his eyes searched yours, the way he held onto you like he wasn’t willing to let go, everything you had buried came rushing back.

Because despite everything—despite the years apart, despite the walls you had built, despite the way you had once convinced yourself you could live without him—you still loved him.

And when the words finally escaped, they carried more weight than you ever thought possible.

“I love you, Norris.”

babsie radio ! Thank you for the positive feedback on nostalgia, I’m so glad you liked it as much as I did! I know you guys wanted slowburn but I just don’t know how to write it haha, but I tried, hope it’s slowburn enough and you’ll enjoy it <3

taglist ! @haniette @hazzasmunchkin @stilesks @freyathehuntress @fictionalfanatic123 @evilive

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swetner · 23 hours ago

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MY MISSIE!!!!!!!! OHHHH HOW I’VE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS !!! i am so enamoured with this fic and it has accompanied me throughout my whole day. each minimal little free space i had, it was dedicated to this. when i finally got in bed i couldn’t wait to get my hands on it i DEVOUREDDDD it. and ofc my photo gallery always looks like this whenever i finish reading one of your fics

you have such a magical way with words and this was just another confirmation, in the form of one of the best fics i’ve read this year, if not ever. i will never stop being obsessed and absolutely entranced with the way you write and portray love. it feels so delicate and real at the same time. it’s easy in that it comes in the form of the sun simply warming cheekbones but it’s also immensely soul stirring and warm

^ this got me so infinitely bad… i love the way you paint these only apparently small moments and turn them into the whole foundation of their mutual adoration. loved seeing jungkook as the one to pine first and being absolutely whipped until the very end

^ THIS WHOLE SEQUENCEEEE…. NGHHH THE TENSION. you truly have a phd in yearningology let me tell you cause i could feel it thrilling through my body … and i’m so crazy about the first time jk let himself be touched, how it felt so intimate and safe <333

i loved loved loved the character you built around oc and the world surrounding her. her past, her present and her future ambitions. even when she showed her ugly, her insecure. it was vulnerable and comforting, and i wished for nothing more than for her to be able to accept love without there being some ulterior motive. glad she could at the end 🩷🩷

and THISSS SINGLE SENTENCE. absolutely nuts. changed my life trajectory. FUCKING HELLLL

your genius perfect mind created a universe that has so much thought and details at its base and it feels intimate knowing you let us have a small peek in your life, even more so for me when i honestly knew nothing about marching bands and color guards until now, but right after finishing this i felt so embraced in its hug, it’s like the attachment is making it impossible to let this go. i will be signing up for drum corps i don’t care if they don’t have all this in europe where’s my tenor drummer jk 😭😭🩷

i am so immensely glad you decided to share this with the world. and i truly wish for it to see all that you are my missy. this whole piece is deserving of eternal praise 😭😭😭

i would loooovvvvvve a moodboard for both oc and jk in this, i have built a particular image of oc in my head while reading so i wanna know what u had in mind instead while writing hehe

once again i’m so so so grateful i got to be part of it somehow, even the smallest one, and infinitely honored you decided to dedicate this to me. you don’t even know how i felt reading that, knowing how much effort surely went into this. i must have saved planets in my past life because i don’t feel like i deserve to be the one you hand this to. forever the biggest achievement in my life for real 🩷

you inspire me to write as well, you infuse such a powerful passion with everything you create. i look up to you truly!!! i hope i can come back and be even the smallest quarter of what you are, your talent and originality. also i already told you but you know my commissions are always open for u love 💋

thank you missy, i hope you’re getting your rest while i’ll be here to give you your flowers until you get sick of me <333 please never leave us. your presence is so very special ❣️

these two left a deep mark and i’ll be thinking of them for a loooong time and hoping you can give us little updates from time to time on how theyre doing keke

love u hard <333 so sorry for the long review but i just couldn’t help it

ps: these are songs that came to mind while i was reading. i feel like it’s so them

toss up

synopsis: friday night football games, all day marching band competitions on saturday, and sunday schoolwork catch up — the schedule you’ve religiously maintained throughout high school and now college. that is, until you found respite in jungkook’s company.

☼ pairing: tenor drummer!jungkook x colorguard captain!fem reader

☼ wc: 26.5k

☼ genre: marching band/college au, fluff, angst, smut, romcom

☼ cw: jk as loser stuck in a hot body, uptight oc (not too much on my girl ok? i love her) past misunderstandings, miscommunication (i know i hate it too), negative family dynamics, yearning, pining, jealousy, lots of nickname usage, marching band terminology, physical injuries, 18+ ONLY - MINORS DNI 🔞, mature language, sexual tension, dirty talk, switch jk & oc, masturbation (m), oral (f receiving), handjob, fingering, brief nipple play, spitting, praising, cum eating, semi-overstimulation, oc gets teary from the good o, riding, missionary, multiple orgasms, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, creampie.

☼ a/n: little miss liar here 😌 got ahead of my editing schedule, so might as well release early. anyway! happy bts month!! we are so back, bangtan babes 💜 here’s a very niche fic inspired by real life events. it’s been over 10 years since i’ve marched so pls be easy on me.

banner by the lovely @lovieku *･☆ i also wanna dedicate this fic to her bc she rly gets me so excited to write! nicest person ever like you don’t even know 🥹💖 (pls come back n also open commissions)

”FIVE, SIX—FIVE, SIX, SEVEN, EIGHT!”

No matter the number sequence, your body always knew when to move.

Having done colorguard since you were 15 years old, you took pride in being section leader for the third year in a row at your university. The band director typically picked their section leaders based on seniority, but skill sets may outrank that on very rare occasions. Everyone was shocked when Director Lee selected you, a first-year at the time, over another fourth-year colorguard member. You would be too had you been in their position.

Except, you weren’t.

You put in the extra hours when no one else did and arrived on time to every practice. To you, that was the bare minimum.

Being a good leader, now, that was the hard part.

You took what you’ve experienced from your past captains: stern in how they led practices, soft in how they uplifted the team during difficult times. Director Lee immediately recognized those qualities in you. Older members rebelled against the decision, but eventually followed suit or left the university marching band due to graduating.

Colorguard was a sport — you’d argue that it rivaled football. Because who could toss a flag, run 20 yards on the field, and catch between your legs? Yeah. An athlete. Above that, colorguard was a form of visual arts — the storytellers of the marching band. You had a love-hate relationship with colorguard, but the final results were always worth it … be it through winning competitions or feeling a sense of accomplishment. It’s the start of the field season and you’re currently at the ‘hate’ part.

“Shit!”

The music and band members come to a halt after Hoseok signals the band to stop. Everyone’s visibly upset, sunburnt, and probably dehydrated. This was the sixth time in the last hour of practice the band was forced to stop and reset for a mistake, which meant another five push-ups got added onto the post-practice punishment.

You squint your eyes down the field and realize the commotion involved one of your colorguard members and someone from the drumline.

Fuck.

“JUICEBOX!” Director Lee yells from his megaphone in the stands. “Fix it before I do!”

You’d assume he was yelling for a beverage, but no. It was common to have nicknames in marching band. One could acquire a nickname for the following reasons: long name, director hated you, director loved you, or memorable moment. Unfortunately, you got yours when Director Lee witnessed you chugging down five apple juiceboxes after your first tryout. Memorable moment … at least he didn’t hate you, so you think.

You spot Yuri, your colorguard member, arguing with Jaehyun, a tenor drummer.

“Dude, you fucking hit me with your flag and you want to complain that I was in your spot?” Jaehyun seethes.

“Well, like I said, it wouldn’t have hit you if you weren’t in my spot!” Yuri huffs and drops her flag in frustration.

“Yuri, what’s wrong?” You jog over.

“Mr. Irrational over here is pissed off because he walked into my toss. But look, my drill told me I’m on the 40. Not my fault I need to cut through them to get to my spot.”

Sometimes the drills didn’t mesh well with the choreography. It wasn’t the end of the world, just annoying to fix. From behind, you hear instruments shuffle — specifically another set of tenor drums.

“Juice.”

You sigh. Not from the nickname, but from the person saying it.

“Set #10 shows Yuri with the baritones on the left. She’s not at the wrong spot, but she shouldn’t be cutting through the tenors, instead going around us. There’s 16 counts in this set, so she’ll have plenty of travel time.”

Jeon Jungkook, third-year, lead tenor drum player. You haven’t gotten the chance to know him … how could you when there’s over 200 members, 18 of which belonged in your section. Based on what you’ve heard and witnessed, he’s an average drummer. Nothing noteworthy. And because of that, you don’t understand why everyone fawned over him. Sure, he’s tall and conventionally good looking. Had a nice head of hair and a distinct laugh that’d grab anyone’s attention. Maybe that’s why? Jungkook was like any other boy in college … the only difference was that he knew how to play the tenor drums.

To be clear, no, Jungkook wasn’t a section leader. That was Yoongi’s role as center snare. Which makes you wonder why he’s trying to resolve this with you when you should be hashing it out with Yoongi. Ignoring him, you walk over to Yoongi to confirm the coordinates.

“Yeah, Kook is right.” He nods after reviewing the drills. From the side, you see Jungkook beam from the acknowledgment.

“Ha! See, you were wrong,” the other tenor player says to Yuri as he sets his drums down.

“Jaehyun.” Jungkook’s stern voice catches you off guard.

“What? It’s true!”

“You were two counts early to the spot. Wouldn’t have gotten hit if you were on time.”

Jaehyun scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Whatever.”

Noobie ego. If you didn’t nip it early on, it was going to cause issues in the future. You had a few of those in your years of being a captain; consequently, you left some unchecked and those became the biggest lessons for you.

You look at Yoongi with your brows raised, silently asking him, ‘You gonna take care of that?’

He merely stares back with a look that said, ‘Too tired … it’s my last season. Give me a break.’

Yoongi wasn’t lazy. He’s one of the many section leaders you respected and enjoyed working with. He remained factual and cleaned up things before they became a problem. Most importantly, Yoongi was fair and reliable. You’ve got a lot to learn from him before he graduates this semester.

“Alright,” Jungkook stuffs his sticks back into the side pockets. “Tenors, give me ten.”

The other two tenors groan and take off their drums and harness. Jaehyun, along with the tenors, drop to the ground and begin their push-ups. What surprised you was Jungkook also going down to do the push-ups too. You've always been a firm believer of the saying ‘when a ship sinks, the captain will go down with it.’

They’re back up within seconds. Jungkook looked like he barely broke a sweat outside the sweat lines on his shirt caused by his harness.

“All good?” Hoseok, the drum major, calls out from his stand. You and Yoongi throw a thumbs up.

“Reset! Take it from the top.” Hoseok calls out to the other band members.

Director Lee waits till everyone gets back into position before turning on his megaphone. “You all wasted seven minutes of practice, so add another five push-ups.”

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ─────

Practice ended two hours later with 75 push-ups. Not bad, but also not good. At least it didn’t hit the triple digits. Jungkook always saw push-ups as a way to condition his body.

Long hours of practice with his section, ensemble, and individually filled up his day. A wonder how he manages to juggle marching band and school at the same time, but he gets it done. Jungkook knows he isn’t the best, but he’s a hard worker. He loves a good challenge and what better way to challenge himself by playing tenor? Sure, he could’ve stuck with a single bass drum, but tenors had four drums. How cool was that?

You certainly didn’t think so.

Never once batted a single eyelash in his direction in the last three years he’s marched with you. Jungkook exhales deeply after finishing his Gatorade. “She hates me.”

“Who?” Jimin asks while rolling up his flag silks.

“Your captain.” Jungkook pouts.

“Juicebox? Nah.”

“Then why does she always look like she smells something bad when she’s around me?”

“Rude, what if that’s just her face?” It wasn’t. In all his years of spinning with this school, Jimin has a good idea of who you are. You’re strict, but a sweet person underneath that tough exterior.

“She’s just …” Jimin follows Jungkook’s line of vision where you’re laughing with the woodwinds section lead, Kim Namjoon. “Anyway, maybe it’s because you do smell.”

Jungkook scoffs. He knows for a fact he doesn’t smell. Everyone gets a little musty after practice, but Jungkook prides himself on good hygiene. Literally the bare minimum to shower after every practice and reapply deodorant throughout the day. Unfortunately, not the case for certain band kids.

“Just kidding. You know the smelliest title goes to Ryo,” Jimin teases, “need to start gifting him some body wash this Christmas.”

“Don’t bother,” Yoongi chimes in. “This is his last field season. Let the man live a little. Saves you a couple bucks too.” He finishes locking up the instruments and bends down to tie his laces.

“Cap,” Jungkook deadpans, “don’t you think she hates me?”

Yoongi stands up and squints at Jungkook, “I think you need to worry about cleaning up your solo in the opener. JB is the least of your concerns.”

“But—”

Yoongi sticks up a finger to Jungkook’s face. “More drumming, less JB fixation. Gotta bounce to a section leader meeting. Catch y’all later.” With that, Yoongi joins the small group of people at the front of the band room, you included. You look back to where Jungkook and Jimin stood. Jimin waves at you and you wave back. Jungkook does the same and receives a tight-lipped smile.

“Yeah, she hates you.”

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ─────

“So as you all know, this year’s show is a spy theme, specifically Mr. & Mrs. Smith.”

Hoseok stands at the front of the lecture hall, the projector displaying the mood board Director Lee had him make. He wasn’t at the meeting, but he trusted Hoseok enough to get his message across. It’s not that he didn’t want to be here, but he preferred a more hands off approach — thinks it’s building your communication and teamwork skills. Though, Namjoon theorizes that budget cuts to the performing arts department was the driving factor and Lee hasn’t been able to hire any instructors or technicians to help out. Nonetheless, this brought you all closer together.

“I swear, Lee sees one movie with his wife and gets inspired.” Minji, one of the assistant drum majors, says.

“Agree. Last year he had us do Pirates of the Caribbean because he went on a cruise with his wife.” Namjoon cackles and the rest of the group joins in.

“Alright, alright. Reel it back in,” Hoseok claps.

“He wants to tell a story … said there has to be an opposite attracts meets forbidden love kind of thing. So I’m going to really need to lean on visuals for this.” Hoseok looks in your direction and you are unphased. The visual part of the show was just as important as the music. Where band members held a stoic expression during the show, colorguard told a story using their body, face, and equipment.

“I’m thinking Juicebox can be one of the spies, but we need one from the band. Any volunteers?” Hoseok looks around the room.

Namjoon raises his hand. For a moment, you thought he was going to volunteer. “Think me and my section will have to pass on this one. Almost got taken out by Jimin’s sabre last season.”

“That’s cause you were supposed to catch with your hands and not with your head,” you retort.

“I blame the wind,” Namjoon grins. “Anyway, since sax did something last season, woodwind folks should have immunity.”

“Eh, let’s check in with our sections and see if there are any takers.” Yoongi suggests.

The hour goes by quickly with some distractions here and there. What do you expect from a bunch of college students? Still, you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ─────

To your luck, no one volunteered. As a result, Namjoon begrudgingly offered himself to the task. This was his final season, so he thought he’d go out with a bang.

And indeed, he did. During practice, you demonstrated a toss you planned to do in the show. Upon turning your back to get some water, Namjoon thought it was a good idea to mimic what you did … unsupervised, which landed him in urgent care with two fractured fingers.

“Shit … I’m sorry, Joon,” you say after the doctor left the room with the aftercare summary. A minimum of three to four weeks to heal. You know it was no fault of yours. He’s technically not out for the season, but missing a bulk of practices will be too much to catch up on. A duet with you is out of the question.

“Ha … this was on me. What I get for undermining what you guys do on the field.” He jokes. It was true to some extent, people think all you guys do is twirl around a flag. It was always so much more than that. “I’m the one that should be sorry, Juicebox. Now we have to find someone else for the duet.”

“Don’t worry about it. Just focus on healing. Our first halftime show is in about three months. So you’ll be back on the field at least.” A small part of you worries about not finding a replacement in time. There’s about another 180 band members to ask — one was bound to volunteer, right?

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ─────

snare lord [10:28 p.m.]: Duet position with JB is open. Lmk if you still want it. DON’T be weird.

Jungkook drops his sticks on his drumming pad and sits up from his bed, eyes widening at Yoongi’s message. He waits about 30 seconds before typing up a response so that he doesn't come off desperate. He threw a mini tantrum when Yoongi (deliberately?) failed to mention that the spy duet was with you, but Namjoon had already volunteered by then. This will be a good chance to get to know you and figure out if you truly disliked him. Plus, he’s always been interested in colorguard — interested in you.

Jungkook [10:28 p.m.]: waaaat? wat happened to joon?

Jungkook panics when 10 minutes pass and Yoongi doesn’t respond. Fears that he missed his window and someone else said yes to the part. Perhaps playing nonchalant wasn’t for him.

snare lord [10:41 p.m.]: Injured :/ Do you want to do it or not? Jungkook [10:41 p.m.]: yes snare lord [10:42 p.m.]: 👍👍 I’ll give her your contact and you guys can chat more.

This entire ordeal felt surreal, like a fan finally meeting their idol. Simply put, Jungkook admired you. Your work ethics, facial expressions … oh, and flexibility. Yeah. Sure, Jimin can do the splits too. Well, 90% of the folks in your section can, but there’s something so captivating about how you’d slowly drop down into the splits like it’s second nature.

Unknown [11:01 p.m.]: Hey. Is this Jungkook?

He nearly falls out of bed. It’s you. Has to be.

Jungkook [11:01 p.m.]: yours truly. juice??? Unknown [11:01 p.m.]: Yep. Yoongi told me you’re interested in the duet. When’s your first class tomorrow? Jungkook [11:02 p.m.]: 8 😬 why? 🧃 [11:02 p.m.]: Cool, meet in the band room at 5:30am tomorrow. Wear comfortable clothes you can move in. Thanks for volunteering btw.

He reacts to the message with a thumbs up, smiling as he locks and sets his phone down on his nightstand. Jungkook has never been this excited to wake up early.

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ─────

Early morning practices were not ideal. Having Jungkook as a partner? Not your first pick either, but it’s too late into the season to complain. Beggars can’t be choosers. You’ve got a limited time to train and teach him a routine. You arrive at the band room by 5 to stretch and Jungkook comes through the door by 5:16, eyes and cheeks still swollen from sleep but he greets you with a warm smile. He’s in an all black attire: gym shorts and a fitted long sleeve. His physique doesn't quite match up to Namjoon’s, but you know he’s strong. Got to be when he’s carrying those 35lb drums the entire show.

“Morning,” he sets his backpack to the side and sits in front of you to stretch.

“Hi,” you greet, while going down lower in your butterfly stretch, “thanks again for volunteering.”

He smiles softly with a nod. “So what’s on the lesson plan for today, Cap?”

Today’s practice only involved the basics: ballet positions, floor work, and equipment overview. Nothing crazy. And yet, Jungkook finds himself drenched in sweat an hour into practice. Who knew jazz runs would require him to use all the muscle groups in his ass?

“Remember to turn out. Do it again.” You say with your hands on your hips.

This was the 10th time you made him start over. Jungkook was frustrated. Didn’t realize how stiff his body was from drumming all these years. Also didn’t realize how nervous he’d get under your watch. Jimin warned that your serious mode competed with Hoseok’s. He never doubted this. Jungkook wants to crawl into a hole every time your face fights a scowl when he forgets what to do next. He thought you’d be a little more lenient during the first practice. Was Namjoon subjected to this too?

Practice ends a little before 8 to allow him to cool down and get ready for class. Jungkook watches you put on your hoodie and fix your hair. He didn't think there was a single hair out of place before, but what did he know about perfection when he’s been a total mess the entire practice?

“Good work today,” you say.

“Don’t lie, that was rough,” he jokes before grabbing his stuff.

“Yeah, it was.” You agree and Jungkook’s stomach churns from your bluntness.

He goes on with his day in classes, half thinking about the show’s new drill, half thinking about ways to impress you. Would he earn your approval if he came into practice remembering all the 27 points on the flag? Was this desperation? Possibly. He returns to his dorm room later that evening. Sits on his desk chair and mindlessly drums his hands on his thigh. Wonders if he should ask you if practice was going to be that early every time because he physically doesn’t think he can do that again. Jungkook fishes for his phone in his pocket and sees a couple of notifications, but the only ones that mattered were yours.

🧃 [7:23 p.m.]: No one’s good the first time. Just keep practicing. 🧃 [7:23 p.m.]: Also don’t forget to stretch. You’ll be sore tomorrow. 🧃 [7:25 p.m.]: I know drumline has practice on Monday and Wednesday afternoons. Let me know if Wednesday evenings work for you.

Jungkook didn’t care much for the days of the week, but Wednesdays became his favorite.

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ─────

Weeks go by and Jungkook has made significant improvements. He’s still somewhat stiff, but his passion makes up for what he lacks. The show is about a third written. Homestretch, as Director Lee would say.

“CUT!” Director Lee yells from the stand, “Juicebox, Jungkook, the work looks fine but I’m not feeling the energy. Don’t know what it is, but fix it. Let’s do a 10 minute water break and we start from the ballad.”

“So … how’s working with Jungkook?” Jimin asks. He’s shirtless and unfortunately sunburnt — almost all the band members are. Hard to avoid when it’s blazing outside. Field season essentials were sunscreen and aloe vera.

You knew Jungkook needed some whenever he’d flinched from your touch during a specific part of the show. Maybe you’ll give some to him after practice today.

“It’s fine.”

You look over at Jungkook. He’s with the rest of the drumline, gulping down his water and letting some drip down his neck. Yeah. Definitely hotter today. The weather, that is.

Yuri sighs. “Is it too late to swap, Cap? I don’t mind being Mrs. Smith …” she twirls the ends of her hair and watches Jungkook put on his harness.

“You wanna toss a six on sabre while spinning under it?” Jimin snorts.

Yuri immediately shakes her head and you laugh. You had no doubt that Yuri could do it. She’s an exceptional dancer, but lacked the stamina and confidence when it came to weapons. She knows this too and rather have a special part of the show be done by someone more consistent with their catches.

Jimin turns to you again. “Only asking because Lee has been on you guys for looking … odd.”

There’s a small period of adjustment when it comes to dancing with someone new. Jungkook was … different. Makes you feel weird how he looks up at you in his kneeled position. Makes you feel weirder every time he tenses when you need to sit on one of his thighs for part of the choreo. Bad enough to where you forgot two counts and you never forget.

“Choreo is still fresh for the both of us. It’ll take some time.” You reason. “Anyway, can everyone come over here?” Your section huddles closer. “First show is next week. It’s crunch time, so I need you all to stay an extra hour after the ensemble to clean our work.”

There were some complaints, but no major protest. Everyone knows how important the first show of the season is. It wasn’t like homecoming or anything, but everyone will be there — football parents, band parents, and students.

Director Lee sounds the buzzer on his megaphone and everyone jogs back into position. Jungkook smiles at you in passing and you nod in acknowledgment. His smile drops a little and you feel a small rush of guilt. Maybe you’ve also been difficult too. You think back on Jimin’s question … you know what he’s hinting. You and Jungkook were an important piece of the show. The routine was good. What lacked was chemistry and you knew it was your fault.

How do you go about being more natural with Jungkook when you’ve been holding a grudge? An age old grudge that anyone should’ve forgotten by now, yet you’re reminded of it every time you see him.

You’re on autopilot as you dance around Jungkook during this run through for the evening. This was the part where Jungkook moved his hands at the last minute so that you could pierce the ground with the sabre. Not realizing you were a count ahead, you pierced his hand instead.

He hisses in pain. Minji spots the accident and immediately signals Hoseok to stop.

“I’m so sorry, Jungkook,” you apologize frantically. Hands were a big part of a musician’s career and you’d be damned if you were responsible for hurting Jungkook.

“It’s fine, think I just need some ice,” he winces and holds his hand close to his chest.

“Jungkook, Juicebox, take care of things off the field,” Director Lee calls out, “everyone else, from the top.”

You and Jungkook walk to the bleachers where Director Lee stood.

“Let’s see the damage, kid.” Director Lee holds his hand out. Lee was multifaceted. Truly jack of all trades. The university got really lucky with him … band director, golf coach, and physical therapist. He’s no longer in practice, of course, but he brings a wealth of knowledge and experience to the university. Plus, he’s able to treat folks with minor injuries. You hope this was a minor one.

“That’s a big one,” he turns Jungkook’s hand to one side, pressing down on the top of his palm to inspect the bones. Jungkook grimaces and pulls his hand back.

“Flex and clench your hands,” he hums, “okay, there’s still mobility. Will bruise and hurt for a few days, but I recommend checking with the school nurse tomorrow if you can’t close your fist. Ice up for the rest of practice.”

You jog to Minji’s special cooler for situations like this. Injuries happened to band kids more than you’d imagined. It is, of course, still a sport. You return to Jungkook with a tied bag of ice. He massages his hand and winces in pain when he gets to the center of the injury. As you near, he masks his pain with a smile and you feel even more guilty.

“Thanks,” he says when you hand him the bag. He exhales at the icy touch.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize again, “I was a count early and I didn’t realize your hand was there,” It’s one thing to be in the wrong, it’s another to admit it. You’re only as good as your pride.

He shakes his head, “I knew you hated me but I didn’t think you were trying to take me out the season too.” He tries to joke to lighten the mood, but regrets it when you frown.

“Uh, my bad,” Jungkook apologizes. “That wasn’t—”

“I don’t hate you …” you admit softly.

He pauses, leans against the bleachers, and exhales through his nose, “I know.”

You and Jungkook watch the show from the bleachers. It’s interesting seeing gaps in your respective sections. The show will still go on, but your absence does not go unnoticed.

“Ah, Jimin dropped his flag. That’s another five push-ups.” Jungkook whispers to you.

You snort and chuckle. Jungkook looks shocked for a moment then softens. You’ve always been closed off around him, strictly choosing to discuss the show as his duet partner. This was different.

He likes this side of you. Hates to be those guys who say a woman looks better when they’re smiling. True and false in your case. Cause objectively, you’re an attractive woman. Finds you super cool when you’re expressionless and in the zone.

Jungkook always hated the sun — spent his early years in life constantly running away from it whether it be staying indoors or under a tree. He had the choice to pick between taekwondo or marching band. As much as Jungkook hated the sun, he picked the sport with the most time spent in it. Thinks he can make amends with the sun now.

Because as you smile, Jungkook never thought he’d be so easily swayed at the sight of sunlight hitting your cheekbones.

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ─────

Practice ends with 30 push-ups. You get down from the bleachers to complete yours — not without scolding Jungkook to remain seated since his hand wasn’t in the right condition to do anything strenuous at the moment. He pouts, but adheres to your orders.

Yoongi checks up on Jungkook after he sets his drums down. He whistles at the gnarly bruise and shakes his head at you, mimicking something close to disappointment. “First Namjoon, now Jungkook? You’re actually an undercover agent trying to sabotage us huh, JB?”

“You would’ve been my first target if that were the case.” You shrug. Yoongi chuckles and turns back to Jungkook, who looks at you both peculiarly like the cogs in his brain are slowly piecing something together he doesn’t quite favor.

“Don’t worry about cleaning up. I’ll have one of the guys put away your drum. Just head home.” Yoongi pats Jungkook’s shoulder as he leaves the field.

Before running to get your equipment, you turn to Jungkook again. “Hey, I’m sorry—”

“If you’re gonna apologize again, I’m gonna make Yoongi have you put away my drums instead.”

You sigh. “Fine. I can reschedule our practices if your hand still hurts. Just let me know.” You part ways from Jungkook to wrap up practice with your section. From afar, you spot a hoard of band members gathering around Jungkook to either check on him or admire the injury. He’s cared for by many. If he was anything like the version you’ve conjured in your mind, you don’t think people would be so concerned for his well being.

People change and maybe your perception of Jungkook should too.

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ─────

“Juice? Uh, what are you …” Jungkook looks shocked to see you at the doorway of his room. Didn’t even think you’d know where he stayed, but here you are in all of your glory looking up at him like you shouldn’t be here too. It’s Wednesday, the day after you accidentally stabbed Jungkook's hand, but also the day you’re both supposed to be practicing. Jungkook texted you this morning asking you to reschedule practice because something came up. You had a feeling he was lying about his injury to spare you from guilt.

“How’s your hand doing?” You try to look down, but he has it hidden behind the door.

“It’s alright,” he answers quickly. “Wait, how do you know where I live?”

“Yoongi.” You rock on your heels and look awkwardly around.

“Oh.” He’s unsure why he feels uneasy about this answer. You could’ve just asked him.

“Is there something you need?”

“Not particularly?” God. This was uncomfortable and a part of you wants to apologize for bothering him and leave.

“Would you like to come in?” He looked back at his room to make sure it was presentable. Other than some laundry on his bed he’s been procrastinating on folding and some music sheets on the floor, it’s not half bad.

“Yeah, just for a bit, if you don’t mind. I won’t be long.”

He opens the door wider for you to walk through. No turning back now. His room was utterly plain. Navy blue fitted sheets, spotless desk, and no posters or wall decorations in sight. It’s as if his only use for the place was to sleep. Jungkook gestures over at his desk chair for you to sit. You set your backpack down, not before grabbing a small jar of ointment out. He sits on the edge of his bed and peers over with curious eyes.

“Let me see your hand.” You nod your head at his injured hand. He reluctantly pulls his hand to the front and your eyes widen.

“It’s not as awful as it looks …”

“Jungkook.”

“Okay, yeah, it’s pretty bad.” He chuckles.

You roll the chair closer to him to examine the bruise. Bruises were common in colorguard — in fact, you’ve got plenty on your forearms and legs. The one on Jungkook’s hand tops them all. You unscrew the cap of the ointment jar and scoop a dime sized amount on your finger. Your other hand holds his from the bottom while you carefully dab the medication on the injury. With years of tending to your own wounds, you’ve learned that you should never rub a fresh bruise, but it always speeds up the healing process when you warm the area. Soft in your ministrations, the ointment quickly melts from the warmth of your touch. Jungkook never expected to receive this sort of treatment from a classmate let alone you of all people. This was expected from someone like his mother — someone that cared for him.

Do you?

He doesn’t know what to do with himself. Doesn’t know where he should stare at. Doesn't know if he should feel the way he does.

“Tell me if it hurts.” You don’t look up, strictly focusing on the task at hand.

His hands were much larger than yours. He kept his nails cut short and clean, palms calloused from all the years of drumming. Yours were no different. Manicures weren’t a necessity as you preferred to keep them short. Despite the roughness of your hands, there’s an unexplainable softness in your touch.

A couple of minutes go by and you’re quite impressed Jungkook has gone this long without talking to you. The silence makes you wonder if you should say something. After all, you did barge into his space to apply ointment out of guilt.

“Are you and Yoongi close?”

“Who’d you march with in 2010?”

You and Jungkook look up at one another after asking a question at the same time.

“Yoongi?” Your brows furrow.

“Yeah,” he relaxes at your touch. Your fingers pull at his to release any tension and Jungkook has to fight the urge to moan.

You think for a bit. Were you close to Yoongi? He was one of the few that didn’t give you shit or questioned your capabilities when Lee initially selected you as captain. The bond you shared was built on mutual respect. You suppose that’s one of the important foundations of a friendship. But you wouldn’t say you were too close to him on a personal level. He’s a friend nonetheless.

“Sort of? Why?”

“Nothing. Just wondering.” His shoulders drop. “And 2010? Was still marching in high school.”

Obviously. You internally roll your eyes. Perhaps you need to be more specific.

“Summer 2010. Have you done drum corps?”

Drum corps were independent marching band groups. Similar to intramural sports, people from all over the country tried out for these groups and only the best got selected. Certain groups had an age cap. After that, you “aged out” and joined other groups that accepted all ages, typically less rigorous and accommodating to a wider age range. The circuit you’ve marched with was more competitive … maybe because there was a time constraint to be young and good.

“Summer 2010 …” he repeats back to himself. “Ah! I tried out for Red Angels.”

That was all the confirmation you needed. “I see.”

“Why?”

“Nothing. Just wondering.” You mimic his answer and refocus on your ministrations.

He's lost. One moment you seem fine, but now it feels like you're shutting him out. “Did you do drum corps?” He tries.

“Yup.”

Jungkook lights up. He’s always been a fan of drum corps. Didn’t know you’ve done them too. Though, it shouldn’t come as a surprise. You’re very good at what you do. Hell, half, if not all, of the band could be marching in drum corps, but it was rigorous and costly. After getting cut from auditions back in high school, he hasn’t tried for drum corps again.

“What? I didn’t know that. Who have you marched with?”

“Phantoms and Red Angels.” You recount.

“No way! Wait, Red Angels? When?”

“2010, 2012.”

Jungkook pauses. He doesn’t recall seeing you, but then again, he didn’t make the cut after two weeks of tryouts to remember any faces.

“Alright, I think this is enough,” you say, unsure if you meant the ointment or the conversation.

He’s learned so much more about you in these couple of minutes than he has in the weeks of practice with you. Feels a bit disappointed as you release his hand to grab your stuff.

You place the jar of ointment on his desk. “Make sure to rub some on every night, but be gentle with it. Should speed up the healing process.”

Jungkook is in a daze as he thanks you and walks you out. He’d like to think the tingles on his hand were from the ointment worked into his skin and not from you.

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ─────

You designated Sundays for schoolwork. Because you were rarely home, you preferred working from your apartment, but on rare occasions you’d be forced to go on campus. Today was one of those days. Your internet was down and you had a virtual call scheduled with all the section leaders later. Coffee shops were not ideal due to all the coffee grinding and foot traffic. When in doubt, you head to the campus library to grab a private study room or table. You should’ve known that it would be obsolete, especially on a Sunday. That’s when everyone’s trying to study or get their assignments done. You opt to sit outside instead. Except … the connection was awful and it was warm out. This might be the driving point for you to upgrade your home internet package.

“Come on ...” You try to move closer to the facilities for a better connection. But you keep getting that circle of death on your screen. Maybe you also need a new laptop?

“Juice?”

“Oh, Jungkook. Hi.” You wipe away some of the sweat from your hairline.

Jungkook looked casual in his slides, t-shirt, and sweats. You personally wouldn’t have picked to wear sweats in this weather, but you assume he was just here to pick up his food from the dining corner judging from the greasy brown bag in his hand.

“Whatcha doing?” He asks.

“Homework. Er, trying to at least. Think I’ll go somewhere else … Internet connection is pretty bad out here.” You place your bag on the bench and begin packing.

“Would you like to study at my dorm? Got air conditioning and the connection there isn’t too shabby.”

You want to say no. That night where you helped him with his hand was to absolve your own guilt for physically hurting him. A one off. But you’ve already driven all the way here and you’re not sure where you would go if not just back home. Plus, gas was expensive. ‘Just this once,’ you tell yourself.

He looks at you with eager eyes, smiling wider when you nod.

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ─────

Jungkook was on strike two at the 30 minute mark of studying in his room. The first time was when he started practicing on his drumming pad. The second was when he started humming all his parts in the show. He didn’t lie though — the wifi speed was great here and the air conditioning was nice. Since you occupied his desk, he took his spot on his bed. The times you bent down to get something from your backpack, you’d sneak a peek at what he was up to. He had his earphones in and drummed on his stomach with his hands. The color of his bruised hand looks infinitely better. You’d like to think it was thanks to your ointment, but you know a big part of it was because he was diligent with your instructions. Him and his cooperative nature. He was a good listener — valued what you had to say.

Jungkook turns and catches you staring. You immediately turn back to your laptop. He sighs, “can we talk?”

“I know you said you don’t hate me,” Jungkook starts, “but I can’t help but feel like I did something wrong. Did I?”

“You didn’t.” Half truth.

He doesn’t buy it. “Come on. We’ve been working together and it feels like there’s always this wall—”

“Jungkook,” you run your hand down your face, “has it ever crossed your mind that not everyone’s compatible as friends?”

His face falls. Jungkook was kind enough to offer his space for you to study and here you are being an asshole. Hell, he’s been nice all season from offering to take on the duet after Namjoon’s injury to showing up to all the practices on time. You’re not being fair at all. You don’t understand why you’re like this. Well, no, you do. Maybe if you talked about it, it would give you some closure too.

“You tried out for Red Angels that one summer.” You mumble.

He furrows his brows in confusion. “Yes.” It comes out as a question.

“I remember you.”

“Okay?” He sounds a little frustrated and rightfully so since you’ve been dancing around the topic of you and Jungkook in circles. You also feel a bit stupid now that you’re finally expressing what’s been bothering you.

“I overheard you talking to the other drummers that time. You said something about how colorguard are the cheerleaders of marching band.”

“I did? Juice … I promise I’m not trying to be dismissive, but I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”

You know he’s not. This shit was over five years ago. It’s dumb and the more you talk about it, you realize how stupid of a grudge it was to hold over Jungkook for something that happened to you in high school.

“During my freshman year of high school, I dated a senior,” you reveal.

“Yikes. I’m sorry.”

“I know, big mistake.”

Jungkook internally tries to correlate the two pieces of information, but comes short. He’s confused. So you tell him. Told him how your ex was the drum major of your high school marching band. Told him how you thought he liked you a lot. Told him that you lost your virginity to him one month into dating and how he broke up with you the following week.

“Asshole.” Jungkook mutters.

You smile, “right?”

You clear your throat before continuing, “he said some shit about how colorguard are the cheerleaders of marching band. Was a dig at colorguard and cheerleaders. Like that we’re ‘easy?’”

“I guess … I was upset when I heard it again at the Red Angels tryouts. Fuck, is that stupid?” You palm your forehead. You weren’t expecting to drop your past lore to someone, let alone Jungkook.

“What? No! First off, fuck him. I’m sorry he treated you like that.”

You soften at his words. You don’t really talk much about the things that happened in high school because … honestly, the only good thing that happened in high school was colorguard despite the situation with that senior. Outside of being a pubescent teen, you never cared to reminisce about the past. Found it odd knowing people who called their high school years “the glory days.” You initially decided to go to this university because of their marching band program, but also, you wanted a fresh start. Seeing Jungkook was a reminder of the past.

“It was the past. I associated that situation with what you said at tryouts. We obviously didn’t know each other and I didn’t know I’d be seeing you again in school.” You shake your head.

“Juice,” he says softly.

“In hindsight, it’s stupid. I know. You’re probably a nice dude and you’re free to feel what you feel about people in colorguard—”

“It’s not stupid,” he interrupts. “Fuck that dude. You didn’t deserve that. And no, I don’t think of you or anyone in colorguard that way.”

“But you said …”

Jungkook exhales, “this is going to sound dumb, but back then I thought the saying meant that colorguard were the highlight of the marching band performance … kind of like the fact that cheerleaders are the highlight of football games. I honestly didn’t know there was another meaning.” He mumbles.

“Oh.”

You and Jungkook stare at each other with pursed lips now that everything has aired out.

“I’m glad you told me about your past. That explains some things …” he looks to the side, “I hope you know I’m not that kind of person. And I understand what you mean about people just not being compatible. Friendships can’t be forced and I won’t force that on you either.”

You nod, “thank you.” You’ve been difficult all this time and now that Jungkook was respecting your boundaries, you feel out of place.

“Don’t you have a section leader meeting soon?” He nods at his digital clock.

“How did you know?”

He smiles sheepishly, “Yoongi complains about it in the group chat. Says it’s overkill.”

You snort. “It is, but Lee thinks it’s good for us.”

“Yeah, well … I’ll just be here,” he puts his earphones back in his ears and lays back on his bed. Your stare lingers before you turn back to your laptop. You’re a little embarrassed about how this transpired in the last couple of minutes, but there’s relief in knowing you were wrong about Jungkook. More than that, you realize why people appreciated him.

Your virtual meeting starts and you assume it’ll be a quick one, that is until Hoseok gets to your updates. “Sooo, Juicebox. Lee has this crazy idea …”

You tilt your head. Whatever Lee wants, Lee gets. Just the matter if he’ll give you enough time to execute it.

Hoseok smiles sheepishly, “last time, we had Namjoon catch a sabre tossed to him. What if we had a band member toss AND catch something? Jungkook, specifically. Lee was thinking … a five. Is that unreasonable?”

Unreasonable was an understatement. Namjoon’s catch was different … for one, it was just a triple, three rotations in the air. Second, Jimin was the one that tossed it to him. A five? There were people that have spun for years and never reach a five on a weapon. Not that they were bad, but people had different strengths and skill sets. Jungkook was just your partner in this show. You’ve only taught him the basics in the event Lee wanted something extra. You weren’t expecting this.

“I don’t know if it’s possible. I can try to train him, but no promises.”

“Don’t think it’s a good idea,” Yoongi interjects, “Jungkook is lead tenor. I need him in top condition … if he gets hurt again …”

“Not saying it’s a must or anything. Let’s explore that idea and if it’s a no go, we won’t move forward with it.” Hoseok says.

Everyone on the call reacts with a thumbs up. The call shifts over to the topic of a fundraiser. “Rehearsathon,” as Namjoon calls it, involved each band member reaching out to sponsors for donations to pledge they’ll rehearse for 12 hours straight. It sounds ridiculous, but Namjoon swears it works. Raises money for the band and everyone gets in extra practice time — hits two birds with one stone. He thinks it’ll be a great opportunity to chat up with some folks at the upcoming football game to get some sponsors.

Having ended the call an hour later, you think you’ve overstayed your welcome. You pack up and mentally prepare to tell Jungkook you’re leaving.

“What’s not possible?” Jungkook straightens himself up on his bed.

“Were you eavesdropping?”

“Guilty,” he confesses, “can’t blame me … I’m literally two feet away and these earphones aren’t exactly noise cancelling. So, what’s not possible?”

“Lee wants to add another wow factor into the show.” You get up and Jungkook stands up as well, “wants you to do a five on weapon.”

“I don’t see why not. It’s worth a try.”

You put on your backpack and look at Jungkook incredulously. “Namjoon got taken out for a couple weeks by accident.”

“Okay, but you’ll be teaching and watching me, right?” He looks at you with those big, hopeful eyes again and you wonder to yourself if you both aren’t as compatible as you deem.

“Fine. We’ll try it next practice. Thanks again for letting me work here … you didn’t have to.” You mumble.

“Yeah, cause this space is only reserved for friends.” He jokes. “Kidding, Juice. It’s really no big deal.”

Ever so the gentleman, Jungkook walks you to your car even after you reassured that it’s not needed. He made up some excuse that he just wanted some fresh air.

You both arrive at your car and you turn to him. “Well, thanks again.” You unlock your car and toss your backpack into the backseat. He waves and tells you to drive safely. The distance between you and Jungkook grows as he walks back to his dorm.

You don’t know what compelled you to call out his name, but he turns quickly as if he’s also been waiting for this moment. “I never said I didn’t want to be friends with you. And yeah, you’re right. Colorguard is the highlight of the show.”

He smiles, and it’s devastating. How your body warms from just his smile. How it dismantles the walls you’ve built up around Jungkook. The foundation was weak to start, waiting for the right moment to crumble and start anew. You’re sure you can.

“I know. See you at practice, Juice.”

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ─────

Men in colorguard dominated the weapon line. They had the strength and stamina to toss a rifle with little to no struggle. Pain tolerance though? You question that. Jungkook had the energy, but his control was off. It’s not his fault. This was his first time touching a rifle. The average person isn’t tossing and catching random objects. Anything that goes up, will have to come down. And having a rifle barreling down your head isn’t anyone’s idea of fun.

“You have to squeeze.” You say after another lofty toss that has you both dodging the drop.

“What does that mean?” He complains, “I am squeezing, see?” Jungkook shows his hands gripping the rifle harder.

“No, your core.”

“What even is that?”

You place your hand on his stomach and another one on his lower back. Skinship in colorguard was normal, especially in dance. You’re used to it. You’d think Jungkook would be too. After all, there’s never a point in the show where you’re not touching each other. Yet, he tenses up under your touch.

“Think of it as sucking in air and a string is pulling from your back.” You look up at him, “try it.”

Jungkook tries to follow your instructions but ends up with his back hunched over like a turtle. You laugh, now moving in front of him as you grab one of his hands from the rifle. Instinctively, you place it on your own stomach. His hand spays over your abdomen — big, warm, secure. You freeze. You shake off the feelings and take a step closer to Jungkook, not quite able to look up from your position.

“Like this,” you demonstrate the technique, “feel the difference?” You press his hand harder against you. You certainly feel it … the lightest change of pressure in his fingertips, the small movement from his thumb. No one would have noticed, but you do.

You hear him swallow and exhale a shaky breath, “uh huh.”

“Good,” you step back and let his hand fall back to his side, “reset and do it again.”

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ─────

Jungkook’s #1 remedy to a sore body was a hot shower.

He’d run up the water bill back at home with the amount of hot showers he’d take after practice. At school? No difference. Even better now that he didn’t have his family breathing down his neck for taking up all the water. These days, he finds himself doubling down on his showers. He definitely underestimated the level of difficulty to perform as a musician and colorguard.

It hurts. His feet, shoulders, hands … literally everything.

All worth it though, especially on those rare occasions where your eyes light up after he’d reach another milestone in those private sessions.

He’s greedy for more. A smile. A compliment. A high five. Anything. Jungkook collects them in his invisible stamp book of accomplishments. Didn’t think he’d unlock something new today — something foreign within himself.

The hot water beats down on his skin. It’s scalding, borderline painful. Even so, it doesn’t compare to how punishing his hand is wrapped around his hard, leaky length. Jungkook supports himself upright with one hand on the shower wall. He shakes. Grunts lowly. He shouldn’t feel this way for you. Shouldn’t think this way of a teammate. A section leader, at that. You’re in his head whether he likes it or not.

Damn you and the innocent stunt you pulled during practice.

Damn you and those short shorts.

Damn you and your pretty eyes.

Because he’s here thinking about how you’d feel pressed against him, shorts pulled down, eyes watery from how good he’d make you feel. Would you praise him? Lose yourself on him? Encourage him to keep going? His hand speeds up.

Then, the unthinkable happens: your name slips out.

Shame needs no welcome.

“Fucking hell,” Jungkook groans, orgasm slipping away as he abruptly lets go of his cock at the last second. He cranks the shower knob to the coldest setting. This was so wrong. You deserved better — shouldn’t be reduced to some weird fantasy.

He pushes his wet bangs away from his forehead. Shakes his head as he scolds himself, “get a grip, man.”

Hot showers were his #1 remedy for a sore body.

Cold showers became his #1 remedy for you.

Jungkook quickly finishes his shower to rid himself of those sinful thoughts. Tucked in bed by 10pm, he scrolls through his social media, praying he’ll find something worthwhile of a distraction. Just as he was going to call it quits and step out for a walk, his phone rings.

Incoming call: Chaewon.

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ─────

You never really understood football. Didn’t really bother to pay attention to it when you were in high school since your team was notorious for losing. You were only there to perform for the halftime shows. College football was different. More lively. You still didn’t get the rules of the sport, but you appreciated the school spirit. Also was nice that your band played music whenever your school scored.

Hair and makeup was done thirty minutes before the show since nobody wanted to sweat off their work during the practice run throughs. You give a quick pep talk to your section. There’s always first show jitters, but you all worked so hard. Mistakes were inevitable and will motivate you all to improve for the next performance. So will push-ups, if Director Lee catches any in the stands.

“Hey.”

You turn at the familiar voice. Jungkook has on his uniform, harness hidden underneath it so it looked like the drums were floating in front of his body. Hat with the signature school feather tucked at his side, he looks polished.

“Ready to crush our duet?”

“Of course,” you grin, “if you make a mistake, you’re doing my push-ups.” Banters come a lot easier after the confrontation you had with Jungkook awhile ago. You feel more at ease with him these days.

“Cruel. Aren’t captains supposed to sink with their ship?”

“You’re on your own ship.”

“Ouch.” He chuckles. “Hey, can you zip me up? Forgot to ask one of the guys for help before coming over here.” He turns and bends lower for you to reach.

“All done.”

“Thanks, you’re a gem.” He turns slowly just to make sure he doesn’t hit anyone with his drums. Jungkook studies your face for a brief moment, clears his throat, and smiles.

“I like your eye makeup by the way. Blue suits you.”

“Yeah? Thanks,” you flush at his words.

Most show makeup was done heavier so that the audience could see. Realistically, no one can see your face from the stands. Perhaps that’s why your parents never came to your shows. Too many band members, too hard to spot. No parent wants to waste time playing Where’s Waldo with their kid.

“Jungkook!”

Jungkook looks around for the source of voice and he waves excitedly, “Ma!”

You watch a short middle aged woman weave through the crowds. Her bangs were pinned away from her face. There’s an uncanny resemblance between her and Jungkook. It’s all in the eyes. She side steps his drums and gives him a hug with lots of pats on his back.

“I told you I was going to meet you all later after the show, Ma,” Jungkook says with a sweet smile, “how’d you even find me?”

“I always know where my son is!” She chuckles. In a sea of band kids and a filled stadium, it would be hard to locate your kid. Though how hard would it be to spot a boy with tenor drums? There were only four of them in the band. “Look at how tan you’ve gotten. Don’t forget to wear sunscreen. I know you burn easily.”

“Ma …” he grumbles. He knows it comes from a place of endearment. After all, his parents supported him all throughout high school and college by coming to his shows, even volunteering to carpool and host meals for the marching band. It’s a type of community and support he won’t take for granted.

Jungkook looks out to the crowd, “where’s dad and Junghyun?”

“You know them. They’re in line for some nachos.”

You slowly back away to let him chat with his mom. It’s not that you disliked social interactions … you just really didn’t know what to do or say.

“Oh, Ma, this is Ju-,” he recovers quickly by saying your actual name, “she’s the colorguard captain.”

“Oh! Is she my favorite one to watch, Kookie?”

“Wha-? I thought I was your favorite to watch …”

“We got cameras for a reason.”

You giggle and shake her hand. You can tell where Jungkook gets his energy from.

“Your parents must be very proud of you. Such a lovely performer.” She praises.

Your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes at the mention of your parents, but you nod your head in agreement, “thank you.”

Sensing your discomfort, Jungkook jumps in, “Ma, we gotta go warm up now. Make sure you watch me. I’ve got a special part in the show.”

She pinches his cheeks, “wouldn’t miss it for the world, hon. Good luck, you two.” His mom quickly makes it through the crowd and up the stands.

“Sorry, my mom can be a bit eccentric.”

You shake your head. “She’s cute. I can see where you get your personality from.” Wait. Pause. That came out wrong and you hope Jungkook didn’t catch that either.

“You think I’m cute?” Nothing flies over his head.

“I think you need to worry more about pointing your toes during our routine.”

“Ugh, you sound just like Yoongi.”

“Wrong. I haven’t made you do push-ups. Though I probably should with the amount of times you dropped the rifle.” For that reason, you let the director know that the toss won’t be in the show … at least for this performance. It’s still too fresh and you would rather have a clean show with an easy routine.

“Cruel.”

You smile, “I’ll see you on the field.”

“Hey, Juice?”

“Hm?”

“Full out?” He says with a playful grin.

It’s a term he’s picked up from you over practice when you want him to perform at his best. This was your life motto. If you had to do something, you were going to do it full out. Do it so well that when the moment is finished, you could look back fondly and proudly at your accomplishments.

“Full out.” You mirror his smile.

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ─────

The halftime show went well. Some mistakes were made, but what’s done is done.

“Gah! I can’t believe I dropped when I was on the diva spot.” Jimin complains. The diva spot, a.k.a. the 50 yard line, was every colorguard member’s dream. For a moment, you were the center of the show. It’s one thing to be on it, it’s another if you had to do something big. And Jimin had a major toss that he missed. Nerves probably. Happens to the best, but it’s still not a good feeling for opener night.

“I hate this uniform. I’m soaked in my sweat.” Yuri says as she carefully wipes her face, avoiding her eyes.

“My feet hurt.” Another girl whines.

Your mind races, still trying to catch your breath from the show. Performing in front of an audience was different. The cheers, the lighting, the adrenaline. You do your best to soak in the moment, but all you want is a bottle of Gatorade and to get out of this uniform.

“Pain is just weakness leaving the body,” Director Lee comes from the corner. Ah, another one of his sayings he got from Pinterest.

“Nice work, guard. I saw that drop, Jimin. Tighten things up.” Director Lee comments while noting down something on his clipboard.

“Yes sir …”

“Director Lee, is there any way we can order new uniforms? It’s like a body sauna in this one.” Yuri inquires.

“Huh? Aren’t you kiddos into that bodysuit look?”

“Not when we look extra sweaty.”

“It’s not sweat, it’s glow.” Everyone groans at another one of his Pinterest quotes. Compared to the rest of the band, he’s a lot nicer with colorguard. He doesn’t know much about colorguard, but knows how hard you all work. As tough as Director Lee was in general, he’s a softie with guard … even with all the cringy dad jokes he makes.

“Juicebox, I thought the duet with Jungkook was nice. I’m expecting Jungkook to be ready for the five next show. Still think something is not clicking. Don’t know what though,” he writes down another note in his clipboard, “but I trust you’ll get it fixed.”

“Yes sir.” You don’t know what to fix if he doesn’t tell you. One of those moments where you feel like you’re trying to hit a moving target. Perhaps talking to Jungkook about it may help. He hit all his marks in the show. You’re proud of his growth. Think it’s only right you expressed that, just as you do with your members whenever they hit a milestone.

The band sets up their equipment in the stands again after the show. You look for Jungkook. He isn’t hard to spot. Not because he was tall or anything, but because of the swarm of people around him. Specifically cheerleaders. You liked your cheer team. Their work ethics mirrored closely to colorguard. What you don’t understand is the weird gnawing feeling in your stomach the moment you catch Jungkook and the rest of the girls laughing at something he said.

What’s that about?

He spots you. Smiles wider. Says something quick to the girls before he tries to walk away. Seemingly in your direction at least, but the girls don’t let him leave for whatever reason.

Like the other band members, you gather around the cooler for some refreshments.

“Damn it. Jungkook is a genius for rounding up sponsors from the cheerleaders,” Jaehyun takes a bite of his granola bar.

“You say it like they’d give you a single penny if you asked,” another member says. “He’s always been popular with the cheer team. Probably the dude with the most charisma unlike the majority of us band geeks.”

“I’ll have you know that my flirting skills—”

“Anyone who needs to talk about how great their flirting skills are, has none,” Yuri interrupts.

“You’re just a hater,” Jaehyun rolls his eyes.

“And you look like…” more insults get fired back and forth between the two.

You take the stairs up to where the guard sat during the games. There’s not much for you to do until call time. If you really wanted to, you could choreograph something, but being at the game was already enough. That’s what the cheer and dance teams were for anyway.

Yoongi groans in his descent to the seat next to yours. Says he has old man knees. Ridiculous claim for a 22 year old, but you’re sure every band member has some sort of long term injury at this rate. Yoongi juts his chin to the bottom of the stands. “Think they’re gonna date?”

“Who?” Your eyes zero on Jungkook and the cheer captain. He still hasn’t departed from the group.

“The noobs.” Yoongi puts his feet on the empty bleacher.

“Jaehyun and Yuri?” You laugh. “No way. They hate each other.”

“So did Romeo and Juliet.”

“Okay, but they died too.”

“Ugh, JB, you’re such a pessimist.” He snorts.

“No, just a realist.”

You look down to where Jungkook stands. He’s no longer focused on the surrounding conversation. Has this antsy body language like he’s in search of something … or someone? Keeps looking back and forth between whoever was talking to him and the bleachers. Specifically, in your direction.

“He likes you.”

“Jaehyun?” You avert from the obvious answer. “Not interested in noobs.”

Yoongi squints his eyes and smirks. “You’re no dummy, JB.”

“Don’t know who and what you’re talking about, Yoongs.”

“He’s not a bad kid,” Yoongi continues, “a little rough around the edges, but he tries hard. I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

“Since when have you started playing wingman for Jungkook?”

“See, I knew you were no dummy.”

You stick your tongue out. Yoongi takes the hint and drops the topic, choosing to stare at the open football field.

“I’m gonna miss this,” he says after a beat. “Should I fail one of my classes to be a super senior?”

“I wouldn’t hate graduating with you. We’d get our captain plaques together on senior night.”

“Dad would kill me if he had to pay for another semester.”

You chuckle and lean back. Hoseok calls the band to prepare as the game starts up again. Yoongi goes back down with his section and you’re with yours. Being at the top of the stands, you’re also closer to the stadium lights where all the gnats and moths gather. Can’t help being tempted by the light. You have a lot in common with them. Feel for them, actually. Because much like them, you’re also helplessly drawn to Jungkook’s light.

You don’t understand football, but it’s a nice distraction to put out the little spark of curiosity for a certain tenor drummer.

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ─────

You’re off.

Maybe it’s cause of what Yoongi planted in your head. Maybe. Because you find yourself looking for Jungkook on the field whenever Hoseok signals the band to stop. With only four tenors in the band, he’s not hard to spot. Jungkook was always the last one to fall out of attention after Yoongi taps on his snare. You also find yourself fixated on his bare back and how it flexes when he leans to tilt his drums up. You tell yourself you’re only looking because of what his mother said at the recent football game. He burns easily — shoulders look a little raw and the harness rubbing against it doesn’t make it any better.

Jungkook is just as equally to blame for these weird times. He texts you every day and sends you corny marching band memes. Honestly? They weren’t that funny, but you chuckle nonetheless when you see Jungkook follow up with a ‘LOLOLOLOL us.’ Serves to only confirm he’s also thinking about you.

You spend most of your days in practice with him — you’re bound to think of him outside of it. Especially when you’re at the local drugstore to get some tampons and you come across a bottle of aloe vera. All you have to do is hand it to him. And yet, the bottle remains with you for the next two weeks, burning a hole at the bottom of your backpack.

Granted, you had plenty of chances to give it to him since you’re over at his dorm every Sunday to study. Don’t know when this routine started, but you’d have to thank your spotty wifi for that. It doesn’t take much to convince you either. Good air conditioning, decent wifi, clean space … and Jungkook. Speaking of which, he’s on the floor drumming on his pad. Your brain tricks you to think of it as white noise at this point — loud and comforting. Not sure if you could fall asleep to it, but probably for the better during these study sessions.

His drumming comes to an abrupt stop, “Juice?”

“Hm?” You don’t turn around, too fixated on annotating your lecture notes.

“Do you always bruise around your legs?”

It’s not uncommon for colorguard members to bruise, given that accidents occurred on a daily basis. Whether you miscalculate a toss or there’s overuse of certain body parts, injuries were inevitable. The bruises on your knees are an unfortunate byproduct of all the floor routines you’ve endured. They’re your battle scars. Pretty like the galaxy. That’s one way to view them outside of the pain.

You turn around. Big mistake.

Jungkook looks up at you with starry eyes. It doesn’t help that his five-inch inseam shorts have lifted in his seated position. You’ve always had a weird obsession with tanlines and the ones on Jungkook’s thighs blend perfectly together.

His eyes move from your face and down to your exposed legs. He points at one of the bruises on your shin, “that’s a new one.”

“Very observant of you.” You reply.

He goes red. As if he got caught red-handed doing something forbidden. You quickly follow up with a lighthearted chuckle to diffuse the awkwardness. “But yes, I do bruise easily. Takes a while for it to heal too,” you cross your legs.

“That sucks … guess we all have a weakness, yeah? You with bruising and me with burning.” He chuckles, “B&B.”

“The harness doesn’t help with the sunburn, huh?”

Jungkook smiles, “very observant of you.”

You roll your eyes, think this would be a good time to give him the aloe vera, so you dig through your bag and toss him the bottle. Jungkook catches it with ease and fumbles around his nightstand and tosses you an unopened box. “Trade you.”

It’s the same ointment you brought him a while ago for his hand. You already have some at home, but it felt nice knowing he also thought of you too.

He sits on his bed, grabs his shirt from the back of his collar, and tugs it off his body. Most people shy away from nudity, but band kids are a different breed. You’ve seen people practice in nothing but their undergarments in the past. You should be used to this — to Jungkook’s body. Keyword: should.

You swallow at the sight of his broad back, lean waist, and defined biceps. You should avert your eyes. Again, keyword: should.

Your eyes follow his hands as they reach around his shoulders to smear the liquid on his skin.

“You missed a spot.”

“Huh,” he turns to his floor-length mirror to see and attempts to reach back around. Fails again.

“Want me to help?” The wheels on Jungkook’s desk chair squeak as you roll closer.

“Yeah, if you don’t mind.” He hands you the bottle and turns around. You squeeze the bottle and watch the dime sized liquid dribble on his back. He shudders and exhales softly.

You wonder if the deep shade of red on the tip of his ears was just another place he burned easily. Jungkook’s skin feels hot at the touch. Find the freckles and moles on his back endearing. Find it more endearing that he could never see them like you do. Much like his starry eyes, his back mirrors the constellations in the sky, begging to be traced and mapped by your fingers. By you.

“There, all done.” You close the cap and set the bottle on the nightstand.

He clears his throat, “want me to help?” Jungkook points at the ointment in your lap.

Now it’s your turn to feel shy. “I can do it myself.”

He tilts his head, “I know you can.”

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ─────

You’re surprised at yourself — surprised you agreed for his help, surprised you’re seated on Jungkook’s bed with your foot perched on one of his thighs. You position your hands behind to support you upright.

“This okay?” Jungkook asks as he starts on the smaller bruises around your ankle. You’re not sure if he means this entire ordeal or the pressure he’s kneading into your skin. Regardless, you nod and bite the inside of your cheeks. You never realized how sensitive you were — never realized how much the bruises ached outside of your own touches. It’s been a long time since anyone has tended to your wounds, so this was different. A good different.

“You can go a little harder. Those are old.”

He does as he’s told. Always good, ever so obedient.

Jungkook eventually makes it up to your knees. You’ve let out a few shaky breaths in the time he’s worked the ointment into your skin, all while noticing the way his mouth parts at your reactions.

He eyes the last bruise between your thighs, and back up to your eyes, “there, all done.”

Something shifts in you.

“But you missed one.” You tilt your head, feigning ignorance just to see what he would do. He always does as he’s told, but you sense some hesitancy. Not because he’s uncomfortable, but because he’s unsure what will happen next if he touches you beyond what’s appropriate.

“Juice …”

“What?” You stare at him through hooded eyes, “I thought you wanted to help me.”

“And if I don’t?” He leans in, watches if you’d move away. You don’t, so he takes the chance to rest your leg down on his lap.

“Push-ups.” You say without another thought, also leaning in.

He laughs through his nose, “might do something that’ll warrant that anyways.”

“Like what?” You ask, “show me.” You have an idea of what will happen next. At least, you hope. There’s no doubt something changed between you two since that talk. Sure, you feel more comfortable around him, but lately? You’ve also been feeling other things. As much as you’d like to blame Yoongi, you know it’s your own attraction for Jungkook.

“Yeah?” His face is centimeters from yours.

“Yeah,” you nod, nose grazing his.

He kisses you.

Nothing more than a small peck to test the waters, but he waits a millisecond, which earns himself a soft whine from you as confirmation to continue. Your hand cups his jaw and pulls him in.

“Again,” you breathe, “do it again.”

It’s the same order you’d give to anyone making a mistake in colorguard, but this was no mistake. Call it a Pavlov response or whatever; Jungkook always does as he’s told. Tries his best to make it good for you — doesn’t take much. He angles his head a little, does this pouty thing with his lips that has you feeling warm all over. You lick at his lips. It’s tentative, careful, and slow — gets him breathing heavier.

“Fuck,” he muffles a small groan.

Jungkook parts his mouth and the rest is history. Every lick, every nibble, every breathy moan felt experimental and deliberate all at once. Thumb tracing your cheek, the pressure of his fingertips on your hips has you keening. Time is an illusion because you’d spend the entire afternoon kissing Jungkook if you could. He pulls away first, lips pink and swollen with a sheen of saliva you’re unsure who it belonged to.

He swallows, “well?”

“Well, what?” You say, slightly out of breath.

“Do I still need to do push-ups?”

You snort. He beams. You do spend the rest of the afternoon kissing Jeon Jungkook.

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ─────

“I’ve got to say, Juicebox,” Namjoon pauses to chug the rest of his water, “I don’t think I could’ve pulled off what Jungkook is doing with you.”

You almost spit out your water. “H-huh?”

Did Namjoon know something happened between you and Jungkook?

“The duet. You guys are killing it.”

“Oh. Yeah,” you relax, “extra practice helps.”

Practice does help. And so do the kisses in between breaks that Jungkook swears by makes him improve. You don’t require much persuading to fall into his requests. Enjoy it too much to be restrictive of his affections. As a result, things get a little … difficult during ensemble practices because all Jungkook wants to do is pull you away to kiss you silly. Deprivation of each other works out in your favor because Director Lee no longer mentions how you both need ‘more chemistry.’

“Nice. Hoping for a solid show for all of us by the end of the month. My high school is going to be there.” The marching band was scheduled to perform at the end of a high school circuit competition. Director Lee says it’s a good way to get the school’s name out for prospects thinking about which university to attend.

“Also, is Jungkook okay? He keeps looking over here.” Namjoon nods his head from the side.

You don’t even have to look. Jungkook’s been doing this every practice. Like a touch starved puppy waiting for their owner to come home. As endearing it is, you’re worried. If Namjoon noticed, eventually the other band members would too.

“Think he’s just zoning out.” You lie.

“True. Eyes are giving pug.” Namjoon stands up and pulls the neck strap over his head, “alright, last run through for the day.”

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ─────

“You need to stop staring so much during practice,” you say in between kisses. Jungkook was over at your place under the guise to troubleshoot your shitty Internet connection. Quite confident it wasn’t your internet tier, but that it was just an old router. Ten minutes into inspecting your router, you end up pinned underneath Jungkook on your couch.

“Why? You don’t like it?”

“Namjoon said you looked like a pug.”

“Pugs are cute.”

“They are,” you concede.

“Then what’s the problem?”

“Just-oh!” You look down at the source pressed at your heat. Jungkook is almost always hard during and after kissing, that much you know. Whether it’s from a simple peck or minutes of making out, he’s sporting a boner. Doesn’t take much to rile him up. Though, he’s never done anything further. Just tells you:

“Ignore that,” he trails kisses down your jaw and neck, “so what’s the problem?”

“Don’t want people assuming.”

“Oh.” Jungkook pauses and sits up on his heels, “right, sorry.”

You don’t mean to hurt his feelings. It doesn’t help that you’re a private person and things feel extremely preliminary with Jungkook at the moment. You like him, but for all you know, he could just be in it for a fun time. If this was going to die out, you rather have the least people know about it. It’s not like you’re actively wishing for an inevitable end.

Realistically, it doesn’t hurt to prepare for hurt.

Mood completely shifted, Jungkook sits upright and looks around your apartment. It’s neat, feels homey with how you decorated it. Most of your furniture was secondhand or thrifted, but you took good care of it. He eyes the shelf containing your awards, dried flowers, and pictures with all the different groups and friends you’ve marched with. You’re more sentimental than you appear to be. Marching with these groups was no simple feat, but you looked back fondly at all the memories created. You know you’ll do the same for your university years too.

“Wish I could’ve done drum corps,” Jungkook sighs. If he was phased by whatever transpired moments ago, he doesn’t show it.

“Did you try out other groups?” You sit up, knees brought close to your chest.

“Nah, I don’t think I’m good enough.”

Now, you initially thought there wasn’t anything remarkable about Jungkook’s drumming skills. But let’s be real … you didn’t read music nor play an instrument, so what did you know about drumming? What you do know is that Jungkook tried hard. He was more than capable of passing auditions and marching in drum corps. You’re sure of it.

“You won’t know until you try.”

“Maybe,” he dismisses the thought with a nod. “Would’ve been nice to join two years ago and claim I was in the season where they had tenors drum upside down.”

“Yeah, I remember that,” you smile, “was pretty cool.”

“You’re the cool one for doing drum corps,” he praises, “did you do a lot of fundraising to pay for membership dues?”

You shake your head, “no, my parents did.”

“Nice of them to support you.”

“Yeah, I guess?” You shrug, not sure how to reply, “they … never really came to my shows.”

Jungkook frowns, “why not?”

“Work? I don’t know … they just never made the time. I stopped asking them to come after a while, so I guess it’s my fault they don’t know my schedule.”

His eyes soften. You never realized how natural Jungkook was with affection and comfort. So natural in how he tugs at your wrist, lays you down with him on the couch, and cradles your cheek.

“The way you perform … it’s an absolute privilege to watch you. They’re missing out.” He tells you with so much conviction, “Ma would argue you’re the only one worth watching.” He jokes.

“She’s cute.”

“A menace,” he corrects with a grin, “cause she should pay more attention to her son. But I get it, I’d watch you too.” Jungkook has a way of making you feel special. Like you mattered. Supported. Something you hoped you’d see from your parents in the past, but come to terms you’ll never receive. Now, it’s all coming in the form of Jungkook. And you don’t know what to do with all these emotions except feel guilty and apologetic for what took place moments ago.

“I’m sorry about what I said about not wanting others to assume. It’s just …”

“You don’t have to apologize, Juice. I understand where you’re coming from.”

Does he? It’s like him to be nice about it. You wouldn’t put it past Jungkook, but his words feel … withdrawn? Rehearsed? You’re unsure if you want to open this can of worms with him, let alone if he wanted to talk about it. Instead, you press a soft kiss on his lips, “thank you.”

He groans and pulls you into a hug, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “Are you tryna make me hard?”

“You’re so easy,” you laugh.

“You’re telling me you don’t get turned on when we kiss?” He looks at you incredulously.

You shake your head — a lie. “Nope, all you.” You say as one of your legs hook over his hip.

“I call bluff.” He kisses you, slow, tongue licking the seam of your lips. You lightly suck on his tongue and bite the bottom of his lips, giggling as he moans.

“Wanna check?” Feeling bold, your hand wraps around his wrist and leads it to your midsection, stopping just slightly above your shorts.

“Want me to?” He looks at you through hooded lids.

“Yeah, I do,” you nod, “prove me wrong.” You let out a tiny gasp as his hand slips past your shorts.

“Jungkook,” you whimper as his middle finger slips between your folds. The feeling of someone else’s hand other than your own has you feeling hot all over. Jungkook lets out a little wrecked noise before diving back to your lips for a messy kiss. His hand moves slowly, circling your clit, working out some of the prettiest moans.

“Liar,” he chuckles against your lips. His hand goes lower, fingers collecting your slick at your entrance before smearing it all over your clit.

Your jaw goes slack when his fingers move faster. “N-no, I’m not.”

You feel the vibrations on your lips as he hums. “Think I need to see. Will you let me?”

Such a stupid bit you guys have going on, but you both play it so well. Your shorts and panties are tossed somewhere in your living room, bare ass hanging halfway off the couch. Jungkook kneels on the carpet floor, in an absolute trance. Whatever he’s fantasized in the last month will never compare. Simply spreads and pushes your legs further apart.

“Pretty,” he murmurs to himself. Not sure if he’s talking about you or your pussy; regardless, you smile at the compliment.

“Done checking?” Your eyes move from his down to your wet pussy.

“Yeah. I guess I was wrong.” One of his hands moves to cup the side of your ass, parts your folds more. His thumb strokes up and down your slit, arousal apparent from your wetness.

“Told you.” You shut your eyes when you feel his thumb apply more pressure to your clit.

“So dry,” Jungkook watches you clench around nothing. “Think I gotta help you.” He lowers his head, cheeks hollow a little before he dribbles a glob of spit onto your bare cunt. You arch your back at the sensation of it trailing down your pussy. Jungkook’s face is centimeters away from your pussy, warm breath fanning over. He waits for your permission, places a delicate kiss on the side of your thigh, eyes never leaving yours. Your hand comes underneath your thigh to hold his hand during this intimate act.

“Yeah, think so too. Need you to help me.”

Jungkook eats pussy like how he makes out. Hot. Pouty. Whimpery. It does something to your heart when he interlocks his hand with yours, thumb caressing your hand. Soft and soothing. So different from how he has his lips wrapped around your clit, licking and sucking ruthlessly. You let out a broken sob when he suddenly pries your legs further apart before fucking his tongue in you. He pauses in between to spit, uncaring of where it lands because he knows it’ll eventually mix with the rest of your slick.

“Oh my god!” You shut your eyes, too overcome from the pleasure.

“Is that good, baby?” Baby. You like that. You like it more knowing he asked that question to check in on you as if your reactions weren't a giveaway. Couldn’t possibly formulate a response in the time he goes back to your clit, head moving side to side.

The pleasure builds and builds until you gasp. Body curling in and thighs locking Jungkook’s head in place, you cum.

White splotches fill the back of your lids. Jungkook was absolutely entranced by your orgasm. He groans, eats you out sloppily just cause. You can only lay there and take everything he’s giving you, hand clutching his tighter when it gets too much. Jungkook finally lifts himself off you when your whimpers die down, marveling at your glistening sex. He was a sight to see: disheveled hair, red nose, and wet chin.

“Wanna watch you cum again. Please?” His fingers circle your entrance.

You sigh prettily. “Come here.”

He obliges. Leans over your body with one of his hands still between your legs. You waste no time in pulling him down to a heated kiss, loving the taste of you on his tongue. The squelching noises intensify as you buck your hips into his hand. Drives you crazy that Jungkook hasn’t put his fingers in yet.

You pull away, “hear that?” You circle your hips. “You did that. Made me so wet — made me feel so good.”

“God, you’re so hot,” he moans, two fingers finally entering your pussy. He’s slow at first, mindful of your previous orgasm. Builds some speed once you pant into his mouth for more, fingers curling and letting the rise and drop of your hips do the work.

“You’re creaming.” Like a new discovery only he could lay claim on. Like he didn’t know he could get you like this. Because truthfully, only he has ever gotten you like this. He stares at the mess between your legs, white coating his digits and seeping down your ass the more he thrusts.

You can only whine and arch your back against the couch. That familiar feeling blooms in the pits of your stomach again.

“I’m gonna—”

He nods, keeps the same speed and watches you with blown out pupils. Doesn’t know where to focus. Decides at the last moment that it should be your face and feels no regret when you cum a second time on his fingers.

“You’re so pretty.” He kisses you through your orgasm, shaking his head when you trail your hand down to his crotch.

“Oh, you don’t want …?”

“Trust me, I’m more than good.” He pulls you up and giggles at your jello-state legs.

You’re a little confused why he didn’t want you to return the favor, but decided it was best to brush it off. He helps locate your clothing and guides you into your bathroom to clean up. You back against the locked door, hands coming up to touch your face. Hot. Look over to the mirror and exhale at the sight. The afterglow looks good on you. There’s a drop to your shoulders and light in your irises. You look enamored. It’s all too soon to say, especially after multiple kisses and this one intimate moment … though, your chest swells with hope. Hope for more with Jungkook.

In the time you spent freshening up, Jungkook pulled out a new router from his backpack he bought in secret earlier that day. Thirty minutes later, your connection and speed was infinitely better.

“Let me pay you back for the router,” you say as Jungkook puts on his shoes at the doorway. Jungkook stands up and tugs on the strap of his backpack.

“Nah. Just write off the push-ups for the rest of the season whenever I drop the toss,” he smiles cheekily.

“You wouldn’t have to do push-ups if you caught.” You scowl, “thank you again for the router. Saves me the trips to campus.” But it also meant you won’t have an excuse to study at Jungkook’s anymore.

Jungkook surprises you with a quick kiss on your cheek.“You’re always welcomed over whenever you want. G’night, Cap.”

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ─────

Envy has a weird way of working.

You remember it best with your parents choosing to go to your sibling’s sports games or when everyone in colorguard got to their splits way before you did. Just like how you’re feeling now, seeing Jungkook smile and joke with one of the cheerleaders after practice. It’s uncharacteristic of you to feel this way. You’ve never cared this much when you’ve witnessed past partners conversing with other people.

You encouraged it. Felt secure.

This was different.

“Yo, that’s the girl that Jungkook’s been talking to? Chaewon?” Jaehyun says in passing to another tenor player.

“I think so. Why?”

You don’t listen to the rest of the conversation. Rushing out the band room, your mind jumps back to all the times he’s stopped moving forward beyond making you feel good. Was it because he was already seeing someone else? It could only make sense if he wanted to be safe about it. Good that he’s thoughtful for all parties involved. Bad because you thought he liked you enough to have it only be you.

You were right. It doesn’t hurt to prepare for hurt.

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ─────

Jungkook [5:04 p.m.]: hey! u left super early today. did u get home safe? Jungkook [8:31 p.m.]: ?? juice, u ok? You [10:15 p.m.]: Yes, I’m home.

1 Missed call from Jungkook

You [10:16 p.m.]: Sorry, studying atm. I’ll see you at practice tomorrow.

This back and forth goes on for the rest of the week. Jungkook tries to talk to you after practice, but you always seem to slip away at the last moment. The one-on-one practices have stopped because the show was as clean as it could get and all Jungkook needed to work on was catching. He could do that on his own. You gave him all the tools he needed to succeed.

You’d like to think that whatever you shared with Jungkook was just a moment of indulgence. Helped you nurse your pride and feelings. If you kept telling yourself that things were okay and how it should be, you’ll eventually believe it. Much like how you’ve accepted that you’ll never see your parents at one of your shows, you'll realize these feelings for Jungkook were also fleeting. Because it starts to look that way once Jungkook starts to back off trying to talk to you.

You had other things to focus on. Cleaning up your section, schoolwork, and raising enough donations for the Rehearsathon. Of course you fall short of the goal. It’s not a big deal, but you hate to be the person who didn’t look like they tried at all, especially coming from a leadership role.

Regardless, you come into Rehearsathon ready for the brutal twelve hours. Practice lasted three hours at max, twelve was overkill. By the end of it all, you were exhausted. Sore and ready to go home for a much needed hot shower.

“Nice work, band. With the money raised, I think it’s safe to say we’ll be getting new uniforms by the end of the month. Just in time for the exhibition show.” Director Lee continues his recap, “also, shout out to our top fundraisers: Toad, Jungkook, and Juicebox.”

Huh? You barely raised a little over 50 bucks … 20 of which came from yourself cause you felt awful showing up with just 30. Did everyone else just do poorly?

Hoseok comes to you after everyone gets dismissed to pat you on the back. “Very impressive to get the cheer team to donate that much.” Cheer team? You’re lost. You didn’t know anyone on that team, let alone solicited them to donate. The only person you knew that had connections with the cheer team was none other than Jungkook. But … why would their sponsorship be under you?

It didn’t make sense.

“Jungkook.” You jog up to him.

“Sup?” He’s never greeted you like this before, but it’s probably deserved since you’ve been avoiding him. Doesn’t sting any less.

“My sponsors. You did that, didn’t you?”

He nods. “Yeah, I did.”

You shake your head, “you didn’t have to.”

“I know. I wanted to,” he shrugs.

You try to find the right words to say, but come short. You settle for a small ‘thank you.’ It’s all you can say before you turn the opposite direction.

He doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t question why you haven’t been returning his calls or text messages. Your silence was an answer in itself.

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ─────

Jungkook’s tosses and catches were inconsistent. On his good days, he’s able to stick his catch. Mostly during rehearsal. But come the halftime shows? He’s dropping. You can tell he’s frustrated. No one likes feeling like they dragged down the quality of a show. Some liked to be left alone to process their mistakes; you assumed Jungkook was the type to need extra comfort. You work up the courage to go to him, but see that Jimin has beaten you. Probably for the better.

Jimin was great when it came to comforting others. In Jungkook’s case, it looked like Jimin was putting in the works. Has him miming a toss and doing a silly dance to show Jungkook how he tries to recover under a bad toss. Jungkook cracks a smile. Jimin transitions to his final move: back hug. You’ve also received those from Jimin before. It’s nice — not your preference after a rough show, but you appreciate the sentiment. Looks like Jungkook does too. Appears infinitely lighter.

The same cheerleader you saw a couple weeks ago, Chaewon, comes up to Jungkook too. Gives him a high five and a hug. And that was your cue to leave. You feel a little pathetic. All this because you don’t know what to do with your feelings for a boy.

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ─────

Exhibition day.

Instruments loaded in the trailer, everyone was ready to hit the road. Whenever there was a far off site performance, Lee strung up his contacts to reserve fancy buses for the band. Yoongi theorizes it’s all for show to the prospective graduating high school seniors. He’s not complaining though. Far better to ride on some fancy buses than to coordinate carpool for over 200 band kids.

“Is your high school going to be there, Juicebox?” Yuri stuffs her equipment underneath the bus compartment.

“No,” you shake your head, “they’re in another circuit.”

“Lucky, my school is going to be there. So I need to impress my underclassmen.” She holds her hands into a fist. You chuckle, pull the straps of your backpack higher on your shoulder as you step onto the bus.

Colorguard preferred taking the back of the bus only cause it feels like you can do your hair and makeup in peace. Funnily enough, drumline also preferred the back too. Gives them space from the rest of the band when they drum together on the bus. Lucky for you, one of your girls secured the backseats. You volunteer to sit alone since there was an odd number of members in your section. If the drumline came to the back, you had a feeling Yoongi might swoop in to sit with you. He preferred a quieter seat partner despite having to lead some of the drumming sessions on the bus.

“Is it okay if I sit here?”

There’s no need to look up. Even if you haven’t spoken to him in a couple weeks, you’d recognize that voice anywhere.

“Go ahead.” Who were you to stop him?

Jungkook takes his seat, stuffs his bag underneath the seat in front of him, and places his drumsticks on his lap. He smells like coconut and shea butter — the same scent as the sunscreen you gifted him a while back. It’s sweet and warm — such a huge contrast to how you and Jungkook act towards each other now. Bitter and cold.

“Alright,” Director Lee announces from the bus intercom. “About a 45 minute drive to the location. No bathroom breaks. If you gotta go, hold it or piss in a cup.” A bunch of band kids grimace and fake a retch from the comment.

All you could think about is how you’ll be next to Jungkook for the next 45 minutes. The drummers get their rounds of drumming in, choosing to drum on the seats in front of them. You stare out the window, wishing for time to pass by quicker. His elbow brushes yours and time ceases to continue. Something lodges in your chest from the brief contact. You chastise your heart — so weak, so dumb, so fragile. Just because of a boy.

As Director Lee says, you’ve got to tighten up.

The drumming continues for another 20 minutes. Your section chatters behind you and Jungkook is turned to his own. Sometimes in a room full of people, or in this case … a bus, you still manage to find yourself feeling left out. You’ve got no one to blame but yourself.

Eventually, the bus arrives at a lot filled with other school buses.

“You guys have 15 minutes to unload and meet at the practice field for warm up.” Director Lee announces.

Row after row, people file out of the bus. When it was Jungkook’s turn to get up, he stays seated. He motions the folks behind him to go first, bending down to his backpack to get something. Everyone was now outside the bus … minus you and Jungkook.

He sighs. “How long are we going to keep doing this?” Jungkook leans back on his seat,

“Doing what?”

“Pretend like what we had didn’t happen.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” you stand up, one of your hands land on the seat in front to support yourself as you wait for Jungkook to move.

“Come on, Juice,” he pleads, “this is ridiculous.”

“I’m glad you agree,” your knee pushes at his leg to get to the aisle.

“Was it something I did?” Jungkook’s voice softens, “I would never do something you weren’t okay with …”

“Jungkook.” You look at the front of the bus. Thankfully, no one was there, “I was okay with everything we did, well—no, I mean,” you shift uncomfortably as you try to find the right words. He cocks his head to the side with furrowed brows.

You feel your resolve waver. There hasn’t been a second in the day where you don’t think about him. Week after week, you jump between feeling sad, betrayed, and embarrassed. He’d even pop up in your dreams to remind you that even when you weren’t awake, he’s still very much present in your subconscious. Perhaps talking to the source of your problems could help.

“We can talk about it after the show. There’s not enough time.” You were being honest. Know that everyone is on crunch time now that you’ve all reached the performance site.

“Okay.” He’d have no other choice but to accept. He gets up and moves to the side. You push away that bitter feeling in your chest. It’s show day. Jungkook eventually emerges out the bus a couple minutes after you do.

“You okay, JB?” Yoongi hauls his drum from the trailer and moves out of the way for the other members to get their instruments.

“Yeah,” you lie, “just pre-show nerves.”

Yoongi doesn’t buy it. Realized you and Jungkook were the last ones to get off the bus. Felt the shift between the two of you these couple of weeks. He also notices how Jungkook looks over at you. Something must’ve happened, but he’s not going to push for answers right before a show.

“Kids these days …” he murmurs to himself.

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ─────

High school marching band competitions were overstimulating. Overfilled bathroom stalls, different music playing, and the scent of kettle corn … makes you nostalgic. The rush of being on a field again. Other good, if not better, colorguard you’d meet from all over the country. The award ceremony. The comradery. Maybe you have one more season left in you to do drum corps in the summer.

For now, you’re lined up at the front of the main field. Everyone is all warmed up and ready to perform.

Showtime. Director Lee takes over the stadium microphone to introduce the marching band and Hoseok signals everyone to march down the field into position. The show goes smoothly. During the performance, the audience erupts with cheers at every musical feature and toss. Jungkook catches. The band was an absolute hit.

“Oh my god, we rocked out there!” Jimin drops the handful of equipment he picked up on the field. Everyone gives each other high fives and pats on the back.

“I second that,” Director Lee comes around with his megaphone. “Nice work, band. We have an hour to reload. Do as you like till it’s call time.”

Equipment and instruments loaded up, you and another guard member walk to the concession stands for some kettle corn. While waiting in line, she gets pulled away by some old classmates from high school. Honestly, you didn’t even want kettle corn, but you weren’t ready to face Jungkook just yet. In the midst of your thoughts, someone calls your name. You freeze.

“I thought I recognized you from the stands. Long time no see.”

A voice and face you long to forget: Wooyoung. Your high school ex.

You step back, unsure how to avoid this interaction. He smiles. To any other person, it’d come off as friendly. To you? Slimy. Icky. You feel more cornered when he opens his arms for a hug. When you don’t lean into it, he pulls you in for one.

“You were great out there. Improved a lot since your freshman year.” He places his hand on your shoulder.

“Thanks,” you reply. Your gaze locked on the object in front of you. A badge that read: YBHS Asst. Band Director.

He notices your stare. “Yeah, I never really left the marching band scene post college. Just kept calling my name.” You don’t like the way he scans your body. The corners of his lips fight to stay neutral. Part of you feels sad for your younger self — didn’t know better than to mistake his lust for interest and adoration.

“Say, if you’re free after the competition, we should get some drinks together and catch up. The school I’m teaching is looking for a dance tech—”

“No, I’m not looking to teach.” You immediately decline. Getting paid to do what you loved sounded tempting, but why subject yourself to torture being employed by the same man that fucked you over? “Thanks for the offer, but I need to go back with the band.” You step back.

Ignoring your decline, Wooyoung tries again. “We should catch up though. I don’t mind taking you back if you’re worried about a ride home.”

“No thank y-”

“Juice.” You’ve never been more relieved to hear someone call you by that nickname.

Jungkook stands beside you. Saw you looking uncomfortable from afar and it was instinctive to come over despite whatever was going on between you two. By no means was he a confrontational or violent person, but he’s protective of those he cares about. And he cares deeply about you. No doubt about that.

“Lee said he needed us back at the bus.” There’s plenty of time left, but you’re thankful for an opening to leave.

“Sorry, I’ve gotta go.”

“Aw, can’t spare a couple more minutes for an old friend?” Be it his ego or his inability to read the room, Wooyoung doesn’t back down. This doesn’t surprise you. What surprised you was Jungkook’s hand wrapped around yours. Possessive. Alert.

“Come on, we’re gonna be late,” Jungkook says.

“Oh? Boyfriend?” Wooyoung eyes your interlocked hands.

“Uh-”

“Yep,” the lie rolls off his tongue effortlessly. You nearly believe it too, “and you are …?”

“Wooyoung. I teach at one of the high schools in this circuit,” he chuckles, “I’m assuming you both march at the same university?”

“We do.” Jungkook answers on your behalf again.

“Cute. Well, I won’t keep you two,” Wooyoung turns to you. “It was nice seeing you again. Hit me up on Facebook if you’re interested in the tech position or if you just want to catch up.”

Before you know it, you and Jungkook are headed back to the direction of the bus. He's still holding your hand, weaving both of you through the crowds.

“Jungkook,” you say, nearly tripping over your steps to meet his long strides. He lets go of your hand and faces you.

“Was that your ex?”

Your silence confirms the answer.

“Why’d you let him walk all over you like that?”

“I was fine.”

“You were clearly uncomfortable. Had I not stepped in-”

“I didn’t ask for your help, Jungkook.”

“You didn’t,” he steps back, “and I know that. I just … I wanted to.”

“Why?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I care about you ... we’re friends.”

But friends don’t look at each other like the way Jungkook does with you. A friend’s touch doesn’t make you yearn for more. It doesn’t hurt when they call you a friend.

“We’re not friends.” Guilt seeps through you the moment those words leave your lips. Jungkook runs his hand down his face and exhales a small humorless laugh. It comes out mocking with a hint of bitterness.

“But Wooyoung is?”

That hits a sore spot. He realizes his mistake when your face falls. “Juice,” his voice softens, “I didn’t mean it like that-”

“Just like how you’re friends with Chaewon?”

He pauses. Confusion plastered on his face. Your shoulder bumps into his arm as you walk past him and towards the bus. It takes less than a second for him to catch up to you. Calls your name. Gets ignored.

“What’s that supposed to mean? What does Chaewon have to do with any of this?” With some band members lining up to board the buses, Jungkook’s voice was loud enough to catch their attention. The last thing you want is people speculating.

“Can we do this another time?” You say through gritted teeth.

Another time? He’s been waiting to talk to you, but you keep blowing him off. He doesn’t know when he’ll be granted this opportunity again, let alone whether you’ll keep your words. But you look uncomfortable and as much as he’d like to air out his grievances, he holds himself back from making a bigger scene.

He sighs in resolve and lets you queue in line for the bus. In the bus, you expected Jungkook to sit right next to you. Gets surprised when Yoongi plops down next to you. You scan the area and realize Jungkook is a couple rows in front. He doesn’t look back at you. Doesn’t come back for his belongings underneath the seat.

“Whatever is going on between you and Jungkook needs to be fixed. You’re better than this.” He sighs.

Yoongi was never one to lecture you. Not because he doesn’t feel like he can’t, but because you’ve always had your shit together. Haven’t seen you act like this before. So … juvenile, immature, and unreasonable. Perhaps he was wrong to think that things would work between you and Jungkook. The bus ride back to the campus was quiet. Going home always felt like a shorter ride in comparison to going to the performance site. Wished it took longer.

The bus comes to a full stop at the front of the school and everyone immediately gets out row by row. Yoongi gets up once it’s your row’s turn. “Wait, Yoongi,” you point at Jungkook’s bag at the bottom of the seat.

“You can give it to him, JB.” It’s not a demand, merely a matter of fact. You don’t argue back. Percussion is typically last to unload all their instruments back into the band room, so you’re stuck waiting for Jungkook till he’s done.

One by one, your colorguard members leave to go home, bidding you farewell. They don’t question why you’re staying behind, just assume that you have some business you have to see through with the director or other section leaders. It’s late and they just want to be in bed. So do you. But you wait, because it’s what you should do. You owe this to Jungkook at the very least.

Thirty minutes go by and Jungkook finally emerges from the band room. He smiles and waves goodbye to his section. When he sees you with his bag, his expression morphs into something close to disbelief. Walks up to you quickly and takes it out of your hand.

“Could’ve told Yoongi to give it to me,” he frowns.

“Trust me, I tried,” you sigh, “but I promised we would talk.”

His lips presses into a thin line. It’s late, but if the talk doesn’t happen now, he doesn’t know when it will.

“Did you want to talk at the dorms?” He asks.

You internally debate whether it was a good idea to be in an enclosed area with Jungkook. Sure, it offered some privacy, but you felt more exposed. More vulnerable. Limits your likelihood of running away. Doesn’t take you long to make a decision, opting to talk at his dorm after a cold breeze passes through. It’s been a couple of weeks since you’ve been there. You wonder if anything has changed. Yet, you’re greeted by the same blue bedsheets, detergent, and all too clean of a desk space. Nothing’s changed, except for the two people in there.

Jungkook sits on the floor and you follow. You clear your throat, unable to make eye contact with Jungkook now that you’re in front of him. No more avoiding the inevitable.

“What’s been going on?” He asks carefully. “Talk to me, please?”

You chew on your bottom lip, unsure of where to start.

“Was it something I did?” He asks again.

Another moment of silence ensues. “Juice-”

“We shouldn’t have done what we did.” You’re sure this was the right thing to say, but it doesn’t hurt any less.

“What do you mean?” His voice comes out small.

“I shouldn’t have entertained any of that. It wasn’t right.” That really drove it home. Nail on the coffin. Stings more when you look up and see the hurt plastered on Jungkook’s face.

Yoongi told you to fix things, but it seems impossible when you’re only capable of making things worse. Especially with how he closes his eyes and looks away. You’ve prepped your heart for this moment. Though, this is Jungkook. The boy who willingly volunteered to step into a position no one else would, the boy who’s been vying for your attention and got it, the boy with a smile so warm that you think you’d have trouble forgetting even across multiple universes.

That’s what scares you. Whatever he says next will hurt.

“Do you regret it?” Jungkook asks with downcast eyes. You rest your face into your palm. It’s a yes or no question deserving of a yes and no answer. For that, you couldn’t answer right away.

“I didn’t. Not once.” He answers truthfully, “but if you regret it, I really am sorry.” Jungkook looks at you with those round, apologetic eyes.

You almost cave. Almost.

“I just … thought we had something special. I was wrong to assume.” He says.

You did have something special with Jungkook. He wasn’t wrong.

Jungkook continues, “I hope we can remain friends, but I get it if you don’t want to.”

Friends. This irked you.

“Is that what you say to people you’ve slept with?”

“What?” He retracts his head back in confusion. “Where’s this coming from?”

There’s no going back now.

“Chaewon.” You straighten up from your seated position, “there’s also something special between you two, right?”

You sound bitter. You hate it. Hate how he looks … so exposed. So incriminating.

Jungkook quickly shakes his head.

“You wouldn’t let me touch you. Was it because you were still sleeping with her?”

“No! I—”

“—It’s fine if you were. We weren’t anything,” wrong, he was something to you, still is, “but—”

“It’s not like that,” he interrupts, but you press on, fully on autopilot now.

“—I’m not someone’s backup, I don’t do casual. The least you could’ve done was tell me. If you had any respe—”

The words die on your tongue when Jungkook says your name. Your actual name. You don’t realize how heavy you’re breathing. And Jungkook? Upset is an understatement.

“I did have something with Chaewon,” he begins.

You scoff.

“In our first-year. Things ended because … well, I caught feelings,” he admits with a hint of shame, “I don’t do casual either. I just didn’t realize she did.”

Oh.

“But you’re still …?”

He shakes his head no. “We’re not like that anymore, I swear.”

“Doesn’t explain why you wouldn’t let me touch you,” you murmur, head turned away in embarrassment.

Jungkook frowns. “It’s not that I don’t want you to. Intimacy just kinda fucks with my head and heart … after what happened with Chaewon, I just …” His voice trails, “I didn’t want to rush and mess things up with someone I care about. Seems like it still happened anyway.” Jungkook scoots closer, knees now touching yours. “Is that what this is about?”

Jungkook cocks his head to meet your eyes, but you keep your head turned away. “Hey, come on. Look at me.”

And when you finally do look at him, you’re met with light and warmth — something you don’t know if you deserve after all the mess your mind created. He hesitates, but trails his fingers against yours. Testing the waters. Jungkook takes it as a sign to hold your hand when you don’t retract. Even with his calloused hands from years of drumming, you feel the tenderness in his touch.

“I never intended to hurt you or make you feel bad,” his voice laced with sincerity, “I’m sorry.”

Jungkook was right. Intimacy does fuck with your head and heart. Made you think irrationally, abandoning all logic for the sake of protecting your heart and pride. Ridiculous that he’s the one apologizing.

“No,” you shake your head. “I should’ve come to you about it. I’m sorry.” Your eyes water at the admittance.

“Aw, hey, don’t cry …” Jungkook cups your cheek with his other hand.

You sniffle, quickly blinking away the tears because you’re stubborn — not a fan of people witnessing you cry. Instead, you press your cheek into his palm. Missed his touch — missed him.

It’s a little uncoordinated how he pulls you onto his lap, but when you’re seated on him and your head is resting in the crook of his neck, it feels like coming home. There’s a specific scent that clings onto his skin after a long day of being under the sun — slight musk mixed with sunscreen and his cologne. Familiar and comforting. You wonder if he’s just as attached to your scent as you are with his.

“You still haven’t answered my question though …” he swallows, “do you regret it?”

“No,” you shake your head, voice coming out small, “never regretted anything we’ve done.”

“Do you … regret us?” He asks.

You shake your head again. You know you said some hurtful things a while ago. Wish you could take it all back. Can’t seem to muster the courage to tell Jungkook that he’s been the best thing that’s happened to you all season, but you try in your own way.

Torso turned awkwardly and arms sewn around his neck, you hold him. It takes a second for Jungkook to react, body tense and unsure if he’s allowed to embrace you. You exhale, something akin to relief, and he feels it too. Jungkook holds you just as tightly. Tucks himself into your neck and kisses into your hair. Whispers how much he’s missed you and jokes about how foolish you both are — just two enamored fools.

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ─────

The day after that night, Jungkook unfollowed Chaewon on all his social media platforms, not before sending a quick message how he no longer wanted to stay friends. You hope it wasn’t because of you. Sure, you had your moments of insecurity about Jungkook and Chaewon and don’t know exactly what transpired between them, but you thought it was a bit excessive to cut someone off cold turkey. But Jungkook had his reasons … reasons for which he’s not ready to talk about just yet. You trusted him and you’ll wait. If he thought this was for the better, you’ll stand by his decision.

The season was nearly over. You’re also over at Jungkook’s a lot, vice versa — made his room a second home. He reserves a section of his nightstand just for your bobby pins and hair ties … no different from your desk chair with a pile of his sleep shirts.

It’s the evening after an ensemble practice and he’s laid between your legs, bare back against your torso. Nothing sexual, just appreciating your company while he drums a random beat on his chest. The warmth of his body feels good on yours, like a heated and weighted blanket all at once. You mindlessly run your fingers in his hair, occasionally earning a shudder from Jungkook if your nails made contact with his scalp.

“Next week’s our last show,” he mutters.

From your position, you notice Jungkook’s pout. Your hand comes to a stop. “You sad?”

“A little. Season’s been tough, wanna end it on a good note.”

Part of you wonders if he was talking about the show or his time with you. Both could be true.

“You will,” you wrap your arms around his shoulders and give him a reassuring squeeze, “is your family going to be there?”

Jungkook smiles fondly. “Yeah, they are.”

“Good. That’ll be enough incentive for you to catch this time,” you tease.

“Yah,” he turns, chin propped at your sternum, “I don’t need incentives to do well.”

“Really?” You tilt your head. “That’s not what you said before practice today. ‘One kiss, please? I swear I’ll stick the catch.’” You do your best pleading eyes, but nothing can beat the real deal.

His eyes narrow, lips curving into a playful smile. “You got me.”

Jungkook lays his cheek down on your chest, hesitates with his next words. “How about you though? Is your family going to be there?” He knows family is an uncomfortable topic for you. Hell, talking about hard topics in general was difficult. These days, you’re doing better at communicating your feelings. Jungkook makes it easy — makes the uncomfortable feel comfortable.

“Didn’t invite them, so probably not,” you shrug.

“Wouldn’t it be nice to have them there?”

“Maybe …”

Jungkook thinks you’re so pretty when you’re in deep thought. Brows furrowed, lips pressed together in a thin line. There’s that dimple on the right side of your cheek that only appears when you do that. He’s sure you’re not even aware of its existence. Always been so captivated by you. Built this version of you in his head all these years and you’ve shattered every one of his assumptions in just one season. He's gotten to know different sides of you — like when you’re assertive, insecure, caring, angry, sweet … just, you.

“But I don’t need incentives, unlike someone I know.” You smirk.

He likes to entertain all your sides, but this was his favorite — the side that likes to tease. His body shifts, so does yours as you sink your head deeper into his pillow.

“I think you’re getting it mixed up, Cap,” Jungkook hovers over your body, nose touching yours, “incentives make me work harder knowing there’s something to look forward to. As much as I love performing for a big audience,” his lips brushes the corner of your mouth, “it’s more special when there’s someone you know watching.”

“Right?” His breath fans over your lips.

You’re not arguing with a man whose eyes competed with stars. Instead, choosing to accept his words because he’s right … just on this occasion. Because all you want is for him to press his lips to yours.

And Jungkook does that.

Drives him crazy when you get all breathless and whiny against his lips. True to his words, he’s been good with taking it slow with you. Sticks to kissing for now because he fears that he won’t be able to get himself out of the deep end if he reaches to that point of intimacy. Took forever with Chaewon, so he doesn’t know how he’ll fare with you … someone he really likes.

But fuck, you make it hard — make him hard. You gasp and pull away slightly when he accidentally grinds himself against your core. Jungkook shudders and mumbles his apologies, lips finding yours again.

You shake your head. “‘s okay,” you kiss his cheek, “you good?”

“Trying to be,” he swallows and chuckles.

“You don’t have to try to be,” you peer at him through your lashes, “you are good.”

You make the uncomfortable feel comfortable too. Kisses you again tenderly and lets his body relax momentarily.

“Can I be honest with you?”

You nod. “Always.”

“When we had that fall out … it was after we got intimate. I’m worried about that happening again.”

“Oh, Kook,” your stomach sinks at the confession.

“I don’t wanna feel that way with you,” one of his hands cup your cheek, “I trust you.”

“I trust you too. We don’t have to rush into sex to prove anything.” You turn your head to kiss his palm.

He knows. But he wants this badly — wants you. His hard length pressed against you is enough proof. Sensing his turmoil, you push yourself up, making him sit back on his heels.

One of your hands holds his. “You trust me, yeah?”

Jungkook nods, eyes sincere and honest. You lay your back against his headboard, legs spread wide enough to accommodate another person in between. No brainer, a perfect spot for Jungkook.

“Turn around and lay down,” you pat your chest.

Jungkook does just that, no questions asked. He’s right back where he started this evening: between your legs. Except now, there’s a light wave of anticipation floating in the air.

“What do you have in mind?” His voice drops an octave lower.

“Shh,” you hand cups his chin so that your lips could meet his temple. “I got you.” Truthfully, you didn’t know what you were doing. You only wanted to make him feel good, just as he’s done for you.

“You’re always helping others. So attentive,” one of your hands trails down his abdomen, “so good.”

At your praise, Jungkook sinks his teeth down on his lips.

“Think you deserve to be rewarded for that. Don’t you?” You ask. His hand wraps around your wrist, unsure whether to have you continue or stop.

“Wanna make you feel good,” your hand stops just shy of his belly button, thumb rubbing against his skin, “please?”

He releases a little moan, cock twitching in his shorts. You run your hand between his legs, gentle in the way you let yourself trace over his cloth length. Jungkook tips his head back for a second and immediately looks back down again, afraid he might miss out on what’s yet to come.

“God,” he keens, stomach tightening with every fleeting touch.

“Do you want me to stop?” You whisper into his ear. Simple question calls for a simple answer. Jungkook presents his answer in the form of a tilt to his head, whispering a silent plea for you to kiss and continue touching him.

The angle of the kiss is a bit off, gets Jungkook a little giggly, but he quiets down the moment your fingers fumble at the waistband of his shorts. His chest stutters, both hands coming down to help you pull the front of his shorts to expose his hard cock.

Jungkook’s size was always a dead giveaway. Thank god for his obsession with grey sweats. You didn’t think he was this big. Arousal pools between your legs. Wonder if it’d stroke his ego knowing your mind was filled with images of how he’d stretch you out, sink inside you, and fuck you to the hilt.

But nevermind that. This was about him and making him feel good.

Jungkook lets out a needy moan when your hand wraps around his cock. You give it a tiny squeeze and hum at the sight of his precum leaking from his slit. You let go all too soon, and just as he was about to accuse you of teasing him, he hears you spit into your hand.

“Baby ...” His chest heaves when you run your wet hand down his shaft again.

Jungkook was right. It is more special when there’s someone you know watching. Inspires you to perform. To make him feel good. To ignite a reaction, letting you know he enjoys what you’re doing.

He lets you have your way with his body. Pants and shivers when your other hand plays with his nipple. Doesn’t know where to fucking focus because you’re everywhere all at once and he loves every moment of it.

“Fuck, you’re gonna make me cum,” His eyes lock at the sight before him: your pretty hand wrapped around his hard length covered in both spit and precum.

“Yeah? Go on,” you coax, “you deserve it.” You understand what he means by incentives. Because it motivates you to work harder to draw out his moans, stroke faster then randomly slow down to tease him, and purr sweet nothings into his ears. Makes you fight the arm cramp just to see his eyes flutter shut. Makes you ignore the pleasure pangs hitting your own core just so you can witness his orgasm. Because you want to so badly make him feel good.

“That’s it, so close,” you encourage.

“C-cumming,” Jungkook pants, he digs his head back into your shoulders, “I’m cumming.” You watch the thick ropes of cum paint his torso. Jungkook’s body shakes and withers from pleasure. You let go of his cock and you trail your fingers up his stomach to collect his cum.

He watches with bated breath as you stick your tongue out for an experimental lick. A bit heady for your liking, but who eats cum for the sake of taste? This is all for Jungkook. His fucked out expression was enough reason for you to push your cum coated fingers into your mouth and suck them clean.

“Oh my god,” he groans, turning around to pin you down on his mattress. “You’re so hot.” Doesn’t think twice when he slots his lips to yours, moans muffled at the taste of him on your tongue.

“Made me feel so good,” another peck to seal the deal. “Thank you.” Post nut clarity usually made people run for the hills. Jungkook? Basks in your company and affection. Trusts you with his body and so he naturally trusts you with his heart.

He hopes it’s the same for you.

Words aren’t needed to express how you feel for Jungkook. It’s evident in how your expressions change the more you kiss. How your nose feels against his cheek when you nod for him to touch you. How it doesn’t take long for you to fall apart from his fingers.

Jeon Jungkook knows it’s the same for you.

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ─────

Last game of the season also meant the last performance of the season. You’re warming up with your guard. Nothing too serious since you don’t like to be tired out before a performance.

“Hey, Cap?” Jimin says mid stretch. “There are a couple of folks behind that keep staring in our direction. You know them?”

It’s a sight you weren’t expecting. Your family. Your parents and brother. Not like you don’t see them often. You call home sometimes. Visits happened towards the end of the semester, so you’d never expect to see them on campus mid-semester… especially your own.

You jog over to them.

“Hey, what are you guys doing here?” You ask breathlessly.

“To see you perform, duh.” Your brother rolls his eyes.

“Uh … but this is-”

“One of your classmates messaged me on Facebook a day ago telling me it’s a very special performance. Honestly, I wished I got the invite from my daughter, but here we are,” your mother exasperates, foot tapping on the ground.

Sensing a bit of awkwardness, your father adds, “we just wanted to say hi and good luck, honey. We’ll be in the stands.” He points in the direction of the stadium.

“Oh, okay, um, thank you. I’ll see you all later?” You walk back to your section, confused, but there was something else. Excitement? Disbelief? Maybe all of the above.

“You okay?” Jimin asks while gathering his equipment.

You look over to where Jungkook was warming up with drumline. “Yeah. Yeah, I think so.”

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ─────

Director Lee is a man of traditions and rituals. Doesn’t like splitting poles because he thinks it’s bad luck. He also made it a tradition to announce every fourth year’s name to the stadium as the band file to their spot for the last performance of the season. Think of it as an informal send off. Gets the entire band a little emotional before the show.

You feel a lot. The nearly filled stands. Your family in those very stands. Jungkook. The fourth-years. All the practices, mistakes, and injuries led you up to this moment.

Hoseok salutes to the audience and the stadium quiets down when he turns back to the band. Even from far away, you can feel his presence. It’s commanding, ready to lead.

And that’s what Hoseok does. Everything blurs when the music starts. It’s all muscle memory. The cheers for the flag and music features fuels the entire band to perfection.

Despite your confusion about your family, they’re here, watching you.

The stadium erupts in cheers at the end of the performance. You’re the first to break formation to hug your guard members. You remain smiling as you walk off the field, eyes catching a glimpse of Jungkook’s mother waving at him. Your eyes scan for your family. When you finally spot them, they’re all seated and clapping. Your mother’s approving nod doesn’t go unnoticed. There’s a stark difference to the support Jungkook receives from his family.

As imperfect as your family’s affection and support may be, it fills your heart with a type of warmth you’ve yet to experience till now.

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ─────

Director Lee’s traditions spanned to post-performance pizza following the senior plaques he’d hand out. New section leaders were also selected. Director Lee knew at a glance who had leadership potential, but he’s always watching throughout the season in preparation for his departing section leaders.

Jungkook only ever cared about the pizza. Not that he never saw himself as a leader, but he knew there was always someone better fit for the job. This year? Screw the pizza. Screw the new leader. Okay, well, no, he hopes they’re a good pick. At the moment, that’s the least of his concerns.

“So like … are you gonna eat that?” Jimin eyes the untouched pizza on Jungkook’s plate. Jungkook wordlessly passes his plate over to Jimin, far too immersed in the conversation you were having with Yoongi a couple feet away.

He knows he overstepped by sending that message to your mother. Should’ve respected your decisions … or lack thereof.

You walk toward the front door, look over in his direction, and give him a subtle nod. Doesn’t need to be told twice — Jungkook springs up on his feet and adjusts his bibber.

“Where ya goin’?” Jimin asks Jungkook with a mouthful.

“Bathroom,” Jungkook replies quickly.

“Well, hurry up. Lee is doing awards and section leader announcements soon.”

“Right. Yeah. Okay,” he answers distractedly, too focused on the direction you’re headed in.

Jungkook was on a mission. He got his apology rehearsed in his head. Follows closely behind you as you head up the stairs to the storage room. Honestly? Wouldn’t have been his first choice to chat here. For one, creepy. Two, dusty as hell. But he’ll go where you go.

When the door shuts behind him, you turn on your heel to face him. Even with the dim lighting, Jungkook still finds your glittery show makeup beautiful — you’re beautiful. Crushes his soul a little bit when you frown … he’s ready for a round of scolding, so he’ll try to beat you to it.

“I know what I did was out of line. I just th—mmph-” The apology he rehearsed for the past hour dies on his lips as you pull him down for a searing kiss. Your hands untangle from the straps of his bibber to wrap around his neck.

“You’re so annoying,” you say in between kisses. Your words don’t exactly match your actions. You bite down on his lower lip, enough pressure to draw out a tiny hiss turned moan. Jungkook backs you against the wall and knocks over a couple of boxes with flag silks. He’s quick to remedy it with promises to clean it up in favor of kissing you.

The storage room was a bit stuffy … probably loaded with a bunch of asbestos, but it just might be Jungkook’s favorite place at the moment. Just when he thinks all is well and forgiven, you pull away with a glare.

“Don't think you’re off the hook.”

“Wait, huh?”

“JB! You in here?” Yoongi calls from below.

Yoongi makes his way up the stairs, steps slow and sluggish. You can’t tell if it’s due to his lack of energy or if he’s giving himself enough time to not walk into something he doesn’t want to see. Regardless, it buys you some time. You and Jungkook have never moved so fast. Him, hiding behind a rack of retired uniforms. You, inconspicuously folding the discarded flag silks on the ground.

“Yep, in here!” You peek your head to the side to see Yoongi lean at the railing.

“Lee wants everyone in the band room. Doing announcements soon.”

“Okay, I’ll be there soon.”

Yoongi stands in place for a moment, snorts before he makes his way downstairs again.

“Need you there too, Kook.” Yoongi says, loud enough for you both to hear. Your head snaps in Jungkook’s direction and you can’t bring yourself to stay angry at the view: his fluffy hair and beat up converse high tops on full display.

“Whoops,” Jungkook emerges from the racks with a boxy smile.

“Come on, let’s go back.” You say, swiping away the red tint off his lips. Preen him a little. Not trying to hide anything, but you wanted to look presentable for announcements — it’ll be an important one.

“Shouldn’t we address the elephant in the room?” He nervously chews on his lips.

You shake your head and hold out your hand. “It can wait. I have dinner plans with my family later … meet me at my place afterwards?”

“Okay … but like, are we good?”

“Maybe.” You shrug and purse your lips.

Maybe? No, that won’t fly by with Jungkook. Thought you guys were past this whole miscommunication stage of your guys’ relationship. He needs that extra reassurance. Figured he won’t get that till after your family dinner … doesn’t stop him from playing out the possible scenarios in his head as Director Lee goes through his announcements.

People are clapping on and off. Again, doesn’t matter to him.

“Jungkook? Hellooooo?” Yoongi waves his hand in front of him.

“Huh, wha … sorry, what’d I miss?” Jungkook shakes himself out of his trance.

“Welcome back to earth, Space Cadet.” Director Lee huffs. A bunch of band members snickers from the comment, his section included.

“You’re the new percussion section leader, Space Cadet.” Yoongi grins.

He should be celebrating. It’s a feat and honor to become a section leader. He knows nothing about it, but he’s got great role models, so he’s got a good foundation and baseline for what a good leader should look like. Only issue? Jungkook thought he’d been lucky to evade the nickname curse. Now he’s stuck with one … and a not so great one at that.

He looks for you in the room. Spots you instantly and you throw a tiny thumbs up and a teasing smile in his direction.

You mouth: Congrats, Spacey.

Maybe the new nickname isn’t so bad after all.

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ─────

Dinner with your family was okay. There wasn’t much to chat about other than your father asking if you are continuing ‘this’ after graduating.

“We’re just wondering. Eventually you’ll have to put work first,” your mother reasons. “Your body won’t be able to keep up as you age.”

You know it’s said with care and concern, but you can’t help but feel like you’re being lectured for doing something unconventional. God forbid you be happy with activities outside of a typical 9 to 5. The conversation moves over to your brother and what he’s been doing. You’re thankful the attention is off you for now. You’d much rather be home with a particular drummer anyway.

You [8:39 p.m.]: I’ll be home in about 30 mins. Jungkook 🥁 [8:39 p.m.]: ok, be safe. see u later ❤️

You smile down at your phone. Yes, you were still upset and made it a known fact to Jungkook. Hated seeing him confused, but that’s life. He'll have to sit with the consequences of his actions.

Kind of like how you have to sit through this dinner.

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ─────

Jungkook arrives at your doorstep about four minutes after you get home. In his hands were a dozen of sunflowers he picked up after Director Lee dismissed the band. Thought it would help his case a little. It does. You accept them with a smile and step to the side to let him in.

“Pretty,” he compliments. You look down at the simple sundress you put on for dinner. Realize Jungkook has only seen you in t-shirts and athletic wear. Though, you could be in a potato sack and he’d still find you lovely.

“Thank you.”

He follows you to your couch. Usually he likes to sit right next to you, but thinks space is what you’d prefer for this type of conversation. He had plenty of time to reevaluate his actions in the shower and even more time while he waited for your text to come over.

“I truly am sorry. I shouldn’t have gone behind your back. Just thought they should come out and support you.”

You sigh and place the flowers on your coffee table.

“How’d you even find my mother?” You ask.

“Um, it wasn’t that hard to sift through your friends list. Plus, there’s not a lot of middle aged women that you look like. Could’ve passed as your older sister, honestly.”

“Funny,” you smile, “she’d love to hear that.”

“Score.” Jungkook grins.

You mindlessly play with the fringes on your dress, unsure what to say next.

Jungkook reads you perfectly as always. “What’s up? You okay?”

“Just have a lot on my mind.” You fold your hands in your lap.

“I get it,” he nods.

“I don’t think you do.” You pause, chewing on your lips before you continue. “The show, offering me a place to study, the sponsors, Wooyoung, and now my family …” you recount, “you keep doing these things for me.”

Jungkook frowns, “do you not want me to?”

You shake your head. “It’s not that I don’t want you to. I’m just not used to it.” You’re not used to being taken care of nor understood. It’s always been like this. With your family, friends, even some of the folks you’ve marched with in the past. But in the time you’ve gotten to know Jungkook, that’s all he’s given you.

Feels like he knows what you need better than you do sometimes. Feels like he does things out of care and not obligation.

It’s not a feeling anymore when he pulls you onto his lap, resting his chin on top of your head.

“I know you’re capable of doing everything and more, Juice. But unless you don’t want me to, I’ll always want to help you,” he says.

You nod, fingers playing with the ends of his shirt. “I know, and I appreciate that. It’s just hard letting go,” you shrug.

“Of what?”

“Control?”

He chuckles, “you don’t say, Cap.”

You roll your eyes, “you’re a section leader now too.”

“Ah, that, I am,” he agrees, “means we’ll be working together more. You gonna give me a hard time?”

“Ask Yoongi.”

Jungkook laughs and holds you closer. He clears his throat, “need to make sure, though … am I forgiven?”

“Wasn’t that upset, Kook.” If you were truly mad at Jungkook, you wouldn’t have kissed him back in the storage room. “But yes, you’re forgiven. No more messaging my mother on Facebook though. She thought you were a bot for some reason.”

“Huh? I don’t know why she’d think that …” Jungkook pulls out his phone to show you the message thread.

The first line read: To Whom It May Concern …

“This screams scam, Kook.” You snicker, skimming through the well-thought out message. Punctuated perfectly and straight to the point. What a stark difference to the silly text messages you receive from him on the daily. Could barely tell it’s him. The only glaring similarity? Jungkook doesn’t sugarcoat his intentions — never when it comes to you.

Jungkook pouts, “they still came to the show …”

“Yeah, they did,” your eyes soften, handing his phone back to him, “made me really happy seeing my family there.” You tuck his hair behind his ear.

“You deserve to be.”

And you also find happiness in when you press your lips against his. Happiness in when he giggles, nose scrunched and all. Happiness in when he moans as you roll your hips over him.

Jungkook pulls away to trail kisses down your cheek and neck. “You said you’re worried about letting go of control … we can work on that.”

You whimper at a particularly harsher suck, “how?”

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ─────

You’ve always preferred being in the mentor role. There’s no ambiguity in teaching someone what you already know. Never have to anticipate the unknown.

You find yourself sitting on the edge of your bed, watching Jungkook take off his shirt. So ready to welcome the unknown. It comes to you in the form of Jungkook’s sunkissed body and hooded eyes. He’s well-loved by his friends and family. Only natural to be well-loved by the sun as well. The sun will spend eternity chasing Jungkook and it’ll never come close to seeing all that you will in this lifetime.

“You trust me, yeah?” He walks up to you, legs bumping into your knees. Jungkook cups your cheek and tilts your head up to look at him. Needs to see you.

“‘Course, I do.” You smile.

“Good,” he steps back, “turn around for me.”

You wordlessly get on your hands and knees, chin turned at your shoulder to look at Jungkook, “like this?”

“Just like that,” he praises, gaze dropping at your ass where your dress falls perfectly around your hips.

One of his hands trails up your back and gently pushes you down. Your forearms cushion your drop, not that you needed it. You’re pliant for Jungkook.

You hear him shuffle behind you, both his hands are at your hips as he leans into down to kiss your shoulder. One of his hands goes under the skirt of your dress, knuckles grazing your inner thigh as if he’s asking permission to do more. You turn your head to the side with a visible pout.

“Are you going to be edging me or something?”

Jungkook snickers. “What? You want me to?”

So it appears edging wasn’t his goal.

His hand cups your sex, middle finger trailing up and down your clothed slit. “You’re soaked through, baby,” Jungkook murmurs, “‘s cause you were thinking about getting edged?”

You shake your head no. “Can’t help it,” your fingers grip your sheets as his fingers move a little quicker. “You got me like this.”

Jungkook groans at your confession. “I did, didn’t I?”

He reluctantly lifts himself up and away from you. Almost regrets it when he sees your brows furrow in disappointment. Makes a mental note to make it up to you one way or another. Season’s over, but Jungkook has all the time in the world with you. He pushes your dress up and over your ass. Feels his cock stiffen in his pants at the sight of your beige colored panties. He always had a thing for your ass. Shamelessly looked at it in the past whenever you were busy stretching. Proud to know that this view belonged to him and only him. He lets his gaze linger at the sight of the dark wet patch at the center of your panties.

Yeah, he got you like this.

“You still with me, Spacey?” you tease when you notice him staring at you longer than anticipated.

He shakes himself out of stupor. “You’re lucky I like you.” His knuckle trails up and down your slit. Got you shuddering again.

“What do you want me to call you then?” You ask.

Jungkook feigns deep thought, humming as he throws out random nicknames.

“Baby?” He pulls your panties down your thighs.

“Honey?” You giggle as he taps your knees to fully remove your underwear.

“Boyfriend?” He parts your ass, lets a dribble of spit trail down the center and to your cunt. Your hole clenches around nothing.

“You liked that one?” Jungkook asks, spitting directly at your hole this time. “Hm?” Trails kisses down your folds, deliberately avoiding your clit till he gets an answer.

“Kook,” you mewl.

“Tell me,” it comes out needy, “please?”

“I do, yeah.” You confess, “I like it a lot — like you so much.”

That’s all he needed. You choke on a moan as Jungkook licks one long strip from your clit to your entrance. He rocks your hips to his face, pistoning his tongue into your tight pussy. Pushes your ass up a little higher so he could have better access to your clit. He licks, sucks, moans, and repeats as if he knows nothing more than to please you.

Jungkook’s moans come out muffled, face stuffed so deeply between your legs, you’d think he’d suffocate to death. On the contrary, he’d argue that life’s worth living even more now. You catch a glimpse of him with his eyes closed and his arm moving fervently between his legs. So shameless and impatient — needs to wank himself for some relief.

“Pretty baby, so fucking wet for me,” he praises against your sex, hot and breathless. Your hand comes around to hold his. Your absolute favorite part of his body. Love it on your body and even more when woven between your fingers — keeps you grounded and secure as you reach your orgasm. And even before you’ve fully come down, Jungkook pulls away and stuffs your cunt with two fingers, curling and thrusting in you with a type of speed and precision that has you gasping. Doesn’t give you room to breathe, prefers having you like this anyway.

“Baby, y-you’re gonna make me cum again.” You cry, eyes fighting to stay open. A certain numbness pools at your stomach, begging to snap at the curl of Jungkook’s fingers.

“I know,” he encourages, “make a mess on my fingers, come on.”

You come again, eyes rolled to the back of your head and moans stifled by your sheets. Jungkook draws in a breath, absolutely hypnotized with your pussy clenching and suctioning his fingers. After a couple seconds pass, Jungkook slowly pulls his fingers out and rolls you down onto your back. He clambers his way on top of you. Wants nothing more than to kiss you and be in your arms. You, on the other hand, had different plans.

“What are you …” Jungkook grunts softly into your mouth. You slide your hands down into his pants and wrap your fingers around his hard cock. Give him one, two, three good pumps before you break away from his lips.

“Honey is a little old-fashioned, no?” You breathlessly ask, your free hand tugs at his belt loops. Jungkook gets the hint and swiftly pulls down his pants and briefs all at once.

“Honey is cute.” He argues, tugging your top down to expose your breasts.

“For married couples, sure. Not suited for a boyfriend.” You correct.

He nods, nicknames don’t really matter to him anyway. Just wanna be yours. Instead, he chooses to latch his lips to your nipple, hand groping the other breast. Bites down on your nipple and immediately soothes it over with his tongue. Jungkook goes back and forth between the two, loving your reactions. The pleasure builds again. He hisses when you roll your hips up at him.

“Tonight’s about you letting go, remember?” He reminds, “I'll take care of you, promise.”

“Want you to feel good too.”

“I do,” he swoops his hand underneath your thigh and pushes it up, “so much, with you.” He guides his cock in between your folds. It’s wet and messy, just how he wants it. You wince at the over sensitivity, but ignore it because Jungkook is falling apart above you. He looks down between you both, mesmerized by your slick coating his length.

You watch him, watch as he slides his cock up and down your core, watch how the head of his cock knocks and moves against your clit.

“You feel so good like this,” Jungkook holds your jaw, nose caressing yours, “wonder how you’d feel inside.”

You whine, hips pushing upwards, “please …”

He shushes you with a kiss, requesting you to be patient with promises of making you feel good. It’s dizzying, but you listen and let him take the reins. Jungkook shifts his hips and you gasp into his mouth at the feel of his hard cock at your entrance. Your pussy flutters around him, so wet and ready. The head of his cock nudges in, stretch so minimal with how well he’s prepped you. You moan and let your head sink onto your pillow. He doesn’t push into you any further, just the tip.

“Mm, you are edging me,” you accuse, unable to move as Jungkook has your hips pinned down to the mattress.

“You wouldn’t like me if I edged you, Juice.” He smiles.

Impossible. Don’t think there’s a universe or lifetime you wouldn’t be drawn by him and him to you. “Need you inside me, Jungkook,” you say, “please?”

He savors the moment for a little longer, tempted to do as you request. God, he would. But Jungkook has a promise to uphold and a lesson to teach. He keeps his word as he slowly inserts himself inch by inch, watching your brows furrow and mouth drop open in frustration.

Jungkook’s just as fucked out. Involuntarily bucks his hips, drawing out a surprised, high-pitched moan from you. Big mistake. The need to hear that again fuels something primal in him. His arms swoop underneath your head. Has you in an embrace as he whispers sweet nothings into your ear — such a contrast to his ruthless hips. Jungkook’s whole life has been about music. Over the years, he saved music sheets from his favorite pieces and shows. His most favorite melody? Your broken moans and cries, spurring him on to continue fucking you.

He’s not sure how long this goes for until he finally lifts himself up, immediately misses the warmth of your body. The view below him makes up for it: your dress bundled up around your waist, breasts bouncing after every thrust, and your wanton gaze. His eyes drop lower at where you both connect — groans at the cream coating his cock and how it gathers at the base after every push. Your breath hitches when his reaches between your bodies and toys with your clit. “Yes, yes, yes, oh, Kook, right there.”

“I—” you can’t even finish your sentence as you cum again for the third time. Jungkook’s eyes close, head tipped back at the feel of your walls squeezing around him.

“Shit,” he trembles and pulls out, trying his best to delay his orgasm. Doesn’t want any of this to end so soon.

Jungkook lays down next to you, hard cock smearing your cum on your stomach. You smile, one of your legs tossed over his hips to keep him close. You’re so tired, but there’s this glint in his eyes — he wants more. Far from being done, he pulls you on top of him, dark locks falling prettily on your pillows. Claims how much he likes your dress as he helps you get out of it.

“Couldn’t have liked it that much if it’s off me now.” You tuck Jungkook’s hair behind his ears and his expression shifts. Fondness. Warmth. Devotion. Jungkook drinks in the view before him — cock twitches at the sight of your fully naked body. Thinks he needs to block out a day to just kiss all your moles, scars, and freckles — adore them one by one. He settles for a small kiss on your palm, and positions his cock for you, eyes pleading at you to sink down on him. Your hip lifts and lowers slowly, stuffing yourself full of him again, fighting the over sensitivity.

“You feel so good,” he rasps, “take me so well.”

You nod, hands pressing his abdomen to hold yourself up. You move first, slow and deliberate to take in his expressions. Jungkook lets you take control for a minute. Just a minute. Because eventually, his fingers dig into your hips, maneuvering you up and down how he likes. Your legs shake, too weak to keep you upright.

“Come here,” he tugs you down so that your chest presses down on his. The new position makes it easier for him to bounce you down. You cry out into the crook of his neck. You trust Jungkook, trust that only he could take your pleasure to another level. Trust him with your body — your heart.

“So good for me,” he grips harder, feeling that familiar heaviness pool at his balls when he’s close. “You can give me another one, right?”

You feel your slick drip down his length with every drop of your hips. You whimper, shake your head, “n-no, I don’t think I can.”

He kisses your temple, “‘s okay, can you hold on for me? I’m so close.”

Of course you can. Anything for him. Anything to see him cum. Because of you, for you. He hugs you close, plants his feet down on your mattress, and fucks himself up into you.

You’re a liar. Body betrays you as he has you bracing his chest and digging your fingernails into his shoulders. Pretty crescent moons on your sunshine. So perfect. Even when you sob from the intensity of his thrusts, you want nothing more than for this feeling to last forever. Because Jungkook has you cumming again, pussy fluttering and milking his length for all he’s worth. It surprises the both of you — surprises Jungkook more when you press your face into his neck and he feels wetness on his skin.

“Baby,” he huffs, “wh-where should I—” hips losing rhythm and stuttering from your clenches.

“Inside, please cum inside me,” you use all your strength to lift your head to kiss him. That’s when Jungkook sees it: your watery lashes.

"Gonna cum," Jungkook gasps, eyes squeezed shut, both hands now pushing your ass to meet his hips, “oh fuck, I’m gonna cum.” He groans loudly into your mouth, shamelessly sucks on your tongue and pumps himself two more times into your cunt before finishing inside you.

Jungkook stills. Pants hard. Mentally snorts at all his past dumb fantasies because they’ll never compare to how he feels with you right now. Doesn’t think he’s ever cummed this much and this hard. But it’s you, the girl he’s fancied for so long. You and Jungkook stay like this for a while longer. His hand trails up and down your back, nearly lulling you to sleep. Jungkook knows you — would rather go barefoot on lego pieces than sleep dirty. You made it clear that showers are a must after practice and before bedtime. Sex was no exception.

Another thirty seconds pass and Jungkook slowly pulls out of you. You wince and close your fists against his chest.

“Sorry, sorry,” he apologizes with kisses on your shoulder and gently rolls you onto your back. He looks a little silly rushing to the bathroom while hopping into his briefs. Comes back with a warm cloth to which you realize seconds later was your favorite face towel.

“Jungkook,” you whine as he parts your legs to clean you up, too weak to put up a fight.

“I know, baby, I’ll get you a new one. You okay, though?”

“Yeah, ‘m good.” You smile, eyes filled with adoration.

How could you not be? Jungkook kisses the old bruises on your knees just as he’s kissed the old wounds in your heart.

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ─────

“Whatcha doing?” Jungkook hums into your ear.

“Signing us up for auditions.” You reply naturally, fingers typing away on your phone.

“Uh, what?” He lifts his head up from the pillow, one eye shut from the brightness of your phone.

“With the Tridents.”

“Drum corps? Wait, Juice, I don’t know if I’m ready. There are a lot of good drummers out there …”

“Why not? You’re literally a section leader. There’s nothing you can’t do.”

“But—”

“We’ll go together,” you turn. “Come on, we age out of this circuit soon.”

He looks uncertain. Hesitation stirs in his irises.

“If any of us don’t make the cut, we’re both out. Kay?” Half lie because you’ll encourage him to stay even if you were to get cut first.

Jungkook stares at you, bites his lips as he contemplates his decision. Caves in under three seconds at the sight of your pleading eyes, “Alright, let’s do this.” He’s jittery in your embrace. Can’t believe he’s doing this. Knows he has to go for it.

Because life’s too short not to go full out.

fin.

a/n: fun fact! my high school crush was in the drumline too. funnily enough, i recently saw him after years of radio silence. guess what i did 😎 anyway, lmk if you have any thoughts/feedback/questions ♡

#lovie reads

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