#Channel-Level Reporting

[prasaddhumal82]

Google Ads Introduces Channel-Level Reporting in Performance Max Campaigns

Google Ads’ Performance Max (PMax) campaigns have been advertisers’ game-changers, leveraging AI to optimize ad placements across Google’s vast network. However, the lack of transparency regarding channel-specific performance has been a longstanding concern. Addressing this, Google has announced the rollout of channel-level reporting in PMax campaigns, providing advertisers with detailed insights…

[ultimateumbreon33]

every time i have a favorite professor, they leave the next year… even with tenure…

[thedreadvampy]

aaaaaaaaaaa work is so overwhelming just now I feel like my brain may explode

[kumar30ravi]

[safetycourses2022]

[glissadia]

Upon Further Examination

A professor does her best to figure out why her student's ritual circle isn't working, and discovers that the issue may be a bit bigger than she thought. 6k words.

"Three. Two. One. Ignite. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Indicators. Four. Three. Two. One."

"Failed," Selin states in time with my counting, doing a halfway-decent job of masking her frustration and disappointment. I nod approvingly, as I’ve done each attempt, because it’s still important to acknowledge the adherence to procedure.

"Quench," I respond, picking my earlier cadence back up. "One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Release. One. Two. Disengage."

Selin steps back from the now-inert ritual circle and I step forward to check her work. Today I’m acting as her examiner, rather than my usual role as her mentor, so I’m supposed to keep my observations to myself. However, I think we’ve gotten past the point where I need to stick to the standard process.

"Perfect," I speak aloud, and Selin jumps slightly. "Your inscriptions are more than within tolerance for preciseness, you’re following your derived procedures to the letter, your timing would put the carillon tower to shame, and I can’t identify a single fault with your channeling."

"Wait, so I got the ritual right this time?" Selin asks, her voice equally confused and hopeful. "Then why didn’t it work?"

I shake my head.

"You got it right every time," I tell her. "Even the first two attempts, which I intentionally sabotaged without your notice, according to academy procedure. You corrected and compensated without prompting."

I don’t have to look at Selin to anticipate the indignant response that revelation will elicit, so I simply hold up my hand to silence her.

"It’s not the moon, it’s not ambient interference, and it’s sure as hell not my materials. It’s not your procedures, your written report has no problems on paper and I tested it last night in this very room, so it’s not the location either."

Sure enough, when I tested Selin’s ritual myself in preparation for today, the brilliant purple spark had appeared in midair and fragmented into responsive motes, just as she had designed it to do. By her own accounts it had worked just as well while she was developing it, so we should be seeing at least some sort of magical response from the ritual besides the barest, halfhearted ionizing glow coming from the air above the circle, and yet here we were, twenty-two attempts later. I would normally have to penalize her for taking this many attempts, but that part of the rubric was written under the assumption that failure would be due to something on the student’s part. This, however…

"So what is wrong with it, Professor?" Selin asks as she slumps down into one of the armchairs arranged against the wall of my workshop. "I know you’re not supposed to tell me until after the exam, but…"

"Nothing," I say as I sit down next to her, with a bit more grace. "Absolutely nothing at all, besides the fact that it is simply not working. Selin, I genuinely have no idea what to tell you. I’m half-tempted to just award you full marks and some extra credit on top of it and call it a day."

"Well don’t do that," she whines. "How am I supposed to call it a success if it doesn’t work when it’s supposed to?"

"You do realize most students wouldn’t hesitate to accept that offer, right?"

"Well there’s a reason you’re mentoring me and not them," Selin says, and I concede the point with a chuckle. The girl has a work ethic and level of tenacity I haven’t seen in years. What makes her stand out even more is the fact that when she was my student in introductory classes, I had initially assumed she would wash out of the program. It took her almost twice as long as most of the other students to get her fundamental spell weaving up to par, and her magic still has a tendency to try and run away from her in a way that’s amusingly familiar. But what she lacks in control, Selin more than makes up for with her sheer breadth of comprehension of theory. With time and effort, she’s grown to become the most promising student in her year, and I was quite excited to see what she came up with for her end-of-semester project. It was ambitious, sure, but pulling it off should be fully within her capabilities, and yet success has eluded her thus far today. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if she refused to leave my quarters until the ritual succeeded, be it hours or until the end of the day or even longer. I myself would be remiss to end before she got it working, but at this point I genuinely have no idea what to do.

"Why don’t you take a break?" I suggest. "Just half an hour. You can ask Ember to make tea. I’ll stay here and work out the problem, then you can come back with a fresh mind and it’ll work this time."

I can tell Selin does not share my optimism, nor does she want to give up even temporarily, but exhaustion wins out and she nods, standing up and removing her apron and protective goggles before exiting the workshop. I remain, close my eyes, and focus my mind the problem at hand.

Fifteen minutes later and I’m only more frustrated. I tested this yesterday and it worked. There should be no effective difference between the two setups. What the hell is going on?

The softest, quietest tink of porcelain interrupts my thoughts, and I open my eyes to see Ember setting down a cup and saucer on the end table next to my chair. My maid’s lips quirk in dissatisfaction when she realizes that she wasn’t quite silent enough to go unnoticed, but quickly return to her usual warm smile.

"You’ll get me one of these days," I assure her, and she stifles an amused snort. "How’s Selin?"

"Antsy, but she’s staying in one place, at least," Ember responds. "I think the failure is getting to her."

"And to I as well," I sigh. "She’s executing the ritual even more precisely than I did, and nothing."

I pick up the cup from the saucer, then pause as I notice the contents and raise one eyebrow at Ember.

"What is hot cocoa if not tea made of chocolate steeped in milk?" she says, with an ever-so-slightly mischievous lilt to her voice. "I thought you both could use the comfort."

I roll my eyes, though there’s no real annoyance behind it. A small sip confirms that it’s been heated well beyond the boiling point, the enchantment on the cup preventing it from evaporating or scalding, and I breathe a sigh of contentment. She knows me too well.

"Would you like me to give it a look, my lady?" Ember asks. "Fresh eyes could spot something new, perhaps?"

"You’re welcome to, if you’d like," I tell her. I don’t honestly expect her to find anything, though not for any lack of faith on my part in my maid’s skill. I just can’t imagine there’s anything to find.

Ember walks around the outside of the ritual circle a few times, staring at it intently as I sip my cocoa. I try to keep thinking, picking apart the problem in different ways, but the answer continues to elude me. When Ember speaks up again, the distraction is very welcome.

"She’s using your mana siphon design. Integrated correctly, but still not standard. Is that a problem?"

"No, it should work just like the standard design for her. A bit more efficiently, even, which I assume is why she’s using it," I say. Ember knows this, of course, but it’s still good to talk things out. Maybe something will spark an epiphany.

"Hmm." She’s quiet for another moment. "And you recreated this last night exactly, including the siphon, correct?"

"It’s the design I have to grade, so naturally," I confirm. "It worked flawlessly, first try."

"Even with the compensation runes?"

I frown.

"I suppressed them temporarily, like I always do with that design. My magic only needs compensation when I’m reproducing the standard siphon design, you know this," I say, not entirely sure where she’s going with this. The runes hidden in the walls of my workshop and the classrooms I teach in are critical for ensuring rituals designed without my own little custom component actually function properly and don't just immediately fizzle out. My own magic doesn't play nicely with rituals, so any mana siphon attempting to use it to power one finds itself promptly overwhelmed unless it's built to handle that kind of mana (like my design is) or the volatility in my magic is compensated for, like the runes do.

"And they’re on now, because that’s their normal state," Ember hums. "Out of curiosity, what would happen if you tried this ritual with the compensation runes active?"

"Modifying the design to use a standard mana siphon? I can’t see any reason why I wouldn’t be able—"

"No," Ember cuts me off. "As implemented."

"It wouldn’t work, obviously. The siphon’s design is too specific for properly collecting my magic processed to behave like normal magic, it has to be either or. Standard siphons are more forgiving, but less efficient."

"So the siphon would get overloaded and fail relatively quickly?" she asks, raising an eyebrow at me.

"I can see where you’re going with this, but it’s wrong," I say, leaning forward in my chair and placing the now-empty cup back down on the saucer. "To the runes, normal mana might as well not exist. They wouldn’t do anything to Selin’s, she’s the one igniting the ritual, and the ritual isn’t tandem nor does it collect ambient mana. My magic isn’t affecting things at all, I’ve made sure of it."

"What if her magic needs to be compensated for?"

"I—"

The notion is ludicrous. So ludicrous that I start to respond without thinking, but then cut myself off. If I was the one doing the ritual, then yes, I’d need to suppress the runes in order for it to work, just like I did last night. I never designed my improved mana siphon to work with them, because there was absolutely no need to and it would have just complicated the inscription. If I still tried anyway, though… the siphon would eke out the barest amount of mana, then promptly give up. The distribution lines would do their best to convey the mana to the rest of the circle, which would… which wouldn’t even get through the first step of the intended output. No spark. It would try, though, and if I had to guess, that weak, mana-starved attempt would probably look just like a faint purple glow in the air, and nothing else.

It doesn’t make sense. It makes too much sense. It explains everything nicely and raises so many more questions. I desperately want to hang onto any possible evidence it’s not true, because it couldn’t be. I would know. And there’s no way. No way at all. But…

"But she’s human," I say, voice a little weaker and more unsure than I’d like. Ember simply raises an eyebrow again.

"You thought you were."

I sigh. I don’t want to acknowledge even the remotest possibility of Ember being right, but at my core I’m too much of a scientist to not at least attempt to test the possibility.

"It’s been long enough; she’ll be itching to try again," I say, defeated. "You go get her, I’ll turn off the compensation runes."

"Of course, my lady," my maid says, in that way she’s perfected that conveys very little of the deference the title would imply. She exits the workshop, and I get back to my feet, turning around and placing my hand on the wall. A twist of will sees the rune contained within made dormant for a time, and I walk to and repeat the process with the other five walls, finishing just as Selin rushes in with Ember behind her.

"What’d you figure out?" Selin asks excitedly, already throwing her apron back on and pulling her hair back. "Are we good to go?"

"There’s… a chance we are," I hedge. "I don’t want you to get your hopes up, but I’ve tried something and there’s a very remote possibility it should work now, no other modifications necessary."

"Alright!" Selin cheers, tying the apron strings behind her back. "You don’t sound very hopeful, though."

"The lady has a tendency to temper her expectations to an unreasonable degree," Ember says, insolent little creature that she is. "I have faith in your abilities, Selin."

"Aw, thanks!" Selin says, grabbing the materials she needs for another attempt. "Anything I should do differently or just like I designed?"

"Just like you designed," I confirm. "And if this doesn’t work then please don’t feel discouraged."

"No promises!" she declares, working with remarkable efficiency. "Okay, prepped and reset for another go."

I give her work a cursory glance, but I have no doubt it’ll be perfect, just like all the other attempts. Alright. No time like the present.

"On my call," I say, and Selin nods. "Three. Two. One. Ignite."

Selin pours her magic into the circle once again, and the air above the ritual circle blooms, brilliant purple light coalescing into one single, shining point. I allow myself a fraction of a second to process, which is not nearly enough, but I have a job to do.

"Seven. Six. Five. Four," I call, and the spark fragments, much smaller points of light rapidly spreading out to fill the cylindrical space above the ritual circle. There must be thousands of them, and the density Selin has achieved is noticeably greater than what I managed last night with the exact same conditions. "Three. Two. One. Indicators. Four. Three. Two. One."

"Succeeded," Selin declares, voice full of pride. The results are plain to see, stabilizing well before the seven second mark and taking much less than four to interpret.

"Hold," I continue in cadence. "One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Stable."

Selin hesitantly sticks her hand into the field of purple, and the motes in a small radius around it drift towards her. She clenches her hand into a fist, and they rapidly move to coat her hand, before all suddenly jumping back into position when she opens her hand again. She beams at me.

"Well done," I say as I release a bit of the tension in my body, though not all of it, and catch Ember’s eye. She’s grinning at me very smugly, which I suppose is well-deserved. This… complicates things.

"Told you it works," Selin says, self-satisfaction oozing out of every pore. She pulls her hand back and the pinpricks of purple light stay where they are, having done their job in this demonstration.

"If you’ll recall, I never doubted that it should," I respond. Okay, time to start teasing this mystery apart. "Selin, your mana siphon. Why did you use my design over the standard one? It must have been harder to integrate."

"Huh? Oh, the siphon. Because the standard one sucks and yours is better?" Selin says as she pushes her goggles up to her forehead. Somehow I don’t think she means it solely as a compliment.

"It’s harder to inscribe than the standard version, though," I prompt her. "And reproducibility was one of the factors you were instructed to keep in mind when designing your project."

"Well yeah, of course I thought about that," she defends. "And I started with the usual one, like I’m supposed to, but I’m bad at inscribing it and I could never get it right so I just rebuilt the ritual around yours and I actually started getting results."

I freeze. She does not mean what I think she means. She can’t.

"What do you mean you’re bad at inscribing it?" I ask. "Your inscriptions are some of the most precise I’ve ever seen."

"Aww, thanks," Selin blushes. "And I mean I’m bad at it! I can only get it to work half the time, usually when you’re helping me. Anything that’s designed by you always works for me. It’s consistent!"

It’s consistent because I always deactivate the compensation runes in my classrooms and workshop when we’re working with rituals I’ve designed, because of the fact that they interfere with each other. And any time she’s tried a ritual with my mana siphon outside of those places, there aren’t runes to worry about. But no, that would mean…

"Selin, have you ever successfully completed a ritual using the standard siphon outside of this room or a classroom?"

"Uh, well… not really?" she admits sheepishly. Oh goddess. "I’ve just kinda taken to modifying the rituals when I’m at home, 'cause there isn’t an instructor there to tell me off for doing it wrong."

"You’re modifying rituals to include my mana siphon?" I ask, flabbergasted. "You can’t just put it in place of the old one; the integrations are completely different!"

"Uh, yeah?" Selin says, sounding confused. "It’s not that difficult to rework the distribution lines around it."

Yes it is. Yes it fucking is. I don’t say that to her, though, instead turning to the room’s other occupant, whose grin is almost too wide for her face at this point.

"Fine. Fine! You win, Ember," I declare, throwing my hands up in the air. "You were right, I was wrong. She can’t do rituals without compensating."

"I’m so glad your humility hasn’t left you, my lady," Ember beams. Selin, meanwhile, just looks confused.

"Sorry, 'compensating?'" she asks. "I’m not doing anything differently, as far as I know. What did you figure out? Why did it work this time?"

I sigh.

"You didn’t do anything different. It was a problem with my workshop, which I apologize for. But, we’re not quite done yet. This is not part of your exam, but I’d appreciate it if you humored me anyway. Light spell, as by-the-book as you can."

Selin’s confused expression only deepens, but she obliges me, holding up a hand and making a simple ball of light appear above it. It roils and shifts, maintaining a loosely spherical shape as it ebbs and flows. Selin’s magic has frequently expressed itself this way, and while I’ve drawn parallels to my own experiences, I never made the conclusion that it’s seeming like I should have.

"Hold it there, don’t lose focus," I instruct her as I walk back towards the wall. With a touch, I draw back out the mana keeping the rune within suppressed, fixing my eyes on the Selin’s light spell as I do so. It flickers, though not by much. I walk to two more walls and do the same thing, then return to my student. With half the runes in effect, the ball of light has calmed itself a bit, still far from static but significantly more under control. Selin looks to be concentrating hard on keeping it stable, her lips pursed, but I don’t offer her any insight, instead walking to the remaining three walls and reactivating the runes contained within. Walking back up, I can see that the little ball of light has become a perfect, static sphere, as textbook as I’ve ever seen. Selin looks up at me questioningly, but I preempt her with a question of my own.

"Are you sure you’re human?"

"What the hell kind of question is that?" she asks incredulously.

"Like I asked earlier, please humor me," I say patiently.

"I… yes?" she says, and I can tell she truly believes it. "There’s some elven blood on my dad’s side if you go back like eight generations, but that’s extremely diluted, I know how this works."

And indeed, it should not have this kind of effect oh her magic. But, what I’m asking about isn’t something brought about by genetics.

"Release and disengage the ritual at your leisure, then you two start cleaning up," I order. "I need to grab something. Ember, don’t bias her while I’m gone."

"Bias me?"

"My lady?"

"I’m doing a test," I state, and Ember’s eyes go wide.

"Hey wh—"

The rest of Selin’s confused exclamation is cut off as I abruptly turn on my heel and yank myself through space, the workshop around me immediately transitioning into a new, much larger space. Cavernous walls of rough-hewn rock, globes of magical light suspended from the very high ceiling, and approximately forty fireballs spontaneously generated and fired towards me by the wards the second I take a step forward. My stride doesn’t falter as they hit and harmlessly wash over me, my robes being enchanted to protect themselves and anything contained within the many pockets from flame. That doesn’t include the wearer, but, well. The day I can’t handle a bit of fire is the day I die.

I was lucky enough to find this cave a couple of centuries back, and promptly sealed it up and warded it to high heaven to prevent anyone else from doing so after me. If anyone else besides me or my staff tried to get in here, they’d be faced with a lot worse than just fireballs. They’re more of a precaution, anyway. Plus, the heat is nice. These mountains don’t have any geothermal activity, so the entire cave system has to be heated magically, which takes a lot of energy.

It doesn’t take me long to reach the cave’s main event, since while this chamber is absolutely massive, so is the pile of treasure it contains. For years, I never really understood the appeal of having a hoard, but the very first time I held a gemstone the size of an apple in my hands, I was hooked. That was a long, long, time ago, though, and now my trove has grown to a size even the most ascetic of my kin would salivate over. Not that they’ll ever get to see it, of course, nor will any humans. Very few people know my true identity, and I like it that way. I doubt my life of tenured pedagogy would be quite so peaceful if the rest of the staff knew there was anything more to me than an experienced noblewoman with a penchant for magical research and a slightly strange magical response to rituals. Anonymity holds power, in this world, which is one of the many reasons why part of me greatly dislikes the idea of potentially revealing myself. But, I’m forced to admit, if I’m correct, the alternative would be worse for Selin, and I like the poor girl far too much for that.

I spend around half an hour searching through the piles, examining each splotch of color poking out from in between pieces of gold from this century and many past. My search criteria is very specific, and it’s not like I can just pull some random ruby out and be done with it. I’m loathe to part with even a single piece from my collection, as any self-respecting dragon would be, but I know that if this test succeeds then there will be no way I’m getting this back. Finally, though, I spot it. A brilliant purple, Selin’s favorite color. Round, roughly cut (though that just adds charm, in my opinion), and large enough that it’s awkward to carry in only one hand. Corundum. It’s perfect. …Now I just have to find something to carry it in.

When I return to my workshop, a large felt bag clasped in my hands, my eyes barely have time to focus before I’m assaulted with a shrill exclamation.

"You can teleport!?" Selin yells, and I wince before schooling my expression.

"Were you waiting the entire time just to ask that?" I say tersely.

"Well yeah, you just disappeared so what else was I supposed to do after cleaning up?" Selin responds, and I am pleased to see the workshop is looking spotless. "Ember won’t even talk to me and I am still very confused as to what is going on."

"I apologize for leaving you in the dark, so to speak, but this is very important," I sigh. "Yes, I can teleport, it’s rather advanced magic and relatively inaccessible to most people, but I will teach you, should you desire. In any case, I think things will very soon become clear. Come."

I turn and walk towards the door, navigating down the hall and to the sitting room. As expected, Ember is waiting there, tea already prepared. Cinnamon this time, I can smell, not chocolate. I sit down on one of the chairs, bag in my lap, and motion for the other girls to do the same. Selin picks the chair opposite me, looking at me intently, while Ember picks the couch to the side of us. She always gets squirmy when she’s excited, and that’s quite evident now, despite her attempts to sit still.

"So, first things first," I begin. "Nothing you are about to see or hear is to be discussed outside of my quarters, and never with anyone besides me or my staff. Do you understand?"

"'Staff,' plural?" Selin says, raising an eyebrow and glancing at Ember. "Are there more?"

"Cinder and Tinder tend to the estate while I’m teaching; you’ll be introduced to them eventually," I elaborate, and before she can think too much on the names I continue. "Besides Ember and I, you will not breathe a word of this to anyone else. I repeat, do you understand?"

"Yes," Selin nods, and I can tell she means it. Everything that’s happening is much too intriguing for her to just walk away.

"Good," I say, then reach into the bag and tug it off of the gemstone contained within, watching Selin’s expression carefully. "Secondly, congratulations on passing your practical exam. As I said earlier, I will be awarding you full marks, plus extra credit."

As I reveal the giant purple corundum, I see the spark in Selin’s eyes, and my theory is confirmed. A bittersweet feeling washes over me at that. As much as I was enjoying the relatively solo life (well, as solo as a girl can be with three kobolds), it’s nice to know that I’ll be mentoring my favorite student for a good while longer yet. I stand up, holding the gem in both hands, and walk over to Selin, holding it out to her.

"A gift," I tell her. "And hopefully a fitting start to your collection."

Her eyes grow even wider than they already were, and she reaches up, almost reverently, taking the gemstone from my grasp. I feel a pang in my heart as it leaves my hands, but I push it down. This is necessary. I’m not going to let her wander, lost, like I did.

"I… I don’t know what to say," Selin starts as I walk back to my chair and sit down. "This is… this is too much. What even… what?"

"Purple corundum," I state matter-of-factly. "The same thing that rubies and sapphires are made of, just with a different name and color. Near flawless, as best I can tell. I’ll help you weigh and grade it later. You’ll want to know."

"Professor, this is… how much is this even worth?" Selin nearly whines, most of her sense of decorum leaving her. Which is understandable.

"Oh, I have no idea," I tell her, semi-honestly, then lean forward in my seat. "If it’s too much, then simply give it back. I’ll find you something more appropriate."

She looks at the gemstone for a long while, longer than she thinks, I’m sure. Then, very slowly, she brings it down to her chest, holding and hugging it despite the weight. I nod approvingly. There really was no chance of anything else.

"Then, thirdly, your ritual," I say, and I think I manage to recapture most of her attention. "Like I said, the problem was with my workshop, not you or your execution. I would like to once again apologize for causing that unnecessary stress."

"That’s… alright," Selin nods. "What was the problem, if you don’t mind me asking?"

"The answer is rather complicated, but I’ll do my best to explain," I start. "While my preferences lie in other fields, I do consider myself somewhat of an expert in ritual magic, and I’d hope my teaching position supports that assertion. This is in spite of a rather curious quirk of my magic, which interacts with most modern ritual designs in a way that precludes them from working. Unless, of course, the ritual circle utilizes the mana siphon I designed some two hundred years ago to address this very issue. You, Selin, have this same quirk."

"Okay, wait, slow down," she says. "I’ve seen you use the standard mana siphon before. I’ve used it before. And my ritual used yours, but it wasn’t working. Also, sorry, did you say two hundred years?"

"Young lady, you should know better than to ask about a woman’s age," I admonish her, and savor the wounded expression on her face for the couple of seconds I can manage to prevent my mouth from cracking into a smile. "But yes, I am significantly older than I look. And in regards to your other questions, there is more than one way to mitigate the effects of this quirk, which I had to do before I designed my own ritual components. Built into the walls of my workshop and classrooms are runes that, when activated, compensate for the volatility of my magic, forcing it to behave as normal to standard mana siphons."

Understanding begins to dawn on Selin’s face.

"So when you had me do the light spell and it got less and less chaotic…"

"The runes were processing and calming your magic as I activated them, yes."

"That… makes a surprising amount of sense," she says. "The standard siphon only working for me in the classrooms and your workshop, not at home. Wait, but what was the problem with my ritual, then? I was using your design, that takes care of the issue, you said."

"It does, yes," I nod. "The problem was that I, not knowing about your situation, left the runes activated for your exam. The siphon does not process my magic after it has been affected by the runes, due to the specificity of the design, and neither was it processing yours. When I deactivated the runes, as I do whenever I deal with rituals of my own design, that allowed your natural magic to fuel the ritual as normal, and thus leading to the success. The compensation runes have no effect whatsoever on magic without this quirk, so I did not expect them to have any effect on your performance."

"Huh," Selin responds, thoughtfully. "I assume you’re willing to show me the runes so I can use them myself?"

"I do plan on doing so," I nod affirmatively. "They’re not exactly simple, but I have no doubt you’ll be able to reproduce them with relatively little effort."

"Well, okay then!" she beams. "That’s good to know. Use your siphon when I can, use the runes for the standard version, don’t mix and match. That all seems pretty clear. I don’t really get why this is such a secret, though."

I sigh. Here’s where we get to the more significant part of this conversation.

"Selin, you are the twelfth person I have met in my life besides me with this condition. This is over many centuries, and I know there are a number more I have not met but experience the same thing, since it follows a very clear pattern. I hope you believe me when I tell you how rare this is, and that I am very confident when I say it is indicative of more overall characteristics of the person the volatile magic comes from. I was initially extremely unwilling to believe that the runes were responding to you, for the very simple reason that the runes do not respond to humans, nor most other races. Yet your magic is of the variety they were designed for, which only stems from one source."

"So, what are you saying?" she asks me, pulling the gemstone a little tighter against herself. "That I’m not human? How the hell could I not be?"

"In this case, it’s a matter of the soul," I tell her. "I do not know the exact mechanism behind it, for there are so few of us to be studied, and I am still not entirely sure how similar it is for other races. But, sometimes, very rarely, a person can be born with a soul not befitting of their body, and this leads to a mismatch. One that could potentially go unnoticed for their entire lives, given a lack of the right circumstances. Such a case is certainly a tragedy, which means that it is my responsibility to prevent the same from happening to you."

She takes a deep breath.

"Just… out with it. Stop dancing around whatever it is."

Well. Here we go.

"Selin, every single person whose magic behaves like this is a dragon."

To her credit, she doesn’t laugh.

"Bullshit," is her response, soft, too quickly. I say nothing, and simply draw my hand down my face, letting my human visage fall away and the deep blue scales of my true form shine through, though still in a somewhat humanoid shape. Selin gasps at my sudden reveal, then glances over to Ember, whose disguise falls away at the same time mine does, leaving a short orange kobold sitting on the couch instead, tail rapidly wagging. She’s still wearing a smaller version of her maid uniform, though, and waves happily to a stunned Selin.

"I hope you understand why I asked you to keep this a secret," I say, only managing to hide around half of the amusement I’m currently feeling. Not much of my body is visible with the robes, but it should certainly be enough.

"I… yes," Selin responds, finally managing to find her voice again. "But you’re… that’s not… I’m not…"

"Here’s a proposal for you," I say to her, leaning forward to give my folded-up wings some space. "Hand the stone back to me, or fail my class."

The immediate look of shock and betrayal on her face is just what I expected, so I escalate, holding out my scaled palm and summoning a roiling ball of flame above it.

"Hand the stone back to me, or die."

She tenses up, eyes narrowing. I know that look, and while it is what I’m fishing for, I don’t particularly feel like ruining my sitting room with a mage battle, so I extinguish the flame and raise both my palms up deferentially while lowering my head.

"Easy, easy," I placate, letting my human form wash back over me to break her concentration. She blinks, eyes refocusing, so that hopefully did the trick. "I’m not going to take it away, I promise. I’m sorry."

"G-good," Selin says. Then, after a moment, her eyes widen. "Wait, holy shit, I didn’t mean to… fuck, I am so sorry, um—"

I lower my left hand, letting the right one remain up to stop her.

"It’s exactly the reaction I was provoking; there’s no need to apologize," I assure her. "It’s natural to get defensive over items in your hoard."

"My hoard?" she asks incredulously. Then, softly. "Oh. Fuck."

I nod at her.

"Are things starting to make a bit more sense?"

"…Getting there," Selin says, demurely. "There’s still a lot I don’t understand."

"Well, we have all the time in the world to get to remedy that," I assure her. "And as it turns out, all the time is the world is going to be a lot longer for you than either of us thought."

"Aaaa, this is going to be so much fun!" Ember squeaks, and I can’t help but agree with her. Even Selin lets a hint of anticipation show through on her face, which makes my smile grow even wider.

Goodness, I love being a teacher.

[youryurigoddess]

Did you really think this was all there was to it? Wrong! Channeling detective Aziraphale means proper investigative reporting. Again, same level of discretion is highly advisable — due to the obvious sensitivity of this material, please tag it accordingly and share only with the fans consenting to know potential spoilers.

You might have noticed that the original filming locations post included particularly small amount of photos and information on Location One in contrast to Location Two. The reason for it was as prosaic as possible: the bookshop was closed at the time I was conducting my little area surveillance operation. That’s why I decided to come back later, this time during its opening hours, to surreptitiously take some more photos and chat with the staff. And guess what?

The bookseller on duty even looked a bit like Muriel gone native, with dark hair and playful clothes, and was impossibly sweet about the whole thing. Apparently they don’t know much about the production details, not even who exactly is going to be there — the shop has only received a letter from them and decided to just go ahead with it. As was expected, the whole project is kept very low-key to make everyone’s work easier on both sides, but they’re rather excited about the opportunity.

For obvious reasons they will be closed for the filming (and possibly before or after the shooting, in case it might require some sort of non-demonic rearrangement), but unlike Aziraphale’s bookshop this one stays typically open every day of the week. It’s absolutely worth popping by if you’re in the area anyway — the whole place is not only visibly thrumming with carefully curated colours and details, but also positive energy and genuine love for books and book lovers. Truly a perfect real-life addition to the Good Omens cinematic universe.

[lukolathoughts]

Miss Nicola - supporting LGBTQI rights

Dearest gentle reader,

I have been itching to write a blog post now for a few weeks, but not really knowing where to begin. There have been frenzied weeks and days of activity, but then silence and the fandom meanders like a lost boat at sea. We are often rudderless without the reassuring presence of our ship captains - Luke and Nicola. This also tends to get the sub fandoms spouting nonsense claiming to have seen Nicola in Birmingham or some ridiculous crap. I didn't want to bother her by asking for a photo! No photo, no proof my friend.

I'll talk about me for a moment. I had a week from hell last week. There was something so upsetting for me to deal with, I couldn't go into work as I was crying that much. Try to explain this to your manager: that nasty comments on YouTube made you late for work. Luckily, she is an understanding person and I have told her about my YT channel. Saying some things out loud to real life people make me sound barking mad. But it is the price you pay for being public on YouTube. It also makes me an easy target. I am used to online trolls and people who hate me for saying that Jake is gay and believing in Lukola, but when the stab in the back comes from a supposed friend, it really is the ten of swords. My phone blew up that much, I opened my eyes that morning genuinely thinking Lukola had launched. My hope turned to ash, when I saw what was really happening. I share this with you all because, I have had to have a reckoning with myself the last week. My online life and my real life are not the same. My real life is way more important and I actually need my job, so messing it up because I've got people I don't really know online saying mean things about me, that are not true, shouldn't matter. But it still hurts. But I also realise, they are trying to stop me sharing and trying to ruin my credibility and reputation in order to send me off into my discord crying never to return again.

Well think again. No one tells a Sagittarius woman what they can and can't do. I am made of stronger stuff. Love will always conquer hate. No one puts Baby in the corner, and I will not stand for it. I have scaled back most of my online life now. It had helped me cope with the last year and losing my friend, but sometimes you have to go back into reality. I'm never leaving the ship though. You'll have to chuck me overboard and I'll still jump back on like Rose from Titanic. "I couldn't go, Jack! You jump, I jump, right?"

Anyway, enough about me. Let's talk about Nic. I love Nicola by the way and nothing I say here is a criticism of her or her choices. I see what you're doing though, miss Nicola. I said in my last blog that the shit would hit the fan when Jake has to start press for his new upcoming BBC3 drama What it feels like for a girl. I will admit I have not read the book. Regardless of who Jake is playing, it is reportedly an all queer cast, a queer director and at least one queer writer that I know of. Why would the director of an all queer cast hire a straight man in a homosexual role? If this show is as big as It's a Sin, that aired on Channel 4 a few years ago, then there will be press and a lot of it. There will be press from queer magazines also. Jake is currently in an awkward position, because some press believe he is in a romantic relationship with Nicola Coughlan, a woman who is also 14 years his senior. So, what will Nicola and Jake do?

Jake is holding onto his cash cow with both hands and Nicola needs Jake to continue to pose as her boyfriend to stop the media digging. But honey, they know. It was clear all the press at the SAG awards knew exactly what was going on and they were not afraid to say it. The 'happy ending' comment levelled at them directly by a reporter, had Nicola stunned and Luke smiling like all his Christmases' had come at once.

Nicola knows what is going on. She knows there is a deadline and she knows if she doesn't extricate herself from the narrative she is dating a gay man, she is screwed basically. What is she doing? She's getting out her, I love gays!! T-shirt, hats, scarfs, sunglasses, whatever. She is doing it. Look at me, I love queers! I love her for this and I already know she is an advocate for LGBTQI rights. She has a ton of gay friends. The fandom knows this of course, but do the general public?

At the Neutrogena event on 27th March 2025, there was a very tall drag queen doing some MCing. We know Nic loves drag queens and has been to many shows, so this is nothing new to us. I'm not being overly cynical that the drag queen might have been there for a reason, right? Neutrogena is a product that is targeted at women mostly for their skin products. What has that got to do with a drag queen? I just found it odd.

Next up we have Nicola's Pink Pony Club Post that she shared to both her Instagram stories and grid last Thursday 10th April. The song by Chappell Roan is synonymous with the gay community and one that Jake danced to at her concert last year in a pink cowboy hat. "You guys, remember when my old flat was a gay hotspot!" Nicola, posts 4 polaroid's of her looking fabulous in pink and lays them on a pink blanket. What made you feel so nostalgic, Nic? Or are you sending a message? Look at me, I have loved my gay besties for donkey's years. Prominent gay friends such as JVN and Jack Rooke commented all in agreement, that indeed, Nic's flat was the place to be. And, no I do not think Nicola is coming out herself as gay. Get real, she is supporting her friends and peers.

Then there was yesterday's selfie of Nicola wearing her black - 'I just wanted to say if you are trans and reading this, I love you and so do all my mates' T-shirt. There a few other details in that post that other bloggers such as @toriaaniin have covered beautifully, so I won't go into it here. My eyes sprung wide when I saw this post. I know she advocates for the charity Notaphase.org and I commend her for doing this, but two queer posts in a few days seems to be a lot for Nic, when lately she hasn't been posting at all.

There is also the male hairdresser Halley Brisker in her Opalex video on her Instagram, They make a big deal of letting us know he flirts with male makeup artists. Nicola is clearly good friends with Halley and it is an endearing watch. But to me this seems like a lot of overkill in the last few days for the general public to look at her Instagram and instantly know, yes Nicola does love the girls, the gays and Luke Newton. (FYI Halley Brisker is married to a woman and has children, but to the general public this conversation is implying Nic is comfortable with these conversations).

This, in my opinion, is setting the stage for the final act. I can see Nicola doing some sort of article or interview where she clears a certain narrative up. If you notice, Douglas has also been quite forceful again in implying certain things about Jake and Jake himself does not stop others from posting suggestive posts and videos of him. Nicola must remove herself from this mess in order to move forward with her own career and life. Hanging onto old connections are no longer serving her personally and professionally. Her engagement on Instagram is down by a lot, so I'm told and she is losing followers. She has done all she can career-wise for Jake now, he has to make his own way.

If this does not happen and we remain in this weird heteronormative bubble, I fear the press for What it feels like for a girl, will be a shit show. The truth will come out eventually and it will drag both Jake and Nicola down with it.

[roselites]

bad blood / scott miller x reader

summary: set after twisters. when scott initiates a lawsuit against javi and his new business partners, they choose to take you on as their attorney—no matter that you and scott were once high school sweethearts, that you still have his ring in your closet, or that things between you ended catastrophically six years past. this is business. no need to go down memory lane… right?

content warnings: f!reader, alcohol use, language, offscreen parental death, one open door scene (unprotected piv), couple angst, riggs is his own walking red flag, questionable legal ethics

word count: 21.6k (sorry, guys 😬)

author’s note: here it is! i tried to rein in the length, but clearly i failed ✌🏼 shoutout to @/hederasgarden and @/sailor-aviator for giving scott his fandom-approved surname. on a final note, i am not a lawyer, i took one (1) business law class in college, so don’t take my word on any of this and definitely don’t do stuff with your ex while he’s the opposing party in a case you’re working (but if it’s david corenswet, i meannnn… should anyone be blamed?)

PRESENT DAY OKLAHOMA CITY

Well-meaning, and with typical Arkansan practicality, Tyler Owens leaned back in his chair and said, “Javi, you need to chill out, man.”

Immediately, you knew it was the wrong thing to say.

“What makes you think I’m not? It's not like my entire livelihood is on the line or anything, so why would I not be chilled out?—Dammit!”

“Actually, lose the tie,” you suggested, having watched him fumble for the last five minutes. You were sure it was nerves that did it, not a lack of dexterity.

Javi sighed and let the two ends hang pathetically around his neck. “I thought I was supposed to wear one…”

“I think that’s only for court,” Kate put in, “like with an actual judge and stuff.”

“Maybe in the 1970s,” remarked Tyler under his breath. Javi glared. “Bro, it’s gonna be fine.”

“We should be out there, tracking tornadoes!” There was a mounted television in the little waiting area, playing a 24-hour news channel on mute. Javi gestured at the weather report. It was March, and Tornado Alley was looking active, “robust,” as the weatherman put it… not that your clients would know firsthand, seeing as they were stuck in a high-rise in the city instead of out in the fields of Sapulpa County. Kate and Tyler were watching the radar images with twin expressions of restless longing. Javi yanked the tie from his neck. “That son of a bitch knew exactly what he was doing, tying us up in meetings at this time of year.”

“Yeah, he did,” you replied. “I know it’s inconvenient as shit, but believe me, I’m going to do everything I can to get you back out on the field. There’s no reason for all three of you to be here. I mean, it’s the modern age: some of this could be a Zoom meeting.”

 “You think we’re gonna Zoom in the middle of a storm?” Tyler quipped. Kate turned to him with a chastising look.

She was clearly just about as done as her other two partners, but a lot more level-headed about the fact that they were being sued for everything they had. Which you appreciated. Suits between friends and former business associates had a tendency to turn into mud-slinging wars, and there was nothing you hated more than a client stuck in denial. Kate was the opposite. She was cool-headed, calm. A happy medium between Tyler’s annoyed outrage (“who does this guy think he is!”) and Javi’s frustrated melancholy (“guys, I’m sorry, this is all my fault”).

Right now, Javi was sinking well into the latter.

“Just remember we’re here for you, Javi.” Kate rubbed a soothing hand across his back. “All the way. We know this is personal.”

“Yeah, which means it’s gonna get ugly. I hate the thought of our company going under because I had shitty taste in business partners, you know?”

“Well, you don't anymore. That’s character growth,” Tyler pointed out. “Now, I’m no legal expert, but as far as I can see, he’s got no legs to stand on—”

You held up a finger. “Uh, that’s not entirely true…”

“—and he’s going to come out of this looking like a complete and total tool. Which he is! If he wants to spend all this time and boatloads of his uncle’s money on a belligerent witch hunt, then so be it.”

“You mean our time, our money,” said Javi.

Kate looked at you. “If this ends up going to court, is it likely he’ll win?”

You sighed. “Okay, listen.” You sat on the coffee table. There was no avoiding the sight of three pairs of eyes with varying degrees of hopefulness trained on you, hanging onto your every word. Javi you had known before, but after a brief acquaintance, you’d decided that you liked Kate and Tyler too, had even spent an hour or two watching Tornado Wrangler videos on YouTube, and, while storm chasing seemed, well, kind of unhinged, their enthusiasm was contagious. They were passionate, not in a purely thrill-seeking or overly scientific way. They actually cared. And you wanted them to win. “The whole point,” you explained, “is that we’re trying to avoid this going to trial. If you’re looking to cut down on the cost to your bottom line—not to mention how this could drag on for literal years—it’s best to reach a settlement before this ever sees the inside of a courtroom. Either way, things are going to get a little worse before they get better. But the point is a clean break, right? When all this is over, StormPAR will never have any sort of claim over you. You’ll be free to chase storms, build your doo-dads—”

That got you a trio of chuckles. Good, let them think you were a meteorological idiot; all the better to make them feel like a united front.

“—and it’ll be like Scott and Riggs never happened.”

“Sounds good to me,” Tyler said, that steely determination from his old rodeo days coming through.

Kate gave a nod. “No matter what, we’ll be okay”

Javi put his hand on your knee. “Thank you… for everything. I know this has gotta suck for you too.”

“Who, me?” you asked, feigning ignorance. “I’m fine.”

“Mm-hm…”

“Do I not look fine?”

“You look great,” Kate said honestly.

“Miller’s gonna shit his pants.”

“Tyler!”

“Hey, we’re up,” your assistant announced, her fingers not pausing for a second as she typed on her phone. Abby may have the social skills of a polar bear, but her organizational skills were top-notch and you relied on her predatory instincts. Plus, you were sure that her geometrically perfect French bob had magical powers.

Signaling for the others to follow, you made your way down a hallway bordered by walls banded in frosted glass, the sound of typing and muffled phone calls familiar and yet not. This was enemy territory. Having you meet here instead of at the offices of Conway & Fine was a calculated move.

Before entering the conference room, you took Tyler by the elbow. “Please just… try to behave yourself.”

Me? He pointed at his face.

“Yes, you! Don’t provoke him—as a matter of fact, don’t even look at him—don't piss him off unless you want to make this a hell of a lot worse for everyone. Capisce?”

“I’ll be the picture of civility.”

You shot him a skeptical look.

“I’ll be a gentleman!”

You glared. “Tyler Owens, I’m holding you to that.” Adjusting your power suit, you put on your best Professional Face. “Alright guys, it’s showtime.”

Through the glass, your eyes landed on Scott. The temptation to bolt left you breathless, though you couldn’t say whether you wanted to run towards or far, far away. You wouldn’t. You were all too aware of the people standing behind you, counting on you, while Scott himself had been a stranger to you for the last few years.

You owed him nothing; this was simply business, you reminded yourself.

Simply business.

He turned his head and spotted you, and kept his eyes on you as you opened the door.

TEN YEARS AGO PARK HAVEN, PENNSYLVANIA

You’d been working on the same calculus assignment for the last three-quarters of an hour, the sound of rain lashing against your window doing nothing for your frazzled nerves.  While math was by no means your obvious strong suit, you would have finished by now if you hadn’t spent most of it staring at the wall beneath your windowsill, bouncing your leg, tapping your pencil compulsively against the edge of your AP textbook and imagining all the ways in which your life could go horribly, unfixably wrong. An outcome that now seemed likely.

“You still have time, sweetheart,” your mom tried to say at dinner that night. She smiled at you and patted your hand. “It’s only March.”

“Exactly—it’s March!” you’d wanted to say, but bit your tongue. There wasn't any point; your mom would always believe you were capable of walking on the moon, which was lovely, you guessed. Or it would be, if all your classmates weren't overachievers and if a lot of them hadn't already received acceptance letters and stuck pennants to the inside of their lockers for all the rejects to see.

It was hopeless… you should’ve gotten an answer by now.

Tossing the book and papers away, you buried your face in your hands and tried to hold it together. The sleeves of your sweatshirt emanated a woodsy, clean smell, kind of like rain in a forest, and you breathed in deep to let it ground you.

Slowly, the intensity of the storm outside faded to background noise, no longer angry, insistent—it was only rain after all, only weather. You sniffed, feeling silly, and snuggled into the navy-blue sweatshirt, wrapping your arms around your knees. The gold lettering read NICHOLS ACADEMY ATHLETICS. On you, it was practically a dress, and you’d been living in it all week, ignoring Mom’s teases about how “you’re going to have to wash it at some point!” while your dad watched you pass by, saying nothing, only flipping the page of whatever biography he was reading, not wanting to comment or so much as reference your boyfriend of two years, who played center field on Nichols’s prize baseball team and from whom you’d stolen the sweatshirt after a date at the park.

Try as you might, your dad had never warmed up to Scott, but you thought it had more to do with an objection to Scott’s father rather than to Scott himself. The whole family’s trouble, he said once, prompting a fight that ended with you slamming your bedroom door and not speaking to him for two days, until your mom laid down the law and said she wouldn't have that sort of tension around the house.

He didn’t get it. Scott wasn't like his father—if anything, you saw the way his jaw tensed whenever he heard rumors (whispered, unless intended to get a rise out of him by a school rival) about the private club scenes, the drinking, the reckless gambling, the other women. Of course your straitlaced dad assumed the apple wouldn't fall too far from the tree, but you knew Scott. You trusted him. And, fine, so you were seventeen, but you knew you wanted to spend the rest of your life with him—it happened, didn't it?

Granted, this was why that damned letter was so important. It was the perfect plan… so long as Scott got into MIT, which seemed like a given, and you into Harvard, the culmination of four years of meticulous planning and candle-burning work. But what if it didn’t happen? Could your relationship survive the time and long distance? As much as you hoped so, you didn’t want to find out.

Out of nowhere came sharp rap at your window. Startled, you looked up to see a familiar face peering through the rain-lashed glass, and automatically you sprang to your feet. “Scott! What the hell were you thinking!” you hissed, mindful of your parents, probably in bed at this hour. He paused halfway through the window, pretending offense.

“Wow, okay, here I thought I was making a big romantic gesture…”

“You’re soaking wet! You could’ve fallen and broken your neck!”

As you lowered and latched the window behind him, trying to be as quiet as possible, he defended, “I’m a tree connoisseur. If anything, I’m a that-tree connoisseur and she’s never let me down before. Literally. Sturdy branches on her.”

He had a point there. The tree directly outside your bedroom window had played makeshift ladder to him over the last couple of years—not that your parents were any the wiser. If your dad knew, he’d go straight to the nearest hardware store and buy the ax himself. (What he would do with that ax, having never done a day’s manual labor in his life besides recreational fishing, was beyond you.)

You shook your head, watching Scott drip all over the hardwood. God, he was stunning.

And there was a chance you might lose him forever in a few months.

You felt the sting in your throat and behind your eyes. “I’ll go get you a towel,” you said, averting your face and turning towards the ensuite so you could get a few seconds to yourself. He caught you by the wrist and spun you into his body.

“Wait a minute, kiss me first,” he demanded, a cocky grin on his face. You managed to see a flash of it before his lips met yours. You closed your eyes in spite of everything, melting into the kiss, into Scott, because it was as easy as breathing and just as pointless trying to resist.

His cheeks were cold, his mouth warm. Coaxing. The pressure of his hands on your waist like an anchor in the storm. He was perfect for you. How could you belong with anyone else? It was impossible.

His tongue brushed your bottom lip, and it was a move so practiced, so instinctive, so perfectly well-known, that it made the fear swell in your chest again. You held onto the front of his rain-drenched hoodie, breaking the kiss. Your breathing was ragged. You felt you could burst.

“You’re insane,” you tried to cover, burying your head in his chest. “My dad will kill you if he catches you.”

He took a step back and tilted your face up, gently, by the chin. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you replied.

“Tell me.”

Instead of answering, you made your way to the bathroom and got a towel out of the linen closet. You could feel Scott’s questioning gaze, but he waited, rubbing the towel across his head, brows knitted together as you hesitated, still trying to hedge. “I just—we have that exam next week and I’ve fallen behind on calc and I think I’m going to have to start over on my AP Civ end-of-the-year project, and my mom—”

“Your mom’s great,” Scott interjected.

“Why, d’you want her?”

He pursed his lips. As soon as you said it, you knew that it had sounded kind of bitchy.

“Fine, okay. She’s great, she’s just… trying to help.”

“Is this about Drexler getting her Harvard letter? Because it’s only—”

“It's only March. Yeah. That’s what Mom said. But I’m cutting it close, right? Some people got their letters in December, Scott—December!” You looked down at your feet. “I’m not going to get in.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Well, it sure feels like it!”

“C’mere.”

“No.” You shook your head.

“Come here,” he insisted, tossing the damp towel onto your bed and holding your arms loosely, his hands stroking up and down. No matter how much you held onto the scent-memory of him on his Nichols sweatshirt, nothing compares to the real thing. He made everything better; and if not, he made everything feel like it could get better, because he was Scott Miller, and the world bent to his charm or else. “You’re going to get in,” he said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “They’d be crazy not to have you.” And the thing was, despite being utterly convinced only two minutes before that the worst was inevitable, you wanted to believe him, wanted to convince yourself that everything would settle into place as it should.

Scott dipped his head to brush his lips against yours, a deliberate barely-there sweep that made your eyes flutter closed and your arms lace around the wide breadth of his shoulders. Scott’s hands traveled down your back, pressing into your hips until you were flush against the length of his body. You felt him smile as he let you deepen the kiss, and the little rumble of his almost-laugh pinged all the way down to your toes, warming you from the inside the way only Scott could.

As his mouth moved down to your jaw and then the side of your neck, you slid your hands down his chest and then stopped, feeling something other than the hidden planes of his stomach through the fabric of his dark hoodie. You pulled away. Scott’s face had frozen into a look of mild panic and his hands wrapped around your wrists, holding them loosely, which only made the alarm bells ring louder in your head. That was not the sort of face he would make if he was hoarding old receipts.

“Scott?” you asked. He looked away, exhaled, and let your wrists drop with a resigned expression. You reached into his pocket, pulling out a sheet of white letter paper folded into quarters, carefully and with Scott-like precision. “What…” you began, glancing at him briefly and opening the sheet.

At the top, in cardinal red: Massachusetts Institute of Technology.

You might have gasped. At the very least, one of your hands flew up to your mouth. “Oh my God… Scott…”

“We don’t have to talk about it now.”

“Scott! This is from MIT! You got in?”

“It's really not a big deal.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, his shoulders curved slightly inward.

Not a big deal? “Scott, shut up! You got in!” you exclaimed, aghast.

“You’re not upset?”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” You set the letter down to the side, knowing he’d want to keep it—that so much as folding it and putting it in his pocket so he could make the ten-minute run to your house in the middle of a downpour must have been a minor sacrifice on your account. Because he wanted to tell you. Because he wanted you to be the first person other than his mom to hear the good news. “We’ve talked about this. This is your dream school, babe.”

“Yeah, well, it feels kinda shitty celebrating now.”

“Stop.” You reached up and gave him a peck on the lips, stroking his cheeks, resting your forehead against his. “I'm so freaking proud of you. You’re going to be the best, most kick-ass engineer.”

You looked into his eyes so that he’d know it was true, and for a moment you could tell he was letting himself feel the achievement—his shoulders relaxed, he caressed your hands gratefully, but there was something about his smile that signaled not all being well.

“I heard Mom talking on the phone with my uncle today,” he confessed.

“Your uncle Riggs? Down in New Orleans?”

“Yeah. She doesn't want me to know, but I heard her talking about college and…”

You placed your hands on his chest. “Is it that bad?”

He didn't like talking about it but you knew his father had made a few bad investments lately, and from your own dad, who had confided it to your mom in secret one night—not that he saw you lurking outside the kitchen, drawn by the mention of the name “Miller”—you were aware that he had made a truly catastrophic impulsive bet with some Swedish businessmen he’d been trying to impress. Add to that the drawn look on Mrs. Miller’s face whenever you saw her, and the overly sympathetic way your mom referred to “poor Pamela,” and you had enough evidence to assume that Scott’s father had royally fucked up this time. 

“They’ve been talking about selling the house,” he said with a dark look. “I think my parents are going to split up… for good this time.”

“Oh, Scott…”

“So who knows? I might not be able to go to MIT anyway—even with this.”

“Are you okay?” you asked, aware that nothing got his back up more than pity. But you had to ask.

He shrugged. “It is what it is.”

This was a side of him you’d never learned how to handle, not even after two years of dating. For all that he was an expert at making you feel like the world was yours for the taking, when it came to his own struggles, he was a tightly closed book. Instead of admitting when he was hurt or disappointed, he resorted to indifference and the kind of dark humor that could put you in a bad mood if you weren't careful.

Right now, all you wanted was for him to know that you were there for him. Nothing you could say or do would make Ray Miller grow practical common sense or an ounce of familial consideration—you weren't even sure that he knew your name, despite being Scott’s long-term girlfriend; he was hardly ever home, and never present even on the occasions when he was. But you could state the obvious, just in case he’d doubted it for a second.

“Hey, I love you,” you said to him.

“I love you, too,” he replied. “Now, no more shop talk—why do you think I risked my neck climbing up here?” And just like that, the matter was closed, the dark look disappeared, replaced by the telltale lowering of his dark lashes as he dropped another kiss at the side of your neck, his arms tightening around you, turning you so that the backs of your knees hit the edge of your bed.

“And here I thought your intentions were pure,” you replied, trying to downplay the butterflies in your stomach.

“Darling, there’s no such thing… especially when it comes to you.”

“What an idealist,” you rejoined, then fell quiet when he kissed you again. Without missing a beat, he lowered you onto the bed, hands gliding beneath your sweatshirt with apparent purpose. “Scott,” you protested, “my parents are across the hall.”

“So we’ll be quiet. Or we’ll get caught. What's the worst that could happen?”

“Um, you flying headfirst out that window?”

He pretended to think about it, then, by the warm glow of your bedside lamp, you saw his mouth quirk into a smirk before he dove towards your lips, eyes twinkling. “I don’t know about you, but that sounds like a price I’m willing to pay.”

PRESENT DAY OKLAHOMA CITY

“The damages your client is seeking are absolutely unreasonable. I would even say they border on the ridiculous—and, quite frankly, even frivolous!”

“Frivolous! Your client founded his new company with StormPAR assets—”

“His assets!”

“—accumulated during his tenure as a business partner to my client. Assets which came out of the pocket of Mr. Riggs as well, might I remind you!”

“We were equal partners!” Javi exclaimed, no longer able to keep his temper in check. You supposed the moment you snapped at Mr. Rankin, Javi figured the gloves were off.

Maybe instead of worrying about Tyler, you should've worried about yourself.

Rankin stabbed a finger at the files stacked in front of him. “Exactly, and Mr. Miller deserves to be compensated for the financial losses incurred from your breach of contract.”

Javi balked. “What, I can’t decide to leave my own company?”

“You can do whatever the hell you want, just not with my money,” Scott said in a dangerous monotone. For the last half-hour you’d been trying not to look at him, focusing instead on his middle-aged bespectacled lawyer, but to say you weren't losing your shit would be disproven by the Montblanc you’ve been fidgeting with since the meeting began. When he wasn’t glaring daggers at his former business partner, you could feel the power of his gaze, daring you to meet his eyes again.

“Oh, you mean your uncle’s money?”

“Javi.” You touched his hand in warning.

“You weren't turning your nose up at my uncle’s money when you were trying to found StormPAR.” Scott gibed. In your periphery, you saw Kate rubbing her left temple.

“Me? I thought we were partners, partner.”

“Like you give a shit! You jumped ship, Javi—you jumped ship, set up shop with the opposition, then hired my ex-girlfriend so you could get away with robbing us blind!”

You gritted your teeth. “Mr. Rankin, control your client.”

“‘Control your client’?” Scott spat out, leaning forward and turning the dial up to ten. “What the hell is wrong with you? What are you even doing here?”

“My job, Mr. Miller.” This time you did risk staring him in the face, ignoring the play of light on his cheekbones, the shape of his lips, the triangle of exposed skin at his throat that you used to know so well. “I work for StormLab. You might find my presence objectionable, but that’s neither here nor there as long as my clients choose to keep me on retainer. If you don't like it, you’re free to leave and we can negotiate with Mr. Rankin directly.”

He said nothing. Scott was never at a loss for words unless he was well and truly pissed, the force of his intelligence diverted into barely suppressed anger. You could've heard a pin drop in that conference room. His hands were on top of the table, tense, almost shaking, and the rise and fall of his chest was visible even to you. Against your will, your brain threw up images of those same hands holding yours, threaded through your hair, brushing gently against the small of your back; those same arms drawing you close; the same mouth smiling.

You cleared your throat, shuffled a few papers around, and once again addressed the general room and Mr. Rankin. “Now, if you turn to page 16, you’ll see that Mr. Rivera is willing to formally sell his share of StormPAR for less than he’s entitled—if both Mr. Miller and Mr. Riggs agree to desist in interference with StormLab, which, need I remind you, was founded two-thirds of the way with assets entirely independent from the former. If this action’s purpose isn’t frivolous, then Mr. Owens and Ms. Carter should be removed from this suit.”

“Like hell,” Scott interrupted, prompting Javi to fire back with:

“What, you think we’re not good for it? I’ll have you know—”

“You expect me to believe you started your little company on the merits of an NWS salary and a fucking YouTube channel?”

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Tyler lean forward, ready to pounce. Rankin muttered, “Language,” and pushed his eyeglasses up his nose. You knew he was a personal friend of Scott’s uncle—you could also tell that he would rather be out on the golf course than in the middle of this friend-divorce and embarrassing squabble, one where his input seemed superfluous and his counsel went unheeded even by his client.

Scott went on, full of accusation. “You used StormPAR money, didn’t you?”

“If you want to request any financial disclosures…” you began.

“We’re talking.”

Bitch. “No, you’re berating,” you shot back.

Javi put his hand on your wrist. “It’s fine. Yeah—I guess if you want to look at it that way, if I was making a living off StormPAR and taking Riggs’s money, then yeah, technically my share of StormLab exists because of what we had.”

“Javi.”

“No. Fair’s fair and all that. I don’t want any part of it anymore. Hell, you can have it. But come on, man, don’t pretend you’re doing any of this because you’re broke. Even if I gave you half of whatever StormPAR’s worth, it wouldn’t make a difference. You’re mad that I left. I get it. Let’s settle this, you and me. Leave Kate and Tyler out of it.”

“You stole our data!”

Now, that couldn't stand. “He made the executive decision to share data with Mr. Owens’s team.” Sure, it was a technicality but it was a true technicality.

“Bullshit!”

You sighed. “Are we getting anywhere here, Rankin?”

The lawyer glanced down at his watch and shook his head almost mournfully. “It’s not looking likely.”

“Wonderful.” You stood up, gathering your things and motioning for Kate, Tyler, and Javi to do the same. “Well, we’re all very busy people and clearly meeting in-person is counterproductive. Shall we agree to make this a video call next time? My clients have places to be.”

“I’ll bet they do,” Scott mocked, staring not only at Javi but at his new partners for probably the first time all afternoon. “How’re your investors doing, by the way, knowing you’re getting sued for infringement, breach of contract and fiduciary duty…”

You wanted to strangle him. In a voice that matched him venom for venom, you turned to your assistant and said, “Did you get that on record, Abby? Please, keep going,” you urged Scott, “you might just win us a dismissal.”

After a moment of charged silence, you told your clients: “We’re done here.”

“You’ll be hearing from me,” said the reluctant Mr. Rankin.

You snatched the chrome door handle from Tyler. “Boy, am I looking forward to it.”

Outside, you didn’t stop until you’d turned the corner into another section of the office, not wanting to be within eyeshot of Scott when you gritted your teeth and let the mask of cool indifference fall.

“Well, that went…” Tyler trailed off, leaning against the metal doorframe of Copy Room 3. The smell of toner and ozone was strangely comforting, bringing you back to your professional self now that Scott and his stupid, handsome-as-ever face were out of view. That, and you were noticing that Tyler Owens in a corporate-adjacent setting didn’t sit well with you; you couldn’t decide whether it was the outdoor tan or the in-your-face belt-buckle that gave it away. Regardless, he seemed too big for the confines of a downtown law office.

“It went like a garbage fire,” you confirmed, “which means about as well as I expected.”

Kate crossed her arms. “So we’re going to court, then.”

“I’m going to keep pushing for him to drop StormLab from the suit.”

“That just leaves me,” Javi remarked, downcast, but still willing to take one for the team.

“I mean, Javi, dear, you did abandon the partnership without ironing out all the kinks first.”

“How was I supposed to know I needed to hire a lawyer?”

“Um, literally everyone knows you’re supposed to hire a lawyer,” said Tyler, “especially if you’re dealing with someone like Textbook Type A over there.”

Javi ran a hand down his face, then shook his head. “What can I say? I-I thought he was my friend.”

“I know.” You clapped your hand on Javi’s shoulder. I understand. “But sometimes all that does is make it worse.”

After a bit more commiserating you parted ways with the three, hanging back with Abby to touch base on a few points and clear up the rest of your schedule, which included a deposition in an hour-and-a-half and witness prep at 4:30. Understandably, you were in the mood for none of this and wanted nothing more than to retire to your apartment with a glass of red and a bowl of popcorn as big as your head à la Olivia Pope, but alas… you were trying to make junior partner.

No rest for the wicked and all that.

You released Abby for a late lunch and made your way to the bank of elevators after a brief pit stop at the restroom, side-eyeing the fancy automatic taps and the whiff of something hotel-like emanating from the vents. You’d have to tell the office manager at Conway & Fine to up your game.

Fishing your phone out of your bag, you pushed the elevator button and began scrolling through a frightful amount of emails—there were intraoffice communications and check-in requests from clients, a few items of junk not caught by the email filter, the latest newsletters from PennAlumni and the Oklahoma Bar Association, as well as an invitation to an old mentor’s golden anniversary celebration. You were in the middle of responding to this when Scott sidled up next to you, giving no indication other than the familiar scent of his cologne and the tap of shined leather shoes against the polished tile. Of all the bad luck…

“So what is this, some kind of a decade-old revenge plot?” he finally asked, disconcerting you with the fact that he was standing so close to you that you couldn't glance at his expression without craning your neck. “Maybe I should’ve expected it from you, but Javi? I didn't know he had it in him.”

“Go away, Scott. This is business.”

“Really, is that what you want to call it? He could've hired anyone.”

“Well, he chose to hire a friend.”

“Right…” A laugh. Dry, cynical. “And what's your excuse?”

You stared at the light above the door, willing it to flash green and put you out of your misery. “Believe it or not, my taking this case has nothing to do with you. Forgive me if I thought you could be a fucking adult about it—clearly I was wrong.”

Ding!

You walked into the elevator without looking back. As parting words went, you thought they passed muster. Except, instead of being a regular person and taking the next car, Scott followed you in, ignoring the outrage written plain on your face.

You looked at him as if to say, “Do you mind?” It was obvious that he didn't. Whatever composure he’d lost in the conference room had been regained now that it was just you, and him, and the shared knowledge that you would have avoided being alone with him if you could.

He stood next to you, towering. As the floor number inched downward from 22, you were all too aware of his presence: the Scott smell of him, the warmth of his body, and the brush of his dark linen jacket against your arm. You wished you handed discarded your own in the restroom; you needed armor, and while Scott had donned his as soon as he was able, he had caught you unawares, expecting him to play fair even when all the evidence of the last two hours had told you that “fair” was no longer in his vocabulary.

As if to illustrate the point, you felt him lean in, his voice the closest it had been in over six years. “You always did love making a show of taking the moral high ground. How’s the view, sweetheart? You must love getting the chance to look down on me for change.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Not bothering to contain your disgust, you stepped away from him, clutching your bag in a white-knuckle grip. For a moment you felt struck by lightning. There was a time when you knew the planes of his face better than your own—the slope of his nose, the variations of blue in his eyes; you knew the shade of his hair in every light; how to tell a false smile from the true. But this Scott… the one with the shuttered expression, the see-if-I-care set to his shoulders, “how’re your investors doing, by the way”… It wasn’t like those things came out of left field—Scott had always been capable of a certain amount of pride, petulance, vindictiveness, even. But it was like the best parts of him had been filed away, or else hidden so deep that you couldn't find nary a sight of them when you looked into his face. “What happened to you?”

You saw his jaw clench. “If you want to know, then you shouldn’t have left.”

8…

7…

6…

You took a breath. “That whole last year—you pushed me away and you know it.”

Instead of answering your honesty in kind, Scott hitched up his sleeve so he could glance at the time on his fancy Swiss watch, a present from Good Old Uncle Riggs on the event of his graduation from MIT. “Yeah, well, you made it easy.”

4…

3…

2…

The doors opened onto a vast lobby. Incredulous, you kept waiting for him to take his words back, to apologize, to so much as glance at you, damn it. When you saw there wasn't any point, you swallowed the knot in your throat, stepping out of the elevator car and feeling twenty-one all over again.

This time, he didn't follow you. He leaned against the back handrail, not reacting even when you mustered every remaining ounce of dignity to say, “Go fuck yourself, Scott.” Then you turned on your heel and walked away.

TEN YEARS AGO PARK HAVEN, PENNSYLVANIA

Once more on your bedroom floor. Scott sat at your back, his arms wrapped around you and his head bent over yours. “Hey, listen to me… we’ll make it work. I’ll call you every day.”

“With a full slate of classes? That doesn't make any sense.”

“I don’t care if it doesn't. Hey,”—he kissed your temple—“it’s you and me. That doesn’t need to change”

“You say that now…”

“Don’t you trust me?”

“Of course I do.” You sighed. “It’s the hot nerds I don’t trust.”

You felt him laugh. “You’re a hot nerd.”

“Stop it.” But you smiled anyway, probably for the first time since you’d opened the rejection letter from Harvard. Concerned, your mom had called Scott while you were holed up in your room, ugly-crying into the bedspread, and it was enough to make you regret having been so bitchy about her the week before. She really had been trying to help… not that it mattered now that Harvard had given you the hard pass.

It wasn’t like you had no other options—you’d have been crazy not to line up a contingency plan or two. But Harvard had been your dream since you could remember caring about college. It was your castle in the sky, the thing that kept you going through four years of grueling hard work, a neverending grind of AP and Honors classes, student clubs and extracurriculars. And still it wasn’t enough.

“We regret to inform you…”

Well, not as much as you regretted it.

As if reading your mind, Scott wrapped his arms a little tighter, his tone light when he said, “UPenn’s nothing to scoff at, you know. You’re upset because you got into an Ivy League?”

“An Ivy League in Philadelphia,” you protested.

You didn’t add “and not the one I wanted” because you knew, objectively, that he and your parents and Ms. Andersson, your favorite teacher, were all right. You were incredibly lucky to have gotten into the University of Pennsylvania—the campus was beautiful, it was close to home, and, like Harvard, it boasted its own fair share of Supreme Court Justices and legal luminaries. It wasn’t like your future was in complete and utter shambles. You would still have everything you wanted… except Scott.

You felt him shrug behind you. “So what? It’s just a five-and-a-half-hour drive—or an hour-and-a-half by plane if we’re desperate.” You shifted so you could shoot him a funny look. “I might have googled it,” he admitted, “right after you told me you got in.”

“Of course you did…” The fact that he had started making plans without waiting on Harvard made you feel better; it meant he had every intention of making it work and maybe you were the downer, seeing the situation as near-hopeless when, really, there had to be couples who didn't let physical distance stop them from being together.

Glass half-full. All you needed was a little faith, a little more optimism.

“At least we’ve got the whole summer,” you said, trying to implement this new, sunnier outlook.

You felt Scott stiffen.

“What?” You turned around properly, anchoring your hand on the side of his neck. You had a minor panic when he wouldn't look at you, and at the guilt written on his brow. “Tell me,” you said.

“Uncle Riggs wants me to spend the summer down in NOLA—something about getting to know me better. I think he must’ve worked it out with Mom. She’s finally put the house up for sale, doesn't want me around when strangers start traipsing through and asking about whether or not she’ll throw in the vintage furniture for an extra few grand.”

At last, after years of painful back and forth, the Miller divorce was imminent. True to Scott’s prediction, “poor Pamela” had hired an attorney and filed paperwork on the very week he climbed through your window. So far his dad had been uncharacteristically passive, perhaps figuring he had put his family through enough, or else fearful of the very same Marshall Riggs who had been summoned from the rafters to come through for his sister after a period of long estrangement.

It was Riggs who had retained Pamela’s ace divorce attorney, Riggs who agreed to pay most of Scott’s tuition. Spending a few months with him seemed like the least he could do. You were disappointed. But you understood.

“When do you leave?”

“Two weeks after graduation.”

“So we have a month,” you said. “That’s thirty days.”

“More like twenty-six… and three quarters.” He smiled the same wistful sort of half-smile that was on your face, and you kissed him, savoring the familiar taste of mint on his mouth from the gum he chewed out of habit.

“Then let’s not waste a second,” you answered back.

He placed a kiss on your forehead. “I love you.”

When he said it, it sounded like a promise that everything would be all right, and in spite of your worries you chose to believe him.

PRESENT DAY OKLAHOMA CITY

For the last ten minutes you’d had trouble hearing Kate’s voice clearly over the phone, but you figured it was to be expected since she was calling from the middle of nowhere (at least to your urban- and suburban-bred estimation), and really, after almost three months of similar experiences, you’d grown tired of plugging your ear and saying, “Kate? Kate? You’re breaking up!”

On the upside, your cognitive skills had to be getting a real workout from filling in the weather-induced gaps in your conversations. Case in point:

“—bad luck with the last two, but I—feeling—building in the east—”

“Yeah, her Spidey Senses are tingling!” you heard Javi yell in the background.

Kate laughed. “Go away!”

“Ask her if she caught the livestream!” Tyler said, no doubt from the driver’s seat.

It sounded like she had you on speakerphone, so you spoke to him directly. “Ty, need I remind you that I have an actual job.”

“Ouch! Did you hear that?—thinks we don’t have real jobs!”

“I did not—”

The clarity improved, and you could hear the sound of car doors slamming and voices cracking jokes in the background, which usually meant they’d returned to Kate’s mother’s farm in Sapulpa, where StormLab kept a satellite office in Cathy Carter’s barn. It was makeshift, but what you saw of it during one of Tyler’s Facetime calls had a rustic charm completely at odds with the glass-and-chrome offices where Herb Rankin worked.

Actually, now that you gave it a moment’s thought, not even Herb Rankin fit into his office.

“Listen to her, the Big City Bigshot slumming it with the rednecks,” Tyler went on, earning a few spirited hoots and howls from the other Wranglers.

“Kate is from New York!” you objected. You waved an arm in the middle of your dim-lit apartment as if anyone could see you, vaguely aware that you were holding a pair of chopsticks and had probably sent a strand of shredded cabbage flying behind your couch.

This assertion was too much for Javi to bear. “Excuse me! Kate is OK to the bone, New York’s just where she keeps her apartment.”

Kate laughed as she said something you couldn’t catch, then Tyler’s voice came, audibly close to the phone. “Hey, that reminds me, where’re you from, again?”

“Pennsylvania.”

“That is not a Philly accent.”

You were about to say that not everyone in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania sounds like Rocky Balboa when Javi replied, “That’s ’cause she’s from the fancy part of Pennsylvania—but we don't hold that against her.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Tyler asked, “Wait, you’re not billing us for all this shit-talking, are you?”

You let out a snort, picked up your phone, and held it close to your mouth. “You know, maybe I should, Arkansas.”

At first you couldn’t work out what the hell was going on when Tyler broke out in “It's the spirit of the mountains… and the spirit of the Delta… it's the spirit of the Caaapitol doooooome,” but by the time the other Wranglers pitched in, with all the gusto of a drunk karaoke night despite being stone-cold sober, you understood that you had been treated to a rare and hopefully never-to-be-repeated rendition of one of the state songs of Arkansas. A short while later you hung up, cheeks sore and still laughing to yourself. The silence in your apartment was deafening by comparison.

Sometimes, you called them just because you lacked company. There wasn’t much to report on the Rankin front—as much as you had tried to negotiate on Javi’s behalf for a less hostile resolution, Scott insisted on keeping Kate and Tyler in the suit and seemed determined to take their tiff before a judge if his terms weren’t met.

Even Rankin seemed fed up.

Maybe it was a bad idea, maybe it was the two glasses of wine you’d had with dinner or the post-ballad high. Maybe you wanted to be the one to make StormLab’s problem go away. Whatever the reason, after you put the dirty dishes in the sink, you found yourself calling the one person you swore you’d never speak to ever again.

For good measure, as the dial tone rang you poured yourself another glass. When he answered, you nearly choked.

“Can we talk?” you managed to ask, swallowing down a mouthful of Syrah. There was a long silence on the other end. You didn't know if he had your number saved, if he knew who had called him, or whether he’d recognized the sound of your voice. You remembered that the last thing you had said to him was “go fuck yourself,” and added it to the mental list of why maybe you shouldn't have called him after all.

Tyler’s impulsiveness seemed to be as contagious as a rash.

Scott answered: “Not without my lawyer present.”

Okay, fair. Play stupid games, win stupid prizes. He sounded clipped, like he’d rather be lowered into a tank of leeches than be on the phone with you. You were reconsidering the wisdom of your actions when he asked, “What do you want?”

Your eyes darted around the living room. Thinking on your feet wasn't new to you, it couldn't be, in your profession. But a part of you knew you’d taken a stupid gamble in pressing the call button, and now that the die was cast, you had to make it count.

You opted for the aggressive approach.

“Rankin says you're being uncooperative.”

You could feel the animus on the other end. “No, he didn't.”

“It was implied. No one wants to keep drawing this out, Scott. So, come off it. What is it that you’re actually looking to get out of all this?”

If he opted to tell you to go fuck yourself, you figured it would be fair play. This really was business, and not having to look him in the eyes made it easier to feel the rush of adrenaline that came with making a risky move in the name of work. You knew that technically, and in the strictest interpretation of the word, reaching out to another lawyer’s client crossed the line into inappropriate, but you were also a couple years beyond green. If you could cut out the middleman and get Scott to come to the table in a serious way, it would all be worth it. And Rankin could go back to playing 9 holes without losing face in front of his old school mate Riggs.

You waited for Scott’s response with bated breath.

“I want StormLab run into the ground.”

The answer came as no surprise but his tone did. Dark, intense, almost as bad as one of the nights he snuck into your room after a fight with his dad. It was the one and only time you’d ever heard him say he hated his father—his lack of control, his thoughtlessness, his inability to keep his word. Afterward he’d pretended he never said it, or rather, he was careful to never bring it up again, but you knew he had meant it.

And he meant it now. He wanted to take StormLab down. He’d succeed over your dead body. Javi and the others were counting on you.

You moved the phone to your other ear. “Right, well… that's not gonna happen, so any other alternatives?” You could feel he was about to end the call, so you tacked on, “Wait, just… hear me out, okay? Forget about Tyler and Kate—this isn’t about them, really, this is about StormPAR. Compromise on this one thing and you have a better chance of being compensated for what went down last year. You and Javi can just… move on with your lives. On paper it's about money, right? Riggs’s investment? So let’s settle this as soon as possible.”

“You and me?”

“And Rankin,” you added, your conscience getting the better of you.

There was a pause before Scott repeated, “You and me.”

“I don’t…”

“That’s my final offer.”

Alarm bells of a different sort rang in your head. On the phone was one thing, but in person, alone? Could you really sit across from Scott and keep your cool?

You had to. More than that, you wanted to prove to yourself that you’d grown up since you were twenty-one, that you were assured and confident and could handle messy things like sitting across from your ex. There were many things you regretted from that time; the one you regretted most was a reluctance to stand up for yourself. What was Tyler always saying? You don’t face your fears, you ride them. Frankly, you still weren't sure what the hell he meant by that, but it sounded a lot like “put your money where your mouth is.” At some point you had to choose to take action.

“Okay, fine,” you said. “When and where?”

“You busy tonight?”

You scoffed, casting a glance at your open laptop and the piles of paperwork lying on top of the coffee table. “I’m busy every night.”

“Perch. In an hour. Don’t be late.”

THREE YEARS AGO PARK HAVEN, PENNSYLVANIA

As a rule you’d been avoiding your hometown for the last three years, ever since your breakup with Scott. It was easier to stay in Oklahoma, where the possibility of running into someone who knew the Millers or would ask “are the two of you still together?” was slim. After your father died, you started to regret being such a coward. So much lost time… although your mom kept telling you that your dad understood the need to have your own life and never held it against you.

You held it against you, and all the more when your mom decided to downsize and move in with a friend.

After requesting two weeks off you got on a plane to Philadelphia and drove south to Park Haven to help her pack. You stayed up late, wore holiday pajamas, filled your hand with paper cuts, and inhaled about four pounds of dust in the attic. It was nice to spend time with your mom. All the old grievances seemed minor in comparison with the massive changes that lay ahead. Always one for sentimentality, sorting through boxes full of clothes, keepsakes, and old mementos put your mom in an especially chatty mood, and you soaked everything in, not having realized before how little you knew about your dad. He was so reserved in life, so buttoned-up, with clear expectations of himself and others that you were surprised to learn about his stint in an amateur dramatics troupe, the year he tried his hand at playing the alto sax, his fear of geese.

“Geese?” you asked your mom.

“Yes, geese. Those fuckers are vicious!” Having never heard your mom swear before, you froze while elbow-deep in a box of photographs dating back to the 70s. All she did was shrug and finish the rest of her margarita while lightbulbs flashed on her navy blue Rudolph sweater. “What do you want me to say? Parents have secrets, too.”

“Well, I think this parent went a little hard on the tequila,” you said.

Your mom plucked a faded Polaroid from the box. “You know… he didn’t look it, but your dad was actually a lot of fun. We both were. Then… life gets in the way, you start caring about PTA meetings and getting the HOA off your back…”

“Fuck the HOA.”

“Right on! Can’t say I’ll miss any of those jerks.” She sighed, and with a little shake of her head, put the Polaroid back in the box. “Sometimes I worry—” She stopped herself and glanced at you nervously.

“What?”

“Sometimes I worry that you think about us, about your dad and me, and that you don’t see us as having ever been in love. Especially after you and Scott—”

“Mom,” you warned.

“I know, I know, me and my big mouth.” She held up her hands, chuckling to herself. Normally you’d seize the opportunity to change the subject, but you were thinking a lot about how you could’ve been a better daughter, all the times you shut the door in their face because you didn’t want to feel scolded or uncomfortable, because you weren’t interested in what they had to say.

Your mom was trying to respect your privacy. The least you could do was not leave her with the impression that you thought she had a “big mouth.”

You reached across the box and touched her arm. “That’s not what I meant.”

“All I mean is… I know you’re not dating.”

“How do you know that?”

She grinned. “Mothers have their ways. I just don’t want you giving up, is all. If Dad and I weren’t the model marriage—”

“What are you talking about?” you asked. “Half of my friends have divorced parents. And even if you were divorced, the whole ‘nuclear family or you’re a failure to society’ thing is so five-decades-ago.”

“Well, good! Because I was happy—I want you to know that. Maybe it wasn’t the sort of romance people write songs about—God knows your dad had his faults. He wasn't perfect. No one is. But when you love someone… it’s less about keeping score and more about what you build. Together.”

She looked off to the far wall, where their wedding portrait sat propped in its frame, ready to be wrapped in old newspapers and put away. You turned around and looked at it, too—at your mom’s curly updo and poofy skirts, the sleeves that looked like pool inflatables, at least to your modern eyes, at your dad before his hair went gray, the sheepish smile on his face like he couldn’t believe he’d gotten away with the steal of the century.

You’d gotten so used to its presence in the living room that you couldn’t remember the last time you gave it more than a passing glance.

Lit by an alternating flash of blue and purple lights, your mom’s face was cast in an otherworldly glow. Then the spell was broken, and she was your mom again in an ugly Christmas sweater, smiling fondly at an old memory to which you weren’t privy. “For some reason, we brought out the best in each other. That mattered to us more than anything we ever did wrong.” And that was that, a twenty-nine year marriage summed up in a few sentences.

You said, “I guess that does sound romantic… in a super-practical, boring, construction-analogy sort of way.”

She laughed and threw a wadded-up newspaper at your head.

“Dad never liked Scott,” you said after a while, rolling the ball between your hands.

“What makes you say that?”

You threw her a pointed look. Her expression said, Oh, alright.

“He wasn’t disapproving, exactly. He was worried about you. Who wouldn’t be? Your first boyfriend, your first love… I don’t think he was quite ready to see his teenage daughter all head over heels over some guy on the baseball team. And the Millers, well… they had their issues, as a family. Maybe your dad didn’t want you becoming collateral damage. But, oh sweetie,”—it was her turn to touch your arm, Rudolph’s nose squished against the cardboard—“it was never about Scott. When you told us you were engaged, we were so pleased for you! And then a few months later… just like that…”

You swallowed the knot in your throat. How much time would have to pass before you could think of Scott without a tidal wave of sadness hitting you square in the chest? Collateral damage, that was one way of putting it. “I guess Dad was right, after all.”

“He never said ‘I told you so,’” your mom pointed out, “and he never would’ve wanted to.”

You squeezed her hand. “Yeah, I know.”

A phone call from your mother’s friend Rose prompted a break in packing. She went into the kitchen to discuss sideboard dimensions, and you went upstairs, where you were slowly going through your childhood bedroom and putting things in boxes marked Keep and Donate, or else in bags to be discarded when trash day rolled around.

You were almost finished, the walls empty of medals and photos, the corkboard of mementos lying in the recycling bin outside. Already it felt like a bedroom that had belonged to someone else, and while you were sad to know that, after the house was sold, you would never step foot in it again, the process of taking things down one at a time had given you a sort of detachment. There were items, like the snowglobe your friend Tash gave you when she got home from a skiing trip in the Alps in the seventh grade, that you had once thought you could never do without. But now Tash lived in LA with her wife and kids, and you hadn’t spoken much since high school except for a few text messages now and then.

You’d decided to keep the globe but you knew it would live in a box in your closet, a relic rather than an everyday part of your life in Oklahoma.

Speaking of closets, you tackled the wardrobe next, marveling at how many items would be considered “trendy” now that the fashion cycle had taken a turn—or God forbid, “vintage.” There were stuffed animals shoved into the top shelf, your old 50 State quarter collection, debate club certificates, a landscape picture from your senior year mock trial, and a shoebox falling apart at the seams.

You took it to the stripped bed with shaking hands, knowing you’d been dreading this most of all but that it had to be done, so why not now.

After you broke your engagement off with Scott, you’d gone home to lick your wounds. This was before you found a job, before you decided to move to Oklahoma on the literal toss of a coin, knowing only that you couldn't stay in Pennsylvania and that you needed a fresh start. Left with no other options, home had been your best bet, even though the weeks spent living with your parents and avoiding their worried questions had seemed at the time like cruel and unusual punishment. When you moved out you had left something behind, hidden beneath seashells and baubles and silly notes you had passed during class, movie stubs, train tickets, an inexplicable piece of gum, the collar that had once belonged to Clover, your old childhood dog.

You lifted a school ribbon and found it: a blue velvet box with a golden clasp. Your heart pounded in your ears. You took a deep breath, let it out again before lifting the lid… and there it was, glinting in the light of late afternoon.

“Honey, Rose wants to know if you’d like to join us for dinner at her place!”

Box, ring, and all tumbled onto the hardwood. Though you were alone, your mother calling to you from the bottom of the stairs, you felt incredibly guilty. “I’ll be right down!” you yelled back. You got on your hands and knees and slipped the ring back in its cradle.

It felt dangerous somehow, like a live grenade. But you couldn't get rid of it. When you went back home at the end of the month you packed it at the bottom of your suitcase and it’d been living with you ever since, moved from closet to closet, unseen but never quite forgotten.

PRESENT DAY OKLAHOMA CITY

The jewel twinkled in your hand, an oval diamond surrounded by small clusters and set in a ring of yellow gold. It was one of a kind. Scott told you he found it at an antique jeweler’s who dated it to the summer of 1880; it was a genuine Victorian piece, and for nearly four months it had been your most prized possession.

The same foolhardy impulse that made you call Scott and agree to meet him made you dig it out of your closet, right after you spent twenty minutes agonizing over what to wear and the state of your hair. This isn’t a date, you kept reminding yourself. If anything, it might be a trap. He was, after all, Marshall Riggs's nephew.

Letting your lesser sense win out, you slipped the ring on your finger and watched it catch the light. It truly was a beautiful ring. And it was sentimental, as though its selection revealed a hidden truth about Scott.

Its weight on your hand, present and comfortable, calmed your racing thoughts and the nerves roiling in your belly. You kept it on as you dressed and got ready, then chalked it up to a desire for punctuality when you rushed to the elevator, through the lobby, and into your waiting Uber still wearing it. The driver’s presence snapped you out of your momentary lapse in sanity. They were chatty, and the more you talked about work and the weather and what you liked doing in the city, the sillier it felt to be wearing your ex-fiancé’s engagement ring. Before getting out, you stuck it in the pocket of your linen duster… which was also, admittedly, kind of a stupid thing to do.

(You blamed Tyler for all of it.)

Located at the top of a fifty-floor high-rise, Perch was a bar and restaurant with full views of the city and a James Beard Award-winning chef. The atmosphere was relaxed and unfussy, the lighting unobtrusive, and the cocktails reasonably priced. At the door, the vest-clad host directed you through the assemblage of diners and beyond a decorative glass partition to the tables reserved for business meetings, minor celebrities, and men who didn’t want to be seen with their mistresses. Scott was there in rolled-up shirtsleeves. You watched from a distance as he rubbed his stubbled cheek and his pointer finger came to rest at the seam of his lips.

You would not stare at his mouth or let your eyes linger anywhere on his person. This was business, goddammit.

But hell if he didn’t look good. You hated that after all this time you still found him maddeningly attractive.

“Seriously?” he asked, casting a pointed look at the portfolio in your arms.

“Well, this isn’t a social call.”

“By all means.” He gestured at the seat in front of him, mockingly formal. You glanced at the coupe waiting on your side of the table, a cheerful yellow with a perfect white foam on top and a twist of lemon peel. “I took the liberty of ordering your usual.”

You sat down and set the portfolio to one side, adopting an air of casual indifference. “Actually, it’s not my usual anymore.”

“Really?”

“But thanks anyway. So, from previous conversations with Javi—”

“What is this mythical new usual?”

“Are you kidding?” you balked, narrowing your eyes.

“No, I’m just curious.” He propped his chin in his hand. Maybe lying had been a petty move on your part but you’d be damned if he forced you to backtrack and you came out of this looking a fool.

“I hate to be the one to tell you this, but at some point you’re gonna have to learn to live with uncertainty. Anyway—”

“You don’t have a new usual.” Scott smirked. “It’s still a gin sour and you’re just being difficult.”

“Difficult… Wow, okay! We”—wagging your finger in the space between you—“are not together anymore, so these mind games you’re trying to play are highly inappropriate and also kind of a dick move—”

“A dick move!” he repeated.

“Yeah, a dick move! Which I know is, like, your whole personality now—”

“Is it?” he laughed.

“—but I’m trying to settle this like an actual grown-up and all you’ve done for three months is make that very difficult for everyone involved!”

He rolled his eyes. “This is such a fucking boring conversation.”

Incensed, you had the fleeting thought to throw your drink in his face, but people only did that in soap operas. “You were the one who wanted to do this in person!” you fired back, shrill and drawing the attention of a server who promptly beelined to a different table and pretended not to hear. Which only made you wonder what sort of clientele frequented her section.

“And you were the one who called me,” Scott pointed out, “not the other way around.”

His being right made you even angrier. You had thought you were prepared, that magically you’d be able to have a civil conversation that settled the matter in a way that left you with your pride intact and StormLab the clear winner on the side of good. Clearly, you’d miscalculated. “You know what… fuck this.” After downing half your cocktail in a single gulp, you gathered the portfolio in your arms and made to stand before deciding that, actually, you wanted to get a few things off your chest first so that abandoning your PJs would be worth it. “I am so over this whole… fucking… stupid… mess. I’ve had actual divorces that were easier to mediate, Scott. Whole marriages—and not short ones either! Just take the fucking shares! Please… take the shares and go back to Riggs and leave us all the hell alone. We’re tired, okay? This is just… so unbelievably tiring. And fuck you, by the way—yes, it’s still a gin sour.” You finished yours, figuring that if Scott was paying, you might as well.

And now I’m ready to leave, you thought.

But Scott had other ideas.

“You spoken to your mom lately?”

“What?” You gaped at him, wondering if you were losing your mind. Was he? Was there a dimensional shift happening that you weren’t aware of?

“Pardon the observation,” Scott went on, “but you don’t seem… well.”

“Are you being for real right now?”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

And how else could you mean it? was on the tip of your tongue. But the look on his face made you stop. No bullshit, no smug provocation. He was serious. Somehow, that was more unsettling than when he was fucking with you. It brought back too many memories.

“I was sorry to hear about your dad.”

He looked you straight in the eyes when he said it. You wanted to burrow into a hole in the ground—into him, if you were being honest. It didn’t matter how many years had gone by. A part of you was still twenty-seven and glancing at the door wondering if maybe, just maybe…

“Oh, I’m gonna need another one of these,” you whispered to yourself, stunned back into a seated position. The server came around and eyed your empty glass, asking meekly if you would like anything else. “I might as well,” you answered, sounding patently glum. All the while Scott kept a neutral expression, even waited until you had another drink—and a glass of water—in front of you, giving the server a soundless thanks before she scurried away.

Probably off to the kitchen to tell her coworkers about the crazy lady at B25.

“I thought about showing up to the funeral, actually,” added Scott when you had regained most of your composure. “But I didn’t know if I’d be welcome. Mom, being a firm believer in Emily Post, thought it’d be better if we skipped it. She sent flowers, though.”

“She what?”

“She sent flowers. Your mom never said?”

You shook your head. She must’ve been trying not to upset you. But you had been upset anyway, thinking about how Scott should’ve been there, how you had always expected him to show up and make things better.

All this time you had used his absence as yet another example of how little you must’ve mattered in the end. Which made no sense, because you were the one to break things off—and yet, that entire winter’s morning, you had bargained with yourself that if he showed up through those chapel double doors you would forget everything and beg him to take you back. It was too late for that. But knowing that he’d thought about going loosened a painful knot in your chest that you weren’t aware you even had.

You cleared your throat. “How’s your mom, by the way?”

“She’s doing all right. She’s part of a sewing circle, believe it or not.”

“Please tell me that isn’t a euphemism.”

“God, I hope not.”

You smiled involuntarily, picturing Pam Miller in her sweater sets and pearls. “I’m glad she’s doing okay. Your dad…?”

He picked up his drink, a Macallan on the rocks. It was his uncle’s drink, too. “I haven't heard from him in years. Guess neither of us ever saw the point.”

“Scott—”

“How’d you and Javi become an ‘us’ anyway? He never said.”

Fair enough. It made sense that he wouldn’t want to talk about his dad, let alone with you. But talking about Javi? When an hour ago he had admitted to wanting to bankrupt Javi’s company?

“I’ll be on my best behavior for the next”—he looked down at his watch—“fifteen minutes. Promise.”

“I don’t know, I think it’s better if we table all the personal talk,” you hedged.

“Better for whom?”

“Better for my clients. And better for me, too. We’re not friends.”

“We’ve never been friends,” Scott pointed out.

“Exactly. So why lie and pretend like we are?”

“Call it a term of this negotiation.”

“Scott…” Already this night was going nothing like how you’d planned. Your defenses had all the strength of a thin paper bag; he was in front of you, all dark-haired, blue-eyed, 6’4” reality and you weren’t unaffected. You wanted to keep talking to him, make the moment last… and all the more because you knew it had to end at some point. Scott would never be yours—not again. You’d made your peace with that a long time ago. But he has a right to know. Maybe if you could convince him that there was no grand conspiracy against him, he would be more amenable to Javi’s offer.

This is business, you reminded yourself. Redirect, bring it all back to StormLab.

“Fine,” you decided, settling in to tell the story of how you and Javi first met. “It happened maybe a year after I moved to Oklahoma City… I was out with a new friend and she took me to this bar after dinner to meet a bunch of people, one of whom was Javi. We get to talking, he tells me all about this new company he’s starting with a friend of his, says it’s a lucky coincidence or maybe fate having a twisted sense of humor because—”o

You broke off. You hadn’t considered how to broach this particular detail in the story. Obviously, Javi had no idea at the time how messy your backstory with Scott was. He had only thought to poke fun at his friend and seemed delighted to have solved a long-standing mystery for himself.

“So you’re the girl!”

“Come again?”

“The girl, you know. He has a picture of you in one of his old notebooks from college. What a small world!”

“What?” Scott prompted. You felt your face heating up and took a sip of water to hide it. You couldn't well omit the rest having already begun, but the knowledge that Scott had kept a photograph of you, whether by accident or otherwise, made you flustered then and it flustered you now.

You settled for: “He said he recognized me, and that he thought we might have a friend in common. Obviously, he meant you. He was dating one of Christa’s friends at the time—”

“Rachel.”

“Yeah. So he’d show up, be around… You know how Javi can be.”

“Like a persistent terrier.”

“Sounds like your kind of business partner.”

Scott looked away.

Not wanting to push things further in that direction just yet, you explained, “I work a lot, so it’s hard for me to make friends. Javi seems to make them wherever he goes. It’s nice having people like that in your life, to open you up, remind you there’s more to all this than billable hours and senior partner tracks. But we never talked about you. Not until this whole thing happened.”

“What thing did he say happened?”

Tread carefully now. Scott was watching you intently—if you said the wrong thing it might start a new argument between you and make his relationship with Javi a hell of a lot worse. In polished business-speak, you recited: “Just that you had a fundamental disagreement about the direction of the company.”

Your reward was a skeptical laugh.

“Also, that he might have left you on the side of the road during a tornado… which he feels bad about, by the way.”

“Not bad enough.”

“Scott, you can’t really want to ruin him, can you? I mean, this is Javi we’re talking about.”

“That’s not part of this discussion.”

“Okay?” you shot back. “I don’t remember agreeing to that condition.”

“You’re still at this table.”

“And that can easily be fixed!”

“All right, calm down.” Maybe it was you in danger of starting another fight. Scott, holding up his hands in a show of good faith, said, “I thought we were playing nice here, being civilized, acting like adults… What else have you been up to?”

“You want to know about my life?”

“Like I said, I’m curious. And seeing as this is a momentary parley, I plan on making the most of it.”

Again, you took in his face in search for any signs of subterfuge and found none, only the barest hint of levity in his eyes at your willingness to argue. It reminded you of the old days, when Scott would delight in teasing you for the sole purpose of seeing what your reaction would be. “Fine. But it’s going to be quid pro quo,” you demanded. “Call it a term of this negotiation.”

His mouth curved into a smile. Then he held out his hand across the table and waited for you to take it before saying, “Term accepted, counselor.”

In the end, playing nice with Scott turned out to be a lot easier once you’d established a few ground rules, mainly the stipulation that either of you could say “pass” if you weren’t willing to answer a question.

You went through the whole gamut of discussing your first jobs after college, gossiped about the old Park Haven crowd, the who-married-who and the who-got-divorced of it all. It turned out that, like you, Scott hadn’t returned to Pennsylvania much in the last few years. StormPAR kept him traveling through the Great Plains for most of the spring and summer, and during the rest of the year he lived in New Orleans, where Riggs and his mother lived. You got the sense that his life revolved around work, and that StormPAR, while not the be all and end all of his professional fate, had been an important part of it until Javi called it quits. You figured this explained, in part, why he took the loss so personally, and though you kept your thoughts to yourself you lamented that his one attempt to branch out for himself and away from his uncle—if you could call taking a major investment from Riggs “branching out”—had gone badly.

Either way, by the end of the evening you felt you’d been a little hasty in believing the old Scott had left the building for good. You exited Perch in higher spirits, glad to see that the night was clear and that the air felt good on your cheeks. When he asked if you were getting a car, you shared your desire for a long walk and he responded with mild horror until you explained that you didn’t live far. “Maybe twenty minutes? Thirty at most.”

“I’ll walk you home,” he insisted. You didn't argue because you were secretly pleased. The only thing you had to guard against was the urge to take his arm as you used to do. You felt giddy with it, which you were sure had to be the alcohol, but it was also the fact that Scott was here, in the flesh, that you were cracking jokes and sometimes even pulling smiles from his otherwise deadpan expression. You’d forgotten how that could make you feel like you’d won the jackpot.

“I’m sorry, I know you’re going to take this the wrong way,” you prefaced while walking backwards on the sidewalk, “but I have a really hard time imagining you as a storm chaser.”

“Excuse me!”

“I mean…” You stopped and full-body gestured. “I mean, look at you!”

“What?”

“Even your slacks are pressed!”

“Objection, why are you studying my slacks like a degenerate?”

“Don’t make it weird,” you replied, and fell into step beside him, if only to keep him from seeing that you were embarrassed by the implication that you might’ve been checking him out. “All I meant to say was—”

“That I don’t look like a rugged adrenaline junkie? Maybe ‘Rodeo Clown’ is more your thing these days.”

“Don’t—Tyler’s actually quite decent, you know.”

“But you knew exactly who I was talking about.” Scott snapped his fingers as if to say, Gotcha! as you ruefully shook your head. Something about Tyler Owens tended to evoke a Neanderthal-like competitiveness in certain men—Scott, being competitive by nature, fell for it all too easily.

“This is me.” You pointed at your building. It was a relatively new construction with climbing greenery and pop-out balconies where you’d lived for a year-and-a-half after a not inconsiderable raise, and the reason why you worked sixty hours a week.

“Can I come up?” Scott asked.

You whipped your head so hard that your temples throbbed. “That’s…” A no good, awful, terrible, ill-conceived, perilous idea?

Scott seemed to find your distress highly entertaining. “Jesus, would you relax?” he said. “I’m not asking to tuck you in—unless, if there’s someone—”

“There isn’t,” you hurried to say.

“Oh? How come?”

The knowledge that the man with whom you were formerly engaged was inquiring as to the current state of your love life with all the breeziness of do you have the time? was enough to make you believe in karmic punishment. “Like I said, I’m busy,” you managed to eke out, which only made him lift his shoulders as if to say, Then, what’s the big deal?

Scott Miller was good at that, getting his way.

“Fine,” you caved. “But only for ten minutes! Fifteen, tops!”

“Scout’s honor.”

In the elevator car you stuck your hands in your pockets, searching for your keys only to find the cold hard metal of your engagement ring. You looked guiltily at the oblivious Scott, who was staring at the floor display with a contented expression and was none the wiser about your having worn it earlier in the night like some kind of weirdo. Should you give it back? At the time he’d wanted nothing to do with it, but was keeping it the proper thing? Was it good for you to even have it?

At last you found your keys at the bottom of your purse. You opened the door, trying to remember how well you’d tidied after dinner as he walked in, inspecting everything. You watched as his gaze traveled over the open-plan kitchen and living area—the work files, magazines, and old mail stacked on various side tables; the midcentury beechwood couch you got for a steal at a secondhand warehouse when you first moved; the shelves, filled with books and framed photographs and trinkets you’d brought from home; and the view from your window, which wasn’t nearly as spectacular as the one from Perch, but it faced west, and if you were home during golden hour you could see the other buildings lit orange and gold.

“Yeah, this is exactly how I pictured it,” Scott mentioned at last.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know, it’s just… you,” he answered. Your stomach turned to knots. He made you feel seen like nobody else could, not least of which because you’d let him back when you were younger and less guarded. Your heart kicked wildly in your chest, urging you to go to him, go to him, explain everything, get him back, because he was the one. Then Scott looked away, pointing at a sad fern that sat on a pedestal next to your mounted TV. “You still can’t keep a plant alive worth shit.”

“Rude,” you fired back, grasping at levity in order to shove the other thoughts away.

Scott drifted back to your bookshelves, seeing a few paperbacks he must’ve recognized from your old room at Park Haven. “And yet you keep trying. Do you actually use any of these?” he inquired, motioning towards the half-dozen board games you kept piled on an open top shelf. There was Clue and Monopoly, Candy Land, Sorry!, Scrabble and Life.

“Sometimes,” you replied, “when I have friends over. Which hasn’t happened much this year, if I’m being honest.”

“Let’s play.”

You laughed. You didn’t believe him. He pulled one of the boxes out and took it to the coffee table and all you could do was stare, incredulous, as he took his jacket off and rolled up his sleeves, actually sitting on the floor and looking expectantly at you to join him.

“You want to play Life with me?” you challenged. “Doesn’t that seem a little…”

“And you call me uptight.” He waved you over, determined not to take no for an answer. “Come on, hotshot, live a little.”

Despite your better judgment, and after a moment’s panicked hesitation, you lowered yourself next to him. He still smelled the same, like rain and sandalwood and pine. You wanted to curl into his side and feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath your ear, like you’d done on the nights he spent hidden away with you in your room. You had never gotten to live together; all you had were countable memories of waking up next to him and thinking, One day… one day we’ll have this every day.

As he set up the board, all you could do was stare at his hands.

SIX YEARS AGO NEW ORLEANS

Marshall Riggs greeted with you a double-kiss at the door, one on each side of your cheeks. Then he held you at arm’s length so he could look you up and down. “Would you take a look at that,” he said to Scott, “pretty as a picture! I suppose this is the part where I welcome you to the family?”

It was midsummer in Louisiana, on the hotter side of balmy and with the cicadas out in force. Shortly before you graduated Scott traveled to Philadelphia and asked you to marry him. Saying yes had been a no-brainer. You were in love, had put up with four years of distance and near-breakups, and now here was the culmination of all your compromise, communication, and hard work. For a second there you’d thought it would end badly; you were both in highly-intensive undergrad programs, there was only so much you could hash out over phone and video calls, and you were young. The question of “do we really want to make a life-changing decision at twenty-one?” had crossed your mind. But upon further reflection you realized that the answer was yes—had always been yes. And Scott seemed to agree.

In the absence of his father, “meeting the family” entailed paying court to his Uncle Riggs, a man you had spoken to a few times, at holiday parties and summer outings hosted by Pam, now settled in New Orleans and much happier than you’d known her before. But all those other times, you’d met Riggs as Scott’s girlfriend. Now you were his fiancée, with a fancy law degree and a diamond ring and everything, and while you would’ve preferred keeping your distance you knew this was important to Scott—that Riggs was important to him.

So you put on a smile and indulged the old man. Do it for Scott, you said to yourself. You’ve come this far. No point faltering while you were at the winning stretch.

You bowed your head. “Thank you for having us, Mr. Riggs.”

“Please, just Riggs,” he laughed. “Or Marshall—but only my ex-wives call me that.”

You soon found he had a way of twinkling his eyes that made you feel like you were sharing a joke. As he pointed out the features of his home—the old tapestries, the mural commissioned by Candice, his second ex-wife, the wall he knocked down because he wanted to “open up the space”, and his plans to expand the front garden, which, as it was, made the house look like it was in the middle of a tropical rainforest—he regaled you with stories about the people he knew, going off on tangents and bringing it back to the topic at hand. He was genteel and witty, and though he carried himself with Southern indifference there was no doubt he had power: he cocked his head, and a woman in an apron appeared with a tray of mint juleps; Scott held onto his every word; and when you were led into a dining room that might’ve fit forty or fifty at least, it was taken as a matter of course.

He pulled out your chair and sat you at his right hand because it was “the place of honor,” and Scott smiled encouragingly. You were doing so well.

You only wished that you could feel it.

“So, you want to be a big-deal attorney,” Riggs announced, digging into a perfect roast chicken. “What kind? Criminal?”

“Oh, no,” you replied. “Civil all the way. I’ve got a few offers but I want to shop around, make sure I’m making the right first move.”

“The right first move!” He pointed his knife at you. “I like that. By any chance, are you a chessplayer, sweetheart?”

“Can’t say that I am. My family are more into board games, really. Colonel Mustard in the library with the candlestick?” you explained.

He got a kick out of that. But he was partial to chess. “Opening moves—if you look at the big picture, they don't seem all that important. But well, in that case, why the hell’re there so many of ’em? Napoleon Opening, Greco Defense, Bled Variation, Balogh Defense… Sometimes how a thing starts dictates how the rest of it’ll unfold, from midgame all the way down to the end. If you're gonna do something, might as well do it right the first time or so I always say. Don’t I, boy?” He turned to Scott for confirmation.

“Yes, sir.”

“Yessir…” Riggs chuckled, spearing a roasted sprout. The ends of his bolo tie shifted on his neck. A turquoise the size of an acorn sat between his collar, and he was dressed to the nines—for your benefit, the guest of honor’s.

Nevertheless, there was something of the austere in his eyes. You couldn’t shake it when he put down his fork and sat back, looking from you to Scott, nodding like a king about to give his blessing to a pair of kneeling courtiers. “Pretty as a picture…” he repeated. “Look at you both—young, on the cusp, and none too hard on the eyes, if I do say so myself. A real golden couple on our hands! To opening moves”—he raised his glass—“may we always know when to make the right one.”

You raised your glass to be polite.

Scott leaned across the table. “Before you ask, yes, he is always like this.”

His uncle laughed, clapped him on the shoulder, and called for “champagne! To my nephew and his beautiful bride!”

As the night wore on, you convinced yourself that any discomfort was all in your head. You worked your way through three dinner courses, all impeccably cooked, and by the time the doberge was served you decided that you had judged the man too harshly. Sure, he was old-fashioned, but he was also jovial, polite, and he clearly doted on Scott.

“How nice it is to spend some quality time,” he remarked when Scott left the table, saying Pamela was on the phone. She wanted to know what plans you had for the rest of the week, whether you were still on for the garden fête on the 25th, and what dates you were considering for your engagement party, whether that would be here or in Pennsylvania, but I really do think you’d better do it here.

“I’ll just be a few minutes,” he said to Riggs, leaving you alone with his uncle. Now he had focused all of his attention on you, the full glare of his eye-twinkle and magnetic allure. He wasn’t a handsome man; it wasn’t about his looks—which were well past their prime—but about the knowledge that he could get almost everything he wanted simply by wanting it.

“It’s a shame we never did this sooner,” he went on. “Why do you think that is?” You shifted guiltily. The truth was, Riggs had always made you a bit uneasy. He had a reputation as a difficult man—ruthless, exacting, guileful, hard to please, and he liked doing business in the gray, always legal but never quite on the up-and-up.

Over the last four years, you may have avoided him on the grounds of self-righteous principle, but you couldn't admit to that if you were trying to leave a good impression.

You hedged, “I’m afraid law school doesn't leave much time to spare.”

“Very true… Not that I would know—it was always too much book learning for me, I’m a man of action,” Riggs explained, sipping his whiskey and looking happy as a clam. He had polished off two slices of cake earlier, but only because we’re celebrating. “Now, my nephew… he’s a bit o’ both, isn’t he? Either way, he’s got too much of his mother in ’im.”

You frowned, wanting to say a word in defense of Pamela. Riggs waved you off. “Don’t mind me, I’m just a silly old man with too many opinions. It tends to rub people up the wrong way—don't think I haven't noticed!” Another laugh, another narrowing of the eyes that could have been humor but which you felt like a lightning strike down your back.

He knows and you’re making something out of nothing struggled for dominance within your head, and still he kept on talking, forcing you to pay attention and leave the question unresolved.

He pointed in the direction where Scott had gone. “That nephew of mine—I don’t have any children of my own, did you know that? It never happened for me. Four wives and nothing to show for it—imagine that! But that boy… good thing his father never knew what to do with ’im—smart as a whip he is, and like a dog with a bone once he’s got an idea in his head. That part I’d say he got from me,” he said with a chuckle, wagging his finger in the air. He gave your hand a few avuncular pats and then kept it there, meaty and warm.

“I can see that you love ’im… I can see that you really love ’im. What bright, young, sensible girl wouldn't? You should see him ’round the office! He breaks hearts left, right, and center wherever he goes—a real catch, my secretary always says, and she’s been with me since Scott was yea-high. He’s got his mother’s looks, which I’ll say not to sound too self-serving, heh!” A slight tug on your wrist. You kept your objections to yourself, saying, He’s just a strange old man. As your discomfort grew, stretched to its very limits, he removed his hand and was back to being an innocuous grandfatherly man again. He seemed a little sad, wistful, even. Almost frail.

“I don’t know what I would do without him,” said Riggs, staring at his empty plate. “I really don't. Oh, here! before I forget—I have something for you.” He reached into the inner pocket of his cream suit jacket, extracting a long envelope which he slid across the table with a paternal expression, his gaze warm. You began to object, and, “Go on, now!” he insisted. “I don't hold with false modesty! Nothin’ but a waste o’ time in my book. Open it! Call it a graduation present to help you get started. Scott said your old man was taking some time off from his job, feeling under the weather.”

You opened the flap to find a check with more zeros on it than you could’ve reasonably imagined, payable to your name and typewritten in official font.

“Mr. Riggs, this is…” Your hands shook, you felt too hot in the enclosed dining room. Where was Scott? What was taking him so long? You slid the check in the envelope and tried to push it back to Riggs’s side of the table. “There is no way I can accept this,” you said. “It’s too much money, and while I appreciate the gesture—”

“Nonsense! It’s my pleasure and I won’t hear no can’ts or won’ts about it! I want you to know how well Scott’s been doing here since he finished school. He’s flourishing, all my business associates love him. I can’t possibly make do without him now.”

“I don’t understand,” you said, a pit growing in your stomach.

Once more Riggs pinned you with that twinkle in his eye. “I think you do, a smart girl like you. A man should sow his wild oats while he's young. I had a pretty young wife when I was his age. Marjorie, her name was. My first. It's true what they say—you never forget your first… By God, she was beautiful! and we had all these plans… so many plans! Dreams, really. But mine were always just a little too big for her, you understand, and at first that didn't matter much—we were in love. But then… the kids never came, and Marjorie had too much time on her hands—at the very least, she had more time on her hands than I did, that’s for sure! That gets to a woman sometimes.

“I know you won't have that problem, big city lawyer and all,” he said to you, as if in you he had the fullest confidence and he was speaking about other, less distinguished women. “But really, even if Marjorie’d been an ambassador to the United Nations she’d still have had a compunction about something or other… Ambition’s a hard pill for most folks to swallow.

“Now, you seem like a nice girl… really, I like you plenty! But let’s talk facts here for a minute. You are not the girl for Scott—not when he’s trying to become the man that he’s trying to become. The boy’s got the instincts of a killer. Really! All I’ve gotta do is stand back and look at him! But you, my dear, you’re nothin’ like him. You’ll never be. For most of my life, I thought the perfect woman would be someone to ‘balance me out,’ as they say. It’s taken me almost fifty years to find out that ain’t nothin’ but bullshit made up by Hallmark or whoever to sell us some cards. There ain't no use fighting one’s true nature. You and Scott are doomed to fail—if not now then in five years, if not in five then in another ten! You’ve seen the cracks, haven't you? He’s not the boy you met in Park Haven. He’s becoming his own man. He doesn’t need you anymore.”

You were almost too stunned to speak. Between the casual misogyny, the callous worldview, and the envelope that lay between you on the table like a coiled snake, you felt like you had left reality—there was no way this conversation could be taking place with Scott just in the other room.

“Let me get this straight,” you began, willing your voice not to shake, “you’re offering me money to break up with Scott because you think I’m not good enough for him?”

“No, no, no!” Riggs drew in close to you and took both of your hands, his face earnest and pained. “You’re getting this all wrong. I’m not some mustache-twirling villain trying to thwart the course of true love! You’re a wonderful girl, I’m sure Scott’s been very happy with you. But everything has its season. The time for moons and Junes and Ferris wheels is over. You can leave him to me now.”

“With all due respect, you’re out of your mind!” You slid your chair back, making an angry scrape along the tile. Riggs closed his grip around your hands.

“Sittdown before you wreck the boy’s life.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Did Scott ever tell you about his old man? How he squandered the family fortunes and left him and Pamela all but bankrupt? Now, me, I’d have done the decent thing—put a pistol to my head for all my sins—but the man has his pride, though I don’t know where-all he gets it from. You see Pam now, up in her French colonial sunning her face and drinking cocktails like the belle of the ball?” He pointed to his chest. “I did that. Scott’s shiny new diploma from M-I-T? Right again! Now, I don't believe in somethin’ for nothing. Everything in this here world has its cost, sweetheart. Everything. I have invested in that boy—not just money, but my blood, sweat, and tears! I won’t abide a loss. I won’t abide it.”

“Scott isn’t an investment,” you shot back. “He isn't yours to own.”

“And yet it would seem he’s worth more to me than he is to you. If he marries you, he and Pam won’t see another cent from me even if I have to drive past them through the gutter. I’m telling you I would throw my own sister out on the street for him—my own flesh! Can you say the same? Could Scott? Would he choose you over his poor, silly mother? Now, I highly doubt that.”

The crazy thing was, he seemed genuinely aggrieved by this predicament of his own making. In his face you could see him imagining the scene—him in his black town car, driving past Pam. And yet he remained immovable. Either you gave up Scott or he would make good on his threat.

It was callous, immoral. I have invested in that boy.

The sound of Scott’s shoes came up the hallway. Riggs folded the check into your hands and said, “Don't make a scene. Think about it.”

“What did I miss?” Scott stopped to kiss the top of your head before resuming his seat. You felt nauseous, your hands clammy around the paper you hid in your lap. To you, Scott seemed like he belonged in another world, another time—a Before-Time.

As you tried not to cry, Riggs smiled at him broadly and said, “Oh, nothing much. But I have a little present for you.”

He pulled a box from the bottom of his seat, crimson leather and beautifully stitched. Scott lifted the lid. Inside was a silver Patek Philippe, the watch he would wear when you saw him six years later, sitting across from you at a conference table with a strange coldness in his eyes. He showed it to you, beaming with pride, and while you couldn't remember what canned response you gave, you did recall that he pulled Riggs into a hug, and said, “Uncle, you really shouldn’t have…”

PRESENT DAY OKLAHOMA CITY

For nearly an hour you and Scott sat on the floor of your living room, playing at marriage and midlife crises and how many babies you would have, which on any other occasion would have made you hysterically laugh or, as Javi said on the night you met, remark upon the universe’s odd sense of humor.

But you were strangely levelheaded. If anything, you felt slightly out-of-body and yet entirely in your body, if that made sense.

You were aware of every piece put on the board. You watched the spinner turn in a rainbow of colors, the clack of the spokes sounding faster and faster before it slowed and then drew to a stop. You felt the couch cushions at your back. Scott’s shoulder brushed against yours sometimes, when he reached for one of the tiny bright pegs that went on top of the tiny bright cars. It felt like you were inside of a dream, and because dreams didn’t matter and had no consequences unless you let them, you started to ease into surrealism.

You played the game, and gradually your body began to relax. This was familiar to you—Scott taking it way too seriously, you poking fun at the furrow between his brows, the way you alternated between cold-hard strategy and chaotically negligent gameplay just to see a reaction flicker across his face. He stretched his legs out beneath the table, threw an arm across the seat-edge of the couch; sometimes, you would recline further back and your neck would touch his arm. You did it a few times, feeling embarrassed at first. But when you saw he didn’t mind, you let your head fall back, waiting as he picked a card.

Something was building beneath your skin. You felt restless, and a little reckless. Despite the law you laid down at the restaurant, you couldn’t stop your gaze from lingering. It lingered everywhere: on the hollow of his throat, the shape of his nose, the play of light across his cheeks, his mouth, the spaces where his white shirt gapped between the buttons and you could see his bare chest underneath. Oh, you’re in trouble… you said to yourself, and yet it didn’t matter. You didn’t care. This was a liminal space, a void where you could be honest and unafraid of the truth.

Even when Scott caught you looking, all he did was look back. He let the tips of his fingers touch yours when sliding a card from your hands, knocked his knee against yours. There was a time—or maybe you imagined it—when you felt his hand stroke your shoulder and you almost did something out-of-line. Because there was a line, blurred, but it existed; you kept within the bounds because you knew it was the sole condition to prolonging this state, so you bought owner’s insurance and traded in stocks, changed careers, had twins, repaid a loan (with interest) and made your slow and steady way to retirement at Countryside Acres.

At the end of the game, after all the remaining play money had been counted, it was Scott who said, “Looks like I win,” and all you said was, “Why am I not surprised?”

Then you glanced at the clock. “It’s late.”

“And we haven’t killed each other. How’s that for a détente?” Scott began putting all the parts away, pulling the pegs out of the cars first, sticking each one inside its appropriate little plastic bag. You would’ve thrown them straight in the box and not had a care in the world about it, but you liked that he did.

It was a Scott thing—patient, methodical, kind of annoying, and mostly well-intentioned. You sat back and watched him do it.

“Wow… they teach words like that at MIT?”

“They tried it out with our class—apparently, word was going ’round that STEM nerds lack empathy.”

You smiled. “Now where would they go and get an idea like that?” His eyes flicked down to yours. Having finished, he went back to reclining against the couch, one arm draped over his bent knee.

His gaze on your skin felt like a physical touch, and when it stopped at your lips, a shock of heat went through your body, from the crown of your head down to your toes. You watched him swallow. The urge to kiss him was vicious, urgent and unrelenting, and when you saw his mouth part, his tongue emerging to wet his lips, you thought, Now now now, but then Scott stood so fast he almost upset the table.

“I should go,” he managed to say, his voice ragged. He sought sightlessly for his discarded jacket, found it lying over the top of the couch, and he couldn’t escape fast enough. Frustration rolled off him in waves.

“Scott!” You scrambled to your feet. You might have touched the very edge of his sleeve, but he held up his hand to stop you coming any closer.

“This was a mistake.”

You went stock still. The spell was broken—this was no longer the dreamworld where nothing mattered, this was the Real World. The one where everything had been broken, not least of which because of you, and it was all a mistake. Calling him had been a mistake, meeting him had been a mistake, thinking that you could control anything you felt about him had been a mistake.

And now there was this: Scott raking his hands through his hair, turning in the middle of the room, almost a decade’s worth of anger and disappointment and confusion and, why not, maybe a little hatred thrown into the mix.

“You never trusted me!” he threw in your face. “And I mean never—even when we were in high school, especially not in college—”

“Why are you talking about college?” you demanded, your voice rising to meet his.

“Every time I called, it was like you were expecting me to tell you it was over. Every girl I so much as spoke to when you came to visit—”

“I was eighteen! What the fuck do you want me to say? That I was insecure and kind of an idiot? Yeah, no shit! I thought we’d moved past that!”

“No, we didn’t move past it because it never changed! Maybe it stopped being about other women, but then it was about work, about the time I spent shadowing at my uncle’s company. Do you have any idea how exhausting it was to keep having to convince you that I was all in? And what, somehow we went from that to ‘you’ve changed, Scott, I don’t think I like who you are anymore, Scott’—?”

“What the fuck? I never said that!”

“The night we had dinner at my uncle’s—the night you left! And again in the elevator—”

“Can we not do this?” you plead. “I thought we weren’t going to do this. We agreed!”

“Well, maybe I'm changing the terms.”

“Then this ends right here.”

There was silence. You knew it was coming, and yet it still hurt like a freight train hitting you square in the chest when he looked you in the eyes and said: “What else is new?”

You flinched. You felt your whole body recoil, your eyes sting. Your fault. The one who couldn’t stand up for herself, couldn't commit, who ran at the first sign of trouble. You and Scott are doomed to fail. Riggs had laid down his vision for the future and you had believed him, had chosen to believe him more than you had ever believed in Scott, or in yourself.

You’re not the girl for him. You’re nothing like him.

Hadn’t you always told yourself the same in the darkest recess of your mind? Hadn’t you, in truth, been just a little bit relieved when you packed your things and moved back to Park Haven, play-acting ended, no more trying, no more waiting for the other shoe to drop?

“I’m sorry.” Scott took an immediate step towards you. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.”

“Yes, you did,” you shot back with more vitriol than you intended.

“Don’t do that—don’t pretend to know how I fucking feel.”

“You forget, Scott. I know you.”

“I thought the whole point was that you didn't! That I was so… unrecognizable!”

“Well, you are!” you exclaimed, shouting again. “Suing Javi? Trying to take down his company? Being Riggs’s, what, fucking loyal dog—”

“Oh, spare me the hysterics…”

“Did you say it?” you cut in. “Did you really say you didn’t care about that town full of people?”

Scott froze. You watched his jaw clench, and you knew in that moment that he'd been counting on Javi’s discretion on that score.

If your intention had been to preserve any goodwill between them, that was all going up in flames now. Hell, after tonight, you and Scott might be incapable of being in the same room together, let alone working towards a peaceful resolution to a civil suit.

“You weren’t there,” he ground out. “There were other things going on.”

“Did you say it, Scott?” It was obvious that he had. The shame kept him from saying another word when you finally stepped around the coffee table. “But God forbid I say a word against Marshall Riggs, the undoubted patron saint of Tornado Alley. I'm sure his real estate empire only exists so he can share his considerable wealth with the downtrodden and needy!”

“What do you want me to fucking say? Do you want me to apologize for who my family is? I'm sorry if you find my uncle objectionable, but he is the only reason I ever made something of myself—you ever consider that? I’d be nothing without him—nothing! You think my father could have lifted a finger? Riggs is the only reason Mom and I made it through that summer. I owe him everything! So he makes business decisions you don't agree with—”

You scoffed.

“—but Javi knew exactly where all that money came from. He wasn't duped, I didn’t trick him… he made a choice. He made a choice! And then, what, Kate Carter comes along and he grows a fucking conscience? Give me a break…”

“And where the hell is yours! You think I give a shit what Marshall Riggs does? I care about you, you fucking idiot! Are you really going to stand there and tell me you’re happy? That it… that it feels good to know you’re suing your best friend, that you seemingly have no other friends, that you’ve hitched yourself to your uncle and the most you can say is you’re doing it out of obligation? You used to want more for yourself, Scott!”

He laughed at that. Rubbing his hand across his mouth, he regarded you with a derisive humor.

“Tell me, how’s the trust fund going? Your dad—he was always a pretty shrewd investor, right? and your mom’s family… they’ve got those boutique hotels along the eastern seaboard, the ones that get their pictures in the magazines and all over social media? It’s pretty easy to talk about wanting more for yourself when your father didn’t sink your family prospects on a deck of cards. I do what I have to do. Not that you’d ever understand.”

Money—had it been this big of an issue the whole time? Had you ignored it all the years of your relationship? Money… and jealousy of your father, Scott’s resentment towards his. You felt so blind, so stupid. The “cracks” Riggs had referenced had been there all along, and instead of talking about them you had stuck your head in the sand, worried that if you said the wrong thing all your insecurities would be proven right. That Scott would leave.

Scott… Did you ever stop to consider the damage that leaving him alone with Riggs might cause?

“You only think you can’t make it without him,” you dared to say. “But he doesn’t care about you.”

“What, not like you do?”

“No,” you affirmed. “Not like I do.”

Scott frowned at you. He appeared almost childlike, vulnerable. A boy calling “no fair!”, probably with Riggs’s voice in the background saying, Life isn't fair. “You don't get to do that. You don’t get to do that after all this time… you—you fucking left!”

“He offered me money. Did he ever tell you that? How he tried to buy me off to leave you? You talk about my trust fund, and it’s true—I grew up lucky, but we never had Marshall Riggs Money. There’s rich and then there’s capital-R Rich, the kind you only get when you’ve turned being a ruthless son-of-a-bitch into an art form.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Yes, you do. I can see it in your eyes—you know I’m telling the truth. I never liked him. What's more, he could tell I didn't like him, and he couldn't have that… no, not Riggs. He’d gotten used to you being his right-hand man and he wasn’t about to lose you. So he waited until you left the table—”

“I’m not going to listen to this.”

“—he waited until you left the table,” you repeated, almost toe to toe. You forced yourself to continue, even in the face of Scott’s patent distress. You couldn't live like this, not anymore. Keeping secrets, taking the biggest share of the blame. “‘If he marries you, he and his mother won’t see another cent from me even if I have to drive past them through the gutter,’” you recited. “Those were his words. I’m not lying to you—I wouldn't, not about this.

“He was never going to let us be together. Obviously, I didn’t take the money, but he was dead serious about his threat. And I was angry. I thought if only you’d stood up to your uncle before, if you weren’t blind to what he really was, I would never have been put in that position. So I took it out on you. I blamed you. And I said things…”

You faltered, remembering the night you returned to the hotel. You couldn’t stay, not with Riggs’s check in your pocket and the memory of his hand gripping your wrist. But Scott didn’t understand. He didn't know what had made you so upset, why you were throwing your clothes into your suitcase and talking about flights and returning his ring and about how it was time you stopped pretending. And, yes, you took to heart what Riggs had implied about other women. You weren’t picky. You weren’t careful. You just had to leave.

You were ashamed of it now. The knowledge of how you’d acted lodged in your throat like a stone you couldn’t swallow down. Scott remembered it, too. His eyes flickered this way and that, recalling, wondering how much of it was true.

“I said things to you that I wish I’d never… that I still think about, and I still regret, because I love—” Your voice broke. You placed your hands over his chest, then cradled his face, willing him to believe you, willing yourself to be brave. “I still love you, Scott. I love you. I should’ve told you the truth, but I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“No… you left,” he said weakly, bracing his hands around your wrists.

“I know I did… I know, but he can’t have you.” You kissed his mouth, once, twice, as many times as he allowed, and all the while you said the things you should’ve said that night in New Orleans. “I won’t let him have you… not this time… not again.”

Scott turned his head and the heat of his tongue met yours.

One second he was all coiled tension and the next he was all over you, walking you back towards the couch, kissing a trail down your neck, one hand tangled in your hair while the other was already up your skirt matching his strokes to the curl of his tongue. He laid you down on the couch, settling between your thighs, and even clothed the weight of him felt familiar—the pass of his hand up and down your leg, the way he liked to tease you by wandering just close enough to where you wanted before pulling away, distracting you with a searing kiss or a shallow roll of his hips.

In the past, there were times when he would draw it out for hours, taking you to the brink and back until you were sure you wanted to curse him.

At a friend’s New York wedding, he made you come three times before he entered you, and you weren’t too proud—now, with the real Scott on top of you, all over you, soon to be in you if there was any justice in the world—to admit that you had replayed that night in your head sometimes when you were lonely. When a bad day at work or an ill-advised night of drinking too much ended with you trying to chase sleep on the heels of an orgasm that was never as satisfying as the ones you got with Scott.

Even when you managed to make yourself come—really come, that full-bodied electricity-followed-by-deep-silence feeling—you had been all too aware of his absence. What was the point, you had wondered, if you couldn’t curl up next to him or listen to the steady flow of his breathing or hear him sigh into your neck when he wrapped his arms around you and went to sleep? What was the point if, upon waking, you wouldn't have Scott and his early-morning voice, the clarity of his eyes, the smell of the coffee he made in his stupidly expensive espresso machines? (God, you missed that coffee.)

It was Scott… it was only ever Scott.

The couch was a perilous place to be doing any of this. You weren't sure that he fit in it, for one, and for another, you were mildly worried about the potential costs of fixing a broken midcentury piece of furniture. Oh, well, you thought, life’s too short. Not bothering to undress, you pushed aside articles of clothing, hands bumping into each other, scraps of fabric pushed aside, belt buckle rattling as it landed on the floor, until finally he surged into you, gripping the side of the couch and burying a curse against your neck as you stretched around him.

He slid a hand below your hips and fixed the angle. The sex was hurried, messy and it had nothing of grace; it was imperfect and rather cramped, really, but all that mattered was how he felt. He felt like home. As you came, he entwined his fingers around yours, and then he finished, trembling, prolonging a wave of pleasure that took your breath away.

Don’t go, you want to say into his heaving chest.

Somehow, he turned you on your side so you could stretch along the couch. He wrapped his arms around you, stroking feather-light touched along your arm as his breathing slowed. You felt tired, hollowed out, but not in a bad way. In a quiet-before-the-storm way, when you can smell water in the air and the breeze picks up, and the world sits on the cusp of being new.

“I miss you,” he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I miss you too.”

After that, there was a silence so long it made you think he’d dozed off, but then he spoke again, painfully honest and a little scared. “I don't think I can do what you need me to do. I’m not… that’s not who I am anymore.”

“I think you are,” you said back. “I think he’s who you’ve always been.”

THREE WEEKS LATER

You were enjoying a rare weekend off from work. Figuring you could do with some real time off the clock, you’d let the office know you’d be holding all work calls and emails until Monday. Abby’s eyes had nearly popped out of her skull in a rare show of feeling, but after the emotional turmoil of the last few months, you knew you needed to walk around the city, have a massage, touch some grass, maybe eat a pint of ice cream in front of a frothy period drama—a true-blue staycation.

The morning after you and Scott slept together, you’d agreed that it was in everyone’s best interest to let things be. He needed time to think about a few things, and regardless of your shared history, you were still Javi’s lawyer. You distracted yourself by doubling down on other cases. It helped that dealing with Mrs. Richardson-Burkhardt and the four Barone siblings was as eventful as watching an HBO television series—between the scathing one-liners and last-minute twists, there was little bandwidth left over to think about Scott.

And yet you always managed.

For better or for worse, Scott had always been good at making you hope for things. Even when you wanted to err on the side of caution, expect the worst and thus avoid disappointment, just the fact that he loved you made you feel like anything was possible, like you could make things happen.

“We brought out the best in each other. That mattered to us more than anything your father and I ever did wrong.”

At a department store downtown, you watched across the way as a young couple studied a tray of rings at the jewelry counter, diamonds sparkling in the light. The woman grabbed her partner’s arm and pointed at one of the selections as if to say, “That one!”, and for a moment they were in perfect sync. The salesman offered up the band with elaborate flourish, the groom-to-be took his bride’s hand, slipped the ring on her finger, and they admired it together, the play of white gold on her black skin.

The woman beamed. So did he.

“Looks like we have ourselves a winner,” the pleased salesman declared.

After lunch and an overpriced iced coffee, you arrived home with a gift for the Travises’ golden anniversary party, a pair of gold-accented crystal champagne glasses you hoped would survive the flight. It would be nice to see your mom again, to reunite with your old college friends, and revisit old haunts.

The thought of going home no longer filled you with dread—for which, even if nothing came out of your night with Scott, if he decided that upending his life was too much for him to handle right now, you would always be grateful. For years, your idea of a worst nightmare was running into him and having the truth spoken aloud, plainly, and for both of you to hear. Nothing will ever be as bad as this, you told yourself.

But it was a half-lie. Not seeing him again would be worse.

Already, you felt his absence like a hollow in your chest.

On the kitchen counter, you saw that your phone began to ring. “Javi, how’s the weather looking?” you asked, putting him on speaker as you poured yourself some water.

 “She’s a fickle mistress, I’ll tell you that! Hey, I just wanted to let you know… Scott called this morning. He says he’s dropping the suit.”

“Oh?”

“You don’t sound too surprised. Any of that you're doing?”

“No,” you replied, picking up your phone, “that’s all Scott. I haven’t spoken to him in weeks, actually.”

“Well, he sounded different. Still Scott, but a shorter stick up his ass, if you know what I mean. Anyway, I know a part of how everything went down was my fault—business is business, as my Ma always says. I sold him my share of StormPAR, which means I also have to pay back some of the money we took from Riggs. That’ll hurt like a—well, you know… I’m not the guy’s biggest fan these days. But if I don’t have to hear the name Marshall Riggs ever again, I’ll count myself lucky and say it’s a price well-paid.”

“And Scott?” you ventured to say.

“Honestly, I think he’s done with the whole thing. Sounds like he’s closing up shop, which makes sense. He’s a damn good engineer but kind of hopeless as a chaser.”

You laughed. “Yeah, I guess I can see that. Are you okay?”

“Me, or me and Scott?”

“Both.”

To Javi’s credit, he took a few moments to actually think about it. “Yeah, I’m good. You know me… I never stay down for long. Man with a thousand plans. Me and Scott? Man, I don’t know about that one… I did leave him by the side of the road. Ruined one of his immaculately pressed shirts.”

You snorted. “God forbid.”

“Yeah, God forbid. Listen, if it were up to me, I’d just let bygones be bygones. Life’s too short, you know. Shit happens… I don’t want to be a guy who burns bridges over money.”

“Yeah, I get that.”

“What I mean to say,” Javi spoke over a sudden burst of wind, “is that if Scott ever wants to give me a call, I’ll answer. You can even tell him I said that.”

“Me?” You set your glass down with a clatter, heat rising to your face.

“Yeah, you! I’m not an idiot, hotshot, that history’s not gone ancient yet.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Mhm… Anyway, the wind’s picking up. Kate’s off reading her dandelions.”

“You know, I kinda wish I could see her doing that…”

“Watch out, we might make a chaser of you yet!” Javi crowed.

You shook your head, said, “I wouldn't hold my breath,” but you were smiling. The sun streamed through your open windows and anything was possible.

Once Javi ended the call, you stared at your phone, wondering… And then you decided to be reckless one more time. Call it a calculated risk, you thought instead. You held the phone up to your ear and listened to it ring. The dial tone sounded a few times, and then it stopped.

He’d answered.

“Scott, it’s me,” you said, trying to relax the thrumming in your heart.

There was a pause and then you heard his voice: “Did Javi tell you?”

“Yeah, we just got off the phone.”

“Open your door.”

You made a face, glancing at the screen and holding it against your ear again. “What?”

“Open your door, UPenn!”

You dashed to the entryway, patting your hair, blotting your face, wondering if your shirt was wrinkled. When you pulled the door open, you saw Scott in full view, in the middle of the day. Not wearing white. The blue of his shirt brought out his eyes, which looked tired but less burdened, too.

He seemed lighter, if not happy then trying to get there.

“Thought I’d skip out on being a sore loser this time.” He gave a half-shrug.

“I don’t know, Miller… from here it doesn't seem like you're losing.”

He smiled at the floor, almost shy. And when he looked into your face you saw the boy you fell in love with at Nichols Academy, the one who took baseball too seriously, who loved Hemingway and your mom’s apple crisp, the one who sang bad Sinatra and got into fights and thought James Watt was something of a god. It was like the worst of the last few years had gone away, leaving only space for something new to grow, to be built—together.

“All I want is you,” promised Scott, taking you into his arms.

You stuck your hand in your pocket, extracted the ring you’d kept there for almost a month like a talisman, like a good-luck charm, and held it up to Scott. He stared at it, and then at you, with something like shock.

Something like awe and wonder.

“Don’t you know? You've always had me.”

And in that hallway, Scott Miller, a man who’d never cop to having a romantic bone in his body, spun you around and kissed you and wouldn’t have cared if your neighbor at Apartment 424 had noticed or if one of his investors appeared. Maybe there was something to Tyler’s corny catchphrase, after all: If you feel it, chase it—no matter the odds, no matter the obstacles in your path, because feeling it was purpose and inspiration and direction when you lost your way.

It took you a while, but you understood it now.

[jaderabbitt]

Echoes of You

Bucky x Deceased(?)Wife!Reader

Bucky’s been hearing a voice for a long time. It began as the Soldat, and lingers even now. You’re his Angel—the voice in his head that he sometimes hallucinates into the form of a woman. Remnants of Hydra seizing his brain for so long—consequences of repeated head trauma, he assumes. He’s never told anyone about you, and he intended to keep it that way.

Word Count: 3.6k

Warnings: Descriptions of Violence, Mild Descriptions of Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied Thoughts of Suicide, Mentions of Death, jaderabbitt's esoteric writing style, not beta-read so if you find spelling mistakes, i WILL game-end myself Tags: Angst, Angst with Fluff, Did I Mention Angst, Canon Divergence, Reader Insert, Unreliable Narrator, References to Mythology, Angst with Happy Ending (?), Author will not spoil story in Tags, Author cannot remember the 8 pages she wrote in 9 hours, gomen.

Note: Reader is given an EXTREMELY loose description involving longer hair at some point, but it is VERY relevant to the story. You will need to read to see why!

—

“Enemy. Eight o’clock, Soldat.”

Immediately, his head swung, and his pistol was shoved in the crevice of a metal bicep, firing before the agent had even realized that he was spotted. The body dropped, a gaping hole left in between the eyes.

He released the breath he hadn’t realized he held to begin with. It was as if he had been the one shot, suddenly finding it difficult to breathe. The world felt all-consuming.

He knew that voice. It hadn’t come through the device in his ear.

He didn’t know exactly how he knew the woman’s voice, nor why he heard her. Every time she spoke, it was as if she were talking directly into his ear, no matter the noise level around him.

Her voice had been the only constant in his fleeting moments of clarity. 

His Ангел. His Angel.

He began to call the voice that when she would warn him during missions. It was as if she acted as a sixth sense, being able to see things even his heightened perceptions couldn’t. She wasn’t always there—her presence faded in and out without notice. But, she was always there when he needed her.

When they put him in that gods forsaken chair to rewire his brain, it was her voice that kept him stable. When they put him inside the Iron Maiden of a cryochamber, it was her voice that kept him warm. When he sat in the dark corner of the empty concrete cell, it was her voice that kept him company.

He figured that all of Hydra’s torture created a tear in his psyche, manifesting in the voice of a woman he’d heard in passing. It would make sense, given that the human mind craves the comfort of others. Hydra didn’t exactly allow him relations besides his handlers, so his mind had to create someone to fulfill the space beyond pain and emptiness.

He kept his Angel a secret. Something that wholly belonged to him, the only part of himself that he could have control over. He would never allow them to take you.

“You are showing abnormal readings in brain functioning, Soldat. Status report.”

The grating voice of his handler was made even worse by the static in the communications channel. It succeeded in bringing him out of his trance, carefully observing the carnage around him.

“Mission complete. Targets eliminated. No witnesses.”

He stepped over the disemboweled body of an agent, retrieving his knife; he wiped the remaining viscera and gore from the blade on the deceased agent’s suit. It didn’t take long for him to receive word of his extraction point and means.

Back into the gaping maw of the Lernaean Serpent he headed, unable to resist its call.

He trekked through miles of uneven terrain, as Hydra was nothing but thorough when it came to ensuring their involvement within the world’s dealings stayed hidden. His extraction points were always far enough away from the target’s area of engagement to ensure that he could lose any tails he might encounter. It was an arduous process, one that he would despise if he could bring himself to feel such wealth of emotion. They had taken that from him too.

“They can never take your heart, my Soldier.”

No. They couldn’t. Not while he had you.

– – –

The first time his mind had conjured up a vision of you, he nearly punched a hole into the concrete of his holding cell. He had felt a presence within the dark room suddenly, and when he turned his head, there was the visage of a woman. Her features were too hazy to make out in the dark of the room, or perhaps his mind couldn’t remember a woman’s face to place onto the hallucination. Either way, the lifelike projection of a faceless woman should have been disturbing–even to someone who had seen under the epidermis of a human face before. Oddly, he couldn’t bring himself to think of you as such. 

No, the feeling he got when he looked at you was one he could no longer name. It had been forgotten under the force of an electric current.

“Not forgotten. Stolen.”

Your saccharine voice still sounded as loud as ever within his head, despite the distance between his physical body and your imaginary one. Oh, how he yearned to close that distance, to hold you within his arms–his coveted Angel, who he selfishly stole from the gods’ grasp to ease his troubled mind here, on Earth. He found his arm, the one made from Gaia’s own metals, outstretching towards you without thinking. His palm splayed out, he watched with bated breath as you mimicked his own movement. He knew that he would never have been able to feel you to begin with, but he allowed himself a simple indulgence in believing that it was due to the lack of nerve endings, and not because you were never here to begin with.

“I’m always with you, my Soldier.”

For once, he allowed himself to believe that.

– – –

He was incapable of dreaming while under the freeze of stasis. He simply went under, and woke up whenever they decided to thaw him. Sometimes, cryo-freeze was the only respite he got–and he was thankful for not being needed. And yet, he still fought his handlers to prevent the chill of the iron coffin. Being unable to dream and made forcibly unconscious meant that he was unable to hear the gentle lilt of your voice, unable to watch as your form took shape. His heart would ache, as if it were missing the synchronicity of yours marching along with it.

It was a fool’s hope to wish for every freeze to be his last–whether that meant he never went under again, or his heart finally left this mortal coil and froze over for good, he couldn’t decide. So, when he woke with a start to the remains of biting frost against his skin, he felt rage bubbling hot in his veins.

“Have a nice nap, Sleeping Beauty?” You giggled. Your form danced along the peripherals of his still hazy vision, taking spot where there was a gap between white coats. They were checking his vitals, making sure he would be combat ready for the mission they no doubt awoke him for.

He’d roll his eyes if he had full function of his muscles.

You huffed a laugh at that, reaching out a hand to caress his cheek. Of course, he couldn’t feel it–but he let himself believe it was because his skin was still defrosting.

“I missed you.”

He missed you, too. He always did. Even when you were present in his mind, or a vision being projected by his psyche, he missed you. He couldn’t explain it. How could he miss a part of himself? He didn’t dwell on the logistics too long. If he thought about you too hard, his head began to hurt, like it was protecting itself.

The pinpricks of melting ice gave way to freeze-burns, ones that were already beginning to heal from his forced genetic mutation. His left arm had been gently defrosted, as to not disrupt any of the machinery within. They held the Fist of Hydra to a higher regard than the rest of his body, apparently. You snorted at that thought. It was such a beautifully normal sound amongst the noise of beeping monitors and the scrambling of doctors, scientists, and engineers. He involuntarily let a half-smirk rise on his face, to the horror of the poor doctor checking his vitals. The medical professional couldn’t imagine what would make The Asset happy other than the thought of the impending carnage he would soon wreak upon unknowing targets. It was better he thought that, anyway. He’d get put in the chair for showing a sliver of unconditioned programming otherwise. 

He blinked the remaining frost from his eyelashes, looking back over at your dizzying presence. Your hair floated about you as if you were underwater, but your skin was still the same pitch black and featureless void that it had been the first time he let his mind give you physical form. It was confusing; he had seen plenty of women since you first began appearing before him, and yet his mind never allowed any of their features to replace your lack thereof. It just didn’t seem right, he supposed.

He must’ve really been under for a long time if it was taking his psyche this long to will you away and fall back in line with his programming. Even as he was being transported to the roads of Long Island, New York, you had continued to hover over him.

You had stood at the car wreckage with a curious turn of your head as he let the motorcycle fall upon its kickstand. It was only when the man in the driver’s seat stumbled out of the remains that you reacted to the sight in front of you.

“No…” You gasped, but the Soldier crept on towards his target.

“Sergeant Barnes..?” Croaked the dying man, and you watched along with bated breath, waiting for some kind of reaction. The only one you’d get would be the Soldier’s fist colliding with flesh and bone. The cries of a woman mourning her husband were cut off by a thick hand around her throat, effectively compressing her airway closed. The Soldier didn’t even look at the woman he was finishing off. No, his eyes were trained on you.

His face remained stoic as white streaks glistened down the black of your cheeks. This was his way of compartmentalizing, he supposed. You wept for the man who could not. 

When he turned after shooting out the camera, you had disappeared. 

– – –

The next time he heard your voice, it was in Romania. He had been here for quite some time, trying to piece together who he was, exactly. The quiet, traditionalist country was perfect for someone who preferred to stay hidden. He spoke the language fluently, resembled the people, and kept to himself. The locals didn’t ask questions, simply trusted he wouldn’t cause trouble. He couldn’t help but be wary–it was drilled into his head, near literally. He had started to grow paranoid at the peaceful life he was being allowed, as if it too would be stolen from him at any moment.

The lively morning market of Bucharest had settled his nerves somewhat; it was a familiar place with familiar faces. He settled for the fresh fruit stall, instantly gravitating towards the plums. His gloved metal hand palmed the assortment of velvety fruit, feeling the weight of them as a test. If they didn’t push against his thumb’s pressure and he was able to feel the weight upon the metal, he knew they were too early. He asked the stall manager, for good measure, about their ripeness, finally selecting a few for his apartment.

It felt normal. He felt normal.

“You know, I heard these were good for memory.”

He almost gave himself whiplash when he saw you standing across the street. His feet almost moved before his brain processed the oncoming traffic.

It wasn’t just that this was the first time he heard your voice in his head in years. No, it was that he was seeing you.

Your hair, set in the way you always favored. Your eyes, shining in the light of the morning sun. Your nose, set above your cupid’s bow as if it were carved from marble. And oh, your lips, how he yearned to pull you close and press them against his own. The distance was so unbearable, he almost intentionally walked into the oncoming cars. If it meant he would reach you before this hallucination ended, it would be worth it in his mind.

Your gaze faltered, and as you looked upon him with such sadness, he could have sworn he heard his heart shattering against the sidewalk.

“It isn’t safe anymore, James. I’m sorry.”

He wanted to scream in reply, ask what you meant–why you were sorry.

You were gone at the next pass of a bus.

He would come to figure out what you meant pretty quickly. You always did warn him of impending danger, like his own personal oracle. Or maybe it was his instincts reminding himself–he wasn’t paranoid without reason to be. He had already been shaken by seeing his dead wife from 75 years prior, but to see his supposed-to-be-dead-too best friend standing in his apartment had really raised his heart rate. He knew what followed, what always followed. He was never going to be free–not until he was dead.

At least in death, he would see you again. He may get cast down to the deepest circles of Hell–specially reserved–but he could still hope to be reunited with you once more.

– – –

Living at the Compound had felt like another prison–just fancier and with nicer amenities. A condition to his pardon; along with many other things, like atonement by way of taking down Hydra cells across the globe. Having finally been deprogramed, his activation words no longer functioning as his shackles to the serpentine organization, the government saw fit to use his training for their own gain. The fight never stops. Cut off one head, two more shall take its place. Receive a pardon, get ball and chained to a different corruption.

At least he didn’t have to do it all alone.

Of course, several other Avengers were given their own conditions after the amendments to the Accords. He had become unlikely friends with Wanda, both having trauma bonded with each other. Bucky saw her as a little sister, despite her being a grown ass woman. In fairness, he was over a century old; almost everyone seemed too young to him.

The highlight of his extended imprisonment-vacation was remembering you, however. He was slowly but surely recovering his memories, and he probed Steve now and again to confirm what he was remembering. Bucky never let him outright say what he remembered, wanting to recall it all on his own. You were his wife, not Steve’s best-friend’s wife. Being acquainted with Wanda also helped in this department. She would help him through still-locked memories; sometimes, they needed someone else to unblock the dam in order for the flood to start.

He would have called himself mentally on-the-way-to well, if it weren’t for one detail–he still hallucinated you. He refused to tell his therapist, or any of the other Avengers for that matter. It would simply get him labelled as clinically insane, and a clinically insane Winter Soldier was possibly the greatest threat to America, besides the next alien or robot invasion. He hadn’t even told Steve, fearing that even he might think less of him for it.

He supposed it was okay to keep this one thing to himself. He was allowed to be selfish for once in his life.

Bucky wasn’t even sure you would accept the man he’d become, if you were alive. He didn’t think he could take that pain. Maybe this was how his mind coped with that. Created a version of you who still loved him–no matter if he wasn’t the same man he was when you married him. He didn’t think he could ever be him again, despite how much everyone else wanted him to be.

So, he watched you, with a freshly poured mug of coffee in his hands and a small grin on his face, as you shifted between the clothing styles of the decades he missed. You hummed a tune from the movie he had watched last night, the soft notes sounding as if you were directly next to his ear. While the kitchen area was currently empty, if anyone walked in, he could just say he was reminiscing.

“How did anyone get anything done in these?” You laughed, the tight bell-bottom jeans clinging to your skin, with a tight halter top to match. “I know we didn’t wear pants much in the 40’s, but I think I might suffocate!”

Bucky let out a chuckle, scanning the room for anybody else flesh and blood. When he found none, he answered lowly.

“Can’t exactly suffocate when you don’t breathe, doll.”

“It’s about principle, Buck! You know what I mean,” you pouted, opting to shift into the silk slip dress that he remembers very much, cerca 75 years prior.

He hissed, turning his eyes away from you. You, of course, being ever so the manifestation of the woman he remembers, instantly placed yourself back in his gaze. You had that sly smirk on your face that always meant you were up to no good, but he’d be damned if he got himself aroused with a vivid hallucination of his dead wife. Saved by the bell he was, as the ring of the elevator chimed to notify that someone was stopping on this floor. He let out a small huff, knowing he’d have to will himself to act like you weren’t there.

Wanda and Vision stepped out into the kitchen area, spotting Bucky standing behind the island. Vision had been working on travelling like a normal human recently, opting to only phase through things in cases of emergency.

“Hello Bucky-”

“Good morning, Sergeant Barnes.”

They both greeted, but Wanda had cut herself off in confusion. Bucky tilted his head, but returned the greetings.

“Bucky, who’s that?”

Bucky’s heart sank all the way down to Atlantis, and the coffee he had been drinking threatened to burn back up his esophagus. He followed the direction that Wanda’s finger pointed– She could see you.

She was seeing you.

“Wanda, I do believe that would be the Sergeant’s wife. She was labelled as deceased after–”

“Yes, Vision, I know who she looks like, so who is that?”

“I’m afraid I do not know.”

Bucky was damn near hyperventilating at this point. They could see you. Someone, or something, invaded his mind and pretended to be his wife. Or, could they see ghosts? Was his dead wife haunting him? They could see youohmygodtheycouldseeyou–

“James,” you hissed, “quiet your thoughts! I can’t focus when you’re panicking!”

…What?

Your hands immediately cradled your head, looking as if you had gotten slapped across the face with the worst migraine of your life. Wanda’s hands had sparked to life, thrumming with scarlet energy. A scream tore through your throat, ringing in Bucky’s psyche. He had clapped his hands over his ears, shutting his eyes, and feeling for the first time ever like the sound was an intrusion–like your voice didn’t belong only within his mind. He grit his teeth together to prevent his own yells from joining the chorus.

Your image flickered like someone was slashing through shadows with a ray of light–flashing between the you he knew and the form null of your distinct features.

There was a distinct crack! that reverberated in his ears.

He was almost scared to open his eyes, believing the sound to be the snap of bone that he was all too familiar with.

When he did gather the courage, he no longer recognized his whereabouts. They had been transported to a dark and dreary place, multiple large wires hanging overhead. The room was mostly unlit, a singular source of violet light extended their sight enough to at least see where they were standing. Wanda looked all over immediately, before her own panic set in. “Vis?!”

“He’s fine. So are you both. You aren’t physically here. He’s currently watching over your bodies.”

Bucky’s head immediately turned, because hearing your voice come out from not inside his head was not pleasant for him right now. And quite frankly, he was freaking the fuck out. There you stood, once again returned to the featureless form he remembered as the Soldier. Only, this time, your hair was much longer, and sat still. While you didn’t have eyes, your head tilted up to look at something behind him. Wanda’s mouth hung open as she, too, followed your gaze.

Behind him, as he found out, was where the only source of light stood tall in the room. It looked like a large tube, violet light streaming in from LEDs sitting at the bottom, pointing up. The structure was filled with some kind of liquid–too viscous to be water, but too thin to be unmoving.

Within that liquid lay something that would become engraved into their minds.

It was you.

There was your physical body, suspended in animation. It wasn’t the you that Bucky married; rather, it was the you that first appeared within his mind’s eye. Your hair floated wildly around your featureless face, and your noir skin reflected the purple of the ultraviolet lights. It was as if your body had gotten cemented into a singular position, your head tilted back and your back arched as if you had been struck and permanently falling.

Bucky couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away, wanting desperately to use the weapon they had attached to his body to shatter the glass in front of him. He finally looked back over to the you stood next to him, and you could see the pain written so plainly on his face. It broke your heart to watch the synapses of his neurons fire on all cylinders, to see the realization seize his body.

“Oh, don’t look at me so, my love. I’m not in any pain,” you reassured, though you were sure that had only answered a singular question he was itching to ask.

Wanda suddenly felt very uncomfortable being a bystander to all of this, but knew she was integral to this projection.

“How long?” Were the words that finally croaked out of his mouth.

You grimaced, knowing that this was the question that would devastate him the most.

“For as long as you had been the Winter Soldier.”

- - -

Teehee. That's all, folks! (for now.) (I've already begun part 2) Like, reblog, and comment! I'd really love to hear what you guys think, as this is the first time I'm uploading a longer type of fic. ;w;

For those waiting on Incidents, that will get worked on in tandem to this! Echoes will most likely only end up being a two parter, with maybe some drabbles of in-universe situations if people are interested. My asks are also open~

[reasonsforhope]

Scientists have developed a new solar-powered system to convert saltwater into fresh drinking water which they say could help reduce dangerous the risk of waterborne diseases like cholera.

Via tests in rural communities, they showed that the process is more than 20% cheaper than traditional methods and can be deployed in rural locations around the globe.

Building on existing processes that convert saline groundwater to freshwater, the researchers from King’s College London, in collaboration with MIT and the Helmholtz Institute for Renewable Energy Systems, created a new system that produced consistent levels of water using solar power, and reported it in a paper published recently in Nature Water.

It works through a process called electrodialysis which separates the salt using a set of specialized membranes that channel salt ions into a stream of brine, leaving the water fresh and drinkable. By flexibly adjusting the voltage and the rate at which salt water flowed through the system, the researchers developed a system that adjusts to variable sunshine while not compromising on the amount of fresh drinking water produced.

Using data first gathered in the village of Chelleru near Hyderabad in India, and then recreating these conditions of the village in New Mexico, the team successfully converted up to 10 cubic meters, or several bathtubs worth of fresh drinking water. This was enough for 3,000 people a day with the process continuing to run regardless of variable solar power caused by cloud coverage and rain.

[Note: Not sure what metric they're using to calculate daily water needs here. Presumably this is drinking water only.]

Dr. Wei He from the Department of Engineering at King’s College London believes the new technology could bring massive benefits to rural communities, not only increasing the supply of drinking water but also bringing health benefits.

“By offering a cheap, eco-friendly alternative that can be operated off the grid, our technology enables communities to tap into alternative water sources (such as deep aquifers or saline water) to address water scarcity and contamination in traditional water supplies,” said He.

“This technology can expand water sources available to communities beyond traditional ones and by providing water from uncontaminated saline sources, may help combat water scarcity or unexpected emergencies when conventional water supplies are disrupted, for example like the recent cholera outbreaks in Zambia.”

In the global rural population, 1.6 billion people face water scarcity, many of whom are reliant on stressed reserves of groundwater lying beneath the Earth’s surface.

However, worldwide 56% of groundwater is saline and unsuitable for consumption. This issue is particularly prevalent in India, where 60% of the land harbors undrinkable saline water. Consequently, there is a pressing need for efficient desalination methods to create fresh drinking water cheaply, and at scale.

Traditional desalination technology has relied either on costly batteries in off-grid systems or a grid system to supply the energy necessary to remove salt from the water. In developing countries’ rural areas, however, grid infrastructure can be unreliable and is largely reliant on fossil fuels...

“By removing the need for a grid system entirely and cutting reliance on battery tech by 92%, our system can provide reliable access to safe drinking water, entirely emission-free, onsite, and at a discount of roughly 22% to the people who need it compared to traditional methods,” He said.

The system also has the potential to be used outside of developing areas, particularly in agriculture where climate change is leading to unstable reserves of fresh water for irrigation.

The team plans to scale up the availability of the technology across India through collaboration with local partners. Beyond this, a team from MIT also plans to create a start-up to commercialize and fund the technology.

“While the US and UK have more stable, diversified grids than most countries, they still rely on fossil fuels. By removing fossil fuels from the equation for energy-hungry sectors like agriculture, we can help accelerate the transition to Net Zero,” He said.

-via Good News Network, April 2, 2024

[kaiist]

-.- .- .. .. … -

𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑 : 𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐒

⋇ Status ⋯ Docking Complete ⋇ Location ⋯ 𝐊𝐀𝐈𝐈𝐒𝐓 Orbital Station ⋇ Access Level ⋯ Authorized ⋇ Launch Code ⋯ 280325

𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄, 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐑. ∹ You’ve successfully docked at 𝐊𝐀𝐈𝐈𝐒𝐓, a terminal floating amidst the cosmic expanse. Whether you’re here for classified mission reports, encrypted transmissions, or to send a request through the interstellar network, all data logs are available below ⋯ navigate wisely—adventure awaits.

𝐌𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍

⋇ Designation ⋯ Captain Kaisa-19 ⋇ Rank ⋯ Chief Archivist & Storyteller ⋇ Mission ⋯ Documenting celestial encounters and stellar romances across the cosmos. ⋇ Terminal Note ⋯ All transmissions are encrypted and monitored by the central AI, and I’ll later review it in my command quarters. For further inquiries, send a request through the Incoming Transmissions channel.

𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐒𝐘𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐌

✛ 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑 𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐒 ⋯ Mission Reports & Archived Transmissions [ All Writings ]

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[heesngirl]

Synopsis : In a city where luxury and danger coexist behind shiny facades, The Sentinel introduces Lee Heeseung, a tactical agent whose life revolves around vigilance, precision and a single priority: protecting the person most important to him. The story kicks off in the midst of a mission that, while seemingly routine, soon reveals itself to be part of something bigger, more tangled and much more personal. Between covert threats, tensions within the team, miscalculations and a briefcase that could change everything, Heeseung faces not only operational risks, but also his own emotional limits. With a narrative that oscillates between suspense, action and a deep bond that is unnamed but felt on every scene, this story marks the beginning of something far more complex than a simple operation: a silent war between the professional and the personal.

Warning : EA/BDG Heeseung x Painter reader. dom! Heeseung, pet names, loss of virginity, oral sex (both), fingering, P in V, unprotected sex, cumshot, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, smut, mdni.

Count : 26k (Part. 1)

The icy wind was a constant on the rooftop, cutting like blades as it engulfed the men in their positions. From that vantage point, Seoul stretched out like a mosaic of moving lights, a potentially hostile terrain under the team's meticulous gaze. Heeseung remained motionless, his body in controlled tension as he scanned the target building through the scope of his sniper rifle.

The communicator frequency remained static for a second before Jake broke the silence.

— System operating stable. CCTV cameras are under control. But, if you ask me, the guy in the orange tie is still my prime suspect, if only for the visual attack. — Sim spoke, even wanting to add some humor to lighten the tension.

— Focus your resources, Jake — Heeseung replied in a low but firm voice. He turned his body slightly, adjusting his rifle to compensate for a wind current that had changed direction. The scope's laser remained fixed on one of the building's upper-level windows. — Prioritize the VIP area where Jongseong is. The threat is more likely concentrated there.

A few meters away, Sunghoon leaned against the edge of the building, his rifle mounted on a tripod for stability.

— Maybe we should start with him. Although the crime here is probably bad taste. — Sunghoon added, following the Australian's lead.

However, Heeseung didn't take his eyes off the scope.

— Sunghoon, focus. South window, level five. Do you see any movement? — Lee's demands made it clear he wasn't in the mood for jokes right now.

Sunghoon adjusted his scope, scanning the indicated area with precision.

_ Negative. Only the service team. Movement patterns match previous reports. No anomalies.

Jake chimed in again, the sound of his fingers typing almost as steady as his voice.

— Section B, levels three and four, checked. No signs of hostile activity. By the way, Chief, how do you feel knowing your lady is under the protection of a rookie?

Heeseung's silence lasted a moment, but it was long enough for Sunghoon to click his tongue softly.

— Come on, Jake. Don't push him. We know he hates delegating his personal security. It's like someone else is carrying his favorite weapon.

Jake chuckled before continuing.

— Favorite weapon? I'd say it's his entire arsenal. Although, Heeseung, I'm told the new bodyguard looks better than you in a suit. I'd start to worry. You could be out of a job.

The sound of Heeseung's lips tightening was almost audible over the line. He adjusted his position, recalibrating the rifle to ensure the wind wouldn't affect the shot's trajectory if necessary.

— Jake, if you keep talking, you'll be my next target.

The communicator filled with muffled laughter until Jongseong's voice cut in earnestly.

— Shut up and keep the channel clear. I'm surrounded by people who would pay to make me disappear, and their chatter isn't helping my concentration.

— Situation report, Jongseong. — Heeseung ordered, returning to his authoritative tone.

— Everything seems calm. Standard behavior pattern. Although there are a couple of guests with unusually calculated movements. They're in the northwest corner of the main hall. However, it could be paranoia. — Jongseong replied, a faint echo of tension in his voice.

— Paranoia is useful. Mark their location and maintain visual distance. — Heeseung indicated, activating his targeting laser and focusing it on the room. The intersection between what he saw in his visor and Jake's heat map gave him complete coverage of the area.

Jake cleared his throat, capturing everyone's attention before speaking.

— I'm setting up a facial recognition scan. Give me a minute.

— You don't have a minute, Heeseung replied with a snarl. He quickly scanned the horizon, looking for any sign of an approaching drone or hostile equipment. — Speed, Jake.

—I've got it, I've got it — Jake began rattling off information. — Man one: Japanese businessman, no suspicious record. Man two: Chinese businessman, history of money laundering, but nothing linking him to terrorist activity.

— Monitor them closely, Heeseung ordered.

Sunghoon raised his head slightly at Lee, his tone heavy with skepticism.

— Are we sure this mission isn't a waste of time?

Heeseung glared at him before answering.

— It's on these "quiet" missions that things tend to go to hell. Stay alert.

The channel returned to silence, except for the soft whirring of electronic equipment and the echo of the wind against the buildings. Heeseung couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. His training had taught that calm was never a good omen.

— Jake, any anomalies in the thermal readings? — he finally asked.

— Negative. Everything is within normal parameters. — Jake replied. His tone, though relaxed, had a slight tremor.

— Something's off... — Heeseung muttered to himself, but his team heard it anyway.

Sunghoon adjusted his posture, straightening slightly.

— Do you have a bad feeling?

— I always do. — Heeseung inhaled deeply, his fingers brushing the rifle's trigger out of sheer habit. It wasn't paranoia, not after so many years in the field. Things were never that simple.

The clock in his mind kept ticking every second. It wasn't just the time spent on the mission. It was the time that kept him away from you.

— Get ready. This isn't going to stay quiet much longer.

The sound of the wind against the building's facade was barely audible through the insulation of the headphones. However, for Heeseung, every detail in the environment was like a silent warning: something was out of place. From his position on the rooftop, the view of the city stretched out like a tapestry of flashing lights, but his attention was fixed on a critical point, a space between the shadows where the pieces on the board began to move.

Jake's voice broke into the channel with an urgency that left no room for doubt:

— Chief, we have activity on the 15th floor. A subject has entered the service area. He's carrying something bulky it looks like a briefcase, but it doesn't fit the standard profile. Metallic material visible around the edges.

Heeseung adjusted the scope of his rifle, the thermal imager highlighting the suspect's silhouette through the building's tinted glass.

— How bulky? It details the movement."

Jake responded instantly, his fingers tapping the keyboard in an almost mechanical rhythm as he processed the data from the monitoring system.

— About 70 centimeters per side, maybe more. He's using both hands to carry it, though the movement is fluid. It doesn't seem heavy, but it's not light either. He entered through corridor 15-B, access restricted according to the plans."

— Behavior pattern? — Heeseung asked, memorizing the coordinates.

— Direct. No hesitation. This guy knows exactly where he's going, — Jake said, his tone now deeper. — He has backup: two subjects in the approach area. They're about 10 meters behind, covering possible entry points.

Before Heeseung could issue an order, Jongseong's voice entered the channel. His tone had an unusual edge of tension.

— I need backup. The two suspects I identified in the VIP area are moving. They're approaching my location. They're not patrolling, boss, they're looking for something... or someone.

The air grew heavier, charged with a palpable threat that vibrated in the frequency of their voices. Heeseung took a deep breath, letting the cold logic of years of training drown out any emotional distractions.

— Jake, continue monitoring the primary target. Sunghoon, maintain cover in the corridor. We can't let these guys act unchallenged. I'm going in. — Heeseung declared, as he began securing the descent harness.

Sunghoon looked up from his visor, though he kept a firm hand on the sniper rifle.

— Just you? — he asked, though he already knew the answer.

— Your position is critical. If anything gets out of hand, I need you to eliminate any threat before it crosses the line.

Sunghoon nodded, returning his attention to the telescopic sight. His tone was calm, but with a hint of concern.

— Understood. Just make sure you don't give them a clear angle

The rappelling gear was cold to the touch as Heeseung adjusted it with meticulous movements. Every buckle, every knot had to be perfect; there was no room for error. Jake, meanwhile, continued feeding the channel with data.

— The target has entered a room not recorded on the official plans. Access is direct from the main corridor. He's manipulating something on the door... Probably an electromagnetic decoder. This guy is no amateur.

— Estimated time to opening? — Heeseung asked, as he secured the rope to the main anchor.

— Depends on the model, but if it's what I think, less than two minutes."

Heeseung cursed under his breath. Time was a resource they didn't have. He glanced at Sunghoon one last time before crossing the edge of the rooftop.

— Cover the area. If anything moves toward the target, neutralize it.

The descent began with a firm tug on the rope. Every meter he fell brought him closer to the heart of the problem, and every second counted like a heartbeat in a countdown he couldn't afford to miss. From above, Sunghoon followed his movements, his rifle adjusted to keep his sights on any emerging threat.

— Jake, give me an update. — Heeseung asked, as he maneuvered to avoid the ventos. The most exposed ends.

— Two side entrances are blocked. The other two suspects are covering the apartment's main exits. Chief, I don't like how this is setting up. It looks like a coordinated move."

— It is," Heeseung replied, his voice as cold as his gaze. He knew an ambush when he saw one.

Finally, his boots made contact with the windowsill. With swift movements, he cut the rope and secured his weapon. The apartment's interior was dark, lit only by the occasional flicker of emergency lights.

— I'm in. Jake, lead the way.

The hum of the electromagnetic decoder echoed around the room like a silent countdown. Heeseung stood by the entrance, his back pressed against the wall, his gaze fixed on the dim lighting that filtered through the crack in the door. His right hand adjusted his grip on the rifle while his left brushed against the knife secured to his thigh. He still didn't know exactly how many enemies were inside, but he knew he couldn't wait any longer.

— Jake, tell me what's behind that door. — he whispered in a subdued voice, his tone tense but still in control.

The sound of incessant typing filled the earpiece before the answer came quickly.

— Two confirmed hostiles. One is manipulating the decoder, the other is covering the door with a weapon. You have about fifteen seconds before it opens.

Heeseung exhaled through his nose, trying to gauge the time with his own breath. He couldn't allow the lock to give way.

— Escape routes?

— The only viable exit is the hallway leading to the service area. But if these guys are here, it's because they have backup on the perimeter. — Sim explained, still typing tirelessly.

Heeseung didn't need any more information. In a single motion, he unclipped a stun grenade from his belt, activated it with a quick twist of the safety catch, and threw it through the crack in the door just as the decoder emitted a final beep.

The blinding flash lit up the room like a flash of lightning, accompanied by a sharp crack that reverberated off the walls. The muffled screams of the enemy confirmed that the blow had worked. He wasted no time. With a firm kick, he knocked down the door and entered, his rifle braced against his shoulder, his eyes already adjusting to the dim lighting.

One of the enemy members staggered, both hands going to his face in an instinctive attempt to regain vision, while the other, still shaken by the blast, tried to raise his weapon. Heeseung didn't give him a chance. He fired a single, accurate shot at the torso, watching the body fall heavily to the floor with nothing more than a ragged gasp.

The second man tried to react upon hearing the shot, but Heeseung moved faster. He crossed the distance in a couple of strides, grabbed him by the jacket, and slammed him violently against the wall, pinning him down with his forearm pressing against his windpipe.

— What's in the briefcase?" he whispered coldly, watching the man struggle in his grasp, his expression tinged with confusion and rage.

The enemy let out a stifled gasp, trying to catch his breath, but instead of responding, he let out a hoarse laugh, an exhalation laced with mockery.

— It's too late."

The radio in his ear emitted a sudden crack before Jake's voice cut in alarmingly.

— Heeseung, we have a problem! I've lost the corridor's signal for seventeen seconds, and now there's a third hostile moving toward the VIP area. It's fast. This is a coordinated movement.

Heeseung's grip tightened for a moment before he released his hold on the enemy, dropping him unceremoniously to the floor. He spun around and hurried out into the hallway, his mind already processing the best way to intercept the threat before it reached Jongseong.

The warm lights of the room, the clinking of glasses, and the cadence of carefree conversation seemed too perfect a setting for the latent tension in the air. Jongseong stood by the table, his expression calm and his posture relaxed, but his gaze was fixed on the two men slowly closing the distance between them.

His hand turned the glass between his fingers with a nonchalant air, as if he didn't sense the presence of the two strangers strategically positioning themselves around him. But he felt it. He knew it.

— I don't like the way they're moving. — he whispered casually, his tone low enough for his communicator to pick up the words without alerting those around him.

— Stay where you are. I'm on my way. — Heeseung's reply came instantly, firm but restrained. Jongseong didn't react; there was no need to.

One of the men finally reached him and raised his glass with a calculated smile, as if it were a simple courtesy.

— Mr. Park, it's good to see you enjoying the evening. —The way he articulated each word left no room for doubt. This wasn't casual conversation.

Jongseong maintained his neutral expression, bringing the glass to his lips before responding with feigned calm.

— I put too much effort into my attire not to. — he murmured lightly, without taking his eyes off the liquid in his glass.

The man inclined his head slightly, his smile barely perceptible.

— Confidence is a dangerous weapon. Sometimes, one small slip of the tongue is enough to make everything fall apart. — the same man pronounced with a certain mysticism. Before Jongseong could reply, the side door of the lounge opened with a loud bang.

The murmur of the guests instantly dissipated, turning into shouts and panicked runs as soon as Heeseung's figure appeared in the doorway, his gait measured but lethal. His gaze scanned the scene with the precision of a predator analyzing its territory, identifying each threat in a matter of seconds.

The first man, still next to Jongseong, slid his hand inside his jacket in an attempt to reach his weapon. He didn't have time to react.

Heeseung crossed the distance in two strides, caught his wrist before he could draw his weapon, and, with a sharp, controlled twist, dislocated his arm with a sickening crunch. Before he could scream, he slammed it against the nearest table, knocking over glasses and plates in a shower of broken glass.

The second man barely managed to take a step back before Jongseong slightly tilted his wrist and spilled the contents of his glass over his face. The reaction was immediate. The burning of the alcohol in his eyes made the man swear, bringing both hands to his face in a reflex action.

It was enough. Heeseung took advantage of the distraction and kicked him in the knee, knocking him face down before immobilizing him with the barrel of his gun pressed against the base of his skull.

— Don't let it show that you're desperate to end this. — Jongseong joked to Heeseung, but he only gave him an indecipherable look before simply going to inspect the area.

The chaos of the operation still permeated the air when the team finally left the building, blending in with the sound of sirens wailing in the distance and the flashing lights of patrol cars illuminating the scene with red and blue flashes. Outside, the criminals were subdued and escorted to special forces vehicles, while the guests were guided to a secure area. The security protocol was deployed with mechanical precision, each unit fulfilling its function efficiently.

Jake, arms crossed and a look of pride that was hard to hide, watched the scene with an air of self-sufficiency before blurting out with obvious satisfaction:

— Well, once again, everything was solved thanks to my impeccable skills. I don't want to say I'm the best, but... well, I really am. — This was typical of him; he was almost always heard saying the same thing at the end of a mission.

Jongseong, who until that moment had only watched silently, slowly turned his head toward him with an arched eyebrow. His expression was a mixture of disbelief and suppressed mockery.

— Your impeccable skills? — he repeated sarcastically, tilting his head in feigned interest. — You mean the part where you claimed the briefcase contained a bomb ready to blow the building to smithereens?

Jake frowned instantly, his smug smile fading a little.

— Yeah, so what? — he retorted defensively, abandoning his previous stance. Jongseong snorted and shook his head before crossing his arms.

— That what was in the briefcase wasn't a bomb — He paused deliberately, savoring the moment before shrugging. — They were containers of a yet-to-be-identified chemical.

Jake blinked, the confidence on his face turning into disbelief.

— No, that's impossible. — the Australian persistently defended himself.

— I'm not saying that. The chemical response team is. — Jongseong gave an amused smile before pointing toward the area where the hazardous materials specialists were handling the contents of the briefcase with safety equipment.

Jake opened his mouth to protest, but couldn't find the words immediately. His expression went from disbelief to frustration in a matter of seconds.

— No... It can't be. The thermal readings and electronic signatures matched those of a high-impact bomb! — Exasperation filled him; he clearly didn't like being wrong, especially when it came to something so important.

— Well, I guess someone made a mistake in their 'flawless analysis.' — Jongseong gave a short, mocking laugh before patting him on the shoulder with mock sympathy.

Jake, clearly offended, turned his head to Heeseung for support, hoping his leader would intervene and back him up. Heeseung was practically his puppet for a while.

— Heeseung, tell them this isn't making any sense. I didn't make a mistake, right? — but the answer never came. Jongseong, noticing the sudden silence, also turned his head in Heeseung's direction, only to be met with… nothing.

—Where the hell is he?—Jongseong muttered, frowning as he scanned the area for Lee.

Jake spun around, looking around with the same expression as someone who had just lost something they were holding a few seconds ago.

— Don't fuck with me… He was here two minutes ago. —Jake assures, continuing to scan the room, but to no avail.

The two exchanged a puzzled look before turning to Sunghoon, who stood with his hands in his pockets, his expression utterly indifferent to the situation.

— Sunghoon, where's Heeseung? — Jongseong called, frowning. But the sniper barely blinked before shrugging, not bothering to show surprise.

— He left as soon as we left the building. — he replied, looking as unfazed as ever.

Jake blinked a few times, clearly unsure whether to laugh or get angry. Jongseong, for his part, ran a hand over his face in exasperation before slowly shaking his head.

Sim, still processing his leader's sudden disappearance, snorted in resignation before blurting out, with a mixture of frustration and amusement : — No doubt... the agent and bodyguard of the year."

And even though it was all over, the feeling that this was just the beginning of something bigger lingered in the air.

The roar of the engine mingled with the night air as the car sped through the streets with almost inhuman precision. Heeseung kept one hand firmly on the wheel, while the other busied himself with disposing of his gear. His bulletproof vest was the first to come off, its weight falling into the backseat with a thud. Without taking his eyes off the road, he hooked his earphones with his index finger and thumb, pulling them off with a sharp motion before dropping them next to his gun on the passenger seat.

Every action was executed with the same precision he had demonstrated moments earlier in the operation. The way he undid the straps of his gear, the way his movements were quick but controlled, spoke of a man accustomed to moving under pressure. But this time it wasn't a chase; there was no enemy on his heels, no threat forcing him to run. His urgency was different, much more visceral.

The speed he was driving was dangerous for anyone without his level of driving skill, but he didn't brake, didn't hesitate even once as he took the turns with a fluidity that defied traffic laws. His gaze was fixed on the road, dark and deserted at this hour, but in his mind, his destination was already clear. He had only one priority.

The car stopped precisely in front of the illuminated building where the event was taking place. The elegant lights decorating the entrance contrasted with the darkness of the night, reflecting off the windshield like intermittent flashes that Heeseung completely ignored. His mind was no longer on the mission he had just completed, nor on the criminals being brought to justice. No, his focus was solely on what was in front of him.

Without wasting a single second, he leaned into the seat and, with practical and precise movements, began to remove the last traces of the operation. He unbuttoned his tactical shirt and slipped his operational uniform jacket over his shoulders, letting it fall into the backseat. His breathing was still controlled, though there was a different urgency in its rhythm than it had been a few minutes ago. It wasn't the stress of combat, nor the tension of a confrontation. It was the need to reclaim his place.

With steady fingers, he took the black silk tie he'd left ready before the mission, knotted it quickly, and tightened it with a sharp tug. His suit jacket was next, sliding over his shoulders with ease, fitting his body as if it had always been there. Finally, with the same meticulous efficiency, he unbuckled his belt and discarded his tactical uniform pants, leaving only the dress pants he wore underneath.

He had planned this from the beginning. No matter how chaotic the mission was or what unforeseen events arose along the way, he had been clear from the beginning that as soon as it was over, this would be his destination. Because there was no force that could make him delegate his task to someone else and feel comfortable doing so.

He wouldn't trust another to protect you. He wasn't going to leave your safety in the hands of a replacement who, in his eyes, would be nothing more than an incompetent, incapable of providing you with the care, protection, and service that only he could offer. Because protecting you was not only his duty, but his right.

He fastened his wristwatch and ran his fingers through his hair, arranging it with the same precision with which he secured a weapon before entering combat. Then, he took a deep breath, his eyes fixed on the entrance to the event. He had wasted enough time, and now, he would resume his position.

As he walked through the doors of the event, he immediately felt the change in atmosphere. Everything about the place radiated luxury and elegance. But what captured everyone's attention most wasn't the expensive outfits or the opulence of the place, but the majestic works that adorned the walls, each one with an air of grandeur that could only be attributed to its creator.

He paused for a moment, allowing himself to observe the paintings on display with a feeling that could only be described as pride. There they were, displayed in the way that best suited them, every stroke, every color reflecting the unmistakable essence of their creator. He knew how much this evening meant to you, how much you had worked for this moment, and although he didn't usually stop to appreciate art with the same intensity as the critics or collectors who murmured in fascination, in that moment, he felt something different. A deep satisfaction that led him to a slight smile.

But his time of admiration was brief. Soon, his focus shifted to what had truly brought him here. With the sharp eyes of someone trained to analyze their surroundings in a matter of seconds, he began to scan the crowd, searching among the faces, among the impeccable dresses and suits, and the golden reflections of the champagne in the glasses raised in a toast.

And then, he found you...

There you were, wrapped in the warm lighting of the hall, your cheeks flushed and an expression that, despite the slight cloudiness in your gaze, retained the same spark that always managed to ignite something inside him. You'd been drinking, there was no doubt about it. He knew well your poor resistance to alcohol, enough to know that that blush wasn't just a product of the festive atmosphere, but of the wine or champagne you'd surely been sipping for a while now.

Without hesitation, he closed the distance between himself and you, ignoring the crowd, the fleeting glances that fell on him when they recognized him, the murmur of other people's conversations that held little interest for him. His attention was fixed on one thing: you.

By the time he reached your side, his hand slid effortlessly to your waist, holding you with a certainty that left no room for hesitation. The feel of your satin dress against his palm was almost hypnotic, but he didn't allow himself to dwell on that detail. Just as confidently, he guided you away from the center of the event, leading you to a more secluded corner, away from prying eyes.

As soon as you had even the slightest shelter from the crowd, you felt the urge to pounce on him, without thinking, without hesitation. He caught you immediately, more by reflex than anything else, and the light laugh that escaped your lips as he steadied you resonated like a direct echo in his chest. His grip remained firm, feeling the warmth of your body against his, the way you leaned in without reservation, with the innocence and boldness of someone not completely sane. Something inside him contracted. Because he knew you. I knew the impeccable composure you usually maintained, the way, even in the most carefree moments, you never completely lost that aura of restraint and elegance. And yet, there you were, giving him a version of yourself you rarely allowed anyone to see.

— You took too long, — your voice sounded sweet, with that syrupy tinge that only alcohol could infuse your words. A slight pout appeared on your lips, as you looked at him with an expression that, if I weren't so used to reading your every nuance, I might have interpreted as genuine reproach. — I came to think I'd really have to spend the whole night escorted by that cheap replacement they assigned me in your absence.

The way you slid your gaze over his face, with those eyes of yours so expressive, so analytical even in the midst of your drunkenness, made his jaw tense slightly. And then you smiled. Not just any smile. A goofball, completely genuine, full of that warmth you rarely displayed with such transparency.

— Although, you know what? — you murmured, leaning a little closer to him, as if sharing a secret. — There's no comparison. You look so much better in a suit than that sad copy they tried to replace you with.

Your comment took him by surprise. Not because of the content itself, but because of the way you said it; without reservation, without any shame. For the first time all night, Heeseung felt a wave of satisfaction run through him, a warmth different from that of the mission, deeper, more personal.

Those words were a kind of relief. It wasn't that he doubted his place, or his role at your side, but Jake's mocking comment about that incompetent man they'd left in charge of your security had been on his mind more than he was willing to admit. Not because he was afraid of losing his job, but because, for the barest of moments, the idea that you might feel safer with someone else had been like a thorn in his side.

But now, with that declaration from you, spoken with complete honesty and without a hint of reserve, the thorn vanished completely. Of course, his job wasn't in jeopardy.

A crooked, barely perceptible smile touched his lips as he reached out and, with an instinctive gesture, brushed away a strand of your hair that had slipped over your cheek. His fingers brushed your skin with the lightness of a caress that wasn't entirely planned, but that he also made no attempt to avoid.

— How many drinks did you have to end up like this? — His tone was low, intimate, with a hint of amusement underlying it. As he asked the question, his thumb briefly brushed the curve of your cheekbone before casually dropping his hand.

Your eyelashes fluttered a couple of times before a satisfied, almost proud smile curved your lips.

— Five. — you said without hesitation, showing your open hand to emphasize the amount, with the confidence of someone who had just achieved a small personal triumph. Then you stared at him, waiting for his reaction. And when the laugh escaped his throat, deep and genuine, you knew you'd got it.

— Only five? — he repeated incredulously, gently shaking his head. — Not even I would feel anything with that amount.

But you weren't him. Your resistance was different, lower, something he'd always found fascinating. Because, in part, he liked seeing you like this, with your cheeks flushed, your eyes shining, and without the filters you usually wore under normal circumstances. He liked this version of you, looser, more transparent. More his.

From one second to the next, you sought more of him. Without warning, you closed the distance, tangling in his embrace with the same ease with which someone clings to something that comforts them. Your body molded to his easily, as if that were your place.

He gave in, because, fuck, how could he not? His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you against his chest a little more firmly, allowing you to feel the solidity of his presence, the warmth his body gave off. His other hand, still tangled in your hair, slowly descended to the curve of your back, guiding you with a gentleness that contrasted with how much he was enjoying having you so close.

— Princess... — his voice lowered a pitch, becoming deeper, more intimate. — Don't you think it's time to leave? Wouldn't you like to rest?

You pulled away just enough to look him in the eyes. And as soon as your pupils met his, there wasn't a second of hesitation in your answer.

— Get me out of here. I have nothing else to do in this place. All those people, the celebration... They've completely consumed me — you exhaled, with a hint of exhaustion you didn't try to hide. You paused for a moment, lightly biting your lip before continuing with the most honest confession of the evening. — The only thing I need now is to be with you. Without interruptions, without appearances to keep up.

He didn't wait any longer, nor did he need any other response. In a single movement, he swept you into his arms with insulting ease, as if you weighed absolutely nothing, as if carrying you like that was the most natural thing in the world.

And without further ado, he made his way through the crowd with firm, determined steps, ignoring any curious glances that might fall upon you. He didn't bother to notify the organizers, the staff, and much less your manager of your departure. He'd handle that detail later, when he could enjoy the shocked expression on that man's face when he realized you'd vanished without warning. For now, his only goal was to get you out of there, and nothing and no one would stand in his way.

【★】

The car glided smoothly to a stop in the parking lot, and as soon as he turned off the engine, he got out without delay. He walked around the vehicle with firm steps and opened the passenger door where you were. Without saying a word, he leaned forward slightly to unbuckle your seatbelt, his fingers briefly brushing the fabric of your dress as he released the latch with a subtle click. His expression was inscrutable, but in the way he helped you sit up, in the way his gaze briefly scanned your face, you could sense a different nuance, something that seemed to be torn between habit and a deeper need to take care of you.

The cool night air brushed your skin as you stepped out of the car, causing you to shudder slightly. You had barely taken a couple of steps outside when, with the same ease with which he held his gun on a mission, he scooped you up in his arms without warning.

— Heeseung! — you exclaimed in a strangled gasp, surprise etched in your voice as your arms instinctively clutched his neck. You looked at him in disbelief, trying to process his sudden action. — Put me down. I can walk on my own. I'm not drunk anymore. — you declared firmly, yet he didn't even slow his pace, carrying you with the same confidence with which he made every decision.

— I know, but I'm doing it because I understand that walking in heels is uncomfortable for you, — he replied calmly, without taking his eyes off the entrance. His tone was so nonchalant, so resolute, that for a moment you were speechless. — Even without you saying it, I know your feet are sore now.

And there it was again, that level of understanding that always disarmed you. You didn't need to tell him when you were tired, when you were uncomfortable, or when you needed support; he just knew. His ability to read you so accurately made a strange, warm, and deeply comforting feeling settle in your chest.

You entered the house amidst a complicit silence. Heeseung didn't stop until he reached the living room, where he placed you with extreme care on the sofa, making sure you were comfortable before separating from you. Then, with the same ease with which he handled any situation, he knelt in front of you and moved his hands to your ankles, unbuckling your heels with patient movements.

— You should take better care of yourself — he murmured in a low tone, barely a reproach. But with that note of tenderness that always seeped into his words when it came to you. — Sometimes I think you're too self-careless.

His firm but careful fingers began to massage the sore area, tracing circles with just the right amount of pressure to relieve the tension. You closed your eyes for a moment, letting out an involuntary sigh as the feeling of relief coursed through every fiber of your body. Unable to help it, you leaned slightly toward him, raising a hand to his face, caressing his cheek with a gentle touch, a silent thank you.

His eyes met yours, and in that silent exchange, there was something that transcended words.

— That's why I have you, — you whispered, your voice barely a thread in the stillness of the moment. — You're always there for me, protecting me right and left.

Heeseung held your hand in his, his warm palm covering you with unwavering certainty. He nodded slightly, his pupils reflecting absolute determination.

— I always will be. Don't doubt that I'll be there for you without fail, no matter what it is. — He whispered with conviction, his tone imbued with something deeper, something that hadn't needed to be said out loud for a long time.

The closeness between you narrowed almost instinctively. Your gazes intertwined, your breaths sharing the same space, the tension enveloping you with an almost tangible intensity. Your lips parted slightly, as if you wanted to say something, but any words were cut short when he too began to lean in, his face approaching yours slowly, deliberately. Anticipation vibrated in the air, and every passing second seemed to stretch the moment to the limit.

Then the door burst open.

— Oh! Good evening, miss and sir. I didn't know you had arrived. — Mrs. Kim, the housekeeper, exclaimed cheerfully, her voice echoing from the kitchen entrance.

The tension between you dissipated in a blink. Heeseung moved away in a measured movement, while you, with unusual swiftness, sat up straight on the sofa as if nothing had happened. You tried to compose your expression, avoiding at all costs letting your face betray the moment you had almost shared.

— Mrs. Kim, please take the young lady to her room and draw her a bath, — he ordered firmly, without a hint of nervousness in his tone. His self-control remained intact, although there was still something in his gaze that he couldn't quite hide. — And make sure her bed is ready.

The woman nodded with a pleased smile and gently took your arm, guiding you with the familiarity of someone who has played that role countless times. As you stood, you cast one last glance in her direction, meeting those dark eyes that seemed to want to say far more than his mouth allowed at that moment.

— Good night, Hee. — you said quietly, trying to keep your tone neutral, although there was a note of gentleness you couldn't avoid.

— Good night, princess. — he replied, his voice firm but laden with an undertone only you could recognize.

As soon as you disappeared upstairs, silence fell over the house. He stood motionless in the center of the living room, his gaze fixed on the spot where you had vanished. His fingers inside his pockets clenched tightly. He had to leave. It was what he always did. Make sure you were safe and disappear until the next day.

But this time, something was holding him there.

The echo of your voice still vibrated in his mind, the touch of your skin against his hands, the closeness you had almost shared minutes ago. He sighed heavily, shaking off the thought, when suddenly his phone vibrated in his pocket, breaking the stillness of the place. He pulled out the device, and when he saw the name on the screen, his expression hardened. He frowned, his jaw clenching, but he didn't answer. Instead, he swiped to silence the call and put the phone away. That wasn't relevant, not now. Not when his priority lay elsewhere. You were safe. That was all that mattered.

Without wasting any more time, he turned on his heel and left the house, returning to the agent he'd always been.

The vibration of the hallway lights fused with the muffled echo of his footsteps as he moved forward. The coldness of the marble beneath his boots reverberated through the soles, matching the measured rhythm of his breathing. Heeseung's face was impassive, his gaze fixed straight ahead as he moved toward the meeting room, the tension in his shoulders barely perceptible beneath the controlled rigidity of his posture.

He pushed the door open with calculated firmness, the subtle creak of metal cutting through the air. Jake was leaning back in one of the leather chairs, one leg crossed over the other, a lazy smile on his face. Young Mi, sitting on his lap, ran her fingers over Jake's temples with an intimacy that had no place in this setting. Jake's hand rested with brazen familiarity on her thigh.

Heeseung barely frowned before clearing his throat with a dry sound. Young Mi instantly stepped away, while Jake, visibly relaxed, gave her a carefree smile.

— Boss... — Jake tried to compose himself, sitting up slightly in his seat. His crooked smile tried to soften the situation, but the Australian knew perfectly well there was no escaping the weight of that gaze.

Heeseung moved forward to sit opposite them, resting his elbows on the back of the chair with tense calm. The way he crossed his legs and interlaced his fingers on his knee gave the impression of someone relaxed, but Jake knew the signs of an annoyed Hee better than anyone. The air in the room dropped several degrees.

— I didn't think strategy meetings had evolved to... this kind of dynamic. — Heeseung commented with a tone laced with sarcasm, his sharp gaze scanning the space between Jake and Young Mi.

— Well, we all need a little distraction now and then... — Jake let out a nervous laugh, running a hand through his hair in a gesture that betrayed his discomfort.

— Distraction. — Heeseung repeated with a barely perceptible tilt of his head. His tone was neutral, but the charge behind that word was evident.

Jake opened his mouth to try to justify something, perhaps to ease the palpable tension that was beginning to settle in the room; but Heeseung gave him a sharp look that cut off any attempt at a response.

— Where's Jongseong and Sunghoon? — His voice was low, but the authority in it was unmistakable.

— On their way. They won't be long. — Young Mi was the one who answered, with her usual characteristic calm.

Heeseung nodded, shifting his gaze to Jake just as Young Mi stood up to say goodbye. Jake, despite his relaxed facade, couldn't help but follow the woman's gaze as she left the room with calculated elegance.

Once the door closed behind her, Heeseung returned his attention to Jake. The Australian settled into his seat, smiling with a hint of nervousness that he tried to disguise under a mask of confidence.

— Well? — Jake asked in a light tone, though his posture indicated a certain rigidity.

— Since when did you become so indiscreet? — Heeseung looked at him with a calmness that only made the accusation feel more serious.

Jake let out a dry laugh, placing a hand on the back of his head.

— Are you really going to lecture me about this? Because, if memory serves, you're not exactly a model of restraint when it comes to a certain... woman.

— It's not the same. — he defended himself almost automatically, in a sharp tone, his jaw clenched.

Jake let out a low laugh, leaning forward to argue.

— Oh, no? So tell me, what would you do if you finally put aside that pathetic self-restraint and showed your lady what you really wanted from her?

Heeseung remained silent, but the dark glint in his eyes was enough to make the Australian smirk.

— Exactly... — Sim continued, leaning back in his chair with a triumphant air. — But then, you're Lee Heeseung, the perfect guardian. The guy who controls every damn aspect of his life except when it comes to her.

The twitch in Lee's jaw was imperceptible to anyone who didn't know him as well as the man in front of him.

— This isn't the time to discuss this. — Heeseung finally said, his tone cutting.

Jake let out a nasal laugh, narrowing his eyes with a calculating expression. He was ready to continue pushing Heeseung's buttons, but before he could even utter another word, the door hinges creaked again, and that's when the two missing male presences had finally arrived. The underlying tension in the air didn't go unnoticed by both men, surnamed Park, who quickly realized that something had been happening between Sim and Lee.

— So what now? — Sunghoon was the first to speak, his tone laced with that hint of skepticism that seemed to be part of his default character.

Jongseong entered behind him, his hands tucked into his jacket pockets as he swept the room with an analytical gaze. His eyes narrowed slightly as they settled on Heeseung, whose expression still retained that sharp calm only seen after a tense exchange.

— Wow... — Jongseong trailed off with a slow, calculated smile. — We've arrived at a good time, or have we missed something interesting?

Heeseung didn't answer immediately. Sunghoon raised an eyebrow, his dark eyes scanning the space with a precision that suggested he was taking in every nuance in the air.

— What happened here? — Sunghoon persisted, his tone light but with a spark of genuine curiosity behind the question.

— Nothing relevant. So let's just focus our attention on whatever Jake has to show us. — Heeseung replied, his curt tone making it clear he had no intention of spilling the beans.

Without wasting any more time, the man Lee had mentioned got going; with a couple of quick gestures, Jake displayed a grainy image on his laptop screen. The figure of an individual in a dark hallway appeared, blurry but clear enough to capture the outlines of a man carrying a briefcase.

— This was captured by one of the security cameras while the system was under the control of the hack. —Jake explained, zooming in to make the figure more visible. It was only for a few seconds, during the sudden crash my system suffered while I was guiding Heeseung through the installation.

— And who's this? — Sunghoon asked, narrowing his eyes as he analyzed the image in front of them.

To which the laptop owner smiled broadly and shot a meaningful glance at Hee, then looked back at the first questioner. He added a key gesture to those glances; pretending to adjust his tie, he made them realize who it was. Sunghoon and Heeseung exchanged glances, understanding exactly what Sim was talking about.

— See, boss? I told you, the guy, beyond his visual assault with that stupid tie, never really gave me a good feeling. And I wasn't wrong. — Jake turned to the oldest of those present.

Who looked genuinely bewildered by such a revelation. He found it hard to believe that what started out as an innocent joke had actually hit the nail on the head. Even Sunghoon, who had also joined in on the joke at the time, seemed confused, but this fact.

— So, technically, it's like this... — the squad leader began, pausing dramatically to try to better connect the dots in his mind. — The first briefcase detected did end up being what was expected. A bomb that, for some reason, ended up in the hands of the guy with the tie. Whereas what we retrieved from that place, along with the criminals involved, was completely different.

Silence reigned once again as everyone present tried to weigh the thoughts in their heads, trying to channel what happened into the most congruent context.

— If the guy took the briefcase with the bomb, apparently deactivated at that point. Whereas the briefcase we managed to take contained the still-unidentified chemical, it only means that it was never really an alibi to blow up the building where the event was taking place. It was an exchange of corrupt goods. — Heeseung deduced skillfully.

— But there's still something that doesn't quite fit here — Jongseong added. — If that was the case, let's say the guy managed to sneak out of the VIP area where I was too, he would have done so at the moment I was trying to evade the two suspects who were after me. But then, how could he have made the exchange? Heeseung, you neutralized the other guys and with that, you got the briefcase that was taken as evidence. — after finishing his contribution, he turned to the others, who were also racking their brains trying to make sense of the whole thing.

It really all seemed to make no sense at all, which made them question whether it was really a mission handled fairly.

— Now that I think about it, and it still doesn't make sense. The entire exchange could have been executed during the seconds Jake was having trouble with the system — Sunghoon added. — Maybe the briefcase with the bomb never arrived at the same place Heeseung entered, but rather it could have been left at some key point, and what Hee intervened in was the subjects receiving their share of the exchange, and we always went after the wrong briefcase.

Everyone turned to look at the sniper, as his assumption didn't sound so far-fetched.

— Jake, didn't Young-Mi happen to bring an interrogation report with her? — Heeseung immediately questioned, to which the aforementioned quickly nodded and took out the document, leaving it on the desk. — Perfect. Jongseong, this is your task, and getting me the details later is a must. Jake, I want you to use your skills to find the identity of the subject who ended up taking the first briefcase. I'll be waiting.

With nothing else to add, he got up from his chair and left the office like a bat out of hell. This variant of the operation—although it might not seem like it—had him on edge. But his mind was also elsewhere, and he was going there.

【★】

The lively laughter of children echoed throughout the room, infecting you in the process. Children could be quite witty at times, which always helped make the outdoor art workshop in the gallery garden less boring for you. Your young apprentices had their own way of standing out, and you firmly believed that their little minds were more volatile and profound than an adult's. Their raw, innocent creativity and their interest in learning from you were incredible.

Until there came those moments when you'd rather everyone remained silent, and the curiosity of their constantly fluctuating little minds didn't get the best of them.

— Noona... — one of the younger ones suddenly alluded to you, to which you responded with a soft hum, letting him know he had your attention despite your gaze fixed on the small canvas in your hands. — Can love be expressed through painting?

The question caught you off guard, firstly because of its depth, despite being the inquiry of a child of only eight years old. Secondly, you knew that coming up with an answer, with the most appropriate words for someone of his age and understanding, would take a little extra effort.

— Love can be expressed in many ways, Jin-Seo — you begin in a simple and concise way, pausing momentarily to encourage the other person's anticipation, and then continuing with the formulation of your answer. — The most common way people express their love is by saying "I love you," because that way they are letting their opposite know that they feel love. But most people affirm that showing love goes beyond just putting it into words. There must also be actions and gestures that support the love you say you feel.

You thought they weren't paying attention to you until you looked up from the canvas and most of the little ones were staring at you intently, especially the one who asked the question. Maybe they were interested in your words, or just mesmerized by the gentle tone of your voice.

— So, with that in mind, consider that love could be expressed through painting. An example of this could be when you're painting and think of someone important, or like when you put something on canvas and want to give it to that person, or for that person to be the first to see it. — You added to your explanation, a kind of self-reflection, since while you were saying each word, there was only one person you could think of.

After a moment, everyone began to converse among themselves, while simultaneously continuing with their artistic activities. What you said earlier seemed to resonate with them; it amused you to see them talking about it, when many of them probably didn't understand anything.

— Someone whose art is abstract and profound also seems to have a mindset driven by the same patterns. — A male voice suddenly sounded behind you, causing you to flinch slightly. There was nothing familiar about that timbre.

Turning around in your position, you saw an expensive-looking man in a tight-fitting suit, his face sporting an expression of apparent delight, though you couldn't easily tell if it was due to your analogy, the children, or some deeper reason. You glanced quickly, searching for the relief bodyguard, who turned out to be out of position. You felt a touch of panic, but tried to approach the situation calmly.

— Excuse me, but this is a restricted area. The public is not allowed to enter unless I so permit. — You spoke firmly, leaving no room for argument. But the man didn't seem to be perturbed by your direct tone.

His smile, barely a subtle curl of his lips, remained intact as his eyes slowly scanned the scene in front of him. The precision with which he analyzed his surroundings alerted you; that kind of attention didn't befit a mere onlooker.

— I'm truly sorry for breaking the rules set by our miss — he said then, his tone laden with calculated difference. — But I couldn't contain my excitement… Nor could I miss the opportunity to see you work up close. It seemed like the closest way to fulfilling every loyal admirer's dream.

The term “loyal admirer” hung in the air, imbued with a weight you couldn't quite place. The way he had said it, with a disturbing mix of sincerity and reverence, sharpened your senses. Your fingers, still holding the paintbrush, twitched slightly as you searched your memory for any clue that might justify those words.

Suddenly, images began to emerge in your mind like a series of fleeting slides: that man's face appearing again and again among the crowds at every event, exhibition, and auction you had participated in. A constant but until now imperceptible presence, camouflaged among the attendees, among the shadows on the periphery, observing you with an insistence that, in retrospect, seemed chilling. And then, a name resonated in your thoughts like a distant but precise echo.

— Kang Hyun-Woo. — you said the name with a mixture of caution and certainty, carefully gauging his reaction.

The guy smiled. Not a casual or merely polite smile, but an expression filled with genuine and profound satisfaction, as if he had just received a long-awaited confirmation.

— It's quite an honor to be recognized. That an artist of your caliber not only remembers my name, but also captures my presence... that far exceeds my expectations. — His voice lowered a pitch, becoming more intimate, sharper.

— I couldn't miss the name of an elite buyer — you replied in a more neutral tone. Trying not to show your growing discomfort caused by his presence. — Although, I must admit, I would never think that a man like you, whose profession is linked to electronic systems and devices, would be an art enthusiast. — you add almost scathingly.

— Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong, miss. You’d be surprised to know that art is also one of my passions — Such a statement is accompanied by hand gestures and somewhat exaggerated but measured expressions. It was strange, and even more so when I heard his next comment: — Or at least, I could say that it’s your art that fascinates me. Your pieces are simply exquisite, and each one is better than the last. — His idolization was simply on another level.

— Noona is a great painter. — one of the children suddenly spoke up, innocently intervening in this particular exchange. In fact, the sudden childish contribution brought an even wider smile to Kang's face.

— Right? She's simply the best painter of her generation, if not of all time. — he replied with satisfaction, turning to the little boy, who smiled at him as if nothing had happened.

You watched the scene in silence, thinking of a discreet way to get this guy dragged out and finally disturb the tranquility of your space. You didn't want anything too grotesque and inappropriate to happen in front of the children present. Before you could even begin to realize your thoughts and ideas, your savior arrived.

Heeseung glanced at you, then at the children sitting there painting. He knew he had to be careful with his actions, now that he had an audience of delicate little minds.

— Sir, I will ask you in the most peaceful way to accompany me to the exit. Users who violate the establishment's rules receive a penalty, and that will be your case. — He spoke in a measured voice, although the underlying severity was perceptible.

In a discreet movement, his hand closed around Hyun-Woo's wrist with a calculated pressure, enough to cause a subtle creaking in the joints. The other man's expression instantly tensed, his smile fading as his eyes widened with a mixture of disbelief and pain.

— I was just offering my admiration to the lady. I didn't mean to cause any trouble; my intentions are simply to personally pay my compliments to the artist who creates all the paintings hanging in my house. — Kang assured him, his tone forcedly calm, although the rigidity of his jaw and the hostility in his gaze toward Heeseung betrayed his pain and discontent.

Heeseung didn't let go of his wrist. The pressure of his fingers remained calculated, firm but not overtly violent, just enough to remind Hyun-Woo who was in control at the moment. His eyes remained sharp, cold, devoid of any trace of superficial courtesy.

— Admiration... — Heeseung repeated the word with a measured cadence, as if savoring it. — If that's the case, I would recommend that you limit your admiration to galleries, auction catalogs, and your acquisitions. Because if you again take on responsibilities that aren't yours... — He leaned in slightly, enough so that only Hyun-Woo could hear him. — I will make sure that your eyes never again know what it's like to look at one of my lady's works. — The tone was soft, almost intimate, but the implicit threat was unmistakable. The opponent sensed the weight of those words clearly, because his eyes narrowed slightly, and the line of his smile stiffened.

However, without letting him add anything else, Heeseung dragged him toward the exit, leaving you to continue the lessons with your young apprentices.

【★】

Your face lit up with excitement as you looked at the final results of your cute students' paintings. The secondary room of the gallery, designated for the workshop, was full of them, giving it a colorful and pleasant vibe, as they were displayed on the walls of the installation.

— They're getting better and better. — Heeseung comments, as he delights in watching your happy expression. And his delight doubled the moment you turned to him, flashing that wide smile of yours. You looked so proud.

— Yes, they really are. They already know so many more things and techniques than when the workshop started. They're incredible. — you boast proudly, as you walk around the room, eyeing each of your young apprentices' works.

Lee can't take his eyes off you, too entranced by the charm your person radiates, so naturally and effortlessly. Seeing you like this provokes so much in him, and he couldn't help himself, rising from the stool to discreetly approach you from behind. Once close, he leaned down to your level and fixed his gaze on the profile of your face, since you, for one, were too absorbed in those small paintings.

— Being taught by someone incredible can make you incredible too — he murmurs in an almost tender tone, a tone he would only allow himself to use with you. — Don't be so surprised. They're learning from you. It's obvious they'll end up being exceptional in the long run. Although... they'll never surpass their wonderful teacher. And if they do, I'll find a way to change that.

His words make a soft chuckle escape your lips; you couldn't help but find a certain amusement in the way this version of him contrasted so much with what many people see at first glance. The stoic and imposing man, whom many feared, became surprising sweet around you. Yet he still managed to make things more disconcerting when he had the chance, for example, his constant obsession with making you walk on clouds, only to then simply clip your wings, marking the limits of his professionalism.

— What's so funny? — he suddenly asks, looking at you with a frown, a clear manifestation of his confusion at your prolonged amusement.

— The fact that the mouth you use to shower me with praise is the same one that later utters words that break my heart, and also the same one that does nothing to finally meet mine. — you reply, your laughter gradually fading away and leaving your face with a more somber, almost expressionless expression.

You turn slowly, drawn almost instinctively to the source of that familiar, deep tension that usually surrounds you. Your eyes meet his, and the space between you shrinks to nothing. Your breaths mingle in the air that vibrates between you, heavy with something unspoken, something you both feel but that never quite materializes. His gaze, dark and penetrating, bores into yours, as if he could read every thought struggling to break free in your mind. But, as always, there's something holding him back. Something that prevents that line from finally being crossed.

Heeseung straightens with a barely perceptible sigh, his expression transforming into a mixture of resignation and regret. His eyes never leave yours for a second.

— I'm sorry — he murmurs in that deep, controlled voice that nevertheless betrays a hint of vulnerability. — I'm sorry for not being reckless enough to...

His voice trails off, but you understand perfectly what he's trying to say. That impulse to cross the line, to surrender to the inevitable, always clashes with his iron self-control.

— Save those words — you reply, your tone soft, but tinged with a tiredness that comes from the constant repetition of this same cycle. — It's always the same with you, Heeseung. The confusing signals, the words, the boundaries. — you add, taking a step back, intending to get away before that mix of desire and frustration ends up breaking something inside you.

But he reacts before you can. His hand catches your wrist in a swift, precise movement, and suddenly you feel him spin you around and propel you toward one of the tables. A small gasp escapes your lips when your body meets the cold surface, and before you can process it, he slides between your legs, occupying the space left by your labored breathing.

One of his hands rises with deliberate slowness to grasp your wrists and pin them behind your lower back. The other, however, rests on your jaw with a reverence that contradicts the firmness of his grip. His thumb brushes the line of your jaw, and the tension in his gaze is so palpable that you feel trapped in the dark abyss of his eyes.

— What do you mean by mixed signals? — he asks, his tone low and laden with something heavier than simple curiosity. His eyes darken even further when his thumb brushes over your skin in a gesture so intimate it takes your breath away. — Because as far as I know, I've made it very clear that I adore you. That you're my biggest weakness.

The intensity of his words makes your breath hitch and your heart race. But he doesn't pull away. Not this time.

— It's not just words. Words aren't enough if actions don't back them up, Lee Heeseung. — you whisper, your voice barely breaking as memories of the thoughtful response you gave Jin-Seo hours earlier during the workshop flood your mind.

He remains silent, but you can feel the tension in his body intensify. The conflict is evident in the way his eyes scan you, searching for something he perhaps can't even name.

— You're right. I can't go on without using actions to back up my words, can't I? — he asks rhetorically, looking at you with such intensity that it makes your heart flutter. That distinct glint in his gaze generates so much anticipation.

Then, with a slow, calculated movement, you see him lean toward you. His nose brushes yours, and his lips barely touch yours, so close yet so far away. The promise implicit in that touch sends a shiver down your spine. Your breath catches between you, and the moment seems stretched to the limit, on the verge of breaking at any second. But just as the chasm between you is about to close completely, a loud crash interrupts the moment.

Fire alarms and other people's screams echo through the gallery's main hall, scything the air with their piercing, urgent sound. Heeseung jerks away, going to look through the window. You can barely process what just happened as the sound of sirens continues to echo in your ears, marking the abrupt end of a moment that nearly redefined everything, and at the same time the beginning of what could be considered the most heartbreaking catharsis of your life.

— Tell me it's not what I think it is... — you say fearfully, your voice barely above a whisper, as you approach the same window where Heeseung is looking out.

He turns in your direction, his expression indecipherable to the naked eye, and that only seems to disconcert you. Drawing strength from where you didn't know you had it, you push him aside and finally look out the window. The burning glow in the distance is reflected in your gaze, tears flowing as so many years of your life flash before your eyes. Everything that defined you, all your achievements, goals, and dreams come true, were burning.

Your impulsiveness led you to stumble out of the back room, running in the direction where the fire had already spread. People ran desperately toward the emergency exit, while you headed straight for the heart of the fire. Your clouded, thoughtless mind made you see the scene as if it were unfolding in slow motion. The flames rose mercilessly, burning the infrastructure and everything in their path. The smoke alarms continued to blare, along with the terrified screams of the people. All of it became the soundtrack to such a tragedy.

Before you could enter, you felt yourself being pulled forcefully. You didn't bother to look at who it was; you didn't need to, and your brain certainly wasn't at its full capacity to stop and check that it was Heeseung.

— You can't go in there! The structure could collapse at any moment! — he exclaimed, flustered, and dragged you backward, away from the risk zone, pulling your body in the direction of the emergency exit in the garden.

— My paintings… I have to go get them… — your response comes out automatically, which is how your mind was working. Or at least it did until emotions took over and your screams deafened the eardrums of the man holding you. — Let me go, Heeseung! My whole world and life is in there, I have to go get my things! — you shout, abruptly twisting in Lee’s arms, struggling to make him release his firm grip on you and let you go rescue your precious creations.

But he doesn’t budge, and he wasn’t planning on doing so…

— There’s no point in you doing this! — he growls through gritted teeth, resisting your abrupt, almost aggressive movements, trying to neutralize them. — You can paint new paintings, you can acquire new materials and so on. All of those things are replaceable. But you aren’t! I won’t have another you if I let you go all the way there and put your life at risk! So don't ask me to let you go, because I'm not going to. — he declares resolutely, leaving no room for argument.

Without even giving you the chance to insist a little further, he easily lifts you up and throws you over his shoulder to carry you out of that place. As you walk toward the exit, you look around, watching the fire spread even to the secondary room, the same one that housed the creations of your young apprentices, their first steps into art, all those pleasant memories accumulating in your mind at that very moment. And soon, just as Heeseung had predicted, the structure began to collapse, yielding to the intensity of the fire, causing a resounding roar. Thus marking the extinction of that place you had forged with so much effort and taken to the top. It was the end of your world, the death of a part of you that might never be the same again.

【★】

Your gaze remained fixed on the table in front of you, but you weren't really looking at it. The cold metal beneath your fingers seeped into your skin, chilling you to the bone, but even that couldn't shake you out of that lethargic state. The voices around you were only a distant murmur, a background noise that faded before reaching your mind. All that remained was that dense, overwhelming emptiness that gripped your chest like a claw.

The sound of heels clicking firmly against the floor pulled you out of that mental fog. The echo spread through the room like a warning, each step calculated and confident, until the figure of a woman appeared in the doorway. Beautiful, impeccably dressed in a dark suit that accentuated her slender figure. Her hair was tied back with precision, not a single strand out of place. Her presence radiated authority and coldness.

Without saying a word, she pulled a badge from her jacket and placed it on the table, the scrape of plastic against metal breaking the awkward silence. You glanced at it only out of reflex, your eyes sliding over the engraved letters before she spoke.

— Seo Young-Mi. Prosecutor in charge of your case. — Her tone was direct, firm, but not lacking in subtle professional kindness.

You didn't respond. Your gaze had already shifted toward the tinted glass at the side of the room. You knew Heeseung was there. You felt it. That strange warmth that only he could make you feel, even in the midst of a disaster, was there, piercing the chill of the room. You could almost imagine his expression, the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers were probably clutching his own arms to keep from intruding into the room.

Young-Mi settled into the chair opposite you, crossing her legs with innate elegance. She rested her elbows on the table and interlaced her fingers. Her eyes scanned you carefully, reading every microexpression on your face.

— I know this might be difficult... — she began, softening her tone a little more, in an attempt to show some empathy, even if it was professional.

— But I need you to answer a few questions so we can continue the investigation. The interrogation will be recorded. If you feel uncomfortable at any point, you have the right to stop it.

Your hands clenched in your lap. The lump in your throat thickened, making it difficult to breathe. Young-Mi slid a notebook and pen across the table, waiting patiently.

— Let's start from the beginning — she continued, striking a posture that denoted her interest and attention. — What was the first thing you saw when the fire started?

A chill ran down your spine. The image of the fire burst into your mind with painful clarity: the flames devouring the walls, the air saturated with smoke and screams. The suffocating sensation of heat on your skin. The panic. The emptiness.

— It wasn't much... When the fire started, I was busy in the gallery's secondary room. I didn't find out about the fire until it was already well underway and the alarms went off. — you answered effortlessly, your voice coming out weak and ragged. Your breathing became erratic, your shoulders trembled.

Young-Mi didn't press that point further. He just jotted something down in his notebook and moved on to the next question. The rest of the conversation passed in a blurry stream of words and short answers, your mind disconnecting from each sentence as soon as it was spoken. All you really felt was that feeling of being watched through glass.

Finally, Young-Mi closed the notebook and slid it to the side.

— That will suffice for now. Thank you for your cooperation, and I'm sorry for your situation. — she concluded, his professional tone resurfacing. He stood with mechanical elegance, smoothing the wrinkles in his jacket as he headed for the door.

No sooner had he left the room than the door opened again... and this time it was him who entered.

Heeseung crossed the threshold with confident steps, but his expression was thick with tension. His gaze scanned your face, searching for something in your dull eyes that probably wasn't there. Without saying anything, he crouched down in front of you and held your face in his hands, his gentleness contrasting with the strength of his grip.

— Hey, you handled it well, princess. — he murmured in a surprisingly sweet tone, his thumb gently caressing your cheek in an attempt to comfort you.

Your throat tightened. A tremor ran through your lips as you leaned into his touch, letting the warmth of his skin seep into your own coldness. You closed your eyes, resting your cheek on his palm. His touch was the only thing that managed to stabilize the turmoil of internal chaos.

— Get me out of here, please, take me home... — you whispered, your voice breaking at the end of the sentence.

Heeseung took a deep breath. His fingers slid along your jawline, holding you as if he feared you might crumble at any moment.

— There's something I must do first, and then I can take you to rest. Do you think you can wait for me? It won't take too long, I promise. — he replied gently, though his gaze darkened with a mixture of guilt and resolve.

You didn't have the strength to argue, so you simply nodded slightly, your eyes narrowing as he leaned in a little closer and pressed a brief, warm kiss to your forehead.

When he made a move to withdraw, you didn't hesitate. You stood up almost reflexively, your footsteps following his without him having to ask. The door closed behind you with a hollow sound, but you focused only on the figure walking in front of you, his shoulders tense and his gait firm. It didn't matter where he went or what he had to do. In that moment, all you needed was to be near him.

The sound of your footsteps echoed empty in the cold hallways as you followed Heeseung, who walked with a firm, confident stride, as if everything that had happened was just a passing cloud already dissipating in his mind. However, the weight of what he had experienced continued to crush your chest. The images of the fire, the anguish of seeing your world reduced to ashes, remained stuck to your skin, like a ghost. But you couldn't show any of that. He was there, by your side, and all you could do was keep up with him, hoping his presence would soothe some of the pain inside you.

As you reached a particular door, Heeseung stopped without warning, turning to face you. The softness in his gaze didn't go unnoticed, despite the tension surrounding him.

— Please stay here. — he said in a voice that brooked no argument. Though he didn't speak loudly, there was something in his authority that made it clear: you couldn't follow him any further.

However, the way his eyes lingered on yours for a second, as if he were trying to say something without words, made you feel a strange mix of comfort and despair. You nodded wordlessly, as if your strength could no longer rebel. He had always been the one who led the way, the one who took the reins, and though that sometimes frustrated you, in that moment, you needed him.

— I won't be long. — Was the only thing she said before disappearing behind the door with the soft creak of the wood closing. You stood there, staring at the closed door.

It wasn't that you didn't want to wait. It was that you didn't know what else to do with your life, now that everything you'd built seemed to be crumbling around you. You headed to one of the nearby chairs, searching for something to anchor you to the present, even a minimal distraction. Your eyes fell to the floor, to the reflection of the light that slipped through the walls, seeking some solace in your surroundings.

The creaking of heels interrupted your trance, and you looked up to find Young-Mi walking in your direction with calculated elegance. Her bearing wasn't so distant, but there was something in her gait that told you she wasn't a woman you could ask for too much. Somehow, she sat down next to you with a naturalness that surprised you, and before you could react, she was already there, by your side.

— Oh, you're still here. — she pointed out, her voice soft but curious, the weight of the situation not allowing her to change the tone of her question.

You didn't know what to answer, so you just stared at the floor for a moment, not wanting to burden her with your thoughts.

— Yes, I'm waiting for Heeseung. — you murmured, barely able to raise your voice. As if saying her name would lighten something that was worrying you, even for a moment.

Young-Mi, who was watching your movements closely, nodded slowly, unhurriedly, as if she had already expected a similar answer. She didn't pressure you or insist, something that, without knowing why, relaxed you slightly. Instead, she remained there, still, waiting silently.

Shortly after, he broke the silence, with a gentle demeanor and something she might have considered the perfect opportunity to speak.

— I must tell you something, taking advantage of the fact that I finally have the pleasure of seeing you in person, — she began, in the same gentle voice, as if she were opening a window in the middle of a storm. — Heeseung talks a lot about you, about how incredible your art is. He says you're able to convey what others can't, that every brushstroke is filled with emotion, something... unique.

Your eyes, they rose toward her, even though you didn't want to listen. You didn't want someone talking to you about your art, not in this place, not after what had happened. However, Young-Mi continued calmly, unbothered by the silence that enveloped you.

— I visited your gallery once. And I confess that what Heeseung said isn't an exaggeration. Your work has something special. — She paused, observing your face with curiosity, perhaps trying to understand your distance.

At that moment, the pain of loss crept into your chest again, stronger. It wasn't just the fire anymore. It was the disappearance of something that was a part of you. But with the same calm with which she had begun, Young-Mi leaned toward you, as if understanding something beyond words.

— I understand this isn't the best time to talk about it, but I wanted you to know. — she said softly, looking at you with some empathy and a certain regret. To which you simply remained silent.

The lump in your throat was so tight you couldn't speak. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, all you managed to utter was a brief, if somewhat empty, response.

— Thank you — you replied softly, your lips sealed in a forced smile, devoid of any real emotion. Had it been any other circumstance, things would definitely be different. — But... Please, I'd prefer you not talk about the gallery anymore. Not even about that.

Young-Mi nodded, making no further comment, as if she respected you more than you could express. In an act of tacit understanding, she remained silent, giving you the space you needed.

Elsewhere, inside the room, the conversation between Heeseung and Jongseong continued:

— The fire is under control, but the evidence still doesn't seem clear. The teams are still checking, but we have to wait to see what else can be found, — Jongseong commented, pointing at some notes on the table. — Hopefully, we'll be able to better understand what happened once we have Jake to review the recordings from the other side of the location.

— Okay, keep me updated on that. I'll be on the lookout, Lee replied, his tone firm and serious.

— I made sure they prioritized this case. For you… and for her — he added, a hint of respect in his voice. Heeseung looked up, his dark eyes reflecting a glimmer of recognition and gratitude. — Also, here are the details of the past mission and its loose ends, too. — Heeseung stated, extending a document to the major, who took it.

— Thanks, Jong. — Was all he said, but Jongseong understood the true weight behind that word.

Without another word, Heeseung pushed himself away from the table and left the room. His eyes instantly found your figure, sitting next to Young-Mi. The prosecutor spoke in a low voice, but as soon as she saw him leave the room, she stood up with a slight nod and walked into the room from which the other party had emerged.

Your gaze met his, and without needing to say a word, you stood up and approached. He looked at you with that mixture of concern and tenderness that had become so persistent in recent hours, and without hesitation, he touched your cheek with his fingertips.

— Ready to go? — he asked gently, his tone more like a whisper than a question. You just nodded. And when he took your hand, you allowed him to lead you out of that room.

When you truly care about someone, the last thing you want is to experience the pain of seeing them suffer, but... How do you make someone stop suffering like that? That was the question Heeseung had been constantly asking himself over the past few weeks, ever since the day of the fateful fire that took away what you loved most. He's done nothing but divide his responsibilities between his work as an agent and watching you deal with what could be considered the deepest depression he's ever seen you experience. And yes, he's seen you go through many bad times, but this, this was beyond comparison; even he could sense that.

Of course, as your bodyguard, he genuinely cares; after all, ensuring your well-being is his job. But, in his role as the man who so adores your existence, he'd been racking his brain trying to come up with something to help you cope or completely alleviate your current discomfort. But whatever he could come up with, the first step would be to get you out of your room…

Heeseung entered the house with firm but silent steps. The sunlight filtering through the windows filled the entryway with a soft, golden glow, bathing everything around him in a warm glow. His eyes scanned the room, pausing at the foot of the stairs as he looked longingly up to the upper floor. Without wasting a single second, he climbed up there, making his way towards your room.

He carefully opened your door, and just as he expected, upon entering, he found you sleeping soundly. Your cold, dark bedroom somehow radiated the sadness that dwelled within you, the same sadness he'd so frequently witnessed in your eyes these past few days. With light steps, he approached, reached for the nightstand beside your bed, and turned on the small lamp he knew was there. As he did so, it cut through the darkness in the room, and the first thing he saw was your face twist into an expression of disgust, clearly due to the light that suddenly shone directly into your face.

He smiled inwardly, finding your gesture so adorable. Then he simply crouched to the side and reached up to brush away a few strands of hair that had fallen into your face. He also ran his thumb between your eyebrows, gently caressing the area until your frown relaxed and your peaceful expression returned. Seeing you like this, he felt warmth flood his chest and a subtle tingling in his stomach. He liked you so much, there was no doubt about it, he couldn't deny it to himself, not even if he tried.

— Princess, the sun's up. Time to wake up. — His voice echoed in a soft murmur, trying not to be too rude when waking you up. And he succeeded; he saw you open one eye and then close it again.

— So what... am I going to photosynthesize or something? — you replied in a sleepy, deep voice, as you shifted between the sheets, shifting positions, now facing him with your back to him.

Perplexed, he admired your sleeping form for a few seconds; sometimes he forgot how sharp your tongue could be. Choosing not to be defeated, he straightened up to walk to the window and, mentally praying that you wouldn't insult him, he slid the curtains aside, causing the room to fill with the warm light of day.

— Lee Heeseung, close that fucking curtain and let me sleep in peace! — Your annoyed voice echoed in the bedroom, and he could only laugh as he watched you cover yourself from head to toe with the blanket.

— Get up, miss. You've got a busy day ahead of you today — he replied, half-amused and half-firm, reaching over to tug at your blanket. But you were more reluctant, clinging to it and not letting him move it. — Come on, I really have a good day planned for you. Get out of bed. — he added, his tone so insistent it seemed almost like a plea. But even that didn't stop him from struggling with the blanket.

— Let go of the fucking blanket, and I'll get up voluntarily. — you said, finally peeking your head out, giving him an annoyed look. To which he raised an eyebrow at you, not trusting your word.

— How do I know this isn't some trick on your part? — he inquires, momentarily giving up on pulling at the soft material, but not completely letting go.

— First, because I would never refuse a plan with you. Second, because you're stronger than me, and if you keep pulling at this thing, you'll end up taking it off and discovering that my panties are the only thing I'm wearing right now. — you warn, somewhat annoyed. And that last reason was enough for her to finally let go of the blanket without further struggle and walk away.

Obviously, she was upset to hear such a revelation, but she made an effort to act normal and maintain her composure.

— Okay, then... go get ready. I'll wait for you downstairs. — She excused herself somewhat nervously and then simply left the room, giving you some privacy.

【★】

The crunch of gravel under your boots mingled with the dry echo of bullets hitting the targets. The warmth of the sun filtered through the scattered clouds, enveloping the training grounds in an atmosphere filled with tension and constant noise. Gunshots rang through the air, some sharper than others, followed by the metallic crackle of bullets hitting their targets. You walked at a steady pace, but not without casting annoyed glances around, clearly annoyed by the surroundings you found yourself in.

— Really? It wasn't enough for you to force me to get up early, and now I also have to endure this hellish sun? — you muttered, pushing back a strand of hair that the wind had blown across your face.

Heeseung, walking slightly ahead of you, turned his head with a lopsided smile, the one you knew so well and that, unfortunately for you, always managed to disarm you.

— If you keep complaining, I'll make you walk around the training grounds until you forget how to complain. — His tone was light, but his eyes held a hint of mischief that made you frown.

— You wouldn't dare. — you blurted out, with a mixture of disbelief and veiled threat. For his part, Heeseung just laughed softly, a low sound that somehow shook you.

— You think so? — he retorted, tilting his head to one side.

You shot him a dirty look, but before you could continue reproaching him, he raised a hand and pointed toward a farther part of the field, where a covered structure stood.

— Don't worry, you won't be under the sun. Let's go to target practice. — he added simply.

You stopped abruptly, your eyebrows raising in surprise as you turned your head to him.

— Target practice? — you repeated, almost unable to believe it. Heeseung nodded, watching you with that serene yet penetrating expression that always made you feel like he could read your every thought.

— You once said you were curious about what it felt like to shoot a gun," he explained matter-of-factly, as if it were the most casual comment in the world. "I thought this would be a good opportunity.

You continued staring at him, trying to remember when you'd said that. And then you remembered. It had been during a casual conversation, one random night in your living room, while he was cleaning his gun after returning from a mission. You had quietly mentioned that you'd always been curious about that sensation: the weight of the gun in your hands, the vibration of the recoil, the dry sound of the shot breaking the air. It had been a fleeting confession, something you never thought he'd actually take into account.

— How do you still remember that? — you asked, your tone softening without you even realizing it. Heeseung shrugged, shifting his gaze to the field for a second before looking back at you.

— I always listen to you. Even when it's things you say quietly, or details that don't seem important to you, but are to me — he replied with a hint of sincerity that lodged itself in your chest. He paused for a second, his gaze softening. — I can't help it."

You were speechless, feeling a warm surge of emotion lodge itself in your core. But before you could formulate a response, he took a few steps further into the facility, and you had to jog to catch up.

The atmosphere changed as soon as they walked through the door into the shooting range. The sound of gunfire became more subdued, muffled by the thick walls of the structure. Several paper targets were lined up at the end of a long, narrow hallway, pierced by holes of varying sizes. The metallic scent of gunpowder wafted through the air, thick and pungent.

Heeseung approached a table where an arsenal of weapons rested and picked up a sleek, black pistol, along with a pair of protective headphones and goggles. With fluid movements, he picked up the weapon and checked the magazine before extending it to you, offering it to you with a calm but expectant expression.

— Ready to try it? — His tone was gentle, but his eyes sparkled with a hint of anticipation, perhaps excited to see you experience something new, something that wasn't quite your style.

You hesitated for a second, your eyes scanning the polished line of the weapon and then returning to his face. You couldn't help but feel a slight chill run down your spine at the thought of holding a real gun. But when you saw the confidence in the way he looked at you, something inside you settled.

— What if I miss? — you murmured, taking the gun gently, feeling its cold weight in your hands.

Heeseung took a step closer, helping you put on the protective gear, then wrapping his hands around yours to adjust the grip. The warmth of his fingers on your skin made you feel a tingle that spread to the base of your neck. He parted your legs with his foot, straightening your back properly.

— You don't have to get it right away. Just trust me, you'll see you won't get bored. Besides, even I didn't get it right the first time, so no pressure, princess. — he assured calmly, his voice just inches from your ear as he positioned himself behind you to help you calibrate and lock onto the target in front of you.

Only, as expected, the closeness and pressure of his body against yours, his hands on your waist, his warm breath caressing your cheek, and his low, raspy voice— These were enough to make you nervous, so much so that your hands were trembling slightly. And unfortunately for you, Lee noticed.

— If you keep shaking like that, you're definitely not going to hit the shot. — he whispered huskily at the edge of your ear, causing an electric current to travel along your spinal cord.

— Then get out of the way and let me do it on my own. — you replied defensively, trying to hide your nervousness. Heeseung glanced at you and just smiled, giving no indication that he was planning to leave you.

— I'm your bodyguard. I'm literally watching your back to keep you steady in case the force of the shot pushes you back. — His response was accompanied by a readjustment of his grip on your waist. However, you ignored him, simply focusing on the target in front of you, maintaining your position and your gaze fixed forward. — Okay, this is a good position, pull the trigger when you feel ready. — he adds, and no sooner had he finished speaking than the first shot you fired.

The bullet, to the surprise of even the man behind you, actually hit the target. You soon heard a contemplative whistle, and even applause from him.

— I guess it was beginner's luck on my side. — you hasten to comment, hoping to preempt any praise your precious attorney was already thinking of heaping.

— Beginner's luck or not, that was incredible, Princess. It was very natural. Do you want to try it again? — he asks, and with a quick nod you respond, then get into position.

And so it was a second time, and several more times you continued shooting, missing and hitting, but especially enjoying the activity and Heeseung's company. It wasn't something you'd thought you'd enjoy doing, but it was quite therapeutic… somehow, and it helped improve your mood. It was stress-relieving and exciting at the same time. Besides, if there was one thing particularly remarkable about all this, it was seeing Heeseung more open-minded, less stoic and proper.

Eventually, once you'd finished emptying a second cartridge, you began to take off your earmuffs and glasses, handing everything to Heeseung, along with the gun, for him to sort through. You'd had enough; you were even a little tired now that the adrenaline rush was starting to wear off.

— So what next? What else is on the itinerary? — you asked, as you both walked back to the facility's exit.

Then, once you're outside, Heeseung suddenly stops in his tracks and looks at you. There's a slight hint of suggestiveness gleaming in his eyes. That detail doesn't go unnoticed, as does the way he then shifts his attention and gaze toward the rustic training ground not far from you.

— You're going to run ten laps around the field. �� His voice and expression, at first glance, reveal apparent seriousness, and after his declaration, he suddenly adopts a firm, almost strict stance. — It's required to unlock the next activi-

Before he could add anything else, you were already running toward the car, dramatically shouting "No," with a prolonged "No," causing the older man to burst out laughing as he watches you struggle to open the door, trying to escape from him and his plan, which was nothing more than a joke. He just wanted to test the waters, see what kind of reaction he'd get from you, and without a doubt, the result was endearing.

【★】

On such a hectic day, which started early, filled with fun activities, delicious food, and moments you'd surely remember forever, the mix of warm orange and red hues was finally beginning to settle in the sky. A few clouds embraced the sun, as if wishing to bid it farewell as it set, the afternoon felt so light. You were tired, yes, but no less happy. You couldn't even remember the last time you'd deviated so abruptly from your routine.

And now you understood why people say it's always good to try and do new things.

Heeseung had put so much effort into it, everything so perfectly planned, from the places you visited, which were one better than the last. You'd never seen beyond the same old streets, you'd missed out on much of the charm of your own city, but thanks to him, that had changed. Besides, the day, although well-planned around you, had also had the opportunity to explore new shades and nuances in the man who dedicated his entire day off to trying to make you feel good and smile again.

During the depressive episode triggered by the loss of the gallery after the fire, you hadn't been aware of how much you'd truly shut down. You'd been so depressed that even making art at home didn't cheer you up. But with this change of scenery, and Heeseung taking matters into his own hands, everything seemed better.

— Are you falling asleep, or why do you suddenly seem so quiet? — His warm voice suddenly cut through the silence inside the car, interrupting your thoughts and recollections of the day. — We're not done yet. I need you with energy for a little longer, okay? — he added, simultaneously patting your thigh gently to wake you up.

The soft noise of the engine filled the silence between you, providing a momentary calm before you decided to say something.

— I'm not one for surprises, and yet here I am, inwardly excited about whatever the man I like so much has prepared to cheer me up. — A soft murmur is your response, as you look out the car window. The city flashed by outside the windows, a blur of light and shadow.

A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips at your murmur. He knew you didn't like surprises, but he also knew that, deep down, you appreciate the effort and thought that goes into them.

— Just wait and see, okay? I promise you won't regret it. — he stated, casting a fond but brief glance at your facial profile.

After what seemed like a torturous eternity, the car was finally being parked on a sidewalk; Heeseung hurried to get out and walk around the vehicle, going to your side to open the door and carefully help you out of the passenger seat.

— What's this? — you asked almost automatically, confusion surfacing now that you were both standing outside what at first glance appeared to be a well-decorated establishment, with modern designs and structures. Heeseung didn't bother to clarify your growing doubts, just took your hand and led you inside.

The place was divided into two floors: The first floor had a reception area and was a spacious, well-lit facility. You took a thorough look around, scanning the place and seeing how it stirred certain feelings in you.

— Let's go upstairs, that's where the real important part is. — Without giving you a second to react, he was already taking your hand and leading you upstairs to the second floor.

The first thing you noticed when you entered the place was the available space. Then your gaze inevitably fell on the things in that area. It was equipped with tables piled with all kinds of art materials, from canvases to easels, which were clearly new. And the walls were blank, presenting a different kind of canvas. It was like your old studio, maybe bigger.

With tears in your eyes, you turned to look at him. Vulnerability and a host of indescribable emotions radiating in your eyes.

— Please, don't tell me you... — You couldn't even finish your sentence without your voice breaking.

He saw the emotions reflected on his face and how your voice caught in your throat. His heart contracted with happiness and worry at the same time.

— Yes, I did — he admitted softly, leaning closer so he could admire your beautiful eyes up close. — I know everything you lost that day. Your art, your space, your identity as an artist, and- — He couldn't finish either, but in his case, it was because you interrupted him.

— Are you telling me you really bought this place? — you inquire, immediately looking at him with wide eyes, at the same time bringing your hands to your mouth, covering it in excitement and surprise.

He nods, never taking his gaze from yours. He could see the surprise and gratitude in your eyes, and it made his heart swell with affection.

— Yes, that's exactly what I did. I was truly so excited. I wanted to give you a place to call your own again, a space where you could create, be inspired, and heal.

— You shouldn't have done something like that. — you complain, slightly embarrassed, but no less moved and grateful for his empathy and support.

With excitement, you set about exploring the place. The tables with materials. They had the exact brands of paint you'd always used. The brushes and everything else were also from brands and designs you loved so much. And damn, you felt like your heart was going to burst with how fast it was beating, your emotions so intensely on edge, realizing that he'd really put so much care and effort into giving you back what has defined you so much in life and in your artistic career.

He followed you as you explored the space, watching you discover the carefully chosen materials. He knew your preferences down to the smallest detail: the specific brand of paint, the type of brushes you preferred, even the specific texture of the canvas you liked the most.

— You shouldn't be too surprised that I hit the nail on the head — he murmured, suddenly interrupting your exploration and capturing your full attention. He leaned a little closer, his voice low and gentle, adding, — I did a lot of research. I wanted you to feel at home, like in your old studio. Every detail was chosen with you in mind. — He paused momentarily, his eyes searching yours before adding, — I want you to be happy again, here.

— Hey, an art studio isn’t exactly cheap to create, — you reply, embarrassed at the sudden reminder of reality. — I’ll pay you back when I get the chance. — you assert resolutely, but he just laughs softly, shaking his head.

— Don’t even think about it. It’s not a loan, it’s a gift. I have more than enough resources, and seeing you happy and painting again is worth every penny I spent on this place. — he replies, looking at you seriously, trying to emphasize his firmness and refusal to accept anything in return.

A lump suddenly formed in your throat, the feeling of comfort filling you completely, as did a deep appreciation for the other.

— You’re so good to me. — you murmur softly, avoiding his gaze, tears welling up in your eyes.

It was then that Heeseung leaned closer. His finger trailed under your chin with a touch so gentle it made the air thicken between you. He forced your gaze up, and your eyes locked with his, dark and charged with an emotion so raw it almost made your knees weak. His voice, low and drawling, vibrated with an emotional depth that seemed to take even him by surprise.

— You don’t know how much your smile and wholeness mean to me. For once, accept something without arguing or thinking you owe it to someone. — he whispered, and the way his eyes gave you no respite made heat rise up your neck.

The tone of his voice and the intensity in his gaze shot through you like a shock. You felt your lungs gasp for air as, from one second to the next, he lifted you up with alarming ease. Your legs reflexively wrapped around his waist, your arms slid around his neck as his hands held you with a firmness that shook your senses. The way he held you, with that mixture of urgency and need, made something inside you clench.

The rapid beat of his chest vibrated against yours, the heat of his body penetrating the layers of clothing. His breathing, rapid and ragged, brushed your ear as his lips lowered just to the crook of your neck, but didn't quite touch you. His self-control hung by a thread; you felt it in the tension of his muscles, in the way his fingers dug lightly into the skin of your back.

— Thank you for this and for everything you've done or do for me. — you mumbled, your voice breathy and shaky against his ear.

His response was to wrap his arms more tightly around you, burying his face in your neck as he breathed in your scent with a depth that made you shudder. His body visibly relaxed, as if simply holding you like that had broken down the last barriers he'd kept standing. But the way his hands slowly ran down your back, up the line of your spine with almost tortuous precision, made it clear he wasn't completely calm.

— You're wonderful... — you murmured against his cheek as your fingers moved up to his face.

You held his face in your hands and let your thumbs brush over the warm skin of his cheeks. Heeseung closed his eyes for a second, leaning into your touch as if he needed it to keep breathing. When he opened them again, his pupils were dilated, and a dark shadow crossed the depths of his gaze. There was emotion there, something pure, brutal, and blatantly transparent that made you press closer to him.

— Don't look at me like that. — you stammered, feeling the blush spread across your face and the tension growing between you like an electric field.

But he didn't look away. On the contrary, his eyes slid slowly over your face, lingering on the line of your lips, on the trembling of your lips.

The sound of your breathing. His hand moved to your cheek, his thumb tracing a slow, delicate path over the flushed skin of your cheekbone. His smile was faint, almost dangerous.

— Like what? Like I'm looking at the person who means more to me than anything else in this world? — His words were a knife-edge to your chest, each one imbued with devastating conviction.

Your breathing became erratic. Your fingers descended to his neck, and you felt the tension vibrating beneath your touch.

— Please don't say things that make my heart race, only to break it when you decide to return to your usual limits. — you warned him, your voice thick with vulnerability and exhaustion. You didn't want to go through the same old cycle, not this time.

Heeseung slowly shook his head, a dark, intense smile on his lips. He carried you in his arms until you were sitting on the cold surface of a table, his hands resting on either side of your hips, enclosing you between his body and the wood beneath you. He lowered his head until his forehead touched yours, his labored breathing hitting your parted lips.

— What if I told you this isn't one of those times? That no more limits and reality checks. — His voice was a harsh whisper, each word heavy with intent.

— Don't just say it, prove it. — your words came out as a challenge, an attempt to encourage him to move forward, while your eyes were fixed on his.

So, Heeseung didn't hesitate any longer. He closed the distance and his lips crashed against yours in a kiss overflowing with pent-up hunger. The pressure of his mouth was immediate and possessive, his tongue sliding between your lips with a confident, brazen rhythm that stole your breath.

Your response was automatic; Your arms closed tightly around his neck as your fingers tangled in his hair. The way he deepened the kiss, with calculated movements and almost absurd precision, sent a shudder down your stomach and resonated in your belly. A strangled moan escaped your throat as his hands moved down to your waist, pulling you closer to him. He separated his lips from yours, only to trail them down your jawline, leaving a series of open kisses that burned directly into your skin. His tongue traced the outline of your neck, followed by a bite hard enough to leave you trembling.

— I really waited so long for this. — Your breathing was shallow, your chest rising and falling rapidly as your fingers closed in his hair, unconsciously tugging at the strands.

— Too long. — he agreed, his voice vibrating against your skin.

— Are you going to make it up to me? — You gasped, your lips brushing against his as you spoke.

Heeseung laughed against your neck, his deep chuckle sending vibrations straight to your core.

—I'm going to make it up to you for every agonizing moment of holding back. — he stated with unwavering certainty, his hands trailing down the curve of your back to your hips.

His mouth returned to yours, this time with relentless intensity. He kissed you with hunger and need as his hands slid beneath the fabric of your shirt. The way his fingers grazed the bare skin of your back made your body arch toward him, seeking more, needing more.

— Too many clothes~ — he whispered against your mouth, and before you could respond, his hands moved up to undo the barrier of fabric with one precise motion, and with that same expertise, he unclasped your bra, setting it aside, discarded along with your shirt.

The way his eyes slowly scanned the exposed skin made heat shoot through your core.

— And I made sure to dress lightly. — you reply teasingly, your lips curving into a suggestive smile as your eyes bore into his.

— Clever girl. — he murmurs, a spark of approval in his eyes. His fingers skim your waist before sliding to the button of your jeans. With unnerving skill, he unbuttons it and hooks his thumbs into the fabric, pulling with a fluid, confident motion.

He slides the jeans down your hips, his pace slow, almost reverential. His fingers brush your skin on the way down, generating a fiery tingle that makes you catch your breath. But he doesn't rush. He pauses to kneel and slowly unbutton your boots, each touch leaving a trail of heat over your skin. Once your jeans fall to the floor, his eyes scan the image of you in nothing but your panties. His breathing becomes heavy and ragged, while his gaze darkens with need.

— Fuck... — he exhales, his pupils dilated as he devours you with his eyes. — I knew you'd look beautiful, but... this is beyond my wildest dreams.

His husky voice fills the air between you, laden with an adoration that sends shivers down your spine. His fingers trace the curve of your thigh, barely a touch, as he seems to debate whether to continue or surrender to you.

— I'm debating whether to touch you or kneel and worship you because you truly are a goddess... My goddess. — he declares with an intensity that makes you shudder involuntarily, his eyes anchored to yours as a malicious smile curves your lips. The way you smile, as if he owned you completely, only fuels the fire in his gaze.

Without breaking eye contact, you lie down on the table, stretching with a slowness that borders on sensual. The cold wood beneath your back contrasts with the heat burning on your skin. You display yourself before him without a trace of shame, and the gleam in his eyes, darkened by desire, makes you shudder.

He begins to unbutton his shirt. His fingers work with deliberate slowness, revealing every inch of taut, firm skin. In the dim light, you begin to notice the subtle scars that adorn his torso, silent traces of a past filled with battles and danger. They're old, fading with time, but still visible enough to tell stories without words. And somehow, that only makes him more attractive. Every mark, every line on his skin is proof of his strength, his dedication, and the knowledge of everything he's endured awakens in you an even more intense desire.

When the shirt falls to the floor, his breathing is harsh, his chest rising and falling sharply. His hands move down to his belt, but before he can do anything else, you slowly sit up, as if some invisible force is pulling you towards him.

— Wait, I want to help. — you offer, your voice laden with a low, seductive tone.

You approach him and, with a mischievous smile, replace his hands with yours. Your fingers slide over the leather, unbuckling his belt with a sensuality that renders him completely immobile. His breathing becomes heavier, his jaw tense as he watches your every move.

— You're making it difficult to maintain any semblance of gentlemanly behavior. — he whispers, his hands returning to your hips, trapping you in a touch as subtle as it is charged with intent.

— I don't want to seem too innocent... — you murmur softly as your fingers slide down the loop of his jeans, undoing the button with deliberate precision. The zipper slides down slowly, the sound almost imperceptible but encapsulating silent promises. Your eyes remain fixed on his, defiant yet vulnerable. — Not for someone who surely isn't used to delicate women like me.

A hiss escapes his lips as your fingers brush the exposed skin beneath the hem of his jeans. The tension between you feels like an electric current, vibrating in the air. His hand rises to your cheek, brushing the pad of his thumb over your lower lip in a slow, reverent caress.

— Delicate? — he repeats, his tone thick with disbelief, his eyes darkening with desire and tenderness.

— It's my way of expressing that this is the first time I've been in a situation like this. — you confess, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks as you continue to pull down his pants, your hands grazing the contours of his hips as you slide them down his legs.

His eyes soften at your confession, but the spark of desire in them doesn't go out. He helps you remove his pants, standing before you in his boxers, his breathing heavy as his gaze scans every inch of your body with barely contained hunger.

— Princess, I am truly honored to be the one to experience this with you. — His low, husky voice caresses the air between you.

Your breathing quickens as he moves closer, his fingers brushing the skin of your hips, sliding down the waistband of your panties. His closeness clouds your mind, the heat radiating from his body, enveloping you.

— Showing shamelessness will be my way of hiding the fact that I might disappoint you with my lack of experience. — you murmur, your voice cracking slightly under the mixture of nerves and anxiety.

He gently tilts your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes. The intensity in his gaze momentarily takes your breath away.

— Impossible... — he firmly denies. — Do you realize how fucking sexy you are right now? Vulnerable and yet totally self-confident — His hands slide agonizingly slowly down your waist, his thumbs caressing the exposed skin with slow strokes. His mouth descends to your neck, leaving a warm kiss before his teeth graze your skin with a light bite that draws an involuntary sigh from you. — And trust me, even if it's your first time, how could you disappoint me, darling? Nerves, inexperience... only make this moment more sincere, more intimate.

His mouth continues lower, tracing a burning path down your neck to your collarbone. His tongue grazes your skin before sucking gently, leaving a warm tingle that spreads throughout your body. Your hands grip his shoulders, your nails digging lightly into his skin as he leaves another soft bite on your collarbone, followed by a wet kiss that makes you gasp.

— I really want to do it with you. — you reaffirm in a shaky whisper, urgency pulsing in every word.

His eyes darken even further, his lips curving into a smile heavy with satisfaction. He leans toward you, brushing his nose against yours before capturing your lips in a deep, demanding kiss. His tongue slides between your lips, exploring with a sensuality that makes you arch toward him, seeking more. His breath mingles with yours, his hands traveling down your back, sliding over the smooth exposed skin, brushing your hair.

— Then let’s do this... — he whispers against your lips, his warm breath sending a shiver down your spine. — Lie back, and let me show you how good this can be.

He gently guides you back, making you lie down on the table. The cold of the wood contrasts with the scorching heat of his body on yours. His hands travel up your thighs, slowly parting them as his mouth returns to your neck, leaving a trail of wet kisses that descend dangerously to your tits. His tongue circles your skin, his teeth delicately graze a nipple before sucking, drawing a breathy moan from you.

Your hands find his back, sliding over his tense muscles as he moves down your abdomen, his mouth following the path of his hands. Your panties are at the limit of his fingers, and he looks at you with a mixture of devotion and lust. He took his time, sliding the fabric down your legs in a slow cadence, his touch soft and reverent. He tossed them aside and stepped back for a moment to gaze down at you, completely naked and trusting. His eyes darkened with desire, but he maintained a tender expression.

— You're absolutely beautiful. — More than a compliment, it's a genuine statement. He was fascinated by you and your gorgeous body.

— You flatter me. — you reply, letting out a soft chuckle as you lean up on your elbows so you can look at him. He chuckles softly, his eyes crinkling as he appreciates your modest chuckle. He leans closer again, and his fingers hook through your legs to separate them further.

— There's no flattery involved, these are more than just words — he assured, his fingers tracing tantalizing patterns on the inside of your thighs, causing your skin to prickle and your pussy to ache with need for his touch. — You look stunning this way : open, trusting, and eager. You, in all your splendor, that makes you more beautiful than you could ever imagine. — he affirms, and his caresses become more intense and difficult to bear as he approaches the center of your legs, which throbs eagerly for his attention.

— And soon, I'll be moaning your name, also christening this new art studio. — you add, wanting quell the burning excitement with humor.

Heeseung threw his head back with a deep, genuine laugh at your bold addition, his eyes shining with joy and desire. You never ceased to amaze him.

— Fuck, you're perfect — he moaned, leaning down to place a hot kiss just above your knee, his hand continuing to torture you with slow caresses on your inner thigh. — Do you really think you'll be moaning my name soon?"

— Maybe... — you replied, smiling mischievously. His teasing smile widened at your expression. He knew that smile was dangerous : mischievous yet innocent.

— What if I told you I'm good with my mouth? — He watched your reaction closely, his fingers unconsciously parting your legs further.

— Well, if you're that good a kisser, I have no doubt you'd do wonders using it down there, between my legs. — you respond shamelessly, simultaneously adjusting yourself to rest your feet on the edge of the table and spread yourself even more obscenely for him. His smirk widens, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

Without wasting another second, he kneels between your legs, still grinning, and declares,

— I bet I can make you scream.

— I bet the same. — you reply mockingly, though deep down you tremble with anticipation at the sight of him kneeling, his face between your legs, his warm breath fanning your most intimate area.

Heeseung smirked, aware of the effect he was having on you without even doing much of anything. His hands slid under your thighs, tilting you closer to the reach of his mouth. With the first contact, he took his time, licking and sucking at your folds, striving to learn what made you gasp and squirm. When he found that sweet spot, he zeroed in, his tongue swirling and pressing against your clit almost desperately, causing your hips to buck toward him, seeking more. His lips closed around your swollen bud, sucking hard.

Your breaths became ragged as his hands gripped your hips tightly, making sure to keep you in place as he sucked hungrily on your clit.

— Mmph! Heeseung~ — you moaned softly, pressing your hands to his head, letting your fingers tangle in his hair. Your back arched off the table, and your abdomen tightened as your chest rose and fell rapidly with labored breaths.

For his part, Heeseung let out a satisfied hum, the sound reverberating against your warm core and making you gasp even louder. He loved hearing his name on your lips, and even more so the way your body responded to him. Without any warning, he slid two fingers through your soaked entrance, your warm, bulbous walls welcoming him with a delicious squeeze. Immediately, he began probing your insides, skillfully curling his digits to reach that spot that would make your eyes roll back.

— Oh! Wait... — you whimpered at how right his action was, and how good it felt. But Heeseung didn't stop. Understanding perfectly well that he really shouldn't stop; it was a normal reaction to the unexpected intrusion of his fingers into your sensitive pussy.

He pushed his fingers deeper, parting them slightly, scissoring them to stretch you. He captured your clit between his lips once more, sucking gently as his fingers worked their magic inside you.

— Babe? — he alluded suddenly, his eyes searching yours, wanting to make sure everything was in perfect order with you.

— I'm fine. Don't stop~ — you replied between moans. To which Lee groaned softly, loving your simple response.

He added another finger, stretching you further, preparing and stimulating your sex as much as necessary. He could feel the muscles in your thighs tense, your moans grow louder, and your entire body begin to shake and writhe involuntarily on the table. He knew you were about to break. That's why he grew excited and twisted his fingers inside you more insistently, pressing on that spot that reduced you to a wet, trembling mess.

He looked up and witnessed the way your face contorted with pure pleasure, your eyes rolling back, your lips parted, letting out your sweet moans and noises, and those cheeks flushed with excitement more than shyness. He was fascinated by every tiny detail of you as you were sexually pleasured. He wanted more of that, more of you, he wanted to take you to the edge, make you succumb to him.

And he did it, he got what he wanted, the moment you couldn't hold back, and you came undone on his fingers and in his mouth. Your moans echoed clearly. He felt your orgasm overflowing, your pussy clenching rhythmically around his fingers as you came undone. He moaned against you, savoring your pleasure before slowly pulling his fingers out and giving you one last lick on your clit.

With some care, he straightens and hovers over your small body lying on the table, still convulsing from the aftershocks of your orgasm. His hand lovingly caresses your face. His thumb runs over your flushed cheek as he watches you come down from your high. A satisfied smile touches his lips, knowing he's the reason for that dazed expression. He leans down and kisses you on the lips, hindering your attempt to catch your breath.

— Is my precious lady okay? — he asks as soon as he finishes kissing you. His voice is soothing and genuinely concerned for you.

— Don't worry, I'm okay. That was amazing, really good. — you reply breathlessly, still struggling to catch your breath, but there's a note of pleasure underneath.

A spark of pride lights his eyes at the sound of you, and the arc of his smile widens slightly. His gaze descends with deliberate slowness, tracing the contours of your naked body with a palpable desire that makes your skin prickle under his scrutiny. His hands still frame your face, but the heat of his palms seems to penetrate deeper, igniting something still burning inside you.

— I'm glad you liked it, baby. — he whispers with satisfaction.

The tension in the air thickens as you reach for him, sliding them over the skin of his abdomen to the beginning of his boxers. A strangled gasp escapes his lips when you hook your fingers in the elastic waistband, and his breath catches. The intensity in his gaze deepens, darkening with a desire that seems to consume the air between you.

He steps back slightly and allows you to pull the garment down, without resistance. His erect member springs free and stands against his abdomen.

— It’s your turn… — you declare with a softness laden with intent, your fingers tracing a lazy path up his hip. He looks up at you as you cup his erection in your hand and stroke it gently.

His chest expands with a heavy inhale as your fingers close around his thickness, and the way you position yourself on the edge of the table, lying sideways, while you move your hand up and down his penis. He tangles his fingers in your hair as you stroke him, and a moan escapes his throat. The sight of you completely naked and touching him is almost unbearable; he could burst and spill just looking at you.

— Am I doing this right? — you ask, looking up at him with bright eyes, full of excitement and innocence, causing his own eyes to soften at your question, his thumb brushing over your lower lip.

— You're perfect... — he assures without hesitation, and lowers his hand to yours on his member, showing you the perfect rhythm and pressure, the thing that drives him the most crazy. — Just like that. Fuck, you're good at this.

You suddenly see his free hand slide with delicious delicacy between your legs and his fingers caress the wet lips of your pussy, still sensitive from the orgasm he made you have with his mouth. Meanwhile, you continue pumping his length.

— Hey, you're supposed to be the one receiving now. — you chide, giving him a reproachful look, and he chuckles, his fingers stroking your folds possessively.

— Shh~ I'm enjoying it. — he mumbles. His hips buck slightly against your hand, almost fucking your fist. He feels him getting close, but he also wants you to squirm for him.

In the blink of an eye, you find yourself moaning; his fingers plunged in again without reservation, bursting into your pussy, caressing your walls, feeling them clench just like before. But he wasn't the only one doing more. In an unexpected move, you took his cock into your mouth, taking what you could, relaxing your jaw to accommodate him properly, at the same time parting your legs so he could better insert his fingers while you sucked him off.

His eyes widened in surprise and pleasure the instant you took him into your mouth, your wet, warm heat enveloping him completely. He let out a throaty moan, and his fingers thrust in and out at a steady, merciless pace, fervently rubbing against your walls, feeling them tighten and throb.

This was better than anything he'd ever experienced. Which led him to declare :

— You're going to be the death of me, I'm taking it for granted."

But your simple response was to moan around his cock, sucking more eagerly with each passing second, enjoying his reactions, the kinky wet sounds, and at the same time, how his fingers so expertly fuck your pussy. Heeseung stares at you with devotion as you suck him off relentlessly, his fingers sinking deeper into your heat, reaching that point that makes you choke around his member. He's never seen anything sexier in his entire life. Or maybe it was the effect produced by the simple fact that it was you. And, as if seeking to end his sanity, you tilt your head off the table, trying to take more of him into your mouth.

You seemed to like this much more than either of you could have expected.

His cock throbs against your tongue as you take him deeper, almost gagging, completely ignoring any gagging. Leaving him amazed by your enthusiasm and skill. With a moan, he curls his fingers inside you, precisely caressing that magical spot that makes your whole body shudder.

— Princess, you're going to make me cum... — he growls through gritted teeth.

You pull out of your mouth for a moment, just to catch your breath, but you don't stop servicing him with your hand, running your hands up and down the hot, saliva-covered skin. Your lips feel swollen and wet, but moaning while he continues to make you see stars with his fingers distracts you. Heeseung looks at you, his face flushed, his lips swollen, his hand moving rapidly over his length. He can't hold back any longer.

— Cum with me. — he demands between heavy exhales, and simultaneously, his fingers speed up the pace inside you, thrusting in and out relentlessly, making you moan loudly. But you take him back into your mouth, sucking the tip steadily while you continue to move your hand along the rest of his length.

He rolls his eyes as you take him again, your hand and mouth in perfect harmony. He feels his release creeping in, his balls tightening. He lets out a strangled cry as he feels you suck harder and your tongue swirl around the tip. And just like that, your body convulses once more, consumed by ecstasy, and you cum on his fingers as he spills into your mouth, his hot, salty semen filling you and running down your throat.

He's never experienced an ejaculation so intense, so satisfying. He keeps thrusting his fingers into you through the orgasm, prolonging the pleasure until you're a quivering, panting mess on the table.

— Fuck, that was… — He’s unable to finish the sentence, his voice cut off by a heavy gasp, caused by the intense aftershocks that ravage your body.

For your part, you move away from his penis and lie back, tired and exhausted, on the table. Lee is about to make sure you’re okay, but, to both of your misfortunes, his cell phone rings, and you both sigh in frustration. However, he picks up the device and turns it off, completely ignoring the unwelcome call, his attention focused solely on you. No one was going to ruin his perfect moment.

He gently removes his fingers and brings them to his mouth to clean them with his tongue, once again delighting in the exquisiteness of your warm essence. He watches you lie there, exhausted and satisfied. A smile spreads across his lips as he realizes how intense it was.

— Are you okay, baby girl? — he questions, looking at you closely, studying you, wanting to assure you that only pleasure and comfort were what you were feeling. And luckily, your answer reassured him.

— I can assure you, I'm more than fine — you reply in a soft, smiling voice. You hear him sigh with satisfaction, and his thumb gently strokes your hipbone, in a gesture that is both tender and possessive. — How are you?

— I'm fucking great, princess. I've never felt anything like this — he admits in a voice somewhere between astonished and satisfied; he really does seem so happy. — You're incredible, did you know that? — he adds in a tone full of admiration.

—I'm glad I did well. — you reply, smiling proudly at yourself. To which Heeseung laughs softly and leans in to place a soft kiss on your forehead, then another on your nose, and finally a longer one on your lips.

— You were more than 'well'. You blew my mind — he replies after breaking away from the kiss. His hand slides from your hip to your waist, holding you firmly. — But... — Suddenly, he drags you to the edge of the table and spreads your legs, his eyes darkening with renewed desire. He can't get enough of you, and it doesn't look like he's going to anytime soon. — I can't just let you lie there looking so sexy and not do something about it. — he states in a low, husky voice, causing you to shudder.

— Oh, that wouldn't be acceptable, would it? — you respond playfully, playing along. The older man smiles mischievously, his hands running down your legs to the inside of your thighs.

— No, it wouldn't be. After all, my job is to protect you. And right now, I need to protect you from being neglected. — He positions himself between your legs and opens them wider, making the necessary space for himself, as he takes his member in his hand and strokes its tip against your sensitive clit, moving down your wet slit, collecting your juices, before repeating the motion a few times.

He watches your expression closely as he strokes your pussy with his tip, his eyes dark with desire and something softer, almost gentle. He knows he's about to pluck the petals of your innocence, and despite his dominant nature, he wants this moment to be special for you.

— I want your eyes on me, gorgeous. — More than a request, it's really a command, laced with his need to capture your expression the moment he finally goes further.

He watches the way you sit almost upright and bring your hands to his back, your delicate fingers digging into his skin, clinging to his body. He leans closer to you, wrapping his free arm around your waist to support you. He continues stroking your clit with his glans, spreading your wetness and increasing your anticipation. He catches you with his gaze, his eyes boring into yours.

— You're mine now, okay? This changes everything. — His voice is deep, filled with a mixture of possessiveness and vulnerability.

— I've always been yours. — you gasp softly, and his eyes soften at your words, a surge of emotion mingling with his arousal.

He leans down to capture your lips in a deep, passionate kiss, trying to keep you distracted as he finally fits himself against your wet entrance. His tip presses against you with eager insistence, slowly beginning to push in, until, with a gentle but firm push, he pierces your hymen, eliciting a stifled cry from both of you. The sensation of encasing himself in your tight heat makes him see stars too, but he struggles to hold back a little.

— It's okay, it's okay, babe. I know it hurts, but you'll feel amazing soon... — Still against your mouth, he whispers those reassuring words, one hand stroking your hair while the other grips your hips tightly. He begins to move slowly, giving your body time to adjust to his size.

— Heeseung~ — you moan, deeply enraptured as he goes deeper and deeper, deliciously filling and stretching your tight pussy. His control almost breaks at the sound of your moans mixed with his name.

One of his hands moves to your ass, squeezing it possessively, tilting your hips to get a deeper angle. His hips thrust gently but firmly, his swollen member sliding in and out of you in unnecessary movements. He watches in fascination as you lie back again, arching your back and spreading your legs wider to better fit him. He uses that moment to push himself deeper between them and, holding them, wraps them around his waist. He slides an arm under your back, holding you and allowing you to arch fully.

— Look at us, look how well you take me, princess. — he pants, keeping his gaze down between your legs, watching his cock fill you.

— I'm liking taking you~ — you moan softly, your voice slipping like a hot whisper in the air.

After listening to you, he begins to move more deliberately, each thrust measured but intense, searching for the perfect rhythm to make you enjoy yourself. One hand moves between your thighs, searching for your clit with skillful fingers. The contact makes your body shudder, and your moans become more frequent.

— Can you hold out longer, baby? — he asks, his voice low and raspy, as he gently rubs around your sensitive bud, continuing to thrust. His hot breath glides over your skin, making you feel like you're on fire inside.

— Yes, love. Yes, I can. — you respond ecstatically, oblivious to shyness, as your body arches toward him, seeking more contact, more pressure. Your voice is a desperate whisper, a call for him to take you further, deeper.

However, hearing you call him "love" triggers a excitement is on the edge, and his movements become frantic, more intense.

— Say it again... — he demands, his voice muffled against your breasts, as his tongue glides over one of your hardened peaks, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. He begins to thrust faster, deeper, hitting spots inside you that make you moan and feel like you're about to fall apart.

— It can't be that you like a simple nickname so much. — You giggle lightly between moans, as your body moves to the rhythm of his thrusts. Your hands clutch at his back, searching for something to hold on to. Heeseung laughs breathlessly, his breath hot against your chest.

— It's not just a nickname when you say it — He lifts his head to look into your eyes, his hips never stopping their rhythmic movements, as his hand slides over your skin, searching for sensitive spots, seeking to make you feel alive. — You calling me 'love' makes me feel like you're giving me something precious.

— Well, I'm giving you all of me, love... — you murmur thoughtfully, as your body surrenders to him, as your soul opens, offering itself. Your voice is a desperate whisper, a call for him to take you, to make you his completely.

His breath catches at your words, emotion overwhelms his lust for a moment, and his movements stop. Then, he kisses you deeply, desperately, pouring all his feelings into the kiss, as his tongue slides over yours, his teeth capture your lower lip in a sweet bite that makes you gasp. When he pulls back, he looks at you, his eyes intense, full of emotion.

— Then I'm very lucky, because you're the most precious thing anyone has ever given me. — His voice is gentle, a murmur of gratitude, of love.

— Come here. — you gasp, taking his face in your hands and pulling him in for a kiss, to feel his warmth. Your mouth opens and his tongue slides inside.

He lifts you slightly, both hands on your hips, moving them off the table to change the angle, and his cock hits a spot inside you that almost makes you scream into his mouth. The air escapes your lungs in a ragged gasp, and your legs tense around his waist, trying to keep him inside you.

You look into his eyes, your pupils dilated, filled with adoration and mutual desire. You keep your hand on his face, caressing his cheek, while you moan at his precise, deep penetrations. His gaze is like a magnet, attracting yours, and you feel lost in the abyss of his eyes. His lips curve into a smile, and his tongue comes out to lick your lips, as if he's savoring their taste.

— You look at me as if I'm the only thing you see. —He whispers, his voice husky with arousal.

— And you are. —You gasp softly in reply, your words like a trigger that breaks his control.

He starts moving faster, harder, his hips slamming into yours. The table creaks beneath you, but he doesn't slow down. He loses himself in your eyes, in the feeling of your pussy surrounding him, in the sound of your voice. His breathing is ragged, and his chest rises and falls rapidly.

— Heeseung… — His name amid your moans echoes throughout the room, as do the sounds of skin against skin with each thrust.

Your voice is like a chant, a hymn to the passion that consumes you, as he continues hitting that spot inside you that makes you see stars. The sensation is like a tsunami, a wave of pleasure that drags you toward the abyss.

— Louder… — he growls, his hands squeezing your thighs, spreading them as far as he can, and his cock drives deeper into you. You feel like you’re being torn apart by passion, like your body is being consumed by the intensity surrounding them. — Say my name again.

— Ah! Heeseung! — you whimper, your voice like a scream of release that echoes through the spacious studio. The orgasm is searing. But he doesn’t stop, he keeps moving, keeps driving his member into you, relentlessly.

He watches your face contort with pleasure, your mouth open in a silent scream. He sees your chest rise and fall rapidly, hears your soft moans. But instead of slowing down, he goes faster, penetrating you mercilessly. He wants another, another cry of ecstasy, another orgasm. His thumb finds your clit again, rubbing it in firm but gentle circles, trying to coax all the pleasure he can from your body.

— Hee~ — you whine pitifully, due to the overstimulation. He smiles devilishly, knowing exactly what those moans mean, but still continues his rhythm.

— One more, baby. Give me one more. You can take it... I know it. — He pants, sweat dripping from his forehead. His voice is like a challenge to your resistance.

— But I want you to cum too. — Your voice is almost a whisper. You really want him to release himself, to let himself go completely and lose himself in the abyss of lust where they're suspended.

His eyes nearly roll back at your words, as a wave of desire overwhelms him and drags him closer to the shore. He bites his lower lip, fighting to contain his own ejaculation, the throbbing desire that threatens to spill over.

— Not until you do it again. — he growls, his jaw clenched, his voice deep and thick with need. He presses his thumb harder against your clit, feeling your body tremble beneath his touch.

— Then cum with me. — you beg, your moans intertwining with the urgency of your words.

His eyes darken with intense desire, and he nods, unable to resist your plea. He adjusts the angle slightly, relentlessly hitting that perfect spot inside you, sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body.

— Let's cum together, my princess. — he growls with a possessive tone, his movements becoming more urgent, primal, as if each thrust demands your total surrender.

You moan loudly once more, tightening your legs around his waist, digging your fingers into his forearms, feeling the strength of his body against yours. At the sound of his name on your lips, he loses control completely. With a loud grunt, he buries his face in your neck, inhaling your scent, and his entire body tenses as he reaches climax. He feels another orgasm wash over you, your throbbing walls enveloping him, triggering his own release.

He swallows your screams, his lips devouring yours in a deep, ravenous kiss. Your bodies convulse against each other, his hot seed filling your insides, as a soft groan escapes his lips, another wave of pleasure hits him, and your inner muscles squeeze him dry. He pulls back slightly, his eyes searching yours, watching as you crumble again, lost in euphoria.

— I love you~ — you gasp softly, a surge of vulnerability floating in the air. Your confession seems to stop time. His eyes, dark and deep, bore into yours with overwhelming intensity, filled with wonder and adoration.

Something in him shudders, as if your words have pierced every layer of his being, reaching a place no one else has ever touched before. His body still trembles with the aftershocks of his relentless passion, and yet it's your declaration that truly takes his breath away. Slowly, a smile spreads across his face, the most beautiful and genuine you've ever seen. But the silence between you lengthens, and uncertainty begins to settle in your chest.

— Why aren't you answering? — you ask in a whisper, the echo of your fear resonating between you both.

He doesn't answer right away. Instead, his fingers find your face with infinite tenderness, his thumbs gently wiping away the sweat and tears of pleasure gathering at the corners of your eyes. His touch is reverent, as if you were something sacred.

— Because I'm still trying to process that you just said those three words to me. — His voice is a husky whisper, thick with emotion. He takes a deep breath, never taking his eyes off yours, finding in them all the answers he didn't know he needed.

— I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to overwhelm you. — you excuse yourself timidly, but before insecurity can take hold, he shakes his head, a soft laugh escaping his lips. And then he kisses you.

It’s not just a kiss. It’s a refuge, a silent promise, an absolute surrender. You pour all your emotions into it. He kisses you with a devotion that rekindles the spark between you, dispelling any doubts. When he finally breaks away, his forehead rests on yours, his eyes closed tightly, as if afraid that when he opens them, this moment might vanish. But you’re there. He’s there. And nothing in the world could make this moment cease to exist.

— You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear those words from you, so don’t apologize — he whispers, his voice imbued with a sincerity that envelops you like a caress. His gaze shines with a mixture of relief and suppressed emotion.

— I really wanted to say them. — you murmur softly, brushing your nose against his in a tender and complicit gesture.

His reaction is immediate. He wraps you in his arms with a strength that doesn't seek to possess, but to hold you, wanting to reassure himself that you are real, that this moment isn't a fleeting dream. His body relaxes in the embrace, for the first time in a long time, finding true peace. The warmth he radiates is comforting, enveloping, and in that contact he understands: these aren't just words. They are an absolute truth, as undeniable as the way your heart beats in unison with his.

A soft smile spreads across his face, his eyes crinkling tenderly as he absorbs every nuance of this moment. But the intensity of his love, this longing he's harbored for so long, compels him to seek confirmation.

— Are you serious? — His voice is a deep whisper, thick with emotion, while his eyes cling to yours with quiet desperation. He needs to hear it again. He needs to know this is real.

— I'm completely serious, Heeseung. I love you. — you repeat firmly, letting each word resonate with truth, with the strength of a feeling that leaves no room for doubt.

Something in him breaks and mends itself at the same time. His lips part slightly, as if he wants to respond immediately, but the torrent of emotion is too much. A single tear slides down his cheek, a silent witness to the impact of your words. He takes a deep breath, trying to stem the avalanche of feelings, but his voice trembles when he finally lets out the answer he's been keeping deep inside.

— I love you too. — In those four words, filled with an indescribable intensity, his whole world aligns with yours.

Your heart beats frantically at just hearing it, the butterflies in your stomach flutter, but there's something else that captures your attention in that instant.

— I guess you're not the only one who loves me. — you comment, amused, feeling his desire renewed inside you, his cock hardening once more.

He chuckles softly, a deep sound that resonates in his chest, filled with satisfaction. He gently moves his hips, teasing you with his renewed hardness.

— It seems so. And it also seems like I'll have a hard time tiring of you, too. — he says, his voice husky with desire, thick with palpable lust.

— I want you to bend me over this table and take me from behind. — you gasp softly, each word professing desire.

His body shudders at your heated words, his member throbbing urgently inside you. With a grunt of pure pleasure, he slowly withdraws, enjoying the exquisite friction of each brush as his manhood slides out of your cushioned, warm walls. In one swift, determined movement, he lifts you off the table, turns you over, and bends you over the wooden surface, pressing your tits against it.

Suddenly, you feel the impact of his hand on your buttock, a blow that makes you shudder and moan in surprise, but that ends up resulting in a delicious stinging sensation. He smiles wickedly at your words, loving with some morbidity the pinkish trace he leaves on your pale skin. He rubs the spot before delivering another firm slap, enjoying the way you wriggle under his touch.

Without warning, he penetrates you again, sinking his member hard into your pussy, pressing his chest against your back as he presses you against the table and his body. He wraps his arms around your waist, pressing you against him as he begins to thrust into you mercilessly. The table creaks under the force of his movements, his muscles contracting and relaxing in a primal rhythm as he thrusts in and out again and again, without any restraint.

— Do you like it? — he asks between moans, his hot breath caressing your skin.

— I love it~ — you moan, fascinated, and he leaves soft kisses on your cheek, each touch igniting the fire between you even more.

He continues thrusting into you, his movements becoming more erratic and desperate as you move. He pursues his next release. He nestles into the crook of your neck, his lips and tongue peppering your skin with hot kisses, marking you as his with every touch. He hooks an arm under one of your legs and lifts it to the edge of the table, allowing him deeper access, each penetration sending waves of pleasure through your body.

— Tell me you're only mine. — he growls, his teeth grazing your neck, a touch that sends shivers of pleasure through you.

— I am, I'm only yours. — you whimper loudly. He shudders at your words, an intense wave of possession and love enveloping him completely.

He buries his face in your hair, inhaling your intoxicating scent as he continues to penetrate you, each movement bringing him closer to the edge of ecstasy and sensitivity.

— I love you~ — he whispers huskily, each syllable filled with fervor.

— I love you too. — you reply between moans. Bringing a hand between your body and the table, he moves down your abdomen until he finds your clitoris and begins to rub it, once again seeking that relief that seems so close.

Heeseung feels you arch, your body eager for release again. Firmly, he circles your wrist with his fingers, pulling your hand away from its goal. He wants to be the one to bring you to climax, not your own fingers.

— My turn… — he growls, replacing your fingers with his, his expert touch fanning the flames of ecstasy in your body.

— Mmm~ H-Heeseung! — you mumble, choked, your insides throbbing, nearing orgasm. You clutch the table, seeking stability in the abyss of pleasure.

He feels your limbs trembling, aware that you're on the verge of unraveling again. He rubs your clit with firm pressure, synchronizing his movements with his thrusts. With his other hand, he grabs your hips, holding you tight as he thrusts relentlessly.

— Be a good girl and cum for me again... — he commands huskily, a command that resonates deep inside you. And without further ado, Heeseung feels you convulse around him, reaching your climax, his name on your lips. — That's it, you're doing so good, baby. So good for me.

He continues moving inside you, prolonging your pleasure, reveling in the way your body trembles and gripping him in an ecstasy that seems to have no end. His own climax reaches him like a crashing wave, and with one last deep thrust, he lets himself go, spilling inside you once more, with an intensity that leaves him trembling. A deep roar escapes his throat, his gravelly voice reverberating through the studio as his body surrenders to the wave of sensations coursing through him.

The air is still thick with desire and something deeper, something beyond physical pleasure. With a ragged sigh, you collapse onto the table, the warmth of your skin meeting the coolness of the wood as you try to catch your breath. Heeseung doesn't move away. Instead, he snuggles up against you, his face finding refuge in the crook of your neck and shoulder, his still erratic breathing brushing your skin. His arms slide around your waist, pulling you against him with possessive need.

— You fascinate me. — His voice is a deep whisper, still laced with emotion and desire. His lips brush against your skin as he continues to murmur words of adoration, telling you how much he loves you, how beautiful you are, how unique it feels to have you in his life.

Each word is a balm, a reminder that this isn't just desire, but something bigger, more real. His confessions feel like invisible caresses, enveloping you in a bubble of tranquility, one that belongs only to this moment, to the two of you, and to the certainty that, for now, nothing else matters.

[safetycourses2022]

[woso-dreamzzz]

Captain

Hardersson x Daughter!Reader

Part of The Big Adventures Universe

Summary: Sweden's new captain

The decision comes out of nowhere to Pernille.

It shouldn't but it does.

She thinks it blindsides Magda too but her wife will not admit that.

You're twenty-five now, having just come off your best season at Barcelona yet. After the summer is over, you're off to Wolfsburg finally and Pernille couldn't be prouder.

But, you need to get through this summer first.

You're off at camp, having spent a short few days with Magda and Pernille before heading off to meet up with the rest of the Swedish team.

Pernille's flicking through the channels aimlessly when Magda nudges her, directing her to the channel that's playing Emma's press conference.

The captain of the team retired earlier that month and everybody had been speculating who would replace her and Pernille has to admit that she's got a fair bit of money on it being the woman that plays for United.

She's one of the older players on the team and is a vice-captain at club level.

Magda had disagreed with her, saying that United player was still a newer call-up than those who were younger but had been on the team longer. Magda wasn't quite sure where to put her money but she thought it was a toss-up between the forward from PSG and the midfielder from Gotham.

"-Younger side, don't you think? Surely there are a few older players who could have worn the armband."

"I mean, I'm sure there were," Emma says," But the decision was quite unanimous. I didn't make it by myself. I spoke to the players. I spoke to the staff. Our previous captain mentioned her by name. I'm confident that she'll be a very good leader on the pitch."

"And what kind of qualities do you think she'll bring?"

"Well, I'm sure you all know by now but I'm quite brash. I say it how I see it and, yeah, maybe I'm a little too tough sometimes. I think she'll balance that out and lift up some of her teammates. Just having her on our team is...Well, it's amazing. Sometimes I look at what she's won and how she's won it and I'm just in awe. You can load her with pressure and she just takes it. She's always improving and I think she'll instil that upon the team."

"The Gotham girl," Magda insists, nodding her head at the screen," For sure. Didn't she win the Ballon D'or last year?"

Pernille rolls her eyes. "The year before, which I know you know because Natalia won last year."

Magda grins, teasing. "Did she? I can't quite remember."

Emma's still talking though so they both pull their attentions back to the tv.

"I mean, it's not the first time she's had responsibility like this. She's captained her club a few times. She captained her youth team."

"The United girl!" Pernille says triumphantly," I knew it! Didn't she captain the youth team at some point?"

"So did the Gotham girl," Magda reminds her," And the one from PSG."

"There's obviously questions about bias?" One nasty reporter probes," From you? Seeing as her mother-"

"I really invite you to look at her trophy cabinet," Emma interrupts plainly," And all that she's won and all that she's going to win. She's played for some of the top clubs in the world. You don't get that just on connections. She's a talent. She was a prodigy when she was younger. She's been on the senior team since she was seventeen."

"Called up during an injury crisis, yes," The reporter says and Emma rolls her eyes.

"And proved herself during it. She was called up during the injury crisis, yes, but she never left. She's consistently been called up. There's a reason she's who we turn to."

"But-"

"She was recommended by our previous captain. Actually, I believe her words were something like 'Emma, she's ready'. I don't think you can give a more glowing recommendation than that. Listen, the fact of the matter is, I can't think of anyone more perfect for this role than her. She has the passion, she has the drive. She has connections with the rest of the team that people dream of."

The door to the conference room opens and Pernille holds her breath, ready to cheer her triumph at predicting the United girl becoming captain.

"And," The moderator says," Captain Harder-Eriksson."

You look a little nervous but you hide it well, sliding into the seat next to Emma and adjusting the microphone.

Suddenly, everything Emma has said falls into place for Pernille.

Your list of accolades were impressive. WSL titles, Champion's League, Liga F. Somehow, over the years, you've won practically everything with your clubs. You'd won World Cups on top of that. You were probably one of the most decorated goalkeepers in the world.

You'd worn the armband a few times for Barcelona, sharing duties with one of your teammates when Natalia wasn't on the pitch. You'd captained Denmark when you still played with them too.

The smoking gun should have been the reference to your mothers, to Magda and Pernille who had both captained their countries and Magda, who had served as Chelsea's captain under Emma. Of course, there was reasoning for potential bias.

Everything else should have just made it more obvious.

Being called up at seventeen during the injury crisis for the Swedish keepers.

Playing for the top clubs in the world.

You'd practically been taken under the wing of the previous captain since you first arrived.

Magda had joked once that it was a little like you were being groomed to take her place...

Pernille's awestruck as she stares. You hold yourself well as you talk, articulating your words perfectly even though she knows that you're probably shaking inside.

She's always thought that you turned into a different person when it came to football. You were strictly professional and confident when she knew you were a mess of anxiety sometimes. You seemed to be able to put it all aside for your football.

She'd seen how you command your back line during games, somehow making sure they knew exactly what you wanted them to do and how you wanted them to do it.

Pernille wonders, briefly, if she had been blind to put the United girl forward instead of you.

"I'm really looking forward to this summer," You say into the microphone," I'm grateful for my teammates for believing in me and Emma and the staff for giving me this opportunity. I'm hoping that I can help support my teammates so we can keep getting better and better."

[sapphireluci]

Remember those Reala x Amigo and NiGHTS x Ulala fan kids I made a while back? This is them now, feel old yet?

Nuria (strawberry goblin monkey on da left) becomes a successful idol sensation just like her dad, Amigo, also utilizing maracas in among other instruments and dances in her shows. While known for her electric energy on the stage and her friendly and bubbly nature everywhere else, don’t be fooled into thinking she’s abandoned her naturally chaotic nature, it is still very much there, albeit more controlled. Her manager is her aunt, Amiga, a now retired pop-star who has made it her goal to steer her niece to global stardom, even if that niece is content with just local attention.

Endri (bubblegum ballerino mf on da right) goes on to work at Channel 5 as a live broadcaster, similar to his mother, Ulala, making sure to give his viewers the best view of the latest scoop. He of course retained his wit, sass, and attitude, which he uses as needed when gracefully handling cosmic-level threats on the job, but even through all that sass is someone who loves his family with everything that he is. Not only does he pride himself in his reporter job, but puts great effort into being a dance instructor on the side, providing only the best space ballet lessons to anyone worthy of the attention.