#I’m GOOD with lectures and with learning from lectures

[0scarp1astr1]

˖ 𐔌 𝐅𝐥𝐚𝐭 𝐎𝐮𝐭 𝐅𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬࿐.۫

જ⁀➴ Desc: || Coming from wealth doesn’t mean you come from love. When your father cuts you off, you're left to find a roommate to help keep your life in Monaco afloat. Kimi Antonelli’s place isn’t ready yet, so he moves in—and what starts as convenience slowly brings peace, family, and unexpected change. ||

ᯓ★ Kimi Antonelli x Fem! Reader

ᯓ★ 2x Genre: Fluff, Angst

ᯓ★ Warning: None

ᯓ★ Requested? No

Author Note: I was going to do this with Ollie, but I already have an Ollie story in mind, so, I figured I would give everyone some Kimi once again on this blog. S/n (sister's name), and your best friend's name in this is Amilla, entirely up to your imagination how she looks as well as your sister. ENJOY!

☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★

Growing up surrounded by wealth wasn't the gilded fairytale people imagined. Sure, there was luxury—soft sheets, name-brand clothes, drivers who opened doors, and holidays in warm places. But luxury didn’t mean love. It didn’t mean attention. And it certainly didn’t mean fairness.

Your family had money. Old money. The kind of wealth that came with expectations and unspoken hierarchies, where lineage mattered more than individuality. Your father ran the family business—something passed from generation to generation like a sacred heirloom. One day, he’d hand it down again. But not to you. That had been clear since you were old enough to understand your own name. It would go to S/n. Always S/n.

Your mother was a neurosurgeon, brilliant and always composed, walking through the house with heels clicking and a schedule tighter than her high bun. She was the kind of woman people admired. But she was distant, her affections portioned carefully, like rations during wartime. And you learned early that most of those rations went to your sister.

Vacations as a kid had been something you used to look forward to. Back then, you didn’t notice how different things were. You just knew you got to be on a beach with a juice box, and your sister got the bigger floaty. You thought that was normal.

But as the years went by, the favoritism stopped being subtle.

At Christmas, you’d unwrap two gifts. Your sister had a mountain. A literal mountain. Once, when you asked if you could get a digital camera, your mother had looked at the price tag and said, “Maybe next year.” That same year, your sister got a custom-built pink go-kart because she said it looked "cute" in a movie.

You were twelve when you started noticing that conversations weren’t really conversations with your parents—they were lectures disguised as concern. You’d get a scolding for a B on a test. Your sister would be celebrated for an A she hadn’t even earned—she was charismatic enough to charm her way out of anything.

And your father—he spoke of her like she was a miracle. “One day, she’ll take over everything,” he used to say to guests at parties while you stood beside him, invisible. “She’s got the look, the mind, the instinct.”

No one ever asked what you had.

When you were sixteen, sitting across from your father at the dinner table, he asked casually, like it didn’t mean anything, “So what are you planning for the future?”

You’d been waiting for that moment. You straightened your spine and spoke clearly.

“I want to go into motorsports engineering.”

He paused, halfway through cutting his steak. “Hmm,” he muttered, then nodded. “That’s good, sweetie.”

That was it. No follow-up. No curiosity.

Across the table, S/n chimed in without being asked. “I’m thinking of modeling. I’ve already had a few agencies reach out. Plus, I want to travel. Maybe get a fashion line started.”

Your mother beamed. “Oh, darling, you’d be perfect. Your face was made for a billboard. And with your father’s connections…”

You sat there, pressing your fork into a piece of overcooked asparagus, chewing your silence.

That was how most conversations went.

At eighteen, after your graduation, you brought it up again—this time more serious. It was just you and your father at dinner in the study, eating off plates without the pretense of table manners.

���I want to move out,” you said, testing the words.

He didn’t even look surprised. He barely looked up.

“That’s good, sweetheart. Where are you thinking?”

“Monaco,” you said. “I’ve looked into a few universities there. I want to continue with engineering—eventually get my master’s. I know it’ll take time, but I’m ready.”

You tried to smile, like it would help him see your sincerity. You wanted him to care.

He nodded absently and took a sip of his scotch. “That’s good. Let me know where you land. I’ll help you get settled.”

Your heart squeezed. “You will?”

“Of course. I’ll cover the rent for your flat, but you’ll need to get a job. Can’t support everything.”

You hesitated. “S/n doesn’t work.”

He exhaled like you’d said something exhausting. “Y/N, your sister is preparing to take over the business. Her time is coming. You know that.”

Right. Her time. Like yours never would.

So you moved.

Monaco was beautiful in a way you hadn’t expected. The city glittered at night like it had its own heartbeat, its own rhythm, far away from the echo of your father’s praise and your mother’s quiet favoritism.

You found a small flat with plain walls and cheap furniture, but it was yours. Your father helped you move in, carried boxes with a detached politeness, then handed you a spare key and left.

“Be smart with your time,” he said. “Don’t waste it.”

You weren’t sure if it was advice or a warning.

You got two jobs. A café by day, a restaurant by night. You’d collapse into bed, then wake up to submit your assignments before rushing back to work. Your professors only knew you as a face on a screen. You hated online school, but it was all you could afford.

Your fridge was mostly empty. Your walls were bare. You had three pans and one cutting board. Dinner was usually takeout—cheap pasta or boxed rice—because after a ten-hour shift, the last thing you wanted was to stand in front of a stove.

And your sister?

She was everywhere.

You’d scroll through social media, half-awake, and there she’d be—posing on a yacht in Santorini, smiling on a balcony in Paris, lounging in a silk robe with captions like #blessed #bookedandbusy. Her followers adored her. Your father reposted every brand deal she landed. Your mother shared her photos like holiday cards.

One night, sitting on your bed with a carton of takeout balanced on your lap, you opened your calendar to find a red-circled reminder: Family visiting tomorrow.

You groaned, setting your food aside. The idea of them walking into your small space, judging the plainness of your life—it made your chest feel tight.

You hadn’t invited them. Your father had insisted.

“It’s important,” he’d said on the phone. “We want to see how you’re doing.”

But they didn’t want to see how you were doing.

They wanted to compare.

You leaned your head back against the wall, sighing into the quiet. Your laptop screen buzzed gently, the cursor blinking in an empty assignment document.

“I’m tired of this,” you muttered.

Of the imbalance. Of the cold love. Of being measured against someone you could never outshine.

S/n would walk through your door tomorrow in a designer coat and full makeup. She’d sit on your secondhand couch like it was diseased. Your mother would comment on the size of your kitchen. Your father would ask if you’d “thought about getting something more stable.”

And none of them would see it—the long hours, the aching feet, the grades you worked for, the resilience it took to just exist outside their shadow.

But you saw it.

You felt it.

And maybe that was enough.

Maybe not.

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

You sat on the edge of your couch, back straight, arms folded tightly across your chest, the ticking of the wall clock louder than it should’ve been. The air in your apartment was heavy, stifling, despite the open window. Your parents sat opposite you in the two mismatched armchairs you’d found at a secondhand shop last month, looking as though the fabric might give them a rash. Your sister—S/n—occupied the arm of one chair like it was a throne, one long leg crossed over the other, perfectly manicured fingers brushing invisible lint from her designer slacks.

They hadn’t even been in your flat five minutes and already you could feel their judgment soaking into the walls. Your mother kept glancing at the chipped paint near the baseboards. Your father’s gaze swept across your bookshelf with unreadable criticism. S/n looked around like she was in a student dorm.

You broke the silence. “So… you said this visit was important?”

Your voice was low, careful, not wanting to sound defensive—but there was already tension coiled in your spine.

Your father nodded, finally giving you his full attention as he folded his hands across his knee. “Yes. It is.”

You watched him pause for effect, the same way he did at corporate meetings you’d sat through as a kid, the same way he always made sure the room was ready to listen before dropping his words like gospel.

“Well, S/n is engaged.”

Your eyebrows shot up before you could control your reaction, your gaze snapping to your sister. “What?”

S/n’s grin widened as she held up her left hand, her long fingers shimmering under the weight of a diamond so big it could probably be seen from space. You stared at it. It wasn’t just a ring. It was a statement—loud, bold, impossibly expensive.

“She said yes last week,” your mother added softly, pride swelling in her voice like it was her engagement, not her daughter’s. “It was the most romantic proposal. Private jet to Lake Como. He had the staff arrange everything. Champagne, roses, the whole thing.”

“Wow,” you said, your voice flat. You didn’t know what else to say. You hadn’t even known she was dating anyone seriously.

“And the wedding is going to be expensive,” your father continued, his tone businesslike now. “Top-tier venue, elite catering, designer dress, security, stylists, floral design… everything a celebration of this scale demands. Her fiancé is contributing, of course, but most of the financial responsibility falls on us.”

You swallowed hard, already sensing the weight of what was coming.

“Which means,” your mother interjected, her tone cooler now, “we’re going to have to cut your funding. The rent for your flat, your utilities… we simply won’t be able to cover it all anymore. We need to give S/n our full attention.”

You blinked. “Wait… what?”

Your voice cracked slightly, the disbelief catching in your throat. Your eyes darted between their faces, looking for any sign that this was some kind of joke. But no one was laughing.

“I’m sorry, honey,” your mother said, not sounding sorry at all. “We just need to prioritize.”

“Prioritize?” you echoed.

“You can still live here,” your father offered, shrugging like that solved everything, “but… we know you won’t be able to afford it on your own. And with your school and… your work, that’s a lot to juggle. It might be best if you came home for a while. Regroup.”

“Right,” S/n chimed in, her voice bright, chipper, like she was offering you a lifeline. “You could come back home with Mom and Dad! It’s not a big deal. I mean, let’s be honest—this place is a bit of a dump. It’s not like it’ll be a huge step down.”

Your mouth opened, then closed. You stared at her, wondering how someone could say something so casually cruel.

“I have two jobs here,” you snapped, your voice rising before you could stop it. “I study all night, I sleep maybe four hours, I bust my ass trying to keep this apartment and pass my classes and stay afloat—and you’re just… cutting me off?”

“Y/N…” your father sighed, like your voice was giving him a headache. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be. You’re not being punished. This is just the reality. You’re not a child anymore. And we need to invest in the child who’s… in a critical life stage right now.”

“Right,” you scoffed bitterly, sinking back against the couch. “Because God forbid I ever be in a critical life stage.”

“It’s not like we’re abandoning you,” your mother added, sitting forward slightly. “You’ll always have a room at home. You can work at your pace and be comfortable.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “Comfortable? You mean invisible. That’s what I’ll be back home. A ghost in the hallway while you all parade S/n down the aisle and throw her the wedding of the century.”

“That’s not fair,” S/n said with a shrug. “Just because I’m getting married doesn’t mean it’s about favoritism. I just have different goals. Glamorous ones.”

You stared at her. “Different goals,” you repeated, biting back every word you really wanted to scream. “Right. Like being loved. Celebrated. Chosen.”

Your father stood, brushing his slacks like he was done with the conversation. “We’re not here to argue. We just came to inform you. The rent will be covered through next month. After that, it’s up to you.”

You stayed seated, your whole body trembling with a quiet anger that went deeper than your skin. It wasn’t just about the apartment. It was about a lifetime of being passed over.

They started gathering their things, your mother smoothing out her coat, your sister checking her phone, already distracted.

“Congratulations,” you mumbled without looking up.

S/n glanced back at you with a smirk. “Thanks. I’ll send you the invite.”

They left without hugs. Just a closing door and the lingering scent of your mother's perfume.

And for a long time, you sat there, staring at the dent in the couch cushion where your father had sat, like his presence still weighed it down.

You didn’t cry.

You were too tired to cry.

But deep in your chest, something hardened. You didn’t know what yet. Maybe it was resolve.

Maybe it was the first breath of freedom.

After the door clicked shut, the silence that followed was loud—almost oppressive. The kind that settles in your bones and reminds you just how alone you are.

You stared at the chipped tile near the front door, hands limp in your lap. The echo of their voices still clung to the walls—your father’s cold practicality, your mother’s detached logic, your sister’s smug indifference. It all buzzed like static in your ears.

You blinked slowly, chest tight, and reached for your phone. Your fingers hovered for a second before you tapped the contact without thinking—Amilla.

The only person who really knew you.

The only person who had stayed.

It rang once. Twice. Three times. And then—

“Hey.”

Her voice was soft, but it cracked with concern.

You didn’t say anything at first. You just let out a hum, tired and hollow.

“Family meeting went bad?” she asked knowingly.

You gave a small, bitter laugh, dragging your palm down your face as you leaned back against the couch cushion. “You could say that.”

There was a sigh on the other end, followed by the rustling of what sounded like car keys. “I’ll be there in ten. Don’t move. Don’t overthink. Just… breathe, okay? You can tell me everything when I get there.”

And with that, she hung up.

You stared at the screen a moment longer before placing the phone face-down on the coffee table.

Ten minutes.

That’s all you had to hold yourself together for.

You stood up slowly, your joints aching from tension and exhaustion, and moved around the flat in a daze. The room suddenly felt smaller. Dimmer. Like your family had sucked the color out of the space with their judgment and fake smiles.

You shuffled into the tiny kitchen and opened the fridge. A bottle of water. A leftover takeout box. Two eggs. Some mustard. You shut it again, heart sinking a little lower.

You moved instead to the window, pulling back the sheer curtain and looking out over the street. The sun had dipped low, casting a golden hue across the balconies of neighboring buildings. People were laughing somewhere down below. A couple walked hand in hand across the sidewalk, her head on his shoulder. You wondered if they knew how lucky they were. Or if luck even had anything to do with it.

You heard the buzz of the intercom almost exactly ten minutes later.

“Coming,” you murmured, pressing the button before you opened the front door, leaving it slightly ajar.

A few moments later, Amilla walked in without knocking. She didn’t have to. She never did.

She wore an oversized hoodie and leggings, her hair pulled into a loose bun, no makeup—just comfort. She took one look at your face and set her bag down immediately.

“Okay,” she said gently, stepping forward. “Hug first. Words later.”

You didn’t argue. You stepped into her arms, and for the first time all day, your body finally let go. Your face buried into her shoulder, your breath catching in your throat. The tears came—not loudly, not dramatically—just quiet and exhausted. Like a release.

She held you tightly, like she knew exactly how broken you felt. She rubbed your back in slow, steady circles. “I’ve got you,” she whispered. “I’m here.”

You pulled back after a moment, sniffling and wiping at your eyes with your sleeve. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she said firmly. “Now sit. Start from the top.”

You both settled on the couch, your knees tucked under you as she pulled a throw blanket over your lap and curled beside you.

You took a deep breath, letting it all out. “They came here just to tell me they’re cutting me off. Rent, utilities, everything. Because S/n is getting married.”

Amilla’s eyebrows shot up. “What?”

You nodded, voice hollow. “She’s engaged. Huge ring. Huge wedding. Dad’s paying for the whole thing—the venue, honeymoon, probably a freaking fireworks show too. And since it’s going to be ‘expensive,’ they decided they can’t afford to help me anymore.”

She scoffed, shaking her head. “Oh, because clearly their child working two jobs and doing college alone isn’t a priority, but throwing your sister a royal wedding is.”

“They told me I could move back home,” you said, voice thick with disbelief. “Like that’s some kind of gift. They said it’d be easier. More ‘comfortable.’”

Amilla narrowed her eyes. “Comfortable for who? So you can play second fiddle in your own house again? Watch your sister get crowned Queen of the Universe while you serve snacks at the engagement party?”

You laughed dryly. “Basically.”

She sat in silence for a moment, eyes scanning your face. “You’re not going back.”

“I can’t afford this place on my own.”

“We’ll figure it out,” she said instantly. “Maybe we find you a roommate. Or a smaller place. Or you move in with me for a while—I’ve got space.”

“Millie…”

“I’m serious.” Her voice softened, but her expression didn’t budge. “I’m not letting you go back there. Not to that house. Not to them. They don’t see you. But I do.”

You blinked fast, your throat tightening again. “I don’t want to depend on anyone.”

“You’re not,” she said. “You’re surviving. There’s a difference.”

Silence settled between you again, but this time it felt warm—like safety, not judgment. The apartment, still small and dim, somehow didn’t feel so suffocating anymore.

You looked over at her, brushing hair from your face. “Thank you.”

“Always,” she said, offering a small smile. “Now, do you want to keep venting or should we do something reckless like drink wine and look at Airbnbs we can’t afford?”

You grinned, a tired kind of grin. “Both. Definitely both.”

The day was bittersweet, soaked in a kind of ache that settled somewhere deep in your bones. It was the kind of ache that had no clear origin, no obvious wound—just the slow burn of disappointment, of being reminded once again that love, in your family, came with conditions. You had gone through all the stages—shock, anger, confusion—and now, sitting in the quiet after your parents and sister had left, it was just sorrow lingering like smoke in the room.

You didn’t understand her. S/n.

She had always kept you at arm's length. Like you were competition, not family. Like your existence threatened the affection and money she wanted all to herself. Even when you were little, she’d treated you more like a shadow than a sister—one she wanted to outshine, outrun, and forget. And maybe that was the part that hurt the most: you never wanted to compete. You only wanted to be seen.

After spending the afternoon with Amilla, the heaviness dulled just slightly. You’d curled up on the couch with her, shared cheap snacks and worse jokes. She made you laugh when your chest still ached from holding in tears. And though she never said it outright, she understood the weight of what you were going through. She always had.

Your flat didn’t feel quite so dull with her in it. Sure, it was a bit lifeless—bare walls, basic furniture, cold lighting—but it wasn’t awful. It was small, a little plain, but it was yours. It just needed… love. Color. A plant or two. Maybe some laughter.

You walked her to the door, leaning against the frame as she slid on her shoes.

“I’ll be back tomorrow to make sure you’re still breathing,” she teased, tugging her bag up on her shoulder.

You rolled your eyes with a soft smile. “I’ll try not to die in the next 24 hours.”

She paused, half out the door, then turned back to you. Her face softened. “Seriously. Stop thinking you’re burdening me. If you need anything—anything—just ask. You're not taking anything from my life. You're in it.”

Her voice carried more weight than it usually did, and for a moment, you felt it. The sincerity. The safety. She felt more like a sister than S/n ever had.

You blinked back the emotion rising behind your eyes and gave a small nod. “Thanks, Millie.”

“I mean it.” She pointed at you, backing down the hall. “I will drag you out of here if I have to. Preferably not by the hair, but I’ll do what I must.”

You laughed softly, and just like that, she was gone—leaving behind warmth in her wake.

A few blocks away, Kimi let out a sigh as he leaned against the balcony railing outside a quiet café, phone pressed to his ear. The Monaco sun was beginning to dip low in the sky, casting long golden shadows over the sleek buildings and cobblestone streets.

“My place won’t be ready for a few more months,” he murmured into the phone, watching a group of teenagers skateboard across the square. “Still doing the kitchen, flooring, painting… all of it.”

His father’s voice crackled through the speaker, calm but filled with quiet concern. “You sure you don’t want to stay at the summer home? You don’t have to live in a hotel or whatever.”

“I’ll be fine, Dad. I’ve got options.” Kimi glanced around. “Just want to figure it out myself. Starting my life here, you know?”

There was a pause on the line before his dad spoke again. “Alright. But if you need us, if anything goes wrong, just say the word. You’re never alone out there, Kimi.”

He smiled faintly, nodding to himself. “I know. Thanks.”

After hanging up, he stepped onto the sidewalk, stuffing his phone into his jacket pocket and letting the breeze hit his face. Monaco had been a dream for a while—fresh start, new chapter, Formula 1 career in full swing. He had the money, the status, the success. But none of that helped with finding a place ready to live in right now. The luxury flat he’d purchased was stunning—top floor, sea view, sunlight flooding through tall windows—but far from move-in ready.

As he rounded a corner distractedly, his shoulder bumped into someone.

“Oh—sorry,” he said immediately, looking up.

Amilla laughed, steadying herself and crouching down to pick up her phone. “No worries there. I’ve dealt with worse than being body-checked by someone who smells like expensive cologne.”

He offered an apologetic half-smile. “Wasn’t looking where I was going.”

She dusted off her phone and tucked it away. “I’ve been there. My brain’s a whirlwind right now. My friend—she’s kind of going through hell.”

Kimi raised a brow. “Yeah?”

Amilla nodded, ready to talk like she’d known him for years. “Yeah. Her dad’s cutting her off, like boom, done. Next month’s rent is the last bit of help she’s getting.”

“That sucks,” Kimi muttered with a frown.

“Right? And she’s here in Monaco—alone, juggling two jobs, going to school, barely keeping it together. And her parents just bailed on her because her sister’s getting married. The whole Cinderella step-family situation.”

He blinked. “That’s… harsh.”

“Tell me about it,” Amilla said, adjusting her bag. “She’s too proud to ask for help. I keep offering. Hell, I told her to move in with me. I said I’d kick out my boyfriend if I had to. He wouldn’t even fight me on it.”

Kimi chuckled. “Sounds like you’ve got her back.”

“Always,” she said.

He paused, thoughtful. “Actually… is she looking for a roommate?”

Amilla’s eyes went wide. “Wait. Are you psychic?”

He blinked. “What?”

“I literally said earlier I’d help her find a roommate! I said I’d start asking around! And now, boom, here you are, asking me that.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, my place isn’t ready, and I don’t want to do hotels for months. I’ve been thinking about finding something temporary. If she’s got space…”

Amilla squinted at him suspiciously. “You’re not a serial killer, right?”

“Not last time I checked,” he deadpanned.

“Good. You’re about to change someone’s life,” she said, pulling her phone out again. “What’s your name?”

“Kimi.”

She grinned. “Alright, Kimi. I think I’ve got someone you really need to meet.”

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The rain had faded into a soft drizzle by late afternoon, painting the Monaco streets in muted silver and gold. You were still wrapped in your hoodie and blanket, curled up on the couch as your laptop sat open on the coffee table—an unfinished motorsports engineering module on engine telemetry blinking back at you, completely ignored.

Your mind was elsewhere. Namely: rent, your sister’s wedding, and the gnawing ache of being left behind by the very people meant to love you unconditionally.

A knock at the door broke through the quiet.

You shuffled toward it slowly, blanket still draped over your shoulders like a makeshift shield.

When you opened the door, Amilla stood there in her rain-damp hoodie, cheeks pink from the breeze and wearing a grin that made your suspicion kick in immediately.

“You brought something, didn’t you?” you asked.

“Technically someone,” she corrected, stepping aside.

And that’s when you saw him.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Tousled dark hair damp from the rain. A sharp jawline, hoodie pulled low, and deep brown eyes—warm, steady, quietly observing.

You knew that face instantly.

Kimi Antonelli.

Your jaw nearly hit the floor.

Formula 1’s golden boy. Mercedes’ pride. The Kimi Antonelli, with a junior record longer than your coursework, and a fanbase that included a good half of your class. You’d watched his F2 performances like gospel before he ever made the jump to F1. His Monaco junior win? Practically mandatory viewing in your program.

And now he was standing on your doormat, like this was totally normal.

“Hey,” he said softly, hands in his hoodie pockets. “Nice to meet you.”

“Hi,” you said, voice slightly too high-pitched. “Um. Come in?”

He nodded and stepped inside, doing a polite scan of your modest flat while Amilla followed, already peeling off her coat like she owned the place.

“You didn’t say Kimi Antonelli,” you hissed at her, eyes wide as she flopped on the edge of your couch.

“Did I not?” she blinked. “I just said Kimi.”

“You said Kimi like he was some guy you bumped into, not like Kimi Antonelli, the Formula One driver who literally eats data for breakfast.”

“Okay, dramatic.”

You gave her a pointed look, and then—without hesitation—grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her into your bedroom, shutting the door behind you with a soft click.

“Are you out of your mind?” you whisper-yelled.

“What?” she asked, genuinely confused. “He’s chill!”

“He’s also famous! Like, motorsports world famous. Do you not realize I wrote a paper on his F4 championship run last year? I have a graph on my laptop right now that literally has his race telemetry in it!”

Amilla blinked. “Wait. That’s him?”

“YES, Amilla. That’s him.”

She paused. Then grinned slowly. “Damn. Well. He’s cuter in person.”

“Not the point!”

You began pacing. “I can’t just… live with Kimi Antonelli. What if I geek out? What if I say something dumb? What if he sees my notes and realizes I analyze his braking patterns for fun?!”

“Okay, first of all, breathe,” she said, putting a hand on your shoulder. “Second, you’re acting like he’s a rock star or royalty. He’s just a dude who drives really fast and wears a fancy fireproof suit.”

You stared at her.

“I swear to God, Amilla—”

“Hey. You need help. He needs a place. You both know how to change tires. It’s a match made in motorsports heaven.”

You blinked, exhaled hard, and pinched the bridge of your nose. “Okay. Fine. Cool. Calm.”

“Exactly,” she smiled. “Now put on your chill face. You’re the girl who knows how to recite FIA regulations from memory. You’ve got this.”

You nodded slowly, squaring your shoulders.

And then both of you walked back out to the living room like nothing had happened.

Kimi looked up from where he’d politely sat himself on the couch, his hands folded in his lap. His eyes flicked between the two of you with faint curiosity.

“Sorry,” Amilla said breezily. “Just a minor fashion emergency.”

You shot her a glare that she absolutely ignored.

You sat across from Kimi, trying to look neutral—cool, composed, totally not someone who once stayed up watching his entire rookie season highlight reel on YouTube.

“So,” you said, clearing your throat. “You’re looking for a place, and I’m… well. Being kicked out by my parents. Seems like we might be able to help each other.”

Kimi gave a small nod, his expression relaxed. “Yeah. My place won’t be ready until December. Renovations are taking longer than expected.”

“You’re in Monaco full-time?” you asked.

“For now. It’s a good base. I’m barely here during race weeks, anyway, so you’d have the place mostly to yourself.”

You nodded, your mind already calculating logistics: space, schedule, rent split. It could work. If you didn’t combust from awkward fan energy first.

“I mean,” Amilla chimed in with a grin. “She’s a motorsports engineering student, so if anything breaks, she can probably fix it better than your mechanics.”

You flushed slightly, and Kimi smiled—just barely, but it was there.

“That’s good to know,” he said, looking at you, not amused… but intrigued.

You swallowed, nodded once. “Okay. Trial run. One week. If we don’t kill each other, we can talk about extending it.”

“Fair enough.”

Amilla stood and stretched. “And with that, I have officially solved your housing crisis. You’re welcome, Monaco.”

You and Kimi both said at the same time, “It’s not like that.”

You paused.

He looked at you.

You looked at him.

A beat.

Then, a flicker of a smile on both your faces.

Not like that… but maybe something was about to begin anyway

When Amilla left, the sound of the door clicking shut behind her echoed just a little too loudly. And then came the silence. Heavy and awkward—not uncomfortable, just new.

You stood there for a second, not quite knowing where to start. Kimi stood across the room, still taking it all in, hands in the pockets of his hoodie as his brown eyes scanned your small, lived-in flat. No judgment, just quiet observation.

You cleared your throat, shifting your weight from one foot to the other.

“It’s not bad,” you said, gesturing around vaguely. “Small kitchen, yeah. And the lighting sucks at night—but it’s a decent two-bedroom. The second one’s kind of bland, just a guest room right now. But you’re free to do what you want with it. Move furniture. Put up posters. Burn sage. Whatever.”

He nodded once, offering a faint smile. “Well… thank you. Seriously.”

You tucked your arms around yourself, half-shrugging. “And, uh, I mostly live on takeout. I work two jobs and still help pay for stuff around here, even when my dad was covering the rent. I also cover my school tuition, some bills, extra things. So if you get hungry, there’s some tea and sad leftovers, but… you’ll probably wanna grab something from down the street.”

He let out a quiet chuckle and shook his head. “It’s fine. I can manage.”

You studied his expression for a second—unreadable, but not distant. Then you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding and gave a sheepish laugh.

“I feel like a loser. I’m sorry you have to stay in a place this… bland.”

He looked at you then, really looked, and his voice was gentle when he said, “Your friend told me the basics of your situation. So it’s fine. Really.”

Some of the tension left your shoulders. Not all, but enough to speak with less of a guard.

“At least we can make this work,” you said, crossing to the window and tugging at the blinds. The city outside glowed faintly through the mist. “You said your place will be ready by December. Until then, you can help with some bills, keep things running. And then when you move out, I’ll… probably move back home.”

He nodded. “Just tell me my half. I’ll take care of it.”

You hesitated. That quiet promise—I’ll take care of it—wasn’t something you were used to hearing without fine print.

Your life had always been private. Not by choice, just… survival. You’d learned to keep the details quiet, tucked behind tired smiles and vague explanations. And for the first time, it didn’t feel like Kimi was trying to push past that. He wasn’t asking for details. He wasn’t giving advice. He was just here—in it, without judgment.

Maybe that’s why it was easier to breathe.

You gestured down the hall. “Guest room’s yours. Go ahead and check it out, unpack, move things around, whatever you need to do.”

“Sure thing,” he said, walking toward the hallway, then pausing as he turned to you. “Thanks. For letting me stay here.”

You nodded. “You’re welcome.”

Then he glanced over his shoulder again, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Honestly… I’m kind of surprised you’re not freaking out.”

Your stomach flipped.

And deep down, you were. Your heart had been skipping beats since he first stepped inside.

You swallowed and gave a dry laugh. “It’s nothing.”

He tilted his head like he didn’t quite buy it.

You sighed, rubbing your palm against the back of your neck. “Okay. Fine. I know who you are.”

His expression barely changed—just a slight lift of one brow, waiting.

“I study F1 alongside my main coursework,” you admitted, voice softening. “Motorsports engineering. I want to work in it—trackside, data, power unit management, maybe race strategy. You were in one of my research papers last semester.”

Kimi blinked.

“I broke down your Spa performance frame by frame for a telemetry analysis project,” you added, managing a nervous smile. “So, yeah. You being here? It feels a little fake. Like… dream-sequence, simulation glitch kind of fake.”

He smiled—just slightly, but you caught it. Not smug. Not flattered. Just… quiet understanding.

“Well,” he said, voice even, “give it a few days. It’ll feel real eventually.”

You exhaled through your nose, half-laughing. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

He chuckled, the sound low and real, and disappeared down the hall to explore the guest room. You stood there for a moment, staring at the place he’d been, and whispered under your breath—

“Don’t fall for the racecar driver. Don’t fall for the racecar driver. Don’t—”

But part of you already knew… it might be too late.

The rest of the day had gone by more smoothly than you expected. The initial awkwardness had faded into something calmer—comfortable, even. There were quiet stretches, soft conversation, and occasional shared glances that said this isn’t so bad without needing the words.

You’d talked a bit—about your schoolwork, the café job, the restaurant shifts, how most of your nights ended with sore feet and cold takeout. Kimi had listened more than he spoke, not in a disinterested way, but with a kind of quiet attention that felt rare. He didn’t cut you off. He didn’t pretend to know better. He just… listened.

By evening, you were both in pajamas, legs folded on the couch with a container of warm takeout between you. Something with noodles. Something comforting. Rain tapped gently at the windows while the TV played something forgettable in the background.

You set your food aside, wiping your fingers on a napkin as you grabbed your worn notebook from the table and flipped it open, pen already in hand.

“I’ll pick up some more shifts this week,” you said casually, scribbling a quick note. “Just so we’re even on bills. I don’t want you covering more than me.”

Kimi glanced over, chopsticks paused midair. “You don’t have to do that. I can pull more weight, if you need.”

You shook your head, still writing. “No. This is fifty-fifty. I’ll also get a copy of the spare key made tomorrow, just in case you come back when I’m out.”

He set his container down. “You’re going to take on extra shifts… on top of everything else?”

“Yep.” You underlined a word on your list and gave a small nod of confirmation.

“You have studies,” he pointed out, frowning slightly. “Lectures, labs, assignments—motorsports isn’t exactly light work.”

You leaned back on the couch, exhaling slowly, pen still in hand. “Late turn-ins might happen. I’ll figure it out.”

He stared at you for a second, like he was trying to understand how someone could be so… determined. Or maybe just stubborn.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me,” he said, voice low.

“I’m not,” you replied softly, meeting his eyes. “I’m proving something to myself.”

He didn’t argue with that.

You gave a small shrug, voice growing quieter. “I want this to work. I don’t care if this is temporary. I don’t care if it’s just for a few months. I want it to feel fair while you’re here.”

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. The light from the TV danced across his face—soft golds and blues washing over his expression.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, “I think it’s impressive. What you’re doing.”

You blinked.

“Most people would’ve gone home by now,” he continued. “Most people do go home. You stayed. You work. You study. You make it all fit.”

Your chest ached a little, but in a different way now. It wasn’t the sharp loneliness from earlier this week—it was something gentler. Softer.

“Thanks,” you said, barely more than a whisper.

He gave a small nod, reaching for his food again. “I’ll pick up groceries tomorrow.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

He smirked. “Yeah. You can’t live off takeout forever.”

“Says the guy currently eating takeout.”

He looked over at you, a teasing glint in his eye. “Touché.”

You smiled, finally relaxing against the couch. Maybe it was the pajamas. Maybe it was the way the night had settled into something that felt like friendship. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the first time in a long time someone had sat beside you and simply… stayed.

The flat was quiet, well into the night. The soft hum of city lights outside barely filtered through the windows, and the leftover scent of dinner still lingered faintly in the air. You’d retreated to your room hours ago after a quick goodnight, worn out from juggling your shift and online coursework. The door clicked gently behind you, and that was that.

Kimi stood in the hallway for a second longer than necessary, listening to the quiet.

It wasn’t awkward—just still. Still enough to think.

He didn’t want to come off as distant or ungrateful. But truthfully, this wasn’t easy for him either. Living with someone new, especially someone he didn’t really know. Someone who clearly had their own world of weight on their shoulders. He didn’t know all the details, but he knew enough. Enough to recognize grit when he saw it.

And you… you carried it like armor.

He had a quiet respect for you, though he hadn’t said it yet. Not many people would’ve stayed here, held their ground, fought to keep their life afloat when it would’ve been easier to pack up and go home. And not many would’ve offered a total stranger a place to stay in the middle of that chaos.

He turned off the lights and disappeared into the spare room, the sheets still starchy from being unused, the space blank and untouched. But it didn’t feel cold—not completely. There was a softness to this place. Maybe because someone like you lived here.

The morning came with soft footsteps and the smell of faintly burnt toast.

It became a routine, surprisingly fast. Something you two practiced as soon as possible.

Within the two days there.

You were always up first, even if it was still dark outside, dragging your sleepy self into the bathroom and giving a quiet knock on his door before you passed, just in case. He appreciated that. Small things mattered.

You showed him where the towels were, left them folded on the counter. Showed him the shampoo, the toothpaste drawer, the stash of backup toothbrushes tucked behind the mirror.

“If you ever forget something or need extra, it’s all here,” you had said, voice low and hoarse with sleep.

And then you were gone—off to your early job with barely time to sip the coffee you made, leaving behind a note and a breakfast sandwich wrapped in a napkin.

Try to eat today.

Y/N

By the time he made it to the kitchen, the place was already quiet again, your energy gone with you. But the sandwich was warm. And the note made him smile, just a little.

Third day became comfortable to work with.

On your days off, the rhythm shifted. You were more present, still moving fast, but now he had company for breakfast, sometimes lunch, and always dinner. You cooked when you could—nothing extravagant, but warm and homemade. When you were too tired, you ordered in and refused to apologize for it.

And Kimi? He adjusted.

He took out the trash. Washed the dishes without being asked. Made you tea once when he noticed your eyes glassy from staring at the screen too long. He didn’t say much, but he was paying attention.

Okay.

He could work with this.

He could fall into this groove, this quiet understanding between two people just trying to get by without falling apart. You had rules, a system, and he respected it. He wasn��t here to cause chaos. He was here to figure things out—and somehow, this… you… were a part of that now.

One week.

That’s all it was supposed to be.

But as he sipped your burnt coffee with toast crumbs on his hoodie and the smell of your vanilla shampoo still clinging to the hallway…

He wasn’t so sure one week would be enough.

You had slipped into a routine almost seamlessly, like life had made space for this temporary chapter without complaint.

On the kitchen wall, a paper calendar hung—simple, handwritten, with your weekly schedule mapped out in black ink. Your shifts at the café, your online lectures, your study hours, all plotted in little boxes that dictated your time like clockwork. Kimi’s eyes had skimmed over it once or twice, and even though his own schedule didn’t quite match yours—morning workouts, sim sessions, team meetings—there was never a moment of tension. Just quiet understanding.

You didn’t hover. You didn’t pry. And neither did he.

A week. That was the plan.

Seven days to see if this could work.

But by day four, he already knew.

This wasn’t just working—this was comfortable. A still kind of comfort, something that wasn’t loud or needy, something that slipped into your bones without warning. He hadn’t expected to enjoy it, but he did. He enjoyed the silence, the absence of pressure. The way nothing here was performative.

He came in that evening after a long workout, gym bag slung over his shoulder, hoodie damp at the collar. The sun had just started to dip behind the buildings, casting warm, tired light across the flat.

You were curled up on the couch, headphones in, completely unaware of him. Textbooks, printed PDFs, and sticky notes were spread out across the cushions and coffee table. Your laptop glowed in front of you, your eyes narrowed in concentration. Every now and then, you’d mumble a technical term or an answer under your breath, voice low and rhythmic like a chant.

Kimi paused at the entrance, hand on the back of his neck as he watched for a moment. You didn’t look up. You didn’t notice him.

And somehow, that made it better.

When you finally caught his presence in your peripheral vision, you pulled one earbud out, glancing up.

Your eyes met, and you gave a small, awkward wave.

He returned it—just a flick of his fingers—and nodded once before brushing past toward the hallway and into his room.

Day four.

So far, so good.

The door clicked shut behind him, and the sounds of your quiet study session returned to fill the space again.

He dropped his bag by the door of his room, peeled off the hoodie, and let out a breath as he leaned back against the wall. There was something about hearing you mutter suspension terms and fuel flow limits like gospel, seeing your notes taped to the table’s edge, your tired eyes lit by the glow of a laptop screen—that felt strangely grounding.

He didn’t know your whole story. Not yet. But he was starting to understand the edges of it.

You were built out of grit.

And maybe that’s what made the silence feel less empty.

He stepped back out for a moment, bare feet against the cold floor, heading into the kitchen for water. You didn’t say anything, didn’t pause your studying, but your gaze flicked up again—just briefly—as if to acknowledge him.

He filled his glass at the sink.

“I’m impressed,” he said finally, voice low.

You paused, blinking, earbud dangling from your hand. “By what?”

“You’ve been at this for hours.”

You looked at your notes, then back at him with a small shrug. “Comes with the territory. Midterms are brutal.”

He nodded slowly. “I didn’t expect you to be this… focused.”

A corner of your mouth lifted. “Motorsport engineering isn’t exactly a soft degree.”

“No,” he said, sipping from his glass. “No, it’s not.”

The silence returned—but this time, it wasn’t empty. It sat between you comfortably, like something mutual. Something earned.

And as Kimi padded back to his room, that faint smile still lingered on your lips.

Maybe it was a small thing.

But for both of you?

It was a start.

Day five.

By now, the rhythm was second nature.

The soft knock on his door—your signal—and the faint patter of your feet across the hallway meant your day had started. It was always the same: your early morning shower, the hum of water behind the bathroom door, while Kimi moved through his own slow start to the morning. He’d pack his bag quietly, folding his team gear, checking emails from his phone, lacing his sneakers while the city was still wrapped in that soft Monaco hush.

He had a full day ahead—meetings with Mercedes, sim work, a debrief—but he didn’t mind the calm that came before it all.

You never rushed. Even when time was tight, there was a certain steadiness to the way you handled mornings.

In the bathroom, the mirror fogged as you brushed your teeth and combed through your damp hair, your internal monologue playing out as always—reminders, encouragement, quiet little pep talks. They helped you keep your shoulders squared and your head up, even on days when the exhaustion clung heavier than usual.

Once dressed and presentable, you slipped out, hoodie zipped halfway up, bag slung over one shoulder. As you stepped into the hallway, Kimi passed you without a word, offering a subtle nod, and disappeared into the bathroom in your wake.

No words. No need for them.

In the kitchen, you worked quickly, the familiar scent of eggs and toasted bread warming the small flat. You knew what he liked by now—even if he never said it out loud. The breakfast sandwich you made wasn’t anything special on paper, but you caught on to the way he always ate it first, the way he lingered at the counter longer on the days you made it fresh.

You wrapped it up carefully, not because it was fancy, but because you cared. Placed his drink beside it—just the way he liked it, not too sweet. And then came the little note.

Don’t skip breakfast. —Y/N

Same handwriting. Same casual tone. Still made him pause every time.

You grabbed your apron off the chair, looped your house key onto your wrist, and placed his key beside the sandwich. Neatly. Like clockwork.

And then, just like that, you were out the door.

Kimi stepped into the kitchen a few minutes later, freshly showered, hoodie half-zipped, hair still damp at the ends. The scent of breakfast met him immediately, and the sight of that neat little package on the counter grounded him.

He reached for the note first, scanning the familiar handwriting. Then his eyes shifted to the calendar on the wall—your schedule for the day already penned in—knowing exactly when you’d be home and when you’d be gone.

He tucked the note into his pocket, grabbed the sandwich and drink, and then took the spare key. He stood there for a moment, fingers brushing over the countertop, like maybe he didn’t quite want to leave just yet.

The light above the stove was still on—your little habit of leaving a soft glow behind.

He turned it off before locking the door behind him.

Life was quiet.

Private.

Predictable, in a way neither of you had expected.

Something small, something stable.

But beneath all that simplicity… something else was beginning to take shape.

Something unspoken.

Something that mattered.

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The soft hum of the heater and the quiet tick of the clock on the wall were the only sounds filling the flat. You’d just finished deep-cleaning—every surface wiped down, the floors swept and mopped until they glowed faintly under the warm light. The air smelled like lemon and something faintly floral. It was the kind of clean that let you breathe a little easier.

You sat on the couch, curled slightly toward Kimi, your legs tucked under you. He sat beside you, arms resting lazily on his thighs, his expression calm, even if his eyes looked a little sleepy from the long day. Comfortable. Familiar.

It had been a week.

Seven quiet days.

No lectures from your mother about how S/n’s career was thriving. No passive-aggressive remarks from your father about how much he had “invested” in you while praising your sister’s modeling contracts. No dinner table silences while your sister bragged about the next photoshoot or yacht trip. No constant comparison, no bitterness hanging in the air like a weight you couldn’t shake.

Just… this.

You. Him. Silence that wasn’t suffocating.

He didn’t say much, but he listened. Really listened. And sometimes, his eyes spoke louder than any of your family’s noise ever had. Kimi had this stillness to him, a way of waiting for the right moment to speak—and when he did, it always came without judgment.

It felt right.

You reached for the paper you’d left on the coffee table—a page so carefully written it might as well have been a legal contract. You laid your pen across it and exhaled, letting the moment settle before you broke the quiet.

“Alright,” you said, drawing his gaze to yours, “Did you like the week here? Is it something you can actually see yourself doing until December?”

Kimi blinked slowly, thinking, then hummed in that low, thoughtful way he did. You gestured to the paper in front of you.

“If so, you can sign this.”

He leaned forward and picked it up, scanning the contents quietly. His brows furrowed slightly, reading more out of thoroughness than confusion. You explained softly, not wanting to break the gentle ease of the moment.

“It’s a rental agreement. Super basic—my version of it, at least,” you said with a dry chuckle. “I’m actually friends with the woman who owns this place. She’s old-school but sweet. She knows you’re here and told me to consider putting you on the lease. Said, ‘no freeloaders’”—you mimicked her voice and smiled faintly—“so this makes it official.”

Kimi’s lips quirked up at the corners. “Sounds fair.”

You nodded. “I can’t let you live here for free, no matter how temporary it is.”

But before you could say more, he looked up from the paper and said, “If I stay… we’ll have to make some adjustments.”

You tilted your head. “You’ve been here for one week.”

He hummed in amusement, shrugging one shoulder. “Yeah. And I already know this place needs help.”

You laughed under your breath. “You mean it’s bland.”

“I mean it’s lacking life. No offense, but this couch is tragic. And your curtains are basically grey bed sheets with commitment issues.”

You rolled your eyes, half-grinning. “Okay, interior designer.”

“I’m just saying,” he said, setting the paper down gently, “If I’m staying, let’s make it a place that feels like both of ours. Doesn’t have to be extravagant. Just… something that doesn’t feel like you’ve been surviving.”

Your smile dimmed, just slightly.

“I know I come from money,” you admitted, your voice quieter, “but my parents are currently acting like I don’t exist. So asking for help to redo the place? Not an option.”

Kimi nodded once, almost like he’d expected that answer. “Then let me pay for it.”

You shook your head instantly. “I can’t let you do that. I work two jobs, I’m managing—”

“You shouldn’t have to manage alone,” he cut in gently. “Let me.”

You opened your mouth, and he beat you to it.

“You work in the mornings, come home looking half-dead, then study like your future’s balanced on a wire. You barely sleep. You live off instant noodles and cold coffee. You’ve done all this on your own, and I get it, that’s who you are—but I’m not going to sit here for the next few months pretending I don’t see it.”

You blinked, lips parting slightly, breath caught somewhere between protest and something softer.

Kimi leaned back a little, resting his elbow on the couch arm. “I’m not trying to buy you a gold chandelier. I’m just saying… we pick a day, go shopping, you tell me what you like, and I’ll cover it.”

You frowned. “I don’t want you to feel like you owe me for letting you stay.”

“I don’t,” he said plainly. “I want to do this because I can.”

Your jaw clenched. You weren’t used to people offering without strings. Without guilt. Without expectation.

You looked down at the contract, the pen still sitting atop it.

Quiet filled the space again. And for the first time, it didn’t feel like something unfinished. It felt like a turning point.

“You’re not going to vanish in three weeks, are you?” you asked softly, still not meeting his eyes.

“No,” Kimi replied, just as soft. “Not unless you kick me out.”

You finally looked at him, searching his face for anything false. But all you saw was that same steadiness he’d had since day one. Calm. Certain. A little sleepy, sure—but sincere.

You reached for the pen.

“Okay,” you said, pushing it toward him. “Let’s make this official."

The pen hit the paper with a soft click, sealing it—simple, final, and strangely relieving.

It was official now. You weren’t doing this alone anymore.

You took a quiet breath as Kimi signed his name, and the air in the flat felt different. Not heavier. Not tenser.

Lighter.

You picked up your phone from the coffee table and sent a quick text to Amilla.

“He signed. It’s official. Thank you—for everything.”

It didn’t take her long to reply.

“Of course. I told you—he’s not just a pretty face. Proud of you, roomie.” Followed by a row of glitter and key emojis.

You smiled faintly to yourself. Amilla always knew what to say without making it dramatic. She understood your silences, your hesitations, and your need for caution in a world that felt far too quick to invade your peace.

You glanced back at Kimi, who was watching you calmly, waiting.

"Okay," you said, folding the paper. "Just want to make one thing clear.”

He straightened slightly, giving you his full attention.

“I don’t do media. I don’t want to be posted, tagged, or casually snapped in a background photo. My sister? She lives for the spotlight. She’d swim in flashing cameras if she could. But me?” You shook your head. “I prefer privacy. I like my life to be mine. So, if we’re going to make this roommate thing work—please don’t bring attention to me.”

Kimi’s gaze didn’t waver. His brown eyes softened with something that felt close to understanding. “Of course. I post what I need to for the team, for the sport. But outside of that? I keep things quiet. You have my word, Y/n. I won’t expose anything.”

You held out your hand, pinky slightly raised like muscle memory. “Shake on it?”

He grinned a little, grasping your hand in a warm shake. “We’re friends,” you added, voice light.

“And roommates,” he added back with a small nod.

The week rolled forward, and so did the rhythm.

The routine didn’t shift much—early mornings, overlapping schedules, the quiet handoffs between your departures and his returns. But your shoulders were looser now. Work didn’t feel like a crushing weight. Studying didn’t feel like climbing uphill with a backpack full of bricks. Everything was still hard—but it was… quieter. Easier, in the smallest of ways.

Maybe it was the fact that, for once, someone was standing beside you rather than watching from the sidelines.

The café was slow for a Monday.

You’d just finished ringing out a customer and were stepping back behind the counter to grab your notepad when the soft chime above the door rang again. You glanced up instinctively.

Kimi.

You blinked in surprise and immediately leaned over the counter, lowering your voice like it was instinct. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugged casually, hands tucked into his pockets. “I came to see you.”

Your eyes narrowed just slightly, but there was no real bite behind it. “Kimi…”

“I’d be a fool to let my friend work herself to the bone without checking in,” he added smoothly.

You let out a small sigh, trying not to smile. “And I’d be a fool if I let you get caught loitering and end up in a gossip column. You want the entire internet dissecting who I am?”

He chuckled, eyes crinkling slightly. “Fair enough.”

You turned toward the register, keying in a simple drink order. “I’ll put something in, that way you’re not technically just standing here. Plus, it gives me cover.”

“Appreciate the protection,” he teased lightly.

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue. You handed him a receipt stub as you passed by the espresso machine.

“You’re really keeping a low profile, huh?” he asked gently.

“Yeah,” you said, not turning to look at him. “I like it that way. My Instagram is private, barely used. I don't share my life unless I want to. It’s the only thing that still feels like mine.”

He hummed, and part of you wondered—had he looked? You wouldn’t be surprised. You were rooming with a professional driver; you Googled him on night one.

Still, he didn’t push.

“Are you busy tomorrow?” he asked, voice casual again.

You blinked, grabbing a clean cup. “Tomorrow?”

“Yeah. I thought… if you’re free, maybe we go look at some stuff for the apartment. Pick out a few things. You know, make this place feel more like a home.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. That offer again. He wasn’t letting it go.

“I’m free all morning,” you said, not looking up yet. “But I have a night shift. My other job needs extra waitresses, so I picked up the shift.”

He nodded, understanding. “Then we make it a morning thing. Quick. No pressure.”

You finally looked at him, and he was already watching you—steady, quiet, but warm.

“Okay,” you said softly. “Morning it is.”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The next morning was shared with soft conversation and quiet plans, the kind that filled the silence with something comforting instead of heavy. You sat at the small kitchen table, scribbling on a sheet of paper with a pen that was nearly out of ink. Your handwriting trailed across the page in your usual organized chaos—eggs, bread, frozen dumplings, oat milk, shampoo… life stuff. It felt normal.

Kimi leaned against the counter, arms crossed, eyes casually following the motion of your hand. The morning light filtered in, casting everything in a warm hue, making your little flat feel more like a home than it ever had before.

You paused mid-word and glanced up at him, brow quirking. “Can I ask why you’re wearing a cap and sunglasses inside the apartment?”

He didn’t move, just shrugged lightly. “Habit.”

You snorted. “You look like you’re trying to go incognito at a gas station.”

“Well, technically, I am.”

You gave him a look, your tone more amused than annoyed. “There’s no one out to get you here. Just me. And I already know your face.”

He pulled the sunglasses off slowly, a sigh slipping out as he ran a hand through his hair. “I know,” he muttered. “But I’m trying here, okay? You said you didn’t want attention, media… all that. So, I figured I could at least try to be forgettable in public.”

Your pen stilled in your hand, and for a moment you just looked at him—really looked at him.

He wasn’t doing this for himself.

He was doing it for you.

The realization bloomed in your chest like something soft and painful all at once. He wasn’t obligated to care. But he did. In his quiet, awkward way—this was his way of protecting you, of making sure you didn’t end up on someone’s Twitter thread just because he happened to walk beside you.

Your voice softened, a quiet thanks behind your words. “That’s… actually really sweet of you.”

He just hummed, like he didn’t know what to say to that. You knew him well enough by now to know that was his version of you’re welcome.

By the time you both made it to the car, you had your list folded neatly and tucked into your pocket, though you were beginning to suspect it would be completely ignored. The second you sat in the passenger seat and buckled up, you could tell—Kimi had other plans.

“So,” you began cautiously, glancing over at him as he started the engine, “we’re getting small stuff. Essentials. That’s the plan.”

He shook his head slowly, pulling into the road, eyes forward. “Absolutely not.”

You blinked. “I’m sorry—what?”

“We’re getting a new TV,” he said plainly. “Couch. Kitchen stuff. Bathroom. Towels that don’t feel like sandpaper. And for the love of everything—bedroom upgrades. Especially yours.”

You looked at him like he had just declared war on your minimal existence. “Kimi, we agreed—small stuff. Like groceries and maybe one decorative plant.”

He gave you a look, one brow raised as he turned down a quiet street.

“I’ve been living here for over a week,” he said. “Your mattress is basically an ancient fossil, your desk chair is about to lose a leg, and your closet door literally moans in pain every time you open it.”

You opened your mouth, then shut it, then sighed dramatically. “Okay… fair. But still.”

“You’ve made this place work on survival mode,” he continued, more gently now. “You deserve something that feels good. Comfortable. I’m not saying go full luxury—just let it feel like a real home.”

You frowned, fiddling with the edge of your seatbelt. “But I can’t let you buy all of that. That’s not fair.”

“I’m not offering charity,” he said. “I’m offering a living space. One we both share. I can afford it. You already do everything—work, study, clean, cook. Let me cover the things I can.”

You looked over at him, the weight of those words anchoring you somewhere deep in your chest. He wasn’t pitying you. He was trying to meet you where you stood—without ego, without strings.

“…Fine,” you murmured. “But only if I get to pick the color scheme.”

He glanced at you with a smirk. “As long as it’s not mustard yellow.”

You gasped. “That’s literally the color of one of the pillows we bought!”

“Exactly.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “You’re the worst.”

“Yet somehow, still your roommate.”

You leaned your head back against the headrest as the car rolled to a stoplight, the city opening up ahead of you.

For the first time in a long time, you weren’t dreading what came next.

You were almost… excited.

And that?

That was new.

The engine hummed softly beneath you, the city passing in a blur of stone buildings and pastel balconies as Kimi drove with one hand lazily resting on the steering wheel. The windows were cracked just enough to let in the breeze, and the air between you both was easy, like it had settled into something comfortable.

You glanced over at him, your cheek resting against your knuckles. “So… when you leave for race week, I’m gonna be that person screaming at the TV.”

Kimi glanced at you with a half-smile, not taking his eyes off the road. “You better be. I expect dramatic commentary.”

“Oh, you’ll get commentary,” you said, chuckling. “But you better FaceTime me. I’m expecting updates, track gossip, paddock drama—the works.”

“I will,” he said, a little more serious now. “I’ll call you when I can. Keep the routine alive.”

You hummed at that, watching the sun filter through the windshield. “And don’t blow your cover,” you added after a beat, voice softer. “No one knows we live together. No one even knows who I am. I’d kind of like to keep it that way.”

He nodded once, understanding instantly. “I got you. I’ll keep it quiet.”

There was a short pause before a grin slowly tugged at your lips. “But… if you can get me something signed by Fernando Alonso—a cap, a shirt, I’m not picky—I’ll cook you pasta every night. Real pasta. Handmade if I have time.”

That made him turn his head slightly, one brow lifting with amused surprise. “Pasta every night?”

You nodded solemnly. “Every night.”

He let out a short laugh, eyes flicking back to the road as he leaned into the turn. “That’s not just a gift, that’s blackmail.”

“No, no,” you grinned. “It’s an incentive.”

He smirked, voice lower now, warm and teasing. “An offer… I don’t think a man like me can resist.”

You let out a soft laugh, watching him for a moment, the way his brown eyes were focused ahead, but still so present. You liked that about him. He was quiet, but he always listened.

“Don’t say I never gave you motivation,” you teased.

He glanced at you again with a smile that lingered just a little longer this time. “Noted.”

You ended up picking the couch. A warm, earthy-toned sectional that felt like a soft exhale—something that said home without trying too hard. Next came the dining table, a sleek but simple wooden one with enough room for two, maybe three if Amilla ever dropped by for dinner. Then you spotted it—a recliner, tucked off to the side, and you didn’t even mean to sit down, but once you did, it hugged you in such a way that your body didn’t want to leave it. Kimi noticed. So, it went on the list too.

From there, it was like watching your little flat bloom into something real. Something full of intention.

Fairy lights for the walls.

A couple of canvas prints for that one blank space you always avoided looking at.

Even the tiniest shelf with enough room for a few potted plants—or maybe books you never had time to read but liked having around anyway.

You picked out soft, neutral bedding for your room and a handful of throw pillows that didn’t match perfectly, but felt right. Kimi made a few quiet selections too—storage boxes, an extra lamp, some new towels for the bathroom that didn’t feel like sandpaper. He never said much, but you could tell he was already picturing how it would all fit together.

When the cashier rang everything up and the number flashed on the screen, your stomach dropped.

“Kimi—” you started, already reaching to pull a few items off the cart, “this is too much. Let’s take some of it back. I don’t need half of this.”

But before you could even finish your sentence, Kimi had already stepped forward, card in hand, voice calm and unfazed. “It’s fine.”

And he meant it.

He paid, like it was nothing, and the delivery team promised your furniture would arrive within the next couple days. The receipt was long, the kind that curled when it printed. You just stood there, frozen for a moment, trying to wrap your head around the reality that someone had just… given you all of this without asking for anything in return.

When you walked out of the store, sunlight warming your face and shopping bags in hand, you were quiet. Too quiet. Until finally, you sighed.

“That cost a lot.”

Kimi gave a nonchalant hum. “It’s fine.”

You glanced at him, eyes narrowing. “You keep saying that.”

“Because it is fine,” he repeated with a small smile, eyes forward as he unlocked the car. “This is your home. I’m just helping it feel like one.”

You slid into the passenger seat, placing the smaller bags down by your feet. “I still can’t believe you’re willing to switch everything around just for me.”

He laughed under his breath as he buckled in. “I’m living there too, remember? You’re not redecorating alone anymore.”

You leaned your head against the window as the car pulled out of the parking lot. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“I know,” he said, not missing a beat. “But I wanted to.”

There was no pressure in his voice. No guilt trip. Just quiet, genuine assurance—something you weren’t used to, but were beginning to understand might just be a part of who Kimi was.

“And next,” he added casually, “we’ll pick up supplies to patch the chipped floorboards near the wall. Something small. Just enough to make everything feel put together.”

You let out a soft laugh, half in disbelief, half in appreciation. “You’re full-on nesting in a place that isn’t even yours yet.”

He glanced at you with a smirk. “Maybe it’s starting to feel like it is.”

And somehow, without warning, you smiled—real, wide, warm. For the first time in a long while, things felt… settled.

Almost like home.

Kimi stuck to his word, no hesitation in sight. Every aisle you turned down, he was already ahead of you—reaching for things, checking labels, adding what was needed into the cart like it was second nature.

The cart rolled steadily through the store, now packed with the tools to build a real kitchen: a sleek new toaster, pots and pans that matched for once, an entire set of plates and matching cups, fresh utensils, and a modern coffee maker that caught your eye the second you saw it. Without needing to ask, he grabbed it.

“I figured you’d want that,” he said simply, like he could already picture you bleary-eyed at six in the morning with a mug in hand.

He got you everything—forks, spoons, knives, spatulas, even those oddly specific gadgets you didn’t think anyone ever bought: a garlic press, a lemon zester. Things you didn’t even know you’d use. You walked beside him in a slow stroll, taking it all in.

“Mugs,” you said with a little grin, glancing toward the display.

Kimi slowed down. “Pick one for you and one for me,” he said casually.

You stepped toward the shelf, trailing your fingers over the rows. Some were too cheesy, some too plain. Then your eyes landed on two—ceramic, slightly misshapen, one a warm rust color and the other a faded olive green. They had tiny, subtle ridges like they were handmade. Not flashy. Not perfect. But something about them felt like home.

“These,” you said quietly, turning and gently placing them into the cart like they were delicate treasures.

He looked at them, then at you, and smiled softly. “Good pick.”

The cart moved again. You strolled past more shelves, and he kept the pace. Easy. No pressure.

“Mixer,” you said aloud, stopping beside a bright red stand mixer. “Maybe… we could bake sometime. I’m not amazing at it, but it could be fun.”

Without missing a beat, Kimi reached over, lifting the box like it weighed nothing and placing it in the cart.

“Okay,” he said, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “Your wish is my command.”

You shot him a look, amused. “Don’t spoil me, Antonelli.”

“Too late,” he murmured, just loud enough for you to hear.

The moment settled in the quiet between you—something soft and certain, like the edges of a new beginning forming gently under your feet.

And for once, as you both moved through the store with a shared cart, laughter in your voices and warmth in your chest, you didn’t feel like you were doing life alone.

When you finally made it back to the flat, both of you carrying bags and boxes in hand, laughter still lingered in the air—left over from small jokes shared during checkout and the minor chaos of trying to stack everything in the trunk.

The front door closed behind you with a soft thud, and the two of you stood there for a second, surrounded by the beginning of something new. Cardboard boxes lined the walls, bags full of spices and pasta, mugs and plates waiting to be unwrapped. The flat didn’t feel empty anymore. It felt like it was becoming lived in.

You let out a small breath and smiled to yourself, proud of how much you’d gotten done. Then you turned to Kimi, eyes sparkling with something that sat somewhere between gratitude and peace.

“We’ll start putting this all together once the furniture gets here,” you said, motioning toward the boxes. “One big transformation day.”

He nodded with a soft hum, watching you.

“But I’ve got work tonight,” you added with a small pout. “So the construction chaos will have to wait a little.”

You turned, heading to your room with that signature lightness in your step—almost a bounce, like you were holding onto a piece of joy and didn’t want to drop it. “I’ll see you later,” you called over your shoulder. “Don’t get too comfortable without me!”

The door clicked behind you as you went to get ready, and Kimi stood still for a moment in the quiet. His gaze moved slowly over the space—the stacked bags, the half-full cart of potential, the two mismatched mugs resting near the sink.

And then, softly, his lips tugged into a smile.

You were from money, he knew that. A background like yours wasn’t exactly subtle, and yet… you didn’t flaunt it. You didn’t wear it like a badge. You were grounded, driven, and quietly carrying more weight than most people would ever realize. You worked long shifts, studied harder than you let on, and gave even when you had barely anything left for yourself.

Kimi sat on the edge of the couch—the old one for now—and exhaled slowly.

There was something in him, quietly steady, that wanted to shield that goodness in you. Not because you were fragile. But because you shouldn’t have to keep doing it all alone.

And if he could be even a small part of what made this place feel like home for you?

Then yeah.

He was in.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Home.

That’s what it finally felt like.

It wasn’t just a flat anymore—it was yours and his, the quiet rhythm of two people who carved out peace together. The new furniture had arrived earlier that week, and now every corner of the flat whispered comfort. It had been a chaotic but rewarding few days of unpacking, assembling, arranging, laughing over misplaced screws and instruction manuals that made no sense.

The living room was the heart of it all—anchored by the plush, warm-toned couch you had chosen together. The fairy lights cast a soft glow above it, golden and gentle, curling along the wall like a constellation you could trace with your eyes. The throw blanket was folded neatly at one end, pillows fluffed and arranged with just enough care to make it inviting without looking staged. A soft rug sat under the coffee table, grounding the room in cozy textures. The TV was mounted on the wall, sleek and new, with shelves on either side now filled with a growing collection of plants, books, and tiny personal touches.

Even the smallest things made it feel like home—the simple wooden hanger near the door with your two keys hanging side by side, the hallway now holding canvas art that added charm without clutter. The recliner you’d fallen in love with was tucked into the perfect reading corner. The bathroom sparkled with fresh towels, little containers for soaps and lotions, and a faint citrus scent that felt crisp and clean. The dining table, small but elegant, was exactly right for the two of you—and with a third chair, a place always waiting for Amilla.

But it was the kitchen that made you smile the most. Fully stocked, full of life. Mugs on hooks. A new kettle, the mixer you insisted on getting, labeled jars for pasta and spices, the fridge humming quietly. It smelled like something warm had just been baked—or maybe it was just the scent of being settled for once. Safe.

The curtains were drawn over the windows, blocking out whatever the world was doing outside. The world could wait. In here, everything felt still. Content.

You were curled up on the couch, your legs lazily draped across Kimi’s lap, a controller in your hand. He leaned back beside you, one hand on his own controller, the other resting just behind your knees like it belonged there. The screen in front of you glowed with colors, characters zipping past each other in the chaos of Mario Kart.

“Save your shell!” you warned, eyes narrowed in playful suspicion. “Do not use it on me.”

Kimi laughed—an actual, full laugh that crinkled his eyes and softened his face. “No promises.”

You glanced at him with mock betrayal. “Kimi—”

But the moment you turned your attention back to the screen, the shell launched. Your kart spun in place. The controller dropped slightly in your lap as you looked at him, offended but smiling.

“I knew it.”

“Sorry,” he said through a grin, not sounding sorry at all.

When he won the race, you sighed dramatically, tossing your controller gently to the side as you turned to him. “Okay, you win. Champion of the living room. You pick dinner.”

He leaned his head back slightly, thinking. “How about pasta tonight? Something easy.”

You smirked. “Pasta? That’s your whole legacy, Antonelli. You better treat the dish with the honor it deserves.”

Kimi chuckled under his breath, nudging your leg with his knee. “I’ll be gentle.”

There was something so easy about this. The way he kept your world private, respected your boundaries, let you breathe. You knew who he was to the world—an F1 driver, a rising star, someone who had the spotlight whether he asked for it or not. But in this space, in these quiet domestic moments, he didn’t feel like a celebrity. He felt like a person. Like someone who was kind, grounded, funny in a quiet, sarcastic way.

Like a friend.

Maybe something more, but you weren’t ready to name it yet.

The two of you wandered into the kitchen, and you pulled your favorite apron off the hook. As you held it up, Kimi stepped in behind you without a word. You stilled for just a second as his fingers grazed your waist, tying the strings neatly behind your back. It was a small gesture, but it felt intimate—anchoring. His movements were careful, not rushed, not assuming. Just present.

“Alright, chef,” he said softly, his breath warm by your ear. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

You turned to him, a smirk pulling at your lips. “Just remember… if I mess this up, it’s because you distracted me.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Me?”

You nodded, poking his chest with a finger. “Entirely your fault.”

And with that, the two of you moved into a shared rhythm—boiling water, chopping garlic, stirring sauce. There was music playing quietly from your phone, your laughter bubbling up now and then between stories and sarcastic comments. He handed you the basil when you asked for parsley. You pretended to fire him. He offered to grate cheese and almost grated his knuckle.

By the time the pasta hit the plates, the kitchen was a mess and your cheeks hurt from smiling.

But the food was good. The company was better.

The two of you sat across from one another at the dining table, plates nearly cleared, the faint aroma of garlic and basil still clinging to the air. The candle between you flickered softly, casting a golden hue across the space that now truly felt like home.

Kimi's phone sat beside his plate, screen lighting up every few seconds with a vibration, then going dim again. It kept happening—buzz, light, pause. Over and over. But he didn’t look at it. Not once. Just kept twirling his fork idly, listening to the soft music in the background, occasionally meeting your eyes when you spoke.

But you looked at it. You noticed. And curiosity had a way of growing teeth if you didn’t feed it. So, before you could stop yourself, your mouth was already moving.

“What happened to…” you hesitated, pretending to focus on your plate for a moment. “Eliska Babickova?”

His head turned slightly, slowly—eyes meeting yours with a stillness that made your stomach flip. Not accusatory. Not angry. But surprised. As if you'd just unlocked a door you weren’t supposed to find.

“I know her,” you clarified quickly, your voice soft. “I study motorsport engineering, I follow F1 like it’s religion. I’ve seen her. At races. The photos. The beginning of the season—she was in that list of WAGs, right?”

Kimi stayed quiet for a second longer than was comfortable, and you regretted asking already. Then he hummed.

“We still talk,” he said, calmly, as he leaned back in his seat. His tone was neutral, but it didn’t soothe the way your heart twisted in your chest.

You nodded slowly, your hands folding into your lap. You hated how your voice wavered just a little next. “Are you two… still together?”

This time, his gaze met yours directly, and it wasn’t cold—it was just unreadable. He didn’t frown. Didn’t shift. Just… looked at you. Carefully.

“I’m sorry,” you rushed out, waving your hand in dismissal. “That was too personal. I shouldn’t have asked. I mean—living with a girl would be kind of a thing if you were still in a relationship, so I guess I just wondered and—”

“Sometimes,” Kimi said, interrupting gently, “some things should stay personal.”

It wasn’t cruel. Not even sharp. Just firm. Like a closed door with a sign that read not right now.

Still, it stung.

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy, but it was thick enough to notice. You laughed—too quickly, too forced. “Right. Yeah. Totally fair,” you said, clearing your throat and forcing a smile. “Totally agree. Mind my business.”

He didn’t say anything immediately. Just shifted his focus back to the last bite on his plate.

You pushed your own food around with your fork, lips pressing together as you tried not to let the disappointment show. You’d let yourself get too comfortable, too familiar. You thought you were close enough to ask. And maybe that was the worst part—feeling like you misread the closeness that had begun to build between you.

Still, you said nothing more, and he didn’t offer further explanation.

And somehow, the candle in the center of the table flickered just a little smaller.

The plates between you were mostly cleared, the soft clinking of silverware the only sound in the apartment for a few moments. The flicker of candlelight danced across the table, and Kimi’s phone buzzed again on the table beside his plate, lighting up the screen for the fifth time in the last few minutes. Still, he didn’t touch it.

Instead, he leaned back slightly and exhaled, voice low. “I’ll be leaving soon.”

You glanced up at him from where you were nudging the last bit of pasta on your plate. “Race week?” you asked, though you already knew the answer.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

You nodded too, slowly, then your eyes flicked down toward your phone. “My sister’s engagement party is coming up.” Your tone was flat, almost rehearsed. “Figured I’d go back home for it.”

His brows drew together slightly in concern. “You’ll be alright on your own?”

That question hit something deeper than expected. Your fingers tightened around your fork, then relaxed. “They’re my family, Kimi. Not wild animals.”

“I know,” he said gently, his voice calm, not challenging. “But… you’ve said it yourself, things are complicated with them. I just thought—”

“Some things should stay personal,” you snapped softly, and as soon as the words left your mouth, you regretted them.

There was a pause. Not sharp. Just heavy.

You sighed, rubbing your palm along the tablecloth. “I didn’t mean it like that.” Your eyes lifted to meet his. “It just… caught me off guard, that’s all.”

Kimi gave a slow nod, his eyes never leaving yours. “No offense taken.”

He reached for his glass, took a sip, then set it down and leaned forward a little, resting his forearms on the table. “Do you want me to come with you?”

You blinked, unsure if you heard him right. “What?”

“To the party,” he clarified. “If you send me the date and it’s after my main race day, I’ll try to make it.”

You hesitated, taken aback by the offer. “Kimi, you don’t have to—”

“I know I don’t,” he said. “But I will if you want me there.”

You studied his face for a moment. Calm, sincere. There wasn’t a hint of pity in his tone—just quiet support. You weren’t used to that. Especially not from someone who knew how messy your family dynamic could be.

You looked down at your hands, then back up. “I’ll think about it.”

He gave you a small smile, the kind that didn’t press for more.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The apartment felt different that morning—quieter, not just in sound, but in energy. You stood by the kitchen island, your hands wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee, while Kimi double-checked his bag near the door.

His flight was in a couple of hours, but he was already in that focused headspace. That calm, steady rhythm he slid into whenever the track called.

“You have everything?” you asked softly, taking a small sip from your mug.

Kimi glanced over his shoulder at you, nodding. “Yeah. I packed last night. Triple-checked it this morning just to be sure.”

You nodded, biting the inside of your cheek.

His brown eyes softened when he looked at you again. “You good?”

You forced a smile. “I’m fine. Just… hoping I survive this engagement party.”

He chuckled gently, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. “Remember, if it gets bad, pretend you have to take an urgent call from a Formula 1 driver. Very important business.”

You snorted softly. “Right. I’ll just hold my phone upside down and dramatically whisper race terms until someone asks me to leave.”

“Exactly,” he said, smiling.

There was a pause. You weren’t ready to say goodbye, but the moment was here.

“You’ll text me?” you asked, voice quieter now.

“I’ll do more than that,” he said, stepping closer. “I’ll call when I can. FaceTime, even. I want updates. I don’t care if it’s about the party or what you had for lunch. Just… let me know how you’re doing.”

You looked up at him, something warm and strange blooming in your chest. “I will.”

Kimi reached out and squeezed your shoulder gently. “You’ve got this.”

And then he was gone—door clicking shut behind him, footsteps down the hall, silence trailing in his place.

You stood there for a while, hands still on your mug, eyes on the door. It was always harder than it should’ve been, watching him go.

The train ride home was long, but you stared out the window most of the way, earbuds in, playlist running. You barely noticed the other passengers. Your thoughts were too loud. Every bump of the train reminded you of how long it had been since you saw your family—how much longer it had been since you felt seen by them.

You checked your phone once as you pulled into your hometown’s station. A message from Kimi waited for you.

Kimi: Let me know how it goes. You’ve got this.

You smiled at the screen, then slipped it back into your pocket.

The car pulled up slowly to the gates of your childhood home—if you could even call it that. The towering black iron bars buzzed and creaked open as the driver entered the code, revealing the winding driveway and pristinely landscaped hedges that led up to the mansion.

It looked the same. It always did. White stone exterior, tall windows, a fountain in the center of the roundabout that sparkled like it was polished every other hour. The house was pristine, glossy… almost too perfect. Like it had nothing to do with love or comfort. Just… image.

You stepped out slowly, grabbing your bag from the back seat. The air was different here. Sharper. Clean, but in a suffocating way.

As you reached the large oak doors, they opened before you could knock.

“Y/n,” your father greeted, his tone clipped but polite. He wore that usual warm-but-distant smile he saved for company. “You’re early.”

“You said to come today,” you replied, stepping inside.

The foyer was massive. The floors shined so bright they reflected the chandelier overhead. Expensive artwork lined the hallway. You hated how you could still name each piece—your mother had made sure of it growing up.

“Yes, yes. I appreciate the punctuality. Leave your bag with Marta. She’ll have it taken to your room,” he said, gesturing to one of the housekeepers who approached silently.

You hesitated, keeping your grip on the handle for just a second longer before letting it go.

He clapped his hands once. “Right, we’ve got quite a schedule ahead. The engagement party is Friday evening, obviously. But until then—tomorrow is the spa day. Your mother and S/n planned it. Girls only.” He gave you a pointed look, as if daring you to protest. “Thursday, we have the formal dinner with the groom’s family. You’re expected to attend. Friday morning, there’ll be a brunch, then hair and makeup appointments in the afternoon before the party.”

You nodded. “Sounds fine.”

“Good,” he said, and just as he was about to turn away, another voice chimed in from the hallway.

“Well, well. Look who finally came crawling back.”

You didn’t need to look to know who it was. The voice was unmistakably smug.

“Damon,” you said flatly, turning to face your sister’s fiancé.

Damon was exactly as you remembered—clean-shaven, smug grin, cologne heavy in the air around him. He stood there like he owned the place already, hands in the pockets of his slacks, blazer slightly too sharp for a casual day at home.

He smirked. “Didn’t think you’d actually show.”

“Unfortunately, I did,” you said under your breath.

He chuckled, catching the words but pretending not to. “Well, it’ll be… interesting to have you around. Try not to ruin too many photo ops.”

You forced a smile, one that didn’t reach your eyes. “I’ll try not to stand in your spotlight. Wouldn’t want to overshadow your hair gel.”

Your father cleared his throat, annoyed. “Let’s keep things civil, both of you.”

You nodded, biting the inside of your cheek. Just get through it. Get through the week, get through the party, and go home.

Damon walked past you, shoulder brushing yours a little too hard to be accidental.

“Your room’s been made up the same as before,” your father said, walking ahead. “Dinner is at seven sharp. Your mother will want to see you before then.”

You followed him quietly, eyes scanning the walls as you walked down the hallway. The same family portraits hung—S/n front and center in every one. You were there too… off to the side. A ghost in the background.

Still, you said nothing.

Just one more week. Then you could go back to the place that felt like home. Back to Kimi, back to peace. Because this house, no matter how grand it looked, never gave you that.

You can stick it out, you believed it.

Tried to believe it.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The clinking of silverware and soft murmurs filled the grand dining room, where the long oak table was perfectly set for four. The chandelier overhead sparkled against the early sunlight pouring through the tall glass windows, bouncing off crystal glasses and untouched butter knives. You sat near the end, nursing a cup of coffee that had already gone lukewarm, the edges of your toast untouched on the porcelain plate in front of you.

Your father sat at the head of the table, newspaper folded beside his plate, while your mother idly stirred her tea. Your sister, across from you, chewed thoughtfully on a piece of melon, legs crossed and posture flawless, like every part of her was curated for a camera that wasn’t even there.

“So,” your father began, voice calm but distant, “how is Monaco?”

You looked up, surprised he was even addressing you directly.

“It’s fine,” you said softly, setting the cup down. “Busy. But manageable.”

He nodded once. “And after next month? Any plans for where you’ll go?”

You blinked, heartbeat skipping as you tried to gather the words, but before you could even breathe them out, your sister’s voice cut through.

“Well, it’s not her fault, Daddy,” she began with a syrupy sweet tone, “that you had to cut her off. Weddings are expensive, and mine will be... well, unforgettable. So I get it.” She smiled across the table at you like she’d just offered you a compliment. “But hey—who says you need money, or a plan? You don’t even need a man. Not a good one, anyway.”

You tilted your head, lips pressed into a tight line.

She wasn’t finished.

“I mean... there’s always some guy out there who wants the quiet, weird ones,” she said, waving her hand airily. “The engineer types, motorsport whatever girls... you know the ones. Nerdy, socially average. Dorky. Harmless. Basically invisible.”

You flinched but kept your expression flat. You stabbed at your eggs with the fork, suddenly no longer hungry.

“Monaco’s been good,” you tried again. “I’ve been spending a lot of time with Amilla. We’ve been hanging out more lately.”

She gave a laugh, sharp and polished. “One friend. In a whole country. That’s... tragic.”

You said nothing.

“Still can’t believe you didn’t want to model,” she continued with a mock frown. “You could’ve had everything. The travel, the outfits, the name. Instead, you picked... online college and being poor.” She smiled again, then sipped her juice.

Your mother glanced at her briefly but said nothing. Your father didn’t even look up from his plate.

“And let’s be honest,” she added. “You’ll never get the business anyway. That’s mine. Everyone knows that. You’re just...” She paused, searching for the word, eyes twinkling with cruel amusement. “Laying on the ground, like a dog. Because that’s the closest you��ll ever be to something real. To something... elevated.”

You stared at your plate, your jaw tightening.

Not one word from your parents.

Not even a disapproving look.

Your stomach twisted, not just from the insult, but from their silence. That had always been the loudest part.

She sat back, satisfied. Like it had been a game and she’d won.

You closed your eyes for half a second, imagining your flat in Monaco. The fairy lights. The new couch. The coffee mugs. The smell of fresh pasta.

Kimi.

His silence had more warmth than this whole table did. His quiet glances held more value than all your father’s hollow compliments to her.

You swallowed thickly and pushed your chair back just slightly.

“Excuse me,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

No one stopped you. Not that you expected them to.

Because they never did.

Outside, the sun poured down like warm silk across your skin, the stone patio heated beneath your bare feet as you sat tucked beneath one of the garden umbrellas. The distant sound of sprinklers clicking to life blended with the chirping of birds, the scene almost peaceful—almost.

Your phone rested in your palm, thumb hesitating just above the call icon beneath Kimi’s name. The longer you stared at it, the more uncertain you felt. You wanted to hear his voice. Something steady. Familiar. Something that didn’t belong to this house or the people inside it.

But then, a buzz. A message. From Amilla.

Your chest tightened the moment you saw the preview.

“This the guy you live with, right?”

Brows furrowing, you tapped it open.

A photo.

It didn’t even need a caption. Your stomach dropped before you could stop the spiral from beginning.

There he was.

Kimi. Dressed casually. Sunglasses on. Hand in hand with her.

Eliška Babickova. Long legs, perfect smile, soft curls bouncing around her shoulders. She looked effortless, like she always did in magazines. Even her stride beside him looked... matched. Like they belonged there, walking down that sun-drenched street, hand in hand.

Your heart twisted in a way you hadn’t prepared for.

So they were still together.

You stared at the photo for a long moment, the heat of the sun suddenly feeling suffocating, pressing down against your chest like gravity itself was conspiring to crush you.

A small voice inside you tried to rationalize it—They talk, he told you that. He never lied... you just never asked again. But another voice, the one you’d been quieting all week, whispered something harsher: You let yourself believe it meant something. That the dinners, the laughs, the way he looked at you—it was different. That maybe he stayed for more than just a couch.

Your finger hovered over the keyboard, heart pounding.

You wanted to call him. Ask. Demand clarity. Cry.

But instead, you just sighed. A deep, bitter sigh.

You typed a short reply to Amilla:

“Yeah. That’s him.”

Then you locked your phone and slid it back into your pocket.

No call. No message.

You would sit this one out. Because getting attached was your mistake. And the price of that mistake… was swallowing this silence.

Alone.

The day dragged on, the sun high above the manicured estate as if mocking you from its place in the sky. You sat quietly between your mother and sister inside the serene spa lounge, draped in a robe, legs crossed, warm steam brushing against your skin. But even surrounded by luxury, lavender-scented towels, and softly humming music—you felt suffocated.

Their laughter floated through the air like perfume—light, shallow, rehearsed. Your mother talked about floral arrangements for the engagement party while your sister chimed in about designer gowns and imported champagne, their voices rising and falling like a song you could no longer sing along to.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t even try.

You were just... there. A body filling space.

No one noticed how your smile never reached your eyes, how your fingers dug into the plush arm of the spa chair whenever your sister said something smug. You could’ve said you weren’t feeling well and left—but even the idea of going back to that mansion, alone in that too-big guest room, felt worse.

You kept thinking of Monaco. Of the cozy flat. Of quiet mornings and shared coffee. Of Kimi.

And then the weight would drop into your stomach again.

Because that picture was proof.

You were never more than a placeholder.

The thought ate at you as the minutes ticked by, the warmth of the steam doing nothing to ease the chill crawling into your chest. You had finally started to feel beautiful there, next to him. Valuable. And now you were back here—fitting like a puzzle piece in the wrong box.

Meanwhile, across the channel, in the dim hum of the Mercedes garage, Kimi stood silently, gaze fixed on the setup in front of him. Mechanics worked around him, voices buzzing in the background, but his mind had wandered. He barely flinched when a pair of lips brushed behind his ear.

“Can you not?” he muttered, stepping to the side with a quiet exhale.

Eliška laughed softly behind him, brushing a hand down his arm. “Relax. I’m just loving on you,” she said, her voice all sugar and shine.

Kimi ran a hand through his hair. “I get that we have PR appearances, but that doesn’t mean crossing every boundary.”

She pouted, arms folding. “Since when did you become so... distant?”

He didn’t answer immediately. His brown eyes scanned the monitors, but his mind wasn't registering the data.

He saw you. In pajamas, arguing over whose turn it was to pick dinner. Sitting across from him in soft lighting, eyes lit with ambition and stories. Mumbling formulas under your breath, tucked in a corner with a pencil between your fingers.

You never asked him for anything. Never expected anything more than honesty. And he missed that honesty now, the quiet safety of your presence.

“I just don’t want to overplay what this PR thing is,” he finally said, voice low.

Eli rolled her eyes. “You used to be more fun.”

Yeah, I used to be more lost, too.

He didn’t say it. He couldn’t. Because he still hadn’t figured out why that photo—why your silence since—had felt so damn heavy.

And maybe, across the ocean, you were feeling the same. Buried in wealth, surrounded by everything that glittered—but nothing that meant something.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

You had told yourself you could survive this week. You could manage the rehearsed smiles, the endless small talk, the suffocating luxury. But when Friday night came, it hit you like a wave crashing against sharp rocks. The glittering chandeliers, the scent of expensive perfume, the hum of classical music swirling through the grand ballroom — all of it was a reminder of how far you felt from belonging.

You stood there, lost among the well-dressed crowd, eyes darting over polished faces that smiled politely but never truly saw you. Your heart felt heavy, weighed down by the ache of loneliness and a love you couldn’t reach. You had missed yesterday’s race, unable to tear yourself away from the crushing sorrow that wrapped around you like a shroud.

Suddenly, your sister’s voice cut through the murmurs, demanding attention.

“I would like to speak!” she declared, stepping forward with a confident smile that didn’t reach her eyes but captivated the room nonetheless.

“My fiancé and I are so grateful you all could join us tonight,” she began, glancing toward your parents, who beamed with pride. “Growing up, I always knew I was the special one—the important one. The daughter in love, soon to be married, destined to carry the family name forward. I have done everything to earn my place beside Mom and Dad.”

Her words were sharp, deliberate.

“And then there’s Y/n,” she continued, sweeping a glance in your direction, “who chose to leave us behind for Monaco. And here she is tonight... without a date, without a boyfriend, without anyone to console her.”

A hush fell over the room.

“You will have your moment to shine,” she promised sweetly, “just like me. When the time is right.”

You met her gaze, tears pricking at the edges of your eyes.

She didn’t stop.

“One day, you’ll come back home to us,” she said, voice dripping with false kindness. “You’ll realize just how cruel the world really is. That luxury and wealth are all you really have. Outside this family, your name means nothing—no one knows you unless you claim us.”

Her words were knives twisting in your chest.

“May love find you, Y/n,” she said softly, a cruel smile flickering across her lips. “And if it doesn’t, may money be enough. Maybe you can live in the fairytale of your motorsports dreams, but it will never amount to what I can do.”

That was the final straw.

Without thinking, without pause, something inside you snapped.

You lunged toward her, your vision blurred by tears and rage. Gasps and startled cries filled the room as chaos erupted.

Your mother’s hand was suddenly on your cheek, harsh and unforgiving.

“Y/n!” she hissed. “Enough! Can’t you see what you’re ruining tonight?”

Your father’s voice boomed next, filled with frustration and anger.

“I cut your funds for one reason! Just to focus on her! And you can’t even live without it?”

You were burning inside, every word stinging like acid.

“It’s not about your money!” you spat, brushing past the stunned faces, heart pounding wildly as you fled the mansion.

Outside, the cold night air bit into your skin, but you didn’t care.

Kimi’s fingers tapped nervously against his phone as he stared at the screen, the call to you still ringing unanswered. Each unanswered ring felt like a weight sinking deeper in his chest. He couldn’t shake the knot of worry growing inside him, an ache he hated but couldn’t ignore.

“Come on...” he whispered under his breath, voice thick with concern. “Say something to me, Amore...” His voice cracked slightly, barely audible in the quiet apartment. He began pacing the small living room, restless, phone clutched tightly in his hand.

Finally, he gave up on trying you directly and dialed Amilla’s number, hoping she might have heard from you.

“Hey,” she answered, her tone cautious.

“Have you heard from Y/n?” Kimi asked quickly, trying to keep calm but failing to mask the tension in his voice.

Amilla sighed softly on the other end. “No, not really. She’s barely messaged me since she left—just once.”

Kimi exhaled slowly. “Do you know when she’s coming back?”

“I think her train’s tomorrow,” Amilla replied, uncertainty in her voice.

Kimi frowned, his brow knitting in worry. “Okay... I’ll wait for her.”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Late into the night, the train finally pulled into the station, its screech echoing through the empty platform. You stepped off, heavy with exhaustion and a dull ache deep inside your chest that you couldn't shake, no matter how far the distance from your family. Your phone buzzed incessantly—calls and texts from your mother and father—but you ignored every one. Tonight, you needed silence more than anything else.

At the door of your flat, your keys jingled softly as you slid them onto the hook by the entrance. You paused, eyes catching the other set of keys hanging there—Kimi’s. He was home.

Before you could move forward, a pair of strong arms wrapped around you from behind, pulling you close. His face buried gently in your hair, he whispered, voice thick with relief, “You’re okay... you’re really okay.” He breathed in your scent as if to confirm you were truly there.

“I was so worried,” he murmured, his voice shaking slightly. “You didn’t pick up my calls or texts. Please, don’t ever do that again, Cuore mio. Don’t leave me to worry like that.” His grip tightened just a little, like holding onto you anchored him.

You stood frozen, caught off guard by the warmth of his embrace, the tenderness that contradicted everything you’d been feeling from your family lately. You expected him to pull away, to give you space—but he didn’t.

“Just stay here... don’t move,” he said softly, shaking his head as if trying to convince himself you were safe now. He kissed the top of your head, lingering, then finally pulled back to look at your face.

His eyes darkened with concern at the sight of your glossy, tear-filled eyes, the smudged makeup tracing down your cheeks, and the faint imprint of your sister’s slap still visible on your skin.

“You should’ve called me,” he said gently, voice thick. “I would’ve been there for you. Always.”

You hummed quietly, biting back the truth simmering in your chest, the feelings that went beyond friendship. “You’re a good friend...” you whispered, fragile.

Kimi’s lips pressed together, his eyes softening. “The best,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I try... only for you.”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

That moment felt like a delicate pause in time — everything you’d built together in the apartment, every quiet laugh, every shared meal, every late night spent unwinding side by side, suddenly seemed to weigh heavy. Kimi moved around, folding the last bits of clothing into a taped-up box, the soft rustle of packing paper filling the silence. You held a small, taped box yourself and set it down gently.

“You’re leaving... and I’m leaving,” you said softly, forcing a light chuckle, trying to mask the sting beneath. He hummed thoughtfully, looking around the now bare room.

“Luxury homes…” he began with a half-smile, “and the beautiful life in Monaco.”

You shook your head with a bittersweet smile. “Back home I go… and your life in Monaco keeps going.” Your voice was quieter now, almost lost to the stillness around you.

He met your eyes and simply said, “Yeah…”

Silence settled like a thick blanket between you two. The comfort of your shared home was boxed up, every laugh, every gentle touch, every moment of peace—packed away and stacked in the corners. The raw ache of it felt dull and heavy, like losing something you didn’t realize you couldn’t live without.

Kimi broke the quiet, a playful glint in his eye as he pointed at you. “You better be my engineer in the future.”

You smiled, nodding with conviction. “I am. I’m going to be.”

He grinned wider. “And be a good friend to others. Especially Amilla.”

You nodded, thinking of your best friend. “Oh, she’ll get on a train just to come see me—and you better do the same.”

His nod was firm, sincere.

Home — this space you’d shared — was being folded away, soon to be just a memory. The comfort, the routine, the little world you built together, was slipping through your fingers as you both prepared to part ways.

Suddenly, a soft knock at the door broke the quiet. You opened it to see Amilla standing there, her eyes glossy, a small hopeful smile playing on her lips. Both you and Kimi looked at her, surprised by the emotion in her face.

“I’m really going to miss you two living together,” she said, pulling you both into a warm group hug.

“Amilla! You’re being dramatic,” you teased, though your smile faltered a bit.

She sniffled, not letting go. “I don’t care! I’m going to miss monopoly nights, video games, and overcooked pasta!”

Kimi huffed, a mock offense clear in his tone. “My pasta is not overcooked—”

“Shut up, dumbass!” Amilla laughed, and you couldn’t help but chuckle too.

In that moment, despite the impending goodbyes, the warmth between the three of you lingered, reminding you that some things—friendship, laughter, memories—would never truly be boxed away.

The air in the flat shifted the moment Kimi spoke.

"I have to get my stuff out. I’ll be the first to leave," he said, voice quiet but firm, trying to hold steady against the growing weight in his chest.

Amilla finally let go of you both, wiping her cheeks with a dramatic sniff. You hummed, eyes falling to the floor before flicking back up to Kimi. “Good luck! And you better handle everything with Eli.”

That stopped him in his tracks. His brow furrowed as he tilted his head. “Huh?”

Amilla, ever the bold one, sighed. “You’re good friends, Kimi. Don’t play dumb.” She crossed her arms before confessing, “I sent her the photo. The one of you and Eliska—Eli—holding hands. It popped up online when she was with her parents. You probably should’ve told her you were still dating her. Must’ve felt weird, living with Y/n all this time.”

Kimi’s eyes widened in disbelief, the realization crashing down like a wave. “Oh…” he breathed, heart thudding.

You gave a tight, brittle smile, masking everything boiling under the surface. “But it’s okay, Kimi. We’re friends,” you said with a tone that tried to be casual. Tried. “I’ll find me a nice, handsome man back home.” Your lips trembled slightly. “You continue living the best of your life.”

Before either of them could stop you, you turned and walked down the hallway, voice faint as you added, “I have to get my closet packed.”

The door clicked shut behind you.

Kimi stared after you for a beat too long, the words you said burning into his chest like embers. Then Amilla stepped into his line of sight, her expression unreadable.

“Eliska and I are exes,” he said quickly, like it was something he should’ve shouted a long time ago. “That photo? That was PR. Nothing real. I haven’t been with her in a long time.”

Amilla raised a brow. “Why are you telling me?”

“Because you sent her the picture,” Kimi snapped, though his voice was still soft, weighed down with guilt. “And now she thinks—she thinks I don’t care.”

Amilla blinked, then narrowed her eyes slightly, as if something clicked. “Wait... are you correcting me because... you like her?”

Kimi exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair in frustration. “I love her,” he admitted, finally, the truth slipping out in a breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding. “Are you kidding me? We’ve lived together for months. I’ve never felt this grounded before. I love her. And no wonder she’s been acting strange—keeping her distance, being quiet.”

Amilla watched him for a long second, her lips slowly curling into a small, knowing smile. “Yeah. Now she’s going back home to live in her sister’s shadow, in that big mansion that makes her feel like she’s nothing.”

Kimi’s gaze dropped to the floor. The ache in his chest spread further, like roots digging deep into regret. His phone buzzed in his pocket—a reminder. He had to get moving, had to clear out his things. He took one last look around the flat, the space that held all their memories—every breakfast, every laugh, every late night—and quietly gathered what remained of his belongings.

Without another word, he stepped out of the apartment, the door shutting softly behind him.

But even as he left, a part of him stayed behind—with you.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Months of studying, of long nights and longer days under the weight of family expectations, had finally brought you here—to the Grand Prix weekend. The crowd buzzed around you, excited voices and camera flashes filling the air, but nothing could shake the weight that followed behind you like a shadow.

Your mother, father, and sister trailed just a few steps behind. They hadn’t wanted to come. They didn’t care about motorsports, about your dreams, but they showed up anyway—if only to say they did.

"This is what you’re working toward? Honestly, it’s pathetic," your sister scoffed behind you, flipping her perfectly styled hair. You didn’t even flinch at the jab, too used to the tone, the sharp edge of her voice. Your father and mother didn’t bother saying anything, their silence more cutting than words.

Still, you smiled faintly to yourself, eyes scanning the track layout, the pit boards, the energy alive in every turn. “The race was amazing,” you murmured, mostly to yourself. “Kimi got pole…”

Your mother sighed impatiently. “Who?”

You frowned. “A driver.”

Before you could brace for more disinterest or mockery, a sudden voice broke through the noise.

“OH NO YOU DON’T!”

You barely had time to register it before arms wrapped around you and lifted you into the air, spinning you in a blur of laughter and warmth.

“Kimi!” you gasped, laughing as your heart leapt with surprise and relief.

“If it isn’t Antonelli,” you teased as he set you down, his grin lighting up his entire face. “My best friend,” you added with a soft smile.

“I saw your text!” he said. “You said you were coming—figured I’d find you eventually.”

From the corner of your eye, you caught your parents staring, clearly stunned by the interaction. But Kimi didn’t give them another glance—he only had eyes for you.

“I want to show you something,” he said quickly, grabbing your hand before you could say anything else. He pulled you away from them, your fingers wrapped in his as he led you straight into the heartbeat of the circuit: the Mercedes garage.

You looked around in awe, the energy of the team, the mechanics, the machines—everything. “It’s… incredible,” you breathed, eyes wide. “You’ve been busy, huh? All these months. Ahead. Super busy.”

But he didn’t answer.

You turned around, only to find him already staring at you. His face softened, a faint blush coloring his cheeks beneath the harsh garage lights.

“I have something for you tonight,” he said quietly. “I’ll text you the location. Just… meet me?”

You nodded, lips parted slightly in surprise. “Yeah. I will.”

—

The night air was cool, carrying the salty breeze of the coast as you sat beside him in the passenger seat of his car. The streets of the city felt quieter than usual, or maybe it was just the way your heart was pounding.

Kimi hadn’t said much during the drive, but his hand sat close to yours on the center console, and you swore you could feel the weight of what he wanted to say.

He finally pulled into a quiet overlook, the lights of the city below flickering like stars scattered across the earth. He turned off the engine, but didn’t get out. Instead, he turned toward you, his face unreadable for a moment.

Then he sighed—deep, like he’d been holding his breath for months.

“You know,” he started, voice low, “not a second went by that I didn’t think of you.”

You glanced at him, your breath caught in your throat. “I’m just the best friend in the whole world, right?”

He gave a sad, quiet chuckle. “God, no. That’s not what you are. You’re so much more than that.”

Your eyes locked. His were glassy, earnest.

“I’ve been in love with you, Y/n,” he said finally, like the words had been burning him alive from the inside. “I loved you the entire time we lived together. Every time you made breakfast, or tied your hair up before class. The way you left notes next to my coffee. The way you always had my towel ready in the mornings. I came back from the track looking forward to the silence we shared. To you just… being there.”

You swallowed hard, heart hammering.

“I didn’t know how to say it,” he continued. “And then I saw what you went through with your family, how you kept pushing anyway. You were never just a friend. You were my peace.”

He looked down, rubbing his palm nervously against his thigh. “And that photo Amilla sent you—me and Eli? That was PR. Just PR. We broke up a long time ago. Mercedes needed something for the cameras, for the headlines. I let them run with it because I thought it was harmless. But it wasn’t. Not to you. And I hate myself for that.”

You stared at him, lips trembling slightly. His voice cracked with the next words.

“I wish we still lived together. I miss it. I miss you. And I understand if you don’t want to be with me, or if this makes things worse. But I had to tell you. Because the thought of letting you go back to that life—thinking you were just my roommate—kills me.”

He reached for your hand. “If you don’t feel the same, I’ll take it. I’ll keep being your friend, if that’s all you’ll let me be. But if there’s even a small part of you that feels the same… just tell me. Because I love you. Not just the memories of you. Not just the comfort of having you there. I love you—your dreams, your fire, the way you walk into a room and make it warmer. I love all of it.”

He paused, breath trembling.

“And I need you to know that.”

The car was silent but for the soft hum of the wind outside.

And in that stillness, you realized—this was the moment. The one you had been waiting for.

Your eyes softened as your fingers laced with his.

“I was always yours, Kimi. You just never asked.”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

And so, on a beautiful day—some golden, breezy Monaco afternoon—you sat curled up on the soft couch, laughter in your chest, sun spilling in through the sheer curtains. The scent of sea salt drifted in with the breeze, light catching the waves outside the window. Next to you, Kimi lounged comfortably, his knee touching yours, both of you surrounded by pens, cards, and open envelopes scattered like confetti across the coffee table. Wedding invitations. Futures written in ink.

"Hey! Don’t scribble with crayon on those!" you exclaimed, nudging him with your elbow as he held up a childish doodle across the back of one invitation.

“Oh come on,” he grinned with faux innocence, holding the crayon like a trophy. “Adds personality!”

You rolled your eyes with a smile, the kind of smile only he could pull from you so effortlessly. "Who are we even sending these to?" you mumbled, glancing over the list, your tone softening. “My family and I… we don’t talk. I cut ties, remember? Like you said I should. You were right. No calls, no fake apologies, no walking on eggshells. Just peace.”

He looked over at you gently, his smile no longer teasing. “I know it wasn’t easy. But I’m proud of you,” he said. “You chose yourself. That matters.”

You nodded, holding his gaze for a moment before he tapped his pen on the table and gestured toward his side of the list. “So we’re sending mine out. My family, my team, the good ones. Oh, and don’t forget to add something personal.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Who customized these invites again?”

“You,” he said quickly, pointing at you. “But who paid for them?”

“Hmm, let me guess—Kimi Antonelli, my soon-to-be husband?” you teased.

He smirked. “Exactly. As your fiancé, it’s my duty.”

The flat you now shared—a stunning, sea-facing luxury apartment—held pieces of both of you. His racing memorabilia mingled with your books and plants. The cozy throw blankets, the mugs you picked out together, the gentle clutter of two people who had built something together. It wasn’t just his anymore. It was yours. Your home. Your safe place.

“You are so lucky I love you,” you said, narrowing your eyes as he leaned closer.

“Oh yes, I am the lucky one,” he said with a crooked grin. “Living with you, waking up to that face every day... What could be better?”

“Keep flirting and I’ll leave you with the rest of these invites,” you warned, picking up the box playfully. “Let’s see if you can figure out who gets which one.”

He gasped dramatically. “You wouldn’t dare!”

But you were already on your feet, laughing, bolting toward the hallway. He chased after you, laughter filling the walls of the apartment, just like it used to in the old place—but now louder, warmer, brighter.

The flat was new, upgraded, sleek and modern—but it was filled with the same love that bloomed back in that small two-bedroom you once shared. Back when everything felt uncertain but full of possibility.

That little flat was where it started. The morning coffees, the midnight talks, the study nights, the pasta dinners, the Mario Kart battles, the long hugs, the slow-burn love. That flat gave you both your beginning.

Now here you were—living together, planning forever, engaged to a man who loved you without condition. The sea was yours to wake up to. The world, yours to build together.

No nagging father, no brooding mother, no spiteful sister, just you, Kimi, and your growing home from here.

He tackled you on the shared bed playfully, your laughter filling the large and luxurious space.

And tucked inside a sleek white envelope, scattered across your coffee table, was an invitation to a future signed:

Mr. & Mrs. Antonelli.

[aziraphales-library]

I’m @tismrot (couldn’t ask from that blog, because it’s not my main one) and I am currently writing Exodus:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/55294246/chapters/140269933

It’s a dystopian human AU set in the year 2112, when Ezra (23) and Crowley (21) meet at uni. This isn’t a university fic, tho. It’s a cyberpunk hacker fic with both serious, silly and sexy religious undertones — and I try to wrestle with some heavy past and current (and hopefully not future, but at this point… well, let’s hope I’m not clairvoyant) societal issues. I’ve been building this world for decades, but two years ago I found my main characters.

(There is angst and smut, of course! And they might end up saving the world.)

I guess this is me recommending myself. Kinda awkward, but you gotta do what you gotta do.

Have a good [whenever you read this]!✨

Not awkward at all, we love self-recs! Thank for for sharing your fic with us...

EXODUS by tismrot (E) (WIP)

The year is 2112, and professor's pet Ezra (23) encounters the rebellious Crowley during a lecture at GanUni. In contrast to the cautious populace of their heavily monitored, domed city - where the slightest misstep could lead to severe repercussions - Crowley apparently lacks knowledge about the harshness of their environment… Or perhaps he simply doesn’t care? Ezra soon finds himself in a head-over-heels pash. It doesn’t help that the feeling seems mutual - it’s a distraction he can ill afford. After a disrupted choir rehearsal and a bus-stop discussion regarding highly incriminating books and films - as well as ha-Gan’s precipitation schedules - they learn unsettling truths about one another. As different as they may initially seem, there are three things tying them together: a fierce 'us against the world', disgust for ha-Gan’s treatment of anyone beyond Fourth Circle… and a shared thrill in flouting the rules. Can they carve out a precious, peaceful, fragile existence for themselves?

- Mod D

[dracothedeatheatingcupcake-ao3]

Please wish me luck everyone. In about 3 hours, I will be taking the final exam I have to take for my grad program, and if I pass it, I will officially be done with the program and will be able to apply for graduation.

I’m very nervous since usually I’m really good at test taking, but it’s been over a year since I last actually took a class for my program (I’ve been working on my final project and my internships for the past year and change), so a lot of this stuff is very fuzzy for me, since my memory sucks. Plus, my program was… not great. They had no lectures, all book learning, and I’m not great with book learning. I passed the classes, but none of them had exams. Just papers, which are much easier for me to do. I took a few practice tests and I routinely got between 65%-70% of the questions right. Which is… not great. I have studied, but I only really was able to study for the past week, since before that I had my internship and work to worry about.

But!!! I’m hoping that all will go well here. I’ve been working towards my master’s and school counseling credential for about two and a half years now. I started August 2021. And if I fail? I’ll just have to pay the $130 and retake the test later. Which will suck, but at least it will be like a practice test, yeah? And I’ll know exactly how the test is formatted, so it would be easier.

Anyway, sorry for rambling, I’m very nervous. Wish me luck!!!!!

[koiukiy-o]

okay okay new tag. ❅ — yap ! is for my yapping. im not gna tag it spam anymore bc im spammjng rbs a lot more rhan im spamming shitposts 🍽️

sidenote please block‘knh spoilers’ for apothecary diaries spoilers (s2+manga+ln…) that i might post,, i’m absolutely losing my fucking mind because i can’t decide if i want to buy vol. 13 of the ln or not so erm… yes…

[classyrbf]

professor!nanami part 3?

professor!nanami who makes you wear a pretty little butt plug during class, making sure your hold is prepped and ready for him later today. Your in the corner of the lecture room, squirming in your seat at the thought of his cock, stretching you open. You’re trying your hardest to get some sort of friction, your nipples hardening under your shirt and your pussy growing wetter with each lewd thought that fills your head. You’re not listening to a word that’s coming out of his mouth, but you are eyeing him like a piece of meat. The small bulge in khakis because his cock is just that thick, the veins running down his forearms and to his large hands, his plump pink lips that having you imagining him eating your sloppy cunt. He’s teasing you in the worst way possible and you can’t stand it, you can’t do a thing with all these people around.

So you take it upon yourself, walking down the steps and up to his desk while everyone writes down the notes on the board. “Professor Nanami?” You stand in front of his desk, rocking back and forth on your heels.

His eyes flicker up to yours, focusing on your glossy lips before trailing down to the obvious cleavage you put on display for him. “Miss y/n.”

“I really need a pencil…is it okay if I borrow one?” You bat your eyelashes at him, a devious smile on your face. “Please?” He reaches into the pencil cup on his desk, handing you one. “Thank you, Professor.” You turn to walk away, taking a few steps before purposefully dropping the pencil on the floor. You fully bend over, flashing him, showing him your dripping cunt and your cute little plug he’s given you. No panties of course. Nanami loudly clears his throat, earning a giggle from you as you grab your pencil and walk back to your seat. He eyes you the whole way there, glaring at you when you sit down and spread your legs enough for him to see under the table. His khakis tighten, his cock straining against the fabric and making it so painful for him. You’re a menace, but he should’ve known better.

Later that day, he has you in home, using the plug he bought you to fuck your ass. He pulls the plug in and out, in and out, watching the way your pretty hole swallows it right up. You hate it, but you love it, but you know it’s not as good as his cock, no, nothing is as good as his cock. It’s right there, throbbing at each whimper and whine you elicit, so damn needy for more. “That little stunt you pulled today in class almost got me in trouble, sweetheart,” he sternly spoke. You writhe in his lap, tossing your head back in frustration when he removes the plug, he slowly rubs the metal over your hole, teasing you.

“I’m sorryyy, I just—ah—wanted…your attention, Professor,” you huff. “I’m really sorryyyy.” You apologize again, biting down on your bottom lip as your hands reach up to play with your perky nipples, pulling and tweaking them.

“Learn patience. Remember?” He raises a brow. “That’s why I’m teasing you now. Just like…this.” He slowly inserts the plug back in your ass, your eyes roll back. “Awe, you’re so fucking wet you don’t even need any lube for your ass,” he chuckles.

“But…mmph—don’t you think I’ve been teased enough? I just wanna feel you inside me,” you pout, wiggling in his grip as he holds your legs open.

His cock twitches at your words. “I know you do, sweetheart, and I wanna feel you too, but the longer we hold back the more good it’ll feel. Just think about it, all that intensity building, the heat on your skin, the blood rushing to your cunt, the desire to cum, your heart beating faster and faster. It’ll be worth it.” He presses a kiss to your cheek, slowly pulling your plug out once more. You whine loudly, growing impatient despite his words. “Stay still,” he demands.”

“Sorry, sir.” You let out shaky breath, lifting your head to watch him play and tease your hole. It’s an ache you need to get rid of, something to satisfy you just a bit longer until you’re ready. This can’t be the only thing. It’s driving you absolutely crazy, messing with your mind. Your pussy is throbbing, your asshole is begging to be stretched and filled, and you just wanna be fucked dumb. “Professor, please! I’ll do anything!” You break, now begging.

He lets out a sigh, putting the plug down. “Fine, you can have my cock, but I’ll go as slow or fast as I want. Got it?” He hooks his arms under your legs, pulling them back so that your knees are by your ears. “No complaining, sweetheart.”

“Yes, yes, I got it! I just wanna feel you! Want you inside meeeeahhhhh!” You gasp, eyes wide when you slowly sink down on his thick cock, you hole stretching open just for him. The feeling of his throbbing cock in your ass puts a smile on your face, and an even bigger smile when he starts moving his hips. “Oh my fucking godddd.” He slowly pistons his cock in and out, inch my inch, letting you feel everything. From the tip down to the very base. You didn’t care how slow he was going, it still felt so good. He was right, the more teasing, the better the feeling.

“Such a good girl for taking my thick cock in your tight little ass, sweetheart. You love it, huh? Tell me you love it.” He starts moving slightly faster, but not too much, it’s still agonizingly slow.

“Mmmph, I love it, Professor. Thank you.” You breathily chuckle, a wide toothed smile still on your face, almost like you were drugged by his cock. “I love watching it go in and out…in and out…ah, fuck!” You moan, eyes fixated on where you two meet. Your toes curl from the amount of pleasure building and coursing through your veins, feeling the static on your skin. “It already feels so good!”

“Ohh,” he chuckles, “don’t tell me you’re about to cum, darling?” He thrusts his hips faster than before, only adding to your pleasure and beckoning your orgasm. “Is me going faster gonna make you cum, hm?” He grunts in your ear, fully pushing his cock inside you. “I told you, teasing works.”

“How…how am I gonna cum already?! Oh my god! Can I cum? Can I cum?! Oh fuck! Please, please!” It creeps up on you entirely too fast, something you’ve never felt before, but it has your mind spiraling and your body on fire. You can feel everything.

“Let it out, sweetheart, let it all out,” he growls in your ear, keeping the same pace as before. Incoherent babbling and moans escape your throat, eyes rolling back when your body spasms in his grip. “That’s it, good girl. Let my cock make you feel good.” He presses a kiss to the back of your neck, keeping you locked in the same position while he fucks you through your orgasm.

“Fuckkkkk!” You cry out, sucking in a breath. “Don’t stop, don’t stop.” Your brows furrow in pleasure, shaking your head as if he was actually planning on stopping. Truth is, he wasn’t anywhere near done with you. Why would he be? He hasn’t even fucked you at full speed yet.

[jaeyuniversal]

nonsense - s.jy

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

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

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

genre: college au fluff!!!

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

playlist: nonsense by sabrina carpenter & soft spot by keshi

wc: 2.411k

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

you’ve always hated physics.

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

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

support came in the form of jake sim.

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

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

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

he didn’t even glance up.

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

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

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

you knew it was him. and you never forgot.

───

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

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

“that’s not… how particles work.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

he froze.

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

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

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

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

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

“i—i didn’t—how did you—”

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

his face went scarlet.

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

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

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

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

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

and there it was. the plot twist.

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

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

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

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

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

jake swallowed hard. “like me back.”

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

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

───

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

no one had it.

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

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

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

“y/n?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

jake almost spat out his coffee.

you smiled sweetly. “kidding. kind of.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

the cup trembled in his hand.

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

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

jake’s mouth opened, then closed again.

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

───

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

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

“everything okay?” you asked sweetly.

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

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

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

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

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

“i prefer charming.’”

there was a beat of silence. then, softly—

“you are.”

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

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

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

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

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

you stared at him.

he stared back.

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

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

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

───

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you stared at him.

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

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

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

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

“yeah,” you said slowly.

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

you forgot how to breathe for a second.

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

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

“your loser,” he said quietly.

and somehow, that was the smoothest line of all.

───

the tutoring session was going fine.

that is, until maki showed up.

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

“y/n?”

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

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

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

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

jake’s grip on his pen tightened.

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

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

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

“she already has a tutor.”

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

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

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

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

jake stood.

you blinked. jake stood.

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

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

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

he gave you one last glance and walked off.

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

“jake?”

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

“do you like him?” he asked.

you frowned. “maki? god, no.”

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

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

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

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

and then he kissed you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you both stood there, catching your breath.

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

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

silence. 

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

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

he looked away. shy. “…maybe i have.”

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

he winced. “that was a joke.”

it was silent for a hot minute.

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

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

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

and maybe he was.

because nerdy physics tutors?

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

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

[ @jaeyuniversal ] prod. 250508

[mercvry-glow]

love me hard love me soft

parings. jack abbot x nurse!reader

summary. jack abbot isn't a soft man, but he'll learn for you.

warnings. age gap (jack mid/late 40s, reader late 20s early 30s), typically pitt medical drama stuff, hospital setting, work place kind of relationship, they're pining but not kissing, other pitt characters, santos is mouthy, no use of (y/n), but let me know if there's more!

notes. the jack abbot grind is real and alive within me, I need so many more fics with him to come out. not much to say here, but since my requests are open I will mention I do try to keep my readers as nondescript as possible so every one can feel welcome here! please enjoy and any and all feedback is welcome, ask box is open as always!

wc. 1600+

It was no secret to the PTMC staff that Jack Abbot wasn’t a soft man. Rough around the edges and tough as nails, the ex army medic was as stoic as they come. He had been at the pitt for a number of years before you came around, working day by day to provide the best care he possibly could for the people that came to the ER. 

It was a hard job, physically and mentally taxing on the body. Everybody kenw that, it was basically in the job description—but you made it easier on him, and everybody saw. 

You, the nurse who had come in as a temp, were the saving grace of quite a few people in the pitt. 

Jack included. 

Sure, he was a hardass but he was genuine and kind if not a bit guarded. 

“You could take it easier on some of the interns ya know,” you said, taking a seat next to Jack as he finished charting a few things on one of the computers at the nurses station. 

He left a small scoff, not turning to look at you “the job isn’t easy, they can go to Robby if they want someone nicer.” 

You gave him a knowing look, “You’re plenty nice, Jack. They just want to learn from you, being more approachable is what makes you a good teacher.” 

Tough love was more Jack’s style, patience was yours. 

“Jesus, woman. You come over here to lecture me or something? I’m sure someone needs their temperature checked.” That remark earned him a slap on the arm and an indignant scoff from you. 

“Oh don’t be an asshole Jack! I’m just saying you’d go a lot farther with some of the younger staff if you could lighten up.” Sitting forward in your rolley chair you scooched closure to the older man, clearly invading his personal space as the two of you continued the conversation in a small moment of peace. 

Jack leaned back in his chair just slightly, eyeing the way your knees bumped against his. You were always doing that—getting in close. Somehow you weren’t scared of what might be underneath all that steel-plated attitude.

He tilted his head toward you. “You know I don’t do well with ‘lightening up.’ That’s your department, Sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me that,” you warned, trying not to smile.

He smirked—just a twitch of the lips, but enough to count. “Then stop smiling every time I do.”

“Touché.”

There was a beat of quiet between you, broken only by the distant rattle of a gurney being rolled past and the soft clack of a keyboard a few feet away. It was almost peaceful. Almost.

“You really think I’m too hard on them?” he asked, voice lower this time—quieter, more honest.

You blinked. He rarely opened the door like that, even after years of working together, of being together. 

“I think you’ve seen a lot of bad, Jack,” you replied, nudging his foot with yours under the desk. “And I think you want to make sure they’re ready for it. That’s not wrong. But… compassion doesn’t make you weak. And letting them in, letting me in, more doesn’t make you soft.”

He didn’t respond right away. Just stared at the monitor, lips pressed tight.

Finally, he said, “You made the Pitt better when you walked in here, you know that?”

You looked at him, surprised.

“That’s not me being soft,” he added gruffly. “That’s just the damn truth.”

You smiled again, leaning back with a little satisfied hum. “See? You can say nice things.”

He groaned and went back to typing. “Don’t get used to it.”

On the otherside of the pitt, a few of the interns (namely Whitaker and Santos) stood watching the interaction. 

They couldn’t understand what was different about you, why Dr. Abbot let you get so close or why it even mattered to them. 

“Is he actually smiling?” Whitaker whispered, brows furrowed like he was witnessing some kind of natural phenomenon.

Santos squinted, arms crossed over her black scrubs. “I think that was technically a smirk. But yeah. I’ve never seen him do that before. Not even when a guy walked in here with a screwdriver in his shoulder.”

Whitaker huffed. “What is it about her? Like… we’ve been here for weeks and the guy barely grunts at us outside of traumas.”

“She called him an asshole once,” Santos said, deadpan. “To his face.”

“That’s what I mean! Anyone else’d be doing triage on themselves. But her? He likes her.”

They both watched as you leaned in and nudged Jack’s arm again, laughing softly at something he said. The kind of sound you don’t really expect to hear in an ER.

Whitaker shook his head. “I don’t get it.”

“Maybe it’s because she doesn’t try too hard,” Santos mused. “She just… gets it. The pace, the patients. Him.”

Whitaker rolled his eyes. “You think it’s cute, don’t you?”

Santos shrugged, hiding a grin. “Kinda. But if you tell anyone I said that, I’ll say you’re lying.”

The brief quiet between didn’t last long—peace rarely did in the Pitt.

“Trauma incoming!” someone called from the double doors, and instantly, the mood shifted. The air snapped to attention. Everyone shot to their feet at the same time, chairs rolling and shuffles heard in unison.

“Room 3,” Dana’s voice rang out. “Ped versus auto, ETA three minutes. Bystander started compressions.”

You and Jack were already moving, grabbing gloves and snapping them on. He tossed you a look, his version of “ready?”—and you gave a nod back, adrenaline kicking into gear.

Inside the trauma bay, the gurney rolled in hard and fast. Blood, pressure alarms, panicked shouts. A young teen, unresponsive, with a cracked helmet and the visible deep red staining the right side of his jeans said it all.

Jack took command like always. “Let’s go! O2 on, wide bore IVs—Kid, stay with me.”

You moved into position while the interns filtered in along the wall, wide-eyed and stiff. Santos lingered a bit too close, trying to be helpful but also trying to see everything at once as per usual.

“Pressure’s dropping,” you called out, hand on the young man’s wrist. “Palpable at 70.”

Jack was already cutting through fabric, assessing the damage. “Get that line in now. If he’s got internal bleeding—”

Santos blurted, “Damn, this is intense. No wonder she’s always stuck to you like glue.”

You froze for a split second—so did Dana and everybody in the room—and Jack’s head snapped up like a missile had locked on.

“What did you just say?” His voice cut through the chaos like a ten blade.

Santos blinked, caught completely off guard. “Uh—I didn’t mean—”

“This is a trauma room, not a gossip circle,” Jack barked. “If you’re not focused on the patient, you can get the hell out.”

Silence fell for just a second before another doctore pushed past Santos to jump in on the line.

“Intern out,” Dana said firmly, giving Santos a nudge toward the door without even looking at her.

You didn’t have time to react, not really—not when a kid’s life was in your hands—but you felt Jack’s presence tighten beside you. All steel again. The warmth from earlier was gone. Not for you—but for everyone else.

And Santos would probably think twice before running her mouth in the middle of a trauma again.

The rest of the team worked in a tight rhythm, the energy electric and focused. Fluids in. Monitors up. The suction buzzed while Robby barked vitals. You stayed glued to the patient’s side, hands steady, voice low and soothing despite the pressure.

After what felt like forever but was only about ten minutes, the kid finally stabilized. Pressure creeping up. Oxygenation improved. No sign of a brain bleed on the portable.

It was a win, another save. 

“Get him up to CT,” Jack instructed, peeling off bloodied gloves. “Page ortho for that femur. Kid’s gonna have a hell of a time if he wants to bike again,”

As the gurney rolled out, the noise faded into the hallway. The tension broke. Air was breathable again.

Jack leaned against the wall as people filed out, pinching the bridge of his nose. You stepped up beside him, just outside the room, letting the buzz of the hospital fill the gap.

“You alright?” you asked softly.

He gave a low grunt. “Would be better if I didn’t have interns running their mouths in the middle of a code.”

“She was probably just nervous,” you said gently, though you couldn’t begin to excuse Santos’s timing. “And maybe a little dumb.”

Jack snorted.

You nudged your elbow into his. “Things look different for everyone.”

His brow quirked, eyes flicking toward you. “That’s what that was?”

You smiled, giving a little shrug. “I mean… could be worse, right?” 

Jack rolled his eyes but didn’t push you away, which for him might as well have been affection after what had just happened.

“I’ll talk to Santos,” you added. “She’s got so much potential. Just needs to learn when to shut up.”

“I’ll make Robby talk to her too,” Jack said quietly, voice low and a little rough around the edges. “But not today. She already got lucky once.”

You leaned your shoulder against the wall, mirroring his posture.

“Y’know, for what it’s worth…” you said, glancing sideways at him, “You were kind of amazing in there, as always.”

Jack looked at you for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in those tired hazel eyes.

“Don’t start,” he warned lightly. “You’re already ruining my image.”

You smiled, placing a small kiss on his cheek. “Too late.”

mercvry-glow 2025

[ladyfocalors]

The Prefect's Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Rulebook

summary: After yet another rule violation by Grim, Riddle hands you a comprehensive guide to Heartslabyul’s regulations expecting you to finally learn and teach Grim. Instead, you retaliate by writing your own unofficial rulebook about Riddle himself, filled with exaggerated (but surprisingly accurate) observations. He inevitably gets his hands on the book. Riddle is left flustered and scandalized, especially with the last rule.

pairing: riddle rosehearts x gn!reader

warning: secondhand embarrassment experience.

word count: 2.4k

i had so much fun writing this. probably one of my favourite fics i have written. it's fun to write about my beloved riddle <3

It all started with a tart. Or rather, the lack of one.

You and Grim stood in the lounge, both of you equal parts guilty and unapologetic. Well, you were mostly guilty by association, considering it was Grim who had eaten one of Trey’s tarts without permission, but in Riddle’s eyes, you were both responsible.

"Grim," you sighed, standing before Riddle Rosehearts with his face red, arms crossed, eyes burning with irritation. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

Grim, hiding behind you, peeked out from behind your legs, ears twitching. "I regret nothing," he declared. "That tart was mine!"

"It most certainly was not!" Riddle snapped, his voice sharp. "That was my tart, specifically prepared for me. And not only did you eat it, but you also violated Rule #89 ‘Never eat a tart without the Queen's permission’, and Rule #27 ‘Do not break into the dormitory kitchens after hours’ and Rule #53–"

Grim huffed. "Ya make it sound worse than it is."

"You ate the Housewarden’s tart in front of him and ran to me," you muttered, reminding him of his crime. You were surprised that Grim hadn't been collared yet.

"A mistake anyone could make," Grim said stubbornly.

"A mistake that you made," you deadpanned.

Riddle inhaled deeply, clearly exercising a lot of restraint to not collar Grim. Then, he presented you with a book, quite a massive book.

"This," he declared, "is the Heartslabyul Rulebook."

You took it, nearly dropping it due to its weight. No dorm rulebook should be this heavy, you thought. "This thing could kill a man."

Grim peeked at it over your shoulder and immediately recoiled. "Ugh! Words! Too many words!"

"That is exactly the issue," Riddle snapped at him. "You do not read the rules, and as a result, you break them." Riddle then turned to you, his face no longer red. "As the Ramshackle Prefect, I expect you to look after your dorm members. Therefore, I expect you to read this book in its entirety and teach Grim to behave himself in my dorm."

You blinked at him. This seemed hardly fair. Why did you have to be punished?

You opened the book to have a look.

Rule #1: Always respect the Queen’s Decrees.

You promptly closed it.

"Yeah, I’m not doing that," you said.

Riddle frowned.

At first, you did try to read the rulebook, but between all your other work, assignments, and the endless errands you had to run, it simply wasn’t feasible. Not to mention how utterly ridiculous some of the rules were.

So instead of reading his rulebook, you wrote your own. For fun.

Grim was pleased with the outcome.

It had started as a joke, something to vent your many grievances about the amount of rules in Heartslabyul, but you quickly realized something: your rulebook wasn’t about Heartslabyul.

It was about Riddle, which Grim had helpfully pointed out.

"Myahaha! Look at this one! ‘Rule #23 – Riddle can and will recite the rules you broke.’ That one's good! Let me add some too!"

And so, The Prefect’s Unofficial Guide to Riddle Rosehearts was born.

The Prefect’s Unofficial Guide to Riddle Rosehearts

(Compiled by the Ramshackle Prefect, with essential additions and doodles from Grim. Rules may be ignored at your own risk. Side effects include but are not limited to: exasperation, lectures, punishments, and possible collaring.)

Rule #1 – Anything is legal when Riddle has his back turned. (Grim wrote this.)

Rule #2 – Riddle will scold you for running in the halls, even if you are running to avoid being late for a meeting with him. (It was a no-win situation. You’d be scolded for being late or scolded for running. There was no escape.)

Rule #3 – Riddle has a ‘stern nod’ and a ‘very stern nod.’ Learn to tell the difference. (One means ‘I am disappointed in you.’ The other means ‘You will be collared in five seconds.’)

Rule #5 – If Riddle goes silent mid-sentence, he is either (a) so angry he can’t speak, or (b) realizing you have a point but refuses to admit it.

Rule #12 – If you see Trey baking tarts, congratulations! You are in the presence of Heartslabyul’s unofficial MVP. Do not let Riddle (or anyone) see you sneaking one.

Rule #18 – If you notice Riddle's face is turning red, you have exactly three seconds to mentally prepare for whatever comes next.

Rule #23 – Riddle can and will recite the rules you broke.

Rule #28 – If you compliment Riddle out of nowhere, he will malfunction like a broken automaton. (Highly effective distraction technique.)

Rule #31 – If Ace says, 'Housewarden Riddle will never know,' Housewarden Riddle will absolutely find out.

Bonus Section:

Rule #31.1 – If Ace says, 'I have a great idea,' walk away. It is neither 'great' nor 'an idea.'

Rule #31.2 – If you try to hide something from Ace, he will immediately become interested.

Rule #34 – Riddle pretends not to have a sense of humour, but he does. (It’s just deeply buried under layers of responsibility and rule enforcement.)

Rule #38 – Trey has a 70% success rate of calming Riddle down. (Cater has a 50% success rate. Ace and Deuce have a -500% success rate.)

Rule #41 – Riddle secretly likes animals, but will deny this if accused. (He takes good care of the hedgehogs and adores them.)

Rule #53 – If Riddle ever finds out I like him, I am done for.

You weren’t sure why you wrote that last one. It was a joke. Mostly. (It felt easier to admit on paper rather than to say it. It was most definitely not a joke.)

The rulebook remained a harmless source of entertainment between you and Grim. You had your fun, and Grim even doodled in a few pictures of angry Riddle before resorting to drawing himself.

It should have remained a private joke. It really should have. But, of course, nothing involving Grim remained a secret for long.

It was another ordinary evening in Heartslabyul, where you had reluctantly agreed to a study session with Ace and Deuce. The plan was simple: Ace and Deuce would attempt to get their grades up, you would try to prevent them from slacking while trying to study as well, and Grim would… probably not study.

Riddle had allowed you all to use one of the study rooms, though not without a warning about ‘proper conduct.’

You had meant to be careful, really. You had every intention of keeping your very unofficial, very embarrassing rulebook far away from prying eyes. You just hoped nobody looked through your stack of books, among which laid your rulebook you had accidentally brought. Unfortunately, for you, Grim had other plans.

Grim huffed, then pawed through the stack of books on the table. "There’s too many words in here! I wanna read something fun."

"You’ll think studying is fun when you see your test scores improve," Deuce said, diligently copying notes and actually putting in an effort.

"Nyah! Where’s our rulebook? I wanna add another one about Riddle’s scary angry face!"

You immediately froze and, like a shark smelling blood in water, Ace perked up.

"Rulebook?" he echoed. "Wait, wait, wait. Is it another one of Riddle’s? Man, you’re actually reading that thing?"

Deuce actually looked impressed. "That’s really responsible of you, Prefect."

"It’s not the Heartslabyul Rulebook," Grim piped up, completely missing the way you were silently willing him to stop talking. "It’s hench-human’s rulebook! The one ‘bout Riddle!"

A beat of silence.

Then, with alarming speed, Ace lunged for your stack of books before you could even stop him. (Rule #31.2 was being displayed right in front of you.)

"HEY–"

"Hold on, hold on," Ace said, flipping the thin book open. "This is– ooohhh. You wrote an entire guide to our Housewarden? With rules?" He barked out a laugh. "Rule #1: Anything is legal when Riddle has his back turned."

You snatched for the book, but Ace twisted out of reach.

"It was a joke! Give it back!"

Deuce, peeking over Ace’s shoulder, frowned. "I don’t know if this is a good idea–"

"‘Rule #31: If Ace says, Housewarden Riddle will never know, Housewarden Riddle will absolutely find out.’" Ace read. "Hey, what the hell! That’s slander!"

"It’s true!" you snapped.

Ace ignored you, flipping further. "‘Rule #38: Trey has a 70% success rate of calming Riddle down. Cater has a 50% success rate. Ace and Deuce have a -500% success rate.’"

Deuce looked offended. "Hey, why is mine also negative?"

Ace grinned. "Because you’re the one who keeps making it worse by apologizing wrong and getting us caught."

"I– wait. I do not!"

"Stop arguing and give it back–"

"Prefect, Ace, Deuce," came the voice of Riddle Rosehearts from the now open door.

A terrible, horrible, no good, very bad silence followed.

The three of you went completely still, and Grim decided he would hide behind you.

This was the worst possible outcome ever. In Ace's hand was your silly book, in plain sight, and there stood Riddle in the doorway with his brows furrowed. Riddle’s eyes flicked to the book in Ace’s hands. Ace immediately noticed and hid it behind his back, but it was far too late.

"Ace," Riddle said, stepping forward. "What are you hiding?"

"Uh… nothing?" Ace tried, clearly lying.

"Nothing," Riddle repeated flatly. His gaze sharpened. "Ace Trappola, hand it over. Now."

Ace, being Ace, grinned as if he could still salvage the situation. "C’mon, Housewarden. Maybe this is one of those things you're better off not seeing–"

"If you don't hand me the book, it's off with your head!"

Ace immediately caved, sighing. "Alright, alright. Here." He handed over the book, and you had never felt such levels of anxiety in your life. Not even facing overblots made you feel the level of panic you felt now (that was an exaggeration but, still).

Riddle took it, immediately glancing at the cover. Then he flipped open the first page. Then the second. Then the third.

You watched, frozen in place, as Riddle continued reading, his expression shifting between scandalized and exasperated.

Then he was at the last page. You could tell the exact moment he read the 53rd Rule. His face went from normal to red in an instant.

Oh no.

You squeezed your eyes shut for a moment and then opened to meet Riddle's blue-gray ones.

“I see,” Riddle said, his voice carefully even but his face red. "Is this true?"

You considered your options.

Lie. (Too late, he’s already read it.)

Run. (Where? He knows where you live.)

Pray. (The Great Seven can’t save you now.)

You picked option 4. Deflection.

"You were not supposed to read it," you said, your voice steadier than you felt.

"So I gathered," he muttered. He looked at you then glanced at the audience.

"Ace, Deuce and Grim," he said. "I expect a 2000 worded essay about the need of study ettiquette and rules."

Ace groaned. "Aw, c’mon, Housewarden–"

"2500 words," Riddle amended, not even hesitating.

Deuce sighed but nodded, already resigned to his fate. Grim, however, let out a dramatic wail. "But I didn't even do anything!"

"Then you may explain, in 2500 words, why you are a menace to the dorms."

Grim gasped. "Wha– ME?!"

"Now leave," Riddle said, and Ace wasted no time grabbing Grim and Deuce by the collars, dragging them toward the door.

"Good luck, Prefect," Ace called, grinning like a traitor before the door shut behind them.

And then, silence.

You were alone with Riddle. You could hear the pages of the rulebook crinkling slightly under his grip. He wasn’t saying anything. Oh no.

Riddle took a deep breath, and exhaled. His face was still tinged red, and you had no idea if that was a good sign or if you were about to be executed on the spot.

"Why," he finally said, "did you write this?"

You hesitated, rubbing the back of your neck. "It was just a joke. Grim and I wrote it for fun."

"Fun," Riddle echoed, a slight twitch in his brow. "So, you thought it would be fun to create an entire guide about me?"

"When you say it like that, it sounds weird."

"It is weird!"

You winced. Was it Rule #18 red or Rule #5 red? Either way, this was not looking good for you.

(Back in your world, you used to laugh when your friends talked about the embarrassing things they did and noticed about their crushes. You thought it was ridiculous. Now the tables have turned and you feel like you want to throw up.)

"Look," you said, shifting uncomfortably, "I didn’t mean for you to see it. I mean, it’s not like you don’t do all those things–"

Riddle inhaled sharply. "That’s not the point!"

There was another terrible pause. You could feel your soul slowly trying to escape your body.

Then, he huffed, closing the book with a thunk against his palm. "So," he said, eyes locking onto you, "Rule number 53."

Your stomach flipped in a very bad way.

"That one was a joke," you blurted out.

He raised an eyebrow. "Was it?"

You swallowed. "Mostly?"

His lips pressed into a thin line. "Mostly," he repeated. He tapped his fingers against the book, thoughtful. "I find it strange, Prefect. You wrote a rather detailed guide about me, yet you conveniently included that rule."

You remain silent.

"I am asking again. Is it true?"

You opened your mouth. Shut it. Opened it again.

"...Yes."

Riddle stared at the floor. His fingers curled slightly. You silently braced yourself for the rejection. All you had to do was not cry and act as level headed as you could.

Then, after a long pause, he muttered, "I think I should make my own rulebook."

You blinked. "Huh?"

He looked up, red-faced, but determined.

"Rule #1 : If the Prefect likes me, they are not done for."

You felt your face burn. Embarrassment rising up again.

"Rule #2," he continued, flustered, "If the Prefect insists on writing about me, they should expect me to read it and respond accordingly."

You could feel yourself sweat. "Riddle–"

"And Rule #3–"

He hesitated, then turned away, mumbling, "...They should expect me to like them back."

Your heart soared and you almost cried in relief.

Riddle sighed, covering his face. "This is the worst rulebook ever."

But there was a small, shy smile peeking through his embarrassment.

© ladyfocalors

[omid-1]

BETTER THAN PHYSICS⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖࣪ —SJY

Pairing: tutor!Jake x fem!student!reader

Summary: You have always hated physics. You've tried to learn it but it doesn't work out. Will that change when you go for tutoring to the hottest and most handsome man you've ever seen?

Genre:smuttttt

Warnings: 18+, age gap( reader is 19 and Jake is 30), mdni, unprotected sex (don’t do it) , soft dom jake, fingering, oral ( fem receiving), eating out, dirty talks, swearing, fingering, squirting, hickeys,begging, nipple play, kissing, pet names (baby, princess etc.), mutual desire, missionary, big dick!Jake, multiple orgasms (sorry if I missed sth)

Word count: 3,5 k

Author note: ahhh, my first fanfic has so many likes and reblogs!!! Thank you so much!!! I’m very glad that you liked it ㅤ♡ ^^ ! I hope you will like this one too ♡

English is not my first language so sorry if there are any mistakes

ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚ *ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚ *ੈ✩.

Physics has never been your favorite subject. You’ve always passed this subject with luck. No matter how much time you spent studying it, it was always bad. When you graduated from school you went to college. You didn’t expect that there will be also physics.

You are in your first year of study and you are doing very well in your studies. Unfortunately, you are only stopped by unfortunate physics. You're writing exams in a few weeks and that includes this subject.

You studied at night, took notes and even concentrated a lot during the lectures but it didn't do anything. You just think and know that you don’t have the talent for it.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚ *ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚ *ੈ✩‧₊

One evening you called your mom. You do it often because you are living now in a dormitory with your friend.

Your university is far from your home so you had to move away. Due to your studies, you don’t have much time to visit your family, so you often call them.

You talked with your mom. She knows very well about your troubles with physics. She told you that she knows someone who could tutor you.

At first you weren't too convinced by her idea, but nevertheless you knew that she wants good for you, and you guess this will be your last hope.

You found out from her that your tutor was to be a man who teaches physics at the school, and his name is Jaeyun. According to your mom, he taught her friend's son and he passed his exams 100%. She gave you his phone number and you wrote down.

Later in the evening after studying you were laying in bed. You mindlessly scrolled through social media on your phone. You were reminded that you need to call or text to this tutor.

You were wondering if this is a good idea. What if it's just a waste of time and money for you and you don't learn anything? Or worse it will be some old man who God knows what he will do to you?

But on the other hand, he was recommended by your mom so you trust her.

You chose his number. You didn’t want to call him so you wrote a short message:

YN: Hi, I’m YN! My mom gave me your number because you supposedly tutor physics

You were surprised how quickly he texted back:

Jaeyun: Hey! Yes, I tutor! if you want, we can arrange when to meet :)

You read his message and immediately wrote back:

YN: okay, we can even meet tomorrow if it suits you

Jaeyun: what about 6 pm?

YN: of course, it suit me!

You didn't know it would go so easily. You agreed on where to meet and decided to meet at his house. It turned out that he lives near your dormitory so you had a good commute to his place. With thoughts of tomorrow's tutoring, you fell asleep.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚ *ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚ *ੈ✩‧₊

You enter the apartment building where he lives. You have to admit that it’s very luxurious here and these apartments must have been very expensive. You ride the elevator and you are stressed.

It occurred to you that you have never really seen him. What if he turns out to be some kind of weirdos and you never leave his apartment again?

You walk unsteadily down the corridor and your brain is filled with thoughts. You stand in front of his apartment and softly knock on the door.

He opens the door. And my God before your eyes appeared the most handsome man you have ever seen.

He is wearing a black shirt that has two buttons unbuttoned and through this you can see that he is wearing a silver necklace, glasses in which he looks like a nerd and has lovely black slightly disheveled hair

And his face?? Goddamn,he looks like he’s some kind of Greek goddess. For all you know he's about 30 years old but he looks younger.

You know in advance that you won't learn much from his tutoring, and you won’t be able to focus since he looks too good.

You stand for a moment literally staring at him until you are shaken by his voice and he says calmly with a slight smile "Hi, are you YN?"

And when you heard his Australian accent? You literally went wild. He has the hottest voice you've ever heard.

You look at him and nod ,, yes, it’s me”

Jaeyun lets you in and you leave your shoes in the hallway. You have to admit that his apartment looks very expensive. Everything is very modern and looks new. You honestly like it a lot. It was clear that he lives alone, but this surprised you because how can such a handsome man be single?

You sat side by side in the living room at the table. You pulled out a physics book when Jaeyun said ,,so I haven't switched to you yet. I'm Sim Jaeyun but just can call me Jake”

You look at him the whole time and smile softly. Then you show him all the topics you were struggling with in physics.

,,okay, let’s start from the beginning. I will try to explain you as simply as possible”

Jake looks through your physics book and when you look at his big, veiny hands. You are getting wet. You wonder how you would feel if he choked or fingered you with them.

He starts to explain the subject to you. For the first half hour you listen and even start to understand something because he explains to you in a very simple and interesting way.

But then you are more and more distracted. You rest your elbow on the table and put your head on your hand. you look or rather stare at him.

He is so damn attractive. And also the fact that he is so smart makes you more and more horny for him. You really want to fuck with him.

,,is everything okay?” You hear his voice, which wakes you up from your fantasies about him. Probably he noticed that you’re not focused. You quickly straighten up and you say perplexed

,, yes..”

Jake smirks slightly and your heart beats faster. He starts dictating a note to you and you write it down. When he finish speaking he lean toward you. You immediately smell his perfume. He smells so good.

He is so close that you can practically hear his breath.Your heart beats even faster if it’s possible. Out of the corner of his eye he looks at you

Something tells you that he did it on purpose. You can sense it in the tension between you.

He leans back but you have the impression that the chairs you are sitting on are getting closer to each other.

After the tutoring, you leave his house. And damn, you already know that you may not learn much physics, but Jake is the most handsome and charming man you've ever seen and you need to do something about it.

On the other hand, Jake thinks about you the same. When he saw first saw you he thought that you are the prettiest girl he has ever seen. He is not stupid he noticed how you look at him. But for now he will tease you and see what comes out of it

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚ *ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚ *ੈ✩‧₊

It's been two weeks since your first meeting and Jake is tutoring you several times a week.

Through each meeting you became closer and closer to each other . Often you dont talk only about physics but about normal topics and got to know each other.

You found out a lot of things about him. For example, he born and when he was younger he lived in Australia or that he graduated with two degrees. You have to admit that he’s really interesting and smart (plus very sexy hehe)

The other thing that is not hard to miss is the huge sexual tension between you two. Small and seemingly random touches light a fire in your body.

For example, Jake just happened to want to turn a page in a book at the time you did, and then your hands would touch, or he would claim he couldn't hear you and move your chair closer to his even though you were sitting very close.

On purpose when you go to him you put on more and more skimpy clothes. You see his gaze linger a little too long on your figure, or how he look at your lips instead of your eyes when he explains something to you.

You both know very well that you want each other. however, neither Jake nor you have made any concrete move yet. You are exhausted by this and you are thinking of doing something about it.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚ *ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚ *ੈ✩‧₊

You sit next to each other on chairs. Today is your pre-last tutoring before the exam. However, you care more about making something happen between you. You've been horny for him since you first met him. You don't want to wait any longer.

You wore shorter skirt than usual and sweater today. You saw Jake watching you when you entered his apartment.

He explains some task to you although you don’t listen to him at all. You look at him as if he were the prettiest painting you've ever seen.

His eyebrows are slightly drawn together and he looks at you intensely. He speaks slowly and tries to explain everything in the simplest but most accurate way possible. His lips look so pretty and enticing.

You got the impression that he looks even hotter today than last time. His T-shirt showed perfectly his veins on his arms and he had different glasses than last time which perfectly highlighted his nose.

,,YN, are you even listening to me?”

You see that he bites his lip-you have noticed that this is his habit and sometimes he does it unintentionally. He raises his eyebrow and looks at you.

,, yes, I’m listening but I'm a little distracted” you answer and you look at his plump lips.

His smile widens and he looks deeply into your eyes. He asks curiously even though he knows exactly what is on your mind ,, What got you so distracted?”

You look at him and delicate blush appears on your cheeks. You know that this is your chance ,, I don’t know. I guess I've had enough of the physics. I need a break”

Jake looks at you intently and he answers calmly ,, okay, as you wish princess”

When you hear him say the pet name so naturally you get butterflies in your stomach. You lay finger on your lips and you play with your lip. You smile at him and you don’t break eye contact.

Jake when he watches you he loses his temper. He knows that he has to do something ,, c’mere, sit on my lap”

You listen to him and you sit on his lap. You put your hands behind his neck You get hot when you are so close. You look at his lips and then at his eyes. Jake notices this and grins ,,what happened, baby? Would you like to kiss me?”

You bite your lip slightly and Jake gently touches your lips with his finger while looking at them carefully. He wonders how pretty they would look around his dick.

Jake brings his face to yours and gently brushes his lips against yours. You begin to kiss each other subtly and sweetly. You have chills down your spine.

You deepen the kiss, you feel Jake exploring your lip with his tongue and you moan quietly into his mouth. You think that you've never felt so good when someone kissed you before

His hands moved sensually over your body. You felt his erection grow beneath you. You deliberately began to wriggle in his lap.

All the time you didn’t pull away from the kiss. It was more and more passionate and hot between you. You hear Jake begin to moan silently.

You pull away from the kiss and you feel Jake's hands on your waist. You whisper "bedroom"

Jake immediately knows what you're about and takes you in his arms. All the way to his bedroom you kiss and don’t take your hands off each other. When you enter the room Jake puts you on his bed.

He looks at you,his eyes darken and he delights ,,fuck baby, you look so pretty under me”

Your flushed face, reddened lips from an earlier passionate kiss and teasing smile arouses something in him. He thinks he's about to go crazy

His cock grows in his pants just because he looks at you. He thinks you're so cute when you're lying underneath him and so desperate for him.

,,Jake.., please do something” you beg him when you notice that jake is staring at you. And you honestly love it but you are desperate and need his touch.

,,for you everything, princess” he starts kissing and gently nibbling your neck. You moaned quietly in pleasure when he did it . You already know that he will leave marks on your neck

Jake begins to lift your t-shirt and looks at you with a questioning gaze asking for your permission. You nod and he pulls down your t-shirt and then your bra. He gently touches one of your nipples and licks and nibbles the other with his tongue.

You groan at the feeling. No one has ever touched you as good as jake. You squirm and whine.

Jake notices this how desperate you are. You are such a mess underneath him but he loves it. Your moans for him are like the prettiest voice he has ever heard.

He smiles, raises an eyebrow when he looks at you and says teasingly ,,tell me sweetie, where do you want me to touch you?”

You moan and look up at him. His disheveled hair from your touch, his mean grin and plump reddened lips make your pussy drip even more.

,,please… I need your month and fingers in my pussy”

Smile from his face doesn’t disappear when you beg him so nicely. He gently pulls down your skirt and you are left in just your panties. He lies down between your thighs and he puts your legs over his shoulders.

He slowly touches your clit with two fingers through your panties. He sees the wet spot on them and says in a deep voice ,, Your pussy is so wet and eager just for me, isn't it?”

,,o-only for you jakey…” you answer and keep your hands firmly on the sheet. Jake pulls down your panties and begins to touch your clit with one finger. he deliberately and gently moves his finger from top to bottom. You gasp and squirm.

,, jakey pleasee….. I need more”

At your request, he inserts two fingers into your cunt and you moan at the feeling when jake purrs ,,mmm, your pussy is so tight around my fingers”

Jake quickly and thoroughly fingers you and then adds his mouth. He starts eating your pussy like a hungry man. You moan loudly at the sensation.

He licks and nibbles your clit with his tongue and on top of that he fingers you with three fingers. He hits all the spots perfectly

,,fuck, you taste so sweet”

You have never felt so good before. You roll your eyes and hold your hands tightly in his hair. All you can hear in the room are your cries of his name and the wet sounds of your pussy as he inserts his fingers into you.

You feel that you are about to come, and you know that it will be the most intense orgasm you have ever experienced ,, fuck, jake… I-I feel s-soo goodd!!”

You moan and scream. Your back arches as you feel the knot in your stomach can burst at any moment. He doesn't stop. He starts fingering you even harder as far as possible perfectly reaching your G-spot.

,, jakeeee!!!! I’m cumming!!!!!” You scream when you cum at his face and fingers. You shout his name all the time. you have never came so intensely just because someone fingered and ate you out.

Your legs are shaking. ,, fuck doll,you’re so pretty when you cum on me” You feel Jake licking all your juices from your pussy and you moan quietly at the sensation.

You catch eye contact. you see that jake has your juices on his lips and nose. Damn, he looks so hot. You slowly sit up and jake draws you in for a passionate and desperate kiss.

You desire each other further so much. You taste yourself on his tongue. You start touching his cock through his pants and he quietly moans at the sensation

You pull away from the kiss and want to pay him back. However, he has other plans and says as he pulls off his shirt ,, baby, another time, I have to fuck you now”

You are breathing hard and your pussy is wet again just by his words. Jake gets up from the bed and pulls down his pants and boxers. You watch his every move.

And oh God. You’ve never seen a prettier body. He looks like he is some kind of god. He is athletic and you can see that he spends a lot of time in the gym.

And his cock? He is big, thick and stringy. You yourself don't know how your little pussy will take it all in.

He sees you staring at him and raises an eyebrow and smiles ,,hmm honey, do you like what you see?"

You nod and practically drool over him. He crouches in front of you on the bed and puts your legs over his shoulders. He pumps his cock a few time.

He holds your wrists behind your head and says seductively in a deep voice ,, will you be my good girl and you’ll take all my cook in your little pussy?”

your pussy is already so soaked for the second time and you want him to fuck you already. in a shaky voice you answer ,, yes!!! Please…. Fuck mee!”

His cock stands and when he hears you wanting him he puts the tip into your pussy. You moan at the feeling. He slowly enters further. You roll your eyes and moan his name.

Jake feels how warm and tight you are around him and thinks he could come already. He lays his head on your shoulder and breathes hard as he starts to move

,,mmmm j-jakeyy..” You moan as his cock thrusts into your pussy at a steady pace. Never before has anyone fucked you as well as he has. His big cock hits deep inside you in places you didn't know existed.

,,mhmm.. you feel so fucking full” He teases and and thrusts firmly into you ,, I'm sure you've wanted to have your tutor's cock pushed deep into your pussy for a long time”

You know you won't last long when he fucks you too good. You scream and purr louder and louder by the second.

He keeps his hands on your hips thrusting into you harder and harder. His cock twitches inside you and he knows he is close now

,,princess, you feel so good” He fucks you hard and fast. And whispers dirty words in your ear. He starts kissing your neck and massaging your clit. You moan his name loudly and feel that your second orgasm will be even more intense than the first.

Your lips part. You cum and squirts around his dick. You close your eyes and you feel ecstasy. Jake, meanwhile, loudly moans your name and asks in a shaky voice ,, Can I fill you up? Your pussy will be all filled in my cum”

,, yes-ss, pleaseee!!”you moan when you feel that jake paints your walls with his cum and pounding into you one last time

You breathe loudly as you feel Jake gently come out of you. cum from your pussy spills onto his bed sheets.

Jake goes into the bathroom and brings a towel to wipe the mess between your legs. Then he puts the towel on the floor.

You lie in his bed and wonder what will happen next. Jake sits down next to you and asks sweetly ,,are you feeling okay?"

You look at him and when you see how he cares for you your pulse speeds up.

You think you already know that you are in love with him.

,, yes Jake, it was amazing” you answer with a soft and tired smile. His smile widens and he lies down next to you. He opens his arms and you move closer to him.

You lie in each other's arms. Jake leaves kisses on your shoulder and cheek. there is a comfortable silence between you. Suddenly Jake speaks up ,,how about when you pass your physics exam I will take you out on a date?"

You raise an eyebrow and answer ,,it sounds amazing, but why wait until the exam?”

Jake giggles quietly and says bringing his lips closer to yours

,,it will be your prize baby”

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚ *ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚ *ੈ✩‧₊

Thank you for reading! ♥︎

[moonstruckme]

hi mae!! may i get a poly marauders x reader where reader just completely becomes quiet and stuff around negatively raised voices? like if two of the others (not necessarily reader) are arguing and suddenly theyre arguing in raised voices and reader has grown up in that kinda household so she js makes herself absolutely scarce in fear of one of them snapping at her or smth? sorry if this is very specific or if its not something ur comfortable with lol have a great day :)

Thank you for requesting <3

cw: implied trauma around shouting/aggression

poly!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1.1k words

“You didn’t think to look for a sign?” 

“I didn’t see any sign.” 

“There was a sign less than ten feet away.” 

“Okay, I saw that one.” Sirius reaches up into your cupboard, shuffling things around until he gets to the sleeve of biscuits in the back. His attention is noticeably not on Remus. “I thought it was only for the spot it was posted in front of. They ought to make those things more clear.” 

“The rest of us always manage to interpret them fine.” There’s no bite you can find in Remus’ tone. He’s not standing stiffly, or crossing his arms. But deep in your chest, there’s a small coil of tension brought about by something in your boyfriend’s demeanor you can’t identify. It has you lingering at the edge of the room. You think Remus is more upset than he’s letting on. 

Sirius seems to sense this, too. “Oi, it’s nothing to get your knickers in a twist about. It’s being handled, isn’t it?” 

“It is being handled,” Remus says. He rubs his thumb into his temple. “I’m beginning to wonder how many times it’ll have to be handled before you learn how public parking works.” 

“I did think after three tickets we’d be done with it,” James jokes, oblivious to the rising tension. “Surely at some point the towing company must start giving us a discount.” 

Sirius pops a biscuit in his mouth. He folds his arms, speaking around it. “I’m taking care of it, alright? I’ll pay the ticket. I’ve already paid the towing company and gone to the lot to get the car back—which ate up a good chunk of my day, by the way, so I don’t really fancy coming home to be lectured about it.” 

“Sirius.” Remus sighs harshly, eyes closed as if this is all giving him a headache. “Do you really want me to feel bad for you about a mess you got yourself into?” 

“I just don’t see what’s left for you to be pissy about!” 

“Right, well, you’re not the one who’s going to have to go to court for it, are you? This is our fourth parking violation, and the car’s in my name. I’m going to have to use a sick day for it.” 

“Just let me go instead, then.” 

“That’s not how it works, Sirius.” 

You find yourself retreating from the room on silent feet, disappearing down the hall. 

“Would you stop saying my name like that? I can’t bloody well help what’s already happened. I’ve said I’m sorry, what else do you want me to do?”

“I’m not sure you have said that, actually.” 

“I’ve said I’ll go to court for you!” 

“Hold on,” James cuts in, “let’s just—” 

“Doesn’t sound quite like the same fucking thing, does it?” 

You shut the bedroom door with a soft click. It deadens the voices, though the sharp tones seem to pierce the wood. You push out a breath, forcing it around the tension in your chest. 

Everything is fine. Nothing truly bad is going to happen, not with these boys. You feel caught between pressing your ear to the door to hear every word and putting in your earbuds to drown it all out. 

It doesn’t take terribly long for the tones to soften into something safer. Not kind, exactly, but less jagged. James’ voice chimes in more often. You hear more sighs than scoffs. The feeling in your chest stays, primed. 

When Sirius comes to find you, you’re scrolling aimlessly on your laptop. 

“Hi,” he says, giving you a little smile as he slips in the door. 

You smile back. “Hi.” 

“It’s all clear out there, just so you know.” Sirius sits at the end of the bed, a gentleness in his features that makes you feel sheepish. “Safe to come back out if you want to.” 

“Are you okay?” you ask quietly. 

“We’re okay, baby.” 

“And you and Remus…” 

“He’s still a bit miffed with me,” he admits, “but we’re alright. I’m going to see if they’ll let me go to court for him since I was the one using the car.” 

You nod. The inside of your cheek finds its way between your molars. “I’m sorry you got a ticket,” you say. 

Sirius smiles, gray eyes soft with fondness. “Thanks, sweetness. It’s okay. It happens, you know?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Some could argue it might happen less if I was perhaps a bit more cautious.” 

Your lips quirk. “They could.” 

“But it’s all fine. Everything’s really alright, we’ve made up. Do you want to come have dinner?” 

“Oh.” You get up. “Yeah, sorry.” 

Sirius tsks. “What’re you sorry for?” 

“I didn’t mean to hide.” 

He hums, pulling you close to press his lips to the side of your head. “I don’t blame you,” he murmurs. 

James is stirring a pan of vegetables in the kitchen, his arm wound snug around Remus’ neck. They appear to be speaking quietly between kisses. When Sirius pulls out a chair for you at the table, James turns with a smile. 

“Hey, lovie.” His voice shines with affection. 

It’s not a scene you’ve always been used to after an argument. Smiles and a shared meal, all of you in the same room together without a sharp look exchanged. 

“Hi,” you say back, trying to smile in the same way. Your feet come up onto your seat, legs folding into a pretzel. 

Remus leans around James to see you better. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to drive you off.” 

“You didn’t drive me off,” you reply. You both know it’s a lie. Remus’ mouth slants sympathetically. 

“Are you alright?” 

“Yeah,” you say, honestly. Sirius rubs your thigh like he’s going to make sure of it. “You?” 

Remus smiles softly. “I’m alright. Thanks, sweetheart.” 

“I think we should institute a new system.” The vegetables hiss as James pushes them around in the pan. “Whenever two of us are having a row, the other two get to vote on who’s right, and that’s the end of it.” 

“But,” you hesitate, “there’s four of us? What if it’s a split vote?” 

“Then that’ll be the least of our problems.” You can practically hear the eye roll Remus is holding back. “Taking sides would never work.” 

“Agreed,” says Sirius. “I vote that James doesn’t get to institute new systems.” 

“What?” James sulks. “You always take Remus’ side.” 

“Clearly not.” 

“Well, you always do when it’s against me!” 

“I’m going to leave again,” you joke, gratified when James instantly apologizes and Sirius puts his hands over your ears. 

“You heard her.” Remus smiles, dropping a light kiss to James’ hair. “No more bickering, you two. Honestly, I’ve no idea what possesses you. Can you believe them, dove?” 

“Nope,” you say, smiling. 

Sirius fixes you with a look. “I’m going to start bickering with you next if you’re not careful.” 

[deadsetobsessions]

Sea Cryptic! Danny AU- Pt. 5

[Pt.1] [Pt.2] [Pt.3] [Pt.4] [Pt.6] [Pt.7] [Pt.8] [Pt.9] [Pt.10]

“So you’re that dead kid everyone’s talking about.”

Danny smacked a trash bag into the purple clad vigilante. “You can pick up the glass.”

“Wait, I’m just here to-”

“Bother me when I’m working? At least the litterer brings me cash. You can help clean or you can leave. Plastics go over there.”

Danny pointed at a pile of plastics, ignoring Spoiler’s bemused look. Hard to tell, really, considering her mask.

“I’ll help clean if you answer some questions!” Spoiler chirped, already moving to pick out the glass in the general trash pile Danny’s managed to gather. He nodded.

“Alright. At least you’re helping. The other one just bothers me and leaves his stuff on the beach.”

Spoiler snorted. “I’m Spoiler. Is the litterer Batman?”

“Sure. I don’t really care what his name is,” which was a complete lie, Danny was a fan. It’s just that messing with Batman (especially after he couldn’t clean up after himself, honestly!) overrode his fan behavior. “But if I catch him leaving shit in the waters again…”

Danny frowned, eyes glowing. He could feel- even with his partial tangibility, the muck of Gotham's waters seeping into his boots. It was not giving 'Live, Laugh, Love' to Danny, and he needed it gone.

“Whatever. They dropped a lot of guns down here. You can deal with those too, yeah?”

“I'm pretty sure that's evidence?!”

“If you could call it that.” Danny plucked away the Styrofoam and the hazardous (more than regular, anyways) materials away from the trash pile so Spoiler could dig through with her gloves without contracting sixteen different sorts of illnesses.

“So, what brings you to Gotham?”

Danny pointed at the water. “Came for school. Stayed because you losers polluted the water with dead bodies and gross chemicals.”

“You go to school?”

“Hey, that’s discriminatory.”

“Oops! No, sorry! I meant-”

Danny waved her off, irritably separating a bottle cap from the crushed bottle. Seriously, what’s the point of putting the cap back on if you were going to throw it in the bay anyways?

“It’s fine. How else am I supposed to learn about the advancements made in the scientific industry otherwise?”

Even if Danny wasn’t too sure that science could sure stupidity, but a halfa could dream, right?

"So... do you just... listen in on lectures?"

Danny stared at her. "What else would I do in a class??"

"Oh. I just thought since you're dead and all, you'd do something more... fun?"

"I mean, I could terrorize the local villains for kicks, if that's what you meant."

Spoiler brightened. "Actually, yeah! That would be helpful! If Mr. Freeze keeps bringing the cold during my latte Thursdays, I'm gonna snap and wring his cold little chicken neck."

Danny snorted. "Alright. I will keep an eye out for this Mr. Freeze." Danny paused. "Hey, tell your friend to come down and help us."

"What- oh. Black Bat!" Stephanie waved her partner down. Black Bat gracefully slipped down towards the bay, casually knocking out two goons gunning for Spoiler.

'Careful,' Black Bat signed.

"Thanks!" Spoiler bounced on the heels of her feet. She swept an arm out. "Wanna help?"

Black Bat tilted her head and, after placing Danny under quick but thorough scrutiny, nodded.

'You can get the salvageable stuff. Anything you can't lift, leave to me.' Danny signed clumsily, placing emphasis on can't.

"You know sign language?"

"I'm not too good at it, I just learned this version."

He knew ghost-sign first, after all.

"Chop, chop. I don't have all night."

----

Danny learned that Black Bat had the skill to knock cans into their designated piles if he threw them in the air so she could kick at them.

"You two can come back anytime."

Spoiler whooped while Black Bat leaned back, smug.

"Wait, tell the litterer he owes me $200. He was short last time."

"...Are you telling me Batman owes you money?"

"Yeah. He might be in financial straights, so I gave him some lee-way."

Black Bat and Spoiler looked at each other.

----

"Hey, so guess what I learned about sea boy!"

Bruce's head swiveled to her with startling intensity. The rest of the clan tuned in.

"He knows sign language! Maybe he even knows ancient sign language! And goes to school, but since he's like, dead, he could only listen to the lectures."

"Bruce, Bruce, do not start a ghost-education plan. Stop. We don't even know if he even-" Dick tackled Bruce, who was already writing a petition as Bruce Wayne to give partial credit to students that diligently goes to class.

"Oh, yeah!" Stephanie shouted over the unraveling chaos. "He promised to fuck with our Rogues for a bit so we can get a break! And we also got a bunch of guns!"

"Where? Gimme!" Jason demanded.

"Do not give Todd more firearms!" Damian cut in.

"Also!" Stephanie grinned as Cass shook with laughter. "Batman's a debtor! He owes Phantom $200!"

"Ain't no fucking way." Tim cackled. "Hear that Bruce? That's karma! For not defending me when he called me broke!"

[missarchive]

cognitive dissonance pt 1 - spencer reid

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ part two

who? tutor!spencer reid x student fem!reader

category: fluff, smut

content warnings: NSFW MDNI!! dry humping, fingering

word count: 5k

a/n: scheduled post as i am away at a new years music festival with my friends :] i will be back with you all in a few days <3

The first time you saw Spencer Reid was during a lecture hall mix-up in your second week at the university. You had rushed in, clutching your notebook and hoping to secure a spot before the professor started, only to find yourself in a room filled with students much older than you. At the center of it all, there he was—leaning casually against the podium, flipping through a worn-out book with an intensity that made the rest of the world blur around him.

He wasn’t the professor, but he might as well have been. His sharp, confident voice cut through the murmurs as he corrected an older man’s calculation on the whiteboard with such precision that the room seemed to collectively hold its breath. You’d learned his name that day from the whispers: Spencer Reid. The prodigy. The genius with more degrees than anyone knew what to do with.

From then on, he became a background character in your university life—a distant figure who seemed too brilliant, too out of reach, to exist in the same world as you. You heard the rumors, the awe-filled anecdotes: he’d started college as a child prodigy, aced every test like it was nothing, and was now juggling multiple Ph.D. programs.

Your own academic pursuits felt mundane in comparison. Sure, you worked hard, but you struggled. Like now, for instance, staring at the red marks slashing through your latest assignment—a problem set for your advanced statistics class.

“You’ve got potential, but you’re missing the fundamentals,” your professor said when you approached him after class, cheeks flaming with embarrassment. “I’m assigning you a tutor.”

“A tutor?” you echoed, your stomach dropping. Group study sessions were bad enough; working one-on-one with someone felt like an invitation for them to witness your shortcomings up close.

“Don’t worry,” he said with a knowing smile. “You’ll be in good hands. I’ve paired you with one of the best.”

You didn’t know what to expect as you walked into the library that afternoon, clutching your notes so tightly your knuckles turned white. The email from your professor had given you nothing but a time and a name: Spencer Reid.

Your heart raced as you reached the designated table tucked into a quiet corner of the library. There he was, surrounded by open books and a tower of index cards, his familiar mop of brown hair falling into his eyes as he scribbled something into a notebook. He looked up when you approached, his hazel eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made you freeze in place.

“You’re here for tutoring?” he asked, his voice softer than you expected, though no less confident.

You nodded quickly, struggling to find your words. “Y-yeah, I’m… I’m Y/N. My professor said you’d be helping me with stats?”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips, and he gestured for you to sit. “Let’s get started, then.”

As you settled into the chair across from him, you couldn’t help but feel like you were stepping into another universe—one where Spencer Reid wasn’t just the untouchable genius you’d admired from afar but someone real, someone tangible, someone who, for the first time, was looking directly at you.

You weren’t sure what you expected Spencer Reid’s tutoring style to be, but it certainly wasn’t this. You’d assumed he might be aloof, perhaps brisk, throwing around jargon you’d struggle to keep up with. Instead, he was patient—meticulously breaking down concepts into manageable pieces while his pen skated effortlessly across his notebook.

Not that you could focus on much of it.

His presence was… distracting. The way his long fingers tapped thoughtfully against the edge of the table, the faint crease between his brows when he explained something particularly tricky, the way his lips pursed as he considered your answer before gently redirecting you to the correct one. All of it sent your mind spiraling into a whirlwind of thoughts that had nothing to do with statistics.

“Does that make sense?” Spencer asked, tilting his head as his hazel eyes searched yours.

You blinked, realizing too late that you hadn’t heard a single word of his explanation. Heat rushed to your face as you fumbled for a response. “Um, yeah! Totally. Makes sense.”

He raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching like he was fighting back a smile. “Really? Then can you explain why we divide by the square root of the sample size in this calculation?”

Panic flared in your chest. “Oh, uh… because it… balances the equation?” you ventured weakly.

Spencer set his pen down, leaning back slightly as he studied you. There was something disarming about the way he looked at you, like he could see straight through the flustered exterior you were so desperately trying to hold together. And, knowing Spencer Reid, he probably could.

“You’re nervous,” he said, not unkindly, but with the clinical precision of someone stating a fact.

Your breath hitched. “What? No, I’m fine!” you lied, your voice raising an octave.

He tilted his head, his gaze softening. “It’s okay,” he said gently. “A lot of people feel overwhelmed during one-on-one tutoring. It’s a different kind of pressure.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but the sincerity in his tone stopped you. He wasn’t mocking you or trying to make you feel small. If anything, he seemed… concerned.

“I just want to make sure you’re comfortable,” he continued, his voice almost soothing now. “Because if you’re too focused on feeling self-conscious, it’s going to be harder for you to process the material.”

You nodded, unable to find your voice. Spencer smiled—a small, reassuring curve of his lips—and slid his notebook closer to you.

“Let’s try this,” he said, switching tactics. “Instead of diving into the calculations right away, let’s talk about what you’re struggling with conceptually. No pressure, no judgment. Just a conversation.”

That did help, marginally. His calm demeanor and methodical approach were like a balm to your frazzled nerves. But every now and then, he’d catch you staring at him for a beat too long, your mind wandering to thoughts that had nothing to do with statistics. Each time, his gaze would flicker with amusement, like he knew exactly what was going through your head but was too polite to say anything.

By the time the session ended, your brain felt like it had been wrung out like a sponge—not just from the math but from the sheer effort of keeping yourself together in his presence. As you packed up your things, Spencer handed you a few pages of handwritten notes.

“These should help,” he said, his voice still as calm and steady as ever. “And if you have questions before our next session, feel free to email me.”

You nodded, clutching the notes like a lifeline. “Thanks. I’ll, um… I’ll do that.”

As you walked away, you could feel his eyes on you, warm and curious. And though you were mortified at how obvious your flustered state had been, a tiny part of you couldn’t help but hope he didn’t mind.

You were determined to be better this time. You’d spent hours poring over the notes Spencer had given you, even rewatching a few recorded lectures for good measure. If you couldn’t control the embarrassing way your brain short-circuited around him, the least you could do was come prepared.

But as you approached the table in the library’s corner and saw him already seated, legs crossed, pen twirling lazily between his fingers, you realized preparation could only take you so far. He looked up as you neared, his hazel eyes lighting up briefly in acknowledgment.

“Hi,” you managed, your voice sounding far too breathy for your liking.

“Hi,” he replied, a slight smile playing on his lips as he motioned for you to sit. “Ready to dive in?”

You nodded quickly, lowering yourself into the chair and flipping open your notebook. Spencer wasted no time launching into a review of last session’s material, but as he began sketching out a new problem, you felt your focus slipping again.

It wasn’t your fault, really. Who could concentrate with him looking like that? His hair was slightly messier than last time, a few stray curls brushing against his forehead. He chewed absentmindedly on the cap of his pen as he thought, the motion inexplicably captivating. And when he leaned forward to jot down a formula, the faint scent of his cologne hit you, warm and woodsy, leaving your thoughts spiraling once more.

“Did you catch that?” Spencer’s voice cut through your haze. You blinked, realizing you’d been staring—again.

“S-sorry. What?” you stammered, gripping your pen like it might anchor you to reality.

His lips quirked up, amusement flickering in his eyes. “I was asking if you understood why we’re using a t-distribution here instead of a z-distribution.”

“Oh! Uh… yes?” you said uncertainly.

Spencer chuckled, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms. “You’re lying.”

Your stomach dropped, and you immediately ducked your head, cheeks flaming. “I’m not lying,” you mumbled.

“You are,” he said, and though his tone was light, there was an unmistakable confidence in his words. “Your body language gave it away. You looked down and shifted in your chair when you answered, which is a pretty common tell.”

You groaned softly, mortified. “Okay, fine. I don’t know why we’re using it.”

“See? That’s progress.” He grinned, and you could swear there was a hint of mischief in his expression. “But I can’t help noticing that your attention seems… elsewhere.”

Your head snapped up at that, your wide eyes meeting his. “What? No! I’m paying attention.”

Spencer tilted his head, his smile widening slightly. “Really? Then why do you keep staring at me?”

Your heart practically stopped. “I’m not—I wasn’t—I mean—” The words tumbled out of your mouth in a flustered mess, and his grin only grew more pronounced.

“It’s fine,” he said smoothly, cutting off your babbling. “I just couldn’t help but notice. You’ve been doing it since last session.”

Your mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. “I wasn’t staring,” you lied weakly.

His gaze held yours, unwavering and far too knowing. “You were,” he countered, his voice low and teasing now. “But I’m curious—why?”

“I wasn’t—” You stopped yourself, realizing you were only digging the hole deeper. “I’m just… thinking.”

“Thinking?” His eyebrows lifted slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching. “About the statistics, or something else?”

You wished the floor would open up and swallow you whole. “The statistics,” you said firmly, though your voice wavered.

Spencer let out a soft chuckle, the sound warm and almost smug. “If you say so.”

He leaned forward again, his elbows resting on the table, and you felt the air shift between you. “For what it’s worth,” he said, his tone softer now, “it’s not a bad thing. People observe things they find interesting.”

The words hung in the air, and you swore your pulse echoed in your ears. You couldn’t tell if he was being matter-of-fact or if there was a deeper implication in his statement, but the knowing glint in his eyes kept you from relaxing.

“Let’s try again,” he said after a beat, tapping his pen against the notebook and effortlessly shifting the conversation back to math. But the playful smirk that lingered on his face for the rest of the session made it clear: he wasn’t letting you off the hook that easily.

When you arrived at your usual table in the library, Spencer was already there, meticulously arranging his materials. His long fingers smoothed out the corner of a page in his notebook, and he glanced up as you approached, offering a small smile that made your stomach flutter despite your best efforts to stay composed.

“Hi,” you greeted softly, sliding into your seat.

“Hi,” he replied, his voice warm and low. “Ready to tackle some more statistics?”

You nodded, pulling out your notebook and pen. He scooted his chair slightly closer—not enough to be obvious, but enough that you could feel the faintest brush of his knee against yours under the table. You froze for a moment, unsure if it was intentional, but Spencer didn’t react.

“Okay,” he began, leaning toward you to sketch out a problem. As he wrote, his shoulder nudged yours lightly. The contact was brief, but it left your skin tingling.

“Let’s start with this,” he said, his pen gliding smoothly across the page. “We’re calculating confidence intervals today. Do you remember the formula from last time?”

You stared at the problem, willing yourself to focus, but the warmth of his proximity made it difficult. “Uh… I think so?”

“Let me jog your memory,” he said. His hand moved toward your notebook, his fingers brushing against yours as he adjusted it to face him. The touch was fleeting, but it sent a jolt through you.

“Sorry,” he said casually, his eyes flicking to yours for a moment. “Didn’t mean to invade your space.”

“No, it’s fine,” you replied quickly, your voice higher than usual. You tried to tell yourself it wasn’t a big deal, that the contact had been accidental. But then he leaned even closer, his arm grazing yours as he explained the formula.

“See how the standard error fits into this part?” he asked, his voice calm and steady.

You nodded, though you weren’t sure what you were agreeing to. It was impossible to concentrate with the way his sleeve brushed against yours, the subtle movement sending a ripple of awareness through you.

“Let’s work through this part together,” Spencer continued, his tone patient. He slid his hand over the notebook, his fingers brushing against yours again as he pointed to a specific number. The touch lingered just a fraction longer than necessary, but his expression remained neutral, as though he hadn’t noticed.

You couldn’t tell if he was doing it on purpose or if you were imagining things. Either way, the warmth radiating from him was making your thoughts hazy.

“You okay?” he asked suddenly, his head tilting slightly as he looked at you.

“Yeah! Totally fine,” you said quickly, though your face felt like it was on fire.

He smiled, his expression soft but unreadable. “Good. Let me know if I’m going too fast.”

You nodded, gripping your pen tightly to ground yourself. But Spencer didn’t make it easy. Every time he reached for the notebook or gestured toward your notes, his hand would brush against yours. Once, he leaned forward to grab a pen, his shoulder pressing lightly into yours for a moment that felt both casual and deliberate.

By the time the session was over, your nerves were shot. Spencer handed you a fresh set of notes, his fingers grazing yours yet again as he passed them over.

“These should help,” he said, his voice soft and steady. “You’re doing better than you think, by the way.”

“Thanks,” you murmured, clutching the notes to your chest.

“Same time next week?” he asked, his eyes lingering on you for a moment longer than usual.

You nodded, too flustered to say much else. As you walked away, you replayed the session in your mind, questioning every subtle touch, every quiet moment of proximity. Was it intentional, or were you imagining things?

The worst part was that you couldn’t tell—and that you didn’t really mind either way.

You weren’t sure why you’d agreed to have Spencer tutor you at your place. The library felt safer somehow, more neutral. But when he’d suggested it—citing the possibility of fewer distractions—you’d found yourself nodding without a second thought.

Now, as you sat across from him at your small dining table, you were second-guessing every decision that had led to this moment.

“Nice place,” Spencer said as he set his bag down and took in the cozy, slightly cluttered room. His eyes lingered on a stack of books by the couch. “Suits you.”

“Thanks,” you replied, fidgeting with your pen. “I, uh, wasn’t expecting company, so it’s kind of messy.”

He gave you a small smile, his gaze warm and easy. “It’s fine. Ready to get started?”

You nodded, grateful for the excuse to focus on something—anything—other than the fact that Spencer Reid, in all his impossibly distracting glory, was sitting in your home.

For the first few minutes, you managed to keep things professional. Spencer explained a complex concept with his usual precision, and you actually managed to follow along. But then he leaned closer, pointing out a detail in your notes, and you felt that now-familiar flutter in your chest.

“You’ve got the right idea,” he said, his voice low and steady. “You just need to be more precise here.”

He tapped the edge of the page, his hand brushing yours in the process. The contact was brief but enough to make your breath hitch.

“You okay?” he asked, glancing up at you with those impossibly perceptive eyes.

“Yeah, fine,” you said quickly, though your voice betrayed you.

Spencer’s lips quirked, but he didn’t comment. Instead, he shifted slightly, his knee brushing against yours under the table. It felt so casual, so natural, that you couldn’t decide if it was intentional.

For a while, he kept his focus on the notes, but his proximity seemed to grow with each passing moment. The air between you felt charged, like static electricity, and you could feel your resolve slipping.

“So,” Spencer said suddenly, leaning back in his chair and studying you with an intensity that made your pulse race, “how are you finding these sessions so far?”

“They’re good,” you said quickly, avoiding his gaze. “Really helpful.”

“Helpful,” he repeated, his voice laced with something you couldn’t quite place. “You sure about that?”

“Of course,” you replied, glancing up at him.

His eyes locked onto yours, and the weight of his gaze was almost too much to bear. “You seem… distracted sometimes.”

“I’m not distracted,” you said defensively, though the heat rising to your cheeks said otherwise.

Spencer leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. His voice dropped slightly, the teasing edge unmistakable. “Are you sure? Because I get the feeling you’ve been paying more attention to me than the math.”

Your stomach flipped, and you looked down, trying to steady your breathing. “That’s not true,” you muttered.

“Isn’t it?” he asked, his tone soft but insistent.

Before you could respond, he reached out, his fingers grazing yours as he took the pen from your hand. The movement was slow, deliberate, and it left your skin buzzing.

“Relax,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m just helping.”

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding in your chest. He leaned closer, so close you could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin.

“Spencer…” you began, your voice shaky.

“Yes?” he murmured, his gaze flicking to your lips for the briefest of moments.

You couldn’t move, couldn’t think. The tension between you was palpable, and for a moment, it felt like the world had shrunk to just the two of you.

Spencer’s hand moved slightly, his fingers brushing against yours again. This time, the touch lingered, deliberate and unmistakable. “Tell me if I’m reading this wrong,” he said softly, his voice low and steady.

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words caught in your throat. Instead, you found yourself leaning ever so slightly toward him, your body betraying you before your mind could catch up.

That was all the confirmation he needed.

With a slow, careful movement, Spencer closed the distance between you, his hand resting lightly on yours as he tilted his head. The kiss, when it came, was soft and tentative, like he was giving you every opportunity to pull away.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you leaned into him, your heart pounding as you let yourself get lost in the moment. When he pulled back, his eyes searched yours, his expression a mix of curiosity and something deeper.

“Still distracted?” he asked, a small, teasing smile tugging at his lips.

Your heart thundered in your chest as his words hung in the air. You couldn’t decide if the heat coursing through you was from the kiss or the way he was looking at you—like you were the most fascinating puzzle he’d ever encountered.

“Very,” you admitted softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

His smile widened slightly, but it wasn’t the smug grin you expected. It was softer, almost tender, though his eyes still carried that flicker of mischief.

“Maybe we should take a break,” he murmured, his voice lower now, almost inviting.

You nodded, your breath catching as he stood and motioned toward the couch in the living room. You followed him, your nerves on edge but your body moving of its own accord.

The moment you sat down, the tension between you snapped like a rubber band. Spencer hesitated for a fraction of a second, as though giving you one last chance to stop him, before leaning in again.

This time, there was nothing tentative about it. His lips met yours with more certainty, his hand sliding up to cup your jaw as he deepened the kiss. You melted into him, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt as the kiss grew more fervent.

Spencer shifted closer, his knee brushing against yours as his free hand settled on your waist. The pressure was light, grounding, but it sent a shiver down your spine all the same. His thumb traced a small, absent-minded circle against your side, and the simple motion made your thoughts scatter like leaves in the wind.

You tilted your head slightly, allowing him to angle the kiss more deeply. He responded immediately, his fingers threading into your hair as he pulled you closer. The world outside your apartment ceased to exist, leaving only the heat of his body and the intoxicating pull of his lips against yours.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathless. Spencer’s forehead rested lightly against yours, and you could feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he caught his breath.

“I think,” he said after a moment, his voice rougher than usual, “we’ve officially crossed into not studying territory.”

You laughed softly, your hands still clutching the front of his shirt. “You think?”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm, before leaning back just enough to meet your gaze. His fingers lingered on your waist, and the way he looked at you made your heart skip a beat.

“You’re full of surprises, you know,” he murmured, his thumb brushing against your cheek.

“Me?” you replied, raising an eyebrow. “You’re the one who—”

Before you could finish, he kissed you again, effectively silencing any protest. This time, it was slower, more deliberate, like he was savoring every second. You sighed against his lips, your hands sliding up to his shoulders as you gave in to the moment.

Spencer’s hands, steady but careful, slid down from your waist to rest on your hips. He shifted closer, and you felt the subtle press of his body against yours, his touch firm but never overwhelming. When his knee nudged between your legs, your breath hitched, the pressure sparking a warmth that spread through you like wildfire.

You froze for half a second, unsure if the movement had been intentional, but Spencer didn’t pull back. Instead, his lips moved against yours with more intent, and his hands tightened ever so slightly on your hips, guiding you just enough for the tension between you to crackle and deepen.

“Is this okay?” he murmured against your lips, his voice rough and low, sending a shiver down your spine.

“Yes,” you whispered, your hands gripping his shoulders more tightly as you let yourself lean into him.

Encouraged by your response, Spencer deepened the kiss, his knee pressing more firmly between your thighs. The sensation was maddeningly slow, his movements deliberate and measured as though he was testing every reaction. You gasped softly, and he swallowed the sound with a small, satisfied hum.

His hands slid up your sides, his thumbs brushing against your ribs just beneath the hem of your shirt. The touch was gentle, but the heat of his palms against your skin left you trembling.

He leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear as he murmured, “I’m going to ask you a question from one of our sessions. If you get it right, I’ll keep going. If you don’t…” His hands stilled against your skin, and he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his smirk growing. “Well, I’ll have to stop.”

Your mouth went dry. Was he serious? The challenge in his eyes told you he absolutely was.

“Spencer…” you started, your voice shaky with anticipation and a tinge of frustration.

“Hm?” he prompted, his hands sliding down slightly but remaining just beneath your shirt, a silent reminder of what was at stake. “What’s the formula for calculating a confidence interval?”

You stared at him, your mind scrambling to recall the formula you’d seen so many times in your notes. But all you could focus on was the way his fingers were still, waiting, as though they held the key to your ability to think.

“Um,” you began, your voice faltering. “It’s, uh, the mean… plus or minus… the critical value?”

Spencer’s smirk widened, his head tilting slightly as though he was considering your answer. “Close,” he said, his hands retreating slightly. “But not quite. Want to try again?”

“No, wait!” you exclaimed, your cheeks flushing as you tried to focus. “The mean plus or minus the critical value times the standard error?”

He hummed softly, his fingers resuming their slow circles. “There it is,” he said, his voice smooth as silk. “See? You can focus when you want to.”

Your heart pounded as his hands slid higher, his thumbs brushing dangerously close to the underside of your bra. The sensation was enough to make your breath hitch, but you barely had time to react before he spoke again.

“Next question,” he said, his tone taking on a slightly firmer edge. “What’s the first step in solving a regression problem?”

Your brain felt like it had been set on fire. How were you supposed to remember academic concepts when his hands were touching you like this?

“I—I think…” you stammered, biting your lip as you tried to focus. “The first step is… identifying the variables?”

Spencer’s brow lifted, his expression a mix of amusement and approval. “Good,” he said, his hands sliding back down to your waist. “But don’t forget to check your assumptions first. Details matter.”

You let out a soft whine of frustration, but the sound turned into a gasp as his knee pressed gently between your legs again, reigniting the fire building in your core.

“You’re doing well,” he murmured, his lips ghosting over your jaw as he spoke. “But I think you can do better.”

The challenge in his voice sent a shiver down your spine, and you felt your resolve crumbling under the weight of his attention.

“What’s the difference between Type I and Type II errors?” he asked, his tone almost clinical despite the heat radiating from him.

“Type I is… rejecting a true null hypothesis,” you managed, your voice shaky. “And Type II is failing to reject a false one.”

Spencer grinned, his lips brushing against the corner of your mouth. “Excellent,” he said softly. “You’re such a quick learner when you try.”

The praise made your heart race, warmth blooming in your chest as his words sank in. You barely had a chance to respond before his hand slid lower, resting on the bare skin just above the waistband of your pants.

“You deserve a reward,” he murmured, his voice low and smooth, sending a shiver down your spine.

“A reward?” you managed, your voice breathless and unsteady.

He chuckled softly, his lips moving to your neck, pressing a series of slow, deliberate kisses along the sensitive skin. “For all your hard work,” he murmured against your skin, his fingers toying with the elastic of your waistband. “Don’t you think you’ve earned it?”

Your only response was a soft, shaky nod, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt as though it was the only thing keeping you grounded.

“Good girl,” he said, the words barely above a whisper, but they sent a jolt through your entire body.

His hand slipped beneath the fabric of your pants, his touch deliberate and teasing as he traced the edge of your panties. He paused for a moment, his lips ghosting over your ear as he murmured, “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

“I don’t,” you whispered, your voice trembling but filled with certainty.

That was all the permission he needed. His hand slipped lower, his fingers sliding beneath the fabric of your panties to find your most sensitive spot. The first touch was light, almost experimental, but it was enough to make you gasp softly, your body arching into him.

“That’s it,” Spencer murmured, his voice filled with quiet satisfaction. “You’re doing so well.”

His fingers moved in slow, deliberate circles, the pressure just enough to leave you trembling in his grasp. His other hand slid up to cup your jaw, tilting your head slightly so he could capture your lips in another searing kiss.

The contrast between his steady, controlled movements and the growing intensity of his kisses was intoxicating, leaving you completely at his mercy. He broke the kiss just long enough to study your face, his eyes dark with desire but filled with a surprising tenderness.

“Look at you,” he said softly, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “You’re so beautiful like this.”

The praise made your cheeks flush, but before you could respond, his fingers pressed more firmly against you, drawing a soft whimper from your lips.

“That’s my good girl,” he murmured, his lips brushing against yours in a featherlight kiss. “So responsive. So perfect.”

His words and touch combined left you completely undone, your thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind. All you could do was cling to him, your hands gripping his shoulders as he continued his slow, deliberate exploration.

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

taglist: @opheliahotchner

[forlix]

𝐚𝐜𝐞・h.h.

— volleyball superstar and your personal hell hwang hyunjin proposes a trade-off you can't refuse: his matchmaking services for a passing anthropology grade. the plan is foolproof in theory; in practice, it is something else entirely.

words・15.2k

pairing・volleyball player!hyunjin x tutor!reader (gn)

genres・college!au, sports!au, fake enemies to friends to lovers, fluff, humor, hurt/comfort, slice of life, mutual pining, slow burn. two polar opposites sharing one soul. a seungjin fic if u squint. loosely inspired by the manga/anime haikyuu!!

warnings・mentions of anxiety, fear of failure, heartbreak, loneliness, and self-image. course language and callous banter (as always) ft. suggestive flirting and one kms joke. some of the referenced players and coaches are real; this fic is not.

playlist・collision by stray kids・value by ado・waiting for us by stray kids・eternity by bang chan・dreaming by smallpools・fly high!! by burnout syndromes

a/n・writing this felt like returning to my roots tbh. i love volleyball and i love sports aus and i love, love hwang hyunjin. thank u to my sahar for bringing this fic to life with me, as always; i can no longer write for him without also writing for you. i hope u guys enjoy reading this as much as i adored writing it. happy late birthday, our jinnie, our hyunjin, our forever ace; you are so unbelievably loved ♡

“Not a word out of you,” you say, tossing your backpack onto the floor of the lecture hall with a heavy-handed flick. “I’m serious.”

Hyunjin glances up at you with a frown. “When did people stop saying good morning?”

Your lack of an immediate comeback tells him the situation is dire. He observes you for a moment, his mouth falling open, hanging still, then curving into a slow, serpentine smile.

“Look at me.”

“No.”

“Look at me.”

“No.”

“Please, angel.”

“No! Leave me alone.”

Hyunjin slumps back into his seat, thinking hard. The solution occurs to him with a poke of his tongue into his cheek. “Coffee on me for a week.”

At this, your hands stop rummaging in your bag. You cock your head, your interest piqued. Got you. 

When you finally humor him and turn around, you’re flinching like you’re in pain, eyes closed and breath held and all. He giggles and leans in for a closer look. Tendrils of your body spray reach him from here, floral and light like a tropical coastline. He could’ve counted your eyelashes if he wasn’t so flummoxed by the state of your forehead.

“What the hell did you do?”

“Tried to cut my own bangs,” you sigh. “It didn’t go very well and now I look like Rock Lee.”

Hyunjin lets out a forceful laugh. “You’ve seen Naruto?”

You open your eyes. Only then does Hyunjin remember how little distance he left between your faces, when he’s staring straight into them and all the strange, starry speckles they hold.

The air between you curdles like sour milk.

Things are awkward between you often, he’s realized recently. What’s more, he didn’t think he was capable of being awkward with anyone anymore until he met you. It was your ill-fated seat that he chose to sit next to on the first day of ANTH 111, your ill-fated lap onto which he chose to spill his Americano, and the rest was history (or, in this case, anthropology). His tongue ends up in sailor’s knots with every smart-aleck comment and pitiful laugh you’ve given him since. Maybe there’s more to it, maybe there isn’t—Hyunjin doesn’t think about it much. He doesn’t like thinking in general.

You pull away from each other in unison. You clear your throat, glancing elsewhere. 

“Of course I’ve seen Naruto,” you quip, and everything is normal again. “Why do you seem surprised?”

“Because you’re so scholarly.”

“I am not scholarly.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You go to a park to play chess with old people on weekends.”

“I need to get my steps in somehow.”

“You didn’t know what Urban Dictionary was until I told you to look up—”

“God, I learned so much about you that day."

“Your favorite social media platform is Quizlet,” he bursts, exasperated. “Quizlet.”

“It is not.” An introspective pause. “Or is it?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.” Hyunjin throws his feet up on the chair below him, jabs in your direction with a bandaged finger. “There is no way you enjoy watching 2D men beat each other up in your free time. I don’t buy it.”

“Honestly, I thought you’d have more to say about my current appearance than my hobbies.”

He does, though. Matter of fact, he’s been curating a list since this conversation started: Vector from Despicable Me, Dora the Explorer’s hot older sibling, Spock. You face-planted into a lawnmower. You mistook a paper shredder for a hat. It goes on.

But then his head turns. Your eyes meet again. He’s reminded that it’s hard to sustain an inner monologue and look at you at the same time, Vector resemblance and all.

He reaches up, nudges a lock of your hair over a centimeter or so, and gives the patch of forehead a gentle flick.

“Watermelon,” he mumbles with a sickening smile.

You divert your attention to your lecture notes with a disappointed click of your tongue. “You’re getting soft.”

He spends the entire lecture daydreaming about tropical coastlines.

“I only get coffee from that one place on the east side of campus, by the way,” you say as you’re strolling out the building together, “and I get it a very specific way. Can you handle it?”

“Your faith gets me out of bed in the morning,” Hyunjin deadpans. “I’ll handle it, love. Text me your order.”

All of a sudden, you position your hands close to your stomach, the lapels of your jacket casting them in shadow. Your fingers begin to move in a sequence that he’d recognize anywhere.

“Body flicker jutsu,” you whisper, and then you’re scurrying off without another word—but you do glance back at him to gauge his response. Your smile is purely effulgent, your laugh but a faint sigh against the main quad’s busy thrum.

Hyunjin gapes at your retreating figure for so long that phosphenes start prancing around his field of view. Then he heads to the gym. His heart is pounding against his ribs like a battering ram.

“Hwang, I need you in my office.”

Hyunjin stops lacing up his shoes to see Coach Bang standing on the court’s sideline with a grim air about him. He glances at his captain, confused.

“Don’t look at me,” Minho says mid-stretch. “Godspeed.”

“Thanks, cap.” Useless.

Head volleyball coach Christopher Bang’s workspace reminds Hyunjin of a morgue. It’s all fluorescent lights and spotless white walls, the only decorative fixture a picture of his siblings, parents, and dog in front of the Sydney Opera House, framed and facing him atop his desk. Hyunjin once snuck the thing into the bathroom, an innocent plot to satiate his curiosity, and promptly discovered the man’s propensity for violence. He’s packing beneath those dry-cleaned polos, by the way.

Hyunjin closes the door and takes a seat. Bang taps a knuckle against the tempered glass of his monitor. “You can read, right?”

“Yes, coach,” he sighs. Everyone’s expectations for him are subterranean.

From: Park Jinyoung «asiansoul_jyp@snu.edu» To: Bang “Christopher” Chan «cb97@snu.edu» Subject: Not good See email from Hwang’s antopology professor below . He submitted the complete script of the Trolls movie instead of his mid term paper and now he’s failing the class . Not good . Sort out ASAP JP Sent from my iPad

Bang snatches up his mouse and scrolls, his ears turning scarlet. “Wrong email.”

“Yep.”

From: Kim Kyeyoung «kyeyoungkim@snu.edu» To: Park Jinyoung «asiansoul_jyp@snu.edu» Subject: Regarding Hwang Hyunjin To Director of Athletics Park, I am writing to inform you that, as of yesterday, Mr. Hwang Hyunjin has a D- (64.9%) in ANTH 111: Cultural Anthropology, due to his submission of the complete script of a kids’ movie instead of his midterm paper. It is disappointing to see Mr. Hwang trivialize and ridicule my class to such a degree. Please see to it that he reorganizes his priorities lest his Student-Athlete Participation Agreement do so for him. Regards, Kim Kyeyoung Professor of Anthropology

“That’s bullshit!”

“We’re in agreement there.” Bang folds his arms over his chest, throws his foot over his knee. “Do you know what your Student-Athlete Participation Agreement says?”

“Does anyone?” Hyunjin scoffs. Bang whips out a form and brings it to eye level, the thing covered from top to bottom in microscopic Times New Roman. “No way you just had that.”

“I had it delivered ten minutes ago,” Bang confesses, then clears his throat and begins to recite. “All student-athletes must complete the academic term with a C or higher in all courses, should they wish to continue their participation in athletics thereafter.”

Hyunjin stiffens. “What the fuck? I’ve never heard—”

“If any Department of Athletics personnel,” Bang continues, raising his voice, “have reason to believe that a student-athlete will not be able to satisfy this requirement, they are encouraged to utilize resources such as academic advising or peer tutoring in guiding said student-athlete back onto the correct path.”

He shoves the piece of paper across his desk. “Read that name aloud for me.”

Hyunjin stares at the signature at the bottom of the page, scrawled so carelessly that most of it deviates away from its designated line. There is a rare hollowness in his chest that he recognizes as anxiety. With it comes a glimpse of a life without volleyball, the question of what little of him would remain.

“Hwang Hyunjin,” he says under his breath.

The office goes silent. Bang tucks the form back into his drawer. It closes with a gentle click.

Then comes the yelling.

“The Trolls movie? Trolls?! Are you fucking with me, Hwang?”

“It was a cultural reset! The pinnacle of modern media! How’s that for anthropology?”

“BAD!” Bang explodes, gesturing to the email emphatically. “VERY, VERY BAD!”

Hyunjin slumps over, dejected.

“You’ve never had trouble with school before.” He leans over his desk imposingly. “What the hell happened this semester? What changed?”

Nothing is the first answer that comes to mind, but Hyunjin’s pulse spikes like a lie detector. Upon the inside of his eyes replays a scene of a certain someone with watermelon bangs doing teleportation jutsu at him from a few yards away, wearing a smile made of some kind of space dust that astronomists haven’t discovered yet.

He grits his teeth, annoyed. This is what happens when he thinks.

“Beats me,” he fibs. “Typical junior year stress, maybe.”

“Does any of it have to do with Piazza?” 

Hyunjin shudders.

It just might, actually.

Modesty has no place in the career he’s had: high school national champion turned ace hitter in both the South Korean U21 roster and regular rotation for Seoul National University, the best collegiate volleyball team in the country. His name has lived at the top of ranking lists and the center of gold medals since he turned old enough to qualify for them; the press believes him the instigant of South Korea’s imminent volleyball revolution. It’s a mouthful, he knows.

It was never a question that he would go professional; the question was who he should talk to and where he would go.

At the start of the school year, Bang, acting in place of the agent he was advised to find and never bothered to, gave him a list of people to reach out to. On the very top was none other than Roberto Piazza, the chairman and head coach of Allianz Milano, one of the most eminent club teams in the world—and current home to Hyunjin’s personal idol, outside hitter Ishikawa Yuki.

Hyunjin thought his poor coach had finally succumbed to his old age. The thought of stepping onto the same court as Ishikawa felt sacrilegious, let alone donning the red, white, and navy blue of Allianz Milano with him. But Bang slapped him on the back of the neck and reminded him that going professional was equal parts preparation and opportunity; he was never going to know the answers to questions he didn’t ask. Hyunjin was coerced to fire off an introductory email despite his reservations.

Piazza replied within the week.

For the last five months, Hyunjin has been fighting with tooth and nail to manage his expectations. He scrolls past the team’s social media posts like they burn his eyes. He replies to Piazza’s emails right before working out with Changbin under the assumption that whatever the shredded libero does to him will eviscerate his brain. If his world is made of dreams, this is the one at its very core, imbued with destructive potential the second it became attainable.

But that’s the last five months. The last five weeks have been you kicking him in the shin because he’s laughing (or trying to make you laugh) and the professor is staring; you listening to him rant and rave about volleyball when he knows you couldn’t care less about the sport; you relaying the contents of your class readings like hot gossip, your eyes wild and hands flying around because you can’t contain your excitement. You, you, you.

He cards a hand through his air, regaining focus. “You know how I feel about Piazza.”

“Expect the worst, hope for the best.” Bang’s chair skids backwards as he stands up. “I think it’s a good approach.”

Suddenly, he is directly in front of Hyunjin, low enough to meet his eyes. His hands rest upon his shoulders firmly.

“But hope is hungry, and it will consume you if you let it,” he says. “Do not let it, Hyunjin. I’m not asking.”

Even while being squeezed to a pulp and regarded with the cold intensity of a statue, Hyunjin can’t help but feel anchored, somehow, to the floor of this miserable office. Protected.

Bang lets go of him. “I’m not asking you to find a tutor by the end of the week, either.”

Hyunjin groans. “Yeah, yeah. I’m on it.”

A set of bandaged fingers appear in your periphery to place a paper cup onto your laptop. Accompanying the smell of fresh coffee is that of smoky rose, as decidedly douchey as ever.

“I thought you said your order was complicated.”

You look up from your phone to see Hyunjin plop into the adjacent seat. His long, caramel-colored hair is damp and unstyled in the aftermath of a morning shower, droplets of water pearling on the lapels of a navy blue windbreaker, layered over a white long sleeve. You recognize the outfit by now as game gear.

“Was it not?” You ask.

“It was an Americano, love. I walked up to the cashier and placed an order for an Americano.”

“Well, I wasn’t sure if you could handle that much.” He flips you off as you squint at the cup. “Someone wrote their number on the lid, by the way.”

“What? Really?”

“No.”

He shoves you hard enough for your upper body to drape over the opposite armrest; you’re still cackling by the time you’ve straightened up again.

“Why did you get this, anyway?” Hyunjin grumbles. “I thought you had a sweet tooth.”

“I do, but you don’t.”

Only then does the fool understand that you had no intention of charging him in coffee just for a haircut reveal. He takes back the coffee hesitantly.

“Thanks,” he says at last. “Nice of you.”

“I know, right? Hated it,” you respond, and he almost chokes on his first sip.

You almost choke on nothing when Kim Seungmin materializes in the aisle adjacent. He holds out a hand in Hyunjin’s direction. “Yo.”

Hyunjin dabs it up mid-sip. “I fully forgot you were in this class.”

“Well, I’m due for my weekly appearance.” Seungmin slips into the seat directly below you, glancing at you over his shoulder. “Hey, Y/N.”

“Hi,” you say, somehow managing to stumble over the single syllable the word has. You thank your lucky stars that you fixed your hair yesterday.

You like Kim Seungmin. Not just in the cutesy, crushy way, but in the “I would relinquish all of my rights for you” way where you spend every waking moment cursing out whatever stroke of misfortune placed Hyunjin in the seat next to you instead of him. He’s funny, gorgeous, and talented—a vocal performance major with a student-athlete contract—and you think your infatuation is more than justified. Hyunjin thinks it’s hilarious.

You side-eye your blonde adversary, prepared to see one of three things: a suppressed laugh, a dramatic eye-roll, or a mature kissy face that usually results in the first option. You’re met with something far more worrisome.

He’s thinking.

That can’t be good.

Suddenly, his phone screen lights up with a text that temporarily wipes the conspiratorial gleam from his eye. Hyunjin scans it over and groans. “Can this guy do his fucking job?”

“He wouldn’t have to if you didn’t quit,” Seungmin answers. “I’ll never forget you, Manager Hwang.”

“Shut up.” You peer at Hyunjin, silently requesting an explanation. “Our captain is forcing us to help him look for a new team manager. We need one for playoffs because of some stupid U-League rule—Seung, why do you look morose?”

“I’m mourning.” Seungmin does look morose indeed. “Hyunjin committed larceny last year and our coach punished him by making him our team manager for the rest of the season. It was so funny.”

Hyunjin slides down his seat. “It was the worst experience of my life.”

Neither man seems inclined to elaborate on the mention of larceny. You choose to digress. “Can I ask why?”

“He had to be responsible,” Seungmin whispers. “For other people.”

The top of Hyunjin’s head stops right next to your armrest. You reach over and pat his hair in faux sympathy. “Poor thing.”

“Hardass refused to do it again this year, so now we’re recruiting.” Seungmin props an elbow upon the back of his chair, looks at you contemplatively. “I don’t suppose you have four hours to spare every day.”

Hyunjin scoffs from below you. Loudly. “This one? Team manager?”

“I can see it.”

“I can see killing myself, maybe.”

The next time you reach for him is to hit his forehead. A crisp smack resounds around the barren lecture hall. Hyunjin cusses into his seat cushion.

“Seems like a great candidate to me,” Seungmin muses, and the warm smile he gives you mirrors onto your face before you can think better of it. God, it’s pretty. You wonder how it would feel pressed against your own.

Hyunjin is now completely out of sight and halfway onto the floor. “I miss when you didn’t come to class, Seungmin.”

Eighty minutes later, you’ve just emerged from the classroom when Seungmin calls out to you. You come to such a sudden halt that Hyunjin almost trips over you, but you barely notice him stumble, utterly enraptured by the hand Seungmin brings to the strands of hair by your ear, the fingers that dust your cheek as they pluck a small piece of lint from out of the tresses.

“Sorry.” He flicks it away with a sheepish smile. “I couldn’t unsee it.”

You manage to thank him just before your whole body ceases to function. Hyunjin sidesteps the two of you, yawning.

Seungmin excuses himself not too long after you reach the main quad. You also turn to leave, sparing Hyunjin a curt farewell in the process. He hooks his pointer finger around the handle at the top of your backpack and lugs you backwards with infuriating ease.

“I didn’t like that at all,” you say.

“I don’t care. I have something to tell you.”

“You have a kid, don’t you?”

“Wha—huh? Who do you think I am?”

“The one-night-stand’s poster child. The champion of the contraception industry.”

“Yeah, contraception industry. It’s right there in the name.”

You suppose you can’t argue with that.

“What do you have to tell me?”

A shadow of hesitation flits across Hyunjin’s face. Your smile falters. Is it possible that you’re about to have a serious conversation with him for the first time? Maybe you should’ve saved the secret son bit for another time.

“I’m failing anthro.”

So much for a serious conversation. 

“Come again?”

He repeats the mystifying statement.

“You’re joking.” The look on his face says otherwise, though, and your eyebrows disappear into your hair. “You’re failing anthro?”

“I just said that, yes.”

“You’re failing anthropology?”

“Mhm.”

“Just so we’re clear—you’re failing Introduction to Cultural Anthropology?”

“Yes. I’m glad you’re having fun.”

This is the best day of your life. “I didn’t even know that was possible.”

“Yeah, well, our professor has no media literacy,” he mutters.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Hyunjin clears his throat. “Anyways, I was thinking—”

“Wow! Congratulations. That’s a big—oomf—”

Hyunjin puts his entire hand over your face. Your mangled noises of protest go unacknowledged.

“I was thinking,” he continues, pushing your head around like a stick shift, “you and I can work out some kind of deal.”

You shove his wrist off you with a revolted groan. “I think I just ate some athletic tape.”

“Happens. You wanna hear the deal or not?”

“Does it involve ingesting more sports equipment?”

“Do you want it to?”

“Just tell me the deal, boy.”

“Alright.” He takes a deep breath. “If you help me pass this class, I’ll set you up with Seungmin.”

Your head performs a triple-axel on your neck. You are unable to respond for what feels like multiple hours. Finally: “I’m gonna need you to elaborate.”

“On which part?”

“All of them. Everything.”

Hyunjin sighs, then scans the courtyard. His gaze settles on the student union a little ways off. “Are you hungry?”

You pick up a sandwich and a smoothie in a state of nervous stupor. One would think it’s the prime minister you’re about to have lunch with and not an imbecilic left-side hitter eating from three different entrees at the same time.

He’s chosen a table a few yards away from a planter of flowering cherry blossom trees. You feel jealous eyes on the side of your face as you take a seat across from Hyunjin, but they don’t know that his telephone pole legs still bump against yours even with them drawn as close to your body as anatomically possible. Or that he’s drawing up a literal Ponzi scheme on your sandwich wrapper. You wager you’ve had better company.

“You like anthropology. I like listening to you talk about anthropology.” He traces over the wrapper’s left corner. “And I kinda want you to boss me around. That weird?”

“Yes, definitely,” you mumble around a mouthful of bread. “Go on.”

“Conclusion one: you should be my tutor.” He taps in place as if applying a finishing touch, then swaps to the opposite side. “You also like my teammate, but he’s neck-deep in volleyball and music this semester, which makes him hard to get a hold of—for most people.”

“Let me guess. Not for you.”

“Ten points to Ravenclaw.” His British accent is nightmarish. “Seung and I live in the same building. We get dinner when we go back from practice together. Conclusion two: you should come with us.”

“To dinner or to practice?”

“To both. Which brings us to my third and final conclusion—”

He slams a fist onto the center of the wrapper.

“—you should manage our team.”

“I knew it!” You slam the table as well, your smoothie wobbling upon impact. “You’re trying to swindle me! You can’t pay for my labor with more labor. What do you take me for?”

“It’s not labor, dumbass! Ask our last manager! He didn’t do shit!”

“Yeah? Who was your last manager?”

“Me!”

Oh, right. “But you hated it!”

“I hate everything that isn’t playing volleyball. Try again.”

You fold your arms over your chest. “You said you’d kill yourself if I managed you.”

Hyunjin starts balling up your sandwich wrapper. “It’s true. I thought about you and my coach getting along and promptly got a rash. But it makes so much sense: you do whatever you want during practice, tutor me afterwards, and then you and Seung can eyefuck over ramen or something. My coach hops off my dick, you hop on Seung’s—”

“STOP!” A girl drops her receipt not too far away, startled by your outburst. “Stop right there. I get it. Stop.”

“It’s a good plan.” He slings the paper ball towards the nearest trash can. It drops into the hole without so much as a brush against the rim. “You know it is.”

You’re loath to admit that you do. “When did you even come up with all this?”

He flicks a thumb in the direction of your anthropology class. No fucking wonder he’s failing.

“What is this, mock trial?”

The owner of this voice is the third man you’ve seen today donning that navy windbreaker, white long-sleeve combo. He has a face that reminds you of your neighbor’s cat from back home, sleek and sharp and only slightly sinister. There’s a dash of humor in his expression as he approaches your table like he’s enjoying the company of a court jester.

“Slamming tables like fuckin’ tariff lawyers,” the cat-man hums, lifting a hand in Hyunjin’s direction. “I could see it from all the way inside.”

“Captain!” Hyunjin crows, dabbing him up without missing a beat. They really do that like breathing. “Just the man I was hoping to see.”

“Really? I thought you’d be avoiding me like the rest of our homunculus team.”

“I would never.”

“You did. Yesterday. When you saw me and started running in the opposite direction.” He pauses for emphasis. “As fast as possible.”

“Well, that was yesterday. Today is a new day.” Hyunjin tosses you a proud glance. “And today, I bring you a new team manager.”

You stiffen. “I haven’t—”

“Is that so!” When the stranger smiles at you, you feel the same satisfaction you did every time the cat let you scratch her on the chin. “Music to my ears. What’s your name, cutie?”

You catch Hyunjin’s eye across the table; he nods enthusiastically as if saying go on, then. You briefly picture yourself strangling him with his own athletic tape. You then picture yourself hopping on Seungmin’s—

Rigidly, you throw a hand out to the cat-man, your face aflame.

“Y/N,” you grumble. “I’m looking forward to working with you.”

He shakes on it heartily. “Likewise. I’m Minho. Welcome to the team.”

“Yes, welcome to the team,” Hyunjin parrots, looking positively jolly. You gnash your teeth together so hard your jaw throbs.

He’s lucky that his proposal holds so much water. He’s lucky that you don’t plan to strangle him until after you try that eyefucking thing.

You do kick him under the table, though.

The team has five weeks to prepare for the Korean University League, the biggest college-level volleyball tournament in the country. You have five days to learn how the hell athletic tape works. You can’t tell which is the bigger endeavor.

“I’m going to cause him irreversible skeletal damage,” you tell Changbin.

The team’s libero is twice as kind as he is talented, a full-time sweetheart working part-time at the university’s sports medicine clinic. Only your first week on the job and you’ve already decided he’s the only person on Earth you would permit to usher you through the gym at 6:45 A.M., a roll of athletic tape pressed to your back like a pistol.

“You will not,” Changbin answers. “One, because this won’t involve his skeleton, and two, because I wouldn’t ask you to help if it did.”

“You’ve misunderstood me,” you return as the two of you stop in front of an examination room. “I want to cause him irreversible skeletal damage.”

“Oh.” He opens the door with a frown. “Oh dear.”

Inside, Hyunjin is sitting cross-legged on top of a taping table, fitted in a loose gray tee and athletic shorts. He watches in pessimistic silence as you enter the room and beeline straight towards the shelf on the right. You slip a thick binder into your hands and bury your nose inside it without so much as a greeting.

“I am going to get maimed,” Hyunjin tells Changbin.

“Have some faith, both of you,” Changbin replies sternly. You find the pages you’re looking for and begin poring over them like you’re cramming for an exam. “You’ll be fine, Jinnie. Y/N studied.”

“Studied?” He repeats. “For this?”

“I’m pretty sure Quizlets were made.”

“Three, to be exact," you interject, sticking out your hand. “Now tape me.”

Hyunjin mouths the words tape me in baffled silence. The latter obliges your request with a smile. “See? What could go wrong?”

The answer to that, actually, is a lot. Especially after Changbin gets called away to help stretch out a teammate named Felix who allegedly “sprained his ass,” leaving Hyunjin to you and your binder.

You detect no smoky rose in the air around him today, just the subtle smells of cedar and cypress—laundry detergent or shampoo, maybe. Figures he doesn’t wear that insufferable cologne to practice.

“Go easy on me, yeah?”

While Hyunjin’s tone is teasing, yours is downright somber.

“I can’t promise anything.”

With that, you turn your palms face-up in a silent request for his hand.

A few strands of hair fall into your face as you lean in for a better look. It’s the first time you’ve seen his fingers untaped; they’re pretty, long and slender and surprisingly manicured, but also battered in their delicacy, the veins running over the back of his hand and forearm prominent, his bottom knuckles discolored from the healing bruises they bear. His hard work is palpable upon the smooth skin as evidently as if tattooed.

Hyunjin says your name in close proximity. You respond with an absent hum.

“You’re not nervous, are you?”

“No. Maybe a little.” You let his hand fall free and go to rummage for supplies. “Fine, yes. Very.”

“But you made Quizlets. You’re prepared for anything.”

“That’s what I’m saying!” You realize only after spotting the gentle smile on his face that he’s making fun of you. “I hate you.”

“Actually,” he hums, “I think you care about me, love. That’s why you’re nervous.”

“Nonsense—I care about disappointing Changbin. That’s it.”

“And me. And hopping on Seungmin’s dick. All these things don’t have to be mutually exclusive.”

You try to tackle him. Hyunjin catches your hands a few inches away from his face, fingers closing around your wrists with obnoxious agility.

“Have you lost your mind?” You whisper-shout, your face on fire. “Don’t bring that up here. I’ll maim you for real.”

The laugh that explodes out of him throws his entire body backwards, turns his eyes to crescent moons and his mouth into a little rectangle. You hate that you don’t hate when that happens.

“My bad, my bad. It slipped out. I won’t—”

One incremental shift of Hyunjin’s body later, you find that you’re precariously, alarmingly close to one another.

So much so that you notice the mole beneath his left eye for the first time, that you're nearly cross-eyed looking at it. That the tip of your nose actually brushes against his before you pull away with a quiet intake of breath. 

Things are awkward between you often, you’ve realized recently. You’re both professional yappers, always quick to digress, quick to find a new topic to bicker about before the awkwardness marinates. But hours later you’ll look back on the interaction and still remember how the air shifted: like a layer of dust had been blown away and something untouched and unknown was discovered just underneath.

Since you’ve met him, Hyunjin has spent more time on your nerves than on your mind. You’re not exactly losing sleep over such a circumstantial acquaintance; you know that his presence in your life will end the way it began, naturally and anticlimactically and inside the ANTH 111 lecture hall. Still, it doesn’t go unnoticed when your heart and stomach launch into an elaborate gymnastics routine in the wake of something he says or does, just as they’re doing now.

Hyunjin glances into your right eye a moment, then your left. The mole just below his left eye disappears when he smiles, the expression soft, saccharine, and sincere. How anyone casually looks the way he does is beyond your abilities of comprehension.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

Your face continues to burn, now perhaps for different reasons. “What for?”

He lets go of your wrist, sweeps the lock of hair that keeps getting in your eyes behind the cuff of your ear.

“Caring about me.”

Then he flicks your forehead. You recoil with a quiet ow.

“Now stop stalling and tape me, dumbass.”

“Okay,” you mutter, rubbing the injury tenderly. “No need to get violent.”

It turns out the arduous taping procedure described in the instruction manual is for serious hand injuries. Hyunjin splints his fingers together for support, not rehabilitation, so it takes all of five minutes for him to talk you through his process. You finish taping both of his hands with nineteen minutes to spare. So maybe the Quizlets were overkill.

As you’re walking him down to practice, you take his hand and lift it to eye level, scanning your craftsmanship dubiously. “It’s not too tight, is it?”

“It’s perfect.” He swivels the hand around and grabs onto your entire face, the sensation by now eerily familiar. “Want another taste?”

You shove him down the stairs that remain. Unfortunately, there are only two. “You are truly grotesque.”

The gym has come to life since you arrived earlier this morning, now illuminated by shining ceiling lights in addition to the sun spilling through high, narrow windows. Most of the team has yet to step onto the court, still stretching or jogging along the sidelines: Minho and Coach Bang are talking strategy on the bench, the coach taking notes on a handheld whiteboard every now and then; Changbin is leaning over a recumbent Felix below the scoreboard, presumably trying to fix his ass.

The only one already with a ball in hand is Seungmin, setting to himself by the net. Once, twice, thrice straight up in the air, and then he glances in your direction and sends the fourth towards the left side of the court in a buoyant arc.

You only glean bits and pieces of the next few seconds. Hyunjin is at your side one moment, making a break for the net the next. His arms draw backwards in perfect synchrony. Feet hit the floor with laserlike intent. His entire body unravels like a fraying chrysalis as he rises to meet the ball, pounds it over the net and into the ground at an angle so clean that the sound of its landing resounds within your ribcage. It rebounds over the railing of the second floor and barely misses the doorway of the examination room you just emerged from.

Hyunjin drops lightly back onto his feet, following the ball’s tumultuous trajectory with proud eyes. A leftover breeze tosses a strand of hair over the bridge of your nose, and time starts moving again.

“Oi, this isn’t your backyard! Go pick that up!” Their coach booms, though his words lack their usual bitterness after what he just witnessed his ace hitter do.

Hyunjin swivels towards Seungmin first. “Crazy bitch. What the fuck was that?”

“Lower and faster. Further from the net too,” Seungmin returns. “How’d it feel?”

The grin on Hyunjin’s face reminds you of a wildfire, untamed and all-consuming and frightening in its fervor. “Like we just won everything.”

He tousles your hair as he jogs past you and back up the stairs to fetch the volleyball. Seungmin waves at you with one hand and palms another ball into his other. His face is warm and bare, his slim build flattered by his volleyball gear. You’ve witnessed few people so nice to look at and even fewer things as elegant as his setting form. But you are still thinking about Hyunjin—and you can’t move.

It is debilitating, watching somebody do the very thing they were destined for.

A little less than a week later, Hyunjin is approaching hour three of spewing hot garbage into a Word document when he decides to give up and call you. 

“Hello?” He immediately starts laughing. “Where the fuck are you?”

You poke the top of your head into the shot of your ceiling, gesturing to your headband. “My face is preoccupied at the moment.”

“Oh, you have to show me. Please.”

You flip your phone up for no more than half a second. A camera shutter goes off, followed by a shriek so loud that it peaks your mic.

“Motherfucker!”

He basically sprints to his camera roll. His prize: you with your face slathered in cleanser, hair pinned back by a Miffy headband, looking like the abominable snowman if he liked cute merchandise.

“Thank you,” he says earnestly. “I’ll treasure this forever.”

“You’ll be punished, Hwang.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

You brandish your middle finger at him in response. He props his phone up against his computer screen with a chuckle. 

“Aaanyways, I have a thesis statement to run by you.”

The first thing you did as Hyunjin’s tutor was help draft an email to Professor Kim, begging her to let him resubmit the two essays he royally botched. She replied with a lengthy quotation from her syllabus, specifically the section that talked about (and prohibited) resubmissions, but ended up making an exception for Hyunjin on account of the “truly piteous timbre” of his email. You fell out of your chair laughing when he read you her response.

“You should’ve opened with that.”

“I tried, hello? Someone distracted me!”

“Read. It. Before I change my mind.”

You spend a few minutes at most on the thesis itself, advising him to avoid passive voice, answer the prompt, establish a refutable argument, the works. Then he asks you a question about the research topic itself, allusions to the afterlife in Ancient Egyptian artwork, and the tutoring session takes a turn into what feels like a podcast episode.

You talk about the God of Death, Anubis, and his connections to the underworld; the elaborate, lavish funerary rituals intended to ensure the souls of the dead traveled safely; the vibrant murals that flanked their final resting spots as pictorial requests for divine protection. And you talk about them all with such confidence, such eloquence, that it’s as if you’re leading him through a history museum rather than talking to your phone as you do your skincare. He could listen to you for hours. He does, actually.

Around 1 A.M., Hyunjin stops typing mid-sentence when you come into frame for the first time, collapsing into your bed with a sigh of relief. Your eyes are soft and sleepy as they blink at your screen, strands of damp hair clinging to your cheeks. He feels his heart physically shift inside his ribcage when your mouth stretches into a yawn. It is the same sensation as the time you shot him a smile over your shoulder and he couldn’t move for ten minutes.

With that, his attention span has run its course.

“Baby,” he interrupts gently. “Let’s stop here, okay? You seem tired.”

You open your mouth as if to protest, only to yawn again.

“I suppose I am. Will you keep working tonight?”

“I think so. I hit my stride.”

“Text me if you have questions, then. I’ll respond when I wake up.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Your lips curve into the smallest of smiles. It copies onto Hyunjin’s face incurably quickly. 

“I had my doubts about this tutoring thing, you know.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, you told me this class was the closest thing to daily naptime you’d experienced since preschool.”

“It really is.”

“You also told me you would rather slam your tongue in a car door than read more than three sentences in one sitting.”

“I really would.”

“And you once referred to academia as ‘Virgin Village.’”

“Didn’t you come up with that?”

“No, hello? I live in that village.”

He grins. “I know. I just wanted to hear you admit it.”

“Fuck you.”

“Ah, don’t threaten me with a good—”

“What I’m trying to say is that I didn’t think you would take this seriously, but I’m happy to be proven wrong.”

Hyunjin leans back. “Well, turns out I might give a fuck about anthropology after all.”

“Really?”

“No.”

You pretend to punch him through the screen. It’s so cute that he forgets to think before he opens his mouth next.

“But I do give a fuck about you.”

There’s nothing crazy about the statement. You’re friends, sort of. You manage his team. It would be strange if he didn’t. But the seconds that follow are terrible, a silent prophecy of something disastrous, like a cloud of rubble before an avalanche, the standstill during a star’s final breath. And Hyunjin’s heartbeat is hounding against his ears like a performance of traditional taiko.

He says good night in a haste. The call ends. He stares at the wall of his bedroom in a muddled haze for who knows how long.

Then he opens his texts.

Hyunjin: We have team bonding tomorrow btw Hyunjin: Don’t forget Y/N: i forgot. Y/N: pick me up at 6:45? Hyunjin: 🫡

He picks you up at 7:53.

You approach his car with your fists balled and your eyebrows knitted together like a mean old curmudgeon and he’s walking too close to your lawn.

“His fault,” Hyunjin says before you start yelling.

Minho simpers at you through his open window. “Hey, you! So glad you could join us!”

You fix the man with a judgmental glare as you slide into the backseat. “Aren’t you the captain? Why are you this late?”

“Whoa, okay. I would’ve scheduled this for earlier if I knew right now was honesty hour.”

“You did schedule it for earlier,” you say. “You scheduled it for way earlier.”

“Yeah, well, you’re fired.”

“You can’t fire me, Minho.”

“I can too. Tell ‘em, Hwang.”

“I want nothing to do with this.”

When you step through the doors of the arcade, you’re met with a surge of sensory input that you haven’t experienced in years. The air hangs thick with the smells of greasy concessions; everywhere you look are flashing screens and neon signs, stuffed animals and fading posters; clamoring against your ears are the sounds of games being won or lost, of balls being pocketed or launched, and of a horde of fully grown men spectating a match of Dance Dance Revolution so passionately (and loudly) that they’ve scared everyone away from that side of the room. You recognize the current competitors as Changbin and Jeongin.

“I’ll go pay,” Hyunjin says. “How much time do we want?”

“Infinity,” Minho answers. Hyunjin doesn’t move. “Two hours.”

He flashes him a thumbs-up. “And you?”

“I’m okay, I think.”

“No you’re not,” the two men answer in perfect unison.

You glance between them warily. “I don’t mind watching, seriously. I don’t even know how most of these games work—”

“There’s Tetris,” Hyunjin cuts in.

You purchase an hour.

One would imagine the point of the evening is to break the SNU men’s volleyball team, not to bond them. You’ve never seen so many strained blood vessels in your life. Nor have you heard of half the insults they spew at each other as the night goes on. Felix has to pay a fee for lodging an air hockey puck in the side of the MarioKart machine. Changbin loses at skee-ball and has to down an XL slushie like it’s a shot. It’s a scary amount of boyishness expressed in scary ways.

But they’re happy. You’ve picked up on it when they’re on the court, noticed the raw elation they emanate just from playing together. Yet, their closeness has never been more evident to you than tonight. The men are either laughing or making someone else laugh, arms draped over each other at all times, equally happy to celebrate victories as they’re eager to punish losses. It dawns on you at some point that you’re glad to be here with them, grateful to be a part of something so special—especially because there’s Tetris.

“Have you ever considered going pro?” Hyunjin asks over your shoulder.

You waited until most of the team was distracted to slink off to your beloved machine. Hyunjin tagged along, undoubtedly with the intention of making fun of you, only to be rendered speechless by your mastery. He’s been watching in a state of stupor, forearms propped against the back of your chair.

You don’t respond for a while, too focused on a precarious patch to even blink, let alone partake in conversation.

“I already did,” you finally answer.

“Sorry, what? You played professional Tetris?”

“In middle school. Then I got bored and switched to backgammon.” You pause. “Then I got bored again and switched to chess.”

“How do you look like this with these hobbies?”

Your run ends a few minutes later with a somber sound effect. You turn around in your seat with an anguished groan. “I think I’m washed.”

He looks at you like you’ve lost your mind. “You just set a new record by three hundred thousand points.”

“It’s a small pond,” you say, and an idea occurs to you. “Do you wanna try?”

“I get the feeling I don’t have a choice.”

“Then you’re smarter than you look.”

“Well, you look—”

His eyes move between your shoes and your face, and then his voice is an inaudible mutter as he sinks into your seat. You think you hear something along the lines of unfair.

“What was that?”

“Ugly. I said you look ugly.” He cracks his knuckles. “Now let’s break some fuckin' blocks.” 

When Hyunjin learns that the pieces can be rotated (so six or seven attempts later), a man walks into the arcade. 

He has hair the color of dark chocolate, the face of a fairy prince—and he’s with someone. The two of them appear arm in arm, laughing at something he said. He looks at this person the way astronomers do to the sky.

Something shatters inside you like old porcelain.

Your hands loosen around the back of Hyunjin’s chair. You can’t watch. You can’t think. You can only feel a void of disappointment rip open, stretch over you like an elongating shadow.

“Seung!” That’s Jisung, you think. “You made it!”

“Yo, sorry we’re late.” That’s Seungmin. That is undoubtedly Seungmin. “Dinner took longer than I thought.”

“Min, are you sure I’m allowed to be here?” You don’t know who this voice belongs to and you’re not sure you want to. “I feel like I’m intruding—”

“Hwang,” you say suddenly. “I have to go.”

He turns around, confused. An unattended block falls into a terrible spot on the screen behind him. ”Already?”

“I forgot I had an important call to make.” You turn away, training your eyes on the patterned carpet. “Sorry. I’ll see you around.”

You have touched Hyunjin’s hands many times. He’s asked you to tape his fingers every day since the first; he likes the way you cut off his circulation, says it helps him hit harder. But you never hold his hand so much as you examine it, the act stiff and unfeeling, cordoned within the professional pretense of athletic treatment. 

Now, Hyunjin catches your hand like a gardener repotting their favorite flower: delicately, careful of leaving its roots intact and petals untouched, but firmly, securely, so the flower continues to stand tall even when it’s been extracted from the soil, not even a speck of dirt slipping through the cracks between their fingers. That is the image you conjure when he slips his between yours, his metal rings cold where his fingertips are warm.

He says your name. There is a pinch of pain in the word, and you know that he knows.

“Do you want to be alone?”

You have never been asked such a thing—you have never asked to be asked such a thing—but, for some reason, the question brings tears to your eyes. 

“Yes, please,” you whisper, and you pull your hand away.

When you stalk past him, you hear Jisung notice you, call out to you, a note of worry in his question. You also count three pairs of eyes on your back: one concerned, the next confused, and the last you are wholly incapable of meeting. 

Unknown to you is the fourth pair fixed upon the top of the Tetris machine, where you’ve left your phone.

You emerge into the parking lot. The frigid air stills your mind for a fraction of a second, the last moment of mental quietude you will allow yourself that night.

Hyunjin’s right; the team manager doesn’t have to do much.

Coach Bang allows you to come to whichever practices and games you feel like, during which you might at most lug around a ballbag or fill someone’s waterbottle before holing up somewhere to do your own thing. But you like the people you work for too much to do so little for them, so you attend everything  your schedule allows. 

Last week, you could be found helping Minho put up the volleyball nets before practice, your laughter echoing throughout the spacious gym as he complained to you about his biochemistry professor’s distinct “cabbage scent.” Or running to grab materials for Changbin as he treated his teammates’ injuries like you were assisting an orthodontist giving someone a root canal. The dinner invitations you extended to Seungmin were always turned down, but his teammates were more than happy to assist you and Hyunjin in your quest to establish the best kimbap joint in the area once and for all. You even had a heart-to-heart with Coach Bang during one of the team’s water breaks, in which you managed to get half a smile out of the guy; Hyunjin was convinced that was his way of asking you to elope. You spent more time in the gymnasium those ten days than you had your entire college career.

Then came the arcade.

Five days have come and gone. You haven’t attended practice since, but you still see Hyunjin every morning at anthropology. The two of you sit in uncharacteristic silence for most of the lectures. You’ve taken the best notes of your life. He doesn’t mention the previous weekend; he doesn’t mention much of anything. 

In person, that is.

That Friday afternoon, you’re reading on the terrace of the library when you receive a text. It’s from Hyunjin, a two-minute voice note. You hesitate for a moment, stick a pencil into the gutter of your textbook to save your place, and slip your earbuds in. You listen to it.

Then you listen to it again.

And again as you wrap up your study session and go home. Again as you cook yourself dinner and load the dishwasher. Again as you shrug on a jacket and pocket your keys, setting off on the familiar trek to the gym.

As for what you plan to do there on a Friday night, long after the team has finished practice, you haven’t the slightest clue. You continue to move regardless, fueled by the feeling that there is where you need to be.

Coach Bang is leaving the building just as you’re approaching it. He halts in his footsteps and raises his eyebrows when he notices you. The man has always been difficult to read, but his face is exceptionally opaque now. Maybe it’s the shadowy landscape; more likely it’s the uneasiness that began to mount within you once you noticed the lights in the gym were still on.

“It’s been a while,” he greets.

“Coach,” you return, lowering your head. “I want to apologize for—”

“Save it,” he says, not unkindly. “There’s nothing to apologize for, alright? The team is lucky to have you.”

You manage a grateful smile. “I’ll be back starting next week.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” He starts to walk away, stops himself, and glances into the illuminated building. “I would give him some space, by the way.”

Your uneasiness morphs into anxiety as you watch his broad back retreat into the shadows. You remain outside the gym for a few minutes more, accompanied by the distant melodies of cricket chorales and the muffled squeaking of shoes against laminated hardwood, the harsh sounds of flesh meeting leather.

Briskly, you walk home, rummage around, and return to the gym ten minutes later with your textbook tucked beneath your arm. This time, you unlock and enter the building without a moment of hesitation. 

Hyunjin is positioned multiple yards behind the service line, rotating a volleyball in his hands. A high toss, two resounding steps, and a collision like the crack of a whip. The previous ball has barely landed in the furthest corner of the court when he’s picking up the next, retreating to the same spot to do it all again. His tank top is the color of charcoal over his sweaty skin, his hair auburn where it’s plastered to his neck. He’s alone.

You only catch sight of Hyunjin’s face when you descend the stairs. His expression is crystalline, hardened with concentration and fortified by courage, but fragile all at once, rendered delicate by fatigue and fear, spilling from his every seam and splintering off his person like a broken vase. You recognize it as clearly as if you were looking at a picture of yourself from the worst years of your life.

“I was told to give you space,” you call out, and Hyunjin drops the volleyball he’s holding.

His lips fall apart. Nothing comes out of them. The only sounds to follow are your footsteps as you make your way towards the bleachers, a vertical wall of plastic now that they’ve been retracted for the night. You fold your legs into a criss-cross as you take a seat at their base.

“Is this enough space?”

More silence. You gesture to the volleyball nervously.

“Don’t make me go further, please. I’m not ready to die.”

Finally, this earns you a smile. It’s not much, but it loosens the nervous coils in your heart, permits your lungs to contract once more, and it remains on his face as he swipes the ball back into his hands. You open your textbook.

The rest of the night elapses in turning pages and soaring volleyballs. You don’t care for minutes or hours; you give him all the time in the world, as he did you.

The only time you glance at the clock on the wall is around midnight, when Hyunjin hobbles to the middle of the court and collapses. You’re worried at first. Then he rolls onto his back and releases a guttural groan into his hands, and your held breath comes out a laugh. You set down your book and stand up.

There’s a lake of perspiration forming around him. You pay it no mind and flop onto the floor, your eyes instantly narrowing beneath the fluorescent lights. 

“How do you see under these things?”

“I don’t,” he returns. “I complained about it to Coach once.”

“And?”

“He made them brighter.” Sounds about right.

Hyunjin spends the next few minutes catching his breath, his chest rising and falling in your peripheral vision. You sift through your mind for phrases of consolation or gestures of support and come up empty. You wish you had Hyunjin’s way with words.

But you think about the way his smile reached his eyes as he thanked you for caring about him, the tenderness with which he caught your hand at the arcade, the I give a fuck about you he blurted before ending the study call. You think about the voice note. It’s not that Hyunjin has a way with words; it’s that he’s brave enough to break the silences that you can’t, like he perceives your anxiety for the aftermath, shouldering the responsibility so you won’t have to.

This cannot be his burden alone.

You inhale. “What’s on your mind?”

Hyunjin doesn’t answer right away. You give up on squinting and close your eyes. The lights are still bright enough to dance around the murky darkness.

“I don’t think I know how to put it into words.”

You nearly laugh; you know how that feels. “Don’t think, just talk. I’m here.”

The same advice you gave yourself seems to work on him as well.

“Do you remember Ishikawa Yuki?”

His role model.

“He’s currently playing for a club team in Italy called Allianz Milano.” He blows out a deep breath. “I’ve been talking to their coach, Roberto Piazza, for the last six months.”

The gears in your head creak in their effort to process the implications of these words. “Holy shit, Hwang.”

“He emailed again, this morning. Said he was coming to the tournament later this month, he’s excited to see me play in person, whatever. And it hit me, finally, that this is all real. Like, this is actually happening to me. I spent all of today freaking out and asked Coach to let me stay back after practice. Usually, it wears out my brain if I tire my body, but it only half-worked today. I couldn’t wrap my head around anything. I still can’t.

“I am who I am because of that man, and now…I have a shot at playing with him. I keep asking myself why I’m not—not happier. I should be bouncing off the fucking walls, no? If I told my past self that this would be happening to him one day, he—he would—”

You open your eyes, confused by the sudden silence.

Hyunjin is sitting up next to you, staring intensely into the bleachers. You first notice the tip of his tongue prodding into his cheek, then his shuddering breath. He lifts a hand to his face, pressing against his eyes.

You stop thinking after that.

You sit up with him. When you settle your fingers around his wrist, he allows you to pull his hand back to his side. But he turns away as if trying to hide from you; he squeezes his eyes shut as if that would obstruct your view of his pain.

You reach to cradle his face, bringing him back to you. The cuff of your sleeves wipe at the saltwater on his cheeks, push the hair off his forehead with gentle sweeps. The two of you are close, close enough that your lips would meet the space between his eyes if you so much as lost your balance. His gaze traverses to your face, but you resolve not to meet it. You know you will traipse into uncharted territory the moment you do.

“Don’t fight it.” You trace over the hill of his cheek. “Healing becomes easier if you let yourself hurt. Trust me, Hyunjin.”

His first name should feel foreign on your tongue, yet you suspect the syllables have accompanied you all your life.

“You don’t have to continue if you can’t.”

“S’okay.” Hyunjin lifts your hand away from his face, presses a kiss to the base of your palm. “I want to.”

You feel yourself stumble ungracefully into the uncharted territory from before; does he do the same?

“I used to play volleyball on this expanse of cracked blacktop, behind my primary school. It was pretty brutal on my feet—I blew through so many different pairs of sneakers my mom almost made me quit.” He smiles at the memory. “But every time I came close to quitting, I’d go home and rewatch the same USA vs. Poland match from the 2008 Summer Olympics I asked my dad to record, and I’d promise myself it would be me on some other kid’s screen someday.

“That kid would tell everyone who’d listen about how cool I am. That I’m a secret superhero. That I’m living proof humans can fly if they really, really try—just like I talked about the volleyball players I grew up watching on my TV.

“The other day, Coach told me that hope would consume me. I thought it was just some senile drivel at the time, but..I think I get what he means now. I would do anything and everything to make that kid proud—even if it meant losing myself.” He lowers his head, auburn strands falling into his eyes. “That’s what’s on my mind.”

Amidst the ensuing pause, a storm approaches. It does not come in the form of rain or snow, sleet or hail, no; it is a gathering of words unsaid and emotions unacknowledged, all emerging from the deepest chambers of your heart in synchrony. The same entities you used to scapegoat for all the times things were awkward between you and Hyunjin when you were the culprit all along. You and your blind cowardice.

The storm tears open the seam of your lips. You do not resist; it’s long overdue.

“Every time Changbin sees you, he turns into a smitten schoolgirl,” you say. “He is physically unable to contain how endearing he finds you. He told me so himself.”

Hyunjin looks at you with widened eyes. You think you can see your own reflection in them, and you are the spitting image of a lighter dropped into gasoline, unstoppable in your vehemence.

“Jeongin comes to you for advice before anyone else,” you continue, “even for things related to school—which I still find hard to believe, I’m not gonna lie. But you have his best interests in mind, and it shows in everything you do for him. Of course your opinion matters more than anything in the world.

“I know you think he can’t stand you, but you are the reason Coach Bang loves this job, why he loves this sport. It’s written all over his face every time he calls you something mean, every time he makes you run another lap, every time he looks at you. You’re like a son to him. Everyone sees it but you.”

“Then there’s me.” You pause to catch your breath. “When I think about what my life used to be, I remember a lot of things. I remember loneliness. Insecurity. I remember my books and my backgammon boards and the way I taught myself to disappear inside them so the world would never find me. I remember avoiding mirrors like a vampire because I didn’t like seeing my own reflection. I remember feeling like I had to put on someone else’s personality every time I left the house because nobody would want to know me for me. All I ever wanted was a place where I could be myself, love myself, without consequence. I have yet to find that place.

“But I found a person. Someone who wouldn’t know time and place if they kicked his dick into his body. Someone who thinks instant ramen is high in nutritional value because it comes with dried vegetables. Someone who sweats the same amount of rain the Sahara Desert receives yearly—your body is not normal, by the way.”

Hyunjin giggles; it is soft and short, a small, tearful huff into the quiet air that makes you feel like you’re flying.

“Don’t get me wrong,” you say. “Your sense of humor sucks and your taste in coffee is so boring and you are the one with no media literacy, not Professor Kim. But I love spending time with you. I love who I am when I’m around you. And none of that has to do with volleyball.”

The next time you blink, you discover that he’s not the only one with tears in his eyes. How long has that been going on?

“There’s so much about you to be proud of, Hyunjin.” You give him a watery smile. “That kid will be spoiled for choice.”

When Hyunjin pulls you into his arms, you fall into each other like going to bed after a long day. Your face burrows into the crook of his neck in your embarrassment; he is laughing and crying at the same time when he mumbles something into your shoulder: “I knew you cared about me.”

You are so happy for the comedic relief you could sob. It helps that you already are.

“How the fuck are you still sweaty?” You choke out, and you think you like his cologne after all.

Six days later, Hyunjin opens the door of his apartment.

A fun-sized flurry of black and white barrages into the hallway outside and almost runs headfirst into the figure waiting there. You fall to your knees like you’ve just been gravely wounded, emitting an ear-piercing wail to match. All it takes is a few good head scratches for Kkami to stop yipping bloody murder and start whining for attention instead. 

Upon minute five of watching you and his dog cuddle in the hallway directly outside his home, Hyunjin sighs.

“Can you come inside, please? My RA will think I’m doing some freaky shit again.”

You side-eye him as you walk into his apartment, Kkami perched happily in your arms. “What, exactly, does freaky shit entail?”

He smirks as the door falls shut. “You want me to tell you or show you?”

You turn to Kkami, disgusted. “Your owner’s a bit of a pervert, my dear.”

Kkami licks you on the chin. Hyunjin’s eyes narrow to slits.

“Traitor.”

Naturally, Hyunjin’s parents chose the eve of his final anthropology exam—and the week before the tournament that will determine the trajectory of his career—to ask him to look after Kkami for a few days. He nearly canceled their plane tickets himself, but his impromptu roommate is currently ransacking your face with kisses on his couch, and he thinks your laugh complements his studio better than any decoration. 

“Do you want anything to drink?” He calls from the kitchen area.

You meander over, Kkami (still) perched happily in your arms. “What do you have?” 

“Alcohol.” He opens his fridge far enough so you can peer over his shoulder. “Americanos.”

He stops speaking.

“Is that all?”

“Yes. Wait—and apple juice.”

“You are about to be a professional athlete.”

“What the Italians don’t know won’t hurt them. You want apple juice, don’t you? I can see it in your eyes.”

“Maybe. Can you open it for me? My hands are full.”

Hyunjin does so with far less reluctance than he feigns. You thank him jubilantly, popping the straw into your mouth.

“Let’s get this over with.”

At 10:32 P.M., all is calm. You are sitting on the floor, your back against the side of his mattress. Hyunjin is where the universe intended: curled up in bed, both him and his laptop lying on their sides. You have studied eight out of ten units in only two and a half hours, and the night is still young. Kkami is but a fluffy, sleepy Oreo by your waist.

At 10:33 P.M., the Oreo begins to retch.

You startle a foot into the air. Hyunjin is out of bed and on his feet in the blink of an eye, the very image of a dog dad on duty. He grabs three different things off the kitchen counter with one hand and scoops up the long-haired chihuahua with the other, and then he’s kicking open the door.

Seungmin appears out of thin air carrying two heaping bags of groceries. Hyunjin nearly knocks him and a month’s worth of fresh produce down four flights of stairs.

“Hyun—Kkami?” Seungmin swivels. “Yo, what the fuck is—”

Hyunjin is already out the door.

A few minutes later, Hyunjin squats off to the side, pouring fresh water into a portable dog bowl. A little ways away, Kkami is throwing up ebulliently; a set of footsteps approaches.

“What is this thing?” Seungmin squats down next to Hyunjin, picking up the piece of patterned fabric lying on the grass. 

“Kkami gets sad after throwing up,” he sighs. “His blanket makes him feel better.”

Seungmin watches the chihuahua for a few moments, a soft flinch crimping his features. “He ate too fast again?”

Hyunjin rakes a hand through his hair. “I don’t get it. Nobody’s gonna take his food from him.”

Seungmin laughs. “I didn’t even know he was on campus.”

“I picked him up last night. My parents are traveling for work—they say hi, by the way.”

“I say hi back. I miss your mom’s cooking.”

“Me too,” Hyunjin says, smiling. “She would love to cook for you again—she’s always saying you’re too skinny.”

“She really is.”

A beat passes; it is then that Hyunjin has an epiphany.

Seungmin was the one who put a volleyball in his hands for the first time. Back then, Hyunjin was the lesser troublemaker between the two of them—a concept that neither of them can wrap their heads around to this day. Seungmin suggested they use the clotheslines in Hyunjin’s backyard as a makeshift net, despite Hyunjin’s dissuading; half of Hyunjin’s father’s wardrobe caught on fire, Seungmin had a black eye for a week, and nobody knows what happened to that volleyball. The two of them have been attached at the hip ever since.

It is a crazy thing, having your best friend as a teammate; a singular flick of the wrist or a point of his shoe and Seungmin will know exactly Hyunjin wants the ball down to the net’s fraying fibers; Hyunjin will be exactly where Seungmin needs him down to the flecks of paint on the volleyball court. Hyunjin has always been Seungmin’s hitter—Seungmin, always Hyunjin’s setter. Nothing will ever change between them so long as that remains the case.

At least, that’s what Hyunjin used to think.

Learning that Seungmin was in a relationship was as much a wake-up call for Hyunjin as it was for you. At first, he was just fucking pissed; how could Seungmin be so stupid as to turn down someone like you, especially when Hyunjin had shot his mouth off about his wingman services? More importantly, how long had his best friend of eighteen years been in love, and why was he the last to know? 

Only now, as they wait for his nine-year-old chihuahua to finish barfing, does Hyunjin realize that he can’t remember the last time he and Seungmin talked. Not “talked” as in a brief exchange inside the locker room or the lecture hall, about a new approach he wants to try or what Seungmin got on number four or if he wants a ride to practice—“talked” as in talked, about Hyunjin, about Seungmin, about the eighteen years they shared, about all the years yet to come.

Hyunjin sees his setter every day; he stopped looking for his friend a long time ago. 

“Yeonwoo, right?”

He senses surprise in Seungmin without having to look at him. But he also senses a smile, a subtle show that Seungmin recognizes what he’s trying to do—and forgives him.

“Yeonwoo,” Seungmin affirms. “We’re in the same songwriting intensive this semester.”

“Also a singer?”

He shakes his head. “Piano player. Performed at the Carnegie Hall in the United States at, like, seven years old. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone so talented.”

“Wow, that’s—hi, old man. You done?”

Kkami walks over with his head hung low and tail between his legs, and Hyunjin hurries to drape the pup in his favorite blanket, pulling the bowl of water in front of him in tandem. Seungmin runs a hand over the top of Kkami’s head as he hydrates.

“You’ve suffered,” he tells him solemnly, and Hyunjin snorts.

“As I was saying—that’s crazy to hear, coming from the most talented person I know. You guys looked so good together.”

“Thanks. It’s weird. I’m happy.”

“You deserve it. You really do, Kim.” They exchange smiles, and Hyunjin gives Seungmin a playful nudge. “When are you introducing us?”

“The arcade wasn’t enough?”

“Don’t insult me.”

“Whenever you want, then.”

“Dinner with my mom, dinner with Yeonwoo,” Hyunjin recounts. “I’m holding you to it.”

“Bet.”

They shake on it. If Hyunjin wasn’t already reassured by Seungmin’s smile, he knows by his clasp around his hand that they’ll be okay.

“What about you?” Seungmin asks. “Are you together yet?”

Hyunjin knew this was coming. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.” Seungmin strings his hands together, letting them dangle in the space between his knees. “Someone you have questions for that you’re too scared to ask. Someone who’s lived in your mind since the day you met. There’s someone like that, isn’t there?”

Hyunjin pokes his tongue into his cheek. 

Ever since that night on the gym floor, Hyunjin’s been having these dreams. By the time his alarm goes off in the morning, every detail of the dream has eluded him, leaving behind only a ghost of emotion, akin to the breeze that grazes your face moments after walking past another person.

But then he’ll get out of bed, and walk to that café on the east side of campus, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. There, he’ll order a vanilla latte with extra sweetener, then turn around to see you standing five feet away, holding an Americano and trying not to laugh. And he’ll just know, with everything in him, that you are where his head goes when he’s not keeping watch.

He still addresses you by the pet names you hate. He still finds any excuse to be close to you; he still pesters you like a child with a crush. But now, he calls you his baby like one wishes on a star; his eyes drift to your lips every time you’re within two feet of each other; he makes fun of your likes and dislikes only because he’s happy to know about them at all. Ever since that night on the gym floor.

It’s impossible for nothing and everything to change at once. Two people teetering on the precipice of something cannot withstand a gust of wind so powerful. He’s already hanging off the ledge, losing his grip; where are you?

Next to him, Seungmin lets out a soft laugh. “There is.”

Hyunjin doesn’t know what to say.

“It might’ve been me, at some point,” he hums, returning his hand to scratch the back of Kkami’s ears. “But it has always been you, Hyun.”

Four floors above them and inside Hyunjin’s place, you are pacing between his fridge and his bed, nervously awaiting his and Kkami’s return.

Something catches your eye, wide and flat and hung on the wall by his bathroom door. You approach it curiously, your lips pulling into a fond smile the moment you realize all that’s in front of you.

Many of the photographs are of Hyunjin: him in his preteens, dead asleep in bed while dressed head to toe in volleyball gear, braces visible because his mouth is open; an action shot taken at what must’ve been a U21 match, the South Korean flag stitched into the shoulder of his jersey; him with half a birthday cake in front of him and the rest smeared all over his face. There are headlines, too: Underdog team earns district’s first high school volleyball state title; Hwang Hyunjin proves himself worthy of “ace spiker” label at South Korea V. Croatia U19 match; Coach Bang “Christopher” Chan leads Seoul National University to second consecutive KUL championship. There’s one—Who is Hwang Hyunjin? Meet the twenty-year-old instigant of South Korea’s imminent volleyball revolution—beside which he’s written the singular word “mouthful.” You laugh; you agree.

But pinned to the corkboard is also a photograph of Minho, surrounded by stray cats in the alleyway outside a K-BBQ restaurant; his parents cradling Kkami in an apple costume; his high school volleyball team silhouetted against a pretty sunset. Him and Seungmin as kids, covered in grime and scrapes but beaming nonetheless; him and Seungmin at age nineteen, stadium lights on their backs, unadulterated elation on their faces as they charge towards each other, beaming still. Changbin piggybacking Felix through the hallways of the gym, neither of them wearing a shirt; Jisung offering Coach Bang a beer while the latter looks direly unamused (you make a mental note to ask about that one later); what looks like a Rock Lee cosplayer grimacing in the middle of your anthropology classroom.

You rush forward as if decreed by gravitational force. Not too far away is another picture of you, in which you boast a Miffy headband and a face full of foaming cleanser. Then another, your eyes narrowed like that of a sniper taking aim as you’re playing Tetris; you with so many volleyballs piled into your arms that you can’t see your own face; your cheeks squished by a bandaged hand after you lost a bet about pandas (they can swim); you clutching your stomach on the library floor, brought to hysterical tears by Professor Kim’s email. You, you, you.

You bring your pointer finger to this last image, tracing it over the curve of your own cheek. You see a dimple on your face you didn’t know you had. You realize it only comes out for him.

It has always been him.

The front door opens. A man with telephone poles for legs and a long-haired chihuahua in his arms appears behind it. You sense in him that something has changed since you last saw each other. The two of you lock eyes. 

It’s not awkward this time.

Multiple yards behind the service line, Hyunjin is rotating a volleyball in his hands. It feels solid and sentient, an extension of himself held in cotton-clad fingers. He knows how this story will end.

He moves his eyes to his best friend’s back. Four fingers flash back at him twice, signaling a high lob set to the left, the very play they’ve practiced tirelessly for the last five weeks. The breath Hyunjin blows out of his cheeks seems to crystallize in the air, almost solid in all its exhilaration. 

He bends low and throws high. His arms drop behind his body like a spread of feathered wings; his feet fall into place below him like a meteor shower, two consecutive strikes against the earth that fissure its mantle. The lights overhead are bright. His palm pulls taut when it slams into leather. He knows how this story will end.

The volleyball tears towards the ground. It trembles as if scared by all that it holds: the guarantee of a flawless denouement, the catalyst of a radiant future. Hyunjin’s heart is beating hard enough to crack his ribs when he lands back on the ground, when the volleyball lands in the furthest corner of the court. He’s not scared at all.

He balls his fingers into fists.

“JUST LIKE LAST YEAR, BACK TO BACK ON AN ACE—”

An arm seizes Hyunjin’s neck; another drags him onto the floor. His head thuds onto the hardwood with a sound he hears over the whole world detonating. His vision fills with the faces of the people he cares for most, some covered in tears and others rivaling the ceiling with their blinding smiles. He can’t feel most of his body; his sweat drips into his mouth. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care.

“—DEFENDING THEIR TITLE FOR THE THIRD CONSECUTIVE YEAR—”

His eyes find Seungmin’s among the fray. Their hands clap together with such force that Hyunjin cusses at the impact. Seungmin’s gaze burns into his with a ferocity that Hyunjin plans to take to his grave. His setter. His best friend.

He says something inaudible, but Hyunjin reads the words off his lips, and his eyes fill with tears: we win everything.

“—YOUR NATIONAL CHAMPIONS: SEOUL NATIONAL UNIVERSITY!”

Hyunjin’s post-game interview is a lawless affair. He is allowed at most half an answer before a new teammate is barreling over with an animalistic screech or a new friend is screaming congratulations from out of frame.

The reporter is visibly agitated by her final question, unpursing her lips to ask: “Is there anyone you’d like to thank?”

Hyunjin exhales. “You want the short answer or the long—”

Changbin seizes him by the head. Hyunjin bursts into a peal of high-pitched laughter as the libero litters kisses all over his face, nearly crumpling to the floor in his attempt to escape.

“Love you,” he yells before hurrying off. 

“Love you too, Bin.”

Hyunjin turns a sheepish smile to the reporter.

“The short answer,” she deadpans.

He starts counting off his fingers. He thanks his family—his first and last teammates, his eternal anchors. His other family, his actual teammates, the best boys he’s ever known. His coach, who will let him call him Chris someday. His best friend and setter, Kim Seungmin, who set a clothesline on fire once and changed his life forever.

In the distance, a figure emerges from the locker rooms. There’s a navy blue SNU banner draped over your shoulders, two overflowing duffel bags in your hands. Jisung and Jeongin run over to take them from you, and the smile you give them is wide and flushed, a remnant of the elation you shared from afar. The three of you start walking out of the gym.

Hyunjin thanks you.

You didn’t ask for the position, he tells the reporter, but some idiot roped you into it, and they’re all so grateful that you decided to stick around. You know the team better than they know themselves—it’s hard to believe you’ve been with them for five weeks instead of five years.

What are you like? What aren’t you like, is the better question. You’re caring, smart, strong; you see so much goodness in the people around you, all while unaware that it is your warmth that brings it out of them. Flowers only bloom in the sun’s doting radius, and so did he.

You have the sort of soul that incurs the scorn of the stars. They are the only ones to deserve you, they'd argue; you’re wasting your potential among humans when you belong to the sky, and they’d be right.

Hyunjin pokes his tongue into his cheek, suddenly annoyed.

“Why the fuck am I still talking to you?” 

“Pardon?” The reporter returns, but Hyunjin is already vaulting over the bleachers, making a mad dash for the exit. She gives her cameraman an affronted glare. He shrugs.

He explodes onto the concrete, looking around in a frantic haze. He finds the blue banner heading toward the team bus and flanked by his teammates with ease.

He calls out to you.

You glance backwards. Your smile is purely effulgent, your laugh but a faint sigh against the area’s busy thrum. His heart is pounding against his ribs like a battering ram again, but he’s used to this feeling by now. Jeongin and Jisung make themselves scarce.

You’re beautiful. God, you’re fucking beautiful. That was the first thought to enter his mind when he spilled an iced Americano on your lap all those months ago and you looked at him like he hailed from another planet. And it is the first thought to enter his mind now, when he runs up to you and cradles your face in his hands, his touch infinitely, impossibly gentle, and you look at him like he’s everything that has ever existed, everything that ever will. 

Tendrils of your body spray reach him from here, floral and light like a tropical coastline. He could’ve counted your eyelashes—if he didn’t have something far better to do.

“Tell me now if you don’t want me to do this,” he whispers.

A stupid smile crosses the face of the smartest person he knows. “My lips are sealed.”

Hyunjin kisses you. He kisses you until the banner around your shoulders is wrinkled under his touch, until your hands are tangled in his hair and aching his scalp, until the breaths you take are breaths you share, passed between your mouths like a puff of smoke before they’re colliding again.

He kisses you until he’s crying, again, until he’s no longer tasting your lips but your grin, and he kisses you only harder when those scornful stars start to dance before him, for you are his, not theirs, and he’s really won everything, now.

“Hwang, I need you in my office.”

Six months later, Hyunjin sees Coach Bang standing a few yards away with a grim air about him. He stops in his footsteps and glances at his captain, confused.

“I know nothing,” Seungmin says, walking away. “Good luck!”

“Thanks, cap.” Hyunjin swears he’s had this exact exchange before.

Head volleyball coach Christopher Bang’s workspace still reminds Hyunjin of a morgue. But there are two picture frames on his desk now: one of his family in front of the Sydney Opera House, the other of a band of boys clad in navy blue, draped over one another in exhausted bliss. The latter lends the room a much-needed sense of vitality. Too bad it still houses a rusty cyborg.

Hyunjin closes the door and takes a seat. Bang taps a knuckle against the tempered glass of his monitor. “Read.”

From: Nicola Daldello «ndaldello@pvm.com» To: Bang “Christopher” Chan «cb97@snu.edu» Subject: Re: Allianz Milano V. Pallavolo Perugia practice game Christopher, Allow me to apologize for my delayed response as I shared your request with Chairman Piazza. It is my great pleasure to inform you that we would love for Mr. Hwang Hyunjin to participate in our practice game versus Pallavolo Perugia. The match is scheduled for Monday, October 7th, 5-7 P.M. CET in the Giurati Sports Centre in Milan. Mr. Hwang will be playing for Allianz Milano as an outside hitter alongside Mr. Matey Kaziyski, Mr. Osniel Mergarejo, and Mr. Ishikawa Yuki. Please let me know of your availability to call regarding Mr. Hwang’s travel logistics. His transportation and lodging costs will be paid for by the club. I’m looking forward to speaking with you and welcoming Mr. Hwang to Italy once and for all. Yours, Nicola Daldello Assistant Coach, Allianz Milano

“I told you, some opportunities just present themselves,” Bang says, turning his monitor back around. “As for next steps, I need a holistic calendar view of your entire month of October, including social ev—Hwang, is that foam coming out of your mo—NOT ON MY CARPET! HWANG!”

In a park about a ten minute walk away, a small crowd of elderly people are scattered across a few stone tables, hunched over the fading chess boards painted into the granite surfaces. Mrs. Choi whisks away Mrs. Baek’s king with a triumphant yelp.

“I knew it, I knew it, I knew it! That opening is unbeatable!” She swivels towards you, shaking a fist threateningly. “You! Get over here. Your reign is over.”

You are sitting cross-legged in the shade of a broad magnolia tree, clearing out your storage. You tried to take a picture of a particularly rotund pigeon to send to Hyunjin earlier and couldn’t even do that. It was then you decided you couldn't live like this anymore.

“As excited as I am to beat you again, Mrs. Choi, I need ten more minutes,” you call back. 

She presents you with an unpleasant hand gesture. You turn your attention back to your phone, grinning. Two new notifications sit at the top of your lock screen.

Hyunjin: Omw now. Sorry had to talk to Chris Hyunjin: Same park? Y/N: yes Hyunjin: Who’s our opponent today Y/N: mrs. choi Hyunjin: Not that bitch again Y/N: ?

He’ll be here in eight minutes.

You return to the task at hand. You’ve already cleared out your apps, your documents, and videos; all that’s left is the audio files. You conduct a quick mental review. Surely you’ll live without your downloaded music and accidental voice memos.

Instead of hitting the “delete” button, you extract a pair of tangled earphones from your jacket pocket.

You go back to your texts with Hyunjin, open the shared attachments tab, and scroll for a long time before you find the voice note he sent you seven months ago.

He finds you a sobbing mess.

“Hey, hey, whoa.” He’s on his knees in an instant, gathering your hands into his, a world of concern in the brown of his eyes. Your earbuds fall out and clatter onto the cement below. “Baby, what’s happening? Are you okay?”

“Yes,” you say in a flustered haste. “Yes, I’m okay. I don’t—I don’t really know what’s happening.”

“Did that hag do this to you?” He asks this question so seriously. “I’ll beat up a senior citizen, I don’t give a fuck—”

“No!” You let out an ugly laugh through your tears. “No, no. Leave Mrs. Choi alone.”

“Then what is it? What’s wrong?”

Eventually, your vision clears enough for you to look at the man kneeling in front of you. His roots grow out longer every day, his hair by now nearly equal parts gold and black. A spot of sunlight infiltrates the magnolia leaves and lands on his left eye, turning it the hue of melted bronze.

Your fingers drift to the sides of his beautiful face as you lean in close; he smells like a combination of smoky rose and tropical coastlines.

“I’ll tell you later,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to his hairline. 

He is dissatisfied with this, hooking a pointer finger beneath your chin, guiding your face back to his. He laves the saltwater from your lips, your tongue, and then you’re smiling again, barely able to remember why you cried in the first place.

You rest your foreheads together. “Have I told you that you look like a bumblebee these days?”

He smiles. “Does that make you my flower, then?”

“Because you’re irresistably drawn to me?”

“No, because I wanna put my pollen in—”

You shove him away. “You are grotesque.”

He returns in a flash. “You love me.”

You kiss him again. And again. And one more time for good measure, during which you mumble I do against his lips, and then you remember something.

“Why did Coach hold you back, by the way?” You pull away, tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. “Are you in trouble again?”

“No, no. The opposite, actually.”

Your brow furrows. “The opposite? What—”

“In this lifetime, please,” Mrs. Choi hollers from the chess tables. You roll your eyes. Hyunjin smiles helplessly.

“Duty calls, my love.”

“Tell me your thing later too?”

“Of course.”

You dust yourself off and stand up, making your way to the battleground. But not before you whisper to Hyunjin, “now watch me beat up a senior citizen.”

He laughs with his whole body, his eyes the shape of crescent moons, his mouth a little rectangle.

“Hypocrite.”

Hyunjin: [1 Audio Message]

This is my seventh take and I’m not recording an eighth. What you get is what you get. I don’t care anymore.

I understand if you don’t wanna talk about what happened at the arcade. I wouldn’t, either. I just wanted to say that you don’t have to do this tutoring thing anymore. I won’t be able to fulfill my end of our deal, so…yeah, it wouldn’t be fair to you. You’ve already done so much for us. For me.

As for team manager, you’ll have to talk to Minho and Coach Bang if you wanna quit. Doesn’t sound like a fun conversation, I know—but if that’s what you decide, I’ll have your back. They don’t scare me. Well, they do. But only sometimes.

You’ve been…distant, this week. I’ve known peace and quiet for the first time since we met, and I fucking hate it. I realized I couldn’t care less if you’re my tutor or my team manager or whatever—I just don’t want you to be a stranger. Maybe that’s selfish of me to say, but I’m tired of pretending the idea of losing you doesn’t terrify me. It does. It really fucking does.

I’m gonna end this here, because I almost just stopped recording on accident and I’ll genuinely commit homicide if I have to do all this again. Sorry that this got so long, and…I’m sorry about everything. You deserve better.

Come back to me whenever you’re ready, okay? I’ll be waiting.

🔖 (send an ask to be added)・@astraystayyh・@like-a-diamondinthesky・@fire-08・@starsandrqindrops・@txtxlz・@laylasbunbunny・@strayghibli・@nuronhe・@seungminsapuppy・@vivisoni・@moon0fthenight・@sweetpickledjins・@svintsandghosts・@nhyunn ・@ur-boyfiend・@liknws・@hotgorloikawa・@randomwimp・@automaticpersonabatpaper・@aceofvernons・@linos-kitten・@newhope8・@weedforthoughtz・@hyunverse

© 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐱 (est. 090323) · liked this work? please consider reblogging, commenting, or sending me an ask to let me know; or, read my other writing here. thanks so much for the support ♡

[plaguewormart]

Imagining Vincent giving Thomas (and the rest of his staff) heart problems by randomly dropping life lore (the most traumatic or strange thing you’ve ever heard) in casual conversation (during dinner or in diplomatic meetings)

Thomas: *talking about a war in another country, mentioning land mines and other ERWs*

Vincent (without missing a beat): one of those blew up on me once

Thomas: what

Thomas: It’s time for the yearly Vatican health and safety conference, where all employees will be trained in first aid such as CPR and tending to wounds.

Vincent: what about emergency amputation?

Thomas: sorry what?

Vincent: once I assisted in amputating a man’s leg. It’s a very good skill to have!

Thomas: …what

Thomas: it seems like the media has picked up on the fact that you greeted a gay Muslim couple the other day. They’re saying you care more about other faiths than your own.

Vincent: oh that’s strange… how come no one has reported on my best friend Rachel?

Thomas: Rachel?

Vincent: yes! She’s a rabbi in Mexico, we have been best friends since we were little!

Thomas: *already calling aldo to arrange security for Rachel*

Thomas: *walking in on Vincent changing* Oh what’s that big scar from? I mean… you don’t have to tell me of course, I was just curious, I’m so sorry

Vincent (smiling): ah don’t worry! That’s from when I was shot

Thomas: from when you were what

Aldo: *walking into Vincent’s room late at night to drop something off* why are you on the floor?

Vincent: Oh well you see, I can’t sleep in soft beds because I’ve gotten so used to sleeping in warzones

Aldo: *buying a new bed online before Vincent has even stopped speaking*

Ray: how are you handling being so scrutinized in the media? I know the hateful comments can be tough.

Vincent: what are you talking about? I’ve never received this few death threats before!

Ray: I’m… glad? To hear that?

Tedesco: *finishing a long rant about tradition or whatever*

Vincent: wow I haven’t heard anyone speak for so long since I was kidnapped last time

Tedesco: … how many times,, have you been,,,, kidnapped?

Vincent (smiling): four!

Sister Agnes: here’s your food, Your Holiness

Vincent: Thank you Sister! I feel like I haven’t been this hungry since the time I didn’t eat for a week!

Sister Agnes: …and Why didn’t you eat for a week?

Vincent: I was busy helping during the Ebola outbreak

Agnes: somehow I am not surprised

Tremblay: *giving a lecture about religion during the 1300s and mentioning the Black Death*

Vincent: oooh I had the plague once!

Tremblay: you had… the actual,, bubonic plague?

Vincent: yup:) thankfully there are antibiotics for that now!

Later every senior curia member decides to create a group therapy session only consisting of talking about whatever Vincent has told them that week. They team up to find Vincent a therapist after Thomas finds him throwing up after a sermon because the Bible verse caused him to have flashbacks.

Vincent learns at age 69 that the things he’s seen and experienced are in fact not normal, and the PTSD diagnosis he receives makes him understand himself for the first time in years.

[xoxolaw]

+ HOW TO WIN A HEART

in which her friends challenged her to make the scariest guy in school fall in love with her — and she said, “easy.”

GEUM SEONG-JE X READER

CH 1 , CH 2 , CH 3

RULE 1 - MAKE THE FIRST MOVE

Y/N wasn’t just popular.

She was the kind of girl who made popularity look effortless. She wasn’t top of the class or president of any club. She didn’t need to be.

Y/N had that intangible something—a charisma that couldn’t be taught, only envied. Her walk was lazy but commanding, every hallway her runway.

A resting smirk hinted at mischief, bold eyes daring you to keep looking—and most did.

Boys sat up straighter when she passed. Girls checked their hair, tugged their skirts, though the uniforms were identical.

Teachers? They’d learned it was easier to look the other way. She was too clever to get caught, too charming to scold.She texted in lectures without blinking.

Her Instagram stories were mini-dramas, high-stakes, with dangerously good lighting.

She knew everyone worth knowing—and everyone knew her.

Chaos wrapped in lip gloss.

The kind of girl who’d ruin your life and have you thanking her for it.

The It Girl of Kanghak High.

---

“Y/N-sunbae!” A junior half-jogged up, voice cracking with nerves and too much hope.

She didn’t look up from her banana milk. “Don’t say it.”“Say what?”“That you like me. That I’m different. That you’d treat me right.”

He froze, a deer in headlights. “Wait—how did you…”

She glanced up. Eyes sharp, bored, amused. Then, with the warmth of a mercy kill, she patted his shoulder.“You’re sweet,” she said. “Just not my type.”

Her friends dissolved into giggles behind her.“That’s five this month,” Bora muttered, flipping a page in her imaginary stat book.

“At this point, we should charge entry fees,” Jina snorted. Y/N stretched, feline and unbothered. “Honestly, where’s the challenge? You smile once, and they’re planning the wedding.”

“It’s the way you flirt,” Bora said. “That whole ‘I’ll ruin your life and look good doing it’ vibe.”

Y/N winked. “They should know I bite.”

They laughed, lounging in the lazy hour after the final bell on a Friday. Sunlight slanted through the windows, the halls half-empty but buzzing with leftover energy.

Y/N leaned against the wall, banana milk finished, head tilted back, soaking in the golden calm. Bora leaned in. “Oh, right! Someone left something in your desk.”

Y/N groaned. “If it’s another scented letter, I’m filing for harassment.”

“No, really. Pink envelope. The guy looked nervous.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “Boys need better immunity. This is tragic.”

Bora grinned. “If you’re so unimpressed, how about a real challenge?”

Y/N perked up. “Go on.”

“Make the next guy who walks around that corner fall for you.”

Jina cackled. “Bora, you’re a menace.”

“Easy,” Y/N said without missing a beat.

But Bora’s smirk vanished.“Wait—no. Never mind—”

Too late. Y/N turned, lips parted in slow curiosity. And there he was.

Geum Seong-je.

The air shifted sideways. Tousled dark hair. Sharp jaw. Expression unreadable—a mix of lazy boredom and quiet threat. One hand in his blazer pocket, the other swinging carelessly.

Two minions trailed him like shadows. The hallway parted like waves, students stepping back by instinct. He didn’t walk. He prowled.

His gaze landed on Y/N, and something flickered—amusement, maybe, or the thrill of something unpredictable.

Bora’s voice cracked in panic. “Y/N—no. Pick someone else. That guy’s not normal—”

But Y/N was already striding forward.Every student in the hall went silent.

Click. Click. Click.

Her heels tapped the tile like punctuation in a rising melody.

She cut across the corridor, ignoring the stares, the whispers, the secondhand fear. She didn’t break pace.

And Seong-je didn’t move. Their eyes locked. A suspended breath—challenge, curiosity, chaos. She stopped inches from him.

Grabbed his collar.

And kissed him.

Not shy.

Not sweet.

A kiss with purpose—bold, deliberate, a spark to ignite a fire. Gasps rippled through the hall. A water bottle hit the floor. Her lips pressed deeper for a heartbeat, her grip tight on his blazer. His scent was sharp and trouble.

She pulled back — just a little breathless — and locked eyes with him.

“You’re cute,” she whispered.

Then turned like nothing happened.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

how's the setting?? 😋😋 This is going to be fun trust me hehehe

[darlingdaisyfarm]

˚⋆｡ thinking about Ford who. . .✧˚ (x fem!reader)

minors don’t interact

Who can’t help himself.

His mind never really stops working, even when he’s inside you, moving so slow that has you writhing beneath him. His cock buried inside you, stretching you out inch by inch, but even now, his thoughts are somewhere between the galaxies and the stars. His cock pulses inside you, making you feel so good, but it’s not enough and yet he's still talking about the fabric of the universe. 

“You know. . . mmm, parallel dimensions have an infinite number of variables, but if you—" his breath hitches as he rolls his hips deeper, forcing your body to arch. “if you narrow them to specific constants you find— hahh, patterns.” little moan escapes your lips, needy, as his cock drags slowly against your walls.

His voice is calm, even steady despite the unhurried, delicious way he's fucking you, but you're barely listening. How could you? Every thrust has your mind blanking, leaving nothing but pleasure pooling low in your belly. Your nails digging into his back, you feel so abandoned each time he pulls out, only to have him slide back in with agonizing precision.

"Forddd. . .” you moan, head falling back into the pillow, begging for more, for faster. But his rhythm is controlled, measured, its like he’s savouring the way your cunt grips him, tight and so damn warm as he’s balls deep inside you.

“Dimensional travel. . . it’s not just theoretical, you see,” Ford’s voice is calm, as if he’s lecturing a class and not thrusting into your slick, dripping pussy, as if you’re not clenching around him so tight it’s driving you both insane. “If we can manipulate space-time— like this. . .” he punctuates his words with a deep thrust, his cock dragging against your soft walls in a way that makes your whole body shake. “we can alter outcomes. Mm, t-that means every choice you make branches into— fuck, you’re tight— into infinite possibilities.”

You can hardly breathe, can barely think because of the pressure building between your legs and he’s still talking. God, he’s still talking. You hear him, even if barely, something about gravitational fields and parallel worlds, but it’s all turning into a blur with your eyes rolling in the back of your head when he hits that sweet spot inside again and again.

“You like it when I explain things to you,” Ford claims. “It turns you on, doesn’t it?”

You can’t even find the words to respond, because yes, you love it and fuck, you hate that you love it. All you can do is mewl and whimper, your hips rolling against him in a futile attempt to make him pick up the pace. He knows, god, he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

“Ford, please—!” his cock slides deeper, but that serious, calm tone, fuck, it’s driving you wild. You want him to stop talking, to focus, to pound into you like you need, but his voice just keeps spilling from his lips like honey. Your head rolls back, lips parting in pathetic little gasps and moans, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. You can’t take it anymore, he’s teasing you, playing with you, dragging it out just to see how far he can push you before you break. “please, faster!” you plead, desperate for more, desperate for him to stop talking and just fuck you properly, hard and fast. But he’s still so calm, still so fucking unflappable. 

“Oh? you’re getting impatient?” Ford’s hand slides down your trembling thigh, lifting it higher, opening you up even more to him. “You wanted to learn about interdimensional physics, didn’t you?” he mumbles under his breath as he grinds into you, his cock plunging deeper, completely filling you and it feels like a dream for both of you. “I’m just giving you what you wanted.”

His fingers find your needy clit, rubbing in torturous circles as he continues that slow rhythm inside you. He’s barely breaking a sweat, his brow furrowed in concentration as if this is just another experiment to him meanwhile you’re such a mess under him. His cock twitches inside you as he changes angle again, deeper now and he takes a sharp breath, but he doesn’t stop talking. 

He doesn’t stop and you hate him.

Ford’s eyes roam over your trembling body, reveling in the sight of you, desperate and needy. Your eyes watery and mouth open in a breathless moan.

“The fascinating thing about dimensional shifts— god, you feel so good,” he trails off for a moment, and you think, finally, he’s losing focus. You roll your hips against his, hoping to break his composure. But instead of faltering, he chuckles, leaning down only to plant a small kiss on your lips. “you’re trying to distract me, aren’t you?”

“Fuck, p-pleasee!” you whine, spreading your legs wider, trying to press up against him, but he pins you down.

“Clever girl,” he mutters, voice rougher now, losing some of that composed edge as he looks at you, the desperate need written all over your cute face. “letting me teach you like this.”

He pulls out, almost completely, leaving you aching, empty, before slamming back into you hard enough to knock the breath out of your lungs. "That’s my girl." his words make you cry out his name over and over again, your nails digging into his back as he starts to fuck you better, properly, his pace quicker, rougher now, the weight of his body pressing you into the mattress.

He’s no longer focused on explaining the mysteries of the universe, he’s focused on you, on how your body responds to him, on how good it feels to have you wrapped around him, hot and wet and perfect, on how your wetness and slick coating his length. The sounds of skin slapping against skin fills the air, mixing with your desperate, needy moans and his groans when he finally fucks you the way you wanted, he ruts into you faster, harder, and it’s everything you needed, everything you craved. 

“Ford— oh fuck,” you cry out, head thrown back and he’s there, finally losing himself in the way your cunt clenching around him, making such wet squelching sounds, he’s lost in the way you’re moaning his name, voice so beautiful. You’re nearly drooling as you give him a silly smile, begging him to finish inside you.

“Cum for me,” he growls, his hand sliding down, thumb finding your clit and pressing down in fast circles what makes your head spin. “I want to feel you— cum for me, now.” you arch your back as the orgasm crashes through you, you walls flutter around him, the sensations are so intense you can’t even scream, only shake and try to cross your legs because pleasure is fucking overwhelming, though Ford never stops thrusting into your wetness. You’re trembling, mind blank as you cling onto him, holding him, feeling him.

Ford groans at the beautiful sight, his clever girl looks so pretty when she’s dumb fucked and cock drunk. However Ford is lost in pleasure too, your pussy feels so warm, so tight and good he just can’t stop fucking you. But he’s damn close. He grits his teeth, taking a deep breath, thrusting into you so hard, burying himself so fucking deep, his cock twitching as he spills into you, filling you up with every last drop. Finally, finally. He’s breathing heavily into your lips, glasses fogged, his chest heaving. You just lay there, taking it like a good girl you are.

Ford can’t stop looking at you, he kisses your forehead, softly and gentle. “Now. . . where were we? Ah, yes. Dimensional theory.”

You can’t help but laugh, head still spinning as he pulls you close, already starting to ramble again about parallel worlds and universal constants, like he wasn’t just inside you, fucking you senseless.

And honestly you wouldn’t have him any other way.